Work Text:
Oct 2019
They’ve found a quiet section of the paddock to do the interview. It’s tucked away between media trailers that Lando's never even seen and it’s a relief to escape the usual bustling crowds. He hadn't realised just how demanding the paddock was until he stepped away from it, and it’s almost unbearable compared to this little bubble that they’ve created.
It feels much more personal than any other interview he’s done before, almost intimate.
The setup is nice. Minimalistic. Just an large table with a small plant in the centre, its pot of course painted in McLaren’s mind-numbing orange. When Lando first sat down he was thankful for this barrier between him and the interviewer, a separation that gave him space to think, but now it's only in the way. His gaze keeps drifting down to its small curled in leaves, its tight flowers, and it makes him uncomfortably aware of how he can’t look the man opposite him in the eye without squirming.
It doesn’t help that Jenson’s charming smile does wonders at keeping his nerves at bay, a new kind of butterflies fluttering in his stomach.
When Lando looks across the table all he sees are kind brown eyes framed by a lifetime of laughter and a face rosy with warmth. It’s dangerously easy for the camera crew to fade into the distance until it’s just the two of them.
‘Jenson Button meets Lando Norris’
Which is why when Jenson grins and starts his next question: “So I know you’ve grown up watching-“ the excitement bubbles over and Lando blurts out, “you!”, his usual filter long gone with every smile that Jenson has thrown his way, and Lando’s cheeks immediately flush a deep crimson when he realises what he’s just implied.
Jense probably guessed that he used to watch him race, undoubtedly all of the rookies have, but he doesn’t need to know just how much of an impact he’s had on the kid. How many weekends Lando would sit with his eyes transfixed on the screen, hypnotised by that clumsy smile and unruly hair. That watching him win the championship was the exact moment that he knew he just had to be a part of this rose-tinted world.
Luckily Jenson doesn’t seem phased by Lando’s outburst, and instead chuckles and continues on to finish his question: wanting a comment on the team’s heritage and Lando’s opinion about the Mercedes engine making a return.
Lando releases a breath he didn’t realise he had been holding and lays out his partly rehearsed answer, only slightly stumbling across the end when he realises just how long he’s been talking. Jenson’s patient smile welcoming all of his thoughts.
For the whole interview Jenson's eyes don’t leave Lando's face once, and the scrutiny would be unnerving coming from anyone else but for some reason with Jense its just different. He has this aura about him, a gentle cloud of love that rests in the air and seeps into the bones of anyone lucky enough to step into his space. His gaze is gentle yet certain, and his smile is always loose and unwavering: a constant reassurance that everything is going to turn out okay.
When Jenson speaks Lando can’t help but follow the way his lips move around each word while he’s pronouncing them with the care and precision he places on track, his accent oozing with adoration. "So coming into this year, when you were announced as an f1 driver, 19 years old-”
It’s a fact. A boring one too, his own age. Yet somehow Jenson manages to place so much awe into that number, sighs it through a wild smile as if it is truly an achievement to be proud of, and Lando is oddly surprised when he feels his face warm. "yeah."
"I mean it's, it's.. awesome. it really is." Jenson breathes each syllable gently, as if blowing air into a bubble, stretching the film out slowly with the weight of his words, and Lando watches as it floats towards his ears, iridescent sheen glinting in the sunlight.
He keeps his own lips pulled into a tight smile and can already feel his face start to hurt with the hold as he asks, "when did you come into f1?”
“I was-, I wasn’t less than 19, I was 20 when I started racing-”
“Yeah”
“-so you’re one-" he smiles, "one year ahead.”
Jenson may stumble slightly but its effortlessly smoothed over with an easy grin and Lando wonders how he does that, how he keeps his calming presence intact when Lando's own mistakes make him wish the earth would swallow him up whole. Still, he follows along with Jenson's infectious chuckle, feels it vibrate through him.
“Umm,” Jenson stops to let out one last light laugh before moving on, “how did-. Did you set yourself any targets? Goals?”
Lando had briefly been made aware of the questions before the session started, and yet even though he knew it was coming he still has to take a moment to collect his thoughts.
“In the beginning I just- I didn’t know how I was gonna do. I didn’t know.” He pauses with a sigh. “If I was gonna be amazing. If I was really going to struggle -“
Lando can feel the familiar wriggle of energy build up underneath his skin and he tries to blink it away but it’s a persistent itch begging to be scratched. His brain starts to feel tight, wound up and tangled, and he grabs at his left hand, pulls at his fingers until he feels the joints pop. Then stretches each one some more. He tries to focus on the gentle ache that spreads through his hand rather than the urge to get up and run.
Jenson must sense some distress because he cuts Lando’s mindless blabbering short, and the words rush out as if he has no choice in the matter; a battle he wouldn’t have won anyway because they’re already knocking the door down before his men have even gotten a chance to put their trousers on. The words are desperate. Pleading.
“Are you happy?”
It’s a simple question. Three little words that don’t really mean much on their own, so why do they hold so much weight when strung together.
A short breath tumbles out of Lando’s throat, and he wonders if Jenson can actually hear the thump of his heart because it’s rumbling in his own ears like the Drum Corps. Suddenly his skin burns, blood boiling and blistering the surface, threatening to burst at his seams. He knows that he should just smile and dodge the question, it’s what any sane driver would do. Don’t show weaknesses. Say something vague and fluffy about how he loves his job, how lucky he is to have such an opportunity to follow his lifelong dream and of course he’s happy. He’s a formula one driver for god’s sake, why on earth wouldn’t he be happy?
And yet.
How can he even think about lying?
Jenson is sat a mere three feet away, gazing at him across the table with so much care and adoration in his eyes. Jenson freaking Button.
Suddenly all the lows of the past season have reared their heads, unwilling to let him forget about the endless nights he’s spent staring at unfamiliar ceilings, replaying every corner he lifted too early and every stupid answer he’s given in an interview, pushing himself to burnish his image until it shines bright and the breathless moments recovering behind locked doors.
Lando’s all too aware of the time oozing through him, every second stretching out like sticky molasses and he hopes he hasn’t waited too long when he eventually mumbles, “Um.. kind.. of..”
The soft chuckle that forces past Jenson’s now sad smile takes him by surprise. His face is soft, welcoming. Lando has to fight against the instinctual urge to let go. Under Jenson’s gaze it’s so easy to take a much-needed breath and rant about all that has been bothering him, to bury his head into Jenson’s chest and lighten the heavy load that weighs down his shoulders. But the separation between them is only growing, white table stretching for miles and miles, and he can’t ignore the burn from the cameras pointed towards him, the unknown faces analysing his every breath behind their tv screens.
He blocks out the emotion swimming in Jenson’s eyes and instead focuses on the bright orange of the flowerpot that mocks him, allows his gaze to trip over the sharp corners and thinks carefully about every word he's laying out into the world.
“uh I’ve done well and I’ve had times in qualifying or races where-” He pauses to run his tongue over the words and find familiarity in their shapes. “I’ve really been able to show what I can do and-” Pause. “that’s put a big smile on my face.” Pause. “but there’s still times when,” Pause. ”ah, you know.. I mess up my qualifying lap and I lose half a tenth and it’s one place on the grid.. and-” He stops to take a much need breath in.
He has to blink back the flash of looming darkness in empty hotels rooms and tries to reassure himself that the twitching anger isn’t a present feeling. But the ghost of heavy blankets is an unwelcomed pressure, constricting in on skin that’s already too tight and the world seems so small. The whole universe is concentrated on one point, an infinitely dense singularity that’s spiralling onto him and he can feel the furry of stars burrowing under his skin: inconceivably hot whirls of gas writhing under his flesh.
-"and I get annoyed about that.”
His eyes flick up to meet Jenson's. The man’s gaze is almost pleading, desperate. His irises are bluer than usual and Lando can't quite look away, hypnotised by deep swirls of purple speckled with pinpricks of constellations.
Jenson blinks, golden eyelashes dusting against freckled cheeks, and when he opens them again its gone.