Chapter Text
The Formula One paddock was already alive before the sun had fully cleared the horizon. Generators hummed beneath the chatter of mechanics wheeling equipment between garages, photographers prowled the walkways in search of drivers willing to spare a smile, and journalists clustered outside the team motorhomes, rehearsing questions they’d already asked a dozen times that season. The entire place buzzed with energy.
Oscar Piastri hated mornings.
Not because he was tired, he hadn’t truly needed sleep in well over a century, but because daylight never stopped hurting. It wasn’t the dramatic sort of pain that old stories promised, no instant combustion or clouds of ash drifting on the breeze. Instead, it settled into his skin like a persistent burn, slow and relentless, growing worse the longer he stood beneath the sun. Manageable, if he was careful. Miserable, if he wasn’t.
He pulled the hood of his McLaren sweatshirt a little further over his head and adjusted the sunglasses resting on his nose before stepping out into the paddock. Drivers wore sunglasses all the time. No one questioned it anymore.
“Morning, Oscar.”
One of the mechanics lifted his coffee in greeting as Oscar passed, slowing just enough to fall into step beside him. “No coffee today?”
“I’m alright, thanks.”
The mechanic laughed. “You know, I’ve worked with you for months and I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen you drink one.”
Oscar glanced at him, the corner of his mouth lifting into a faint smile. “I have.”
“Oh yeah?” The mechanic grinned. “When was that?”
“A while ago.”
“Very specific.”
Oscar only shrugged, and the mechanic eventually laughed it off before peeling away towards the garage.
If only he knew.
Oscar had, in fact, tried coffee once, in 1892.
He still remembered how bitter it had been.
By the time the drivers’ briefing ended, the paddock had become even busier. Media duties followed almost immediately, and before long Oscar found himself standing beneath bright camera lights, answering the same handful of questions he’d heard at every race weekend.
“Excited for the weekend?”
“Yeah.”
“How’s the car feeling?”
“Pretty good.”
“What are your expectations?”
“Hopefully score some good points.”
Short answers. Polite answers. Forgettable answers.
Exactly how he liked them.
The interviewer thanked him and turned towards another driver, giving Oscar the chance to slip away before anyone else could stop him.
“There you are!”
He barely managed three steps before Lando Norris appeared seemingly from nowhere, iced coffee in one hand and sunglasses perched carelessly on top of his head.
“I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
Oscar raised an eyebrow. “I’ve been here all morning.”
“No, you haven’t.”
“I have.”
“I checked.”
“You clearly didn’t check very well.”
Lando frowned in exaggerated offence before narrowing his eyes. “Were you avoiding me?”
Oscar kept his face perfectly straight.
“Maybe.”
Lando pressed a hand dramatically against his chest. “Wow. That’s actually hurtful.”
A quiet laugh escaped Oscar before he could stop it.
“There!” Lando pointed triumphantly. “You laughed.”
“I didn’t.”
“You absolutely did.”
“I think you’re imagining things.”
“McLaren!”
Both drivers turned as one of the photographers waved them over.
“Can I grab a few pictures of you two together?”
Before Oscar could answer, Lando was already beside him, slipping an arm casually around his shoulders as they turned towards the cameras. Oscar’s entire body locked. The reaction lasted barely a heartbeat, gone almost as quickly as it had come, but instinct had already taken over. Physical contact had become unfamiliar over the years. Dangerous, almost. Not because he couldn’t control himself anymore, he could, but because closeness had a way of becoming attachment, and attachment had always ended the same way. He forced himself to relax before anyone noticed.
Camera shutters erupted around them.
Lando smiled effortlessly.
Oscar managed something close enough to fool the photographers.
As soon as they were dismissed, Lando let his arm fall away and glanced sideways at him.
“You alright?”
Oscar blinked. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You just sort of…” Lando hesitated, miming stiff shoulders with an awkward shrug. “Froze.”
“I wasn’t expecting it.”
“Oh.” Lando scratched absentmindedly at the back of his neck. “Sorry.”
“You don’t need to apologise.”
For a second, Lando simply looked at him, as though trying to solve a puzzle that refused to fit together. Then, just as quickly, his usual grin returned.
“Come on,” he said, jerking his head towards the hospitality unit. “Breakfast.”
“I’m not hungry.”
Lando gave him a look. “See, that’s weird.”
Oscar frowned. “Not being hungry?”
“You are never hungry.”
“I eat.”
“I’ve known you for months,” Lando replied, holding the door open for him, “and I’ve genuinely never seen you do it.”
“I eat when you’re not looking.”
“So… never?”
Oscar huffed the closest thing he ever managed to a laugh.
“I’ll eat later.”
“Hmm.” Lando narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “You’re hiding something.”
“If I were, I probably wouldn’t tell you.”
“You’d crack eventually.”
“I really wouldn’t.”
“We’ll see.”
Oscar smiled despite himself.
He hoped they never would.