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Chapter Text

Before Lando moved into an old apartment in the heart of London, it used to belong to his aunt. One day a few months ago, he was trying to find a wearable shirt from the floor of his bedroom and got a call from his mother informing him that her sister-in-law had left Europe and moved to Australia of all places. And that she had left her apartment to him.

He tried to contact his aunt all day, reaching nothing but voice mail. When he lay on his bed at the end of the day, ready to hear his aunt's voicemail for the seventy sixth time, the call connected.

"Lando! My sweet boy. Finally remembered your best friend, did you?"

As glad and he was to hear her voice and know that she was alright, there was an underlying sense of guilt gnawing at Lando. Had he really become so busy in the hustle and bustle of earning the next paycheck that he left his family behind? He knew he used to be closer to his aunt than his own parents and siblings, sometimes spending the entire summer vacation at her apartment. 

"Leslie, what the fuck?" His voice trembled. The last time he had talked to his aunt was months ago. The last time he had seen her in person was longer. "Why?"

Why did we stop talking? Why did you never ring me? Why did you let me walk away? Why did you leave? 

"Why I think you know why, Lan. Why have I ever done anything if not for love?" 

Lando laughed wetly, tears running down his cheats in hot streaks, because it was just like his aunt to move to fucking Australia for someone. He still remembered that one time she let someone who move in with her into that apartment after two months of dating. They broke up two weeks later and his aunt moped around for days, begging lando to spend the weekends at her's playing board games late into the night.

"One would think that after getting your heart broken so many times, you stop living with it on your sleeve."

"Heartbreak is a part of life, Lan." He heard her voice in his mind say before she said it. "And I'm sure you miss me, darlin'. But I've got a lady upstairs calling my name. You want to talk about the apartment?"

"Why me?" we're the only words that came out of his mouth. Surely she could have earned a nice fortune selling that.

His aunt chuckled fondly. "Stupid boy, who else if not you?"

The memories rushed in like a whirlwind. The apartment was theirs. There were watercolor stains on the bathroom walls that nobody had bothered wiping off in years. The kitchen still had a fucking step stool even though he hadn't had trouble reaching the top shelves since he was fifteen. If he went there now, he was sure he'd still smell the pancakes they cooked (see: burnt) together. 

"But you loved it so much. You said it was magical."

"It is, Lando. But I've found my magic in someone else. And I want you to take it. It's about time you start believing in magic too."

Lando snorted. "Yeah? You think the apartment is gonna magically teleport me to an overflowing bank vault one day?" 

He could practically hear his aunt's pitying frown. She had such loud emotions. "Oh, darlin', there is so much magic in your life if you would just let yourself have it. I've sent you the keys by mail, they should reach you before Monday." 

"Leslie, just- thank you. I love you."

His aunt cackled on the other end. "If an entire magical apartment is what it took to get you to admit you love me, you're a damn spoiled brat, Norris."

Lando Norris did not believe in magic. 27 years old with a fresh face and fresher voice, he was already one of the best sports journalist Sky Sports had to offer. He was known for his straightforwardness, diplomacy and his ability to weave words that incite a true passion in the heart of the readers. 

If there was any magic in this world, he had already seen it on the race track. The speeds, the precision of each decision, the very pinnacle of human endurance, that was magic to him. 

He had begun missing his aunt regularly now. As though his life of constantly chasing material possessions was thrown off it's course the second he heard her voice. Living in her apartment, —his now— it was difficult to not think about her, with all her trinkets and his childhood comics and their memories. Even the oranges in the supermarket reminded him of her, the way she'd peel them for him every morning in the winters. 

"Salmon?"

Lando turned towards the sound of the voice, dropping his oranges in surprise. It was a man wearing a black hoodie and a cap. How horrible, Lando could barely see anything without his glasses and he wasn't wearing his lenses either. He would've liked to see the cutie's face a bit more clearly.

Though he saw how the man was staring at him, like he couldn't believe his eyes. He wasn't from around here, was he? "Salmon," he repeated, and this time Lando was sure be heard a hint of pleading in there. Maybe he didn't speak English?

"You're not gonna find any salmon in the fruit aisle, mate," Lando muttered. He was growing restless with the way this man was staring at him. He needed to get away from his gaze.

He didn't have to. Something shifted in the man at his words. If Lando were wearing his glasses, he might have better seen the look of absolute heartbreak on the man's face. So much for some disgusting salmon, what a strange man.

Lando picked up some oranges and scurried off, feeling the man's gaze burning a hole through the back of his head. God. He opened his emails, checking for any news that could take his mind off the incident in the fruit aisle. After scrolling through a few project requests and schedules, he found one.

And Jeez, did it take his mind off everything.

From:   [email protected]

To:   [email protected]

Subject:  Progressive Career Opportunity 

Dear Mr Norris,

I hope this message finds you well. On behalf of the SkySports team, I am pleased to inform you about an exciting career opportunity that may align with your skills and professional aspirations. 

As an organization committed to fostering talent within the field of sports journalism, we are constantly looking for individuals who are well versed in the art of catering to an audience hungry for content. We have taken into account your beautiful way with words and the confidence with which you deliver them. It is a skill that deserves to be exhibited not only on paper, but in the passionate voice of someone who loves racing as much as any fan. If you were to take on this opportunity, your contract with MotoGP SkySports as a journalist will be permuted to Formula One, where you will be a full-time presenter on SkySportsTV. 

We believe your confidence, experience and love for motorsports make you an excellent candidate for this opportunity. Though Formula One might not be a sport you are familiar with, we would like to invite you to explore the role further. If you are willing to take the chance, we would be happy to provide additional details and help you make yourself at home in the world of Formula One. Please feel free to reach out at your convenience, and we can arrange a time to talk further.

Thank you for your continued commitment to the team. We look forward to the possibility of working with you in this new capacity and witnessing the great things you will accomplish in your new role.

Warm regards,

Tim Ashton

Administrative Assistant

Sky Sports 

Contact No. xxxxxxx865

Lando couldn't wait to go home, call his aunt and tell her all about it. He had become a full-time presenter in only four years of working for Sky Sports. He was going to start a week and a half later, on a Thursday. Meanwhile, he would be getting a few Zoom meetings explaining to him the events that had taken place in the first twenty one races of the season, with a small stack of reading material so he could become familiar with the sport. They were confident that he would catch up in no time, it did wonders to his self esteem. At this pace, he was going to be a live broadcaster before he turned thirty.

All his excitement died in his throat when he opened the door to his aunt's —his apartment, goddamn it— and realised he wasn't alone.

There was a sound coming from the kitchen, somebody humming a song his aunt used to sing. He might have believed his aunt had come to visit, if they didn't have an open kitchen where he could clearly see that it wasn't her. Lando, with no sense of self preservation at all, stomped forward until he was only a metre behind the man. No reaction. Earphones in, quietly humming along, not a care in the world as he loaded the fridge with groceries. Lando cleared his throat, then again, louder, feeling quite ignored. 

When the man finally saw him— not a man. He was a boy, really. Barely in his twenties, clean shaven, boyishly handsome. His brown hair fell on his forehead in a messy swoop. Dark, almost black eyes set into a concerningly pale pace, generously sprinkled with moles. Sure, he was pretty fit for a guy that young, but Lando wasn't skinny either. He tried not to notice that the guy was taller than him. Only by a few centimetres, though.

Lando could take him. (In a fight, that is.)

"Who the hell are you?"

"You- you're Leslie Norris' nephew, yeah?"

Lando tensed. "How do you know that?" He was going to have a long conversation with his aunt about giving the apartment keys to people Lando didn't know.

"Your aunt told me. She's, uh, she's a friend of my aunt's. He speaks funny, Lando thought. "She's pretty nice, I, uhm, I live here on my own so she lets me stay at her apartment when she's on vacation and stuff. I have a note if you don't believe me." He began reaching into his back pocket.

"Don't you dare move," Lando snapped.

The boy stilled at once, holding his hands up where Lando could see them. "Alright, you can- you can take it and see for yourself. It's in my back pocket, left one."

"I'm not taking anything," Lando snapped again. Then he remembered he had told him not to move.

The guy looked at him desperately. "Mate."

"Fine," Lando gritted through his teeth. He carefully walked over to the stranger.

"And here we see a rare creature in the wild," he narrated, rather deadpanned.  That's when Lando put a finger on his accent, it was Australian. "Careful, he must be approached with caution. We don't want him to startle and run off."

Lando glared at him, receiving an infuriating eyebrow raise in return. He patted around his back pocket and found the note with much difficulty, considering how tight the jeans were over his arse. 

"Good excuse to cop a feel, huh?" the stranger said when Lando retreated with the note, earning himself a scowl. Neither the sarcasm or the annoyance his the blush tinting both their faces. Lando ignored him and opened the note.

Oscar,

     It's always so nice to see you, I'm sorry we couldn't meet this time. Well you see, two months ago my nephew got a job as a journalist and we finally got some time to properly celebrate. We'll be off to Italy for a week. Though I reckon I'd stay longer, I can't resist the romance in the air. My nephew will be back in a week sharp. 

     If my other nephew visits in the meantime, give him the box under the sofa. Don't open the bathroom window by any means. Cold, As, and Fuck will get in and leave feathers everywhere.

     Hope you enjoy London. If you're lucky, maybe the rain won't bother you as much.

Bearhugs,

L. Norris

If Lando was confused before, now he was befuddled. He read the note again and again, getting more confused every time. This was all a misunderstanding. A very big, huge misunderstanding.

"I told you," the stranger said. "Does it make sense now?"

Not in the least. "No."

"No?"

"No." Because Lando remembered the trip to Italy vividly. They had stuffed themselves full of like twenty three types of cheeses, and fallen asleep in the diner, too full to walk back. They had emptied four bottles of sunscreen and still ended up sunburnt. But that was four years ago, when Lando first started working with Sky Sports. And he had no idea what his aunt meant by "other nephew." He was her only nephew, for fuck's sake.

"Alright... Let me just go get my stuff. I'll be gone if that's what you want." He walked into Leslie's bedroom and shut the door, but not before Lando caught a glimpse of a strikingly orange blanket. He knew Leslie only had one like this because no one made such ugly blankets anymore. He also knew that his aunt had taken it to Australia because he had seen it in a recent post on her Instagram.

Lando paced living room. Saw the hideous bright purple sofa that he had given away when he moved here, the pop rock posters that he had taken down, the vase his aunt cried about breaking two years ago. What made the breath leave his lungs was the calendar on the wall, set to four years ago. He couldn't breathe. This— this had to be some stupid prank his aunt played on him because he forgot her birthday or something. He couldn't— Where was his stuff? Where was the new coffee table that he had bought, the paper print-outs of his best articles, the mug he always took his coffee in? He couldn't even find his other two pairs of shoes, only a beat-up pair of trainers he used to wear as a teenager that Leslie never threw away. He suddenly remembered what she said about the box under the sofa.

It was a small box, smaller than Lando's hand. He tore the tape on top and took out... a voice recorder. Old fashioned and close to falling apart, just the kind of thing his aunt would keep and cherish.

The stranger saw that as the perfect opportunity to come out of his aunt's bedroom. He had a suitcase and a backpack with him. "Think I've got all my stuff. Would you mind if-"

Lando couldn't let this guy see the things that were going on with him. He would like to carry on his mental breakdown alone, thank you very much. "Yes, I would mind," Lando interrupted, locking himself in the bathroom. "And you- you better be gone by the time I come out. Or else."

Once safely inside and sure that he won't be overheard, Lando pressed play. His aunt's sweet, melodious voice filled his ears.

"Hello, Lando, my darlin' boy. I know, I know, you must be so confused right now." The audio wasn't clear by any means, there was no mistaking that this was recorded years ago. And yet she sounded so sure Lando believed she knew the exact situation Lando was in. 

"Let me tell you a story, that always calms you down." Lando felt himself relaxing as she spoke. His aunt was an amazing storyteller. She taught him how to weave words into a lullaby or a tragedy. "The apartment you're in right now, the one that has brought you into this situation, you were six when I bought it. Your father —I know I always tell you at a pain in the arse he is, but he is a good brother— he came all the way from Bristol to help me move. He brought you too, complaining about how much trouble you were causing back home and how Cisca needed a break.

"Six year old Lando could not have been more fascinated by hundreds of cardboard boxes and an furnished apartment. Your father went back but you stayed here, sleeping on a mattress on the floor with me. The next morning, you were sound asleep when I went out for a grocery run. It was raining like shit. I couldn't wait to be back at the apartment. But when I opened the door, you didn't come running for me. You weren't there at all.

"Instead, it was a completely different apartment. I checked the number on the door. Sure enough, it was 481. In that moment, I didn't believe it one bit. There were plants and flowers everywhere, on the windowsill, on the kitchen counter, it was like you Goddamn garden. Proper cottagecore shit. A woman in her early thirties —hard to tell, she looked younger— was watering some plants.  She noticed me and said, 'Oh, it finally happened, didn't it?' And she smiled. Sweet mother Mary, Lando, I could have dropped dead. She was the most beautiful women I had ever laid my eyes upon. Brown waves of hair framing a charming face. 'What's happening?' I managed to ask.

"She shook her head, her fluffy bob of hair bouncing on her shoulders. 'You wouldn't believe me if I didn't explain the whole thing thoroughly. Come have breakfast and a chat, I will tell you all about it.'

"But I couldn't. I had you waiting on me. I turned on my heels and ran down the stairs, asked a passerby to help me find apartment number 481. He did, and when I opened the door this time, you came running to me. I later got a check up and found I had pneumonia. The doctor said I might have hallucinated, and I believe him. 

"I did not see her again for months. You'd be surprised at how easily people forget the luckiest moments of their lives. But the fact is, things like that are impossible to forget, no matter how many years pass by. Just because you don't think about something, cover it up with a cloth, out of side out of mind and all that, it never means that they have ceased to exist. All those memories are still there, always there, waiting to be remembered and reminisced. 

"It was only a matter of time before we met again. I was coming back from a trip to the liquor store with the finest wine I could afford from my last paycheck, ready to get fucking wasted. I entered the apartment and found myself again in that garden of a place.

"This time the women was in her kitchen cooking up something that smelled like heaven. She smiled and I felt my stomach drop to the floor. 'Hi again,' she said to me. 'Come to chat? I've made fettuccine.' I could have said no, but the promise of delicious food and that too with a beautiful girl, I couldn't resist. We sat at her tiny little dining table and ate fettuccine while she talked. We talked until dawn was creeping up on us. She told me about this apartment that bends time, creates loopholes by its own will. One second you'll be in the hallway and the next you will enter a time that passed years ago. You could be going out for a mail and find yourself in a time that hasn't yet arrived. 'It will bring you back or send you forward for your own benefit, whether it's saving your life, letting you fix past mistakes or... meeting the love of your life.' And she winked. 

"The sun had crawled in through the kitchen window, bathing her in a warm wash of sunlight. That was the exact moment I realised I had fallen. Sometimes, you know right when you fall. It feels like bones cracking as they hit asphalt. But sometimes, you don't know when you fall, just that you had fallen somewhere and your bones are fractured into pieces and you can't move and you don't know what to do. 

"And I made the mistake of choosing to fall further. Ophelia —that's her name— was the sweetest woman I had ever met. I loved her more than anyone I had ever met. At times I was foolish enough to believe she loved me too. I loved her so much, Lando, I used to call her my 'kismet'.

"I started looking forward to seeing Ophelia. The love we had, I don't think I'll ever experience anything like that again. It was passionate, wild, soft and scary all it once. Gentle as a babe's juvenile laughter on a ship in the midst of a seastorm. Fragile. We carried each other's hearts on our sleeves and hoped to dear God that they won't be broken.

"But they had to, didn't they? Or at least, one of them had to. I walked into her apartment one morning and found it empty. No, not empty. There were boxes labelled things like 'hygiene' and 'blankets' and, do you know who I saw there, Lando? Four years after I had moved into this apartment, I was sent back in time and saw a tiny boy sleeping on a mattress on the floor. I realised I would never get to meet Ophelia again. She had left without telling me and I had no contact to her anymore.

"By then, you were to cocky for your own good. Didn't believe a single thing I told you unless I gave you proof. You just found out Santa wasn't real and didn't trust anything. Now as I record this, you are sixteen and know what heartbreak feels like. I haven't talk to Ophelia in six years. I know we don't keep secrets from one another but you, Norris, are a cocky son of a cunt and wouldn't have believed a single word I told you unless you experienced it yourself. I'll save this recording for when you do. 

"You know the rules of the apartment, right? Don't open the bathroom window. Don't plug anything into the outlet above the fridge. Don't try to fix the floorboard that creaks. Add another, don't ever, ever fall in love with anyone in this apartment. But if you do, don't be like me. Don't let them go."

The recorder went silent, and so did everything else. Lando could hear his own breathing. 

Okay, he was in the past. Four years. In the past. There was a man in his apartment. If his aunt's words were true, which he now believed they were, he would be back in his timeline in a while. The man was probably gone. He could wander around until the apartment sent him back. Okay. This was. Okay. He could manage.

He pushed up to his feet and opened the door, ready to go into the kitchen and find himself something to calm his nerves when he hit something. Someone.

He could not manage.

Lando's heart did a bungee jump off his chest into his stomach. He backed away suddenly, hitting the sink with his back. This man he was seeing, he was so real and unreal at the same time. He was solid, standing in front of Lando. He was a hologram from the past.

"I'm leaving, I'm leaving, I just came to get my toothbrush," the stranger said. Then he noticed the disheveled state the other man was in. "Shit, are you- Are you okay?!" 

"I need-" Lando gasped. His lungs weren't pulling enough air. "Air. I need. I-"

He walked over to the window and threw it open before Lando could scream, "No!" Three birds, fucking pigeons, flew in, cooing so loud Lando's head spun. 

Or maybe that was Fuck stuck in his hair.

"Fucking hell-" the stranger cursed, narrowly dodging Cold as she perched atop the shower.

Claws got tangled in his curly hair. "Get it off!" he whimpered. "Mate, please! Get it out!" 

"Hold still," he said, stalking closer. He grabbed Fuck and gently coaxed it out of Lando's hair. His hands were careful, it calmed Lando down a bit. "I've got you, I've got you, be good now," he whispered in a soft voice. Lando wasn't sure whether he was talking to the pigeon or him. 

Once it was out of the bird's nest on Lando's head, he carried it over to the window and released it into the wind. Lando watched, rubbing at his scalp, as he did the same with the other two. 

"So, uhm," he began. "They're Cold, As and Fuck, I suppose?"

Lando patted down his hair. "Yeah." 

They stared at each other for a few seconds, having forgotten about the toothbrush. 

"You're Australian?" Lando found himself asking. The stranger nodded. "Long way from home, then. Why did you come to London?"

"Been- been living here for years now. I, uhh, I'm competing in Formula 2. Kinda Euro-centric sport, travelling from home would be fucking expensive."

Lando cocked his head to the side. "Formula 2?"

The stranger gave him a charming lopsided smile. "Gonna make it to Formula 1 one day. We're on a break currently. That's why I've been living here. Roommates in this city are God's curse upon mankind. Thought I'd get a break, but, uhm..."

The Lando Norris who had just been promoted to a presenter for Sky Sports would have kicked him out without a doubt. But the Lando that his aunt raised, the carefree, risk-taking Lando, lived life like he had nothing to lose. In this case, he really didn't. "You can stay." 

The stranger met his gaze with uncertainty. "Mate, you don't have to take pity on me or anything. You wanted to kick me out, I'll go."

"That's not what I meant, I- Look, I'm sorry for being a bit of an arsehole back there. You just surprised me. It's just, I- I have stay here too for some time. Don't know how long. But if my aunt said you could stay too..."

That seemed to convince him. "Thanks, mate. I really, really, really don't wanna deal with Arthur during breaks. Brings home some girl every other night knowing we've got the thinnest walls in the world."

That startled a cackled out of Lando, right as they were getting out of the bathroom. "That bad?"

His grin widened, oh fuck, so charmingly. "Worse. He's been bringing home guys too recently and they're somehow louder. I might be turning straight just from hearing them going at it every night."

Lando tried not to think about the last sentence very much. 

The stranger finally resumed his task of putting away groceries. "I'm Oscar, by the way."

"Nice name. I'm- salmon?!"

Oscar looked at him with a confused smile. "You're salmon?"

"Is that fucking salmon in your hands!?" 

He looked down where he was holding a pack of salmon to put in the fridge. "Yeah? I love salmon."

Lando's expression was one of such horror you'd think he said 'I'm a murderer and I eat people after killing them'. "You are not putting- fricking- salmon in my fridge, mate. How could you even bring such a thing in this house?"

Oscar considered for a moment, then laughed. "Okay, Salmon. I won't. I'll throw it out. You'll be the only salmon in this apartment from now."

Lando's cheeks heated up at the mockery. "I'm Lando. Not salmon. Stop calling me salmon."

"Not until you let me put it in the fridge."

"No!"

"It's gonna expire!"

"Mate, it's dead! It's already expired, leave it alone."

Oscar threw the pack into the trashcan with much reluctance, making sure to drag out the action for Lando to see. "Fine. Should I make dinner? No salmon."

Lando smiled, genuinely, for the first time in hours. "No salmon."

"Okay, Salmon."

"Mate!"

Turned out, Oscar was not the type of man you should put in a kitchen. He wasn't a bad cook, he knew his stuff, he was just so exhaustingly clumsy. Halfway through boiling pasta when he almost spilled it all over himself, Lando took the pot and told him to prepare the sauce instead. He had to keep reminding himself that this was just a boy, more used to high speed corners and dangerous crashes than he was to cutting up tomatoes. 

"So, Formula 2, huh?"

Oscar smirked. "Not for long."

"You're what, twenty? Not much longer until your F1 debut, yeah?"

"I'm twenty two, actually."

"Jesus, you're young."

He stopped chopping tomatoes to look at Lando. "And you're what? Forty? Need a water mattress for your back pain?"

"Ha. Ha. I'm twenty seven. Turning twenty eight in a week."

They talked for hours, it seemed. About their professions, goals, families... Yapping all through dinner and after it too, as they cleaned up the kitchen. Oscar, Lando realised, was like one of those stones that seem boring on the outside but have the entire colour spectrum inside when you crack them open. He was funny, quick-witted, charming, hidden under a thick layer of awkwardness. And he reminded Lando of his aunt's voice recording.

Brown hair framing a charming face.

The sweetest.

The most beautiful—

"Lando!"

He was startled out of his thoughts by the shout of his name. "What?"

"I asked you where we were gonna sleep. S'getting late."

He hadn't thought of that when he decided to let Oscar stay. 

"I mean, one of us will have to take the couch, right? You can take the bed." 

Lando stared at him like he had just said the dumbest thing ever, because he had. His gaze dropped to the sofa under them. His 5'2" aunt might have been able to curl up on it after coming home late from the club but it was by no means big enough for a grown man to sleep on. "Do you hear yourself?"

Oscar flushed with embarrassment. "Yeah, uhm, sorry. That was stupid. I could sleep on the floor if you've got an extra mattress and blanket."

Lando rolled his eyes, annoyed less with Oscar and more with the pang his heart gave every time he did something endearingly awkward or polite. "Don't be a milksop. We're both adults. We can share the bed." He didn't let it show that he wasn't planning to. 

"Oh, right, of course. I'll head to bed then."

Something warm and fuzzy spread through his chest. He wished he had met Oscar in his own timeline, not four years in the past. In his time Oscar would be, what, twenty six? "Good night, Osc."

God, he was so weak for Oscar's little lopsided smiles. "Good night, Salmon."

He waited until Oscar was in the bedroom for a few minutes before getting up. Oscar was sweet, he was nice, if it was any other timeline he would have been the apple of Lando's eye. It was a lovely thought, but it wasn't the truth. 

"Goodbye, Osc," he whispered and shut the apartment door behind him. Eyes screwed tight, fists clenched, he counted to ten. Twenty. Thirty. However long it took him to ignore the sorrow of having left Oscar behind. He had to go back. Fifty seven. Fifty eight. Fifty nine.

He pushed open the door. Bright purple sofa, cow print rug, a kitchen smelling of garlic and tomatoes. Lando did not think about the part of him that was relieved.

"Lando?" Oscar called from the bedroom.

His feet carried him to the boy.

On the king sized bed in his aunt's —his— bedroom, lay a figure beneath the obnoxious papaya blanket. A mop of brown hair splayed over the pillow. Lando took off his shirt and crawled into bed with him, keeping a respectful distance.

"Where's your shirt?" Oscar whispered, a flush riding high on his cheekbones.

"Sorry, I don't wear one to bed. Force of habit. I can wear it if you wa-"

"No, yeah, nah, sure," Oscar interrupted in fluent Australian. "It's alright. I don't mind."

Lando pulled the blanket up to his chest. Despite the fact that he was two feet away from a man he had known for less than twelve hours, he was ready to give in to a warm and welcoming slumber. 

Oscar was looking at him. Lando had taken off his glasses and couldn't see the expression on his face.

"Salmon?"

He opened his mouth to snap at him, Don't call me that. "Yeah, Osc?" It came out unbelievably fond. 

"Thank you. For- for letting me stay, when you had every reason not to."

Something fluttered in his chest. A feeling too close to fear but worse. "Go to sleep, Osc."

Because his aunt had fallen for someone living in the past and it crushed her heart. Lando wasn't going to do the same. Her mistake would be his lesson. He wouldn't fall. He would stick by the rules. He wouldn't get hurt.

Don't fall in love in this apartment, she had warned.

Don't be like me.

The entire room was washed in the rosy light of dawn. Sunrays pooled on his eyelids, rustling him awake.

He had had the strangest dream of his life. He had time travelled into the past and met a stranger with the fluffiest brown hair and most charming smile. His aunt had told him about a beautiful woman named Ophelia who broke her heart. He let the stranger stay in the apartment and they ate dinner together and slept in the same bed.

He turned to his side, cozy in the slight morning chill, and came face to face with the stranger from his dream, sleeping peacefully.

Oh.

To his utter horror, he later realised, he hadn't felt even a bit alarmed. He just closed his eyes and slipped into another dream.

While Oscar was in the shower, Lando tried to go back again. And again. And maybe a few more times. Each time it opened to the same apartment, each time it opened four years into the past.

"Fine," he snapped at the ceiling, "have it your way, you stubborn fuck." He sat down hard on the sofa, fuming, and waited for Oscar to come back.

They ate breakfast —Lando, milk and cereal, Oscar, orange juice and an apple— and watched TV —Sex Education, Oscar's choice— until they got hungry again. They ordered takeout and ate lunch right there on the sofa, eyes glued to the screen until the credits of the last episode rolled. A perfect Tuesday if there ever was one. Was it Tuesday back in his own time? He had lost track. Time seemed to move differently in here.

Oscar provided the funniest commentary with the most emotionless voice throughout the show, smiling to himself every time he made the other burst out laughing. Lando apparently laughed like a seagull smoking pot, as he was told by a certain Australian, which was drawn into a lengthy banter about different laughs that carried on into the kitchen as they made dinner.

"Mate, I'm telling you, it's so fucking funny that some people laugh like they've got something stuck in their throat. Sound like a donkey with asthma." 

Oscar wheezed and then promptly yelped as his finger touched the blade of the knife with which he was cutting vegetables. It was bleeding in an instant. Lando rushed to fetch the medical kit.

"Oh my god, you're such an idiot, Osc. You need to be careful," he scolded. Oscar smiled sheepishly, muttering a little 'sorry' every time he met Lando's eye. Lando bandaged it up with gentle hands and, lost in his caring trance, brought the finger up to his lips and kissed it. 

The hand he was holding twitched the slightest bit. He looked up and found Oscar staring with his mouth agape, cheeks pink.

He was so pretty when he blushed. 

"What, want a kiss somewhere else too?" Lando joked. He had only intended to make Oscar flustered. He wasn't prepared for the way the guy snapped his mouth shut, impossibly red, and dropped his gaze to Lando's lips.

Heat rising to his own face, Lando brought his hand back to his lips and pressed a kiss right at the centre of Oscar's open palm. It felt strangely intimate for such a small gesture. His aunt's warning rang in his ears like a plague siren.

Oscar looked at his lips again, lingering. "I... Huh?"

"You wanted another kiss, yeah?" Lando teased.

"You know I didn't mean it like that," he muttered, averting his gaze.

The sirens in his head were getting louder. "Osc, you're twenty two."

"Last time I checked, yeah."

And you exist in the past for me, Lando didn't say. He wasn't going to break some serious time travel rule just to justify not kissing the guy he wanted to kiss. "I'm six years older than you. Doesn't that bother you?"

Oscar sounded frustrated, "Does it look like it bothers me?"

Lando's feeble composure wavered. He wanted so desperately to put those soft lips on his own, more than he ever wanted any paycheck or promotion. This kind of greed was dangerous. If you weren't careful, if you didn't control yourself in time, it could ruin you, destroy you so thoroughly you'd be finding broken bits of yourself for years after.

But Lando was nothing if not careful; he wasn't going to fall. And with the way Oscar was looking at him, he thought maybe he wouldn't mind it if he did. That, in itself, was a terrifying thought.

"Look, Lando, I'm sorry. If you don't want to, it's totally fine," Oscar rambled. 

Don't fall in love with anyone in this apartment.

But he could give them both what they wanted, even if for a short while. 

"Lando, please, I'm sorry, I-"

Lando cupped his face in his hands —sirens getting louder, louder, louder, breaking the very rule that breaks you in retaliation— and let his lips meet Oscar's.

The kiss was soft despite the storm raging in Lando's heart. Oscar sighed happily, mouth falling open as his hands came to tangle in the other's curls. He tugged on Lando's hair, pulled him closer, kissed like he wanted to savor him. 

Don't fall. Don't fall. Don't fall.

Lando was being lit on fire from the inside. He had kissed a lot of people, but not like this, not like he was something precious. Oscar's touch was light, fingers ghosting over his skin, holding back a hunger that Lando could only sense. 

Passionate. Wild. Soft. Scary.

Lando couldn't, he couldn't fall. Not when his aunt had warned him so seriously.

He was losing control.

They broke away, gasping for breath. As Lando came to his senses, he had half a mind to congratulate himself. He didn't fall. He'd almost done it there, tipped over, slipped, but he didn't. 

Oscar was panting, face red and lips redder, staring at Lando with fucking heart-eyes, for God's sake.

"If you think," Lando blurted, the first thing that came to mind, "If you think I'll let you eat salmon in the house just 'cause you're a good kisser, you have the wrong idea."

Oscar's laugh could make the sun seem dull, in his humble opinion. 

They had spent the rest of the evening being relatively normal, had dinner, watched more TV. If Oscar's hand slithered its way to Lando's in the dark living room, there were no witnesses. They slept in the same bed again, at a respectful distance, thank you very much. How they woke up spooning each other, fingers intertwined, was neither here nor there.  

"Lando, we're out of milk, can you get some on your way back?" Oscar asked, pouring the last of the liquid into his glass. 

Lando was going to get the mail, but okay. He had discovered himself to be practically useless in front of Oscar's big brown eyes. "Sure, Osc, of course, anything for you, Osc," he chaffed.

He was halfway down the stairs when he saw Jessica, his neighbour. She had moved in a few months ago, Lando helped her. "Hi, Lando! Lazy morning huh?"

Looking down at his clothes, he realised he had come out wearing Oscar's black hoodie and grey shorts. "Just the typical Wednesday morning fit, you know." 

She gave him a weird look. "Lando, it's Monday."

That's when it clicked. Jessica moved in at the beginning of the year. She shouldn't be here for a little over three more years. Which meant, he was back.

He ran up the stairs back to apartment 481, pushed open the door with such force the hinges rattled. 

"Oscar?" he called out, but he knew when he saw no one at the dining table. The dining table, that was now sleek wood and not the bright yellow his aunt had. No purple sofa, no papaya blanket, no cow print rug. No Oscar.

The silence was so loud it was deafening.

No, no, no, no, no— 

Lando closed it, opened again, hoping that would bring him back to Oscar. It didn't. He tried again, again, again, again. All he saw was the bland furniture of his own apartment. Didn't hear giggles from the bedroom, or the sizzle of a pot Oscar had put to boil and forgotten about, or the cringe dialogues of Sex Education from the TV.

What he did see, beneath his own grey settee, a voice recorder. 

He cradled it in shaking hands. Tears fell from his eyes in hot bursts. Lando pressed play. 

—times, you know right when you fall. It feels like bones cracking as they hit asphalt. But sometimes, you don't know when you fall, just that you had fallen somewhere and your bones are fractured into pieces and you can't move and you don't know what to do. 

He had been warned. A line was drawn not to be crossed and Lando teetered over it, thinking he had all the balance in the world. He had gone and fallen for a man that didn't exist anymore, a holographic memory. 

It is enough, he told himself. He could live with the memories, few as they were. He'd survive.

He inhaled deeply, forced himself back on his feet, didn't wipe the wet streaks on his face because that would mean accepting that he cried over someone he had known for less than two days. Lando Norris, to-be a Formula 1 presenter and more, simply didn't have the time of day to do so.

He made the mistake of falling, but he could get back up.

Chapter Text

November carried on.

Lando passed his days with a dull grief in his chest, his nights with dreams of a man who kissed him in his aunt's atrocious kitchen a few days ago. No, a few years ago. He would walk into his kitchen and the air would leave his lungs, and when he would sit in the living room to watch TV, and when he would crawl into bed at night. We touched here, he would think, but he knew they didn't.

The dining table where they are dinner has been thrown away months ago, so had the purple sofa on which they held hands. His bed never smelled like Oscar. The rooms in which they almost loved each other once had been rid of his presence years ago.

Lando knew that it was the same apartment as four years ago, but it didn't feel like it. What it had once been held two beating hearts full of life and laughter. Now cold winds howled as they crept in through the half open window. Lando didn't know what to do with himself anymore when he was here.

Because he was there, everywhere, and nowhere at all.

Lando had taken to keeping himself as busy as possible. He studied everything that was asked of him and more, so that when he went to sleep, at least for some time, his thoughts consisted of oversteer, understeer, pit lanes, hairpin before they went back to Oscar, Oscar, Oscar...

Even his friends had taken notice when they were out celebrating his twenty eighth birthday. The three of them were sitting in a nice restaurant not of Lando's choice, because George and Alex were actually an old married couple who went to sleep at eleven p.m. sharp and refused to drink if they had work the next day. Lando wouldn't be surprised if one day he saw one of them taking out dentures.

"Lando, we have noticed recently that you've been... agitated," George began. "And don't even try to lie and say that it's because you're anxious about working in Formula One. You're gonna do great and I know you know it, mate. So what is it that's been bothering you?"

He had been dreading having this conversation with them. How do you explain to someone, no matter how close they are to you, that you live in a magical apartment that plays you like a ping pong ball between timelines? That you met a guy four years ago last week and kissed him once and haven't stopped thinking about it since? He now understood what his aunt might have went through every time she tried to explain to him the truth about the apartment.

"There is... someone... who is the reason for my mood recently," he admitted.

George's eyes fucking shone at the new information. Alex slurped his tea loudly.

Lando sighed. He figured the only way to make them let it go was to tell them. "It's... complicated. You know how my aunt left me her apartment before moving to Australia? Well, there was- I mean, there is some Australian bloke whose aunt is a friend of my aunt's. He came to London a few yea- a few days ago. So my aunt told him he could stay at my apartment and we... Err, we..."

They were listening so intently, hanging on to every word in a way that made Lando feel guilty about lying. Technically he wasn't lying. He was just, you know, bending the truth.

"Oh my God," Alex gasped. "They definitely did it, Georgie."

"No!" Lando was contemplating whether or not his drink was expensive enough to throw in Alex's face. "We did not do whatever 'it' is, you perv."

George ignored them both and said quite level-headedly, "Tell me about this Australian bloke."

"He was- Err, he is," Lando stammered. "His name is Oscar. He was nice, sweet boy. Younger. A little awkward. You know the kind of people that laugh at your jokes when no one else does because they don't want you to feel bad? Yeah, that."

"Still don't get why that would make you walk around like a newly made orphan. He seems like a nice guy." Ouch, George, hitting right where it hurts most.

"We... He made it kind of pretty clear that he fancied me, and he certainly wasn't bad to look at. We kissed and then. I told myself I wouldn't get attached but he was just so. And then the next morning, I went out to get the mail and when I came back he wasn't there anymore."

Two sets of eyebrows shot to their respective foreheads. "He just left like that?"

Actually, it was Lando who 'just left like that'. What would have Oscar thought of him, that he kissed him like they were something and fucked off all the way to another dimension like an absolute prick? Did Oscar wait for him, peering at the door every few minutes with his kicked puppy eyes? How long did he wait before it set in that Lando wasn't coming back? "Yeah."

"Oh, Lando."

"Hah. Well. Don't worry about it. I plan on going to a club with Carlos after this and getting black out drunk. Can't think of him if I can't remember my own name, am I right?"

It was clear they did not think he was right. "That can't be healthy, Lando. But since it's your birthday, I won't lecture you about it today. Cheer up, we got you a present."

They handed him a wrapped up something, which felt like a stack of bendy somethings.

"We figured since you're gonna be a Formula One presenter soon, it will be nice to redecorate your apartment a little," Alex said proudly. "We hand picked the photos to match your interior design and got them made into posters for you."

"I picked them out. Alex was no help," George interjected.

Lando didn't give half a flying fuck about his interior design, but his heart melted a little anyway at the thought of them trying to find photos that he would like. "Thank you," he muttered, voice small.

George, again, got that motherly look in his eyes. "We're proud of you, Lando. Happy Twenty Eight years."

Lando had been staring at his half full glass of whiskey-something for half an hour now.

The club was loud for a Sunday evening, but not loud enough to drown out his thoughts. The alcohol he had been sipping on did little to make him feel better. Maybe he should have been doing shots with Carlos, who was five rounds in and blissfully negligent of the dumpster fire that was his own love life.

"Lando," Carlos shouted over the music. "Cabrón, why are you acting weird?"

A rush of heat flooded Lando's face. "I'm not acting weird. You're acting weird."

"You're acting so weird."

Lando couldn't handle talking about Oscar twice in a single night. Whatever Carlos thought was his problem, he made it clear that he wasn't going to talk about it by downing his drink in one go. His throat burned as the liquid made its way to his stomach. He needed more.

Carlos, ever the sweetheart, didn't prod further and called up for something stronger for Lando. "It's okay, cabrón. You're too hard on yourself. Do you want me to, ehh, what do they say, link you up with someone?"

Lando choked on his drink. If it wasn't strong in his mouth, it certainly was in his nose. "Fuck, Carlos!"

"Yes, mate, getting you a 'fuck' is the goal here."

"That is a terrible idea, Carlos. Is this how you deal with your break ups?"

His eyes glinted mischievously. "Break up, eh? Knew you would get around to telling me eventually."

Lando buried his face in his glass instead of replying.

"Look, cabrón, whatever it is that you're not telling me about, I am sure you just need to get it out of your system. I have a mate here who is, eh, bisexual. I think you will like him."

Maybe Lando did just need to get it out of his system. Get him out of his system. A good dick— hell even a bad dicking down could help him right now. What did Oscar know? He was twenty two and clueless. Carlos' idea seemed more and more appealing with every passing second. "Y'know what? Fuck it. Where's your mate?"

Carlos grinned wolfishly, getting up from his stool. "I will send him. Stay here."

His mate was a man in his late thirties with two armfuls of tattoos. He was attractive, had a beard and an infectious laugh. "A little birdy told me that somebody here was feeling lonely," he sing-songed as he slid into the stool next to him.

Lando froze at the words, the familiar curling of vowels, an Australian accent. He ignored the jumpstart his heart gave to look at the man. Putting on his coyest voice, he fidgeted deliberately with the the top button of the man's shirt and said, "Why, you wanna give me company?"

The man's laugh rumbled in his chest. "Ooh, you're a feisty one, aren't you? I'm Daniel."

Oscar would have blushed.

"I've been told I don't hesitate to take what I want." Nobody's ever told him that. He was getting tired of this game. He just wanted to stop missing Oscar.

"And what do you want? M'sure I could-"

"Look, can we just cut the small talk and skip to the part where you take me back to yours? It's been a long day."

Daniel seemed taken aback for a second, and then his smile was back on. "Alright. You don't mind walking? It's only a five minute walk from here."

"Nah, I don't mind." Lando got up, paying the bartender and following Daniel out of the club.

"Okay, buddy. Let's get you some."

Daniel was a lovely man, there was no doubt. He was taller than Lando, broader, with a head of curly hair and a smile that could convince water to flow uphill. He was hilarious too, making Lando laugh all the way to his house. A decade older than him, sure, but an actual gentleman. Well-to-do with a stable job at a big engineering firm.

Two weeks ago, Lando would have been head over heels for him.

It was fucking with his mind a little. Daniel was older, experienced, distinguished. Much more suitable for Lando than an awkward twenty something year old who couldn't chop tomatoes without cutting himself on accident. Yet when Daniel put a hand on his jaw and started to lean in, all he could think about was the way Oscar had practically begged Lando to kiss him. Daniel's lips were chapped, his beard scratchy, nothing like the softness of Oscar's mouth and face.

But Lando could pretend. After all, he just needed to get it out of his system. He tried to kiss Daniel like he meant it, like he wanted it, threaded his fingers through the short crop of curls on top of his head.

Halfway through taking off his t-shirt Lando realised what a terrible person he was for doing this to someone. Daniel was nice, too nice to have to sleep with someone so ungrateful. If fate wills it that he and Oscar ever meet again, Lando was going to kill him, seriously. One kiss and now he couldn't even get it up for anyone that wasn't Oscar, what a load of bullcrap. (Not that he ever got it up for Oscar, he wasn't a degenerate.)

Daniel pulled his shirt over his head to reveal tan and tatted skin. Lando could only hope he looked interested.

Apparently he did not, because as he spread his legs to accomodate the other, Daniel asked him, "Lando, is there someone else on your mind?"

"Yes," he answered, not even following it up with an apology. He waited for the outburst, to be told what a cunt he was for leading him on. It never came.

Daniel sat down properly on the bed. "Me too," he admitted. "I was hoping this would distract me, but it clearly isn't."

Lando sighed in relief. "Same. I... I like this guy but I'm pretty sure he's forgotten I exist by now. I don't even know where he is anymore," he heard himself opening up. Daniel seemed to have that effect on people often.

He raised an eyebrow. "You young people and your situationships."

"Oh, piss off. What's your story?"

"Was married to this sweet little lady who worked in aerospace engineering. I wanted to settle down and have children, she wanted to climb up the career ladder. We ended on good terms 'bout six months ago. Agreed that the timing wasn't right."

A small smile touched Lando's lips. "Guess it never is, huh?"

Daniel asked him if he wanted to stay the night and agreed to drop him off when he politely refused. They exchanged numbers. What Daniel did that day, not a lot of men would have done even in the same circumstances. He'd like to stay friends with such a man. They bade each other good night and parted ways.

Lando plopped himself down on his grey settee. His eyes fell on the present on the coffee table. The posters Alex and George had given him. With nothing else to do and nowhere near sleep, he tore off the wrapping paper.

They were... gorgeous. All those years of PowerPoint and Photoshop certainly helped, because the gradient of the posters was lovely. The quality too wasn't cheap by any means. Lando flipped through the hand selected photos.

Multiple shots of race cars from different angles. Trophies that glinted in the sun. Intricate tracks. Bird's eye view of crowds that went on and on. World champions. Then—

Lando sucked in a breath. It was— But it couldn't be— But it was—

Oscar.

Only his side profile was visible. The sun behind him lit up his hair like a golden halo. He was smiling, holding a beautiful porcelain trophy above his head.

Lando had never taken out his phone faster.

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With every picture that loaded, Lando wanted to throw up more and more. It was him — a little older, broader, with hair just long enough to curl at the nape— undoubtedly him. A swirl of agitation rose in his gut, getting higher up, up, up—

Lando dropped his phone and ran for the toilet.

Lando did not sleep that night. In fact, he stayed up till dawn looking up Oscar online.

At first, he scrolled through Google Search images for photos of Oscar in his car, with his helmet on, at the MTC, at the track, in interviews. Most importantly, he saved every picture he saw of Oscar holding a trophy. He had made it. His Osc had made it to Formula fucking One. His chest swelled with pride.

Another wave of almost nausea rose up his food pipe when he opened Oscar's Wikipedia page. He really shouldn't have drunk that much.

Oscar Piastri. He had been right under Lando's nose the entire time. An entire week of being told about Piastri's unbelievable overtakes. Piastri leading the championship. Piastri in high chances of winning a WDC in only his third season of F1. How come he never noticed?

Well, hah, of course he didn't notice. He hadn't listened to a large chunk of whatever had been said to him during the last week. He had been too busy mourning the Oscar of the past to notice that the Oscar of the present was right there.

And God damn Oscar of the present was something else.

Twenty six years old and having stood on the top step of the podium enough times for the memories to merge into each other, sweet and shy little Oscar had gotten cocky.

He no longer thought five times before saying something, careful as he still was with his words. Made snarky comments with no less than a devilish little smirk. ("Uhh, wet, wet race today. As expected of Brazil. Had Stroll out in the formation lap, as expected of hi-")

Still made hilarious comments with a straight face, though definitely sassier. (Verstappen: "Obviously not a good feeling getting my rear wing broken on purpose. If Ocon wants to get more points he should maybe drive faster, no?" Piastri: "Mate, he's in a Haas.")

He was still very, very sweet, but that was just him. He couldn't rid himself of that sweetness to save his life. Just that somewhere in the last four years 'shy' little Osc turned into 'private', 'reserved' Oscar Piastri.

Three years of driving a car at a few hundred kmph for three hours every other week certainly does change a man, because Jesus, Oscar's body should be illegal.

Lando wasn't going around guessing but he was kind of pretty much sure that this Oscar was broader than him. That shoulder to waist to hips ratio was criminal. That tiny waist of his swaying as he walked into the paddock. Those muscular thighs straining as he lowered himself into the car. Lando knew Oscar had a fat arse since his Formula 2 days but that didn't stop him from checking it out one more time. Okay, maybe more than a few times, but hey, Lando was just a man.

His alarm rang —6 a.m. already?!?!— and Lando came to the realisation that in only three days' time, he was going to be a presenter in Formula One.

Oh.

Oh no.

No amount of photos, videos, radios, television, anything  could ever perfectly capture the atmosphere of a circuit before a race.

Someone had fucked up the flying schedules. Some false report that L. Norris had already boarded the plane to Las Vegas on Thursday morning. It was Thursday night by the time Lando realised that he was awfully late, Friday night by the time they hastily arranged a replacement flight for him, and daybreak of Sunday when he actually set foot in Las Vegas.

Fortunately for him, he was still welcomed by the Sky Sports team. They showed him around the circuit, the corners Lando had already memorised the names of. Whatever slip up he might cause, should he spot Oscar somewhere while on duty, he intended to more than make up for it by excelling at his job.

It was a night race, which in itself was insane. He was thankful for the early dinner he had eaten with Crofty and some other reporters before the rest of the paddock and the masses of fans started arriving. Bit by bit, like a slow building crescendo, the crowds started pouring in.

"The drivers like to arrive fashionably late," Crofty told him when he caught Lando searching the paddock with hungry eyes for the upteenth time. "First you'll be interviewing Colapinto or Antonelli pre-race. Don't worry, we've got the questions written down for you. Then about ten minutes before the race start you'll be up there in the commentary box, learning visually, which you will be doing for the next season. Alex here is retiring at the end of the next season, so you will take his place. After the race you might need to do a post-race interview."

The crowd was in full swing now. The energy was palpable. In his very bones Lando felt an anticipation so thick it would be cut with a knife, and he knew it wasn't just his own. The drivers were arriving now, with their WAGs or pets or both. Lando didn't catch a single glimpse of Oscar. He wanted to kick something.

Lando made a mental tally of the teams and the drivers present at the paddock. Ferrari's Leclerc and Bearman playing with Leo. Red Bull's Verstappen and Colapinto discussing something. Mercedes' Aron and Antonelli gossiping. Haas with Gasly and Icon fighting (typical). Aston Martin's Stroll and Alonso walking around. Every single team with both of their members, except McLaren. McLaren's Bortoleto was spotted talking to someone on the phone, Oscar was nowhere to be found.

Before he could wonder where the fuck Oscar was, a microphone was shoved into his hands. Crofty led him to the pre-race interviews and called for Colapinto. The driver strolled up to Lando, flashing a cheesy smile.

"Good evening, Franco," Lando addressed with experienced professionalism. "How do you feel about the upcoming race? Are you optimistic about the-"

Franco completely ignored the question. "Ay, you're Lando Norris, no?"

"I don't see how that is relevant but yes I am, Franco. Now about the pace of the Red-"

"I have read some of your articles, mate, you are so good. You have such a way with words! I think I cried reading that one you put out last week of October."

Lando blushed and tried to be professional about it. "Focus, Franco, we have to wrap this up before the race begins." And there, finally, out of the corner of his eyes, he saw a man in a McLaren polo glaring in their direction. Lando felt a shiver run down his spine.

"So, Franco, what- what would you say about the pace of the Red Bull in the last triple header of the season? Are you optimistic about getting Red Bull to the constructors'?"

"Eh, well, obviously the pace is good. Definitely felt some upgrades while driving FP1 and FP2. With both McLarens not in top 5 in the starting grid and Ferrari too behind us, if we can manage it well then I think we might enter the constructors' fight with a strong margin, which will be a great feat if we can manage to get the WCC in only the last three races..."

The rest of the interview passed unhampered, going through the motions without any flirting. Every once in a while Lando would feel Oscar glaring at Colapinto. Maybe he hadn't been informed about the dynamics well enough, because he could swear these two used to get along quite well.

Then a few minutes before the race started, Lando was ushered into the commentary box. It was a small room with about twelve different monitors propped up on a table against a floor-to-ceiling glass window. Crofty told him which ones were the track monitors, which had updates on the weather, which one had driver positions, all in rapid English while a guy sat on one of the chairs holding a microphone. Then Crofty showed him the charts on the wall in case he felt like he had forgotten something. And a clock. 

Top chart— Driver Standings

1/ Oscar Piastri                                        399

2/ Max Verstappen                                  394

The clock hit 21:30. Behind them, Alex Jacques rolled into action immediately.

It started like this: Verstappen on Pole, Red Bull front row lockout. Ferrari second row lockout. Starting 5th on the grid, Antonelli. 6th and 7th Oscar and Bortoleto. Lando waited with baited breath like the hundreds of thousands of fans outside as the lights went out and twenty engines roared to life.

Oscar overtook Antonelli in Turn 9 of Lap 3. Ahead of them, Bearman overtook Leclerc, manoeuvering his car right behind Colapinto. By Lap 8 seven overtakes had taken place in the back of the grid. Bortoleto dropped to P9 when Russell and Lawson passed him in Lap 11. Lap 14, Tsunoda pushed into the gravel deliberately by Stroll, dropping four positions. Black and white flag for Stroll.

Lap 20, Oscar passed Leclerc in Sands Avenue and overtook Bearman shortly after in Turn 9 pulling off not one but two clean T9 overtakes in the span of 20 laps. Verstappen leading his twentieth lap of the race, 3 seconds ahead of teammate Colapinto. Two hundredths of a second behind Colapinto was Oscar. Oscar passed him on Lap 23, and then on Lap 26, something so unexpected happened that his eyes almost popped out of their sockets.

As Colapinto searched for a gap to take back his P2 position, in a long straight, Oscar's car shifted just barely to the left, making Colapinto think there was going to be a gap soon. He accelerated, only got close enough to Oscar's rear wing when the championship leader pulled his car back to the right, his rear wing colliding with Colapinto's front wing. Colapinto spun out of the track limits, car coming to a halt before he crashed into the wall.

"W-at the hell is thi- guy doing!?" Colapinto's voice cracked on the radio, accompanied by heavy breaths.

"We will check. It seemed like a mistake."

"A mistake -- accidental, man, was he t-trying to kill me or what!"

The radio switched to Oscar, now P2 and 2.57 seconds behind Verstappen.

"Oscar, your rear wing collided into Franco's front wing. He is safe, but what happened?" Ricky said calmly.

"Tires slipped. Need- need to pit," Oscar replied, but it was clear in his voice that he couldn't give half a shit about his fucking tires at that moment. Lando wondered if he was the only one who could sense him smirking beneath the helmet.

No matter how much he trusted Oscar, no matter how much it looked like an accident, Lando knew Oscar had done it on purpose. He had seen a video of the guy pulling this exact move in an F2 race four years ago. But... why?

Maybe Oscar didn't get along with Colapinto as well as Lando had thought, but he wasn't the type to take out grudges on the track. In fact, he was the least like to do that. Sure he has gotten more comfortable in his personality with the prolonged time in Formula One but he was not going to just forget everything he stood for on the track just for a measly grudge. Just what had Colapinto done that had made Oscar do that.

"Oscar, you have received a ten second penalty for pushing Franco off track limits," Tom Stallard informed.

"-ck. Ten seconds, huh?" Oscar said in a voice so low Lando's knees almost gave out. Almost. Just in time for him to grab a chair and take a seat. "Tell the team I'm pitting in the next lap. I need softs."

"Oscar, we cannot afford any more penalties. Think about this rationally."

"I need softs," Oscar repeated. And turned off his radio. Lando smiled to himself.

He pitted on the next lap and switched to softs. After that, he was elusive. Lap 29, fastest lap, 2.14 seconds behind Verstappen. Lap 30, fastest lap, 1.28 seconds behind Verstappen. Lap 31, 0.42 seconds behind Verstappen. Lap 32, Verstappen pitted for the second time, his undercut attempt 8 laps ago obviously failing. Oscar took the lead.

And Good God what he did with the opportunity. In a matter of 10 laps, he was 9 seconds ahead of Verstappen. Franco, who had rejoined the race, was catching up to P4.

On the 45th lap, Oscar had successfully brought the gap between him and Verstappen to 12 seconds.

"Tires degrading, Oscar. Box, box."

On Lap 46, Oscar pitted. (1.92 seconds. Impressive.) Now on mediums with only five laps to go, Oscar was back on the track. Behind him, Leclerc on new mediums as well overtook Verstappen for P2, 8.24 seconds behind Oscar.

Lap 47, fastest lap, 8.91 seconds ahead. If he didn't bring the gap over 10 seconds in three laps, he would finish P2 given his penalty. Verstappen might pass Leclerc and take the 25 points. That would drop Oscar 2 points behind in the championship. Being P2 behind Verstappen in a championship in the last few races and thinking you could still win the WDC was a joke.

Lap 48, 9.24 seconds ahead. Lando was sure he was going to pass out from the anxiety, having eaten dinner hours ago. Leclerc couldn't close the gap by any means, even if they had 20 more laps, but if he brought it to less than 10 seconds, he might have 25 points when Oscar drops down to P2. Verstappen was now 2.9 seconds behind him.

Lap 49, 9.63 seconds ahead. Hurry up, Osc. You can't lose now, Lando cheered him on in his head.

Lap 50. Oscar's car was a blur on the race track. Lando couldn't tell if he was breathing on not, every sense in his body focused on the car in lead.

The checkered line was in sight. 9.98 seconds. A championship on the line. Oscar pulled it through.

Lando was sure he actually passed out.

Checkered flag.

Leclerc behind by +10.040 seconds.

He had done it.

"And it's the ninth victory of the season for Oscar Piastri," Alex Jacques spoke into the microphone. "Ten second penalty to a win by four hundredths of a second, Oscar Piastri, the man that you are."

As Lando walked out of the commentary box with Crofty, Oscar's post race celebrations ringing in his ears, the man handed him a microphone and pulled him towards the post-race interviews. "You're gonna need to get to Oscar as fast as you can if you want to interview him. That was an incredible win, he's gonna be surrounded soon."

Lando's first thought was, oh, yeah, right. And his second thought was oh fuck.

He could do it. He had done this multiple times before as a journalist. It was just an interview. He'd watched so many videos of Oscar that he'd probably desensitised himself to the man.

Oscar spotted him before he spotted Oscar, walking over to him in long strides. He was smiling ear to ear.

Lando was not ready for the way his hair stuck to his forehead with sweat, the way colour was high on his cheeks, the way he was buzzing with adrenaline. "Mega race, Oscar. How are you feeling?"

He searched Oscar's face for any sign of recognition and found nothing but a victorious smile.

"Uhh, for starters, it feels fucking amazing. Tonight was really special in more ways than one. Obviously a wonderful race to be able to go from P6 all the way up to P1 against such competent and competitive drivers. Uhm, the last few laps were intense. Closing a three second gap and creating a ten second one. Really thankful to the engineers and Tom Stallard for listening to me and letting me take the gamble."

Of course. Why would Oscar remember him anymore? Two days together four years ago and Lando thought they had something. Hell, even he didn't remember the guys he hooked up with four years ago. Besides, wouldn't Oscar have sought him out in the last four years if he missed Lando? It wasn't like Lando didn't tell him everything about himself except that he was from the future. He was professional enough to not show his grief on his face when he continued, "This might be one of your best drivers, Oscar, along with Baku and Sao Paolo this year and Melbourne last year. What motivated you to pull off such an incredible stunt?"

"Well, obviously there was the championship at the risk and..." He looked right into Lando's eyes with a serene, almost sad smile on his face. "Two of my most favourite people were watching the race tonight. I had to make them proud."

Lando's heart clenched in his chest. That was something his Osc four years ago might have said about him someday. This Oscar was different, had different favourite people, and didn't recognise Lando.

"Very well, thank you, Oscar, thank you for your time. Enjoy the celebrations."

And if Lando turned around slowly enough, he could almost convince himself that Oscar was sad to see him go.

Lando opened the door of his apartment, ready to go lie down on his bed and mope about his sorry life. Maybe call his aunt and ask her why she left him such a terrible place to live. That was when the smell of something savory wafted up his nostrils.

Cow print rug. Purple sofa. That god awful papaya blanket thrown over the back of it.

"Oscar?" he called out, just to make sure this apartment wasn't playing another cruel joke on him.

A head of brown hair peeked out from the kitchen, eyes lighting up when he saw Lando. "Okay, Lia, I'll call you back. I've got a friend visiting."

Lando crossed the little distance between them until he was directly in front of Oscar, both of them smiling stupidly wide.

God, his smile. That charming little smile that always ticked up a bit more on one side than the other. That stupid swoop of his brown hair. His shoulders that weren't quite so broad yet, but getting there. The muscles in his neck. The veins in his hands. The nails he hadn't cut the last time he was in this apartment that still weren't cut. His beautiful, beautiful moles. Such a sight for sore eyes.

"I'm sorry I didn't come back," Lando apologized. It was the least Oscar deserved. "Some urgent work came up, them I got guests randomly, and then.. things just kept happening. I'm sorry, Oscar, I didn't mean to be away that long." He felt bad about lying but it was his only choice. He couldn't tell Oscar that he had been living in this exact apartment but it hadn't let them meet.

Oscar smiled, happy as if he just got the first paycheck of his life. I missed your smile, Lando wanted to scream at him. I missed you. "S'alright, Salmon. I haven't been around much myself. Had a race a few days after you left so had to travel all the way to Brazil. I just came back yesterday. Your aunt and cousin are still in Italy, by the way."

I don't care. I saw you four years later and you didn't recognise me. 

"You're gonna make it to Formula One," he blurted.

"What?"

"I mean. I. I watched some of your F2 races while I was gone. You're a champion, Osc. You're gonna be World Champion one day, I'm telling you."

You will be, but you won't remember me.

Oscar blushed. God, Lando missed seeing him blush. "I, yeah, that's the goal, but like, where's this flattery coming from?"

"I missed you," Lando admitted. Maybe he shouldn't have. They had only known each other for two days, after all.

Oscar's face softened, his entire face softened, like he'd been waiting to hear those words. "I didn't think you were gonna come back. Waited until five in the evening before it hit me that you might've gone back to your own apartment."

I did. That's exactly what I did. I'm sorry. 

"C'mere," he whispered, pulling Oscar in by a gentle hand on the nape of his neck.

The Oscar Piastri who fought his way up to the World Drivers' Championship might not remember who Lando was, but this— this Oscar was his. This Oscar loved him. He loved this Oscar.

And he kissed him like he meant it.

"You- you don't even know, how much I missed you," Lando murmured between kisses, "and that's so insane because I was here for like two days."

"Mhmm," Oscar hummed dazedly. He kept switching between looking at Lando's eyes and lips, absolutely bewitched.

"I don't think I even liked you enough to miss you like that when I was here," Lando confessed. "No offense."

"Me too, it's, uhh, 'distance makes the heart grow fonder' something something. Now kiss me again," Oscar demanded. Lando grinned and cupped his face, let a hand wander through the soft brown hair and did something so insane and absolutely mental, he— 

He pressed his lips to Oscar's forehead, adoring the way the boy's cheeks turned pink.

Faintly, in the very back of his mind, his aunt's voice nagged at him."I made the mistake of choosing to fall further." But if Oscar hooking his fingers into the collar of Lando's shirt to pull him in was a mistake, Lando wanted to be wrong for the rest of his life. If falling felt like Oscar's lips on his, he never wanted to get back up.

He nipped at Oscar's bottom lip, eliciting a soft gasp from him.

"Wait-" Oscar sounded panicked. Before Lando could worry, he ran into the kitchen and took the lid off a pot. It... it didn't even look edible anymore.

"What was that supposed to be?" Lando peeked over his shoulder.

He pouted. "Fettuccine. It's a family recipe."

"I mean... It still looks like fettuccine? At least a little bit," Lando offered.

All it got him was a sharp glare. "This is all your fault. You distracted me."

Lando grinned. "Oh yes, because I'm just sooo distracting and irresistible, aren't I? People look at me and just want to snog the hell out of m-"

Oscar shoved at him. "Shut up, you're making the dinner now."

"Isn't it past midnight? Why are you making dinner now?"

"Jet lag," Oscar replied. "Came back last night. Travelling always fucks up my schedule."

Lando kissed him again, a short peck on the lips, for no reason other than that is Oscar was being cute. A hand grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him up to his lips with surprising strength. Okay, maybe he shouldn't have judged his Oscar that much. He wasn't weak by any means. (Lando was. In the knees, specifically.)

"There's this takeout place that's still open," he whispered. Because it has been six hours since he last ate and being around Oscar always makes him hungry. "Or we could have some frozen pizza."

Lando went to open the fridge to see if they had any. "Lando, no no no no no no-"

It was too late. Lando peered down and saw a horrible, horrible packet.

"Oscar, I said no salmon in the fricking fridge, mate."

"I'm sorry! I swear I didn't cook anything of it. All the pans are clean."

"Oh God," Lando realised, blood running cold in his veins. "I can't believe I kissed you with all those fish bacteria still in your mouth, I- eugh."

"Lando-"

"Eughhhhhhhh."