Chapter Text
The champagne flute nearly slipped through Lando's fingers for the third time that evening. His grip was slick with sweat, the condensation from the glass mingling with the clammy heat of his palm. Across the room, someone laughed too loudly—a sharp, grating sound that made his shoulders tense. He hated these things. The way people's eyes lingered just a second too long on his waist, his collarbones, the hollows under his cheeks. Like they were tallying up his flaws in their heads.
Oscar Piastri was doing his best impression of a potted plant in the corner. George had abandoned him twenty minutes ago with a slap on the back and a hissed, "Just mingle, mate." As if Oscar hadn't spent the last six months pouring all of his energy on asphalt in front of millions—as if he owed anyone more of himself. The party's noise pressed against his skull, a dull roar that made his teeth ache. He was halfway to bolting for the exit when he caught sight of a familiar face. Not familiar in the "we've met" sense, but familiar in the way every billboard in Monaco seemed to feature those green eyes and that disarmingly soft smile. Lando Norris.
Except—the man clutching the champagne flute looked nothing like the effortless, grinning model from the ads. His shoulders were hunched slightly, fingers trembling around the glass, and Oscar watched as he subtly turned his face away from a passing group, like he was trying to vanish into the wallpaper. Oscar knew that move. He'd perfected it himself at twelve years old, hiding behind his father's shouting.
He should leave. He wanted to leave. But something about the way Lando's knee bounced under the table, the way his fingers tapped uneven rhythms against his thigh—it was too familiar. Before he could talk himself out of it, Oscar grabbed two fresh drinks from a passing tray and made his way over. "You look like you'd rather be hit by a bus than be here," he said by way of greeting, sliding one glass toward Lando.
Lando startled, glassy eyes snapping up. For a second, Oscar thought he'd miscalculated—that the model would scoff or turn away. But then Lando exhaled, sharp and shaky, and the corner of his mouth twitched. "Accurate." His voice was quieter than Oscar expected, rougher. "Think the bus would be quieter."
Oscar snorted before he could stop himself. He leaned against the edge of the table, angling his body to block Lando from the worst of the crowd. Up close, he noticed things the billboards airbrushed out: the faint scar slicing through the bridge of his nose, the way Lando's knuckles were reddened, like he'd been scrubbing at them. "Yeah, well. George Russell's laugh is basically vehicular manslaughter."
Lando choked on his champagne—not a delicate sip, but a full, startled gulp. His lips glistened, and Oscar abruptly looked away. "Fuck," Lando wheezed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Why would you say that?" But he was laughing now, a real one, shoulders shaking silently.
Oscar shrugged, feeling oddly pleased with himself. "Seemed like you needed a distraction." The words came out easier than he'd expected, like they'd been waiting in his throat all night. Lando's eyes flickered over his face, assessing, and Oscar fought the urge to fidget under the scrutiny.
"Distraction's nice," Lando admitted after a beat, fingers tracing the rim of his glass. The motion was absent, almost nervous. "Usually it's just—" He cut himself off with a shake of his head, but Oscar caught the way his gaze darted toward the buffet table, then away just as quickly.
Oscar didn't push. He knew that look too—the way hunger could twist into something jagged and shameful. Instead, he nudged the untouched drink closer. "So, how many times have you been asked if you actually eat tonight?"
Lando's fingers stilled on the glass. His laugh was brittle. "Three. And one 'you're so brave to wear that'—" He gestured vaguely at his fitted shirt, the way it clung to his ribs. "Like it's a fucking charity case."
Oscar took a slow sip of his drink, letting the bitterness of the alcohol anchor him. "People are shit," he said simply. It wasn't profound, but the raw honesty of it made Lando glance up, something unreadable flickering in his expression.
"Yeah," Lando muttered, tapping his fingers against his thigh again—a staccato rhythm that matched the erratic pulse Oscar could see jumping in his throat. "You'd think I'd be used to it by now."
Oscar studied the way Lando's fingers pressed into his own leg, like he was trying to ground himself. "Doesn't work like that," he said quietly. The words tasted familiar, something he'd told himself in hotel mirrors before press conferences. "Other people's stupid sticks around."
Lando's gaze snapped to his, startled. For a second, Oscar thought he'd overstepped—but then Lando exhaled, slow and deliberate, and his shoulders dropped an inch. "Well, shit," he muttered. "You'd think they'd run out of shit to say."
Oscar smirked, tipping his glass toward the crowd. "They recycle. Same three insults, different fonts." He watched as Lando's mouth quirked, something almost like amusement flickering in his eyes. Up close, his irises weren't just green—they were flecked with gold, like sunlight through leaves. Oscar swallowed and looked away.
Oscar smirked, tipping his glass toward the crowd. "They recycle. Same three insults, different fonts." He watched as Lando's mouth quirked, something almost like amusement flickering in his eyes. Up close, his irises weren't just green—they were flecked with gold, like sunlight through leaves. Oscar swallowed and looked away.
"Speaking of recycling," Lando muttered, nodding toward a cluster of photographers lingering near the balcony, "those vultures are circling again." His fingers tightened around his glass. "Bet they're waiting for me to drop this shit so they can caption it 'Unstable model spirals at charity gala' or some bullshit."
Oscar followed his gaze, jaw tightening at the sight of lenses pointed their way. "Ignore them," he said, shifting slightly to shield Lando from view with his shoulder. "They'll move on once they realize we're not tearing each other's clothes off." The second the words left his mouth, he regretted them—too sharp, too close to the kind of speculation they both hated.
Lando let out a huff that wasn't quite a laugh, fingers twitching around his glass. "Yeah, well. Doubt they'd believe it anyway. Not after your championship win," he muttered, the word landing with deliberate weight. He flicked his eyes up to Oscar's, a challenge in them. "World-famous Oscar Piastri doesn't waste time on damaged goods like me. Not when he's got sponsors to smile for."
The words hit Oscar like gravel kicked up from a track—sharp, unexpected. He blinked, momentarily thrown. "You watched the race?" He hadn't meant to ask, hadn't even realized he cared, but the thought of Lando—billboard Lando, fragile Lando, real Lando—somehow seeing him on a screen, fists raised in victory, made something tighten in his chest.
Lando shrugged, fingers tracing the rim of his glass again, slower this time. "Caught bits of it," he admitted, voice low. "Was in the States for a shoot. Jet-lagged as fuck, couldn't sleep." His thumb tapped against the crystal, a soft ping echoing between them. "You looked..." He hesitated, jaw working like he was chewing on the word. "Happy. Like you'd forgotten the cameras were there."
Oscar felt something twist in his gut—half surprise, half something warmer, unfamiliar. He hadn't felt happy in that moment, not really. Just relief so sharp it had tasted like blood in his mouth, the weight of eighteen years of prove yourself finally sliding off his shoulders. But Lando had seen something else. Something honest. He swallowed. "Wasn't thinking about cameras," he admitted. "Just wanted it to be over."
Lando hummed, gaze dropping to his own hands. "Know that feeling." The words were quiet, almost lost under the swell of chatter around them, but Oscar caught them anyway. Lando's fingers twitched toward his sleeves, tugging them down over his wrists—a reflex Oscar recognized instantly, the same one he'd had as a kid hiding bruises under too-long cuffs.
Oscar hesitated, then nudged Lando's untouched drink closer. "You, uh—watch much racing?" The question sounded stupid the second it left his mouth, but Lando snorted, shaking his head.
"Not usually." His fingers drummed against the table, quick and restless. "But your win—that shit was everywhere. Airport TVs, hotel lobbies. Couldn't fucking escape it." He said it like an accusation, but there was no heat behind it. Just exhaustion, the kind that seeped into bone marrow.
Oscar remembered that day in flashes: the scorch of Abu Dhabi asphalt through his gloves, the way his vision had tunneled in the last ten laps, how his engineer's voice had cracked over the radio when he crossed the line. World Champion. Two words that should've felt like fireworks but had landed in his chest like a lead weight. He'd vomited twice in the cool-down room.
Lando watched him now, that same unreadable tension in his jaw. "You cried," he said abruptly.
Oscar froze, glass halfway to his lips. "What?"
"On the podium." Lando's voice was matter-of-fact, but his fingers had gone still around his drink—white-knuckled. "After the anthem. You wiped your face like it was sweat, but your cheeks were wet." He paused, throat working. "I rewound it. Three times."
Oscar's breath caught. No one had mentioned the tears—not the pundits, not his team, not even George when they'd gotten shitfaced after. They'd all chalked it up to adrenaline, to exhaustion. But Lando had seen, had cared enough to look twice. The realization hit him like a G-force turn, pressing the air from his lungs.
Lando was staring at his own hands now, shoulders hunched like he expected a blow. "Sorry," he muttered. "That was—fuck, I shouldn't have—"
"No," Oscar interrupted, voice rough. He set his glass down too hard, champagne sloshing over his fingers. "No, it's—" He swallowed, throat tight. "No one noticed that." The admission felt like pulling stitches from a wound.
Lando blinked, lips parted like he hadn't expected the reply. His fingers twisted in his lap, nails digging into denim. "That's fucked up," he said quietly. The words hung between them, raw as fresh asphalt.
Oscar shrugged, thumb tracing the wet ring his glass left on the table. "They saw what they wanted to see. Happy champion, fairy-tale ending." The bitter twist in his voice surprised even himself.
Lando's fingers twitched toward his own glass, hesitated, then retreated back to the safety of his sleeves. "Funny how nobody asks what happens after the fairy tale," he muttered. His knee started bouncing again, rapid-fire, like his pulse was trying to escape through his joints.
Oscar studied the way Lando's throat moved when he swallowed—too quick, too tense. He'd seen that motion in his own reflection often enough to recognize it: the struggle to keep something ugly shoved down where it wouldn't show. "They don't want the answer," Oscar said quietly. The champagne tasted suddenly too sweet, cloying on his tongue. "Nobody does."
Lando's laugh was a sharp, bitten-off thing. "Tell me about it." His fingers ghosted over his glass like he wanted to pick it up but couldn't commit. "Last year, some prick from Vogue asked what my 'secret' was. Like there's some fucking magic trick to—" He cut himself off with a jerky shake of his head, but Oscar didn't need him to finish. The hollows under Lando's cheekbones told the rest of the story well enough.
Oscar's fingers tightened around his glass. The condensation had started to soak through his sleeve, cold against his wrist. "Fuck them," he muttered, more vehement than he'd intended. Lando blinked up at him, surprised, and Oscar forced himself to shrug. "They did the same shit after Monaco. Asked me what my 'secret weapon' was." His mouth twisted. "Like I hadn't spent every fucking day since I was six grinding for it."
Lando's fingers stilled on the table. His voice dropped, barely audible over the party's din. "What'd you say?"
Oscar let out a humorless laugh. "Told them it was my dad's belt." The admission spilled out before he could stop it—ugly and jagged, the kind of truth he'd never say in front of cameras. He watched Lando's face closely, waiting for the inevitable recoil, the awkward shift in posture that always came when people glimpsed the wreckage under his podium smile.
But Lando didn't flinch. His fingers just curled tighter around his glass, knuckles whitening. "Yeah," he said softly, gaze fixed on the table between them. "Mine was vodka and a fucking tape measure." His voice was so quiet Oscar almost didn't catch it, but the words landed like a punch to the ribs.
The flash came without warning—a sudden, searing burst of light that left spots dancing in Oscar's vision. He blinked, instinctively raising a hand to shield his face, but it was too late. The photographer had already melted back into the crowd, phone clutched triumphantly. "Fuck," Oscar hissed under his breath.
Lando flinched violently, nearly dropping his glass again. His fingers flew up to cover his eyes, but not before Oscar caught the way his pupils constricted—pinpricks in all that gold-flecked green. "Jesus Christ," Lando muttered, voice fraying at the edges. His hands were shaking visibly now. "Like a fucking ambush."
Oscar exhaled sharply through his nose. The afterimage of the flash still burned behind his eyelids, superimposing itself over Lando's pale face. He could already see the headlines: Piastri and Norris: Secret Romance? Followed by endless zoomed-in screengrabs of this exact moment—Lando blinking up at him like a startled deer, Oscar's body angled protectively close. "Now there's gonna be a dating rumor," he muttered, rubbing his temple. "Guaranteed."
Lando's laugh was brittle, his fingers twitching toward his sleeves again. "Congratulations," he deadpanned, voice raw. "You've officially downgraded from 'damaged goods' to 'clout-chasing whore' by association." His attempt at humor fell flat, the words landing with too much truth behind them. Oscar watched the way his throat worked—a quick, nervous swallow—before Lando abruptly pushed his untouched champagne away.
The flash had left ghost spots in Oscar's vision, but he could still see the way Lando's shoulders curled inward, like he was trying to fold himself smaller. Without thinking, Oscar reached out, fingertips brushing Lando's wrist—just above where his sleeve had ridden up, revealing a thin, silvery scar. Lando froze, breath hitching, but didn't pull away. "Fuck the rumors," Oscar said, low and firm. His thumb traced the edge of that scar, feather-light. "Let them talk. Doesn't change shit."
Lando exhaled shakily, fingers twitching under Oscar's touch. His pulse thrummed like a trapped bird under Oscar's fingertips. "Easy for you to say," he muttered, but his voice lacked its usual sharpness. "You're the golden boy. I'm just—" His mouth twisted around the unspoken words, bitter and familiar.
Oscar didn't let go. "You're just what?" He nudged Lando's wrist gently, forcing him to meet his gaze. The party's noise faded into a dull roar around them. "The guy who rewound my podium three times? Yeah, fucking terrifying." His thumb traced another scar, this one jagged and raised—a story Oscar didn't know yet but recognized all the same.
Lando's breath hitched. He didn't pull away, but his fingers twitched like he wanted to. "That's not—" He stopped, throat working. The camera flashes had started up again, sporadic bursts of light catching the gold flecks in his eyes. "They'll say I'm using you. Or—or that you've lost it, slumming it with some—" His voice cracked, raw.
Oscar tightened his grip on Lando's wrist, just enough to ground him. "Hey." He waited until Lando's gaze flicked back to his. "I've had rumors before. So have you." His thumb traced another scar—this one looked newer, pink at the edges. His chest ached. "Difference is, I don't give a fuck what they say."
Lando exhaled shakily. His fingers twitched under Oscar's touch, pulse rabbiting against Oscar's fingertips. "Easy for you to say," he muttered, but there was no heat left in it—just exhaustion. "You're not the one they'll drag through—"
Another flash exploded—too close, too bright—and Lando recoiled hard enough to knock his glass over. Champagne spilled across the tablecloth like liquid gold, soaking into the fabric with quiet finality. Oscar barely registered it. His entire focus narrowed to the way Lando's breath hitched, the way his fingers scrabbled against the table's edge like he was trying to claw his way out of his own skin.
"I need to—" Lando's voice cracked, high and desperate. He shoved his chair back with a screech that cut through the party's din. "Fuck. I need to get the fuck out of here, and you—" His eyes darted toward the photographers, then back to Oscar, wild and pleading. "You need to stay away from me."
Oscar barely had time to blink before Lando was gone—vanishing into the crowd with the same practiced grace he used in photoshoots, shoulders hunched like he expected hands to grab at him any second. The champagne puddle on the table reflected the overhead lights in fractured gold, and Oscar's fingers twitched with the urge to follow, to push through the sea of sequins and forced smiles until he found those green eyes again.
"What the fuck was that?" George materialized at his elbow, smelling like expensive cologne and cheap vodka, his brows knitted together. He followed Oscar's gaze to the empty space where Lando had been, then down to the spilled drink. "Did Norris just sprint out of here like the building's on fire?"
Oscar's fingers curled around his own glass, the condensation slick against his palm. He watched as a server swooped in to mop up the champagne stain, erasing the evidence like it had never happened. "Something spooked him," he muttered, not entirely sure why he was defending a guy he'd known for all of 45 minutes.
George snorted, tossing back the rest of his drink. "Yeah, well, that's Norris for you. Moody bastard." He leaned in closer, breath hot against Oscar's ear. "Word is he's got more baggage than Heathrow on a holiday weekend. You don't wanna get tangled up in that."
Oscar didn't answer. He was still staring at the spot where Lando had vanished—the slight parting in the crowd where shoulders had instinctively shifted to let him through, like he carried some invisible force field of don't touch me. The champagne spill was already gone, wiped clean by efficient hands, but Oscar could still see the way Lando's fingers had trembled before he bolted. Not anger. Not even fear, really. Something closer to panic, raw and uncontained.
"Jesus fucking Christ, don't fucking tell me you're interested in that," George scoffed, shaking his head like Oscar had just confessed to voting for Brexit. "He's a big red fucking flag. You see how he acts—one wrong word and he's sprinting for the exits like you've got a fucking knife." He gestured vaguely toward the door, his cocktail sloshing dangerously close to the rim. "Mate, that's not just baggage; that's a whole fucking carousel."
Oscar didn't look at him. His fingers tightened around his glass, the cold bite of condensation grounding him. George wasn't wrong—Lando had bolted, shaking like a spooked animal. But Oscar had also seen the way Lando's breath hitched when he laughed, the way his fingers twitched toward Oscar's sleeve like he wanted to anchor himself there. That wasn't just baggage. That was someone who knew what it was like to flinch at shadows.
"He's not a fucking flag," Oscar muttered, finally meeting George's incredulous stare. "He's just—" hurt, he wanted to say. Like me. But the words stuck in his throat. Instead, he shoved his glass into George's hand and pushed past him, ignoring the spluttered protests behind him. The crowd parted reluctantly, perfumed shoulders brushing against his as he moved toward the front doors Lando had disappeared through. "Never mind."
George caught his elbow, grip firm. "Mate. Stop." His voice dropped, urgent. "You're drunk. He's—whatever he is. Not worth the fucking press nightmare. Let's just go home."
Oscar shook him off, already moving. The party's noise blurred into static behind him as he shoved through the exit doors. Cold air hit him like a slap—Monaco in December, biting through his stupidly thin shirt. He scanned the empty valet lane, the flickering streetlights. No Lando. Just a cigarette butt still smoldering near the curb, crushed under someone's heel.
Lando bolted. And a small part of Oscar wanted to follow.