Chapter Text
The start of the weekend - the start of the 2026 season - seemed pretty unremarkable at first.
The new year meant McLaren had pretty much hit the reset button. All of the rules and processes and exceptions which started stacking up at the business end of the 2025 season fell away, and the media day started like Lando and Oscar hadn't spent most of the previous year battling each other for a championship.
The table they were sat behind was one of the rough wooden ones the paddock used for everything - meetings, coffees, the occasional frantic laptop session between practice runs. Today it had been cleared and turned toward the cameras, a sponsor board neatly planted behind them, and the Melbourne sun falling warm across the wooden planks.
On the table sat a neat row of Tim Tam packets.
Oscar rested his forearms lightly on the wood, reading the labels with quiet concentration.
Beside him, Lando shifted in his chair until it tipped onto its back legs, studying the lineup like it was a particularly interesting grid formation.
Oscar noticed the movement without looking up. Lando had a habit of balancing chairs like that - casual, careless, like gravity was mostly optional for him.
It should have been annoying. Instead, Oscar found himself oddly aware of the long line of Lando’s legs stretched out under the table, the lazy confidence in the way he occupied space. It was just another thing that made Lando Lando.
Oscar focused on the chocolates. He slid one of the packets a fraction straighter, aligning it with the edge of the table in the same instinctive way he aligned brake bias settings.
Lando watched him do it, the corner of his mouth twitching fondly.
“First media day of the year,” he said, quiet enough that the social media team mumbling together about angles and framing wouldn't hear.
Oscar hummed in acknowledgement, still looking at the packets.
“Missed this?” Lando asked, casual enough that it could have meant the cameras, the paddock, the whole circus. Or it could have meant the other thing.
Oscar finally glanced sideways at him, expression innocent if not for the mischievous glint in his eyes.
“The biscuits?”
Lando huffed a quiet laugh through his nose.
“Yeah. Obviously the biscuits.”
For a second their eyes held - a slow, easy burn settling between them - before the social media team moved into place and the moment slipped away like it hadn’t been there at all.
Like it wasn't just the latest in a string of 'moments' that had started in pre-season testing.
Lando hadn’t noticed it immediately. It was just a brush of arms in the drivers’ room in Barcelona, both of them reaching for the same charger cable. Oscar’s hand had bumped his wrist and neither of them had moved away straight away.
At the time it had felt like nothing. Later, lying awake in a hotel room that smelt faintly of detergent and jet lag, Lando had realised he could still remember exactly how warm Oscar’s skin had felt through the thin cotton of his sleeve.
Then Bahrain. Gravitating towards each other in the downtime between testing in a way they hadn't for months. Small smiles - at first hesitant, then more secret, knowing. Leaning against the workbench in the garage discussing recharge modes, standing close enough that their shoulders touched every time one of them shifted...
Little sparks whenever they made contact, like skid blocks against the track: tiny jolts that caught your eye, but didn't need commenting on. Not yet.
Their cameraman crouched slightly to frame the shot.
“Okay, let's do it.”
A nod for them to begin.
Lando straightened instantly, leaning forward with bright, practised enthusiasm. The media-friendly veneer slipping into place like a security blanket.
“Hello everyone, welcome to another video. Today, we’re in Australia.” He gestured vaguely toward the paddock stretching out behind them. “We’re in Oscar’s hometown, and we’re tasting-”
He turned his head toward Oscar.
Oscar finished the sentence without looking up from the packet he was turning over in his hands. He didn't even need to think about it these days - they had done so many of these videos by this point. He could anticipate Lando's media patter as well as his own, knew the slight inflections in his voice that meant he was throwing the ball to Oscar.
“Tim Tam flavours.”
Then he added, dry as ever, “So this is one of the more fun videos we’ve done.”
With Oscar's seal of approval granted, Lando’s grin widened immediately.
“This is the best video we’re going to do ever.” He rubbed his hands together theatrically. “Let’s crack on.”
Oscar slid the first packet across the table and turned it so the label faced them both.
They looked down at it. Lando's nose scrunched up in disgust. Oscar looked... much the same as he always did.
Different reactions on the surface, yet perfectly in sync: "Throw it in the bin." "Bin it."
Lando pointed across the table.
Oscar didn’t even hesitate. He tossed the packet right off the edge of the table.
Someone behind the camera laughed softly.
“There we go,” he said, already reaching for the next packet. “So, Double Coat.”
Lando watched the discarded mint packet land with satisfaction. He ignored Oscar's attempt to keep things on track in favour of exploring this new nugget of information about his teammate.
“Do you not like mint?”
“No.”
"I hate mint," Lando grinned, pleased for once to agree with his teammate on something culinary-related. (He was still trying to convince Oscar that salmon had no place in hospitality, but that was a battle for another day.)
“Apart from chewing gum,” Lando added thoughtfully. “I don’t mind a chewing gum. But a mint chocolate?”
Oscar glanced sideways at him, the faintest crease appearing between his brows. “Right? Why would you mix chocolate with the flavour of toothpaste?”
Lando nodded immediately.
“Yeah.”
Oscar gave a short, approving nod - the kind he usually reserved for a clean qualifying lap.
“Good.”
Lando looked faintly pleased with himself, like he’d passed a test he hadn’t realised he was taking.
“Finally something we agree on,” he said, nudging Oscar playfully.
Oscar’s mouth twitched at the corner - practically a full blown laugh by his standards.
“Don’t get used to it.”
Their agreement sat there for a second, shared and effortless. A moment of solidarity as the world carried on around them.
A light breeze moved across the terrace, stirring the edges of the packets and ruffling their hair, their team t-shirts. The indistinct symphony of other teams - setting up, recording their own content, hosting tours - providing a steady baseline all around them. Somewhere further down the paddock one of the exhibition cars barked into life, the sound carrying across the lake.
The breeze pushed a strand of Oscar’s hair across his forehead. Lando’s eyes tracked it automatically, caught on the soft fall of hair against skin. It was such a small thing, barely noticeable on camera, but it tugged at something low in his stomach and Lando found himself fixated by it.
Oscar didn’t brush it away, didn't seem to notice at all...
Or maybe he did.
Oscar’s gaze flicked up, catching Lando staring - he held his eyes a beat too long, dark and steady.
Heat prickled under Lando’s collar. Neither spoke.
The air between them had thickened into something fragile - the kind of pause where one wrong movement might break it, and neither of them seemed entirely sure they wanted it to.
"Umm boys?" One of the team said mildly, calling them back to the task at hand, making a note of the timecode to edit out before they posted.
Eyes snapping back to the camera guiltily, Oscar placed the Double Coat packet carefully in front of them. His fingers tapped once against the packet - a small, restless movement that only happened when something had slipped past his usual control.
“Double Coat,” he said, voice bright with normality. “Now, these are my favourites.”
Like a moth to a flame, Lando leaned forward slightly - elbows on the wood, closing the gap until their forearms were only inches apart. Close enough to feel the faint warmth of Oscar’s skin, the clean scent of whatever soap he used that always seemed to linger in his driver's room.
It was stupid how familiar that smell had become. It was the kind of detail you only noticed about someone when you spent far too much time standing just a little too close to them.
...the kind of detail like knowing their favourite Tim Tam flavour.
Lando had heard Oscar talk about Double Coats before - interviews, paddock chatter, the odd snack run - but he still watched him with quiet interest, like this was new information worth collecting.
Oscar rarely got animated about anything that wasn’t a car. Seeing him do it over biscuits was unexpectedly compelling. Almost... intimate?
“Yeah?” Lando asked, almost softly.
Oscar smiled and nodded. He slid the packet to the far end of the table, setting it apart from the others with quiet certainty.
“So I’m putting them…” He tapped the wood lightly. “…here.”
Lando squinted at the placement.
“P1, is that?”
“Yeah.”
Lando nodded slowly, approving.
“I mean, the more chocolate, the better.”
Oscar tilted his head, considering the point very seriously. “Well, you say that. But they make a triple coat-”
He paused, catching Lando's eyes again - something light and happy simmering under his mock serious expression. He was enjoying this.
“That’s too much.”
Lando blinked. “That’s too much?”
Oscar nodded. “That’s too much.”
Lando leaned back again in his chair, rocking it gently on the back legs as he studied Oscar like he’d just delivered a genuinely controversial opinion.
Oscar had already picked up the next packet.
“Chewy Caramel.”
Lando’s mouth curved immediately - a small, knowing smile.
Oscar didn’t notice the smile, already focused on placing the packet - something like nostalgia in his eyes.
Lando had seen that exact look before - the small spark of interest that appeared whenever someone brought caramel Tim Tams into the briefing room. It had shown up during long race weekends when Oscar hadn’t been home in months, when the jet lag was still clinging to both of them and the catering had run out of anything remotely Australian.
The first time it happened - the first time he'd noticed Oscar's eyes light up when the Aussie treats made an appearance - Lando had quietly stolen the rest of the packet before the engineers could get to them.
Oscar had pretended not to notice.
Lando had pretended the same.
“It’s not as good as Double Coat,” Oscar said evenly, placing it on the table. “But we’ll put it there for now.”
White chocolate came next.
Lando leaned forward again, suddenly more interested in the game than he was in his teammate's reaction to it... Almost.
“Ay, me does love some white chocolate.”
Oscar looked at him properly now.
There was something faintly indulgent in the look, like he already knew the conversation was about to go off-topic and had decided, silently, to let it play out anyway.
Lando had a habit of following interesting thoughts wherever they led.
Oscar had a habit of watching it happen.
“Do you?”
Lando rested his elbows lightly on the table.
“You know, Belgian white chocolate is the finest white chocolate.”
Oscar’s expression shifted slightly - something amused flickering at the edges.
“I think all Belgian chocolate is the finest chocolate.”
“Well, yeah,” Lando said easily. “I'm half Belgian. Obviously I agree with you."
"Hmm," Oscar’s gaze flicked over him without thinking - quick, automatic, then lingering. Suddenly heated.
Taking in the way Lando's hoodie sleeves were pushed up over tanned forearms, the faint flush from the sun across his cheeks, the loose way he leaned across the table like the cameras weren’t even there.
Oscar looked away a fraction too late - still quick enough to be missed by the camera, but slow enough that Lando definitely noticed.
“That explains it,” Oscar said, voice lighter than the look warranted.
“Explains what?”
Oscar tilted his head, considering him for a beat longer than necessary.
“The strong opinions about chocolate.”
Lando laughed under his breath, but the look he gave Oscar then was a fraction sharper - amused, curious, edged with heat the camera lenses couldn’t catch.
Their eyes locked. Held. The air between them thickened; Lando’s pulse kicked under his jaw. One second. Two. Then Oscar dropped his gaze first, but not before Lando saw the faint flush climb his neck.
It lasted long enough that someone quietly shifted their weight near the camera - clearing their throat politely and making another edit note on the pad.
Oscar nudged the white packet forward. “So, where are we putting these ones?"
“I’ve never had it,” Lando admitted. He glanced up to the camera, remembering that they weren't just having a conversation between themselves. “This is basically Oscar’s own game here.”
Oscar was already opening the packet, his intention clear.
“We’ll have a little nibble,” Lando agreed to the unspoken question. “I worked very hard in the gym this morning. Forty-five minutes on the bike.”
He said it with such solemn justification that the cameraman chuckled. Oscar smirked slightly, eyes on the biscuits, holding back the very off-brand comment that sprung to mind.
He took one for himself then slid the pack to Lando, watching as he almost tentatively held the biscuit between two of his ridiculously large fingers.
For a moment neither of them moved, like they were daring the other to go first.
Lando broke the eye contact first - taking the smallest, most delicate bite.
Oscar followed a second later, realising it was probably a terrible idea to watch Lando nibble a chocolate bar on camera.
Chewing thoughtfully - like he was tasting a Michelin dish rather than Tim Tam flavours - Lando nodded in approval once, and slipped the slightly-sampled biscuit carefully back into the packet.
“No one’s gonna know,” Lando murmured conspiratorially.
Oscar flicked a glance toward the camera.
“They definitely will.”
“But see,” Oscar said, turning back to the table - all business, “do you think that’s better or worse than Chewy Caramel?”
Lando leaned closer, studying the layout with exaggerated seriousness.
“I think that’s worse than Chewy Caramel.”
Oscar nodded slowly.
“I think we can put it here. And finally we’ve got the OG original.”
He picked up the familiar brown packet and placed it confidently near the top of the table.
“Which, personally, I would put here.”
Lando’s head snapped up.
“What?”
Oscar looked back at him.
“What?”
“I would swap them," he said, gesturing to the original and caramel Tim Tams with far more abandon than such a game really warranted.
“You’d swap these two around?”
Oscar moved the packets experimentally. As the native Aussie at the table - and a deeply competitive individual - part of Oscar felt that he should argue the point, but Lando was nodding in satisfaction as Oscar moved the packets around. And Oscar just... lost whatever impassioned biscuit defence he had been about to mount for the humble Original Tim Tam.
Especially not when Lando made a low, pleased hum of agreement that struck something within Oscar's chest and twisted. He decided, very deliberately, not to examine why it felt like static under his skin.
Attention forcefully back on the game, on the cameras still filming them, Oscar surveyed the table like an engineer pleased with a completed diagram.
“I think we’ve got a good order here.”
Lando followed his gaze.
“I’m happy with that as well.”
Lando turned toward the camera again. “So if you do want to go buy some Tim Tams, that’s what to go for.”
Oscar lifted the Double Coat packet into frame.
They held the pose awkwardly for a couple of seconds.
"Aaand we've got it. Thanks guys."
Despite the implicit permission to move, for a moment the two of them stayed exactly where they were, the paddock noise drifting back into the space between them - mechanics rolling tyre trolleys past, a burst of laughter from another hospitality unit, the distant thrum of people gathering.
Lando nudged the white chocolate packet with his finger.
“They weren't half bad."
Oscar didn’t look up.
“No such thing as a bad Tim Tam."
"Except mint," Lando pointed out.
"Oh absolutely." Oscar allowed, casual - managing to keep the smile off his face too overtly.
Lando smiled back anyway.
Across the terrace one of the media interns was already looking at her phone.
“Oh wow,” she said quietly. “People are quick.”
Lando glanced over her shoulder as he stood.
The video had only been live a minute.
The top comment read:
LANDOSCAR IS BACK 😭🧡
Lando snorted softly.
Oscar was already walking toward the paddock gate.
But the corner of his mouth twitched, just slightly, like he’d seen it too.
The thing about a new season was that it let everyone pretend the last one had ended cleanly.
Fresh overalls. Fresh points tally. Fresh headlines about momentum and opportunity and how every team had “learned lessons” over the winter.
In reality, the paddock had a long memory.
Lando felt it most in small moments like this - sitting back down in the garage after the Tim Tam shoot, the taste of sugar still faint on his tongue, the easy rhythm with Oscar lingering in his chest like a song he’d almost forgotten the words to.
The way they had fooled around on the fan stage with their art projects, Oscar smiling brighter than Lando had ever seen him grin for any race win - just because he managed to sabotage Lando's painting. Even if Oscar's own woeful attempt at spray painting the Albert Park circuit still came up short in Lando's objectively true opinion.
Playing a stupid numbers game neither of them understood for social media content, in what probably had to be one of the most boring videos they had ever done - but he had still had fun doing it anyway. Not because of the game, because they felt like a team again.
Because for most of last year, that rhythm had disappeared.
Not all at once. But chipped away in increments - small adjustments, quiet decisions made in glass meeting rooms upstairs.
By the time the championship fight really began to tighten, the team had started to get… careful.
“Let’s split these up today,” someone would say lightly, clipboard tucked against their chest. “Just to keep the schedule moving.”
At first it had barely registered.
Lando would film something with the marketing team while Oscar was pulled aside for a separate interview, or they’d be scheduled ten minutes apart for the same sponsor activation. Nothing unusual. Just logistics.
Then Singapore: wheel-to-wheel contact. Oscar was pissed. Lando was punished.
Followed by their crash at the Austin sprint. More media speculation. More social outcry.
After that the separation became more deliberate.
Different media rotations. Different debrief times. If they did end up in the same room there was usually someone hovering nearby - a PR handler leaning against the wall with a polite smile that didn’t quite reach their eyes.
Keep it professional, the look said. An unspoken accusation.
By Brazil it had become routine.
No more stupid games for social media. No more passing a phone back and forth across the drivers’ room sofa to show each other whatever fans were arguing about online that day. Even the pre-race team paddock walks had quietly disappeared, replaced by separate briefings and tightly managed schedules.
It wasn’t hostility.
There had never been a blow-up. No slammed doors or raised voices or dramatic confrontations that the cameras could spin into headlines.
Just distance.
The strange thing was that the absence felt louder than any argument would have been.
Lando had kept catching himself turning to say something during race weekends - some stupid observation, some piece of paddock gossip - only to remember Oscar wasn’t sitting there anymore. He hadn't even consciously realised how much time they were spending together until he'd lost it.
Lando had assumed, early on, that one of them would eventually say something about it.
A joke, maybe. A sarcastic comment during a debrief. Something that acknowledged the weirdness of suddenly being treated like volatile elements that couldn’t be left alone together.
Neither of them did.
Oscar had accepted the changes with the same calm pragmatism he applied to everything else. If the schedule said he had a simulator session instead of media, he went to the simulator. If the PR team told him to head straight to engineering after qualifying, that’s where he went.
And Lando…
Lando had told himself it didn’t matter.
They were teammates fighting for a championship for the first time since the 'Brocedes' fallout. Of course the team were nervous. Of course they wanted to avoid feeding the media another team rivalry storyline.
It was sensible.
Professional.
So he’d let it happen.
Even the end of the season had passed without much more than a quick handshake at post-season testing and a quiet 'see you in January' before they were pulled in opposite directions by different team members
At the time, it had felt easier that way.
Cleaner.
Now, sitting in the garage with the Melbourne sunlight spilling across the pit lane outside, Lando realised how strange that had been.
Because neither of them had actually asked for the distance. At least, Lando didn't think Oscar had.
They’d just… let it exist.
Across the garage, Oscar was standing with one of the race engineers, head tilted slightly as they studied something on a tablet.
Even from here Lando could recognise the posture - the stillness, the quiet focus that meant Oscar was already halfway inside the car in his head.
For a moment Lando just watched him. Trying to remember how this was supposed to work again.
Then Oscar glanced up.
Their eyes met across the garage floor - brief, but heavy.
For a second Oscar forgot what the engineer had just asked him. He made himself look away, glancing back down at the tablet, but the corner of his mouth lifted, private and slow.
Lando felt the knot in his chest unravel, replaced by something warmer, lower. The kind of warmth that made it suddenly very difficult to concentrate on anything resembling telemetry.
Maybe the new season reset had worked after all.
By Sunday morning the paddock had settled into the quieter, heavier rhythm that always came before a race.
Thursday’s noise - the media, the games, the sponsor appearances, the easy laughter around the McLaren garage - had slowly been replaced by something more serious.
Free Practice had brought them back to reality with all the force of a 200kph collision.
Friday had started badly for Lando. A stubborn reliability issue in FP1 had kept the car in the garage longer than anyone wanted, leaving him chasing laps for most of the afternoon while the rest of the field built rhythm around Albert Park’s long, sun-bleached corners. By the time FP2 rolled around he’d still been catching up, trying to learn the quirks of the new power unit and how it reacted to the streets of Melbourne.
Oscar, meanwhile, had quietly put together a lap good enough to top the session - and for about twelve hours, the paddock briefly convinced itself McLaren might still be in contention.
Saturday morning had corrected that illusion.
Mercedes had found something overnight. Ferrari had too. Red Bull couldn't be counted out either.
By the end of FP3 the timing screens told a story nobody in papaya particularly liked.
Qualifying had only confirmed it.
P5.
P6.
Not disastrous - both cars comfortably into Q3 - but a long way from where they’d spent most of 2025, trading pole positions and front rows like it was the natural order of things.
The McLaren car was quick enough to race.
Just… not quick enough to race at the front.
Which meant the atmosphere in the engineering office on Sunday morning was quieter than usual.
The race briefing room sat tucked at the back of the garage complex, away from the foot traffic of the paddock corridor. A long table ran down the centre, scattered with laptops and tablets, the soft glow of telemetry charts reflecting faintly against the glass table.
Lando dropped into the chair beside Oscar as the engineers finished loading the race simulations onto the screen at the front.
Oscar barely glanced up from the tablet balanced on his knee, scrolling through tyre degradation graphs with the same calm focus as always - despite the increased pressure of it being his home race.
Outside the office window the Melbourne sun was already bright, glinting off the water beyond the circuit fencing.
The briefing began:
Strategy projections. Recharge targets. Tyre windows.
Lando listened with most of his attention, nodding along at the right moments. But a small, rebellious part of his brain drifted somewhere just beyond the numbers on the screen.
Beside him, Oscar sat perfectly still.
He had a habit of going very quiet during briefings - not distracted, just processing - his expression giving nothing away as the engineers talked through overtaking probabilities and safety car scenarios.
Every now and then Oscar made a small note on the tablet.
The glow from the screen lit his face from below.
Lando noticed - absently at first - that he’d pushed his hair back more neatly today, exposing the clean line of his jaw, no stubble in sight... Probably the team PR reminding him there would be a lot of cameras on the grid - all clamouring for a shot of the 'hometown hero'.
It suited him. Too much.
The thought arrived uninvited and settled hot behind Lando’s ribs. He tried to ignore it. Largely failed.
At the front of the room the strategy engineer finished outlining the opening stint windows.
“Any questions?”
A few quiet discussions broke out across the table in the break in proceedings.
Oscar leaned back slightly in his chair, stretching his shoulders once before settling again.
For a moment neither of them spoke.
Then Lando tipped his head back against the chair and said, quietly enough that it wouldn’t carry across the room:
“So. Home race.”
Oscar’s mouth curved faintly.
“At least it’s not raining this year.”
Lando huffed a soft laugh.
Last year’s Australian Grand Prix had turned chaotic halfway through when a sudden shower rolled across the circuit. Oscar had caught the worst of it - sliding through the gravel and onto the damp grass at the edge of turn 13.
For a second it had looked like he was heading straight back to the pits.
Instead he’d somehow managed to get it in reverse and rejoined the track, determined to finish the race.
Despite the move sending Oscar tumbling down the standings, the replay had been on every highlight reel for weeks.
“Pretty sure you secretly enjoyed that,” Lando murmured.
Oscar finally glanced sideways.
“You were enjoying it.”
“Because you saved it.”
“You were leading. You were enjoying it before that.”
Lando smiled to himself.
Fair.
At the front of the room someone started discussing formation lap procedures.
The conversation between them faded again, leaving only the quiet whir of laptop fans and the occasional tap of keys from the engineers around the table.
Eventually the meeting wrapped up.
Chairs scraped softly against the floor as people stood.
Oscar and Lando moved toward the door with the rest of the team, falling naturally into step beside each other as the hallway outside filled with the low murmur of race-day preparations.
At the threshold Lando paused briefly.
“Good luck,” he said. He was slightly surprised at how much he meant it.
Oscar met his eyes, expression softening slightly.
“You too.”
The exchange was simple. Routine, even.
Drivers said it to each other every race weekend.
But for a second something quieter settled in the space between them - the kind of moment that felt like it might turn into a different sentence if either of them let it.
Neither of them did.
For a split second Lando had the irrational urge to reach out - not even sure what the gesture would be. A clap on the shoulder, perhaps. Something normal... Probably. He suppressed the feeling, made himself stay still.
Unaware of Lando's minor internal glitch, Oscar just gave a small nod and headed toward the engineering office.
Lando turned toward the garage.
Outside, the crowd was already starting to roar.
The grid was already alive when Lando climbed into the car.
Engines whining somewhere down the pit lane. Mechanics calling to each other over the noise. The faint electrical buzz that lived inside the new cars even before the engine properly fired.
It felt like the usual routine, even with the new number 1 on his car.
Lando settled deeper into the seat as the belts were tightened across his shoulders, the familiar pressure grounding him. The cockpit smelt faintly of warm electronics and rubber - that oddly comforting scent that meant race day had actually arrived.
Helmet on.
Radio check.
“Radio check?”
“Loud and clear,” Will Joseph replied in his ear.
The halo frame cut the world into narrow angles as he rolled out for the reconnaissance lap. The car hummed beneath him, restrained but impatient.
Out into the open track.
Albert Park looked deceptively calm this early - the lake bright under the morning sun, the grandstands filling quickly with colour and movement as people hurried back for the start.
He thought of the conversation two hours ago without really meaning to; at least it’s not raining this year.
Lando snorted quietly inside his helmet.
Turn 1.
The car felt… fine. Not spectacular. Not terrible.
Just fine.
He worked the tyres gently through the first corners, weaving slightly along the straight, building temperature the careful way drivers always did on reconnaissance laps. Nothing dramatic. Just preparation.
Then Will’s voice cut through the radio.
“Oscar’s out.”
For a second Lando thought he’d misheard. His grip tightened on the steering wheel without him meaning to.
“What?” he checked automatically. “Did something happen or did he just break down?”
A pause. The kind that felt longer than it probably was.
“He lost it on turn four.”
The words landed oddly flat.
Lost it? Oscar didn't just lose it. Not like that.
Sure, it happened. It always could.
Still-
“Oscar okay?” Lando asked, voice level.
Another pause.
Longer this time.
The radio stayed frustratingly quiet except for the static hum in his ear. Lando’s hands remained steady on the wheel, guiding the car through the corner as if nothing at all had changed.
Drivers were good at that.
Compartmentalising.
You had to be.
Finally Will came back.
“Lando, Oscar is okay.”
The breath Lando released stayed entirely inside the helmet. He hadn’t even realised he’d been holding it.
Just that.
Nothing else.
The TV screen mounted above the pit wall flickered into view in his peripheral vision as he approached the start line.
Don’t look.
Drivers crashed all the time.
Engines broke. Cars snapped. Tyres were cold. There were a hundred things that could have caused it.
He pulled up onto the grid smoothly, as if there wasn’t a wrecked McLaren somewhere just beyond the barriers.
As if his chest hadn’t tightened at the first words over the radio.
As if it was any other race.
The paddock after a race had a strange kind of quiet.
Not silence - never that - but the noise shifted. The roar of engines and grandstands faded into something lower and more chaotic: rolling flight cases, distant interviews, the muted buzz of media packs hunting drivers through parc fermé.
Lando slipped out of the engineering room before anyone could grab him.
Someone from PR had tried to stop him.
“Media pen in ten, Lando-”
“Yeah, yeah,” he’d said, already halfway down the corridor.
He wasn’t entirely sure where Oscar would be. His driver's room, maybe. Debrief. Somewhere out of sight.
Drivers who crashed before the start line tended to disappear quickly.
The McLaren motorhome corridors were narrow and bright, all clean white panels and polished floors that echoed every step. Lando passed a couple of mechanics heading the other way. One of them nodded at him.
He nodded back without really seeing them.
He took the stairs up to where their driver's rooms were two at a time. The door to Oscar's room was slightly ajar.
Lando paused. Knocked on the door frame.
No answer.
He stood there awkwardly for a few seconds, before deciding to throw caution to the wind and pushing the door the rest of the way open.
Oscar was sitting on the edge of the sofa, head bowed in his hands, elbows on his knees like the weight of the day had finally pinned him. He had changed into a team polo and shorts - his usual uniform - but was still wearing his special edition green and yellow cap. His hair was still slightly damp from the shower, curling at the ends slightly.
For a moment Oscar didn’t look up.
Then he did.
And his entire expression shuttered - eyes narrowing, mouth flattening into a thin line.
“What do you want.”
It wasn’t even a question. Just flat. Wary.
Lando stalled just inside the doorway, thrown by the immediate hostility.
“I came to check you were okay.”
Oscar let out a short breath that might have been a laugh. “You’ve got media waiting.”
“Yeah.”
Lando didn’t move.
Neither did Oscar.
The room smelt faintly of sweat and rubber and the metallic tang of petrol that seemed to live permanently in F1 motorhomes. Somewhere down the corridor, a trolley was wheeled past, the rattling wheels briefly filling the silence.
Oscar looked away first.
“Seriously, Lando,” he said, voice clipped. “You should probably go do your interviews.”
The message was clear enough.
Go away.
Lando stayed exactly where he was, mind circling through his options. He could leave - could put some distance between them, keep things clean and orderly, like last year.
Or this time, he could say something. He could try.
...he wanted to at least try.
“Why are you being like this?” Lando asked bluntly, before he could second guess himself.
Oscar didn’t answer.
Lando felt irritation flicker under his ribs.
“I thought…” He hesitated, suddenly aware of how stupid this might sound out loud. “I thought things were going to be different this year. Between us, I mean.”
That got a reaction.
Oscar’s head snapped up.
For a split second something like alarm flashed across his face.
He glanced past Lando, down the corridor.
“Jesus, Lando,” he muttered. “Get inside.”
Before Lando could argue, Oscar stood and pulled him further into the room, reaching past him to pull the door shut with a quiet, final click.
The noise of the corridor vanished.
Inside, everything felt suddenly smaller, tighter. The room shrank instantly: just the two of them, the faint hum of air-con, the shared heat of their bodies - still standing too close together in the small space.
For a moment neither of them spoke.
Lando leaned back against the closed door, suddenly very aware that he’d committed to this now... Whatever this was.
Oscar stood a few feet away, arms folded loosely across his chest.
Waiting.
Lando ran a hand through his hair.
Fuck it.
“I just want to know,” he said carefully, “if this is going where I think it is.”
The moment the words left his mouth, Lando felt the sudden, irrational urge to take them back.
Not because he didn’t mean them. Because he did.
Oscar blinked. Hedged his bets, cautious in a way he never was on track.
“…where do you think it’s going?”
“Oscar,” Lando said flatly.
Oscar huffed quietly, gaze dropping to the floor tiles between them. Because if he looked at Lando right now, he was fairly sure the answer would show on his face before he could decide whether he actually wanted to say it.
The silence stretched - thick, loaded - broken only by the faint hitch of Oscar’s breathing.
Lando felt the familiar, unpleasant twist of uncertainty starting to settle in his chest.
“I’d rather know,” Lando said, softer now, forcing himself to continue despite the anxiety starting to grow. This wasn't just some nameless pickup in a bar; this was Oscar.
“If you don’t- If you’re not into it, that’s fine, obviously. Just tell me. Please.”
Oscar’s shoulders tightened.
For a moment, Lando thought Oscar might actually walk out. He held his breath, hoping desperately he hadn't just ruined everything.
Instead, Oscar rubbed the back of his neck, exhaling slowly. There was a question that had been sitting somewhere in the back of his mind for weeks now, a quiet and persistent niggle that he had been trying to ignore - not sure if he wanted to hear the answer.
“Would you be saying this,” he asked eventually, “if I’d won last year?”
The question landed like a gut punch. Oscar didn’t stop.
“Or if you’d been the one who binned it here today instead of me?” His voice wasn’t sharp anymore. Just tired, almost resigned - like he’d asked himself the same thing too many times.
And suddenly Lando understood.
The championship fight. The tension. The chaos and conspiracies. The desperate need to prove himself.
The way the team had carefully started separating them last season - different debriefs, different media slots, different everything. Anticipating the blow out. Fearing the fallout. The distraction - not to mention the bad press - of a teammate rivalry.
And that was before anything... more.
Keep it professional.
Oscar’s gaze had dropped somewhere near the floor again.
Like he already knew the answer.
Lando swallowed hard. The room felt even smaller now.
“I don’t know,” Lando said, honest and rough. “Honestly? I really don’t.”
Oscar’s eyes finally lifting to meet his - searching, guarded, but not cold. Waiting.
Lando shrugged one shoulder, helpless. “But I hope so. I really fucking hope so.”
He let out a short breath. Oscar felt like he was holding his - not daring to let it out, not daring to do anything that might make Lando stop talking.
“Because I’ve been trying not to think about this for months,” Lando admitted quietly.
The words hung there for a few seconds between them, imperfect and unpolished and raw around the edges. Very Lando.
Saying it out loud felt a bit like stepping off an edge he hadn’t realised he’d reached. A marker laid - now it was up to Oscar if he wanted to meet him there.
Oscar stared at him for a long second. Then he sighed. The tension seemed to drain out of him all at once.
The stupid thing was that Oscar had known for a while now. A part of him had already decided. He knew he would never have let it get this far - wouldn't have risked everything - if something inside him wasn't already sure.
He'd just been waiting... Waiting to see how this was going to play out. To see if Lando would say something. And now he had.
“Lando,” Oscar said quietly, “I know where this is going.”
Lando straightened a little.
“Yeah?”
Oscar gave a small nod.
“Yeah.”
Something warm and relieved - and unmistakably wanting - unfurled in Lando’s chest, spreading low and steady. His smile broke wide, bright, unguarded, and impossible to hide.
"We're not there yet," Oscar added, voice low in warning, before Lando could say anything else or, god forbid, do anything else. This was already more than they had ever acknowledged out loud before.
Lando snorted inelegantly.
The moment shifted - lighter now, the sharp edge gone. More like how it usually was.
More like them.
Oscar tilted his head slightly. “Good defence on Max, by the way.”
Lando blinked, surprised by the abrupt subject change but rolling with it anyway. “You watched the race?”
Oscar shrugged easily, ignoring the bitter sting of disappointment curling in his stomach. “Had some time.”
“Only good?” Lando felt himself grin despite everything.
Oscar’s mouth twitched, but he shook his head. “You’re fishing.”
“Maybe.”
“Not happening.”
Lando laughed softly.
Somewhere down the corridor a door slammed and voices rose briefly before fading again.
Reality creeping back in.
"I'm sorry about your race, Osc." Lando said, voice soft as anything.
Whatever Oscar wanted to say got lodged in his throat. The reassurance, the explanation... all he could manage was a jerky nod of acknowledgement.
"Shit, okay, I'm gonna-" Lando started, before cutting himself off. He pushed off the door and stepped closer cautiously - like Oscar was a wild animal liable to bolt at any second.
Despite the obvious way he was telegraphing his movements, Oscar didn't realise what Lando was doing until his arms came up around him, pulling him in close.
Oscar went stiff at first, not sure what to do with his hands. Lando was hugging him - properly, not their usual back-slappy, fist-bumpy, bro hug. He had one of his big hands splayed over Oscar's spine, the other cradling the back of his neck fingers disappearing into his hair.
Then - like a puppet whose strings were suddenly cut - Oscar relaxed into it, bringing up his own arms to wrap around Lando's body.
They just stood there for a moment. Exchanging heat. Borrowing strength.
Oscar shut his eyes. Took a couple of slow, steadying breaths. He had already had his post-crash meltdown privately in the shower - the team polite enough not to mention his red-rimmed eyes when he had trundled back downstairs to review the footage before he had to speak to the media.
He wasn't going to fall to pieces again now.
He focused instead on the feel of Lando pressed against him, solid heat and muscle. The way his fireproofs were still slightly damp to the touch. The not-entirely-unpleasant scent of sweat, deodorant and engine fumes.
It was real; grounding.
Oscar exhaled shakily. "M'okay," he murmured, finally.
"Yeah, I know," Lando replied quietly, but he didn't let go - not yet.
Oscar allowed himself a few more moments of comfort. Then he patted Lando's back awkwardly, a clear sign the moment was over.
Lando... didn't take the hint.
"Lando?" Oscar prompted, managing to convey a wealth of feeling in the one word.
"What?" Lando looked up at him, expression a mix of empathy and mischief. "Teammates cuddle after bad races all the time, Osc."
"Since when?" Oscar wondered, but he couldn't help but smile, despite everything.
"Oh, since always, probably," Lando lied blithely - pleased to see the smile reappear on his face.
Reluctantly - giving Oscar's shoulder one last reassuring squeeze - Lando stepped back, putting some space between them again.
“Right,” he said, voice deceptively normal. “I suppose I should probably go do those interviews before PR hunt me down.”
“Probably," Oscar agreed, lighter now.
Lando turned to leave.
Halfway out the door he paused and glanced back over his shoulder.
Oscar was still standing in the middle of the room, watching him.
Lando smirked, eyes scanning the corridor for listening ears, voice dropping low. “You’re watching me leave right now, aren’t you?”
Oscar’s eyes flicked up to Lando's face instinctively, caught. Then - to Lando's surprise and delight - Oscar's eyes slid back deliberately, a slow drag down Lando’s back, lingering at his hips, before snapping up to meet his gaze again. A small, satisfied curve touched his mouth.
“No,” Oscar bluffed - all bold cheek and calm confidence.
The blatant lie hung between them, obvious and thrilling.
Lando’s grin widened, sharp and knowing, as he stepped back into the corridor.
Oscar was definitely watching.
And this time neither of them pretended otherwise.