Chapter Text
November carried on.
Lando passed his days with a dull grief in his chest, his nights with dreams of a man who kissed him in his aunt's atrocious kitchen a few days ago. No, a few years ago. He would walk into his kitchen and the air would leave his lungs, and when he would sit in the living room to watch TV, and when he would crawl into bed at night. We touched here, he would think, but he knew they didn't.
The dining table where they are dinner has been thrown away months ago, so had the purple sofa on which they held hands. His bed never smelled like Oscar. The rooms in which they almost loved each other once had been rid of his presence years ago.
Lando knew that it was the same apartment as four years ago, but it didn't feel like it. What it had once been held two beating hearts full of life and laughter. Now cold winds howled as they crept in through the half open window. Lando didn't know what to do with himself anymore when he was here.
Because he was there, everywhere, and nowhere at all.
Lando had taken to keeping himself as busy as possible. He studied everything that was asked of him and more, so that when he went to sleep, at least for some time, his thoughts consisted of oversteer, understeer, pit lanes, hairpin before they went back to Oscar, Oscar, Oscar...
Even his friends had taken notice when they were out celebrating his twenty eighth birthday. The three of them were sitting in a nice restaurant not of Lando's choice, because George and Alex were actually an old married couple who went to sleep at eleven p.m. sharp and refused to drink if they had work the next day. Lando wouldn't be surprised if one day he saw one of them taking out dentures.
"Lando, we have noticed recently that you've been... agitated," George began. "And don't even try to lie and say that it's because you're anxious about working in Formula One. You're gonna do great and I know you know it, mate. So what is it that's been bothering you?"
He had been dreading having this conversation with them. How do you explain to someone, no matter how close they are to you, that you live in a magical apartment that plays you like a ping pong ball between timelines? That you met a guy four years ago last week and kissed him once and haven't stopped thinking about it since? He now understood what his aunt might have went through every time she tried to explain to him the truth about the apartment.
"There is... someone... who is the reason for my mood recently," he admitted.
George's eyes fucking shone at the new information. Alex slurped his tea loudly.
Lando sighed. He figured the only way to make them let it go was to tell them. "It's... complicated. You know how my aunt left me her apartment before moving to Australia? Well, there was- I mean, there is some Australian bloke whose aunt is a friend of my aunt's. He came to London a few yea- a few days ago. So my aunt told him he could stay at my apartment and we... Err, we..."
They were listening so intently, hanging on to every word in a way that made Lando feel guilty about lying. Technically he wasn't lying. He was just, you know, bending the truth.
"Oh my God," Alex gasped. "They definitely did it, Georgie."
"No!" Lando was contemplating whether or not his drink was expensive enough to throw in Alex's face. "We did not do whatever 'it' is, you perv."
George ignored them both and said quite level-headedly, "Tell me about this Australian bloke."
"He was- Err, he is," Lando stammered. "His name is Oscar. He was nice, sweet boy. Younger. A little awkward. You know the kind of people that laugh at your jokes when no one else does because they don't want you to feel bad? Yeah, that."
"Still don't get why that would make you walk around like a newly made orphan. He seems like a nice guy." Ouch, George, hitting right where it hurts most.
"We... He made it kind of pretty clear that he fancied me, and he certainly wasn't bad to look at. We kissed and then. I told myself I wouldn't get attached but he was just so. And then the next morning, I went out to get the mail and when I came back he wasn't there anymore."
Two sets of eyebrows shot to their respective foreheads. "He just left like that?"
Actually, it was Lando who 'just left like that'. What would have Oscar thought of him, that he kissed him like they were something and fucked off all the way to another dimension like an absolute prick? Did Oscar wait for him, peering at the door every few minutes with his kicked puppy eyes? How long did he wait before it set in that Lando wasn't coming back? "Yeah."
"Oh, Lando."
"Hah. Well. Don't worry about it. I plan on going to a club with Carlos after this and getting black out drunk. Can't think of him if I can't remember my own name, am I right?"
It was clear they did not think he was right. "That can't be healthy, Lando. But since it's your birthday, I won't lecture you about it today. Cheer up, we got you a present."
They handed him a wrapped up something, which felt like a stack of bendy somethings.
"We figured since you're gonna be a Formula One presenter soon, it will be nice to redecorate your apartment a little," Alex said proudly. "We hand picked the photos to match your interior design and got them made into posters for you."
"I picked them out. Alex was no help," George interjected.
Lando didn't give half a flying fuck about his interior design, but his heart melted a little anyway at the thought of them trying to find photos that he would like. "Thank you," he muttered, voice small.
George, again, got that motherly look in his eyes. "We're proud of you, Lando. Happy Twenty Eight years."
Lando had been staring at his half full glass of whiskey-something for half an hour now.
The club was loud for a Sunday evening, but not loud enough to drown out his thoughts. The alcohol he had been sipping on did little to make him feel better. Maybe he should have been doing shots with Carlos, who was five rounds in and blissfully negligent of the dumpster fire that was his own love life.
"Lando," Carlos shouted over the music. "Cabrón, why are you acting weird?"
A rush of heat flooded Lando's face. "I'm not acting weird. You're acting weird."
"You're acting so weird."
Lando couldn't handle talking about Oscar twice in a single night. Whatever Carlos thought was his problem, he made it clear that he wasn't going to talk about it by downing his drink in one go. His throat burned as the liquid made its way to his stomach. He needed more.
Carlos, ever the sweetheart, didn't prod further and called up for something stronger for Lando. "It's okay, cabrón. You're too hard on yourself. Do you want me to, ehh, what do they say, link you up with someone?"
Lando choked on his drink. If it wasn't strong in his mouth, it certainly was in his nose. "Fuck, Carlos!"
"Yes, mate, getting you a 'fuck' is the goal here."
"That is a terrible idea, Carlos. Is this how you deal with your break ups?"
His eyes glinted mischievously. "Break up, eh? Knew you would get around to telling me eventually."
Lando buried his face in his glass instead of replying.
"Look, cabrón, whatever it is that you're not telling me about, I am sure you just need to get it out of your system. I have a mate here who is, eh, bisexual. I think you will like him."
Maybe Lando did just need to get it out of his system. Get him out of his system. A good dick— hell even a bad dicking down could help him right now. What did Oscar know? He was twenty two and clueless. Carlos' idea seemed more and more appealing with every passing second. "Y'know what? Fuck it. Where's your mate?"
Carlos grinned wolfishly, getting up from his stool. "I will send him. Stay here."
His mate was a man in his late thirties with two armfuls of tattoos. He was attractive, had a beard and an infectious laugh. "A little birdy told me that somebody here was feeling lonely," he sing-songed as he slid into the stool next to him.
Lando froze at the words, the familiar curling of vowels, an Australian accent. He ignored the jumpstart his heart gave to look at the man. Putting on his coyest voice, he fidgeted deliberately with the the top button of the man's shirt and said, "Why, you wanna give me company?"
The man's laugh rumbled in his chest. "Ooh, you're a feisty one, aren't you? I'm Daniel."
Oscar would have blushed.
"I've been told I don't hesitate to take what I want." Nobody's ever told him that. He was getting tired of this game. He just wanted to stop missing Oscar.
"And what do you want? M'sure I could-"
"Look, can we just cut the small talk and skip to the part where you take me back to yours? It's been a long day."
Daniel seemed taken aback for a second, and then his smile was back on. "Alright. You don't mind walking? It's only a five minute walk from here."
"Nah, I don't mind." Lando got up, paying the bartender and following Daniel out of the club.
"Okay, buddy. Let's get you some."
Daniel was a lovely man, there was no doubt. He was taller than Lando, broader, with a head of curly hair and a smile that could convince water to flow uphill. He was hilarious too, making Lando laugh all the way to his house. A decade older than him, sure, but an actual gentleman. Well-to-do with a stable job at a big engineering firm.
Two weeks ago, Lando would have been head over heels for him.
It was fucking with his mind a little. Daniel was older, experienced, distinguished. Much more suitable for Lando than an awkward twenty something year old who couldn't chop tomatoes without cutting himself on accident. Yet when Daniel put a hand on his jaw and started to lean in, all he could think about was the way Oscar had practically begged Lando to kiss him. Daniel's lips were chapped, his beard scratchy, nothing like the softness of Oscar's mouth and face.
But Lando could pretend. After all, he just needed to get it out of his system. He tried to kiss Daniel like he meant it, like he wanted it, threaded his fingers through the short crop of curls on top of his head.
Halfway through taking off his t-shirt Lando realised what a terrible person he was for doing this to someone. Daniel was nice, too nice to have to sleep with someone so ungrateful. If fate wills it that he and Oscar ever meet again, Lando was going to kill him, seriously. One kiss and now he couldn't even get it up for anyone that wasn't Oscar, what a load of bullcrap. (Not that he ever got it up for Oscar, he wasn't a degenerate.)
Daniel pulled his shirt over his head to reveal tan and tatted skin. Lando could only hope he looked interested.
Apparently he did not, because as he spread his legs to accomodate the other, Daniel asked him, "Lando, is there someone else on your mind?"
"Yes," he answered, not even following it up with an apology. He waited for the outburst, to be told what a cunt he was for leading him on. It never came.
Daniel sat down properly on the bed. "Me too," he admitted. "I was hoping this would distract me, but it clearly isn't."
Lando sighed in relief. "Same. I... I like this guy but I'm pretty sure he's forgotten I exist by now. I don't even know where he is anymore," he heard himself opening up. Daniel seemed to have that effect on people often.
He raised an eyebrow. "You young people and your situationships."
"Oh, piss off. What's your story?"
"Was married to this sweet little lady who worked in aerospace engineering. I wanted to settle down and have children, she wanted to climb up the career ladder. We ended on good terms 'bout six months ago. Agreed that the timing wasn't right."
A small smile touched Lando's lips. "Guess it never is, huh?"
Daniel asked him if he wanted to stay the night and agreed to drop him off when he politely refused. They exchanged numbers. What Daniel did that day, not a lot of men would have done even in the same circumstances. He'd like to stay friends with such a man. They bade each other good night and parted ways.
Lando plopped himself down on his grey settee. His eyes fell on the present on the coffee table. The posters Alex and George had given him. With nothing else to do and nowhere near sleep, he tore off the wrapping paper.
They were... gorgeous. All those years of PowerPoint and Photoshop certainly helped, because the gradient of the posters was lovely. The quality too wasn't cheap by any means. Lando flipped through the hand selected photos.
Multiple shots of race cars from different angles. Trophies that glinted in the sun. Intricate tracks. Bird's eye view of crowds that went on and on. World champions. Then—
Lando sucked in a breath. It was— But it couldn't be— But it was—
Oscar.
Only his side profile was visible. The sun behind him lit up his hair like a golden halo. He was smiling, holding a beautiful porcelain trophy above his head.
Lando had never taken out his phone faster.
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With every picture that loaded, Lando wanted to throw up more and more. It was him — a little older, broader, with hair just long enough to curl at the nape— undoubtedly him. A swirl of agitation rose in his gut, getting higher up, up, up—
Lando dropped his phone and ran for the toilet.
Lando did not sleep that night. In fact, he stayed up till dawn looking up Oscar online.
At first, he scrolled through Google Search images for photos of Oscar in his car, with his helmet on, at the MTC, at the track, in interviews. Most importantly, he saved every picture he saw of Oscar holding a trophy. He had made it. His Osc had made it to Formula fucking One. His chest swelled with pride.
Another wave of almost nausea rose up his food pipe when he opened Oscar's Wikipedia page. He really shouldn't have drunk that much.
Oscar Piastri. He had been right under Lando's nose the entire time. An entire week of being told about Piastri's unbelievable overtakes. Piastri leading the championship. Piastri in high chances of winning a WDC in only his third season of F1. How come he never noticed?
Well, hah, of course he didn't notice. He hadn't listened to a large chunk of whatever had been said to him during the last week. He had been too busy mourning the Oscar of the past to notice that the Oscar of the present was right there.
And God damn Oscar of the present was something else.
Twenty six years old and having stood on the top step of the podium enough times for the memories to merge into each other, sweet and shy little Oscar had gotten cocky.
He no longer thought five times before saying something, careful as he still was with his words. Made snarky comments with no less than a devilish little smirk. ("Uhh, wet, wet race today. As expected of Brazil. Had Stroll out in the formation lap, as expected of hi-")
Still made hilarious comments with a straight face, though definitely sassier. (Verstappen: "Obviously not a good feeling getting my rear wing broken on purpose. If Ocon wants to get more points he should maybe drive faster, no?" Piastri: "Mate, he's in a Haas.")
He was still very, very sweet, but that was just him. He couldn't rid himself of that sweetness to save his life. Just that somewhere in the last four years 'shy' little Osc turned into 'private', 'reserved' Oscar Piastri.
Three years of driving a car at a few hundred kmph for three hours every other week certainly does change a man, because Jesus, Oscar's body should be illegal.
Lando wasn't going around guessing but he was kind of pretty much sure that this Oscar was broader than him. That shoulder to waist to hips ratio was criminal. That tiny waist of his swaying as he walked into the paddock. Those muscular thighs straining as he lowered himself into the car. Lando knew Oscar had a fat arse since his Formula 2 days but that didn't stop him from checking it out one more time. Okay, maybe more than a few times, but hey, Lando was just a man.
His alarm rang —6 a.m. already?!?!— and Lando came to the realisation that in only three days' time, he was going to be a presenter in Formula One.
Oh.
Oh no.
No amount of photos, videos, radios, television, anything could ever perfectly capture the atmosphere of a circuit before a race.
Someone had fucked up the flying schedules. Some false report that L. Norris had already boarded the plane to Las Vegas on Thursday morning. It was Thursday night by the time Lando realised that he was awfully late, Friday night by the time they hastily arranged a replacement flight for him, and daybreak of Sunday when he actually set foot in Las Vegas.
Fortunately for him, he was still welcomed by the Sky Sports team. They showed him around the circuit, the corners Lando had already memorised the names of. Whatever slip up he might cause, should he spot Oscar somewhere while on duty, he intended to more than make up for it by excelling at his job.
It was a night race, which in itself was insane. He was thankful for the early dinner he had eaten with Crofty and some other reporters before the rest of the paddock and the masses of fans started arriving. Bit by bit, like a slow building crescendo, the crowds started pouring in.
"The drivers like to arrive fashionably late," Crofty told him when he caught Lando searching the paddock with hungry eyes for the upteenth time. "First you'll be interviewing Colapinto or Antonelli pre-race. Don't worry, we've got the questions written down for you. Then about ten minutes before the race start you'll be up there in the commentary box, learning visually, which you will be doing for the next season. Alex here is retiring at the end of the next season, so you will take his place. After the race you might need to do a post-race interview."
The crowd was in full swing now. The energy was palpable. In his very bones Lando felt an anticipation so thick it would be cut with a knife, and he knew it wasn't just his own. The drivers were arriving now, with their WAGs or pets or both. Lando didn't catch a single glimpse of Oscar. He wanted to kick something.
Lando made a mental tally of the teams and the drivers present at the paddock. Ferrari's Leclerc and Bearman playing with Leo. Red Bull's Verstappen and Colapinto discussing something. Mercedes' Aron and Antonelli gossiping. Haas with Gasly and Icon fighting (typical). Aston Martin's Stroll and Alonso walking around. Every single team with both of their members, except McLaren. McLaren's Bortoleto was spotted talking to someone on the phone, Oscar was nowhere to be found.
Before he could wonder where the fuck Oscar was, a microphone was shoved into his hands. Crofty led him to the pre-race interviews and called for Colapinto. The driver strolled up to Lando, flashing a cheesy smile.
"Good evening, Franco," Lando addressed with experienced professionalism. "How do you feel about the upcoming race? Are you optimistic about the-"
Franco completely ignored the question. "Ay, you're Lando Norris, no?"
"I don't see how that is relevant but yes I am, Franco. Now about the pace of the Red-"
"I have read some of your articles, mate, you are so good. You have such a way with words! I think I cried reading that one you put out last week of October."
Lando blushed and tried to be professional about it. "Focus, Franco, we have to wrap this up before the race begins." And there, finally, out of the corner of his eyes, he saw a man in a McLaren polo glaring in their direction. Lando felt a shiver run down his spine.
"So, Franco, what- what would you say about the pace of the Red Bull in the last triple header of the season? Are you optimistic about getting Red Bull to the constructors'?"
"Eh, well, obviously the pace is good. Definitely felt some upgrades while driving FP1 and FP2. With both McLarens not in top 5 in the starting grid and Ferrari too behind us, if we can manage it well then I think we might enter the constructors' fight with a strong margin, which will be a great feat if we can manage to get the WCC in only the last three races..."
The rest of the interview passed unhampered, going through the motions without any flirting. Every once in a while Lando would feel Oscar glaring at Colapinto. Maybe he hadn't been informed about the dynamics well enough, because he could swear these two used to get along quite well.
Then a few minutes before the race started, Lando was ushered into the commentary box. It was a small room with about twelve different monitors propped up on a table against a floor-to-ceiling glass window. Crofty told him which ones were the track monitors, which had updates on the weather, which one had driver positions, all in rapid English while a guy sat on one of the chairs holding a microphone. Then Crofty showed him the charts on the wall in case he felt like he had forgotten something. And a clock.
Top chart— Driver Standings
1/ Oscar Piastri 399
2/ Max Verstappen 394
The clock hit 21:30. Behind them, Alex Jacques rolled into action immediately.
It started like this: Verstappen on Pole, Red Bull front row lockout. Ferrari second row lockout. Starting 5th on the grid, Antonelli. 6th and 7th Oscar and Bortoleto. Lando waited with baited breath like the hundreds of thousands of fans outside as the lights went out and twenty engines roared to life.
Oscar overtook Antonelli in Turn 9 of Lap 3. Ahead of them, Bearman overtook Leclerc, manoeuvering his car right behind Colapinto. By Lap 8 seven overtakes had taken place in the back of the grid. Bortoleto dropped to P9 when Russell and Lawson passed him in Lap 11. Lap 14, Tsunoda pushed into the gravel deliberately by Stroll, dropping four positions. Black and white flag for Stroll.
Lap 20, Oscar passed Leclerc in Sands Avenue and overtook Bearman shortly after in Turn 9 pulling off not one but two clean T9 overtakes in the span of 20 laps. Verstappen leading his twentieth lap of the race, 3 seconds ahead of teammate Colapinto. Two hundredths of a second behind Colapinto was Oscar. Oscar passed him on Lap 23, and then on Lap 26, something so unexpected happened that his eyes almost popped out of their sockets.
As Colapinto searched for a gap to take back his P2 position, in a long straight, Oscar's car shifted just barely to the left, making Colapinto think there was going to be a gap soon. He accelerated, only got close enough to Oscar's rear wing when the championship leader pulled his car back to the right, his rear wing colliding with Colapinto's front wing. Colapinto spun out of the track limits, car coming to a halt before he crashed into the wall.
"W-at the hell is thi- guy doing!?" Colapinto's voice cracked on the radio, accompanied by heavy breaths.
"We will check. It seemed like a mistake."
"A mistake -- accidental, man, was he t-trying to kill me or what!"
The radio switched to Oscar, now P2 and 2.57 seconds behind Verstappen.
"Oscar, your rear wing collided into Franco's front wing. He is safe, but what happened?" Ricky said calmly.
"Tires slipped. Need- need to pit," Oscar replied, but it was clear in his voice that he couldn't give half a shit about his fucking tires at that moment. Lando wondered if he was the only one who could sense him smirking beneath the helmet.
No matter how much he trusted Oscar, no matter how much it looked like an accident, Lando knew Oscar had done it on purpose. He had seen a video of the guy pulling this exact move in an F2 race four years ago. But... why?
Maybe Oscar didn't get along with Colapinto as well as Lando had thought, but he wasn't the type to take out grudges on the track. In fact, he was the least like to do that. Sure he has gotten more comfortable in his personality with the prolonged time in Formula One but he was not going to just forget everything he stood for on the track just for a measly grudge. Just what had Colapinto done that had made Oscar do that.
"Oscar, you have received a ten second penalty for pushing Franco off track limits," Tom Stallard informed.
"-ck. Ten seconds, huh?" Oscar said in a voice so low Lando's knees almost gave out. Almost. Just in time for him to grab a chair and take a seat. "Tell the team I'm pitting in the next lap. I need softs."
"Oscar, we cannot afford any more penalties. Think about this rationally."
"I need softs," Oscar repeated. And turned off his radio. Lando smiled to himself.
He pitted on the next lap and switched to softs. After that, he was elusive. Lap 29, fastest lap, 2.14 seconds behind Verstappen. Lap 30, fastest lap, 1.28 seconds behind Verstappen. Lap 31, 0.42 seconds behind Verstappen. Lap 32, Verstappen pitted for the second time, his undercut attempt 8 laps ago obviously failing. Oscar took the lead.
And Good God what he did with the opportunity. In a matter of 10 laps, he was 9 seconds ahead of Verstappen. Franco, who had rejoined the race, was catching up to P4.
On the 45th lap, Oscar had successfully brought the gap between him and Verstappen to 12 seconds.
"Tires degrading, Oscar. Box, box."
On Lap 46, Oscar pitted. (1.92 seconds. Impressive.) Now on mediums with only five laps to go, Oscar was back on the track. Behind him, Leclerc on new mediums as well overtook Verstappen for P2, 8.24 seconds behind Oscar.
Lap 47, fastest lap, 8.91 seconds ahead. If he didn't bring the gap over 10 seconds in three laps, he would finish P2 given his penalty. Verstappen might pass Leclerc and take the 25 points. That would drop Oscar 2 points behind in the championship. Being P2 behind Verstappen in a championship in the last few races and thinking you could still win the WDC was a joke.
Lap 48, 9.24 seconds ahead. Lando was sure he was going to pass out from the anxiety, having eaten dinner hours ago. Leclerc couldn't close the gap by any means, even if they had 20 more laps, but if he brought it to less than 10 seconds, he might have 25 points when Oscar drops down to P2. Verstappen was now 2.9 seconds behind him.
Lap 49, 9.63 seconds ahead. Hurry up, Osc. You can't lose now, Lando cheered him on in his head.
Lap 50. Oscar's car was a blur on the race track. Lando couldn't tell if he was breathing on not, every sense in his body focused on the car in lead.
The checkered line was in sight. 9.98 seconds. A championship on the line. Oscar pulled it through.
Lando was sure he actually passed out.
Checkered flag.
Leclerc behind by 10.040 seconds.
He had done it.
"And it's the ninth victory of the season for Oscar Piastri," Alex Jacques spoke into the microphone. "Ten second penalty to a win by four hundredths of a second, Oscar Piastri, the man that you are."
As Lando walked out of the commentary box with Crofty, Oscar's post race celebrations ringing in his ears, the man handed him a microphone and pulled him towards the post-race interviews. "You're gonna need to get to Oscar as fast as you can if you want to interview him. That was an incredible win, he's gonna be surrounded soon."
Lando's first thought was, oh, yeah, right. And his second thought was oh fuck.
He could do it. He had done this multiple times before as a journalist. It was just an interview. He'd watched so many videos of Oscar that he'd probably desensitised himself to the man.
Oscar spotted him before he spotted Oscar, walking over to him in long strides. He was smiling ear to ear.
Lando was not ready for the way his hair stuck to his forehead with sweat, the way colour was high on his cheeks, the way he was buzzing with adrenaline. "Mega race, Oscar. How are you feeling?"
He searched Oscar's face for any sign of recognition and found nothing but a victorious smile.
"Uhh, for starters, it feels fucking amazing. Tonight was really special in more ways than one. Obviously a wonderful race to be able to go from P6 all the way up to P1 against such competent and competitive drivers. Uhm, the last few laps were intense. Closing a three second gap and creating a ten second one. Really thankful to the engineers and Tom Stallard for listening to me and letting me take the gamble."
Of course. Why would Oscar remember him anymore? Two days together four years ago and Lando thought they had something. Hell, even he didn't remember the guys he hooked up with four years ago. Besides, wouldn't Oscar have sought him out in the last four years if he missed Lando? It wasn't like Lando didn't tell him everything about himself except that he was from the future. He was professional enough to not show his grief on his face when he continued, "This might be one of your best drivers, Oscar, along with Baku and Sao Paolo this year and Melbourne last year. What motivated you to pull off such an incredible stunt?"
"Well, obviously there was the championship at the risk and..." He looked right into Lando's eyes with a serene, almost sad smile on his face. "Two of my most favourite people were watching the race tonight. I had to make them proud."
Lando's heart clenched in his chest. That was something his Osc four years ago might have said about him someday. This Oscar was different, had different favourite people, and didn't recognise Lando.
"Very well, thank you, Oscar, thank you for your time. Enjoy the celebrations."
And if Lando turned around slowly enough, he could almost convince himself that Oscar was sad to see him go.
Lando opened the door of his apartment, ready to go lie down on his bed and mope about his sorry life. Maybe call his aunt and ask her why she left him such a terrible place to live. That was when the smell of something savory wafted up his nostrils.
Cow print rug. Purple sofa. That god awful papaya blanket thrown over the back of it.
"Oscar?" he called out, just to make sure this apartment wasn't playing another cruel joke on him.
A head of brown hair peeked out from the kitchen, eyes lighting up when he saw Lando. "Okay, Lia, I'll call you back. I've got a friend visiting."
Lando crossed the little distance between them until he was directly in front of Oscar, both of them smiling stupidly wide.
God, his smile. That charming little smile that always ticked up a bit more on one side than the other. That stupid swoop of his brown hair. His shoulders that weren't quite so broad yet, but getting there. The muscles in his neck. The veins in his hands. The nails he hadn't cut the last time he was in this apartment that still weren't cut. His beautiful, beautiful moles. Such a sight for sore eyes.
"I'm sorry I didn't come back," Lando apologized. It was the least Oscar deserved. "Some urgent work came up, them I got guests randomly, and then.. things just kept happening. I'm sorry, Oscar, I didn't mean to be away that long." He felt bad about lying but it was his only choice. He couldn't tell Oscar that he had been living in this exact apartment but it hadn't let them meet.
Oscar smiled, happy as if he just got the first paycheck of his life. I missed your smile, Lando wanted to scream at him. I missed you. "S'alright, Salmon. I haven't been around much myself. Had a race a few days after you left so had to travel all the way to Brazil. I just came back yesterday. Your aunt and cousin are still in Italy, by the way."
I don't care. I saw you four years later and you didn't recognise me.
"You're gonna make it to Formula One," he blurted.
"What?"
"I mean. I. I watched some of your F2 races while I was gone. You're a champion, Osc. You're gonna be World Champion one day, I'm telling you."
You will be, but you won't remember me.
Oscar blushed. God, Lando missed seeing him blush. "I, yeah, that's the goal, but like, where's this flattery coming from?"
"I missed you," Lando admitted. Maybe he shouldn't have. They had only known each other for two days, after all.
Oscar's face softened, his entire face softened, like he'd been waiting to hear those words. "I didn't think you were gonna come back. Waited until five in the evening before it hit me that you might've gone back to your own apartment."
I did. That's exactly what I did. I'm sorry.
"C'mere," he whispered, pulling Oscar in by a gentle hand on the nape of his neck.
The Oscar Piastri who fought his way up to the World Drivers' Championship might not remember who Lando was, but this— this Oscar was his. This Oscar loved him. He loved this Oscar.
And he kissed him like he meant it.
"You- you don't even know, how much I missed you," Lando murmured between kisses, "and that's so insane because I was here for like two days."
"Mhmm," Oscar hummed dazedly. He kept switching between looking at Lando's eyes and lips, absolutely bewitched.
"I don't think I even liked you enough to miss you like that when I was here," Lando confessed. "No offense."
"Me too, it's, uhh, 'distance makes the heart grow fonder' something something. Now kiss me again," Oscar demanded. Lando grinned and cupped his face, let a hand wander through the soft brown hair and did something so insane and absolutely mental, he—
He pressed his lips to Oscar's forehead, adoring the way the boy's cheeks turned pink.
Faintly, in the very back of his mind, his aunt's voice nagged at him."I made the mistake of choosing to fall further." But if Oscar hooking his fingers into the collar of Lando's shirt to pull him in was a mistake, Lando wanted to be wrong for the rest of his life. If falling felt like Oscar's lips on his, he never wanted to get back up.
He nipped at Oscar's bottom lip, eliciting a soft gasp from him.
"Wait-" Oscar sounded panicked. Before Lando could worry, he ran into the kitchen and took the lid off a pot. It... it didn't even look edible anymore.
"What was that supposed to be?" Lando peeked over his shoulder.
He pouted. "Fettuccine. It's a family recipe."
"I mean... It still looks like fettuccine? At least a little bit," Lando offered.
All it got him was a sharp glare. "This is all your fault. You distracted me."
Lando grinned. "Oh yes, because I'm just sooo distracting and irresistible, aren't I? People look at me and just want to snog the hell out of m-"
Oscar shoved at him. "Shut up, you're making the dinner now."
"Isn't it past midnight? Why are you making dinner now?"
"Jet lag," Oscar replied. "Came back last night. Travelling always fucks up my schedule."
Lando kissed him again, a short peck on the lips, for no reason other than that is Oscar was being cute. A hand grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him up to his lips with surprising strength. Okay, maybe he shouldn't have judged his Oscar that much. He wasn't weak by any means. (Lando was. In the knees, specifically.)
"There's this takeout place that's still open," he whispered. Because it has been six hours since he last ate and being around Oscar always makes him hungry. "Or we could have some frozen pizza."
Lando went to open the fridge to see if they had any. "Lando, no no no no no no-"
It was too late. Lando peered down and saw a horrible, horrible packet.
"Oscar, I said no salmon in the fricking fridge, mate."
"I'm sorry! I swear I didn't cook anything of it. All the pans are clean."
"Oh God," Lando realised, blood running cold in his veins. "I can't believe I kissed you with all those fish bacteria still in your mouth, I- eugh."
"Lando-"
"Eughhhhhhhh."