Chapter Text
The pub isn’t filled with its usual sports fans since Formula One is finished, there are no football games, and no one wants to watch golf in a pub. There are still people laughing loudly at the bar, and others are already betting on the next season of a sport. Max Fewtrell and Lando Norris are tucked in a booth. There are two pints on the table and one half-finished plate of chips nobody’s really touching anymore.
Lando’s leaning back in his chair like he’s trying to disappear into it. Max is watching him in that steady way he gets sometimes, the one that makes Lando want to either confess everything or joke his way out of the room entirely.
“Season’s done, mate,” Max says, easy at first.
Lando snorts, “Yeah, thanks for the update, Sky Sports.”
Max rolls his eyes, “You know what I mean.”
Lando taps the rim of his glass, “Feels like I blinked, and suddenly I’m here—season over. Verstappen had the most dominant season in F1 history, winning by a fucking mile. I mean, I wasn’t too
low in the standings. But, he’s definitely living glamorously right now.”
“As is everyone else on the grid, mate, yet you’re here moping about,” Max says, taking a sip from his pint.
“I’m aware,” Lando says sharply.
“Don’t do that.” Max sighs.
“What?”
“That.” Max gestures to Lando.
Lando smiles, “Being charming?”
Max doesn’t laugh. Not even out of pity. Lando glances away. The TV in the corner is still replaying highlights from Abu Dhabi. Someone else’s celebrations flicker across the screen. Lando
watches it for half a second too long, then looks back at his drink like it’s suddenly fascinating.
“It wasn’t a terrible year,” Max says, carefully.
Lando lets out a short laugh, “Mate, it wasn’t a good one either.”
“That’s not true.”
“Kind of is,” Lando says, “I mean, Oscar got a sprint win in his rookie year. That was sick. McLaren PR and fans loved it. But it turned sour on me, ‘Hey, look, everyone, we can win things, just not with Lando driving!’ Fuck.”
Lando is definitely already a little drunk, but he trusts Max to listen to his complaints.
Max exhales sharply, “You’re really going to do that?”
“What?” Lando asks, taking a sip of his beer.
“Turn it into a dig at yourself.”
Lando shrugs. “It’s not a dig. It’s just facts. He did get a win. I didn’t. That’s how racing works.”
Max leans forward slightly. “And?”
“And nothing,” Lando says. “That’s literally it. He had his moment. I had mine… adjacent to his moment, I guess.”
“Adjacent,” Max repeats, flatly.
Lando grins, “Yeah. Like a very supportive neighbour.”
A very supportive neighbour who was physically sick after the Qatar sprint because in his rookie year, he was riddled with self-doubt and pressure, while Oscar seems free and undoubtful of his
abilities. But supportive nonetheless.
Max shakes his head. “You hear yourself right now?”
“Constantly,” Lando says, “Bit exhausting, honestly.”
There’s a pause, not long, but long enough for Lando to subconsciously run through the conversation again, wishing he didn’t say all the stupid shit he did, because maybe Max wouldn’t look at
Lando like the baby he is.
Max’s voice drops a little, “Mate, you finished sixth in the standings, with what, 200 points? While the man you’re worrying over finished ninth with fewer than 100 points. You were in fights
McLaren wouldn’t even be able to manage last year, hell, even earlier this season.”
“I could do better,” Lando says sharply. Then he softens, regretting the edge, “I’m not saying it was bad. I’m just saying it wasn’t…it wasn’t what I wanted.”
Max studies him for a moment. “You always say that like it cancels everything else out.”
Lando looks down at his pint. Ever since he’d known Max, Lando has deflected anything that could worsen his state of mind if he dwelled to long with humour or self-degrading jokes. In 2019,
when he joined F1, his entire rookie year, he struggled with self-doubt, depressive states and shit that would’ve made him quit if he hadn’t been working towards Formula One since he was eight years old. So, his humorous deflection had only gotten more common and self-degrading.
“It does cancel it out.” Lando finally responds.
The silence stretches, filled with the pub noise around them. Someone laughs too loudly near the bar. Glasses clink. Life is continuing without checking in.
Lando exhales and tries again, lighter. “Anyway, Oscar’s sprint win was cool. Proper good for him. The kid deserved it. Must be nice to just… get one of those days where everything clicks.”
Max frowns, “You act like you didn’t have any good days.”
“I had loads of good days,” Lando says, “Just not the ones that matter in the end.”
“Mate, that’s not how it works.”
“Feels like it is.”
Max leans back, rubbing a hand over his face, “You’re impossible to talk to properly when you do this.”
Lando scratches his jaw, “Do what?”
“This,” Max says, gesturing vaguely at him. “You take anything remotely serious and immediately undercut it. Like you’re trying to beat everyone to the punch of thinking you’re not good
enough.”
Lando’s smile flickers, “Bit dramatic.”
He knows it’s not dramatic. But what Max said somehow found the 2019 rookie Lando Norris, who had to delete all social media in fear he’d get dragged after a bad weekend, even though he
hated himself more than any fan could at the time.
Max scoffs at Lando’s response, “And again.”
Lando fidgets with the cup in front of him to stop himself from picking at his nails. Max is looking past Lando’s shoulder at a TV.
“Well, what do you want me to say, then?” Lando finally says.
“I want you to stop pretending it doesn’t matter,” Max says. “You can joke about it all you want, but it clearly does.”
“I’m not pretending,” He says. “I just don’t see the point in sitting here like…mourning it.”
“That’s not what this is.”
“Feels like it,” Lando says. Then he shrugs. “Look, I didn’t win. I didn’t get it done. Oscar did. Verstappen did. Carlos was the only non-Redbull race winner. Loads of people did things I didn’t.
That’s fine. That’s racing.”
Max watches him, “You hear how you say that?” Max asks.
Lando gives a small smile, “Very eloquently, I thought.”
“No,” Max says. “Like you’re talking about someone else. Like it’s not you who’s actually in it. It’s like you’re stuck in this state of dissociation when you talk about anything that you didn’t do
perfectly.”
“Maybe that’s healthier.” Lando lets out a breathless laugh.
“It’s not.”
“People’s bodies work differently.” Lando shrugs.
Max’s voice sharpens slightly. “You don’t have to sand yourself down just to make the disappointment easier to hold.”
Lando gives up on distracting himself with the cup; he’s begun picking at his nails. It’s a habit he formed when he first started karting. Before each race, his dad would sit him down to go over
the racing line, and Lando would pick at his nail beds, sometimes to the point of them bleeding slightly.
“I’m not sanding anything. I’m just being real.”
“You’re calling yourself ‘adjacent to wins’ and acting like that's realism?” Lando can hea the frustration in Max’s voice.
Lando shrugs, “I guess it’s a coping mechanism.”
“It’s self-sabotage.”
That makes Lando look at Max directly. For a second, the humour is gone completely. It’s just him sitting there, across from his childhood best friend, who is pointing out this major flaw that
Lando pretends to not notice. He’s tired in a way that has nothing to do with beer or late nights or end-of-season noise.
“I’m not doing it on purpose,” he says, more blunt than before. “It’s just easier than sitting around going ‘oh poor me, nearly there again’.”
Max softens a fraction. “That’s not what I’m asking you to do,” He exhales, “You make everything a joke because you don’t want it to land.”
Lando can’t physically sit there anymore without feeling the overwhelming urge to sob. He wants to be somewhere loud, somewhere where he can’t hear his own thoughts, where he’ll get lost somewhere outside of his head.
“I think I’m gonna head off,” Lando says, casually.
Max looks at him, “C’mon, mate, don’t do that.”
“What, leave?” Lando says lightly, pushing his chair out, and setting some money on the table to pay, “It’s fine. Season’s over. Everyone’s moved on, right? Only three months until we restart.”
Max stands half an inch out of his seat, then stops himself. “Lando.”
The humour tries to come back, but it doesn’t, and Lando has no quip to leave Max with.
“Proper good drink out, I suppose,” Max mutters as Lando leaves.
The pub door swings shut behind Lando, and the warm Monagasque air hits him. He needs a party. A party where the overbearing emotions can get lost in music, drinks, and random guys
grinding on him.