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The Brazilian sun is hot, the water glittering just past the paddock walls. Journalists buzz, engineers shout, photographers dart from driver to driver. It’s chaos. The usual.
And Lando?
Lando is laughing.
He’s scrolling through photos on his phone, taken from their last joint media event — Carlos standing next to him, arms crossed, expression neutral.
Too neutral.
“Carlos,” Lando says, loud enough for it to be dangerous, “do you ever smile in photos? Or is this just like your brand now?”
Carlos, sitting beside him in his Williams gear, barely glances up. “I smile.”
“You grimace.”
“I smile.”
“Okay, Frog Prince,” Lando teases, showing him the picture, “this is you. Looking like someone stole your lunch. Do you hate cameras? Or are you cursed? Do I need to call an exorcist?”
Carlos looks at the screen and blinks. “I look fine.”
“You look tragic.”
There’s a pause. Then Carlos grins — just slightly, just enough to show a dimple. “If I’m a frog prince, what does that make you?”
Lando tosses his head dramatically, brushing invisible hair from his shoulder. “Clearly, I’m the brave and beautiful princess trying to save you.”
Carlos scoffs. “By bullying me?”
“By offering you a deal.” Lando leans in, all smug and grinning. “Next race. If you finish behind me, you have to smile in every single photo for a full week. No grumping allowed.”
Carlos raises one eyebrow. “And if I finish above you?”
Lando pauses. Shrugs. “You pick the prize.”
Carlos hums. “A kiss.”
Lando blinks.
Carlos doesn’t clarify. Doesn’t smirk. Just says it like it’s obvious. “A kiss,” he repeats. “From you.”
And Lando, a little breathless, a little high on sun and adrenaline, says: “Deal.”
They’re on the grid.
Sun blazing overhead.
Engines whining like caged animals ready to be let out to play.
Carlos stands beside his Williams, arms tucked across his chest, focused — mostly.
But his gaze keeps flicking sideways to Lando, standing at ease near his McLaren, grinning like he’s already won.
“You ready, Frog Prince?” Lando chirps as he strolls closer, helmet in hand.
Carlos raises an eyebrow. “Worried about the kiss already?”
Lando scoffs. “Worried about you trying to back out when I finish ahead of you.”
Carlos steps closer, so close the helmets held by their hips nearly bump. “I never back out of a deal, princesa. I expect my reward.”
Lando’s stomach does something stupid. “Keep dreaming.”
Carlos smirks — a real one, slow and knowing.
And Lando has to walk away before he does something dumb. Like kiss him right then and there.
The race begins.
And Lando drives like a possessed man.
Fast, smooth, weaving through chaos with the kind of rhythm that comes from muscle memory and sheer will. He holds P1 for most of it, Carlos hovering in P2 behind him — steady, patient, just there in his mirrors.
Until the final stint.
New tires. New pace.
And Carlos starts closing in.
Lando hears the team in his ear: “Sainz is gaining. Don’t let him through.”
But he knows.
This isn’t just Carlos being fast. This is Carlos chasing something.
Someone.
Him.
And then —
A move on the inside. Clean. Aggressive.
Carlos passes.
The crowd roars.
Lando clenches his jaw and pushes, pushes, pushes — but there’s not enough race left.
Chequered flag.
Carlos: P1.
Lando: P2.
And it hits him like a sudden downpour.
He lost.
And now he has to kiss him.
Lando climbs the final step of the podium, breath still short from the race. His heart’s racing — not just from the adrenaline. No.
It’s him.
Carlos is already there. P1, trophy in one hand, champagne bottle in the other, looking devastatingly smug in the late-afternoon light.
Lando can feel the smirk before he even turns.
Carlos glances sideways and says, voice low enough only Lando can hear: “So, princesa… ready to pay up?”
Lando swallows.
He could laugh it off. Make it a joke. Brush past it like he always does.
But he doesn’t.
Because this isn’t a joke anymore.
He steps closer, close enough that the world around them fades under the roar of the crowd.
And then, with his cheeks flushed pink and his heart absolutely thundering, Lando leans in — and kisses him.
It’s quick, but not rushed.
Firm. Certain.
Like it was always going to end with this.
Carlos doesn’t flinch.
He leans into it.
And when they part — just barely, just enough for the cameras to catch the afterglow — Carlos is grinning.
Wide. Open. Joyful.
Lando blinks. “You’re smiling.”
Carlos shrugs. “I think I like kissing you.”
Cue the shutter clicks. The explosion of online chaos. The Williams social media admin going feral in the group chat.
But neither of them cares.
Because for the rest of the day — every photo, every interview, every second of being looked at — Carlos doesn’t stop smiling.
And Lando?
He thinks maybe losing has never felt quite this good.
The paddock has quieted.
The crowds have gone. The cameras are gone. The sun hangs low over the garages, casting golden light across the asphalt.
Lando’s still in his race suit, half-zipped down, cooling off with a water bottle and what remains of his dignity.
Carlos finds him near the back of the McLaren motorhome, leaning against the railing, pretending not to be waiting.
Carlos doesn’t say anything at first. Just walks up, close enough for their arms to brush.
Lando glances over and grins, cheeks still pink from the champagne.
Or maybe something else.
Carlos raises an eyebrow. “So... do I have to win again to get another kiss from my princesa?”
Lando chokes on a laugh, blush deepening. “If I’d known kissing me would get you a podium, I’d have let you win ages ago.”
Carlos hums, inching closer. “So you're saying I get another one?”
Lando shrugs, like it’s casual, but his heart’s pounding. “Only if you promise to keep smiling like that in pictures.”
Carlos smirks. “Deal.”
And then they kiss again — this time slower, sweeter.
No crowd, no bet, no cameras.
Just them.
When they part, Carlos doesn’t say anything. Just smiles — bright, open, unmistakable.
Lando stares at him for a second, dazed.
“Wow,” he murmurs. “You really are the Frog Prince.”
Carlos pretends to frown. “Why?”
Lando shrugs, eyes soft. “Because I kissed you… and now you’re perfect.”