Chapter Text
The bar was, unsurprisingly, shitty—really, despite the sign outside, it was more of a club than a bar. The meager building was packed with sweaty, pulsing bodies, deafening music, and strobe lights more stimulating than the racetrack had been. Streams of light glinted off sparkly tops as the sequins shook to the beat, their soft rustling drowned out by a top-forty hit, and Arvid—well, he had a headache by the time he stepped inside, Liam on his tail.
The quality of the bar was unsurprising because it had been chosen by Lando Norris, meaning that it had been the first place to pop up on Lando’s Google Maps. As a planner, he tended to trust the algorithm more than most, which was how a gaggle of Formula 1 drivers ended up at Fancy Nancy’s Bar & Grille in Miami. And, even in the crowd, they weren’t hard to spot—Max, still in his team kit, was leaning against the wall by the bathrooms with Charles; the two McLarens, both half-way drunk from podium endeavors, were sharing a basket of limp onion rings at a high-top table with Carlos; and George was leaning against the bar, scrolling through his phone as he waited for his drink.
It hadn’t been a great day for VCARB—Arvid moved up two places but only managed 14th; Liam logged a DNF—and despite wanting to celebrate with the grid, Arvid could tell Liam wasn’t happy. He skulked off to the bar, and Arvid found the rest of 2025 rookies—other than Jack, of course—huddled around a table, giggling. Despite not technically being part of their group, Arvid was close with these guys; he’d spent seasons with Kimi and Ollie at Prema, after all, and it had been easy to get to know the rest of them.
“Hey, mate,” Ollie said, nodding up at Arvid. He smiled and sat in an empty chair between Isack and Kimi with Gabi across from him. Kimi’s curls were damp, and though he’d showered and changed after the race, he still smelled like whatever they’d given him to spray on the podium—it wasn’t champagne, not in the US, but something bubbly that mimicked the alcohol. His grin was wide, and Ollie’s hand rested on his thigh under the table.
Arvid dragged his eyes away from Ollie’s hand, not wanting to stare, but not before catching the silver bracelet glinting on Ollie’s wrist. The plate on it was engraved with - .. / .- – –, the morse code for ti amo, or I love you in Italian. It made Arvid’s heart twist with something suspiciously close to jealousy, which he very responsibly chose to ignore.
It wasn’t Ollie, nor Kimi, that made him jealous, and it had never been. It was more so the sweet, thoughtful gesture, the easy display of love and affection. Ollie and Kimi weren’t out publicly—obviously not, if Arvid couldn’t take a hint in two years’ time—but they found ways to care for each other despite having to hide it a little. That, Arvid thought, was love that required deliberate thought and effort, something with a reason beyond simplicity. That was what Arvid was, admittedly, jealous of: a relationship that was more than convenient.
“Hey, guys,” Arvid said. He made small talk for a few moments, relaxing in the atmosphere, and congratulated Kimi on his win, not for the first time. Eventually, Isack handed him a sticky, laminated menu with a small smile.
“We’re going to order, if you want something,” Isack offered, his accent curling around the words like burnt paper. With a certain level of distaste, he added, “it is a lot of American food.”
“Can’t be worse than British food, mate,” Arvid replied seriously, taking the menu. Ollie caught his eye and nodded, a silent I agree.
Arvid scanned the menu quickly, frowning at the options. It was everything he’d expected—burgers, fries, chicken wings—but nothing stood out as particularly appealing. As had been his routine since he was thirteen, he looked for gluten-free options, but there wasn’t anything dedicated. Worse, NO SUBSTITUTIONS was printed angrily at the top of the menu in a bold red font, so there was no point in asking for a gluten-free bun or lettuce wrap.
Fuck, he probably should have brought his own food. This always seemed to happen when they were on the road—at least the VCARB hospitality was more accessible.
After a few more minutes, a young blonde woman in a low-cut black top and pleated skirt stopped by the table to take their orders. When Kimi was speaking, she rested her hand on the table, her fingers close to his leanly muscled forearm but not quite touching, and started biting her glossy lip. If that was an attempt at flirting, Arvid found it quite funny; after all, he was sitting there watching Ollie stare at Kimi like he hung the moon, unable to look more lovesick if he tried.
“A caesar salad with no croutons or dressing, please,” Arvid said when the rest of the table had ordered. He knew it wasn’t going to be enough for dinner, but fuck, he was starving. In theory, the salad—or, more accurately, the lettuce—would at least hold him over until he got back to the hotel. Isack shot him a curious glance but didn’t say anything, appearing to bide his time.
“Where are you all from?” the waitress asked, gesturing between them with her pen. Clearly, she had clocked the five different accents around the table, all foreign in Miami.
“Italy,” Kimi said first, quick off the jump.
“France.” That was Isack.
“Brazil.” Gabi, naturally.
“England.” Ollie.
“Same as him,” Arvid finally added, nodding at Ollie. The waitress blinked, then turned away toward the kitchen. When she was out of sight, Isack turned to Arvid.
“Mate,” he said incredulously, “are you on a diet or something?”
“Nah, just…it was the only thing gluten free, you know?”
Arvid wasn’t sure Isack did know. Though he’d discussed it once with The Telegraph, his celiac diagnosis wasn’t necessarily common knowledge around the paddock, save for the VCARB hub. He certainly wasn’t hiding it—he would bring it up if it was relevant, but it usually wasn’t. He’d done a lot of work when he was younger learning to manage the disease; now, it was just a thing.
“Ah,” Isack said, nodding. “That sucks, mate. Croutons are the best part.”
Arvid shrugged, and Isack moved on.
As they waited for their food, they talked about the race. Other than Kimi, no one had anything much to say—Ollie and Gabi had finished just outside the points, and Isack had DNFed—so the topic wore out quickly, and they moved on to video games, sim training, and VCARB admin. Arvid and Isack grinned and bared that last one, shooting each other knowing looks, while the rest of the table shared their favorite content. At one point, Ollie pulled out his phone and scrolled through his liked TikToks; Arvid saw his own face quite a few times, and he wasn’t sure how to feel about it.
“Hey, mate!” came a voice to Arvid’s right. He looked up from the screen to find Liam in his dark baggy jeans and a billowy sleeveless top. For a moment, the Kiwi was painted in flashing purple light, the outlines of his arms defined in deep violet, and Arvid’s breath caught. He flicked his eyes over Liam—the tan, the slightly mussed blonde hair, the sharp lines of his throat and jaw—until the lights danced again and he was normal, standing there with one hand wrapped around the neck of a beer bottle and the other holding a glass of something. Arvid swallowed, exhaled, and set his jaw, hoping it was dim enough in the bar to hide the flush creeping up his skin.
“Hey, Liam,” Arvid replied, tilting his head up to see his teammate.
“I’ve been looking for you.”
“You have?”
“Yeah.” Liam placed the glass on the table in front of Arvid. “Got you a Sprite.”
“Oh,” Arvid said, looking down at the clear, bubbly liquid that was his drink of choice. He could feel the heat crawling across his neck again. “Thanks. I—that’s nice, mate.”
“Well. I know you guys can’t drink here, so.”
“It sucks!” Kimi complained. “I can’t even drink on the podium!”
Liam rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “Never complain about the podium, bro.”
Liam brought over a spare chair from another table and sat next to Gabi, finding himself quickly absorbed in their table’s random conversations. To spare himself from staring straight at Liam, Arvid did some sightseeing: he looked at the bar, at Lando laughing with his head tipped back, at the engraving on Ollie’s silver bracelet. Really, he looked anywhere—everywhere—but at the man across from him. The man who was making Arvid feel things in his stomach unrelated to the curl of post-race hunger.
After a bit of chatting and one mention of the infamous one, two, skiddly doo, the blonde waitress came back with a tray of food. She hurriedly placed each dish in front of its recipient, then scurried off to the next table without so much as a glance; under his breath, Gabi complained that he had wanted more water.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Arvid muttered quietly, glaring down at his salad. It was topped with what had to be more than the standard serving of croutons, which felt like a joke—or maybe she had misheard him and thought he’d asked for extra? Arvid wasn’t sure someone could mistake “no” for “extra.”
Isack glanced over and frowned. “Ah, mate, I thought you didn’t want any?” he asked, gesturing to the croutons with a raised eyebrow. Arvid shook his head.
“I didn’t. Got them anyway, though.”
“You could take them off, non?”
“Nah. There’s cross-contamination, so I can’t eat any of it.”
“Oh. I’m sorry,” Isack said genuinely. Arvid shrugged; it was annoying, but nothing he wasn’t used to. He’d just finish his Sprite here and then scavenge through his collection of snacks back at the hotel. “You could ask for a replacement? Or refund, maybe?”
“Eh, I—”
“Hey, you okay?” Liam asked Arvid, leaning across the table. Apparently, he had noticed Arvid’s slightly dejected expression and the way he was staring at his plate without eating.
“Yeah, fine. I just got screwed over with the gluten.”
“Shit, man, that sucks.” Liam paused for a moment, considering, and Arvid allowed himself to gaze at the muscles of the blonde man’s arms. God, he was attractive. Arvid quickly looked back at his bowl. “Would you want to go somewhere else to eat?”
“I have snacks at the hotel.”
“Dude.” Liam shook his head. “Come to dinner with me, get some actual food.”
Arvid blinked at him. The rest of the table was still in motion, conversations still happening, but Arvid felt the room stop around him. Did Liam really want to get dinner with him, or was he just trying to be nice? Did he pity Arvid?
“Dude,” Liam repeated; Arvid realized that he hadn’t replied.
“Uh, yeah, sure,” he mumbled, feeling another wave of heat press against his skin. He needed to calm down—and, more importantly, swallow all of the Liam-centric feelings infecting his body—but Liam was just…he was hot and kind and talented. He never treated Arvid like he was less than, even though the Kiwi had more experience, and he wasn’t the type of guy that Drive to Survive made him out to be. Yes, he drove aggressively, and yes, he had flipped off Checo, but he wasn’t rude—just competitive, which Arvid liked more than he wanted to admit. He made Arvid laugh.
He also made Arvid feel really fucking confused, which wasn’t something Arvid was used to. He’d known who he was his entire life—British, Swedish, Indian, and, more than anything else, a racing driver. He was the kid who told Lando Norris to remember him, and then the rookie who made it come true half a decade later. Arvid Lindblad was a driver, a dreamer, an achiever. That was what he knew.
“Great,” Liam said, standing up. He stretched his arms over his head, causing the hem of his tank to ride up. A blue light flashed overhead, leaching from the dance floor, and Arvid had to force himself to not look at the strip of abs and tan skin washed in cerulean. Ollie seemed to notice his reaction, then file it away, and Arvid followed his lead. Liam’s skin—his whole body, really—wasn’t of Arvid’s concern whatsoever.
“Bro, you’re leaving?” Isack asked, idly stirring his water with a plastic straw. Liam nodded, then gestured at Arvid.
“Yeah. We’re gonna go find a different spot,” Liam said casually. This time, Ollie’s eyes flicked to Arvid, then to Liam, then back to Arvid. He raised an inquisitive eyebrow, clearly having sensed something, and Arvid looked away. Ollie had always been good at reading people, which made Arvid’s skin crawl sometimes. He didn’t want to be looked at too closely, for reasons he didn’t fully understand.
Arvid and Liam gave their goodbyes to the rest of the table, then Arvid followed Liam’s lead as they navigated through the mess of bodies in the main area of the club. Arvid pretended not to notice the way Liam glanced over his shoulder to make sure Arvid was behind him—he had already resigned himself to staring at his unattainable crush for the rest of the evening, and sitting through that with any more feelings that he was currently harboring would only make it harder.