Chapter Text
Miami, Florida — 2nd May.
20:54PM — LOCAL TIME
Miami is quiet.
Quieter than Lando imagined it’d be. It’s not as boisterous as the other cities they race in, it’s humble—chaotic to a point but welcoming in the way that matters.
The people are loud, and the traffic even more so, but it’s a peaceful loud—the type of loud that almost feels homey. Oscar calls it a nice change of pace, calming from their usual routine.
“Lando,” George falls into step at his side, slow in his long strides. “I know it’s Miami, but myself and Carlos organised a dinner,” George leans forward to meet Lando’s eyes, his hands folded together behind him. “Care to join?”
Lando opens his mouth, then shuts it. He shrugs. “I don’t know,” His hand tightens on his bag strap. “I have to meet Max, I’ll see if I can make it after…?” Lando hums as George straightens his back. “What’s with you and always meeting with Max? Can’t you two be apart for more than a couple of hours?”
“Seperation anxiety is real, George,” Lando jokes as his shoulders bounce, George sighs. “—I’ll be there after, I promise.” George’s brows furrow as Lando waves, he splits off between two motorhomes, and drops his bag against the fake grass flooring.
He taps the watch on his wrist, once, twice—a screen pops up, on the first screen, every news article published in the last hour and on the second, a detailed diagram of his suit. He presses it, and ever so slowly, the fabric stretches from under his watch to over his skin. From his head to his toes, he’s covered in his fluro green spider-suit.
He stands from his crouched position, and tugs his bag over his shoulder once again. He grips the strap, glances over his shoulder at the busy paddock, and takes off.
He slings a web to the closest skyscraper and swings until he finds the right balcony. His feet pad against the railing of the fifteenth floor apartment.
“You took your time.” A laptop sits open on the glass table in front of Max—it holds open more tabs than Lando cares to count, and shows every vital piece of information screenshotted and highlighted in a minimized window of microsoft paint.
Lando dumps his bag on the floor by the door, letting it rest limp against the glass as he slides into the empty space next to Max. He pulls his mask halfway off, letting it rest folded on the bridge of his nose. “Sorry—the team kept me back.”
Max barely shares a nod, all too focused on the open tabs of his laptop. “I was searching again,” Max turns the laptop at an angle, allowing Lando’s eyes to finally fall against the screen. “In the last month, these three drivers have been attacked,”
Max shifts to another open tab, this time pulling up the profiles of three drivers. “Lawson, Tsunoda
and—“ “Oscar,” Lando bites his lip as Max shoots him a glance. “—I know, I was there.”
“Is he doing okay?” It’s hushed against the quiet, slow against the Miami breeze. Lando nods. “I was in the vicinity when it happened, he was barely touched.”
Max’s brows furrow at Lando’s response and his silence speaks volumes. “One scratch, left upper arm.” Lando doesn’t look up from the computer screen, his finger taps away at the mousepad as he shifts between numerous open tabs.
“—From what I know,” Max starts again slowly, his eyes focused on the way Lando’s mask moves as he reads every available word. “Lawson and Tsunoda have decided that staying with someone is the safest idea—the media posted about it earlier.”
Max swats Lando’s hand from the mousepad and clicks on a tab, it has an article from three hours ago. “Who are they staying with?” Lando reclines back against his chair, his eyes still focused on the screen. “Not sure,” Max shakes his head. “—Do you know if Oscar’s staying with someone?”
Lando’s brows furrow under the mask, he shakes his head. “Haven’t had the chance to ask—but he’s Oscar so—“ “Probably not?” Max inches forward as Lando nods.
Lando’s mask hits the table, Max takes a breath. “The only thing you can do right now, is keep your guard up,” He inches forward as Lando stares at his mask, his expression lifeless. “Ask around, figure out who Lawson and Tsunoda are staying with so you know where to look if something happens,” Max pauses, his eyes falling to the laptop screen. “—And try to convince Oscar to stay with someone? It’ll be safer in the long run.”
“Shit.” The curse comes as Lando’s chair hits the floor, he’s already padding towards the balcony railing by the time Max realises he’s leaving.
“Lando?”
“That’s what the driver’s dinner was about,” Lando tugs the mask back over his face and climbs onto the railing. “Because, of course it was, the one time I don’t use my head the driver’s dinner is actually important.”
Max pushes himself to his feet. “Lando, what the hell are you talking about?”
“George said there was a driver’s dinner, I said I’d show up after I meet with you,” Lando turns momentarily, facing Max as he sighs. “But I didn’t realise it’d be important.”
“Shit,” Max echoes. Lando nods. “Of course, it’d be about that—it makes perfect sense, especially after the media spoke about it.”
“Exactly,” Lando’s brows furrow. “I’ll come around later, tell you what I find out.”
Max nods as Lando takes off. He swings for three blocks before he finds a herd of paparazzi and photographers outside the entrance of a fancy Miami restaurant.
He lands in an alleyway, and mentally prepares himself for the ambush. He taps his watch, letting the suit disappear. He’s still dressed in team gear, still in the old McLaren t-shirt from hours prior.
He steps out of the alleyway and aches like a sore thumb—immediately noticed against the dark light, the flashing of cameras blinding against his first step.
Still, he manages to get inside in one piece. Barely.
“You’re late.”
Dirty plates chime as they’re placed on top of each other—rubbish scraped into bins and cutlery shifted into old pots. “Like, really late.”
George stands from where he’s helping clear the table, he passes a stack of plates to a waitress beside him. “I know, I’m sorry.”
“Not good enough, Lando,” George crosses his arms, stepping aside to let the waitresses finish their jobs. “This one was important, really important.”
“I know, I know.” Lando plays with the hem of his shirt, his breath stiff as the unspoken question lingers. “Pierre has offered Yuki a place, to no one’s surprise,” George takes a breath. “Liam is staying with Isack—they’re teammates, so it’s easier on them both.”
“And Oscar?”
“He never said a word,” George shrugs, his eyes narrowing in on Lando’s expression. “I was half sure he’d choose you—but you never showed,” There’s a pause, it lasts all too long for Lando’s liking, but George’s expression falters at the chime of dirty cutlery. “You let him down, Lando.”
“I know.”
Lando waits for a moment, hesitates before turning on his heel. “And where are you going?”
“To find Oscar,” He shoots a glance over his shoulder, sighing as George’s arms fold over his chest. “I let him down, I should offer him a place, no?”
George only nods as Lando leaves the building—he dodges the paparazzi, just barely, before running back into the alleyway. Two taps of his watch and he’s back in the air—back to swinging across Miami, back to landing on Max’s balcony.
He still sits at the glass table, still with the open laptop—still with the numerous tabs.
“Back already?” Max barely looks up, Lando finds comfort against the metal railing. “Dinner was over by the time I got there,” He grips the metal underneath him, his lips pressing together under his mask. “Pierre and Yuki, Liam and Isack.” He speaks with no context, but with the way Max’s brows furrow, he understands immediately. “And Oscar?”
Lando looks off.
“No one?”
“I was too late, Max,” His hands tighten around the metal once again. “George said he was going to ask me, but—“ “You didn’t show.”
He nods, once, and the air thickens around them. Max frowns, his arms folding over his chest as he reclines against the back of his seat.
“Head home,” Max speaks up, his lips pressed together as he pauses. “Head back to your apartment, go talk to him—maybe he’ll ask if you show up at his door.” There’s a pause as Lando looks at Max, and he’s already shaking his head.
“I’m not buying Oscar Piastri chocolate.”
“Oh, come on, why not?” Max teases.
“I’m nowhere near that desperate. I just want him safe.”