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Chapter Text

It was another 1-2. McLaren’s 200th win.
The garage was buzzing with quiet celebration, the engineers toasting drinks and clapping each other on the back. But Lando hadn’t seen Oscar since the press conference, he checked his phone to see if he’d already left but there was no messages. Nothing.

He found Oscar alone in the back corner of the team hospitality suite, still in his fireproofs, his damp race suit half-pulled down to his waist. He sat on the couch, water bottle in hand, staring blankly at the floor like the world had slowed around him.

Lando approached quietly. “Hey.”

“Hi.” Oscar replied, voice barely audible.

Lando crouched in front of him, smiling, trying to make the moment lighter. “1-2. Not bad, right?”

Oscar didn’t smile back.

“You okay?” Lando asked.

Oscar nodded. Then shook his head. “I can’t do this anymore.”

Lando froze, hands instinctively curling into fists at his sides. “What… what do you mean?”

“Us.” Oscar exhaled. “Lando, I can’t— We can’t keep doing this.”

“I don’t understand”

“You do.” He sighed. “This isn’t good for either of us.”

The paddock buzz outside faded into static. Lando’s brain tried to process the words, but they hit him like debris in a high-speed crash.

“Are you serious?” he said, standing slowly. “You’re breaking up with me because I won and you didn’t?”

Oscar looked up at him then, eyes rimmed red from something not quite exhaustion. “You’re fighting for the title and so am I. Every race matters now. Every move on track.” He paused, voice cracking. “And I’m tired of pretending that I don’t care about you. Or that I wouldn’t pull out of a dive-bomb into Turn 1 because I’m afraid of hurting you. I can’t be in love with the person I’m trying to beat to a world championship.”

Lando stood in stunned silence, his tongue useless in his mouth.

Oscar went on, his voice barely more than a whisper. “This… us… it’s a distraction. It’s dangerous. You know it too.”

“No,” Lando said quietly, finally finding his voice. “No, I don’t know that.”

Oscar stood, stepping closer, the distance between them agonizing. “Then you’re lying to yourself.”

They stood there for a long moment, the silence stretching like the quiet before lights out. Then Oscar stepped back, grabbing his jacket from a hook on the wall. His hands trembled.

“I’ll see you in Zandvoort.” he said without meeting Lando’s gaze.

And then he was gone.

Lando didn’t move for minutes, just stared at the empty space where Oscar had been. In the distance, the McLaren crew kept celebrating. But inside, the win meant nothing.

———

The Mediterranean sun spilled golden light across the stone terrace, warming the flagstones whilst Lando sat alone in the shade, nursing a drink he hadn’t touched. The villa was peaceful, he’d escaped here for the quiet, but the silence only made everything louder in his head. He’d barely left the place in four days.

His phone buzzed, again. He didn’t check it. He didn’t have it in him to pretend to care about brand deals or training routines or whatever other nonsense his team was sending him.

“Mate,” a familiar voice called. “You alive out here?”

Lando looked up as Max Fewtrell stepped out, sunglasses on his head, holding two bottles of water. He tossed one over and flopped onto a nearby chair.

“Cheers.” Lando said without much enthusiasm.

Max narrowed his eyes. “You’ve been moping since we landed. What’s going on? You’re not even playing golf. That’s when I knew something was wrong.”

Lando gave him a weak smile. “Just tired.”

“Bullshit,” Max said simply.

There was a long silence. Lando stared down at the water bottle in his hand like it might offer answers.

“Oscar and I broke up.”

Max blinked. “Wait—what?”

Lando’s jaw tightened. “Yeah.”

“You two were… Jesus.”

“I know.”

“What happened?”

Lando leaned back, eyes closed. For a moment he just sat there, the words fighting their way to the surface.

“He said we can’t do both,” Lando said eventually. “That we can’t race for a championship and be together. Said it’s a distraction.”

Max stayed quiet, waiting.

“And the worst part?” Lando continued. “He’s right.” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I have hesitated. There’s time where I’ve I nearly let him through when I shouldn’t have. Im always more focused on how close he is behind me than the car in front. It’s like when he’s around, I’m not thinking clearly. I’m thinking about him.“

Max shifted. “So… he ended it?”

Lando nodded once. “Right after the race. No warning. Said he couldn’t do it anymore and walked out.”

“That’s cold,” Max muttered.

“No,” Lando said quickly. “He wasn’t cruel. Just… honest. That’s the thing about Oscar. He doesn’t fake it.”

Max looked over at him. “And you? You still love him?”

Lando didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. I can’t just turn it off, I miss him like hell,” Lando added, finally taking a sip of the water. “And the worst part is I still have to see him in a few weeks. Go back to normal, sit next to him in meetings and smile for the cameras like nothings happened.”

“Have you thought about calling him?”

Lando gave a hollow laugh. “Every day. Every time I reach for my phone. But I don’t want to make it harder than it already is.”

“So what are you gonna do?”

Lando stared out at the ocean, the horizon burning orange with the early touch of sunset.

“I’m going to fight for the championship,” he said softly. “And pretend like it’s not killing me to do so”

Max didn’t say anything. Just reached out and gave Lando’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

———

Oscar stood barefoot on the back deck of his family’s home in Melbourne, a mug of lukewarm tea cradled in his hands. The sun had only just risen, casting a pale orange light over the quiet suburb, still half-asleep. It should have been peaceful but inside, he felt anything but.

He hadn’t slept much since returning to Australia. Maybe a bit of jet lag but mostly it was the weight of everything. His mum padded out onto the deck,robe cinched at the waist,coffee in hand.

“You’ve been quiet,” she said.

“I’m always quiet,” he replied with a faint smile.

She gave him a look. The kind mothers have. “Not your usual type of quiet.”

He looked down into the mug.

“I’m fine, Mum.”

“You don’t have to be,” she said gently.

But he didn’t say anything else. He just sat there, listening to the breeze, thinking about how far away everything felt. Lando, the paddock, the championship.

Lando’s voice still echoed in Oscar’s ears. His laugh. His stupid inside jokes that made media days tolerable. His hand on Oscar’s knee during debriefs, just out of view. The way he’d say “you okay?” with just a glance, without needing to speak. But he also remembered how it felt in the car. The milliseconds of hesitation. The voice in his head that whispered don’t fight him too hard even when every other part of him screamed go for it. He hated that his heart got in the way.

———

Later that evening, he sat alone in his childhood bedroom, scrolling aimlessly through photos on his phone. There was one of him and Lando. It was blurry, late at night, both in hoodies, their hair still wet from the rain in Monaco. Lando was grinning at the camera.
He stared at it for what felt like hours before setting the phone down, face-down on the bed.

He thought about messaging him. Just hi. Or do you hate me yet?

But he didn’t.

He lay back on the pillow, hands behind his head, and stared at the ceiling until the sky outside turned completely black.

Chapter Text

The sky over Zandvoort was a restless grey, streaked with clouds that threatened rain but never quite delivered. Fans lined the fences outside the paddock gates, wrapped in orange and waving Dutch flags, Formula 1 was back.

Lando stood in the back of the McLaren hospitality unit, staring at his reflection in the mirror as he adjusted the collar of his team shirt. His hands fumbled slightly with buttons. He was nervous but not about the car or the weather or Verstappen’s inevitable advantage on home soil.

It was Oscar. He hadn’t seen him since Budapest. No text or calls. No voice notes or  memes or likes on Instagram posts. Just… nothing. Now they were about to spend four days stuck in the same small rooms again.

Lando tugged his sleeves down and left the mirror behind. He could already hear familiar voices drifting in as he headed downstairs. It should have been comforting and familiar but, his mind was a mess of anticipation and dread.

Oscar arrived early. He always did. He tucked his hands into the sleeves and kept his head down as he moved through the paddock. Smiling at the cameras, waving at the fans, keeping things normal.

He’d made it two full hours without seeing Lando. They collided, not physically, but spatially, at the coffee bar tucked inside the hospitality suite. It was too small and too open. No room to hide.

Oscar reached the counter just as Lando rounded the corner from the corridor. Their eyes met. Lando stopped mid-step. Oscar hesitated, fingers tightening around the strap of his water bottle.

"Hey," Lando said. It came out quieter than he meant.

"Hey," Oscar replied just as quietly

Lando glanced toward the espresso machine, suddenly intensely interested in whether it had oat milk or not. “You uh… you beat me to it.” He muttered.

Oscar half-laughed, eyes dropping to the floor. “Yeah. Thought I’d get the caffeine advantage early.”

“You enjoy the break?”

“Yeah” Oscar said. “Was good…just caught up family.”

Lando chewed his bottom lip, nodding too quickly, like he didn’t know what to do with his hands. “Good. That’s good.”

Oscar stepped aside slightly. “I’ll let you grab your coffee.”

And just like that, the moment was over. Lando watched him disappear down the hallway, resisting the urge to call after him. To say we don’t have to do this or I miss you or talk to me, please .

———

Media duties brought the two of them together again. They sat side by side in papaya polos, microphones clipped to their shirts, fake smiles at the ready. The press asked the usual questions about race strategies and championship pressure and what they got up to over the break. Neither mentioned each other.

And yet, between every answer, Lando could feel Oscar next to him. Every breath. Every shift in posture. Every subtle glance he wasn’t supposed to catch.

———

The Friday practice sessions passed in a blur of lap times and radio messages. The rain came in short bursts, drenching the track and then vanishing just as quickly.

Lando and Oscar were near-identical on the timing sheets, but of track the gap kept growing. They sat three meters apart and never once made eye contact. Zak and Andrea noticed, so did most of the team, but nobody dare bring up the tension.

That night, Lando lay awake in his hotel room, staring at the spinning ceiling fan. He thought about Hungary, about the moment Oscar had looked at him like he was doing the right thing, even as he shattered them both. About the way Oscar had said we can’t — not I don’t want to, not I’m done, but we can’t .

There was still love in those words. That’s what hurt the most. He rolled over, grabbed his phone, stared at the blank message thread. He didn’t type anything.

Oscar sat across the hall in his own room, legs pulled up to his chest, headphones on but no music playing. His laptop showed thr footage from FP2, but he hadn’t touched the keyboard in an hour.

His mind wouldn’t stop replaying the look on Lando’s face earlier, that faint half-smile that looked too much like hope. Oscar hated that he’d still noticed things like they about Lando and probably always would . He hated the fact  that he still cared and that even now, knowing full well why he ended it, he still wanted to walk across the hallway and tell Lando he didn’t mean it.

But he had meant it. Every word. And still, it hurt like hell. He closed the laptop, tossed it onto the bed, and buried his face in his hands. It wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

———

Race day soon arrived, Zandvoort was alive with colour and noise. Inside the McLaren garage Oscar sat quietly, headphones on, head bowed, his eyes scanning the screen in his hands. Replays of his qualifying lap lighting up the tablet. He had qualified P3, one position ahead of Lando, who had missed out by less than a tenth.

It was a small gap, but it felt wider than usual. The entire weekend had been shaped by small, awkward distances. Averted eyes in the debriefs. Quick exits after media sessions. Every interaction was, clipped down to essentials, just enough to appear functional to the team and nothing more. There had been no argument or drama. Only a thick fog of tension above them.

Outside, the pit lane came alive as the mechanics stated making their way to the grid. Engineers barked updates into headsets. Tyres were lined up like soldiers. The pre-race ritual unfolded with all its usual choreography, but Oscar felt strangely out of rhythm with it all, like his seat didn’t quite fit him anymore, or like the suit was one size too tight.

He stood up, grabbed his helmet, and made his way to the grid, keeping his eyes down.

Lando was already there, leaning against the front left tyre of his car, chatting away to his team. He’d yet to put his helmet on and for a second, Oscar saw the tension written across his face, the tightness in his jaw, the sharpness behind the eyes. He looked like someone trying too hard to appear unaffected. But Oscar knew him too well not to notice the cracks.

Their eyes met briefly across the tarmac, Lando gave a small nod. Oscar returned it.

They hadn’t really spoken since that awkward coffee moment on Thursday. And maybe that was the safest way to approach their situation, to keep the distance professional, to pretend the past didn’t exist while surrounded by cameras and engineers and hundreds of other people watching every move they made.

———

Lights out.

The race started in a storm of noise, wheels spinning over the damp patches on the start-finish straight as the field surged forward. The run into Turn 1 was tight, and Oscar found himself squeezed between Charles Leclerc on his left and Lando on his right. Oscar held firm, refusing to give in. He couldn’t, not today.

Lando didn’t back down either. Their wheels came dangerously close through Turn 2. No caution, not two lovers looking out for eachother, just two drivers fighting for the same piece of track.

Lap after lap, they ran in tandem — P3 and P4, swapping places once as Lando got DRS down the main straight, then again during the pit stops when a brief drizzle forced a switch to inters. Their radio messages were clipped, clinical.

When Oscar chased down Charles on Lap 39, Lando was two seconds behind and gaining. By Lap 42, he was in Oscar’s mirrors again. Oscar’s heart thudded against his ribcage. He knew that rhythm, the way Lando hunted, the way he waited until you braked too early. He knew it because he knew Lando. Like the back of his hand. Lando sent a dummy move down the inside. Oscar didn’t flinch. They went wheel-to-wheel again.

“Hold position, Lando.” Wills voice crackled through the radio.

“You cannot be serious!” He snapped.

“You’re not fighting eachother. Hold position.”

Lando didn’t reply on the radio, but a few corners later, he backed off by a few tenths. Oscar could feel the deliberate gap forming. Lando could have kept pushing, he could have made life harder but he didn’t.

When the chequered flag waved, Oscar crossed the line in third. Another podium. Another solid haul of points. Lando followed seconds later in fifth after being overtaken on the last lap by George.

Oscar climbed out of the car to a chorus of applause. He smiled for the cameras, fist bumping and back slapping his side of the garage. Lando thanked his team then wondered off inside, without sparing Oscar a glance.

Oscar watched him go, standing there, soaked in sweat and trying to breathe around the sudden tightness in his throat.

Because in that one race, they had fought, held back, and said everything they weren’t allowed to out loud. And still, the silence remained.

Chapter Text

The Temple of Speed always brought out the madness. Everything at Monza felt faster, the straights, the strategy calls, the pressure. The Monza paddock was sun-drenched and loud, the air thick with the roar of engines and cheering tifosi and for Lando, the noise outside was still quieter than the storm in his head.

He’d barely spoken to Oscar since Zandvoort. He wasn’t angry, not really. He was just tired of pretending, of keeping everything bottled in, of performing the role of teammate when everything underneath that surface was still unresolved.

Oscar had held him off in that race, and it had taken everything in Lando not to make it personal. The thought had flickered in his brain on , don’t let him win this too , and that had been the most dangerous thought he’d had all year. It scared him. Not because he wanted to beat Oscar,he always wanted to beat Oscar, but because he couldn’t separate it from everything else anymore.

——

The finally talked again on Saturday night, as Oscar lingered after the debrief. Qualifying had gone well. Oscar had taken P2, Lando P3, a tight, clean result that had put McLaren in the fight for the win.

The door creaked open.

Oscar didn’t turn around.

Lando stepped in, closed the door behind him, and leaned against it. The room was dim, lit mostly by the soft blue glow of a screen that had been left running telemetry.

“I figured you’d be gone by now,” Lando said quietly.

Oscar took a moment, then shrugged. “Didn’t feel like moving.”

Lando exhaled slowly. “Zandvoort was… intense.”

Oscar gave a faint, humorless laugh. “Yeah. Felt that.”

Lando hesitated before crossing the room, sitting on the edge of the table across from Oscar, arms crossed over his chest. His posture was casual, but everything about him was strained,the way his fingers fidgeted with the sleeve of his jacket, the tightness in his jaw.

“I almost didn’t hold position.” He said.

Oscar looked up, surprised. “What?”

“In Zandvoort. When he told me to on the radio. I… I thought about ignoring it. For a second.”

Oscar’s throat tightened. “Why didn’t you?”

Lando shrugged. “Because I knew why you ended it. And I didn’t want to prove you right.”

Oscar looked away. “It wasn’t about proving anything.”

Lando scoffed. “Wasn’t it?”

There was no venom in his voice. Just hurt.

Lando leaned forward, elbows on knees. “You think I don’t feel it too? The pressure? The fight? Wanting to win, even if it’s against you? Of course I do. But I still wanted you.”

“I know,” Oscar said, softly. “That was the problem.”

Lando’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“Because I was starting to care more about us than racing. And I can’t do that, not when the title’s on the line.”

“And you think I could? That I was just going to let you win? Or lose for you?”

“I don’t know!” Oscar snapped, then caught himself, shoulders tight. “I don’t know what you would’ve done. But I know what I would’ve. I’d hesitate. I did hesitate. And that’s not okay. Not in this sport.”

“So you’d rather lose me than a tenth?”

Oscar didn’t answer. Because that was the thing he hadn’t stopped thinking about, whether he’d sacrificed too much, whether he’d cut something out of his life that he didn’t actually need to let go of.

“I thought it would be easier,” Oscar admitted, voice low. “But it’s not. I see you every almost day. You’re right there. And I can’t talk to you, we can’t be what we were.”

Oscar looked up at him again, and for a moment, the weight in the room shifted. The tension softened. There was no anger in their eyes, just exhaustion and sadness and all the things they hadn’t let themselves say out loud.

But nothing changed.

Oscar stood. “We’ve got a race tomorrow.”

Lando looked up at him. “Yeah.”

“I’ll see you on track.”

And with that, Oscar left.

———

The Monza podium celebration faded into memory as quickly as the champagne dried on Oscar's suit.

He hadn’t won. P3 again. A statistic on a sheet, not an emotional high. Lando had finished second. Not far ahead, not dominant, just out of reach. Again.

Oscar barely remembered the actual race. He remembered more about how his hand had hovered near Lando’s back when they walked to the media pen, instinctive muscle memory that he’d had to fight. He’d forced his hand into his pocket instead.

By the time he got back to the hotel that evening, the adrenaline had worn off, leaving only fatigue and a strange kind of hollow stillness that settled into his chest. He showered, barely remembering the motions, then collapsed into bed in a T-shirt and sweatpants, legs aching, mind blank. He reached for his phone mostly out of habit, scrolling absently through the race coverage, McLaren’s social media posts, and a few congratulatory texts from sponsors and extended family.

And then—

A new message notification. From a name he hadn’t seen in years.

Lily

The name rang a bell in his mind. Lily—he’d gone to school with her, same maths class. Always showed up with her socks half down and notebooks full of doodles. She’d been smart, funny, never all that interested in racing but always asked about it anyway.

Lily [20:41]

Hey stranger. I caught the last 10 laps today. You were flying out there, hope you're doing alright? Long time no speak!

Oscar blinked at the message, rereading it twice. He hesitated, then replied.

Oscar [20:44]

Lily?? this is random. thanks. what made you tune in?

Lily [20:46]

My brother's been following the season and forced me to watch a few races. You popped up and I was like wait that’s Oscar from Year 10 who used to eat Skittles before maths exams. 😄

Oscar [20:47]

Can confirm my pre-race routine is still sugar-based!

Lily [20:48]

Glad to see you haven’t changed too much. How’s life treating you?

Oscar [20:49]

Honestly? It’s good, busy but intense!!.

The messages continued back and forth for another hour. They talked about old teachers, the dumb Year 11 prom that neither of them actually turned up. Lily told him she was finishing up a postgrad architecture degree and that she’d just moved back home to help her mum out for a while. She asked questions, real ones, not about the race or the team, but about him. His favourite city on the calendar. Whether he still drew sketches in his notebook margins when no one was looking. He found himself relaxing in a way he hadn’t in weeks. Maybe months.

It wasn’t like what he’d had with Lando. It wasn’t that sharp, chaotic connection, that gravitational pull where one glance could derail his whole train of thought. This was softer, and in that moment, that felt like exactly what he needed.

Down the hallway, in a separate hotel room, Lando stared at the ceiling above him, earbuds in. He opened his phone and swiped over his messages, pausing when he noticed Oscar’s “Active now” green dot lit up. He wondered who Oscar was talking to. He opened the chat

Lando [draft]:

Congrats on the podium. I mean it.

He hovered his finger over the send button but he couldnt force himself to hit it. He deleted it, then shut off his phone, rolled onto his side, and got ready for another sleepless night.

Chapter Text

Singapore was always a pressure cooker.

Even at night, the humidity wrapped itself around everything like wet blanket. The Everything felt on edge here, the walls closer, the corners tighter, the mistakes more unforgiving. It was a street circuit made for tension. Lando arrived carrying plenty of it already.

He’d known Oscar had invited someone. Still, he hadn’t expected it to hit quite so hard when he saw her.

Lily.

She was pretty. Effortlessly. She wore no team gear, just a summer dress and a soft smile that made Lando’s stomach twist for reasons he didn’t want to analyse. She stood beside Oscar in the McLaren hospitality area, clearly comfortable, laughing at something he said. He hadn’t seen Oscar laugh like that in weeks,not around him.

Lando turned away before anyone could catch the expression on his face.

——

"Mate," Max Fewtrell said later, handing him a cold bottle of water in the driver’s room. “You’ve had a face a face like a slapped arse all day.”

“This is my normal face.” Lando replied as he dropped into the lounge chair.

Max gave him a look. “No. This is your ‘I’ve just seen my ex with someone new’ face.”

Lando stayed silent for a beat too long.

“Wanna talk about it or pretend it’s fine until you combust in the media pen?”

Lando dragged a hand through his curls. “Honestly? I don’t know what’s pissing me off more, that fact that he’s moved on, or that I can’t.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “You really think he’s moved on? From what I saw, they were talking, not shagging in the garage.”

Lando didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. It wasn’t even about Lily. Not really.

It was about the fact that Oscar looked like himself again around her. Light. Open. Present.
Something Lando hadn’t seen in him in weeks.

“I thought we were… I don’t know,” Lando muttered. “We talked in monza. It felt like a start at least.”

“And now?”

Lando exhaled sharply. “Now it feels like I’m watching him choose not to start.”

Max was quiet for a moment. Then he pushed off the counter and clapped Lando on the shoulder. “You need to tell him how you feel, before it’s too late. Before this becomes the thing you regret when you're forty and still single.”

Lando cracked a small, reluctant smile.

———

The conversation didn’t happen until late that night, long after FP2 had finished, when the paddock had emptied and the city’s lights sparkled like stars in a pool of black glass.
Lando found Oscar sitting alone on the team’s second-floor balcony above the garage, legs dangling off the edge, staring out at the skyline.

“Mind if I join?”

Oscar shrugged. “It’s your team too.”

Lando sat beside him, mimicking the same position,legs swinging, hands braced behind him.

“You looked happy today,” Lando said eventually, not looking at him.

Oscar didn’t pretend not to know what he meant. “It was nice to see someone from home. Someone normal.”

“She’s more than just normal.”

Oscar turned, eyebrow raised.

“I mean,” Lando added quickly, “you two looked close.”

Oscar’s eyes narrowed, like he was trying to decide whether to deflect or confront. “We used to be friends. That’s all.”

“Are you hoping it turns into more?”

Oscar hesitated. That was enough of an answer.

Lando’s throat tightened. “Right.”

“You don’t get to be upset about this,” Oscar said quietly. “You were happy to let me walk away.”

Lando snapped his head around to face him. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?”

“You’re the one who said we couldn’t be together and race. I respected that. I gave you space.”

“And then you hated me for taking it,” Oscar shot back, voice low but sharp.

“I didn’t hate you. I don’t hate you.” He said. “I missed you. Every day. And I didn’t know how to be near you without making it worse.”

Oscar sighed, looking down at the paddock below. “It’s not just you, you know. I miss you too.”

Lando’s chest ached at the words.

“But I don’t know how to do this,” Oscar continued. “Not when everything feels like it’s either going to explode or fall apart again.”

“So what do we do?” Lando asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Oscar didn’t answer. For a moment, they just sat there. Two silhouettes against the skyline, full of things they didn’t know how to fix.

“I’m not asking for everything,” Lando said finally. “I just want you to talk to me again. Properly. Not like this, halfway between teammates and strangers.”

“I’ll try,” he said. “But I can’t promise anything else.”

Lando nodded slowly. It wasn’t enough. But it was more than he’d had yesterday.

They stayed there in silence a little while longer, neither moving, neither ready to walk away.

———

Sleep doesn’t come. Not properly. Lando lies on top of the covers in his hotel room, the hum of the air conditioning the only sound in the room aside from the occasional car passing somewhere in the distance. He hasn’t turned the lights off completely. One bedside lamp still glows faintly, casting long, tired shadows across the floor.

He’s tried everything, scrolling until his phone burned spots into his vision, flipping through old texts he should’ve deleted, even getting up to drink two glasses of water like it might flush the thoughts out of his system. Nothing works.

Because all he can think about is him.

Oscar. His voice. His face, dimly lit by the skyline last night, mouth drawn in that quiet frown that always meant he was holding back something deeper.

“I’ll try.” Oscar had said. Not I want to. Not I’m ready. Just I’ll try.

It was the smallest thread of hope.

And yet, that one name keeps circling his brain like a wasp: Lily.

He’d known it the second Oscar’s expression change, how gently he spoke about her, how relaxed he’d been beside her. That sort of warmth doesn’t happen overnight. They’d been texting. Laughing. Reconnecting in a way that didn’t involve the wreckage of a relationship with too many sharp edges.

Lily hadn’t watched him pull away at Silverstone. Lily hadn’t stood across from him in Hungary, being told they couldn’t be lovers and rivals. Lily didn’t know what Oscar sounded like in the half-second after a race win, when his voice cracked with disbelief and pride and Lando’s name on his lips.

He turns off the light and lets the dark swallow him whole.

——

The race was uneventful by Singapore standards. P4 for Oscar, P5 for Lando, both of them suffering under a poorly timed safety car and one too many laps on worn tyres. The team debrief is brief, focused on damage limitation and minor tweaks.

The hotel lobby is dimly lit and hushed, the usual race-week buzz finally tapering off. It’s late enough that most of the guests have vanished to their rooms, and only the soft whir of the air conditioning and the distant clink of glassware from the bar remain.

Lando steps through the sliding doors, hoodie damp from the humidity, earbuds in but playing nothing. His eyes are glassy from exhaustion, body dragging from the race and the emotional drain of the entire weekend. He’s not even sure why he walked back from dinner instead of calling the team car. Maybe part of him had hoped he’d run into—

“Oscar.”

The name leaves his mouth before he even thinks.

Oscar is standing near the elevator, dressed in joggers and a McLaren tee, gym bag slung over his shoulder.

“Oh. Hey.”

They stand there awkwardly, a few meters apart. Neither makes a move at first.

“Late gym session?” Lando asks, nodding toward the bag.

Oscar shifts his weight. “Couldn’t sit still. Needed to move.”

They both step toward the elevator, wordlessly falling into the same rhythm like they always have, shoulder to shoulder, always too close or never close enough.

Oscar presses the button. The soft ding echoes in the quiet space. Lando stares ahead at the doors, then glances sideways.

“She seems nice,” he says, trying to sound casual. “Lily.”

Oscar doesn’t look at him. “She is.”

“You two seem… good together.”

There’s a slight shift in Oscar’s expression, a flicker of something unreadable.

“Lando we’ve been through this. We’re just talking,” he says quietly. “Catching up.”

Lando nods, trying not to let the lump in his throat rise. “Right.”

The elevator arrives with a soft hiss. They step in together, Oscar leans against the opposite wall. Lando stands with his hands shoved into his pockets.

“I wasn’t trying to make you jealous,” Oscar says, breaking the silence.

Lando looks up sharply.

“That’s not what this is,” Oscar continues. “I’m not trying to hurt you.”

“I know,” Lando replies. “But it still does.”

“I told you in Hungary,” Oscar says, voice low, tired, “I didn’t think we could do this and still fight for the championship. And then we tried to pretend nothing had changed. But everything did, Lando. Everything.”

Lando swallows hard. “So what, this is it? You’ve made your choice?”

Oscar leans his head back against the wall. “It’s not about Lily. It’s about me trying to breathe without breaking again. I can’t do that if I’m still halfway in love with you.”

Lando closes his eyes for a moment. “Halfway?”

Oscar opens his mouth, then closes it. Shakes his head.

“You left a hole, you know,” Lando says after a moment. “In my life. In me. I’ve tried to fill it with racing and the guys. But nothing fits right.”

Oscar’s eyes flicker.

“And when I see you with her,” Lando adds, voice tight, “it makes me want to scream. Not because I think she’s wrong for you. But because you used to look at me like that.”

“I still do,” Oscar says quietly.

Lando flinches.

Oscar steps closer, crossing the space between them. “You were never the problem, Lando. It was what loving you cost me. The hesitation. The guilt. The moments when I couldn’t tell if I wanted to scream at you or hold your hand.”

The elevator slows. They’re nearly at Oscar’s floor.

“I miss you,” Lando says quickly, like he can stop time with the truth.

Oscar stares at him. And for a moment, Lando thinks he might step forward, say something, reach for him, undo everything they’ve done wrong since summer break.

But then the doors open with a soft chime. Oscar doesn’t move.

“I’m still figuring out who I am without you,” he says, eyes soft but sure. “And until I do… I can’t be yours. Not halfway.”

Oscar looks at him for a long moment then steps out. The doors begin to slide shut. Lando doesn’t follow.

Chapter Text

The rain came the night they landed in Austin, soft and slow and almost meditative. Oscar had stood by the window of his hotel room for a long time, watching it trail down the glass in delicate threads, wishing it would wash away the heaviness in his chest. It didn’t.

It’s been two weeks since Singapore. Since that elevator. Since Lando.

And despite everything, despite Lily’s bright laughter, her warm eyes, her patience, Oscar still felt like he was orbiting the world from a half-second behind. There were moments of clarity, brief and sharp, when Lily teased him about his accent, when he beat his personal best in the sim, when he sat and joked with his engineers. But it all faded once he was alone.

Because the thing no one told you about heartbreak was how it didn’t always feel like pain. Sometimes it was just staring across the table at someone kind and lovely and realizing you were reaching for a ghost.

Lily had flown back home after Singapore. They’d agreed, politely, that they’d keep talking. But Oscar knew she could feel it. The space between them. The way he kept checking his phone even when he wasn’t waiting for a message. The way he hadn’t touched her once without flinching at the phantom feel of someone else.

She never said Lando’s name. She didn’t have to, and Oscar didn’t lie to her either, He just didn’t say the full truth out loud.

———

It happened in a second.

Oscar was behind Lando coming into Turn 1. He’d had the better exit from the main straight, tyres just warm enough, DRS wide open. His race engineer had told him to go for it.

The moment Oscar committed, he saw it too late. Lando turned in, expecting him to back off. He didn’t. Not fast enough. Their tyres  touched. Both cars spun, Lando into the gravel, Oscar skidding off into the runoff.

Radio silence.

And then the world exploded.

———

The media team had tried to separate them after the crash. Their press officers hovering like hawks, trying to stop the tension from boiling over on camera. But now, back inside the motorhome, the doors closed, Oscar and Lando finally alone, the silence between them shredded.

“You could’ve left me space,” Lando snapped first, voice low and lethal.

Oscar whipped around. “You squeezed me into the apex. I was already committed.”

“You were never making that corner. Not in the wet.”

”You turned in like I wasn’t even there.”

“I didn’t think you’d be stupid enough to try it!”

Oscar flinched. “Stupid?”

Lando stepped forward. “You ended both our races!”

“And what about you?” Oscar shot back. “You didn’t even look!”

“You cant actually be blaming me for this!”Lando barked a laugh. “You were trying to prove a point. No emotion clouding your judgment, huh?”

Oscar’s jaw clenched. “That’s low.”

“I’m not the one who ghosted someone and then turned up with a new girl like nothing happened.”

“Don’t bring Lily into this.”

“I’m not—”

“Yes, you are!” Oscar’s voice rose. “You’re acting like I moved on just to hurt you. But maybe I needed someone to remind me I’m not just the guy who broke your heart and almost bottled the championship whilst doing it.”

“You think I didn’t need the same?” Lando shouted. “You think this has been easy for me? Waking up every day wondering how we went from sharing everything to not even speaking?”

Oscar opened his mouth. Closed it again. The silence was deafening. A knock on the door broke it, the door opening behind them. Zak.

“You guys okay?” he asked carefully.

“Fine.” Lando said, brushing past Oscar, out the door.

Oscar stood alone, pulse thudding in his ears. He didn’t feel fine. He didn’t feel anything.

———

The rooftop bar had a view that almost made Oscar forget the disaster of the day.

Bright lights from the Texas skyline stretched in every direction, neon streaks like paint against the dark canvas of the sky. The music was loud, some hazy mix of house and electro, but not loud enough to drown out the laughter from the next table. The winners table.

Kimi Antonelli was glowing, still in the high of his first F1 win, surrounded by Mercedes staff and most of the younger drivers. His hair was messier than usual, cheeks flushed from the shots someone had bought for him. He’d earned the celebration. Oscar didn’t resent him for that.

He just didn’t feel like celebrating.

But he’d come anyway, out of politeness, out of fear that if he stayed in his hotel room, he’d spiral into a vortex of rewatching the crash with Lando and overthinking every inch of it. It was easier to pretend in public.

He nursed his beer in silence, seated at the edge of a more reserved table with Alex, Lance, and Esteban. The conversation swirled around him, stories from the race, jokes about pit stop chaos, Kimi’s near-crash at Turn 11, but Oscar didn’t join in.

His eyes kept drifting across the rooftop, to the table where Lando sat with Carlos.

The two of them were in the middle of a story, laughing too loudly. Carlos leaned in to say something near Lando’s ear, and Lando tilted his head just enough, grinning, eyes lingering in that way that made Oscar’s skin crawl.

He wasn’t stupid. He knew what Lando was doing. The touches on Carlos’ arm, the closeness, the laughter just loud enough to carry over the music. It was deliberate. It was a performance. And it was meant for Oscar.

He hated that it worked.

Oscar made his escape under the excuse of taking a phone call The truth was, he needed air, and peace.

The bathroom had a floor-to-ceiling mirror, fogged at the edges from the humidity. Oscar splashed water on his face and leaned over the sink, gripping the edge like it might anchor him.

Then the door opened behind him.

Lando.

Of course.

“Didn’t think I’d find you hiding,” Lando said, closing the door with a soft click.

Oscar scoffed. “Wasn’t hiding. Just needed a break from the performance out there.”

“You mean the celebration for someone who didn’t end both his own and his teammates race today?”

Oscar turned slowly, the words landing sharp.

“You want to go there again?”

Lando shrugged, stepping closer, voice low but heated. “I’m not the one who dived like a lunatic into Turn 1.”

“You didn’t leave space.”

“You weren’t there to begin with!”

Oscar’s laugh was humorless. “Classic. Can’t be your fault, right? Never is.”

Lando’s face twisted. “Don’t give me that, Oscar. You’ve been off for months and then you finally grow a spine and send it into a corner like you’re trying to prove something.”

Oscar’s eyes narrowed. “You think I hit you to prove something?”

“I think you don’t know what the hell you’re doing anymore.”

“Better than pretending you’re fine by throwing yourself all over Carlos Sainz in front of half the paddock.”

Lando stepped forward. “So you were watching.”

“Hard not to when you're practically putting on a fucking floor show.”

Lando’s mouth twisted into something between a smirk and a sneer. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you.”

“I’m not jealous,” Oscar bit out.

Lando laughed. “Bullshit.”

Oscar’s chest rose and fell too fast. “You don’t get to screw with me just because you're pissed we didn’t work.”

“I loved you,” Lando snapped. “I still do, and you walked away like it was nothing.”

Oscar stepped toward him now. “Because it was killing me, Lando! I couldn’t race you and love you and keep pretending it wasn’t splitting me in half!”

Lando’s voice cracked. “So you picked racing.”

“I picked surviving.”

They were close now. Too close. Faces flushed. Voices low but sharp.

“I didn’t stop loving you,” he said. “But you’re making it really fucking hard to remember why I ever started.”

The hurt landed.He should’ve walked away. He should’ve left it there.

But instead, Oscar added, quieter now, “You wanted to make me feel something tonight. Well congratulations. You did.”

Then he turned, walked out, and left Lando standing there alone, staring at the wall like he was about to put his fist through it.

———

Later, when most of the drivers had left, Lando found himself alone on the edge of the rooftop.

The breeze was warm. The city pulsed below like a heartbeat.

He pulled out his phone. Opened Oscar’s name.

Typing …

Delete

Typing …

Delete

What could he even say? I’m sorry felt too hollow. I miss you felt too raw. I didn’t mean it felt like a lie, because maybe part of him had meant it, the flirting, the anger. . Maybe part of him wanted Oscar to hurt just enough to come back.

But that wasn’t love. That wasn’t who they used to be.

He wasn’t just angry at Oscar, he was angry at himself. Because the truth was, if Oscar asked, even now, after everything, Lando would say yes.

Every time. Even if it broke him.

Chapter Text

The sun was dropping low over the paddock, Lando had just finished a post-qualifying debrief when his race engineer told him Zak Brown wanted to see him.

“Now?” Lando asked.

“Now.” came the reply, firm enough to kill any hope that this was casual.

When he stepped into Zak’s office, Oscar was already there. Sitting in the chair opposite Zak’s desk, arms folded, eyes down. The door clicked shut behind Lando, and suddenly the small room felt even smaller.

Zak didn’t waste time.

“Alright, guys,” he began, leaning forward on the desk. “I’m not going to dance around it, something’s off between you two, and it’s been bleeding into the team.”

Lando felt his stomach tighten. He shot a quick glance at Oscar.

Zak’s voice was calm, but not soft. “I don’t need to know all the details. I’m not asking for gossip. But I’ve been in racing long enough to know when two drivers aren’t on the same page and I’ve never seen you two like this. You used to work seamlessly. Now? You barely speak unless there’s a camera on you.”

Neither of them spoke. Zak’s gaze bounced between them.

“This,” Zak gestured vaguely between them, “has to change. You don’t have to be best
friends. Hell, you don’t even have to like each other. But when you’re in this paddock, you are teammates, and McLaren can’t afford whatever’s going on to cost us points.”

Lando’s hands curled around the armrests of his chair. “It’s not affecting the racing.”

Zak arched a brow. “Really?”

Oscar finally looked up, meeting Zak’s eyes. “We’re fine,” he said flatly.

“You’re not fine,” Zak shot back, his tone sharpening. “You think I don’t notice? I saw the footage from Austin, the body language, the way you avoided each other after the contact. I hear the way your tone changes on the radio when the other one’s mentioned. This isn’t invisible.”

Silence again. The hum of the air-conditioning was suddenly loud.

Zak leaned back, sighing. “Look, I’m not your dads. I can’t make you be friends. But I am your boss, and I can tell you this. If you don’t sort it out, it’s going to cost both of you, and the team. I’m not in the business of letting personal drama take priority over silverware.”

He stood, signalling the meeting was over. “Sort it. Before it sorts itself out in a way neither of you likes.”

Lando and Oscar left together, the door clicking shut behind them. They walked in silence down the narrow hallway of the hospitality suite, the air thick with unsaid words. Lando wanted to break it, to say something biting, or maybe something honest, but every version in his head felt wrong.

Oscar reached the stairs first, pausing just long enough to glance back. “Guess we better make it look good,” he muttered, before disappearing.

Lando stayed where he was for a second, jaw tight, pulse heavy in his ears.

Zak was right. They couldn’t go on like this.

———

The lights went out, and Lando got away clean, slotting in behind Verstappen into turn one.

For the first stint, everything clicked. Smooth laps, no drama, everything exactly as planned, but somewhere after the second stop, it started to fray.

“Oscar is two-point-five behind,” Will said. “Pace is good.”

Lando glanced at the dash. Two-point-five was close enough to make him nervous. “Tell him not to cook the tires,” Lando said.

A couple of laps later Will’s voice as was in his ear again. “Gap to Oscar now one-point-three.”

Lando gritted his teeth. “Why’s he pushing now?”

“Oscar says pace is fine. Wants to race.”

Wants to race. Right.

When Oscar finally made a half-look into turn four, Lando defended, hard.

“Bit aggressive, mate,” Will said on the radio, voice carefully neutral.

“Tell him the same,” Lando shot back.

——

The heat in the garage still clung to the air even though the race was over, mechanics moved around in a practised blur, wheeling tools back into place, there was the occasional clap on the back for a good stint, a murmured “well done” between crew members, but none of it felt like a celebration.

Fourth and fifth.

Lando pulled off his helmet and shoved it into the hands of a waiting Jon, sucking in a deep breath. His balaclava was damp, sticking uncomfortably to his skin. He yanked it off, running a hand through sweat-damp hair as he scanned the garage.

Oscar was at the far end, already halfway out of his race suit, a bottle of water in one hand, head tilted back as he drank. He looked calm,too calm, for someone who had just been told to back off by the team.

Lando made his way over, weaving between engineers and cameras, ignoring the quick, curious looks that followed him. He stopped in front of Oscar, who was wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“You just had to go for it,” Lando said, his voice pitched low enough to stay under the radar but sharp enough to cut.

Oscar lowered the bottle, his brow creasing slightly. “I was faster. That’s the whole point, isn’t it? I left you space.”

“Barely,” Lando shot back. “You were on the edge of losing it. Another centimetre and we’re both in the wall.”

Oscar gave a short, humourless laugh. “Right. You didn’t need to defend so hard it’s not like you had a chance of winning.”

Lando’s jaw tightened. “I defended because I know what happens when we start tripping over each other. And after yesterday’s little lecture from Zak, I thought we agreed to—”

“To what?” Oscar cut in, finally letting a sharper tone slip through. “Let you keep track position no matter what? Play the good teammate so you can walk away looking clean?”

“That’s not what this is about,” Lando said quickly, but his pulse was already picking up. “This is about us not screwing the team over for the sake of—”

“For the sake of what, Lando?” Oscar’s voice was low but heavy with challenge now. “Because from where I was sitting, it felt like you cared a hell of a lot more about not letting me past than you did about the bigger picture.”

They stood there for a moment, neither willing to blink first, the noise of the garage a blur around them.

Finally, Lando spoke again, quieter now but no less intense. “You know, if you’d just—” He stopped, biting the words back before they became something else. Something he couldn’t say here.

Oscar didn’t look away. “If I’d just what?”

Lando shook his head, forcing his voice back into something neutral. “Forget it.”

Oscar’s gaze lingered for a second longer before he reached down for his water bottle.
“Guess we’re not as good at pretending as we thought.” He said, his tone flat but the weight behind it obvious.

He turned and walked away, threading through the crowd of engineers toward the motorhome pwithout looking back.

Lando stayed where he was, still feeling the rush of adrenaline in his chest, the same rush he’d felt when Oscar had been in his mirrors, lap after lap. Zak’s warning replayed in his head.

Sort it. Before it sorts itself out.

———

The McLaren hospitality suite was quieter than usual for a Sunday evening. Most of the team had drifted off back to the hotel by this time. Oscar sat at a small table by the window, the water bottle from earlier still in his hand, he hadn’t touched it since leaving the garage.

He’d walked away from Lando because there was nothing else to say in that moment. Nothing that wouldn’t make it worse. But he hadn’t stopped replaying it. Not just the wheel-to-wheel laps, though those kept looping in his head, but the way Lando had looked at him afterwards. Like Oscar had crossed some invisible line. Like their entire year together meant nothing compared to a single corner on a single Sunday.

He let out a slow breath, dug his phone out of his pocket, and scrolled through his contacts until he landed on Mum.

“Hi, love,” she said, her voice warm. “I saw the race.”

Oscar leaned back in the chair, pressing the heel of his palm to his eye. “Fifth,” he said, though the result felt irrelevant.

“Fifth is still good,” she replied lightly. “Points are points.”

He hesitated, his fingers tapping against the bottle. “Yeah. It’s not… it’s not about the result.”

There was a pause on the line, the kind of pause his mum was good at, one that said she wasn’t going to fill the silence for him.

“It’s Lando,” he said finally, his voice dropping like it was some sort of confession. “We had this… scrap on track today. Nothing huge. But it’s just—” He broke off, searching for the right words. “It’s like every time we’re near each other now, it turns into something. And I don’t even know why. Or maybe I do.”

“Do you want to tell me why you think it is?”

He stared out the window at the dark paddock,“Because I ended it. And I told myself it was for the right reasons, that we couldn’t be together and fight for a championship. But I didn’t think about what it would be like to still see him every day, to hear him on the radio, to have him right there, but not…” He trailed off, swallowing the last word.

“Not yours anymore,” she finished gently.

Oscar’s chest tightened, but he gave a small, humourless laugh. “Yeah. Something like that.”

“You can’t just switch feelings off, Oscar,” she said softly. “And I’m not telling you what to do, you’re the one who has to decide if you can live with this. But if you keep letting it fester, it’s going to eat away at both of you. On track and off.”

“I don’t know if I can fix it.” He admitted.

“Then you have to decide if it’s worth trying anyway,” she replied. “Because the alternative… is what you’re feeling right now.”

When the call ended, Oscar sat for a long time, the phone still warm in his hand. His mum’s words repeating in his head.

Not yours anymore.

That, more than anything, was the part he wasn’t sure he could get used to.

Chapter Text

The streets outside Oscar’s apartment were quiet, the hum of the Mediterranean far below mixing with the occasional rev of a supercar echoing through the hills. It was nearly two in the morning, but Oscar was still awake, sprawled on his sofa, TV flickering with some mindless show he hadn’t really been watching.

He’d spent the past couple of days lying low, running errands, going for runs along the port. He told himself it was just to reset before Brazil, but the truth was, he was avoiding the chance of bumping into him .

The phone on the coffee table buzzed suddenly. He glanced over, expecting maybe his mum or Mark,  but the name on the screen made his stomach twist.

Lando.

For a moment, Oscar considered letting it ring out. But then he pictured Zak’s warning, the way things had gone in Mexico…and his thumb swiped across the screen almost on autopilot.

“Hello?” he said cautiously.

There was a lot of noise in the background, heavy bass, muffled shouting, laughter.

Then Lando’s voice, unmistakably slurred.

“Osssscar,” he drawled, dragging the vowels out. “Mate. Hey.”

Oscar sat up a little straighter. “Where are you?”

“Uh…” Lando’s tone dipped into confusion. “Dunno, actually. Some club? The one with the, um, big… fish tank thing? Or maybe it was sharks. No, fish. Definitely fish.”

Oscar pinched the bridge of his nose. “Are you alone?”

“Naaah. Max was here earlier but he left, and then I went to the bathroom and—” Lando paused, a burst of static fuzzing the line. “—and now I can’t find the street. Monaco’s small, right? But it’s all twisty.”

Oscar closed his eyes. He should hang up. He should tell Lando to call a taxi, or one of his friends. But the image of him wandering the narrow streets, half-drunk and lost, wouldn’t leave his head.

“Stay where you are,” Oscar said finally. “Send me your location.”

It took two tries and half a minute of muttered swearing before Lando’s live location pinged on Oscar’s phone. He recognised the street, a block from a club popular with the drivers.

Ten minutes later, Oscar was there.

Lando was sitting on a low wall outside the club, hoodie pulled up over his head, elbows on his knees. He looked up when he saw Oscar, grinning crookedly.

“See? Knew you’d come,” he said, as if the idea had never been in question.

Oscar stopped in front of him, arms crossed. “You could’ve called literally anyone else.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t want to.” Lando pushed himself upright, swaying slightly. “You’re… you’re my person.”

Oscar’s throat tightened, but he ignored it. “Come on. I’ll get you home.”

The walk back was quiet at first, the distant thump of the club fading behind them. Halfway up the hill, Lando spoke again.

“You hate me now, don’t you?”

Oscar glanced over. Lando’s expression was unguarded in a way it never was when he was sober. “No,” Oscar said, too quickly. “I don’t hate you.”

“Feels like it sometimes,” Lando murmured, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Like I’m… on the outside now.”

Oscar didn’t answer. Because the truth was, he didn’t know how to fix that without undoing the choice he’d made in Hungary.

By the time they reached Lando’s building, his steps had slowed, the swagger from earlier replaced with loose-limbed tiredness.

Oscar caught his arm when he stumbled on the kerb, steadying him. “Come on,” he said quietly, steering him toward the glass doors.

The elevator ride was silent except for the faint hum of the machinery and Lando’s uneven breathing.

When the doors opened, Oscar kept hold of Lando’s sleeve, guiding him down the hall. The apartment was dark when they stepped inside, the faint scent of cologne and whatever candle Lando liked lingering in the air. Shoes kicked off near the door, Lando slumped onto the sofa without even trying for the bedroom.

“You need water,” Oscar muttered, heading into the kitchen. He found a bottle in the fridge, twisted it open, and held it out.

Lando took it but didn’t drink right away. Instead, he looked at Oscar, eyes glassy but searching. “You didn’t have to come,” he said, voice softer now.

“I know,” Oscar replied, sitting on the coffee table opposite him. “But I wasn’t going to leave you wandering around drunk in the middle of Monaco.”

That earned a small, tired laugh from Lando. “Still… you came.”

Oscar didn’t answer, just gestured for him to drink. Lando obeyed, taking a few gulps before leaning back, eyelids already starting to droop.

“You should crash here,” Lando mumbled. “Spare room’s… clean, I think.”

Oscar hesitated. This was exactly the kind of line he’d been trying not to cross since Hungary. But Lando was already half-asleep, and the thought of leaving him like this, of walking out into the night and pretending it hadn’t happened, felt worse.

“Alright,” he said finally.

He fetched a blanket from the cupboard, draped it over Lando, then lingered for a moment, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest. There was something disarming about seeing him like this, no noise, no cameras, no bravado. Just Lando.

Oscar left the light in the hall on and closed the spare room door behind him.

It was only once he lay down, staring at the ceiling in the quiet apartment, that he realised how dangerous this was, how easily it could pull him back into something he wasn’t sure he could survive twice.

———

The sunlight in Monaco was merciless. It streamed through the tall windows of Lando’s living room like molten gold, bouncing off the pale walls until even the shadows seemed too bright.

Oscar had been awake for an hour already. He’d showered, changed into the clothes he’d worn over from his apartment, and made himself a coffee, more out of something to do than actual need. He could hear Lando still asleep on the sofa, soft, uneven breathing under the blanket he’d thrown over him last night.

Part of him considered slipping out quietly, leaving a glass of water and a note. It would have been cleaner. Safer. But some stubborn part of him stayed rooted to the kitchen stool, sipping slowly, waiting.

Eventually, there was movement. A groan, the sound of fabric shifting. Lando sat up, hair sticking up in a dozen directions, his hoodie twisted halfway around him. He squinted against the light like it was a personal attack.

“Oh… hell,” he muttered, rubbing at his eyes. “What time is it?”

“Half ten,” Oscar said, watching him over the rim of his mug.

Lando blinked blearily at him. “You’re still here?”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “You asked me to stay, remember?”

A frown tugged at the corner of Lando’s mouth, like he was trying to recall the moment. “Right. Yeah. I… thanks. For last night. For coming to get me.”

Oscar shrugged, trying to keep it casual. “You sounded lost.”

“I was lost,” Lando admitted, pushing a hand through his hair. “In more ways than one.”

The comment hung there, heavier than either of them seemed ready to deal with. Oscar looked away, pretending to focus on his coffee.

“How bad do you feel?” Oscar asked finally.

“Like my head’s being sat on by… I dunno, a baby elephant,” Lando said, attempting a grin that came out tired. “Could use about three litres of water and a bacon sandwich.”

Oscar slid the glass he’d set aside across the coffee table. Lando drank from it slowly, leaning back against the sofa cushions, watching Oscar with a faint, unreadable expression.

“You didn’t have to stay,” Lando said again, quieter this time. “But you did.”

Oscar’s grip tightened slightly around the mug. “Like I said, you were really drunk. I wasn’t going to just drop you off and hope for the best.”

“Still,” Lando said, his gaze lingering. “You could’ve left first thing.”

“I thought about it,” Oscar admitted. “But I didn’t.”

For a moment, they just looked at each other,  the air between them thick with things unsaid.

Lando’s voice softened. “I miss this. You being here. Not… just in the paddock. In my space. In my life.”

Oscar swallowed, his chest tightening. “Lando…”

“I know you think we can’t make it work right now,” Lando cut in, “but it’s not like it’s working not being together, is it?”

Oscar forced a small exhale, breaking their eye contact. “We’re still in the middle of a championship fight. You know how messy it could get.”

“It’s already messy,” Lando said simply.

Oscar didn’t respond, because he knew Lando was right, but admitting it felt like stepping onto a slope he might never stop sliding down.

Eventually, Lando pushed the blanket aside and stood, heading toward the kitchen. “I’m making food,” he said over his shoulder. “You’re staying for breakfast.”

Oscar could have said no. He could have left right then, with the excuse of training or errands or anything else. Instead, he stayed.

———

The air outside was cooler than he expected, the sunlight bouncing off the pale stone of the buildings as he stepped out of Lando’s apartment block. Monaco was always too clean, too perfect,  a place where nothing looked out of place, even when your own head felt like chaos. Oscar shoved his hands into his pockets and started walking, his trainers scuffed lightly against the pavement, the sound filling the quiet gaps between his thoughts.

He’d woken up earlier than Lando, lying in the unfamiliar guest room staring at the ceiling. For a few minutes, he’d listened to the soft rhythm of Lando’s breathing from the living room, the same sound he used to fall asleep to every night before Hungary.It had been easy then. Easy to crawl into bed beside him, to touch him without overthinking every single gesture.

This morning hadn’t been easy.

When he’d gone to say goodbye, Lando had been sitting on the sofa, hair messy, looking at him like he was trying to memorise something. That had been the hardest part, the way Lando’s eyes had softened, like he was silently asking Oscar to stay.

And maybe part of him had wanted to. But the other part, the part that had been repeating the same mantra since Hungary, reminded him why he couldn’t.

You can’t do this and fight for a championship.

It was the truth he kept circling back to, even when it felt like the most miserable choice he’d ever made. He couldn’t let himself fall back into what they’d had, not when every weekend they were still fighting each other on track.

By the time he reached his own place, he still hadn’t shaken the image of Lando in that dimly lit living room. Oscar dropped his keys on the counter, stood in the quiet for a moment, then exhaled slowly. He told himself he’d made the right call. He always did.

So why did it feel so much like the wrong one?

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

The win in Brazil had followed him to Vegas like a shadow. Every journalist wanted to ask about momentum, about the championship.

“We’re joined by Max Verstappen, Oscar Piastri and Alex Albon.

Oscar glanced sideways as Max took the seat beside him in the press conference. Max didn’t look at him. Not once.

The questions came. Tyre strategies, night race conditions, the spectacle of Vegas. Oscar answered smoothly, the way he always did but he couldn’t ignore the way Max’s replies were clipped, shorter than usual.

When the session finally wrapped and the media team shepherded the drivers offstage, Oscar lingered, Max was already heading down the corridor,

“Max.” He called, quickening his pace.

The Dutchman stopped but didn’t turn. Only when Oscar caught up did he finally look at him and the look was sharp, direct, a contrast to the calm mask he usually wore in the paddock.

“What’s wrong? Have I done something to upset you?” Oscar asked, trying to keep his voice even.

Max tilted his head slightly, like he was weighing how much to say. “Not Me”

“What?”

Max’s arms folded across his chest. “Lando. You upset Lando. More than once actually.”

The words landed like a punch. For a moment, Oscar just stared, thrown off-balance. “That’s… not your business.”

“Maybe not.” Max’s voice was calm, but there was an edge to it. “But he’s my friend. He came to me in Brazil, Oscar. He told me everything. And I’ve never seen him like that before.”

Oscar’s stomach twisted. He pictured Lando broken, tearful, unravelled in a way he never showed anyone and guilt clawed at him. “He… told you?”

“Yeah,” Max said flatly. “And you should know, he was a wreck. Because of you.”

Oscar opened his mouth, shut it again. He wanted to defend himself, to explain the impossible balancing act of love and ambition, but under Max’s steady gaze the excuses felt thin.

Max stepped closer, lowering his voice. “I get you thought you were doing the right thing but all you’re really did was prove him right when he thinks he’s not worth choosing. And you’re killing him in the process.”

Oscar’s throat tightened. “I… I didn’t mean to—”

“I know.” Max’s expression softened, but only slightly. “But intentions don’t matter if the result is the same.“

Oscar swallowed hard, words failing him.

Max clapped a hand on his shoulder, firm. “You’re a good driver, Oscar. But being a champion won’t mean shit if you can’t live with yourself when the helmet’s off.”

With that, Max turned and walked away, leaving Oscar rooted in the corridor, the sounds of Vegas humming faintly through the windows behind him.

———

The Strip was chaos, neon lights bleeding across the taxi window, the bass of some nightclub thumping even through the glass. Lando sat with his arms folded tight across his chest, staring out at the blur of it all. His body was buzzing with exhaustion, not the physical kind, but the sharp, restless energy of being wound too tight for too long. Oscar sat beside him in silence. They hadn’t planned to share the cab by the team had herded them together after media fished. Neither of them had protested, though Lando had thought about it.

The air conditioning was cranked up far too high. Lando always hated the cold. He tried to bury his hands deeper into his hoodie pocket, but it didn’t help. His leg bounced restlessly against the seat.

Beside him, Oscar shifted. “You’re freezing,” he said quietly.

Lando glanced at him, brows furrowed. “I’m fine.”

Oscar didn’t argue. Instead, he slid out of his McLaren jacket, the papaya coloured material rustling in the cramped space. He held it out, not looking directly at him. “Here. You always run cold.”

For a moment, Lando just stared at it. At the jacket, at Oscar’s hand, at the way he’d said always , like muscle memory, like he still carried every detail of him despite everything.

“I said I’m fine,” Lando muttered, turning back to the window.

The silence stretched, then Oscar set the jacket gently on Lando’s lap anyway.

“Take it or don’t,” he said softly. “But at least you’ll be warm.”

Lando’s chest tightened. He wanted to shove it away, to prove he didn’t need anything from Oscar anymore. But the cold was biting, and the fabric was familiar, carrying the faint scent aftershave and something else that was just Oscar .

With a sigh, he pulled it on, zipping it up halfway. The warmth spread almost instantly, but so did something else, the ache of memory. Countless nights in airport lounges, late flights, long debriefs, when Oscar would wordlessly drape a hoodie or jacket over him, always noticing before Lando did.

He hated how natural it still felt.

“Thanks.” He said finally.

Neither of them spoke the rest of the ride.

When the taxi finally pulled up outside the hotel, Lando was the first to step out, tugging the jacket tighter around himself as if it could shield him from more than just the desert chill.

———

The night air hummed with energy, the kind that only Vegas could produce, and yet beneath the adrenaline, Lando felt oddly calm. He’d spent the entire weekend in the shadow of tension. Oscar keeping his distance and Max’s concerned stares. But once the visor went down, once the lights went out above him, the noise in his head went quiet. There was only the race and this one was his.

When the chequered flag waved, it was his name on the screen, his team screaming over the radio. “YES, LANDO! Vegas winner! You beauty!”

He let out a whoop so loud his voice cracked, thumping the wheel as fireworks erupted above the Strip. For once, it wasn’t just relief. It was pure, unfiltered joy.

The podium was a blur. Lando raised the trophy high, the lights bouncing off its surface, and for a heartbeat, he allowed himself to feel untouchable.

———

The club was everything you’d expect from Las Vegas. Loud. Bright. And so crowded it felt like the walls themselves were pulsing with the beat. Neon lights flickered overhead, pinks and blues bleeding into each other, reflecting off champagne bottles and sequined dresses. Drivers, team members, sponsors, everyone was packed onto the dance floor or clustered at the VIP bar.

Oscar had never liked places like this. He didn’t drink much, he hated shouting to be heard, and yet he’d let himself be dragged here with the rest of the McLaren crew because it was what you did when your teammate won in Vegas. You celebrated.

Except all night, his eyes kept drifting across the crowd.

No matter where he stood, no matter who he tried to talk to, he always found himself watching Lando.

Lando, who seemed to exist at the center of it all, laughter spilling out of him like champagne foam, head thrown back, the grin on his face bright enough to outshine the strobe lights. Lando, who was dancing with someone from the crew, shaking his head when drinks were pushed at him, who seemed to be floating on the same high he’d carried since he’d crossed the finish line hours ago.

Oscar should have been happy. Part of him was thrilled for Lando, proud of him, proud of McLaren. But the bigger part was something else. A gnawing ache, a weight pressing at his ribs every time he thought about how natural Lando looked out there without him, how easily he could radiate joy when Oscar himself was barely holding it together.

Max was right. He’d seen it in Brazil, in the way Lando had unraveled. And he was seeing it now, too, only in reverse, the mask of celebration that Oscar knew didn’t erase the pain underneath.

The crowd shifted, and suddenly Lando was at the bar, not far from him, ordering a drink with his back half-turned. Oscar’s chest tightened. Before he could second guess it, his legs were moving, weaving him through the bodies until he was close enough to smell the faint mix of champagne and aftershave still clinging to Lando’s shirt.

“Congrats,” Oscar said, raising his voice to be heard over the music.

Lando turned, startled, and his expression flickered for just a second before he replaced it with a smile. “Thanks. P2, not bad for you either.”

Oscar searched his face, wanting to find the warmth he used to know so well, but instead there was distance. A wall. He forced himself to hold Lando’s gaze anyway. “You were better tonight. You deserved that win.”

“Maybe.” Lando shrugged and took a sip from the bottle in his hand, looking away toward the dance floor. His voice was casual, but his shoulders were tense, the kind of tightness Oscar had learned to read when they were together. The silence between them was deafening, despite the thundering bass that rattled the glasses behind the bar.

“Do you hate me?” He blurted.

Lando’s head snapped back, his brows pulling together. “What?”

“For… everything,” Oscar said, his throat suddenly dry. “The way I ended things. The way I’ve been around you. Do you hate me for it?”

“I don’t hate you. But you broke me, Oscar. And I don’t know if I can trust you not to do it again.”

The words hit harder than Oscar had expected, but they were fair. Brutally fair. His hands curled against the bar top, trying to ground himself. “I never wanted to break you. I thought… I thought I was protecting us from choosing between love and racing. But maybe I was just protecting myself.”

Lando let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “You can’t just disappear on someone and then… act like nothing happened.”

Oscar took a breath, forcing himself to say the words that had been clawing at his throat for weeks. “I still love you.”

“Don’t,” Lando whispered, almost pleading. “Don’t say that if you don’t mean it.”

“I do.” Oscar stepped closer, closing the gap until he could feel the heat radiating off him, until the crowd felt a million miles away. “I’ve tried to stop, but I can’t.”

For a moment Lando stood frozen, the air between them thick with everything unsaid. Then, like gravity finally won, he leaned in.

The kiss was sudden, desperate, almost clumsy. Oscar’s hand shot up to the back of Lando’s neck, pulling him closer, while Lando’s fingers curled against the bar as if he needed something solid to hold on to. The taste of champagne lingered, the pulse of the bass vibrated through their chests, but none of it mattered.

When they broke apart, both breathless, neither spoke. Lando’s lips were slightly swollen, his eyes wide, a storm of emotions flickering through them.

Then Lando shook his head, stepping back just far enough to break the spell. “I can’t. Not here. Not like this.” His voice cracked on the last word.

Oscar reached out instinctively, but Lando was already moving, slipping into the crowd, swallowed by neon and smoke and bodies. Oscar was left standing at the bar, his pulse hammering, his lips tingling, his heart pounding with the certainty that one kiss had changed everything.

——

The curtains didn’t do much to block out the Nevada sun, the light slicing across the messy hotel room and right into Lando’s pounding head. His mouth was dry, his body heavy, and yet none of that was the real reason he couldn’t move.

He could still feel it.

Oscar’s hand at the back of his neck. The heat of his mouth. The way everything inside Lando had collapsed at once, anger and longing and fear tangling into something he couldn’t fight anymore.

And then the way he’d ran.

He lay flat on the bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to convince himself it hadn’t happened. Maybe he’d dreamt it, some champagne soaked fantasy his brain had conjured. Except every time he closed his eyes, he saw Oscar’s face, wide-eyed and earnest. I still love you.

A knock came at the door. Lando’s stomach dropped before his brain even caught up.

He dragged himself out of bed, padded barefoot across the carpet, and pulled the door open.

Oscar.

He was in sweats and a hoodie, eyes ringed with exhaustion. He looked younger somehow, softer in the daylight, but the tension rolling off him was impossible to miss.

“Can I come in?” Oscar asked, his voice quiet. 

He stepped back, and Oscar slipped inside.

For a long moment, neither spoke. The only sound was the hum of the air conditioning and the muffled bass of the Strip still alive below. Oscar perched on the edge of the desk chair, hands clasped between his knees, while Lando stayed by the window, arms crossed over his chest like a shield.

Finally, Oscar broke the silence. “About last night.”

“You mean yo telling me you loved me and then kissing me in the middle of a club?”

Oscar flinched, but didn’t look away. “Yeah. That.”

Lando’s throat tightened. He wanted to scream, to tell Oscar how cruel it was to dangle that in front of him after months of silence and confusion. But the words tangled in his chest. Instead, he turned back toward the window, watching the traffic below.

“You can’t just do that, Oscar.” He said. “You can’t decide when it’s convenient to love me. I’m not some pit stop you roll into when you feel like it.”

“I know,” Oscar said quickly, leaning forward, desperation in his eyes. “I know I hurt you. I thought I was doing the right thing, ending it. I thought we couldn’t handle both us and racing. But last night, watching you win, watching you be… you, it made me realise how wrong I was.”

Lando swallowed hard, his arms tightening around himself. “So what, you think a kiss fixes it? That I’m just supposed to forget you pushed me away when I needed you most?”

“No.” Oscar’s voice cracked. “I don’t expect you to forget. I just… I can’t keep pretending I don’t feel it. I tried. I really tried, Lando. But I love you, and I hate what I did to us. And I hate even more that I might have ruined it forever.”

The words hit something deep inside Lando, something he’d been trying to smother since Hungary. He wanted to believe him. God, he wanted to, but the fear was louder.

“You don’t get it.” He said, his voice breaking despite his best efforts. “I never stopped loving you, not once. And every day since you ended it, I’ve had to watch you act like I’m just your teammate, like none of it mattered. Do you have any idea how much that’s destroyed me?”

Oscar’s eyes shone, his knuckles white where his hands gripped each other. “I know now. And I’m sorry. More than I can say.”

The room fell silent again, heavy with everything between them. Lando pressed a hand to his face, dragging it down slowly, trying to hold himself together. He wanted to cross the room, to pull Oscar into his arms and believe it could be that simple. But the scar tissue of the last few months held him in place.

“I need time.”

Oscar nodded, though his jaw clenched like he was holding back a thousand things he wanted to say. “Okay. I’ll give you that.”

He stood, hesitated as if he wanted to reach out, then thought better of it. Without another word, he let himself out, the door clicking softly shut behind him.

Chapter Text

The heat in Qatar was relentless, the kind that clung to your skin even in the shade. Oscar had been here before, of course, but everything about this weekend felt heavier. He and Lando hadn’t spoken properly since that morning in Vegas. They’d both gone their separate ways, and though Oscar had wanted to call, to text, to do something, he’d forced himself not to. Lando had asked for time. Oscar owed him that much.

But now, here they were again. Same paddock, same uniforms, same questions from journalists who saw only teammates, not the messy wreckage underneath.

Oscar spotted Lando across the hospitality area before Lando saw him. His teammate was laughing with a mechanic, cap tilted low, sunglasses hiding his eyes, but Oscar didn’t need to see them to know how carefully guarded he was. He’d learned the way Lando’s shoulders stiffened when he was holding something back.

Their eyes finally met across the room. Just for a second. Enough for Oscar’s chest to tighten, enough for every memory of that kiss to come roaring back. And then Lando looked away, back to whatever joke had been told, leaving Oscar with the hollow sting of being shut out.

Time. Oscar reminded himself. He’d promised. He couldn’t push.

But patience had never been harder.

———

The car felt good in FP1, alive under him, but every time Lando’s familiar papaya filled his mirrors, Oscar’s concentration wavered. He’d been telling himself it was just racing, that he could separate the personal from the professional, but in reality, every lap was another reminder of how tangled they were.

During debrief, he tried to focus on the engineers’ notes, but he felt Lando next to him, close enough that their elbows almost brushed when they leaned forward. Close enough to hear the subtle changes in his breathing, to catch the faint scent of his cologne. It was torture, sitting side by side and pretending he wasn’t dying inside.

When the meeting broke, Oscar lingered, waiting for everyone else to leave. Lando was still gathering his notes when Oscar finally spoke, keeping his voice low.

“Can we… talk?”

Lando froze for half a second, then slid the last sheet into his folder without looking up. “Not now.”

Oscar’s jaw tightened, but he forced himself to nod. “Okay. When?”

Lando finally met his eyes, and for a moment, Oscar thought he saw a crack in the armor, a flicker of the Lando who used to fall asleep beside him, who used to grin across interviews and steal his hoodies. But then it was gone.

“When I’m ready.” Lando said simply, and walked out.

Oscar sat back in his chair, frustration and longing twisting together until he wasn’t sure which was worse. He wanted to respect the boundary. He wanted to wait. But every day it felt like sand slipping through his hands, like the time to make things right was running out.

———

By the time the lights went out on Sunday, Oscar had shoved everything else into a box at the back of his mind. Racing came first. Always.

The race was brutal. The heat, the endless corners, the relentless pace. Both McLarens were strong, fighting near the front, and for most of the race Oscar found himself in lockstep with Lando, their strategies mirroring, their lap times nearly identical. It was like they were tethered together, neither able to pull fully free.

In the end, Lando crossed the line just ahead, P2 to Oscar’s P3. Another double podium. Another photo op where they stood side by side, champagne bottles in hand, eyes carefully avoiding each others.

———

The paddock was finally quiet. The chaos of the podium, the press and the debriefs had melted into silence, broken only by the occasional hum of generators outside. Most of the team had gone back to the hotel, only a skeleton crew lingered in the motorhome.

Oscar had stayed later than usual, reviewing the data, going over his notes just one more time. He was packing up his things when he heard it.

At first, he thought it was just the air conditioning rattling through the vents. But when he stopped and listened, he knew better. Muffled, uneven, coming from the driver room down the hall.

Lando’s.

Oscar’s chest tightened. He stood there for a long moment, debating with himself. It wasn’t his place, not after everything. Lando had asked for space, for time. But hearing the soft, raw sound of someone crying into the quiet. Oscar couldn’t ignore it.

Before he could stop himself, he walked down the hall. He hesitated outside Lando’s door, knuckles hovering above the wood. Then, gently, he knocked.

The crying stopped instantly. A muffled voice followed. “Go away.”

Oscar swallowed. “It’s me.”

“I said go away, Oscar.”

Oscar’s hand curled into a fist against the door, torn. He should respect it. He should walk away. But something in the crack of Lando’s voice rooted him in place.

“I just… I wanted to check on you.” Oscar said, his own voice softer than he meant. “I’ll leave if you really want me to. But I don’t want you to be alone like this.”

A long pause. Then the lock clicked, and the door opened a fraction.

Lando stood there, eyes red-rimmed, cheeks flushed, his hair a messy halo from running his hands through it. He looked younger somehow, stripped of all the armor he usually carried. Vulnerable in a way Oscar hadn’t seen since before everything fell apart.

For a moment, neither of them moved. Then Lando sighed, stepping back just enough to let Oscar in.

Oscar entered quietly, shutting the door behind him. The room was dim, the only light coming from a lamp on the desk. Lando sank onto the edge of the couch, his shoulders slumping, as if letting someone see him like this had drained the last of his strength.

Oscar stayed by the door at first, unsure how close he was allowed to get. “Do you… want to talk about it?”

Lando let out a shaky laugh, running a hand over his face. “What’s there to say? I’m exhausted. I keep pretending I’m fine, that this is fine, but it’s not. None of it is.” His voice cracked on the last word.

Oscar’s chest ached. He moved closer, slowly, until he was standing just a few feet away. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”

Lando looked up at him then, eyes glistening. “That’s the problem, Oscar. I can’t pretend with you. You make it impossible. Every time I see you, every time I get in that car, it’s all still the and I don’t know how to deal with it without breaking.”

Oscar’s breath caught. He wanted to kneel in front of him, to take his hands, to promise he’d never hurt him again. But he held back, afraid to push too far. “You dont have to break . I can… I can fix this.”

Lando shook his head, staring down at his hands. “What if it can’t be fixed? What if we ruin everything again? The team, the championship, us—” He stopped himself, biting down hard on the last word.

Oscar finally moved, lowering himself onto the couch beside him. Not touching, but close enough that Lando could feel the warmth of him.

“We don’t have to figure it all out tonight. Just… know that you’re not going through it alone.”

For a long moment, Lando said nothing. Then, slowly, he leaned sideways, his shoulder brushing Oscar’s, a silent surrender.

Oscar held his breath, forcing himself not to move too quickly, not to scare him off. Carefully, he tilted his head until it rested lightly against Lando’s.

They sat like that in silence, two exhausted boys, neither knowing what tomorrow would bring but finally allowing themselves, just for a moment, to stop fighting.

———

The hotel room was too quiet.

Lando had tried everything to shut his brain off, scrolled mindlessly through Instagram, flicked through a movie he couldn’t follow, even counted the rhythmic hum of the ceiling fan as it turned overhead. Nothing worked.

He hated that Oscar had seen him crying. He hated even more how relieved he felt that he had.

Rolling onto his side, Lando reached for his phone, thumb hovering uncertainly over Oscar’s name in WhatsApp. He shouldn’t. Not tonight. But the silence pressed in too heavily, and before he could talk himself out of it, his fingers moved.

Lando: thx for earlier. don’t know what i’d have done if you hadn’t knocked.

He stared at the message, pulse hammering. Too honest. Too open. He almost pressed delete, but then the bubble appeared. Oscar was typing.

Oscar: you don’t have to thank me. i’m always here, you know that.

Lando: i don’t know if i deserve that.

Oscar: you’ve done nothing wrong. you’ve been there for me more times than i can count. let me do the same for you.

Lando: it’s just… different now. after everything. i don’t want to make it worse.

Oscar: you’re not making it worse. shutting me out would.

Lando: i thought that’s what you wanted. me out of the way.

Oscar: i never wanted to be without you I just thought it would be easier. but it’s not.
Oscar: it just feels like i’m missing half of myself.

Lando blinked at the screen, throat thick. He typed, then erased it, then typed again.

Lando: i still feel like i’m on the edge like if i let myself lean I’ll fall 

Oscar: then fall. i’ll catch you.

Lando: i’m scared oscar.

Oscar: me too.

Lando: what if we ruin everything again?

Oscar: then we start over. as many times as it takes.

Lando: i don’t know if i can believe that yet. but i want to.

Oscar: then that’s enough for now.

Chapter Text

The MTC gleamed under the pale autumn light, polished floors reflecting the stream of engineers and the marketing team moving through its corridors. Oscar had always loved this place. The calm precision of it, the quiet hum of work being done, but today his stomach was tight with nerves.

Not because of the final race, his nerves came from the text he’d gotten the night before.

Zak: filming day tomorrow. you and Lando bring your best smiles.

Oscar had groaned, half tempted to text back an excuse. But here he was anyway, standing outside the media suite with a paper cup of coffee, watching the door like it might bite him.

Lando stepped beside him, already wearing the bright papaya hoodie they’d been given. He froze when he saw Oscar. For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. Then Lando gave a small, crooked smile.

“Ready to embarrass ourselves for the internet again?”

The tension in Oscar’s chest loosened a fraction. “Depends. Are they making us do TikTok dances?”

Lando laughed, a real one this time, and the sound was so familiar it nearly knocked Oscar sideways. “God, I hope not.”

They walked into the studio together, where cameras and lights were already set up. The media team greeted them cheerfully, running through the list: trivia games, reaction challenges, a game of ‘Guess the Driver by their baby photo.’ All harmless, all designed to fill McLaren’s social channels with playful banter.

And, surprisingly, it was… fun.

At first, Oscar kept his answers clipped, wary of how much to give away, how close to lean. But Lando had a way of drawing him in, tossing playful jabs, nudging him with his elbow when Oscar pretended not to laugh. Soon the awkwardness melted into something easier, something almost normal.

When the cameras finally cut and the crew began packing up, Lando stretched his arms over his head and groaned. “Well. That was… surprisingly not torture.”

Oscar smirked. “You mean you enjoyed losing to me in every round?”

Lando shoved him lightly in the side. “You’re insufferable.” But there was no heat in it. Only fondness.

As they left the studio, walking side by side down the long corridor, Oscar felt the strangest mix of emotions. Relief. Longing. Something dangerously close to hope. For a few hours, they’d remembered what it felt like to be friends.

———

The flat was quiet except for the faint hum of the boiler and the occasional car passing outside. Oscar sat on the sofa with his laptop open but untouched, a documentary playing on the TV that he hadn’t registered a single frame of. His mind kept circling back to the way Lando had laughed at the MTC, the way he’d looked at him like nothing had ever happened between them.

It had left Oscar with a restless kind of ache. He didn’t want to let it fade back into silence again. Not when it felt like they were inching toward something better.

He stared at his phone for a long time before finally unlocking it, fingers hovering over Lando’s name in his contacts. He typed, deleted, retyped. Finally, he settled on something simple.

Oscar: you around tonight?

The reply came quicker than he expected.

Lando: yeah, why?

Oscar: do you want to come over? just hang out?

Three dots appeared. Then vanished. Then appeared again.

Lando: …yeah. okay.

Twenty minutes later, there was a knock at the door. Oscar got up, heart thudding faster than he liked, and opened it to find Lando standing there in a hoodie and sweatpants, hair a little messy like he hadn’t bothered styling his curls. He gave a crooked smile, hands shoved into his pockets.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Oscar echoed, stepping aside to let him in.

The flat felt smaller with Lando inside it, though not in a bad way. Just… fuller. Oscar closed the door, trying to ignore how aware he was of every movement, every breath.

“Not been in here for a while.” Lando said, looking around. “Bit messier than I remember.”

Oscar snorted. “I’ll be sure to let the maid know.”

They ended up on the sofa, the tv still playing in the background. It started with small talk, how training had gone that morning, which engineer had said something ridiculous at the factory and what Zak had been nagging them about this week. Safe topics. Comfortable.

But then Lando shifted, tucking one leg under himself, turning more fully toward Oscar. His voice softened.

“Thanks for… inviting me. I wasn’t sure if yes were at the ‘hanging out outside of work’ stage yet.”

Oscar met his eyes, steady. “Of course we are.”

Eventually, Lando leaned back, pulling the throw blanket off the armrest and draping it over his lap with a muttered “You keep it freezing in here.” Oscar shook his head, amused, but shifted closer so they could share it. Their shoulders brushed.

Neither of them moved away.

“Do you actually know what this is about?” Lando asked suddenly, nodding toward the screen.

Oscar glanced over. “Not a clue.”

They both laughed, quiet but genuine, the kind of laugh that loosened something tight in Lando’s chest. He let it linger a moment before speaking again, softer now.

“I missed this.” He admitted.

Oscar turned, brow furrowed. “Missed what?”

“You.” Lando said, the word tumbling out before he could stop it. His throat went tight immediately. “I mean—this. Just… being around you. Without it being complicated. Without us fighting all the time.”

Oscar’s lips parted, but he didn’t speak right away. He just looked at Lando, his gaze heavy, thoughtful. Finally, he nodded. “I missed it too.”

Lando pulled the blanket higher, tucking it under his chin. He hated how small he sounded when he finally spoke. “I thought I lost this. Lost you.”

Oscar exhaled slowly. “You didn’t.” He paused, then added, “you never will.”

His chest ached with the urge to say more. To ask for more. But fear kept his tongue still.

After a while, Oscar shifted, tugging the blanket straighter. “It’s getting late…you should stay.”

Lando hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”

———

Oscar has barely slept, thoughts looping around the night before. Lando on his sofa, their shoulders pressed together, the weight of words unsaid hovering in the air until morning. When Oscar woke, the flat had been too quiet. Lando had slipped out before sunrise, leaving only the blanket folded neatly over the back of the sofa as proof he’d been there at all.

And now, only a few hours later, Oscar stood in the glass-walled conference room with Lando across the table, neither of them meeting the other’s eyes.

Zak leaned forward, resting his hands on the table. His voice was calm but deliberate, each word placed like a stone.

“By the end of next week,” he said, pausing to look at each of them in turn, “one of you will be Formula 1 World Champion.”

The words hung in the air, Oscar felt them settle in his chest like lead.

“You both know what this means,” Zak continued. “Not just for yourselves, but for this team. Every mechanic, every engineer, every person in papaya has put their heart into this season. You’ve pushed each other to the limit, and it’s paid off. But now, it’s down to the two of you. Head-to-head.”

Oscar shifted in his chair, resisting the urge to glance at Lando. He could feel him there, quiet, still, the way he got when he was shutting everything out.

Zak’s gaze sharpened. “I don’t care what’s been going on between you two personally. I don’t want to know. But you need to be sharp. You need to be united in how you represent this team, no matter what happens on track. Understood?”

Oscar swallowed hard. “Yes.”

Lando echoed it a beat later, his voice lower, rougher. “Yeah. Understood.”

When the meeting wrapped, the two of them walked out together. Halfway down the corridor, Lando slowed, glancing sideways at him for the first time all morning.

“Guess that’s it,” Lando said, voice flat. “One of us takes it. One of us doesn’t.”

Oscar wanted to say something, to tell him that it didn’t change how he felt, that the championship wasn’t the only thing that mattered. But the words stuck. His throat felt tight, his chest heavier than it had on any race day.

So he just nodded, matching Lando’s pace until they reached the part in the corridor where they’d normally split. For a moment, they lingered, both of them caught in something unsaid. Then Lando shoved his hands into his pockets and turned away.

Oscar stood there a moment longer, staring after him, before finally walking the other direction.

For the first time all season, the thought of the title didn’t feel like victory. It felt like loss.

Chapter Text

The heat hit him the moment he stepped out of the team car. The sun sat low, already burning orange against the gleaming yachts and towering hotels. This was it. The final race of the season. The last fight.

Chapter Text

The paddock was quieter now. The roar of the crowd had faded into distant echoes, replaced by the clatter of equipment being packed away.

Oscar walked slowly through the corridors of the McLaren unit, still in his race suit with the top half hanging loose around his waist, the manic evening not even giving him to get changed. He felt heavy, not just from exhaustion but from everything swirling in his chest. Pride. Longing. The ache of being so close, in more ways than one.

He stopped outside Lando’s driver room. The door was shut, muffled laughter and voices seeping faintly from the other side. He hesitated for a beat, then knocked lightly.

The door cracked open a moment later. Lando stood there, hair damp, dressed in a McLaren polo. His championship cap sat forgotten on the desk behind him, surrounded by empty bottles and bits of confetti, his cheeks were flushed, his eyes still bright and tired all at once.

Oscar forced a small smile. “Barely seen you tonight.” His voice came out softer than he meant it to. “Figured I’d come say hi before you disappear completely.”

Lando leaned against the doorframe, tilting his head, something unreadable flickering across his face. “Sorry.” He said, almost sheepish. “It’s been… non-stop. Zaks been dragging me everywhere. I Haven’t really had a second to breathe.”

“I know. Doesn’t feel real yet, does it?”

Lando huffed a laugh, running a hand through his damp hair. “Not at all. I keep expecting someone to tap me on the shoulder and tell me I’m dreaming. Are you… are you coming tonight? The party?”

For a moment, Oscar just studied him. The circles under his eyes, the nervous way his fingers tapped against the doorframe, the guardedness he was trying and failing to hide.

“Of course I’ll be there,” Oscar said finally, his smile more genuine this time. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

Relief washed across Lando’s face, subtle but unmistakable. He nodded once, quickly, like it mattered more than he wanted to admit.

“Good, it wouldn’t feel right if you weren’t there.”

Oscar’s chest tightened , before he could say anything else, footsteps echoed down the corridor. A mechanic rushing past, shouting something about loading the last of the tyres.

The moment cracked, like glass under pressure.

Lando stepped back, hand brushing the door. “We should… probably get ready. I’ll see you tonight?”

“Yeah,” Oscar said, forcing his voice steady. “I’ll see you there.”

———

The marina was lit up like a festival. Orange banners rippled from balconies, McLaren logos projected onto the walls, music pulsing so loud it vibrated through the decking. The team had taken over an entire yacht, its deck overflowing with mechanics, engineers, partners, and family members all raising glasses and shouting over the thrum of bass.

Inside, champagne sprayed in arcs, sticky on the floor, the air already thick with laughter and sweat. Every time Lando appeared, championship medal slung around his neck, another cheer erupted. He looked radiant in a way Oscar had never seen before, like the victory had cracked him open and poured light through. Yet when their eyes met briefly across the room, Lando’s smile faltered, just for a second, barely noticeable to anyone else.

Oscar looked away first.

When Lando finally managed to slip away, he didn’t head for Oscar. Instead, he sought out the one person he always trusted to cut through the noise.

Max was sat at a side table with a beer in hand, watching the chaos unfold with his usual smirk. His old mate, the one who’d been there long before the podiums and the titles.

“There he is!” Max said as Lando came over, eyes sparkling. “World Champion. Took you bloody long enough.”

“Shut up,” Lando muttered, but he was smiling. He grabbed a bottle of water instead of another drink and slumped down beside him, letting the music wash over them. For the first time all night, he could breathe.

For a while they just sat, Max cracking jokes about the drunken engineers dancing nearby. 

“I’ve made a decision,” Lando said finally, his voice quiet but firm.

Max straightened, his smirk fading. “About Oscar?”

Lando nodded, still staring at the bottle in his hands. “I can’t keep living like this. Half in, half out, pretending we’re just teammates when we’re not. I love him, Max. And either we give it another try properly, or I let him go for good. No in-between.”

For a long moment, Max said nothing. Then he clapped a hand on Lando’s shoulder, squeezing hard. “About bloody time you figured that out.”

Lando huffed a laugh, shaky at the edges. “Yeah. Just… hope I haven’t waited too long.”

“Then you find out,” Max said simply. “Tonight. Tomorrow. Doesn’t matter. Just don’t waste it. You’ve won the world championship, mate. Now go and get your man.”

Lando finally looked up, Max’s words settled deep in his chest, heavier than the trophy he’d lifted hours earlier. For the first time all night, he knew exactly what he had to do.

———

The music from the marina still rang in Oscar’s ears as he slipped out of the party. No one stopped him, no one even noticed. The team was too busy celebrating.

He walked alone through the streets back to the hotel. He should have been happy for Lando, ecstatic even, for his teammate, his friend, his… everything. Instead, he felt drained, the noise of the party amplifying the silence inside him.

By the time he reached his room, he just wanted to disappear into bed and shut the world out.

But twenty minutes later, there was a knock at his door.

Oscar hesitated. His heart gave a sharp twist as if it already knew. Slowly, he crossed the room and pulled it open.

Lando stood there. His hair was messy, his shirt untucked, but his eyes were steady in a way Oscar hadn’t seen in months.

“Lando? What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at your party?”

“I don’t care about the party,” Lando said. His voice was quiet, but there was no hesitation. “I care about you.”

Oscar froze. “Lando—”

“No. Just—” Lando stepped closer, swallowing hard. “I’ve been running circles in my own head for months. Pretending it doesn’t matter, pretending we can just… be teammates, and that’ll be enough, but it isn’t. I can’t do it anymore and I don’t want to. I know I said I needed time but I’m ready now, Oscar. I want you. I want us.”

Oscar felt his throat tighten, his eyes burn. He wanted to speak but his chest ached with all the months of pain, of holding everything back. His hand gripped the edge of the door, knuckles white.

“Are you sure?” He whispered, voice breaking.

“More sure than I’ve ever been about anhthing anything,” Lando said.

Oscar let out a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding. He stepped back from the doorway, heart pounding. “Then I guess you better come in.”

The door shut softly behind them. Oscar crossed the space between them in two strides. His hands trembled as he reached up, cupping Lando’s face, and before he could think twice he kissed him. Hard, desperate, months of frustration and longing spilling out at once. Lando kissed him back instantly, almost stumbling as he pressed closer, arms wrapping around Oscar like he’d never let go again.

When they finally broke apart, breathless, Lando rested his forehead against Oscar’s. “We’ll figure it out.” He murmured. “Whatever comes. We’ll figure it out together.”

Oscar closed his eyes, a tear slipping free as he smiled through it. “I love you.”

Lando’s arms tightened around him. “I love you too.”

———

The first thing Oscar noticed when he woke was the quiet. No music, no shouting, no celebration echoing in his head. Just stillness.

The second thing he noticed was the warmth,not the Abu Dhabi heat seeping through the curtains, but the steady, familiar warmth pressed against his side.

He turned his head.

Lando.

Fast asleep, curled slightly towards him, his hair tangled on the pillow. His chest rose and fell in an easy rhythm, lips parted slightly. The gold glint of his winner’s medal lay abandoned on the bedside table, next to a half empty glass of water and a discarded orange team shirt.

Oscar let himself stare, just for a moment. For the first time in months, there was no awkward distance, no forced boundaries. Just them. Like it had always been meant to be.

He shifted slightly, and the bed creaked. Lando stirred, lashes flickering before his eyes blinked open. He looked disoriented for a heartbeat  then his gaze found Oscar’s, and the faintest, sleepiest smile curved across his face.

“Morning.” Lando whispered.

“Morning.” Oscar echoed softly, his own smile tugging at his lips before he could stop it.

For a long while they just lay there, staring at each other in the pale light. The silence wasn’t tense anymore. It was easy. Gentle. Oscar reached out, brushing a strand of messy hair from Lando’s forehead, his fingers lingering against warm skin. “You look exhausted.”

“I am exhausted,” Lando admitted, still smiling. “But I don’t care. Last night was…Oscar, I meant every word I said. It wasn’t the adrenaline, or the drinks, or the title talking. I love you.”

“I know and I love you too,” he whispered, eyes burning but his smile steady. “Always have. Even when we weren’t… us, even when it hurt. It never stopped.”

Their kiss was soft this time, unhurried. Not desperate like last night. When they pulled apart, Lando let out a shaky laugh, his thumb brushing against the back of Oscar’s hand. 

“Feels like I’ve been holding my breath since Hungary. And now…” He trailed off, searching Oscar’s eyes. “Now I can finally breathe again.”

Oscar’s chest tightened. He curled closer, resting his head against Lando’s shoulder. They lay like that for what felt like forever, the world outside carrying on but none of it mattered. Not the title, not the future, not the expectations. What mattered was this: after all the fighting, the silence, the heartbreak, they’d found their way back.

Oscar shifted again, propping himself up on his elbow to look down at Lando, memorising every detail of his face in the sunlight. “You know,” he said softly, “you’re stuck with me now.”

Lando’s grin widened. “Good. That’s exactly where I want to be.”

Oscar kissed him again, slow and certain.

And this time, there were no doubts, no cracks, no distance. Just love — theirs, unshaken, unbreakable, finally free.