Work Text:
Lando climbed the narrow stairs into Max's jet, his backpack slung over one shoulder, wondering for approximately the seven hundredth and thirty-fourth time why he'd thought flying with Max would be a good idea on a weekend like this.
'Brilliant plan, Norris. Absolutely genius. From the paddock straight into the lion's den. World class decision. 10/10. No notes.'
The cabin smelled expensive, like leather and something clean that always made it seem like Max had it professionally detailed between every flight. Which he probably did. Because of course he did.
"Hey." He dropped his bag by the first seat that he saw, aiming for casual. Breezy. Some tone that didn't say "oh yeah, I definitely just cut you off at turn one like an absolute maniac and then lost the lead anyway. Congrats on the win by the way."
Max glanced up from his phone, expression unreadable. "Hello."
One word. Flat as the Nevada desert they'd just left behind.
'Yep. He's pissed.'
Lando scratched the back of his neck, then wandered deeper into the cabin like he had any right to be here. Like he wasn't a fraud in every way that mattered, while Max stood tall and proud, lauded by the crowd everywhere he went.
P2. But pending investigation. The stewards had still been circling like vultures by the time Lando had hurried from the paddock, grateful at least that he was on a flight scheduled to head out early.
Illegal car. Allegedly. Possible disqualification. In his mind's eye, he saw Andrea's ashen face as he'd explained the circumstances to both him and Oscar, in the back of the McLaren hub.
He turned back with a huff, and sat down across from Max, folding himself into the plush seat and immediately wishing he'd chosen literally anywhere else. Like the plane's cramped little toilet. Or maybe the tarmac.
"So." He crossed his arms over his chest. "Ten hours, yeah?"
"Eleven," Max corrected without looking up from his phone.
'Eleven. Christ. Eleven hours with the guy I aggressively blocked into a near-collision because I thought… what? That I could actually keep him behind me? What a fucking joke.'
His jaw tightened. The adrenaline from the race still buzzed under his skin, mixing with exhaustion and something sour. Impotent anger. Or maybe fear.
Max dropped his phone onto the seat next to him and leaned back, eyes settling on Lando. Steady and assessing. "You drove well."
Lando blinked, momentarily dragged out of his own spiraling thoughts. "What?"
"Turn one. Aggressive! Smart though." Max's mouth twitched, though it didn't quite reach a smile. "I had to work for it for a bit, there."
Work for it. Like Lando had been some minor inconvenience. A speed bump on Max's road to redemption and renewed dominance.
He forced a grin. The kind that he knew looked cocky, even when his stomach was twisted into knots. "Yeah, well. Gotta keep you honest, don't I?"
The jet's engines rumbled to life beneath them, but Max's eyes didn't leave Lando's face. "You do."
Unsure of what to say to that, Lando busied himself with his seatbelt.
'Eleven hours of this. Someone kill me now.'
The leather creaked as Max settled back again, the plane beginning its rumbling taxi toward the runway. Lando fiddled needlessly with the seatbelt latch, his fingers twitchy and restless, betraying the chaos taking form inside his mind.
And still, Max stared at him. Stoic and controlled as he clipped his own seatbelt closed without ever taking his eyes off Lando.
Then the plane lurched upward, pressing Lando back into his seat. He clenched his jaw, his knuckles whitening as he clamped down on the armrests. But at least for one blissful moment, he could justify closing his eyes and escaping Max's gaze.
Eleven hours of this. Of Max's quiet scrutiny while Lando's own brain screeched at him in increasingly unhinged doom spirals.
'Brilliant. Just fantastic. Eleven hours in a tin can with Max fucking Verstappen, newly crowned King of the Comebacks. Hunter versus prey but sky high.'
He felt the plane level out, but just to be contrary, his mind took another nose dive instead.
'Go straight to Forgettable, do not pass Go, do not collect any trophies, because Max Verstappen will do it for you! Just great. I can't be here. I can't not be here. God, why do I do this to myself? Every time. Every fucking time, I swear. I just-'
"Lando? You okay mate?"
No. He wasn't. He was P2. For now. The stewards could still strip it from him. Another headline then: "NORRIS DISQUALIFIED - ILLEGAL CAR!" as if he hadn't bled for every single point this season. Like he'd gone out to the garage early and sanded down the bloody plank himself, just to be edgy.
"Yes," he said, after a beat to swallow down his thoughts. He blinked open his eyes, to find Max clipping out of the seatbelt, stretching out his legs.
A god damn picture of ease.
"You hungry?"
He blinked again, his mind apparently content to start and stop several tracks of thought every time Max so much as breathed. "What?"
"There's food." Max gestured toward the galley as if this were perfectly normal. As if they hadn't nearly killed each other on the track mere hours ago.
'Why isn't he angry? I could've cost him the race. Probably because he won, right? And there's no investigation pending for our latest race winner. Nope, that one's all me. And Osc. But not Max. Max's fucking plank wouldn't dare scrape past the nine millimeter mark.'
The kindness was worse than anger though. Max should've been smug. Should've needled him about the overtake, about the way Lando had cracked under pressure. Again. Instead, he was offering fucking snacks.
His stomach twisted. "Not hungry."
He felt Max's gaze bore into him, those sharp eyes missing nothing. "You should eat."
'I should've won.'
The thought burned. Max's concern felt like pity. And pity meant he'd already written Lando off.
Max looked briefly toward the galley, like he was thinking through options. "I asked them to bring the chicken wraps you like." It sounded so casual. Lando nearly flinched in response. "With the sauce you-"
Something snapped. Like, a clean little break somewhere inside Lando's chest, sharp enough for him to feel it. His hands curled into fists in his lap as he turned his head to look at the other man.
"Can you… can you NOT," he bit out, his voice tight and thin. "Just stop. Stop being… whatever this is. Nice. Or… thoughtful. Or…" He flailed for the right word and came up empty. "Stop."
Max blinked, looking genuinely confused. "What?"
Annoyance surged, hot and wild. Mortifying. Yet he was unable to hold it in. "Stop trying to feed me!" He hissed, louder than he meant to. "Just stop treating me like I'm… like you're… I don't know! Like you didn't just beat me, Max!"
Max's eyes narrowed suddenly, confusion melting into something colder. "Is that what this is about?"
"Oh, brilliant," Lando snapped. "Psychology from the fifteen-time world champion of I Can't Be Arsed. Fantastic. Yes, Max, it bothers me that you won. Again! Of course it does! And now you're sitting here offering me chicken wraps like… like… like I'm some sort of sad little puppy you found on the street!"
Max sat forward. "Lando-"
"No!" He shot to his feet. The jet rocked just enough in that exact moment to make him grab the seatback to steady himself. He glared at Max. "You don't get to be nice to me right now! I can't… I can't fucking deal with that, okay? I just can't."
His breath came fast, too fast, and embarrassingly shaky. Meanwhile Max just stared up at him. Steady. Because of course.
It only made it worse. He raked both hands into his hair, fingers snagging on the mess of curls. Then he paced all of four steps because the cabin wasn't big enough to pace more.
"Just…" He turned back to look at Max, who had turned in his seat to look at him. "Stop. Please. Don't… don't be kind to me. I can't stand it."
Finally, Max stood. He turned to Lando in the aisle, his movements slow and stiff, like he wasn't sure whether approaching would get him punched or screamed at or both. When he spoke, he sounded a bit baffled. "I'm not… just being kind. I'm trying to help. You look like you're about to pass out."
Lando laughed, a sharp, broken sound that nearly choked him. "Oh, amazing. Fantastic. Yeah. Now I look like dogshit too? Brilliant. Let's just add that to the list, yea?"
Max frowned. "Lando-"
"So none of this is because of turn one?" Lando threw his hands up, pacing his tight four step loop again. He whipped around at the end, glaring down the aisle at Max. "Really? It's not? Because you should be pissed, mate! You should be yelling at me! You should be telling me I'm a bloody idiot, yea?"
"I'm not yelling at you," Max said, sounding almost offended, his frown only deepening.
"That's the bloody problem!"
Max's eyes widened slightly at Lando's outburst, and then he glanced behind him as if checking his usual stewardess Becky wasn't coming out of the cockpit to check they weren't actively murdering each other.
Lando felt his chest heave, frustration crawling under his skin, making him twitch. "Just… fight with me, Max. Come on. Say what you're thinking. Say it. Say I fucked up. That you're angry. That I could've put you in the wall. Go on then. Say it!"
Max shook his head slowly. "You didn't fuck up. You defended. That's racing. I told you, it was a good move."
"Then why do I feel like I'm going to be sick?"
Max opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked honestly, helplessly confused. "Because you're tired?" he tried. "Or maybe hungry? Or-"
Lando barked out a laugh, too bright to be cheerful. "Nah, not hungry mate. Not this time."
Something flickered across Max's face then. Frustration, finally, just a hint of it. "Then what?" He demanded. "What is it? You're shouting at me for wanting to give you food, and for saying you drove well. What do you WANT me to say?"
Lando's breath caught. This was it then. The very edge. The point of no return. "What do I want?" His voice sounded thin. Cracked. "I want you to stop acting like it shouldn't matter that I lost the lead. That I got P2 so it doesn't matter. Like the championship isn't… like I'm not…"
His voice failed, and he looked away, feeling his eyes burn.
Max stepped closer, brows still knit. "Lando. P2 still puts you far ahead. With Oscar finishing P4, your lead-"
"It might not be P2!"
It came out loud, and landed in between them with all the grace of a McLaren pitstop at a crucial moment of a race. Max froze completely, staring at him like he'd just announced he was thinking of dropping out of Formula One to become a ballroom dancer.
He swallowed hard, feeling the words clawing their way out. His voice trembled when they did. "They're checking the car. The plank wear, it's…" He shook his head. "Oscar, too."
Max didn't breathe. Something flitted through his expression. Shock first, but then something sharp, like calculation. Before it was buried underneath something heavier.
But Lando knew Max had clocked the opportunity. The shift in the balance between them. Max knew all the rules. Could practically cite the regulations down to the last letter. If anything off about the plank wear had been noted, and the matter had been referred to the stewards, there was only one possible outcome.
Still, Lando pressed on. Desperate. Unraveling. "If they disqualify me… if they take the points… then you'll be… You'll be right behind me, and Oscar too. I… I gave you exactly what you needed."
'If anyone can do it,' his mind hissed traitorously, 'it's him. You know he'll take it. He won't hesitate. Blood in the water, and he's circling the raft.'
"Lando," Max finally said, impossibly quietly. "You think I want to win like that?"
Lando's breath hitched painfully. "It doesn't matter what you want. It's what's happening."
For a long moment, Max just stared at him, seemingly stunned. Not triumphant or hungry, just struck silent.
Lando shifted slightly on his feet, already twitchy again. For all he'd wanted Max to stop talking to him earlier, now he desperately wanted Max to say something. Anything. His eyes found the other man again, still stood in the aisle between seats, jaw tight and eyes sharp.
"Come here," Max said then, finally. Unexpectedly, too.
Lando blinked at the way he said it, practical instead of soft, and hesitated. "What? No. I'm fine."
"You are very obviously not fine." Max's tone was clipped. "And you're two seconds away from passing out or punching me, and I of course don't want either of those things happening on my plane."
He reached out and then, lightly, touched Lando's forearm. Lando's breath did it's annoying hitchy thing again, his eyes still burning dangerously. But Max was already motioning at the seat right next to Lando.
"Sit." It wasn't really a demand, and Max definitely didn't sound pitying. More like he was just… directing traffic in the most efficient way possible.
Lando sat.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, ready to bury his face in his hands and never look up again ever, but then Max's hands closed around his wrists, tugging his hands down gently. Max had sat down on the edge of the seat right across from him, leaning all the way forward to look him in the eyes now.
"You didn't give me anything." Max's voice was steady. Logical. "You didn't hand me the championship. You didn't 'mess up'. The plank isn't your fault."
Lando couldn't keep his eyes on Max's, instead dropping his gaze to Max's hands, somehow still holding his. Max's hands were warm, his fingers lean, almost delicate, and his skin was very pale against Lando's own tan. "It feels like it's my fault," he mumbled to Max's hands.
"Funny," Max said dryly, "it feels to me like you drove a great race. Sure, lap one was shit, but that's of course the case for many. You came to P2 on merit. Just because the FIA are very bored in Vegas, and want some drama, doesn't mean you didn't do good."
Lando snorted. It was small and unwilling, but a snort nonetheless. He lifted his eyes to Max's face to find the man still watching him with those beautiful blue eyes that saw everything.
"You're scared," Max said then, as if to prove the point. It wasn't accusing, but not exactly gentle either. Just naming the shape of the thing. "But you're not out. Not unless the FIA say so."
Lando gave a humorless laugh. "And if they do?"
"Then you deal with it. You'll still fight. You always do. And you're still leading, even if they take the points."
Lando swallowed. His chest hurt, but it didn't feel like it was collapsing this time.
Max continued, quieter but still firm: "And if I get closer again next weekend? If the gap shrinks with the Sprint or whatever? Good. That means we get to fight properly to the end."
That lodged somewhere deep. Where it was warm and gentle, and where feelings lived that were absolutely terrifying. "You want that?"
Max's mouth twitched into something close to a smile. "Of course. I want you at your best. Not… whatever this is." He let go of one of Lando's hands just to gesture vaguely at Lando's entire twitchy existence.
Lando huffed a weak, incredulous laugh. "What! That's rude."
"Got you to laugh though," Max said simply. The fingers around Lando's palm tightened slightly, seeping their warmth into Lando's freezing skin.
There was a long beat of silence. Then: "The chicken wraps are still there, you know."
Lando groaned, rubbing his free hand over his face. "Max."
"What?" Max asked, seeming genuinely confused again. "You should eat."
And for the first time since Vegas, Lando didn't feel like screaming. He just… rolled his eyes.
Progress.