Archive of Our Own

It wasn’t supposed to be complicated.

Lando had a girlfriend, someone steady who knew when to laugh at his chaos and when to calm him down. Oscar had one too — sweet, patient, the type who sent him messages before every quali wishing him luck.

They both had good relationships, solid enough to make sense outside of the whirlwind of F1.

And yet…

“Osc, you drive like a grandma in sector two,” Lando teased as they walked back from the debrief, grinning in that effortless way that never failed to make Oscar roll his eyes.

Oscar snorted, bumping his shoulder lightly against Lando’s. “Yeah? Still quicker than you in sector three.”

On the surface, it was the usual. Teammates ribbing each other, pushing, keeping the edges sharp. But lately, the laughter sat too close to something else, something heavier.

It was in the way Lando’s gaze lingered a second longer than it should, in the way Oscar’s smirk faltered when their arms brushed and neither of them pulled away fast enough.

It didn’t help that their girlfriends were there more often now — standing in the paddock, chatting politely, unaware of the undercurrent between the two drivers.

Lando’s girlfriend had asked him last night why he was always on his phone, smiling at messages he wouldn’t share. He had brushed it off, saying it was just Oscar sending memes.

Half-truth.

Oscar’s girlfriend had started to notice too. “You’re always with him,” she had said lightly after the last race. A joke, probably. But Oscar remembered how the words lingered long after she kissed him goodnight.

Now, walking side by side, banter hanging between them like it always did, neither of them dared to admit that maybe — just maybe — it didn’t feel like just banter anymore.

The season had only just begun, but already the lines were blurring.

The factory meetings were always long. Endless hours of data, graphs, and simulations, all stacked into one dim conference room. By the third hour, Lando’s leg was bouncing under the table, his pen tapping against his notebook, eyes glazing over.

He didn’t notice when he leaned sideways, just slightly, until his shoulder brushed against Oscar’s. Too close. Too casual. But Oscar didn’t move away, didn’t even glance at him — just kept listening, pen poised, as if this proximity was the most natural thing in the world.

And maybe it was.

Lando didn’t know why it felt…easy. Comforting, even. With everyone else in the room, he always felt restless, like he was seconds away from snapping out of boredom. But next to Oscar, the minutes stretched softer, the tension eased.

He told himself it was just because they were teammates, because spending every day together had built a rhythm between them. That had to be it.

Half an hour later, when the meeting stretched into another round of “finer details,” Lando sighed, dragging a hand down his face. He didn’t notice Oscar slip out of the room until a steaming paper cup landed in front of him.

“Here,” Oscar said quietly, sliding into his seat again. “Looked like you needed it.”

Lando blinked at the tea, then at Oscar. “Since when are you my assistant?”

Oscar’s lips twitched. “Since you started looking like you were about to pass out. Don’t want to have to carry you out of here.”

The banter earned a few chuckles from the engineers nearby. To them, it was nothing unusual — just two drivers keeping each other awake through another endless session. Normal. Expected.

But to Lando, the warmth of the cup in his hands felt heavier than it should. To Oscar, the way Lando smiled at him in that quiet moment felt sharper than just gratitude.

Outside, it was nothing. Inside, it was everything.

And neither of them dared to name it.

It always started the same way.

A ping on Oscar’s phone, just past midnight, when he should’ve been asleep already:

U up?

Sometimes it was nothing — a meme, a random thought, something stupid he couldn’t keep to himself. But other times… other times it was heavier.

Don’t think I can switch my brain off. Just keeps running through quali over and over.

Oscar had learned not to question it. Instead, he leaned back against his headboard, thumbs moving quickly.

You’re overthinking again. It’s done, mate. You’ll nail it next week.

Now sleep before I drive over and drag you to bed myself.

He hit send before he could think about how it sounded. Lando’s reply came fast:

…bit dramatic. But thanks. Means more than you think.

Oscar stared at the screen too long before forcing himself to put the phone down. His girlfriend, asleep beside him, shifted slightly in her sleep, and guilt pressed hot against his chest.

It was the same on Lando’s side. His girlfriend had once glanced at his notifications and laughed. “You and Oscar never stop talking, huh?” she said, brushing it off with a smile. He had smiled too, but inside, his stomach twisted.

Because the truth was… he wanted those messages. Craved them, even.

And some nights, he found himself sending the first one.

Lando: You eat yet? Don’t think I saw you grab lunch earlier.

Oscar: Yeah, I’m not a child, you know.

Lando: Doubt. You’d forget if I didn’t remind you.

Oscar: …Thanks, I guess.

Anyone else would’ve called it harmless. Just teammates, looking out for each other.

But lying in bed, staring at their glowing screens, both of them knew it was starting to feel like more than that.

Something they shouldn’t want. Something they couldn’t seem to stop.

The McLaren media team had decided on another lighthearted video for the YouTube channel — “Guess the Song Through the Lyrics.” Easy content, just Lando and Oscar fooling around with music. Nothing serious.

Lando was in his element, bouncing in his chair, dramatic hand gestures flying as he shouted out wrong guesses and then sang too loudly when he finally got one right.

The room filled with his laughter, and Oscar couldn’t stop watching.

It was stupid. They were surrounded by cameras, producers, lights — but the way Lando’s face lit up as he sang a Taylor Swift chorus off-key made something inside Oscar loosen, something that felt far too deep to be simple teammate admiration. His eyes lingered too long, too openly, like he’d forgotten they weren’t alone.

The cameras caught everything.

The editor even left it in — the way Oscar’s smile went soft, the way his gaze didn’t move even when Lando looked away, the kind of look that wasn’t supposed to exist between two people who already had girlfriends.

Fans noticed first. Clips circulated online within hours,

“Oscar staring at Lando like that??”

Memes, edits, comments piling up. Some called it “best friend goals.” Others weren’t so sure.

When their girlfriends saw it, they only laughed. “You two look like you’re married already,” Lando’s girlfriend joked, brushing it off easily. Oscar’s nodded in agreement, saying something about how funny fans can be sometimes.

But later that night, when Lando scrolled through his feed and saw the slow-motion clip of Oscar’s gaze set to a love song, his throat tightened. He couldn’t shake the thought that maybe, just maybe, the fans were seeing something they themselves were too scared to admit.

And when Oscar lay in bed, staring at the same clip replaying on his phone, he knew. It wasn’t just the fans imagining things.

It was real.

Summer break was supposed to be a reset.

For a few weeks, the noise of F1 faded into the background. No race weekends, no endless travel, no cameras in their faces. Just time — time to breathe, time to live.

Lando flew to Italy with his girlfriend, strolling cobblestone streets, eating gelato under the sun, kissing her in front of tourist landmarks. The photos she posted online looked perfect, smiles, arms wrapped around each other, golden-hour lighting.

Oscar spent his days in Thailand, his girlfriend tugging him through vibrant markets, laughing as they tried new food, taking boat rides to hidden beaches. She kissed him on the sand, salt still on her lips, her laughter ringing out over the waves.

On the surface, it was everything they were supposed to want.

And yet.

At night, when the world finally quieted, their minds betrayed them.

Lando lay in bed, girlfriend curled against him, but all he could think about was the way Oscar had looked at him across the McLaren studio, that unguarded softness in his eyes. He hated himself for it — for replaying it, for wondering if it meant what he thought it meant.

He pulled his girlfriend closer, pressed a kiss to her hair, trying to drown it out. But the ache didn’t fade.

Oscar wasn’t any better. His girlfriend slept peacefully beside him, her hand tangled with his, but his thoughts drifted back to Lando’s laugh, to the way his texts always came just when Oscar needed them.

He stared at the ceiling, guilt pressing heavy in his chest, wishing he could switch it off. Neither of them dared to say a word. Not to their girlfriends, not to each other. But in the quiet hours of summer break, oceans apart, they both carried the same secret truth:

No matter how beautiful the places were, no matter how much they tried — their thoughts always circled back. Not to the women in their arms. But to each other.

The first race back after summer break always carried a buzz. The paddock was alive again, full of cameras, chatter, the hum of engines starting up. For Lando, it was familiar, grounding — until a knock sounded on his driver room door.

“Yeah?” he called, tugging on his hoodie.

The door cracked open and Oscar stepped inside, holding a small paper bag. “Brought you something.”

Lando raised an eyebrow. “What, forgot my birthday or something?”

Oscar smirked, placing the bag on the table. “Souvenir from Thailand. And… a chocolate. Don’t ask me what’s inside, I tried one and I’m still not sure.”

Lando pulled the chocolate out, inspecting the colorful wrapping with a grin. “You went halfway across the world and brought me questionable chocolate?”

Oscar shrugged. “Figured it suited you.”

Their laughter settled into a quiet comfort, the kind that always seemed to find them no matter how long they’d been apart.

And then, before Lando could react, Oscar reached out — brushing a strand of hair off his forehead, his fingers ghosting through the longer curls.

“Your hair’s messier,” Oscar said softly, almost absent-minded, his touch lingering just a second too long.

Lando froze. His heart kicked up painfully, heat rushing to his cheeks before he forced himself to laugh, swatting Oscar’s hand away. “Oi, don’t start. Just… didn’t get it cut yet, alright?”

Oscar’s lips curved, but his eyes stayed on him a beat too long, unreadable. “Yeah. Suits you, though.”

Lando turned back to the table, fumbling with the chocolate wrapper just to have something to do with his hands. He fought too hard not to let it show, not to let the blush rise higher. To anyone else, it was nothing — just teammates messing around.

But to Lando, it felt like too much. And to Oscar, it already meant more than he wanted to admit.

The break hadn’t eased anything. If anything, it had only made it worse.

Italy was supposed to be smooth. Lando’s girlfriend had promised she’d be there, but plans changed last minute, and suddenly he was alone in the hotel room.

Alone, and restless. The fight they’d had over the phone hours earlier still echoed in his head — words said too fast, too sharp.

By midnight, he couldn’t take it anymore. His phone buzzed once, twice, before Oscar finally picked up. “Yeah?” Oscar’s voice was groggy, heavy with sleep.

“I fucked up,” Lando blurted, pacing his room. “She’s pissed, I’m pissed, it was stupid, I don’t even know why I said half the things I said—”

“Slow down,” Oscar said, already awake now. “Just—come here.”

Lando didn’t think. He was at Oscar’s door within minutes, knocking too hard, hair messy, hoodie half-zipped. Oscar opened the door, eyes softening immediately when he saw him.

“Lando…” Oscar sighed, pulling him inside. “It’s okay. Sit down.”

But Lando didn’t sit. He paced, hands in his hair, words tumbling out in broken bursts about how nothing ever felt enough, how he hated arguing, how he hated himself for making her cry.

And then — Oscar just stepped forward and wrapped his arms around him.

The effect was immediate. Lando froze, every frantic thought colliding into silence at the sudden warmth. His heart hammered against his ribs, and without meaning to, without even thinking, he leaned into it. Leaned into him.

“It’s alright,” Oscar murmured, voice low against his ear. “You’re okay. It’ll work out.”

Lando’s stupid brain went blank, the fight forgotten, everything narrowed to the steady rhythm of Oscar’s chest against his cheek, the way his hands were firm but careful at his back. He hated how much he needed it. Hated how much he wanted to stay right there.

Oscar hadn’t meant for it to go this far. He just wanted to calm him down, to be the steady presence Lando needed. But as he held him, his face brushed Lando’s hair, and before he could stop himself, he inhaled. Just a breath. Just a mistake.

It felt so right. It felt so wrong.

Lando’s pulse jumped, his fists tightening in Oscar’s hoodie, fighting against every warning in his head. But in that moment — tired, raw, vulnerable — he let himself stay.

Neither of them spoke. Neither of them moved. And that silence said more than either of them dared to admit.

The hug should’ve ended. It should’ve been a quick comfort, a pat on the back, nothing more.

But it didn’t.

Lando’s grip didn’t loosen, and Oscar didn’t step away. The silence stretched, heavy and fragile, until finally Lando tilted his head back, eyes searching.

And suddenly they weren’t just teammates in the middle of a late-night meltdown. They were two people standing too close, breathing the same air, with a thousand unsaid things between them.

Oscar’s gaze caught his — sharp, soft, overwhelming all at once. Lando’s chest rose and fell too fast, his mind screaming to stop, to move, to remember who was waiting back in Monaco. But his body betrayed him.

His eyes slipped shut.

And Oscar—God help him—leaned in. Just a fraction. Just enough for his breath to brush against Lando’s lips. One inch, maybe less, from a line they couldn’t ever uncross.

Then— The shrill buzz of a phone shattered the air.

Oscar jerked back, fumbling in his pocket, the glow of the screen lighting up his face. His girlfriend’s name flashed across it.

The spell snapped. Lando’s eyes flew open, his stomach plunging, heat rushing to his face. He took a shaky step back, trying to catch his breath, trying to pretend he hadn’t just been waiting for something that should’ve never happened.

Oscar stared at the phone, then at him, guilt and something else tangled tight in his chest.

Neither spoke. Neither had to. The distance between them now felt louder than the ring still echoing in the room.

The ringtone finally stopped, leaving only the heavy quiet between them.

Lando coughed, the sound sharp in the air as he stepped back another inch. He forced a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Uh… thanks, Oscar. For, you know, comforting me. I guess it’s already time to sleep. See you tomorrow.”

His voice wavered just enough to betray him.

Oscar opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He nodded once, stiffly, like a man trying to hold a dozen things in all at once. Then he stepped toward the door.

The click of it shutting echoed louder than it should.

Alone now, Oscar stood in the hallway, phone still in his hand, girlfriend’s name glowing faintly on the screen. He hadn’t answered. He hadn’t moved. His fingers gripped the device so tight his knuckles ached.

Inside, Lando sat down hard on the edge of the bed, pressing his palms over his face. His chest still burned with the memory of almost, with the ghost of a touch that hadn’t quite happened. He told himself to forget, to sleep, to bury it.

And Oscar, still standing frozen in the corridor, let the call ring out again. Unanswered.

Neither of them could say it. Neither of them could stop feeling it.

Morning at the paddock was always busy. Engineers moving, mechanics rushing, cameras flashing. Noise everywhere. Enough, normally, to drown out anything else.

But not today. Not after last night.

Lando was already at his driver room, scrolling aimlessly through his phone, pretending not to notice the way his pulse spiked at every sound of footsteps outside. When Oscar finally walked in, casual as ever, Lando’s grip on his phone tightened.

“Morning,” Oscar said simply, like nothing had happened.

“Morning,” Lando echoed, his voice a fraction too light.

On the surface, it was normal. The same banter, the same rhythm. They went through the briefings, nodded at the same comments, sat side by side like always. But under it all, the air was suffocating.

Every time Oscar leaned close to point at something on the data sheet, Lando’s heart lurched, last night replaying in his head — the warmth of a hug, the ghost of breath against his lips. He shifted in his seat, trying to steady himself, trying not to let it show.

And Oscar… Oscar could barely control it. His body betrayed him every time their shoulders brushed, every time Lando laughed too close to his ear. His hand twitched when he passed him a pen, almost brushing fingers when he shouldn’t. He forced himself to pull back each time, jaw tight, guilt weighing on him heavier than the headset he wore.

To everyone else, nothing was different. Two teammates, locked in the grind of another race weekend.

But inside, both of them were unraveling. Pretending was harder than driving at 300 kilometers an hour. Pretending meant choking down the truth, even as their bodies kept remembering what their minds kept denying.

And all day, no matter how much they tried to bury it, one thought looped endlessly in both of their heads.

What would’ve happened if the phone hadn’t rung?

Monaco nights were always soft, warm, quiet. From the balcony of Oscar’s apartment, the city lights glittered across the harbor like a thousand tiny secrets. Inside, the air smelled faintly of her perfume, familiar, grounding.

She leaned in and kissed him first, slow, sweet, her hands resting lightly on his shoulders. He kissed her back automatically — muscle memory more than intention. But the second he closed his eyes, it wasn’t her anymore.

It was him.

The ghost of last night slammed into his head like a wave — Lando’s laugh, too close, the warmth of his chest pressed against him, the way their lips had been a breath away. His stomach flipped violently, heat curling in his chest in a way it wasn’t supposed to.

Oscar froze.

He pulled back too quickly. “What’s wrong?” she asked softly, confusion flickering in her eyes.

Oscar’s mouth went dry. The truth clawed at him — that he couldn’t stop thinking about someone else, that every time he blinked, Lando was there instead. But the words wouldn’t come.

Instead, he forced a smile, thin, weak. “I’m just… tired,” he muttered. “It’s been a long week. I just want to sleep early.”

She studied him for a moment, then nodded, though the shadow of doubt lingered in her eyes. She turned off the lamp, slipping under the covers.

Oscar stayed still for a beat longer, phone heavy in his hand on the bedside table, the glow of unread messages taunting him. He slid into bed beside her, staring at the ceiling, his chest tight.

For the first time, he’d lied to her. And for the first time, he wasn’t sure he could ever stop.

The London rain pattered lightly against the wide windows of Lando’s flat, streaking down the glass in slow lines. Inside, the warmth of the place should’ve felt like home, but his chest hadn’t stopped twisting since Italy.

He couldn’t stop replaying it.

Oscar’s face so close. His breath brushing against his skin. The way Lando’s stupid eyes had shut, ready for something that should never have happened.

Every time he remembered, he felt the guilt punch harder. Because across the sofa now sat his girlfriend, curled up in one of his hoodies, smiling softly at him like he was the only person in the world worth loving.

She’d always been that way — patient, kind, forgiving of his messes, his flaws, the late nights, the distractions. She deserved someone who gave all of themselves to her. And Lando? He was splitting in two.

“Hey,” she said quietly, tilting her head at him. “You’ve been somewhere else all night.”

His throat closed. He ran a hand through his hair, still too long, still messy, and tried to find words that wouldn’t hurt. But there weren’t any.

She set her tea down, looking at him with those steady eyes that had always seen right through him.
“It’s not me, is it?” she asked softly.

His chest cracked open. “You’re… amazing. You’re everything,” he said, voice low, uneven. “And that’s the problem. Because you don’t deserve… this. You don’t deserve me not being fully here.”

Her lips parted, a faint sadness flickering across her face, but no anger. Just understanding. She nodded slowly, as if she’d been expecting it.

“Then maybe,” she whispered, “we both deserve better than pretending.”

Lando’s breath caught, and the weight of the truth finally crushed him. His vision blurred, but he leaned forward, taking her hands in his one last time. “I’m sorry.”

“I know,” she said, managing a small, gentle smile. “I know.”

The break came quietly, no shouting, no slammed doors — just two people letting go before the hurt could rot what was good.

And later, when Lando sat alone in the silence of the flat, the rain still dripping outside, all he could think of was one thing,

Oscar’s arms around him. Oscar’s face close.

Oscar.

The paddock buzzed as usual, engineers rushing, PR staff juggling schedules, the constant hum of race weekend. Oscar sat in the driver room, flipping through notes, trying too hard to act like his chest wasn’t already heavy with everything left unsaid between him and Lando.

Then it came. Not from Lando himself, but overheard — a quiet conversation between a mechanic and one of the staff.

“Yeah, apparently Lando and his girlfriend broke up. Sad, huh? They seemed good together.”

The words hit Oscar like a slap. He froze, pen still in hand, heartbeat kicking up so sharp it hurt.

Broke up.

His first instinct was denial. Maybe it wasn’t true, maybe it was just paddock gossip. But then Lando walked in, a little later than usual. Different. There was no ring of his girlfriend’s laughter trailing behind him, no warm text popping up on his phone mid-meeting, no absentminded grin when her name was mentioned. Just Lando, quieter than normal, shoulders tight.

Their eyes met. And Oscar knew.

Something inside him twisted hard — guilt, longing, fear, all knotted together. He wanted to ask, to reach out, to say anything that might ease the weight sitting between them. But his tongue felt heavy, tied down by the voice of his girlfriend still sitting in his phone, waiting for him, trusting him.

And worse — Oscar knew. Deep down, he knew why Lando had done it. Why he had ended something good, something kind.

Because of him.

Because of what almost happened.

That night in Italy replayed in Oscar’s head again, every detail sharper now. The closeness. The silence. The pull that had nearly broken both of them wide open.

He gripped the edge of his chair, knuckles white, forcing himself to look away before someone noticed.

Lando, though — he kept stealing glances. Not long, not obvious, but enough that Oscar felt them. Each one burned.

The paddock was loud, alive, but inside his chest, it was chaos. Because for the first time, Oscar couldn’t lie to himself anymore. This wasn’t just tension. This wasn’t just blurred lines.

It was real.

And if Lando had already chosen to step into it…

How long before Oscar’s walls came crashing down too?

The car twitched.

One second of distraction, that’s all it took — one second where Lando’s head wasn’t on the corner in front of him, but somewhere else entirely. Somewhere with dark brown eyes and a voice that still echoed in his chest.

His grip slipped, just a fraction too late. The rear stepped out. And then the world lurched. The wall came fast — a harsh smack, jarring but not catastrophic.

“Car in the wall. You okay, Lando?” The engineer’s voice crackled in his ear.

He hissed out a breath, heart pounding. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Car’s not. Sorry.”

The MCL60 sat crooked against the barrier, but he climbed out, waving off the marshals who rushed toward him. He could walk. He was fine. But inside, he wanted to tear his helmet off and scream.

Stupid. Reckless. Distracted.

Back in the garage, the crew swarmed the broken car. FP2 over for him. He stripped his gloves off, jaw clenched, and stormed toward his driver room, ignoring the concerned looks. He didn’t want sympathy. He wanted to be alone.

But when the door opened later, it wasn’t a mechanic or PR. It was Oscar.

For a moment, silence stretched. Lando sat slouched on the small sofa, head in his hands. Then he lifted his gaze.

Green eyes met brown.

And Oscar melted.

Every bit of frustration he’d built up — the walls, the denial, the constant whisper that this can’t happen — vanished in the instant he saw the flicker of pain in Lando’s eyes. Not physical, but deeper. A storm he recognized because he was carrying it too.

“You scared the shit out of me,” Oscar muttered, stepping closer before he could stop himself.

“I’m fine,” Lando said quickly, voice rough. “Wasn’t even that bad. Just… lost focus.”

“That’s not fine,” Oscar shot back, sharper than he meant to. His fists curled at his sides. “You can’t just—” He stopped himself, swallowing the words. You can’t just get hurt because you’re too busy thinking about me.

Lando’s eyes flickered, almost as if he heard them anyway. His lips twitched into the faintest smile, pained but real. “You sound like my mum.”

Oscar shook his head, forcing down the urge to reach for him. “Someone has to.”

For a long moment, neither moved. The air between them crackled, heavier than the crash, heavier than anything. And though the paddock outside buzzed on like nothing happened, in that tiny room, it felt like the world had narrowed down to just two people, locked in a storm they didn’t know how to escape.

It had been Carlos’s idea — padel under the Monaco night sky, sweat and laughter chasing away the weight of the season for just a few hours. By the end, all of them were flushed, shirt collars damp, grins tired but genuine.

Oscar offered to drive Lando back, and no one thought twice about it. Just teammates, just friends.

But once they were alone in the car, the air shifted.

Freshly changed into loose hoodies and joggers, both still carried the buzz of adrenaline from the game. Lando leaned back in the passenger seat, legs sprawled, hair damp and messy. He let out a sudden, unguarded laugh at something small — a joke about Carlos’s terrible serve — and the sound lit up the cramped car like sunlight breaking through clouds.

Oscar glanced over. And that was it.

That laugh. Those eyes. The same green that had haunted him for weeks, pulling him in, hypnotizing without trying.

He shouldn’t look too long. He knew that. But he did.

And Lando looked back.

The silence shifted, thickened, until the world outside blurred away. Neither spoke, neither moved — not consciously, anyway. But slowly, inevitably, they leaned closer.

No hesitation this time. No second-guessing. No lines left to blur.

Their lips met.

It wasn’t clumsy or desperate — it was effortless, natural, like every beat of tension that had built through the season was made to break right here.

And the instant it happened, it was like being struck by lightning. A thousand volts of electricity running through both of them, setting every nerve on fire.

Lando exhaled against him, soft and stunned, and Oscar swore he could feel the sound in his bones. Neither pulled back. Not at first.

It was wrong. It was reckless. It was everything they’d been afraid of.

But God — it felt right.

When they finally broke apart, the car was silent except for the sound of their breathing, ragged and uneven.

Lando’s eyes were wide, lips parted. “Oscar…”

Oscar gripped the wheel, knuckles white, trying to anchor himself to anything but the weight of what just happened. But deep down, he already knew, there was no going back.

The car rolled to a stop in front of Lando’s apartment, but neither of them moved to get out. The engine ticked quietly, the only sound between them, until Oscar finally broke.

“I’m sorry, Lan…” His voice was low, cracked at the edges. “I—”

But the words tangled in his throat. Sorry for kissing you. Sorry for wanting it. Sorry for not being able to stop. None of it felt right, none of it strong enough to hold what he meant.

Lando turned in his seat, green eyes steady, searching him like he could see every war tearing Oscar apart. He didn’t flinch, didn’t look away.

“Don’t be sorry for me,” Lando whispered, voice almost trembling. “I’m… I’m okay.”

His chest rose and fell, heavy, uneven, like he was balancing on the edge of something terrifying and inevitable. Then, softer, with words that cut sharper than any silence could—

“But be sorry for your girlfriend.” The words hung in the air, shattering whatever fragile peace they’d been holding.

Oscar’s stomach dropped. Guilt clawed at him instantly, a knife twisting deep, because Lando was right. There was someone else, someone who trusted him, someone who had no idea what just happened in the quiet dark of a parked car.

He swallowed hard, grip tightening on the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. “Lando…” he breathed, helpless.

But Lando only shook his head, eyes still locked on him. Not angry. Not even sad. Just… real. Brutally, painfully real. And for Oscar, that was worse than any accusation.

Race weekends were supposed to be adrenaline, focus, and routine. But for Lando, they had become a torment.

Every time he saw Oscar — every glance, every laugh, every brush of hands in the garage — it was like last night in the car replaying on loop in his mind. The taste of the kiss. The warmth of the moment. The electricity that had shot through him like a live wire.

He couldn’t concentrate. He couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t stop thinking about it, and the guilt gnawed at him like an unrelenting storm.

By the time the race party rolled around, Lando had already had too many drinks. Vodka, sharp and burning, sliding down his throat like fuel to the fire inside him. He was sitting with Alex and George, laughing with them, but the edges of the room were blurry, the words of the crowd fading to white noise.

George leaned back, eyes narrowing slightly, intuition kicking in. “Oi, what’s going on with you and Oscar?”

Lando froze, fingers tightening around his glass. He tried to laugh it off, tried to say nothing. But the vodka, the tension, the months of pent-up chaos, they all collided.

“We… we fucked up,” he said finally, voice low, raw, almost a whisper, but heavy enough to cut through the chatter around them.

George’s eyebrows shot up. “What do you mean?”

Lando shrugged, swallowing hard. “It’s… complicated. And stupid. And wrong.”

Alex exchanged a look with George, sensing the storm behind Lando’s words, but neither pressed. They both knew when to let someone unravel.

Because Lando wasn’t just talking about a moment. He was talking about months of tension, of feelings that shouldn’t exist, of a kiss that had changed everything and nothing all at once.

And finally, with the vodka coursing through his veins, he let himself admit it.

“We fucked up,” he repeated, more to himself than anyone else.

The party hummed around them, music pounding softly, glasses clinking, laughter spilling from every corner. Lando sat hunched slightly over his vodka, staring into the amber liquid like it held answers he couldn’t reach.

Alex coughed suddenly, almost spraying his drink across the table. “Wait… you’re fighting?”

Lando shook his head quickly, exhaling through his nose. “No… I… we…” He trailed off, cheeks heating despite the alcohol. Finally, with a bitter laugh, he admitted, “…kissed.”

Alex’s drink hit the table with a sharp clink, his hand coming up to cover his mouth as he coughed again, eyes wide. “Bloody hell…”

George, sitting across from him, had gone completely still. His jaw slack, eyes practically bulging. “Does… Oscar’s girlfriend know?”

Lando’s laugh was hollow, bitter. He shook his head. “No. No one knows. And it… it can’t happen again.”

George let out a slow whistle, leaning back in his chair. “Mate… you’re fucked.”

Alex nodded solemnly, still recovering from the initial shock. “Fucked indeed. And… bloody hell, that’s one hell of a mess.”

Lando buried his face in his hands, heart hammering in his chest. The truth was out — just a little, to two people who might understand. But it didn’t make it any easier.

He knew exactly how tangled it had become. He knew exactly how impossible it was to ignore. And, deep down, he also knew that once Oscar found out he’d admitted it… nothing would ever be the same again.

Oscar’s apartment felt smaller than usual. The muted hum of the city outside didn’t help, nor did the sound of his own ragged breathing.

Inside, the argument still echoed in his ears.

“You’ve been… different lately!” Her voice cracked, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I don’t know who you are anymore, Oscar! You’re… distant, distracted… not the man I fell in love with!”

Oscar hated it. Hated seeing her like that. Hated the raw vulnerability in her voice, the way her hands shook as she gestured, the way she looked at him like he was slipping away.

He wanted to tell her everything, to explain, to make it better. But the words wouldn’t come. Because the truth was too dangerous. Because the truth was Lando.

He hated his heart. Hated that it already knew. Hated that no matter what he said, no matter how many apologies he whispered, no matter how many promises he made, it had already chosen Lando.

“I… I don’t know what to say,” he said, voice tight, throat burning.

She shook her head, taking a step back. “Then maybe… you don’t. Maybe that’s the problem.”

Tears slid down her cheeks, and Oscar’s chest ached in ways he didn’t think were possible. His hands curled into fists at his sides. He wanted to hold her, to comfort her, to make everything right. But he couldn’t.

Because inside, part of him had already made a choice.

And that choice broke him.

The apartment was quiet, emptier than it had ever felt.

Her voice, her presence, the small routines they’d shared — all gone. She had left, taking her things, taking pieces of the life he’d tried so hard to hold together. Oscar stared at the empty space where she had been, heart pounding, chest tight.

Why was he even here? Why did this… this stupid, impossible thing with Lando exist in the first place?

He ran his fingers through his hair, tugging too hard, muttering curses under his breath. Every fight, every stolen glance, every almost-touch with Lando came crashing back, stabbing sharper than the remnants of the fight he’d just had.

He was a mess.

And then his phone buzzed.

A short message, simple, unassuming, “You okay?” It was from Lando.

Oscar stared at it for a long moment, fingers hovering over the screen. His chest lurched. His stupid, broken heart lurched. And somehow, amidst the guilt, the confusion, and the chaos, there was a spark of… relief.

Somehow, Lando knew. Somehow, even from miles away, he had sensed the storm inside Oscar.

He typed back, trembling “No… not really.”

And just like that, the floodgates opened. Because for the first time in weeks, he wasn’t alone.

Lando didn’t think. He just grabbed his hoodie, pulled on shorts, and left.

By the time he reached Oscar’s place, it was close to midnight. The hallway was silent, the kind that made every footstep sound too loud. When Oscar opened the door, he looked… hollow. Like something had already left him behind.

He was sitting on the couch when Lando stepped inside, shoulders slumped, eyes unfocused. A ghost in his own apartment.

Lando frowned immediately. “Jesus,” he muttered, toeing his shoes off. “You look like you’ve been haunting this place for hours.”

Oscar didn’t even smile.

The silence felt wrong — too thick, too sharp — so Lando did the only thing he knew how to do when emotions got too big. He crossed the room and flicked on every lamp he could find. Warm light flooded the space. Then he grabbed the remote and turned on the TV, some random late-night show filling the air with noise that didn’t matter.

There. Better. Less empty.

He turned back to Oscar, voice softer now. “Hey… what happened?”

Oscar stared at his hands for a long moment. Then his chest rose in a shaky breath.

“She left,” he said quietly. “Took everything. Said I wasn’t here anymore. Said I’d already gone, even when I was standing right in front of her.”

Lando’s stomach dropped.

“We fought,” Oscar continued, voice flat, like he’d already cried himself dry. “She said I’ve been different. Distant. That I don’t look at her the same.” He let out a short, bitter laugh. “She wasn’t wrong.”

Lando sat down slowly, close enough that their knees almost touched. He didn’t interrupt.

“I hate myself for it,” Oscar said. “I hate that I hurt her. I hate that I couldn’t fix it. And I hate that even now—” His voice broke, just slightly. “—even now, my heart still chose you.”

The words hit Lando harder than any crash ever could.

“I didn’t want this,” Oscar added, finally looking up. His eyes were red, raw. “I tried to stop it. I really did.”

Lando swallowed. Guilt bloomed in his chest, thick and suffocating. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I never meant for… any of this. I already broke one good thing because I couldn’t lie to myself anymore. And now—” He shook his head. “Now you’re hurting too.”

Oscar let out a breath that sounded almost like a sob. “Why does it feel like choosing you means destroying everything else?”

Lando didn’t have an answer. So instead, he reached out — slowly, carefully — and rested his hand over Oscar’s clenched fist. Not a kiss. Not a pull. Just contact.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “But you’re not alone in this. Not tonight.”

Oscar’s shoulders sagged, the tension finally cracking. He leaned forward just a little, forehead dropping against Lando’s shoulder. Lando stayed still, heart pounding, letting him.

The TV murmured nonsense in the background. The lamps glowed warm. Outside, Monaco slept. And for the first time since everything began to fall apart, neither of them was alone in the dark.

Five races left.

That was what the media kept counting down to — five chances, five battles, five opportunities for a World Championship that seemed to sit directly between Lando and Oscar. Headlines loved it. 

Teammates turned rivals. 

The civil war inside McLaren.

They played their parts perfectly in public. Tight smiles. Measured answers. No cracks.

But in private? They were falling apart.

It started small — stolen moments behind closed doors, a hand lingering too long, a kiss that should’ve stopped but didn’t. Somewhere along the way, the line dissolved entirely.

Now it happened too easily.

Oscar would crowd Lando without a word, backing him against a wall or a door, eyes dark and unreadable. Lando never stopped him. Never told him to slow down. He’d just laugh breathlessly, fingers curling into Oscar’s shirt like it was instinct instead of choice.

Sometimes Oscar pushed him down onto the bed or couch, bracing himself above him, all weight and heat and restraint — not crossing lines, but standing right on the edge of them. Lando would gasp, chest heaving, neck marked in ways he’d later have to hide beneath hoodies and high collars.

They never talked about it afterward.

They never talked about anything. Because talking meant naming it. And naming it meant facing the truth they were both terrible at saying out loud.

“What are we doing?” never left Lando’s mouth.

“I want you” never left Oscar’s.

Instead, they kissed like it might answer the question for them. Like desire could replace honesty. Like touching could fix the mess they were making of everything else.

Five races to go. Five chances to win it all.

And somewhere between the pressure, the secrecy, and the way they kept reaching for each other without understanding why — they were running out of time.

Not just for the championship. But for the truth.

Two races left.

Everything felt louder now. The media. The fans. The expectations pressing down from every angle. Even Zak had started watching them differently — eyes sharp, questions careful, like he was waiting for one of them to flinch.

“Friendly rivalry,” the headlines called it. “Championship fight within McLaren.”

But nothing about it felt friendly anymore.

The heat didn’t help. The air hung thick over the circuit, heavy enough to make tempers short and mistakes costly. Every lap felt razor-edged, every radio message too clipped, too tense.

On track, it showed.

Oscar drove like he was trying to outrun something — frustration, jealousy, the image of Lando pulling further and further ahead. He pushed too hard when he shouldn’t have. Defended corners that didn’t need defending. Lost time he couldn’t afford to lose.

P4.

When he climbed out of the car, his face said everything. Jaw clenched. Eyes dark. No smile for the cameras, no forced optimism.

He hated this race. Hated how it had slipped through his fingers. Hated how part of him had been watching the timing screens instead of the apex — watching Lando.

Because Lando was flying.

Pole. Clean air. Absolute control. P1 like he belonged there. Calm on the radio, deadly precise on track, everything Oscar couldn’t be today.

The contrast was brutal.

In parc fermé, Lando caught Oscar’s eye for half a second. Not triumphant. Not smug. Just… worried.

And that somehow made it worse.

Later, in the quiet of the garage, the tension finally snapped into something visible. Not words — just sharp movements, clipped replies, distance where there shouldn’t have been any. They couldn’t even look at each other without everything underneath threatening to surface.

This wasn’t just racing anymore. It was personal.

Two races left. One title.

And feelings bleeding into driving in ways neither of them could control — or admit.

Oscar had just finished showering when the knock came.

He was still damp, hair curling at the ends, wearing an old, soft T-shirt that felt more like armor than comfort. The room smelled faintly of soap and steam — quiet, finally — until the door opened.

Lando stepped inside without waiting to be invited.

He still smelled like champagne and adrenaline, hair wet like he’d barely bothered drying it, eyes bright in a way that didn’t match the heaviness hanging between them. Too much emotion crammed into one small space.

Oscar exhaled slowly. “I’m not mad at you, Lan.”

The words barely settled before Lando closed the distance. No warning. No speech. Just hands on Oscar’s shirt and lips pressing into his like this was the only way he knew how to breathe anymore.

Oscar froze for half a second — then kissed him back, hard enough to steal the air from both of them. A low, frustrated sound slipped from his throat before he could stop it.

He pulled back just enough to murmur, breathless, “Too many eyes here.”

Lando’s forehead rested against his, heart racing.

“Let’s just… do this in the hotel room, okay?” Oscar added quietly, like a plea disguised as a suggestion.

Lando nodded instantly. No hesitation.

They didn’t say anything else. They didn’t need to. Because whatever this was — whatever they were becoming — it had already followed them far past the track, past the cameras, past the noise. And now, there was nowhere left to hide.

Oscar had known it for weeks.

Mathematically, sure — miracles were possible. Technically, nothing was decided until the chequered flag fell. But he wasn’t stupid. He’d lost too many points, made too many small mistakes that added up into something he couldn’t outrun anymore.

Tomorrow wasn’t really about winning. It was about letting go.

The Abu Dhabi night was warm and still, the city lights spilling through the hotel window like something unreal. Lando’s room was quiet except for the sound of their breathing — uneven, close, shared.

Oscar lay there, chest rising fast, heart pounding for reasons that had nothing to do with racing. He stared up at the ceiling for a long moment, then turned his head toward Lando.

“Whatever the media twists tomorrow…” he said softly, voice rough but steady, “…I’m proud of you.”

Lando looked at him, surprise flickering before something gentler settled in its place. He smiled — not the bright, public one, but the small, real one Oscar knew too well.

“I’m way more proud of you, Osc.”

The words sat between them, heavy and honest. No jealousy. No competition. Just truth, finally spoken without fear.

Outside, the world was already writing its headlines. Rivalry. Pressure. Legacy.

But in that room, on the night before the final race, there was no championship to fight over. No cameras. No expectations.

Just two people who had found each other at exactly the wrong time — and maybe, somehow, at the right one too.

Tomorrow would decide everything else.

The chequered flag fell like a release.

Lando barely remembered the cool-down lap. The radio crackled with shouting, laughter, voices breaking under the weight of it — World Champion. The words didn’t feel real until the car stopped and the noise swallowed him whole.

People rushed him. Hands on his shoulders, his helmet pulled off, cheers crashing over him in waves. His family were there — his mum crying openly, his dad laughing like he couldn’t stop himself. They hugged him tight, grounding him, reminding him this was real.

And then there was Oscar. On camera, it was perfect.

Oscar stepped forward first, pulled Lando into a hug that looked every bit like good sportsmanship — teammate to teammate, rival to rival. Big-hearted. Gracious. The kind of moment fans loved to clip and replay.

Even Lando’s parents hugged Oscar, thanking him, praising him, telling him how proud they were of both of them.

And Oscar smiled. He always did.

The world saw acceptance. What they didn’t see was the way Oscar’s heart felt strangely calm.

Because somewhere deep inside, he already knew — he’d won something else.

The celebrations blurred together after that. Noise, lights, champagne, hands clapping his back. Lando smiled until his cheeks hurt, posed for photos, said all the right things.

Oscar stayed close but careful, always just within reach, never crossing a line the cameras could catch.

By the time they finally escaped back to the hotel, the night had gone quiet. The adrenaline drained away, leaving only exhaustion and something softer underneath it.

It was just the two of them again.

Oscar stood by the window for a long moment, watching the city glow below, trying to steady himself. He’d rehearsed this in his head a hundred times — always stopping before the words formed.

But tonight felt different. Tonight felt like an ending. Or maybe a beginning. He turned to Lando.

“I know this is… late,” Oscar said quietly. “And messy. And not how it should’ve happened.” His voice wavered, just a little. “But I don’t want to leave this season without saying it.”

Lando looked at him, fully now. No distractions. No noise.

“I love you,” Oscar said. He swallowed. “I’m sorry it took me this long to have the courage.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy. It was gentle. Lando laughed softly — not mocking, not shocked — just… relieved. He stepped closer, eyes warm, something unguarded in them at last.

“God,” he said, shaking his head. “You really chose now.”

Oscar let out a breath he’d been holding for months. Lando leaned in and kissed him — slow, certain, nothing frantic left in it. Just truth. When they pulled back, foreheads touching, Lando whispered, “Yeah. Me too.”

They both knew it hadn’t been clean. They both knew it had been wrong, and confusing, and badly timed.

But standing there, championship celebrations still echoing faintly outside, it finally felt honest.

Maybe that was what it meant to be human. To find your way through the mess — and choose anyway. The season was over. The title decided. And for the first time, there was no race left to distract them from what they wanted.