Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The studio lights buzzed overhead like they hadn’t been turned off since the early 2000s. Charles Leclerc adjusted his tie in the reflection of the teleprompter, exhaled, and then immediately lost the will to live as Carlos Sainz barged into the studio with two coffees, three croissants, and zero balance.

“Your latte has almond milk, right?” Carlos asked, holding up the most precariously stacked set of pastries since the Leaning Tower of Pisa. “Or did you switch to oat because of that ‘dream about dairy’ thing?”

“I told you that in confidence,” Charles said through gritted teeth, snatching the coffee before Carlos dropped it. Again.

Carlos grinned. “Too late. I already tweeted it.”

Before Charles could threaten to replace him with a potted plant, their producer waved frantically from behind the cameras. It was time. Not for the news. No. Worse.

Kid Takeover Day.

An annual segment meant to engage younger viewers that, in practice, turned the newsroom into an unsupervised birthday party with fewer cupcakes and more existential crises.

“Is Oscar here yet?” Carlos asked, peering toward the lobby.

Charles glanced at his phone. “He’ll be here on dot. Very on brand.”

“You sure about this, Charles? I still think sending Oscar to that site is career sabotage. For both of you.”

“He’s got to learn! It’s just for a week. One live youth segment. What could go wrong?”

James Vowles, their boss who was impeccably dressed as always, sighed from across the room. “You just cursed it. Thanks for that.”

Charles offered a confident smile. “He’s a smart kid. He’ll be fine.”

Carlos snorted. “He’s Max’s kid. There’s a 90% chance he’ll bulldoze the camera crew and file a complaint about media ethics by lunch.”

“He’s also my kid. He might charm someone.”

“He’ll charm the concept of silence.”

“…Fair.”

Cut to: the front door.

Oscar, aged 17, and more emotionally exhausted than most adults, entered the studio, then deadpanned, “This feels like child labor.”

“You’re going to be amazing,” Charles said, appearing behind him with manic optimism. “It’s one small segment. Smile once, and you get extra screen time on the sim.”

Oscar sighed. “That’s not how screen time works. And you didn’t tell dad.”

“I thought it’d be a nice surprise!” Charles beamed.

Oscar blinked. “You thought ambushing the Max Verstappen, your husband, my dad, with surprise national television was a good idea?”

Carlos appeared, holding a glitter-covered microphone. “C’mon, Little Verstappen. We’ve got a chaos quota to hit.”

On Air.

The segment began.

“Welcome back to Leclerc Live at Five,” Charles said, his smile professional, hair unreasonably perfect. “Today is our annual Kid Takeover segment, where we let the youth take the reins. Joining me is Oscar, who will be co-hosting our next story.”

He then turned to Carlos, gesturing the crew to cut his mic, “Wait – what is the next story? Is it the Ilama?”

***

Live Location - Downtown Food Festival

A shaky handheld camera zoomed in on Oscar standing in front of a crowded food festival, clearly radiating the aura of a hostage.

Charles winced. Carlos laughed.

Oscar, in the middle of a crowd of locals and food trucks, stared deadpan into the camera. His lanyard was askew. His hair, disheveled by the wind.

He looked like Max Verstappen had somehow been reborn as a grumpy seventeen-year-old holding a microphone.

“I’m at the city’s annual Food Fest,” Oscar intoned, as if reading a eulogy. “Where hundreds of people are willingly consuming things like cronut tacos and deep-fried kombucha. Humanity has peaked.”

Carlos nearly spit out his coffee. “God, he sounds like Max. I’m not even sure he’s blinking.”

Charles let out a quiet noise of anguish. “He’s fine,” he said weakly. “He’s just - observational.”

“You mean he hates everyone.”

“I mean he’s discerning.”

Meanwhile Oscar was still going. “The line to gastrointestinal regret is already thirty minutes long.”

Cut again to Charles in the studio, plastered smile twitching slightly. He spoke through gritted teeth, “What a natural on-camera presence.”

Carlos wheezed. “He sounds like he’s narrating the fall of capitalism. I love it.”

10 minutes later

Oscar had interviewed a six-year-old dressed as a weather cloud, narrowly avoided being hit by a nearby makeshift t-shirt cannon, and been asked if he was “the boy from Stranger Things but Dutch.”

“I need to leave,” Oscar muttered, holding a donut like it might be explosive.

“You’re doing great!” Charles encouraged from his in-ears.

The seventeen-year-old moved through the crowd, clearly attempting to find someone to interview. Unfortunately, what he found instead was Lando Norris - wearing sunglasses indoors, holding a smoothie with far too much enthusiasm, and walking directly into him.

The mic caught the collision.

“Jesus - what the hell are you doing in the middle of the -”

Lando stopped. His voice caught in his throat.

Charles watched with the growing horror of a man who knew exactly what was about to happen.

Lando tilted his head, eyebrows raised, lips parted slightly. Then he said, in a voice too soft for live TV, “God, you’re gorgeous.”

Carlos dropped his coffee. Charles nearly fainted.

Oscar stared at Lando with the expression of someone who had just been offered a wet sock as a friendship bracelet. “I’m working,” he said.

“Yeah,” Lando breathed, “but like - are you doing this segment forever, or…?”

“I'm on live television.”

“Even better. Free publicity. Hi. I’m Lando. I’ve had three failed relationships this year and a spiritual awakening that might’ve been food poisoning.”

Charles rose from his chair. “Absolutely not.”

Carlos choked on his own breath. “Oh my god.”

On screen, Lando continued, somehow unbothered by the cameras or the fact that he was being broadcast live to thousands of viewers. “You’ve got the eyes of someone who’s seen things. Like…soul-burial levels of trauma.”

“What?”

“I mean - you’ve got those eyes like you know where my soul is buried.”

Oscar’s mouth twitched. “Please go away.”

“My ex-girlfriend said that too,” Lando said brightly. “Then my last boyfriend told me I was emotionally unavailable. But I’m growing. Like a cactus.”

“I’m here to report on the food festival,” Oscar deadpanned. “Not your failed relationships.”

Charles had stopped breathing. Somewhere behind him, James Vowles screamed into a folder.

Lando didn’t stop talking. “Just saying, if you ever want to get bubble tea and trauma-dump about our emotionally distant fathers, I’m free after 3.”

Oscar, now tired of existence, pulls out his phone and texted his dad:

me:

come get me. it’s awful.

there’s a dude here

he talks a lot

says i have soul-burial eyes

your genes did this to me.

dad:

Where are you?

Who said that?

And what does that even MEAN?!

me:

the idiot with the smoothie

i’m at the food fest

come get me pls

dad:

omw

tell him to stay put

All of a sudden, Oscar's in-ears chimed in with his papa’s voice, “Osc, everything okay?”

“No, I’m calling Dad.”

Charles’s face paled. “Do you… have to?”

“He's just across the street. Said he’ll be here in five.”

And as promised, five minutes later, Max stepped onto the festival grounds like an avenging angel with a Bluetooth earpiece and a face that said “I have no time for any of you.”

The camera caught him approaching, calm but with the tension of a panther about to pounce.

Oscar didn’t smile, but the relief on his face was palpable. Lando, however, turned, took one look at Max, and visibly died inside.

“That’s - he’s your dad?” Lando stammered.

Oscar nodded. “Yep.”

“God – he’s hot.”

Charles spat out his coffee from the studio while Carlos was now on the floor laughing.

Max approached, sharp blue eyes assessing Lando in two seconds. “You.”

Lando froze. “Me?”

“Were you flirting with my son on national television?”

Lando swallowed. “Not - flirting, exactly. I was being… warm. Charismatic. Potentially open to future connections.”

Oscar, deadpan as ever, chimed in. “He also mentioned his last four breakups. By name.”

“Is this a prank?” Max asked, voice low, Dutch accent thickening.

Oscar stood up from the anchor chair. “No. It’s just my life.”

Max was already dialing Charles. “You didn’t tell me he was going to be on television.”

“I thought it would be fun!” Charles offered. “And he was brilliant!”

Max gave him a look usually reserved for malfunctioning spreadsheets. “I’m taking my son home.”

“You’re on camera,” Charles whispered helpfully.

Max turned directly to the lens.

“I’m taking my son home.”

Oscar grabbed his backpack, waved to the viewers like he’d just completed jury duty, and walked off camera without another word. Max followed, his hand lightly resting on Oscar’s shoulder.

Charles, in the studio, buried his face in his hands. “I should’ve sent him to the weather segment. Why didn’t I send him to weather?”

The camera now cut to on Charles and Carlos.

Carlos sipped his coffee. “We’re still live, aren’t we?”

“Do we still have that llama segment?”

Carlos nodded. “Oh, yeah. And this time they brought two.”

***

10 minutes later

Charles got a text from Max.

mon amour 😘❤️:

Next year, ask first.

Also, I’m sure that he did great. Even if he won’t admit it.

me:

i still can’t believe he called our son GORGEOUS

on live tv

i mean he is but -

that dude was flirting with him

in sunglasses

at a food truck

mon amour 😘❤️:

I know

He also used the word cactus unironically

I nearly committed violence

me:

i swear if that boy shows up at our door i’m hiding the knives

mon amour 😘❤️:

He’s lucky i didn’t run him over with my Ferrari

Also Oscar told me he wants tacos again tomorrow

So congrats. It wasn’t a total disaster.

***

Later that evening, in the safety of their apartment, Charles scrolled through Twitter and saw the clip of Lando calling Oscar “gorgeous” trending under #SoulBurialEyes. His face was permanently stuck in disbelief.

He leaned back on the couch, exhausted, and looked across the room at Oscar, who was watching reruns of Top Gear like nothing had happened.

“You okay?” he called gently.

Oscar shrugged. “I survived.”

Charles grinned. “Your father almost had a breakdown.”

Oscar didn’t even look up. “He does that a lot.”

Charles texted Max again.

me:

i love you. your genes are terrifying. our son is unstoppable.

also carlos wants to invite lando to dinner

should i block his number again

mon amour 😘❤️:

Yes.

Immediately.

Chapter Text

Lando wasn’t stalking.

He was, however, in the exact same artisan bookstore café two days after the food festival, sipping an oat milk iced mocha and casually (read: anxiously) glancing over his shoulder every thirty seconds.

Totally normal behavior. For a completely coincidental visit. Not weird at all.

The barista had already given him one concerned look. Whatever. He had a purpose. Sort of.

It wasn’t his fault Oscar was hot in an unnerving, intimidating, genetically-blessed kind of way. Lando had made a mild flirtatious remark, then gotten obliterated by the sharp, judgmental energy of a teenage Verstappen.

And then his unnaturally, unnervingly hot dad showed up.

Max Verstappen had appeared like a video game boss and looked at Lando like he was a cracked phone screen.

Still, here he was. Just a chill 18-year-old guy drinking aggressively flavored coffee. If Oscar happened to show up again (he had mentioned liking this place in his segment, okay?), well - that would be fate. Or karma. Or a second chance to not completely implode.

Spoiler: Oscar did show up.

He walked in like he owned oxygen. Tall, dressed in a navy hoodie, curls damp from the rain, holding a book like it personally offended him.

Oscar spotted him immediately.

“Seriously?” he said, not even blinking. “You again?”

Lando cleared his throat. “Hey.”

Oscar stared at him.

Lando tried to smile. “This is just - wild coincidence. Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Oscar dropped into the seat across from him, opened his book, and said, “You manifested this, didn’t you?”

Lando tried not to die. “What? No. I’m just - getting some reading in. Enjoying the ambience.”

“You’re holding a psychology textbook upside down.”

Lando looked down. He was, in fact, holding it upside down.

“Okay, fair,” he admitted. “But technically it was still a coincidence.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “You mean the coincidence where you show up at the café I said I liked. On national TV. In a segment I was hosting.”

“That makes it sound worse.”

“It is worse.”

Lando held up both hands. “Okay, I’m sorry. Truly. I wasn’t trying to be creepy, I just - I don’t know. I thought maybe we could start over. Say hi. Like normal people. Without any flirting. Unless you wanted me to flirt. In which case I could absolutely do that. Or not.”

Oscar blinked. Slowly.

“I’m sorry,” Lando muttered. “I panic-talk.”

“I noticed,” Oscar said, closing his book. “You monologued about three exes in under a minute and told me I had ‘buried soul’ eyes.”

“It was a compliment!” Lando said, too quickly.

Oscar tilted his head. “It sounded like a murder confession.”

Lando winced. “Okay. But like - a poetic one.”

Oscar didn’t reply right away. Just watched him for a beat too long. Then, “You’re the most persistent idiot I’ve ever met.”

Lando grinned. “You remembered me.”

Oscar sighed. Then - reluctantly, like it physically hurt - he smiled. Just a little.

“You’re lucky I find this entertaining.”

Lando sat up straighter, fully alert. “So you’re saying I have a shot?”

“No,” Oscar said immediately. “But I’m saying if you buy me coffee and shut up for fifteen minutes, I won’t call my dad.”

“…Deal.”

“And stop looking at me like I’m the northern lights.”

“Impossible.”

Oscar stared him down.

Lando caved in under 4.2 seconds. “Okay. I’ll stop. Coffee. Silence. Got it.”

He scrambled to the counter like it was a military mission.

Oscar, watching him go, pulled out his phone.

me:

he’s here again

same guy. upside-down book. nervous energy

bought me coffee.

not the worst.

papa:

OH? 👀

should i tell your father?

me:

im pretty sure he’s got lando on a sight-watch already

papa:

😂

just be home by 7 or we will track him down

bring coffee

and no soul-burial talk this time pls

Oscar looked up as Lando returned with two drinks and a victorious smile.

“What?” Lando asked, noticing the smirk playing at Oscar’s lips.

Oscar took the cup. “Nothing. You’re just lucky you’re kind of endearing when you’re not speaking.”

Lando beamed. “So I am growing on you.”

Oscar rolled his eyes but didn’t say no.

Lando considered that a win.

Oscar sipped the coffee Lando had bought him.

Okay. It wasn’t bad.

Lando, sitting across from him like a golden retriever with caffeine dependency, was doing his best to remain quiet. For a guy who probably came out of the womb talking about himself, it looked painful.

Fifteen minutes passed. Oscar read his book. Lando fidgeted. Oscar, pretending not to notice, enjoyed the silence more than he expected.

Then Lando leaned in slightly.

“So, hypothetically,” he said, voice soft, “if I did want to see you again, would you prefer another accidental coffee shop ambush or like… scheduling an actual hangout? That you consent to.”

Oscar didn’t look up. “Hypothetically, I’d prefer if you kept using words like ‘consent.’ Shows growth.”

Lando brightened. “That a yes?”

Oscar finally met his eyes. “That’s a maybe.”

“Progress!” Lando said, like he’d just been knighted.

Oscar pulled out his phone under the table, thumb hovering. Then he typed:

me:

so hypothetically

if i were sitting in a café across from the guy who tried to flirt with me on live tv

what would you do

Max replied immediately. Like he was waiting.

dad:

WHAT?

Where?

Are you safe?

Who??

Is he armed?

Is he stupid?

I bet he’s stupid.

Oscar grinned, hiding it behind his coffee cup.

me:

yes

bookstore café

yes.

lando

no, dad.

EXTREMELY

Max’s typing dots blinked like a warning sign. Then:

dad:

DO NOT FLIRT BACK

I SWEAR TO GOD

If he touches you I will appear

I will manifest through a wall

Charles says I’m not allowed to threaten teenagers anymore so this is me being calm

Please be safe

And call me

In case you're in danger

Or if he's being stupid

Or anything, really.

Oscar chuckled, just loud enough that Lando glanced up. “Something funny?”

“Just my dad being dramatic,” Oscar said, setting his phone face down.

Lando blinked. “Which one?”

“The one you called hot.”

“Oh,” Lando said, sipping his drink. “Yeah, I mean - he is and also no offense, but he kinda gives off ‘could kill a man with a spoon’ energy.”

Oscar didn’t deny it.

A few more minutes passed. Lando got up to grab a napkin and probably internally rehearse a new compliment. Oscar, amused, pulled out his phone again.

me:

i’m fine

he’s not as unbearable as he was at the food fest

still a bit twitchy

in a cute way

maybe

The typing bubbles came and went.

Then came three dots again.

Then nothing.

Then:

dad:

If you bring him home

He’s sitting between me and your papa

And I get to interrogate him first

Also -

I was never this twitchy around your papa

Just saying

Oscar read that. Smirked. Paused. And then, like the demon child he truly was typed out:

me:

you once walked into a door trying to flirt with him

there’s video evidence

The reply came after a full five minutes of radio silence.

dad:

Don’t do anything

And delete that video

Oscar smiled to himself.

When Lando sat back down, napkin in hand, ready to say something stupid again, Oscar looked him dead in the eye and said,

“Next time, try leading with your interests instead of your dating history.”

Lando blinked. “You mean like... favorite movie?”

Oscar nodded. “Go.”

“Shrek 2,” Lando said, instantly. “It’s perfect. I will not elaborate.”

Oscar stared at him.

Then, laughed out loud, which oddly sounded like, “this could be the start of something and I am so ready for it.”

Chapter Text

The table was set like it was trying to win a Michelin star.

Which made Lando immediately suspicious.

“Do you think they’re trying to intimidate me?” he whispered, eyes darting to the extremely polished cutlery, a bread basket arranged like a Renaissance still life, and a single terrifyingly symmetrical tart on a plate labeled ‘pre-dessert.’

Oscar, who looked calm but was very obviously repressing the urge to flee, muttered, “No. This is just how Papa stress cooks.”

“...Oh.”

“And he’s very stressed.”

“Perfect.”

From the other side of the room, Charles emerged like a model for luxury anxiety. Apron still on, hair too perfect to have actually been cooking in, eyes glowing with a barely restrained welcome-to-my-hell smile.

“Lando,” he said in the tone of someone greeting a reality show contestant. “You made it.”

Lando stood awkwardly. “Thanks for having me. I brought wine!” he said, holding up a bottle like it might defuse a bomb.

Charles stared at it. “That is a lovely gesture. Do you know what pairs well with it?”

“I… was hoping you’d tell me?”

Charles tilted his head. “Nothing we’re serving.”

Oscar put his face in his hands.

Then Max entered.

Or, well, appeared.

Silent. Calm. T-shirt, sweatpants, Bluetooth headset still around his neck like he’d just come from some high-end meeting.

He gave Lando a once over and then said, “You’re early.”

“I can leave,” Lando blurted.

Oscar groaned. Max smiled. Just a little.

“You’re fine,” he said, and Lando wasn’t sure if that meant ‘you’re not a threat’ or ‘you’re lucky Charles hasn’t locked you out.’ Either way, he took the win.

Dinner started quietly.

Oscar stabbed at a salad. Charles narrated the dishes like a contestant on Top Chef: Passive-Aggression Edition. Lando tried to eat normally, but somehow the fork felt heavier under Charles’ gaze.

“So,” Charles said, too lightly. “Lando. What are your… intentions?”

Oscar nearly choked.

Lando blinked. “I... I didn’t know we were doing the interrogation already.”

Max, sipping water, said mildly, “This is the soft version.”

“I just wanted to hang out with Oscar,” Lando said quickly. “Maybe get to know him. Not, like - steal him or anything.”

Charles narrowed his eyes. “Why would you steal him?”

“I - wouldn’t! That’s what I’m saying!”

Oscar muttered, “He’s panicking.”

Charles nodded. “Good.”

Then Max turned to Lando and asked, “You still karting sometimes?”

Lando blinked. “Uh. Yeah? Just for fun.”

Max perked up. Actually perked up. “What chassis?”

And suddenly - Lando was speaking fluent Max. They spiraled into a very intense, very nerdy conversation about tire pressures and throttle sensitivity and data telemetry from 2017.

Oscar watched in mild disbelief.

Charles watched like he was being usurped in his own kitchen.

“Thought you spoke karting only with me?” Charles asked flatly.

Max glanced at his husband, eyes softening, "I'm just trying to get to know our son's boyfriend."

Charles glared at him and turned to Oscar, “Did you tell Lando that your dad's a freak for motorsports?”

“Nope.”

Lando, now grinning like a golden retriever who just got praised for using the bathroom outside, said to Max, “I’ve been trying to get back into proper sim setup too.”

Max nodded. “I’ll send you the list. Don’t use the brake bias settings from 2021. They’re... wrong.”

Charles clinked his fork against his wine glass like he was considering launching it.

“Wow,” he said cheerfully. “So glad you two are getting along. That’s… rare.”

“Papa,” Oscar said carefully, “don’t go feral.”

Charles turned to Lando, smile now back to being 5% threatening. “So, Lando. You ever broken someone’s heart?”

“I - uh.” Lando looked to Max, who shrugged like you’re on your own, kid.

“Well?” Charles asked, sipping his wine.

“I... I mean I’ve been broken up with a lot,” Lando stammered. “I don’t think I ever like - broke anyone on purpose.”

Charles blinked slowly. “That’s worse.”

“Okay!” Max intervened with the calm of a man familiar with Charles’ drama cycles. “He’s a teenager, Charles.”

Charles raised an eyebrow. “He flirted with our son. On national television.”

“He’s here now, isn’t he?”

Charles turned to Oscar. “Are you sure this is worth it?”

Oscar, mouth full of pre-dessert, gave a thumbs up.

Lando, now visibly sweating, tried one last hail Mary. “You know, Charles, I really admire your work too. That llama segment? Iconic.”

Charles stared at him.

Max laughed under his breath.

“Oh no,” Oscar whispered.

Charles leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand. “You think I’m cute when I’m being humiliated on live television?”

“No! I think you’re professional! I love llamas!”

Oscar coughed. Max bit his lip.

“I mean, not like - in that way. I meant I respect you! Not the llamas. I mean - I respect the llamas too. Just not in a weird way.”

Charles sipped his wine with dead eyes.

“You’re a mess,” he said.

Lando wilted.

Then Charles sighed, turned to Oscar, and said with only minor resignation, “He can stay for dessert. If he survives the coffee.”

“I make very strong coffee,” Max added.

“It’s psychological warfare,” Oscar said.

Lando nodded. “Bring it on.”

***

Hours Later, Outside the Leclerc-Verstappen Residence

The front door closed behind them with a quiet click. Oscar and Lando stood in the driveway, the stars just barely visible above the glow of city lights.

Lando exhaled like he'd just survived a reality show elimination. “Well.”

Oscar snorted. “That went better than expected.”

“I nearly complimented your papa’s apron and got emotionally vaporized.”

“He’s hard to impress.”

“I told him I liked his segment on endangered frogs and he asked me if I was planning to adopt one.”

Oscar laughed. Actually laughed. “You are kind of like a lost amphibian.”

“I’ll take that as affection.”

Oscar bumped his shoulder lightly. “It kind of is.”

Lando turned, hopeful. “So… are we still good? Like, I survived the dad gauntlet. Do I get a sticker or something?”

“No sticker,” Oscar said. Then added, “You get… a walk to the train station. With me. And maybe bubble tea if you’re not too annoying.”

Lando beamed. “That’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

Oscar rolled his eyes. “You really do have a low bar.”

They started walking.

A few quiet steps passed. Lando shoved his hands in his pockets.

“Hey,” he said, glancing sideways. “Thanks for not ditching me when I panicked and said I respected your dad’s llamas.”

Oscar gave him a look. “You panicked and said you respected the llamas. I still don’t understand how that happened.”

“I was nervous! Your dad looks like a Bond villain who knows how to julienne vegetables.”

“He is. And he does.”

Lando laughed. Then, a beat later, he reached over - tentative, uncertain - and brushed his fingers lightly against Oscar’s.

Oscar didn’t pull away.

Lando blinked. “Is this allowed?”

Oscar didn’t look at him. “Only if you shut up for a full minute.”

Lando grinned. “Starting… now.”

They walked down the street in silence, fingers barely linked, the weight of dinner behind them and the soft promise of something unfolding between them - awkward, unexpected, but maybe kind of wonderful.

And for once, Lando didn’t say a thing.

***

Much Later That Night

Dad² + Teen™

23:11

me:

so lando survived

papa:

we let him leave upright. he should be grateful.

me:

you smiled at him eventually

papa:

my face twitched. don’t misread that.

dad:

He’s… alright.

Nervous but not an idiot.

We have karting plans.

me:

you’re betraying me

dad:

He complimented my tire management. I’m only human.

me:

he called you "hot."

dad:

And papa almost stabbed him with a dessert spoon.

me:

so that’s a win?

dad:

We’ll call it a tie.