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Chapter Text

There were many things that Oscar could cite as explanations for his ruthlessly competitive side. Perhaps it was being raised the eldest to three sisters-- which turned family game nights into battle fields and made fights over who got shotgun in the car cut-throat. Or, maybe, as Mark so often reminded him, his very DNA was coded to be race-car driver material; Oscar chased checkered flags and first place finishes the same way anyone else chased air to breathe. 

It could even be that his worst enemy, his rival in every sense of the word, was, at the same time, also his teammate. While every driver on the grid was talented, no doubt about it, there was no one Oscar saw himself in more, no one he wanted to beat more, than Lando. They had the same drive to win, the same fire fuelling them, the same end goal: to be the chosen one that ended McLaren’s dry streak; be World Champions. They just had different means to the same end. Same same, but different. They were two sides of the same coin. 

But when flipped, one side of the coin was always going to have to come out on top. 

***

Oscar had finally, finally, forgiven the team for what happened a year ago in Budapest at the Hungoring. His fucking pity win. On paper, he had done everything right, and had driven a phenomenal race. 

Then, the race engineers had made a mistake of Ferrari proportions by undercutting him with Lando’s pit stop. He refused to beg for team orders, no, never. Oscar was too proud to stoop that low. No, he’d push to the last corner of the last lap, show them all that this win was his. 

Then at last Zak had given the directive, as master puppeteer and Andrea his ever faithful muppet, to swap track positions. Maybe they had finally picked up on what everyone else watching had noticed immediately, and had needed to pretend that they didn’t secretly pray for the Cain and Abel dynamic to take out the less favoured driver so that they wouldn’t have to. 

And so Lando had, after a hostage negotiation, given way for Oscar to go through. To re-take the lead just under the wire. To win. Oscar’s first win in Formula 1, and it had been (somewhat forcefully) handed to him on a papaya coloured platter. The guilt, the doubt, would follow him for the next year. In 2025, Oscar had vowed that when he returned to Hungary, that win would be his and his alone. 

***

Oscar couldn’t breathe. Wasn’t even sure he had stepped on the brake as he pulled into Parc Fermé. In all honesty, he wasn’t sure he wanted to step on the brake. Better to run Lando over, maybe even Zak, than to deal with getting out of the car. 

They’d done it again. Again. 

The shoddy tire strategy, the accidental undercut, the half-hearted radio apology from Zak- who then encouraged Oscar to “get it done buddy, I know you can.” in his stupid American accent. Lando, P1. Oscar, who might have laughed at the irony if he hadn’t been so enraged, left seeing red. 

Oscar clamped that steely resolve over himself as he climbed out of the car. He tried to recall the breathing exercises that oh-so-wise Mark so loved to impart on him. It helped- sort of, just enough for Oscar to remove his helmet. To take a drink of water. To remember where he was and the obligations that he had to perform. 

For the next hour, Oscar could, would, be the dutiful team player. He’d give James Hinchcliff all the right post-race interview answers. Fuck, he’d even shake Lando’s hand. 

He’d do that if he could stop shaking. If he could stop the muscle in his jaw that was twitching from clenching so hard. If he could even look at Lando, without throwing his helmet, and water bottle, and hell, maybe even a fist for good measure at his teammate’s disgustingly joyous face. The thought of them brawling, here, interrupting George’s posh and PR jargon-y interview, was so absurd that Oscar couldn’t help but crack a twisted smile.

As the adrenaline ebbed, Oscar’s temper settled like a well-trained dog at his feet. He managed a convincing interview, earning an encouraging thumbs up from his PR agent. The tension in the cool down room was palpable, not that Lando seemed to notice nor care. It certainly didn’t stop him from debriefing the race in Oscar’s ear- an annoying habit that Lando, like many of the other drivers who spent significant time with Max, had picked up. But it was familiar territory, and Oscar found it in himself to be civil. 

By the time they took photos, Oscar’s frustrations had been carefully processed and tucked away for his next therapy session, in which, inevitably, his therapist will remark on how "emotionally mature” he is, especially for a 24-year-old under such immense pressure. A perk of being raised with sisters.

Chapter Text

Somehow Oscar had found himself seated between George, Alex, and Charles while waiting for whatever post-race-show bullshit to finish. He’d finally stopped avoiding eye contact with Lando, finally stopped feeling like his teammate’s gaze was a brand that burned away every resolve of peace that Oscar had built within himself. He’d started building it up on the day that Zak had proudly proclaimed that this year McLaren wouldn’t pull team orders so long as both drivers were in the running for the WDC. 

Lando had always been good at finding a way under Oscar’s skin– cracking that careful, indifferent mask that Oscar clung to out of fear that his emotions would burn him alive, char him inside out. 

All carefree smiles and loose limbs, Lando lounged on a chair across the room next to Max and Kimi. He was gesturing broadly, in that easy way, with that easy laugh that cleaved through the chatter and deep into Oscar’s brain no matter where they were. 

Oscar had been so distracted by trying (failing) to not watch his teammate that he’d completely stopped listening to the full conversation that George was now having with the side of his head. 

“Uh– sorry, mate, what?” Oscar blinked when George said his name for, Jesus Christ, the third time? 

“Club, you coming or not?” Alex supplied, having leaned around the Brit. 

“Oh yeah, yeah, mate.” Oscar said quickly. “Sounds great.” It didn’t, but he had nothing better to do. Maybe he could just make a convincing appearance and then Irish exit immediately. None of the other drivers would likely notice anyway, they’d be too entranced by Monaco’s luxurious lifestyle, which came as part of the benefits package for being a Formula 1 driver. Not that Oscar cared about that; to him it was only ever about racing, and winning. 

George beamed, already typing something on his phone. “Great! Great, yeah I’ll send you the details when I land in Nice. Charles promised the first round on him.”

Charles, who looked like he was considering hiring a sniper to get him out of that agreement, gave a grim smile that didn’t reach his sad, soulless eyes. Oscar felt only mildly reassured by knowing that he wouldn't be the only one who’d agreed to this plan somewhat unwillingly.

After all the media obligations were said and done, most of the drivers departed from the circuit quickly, quoting “an eagerness to begin the summer holidays”. Which was really just code for fucking off and getting as drunk as possible for the next four weeks, preferably on a very expensive yacht. 

All of this was how Oscar ended up at Carte Blanche, a three story yacht-club in Port Heracules only a few hours after leaving the Hungarian airport. He wasn’t sure who owned the yacht, though they were probably a friend of George or Lewis, or maybe even Max, or maybe one of them actually owned it, seeing as he’d been waved through the VIP line and handed a whiskey, neat, upon arrival. 

Since he had begun spending increasingly more time in Monaco, Oscar’s understanding of nightlife had grown exponentially. Sure, Melbourne had its clubs and its festivals, but that was nothing compared to how rich people without real day jobs partied. A description that also now included him, though Oscar didn’t let the fame go to his head. The money was nice, sure, but didn’t mean much more than a more-comfortable-than-average rented flat and frequent trips home to see his family. 

What the fame had changed, though, was the way people looked at him now- like he had, was something they wanted. Often the stares were too much, making him feel like a butterfly pinned to cardstock under a magnifying glass. Oscar skirted the crowd on the lowest deck of the party yacht, full of people who were now looking at him.

George had been true to his word and had Whatsapp messaged Oscar the details, which he followed dutifully: VIP line, back stairs up to the top deck, which had been reserved for the drivers only. 

Sitting on padded chairs sat most of the grid, copious amounts of beer bottles and empty glasses littered the low tables. Lewis and Fernando, unsurprisingly, were nowhere to be seen. Nico, surprisingly, was here with his wife- clearly celebrating his first podium finish, Gaby in tow. The rookies were gathered around a foosball table; Ollie and Kimi against Liam and Isaack, with Max and Charles shouting dubious, half-drunk advice at whoever had the ball. 

Oscar really didn’t get out as much as he should, despite the frequent (obligatory) invitations from his co-workers. It just never felt like his scene- though he did enjoy the music. Not like Lando, who used it for his chaotic “self-expression” through his “DJ-ing”. No, Oscar liked it because it was like racing, something he could get lost in and just feel. The beat from the speakers thrummed through the deck boards, reeling him in, the thread of fate with its fishhook in him.

The July sun had finally set over the Monaco harbour, covering the city-state in a blanket of grey-blue shadows. City lights twinkled like stars along the hillside. From where he parked himself on the rail, Oscar sipped his whiskey and admired the view. Across the deck Lando and Carlos were playing cards with Alex and George, Oscar couldn’t tell what they were playing, but by the scowl on Carlos’ face, it was probably poker, and the Spaniard was definitely losing. 

A warm hand on Oscar’s shoulder snapped him brutally back into his body. How long had he been standing there, staring? Long enough for someone to sneak up on him, clearly. 

“Oscar!” Max shouted, a smile tugging at his mouth. “You finally joined the big boys!” 

“I, uh, yeah.” 

“Lovely, mate. Yeah, we’re going to play poker.” Max gestured to his chin to the others across the deck. With a very insistent hand on Oscar’s elbow, the Dutchman led him to the card table. “When in Monaco, yeah?” 

Charles gave a helpless shrug over Max’s shoulder, one that said he had also resigned himself to the fate of this evening. Oscar tried hard not to groan out loud. 

“Lando! Lando! Deal us in, mate.” Max squished onto the couch next to Alex, making everyone shove over. Protests sounded as Max’s intrusion disturbed the current pot. Lando took the piss out of Carlos as he accepted defeat, and also the subsequent loss of his dignity. 

There wasn’t really enough room for all of them. Oscar found himself perched on the edge of the seat, thigh to thigh with Lando, who was wearing scandalously short shorts that Oscar suspected might actually be swim trunks. He tried not to grind his teeth as the close quarters not only rubbed up against his personal space, but also at the still-raw wound from the race that had been mere hours ago. 

Max, it seemed, was well aware of what he’d done, and gave Oscar a shit-eating grin over the rim of his drink. The bastard. 

Charles assumed the role of dealer, and he nimbly shuffled the cards over and over until he deemed them ready to play. George signalled someone over Lando’s head for another round of drinks.

“Does Oscar know how to play?” Carlos asked, and Oscar nodded. He’d played poker before, and although it was mostly a game of chance, he was quite good at Texas hold 'em- much to the chagrin of his personal trainer and most of his mechanical team. Probably because of his well practiced poker face. 

“No no no,” Max waved his hand, nearly knocking over several glasses. “Mate, you’ve never played poker like this. We have special rules.”

Lando’s face split into a giddy, gapped-tooth grin, and suddenly this all seemed like a terrible idea. “We bet in truths.” 

“No sense in betting real money- we don’t need more of it!” Max laughed, which earned a muttered “speak for yourself” from Alex. The Red-Bull driver distributed small stacks of poker chips as he explained the rules. The pot was to keep the round going, though the winner did take the pot at the end of each round. The winner also got to ask a player of their choice a question, which could only be answered honestly. If you ran out of chips, you’d have to chug your drink before getting a loan from the bank. 

The rules made sense, though the thought of essentially playing truth or dare with people who Oscar wasn’t sure he’d classify as friends made his mouth dry and throat tight. Mercifully, his poker skills paid off, and as more rounds were dealt and more drinks were passed around, Oscar found he was starting to actually enjoy himself. 

As it turned out; the drivers played poker the same way they raced. Max was precise, balls-y, and almost cruel as he called their bluffs. Charles played with grace which very quickly faded to exasperation as every hand he was dealt turned out to be the worst hand any one has ever played in poker. Alex had a terrible poker face, but knew the hands well enough that somehow he won with a few combinations that even Oscar hadn’t remembered. George, of course, got cranky when people outbid him, and accused everyone of cheating at least once. Oscar could literally see Carlos calculating the odds of cards, and he watched everyone too closely, able to sniff out who actually has a good hand, and who was just too proud to fold. And Lando, well Lando went big or went home every time. He might as well have been playing with his cards face out for all he could keep hidden, but his luck and charm worked well enough for him that he won back what he lost. 

Max, who won nearly every third round had, to Oscar’s relief, preyed mostly on Lando and Charles. They were simple truths, easy, and were usually about work. The first time Charles had asked Max a prying question about RB strategy, Oscar had raised an eyebrow, but Alex ensured him that they were all usually too hungover the next morning to remember anything important. 

It was a good way to blow off steam, Oscar realized, without the pressure of meeting PR expectations or being too worried about what a camera crew might overhear. Even the more personal questions: “Which tinder date are you sleeping with now, Lando?” and “Who is better to be fucked by, Charles; Max or Ferrari Pit wall?” earned laughs instead of uncomfortable silence. 

The familiarity and comfort between the other drivers opened an ache deep in Oscar’s ribcage. 

They made it look so easy, being rivals and friends, willing to let the others in, see their emotions without fear of judgment. He supposed that’s what friends were, people who you’d let see all your truths. Oscar had only ever been practiced, practical, and precise. There was no room to let people in, to let them see behind the mask- because they would eventually use it against him. 

Several drinks and many rounds of poker later, the DJ below has changed from the steady beat of house music to remixing 80’s classics until they sounded like The Killers. At some point, George wandered off to “get some water”, and Alex had given up playing and facetimed Lily instead, who apparently was in England for a golf thing. Oscar could hear snippets of their conversation over the music and loud cursing in French as Charles was dealt another terrible hand.

“Come on, Charles! This is ridiculous! How many twos are in this deck?” Charles thumped back into the couch and threw an arm over his face. “I fold.”

Lando finished his bet next to Oscar, and on the count of three, they flipped their cards. Max won, with a 3-pair and 2-jacks. Carlos cursed loudly in Spanish and sipped at his drink- a bright pink cosmo with three maraschino cherries- there had been four, but Lando had stolen one, and it had stained his fingerprint into his cards. 

Max turned to Oscar. “Okay yeah- Oscar,” his blue eyes glinted with something akin to mischief. “Of the last three McLaren drivers- Fuck, Marry, Fire?” 

Oscar blinked. He tried not to notice Lando’s head whip to Max, then to Oscar, then to Max again. Max just smiled, the picture of innocence. 

“Wait so-- Lando, Daniel, and Carlos?”

“This is not a fair question!” Carlos laughed, “Clearly I am no contest, no?” 

Oscar chuckled. “Yeah, marry Carlos, for sure.” Then he pretended to think, making a show of weighing his options. “And uh- maybe fuck Daniel?”

Lando made a pained noise as he gaped at Oscar and clutched a hand over his heart. Maybe, though it could have been the shoddy Whiskey and Gingers, Oscar thought he saw a flicker of genuine hurt flash in Lando’s eyes. 

“You’d fire me?” Lando whined loudly and indignantly enough that several of the rookies turned from where they’d sat to eat a pizza that someone had doordashed. “But I’m your mate!”

“Sorry teammate,” Oscar shrugged, he attempted to sound more apologetic and less sarcastic. It only sort of worked. “Them’s the brakes.”

Carlos laughed and patted Lando’s knee with a comforting hand. Oscar tried to feel guilty; maybe he’d gone too far. But a small, ugly part of him was glad, relieved even, to take a little strike back at Lando after a second frustrating team call in Hungary. 

They played four more rounds before Charles started making excuses and left to go to bed. He tried not to make it obvious, but Max left shortly after, and Oscar watched as he caught up to the Monégasque on the wharf before they both disappeared past the Quay. 

Oscar checked his phone for the first time in hours and it was much later than he’d thought, sunrise was maybe a few hours away. Not really wanting to make small talk, and the liquor making him too tired to bother feigning interest in listening to others make small talk, Oscar made his own excuses and left Lando and Carlos on the top deck.

Despite the yacht being moored at the wharf, it took Oscar several steps to shake off the sea-legs, which was definitely not helped by the alcohol. There was a 24 hour pizza and gelato place a few blocks from his flat, and headed that way. He could fuck up a calzone and besides, his meal plan was already shot. He could let himself go for one night. 

Oscar hadn’t gone more than a block from the waterfront when someone called his name. The music on the boat had been so loud that his eardrums felt muffled, it was the third time he heard his name called before he realised it was Lando. 

“Osc! Wait up!” Lando had his hoodie pulled up and sunglasses on despite it being dark out. “You walk really fast.” Lando panted when he finally caught up. 

“Sorry.” 

“Why the rush? Someone waiting for you at home?” Lando gave him a cheesy grin, one that Oscar knew had girls laughing at his jokes and giving him their number. The classic, handsome “Hey-I’m-Lando-Norris” smile. 

Oscar gestured at the small, barely lit pizza shop at the end of the street. “Pizza.” He said, like it explained everything. And honestly? It kind of did, and if Lando wanted to judge him for it- fine, but it wasn't going to stop Oscar from smothering his still-sore pride in cheese. 

“Oh fuck yeah, mate! That’s a brilliant idea.” Lando said it like Oscar had just hung the moon in the sky. Oscar reluctantly resolved himself to 10 more minutes of tolerating drunk Lando, and promised himself that he would avoid talking to another driver for the entire four weeks of summer break. 

They ordered in half English, half very bad French, and sat on the small wooden bench in front of the window while they waited. The shop was so small it barely fit the counter and the drink fridge, and the giant stone oven in the back could be seen through a space between a faded curtain that divided the counter from the kitchen. The scent of yeast and basil wafted through the air; it smelled heavenly, driving back the looming feeling of hanger.

Parties that were still raging against the early hours of the morning hummed from the harbour, and a group of tourists on a bachelorette trip passed the end of the street, laughing. But inside the pizza shop it was quiet, save for the lone cook in the back and the ticking clock above the register. 

“Hey Osc?” Lando had taken off his sunglasses, but closed his eyes against the ceiling lights. 

“Mhm.”

“Did you mean what you said? That you’d fire me?” Lando said it so baldly, like he already knew the answer and just wanted to hear Oscar say it again. 

It made Oscar pause, and, because he was maybe a bit of a drunk sap, he finally answered. “No.”

“Oh. Okay.” The relief in Lando’s voice cracked the cold fist around Oscar’s heart. The hurt in Lando’s eyes had been real then, he’d felt the sharp edge of those words Oscar had thrown at him, and Oscar kinda felt like a dick about it. Racing was a job- they were just doing their job. Maybe he shouldn’t have needed to take it so personally. Yes, they were race car drivers- competing was what they did, what they lived and breathed, but they were people too. They could compete on the race track, but outside of the car it meant nothing . 

So to make Lando feel better, but maybe also himself, Oscar said; “But I mean, can you blame me? Carlos and Daniel are pretty dreamy.”

A laugh bubbled its way out of Lando’s mouth. “Nah mate, you haven’t been their teammate. If you could smell their suits after a race you’d change your mind pretty quick.” 

Oscar couldn’t help the smile that crept up his face. 

“Hey Osc?”

“Mhm?” 

“Do you– Do you like me?” 

Oscar blinked. No. The answer was no, not really. They were teammates, each other’s worst rival and each other's biggest challenge. Oscar had never even considered Lando a friend. Colleague, yes. Acquaintance, yes. He trusted the Brit enough to not intentionally kill him if they crashed, but only because Oscar had little choice otherwise. They exchanged pleasant “Hey mate, how was your break?” and “Good times today.” and occasionally “Nice race.” and that was that. 

They did the PR that was asked of them. They shook hands and took pictures and did interviews. But friends? No, they were too similar and yet too different to even like each other, anything more would be downright fictional. Friends in this sport were dangerous. Either you ended like Lewis and Nico, or you suffered like Max and Charles, but in no way was there ever a happy-ending strategy that didn’t get fucked over by some’s ego, or a contract betrayal, or worse and more often, a disagreeable strategy call.

No, it was better if they didn’t like each other- didn’t seek each other out for company, didn’t share private jets and have inside jokes that weren’t also shared by the parasocial relationships of fans. It was better if they weren’t friends. Because if they were, Lando would care, and Oscar would have to let him, and the thought of being known by someone who could ruin him, truly break him in so many ways was terrifying. 

“Do you want to be friends, then?” Oscar offered instead, because it was easier, nicer, than saying else.

Lando looked at him then. His hazel eyes were bloodshot from the booze, and his five o’clock shadow made him look older than 25. Sometimes Oscar forgot that they were basically the same age. Sometimes Lando seemed like he was still leagues above Oscar, one of the legends along with Max and Charles and George now. He seemed to have so many more worldly experiences and fun stories and friends. Sometimes, when he was around Lando, Oscar still felt like a rookie: awkward and young and inexperienced. He hated it. 

“Yeah.” Lando said at last. Oscar held his gaze, couldn’t help notice something like hope reflecting in those hazel eyes. “It’ll be harder to hate you when you win the World Championship– if we’re friends.” 

Chapter Text

Oscar had three quiet, gloriously boring days alone in his flat before the first text came. 

He’d spent the first day nursing a hangover, though if Mark asked, he’d “turned off his phone for some time to unplug.” Mark didn’t need to know that Oscar had slept until 5pm, eaten the rest of his leftover calzone cold, then washed it down with a stray box of "protein" mac and cheese he’d found in the back of the cupboard. 

On the second day he went for a run. To not let himself go entirely, Oscar told himself. Not because Lando’s admission had been haunting him since their strangely intimate, impromptu pizza team-bonding moment. Definitely not because he’d, more than once, jolted awake from a dream where he’d been on the top step of the podium, Lando below him, looking at him with such hope and reverence and crushing self-loathing that the weight of his gaze had been more tangible than the dream-trophy Oscar was holding. 

Definitely not because he’d awoken in sweaty sheets, pulse thrumming in his neck, at 4am and had been unable to get back to sleep because every time he closed his eyes all he could see was Lando looking back at him. Like Oscar was everything Lando wanted to be. Like he was everything Lando wanted. 

No. Absolutely not because of any of that. 

Regardless of the cause, Oscar went for a run. Then did his usual circuit of exercises. Then sat in his building’s sauna trying to meditate in the steam- it was good preparation for the hotter races that were coming after the summer break.  

He tried to visualize the upcoming races; the Dutch track, Monza, or even Azerbaijan, the way Oscar liked to settle his racing thoughts in his body by tracing through each corner- breathing in time to the ebb and flow of the throttle. He tried, but instead, the only thing Oscar could hear over and over was his radio messages from Hungary. The lame excuses first from his engineer, then Andrea: “Your tire management is better.” “Lando needed to stop first to protect from George.” “We were expecting a free pit stop from rain.”

Oscar could feel his blood boiling. Lando, McLaren’s golden boy. Lando, whose passionate driving style outshone Oscar’s own rhythmic, calculated strategy. Lando, who “needed this win to secure his standing in the driver’s championship.” as the media had put it. 

Lando, who wore his heart on his sleeve. Lando, who, despite his struggles and missteps and rookie mistakes, got it all so easy. Lando, who had lady luck in his pocket like his own personal fairy god mother. Meanwhile, Oscar fought with tooth and nail and with steely resolve for every podium, every pole position, every point. Oscar hated his teammate. Hated that he took it all so personally. Hated that maybe he did actually want Lando’s validation as much as Lando seemingly wanted his. 

His rage scared him. Lately it had been consuming him; Chernobyl on the brink of melt-down.  Oscar was supposed to be the level-headed one. The well adjusted one. The ice to Lando’s fire. And yet here he was, smouldering and burning and melting. 

Oscar texted the concierge, asking for four bags of ice and vitamin water, please, to be brought up to his flat. He left the sauna before the timer was up and ran his tub as cold as it would go, then dumped in all four bags of ice. His skin was so hot that he could almost hear the steam hiss as he slid into the ice bath. He grit his teeth at the bite of the cold against the back of his thighs, the soft skin on his ribs, and he hoped, prayed, begged, that this would quench the inferno roaring inside him.

It only sort of worked. Oscar emerged from the ice bath chilled but brittle; a Prince Rupert’s drop that threatened to shatter if too much pressure was applied just right. 

On the third day, Oscar laid on the couch with his laptop propped up against his knees, absent-mindedly scrolling through the brand deal proposals that Mark sent regularly, each with a line of vague encouragement like “this could be fun” or “thoughts?” as the subject line. God, his manager was so old.  

Reruns of Criminal Minds played in the background, mostly washed out by the sounds of Monaco that breezed through the open windows in a desperate attempt to escape the humidity of the Mediterranean summer. You’d think for the price he was paying for this apartment air conditioning would have been included, but apparently that technological advancement had skipped Monaco.

Oscar’s phone buzzed; a Whatsapp notification lit up the screen. 

Max: Tennis at 2, we need another player. 

He read the text once, twice. Then typed back; No thanks mate, working on brand stuff. 

Max’s reply was instantaneous; I wasn’t asking. 

Oscar sighed and let his phone fall on his chest. He could refuse, lie and say he left his racket in Melbourne, or that he was lousy at tennis and would be more of a liability for his partner. But he knew that Max knew where he lived- it was Daniel’s old flat after all, the fellow Aussie leasing it to him while Daniel was out living his best life, far far away from the pressures of the racing world. If Oscar didn’t show up, Max would simply drag him there. What the Dutchman wanted, the Dutchman got. 

With a groan, Oscar stood and gathered his running shoes from where he’d flung them next to the door. Lando would probably be there, and maybe pelting him with tennis balls would shake off the lingering frustrations that clung like cobwebs to Oscar’s psyche.

Chapter Text

Tennis had turned out to be pleasantly enjoyable, and much to Oscar’s surprise, he and Charles beat Max and Lando twice before Max demanded they switch up the teams. He chose to ignore the pointed, annoyed look Lando gave Max when the Dutchman ordered them to pair up; Max was always itching for some drama for his own personal entertainment. 

So then it was Lando and Oscar against Max and Charles, and Lando was actually a decent partner. He didn’t hog the ball, didn’t make any particularly insulting teasing remarks. Despite the copious amounts of alcohol involved, it seemed like Lando had been genuine when he’d said he wanted them to be friends, and after a while Oscar found himself cracking smiles, laughing along to their jokes. Whatever tension that had existed between the two McLaren drivers a few days ago had dissipated, and when Charles invited (pleaded) him to join them again the following Tuesday, Oscar agreed. 

After that, Oscar’s usually quiet phone was abuzz. He’d been added to two separate group chats, labeled Sailing and Tennis. Alex had called him and invited him golfing, and despite Oscar’s overall dislike for the sport due to environmental impacts (nevermind the fact that he flew halfway across the world every week) and a rather old and sorry set of clubs that had been left behind by Daniel, he went. They’d initially agreed to not keep score, but in the end Lando won, Carlos came second, and Alex third. But Oscar didn’t mind losing, especially when the winner was buying drinks. 

The next week was a blur of far too much drinking, several more rounds of golf, tennis, thought that mostly was just playing fetch with Leo, and an entire afternoon on George’s other, smaller, yacht that resulted in a sunburn. 

Oscar tried to keep himself reserved, present but on the edge, hesitant to insert himself. But the others were welcoming, insisting even, that Oscar was involved in decisions and plans and several new inside jokes, including being named Leo’s godfather, much to Carlos’ dismay, and a juggling challenge that rivaled Taskmaster in absurdity and ended with several broken Heineken bottles and Lando’s face being crudely photoshopped over a clown.

Despite having been racing with these fellow drivers for three years, Oscar finally felt like they were less coworkers and, dare he say, actually friends. The jealousy, the rage, and the frustration that Oscar had felt towards his team, his teammate, and even himself, before the summer break faded more and more with each passing outing. 

He began to genuinely smile at Lando’s jokes as opposed to the carefully PR approved smirks. Oscar began to understand how Lando could be so open and carefree and happy despite the pressures they faced as Formula 1 drivers. The friends, the fun was giddy and exhilarating and addicting- it was a different rush compared to driving. 

Oscar started to think that maybe Lando wasn’t his worst enemy, wasn't always out to get him, wasn’t there to show him up or abuse his questionable but talented “not-second-driver” status. Perhaps, perhaps, Oscar had judged him too quickly, had clung on too tightly to the box that the fans had put him in as the unflappable, unfeeling, racing machine to Lando’s fluttery, charismatic, driver-that-drives-on-instinct-rather-than-statistics attitude. 

It was feeling like that, that was how Oscar ended up on Lando’s couch, eating Lando’s weird British import crisps and playing Mario Kart. 

It was another particularly hot and humid day, too hot to do much of anything besides seek shelter in a flat blessed with A/C. Oscar’s rented flat didn’t have any, because Daniel was a bit of a masochist, and when Max canceled last-minute on their private tour of the Car Collection of the Prince of Monaco, it made more sense to reschedule on a day that was less likely to melt Oscar’s balls to his leg than to go without him. Without much else to do at 11am in Monaco, Mario Kart at Lando’s seemed like the next best option. 

“No- Stop blue shelling me!” wailed Lando, as Oscar yet again, blue shelled him for the lead. 

Oscar grinned but didn’t relent. He had warned Lando of his vicious competitive streak, it wasn’t his fault if Lando didn’t believe him. “Better luck next time, mate.” 

Lando dropped his controller on the couch, stretched, and sighed. “You’re ruthless- honestly almost as bad as Max.” 

Oscar could pinpoint the second Lando’s exasperation turned to scheming: he bit his bottom lip when he was about to say something absolutely stupid, or suggest something that involved a strong possibility of getting them arrested. Lando stood and nearly leapt to the fridge. 

“Queue up another race, Osc.” Lando said when he caught the wary curiosity on Oscar’s face. “I have an idea.”

“Please tell me it doesn't involve whip cream.” Oscar half joked, half pleaded. He shivered at the memory from a few nights ago when Alex had suggested they try some tiktok trend that lead to, somehow, all of them covered in sticky whipped cream residue and sand. But Oscar did as he was told, and queued up another round while he waited for Lando to return. 

Lando came back with a six pack of beer. Oscar raised an eyebrow. 

“You’re too good at this, I need you incapacitated so that I can win back at least some of my dignity.” Lando handed him a cold beer, condensation already dripping. “We’re playing Drink or Drive.” 

“What?” 

“Drink or Drive, mate.” Lando carefully built his character’s car. “You can drink or you can drive, but you can’t do both. And-” he added with an evil grin, “If your drink isn’t finished by the end of the race, you have to take something off.”

Oscar leveled his best don’t-be-stupid look at his teammate. When Lando didn’t budge, he realized Lando was serious. “I’m not doing that. I’m not playing strip Mario Kart with you.”

Lando’s grin only widened, an echo of something wolfish bloomed on his face. “Better drink up, then, Osc.” And he hit the start button. 

*** 

The main problem wasn’t that their driving skills got worse the more they drank, it was that Lando had purchased the world’s shittiest beer, and it was awful to drink. Oscar, who didn’t even like beer, was pretty sure that Pinesol and Vegemite would taste better. However, he’d developed a strategy pretty quickly- drive a lap, drink. If he fell off the course, drink. If Lando got blue shelled- which happened frequently- drink. 

Six races later, Oscar had only lost his shirt (he hadn’t been wearing socks to begin with, which he felt set him back unfairly). Meanwhile, Lando had lost both socks, his shirt, and was pretty damn close to also losing his shorts. They’d drunk through the nasty beer, and had started on a case of Belgian beer that Lando said Max had brought back for him to “make his pallet less that of a child.” It was only slightly better. 

“Ha! Get fucked, mate!” Oscar crossed the finish line and slammed his remote down. Lando had fallen off the track half a lap ago and had been unable to catch up as Oscar had breezed past him into first place, again. 

“Are you sure about that?” Lando’s question stopped Oscar’s celebration in its tracks.

“Uh, yeah, why?” 

Lando jerked his chin at the half full bottle of beer between them on the table. Oscar’s beer. Oscar looked at the pile of empties at his feet, counted who’s had been who’s. “No, no no no…”

It had been Lando’s beer that he’d finished. Not his own, Lando’s. Which meant not only did he have to chug another mostly full, warm beer but- 

“I’m not taking my short’s off.” Oscar fought to keep his voice cool, calm. Level. Never mind the flush that had started to crawl up his neck. “I finished a beer- it should count!” 

“You finished my beer. And it was nearly empty, mate.” Lando leaned in, punctuating his words with a poke to Oscar’s pec. “Take off your shorts.” 

“No.” 

Oscar wasn’t sure why he was embarrassed. Lando had seen him shirtless numerous times. It came with sharing a physio room at the tracks. Hell, they’d been swimming multiple times in the last few days. So why were his boxer shorts any different than swim trunks, other than being, you know, a tad bit tighter? 

Sure, Oscar was the regular amount of self conscious over his admittedly very pale thighs. But it’d been a long long time since he’d been this kind of mostly naked with anyone, nevermind drunk and alone, with nothing between them but a foot of leather couch. There was a dangerous heat spreading like wildfire across his skin. Maybe it had been too long, if it was getting him this worked up. 

Did he trust Lando enough to be this vulnerable with him? Something low in Oscar’s gut twisted, his stomach full of butterflies. But he clamped it down down down-. The worry that he was making it weird scared him more; Lando would definitely find some way to hold it over him. 

“Hey, if you’re too much of a sore loser…” Lando shrugged. “We can just say I win.” 

A spark of anger and stubbornness at those words cleared the beer induced fog, that tantalising, itching want. He watched Lando’s face, the quirk of his mouth, the casual flick of his eyes. Lando knew just how competitive, how proud Oscar was, he knew he could get Oscar to cave because calling him a cheat would be worse than losing. 

“Fine.” Oscar stood and before he could think better of it, stripped off his gym shorts and tossed them onto the slowly growing pile of clothes next to the tv. Oscar sat back down with a huff. He didn't want to see Lando's gloating face, facing Lando meant that knew he would go over that edge and then there would be no coming back from this. “Happy now?” 

When Lando remained silent, Oscar snuck a wary, abashed glance at him; the silence too much to ignore, even for Oscar’s ironclad pride. 

Lando was watching him from under lazy, half-lidded eyes, his hazel eyes dark and cloudy with an emotion that Oscar couldn’t, wouldn’t name. Oscar’s pulse thundered in his ears, his swallow too loud. Lando just studied him, pinned Oscar to the couch with his gaze. 

At long last his teammate turned back to the TV and Oscar felt the absence of his gaze like a bucket of ice water had been thrown on him. Oscar was flayed open, but Lando was the picture of nonchalance, like he hadn’t just finished undressing him with his eyes. He was all easy posture, head loose, mouth moving, saying something that Oscar couldn’t hear. 

No, all Oscar could focus on was Lando’s white knuckles on his remote. How his pulse fluttered against the thin skin of his throat. The blush that had turned Lando’s ears crimson under the edges of his curly mop of hair. 

Oscar opened another beer and drank. They didn’t need to unpack all that, it was best to just throw the whole suitcase out and pretend it never happened. It didn’t mean anything, it was just a game, right? 

***

They played another three rounds. Both of them successfully finished their own beers; there was no more madness of losing articles of clothing. 

When the afternoon sun started to cast long shadows, Oscar ordered take out, and when he returned with it, Lando was on the phone. “George,” Lando mouthed at him. 

“Yeah, yeah sounds good. Cool cool, see you then.” The call ended and Lando turned to Oscar. “Carte Blanche, at 11. You in?” 

“Cool. Yeah.” 

They ate their take out in silence. Lando was quieter, more subdued than usual while they dressed for the club, but Oscar didn’t push it, he was happy to lay the blame on the stupid amount of beer they had consumed, not for any other reason. Lando all but insisted that they might as well just get ready to go together, since Lando’s flat was closer and it would take too long for Oscar to run home and change. Lando handed him a towel and a clean shirt because Oscar’s own was still sweaty from the walk over earlier that day. 

So Oscar showered in Lando’s shower, and wore Lando’s shirt. It smelled like him, a hint of aftershave and something fruity, and was just a touch tight across Oscar’s broader chest. 

When he asked for a toothbrush, Lando pulled out a large bin of individually packaged toothbrushes. “Take your pick.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow at the absurd number of toothbrushes. He could only imagine why anyone- but especially Lando- would have so many.

“They’re for-” Lando gestured with his free hand, at an unusual loss for words. Oscar watched as the crimson blush slowly reappeared across the tips of Lando’s ears. “Emergencies.” 

“Mhm.” 

“Shut up, Piastri.” 

Chapter Text

They arrived at Carte Blanche late, because Lando had taken about a century to restyle his curls that had gone frizzy in the humidity. “Preening for tonight’s… emergency?” Oscar teased. Lando had said nothing, just flipped him off in the mirror. It didn’t matter what time they got there though, because they were some of the first of the drivers to arrive anyway. 

There were significantly more people than the last time that they’d been on the yacht. “Jesus, George must have called all of Monaco.” Lando shouted over the DJ. Oscar just nodded in agreement. 

The line at the bar was long, yet when the bartender spotted the McLaren drivers in line she smiled, pressed a drink into each of their hands- a tequila soda for Lando, and a whiskey for Oscar, and waved them away. It was the perk, Oscar supposed, of regularly going clubbing on your rich coworker’s private yacht. 

By the time Max and Charles found them on the upper deck, the bottom deck had disappeared under a sea of moving bodies. Carlos was already down there, as was Franco. Oscar barely had a moment to say hello to the Ferrari driver before Lando was dragging him away to join his old teammate on the dance floor. 

“You are not going to dance?” Max asked, leaning his elbows on the railing. 

As much as Oscar loved music, he was a shit dancer. “Nah mate, not my scene.” 

“No, I do not enjoy it either.” Max gestured with his drink to the pulsing throng below. “But if they ask, I would do it for them, yeah?” 

Oscar made a non-committal noise, but felt Max’s not-question hit home. Maybe he would dance, if someone asked. He’d taken off his shorts earlier at Lando’s request, although really the correlation between the two is foggy at best. Why had that been the thought that came to mind first? How Lando had given him an order like a dog and Oscar had loyally obeyed. 

The familiar warmth of blush creeping up his neck made Oscar take a long sip of his drink, and he hoped it was dark enough that the Red Bull driver standing next to him didn’t notice, or if he did notice, would think it was just the sticky mid-summer heat. 

Oscar watched as Lando moved on the dance floor, all carefree, dancing and happy. The thought barrels through him that maybe he would do a lot more than dance too, if someone asked. 

“You know,” Max said over the drone of the base, totally changing the subject, “Lando is his own worst enemy, sometimes.” 

“I, uh- what?” Oscar blinked, a bit stunned. The thought of another body dancing against his was making blood rush to places it hadn’t been in a while. 

“Yeah, he gets in his own way. Gets in his own head about things.” Max shakes his head. “Yeah, it is sad. He could be World Champion, but he thinks he does not deserve it as much as others.”  

Oscar was shocked and dumbfounded. He knew that Lando struggled with confidence, especially after a unlucky streak- but they all did. It was the nature of the sport. If you had a bad result, then you needed to try to do better next time. Wasn’t that what all of their Instagram captions said?  Though to Oscar, there wasn’t room in F1 for luck or “deserved results”, only what was earned through effort. 

But he didn’t say any of that, and instead, somewhat stupidly, said;  “But he’s Lando Norris, he’s McLaren’s pride and joy?” 

Oscar could tell Max was trying not to roll his eyes, as if Oscar was intentionally missing the point, but for once, Max was being too polite to say so. And Oscar’s confusion gave way to hot frustration; Lando’s opinion of himself didn’t matter, not when the team had clearly already decided for him, whether they say it publicly or not. Lando was World Champion material, and eventually they’d call in the favour that Oscar owed them, to step aside and let Lando through, to play the team orders. He was just waiting for that other shoe to drop.

Oscar wanted to scream that Lando will be World Champion because he had already convinced the world he was, and that mattered more than showing that he could be. This sport was vain and too focused on image; in the end, no one really cared about effort when it was all about appearances, about the result. 

But Max already knew all of that - had known it for a long time, had played that game too, so Oscar said nothing, biting his cheek until he tasted the coppery tang of blood. 

With nothing else to say, the two drivers stood in silence as the yacht party hummed around them. Charles, Carlos, and Lando were just heads and hands in the crowd below as they swayed and twisted to the beat. Franco was nowhere to be seen, though George had finally shown up despite it being his party and how it was well past midnight. 

Max finished his drink and patted Oscar on the shoulder, leaning to say over the music, “I think you should go find someone to dance with, yeah?” 

Oscar turned to say something, maybe to apologize for getting cranky and hot-headed, because it was extremely unlike him to become so visually undone- though in the last year it’d become more of a regular occurrence. But Max was already gone, swallowed by the crowd. 

Oscar played Max’s words over again, and knew in his gut that Max was right. There was too much adrenaline pumping through him, too many thoughts moving too fast. He needed to burn it off or he might explode. The idea of dancing with Lando and Charles right now put his teeth on edge, because just for one single night, he needed to not be Oscar-the-Formula-1-driver, but just Oscar, a VIP guest of the host with the power to get free drinks. 

And so with liquid courage in his veins clouding his better judgement, he found another group at the bar to take his mind off the churning emotions and make small talk with; two men who were clearly a couple, and their friend, a young woman who had just left an awful relationship and was “looking for some fun”, the man with thick rimmed glasses said, perhaps not-so-subtly. 

Oscar was happy to oblige, and it made it easier that she was his type, though she would probably be anyone’s type. Her accent was vaguely Nordic, her hair long and dark as she tucked it nervously behind her ear when Oscar leaned in to make a joke. Maybe any other time he would feel creepy about looking her up and down, eyes lingering on the curves of her tits and ass, if she wasn’t so clearly enjoying his attention. Oscar ordered them all another round, then one more for just the two of them once her friends left her with a wink. 

Oscar didn’t protest when the woman suggested they go somewhere quieter to talk, and they walked the waterfront all the way back to her hotel. Oscar also didn’t protest when she invited him up to her room for another drink. 

They didn’t make it to the pouring-the-drinks-for-appearances part. 

***

Her lips were on Oscar the second she closed the hotel room door, and she pulled him into her by the hips, fingers looped into his waistband. Her hands are twinned in his hair and slide down his chest. She sighed as Oscar pawed up under her shirt and traced slow, lazy circles on her breast, feeling how her nipples hardened under his palm. She wasn't wearing a bra, and Oscar was willing to bet she also wasn’t wearing much in the way of underwear either, judging by her very, very tight skirt. 

They hadn’t even made it to the bed yet, and Oscar was already painfully hard. His cock felt hot and heavy between them, and the friction from the slide of the girl's hips as she ground against his shorts threatened to undo him right then and there. It was embarrassing, the groan he made when she reached down and gripped him through his shorts. 

God, how long has it been since he’s gotten laid? At least since before pre-season testing, if not longer. He needed this, he reasoned with himself, wanted it. 

The girl pulled away and Oscar nipped at her lip, desperate to reel her back in, but she moved down to his neck instead. Then lower, to the hot skin just above his collar. Oscar used the hand that was on her hips to cup her ass, grip firm, finger kneading at the flesh. Her little moan reverbed against his chest, and Oscar took that as encouragement to abandon her breasts and slip his hand down under her skirt’s waistband. 

He let out a hiss when Oscar realised he was right about her lack of any real underwear, and he slid his hand further between her legs, right for her clit. She bucked into him, this time fully moaning into his ear. It might have been a bit performative, but it was working for Oscar; the idea that he was the one drawing those sounds out of her. He was vaguely aware that it's late, and that the neighbours could likely hear them, but he didn't really care. It’s not his fault that Monaco was full of shitty old buildings with piss-poor sound insulation.

Oscar made the same slow, lazy circles on her clit, savoured each gasp and twitch of her hips as she clung to him. She was so wet, the tiny scrap of fabric that passed for a thong soaked through, and the sick thought that he should get to keep it as a prize, as proof that he can do this, make someone feel this good, is more tempting than Oscar would like it to be. Maybe he could find room to put it next to his podium trophies. She was panting against his chest now, her pretty painted nails dug into his shoulders. It felt so nice to have someone clutching at him, needing him like this.

His dick was so hard it had started to hurt, and all he wanted now was to feel her around him so badly that he didn’t care if it was her mouth or her cunt. Maybe both, lay back on the bed and watch her swallow him whole until her eyes are blown wide with desire, then have her ride him for all he’s worth, watch as her tits bounce and hear how she moans.

“Can I fuck y--” Is about all Oscar managed to murmur into her neck before she was pulling him into the hotel suite’s bedroom, pushing him down onto the plush bed. One of the bedside lamps had been left on, casting a warm glow that made her dark hair shine like ink against Oscar's pale skin. She wasted no time pulling down his shorts, bringing his boxers with them, his dick sprang back hard against the plane of his stomach and Oscar greedily watched as she reached for it. Her fingers were firm but gentle as she traced an invisible line down the underside of his cock to his balls. 

This wasn’t usually Oscar’s thing, this. He didn’t like to give up control. Being laid out like this, light teasing with gentle touches, being savoured, it’s not what he’d grown used to. His own grip was always tight and fast when he perfunctorily jerks off to get to sleep faster or when he needs to relieve the lingering post-race tension. 

But God, it felt so so nice to give into high that was building in the base of his spine- 

It should be perfect, but then she looked up at him through her long lashes, and it takes everything for Oscar not to flinch. Suddenly, there was no longer a beautiful woman with long dark hair smiling over his cock, but Lando, watching him with the same expression as when Oscar had stripped down to his boxers earlier. How the fuck had Oscar not noticed on the yacht? Those same hazel eyes, the same long lashes, the same full bottom lip. 

Then all Oscar can think about is Lando, how he was probably doing the exact same thing as Oscar, an equally pretty, nameless girl brought back to his flat. He could see it all so clearly: Lando’s hands in her hair as she blew him on the leather couch, how he looked under her as she rode him, his face flushed and eyes foggy with desire. How Lando would make her call out his name as she came around his cock. How it was probably great sex, nothing groundbreaking, but good enough that Lando will invite her to stay the night, offer her one of his stupid, individually packaged toothbrushes with that charming, crooked smile. In the morning she’d go home, tell her friends about how she fucked an F1 driver; it’ll be a nice anecdote over brunch and bottomless mimosas. 

Oscar reassured himself that the jealousy he felt, the jealousy that somehow made his cock impossibly harder, was because Lando likely was better at sex than him. Not for any other reason.  

He tried, but failed, to imagine literally anything other than Lando as his nameless hookup took his dick into her mouth. He tried to enjoy the feeling of her soft lips around his head as she sucks him off, tried not to feel bad when he pulled her up with urgency and bent her over the mattress so that he didn’t have to see those hazel eyes staring up at him, tried not to feel bad as fucked her hard until she came not once, but twice on his cock, before he does. Because Oscar was a gentleman. If gentlemen thought about their rival-teammate-friend during sex. 

It’s so totally normal for a gentleman to be relieved when the girl he’s fucking bites on the pillow so he doesn’t see her face, isn’t reminded of how similar she looks to the man he couldn’t stop thinking about.

Oscar tried not to imagine how Lando looked freshly fucked, his curly hair a mess from some girl gripping it as he ate her out. But that was the image that seny him over the edge, making him come, somewhat pathetically, over the girl’s cute ass, red from where his hips had been pounding against her. 

The girl, sated with her swollen lips and mussed hair, gave Oscar a shy, but sultry smile that suggested “round two?” when she got up to go to the bathroom. 

But by the time she came back out, Oscar was already gone.

A heady cocktail of remorse, shame, and disgust chased Oscar’s heels as he walked home through the dark streets of Monaco back to his apartment. He didn’t bother to turn a light on or shower, just climbed into bed and shut his eyes tight, like that’s all it might take to stop the onslaught of visions of Lando watching him like Oscar was some random, generically pretty, nameless girl, his hazel eyes burning with desire.

***

Oscar was falling, the bed shook under him. Where he was totally forgotten as he panic-lurched to sitting upright, thinking that he was about to succumb to an earthquake. He didn’t even know Monaco had earthquakes, and now that’s how he was going to die.

But no, it was just his phone buzzing under his pillow. 

The brightness setting felt like sandpaper against his eyes as Oscar unlocked it to check what all the fuss was about. Five missed calls, twelve unread messages. His lips sting, and his mouth is dry. He rubbed a hand over his face. Fuck, he felt like shit. 

There was one call from Mark, which he dismissed immediately; three from Lando, and one from Max. Oscar doesn't feel bothered to check if any of them left a voicemail. 

His text messages, though, drive a spike of anxiety through him so deep that maybe it would just be easier to throw the whole damn phone into the harbour rather than answer them. 

Oscar chose to respond to the texts from his mom first, feeling like a bad son that he hadn’t returned them yesterday. 

Yesterday. Strip Mario Kart with Lando. The yacht party. That girl who he didn’t even bother to ask what her name was before he fucked her and dipped. Fucked her, while thinking about Lando. His stomach lurched with the oil-slick feeling of guilt. Oscar thinks he might be sick-

No, he actually was going to be sick, and he barely managed to make it to the toilet before the alcohol burned its way back up his throat. Oscar heaved until there wasn’t anything left and his abs were cramping, and then laid there with his throbbing forehead against the cool porcelain, overall feeling rather pathetic. 

When at last he was pretty sure he would be able to open his eyes again without the room spinning, Oscar thumbed through the rest of his texts. 

Max: Where are you? Hello??

Lando: hey where did u go

Lando: hey osc call me back

Lando: max is going to be pissed if you skip tennis

Lando: don’t say i didn’t warn u

Lando: are you okay?

Oscar cringed, wanting to crawl into his bed and maybe die, but the text that instead brought him to his feet was from Charles, sent 27 minutes ago: I’m outside your door. 

Slowly, each step like wading through molasses, Oscar staggered his way to his front door. Charles’ Monégasque princehood must have wooed the concierge into giving him Oscar’s flat number. He didn’t really expect to open the door to Charles, but evidently Lady Luck had a sense of humour, and Oscar opened the door to find the Ferrari driver sitting on the floor next to his tennis bag, carefully braiding Leo’s ear fur. 

If Charles is at all shocked by Oscar’s current state, it didn't show. “I convinced Max to not hunt you down and string you up with the tennis net,” he offered by way of greeting. Oscar said nothing, only leaned a little heavier into the door frame. 

Clearly finding whatever acknowledgement he needed, Charles continued. “Lando said you left this at his place, I offered to return it.” From the tennis bag, he produced Oscar’s forgotten shirt, neatly folded. 

“Oh, yeah.” Christ, Oscar sounded like shit too. He cleared his sore throat, “Thanks, mate.” 

Oscar is happy to take his shirt and run, happy to close the door and end this painful interaction there, when Charles spoke again, “It is not good to fight with teammates over summer break.” 

“We’re not fighting.” Oscar tried to rally some semblance of bite into his words, but instead they came out sounding shaky and weird.

“You should forgive him, about Hungary.” When Oscar doesn’t respond, Charles followed with, “I think he is trying to make it better, Lando. He wants you to forgive him.”

“Fuck what Lando wants.” His temper rose so quickly that Oscar’s hangover immediately disappeared, the alcohol vapourised from his bloodstream with the heat of anger. “It’s always about what Lando wants! What about what I want? Has anyone considered that?” 

Leo barked at the sudden outburst, but Charles didn't so much as flinch. Instead, he just pinned Oscar with those sad green eyes- a look he usually only reserves for dashed hopes and broken dreams, and asked him with a gentle softness, “What do you want, Oscar?” 

Oscar opened his mouth to retort with some witty, mean comeback, but no sound appeared. The two drivers stood in silence long enough that eventually Charles turned and left, disappearing quietly down the carpeted hallway, leaving Oscar to face the truth alone. He’d pushed it all down for so long, did he even know what he wanted anymore?

Chapter Text

It rained basically the next week straight, which gave Oscar a perfectly valid excuse to alternate between napping and watching Top Gear highlight reels, with the occasional trip to the door to pick up food deliveries. He really needed to go get some groceries. Eventually, he felt bad enough for his gut and made a smoothie with some freezer burnt mango, likely expired yogurt, and half a bag of wilted spinach. 

None of it, however, managed to soothe the insistent ache that had formed deep in his chest. 

Somehow, Oscar marvelled, he’d managed to totally fuck up his fitness plan, his newly minted friendships, and his own concept of self all within the first 2 weeks of summer break. Truly, it was impressive, maybe even rivalled the possibility of a Williams podium this year, for sheer unbelievability. 

The one thing that would be the cherry on top of Oscar’s self-inflicted pity party from hell would be a Lando-shaped tank barging through his front door. 

If Lady Luck had a sense of humour, then Fate was the final judge, jury, and executioner of Oscar’s pride. 

Because just as Oscar was about to load up the next season of Top Gear, his phone rang, an urgent call blaring through his do-not-disturb setting. He didn’t bother to check who was calling before sending it to voicemail.

Less than a minute later, his phone rang again. Before Oscar could decline it a second time, the contact ID flashes across the screen: Lando Norris (McLaren). 

His thumb moved on its own accord, and Oscar answered the call.

Lando’s voice immediately came through the speakers. “Hey, Osc! Can you come let me in? Your concierge won’t buzz me up.” 

“Wha- why are you in my building?” 

But Lando was already gone, the phone line going dead in Oscar’s ear. Grouchy and grumbling, Oscar staggered to his feet. He knew full well that if he didn’t at least go down to the lobby, Lando would simply try to seduce the concierge into letting him in. And while that might be entertaining to watch, it was not a service Oscar wanted to have to pay for. 

When he got down to the foyer, Lando was standing in a literal puddle of water, curly hair plastered across his forehead, dripping into his eyes and onto a paper bag that surely should have dissolved by now. Oscar’s gut tightened at the unabashed smile that bloomed on Lando’s face the second he spotted him. The concierge, none too subtly, dug through the broom closet for a mop to go with the bucket that already sits next to the door. 

“Did you swim here?” Oscar raised an eyebrow. 

Lando gave a flippant wave to the concierge, who returned it with a scowl, and breezed past Oscar, leaving him little choice but to hold the door open for him. “Mate, when will you learn that I’m full of surprises?” 

*** 

Oscar sat at the breakfast counter, amazed at the dry clothes Lando produced from his backpack, though he did lend him a towel for his hair, which has already begun to return to a shaggy state despite them only being off work for a few weeks. 

“Okay,” he said, watching as Lando rummaged around in his kitchen cupboards. “Lando. Why are you here?” 

“I’m making you breakfast, well, brunch I guess,” Lando responded, pulling out a bag of flour that Oscar didn’t know he had. “Because-- don’t give me that look-- you look like you need something other than carbs to eat.” He gestured to the small pile of take out boxes that made Oscar’s garbage can look eerily similar to the Leaning Tower of Pisa. “Mate, when was the last time you had a vegetable?” 

“I can stick to my meal plans, Lando. I’m not a child.” 

“No,” Lando’s voice was cool, and Oscar quickly realised that Lando’s flippancy was all a facade to hide his worry, and that he was pissed, at him. “You just disappear from a yacht party, don’t return my texts or calls for days, and then act all indignant when I’m understandably concerned that maybe you, oh, I don’t know, fell off the pier and drowned.” 

Oscar can only stare at Lando over the counter. T thick, heavy silence laid between them, like the threat of a thundershower, quietly poised, save for the sizzling of bacon on the stove. 

Something in Lando’s face softened microscopically, apologetically, at the outburst, “So where did you go, then?” 

Oh god. Fuck. How the actual hell was Oscar supposed to admit to Lando that he’d left, angry-fucked some random girl because Max had pushed his buttons, and then came picturing Lando’s face? It’s not like Oscar can casually say exactly that, because they’re kind of, sort of, maybe friends and that sentence would really complicate things. 

Instead, Oscar just shrugged, “I had an…  emergency.” His fingers crossed that Lando wouldn’t pick up on his meaning. 

Except the bastard does, immediately. Oscar watched the recognition flash across Lando’s face at the same line he’d used on Oscar days prior. Oscar braced himself for teasing, some quippy, inappropriate remark about how it must have been really fucking good sex if it caused Oscar to see God and go full silence-of-the-monks for nearly a week straight. 

But “Oh,” was all Lando replied. His entire demeanour darkened, and a muscle feathered in his jaw, struggling to bite back the words he clearly wanted to say. 

“What, no witty Lando Norris comeback?” 

Lando’s gaze carefully avoided Oscar’s face as he measured out milk into a cup, dumped it into the bowl on the counter, and whisked it, vigorously. “Happy for you, mate.” 

Oscar rolled his eyes, because only Lando would be jealous that his teammate got laid and didn’t immediately call him to share all the dirty details- why else would Lando care? Lando, who had a laundry list a mile long. Lando, who could get a houseplant to drop its panties with a smile. Lando, with his giant collection of toothbrushes that he gives out like orgasm participation trophies. 

 “Oh, like you didn’t also do the exact same thing.” Oscar knew it was a leading statement. He also knew that if he applied enough pressure, Lando would cave, or slip up, and give him something to work with; it wasn’t like Lando to clam up, not when he basically never shut up about anything. Oscar be damned if Lando was now the only one who was allowed to push into someone’s personal life. 

Lando made a face, but stayed silent. 

“Was it a bet or something, did I make you lose money? Is that why you’re being moody about hearing I fucked some girl?”

“Oscar.”

Oh, Oscar knew that he had him now. “If you wanted to compete over who can get more, you should have just said.” Oscar brushed a crumb off the counter, the serpentine feeling of victory coiling under his skin. "I could have saved you the trouble and told you at the start that I would win.” 

It was cocky and bold and maybe a bit of a lie, but Lando should have known better by now; to never count Oscar out where a competition was involved. It wasn’t Oscar’s fault if his teammate had already slept through all of his options in Monaco before the season started and was the cause of his own dry spell.

“No.”  Lando’s knuckles had gone white over the spatula, voice thin and taut. “Please don’t–”

“Sore loser, Norris?” 

That line that Lando had used on Oscar apparently also worked on himself too, and Lando exploded.

“Fuck off-- Just. Fuck. Fuck off!” Lando’s face was red, his breath sawed out of him in harsh, rasping breaths. Oscar had rarely seen Lando actually mad in the three years he’d known him, maybe only ever once, actually, now that he thought about it. 

Too far. Oscar had pushed him too far, too hard, too fast. He knew the right thing was to apologize because this wasn’t the fun teasing he’d meant it to be anymore, clearly he’d hit a nerve, and now he needed to make it right before either of them said something they couldn’t take back.

 “Lando-” Oscar started, trying to find the right words. 

“Goddammit Oscar, are you so dense that I have to spell it out for you? Clearly I do, since you can’t take a fucking hint if it looked you in the dick.” At the blank look on Oscar’s face, Lando hissed, “You went home with some rando and I hoped it was going to be me!” 

All of the breath left his body in a whoosh and Lando sagged, hands braced on the counter like they were the only thing keeping him upright. 

Once, a long time ago, Oscar had gone bungee jumping. It had been a graduation present when he finished year 8 with straight As. He had been giddy with excitement, his whole body had hummed with adrenaline the entire time the guide had harnessed him in while giving him the safety talk. If he hadn’t been strapped in, Oscar might have vibrated right off the platform.

Like most things that you do at thirteen, the reality of what was actually happening didn’t hit until it was too late to back out; that moment when Oscar had hovered in the air, having just leaped off the platform. Everything around him had slowed, the ground impossibly far below as his brain caught up to his body and realized he was about to plummet 100 feet straight down.

Then gravity took over, his ears bottomed out and the air ripped from his lungs before he could even scream as he started to free fall. 

That was how he felt now, with Lando’s words hanging between them like someone had thought they’d make a nice wall hanging and pinned them in place with thumbtacks. Oscar’s ears were ringing and he realised that in all those intimate looks and charged moments that Lando felt it too--

The world slammed back into focus, and that wasn’t actually his ears that were ringing, but the smoke detector wailing at the hazy plume that now spewed from the stove. The fucking bacon was burning. 

Whatever spell that had frozen them in place broke, and both McLaren drivers moved quickly, their honed reflexes a boon. Lando threw the pan thing into the sink and turned the faucet on full blast. Burnt bacon grease and steam went flying; problem was half sorted, but if they didn’t disable the alarm soon, then the entire bloody building’s sprinkler system was going to go off. 

They needed to open a window, they needed to clear the smoke out. Oscar scrambled to find a dish towel, or a sheet tray, or something (had Lando used every fucking kitchen implement he could find?) but Oscar came up empty-handed, and the smoke still clouded the kitchen.

“Oh Jesus Christ--” In a last ditch attempt, Oscar leapt up on the counter, pulled his shirt over his head, and with an effort that would put the track stewards to shame, used the t-shirt to clear the smoke away. In Oscar’s periphery, he saw that Lando had had the same thought, and was next to him, doing the same thing. 

Finally, the haze in the kitchen started to fade, and the wailing alarm ceased. Oscar’s shoulders cried in relief when he finally dropped his shirt. The air tastes like singed pork, smoke, and burning truths. 

On top of the counter, the two men slowly turned to face each other. They were basically chest to chest- barely a hand’s width apart. From this distance, Oscar could make out each little detail of every scar on Lando’s nose. Lando’s eyes were wide, and a little wild. Oscar watched his pulse hammer in his throat from the adrenaline, saw the shallow, rapid breaths that made his bare tan chest heave. 

“I’m sorry.” Oscar’s voice came out raw and strangled, barely above a whisper. 

Lando shuttered. “I- I thought it would go away– or Jesus, maybe be easier if you looked at me like we were friends and not like a challenge that you weren’t sure if you could be bothered with, or someone you wanted to beat into the dirt.” 

“I didn’t know–” Oscar swallowed, “I didn’t know you felt that way.”

Lando’s face was a symphony of heartache and despair. He managed a flat laugh, “Obviously not.” 

The hope that Oscar had maybe felt the same way, was dying in Lando’s eyes, and the sight was a knife straight to Oscar’s heart. God, those stupid eyes, already Oscar’s downfall, were going to be his ruin. 

It had been easier to hate him, Oscar realised, and the thought twisted the blade in his chest. It had been easier to just take the coward’s way out and resent him, keep him at arms length, and pretend that Lando wasn’t everything that Oscar wanted for himself. Wasn’t everything that Oscar wanted, period.  

Oscar had been called many things: cold, unfeeling, mechanical, clinical. The media painted him as being driven by perfect, polished racecraft. For so long there had been no room for emotion, for want, not in the role that he had to play at McLaren. But Oscar wanted anyway-- that was his drive, that was the fuel he burned. He can feel it still, even now. For so long, he’d distantly wanted so many things, wanted so much. All that burning desire had turned him into a forest of dry kindling, nothing but timber waiting for a stray spark, to finish him off. Or, maybe, finally, let him loose.  

Lando was so still in front of him, rooted in place, unable to step away, the tension between them wound too tight. It crackled like an electric fence, like a live wire ready to burn it all down. 

If Oscar was tinder, then Lando was flame. And Oscar wanted to burn with him, wanted to reach out, touch him and–

And for some fucking reason, they were still standing on top of his kitchen counter. Which was an extremely inconvenient spot for any of the things that Oscar needed to do in the next ten minutes, so help him God.

“Can we– We need to get down,” Oscar crouched and maneuvered his way back onto solid ground. Lando hesitated, and Oscar offered up a hand for stability when he finally began to climb down. The warmth of Lando’s hand in his, the contrast of colours where their skin met, pale and tan, the size difference. All of it made Oscar’s throat go a bit tight. 

“Thanks, mate,” Lando said automatically when his feet hit the wood floor.   

Oscar didn’t give them the chance to step away because if they did, someone would freak out. He didn’t let himself think, just moved, and with hands on either side of Lando’s narrow hips, Oscar cornered Lando between himself and the counter. 

“Lando.” His heart was absolutely pounding in his chest, and though Oscar’s voice was calm and even, he wasn’t sure he could find the right words to convey what he needed, wanted to say. Lando stayed silent and still, just watched him, his cheeks still flushed and hair a mess from jumping around to get the alarm to stop its screeching. 

Unconcealed panic was making Lando’s breath hitch and his shoulders twitch as he searched for some indication of how Oscar was going to react to all of this, at their close proximity. Though poised like a deer about to bolt, there was an unmistakable heat in his gaze too, a pleading, wanting edge to his mosaic eyes. 

Standing like this, Oscar had a good couple of inches on Lando. Each inch felt like a mile as he leaned down and slowly pressed his mouth against Lando’s fluttering pulse, right on the tan skin of his strong neck. He could feel the muscles working in his jaw, opening and closing, like Lando wanted to say something but kept thinking better of it. When Oscar parted his lips and gently grazed the delicate skin with his teeth, Lando inhaled hard, hands twitching at his sides. 

The sound released the invisible bindings holding Oscar’s wrists. He moved one hand to Lando’s hips and the other to the solid line of his jaw, pulling Lando into him. As if he’d been waiting for Oscar to do something, anything, Lando absolutely melted into him, allowing his head to fall back and reveal more of his neck to Oscar’s mouth. 

“This is a terrible idea,” he mumbled against Lando’s searing skin, kissing and nipping his way up to Lando’s jaw. When he reached stubble, Oscar pulled away, and Lando made a whimper of protest. 

Just like that, the rest of Oscar’s careful restraint snapped. Their lips met and the kiss wasn’t gentle, not sweet like the way he’d kissed his high school girlfriend or the nice, normal people he’d hooked up with since then. It wasn’t nice because he wasn't nice, and this wasn’t normal. But oh, oh, it felt so good, so right. 

He bit hard at Lando’s full bottom lip, and Lando groaned at the sensation, the sounds toeing on the line between pleasure and pain. A switch clearly flipped in Lando’s brain, reminding him he has a body, and hands, and then he was all over Oscar. 

Lando’s hands roamed freely over Oscar’s bare back, the low planes of his stomach, teasing at the edge of the waistband of his sweats with need. Oscar was suddenly very aware that he wasn’t wearing underwear under his sweats, but he didn’t pull away. 

It would be so much simpler if Oscar could stop, but he didn’t want to stop. It was going to ruin them both, but he couldn’t bring himself to pull back. Any thoughts concerning how this will absolutely fuck everything up didn’t stand a chance as Lando’s hands grabbed his ass, twisted in his hair, and as he softly moaned into Oscar’s mouth. 

Ever so slightly, one of them adjusted and then Lando’s hard cock was pushing into the crease of Oscar’s hip. The sound it pulled from Oscar was downright sinful, and it only made Lando twitch into him again. Lando was so hard against him that Oscar wanted to abandon kissing his mouth in favour of his cock-- he nearly went to his knees right there. The only thing that stopped him was the need to see Lando come from being bent over the bed and fucked senseless. Oscar wanted to hear Lando scream his name as he fell apart underneath him. 

Neither of them have said anything in minutes, the only noises having been Lando’s moans and Oscar’s hard breathing. 

“Bedroom.” Oscar managed to utter between kisses, the word all but a command.

When they pull apart Oscar is very quickly faced with the realization that he might not last long enough to do everything he wants to do. Lando is an absolute mess, his face flush, lips swollen, and eyes glassy. Knowing that he was the one who did this to Lando makes Oscar’s balls ache with a deep, hungry need. 

Oscar took a step back towards his bedroom, and when Lando didn't follow him, he took him gently by the wrists and pulled him forward instead. Quietly Oscar said, “I’m going to fuck you, okay?” 

Despite the intonation, it wasn’t really a question. Both of them knew what was about to happen, it was as inevitable as the sun rising each day. 

Through hearing Oscar say it out loud freed something in Lando, “Oh god, Oscar, please,” he panted, voice breathy and high. 

They were both fully naked by the time Lando’s back hit the bed. The sight of Lando’s bare thighs and swollen cock wet with precome was something Oscar knew he was never going to forget. Never wanted to forget-- He wanted the image burned into his brain, seared onto his retinas. Lando was better, in every way, than how Oscar had imagined him during sex. Seeing him in Oscar’s bed, watching him palm his thick cock, balls tight as Oscar searched for the lube and condoms in the sidetable, was truly holy. 

“Tell me,” Oscar said, crawling between Lando’s spread legs, his eyes half closed in pleasure, “Tell me how much you want it.” Oscar wanted to hear Lando say it, to tell him all of his filthy, dirty thoughts with that gorgeous mouth. Oscar wanted, needed, to hear him beg for his cock. 

Lando arched against the bed and groaned. “God Osc I want you so fucking bad. I’ve wanted this for so long, you have no idea how much I need--” He takes a breath, pauses and closes his eyes. His hand pumped steadily now, his eyes locked on to Oscar’s hard cock. “I need to feel you in me. Please Osc, please.”

Oscar ravaged Lando’s body with his eyes, reveled at how Lando squirmed under his gaze. He traced the curve of Lando’s collarbones down his chest, lingered on his peaked nipples, then to the hard V of muscles and further down to the curve of his hips. 

Slowly, on his knees, Oscar jerked himself in long, tantalising strokes. “Fuck, Oscar,” Lando whined. “Been thinking about doing this for so long.”

“Show me,” The smile on Oscar’s face was bemused, but his tone almost cruel. 

Lando moved his hips, knees falling wide as sucked one of his absurdly big fingers, then moved his hand down his ass, pressing into his hole. His other hand gripped the sheets tight. Oscar drank it all in, feeling the tip of his cock grow wet. He traced the underside of Lando’s thigh with his hand, humming at the friction. Oscar watched as Lando silently accepted Oscar’s offer of lube, and carefully, methodically worked himself open, starting with one thick finger, then two, then three. Any doubts that Oscar had about whether or not Lando had done this before were ashes in the wind. 

Lando was panting, face scarlet, but his eyes, pupils blown wide, didn’t leave Oscar’s as he slowly rolled the condom on. The next time Lando’s hips twitched, Oscar pounced. 

In one swift movement, Oscar gripped Lando’s sculpted thighs and pushed them into his chest, folding him in half. He was so hard that it wasn’t difficult to line himself up with Lando’s stretched, puffy hole. 

“Osc-ahh,” Lando moaned and nearly bowed entirely off the bed as Oscar slid the head of his cock into Lando. 

Only sheer willpower kept Oscar from coming immediately at the sensation of Lando tightening around him. “Fuck Lando,” he hissed. Slowly he slid himself inside, inch by inch until he could feel the soft skin of Lando’s balls against him. 

Oscar started to move. He intended to start slowly, but Lando was punctuating every breath with ah, ah, ah, and Oscar couldn’t restrain himself any longer. He pulled out and slammed into Lando, his fingers squeezed so hard that he hoped Lando was going to have ten perfect little bruises on his thighs in the morning. 

“Fuck, fuck,” Oscar groaned. Lando was near-sobbing, knuckles white as he matched Oscar stroke for stroke, thrusting his hips up so that Oscar had no choice but to drive his cock deeper, brushing against Lando’s prostate. His cock leaked slowly over his stomach, the tanned skin glistening with building pleasure. 

“I’m- Osc I’m close, I’m so close-” Lando was curling inward, holding himself up by Oscar’s forearms, sweat sticking his hair to his forehead. It was intoxicating, how wide and lust-filled his eyes were as he watched Oscar pump into him over and over. Oscar knew he wasn’t far behind, but he wanted Lando completely undone underneath him before he came. Oscar was, after all, a gentleman. 

Bracing one of Lando’s legs over his shoulder, Oscar reached down and palmed Lando’s cock, pumping it in time with his thrusts. 

“Do you want it, Lando?” Oscar’s voice was far away to his own ears, but Lando seemed to hear him just fine. 

“I want--” Lando gasped, nails biting into skin as he held on to Oscar’s shoulder through a particularly hard thrust. “Make me come. Please Osc,” 

Oscar fucked into Lando, savouring how his hips bucked his cock up into Oscar’s hand out of desperation and desire. The sound of his balls slapping on skin was obscene, and Oscar was drunk on it. Lando half gasped, half shouted as he came over Oscar’s hand and onto his stomach. 

Oscar watched each wave of pleasure ride out on Lando’s pretty, flushed face, his curls stuck to his forehead with sweat. He felt each contraction as Lando clenched around him, so fucking tight and hot around Oscar’s throbbing, aching cock. It was the best thing Oscar had ever felt. 

“Oscar-” Lando whined, as the sensation started to bleed into overstimulation.

The sound of his name on Lando’s lips had him coming hard enough to see stars. Oscar couldn’t help the feral moan he let out as the pressure building in his spine finally let go. It sent his release barrelling through him, pushing harder into Lando. 

Finally, when he was totally spent Oscar slowed to a stop, gasping for breath. Lando was watching him, his hazel eyes half-lidded and heavy, something like awe on his face. It was such a serene look that Oscar leaned down and kissed him, slowly and deeply. Lando hummed into his mouth and swept his tongue over Oscar’s lower lip. 

While he was tempted to see if they could go for round two, Oscar wanted to cuddle with Lando in this post-nut high more. He slid out of Lando slowly, trying to be gentle for his red and puffy hole. Rather unceremoniously, he peeled off the condom, tied it, and chucked it on the floor-- that was a problem for future Oscar, because future Oscar was an ass. 

Lando slid over and made a weak come here motion with his hands. Oscar was happy to oblige, and gladly sank down onto the mussed sheets next to him. 

Oscar admired their entwined bodies, the come on Lando’s abdomen. Pride bloomed in his chest, that he had done this. To Lando. 

“I made a mess of you.” Oscar whispered into Lando’s shoulder, one arm wrapped around his chest. Mild embarrassment flared in his face, but there was no shame or guilt or disgust that threatened to chase him from the bed.  

He felt Lando’s fingers in his hair, making lazy, soothing strokes. “Yeah.” Lando agreed softly, nothing but a sleepy satisfaction in his voice. “It was fucking hot.”

***

They were going to have to talk about it. 

Oscar knew they were going to have to talk about it. But as he sat on the counter and watched Lando in nothing but Oscar’s McLaren sweater with PIASTRI in giant block letters across the shoulders and a pair of Oscar’s boxer briefs, flip eggs over the stove- discussing their situation was the farthest thing from something Oscar currently wanted to do. 

All Oscar really wanted to do was bend Lando over the counter and fuck him until they both saw stars. Or eat breakfast. Maybe both, both was also good. 

They’d fallen asleep in Oscar’s bed after their life-altering sex and hadn’t woken up until Lando’s phone rang at 8am the next day. It was a call from George inviting him on a yacht trip to Antibes. Lando had mumbled something about food poisoning and hung up.  

Then he’d given Oscar the best blowjob of his life. 

Oscar had tried to return the favour, but had been interrupted by his stomach growling so loud it could have woken the residents of the next building over. Lando had thrown his head back and laughed, the sound nearly as erotic as his groans around Oscar’s cock had been. 

“Brunch 2.0?” Lando offered. 

So there they were, post shower, making brunch in Oscar’s kitchen. There wasn’t any more bacon, and the protein pancake batter from the day before had started to ferment like a weird sourdough starter. So they settled for accidentally scrambled eggs, plus a fruit salad made of one apple, frozen raspberries, and some canned peaches. Oscar really needed to get groceries. 

“I didn’t know you knew how to cook– like at all.” Oscar said as he peeled the apple. 

Lando offered him a flirty wink, “It’s not all just a playboy party-animal act, mate.”

Oscar made a face. “Hey, just a thought, maybe don’t call me ‘mate’ when my dick was in your mouth less than an hour ago.”

Lando tipped his head back and laughed, a full, joyful cackle. “Whatever you say, Osc.”

Everything between them had changed in the last 24 hours, and yet it all still felt the same. The same jokes, the same banter, but now there was an underlying current of easiness. The tension, the competition, had softened with flirty words and lingering stares. Oscar had absolutely no idea how he was going to be able to stand next to Lando in a week and a half and not burst into flames. How was he supposed to listen to Lando- who at the best of times barely concealed innuendos during media day interviews- as he expressed how enthused he was at being “back in the cockpit” after summer break. 

Actually, Oscar had no idea how he was going to face anyone on the grid, let alone the media, or his team. He felt like if someone looked at him too long, Lando’s handprints were going to appear like some magical treasure map all over his body that led to his cock. 

Maybe the plane to MTC would crash and burn. Oscar had always hated the idea of the world knowing anything about his personal life, relationships were no exception. It was hard enough being under the public eye, the constant scrutiny over his every move, the relentless rumour mill, and how would this look with the championship battle where it was? Would McLaren even be able to race in countries like Saudi? Fucking hell, Bahrain was one of the main investors in the team. The FIA had already banned anything that was considered "political speech”, would they even be allowed to exist in the paddock if they were.. what, together? 

And God, how would the media spin this? The die hard Lando fans would use this as an excuse to hate Oscar more, say he wasn't good enough for Lando or McLaren. Others might say Oscar was using some kind of psychological manipulation tactic to throw off Lando’s strategy. On the other hand, every mistake he made on track would be questioned, was it all rigged because he cared for Lando more than his own career? How could McLaren keep a driver that was just going to throw away every opportunity? Any respect that Oscar had carefully cultivated, in an attempt to keep social media comment sections civil, would be gone.

Was he even going to be able to handle team orders? Could he handle the pressure of balancing what his heart wanted and what he’d already given everything for? Oscar could already feel the two sides of him fighting. He had no way to tell which should win, but couldn’t, wouldn’t pick a winner. Oscar had no idea how he was going to keep these two parts of him separate, and it terrified him. 

Blissfully unaware of his inner turmoil, Lando handed him a cup of coffee, black with lots of sugar. The only way Oscar liked it. He had no idea how Lando knew that seeing as  they barely ever ate in hospitality together. Oscar had a sneaking suspicion that maybe Lando knew him better than he knew himself. 

Tomorrow, Oscar resolved, he would deal with it. Today he could let himself enjoy the butterflies, today he could let himself be naive and believe he could have it all.