Chapter Text
When Lando stepped into Formula 1 in 2019, the world around him felt overwhelming.
The paddock was its own strange orbit, a parallel reality where crisp suits moved through swirling languages, cameras hovered like insects, mechanics darted past in bursts of urgency, voices echoed through the garages, and meetings unfolded in a technical English laced with jargon he hadn’t yet mastered.
And there he was. Nineteen years old, just a couple of months past his birthday, clutching a helmet that gleamed too brightly, wearing a nervous smile he wasn’t sure how or when to use.
He felt misplaced.
As if the whole world assumed he knew what he was doing, but no one had ever handed him the script.
And then came Carlos.
Sainz had already navigated Toro Rosso and Renault. He bore the marks of experience, the calm of someone who had weathered storms. He spoke the same language, literally and otherwise. But more than that, he carried himself through the paddock as if it were a childhood home he knew by heart.
Lando couldn't pinpoint the moment Carlos started watching over him. It wasn’t some grand gesture or stirring speech, nothing fit for a movie.
It was something quieter, more human:
“Hey, the drivers’ room is that way. The good coffee machine’s in the corner. And whatever you do, don’t sit in Richard’s chair, he says he’s an engineer, but I swear he’s just a grumpy ogre.”
And also:
“When you talk to the engineers, speak in numbers. Remember: how you feel isn’t always what they need to understand the car.”
And most importantly:
“Take it easy. Everyone’s hands shake the first time.”
Carlos didn’t treat him like a kid. But neither did he treat him like a threat. He treated him like a peer.
And that, for Lando, changed everything.
He began to laugh more in meetings.
To hold the camera’s gaze without looking away.
To walk more steadily between the trailers.
To risk a joke. Share a thought. Talk strategy without fear of being wrong.
Carlos didn’t mock his stumbles, he led by doing. And he celebrated with Lando each quiet victory beyond the track: a well-phrased interview, a moment of clarity in a briefing, a technical insight that landed just right.
To Lando, Carlos became his first shelter in that bewildering new world. The first person to make him feel like he had a place in it.
And though, with time, that closeness faded into the background, at the very start of everything, Carlos had been home.
Just as suddenly as that first season had arrived, it was gone and something new had already taken its place.
When a new season dawned, it was chaotic, brimming with collective uncertainty and challenges they’d never faced before.
Those months were strange. Simulators in their living rooms. Training sessions over video calls. Jokes via Instagram Live, and virtual races that, try as they might, could never quite replace real adrenaline.
But through it all, Lando and Carlos never let go of each other.
They messaged constantly. Carlos sent him memes in Spanish that Lando didn’t always understand, yet laughed at anyway. Lando dared him to absurd cooking contests, sending photos of 'pasta carbonara' that didn’t even contain eggs.
“What is this?”
“British-style carbonara.”
“This is criminal, Norris. I should call the Italian police.”
It was their way of staying close.
Of holding onto something amid the chaos.
When the July comeback in Austria was finally confirmed, everything felt different.
The paddock stood empty of spectators. Teams confined to zones. Face masks. Tests. Disinfectant stations. Almost no one dared touch.
But when Lando saw Carlos climb out of his car at the circuit, he didn’t hesitate. He strode across the tarmac; their fists met, and they lingered in that bump a few heartbeats longer than necessary.
“Hey,” said Carlos.
“Hey,” replied Lando.
“You look less pale than usual, have you been in the sun?”
“I’ve been training on the balcony. Not all of us have your backyard.”
They laughed. And in that familiar ritual, Lando felt everything begin to make sense again.
Yet even as the championship roared back to life, no one knew for how long. Each Grand Prix became a small logistical triumph, a victory over fear.
For Lando, the first half of 2020 had been surreal. The calendar compressed by protocols and bubbles. Everything was different, except Carlos, who remained constant: steady, fast, dependable, fun.
Their friendship solidified in the silence left by absent crowds. Less press, fewer guests, more time together.
And endless excuses to laugh.
Like the day they played darts in the team lounge and Carlos, upon missing the board, feigned such a dramatic injury that the mechanics collapsed in laughter.
Or when Lando, out of nowhere, began mimicking Carlos’s Spanish accent as they cycled through the Austrian paddock.
“You sound like a cartoon character, Norris. You’re one 'olé' away from a flamenco routine.”
“That wasn’t a denial… that was confirmation!”
“What I’ll confirm for you is a whack on the helmet if you keep that up.”
Laughter. Banter. A language all their own.
But then, without anyone saying it aloud, something shifted.
Carlos started checking his phone more often between sessions. Brief, private conversations with people Lando didn’t know. Calls after technical meetings, he’d step away from the group to answer, return without a word.
And though Lando had never been the intrusive type, he began to notice.
One afternoon in Hungary, as they waited for their turn at media duties, Lando threw out a silly comment, a recycled meme they used to quote endlessly. Carlos smiled… but didn’t answer with his usual spark. His eyes were elsewhere.
“Everything okay?” Lando asked, trying to sound casual.
Carlos looked over and nodded.
“Yeah, yeah. Just adult stuff.” Then, with a crooked grin, added, “You’ll get it when you’re twenty-five.”
Lando frowned.
“I’m twenty. Not exactly a child.”
“Exactly. You haven’t hit your existential crisis at twenty-three yet.”
They laughed, like they always did.
But something about that comment lingered in Lando’s mind.
It wasn’t the kind of thing Carlos usually said.
That night, after the race, they sat in the motorhome dining area. Just the two of them, a few cold fries, and an old movie playing quietly in the background. One of those calm, familiar nights they’d long stopped needing to narrate.
Then, out of nowhere, Carlos let out a long sigh.
Lando glanced over. Carlos had his elbows on the table, head cradled in his hands, like he was carrying something heavier than usual.
“Have you ever wondered how long this lasts?” he murmured.
Lando looked at him in silence.
“Formula 1?”
Carlos nodded, but didn’t elaborate. He just stared into his glass of water as if hoping it might offer an answer.
And Lando, though he wanted to ask what was wrong, didn’t.
Because he was afraid of what he might hear.
And so it went: Lando’s quiet unease, Carlos’s growing distance.
The weeks rolled on, the season moved forward, and something between them began to shift, unnamed, but undeniable.
It was a few days before the news broke in the media. The paddock was hot, heavy with summer air, but it wasn’t just the heat that made Lando restless as he walked, a half-empty water bottle swinging loosely in his hand.
Carlos had told him he wanted to talk. Alone. And Carlos never said that unless it mattered.
He found him at the far end of the motorhome, seated on one of the benches that faced the large window. Outside, the noise of the circuit drifted in only faintly, like a memory.
“All good?” Lando asked, offering a light smile.
Carlos motioned for him to sit. It took him a few seconds to speak, as if he were still searching for the words somewhere deep inside the helmet he wasn’t wearing.
“Remember those calls I’ve been taking lately? Most of them were with my manager and my dad. Ferrari wants me. They’ve offered me a contract for next year.” He said it all in one breath, hardly pausing, his Spanish accent coloring every syllable.
Lando didn’t answer right away. He felt something twist in his stomach, not shock, exactly, but the quiet weight of something he’d already sensed coming.
“And...?”
“And I said yes.”
Silence.
Lando nodded slowly, lips pressed tight. He didn’t look at Carlos. He didn’t quite trust his face to hold.
Because if he looked at him, he’d see he was already missing him.
“When’s the announcement?”
“In a few days. But I wanted you to hear it from me. Before anyone else.”
Lando took a deep breath, forcing a half-smile that crumbled at the edges.
“So am I supposed to say congratulations?”
Carlos chuckled softly, a hint of sorrow tucked inside the sound.
“Only if you mean it.”
“I do. But I also want to tell you you’re a damn traitor.”
They looked at each other. And they laughed.
That familiar, brotherly laugh, the kind that outlasts circuits and seasons.
“It’s gonna be weird without you,” Lando said, quieter now. “I don’t know if I want to do all this again with someone else.”
“You won’t be alone,” Carlos replied. “I don’t forget that easily either.”
Lando looked down. He nodded. And in that small gesture, there was more than words could hold.
(...)
It was early. So early the hotel still floated in that strange stillness of Grand Prix mornings, before engines roared, before journalists stirred, before the day began to spin at racing speed.
The sun filtered faintly through the curtains, casting a thin golden line across the carpet.
Lando woke without an alarm. He opened his eyes, stretched an arm out, and reached for his phone on the nightstand. He didn’t even know why. It was automatic.
He unlocked the screen.
And there it was.
“Carlos Sainz to join Ferrari for the 2021 season.” The headline in bold. Below it, a photo: Carlos, smiling with measured calm, waving with one hand. Ferrari red behind him.
Lando stared at the screen for a long time. As if willing the news to erase itself. As if reading it again and again would somehow help it settle, or make it less final.
He already knew. Carlos had told him days ago. Trusted him with it before anyone else.
And yet... seeing it like this, published, official, it hit differently. More real. More irreversible.
He set the phone down on his chest, lying flat on his back. Closed his eyes. He didn’t cry, but that familiar pressure settled behind his eyelids, the kind that comes when you're saying goodbye to something without ever speaking the words aloud.
What hurt the most wasn’t that Carlos was leaving. It was knowing they wouldn’t be sharing the garage jokes anymore. The endless flights. The workouts they never took quite seriously. The laughter in the messy moments. That sense —rare and grounding— that he wasn’t facing all this alone.
And selfishly, what stung was the thought of Carlos sharing all that with someone else now. Another team. Another teammate. What they’d built… would no longer be just theirs.
He looked at the screen again. Didn’t tap the post. Didn’t hit like. Didn’t share it.
He set the phone aside and covered his face with both hands, breathing deep. Letting himself stay like that for a while. Still. Quiet. Sad.
Soon, as always, he’d make himself get up.
Put on the race suit. Smile. Answer the questions with his usual charm.
But not yet. For now —just for a few more minutes— he would let himself feel.
Time didn’t make the news hurt any less, but it did teach Lando how to carry it. And how to cherish every moment he still had left with the Spaniard.
The paddock hadn’t felt the same since the news became official. Everyone was talking about Carlos and Ferrari. About what was coming. About what he was leaving behind.
But that afternoon, tucked into a quiet corner of the motorhome, everything felt just like it used to.
Carlos was sprawled across the couch, feet propped up on a table, eating an apple like it might be the last thing he ever tasted in McLaren colors. Lando sat on the floor, back against the wall, idly spinning an empty water bottle between his fingers.
“Remember Austria?” Carlos said suddenly, a mischievous grin playing on his lips.
Lando looked up.
“Which Austria? This year’s?”
“No, Austria 2019. Free practice. That corner where you almost killed me.”
Lando laughed, shaking his head.
“Oh come on, don’t exaggerate. You were never even close.”
Carlos straightened a little, animated by the memory.
“You nearly drove over me! I was mentally writing my will. I thought, ‘Well, this is it. I’m going to die at the hands of a teenage Brit with the face of an angel and murderous intent.’”
Lando burst out laughing.
“You weren’t my target! And I wasn’t a teenager, I was nineteen.”
“Exactly. A teenager,” Carlos shot back, pointing at him like that settled the matter. “Do you know what it feels like to die knowing the guy who puts you in the hospital can’t even rent a car without a co-signer?”
“There were at least five centimeters between us!” Lando protested, raising his voice in mock indignation. “Five! I measured them with my eyes.”
“Uh-huh. And I measured them with my soul leaving my body,” Carlos replied, leaning back again.
They looked at each other for a second, then cracked up, laughter echoing off the walls, loud and easy.
For a moment, there was no Ferrari. No goodbyes. No uncertain future. Just the two of them, slipping back into the rhythm they knew so well: one of jokes, of trust, of something solid beneath all the noise.
“You know what I’ll miss the most?” Lando said, after a pause.
Carlos glanced at him sideways.
“My deep conversations? My spiritual guidance? My existential wisdom about life, love, and tire pressure?”
“Your free fruit,” Lando replied instantly, pointing to the apple in Carlos’s hand. “You always steal the last one.”
Carlos smiled.
“You’re going to have to learn to live without me.”
Lando shrugged.
“Nah. I’ll sneak into the Ferrari truck and hide between the tyres. You’ll find me curled up next to the mediums, eating your supplies.”
Carlos laughed long and loud, from somewhere real.
And Lando laughed with him.
And though the days were closing in on the end, that moment reminded them of something simple: what they’d built didn’t belong to any team or uniform.
It belonged to them.
The Yas Marina Circuit gleamed like a perfect postcard. The Abu Dhabi sky burned orange as the sun began to dip behind the clean curves and polished track. Everything felt unreal, as if the world had been designed especially for a farewell.
In the McLaren garage, Lando adjusted his gloves in silence. Beside him, Carlos spoke with one of the engineers but for the first time, they weren’t cracking jokes, or debating food, or arguing over who had the ugliest helmet of the weekend.
There was a strange stillness between them. Not discomfort. Not distance. Just... the weight of last times.
Lando glanced sideways at him. Carlos wore his blue-and-orange race suit for the final time. That thought made Lando’s chest tighten.
Carlos noticed.
“You okay?” he asked, half a smile tugging at his lips.
Lando nodded.
“Yeah. Just… wish this race could last hours. That it wouldn’t have to end.”
Carlos looked at him with a softness he rarely let show.
“It’ll be a good one. Let’s go all in.”
Lando swallowed hard and forced a smile.
“Let’s see if I can beat you one last time.”
Carlos laughed.
“In your dreams.”
They bumped fists. Something simple. Small.
But it carried the taste of goodbye, disguised as routine.
Then they put their helmets on.
And didn’t speak again.
The checkered flag waved beneath Abu Dhabi’s night sky. The circuit lights shimmered against the stilled cars, the sweat-soaked race suits, the glistening eyes of the mechanics. And in the middle of it all, Lando stepped out of his car knowing he hadn’t won, but that something far more precious was coming to an end.
Carlos had already taken off his helmet.
He stood surrounded by the team, hugs, back slaps, words no one would remember exactly, but that would echo for a long time.
Lando walked over slowly.
When they saw each other, they didn’t speak.
They hugged. Tightly. Not like teammates. Like brothers. A long, unguarded embrace that didn’t try to hide anything.
“Thank you for everything,” Carlos murmured, close to Lando’s ear.
“Thank you,” Lando replied, voice cracking. “For making this more than just racing.”
Carlos pulled back slightly and looked at him. Ruffled his hair with a smile that was half laugh, half goodbye.
“We’ll see each other again. You know we will.”
“I know. But it won’t be the same.”
Carlos nodded. And that —the fact that they both knew it was true— was what hurt the most.
Lando watched him walk away, through the crowd, through the flashes, through the congratulations.
He stood alone for a moment, helmet dangling from his hand, the noise of celebration fading into the background, lights flickering across his visor.
He took a deep breath.
And he smiled.
Sad, but grateful.
After Carlos’s departure, the days began to stretch. Weeks felt like months. And the start of the new season was harder than Lando expected.
There was something strange in the air of the garage. Not wrong. Just… different.
Lando noticed it in the little things. In the way he walked through the motorhome without anyone tossing an apple at his head. In the empty seat beside him on the truck. In conversations that now carried a different rhythm, a different cadence, a different accent.
Daniel Ricciardo was kind. Funny. Talkative.
He’d arrived brimming with energy, and Lando liked that about him. They got along. They laughed. But the dynamic was new and Lando was still figuring out how to move within it without feeling like he was playing a part.
It was the first race of the year. He sat alone in his hotel room, eyes resting on the helmet perched on the table. Something about the colors was different, a subtle shift in the design, as if the paint itself had sensed the need to evolve.
He collapsed onto the bed, phone in hand. Opened Instagram. His feed was flooded with 2021 season. Photos, headlines, promo videos. And among them, images of Carlos —now in red— waving from the Ferrari paddock.
Lando stared at the screen for a long moment.
He was happy for him. He meant that. But it didn’t make the knot in his stomach go away.
He remembered the jokes, the shared workouts, the unspoken glances before a race start. He remembered that corner in Austria. The imaginary will. The five centimeters they’d argued about for weeks. He remembered the final hug in Abu Dhabi. All of it had happened.
And though it felt distant, it wasn’t really that far away.
“It’s okay,” he murmured to no one, as if saying it aloud would make it truer.
He sat up. Took a deep breath. Thought about what lay ahead: new races, new battles, new reasons to laugh. Daniel was different, but different didn’t have to mean lesser. Maybe, in time, they’d build memories too. Different ones. But theirs.
Still, Carlos… Carlos would always be the first. The one who helped him grow. Who made the paddock less frightening. Who, without even meaning to, had become home.
Lando tucked his phone away. Got to his feet.
“Here we go again,” he said under his breath, catching his own reflection in the mirror.
Then he walked out the door, steps steady.
Not everything was the same. But that didn’t mean it couldn’t be special again.