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Everyone in the paddock loved Carlos Sainz.
He was charming. Charismatic. The kind of driver who knew exactly what to say in front of the cameras and exactly how to act at every team event. His smile was calculated but warm. His laugh sounded effortless. His image was flawless, smooth operator, cool under pressure, the guy who always had it under control.
But Lando Norris knew better.
Because he had seen Carlos when no one else was looking.
He had seen him slumped in the back of the McLaren garage after a brutal qualifying session, jaw clenched and eyes dark with frustration. He had seen him in hotel hallways after midnight, barefoot and tired, voice low, talking about pressure and legacy and how exhausting it all was. He had seen Carlos laugh in a way that wasn’t performative, wasn’t polished. Just real.
And he’d fallen for that Carlos.
Not the public version. Not the one who grinned and flirted with interviewers, who waved at fans and played his part perfectly.
The real one. The one who tried so hard to carry the world on his shoulders and pretend it wasn’t heavy.
Because when the cameras were off, when the façade cracked, Carlos was someone else entirely.
Someone real.
Back in their McLaren days, it had been easy. Carlos had let his guard down more. Maybe it was the environment. Maybe it was Lando.
Lando remembered the nights when they'd stay at the track late, sitting on tire warmers in the garage after everyone had gone home, just talking. About racing, sure—but also about life. About pressure. About legacy. Carlos once admitted he wasn’t even sure what he was racing for anymore.
And Lando had just nudged him with his shoulder and said, “For me, obviously."
Carlos had laughed, really laughed. Head thrown back, eyes crinkling, the kind of sound no one else got to hear.
But since joining Ferrari, something had changed.
Lando noticed it right away. The smile was tighter. The answers more polished. The edges cleaner, less human. Carlos had slipped into the Ferrari mold so seamlessly it made Lando sick to watch.
Worse, he was always with Rebecca.
She was perfect on paper. Beautiful, elegant, a PR dream. Their relationship was photogenic, public, and completely hollow. Everyone in the paddock called it "Carlos's marketing campaign."
Everyone except Carlos. Because Carlos never corrected anyone. Never explained. Never looked at Rebecca like she meant anything. Just smiled and played along. Like he always did.
But then there were those moments.
The ones no one else saw.
Like the time Lando heard Carlos off-handedly say to a reporter, “No one wants to play padel with me anymore,” brushing it off with a laugh. Everyone chuckled like it was a joke. But Lando knew it wasn’t.
He messaged him that same night “Heard you were getting ghosted. Come play padel with someone who doesn’t suck. 3PM. I booked a court”
Carlos had shown up late, sunglasses on, jaw tense, but he’d played hard, sweat pouring off him, every hit sharper than the last. And when they sat down afterward, out of breath, Carlos finally said, “Thanks for remembering.”
“Of course,” Lando had replied, tossing him a bottle of water. “You’re not that hard to read.”
Carlos had smiled, hissmile. The one without polish.
Then there were the golf trips.
They almost never planned them. Like when Carlos had been in Monaco, exhausted and over it after another stiff Ferrari event. Lando had messaged him on a whim: “Come play 9 holes. Just you and me. No cameras."
Carlos had shown up in a hoodie and shades, looking ten years younger than the man who posed next to Rebecca in tuxedos. They hadn’t even talked about racing. Just music, food, stupid childhood memories. Carlos had confided that he missed Spain. That sometimes he felt like he was living someone else’s life.
“I used to feel free,” he’d said, twirling a tee between his fingers. “Now I just feel… calculated.” Lando hadn’t responded. He’d just nudged Carlos’s shoulder. “Come back to the real world with me, then.” Carlos had looked at him like he might cry. But he didn’t. He just smiled and said, “You always make it seem simple.”
And then there were the drivers’ parades.
It had become a thing. No one ever questioned it anymore, Carlos and Lando always rode together. While the others mingled or waved at fans, they leaned in close, half the time laughing at something only they understood, the other half just sitting in silence, soaking in the comfort of each other’s presence. Lando would steal glances at him, wondering if Carlos realized how different he was in those moments. How alive he looked.
Like someone who didn’t have to pretend
So when Monza came, hot, loud, emotionally charged, Lando had already decided he couldn’t keep it in anymore.
Carlos stood with Rebecca, doing his usual routine: arm around her waist, a careful kiss to her temple, camera-ready smile locked in place. But Lando saw the truth. Saw the hollow behind his eyes.
Later, after the race, when the crowd had thinned and night had swallowed the track, Lando found him alone. Just like always.
“You’re really gonna keep doing this?” Lando asked.
Carlos turned, startled. “Doing what?”
“This,” Lando said, waving vaguely toward where Rebecca had stood. “Pretending. With her. With everyone. Wearing this mask like it’s your favorite helmet.” Carlos didn’t respond.
“I’ve seen you, Carlos,” Lando pressed. “The real you. I’ve played golf with him. Padel. Sat with him on stupid drivers’ trucks listening to Queen and complaining about espresso. That guy? That’s the one I-” He broke off, biting the inside of his cheek. Carlos’s voice was quiet. “The one you what?” Lando looked up, jaw tight. “The one I fucking miss. The one I might’ve loved, if he ever stopped hiding.”
Carlos looked down at his shoes. “It’s not that simple.”
“Yes, it is,” Lando said. “You make it complicated because you’re scared. But you don’t have to be.”
Carlos’s voice cracked. “You think I haven’t wanted this?”
“Then why didn’t you ever choose it?” Silence. And then, finally, Carlos looked up, his eyes clear, vulnerable. “I am now.”
Their kiss didn’t happen right away. First, there was a look. Then a breath. Then a hand reaching out, fingers curling into Lando’s hoodie like he was afraid he’d disappear. And then it happened. Slow. Real. No audience, no performance. Just two boys under the Italian night, tangled in truth.
Later, they sat side by side on the bed in Lando’s hotel room. Carlos turned to him, eyes glassy but sure. “I ended it with Rebecca. Today. Before the race.” Lando just smiled. “Good.”
Carlos leaned into him. “You really see me?” Lando kissed his temple. “I always did. You just needed to catch up.” And for the first time in a long time, Carlos didn’t feel like he had to be someone else.
Because with Lando, it wasn’t complicated anymore.
It was home.
_____
They weren’t public. Not yet. But they were something. Something new, and terrifying, and real.
It was like driving a circuit in the rain for the first time, nothing predictable, everything slippery and electric and sharp around the edges. But Lando wouldn’t trade it for anything. They were figuring it out, piece by piece, like the corners of a puzzle only they knew how to solve. And in the meantime, they were careful.
Mostly.
Carlos never officially moved in. But Lando stopped sleeping alone. always under some excuse. “The hotel’s loud,” or “Your espresso machine’s better,” or “I left my wallet in your room.” But the truth was simpler: he felt safe here.
It started small, a post-race night here, a layover between cities there, but it turned into a rhythm. The kind that wrapped around you without warning. Carlos’s toothbrush appeared beside Lando’s. One of his hoodies ended up on the back of the chair. And suddenly, there were two mugs in the sink every morning.
Lando loved the mornings the most. He’d wake up to Carlos still asleep, warm and quiet, arm thrown over Lando’s stomach like instinct. Hair a mess. Face soft. No mask, no mask at all.
Sometimes, Lando would just lie there and watch him. Not in a creepy way, in that stunned kind of way, like you’ve stumbled into a secret the world wasn’t supposed to give you. This Carlos, sleepy, vulnerable, half-draped across him like he was made of gravity, this was the real one.
And Lando knew he was one of the only people who got to see it.
It was harder, at the track.
Everything was sharp edges and polished answers again. Carlos was the perfect teammate, the ideal driver, the charming media darling. Always in control. Always smiling just right. Lando watched him sometimes in interviews, watched the way his smile tightened just slightly before a rehearsed response. Watched the way he stood beside Charles, shoulders squared just so, always “Ferrari’s Carlos.” It stung a little. Not because he wanted the world to know. But because Carlos still hadn’t fully let himself know.
One afternoon in Singapore, Carlos walked past Lando after media rounds and barely made eye contact. He was tense, distant, not angry, just… switched off. That night, Lando found him alone in the Ferrari hospitality, still in uniform, eyes on a half-empty espresso cup.
“You gonna talk to me or just brood at your coffee?” Lando said quietly, sliding into the seat across from him. Carlos didn’t look up. “I can’t just turn it off, Lando.”
“I’m not asking you to turn it off,” Lando replied. “I’m asking you to remember why you started turning it on.” Carlos finally looked at him. Eyes tired, but clearer. Sad. “Because it was easier,” he whispered. “Until you.”
Lando reached across the table and tapped his fingers once against Carlos’s. Nothing obvious. Nothing public. Just enough. “I’ll keep reminding you,” he said. “Even when you forget.” Carlos gave him a small, crooked smile. The real kind.
Even the driver parade had become something of a ritual.
They always shared the same space It wasn’t planned anymore, it just was.
No matter the circuit, no matter the grid order, Lando always ended up next to Carlos, arms almost tangled, shoulders brushing, the two of them leaning into each other like gravity insisted. Sometimes they joked the whole way around. Sometimes they didn’t talk at all. But the comfort was always there, unspoken.
One time, just before the parade, Carlos hesitated. He’d just finished a long, draining media gauntlet, all smiles and PR-perfect answers, especially about Rebecca. The press was circling again, trying to sniff out the timeline of their breakup. Carlos looked shaken in a way he rarely let show. Lando climbed into the car beside him, hip pressed to his.
“You okay?”
Carlos didn’t answer right away. He just exhaled slowly and leaned back against the seat. “I’m tired of pretending,” he said quietly. Lando reached over, hand ghosting over Carlos’s fingers.
“Then stop,” he said. “With me, you never have to.”
Carlos turned to him, eyes dark and steady. “I don’t deserve how patient you are.”
Lando smiled, heart aching. “You don’t have to. I’m not keeping score.”
One night, after a long day of meetings and sponsor dinners, Carlos climbed out the hotel window onto the narrow balcony and sat there in the dark. Lando found him a few minutes later, barefoot and frowning.
“Don’t jump,” he said lightly. Carlos huffed a tired laugh. “Wouldn’t be very subtle.”
Lando joined him, knees tucked to his chest, city lights flickering in the distance. They sat in silence for a while. Finally, Carlos spoke.
“Sometimes I don’t even know who I’m supposed to be.”
Lando nudged his shoulder. “Be the guy who drags me out for 18 holes in 30°C heat and then whines about it. Be the guy who sings Queen off-key during cooldown laps. Be the guy who only drinks black coffee and pretends he doesn’t have a sweet tooth.” Carlos turned toward him slowly. “Be the guy who told me he wasn’t ready,” Lando added, softer now. “But kissed me like he’d been waiting his whole life.”
Carlos closed his eyes. “I’m trying.”
Lando kissed his shoulder. “You’re doing better than you think.”
They weren’t public. Not yet. But Lando didn’t need the world to know.
He had the mornings. He had the glances. He had Carlos, piece by careful piece, learning how to take off the mask, not just in private, but with himself.
It wasn’t perfect. But it was honest. And it was theirs.
_____
They said it was a downgrade. Everyone did. When Carlos announced he was leaving Ferrari for Williams, the press spun their usual noise, speculation, disbelief, thinly veiled mockery.
But Lando didn’t see a man stepping down. He saw a man stepping out.
Away from pressure that felt like performance. Away from the myth of perfection he’d been forced to wear like a second skin. Away from the weight of being Ferrari’s golden boy, only golden when convenient. And maybe, toward something closer to freedom.
The paddock noticed a change almost immediately. Carlos smiled differently. Talked more. Laughed easier.
He still trained like a man possessed, still picked apart telemetry like it owed him something, but there was a looseness to him now. Not careless. Just… lighter. Williams didn’t try to mold him. They let him breathe.
And Lando watched, day by day, as the man he knew, really knew, started showing up in public spaces, not just private ones. It was subtle at first.
Carlos standing a little closer during press. Dropping inside jokes that only Lando would get. Letting his hand rest on Lando’s back a second longer than necessary. Not performative. Just natural.
The kind of closeness that had always existed between them, but now... wasn’t hidden behind sharp corners.
Their teams noticed. Of course they noticed.
Oscar didn’t say anything, but started giving Lando these tiny knowing looks whenever Carlos showed up early at McLaren hospitality, claiming he was “just in the area.”
Alex joked once, too casually: “You and Carlos, huh? Not subtle, mate.”
Lando had raised an eyebrow. “What about us?”
Alex had grinned. “Nothing. Just saying. You look good with him.”
He didn’t press. No one did.
That was the thing about a glass closet, it wasn’t about shouting from rooftops. It was about not flinching when someone glanced through the window.
One night in Miami, it happened.
Not a scandal. Not a slip-up. Just a moment.
They were at a small team dinner, nothing flashy, some of the McLaren and Williams staff, a few friends, casual and off-the-grid. They had a private section in the back of a restaurant, dim lights, good wine.
Carlos was next to Lando, of course. Always was, now.And sometime between the second glass of Rioja and the tiramisu, Carlos’s hand drifted to Lando’s thigh under the table. Gentle. Thoughtless. Lando leaned closer to whisper something, forehead brushing Carlos’s temple. They laughed. Quiet, low, just for them.
And when Lando glanced up, one of Carlos’s Williams engineers, Matt, quiet, kind, was watching. Just watching. Not shocked. Not judging. Just… seeing them. Carlos followed his gaze. Saw it too.
And for the first time didn’t pull away.
He didn’t shift his hand. Didn’t clear his throat or change the subject. He just nodded once to Matt, barely perceptible, and went back to his wine.
After the dinner, walking back to the hotel, Carlos was quiet. Not tense. Just quiet. Lando didn’t press. He never did. But just before the elevator doors opened, Carlos turned to him and said, voice low and even, “I didn’t feel like hiding.”
Lando blinked. “Yeah?” Carlos nodded. “It wasn’t scary. It just… was.” Lando felt something loosen in his chest. “Good.”
They stepped into the lift. Carlos took his hand. Not hidden, not secret. Just his.
They still weren’t out. Not publicly.
There were still contracts, sponsors, millions of eyes watching. But it didn’t feel like lying anymore.
They were them around friends, around teammates, around the people who mattered.
It wasn’t about making a statement. It was about making space.
And Carlos, the Carlos who used to flinch at being seen, who used to perform intimacy like a script, was now reaching for Lando’s hand in front of people who’d remember it.
That meant more than any press release ever could.
One morning, a few races into the season, Lando woke to the smell of coffee and Carlos humming in the kitchen of their shared Monaco flat. The same melody he always hummed. Off-key. Awful. Lando leaned against the doorframe and just watched him, in joggers, messy hair, smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. And Carlos turned, handed him a mug.
“Let them talk.” Lando blinked. “Huh?”
Carlos sipped his own coffee. “The world. The press. Whoever. Let them talk. I don’t care anymore.” Lando stared at him, stunned. Not because he didn’t believe it, but because he knew how long it had taken to say it. Carlos reached out, brushed Lando’s cheek with the back of his hand.
“You made it easier to be myself,” he said. “Even when I didn’t want to be seen.” Lando smiled, slow and sure.
“You were never invisible to me.” Carlos kissed him. Soft and unapologetic.
And Lando knew, in every bone, every breat, that this was the ending he’d waited for.
Not the fairytale.
The real thing.