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The soft, grey fabric of Oscar’s old McLaren team hoodie was pulled up so high it almost swallowed Lando whole. He sat on the edge of his bed in his Monaco apartment, knees tucked tightly against his chest, pressing the cuff of the sleeve directly against his nose. He inhaled deeply, holding his breath, desperately searching for the familiar notes of expensive hotel shower gel, paddock rain, and that faint, sweet hint of vanilla that was uniquely Oscar.
Nothing. Abso-bloody-lutely nothing
It just smelled like laundry detergent. Crisp, clean, and entirely void of the scent that he had, and still, called home.
Lando let out a shaky breath, his shoulders slumping. It had been four whole weeks since the season finale, four weeks since the bitter, high-stakes pressure of the WDC had finally fractured them. They had pushed each other to the absolute limit on the track, McLaren’s papaya rule orders had created an unbearable media circus, and the paddock walls had felt like they were closing in. In the end, Lando had clinched the title. He had the trophy. He had the lifelong dream. But when the confetti settled and the roaring crowds faded, he looked at the empty space beside him and realized exactly what it had cost him.
He had won the world, but he had lost his world.
They hadn't spoken since that tense, quiet conversation in the Abu Dhabi motorhome where they both agreed the pressure was ruining them. Lando had survived the winter break by hoarding the few pieces of clothing Oscar had accidentally left behind over the last few years. It was a pathetic coping mechanism, he knew, but burying himself in Oscar's oversized clothes was the only thing that made the quiet nights bearable.
But time was a cruel thief. One by one, the hoodies had been washed, or the scent had simply faded into the ambient air of his Oscar-less flat. Now, holding the very last unwashed piece, Lando realized the final physical trace of Oscar’s presence was gone.
The realization hit him with a physical ache in his chest. He didn't just miss his boyfriend; he missed his safe haven. He missed the quiet contrast Oscar brought to his chaotic life Lando stared at the blank screen of his phone, then looked across the room at his passport. Oscar was back at his flat in London for a two-week break before the European leg of the media tours began. Lando still had the spare key tucked away in the back of his wallet, the key Oscar had never asked him to return.
He didn't want a confrontation. He didn't want another painful conversation about tyre wear, team politics, or who deserved what corner. He just needed to breathe again. He needed just one more piece of fabric that actually felt like home, even if he had to steal it in the dead of night.
Ten minutes later, Lando was booking a one-way flight to Heathrow.
The flight from Nice to Heathrow passed in a blur of nervous static. Lando kept his baseball cap pulled low and his hands buried deep in his pockets, his mind replaying the final laps of Abu Dhabi on an endless loop. Winning the WDC was supposed to be the loudest, most triumphant moment of his life, but right now, all he could remember was the devastating quiet of the garage afterwards. He remembered how Oscar had looked at him, proud, but infinitely distant, standing on the other side of a chasm they had spent months accidentally digging between themselves.
By the time Lando’s Uber pulled up a few streets away from Oscar’s London apartment, it was just past two in the morning. A steady, freezing British rain was falling, slicking the tarmac and blurring the streetlamps into soft halos of amber light.
Lando slipped out of the car, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He pulled his hood up against the drizzle, walking the remaining distance with his head down. He felt like a criminal, but the sheer desperation overriding his common sense was too loud to ignore.
He stood in the shadowed alcove of the building's entrance, his fingers trembling as he fished the spare key out of the hidden compartment in his wallet. His thumb brushed over the smooth metal. If Oscar had changed the locks, this was it. It would be the final, definitive sign that Lando needed to let go and give up.
With a bated breath, he slotted the key into the lock. It turned with a soft, familiar click.
Thank God.
The relief that washed over him was so heavy it nearly brought him to his knees. Lando slipped inside, closing the door behind him with agonizing slowness. The flat was warm, smelling faintly of the hot chocolate Oscar always brewed and the woodsy reed diffuser they had bought together on a whim during the summer break. It felt like stepping back in time. The hallway was completely dark, save for the pale moonlight filtering through the high living room windows.
He kicked off his trainers, stepping onto the plush carpet in his socks. He knew the layout of this flat better than his own. He knew exactly which floorboard near the kitchen creaked, and he carefully stepped over it, moving like a ghost through the shadows.
When he reached the cracked-open door of the bedroom, he stopped.
Through the sliver of space, Lando could see the silhouette of the bed. Oscar was a notoriously heavy sleeper, the kind of sleeper who fell asleep in one position and barely moved until morning. He was curled up on his side, wrapped tightly in a dark duvet, his dark curls messy against the pillow. He looked small. He looked entirely peaceful, stripped of the fierce, unyielding driver who had pushed Lando to the absolute brink on the racetrack.
Lando felt a familiar, fierce ache in his throat. He wanted nothing more than to crawl under that duvet, press his cold nose into the crook of Oscar's neck, and whisper that he was sorry. So sorry that the trophy had gotten in the way. So sorry that he hadn't fought harder to keep them together.
But he wouldn't. He couldn't. He hadn't earned that right anymore.
Steeling his resolve, Lando crept past the foot of the bed, his eyes fixed on the large built-in wardrobe. He opened the sliding door inch by inch, wincing at the faint friction of the rollers.
Inside, the wardrobe was organized, with not a hint of dust on any surface, classic Osc. Lando bypassed the neatly hung pressed shirts and focused on the bottom shelf, where Oscar kept his hoodies and soft sweaters. He reached into the dark, his fingertips brushing against various fabrics until they landed on a thick, incredibly soft grey cotton.
He pulled it out and immediately brought the collar to his face.
Lando closed his eyes as a shuddering breath left him. It was there. The perfect, concentrated scent of Oscar. It was hotel soap, fresh rain, and that unmistakable, grounding warmth. It felt like a physical hand squeezing his heart, anchoring him after months of drifting at sea.
He had it. He had what he came for. Now all he had to do was to just leave.
Lando carefully clutched the grey hoodie against his chest like a shield, turning on his heel to slip back out into the night. But as he took a cautious step away from the wardrobe, his sock caught the edge of a heavy, rogue sneaker Oscar had left carelessly on the floor. Lando stumbled, his balance vanishing in the dark. He reached out to catch himself, but his shoulder connected with the sliding wardrobe door with a sudden, echoing thump.
Oh. Oh No.
In the quiet apartment, the noise sounded like a gunshot. Lando froze, entirely paralyzed, his heart stopping in his chest as, across the room, the duvet shifted. The bedroom plummeted back into a suffocating, heavy silence. Lando remained completely frozen on the floor, his fingers white-knuckled where they were dug into the soft fabric of Oscar’s grey hoodie. He didn't even dare to breathe, silently praying that Oscar was just tossing and turning in his sleep.
Then, the fabric of the duvet rustled.
"Lando?"
The voice was low, thick with sleep, and entirely unsurprised. It didn't hold the sharp edge of someone waking up to a stranger in their flat; it was soft, quiet, and carried a strange, heavy note of inevitability.
Lando felt a hot wave of blood rush to his face, thoroughly mortified. He stayed entirely still, hoping against hope that he could just dissolve into the carpet. "Oscar," he squeaked out, his voice cracking slightly in the dark. "I—I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you. I'll leave now. Like immediately"
A soft sigh echoed through the room. On the bed, Oscar shifted, sitting up against the headboard. Instead of reaching over to slap the bedside lamp on and flood the room with harsh, exposing light, Oscar just stayed there in the dim amber glow filtering through the window.
"You didn't wake me," Oscar murmured. He ran a hand through his messy waves, his silhouette relaxed but tired. "I’ve been awake since I heard the front door click open."
Lando’s heart stopped entirely. "You... huh - what?"
"I know the sound of your key, Lan," Oscar said softly. The casual use of the old nickname sent a sharp, painful pang of longing straight through Lando’s chest. "I’ve been waiting for months to hear it again. I just... I didn't want to scare you off if I sat up too fast."
Lando swallowed hard, his throat tight. He felt incredibly small sitting on the floor, clutching the stolen hoodie like a security blanket. "You didn't change the locks."
"No."
"Why?" Lando’s voice was barely a whisper.
Oscar was quiet for a long moment. In the darkness, Lando heard him swing his legs out of bed. The soft friction of his bare feet against the carpet grew closer until Oscar was kneeling on the floor right in front of him. Even in the shadows, Lando could see the gentle, unblinking focus in Oscar’s eyes.
"Because I didn't want to lock you out," Oscar said honestly, his voice cracking just a fraction. He looked down at Lando’s hands, which were still desperately bunching up the grey cotton. A tiny, incredibly fond smile tugged at the corner of Oscar's mouth. "Holdup, Is that my old grey one?"
Lando looked down, his cheeks burning a furious crimson. "Yeah," he admitted, his eyes stinging with sudden, hot tears. "The ones I had... the ones I took to Monaco... they stopped smelling like you. They just smelled like stupid fuckin' laundry detergent. And I—I couldn't sleep, Osc. I’ve got the trophy, and I’ve got the title, but everything is so loud, and I just needed... I just needed to breathe."
A tear slipped down Lando's cheek, and he hated himself for how fragile he sounded. He braced himself for Oscar to tell him to leave, to tell him that they were over and that a stolen hoodie wouldn't fix the wreckage of the past season.
Instead, Oscar reached out. His fingers were warm as they gently brushed the tear from Lando's cheek, his thumb lingering against his jawline.
"You idiot," Oscar whispered, his voice incredibly thick with affection. "You don't have to break into my flat just to get a scent, Lando. You could have just asked for the real thing."
Before Lando could even process the warmth of Oscar’s thumb against his cheek, Oscar was shifting closer. He didn't say another word about the championship, the month of silence, or the absurdity of Lando breaking in at two in the morning when he was supposed to be in his own flat in Monaco. He simply reached down, wrapped his hands around Lando’s wrists, and gently guided him up from the cold floor.
"Come here," Oscar murmured, his voice a low, comforting rumble in the quiet bedroom.
Lando let himself be pulled, entirely pliable as Oscar guided him toward the bed. Oscar lifted the heavy, warm duvet and slid back in, tugging Lando right along with him. Lando didn't even take off his hoodie or his jeans; he just let himself crumple into the mattress, instantly swallowed by the familiar scent and immense warmth of Oscar's bed.
In a heartbeat, Oscar’s arms were around him. He pulled Lando flush against his chest, tucking Lando’s head securely beneath his chin. One of Oscar's hands found its way into Lando's soft curls, gently smoothing down the messy locks, while his other arm locked securely around Lando’s waist, anchoring him close.
Lando let out a long, shuddering breath he felt like he’d been holding since Abu Dhabi. He buried his face into the crook of Oscar’s neck, inhaling deeply. This wasn't a faded, residual scent on a piece of clothing; this was the real thing. It was warm, vibrant, and alive.
"I missed you so much, so much Osc," Lando whispered into the dark, his voice cracking as he fisted his hands into the back of Oscar's t-shirt. "I'm so sorry, Osc. The title... it didn't feel like winning if I didn't have you."
Oscar squeezed him tighter, pressing a soft, lingering kiss right into Lando’s hair. "I know, Lan. I missed you too. The paddock got way too loud, but we're quiet now. Just sleep. We'll figure out the rest tomorrow."
Safe in the quiet sanctuary of Oscar's arms, the heavy static in Lando’s mind finally went dead silent. For the first time in four weeks, he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
When Lando woke up the next morning, the bedroom was flooded with pale, soft London sunlight. The space beside him was empty, but the sheets were still warm, and the faint, unmistakable aroma of sizzling bacon and brewing coffee was drifting through the cracked-door frame.
Lando sat up, blinking sleepily. He smiled when he realized he was still wearing Oscar’s oversized grey hoodie. He padded out of the bedroom in his socks, following the scent into the kitchen.
Oscar was standing by the stove, barefoot and wearing a pair of soft grey sweatpants, calmly flipping eggs in a pan. The tense, unyielding athlete from the grid was completely gone, replaced by the utterly soft, domestic boy Lando had fallen in love with.
Hearing Lando’s quiet footsteps, Oscar turned his head. His eyes softened, a genuinely warm smile gracing his lips as he took in the sight of Lando completely swimming in his clothes.
"Morning, ya thief," Oscar teased softly, turning down the heat on the stove.
Lando didn't say anything. He just walked straight over, slid his arms around Oscar’s waist from behind, and pressed his cheek against Oscar’s shoulder blades, taking another huge sniff of pure 100% Oscar. Oscar let out a soft huff of laughter, leaning back into the touch, dropping his spatula to bring his hands up over Lando’s forearms.
"Coffee's ready," Oscar murmured, twisting slightly to press a sweet, gentle kiss to the top of Lando's forehead. "And I made enough breakfast for two. If you're planning on staying, that is."
Lando tightened his grip around Oscar’s waist, burying his face in the grey cotton of his shirt. "I'm not going anywhere," Lando promised, his voice thick with emotion but entirely certain. "You're stuck with me. And your hoodies are permanently mine forever and ever and ever."
Oscar laughed, turning around fully in Lando’s embrace to cup his face, his thumb tracing Lando's cheekbone just like the night before. "Good," Oscar whispered, leaning down to press a soft, slow, reassuring kiss to Lando’s lips. "They look way better on you anyway."
The World Drivers' Championship trophy was sitting on a shelf back in Monaco, cold and quiet. But here in the sunlit kitchen, wrapped entirely in Oscar’s warmth, Lando knew he had finally won what actually mattered.
The Australian paddock was a sensory overload of screaming V6 engines, the sharp tang of burning rubber, and the relentless flash of media cameras from every single direction. It was the first day of pre-season testing, and the entire Formula 1 grid was buzzing with anticipation.
Inside the McLaren garage, the tension was palpable. The mechanics, engineers, and PR staff were all quietly bracing themselves for the explosion that could happen. The last time anyone had seen Lando and Oscar in the same room, the atmosphere had been arctic. The bitter fallout of their World Drivers' Championship fight was public knowledge, and everyone expected a cold, professional, but deeply strained dynamic for the upcoming season.
Zak Brown was standing near the engineering station, checking his watch with a slight frown. "Are they here yet?" he asked a nearby team coordinator.
"Any minute now, Zak. They landed on the same flight from London, which we thought was a logistical error, but-"
The garage doors slid open, and the entire room suddenly went dead silent.
Lando walked in first, his team kit immaculate, his posture relaxed. But it wasn't his arrival that made the mechanics freeze mid-wrench. It was the fact that Oscar was walking a mere two inches behind him, laughing quietly at something Lando had just mumbled.
As they reached the centre of the garage, Lando stopped to adjust his driver's cap. Without a single word or a hint of hesitation, Oscar reached out, casually brushed a stray curl out of Lando’s eyes, and adjusted the brim of the cap for him. Lando smiled up at him, a soft, completely private look that the team hadn't seen in nearly half a year.
Zak's jaw practically dropped to the floor. Next to him, one of the lead engineers blinked rapidly, staring at the telemetry screens as if expecting them to explain what was happening.
Lando looked around the frozen garage, entirely unfazed by the stunned silence. "Morning, everyone," he chirped cheerfully, waving a hand. "Good to be back."
Oscar gave a polite, characteristic nod, his face the picture of calm innocence, though a tiny, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Morning. Good luck today."
As the two drivers split up to head toward their respective driver rooms, the garage instantly erupted into a flurry of frantic whispers.
"Did you see that?" a mechanic hissed to the front-jack man. "They're... they're breathing the same air without trying to kill each other?"
"They looked... happy?" the tire technician whispered back, utterly bewildered. "I thought we were going to have to build a wall down the middle of the garage this year like Jorge and Valentino at MotoGP!" (guys ts ball knowledge trust)
Inside Lando’s driver room, Oscar slipped in right behind him, closing the door and shutting out the sudden chaos of the paddock. Lando immediately dropped his gear bag on the sofa and turned around, sliding his arms around Oscar’s neck with a triumphant grin.
"I think we broke Zak," Lando laughed, leaning his forehead against Oscar's chest. "Did you see his face? He looked like he’d seen a ghost."
Oscar wrapped his arms securely around Lando’s waist, pulling him close against the familiar warmth of his team kit. "I told you they'd be stressed. You're the one who wanted to walk in holding hands. That would've caused a bloody heart attack on everybody,"
"We didn't hold hands!" Lando protested, though his eyes were dancing with mischief. "You just touched my hat."
"Which is practically a public declaration of love in the F1 paddock, Lan," Oscar teased softly. His eyes melted into something incredibly tender as he looked down at his boyfriend, the reigning world champion, completely relaxed and entirely his. He leaned down, pressing a slow, grounding kiss to Lando’s lips. "Let them whisper. We've got a championship to win, and this time, we're doing it together."
Lando smiled into the kiss, buried his hands in Oscar's hair, and felt completely, beautifully at home.
The floodlights of the Australian International Circuit illuminated the night sky, casting a brilliant orange glow over the paddock as the first fireworks exploded in a spectacular display of celebration. McLaren had just secured a flawless 1-2 finish in the opening race of the season.
Down in parc fermé, Lando killed his engine. The cockpit, usually a place of intense, suffocating pressure, suddenly felt wide open. He chucked his steering wheel onto the chassis and vaulted straight out of the car. He didn't care about the FIA officials waiting with the weighing scales, and he didn't care about the cameras swarming his vision. His eyes were locked entirely on the number two car.
Oscar was already climbing out, lifting his visor to catch his breath. The sheer physical toll of chasing Lando for fifty-seven relentless laps showed in the heavy rise and fall of his shoulders.
There was no hesitation this time. No cold, PR-trained handshakes to appease the media, and none of the fractured distance that had broken them the year before.
Lando launched himself forward, crashing heavily into Oscar’s chest. Oscar caught him without a second of hesitation, his strong arms wrapping around Lando's waist and lifting him clean off the ground. They spun in a tight circle, their helmets clashing together with a loud, joyful clack.
"We did it," Lando choked out, his voice thick with a sudden rush of emotion as he clung to Oscar's shoulders. "First race, Osc. We actually did it."
"Told you we were better together," Oscar murmured against the side of Lando's helmet. He set Lando down but kept a firm, grounding hand on the nape of Lando's neck, his thumb brushing against the fireproof fabric of his balaclava. The usual stoic, unreadable expression Oscar wore on race days had completely melted away into a breathtaking, radiant smile. He looked at Lando not just as a teammate, but as his entire world.
When they finally walked up the steps to the podium, the energy from the McLaren garage below was deafening. Zak Brown was already up there, covered in champagne and grinning from ear to ear, looking immensely relieved that his two star drivers were completely in sync.
But as the British and Australian national anthems began to play, the noise of the crowd seemed to fade into a soft, distant hum. Lando stood on the top step, the heavy first-place trophy resting against his side, but his eyes kept drifting to the right.
Oscar was standing on the second step, his gaze fixed on the McLaren team below, a quiet, proud smile on his face.
Lando felt a sudden, fierce ache in his throat. Last year, when he had stood on this exact top step to claim his world title, the victory had felt hollow. The trophy had felt cold. He remembered looking down at the cheering crowds and feeling entirely alone because the boy who built that success with him was standing on the opposite side of the garage, looking away.
Now, the trophy felt twice as heavy and infinitely more real. Lando reached across the small gap between the podium steps, his fingers hooking gently into the sleeve of Oscar's race suit.
Oscar blinked, turning his head at the touch. He didn't say anything, he didn't need to. He just slid his hand down, his fingers intertwining tightly with Lando's, hiding their joined hands behind the bulk of the first-place trophy, away from the direct line of sight of the television cameras. It was a silent, fierce reassurance. I'm right here. We're not letting go this time.
The moment the anthems finished, the heavy emotional gravity broke into pure, unadulterated chaos.
Lando didn't even wait for Zak to spray his bottle. He grabbed his massive magnum of champagne, shook it violently, and aimed it directly at Oscar. Oscar, predicting the attack perfectly, ducked and retaliated, blinding Lando with a direct stream of fizz. They ended up in a laughing, stumbling mess in the centre of the podium, completely soaking each other until their race suits were drenched and sticky.
Through the spray of champagne and the roaring cheers of the mechanics, Oscar caught Lando’s arm, pulling him out of Zak’s line of fire for a brief, stolen second.
Oscar wiped a stray drop of champagne from Lando's cheek, his eyes incredibly soft despite the thousands of screaming fans in the grandstands. "Good race, champion," he murmured, his voice private, warm, and entirely meant for Lando alone.
Lando leaned into the touch, completely oblivious to the world around them. He grinned, his fingers tightening against Oscar's arm. "Best race of my life. Come on, let's go dump the rest of this on Zak."
As they turned back to the crowd, raising their trophies high into the desert night, the entire paddock could see it. The rivalry hadn't broken them; it had just made them completely unstoppable.