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He could still see her sometimes, baking cinnamon cookies every autumn like a ritual. Tired but steady hands working away for a taste of cinnamon that was so, temporary.
The memory of her voice was bittersweet and laced with the longing to hear her call out his name one, last, time. Like hiraeth on a particularly bad day.
”Lando, come try the cookies!”
When he closed his eyes hard enough, he could almost pretend like she was still here. He could almost pretend like everything was good again.
But all good things come to an end.
”This one's for you, grandma.”
Lando blearily awoke from his sleep, sleep didn’t allow him to partake in it for more than four hours a night. Today was no exception, it seemed.
He propped himself up on his elbows and glanced at the window, the rays of morning sun beamed through the curtains and onto his face.
A groan fell out of his mouth as he covered his eyes and blinked himself to reality.
Right, Canada.
Rolling over to his right side and propping himself on one elbow, he grabbed his phone on the nightstand and squinted through his unkept curls at the dimly lit screen and sighed.
4:03
He let the screen shut on its own and carelessly tossed it on the nightstand, the bed creaked as he once again rolled onto his back.
The roof seemed particularly interesting today, he could see hollow blobs, dancing and shifting forms, The black outlines a stark contrast to the white roof.
At one point, one of the blobs shifted into the outline of Miami, then Brands Hatch. He decided that it was time to get out of bed when he started hallucinating the outlines of Yeongam and Portimao.
He pulled the blanket off and hastily stood up, which unfortunately was the wrong move because his vision was instantly flooded with dark spots and his knees gave out.
The bed felt like a hammer against his spine when he landed, he threw an arm across his face and was suddenly too aware about the fact that he hadn’t eaten since Thursday.
He had been getting better. Truly, he had. Until his grandma had passed and suddenly the scent of cinnamon made his stomach retch and even the thought of consuming food made him nauseated.
It had become a coping mechanism of sorts, tracing back to his days of karting as a skinny and frail little boy. Being underweight gave him an advantage regarding speed, and it made Lando feel like he was in control.
His karting friends used to send him sour looks when the occasional reporter would come and paint Lando to be ”the next big thing”. For others, the jealousy that seethed out of his karting mates would probably discourage them. For Lando, it was prideful and only drove him to further prove who’s in control.
This obviously didn’t last long as his parents had caught him bent over the toilet spewing his guts out during a Christmas family gathering with the door unlocked. Yikes.
Lando’s mom’s eyes glossed over and she refused to let Lando out of her sight for the rest of the evening, his dad cleaned the toilet and disinfected it from the smell of bile. And of course, his grandma forced him to eat her cinnamon cookies. Those damn cinnamon cookies.
At the end of the day, the doctor's appointments, cookies, fancy dinners, and scolding from his siblings turned out to be in vain. The healthy almost-fat that had rounded out Lando’s cheeks and those lean muscles that had once adorned his body had once again turned into sharp cheekbones that felt almost painful to touch and arms that would’ve resembled twigs if Jon hadn’t forced him to eat whenever they were together.
Lando snapped out of his thoughts as he suddenly became too aware of the hard mattress digging into his arse. He groaned and sat up, slowly this time.
He couldn’t go back to sleep, even if he wanted to– with the strange blob-like shapes that danced on every surface in the room, the firm mattress that agonizingly dug into every nook and cranny of his very being, and the emptiness clawing at his abdomen.
Ah. He missed home. Lando didn’t have any particular definition of what home actually meant. The closest thing to home was warmth.
Warmth was anywhere but here, in his cursed body and deranged mind.
The early bird gets the worm, he thought, as he got up and abruptly pushed aside the curtains– and he grinned as he deliberately assaulted his own eyes with the morning sun.
Today was race day in Canada, the sky was painted baby blue and highlighted with a few white clouds. The sun overlooked the chaos of the track, Lando waved at the spectators from the parade bus and smiled for the camera. He distantly wondered what would happen if he just, like, started flipping everybody off and ran away. Hm, maybe a ten-second penalty for Ocon?
A manic grin, barely visible under the shadows of his cap, plastered on to his face.
He blamed the grin on the fact that he liked Canada, and it elevated his mood. It was a fun track, demanding at times, but ultimately very exciting. He had even managed a P2 last year, and Lando wasn’t a very optimistic person, but he had somewhat high hopes for the race.
At least he used to have high hopes until like, twelve seconds ago. His head had started throbbing and his stomach ached. It felt like somebody had hit him with a stick, the insides of his head gnawed at his skin like a bubble ready to explode at any minute.
Lando leaned back against the railing of the bus, supporting his weight on one leg and propping the other one on the wall nonchalantly. He clutched his Monster can like a lifeline and closed his eyes.
”Mate, you look like shit.”
Lando hazily blinked his eyes open and to his left was the one and only, Pierre Gasly. Pierre put his hand on the railing and leaned in a bit.
”You alright?”
Lando looked at Pierre incredulously, as if he’d told him that he’d seen a skinwalker. Pierre decidedly kept looking at him with those concerned eyes, like he actually cared.
He took a deep breath and gathered himself, and then he forced himself to laugh like an absolute dweeb. Lando mentally slapped himself and cringed.
”All good mate, lovely weather, eh?” A plastic smile manifested on his face. Judging by Pierre’s scrutinizing look, it apparently didn’t convince him enough. Pierre opened his big fat annoying mouth (Lando wasn’t very bright at coming up with insults) and was about to say something, before Franco Colapinto, out of all people, walked up to them.
Forcing out a few laughs and smiles was an easy task for Lando with other people around, but it got much harder with Pierre staring daggers into Lando’s soul and Franco’s mere presence.
Franco was clueless enough to keep the conversation going, he prayed that he’d keep yapping until it was Lando’s turn to get interviewed. George and Carlos had somehow, but fortunately butted their ways into the conversation, and Lando was thankful for that.
George had pinched Lando’s shoulder and stepped in to speak for him, and Carlos smiled a bit too much at him. He didn’t know if it was on purpose or not, and it likely wasn’t on purpose because his dearest friends had the combined emotional intelligence of a six year old. But either way, he was thankful he didn’t have to talk a lot.
Soon, it was his turn to get interviewed. He breezed through the interview and answered everything exactly how it was. Yes, he had made too many mistakes in Q3. No, he didn’t have more to say. Yes, he was excited for the race.
As he finished his interview and turned away from the interviewer, he made eye contact with Oscar. The younger driver looked away like he’d been caught staring at his crush, but he eventually looked back and shot him a small dorky smile. Lando chuckled beneath his breath and made his way over.
”Hey.” Oscar said breathily. Lando smiled and brought his straw to his lips to drink.
The smile on Oscar's lips faltered a little, Lando thought nothing of it and decided to initiate a conversation. Like normal people would, except he wasn't normal and could barely restrain himself from teasing Oscar.
”Caught ya smiling Osc, no coming back from that one.” He expected a snarky reply, but the silence stretched for a little too long. Lando’s gaze flickered from his straw to Oscar’s eyes and it felt like he was being studied like a lab rat.
”You’re shaking, Lando.” A simple statement. Yet Lando found himself scrutinized and mildly offended, he hadn’t even realized that he was shaking.
He opened his mouth and closed it again, mimicking a fish (yuck), trying and failing to quickly come up with an excuse. It was grueling and dreadful to lie to Oscar.
His Oscar, who looked at him so unabashedly but lovingly with those chocolate eyes. And oh, his eyes, usually filled with so much adoration and fond exasperation, were now tainted with concern and expectation. Like he longed for unfiltered honesty, almost like he cared.
He doesn’t. His mind supplied.
Lando coughed and sneered. ”C’mon Osc, y’know i get cold easily.” was what he came up with. The words were exaggerated by waving the sleeve of the hoodie he was wearing at Oscar’s face. Oscar examined him for a bit, until he finally sighed stoically and let his shoulders relax.
”Sorry mate…I’m just, just…worried? Kinda?” He rubbed his forehead and looked down at his feet guiltily, before reluctantly catching Lando’s gaze. Oscar looked like an angel, staring at Lando with his somewhat kempt prince hair partially obstructing his view, with those slightly red cheeks and with those hesitant eyes.
Cute. Lando thought. He hoped his flaming cheeks weren’t turning rosso corsa to match Oscar’s blush.
He batted his eyelashes at Oscar and decided to lighten the mood. ”And to think you’re worried about me. Reckon you’re tryna kill me with kindness, Mr Piastri, so that you can win the championship all by yourself.” He said with a silky smooth voice.
Strangely enough, Formula One driver and young entrepreneur Lando Norris (registered trademark) was blessed with good social skills. He mentally patted himself on the back.
Lando’s comment led to Oscar curling in on himself, laughing, like he always did. Lando could probably pull a knock knock joke on him, and he’d laugh like he’d cracked the joke of the century. And now it was Lando’s turn to gaze at Oscar like he’d hung up the 88 constellations.
Oscar collected himself and crossed his arms in front of his chest, watching Lando with eyes filled with unspoken adoration and that doting grin that was basically only reserved for Lando.
“I’d rather have you be there, with me.”
And oh, that mellow and fizzy feeling that suddenly erupted inside of Lando almost drowned out everything else for a moment. He blinked at the younger man, who had turned away and now politely waved at the fans in the crowd. Lando’s tongue had become heavy in his mouth, and he was acutely aware of his fastened heartbeat.
He awkwardly stood there and sort of disassociated, staring holes into the crowd and honestly kind of spiralling.
“You sure you’re okay? You look a bit…red.” A heavy hand landed on his shoulder, big enough to span most of his clavicle. Lando shivered at the realization.
Huh, that’s kinda hot. He banished that thought to the depths of the dungeon of secrets in his brain and fed the key to the imaginary fish monsters, as he turned to the source of the voice and once again made eye contact with Oscar.
“Uh huh, fine.” Lando blatantly lied through his teeth. Oscar apparently took pity on him and dropped it, turning back to the crowd.
“That’s good.” Somehow, those small words of indirect praise fired Lando up again, and made him feel all giddy inside. But the bitter reminder that nothing ever lasts with Lando Norris was enough to sour his mood.
Don’t get too used to this. His mind supplied.
Wasn’t planning to. His heart retorted.