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Chapter Text

When Lando parks his car neatly in front of the number one stand, he stays seated for a second longer. He’s thanked his team, waved to the fans, all that, so there’s truly no need. Yet he knows that if he were to stand up, he’d drop down in an instant. Even while seated, he can feel his limbs tremble, his knees buckle. Fuck, the heat of the race has really gotten to him this time.

He’s given it his all, he’s won, but only barely. Oscar had been all over the back of his car, pushing and forcing Lando to race more reckless than he’d liked for the circuit and temperature.

He lets out a heavy sigh. That’s racing, right? Especially against a Beta teammate. Thank god Oscar isn’t an Alpha, that would have been really annoying to deal with. They are tough on track, ruthless and at times even dangerous. Take Max Verstappen for example. Alpha’s, the majority of the drivers. The aggression that is frowned upon out there in the real world, it is appreciated on the track. Lando doesn’t do that. Actually, he doesn’t do any second gender. It’s not something that’s known, but Lando has yet to present.

A very uncommon happening.

So for everyone, he’s a Beta. That’s easiest, doesn’t make him suffer through annoying questions, remarks and extra health-checks. And the FIA, surprisingly, does not care much at all. Formula one is strangely open to drivers being of any second gender, for they care more about having the best drivers of the world compete and their own silly rules.

Yet there are no Omegas in Formula one. Lando is sure many have tried, but no one has succeeded. Omegas just aren’t F1 material.

It’s not prejudge, it’s fact.

Majority of the paddock consists of Alphas. Be that as it may, he’s sharing the podium with two Betas today. It’s him in first place, Oscar in second and then Charles in third. Well deserved too, Charles had to fight off Max several times with perfectly executes manoeuvres.

Both of them are out of their cars, though they’d parked later than Lando. Fuck, how long has he been sitting here? With shaking hands, he pushes himself up through the helo, leaning on it heavily as to not fall down. It really must have been a hell of a race for his body, he doubts he’s ever felt this bad. Black spots float around his vision and he’s grateful for the helmet’s coverage, otherwise the media would have had a field day. He’s already being portrayed as vulnerable, with his down-talk and insecurities, he’s not about to add more to that image.

Now that he’s standing, another wave of heat crashes over him. And it’ll only get worse he knows, he still has an interview to go before he can spend mere minutes in the cooldownroom. Not to mention the podium, he’s already dreading the standing, the music and the spray of champagne. How ungrateful he’s being.

-Is something the old Lando would think. No, he’s working on that, won’t think bad about himself like that. So last season, the self-doubt.

He lifts his hand to swipe at the sweat on his forehead and smashes his fingers against his helmet, forgetting it’s still on. Right. Gotta get out of the car, take the helmet off, maybe drink some water.

On autopilot, he bends over to detach his stirring wheel. The drink-system and radio are next, and then he rights himself again. Easy, easy, he reminds himself as he sways.

A shiver shakes through him, and that’s the first sign that there’s more to his troubles than simply the race being a tad difficult.

The next is a bit more obvious. A sticky feeling gathers between his legs and he winches in reflex. He’s absolutely soaked through his fireproofs. And now that he’s standing, he can feel it dripping down his inner thigh a little. Has he really wet himself? It happens, races are long and when one must go, there’s no other choice than to just…go. But it’s never happened to him before, and certainly not unknowingly. Yikes.

He’s too hot and bothered to feel the shame that comes with wetting one’s pants, but the discomfort he does notice. Well, another annoying thing to add to the growing list.

Thank fuck his racesuit doesn’t stain, or else it would have made quite the picture on the podium.

“Lando?”

Gripping the helo to remain standing, he looks up. It’s Oscar, helmet in his hands, a worry look on his face. “You getting out on your own?”

Out? Oh, out of the car!

“Yeah yeah mate. It’s fine.” He waves his teammate off and finally stumbles out of the car. A small wave is all he’s able to give the public, standing on the hood and punching the air seems like a far-fetched dream right now.

His team waits behind the barrier, bright smiles, a supportive wave of Papaya that swallows him gently as he greets them. They pat his back, his helmet and yell at the incredible results of today. He hears it, he sees them, but his senses are clouded over and he knows that there must be panic in his eyes. There’s a fire underneath his skin and every touch sets it alight.

Miraculously he finds his footing, makes his way back to Oscar and attempts to walk to the box with number one and a promising bottle of water on it without visibly stumbling. “Just a little dizzy. The heat, you know?” He chokes on the words as he says them.

Oscar looks at him like Lando’s told him monkeys can fly. “Mate, what heat?”

“You’re not-never mind. Lets just go.”

Without saying another word, Oscar follows, sticking to his side like glue. While walking Lando pulls off his helmet, the tight enclosure making his senses go haywire. His neck protection comes off with it and finally Lando feels like he can take a breath. Not a deep one, for the heat weighs on his chest like stone.

“Fuck, what a race,” he hums, just loud enough for Oscar to catch. He doesn’t get an answer, but the other driver pats his shoulder gently. Then Lando is intercepted by someone telling him he still has to get weighted, which, fuck. How could he forget that?

The scale tells him about another abnormality. This race has cost him four kilograms. Something that does not happen often, certainly not while racing under colder circumstances like today. Usually it’s about two.

“Thanks,” he mutters when they give him the good to go.

When he turns around, Oscar is waiting for him, a worried look on his face. “Can you-” Lando attempts to lift his helmet higher, but his arms trembles when he does. Oscar takes the helmet immediately. “Landers? Are you really okay?”

“Four. Lost four kilos.”

“Oh. That’s-That’s unusual.”

“Hmm. Yeah.” Lando peels off his balaclava, swaying on his legs. “Reckon I need to lay down in a bit.” Another wave of heat crashes over him and he claws at the collar of his racesuit, not caring that he might look frantic to the public. “Fuck, this heat is insane Osc.” He starts fanning himself with his hand.

When they reach the numbered boxes of parc fermé he sees that they are all waiting for him. The cameras, the people, and third placed driver.

Charles is shifting his weight impatiently and lets out an audible sigh when he sees Lando and Oscar arriving. “Finally, that took you long,” he says, his accent thick and heavy. Lando can only nod, too focussed on placing one foot in front of the other.

Oscar puts down both of their helmets. He hands Lando a bottle of water, and Lando is grateful but he can’t find it in him to thank his teammate. He downs the bottle in one go, turning his back to the cameras that want to get a lucky shot.

Honestly, the cool water makes him feel a lot better instantly. It brings down the heat within him a little and his thoughts clear. “Ah, sorry for making you all wait. Just a minute, I’ll be ready to go in a bit.”

It makes the media people antsy, but at least Lando won’t be passing out any second. That would give even more trouble. He can see the headlines already, ‘Lando Norris, not suited for winning.’ ‘Has Norris lost it?’ or, ‘Racing, it’s not for the faint of heart. Norris proves that, when will he finally break?’. No, nope. He’ll get through this in one piece, fainting he can do between the safe walls of his driver room.

Charles is already getting ushered away to do the interview, being third. Oscar will be up next, but he’s not moving.

“Osc?”

“They can wait. We’re walking together.”

It shouldn’t, but Oscar saying that lifts a weight off Lando’s shoulders. He’s not alone, and whatever is going on, Oscar is helping. He sighs.

“I’m fine.” But he doesn’t protest when Oscar grabs his wrist and squeezes it softly.

“Lets get this over with,” he says, tone so gently that Lando wants to curl up in his arms and trust that he’ll will be fine indeed. He won’t do it, of course not. It’s urge that he’s never had before in his life, but the thought enters his mind so easily that it doesn’t startle him.

Really, anyone with eyes can see that Oscar is rather handsome, and Lando is just feeling a little vulnerable. If his mum were here, he’d wanted the same with her. Someone that holds him.

He wonders if he’d ask, would Oscar? Probably, he’s a nice guy. Which is exactly why Lando doesn’t ask, he’d want to much, like he always does.

He wipes his forehead with his free hand and focusses on keeping his legs steady.

“Right, yeah. Lets get this over with.”

Oscar walks closer to him than he would usually, like he’s being pulled towards Lando, like he needs to be there. And maybe he does, because just when Lando wants to ask for some space, his knees grow weak as he’s hit with an unexpected snap of pain. Oscar’s gentle hand on his lower back is the only thing keeping him standing.

“Ow, what the fuck?” This whole situation is going from bad to worse. It feels like a cramp, lower in his belly, radiating to his back. But to his knowledge, he’s not twisted in any strange way, nor has he had any problems during the race.

Oscar frowns at him. “Lando, what the hell is going on with you?”

He sounds mad to Lando’s ears, and that has him winch. “I-I don’t know, something is wrong, I think. I’m so hot, and-” he presses a discreet hand to his stomach, “-cramps. I’m having really weird cramps.”

Oscar’s breath stokes and his eyes widen. He looks like something has just been revealed to him.

Lando twitches in unease. “W-what?”

“Lan, I have a hunch.” His voice sounds serious, like something might be truly wrong. Yet Lando is sure that whatever it is, Oscar’s got it.

“Oh-”

Oscar sniffs the air once, twice. He leans closer to Lando, closer to his neck. Where his scent should be strongest if he’d presented like all the others of his age. Heat radiates from the other driver and everything in Lando screams ‘safe’. He can’t hold back a soft whimper. “Fuck, Osc-”

“Hold still.” And Lando freezes, without any questions asked, instincts acting for him.

Oscar is so close that Lando can feel his breath on his skin. The tribunes seems to be holding their breath, so Lando pats Oscar’s back firmly to make it look like a simple hug between teammates. There are enough stories about them circulating as it is. This is far more intimate than a simple hug between teammates, but that’s theirs to know.

“Oscar, what are you doing?” He forces a stern tone in his voice, while all he wants to do is press into Oscar’s touch and sigh with relief.

“Sorry.” Oscar stays right where he is. “I had to check.”

“Check what?”

It’s then that Oscar takes a step back. He looks dazed, overwhelmed. “Lands. I think you’re in heat?”

Lando snorts and laughs one of his boisterous, loud laughs. It’s mostly from surprise, because nothing at all about this is funny. “Mate, you good?”

“I’m serious. You smell...sweet.”

At that moment, another cramp torments Lando and the sticky feeling between his legs grows.

Oscar’s pupils become so wide that most of his eye is dark. “Yeah, mate, that’s heat. I’m telling you.”

Lando feels himself become white as a ghost. “H-Heat?” That’s-Omegas get heats, not him. He’s not-right? A sick feeling creeps up at Lando. After all these years of nothing, of being presumed a Beta, today is the day he presents?

He tugs harshly at the collar of his fireproofs trying to ground himself. This can’t be happening.

His insides squirm and there’s no way of denying this. It’s heat, just like Oscar says.

“Fuck,” he whispers. That’s a really big problem. First of all because he still has an interview and a podium to get through, secondly because he has no idea what to expect. Not prepared, not knowledgable, no nothing.

“It’s really heat?” he asks Oscar, to be sure he’s heard him right. Or maybe he just needs to hear the others voice, needs the confirmation that this isn’t a fluke.

“Mate,” The word sends shivers down Lando’s spine like it never has before, “With that scent, no doubt. You didn’t know? I thought they needed to be scheduled by FIA rules.”

“Yeah. Err. I’ve never-” He stops talking. How to explain that he’s a late-bloomer? That he’d given up the thought of being anything else but not designated?

“I’ve actually never presented.” Plain, like Oscar usually says the difficult stuff. Turns out that Oscar is good in telling things how they are, but not so in hearing them. He startles, takes a big step away from Lando, barely avoiding stumbling over his feet, and seems to choke on his own spit. “Holy fuck. Shit.”

Lando grins nervously, tugging at his collar yet again. The heat is really getting to him, sweat is pooling at the back of his neck and Oscar’s cursing does something to his heartbeat that he strictly ignores. “I’m not sure what I should do. I’ve always been a Beta.”

“That’s so-” Oscar audible swallows his words.

“Messed up? Yeah, I’m aware.”

“Hot,” Oscar whispers under his breath. Lando pretends he hasn’t heard him, that clearly wasn’t meant for his ears. His body doesn’t get the message, scent sweetening to the point that Lando glances around nervously. Someone could notice.

Fear raises up its head as he makes eye contact with a woman. She’s frowning at him, her heels going click-clack against the tarmac of the track as she walks up to him. Lando has to fight the urge to hide behind Oscar’s strong, broad back.

“Oscar? We cannot stall any longer,” she says.

Lando lets go of the breath he hadn’t noticed he was holding. She’s PR, not onto him. Instantly the smell of burned pastries that had surrounded him vaporises. What a treacherous thing, being an Omega.

Oscar gives her a nod and then turns to Lando. His face does that thing that means he’ll say something really important. “Lan, listen to me. Do not mention the heat of the race. Nothing about heat, okay? Just say it was a tough one.”

“Wha-why-” Confusion clouds Lando’s mind, thoughts all a mess.

“Because we gotta figure out what is going on first, before everyone starts poking their nose in business that isn’t theirs.”

Oh. right. That makes sense. Lando is nodding before Oscar stops speaking. “Okay, I’ll just keep it short?” He’s not asking for permission, but somehow there’s a question mark attached to his words.

Oscar nods, once. He looks really hot when focussed.

Suddenly Oscar gulps and takes a sudden step back. “Lan- Don’t-” With it, he takes the illusion of safety away and Lando lets out a soft whine. “Mate, calm down. You-you smell really strong right now.”

It’s even sweeter than before, lemon, vanilla and pastries engulfing Lando like he’s inside a bakery. He’s leaking too, but that must be clear as day to Oscar.

“Fuck,” Lando mumbles, and waves his hand around as if that would make the scent disappear. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay, just focus. It’s important to-”

“I got this. Really.” Lando straightens his shoulders and looks away from Oscar. As long as he doesn’t think about the Beta, he should be fine.

“Okay.” Oscar squeezes his wrist. “See you in the cooldown room?”

The woman from before is gesturing at Oscar, sharp stress of her annoyance making Lando even more jittery.

“Yeah.”

And Oscar does not want to leave him waiting there, his whole posture screams protection and reluctance to walk away. But he has to, the interview is not waiting and they have a job to do. He plasters a smile on his face and turns his back to Lando. Even the back of him, papaya clad and strong, looks so handsome.

With his shoulders broad like that, he could pass for an Alpha, Lando thinks.

Lando’s interview goes slow. Well, not really, but it feels that way. His words are PR approved, this stance jittery like always, his eyes flicking away all the time. Nothing out of the ordinary. But with every breath he takes, there’s a need to curl into himself. He’s hyper aware of the wet feeling between his legs and the sharp stinging of the cramps. Being a professional, he hides it well, and makes it to the end.

“Yeah, tough race for me, but the team has given me a mega car this year. Oscar has driven a great race too, a good day for the team.”

“Seemed like you had some trouble getting out of the car, though?”

He ignores the failure that clings to his bones at that statement. Surely the press will have a field day if his answer is not carefully crafted.

“Just enjoying the victory a little longer. And like I said, tough race. Now it’s preparing for next weekend. Thanks again to the team, and the fans. It’s been a good weekend for us.”

“Well, enjoy your celebrations, congratulations.”

“Thanks.”

And off he is, out of the camera’s ways, away from judgemental eyes. Back to Oscar’s side, to the fake-safety he’s mentally created for himself. Because unlike he has said, Oscar did not go ahead to the cooldown room but has waited for Lando instead. That absolutely does not make the butterflies inside Lando’s stomach flutter their wings. Really, it does not.

“Didn’t mention anything,” he says proudly. And curses silently at his need for approval. It’s only gotten worse now that he’s apparently presented. (He’s deliberately forgetting that he’s in the first stages of heat, and that it’s Oscar’s approval that he wants, on one else's.)

“Good. That’s good.”

The praise runs down his spine and makes him shiver.

“You cold?” Oscar is already inching closer to him, his body warm and comforting in its nearness. Lando finds himself cold at the mere suggestion. Yes, he is in heat, but now that the excitement of the race is over and the seriousness of the situation is dawning upon him, he’s longing to curl up against something warm, preferably Oscar. If it’s in the cards.

“I don’t know,” he says, because he can’t find it in him to voice his thoughts. They’ve never looked at each other that way, or, Lando has never. He doesn’t want to make this any more weird than it already is.

Oscar doesn’t look like he believes him, but grants Lando the kindness of a mere hum. The low sound thrills through Lando’s bones and he shifts his weight nervously. “I-I think we need to get going. That woman from before didn’t look happy and I don’t want to make it any worse than I’ve done.”

The FIA-people are strangely absent, like they’ve given up on getting the McLaren drivers were they need to be in time. It creates the illusion of peace, at least on the outside. Inside Lando’s blood in boiling, his soul is bouncing off the walls of his existence.

Oscar is lost in thought, rumbling lowly and leaning towards Lando. The sound he’s making is not quite a purr, neither is it a growl. It confuses the hell out of Lando and makes him lick the corners of his mouth nervously, tongue flicking left and then right. Since when does Oscar make those kind of sounds?

“Osc? We need to go.” He places a gentle hand on Oscar’s arm, tugging him slightly into the direction of the cooldown room. Fear courses through him, the heat is pooling low in his stomach and the sooner they get him back to the hotel, the better. The air around him smells like stale sweat and sweet vanilla and he’s sure someone will notice. Oscar clearly does. He seems enthralled, pupils wide, a blush high on his cheekbones. Lando panics.

“Fuck, Oscar Piastri, get it together! I need you to help me!”

That does it, Oscar snaps out of it. “Shit, shit, sorry!” He runs a hand over his face, wiping the starstruck expression off his face. Picking up the pace, he leads the both of them to the cooldown room. “I just-Yeah. Sorry. You smell really good.”

Lando goes cross-eyed. “You can smell me that well?” It’s well-known that Beta’s have a poor sense of smell compared to Alphas and Omegas, so Lando’s scent must be really strong for Oscar to notice it. Fuck.

“Sorry. Won’t happen again.”

What won’t happen again? Lando looks at him with confusion. “Wh-”

“You are late again!” They have reached to cooldown room, where Charles is, yet again, waiting for them. “Look, they have started the re-cap, you missed parts.” He points at the screen, it shows one of Oscar’s attempts to overtake Lando.

Lando sighs and unsticks himself from Oscar’s side. “Got held up, apologies.” He beelines to the where the water is and grabs his second bottle post-race. Then he finds himself a chair to plop down on. Behind him, Oscar sets down both of they helmets where they’re supposed to go and sits down next to Lando. The both of them let out a collective sigh.

The backrest of Lando’s chair has the perfect form to press his shoulders against, pushing his chest up and hollow his back. He groans softly at the stretch.

Next to him, Oscar gulps so loudly that the microphones must have picked it up.

“Look, look!” Charles points to the screen excitedly, “Max almost had me.” He’s completely oblivious to the papaya stress in the room.

Lando hums, playing nervously with the zipper of his racesuit and sipping his water. The cooldown room helps to get his head straight, the temperature bringing down the flush he’s sure is on his face. Oscar seems at ease as well. His eyes don’t flicker through the room as if in search of a threat and his rigidity vaporises when he relaxes in the chair next to Lando.

“What a race,” he hums and focuses on the highlights on the screen. Lando wishes he could do the same, but he’s too aware of the heat already overthrowing the cooling effects of the room. And worst of all, he thinks the slick dripping down his thighs is almost at the back of his knees now. With a huff, he changes his posture slightly, crossing his legs. Nothing about this is comfortable, but it might help him through the podium and back to the hotel.

On the screen, Oscar’s car has a lock-up just as he wants to try to overtake Lando. “Ohh,” the both of them groan, and Charles giggles. “You guys make quite a show for the fans, non?” he says delighted, like he and Max didn’t do the exact same thing.

Next up, a clip of Max breaking late and taking a wide raceline gets shown. A fire-y red Ferrari cruises by on the inside of the corner, passing Max elegantly. Max is forced to go even wider and when they show his cam, the driver is flipping the bird at Charles angrily. Alphas, Lando sighs mentally. Can’t help but be aggressive.

Instead of being frustrated, Charles takes a sip from his water and smiles brightly. “Ah,” he hums, “I love fighting my Max like that.”

And adds to the memes with that.

If Lando hadn’t been feeling this shit, he’d have rolled his eyes. Oscar does it for him, loyal like always.

“A bit on the nose, mate,” he snips at Charles.

Mate.

An unexpected rush of annoyance barrels through Lando, seemingly coming out of nowhere, wanting him to hiss at Charles and pull Oscar flush against him. What the fuck?

Since when is he feeing possessive over Oscar, of all people?

Out of view from the camera’s, he flashes his teeth at Charles on reflex. “Osc-” he says.

Both Oscar and Charles turn to stare at him in confusion. That’s when Lando realises what’s happening. He’s acting like Oscar is-

He shakes his head, “Never mind.”

The red screen congratulating them and the cue to get up on the podium has never come at a better moment.

Chapter Text

Just as they get up to walk to the podium, Charles having left already to claim his third place, Oscar stops him with a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Here.” He holds out a scent patch. “To get through the podium.”

Scent patches are not an uncommon sight at the grid, so he’s not too surprised at Oscar holding one out to him. Lando has seen many drivers wear them, mostly Betas. Actually, only the Betas. Odd, that is. They must be meant for Betas.

“I’m not a Beta, Osc.”

“Okay? That’s the problem, right?”

“No, I mean those are for Beta’s, aren’t they? All the Betas on track wear them.”

The confusion on Oscar’s face is almost comical, if the situation Lando is in wasn’t so dire.

“Lan. They make you smell like a Beta. They hide your scent.”

Wait, what? “So-”

“How do you not know that?” Outright surprise slips through the blank mask Oscar usually wears. Most days, Lando finds it hard to get a read on his teammate, but at the moment it’s quite easy. Like he just...knows.

“Well, I never presented. No one explained it to me, wasn’t needed.”

“Oh.”

That’s pity right there, written all over Oscar’s face. Lando frowns. “Don’t you dare pity me, Piastri.” He takes the patch with trembling hands.

“I’m-I’m not. Maybe a little. But you really thought they were all Betas?”

“No! Yes-I don’t know. I’ve never thought of it.”

“Wait, what do you think my secondary gender is?”

Lando’s eyes flick to the patch on the side of Oscar’s neck. Fuck. His Beta teammate might not be Beta after all. Oh shit.

Understanding dawns upon Oscar. “Lan, I’m an Alpha. I just think it’s rude to stink up the place.”

“Oh.”

That is-well, to say that it’s unexpected would be a lie. Oscar is exactly how Lando would picture an Alpha. Sweet, caring and fiercely protective over the ones he loves. It’s only that Alphas usually come with a whole lot of ego and pride. That is all absent when Lando looks at Oscar. Oscar is just Oscar.

Another cramp hits and Lando winches, mind quickly occupied by other important matters. “I-I thought you were a Beta. Fuck, sorry?”

Oscar waves his concerns away. “Doesn’t matter right now, no time. Are you good to get through the podium?”

Lando nods, taking off the protective second layer of the patch. The sticky part gets attached to his fingers and that almost makes him cry. It’s fine, he’s fine. He places the patch hesitantly over where Oscar tells him his scentglands are and does the same to the other side of his neck. It feels pathetic that he doesn’t know how to do this by himself.

Covering them up is horrible. The glue itches and it’s all downright wrong now that he can’t smell himself. While he hadn’t noticed it before, his own scent gave him a lot of comfort.

Oscar, of course, reads him like a book. “I know it’s awful to get used to. Only for the podium, Lan. After that, when we’re back at the hotel, you can take them off.”

A shiver crawls over Lando’s back, it’s nowhere near a command, but suddenly Lando wants to be good. He never wants that.

He nods at Oscar, unable to find the words. Oscar parts his lips to say something, but is interrupted by the speakers calling out his name.

“Second place, Oscar Piastri!” Oscar perks up, but does not move.

The announcer hesitates when there’s no driver showing up, but when they spot Oscar standing in the small corridor to the podium with Lando by his side, waving at them to carry on, they continue.

“-and Lando Norris, Grand Prix winner!”

Lando’s feet stick to the ground like they’re covered in glue and twenty thousand thoughts race through his mind. What if everyone notices? What if he passes out? What if he breaks another trophy because his hands shake too badly to hold on to it?

Oscar senses his panic. “Go get it, you’ve got this.”

He’s so calm, face an unreadable mask. Cool, calm and collected, as they say. And it’s all Lando needs to get himself moving again. Among all this happening he almost forgot; He’s won today. Another trophy with his name on it.

He flashes Oscar a bright, slightly fake grin and does a little skip-away to set the mood. The cramps he ignores, just like the cindering heat inside his bones. It’s trophy-time.

When he steps out into the open, he’s met with the bouldering sound of fans chanting his name, a sea of papaya and the heat of the day returning to him. It’s fine, the way he makes it to the number one stand is only a little unsteady, what matters is that he hoists himself up and stands proudly. Tall, although slightly curled into himself. Oscar is right behind him, making himself nearly invisible as he sneaks up to the second place.

On Lando’s left, Charles hops from one leg to the other, he’s been waiting for a bit -again- and doesn’t look too pleased about it. They exchanges nods, and then it’s caps off and the swell of the British national anthem fills Lando’s ears. He’s won, he realises. A wide grin crosses his face, joyful even while he has to hide the panic of an approaching heat.

The crowd positively roars the second the music quiets and a part of Lando wants to roar back with full force. An Omega part, he thinks in surprise.

The trophies get passed to them quickly, the circuit shaped thing heavy and sturdy in his hands. It feels like the celebration goes by in a rush, but that must be the approaching heat talking. Lando’s body itches with the filthy layer of sweat and slick drying up, and the unexplainable need for something. He refuses to look into what that means.

The trophies get set aside, Lando’s one further away than the other’s, and their hands grab the bottles awaiting the true celebration.

On trembling legs, he takes his bottle to a safe spot to execute his usual race-win ritual. Just as the bottom of the bottle hits the ground and champagne shoots up to the sky, a thought occurs to Lando.

This might be the last time he’ll get do this.

He’s an omega, no way around it. And Omega’s do not race. Fuck, this might actually have been the last time that he’s sat in a Formula One car ever. And it means that he’ll have to tell the team, that his contract will be terminated.

For a short second, he’s frozen. Champagne bottle foaming in his hands, eyes looking over the papaya crowd without seeing them. Then a frizzing spray of champagne hits his face and he snaps out of it. Charles and Oscar are dousing him, drenching him until he’s not sure whether he’s soaked through his fireproofs with slick or champagne. It fades out all other scents, the taste sharp and bubbly on his tongue. It’s liquid victory and even as it stings his eyes, he wants to drown in it.

If this has been his last race, at least it’s been a good one.

His eyes sting from the fizz and tears run down his cheeks. All he really wants to do is sit down and succumb to the heat and the strangeness of it all. Preferably with Oscar by his side to catch him while he falls.

Instead he wipes the champagne and tears from his eyes and aims his bottle at the nearest driver. (It’s Oscar and in seconds he’s soaked as well. Sweet karma.)

When the fizz has gone, Lando takes a big gulp of the drink before clinking his bottle against those of Charles and Oscar. Everything tastes like victory. He wonders when that will fade. Probably when he steps off the podium and is confronted with reality and a new quest; getting himself back to the hotel without catching unwanted attention.

Taking the picture with the other drivers, smiles and trophies on display, he can feel the heat of Charles’ and Oscar’s hands on his back. Charles’ is light, friendly. Oscar’s hand holds him up, for Lando’s legs tremble with yet another cramp. He swallows a winch and lets himself lean a little more into Oscar’s space. Not so much that it’s noticeable, but enough to keep him grounded.

When they’re done, Lando stumbles off the podium, seeking Oscar out immediately. Under pretend of congratulating his teammate, he slings a heavy arm around Oscar. “Osc? Need your help here.”

Oscar grins, and at first Lando fears that he’s not been heard. But Oscar is good, really good at hiding. With that same light grin on his face, he wraps an arm around Lando’s waist, tightly. “Got you mate,” he whispers.

Lando sighs, thankful to his genius of a teammate. His mind goes all fuzzy from Oscar’s proximity, but he does not forget to thank the fans and the team. Half-heartedly, but with the same gratitude as always, he raises the champagne bottle to the crowd. He gets a loud cheer in answer and a vague smile crosses his face.

“I won, Osc,” he says.

It gets him another well-hidden, worried look. His tone must sound just as brittle as his hope to ever race again feels.

“Yeah mate, you did. And you can celebrate later. Just-lets get you away from the spotlight, okay?”

Lando hums and lets himself be let away from the commotion.

When they’re out of sight from all the noisy eyes, he taps Oscar’s arm to get his attention. “I should tell the team. That I can’t race anymore.”

“Huh? Why wouldn’t you race anymore?” Oscar says distractedly, he’s still focused to leading the both of them to somewhere quiet.

“Because I’m an Omega now.”

“So?”

“Osc, Omega’s don’t race.”

“Uhh, yeah they do?”

How does Oscar not get it?

“Well, yeah, but not in Formula One. There are no Omega’s on the grid.”

Oscar is quiet, a contemplating look on his face. “Is this-you thought I was a Beta, right?”

Lando hums. So what?

“Because of the scent patch. But Lan, the Omega’s wear them too. I think most drivers you’ve thought of as Beta, they’re Alpha or Omega. Probably mostly Omega.”

“Wha-Who?” Lando demands to know.

“Ehh,” Oscar’s face becomes pinched. “Charles is an Omega, for instance. George too. Some others, but most of that would be strong guesses. The scent patches really work well.”

“Oh. I am so stupid.”

Oscar snorts. “What, you’re quoting Leclerc now?”

Lando groans. “Like you don’t do the memes whenever you get the chance. With your Inchident...” And then he groans again, having to battle a fiercely stinging cramp. “Fuck, it’s getting worse now.”

“Right,” Oscar looks worried. “So, I don’t actually have that much experience with heats? Or Omega’s?”

For a second Lando is stunned. Oscar, handsome, lovely Oscar, no experience? Such a gentle Alpha (So much so that Lando wouldn't have thought of him as one.), which Omega wouldn’t want to be with him?

“You don’t?”

And that right there is insecurity Lando spots in Oscar’s eyes.

“Nope.”

Lando wants to make a joke or ask why, but the words get stuck in the vulnerability of the moment. “Me neither,” he whispers, a bit scared of what’s coming for him.

Oscar squeezes his arm. “You’ll be okay.” And then it’s like a lightbulb goes on in his head. “Wait, fuck. I know someone who has experience!”

“Charles, Charles, wait up!” Oscar has an iron grip on Lando’s wrist and drags him along to catch up to Charles, who is heading towards his driver room, trophy in one hand, bottle of champagne in the other. Lando spots indeed a scent patch on the side of Charles’ neck. Fuck, he’s been really stupid, hasn’t he?

When they’ve reached Charles, Oscar’s frantic energy calms down a little. Like Charles could be the solution to all his problems. Lando is not jealous. Really, he’s not.

“What’s up Cherie?”

Nope, no jealousy here.

“So, Lando-” Oscar starts, but he doesn’t get very far. The second Charles’ eyes cross Lando’s, they grow wide. He subtly sniffs the air, nose apparently sensitive enough to catch a bit of the sweet vanilla scent escaping from underneath Lando’s racesuit. His fireproofs are, after all, still drenched in slick. No scentpatch can truly hide that.

“You are no Beta,” he concludes as he furrows his brow at Lando.

Oscar sighs. “No. That’s the problem. He’s just presented and has no clue.”

“No clue?”

Lando tugs on the collar of his race suit. “Nope. Just cramps and liquid leaking from places I don’t want to think about.” He grins lightly, “Didn’t even know you were an Omega, to be honest.”

Charles looks close to panic while listening to Lando talk, eyes flickering around the paddock, hair wildly sticking out from underneath his cap. When he speaks, it’s rushed. “So you do not know what to do? And you don’t have nesting supplies? Or,” Charles hesitates and lowers his voice, “Or any knotting toys?”

A flush rushes up to Lando’s cheeks. Knotting toys. The thought makes him want to curl up in embarrassment. Soon he’ll be craving a knot, that’s what heat means.

Charles catches his nerves immediately. “Lando? There’s no need for shame. It is simply part of being an Omega. Nothing shameful. I’m only keeping my voice down in case of others listening in.”

Lando can manage a nod, not quite believing Charles’ words, but that seems to be enough for now. The Ferrari driver calms down a little, tapping his chin in contemplation. “I could maybe get you nesting material. But heats are the best to do with someone else. Someone you trust, preferably Alpha.” His gaze travels from Lando to Oscar pointedly, a blush coating his cheekbones. Lando doesn’t really get what he’s aiming at.

Oscar grimaces. “Can’t you just...lend something to him?”

Charles blush burns even brighter. “I-My heat is scheduled. I don’t have anything with me.”

“Store?”

“Stupid. The fans will figure it out.”

Oscar rubs his eyes in defeat. “Then I don’t know what to do.”

Charles gazes at Lando with the slightest hint of mischief in his eyes, which makes him scratch at his collar nervously. “Do you have an Alpha who you trust?”

“Mate,” -Yikes that feels wrong to say- “No, I-” And then he thinks about Oscar. Who knows him, cares for him, doesn’t ridicule him for having presented so late or not knowing anything about being an Omega. He shakes the thought out of his mind, Charles is asking about Alphas. “I don’t know.”

Oscar rubs at the patch on his neck and Lando guesses that if it weren’t there, Oscar’s scent would flood the space. Part of him fears it, part of him longs. Oscar takes a deep breath and looks at Lando with nerves writing all over his face. It’s rather adorable.

“Maybe I could-”

A weight lifts off Lando's shoulders. “Oh, right. You’re an Alpha!” He forgot again. How did he forget such an obvious fact?

“You didn’t even know he’s an Alpha?” Charles shrieks, seemingly not caring about discretion when it’s considered ‘tea’.

“My ears,” Oscar rumbles, but Charles ignores him.

“How? He’s so...Alpha!” He gestures at Oscar, pointing out all his Alpha features with a single wave.

Shame crawls over Lando’s arms. “I just-” Something in his posture must have changed, because Oscar lets a hand rest lightly on the small of his back, right where the cramps are the worst. “Charles,” he says, “Not the right moment.”

Charles backs off, waving his hands around in apology. “I know, I know. It doesn’t matter at the moment. Err-putain. I just, I don’t think you guys, you know, should have sex?”

Oscar blanches, his hand disappears from Lando’s back. “No, nope. Not what I was offering. That’s so not-no.”

Honestly, that hurts a little. Must be the heat making him desperate.

“HA! Me and Oscar? Sex? No?”

Lando almost chokes on the words, coughing and sputtering. A spike of heat and a flush between his thighs tells the truth though, undeniable. Yes, his body whispers. Oscar would be the perfect Alpha to spend his heat with. “I-” He sighs, giving up. “Osc, what are you offering? I think I don’t have many options as of now.”

This heat is escalating, he can see it in the way that Charles’ nose scrunches up and Oscar keeps clenching his hands like he wants to place them on Lando’s waist. Scentpatches only work so far, they can’t hide a full-blown heat. He’ll need help, and there’s no one in the world he’d trust more than Oscar.

“Company,” Oscar says through clenched teeth, “Bring you nesting materials, food, drinks.”

“You should scent him too,” Charles chips in with his voice light but serious, “Scenting helps the most, certainly because Lando is new to it.”

Oscar nods, “Okay.”

Tears gather in Lando’s eyes. Yes, the cramps are getting worse and he absolutely hates the sticky feeling in his pants, but it’s mostly from how sweet Charles and Oscar are being. He can’t imagine what he’d do without them. Probably cry in his drivers room and end up in shitty precarious situations on his way back to the hotel.

“Okay,” he echoes.

“Right,” Charles claps his hands together. “You should go, before the heat gets worse. Soon everyone in the paddock will smell you.”

Suddenly there’s tension in the space between Oscar and Lando. A low, dangerous sounding noise makes Lando winch. When he looks around to where it might be coming from, his eyes land on Oscar. His teammates upper lip is curling up slightly, showing off his cute bunny teeth. That’s about the only thing that can be called cute, as the Alpha is rolling his shoulders in threat. The growl coming from him confirms it. Oscar clearly does not like that the whole paddock could be made aware of Lando’s predicament any second now. It shouldn’t, but Lando can deny that it’s a bit charming. Oscar never shows emotions, doesn’t seem to care, but is now protective as fuck. Lando bites his lip as a gush of slick drips down his leg. “Yeah,” he whispers, tugging lightly on the sleeve of Oscar’s racesuit, “I think we need to go right now.”