Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Lando remembers the first time he met Oscar like it was yesterday. He remembers how he thought Oscar was good looking, not in a jacked supermodel kind of way but in a young boyish way, with baby fat supple in his cheeks and uneven bunny teeth that were incredibly endearing.

Lando remembers how he had swoopy brown hair that fell just so and a small smile that’s more of a tight-lipped smirk than anything else. He also had brown eyes—not striking in the way other peoples’ light-coloured eyes were, but still grounding and captivating.

He’d acted older than he actually was and mature in a way that made Lando feel almost awkward by comparison. And he was taller, much taller than Lando's expected.

Perhaps the thing that caught him off guard the most was his quiet disposition. Not standoffish or smug like he thought he was better than everyone. Lando expected that from him, given he’d won F4, F3, and F2 in consecutive years.

He’s nice. Just. Not warm. Guarded. There was something reserved about him, a stillness that made it difficult for Lando to figure out what he was thinking. His previous teammates, Carlos and Daniel, had been the exact opposite—explosive, cheery, and loud. They filled the room with energy and were always easy to talk to.

But Oscar? He was different. The silence between them wasn’t awkward, just... unfamiliar.

Lando didn’t let it throw him off, though. He knows he’s very persistent and borderline annoying, and he’s never one to give up easily. With a friendly grin, he extended his hand. “Hi, I’m Lando!”

Oscar blinked, taken aback.

“Uh, Lando Norris,” the Brit added hastily, feeling oddly self-conscious.

The Australian tilted his head, with a look that resembled a lost puppy. His gaze was steady, too steady, and his expression was unreadable. It wasn’t until he spoke that Lando realised how unsettling that silence had been.

“Yeah, I know.” He finally shook Lando’s outstretched hand, his grip firm but not overly so. ”I’m Oscar Piastri” with a quiet air of confidence around his words.

The words hit Lando strangely. They weren’t rude exactly, but they weren’t warm either. Oscar sounded annoyed. Was he annoyed? Had Lando done something to offend him already?

“I’m not.” he said curtly. What?

“I— uh, I mean, my name’s not. That. I mean, it is, but my full name’s Oscar Jack Piastri. So, uh, yeah,” he stumbled.

Awkwardness loomed in the air, and it was almost as if Oscar’s diffidence was so contagious that it affected Lando.

After that initial stilted conversation, things got much better. Lando showed Oscar around the MTC, introducing the best napping spots and the places and which restrooms had the best toilet paper and where he’d kept all the secret chocolate bars. The social media admins followed them around, vlogging Oscar’s first day in the office and all of his enthusiasm (admittedly, not a lot).

He introduced Oscar to all the staff members. Lando didn’t remember half their names, bless them, but thankfully, everyone got up and personally greeted the rookie. It was a parade of handshakes and polite smiles.

All throughout the introductions, Oscar’s hand tended to drift to his necklace. But he didn’t seem nervous at all, save for the tiny fidgeting. The necklace was in the shape of a small star, with a yellow gemstone at the heart of it. Personally, it was a little bit more feminine than what Lando would’ve gone for, but the way the gemstone gleamed and glistened against the golden hour was fascinating.

Then came the simwork. Technically, Lando didn’t need to be there, but he was interested to see how the rookie performed.

Oscar was talented—that much was obvious. His lap times on the simulator were a couple tenths off Lando’s, in his first year in a car that he’s never driven before after a gap year in an engine foreign to him. Where he appeared awkward and stilted in his first interaction with Lando, he was confident and natural in the car, albeit still trying to gauge the limits of it.

After that, he didn’t see much of the Australian. Their sim schedules were always on different times on different days. The most they had spoken was an exchange of pleasantries in the lift.

He hopes things are less awkward once the races start.

To be frank, Bahrain was shit.

Pre-season testing was not the best, to put it lightly, and the race even more underwhelming. Lando qualified just outside the points, which was not ideal, and the hydraulics fucking gave up on him. Oscar didn’t fare better either, something with the electrics causing him to retire.

So it was understandable that he was grouchy when Max (Verstappen, the other Max was still in the UK) invited him to a club. However, with the assurance that he would pay for all of Lando’s drinks, and that he wouldn’t leave him for Leclerc, Lando put on his best shirt and made his way out of his hotel room.

Just as he's locking his door, another one opens. A mop of brown hair peeks—it’s Oscar. He looks seconds away from sleep, and he looks so comfortable that Lando is lowkey jealous of him.

“Hey mate,” Oscar greets him, nodding his head.

“Hey. Pretty shit race, yeah?” Lando repeats the gesture, nodding his head as well.

Oscar mumbles a soft "yeah," his voice barely audible, then awkwardly retreats back into his room. His movements are hesitant, like he’s trying to slip away unnoticed.

Before Lando could properly think about it, the word was out of his mouth, sharp and instinctive. “Wait!”

Oscar freezes mid-step, his hand still on the doorframe. He turns slightly, just enough for Lando to catch the faint flicker of confusion in his expression.

“What is it?” Oscar asks, his tone measured but with an edge of wariness, as if bracing for something unexpected.

Lando hesitates, suddenly unsure of what he wants to say. He shifts on his feet, scratching the back of his neck as he tries to gather his thoughts.

“I—” he falters, then takes a breath, steadying himself. “Look, I’m not great at, uh, reading people or whatever, but... did I say something wrong? Every time we talk, you always seem… off. Like, did I upset you or something?”

For a moment, Oscar doesn’t respond. His gaze drops, and his fingers twitch slightly, brushing against the edge of the necklace he wears. When he finally looks back up, there’s a strange mix of reluctance and something else—almost curiosity—in his eyes.

“It’s not that,” Oscar says softly, almost muttering it under his breath.

“Then what is it?”

He hesitates again, the silence stretching between them. “It’s... complicated.”

“Complicated, huh?” he parrots, trying to keep his tone light despite the knot of unease forming in his chest. “Well, I’ve got time.”

Oscar doesn’t answer, just looks at him for a long moment, deciding whether to say more. Then, with a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head, he retreats fully into the room, slowly shutting the door behind him.

“Or…” Lando starts, the words tumbling out before he can think better of it, “we can play FIFA?”

Oscar pauses mid-step. Lando flashes the faintest flicker of a smile to be safe. The Australian sighs, turning back around. “Sure,”

He texts Max that he’s not going to the club.

Turns out, Oscar is really good at FIFA. Like, really good. It’s uncanny, almost unfair. It’s as if he knows exactly what Lando is thinking—whether he’s going to pass to Rashford or Højlund, or take the shot himself. Then somehow, he always had Van Dijk—with godlike stats for some god awful reason—right where he needed him to be.

“Mate, I thought you said you haven’t played in a while,” Lando groans, flopping on the sofa and letting the controller slip from his hand.

Oscar shrugs, casually unphased. “My sisters are surprisingly good at FIFA,” he says with a small, almost self-conscious grin. “So I’ve had to practice. A lot.”

Lando raises an eyebrow, sitting up slightly. “Your sisters? Really?”

“Yeah. They don’t hold back, either. Ruthless, they are.” Oscar explains. “They always go to internet cafés and make bets. Could probably pay for my F2 seat with the money they’ve won, I bet.”

“Well, remind me not to play them. You’re bad enough,”

Oscar smirks, his fingers idly fiddling with the controller. “You’re not so bad. Just… easy to read.”

“Easy to read?!” Lando squawks.

“Yeah.” he glances at him briefly, adding, “You think too much about what you’re going to do next.”

Lando freezes for a moment, the words hitting closer than he’d like. It’s something he’s painfully aware of—a topic wrung out over multiple hours on the plush sofa of his therapist’s office. Overthinking, second-guessing, always two steps ahead in his head and three steps behind in reality.

How the hell did Oscar get so perceptive from a couple of rounds of fucking FIFA?

He shakes off the thought, the heat rising in his chest replaced by a spark of determination. Whatever. It’s just a game.

He picks up his controller again, jaw tightening as he turns to face the screen. “Alright, one more match,” he says, a grin tugging at his lips despite himself. “This time, I’m going to beat your arse.”

Oscar lets out a soft chuckle, the sound so brief Lando almost misses it. He leans back, his calm demeanor entirely intact. “We’ll see.”

They flew together to Melbourne.

Lando was surprised to find out that Oscar had been flying commercially from London to Sakhir and from Sakhir to Jeddah. It took quite some convincing to get him to fly in McLaren’s private jet.

When they board the small plane, Jon sits across from Lando. Oscar takes the seat beside him, and Kim sits next to Jon.

The thing is, Lando is kind of scared of flying. In the cockpit of an F1 car, he is in control. He can feel the rumble of his car against the tarmac corresponding to his steering. Throttle, brake, turn left, change gears. Everything that happens to the car is because of him.

Perhaps that makes him some kind of control freak, and fear of flying is definitely not appreciated when you’re travelling halfway across the globe every other week. Nowadays, he’ll turn on some music and grit his teeth, gripping the armrest extra tight. Back when he was a kid flying from Bristol to Brussels and back, his mum would rub soothing circles on the back of his palm and hug him.

The plane starts to move, a gentle lurch forward that Lando feels far too keenly. He presses his feet flat against the floor, trying to ground himself as the faint hum of the engines grows louder. It’s fine. He’s fine. Somewhere over the last couple of years, he’s learned to manage his fear of flying. Deep breaths. Steady thoughts. Distract himself.

He ruffles through his jacket pocket, fishing around for his earphones. Music usually helps drown out the sound of the engines. Otherwise, he puts on white noise, something steady and predictable. His fingers fumble around the lining, a little more frantic than he’d like. After some time, he finds them.

But his earphones are wired, and after attempting to untangle them, he gives up and shoves them inside his pocket.

From the corner of his eye, he notices Oscar watching him. Not glancing—watching. Brows raised, head tilted just a fraction, the way a cat is like trying to figure out what its human is doing.

“You okay?” Oscar asks, voice low but pointed. It’s not teasing, not really. More like quiet concern, laced with that infuriating calm he always seems to have.

“Peachy,” Lando replies, flashing a grin so wide it hurts. “Absolutely thriving.”

Oscar raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. His gaze lingers, eyes narrowing just slightly, like he’s piecing together a puzzle. He doesn’t say anything for a beat too long.

“Okay,” he says finally, but it’s the least convincing okay Lando has ever heard.

The plane rolls a little faster now, the pressure shifting underfoot. Lando stiffens before he can stop himself, his fingers digging into the armrests. He knows he’s being obvious, but his body doesn’t seem to care about logic right now.

He feels the shift beside him before he sees it. Oscar moves slowly, deliberately, like approaching a skittish animal. Lando glances down just in time to see Oscar reach across the small gap between their seats and looking at him expectantly. He places his hand, palm up, on the armrest between them, and doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t look at him, either. Just leaves it there—steady, unassuming, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

Lando stares at it.

His heart is already beating too fast, but now it’s for a different reason entirely. He could ignore it. Pretend he doesn’t see it. It’s not like Oscar would push it.

But he doesn’t. Slowly, like testing the water’s temperature, Lando moves his hand toward it. Their fingers brush first—warmth, contact, and a quiet sense of relief that hits harder than it should. Oscar doesn’t move. He just waits.

Lando finally lets his hand settle over Oscar’s, his grip unsure but present.

“See?” Oscar says quietly, his thumb brushing once over Lando’s knuckles, as if to anchor him. “Peachy.”

Lando huffs out a laugh, breathier than he meant it to be. “Smartarse.”

“Whatever you say, mate,” Oscar mutters, still not looking at him. But his hand stays right where it is, steady and solid, like it’s been there the whole time.

They arrive in Australia at 1 AM Jeddah time—he can’t do time math, and his watch and phone haven’t been updated yet. Everyone practically looks like a zombie at the end of the flight. Even Zak, who usually has a cheery and energetic disposition, isn’t immune to the time zone hell that is their job.

Both Lando and Oscar head to the parking area—Lando to get a rental car and Oscar to wait for his family to pick him up.

Oscar’s sister pulls up curbside, opening the door to hug her brother and help him with his one (1) luggage. Then, she insists on Lando coming with, and Lando doesn’t have the energy to complain.

As Oscar’s sister—Hattie, as he’s learned—drives them out of the airport parking lot, Lando can’t help but silently grimace at the loud throbbing Kpop music. It’s not bad per se, it’s just not something Lando would want to hear while running on 3 hours of sleep. He would much prefer something less, like Adele, but considering they’re already doing Lando a huge favour, he shuts up and tries to get some more sleep.

Thankfully, Oscar steals Hattie’s phone, changing the song to Easy on Me. Currently, Oscar is his favourite person in the entire planet.

“What time is it right now? I need to change my watch,” he asks, since McLaren hasn’t given him his SIM card yet.

“8:44,” Oscar replies.

“Nope, It’s still daylight saving time.” Hattie says.

“No, but… last Sunday of March,” he reasons.

“That’s how the Brits do it. Spring forward’s at the first Sunday of April.”

Oscar lets out a groan. “Fuck daylight saving time. Why is it so complicated?”

“It’s not,” she argues, “you’ve just been brainwashed by the Brits.”

The siblings bicker a bit more, and it’s just occurred to Lando how alike the pair are. Hattie has the same swoop-swoop thing that Oscar’s hair does, and they have the same accent, except that Hattie’s more bogan than Oscar is.

While it’s amusing to listen to how the Piastri siblings are fighting, Lando would much rather sleep. So without further preamble, he shut his eyes closed and slowly dozed off.

Australia treats them well—if well entails 2 safety cars, 2 red flags, and 1 VSC. Lando gets P6 and Oscar gets P8—they were exempt from the entire chaos which resulted in points.

After Melbourne, there’s a three week holiday. Oscar stays at his family’s, and Lando tags along since Oscar’s mum insisted on hosting dinner. But before that, Lando has to shower and change in his hotel room. Oscar offers to drive him there.

“By the way,” Lando says absentmindedly, scrolling through his phone as the car hums along the road. “D’you know what your mum’s cooking? I’m thinking of bringing some wine.”

“Oh, you don’t have to,” Oscar replies easily, one hand on the wheel, gaze fixed ahead. “But she’s making spaghetti with salmon.”

Lando hums, gaze shifting to the window, watching rows of houses blur past. He tries to keep his face as neutral as possible and hide his disappointment. It’s not a big deal, really. People love fish. Normal people love fish. It’s just him and his weird aversion to it.

“Mate,” Oscar says suddenly, his voice cutting through the quiet. It’s not sharp, but there’s an edge of knowing to it. Lando glances at him. Oscar, who doesn't take his eyes off the road, hands loose on the wheel like he’s done this drive a hundred times. “Don’t worry. My mum’s making you a chicken version.”

Lando blinks. “Oh,” he says dumbly, his voice coming out smaller than intended. “That’s… that’s nice of her.”

“Yeah, well,” Oscar shrugs, flicking on the turn signal. “She asked if you had any preferences or allergies, so I told her that you don’t eat fish.”

That shouldn’t make something twist in Lando’s chest, but it does. He never told Oscar he didn’t like fish. He’s sure of it.

His fingers tap absently against his knee, a beat of hesitation before he asks, “When’d you figure that out?”

“Dunno,” Oscar replies easily. “Just noticed, I guess.”

And well… that’s quite sweet. Oscar noticed. Noticed in that quiet, unspoken way. Noticed in italics. Lando never mentioned his thing with fish to him—not that he recalls. But somehow, without being told, Oscar knew. And not just knew, but did something about it. Made sure his mum wouldn’t accidentally cook something Lando wouldn’t eat.

The realisation settles in his chest, warm and a little unsettling, unlatching the cage of a thousand butterflies in his stomach.

The car pulls up in front of the Hilton. Oscar shifts into neutral, resting his hand lightly on the gear stick. His eyes flick to Lando briefly, a glance so quick it barely lands before moving back to the road. “I’ll find somewhere to park,” he says, tapping the wheel twice with his fingers. His voice is only a pitch above a whisper and it sounds so earnest it hurts. “See you in a bit.”

“Yeah, alright,” Lando mutters, unclipping his seatbelt. He steps out, the cool air sharper than expected, biting at the back of his neck. He shoves his hands in his pockets, watching his breath fog faintly in front of him.

The car pulls away slow and steady, headlights cutting soft beams across the pavement. Lando watches until the taillights vanish around the corner, the soft glow of red slipping out of sight.

Lando realises, quite belatedly, that Oscar’s birthday is this week. After some small stalking of his childhood bedroom, he gathers that Oscar likes three things: Red Bull Danny Ric, cricket, and chocolate. That last one, he could do.

Lando bought a whole box of double coated Tim Tams and lugged it with him back to Woking. They’ve got some media stuff and a meeting to do during the day of his birthday and Lando decides to give it then. He makes sure the store gives him the most inconspicuous brown box they had.

Oscar eyes the box suspiciously, nevertheless helping Lando stow it in the overhead compartment. This time around, Oscar immediately offers his hand, even before the jet is in the air. Lando takes it, holds it tight. The plane rumbles as it takes off, and Lando can’t seem to care. He is really sleepy, however, and takes the opportunity to get some shuteye.

The following Thursday, Lando lugs the big box to the backseat of his McLaren and makes the drive to the MTC. The drive’s not too long—Lando rented an apartment nearby to make it easier some years ago. He arrives in front of the building at around 7 AM—an hour earlier than their call time. Lando really did not want Oscar to see the surprise.

Once his car’s parked, he carries the box and hides it behind Zak’s office table. The American called in sick last night, and Lando had hoped the box looked inconspicuous enough.

However, Lando did wake up at 6 AM for this, so he trudges to the other corner of the office and sleeps on Zak’s very comfortable couch.

There’s a tap on his shoulder. Another one.

“Lan?” comes from a voice, slightly muffled but he can’t pin why. “Meeting’s ‘bout to start.”

It’s Oscar.

Lando groans, rubbing his eyes of sleep. Oscar looks just as Oscar-y as he usually does. One thing that’s striking to Lando is the fact that Oscar’s chewing on something. His eyes drift downwards to Oscar’s hand and he spots the half-eaten double coated Tim Tams. He then proceeds to locate his big brown box. Already opened. Oscar’s going to be the death of him.

“Happy birthday! D’you like the Tim Tams?” Lando asks, pointing towards the wrappers. Oscar nods up and down languidly, much like a cat, and Lando has to stifle a laugh. Oscar clears his throat.

“Got them for you. The whole box’s yours.”

“I— Really? Wow. Um, thanks.” Oscar says, taking a bite of his half-eaten one. “I really like them, Kim’s gonna be so mad at me. I don’t think the box will last the week.”

There’s a little smear of chocolate on his cheek. Lando bites the urge to wipe it himself. Luckily, Oscar rubs the spot clean before Lando does something dumb.

“No problem, just leave my name out of it.” Lando pats him in the shoulder.

Even though they’d managed to get some good results in Australia and points in Baku, the McLaren started showing its true nature and went back to gravitating towards the end of the field.

Both of them didn’t even get to Q2 this time. Lando heard one of the interviewers, he couldn’t be arsed to remember whom, comment on how it’s the first McLaren double Q1 exit since 2018 or something.

They ended up getting P-fucking-17 and 19 in Miami. Considering where they started from, it wasn’t all that surprising, but man did it hurt a lot.

After the race and all his media duties are done, he locks himself in his hotel room, pulls on the comfiest hoodie and sweatpants he can find, and then steps into a long, hot shower. When he emerges, skin pink from the heat, he flops onto the bed, flicking on some trashy reality TV to numb his thoughts.

The peace is short-lived. A knock on the door breaks through. “Hey, mate, you alright?” comes a voice, heavy with concern and a distinctly Australian lilt. Probably not that unexpected, considering his room is right next to Lando’s.

They’ve been hanging out a lot recently, playing FIFA and Mario Kart in each other’s hotel rooms. Oscar’s brought a Switch along so they can play on Oscar’s Animal Crossing island together on the plane. Lando’s even got a profile set up there as well with a bright yellow Pikmin as his picture.

This is the first time Oscar’s approached his room out of his own volition, though. Usually, Lando has to initiate via text or verbal invitation. He chalks it up to Oscar not being too close with him. This time is different.

“Leave me alone.” Admittedly a bit too harsh, but Lando isn’t in the mood for pity. What he wouldn’t give for something sweet and chocolatey and definitely not healthy. Jon would probably scold him for all the sugar and for not sticking to the diet plan, but at least Lando would be less sad.

“Alright,” Oscar replies, sounding resigned.

About half an hour later, another knock. “Hey, mate, I wasn’t sure if you’ve eaten, so I brought you something.”

Lando doesn’t feel like talking, so he keeps quiet and hopes Oscar will get the memo.

After a beat of silence, Oscar’s voice pipes in again. ”Okay, I’ll leave it here, but please eat, okay? Hope you feel better.”

Lando opens the door slowly to find a crumpled brown paper bag, a thermos, and a cooler box, emitting wisps of fog from the edges.

He carries all the items inside, curiosity piqued. He opens the paper bag to find a burger and fries. Next, he unscrews the lid of the thermos. The rich, warm aroma of chocolate fills the room—it smells like home, like comfort.

He sets it aside, then opens the cooler box. As Lando opens the box, the dry ice sizzles and hisses. Under the fog lies a pristine tub of Ben & Jerry’s.

There’s a note stuck on the inside of the paper bag.

Sorry for the bad race, mate. None of it is your fault, and things will get better. Please eat, hopefully Jon doesn’t kill both of us.

Oscar P.

Lando feels the corners of his lips tugging upwards as butterflies erupt from his stomach. God, what had Lando done in his past life to deserve him?

When he finishes everything, he shoots Oscar a quick text.

> thanks for the food

> your right, it did make me feel better

< You’re welcome, I’m sure you would’ve done the same.

< And it’s you’re* by the way.

> 🖕

After the shitshow that was Miami, McLaren scores 3 points in Monaco and proceeds to get no more in Spain and Canada. Lando wants to suffocate himself with a pillow.

The sleep he manages that night is fitful and shallow. He wakes with his palms clammy and cold sweat trailing down the sides of his neck. For a moment, he just stares into the dark, disoriented, trying to piece together where he is. The clock on the bedside table reads 1 AM, but it might as well be any time. Two hours or nine—it’s all the same when you're too tired to tell the difference.

He groans softly, dragging a hand over his face. Stumbling to the bathroom, he drinks directly from the tap, the water harsh and cold against his dry throat. He splashes his face with more, the coolness doing little to shake off the weight of the nightmare.

Suddenly, a sharp rap of knocks echo through the room. He hadn’t expected visitors—especially not this late at night. Without thinking, he steps toward his suitcase and pulls out a padel racquet. It’s ridiculous, but it’s the closest thing he has to a weapon.

He moves quietly to the door, his fingers gripping the handle of the racquet as he raises it over his shoulder like some kind of makeshift club.

Peering through the peephole, his tension eases when he spots the unassuming figure of Oscar. Lando lets out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding, lowering the racquet. He opens the door.

“Hey, I had a feeling you were up” he says, eyes glancing at the racquet still loosely gripped in Lando’s hand. “Late-night padel session with Max?”

Lando rubs his eyes, still half-dazed, setting the padel racquet on the island, “Sorry. Thought you were, like, an intruder or something.”

“The padel racquet is notorious for its deadly potential, of course.” Oscar chuckles lightly like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Shut up.” Lando groans, rolling his eyes. ”What do you want?”

There’s a pause before Oscar speaks again. With his voice quieter, “Couldn’t sleep,” he admits, leaning against the doorframe. "Figured I’d check if you were still up. Thought maybe... we could watch or play something until we fall asleep."

Lando stares at him for a moment, and the weight of silence felt heavy between the two of them. Then, with a sigh, he opens the door wider, stepping aside to let the Aussie in.

"Why are you up?" Oscar asks, settling down on the plush bed like he belongs there. "Oh, and, what do you want to watch?" He grabs the remote from the nightstand, flicking it on without waiting for an answer.

"Had a nightmare," Lando replies curtly, running a hand through his hair. "And something that doesn't require much brainpower, please."

Oscar hums thoughtfully, pulling up Netflix and selecting Bluey. Lando blinks, his brow furrowing.

"Isn't this a kids' show?" he asks, incredulous. "My nephews watch this!"

Oscar gives him a light shove on the arm, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Don't disrespect Bluey like that. It’s the pinnacle of Australian media."

Lando rolls his eyes, but the tension in his shoulders eases as they settle in, the soft glow of pastel colors lighting up the room in contrast to the otherwise oppressive darkness.

The quiet stretches out between them until Oscar breaks it, his voice soft. "Do you wanna talk about the nightmare?" he asks, reaching for the remote to turn the volume down, his eyes looking at Lando with a hint of concern.

“It’s just— I’m just worried that this is it, y’know, that this is where my career ends.” says quietly, his voice almost lost in the stillness of the room. ”I’m scared that the car won’t get any better and we’ll spend this season as backmarkers.”

A heavy pause lingers as the weight of unspoken thoughts presses down on him. That I’ll be a disappointment. All the effort and energy I’ve put into this will result in nothing. All the sweat and tears shed were wasted. I’m not getting any younger, it’s my fourth year. What will I do after F1?

The words hang in the air, unspoken, too heavy to say out loud. He doesn't want to burden Oscar with all of it, not now, not when the silence between them already feels thick enough to drown in.

“Oh,” Oscar says softly, his voice a little more tentative than usual. "I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do?"

Lando hesitates, then exhales in frustration. Back when Carlos and Daniel were his teammates, they would always hug him if he was feeling down. Although he would really like that right now, it’s no longer an option, obviously, since Oscar jolts at the mere brush of his fingers or a short side hug.

Before he can finish his thoughts, Oscar hugs him. And it feels like coming home.

He’s wrapped in Oscar’s arms—strong, toned, and surprisingly warm. The suddenness of it catches him off guard, but it is welcomed nonetheless. The embrace is firm but not overpowering, a quiet comfort in its own way. He can feel the steady beat of Oscar’s heart against his chest like a steady rock against Lando’s violent waves, the warmth of his body seeping through the layers of their clothes.

For a moment, Lando just stands there, frozen, his brain struggling to process what’s happening. He can literally feel his thoughts scatter and turn to mush, as if his mind can't quite catch up to the reality of Oscar Piastri, the media-dubbed second coming of Iceman himself, holding him in his arms. He doesn’t know what to do, what to say. But it’s… surprisingly good. Unexpected, but somehow exactly what he needed.

“Hope you feel better,” Oscar says, his voice muffled against Lando’s neck. He can feel Oscar’s hot breath fanning the skin, and the goosebumps immediately rise on his forearm.

Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end, and Oscar sits up straight again, no longer hugging Lando. His left arm is still wrapped loosely around Lando’s waist, however, and he’ll accept small victories.

“And, for the record, your career is still bright and shiny. I know it hasn’t been a good few years for McLaren, but you’re a talented driver and they would be dumb to fire you. All we can do right now is drive that tractor of a car and wait for more upgrades, yeah?” Oscar rubs comforting circles on Lando’s waist, and his brain immediately shuts off.

“Thank you, Osc.” Where did that nickname come from? “For making me feel better.”

“No problem,” he beams, setting his eyes back on the TV. “Of course, I’m still a better driver than you,” he mutters.

Lando squawks, fake-offended as he elbows Oscar’s chest. “Rude! We were having a moment, y’know?”

“Screw your moment.” Oscar says, opening his phone to check the time. “It’s late, I should go soon. I have a workout scheduled with Kim at the arse crack of dawn.” he says, yawing as he stretches his back.

“Right,” is what comes out of Lando’s mouth. Please stay please stay please stay please—

There’s a brief, awkward silence, then Oscar hesitates, his voice softer. "Or I could— do you mind if I sleep here?" The question is tentative, almost shy, like he's testing the waters and asking for permission.

Oh. “Sure, yeah,” he chokes out. “Like, on the couch, or…?” On the bed, please, on the bed.

“Up to you, mate, it’s your hotel room. I’m up for anything—the couch, the floor, the bed…”

“Bed.” Lando says intelligently. It’s the worst day of Lando’s life. It’s the best day of Lando’s life. “Um, you can sleep on the bed.”

Oscar doesn’t say anything in response, opting instead to lay down at the complete opposite side of the bed, slowly lifting the covers and slipping inside.

“Night,” Lando mumbles, trying to sleep. Keyword is trying, after many shuffles and twisting and turning, Lando doesn’t feel the slightest bit sleepy. Oscar is the same, constantly shifting around under the duvet.

“God, this is dumb, but could you… um, you know…” Lando says, emulating a hug with his hands. To that, Oscar’s face visibly relaxes, and he positively beams.

“Sure, mate,” he replies, moving closer to Lando and wrapping his arms around Lando’s middle, allowing him to nuzzle in the crook of Oscar’s neck. Oscar’s hands are playing with Lando’s curls, carding and brushing his hair with his fingers. It’s relaxing, and it’s soothing, and the next thing he knows, his eyes are heavy and he falls asleep.

When he wakes up, he no longer feels tired, and it’s easily the best sleep he’s had in weeks. Oscar has his leg swung over Lando’s, and one of his hands is still placed on his hair. Oscar’s breathing is calming, and he has a peaceful look on his face. The sight is unbearably domestic, making Lando want to hold it in his hands and guard it from the world.

But the tranquillity is disrupted by Oscar’s stupid alarm, jolting the Aussie awake. He whines, probably the first time Lando’s heard it, and hugs Lando tighter.

“Don’ wanna wake up,” he mumbles into Lando’s hair.

“I’m sorry, but you have to. Otherwise, Kim will have your arse, and then mine.” he chuckles, snaking one of his hands to Oscar’s nape and playing with the short hair there.

“Fuck Kim.” he mutters. Then, he adds, “Sorry Kim, didn’t mean that,” as an afterthought like he feels guilty. Turns out, sleepy Oscar is really really cute.

Begrudgingly, the Aussie gets up from the bed and gets back to his room to take a shower. Lando’s left in the bed alone, and his personal space heater and weighted blanket is gone.

Chapter Text

Maybe it’s foolish of him, but Oscar feels hopeful for Imola. For two consecutive years, Lando’s managed to get a podium there, and he’s just hoping that their team’s luck will turn around here.

He hushes the negative thoughts away, thinking back to his childhood. Being a telepath was hard. Knowing everyone’s pure and unbridled thoughts 24/7 is overwhelming for him, even now as an adult, let alone a small kid.

Ever since he was a child, his mum gave him a necklace to dampen his powers. Plain, silver, a little cold against his skin—and told him it would help. It did. The world went quiet. Not all at once, but slowly. The constant chatter dulled to a murmur. A few days later, the murmur became whispers. By the end of the week, it was nothing at all. It was the first time he’d heard his own thoughts in peace.

The necklace stayed on after that. He only ever took it off when he had to. He learned to control it, to be smarter about it. Pop it off during tests when he didn’t know the answer. Slip it off for a few seconds at family parties just to gossip with his sisters. The world would buzz back to life in that brief window, and he'd listen, then clip the chain back in place. Simple.

With the necklace, his powers became controllable. Like a switch that can be turned off and on whenever he wants. Just unclip the back of it and the world would mutter again.

That is, until he met Lando.

It wasn’t the usual hum of too many thoughts colliding at once. It was one voice. One person.

What should I have for dinner tonight?

Do I look tired? I feel tired.

God, I hope he’s not weird. Please don’t be weird.

It hit him so hard he glanced up, like it had been spoken aloud. But no one was talking. Not out loud, anyway. His gaze landed on Lando—the one with the curly brown hair, decked in papaya-orange apparel. Him.

And then, in the middle of it all, one of the thoughts hit louder than the rest. I like the way his hair goes swoop-swoop.

What?

His eyes snapped to Lando before he could stop himself. Just a glance, but it was enough to notice the way Lando scratched at his neck, eyes darting around like he was trying to figure out where to stand. Oscar realised that, out of every person in that room, Lando was the only one he could hear. Not blonde-girl-in-a-ponytail. Not bald-man-with-lip-scar. Just him.

It rattled him so hard that he slipped up. When Lando introduced himself, Oscar got caught on one of his thoughts and blurted out, “I’m not.”

Lando frowned. “Huh?”

Panic. Panic. Panic. Cover it. Cover it.

"I meant, that's not my full name," he said too quickly. "I have a middle name."

There was a pause, a beat too long. Then Lando shrugged, the frown smoothing into something easy and familiar, like he’d just accepted it without a second thought. "Right. Makes sense."

And that was it. He moved on. Just like that.

That wasn’t the only time it happened. It kept happening. Lando would think something too loudly, and Oscar would forget himself for a second and respond. Or, Oscar would notice or mention something that Lando never told him about. "Just noticed, I guess." and "Thought you told me once." Silly little throwaway lines that Lando never questioned.

And that was the thing about Lando. He didn’t question it. Not once. He’d just nod like it all made perfect sense. Like it was normal. Like he trusted him.

Maybe that’s why Oscar feels bad about hiding it from him. He broke the trust Lando automatically gives him. In a career so open to the public, where his fans have access to his baby pictures, Lando’s thoughts are the only sense of privacy he has. But it’s pretty absurd to go “Oh yeah, I have telepathic powers by the way” and have someone say “Of course, just a regular monday to me. You’re totally not creepy and a perv, by the way.”

His ramblings are cut off by the patchy sound of the pilot over the PA. The team’s jet touches down on the tarmac, and the first thing he notices is the heavy rain pattering across the window. Kim takes an umbrella from one of his bag’s side pockets—thank god for him—and they waddle away inside the airport.

By Tuesday, the FIA announced that the teams aren’t allowed to enter the paddock until further notice due to the heavy flooding. That leaves a very bored Oscar lounging around in his hotel room with nothing to do.

He briefly considers texting or calling Logan or Guanyu, but none of them have arrived at Bologna yet. So with a few knocks, he invites himself into Lando’s room.

“Hey, Lando,” he says tentatively. “FIFA?”

Lando is, in Oscar’s opinion, the most loud overthinker he’s ever known. Everyone’s inner dialogues are in the form of whispers, under-the-breath mutterings, maybe even normal talking voices. Lando’s inner dialogue is screaming. Shouting. Suffocating. So much so that it affects Oscar.

Like that one night a few races ago, when Lando had a very loud nightmare that shook Oscar awake. His telepathy works like how normal sound does—obstructed by walls and drowned out by louder noises. Despite that, Lando’s head is screaming. Until Oscar comes knocking at the door to watch Bluey until they fall asleep.

Oscar’s looking forward to Austria. Perhaps it’s those high-speed corners that the MCL60 is good at, or the numerous overtaking potentials, or the fact that his first win in F3 was in here after he’d collided with Fred, but he’s optimistic about this race. Perhaps foolishly so.

The sprint was lacklustre. Despite Lando qualifying in P3, they both ended up out of the points. Later that day, they had the qualifying for the actual race. He doesn’t get into Q3, but Lando does. After Q2, he quickly gets out of the car and takes his necklace from his PA, Viola.

“Always with that necklace, eh?” she asks, her Italian accent strong as ever.

“Lucky charm,” he explains as she helps him clasp it on while Oscar lifts up the half-mullet he’s grown. He needs another haircut. Preferably by Charles’s mum, she did quite a good job last time.

The chatter of the garage quiets down until it’s just subtle humming. He misses being in the car. In the cockpit, he could only hear the rumble of the engine against his back and the wind against his face. Very rarely, like in the Loews hairpin in an outlap, could he even hear a whisper from the other drivers.

He’s in the pit wall sitting next to Andrea. He has one of those thick papaya headphones on him, with the initials OP on either side, hearing Will prattle on about how Lando should take a less tighter approach into turn 3.

Miraculously, Lando qualifies 4th. P-fucking-4, right behind Max and the two Ferraris. When Lando jumps out of the car he hugs Oscar immediately. Fourth, just one spot away from a podium place.

That night, they both hang out in Lando’s hotel room, as they usually do. Together, the thick doona covers both of them as they watch Bluey.

“I’m starving,” Lando mutters suddenly, peeling himself from the bed. His fingers scrape the table, grabbing his phone. Pizza, his mind supplies. A massive pepperoni. Does Oscar even like those?

Oscar barely glances away from the screen, eyes glazed and heavy. Maybe the exhaustion finally cracked him. Maybe it was Oscar’s disappointment of qualifying P13 while his teammate’s so close to the podium, or maybe he’s distracted from watching Bluey. But Oscar’s brain-to-mouth filter completely disappeared. And that’s when it all went wrong.

“Sure, I like pepperoni.” Oscar says absentmindedly, still watching the TV screen in front of him.

Then, something shifts.

Lando freezes, the warmth draining from his face as his eyes locked onto Oscar like he’d just seen a ghost—or worse.

“Mate… that’s creepy,” he says. Slow, low. “How did you…“

Oscar’s blood instantly shot cold. Fuck fuck fuck shit fucking hell. Panic rose, raw and fast.

“I—I can explain,” Oscar stammers, fingers fumbling as he reaches for the remote and kills the TV.

Lando takes a step back, his eyes narrowing like he’s just pieced something together. “You’re a—” telekinetic, his mind supplies.

“Telepath, actually,” Oscar says, wincing instantly. Too much, too soon. His eyes flick up to gauge Lando’s reaction. Absolute disbelief. Full-body stillness, like his brain’s hit pause. “But, um… yeah.”

Silence.

Then Lando’s gaze darts around the room, sharp and frantic, scanning the corners like he’s looking for something. Where are the cameras?

“There’s no cameras, mate,” Oscar says quickly, hands up, like that’ll somehow make him less threatening. He climbs out of the duvet, out of the bed. “I swear, no cameras.”

What the fuck? Lando’s Adam’s apple bobs once, twice, like he’s trying to get something down that won’t budge.

“How—” His voice cracks, and he tries again.

Oscar waits, waits for Lando to finish his sentence, verbally this time instead of having his brain fill in the gaps. When he realised that it won’t come out, Oscar speaks up. “It’s, uh, it’s genetic. My family’s had it for generations.”

The silence that follows is suffocating. Oscar can’t even read his mind because of the ringing going through Lando’s ears. It feels foreign not to know what he was thinking about.

“How… how does it work?” Lando asks, his tone indiscernible.

Oscar swallows hard, voice low, almost a whisper. “Like sound.” he mutters, eyes darting up to check Lando’s face. Still freaked out. “The farther you are, the quieter it is. If there’s something blocking it, like a wall or a helmet, it sounds muffled. And if the room’s loud, it’s harder to hear anything at all.”

Lando takes another step back. Then another. Slow, deliberate, like he’s testing if distance actually works.

“There’s my, um, necklace.” He takes the jewellery from inside his shirt. “It’s a dampener. Helps muffle everyone out. Everyone except…”

Lando’s eyes cut to the door.

“So, like,” Lando starts, voice brittle with something like fear, “if I just— if I stay away from you, you can’t hear anything, yeah?”

“Yeah, I guess, but—”

Without warning, Lando snaps forward, his grip like iron, fingers digging into Oscar’s arm with a bruising squeeze. Then—shove. Harder than Oscar expected, propelled with a brutal force that sends him stumbling backward.

“Lan, please—”

“Get the fuck out, Piastri!” he snarls, venom dripping from every word, eyes burning with pure loathing. He shoves again, sharper, merciless.

Oscar crashes into the hallway wall, barely steadying himself.

“Wait— just—”

BANG.

The door slams shut with a thunderous crack, rattling the frame like a gunshot. The sound echoes in the silence that follows, harsh and final.

For a long, frozen moment, Oscar presses his palms flat against the wood, knuckles white, as if sheer force could undo the slam.

As Oscar’s regaining himself, his heart is hammering against his ear—harsh and far too loud—in sync with his spiralling thoughts.

What the fuck just happened?

Lando’s avoiding him, that much is obvious.

During race day in Austria, Lando barely acknowledges him. In the Drivers’ Parade, Lando stays at the absolute opposite edge of the truck, talking to George and Alex, while Oscar’s chatting with Logan and Guanyu.

The race was fine. Lando was still P4 after Carlos’s track limit penalty. Meanwhile, Oscar gets fucking lapped.

Lando hitches a ride in AirMax the next day. That leaves Oscar to get the brunt of Zak’s frankly terrible dad jokes. He bites his tongue, because he actually wants to be in F1 thank you very much, and because Zak managed to get him out of the hellhole that is Alpine, even with 6 million dollars looming over his head.

It’s Silverstone. Oscar likes Silverstone. It’s the team’s home race as well as Lando’s, and he feels the garage buzz with excitement. Some of the engineers’ families are in the stands, and Oscar feels the expectation for them to perform well.

Finally, after half the year with underwhelming results and a genuine crisis on whether or not he made the right decision by not joining Alpine, Lando and Oscar managed to qualify P2 and P3. They had genuine pace, and even with the distance between them, Oscar could feel Lando’s overwhelming joy on his qualifying in his home race.

Still, Lando barely acknowledges him. He only addresses him when it’s necessary, and even then he acts like he’s being burnt alive with every passing second. Zak notices, and so does Andrea, but they don’t intervene as long as their little scuffle isn’t brought to the track and they can act civilly on camera.

By Sunday, Lando’s still is acting like Oscar doesn’t exist, giving him multiple stink eyes and calling him ‘Piastri’ or the much insouciant ‘car number 81’ in the team meetings.

That breaks his heart a little. A lot, actually, if he’s honest with himself. He misses the way Lando used to call him “Osc” like his mum would and the way he drops the R so it sounds more like “Oscah”. He misses the way Lando’s indeterminately-coloured eyes used to look at him fondly and warmly. More than ever, he misses his company, misses his stupid jokes and his weird rambling thoughts, misses the random reels he sent at 2 AM in the morning. It’s all so quiet now.

The race ends with Lando in the podium, on the second step of the podium, and Oscar in fourth.

After a race, Lando would normally invite him to hang out after, or to go clubbing with Max and Charles, but his WhatsApp is quiet the following hours. His bed also feels much colder than it used to be.

The next two races pass by in a blur, a foggy haze of Lando absolutely sneering at him wherever they go, and awkward PR videos in which Lando barely looks his way and talks with the most monotonous voice he could muster.

Sophie looks at them unimpressed. “Look, I don’t know what’s happening between the two of you, but you need to get your shits together and act buddy-buddy on camera.” she scolds, and Lando’s brain supplies a very delightful fucking wanker, he’s the one invading my privacy and I’m supposed to be okay with it.

That’s the first time in a while Oscar’s managed to hear Lando’s thoughts. When the Brit’s not on the absolute opposite side of the room from him, he’s always blasting music in his much-tangled earphones, drowning out his thoughts from Oscar’s prying ears. It’s not like he wants to hear anyway, but it’s not like he has much of a choice. Family genes and all that.

After the race in Spa, he heads to Lando’s hotel room. Truthfully, he’s a little numb after the whole collision with Sainz. Nonetheless, he’s insistent on offering an olive branch. He has to make this right, generational telepathy be damned.

After the argument in Austria, Lando insisted to Mark from Logistics that he’d be on a different floor with Oscar’s. So after bribing Kim with cookies and a whole Leg Week, Kim gets Lando’s room number from Jon. Oscar knocks on his door and waits patiently, holding a small box in his hand, wrapped as neatly as he could in fluoro green paper.

Lando opens the door, and his face immediately drops into a scowl. “What the fuck do you want?” he glares at Oscar, his tone cold.

“I— uh, congrats on your podiums!”

Lando crossed his hands. “Cool. ‘S that all?”

Oscar clears his throat, his palms suddenly clammy and his collar suddenly three sizes too tight. ”I just— I wanted to give you this. As a present. Before— before summer break.” An olive branch.

Lando ungraciously shuts the door in him. Oscar stays undeterred.

“It’s headphones.” he states, through the thick door in between them. ”I— I know you’re a millionaire and all, but you still have those shitty wired earphones, and I know how you hate trying to untangle them all the time, so these are wireless. It’s nice, um, the sound quality is very good, battery lasts a long time, and it doesn’t squeeze your head to death.” Oscar explains, fidgeting with the package in his hands.

He’s still wordless, so Oscar keeps going. He’s not even sure whether or not he’s still there. “It’s, um— I know that no one else knows about your problem with flying, and I just thought that— that now that I’m no longer there, I, uh, yeah.” he says sheepishly.

“And I’m sorry. For everything. I’ll just—leave it here. Um, bye Lan,” Oscar’s halfway through waving goodbye before realising he’s doing it to a fucking door, so before he could embarrass himself any further he starts going towards his own room.

Oscar spends his summer break alone. For someone who spent much of his childhood and adolescence grumbling about how loud telepathy is, he misses Lando’s little inner monologues. Maybe he misses Lando most of all. But he can’t reach out, Lando’s made it clear he wants nothing to do with him.

Speaking of Lando, he’s in… England? God knows, honestly. Oscar tuned into one of his streams a while back, recognising the setup as the one in his Monaco apartment. But that was a couple of days ago, and he remembers Lando mumbling in his brain to book a flight from Nice to Heathrow for the summer break. Nevertheless, no Lando.

Oscar grumbles, getting out of his bed at 10 AM after doomscrolling for about an hour. He spots his mum drinking some smoothie on the kitchen island, a plate of toast with marmite untouched across from her. She’s watching the news from the kitchen.

“‘S that mine?” Oscar asks, pointing to the toast.

“Yup.” His mum says, her focus still on the TV. “Made with love by your sisters.”

He grabs the marmite toast and takes a big bite out of it. He instantly grimaces. Since when did marmite taste this bad?

“YES!” comes a voice from the other side of the house. That must be Edie. “You two owe me 50 each. Thanks Osc!”

Oscar looks up at his mum. “Did they bet on whether or not I still like Marmite?”

“Yup.” the P popped.

”And they took their dampeners off specifically so they could hear me complain about the Marmite?"

”Mhm”

“Do they always bet on my suffering?”

“Oh, my dear Oscar,” his mum ruffles his hair, “That’s why we're called telepaths, not empaths. Now c’mon, it’s your turn to take me to my pilates class!”

“Let me shower first!”

Oscar’s not driven road cars as much, is what he realises.

On a race weekend, it’s usually Lando or Logan who drives the rental to the paddock. He doesn’t even need to own a car in Monaco because everything’s in walking distance and parking’s a bitch. The only time he gets to drive a road car is between his flat to Woking, and even then he prefers to take the Tube to avoid driving the much-dreaded M25 on his way there.

That being said, it’s understandable when his mum’s Pilates Pals are complaining for the third time when he runs over another pothole. Misses an exit. Accidentally cut someone off.

“C’mon, Nicole, this is your racecar-driving son?”

“It’s like he got his license yesterday!”

“Yesterday? Feels like he never got his license at all!”

“I swear, your girl with the piercing drove better.”

“Yeah, so did the middle-part and the long hair.”

Oscar pretends he doesn’t see his mum’s death glares from beside him.

The drive back is much quieter.

Oscar has the radio on low, just present enough to fill the hollow but not to drown out the cotton in his ears. His hands are stuck at 10 and 2 on the wheels, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the road.

His mum keeps shooting glances at him. “You seem down.” she says gently, ”What’s up?”

“Nothing, ‘s just…” Oscar doesn’t realise it, but he’s clenching the steering wheel. He brakes at a yellow. “D’you know why my necklace is not working for this one specific person?” he asks finally, focusing on a father with a pram crossing the road.

“Oh, honey…” his mum pats his shoulder reassuringly, “Have I ever told you why the necklace was created in the first place?”

Oscar hums, thinking long and hard. It’s such a simple question, he hasn’t a clue why the answer doesn’t come to mind.

The traffic lights turn green.

“No,” he says.

She shifts slightly in her seat, turning to face him more fully. “Back in the day, telepaths were rare, yeah? Not unheard of, but rare. And when they did pop up, they’d struggle. Too many voices. Too much noise. So someone—I think it was your great-granddad’s sister, actually—she designed a dampener for people like us.”

Oscar nods faintly.

“But here’s the thing,” she adds, “The necklace doesn’t shut everything off. It doesn’t erase thoughts. It just dulls the volume. It knows what to let through and what to ignore.”

Oscar frowns, brow furrowing. “But then—why him?”

She gives him a small, knowing smile. “Because sometimes, very rarely, someone’s thoughts don’t behave like everyone else’s. They’re not louder, necessarily—but they’re more... insistent. The dampener tries, but it can’t tune them out. They’re too present.”

He swallows hard. “So it’s not broken.”

“No,” she says gently. “It’s just not meant to block someone like him.”

Oscar exhales slowly, flicking the turn signal on. The clicking fills the silence.

“What do you call someone like that?”

She shrugs lightly. “Old term. Kratophrenes.”

He gives her a look.

“Greek, I think,” she adds. “Mind of power.”

He doesn’t respond. Continues driving, until he parks on their driveway.

Walking up the front steps, his mum speaks again, her voice gentler this time. “Do you like him?”

He doesn’t answer.

But he doesn’t say no either.

Oscar crashes in Zandvoort. Turn three at the banking, and Daniel broke his hand diverting his car away from him. Oscar’s been avoiding the glare from every Australian in the paddock. He’s pretty sure he has a warrant for him issued by the entire country of Australia.

Before he has to worry about being hunted by the ASIS, he passes Daniel en route to the medical centre. He seemed fine, save the splint above and below his palm. Still made Oscar feel guilty as hell.

Before he starts overthinking, he approaches Daniel.

“Hey, mate, sorry about the wrist.” he says, patting his shoulder.

Daniel pats him in the back with his good hand. “No worries, mate, it was no one’s fault. Thought you spun on the inside so I took a wider racing line. At that point it was either the wall or you.”

One of the first lessons Oscar was taught in karting was to retract his hands before a crash. And Daniel couldn’t have done that if he were trying to avoid Oscar. That made him feel guiltier.

Shaking his mind off it, he asks again. “Reckon you can’t race with the whole… thing.”

Daniel sighs, “Yeah… I’ll be out of commission for a while, OP. Think Lawson’s gonna be covering for me. At least you’ll be the only Australian ‘round here.”

Oscar chuckles awkwardly, “That’s true. Although the last time a Kiwi was in the grid, they used the wrong flag for him, so can’t be sure about that one.”

Daniel laughs just as Lando approaches.

“How’s the hand?” Lando asks, gesturing to it.

“Never better!” Daniel beams, wiggling his fingers just because.

The two of them fall into a conversation, and Oscar just. Hovers. He feels awkward, but it feels more awkward to escape the conversation now.

He and Lando haven’t spoken since the fanstage. Even then, Lando barely looked at him.

Oscar’s tried. Few times, over the break. A text. A half-started conversation. A sorry that feels like a frog trying to leap out of his throat. Lando blocked his number. It’s clear he doesn’t want to do anything with him. And that’s fine. That definitely does not break his heart into a million tiny little pieces.

After an appropriate amount of time third-wheeling in the conversation, Oscar turns to leave.

Until Daniel stops him.

“Hey,” he steers him away from Lando, “Come here a sec.”

Oscar pauses, following Daniel a few paces behind him.

“Before you leave,” he says sharply, in a way that’s so uncharacteristically serious and heavy that it makes Oscar nervous. “Just… fix whatever’s going on between you two, yeah?”

Oscar blinks. “You know?”

“He’s told me a little,” Daniel admits, “but honestly, you don’t need to be a genius to connect the dots. He’s been walking around like someone kicked his puppy.”

Oscar hesitates. His voice comes out smaller than he wants it to. “I’ve tried. He doesn’t want me to.”

“He does.”

The air’s heavy.

“I know he does,” Daniel adds, firm now. “He’s just stubborn. And hurt. But if you actually care about him, don’t let that stop you.”

Oscar swallows hard, glancing back at Lando. He’s talking to someone else, laughing in that full-bodied way the internet points out Oscar likes to do.

“Yeah,” he says, barely audible. “Okay.”

Oscar knocks at his hotel room. Three raps, trying not to sound too urgent.

He waits for a minute. No response. Knocks again.

Lando opens the door, in what looks to be a very comfortable jumper and shorts. Both McLaren branded.

“Hey,” Oscar says. Quietly.

Lando doesn’t say anything. Just raises a brow, leans against the doorframe and crosses his arms like he’s deciding whether or not to shut it in his face.

“I, uh—can I come in?”

A pause.

Then Lando steps aside without a word.

Oscar enters slowly, glancing around like he’s never been in this room before, even though it’s the exact same hotel room he has. He lingers near the door while Lando walks back to the bed and sits. The TV is still on, the volume still muted.

Oscar hovers there awkwardly, before saying, “You’re watching Love Island with the sound off?”

“Didn’t feel like hearing people talk shit about each other.”

Was that a jab at him? Oscar stays silent. It lingers.

Then—

“I’m sorry,” Oscar blurts, a little too fast. “About— about everything. For not telling you. For freaking you out. All of it.”

Lando doesn’t look at him, gaze still fixed at the TV. “You think that’s what I’m upset about.”

Oscar falters. “Isn’t it?”

Finally he looks away. Stares at Oscar. “Well— of course it is. But I’m also upset at you for keeping a secret. For lying.” He swallows. “For breaking my trust. Making me feel like an idiot for trusting you.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Oscar says quickly. “I just— I didn’t know how to tell you. You’d think I was mental.”

“You made me think I was mental.” Lando said pointedly. “You could’ve said something. Even a hint. But instead you let me—” He breaks off, jaw tight.

Oscar waits, waits for Lando to finish his sentence. It’s quiet in the hotel room. Then, he pipes up. “I thought if I told you, you’d look at me different,” Oscar says. “Or worse—you’d stop looking at me altogether.”

Lando shakes his head, scoffing. “Yeah, well, lying worked out great for you, didn’t it?”

There’s a long silence after that.

Oscar hesitates. “I didn’t want to hear your thoughts,” he says, his voice weaker than he’d like. “I don’t want to. I wear this stupid necklace all the time so I can’t. But it doesn’t work on you, you’re a frickin Kratophrenes.”

Lando blinks. “A what?”

“ ‘S a Greek word. My mum said that you’re a rare breed, your thoughts are so insistent that the dampener just gives up.”

When Lando doesn’t respond again, Oscar brushes it off. “Doesn’t matter, not the point. I’m just— I wanted to say that I’m sorry, and I didn’t mean to invade your privacy whatsoever, and that I miss you. And no more lies.”

Lando looks at him for a long time. The TV flickers quietly in the corner. Someone’s pulling someone else for a chat, and someone else is crying in the pool.

Then, finally—

“Do you still hear me now?”

Oscar nods, slowly. “Yeah.”

“What am I thinking?”

He hesitates. “You’re thinking about whether or not you should forgive me.”

A pause.

“And that you still like my hair.”

Lando scoffs—half an eye-roll, half a smile that slips out before he can stop it.

“Don’t push your luck,” he says, but his voice is softer now. It’s a tone he hasn’t heard in a while. He misses it.

“Fair enough.” Oscar says, rolling to his heels. “Can I sit?”

Lando scooches to the other side of the bed.

Oscar wordlessly lies down beside him, careful not to get too close.

They both stare at the muted TV for a while.

Then Lando says, “No lying. No cryptic shit. And no reading my mind during FIFA.”

“I can do that.”

“And dinner.”

“Sure.”

“And wine. The expensive kind.”

Oscar glances at him sideways. “You don’t even like wine.”

Lando scoffs, “I do! You pick good wine usually.”

Oscar smiles—small, tentative. “Okay.”

Lando chuckles, a small little thing. “Okay.”

By all means, things aren’t perfectly back to normal.

Kintsugi. Broken shards of ceramic mended by lacquer and gold. Turning disaster into an art form. It doesn’t seek to cover, to hide, but to make do with the circumstances. Its cracks are visible from the outside, yet it can serve as a bowl nonetheless.

They’re not the Oscar and Lando of before, but they’re not trying to be. Oscar makes do.

Lando keeps losing at FIFA. Makes Oscar sit at the absolute opposite of the room while blasting house music, so he can’t read his penalty kicks. Loses some more.

And on their flight out of the Netherlands, they play Animal Crossing. Their characters do a little spin to fix their hairs. Their house is now the residence of three brand new cockroaches. Lando still makes Oscar stomp them despite being in a video game.

Bluey’s still at the top of Lando’s recommendations. The episode’s half-played, but they rewatch the last few episodes because they dozed off without pausing the TV. It’s easy like that.

Lando, to his credit, is acting completely normal about Oscar’s telepathy. Doesn’t tense up or avoid him. Sometimes he even talks to Oscar in his brain.

Oscar are you there?

What number am I thinking of right now? Eight eight eight eight .

Can you HYPOTHETICALLY sneak into the Red Bull garage and telepathically steal all their secrets?

And from the hotel room next to him,

Osc, I’m hungry. Wanna order pizza?

So now their conversations sound insane, like Oscar’s talking to himself by trying to respond to Lando’s thoughts. And their WhatsApp thread looks weird and stalkery with all of Oscar’s responses and none of Lando’s texts.

Lando weaponises Oscar’s telepathy most especially in the team meetings.

Osc, I’m bored.

Osc, I heard that Katy from HR got a BBL.

Osc, fuck marry kill: Andrea, Zak, and Ron Dennis.

Oscar thinks, At least under Ron Dennis we were fast.

Wait, are YOU Ron Dennis now if you decide to steal Red Bull’s secrets.

Oscar scoffed at that one. He gets a few side eyes from the team.

Lando obviously can’t hear Oscar’s response, but he tries anyway. No mate, I'm the Stepney in this situation.

The second half of the season flies past. It always does.

Lacklustre results for Oscar in Monza and Singapore, but Lando gets a podium.

He uncharacteristically doesn’t go out clubbing after the race. They spend the night watching Love Island and sipping some wine they bought from the hotel bar. And if Lando looked contemptuous, and he did, Oscar wouldn’t have it any other way.

It’s in moments such as these where Oscar can truly contemplate his feelings for Lando. He looked so small and cozy, curled up at Oscar’s side engulfed by his big jacket and the even bigger doona.

Oscar feels the words jump out of his chest. I love you, simple as that. But he can’t. He knows he was a proper cunt, what with the whole Pizzagate situation (what Lando affectionately calls their argument). He knows Lando said he forgives him, but their relationship is still a little bit fragile. Oscar knows very well if he confesses and Lando doesn’t reciprocate, there’s a very real chance their friendship might end and Lando will shunt him to the wall. That’s why he has to be 100% sure Lando does like him romantically.

That job might seem really easy for a telepath, but it really is not. Back before Pizzagate Lando thought of some flattering off-hand comments on Oscar. Like,

‘Damn Oscar’s hair looks good today’

‘His arms are properly toned’

'Oscar’s bunny teeth looks so cute'

‘His hugs are so warm’

Things that gave Oscar hope that Lando just might reciprocate those feelings. After Pizzagate, however, it seems that those hopes have been crushed. No more of those fleeting thoughts. Whatever inkling of romantic feeling Lando harboured before, instantly gone.

Stop thinking so loud, Osc.

Oscar’s focus shifts on to Lando. “No I‘m not”

Don’t even need to be a telekinetic to know you’re lying.

“Telepath, actually.”

Whatever, shut up. Whatcha thinking about?

“Thinking about how annoying you are.”

He jabs him in the chest. You wouldn’t. You love me.

Oscar chuckles. If only Lando knew how true his words were. “Whatever makes you sleep at night.”

Lando pouts, crossing his arm and splaying himself all over Oscar, so he was laying on top of him. “You’re so rude, Osc.”

“Cry me a river.”

Suddenly, Lando’s hands found their way to Oscar’s side. He begins tickling him, and Oscar’s laughing so hard he’s crying.

“Take it back! Say you love me!” Lando’s now holding Oscar’s hands off with his feet, still tickling the crease in his neck and the sides of his torso. Oscar defends by tickling the soles of Lando’s socked feet. “Oh, fuck!”

Oscar laughs so hard until his cheeks are aching, and he finally worms his way out of Lando’s grasp. “Truce! Truce!”

Lando giggles.

They fall asleep an hour after, Lando horizontally on top of Oscar and the TV still on in the background.

Japan happens.

And he qualifies second. Practically pole in 2023. Lando right behind him.

They hug each other in the garage, jumping up and down and going around in a circle. Some of the engineers join in. All his doubts of choosing the wrong team, of making Mark grow grey hairs for nothing, instantly dissolves.

And Sunday is even better. Despite Oscar losing a place due to Max shutting the door on him in turn one and Lando overtaking him, he manages to get to the third step of the podium. His first in Formula One.

When he locks eyes with Lando during the podium spraying, he sees a big grin on the Brit’s face. It’s probably mirrored in Oscar’s own.

And then, it comes.

Faint, but unmistakable.

God, I want to kiss him.

It’s fleeting. But Oscar hears in loud and clear.

Lando’s eyes instantly shot up to Oscar’s. At that moment, it was just the two of them. The scene was paused, rose water and confetti spraying in slow-mo.

After the celebrations, they’re headed back to their driver’s rooms. Oscar feels numb, holding his ugly vaguely-phallic vaguely-air-purifier trophy and half-spent bottle of Ferrari Trento. Lando’s room is right next to him, yet Oscar can’t hear any of Lando’s thoughts. That usually means he’s drowning them out with music.

After changing his clothes and fixing up his hair, Oscar makes his way next door and knocks on Lando’s room.

“Hey Lan, you up?” he asks tentatively through the door. When he doesn’t receive a response, he knocks again. “Lan?”

“Go away, Osc. I don’t want to talk about it.” Lando dismisses him.

And Oscar has self-control. Lots. But he can’t seem to muster up any when he barges in.

Lando’s lying down on the couch, wearing the big headphones gifted by Oscar while scrolling through his phone. He instantly sits up.

“Mate, what did I just tell you?”

Oscar ignores him. “Please. I just— I wanted to know if you meant it.”

Lando crosses his arm, squinting at him like he’s peeling Oscar’s brain layer by layer.

“And what if I did?”

Oscar pauses. Just a second. “I’d want to. Too”

Lando comes running to him. Cups his cheeks with his stupidly tan and stupidly large hands. Kisses him feverishly, like it’s all he knows to do.

When they pull away, Lando’s now… crying? “Fuck, Oscar, I was scared that you figured out that I’m in love with you and you were leading me on, with the— with the gifts and the plane thing and all that.”

“I- I didn’t know.” Oscar stammers. “You’ve never even thought about it! You should’ve said something, like, ‘Wow I’m so in love with my friend! So I could respond with ‘Yeah, I’m in love with you too!’”

“Yeah, well, if I thought it aloud in front of you, it might come right out of my mouth!”

Oscar laughs, full-bodied and folding a quarter of the way through. “God, we’ve been dumb about this, haven’t we?”

Lando smiles ear-to-ear, “We certainly have.”