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A thick, scratchy Dutch voice rings out from the front of the shop. "Alex! Your damned frog is loose again!"
An answering yelp sounds from somewhere, yells start ensuing, and the clattering of a chair being knocked over echoes from within the ruckus.
Lando turns towards the source of the noise, and pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing deeply. Seb, one of their bulk produce suppliers, chuckles across the room where he's holding two fifty-pound bags of flour like pillows, fresh-baked bread and butter scent rolls off him in waves of amusement. Lando rolls his eyes at Seb apologetically as he turns to push his way through the kitchen's swinging doors, ready to defend Alex's frog like his life depends on it.
And well, the frog's just might.
Two of the cafe employees, Alex and Kimi, are running around tables, looking for a small, bright green creature that will absolutely not be found until he wants to be. Max Verstappen, a law student who works across the street and a regular, is standing at the counter, apprehension clouding the air around him with the scent of a heavy storm. He’s cradling his cappuccino like the frog's going to appear out of nowhere and snatch it from his hands.
Lando rolls his eyes again. Like said frog even has hands to snatch it with. Use your head, Max.
Kimi’s gesturing frantically, chestnut curls bouncing and Italian accent prominent as he apologizes to Alex, who's halfway underneath a table begging the frog to reappear. The little alpha is practically vibrating in place, his warm pistachio gelato scent going sharp with guilt.
"I am sorry, Alex, you had said it was okay for me to play with him a little, and then Max came in and I think I must have not locked the cage door when I went to help. I will find him, I promise, he can't have gone far!"
Andrea Kimi Antonelli, better known as Kimi, is young still, in his first year of uni, and his age sometimes still shows in ways that catch everyone off guard. His secondary gender presented two years early, and he's still learning how to control his scent and instincts — he’s shy but sweet, and full of a quick, biting sass. Lando adores him.
At Kimi’s mention of Max, Alex whirls around, hands flying out to stop him. "Max! Don't try to leave or open the door!" He turns and yells into the back of the shop, "Guys! Don't open any doors!"
Lando cringes. "What if one is already open?"
Alex looks at him with a bit of fear, blueberry lemonade and cane sugar smell turning sour with anxiety. Unfortunately, this isn't the first time the frog's escaped his confines, but they've always managed to find him so far — that chance goes down drastically if he finds his way outside.
Alex Albon is a beta, and the coffee shop's oldest employee. He’s currently in uni for veterinary medicine, with a specialization in exotic species; hence the existence of the neon poison dart frog, who's on loan to him for the next month from a local nature society. Alex is delightful, chill, and full of nonsense — except for when it comes to his frog, and a particular law student by the name of George Russell, whom he's had this will-they-won't-they going on with for years. He and George are two of Lando’s best friends.
Just then, the frog flies out of nowhere and lands among the mess of Lando’s wild curls, nestling in and making himself at home like nothing ever happened. Lando grins. "Ha! Found him."
Alex puts a hand over his heart in relief, and walks over to scoop up the frog gently, his sour lemonade bite easing back to sweet. "Eh, I think it's probably more like he found you, mate."
Lando waves a hand. "Nah, that’s like. Semantics."
He bends down to wave at the frog in Alex's palms. "Hi, mate. How was your little adventure? Find anything sick?"
Alex scowls, but it's fond. "I think you like him more than me. You didn't even say hi when I clocked in this morning."
Lando straightens and winces as he does so, a flare of pain spiking for a moment as he pops back in a kneecap that slid out of place. "I mean, that might be because I do? But sorry." He offers Alex a sheepish grin, and internally berates himself for forgetting his knee braces this morning.
Alex carefully deposits the frog back in his terrarium, this time making sure the door is properly latched. The beta then turns to ruffle Lando's hair, rubbing his scent in thoroughly, and Lando squawks as he shoves the other away.
Alex nods, satisfied. "There. That's your punishment. You better say hi to me next time."
Lando glares at him from where he's fixing his curls. "See if I do next time. Oh, and Kimi?" The little alpha perks up from behind the counter. "You lose frog privileges for the next week."
Kimi's face falls, and he looks devastated, the guilt of crushed mint leaves seeping into the air around him. "I am sorry. I didn't mean to, I'll try not to do it again."
Lando tries to stay firm, but when faced with the sad puppy eyes of both Kimi and Alex, who’s also upset over Kimi’s punishment, he is not God's strongest soldier. "Fine. Three days."
Alex whoops. Kimi's face turns up, and a small smile grows there again, the sharpness of his mint scent returning to the sweetness of gelato.
Lando huffs. "Now get to work, both of you! I didn't hire you to stand around for free."
Alex fires off the world's sloppiest salute, managing to hit himself in the eye as he does so, and Kimi whips a cloth out of nowhere and starts scrubbing the counter within an inch of its life.
Max smiles indulgently from where he's sat himself at the bar, heavy scent retreated now that the frog is safely behind the glass of his cage. Lando frowns at him. "And don't you have meetings you're late to, Mr. Junior Criminal Lawyer? People to prosecute, lives to ruin?"
Max chuckles, long used to the cafe’s antics. "You wish. No," and his eyebrows scrunch in annoyance, oakwood and rain notes turning a little bitter. "George is running a meeting on the rise of various criminal trends throughout the city. I know all of the material, because I helped him compile it. He did not thank me for my help, of course — so I am in no rush to get back. He can handle it all himself."
Alex sticks his head around one of the display cases like a dog looking for a favorite snack. "Did you say George?"
Max immediately realizes his mistake, and quickly tries to backtrack. "Uh, no. I said nothing of the sort. Get back to work, Albon."
Alex shrugs, giving him a weird look, but remaining mostly unbothered. "Fine, Verstappen. Keep your secrets. I'll see him later anyway."
Max turns to mouth to Lando, "Close one."
Lando nods in sympathetic agreement. Alex and George are almost unbearable in their denial, clearly in love but neither willing to do anything about it. "Yeah, alright then. Good luck with your work, Max, just don't distract my employees further."
Max's eyes crinkle. "No promises."
Lando turns and walks back through the kitchen doors, and as he does he overhears Max say, "So did you see that late brake into Turn 4 on Sunday, Leclerc was really pushing the car—" and Kimi respond back with, "It was so risky, but it paid off!"
He smiles to himself, quietly. He loves their employees and customers — he and Max Fewtrell, fellow omega and best friend, never thought it would turn out like this when they decided to own their own coffee shop. They both know they’re incredibly grateful to have the people around them that they do.
They were 24, fresh out of uni and looking for stable jobs, when Max's dad brought up one day that he and Max's mum were retiring soon, and thinking of selling the family cafe.
Lando, who'd worked for them off and on since secondary, was immediately upset; wishing that they could retire, but wanting to keep the shop in the family for them somehow. It had been their lifelong dream, and Lando wanted to find a way to keep it alive for them if he could — despite already having kids of their own, they always cared for him, never treating him like less than one of their own.
Max, who had majored in business during uni but never shown any interest in running his own before, pulled Lando aside that night to discuss taking over the shop. He asked if Lando would be open to helping somehow, and Lando quickly agreed — they eventually came to the decision to co-own and co-run it together. They pored over documents and spreadsheets for months, and planned out as much as they could, until they felt were ready.
They signed the papers in April.
And so Quadrant Coffee Co has been theirs ever since, with its squeaky doors, lifetime patrons, and an eclectic blend of techno decor mixed with a vintage cosiness that shouldn't work nearly as well as it does.
That was a year ago. He and Max are still working other jobs to help keep the shop afloat, but things are good. Steady. Comfortable, in a way Lando's never really had in his life before, other than in the unwavering solidity of Max.
Seb is waiting for him with the inventory list once he passes through the doors, and Lando signs it with a scribble before handing it back. The older omega tears off the shop's copy and hands it to him, grinning as he does so, “Got that sorted out, then?"
Lando rolls his eyes. "For being a big strong alpha, Max Verstappen is such a baby, I swear. I mean, sure, you like cats, I get it, but that doesn't mean you got to hate all other animals. 'Sides, frogs are really cute! He’s jus’ a hater. Was practically standing on a table by the time I got there."
Seb chuckles in response. "They can be very cute! There's little ones all over our farm, Kimi says they live in the trees. I love to see them play in my flowerpots during the evening — they always seem so content."
Lando's eyes soften. "How are you and Kimi doing, by the way? I haven't seen him in a while. Jus' wanted to check in."
Sebastian Vettel, and his husband, Kimi Raikkonen, are longstanding friends of Max's parents, and own a farm outside the city limits. They supply the shop with fresh honey from Seb's own hives, flour and grains from the farm next door, and jam and fruits from the orchard down the road. Max and Lando inherited their business with along with the shop, and in return, Seb and Kimi have been in their corner from day one. Lando and Max are endlessly grateful for their support.
Kimi's been in a lot of discomfort recently, reoccurring back pain flaring up so badly he had to go in for emergency surgery a few weeks ago. It's a injury he received and never fully recovered from driving for Formula 1, and it's been something he’s struggled with ever since.
Yeah, one of their delivery blokes used to drive for F1. Not a lot of shops can say that. Lando thinks it's cool as shit, and admires the hell out of Kimi and Seb for doing everything they do.
Not to mention they treat Max and Lando like their own kids, too — constantly checking up on them, inviting them over for supper — and Lando's never had that before, outside of Max's family. So he holds onto it with a deep, white-knuckled kind of desperation he keeps decidedly unacknowledged.
"He's doing better, on week three of recovery now. He's able to get himself up and out of chairs and the bed, but isn't able to lift much. That's why you've still got me for now," and Seb flashes a grin.
Lando grins back tiredly, Seb's smiles as infectious as always. "Good to hear. Tell him we've missed him, yeah? And to keep taking care of himself. Dunno what this cafe would do without either of you lot. We'd miss you."
Seb nods back. "Of course! I'll let him know, he'll be glad to hear from everyone. But, Lando, keeping that in mind — take care of yourself too, alright?"
Lando's eyes shutter, and the meager energy he'd managed to gather before leaves his body. He slumps in on himself and mumbles, "Yeah, I will, I have been. It's fine — yeah. Everything is fine."
Seb tsks, posture immediately softening in response to Lando's shutdown. "Now I know you're lying. And we've talked about that, Lan. I saw you sleeping on the counter when I walked in this morning, and the look on your face when you woke and tried to stand." And he holds a finger up, trying to keep it light. "And I'm married to Kimi 'the Iceman' Raikkonen. You cannot hide from me." He steps closer, concern radiating outwards, the soft scent of raw honey and light florals reaching Lando and wrapping around him like a light blanket. "How are you feeling, kleiner? The truth, this time."
Lando's frame curls in further, genuine exhaustion hanging off his shoulders as he fully lets go of the mask this time. He scratches at one of the scent patches he keeps carefully plastered to the skin of his neck, the stickiness necessary but irritating as always.
"Not great, Sebi. Everything hurts, and 'm frickin’ tired. My hip slid out when I got up this morning, still aches really bad. And my shoulders feel like they're carved from rocks." He runs a shaky hand down his face. "’Nd I keep catching myself falling asleep against things, even though I've had like, three cups of coffee since gettin’ here this morning."
Seb's expression turns unbearably sad, and Lando avoids looking at it so he won't have to acknowledge the pity he knows will be lying there. He straightens as best as he can, quickly trying to cover up his moment of weakness, and push on. "It's alright, though. 'M fine, just need to eat something 'n make it through the rest of shift. Then I'll go home, take a nap before the gig tonight."
Seb nods, slowly, knowing not to push before Lando gets even more defensive. "Sounds like a plan. Eat something good, with protein, and get as much rest as you can before tonight. I hope your pain eases soon, little one." A pause. "You know I hate to see both you and mein Kimi suffering. You can always, always talk to either one of us, yes?"
Lando shuffles in place. Tries not to fidget with his hoodie. "I know." A beat passes. "Thank you, Sebi. I appreciate it."
Seb nods again. "Of course, schatzi. Give Max our love. See you both on Monday?"
Lando nods, managing to smile a little. "See you on Monday."
He leaves the cafe early that day, leaving Alex in charge. He and Max don't like to rely on their employees to cover for them if they can help it, but Lando feels like today he doesn't have another choice. His feet are dragging, his hip is throbbing, his eyes feel like they're comprised of grit and sawdust, and the scent patches he'd carefully layered on this morning are itching like crazy.
Alex shoos him out of the cafe without a second thought, and honestly, Lando's too grateful for it to put up a fight like he normally would’ve.
Kimi, the little sweetheart, made him a cup of his favorite coffee before he left. He sips it on the way home, which is thankfully only a short walk and bus ride away.
He trudges up the stairs of the line of flats, and has to take two more flights before he finds himself standing outside the door of the flat he and Max share.
Some people have called them co-dependent before, because they share everything and where one goes, the other is likely to follow. But they don't know how long it took Max and Lando to build their friendship, and just how hard they've fought to keep it.
And Max has never made Lando feel like less than anything he is. That alone was enough to garner every scrap of Lando's hard-earned loyalty, which Max returned tenfold.
Yeah, they're best friends; but they're also family. And you don't leave family behind.
He unlocks the door, makes his way inside. Max is gone, working his second job as a graphic designer, so the apartment is all his.
He bypasses all of it immediately to flop down on his bed, curling into the pile of blankets and clothes that make up his nest. He tucks one of Max's sweatshirts underneath his arm, the other's rich citrus scent familiar and soothing, and he barely remembers to set several alarms so he wakes up in time that evening before he's out like a light.
Lando rests on his heels, hands in his pockets as he looks over the bar, satisfied. It's been a good hour-plus of setup, but worthwhile since it’s finally arranged the way he prefers.
That's one of the reasons he enjoys working this venue — they trust him, and let him do pretty much whatever he likes.
The event itself starts in fifteen, and he rearranges his shaker and glass for approximately the twenty-seventh and a half time just for something to do. He fiddles with a bar cloth he keeps tucked into his pocket —orange, for McLaren, of course. Gotta rep the client you're working for.
He still isn't quite sure how he landed a bartending gig for McLaren, but he's absolutely not complaining. This is one of his dream events to work, topped only by bartending for one of their teams at a race circuit someday.
He forces himself to lean against the liquor display behind him, and quit messing with the bar layout. He spends the last few minutes watching the venue staff scurry about, and wonders if they'll let him take home one of the tabletop arrangements at the end of the night. They do sometimes, and he really likes tonight's flowers, all oranges, yellows, and little green blooms that remind him of playing in someone's backyard as a kid.
The doors crack open in five. He's throughly exhausted still, shoulders drawn forever tight and pain lancing through his aching hip; but he's mostly able to ignore it in favor of the anticipation bubbling in his gut.
He lives for the variety and excitement his job brings, and as he's told Alex and George before, it's his social time. He comes alive when he’s serving, a passion for it pouring into his movements, becoming something he legitimately enjoys.
Plus, he loves to people-watch the rich clientele. Sometimes they have simple but elegant outfits that look easy, but you just know cost a fortune — and other times they have on the most gaudy things that look like you could've found them on the rack at a corner thrift. It's hilarious entertainment, and costs him nothing, which is the best part.
The clock chimes and the doors open, people starting to make their way into the room. He waits patiently from behind the counter. It’s an open bar tonight, so it'll only be a matter of time before he starts to get busy.
He's staring off into the distance, trying to catch another glimpse of this bright orange, flimsy dress with way too many sequins, when a figure in a navy blue suit walks up. He pauses to look over the alcohol display, and when Lando glances over at him, his mouth goes dry.
He's gorgeous, all tall, muscular lines beneath his suit, and an unfairly pretty swoop to his effortlessly styled, wavy hair.
And he smells like — is that chocolate? Caramel? And Lando didn't know comfort could have a scent — the other man smells sweet, subtle, kind; and Lando feels something in him quietly stir, inexplicably longing for more.
After way too long of a silence, Lando scrambles to greet the man like he would any other guest, but his voice cracks in the middle of the first word, and he starts coughing, suddenly unable to catch his breath. His lungs are hitching, he can’t breathe, and he just knows there’s a flush spreading up the back of his neck. He scowls at himself as irritation grates in his chest, tears starting to fill at the corners of his eyes. God, he's tired. He feels like shit. He really just can't pull it together, can he?
Because yeah, sure, this man might have a facial structure angels would weep for, but that's nothing in the face of Lando's job. He's made himself look like an idiot here, and he’s got to try and salvage it. He really wants to be invited back to bartend for these clients again, damn it.
His coughs die down after a moment, lungs finally untwisting, and he's able to take a few clear breaths and try to speak again. Thankfully, he's more successful this time: “Hi, welcome. What can I get started for you?”
The man looks at him, concern apparent on his features, and Lando tries desperately not to fidget underneath his gaze. The man's eyes as they rest on him are soft, nothing hidden in them, and Lando somehow feels safe — and that can't be right. That can't feel right.
“I don’t know what I want, to be honest. But are you okay?"And the guy's got a voice to match his looks, all light tones and accented drawls, and Lando wants to wrap himself up in it for the rest of his days.
He licks his lips, nervous as he tries not to vibrate out of the barriers of his skin, and his voice comes out all high-pitched as he responds from trying to keep the whirlwind of emotions in check. “Uh, yeah, I'm fine, I swear. Just choked on some dust in here. I can make you something — anything you don’t like or are allergic to?”
He's so fucking embarrassed. He just wants to go home and scream into a pillow for the next year.
This sweet man, still staring at him with a touch of concern, shrugs nonchalantly with a shoulder definition that can’t possibly be real. "Nothing in particular, but no tequila, please? It always makes me feel sick afterwards.”
Lando nods, trying valiantly to suppress the urge to curl into the soothing notes of the other's scent. He desperately hopes the patches he layered on again after waking from his nap are working to suppress his own scent. “Uh, yeah, I got you, mate. Thinking something fruity, or no?"
"Not tonight, I think? I want to try something different."
Lando swallows, and his voice betrays him like a little bitch as it still comes out high. He winces, clears his throat again. Fixes his eyes on the graining of the countertop. He can't look this man in the face. He can't. "Alright. Ginger okay?"
"Ginger's great."
Lando snaps his fingers, and does a little finger-gun motion at the other like an absolute dork. An idiot. A fool. His voice is still high. He might kill himself later. “I got just the thing.
He turns and grabs a thing of vodka and a highball glass, yelling at himself internally as he does so. Tears prick at the corner of his vision again, exhaustion and disappointment with himself making a resurgence. He fills the glass with ice, measures the vodka and pours it, and as he reaches for a bottle of ginger ale he tamps down his emotions with all the anger he can summon.
The man watches his movements, seemingly disinterested with his own surroundings. Honestly, if you asked Lando, it seems like the guy is just kinda done for the day — probably just wants to go home. But unluckily for him, the event has only just started, and everyone here is in for a long night.
Luckily for Lando though, because that means maybe he’ll see this guy again. And that thought does make him duck his head, and grin happily to himself a little, tucked safely behind the curtain of his curls and the water slowly filling his smile.
He squeezes a lime around the rim of the glass, tops it off with a fresh one, places a straw in the drink as he slides a napkin underneath, and presents it from across the counter.
The man grabs it carefully, showcasing a pair of pale hands and delicate wrists, and they’re dotted with little moles and freckles just like his face. Lando stands there, almost mesmerized as he tries to catalogue them, almost entirely missing the man's reaction, the other's eyes widening in surprise as he takes a sip.
“Mate, this is really good! What is it?”
Lando smiles happily in full view of the other this time, confidence making a comeback so hard it smacks him in the chest. "It's called a Moscow mule — made with vodka, ginger ale, and lime. Classic drink, easy enough to do.”
The man sips it again, a bashful grin blooming across his features, and with the color of his suit and the moles dancing across his skin, he looks as if the night sky could be a person. “Thank you. This is really good, honestly. I don't think I've ever had one before."
He then puts down his drink, and pulls a few bills out of a faded leather wallet that doesn’t match the rest of his old money, perfectly-manicured vibe. He carefully places them into the venue's fancy, faceted glass tip jar, and Lando kind of wants to melt against the counter. The other is just so earnest with his movements, telegraphing everything he's about to do before he does it, and Lando finds himself relaxing in the face of it, comfortable in the presence of this stranger in a way he hasn't felt in a long time.
The man gently folds his wallet and slides it back into his pocket, grabbing his drink as he turns to leave. He makes sure to catch Lando's eye as he says “Cheers,” and Lando gets a full view of how the man’s eyes crinkle in the corners when he grins before he disappears into the now-full ballroom.
Lando honest-to-God almost giggles, feeling slightly unhinged as a hand comes up to cover his mouth. He lets himself have one moment to process — he can have this, this comfort, this thing he can't even describe but thrills him down to his bones. It's been a long day. He deserves it.
He walks into the flat that night and the door accidentally bounces off the wall, startling Max, who's home and almost throws his switch across the room on instinct. He also narrowly avoids kicking the bowl of popcorn resting on the coffee table, blood orange and spiced rum scent spiking in alarm.
Lando takes a moment to wince in sympathy for the switch’s near-fate. He casts a look to the offending wall, and silently mouths an apology to the neighbors.
Max glares at him from the couch, hair askew and eyesbrows scrunched in annoyance. "So just, like, fuck me then, I guess. No 'hi, how was your day?' I genuinely don’t know why I expect anything else from you.”
He settles back down grumpily, hands cradling the switch like it's his firstborn child. "So what’s all up with you, then?”
Max is just annoyed, Lando knows, because it's midnight and he has to be at his corporate job at 6 the next morning; and he's been sitting here since he got home, worrying about Lando because he's off on a gig.
Lando's tried his best in the past to get him to stop waiting up, to stop worrying — but that's a battle Max refuses to lose. Part of his best friend privileges or whatever, he says.
It always makes Lando's heart warm a little, even as he feels quietly guilty about it.
That, however, doesn't stop him from flipping off Max automatically as he responds in a high falsetto from where he’s pulling off his boots. "'Hi, hello, hope it was a good evening, how was your day?'" — and reverts to his natural tone — "See, I can be nice. Anyway, Max, you have to hear this, because I met the prettiest bloke tonight, and I have to tell you."
Max raises an eyebrow, reluctantly intrigued despite himself. "Hmm, yeah, alright. What's he look like, then?"
“He's like, tall? Taller than me, and bigger, like his shoulder width was insane, and his arms looked, like really fucking strong, mate. But his hands were small and pretty, and looked fucking amazing wrapped around a champagne flute —“
“Ew. Going to cut you off right there, Bob,” Max said, grimacing even as a smile starts to slowly overtake his own face, bright citrus scent rising in curiosity. "I don’t wanna hear all that. But how'd you meet him, though? Thought you were working that McLaren gig. Figured it'd be good money, but like. All old men in attendance."
Lando holds up a hand from the sink where he's currently rinsing all his barware. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, mate; first of all, you’re forgetting, old men can be hot, especially if they’re loaded. We can put up with a lot for money. Second, one of us has to marry rich, and I don’t see a whole lot of options lining up, do you?” He pauses to take a second, suddenly out of breath, and ends up slumping against the rim of the sink, unconsciously swaying to one side a little in exhaustion. He takes a moment to catch his breath, then continues on. "It was actually a pretty varied crowd. I was kinda surprised myself."
Max nods like he's just figured something out.“Ah. So he’s old, then.”
Lando's jaw drops. "No! He's young and fucking hot, actually, I have taste.”
Max snorts. "Ha, yeah no. Not in men."
Lando gives him an evil look. "I hate you. I also hate that I can't fight you back on that, and you know it."
Max doesn’t even look up from his screen, the bastard. "Yeah, heard that one before, Bob. Also," and this time, he does look up, making sure to meet Lando's gaze. "That last one isn't your fault, and you know it."
Lando slumps further into the sink. "Yeah, I know."
Max raises an eyebrow. "Do you?"
Lando nods back after a minute, having gone quiet, muted. And Max hates how any illusion of it, of him, makes Lando go silent and withdrawn — so he takes it as it is, and nods back in approval. "Hmm. You'd better. Now, tell me more about your man."
Lando rolls his eyes, but his posture loosens, cheeks flushing pink as he goes back to rinsing. "Shut up. Anyway, he isn’t old, but he’s probably some type of rich though, cuz he was dressed to the nines and attending this, like, high profile event."
Max nods sagely. "Hmm. So track him down, become his boyfriend. We'll reap the benefits. He can become a benefactor, help us get exposure for the shop."
Lando taps his own forehead. "Now you’re thinking with both heads, mate."
"Oh, fuck off."
Lando grins. The room settles into a comfortable silence, and he heats up microwave rice in a bowl and mixes it with salsa, grabbing himself a glass of water while he’s at it. He then curls himself up on the other end of the couch, shoveling rice in his mouth and his feet underneath Max's thighs.
Max looks up a little bit later, having beat his current level.
"Hey, you didn't tell me. Did you ask for his number?"
Lando sighs, unwinding his shoulders from where they've ridden up around his ears. "No. He only came up to the bar that once, when I made him a drink. Didn't even think about asking him for his number. He said he liked it, but I saw him once out and about in the ballroom — that was when he was holding the champagne flute — but he didn't come up to the bar again. So maybe he didn't like it that much. I don't know." He rotates his head, trying to work out some of the tension built up in his neck. "And I was too scared to ask for his number anyway. If I even would've."
Max squints at him. "Why wouldn't you?"
Lando shrugs, jerkily, tense. "Just. 'Cause. Well. You know why."
Max does, and after a moment of consideration, lets it go. "Well, if it's meant to be, you'll find him again."
Lando's mouth twists. "Maybe."
A horrendous noise breaks through Lando's sleep the next morning, and he wants to scream as he blindly slaps around, trying to turn off the alarm. Unfortunately, screaming requires energy, and he doesn’t have nearly enough of that to spare — so he settles for groaning into the fabric of his pillow, instead.
He dresses in a haze, pulling on the clothes he set into a pile on the floor last night. Washes his face in the bathroom, nearly forgets to brush his teeth, grabs a yogurt out of the fridge and almost walks out the door without his keys. He has to go back and dig them out of his backpack, grumbling underneath his breath the entire time. He almost forgets to slap on the patches for his scent blockers, too.
God, he hates mornings.
Max felt awful the other week when he asked Lando to cover for him at the cafe today, but his other job wanted him in at 6AM — and since they pay significantly better, he didn't have much of a choice. Lando agreed easily, thinking he could do it; he's done it before and it's gone fine. Why would today be the exception?
He yawns as he makes his way to the bus stop, blinking blearily at street and shop lights as cars pass by him on the road, entirely too loud for this hour of the morning, in his opinion.
Having made it to there without stumbling into something, he arranges himself sleepily on the bench and checks the time as he waits. His eyes blink open and shut as sleep wars in his body; it rained last night, and the smell of it is currently rising off the pavement, giving the world a drenched, heavy feel that’s only adding layers to his exhaustion. He burrows into the comfort of his hoodie, honeydew melon and yuzu citrus scent — although blocked by the patches — still lightly woven into the fabric, and it helps create a small bubble of safety he can breathe in.
He really hates mornings.
His peace is disturbed as footfalls sound from nearby, their owner walking up to the bench. He forces himself up to full alert as the person rounds the sign next to the stop — but thankfully, it’s only one of their neighbors, Daniel Ricciardo, who lives in the flat two doors down, and rooms with Max Verstappen. Max and Daniel are longtime friends who co-parent two cats, and who also share a mutual love of horrific B-grade movies, much to Alex, George, and Lando’s horror. Daniel himself is a beta who loves Hawaiian shirts, and could make friends with a tree — he’s also become the entire block's defacto older brother, and it’s a role he carries effortlessly with great pride.
Daniel, as usual, looks ridiculously chipper for 5:30 in the morning, cream of coconut and grilled peach scent radiating outwards from him like the sun. Lando, as always, is a little jealous; Daniel is warm, comforting, and full of a boundless energy that Lando couldn't replicate if he tried for a million years.
Daniel sits himself down on the bench, mindful not to jostle Lando's frame. He does grab Lando by the shoulder affectionately, broadcasting his movements by a mile as always, lightly rubbing his fruity and woodsy scent into Lando's hoodie in greeting.
"Hey, mate. You look rather dead — have a late night?"
Lando groans, shifting from where he's curled into the wall. His voice is tired, full of gravel. "Ugh, yeah. Bartending shift. Went way later than it was scheduled for." He yawns, big and wide, jaw and muscles aching. "Good tips, though."
Daniel nods, but a frown crosses his face, eyebrows twisting in confusion. "That's good about the tips, mate, I'm glad; but innit Max's morning to work the cafe?"
Lando shifts again, guilt slowly starting to simmer in his stomach over the tone of Daniel's voice. "Yeah, but. He was busy, asked me to cover. You know how it is."
Daniel nods, slowly. "Mkay. So nobody else could cover for ya guys?"
Lando fidgets with his hoodie sleeve, getting more and more uncomfortable by the second. "Max and I don't like asking them to. It's not their job. And anyway, Alex was busy; he and Yuki are the only ones who can work mornings, and Yuki's already scheduled."
Daniel looks like he wants to push further, but just as Lando thinks he might start climbing the walls out of anxiety, Daniel clearly decides to leave it and move on.
"Well, if you ever need anyone to cover for ya in a pinch, ya know who to hit up. I'd cover for you two in a heartbeat."
Lando manages a small smile, feeling a bit settled now that Daniel isn't grilling him any longer.
"Thanks, Danny. I'll keep it in mind."
Daniel gently bumps their shoulders together. "See that ya do." A moment passes. "So, didya have fun, meet anyone cute?"
Lando feels himself starts blushing. Daniel, of course, immediately picks up on it, the bastard.
"Ohhhh, you did, good on ya! What's up, mate?"
Lando shrinks down into his hoodie. "I'm not telling you anything. 'Specially cuz you're gonna turn around and tell everyone. 'M not about to have you lot turn 'n go bonkers on me."
"Aw, yer no fun, mate. We just want ya to be happy. Is that so bad?"
"Yes. Horrifically. Now sod off."
"Nuh-uh."
"Fine. Ignoring you, then."
Daniel gasps. "Rude."
"Suck it."
"Uncalled for."
"Don't care."
Just then, the bus rounds the corner to interrupt their conversation, pulling to a stop. Lando gets up, grabs his backpack, and scrambles on board before Daniel has time to make a comeback. Or look in his direction, all sad and pitying over Lando's lack of a love life.
Lando's perfectly happy. He is — he's happier than he thinks he's been in years. He doesn't need a love life — sure, things aren't perfect, and he does miss the idea of having one sometimes. But that's unrealistic right now, and he and his therapist are trying to set more realistic goals for himself, not dwelling so much on the what-ifs.
He settles near the front, looks out the window to see Daniel standing there, making a heart sign and blowing kisses at him. He huffs, amused despite himself, a smile spreading across his face against his will. He flips Daniel off lovingly as the bus drives away, and he watches as Daniel bends over in the rearview, cackling.
The ride feels shorter than it usually does, getting him to the shop in plenty of time to set up before they open. Quadrant Coffee Co. opens at five-thirty every morning in time to catch the work crowd, and Lando absolutely hates it.
Max and Alex usually work mornings, with Lando and Kimi usually taking afternoons. Yuki Tsunoda and Arvid Lindblad, two other employees, work flexible hours and get scheduled as needed.
Yuki's an alpha, in uni for film and media studies, and Arvid’s a beta, working a second job for a little extra income. Yuki's their resident baker, best known for his whipcrack, out-of-pocket humor, and Arvid behind the bar, known for his silly and chaotic demeanor.
He and Max have been trying to hire on more staff, but been too busy to sit down and sort through applications. They've had a lot of apps for the barista position, but none yet for baking, much to Yuki's expressive, verbal irritation.
Lando rotates up his opening playlist as he flicks on the lights, Rain by Sleep Token aptly being the first in his queue. He hums the words softly underneath his breath as he grinds coffee and runs test shots through the machine, stopping to make himself a cup along the way. He's starting to feel more awake, but that’s only temporary, and he wants to stave off that crash for as long as he can.
Five-thirty rolls around, and he flicks on the open sign and unlocks the door. A few of their regulars are lined up already, and he grins, greets them by name as they walk in.
So begins the morning rush.
By six, Yuki's arrived, and helps get the line down before disappearing to the back to start in on the morning's baking. Soon, the sounds of Japanese heavy metal make their way through the thin cafe walls, and Lando smiles to himself. He loves Yuki's music taste.
By eight, everything's died down, everyone fully-caffeinated and either settled or on their way out. The back door slams and Alex walks in, weighed down with textbooks and the ten-year-old laptop that he refuses to upgrade or trade in on account of it being "'Perfectly fine, thank you very much, Lando,'" even though it’s slow as shit, and crashes as often as Max loses his car keys.
Alex takes over one end of the bar, setting up to work on his homework in the slow moments, while Lando grabs the opportunity to pop in the back and speedrun the dishes. He grabs a few syrup bottles that need replaced while he's there — and he gets back out, a line's sprouted out of nowhere, so he hops on drinks until they're through it.
After they've gotten the last customer settled by the window plants, Alex makes his way down to the end of the bar, flopping over the open textbooks and groaning into his arms. Lando slumps against the opposite counter and closes his eyes for a minute, exhaustion and pain hitting his limbs like a lorry on the motorway.
Alex lifts up his head a moment later, looking half-dead. "If anyone walks through those doors in the next 30 minutes, I'm killing everyone in here and then myself.”
Lando nods sleepily from where he's leaning against the espresso machine, in lieu of forming an actual response.
Just then, the door chimes, and Lando and Alex both look up with a groan. Alex calls out the typical greeting, a "Hi, welcome in," but everything around Lando fades out, air hitching inside his chest until he can't breathe.
The person standing there has soft wavy hair and freckles dotting the back of his neck, and when he turns it's confirmed: he's the man from the gig last night. The one Lando made the custom drink for, the one who filled out the contours of his suit like he was tailor-made for it, the man who was soft and quiet and waited patiently like Lando's service was something to be respected.
The man who had pretty eyes and who felt like comfort. Who looked like warmth, who smelled like safety.
Lando can't fucking breathe.
The man looks around. Catches sight of Alex, and gives him a polite smile, calling back in a drawled accent, "Thanks, mate."
His eyes then track over to Lando, and Lando watches the moment recognition spreads across the other's face. The man smiles again, this time something wider, softer, more genuine, and a gentle chocolate scent blooms in the air, almost as if he was caught by surprise. He mutters softly, "Oh, hello."
He then does an awkward little wave, and Lando is immediately endeared by it. The man opens his mouth again, and this time it's Lando's turn to be surprised, his own scent spiking in the air for just a moment — breaking through the barriers of the patches he wears for his own self-protection.
"Um, I wanted to ask you this last night, but I couldn't get myself to, for some reason. Now I can."
He holds out a hand to shake, caramel hair flopping into his eyes, and Lando wants to reach up and gently tuck it behind his ear.
"Hi, my name's Oscar. It's really nice to meet you. What's yours?"
Lando looks into the other's eyes, warm, brown, with that lovely chocolate scent still floating in the air between them, and he mumbles out eight words that he'll instantly regret for the rest of his life.
"It should be cute to be that illegal."