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Monaco, Summer break
He’s three shots in and the buzz is finally spreading through his body, loosening his muscles, settling warm and heavy into his bones. He’s surrounded by friends, the music is loud, and the the lights are low and forgiving, and he feels good. Its just the decompressing he needed after how stressful the first half of the season had been. But it’s the sight of his teammate walking in, looking completely out of place in outdated skinny jeans and a quarter-zip jumper, that sets him alight.
Lando watches Oscar wring his hands and glance awkwardly around the club from a distance for a bit, before pushing through the sea of bodies to put him out of his misery.
“You made it. Didn’t think you’d come,” he says, pulling Oscar into a quick hug when he finally reaches him. It’s especially crowded today, but Lando has never minded crowded spaces for the way they let him fade into anonymity, a rare gift in his line of work.
“You were right, I needed to get out of the house,” Oscar shouts back over the music.
Lando grins. “Come on.” He leads Oscar toward the DJ booth, where his friends are already lining up more shots. He hands one to Oscar, clinks it against his own and downs it. He watches Oscar grimace as the sharp burn makes its way down his throat, and then hands him another.
This isn’t Oscar's scene, Lando knows that. When he’d texted Oscar that afternoon, inviting him to join his mates for a night out, he’d been sure Oscar would turn him down. It had been a random courtesy ask, slipped into a conversation about travel plans to the MTC before Zandvoort. Team bonding or whatever. So he’s weirdly touched when Oscar actually shows up, and he takes it upon himself to make sure he has a good time.
Lando introduces him around, keeps checking in with quick glances, and a few minutes later feels a small, private satisfaction when he spots Oscar nodding along to the music like he might actually be enjoying himself.
There’s just one little problem and he's called Grant. Older, American, dark-haired, broad-shouldered, Grant. Lando had met him earlier that night, before Oscar arrived, and he’d been into him up till about half an hour ago, enough to even have maybe gone home with him. Now, though, he feels a low, simmering irritation every time Grant hovers too close, or leans in under the flimsy excuse of being heard over the music, or finds one reason after another to touch him.
Lando had already been awkward about Oscar seeing him in his natural habitat, loud and loose and a little too open. Although the alcohol had helped soften that edge and dulled the self-consciousness, he still notices the way Oscar is watching them, the way his gaze sharpens, the way it hardens when Grant presses close to Lando as he takes over DJ duties for a bit.
Something tightens in Lando’s stomach, a twist of discomfort. He wants out. He keeps trying to drift away, to angle his body away, throwing Grant subtle signals that this isn’t going anywhere, but Grant doesn’t seem to notice, or doesn’t want to. He can't tell which it is. So Lando drifts toward Oscar, who’s on his other side. It feels like a lifeline. Safe and grounding. Just like when he spots his teammate across the bustling media pen when he's being hounded by reporters after a bad race, or when their eyes meet across the conference table during an especially draining strategy meeting.
He tells himself it’s about making sure Oscar feels included, about not leaving him stranded in a place that is completely out of his comfort zone, but if it also puts Grant off and sends him packing, Lando won’t pretend that won't be a relief.
“God, this guy is so clingy,” Lando finally mutters more to himself than anyone, but he can tell Oscar catches it.
A few minutes later, when Grant tries to slide back in again, he feels Oscar move, casually placing himself between them, and Lando is suddenly, acutely aware of Oscar’s arm slipping around him, the weight of it settling on his waist, the warmth of his palm pressing into his hip through denim. Oscar’s face stays unreadable, and Lando follows his lead, keeping his eyes fixed down as he cues the next track, fingers dancing over the mixer, acting as casual as he can while every neuron in his body is firing off at once. He makes it a point to not look at either of them, afraid that if he does, he’ll give too much away.
“Think he’ll get the hint?” Oscar whispers from behind him, and it’s only then that Lando realises just how close he’s standing. Oscar’s breath ghosts over his ear, his voice low and warm, sending a shiver down his spine.
Out of the corner of his eye, Lando sees Grant finally give up, the message landing at last. A brief, awkward “Okay then,” and he’s gone, swallowed by the sea of people. Lando watches him disappear into the crowd with a small, satisfied smile tugging at his mouth before he can quite stop it.
The space Grant leaves behind feels suddenly vast, like the room has exhaled. Oscar stays where he is, and for a few seconds, neither of them moves. The music thrums through the floor and into Lando’s chest, but Oscar’s presence cuts through it, and Lando finds himself relaxing slowly.
When he’s sure Grant is truly gone and not returning, Oscar clears his throat and shifts awkwardly, starting to pull his hand away. But Lando is six shots in by now, unsteady, reckless, and very much not ready to lose the quiet comfort of that touch. Before he can think better of it, he reaches back, lays his hand over Oscar’s, and holds it down exactly where it was.
Oscar stills. Neither of them says anything. Lando doesn’t dwell on it and makes a conscious effort to act as casual as he can and not to turn it into something bigger than it is. What’s a couple of mates having a few drinks, getting a little handsy with each other? It’s not unheard of. Neither is it particularly frowned upon. Still he’s quietly grateful for the dim lights and the press of bodies around them, and the way the front of the DJ booth conceals their lower halves. Even if someone were to take pictures, it would conceal Oscar’s arm wrapped around him, now steadier, more certain than before. Lando becomes acutely aware of the careful firmness of it, of how easily he could lean back, and how naturally he would fit against Oscar if he were to let himself. He doesn’t do it. He’s not that drunk. But the urge to do so does catch him off guard.
“You okay?” Oscar asks quietly.
Lando nods, not trusting his words. He’s more than good, actually, dangerously so, balanced on the edge of something that feels steady now but could completely unravel tomorrow. But that’s a problem for tomorrow’s Lando, he thinks. For now, he lets himself bask in it.
He doesn’t step away. Neither does Oscar.
Zandvoort, 28 August
He knocks once. Nothing. Knocks again. Dead silence. It’s only then that Lando checks his watch and realises it’s two in the morning, and of course Oscar is asleep. Of course this was a stupid idea. Of course he should go back before he makes things worse. He takes an unsteady step back when he hears the lock click softly and the door cracks open to reveal Oscar, his hair flattened on one side and his eyes unfocused with sleep, blinking at the harsh hotel corridor light.
“Lando?” Oscar says, rubbing at his eyes, straightening like he’s trying to wake himself up properly. “Is everything okay?”
“Can I come in?” Lando asks, swaying slightly but trying hard to steady himself. Oscar doesn’t answer, just steps aside, and Lando slips in.
The room is dim, lit only by a single lamp. Oscar shuts the door and turns to face him, still looking uncertain, like he’s waiting to wake up and find this was all a dream. “What’s up?” he asks, cautiously.
“Nothing,” he says. “Just came to say hi.”
Which is ridiculous, but to be completely honest, he’s not entirely sure himself why he’s here. There’s a gap in his memory, a smudge of time he can’t account for, and he genuinely isn’t sure why he's here. He remembers going out with the lads, he remembers downing shot after shot, remembers the club and the music and the press of the bodies around him, he remembers the laughter and his friends dumping him back in his hotel lobby. He remembers making his way up to his suite to crash, but now he was here down the aisle in Oscar’s suite instead.
“To say hi?” Oscar frowns. “At two in the morning?” He steps closer and squints at him. “Wait. Are you drunk?”
“As a skunk,” he says with a grin, then mutters, “Don’t know why they say that.”
“Oh my god,” Oscar says, half-amused, half-alarmed. “You’re plastered, mate.”
The words sting more than they should, and Lando feels embarrassment crawl up his neck. But embarrassed as he is, he can’t help the warmth that spreads through his chest at the sound of Oscar’s soft laughter that follows. “Did you lose your way or something? You’re in 706. This is 709.”
"I know," Lando insists. “I meant to come here...to see you. “I’m not that drunk.” He absolutely is.
Oscar folds his arms loosely. “Okay. Why?”
Why did he come to see Oscar? He doesn’t really know. Just that he wanted to see him, wanted to be near him, wanted to look at his face and say something, something important, something that had been gnawing at him for a while, something he had tried to put out with booze and loud music, but still the ember of it glowed, but now it was just out of reach. So instead, he just looks. Oscar’s in a worn out grey T-shirt and checkered pyjama bottoms, barefoot on the carpet, hair a mess, and Lando can’t for the life of him understand how someone could look so painfully ordinary yet so very enticing. Oh yeah, that's why he's here.
“I missed you, Oscar,” he blurts.
And with that, everything comes rushing in. The memory of Oscar’s arms around his waist in the club, solid and protective; his breath warm against Lando’s ear, his mouth brushing his neck as he leaned in to be heard over the loud music, the way their bodies moved together to the rythm. Ever since that night in Monaco, Lando hasn’t been able to get Oscar out of his head. Nor had he been able to stop turning over all the other moments from the past couple of years too, the ones he’d refused to look in the eye then, now picked apart and overanalysed. The way Oscar would watch him, following his movements across meeting rooms, the paddock, or their garages, always when he thought Lando wasn’t looking. The way his touch lingered a tad bit longer than necessary sometimes. The way he lit up at Lando’s stupid jokes and folded over with laughter, and how that laughter filled Lando with quiet pride and made him want to keep telling them, again and again, just to keep hearing it.
Somewhere along the way, the crackling tension of the title fight and having to walk the delicate tightrope between teammates and rivals, had turned into something else entirely. Something Lando couldn't name until that night in Monaco.
He doesn’t know how not to say all of it. How not to say that he sees Oscar, really sees him, even when Oscar doesn’t think he does. Because he knows Oscar will freak out. His internal filter barely works on the best of days, and it’s even worse when he’s drunk. Still, he’s trying, so hard, to hold his tongue.
He’s not sure what he wants Oscar to say or do, just that he wants, no, needs, some release to the tension, a confirmation that he isn't just cooking it all up in his head.
“I just—” He exhales, scrubs a hand through his hair, losing the battle with himself and blurts out, “Come on, Oscar. Don’t tell me you don’t feel it too.”
“Feel what?” Oscar asks quietly.
Lando takes a step towards him. Oscar doesn’t move. “How do you stand it?” Lando presses.
Oscar doesn’t answer, but he drops his hands, his eyes flicker, his jaw tightens like he’s bracing himself. Lando steps closer. Oscar stays where he is.
“You know what I'm talking about,” Lando says, softer now. “I know you do. I know you feel it too. Does it kill you too?”
It takes everything in him not to say more, and from the pained expression Oscar is failing to hide, Lando knows he understands. He takes another step.
Oscar looks away. Lando wants to stop him, to take his face in his hands, to not let him take the easy way out. And somewhere his alcohol soaked brain has already sent out the signals to his arms to do just that before he can stop it, and now he's touching oscar's cheek, watching him flinch at the touch and turning his face towards Lando's, meeting his eyes.
“I wish we could just be Lando and Oscar for a minute,” he murmurs, letting his hand fall only to lace his fingers through Oscar’s. He’s close enough now to feel the shiver that runs through Oscar. But he doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t say no.
Lando takes both of Oscar’s hands and wraps them around himself, and Oscar lets him. Encouraged, Lando slips his own arms around Oscar, and they stand there embrasing, still. He rests his chin on Oscar’s shoulder and, all of a sudden, feels like he might cry. This, this closeness, this quiet, is what he came for. Not his teammate. Not his rival. Just Oscar and the warmth of being in his arms again, something Lando hadn’t been able to stop craving since the club.
Then Oscar squeezes him back.
In his alcohol-fogged mind, Lando reads it as reciprocity, the slightest sign from Oscar that he isn’t just imagined everything.
He lifts his head and cautiously, gently presses his lips to Oscar's. It barely qualifies as a kiss, just two lips pressed together. He pulls back half expecting Oscar to push out of his grasp or throw hands. But he doesnt, he just goes very still. So Lando goes in again, this time more forcefully. Oscar doesn’t kiss him back, but his hands shift on Lando’s back, tightening his grip ever so slightly, not pulling him in, but not pushing him away either, holding him in place. And Lando wants, god, he wants, to win here if he can’t win anywhere else. He wants Oscar to give in so bad, to not fight him and just concede to him this once. He catches Oscar’s bottom lip between his teeth, tugs at it and bites gently. Oscar makes a soft sound, and Lando can’t tell if it’s protest or pleasure. So he tries again, tasting a hint of blood, pressing his tongue forward past Oscar’s gritted teeth. When Oscar still doesn’t respond, still resists, Lando falters, defeated, and drops his forehead back onto Oscar’s shoulder, breathing in the faint scent of his ridiculous chocolate deodorant that has no business smelling this intoxicating.
“God...why you? Why did it have to be you?” he says, not even sure if he meant to say it out loud.
They stay like that for a moment, Lando swaying slightly, Oscar holding him steady, until Lando finally pulls back.
“I’m sorry,” he says, staring at his shoes now, sobering just enough for embarrassment to creep in at his actions.
Before he can make things worse, he makes a quick retreat to his own room, heart pounding, head spinning, already replaying everything he shouldn’t have said and definitely shouldn’t have done. Because they weren’t just Lando and Oscar, they were Lando Norris and Oscar Piastri, Formula 1 drivers for McLaren, and tomorrow they would have to face each other again as teammates, coworkers, and rivals. And Lando had just made everything far messier than it already was.
Zandvoort, 31 August
Heartbreak was the only way Lando could describe it. DNFing because of a technical failure when you’re having one of the best races of your life, leading, at a moment when every single point mattered. He kicks his car, shouts down the radio, then reins himself in, forcing something that looks like composure, painfully aware of the cameras. He keeps his helmet on longer than necessary, afraid of what they’ll catch on his face if he takes it off. The last thing he wants is to be dragged online for being 'too emotional' again when he was already being criticised for being too soft to be the world champion. The last thing he wants to do is prove all his naysayers right. The helmet gives him a sliver of privacy even as the drones and TV cameras swarm around him.
Oscar takes P1. Lando watches from a distance as the younger driver gleams under the lights, polished and unshaken, answering questions in the media pen like this was always how it was meant to go.
On Friday, Lando had shown up to free practice with a killer hangover, foggy and off-balance, while Oscar had been exactly like he is now—steady, collected, untouched. Lando had wondered if he imagined it all. Maybe everything that happened in Oscar’s hotel room the night before had just been a vivid, alcohol-soaked hallucination. Maybe he’d gone straight back to his own room and passed out, just like his friends thought he had, and dreamt the whole thing up.
The weekend had been relentless. Meetings, debriefs, pointless media obligations. They were rarely alone. And yet Lando knows he didn’t imagine it, not with the way Oscar had avoided his eyes, the way his body shifted just a little too casually whenever Lando was near, and the faint edge in his laugh whenever Lando cracked a joke when they were filming content for marketing. Lando saw it all. Every glance, every twitch, every flicker of expression. He caught the tilt of Oscar’s shoulder, the almost imperceptible bite of his lip and the slight crease of his brow. He noticed, memorised, and read meaning into everything. He realises that he’s too attuned to his teammate now. A little too much and too far gone, perhaps.
He’d thought about bringing it up more than once over the weekend. Maybe drop a quick text. Or drag Oscar to a quiet corner for a few minutes. Just a chance to clear the air and set things right.
But what was he supposed to say? Sorry I kissed you when you didn’t want it?, Sorry I misread your signals?, Please don’t tell anyone. Please keep my big career-ending secret safe. All of it felt like the wrong answer. So he put it off. Again and again.
Oscar didn't bring it up either. If anything, he seemed to put in extra effort to avoid any conversation that would require looking directly at Lando at all.
He ploughed through the weekend like a machine, relentless and unflinching, and now here he is on the podium, lifting the trophy like nothing had ever phased him. What had Lando called him once? The silent killer.
Lando has no interest in joining the celebrations. He ducks into his driver’s room when the team is all out together with Oscar, wanting to sulk in peace. Oscar doesn’t seek him out, and a small, stupid part of Lando is disappointed. No words of comfort. No condolences. Not even a quick customary text. Nothing.
Later, when Lando manages to somewhat pull himself together, he goes looking for Oscar, maybe to apologise, maybe to confront him, maybe to just have something to focus his energy on that wasn’t the race outcome. When he reaches the hospitality lobby he sees Oscar kissing his girlfriend, fingers laced together as they walk away, and the message lands clean and brutal.
It was all in his head after all. Even if had really happened.
He’d been pathetic and emotional, seeing ghosts of hope and possibilities where there were none. So he hardens himself and decides not to let it touch him. If this is how Oscar wants to play it, fine. No more worrying about what the rivalry is doing to whatever they almost had. No more trying to be friends or wondering if they could be more. No more straying from his one true goal. He’s going to win the championship. Because it's the only thing Lando hasn’t lost yet.