Chapter Text
JANUARY 2027
Of the varied, bilingual, and increasingly fucking mad nuggets of ‘advice’ Cisca Wauman-Norris dolled out to her kids when Lando and his siblings were little, ‘we don’t say ‘hate’’ is the one he remembers the best.
There’s no prizes available for guessing why; simply put, young Lando hated a whole lot of stuff, and wasn’t shy about saying so. It’s not as if he never had a reason - carrots tasted awful; his sisters’ taste in telly was shit; that little arsehole Charlie Testham stole his 3DS, and as a result deserved to rot forever in a pit in Cotham, where stray cats would feast eternally upon his genitals as punishment.
Whilst then-eleven year-old Lando had eventually agreed there were more productive ways of displaying his anger than pioneering feline CBT (carving ‘THIEVING BENDER’ into Charlie Testham’s front gate, for example, which was what he actually ended up doing), the one thing he completely refused to allow off the Hate Train was school. Lando really, really hated school.
He had also been fairly convinced that school hated him - at least, the new one, a long way away from his home, definitely did. Learning the ropes had proved tricky; stuff that would’ve got him a laugh back at Prep would suddenly land him straight in detention. The food was ghastly, sleeping in dorms was terrible, both for the noise and the smell, not to mention the total lack of privacy.
There was also that some lads begun to catch on around Third Year, the fact Lando never talked about girls. That didn’t win him many friends. Only reason it didn’t lose him any either was because he barely had any to begin with.
When he presented - and presented omega - it was the middle of the night, and he’d staggered to the san with only one thought in his mind: however bad this had been already, it was about to get so much worse.
He’d felt so small and scared, curled in the middle of the private room Matron found for him. Proto-heat was like that, he learned later - nonsexual, but tense, terrifying, a fever and a fever dream, all bundled up in some cursed loot box Lando’s body wouldn’t force him to reopen for at least another three years.
There was a real mercy in that, and also in the fact he’d had the wherewithal to smuggle his BlackBerry into a pocket before fleeing the dorm.
Adam Norris was on his way within twenty minutes, and Lando had never forgotten the way he’d sounded - his Dad’s voice, and Lando’s Mum’s, pulling him in like a hug from all the way down the line.
He remembers it now too, at twenty-seven, when his dad picks up at 3AM.
“You ok, mate?”
Alone in his flat, Lando shakes his head and sobs.
“I— need help, Daddy. I’m in a real fucking mess.”
True to form, his old man is on the way within five, but Lando’s not nearly as comforted this time.
His Dad might’ve been able to do away with school, but Lando seriously doubts he can fix this.
**
OCTOBER 2026
“More in racing now, before Formula One takes a two-week break - wet weather in Singapore didn’t quite derail Lando Norris’ chances of defending his championship, but did give closest rival Charles Leclerc the opportunity to close the gap between first and second place.
“With Leclerc, and his own teammate Oscar Piastri, hot on Norris’ heels at a pivotal point in this racing season, British fans remain optimistic the reigning World Champion can make it ‘two-for-two,’ particularly with Max Verstappen absent this season on—“
“Wish they’d shut up with that.”
Sat with a protein bar, a P3 under his belt, and getting to witness Lando at his most petulant, Oscar finds he can’t quite resist poking the bear.
“Which bit?”
“You know which bit,” Lando says, kicking bare feet up onto the hotel coffee table, as he gestures as the TV. “Do I really deserve a bloke in Crocs saying I’m only ahead because Max is off making babies?” He pouts - it’s the only word for it, utterly fixated as he is on the unfortunate bastard onscreen. “Seriously, Osc. Crocs.” He emphasises the word the way most people would emphasise ‘bin juice’ or ‘Brussels sprouts,’ disdain dripping from every letter. “Where’re they finding these twats?”
“They said they were British fans,” Oscar says, hiding a smirk. “I know geography’s not your strong suit, but…”
“Shut it,” Lando groans, practically pouting as he flips the telly onto mute, then tears into a pack of something called ‘Mini Cheddars’ using his teeth. He stuffs his face sulkily for ten seconds or so before another gripe occurs, and between the arm he throws out, and the spray of half-chewed crumbs that exits his gob, Oscar’s not sure what to dodge harder. “Just think it’s unfair, honestly. I’m not trying to be a bellend.”
“‘Do, or do not,‘“ Oscar quips drily, but admits defeat when Lando looks at him like he’s started speaking in tongues. “Never mind. We’ll get to that one over Christmas.”
There’s no talking to Lando when he’s like this, and there’s also no getting him to sit still. Cheddars devoured, he starts toying with the remote again, flipping channels too fast to actually tell what’s being shown as the churlish scowl deepens to a point even the most dedicated stans would call ‘unappealing.’
There’s really not a lot that is appealing about Lando when he’s in a strop. He’s gone full ‘goblin mode,’ spitting food, pouting like a spoiled toddler, and rubbing his (frankly reeking) bare feet all over the coffee table mere inches from their drinks. For the life of him, Oscar can’t fathom how anyone with eyes, ears, or nostrils could witness more than ten seconds of this, and still think ‘Would.’
That being said, Oscar’s been thinking of late that self-awareness is completely overrated.
Lando’s not in enough of a snit to ignore it when Oscar’s hand slides up the inside of his thigh. In fact, it would be fair to say he perks up - in more ways than one, Oscar notes, as Lando smirks away the scowl, and his shorts seem almost to stir.
“What’re you doing?”
“What’s it feel like?” Oscar asks, smirking back as he opens his palm around Lando’s leg, and Lando spreads them wider in invitation.
“Dunno,” Lando says. He gets his hand under Oscar’s shirt quick as a card trick, which pretty much shatters any hopes he could’ve had of appearing coy. “Like a blowie?”
“Call it a ‘blowie’ again, and you’ll never get another one off me.”
“What kind of Aussie are you?” Lando snorts, but his head thunks back against the couch as Oscar adds a second hand to the party. “Mmm. I could’ve said ‘beej.’ ‘Beej’ is way worse than ‘blowie.’”
“And people say you’re thick,” Oscar comments, biting down a laugh when Lando’s head comes back up again, affronted.
“Who says I’m thick?”
“Y’know,” Oscar says, as he lowers himself off the couch. “People who don’t know you.” He pauses, just shy of tugging down Lando’s shorts. “And Mark, once or twice. But what does he know?”
“Fuck him,” Lando agrees happily, lifting his hips so Oscar can undress him. “Just ‘cause he married a geek.”
‘Geek’ is likely a Biblically accurate term for Sebastian Vettel, if Oscar thinks about it. Likewise, there are plenty that apply to Lando: Champion, brat, great friend, pain in the ass.
Oscar prefers ‘boyfriend’ over all the rest. He’s preferred it, in fact, for about six months now, and it sounds a little better every time.
“Y’know, this is really bad form,” Oscar says, shucking Lando’s boxers to get his cock out in the open. He’s as irritating, and attractive, here as he is anywhere - long and flushed, already leaking pre, a delicious weight in Oscar’s hand as he strokes his thumb over the tip. “Rewarding tantrums with head— Supernanny would be fuming.”
“Shut up,” Lando says with a giggle, “or I’ll call you ‘Daddy.’”
He doesn’t, because not only is Lando’s EQ high enough to know that would be a Bad Shout, he’s also in the habit of forgetting how to speak, period, when Oscar goes down on him. From Oscar’s perspective, it’s a pleasure - Lando’s toes might not smell of roses, but scenting him, tasting him, especially when he’s turned on, has been driving him bandy since the first time they fumbled their way through learning what makes the other one of them feel great. He’s gotten good at it since, and Lando’s gotten good for him; he keens so sweetly when Oscar slides his lips down on him that despite the fact they’re nowhere near a heat or a rut right now, the possessive growl sits at the back of Oscar’s throat anyway, right alongside the thick head of Lando’s cock.
He works his jaw and tongue alongside an insistent fist around what his mouth can’t handle, and it’s really not more than a few minutes before Lando’s fingers are in his hair, hips shifting greedily as he chases down his climax.
Oscar takes him deep, runs with a brainwave he’s cultivated through five-so-far of Lando’s heats. Angling his head just-so, he presses a thumb down above the base of Lando’s cock, exactly where he likes it most when he’s in heat, and ‘everything’ looks different—
The result is instantaneous, and explosive - Lando comes with a wail, gripping Oscar’s wrist and driving his hand harder against that same spot until he’s slumped back against the couch, covered in sweat and his own come, but beckoning Oscar upwards with grabby-hands, and really, who’s Oscar to refuse?
Much as he enjoys Lando at his most ‘pillow princess,’ it’s hard to argue with how good it feels to take a rare stance astride his lap, thighs spread wide and Lando’s comically huge hands all over him.
It doesn’t take long - Oscar’s mostly learned to accept how much it turns him on to have Lando in his mouth, but this still feels like a record in the making as Lando smirks, strips his cock with a practiced stroke, plus that upward glance of come-drunk green eyes.
Oscar comes with his face pressed hard against Lando’s throat, hips twitching, fingers digging into what seems to be miles of beautiful tanned skin— before the haze fades, and what he’s holding is no less tanned, and no less beautiful, but perfectly proportioned for Oscar’s arms as they flop in a tangle of limbs over the full expanse of the couch.
“God that was good,” Lando says, seconds or minutes later. He pats Oscar’s chest right next to his own head. “Since when’ve you been so good with that ‘tongue’ thing?”
“Since about six months,” Oscar says. “Since about when you told me you thought ‘prostate’ was how you say ‘cheers’ in German.”
“I dropped out of school,” Lando reminds him, delivering a light punch to the ribs he swiftly follows up with a kiss. “Are you going to give me this much shit I when I start talking about dinner?”
It’s a good question; for all intents and purposes, their meals are as regulated during ‘off’ weeks as they are when there’s a race immediately incoming. Oscar’s equally certain, however, that whoever made those rules not only had no real commitment to carbs, but also had no idea what it’s like to have Lando Norris in their lap post-orgasm, begging
with his eyes if not with his words, for a certain response.
Oscar’s not above providing it, is the kicker. Given the option, he’s not sure he’d be capable of denying Lando anything at all.
“Want to order noodles?”
“Love you,” Lando trills, blowing a kiss as he snatches up his phone. He has to extract himself from the cuddle pile they’ve built up to make it happen, but when Lando comes seconds and inches away from braining himself on the hotel room floor, Oscar reckons the comedy has more than made up for the effort.
**
DECEMBER 2026
Lando’s got a headache. He’s had a headache for over a week, and he’ll be blaming that, over any speculation on his IQ, for how he doesn’t notice Seb Vettel’s very obviously pregnant belly until it’s pointed out to him.
It’s nice for him, Lando thinks. Max seems pleased enough with his kid, and as far as Seb goes, anything that keeps Mark Webber happy has to be good for Oscar, which is in turn good for Lando.
He’s not exactly sure when Oscar’s off-track happiness started mattering to him so much. Oscar’s a lot of things - sweet, strong, so fucking funny without even trying, and not in a way that Lando can be normal around. More in a way that makes him giggle like no one else bar Flo or Max F can provoke, which honestly just adds to his conundrum. On balance, trying to decide if one is in love with one’s boyfriend is a pretty decent problem to have. On the other, having said boyfriend halfway across the city when that itch for closeness kicks in is complete shit— and Lando still reckons he could cope with all of it far better if not for the fucking banging inside his skull.
‘Omegas in Motorsport’ dispensed with, he’s hoping for a chilled-out evening— a vision that takes an absolute swan-dive when Lando’s halfway to the hotel.
His first thought is anxiety, his second far more dramatic - having grabbed a completely unwilling breakfast at a fucking Co-Op of all places, Lando’s brain runs immediately towards food poisoning when his stomach Entirely turns over.
The battle beginning thereafter is a question of odds: does he jump out of the cab now and risk shitting his pants on the street where any number of paparazzi might lurk— or does he knowingly shit his pants on the backseat of an Uber?
Lando’s body makes the decision for him, in the end; he doesn’t shit himself, but he does throw up halfway out the window, then bribes the driver with 300 quid cash to not nuke his Uber rating. He’s feeling like a microwaved turd by the time he’s ridden the lift up to his room, an that’s before he walks in to find Oscar, bless him, waiting with all Lando’s favourites from Pizza Express spread out on the hotel table.
“Hey,” Oscar starts, eyes full of affection, poor bloke— right as Lando sprints past him and sets about ‘redecorating’ the toilet.
“Ah Jesus,” Lando hears from the doorway. “Was it really that bad?”
“Don’t look at me,” he whines, gagging again as he scrambles blindly for the flush, eyes leaking. “Not good. Not— for you to see, it’s not sexy.”
“I don’t think the point of getting sick is to look sexy,” Oscar points out, to which Lando groans and doubles down until he’s halfway convinced Oscar will never want to see him naked again. “Get it all up mate. You’ll feel better for it.”
“‘Mate,’” Lando whines, once he can speak again. “See? This is where it starts.”
“Sorry,” Oscar says. He’s smiling as he gets down on the floor next to Lando. “Rub your back, darling? Fetch some water for you, honeybun?”
“Wanker,” Lando mumbles, but having his back rubbed does actually make him feel slightly better about the whole thing, or at least, a little less stiflingly fucking awful. “Water, yeah please. Gimme.”
Oscar obliges, even holds the cup for him and says “little sips,” like he’s worried Lando might chug the whole thing like it’s podium champagne. Once he’s rinsed his mouth, he feels slightly more human-shaped than before. The nausea’s still there, as is his headache, but it’s less urgent now, and Lando eventually allows Oscar to coax him into trackkies and then bed, whilst he Deliveroos them some Lucozade and bleach.
“Tasty combo,” Lando comments, as Oscar settles on the bed and tugs him close. “Bit harsh on the belly, maybe.”
“If you’re trying to drink bleach, we’ve got bigger problems than a tummy bug,” Oscar says. It’s times like this Lando truly forgets he’s only twenty-five. Lando feels (and acts) like a messy teen by comparison; stick ‘wise beyond [his] years’ into Google, and it’d just be pictures of Oscar Piastri and his middle-aged smile. “If it is a bug, we’re both pretty-well fucked, so might as well keep stuff clean.”
“Wouldn’t a bug come with other symptoms?” Lando muses. It’s not exactly a ploy to get Oscar’s hands on him again, but he’s far from complaining when his boyfriend’s palm lands gently on his forehead.
“You’ve not got a fever.”
“Cheers, Dr. Oz.”
“Behave,” Oscar tuts, but he flips on the telly and they sink into some Kardashian-esque crap until the Deliveroo shows up, and once he’s sipped his way through half a litre of Lucozade, Lando’s stomach has mostly settled, and the only thing he can really focus on is how fucking nice it is to have a boyfriend who’d willingly risk catching theoretical norovirus, just to be supportive.
“So how was it today?” Oscar asks later when they’re both under the covers, and he’s trailing his fingers up and down Lando’s arm in that way that always feels just the right kind of comforting. “Total nightmare with cameras, or a bit of a laugh?”
“Both,” Lando says. He’s so very warm, and the day feels so very long ago now he’s settled and sleepy. “Max and Daniel’s kid is pretty cute in-person.” The words spark a recollection, something he’d forgotten to bring up due to all the gastrointestinal mayhem. “Did you know Vettel’s knocked up?”
“Oh,” Oscar says, “yeah, Mark mentioned.”
“Could’ve told me,” Lando says. “Y’know - so I didn’t make a tit of myself not clocking it.”
“You’re right,” Oscar says, and Lando doesn’t have to lift his head to know that the prick is smirking. “Why would you notice that a 5”8, 60kg bloke suddenly has an extra human up-front?”
“At some point, I get to call this ‘bullying,’” Lando points out, smirking as Oscar starts shaking with silent laughter. “Maybe not today, but at some point. If it continues.”
“At some point,” Oscar echoes. “How were they, anyway? Seb, Mark and the Ricciardo-Verstappens.”
“Fine,” Lando says. “Seb’s doing good, at least. Max reckons he was sick as a dog when he was pregnant.”
Looking back, Lando’s not sure what happens first - Oscar tensing, or his own brain threatening to explode out of his ears and severely mess up the curtains. The point is that the thought occurs to them both at the same time, even as Lando sits up and shakes his head.
“Nah,” he says, almost wanting to laugh, the concept is so fucking ridiculous. “Nah, there’s no way. I’m on the pill.”
“Yeah you’re on it,” Oscar says slowly. “With all the love in the world though, d’you always remember to take it?”
Lando opens his mouth, then swiftly shuts it again. It’s not an unfair accusation - part of them spending near-enough every night and morning together means Oscar has witnessed more than enough of Lando forgetting his vitamins, ignoring dropped socks, being completely fucking unable to see his own keys when they’re on the table right in front of him. A missed pill here and there..? Lando can absolutely see that being realistic, and it’s clear Oscar does too, because he throws on a baseball cap and quickly saunters down to the only Boots nearby that’s both open late, and has self-service checkouts.
Lando paces up and down the suite whilst he’s gone, two key thoughts bouncing around his brain like a pinball. First: Oscar’s ‘Mr. Benn’ of a disguise isn’t going to fool any busybody who happens to glance into his shopping basket— and second, more importantly: what in the thrice-warmed fuck are they meant to do if he is pregnant? He’s not really in the habit of believing Max Verstappen can do anything he himself can’t; financially, too, they’d be more than capable. Mentally though, and emotionally? Lando’s got all the depth of a half-dunked Hobnob on his good days, and whilst Oscar is streets ahead… well. They’ve only been going out for eight months.
Lando sits down on the bed once he realises wearing a groove into the hotel carpet isn’t actually helping. He leans back on the mattress, pressing his palms over his eyes as he tries to get his head around whether he even wants to be a Dad. His nieces are cool as fuck, but Lando’s still quick to hand them back when they start screaming, or pulling snot out their noses— it’s not exactly giving ‘parent,’ is Lando’s point, and although his better judgement ought to kick in and remind him he might not actually have to worry about this, it’s tripped up and derailed by something else, something he can’t keep from staring at on his phone.
Lando had scoffed the first time Flo suggested he download an app to track his heat cycle, had continued to treat the idea with contempt until he realised what he’d thought to be an irregular inconvenience was actually, in his case, pretty fucking predictable.
He hadn’t clocked the date, but his app hadn’t missed it. It’s right there in unassuming teal - ‘Heat in -5 days.’
And since Lando’s got no business looking a smoking gun in the mouth, he figures his time is best spent working out how the fuck he actually feels before Oscar gets back.
He doesn’t quite dare put his hand anywhere near his belly.
**
Oscar’s not welcome in the bathroom whilst Lando takes the test, but he supposes that makes sense. As far as bodily functions go, vomit might require support, but piss is a one-man job— at least, that’s what Oscar’s telling himself as he perches on the edge of the hotel bed, and desperately battles back the urge to text his mum.
It’s not that he thinks she’ll have anything good to say - more that she might have something to say, better than Oscar can do for himself at the minute. Better than he’d managed when Lando had snatched the Boots carrier out of his hand and fled to the bathroom, and he’d like to say it’s because he didn’t have time, but the truth is, he didn’t have a clue where to start. How does a bloke start that sentence? Their roles reversed, Oscar half-suspects Lando would’ve opted for a giggle, maybe even a ‘my bad,’ if he was feeling brave.
Neither of them are feeling especially brave right now. Oscar doesn’t have to be in the same room as his boyfriend to know that much - he can scent Lando through the door, can smell the fear rolling off him, and all the unearned inadequacy.
It would usually give him pause; this time, it licks up like an inferno under his skin, the urge to shield Lando from even the vestiges of his own mind and hormones has him break out in a fucking sweat, and Oscar’s never taken cocaine, but he wonders if this is what it’s like, heart racing, fists clenched, wanting to claw at his own hair in case it might re-reveal the ground underneath his feet—
— only to find it rushing up towards him seconds later, when the bathroom door slams open, and Lando is stood there with a white stick in his hand— and for a moment, all Oscar can think is that thing is pissy, and it should be in the bin. It should be in the bin, but it’s not, and Lando is holding it up as he trills a completely untethered “Surpriiiiise…”
That’s the thing about bravery, Oscar thinks, as his arms drop to his sides: it’s far more about facing your fears head-on, than it is about not having them in the first place.
**
“Do you want it?”
Lando wants to rephrase the second he speaks, and if Oscar’s small sigh is indicative of it’s probably agreement. The thing is, Lando’s a motormouth when he’s not trying to process the biggest fucking bombshell he’s faced since landing his McLaren seat, and so it’s not so much a case of ‘if’ he babbles, but ‘for how long.’ It just keeps coming out of him - clarifications, ‘what ifs?’, stumbling anecdotes about his parents, his siblings, how his brother stepped up for his daughters.
He’s halfway through a sentence that starts with ‘Oli’s a fucking parent, and I once saw him eating chips out the sink,’ when Oscar finally reaches his limit.
“Jesus, Lando,” he groans, holding up a finger before Lando can start up again. “Can you just— two minutes?”
Lando counts them, because he’s That petty— but apparently Oscar knows he is, because he pipes up around about the point Lando reaches 116 seconds.
“I don’t know,” he says, and of all the things— Lando’s so fucking glad, because at last it’s clear they’re on the same page. “Obviously it’s your choice. But you asked, so I’ll be totally honest - I’ve not got a fucking clue.” He’s curled his fingers together, Lando notices, knocking the combined fist against his knee like it might shake some more words free. “I want kids. Sure I do, I just never figured it’d be—“
“With me?” Lando guesses, desperate to lunge for the joke. But Oscar shakes his head, deeply serious.
“Right now,” he says, and Lando’s heart, God bless the excitable twat, does a little bunny-hop in his chest. It tries another when Oscar picks up his hand. “If I had to pick anyone to have a kid with in, like, ten years…”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“What d’you mean?” Oscar asks, looking so genuinely confused that Lando doesn’t know whether to kiss him, or throw up on his feet.
“Y’know,” Lando says. He tries to laugh, but it catches halfway up, like he’s tried to swallow sand. What’s left is all self-preservation, pure and simple. “You don’t have to act like I’m ’The One,’ I’m not that stupid.”
“I disagree,” Oscar says, and it’s a relief Lando didn’t realise he needed, seeing him smile for the first time since, even if he feels like he’s about to get fucking roasted. He’s not wrong: “I’m not saying you’re ’The One.’ I’m not ruling it out,” he adds, “but I’m pretty sure the bloke who can’t even commit to a favourite Power Ranger isn’t exactly expecting a proposal.”
“You’re such a dick,” Lando snorts, but his belly does a weird sort of swoop anyway. It must show on his face, and Oscar, bless him, misinterprets.
“You feeling rough?” he asks, and whilst Lando’s not above a fib if it gets Oscar’s hand on his forehead again, he honestly doesn’t think he’s got his shit together well enough to carry it off. The same nervous energy that had sent him pacing up and down the suite is back with a vengeance as he pushes to his feet and starts up again, feeling somehow even more out of control now he’s got an audience.
“I’m feeling like a muppet who forgets his pill, and who’s now carrying your spawn— and maybe you don’t know what to do about that, but you really shouldn’t make the mistake of thinking I do, because all I’ve got going on right now is this.” He points the forefingers of both hands right at his stomach. “This is all I’ve got in my head, yeah? Spawn. Spawn, spawn, spawn, spawn—“
“Say ‘spawn’ more,” Oscar murmurs— so Lando does, another eight times in fact, then cuts himself off before Oscar can point out he said ‘prawn’ at least once.
“—spawn. And that doesn’t leave me with a lot to work with, so no, I don’t feel ‘rough,’ Os.” His hair is taking the brunt of this, Lando knows - he’s tugged at it so hard he’s half-convinced handfuls are going to start coming out of his scalp. “I feel like I’ve screwed up both of our careers before they’ve even got off the fucking block.”
“You’ve not screwed up,” Oscar says, and Lando does, at least, feel a little better when his boyfriend has gotten off the bed and gentled him to a halt with two hands on his biceps. “Look— not to be crass about it, yeah? But we don’t have to have it.”
“I know,” Lando says. He doesn’t mean it to come off defensive, but realises he has when Oscar’s hands tighten, just slightly, on his arms. It triggers something ‘fight or flight,’ and since Lando can’t quite decide on which, he both pulls himself out of Oscar’s grip, and faces him down. “I know we don’t have to. Doesn’t mean I know what we should do.”
“I get that,” Oscar says. He sticks his hands deep into the pockets of his joggers - something that would probably register as a bad sign, if Lando was capable of looking outside of himself right now. “I’m just saying, it’s an option, and that w- you,” he corrects emphatically, “don’t have to make a decision overnight. You can’t be that far along if you’ve only just started puking - there’s still time.”
“There’s not though is there,” Lando says, as yet another fear muscles its way to the forefront. Frankly, he’s shocked it hadn’t come out swinging sooner. “I’m not going home for weeks; testing starts in February, and I can’t fucking race if I’m up the duff!”
“Still doesn’t have to be tonight,” Oscar cautions. He tries reaching out for Lando again, but Lando steps sharply out of reach, for once in no mood to be coddled. He’s like it before a heat sometimes - flinty, irritable, not wanting to be touched. The curve bends sharply the other way soon as he’s actually in heat, but he’s not going to have one of those this month, is he? Christ, what if they keep it, and he doesn’t want Oscar’s hands on him for almost a year?
What if they don’t, and Oscar never wants to see, much less touch, him again?
It’s too big of a choice for him to make, and his first thought is to outsource.
“Can’t you just— tell me?”
“Tell you what?” Oscar asks, as Lando groans in frustration, then decides to just go for it.
“Tell me what we’re doing here. Are we having it? Are we not? Just— make a call. Flip a fucking coin, I—”
“Stop it,” Oscar warns, but Lando’s opened the door now, and what’s on the other side of it not only looks to be a great plan, but potentially the only course of action they have.
“Flip a fucking coin Oscar, I swear to—“
“Nah,” Oscar says, shaking his head, “Nah, stop it, right now. I’m not making this decision for us, and I’m sure as hell not going to flip a coin to decide how our future pans out.
“Well I don’t know what else to do,” Lando practically yells, with absolutely no idea how this has turned into a blazing row within a few short sentences. All he knows is he’s fuming, at himself even more than Oscar, and that if they don’t make a decision now, he can kiss goodbye to the very concept of sleep. “We’ve got careers, Osc. A fucking team, and- and I’ve got—“
“And you’ve got what?” Oscar asks crisply, and Lando only realises then how very close he came to saying something he wouldn’t be able to take back. It’s not even like he believes it, is the real pisser - Oscar has talent that appears only a few times each generation of drivers, but Lando’s got his back against the wall here, and he’s never been particularly good or tactful with words.
“A title to defend.”
It’s only a half-save; Lando still feels a weapons-grade prick, not least because Oscar looks about as convinced as a Hindu in church.
“Right,” Oscar says after a beat, “yeah, ok.” There’s a kind of defeat hanging off him as he walks back to the bed, and what sickens Lando all the more is that he’s still trying to help. “Look, what if you talk to Zak? If he gives you some kind of assurance you’ll get back in the car either way, will that give you a bit more to work with?”
“Dunno,” Lando mutters - unhelpfully, he knows, but he’s still caught up on the fact Oscar has apparently stopped saying ‘we,’ or ‘us.’
“Horner did it for Max,” Oscar says, getting up from the bed. “Tell Zak the score; whatever you choose, you’ll be back to ‘defending’ pretty soon.”
It’s something of a death knell; Lando doesn’t try and stop Oscar when he heads out for a walk ‘to clear his head,’ and neither is he totally surprised when his phone chirps with a text some half an hour later:
From: Oscar 😏 - I got another room. 304 if there’s an emergency.
The ‘otherwise don’t bother’ is fairly clear, so Lando doesn’t— but after a night of no sleep, and plenty of time to reflect, he still hangs out in the lobby for at least half an hour past check-out time, hoping to catch Oscar coming out of the lift.
After forty minutes, Lando asks at the desk, only to be told ‘the gentleman in that room checked out several hours ago,’ and even that makes sense, Lando thinks, as he drags his regretful, nauseous, solitary arse into the car McLaren had sent.
If there’s one attribute he’s confident in, besides driving, it’s his absolutely impeccable ability to screw things up.
**
“There he is!” Zak Brown greets him a week later with all the grinning and enthusiasm Lando’s come to expect from Americans in general, and Zak in particular. It can be annoying, if Lando’s not in a similar mood; today he’s glad for it, because if Zak’s feeling genuinely cheery, there’s a chance this conversation is going to go a lot better.
“My favourite guy,” Zak says, still beaming as he pulls back from the hug he forced on Lando upon entry. It’s always a bit of a circus, being in Zak’s office - he cultivates a space that he’d clearly like to feel like a frat house, when the reality is far more ‘Michael Scott’ than he realises. Today’s no different as he waves Lando towards the couch, then sits down next to him with a satisfied sigh. “How was the shoot?”
“Shoot-y,” Lando says, breathing out a bit of secret relief when Zak laughs. “Nah, it was fine. Shots should come out pretty well.”
“Good shit,” Zak says with a nod. Then: “Gotta say, I wasn’t sure about it. God knows OKX aren’t thrilled, but that tide should turn when they see some good numbers filter down.”
It’s business-as-usual, far as Lando’s concerned - he’s spent enough time wondering how the fuck Red Bull of all teams is the one to have cultivated at least two legendary omega drivers, but figures that when said omegas have won eight championships between them, the DEI piece practically writes itself. The reason Lando has no genuine reason to doubt Zak’s support, shit sponsors and shit politics aside, is kind-of related - it’s in his best interests to keep his drivers sweet, particularly with Max absent for at least the next two seasons. Everyone with eyes and half a brain has worked out that seats at Red Bull operate like a round of musical chairs, and Zak wont want his gaze turning, not for all the jewels in Christmas, or whatever the fucking phrase is.
Either way, all Lando has to do for now is smile and nod, and that’s made a lot easier by Zak’s usual obliviousness. He prattles on for what feels like hours, everything from Netflix to engines, to questioning what Lando’s dietitian has been feeding him since Abu Dhabi.
Lando’s been throwing all the pre-prepped meals in the bin and living off Mini Cheddars for the last seven days, but Zak doesn’t need spoilers.
“So what’s going on with you?” Zak asks finally, around twenty minutes after Lando first arrived. “Forgive the paranoia or whatever you want to call it, but your driver requesting a private meeting during off-season isn’t usually a great sign.”
Lando’s never been one for fate, much less God, or anything that makes otherwise intelligent people there’s some sort of ‘design’ to the endless roster of shit humans have to parse on a daily basis. That said, there’s something uncanny about how his stomach turns over to an unacceptable degree, right when Zak actually questions him, and Lando reckons he could put it down to the surge of nerves, and nothing more than a coincidence— but all he’s got room to do in the moment is fight a losing battle with his body, and think fucking hell, no, not now.
“Whoa,” Zak says, when Lando claps a hand over his mouth and audibly gags. “Whoa, ok— in here.” Moving quicker than Lando’s ever seen him, he snatches the bin from under his desk, and shoves it at Lando a split second before he loses his lunch.
If Lando had been embarrassed doing this in front of Oscar, throwing up in front of Zak leaves him purely fucking mortified. He coughs miserably into the bin, and though Zak does toss him a bottle of Evian from the mini fridge, he’s certainly not offering to rub Lando’s back for him. Rather, when Lando’s blinked his streaming eyes enough that he can see properly, Zak is all-but pressed up against the opposite wall, grimacing at Lando like he’s wandered into McLaren HQ with smallpox.
“Are you done.. doing that?” he asks warily. “‘Cause if not, I’m gonna give you the room. I don’t do vomit.”
“Haven’t you got kids?” Lando asks, irritated, as he spits extra-loud into the bin, but Zak just shrugs.
“Their mom always dealt with it. What d’you have?” he adds, and Lando reckons he’s regretting his private (if loud) objections to the former mask mandate right about now. “Something you ate?”
The opportunity’s right there in front of him, and sick as he feels, Lando doesn’t have it in him to put it off any longer. All he wants to do is crawl back to the flat the team have rented him and try his best not to expire on the bathroom floor.
“Something I did,” he says, and when Zak’s brow furrows in confusion, Lando lets the final stroke fall. “I’m up the spout, aren’t I.”
It’s the first time he’s admitting it to someone who’s not Oscar, and for a little while Lando thinks the total lack of response from Zak is his own disassociation - that what feels like minutes passing is actually milliseconds, and he’s just too dehydrated and nauseous to remember how time works. That’s until he glances at the digital wall clock and realises an actual two minutes have passed, and when Zak still hasn’t cracked a facial expression, much less a reply, Lando… defaults.
“Is that not— what do you guys call it? ‘Expecting?’ ‘Eating for two?’ ‘Knocked u—“
“I got it, Lando,” Zak says, “thanks.” He takes another beat, then shoves off the wall and sits down opposite with a heavy sigh. Lando’s reminded automatically of the many, many times he was ‘invited’ to the Headmaster’s office before his dad finally succeeded in pulling him out of mainstream school. It doesn’t exactly inspire confidence. In fact, Lando feels the first wave of dread wash over him when Zak leans back, and a few seconds later, he gets to learn why.
“Look, Lando, I’m not here to tell you what you should do with your life,” Zak says. “You know my focus is with the team - our sponsors, our successes.” He shakes his head. “I’ll be honest with you, I don’t think that’s gonna work for us.”
It’s a simple enough sentence to hear. Processing it, though… that’s like being back in 2014, when Lando was a teenager, and his dickhead of a brother tipped a bucket of ice water down his back. Oli’d had the resultant video on YouTube for all of an hour before it was nuked for Lando’s expletive-riddled response— and though he doesn’t go quite as far this time, it still behoves Lando to ask:
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“It’s nothing personal,” Zak says. Lando actually thinks he believes it, is the thing - he’s saying it with his whole chest, even as the spiral begins, and Lando has to begin contemplating how the fuck this could’ve gone so badly awry. “You know where we’re at, and I don’t know how to put this any different: you’re my guy. My Senna Guy. We need you in that car.”
Lando’s been pretty uncomfortable with that nickname since Zak first busted it out, but this is the first time he’s really loathed hearing it. It’s the implication much as anything; Ayrton Senna was a lot of things - champion, legend, playboy - but most crucially, the one thing Lando can’t ever be, the one thing Lando has always suspected Zak (a beta himself, for fuck sake) wishes Lando was.
It’s on his tongue and out of his mouth before he can hold back:
“What about Oscar? He can’t be your ‘Senna Guy?’”
“Next year, maybe two,” Zak says, “sure. But you remember ‘24 - not even Schumi could’ve won a WCC by himself. Pato needs at least another season in reserve before Andrea will consider him up-front…” There’s a smile on his face, Lando notes, but there’s no warmth behind it, only carefully-crafted indifference. “All I’m saying is, you should probably think about your options.”
Lando shakes his head, wanting to be sick again, but finding his mouth and his throat are too dry. The point of coming to Zak was to make him less conflicted, and opening up sure as hell wasn’t meant to only deepen the fathomless pit of loneliness he’s been stuck in since Oscar left him in London.
Is this what he’s got to expect from now on? Is the multiplying cluster of cells hanging out in his belly (‘Prawn,’ as Lando’s begun, sardonically, to refer to them) set to be his only company for the foreseeable?
It makes Lando think, and then it makes him say—
“What if I’ve already thought about them?”
“If that’s the case, sure, we’ll put Pato in the car.” Zak unfurls his arms, stretching one out and along the back of the couch, before saying: “So long as you’re happy with the fact he’ll stay there.”
Forget the ice bucket - that one’s like a fucking blade going straight through Lando’s chest.
“What?” he croaks. “Are you— are you fucking serious?”
“It’s not that I want to,” Zak says, and a fresh chill runs down Lando’s spine when his boss leans forwards, and the mask slips just far enough for some real poison to show through. “It’s that I can. And I will, so like I say - think carefully.” The venomous look is gone soon as Lando can blink, and Zak’s back to smiling affably, like all he’d told Lando was ‘take all the time you need.’ “Was there anything else? ‘Cause I’ve got a call in twenty.”
Twenty minutes, Lando thinks bitterly - roughly the same amount of time Zak spent chatting pointless shit, before he realised Lando was, in fact, dispensable. Maybe he’s always thought that, but it took the possibility of Lando not being able to do the one thing in his wheelhouse vis-a-vis adding team value to make him voice it.
The thought lands him one more supercharge of ‘balls.’
“Red Bull did it for Max. Christian fucking Horner made this work for Max.”
Zak sighs, and for a moment, Lando thinks he might actually be about to relent.
“Talk to me when you’re up four, kiddo. It could happen, you know,” he adds, like he hasn’t just smashed Lando’s last reserve of self-preservation with a few words. “Been thinking for a while now that the whole ‘no lead driver’ thing is getting stale.” The absolute cunt actually has the nerve to wink at Lando as he heaves himself up off the sofa. “Give it some thought, yeah? I trust you.”
It’s the most offensive thing Lando’s heard all day, and whilst it had taken some heft to get him into Zak’s office, it takes no such mental effort to get him out of it. It’s a case of necessity much as anything else - Zak might’ve seen him throw up, but Lando will be fucking damned if he lets anyone here see him cry—
Which is, of course, why he rounds a blind corner at pace and bumps - quite literally - straight into Oscar.
Oscar’s clearly as surprised as Lando; he lets out a little ‘oof’ when they make contact, but his expression switches rapidly from shock to concern when he clocks Lando looking like he’s about to break down.
“What’s the matter? You ok?”
Lando has to hand it to him - the silence since London has been deafening to the point that they may as well have broken up, yet here he is, cutting through all the awkwardness to make Lando’s well-being a priority.
It’s so typically ‘Oscar’ that Lando wants to scream. More accurately, he wants to collapse and sob against his wiry chest until all of the last week fades to background noise— but there isn’t time, and this isn’t the place, and Lando finds he can’t say for sure if Oscar would even let him. He can’t take another rejection today. The larger problem is, he can’t get into that without explaining all the rest, and that’s not— it isn’t that he doesn’t want to, it’s that he can’t, not here. So he flinches back from Oscar and shoves past him, ignoring Oscar’s shouts of his name as they pursue him down the corridor and out into the chilly December air.
Only when he’s got a locked door behind him does Lando remember how to breathe, but the respite only lasts so long. It’s not just Oscar’s words that followed him, and when the insistent banging starts up on his front door, Lando thinks that he really ought to have known better.
There’s no point ignoring him, so Lando scrubs furiously at his eyes, then heaves himself up off the bed to open the door.
Oscar doesn’t waste time; it’s like every millisecond the door is open presents an opportunity for Lando to slam it in his face, because he elbows his way inside like he’s on an episode of The Bill. Getting a look at his face is what does for Lando, because he doesn’t look confused, or pissed off, or anything, really, other than completely fucking stricken. He’s terrified, Lando realises, brain running any and all possible scenarios to explain why Lando was running around McLaren HQ looking like his childhood pet had been put down.
Oscar’s so fucking good, is the thing: loves his mum, loves his sisters- loves Lando, for some godforsaken reason. He’s exactly what he shows himself to be without an ounce of pretence, and in all likelihood, the biggest fuck-up he’s ever pulled is getting Lando pregnant.
Lando can’t relate to that. The only chance he’s ever had of being ‘better’ than Oscar Piastri is on the racetrack, and as something awful, self-fulfilling, and deeply fucking selfish starts filling the space in Lando’s chest, he sees Oscar open his mouth to speak, and immediately cuts across him:
“Zak offered me lead driver.”
It has the ‘desired’ effect; Oscar looks shocked a second, before his expression shuts down to exactly where it’d been back in London. He doesn’t say anything, just turns on his heel instead and walks away, and only later, when he’s thrown up yet again and is curled up in bed, does Lando realise just what he implied.
He’s still not made up his mind— but as he lies there, tentatively trailing fingers over his belly for the first time, Lando reckons he might’ve just fucked his chances of Oscar’s support either way.