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Chapter Text

March, 8th - McLaren Technology Center (MTC), Woking

Lando eased his McLaren 720S through the gates of the Technology Centre, tyres humming soft against perfect tarmac. Morning light bounced off the glass front, turning it into a giant mirror that made the whole place look less like a factory and more like a spaceship parked in the middle of Woking. Ridiculous, really. But every time he saw it, he half-expected the thing to lift off.

His fingers drummed on the steering wheel—some nervous beat he didn’t even recognize. Nerves, anticipation… same thing this time of year. Testing was done. Numbers good. Actually good. For once, people in orange were saying it out loud: they had the car.

Engine off, silence dropping heavier than he liked. He zipped his jacket, slung his bag over his shoulder, stepped into the crisp March air. It stung his lungs, sharp and clean, like a fresh start—or at least that’s what he told himself. Bahrain had lit something in his chest, a hum that hadn’t stopped since.

The itch was everywhere: in his pulse, his blood, the back of his throat. Time to shut up the headlines, to take what kept slipping through his fingers. No excuses this year. No almosts. Just finally proving he wasn’t the kid who nearly did it.

Inside, the lobby swallowed him whole—polished silence, badge beep, doors sliding open. Staff were already buzzing, laptops tucked under arms, voices clipped and quick. The whole building thrummed like it knew what was coming. He liked that. Matched the fizz in his chest.

Lift doors opened. He stepped in, button already lit, knee bouncing like it had a mind of its own. Reflection caught for a second—hair a mess, eyes too bright. Great. Looked like a kid on Christmas morning. Exactly the vibe he wanted.

The lift climbed smooth. His pulse didn’t.

Doors slid open. Corridor full of murmurs and coffee steam. Engineers, PR, mechanics—everyone already moving at speed. Season-kickoff meeting, the last calm before chaos.

He squared his shoulders, fell into rhythm he knew by heart. Then his stride faltered.

Oscar.

Leaning on a counter, coffee in hand, casual as ever. Listening more than talking, head tilted, calm written all over him. Typical.

Something twisted sharp in Lando’s stomach.

Because of course the memory came back—the last race of 2024. Raised voices in a hotel room, Oscar’s words sharp and low, the silence that followed him all winter. He hadn’t expected seeing him again to feel like this.

He hated that it did.

They had barely spoken in Bahrain either, back in February. Both of them buried in runs and data, focused on fuel loads, tyre wear, lap times. Work had filled every silence, left no room for anything else.

And now there was no buffer left. No testing schedule to hide behind.

In a week they would be on a plane to Melbourne, ready to launch into the season for real.

Ten months, twenty-four races, one team.

McLaren—brilliant, brutal, and binding. A family if you believed Zak.

A complicated one if you knew better.

And either way, he and Oscar were locked inside it.

Chapter Text

March 13th — Melbourne, Media Day

The paddock buzzed the way it always did on the first Thursday of the season. Lando flashed his pass at security, the beep sharp in his ears, and stepped through with a grin that felt too wide for his own face. It was like the first day back at school—everyone talking at once, cameras flashing, the smell of rubber mixing in the warm Australian air. He loved it. He’d missed it.

All of it—the noise, the cameras, the buzz—only sharpened the feeling in his chest. Power, raw and restless. Zak’s words from earlier echoed in his head: you’ve got everything you need to take it this year. And he believed it. Fiercely. The fire that had lived in him since he was a kid burned hotter now, filling every nerve with one truth, one obsession.

Winning.

Max was the first familiar face. Of course he was—already leaning against a barrier, cap low, smirk tugging at his mouth.

“Ready to finally win one this year?” Max teased, voice carrying just enough to get caught by a passing camera crew.

Lando groaned. “You’ve been rehearsing that, haven’t you?”

“Since Abu Dhabi,” Max grinned. “Thought I’d get it in before you nick my seat.”

“Believe me, mate. You’ll be chasing me this year.”

“Bold words,” Max said, pushing off the barrier with that lazy confidence only a triple champion could pull off. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Lando laughed, shoulder-bumping him as they walked. “Don’t cry when it happens.”

The banter carried them down towards the media centre, easing the sharp edge in Lando’s chest. But the noise swelled as they turned the corner—photographers, PR handlers, the murmur of a dozen conversations at once. The first press session of the season.

Inside, rows of journalists waited, cameras trained on a low stage where a long grey sofa sat under the lights. No tables, no barriers—just four drivers lined up shoulder to shoulder like an awkward talk show. Max dropped into one end, sprawling instantly. Lando took the spot next to him, knee bouncing.

Oscar was already there.

Their eyes brushed—brief, unreadable on Oscar’s part, too quick on Lando’s.

They’d crossed paths earlier that morning in the PR briefing, trading only the kind of hollow banalities that left the air colder than silence. Work first. Nothing else.

A moderator leaned forward. “Let’s start with Max. Congratulations again on your championship. Does this year feel different?”

Max smirked, mic loose in his hand. “Feels the same, honestly. Same job, same goal. Win more.”

A laugh rippled through the room.

“Lando—strong testing in Bahrain, the McLaren looks real quick this year. Do you feel ready to fight for wins?”

He leaned into his mic, grin automatic. “Yeah, absolutely. The car felt mega. We’ve worked hard over the winter, so I’m excited to get going. Hopefully keep Max honest this year.”
That drew more laughter, Max shaking his head beside him.

“Oscar, home race for you—what does it mean to start the season here?”

Oscar’s voice was even, clipped. “It’s special, of course. Nice to have the support. But at the end of the day it’s still just points, same as anywhere else.”

Lando half-listened, eyes catching again on Oscar’s posture: arms folded, shoulders tight, gaze fixed somewhere over the journalists’ heads. Closed off.

Then the question came.

“McLaren seems to have the strongest driver pairing on the grid. Two of the most competitive drivers - do you think this season will test your partnership ?”

Oscar’s mouth twitched. “Well,” he said, smooth, almost bored, “we’ll see if we can both keep it clean this year.”

The room chuckled lightly. Pens scratched, cameras clicked. It passed as a throwaway.

Not to Lando. He turned his head, catching the cool edge in his tone.

He forced a smile, leaning into the mic. “Don’t listen to him, he’s just jealous I’ve got the better golf swing.”

The journalists laughed louder. Max shook his head, smirking. The moment moved on.

But when the session ended and the drivers filed out, Lando’s grin stayed only for the cameras. Inside, irritation prickled. Frustration, yes—but under it, a flicker of something else he hated admitting.

Because deep down, he knew he’d helped make it this way.
____

March 15th — Melbourne, Qualifying

The garage pulsed with noise and heat, a hundred moving parts around him while he pulled the balaclava tight and settled into the cockpit.

He rolled out for Q1, tyres humming, crowd a blur of orange in the grandstands. The first laps came clean, no drama, just rhythm—hands smooth on the wheel, data streaming back. Q2, sharper. The grip was there, balance tight, each corner slotting into place like muscle memory. Confidence surged with every green sector lighting up the dash.

By Q3, the tension was a living thing. Ten cars left, the track rubbered in, sun dropping lower and shadows stretching across the asphalt. He dropped into the lap and felt it click—the car glued, tyres biting, every apex kissing the edge of perfect. The engine screamed down the straight, vibration rattling through his chest, and he braked so late into Turn 9 he almost laughed inside the helmet.

When he crossed the line, the time flashed.

P1.

His radio exploded—cheers, Zak’s voice cracking through static, engineers whooping in the background. Behind him, Oscar slid into P2, Max in P3.

Two papaya on the front row, opening round.

Unreal.

Lando coasted back into the pit lane, hands trembling on the wheel as adrenaline tore through him.

He climbed out slowly, every muscle buzzing, visor still down. The air outside hit sharp and hot, noise swelling again—cheers, applause.

He turned.

Oscar was there, climbing out of his car, helmet still on, chest heaving with the same high. But he didn’t move toward him. No glance, no gesture—just unstrapping slowly, deliberate, like the world wasn’t erupting around them.

Lando hesitated only a beat before stepping forward, gloved hand outstretched. Cameras everywhere—he knew what it would look like if he didn’t.

“Congrats, mate.”

Oscar’s visor tilted his way, the reflection blank. A pause—long enough to sting—before his hand came up, a quick clasp, firm and impersonal.

“Yeah. Car was good.,” Oscar said at last, voice muffled, tone flat as the helmet filtered it.

They tapped shoulders, brief and mechanical. For the cameras, for the team. Nothing more.

Lando forced himself into the noise, chest buzzing, head light. He could feel tomorrow already, burning on the horizon.

All he had to do was finish the job.
____

March 15th — Melbourne, Post-Qualifying Debrief

The debrief room glowed sterile white, rows of screens throwing sector maps and lap overlays across the wall. Engineers filled the space with clipped voices, a staccato rhythm of numbers and corrections. Lando sat forward at the long table, bottle of water dangling loosely in his hand, suit still unzipped to his chest, damp fabric clinging to his skin. His pulse hadn’t come down yet, every nerve still humming from pole.

Across from him, Oscar looked much the same—hair plastered to his forehead, cheeks flushed, posture looser than usual. For once he wasn’t a wall of stillness; adrenaline had cracked the surface, left him leaning back slightly in his chair.

The head engineer clicked to the next overlay, voice gaining speed as he ran through braking traces, corner entry comparisons, tyre deg projections, and half a dozen other metrics strung together without a breath.

Lando’s eyes flicked up, catching Oscar across the table. The guy was practically sprinting with words, not a single pause to let them catch up.

He leaned towards Oscar, lowering his voice. “Think he’s trying to break the lap record for talking?”

Silence stretched. For a second Lando thought he wasn’t going to answer.

Then, flat, eyes still locked on the data: “Could be worse. He could make us watch it twice.”

Lando huffed a laugh, quick, but it fizzled almost immediately. He searched for a flicker—something—but Oscar’s expression didn’t shift. Nothing in the line of his mouth, nothing in the set of his shoulders.

“Right,” Lando muttered, leaning back again, spinning the cap of his water bottle. Smooth. Perfect. Exactly the kind of line that used to earn him an eye-roll and maybe—if the planets aligned—a smirk. Now it barely got him a syllable.

What did he expect? That Oscar would suddenly light up, laugh at all his dumb jokes, beam at him like some puppy reunion? Yeah, don’t think so. That version of Oscar was long gone—if he’d ever existed outside Lando’s head in the first place.

The reply itself hadn’t even been rude. Just flat. Nothing. Which was somehow worse. No edge, no bite, not even something he could argue with. A brick wall in human form.

Fantastic. Peak chemistry. Truly.

He picked at the label on his water bottle, grin dissolving. Of course it wasn’t going to be easy. He wasn’t an idiot. Slammed doors in Abu Dhabi didn’t magically erase themselves because they’d locked out the front row together.

Still—pathetic as it was—he’d hoped. Just a flicker of the old rhythm, the one where Oscar would mutter something dry and it meant more than the words. Instead, he got the emotional range of a weather forecast. Cloudy, with zero chance of warmth.

Fine. If that was the game, he’d play it. But the buzz from pole shifted sharp in his chest, adrenaline mixing with something a lot less clean. This season wasn’t just going to be about the stopwatch. Not with Oscar sitting across from him, pretending nothing had ever mattered.

Then the engineer finally ran out of steam, switching to another voice, another topic. The moment folded back into the hum of the room, swallowed whole.
___

March 16th — Melbourne, Race Day

The room was quiet. Too quiet. Always was, ten minutes before a race. Just him, the hum of air-conditioning, and the faint vibration from the crowd outside seeping through the walls.

Lando sat on the narrow couch, helmet beside him, phone in hand. Headphones already around his neck. He scrolled through playlists without really looking, thumb swiping until instinct made him stop. No ritual, no superstition. Just mood. Always mood.

Today it was something loud—bass heavy, almost obnoxious. Perfect. He liked to feel it hammering through his chest, syncing with his pulse. Drove everyone else insane, apparently.

He smirked, shoving the headphones on, volume climbing. Back when things weren’t complicated, he’d blast it on the speaker instead—thin walls, Oscar getting the full gig for free. The game was simple: pick the dumbest track possible, wait for the sigh through the wall. Ten out of ten entertainment.

Now? Headphones. No sigh, no game. Just him and the bass rattling his own skull. Not quite as fun, but it did the job.

He shut his eyes. Let the music drown everything. If he thought too much, he’d unravel before he even got in the car. And he couldn’t afford that. Not today. Not with the season opener, not with everyone whispering about whether McLaren could really fight.

Whether he could.

So he pushed it all out. One by one, he stripped away the noise—headlines, cameras, Max’s smirk, Oscar’s silence. Until only Albert Park was left behind his eyelids.

The corners lined up in his head, smooth and sharp: Turn 1 heavy on the brakes, Turn 9 ready to bite, the sweep into 11-12 always faster than felt possible. He drove them all in his mind, lap after lap, until the track was carved into his chest.

His breathing slowed. Heartbeat settled. Hands flexed against nothing, already feeling the wheel. The chaos outside blurred into something distant, like it belonged to another world.

Then a knock snapped it all apart.

The door creaked open, and Will’s head appeared, calm as always. “Time to go.”

Lando opened his eyes, tugged the headphones down, the last notes of bass fading out. Helmet back in his hands, weight solid, grounding.
___

They walked together down the tunnel, the muffled roar of engines growing louder with each step. Mechanics waited in the garage, orange and black uniforms sharp under the pit lights. The car sat ready, alive, like it was breathing.

Lando slid into the cockpit. Helmet on. Gloves tugged tight. The routine was carved into his bones. The world shrank to the confines of carbon fibre and halo. Mechanics crouched low, pushed the car onto pit lane.

The sky was heavy, bruised with leftover storm. Drops still clung to the halo as he steered into line.

Formation lap. Tyres squirmed, surface slick, visibility slashed by spray. He worked heat into the brakes, into the rubber, weaving, feeling for grip.

Back to the grid. Engines screamed.

Five red lights.

He held his breath.

Lights out.

Tyres bit, car leapt forward clean. Water spattered the halo, visibility gone in a heartbeat, but his launch was good—better than good. For a split second Oscar was there, papaya filling his mirrors, too close for comfort. Then Max sent it into Turn 1, diving late, muscling Oscar wide. Lando darted clear. Heart in his throat, but alive.

P1.

Cheers, Max. Owe you one.

The laps blurred—safety car once, then again, track littered with carbon and half-spun cars. Restarts shredded the rhythm every time, but the McLaren felt glued, sharp through the corners, balanced on throttle.

Every lap it begged for more.

Except Oscar was still there. Always there. Orange nose filling the mirror, DRS flashing like a warning light. Close enough that Lando could almost feel the slipstream tugging at his own car.

The radio crackled. “Oscar’s been told to hold position. He won’t come at you.”

Lando rolled his eyes behind the visor.

Great. Nothing like a bit of enforced harmony to keep the family spirit alive.

Still, his thumb clicked the radio. “Copy.” Smooth. Easy. Nothing to hear here.

But inside, tension twisted. Oscar had pace, no denying it. And if the team hadn’t said a word, he’d have thrown it at Turn 3 already.

So Lando pushed harder—braking later, throwing the car at apexes, daring it to complain. He wasn’t about to hand Melbourne over, not after pole, not after the winter he’d had.

Then the rain came back. Not steady, not kind—sharp bursts that slicked the tarmac in patches, grip vanishing corner by corner. Every turn was Russian roulette.

Lap 44. He braked into Turn 9, car twitched under him. Saved it. Barely. His pulse spiked, cold sweat on the back of his neck.

Next sector, marshals waving yellow. Big screen lit up with a papaya skating sideways through grass, mud spraying in sheets. Oscar.

His stomach dropped before his brain caught up.

Shit.

The radio snapped in. “Oscar’s off—he’s rejoined, but he’s dropped way down.”

Lando blew out a breath, shaky in his helmet.

Well. That’s one way to make my mirrors less stressful.

It wasn’t funny, not really, but the thought still flickered sharp and guilty. He shoved it down, eyes locked forward, forcing the car onto every apex like his life depended on it.

One lap at a time.

No mistakes.
___

The chequered flag waved and the radio exploded in his ears.

“That’s P1, Lando! Fantastic drive, mate. What a way to start the year!”

Adrenaline tore through him, breath catching in his throat before he let it out in a yell. “Wooohooo! Yes, boys! Amazing job—what a start. Let’s keep this going.”

The garage roared back down the line, Zak’s voice booming somewhere in the static, and Lando grinned so hard his cheeks hurt. Melbourne.

First race.

First win.

Couldn’t have asked for better.
___

They peeled out of parc fermé, handlers herding them down the corridor. Helmets off, sweat still dripping, adrenaline refusing to die down. Lando tugged at his balaclava, followed Max’s lazy stride, George neat as ever right behind. Cool room door swung open—air-con like a punch.

He dropped onto the couch, bottle of water cold against his palm, leg bouncing like it hadn’t got the memo the race was over. Max flopped down next to him, grin already back in place, George perching tidy on the other end.

Big screen flickered—Turn 1. Max sending it late, Oscar shoved wide.

Max rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish grin. “Bit aggressive, yeah.”

Lando barked a laugh. “Bit? Mate, you nearly moved the whole track.”

George shook his head, smirking. “Could’ve been a flight to Sydney.”

Max just shrugged, champion vibes dripping. “Still kept it clean.”

Replay jumped—lap 44. Oscar sliding off the curb, grass flying, mud plastering the papaya.

Max winced. “Ouch. That looked nasty. Where’d he end up?”

Lando’s grin pulled tight. “P9.”

George blew out a low breath. “Tough. Especially here.”
___

They were herded out toward the podium, noise swelling with every step. The roar hit first, then the blur of orange—papayas everywhere, flags, smoke, a wall of sound shaking through his chest. Max, George, him, arms lifted, champagne bursting white under the lights. Silver trophy high above his head, his name in the air.

And just like that, Melbourne was his.
___

The noise was still in his ears when he broke away from the team, suit damp, champagne sticky on his skin. The corridor back to the motorhome was quieter, empty except for the buzz of the lights overhead.

He passed Oscar’s door—half-open.

Lando slowed. Just a glance. Inside, Oscar sat on the edge of the couch, still in his race suit, hair damp and plastered to his forehead. No cameras now, no noise. Just him. Shoulders slumped, helmet dumped beside him, staring at the floor like the race was still running somewhere in his head.

For a beat Lando hovered in the doorway, throat tight. He thought about saying something—anything. Tough luck. Good pace. Sorry. Words he’d used a hundred times before, easy as breathing.

None of them came out.

Oscar lifted his head, finally. Their eyes caught—sharp, heavy. Lando swore he saw the twitch of a swallow, like Oscar was choking something back. Venom, maybe. Or just words he’d rather bury.

“Congrats.”

Flat. Nothing behind it.

Lando’s throat worked. He gave a quick nod, forcing a grin that didn’t want to stay. “Thanks, mate. Uh… how are you fee—”

Oscar’s hand cut through the air, sharp, shutting him down before the sentence could stumble out.

“Just don’t.”

The words landed harder than they should have, cold enough to sting through the heat still buzzing in Lando’s chest. He stood there for half a beat, mouth half-open, then snapped it shut before he could make himself look even dumber.

Surprised, yeah. But not really. He’d seen it coming all weekend—the clipped replies, the sharp edges, the way Oscar carried silence like armour. Still, he’d let himself hope. That Abu Dhabi hadn’t dug this deep. That three months of winter quiet would’ve buried it under enough snow to suffocate it.

Proper world-class idiot.

And sure, P9 at home wouldn’t put anyone in the mood for a chat.

Lando cleared his throat, awkward, pulse tight. “Alright then. I’ll leave you to it.”

No answer. Just the weight of Oscar’s eyes.

Lando shifted, heat prickling up his neck, then backed out and pulled the door shut himself.

Back in his own room, Lando pushed the door shut with his shoulder, chest still buzzing with everything he hadn’t managed to say. He kicked his shoes off, dropped onto the bed like a sack of bricks, arms splayed wide.

Sticky with champagne, sweat drying in patches, hair plastered flat. He still felt wired, skin electric, victory drumming in his veins. P1. Melbourne. Bloody nailed it.

His grin came back before he could stop it, stupid and wide, the sound of the crowd still pounding in his ears. For a minute he let himself have it—the trophy, the roar, the high that made every lap worth it.

Then he opened his eyes. Ceiling, blank and boring. But the wall to his right wasn’t. Paper-thin. Oscar’s room. He could almost feel him through it, sitting there in silence.

Close enough to touch, but miles away.

Lando groaned, dragging both hands down his face until his palms scraped his jaw. A laugh slipped out anyway—rough, ugly.

Brilliant, mate. You win a race and still manage to feel like shit.

He rolled onto his side, eyes fixed on the wall that might as well have been concrete.

Twenty-three more weekends.

Twenty-three races to go.

Chapter Text

March 19th – Shangai, Hotel corridor

The elevator groaned to a stop, doors parting with a hiss. Lando dragged himself out, duffel strap digging into his shoulder. His eyes stung from the flight, skin still carrying the recycled dryness of the cabin air. He rolled his neck once, twice, as if that could shake the weight pressing on his bones. It was late. Way too late. 

The corridor stretched quiet in front of him—thick carpet underfoot, pale lights glowing along the ceiling. He shifted the duffel higher, heading down the hall. Just a shower, he told himself. A shower and blackout curtains. Tomorrow the circus started again.

Then a door opened a few steps ahead.

Oscar stepped out.

Running shoes laced, track top zipped, earbuds looped loosely around his hand. His posture was straight, collected, like the travel hadn’t touched him at all. The stillness in his face only made the air between them feel sharper.

Lando faltered for half a second, then forced himself forward. Something in his chest went tight. He managed a smile— casual, like nothing had cracked between them months ago.

“Evening, mate.”

Oscar looked up. Pause long enough to sting.

“Evening.”

Flat. Already past him, eyes down the corridor.

Lando’s grin faltered. “Wow. Still a ray of sunshine. Don’t overdo it, though, wouldn’t want anyone thinking you actually like me.”

Oscar’s mouth twitched, not quite a smirk. “Better blunt than fake. At least I don’t pretend.”

Lando’s jaw clenched. “Still sulking about Melbourne? Come on, it was one race. Chill.”

Oscar’s eyes sharpened. “Easy to say when you’re the one holding the trophy. I was the guy explaining P9 to my home crowd.”

That one hit. Irritation spiked. Lando leaned in. “And brooding’s really gonna fix it, yeah? Great strategy.”

Oscar’s laugh was short, humourless. “Better than grinning like a clown. You keep playing for cameras. I’ll stick to driving.”

The jab burned. Lando shot back before he could stop himself. “Stick to the track? Mate, you binned it the first chance you got. Hell of a message.”

Oscar’s head shook once, dismissive, eyes already past him. “Whatever you say. Goodnight.”

Lando’s chest tightened. He snapped. “For fuck’s sake, Oscar, what is your problem? We’ve got a whole season ahead—stop acting like the world ended.”

Oscar’s lips pressed thin, eyes narrowing. “You really think it’s just about Melbourne?”

Lando blinked. “Then what the hell is it about?”

Oscar froze mid-step. His fingers tightened around the earbuds until the cord strained, knuckles pale against the dim light. His jaw worked once, a muscle ticking, like he was swallowing words he refused to say. He turned his head just enough for Lando to catch the look in his eyes—sharp, dark, cutting. His voice was quiet, but it carried.

“Don’t act like this is on me. You know damn well why we’re here.”

And then he slid his earbuds in, shoulders squared, stride steady as he disappeared down the hall.

Lando’s fingers curled into fists before he could stop them.

The door at the end clicked shut behind him.

Lando stood stranded, pulse hammering, let out a breath through his teeth, too harsh, too loud in the quiet corridor.

Left like a complete idiot.

—

Lando shoved the hotel door open with his shoulder, duffel slipping off and thudding to the floor. Good. Let it sulk there. Felt about right.

His jaw ached from clenching. Every muscle buzzing like he’d just finished twelve rounds instead of a walk down a bloody corridor. 

He wanted to hit something. Wall, pillow, didn’t matter. Anything to bleed out the frustration boiling in his chest.

Oscar. Fucking Oscar.

Cold, clipped, untouchable. Who in their right mind thought that was the ideal teammate? Seriously—who looked at that and thought, yeah, let’s stick him next to Lando, brilliant idea? A brick wall with a race suit. Congratulations, McLaren.

He raked both hands through his hair, paced two steps, then gave up and flopped backwards onto the bed. He stared at the ceiling, chest still tight, breath catching like the room was closing in.

For a while he just lay there, waiting for the fury to burn itself out. It didn’t. Not really. It just sagged, heavy in his arms, dull in his bones. And under it—of course—something worse crept in.

Not anger. Not even close.

Guilt.

—

March 21st – Shanghai, McLaren briefing room

The hum of projectors filled the room, casting shifting maps and tire models across the walls. Engineers murmured, Zak perched at the front radiating energy, Andrea beside him with that quiet steadiness that made even silence feel weighty. Lando dropped into his chair near the front, bag dumped by his feet.

Oscar followed a beat later. Different chair. Different orbit. And between them—an empty seat, left deliberately, like a no-man’s-land.

Lando pressed his pen against the notepad in front of him, jaw set. He tried to focus on the data flashing on the screen, but the numbers wouldn’t stick. His mind kept drifting backward, rewinding to another time.

Back before Abu Dhabi, it had been easy. 

Effortless. 

Oscar sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with him, muttering sarcastic asides when the engineers droned on too long. Rolling his eyes but still breaking into laughter when Lando slipped into a bad impression mid-meeting. He could still hear it—Oscar’s quick laugh, surprised, unguarded, sharp enough to make the rest of the room glance up, confused about what they’d missed. Oscar used to nudge him under the table, mutter something cutting in return, the corners of his mouth twitching even as he pretended to stay composed.

Now? Nothing. A void. 

Just silence. Yeah, great banter, mate. Loving this new routine.

The aero engineer at the front cleared his throat, voice gaining pace as the slides shifted.

“Sector two looks stable, both cars consistent. Lando, you’re holding well on the mediums, but tire temps creeping above optimum after lap eight. Oscar, sharp on entry, but you’re bleeding time on exit traction.” He flicked to another graph, tone picking up speed. “If we adjust rear wing by half a degree we can offset oversteer, though we may sacrifice top speed—”

Lando normally would’ve cracked a line, cut through the monologue, tossed a grin at Oscar until he broke. Out of the corner of his eye, Oscar didn’t so much as blink. He was stone—rigid posture, eyes locked forward, jaw unmoving.

The PR team swapped in. Too cheerful, voices pitched too high.

“Tomorrow morning, fan zone. Then the DHL TikTok challenge—both drivers. Later, joint post-quali interview for Sky and Canal+. We’ll also need you for some content shots together in the garage. Quick, light, fun.”

The word together landed like a stone in the middle of the table. Nobody reacted, but the silence swelled. A mechanic coughed into his fist. Lando’s throat burned. Together. Once that had been their easiest mode—banter on cue, Oscar cracking despite himself, Lando feeding off it. Now, just the idea of standing next to him felt impossible.

Yeah, can’t wait. TikToks with Mr. Sunshine. That’ll be a riot.

Zak clapped his hands once, too loud, trying to buoy the air.

“Car looks strong, team. Let’s carry this momentum. We’ve got the best driver line-up on the grid—let’s show it.”

The irony stung. Lando swallowed hard. The best line-up. 

Best on paper, sure. Worst bloody sitcom live.

Chairs scraped. Laptops snapped shut. The room dissolved into chatter and footsteps, people filtering out. Lando shoved his notes into his bag with more force than needed, head down, just wanting to get out.

“Lando.”

Andrea’s voice cut through the scrape of chairs. Low, steady, the strong Italian accent sharpening every word, making even the simple ones hit harder. He waited until the room thinned out, then nodded toward the corner.

Lando’s gut pulled tight. Still, he followed.

Andrea folded his arms. “What is this, with you two?”

Lando forced a laugh, sharp and wrong. “Nothing. We’re fine.”

Andrea’s brow twitched. “No. Not fine. Whole team feels it. You don’t even look at each other.”

Lando bristled. “Why are you asking me? He’s the one sulking like a—”

“Stop.” Andrea’s tone snapped, clipped. The accent made it sharper. “I don’t care whose fault. Not important. What matters is this—” his finger jabbed lightly toward Lando, “—you clear the air. Fast.”

Lando’s mouth opened, closed. “It’s not that simple.”

Andrea’s eyes narrowed. “Make it simple.” A beat. “What happened?”

Lando looked away, jaw tight. He wanted to joke it off, but Andrea’s stare pinned him. Relentless.

“Well… huh.” He cleared his throat, eyes flicking anywhere but Andrea’s. “Things got messy after Abu Dhabi. Said crap we shouldn’t have and… haven’t really fixed it since.”

Andrea’s lips pressed thin. Not surprise. Just confirmation. Silence hung heavy, until Lando shifted.

“This cannot stay,” Andrea said at last. Each word short, final. “You are not only drivers. You are McLaren. Many people work for you, for this car. You don’t bring personal war into it. Never.”

Heat rose in Lando’s chest. He wanted to snap—he started it, he shut me out—but the words shriveled under Andrea’s eyes.

“You fix it,” Andrea pressed. “Fast. Whatever it takes. Next meeting, I don’t want to feel this again. Clear?”

Lando swallowed hard, guilt dragging heavy. He nodded once. Then again, sharper. “Yeah. Clear.”

Andrea gave one curt nod. No smile. No comfort. Just orders. 

—

Shanghai – Sprint & Qualifying

The sprint weekend tore past like it always did—compressed, merciless, no time to think.

Friday morning’s single practice was gone before anyone could catch their breath, a blur of fuel runs and sector splits. 

By mid-afternoon, they were already lining up for sprint quali. Twenty minutes of chaos later, Oscar slotted into P3. Lando only managed P6, two rows back, the gap already gnawing at him.

Saturday hit even harder.

At 11 a.m., the sprint lights blinked out and the field roared away. Oscar launched clean, sharp, relentless—climbed to P2 and held it like it was his by right. Podium. 

His first of the season, silver trophy in his hands, face calm but chin raised as the Chinese crowd roared approval. 

Lando crossed P8, invisible in the spray, helmet heavy with silence.

There was no time to breathe.

At 3 p.m., they were back out for Grand Prix quali. Twenty cars, three sessions, all on the knife’s edge. When the dust cleared, Oscar’s name glowed at the top of the board. 

Pole. 

George wedged himself into P2. Lando was left P3—front row lost, forced to watch from one place too far back.

The garage exploded orange, cheers ricocheting off the walls. Mechanics hugged, engineers high-fived, Andrea’s clap echoed sharp. 

And at the center of it, Oscar: helmet tucked under one arm, calm and steady, like this was exactly how it was meant to be.

For Lando, the adrenaline burned bitter. He clapped along, smile nailed in place, but his eyes found Oscar across the garage. 

For a second—just a second—Oscar looked back. His eyes softened—imperceptibly, fleetingly—before he turned back to his engineers. 

The moment gone as fast as it came.

—

March 22nd – Shanghai, Hotel room

Lando lay sprawled on the bed, one arm folded behind his head, phone balanced in his other hand. His thumb scrolled, scrolled—clips from the sprint podium, stills of Oscar holding the silver trophy, that last quali lap replayed in slow motion like it was bloody art.

Every headline screamed the same thing: Piastri delivers. Norris trails.

He locked the screen with a groan, jaw tight, chest buzzing with something halfway between admiration and wanting to chuck the phone at the wall.

He opened the chat before his brain could talk him out of it. Typed. Deleted. Typed again. Swore under his breath. Hit send.

Lando: Congrats mate. Solid job today.

The dots blinked once. Disappeared. Nothing.

A full minute dragged before the reply landed.

Oscar: Thanks.

Lando let out a low breath, staring at the single word like it was a wall. He almost locked his phone again. But then, another bubble appeared.

Oscar: At least I didn’t bin it this time, right? Progress.

The corner of Lando’s mouth tugged despite him. Classic Oscar. Dry as a desert, sharp enough to cut. Not exactly warm, but it wasn’t ice either. Which, given the week they were having, almost counted as a hug.

He fired back, fingers quicker now.

Lando: Don’t get too comfortable. I’m still coming for you.

The dots blinked. Hung there a second. Then vanished.

Read. No reply.

“Brilliant.” Lando let the phone fall onto the pillow beside him, rubbing his face with both hands. 

Classic. Give an inch, slam the door. Cheers, mate.

He rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling. Hot, cold, push, pull—Oscar made steady ground feel like a fucking mirage.

—

March 23rd – Shanghai, Race day

The lights went out and the world narrowed to a blur of engines and heat. 

Oscar launched from pole like a robot programmed for perfection. Lando bit hard from third, threading into Turn 1 past Russell with just enough nerve to make it stick.

The laps blurred into one long sprint—Papaya one, Papaya two, glued together like a highlight reel waiting to happen. 

Oscar leading, Lando breathing down his neck, close enough to count the screws on his rear wing.

By halfway, they were untouchable. Pit stops nailed, orange streaking out front. Lando’s radio crackled—Will’s voice calm, almost boring in its steadiness: “Good pace, keep it tidy. Bring it home.”

Lando rolled his eyes behind the visor. Bring it home? Sure, Will. Just casually keeping up with robot boy at 320 kph. Easy.

Fifty-six laps, one long crescendo. Oscar across the line first, Lando second. A double punch of papaya across the timing screens.

The pit wall erupted. Mechanics climbing fences, orange flags everywhere, like someone had set the place on fire. Lando yanked himself out of the cockpit, chest buzzing, grin splitting his face wide open. Sweat, fuel, champagne still phantom in his mouth.

Oscar swung his legs out, helmet tilted up. He looked wrecked in the same way Lando felt—shoulders heaving, visor streaked with grit. 

Their eyes met over the chaos.

For a heartbeat, it wasn’t about Abu Dhabi, or interviews, or the weight pressing between them. 

It was just two cars, two drivers, and a pit wall gone feral—orange fists hammering the air, voices shredding their throats, the whole place vibrating with it.

Oscar didn’t look away. And that in itself was something. His gloved hand lifted, hesitant but alive, and Lando stepped into it without thinking.

Their palms cracked together. A fist bump, simple, over in a blink. But it landed heavy, more handshake than celebration. 

No cameras caught it, no PR team staged it. It was theirs, and then it was gone, buried again as quickly as it had sparked.

—

Later, back in pit lane, Zak was waiting—arms wide, grin practically blinding under the lights. He caught them both by the shoulders, shaking with pride.

“Boys. That—” He shook his head, laughing. “That’s what I call a statement. First one-two of the year. Best team on the grid. We’re celebrating tonight. Whole crew, proper dinner. No arguments.”

Lando laughed, still high, sweat sticky, voice cracking with it. “Count me in. Free food, I’m there.”

Oscar shifted, grimace twitching through his mouth like he was about to protest. Noise, crowds—his nightmare. Fingers fussed at his race suit cuffs.

Zak cut him off, finger pointed, still grinning. “No arguments, Oscar. You’re coming. Both of you. The team deserves it.”

A beat of silence stretched, sharp as a held breath. Finally, Oscar exhaled through his nose, gave the tiniest smile, and nodded once. “Fine.”

Zak clapped him on the back like he’d just agreed to a marriage proposal. “Good boy.”

—

March 23rd – Evening, Restaurant in Shanghai

The restaurant hummed with chaos—chairs scraping, plates clattering, voices rising in waves of celebration. Zak had ordered far too much wine, and the engineers were halfway through retelling the same overtakes for the third time, louder each round. It was warm, messy, alive.

Lando leaned back in his chair, cheeks flushed, laughter bubbling out before he could stop it. He gestured wildly mid-story, miming a botched wheel-gun change, teasing one of the mechanics until the whole table shook with laughter. For once, he didn’t have to try. The buzz of the one-two carried him, every cell in his body lit like Christmas.

He grabbed his glass, tipped it back, then glanced across the table—

Oscar.

Sat straighter than anyone else, shoulders pulled in, hands fussing at the stem of his glass. Calm on the surface, but too calm. A quiet island in the noise.

And of course Lando had to stare.

Maybe it was the wine. Or the adrenaline still fizzing under his skin. Or just the fact that Oscar sat there like he was immune to joy itself. 

Either way, Lando’s grin softened, eyes locking onto him, daring him. Come on, mate. One smile. Just one.

Oscar turned, caught him.

Their eyes snagged and held, neither moving. Lando let his grin shift into something cheekier, exaggerated even—tilted head, eyebrows up, eyes locked onto Oscar. 

Then, unable to stop himself, he mouthed it—exaggerated lips, no sound: Come on, Osc. Give me a smile.

For a second, nothing. Oscar’s gaze flicked to him, flat, sharp as always. Lando held it anyway, grin widening, shameless, inviting.

And then—there it was. Barely. A twitch at the corner of Oscar’s mouth, halfway between a scoff and something warmer. 

Like he couldn’t quite help it, like he hated himself for finding Lando ridiculous… and maybe a little bit endearing.

It vanished as quick as it came. Someone to Oscar’s left tugged him into conversation, his expression shuttered again, profile lit by restaurant glow.

But Lando had seen it.

Had felt it.

Tiny, fragile, gone in a heartbeat—but real.

And sitting there, cheeks flushed, wine buzzing in his veins, Lando couldn’t help the thought that bloomed, reckless and dumb: yep. that smile’s worth chasing.

Chapter Text

April 15th – England

The weeks blurred together after Shanghai. 

Japan had come and gone in a flash—Lando holding steady near the front, Oscar chasing just behind. 

Bahrain followed, hotter, rougher, the margins cut thinner every lap. 

By the time the dust settled, the gap between them had shrunk to a handful of points.

Lando told himself that was a good thing. Consistency. Building a campaign. That’s what Zak kept saying in debriefs: stack the points, stay calm, play the long game. But every time he checked the standings, every time he saw Oscar’s name drawing closer, the tightness in his chest returned.

And now here he was, mid-April, back in England for a breath of normality before the circus spun up again. He’d stayed grounded, close to the team base, close to the work. 

Tomorrow night he’d fly to Jeddah.

Today, though, was for something else. Sun on his face, clubs in the boot of his car, Max Fewtrell already texting him from the course.

—

Golf course 

The ball arced high, dipped, and thudded gracelessly into the bunker.

Max doubled over laughing, leaning on his driver like it might hold him upright. “Oh my god. Mate. That’s criminal.”

“Fuck off,” Lando muttered, already reaching for another ball. “Wind caught it.”

Max straightened, grinning. “There’s no wind.”

“There’s always wind.”

“Yeah, in your head,” Max fired back.

Lando snorted despite himself, twirling his club before setting it down again. He lined up, tried to focus, and still—clunk. The shot veered wide, rolling into the rough.

Max whistled low. “World-class driver. Shittest golfer I’ve ever seen. How do you manage it?”

“At least I’m not dressed like an old man on holiday in Marbella,” Lando said, squinting at Max’s salmon-pink polo.

“This is style.” Max spread his arms. “You wouldn’t understand. You still dress like a teenager who lost a bet.”

“Better than dressing like your dad,” Lando shot back, lips twitching.

They carried on down the fairway, ribbing each other between swings, the air smelling faintly of grass and damp earth. It was easy, the kind of banter that never asked for anything deeper. With Max, everything stayed on the surface: jokes, insults, laughter that came quick and cost nothing.

By the third hole, Max leaned on his cart, eyes narrowing. “So. Season’s off to a flyer, eh?”

Lando rolled his shoulders, nonchalant. “Not bad.”

“Not bad?” Max snorted. “Melbourne win, podiums, leading the championship. Mate, you’re smashing it.”

Lando shrugged, hiding the flicker of pride behind a smirk. “Trying not to get ahead of myself.”

They played another few strokes before Max spoke again, voice casual but laced with curiosity. “And what about your teammate? Kid looks sharp this year.”

“He’s fine.” Too quick. Lando adjusted his grip like the angle of his club mattered more than the question.

Max hummed, easy but sharp. “Bit off lately though, no? Used to be around you all the time.”

Lando’s head lifted, eyes narrowing. “If you’ve got a question, just ask.”

Max held his hands up, mock-innocent. “Just saying. Feels different this year. Last season you two couldn’t shut up. Now he barely looks at you.”

Lando swung, watched his ball slice ugly into the rough. Perfect. He shrugged like it didn’t matter. “There’s been some tension. Nothing bad.”

Max tilted his head, studying him harder than Lando liked. The stare burned.

Lando sighed. “Alright. Fine. I created the tension. Don’t give me that look.” He raked a hand through his hair, eyes fixed on the ground. “I said some shit. He didn’t exactly take it well. So yeah. Tension.”

Max blinked, then scoffed. “So apologise. Buy him a beer. Sorted.”

Lando let out a laugh that came out wrong—thin, sharp. “If only it was that simple.”

Max smirked, already winding up for another crack. “Or maybe—”

Lando cut in, tone flat. “Let’s just play golf, yeah?”  He set his club, lined up another shot, like the conversation had never happened.

After that, they carried on—more golf, more banter, both of them letting the subject slip away. 

By evening, they’d met up with a wider group for dinner. The atmosphere shifted, louder, easier: clinking glasses, inside jokes bouncing around the table, the kind of night that dulled the edges of the season for a few hours.

New faces drifted in too. Magui was there—someone Lando had crossed paths with before, but only in passing. This time, she lingered longer in the group, bright and quick with her comebacks, easy in the way she blended into the noise. 

It felt light, uncomplicated, the perfect distraction before the flight to Jeddah.

—

April 16th – Flight to Jeddah

The cabin was quiet, save for the steady hum of engines and the occasional creak of leather when he shifted in his seat. 

Lando slouched back, laptop open like it might magically fill itself in. He hadn’t touched it. Head was too loud, eyes too heavy, stomach still reminding him that last night had gone on a bit longer than planned.

He could’ve slept—should’ve, probably—but shutting his eyes only replayed everything louder. 

So he leaned into it instead, let the drone of the engines blur with the corners mapped in his brain. Turn one. Brake here. Clip the apex. Back on throttle. Jeddah wasn’t forgiving; miss by an inch and the walls would bite.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, smirk tugging despite himself. 

World-class driver, shittest sleeper. 

And maybe—just maybe—too many drinks with the lads before a flight didn’t help.

By the time the wheels hit the tarmac, he’d have driven the lap a hundred times in his head. That was fine. That was the job.

—

April 17th – Jeddah, McLaren hospitality – Media day 

The motorhome buzzed in its usual Thursday haze—engineers hunched over tablets, PR drifting in and out, the smell of burnt coffee and something too-sweet hanging in the air. A couple mechanics laughed at one of the tables, someone else juggling a plate of pastries like it was part of the job.

Lando slipped in late, sunglasses hooked on his collar, grin already loaded. Easy. Harmless. He was halfway to the coffee machine when the door opened again. Oscar. And—right behind him—Lily.

Five months since Abu Dhabi. A month into the season. She hadn’t been around once. Barely ever showed at all. Instinct told him to duck, slide straight into PR before anyone clocked the tension. But Andrea’s voice sliced sharp through the thought: You fix it. Fast. Whatever it takes.

So he pivoted. Shoulders loose, smile dialed up. Sunlight, easy as breathing.

“Lily,” he greeted, warm as anything. “Didn’t think we’d see you here.”

Her cheeks flushed pink already. “I finally had a weekend off. Thought I’d see what all the fuss is about.”

“Brave,” Lando said, grin tilting. “Media day’s basically torture. Cameras everywhere, questions you’ll regret hearing. You sure Oscar didn’t trick you into this?”

A shy laugh. “I’ll survive. He told me it was part of the job.”

Lando’s eyes flicked sideways, just for a second. Oscar’s jaw, tight. Fingers locked around hers like a warning. 

And then—unwanted, uninvited—the memory snapped back: his own voice in that hotel room, bitter as glass. Oh, if it’s that painful for you, go cry in Lily’s arms.

Oscar’s stare caught his, unflinching. Lando made the smile brighter, effortless. “At least you picked a good race. Night lights, fast corners. Jeddah puts on a show.” His gaze swung back to Lily, warm again. “Promise you won’t get bored.”

“I doubt I will.” She smiled, though her eyes darted between them, like she could feel the static even if she didn’t know where it came from.

The silence stretched—sharp, unnatural. Lando tipped his chin, breaking it. “Looking forward to this one?”

Oscar’s reply was clipped. “Always.”

Their gazes locked, sharp edges meeting sharp edges. Lando’s grin stayed plastered on, the same one he’d wear for cameras that weren’t even there. 

Inside, his chest coiled tight—Andrea’s warning, Abu Dhabi’s sting, Lily’s blush hovering somewhere in between.

PR’s call finally cut the tension, voices corralling toward the glass meeting room. Chairs scraped, half-drunk coffees abandoned. Lando hung back, just long enough to catch it: Oscar leaning down, pressing a kiss to Lily’s cheek, touch slow, deliberate. She smiled up at him, steady. Certain.

Lando’s grin didn’t falter as he followed the others in, but the image burned behind his eyes.

—

April 19th — Jeddah, Qualifying

Saturday night lights washed the paddock in glare, Jeddah’s street circuit twisting sharp and merciless outside. Lando slid into the cockpit, belts pulled tight across his shoulders, helmet already fogging with breath. The noise of the crowd bled faint through the chassis, muffled by layers of carbon and adrenaline.

Focus. Just focus.

But the silence inside his head wasn’t clean. 

Lily’s blush under his grin, Oscar’s stare like stone, the journalist leaning in with that smug tilt—Only three points between you two, how does it feel to have your teammate that close? 

Lando’s laugh, too bright, too fake, while Oscar cut in calm as ice: It doesn’t change anything, I just focus on my job. The contrast had played on repeat all night, louder than the engines.

And McLaren PR—god, the circus of it all. The desperate little skits, the choreographed smiles, the staged banter that never landed. “Best mates” for the cameras, as if hashtags and soundbites could plaster over the cracks. All of it felt paper-thin, hollow, brittle in his hands. 

Oscar played along, but barely—answers clipped, eyes sliding past him like he wasn’t even there. 

And through it all, Andrea’s voice stayed lodged in his skull, relentless.

You fix it. Fast. Whatever it takes.

He hadn’t. 

He couldn’t.

Green light. Q1. He pushed through, the lap scrappy but safe. Clear. Q2, better—grip found, margins tight, but enough. He exhaled sharp, muttered a clipped “yeah, okay” into the radio.

Then Q3. The walls closer, the speed brutal under the floodlights. His hands tight on the wheel, sweat pooling between his gloves and skin. He blinked once, too long—Oscar’s jaw, Oscar’s hand on Lily’s, the way it made his chest twist—

And the car snapped.

“FUCK!” His scream cracked the radio as the McLaren slammed the barrier, sparks ripping into the night. The impact rattled through his bones, stole his breath. 

Dead stop. 

Red flag. 

All that noise in his helmet was nothing compared to the one truth hammering in his chest—he’d just binned it.

By the time he hauled himself out, helmet yanked off too fast, the cameras were already there. Circling. Feeding. He stalked back down the paddock, jaw tight, steps too sharp. Lights hit him in the press pen like interrogation lamps.

“Lando, can you talk us through what happened in Q3?”

His throat burned. Words scraped out raw. “I… I’m a fucking idiot.” No filter. No spin. Just the truth, ugly and heavy on his tongue. 

“Should’ve been fighting for pole, and instead I stuck it in the wall. Stupid. Silly risk. My fault.”

Another mic shoved forward. “You looked strong all weekend. How disappointing is it to end up P10?”

He huffed a laugh, bitter enough to sting. “Devastating. I let myself down, I let the team down. They gave me a car good enough to be at the front and I chucked it away. No excuses. It’s on me.”

“Do you think you’re putting too much pressure on yourself lately?”

He shook his head, jaw working. “Doesn’t matter if I am or not. Fact is, I made a mistake. End of story. I’m a fucking idiot tonight. That’s all there is.”

The last question came softer. “What now?”

He exhaled hard, gaze dragging toward the garage where orange shirts swarmed the broken car. “Now the team’s got a mountain of work to fix what I wrecked. And me? I’ve just got to show up tomorrow and do better. Nothing else to say.”

He forced a flat “thanks,” clipped and final, then turned on his heel. No handshake, no extra word. Helmet under his arm, head down, he pushed through the corridors until he reached the motor room—door shutting sharp behind him, like that could lock the world out.

—

April 20th — Jeddah, Race day 

Sunday hit heavy. The motorhome felt muted, everyone moving with clipped precision, voices low, eyes sharp. Lando sat on the edge of the pit wall bench, helmet balanced on his knee like a weight. His jaw ached from how tight he’d been holding it.

Will crouched beside him, tablet in hand. No sugar-coating, no space for pity.

“You’ve got the car to climb back. Top five minimum if you keep it clean. Safety cars could swing it your way. You’ve got the pace—don’t overthink.”

Lando gave a single nod, eyes locked on the floor tiles. Words felt useless.

Will’s hand hit his shoulder, sharp, grounding. “Forget yesterday. Execute today.”

Helmet on. Visor down. The world narrowed to engine growl and pulse hammering in his throat.

Lights out.

Chaos detonated into Turn 1—carbon splintering, cars scattering. He muscled through the squeeze, instincts sharp, no hesitation. Safety Car already. He exhaled hard, jaw set. 

Tenth. Still tenth. 

And Oscar—fucking Oscar—was already slicing forward, papaya blur breaking free into clean air.

Restart. Go.

He lunged, elbows wide, gaps where none existed. Hamilton. Russell. Bite down, brake late, trust the car. Every move carried risk, but holding back wasn’t an option. Yesterday’s wall still echoed in his bones—he refused to end up behind, not again, not like that.

Will’s voice in his ear, clipped, steady. “Good job. Head down. Keep it clean.”

He grunted back, barely hearing it. His whole body was tuned to the circuit—walls flashing inches from the tires, gloves slick, heartbeat pounding in rhythm with the gears. Alpine. Another. P6. P5. The climb fed him, but it wasn’t enough. 

Never enough.

Half distance. He was in P4. Sweat stung his eyes, his chest felt too tight. Up ahead, Verstappen. Leclerc. And Oscar—untouchable, leading, calm as stone. Not a single crack.

He wanted it—needed it—but the gap didn’t shrink. Every lap he wrung the car harder, pushing past the edge, chasing shadows. The radio crackled with sector updates, but the only voice he heard was his own. 

Faster. Closer. Don’t fucking settle.

Five laps left. He tore one last burst out of the tires, every corner on a knife’s edge. 

Chequered flag. 

P4.

The wheel felt heavy in his hands as he rolled over the line, engine throttling down. Not a disaster. Not enough. 

The car had the pace. 

He didn’t. 

Oscar did.

—

The race was over, but the noise didn’t stop. Engines ticking as they cooled, crowd still roaring under the floodlights, mechanics shouting over the mess. Somewhere nearby, champagne bottles hissed open, the podium bleeding through the speakers.

Inside the cool-down area it felt stripped down—white walls, harsh lights, smell of sweat and brake dust sticking in the air. Ice tubs lined up, steam curling as drivers dunked themselves in.

Lando sat on the edge, suit unzipped, helmet dumped in a corner. Sweat stuck to his skin, the desert heat still clinging even under the air-con. 

He lifted his eyes to the screen on the far wall. Numbers flickered into place, brutal in their simplicity:

Drivers’ Championship
#1 – Oscar Piastri, 99 points
#2 – Lando Norris, 89 points

Ten points. Gone just like that.

He’d led coming in. 

Now Oscar did.

He closed his eyes, tilted his head back, but the reel spun up anyway. Abu Dhabi, sharp as glass. Yesterday’s wall, still echoing in his ribs. 

That journalist leaning in with the smirk—“only three points in it now”—like they knew exactly where to jab. Oscar’s jaw in the motorhome, locked so tight it looked carved. Lily’s cheeks pink under strip lights. All of it piling on. 

And now this—Oscar winning clean, leading clean, while he sat here sweating under air-con, chewing on mistakes.

He dragged a hand down his face, hair sticking damp against his forehead. His jaw ached, like it might crack if he unclenched it. 

Felt like Oscar just kept sharpening—every lap, every session—while he was dragging around his own bullshit. Anger. Doubt. Noise. Too much of everything, never enough of what counted.

He let out a breath, bitter at the edges. 

Talent for speed, talent for screwing it. 

Nailed both.

The roar outside swelled, anthem booming through tinny speakers. Confetti rained down in the lights. He didn’t need to look, but he did anyway—eyes flicking up to the big screen feed. 

Close-up on Oscar, steady under the floodlights. Not gloating. Not even smiling wide. Just… composed. Like he’d been born for that top step.

For a second it felt like the stare was direct, straight through the lens, straight into him. 

No words needed. 

The message was obvious enough: I’ve got the lead. I’m keeping it. If you want it back, come take it.

Lando snorted under his breath, sharp and humourless. “Fine.”

He shoved himself into the ice bath, hiss tearing out as the cold slammed into overheated skin. 

Chest, shoulders, throat. 

Merciless, shocking, perfect. Better than thinking. Better than watching. 

But even under the freezing water, the numbers stayed. 

Ten points. 

Oscar on top. Him chasing.

Chapter Text

April 25th - Monaco 

The apartment was spotless. Too spotless.

Glass walls spilling light across polished stone, chrome gleaming, leather lined up like a furniture catalogue. Monaco on a postcard outside—Mediterranean sparkling, yachts crawling like bugs across the water. Perfect view. Perfect setup. And inside? Dead quiet.

Lando hadn’t moved in hours. He’d melted into the couch, head tipped back against the cushions, eyes locked on the blank ceiling like it might eventually blink first. Body heavy, like gravity had doubled since Jeddah.

He’d tried. 

A night out with the lads—dinner, laughter, drinks that tasted like cardboard. 

A book he gave up on halfway through chapter two, still lying open on the table like it was mocking him. 

Cleaning, until the place looked like a stranger lived here. 

Even the sim—twenty laps of Barcelona before he’d binned it mid-corner, headset ripped off, nearly launched across the room. 

None of it stuck. Nothing did.

Every time he closed his eyes, Jeddah replayed. The snap. The slam into the wall, sparks spitting under the floodlights. His own voice screaming idiot so sharp it cracked the radio. The press pen, lights blinding, microphones shoved in his face. 

And above it all—Oscar on the podium, shoulders square, Lily smiling like she belonged there.

He swallowed hard, throat dry. Tilted his head further back, as if staring harder at the ceiling might finally turn his brain off. 

Spoiler: it didn’t. 

The reel just kept burning behind his eyelids, sharper every time.

The apartment didn’t care. Kitchen counters gleamed. Fridge humming with food he hadn’t bothered to touch. Golf bag dumped by the door, abandoned since… who even remembered. Everything neat, controlled, picture-perfect. Everything but him.

His chest tightened, breath coming shallow. That old weight crept in quiet, then sudden, brutal. Felt like someone had a fist around his throat.

Yeah. He knew this one. The same black fog from last year. When the maths had turned against him, when every weekend became another nail. Lying awake in hotel rooms, sheets twisted, heart hammering too loud, staring at ceilings just like this.

And sometimes—on the worst nights—Oscar had come. No speech, no questions. Just slipping through the adjoining door, quiet as anything, like he knew without needing to be told. Sitting on the edge of the bed, shoulders squared, breathing steady until Lando’s ragged gasps found the same rhythm.

Other times it was smaller things—a bottle of water pressed into his hand, the sim headset taken away before he smashed it, a muttered “you’re not sleeping anyway, might as well stop pretending.” No pep talks. 

Just the weight of someone else holding the edges together when he couldn’t.

And sometimes, without even thinking, Oscar would let his shoulder lean into Lando’s. Or rest a hand briefly on his arm, grounding, solid. A glance in the dark that said I’ve got you even if he’d never actually say it. That was all it took, to keep Lando from tipping over completely.

And somehow, that had been enough. Back then.

Now the fog was back—the same chokehold, the same sour weight clawing at his chest. 

Only this time there was no knock at the door, no calm silhouette in the half-dark, no quiet presence steadying him with nothing more than a touch. 

Just him, in a spotless apartment that didn’t give a shit, choking on the noise in his own head.

He let out a short, humourless laugh, voice scraping his throat. 

Brilliant. Lost the championship last year, nearly lost my mind. This year? Didn’t even need him. Managed it all on my own. Personal best.

—

The silence broke with a sharp buzz on the table. His phone lit up.

Max Verstappen : paddle? we’ve got a court with charles and daniel. come down

Lando groaned, thumbs moving fast.

Lando  : No thanks.

The reply came instantly.

Max Verstappen : that wasn’t a question. get ur ass down here

He blew out a long sigh, head tipping back.

Lando : fine. be there in 10

He pushed himself off the couch, dragging toward his room to change. 

—

Paddle court 

Lando pushed the door open, racket dangling from his fingers.

“There he is!” Max called, grin wide, tossing a ball into the air.

Off track, he was unrecognisable—relaxed, cheeky, not the iron-jawed killer who chewed through Sundays. “Thought you were gonna ghost us.”

“Relax,” Lando muttered, tugging his cap lower. “I’m only five minutes late.”

“Five?” Daniel squawked. “Try fifteen. We were about to draft in a random tourist just to get this game going.”

“Would’ve been better than you anyway,” Charles smirked from his spot by the net.

Daniel clutched his chest, staggering back. “Wounded. Absolutely wounded.”

“Shut up and serve,” Max said, already laughing. “Let’s team up.”

Daniel’s grin widened, racket spinning in his hand. “Come on, teams—me and Lando, Max with Charles. For old times’ sake.” He shot Lando a wink. “Back in papaya, baby.”

“Guess I drew the short straw,” Lando muttered, tapping his racket against his shoe.

“You love it,” Daniel fired back.

Not exactly, Lando thought, but he forced a smirk anyway.

The first rally was chaos—Max’s serve clean, Charles scrambling, Daniel lunging with a dramatic grunt before missing entirely.

“Classic Ricciardo,” Max crowed, pointing across the net. “All noise, no skill.”

“Oi!” Daniel barked, spinning his racket like a showman. “You try playing when you’re carrying the dead weight of this one.” He jabbed a finger at Lando.

“At least I can see the ball,” Lando shot back, lips twitching. “Unlike you.”

Charles nearly doubled over laughing. “He’s right! You close your eyes every time you hit it.”

“I do not!” Daniel yelped, glaring at him.

Max slung an arm around Charles’s shoulders, smirk smug. “Don’t bully my partner. Only I get to do that.”

Charles rolled his eyes but didn’t hide his grin. “Merci, Max.”

Lando groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You two need a separate court. Honestly.”

Max only grinned wider, and if Charles’s ears went faintly pink under the lights, nobody pointed it out.

The serves kept swapping, laughter spilling with every miss. Daniel started narrating his shots like a commentator, deliberately whiffing one so badly it bounced out the door.

“Champion stuff!” he declared.

“You’re a menace,” Max said flatly, though he was laughing so hard his next serve clipped the net.

“Embarrassing,” Lando called out. “World champion can’t clear the net.”

“Shut it,” Max said, tossing the ball up again. “Don’t make me send this straight at you.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Lando grinned.

“Try me.”

Another rally—sloppy, loud, more insults than points. Daniel kept heckling Charles until Max stormed the net like a bodyguard.

“Pick on someone your own size!” Max barked.

“Oh please,” Daniel wheezed, nearly dropping his racket from laughing. “Charles is taller than me.”

“Not the point,” Max said, deadpan.

“Yeah, but I’m prettier,” Charles added innocently, earning a dramatic groan from the rest.

The game rolled on—light, fast, ridiculous. They jeered, they shouted, insults bouncing with the ball. For the first time since Jeddah, Lando felt the knot in his chest loosen. Shoulders easing, lungs actually filling. Almost felt normal. Almost.

It wasn’t gone. The reel would still be waiting in the silence of his apartment. But here, with Max barking nonsense and Daniel slapping his back after a point, it felt… quieter. Manageable.

By the time they wrapped up, they were dripping sweat, shirts clinging, still laughing about something Daniel said. Lando went round, quick checks and goodbyes—Daniel still talking, Charles smirking quiet. 

When he reached Max, he lingered a beat.

“Thanks for today, mate,” he said, voice low, more earnest than he meant. “Was fun.”

Max shrugged, towel looped around his neck, half-smile tugging. “Yeah. Figured you needed it.”

The words landed heavier than expected. Lando managed a smile anyway, but it stuck in his chest all the way home.

—

April 27th — Monaco

The phone buzzed again on the table, same number, same name. He’d ignored it all week.

Tonight, he didn’t get away with it.

Lando swiped, pressed it to his ear. “Hey.”

“About time,” Mark’s voice cut sharp, clipped with irritation. “You’ve been dodging me for days. Messages, calls—you think I wouldn’t notice?”

Lando exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair. “Yeah, sorry. Been busy.”

“Bullshit,” Mark shot back. “Busy sulking, maybe. Don’t feed me excuses.”

Lando let out a short laugh, dry as sandpaper. “Cheers, Dr. Phil. Always a pleasure.”

The jab didn’t land—Mark stayed steady. “Don’t play games with me, Lando. Talk. What’s going on?”

He hesitated, jaw tight, leg bouncing against the couch. He wanted to hang up, cut the line before Mark dug deeper, but his hand stayed locked on the phone.

“Nothing,” he said at last, too quick.

He held the silence a beat, jaw locked, waiting for Mark to call the bluff. He always did. With most people, Lando could skate by on a grin and a half-truth, but not here. 

Mark had seen too much, read him too well. 

Pretending was pointless.

He sighed, shoulders sagging. “I don’t know.”

“Try again.”

Lando rubbed hard at his eyes, breath catching. The words slipped out before he could stop them. 

“It’s just—same shit as last year. Feels like I’m right back there. Numbers flipping, pressure choking me out. Doesn’t matter what I do, I can’t switch it off. It’s just… constant.”

His chest tightened just saying it, the words bitter on his tongue. He pressed his thumb into the couch seam like it might hold him together. 

“Black. Always there. Like background noise you can’t turn off. Like I’m already losing even when I’m not.”

Silence stretched on the line. Heavy. Lando hated it, hated how exposed he sounded.

Mark came back, calm but firm. “It was one crash. That’s it. You don’t let one night rewrite the whole season. You’ve got the pace. You’ve got the car. If you let the fog run the show, you’ll hand it away before anyone else does.”

Lando nodded automatically, though Mark couldn’t see him. “Yeah.” It came out thin, unconvincing.

“Not ‘yeah,’” Mark snapped. “Focus. Reset. Miami’s next week—you show up sharp, or you let the ghosts drive for you.”

Lando bit the inside of his cheek, fighting the urge to argue, to say it’s not that easy. He stayed quiet.

Silence stretched on the line, only the faint static between them. When Mark spoke again, his voice had lost its edge, careful now.

“Lando… last year, when it got rough, you leaned on Oscar. I don’t mean anything dramatic—it’s just… he was there, and it helped. We all saw it.” A pause, gentler. “This season… I don’t really see… that anymore. Did something change?”

Lando froze, fingers tightening around the phone. Of course. Oscar again. 

Always Oscar. 

Why did every road, every fucking conversation, circle back to him? Like Lando didn’t exist on his own anymore—just one half of some headline pairing. It crawled under his skin, hot and sharp.

He bit down hard, words scraping out brittle as glass. “Brilliant. We’re doing the Oscar question again. What do you want me to say, Mark? He’s fine. We’re fine. Can we not make this about him for once?”

He regretted it as soon as it left his mouth, but he couldn’t take it back. He felt the defensiveness clawing up his throat, like a wall he had to throw up fast, before Mark could get closer.

Mark didn’t flinch. His voice stayed level, steady. 

“Thing is—it already looks about him. From the outside, something’s shifted between you two. You don’t talk the same, don’t move the same. Anyone can see it.”

Lando let out a short laugh, sharp and joyless. “Oh, great. So now it’s a spectator sport? Everyone’s got an opinion, do they? Mint. Just what I needed.”

Mark didn’t bite. His tone cut firmer, no room to dodge. “Quit the bullshit, Lando. I’m not asking for soundbites—I’m asking you to tell me what’s actually going on.”

Lando’s jaw locked, a muscle twitching. He wanted to shut it down, laugh it off, anything. Instead he muttered, sharp and brittle, “Nothing’s changed.” 

He hated how fast it came, how he never seemed to control the way his whole body seized up the second anyone mentioned Oscar.

“Don’t give me that,” Mark said flatly. “I see it. I’m not blind, and I’m not stupid.”

Lando let out a huff, half a laugh, half a growl. “Great. Add psychic to your CV. It’s fine. We’re fine. End of story.”

Mark exhaled hard, patience thinning. “You keep saying ‘fine’ like it makes it true. It doesn’t. And you know it.”

Lando’s grip tightened on the phone, frustration spiking. “Drop it, Mark.”

“How am I supposed to help you,” Mark shot back, sharper now, “if you won’t even admit what’s actually going on?”

The words sliced, too close. Lando snapped before he could reel it back. “Because I can’t, alright? I can’t tell you that kind of thing.”

The silence that followed felt heavier than before, pressing against his chest.

“I’m not asking for the full story right now,” Mark said, quieter. “But you’ve got to stop pretending with yourself. That’s where it starts.”

Silence pressed heavy, only the faint crackle of the line between them.

Lando’s mind spun, too fast, too loud. How was he supposed to explain Abu Dhabi to Mark? 

How do you say out loud that you’d looked your teammate in the eye and seen it—betrayal, disappointment, something closer to hurt—and you’d gone for it anyway? 

That you’d lined up every weakness you knew, every soft spot he’d ever shown you, and you’d fired them off like weapons?

The memory clawed back sharp: Oscar’s face, not angry, not even biting back—just still. Eyes shuttered. The kind of look that said more than words could. It had gutted him then, and it gutted him now.

He dragged a hand down his face, jaw aching from how tight he was clenching it.

How the fuck do you tell someone that? That you chose cruelty? That you aimed to wound?

That you succeeded?

The silence stretched until it burned. Finally, the words scraped out, rough, too small for the weight they carried. “I fucked it. With Oscar. Properly fucked it.”

Lando’s throat worked; his eyes burned before he could blink it back. He stared at the dark glass of the window. The truth tore free anyway. 

“I didn’t mean to. I was just… furious. After Abu Dhabi. After Max’s winning party. Everything felt like it was slipping—championship, control, all of it—and he was there. And instead of leaning on him, I lashed out. I put it all on him. Every bit of anger I’d been carrying.”

His chest rose sharp, shaky. “I knew exactly where to hit. I knew what would cut the deepest, and I said it anyway. Just to hurt him. To make someone else feel as shit as I did.”

He broke off, throat closing. The next words caught, refused to come. He couldn’t betray Oscar by saying the part that mattered most. 

Brilliant move, Norris. Push away the only one who ever bothered to stay.

So he swallowed it down, cleared his throat hard. “Now you know.”

It was the first time he’d admitted any of it out loud. To anyone. The words left him raw, nerves scraped bare, shame coiled hot in his chest. He went silent, jaw locked, unwilling to let another sound slip. Too dangerous. Too close.

The line crackled with nothing. For a moment, Lando thought maybe Mark had hung up—maybe that would’ve been easier.

When Mark finally spoke, his voice was careful, measured. “Alright. That’s… a lot to carry.”

A hollow laugh slipped out of Lando, thin and bitter. “Yeah. You could say that.”

“It’s something you’re gonna have to fix,” Mark said. Not harsh, not pitying—just fact.

“Easier said than done,” Lando muttered, eyes shutting, head tipping back against the couch.

Mark didn’t push. Not yet. His voice stayed steady, gentler now but no less firm. “I hear you. I’m not here to judge. But tell me one thing—” a beat, like he wanted to make sure it landed—“have you even tried to apologize?”

The words hit harder than the rest. Lando blinked, mind scrambling. He sifted back through the months—Abu Dhabi, winter testing, Melbourne, China, Suzuka, Bahrain, Jeddah. The interviews, the meetings, the silences. 

Not once. He’d never actually said the words. Not to Oscar. Not even close.

His stomach dropped.

He’d been telling himself there was nothing he could do, that it was too far gone. But the truth was simpler, uglier: he’d never even taken the first step.

__

April 30th — Nice Airport

The airport lounge was quiet, too quiet. No crowd, no rush—just glass walls, leather chairs, the low murmur of an attendant at the desk. Normally Max would’ve been sprawled across from him, winding him up, filling the silence. This time, there was only the hum of the air-con and the weight of his phone in his hand.

He’d been circling it for hours—thumb hovering, typing, deleting, retyping. Pathetic. Still, he wanted to get it right. Just this once.

Finally, he typed it out. Short. Careful.

Lando : hey, just wanted to know if you’d be okay to talk when I get in Miami ?

Send. Chest tight, pulse loud. Too small, too late—but at least it was something. A start.

He stared at the screen, waiting. Willing the dots to show. Nothing. 

Footsteps approached—one of the staff, polite smile in place. “Mr Norris? We’re ready for you.”

Still nothing.

By the time he crossed the tarmac toward the jet, the message sat there unchanged. 

Delivered. Seen. 

No reply.

Lando shoved the phone deep in his pocket, jaw clenched. Brilliant. He finally throws the guy a line, actually lowers himself enough to ask, and Oscar can’t even bother to answer? Perfect.

The sting burned hotter than he’d admit, pride flaring sharp. 

Fine. If Oscar wanted to play cold, he’d play colder. He’d show up in Miami better than fine.

Hood pulled low, he climbed the steps into the jet. One thought looping harder with every step.

Fuck it. If he won’t look at me, then I’ll make damn sure he can’t ignore me.

Chapter Text

OSCAR

April, 30th - Flight to Miami 

The cabin hummed with the steady drone of engines, a low vibration threading through the seatbacks and the narrow aisle. Oscar sat by the window, hood pulled up, earbuds in, the playlist nothing more than background noise. Outside, the Atlantic stretched endless and dark, broken only by the reflection of cabin lights in the glass.

He hadn’t spoken much since boarding. He didn’t need to. Quiet suited him—it always had.

The week since Jeddah had been quieter too. Lily had stayed for a few days, filling his apartment with her soft voice, her calm presence. 

She made everything gentler without even trying—reading curled up on the sofa while he went over data, slipping her hand into his without expecting more. 

She never asked why he was silent, never pushed for explanations he wasn’t ready to give. She’d laughed at his dry remarks, cooked simple meals, reminded him to breathe. Being with her was like lowering the noise in his head. 

With Lily, life felt linear, steady, easy. 

She was safe. 

She was good.

But even in those quiet days, Lando lingered.

Because Lando wasn’t safe, or easy, or linear. Lando carried a kind of energy that unsettled everything. 

On track, he was chaos and brilliance tangled together, forcing Oscar to sharpen, to react, to find edges in himself he hadn’t known were there. 

Off track, it was worse—every laugh too loud, every grin too bright, every glance cutting sharper than it had any right to. He turned whole rooms electric, pulled attention without even trying.

Oscar hated that he noticed.

The emotions Lando stirred didn’t line up neatly. One second it was anger, hot and fast. Then jealousy, gnawing low in his gut. 

Sometimes there was a pull he couldn’t name—something dangerously close to fondness, but tangled with disappointment, with resentment. 

It made no sense. It was everything at once.

And then there was Abu Dhabi.

The memory hit in fragments: the hotel room, harsh lights, voices raised. Lando’s words—sharp, cruel—still ricocheting in his skull like shrapnel. 

I don’t need a girlfriend, Oscar. Don’t mistake yourself for one. 

Oscar hadn’t expected it, hadn’t been ready for it. He could still feel the way the floor seemed to drop under him, the way his chest cracked open at the sound of it. He’d taken hits before—criticism, pressure, failure—but nothing had ever landed like that.

He still didn’t understand why. Why those words, from him, had torn so deep. What exactly Lando had touched in him to leave a bruise that refused to heal.

Oscar shifted in his seat, restless. His phone glowed in his hand, unlocked. One message sat waiting.

hey, just wanted to know if you’d be okay to talk when I get in Miami ?

Sent a few hours earlier. From Lando.

Oscar stared at it. His thumb hovered. The dots marked seen. He hadn’t replied. 

He wouldn’t.

He closed his eyes, head pressed back against the seat. He told himself it was the only choice. 

Lando was the trigger for every messy, unmanageable emotion he couldn’t afford right now. 

He was leading the championship. He needed discipline, clarity, control. He couldn’t let Lando pollute that.

So he did what he’d trained himself to do: locked it down. Slid the phone face-down on the tray and folded his arms tight across his chest.

The message stayed where it was. 

Delivered. 

Seen. 

Unanswered.

—

May, 2nd - Miami paddocks 

The sun was already brutal, bouncing off chrome rails and glass panels as Oscar climbed the steps to the McLaren motorhome. Cap low, focus narrowed, mind already on briefings and data.

And then he heard it.

Lando’s laugh—loud, bright, impossible to ignore. Spilling out from hospitality like it owned the place. Oscar’s jaw clenched before he even reached the door.

Inside, there he was. Of course. Jeans hanging loose, white T-shirt catching the light, cap spun backwards like he’d rolled out of bed. Except Oscar knew better—Lando never did anything by accident. He was golden, magnetic, pulling people in without effort. 

Always.

Max Fewtrell was there, predictably glued to his side. A couple of strangers too, orbiting the same sun. One of them, a blonde girl, tipped her head back at something he said, hand brushing his arm like it was nothing.

Oscar’s grip tightened on his bag. He looked away fast, pushed for the stairs, but his eyes had already taken in too much. Every detail, whether he wanted them or not.

—

Miami, Briefing room 

The briefing room was cool, blinds drawn tight against the Miami sun. Oscar slid into his usual seat, tablet in front, stylus steady between his fingers. Data glowed on the wall—track temps, sector breakdowns, weather projections. 

Safe ground. Numbers never lied.

The door swung open. Late. Obviously.

Lando strolled in, papaya kit crisp against his tan, curls still damp, grin already loaded like he’d been waiting for an audience. He dropped into the room with that same charge he always carried—bright, loud, magnetic. The kind of thing that pulled eyes whether he wanted it or not.

Oscar hated how automatic it was. How the air shifted the second Lando entered. 

How even he wasn’t immune.

Zak clapped his hands. “Alright, gentlemen. Sprint weekend. Shorter prep, higher stakes. Keep it clean.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Lando drawled, sliding into a chair like he owned it. “Less talk, more driving.”

Andrea’s glare cut sharp. “You’ll listen first. Drive later.”

Laughter rippled from the engineers. Lando just smirked wider, folding his arms like he was born untouchable.

Andrea pressed on. “One FP session. Then quali Friday. Oscar, baseline set-up. Lando, alternate run plan.”

“Got it,” Oscar said, pen tapping once against the tablet. Eyes down. Focus.

“Copy, boss,” Lando chimed in, mock-solemn, before winking at a mechanic. Like the whole place existed for his amusement.

Zak shook his head, exasperated but smiling. “You two are the sharp end of the grid right now. Let’s keep it that way.”

“Don’t worry,” Lando grinned. “Miami loves a show. I’ll give them one.”

Oscar kept his eyes pinned to the data. But the heat of that confidence filled the room anyway—reckless, loud, impossible to ignore.

—

May, 2nd  — McLaren content shooting 

Sprint quali done. P3 on the board, media rounds ticked off. He knew what came next: PR bits, cameras, smiling on demand. 

He sat tucked in a corner of hospitality, waiting, legs stretched long under the table, pretending to scroll while the staff buzzed around clearing plates and stacking glasses. 

All he wanted was his hotel room, dark and quiet.

And then there was Lando.

Oscar had seen him earlier, drifting out of hospitality, orbit packed tight. Max Fewtrell never far away, three others trailing behind. One of them—Magui, someone told him—never left his space. She laughed at every line, leaned in too close, brushed his arm like she’d done it a hundred times.

Oscar told himself it was nothing. Just a friend. Just another face in Lando’s endless carousel. But every time he looked up, there she was again—fingers catching his wrist mid-joke, hand ghosting over his back in the corridor, close enough to look permanent. 

And Lando let it happen. 

Worse—he fed it. The cocked grin, the hand at her elbow, the lean-in like it was private.

It wasn’t subtle. 

It was a fucking show.

Oscar kept his jaw locked through the post-quali interviews, through the half-hearted small talk with engineers. Still, his eyes slipped, traitorously, across the glass panels to where Lando stood—laughter spilling too loud, eyes gleaming as they found his before swinging back to her. That smirk lingered longer than it should have.

Oscar’s chest burned hot, the same ugly mix as always. 

Not about her. 

Not about them.

It was Lando. 

Always Lando. Turning the room into a stage and making sure Oscar never looked away.

“Piastri, Norris—five minutes.” A PR voice cut across the room, sharp, breaking the tension. Oscar’s fingers tightened around the bottle as he pushed up from his chair.

Time to play.

—

The set-up was standard McLaren PR—banners, lights, cameras humming. Oscar had done enough of these by now to know the drill. 

Stand here. Smile there. Pretend you weren’t running on fumes.

Lando slid into his spot beside him like he was born for it—loose shoulders, grin sharp, chain glinting at his collarbone. Sunlight in human form.

“Rolling,” the manager called.

Lando switched on instantly. “Alright! Miami weekend. Big heat, big vibes. Survival depends on the right routine, yeah?”

He threw Oscar a look, expectant.

Oscar forced a nod. “Preparation,” he said, voice flat. “That’s the routine.”

The crew chuckled politely. Lando covered the dead air, laugh bright. “Yeah, he’s all business. Bed early, spreadsheets, probably meditates before quali.”

“Not really,” Oscar muttered, eyes on the lens.

The PR lead clapped lightly. “Bit more energy, Oscar. Let’s try again.”

He exhaled through his nose, jaw tight. 

Energy. Right. Like it wasn’t already drained out of him hours ago.

Lando elbowed him lightly. “Come on, mate. Don’t make me do all the work.”

Oscar glanced sideways, caught the flicker in Lando’s grin—something sharper, testing. He looked back at the camera. “Some of us save our energy for the track,” he said, clipped.

The room laughed. Banter, apparently. Lando leaned in, smile still dazzling. “He means me. I’m the reason he survives weekends at all. True story.”

Oscar’s lips twitched, not quite a smile. “I don’t recall signing off on that version.”

The PR team beamed. “Yes, that’s good! Keep going, you two.”

Oscar wanted to tell them no—that this wasn’t good, it was hollow, that he was running on muscle memory and nothing else. But he nodded once, forced his mouth into something passable. 

Play along.

Lando picked up again, gesturing at him. “Best thing is, he pretends he doesn’t like being dragged out for a proper dinner. But then he eats half my dessert.”

Oscar deadpanned, “Because you order two.”

Lando threw his head back laughing, milking it for the crew. They cooed, delighted. 

Easy chemistry, perfect content.

Except Oscar felt none of it. Just the hollow thrum in his chest, the ache of remembering when this had been easy. 

When he’d actually wanted to laugh with him.

“Cut! Brilliant. Let’s reset angles.”

Cables shuffled, lights adjusted. For a beat, quiet. Lando’s smile didn’t drop, but his voice dropped low, angled toward him. “Come on, at least pretend you’re enjoying this.”

Oscar kept his eyes on the floor marks taped under his shoes. “Maybe I don’t feel like being your punchline today.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Oscar caught it—Lando’s grin twitching, thinner, his eyes flicking away for a beat before snapping back. Not gone, never gone, but cracked just enough.

“Careful,” Lando murmured, still smiling for the room. “That almost sounded like honesty.”

Oscar’s throat tightened. He forced a steady tone. “Careful. That almost sounded like guilt.”

The pause was sharp, their shoulders almost brushing. Lando’s eyes flicked, quick. Then the grin clicked back in place. “Touché.”

“Rolling again!”

They faced the camera, smiles plastered, playing their parts like nothing had slipped.

On screen it would look fine. Banter, spark, the golden duo.

Inside, Oscar felt like he was choking on it.

Fucking Lando.

—

May, 4th - Miami, Race day 

The Miami heat pressed in even before formation lap, heavy and damp inside the suit. Engines snarled around him, crowd noise bleeding through the helmet. None of it touched him. He shut it out, visor low, pulse steady.

Lights out.

Verstappen jumped, Lando dived, but Oscar held the line. Waited. By lap fourteen, the gap opened—small, sharp, enough. He slid past Verstappen with precision, no hesitation, like the move had always been written. 

After that it was simple. 

Lap after lap, build the gap, control the pace. His engineer’s voice stayed calm in his ear, just numbers confirming what he already knew in his bones.

Control.

The mirrors told the story anyway. Papaya blur filling them, pressuring, close enough to feel—until it wasn’t. Lando dropped back, the seconds stretched, and Oscar pressed harder. Merciless.

Fifty-seven laps. Chequered flag. 

Win. Clear.

McLaren one-two. Him first. Lando second.

The radio exploded—Andrea sharp with pride, Zak near shouting. Oscar let out a breath that rattled, chest tight, sweat running cold now under the fireproofs. 

Victory, points, standings tilting in his favor.

Parc fermé was noise, flashes, heat pressing even heavier. He tugged his helmet off, cap swapped in, expression flat, measured. Lando was beside him for the photos, grin wide enough for the both of them. 

Wide, practiced. His jaw was too tight underneath.

Hospitality after blurred—champagne spraying, shirts clinging, everyone loud with the win. Oscar nodded through it, accepted the claps on the back, the praise, the chants. Numbers spun in his head—lead extended, control reinforced.

And still, through the noise, there was Lando. Always Lando. Grinning for cameras, golden in the spotlight. 

Close but never close enough. 

—

Sunday Night — McLaren Rooftop Party, Miami

Oscar had been dragged here against his better judgment. Zak insisted, Andrea gave him the look, and half the team would’ve called it disrespect if he hadn’t shown. 

McLaren had done the one-two. 

In Miami, that meant excess. Rooftop bar, skyline glittering, bass rattling the floor under his shoes. 

Not his scene. Never was. But he showed up anyway—drink in hand, collar tugged loose, going through motions.

The heat pressed in, sticky even with the ocean breeze. Staff in papaya shirts chanting, champagne spraying off the balcony, everyone drunk on victory. Oscar sipped slow, stayed at the edges, let the noise blur.

Except it didn’t.

Because there was him.

Lando in the middle of it all, shirt untucked, grin wide and reckless. Like he’d been made for this—lights, noise, eyes on him. Every laugh too loud, every gesture magnetic. Arms thrown around shoulders, charm pouring easy into whoever was closest. 

Tonight it was her.

Magui. 

Bright, radiant, reflecting his energy like a mirror. She leaned in, smiling wide, hand brushing his chest. He spun her once, easy, cocky, hand low at her waist. The crowd whooped.

Oscar hated that he noticed every shift. The tilt of Lando’s grin. The arc of her wrist when she caught his shoulder. The way his touch lingered, just a second too long, just enough to read as deliberate. It was reckless, sensual, intoxicating. 

And it hit Oscar in the gut, sharp and low.

Because it wasn’t new. 

That pull—it had been there long before Abu Dhabi. 

Before the words that split them apart. 

Back in the days when Oscar used to laugh too much at his jokes, when he let himself look a beat too long, when he couldn’t explain why the air felt charged just sitting beside him.

He’d buried it. Packed it away. Safe. Linear. Necessary. And now it clawed back, raw as ever, just because Lando couldn’t keep his hands to himself on a fucking rooftop.

The crowd whooped when Lando spun her again, his laugh spilling bright over the music. And then—his head turned. His eyes cut across the dance floor, across the noise, and landed straight on Oscar.

Not by accident. Not a drift. Intentional.

A grin followed, sharper than the rest, like the whole performance had always been aimed his way.

Oscar’s chest went tight. He didn’t move, didn’t blink, just locked in the stare until Lando broke it—turning back to Magui, lips near her ear, another wave of laughter chasing them.

Oscar drained what was left of his glass. The alcohol burned going down, but it wasn’t enough to blunt the heat twisting in his chest. 

He needed air. He needed out. 

Oscar dragged his gaze down, let himself sink back into the crush of people.

Someone clapped him on the back, another shoved a glass into his hand, voices piling congratulations over congratulations. He nodded where he had to, muttered thanks he barely heard himself say, all while the bass rattled through his ribs and the heat pressed in thick.

It was suffocating. Too much light, too much noise, too much of Lando in the middle of it all.

—

One door, a narrow corridor, and the air shifted—cooler, drier, the hum of the AC replacing the roar outside. 

Oscar leaned back against the wall, eyes shutting tight. The chill of the plaster seeped into his shoulders, grounding him, while the reel in his head refused to stop.

He let out a slow breath, shoulders easing for the first time all night. Just five minutes. Just space to breathe.

The bathroom door clicked open.

Lando emerged—shirt untucked, curls damp, grin wide with drink. His eyes landed on Oscar instantly, like he’d been expecting him. “Well, well. Caught you hiding.”

Oscar straightened. “Didn’t realize it was a crime.”

“Depends who you’re hiding from.” Lando swaggered closer, leaning against the opposite wall, arms loose. “If it’s me—yeah, that’s criminal.”

Oscar rolled his eyes, glass still cold in his hand. “Pretty sure not everything’s about you.”

“Isn’t it?” Lando tipped his head, grin sharp. “Come on, mate. Whole party out there, everyone buzzing, and you’re here sulking by the AC. What am I supposed to think?”

“I’m not sulking.”

“Course not. Just standing around looking like your dog died. Totally different.”

Oscar’s jaw ticked. “Always so funny.”

“I am,” Lando said without hesitation, stepping forward. “Funnier when you actually laugh, though. Remember that? You used to.”

The words landed heavier than they should. Oscar’s grip tightened on his glass. “Maybe I grew up.”

“Maybe you got boring.” Lando smirked, leaning closer, shoulder brushing the wall beside Oscar’s. “Can’t even crack a smile unless PR begs you.”

Oscar met his gaze, steady. “At least mine aren’t fake.”

Lando’s grin twitched, quick and dangerous. “Oh, that’s good. You should save that for the cameras. Real cutting-edge banter.”

The air between them thinned, electric.

Oscar forced himself to stay still, voice even. “You’ve been drinking.”

“You’ve been staring,” Lando shot back, no hesitation.

Oscar froze for half a beat too long. “I wasn’t.”

“Sure.” Lando laughed under his breath, leaning in just enough that Oscar felt the warmth of it against his cheek. 

“Coincidence, right? Every time I looked up—there you were, eyes on me. Like you couldn’t help yourself.”

Oscar’s throat worked. He snapped, sharper now. “You were putting on a fucking show. Hard not to notice.”

Lando’s smile widened, cruel and pleased. “Ah. So you did notice.”

“Anyone would have.”

“But it wasn’t anyone, was it?” Another step closer, chest brushing Oscar’s arm now, his voice a low purr. “It was you.”

Oscar’s pulse thumped hot, breath clipped. “Get over yourself.”

“Why should I?” Lando tilted his head, eyes gleaming. “When you’re doing such a shit job pretending you don’t care.”

Oscar bit down hard on his tongue, refusing to flinch. “You want me to care.”

Lando’s grin curled, merciless. “And you do.”

The silence stretched, taut. Oscar’s back hit the wall before he realized Lando had closed the space entirely. He was cornered, the corridor too narrow, Lando too close.

Oscar forced a low mutter. “You’re drunk.”

“So?” Lando murmured, leaning in. He smelled of champagne and cologne, sharp and sweet. “Makes me honest.”

Oscar tried for steady, sarcasm biting. “Honest enough to admit you’re an attention addict?”

“Honest enough,” Lando countered easily, “to know you can’t look away. Not then, not now.”

Silence stretched. Oscar’s pulse thundered in his ears. He tried to angle his body, but Lando was already there. 

“You’re jealous,” Lando said finally, voice gone quiet, almost gentle.

Oscar’s throat worked. “No.”

“Lie.” Lando tilted his head, studying him like data on a screen. Then he smiled, slow, dangerous. 

His hand lifted—Oscar flinched, but it didn’t stop him. The pad of his thumb pressed against Oscar’s bottom lip, feather-light.

Oscar froze. Every nerve screamed, pulse jerking hard.

Lando dragged it down, deliberate, tracing the line of his chin, lingering at the hollow of his throat. 

“See?” he murmured. “Eyes don’t lie. Yours never did.”

Oscar’s breath stuttered out, shaky. “Back off.”

“Don’t want to.” Lando’s grin hovered inches from his mouth. “And you don’t want me to either.”

Oscar forced steel into his voice. “You think this is funny?”

“I think it’s true.” Lando’s chest brushed his now, pressure solid. His grin flicked sharper. 

Oscar’s glass trembled in his hand. His free hand twitched at his side, desperate to push him away.

Desperate to do the opposite.

Lando tilted his head, voice dropping to a near-whisper, almost brushing Oscar’s ear. “You should be careful, mate. Someone might think you want this.”

Oscar’s knees nearly buckled.

Then, just as sudden, Lando stepped back. Clean, sharp, like he’d never touched him at all. The grin stayed, but it was darker now. Victorious.

And with that, he turned, swagger intact, disappearing back into the roar of the rooftop.

Oscar stayed pinned to the wall, chest heaving, lips tingling, every thought a wreckage.

Like climbing out of the car after a crash—body intact, but every nerve fried.

Chapter Text

May, 5th — Lando’s hotel room

The first thing was the light. Brutal. Blinding. Like someone had parked the bloody sun right outside his window. 

Lando groaned, yanking the sheet over his head. His mouth tasted like vodka and Haribo, his skin tacky with sweat.

The second thing was the weight beside him.

Magui. 

Curled up, hair a mess, lips parted, breathing slow. Looked peaceful. Like she’d been designed by some algorithm to slot perfectly into this bed, into this morning. 

“Fuck,” he muttered into the mattress.

Because he hadn’t planned this. 

Not last night, not ever.

But the reel played anyway. The podium—sticky champagne drying on his race suit, flashbulbs frying his retinas. 

Then the rooftop: bass punching through his chest, drinks shoved into his hand faster than he could down them, Magui’s laugh pressed hot at his neck, her fingers curled into his shirt. The spin on the dance floor, her body fitting easy against his. Her mouth at his ear: Come back with me.

And he’d said yes.

Of course he had. 

Because he was a genius like that.

But it wasn’t her voice echoing now.

It was Oscar.

The way Lando had leaned in like a total dickhead, thumb brushing his lip, tracing down his throat. 

The way Oscar hadn’t moved. Hadn’t shoved him away. Hadn’t leaned in either. Just frozen—like the whole world had decided to hold its breath at once.

Lando groaned louder, flipping onto his stomach, face buried in the pillow. If he suffocated, fine. Problem solved.

Brilliant. 

Absolutely brilliant. 

He’d meant to fix things, maybe even apologize—like Mark had told him, like Andrea would’ve wanted. 

Instead? He’d gone full teenage soap opera. Pinned Oscar to a wall and whispered shit that should’ve stayed locked in his skull. 

His heart pounded, head still spinning, shame burning hot under the hangover. 

Magui’s laugh. 

Oscar’s stare. 

His own voice, low, ringing in his ears.

He pressed his palms into his eyes until fireworks burst behind the lids. Didn’t help. Nothing drowned it out.

—

Hotel terrace — late morning

The terrace was already buzzing with sunlight. Lando dragged himself out, sunglasses shoved on like armour.

“Oi, look who finally crawled out of bed,” Max grinned, lounging back like he owned the place. “Rough night, mate?”

Alex barked a laugh. “He looks like death. Proper walk of shame vibes.”

Tommy lifted his mug, smirk wide. “Bet it wasn’t much of a walk. Penthouse lift of shame, more like.”

Lando tugged a chair out and dropped into it, trying not to wince. “Cheers, lads. Lovely welcome.” He reached for the coffee pot, nearly spilling it. “I’m thriving, obviously.”

“Thriving?” Max raised his brows. “Sure. That’s why you’ve got sunglasses on indoors.”

“It’s outdoors,” Lando muttered, waving vaguely at the bay. “And they’re for your faces, actually.”

Alex leaned forward, grin sharp. “So, Magui spent the night, then?”

The way they said it—knowing, like they’d all clocked him leaving the rooftop with her—made his stomach twist. He forced a grin anyway. “Yup. Poor girl didn’t stand a chance.”

Should he text him? Just—sorry, mate? 

No. Stupid. Pointless.

Max whistled low, clapping once. “Boy finally seals the deal.”

“Finally?” Tommy scoffed. “Please. He’s got a rotation, guaranteed.”

Lando snorted. “Rotation? Mate, I can barely keep one plant alive.”

Would Oscar believe him if he said it hadn’t meant anything? 

“Oh come on,” Alex teased. “You’re never short of options. Miami lights, bit of champagne—easy pickings.”

“Classic Lando,” Max smirked. “Wins on track, wins off it.”

They laughed, mugs clinking. Lando laughed with them, because that’s what was expected. The golden boy routine. Easy. Automatic. Nobody had to know his head was still back in that corridor.

“McLaren knows how to throw a party, though,” Alex said, reaching for toast. “That rooftop—madness.”

“Still got champagne in my ears,” Tommy groaned. “Half the team ended up dancing on tables.”

Max nudged Lando with his elbow. “You were the one on fire, though. Spinning girls around like it was Love Island.”

“Didn’t hear anyone complaining,” Lando fired back smoothly. His mask never slipped.

They jeered, laughed louder, raising mugs like another toast. The noise was cover—enough for him to breathe, to hide.

“Alright,” Max said after a beat, stretching. “Plan for today. We rent a boat, beers, sun, swimming. Perfect recovery.”

“I’m in,” Alex perked up.

Max looked over, grin sharp. “You in, Lando? Or do you need another nap first?”

Lando leaned back like he had the world on a string. “Nap’s overrated. I’m in. Let’s make a day of it.”

Ignore it. Pretend it never happened. That was always an option. 

Right?

More laughter, more ribbing. On the surface, it looked effortless. Inside, his stomach twisted tighter. 

He hadn’t decided yet.

—

Out on the water 

The boat cut smooth over the waves, spray catching the sunlight, music thumping faint from a speaker somewhere near the back. The guys were loud—Max and the others already cracking open beers, laughter spilling over the engine’s hum.

Lando stretched out at the bow, shirt off, cap pulled low, letting the heat sink into his skin. He needed it—the sun, the silence, the ocean stretching endless in every direction. A cure for the throb still lodged behind his eyes.

“May I?”

He cracked an eye open. Magui stood there, hair tugged loose in the breeze, drink in hand. The sunlight made her look golden, almost as bright as her smile.

“Yeah,” he said, sliding an arm out so she could drop onto the cushion beside him.

She sank down, legs folding neatly, shoulder brushing his as she leaned back. “You look dead.”

“Cheers,” Lando muttered, tugging his cap lower.

She laughed softly. “Long night?”

“You were there,” he shot back, a grin ghosting across his face.

“True,” she said, sipping at her drink. “I’m impressed you even made it out of bed.”

“Barely did,” he admitted, voice low, but the words came easier than he expected.

They sat in the warmth for a moment, the sea breeze pulling strands of her hair across her face. She brushed them away, looking at him sidelong. “You always go that hard after a race?”

He chuckled, stretching his legs. “Not always. Sometimes.” He tilted his head toward her. “Depends who’s around.”

Her smile lingered, playful. “So it was for me, then?”

Lando smirked, eyes slipping shut again. “Guess you’ll never know.”

She hummed, then shifted, stretching out fully on the cushion beside him. Her arm rested loose against her stomach, drink abandoned, eyes slipping shut too.

The sun pressed warm across his skin. For once, he didn’t fight it. He let the noise from the back of the boat fade, let the thrum of the engine blend with the steady roll of waves.

His thoughts drifted, lazy for the first time in weeks. Maybe this was what he needed. A podium. The ocean. The sun on his face. A girl beside him who was easy—bright, funny, uncomplicated. 

Someone who didn’t twist him up into knots, didn’t drag him into the chaos of his own head.

—

Lando had decided to stay. Just a little longer. A few extra days in Miami, riding the buzz of the one-two, soaking in the sun with Max, Alex, Tommy—and Magui.

Not the plan. 

The plan had been simple: fly out, race, fly back. Monaco next. Job done. 

But the thought of Monaco straight after Miami felt heavy, like walking into a room where the air had already gone stale. Here, everything was lighter.

And with Magui, lighter still.

They’d ended up together again. Twice, three times—he wasn’t counting. 

Not because it meant anything big. Just because it was… uncomplicated. No sulking silences. No tension you could cut with a knife. No weight pressing like an anvil every time he opened his mouth. 

She laughed at his stupid jokes, kissed him without hesitation, didn’t ask for anything he couldn’t give.

Easy. Effortless.

Almost too effortless.

Because the more she laughed, the more she leaned into him like it was natural, the more he couldn’t stop the thought creeping in: when had easy stopped being enough?

He told himself this was good for him. A reset. Vitamin D, salt air, Magui’s smile. Things that didn’t leave him wrecked for days after. 

And yet—he still woke up with other reels playing in his head. The corridor. The look in Oscar’s eyes. His own voice, low and reckless: Eyes don’t lie. Yours never did.

And then he hated himself. Because what kind of idiot screws things up that badly, and then lies on a yacht pretending sunshine and casual hook-ups are the cure?

Still, better this than silence. Better Magui’s laugh than the noise in his own head.

He was back in his hotel room now, half-packing, half-ignoring the mess. Hoodies shoved into corners, trainers still damp from the boat trip. 

The early flight tomorrow would drag him across the ocean whether he was ready or not.

He wasn’t. Not even close.

The sliding door creaked. Magui leaned in from the terrace. She watched him for a moment before stepping inside.

“You’re really leaving tomorrow?” she asked softly.

He glanced up, half-smile tugging his lips. “Yeah. Monaco calls. Sponsors would cry if I ghosted them.”

She set the glass down, perched on the edge of the bed. “Then have dinner with me tonight. Just us. Before you go.”

He blinked. For all the time they’d spent together, they hadn’t done that—not properly. Nights had blurred into music, rooftops, laughter. But this? This was intentional. A choice.

Dinner. Just the word made something in his stomach twist. Because dinner meant conversation. Conversation meant thinking. 

And thinking meant—well, that never ended well.

“Dinner,” he repeated, then let a grin break across his face. “Alright. Dinner.”

—

The restaurant glowed low and golden, tucked away on the quieter end of the city. No cameras, no autographs—just the hum of conversation, the clink of cutlery, the kind of calm people paid for.

Magui was across from him, curls catching the candlelight, laughter bubbling as she teased him. She made it easy. 

Lando grinned, shaking his head, and reached for his phone. Reflex. Something to do with his hands while she bent over the wine list.

The screen lit—and his stomach dropped.

Oscar’s name. Circle glowing at the top. A story.

He should’ve swiped past. He didn’t.

The clip was nothing. 

Fifteen seconds of a balcony, dusk behind them. Lily tugging at Oscar’s hoodie, laughing too hard to care about the camera. 

Oscar letting her, calm, half-smiling, eyes soft in a way Lando hadn’t seen in months. Music faint in the background, something mellow. Easy. Natural.

Lando’s chest pulled tight.

It wasn’t Lily. Not really. 

It was the fact that Oscar looked… fine. 

Like Abu Dhabi hadn’t happened. 

Like that corridor hadn’t happened. 

Like Lando hadn’t said a single word sharp enough to cut.

And that was the part that stung, the part that made his chest tighten—because some rotten corner of him hated it. 

Hated that Oscar looked steady, untouched, like Lando had bounced right off him. No trace. No dent. Nothing.

Pathetic, really, wanting proof he’d mattered—wanting to see some mark left behind, even if it was a bruise. 

Instead, Oscar just looked calm. Whole. 

Like he’d been bulletproof all along.

The story flicked off, but his fingers twitched, itching to go back, to watch again, to find some crack in the veneer. 

There wasn’t one.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Magui said, chin propped on her hand, still scanning the wine list. “Find something more interesting than me?”

Lando dropped the phone flat on the table, screen dark. Too fast. “Nah,” he said, voice too quick, too tight. Then forced a grin. “Sponsor crap. Riveting stuff.”

Her brows arched, lips tugging amused. “Sponsor crap that makes you look like someone nicked your dessert?”

He huffed a laugh, crooked. “Guess I take tiramisu very seriously.”

She leaned back, mock-suspicious. “Or was it another girlfriend?”

The word sliced deeper than it should’ve. Lando smirked anyway, golden boy reflex kicking in. “Yeah, loads. Whole roster. Max probably keeps track for me.”

She laughed—light, unbothered, chasing the tension from the air.

He laughed too, because that’s what you did. Except his fingers itched under the table, nails digging into his palm around the phone.

The screen was dark, but the image wouldn’t leave him—Oscar steady, laughing with someone else. 

A version of him that didn’t need fixing, didn’t need him.

And fuck, maybe that was the worst of it.

Because every hour he stayed silent, the mess between them grew heavier, thicker, harder to claw back from.

And still, he said nothing.

—

Early morning - Flight back to Monaco

Lando sprawled across the couch, hoodie bunched at his shoulders, hood pulled low. He hadn’t slept. 

Couldn’t. 

This was all he could think about really. 

Oscar’s back against the wall. Their chests colliding. The tremor in his hand. His eyes—sharp, panicked, wanting. 

And Lando, close enough to feel his breath, thumb pressed against his lip like he owned him.

He groaned, scrubbing hard at his face. 

What the fuck had he been thinking? 

It was supposed to be an apology. That was the plan. One decent thing. 

Instead, he’d cornered him like some drunk frat boy, spat out shit he couldn’t take back. 

Except that wasn’t the whole truth. 

And Lando knew it.

Because part of him had liked it. Too much.

Liked watching Oscar freeze under his touch. 

Liked the way control had snapped into his hands, sharp and intoxicating. 

Liked knowing he could get that close, close enough to make him falter, to make him unravel. 

For a second it had felt like power, raw and electric—like he wasn’t the one spiraling for once. Like Oscar was.

And that was the worst part. He hated himself for it. And he couldn’t stop replaying it anyway.

Why? 

Why did that moment cling harder than the win, the podium, the fucking boat with Magui and the lads? 

Why did the memory of Oscar’s parted lips hit sharper than any champagne toast? 

Why did the guilt burn in his chest at the same time the thought of it sent heat crawling down his spine?

The truth was, it didn’t start in Miami. Not really. 

He’d known it long before Abu Dhabi—how much he got off on watching Oscar crack. Just little things, stupid things.

The way his ears went pink when Lando leaned in too close during media day. 

The sharp inhale when he elbowed him under the table at dinner. 

The flicker in his eyes whenever Lando pushed too far with a joke. 

Subtle shifts in a face that usually gave nothing away.

But it hadn’t only been that. 

Late nights in hotel rooms, when Oscar sat on the edge of the bed, scrolling through data on his laptop, jaw locked in focus—until Lando stretched out too close beside him, thigh brushing thigh. Oscar hadn’t moved, but his fingers had stilled on the keyboard, just for a second.

Or the cool-down room after a quali session, sweat still drying on their skin, when Lando leaned forward, murmured some nonsense in his ear—Oscar’s eyes had flicked wide, his breath hitched sharp, before he forced it back down into blank composure.

Or the way his voice sometimes broke—barely, but enough—when they were alone in the garage, helmets off, adrenaline still bleeding out. Lando would tease, push, prod at him, and Oscar’s low replies came rougher, more frayed than he probably realized.

And fuck, Lando had loved it. 

Loved being the one to pull something raw out of someone who lived behind walls. To watch Oscar flinch, or flush, or lose that razor composure for even a heartbeat. 

To know that he was the reason for it.

It had been addictive. 

He had been addictive.

And maybe that was the sickest part—realizing he’d been chasing that look, that crack in the armor, for longer than he cared to admit. 

Abu Dhabi had just ripped it wide open.

He shoved a hand through his curls, groaning again. 

He should’ve stopped. He should’ve apologized, meant it, walked away. 

Instead he’d doubled down, turned it into a fucking game. And yeah, he could dress it up as guilt or frustration or bad timing, but deep down he knew: he’d wanted it.

Wanted to see Oscar lose his composure. 

Wanted to feel that edge of power, of control, right there under his fingertips. 

And now? Now he couldn’t stop asking himself why.

Why him? Why Oscar, of all people? Why did it matter so much what he thought, how he looked, whether he cared? 

Why was it Oscar’s silence that burned hotter than Magui’s laugh, than champagne, than every cheer he’d soaked up in Miami?

Lando dragged a hand over his face, groaning. 

He knew what the answer should be. 

Keep it clean. Keep it professional. 

Points, podiums, headlines that didn’t involve him acting like a complete idiot in a corridor. Imola was next. He should roll in sharp, locked in, zero distractions. That was the rational play.

Except the rational play had never made his pulse spike.

Because now Oscar wasn’t giving him anything. 

No half-smiles across the garage, no quick digs under his breath, no cracks in the armour. Just cold professionalism, blank composure, all locked tight. 

And it drove Lando insane. 

Because he’d had it once—he’d seen Oscar falter, flush, twitch under his hand, under his voice. 

He’d felt it in Miami, and before that, a hundred little moments no one else had clocked.

And now? Nothing. A wall.

The thought should have cooled him, should have made it easier to move on. To chase the buzz somewhere else. Easy fixes, uncomplicated. He could drown himself in that if he wanted. Pretend it scratched the same itch.

But it didn’t. 

It never did.

Because what hooked him wasn’t the laughter or the touch or the adoration. 

It was Oscar. 

Steady, unreadable Oscar—shaking for once, cracking open in ways no one else ever got to see. 

Lando had made that happen. He’d felt the power of it in his bones. And maybe that was toxic, maybe it was fucked, but it was real.

So what then? Shut it down, or chase it again?

He sighed into the hood, chest tight. 

The smart call was silence. Distance. Let it die. 

But the truth burned hot and restless under his skin: the more Oscar pulled away, the more Lando wanted to drag him back in.

Imola was coming fast, and Lando had no idea which side of himself he’d bring to the grid.

Chapter Text

May 15th — Imola paddock

For the first time in weeks, Lando felt lighter. Not fixed—never that—but steadier. 

The Miami sun, the podium, the boat days, the noise of friends that drowned out his own head… it had stitched him back together just enough. 

The anxiety hadn’t vanished, but it sat quieter now, muted under the surface. He looked sharper in the mirror that morning, grin ready, shoulders squared. 

Imola helped. 

He liked this place. The fans pressed tight against the barriers, papaya flags snapping in the breeze, their chants carrying across the paddock before he’d even stepped inside. 

He slowed just long enough to lift a hand, grin flashing quick for the cameras, before ducking through the motorhome doors.

“Morning,” he called, sunnies still on as he passed through the lobby. 

The conference room was half full already—Zak at the head of the table, Andrea leafing through notes, two PR managers fussing with slides. 

Lando dropped into a chair, stretching his legs under the table.

“Ciao,” he said, grin crooked. “Miss me?”

One of the PR women didn’t even look up from her laptop. “We missed you keeping your shirt on in Miami.”

That got a laugh from Zak.

Lando smirked, leaning back. “What, can’t let the tan go to waste.”

“Exactly the issue,” the PR woman replied crisply, flipping to a slide full of headlines. 

Lando Norris parties in Miami. 

Norris celebrates one-two with mystery blonde.

She tapped the screen. “This is what you’ll be asked about today. Deflect, redirect, keep answers short. We’re not here to sell gossip.”

“Relax,” Lando said, folding his arms. “I’ll say the usual—had a good weekend, great team spirit, focus is Imola. Easy.”

“Not too defensive,” she warned. “Smile, pivot, repeat. And don’t joke about it too much—it’ll fuel the narrative.”

Lando’s grin sharpened. “So no ‘yeah, she’s my personal strategist’? Shame. Could’ve been a good line.”

Zak gave him a look over his glasses. “Do us all a favour, save the good lines for the track.”

Oscar slipped in—late. Not his style. He nodded once to Andrea, quiet, then slid into the seat across from Lando. 

Lando felt his grin tighten just a fraction. Typical. He could show up late, sit down like nothing, and still look like he owned the bloody room. No apology, no excuse—just that wall of calm that made everyone else look chaotic in comparison.

The PR manager clicked to the next slide—another pap shot blown up huge on the screen. 

Lando on the boat, beer bottle dangling, smile wide, curls damp. 

Golden boy on holiday.

He braced, waiting for it. 

Some flicker, some crack. 

But Oscar’s eyes only flicked to the photo once, then down to the tablet in front of him. Nothing. No twitch of the mouth, no raised brow, not even the satisfaction of a side-eye. 

It shouldn’t have mattered. 

Except it did. 

Because Lando knew he’d seen it. Knew Oscar had clocked the whole mess, the headlines, the blonde at his side. And still—nothing. Like it didn’t even register. Like Lando was background noise.

The PR woman snapped her folder shut. “Alright, boys. Here’s today. In one hour, media pen—you’ll both be paired with Max and Charles. This afternoon, content shoot. One video tasting Italian gelato, a few fan questions. Keep it fun, keep it short. That’s all the sponsor deliverables.”

She looked between them. “Questions?”

Lando smirked, leaning back in his chair, stretching long like the seat was his stage. “Sounds delicious.”

Zak gave him a warning glance over his glasses, Andrea cleared his throat, grounding them. 

“Alright. Enough tabloids. Let’s talk about cars.”

___

May, 15th - Imola, Media day 

The media room was chilled under the air-con, a neat row of cameras lined up opposite a low grey sofa. 

Max strolled in first, dropped onto the middle cushion like he owned the place, arms spread across the backrest.

“Make yourselves at home, huh?” Charles muttered as he sat down on Max’s right, shaking his head.

“Already did,” Max shot back, flashing a grin.

Lando slid into the seat on Max’s left, lounging with the same careless ease. The three of them were already laughing before Oscar even entered.

He hesitated a beat in the doorway—then crossed the room and lowered himself into the empty space beside Lando. 

Close enough that their arms almost brushed. For half a second, their eyes met. Neither said a word.

The first journalist cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, thank you. Straight to it—tight battle at the top this year. How do you all see the fight shaping up?”

Max leaned toward the mic, solemn for about half a second. “Easy. Charles wins in Monaco, I win everywhere else.”

Charles groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “That’s your analysis?”

“It’s bulletproof,” Max replied, deadpan.

Lando barked a laugh. “What am I then? Background character?”

“Supporting role,” Max said, grinning now. “Comic relief.”

The room chuckled. Even Oscar’s lips twitched before he looked away, focusing on his hands.

Another question followed, this time about development pace. Charles answered carefully, measured, but Max kept nodding so exaggeratedly that Charles finally elbowed him in the ribs.

“Stop it,” Charles hissed under his breath.

“I’m agreeing with you!” Max whispered back, too loud.

“You’re mocking me.”

“Never.” Max slung an arm around his shoulders, and Charles rolled his eyes, smiling despite himself.

The next question came fast. “Lando, Oscar—you’ve had two double podiums already this season. Miami especially—huge result for the team. What’s it like racing each other that close, knowing every point matters?”

Oscar adjusted the mic, shoulders squared. “It’s intense. You have to be precise, consistent. That’s how you deliver results.”

Clean. Clinical.

Lando leaned forward, grin sharp. “Translation: he hates losing to me.”

The room chuckled. Lando waited—come on, give me something, anything—but Oscar didn’t even glance at him. 

Another hand shot up. “Lando—you stayed a few days in Miami after the race. Looked like quite the holiday. Was that planned?”

A flash of Magui’s laugh in his head. The rooftop. The boat. The fucking corridor.

He smirked, shrugging loose. “Bit of sun, bit of rest. Can’t complain.”

“Looked lively,” the journalist pressed. “Plenty of photos around—”

“I’m here to drive cars, not review nightclubs,” Lando cut in smoothly, the line he’d practiced. Quick smile, pivot, done. He could almost hear PR sighing in relief.

Oscar’s gaze flicked sideways. Just for a beat. Then back to his hands. No smirk, no jab, nothing. Blank.

“Question for both McLaren drivers,” another journalist said. “You seem evenly matched this year. Does that change the dynamic between you?”

Oscar answered first. Of course he did. “No. We both want to win. That’s the job.”

Short. Crisp. 

Lando’s grin twitched. He could’ve left it there, but silence was worse.

“Don’t let him fool you,” he leaned in, eyes glinting. “He’s got a whole dartboard with my face on it. Probably throws pens at it between sessions.”

The room laughed. Even Max cracked a grin. Charles shook his head like he’d heard it all before.

Oscar didn’t bite. Not even a twitch. He just lifted the mic again. “I focus on the car. That’s all.”

Like he hadn’t even heard him.

Lando’s jaw ached from the smile. 

Because once, Oscar would’ve rolled his eyes. Snorted under his breath. Maybe muttered “idiot” just low enough for Lando to catch it. And Lando would’ve grinned like he’d won something.

The questions moved on, but Lando barely tracked them. Max was still playing court jester, Charles pretending to scold him, the room lapping it up. 

And it stung. Because that was supposed to be him and Oscar. The easy back-and-forth. The punchline, the mock-complaint, the grin that said they were in on the same joke. 

Instead he was sitting here, grinning like a clown, while Oscar sat stone-faced beside him like none of it landed.

He kept sneaking glances, stupidly hoping for a crack. Just one twitch of the mouth, one roll of the eyes, something. Nothing.

Meanwhile Max draped himself over Charles, and Charles didn’t even shake him off. They looked like idiots. Comfortable idiots. And the cameras loved it.

___ 

May, 15th - Imola, McLaren motorhome

They’d dressed the terrace like a children’s party for adults—papaya banners, ring lights, two cameras humming, and a neat parade of sweating gelato cups with tiny wooden spoons stabbed in like flags. 

Spontaneous fun, except measured to the millimetre. 

Lando dropped into his chair, knees wide, sunglasses shoved into his curls. The plastic table was just high enough that his thigh would bump Oscar’s if Oscar ever stopped sitting like a statue.

He didn’t. 

He slid into the seat beside Lando with that careful, no-wasted-movement grace, headset mic clipped, collar immaculate. 

Their arms brushed for a warm half-second; Oscar shifted a hair to the right. 

Distance reinstalled. Of course.

“Okay, boys!” PR chirped, beaming like this was her birthday. “Simple one: taste, react, banter. Big smiles. No swearing.”

Lando lifted a hand, palm saintly. “When have I ever—”

“—today,” she said. “Three, two—rolling.”

Cup one arrived: pale green, basil-mint. Lando scooped with ceremony, let it melt on his tongue and went just big enough. “Tastes like I’ve licked Andrea’s herb garden.”

Crew: laughter. PR: a relieved little clap. 

Good boy, have a treat.

Oscar dipped his spoon like he was taking a blood sample. He tasted. A micro-pinch at the bridge of his nose—ah, there you are—then it vanished under a smooth, neutral nod. “Fresh,” he said to camera. “Different.”

Different. Right. Like an injury is “manageable.” Lando nudged his knee under the table, just enough pressure to say say the truth once. 

Oscar’s knee shifted off him, neat as a gear change. The smile he gave the lens was textbook, PR-perfect, edges sanded clean.

Cup two: apricot-rosemary, the colour of bad decisions. Lando pushed a spoonful in and shredded his face for half a beat. “Why does dessert taste like roast chicken’s side dish?”

The crew cracked up; PR beamed; the sound guy hugged his boom like a teddy bear. Oscar huffed—real, surprised—but it was a pinned butterfly of a noise, here and gone. 

“It’s… floral,” he offered, that small curve of mouth that photographs like warmth and feels like glass. “Probably not for everyone.”

Probably not for everyone. Jesus. 

A year ago he’d have said it tasted like potpourri you find in your nan’s taxi and then tried to make Lando finish his cup out of spite. 

A year ago he’d have elbowed him, glared, smirked. 

A year ago, there’d been heat under the steel. 

Now: tempered, coolant running full flow.

Lando leaned in, shoulder brushing Oscar’s. “You hate it,” he murmured, low, off-mic. He wanted to see it land—anywhere. 

Oscar kept his eyes on the spoon. “It’s fine.”

Fine. The word had teeth.

Cup three: sesame-ginger. PR wanted Oscar first. He obliged like the model student. The instant it hit his tongue, the tell: a wrinkle at the nose, a blink that stalled halfway. Then the mask snapped back.

“Interesting,” Oscar said. Crisp. Contained.

“It’s the face for me,” Lando said, turning to camera like a presenter. “You can’t see it but he just died inside.”

The crew loved it. Oscar gave him a sideways look—sharp, almost amused—and the corner of his mouth tugged. There. There. 

Lando inched closer, thighs touching now, the heat of it sliding into his skin like a secret. 

Oscar’s quad tightened under the fabric; he eased an inch away, polite as a door closing quietly.

PR reset the angle, more gelato cups shuffled like chess pieces. Ring light buzzed. Someone dabbed powder at Lando’s temple. 

He sat very still and catalogued stupid things: the clean-iron scent off Oscar’s collar, the way a vein at his wrist moved when he turned a spoon, the soft click of tooth on wood when he tested the edge. 

He should have been thinking about tyres and deg and sector times; instead he was mapping the tiny ways Oscar’s body chose not to touch his.

“Last one,” PR sang. “Chili-lemon. Big reactions—remember it’s for TikTok.”

Of course it is. 

Lando scooped bold, got ambushed by heat, and let himself cough just enough to sell. “Nope,” he wheezed, fanning his mouth. “That’s assault.”

Laughter. Lando caught breath, blinked away tears, and watched Oscar. A careful spoonful. A slow blink. 

His lips parted around the spoon, tongue pressing against the roof of his mouth to corral the spice. His throat worked. 

For a heartbeat—just one—something flickered in his eyes, bare and bright.

Then it was gone. “Surprising,” Oscar told the lens, voice even. He set the cup down with surgeon precision, brushed his thumb across his lower lip. Lando’s pulse kicked like a misfire.

“Perfect,” PR called. “We’ll do a quick Q&A insert. Favourites, least favourites, who’d order what. Keep it breezy!”

Breezy. Sure. Lando leaned his forearms to the table; their elbows touched. Oscar adjusted his mic pack, slid away the distance of a breath.

“Favourite flavour?” a PA prompted.

“Pistachio,” Oscar said, clean. “Always.”

“Vanilla,” Lando said, and smirked at the camera when they booed. “Classic never misses.”

“Least favourite?” The PA’s voice was sticky with delight.

“Chili,” Lando said, pointing at Oscar’s cup. “That’s a war crime.”

“Apricot rosemary,” Oscar replied, with that almost-smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He glanced briefly at Lando, like an instinct he strangled in the cradle. “Tastes like a candle.”

The crew cooed. Look at that—he can play. Lando’s own grin flashed without reaching the ground. Candle was real. Candle meant he hated it. Candle meant there was still a person under there, with opinions and heat and a tongue that said more than “fine.”

“Who steals from the other’s dessert?” PR tossed out.

“Lando,” Oscar said, smooth as water. “He steals before it reaches the table.”

“Athlete’s metabolism,” Lando said lightly. 

Under the table he tapped his knuckles against Oscar’s knee: a dumb hello in Morse code. You still in there? The muscle tensed and eased. 

A warning, a no, a maybe—he couldn’t tell.

“Okay, cut,” PR said. “Reset for a thumbnail shot. Lean in, cups up. Big smile.”

They leaned. Their shoulders met, a clean line of heat from deltoid to deltoid. Lando felt the press of it like static. 

He wanted to stay in it, to hang there, to feel where Oscar would crack first if he didn’t move away. 

He didn’t move. 

Oscar did—one millimetre, two—enough to keep the picture perfect and the message plain.

“Great,” PR beamed. “One more pick-up: ‘Describe your teammate in one word.’”

Oh good. The trap.

Lando went first. “Precise,” he said, and let his eyes hold a beat longer than was polite. 

He wanted to say punishing. “In a good way,” he added, for the brand.

Oscar didn’t look at him. “Relentless,” he said to the lens. There was no curve at his mouth now. No warmth. Just the word, clean and unarguable.

The ring light hummed. Lando swallowed against something hot and ridiculous in his throat.

“And we are wrapped!” PR clapped. “Thank you, that’s perfect.”

Chairs scraped. A runner swooped to take Oscar’s mic. Another tugged at Lando’s cable. 

The terrace became motion—cases closing, lenses capped, gelato cups consolidated into staff scavenging. 

Lando stood, grin still on like a sticker, and felt the adrenaline do that stupid thing where it had nowhere to go.

He found Oscar anyway. Of course he did.

“‘Candle,’ huh?” he said, pitching it light, the grin tilted, the old easy shape of a tease. “Big words from Mr. Fine.”

Oscar looked at him properly for the first time since they’d sat down. Not the camera-safe version—just him. Tired around the eyes. Guard up. 

“It was a candle,” he said. Calm. 

Then, softer, so it wouldn’t carry: “It’s… content, Lando.”

He turned to set his empty cup on a tray. Lando stepped half a pace to keep him in orbit. “You alright?”

Oscar didn’t sigh. He didn’t roll his eyes. He didn’t give Lando anything to cling to or to fight. “I’m fine.” 

The same word, the same cool delivery. He pulled his shoulder away as a runner squeezed between them and added, polite as a press release, “Good work.”

Good work. Like Lando was a colleague from another department.

“Right,” Lando said, and his laugh came out wrong—thinner, edged. “Five stars. Would gelato again.”

Oscar’s mouth shaped something that wasn’t quite a smile, wasn’t quite a flinch. 

“See you at debrief,” he said, and walked—unhurried, efficient—down the steps, through the papaya banners, into the noise of the paddock where people called his name and he absorbed none of it.

Lando stayed where he was, thumb worrying a dent into the wooden spoon until it snapped with a soft, defeated crack. 

The sun hit the terrace, hot across the table. Someone from PR asked if he could sign a couple of lids for a sponsor hamper. He said yeah, no problem, hand already moving in the practiced loop of his signature.

Smile. Pivot. Repeat.

He’d been an idiot to think he preferred Miami’s explosion to this. The corridor had been reckless and ugly and honest. This was polite and bloodless and… worse. Because at least panic had heat. 

This had nothing. This had walls.

And the stupid thing—the truly stupid, toxic, Lando thing—was that the lack made him itch to push. 

To press a knee harder, to lean until Oscar couldn’t pull away, to say something unforgivable just to hear Oscar breathe wrong again.

He capped the pen. “All good?” PR beamed, already checking her shot list.

“Yeah,” he said brightly, the automatic version of himself clicking in with a cheerful thunk. “Delicious.”

___

May, 17th — Imola, Qualifying debrief 

Friday had set the tone—Oscar quickest in both practice sessions, Lando shadowing him by mere hundredths. 

On Saturday, Oscar turned that form into pole with a 1:14.670, Verstappen slotting P2, Russell P3. 

Lando was only fourth. Strong on paper for McLaren, but not the front row lockout they’d been hoping for.

The final slides flicked off the screen, the numbers already burned into everyone’s retinas. 

One by one, engineers rattled off conclusions—sector pace, tire performance, traffic patterns. Then it was down to the drivers. 

Oscar spoke first, clipped but clear, noting balance through Sector 2, tyre temps, the timing that had played into his pole. 

Lando followed, sharper, his tone edging frustration.

“If I’d been released earlier, I’d have had time for another push. Track was ramping up. Everyone knows it.”

Across the table, Oscar’s pen stilled. He didn’t even blink before answering. “Don’t put this on me,” he said flatly. “You had a lap. You didn’t deliver. That’s not my problem.”

The words landed hard, cold. Too cold. The kind that carried because they didn’t need volume.

Lando’s chest tightened. Heat rose up the back of his neck, crawling under the collar of his hoodie. He leaned back in his chair, arms flung wide in mock ease. “Easy to say from pole, isn’t it?”

Oscar finally turned to him, eyes cold. “Easy to say because it’s true.”

It stung. Harder than he wanted to admit. The smirk he forced onto his face felt brittle, desperate. “Oh, here we go. Mr. Perfect.”

Oscar didn’t flinch. His jaw locked for half a second, then he delivered it—quiet, precise, lethal. “Stop putting on a show, Lando. It’s exhausting.”

The silence after was suffocating. Engineers glanced down at their notes like suddenly the floorplans had become fascinating. Andrea’s pen froze mid-air.

Lando’s ears rang. A hot pulse thudded behind his eyes. 

Show. Exhausting. 

Said like he was nothing but noise. He’d wanted Oscar to crack, to react, to do something. And instead he’d just been dismissed—shut down in front of everyone.

Lando’s vision tunneled, anger spiking hot and sudden. He shoved back from the table, chair legs screeching against the floor. 

“Fuck off,” he snapped, voice cutting sharp through the quiet. “I think we’re done here. See you tomorrow for the race.”

He grabbed his notes off the desk without looking back, storming for the door. The slam echoed hard against the walls.

___ 

Back in his room, Lando shoved his helmet bag into the corner hard enough to rattle the wardrobe. Gloves, balaclava—flung on top like scraps. 

His chest still buzzed hot, jaw aching from clenching too hard.

The briefing replayed in his head on a loop. Stop putting on a show, Lando. It’s exhausting. 

Flat, calm, like Oscar couldn’t even be bothered to get angry. 

He dragged both hands down his face, a groan catching in his throat. He hated how much space it took up in his skull. Hated how much it stung.

A knock broke through the static. One of the comms staff hovered in the doorway. “Andrea wants you. Briefing room.”

Lando’s shoulders tensed. He blew a sharp breath through his nose, jaw tight. “Yeah. Fine.”

He grabbed his bag again, stepped out—

—just as Oscar’s door opened opposite.

For a second they locked eyes, the corridor suddenly too narrow. Oscar’s face was blank, professional. And somehow that was worse than fury.

“Andrea?” Oscar asked, tone flat.

Lando let out a humorless laugh. “Yeah.”

Side by side, wordless, they started down the hall together. 

___

Andrea sat alone at the far end of the room, papers stacked neatly in front of him but untouched.  

Two empty chairs waited across the desk, unmistakably for them.

Yeah. This wasn’t going to be congratulations.

Lando’s chest tightened as he dropped into his seat beside Oscar. He didn’t crack a joke, didn’t even try. 

One look at Andrea told him this wasn’t the time. The Italian’s gaze was hard enough to pin him in place.

Andrea exhaled slowly, then leaned forward. His English carried that familiar cadence, deliberate, sharp. 

“Boys. We need to talk. And I do not enjoy this role, believe me. But you leave me no choice anymore.”

Lando’s stomach twisted. 

Here we go.

Andrea’s eyes cut between them. “Whatever is happening between you two—it has to stop. It is not healthy. Not for you, not for us.” His tone edged harder. “It is toxic.”

The word landed like a slap. 

Then Andrea’s gaze fixed on him—on Lando. “And Lando… I think you know exactly what I mean.”

Heat surged up his neck. 

Because yeah, he did know. Fix it. That was what Andrea had told him weeks ago. And he hadn’t. He’d done the opposite. 

He shifted in his chair, nails digging into his thigh under the table. Why the fuck does this feel like being called into the headmaster’s office?

“But clearly,” Andrea went on, voice steady, relentless, “I was not clear enough.”

Lando risked a glance sideways—and caught Oscar’s face. The small frown, the flicker of surprise in his eyes. He hadn’t known Andrea had already pulled Lando aside. 

And now he did. 

Great. Just fucking great. The shame burrowed deeper, hot and prickling. Perfect. 

Andrea’s voice rolled on, precise and unforgiving. “Listen. Your behavior—it risks everything. The constructors’ championship, the drivers’ championship, your own careers. This is not something you can hide behind smiles or silence. If you carry on like this, you will throw it away yourselves.”

Lando swallowed hard, jaw clenched so tight it hurt. He wanted to argue, to say it’s not just me, Oscar’s the one freezing me out. But the words jammed in his throat. 

Because Andrea was right. 

And because deep down, he knew he’d fucked it more than anyone. 

Still, the sting of being singled out made his chest burn. Like Oscar’s some saint sitting there all perfect. Fuck off.

Andrea’s tone softened, but only slightly. “I do not ask you to be friends. I don’t even ask you to like each other. That is not my business.” 

His hand pressed once against the desk, punctuating every word. “What is my business is McLaren. The direction of this team. And right now, the two of you—this distance, this tension—you are pulling us off course.”

The silence afterward felt suffocating. Lando sat rigid, pulse hammering, feeling about two feet tall. 

He hated it—hated being talked to like a kid who’d trashed the classroom. 

Hated that Oscar wasn’t denying a thing, just staring forward like it was all true. 

Hated himself most of all, because he couldn’t even pretend Andrea was wrong.

Andrea stood, chair scraping back against the floor. His gaze swept over them one last time. “So I leave it to you. Fix it. By tomorrow morning, I want to see change. Because we cannot continue like this. You are among the twenty best drivers in the world. Start acting like it. Respect it. Respect each other. And remember—you will not have this forever. Don’t waste it.”

He straightened, the weight of his presence filling the room for a beat longer. Then he turned, the door shutting firmly behind him.

The silence he left behind was crushing. 

Lando sat there, nails biting into his palms, jaw locked, chest tight. Every word replayed in his head like it had been carved there. He wanted to punch a wall, to shout, to laugh it off—anything but sit here and stew.

Beside him, Oscar didn’t move. Not a flicker.

And somehow, that made it worse.

Lando shifted in his chair, words rising before he could stop them. “So—”

Oscar cut in, not sharp, not cold—just tired. “Andrea’s right. This—whatever it is—it has to stop.”

The room felt smaller for it. Lando froze, jaw tight, mouth still half-open.

Oscar didn’t rush. He sat there, back straight but shoulders tense, like holding himself up had started to cost him something. 

His eyes stayed fixed on the desk for a moment, and when he finally spoke again, his voice was steady—but slower. Careful.

“I let myself get pulled in,” he went on, words deliberate, like he’d rehearsed them. 

“Into the back-and-forth, the looks, the… whatever this is. I should’ve shut it down sooner, kept the lines clean. But I didn’t. I let it bleed into everything—my focus, the silences, the distance. That’s on me.”

Lando’s throat worked. He wanted to argue, to say it wasn’t just Oscar, that it had been him pushing too, twisting the knife, chasing reactions—but the words wouldn’t come.

Oscar exhaled, long and low, like the air had been sitting in his chest for days. 

“But we can’t keep going like this. It’s not just you, it’s not just me—it’s both of us. And the longer it drags on, the worse it gets. You heard Andrea.” His jaw tightened, words dragging heavier with each one. “It’s not fair on the team. It’s not fair on us either.”

The phrase lodged deep. Not fair on us. Lando’s throat worked, but he couldn’t get a word past it.

Oscar finally lifted his gaze, locking on him. 

His eyes weren’t cold. 

They were exhausted. 

Like he’d been bracing all weekend, all season, and cracks had finally started to show. 

“We’re good together. You know that. I know that. Probably the best line-up out there right now. And I don’t want to ruin it. Not because of… this.” His hand twitched once against his knee, then stilled. 

“So I’ll make the effort. I’ll give more. Be easier to deal with. Professional. Whatever it takes to keep this working. I’ll do it.”

Lando’s chest clenched. He should’ve felt relief, maybe even vindication. Instead it just hollowed him out—because Oscar sounded like someone making a promise out of duty, not belief.

Oscar’s tone softened, but only slightly. “But I need you to do the same. No more games. No more pushing just to see what happens. We don’t have the luxury to keep burning energy on that.” He paused, steadying himself with another slow breath. “I won’t.” 

“I want this season to mean something. For both of us. For McLaren. Not for… whatever this has turned into.”

Lando stared, fingers digging into his thigh under the table. 

He wanted to argue, to say he hadn’t meant for it to get this far, that he hadn’t meant to make Oscar carry all of it. 

But looking at him now—the set of his mouth, the weight in his eyes—it felt wrong to say anything at all.

Because for the first time, Lando saw it. The distance, the clipped answers, the silence—it hadn’t been indifference. 

It had been effort. 

Work. A mask held so tight it had left Oscar frayed at the edges.

And somehow, that stung worse than outright anger.

He forced his lips into something that might have passed for a smile if you didn’t look too closely. “Fine by me.”

Oscar studied him for a beat too long, as if checking for cracks. Then he nodded once. “Good.” He pushed his chair back, rising to his feet with careful precision. “See you on track.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

He didn’t know if Oscar meant it—if he really wanted all of this to stop, if that was even possible. 

And worse, he didn’t know if he wanted it to stop either. 

___ 

May, 18th — Imola, Race day 

Engines cooling, heat rising off the cars in waves. Max’s Red Bull stood first in line, marshals swarming it. Lando killed the engine, tore off the wheel, chest heaving under the belts. 

P2. Better than yesterday. 

Better than Oscar.

He climbed out, visor up, the roar of the tifosi rolling over the barriers. His suit clung damp against his skin, but the smile came easy—because this time, he’d delivered.

Oscar was already out of his car, P3 board flashing beside it. He tugged at his gloves, exhaled loudly. 

Then he turned, found Lando in the blur of parc fermé.

No cameras could miss it—Oscar stepped forward, hand out. Lando met it, firm, the clap of palms sharp against the noise. Eyes locked. 

Too long for teammates, too short for everything else.

Andrea watched from the barrier, arms folded, expression hard to read. Approval, maybe. Warning, too.

Lando only let go when the moment demanded it.