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Lando Norris isn’t ashamed to admit, to practically anyone who asks, that he wants Oscar Piastri.
As a teammate. A rival. A friend. A co-worker.
Inevitably, and perhaps only, as a lover.
When they hang up their helmets and retire for good, when they’re no longer teammates or rivals or friends or co-workers, they’ll do it hands interlaced.
Lando has envisioned it for a long, long time.
Oscar will mention it, off-handedly: maybe when they’re in they’re mid thirties, maybe later. Will mindlessly mention a cruise, or something equally asinine. Something only old, retired people would even think to talk about; the kind of comment that makes Lando distinctly think: ‘huh’.
They’ll both have won a Drivers Championship by then. Hopefully a couple. Unbelievably, several.
Maybe, it’ll be the year of Kimi’s, or Isack’s, or Ella’s, or Gabi’s, or Doriane’s first Championship. Maybe they’ll be comfortable on the second and third steps of the podiums. Maybe they’ll be happy to pass on the torch.
Max and Carlos and Nico and Lewis and Esteban will all have retired. When Lando dreams of this, he always thinks of the same joke: laughs to himself at the image of Fernando still hanging on – well into his fifties.
It always goes something like this. Has since the moment Oscar – rosy-cheeked and shy – had stumbled in, late to that meeting. Late to Lando’s life, he’s always thought, a little hopelessly.
Oscar will imply retirement, and Lando will think: yes. Yes, we should retire.
Because Lando may have helped rebuild McLaren, one excruciating race at a time, but he’s – he can’t do it without Oscar. Can’t do much of anything without Oscar, actually.
McLaren will be theirs, but it’ll become someone else’s. When they leave, it’ll be together.
They’ll talk about announcing it. Oscar will mention how strange it is, that Lando was suddenly so on board with retiring, too. Chuckle that Lando would miss him too much if Oscar left him on the grid alone.
It’ll give Lando the opportunity. The one he’ll have been waiting for, for just over a decade, at that point.
Lando will say: “Yeah, Osc. I would.”
And Oscar will realise the vulnerability of Lando’s tone, and his face will melt in that way it so rarely does. It’ll make Lando’s heart flutter, and it’ll make his palms clammy.
“Is that… is that it? You’re leaving because I am?” Oscar will ask, his perfect brows furrowed together, and Lando will smile. Softer in age and experience and hope.
“It’s not racing if it’s not with you,” Lando will mumble, and he’ll reach for Oscar’s hand, and he’ll intertwine their fingers together. Oscar will be startled, and his blush will coat his cheeks, and he’ll look shyly down to their feet.
“I love you, Lando,” he’ll whisper, and it’ll be soft as butter, and Lando will nearly die on the spot. He’ll squeeze Oscar’s hand in his, and he’ll stabilise.
Stabilise enough to finally say what he’d wanted to for years: a returned, “I love you, Osc.”
It’s simple, really.
And then it isn’t.
Max (The Worse One)
7:23am
[Attachment: An image of Oscar asleep, laying over Charles’ chest. The image is cropped so only Charles’ lips are in frame; smirking. The sunlight’s filtered in enough to decorate both Oscar’s back and hair, and Charles’ chest, in a morning glow.]
Told you
If you don’t make him yours, someone else will
Seen, 7:24am
Lando can’t really breathe.
It’s Oscar. Clearly.
Naked.
On top of Charles fucking Leclerc.
The bastard – he’s smirking. Vindictive cunt, with a quirk to his lips that makes him unbearably punchable. Lando doesn’t punch people; despite popular opinion, he’s chill. Calm. A little rough around the edges, and certainly too excitable, but he isn’t – he’s not an angry person.
He’s going to punch Charles Leclerc.
Lando’s hands are trembling, his screen shaking as he quickly exits the chat with Max, rushes to his messages with Oscar. His Oscar.
Not Max’s. Not Charles’.
His.
Me
1:12am
why tf did u leave with max and charles loll
score a 3sum??
2:01am
osc??
why arent u answering
3:46am
hope u had a fun time 👍
theyre ran thru, make sure 2 wrap it
Sent
…Admittedly, he’d been pretty drunk.
He’d seen Oscar get into that fucking sedan with them both – had seen red, was more accurate.
Since when was Oscar friends with Max and Charles, of all people? He’d thought. Had sent the sets of messages, aiming to poke where Oscar was sore – hadn’t really meant any of it.
Fuck, he clearly should’ve meant it.
What the fuck.
He’s still shaking. Bodily.
What the fuck.
He really was going to punch both Charles Leclerc and Max Verstappen.
Max Verstappen, of whom Lando had confided in, on countless occasions. FIA galas where Oscar was all dressed up, and Lando could hardly bear to keep it in his pants. Drivers parades, where Oscar was looking entirely too good, talking with the rookies or whoever bothered him at the time.
The cooldown room, after Oscar had crashed into the wall; 43Gs.
Lando truly feels like he's going to throw up. His throat is closed, scratchy almost, from last night – but he knows that won't do anything to abate the nausea.
He goes back to the chat with Max. Doesn't really think as his thumbs dance across the keyboard; definitely doesn't think as he presses send.
Me
7:31 am
youre a sick bastard
where the fuck are you staying
charles doesnt do a good enough job huh??
Max (The Worse One)
7:33am
He did well enough for the both of us
So did Oscar
Me
7:35 am
this isn’t a bloody joke
where are u
Max (The Worse One)
7:36am
Currently wrapped around two gorgeous men in my bed
Have a good flight mate
Lando’s thumbs pause over the keyboard. His blood thunders through his ears; he swears he can hear the galloping woosh, woosh, woosh of it.
He wants to bring his hands up and claw at the veins, the arteries, make them stop – pull at each thread of red until they snap, until there’s no sound at all. Let that crimson stain the hotel bedsheets: let the macabre meet sacred white.
“...Hey.”
Lando’s head snaps up at the annoyingly American voice, the drawling accent.
Noah is blond. Shaggy and shorn too close to the scalp – nothing like Oscar’s soft, gentle brunette waves.
But he has a few moles that decorate his face, and deep brown eyes. Not really like Oscar’s (he doesn’t have the doe eyes that make Oscar’s so breath-taking, and the placement of his moles aren’t quite right), but just enough.
Just the right amount of Oscarisms for Lando to close his eyes, and imagine.
It worked, he supposes: it got him off.
But it still isn’t enough.
Nothing will ever be enough, unless –
“I thought you’d left already,” Lando quips back, and it’s a little mean. Sharp and annoyed.
Noah certainly seems to think so: he takes an uncertain step back, back into the adjoined ensuite where he’d just come out of. He’s got a twisted expression on his face. Brows furrowed.
They don’t pull together in the same cute way that Oscar’s do, either, Lando notices.
“Sorry, I thought,” Noah bites at his lower lip, looks off to the side awkwardly. Lando is steadily losing his patience. “I thought we could get some breakfast. Go another round?”
Lando huffs, sits up in his bed. He shuts his phone off with a firm click, but Max’s words don’t leave his mind.
“What do you think this is, mate?” His eyes narrow, and he lets the white duvet pool against his lap: leaving his chest bared. He doesn’t want to know if Noah’s left any marks – prays that he hasn’t. “Don’t tell me you’ve never had a one night stand before.”
Noah’s mouth is set in a firm frown, now.
“‘Course I have,” he returns, and even though he’s embarrassed, his cheeks aren’t dusted in pink. “I just thought, I don’t know. We had a good time last night.”
Lando searches the room; takes note of his boxers thrown just to the left of him, chucked on the floor. He thinks that’s his shirt hanging on the bedroom door’s handle. He doesn’t look back towards Noah as he pulls the covers off, and reaches down to grab his boxers.
“A good time is a bit of a stretch,” Lando murmurs as he stands, shuffling his boxers up. Why’d he have to wear the tight, black ones? “It was a quick and easy time. That’s that.”
“Ouch, man,” Noah chuckles awkwardly, voice cracking slightly. Lando would feel bad if it wasn’t for everything else. “Hit me where it hurts.”
“Yeah, well,” Lando huffs out as the elastic of the boxers snap against his skin, and he stretches his arms above his head. He still hasn’t turned around – hasn’t made the effort to look at Noah. Doesn’t really want to. “Forgive me for not wanting to sweet talk a hook up.”
Noah releases a disbelieving, sharp bark of a laugh, at that. “You’re a real dick, man. Fuck you.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Lando waves his hand – waves it towards the door. “Fuck you too. Now go.”
The door slams shut as Noah does just that.
Lando lets his face fall into his palms.
˙⋆✮
Who one flies with depends entirely on contracts, destinations, and, most predominantly, on whims.
Lando’s already fulfilled his obligations to fly with McLaren’s jet partner, back in Australia and Bahrain. He’s supposed to be flying back to Monaco with Oscar – he’d brought up the need for team morale, and building camaraderie. Zak had immediately endorsed it, and Oscar had simply nodded.
The message comes in twenty minutes before boarding.
Osc 💕
9:38am
Hey, sorry didn’t see your messages
Lol how drunk were you
Oscar doesn’t say lol very often. Lando doesn’t think this is the best situation for him to suddenly adopt 2000s internet lingo.
Me
9:39 am
pretty
have a good time, didya mate
Osc 💕
9:39am
Did actually
About that
And Lando’s a little torn. A little jaded, maybe: but he doesn’t know if he wants to talk about that. The picture had been more than enough for him to gather the situation. Max’s messages had clearly been the final nail in the coffin.
But then –
Does Oscar know about Max’s messages?
Surely not. Right?
Me
9:40 am
yeh whats up??
He doesn’t want to fucking know. Except maybe he does.
Maybe that’s the entire problem in the first place.
Osc 💕
9:41am
I’m heading back with Max and Charles
I’ve never been on his PJ and they offered
Is that okay?
It’s like swallowing glass. Lando can almost hear the sickening crunch as he swallows against the sharp, brutalistic pain of it – can almost hear the splintering of the fragments. Crystalline.
It will hurt for eternity, Lando’s sure. That image a constant imprint in the back of his mind: smooth, tanned skin juxtaposing soft, pale, freckled. Knowing that – no matter what – Max and Charles had been there first.
Had taken his Oscar first.
He’d never, not in his life, felt violence like this.
Not on track, not after an idiotic divebomb that’s sent him careening into the wall. Not during a press conference, after one too many leading questions aimed at him, at sending him over the tipping point.
Of course it’d be bloody Max Verstappen to push him to this. To… to dreaming of knuckles bursting warm skin open.
He wants blood on his hands. Rosso corsa and muleta red; thick and visceric coating his palms. He wants the rushing of his arteries to taunt the gore that’ll result if he sees either man right now. Spilled and retained. External and internal. Beating and ceasing.
Oscar gets left on read as Lando calls George.
It’s an easy thing, funnily enough: changing flights over. There’s only so many flights to Monaco – and with most being private, all it takes is him alerting the attendant at the desk of the luxury lounge he’s in to swap flights entirely.
He’s sitting across from Alex and George within fifteen minutes of his call.
“You’re looking a little peaky,” George asserts, as soon as Lando falls into his pristine white seat with a deep, bone-tired exhale. His blue eyes are furrowed, and his pouty lips are pulled into a disapproving, paternal frown. “Have you eaten today?”
Lando hasn’t, actually. Hadn’t thought about it. Can’t stomach it, quite literally.
“I’m fine,” he says, instead. Alex looks at him like he’s truly lost it, this time.
Alex and George (and Lily, for that matter; because what’s theirs is hers and all that) know, like most people within Oscar and Lando’s circles know.
They get told more than most, though. More than any, if Lando takes a second to really consider it.
It’s because of this fact that Alex allows the quiet to sit for a second, before he goes: “It’s about Oscar, isn’t it?”
Lando’s eyes are locked onto the small window. Its three layers of glass. He wonders about the intricacies between each sheet, wonders, if they were to be able to think, if the one in the middle would like the squeeze. If the inner and outer panes would wish they were one another, or if they were happy at their end, happy with having that one in the middle. If there’d be spats and disagreements, or if there’d be a perfect harmony only achieved through the three of them.
Lando wonders if he needs another psych evaluation when they land.
“Lando,” George calls his name, in that prissy, demanding way of his. Like he’s a princely observer of the goingson of his ragged, uncouth citizens. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Alex slide his hand over George’s, atop his thigh.
“Did you guys see? Last night?” Lando asks, folding his arms up tight across his chest. Squeezing himself a bit. Squeezing himself in the way that middle window pane is being squeezed, except not really, except not at all.
The air is stagnant and dry in that way airplane air is always stagnant and dry. George’s cologne and Alex’s deodorant are more potent, enclosed like this.
It makes Lando feel an odd mix of sick and comforted.
“Mate,” Alex winces, a little. Lando looks away from the window, lets himself meet Alex’s eyes. They’re syrupy and warm and not at all brown in the way that Oscar’s are brown. “Unless you’re talking about seeing stars, then no. Haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.”
Which is, y’know. Fair.
“Did you know that Max and Charles were open?” Lando bites out; words venom-slicked and clipped. He hopes they’re razor sharp. He hopes they cut.
He hopes a lot of things.
Alex and George share a look, and it – it doesn’t hurt.
It’s just that, back when they were in karts and F2, it was the three of them sharing looks. Silent conversations in the middle of meetings, or ceremonies, or mini-galas that weren’t the galas they went to now. It was simple and sweet and an easy, easy friendship. Easy in the way most things were, back then.
Now that look is reserved for each other. When Lily’s there, all three of them.
No room for little Lando Norris.
No room for him anywhere at all.
“...I don’t think they are, mate,” George intones, then. Said as a complete, unchanging fact. Like Lando doesn’t know something – has been left on the sidelines yet again.
His nails are too bitten to break the skin of his palms, but they hurt where his hands have formed fists.
“Tell that to them,” Lando scoffs, rolls his eyes. Slumps back into his chair a little more. Lets his tongue run across the backs of his teeth, lets his tastebuds burn against the acidity. “They fucked Oscar.”
There isn’t a moment to breathe before Alex squeaks out, “They what?”
Lando pulls out his phone, pulls up his thread with Max. Scrolls up a little bit, before shoving the phone into Alex’s grasp. The photo leaves little to the imagination.
George’s jaw drops, and Alex brings a shocked hand to his mouth – it makes a little clap as it lands. Both of their eyes are unbelievably wide.
Lando doesn’t protest when George leans over Alex’s shoulder, uses his pointer finger to scroll down – reads their exchange. He looks angrier and angrier with each passing second, and, yeah. Lando feels a little vindicated.
“Mate,” George exhales, accent thick. Thicker than Lando’s has ever been; definitely thicker than his is nowadays. “That’s… Blimey, I didn’t know he had it in him.”
“He’s a dickhead,” Lando bites out: wants to chase the sour taste of the word with a shot or two. Maybe, if he asks nicely, George and Alex will turn a blind eye. “Of bloody course he had it in him. And Charles’ pretty boy act doesn’t fuckin’ fool me.”
Alex levels Lando with a slightly disapproving glare, but Lando’s not having it.
“Shove off, Alex,” he spits, pulling his knees up until they’re pressed into his chest. He rests his crossed arms atop them. “Charles is just as bad as Max. The prick’s just better at hiding it.”
“So Max knows you’re in love with Oscar? And he… what, did that to taunt you?” George thinks aloud, eyebrows slanted severely. He hands the phone back to Lando, who doesn’t know when the fuck he’d taken it off of Alex.
Lando’s pointer finger and thumb find the hair tie around his wrist, pulling it back and letting the elastic snap sharp and true against the thin skin that sits over his bone.
“I told him, like, two years ago,” Lando admits. Feels like an idiot. A foolish, carefree, naive idiot. “I knew that he loved Charles before they bloody started dating – so. I don’t know. It felt, I guess, safe. Should’ve fuckin’ known, clearly.”
“He mentioned, ah…” Alex starts, chewing at his lip. He looks to the roof of the plane as he thinks, as if it’s some sort of divine oracle. The thrum of the engine vibrates against Lando’s chest, matches the vibrato of his heart. They haven’t moved an inch. “Something about… if you don’t make him yours, he will?”
Lando lets his forehead rest against the jut of his knee, lets his eyes squeeze shut. Lets himself be consumed by the darkness.
“Yeah,” he mumbles. Pulls once, twice, at the tie on his wrist. “He’s been telling me all year to confess. That Oscar definitely likes me back. Fuckin’ – Japan, he said if I ‘don’t wife him up, he’ll show up soon with a different last name’. I thought he was just stirring me up. Throwing me off.”
He couldn’t have known. Surely not.
He and Max were friends – maybe not as close, since everything that was the past season and a half, everything before that, too. But friends. There was, like, bro code, and shit, wasn’t there? Lando wouldn’t even think to fuck Charles, now, not when he knew that they were in love with each other. Together.
Except, maybe he would. Maybe he wanted to see how Max Verstappen liked seeing what was finally his be taken by another.
Maybe he’d fucking film it.
Do him one better.
“Jesus,” George breathes out emphatically, grimacing uncomfortably. Alex’s expression isn’t too dissimilar. “That is… reprehensible, mate.”
“Where the hell did you learn the word reprehensible?” Lando barks out, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards. George’s glare only widens his grin. “Got a dictionary for Christmas?”
“You can cope with your heartbreak yourself,” George returns, folding one of his legs over the other. He stares resolutely out of his window. “Go have your dick-measuring contest with Verstappen. We won’t hold you when you come back crying.”
“Are you okay?” Alex asks, then, voice belied by something wary and soft. He leans a bit to the side, as if to reach Lando’s gaze, where it’s laser-focused on the creme wall to his right. “Lando.”
“Mate,” Lando forces out, words shrouded in an uneven chuckle. It’s grating, even to his own ears. “I feel fuckin’ horrid. It’s not every day the love of your life gets banged by two of your co-workers.”
George’s elegant fingers press into his temples, his eyes squeezing shut. Alex’s face freezes in an unfortunate look of bewilderment.
Lando’s mouth feels sore and weighted: exhausted, as if he’s been chewing at a stick of taffy for hours on end. His muscles contract, almost, with the pain that sits in the backs of his eyes, making the skin of his eyebags pinken. It’s something he’s always lived with – this physical manifestation of his embarrassment or upset.
Thin skin gone pink and blue and purple.
He pulls at the tie around his wrist.
“Let’s get you home,” George says, resolutely. His aquamarine eyes are piercing when Lando looks up. Make him feel translucent and laid bare in a way he never really enjoys.
“We’ll stay with you,” Alex adds, sparing a short glance to George before he continues and says, “Or you’ll stay with us.”
Lando startles, a bit, opens his mouth indignantly: “I’m not –”
“Lando.”
Alex’s voice is firm and allows Lando no space to argue. No place to, not really. Not after everything. Not after Sao Paolo 2024, not after Abu Dhabi 2025.
Lando swallows. Nods.
Looks out of the window. Those three panes. Traces his tongue against where his bottom lip’s chapped, just a bit.
“Thank you,” he says.
Neither George or Alex say a word, but Lando registers the gentle squeeze of a hand around his knee.
He sniffs back the tears, and closes his eyes.
˙⋆✮
Lando stays in Alex, George, and Lily’s guest room for two nights.
It’s nice: all soft blues and blush pinks. It looks a little like a gender reveal’s vomited all over the place, but in a good way, Lando thinks. Palletable and gentle and familial.
When Lily first opens the door to the three of them, her face falls from a bright, excited grin to a pinched, sympathetic expression.
She smells of yuzu and hassaku, all bright and sunshiney and warm, when she wraps her arms tight around him. Her hair is soft against his cheek, his nose – and she doesn’t comment, doesn’t pull away, when he buries his wet eyes against it.
“It’s still okay, right?” George asks, gently; obviously trying not to disturb the embrace. Lando’s reprieve.
Lily scoffs, and despite it all, despite everything, Lando’s lips pull up into an uneasy smile. Hidden by her hair. But there. “I would’ve killed you both if you left him alone like this,” she retorts, voice a little accusatory. A lot defensive. Her hand finds his hair, massages at the base of his skull as she whispers against his ear, “Now who do I have to kill?”
“Lily,” Lando gasps, and it’s wet, and it opens the floodgates: makes his shoulders quiver with heavy sobs as he leans more of his weight on her. Lets the sorrow consume him whole.
“We’ve got you, mate,” George soothes, his hand rubbing across his back in gentle circles. “We’ve got you.”
And they do. For forever, hopefully. For now, definitely.
Lando isn’t – he’s not a part of them. Hasn’t been for a couple of years. But it matters little, now, and maybe he’s not been as separate from them as he’d thought, either.
Maybe things have just changed, and maybe they’re dating each other, and maybe Lando’s decidedly not.
Maybe that’s okay.
The first night, they’re all slightly jet-lagged, bar Lily. She orders them all people, and while George and Alex unpack, after Lando’s shower, she makes him sit down on the bathroom stool.
Lando’s got a pair of George’s sweatpants on (George and Alex are entirely too tall for their own good, and he has to roll the cuffs over and over until they just brush the tops of his feet) and a towel wrapped over his shoulders.
The mirror is slightly fogged, around the edges, despite the bathroom fan still whirring. He can see himself just fine, though: can see Lily stood behind him.
She reaches around him, grabbing one of the assortment of bottles laid on the counter that she’d brought in right alongside her. It makes an odd sort of squeak, before a thick, beige cream pools in her palm.
Lando hadn’t asked why she wanted him sat on the stool. What the bottles were for.
She hadn’t told him, either.
He gathers what’s going on pretty quickly, though, when she rubs the cream together in her palms, makes sure that it’s an even slather across both hands, both sets of fingers. When she starts to scrunch at his wet curls.
His eyes flutter shut easily. His hair has always been a weakness – always sensitive, always relaxing. When he was a little kid, his mum would play with his hair until he fell asleep.
The calm is disrupted, slightly, when Lily admits, “They told me what happened.”
Lando’s eyes open, open to the mirror – to Lily looking directly at him through it. His eyes are rimmed red, and his lips are raw from where he’s picked at them. She, comparatively, looks like she might’ve just walked off of a runway: despite her shorts, despite her tank top, despite her hastily pulled together ponytail.
George and Alex are absurdly lucky.
“Pretty shit, hey,” Lando aims for humour, falls a little short. His voice is strained, a bit, and breaks throughout the syllables. He clears his throat.
Lily doesn’t pause her efforts, adding a different cream to the mix as she sighs, responds, “I’m sorry, Lando. I’m really sorry.”
The bathroom fan continues to whirr, and it should be annoying, but it’s not really. It’s just white noise, a sort of backdrop to the soft squelching of the hair cream, and Lily’s soft breathing that matches his own.
“Max knew that I wanted to fuckin’ –” he exhales sharply, lets his eyes squeeze shut, “Fuckin’ marry him one day. And he. He went and…”
“My earlier offer still stands,” Lily quips, and Lando looses a soft chuckle. When he opens his eyes again, it’s to see that a smile paints Lily’s face.
The silence – the fan, their breathing – sits for a few moments. Allows Lando to relax, allows his shoulders to loosen, slightly. Lily’s fingers are dexterous and strong, and Lando is reminded of just how fond of her she is.
Beyond the obvious golf factor, and the fact that she’s two of his best mates’ girlfriend, she’s astonishingly kind. Funny. Empathetic.
She’s putting cream through his curls when she could be doing literally anything else.
“I’m angry,” Lando says, then. Doesn’t really think about it when he does – but it rings true. He is really, really angry. Maybe the angriest he’s ever been. “I fucking hate him.”
Lily’s hands pause, for a moment, in his hair. It takes another few before they start moving again.
“Max?” She asks, and it’s slightly stilted – like she’s hedging on something that she doesn’t know if she should be involved in.
“Yeah,” Lando exhales, lets his eyes shut once more. Lily’s stopped putting more cream in; she’s just massaging what’s left through the strands. She is truly wonderful. “I hate him. Think I’m gonna do something about it.”
Lily stops fully at that. Her hands fall onto his shoulders, resting over the rough fabric of the towel that sits there.
Lando opens his eyes, meets her gaze once more in the mirror. She looks… unsure. A little concerned, maybe. Her eyes narrow when she states, “Don’t do anything illegal or dangerous, Lando. I mean it. You’re not leaving the apartment without us for another night, either.”
It’s not like Lando’s done many illegal things – dangerous, maybe, but that’s par of the course for a fucking racing driver. Danger is in his blood, as cheesy as it is.
But. Yeah. He guesses her concern is valid.
“I won’t do anything illegal or dangerous,” he recites, but Lily doesn’t look appeased in the slightest.
The fan whirrs.
A knock on the door sounds, and both Lando and Lily jump at the sudden echoing: Lily calls out, and Alex ducks his head in. His eyes are set on Lily, and it’s cute and more than a little nauseating. “Dinner’s here,” he calls, and Lando perks up a bit. He’s really hungry.
Lily squeezes his shoulders once, twice, before she takes a step back.
The imprint of her fingers feel burned into his skin for the rest of his stay.
He manages a few hours of sleep that night, although it’s restless and uneasy and rough. He doesn’t dream, but he wakes up thinking that his fingers have dipped themselves into papaya-coloured acrylic.
The day is slow. He goes on a walk around the block with George to ease the energy that’s pulling at the tendons beneath his skin, but it does little to truly abate the thrum of it. He tries to help Alex cook some pasta, although he’s so shit that he ends up just sitting on the counter, throwing a comment every so often.
His limbs feel heavy and useless, and he’s a little slow to the uptake. Foggy with emotion and exhaustion and something else that he can’t name.
He watches a movie with the three of them. He goes to sit on the arm chair, but they all end up yelling at him in opposition almost in synchronicity, so he ends up sitting on a beanbag on the floor, with Lily’s head resting in his lap. George’s legs are in Alex’s, up on the couch.
It’s nice. Nicer than being alone, Lando’s certain. Safer.
The next day, he goes home. They help him take his still-packed luggage the two blocks over to his apartment, and he thanks them profusely. Lily hugs him goodbye first, ordering him to be smart, and then George is holding him, saying nothing but a simple: ‘you know who you are, Norris.’
And then Alex pulls him in, and it’s safe and nice and familiar.
He doesn’t warn him against recklessness, like his partners. Doesn’t offer any comforting words.
What he says cuts through Lando much, much cleaner.
“The race isn’t over till it’s over.”
Alex pulls away, and it’s with a knowing smirk on his face, and a little glint in his eyes. It sets Lando’s mind aflame like a match to gasoline. Alex must know it, too – must know that the fire in Lando’s eyes is infinitely better than its greyed absence.
The final farewells are said, and finally, the door to Lando’s apartment shuts.
He presses his forehead against the cool wood, lets his palms flatten against the chill of it. His breaths are slightly shaky.
He feels the most alive that he’s felt since he saw that black sedan.
Since when did Lando Norris give up? Throw in the towel? He didn’t when McLaren was in the gutter, he didn’t when Max cleared him in 2024. And look where he is now – firmly battling for the Drivers Championship, in a Championship-winning car.
He isn’t about to fucking – give up on the love of his life. His future husband.
He isn’t about to lose in love to Max bloody Verstappen. Not to him, not to Charles, not to anyone.
Oscar is his. Has been for longer than he’ll ever know.
One misguided threesome isn’t going to change that. One night of drunken mistakes isn’t going to change their future – their homecoming.
Max Verstappen can get fucked.
Not literally.
But still.
Oscar will come home, and Max will find out the bloody consequences to his actions. Four-time world champion or not.
˙⋆✮
A day later, Lando texts Charles.
Me
2:41pm
hey mate
u busy?
At face value, it’s stupidity to the nth degree. It looks like Lando being reckless and hasty and desperate.
What it really is, is planned and purposeful.
Either Charles responds, or he doesn’t.
If he doesn’t, then the seed is still planted. He’ll show Max, will have uncertainty and doubt creeping into his thoughts. It’ll be off-putting and so very out of place, and Charles won’t respond, but it’ll be something.
If he does –
Lando’s phone buzzes, where it sits on his kitchen counter while he eats the protein smoothie bowl that’d been glad-wrapped and shoved into his fridge by Jon. His spoon nearly falls from his mouth as he reaches for his phone, hurriedly swipes down the notification to read it fully without opening it.
Charles Leclerc
3:19pm
did you mean to msg me???
It’s little comfort, but it’s nice to know that someone on the grid texts like their age.
Me
3:22pm
yeh
this is charles, right??
Charles Leclerc
3:24pm
yes
what do you want, lando
The fact that Charles isn’t even playing at civil makes Lando feel, oddly, a little relieved. No masquerading or beating around the bush this way, he supposes.
Charles isn’t acting like he didn’t fuck Oscar, and Lando isn’t going to act like he doesn’t know that he has.
Me
3:25pm
can we meet at the cafe on the corner?
wanna talk
Charles Leclerc
3:26pm
should i be fearing for my safety??
i am not dumb lando
Me
3:27pm
nah
youre fine
Lando knows full well that Max had to have told Charles everything. He isn’t going to kid himself, isn’t going to join the masses thinking Charles to be some perfect godsend. An angel reborn.
Charles is a manipulative, self-involved prick, and probably gets off on the fact that Lando’s infatuated with his most recent conquest.
Lando holds no guilt for using him. Not when he had Oscar underneath him, not when he had his mouth on soft, pale skin – probably against his moles.
His jaw clicks with the harshness of his swallow at that thought.
Charles Leclerc
3:29pm
alright
ill be there in 10
Lando simply likes the message, and goes to tug his sneakers on.
˙⋆✮
The breeze bites against his cheeks as Lando finds his way to the cafe. It’s still a bit chilly, this time of year, and he forgot to chuck on a hoodie in his haste.
The adrenaline that floods his veins is enough warmth, anyways, he supposes. The barely concealed fury that threatens to gnaw at his skin from underneath.
Gentle wisps of cloud float in the perfect blue sky, and it’s more than a little mocking. Lando feels the furthest from sunshine and blue skies that’s humanly possible, he thinks. He wants to see it fade into grey. He wants to see droplets thunder from above.
When he opens the door to the cafe, the bell attached to it jingles softly.
Charles is sitting in a corner booth, and his eyes are already set on Lando.
Shoving his hands into his shorts pockets, letting them curl into fists, he makes his way over with his face set into a picture of calm indifference.
The lighting above is precise in the cosiness and ease that it aims to evoke, with its orange glow paired with the sleek wood of the tables and chairs, the art adorning the lightly painted walls.
It’s a Monaco cafe.
And Lando Norris is approaching a very alone Charles Leclerc.
He’s playing with his rings, elbows leaning against the tabletop. He hasn’t aborted their eye contact once, hasn’t shown a hint of backing down.
At least he knows what this is about. Owning up to it, maybe.
Definitely not apologising for it.
“Lando,” he says, tilts his head a little as Lando shuffles into the booth opposite him. He’s got a bit of a five o’ clock shadow going on, a little scruffy at the jaw and cheeks. Lando won’t ever admit to it, but it’s. Y’know. A little attractive.
On anyone else, it’d be wholly.
“Charles,” he returns, folding his arms over his chest.
One thing he appreciates is that he and Charles are fairly evenly matched, like this. Charles’ presence is delicate and pretty and soft – everything that he’s strived to present himself as to the media, over the years. So very falsified. Obviously so on track; less so off it.
But it is. Falsified, that is.
Charles is a dickhead.
“Did you like the photo Max sent?” Charles asks, resting his chin against his fist. He’s smirking, and the fury that’s threaded itself underneath Lando’s skin threatens the seams. “Oscar is very beautiful, is he not?”
Lando exhales through his nose, taps his fingers against his bicep.
“Does he know that it was a one-time thing?” Lando spits, and Charles has the decency to flinch back at the words. The accusation. “Or are you fucking around with his feelings for fun?”
Charles guffaws, at that, his eyebrows shooting up in indignation. His accent is a little thicker than usual when he retorts, “I did not expect you, of all people, to be accusing someone of that. Do not speak on things that you do not know anything about.”
“What?” Lando bites out a forced chuckle, brows furrowed harshly. “I know bloody well what I’m talking about. You and Max wanted to have a bit of fun, and decided to fuck with me while you were at it. I just don’t want to see Oscar hurt at the end of it. He doesn’t deserve that.”
And – and Charles.
He looks furious beyond words.
His eyes are glacial, mouth thin and lips pulled back, leaving his cheeks looking slightly hollow, his jaw tense and muscle jumping a bit beneath the skin. His nails have clawed against the glaze of the table, a bit.
He looks terrifying, actually.
“You are a blind, blind man, Lando Norris,” Charles hisses, each word dipped in vitriol. Lando’s breath catches in his throat. “You do not come here, and accuse us of hurting Oscar. You do not come here and accuse us of this made-up scenario that you have obviously fantasised about. You do not come here with that smug little grin and act like I’m the villain. You do not get to do that.”
Lando shivers slightly. His eyes are wide and his lips are parted, and spit gathers in his mouth where he’s unable to move his jaw, his tongue.
He has misstepped. Irrefutably.
The coffee machine hisses, and people distantly chatter, and the bitter scent of fresh coffee permeates the air of the cafe, and Lando Norris has made a severe mistake.
He’s about to make another one.
“I love him,” claws out of his throat, and he’s conscious enough to recognise the statement as an error in his judgement. “Max knew that I love him, and you probably did too, and you fucking took him.”
Charles’ hand slams against the table, and Lando fully jumps where he sits, his heart rate spiking violently. He can hear the thrum, thrum, thrum of it like a booming drum during a drivers parade.
“He is not a trophy, Lando!” Charles seethes, and he’s suddenly very, very close to Lando’s face.
He has seen Charles Leclerc cry. He has seen Charles Leclerc furious at his engineers. He has seen Charles Leclerc cuss out every driver on the grid.
He has never seen Charles Leclerc on the verge of murder.
“You love him?” He asks, and it’s mocking and cruel and Lando regrets everything, everything, everything. “You love him? Really?” Charles bites out a disbelieving laugh. “Because you act like he is so very beneath you. You want him to wait around while you screw anything that walks? You are unbelievable! Pour qui tu te prends?”
Lando’s heart is in his throat, and it’s almost as if he could choke on it.
“Je suis furieuse! You think you deserve Oscar? Really? If you love him so much,” and Charles spits the words like they’re poison, the pinnacle of immorality, “Then surely you know that he deserves the world, no? Do you really think that he deserves you?”
Charles stands. Grabs his wallet, where it was sitting near the wall.
“You must not love him, then, as you say,” he finishes, and the words are cold and final. His eyes feel like nails as he adds, “I have to go, now. Oscar and Max made dinner, and I would not want to be late.”
Lando registers the shutting of the door, the distant jingling of the bell. The churn of the coffee machine. The beeping of cars outside. The honking of boats on the harbor.
He thinks of retirement. He thinks of Oscar. He thinks of crimson.
He wants to carve the red from his body. He wants to rid himself of any hint of Red Bull or Ferrari. He wants to bleed papaya.
He wants Oscar Piastri.
His ears are ringing, he thinks, or maybe there’s been a gunshot, or maybe his heart’s ceased its useless rhythm.
When he looks down, his hands are trembling. They always were too large for his frame – comical in their width. He’s always kinda liked it; no partner ever complained about his hands being too big.
He wants to wrap them like his protein bowl was wrapped. He wants to see them lessen beneath the plastic.
He wishes he could do that to his whole body. Be tightly, physically concealed – but on full display, all at the same time. He wonders if Charles would see how much he means it when he says he loves Oscar, then. If his physicality is contorted, morphed into some unnatural shape; if his soul is laid bare and existent in and of itself.
Charles is right, he thinks. Oscar deserves so much more than this.
But.
And isn’t there always a but?
But don’t you deserve Oscar? But can’t you be what he deserves?
Why would Charles know what Oscar deserves?
You are what Oscar deserves.
You are what Oscar deserves.
You are what Oscar deserves.
“Can I get you something to drink?” The waitress asks, and she looks a bit hesitant. Her pen nib’s pressed against her notepad, and Lando can’t see it, but he knows the pressure’s left an indent.
He hides his hands underneath the table, lets them rest on his thighs – like they’re splattered with blood, grade A evidence.
“A flat white, if you can do it,” Lando says, and he smiles, and he knows that it’s not quite right. “With one sugar.”
The waitress smiles back, and she nods, and then she says something about it being a couple minutes, before she heads off, and Lando’s alone again.
You are what Oscar deserves.
He thinks of soft, mole-riddled skin sandwiched between pinkened pale and tanned smooth. He thinks of Oscar’s face painted in ecstasy for two men that he doesn’t realise are entirely evil. Wolves in sheeps’ clothing.
You are what Oscar deserves.
He is what Oscar deserves.
What the fuck does Charles Leclerc know, anyway?