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Oppressive heat surrounds Oscar.
It's always like this in Saudi Arabia, sun baking down on the dry ground, heat sizzling up from the black tarmac. A claustrophobic hug of unwelcome warmth. It's why he always wears shorts and t-shirts, minimal contact between his skin and fabric, less opportunity for that skin-sticky insulation.
The same is never said for his teammate, Lando. Permanently layered up - jeans, top, hoodie, jacket - it's like growing up in Britain has done nothing to thicken his skin.
It's also the cause of Oscar's current situation. Which is one of Lando ordering a Piastri polo shirt.
——
So, back to the hot weather and Lando's cocoon-like wardrobe choices.
Evidently, it's no different this weekend. Lando is bundled up to the nines on their jet over, comfy slacks and t-shirt, snuggled up to his neck under a blanket. But his spring-loaded tucked up form is shivering slightly, probably from the aircon blasting straight at his face. Not that Oscar is paying super close attention to him, but a private jet is only so big. Basically - he's an observant guy.
The shivering is incessant, the thin wool of the blanket clearly doing little to protect Lando from the chill. Oscar can hear the rustling form across the aisle, glances over to see Lando draped unceremoniously across the double seat, blanket now pulled up to his nose. It's daft, really.
"Mate, why don't you shut off your air con?" Oscar asks. Because, why doesn't he?
Lando lazily turns his head to face Oscar, yanks the blanket back down to his chin and drawls, "Because I like the cooling sensation on my face." His eyes are sleepy, lids heavy. Curls mussed from wriggling around so much.
"The only part of your face that's getting that cooling sensation is your forehead, I don't think you're really benefitting from it," Oscar counters.
"Yeah well. It's too cold, like one of those. One of those things where like, two things happen and it's weird. Y'know-"
"A paradox?"
"Exactly. Call it Lando's Plane Paradox." And with that, the blanket is pulled back up to the older boy's nose, and he sinks back down into his seat.
God he's so perplexing sometimes. Even after being teammates for a while, there are still so many idiosyncrasies to the Brit that Oscar is yet to work out. Like Lando's Plane Paradox. Man, it's not even a paradox - it's something so easily avoidable its almost comical. Not even by Lando's flimsy definition of a paradox is there anything paradoxical about it.
Ever the pragmatist, Oscar reaches to the floor for his bag, hauls it up into his lap. He's pretty sure he has a spare hoodie in there, because he likes to be prepared for all eventualities - and he's almost always warm. Plus he had the wherewithal to shut the little fan and relax at a perfectly adequate temperature. So, it's not like the hoodie is needed anyway.
Rummaging round in his back, he sees the bright orange garment he's after. It's just a McLaren issued team hoodie. Kind of garish but will certainly get the job done. "You want a hoodie?"
"What, are you offering?"
"Yeah. I'm not using it, and you're shivering. So." Shimming across to the aisle seat, Oscar extends his arm so Lando can grab the hoodie.
Their fingers graze during the hand over, Lando's ice cold digits spark ice tingling up Oscar's arm and sending him shimmying back to his window seat. He feels oddly bashful about it now, watching Lando stuff the hoodie over his head, watching him wrap himself up in something of Oscar's.
It's like. A boyfriend thing.
Seeing Lando in his clothes- it shouldn't make Oscar feel the way it does. The neckline sits lower than it does on himself, the seam of the shoulders drooping down towards Lando's upper arms. The sleeves fall past Lando's wrists, half obscuring his huge hands. If anything, they look smaller now that they're covered in the orange fabric, fingers curling over the cuffs.
A pool of possessive satisfaction settles in Oscar's belly. Which he should definitely not address and should in fact ignore.
But it's hard to tear his gaze away from Lando now, keeps risking fleeting glances over to him when Oscar thinks he isn't looking. Makes fatal eye contact, Lando's drowsy eyes, content smile and rosy cheeks. Oscar offers him a shy smile before angling himself the other way.
He forces himself to sleep for the rest of the flight.
Lights off and away he goes.
——
Stepping off the place and into the oven like temperatures of Jeddah, even Lando has had to accept it would be insanity to wear more layers than necessary. He had handed Oscar back the hoodie, something reticent etched into his features as he did so. A fleeting, lingering grasp of the fabric and a mumbled "thanks, Osc" before scurrying after Jon.
It's always busy on the first day, the pair having a plethora of duties to attend to - both separately and together.
The final leg of a triple header is brutal, the excursions of the past two weeks sitting heavy and tired in Oscar's bones by the end of the day. He trudges towards the hotel where the team are staying, quite literally nothing more enticing than the thought of laying down on the cooling cotton of his bed. So he does just that, meets his own tired eyes in the reflection of the mirror in the lift, tumbles into his room, changes into more comfortable clothes, and flops face first onto the bed.
Can just feel himself start to drift off when his phone rings.
It's Lando.
Nervous anticipation sparks through Oscar as he holds the phone up to his ear. Unwelcome thoughts off Lando restful-ruffled in bed, phoning Oscar. Cute.
"Osco!"
"Hello Lando," Oscar huffs back with a smile. He shouldn't be, but Oscar is always endlessly endeared when Lando calls him Osco. It seldom happens, sometimes it sounds like more of an accident than anything - Lando jumbling their names into one in a sleepy slip of the tongue.
"I'm bored as balls. You wanna play FIFA or something?"
"Uhhhh."
"C'mon mate, just to relax a little before the weekend. You know you want to." Lando says, imploring.
And- Oscar is pretty useless as far as Fifa goes, not to mention the exhaustion he feels, but he is willing to sacrifice his dignity to spend a little spare time with his teammate before the inevitable chaos of the weekend.
Teammate and friend. And apparent object of affection.
"Yeah sure. I'll be over in five minutes"
Oscar rolls put of bed, makes a feeble attempt to straighten out his hair. Looks at himself in the mirror, taking in his slightly dishevelled appearance, grey joggers and white top, grabs a bottle-green jumper from the top of his suitcase to bring with him. Not that he'd need it, probably.
Seemingly endless magnolia walls stretch between Oscar and Lando's rooms, counts the doors, blocks of deep brown punctuating the corridor. Gets to Lando's room. Raps on the door, stomach swooping low with something warm and nervous.
Huh!
His fingers tap restlessly against his outer thigh, suddenly hyper aware about the way he's standing. Oscar shifts his weight from foot to foot, looks down and begins to fiddle with the hem of his jumper just as the door swings open.
Lando looks, well, domestic. Is certainly a word for it. His hair is damp, curls kissing his forehead wetly, leaving droplets of water in their wake. He has a towel slung over his shoulder, which must surely be making his top wet as well. Shorts sitting low on his waist, if he leant back to stretch Oscar would be able to see the sharp cut of his hips - he thinks.
Christ.
In lieu of a welcome, Lando simply thrusts a controller into Oscar's hand and turns to walk back into the living room.
Oscar kicks off his shoes by the door before shuffling through after the older boy, feet scuffing the hardwood floor quietly. There are already clothes strewn over the furniture, the room clearly in limbo between fully-packed-and-tidy and fully-unpacked-and-tidy. Oscar thinks he lives in that space permanently.
Lando fusses as he sets up Fifa, so Oscar just sits himself down on the couch. Tries to remember how to sit normally - genuinely why is he having a crisis about how to sit. He folds his jumper up neatly, places it down beside him. Crosses his ankles and hopes Lando won't think he's some sort of deranged robot boy.
Lando who is taking over his brain, reprogramming and rewiring him via some hoodie covered trojan horse.
Successful, Lando walks over to Oscar, sits down right beside him. They are not quite touching at the hips, but it's a near thing. Oscar can feel the residual warmth from Lando's shower radiating off his skin, bubbling into the air between them hugging his own skin. The other boy is sitting cross legged, knee resting on Oscar's thigh, their elbows knocking briefly as they jostle with the controllers.
A warm buzz permeates from the points of contact, worming its way under Oscar's skin and through his body. He's so hypersensitive of every place they touch, can't tell whether he wants to put a bit of space between them or if he wants to pull Lando closer into him. Share the space, share their warmth.
But, Oscar soldiers on, tries to concentrate on the game at hand. Which is crucial, given how dismal he is at it.
Truly dismal.
"Oscar have you even played Fifa before?" Lando asks after a couple of games.
"Uhh, would it be better for my reputation if I say no?"
"Yes. Infinetly yes. You are so shit, mate." Lando exclaims like it is actually troubling to him how bad Oscar is.
"Yeah alright, whatever." Oscar says, Lando giggling beside him. "Are you seriously laughing at a man when he's already down?"
"'Course! And you say whatever funny. Wahteeva, it's so... Australian."
"Well you've got me there. Also can we please change game, I'm sick of embarrassing myself like this".
Lando is already on his feet, looks back over his shoulder as he says "Mario Kart okay?" Oscar shoots him a thumbs up. "Mint."
This time, when Lando returns to the couch, he resituates himself so that his back is against the far armrest. Before Oscar can mourn the lack of contact, missing his smaller form by his side, Lando drapes his feet over Oscar's thighs. The small bones of his ankles digging into the soft flesh of Oscar's legs, impossible to ignore.
"This alright yeah?" Lando says, expression open and honest.
"Sure, of course," Oscar yes, impressed with how he manages to keep a steady tone. And then, because he is clearly crazy and doesn't know when to bite his tongue, "I like it, being close. To people."
Lando shoots him a shy smile from across the couch, "yeah, me too."
The pair settle into an amicable rhythm - taking it in turns choosing a track, mindlessly chatting as they play.
Oscar lets his hands fall to sit on top of Lando's shins, wants to circle an ankle in his grasp. Lando looks so delicate like this, lithe body released from all the layers he wears during the day. Pretty.
Oscar wants to dress Lando in his clothes again.
As Lando scroll through the various maps in search of a new track, Oscar allows himself to fully rest a hand on the thin skin of Lando's ankle, warm palm blanketing it. Lando makes a contended humming noise, seemingly absentmindedly. Knowing the touch is welcome, Oscar passes his thumb over the little protruding bone, running soft circles over it.
"Your hand is so warm." Lando says.
"Umm." Oscar doesn't know how to reply.
Lando keeps speaking, filling the silence hanging between them as he selects a map, "no it's nice. You know how chilly I get,"
"You cold right now?" Oscar asks.
"I mean yeah. I think I'm cold by default."
The race is starting, but Oscar steals a look at the jumper sitting by his side, trains his eyes back on the screen as he speaks again. "Do you want my jumper?" And that nearly makes Lando fumble the start, squeaking as he snaps his head to look at Oscar.
"You want to have me in your clothes again Piastri?" A smirk tugs at the corner of Lando's mouth, Oscar doesn't let himself get flustered by the teasing.
"Maybe I do. Maybe I just don't want you to be cold. Offer's there either way."
"Yeah, that'd be mint actually. Give it here." Lando stretches out his arm, grabbing with his hand until Oscar passes it over.
And just like how it had been on the plane, the moment Lando is wearing Oscar's jumper, that ugly possessive streak shoots through Oscar's body. It's weird and unnerving and all too much for how menial it actually is.
God, he needs to get a grip.
But then Lando says something that tips Oscar's world ever so slightly on its head.
"You'd make such a good boyfriend."
"I beg your pardon?"
"You like, pay loads of attention. What's the word, attentionative?"
"Attentive?"
"Yes! Took the word straight out my mouth. And you're smart, see? Plus your jumper selection is quality."
It's suffocating, having to hear Lando praise him like this. Oscar is entirely unprepared, can't clear the fog that has rolled out in his mind to formulate a proper response.
"Boyfriend, huh? I'm not sure I'd be a good boyfriend." Oscar says, can feel his heart beating like a rabbit in his ribcage. Sweat beads at his finger tips, but he's paying such little attention to the console that it doesn't actually affect anything.
"Oh piss off, what are you looking for more compliments? Trust me mate."
"Not too sure how they'd feel about me dressing you up in my clothes all the time though." Oscar can hear it in his own voice, how it's dropped an octave. Deliberate and definite.
Suddenly Lando's phone rings, the obnoxious tone cutting through the tender atmosphere. Severing whatever kind of moment they were having. It startles Oscar, who bins his car off of the track, destroying any hopes he had of scrambling up from 10th on the board.
"Fuck sake," he grumbles. Swivels his head to work out where the sound is coming from, reaches for the phone to pass to Lando, who's still engrossed in the race, sitting in a noble 4th place. His tongue is poking out slightly in concentration, and the frustration Oscar felt at having his race sabotaged (it was a lost cause anyway) melts into something fond. The ringing has stopped by this point, and a message reading Missed call from British Twat #1 appears on Lando's home screen.
"Uh I think George called you?"
"Oh shit, yeah." Lando's eyes widen but remain glued to the TV screen. He's in third place now, a lap and a half to go. "I was meant to meet up with him and Alex tonight."
"Oh," is all Oscar replies.
"No no it's fine. It was last minute anyway, I meant to say to him that we'd already agreed to see each other."
"I can message him telling them to come to your room, if you'd like?" Oscar suggests. It wouldn't be the ideal scenario, but it's only polite, he supposes.
"Nah don't bother. They wouldn't fit in here anyway. I'm comfy here and I don't want to have to accommodate George's freaky limbs." The thing is, they absolutely would fit - George's freaky limbs and all. But it's not like Oscar is going to point that out. He's quite content with the current set up. "Can you message him saying that me and you are having to do some team thing? Don't mention Mario Kart, he'd break the door down."
"Yeah sure mate, what's your password?"
"1963, don't say anything."
"Cool," Oscar says, corners of his mouth twitching in the beginnings of a smile as he punches in the digits of the year McLaren was founded. Typical.
But what he sees on the screen in his hands as it unlocks is not Lando's Whatsapp. It's Safari. The search bar is open, showing all what Lando has recently been looking up.
And it's. Well.
oscar piastri merch
oscar piastri shirt size
what size in clothes is oscar piastri
oscar piasti f1 driver mesurements
how tall is 5 feet 10 in cm
how tall am i in cm
lando norris height in cm
oscar piastri merch order
do maclaren have piastri hoodies
piastri team shirt mclaren
What.
What!!!
Oscar swipes away from it, fingers clumsy in attempt to navigate to Lando's Whatsapp. Accidentally goes to Lando's other open tabs and sees his own name emblazoned on a McLaren team polo. Adrenaline spiked and curiosity piqued, George's pending message is shoved to the back burner.
Oscar opens the tab fully, expanding to fill his screen with an image of his own merchandise. It's the orange one with black sleeves, a giant 81 stretching across the fabric and his name - Piastri - sitting surreptitiously above it. Bewildered is an understatement, Oscar Piastri is baffled. And the worst part is, the size is selected as large.
If Oscar is a medium, Lando must be a small. A large would dwarf him.
Blinking rapidly, trying to will away the heat he can feel rising to his cheeks, Oscar finally fumbles open Whatsapp, haphazardly punches out a message to George.
Hey mate, it's Oscar. Sorry, but Lando and I are having to
work on some team stuff tonight.
Hope you and Alex still have a nice evening 👍
Ahh no worries Oscar. Tell Lando he shouldn't be making
other people answer his phone for him
The lazy bastard
With that, Oscar clicks the phone off, places it tentatively back on the armrest it was sitting on before. He picks up the controller from beside him. Puts it back on his lap. Picks it up again, slightly lost, thumbs circling mindlessly over the buttons, thinking about what on earth he has just stumbled across. It doesn't make sense.
Why would Lando be buying Oscar his own merchandise? It is the only explanation he can think of, what with his name on the back and it being in his size. Lando is the one person that knows just how much team riff raff gets pawned off on the two of them, knows that Oscar is not in dire need of another McLaren polo shirt. The gesture is still quite nice though, the thought of Lando spending his own time ordering something for Oscar.
He should probably leave it, but. Oscar is curious.
"Lando?"
The older boy hmms noncommittally. If only he knew the metaphorical bomb Oscar's about to drop. But a nonchalant bomb, of course. Let's not blow this totally out of proportion, he can be smooth.
"Are you getting me a present?"
Lando's eyebrows shoot up, eyes widening, ocean green striking against white.
"Uhhhh is it for your birthday? I swear that was a couple of week ago, I'm sorry I didn't realise we were doing presents this year-"
"No no it's fine, I didn't get you anything last year." Fondness pangs in Oscars chest, but it's constricted with nagging confusion. If Lando wasn't getting Oscar some belated birthday present, then-
"Listen I can get you something right now, gimme a second." And Lando is untangling his limbs and staggering to his feet, heading to his bedroom.
Oscar is left, loitering awkwardly alone in the living room, unsure about what on earth is going on. Clattering echoes from the other room, painting an audible picture of Lando rummaging frantically through drawers and pillaging bags. It's quite concerning, really. And anyway - Oscar still doesn't have an answer to his actual question, hasn't even been able to ask it yet.
"Okay!" Lando's voice cuts through the air, signalling an end to the whirlwind of noise he'd been creating.
He emerges from his room, shuffling over to where Oscar is sitting, unmoved. His hands are tucked into the sleeves of his too-big hoodie, which- Oscar shouldn't conflate these things - but it reminds him of when Lando wore his hoodie on the plane. The secondary thought of Oscar Piastri shirt size and that selected large in the sizing options ricochet around his brain.
Lando stands in front of him, looking down at Oscar, hands joined behind his back. Oscar's head is level with Lando's waist, has to crane his neck to look up at the other. It does funny things to Oscar.
"Okay," the other boy says again. "Close your eyes."
Oscar does.
"Stick your hands out. No, no put them together. Yeah, like that. Like you're holding a hamster or something."
"Pardon?"
"Shut up. I'm giving you a gift."
And then the kiss cold item falls into his open palms. Clasping his hand around it properly, Oscar keeps his eyes shut - he always liked guessing birthday gifts. Or belated birthday gifts. It's a bracelet for sure, the beads passing through easily as he threads them through his fingers. Little sphere after little sphere until it's seven little cubes.
Finger tips tracing the minute divots in the plastic, he opens his eyes to get a proper look. And it's. It's clearly handmade, probably by a fan if Lando just had it on standby, but papaya orange, save for those seven beads, which read OP81LN4. Black painted on white, stark and contrasting to the rest of the bracelet. It's not at all anticipated and actually really sweet.
"Does this fill your birthday quota?"
"Haha yeah," Oscar chuckles. "It does. But I was actually gonna ask you a different question."
"Oh?"
"Yeah. Um."
Lando tilts his heads quizzically.
"It was actually, uhh, why you've ordered one of my shirts in my size? If it isn't for me?" Oscar can hear it in his own voice as the waver of nerves chopps up his already rising intonation, glances away as he speaks. "If it's not a birthday thing."
Lando is silent for a few, long seconds.
"Oh."
It's a quiet, meek thing.
Oscar forces himself to look back at Lando. The shorter boy isn't making eye contact, gaze somewhere between Oscar's hand which is still clutching the bracelet and the floor between them. Pink colours high on his cheeks, tinges the tips of his ears red.
Shit, Oscar did not intend to make Lando feel bad.
"It's okay, yeah? I accidentally saw it when I was trying to message George. I just, was wondering."
"It's um. It's stupid, like I didn't mean for you to see."
"Lando honestly it's fine. We can drop it and go back to playing Mario Kart?"
"Nah, shit's awkward now. I look like a crazy stalker," Lando chuckles mirthlessly. "Basically. Like. On the plane? When I was cold and you gave me the team hoodie. I liked it because it was bigger than me, like oversized. I like that shit."
"So you just wanted an oversized sweater?"
"Kinda, yeah. And also. Umm," Lando breaks eye contact with Oscar. "This is the freaky bit. I liked that it had your name on it?"
The admission hits Oscar like a freight train. It probably shouldn't, given their conversation moments ago. He'd known Lando enjoyed being close to people, but he'd though that was like a general thing, not an Oscar specific thing. It's dizzying. Knowing that Lando wants to have Oscar's name on his back. Wearing Oscar's clothes, branded.
"Lando you have no idea how hot that it." Oscar huffs, hand reaching up to tap gently against Lando's cheek.
"What?"
"Mate, I've been the one pawning my clothes off to you. I don't go wandering round the paddock just handing stuff out. I like seeing you in my clothes."
"Oh." Lando says, but this time it's happy, hopeful. The blush on his cheeks more bashful than embarrassed.
Oscar extends both arms, taking Lando's hands in his own, and pulls. Lando squawks as he falls unceremoniously into Oscar's lap, strong thighs bracketing Oscar's hips. Shared warmth, shared breath. Oscar looks at Lando, really looks at him. At everything that makes him lovely and pretty and Lando. Rakes his eyes all over the smaller boys face, settles on his plush, parted lips.
"I'm going to kiss you Lando, if that's alright."
Lando nods, tilts his head down for their lips to meet.
It's soft, lazy and unurgent. The gentle push and pull of their lips sending sparks of pleasure through Oscar, the soft gasps passed between them, secrets only they know about. Oscar brings a hand up to cradle the back of Lando's neck, the other resting firm on Lando's hip, digging in past the fabric of his own jumper to steady the older boy. Both of Lando's hands are on Oscar's shoulders, leveraging, bringing them closer together.
It's hot. It's so fucking hot.
Lando here, kissing him, in Oscar's clothes, on Oscar's lap.
He wants more, more, shorts beginning to tent in heated anticipation. He needs to get a grip.
Gentle, tender, fingers thread through Lando's hair, pulling him back. A whimper slips out from Lando, Oscar pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth in apology. "It's late, and we've got all weekend. Don't want you to be sore for practice Lan."
Lando burns red, but his eyes are creased in weathered laugh lines, smile splitting his face in half. God, Oscar wants to lick into the space between his tooth gap.
"As long as you keep letting me wear your hoodies, I don't care."
Oscar rolls his eyes, his cheeks aching in effort to not grin himself. "Reckon you've got free range for as long as you'd like."
"Yes! Call that Lando's Hoodie Paradox."