Archive of Our Own

If Oscar didn't know better, and if he wasn't approximately a million kilometers from Melbourne, he'd think that his sister was fucking with him again – that she'd looked at him just wrong and burdened him with this inescapable sense of doom. It's too powerful to be natural, too all-consuming to be real.

But he is a million kilometers from home, or maybe thirteen thousand, and Hattie's Magic – no matter how many times she threatens – can't reach him from this far.

No, it's just homegrown, free range, organic anxiety; it's a dark cloud that he's been trying to wave away since he DNFd in Bahrain, since he ruined his debut race in Formula One. And he'd been playing it off well, smiling with the appropriate level of 'well, what can you do' at the edges when people pat him on the back empathetically, when they tell him 'just one race in a career, you'll get 'em next time'.

He's just hoping that it'll feel real, eventually. That he'll actually believe it.

One race out of many.

He can't help but notice that Lando is handling their poor starts so much better, which helps as much as it doesn't. He should handle it better – he's been in F1 for years compared to Oscar's weeks – but Oscar shouldn't need years. It's ridiculous that he would even prove to need months. He's always had a grip on these things, on himself; he's always held himself in such a tight grip that his mother's divination could hardly reach him.

"The Spirits can't even Show me what you want for Christmas..." Nicole laments, cutting herself off with a sigh as she brushes spent herbs into her waiting palm, flashing Oscar a put-on, baleful look.

He shrugs. "You could just ask."

The roar of an excited crowd drags him out of the mental trenches, back to a track in the middle of the Saudi Arabian desert with one foot on a metal step – paces away from center stage. Lando, stood to his left, leans forward to peer up at him; his curious eyes flutter for a second, brow raised. He pulls all of Oscar's attention, if not only for a brief moment, as he loses himself in confounding mix of green and blue.

"You all there, mate?"

Rude. Terribly rude, he's always so rude.

Oscar sighs, entirely aware that he's projecting his black cloud onto Lando's clear eyes; he's been nothing but weirdly kind the entire time. "Just the jet lag."

"You'll get better at handling it." Oscar finds the astute double meaning a little jarring, like Hattie reading his mind. Lando's attention is soon taken by the Williams boys approaching – Logan laughing brightly at whatever Alex Albon said. "Oi, you're late!" He calls, falling upon uninterested ears.

"Stepping on your brand, huh?" Albon calls back, smiling that easy, eye-crinkling smile that makes everyone feel immediately at ease.

Lando nearly squawks, obnoxious in his feigned (or perhaps genuine, Oscar can't quite tell) offense. "I'm not the late one, Oscar–"

"Don't drag me into this," He deadpans, only half paying attention as he nods at Logan – a familiar beacon in the ocean of novelty.

But Logan doesn't fall into place on Oscar's right, where he always stands. Albon does.

Albon stands next to him, long fingers and solid palm landing on his shoulder and shaking him a little – telltale giggle starting as he teases Lando back. "Blaming the rookie, Lando? Seriously? That's your best move?"

Lando's response fades into the background for a moment as Oscar's mind hones in on Albon's hand, comfort spreading down his shoulder like a breath of relief; the knots in his back unfurl, soft fingers dig into the dark skies of his mind and gently pull them apart. Metaphorical sunshine kisses his skin, comforting ease saturating into his bones, coursing through his veins.

He closes his eyes for a brief moment and exhales through his nose, renewed.

Wait.

His eyes blink open, neck snapping to stare at Albon's glowing, mirthful face. Lando and Logan are rolling their eyes at something he'd said, and Oscar catches Albon's gaze in the split-second silence.

He’s a Joy Witch.

He knows Albon can read his expression; it's evident in the minuscule flash of 'oh fuck' before he carefully conceals it behind a wink.

It takes all of Oscar's restraint to swallow down a groan. Can't fucking escape this shit anywhere, can I.

He really doesn't know Albon well enough for this.

"There's no one else that knows, I've never– of course I've never let it get in the way of the racing, that's why no one knows. I'm not– obviously I'm not–" He's pacing, if you can call it that in such a tight space, across Oscar's driver room; Oscar watches from his bench, waiting for Albon to take a breath or trip over his shoes.

"Mate, it's really not–"

"No one knows, I've not even told George."

Oscar raises a brow, suddenly significantly more curious about what Russell's got to do with this. "And I'm not going to tell–"

Albon finally stops dead in his tracks, eyes sliding over to Oscar – reading him superficially, the tell-tale sensation of Magic stoking his nerves blessedly absent. Albon deadpans: "You."

Confused, Oscar deadpans harder: "...Me."

"How did you know?"

He blinks, taken aback but – based on typical reviews – not showing it. Had Albon not pieced it together, that the only way to know is to feel the Magic? And the only way to feel it is to, well... know it?

Is Albon kind of... dense? He hadn't really expected that.

Maybe he's expecting too much of the guy, now that he thinks about it.

"Well my mum, my whole family, really, they're all... you know," He gestures vaguely, uncertain as to why he can't just say it. Albon's expression morphs to genuine shock, as if it's more surprising that Oscar's related to witches than if he'd randomly guessed about the existence of Magic. "Witches."

"And you're...?"

"Not, no." He smiles briefly, letting out a huff of laughter. "Thankfully."

It's Albon's turn to raise a brow. "Thankfully?"

"Just seems like more stress than it's worth," He shrugs, not wanting to get into the semantics of it all – the sordid childhood tales and Hattie's dating woes. "And, um. Yeah, s'not like I'm not living my dream without it, you know?"

Albon looks at him a little more quizzically, head tilted and arms crossed over his chest. And it's then that Oscar feels it, like the softest touch against the nape of his neck – but deeper. Tickling whispers of fingers, of breath, tingle up his brain stem as they move higher, deeper, as they seek that hidden emotional core.

"Get out of my head, mate." Oscar says bluntly, face intentionally impassive.

At least he's got the class to look guilty, he thinks to himself as Albon's face flushes red, as he holds up his hands like he's been caught out. "Sorry, just–"

"Didn't believe me?" He finishes, finally moving to stand up. They're nearly nose to nose in the glorified closet, though Albon stands tall enough for Oscar to lift his gaze. There's nothing judgmental in his eyes, just a genuine burst of curiosity – a bit like a cat, maybe an adventurous puppy.

Oscar sighs. "I've got enough Magic in my family that I never needed– wanted it for myself." Alex nods along, still standing between Oscar and the door. "So I won't tell anyone, I get it. Just don't... don't mess with me, my future, or my head and we'll be good, yeah?"

"Yeah, no. Of course, I would never." Albon says, nodding more fervently. "So do we just–"

"Or Lando. Leave Lando out of it, too." He tacks on, entirely uncertain of where the urge came from. It popped out of the ether, like Alex had Magically placed it on his tongue solely to make him sound... stupid. Or something.

He cheeks feel hot, the tips of his ears scalding.

"...Right." Albon replies slowly, finally moving to open the door. Fresh air rushes in like it's heaven sent, a balm over his suddenly heated skin. "You or... Lando."

"Exactly." Oscar says brusquely, internally flinching at how overly harsh it sounded. He walks out of the drivers room before not-him-definitely-Alex can make him say something even more stupid. Stupider. More stupid.

Whatever.

It doesn't truly sink in until he's back in the garage, until he sees his mum and her bright eyes – misted over with unshed, sparkling tears – and his gaggle of sisters, all bouncing on their toes. Identical smiles and outspread arms nearly tackle him to the floor, the team laughing and clapping and – inevitably – snapping pictures to tease him with later.

But the weight of the world falls from his shoulders, the relief nearly tangible; he'd finally snagged his first points, and he'd done it at home.

It was only four, only half of Lando's eight, but that's still twelve. It's twelve for them, twelve for a team that no one even thinks to consider for the constructors' these days. And, swaying back and forth from the force of his family's hug, it's a sign that maybe it was all worth it – the drama with Alpine last year, the sacrifice of being so far away from this for so long, the tiring hours and hotel rooms and diets and loneliness.

He can't help as his smile grows, can't help but melt into the sticky-sweet pink happiness that Hattie radiates over him – contagious.

"It's just so hard to watch when I can't See," Nicole says on a huff of disbelieving laughter; it tickles in his hair. "But I always hope–"

"Wouldn't be very fun if you could See it all, would it?" Oscar finally frees himself from the group hug, making a show of straightening out his kit.

"Well I knew you had it," His sister, Edie, beams – dripping in her usual easy confidence; it's no wonder she fell into the same school as their mum: a pair of Aplomb Witches, those Magically inclined towards the future, divination, and Spirits. "So maybe you're losing your touch with age–"

His mum swats at her lightly, opening her mouth to – if Oscar were to wager – threaten a curse upon her tarot cards. But the conversation breaks as someone grabs him, a broad palm that nearly engulfs the straight line of his clavicle, the curve of his shoulder.

"Sorry to, um, pop in," Lando says, looking at Oscar's family sheepishly; it doesn't suit him, Oscar thinks suddenly – the uncertainty. "Gotta take Oscar for a quick shot with the media team. First points and all, yeah?"

"Of course, of course!" Nicole says, flashing the girls a look Oscar can't discern; he hates when she does that, some sort of inter-witch communication. "You boys have fun. Osc, breakfast before your flight tomorrow, ok?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'll meet you," Oscar says, already waving in brief farewell. Lando's hand only falls aways when he turns on his heel, leaving his shoulder almost... too light in its absence.

"Osc, huh?" Lando asks, giggling around his long, rubber straw when Oscar rolls his eyes.

Lando's eyes look shockingly bright like this, electric next to post-race reddened cheeks and scrunched up with mirth. Oscar can't stop looking at them, entirely uncertain what they remind him of, why they're so fascinating to him.

He doesn't understand how they can be so clear yet so hard to read in equal parts.

"Don't–"

"Anyone ever call you Oscy?" His voice cracks from restrained laughter, the words almost washed away by the team's cheers as they exit the garage.

He doesn't get a chance to chastise him, not that he's really figured out how, before they're quickly swept up in the swell of papaya and excitement.

Oscar's not entirely sure how F1 teammates are meant to be.

Which makes sense, on account that he's only ever had the one – and he's a bit odd, from what he's gathered so far. And to be odd in a sport full of people who dedicate their entire life to driving... that says a lot.

So maybe it's not all that odd, contextually, that Lando's sat so close to him – that he always kind of does without prompting, standing back to back during pre-season photoshoots, nearly brushing his shoulders during their debrief videos.

Case in point, now:

They're sat under the street lights and beneath a darkened sky. Lando, always unseasonable, sits too closely in a hooded sweatshirt and matching jacket, the brim of his hat turned backwards.

It should make him look like a prick, the whole get up. But Oscar can't help but think that it doesn't – unable to put his finger quite on why.

He nearly jumps to attention when Lando claps, the camera apparently rolling for the post-race wrap up.

He makes it look so easy, running through the motions of the weekend. Some generic-yet-earnest slurry about 'lots of papaya, lots of support, an electric crowd' before looking at Oscar expectantly – eyebrows raised and tanned skin glimmering in the warm-lamplight, blinking at him once, twice–

Oh.

Oscar clears his throat, shocked that he let himself get to distracted. "Yeah, um. Yeah, it was a special moment – a special weekend. A big thank you to everyone that showed up, thank you to Melbourne. We wouldn't be able to do it without you."

It sounds unbearably lame when he says it; the spring-warmth starts to tint his cheeks red, burnishes the tips of his ears when Lando giggles.

"Sounds like they've got you at gunpoint, mate." He jabs, somehow made feather-soft by the tinge of his laughter.

Oscar used to be good enough at PR, back in F2. Maybe that's just because it mattered less, or because he knew no one really watched it. But this–

"D'you wanna give it another go?" Lando asks, leaning forward to look up at him again.

It's humiliating that, just like everything else lately, he has to be given weeks to acclimate. "Yeah, yeah, just..." He draws a deep breath, willing away the butterflies in his stomach. "Just gotta say thank you, right?"

"Toss in a 'papaya' or something," Lando nods sagely, if anything Lando can do is sage. "That usually works for me."

Has he considered, Oscar wants to snark, that it works because he's Lando Norris? But he doesn't; he swallows his unjust bile and nods in silent agreement.

"Take two, then?" Lando holds up his hands like he's about to clap, looking at Oscar expectantly.

Something eats at the pit of his stomach, tightly wound and not entirely unlike the time he got food poisoning in Japan – but not because it's gross, more so in its intensity. Obviously Lando doesn't make him want to throw up, obviously. It's nothing more than inwardly facing irritation.

"McLaren unboxed, get it?" He says like he's leading Oscar somewhere, wigging his fingers as he holds his hands up. "Unboxed."

Oscar snaps back to reality as the joke dons on him. It's stupid. He laughs anyways, bubbling up as his dam of irritation breaks. "Yeah, yeah, box. Got it." He places his hands perpendicular to Lando's, hands making a crude, lopsided square.

"Perfect take in three, two–" Lando starts, somehow in sync with Oscar's racing heart. "One!"

They both try to clap, Lando sideways and Oscar top-to-bottom; their fingers bang against each other, awkward and clumsy and somehow so, so, so deeply funny as Lando bursts into laughter, as Oscar can't help but fold in on himself in pink-cheeked hysterics.

The lights around the hospitality flicker, or perhaps the stars burn brighter through Melbourne's light pollution; the spring night feels almost unbearably warm as they struggle to breathe through their hiccuping giggles.

Maybe it's not a bad thing, having a bit of an extra-odd teammate to teach him.

It feels like some sort of fucked up retribution that he gets food poisoning before Baku.

You think about food poisoning in relation to your teammate once, and suddenly the universe strikes you down before the narrowest track on the calendar. How quaint. How lovely. It almost makes him wish that his mum could keep an eye on his future, that way she could have warned him about the bloody airport fish–

"Y'look like shit, mate." Lando says without a greeting, throwing himself down at the desk next to Oscar.

He shoots him a weary glance, too nauseated to care about Lando sitting at a desk that very much isn't his just to, apparently, insult him. "Wow, thanks."

"Thought this might help," He breezes by Oscar's sarcasm (and Oscar knows he caught it, because he's learned that Lando's a sarcastic git). Instead, he thuds a plastic bottle in front of Oscar's clammy hands, condensation running onto the table.

He stares at it dumbly.

What?

"Shit saved my life when I got food poisoning my rookie year," Lando explains, reaching back out to twist the cap open with a resounding crack. "Already okayed it with Kim, in case you're, y'know... worried."

His voice sounds strangely soft when there's no cameras, but it's even more delicate right now. There's a swirl of emotion in his chest that rivals the hell in his stomach, and it's just–

"Oh," Oscar finally manages, too sleep-derived to really process everything that just happened – the oddly soft expression in Lando's eyes, the almost... caring tone in his voice.

Homesickness kicks Oscar while he's down. Somehow, despite the team and peers and colleagues, it suddenly feels like he hasn't been cared about in a long, long time.

"Christ, you're really gone, huh." Lando rises to his feet when Oscar realizes that he's the one who's been rude.

Cosmic balance or whatever his mum always goes on about.

"Sorry, um. Thanks for–"

"It's nothing," Lando cuts him off. And before he steps away, making the trip to the correct side of the room at his desk to review his data, there's a massive, condensation-damp hand on Oscar's head.

In his hair.

Ruffling it.

What?

"Just get better before the race, yeah?" Lando says like nothing happened – and nothing really did happen; Lando's just that kind of guy; Oscar's put that much together. But the way his whole body feels like collapsing into it, exhausted and entirely depleted of every fluid imaginable, makes him worry that he'll throw up if he tries to thank him again.

Maybe he just needs to call his mum, ask if she can come to the next race, even if it's far.

He can't find his sweatshirt.

Which is fine, he reasons as he digs through the amorphous pile of black and white and green and papaya. It's fine, it's really not that cold. But it's the principle of the thing, his mother's voice tugging at the back of his mind – 'I told you you'd lose it if you don't tidy up, Osc.'

Could she stop being right about something?

How she manages to be maternally insufferable – but it's not insufferable, it's not insufferable when he misses her terribly, misses her every day – from a distance is laudable, really. He should call her and ask her to leave him alone, because surely she's the reason he can't find this fucking–

God, it could even be Edie. He forgot to call her when he landed back in Monaco, and now she's had the Spirits bother him as recompense.

Someone knocks on his door, heavy handed and brash. It's not a pattern he's heard before, which is to say it isn't Logan, Kim, or Mark. "Yeah?" He calls, turning to watch Lando crack the door open just enough to poke his head in.

"This yours?" His hand, clutching a black sweatshirt, hardly fits through the narrow slit.

Oscar's stomach drops, reason unknown. "Oh."

"Kim must've gotten the wrong driver's room, or something." Lando starts to ramble. "New team, new hospitality... poor guy, really. Not, it's... S'not his fault, actually, dunno why I made it sound like he– he's good at his job, obviously. Sorry. Don't tell him I said uh, all of that."

He hasn't seen Lando like this before, almost caught off-guard even though no one asked him a question. Even when he's saying something proper stupid in an interview, and Oscar's seen many such cases over the years, there's still an underpinning of belief in what he's saying.

Aggravation dies on Oscar's tongue, replaced with a – surely– witty retort that dies just as quickly.

He finds Lando difficult to talk to, sometimes. He's not sure why.

"Sorry for being in your space and stuff," Lando continues on in Oscar's – possibly off-putting – silence.

Oscar mentally balks. "No, no it's not–"

"I'll just..." Lando tosses the sweatshirt awkwardly, arm limited by the fact that he won't open the door properly.

"Right." Oscar says, catching it before it hits him in the face. "Sorry for the... mix up." His voice passes for normal at least, though he's uncertain why it all has him feeling wrong-footed anyways.

Why won't Lando just come in properly? Alex had, uninvited and all.

"Don'worry about it." Lando says, or maybe mumbles, before disappearing from the crack in Oscar's door.

It leaves him in a shell-shocked silence.

Drawing in a deep breath, he rationalizes that he's the one being weird; it's nothing worth being worried over, let alone shell-shocked – his teammate being thoughtful enough to respect his privacy and minimize invading his limited personal space.

And that's that. Obviously.

He'll go about his afternoon, his media duties and social media obligations, like that was a normal interaction between relatively new teammates. And it was, teammates mix up their kits all the time.

He doesn't spare a thought to wonder how Lando realized this was Oscar's Monaco-edition sweatshirt when he surely owns an identical copy, nor does he think – somewhere in the very back of his mind – that it smells faintly of Lando's cologne.

Lando, for what Oscar's judgment's worth, seems unperturbed by the sweatshirt debacle.

Which means there wasn't a debacle in the first place, just neuroticism. Not that Oscar's ever been known as particularly neurotic, but that's neither here nor there.

But there's still an inkling circling in the back of his mind, nervous and unfamiliar. He knows how to push things about of his head – he handled fucking up in Bahrain, what does a weird conversation with his teammate have on that?

A lot, clearly.

It has a lot on Bahrain, and – if Oscar thinks about it – maybe that's reasonable.

Lando's not leaving McLaren anytime soon, he's basically built the damn thing; so if Oscar wants to stay here, if he wants a chance at cashing in on McLaren's potential upward swing, he needs to get along with Lando. It's not a personal quandary, it's not just one race, it's obviously a major part of his future – making sure Lando likes him.

He saw what happened with Mark and Sebastian; rather, Mark still won't shut the fuck up about it.

All that to say that Lando looks markedly normal. Good, even. He looks good.

Not that Oscar looks at Lando all that much, certainly not more than a normal teammate. He's not noticed how Lando's progressively more golden brown weekend after weekend, nor has he picked up on the way his jewelry – the chains he always wears, the obnoxious stack of bracelets – glimmers in contrast.

But now, perhaps in search of cues that Lando actually does think the sweatshirt debacle was actually a debacle, he can't help but look.

Lando's arms, undeniably muscular but somehow small on his narrow frame, draw his entire focus as he he shifts in his seat. The prompt card nearly disappears in his hand, the giant spread of his palm and the sprawl of his weirdly long fingers – the ones that were so gentle in his hair in Baku, that spanned his shoulder when he clapped it in Australia

"Hello?" Lando drawls, leaning forward to meet Oscar's slightly unfocused gaze.

He jumps, acutely aware that he was definitely staring. "What?"

"Game time, mate, c'mon," He waves the card in his hand halfheartedly, wiggling his brows like a self-pleased teacher's pet.

Surely a rare feeling for him, that. It makes him smile a bit as he bites his tongue around it. He's learning that teasing Lando is a fine art, one that he's still a bit wary of on camera.

Oscar flexes his fingers, recalling what they were meant to be doing in the first place. A lie-detector holds one of his hands in place, strapped in to the plastic contraption that surely cost less than two quid.

It's still warm from Lando's hand, from where he fiddled with it before the video started.

Lie detector. Right. "Gotta ask me the question first."

"I did!" Lando doesn't pout, because Lando refuses to call his blatant pouting as such, and waves the card again.

"Ask me again, then." Oscar concedes, mostly because he can't actually defend himself.

"Am I the funniest teammate you've ever had?" Lando repeats.

It's like Hattie's in his head again, the way he feels his body grow painfully, searingly hot inhumanly quickly – Magically quickly.

In the blink of an eye he's in a million places at once: a mishmash of laughter on humid nights and exhausted chuckles after shitty race weekends and nervous giggling during pre-season photoshoots that felt more like torture than anything else; at least until Lando popped into the room and asked if he could steal the camera for a few shots, until he started posing Oscar like a superhero, a Kpop idol, a cat – beaming the entire time with eyes that Oscar couldn't parse out at the time.

They laugh a lot together, Oscar realizes like it's something worth realizing.

"Eh..." Oscar trails off, not sure how he's meant to answer. A 'yes' would be embarrassing – bad for the camera, too. Too easy, too straightforward.

How would Lando answer it? Surely with that charming, brash honesty Oscar can't tap into.

Lando leans forward in his seat a little, eyes bright and smile almost impossibly brighter. It makes Oscar nearly squirm backwards, but he knows it'll be caught on camera and, inevitably, brought up when the team wants to have a laugh – the rookie who's afraid that his teammate's going to, what? Bite him?

Finally, Oscar finds the words. With an exhale and a smile: "You're up there."

The lie-detector dings happily; truth detected.

"Awwwww," Lando coos, voice cracking. It's all uncharacteristically uncomfortable: Lando's eyes scrunching up as he laughs at him, the heat boiling under Oscar's skin, the cameras lurking just on the outside of it all, the way Lando won't stop looking at him, the way his eyes seem to sparkle like starlight as he gears up another taunt. "You liiiiike m–"

Oscar's heart-rate spikes.

It all goes downhill incredibly quickly.

"Fuck!" He hisses, trying to yank his hand back as the toy shocks him – a plume of black smoke, far too severe for its size, erupting from within. The smell of an electrical fire blooms, violent and immediate. "My hand, the strap, it's–"

The room devolves into chaos: Lando nearly falling across the tabletop to grab Oscar's trapped hand, wincing as the plastic singes him; members of the team scrambling and shouting for a fire extinguisher, for bandages and ice.

"I've got you, I– fuck!" Lando manages the velcro strap quickly, the faulty toy falling before bursting into a shockingly large flame; they both tip backwards in their chairs, tumbling to the floor inelegantly and scrambling away – pulled together by Oscar's panicked need to see Lando's hand.

"Are you– lemme see–"

"It's fine, it's fine," Lando brushes him off, grabbing Oscar's wrist – avoiding his reddened palm – and holding it up, staring at it with an achingly familiar look in his eyes, the one Oscar had seen in Baku.

Care, soft and determined, slipping through Lando's usual facade.

The lights start to flicker, Oscar's senses entirely overwhelmed by the calamity of the socials team panicking about how to use the extinguisher, the eventual scream of it going off, the throbbing ache of blood rushing to his wounded hand – Lando's equally hot fingers gently holding his wrist like it's something precious.

"We both need to go to medical," Oscar finally says, which snaps Lando back to the present.

"Oh."

He doesn't drop his wrist.

Oscar's heart may burst out of his chest.

"Like, now."

"Ow." Lando says a little blankly, like the pain in his fingers only just registered.

It makes Oscar chuckle, a little dry and entirely in disbelief at his confusion. "Yeah?"

"Oi! Who just saved your life?" He bites without teeth, Oscar's pretty sure, and managing a smile.

"Reckon I wasn't gonna die, mate."

"Of course you were, look at it!" He nods towards the gaggle of employees prodding at the fire-retardant-foam-covered corpse of their lie-detector – clearly at a loss for what happened. "Thing's proper vicious."

"...Right." Oscar finally concedes, that recurring heat roaring beneath his skin when Lando's fingers tighten minutely – still wrapped around his wrist like he'd forgotten they were there.

And suddenly, like a movie unfolding behind his open eyes, Oscar sees Lando – sunkissed and raintouched – beaming at him; he sees a version of Lando that he's not seen before, elated and throwing himself into his arms like he belongs there, fitting against Oscar like–

"–medical?"

It disappears as fast as it came, a blurring line of reality and.... delusion. Unreality.

Oscar blinks.

Lando tilts his head to peer up at him again, just like he always does when he thinks Oscar's being thick; one of the first behaviors he really learned how to read, which he's grown to find quite funny. "You going into shock, mate?"

"No."

"Sure," Lando finally drops his wrist. "Team's calling for us to head to medical."

He's only just made it through the gates of the paddock when something hits him in the back of the head, soft fabric covering his eyes before he can jump to find the culprit.

"What the hell–"

"Said 'catch', mate." Lando laughs, voice closer than Oscar expected; he whips around, tearing the cloth – a shirt? – off his face in a jolt of shock. "Pretty shit reflexes for a driver."

His smile belies his sarcasm, Oscar's learned – big enough to crinkle his eyes. So he huffs out a laugh, relieved that it's just Lando being his normal, annoyingly brash self. He can handle that.

"What's this then?" He glances at the wad of white fabric, falling into step alongside him.

"Reckon you should know," Lando says cryptically, waving at the gauntlet of cameras lining the entryway. Oscar raises a brow, starting to shake it out when Lando continues on. "You seriously write your name on your tags?"

Understanding hits him quickly, immediately replaced with red-hot embarrassment.

"Where'd you get my shirt?"

"Found it in my hotel room." Lando shrugs like it's normal to find your teammate's things in your suitcase, like he's not still half-laughing behind a knowing smile. "D'you write your name on all your stuff?"

He ignores the dig. "How'd it get–?"

Lando digs harder. "You put it on your pants, too, huh?"

"No, why would you even think that?" His voice cracks, charred from the heat swelling inside him; it earns a fresh peal of laughter from Lando, light and captivating.

"Awww," Lando teases, smiling impossibly brighter – sharp and heart-shaped, Oscar thinks amidst a fresh wave of nausea. "Did your mum do it then?"

"Mate, she lives in Australia–"

"Oscy, Oscy..." He tsks, the nickname making Oscar's ears ring. It feels like he's being hunted for sport, heart racing faster than the moments before lights out. "Gotta get better at lying if you wanna make it here, mate."

He waves when a gaggle of fans cheer their names, turning to the final stretch towards their hospitality – perfectly normal, mask on. "Reckon you're a worse liar than I am."

Lando scoffs, bounding up the steps first. "Name one time."

"Um, your interview in–"

He turns, blocking the door with an indecipherable raised brow – back a little stiff, eyes hard to read. "You've watched my interviews?"

Oscar blinks dumbly at the... accusation.

"No, no," He mentally backpedals, uncertain why he feels so caught-out about the truth. He'd followed F1 before he joined, followed the drivers he admired, that's not a crime, and yet, "Just saw a few clips on the– y'know, we all follow the news, so like... Instagram, the F1 account, um... Twitter..."

Lando's smiles returns, growing increasingly wide as Oscar stumbles through an increasingly incoherent answer, air growing thin.

Are Lando's cheeks slowly staining red, or is it just the sun?

Oscar's feel molten.

"Really need to work on the lying thing, mate." Lando finally says, and Oscar can't help but feel like he's putting him out of his misery – an ice bucket full of pity, maybe, dumped on his head.

Lando turns on his heel to stroll into McLaren's building like nothing happened.

"...Noted." He nods stiffly, taking feedback from his coworker like it's just that. Because it is. Like he realized in Monaco, there's a professional interest for them both.

Oscar likes to think that he's getting better at reading Lando, their back and forth finding a little bit of a rhythm.

Maybe.

He can tell, for example, that Lando's hiding something that's got him quite pleased as they bump into each other outside their Canadian hospitality – late for their first meeting of the day.

"Got something funny to say?" Oscar asks, no longer surprised by the twist in his stomach when Lando tries to stifle a smile at him.

"Missing something this morning?" Lando asks back, voice doing that crickly-crackly thing it does when he's on the verge of laughter.

Oscar raises a brow, considering. "Don't think I've dropped–"

"Didn't take you– you for–" He struggles to get it out, already giggling to himself as he fishes around in his jacket pockets. "You a hot pink briefs guy, Piastri?"

"Christ," Oscar snatches them before Lando can air them out in public, in front of the cameras, and shoves them in his jeans pocket.

They don't fit.

He's going to kill whoever took–

Who would even–?

Lando's in near tears as Oscar storms up the stairs, face brighter than his pants – the pair he only packed because nothing else was clean and his mates bought them as a joke when he was a teen.

"We need– we need to–" Lando gasps around his laughter, chasing Oscar through hospitality like an irritating shadow. "We need to figure out how your stuff keeps getting in my room, mate."

"If I knew," Oscar says without turning to address Lando, refusing to show him how mortified he is, "I'd have fixed it by now."

"You sure you're not sneaking in?"

"Of course I'm not–"

"You'd be a pretty shit secret admirer, you know that?"

"I'd have to like you to be an admirer, mate." Oscar jokes dryly. Lando's footsteps pause behind him.

Oh.

His heart stills as his hand freezes on the conference room door handle.

"Sorry, that was–"

"Wow, cheers to working on the lying, Oscy." Lando snorts, clapping him on the shoulder before sneaking into the conference room first. "Oscar's late!" He calls to the team, immediately denying the rounds of complaints that he, too, had kept them waiting.

Oscar doesn't have time analyze the lightness in his step at his sarcasm, apparently, landing – it's his rookie year and he's late.

Again.

Oscar still doesn't really understand Russell.

Which is fair considering they haven't interacted much so far this season. Certainly less than he's been around Alex, largely due to his proximity to Logan and the whole Joy Witch debacle, and far less than Lando. Which is probably about right for a rookie – he doubts that Logan can boast a bustling grid-related social life at this point, either.

But now he's far closer to Russell – he can probably just call him George, at this point – than he expected to be. Which is to say that they've talked more than once outside of a race weekend. Which is really to say that the four of them are currently tucked together at the back of a jet, heading towards Singapore.

George has Lando's rapt focus, which is a pretty significant considering how fleeting Oscar's noticed Lando's attention span can be. A knot forms in his stomach as George leans forward, whispering something conspiratorially.

Bit suspicious for someone that isn't even his teammate, honestly.

"Bet they're talking about clubs already," Alex says, settling down next to Oscar with a fresh water in hand.

Maybe it's not suspicious, if Alex is so... normal about it.

Oscar furrows his brow. "George planning on a podium then?"

Alex snorts, nearly choking on his drink. "George plans on the championship every year, haven't you heard?"

"Hm," He hums noncommittally, peering over at the duo again. George is showing his phone off to Lando now, all spindly fingers and slightly terrifying eyes.

"Kinda unnerving, isn't he?" Alex smiles when he says it, rolling his eyes when Oscar flashes him a look. "M'not in your head, mate."

"Never said you were–"

"Has anyone ever told you that your poker face is pretty shit?"

'No.' He wants to say bluntly. Quite the opposite, famously. But Alex keeps smiling, and Oscar wonders what happened to the dense, rambling man he accidentally exposed the other month.

And so, to quote Lando, "Ow?"

Alex laughs again, the warm sort of Joy Witch laughter that makes everyone around him blossom from the inside. It's almost enough to make him a little homesick if it didn't make his hackles raise first.

"So," Alex carries on, undeterred by Oscar's apparently awful poker face. "How're you settling in?"

"Uh..." Oscar trails off, not entirely sure what Alex's playing at. Therapist? "Yeah, um. Fine? Lando's great."

He doesn't know why he tacked that on, mentally cringing at the unnecessary sharing. Not that it's a slip up to talk about your teammate; Alex's teammate is a rookie too, of course, so it makes sense to talk about his teammate. They're both having to deal with new variables: the scrutiny, the what ifs about head-to-head comparison, the–

Alex sighs. "You know, I remember my rookie year."

Oscar would hope so; it wasn't all that long ago, and he's pretty sure Alex hasn't had a concussion since. "...Right."

"Don't make it sound like I'm torturing you, mate!" He laughs, and Oscar stiffens in his seat – confused. "I was just saying that I remember all the... stress. The feelings, right?"

Well, Alex was being slaughtered by the media at the time. Not that Oscar has, he's not really been slaughtered by anyone, barring the fall out from the Alpine decision.

So he nods again, still a little lost. "Sure."

"Oh my god," Alex all but groans, exasperated in the way Oscar's more than familiar with, and runs a hand down is face. "You're not getting it, are you?"

Clearly not. "Getting...?"

"Look, mate." Alex sits upright again, and Oscar has half a mind to notice how fidgety the man is. "I've got eyes, ok?" Oscar nods. "And I've seen that you... and Lando..."

"What about me and Lando?" He feels his cheeks grow hot at his name, which is both mortifying and deeply confusing.

"You're the one that brought him up, I thought that–"

"We're good teammates, it's not–" He's babbling, objections overlapping with Alex's words.

"Like I said, I've got eyes, Oscar." What right has Albon got to be blushing, Oscar wonders indignantly; he's passingly taken aback that he feel fucking indignant about Alex Albon of all people.

"What are you getting at, then?"

"That you're, uh... well, you're not the first to have... feelings."

Oh.

Oscar mentally balks. "No."

"If you need someone to talk to about it–"

It feels like the floor has fallen away from beneath his feet, leaving him to free fall at 10,000 feet. But it's fine, maybe he'd rather drown in the ocean than have Albon in his head, in his–

"Get out of my head." Oscar whispers tightly, uncertain as to how he missed the telltale feeling of intrusive Magic.

Alex holds his hands up innocently. "Never been in your head, mate."

He's hot. His heart rate feels fast, uncalled for adrenaline bleeding into his nerves. "Then what–"

Thunder claps outside, severe enough to elicit visions of the sky tearing in two. Their team members shoot to a panicked attention, immediately turning to each other for security – validation that something so loud was real.

It had been crystalline skies outside a moment ago, Oscar thinks with a furrowed brow. And yet, in an instant, the window's nearly gone black with a swirling storm – illuminating in rapid strobes of lightning.

He hears Lando make a noise, alarmingly indistinguishable between excitement and fear. "You alright over there?" Oscar leans around Alex to ask, ignoring George's reaction – something inauthentically posh, he's sure – and focusing on Lando.

He's laughing. "Fucking mega, look at that!" Lando beams, scrounging around in his bag for something. His camera, if Oscar were to take a guess.

He's right, which gives him an odd sense of satisfaction.

Lando clamors over George awkwardly, desperate to the get the best view of the window as another bolt electrifies the velvet rolls of the storm. It nearly makes him laugh; only Lando would think he could catch a lightning strike.

For the first time in his life, stood in the blazing Singaporean sun, Oscar realizes he may be a moron.

Because Lando's a Witch, and he hadn't even noticed.

It's the only thing that makes sense, if he thinks about it. It's the only explanation that catches all the... indescribable odds and ends, the fact that Oscar's stuff won't stop disappearing and reappearing in Lando's room, the deja vu, the weird weather changes, the–

"It makes me feel very joyful," Lando says, peering up from the flowerbed outside their hospitality.

Joyful.

He's got to be a Joy Witch, then. He's using Magic to be grab Oscar's heart with both invisible hands and–

"Does it not fill you with joy?" Lando's eyes are mirrors of the bright afternoon sky like this, looking up at Oscar with his stupid hat turned backwards and his brows knitted from the brightness.

And as Lando turns to look away, the flowers turn, too; they follow him like sunflowers tracking the sun, like the light from his smile – looking down at them with a nauseating amount of sincerity – is Apollo's chariot. It's that delirious vision in Monaco, the sun shining down on Lando brighter than anyone else, like it loves him the most of all its children.

Is he a Morose Witch? With his inclination towards self-criticism, the downward set of his brow... Is he the one controlling the sun, shifting the weather and elements and parting the rain when he looks at Oscar and smiles–

Oscar crouches down, all but falling to his knees besides Lando as the flowers seem to bloom brighter, fuller – reaching their peak beauty under Lando's – clearly – Magical attention.

"It fills me with a lot of joy, yes." Oscar finally gets out, pleased with how normal he sounds, internal panic successfully veiled.

"It fills me with... brightness and gratitude." Lando declares, so unnecessarily serious that it's looped around to hysterical.

And so he laughs, hands reaching down for the sun-warmed astroturf to prevent him from tipping forward and falling into Lando again – ignoring the confusing feeling of gravity urging him to do it.

What's the Emotion that changes gravity?

Maybe that's what Lando is, pulling at Oscar's emotions like a doll articulated on strings – pulling his blood to sit close to his skin, cheeks unbearably hot as he laughs hard enough to ache.

That has to be it, some rare type of Witch that Oscar hasn't encountered before to spur all these... feelings, as Alex put it.

He forms a new theory after qualifying.

It makes no sense that Lando's the Witch – there's no way he managed to keep that secret. If he's learned anything about his teammate in their months together, it's his lack of... discretion.

It has to be someone on another team that's trying to fuck with him, trying to pick on the new guy on the grid. It's a flawless realization, nearly painfully obvious.

He ponders this revelation to distract from being here – sat in a collapsable bathtub filled with an inhumane amount of ice water, bare chest exposed in front of far too many cameras. Even being in the vicinity of an Anger Witch, testy and explosive, would be more pleasant. But surely that's not who's fucking with him, it's probably–

Lando groans loudly – moans. He moans, jagged on the edges and breathy at the end – as he slips into the neighboring bath. He grips the side of the tub hard enough to make the tendons in his hand, the veins in his wrist, distractingly prominent.

Oscar bristles slightly at the thought.

It's not a moan.

It doesn't matter what his forearms look like.

And he doesn't give a fuck what Albon said to him a few days before, because he's not thinking about it. He hardly even remembers it, the look on his face as he loudly implied that Oscar has organic, not Magically induced, feelings–

"Fu–hah," Lando starts to curse, censoring himself with a glance towards their team's cameras. "Made it up real cold this time, Jon, Christ..."

Oscar swallows thickly, looking down at the frog-shaped thermometer floating near his knees. The degrees tick up steadily, strangely quickly; isn't that proof of nearby Witch? Someone ruining the temperature of his bath so he can't recover properly after quali, someone that wants–

"Running hot today, Oscar?" Kim jokes, grabbing more ice and dumping it in without warning.

He can't help but swear under his breath when it brushes against his skin. "Reckon it's cold enough. You don't–"

"Hmmm, not quite." Kim cuts him off with another ice onslaught, unrelenting and – Oscar would argue – a little sadistic.

"Seriously, mate–"

"Gotta sit back and take it, Oscy." Lando laughs – drawing Oscar's eyes. He's leaned back in the tub, nipples hard from the frigid bath and–

He's not looking at the shape of Lando's chest.

He's not looking at how his arms flex as they drape over the rim of the tub, reclined yet somehow domineering, confident. His lashes are wet from where he splashed his face, damp curls slicked back and eyes bright from the stunning chill and–

Sit back and take it.

He's going insane.

The mysterious Witch has dug into his mind and scrambled it all around, leaving a blinding, numbing cacophony of chaos. His body's on fire, his ears are ringing; his vision narrows to a single point of focus, like he lost control of his eyes, of his mind, of his entire being as the temperature of his skin ratchets up, up, up–

Lando raises a brow again, and Oscar hates that he think it looks seductive, and tilts his head. "Cat got your tongue?"

Kim's hand is suddenly on his forehead. "Oscar?" It sounds like he's yelling from the other end of a tunnel, voice tinny and distant. "You ok mate?"

"Yeah, yeah, what–?" He startles, looking around for whatever's gotten Kim into such a panic.

That stupid frog-shaped thermometer blinks: 37.5C.

What?

"Never seen that before," Kim laughs, if not a touch nervous. Another bag of ice. Another. The temperature doesn't change, slowly ticking higher. "Lando, is yours–?"

"Bloody freezing?" He breathes, incredulous, as he sits upright. Water beads down his chest, slowly caressing the curves of his pecs, sliding lower–

Oscar can't breathe, lungs dangerously tight.

38C.

"Why, what's his doing?" Lando asks, moving to lean over – propping his forearms on the edge of his tub and peering over towards Oscar.

He's too close – no, no. No, he's been close before, but not like this. Not when Oscar can't seem to move, to breathe; not when Lando's eyes are so bright from the cold plunge, when he's huffing out a laugh, when they're sat there nearly naked, and–

39C.

"Christ, it's like a hot tub!" He exclaims, eyes wide–

40C.

"–there, mate?" Lando leans in closer, craning his neck to catch Oscar's wide-eyed, frozen gaze.

"Yeah, yeah, sorry." Oscar finally says, hiding whatever meltdown he's having inside. "Must just be, uh. Running hot, like Kim said."

"Maybe the thermometer's broken," Lando proposes, falling back into his tub with another shocked gasp – skin already warmed from his brief reprieve.

Oscar shrugs, not trusting his voice as Lando's noises play in his head again, again, again–

"Bet socials wouldn't complain if we shared."

It's like a slap in the face. "What?"

49C.

He yelps, completely undignified and completely humiliating. The tub nearly tips as he tries to jump out, a lightly-scalded foot catching on the edge before he stumbles onto the pavement. "I'm fine, I'm fine, I... No, really," Oscar brushes off the swell of attention from the team, gratefully accepting a towel from outstretched hands.

"Y'alright, mate?" Lando asks, brows furrowed into the same look of rapt concern from the fiasco in Monaco. From when he was sick in Baku. The one that's starting to hurt a little, and he doesn't know why.

He doesn't even know how he replies, too outside his own body to feel it.

It has to be the work of a Witch, it has to be. He can't think of another option.

He's thought of another option.

He's thought of another option and it's horrible.

Staring up at the podium, staring up at Lando illuminated by the neon purples and oranges and pinks that bathe the Singapore circuit like a midnight sunset, invisible pieces slot into place in Oscar's severely dehydrated mind.

Lando looks like he was meant for it, standing up there; his curls glow in the violent assault of LED and neon, his cheeks brilliantly flushed and under eyes tinged alarmingly pink – contrasted with the exhausted, heat stricken red rim to his eyes that Oscar knows is there, even if he can't see it from this distance. Just like that night in Melbourne, that night where Lando made it seem so easy, filling the shoes of a Formula One driver that still felt unnaturally large on Oscar, it strikes him that he's all Oscar wants to be.

Or maybe he's all Oscar wants, jealousy and envy shifting into...

And as the heat spreads through Oscar's skin, hotter than the weather demands, hotter in a way that he can only describe as Magical, Oscar can't deny it.

His eyes track Lando across the podium, watch as he waves to the crowd with the last of his depleted energy; Carlos pulls him in for a tight hug, hand spanning across his back nearly desperately, possessively, like the trophy he won wasn't enough, like he didn't achieve what Oscar hasn't managed yet, like–

Acrid, stomach twisting... something consumes him as Lando tilts his head back towards the invisible stars – like he can still feel the sun in the middle of the night.

Lando's all Oscar can see – all he can focus on, as his skin grows impossibly hotter – as his heart beats impossibly faster, like it's going to bash through the walls of his chest just to spite him, even in death.

He sways on his feet, mouth running bone dry when Lando slams his champagne onto the podium, as he watches the spray rain down on him like shimmering gold. It nearly runs in slow motion: Lando's wide, heart-shaped smile growing as he bathes in the spoils of his race, as fucking Carlos–

As Oscar watches from the ground, stuck to the hot pavement like he's bound to watch Lando from afar forever – a thought that nearly brings him to his knees.

And if the thought didn't, the realization is brings might.

Love.

It has to be Love.

He's in Love with Lando Norris.

Which can only me that he, Mundane Oscar Piastri, debuted as a Love Witch – the rarest Designation, an equal inclination towards all classes of Magic – a decade after it was meant to happen.

Christ, he's going to be fucking sick.

Finally finding the strength to turn his gaze away from the podium – away from Lando's beautiful, exhaustion-drunk smile and the physical manifestation of Love that's apparently triggered puberty in his Magical core – he pushes through the crowd with meager success.

Masses of fans in every color packed themselves in like sardines, their physical pressure rivaling the building panic in Oscar's lungs. The neon lights seem to pulse as his breathing grows tight, as he pushes by and pushes by and pushes and pushes.

He can hardly think straight, see straight – his mind an unintelligible morass of unbridled emotion rather than words. Consumed by the need to run, by the need to escape, Oscar can hardly find the focus to breathe – but he keeps pushing.

He doesn't even know how long it takes, anthems playing and fireworks setting off like it's been hours, like Oscar fell through time as he falls through the crowd.

His hands are shaking by the time he stumbles, a newborn fawn on unsteady knees, onto the pavement of the hospitality walkways.

Alex.

He needs Alex; he needs someone that will understand. He needs someone here – it can't be his mum, giggling over the phone at him because she can't tell that he's about to shake apart at the seams. Alex can see him, Alex can calm him – the realization dawns on him quickly.

He's a Joy Witch.

He's a Joy Witch and he can fix... this: whatever's gone so drastically haywire in Oscar's body that it's making his vision close in, that it's making the world spin faster than a car careening into a corner after violent contact.

He doesn't even know Alex well enough to know where he'd be after a race.

He doesn't know Alex well enough to tell him that it's Lando– that it's Love–

The dark sky up above feels like it's going to collapse down and swallow him, looming as he looks up in frantic desperation. If his mum was here, if he was an experienced Witch – he's a Witch, he's a Witch, he's a fucking Witch – then he could ask the Spirits. He could ask for guidance, he could divine where Alex is, he could get help–

"Jesus," Alex huffs from next to him, voice so calm and level and jarring against Oscar's tumultuous inner-monologue that it makes him jump out of his skin. "You feel like a wreck, mate."

"Alex!" Oscar nearly shouts, uncharacteristically loud. "I need–"

"Yeah, yeah," He places a hand, warm and comforting, on Oscar's tensed shoulder. "You were basically screaming into the atmosphere, mate."

Alex's Magic starts to seep through him, irresistibly calming. It's like sinking into a warm bath after walking for hours in the damp, miserable British cold – his body slowly thaws, releases every ounce of tension as he takes his first deep breath in God knows how long.

"Bit better, yeah?" Alex says, and Oscar can finally take him in – vision clearing, sharpening up at the edges; he's smiling, kind but undoubtedly nervous. "D'you know what happened?"

His mind feels alert yet artificially softened by Alex's Magic, a psuedo-medicated cloud over his senses. If he was more coherent, he'd remember that he always hated this feeling, the lack of autonomy, of emotional control.

But if Alex keeps his hand there, then maybe Oscar's Magic will stay under control until they've found some privacy.

"Um. Uh, yeah." Oscar says, trying to keep a hold on his previous panic – trying to remember why he needed Alex so desperately. He understates it anyways: "We need to... go."

Alex's smile drops. "Need to get you somewhere–"

"Private, private, yeah. S'like, uh," He sounds sloshed, like Alex has lost track of his Magic and nearly rendered him incapacitated. "Need to talk, like Saudi Arabia, kinda."

"Oh," Alex's eyes bulge for a second before he pretends nothing happened – looking around for straggling fans and curious journalists. "Right, yeah. We can–"

More time must have passed than Oscar realized.

Lando finds them before they can sneak off to a locked room, and it's the worst case scenario on top of an already Extra Worst Case scenario.

"There you are!" He calls, waving at the two of them as if Oscar could ever miss him – a ball of light bounding through the dark, a lighthouse in Oscar's internal storm. "Why'd you run off, we've gotta celebr–"

"I don't think that's a good idea," Alex interrupts, voice tight and smile awkward.

Lando raises a brow and walks closer. He's still in his race suit, hung low around his hips and dripping champagne onto the pavement.

"Um." Oscar starts, tongue heavy. From Alex. Tongue heavy from Alex's Magic. "I need to..."

"He needs to call his mum!" Alex exclaims too loudly; he's a terrible liar.

Great, Oscar thinks to himself, resigned to this ending horrendously.

"Why would you know about Oscar's mum?" Lando asks, almost starting to laugh. His voice cracks in the way that makes Oscar's stomach twist, boyish and carefree.

Love. It's Love, it's Love–

"What do you–"

"When did you even meet his mum?"

"She's a sweet lady, Lando, why are you making this weird–"

"I don't even know his mum, what the fu–?"

"And that's weird! You should work on that!"

"Right," Lando rolls his eyes, allowing himself to be entirely derailed by Alex's terrible ruse. "And you know Logan's mum? Reckon you'll take her to dinner in Vegas?"

Alex snorts, as if it isn't a perfectly reasonable question that he willingly opened himself up to. "He's from Florida you twat–"

"Y'alright, Osc?" Lando interrupts to ask, brows knitted together.

He can't see it, but he's pretty sure he's gone green in the face, or maybe his blush has spread so violently that he looks freshly boiled alive. Either one is great, just peachy.

"The heat," Alex says, shaking Oscar's shoulders a little too harshly. "Figured I'd take him to medical."

Lando's eyes – and they're all Oscar can really look at, bright and curious and deceptively observant and boring into Oscar's soul like he can pick apart the truth – seem awash with anxiety. It's like that day back in Monaco, back when the toy burned him – fuck, he set that on fire, didn't he–?

"S'it that bad, mate? I could ta–" Lando steps forward; Alex steps them both back, Oscar stumbling drunkenly.

"No need," Alex smiles, grip tightening. "Go tell the team, yeah? He'll be–"

"We'll wait for photos 'til you're back." Lando says decisively, quickly closing the gap before Alex can react.

And he grabs Oscar's face, massive hands – steady and hot and undeniably domineering – cover his jaw, his flaming cheeks, his temples. It forces their eyes to meet, suddenly far too close and far too intense – Oscar's world starts to spin, a nauseating carousel of Magic with Lando's eyes at the center.

"You really don't look so hot, mate." Lando says, tsking.

Oscar can't speak.

And he thinks, in the half second he can spare to look away from the sharp line of Lando's nose – and he imagines a scar there, somehow sees an overlapping of future realities in the heat-stricken flush of his skin – that he may have caused a natural disaster without Alex's Magic calming his nerves.

It's Love.

But he can keep it under control.

Of course he can – even if his current state stands starkly to the contrary.

As Alex sweeps him away, definitely not in the direction of medical, Oscar promises himself that much.

He can keep it under control.

He's Oscar Piastri, and he can keep it under control.

He's not keeping this under control.

He's spent his entire life with his emotions in a death grip, a vice so tight that even his mum – the strongest witch of the family – couldn't crack him. It wasn't a point of pride so much as a foregone conclusion, a statement of fact. His heart was tightly wound in his chest, so far from empty but even further from the world.

And yet now, standing on the podium – his first podium, his first podium – Lando holds his emotions like infinite strands of uncoiled thread, a kitten poking its head out from a destroyed a ball of yarn.

He smiles at Oscar as he walks out, as he takes second place on the opposite side of the stage.

He looks brilliant.

He is brilliant; Oscar's always known that, that there's something intrinsic about Lando that sparkles. He's known it since he joined the lower Formulas, since he started following the older boys, the ones he wanted to become.

He's always known, or maybe hoped, that it would all come to this – Oscar up on the world stage, Lando beside him.

The Dutch anthem hardly registers at this point in the season, never standing a chance for Oscar's attention against the cut of Lando's profile. Basking in the sun, tilting his head back slightly to welcome its kiss, Oscar sees the world:

Lando, cheeks the dangerous sort of red that only blooms in the desert, standing just like this but taller, prouder. Tears streaming down his face, stood upon a podium higher than this one, brighter than this one, above a crowd more disbelieving than this one. Standing with his head back and his fist – shaking with exhaustion, overwhelmed with endorphins – thrust up towards the moon. Oscar Sees a champion.

As the music comes to a close, the realities snap apart; the future – and it really must be the future, visions like his mum and Edie – dissolves in the daylight.

Before he can fully come back to his body, Lando's slammed his champagne bottle into the ground – showering the stage in a plume of gold before pointing it directly at Oscar's face with a loud, vibrant cackle.

It stings.

He can't see.

But he can hear Lando, can hear his crackling laughter as he calls for Oscar to "stop turning, Oscy – look at me–". And it drives deeply into him, the words and alcohol and adrenaline soaking through his race suit and burrowing into his veins. He wants to see him, he wants to see Lando's smiling face as he pummels Oscar with the weakening champagne shower, he wants–

Lando's in his arms.

What?

His eyes still sting, but he's moved; they're stood on the top step together, Lando in the center between him and a member of the team. Oscar's already trying to smile at the camera, like he'd been there all along, like he hadn't somehow... skipped forward to the part where he can touch Lando, where he can feel the curve of his waist under his hand.

"At the camera, Oscar!" He hears from in front, tearing his eyes away from Lando's face, the champagne dripping down over his brow, hanging from the tip of his beautifully straight nose.

Oh.

His hands grow hot, fingers twitching on Lando's waist – small in his palm, the curve angled like it was carved from marble for his touch alone.

"Can't even see the bloody cameras," Lando grumbles under his breath, flicking his head like it'll clear his eyes.

"Suffering from success," Oscar agrees, chest bursting when he can feel Lando's laughter against him.

"Reckon you'll get used to it." He looks over from the side of his eye, something mirthful in his smile.

His knees go weak, but his voice stays steady. "Me, huh?"

Lando shrugs, shoulders brushing against him. "Us. Lot more fun with you up here."

Oscar's lucky that the sky doesn't break in two, that time doesn't fall backwards into an abyss, that stage doesn't collapse into itself. Because his body burns like it's he's self-immolating, Lando's words a lit match onto drought-stricken land.

Lando blinks at him for a moment, the cameras forgotten.

"Right," Oscar manages, voice a little tight. "I, um. I like being up here. With you."

'I like you' wastes away on his tongue, blown to smithereens as Lando smiles at him again – brighter than anything Magic could muster.

Oscar is, principally, a man of action. He's aware that's at odds to what he's doing now, which is to say nothing.

Which, if he pauses to reflect on that, means there are a lot of fundamental aspects of his personhood up for debate right now. But he's got neither the time nor desire to analyze it.

Because he's going to act, since he's also a man of his word – and he needs to cling to that truth more than ever right now. As he stepped off the podium yesterday, swept away by a crowd of papaya and recording cell phones, Oscar told himself that he can't wait another weekend like this.

Because what if his Magic starts to affect things that it shouldn't, like other people? What if he accidentally gets into Lando's head and comes away with pieces of him lodged under his nails, unable to scrub away the rancid grime of violation? What if he does something to the car, starts another fire?

Really, he's lucky he didn't somehow derail the train on their way back to Tokyo.

How is he meant to learn to handle all this now, as a grown adult with risks and responsibilities? Call his fucking mum? The thought makes him physically shudder as he walks towards the elevator – the hotel hallway somehow exhausting in its artificially bright midnight.

He has to confess.

He has to confess so he can pretend he never fell in Love in the first place, so he can shove the Magical toothpaste back in the Magical tube and toss it out in the Magical bin.

He repeats it like a mantra as he blearily walks towards his hotel room, a familiar prayer that got him through the shitty start to the season: you can do this, you can do this, you can–

A door opens to the his left, startling him frozen. "Oh!" Lando jumps back a bit, shocked into motion.

He looks... good. Oscar's face flares, taking in Lando's slightly unbuttoned shirt, his backwards hat – the same style that always makes him look like such a prick, a prick with soft, kind eyes and a slowly growing smile.

"You going out tonight?" Lando asks when Oscar – increasingly proficient in Formula One, decreasingly proficient in human exchange – stares silently.

"Hm?" He hums, quietly mesmerized by the bob of Lando's Adam's apple as he swallows – the golden tan column of his neck, the hollow at the base that he suddenly wants to press his thumb into.

"The club." Lando says, slowly like he knows Oscar's a fucking moron. "You coming out to the club, mate?"

He looks down at himself, at what he'd worn to his celebratory dinner with his family: drawstring jeans, a white shirt he'd spilled soy sauce on. "Uh–"

Lando's eyes follow suit, nearly flaying him open in their – surely imagined – scrutiny. "Do you own, like, trousers?"

"Obviously I–"

"Unless you've hid them in my room again." Lando cuts him off, shifting to lean against the doorframe, arms crossed in front of his chest. It's the same ease that's gotten under Oscar's skin from the jump, like it comes to him with each breath – natural.

"Reckon I have something, yeah." He says noncommittally, ears ringing when Lando giggles at him.

"Come out with–"

The ground under their feet shakes, a low rumble that makes his stomach drop. Lando makes a noise, high pitched and embarrassing, as he frantically grabs at the wall. The previously solid carpet feels liquified, the lights in the hall start to flicker, and Lando's voice grows frantic.

"Oh my god, oh my god, what do we–"

"Stay there," Oscar swallows down the initial panic, heart rate spiking at the fear in Lando's eyes. "In the– under the door."

"What–?" Lando looks like he wants to take a step towards Oscar, and so he moves – body acting without his brain.

"Stay!" He nearly yells, uncharacteristically fervent. They nearly crash together in the doorframe, Lando's breathing rapid as Oscar scrambles to grab his shoulders and hold him still – grasping him, pressing him against the opposite side of the frame.

The heat under Oscar's palms – radiating through the thin cotton of Lando's shirt – manages to ground him before it hits him.

Is he causing an earthquake?

No, no. It's Japan. It's the ring of fire. They get earthquakes all the time; there's no way that he–

Lando's eyes consume him, pupils blown with adrenaline and lips parted with shaking breaths and–

It can't be me, it can't be me, it can't–

The lights start to flicker, the building swaying under the pressure.

"How long–" Lando squeaks, undignified and frayed. "How long's this meant, meant to–"

It stops as unceremoniously as it starts.

The air's eerily quiet, though neither of them had noticed the noise – the earth groaning, the building rocking, drawers falling from chests and lamps crashing to the ground. And now it's just them, stood close enough to hear each other's ragged breathing, and the nearly inaudible hum of fluorescents cutting against the dark.

You can do this. Confess. Confess. Confess. They bounce around in his mind aimlessly, words without conviction. Say it. Say it. Say it.

Lando's tongue darts out to wet his panting-dried lips, drawing Oscar's eyes along its rapid path – awed by the glistening pink in its wake. He tilts his chin, cocks his head; defiant in a quiet way, a nearly soft way.

It drives him insane.

He could kiss him. He could drag them together, his hands still gripping Lando's shoulders for dear life, and kiss him. Lando's back may bend from the force of it, chin tilted to make up for their insignificant-yet-desperately-significant height difference as their lips meet.

Where would Lando's hands go?

On Oscar's waist, around his neck?

He swallows nervously, any words that he promised he'd muster shriveling up on his tongue – cowardly.

"So, um." Lando starts, shifting his weight between his feet. It pulls Oscar back to the moment, awash with the humiliating awareness that Lando – cheeks pinked with something – wants him to let go.

Anyone would want him, their colleague and teammate, to let go.

"Sorry, I–"

"You still wanna come out?"

A door slams somewhere down the hallway, a blunt thump of his heart. He breathes it out, Love speaking before his brain: "Yeah."

Oscar's pretty certain he's not thrown up since, well. Baku.

So it's really not been that long, but it somehow feels like a lifetime away from where he is now – lurking awkwardly on the edges of the commotion, a starstruck dance floor seemingly converging around Lando. A beautiful, perfectly smiley blonde had stripped him of his hat, now donning it behind the DJ booth with an intentionally nonchalant air, and Oscar pretends it hadn't made his stomach devour itself.

He pretends that he hadn't made bottles behind the bar explode when Lando's friend, someone whose name he keeps forgetting, unbuttoned more of Lando's shirt. A bottle for each button.

Lando's nearly shirtless – it hardly counts as a shirt when the entire thing's undone, leaving the flat, narrow plane of his stomach exposed and glistening with liquor – and sat up on his friend's shoulders. He raises his glass up towards the ceiling as he cheers along with the crowd, a sticky cocktail splashing over the edges and coating his fingers, dribbling down his forearm. It flashes distractingly in the strobing lights, a rapidly oscillating flurry of red and blue and pink and purple and red and blue and pink–

Oscar thinks, minutely detached from his own body, that it's like seeing Lando for the first time.

It's so different from when they were in the ice baths, when he saw him shudder and whimper at the cold. There's still a veil of professionalism in those moments, gossamer-fine but ever present. But now, as Lando leans backwards precariously to belt out the chorus to a song Oscar usually hates, he sees all of him – the dangerously sharp edges of his jaw, his teeth, his hips, against the alluringly soft curve of his pecs, the dip of his navel.

His eyes linger on the waistband of his pants, at the obnoxious Jack and Jones logo flashing neon in the lights. It takes all of his strength to avoid thinking of Lando's thighs – bare and lean and somehow entirely devoid of hair.

Is Lando's pulse ringing against his friend's neck, hot and strong where it runs along the inside of his quads?

The music starts to slowly morph into a heady, heart-numbing beat; something like a heartbeat, like the pulse Oscar pretends he can feel from beneath Lando's jeans, as if he's the one Lando's wrapped around for dear life.

Oscar's entirely, wrapped around Lando's uninterested finger.

He has to move eventually, he knows. He can't spend the entire evening on the fringes of the dance floor, stiffly holding a drink and hoping no one tries to talk to him. It's just as unproductive – is that what this is about, productivity? – to stare at Lando all night.

Lando's eyes lock onto his, smile sharpening into something almost predatory.

He's got to tell him.

He wasn't meant to tell him like this.

Not that there's a best way to confess your feelings to your probably-heterosexual coworker, Oscar thinks to himself – strangely coherent despite what's happening – as Lando slams him back against the bathroom stall. Maybe he's less drunk than Oscar thought, deft fingers making quick work of the lock without so much as breaking eye contact.

Eye contact.

Lando's eyes, bright from singing and laughing, hold his in a death grip. Oscar can't even blink, stunned into immobility from the intensity. And yet they're still playful, gentle waves sinking into tide pools rather than torrents crashing into rocky shorelines.

He didn't object when Lando brought him in here, wordlessly grabbing Oscar's arm and dragging him through the crowd like a proud puppy with an oversized toy. He didn't have the wherewithal to even ask why Lando wanted to see him privately. Because who was Oscar, heart threatening to pound out of his chest, to say anything?

Well, that's kind of the point, isn't it? To say something. At some point. Now.

Bathroom seems as good a place as anywhere, he supposes.

He clears his throat.

"Lando, I–" His voice shakes as the door vibrates, rattling his lungs like an engine moments before it gives out. Mint. "I... there's not really a great way– not that this is bad, I've not got anything bad to say. It's, um. Yeah, I–"

His face grows so hot that he wonders about the melting point of human flesh and winces; gross.

Not that Lando's gross. Obviously. Not that he's wincing at Lando, no it's– fuck– "Sorry, I'm just... I wanted to, erm, tell you. Something."

Lando nods, shockingly quiet – quiet in the way Oscar's only ever known him to be when they're alone, when the cameras are gone and the persona falls away. But he's still stood so close, shuffling closer still as Oscar flounders.

They're nearly toe-to-toe, Lando's hypnotic eyes filling Oscar's mind with salt-soaked air and boundless skies. He's drowning out all the words that Oscar really, really needs to find right now.

Lando's eyes look down for a second – at his lips? Is he looking at Oscar's lips? At his mouth; is there something in his teeth? Christ – and breaks the spell.

"I–"

"We don't need to talk," Lando cuts him off, if Oscar's weird guttural attempt at English counts as speaking, "if you don't wanna, yeah?"

His stomach drops. "No, no, I really need to say–"

Lando presses closer; his heat radiates through his... lack of shirt. His unbuttoned shirt. His bare skin. His bare skin – his bare chest – almost touches Oscar's shirt; his brain scrambles, thoughts suffocating under the weight of unadulterated want and unbridled panic.

"Reckon I know what you're thinking, mate."

Oscar shakes his head, habitual body language at the jibe. No one has ever known what he's thinking, no one has ever gotten into his head without Magic, no one has every pried his thoughts away from their virulently tight home against his chest. Not even–

Lando's eyes flick down again. He wets his lips. Oscar's nerves hurt. "But if you really want to be, like. Old fashioned about it, I guess..."

The puff of Lando's breath, the subtle vibrations of his lowered voice against Oscar's lips – when did they get so close, when did they get so close – rings like a straight shot of adrenaline.

"I like you." He blurts out inelegantly, the confession exploding like the bottles behind the bar. "Sorry, I know it's... What?"

Lando's smiling.

Oscar's never seen it this nauseatingly close, the drastic peaks of his Cupid's bow and the dangerous points at the corners – the adorable gap in his teeth.

He's going to cause another earthquake, his hands are already shaking like he has.

"Seriously, what–" Oscar starts, sweat finally starting to pool at the base of his spine.

"Told you I knew, Osc." He giggles, broken and high up in his throat, and grabs the sides of Oscar's head – fast and unexpected, holding them nose-to-nose.

His hands cup Oscar's jaw so entirely, so delicately, that he can help the pathetic noise that escapes the back of his throat. Which sounds incredibly cool and level-headed, he's sure.

"How–?"

"S'that really what you wanna talk about right now?" Lando's voice drops, only audible over the muffled bass because of their proximity – Lando's spit-slicked lips a hairsbreadth away.

Oscar tries to shake his head, stifled by Lando's intoxicatingly strong, all-consuming hands.

"Mega," Lando breathes, and Oscar almost laughs. Who the fuck says 'mega' before they kiss–

Oh.

It really is like fireworks, violent bursts of color and deafening force.

Invisible parts of himself slot into place. Time stops and moves forward too quickly at the same time. He can feel the vibrations of the universe thrumming up from his feet.

It's like every cliche he's always heard but never understood overriding every sensation besides Lando – besides the distance between them closing to nothing, besides Lando's body pressing flush against him like lock and key, besides Lando's lips finding his without hesitation.

And it's beyond words, the electric shocks as Lando's hands slide up his jaw and over his ears, as his fingers tangle in Oscar's hair and pulls his head to the side – as he slots their mouths together more firmly, more passionately.

The taste of him, the smell of him, the way that Oscar can feel his breath hitch – echoing against his tongue – when Oscar grabs him back, wrapping his arm around his tantalizingly bare waist. It drags their hips together harshly, and Oscar's skin ignites as Lando moans – moans – into his mouth. His knees seem to buckle, the weight nearly dragging them both away from the wall.

"Not bad for a rookie," Lando teases, pulling away for just long enough to say it – just long enough for Oscar to open his eyes and see him.

Lando's pupils are massive, devouring his irises like a physical manifestation of starvation and desire.

His lips are a beautiful pink, a shade Oscar thinks only exists as a perfect mixture between the two of them – elicited by the gentle scrape of his teeth, the pressure of his kiss.

Lando's fingers tighten in his hair, dragging them back together like he needs him to breathe – like he can't bear to be separated for more than a heartbeat, the heartbeat that Oscar can finally feel.

Oh.

It's all unbelievably tangible as he lets his eyes slip closed, as Lando's tongue slides against his. He can feel it twofold, tenfold; he can feel Lando against him and somehow himself against Lando, can feel the sensation of his own hair – damp with stress-sweat – tangled in his fingers as his arms wrap impossibly tighter around Lando's waist.

He can feel the inside of Lando's mind, his heart; with Magical fingers he blurs the lines between the two of them.

He can feel it, some sickeningly sweet, impossibly pink aura of adoration, happiness. It pulses through him like a sugar rush, fills him with endorphins to the tips of his fingers.

And he can hear him, breathy sighs reverberating in the back of his mind: Oscar, Oscar, fucking finally, Oscar...

"Oh my god..." Oscar gasps against Lando's mouth, brain reeling at the sensory overload – the feedback loop of nipping at Lando's bottom lip and somehow feeling it, swallowing down his resulting whines as if he made them.

They could stay like this forever, slowly bleeding into a single, inseparable person. And he'd be thankful, he'd thank God or something for feeling Lando's hands on him forever, pray for–

The lights go out.

The bathroom falls complete silent, the music dying and vibrating walls stilling.

They freeze, synchronized hearts stuttering. The energy cools immediately.

"What the–" Lando mumbles, pulling away to look around – as if there's anything to see in a pitch black room.

Please let that be a coincidence, Oscar's blood runs cold, skin prickling. Fuck, please–

"What do we–"

"Christ," Lando pulls out his phone, illuminating his face in an eerie light. "Looks like it's everywhere." He holds it up for Oscar to see – a text from Jon, informing Lando that the power for the 'entire city of Tokyo has gone out, cause unknown'.

"Gonna fuck up the flights, isn't it?" He reads Jon's final text, a pit growing in his stomach.

The odds that this has to do with him looks to be.... a bit not zero.

Lando keeps tapping at his phone, likely trying to figure out what his group is doing. "Wonder if it's got to do with that earthquake earlier?"

The pit grows heavier at the reminder.

Oscar's phone vibrates before he can answer, repeatedly and incessently despite the Do Not Disturb setting; it can only mean one thing.

"Yeah, mum?" He sighs as he answers, trying to sound normal as Lando shifts closer to him in the dark.

"Oh, Osc!" She cries, palpably relieved. "I saw the strangest thing. The girls and I, we were getting ice cream at the servo and–"

"What the fuck did you do!" Edie screams into the phone, loud enough to make Lando peek over at him – eyebrow raised questioningly in the blue light. Oscar shrugs, like a liar. He shrugs like a liar who doesn't have a really strong idea what his family is continuing to bicker about on the line.

"You fucking wanker, you've been hiding from us–"

"Edie, that's rude–"

"Osc, Osc!" Hattie's voice finally comes through, clearly laughing. "Something's off, mate, I can feel you–"

"I'm calling because I Saw–" Nicole must have snatched the phone back, voice firmer. "Oscar."

He pauses at her leading tone. "Yes?"

"Did you cut the power?"

Another pause; he swallows thickly, hopeful that Lando can't sense how tense he is.

"Oscar, did you cut the power to all of fucking Tokyo?"

"I don't, um. Yeah, I don't... know."

"What do you mean you don't know–!"

"Oscar's a Looove Witch!" Edie screams, tinny over the phone as the ruckus renews.

"And he's in Love, I can feel–"

"Girls, the Spirits said he's scared–"

"Love Witch! Love Witch–!"

"Big gay lover boy!"

"Jesus Christ, did I raise you lot in a barn?"

Lando elbows him, making an exaggerated inquisitive face. Oscar shrugs again, a double liar.

"Anyways," Nicole sighs, aware that she's lost control of the situation. "We'll have to talk in Qatar, ok?"

"Yeah, ok."

"And Oscar?"

"Yeah?"

"One last thing." The line pauses for a second, a faint hint of wind carrying as if she's fiddling with her phone.

They shout in unison: "Have fun with Lando! Say hi for us!"

The line goes dead, plunging them back into silence.

"Uh." Oscar starts inelegantly, unsure how to process what just happened – both on the phone and right before the power cut. "My... my mum says hi. And my sisters."

"Caught that, yeah," Lando says, audibly smiling. "Loud bunch, huh?"

Its so painstakingly normal that Oscar can't help but laugh, a chuckle under his breath that threatens to grow into something fuller, louder. Maybe that's why he loves Lando so much, his inherent knack to just... diffuse him without trying, without Oscar realizing he'd wound himself up in the first place.

"Loud and um... excited." Oscar finally manages, cheeks hurting a little from his blooming smile.

"You told them you had a crush–?"

"No!" Oscar yelps, burying his face in his hands when Lando doubles over in laughter.

"Sure, Oscy, sure." He barely ekes out, making a show of wiping a tear from his eyes. "S'not embarrassing to say you liiiiiiike me, is it?"

Oscar's not sure what will happen if he confesses again.

But what's one more potential Magical disaster?

He steps away from the door, turning to grab Lando by his laughter-shaking shoulders and press him up against it – blood rushing in his ears as Lando lets out a gasp, tilting his head back slightly.

"Yeah?" Lando asks, almost challenging. "Look at Mr. Confide–"

Oscar claims Lando's lips again, tasting the sarcasm melt on his tongue like spun sugar.

"I like you," Oscar breathes against his mouth, reveling in how easy it feels. How right–

The lights turn back on, blindingly bright and exposing.

Lando's hands find their way up Oscar's shirt, spanning over his ribs possessively before crawling up his spine – eager to feel all of him as he opens his mouth to breathe him in, to let Oscar consume him.

And Oscar does. Pulling away from Lando's mouth, he lets his lips slide to the sharp cut of his jaw – the beautiful side profile that he's stared at for months. He nips at his earlobe, eyes rolling back as Lando digs his fingers into his back – urging him closer.

"I like you," He whispers against his ear, soothing the bite with his tongue. Lando shudders against him, whimpering behind tightly pressed lips.

Tokyo falls dark again, eerily silent.

"What're you–"

"I like you," Oscar says once more, pressing a kiss to Lando's temple before reclaiming his lips. "See? Not embarrassed."

The lights return.

He's going to have to explain that later.

"We should leave before the power goes out again," Lando finally says, voice light yet strained – unlike anything Oscar's heard before. It's immediately addicting.

"Together?"

Lando laughs, pushing him away and quickly doing up his shirt – unsubtly adjusting himself in his trousers. "Obviously, mate, how else?"

Oscar's brain short circuits.

He can explain it, well... Much later, he supposes.

Yeah, he thinks as Lando drags him out of the restroom just as easily as he dragged him in, much later sounds good.