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The situation is rather absurd.
How does luggage get put in a different aircraft on a private flight?
George would very much like to know how exactly that happens.
Lando is just glad he got his essentials in his carry-on. Not having clothes is the best case scenario, all things considered.
“Unbelievable,” George mutters under his breath. Lando visibly watches him drop the act, from understanding and trying to play nice to rough edges, frustration and a colder look in his eyes. Slightly sharper, words twice as much. “This is ridiculous. What are we supposed to do with their ‘sincerest apologies’? Fucking hell.”
Lando chuckles on the last bit as George drops then rolls his shoulders, inhaling sharply. His lips pursed, twitching with a scowl. It’s funny, a little, seeing this rougher side of George the cameras don’t usually capture—he’s seen it plenty, too, from knowing him for a great part of his life.
“You can call Alex,” Lando chuckles, shaking his head as they shift around in the lounge. He glances at his phone, waiting for news of their ride to the hotel. He grins when George looks at him with a raised brow, adding salt in the wound, “Ask if he has clothes to spare. You share sizes, no?”
George visibly grimaces.
Nothing against Alex, to be fair. George is just so bloody picky sometimes. Which is why Lando is making fun of him.
“Maybe you’re too tall, hm. Better than nothing, I guess.”
“In your fucking dreams.”
Lando laughs, loudly, drawing the attention of other passengers their way. George is quiet, keeping appearances, and Lando would love nothing more than a clip of foul-mouth-out-of-track George to reach the internet. It would make for a good laugh, a couple days of teasing, and a PR nightmare for George hopefully.
When most people have looked away at the lack of drama, George sighs, leaning back onto the plush seat, scrolling on his phone with a frown threatening his brow. Some people cast glances their way, out of curiosity or because they know them, either way, no one particularly approaches them for the time being. A shame, because watching George having to be nice and composed in this situation would make Lando feel better about the situation.
Because as much as he’s making fun of him, he is out of clothes for the weekend.
“I’m gonna go shopping after checking in,” George says, looking up from his phone with his eyes only. Lando looks from his own phone at him. “Wanna come? Have dinner out, too, probably.”
“Eh, I don’t know if the team is doing anything tonight. Oscar got here earlier so they might’ve planned something.”
George rolls his eyes. “And you are going to show up wearing these clothes?”
Lando doesn’t miss the way George judges when he looks him up and down, rolling his eyes back as his brow and lip arc a bit in a slightly condescending way.
“Who cares? It’s dinner. Maybe not even dinner.”
“You still need clothes for tomorrow.” George scrolls on his phone, then halts, thumb hovering on his screen as he slowly turns his head, immediately fixated on Lando. When he speaks, his tone and voice is steady, firm, almost challenging in a way that has the corners of Lando’s lips twitching in a mischievous smirk. “Don’t tell me you are planning on raiding Oscar’s closet.”
And Lando grins. He grins so wide George is almost disgusted, debating looking at his phone to pretend the situation isn’t happening, but he can’t. Because he lives for this, the drama—George is already thinking ahead, to the news and fan responses, the implications because people will realize these are not Lando’s clothes but Oscar’s, whatever that makes them.
“That is frankly humiliating. All this money, and you have to ask for spare clothes from your teammate. Have some shame, would you?”
Lando just grins like George is giving him pole position. So giddy and delighted, absolutely pleased with the reaction.
“Just because you can’t share with your teammate doesn’t mean others can’t. It’s your fault, either way, for being freakishly tall.”
“Mate, who in the bloody hell in the grid can even fit Kimi’s clothes?”
“Not you, apparently.”
George rolls his eyes, and there’s a cuss on the tip of his tongue, directed at Lando, but to his disappointment, George swallows it with another sigh. Straightening his shoulders as he sits up, checking his phone then around them, then remembering they had been given a free glass of champagne for the troubles like they couldn’t afford it.
“Where the hell is the car?”
Lando burst out laughing, doubling over himself as George glares at him. People are looking again, keeping George in check and allowing Lando to keep laughing like he’s been told the greatest joke.
Once their ride is there, they can resume their day. A couple paparazzi and fans catch them leaving the airport, and the lack of luggage is laughable, George is already looking forward to the ‘packing light’ headlines. Lando is still giddy beside him. They get in the car and finally leave to the hotel, checking-in just in time, and exchanging room numbers in case they feel like crashing elsewhere for the night.
Lando will make a visit, if nothing just to see what new items George will take home after Sunday.
George leaves with security after letting them know his plans. And they politely offer to take Lando with them since they’re in the same situation—Lando knows George put them up for it, catching him side-eyeing them before putting his sunglasses back on, because despite his bitchiness, George cares—but he gratefully declines, and they finally part ways since they met up earlier in the day.
Room 497.
But he makes his way one floor above, strolling casually to not-his-room, whistling in his head with a bounce in his step.
He stands in front of Room 503, and knocks twice with the back of his hand. He takes a step back, grin plastered on his face.
It only takes a couple seconds before the door opens, and Oscar is looking at him with wide-eyes when he realizes.
“You landed?”
“That, I did, yes,” Lando giggles. Oscar smiles, that soft way he does when Lando laughs at something that doesn’t quite make Oscar laugh. Sometimes, Lando thinks, Oscar is smiling at him instead.
“Tired? Did you just get to the hotel?”
“Something like that.”
Oscar huffs, dropping his head slightly to shake it. “What does that even mean? You are either tired, or you are not. And you either just got to the hotel, or you didn’t.”
Lando hums, playing fool. “Yeah, something like that.”
Oscar sighs. So calmly, so patient. Lando wants to pinch his cheeks.
“Can I come in? Hang out for a bit. Until George comes back and we go dinner.” Lando asks, finally, then quickly adds while pointing at him. “And you are coming, by the way. I already told George you were, so you can’t say no.”
“Why are you making plans for me, mate?” Oscar rolls his eyes, but steps aside, holding the door wider to let him in.
Lando makes his way in, to the usual mess of Oscar’s room, and sighs dramatically as he tsks, shaking his head. It’s a wonder how, in only a handful hours, Oscar can make the room look a proper mess with his clothes all over. He looks around disapprovingly, but it’s good that Oscar is not organized, for once.
This way, with most everything out in the open, he can begin with clothes hunt, even though most things mix into each other by the time he makes it to the bed—which is all of three seconds.
“Sorry about the mess,” Oscar says sheepishly though he clearly doesn’t mean it, judging by his lack of change, “wasn’t expecting guest. At all.”
“You knew I’d come over soon enough.”
Lando looks at him, and smiles, because he is right. It’s almost a habit, by now. Every trip, no matter floor difference or even accommodation difference, or even how they feel about each other in particular, Lando visits Oscar’s room at least once.
And many times, this time, due to circumstance.
Oscar makes a show to pick some stuff up, only to toss them into another pile, then gives up to sit on the couch facing Lando. The windows are behind him, curtains not drawn, the sky darkening as city lights begin to twinkle where stars should be.
“Dinner, then?” Oscar asks, casually, making small talk in the form of being on the same page about plans.
“Yes, with George. We flew in together.”
“I know. You told me.”
“Well, just wanted to remind you.”
Oscar perches his right arm on the armrest, pressing he apple of his cheek against his fist, eyes fixed on Lando. His smile relaxes around the edges, and it’s so very soft the way his eyes brighten too, looking at Lando when he’s doing nothing but intrude into his hotel room, sit in his bed, and simply look at him with mischief. There is an ulterior motive, Oscar knows, and as he kicks his left ankle to his right knee, leaning back slightly, Lando finally speaks.
“Would you believe me if I said I don’t have my luggage?”
He raises his brow.
“It’s true,” Lando nods, accompanying his point. “George and I, somehow. Got put into another craft, off to who knows which other country. Funny, innit?”
Oscar rolls his eyes. “Hilarious.”
“Then our ride was late to pick us up, so not a good day.” He continues, but his smile isn’t really assisting the pity he is so clearly trying to sell Oscar. “George went off to buy clothes. Probably fussing about cotton percentages and how certain fits make him look hideous. Ever been shopping with him? I don’t recommend.”
Oscar snorts, and that’s Lando’s cue.
“And as you can see, I didn’t go with him. Because I am not wasteful, like he is. Buying a new closet for a weekend is a bit much, innit? So, as your favorite teammate and hopefully favorite person in the whole world—” Lando grins wide when Oscar inhales and exhales deep, he knows now “—I am humbly asking you to let me borrow some clothes for the weekend. I promise to take really good care of them and wash them before giving them back.”
“And if I say no?”
“Then George was right and sharing clothes with your teammate is stupid. You cannot let George be right, can you?”
“I don’t know, Lando,” Oscar sighs, tilting his head further into his fist, eyes breaking from his person to look at the pile of clothes all around the room then back on him, “maybe he is right, have you thought about that?”
“So you are taking George’s side?”
Lando pouts, and that does it.
Lando knows him too well. Or maybe Oscar should just be stronger.
“Look around,” Oscar cedes.
“Aw, thank you, Osc! Knew I could count on you!”
It’s a while, nearing the two hour mark of Oscar watching Lando judge his choice of clothing. Turning his nose up, scoffing, and mumbling too loud disgust. And all Oscar did was halfheartedly whine and defend his wardrobe, amused at how Lando inadvertently organized his clothes—
Oscar’s pile and Lando’s pile.
“You have nothing,” Lando sighs, exasperated as he looks between the two piles and yet another black shirt in his hand. He tosses it into his pile, sparing half a second into the word his.
His pile of Oscar’s clothes. Oddly possessive, pleasantly happy.
“Should’ve gone to buy stuff with George, eh?”
Lando scoffs.
“Either way,” Oscar continues, eyeing the time on his wristwatch and out the window on the corner of his eyes, “when is dinner? You don’t want to shower before going?”
Lando sighs, again. Oscar considers grabbing some keys and driving Lando to the shops himself, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t really want to. The situation is amusing, really amusing.
“I should, shouldn’t I? What shall I wear? Wait, where are we going? Let me call him to see.”
A breeze tickles Oscar’s skin and so he finally stands up, stretching his legs and arms as Lando taps away on his phone. He makes his way over to close the windows, leaving the curtains open though he considers closing them, fearing someone outside if looking in. What a sight, either way, so he leaves them open.
“Casual place. Which probably means fancy, in George standards.”
“Just show up casual.” Oscar smirks, looking over his shoulder to see him throw his phone on the bed. “Blame him if he gets mad. He knows what words mean.”
“You just want to piss him off.”
“Didn’t you say you were annoying him at the airport earlier?”
Lando smirks, and that’s that.
“You are real riot.” George rolls his eyes, drying his hair on the towel around his shoulders.
“I look adorable,” Lando enunciates the last part slowly, getting under George’s skin as much as he can with few words.
George glares at him, snapping his head away. He makes his way to the kitchenette, grabbing a bottled water from the mini-fridge.
Lando lays in his bed, grinning at him innocently.
But it’s obvious.
Far too obvious.
The black hoodie Lando is wearing is a tad too long, far too worn, a little snug on his shoulders but loose on his sides. The hood itself pools on the back of his neck, the neckline tugged down. Green-toned khakis shorts that just fit him, and really, if George could have it his way, he would strip him and force him into anyone else’s clothes.
Not his own, they can agree on that at least.
“What’s bad about it, huh? It’s casual, simple, I own something like this myself.”
“Yeah, but that is not yours, now, is it?”
“Who is going to know.” Lando rolls his eyes, absolutely delighted.
“Why don’t you go sleep in your little boyfriend’s bed then? Get out of my hair.”
Lando huffs. “It’s your beauty sleep time already?” Despite his words, Lando pushes himself up, not planning on staying much longer anyways since he knows he has to be up early the next day. He’s been told a hundred dozen times, and he’s sure that if his phone had charge, it would be dinging with reminders. “Or are you inviting someone else in? You hurt me, George. I’m not good enough for ya, is it, Russell?”
Lando stretches his arms over his head, and despite how high he raises them, the hoodie just drags down to cover his stomach like his own clothes wouldn’t do. He groans then yawns, hit with a wave of exhaustion all of the sudden. He rubs his eye as he makes his way to the door, huffing a smile when George appears at his side, rubbing his back then patting his shoulder.
“Don’t get hung up on what I’m about to say,” George sighs, hand on the handle of his door but not pushing down on it, “but do you want something of mine? A shirt? A jacket? If you fancy anything, you can take it now before I change my mind.”
“Aw, so you do care!”
The door opens as George rolls his eyes, pushing him out. “I’ll take that as a no, then.”
Lando spins on his heels, smiling at him. But it’s friendlier, softer. “Thank you, either way. It’s really not that big a deal, you know?”
“Tell me again after you get married.”
It’s teasing, slightly mocking. But George is fond enough in his eyes that Lando can just brush it off his shoulder. They exchange goodnights and Lando makes his way to the lifts as the door clicks close in the distance.
The doors close and his eyes linger on the buttons, and cheeky, he presses the round number five.
“You’re back.” Oscar points out, even though Lando is already halfway to his bed. His clothes have been put away now, leaving way more room for Lando to sit, then lay down sprawled facing the ceiling. “Make yourself comfortable, I guess.”
Lando laughs, small, a little puff of his chest.
“George kick you out?”
“Like trash.”
Oscar exhales, relaxing his shoulders. Here they go again. “So now you want me to comfort you?”
“That would be nice, yes, Osc.”
He doesn’t sigh, but he wants to. It can’t be healthy to sigh so much, though it must be as healthy as people roll their eyes at Lando. Oscar’s case is different, though, in all this little small ways. For now, though, Oscar settles with turning the bedside lamp light on before turning the big lights off, drawing the curtains then sitting on the edge of the bed to lay down beside him, opposite each other but facing the same ceiling.
“He didn’t even say I looked cute.” Lando whines, half-giggling.
Oscar deadpans, smiling, “How dare he.”
“Exactly!”
He hums.
Then Lando is rolling onto his stomach, almost knocking into Oscar’s head but he controls himself enough to hover over him, crossing his arms above his head. Oscar looks up at him curiously, and he kinda wants to test something.
Simple. Short. Sweet.
Lando kinda wants to kiss Oscar, see what happens.
“So can I stay the night? I’m very sad right now after George was mean to me. I don’t think I can sleep on my own tonight.”
“That so?”
Oscar cranks his head back slightly, then sneaks his right hand under his head, arms touching. Oscar’s arm against Oscar’s hoodie on Lando’s body. But lines are lightly drawn on his forearm, skin on skin, though neither acknowledge it. It tickles, that’s about it.
When Lando speaks again, it’s quieter, sleepier, like someone who will sleep where he is regardless of Oscar’s decision. In spite of Oscar’s decision, even. “So, can I?”
“Yeah. Sure. My clothes, my bed, anything else of mine you want?”
Lando hums, leaning in a little closer, and his lips lightly press on Oscar’s forehead, the corners of his lips twitching into a smile against his skin.
It’s warm, too, he hadn’t thought of that.
The pair show up together, of course, sharing a hotel,—hotel room behind people’s backs,—and car, it only makes sense.
It also makes sense, then, if they are standing next to each other, that people will pick up on the obvious as soon as the first photo is up.
Five minutes, really, before Lando is giggling at his phone with Oscar sighing, occasionally glancing.
They are matching, intentionally so. Bland and boring and simple, but matching nonetheless, and that’s all the style Lando was able to conjure with his limited choices.
He’s wearing the brand new shoes George had brought him, fully white works well enough. Oscar is wearing black shoes.
His sand-colored sweats to match Oscar’s sand-color tight short-sleeve shirt. And Oscar’s black shorts like the weather has never been a consideration in his life, and of course, Lando is wearing another black hoodie, slightly different to last night’s. The front doesn’t have a logo.
It’s silly, loudly intentional. It’s all over his feed. Every comment makes him laugh. It’s funny, Lando thinks so, and hospitality can only sigh as they finally reach them. They dodge PR for now, though he knows that’s not a very long margin to escape.
“You look ridiculous.” George eyes him up and down over his sunglasses, then pushes them back to the bridge his nose, lips twisted into a scowl.
“Glad you can work your clothes.” Lando shoots back. “Did you even take the tags out yet?”
George exhales, exasperated but also defeated. Given up, mostly.
“Thanks for the shoes, though.”
At that, George can smile. “Like them?”
“They’re good. Matches all the boring stuff I’ll be wearing.”
“Versatile.”
“What is?”
Lando turns to see Oscar approaching, wearing one of the extra McLaren rain-jackets despite it not looking like rain. It handles the wind, enough, he supposes.
“The power of friendship and being so incredibly, unbelievably stupid,” George muses, sharp and jabbing.
Oscar winces, like he’s directly being attacked. “That’s… lovely.”
“He’s salty,” Lando mutters, grinning as he sways and hits Oscar’s hip with his own. He giggles when Oscar smiles.
“About the luggage?” Oscar asks, rather innocently.
“Something like that.”
A beat of silence falls between them, and George looks around casually, fixing his hair and maintaining that air around him, composed and presentable. He’s looking for the cameras, of course. There are always cameras around, to varying degrees of dismay and annoyance. But he stills, facing the pair, just smiling.
“George!”
Lando jumps back and knocks shoulders with Oscar, letting out a little gasp while Oscar’s arm jumps around his sides to keep him from going further back or taking him down with him. Oscar jolted too, more so surprised by Lando’s reaction than anything.
Kimi giggles, peeking from George’s side, looking proud of himself.
George barely reacted, smirking at them. Payback, for whatever it is that they did to have him having it out for them.
“Kimi!” Lando screeches, finding his footing by Oscar’s side.
“Did I scare you?” Kimi questions, innocently, hands behind his back and he rocks back and forth on his heels. And honestly, besides George who is all composure and sharp edges before racing, Kimi and anyone can look like an angel.
“Why?!” Lando squares up, glaring at him.
Kimi only laughs.
“That’s… probably going online soon.” Oscar mumbles.
“Lovely,” Lando mutters under his breath, sending another glare Kimi’s way. “Anyways! Go back to your Mercedes hospitality! Why are you here, huh? I bet the coffee is better here, is that it?”
“I was looking for George,” Kimi answers, looking at him then at the pair. “That’s it. Be nice to me.”
“After the scare? No shot, kid.”
Kimi opens his mouth to argue back, but nearly bites himself sneezing when a gust of wind swirls around them. He makes a face, taking personal offense at the weather, nose tickling.
Lando doesn’t miss the way George’s head snaps to watch Kimi, calculated, methodical, studying.
“Where’s your jacket?”
“It said it was going to be sunny,” Kimi argues.
“So? Always bring one in case.”
“You know, you are insufferable sometimes. No, a lot of times.”
Oscar smiles while Lando dares boldly to snort.
“And you are going to get sick, so who is the real loser, huh?” George scolds, but he’s shrugging his jacket off, draping it on Kimi’s shoulders before he can refuse it.
It waterfalls on him, even if it isn’t a long jacket. Kimi slides his arms in, pushing his sleeves up while George fixes the collar, styling his hair some. It’s all about appearances, second.
First, is what people will have to say online about this.
Lando watches George’s back, the way his muscles move a little. No doubt George is doing this on purpose, too, just to show off that fitted long sleeve that frames his body. The people like it, go crazy over it. He’s not looking forward to the thirst comments he won’t be able to avoid from sharing these special moments together.
“Mercedes can’t afford extra jackets?” Oscar questions, on the edge of smugness when George is giving Kimi one last look-over.
“Between you and I, they are horrid.” George tilts his head, tugging the collar of the jacket close, fighting the cold is the goal after all. “Lunch later?”
“Sure.”
With that, the Mercedes pair exchange nods and dap handshakes. Kimi makes a face when Lando pulls him in for a hug, and George looks near murderous when Oscar does too. Then they are off after a huff from George.
“Is this one of the new ones you bought?” Kimi asks when they are a couple feet away, looking down at the jacket and the sleeves.
“It is. A little tight, but it’s fine.”
Kimi nods, “I like it.”
“Keep it. I’m not going to wear it.”
A smirk tugs on the corners of Kimi’s lips, which George doesn’t miss. “Because I wore it? You are so weird, George.”
“You want it or not?”
“Yes, yes, grazie, thank you.”
George rolls his eyes, sliding his hands into the front pockets of his pants as Kimi laughs beside him.
When there’s enough distance, George looks over his shoulder, out of curiosity, not surprised to find the McLaren pair still where they had been. They are talking, laughing, letting people get the good shots in. And when he has enough, just before he looks away, Lando turns and George near loses it.
Sure, the front of the hoodie has no print.
But why the fuck is Lando wearing a hoodie with Oscar’s number on the back?