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Lando watches on with a wince, not even trying to school his features into something more lingering on the edge of a DJ booth appropriate.
It's Monaco. It's Monaco after the Monaco Grand Prix. It's the biggest party weekend on the calendar, the weekend where F1 drivers don't even have to try to look good, don't have to pull a single string to get what they want. Because it's Monaco.
But Oscar.
Jesus Christ, Oscar.
He's testing that theory right before Lando's eyes, frantically grabbing napkins off the bar and and fluttering his hands about. Because he spilled his entire drink on the girl he was trying to chat up, and now he's, what? Not sure he can touch her to help?
She grabs some napkins of her own, completely ignoring the ones Oscar's half-offering half-flailing, before patting the worst of it dry and storming off – tossing her hair over her shoulder as she does so.
God, that fucking blows.
Podium weekend, too.
Lando turns his attention back to the DJ, a guy he's pretty sure will let him fuck around with his set deck if he bats his lashes right. With a wink, leaning in to listen to whatever he yells into his ear, Lando can't help but wonder if he's ever seen Oscar take a girl back. Or get close to pulling a girl at all.
His eyes flick to the bar, watching Oscar lean his back against the surface and sip casually at his – freshly replaced – drink. Knowing Oscar, he'll probably get sucked into a circle of drivers, pretend to dance around for a bit, then duck out for the night with a polite smile.
A hand on his elbow drags him back to the present, to the kind of grimy DJ motioning for him to step up next to him, and he finds that he... doesn't really want to.
Something else might be a lot more fun.
With another smile, the nose crinkly one he knows men like, Lando jumps off stage and back onto the dance floor – immediately swarmed with the press of shoulders and lingering hands. But Oscar, still somewhat visible back at the bar, doesn't have that.
Does he want to?
Interesting.
"Promise not to spill on me?" Lando says with a smile, finally making his way over to Oscar and flagging down the bartender, motioning to get whatever he's having.
He flashes him a look, the one with the raised brow and tilted head. Annoyed, mildly. Always mildly with Oscar. "Y'saw that, huh?"
"I'd say we've all been there, but..." Lando trails off, nodding thanks to the bartender and picking up his glass, mimicking Oscar's posture against the bar. They're looking out at the dance floor together, twin drinks with twin stances, but definitely not twin track records. With a pointed smile, "Never made a chick storm off."
"Fuck off," Oscar has to raise his voice over the growing bass, the DJ building up the drop far longer than someone of his caliber should.
"You tryin' to pull someone?" Lando asks, ignoring Oscar's poorly sharpened barb. He likes talking to Oscar like this, placing the metaphorical pads of his curious fingers onto his skin and sliding them where it hurts.
Oscar never takes the bait. Pity.
Instead Oscar actually turns, elbow and hip against the bar, and looks Lando full on. His face is red, probably some concoction of heat, embarrassment, and liquor, but it's still nice enough to look at. He shouldn't have any issues with women if that's the biggest criteria (and, in Lando's experience, it really is more than half the battle).
"Not very good at it, if you are." Lando continues, taking a sip of his drink without breaking eye contact. He has to look up at Oscar a bit like this, both of them leaning against the bar, Lando leaning a bit harder.
"You think you're much better?" Oscar finally asks, almost teasing Lando's lure – telling him sees it, but doesn't really care.
"Y'ever had a girlfriend?" Lando asks back, and Oscar's suddenly intensely neutral expression answers in turn. "Then yeah, reckon I'm better, mate."
Oscar shuffles half a step closer, face definitely more than half a shade redder. "Where's your girlfriend now, then? If you're so talented."
Lando shrugs with an easy smile. "Haven't wanted one, too busy. You?"
"I..." Oscar trails off, finally the first to look away. "Fine. Not much luck in that department, I guess."
Lando shouldn't laugh, that's rude. Because it's not actually funny, really, and that's not why he feels a giggle build in his chest. It's bizarre that Oscar apparently can't get a date. So instead Lando tilts his head, taking in the way Oscar draws a swig of his drink like it'll cool down the sweat building in his hairline – weighing down the swoop of his bangs.
It hits him, watching Oscar stare at the dance floor full of people who were begging for a chance at Lando's attention just moments ago. "Bet I could teach you." Oscar's eyes snap back to his, wider than the time Lando suggested they go skydiving in the off-season.
"Teach me –"
"The Lando Norris guide to getting laid."
Oscar pulls a face. "That's not –"
"Getting a girlfriend, then." Lando amends, holding up his largely-empty glass in cheers. "Cheers to not being a virgin, mate."
Oscar doesn't take the bait, no, but he does play along. They clink their glasses together and raise them to their lips, eye contact unwavering.
The drop finally hits – literally on the dancefloor, figuratively to the side of Lando's temple. He's going to need to figure out how to deliver; because he definitely can, Lando's totally had girlfriends and he's definitely taken women home, but how do you help –
Oscar slides a hand through his hair, bicep shifting nicely under his recently-too-tight shirt.
Because surely there's a deeper problem if Oscar's struggling; he's objectively fine looking. Good, even. So how does Lando help that? Whatever 'that' is?
It came to Lando after stumbling back into his flat after way too many drinks. Beyond "too many", honestly. It was veering more into an ungodly amount – but he couldn't say no.
Lando had gotten pulled away shortly after bothering Oscar, flashing him a little wave and jokingly mouthing call me like some romcom damsel. And the drinks had been flowing, like they're always flowing in Monaco, like they're always flowing for him in Monaco. And that's when it hit him. The plan.
Laying in bed, Lando's fairly certain that he can feel his blood slowly trudging through his veins, more parts alcohol than water. His eyes are dry, nearly clicking when he blinks up at his ceiling. Gross.
But the plan.
He reaches blindly for his phone, not bothering to hold back a pathetic groan as the room spins a little. Wincing at the screen's assault on his vision, Lando taps through his messages quickly – opening Oscar's.
Lando Norris
not gonna text ur gf good morning?
Lando's a bit tickled by it; the text stands in jarring contrast to the last message they sent each other (from Oscar, simply containing a thumbs up emoji). The response bubbles pop up quicker than Lando expected, though maybe his mild hangover finally aligned their sleep schedules.
The three bubbles disappear.
They pop back up.
Oscar Piastri
Did we not establish that I don't have one
Rub some salt in the wound, please
Lando Norris
thought we etablished that im gonna teach u mate
*establsshed
Oscar Piastri
Established
Lando Norris
lesson 1: don't correct ur gf
lesson 2: don't interrupt ur gf
she'll hate that
There's a pause, Lando's thumbs still hovering over the keyboard. Oscar hasn't started typing yet. Good. Maybe he's already learning.
Lando Norris
its me btw
im ur girlfriend
Oscar Piastri
No.
He barks out a laugh – dry and terribly dehydrated – at Oscar's full stop. Lando can picture his face too easily: eyebrows flat, glaring ever so slightly, arms crossed. It's a face he really only makes at Lando, who's apparently the only one with a vested interest in getting under his skin.
Lando Norris
who asked for my help again????
Oscar Piastri
I didn't really ask, to be fair
Lando Norris
well this is how its gonna work then
im gonna be ur gf
and im gonna teach u what to do so u can get a real one
and then you let me win the race after you do
as payment
Oscar Piastri
Is the contract negotiable?
Mark might wanna look it over
Lando Norris
what was lesson 1 mate
Oscar Piastri
I don't think asking questions is the same as correcting you
Lando rolls his eyes with a smile. Pedant.
Lando Norris
lesson 3: dont question ur all knowing gf
Oscar Piastri
👍
Maybe that deeper, flawed part of Oscar is the fact that he's texting his girlfriend like an under-enthused coworker, Lando thinks as he tosses his phone to the side. He has some sleep to catch up on before his flight to London the next day, and he's done his part as teacher for now.
Wait, no. Not quite.
Lando Norris
what r u doing before canada
ur on boyfriend duty
"You know," Oscar starts, settling into his seat opposite Lando, knees spread ever so slightly. "I've been thinking about your plan."
"It's a good plan," Lando smiles like he's agreeing, putting his phone down to pay proper attention.
"Sure. But how's pretending I have a girlfriend gonna help me get one?"
Lando tilts his head to take Oscar in, dressed plainly and casually like always. They're flying private to London before Canada – Lando informed him that boyfriends have to attend their girlfriend's sporting matches – and he's made no concerted effort to... look the part.
But Lando's in joggers.
So maybe Oscar's looking the part then.
He's not sure why he cares what he's wearing, actually.
"See, that's where you're wrong. If you learn how to treat a lady," He pauses, motioning to himself confidently – Oscar scoffs. Lando throws a soft glare. "Women can sense that, right? That you know what you're doing. It's like... I'm helping you build your resume, mate."
Oscar raises a brow at him, more considering than contrarian. "Who says I don't know how to treat a lady?"
“So what’s your hang up?"
There's a pause; Oscar chews on the inside of his cheek, and Lando's eye catches on the exaggerated hallow under his cheekbone. He doesn't really notice it often, how angular Oscar's face can be under the right conditions. So much of him is soft – the rounded tip of his nose, his warm brown eyes – that it almost makes him forget about his sharpness. His jawline. His so frequently weaponized brows. The corner of his lips in a crooked smile.
Oscar pulls him back into focus, "Guess I kind of tense up when it comes to flirting," He sounds honest, but in that direct sort of way. Detaching himself from the awkwardness by making it clinical.
Got him.
Lando smiles, sparing a quick glance around the empty cabin before sliding lower in his chair – letting his legs extend into the space between them.
In his best overly put on, oversexed sort of whisper: "We can work on that," He lets a foot slide between Oscar's, grazing his exposed ankle.
"What are you, twelve?" Oscar laughs, pulling his feet up like he'd been shocked.
Something inside him bristles a little. Rude.
Lando says as much, sliding even lower to kick at Oscar's curled up legs. "Don't be rude to your girlfriend, mate, c'mon,"
They're both giggling, devolving to some stupid, childish kicking fight. Oscar's face flushes pink, so much fainter than the true red Lando saw at the club; it almost reminds him of the outer edges of a sunset, diffused and soft and lovely. See, he thinks to himself smugly, letting his feet drop after Oscar weakly gasps out "truce". I can get into the role.
Maybe this girlfriend thing is playing out to his advantage, actually.
He grabs Oscar's shoulders, positioning him exactly where he wants him. Oscar's firm under Lando's hands, oddly relaxed as he lets him push him around. "This just for fun, or...?" Oscar finally asks, looking at Lando – eyes flicking down to his lips, tongue peaking out in concentration.
"You're gonna take my picture," Lando says, flashing Oscar a brief smile before stepping back and leaning against their vantage point's railing. "Right when the fire goes off."
"Fire." Oscar deadpans, already fishing his phone from his back pocket.
"Y'know, the freaking, um –" He motions vaguely to the end of the pitch. "Pyro-whatever. It's gonna go off, so make me look good, yeah?"
Oscar holds the phone up at eye level, ready. "Pyrotechnics."
"What was lesson one?" Lando quips, straightening out his trousers before getting into his entirely-nonchalant-not-practiced pose.
"When I get a girlfriend," He starts, looking up from the phone and raising a brow at Lando. "I'll get one who doesn't need so much correcting."
God, no wonder he can't fucking pull.
Lando laughs anyways, because he's right – he probably will get someone smarter than him. Someone more like Oscar, witty and sarcastic. Sardonic, that's a good one. Oscar giggles back. Maybe if he did that more with women, that little breathless laugh that makes him tuck his chin, he'd have better luck.
"Fine," He says, taking a quick glance at the time before looking back over at Oscar. "Lesson four: gotta give your girlfriend the right angles. Squat down," Lando commands, motioning with his finger.
Oscar follows directions remarkably well, dutifully watching Lando's face for a sign of approval as he sinks down to one knee.
It’s a rare sight, Oscar looking up at him. It makes his spine tingle.
Lando clears his throat, tone serious. "Make me look taller, yeah?"
"Big ask –"
"Oi!" They're both giggling, Oscar's hands shaking lightly, his surely-flushed face hidden behind the phone. "Shut up, it's go time."
They meet in the lobby of the hotel, bags in hand and an unread good morning text on Lando's phone. It's just like any other travel day in half of those aspects.
Oscar waves when Lando steps out of the elevator, eyes clearly a little bleary. There's a hint of a smile at the corner of his lips, almost like he's too tired to flash his usual crooked grin but wants to try anyways – he can't help but find it nearly endearing.
"Really don't own a comb, do you?" Lando asks, stopping next to Oscar along the edge of the lobby.
Oscar hums noncommittally, or maybe non-coherently, and reaches for the handle of Lando's luggage. "Y'gonna call a car, or should I?" He mumbles, rubbing at his eyes with his free hand. The words are all jumbled together, and maybe it's moving past endearing. Whatever that emotion is.
Oscar hand is on his luggage.
He's looking at him for an answer.
"I'll..." Lando trails off, not entirely certain where his train of thought went. "I called a car, it'll be here in two." Another hum, another rub of the eyes. Lando takes that as confirmation.
Oscar leans against the wall, letting his head lay back and eyes close, exposing the sharp angle of his jaw, the bob of his Adam's apple.
It's really not that early, at least not early enough for Oscar to be this tired, but he's kind of always like this. Maybe Lando will get him a coffee when they get to the airport, though maybe that's Kim's job. Do fake girlfriend duties trump a teams' job?
His phone vibrates in his pocket.
"We should go," He says, and Oscar sighs before standing up properly. "Good boyfriend behavior, by the way," Lando nods to Oscar's hands as they walk through the lobby – one gripping his own bag, the other wheeling Lando's. "Real gentleman like."
"And they say chivalry is dead," Oscar smiles at him again, a little more awake this time. A little more pink under the eyes.
"Big word, look at you!" Lando laughs, and Oscar rolls his eyes.
"Yeah? Spell chrysanthemum for me."
They're both laughing again, Lando swiping at Oscar's legs and Oscar ramming their shoulders together – trying to throw Lando off balance. People in the lobby are probably looking, probably hear their too-loud fuck offs and you started its, but that's just how it goes.
It's not really been like this with any of Lando's girlfriends, but maybe this is the kind of boyfriend Oscar wants to be; that's fine, he's a flexible teacher, after all. It's nice, in a way, not having to force anything – to let it be easy.
Oscar hands off the luggage to the driver, boot already popped open for them.
"Gonna get my door?" Lando asks, hands on his hips and nodding towards the car with furrowed brows.
Oscar gives him a withering look. "Seriously, mate?"
"Don't call your girlfriend mate, mate."
"But you can call your boyfriend mate, dear?" Oscar says, voice dripping sarcasm, but he’s already walking around the car, eyes glued to Lando.
Lando breaks first, the stupid endearment ruining his poker face.
His voice cracks when he answers, trying his best to hold back a laugh. Oscar's smile makes it worse, compounded by knowing glimmer in his tired eyes. "Just open the door, you muppet."
Oscar Piastri
Good morning
Honey
Lando rolls his eyes as he reads, crouched down by his untied trainers – distracted by Oscar's stupid proper case and stupider pet name. Perhaps a little distracted by the flutter in his stomach at the attention.
Even if it’s not entirely for him, not for real.
Lando Norris
scrap honey
Oscar Piastri
Darling?
Lando Norris
👎
Oscar Piastri
When's the lesson where you're nice to me?
Lando Norris
fine
lesson 5: just ask what she wants if u get it wrong
Oscar Piastri
Fine
And what would my girlfriend like to be called?
Baby?
His stomach drops when he reads it, mind immediately providing an entirely unhelpful image of Oscar looking up at him, brows slightly furrowed and eyes soft, calling him that. Baby. What the fuck does that mean.
He stares down at his phone, thumbs frozen over the screen.
Because, quite genuinely, what the fuck does that mean?
Lando Norris
ur gf wants u to keep guessing
u and kim going out today?
Oscar Piastri
Think so
Wanna come on a bike ride?
Lando and Oscar don't typically see this much of each other before media day – usually pulled in different directions by their routines, trainers, and obligations. But Oscar's offering, probably because it's good practice, and Lando doesn't not have the time, per se.
He closes his eyes, suddenly aware that he can nearly feel his blood vibrating in his finger tips.
Baby.
Lando Norris
nah, gotta do some work w jon
u know how it is
Not everything has to be part of some joking scheme. In the end, they're still here to race. They're both still here to do their job. Poking fun at each other where it hurts a little more than it tickles, that's just a bit of fun on the side.
Lando crinkles his nose when Oscar sits down, mentally shooting lasers at the plate he sets on the table. "You know," He starts, wasting no time. "A good boyfriend wouldn't make me sit near fish."
"Lando," Oscar groans dramatically, leaning back in his chair like the portrait of suffering.
"I'm being nice and telling you, mate," Lando continues, barely restraining a smile. “Girls expect you to know."
"What happened to lesson five? Asking?"
"Then ask me."
Oscar mockingly clears his throat, sitting back up properly only to lean forward – moving into Lando's space just a bit. Closer than normal. Much closer.
Lando swears he can see a flush building on his face in real time, blooming across the bridge of his nose with each word: "May I please eat my salmon with you, my all-knowing girlfriend?"
Baby.
"Shut up," His voice is tight with laughter, face going hot with embarrassment. Oscar curls in on himself and cackles, like looking at Lando like that was the most hilarious thing he'd ever done; it's contagious, a terrible feedback loop of them trying to get another word out but losing it in between shallow gasps. "You owe me," Lando finally utters, and Oscar shakes his head.
A weak nod, still trying to catch his breath, "Sure thing."
"The real princess treatment," Lando commands, wiping at his eyes uselessly.
"Lesson six, got it." Oscar faux salutes, taking another bite of his disgusting breakfast.
It's going to be a long media day.
If it could stop raining for one fucking second this weekend, that would be great.
Lando's grumbling to himself, half paying attention to Charles and Carlos muttering about getting their answers straight for the driver's parade interviews, half paying attention to the rapidly darkening clouds on the horizon. He likes a wet race, professionally speaking – fucking hates a wet race, personally.
But needs must.
He resolves himself, weakly scrunching up his shoulders to protect his nape against the growing drizzle. It would have been more bearable if he'd grabbed his rain jacket rather than a hoodie, but it'll be –
"Lando!"
Fine.
It'll be fine.
He turns at Oscar's call, eyes immediately caught on his smile – wide, crooked, bunching up his cheeks the way that always makes them look extra flushed. Very prince charming, with his bunny teeth and his flip-floppy hair and –
And Lando's jacket, gripped tightly in his hands.
"Forgot this at the motorhome," Oscar breathes out as he falls into step with Lando and the Ferrari boys, warm brown eyes somehow sparkling. He holds the jacket out for Lando, who's frozen – caught up in. Something. Something about him.
Oscar raises a brow, shaking the jacket in his hand. "Y'don't like the rain."
"I know."
Ever patiently, "So I brought your jacket."
Get it together, mate, Lando chastises himself before grabbing the mass of papaya and black. "Yeah, sorry, just a bit... tired."
"Should I take note to bring you an afternoon latte next time?" Oscar asks sarcastically, motioning for Lando to step onto the bus first.
"Been studying lesson six?" He calls over his shoulder, he hears Oscar giggle behind him.
Lando claims a spot against the railing, waiting for Oscar to slot into place beside him. Distracted by Charles taking the space to his left, Lando jolts when he turns and sees Oscar closer than expected – leaning in to whisper in his ear.
Teammates sharing secrets isn't a big deal.
"How about 'sweetheart'?"
Please let his face look normal, please let his face look normal because the way his stomach churns is so far from normal.
"Let's win, then we'll talk."
Oscar just laughs. Normally. Oscar laughs normally. Because obviously he's joking, flirting with his fake girlfriend and getting a rise out of his real teammate. Fine.
Maybe it's just been too long since Lando got laid; he can fix that.
It's not cheating.
Literally how the fuck would it possibly be cheating. Because they aren't together. And Lando doesn't like Oscar like that. And Oscar wants a real girlfriend.
Right?
But Lando's brain is shooting ice through his veins, hands running cold as she leans in to whisper in his ear. Her breath feels wrong, dusting against his neck. Her hand feels wrong on his bicep, overly sharp nails teasing at his shirt sleeves.
God, it's all wrong.
"Sorry," He interrupts whatever she was saying, too lost in his own mild existential crisis to listen. "I gotta, uh. Check on a mate – tends to get lost, y'know?"
She looks offended, lips curling into something between a polite smile and a sneer, but Lando doesn't really care. Because the club is loud, just like it's always loud, and it's absolutely packed with people, just like it's always packed with people. But he doesn't want to be up on the stage, like he's always up on the stage.
And isn't that just the most interesting thing he's experienced in a club so far?
Podium weekend, too.
Pretty much all eyes are on Lewis, who so rarely comes out with the kids – as he calls them – these days. But it's been so long since he had reason to, maybe he just wants to revel in it. It gives Lando extra coverage when he slips into the VIP section, all eyes focused on Lewis and not at all worried about him.
Nor, it seems, is anyone worried about Oscar.
He slides into a relatively empty booth next to him, paying no mind to Alex and Logan cracking up about something nearby.
"Lessons aren't helping then?" Lando starts, snagging Oscar's drink off the table and downing it.
He looks nice tonight – clad in his beloved maroon shirt that clings to his chest a little tighter these days – so what the fuck is wrong with him? Is Lando that bad of a teacher?
Oscar just flashes him a look, that classic look of mild exasperation, as he watches Lando put his empty glass back in front of him. "Right. Thanks."
"Thank you," Lando smiles, trying his best not to gag at how sickly sweet the cocktail was. Unexpected taste there, but moving on. "But no girls? Not in the mood?"
"What makes you think it's my fault?"
His stomach clenches in panic. "Look at what you're wearing, mate." Oscar looks down at his shirt with a frown, and god, that wasn't the right thing to say. Before Oscar can look up at him with kicked-puppy eyes, Lando snatches his wrist and pulls. "C'mere."
Oscar's stumbling behind him, maybe a little more tipsy than Lando expected. "Lando, I really –"
"Lesson three, Osc, lesson three." He calls over his shoulder, dragging them towards the bathroom. He throws the door open with abandon, pulling them both inside. “Time for a new one, lesson... nine?"
The door latches, it falls unusually silent.
"Seven."
The answer feels weirdly intimate, falling into the space between them. Maybe Lando’s more tipsy than he thought, too. Oscar's staring at him. Lando staring at Oscar, fingers still encircling his wrist.
He’ll deal with… whatever that means later.
He pulls them deeper in the bathroom, all but pushing Oscar into a stall before locking them both in.
"Right then," Lando claps his hands together, trying to talk before he can process how insane a decision this is. "Shirt off."
Oscar's brows shoot up to his hairline, head jerking back like Lando slapped him. "What?"
"Lesson seven," He keeps talking, because if he keeps talking then his hands won't shake as he slowly unbuttons his own shirt. "Dress to impress, mate."
"Keep your clothes on," Oscar hisses, lunging forward and grabbing Lando's hands, stopping him halfway down his chest. "Are you insane?" He's looking right into his eyes, face so close that Lando can see the individual rings of gold, reddish brown, and green in his irises.
"We're gonna trade shirts, and then you're gonna go dance." Lando says, and Oscar's hands clench around his tighter.
"No."
"I'll even give you my necklaces."
"No."
"Don't think I'll look good in maroon?" Lando tilts his head to the side, watching Oscar's tense brows relax for a moment at the unexpected question.
Lando's always been good at that, catching Oscar off-guard. Making him laugh. He's never gotten to see it up close though, never felt Oscar's breath – sweet from his mixed drinks – ghost against his lips.
He's still laughing when he answers, low in his chest, disbelieving. "That's not the –" A deep breath. "It's not gonna fit, mate."
"You've not grown that much," Lando rolls his eyes, and Oscar lets go of his hands. Slowly, still ever so slowly, he keeps working at his buttons. "Just gonna watch?"
Oscar looks shocked into moving, flushed cheeks temporarily hidden behind a flash of cotton as Oscar quickly slides off his shirt.
Lando undoes the last button.
God, this was a terrible idea.
He's seen Oscar change before, they're athletes. They see each other get dressed all the time, they see each other in ice baths and shirtless at the gym. But fuck, Oscar's heat-flush is spread down to his chest, and Lando's eyes aren't lingering and how has he never noticed that Oscar has moles elsewhere and –
Fuck, has Oscar always been hot?
It's gone silent.
Lando tosses his shirt at Oscar, nearly smacking him in the face. "Leave the top two undone, yeah?"
Oscar tosses his shirt back blindly; Lando catches it before it hits the floor: skin-warmed in his grasp.
They dress in silence, Lando trying to unclasp his necklaces while Oscar struggles to button up his shirt. "Might have to leave more than two," He finally says, flexing his arms – the seams at his shoulders visibly tight, his biceps straining against the thin white fabric. He's had to leave it buttoned below his sternum, the curve of his pecs definitely not... not on display.
He looks nice.
Lando swallows.
Good, even.
His necklaces feel warm in his hand when he holds them out for Oscar to take.
"Put these on," He makes an effort to keep his voice even, uncertain why it's wobbling in the first place. "It's show time."
"That is not your shirt, no?" Charles asks, nearly collapsing into the seat next to Lando, eyes bright and hair sweaty, disheveled. He looks oddly chipper considering Lando saw him contemplating homicide at the track a few hours ago.
Good for him, honestly. Resilient.
His fingers, uncoordinated and hot, fumble for the hem of Lando's – Oscar's – shirt and pull it up to his face. "The color, it's Oscar's? His party shirt?" Charles nearly falls into him, leaning too far forward in an effort to inspect Lando's very clearly burgundy shirt at close range.
"Is it?" Lando plays dumb, grabbing Charles shoulders and pushing him upright.
"Is it?" He parrots, leaning in again – this time looking deep into his eyes. "You."
"Me."
"You are with him a lot these days."
Observant for a drunk. Lando smiles, hoping to dance around it. "Guess that's how it works with teammates. You good, mate?"
Charles isn’t wrong; he hasn’t been without Oscar since the entire ordeal started, and it feels confusingly natural. He won’t admit that.
"We are not sharing shirts, me and Carlos." Charles's tries to fall further into him, lip curling slightly around Carlos's name. Lando continues to hold him up.
"Skill issue."
"Don't..." He clearly loses the word, following Lando's distracted gaze in the growing silence. "You're watching him."
Oscar's on the dance floor, painfully awkward. He keeps gravitating towards Logan, only to get pulled away by a woman with bouncing strawberry blond curls.
"Am not."
Lando's necklaces keep catching the strobes, flashing where they rest against his glistening skin.
"Are too."
"Do you want to switch shirts with Carlos?" Lando asks, suddenly deeply irritated with Charles's insistent prodding.
"Non, non," He says, both of them still watching Oscar attempt to step away from the girl with her arms around his neck. "Just... curious."
They're quiet in the back of the car, Lando in Oscar's shirt, Oscar in Lando's shirt.
Lando's necklaces hang around his neck.
He can't stop looking at them, entranced. They're probably warm against his skin. He’s mindless toyed with those necklaces hundreds of times, snagged them between his lips as he focuses on mind-numbing amounts of data. And now they’re on Oscar’s chest, exposed in Lando’s shirt. Beating with Oscar’s heart, probably slow and steady.
Lando’s feels faster when Oscar spreads his knees a little, their thighs so close to touching. They could. They’ve touched before, but not like this. Whatever ‘this’ is, one sided as it is.
"Early flight in the morning," Lando finally says, not wanting to say what he means.
Oscar leans his head back against the headrest, eyes fluttering closed. His lashes flash golden under the passing streetlights. He hums. "Nice that we're going together."
"Yeah," Lando looks out the window, away from the lines of Oscar's profile. "It'll be good."
Someone knocks at Lando's door just as he reaches to open it, jolting him properly awake. The man on the other side beats him to a greeting, voice groggy and crackly with sleep.
"Good morning princess," Oscar laughs at the mocking pet name, ears reddening with it, and holds out a coffee cup.
He sounds like he just woke up, looks like he rolled out of bed.
"Princess treatment for the princess, huh?" Lando takes the cup with an appreciative nod, shifting sideways as Oscar reaches for his luggage.
"My princess? Or is that too cheesy?"
Lando laughs instead of answering, already walking down the hallway in an attempt to hide the violent heat in his cheeks. Oscar trails behind, silent.
They're tucked away in the back of the cabin, largely obscured from the rest of the group by seat backs and shoulders. Oscar's sat opposite him again, just like he was on the way from London.
It wasn't that long ago, a mere race weekend's worth of hours, and yet it feels so different. At least it does to Lando, surely it's all the same to Oscar – slouched down in his chair, hair uncombed, eyes half-closed half-focused on his phone screen.
Because Oscar's the same. And Lando's the same. So what the fuck happened to Lando's heart, to the some squishy part of him that flutters painfully at inconvenient moments, to make this so different?
He couldn't even get himself laid to deal with it.
So clearly whatever's wrong is wrong wrong.
Oscar looks up at him, brows raised like he's said something ridiculous. "You're quiet."
"You're quiet," Lando laughs, tone petulant and childish.
"Something bothering you?" He tilts his head, that earnest look in his eyes like he's trying to see through whatever front Lando's put on. He's done it since they met, actually, though it took Lando a while to figure out exactly what it meant.
Lando stretches his arms, aiming for casual. "Not really, just tired."
The corners of his lips twitch up, uneven and boyish. "You left early last night, didn't you?"
Lando can't tell what Oscar's getting at, trying not to show his confusion in his eyes. "We left together, you muppet." He reaches out to kick at him, earning one of those contagious little giggles – soft and private and warm on his ears. "Shirt looked like it helped you, didn't it?"
Oscar doesn't say anything, looking down at their feet – half slotted together after Lando's lazy attempt at war.
"Oi," He kicks at him again. "Lesson one, mate: agree with me."
"It definitely..." Oscar trails off a bit, eventually looking up at Lando. "Definitely made a difference, yeah."
Something twists in his stomach. He pushes it down with a grin. "Now tell me I'm a good teacher."
Deadpan, "You're a good teacher."
Lando cups a hand to his ear. "I'm also a what?"
Oscar sighs, finally matching Lando's smile. "A good girlfriend."
"Just good?"
"Can't let you get a big head," They're giggling again, locked in on each other like they're in their own little world instead of the back of a jet with their entire team. "Oh, actually," He starts again, reaching towards the nape of his neck. "Never gave you the necklaces back."
Oscar definitely showered this morning.
Which isn't important, until Lando's eyes zero in on his delicate fingers fiddling with the clasp, trying to get them undone.
He wore them in the shower?
Put them on after?
God, which one is worse? Why is he picturing both?
His face is on fire when Oscar looks back up at him, chains resting in his hand. On autopilot, Lando reaches out to grab them, just like they'd done in the bathroom stall the night before. But Oscar shakes his head and flashes him a look, one that he's not certain he's seen before, and quickly moves to sit next to him.
"C'mon," He flicks his chin, motioning for Lando to twist. "Turn around."
Lando's stuttering, blood nearly boiling and heart ringing in his ears. "Mate, I can put on my own –"
"Gotta practice, don't I?"
"Uh." Lando mutters out, tongue tied. He shifts in his seat, back facing Oscar. "Let me hold up my hair. For, um. Accuracy." He buries his fingers in the back of his hair, pretending to hike up a ponytail – and hopefully hiding the flaming tips of his ears in the process.
Oscar's giggling, but Lando's staring straight ahead at the plane's beige wall.
He can hardly hear him over the rapid thrum of his heart.
Why is it so hard to breathe?
Then he feels it, Oscar's lithe fingers draping the first chain around his neck – grazing the skin ever so gently – and it feels like he's fried his nerves. Jesus Christ, they've touched before, of course they've touched before, just like they've seen each other get dressed before. But it's all turned on its head, it's all different, and –
Oscar's fingers slip on the nape of his neck, dropping one side of the necklace. "Shit, sorry," He mutters, voice way too close to Lando's ear for comfort – his breath stalls in his chest. "Got it."
It's still warm from its time pressed against Oscar's skin (its time in the shower with him, maybe its time under his pajamas).
"How're my marks?" Oscar asks quietly, repeating the motions with Lando's second chain.
"Girls like when you ask how tight they want it," Lando manages to get out, voice shockingly calm considering he's never been more tense, frozen perfectly still, in his life.
"Noted," Oscar says, and Lando can almost hear his decisive nod. His voice is closer when he speaks again, maybe leaning in to see the clasp clearer. "Is this tight en–"
The plane jolts. Hard.
They both lurch forward, Oscar's hand slipping and nails catching his neck. Hard.
"Fuck," Lando hisses, turning to look at Oscar and stunned by his eyes – his proximity.
"Oh my god did I cut you?" His hands fly up to the growing red spots on Lando's neck, the harsh lines that his nails accidentally carved, not touching him. Instead, hovering awkwardly. All confidence from a moment ago shattered in the turbulence.
They're both red in the face.
"Yeah, it's..." Lando trails off, a little disoriented, fingers ghosting over the raised, angry marks. "Still getting a good grade, mate."
Oscar Piastri
So I'm a cat now?
Lando's reading his phone under the table, shooting a glance towards Oscar; he's looking over at Andrea, listening to him talk with a polite smile – not his usual work poker face. Clearly he's having fun. Or something.
Lando Norris
sry
obvi meant to say that my fake bf mauled me on a plane
[GONE SEXUAL]
[NOT CLICKBAIT]
Oscar muffles a laugh into his hand, poorly concealed as a cough. Jon kicks at him under the table, which is rude. Why would he assume it was his fault?
It was, but still.
He pulls a face at Jon in return, looking back at Andrea with an apologetic wince.
Oscar Piastri
Guess a cat raises fewer questions
Lando Norris
lesson three strikes again huh
Oscar Piastri
What're you doing after dinner?
Lando raises a brow at Oscar, the two of them catching each other's eyes despite Andrea definitely asking one of them a question. He looks between the two of them, rubbings at his eyes in exasperation before trying to nip it in the bud. "Phones on the table, boys."
"He started it." Lando says, and Oscar laughs.
"Wow, wow. No loyalty."
They both put their phones on the tabletop, face down, but neither can stop giggling behind their hands.
"You wear little socks?" Oscar quickly finds his way next to Lando, standing and staring at the smoke billowing up from the McLaren hospitality front doors.
Lando puts his hands on his hips, glaring at him. "Barely made it out with my life and you're worried about my socks –"
"The fire wasn't even near the driver rooms," Oscar interrupts him, mimicking his posture. It somehow makes him look bigger than Lando, which is ridiculous. He's worn his shirt, he knows they're not that different (even though it didn't fit him nearly as tightly. Even though Oscar had to leave more buttons undone).
"Should've carried me out, actually. That's a strike," He's smiling now, watching Oscar's expressions dance between amused and befuddled.
"So I'm only a cat when it suits you?"
"You're a cat 'till I need to be saved, yeah."
"And how about now? Do my girlfriend's feet hurt?"
Lando whips his head around, suddenly very aware that they're – genuinely – surrounded by media. McLaren employees. Media.
He tries to laugh it off, just in case someone's taking a picture. "Don't get cocky, Osc."
Oscar's laughing too, though something about his posture seems off. Stiffer, maybe. Maybe he's aware of the likely audience, too. "That a lesson?"
Lando swats at him. "Tryna be a professional, mate, c'mon."
It's hard to unwind after quali, regardless of outcome.
He's either beating himself up about stupid mistakes or trying to keep the tension at bay when he's starting from the front row. And now, laying in his darkened hotel room, Lando's handling the latter. Which is probably the preferable one, but still.
No where to go but down.
He squeezes his eyes closed.
No one to race but himself, up at the front.
That's better. Jon would be proud of that one. Pat him on the back, even, giving him a smile in silent approval of his self-regulation. Mental health professional Lando Norris, everyone.
His phone vibrates on the bed, lighting up in the dark.
Oscar Piastri
What're you up to?
Lando raises his brow. Oscar probably knows exactly what he's up to – he'd bet that Oscar's up to the same thing: keeping a clear head, getting to bed early, and doing whatever pre-race day ritual they've stumbled into over the years.
And based on their previous season together, Lando knows evening texts aren't part of Oscar's routine.
Lando Norris
oscar piastri
is this ur attempt at a cute goodnight text??????????
He rolls over onto his back, propped up on a pile of pillows. Oscar's text bubbles pop up for a moment.
They disappear.
They pop back up.
He watches, biting his lip, as they cycle back and forth. He could send another text, put Oscar out of his misery, but he can't lie and say this isn't a little bit fun. It's like at the club, finding the cracks in Oscar's wit and pushing.
Oscar Piastri
...no?
I was gonna ask if you could sleep after getting pole
Which I guess kind of is a goodnight text
A lead up to a goodnight text
Not in a weird way, of course.
The messages roll in in close succession, the typographic equivalent of slamming all your words together in one frantic breath.
His hands move before his brain can catch up.
Nearly blinding himself with the flash, Lando snaps a quick selfie and sends it – eyes squeezed shut, free hand up in a peace sign.
Lando Norris
already in bed mum r u proud?
Oscar Piastri
You sleep in a hoodie?
Lando Norris
OSCAR PIASTRI
wHat ArE yoU wEarInG?
Oscar Piastri
Oh my god
You know that's not what I meant mate
Lando Norris
oh so now im ur mate again
wanna know what ur mate is wearing huh
freak
It always feels a little stupid, giggling alone. But god, just picturing Oscar's face as Lando tugs him around by the leash has him tickled.
Oscar Piastri
Fuck off
That's not how I'd ask anyways
Lando Norris
suuuuuuuuuuuuuuure
hit me then cmon
There's another long pause, Oscar's texting bubbles appearing and disappearing in rapid oscillation. His eyes are glued to the screen, some weird mix of excitement and anxiety twisting in his stomach.
Oscar Piastri
Is that my sweatshirt?
He nearly screams laughing, slapping his hand over his mouth.
Lando Norris
NO
OSCAR
HAHAHAHAHAHAH
Oscar Piastri
I'm never talking to you again
Bad teacher and a bad girlfriend
Lando Norris
bit of advice
gotta be direct mate
take charge
Oscar Piastri
[attachment.jpg]
Already in bed too
^ that direct enough?
Lando's eyes blow wide, laughter stopping dead in his chest. Oscar's in his hotel bed too, face scrunched up in that irritatingly soft way he does. But his arm is tucked behind his head, so pointedly casual but also so clearly showing off his biceps. The veins in his forearm. The sharp curve of his wrist as it disappears into his hair.
His eyes drop to the neckline of his shirt, a heather grey vest. God, if he still had his necklaces they would lay so perfectly between his exposed collarbones.
He swallows thickly, searching for a witty remark.
Lando Norris
u can do better x
girls like a bit of skinnnnnn
Oscar Piastri
I'm not getting out of bed for this love
Lando Norris
u rly want me to believe u dont have a topless selfie on ur phoen
phone
not 1???
Oscar Piastri
[attachment.jpg]
Does that count?
Lando Norris
mate ur not even FLEXING
cant even see ur hip Vs
cmon youve seen georges insta
His heart is racing in the silence, his laughter long since dead. If he's honest with himself, which he's desperately trying not to be, maybe this stopped being a joke a few minutes ago.
Oscar's been silent.
Too far?
Oscar called him – called his girlfriend, really – love, so who's fault was it actually?
Oscar Piastri
[attachment.jpg]
Happy?
Jesus Christ.
Beyond too far. Eons past too far. Too far is the gravel trap, and Lando's raced them headfirst into a concrete barricade.
His brain is numb, staring at his phone with nearly comically wide eyes.
Oscar's gotten out of bed, oversized sweatpants low around his hips and soft grey vest discarded. It's a good angle, Lando would have replied as much if he could get out a full sentence, but it's. Well, it's a lot.
He's cropped it a bit, camera held at a high enough angle to capture just his chest, waist, and hips.
His very small waist.
A waist that Lando's pretty sure he could wrap his hands around. Maybe even looks, uh. It looks made for the shape of him, like they should slot together. The V of his hips are dotted in little freckles, skin so fair he can't help but picture how it would look against his. Pressed against him. His hands smothering every bit of it, grabbing his pecs like they're tits –
Lando blinks at it. Slowly. Oscar starts typing.
He's taking too long, staring too intensely. Burning every minute detail into the back of his eyelids.
Lando Norris
knew u had it in u
ur gf will be uh
Oscar Piastri
sorrrythat was sowerid
Lando Norris
she'll get the message
no no not weird
happy to hellp
Lando winces as he sends it, some divine clarity settling in and making him realize that he had just, essentially, gotten Oscar to sext him. Pre-sext him. Platonically pre-sext him.
Oscar Piastri
Right
Yeah, thanks
See you tomorrow then
Lando Norris
goodnight!!!!
He never uses exclamation marks like that. Fuck.
He groans, letting his phone fall flat against his chest. It makes his heart rate feel even more exaggerated, the weight pushing back against his hammering chest.
How the fuck is he meant to sleep now? Now that he's got fucking softcore Oscar Piastri sexting on his phone and he likes it?
Lando didn't avoid Oscar this morning, didn't skirt at the edges of the diver parade and didn't lock himself in his driver room whenever he had a free minute. He did do those things, actually, but he didn't do it to avoid Oscar. He did it because he has to focus, he has to keep his eyes ahead of him and his head square on his shoulders if he wants to convert his pole to a win.
And Oscar isn't going to help him do that.
So maybe he's avoiding Oscar.
Maybe he's avoiding Oscar and his fireproofs, his distractingly small waist in his fireproofs, as he walks around with his umbrella. Maybe he avoids thinking about Oscar holding his umbrella, too, because heaven forbid he remember the tone of his skin and the way his hands felt on the nape of his neck.
There's a lot of distractions, as far as Oscar goes. And surely Oscar gets it, even if he can't truly get what he's done to him. Surely he gets that sometimes you need to lock yourself away in your own mind before a race, need to zone in earlier and longer.
Oscar's face went bright red when they bumped into each other this morning, scanning their badges at the same time.
He's not thinking about that.
"Ever gonna get sick of these?" Lando asks through his smile, looking at the camera and holding his trophy up properly. Oscar already laughing – even though Lando hasn't said anything particularly funny; it's that laugh again. The one that makes him look down, demure. Blushing.
Eventually he answers. "Gonna get sick of just one of us having a trophy, yeah."
"Gunning for one-twos?" Lando looks over at him, and Oscar's already there, already holding out his hand to clap against Lando's. Red on his cheeks, steely resolve in his eyes, he looks oddly intense for a throwaway conversation; it's like Lando's missed a step.
"Not gonna take the constructors if I don't."
Lando's hand envelopes his, warm and solid. They don't break eye contact.
"Austria then."
"Austria." Oscar pulls their hands, bringing their chests together in a cute moment for the watching photographer. He says it like a promise. Like a deal.
Lando beelines over to Oscar after the sprint, having already made quick work of his race suit. His eyes are honed in on Oscar's hands, somehow dainty in how they undo his zipper of his suit, tie the arms low around his hips.
Before he can stop himself, his hand snags around Oscar's middle, pulling him close for a teammate-appropriate hug. It feels perfect in his hand, the curve of his fingers matching so wonderfully with the sharp angle of Oscar's waist.
The size of it, exactly like he pictured.
"Good fight out there, mate," Lando smiles into his ear, pulling back before it goes on too long.
Lando almost doesn't hear his answer, senses too overwhelmed with the lingering warmth on his palm and the way Oscar's lips look raw and red from the heat. But he listens, nodding along as Oscar talks about how he wasn't sure if Lando was going to pull Max far enough off line for his overtake to work out.
He wants to put his hands back on Oscar's waist, both of them, and see if he can get his fingers to touch.
"Let's get it again tomorrow, yeah?" Lando smiles, tucking his arms across his chest instead.
Because he's normal about it. Normal about Oscar Piastri. And he'll beat him tomorrow, just to show him how normal he is about the entire thing.
It didn't work out, his plan to beat Oscar. Just like nothing seems to fucking work out, just like he seems to get himself into stupid predicaments and awkward positions and shitty blind spots that make everything go up in flames. Or shredded rubber and carbon fiber, as it were.
Regardless, he's livid. And he's wallowing, sue him.
He's laying his hotel bed and staring at the ceiling, trying to detach his brain from the aching feeling in his shoulders and neck.
It's mortifying, actually, to blow up like that in front of the media. He knows what they're going to say, that he's some immature kid who can't keep it together when his "best friend" doesn't just "give him the win". And he won't deny that he was upset, he stands by the fact that he was mad at Max. But it's not because Max didn't just let him glide by without a fight, it's because he couldn't get himself in the position to win.
He's mad that it all slipped through his fingers when it shouldn't have. His win. His emotions. His points. His growing competitive edge.
And now Oscar's going to go out – and he should! He'd earned his podium – and apply all the things that Lando tried to teach him. Oscar's going to go out, he's going to try and find someone to fuck, and Lando's going to lay here. He's going to stare at the ceiling, remember the sharp edges of Oscar's waist and the way he almost stuttered when he called him princess, and he's going to pretend that it's fine.
It's –
He draws in a deep breath through the nose, holding it deep in his chest.
It's a lot.
His phone vibrates on the bed, not unlike a certain night in Spain.
Not now, he thinks, closing his eyes and willing his phone to shut the fuck up.
It vibrates again. He snatches it, ready to throw it across the room, when he catches the notification.
Oscar Piastri
[attachment.jpg]
Lando's going to throw up for a variety of reasons.
It's a photo of Oscar standing in front of his bathroom mirror, face half hidden behind his phone and hair in a classic state of disarray. But his free hand is gripping tightly at the bottom of his shirt, lifting it up just a hint. Just to his ribs. Not enough to really see anything –
Except his hips are cocked. Abs flexed. Jeans a little lower than Lando knows he normally wears them (if he's wearing real jeans at all, not his atrocious joggers). He looks like a fucking prick, like some footballer that would pick him up for the worst sex of his life.
God, it's driving him insane.
Both that Oscar apparently learned to look like that, and that he's, what? Looking for his approval before using it to get someone else? Lucky him.
Lando Norris
not rly in the mood to teach rn mate
He pauses after hitting send, sparing another sigh towards Oscar's most recent picture. Fuck.
Lando Norris
....try more nip x
Oscar Piastri
Not asking for teaching, actually
I'm applying it
Being Direct
Lando shoots upright, holding his phone directly in front of his face.
Lando Norris
be more direct
what the fuck do u mean
Oscar Piastri
Wanna stay in together tonight?
Lando Norris
no
ur supposed to go celebrate ur podium
thats the whole point
taught u how to get a girl right?? go practice ur chat or smth
It's made him tense and angry all over again, having to tell Oscar what he should already know. His skin prickles with it, like his blood is rushing too close to the surface, and his vision wavers with a hot rush of tears.
Oscar Piastri
I'm being direct
I want to celebrate with you tonight
Lando Norris
im seiusly mnot in the mood osc
and i dnt wnat yu r pity
He's sniffling, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand – gross – and struggling to blink away the tears. His keyboard looks like an ocean, wavy and hard to grasp. Oscar doesn't answer, the texting bubbles don't even pop up.
Good, Lando thinks, throwing himself back against the mattress and squeezing his eyes. Oscar got the message, and he's going to go out and fuck someone and then hopefully just leave him alone.
There's a knock at the door.
Two knocks at the door.
An insistent number of knocks at the door.
"Shut the fuck up," Lando yells, rolling off the bed and stomping over. Yes, he's being rude. Yes, he's being childish. But he locked himself away for a reason, he's getting over it and just needs some time –
Oscar's standing on the other side of the door; he didn't even flinch when Lando threw it open a little too harshly.
"It's not pity." He says without pause, stepping into Lando's space. "But I don't wanna go out if it isn't with you."
They're too close now, certainly too close to have plausible deniability if someone caught sight of them. So Lando concedes, stepping back and letting Oscar enter his darkened hotel room.
"I'm not a kid, Osc, I'm fine."
"Look, it's like rule five – ask me." Oscar says, crossing his arms over his chest with a huff. A huff, like Lando's the one that's being ridiculous by sending thirst traps and showing up unprompted.
"Fine." He rubs at his eyes, trying to puff out his chest. "Why are you bothering me when I told you to leave?"
"Because a good boyfriend supports his girlfriend, right?"
God, that stings. The words. The earnest way he says them. The way he tilts his head like it's common sense. Lando's voice is wobbly again, "I'm not –"
"And I want you to be my girlfriend. Or my boyfriend, we can drop the whole." He pauses, either trying to read Lando's face or find the right word. "Schtick."
What.
It's like his heart actually pauses, a moment in time skipping in the silence.
What?
Oscar takes a step forward when Lando doesn’t answer, a bit hesitantly, like he's afraid of scaring him off. "But if you don't, y'know. Like me like that, I can go. We can pretend it never happened, it'll be –"
"What?" Lando finally gets out, and Oscar pauses mid step. "Since when?"
That's apparently enough to finally make Oscar's face flare red. "Kind of like... not not the whole time, but –"
“You literally sexted me." It's incredulous, but it's the first thing that hits him – mind and body stretched too thin to be rational.
"I didn't mean to! You're the one that started that, I was just trying to ask how you were –"
"But you're the one who took his shirt off!"
"You're the one that told me to!"
They're both laughing, overtired and bleary eyed. Looking at each other, flailing their hands trying to make a point. Maybe it's a point that doesn't matter.
"I'm going to lay back down," Lando finally says, still giggling. "And my boyfriend can come too, if he's quiet."
"Lesson three," Oscar nods, moving so Lando can get past him. "whatever you want, mate."
"Baby," Lando mutters, flopping face first into the bed. Exhausted. "I like baby."
The mattress sinks next to Lando's head as Oscar sits down much more carefully. Hesitant fingers, those same fingers that haunt the skin of Lando's neck, card into his curls, scratch lightly at his scalp. "Whatever you want, baby," He amends, speaking softly.
Somehow it doesn’t feel jarring, Oscar whispering to him, touching him. Sitting on his bed with his hands in his hair. Sitting on his bed as his boyfriend. It feels like a long time coming, an aching tension popping.
It’s like second nature, being with him.
Been that way for a while, if he’s honest.
He turns his head, nose nearly brushing against Oscar's thighs. "We're gonna kiss tomorrow," Lando says, and Oscar's fingers stall.
He can practically hear Oscar's eyebrows, raised up high. "You... usually schedule that?"
"Too tired, feel like shit," Lando explains, nuzzling his face against Oscar's thigh – enjoying the solidness of it. The closeness.”But I wanna. Kiss you, I mean.”
"I, um. Looking forward to it." Oscar agrees awkwardly, shifting to rest his back against the headboard while still cradling Lando's head.
The terms of their agreement hit him out of the blue. He smiles a little, probably his first in a few hours: "Does this mean you're gonna let me win Silverstone?"
Oscar laughs, low and intimate in the silence. "I don’t remember agreeing to that, actually."
”Contract then kiss,” His words are getting slower, suddenly aware of how deeply bone-tired he is now that he can relax his shoulders.
“Hard negotiator,” Oscar’s smiling, fingers resuming their slow massage against Lando’s scalp. “Deal.”
Maybe Lando's not such a bad teacher, after all. In a round about way, Oscar technically got results. Apparently he’s not a half bad girlfriend, either. Who knew.