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One
Oscar’s mind is peaceful. Quiet. Perfectly concentrated, ready to race. His breathing is slow, his heart rate slightly elevated in preparation for the wave of adrenaline that he’ll get when he enters his car. He wants to win tod-
A loud beat interrupts his manifesting. Fuck. Lando.
In the room next to him, Lando’s drivers room, the music has been turned on. Full volume, if Oscar has to guess. Not a huge problem, to each their own pre-race rituals, if not for the paper thin walls.
Oscar groans. This can’t be happening. Why can’t Lando just listen to his music with his headphones on? Oscar knows he’s got them.
He groans a second time, just because he can, and gets up.
He knocks on Lando’s door, but there’s no answer. No wonder, the music is so loud that Oscar can’t even hear himself thinking. How Lando hasn’t got hearing problems, he doesn’t understand.
“Lando! Can you turn the music down?”
Nothing. Except that Lando really has not heard him, seeing as he starts belting out the lyrics. His voice makes it over the music, slightly out of tune, singing strange words that Oscar can’t place. The sounds are unknown to his ears, a language very not English.
“Ik ben een lawine,
een race machine,
tweehonderd per uur,
wie kan me aan?”
“Ik ben een lawine,
een race machine,
lawine, machine,
ik kom er aan!”
Oscar is not sure what to think of it, can’t even tell if it’s a good song. What it is, is too fucking loud. He leans against the door frame and pinches the skin between his eyebrows. There are moments Oscar wishes for a normal teammate, not this loud, chaotic, obnoxious man-child. (Those moments seldom happen, he really likes having Lando for a teammate. He’s never ever bored.)
When he tests the handle the door is unlocked, so Oscar just lets himself in, now properly annoyed.
“What-”
“RAH!” Lando jumps five feet in the air and looks at Oscar with wide surprised eyes. His curls are a mess, flying everywhere, and he’s wearing obnoxious Papaya-coloured team-merch. Cute, Oscar’s treacherous mind supplies.
“-are you doing?”
The music plays on, the beat hammering between the wall. If only it stayed there.
Lando’s blush could make a tomato jealous, and he all but runs to the box that’s still blaring the ridiculously loud music. Fumbling clumsily with the buttons, he turns the music louder, softer and then eventually off.
Then, finally, blessed silence. Oscar sighs and shakes his head. “Lando, really?”
At least Lando feels bad enough about it to look bashful. “Sorry? It was too loud, wasn’t it?”
Oscar hums, now that the noise is gone, the annoyance fades quickly. Curiosity is what’s left. Lando’s race-rituals have been sort of the same the past races, loud music, firm beats, English lyrics or sometimes no lyrics at all. Music that belongs at the parties the other driver goes to, DJs at. He says it helps him concentrate, which Oscar does not get at all. Nothing like this song has come by, not even close to it. That strikes Oscar as odd, mostly because Lando had been singing along without hesitation. There had been familiarity in his confidence.
“What were you singing about? Sounded passionate.”
“Oh.” Lando’s eyes shoots around the room, ending up everywhere that is not Oscar. He tugs at the collar of his shirt. He should really change into his fireproofs, Oscar thinks, the race is starting soon. “Just something to hype me up before the race.”
Oscar stays quiet and waits patiently. That usually does the trick, Lando hates silences, likes to fill them with mere noise if possible. It is not any different this time.
“Fuck. You want the complete translation, don’t you? Language freak.” Lando teases, but he’s frowning slightly, clearly thinking it over. Oscar might get lucky with a proper translation. Lando is right, he is indeed a bit of language freak. He often tries to pick up common words from whichever country they are racing at, hoping to find someone that wants to help him get the pronunciation right. Usually nobody bothers, so he gives up, not wanting to butcher the words.
“Alright, let’s see. I’ll do the part I was singing, the chorus.”
Oscar nods in hidden delight, it’s not every day that someone takes the time to take him serious in his joy of understanding new languages. “You’re-this is Dutch, right?” The round vowels, words spoken further back in the mouth, Oscar remembers the snippets from when Max had spoken with the Dutch media at Zandvoort last year.
“Flemish actually, slightly different. It’s like comparing Australian-English with English. Not exactly the same, but it’s-yeah, close enough.”
Oscar nods, proud of himself for guessing it right. A step forwards in his language-learning journey. Patiently, he waits for Lando to start translating, with his dyslexia it’s quite brave to give it a try and Oscar does not want to rush him.
“So, right. Eh-yeah. Translation.” Lando takes a deep breath and stands like he’s preparing a speech. Ridiculous, but adorable. “I’m an avalanche, a racing machine, two hundred an hour, no one can handle me-” Lando interrupts himself, “-Well, it’s who can handle me, but that’s not what they mean. And then the first part repeats. The avalanche part. Ends with ‘I’m coming’”
Oscars eyebrows raise more with every sentence Lando translates. “You’re an avalanche? A racing machine?” There’s a ‘so funny I can’t stand straight’ giggle stuck in his throat.
“Officially, it’s not race machine, it’s fuif machine. Means party animal, but you know. Race is better, as we’re about to race.” Lando waves his hands, leans his hip confidently against the couch and smirks. Yet there’s something vulnerable, something careful in his eyes. Oscar doesn’t like it one bit.
“You know I’m not judging here? I don’t care what you’re listing to, as long as it’s not too loudly.”
Oscar refuses to admit that he likes this. The unknown words, the hesitant way Lando rambles through their meaning. The way Oscar hears it, the song is about feeling powerful. A feeling that won’t hurt to experience before a race. The strength of the car is not easy to match and the race is not easy to endure, let alone win.
Lando looks down, closed off from Oscar like he’d been at the start of the season. It had taken time for the both of them to warm up to each other, Lando being loud and emotional, Oscar being cool calm and collected. They hadn’t been a good match in the beginning. But good work in the right places had made them connect and now Oscar appreciates the tentative thing they’ve got going on. Teammates, maybe sort of friends, a little more if Oscar thinks about what he’d wishes them to be.
“Lan,” Oscar hums, “it’s fine. Good song, right? Good lyrics.”
Lando lifts the corner of his mouth in a weak smile. “Thought the two hundred an hour was fitting. I think they mean kilometres per hour, but the translation to English is a little odd.”
You are a little odd, Oscar wants to tease. He doesn’t though, that’s not how they are. Besides, he should really get back to his own driver room and continue his preparations to win this race. “Right. I guess I’ll leave you to it. Just-Not that loud, Lando. Thank you.”
“Noted,” Lando says, smirk back at the place where it should be. Bright, teasing and confident. It reaches his eyes, makes them -at the risk of sounding cliché- sparkle. Oscar likes that look on him.
“Good race, Osc!”
Osc. He’ll never get over that nickname. Makes his heart flutter like a humming bird. Nodding shortly, he turns his back to Lando. He’d rather stay, play Mario Cart until they are called up to get into their cars or something, but that’s-they don’t do that. They don’t curl up on the couch and spend time together. They are not close like that. Oscar wants to, but he’s too nervous to ask. And Lando does not ask him to stay either.
He stops in the doorway. “Mate?” The word echoes in the empty space between them now that the music has been turned off.
“Yeah?”
And he doesn’t want to push. Not now that Lando finally has began to open up to him. It is fine, he tells himself, he shouldn’t even want more. Lando probably doesn’t.
“Hopefully you have a bit more speed in you than just two-hundred kilometres.”
Lando laughs, loud, slightly maniacal. Oscar wants to carry the sound with him all day. “See you on the track Osc.”
It’s back inside his drivers room that Oscar realises. This has been the first time that he’s witnessed Lando speak a different language than English. The strange tones, the confidence of Lando. Fuck, that does things to Oscar. He wants to hear it again if possible. And again.
Two
The next time that Oscar hears the Flemish language again, he’s not annoyed at all. Which means that he actually can listen to the song. And Lando’s singing. The lyrics seem easy, the same words , same tones in repetition, but that does nothing to soothe Oscar’s need to know what it all means.
Lando has been attentive lately, keeping the music down for the most part, so Oscar is not standing in his room with steam blowing from his ears, ready to reprimand him. No, he’s there because he really needs a pen and can’t find any in his own driver room. How he could have lost all of his, he’s not sure.
The music might not be loud, Lando is still engulfed in it. So much so that he, again, doesn’t hear Oscar’s knocking or entering.
Oscar lingers in the doorway, not wanting to scare his teammate a second time, and watches. Lando is sitting on the armrest of the couch, humming and bopping his head to the beat. Curls unruly, shoulders loose, he seems at ease and Oscar is almost sorry to disturb his peace. So he waits, even thought many might consider it a bit creepy to linger and watch. It is only that Lando is so captivating to Oscar. The way he moves, the air of confidence, the expressions on his face. Oscar can’t stop sneaking glances at him, the man is mesmerising, a flurry of chaotic energy. No wonder everyone is so charmed by him.
Lando is humming to the music, staring in the distance. One would never guess what is going on in his mind.
His heart-shaped lips form the words of the song. And then he’s singing, softly.
“-helpt jou rechtop te staan? Wie ziet je graag? Jij bent m’n allerliefste papapa, papa, papapa, pa-”
Oscar can’t bear this, it’s too intimate, too close.
“Lan,” he says, crossing his arms nervously. Mid sentence, Lando shuts his mouth. His cheeks turn beet red and as he closes his eyes in embarrassment, he bites his lip. Life’s not fair to Oscar Piasti, one of these days he’ll get seriously unwell just because Lando is so damn handsome.
“Hi,” Lando mumbles.
It takes Oscar a second to gather his wits about him. The music plays on softly, the beat ever the same. Curiosity wins it over anything else he’d planned to ask.
“Lando, what does that mean? Papapa?”
Lando whitens and loses his balance, almost falling off the armrest of the couch. “Ehh...” His fingers twitch, as if he’d like to turn the music off like he did last time Oscar caught him singing along with Flemish songs.
Oscar frowns, is he overstepping here? “What, is it bad?”
“It means daddy. Papa is daddy.”
Oscar falls silent.
“No!” Lando shrieks, “Not the dirty kind! Or, ah, well. It-they sort of mean the dirty kind too? Double meaning and all that. It’s a song about fathers.”
This is all really confusion. “Mate, what? I need more context than you’re giving me to not find this really strange.”
There’s fiddling and avoiding of Oscar’s eyes, as if the context Oscar is asking after is embarrassing to Lando. Oscar sits on the couch gently and turns the music down until there’s only a slight hum of sound coming from the box.
“I won’t judge,” he says, not quite knowing if he’ll be able to keep his word. If it’s really odd, he might, he’s no saint after all.
Lando looks down at him, all nervous curls and heart on his sleeve.
“I’m not good at translating,” he finally says.
“I don’t think you give yourself enough credit.”
Lando scoffs. “Story of my life some say.” Then he sighs. “I’ll give it a try. Just-don’t laugh.” Oscar is shaking his head before Lando has finished talking. He’d never laugh at Lando trying his best.
After inhaling loudly, Lando starts translating. “Who keeps you standing? Who loves to see you? You’re the best dad in the world.”
The silence when Lando stops speaking aches a little. It’s probably a fine translation, and the song might be upbeat and fun, but in the almost quiet of the room, Lando’s words strike true.
“Oh Lan, are you okay?”
“I just-I miss them.” Lando doesn’t need to explain who he means. His parents are seas away, back in Britain. Oscar knows he always misses them when they can’t attend to a race, just like Oscar misses his own, but a little more. Leaving home to live out the dream has created distance between him and his family and sure he misses them very much, but he’s been away from them for a long time. He hates to admit to it, but time eases the missing.
Still, he hums in understanding because he’s seen what Lando has with his parents. “Will they be there next race?”
“Just m’ dad. But mum’s coming the race after that.”
“Ah. Nice.”
Lando doesn’t answer. His eyes are on the floor, he’s fiddling with the zipper of his race suit and he seems miles away. It is hard, being this young and not having your parents at your side while facing the difficulties that come with racing in Formula one. Oscar understands. But the way that Lando looks right now hints at needing a distraction. He’s all up in his head and that’s exactly where you don’t need to be during a racing weekend. Not like that.
“So. Who are they?”
“What? Who?”
Oscar rolls his eyes, changing a topic with Lando is scarily easy. “The women who are singing about daddies. The voices are the same as from that song, the avalanche one.”
A groan spills from Lando’s lips. “Please don’t say that ever again. Daddies-” He fakes a gag and shivers, “-Yuck.”
Mission to distract Lando has succeeded.
“Am I right?”
“You know you are. It’s a girls group.”
Girls? Since when does Lando listen to girl-groups? His face must speak for itself, as Lando makes haste to explain.
“From when I was young. K3, they’re called. Three girls, one with dark hair, Kristel, one with red hair, Karen, and the last one, who’s blond, Kathleen. They where it in Belgium, really popular.”
“And you happen to listen to them?”
“My sister did. And, yeah. Fuck, I did too.”
It’s not hard to imagine, Lando jumping up and down the couch with his sister while listening to these funky beats. A smile crosses Oscar’s face at the thought. Bet Lando knew the words to every song.
“Don’t make fun of me, I was feeling nostalgic. And they’re good songs!” Lando says defensively. Oops. He’s all red with agitation. No need for that, Oscar agrees with him. He might not understand most of the lyrics, but he knows a good beat when he hears one.
“Lands, I’m not making fun of you at all. I’m smiling because I imagined little you dancing your heart out.”
“Oh.” The red doesn’t fade away, but the fury born from insecurity does. Lando’s expression goes all soft and bashful and Oscar has to hold himself back from leaning towards the figurative rays of sunshine Lando is emitting.
“Yes, well. I did do that. Got it on film actually, thanks to mum.”
Oscar would love to see that. “I’ll have to ask your mum for the footage.”
“Don’t you dare! I’ll never speak to you again.” The grin Lando flashes him tells him otherwise. “What where you actually here for?” Lando asks, shaking Oscar from drafting a text to Cisca inside his head.
“Wha-Oh, right.” He’d all forgotten about his reason to seek Lando out. “Pens. Do you have a pen I could borrow? I have to sign some shit and somehow I cannot find any.”
“Yes. Yeah, I have pens.” Lando hops from the armrest of the couch, crosses the room and opens a drawer somewhere. Oscar follows curiously and peers over his shoulder. In the drawer, tens of pens roll around. Oscar’s pens, distinguishably so, he remembers were he’s bought them. Dumbstruck, Oscar blinks at Lando. “Are those my pens?”
Lando looks at the pens, then at Oscar and back. “No? We just happen to have the same pens?”
Oscar senses the lie even before Lando has finished talking. “Hmm. Sure.” He takes a handful from the drawer and Lando does not protest. That tells Oscar enough.
“Thanks for my pens. Have a good race, mate.” He pats Lando’s shoulder, letting his hand stay there for a second too long.
Lando stares at him, an odd look in his eyes, but doesn’t shrug his hand off. “Y-yeah mate. Good race.”
There’s again an obvious blush coating his cheeks.
Three
It is press day and if there’s anything in the world that Oscar dislike, it is press day. Not as much as Verstappen does, but that has to be the absolute limit of dislike, bordering on hatred.
The prestige, the PR-approved answers, it’s really not Oscar’s forte. He doesn’t like the dressing up, he’s been told often he’s no fashion icon, not like Hamilton or Lando. Lando. His fellow driver has given it his all today, wearing a Quadrant hoody that is both stylish and threatens to swallow him whole with its large sleeves and soft cotton fabric, and loose black jeans with artful rips. It’s a sight, but when is Lando not. Nothing compared to Oscar, who is wearing his usual teampolo and shorts, his heavy black backpack slung over one shoulder. Boring, some might say. Comfortable and predictable is what Oscar would call it. He likes it and that has to count for something. Press day is just another work day to get through.
After he’s flashed his paddock-pass at the security because the gate has mysteriously broken down and has been granted access to the paddock, he goes looking for Charles. It’s a bit of trouble, he has to avoid the first bout of journalists that are searching for any oddity his arrival might provide. Idiots, the lot of them, always looking for a weakness, always looking for headlines. It’s usually not that bad for him, being the ‘boring’ one of the two, but for Lando it is. His teammate can’t help saying the exact wrong things at the exact wrong time and journalists know where to poke to make it hurt.
Oscar makes a bit of haste, for his backpack sits heavy on his shoulders, still he gets stopped for a picture and hats to be signed. It’s fine, he’s trained enough for this that he knows how to smile, what to say. And mostly the fans are lovely, if a bit in his face with their cameras. Fuck, it’s just so early and he would’ve liked another hour or two snuggled up in his warm bed. But no, that meant not seeing Lando and he has missed his teammate. Two whole days. Besides, you can’t take a sick day on press day, it’s obligated.
Charles is not difficult to find as he’s lingering outside the Ferrari motorhome. He’s looking out over the paddock, corners of his mouth slightly tilted downwards.
“Alright mate?”
That startles the Ferrari driver out of his probably bad-strategy-induced haze. “Ah, yes! Fine, good morning Oscar.”
“Morning, are you waiting for someone?” He looks like he is, all puppy-eyed, wearing anticipation like a cloak, probably Verstappen-focused.
“Yes. Non. I don’t know.” With that much confusion, it must be Verstappen.
Oscar raises an eyebrow and that’s all it takes for Charles to start talking. Ferrari is shit, Leo has peed on the couch again and he really dislikes the new merch he’s supposed to advert. That’s the fun thing about having a paddock full of drivers, they can be honest with each other. Going through the same stuff, it helps to talk about it without being judged. So they joke, they gossip, and, if it gets all too much, they complain. Oscar doesn’t mind listening, it makes him look busy. Too busy to be approached by bloodsucking journalists.
He’s waiting for Lando to catch up anyway.
When Lando finally stops by, he’s terrible upbeat for a day such as this one. A bright grin, unruly hair, clear eyes, the press must not have gotten to him yet. Oscar likes seeing him like this. “Morning Charles! Osc.”
Osc. The nickname does not fail to make him flush. “Landito,” he croaks back lamely, scraping his throat.
Lando’s grin brightens. “See you at the motorhome, right?” he says.
Oscar nods, a bit too awestruck to say anything back.
“Bye!” And gone he is.
Sighing wistfully, Oscar turns back to Charles, who is smiling curiously at him. “What?”
“Do you have a thing for Lando?”
Oscar grimaces. “No?” It doesn’t sound very believable.
Charles clicks with his tongue. “Of course you do not. And Max is not a world champion.”
Oscar’s brain shortcuts, finds a way out of having to continue denying a fact. “-You reckon he might win it again this year? I’m betting on myself, think I have a good chance of winning.” And Charles lets him get away with it, drops the hot topic ‘Lando’.
“Ah, I think everyone is betting on themselves. But sure, you might win. Still, Max could still-”
“-and the strategy is so bad, it’s so-”
“Forgot the thingy!” Lando zooms by, interrupting Charles’ speech. Oscar’s eyes follow his departing back, not even close to listening to Charles returning to complaining about his team. Max is quite the same, he thinks absent-mindedly, they’re both yappers.
Silence falls when Charles sips from his water bottle, probably gotten a bit hoarse from the conversation. Oscar tries to gently guide him away from the Ferrari topic. “Okay. So, where is Ma-”
A humming has him turn around. Lando is returning, eyes set on the McLaren motorhome in the distance. He’s wearing his headphones -that must have been the thingy- and Oscar can hear the beat blearing through them. He sighs, at least Lando has been thoughtful of Oscar’s ears and the non-existing privacy due to paperthin walls.
Instead of beelining past them, Lando slows down. His humming turns to singing and he throws a wink towards Oscar. A daring look crosses his face and it is clear that he’s about to give Oscar a mini-serenade. Jesus Christ.
“En in m’n beste frans heb ik toen gezucht, Avec moi dans tes bras tout est magnifique.” He points at Oscar.
Charles chokes on his drink, violently coughing and sputtering. There’s water dripping from his nose and Oscar is actually concerned the Ferrari driver will get water in his lungs and could possibly drown.
Lando continues singing, not giving a flying fuck.
“Avec moi dans tes bras tout est magnifique, oh la la la la la.” He even does a little hip-wiggle at the last part. If Oscar hadn’t been busy slapping Charles’ back to help him get rid of any remaining water, he would have melted on the spot.
From what Oscar can hear, Lando’s French isn’t too bad, but Oscar can’t really speak French aside the random greeting and thanking. Oui Oui bagette is most of what he knows, not to be disrespectful to the French.
Charles can speak French. But he’s still dying, so Oscar has to wait a little longer before he can wring the meaning of the words sung to him out of Charles. Lando is gone when he looks up again, retreating to their motorhome. Pity, he really wanted to roll his eyes at Lando for being this dramatic.
“What-Charles, what did he say?” The poor man is just as red as his team shirt and still coughing. “Wait, wait, putain!”
“Are you dying?”
“Non!”
More coughing.
“Are you sure?”
“I-,” Charles sputters and hoists himself upright, “am not dying.”
“Okay. Good, so what did he say?” Oscar forgoes his normal patience, this is a matter of life and death. Oh, maybe Lando’s dramatics are rubbing off on him.
There’s silence, the coughs have stopped but Charles isn’t saying a word. There’s a light blush sitting high on his defined cheekbones and he’s looking everywhere but at Oscar.
“What? He didn’t swear, right? Is it that bad?”
“Non!” Charles assures him, “It is...sweet. Makes me sick a little.”
Oscar scoffs, offended. Then blames the poor choice of words on the language barrier. “Tell me anyway.”
“It-It means ‘with me in your arms everything is beautiful.’”
Oh. Oh, holy fuck. Oscar stares at Charles, baffled beyond words. “Wha-he can’t be serious.”
“He looked serious to me.” Charles shrugs but has the audacity to look smug.
“No. Nope. This was- It’s a joke. Typically Lando, joking like that.” An unexpected panic floods Oscar’s system, his lungs have trouble expanding, his heart is racing. This cannot be happening, he’s absolutely imagining things.
“Okay, Oscar, okay. It could be a joke, calm down. You are okay.” Charles gentle turns Oscar with him, having their backs face the exposed side of the paddock. The press, Oscar understands, Charles is protecting him from possible rumours. He huffs out a breath and then inhales slowly.
“Yes, no, I am calm.” He schools his face back into the blank facade he wears around the track. He’s fine, cool, calm and collected. Nothing is wrong, just his silly teammate being ridiculous as always. It could’ve been worse, he’s been slapped on the arse before in the midst of an interview and that hadn’t meant anything either.
“Would it be so bad if he were serious?” Charles asks gently.
“Yes. No. I don’t know.” It wouldn’t be, it really wouldn’t. That soft feeling, the heart-eyes, the wanting-to-hold-and-never-let-go, Oscar feels it all when he looks at his teammate. It is the hope that Lando could be serious that is bad. He’d hate to get his heart broken.
“Lando is silly, yes?” Charles continues, “But he says what he thinks, quelles que soient les conséquences.”
Something with consequences, Oscar thinks. Yeah, Lando often doesn’t think of those before he lets his mouth run off. He sighs. “You reckon I should ask him about it?” He dreads it immediately, nervous to wreck this fragile thing that’s been going on. Having Lando this close is nice. Good. Very good. And to ruin it? He’d rather try the limbo challenge again and fail.
Charles smiles ruefully. “Do you want to?”
A shiver crawls over his back when he imagines stuttering his way through that conversation with Lando, only to be let down gently. “Nope. Not yet.”
“Then do so when the time feels right.” Top-notch advice from il predestinato that Oscar will keep in mind.
Four
Oscar is stuck inside the closet. No, not like that. Like, literally stuck. He’d been looking for a hoody, the weather too cold for one of his signature short sleeved shirts he’d arrived in. But they were at the back of the closet, hidden behind race suits, jackets and a papaya coloured boa. There had been no other option but to dive into it. Oscar regrets the decision dearly now. He’s crouched over, elbows digging painfully against the sides of the closet and one of the racks has fallen down on him, keeping him trapped where he is. Even moving a single inch could mean that he gets buried beneath even more layers of clothing than he already is. There’s nothing else to do but to call out for help.
“Lando!” Please, for once let Lando hear him. “Lando, I need your help!”
There’s a bang on the other side of the room, from behind the wall. Thank god. Then a muffled ‘fuck’ and the opening of a door. Another door and Lando is standing in his room. “What-”
“Yeah,” Oscar groans, embarrassed, “I know. I’m stuck, please help me mate?”
With the little view he has to the room, he sees Lando cover his mouth, stifling an obviously loud giggle.
“Oh fuck off. These things can happen to anyone.”
More giggles.
“Fuck,” Oscar grumbles. He turns his shoulder a little to the right to get a better look at Lando. A mistake, because the rack that’s left hanging rattles threateningly. He stills immediately. “Lan, really. I’m serious.”
“Yeah yeah. I hear you. I’ll come to the rescue alright. I’ll be your-” Lando breaks off his sentence.
“What? What is wrong?” Oscar tries to twist his torso so that he can see Lando. It doesn’t work and the rack rattles again. Shit.
“Nothing. Just-” And the muppet starts humming.
“I’m your superhero,
ik sta aan jouw zij.
I’m your superhero,
jij gelooft in mij.”
He’s-he’s singing.
At least he’s actually working on getting Oscar free, otherwise Oscar might have yelled at him. That’s how stuck and desperate he is. Though Lando’s singing is actually helping him not panic. It’s sort of soothing, even when he can only understand half of what Lando is humming. The words feel like a strange kind of support in his precarious situation. Lando is helping, and bit by bit the weight disappears off his back. True to his words, he is indeed Oscar’s superhero.
“What-What does it mean? The rest of the song?”
Lando’s hands stop pulling on a particular stubborn towel that’s wrapped around a racesuit and Oscar’s leg. What it’s doing in the closet is unsure, Oscar didn’t even know it was there.
“That I’m by your side,” he says, and goes back to his tugging war. But that’s not right, is it? Too little words for the length of what he’d been singing. There should be a second sentence to translate. Oscar hisses when the towel finally unleashes its deadly grip, taking the suit with it. “Fuck,” he curses, and grabs the nearest wall in support. The loss of balance makes the rack above him slip down a few inches and instinctively he curls into himself. A mistake, more clothes fall down on his shoulders.
“Shit, shit, don’t move,” Lando whispers, as if the clothes would act upon the volume of his voice. Oscar hums, trying to keep the panic at bay. “Okay.” He even sounds shaky to his own ears. “Glad that you are on my side, Lan. Is there-is there more to translate?”
A short silence. The hands keep pulling and tugging on the fabric weighing down his shoulders.
“-Yup. Bit silly, I suppose. Just that you believe in me.” It’s not silly at all. It’s so true that Oscar can feel it in every cell of his body. There’s nothing within him that doesn’t believe in Lando.
“I do. I really do, Lando.”
A shaky exhale.
“Thanks Osc.”
Oscar doesn’t answer, just hums a second time to let Lando know he’s been heard. Fabric rustles, gentle hands pluck away at the uncomfortable situation Oscar’s gotten himself into. Once or twice, Lando’s strong hands brush against Oscar to help him keep his balance or turn this way or that to make the rescue easier. Every single time, Oscar stops breathing for a moment.
“Almost,” Lando whispers as he is pulling off more pieces of clothing. “What the hell is all this? Why would you keep-is that a papaya-coloured boa?”
Oscar ignores him, and is grateful that Lando can’t spot the slight flushing of his cheeks. He didn’t mean to keep the boa from the guess-the-lyrics video, it just happened. Just like the hoody with a bold four on its back that’s definitely not Oscar’s, which is hopefully hidden somewhere Lando doesn’t need to be.
“Lando, can you please focus on getting me out of here?”
Lando chides him, tapping a simple rhythm on Oscar’s thigh. “Patience, I’m almost done.” Oscar almost chokes on his own spit.
True to his word, two pieces of clothing and an embarrassing struggle with the rack that’s pinning Oscar into place later, and he’s free.
His coming out of the closet itself does not go smoothly. He stumbles, tumbles, almost breaks his neck and misses ramming his head against the still hanging rack with an inch. But that’s only bruise work. His imago takes the real hit.
He prefers Lando to see him as a cool teammate. One that doesn’t need looking after, can stand in the current that is the racing world without needing a rock. Not as whatever it is that he’s showing here.
Lando is the clumsy one of the two, Oscar is the steady one.
And that might often be true, Oscar has a lazer-like focus when he sets his mind to it, but he’s not like that off the track when he’s away from all the judgemental eyes. He is human and it shows.
He finds his footing quickly and presses his lips together tightly. How embarrassing.
“What a way to come out the closet, Osc.” Lando is giggling, eyes crinkling in the corners. The sight of him strikes Oscar, makes him forget all about looking cool and collected. Insanely cute is the only way to properly describe how Lando looks. Bright-eyed, a bit flustered and completely at ease in Oscar’s drivers room.
Oscar crosses his arms defensively, needing some sort of distance. Lando’s looks almost make him skip what the driver is saying, but the joking hits a little closer to home than he’d like. Because Oscar doesn’t answer, doesn’t laugh, Lando stops giggling and raises an eyebrow. “No comment?”
“It’s not that funny.”
“Why-oh. Are you-are you still in the closet? Like, you know?” Lando pops his hip and lets his wrist go limp.
What the- “That’s so insensitive.”
Lando stiffens and guilt floods his expression. “No, I wasn’t being disrespectful, fuck. Sorry. I’m-I’m-” He flicks his wrist dramatically again. “-too.”
“Gay?” Oscar says dryly, not impressed by Lando’s inability to simply ask him as it it.
“Well, Bi for my part. But yeah.”
“Then yes. Gay. Still in the closet, figuratively. Would appreciate it if you didn’t out me.”
“I wouldn’t, I really wouldn’t. Got outed myself to my family, let me tell you, it’s no fun. Don’t worry about it, mate.”
Oscar does worry, but not about the getting-outed part. He worries about Lando. The man’s hands are shaking and he’s swaying a little on his legs. “Are you alright?”
“Yeah! Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?” Lando squeaks, looking like he got caught in the act. What act, Oscar is unsure of. Maybe it has something to do with Oscar’s revelation.
“Okay.” Lando looks really nervous, the same way that he does when he’s not sure whether to laugh or cry when facing trouble. Oscar hesitates. “There’s not a problem, right? With me liking men?” He asks, wanting to add that he wouldn’t want to make advances towards Lando, but he can’t say that when it isn’t fully true.
“No, oh, no! That’s not- it’s good. Fine.” Lando licks the corner of his mouth and Oscar can’t stop his eyes from following the movement.
There’s no way that Lando doesn’t see it, doesn’t get that Oscar might harbour feelings of some sort. It’s good, he says, like it doesn’t mean anything. Inside, Oscar groans at his inability to be brave enough figure out if they’re on the same page.
“Thanks again,” he says dryly.
There’s no acknowledgement between them, not even a single meaningful glance, Lando is the same as usually. He just blushes and pats Oscar’s shoulder like he always does. “Glad to be of service mate.” He seems to be ponder over something, and then takes a small breath, decisiveness written all over his face. “Ik zie u graag, Osc!”
And gone he is, out of the door, leaving a flustered Oscar and a wreckage of a closet behind.
“What does that mean?” Oscar whispers to himself. The room stays quiet, the space filled with the imprint of Lando.
He must know by now what he’s doing to Oscar. Must know what it’s hinting at.
Oscar really hopes he isn’t wrong in thinking that.
Five
Fifth time is a charm they say. Do they say that? Oscar is going to say it as of now, because it’s true. Maybe it’s Lando’s pointed smirk, maybe it’s his confident swagger, but Oscar realises he’s different. Or rather, he is in a way that isn’t at all. All this time Lando has been inching closer, has been opening up to Oscar. And Oscar has let him, even has do so a little himself. A few weeks ago he secretly dreamed about spending more time with his teammate and now Lando is serenading him. In freaking Flemish. Like he doesn’t know what that does to Oscar.
Not that they have been spending time alone together yet, but that’s to be expected a next step in this budding something in the making.
A date might even be in the cards, Oscar’s treacherous mind whispers hopefully.
Oscar still can’t understand a word of what Lando is saying when he speaks Flemish, but by now the intentions are becoming clear to him. And apparently Lando is not opposed to liking men. So, a fifth time, considering Oscar is incredibly charmed.
They are seated across each other, waiting for the media team to arrive. Supposedly they are to film yet another strange challenge for Gemini, make some jokes in between and act like they actually find a silly computer program exciting.
They are Formula one drivers, for fucks sake, it’s really not. But both Oscar and Lando sell the acting well enough.
Normally, the team would already be here, but something has come up and that leaves both drivers sitting on large uncomfortable green sofa’s with too much time on their hands.
Absent-mindedly, Oscar is checking out the room, being bored out of his mind. That is until his eyes catch Lando’s. His teammate is staring at him and is not looking away. Oscar won’t either. Lando is planning something, Oscar thinks curiously, there’s this glint of trouble in his eyes that Oscar recognises by now.
And then he starts singing softly and Oscar understands. This is another serenade, a declaration of something that Oscar cannot answer to because he doesn’t know what it means.
“Ik beef en ik stuntel,
ik zweef en ik loop weer te dromen,
Ik zie alles wat ik ooit wou.”
For the first time singing in Flemish, Lando stumbles over the words. He’s fiddling with his watch, voice breaking while he sings and he’s biting his lip in the silence between sentences. The signs of a conversion finally being made. If only Oscar would know what he’s singing about. But maybe that’s not the point. Maybe he never needed to know what it all meant because he did all along. Lando wears his heart on his sleeve and words are not the sole thing that translates that. It’s in his gaze, the way he moves an inch closer to Oscar when he can, the kind smile that seems to never leave his face when he looks at Oscar.
And right now, he’s looking at Oscar with eyes filled with love.
“M’n woorden gekunsteld,
waarom moest mij dit overkomen?
Ik ben halsoverkop op jou.”
Oscar needs to know, needs to attempt speaking Lando’s language to find an answer.
“Lando.” His tone is so desperate that Lando stops singing instantly, the quiet more painful than the secret confession. “The song. What’s it called?”
“Duizend dromen,” Lando whispers, and those two words burn into Oscar’s brain like wildfire. They write themself on the inside of his eyelids with an urgency to remember.
There’s no need to ask for a translation, Lando gives it to him, no questions asked. “Thousand dreams.” The words hum with intent.
Oscar’s breath stokes, this could very well be what he thinks it is.
There’s nothing on his mind but duizend dromen.
The words echo in Oscar’s mind, he holds on to them like a lifeline. He needs shazam to hear them, wants to pronounce them exactly right to find the song.
“Max! Max, I need your help translating something.” Max halts in his ways and turns all his attention to Oscar. Bit intimidating, getting Max’s full attention, but he’s grateful that the Dutch driver has time for him. Because he’s the only one on track who could help Oscar. He taps the play icon in his phone with a trembling hand. “Listen to this and tell me what you think.”
The song plays and bit by bit Max’s frown grows deeper. “Where did you get this?” he asks just after the music fades out and Oscar clicks a button to avoid playing another song.
“Lando.”
“Of course. It’s Dutch.”
“Flemish actually. What does it mean?” His insides are vibrating, desperate for an answer.
“You are aware that this is K3?” Max pronounces it almost the same way Lando does. Kah dr- and then a ‘oui’ sound, more French than he’d expected Flemish to be.
“Wait, you know about them too?” he asks, a bit stunned that Lando might not be the only one listening to a girl group from Belgium.
“Yeah. Victoria used to be a fan when she was little. I think she even went to a concert once?” A frown crosses Max’s face. “But Oscar, the lyrics...”
“Yes. What do they mean?” If it hadn’t been Max, he’s have shaken the driver in front of him, urging his to hurry the fuck up. It is Max, so he won’t take the risk, but the message must come across well enough. Max gives him a once-over and sighs. “You really want to know?” He asks it, but they both know it's not a question. Oscar needs to know.
“Yes.”
“It is a love song. Just-I’ll translate part of it.”
Oscar is nodding before he knows it, desperate to hear what Lando has been telling him in another language. It this point, it doesn’t even matter what it it.
Max takes a deep breath. “I’m not singing.” And he starts reciting the same words that Lando had sang to Oscar with so much love.
“Ik beef en ik stuntel,
ik zweef en ik loop weer te dromen,
Ik zie alles wat ik ooit wou.”
“I’m shaking, I’m clumsy,
I’m floating and daydreaming,
I’m looking at everything I’ve always wanted.”
“Do you want me to continue?” Max looks worried and slightly uncomfortable.
Why-oh. Oscar’s sight is uncommonly blurry and he feels tears gather in his eyes. He sniffs once. “He could have just told me.”
Gently, Max rubs his shoulder. “He is telling you.”
“M’n woorden gekunsteld,
waarom moest mij dit overkomen?
Ik ben halsoverkop op jou”
“My words feel forced,
why did this have to happen to me?
I’ve fallen head over heels for you.”
The silence stretches, brittle and soft.
Oscar exhales slowly. This is a lot. A confession, if you will. “Right.” He gathers himself. “Okay. Thanks.”
“What are you going to do about it?” Max asks kindly. And really, Oscar hasn’t thought that far. All he knows is that Lando might truly be in love with him. Possibly just as much as Oscar is.
“I-I don’t know,” he stammers. This is the right moment, isn’t it? He needs to tell Lando, but how?
Max seems sunken deep in thought, and for once he’s quiet. Rubbing his chin, he takes out his phone and taps furiously on it. “Hmm.”
“I want to tell him.”
“Of course you-” Max’s attention is grabbed by a flash of red on the side. “Charles! Charles, I need your help. Tell me, is this romantic?”
Charles comes running, a small smile on his face, just for Max. “Oui, what is?”
Max shows him something on his phone, Charles leaning heavily against his shoulder without either of them acknowledging it. Oscar watches it happen with raised eyebrows. Just a week ago they’d been complaining about each other. They must have made up.
“Here, this translation. Calling someone a sunbeam. Like, you are a sunbeam, you bring me summer.”
“Oh. I think so? It is a translation, non? The original language must make more sense.” Charles looks at Oscar with a curious glint in his eyes. “What are you planning?”
“Oscar is of course gonna declare his love to Lando with a song.”
“Max!” Oscar yells out, shell-shocked by his words.
Max is wearing a smile so large that it splits his face in two, not bothered at all. Just like in his race car, he knows what he’s doing. “What? You are!”
Charles grins at Max, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Ah, like Lando has been doing all this time.”
“Yes, exactly.”
Oscar sighs, they are making fun of him, but he can’t blame them. From an outsiders perspective it must look ridiculous, what they’re doing. The glances, the touches. Not really subtle, but neither of them takes the next step. Admitting that there’s more between them.
“I don’t like the two of you teaming up against me.” His heart isn’t in his protest.
Max tuts at him. “Bullshit, naturally we’re rooting for you and Lando. It’s cute.” Charles nods, “This is perfect. Zandvoort is next week, you can do it then.”
Max is nodding along. “When you win, you can sing this,” He waves his phone around, “in the interview. Fun for the fans, and a proper declaration for Lando.”
“I’m not singing. Especially not in front of all the fans.”
Charles grins, mirroring Max. Evil, the both of them are. “You will, mon ami, for him.”
Oscar hates that he’s right. Preparing for late-night study hours and embarrassing singing sessions in his shower, he pinches the skin between his eyebrows. “Send the lyrics to me, please.”
+ One
They’re in Zandvoort and the race has been a tough one. Halfway, the rain came pouring down so badly that even the intermediates had no grip and the race had to be red flagged. Never has Oscar had to race with such bad vision before and many times he held his heart seeing the vague outline of Lando’s car glide around the track. Not that he’d been doing any better, but still. After realising that he cares for his teammate a whole lot, so much that one might call it love, he can’t help but feel nervous at the risk of a crash.
But Lando doesn’t crash and neither does he. They both, surprisingly and unexpectedly, end up on the podium, pulling a nice 1-2, Lando having won after racing incredible lines in such bad conditions. Normally, Oscar would feel it sting for a second, but not today. Today it provides the perfect opportunity.
They park their cars neatly in park fermé, engines still hot, tires degraded to the point of melting. Victory swells in the air as Lando goes to stand on top of his car, pumping his fist to the crowd, and suddenly the sun comes peeking out from behind the clouds, a bit watery and shy. It makes Lando’s silhouette on top of his car look powerful, untouchable, and Oscar’s stomach fills with crazy butterflies. They are not nerves, he tells himself.
The team waits for them, loud and supportive. Strong hands keep him up when he jumps into Papaya arms and their yelling positively deafens him. Lando gets the same treatment, and a kiss on his helmet from his dad.
Oscar is quick to get rid of his helmet, the inside of it all wet with either sweat or rain. The race had been so wet that he felt like drowning most of the time.
He glances to the side, where Lando pulls off his helmet and balaclava as well. Everything stops at once. Lando’s skin glows golden, the sunlight filtering through his damp curls. In love, Oscar thinks, I’m in love with Lando Norris. The thought doesn’t scare him at all, not anymore.
Then they’re hugging and patting each others backs, Lando’s body wet and heated against his. Only a second, but enough to make Oscar’s heart race just as fast as when he’d been in his car.
“Good job,” he manages to mumble, and Lando laughs, eyes glinting with joy, a grin so wide it shows off all his perfect white teeth. “You too Osc! Superb!”
Oscar is thankful that he’s already quite red from the exertion, it means him blushing isn’t too obvious.
Then it’s time for weight-ins, putting on their watches with hasty, practised movements, grabbing caps, taking not nearly big enough of a sips of water and standing in line to be interviewed. Max has ended up in third place, so he’s first up. Not bad, Oscar is glad he has a little time to mentally prepare. Absent-mindedly, he watches as Max puts out a nice, PR approved summary of the race and then thanks his fans here in the Netherlands. The Dutch sounds familiar to Oscar’s ears.
Max could have won here, especially with a rain race, if not for his tractor of a car, but he doesn’t seem too bothered by it.
When he’s done and passing Oscar to get to the cool down room, he throws Oscar a wink. Oscar smiles at him grimly, the both of them knowing Oscar couldn’t have wished for a moment more perfect. It’s now or never. Max pats him once on the shoulder and then it’s Oscar’s turn to answer the same old questions.
The interview goes as always, questions dull and predictable. Race-pace, tire management, championship, blablabla. But when the interviewer starts to wrap it up, Oscar takes a deep breath and gathers all the courage that he possesses.
“Eh, I’d like to say a few words to someone dear to me.” Oscar scrapes his throat nervously and looks back at Lando. Lando is not paying attention at all, gazing at the crowds, looking into the sea of fans wearing all kinds of merge, clearly distracted. Well, here goes nothing. He’s really doing this, declaring his love to Lando by singing a song in front of thousands of people in a language he’s absolutely not fluent in. God, he hopes Max has not lied to him about what the lyrics mean.
Oscar hums once, finding his singing voice, or whatever. He knows he’s no singer and has trouble holding a tone, the many shower-practice-sessions have proven that. Sue him, can’t be good at everything.
“Jij bent mijn zonnestraaltje,
jij brengt de zomer dichtbij,
m’n eigen zonnestraaltje dat ben jij.”
He’s butchering it, he knows he is, but fuck-he’s trying. And if there’s anything Oscar Piastri is, it’s determined. So he continues.
“Jij bent mijn zonnestraaltje,
Bij jou voel ik me zo fijn,
M’n eigen zonnestraaltje dat ben jij.”
The crowd goes absolutely wild, yelling and screaming in delight at his attempt at singing in their language. But the only one Oscar has eyes for is Lando. Does he get it? Has Oscar pronounced the words well enough that their meaning is clear?
“Right,” he addresses the crowd, “Thank you, I’ve been practising. Cheers.” With a heavy heart, he turns away from the camera and to Lando.
What meets him is unlike anything he expected. Not even like he hoped for. On Lando’s face is one of the brightest grins that Oscar has ever seen there. The sun pales in comparison. His heart-shaped lips are pulled up and rows of pearly white teeth twinkle at Oscar. His eyes sparkle with tears, but they are happy ones.
Oh. It’s worked, hasn’t it?
“You are my sunbeam,
you bring the summer close,
my own sunbeam, that’s what you are."
"You are my sunbeam,
With you I feel so good,
my own sunbeam, that’s what you are.”