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brokenmirrors-7 · 23 hours ago

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racing for your number² ⛐ 𝐋𝐍𝟒 & 𝐎𝐏𝟖𝟏

“obviously, we’re both here to try and fight for a world championship,” says oscar. “we wanna fight for it the whole time we’re in mclaren. we’re both on long contracts, so we wanna make sure we’re fighting this for the foreseeable future.” (or: part two of 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘳 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘢𝘶.)

ꔮ starring: lando norris x mclaren f1a driver!reader x oscar piastri. ꔮ word count: 23.1k overall; 8.6k in this part two. read part one here. ꔮ includes: smut, romance, angst, friendship. explicit sexual content; depictions of injuries, one (1) bad crash; mentions of food, alcohol; infidelity; profanity. tension! tension! tension!, mid-story timeskip/pov switch, idiots in love, everybody is kind of a bad person, open ending, references to challengers (2024). ꔮ commentary box: had to cut this up in two parts due to text block issues. all dedications still stand. this is a present for my darling @cinnamorussell; this was made possible with beta from my dearest, @norrisradio. 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 🎧 official playlist ⸻ they go back to the hotel room

THIS IS PART TWO TO THE STORY. READ PART ONE HERE!

The MTC glows with pre-season anticipation. New liveries gleam under the studio lights, staff bustle from one corridor to the next, and the air is electric with fresh intent. Lando walks its halls like a returning monarch who never truly left. Shoulders set, smile easy—except it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

He’s halfway through a bland conversation with someone from aero when he sees you.

It takes a second to register. The lighting has changed. So have you.

The limp is subtle but there. More noticeable are the new details on your face—tiny crow’s feet from hard-won laughter, a quiet intensity in your eyes. You’re still gorgeous, still the gravity in every room you walk into. But there’s a groundedness to you now. A calm that had once been manic fire.

And then there’s the way your hand rests low on Oscar’s back.

Lando notices everything.

You’re in full papaya gear, your lanyard half-tucked into a McLaren team jacket. Race engineer, your ID proclaims. Lando knows he’d go to hell for saying it, but he dares to think the current getup fits you better than the fireproofs ever did.

Oscar spots Lando first.

His posture tightens instinctively. Lando gives a polite nod, lets his eyes flit from one to the other then back to you. You take a step forward, arms loose as you offer Lando a quick, practiced hug.

One beat. Two. Just long enough to acknowledge the past. Not long enough to reignite it.

The words are out before he can stop them. “You’re still wearing the same perfume,” he mumbles, low enough for only the three of you to hear.

Sheikh Al Shuyukh, he thinks the name of it was. Aromatic, woody, spicy. Once strong enough to have all of Lando’s spaces smelling like oud and cedar.

Your expression doesn’t change, but Oscar's jaw clenches. It’s a flicker, but Lando catches it.

“Good to see you, Norris,” you say evenly, ignoring the offhand comment all together.

“Yeah,” he replies, stepping back. “You too.”

He doesn’t look at Oscar again. Doesn’t need to. You turn to your boyfriend, murmuring something into his ear. Whatever it is, it calms him. You place a hand on his chest and guide him away, your limp barely slowing your pace. Oscar lets you lead.

Lando watches you both go, a dull weight sinking somewhere behind his ribs.

This is going to be his best or worst season yet.

Probably both.

The first race of the season always comes with nerves, with sparks, with fresh expectations disguised as optimism. But this year, there’s something else in the air. Something more brittle. Tighter. Personal.

Lando adjusts the collar of his race suit as the prep team fusses with his car. Everyone’s smiling, joking, hopeful. But Lando’s gaze drifts constantly, habitually, to you.

You stand by Oscar, head slightly tilted as you murmur something to the Australian driver, fingers moving as you gesture mid-point analysis. There’s a tablet in your hands and a sharp look in your eyes that hasn’t dulled in the years since you last wore a helmet. Your presence is now less explosive but no less commanding. A different kind of pressure radiates from you—a technical authority. The calm violence of someone who knows what winning costs.

Lando qualifies P2. Oscar takes pole.

It’s a clean session. Tight margins. Lando pushes the limits and still comes up just short. By the time he pulls into parc ferme, the cheer in the air is split: some in orange celebrating the front-row lockout, others clearly rallying around the papaya number 81.

Lando peels off his gloves, looks up at the screen. Oscar’s on pole, but you’re not smiling.

You’re nodding as you talk to Oscar in hushed tones. Even from a distance, Lando sees your brows drawn in, the way your hands chop at the air once, twice, indicating a missed apex, a sector that could’ve been cleaner. Oscar nods, focused, serious.

But Lando sees it for what it is.

You’re still that same ruthless racer. Still the same perfectionist who tore through telemetry after every session, who drove like the car was your bitch. Your body may have failed you, but your mind hasn’t. And now it’s turned sharp and precise and hungry, aimed directly at Oscar.

Lando watches you frown at the data pad, shake your head once, and point to something off-screen. Oscar listens. Lando watches.

Lando should feel annoyed. Maybe he should feel jealous.

Instead, he feels something darker. More secret. A perverse kind of satisfaction.

The same fire that once burned for him now burns for someone else. But it still burns.

This season is going to be the best or worst of Oscar’s life.

On media day, Oscar keeps his answers clean. Palatable. But then someone asks about you.

“Some critics think it’s a conflict of interest,” the reporter says, pen hovering. “Your girlfriend is your race engineer. Do you think that's fair to the rest of the team?”

Oscar doesn’t flinch. “I think people underestimate how hard she’s worked to get here. Her track record as a driver speaks for itself. She’s one of the most brilliant minds in the garage—her being my girlfriend doesn’t change the fact that she’s qualified. If anything, I’m lucky. Not the other way around.”

The cameras flash. There’s a flicker of silence.

Off to the side, Lando shifts. His brow arches, just a bit too high, mouth twitching like he's choking back a laugh. He doesn’t say anything, but the internet doesn’t need much. Someone clips the footage, and the headline hits like crack: Lando Norris reacts to Oscar Piastri's defense of girlfriend-engineer.

By mid-afternoon, the clip trends.

You’re in his driver room before the next interview block. The door slams harder than intended.

“You think this is funny?” you demand.

Lando looks up from his phone, completely unfazed. “What?”

“That. The look. The smirk. You looked like you were two seconds from calling me a diversity hire.”

He scoffs. “Christ. Is this what we're doing now?”

“What you’re doing,” you snap, stepping closer, “is undermining me in front of the world. Because what? I can’t be good at my job and have a relationship? You think that makes me less of an engineer? Or is it just that I'm not your engineer?”

Lando lets out a dry, incredulous laugh. “Don’t give yourself that much credit. I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to. Your face did all the talking.”

He stands up now, and suddenly you’re toe-to-toe. There might’ve been a time where Lando would tackle you on to his bed, kiss all your heated arguments away. He doesn’t have that right today. Maybe not ever again. “You’re projecting. This isn’t about me,” he snaps instead. “This is about how you think people see you. I don’t control the internet.”

You open your mouth to respond, but your phone buzzes. Oscar’s name lights up the screen.

You don’t even look at Lando again. You turn on your heel, slam the door behind you, and set off to be the picture perfect girlfriend-engineer.

Lando exhales, low and sharp. He’s not sure whether he wants to punch the wall or laugh himself sick. Above everything, he hates that it felt good.

Good to have your fire singing him. Good to be alone with you, even if it was just for a few seconds.

Good to be so close to you again, even if it’s the kind of closeness that always comes with a price.

The intervention meeting takes place in a glass-walled conference room deep in the MTC. It’s late in the afternoon, the sky outside an overcast grey that seems to seep into the room.

Oscar sits stiffly in one of the ergonomic chairs, arms crossed, lips pressed into a flat line. Lando sprawls opposite him, spinning a pen between his fingers with all the nonchalance of a man who has absolutely nothing to lose.

The Head of PR, a woman with tightly pulled-back hair and an expression like she’s smelled something foul, flips through a branded notepad. “Let’s just get straight to it. The online discourse is... loud.”

Oscar doesn’t look up. “Define loud.”

“Hashtag ‘LoveTriangleGP’ was trending after the last quali.”

Lando snorts. Oscar looks at him; his glare could melt tungsten.

“People are reading into everything,” the PR continues. “The podium celebrations. Your radio calls. The pit wall footage. You two barely acknowledge each other anymore, and when you do, it’s—well. Tense.”

Oscar exhales sharply. “Is there anything we can actually do to stop it? Any kind of messaging, or—?”

The PR rep gives him a pitying look. “Not unless you want to go on a world press tour holding hands.”

Lando chuckles, low and smug. “Tough luck, mate.”

Oscar’s jaw twitches. For a moment, it looks like he might say something—or worse, do something—but he tamps it down. Just. He turns his attention back to the table, staring at the McLaren logo like it’s somehow betrayed him.

The PR rep claps the folder closed. “Just keep it professional on camera. No barbs, no passive-aggressive social posts. And for God’s sake, don’t let the body language coach quit again.”

They’re dismissed. Lando stands up slowly, smirking just enough for Oscar to notice, not enough to get fined for.

Oscar watches him go, fingers curling into a fist in his lap.

The rumors won’t stop. Not when there’s still so much truth buried under them.

On track, their cars blur past each other. Aggressive, unrelenting. The competition is tighter than it has been in years, and Oscar drives with a hunger that borders on desperation. It’s not just about race results anymore. It’s about proving something. About showing you.

He storms past Lando with a late-brake overtake into Turn 9 that draws gasps from the pit wall. Lando doesn’t fight it. He knows Oscar is about to get way more grief from you than anybody else, anyway.

Later, in the hospitality suite, Lando finds you alone. You sit stiffly on one of the padded benches, your hand digging into the side of your knee, the subtle flinch you wear betraying the pain. Your datapad lies forgotten next to you.

He leans on the doorframe, arms crossed. “Rough session? Or did the golden boy finally snap back?”

You shoot him a look that confirms the rumors. A fight. One where Oscar walked out.

Lando nearly smiles, but it aborts when he notices how tightly your hand clutches your leg. “You’re hurting,” he says.

You roll your eyes. “Don’t start.”

Lando moves to crouch in front of you, brushing your hand aside. “Relax,” he snipes when you open your mouth, already ready to protest. “I’m not trying to make a move, alright? Just—let me help.”

His hands, warm and familiar, press gently around the swelling. For once, he says nothing. No teasing. No jabs. He moves carefully, gauging your reaction as he massages around the worst of it.

You lean back against the back of your seat, finally breathing.

The door opens.

Oscar steps in, a bottle of water in one hand, a small vial of pills in the other. He halts when he sees the scene: you, half-reclined, Lando kneeling before you.

His eyes flick to the bottle in his hand. “You forgot to take this,” he says, voice hushed, and it’s as good as any explanation as to why you’re suffering. It’s also a reminder that Oscar Piastri is a good boyfriend—one who will get you your medicine even if he’s supposed to be furious with you.

You sit up straighter. Lando stands, hands raised in a small gesture of surrender. “Just helping,” he says. “She looked like she was gonna pass out.”

Oscar doesn’t respond immediately. He sets the bottle and pills on the table next to you. Then, he quietly tells Lando, “Thanks.”

For one brief, surreal moment, the three of you sit in the silence between storms.

You and your rebelling knee. Oscar and the hero worship he never quite grew out of.

Lando and his love—the one he doesn’t know where to put.

The surface tension, sharp and buzzing through the start of the season, seems to ease after the unexpected moment in the hospitality suite. It doesn’t mean things are fine. Oscar is still watchful, Lando is still cocky, and you are still caught in the unbearable space between past and present—but there is, finally, room to breathe.

Then comes Miami.

The heat is oppressive, the track slick and punishing. It’s the race Lando always says changed everything. His first ever win. The rise of a champion. He wants to repeat it, needs to. But strategy unravels from the moment the lights go out. Bad tyre calls, mistimed pit stops, a pace that just doesn’t hold.

Oscar, meanwhile, executes a flawless race. You guide him through every lap with calm precision, your voice sharp and steady over the radio. He finishes P1.

Lando finishes P9. Barely points.

You find Lando after the race, not by design but because the paddock is small and fate is cruel. He’s pacing by the McLaren hospitality entrance, helmet still in hand, jaw tight.

“Not your best day,” you offer as you approach, a neutral tone masking any sympathy.

He glances at you, his eyes dark, tired. “Fuck off.”

You raise a brow.

Lando exhales, catches himself, and then with visible effort says, “Sorry. That was—I didn’t mean that.”

You shrug, not yet softened. “You used to be more gracious when things didn’t go your way.”

A beat. Then a lopsided, bitter smile. “You should probably be my strategist instead,” he huffs petulantly. “Might actually win something.”

You snort. “Wasn’t it you who once told me not to be too full of myself?”

He meets your eyes, and for the first time today, there’s a flicker of real warmth beneath the sarcasm. “I was clearly wrong, if Piastri’s P1 is anything to go by.”

You don’t answer that. Just shrug, and Lando watches you turn away, already walking back toward Oscar and the team that was yet to choose which of its boys deserved to own the year.

Lando lingers there, silent, the sting of loss dulled slightly by your exchange. For a second, he forgets the disappointment. For a second, he remembers why Miami mattered in the first place.

The thought of you haunts him a little more after that brief moment.

In the garage, with your hair pulled back in that no-nonsense way. The visor of your headset lowered as you speak into the radio, issuing calls with precision that cuts like a scalpel. The way Oscar listens to you like scripture, hanging onto every word. It shouldn’t bother Lando. It shouldn’t.

It does.

He thinks about it in the minutes before lights out, when he’s alone in the room and the adrenaline hasn’t kicked in yet. He thinks about it when he sees Oscar smiling under his helmet, when he watches the both of you review data shoulder-to-shoulder, heads tilted close like a secret being passed between lovers. Like a language he never learned how to speak.

He thinks about it when he’s back in his hotel room, hands resting on his abdomen, staring at the ceiling. Sometimes, on the worst of those nights, he reaches for himself, and your name flickers behind his teeth, unspoken but alive.

The thought of you saying his name, calling him back from a dream. Telling him what to do like you do with Oscar. Firm, sure, affectionate in the way only you can be.

And in those moments, the jealousy starts to rot him from the inside out.

It isn’t just about racing. Not anymore. It hasn’t been for a long time. He tells himself he should focus on the race. On the data. On staying competitive. But your voice still haunts his comms, even when it isn’t meant for him. Your laughter, your irritation, your sharp words followed by softer ones.

And worst of all, Lando starts to wonder: what would it feel like, if you said his name like that again—not with resentment, not with scorn, but with something that sounded like care?

It’s a dangerous thought.

Lando thinks it anyway.

The rain falls in sheets, heavy and punishing, drenching the track and glistening in every corner light. It’s the kind of race that strips down even the best—ripping away confidence, exposing nerves. The kind of race where luck runs just as much as skill. And today, Oscar has neither.

He skids out on Lap 38. Hydroplaning into the barrier. Not a driver error. Not really. Just a gamble that didn’t pay off.

Oscar’s back in the garage before the race is even over, helmet off, eyes fixed somewhere in the middle distance. Everyone gives him a wide berth. No one says the wrong thing. Except Lando, who finds himself wandering toward Oscar’s corner of the garage like it’s habit. Like they haven’t spent the last year at odds, circling each other like satellites too close to collision.

“Shit day,” Lando says, crouching next to him.

Oscar doesn’t look at him, but he doesn’t tell him to fuck off either.

“Not your fault,” Lando adds.

“It never is. Doesn’t mean it hurts less.” Oscar’s voice is rough, stripped of all performance and polish.

Lando nods. He waits. There’s always more.

Oscar exhales, rubs the heel of his palm into his eyes. “We had a fight afterwards. Me and—” He stops himself, but Lando knows. “She’s more pissed about the championship standing than the fact I crashed. Said I can’t afford to slip, not now.”

Lando leans against the cold wall, arms folded, eyes scanning Oscar’s face. “That’s brutal.”

“She’s not wrong. Just—” Oscar sighs. “I thought she’d care more. About me. Not the points.”

It’s a quiet admission. The kind of thing that would be a headline if anyone else had heard it. But it’s just Lando, the one person who probably shouldn’t be here, probably shouldn’t be the confidante to this damning revelation. And still, Oscar talks.

“You ever feel like she’s more engine than heart?” the younger driver asks ruefully.

Lando chuckles, low in his throat. “She’s all heart. You just have to know how to handle the heat.”

Oscar frowns, either not catching the double meaning or too tired to chase it.

Lando watches him. Watches the doubt, the wear, the exhaustion. And somewhere deep inside himself, wicked and curling, a thought blooms: I could handle it better than you.

He hides the smile before it shows.

“You want to grab dinner later?” Lando asks casually. “Get your mind off it?”

Oscar nods, slow. “Yeah. That’d be good.”

Lando claps him on the shoulder before he goes. He walks away thinking about you. And how maybe, just maybe, the crack has finally begun to widen.

He wonders if it will be enough for him to slip in.

McLaren doesn’t make the podium that weekend.

Oscar finishes P6. Lando comes in P8. It’s not a disaster, but it’s not fireworks either. Still, there’s something in the paddock atmosphere that has shifted—the kind of subtle realignment that doesn’t show up in lap times.

Oscar and Lando, for the first time in what feels like ages, are talking again. Really talking. Laughing in debriefs, sharing inside jokes on the grid, not flinching when their shoulders bump during press photos.

People notice.

You notice.

You don’t say anything, but it coils around your posture, tightens in the way your arms cross when you’re watching the two of them from the engineering wall. Your smile doesn’t come as easily. Your voice hardens just slightly over the radio.

After the race, the team disperses to their own ways of coping. Oscar takes the night in, a quiet evening with recovery drinks and telemetry. You don’t. You show up at a crowded bar where the music is too loud to think and the lights are too low to feel self-conscious. You’re in a tight black dress and your hair is pinned back, neck bare and eyes lined. You lean against the bar with a drink in hand, talking to someone Lando doesn’t recognize.

He sees you before you see him. Breaks from his group of friends and walks over like he’s following an instinct, not a decision.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” he says, sliding into your space.

You turn to him, lift a brow. “Why’s that?”

He shrugs, grin forming. “Seemed like the kind of night you’d spend tearing Oscar a new one over data sheets.”

You roll your eyes. “Oscar’s at the hotel. I have more in life than just him. And racing.”

Lando cocks his head, leaning closer so you can hear him over the beat drop. “Do you, now?”

You pause. The moment hangs. Then you ask, voice lighter than your eyes, “Can you say the same?”

His smile falters for half a beat. Then he laughs and steps forward, his hand brushing your waist. “Dance with me,” Lando says, because he has just enough alcohol in his bloodstream to make bad decisions.

To his surprise—you do, too. Must’ve really been a bad day.

The music is too loud, but that’s never stopped Lando before. The bass thrums beneath his feet like a heartbeat, pulling him in, carrying him forward. Lights flash blue, then red, then gold, slicing through the crowd in sharp angles. It’s dizzying, but he keeps up with you.

The sweat sheen under your eyes catches the light. You look like a fucking weapon. You smile at him, but it’s not a smile that gives anything away. Just enough to say: okay. Try me.

He steps closer. You don’t flinch. The music changes, deepens. The floor feels like it’s moving beneath you.

There’s no talking, not now. Not when bodies are pressed in, when the air is heavy with perfume and alcohol and burnt ozone. His hand brushes yours. You don’t pull away. He lets it slide higher, to your wrist, then your forearm. You lean into it, just a bit. Like inertia. Like habit and memory.

Lando watches you, the way you move to the beat like it’s coded into your DNA. His hand finds the small of your back. You let him. You are still letting him.

It’s more thrilling than overtaking someone on the final lap. More dangerous, too. He’s not sure who initiates the turn, but now you’re facing him. Closer. Everything about you is deliberate. You meet his eyes and don’t look away. Your breath fans his face, sweet and bitter like the cocktail in your hand earlier.

He wants to know how far he can go. Wants to know what you’ll let him do. So he leans in—

You pull back.

Not harshly. Not dramatically. Just enough.

Your voice cuts through the music like it was always meant to: “Oscar.”

One word. A warning. A tether.

Lando doesn’t push. Doesn’t press. He just exhales a short breath, sharp and heavy, and steps back. Nods once. Okay. Okay.

But the jealousy coils like smoke in his chest. It stays there even as he forces a smile, even as the music shifts again. It stays there when you dance with someone else five minutes later.

It doesn’t leave. It never fucking has.

The whispers start subtly. Murmurs in the paddock, light-footed and sharp. Oscar Piastri, the quiet storm of McLaren, might not be long for the papaya seat.

Some say Red Bull wants him—that the higher-ups are eyeing him for the moment Max Verstappen calls it. Others suggest Ferrari already slid a contract across the table, bold and crimson with legacy. Lando hears it all.

It doesn’t rattle him. Not at first.

But then he sees you. It’s hours after the race, the garages half-silent, the world tinged in the blue hues of approaching midnight. You’re outside, perched near a railing, cigarette glowing orange in the dark. Your posture says leave me alone. Your eyes say dare me to flinch.

Lando dares.

He approaches, the scent of fuel still clinging to his skin, his fireproofs tied around his waist. You don’t look at him. “What I’m gonna say,” Lando begins, tone low, serious, “it’s gonna make you angry. It’s gonna make you very angry. But you have to hear me out. Okay?”

You slowly drag from your cigarette, eyes finally cutting to him. You don’t respond. Just glare.

Lando swallows. “I want you to be my engineer. Really.”

You bare your teeth in a scowl. “What?”

“Even if he moves like everybody says he will,” Lando says, stepping closer. “Oscar is not going to be a Champion as long as I’m on the grid. He’s gonna retire as someone who was just really, really good. That’s what you guys will have done together.”

He pauses. Lets that cruelty hang in the night air.

Then: “You could be the engineer of a Champion. I still have a season, a couple good seasons, and you can bring it out of me.”

There’s a long beat.

You look at him. Eyes unreadable. Lando doesn’t flinch. He’s curious, really, where your loyalties lie. If it’s with the man, or the team, or the car.

And then you slap Lando.

A sharp, echoing crack in the quiet paddock.

His head turns with the force, jaw tensing. But you don’t walk away.

“How dare you fucking ask me that,” you hiss.

Lando rubs his jaw, breathing slow, measured. “Jesus Christ.”

You take a step forward, fury burning behind your eyes. For a moment, he’s scared you’ll burn him with your cigarette. “You want some fucking strategy? You wanna hear the most useful advice I can give you about your tennis?” You spit the next word like venom. “Quit. Right now. Right this instant.”

Lando’s expression twists. “I’m in my goddamn prime.”

You laugh, a short, mean sound. “You’re a rich kid in a rocketship who will never amount to anything else in life.”

He steps in, voice low and sharp. “And Oscar isn’t?”

You don’t back down. “Oscar is thrice the man that you are.”

Lando narrows his eyes, and for a beat he looks like he might laugh, but there’s no humor in his voice when he answers, “And I’m thrice the champion that he is.” He leans in, every word deliberate. “Which one matters more to you?”

You glare at him, breath shallow, trembling not from fear but from the sheer, pent-up rage clenching your fists. Your eyes lock, and for a moment the world is silent again, save for the faraway hum of machinery and night wind licking at the tarmac.

The slap has long settled into skin, but the tension hasn’t broken. Not yet.

Then Lando speaks again. “You hate him.”

You scoff, turning away.

“No,” Lando presses. “You hate him. You can feel him giving up already even though you know he’s not gonna retire unless you let him.”

“Oscar is a grown man,” you say, “who can do whatever he fucking wants.”

“Bullshit,” Lando snaps. “He does whatever you want. Always has. Except now, he’s not even pretending to like it. You’re not just a voice in his comms. You’re what he races towards.”

You don’t respond. You move to leave, steps swift, shoulders squared.

Lando calls out after you. “I’m going to beat him this year.”

You don’t stop. He says it louder. “It’ll break him,” Lando yells.

You pause at the threshold of the dark corridor. Then, without turning back, you say, “It won’t make you.”

The tension is a living thing in the McLaren garage. It hums beneath every debrief, slinks into the silence before strategy meetings, coils around Lando’s neck when he watches you speak to Oscar in low, precise tones.

You’re pushing Oscar harder. Everyone sees it. The way your voice snaps on comms, no softness left in it. The way Oscar listens, jaw tight, nodding like he’s got something to prove. Lando watches them, watches you, and wonders if you even know how far you’ve gone. If Oscar will break before he beats Lando again.

Lando keeps trying. He takes corners too sharply sometimes, risks tyres when he shouldn’t, slices through traffic like he’s chasing ghosts. The team chalks it up to hunger, drive, rivalry. But it’s you. It’s always you.

He sees it one afternoon, tucked behind the threshold of an access hallway to the back offices. You and Oscar, locked in a hushed, sharp-edged argument. Oscar’s hands are fisted at his sides, yours on your hips, and your knee is shaking in that way it does when the pain flares. Lando steps forward on instinct, but freezes when Oscar closes the gap and kisses you—hard.

You don’t pull away.

You let him. One hand curls at the nape of his neck.

But your eyes flutter open in the kiss.

And they find Lando. Over Oscar’s shoulder. Through the haze and heat and mess of what the three of you have become.

Lando doesn’t move.

Neither do you.

Not until the moment stretches too long, and something in your expression shifts into a silent plea, an apology, or something far crueler. Then Oscar pulls away, forehead pressing to yours. You close your eyes again, returning to the moment with the boy you chose.

Lando turns before he sees anything more.

He doesn’t sleep that night.

The MTC briefing room empties slowly, team members filtering out in clusters of orange and grey, voices trailing off into the sterile corridors. Lando hangs back, half-hovering near the projector as Oscar closes his laptop and stretches, spine cracking with a satisfying pop.

They’re nearing the end now. A handful of races left. The points couldn’t be tighter. Lando could taste a fourth WDC if he clenched his teeth hard enough. And Oscar—well, the Australian was driving like he had nothing to lose, like he had everything to prove.

And yet, the air between them today feels oddly... light.

“Still think Suzuka’s gonna suit you better?” Lando asks, slinging his bag over one shoulder.

Oscar chuckles. “You tell me. You’re the one who keeps watching my sector times.”

Lando grins. “Touché.”

They fall into step, shoes squelching on the polished floor, the hush of the building swallowing them. For once, there’s no edge. No bitterness.

“You know,” Oscar says after a pause, voice warm with nostalgia and something quieter underneath, “I still don't really know what happened. To us.”

It’s a gun, loaded and cocked. Lando takes it right out of Oscar’s hand and pulls the trigger. “Guess she really was a homewrecker, huh?” he muses.

Surprisingly, Oscar doesn’t push back. Doesn’t try to defend your honor or call Lando out. Instead, he fucking laughs. Genuine, free. “Yeah,” he responds, “guess she was.”

The moment lingers like heat in the chest, unexpected in its softness.

For just a breath, they’re just two boys again. Fast friends, fast rivals. The rest can wait until the lights go out.

That is—until Lando eavesdrops.

He hadn’t meant to. Qatar was already hard enough of a race weekend to deal with. Your face is all hard lines and poorly concealed grief whenever you look at the track. Oscar is stuck between a rock and a hard place—the job he must do, and the concern he has for you. Lando is not heartless. He doesn’t mean to add to the cuts that never heal.

He was just supposed to ask Oscar if there’s anything he can do for the two of you when he hears it from the other side of the Australian’s driver room. “Tell me it doesn’t matter,” Oscar is saying, and Lando’s hand stills at the door handle.

A beat.

“No,” Lando hears you respond. You go on, voice tight, “You tell me if it matters. You’re the one on the track, Osc.”

Oscar doesn’t say anything. You keep going, foul mood inevitably exacerbated by the fact you’re back in your grave. “It can’t be about avoiding my judgment,” you say tiredly. “I’m not a nun. I’m not your mommy.”

Oscar’s own tone is downright pathetic. “I just want you to tell me you’ll love me no matter what,” he says, voice cracking on the word love.

“Who am I?” you laugh. “Jesus?”

“Yeah,” Oscar responds. Meaning it.

There’s sounds of shuffling, of you crossing the shoebox of a room. “You should know you can beat Lando,” you say, obviously trying and failing to be reassuring. But you are no benevolent child of Christ; there is no forgiveness here. Not at McLaren.

Oscar replies, not with confidence, but with something more resigned: “I’m going to retire in two seasons. Whether I win this year or not.”

And there it is. The confirmation of the rumors. The hubris. Lando holds his breath. You seem to be doing the same, because Oscar goes on, “I’m still gonna try. I’m still gonna go for it. But I’m tired. I don’t wanna be one of those guys who doesn’t know when to walk away.”

Silence. Then—

“You don’t need my permission,” you respond evenly.

“I know,” Oscar says with all of the reverence of a disciple. “But I’m racing for the two of us.”

There’s a soft sound. Fabric shifting, maybe a sigh, maybe the start of a kiss. Lando doesn’t wait to find out.

He turns and walks away, jaw tight, chest hollow. The weight of Qatar, once again, settling on his shoulders like a curse.

Lando’s phone buzzes at 1:37 AM. The screen lights up with your name. A short, pulsing text: Got a car?

He stares at it for a long time. He doesn’t reply. Just throws on a hoodie, grabs his keys, and heads out into the thick Qatari night.

The streets are deserted, the world dimmed by drizzle. It’s raining—like it ever does here—and he can’t tell if that’s irony or omen. When he pulls up outside your hotel, you’re already waiting at the curb, hood up, face shadowed. You slip into the passenger seat without a word.

Neither of you say anything as he drives. Ten minutes later, he pulls into the empty lot of a convenience store, yellow neon flickering overhead. The rain turns the windshield into static.

“Wanna come back to mine?” he asks, voice low, tentative.

You don’t look at him. “I’m not going to fuck you.”

The words are sharp, surgical. He flinches. “Wasn’t—I wasn’t asking for that,” he lies.

You turn your face just enough for him to see the fatigue in your eyes. “I want you to lose tomorrow.”

“I mean, yeah,” he says dumbly, because you’re his co-driver’s engineer. It makes sense you’re on Oscar’s side.

You amend. “I’m asking you to lose tomorrow.”

That has Lando’s blood running cold. “You want me to—what, give up pole?” he clarifies. “Tank the race?”

You nod, just once. It’s the quietest thing he’s ever seen you do. Here, in the suffocating silence of the cramped rental, you look old and young at the same time. You look like the girl you once were; you look like an absolute goddamn stranger.

Lando thinks of Oscar. The younger man’s steady gravity. The driver who had once said Just because I’m calm, doesn’t mean I’m not ruthless. Friend, rival. A snog in a hotel room. An unspeakable event in a driver’s room.

The ice to his fire. The best goddamn co-driver Lando has ever had.

Lando laughs, short and bitter, when your words sink in. “I can’t believe you’d do this to him,” he seethes. “Fucking me would be one thing, but this? This is unforgivable.”

Your jaw clenches, but you don’t deny it. You can’t. What a fucked up world to live in, Lando thinks—where infidelity is somehow more palpable than mercy.

The rain drums harder against the car roof. The silence between you stretches, taut as wire. Outside, the neon flickers.

Lando grips the steering wheel like it might anchor him to reason. “You really mean it,” he says, voice raw, when you don’t take back your request. “You want me to lose. You came here just to ask me that.”

You cross your arms, leaning against the door. “Oscar needs this.”

“What about me?” Lando seethes, twisting in his seat to face you. “What about what I fucking need?”

“You’ll survive. You’ll win another time.” You glare at Lando. “He won’t.”

“God, you’re full of it,” Lando scoffs. “You came here for one reason, and now you’re trying to make yourself feel better by calling it something noble.”

“If it’ll take sex for you to throw the match—”

“Shut up,” he cuts in, his voice harsh. “Jesus, shut up. That’s not what this is about, and you know it. Don’t reduce it to that just because you can’t stomach your own guilt!”

“I’m offering you a way to make peace with it,” you snap.

He shakes his head. “You’re offering me a way to absolve you,” he retorts. “This isn’t about Oscar anymore. This is about you. And how you can’t bear the idea of not getting what you want, even if it means using both of us.”

You falter, just slightly, and he presses in. “You think you’re so goddamn righteous. But you’re not. You’re just addicted to winning. And you’ll tear everything down to get there.”

Your eyes are glassy with fury. “Fuck you,” you grit out through your teeth, and he knows you mean every syllable of it.

“No,” Lando says. “You already tried that. And I think, deep down, you hate that I’m not giving in. Because that would’ve made this cleaner for you.”

The rain pelts harder against the windshield, a thousand angry drummers beating time. You’re screaming now, the same way you did when he tried to see you after your crash. “Drive me back to my fucking hotel,” you’re demanding. “Now, Lando!”

He doesn’t. He sits there, jaw locked, hands white-knuckling the steering wheel.

“You don’t get to dictate shit right now,” he spits. “You don’t get to show up, ask me to lose a goddamn championship, and then pretend like you’re some fucking martyr.”

You’re soaked in rage, breathing hard, lips parted like you might bite him. You’ve always had that tendency; it’s nice to see that doesn’t change. Lando keeps going, because he can’t help it, because he’s mad, because he wants to hate you with every fiber of his being.

“You killed it in him. The fight. The joy. Every bit of spirit Oscar had? You drained it,” he rants. “Piece by piece, lap by lap. And now you want me to roll over so he gets to win on a technicality?”

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” you snipe, venom hot, hot, hot. “Oscar idolizes you. He always has.”

That stops Lando. For a second.

Then he bursts out into a bark of laughter. A humorless, guttural thing that carves itself out of his throat like broken glass.

“You’re out of your mind,” he says, but his voice sounds smaller, even to him.

The words settle inside him like a slow-burning fuse. He can’t stop the images: Oscar watching his interviews, Oscar studying his telemetry, Oscar asking what he thought of a corner or a pass. The way Oscar always deferred in their early years. The way he still sometimes did.

More and more. Oscar’s forgiveness, even when Lando had never apologized. Oscar’s hand, still so small, twitching every time his size was compared to Lando’s. Friend, rival, and something more, something else, something neither of them could outrun.

And that’s what Lando hates the most about your ditch attempt at a plea. Lando is the one who’s been jealous.

Jealous that Oscar gets to date you in daylight while Lando has to look at you through the haze of regret. Jealous that Oscar has you in his ear, tailoring racecraft with the intimacy of a lover. Jealous of the way you look at Oscar, even now, even when it’s clear you don’t believe he can win without strings.

And maybe—God, maybe—he’s jealous of you, too. Jealous of what you did to Oscar. The power it must feel like. To matter that much. To be the thing someone builds a career around, then walks away from.

“You ruined him,” Lando repeats. “And now you want me to help you make it mean something. Fuck you.”

It’s a vacuum. Nothing but breath, and grief, and rage smoldering in silence.

The rain makes everything louder. It slaps against the pavement, the bones of Lando's restraint. When you slam the door and stalk out into the downpour, your silhouette cuts jagged through the haze of streetlight and emotion.

He follows. Of course Lando follows.

“You are such a fucking bitch,” he shouts at your back, rain soaking through his shirt in seconds. “Do you even hear yourself?”

You wheel around. “You’re an egotistical child. You’re only good for racing.”

“Yeah? And what the fuck are you good for, then, besides ruining every goddamn thing you touch?”

You don’t think. You raise your hand. It flies up like muscle memory.

But Lando’s faster. His hand catches your wrist mid-air, tight and trembling. His face is close, soaked and furious, breath hot even in the cold.

“Gonna slap me again?” he says, his voice dropping to a growl. “Do it. I fucking dare you.”

You don’t.

You spit in his face instead. Hard.

Enough to make him flinch. Before he can react, before he can hurl the next insult, you shove him back against his car, your body crashing into his. Your mouth finds his like a curse.

And Lando stops pretending.

He kisses you like he’s falling apart. Like it’s been years. Like you’re the last sin he’ll ever commit and the first one that ever felt right. The rain pours down around you, mixing with your breath, your hands, your hunger.

There is nothing left to lose. Not championships. Not reputations. Not love.

Just this.

This break.

This undoing.

It’s nearing three in the morning when Lando finally pulls back up in front of your hotel.

The rain has long since slowed to a drizzle, but the windows of his car are fogged from hours of breath, of silence, of shouting and kissing and all the things in between. The parking lot is empty. The streets are soaked in a dull orange wash of sodium light. No one in the world seems awake but the two of you.

Neither of you touch the door handles. You’re still in your seats, fully clothed, the weight of what happened pressing into your bones like the weather.

You hadn’t slept together. Somehow, that’s infinitely worse.

“So this is your tactic, huh?” Lando says, voice rough. “Keep me up until sunrise, make sure I can barely stay awake tomorrow so I crash and burn. Clever.”

You don’t laugh. You barely even blink.

Lando falters. There’s still a shadow of wetness on your cheek, and he doesn’t know if it’s from the rain outside or from you. He wants to know. He wants to ask.

Instead, he fumbles for something lighter, something that might make you look at him the way you used to.

“I’ll do it,” he says suddenly. “I’ll throw the race.”

You turn to him. “What?”

“You win,” Lando mutters, jaw clenched, looking anywhere but at you. “Bit of making out and I’m done for. Well played.”

Your face twists. You don’t want to smile, but you do. It’s crooked with something sad. “You have to make him feel like he earned it,” you say, already back to business. Already collecting what you came for. “You can’t just give up in the middle of the race.”

That’s when Lando realizes it, really. That you love Oscar. Maybe you just love racing more, but you do love Oscar.

“Are you sure this is what you want?” Lando asks, his voice barely above a whisper. There was a time where he would have given you anything you’d ever wanted. He thinks that time might still be part of the now, if he’s being really honest.

You look at Lando for a long time, like the truth might be buried in the way his curls are still damp, in the way his hand sits on the gearshift.

Your lips, kiss-swollen by Lando’s own doing, form the next words that are entirely for a different man. “What else could I want?” you respond, and Lando isn’t sure anymore what you’re talking about.

To see Oscar win. To see Oscar happy. A championship to your name, even if you weren’t the one behind the wheel.

Even now, all you seem to know how to talk about is racing.

There is a beat of silence between you. The kind that feels heavier than all the laps you've ever logged. “How will I know you're gonna do it?” you ask, fingers curled around the passenger door.

Lando hesitates.��

Then, eyes still on the windshield, he replies:

“You won’t.”

There are eighteen other cars on the grid, but none of them matter today. Not to you.

You’re in the garage with the headset on, eyes locked on the telemetry, heart pounding in time with the whir of engines screaming through the Losail Circuit. Your knee aches from standing too long, but you don’t sit.

Not for this. Not when the papaya cars are flying through the circuit that broke you. The same curve, the same shadows under the floodlights. You could trace them in your sleep.

You call out sectors to Oscar, keep your voice level, precise. “Delta plus point one. Watch your rear left. Lando’s inside DRS.”

Oscar responds with the same clipped professionalism. “Copy.”

From the pit wall, the race plays out like a ballet of violence. Every lap between Oscar and Lando is tighter than the last.

Lap twenty-four: Lando attempts a dive into Turn One. Oscar holds him off, but barely. You bite the inside of your cheek.

Lap thirty-one: Oscar takes the lead back with a slipstream move down the main straight, just after you’d warned him of Lando's tire strategy. The boys are merciless to each other. Fast. Fearless.

You give Oscar the information he needs. But you can’t stop watching Lando.

He’s driving like he means to win or wreck. A kind of desperation that reminds you too much of yourself in your final season. You know his rhythm too well by now, know when he’s holding back and when he’s not.

He’s not.

Oscar asks for strategy confirmation on Lap 38, when he’s a second and a half ahead. You give it. But the pit is murmuring now—eyes flickering between the timesheets and the screens. Something’s changed.

The final ten laps stretch out like a wire pulled taut. Two McLarens, blisteringly fast, impossibly close. Lando could overtake him. You know he could. He knows he could.

You remember the car. The rain. The fogged-up windows. His voice: You won't.

You watch the screen. Lando doesn’t yield. He doesn’t back down. He just races.

You look out across the garage at the other pit wall screen, where Lando’s side of the team watches just as intently. No one moves. No one breathes.

Then, it happens.

Lando pushes through. No more holds, no more restraint. He surges up behind Oscar, the gap closing with every turn, a relentless pursuit. You feel a strange shift, a familiar weight of anticipation in your chest, and it takes you a moment to recognize it—this moment, right here, is so much like a race from years ago.

A race where they had fought for your number. The same drive. The same desperation. The same intensity.

Lando comes alongside Oscar, mirror to mirror, side by side as they charge down the straight. You can’t help it—you nearly laugh—or cry—at the thought. This was supposed to be the final showdown, wasn’t it? And now, in this moment, it’s exactly what you feared: They’re still racing for you.

The final lap.

Both McLarens fight. You watch their cars float through corners, separated by a mere breath. The kind of race you only ever see in the final laps of a season, when everything’s on the line. Even here, even now, you realize something you’ve always known, something you told them the night you first met them.

A relationship. Brutal, messy, intimate. Knowing the limit and brushing against it anyway.

You lean forward, eyes fixed on the screen. They’re doing it. They’re really doing it. For a split second, you think you see a flicker of acknowledgment between them.

It’s a good fucking race.

When the checkered flag waves, neither Oscar nor Lando are at P1. It doesn’t matter which of them finish P2 and P3, not when the top step of the podium is spoken for.

The roar of the crowd is deafening. From the paddock viewing deck, you watch the podium ceremony unfold, elbows perched on the railing, eyes trained on the two men in papaya suits.

Oscar and Lando stand on either side of Max, champagne bottles in hand, faces flushed with heat, sweat, adrenaline. The usual chaos of victory hangs in the air—confetti, national anthems, camera flashes. But then Lando lifts his bottle in a gesture that isn’t quite typical.

Instead of spraying the crowd or his teammates, he brings the bottle to his lips and starts chugging. Long gulps.

Uninterrupted. Unbothered. It’s ridiculous. It’s showy. It’s not in the script.

Oscar freezes.

The crowd cheers louder, misunderstanding the moment. But you don’t miss it—the stiff way Oscar shifts his weight, the sudden way his fingers tighten around his own bottle, how his smile falters just a bit too long.

You had come home the night before to Oscar sound asleep, still on his side of the bed. You brushed your teeth until your gums bled, like you might somehow be able to wash out the taste of Lando from your mouth. And then you climbed into bed, held Oscar, and prayed for the first time in years.

Prayed that he would never find out.

Lando lowers the bottle and turns toward Oscar. For a moment, neither man moves.

Then, slowly, Lando points the mouth of his bottle at Oscar. A challenge. A gesture. A dare.

Oscar’s brows knit in confusion. Lando just shakes his head once, firm, and with his free hand, gently tilts Oscar’s chin up.

The crowd holds its breath. So do you.

Lando pours.

Champagne spills out in a silvery arc, crashing against Oscar’s parted lips. He coughs once, then swallows, taking what Lando has to give. You can’t look away.

Lando’s face is unreadable. Oscar’s is red, damp, but defiant. The moment is absurd, intimate, crackling with the kind of tension that doesn’t belong on podiums.

When the bottle finally lowers, Oscar’s lips are glistening. The two of them don’t break eye contact—not with each other.

When they do, it’s to look at you.

The hotel room is quiet.

Oscar’s fingers are laced with yours, resting lightly on the bedspread between you. The TV is on, playing something neither of you is watching. He hasn’t let go of your hand since you both walked in. He doesn’t say much. You don’t either.

There’s nothing tense about it. Just silence, filled with something weightier than words.

You’re leaning into his shoulder. He’s warm, steady. When you shift your head slightly to press your lips to his cheek, he exhales softly.

Then—

A knock.

Oscar doesn’t move right away. You don’t either. It echoes again, a little sharper the second time.

You glance at him. He’s already looking at you.

You give his hand a small squeeze. “Go on.”

Oscar nods. Slowly, he gets up and crosses the room. He unlocks the door, pulls it open.

Lando’s standing there. Slightly tousled, hoodie half-zipped, hands shoved into his pockets like he’s been out walking or just standing in the hallway thinking too hard.

For a moment, the two boys just stare at each other.

Lando smiles.

Oscar smiles back.

You sink a little deeper into the pillows and wait. ⛐

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