Chapter Text
Watch Piastri, race leader Piastri—past one Mercedes, past two Mercedes, third to the lead and he's brought Charles Leclerc to second place!
Memories of Suzuka ambushed Oscar as he awoke. It was Sunday; the sky was clear, bright.
The Hungaroring—the site of his first Grand Prix victory. Fans flooded the grandstands, their cheers faintly audible from his place on the starting grid. Oscar focused on the familiar hum of his engine, gripping the steering wheel with more force than usual. The car felt good on the formation lap, more cooperative, as if it knew how important this opportunity was.
The past two days hadn't gone in his favour. Instead of the usual harmony between driver and car, Oscar was fighting the machine at every corner, trying to maintain control. In contrast, Lando was flying, perfectly in sync with his seat, churning out purple sectors lap after lap.
His promotion to P3 was a blessing. Oscar was itching to fight at the front of the grid again. Unlike Suzuka, today there was an actual chance—without the looming threat of two Mercedes-shaped rocket ships, he could finally gun for a win. Ideally he and Lando would pick up a McLaren double podium along the way, possibly even a one-two finish if all went well.
Suzuka wasn't a fluke, he knew it. He could still recall the confetti tangled around his feet and the taste of champagne, a taste he sorely missed. All he had to do was launch off the line well. Lando may have had more pace over the past few days, but Oscar would pull off some miraculous overtake, lead the race and leave the commentators stunned in their booth, surely.
Lights out and away he went. The car rumbled to life. Past one Ferrari, past one McLaren, third to the lead, he thought.
It felt good being in clean air; Oscar could see the view from the top step already. As long as nothing went wrong, he would be up there soon, listening to the Australian anthem, relishing in Lando's bright grin as they sprayed each other with champagne. A victory in a new era of F1 was in reach and he was sprinting full speed toward it, extending every muscle in his body, closing in on the trophy.
It started slipping away too soon. Tom, persistent over the radio, telling him to pick up the pace—a pace he simply didn't have—then the rear tyres started to give, Hamilton posed a threat again, he was losing time—far too much—all while the orange car in his mirrors grew larger lap by lap. Then came a backmarker turning straight into him, making contact, ruining the last shreds of hope he had.
Sainz. What a cruel joke. This was rubbing salt into a festering wound then torching the skin for the fun of it.
Things always seemed to go wrong whenever he and Carlos interacted. The incident today proved to Oscar that Carlos' driving hadn't changed since Oscar's rookie season: ramming into people, refusing to accept blame. Oscar struggled to disguise his annoyance. You're not in a Ferrari anymore, you're in a tractor now with nothing to gain from a fight and you're still pulling this shit?
Off the racetrack was no better. Oscar forced himself to be civil. He tried not to scoff every time Lando's gaze drifted to Carlos, every time Carlos ruffled Lando's hair, whispered something into his ear, extracted a warm laugh.
At least the off-track things got better. Lando slowly detached himself from his former teammate; it made Oscar happier than he would like to admit. He wanted more than anything for Lando to look at him and him alone with those eyes, filled with mischief and wonder, the eyes that scrunched up whenever he smiled.
Oscar cursed himself for thinking about Lando. He himself was the main concern, his car still a sitting duck on the side of the track. This was not the time nor the place to think about his teammate's eyes.
He dragged his mind back to the race. His podium, his potential win, all thrown out the window by some guy in a Williams. The vision of him and Lando and champagne felt so distant.
He remembered Suzuka. Watch Piastri, race leader Piastri.
Bullshit.
Joy erupted in the McLaren garage as the British anthem ended. Engineers and mechanics shuffled around him, heading to the front for the team photo.
The team was waiting, Lando was waiting, but Oscar was reluctant to go. The sign with his name on it caught his eye, Oscar in bold text next to the Australian flag. It leant against the wall unused. Lando's was outside, front and centre, surrounded by the team. The sight left a sour taste in his mouth.
Eventually Oscar joined them. He went in for a handshake with Andrea who left him hanging—another blow, another sign that he wasn't important today—then put on his best PR smile for the camera, trying not to clench his teeth too hard.
The desire to win weighed on his heart, a rock tied to his feet, sinking him to the ocean floor. Oscar hated that it wasn't enough to squash the adoration that bubbled up to the surface when he saw Lando holding the champagne, smiling.
If Lando was love, Oscar was fear. The pop of the bottle sent him running, away from the celebrations, the cheering of the team, away from Lando. There was still filming to do for socials later, interviews too, but Oscar couldn't care less. He needed an escape; Lando was shining too bright. It was blinding.
Oscar stepped into his driver's room, closing the door softly behind him. The mask of calm fell as soon as he had privacy. He threw his McLaren cap at the wall and collapsed into a chair, biting back screams of rage.
Emotions swirled inside him. Frustrated at the pit wall, angry at Carlos, jealous of Lando.
Happy for Lando. Proud of Lando.
Prioritising an opponent was the opposite of what he needed to do as a racing driver, but he couldn't shake the habit. Lando occupied his thoughts: consciously or not, every minute, every second was spent caring for him, supporting him. Oscar couldn't abandon that mindset, even last year when it had gotten bad, when, for a brief period, he and Lando avoided each other at all costs and wouldn't speak unless absolutely necessary. There was a wall behind Lando's eyes then, the familiar flame and passion Oscar loved seeing snuffed out by Oscar himself. The relief that washed over him when Lando approached him one day to break the ice was, in that moment, a feeling miles better than whatever a championship win could give.
There was a name for what he felt towards Lando: love, perhaps, but Oscar pushed it down, well aware that acting on it would only lead to hurt. There was no place for it in an environment as competitive and stifling as Formula 1, where a teammate and a rival were one and the same—a healthy relationship was too difficult to maintain.
How he had managed to keep himself under control during the title fight he couldn't remember; why did losing this race feel worse than losing a championship?
A knock came on his door. Sophie, probably, here to give him some words of encouragement then tell him to face the media.
"Hey, mate, can I come in?"
Not Sophie's voice—Lando's. Oscar stood up, braced himself, opened the door.
Lando was beaming at him, one hand against the doorframe, radiating giddiness. His hair was still drenched in champagne. A drop slid down the side of his face; he wiped it off swiftly with his thumb. Beautiful, Oscar thought.
Then he swallowed. This was unexpected.
He racked his brain, wondering why Lando would come to see him moping about after his victory. Not to gloat; Lando wouldn't do that. Concern, maybe? Impossible—Lando hadn't come to see him after previous wins, not once; why would this one be different?
"Why are you here?"
Lando glanced at the McLaren cap on the floor then turned his eyes back to Oscar, smile softening. "Just wanted to check on you. You seemed off—well, I shouldn't say off, I know you're upset—"
"I'm fine." Oscar's voice was dry; his words came out short, clipped. "You were flying out there. You got that win with a fifteen second lead. That's huge. I'm really happy for you. For the team."
An unconvincing performance.
"Oscar, stop," Lando said, tone firm but not harsh. "You're pissed that Carlos fucked you over, as you should be, but don't take it out on me. Can we just talk?"
Oscar sighed, but he stepped aside to let Lando through, then shut the door behind him. He sat back down on his chair, gesturing at Lando to also take a seat somewhere. "Okay, what do you want to talk about?"
Lando remained upright, leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets. "Maybe tell me how you're feeling?"
Oscar desperately wanted to spill everything out. There was a selfish corner of his brain that wanted to scream You drive me crazy and I hate that you don't realise it.
But he knew that whatever he harboured for Lando wasn't mutual. If he gave into what he wanted he would scare Lando off, destroying their fragile bond beyond repair. He would lose from his life those eyes, that laugh, the faint whiff of shampoo hidden amongst those curls. Telling Lando was an impulsive act that was all risk and no reward and Oscar's rationality, although dwindling, still barred him from doing so. The only option was to stay hostile, shut Lando out in hopes that he would leave before Oscar did anything stupid.
"I told you, I'm happy for you. You had more pace than everyone else and you deserved to win. I'm also pissed at Carlos, which you have very kindly pointed out. Anything else I need to clarify?"
Lando winced at the sarcasm. "You're acting different. Tell me what's going on. Why are you being so mean?"
"Oh, now you give a shit about what I'm doing? You certainly didn't when you won stuff last year." The words stung as they left Oscar's mouth. "Your first race win as a world champion and you hurry here to rub it in my face, huh? Real classy." He knew full well that he was pushing the limit, prodding at Lando's pride to provoke him, but he couldn't stop. He needed a fight, needed anger to take over to stop the inner conflict of I want to win and I need you.
Lando's jaw tensed. His voice became uncharacteristically soft. "I'm here because I care about you, Osc. I want us to be okay."
Oscar ignored him. "There's nothing different about me. If anything, you're too quiet."
Lando stayed silent for a moment. Oscar could hear the gears turning in his head.
Suddenly Lando pushed off the wall and stepped forward, closing the gap between them. He stood above Oscar, strangely fidgety, biting his lip. Oscar couldn't help but stare as his heartbeat quickened—Lando looked sheepish, a contrast to his typical boisterous confidence. Oscar had never seen him like this before. He couldn't bring himself to look away.
It was too cute. Oscar forgot his anger. He wanted to pull Lando down towards him, ruffle his hair, kiss his forehead, breathe in his scent and stay there forever.
As if he'd heard Oscar's thoughts, Lando dropped onto his knees, making them level. He inched his face closer, eyes still locked firmly on Oscar's.
No, stop it. Don't come closer. I don't know what to do when you're this close to me.
"Osc," Lando murmured, "We're okay, right?"
A warm hand touched Oscar's cheek, another latched onto his wrist. It took Oscar a second to realise that Lando Norris was kissing him.
What the fuck?
It was short, a quick peck, but long enough for Oscar to taste the champagne from earlier lingering on his tongue.
Lando pulled away, studying Oscar's reaction, though there wasn't much to puzzle out—Oscar was frozen, pupils wide. His mind was racing, moving too quick to formulate any thought except I need you to do that again.
Lando cleared his throat, shying away from Oscar's gaze. "Well, good talk, I said everything I wanted to say, I think, um, anyway, they might need me out there, so—"
He stood up, opened the door, walked briskly out of the room as if kissing your teammate out of nowhere was a normal occurrence, leaving Oscar sitting like a deer in headlights wondering what the hell just happened.