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Chapter Text

The roar was unbelievable. Lando felt it in the soles of his feat, Max’s garage below him absolutely exploding with noise. 

He’d done it. Absolutely smashed it. Done the damn thing. Whatever you wanted to call it. He’d won the Monaco Grand Prix. 

For the second time, sure. But Lando was never one to rain on a guys parade. And neither was Max’s team. The moment he crossed the line, every dam broke. Mechanics leapt into each other’s arms, headsets flew off, and the Red Bull garage erupted like someone had set off fireworks inside it. Lando didn’t wait. He was already moving, down the stairs, shoving past bodies and toolboxes and champagne bottles being cracked open too early.

By the time he reached the barrier, Max’s dad was already there, hand stretched out, eyes shining beneath the brim of his hat.

“He did it!” Jos yelled over the din. Lando just nodded, chest tight with something more than pride. He didn't really like Jos but he could put that aside for the sake of celebration. 

And because then Max was there.

Car skidding to a halt in the pit lane like a returning soldier. The helmet stayed on, but even through the visor, Lando could see it. The grin was unmistakable. He climbed out with a fist in the air, arms outstretched to a crowd that was already chanting his name.

It was almost unreal. Lando felt the weight of it. The roar of the crowd still ringing in his chest, the dull ache of being on the outside of something he used to want, worming itself into his chest somewhere next to the pride and the absolutely unfiltered enthusiasm. 

He wasn’t jealous. Not exactly. It was more that strange ache of watching your best friend do the impossible again, while you floated somewhere adjacent, successful in your own world but never quite tethered.

He was proud of Max and his successes. Had never been more proud than he was in this moment. 

When his feet hit the ground, he turned, saw Lando over the barrier, and didn’t hesitate. They met over the rails, in a tangle of arms and clapping hands. Max didn’t even take his helmet off, just grabbed Lando by the shoulders and pulled him in with the kind of force reserved for moments that change you. “Fucking Monaco!” Max’s voice was muffled but unmistakable, radiating through the carbon shell.

Lando laughed, loud and full. “You bloody fucking legend!” he shook Max by the shoulders, his face nearly splitting with how wide he was smiling.  Max thumped him on the back, too hard, but Lando didn’t care. “Thought you were going into the wall at Mirabeau.”

Max pulled back just enough to lift a gloved hand, mimicking a near-miss. “I was the wall.” Lando barked a laugh, and behind them, the cameras flashed, the crew pressed in, the noise surged higher. For a second, just a second, it felt like the whole world was spinning on this tiny corner of Monte Carlo, and Max was its axis.

The barrier nearly gave way as Max leapt into the crowd of his team. Mechanics surged around him, catching him mid-jump, arms wrapping tight, grins wide and wild as they dragged him in. People were screaming his name, absolutely feral. A flare of orange sparks burst somewhere above. Max’s bright orange.

Lando couldn’t remember the last time he felt this light. Max was laughing, that bright, full-throated kind of laugh that made the whole paddock feel smaller, like it belonged to the handful of people who got it . The race, the fight, the sheer ridiculousness of surviving Monaco and winning. 

Oscar walked toward the pack with a lopsided kind of grin beneath his helmet, calm in the middle of chaos. He hadn’t even bothered to take it off first, made a beeline for Max the second he parked his car. His race suit clung to his frame, streaked with grime and heat, the zip half-down to reveal his fireproofs beneath. Hair damp, jaw flushed, the sweat catching on the edge of his cheekbone.

Tenth place, if Lando remembered right. A point, nothing more. And yet he didn’t carry it like a loss. No bitterness in his step. Just easy, unguarded delight. Max spotted him, broke from the huddle, and opened his arms wide like they’d been teammates for years. Oscar didn’t hesitate. He stepped into the hug with a boyish grin, arms slung loosely around Max’s back.

They were both laughing as Max clapped a gloved hand against the back of Oscar’s helmet. Lando watched from his place behind the barrier, chest still thudding from the race adrenaline, something small shifting under his ribs. He didn’t know Oscar. Hadn’t met him. Now here he was. A rookie draped in sweat and sun, basking in someone else’s victory like it still belonged to him. And something about that stuck. 

Maybe it was the way Oscar looked at Max, not in awe, but in pure, uncomplicated joy. Maybe it was the way Max pulled him in, grinning like a big brother, like he’d wanted him here, in this moment. Max had mentioned that they were friends. That he liked Oscar because he was quiet and fast and secretly vindictive. The atmosphere around them buzzed. PR girls shouting into radios, photographers darting between crew and cars, bottles flying open with satisfying pops. Lando’s eardrums buzzed with the thrum of it all. 

Oscar pulled back from Max, ruffling his own hair with one hand, and the smile that lingered on his face didn’t seem forced or fragile. It seemed real. Lando blinked, and the scene went on without him. Max being handed a flag, the crowd swelling louder as a Red Bull-branded speaker began blasting music through the pit lane.

Not ten minutes later, the Dutch national anthem rang out sharp and triumphant across the circuit, bouncing off the tight walls of the Monaco streets like it was meant to live there. Charles was going to hate this. Lando stood at the back of the crowd near parc fermé, neck craned, watching Max take his place at the top of the podium. 

Max’s race suit clung to him in the heat, hair damp and plastered to his forehead, head raised as the Dutch flag unfurled above him. The anthem played and the crowd screamed, and Lando smiled. Not just at the moment, but at Max himself. Calm. Controlled. A king on the mountain he’d always said he’d climb. Next to him stood Fernando in second, Ocon in third. 

But it was Max who soaked it all in. Head tilted slightly upward, lips pressed together in something like reverence. Lando didn’t cheer. He didn’t need to.

After the trophies were lifted and the champagne sprayed, Max half-drenched by Fernando’s well-aimed shot, the drivers disappeared from the stage like spirits melting back into the mist. The team photos followed, Red Bull crowding around Max with arms over shoulders and faces pulled into exaggerated celebration. At some point someone handed him a huge bottle, someone else pushed him, and then the pool.

Max ran full pelt off the edge of the hospitality deck and cannonballed in, the splash soaking half the team and two media interns, who shrieked and ducked too late. It was chaos. Loud and messy and completely Max.

Lando stayed behind the camera cordon, arms crossed, watching. Laughing. Soaking it in. But a part of him, just a small part, was already peeling away from it. The buzz, the noise, the floodlights that made everything look shinier than it really was. 

He found himself back at the Red Bull trailer without really deciding to go there. The corridors were quiet now, the high of the win still humming beneath the surface but dimmed behind closed doors. The kind of quiet you only got after the noise had wrung itself out.

He sat on the edge of Max’s couch, sipping from a bottle of water someone had handed him on the way in, watching sunlight slice through the half-shut blinds. His shirt stuck to his back. His hair smelled faintly like pool chlorine and Prosecco.

The door creaked open.

Max stood there, hair still wet, fire proofs clinging to his collarbone. His medal hung crooked around his neck, forgotten. “There you are,” he said, voice a little hoarse. “Was wondering where you disappeared to.”

Lando shrugged. “Thought I’d let you enjoy your fifteen minutes without me getting in the way.”

Max gave him a look, half fond, half annoyed. “You know that’s bullshit.”

Lando just smiled. “Nice jump, by the way.”

“Five-point-two for the splash, maybe. But I stuck the landing.” He flopped down on the seat opposite, exhaling hard. “You coming tonight?” Lando raised a brow. “Not the whole circus. Just something small at mine before we go out. Daniel’s coming. Probably Checo. A few others. Nothing wild until Jimmy’z.”

Lando leaned back, stretching his legs out until his feet nudged Max’s. “You always say that.”

Max grinned. “Yeah, but this time I mean it. Come.” It wasn’t really a question. Max never made things feel like obligations, he just said them like facts, like the sky would fall a little wrong if you weren’t where you were supposed to be.

“Alright,” Lando said, softer than he meant to.

Max stood again, tossing his towel over one shoulder. “Be there by nine. Bring something stupid to drink.”

Max’s building was tucked up into one of the quiet, elevated streets just off the hairpin, a little too modern for the old soul of Monaco but perfectly suited to someone who had never minded a bit of clean glass and ego. Lando buzzed in, got let up without a word. The hallway already smelled like someone had opened the good tequila, and music pulsed faintly through the floor, not obnoxious yet, but on its way there.

He walked in to find Max’s small gathering in full bloom.

Twenty or so people were already scattered across the flat, the balcony door wide open to the night, voices overlapping, shoes kicked off, hair damp from the pool or the spray of celebratory showers. Someone had set out a half-dead charcuterie board on the kitchen island. A girl in a Red Bull cap was DJing from her phone. 

Lando didn’t even get to call out a hello before Charles appeared at his elbow, glass already in hand. “Thank God,” Charles said, as if Lando had just arrived to personally rescue him from whatever fresh hell Max was inflicting that night. He handed him the drink, something cold and bitter and full of citrus, and sighed theatrically. “He’s insufferable tonight.”

Lando smirked. “Didn’t he win ?”

“That’s what makes it worse.” Charles sipped his drink and leaned back against the kitchen counter, eyebrows raised like he was about to launch into a monologue. “Do you know how many times I’ve had to hear the Dutch national anthem in my lifetime? On my television. In my home. In my country , for God’s sake.”

Lando snorted into his glass. “It’s not your country’s stage, Charles. It’s just a podium.” 

“Monaco is France’s difficult daughter,” Charles said, with the self-seriousness of someone who’d had exactly enough to drink to start quoting himself. “And Max is like the loud boyfriend we all disapprove of but can’t get rid of because he brings his own yacht.”

Lando laughed. “Well, you are sleeping with him.”

Charles gave him a long suffering look, but the edge of his mouth tugged into a smile. “Don’t remind me.” He took another sip and added, more quietly, “Arthur needs to win next time. Just to restore some balance to the bloodline.”

Lando grinned. “You want me to sandbag for him?”

“I want him to spin out dramatically into the marina and blame sea spray.”

Lando clinked his glass against Charles’. “For Monaco,” he said, solemn.

“For Monaco,” Charles agreed, nodding gravely and downing the rest of his drink.

Before Lando could reply, there was a commotion by the balcony, someone yelling, a handful of cheers. And then Max stumbled in from the hallway, damp curls even messier than before, shirt open, cheeks flushed pink.

“ Landooooo! ” Max’s voice tore across the flat like a shot of adrenaline. He bee-lined for him, nearly colliding with a side table, arms open like he hadn’t seen him in years. “There he is,” Max said, grabbing Lando in a clumsy, one-armed hug that sloshed whatever he was holding in his other hand down both their shirts. “The legend himself!”

Lando wheezed. “You’re the legend, mate. I just showed up.”

Max beamed, then turned immediately to Charles, who was already taking a half-step back. “Why are you always running away from me?”

“Because you’re wet and your cologne is attacking my wine,” Charles said, wiping a drop of something from his shirt and kissing him lightly on the cheek. Max just grinned wider, undeterred. Lando stood back slightly as the two of them bickered quietly, Charles rolling his eyes, Max resting his chin on his shoulder like he was a normal bloke and he hadn’t just won the most prestigious race on the calendar. 

Max turned to Lando suddenly, drink nearly tipping again. “Wait–shit. I have to introduce you to someone.” His eyes gleamed with the same kind of mischief Lando suspected you’d see on track before an audacious overtake. 

Lando titled his head, suspicious. “Why do you look like that?”

Charles, unhelpfully, perked up with a grin. “Oh, this should be good.” He leaned his elbow on the counter, watching them like he was at the theatre and the first act was just getting underway. “Go on then, Max. Ruin someone’s night.” 

Max ignored him completely, already grabbing Lando by the wrist, tugging him with the force of someone who knew he wouldn’t be refused. “You’ll love him,” Max said over his shoulder. “You have to.”

Lando sighed, letting himself be pulled. “Why do I feel like I’m being set up?”

“Because you are.”  Charles laughed behind them, disappearing back into the swirl of the party.

Max dragged Lando past the half drunk mechanics slouched on the sectional, past a very intense game of beer pong being narrated in three languages, and toward the open balcony where the air was cooler and the night a little quieter. Outside, leaning against the glass with a bottle in one hand and a red Ferrari jacket slung obnoxiously over his shoulder, was Arthur Leclerc, loud, animated and gesturing dramatically.

Next to him, half-listening but clearly amused, was Oscar, Max’s rookie teammate. His hair was a little dryer now, curls settling back into place. He was dressed down, not in race gear anymore. Just a plain T-shirt, black jeans, hands tucked into his back pockets with an ease that felt completely different from the sweaty, gleaming boy Lando had seen earlier.

He looked settled. Like this was normal. Max raised his voice over the hum of music and Arthur’s increasingly impassioned monologue about Monaco track limits. “Oscar!”Oscar turned, eyebrows lifting in acknowledgment. Max strode up like he owned the balcony (he did), grinning between them. “Have you two met?”

Oscar shook his head, shifting the glass in his hand. “Don’t think so.”

“Tragedy,” Max said dramatically, throwing an arm around Lando’s shoulders. “Oscar, this is Lando. My best friend. Which means if you do anything to piss him off, I will break your front wing in three different countries.”

Oscar laughed. “Noted.” 

“And Lando,” Max added, clapping his other hand on Oscar’s shoulder, “this is Oscar. My new favorite rookie. Smarter than he looks. Sometimes.” Lando smiled, polite and measured, but his stomach did this strange little turn, like he’d stepped too fast off a kerb.

Oscar reached out a hand to shake his, warm and dry and unhurried. “Nice to finally meet you,” Oscar said, like he meant it.

“Yeah,” Lando said, fingers closing over his. “You too.”

Max let go of both of them at once, already turning to wrestle Arthur away from the balcony railing with a bark of laughter and a muttered Jesus Christ, get a grip . And just like that, they were alone. 

Not alone-alone. Not private. But just slightly off from the noise. A corner of the night that felt quieter, and Lando couldn’t quite tell if it was the open air or the weight of the look Oscar gave him, curious, not too much. Familiar, but only in the way people in their world always sort of were,  even when they weren’t.

Lando glanced back over his shoulder where Max and Arthur had disappeared through the sliding balcony door. It was still open, the sounds of the pandemonium inside leaking into the quiet Monte Carlo night. “Brave of Arthur, wearing red in here.”

Oscar grinned, small and crooked. “Trying to start a fight, maybe.”

“Max’ll throw him off the balcony.”

“Arthur can take him.”

Lando raised a brow. “He definitely can’t.” Oscar laughed, and Lando found himself smiling without meaning to. The music thumped gently behind them, the Monaco skyline stretching out past the glass like a painted canvas. 

Oscar sat on the low ledge of the balcony, one foot up on the railing, the other tucked underneath him like he’d been there for hours, like it wasn’t the most expensive real estate per square metre in Europe. He sipped his drink slowly, unbothered. Lando stayed standing for a moment, leaning against the glass. He could still feel the warmth of Max’s hand on his shoulder, still hear Charles’s laughter fading back into the noise.

He glanced down at Oscar’s glass. “What is that?”

Oscar looked at it like he hadn’t actually checked. “Uhh. Tequila and something. I think grapefruit.”

Lando wrinkled his nose. “Brave.”

“Didn’t make it. Charles handed it to me and told me it would ‘calm my rookie nerves.’” Oscar shrugged, looking back up at Lando as he did, eyes soft. 

Lando grinned at that. It was very Charles. “You don’t seem nervous.”

“I’m hiding it well.” He got serious for a second, one brow raised as he regarded Lando. “Am I doing alright?”

“Passing grade so far.”

Oscar gave a half-smile. “That’s generous of you.”

A pause settled between them. Lando let it stretch, watching the lights from the marina below blink like something artificial. The air smelled faintly of pool chlorine, salt, expensive cologne, and something citrusy and sharp. Probably whatever Oscar was drinking.

“So,” Oscar said finally, his tone light but curious, “how long have you and Max been…?” He trailed off, as if unsure how to finish the sentence.

“Friends?” Lando offered. Oscar nodded. “Since karting,” Lando said. “Back when he still used to lose.”

That got a laugh out of Oscar, short and sharp as if he hadn’t been expecting it. “Hard to imagine.”

Lando tilted his glass toward him. “You’ll get your chance. Eventually.”

Oscar leaned back on his palms, looking at Lando down the bridge of his nose, squinting a bit. “He talks about you a lot.”

Lando blinked, surprised by the honesty of it. “Yeah?”

“He says you keep him sane. Or try to, at least.” Oscar nodded solemnly. 

Lando huffed a quiet laugh. “That’s a full-time job.” Max wasn’t always someone who needed to be supervised. Not like Arthur, or Charles when he got too drunk. But when he was with the people he felt most comfortable around, Lando, Charles, Oscar, apparently, he was slightly more insane than he let on. It was mostly entertaining. 

“He said you’re a singer too?” Oscar asked, shifting slightly to face him more fully now.

“Sometimes,” Lando said. “When I’m not babysitting Verstappen.”

Oscar smiled. “You any good?”

“Depends who you ask.” Most people liked his music, he thought. Sometimes the tabloid got a bit iffy and there was that one video that circulated around TikTok every so often of his voice cracking during a live performance that people that had nothing better to do used to say he was a fake. 

“Well,” Oscar said, gaze steady, “I’m asking you.”

The question hung there, not really about music anymore. Not really about anything specific at all. Just a low hum of attention, pressed like a fingertip against the edge of something fragile. Lando looked away first, down at the sea of twinkling light beneath them. “I think I’m alright,” he said. “Some days.”

Oscar didn’t press. He just nodded and looked out too, bottle held loose in his fingers, the sharp line of his profile catching the streetlight. “What's it like then? To stop racing, I mean. Doing music instead.” he asked instead, tipping his head slightly toward Lando. 

Lando exhaled, slow. He hadn’t expected the question to come from him, especially not now, not tonight, when everything still smelled like burnt rubber and champagne. “It’s…” He hesitated. “Different.”

Lando used to think he would make it to F1. Him and the two Max’s used to watch the races together during the days after sleepovers and karting races. They would talk about it. About the three of them in the paddock. They said Lando would drive for Mclaren, Max V for Red Bull, Max F for Mercedes. Max F had stopped before making it out of karting, Lando had made it to F3 before he called it quits. 

By the time Lando had made it to F3, Max was signing his first contract with Red Bull racing’s second team. Max hadn’t always been better than Lando but he was older and he had progressed faster. Lando had been bitter at the time. He wasn’t anymore. 

Max F had been working for a radio station at the time when Lando had started writing songs, putting his dusty guitar skills to use. It had just been soothing, something to pass the time, vent his anger and jealousy to someone that wasn’t Max, because Max was a good friend and didn’t deserve to bear the brunt of Lando’s petty insecurities. 

Max F had played one of Lando’s songs on the air when he was covering for the regular host. The station's producer had heard it. Loved it. Asked to meet with Lando and a few other producers. 

Max F now hosted his own successful podcast. Lando had just finished his first world tour. 

Oscar waited, not filling the silence. Lando took a sip of his drink, stared out at the sea again. “There’s still pressure. Still people watching. Still a hundred ways to fuck it up. But it’s yours. When it goes wrong, it’s only on you. When it goes right, too.” He shrugged. “There’s something clean about that.”

Oscar was quiet for a beat. Then, “You miss it?”

“Racing?” Oscar nodded. Lando considered lying. He was good at it by now. He did it in interviews all the time.
But Oscar’s expression was too open. Too genuine. And the balcony felt just far enough away from the rest of the world that honesty didn’t seem reckless. “Sometimes,” he said. “Not the travelling. Not the media stuff. But the speed, yeah. That part’s hard to replace.”

“You sound like someone who still thinks about it every day.” Oscar smiled, faintly.

Lando looked at him. “You sound like someone who knows what that’s like.”

Oscar didn’t deny it. Just tapped his fingers once against the glass railing, and said, “I think about quitting more than I should.”

Lando blinked, genuinely surprised by the admission. “Really?”

He nodded, mouth curving into something wry. “Not right now. Definitely not tonight. But… yeah. Sometimes. It gets heavy.” Lando didn’t respond right away. He felt the weight of that in his chest. Heavier than the drinks or the night or the heat from earlier.

He wanted to say something that would make it easier. Lighter. But all that came out was, “Max would kill you.”

Oscar laughed quietly. “That’s half the reason I haven’t.” The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It was just there. Amshared thing, folded between them. A little heavy. A little true.

Then the balcony door slammed open behind them and shattered it. “ Mes enfants! ” Charles sang, far too dramatic and already halfway drunk. “We’re going. If you don’t want to be drafted into cleanup duty, you have thirty seconds to join the procession or Max is handing you a mop.” 

Lando gave him a withering look. “Go away.” Charles laughed, and disappeared back inside.

Oscar glanced at Lando, a little sideways. “Is it always like this?”

Lando raised an eyebrow. “You mean Max and Charles? Or Monaco? Or F1?”

He considered. “Yes.”

“Then yeah. Pretty much.”

Oscar nodded like that was fair, like that answer had confirmed something he already suspected. He stepped back toward the party, and paused at the door. “You coming?”

He looked out once more over the sea. The lights, the boats, the champagne-sticky air. Then he followed.

Jimmy’z was already pulsing when they got there.

The bass rolled in waves, not sound so much as feeling, vibrating up through the soles of Lando’s shoes and settling behind his ribs. He’d come here before, everyone had, but not like this. Wedged between Max and Charles as they slipped in past security and through the crush of Monaco’s most expensive mayhem, toward the VIP section cordoned off behind ropes that no one really obeyed.

Lando had lost Oscar on the walk over, somewhere between the six different groups Max kept getting pulled into and Arthur shouting at a passing Aston Martin driver in French. Not an F1 driver, just some poor Monaco millionaire driving his car down the road. He didn’t think much of it. The whole thing had a rhythm; lose someone, find them again, then lose them once more. 

Inside, lights sliced across the room like something alive. Red, blue and white flashing across faces too quickly to settle. The music was already high and fast, the kind of tempo that ignored lyrics in favour of beat and sweat.

The VIP section wasn’t much quieter. A little more champagne, maybe. A little more glitter on wrists, more recognisable silhouettes. But it was still crowded. Too many people pressed shoulder to shoulder, a jungle of arms and overpriced perfume and throats hoarse from shouting. Max elbowed Lando in the ribs, already grinning as he flagged down a server holding a tray of drinks.

Charles plucked a flute of something sparkling and grimaced. “We really couldn’t have done this at home?”

“You live in Monte Carlo,” Lando reminded him. “ Everywhere’s home.”

Max raised his glass. “To me.”

Charles rolled his eyes but clinked his drink anyway. Lando clinked his too. “To Max.” The server passed more drinks around and the noise surged again. Word must’ve gotten out “ Verstappen’s here ” and now there were hands reaching across the ropes, phones angling for a photo, some guy Lando didn’t recognise trying to pitch Max a new vodka brand.

Lando barely noticed. He was laughing, arm slung around Charles, Max talking too fast in his other ear, and everything was blurry in that specific, euphoric way that Monaco nights always seemed to end in.

They drank more. Max disappeared for a while. Charles introduced Lando to a girl from Madrid who apparently did PR for Arthur. Lando promptly apologized for that and then Charles spent the entire conversation insulting her boss in French. Lando nearly choked on his drink laughing.

It wasn’t until the third or maybe fourth round of drinks that something bumped into Lando from behind and he instinctively turned to defuse it, only to find himself face to face with the DJ booth. Like some divine calling. Fate, some might call it. Lando must bless the people. 

It was a ridiculous neon platform near the back of the club, not especially high but still separate, slightly elevated. The DJ looked bored out of his mind. His assistant was texting. The crowd was still dancing but the rhythm was fading, slipping into repetition. 

Lando wasn’t really thinking when he asked. He was tipsy, glowing from the drinks, and something bold had taken root in his chest. Probably Charles’ fault, or Max’s. Maybe both. Maybe the Monaco air. He leaned in, said something, he couldn’t even remember what, flashed a grin, pointed once at the decks. The DJ laughed and waved him up like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Someone screamed his name when he climbed in. A hand grabbed his ankle and gave it a shake. He heard Charles yell something like, “ Oh, Jesus, ” and Max shout back, “ Let him go! ”

Lando took the headphones with both hands, barely put them over one ear, and started flipping through the set list. He didn’t actually play anything serious at first. Just faded in a couple of the DJ’s own saved mixes, something low and rolling with a proper drop. But the crowd, God , the crowd lit up like fireworks. Hands in the air. Bouncing. Heads thrown back.

People didn’t come here to dance for lyrics. They came here for this . To lose time and place and sound, to let someone like Lando tell them how to move, what to feel. And Lando, well, he was good at that. He always had been. 

He played for maybe fifteen minutes, maybe thirty. Who knew. It was hot up there, and blinding, and he’d never seen Max so proud. Charles filmed part of it and said he was going to send it to Spotify with the caption “SoundCloud’s answer to Schumacher.”

Eventually, the real DJ took back over. Lando handed over the headphones, dapped him up and climbed down to a roar from a few fans who’d clearly realised who he was. He was buzzing. Not from the drinks, or not just , but from the attention, the weightlessness of it all. He had always been a bit of an attention seeker.

He stumbled off the platform and into a cooler patch of space near the edge of the VIP area, near the glass doors that led toward the terrace. And that was when he saw Oscar, leaning against the railing again, half lit by a strip of LED, Arthur’s red jacket now slung off his shoulder, hair mussed like someone had run a hand through it too many times. Lando blinked. 

Oscar looked up, caught his gaze, and tilted his head, not surprised. Like maybe he’d seen Lando coming before Lando had even moved. So Lando crossed the space without thinking, cutting through bodies, sidestepping someone who dropped a drink, ignoring the sound of Max’s laugh behind him. 

Oscar didn’t say anything when Lando stopped next to him. Just raised one eyebrow. “You’re insane.”

Lando leaned on the railing beside him, shoulder to shoulder now. “You saw that?” he asked, nonchalant. He deserved a trophy for his nonchalant-ness. Maybe an Oscar. Haha, get it?

Oscar didn’t deny it. “You know the crowd was yelling for you? Not Max. Way to steal his thunder.”

Lando smirked, flushed with heat and alcohol and the kind of confidence that only arrived when the night was this deep. “Let’s not tell him that.”

Oscar let out a quiet laugh, looking down into his drink. The music thumped again, slower now, shifting into something pulsing and dark. Lando watched the strobe glide across Oscar’s features. The sharp cheekbones, the half-shadow under his jaw, the way his eyes never really left Lando’s face.

Lando didn’t say anything obvious. He didn’t lean in. Didn’t do what he might’ve done if this had been someone else, some other club, some other year. But he did let the moment hold. Let his arm rest a little too close. Let his gaze linger just a second too long. Oscar didn’t move away. Just stood there beside him, watching him quietly, like maybe he was letting the same thought curl in the space between them. Like maybe he felt it too.

—

📱 @paddockgirlie

10:03 AM · May 29, 2023

📸| British popstar Lando Norris was spotted at the Monaco GP this weekend, supporting long-time friend Max Verstappen’s win with Red Bull 🏆

It looks like he was there for the full weekend and stuck around to celebrate 👀

He seemed to have a very fun night… a little thread 🧵

🔽🔽🔽

📸: [Image]

Lando arriving at the paddock Saturday morning looking entirely too good for 8 a.m.

Who let him be this photogenic???

📍Monaco GP – May 27

#F1 #MonacoGP #LandoNorris 

💬:

@landoshoes: popstar behaviour

@mxver_sun: why is he serving like this at a race 😩

@pastaferraret: no wonder half the grid has a crush on him 😛

📸: [Image]

This moment from Sunday 😭

Lando over the barrier hugging Max after the win

Best friends through and through 🫶

📍After the Monaco GP race finish

#F1 #MaxVerstappen #LandoNorris 

💬:

@papayaboys: “it’s giving childhood friends turned soulmates”

@mclarenxhearts: please this is so cute i’m gonna sob

@gridwitch: lando’s face 😭 proud boyfriend energy hello

📸: [Image]

Lando with Max and Charles during the celebrations 🍾

No context. No thoughts. Just three idiots high on champagne.

(Lando in the middle. Smiling like that. We are so unwell.)

📍Jimmy’z Monte Carlo – late

#F1 #MonacoGP #LandoNorris #CharlesLeclerc

💬:

@charlesleclown : charles is so ✨BEAUTIFUL✨ in this i love it

@lanlepics : THAT’S THE GOLDEN TRIO RIGHT THERE

@vestappensgf: not enough brain cells between them 😭 

📸: [Image]

OKAY NOW WAIT A SECOND.

This is either nothing or it’s something 😳

Lando and Oscar inside Jimmy’z, Lando’s hand on Oscar’s arm as he helps him down from a ledge. Both grinning like they invented happiness.

📍Jimmy’z Monte Carlo – very late

#LandoNorris #OscarPiastri #F1 #MonacoNights

💬:

@sofpiastri : OHEMGEE???

@gridromance : they look... good together???

@deluluoscar : listen… if they kissed I would simply say thank you

@latrulli : this is SUCH a boyfriend move i’m sorry 😄

@mcostans : bros helping bros off ledges that’s all

@maxieltruthers : they’re LITERALLY just friends stop it 🫩

@haaspilled : i mean. would you be smiling like that if a hot famous singer had his hand on your bicep?? didn’t think so

@fernandoalonsosghost: everyone shut up i’m zooming 

🎥: [Video]

And if that wasn’t enough… here’s a video of Lando jumping behind the DJ booth 😭

The club WENT OFF.

📍Jimmy’z, around 2am

#F1 #LandoNorris #DJLando #MonacoGP

💬:

@rbrrose : HE’S SO UNSERIOUS I LOVE HIM

@soundsofpiastri : no bc he actually killed it??

@sinnerlando : lando norris the triple threat: singer, dj, menace

@carlandos: imagine ur oscar and you see that from across the club and he’s smiling at YOU later. Death TO ALL OF TGEM

—

🧵Summary:

Lando Norris was in Monaco for Max Verstappen’s win. He showed up. He partied. He played music. He possibly (??) flirted with Max’s rookie teammate. Just saying… it looked like a very fun night 😏

#LandoNorris #OscarPiastri #MonacoGP #F1 #PaddockGossip

Chapter Text

The flat was quiet. It usually was these days.

The windows were open because the London heat was sticky and half-hearted, the kind that filled rooms but never properly warmed them. A breeze tugged at the edge of the curtain. Someone downstairs was playing jazz too loud through a speaker in their garden. It bled through the building, tinny and irregular, but Lando didn’t really mind. It was company, in its own way.

He was at the piano when his phone buzzed.

Not with a melody in mind, just playing chord progressions slowly, lazily, like turning something over in his mouth to taste all of it. The kind of soft, circular motion he did when he didn’t know how to say what he was feeling, so he let his hands speak first.

The song was still in pieces. Half a chorus, no bridge. A lyric about a night that began on a balcony and ended with a comma. Unfinished. No punctuation mark that made sense. Not a full stop. Not an ellipsis. Just something open. Something that could still change.

He hadn’t performed it yet. Hadn’t recorded it, hadn’t even named it. But the shape of it sat under his skin. Warm and tender and heavy.

His phone buzzed again. He stopped playing, wiped his hand absently on the thigh of his joggers, and reached for it without checking the name. It was Max.

supermax 🦁

yo

i’m coming to london next week

Oscar’s going there

well. i’m going to see oscar

but u live there so. might see u too. if ur lucky.

Lando snorted out loud. Some best friend he had. He thumbed out a reply:

lando

wow what an honour

i’ll clear my schedule immediately

who needs a career anyway|

He didn’t send it yet. He watched the screen blink back at him, then let the last message sit in drafts while he reached for the mug of cold coffee on the windowsill instead.

Max hadn't seen him since Monaco. Lando hadn’t really seen anyone since Monaco. He’d meant to go to Silverstone. To Hungary. Even Spa, if things had lined up. He kept saying he’d come and he meant it every time. But the album had crept in louder. Unwritten, his manager's phone calls were left unanswered. He had a short tour to prepare for in the autumn, and he’d told his manager he was staying put until then.

Besides, the last time he’d been near a paddock he’d ended up on gossip threads with Oscar Piastri.

That photo still made his ears go hot when he thought about it. That smile. That grip on Oscar’s arm like he meant something by it. He hadn’t. Well, maybe he had. But not in the way the comments made it sound.

Still. He hadn’t talked to Oscar since. Not unless a fire emoji reaction to an Instagram post counted. Which, clearly, it didn’t. Lando set the mug down. Dragged a hand through his hair. His phone buzzed again.

supermax 🦁

i’ll be in chelsea

oscar’s staying at some place his trainer sorted

come by

or better yet host

u owe me like 2 dinners 

That made Lando smile. Max missed him, he would just never say it out loud. He snapped a quick photo of the piano keys under the edge of his lyric notebook and sent it back.

lando

depends. u bringing oscar?

supermax 🦁

obviously. he’s the favourite now

Lando stared at the message for a beat longer than he meant to. Then rolled his eyes, half-fond, half-something else. He didn’t know what he expected. Didn’t know what he wanted, exactly. Just knew that something had started that night in Monaco and hadn’t properly ended.

A comma. Not a full stop.

He went back to the piano, let his fingers find the keys again, softer this time.

And the lyric came, unprompted.

"You smiled like the night was ours,
 But we both knew it wasn’t the end."

He scribbled it down. Then underlined the comma. 

Lando only agreed on one condition.

Max had to come to the show.

It wasn’t a huge ask. Not really. It wasn’t Wembley or Glastonbury or anything that needed backstage passes and bodyguards. Just a small charity set his manager had put together at the last minute. Intimate, low pressure, tucked into the kind of classy London wine bar that served olives with silver picks and didn’t post their prices online.

All proceeds went to a music foundation for kids. It wasn’t big money, but it mattered. And besides, Lando liked doing things that weren’t about him. Max hadn’t even blinked when Lando texted him the flyer. 

lando

if ur gonna step foot in my flat n drink my wine u gotta at least pretend to support me

supermax 🦁

ur art is my life

send me the setlist

having charles print signs

lando

no charles is not allowed to come he’ll cry again

supermax 🦁

no promises 😉

Now, two days later, Lando stood at Heathrow’s Terminal 5 with sunglasses too big for the gloomy weather and a cardboard sign that said “MAX VERSTAPPEN – DELICATE DUTCH PRINCESS” in red marker. Max strolled out of Arrivals, black hoodie, baseball cap, smug grin already in place.

“You’re a dickhead,” he said affectionately, tossing his duffel into the backseat of Lando’s car.

Lando beamed, tossing the sign in after and slamming the door closed. “You’re welcome.” 

The drive into the city was easy; mid-morning, so the worst of the traffic hadn’t clogged up yet. Lando’s flat was in a quieter part of north London, but he was dropping Max at his hotel first. One of those obscenely expensive boutique places in Chelsea, all warm brass accents and ridiculously courteous staff who greeted Lando like they definitely knew who he was but were too posh to say it.

“Should’ve just stayed with me,” Lando said once they reached the curb.

Max shrugged. “Didn’t wanna make you nervous before the show.”

“I’m not nervous.”

“You always get nervous.”

Lando shot him a side-eye. “You’re thinking of my first ever Glastonbury. I’ve matured.”

“Sure you have.”

The doorman opened the car door and Max stretched, then leaned through the window. “I’m excited,” he said, soft now. “For the gig. For this.”

Lando let himself look at him a little longer than usual. “You’re still annoying,” he replied, voice low. “But… thanks.”

Max hesitated just a second, then tapped the roof of the car. “Oscar’s coming in the day of the show, by the way. Early flight. Hope you don’t mind.”

Lando didn’t reply right away. He wasn’t sure what he minded. “Right,” he said finally. He was cool. He was collected. And he was so, so normal about this. “Cool. Let me know if he needs a lift.” Nailed it. Max gave him a look, unreadable, amused, maybe something else, but didn’t push. 

They didn’t say much on the drive back. Max had barely dropped his bag in the hotel room, didn’t even unzip it before heading back downstairs, letting Lando shuttle him across the city as if he wasn’t a two time world champion driver.

Lando’s flat wasn’t big, not compared to what he could afford, but it was warm. High ceilings, a creaky floorboard by the kitchen, linen curtains that caught in the breeze. The terrace was the best part, all uneven tiles and an iron railing that overlooked the city in a soft sprawl of low buildings and planes passing overhead.

They cracked open a bottle of red Max had pulled from Lando’s shelf without asking. The good kind. The kind Lando usually saved for nights with meaning. They made their way out onto the terrace just as the evening sun made the rooftops go gold. They settled down. There were no chairs out here because Lando liked his floor time so they settled on the tile, leaning back against the wall of the flat.

Max took a sip and immediately frowned. “Too dry.”

“You’re too dry,” Lando muttered, leaning back against the railing.

They passed the bottle back and forth without pretense, one glass between them. Lando let Max settle across from him, slouching like he didn’t carry a billion dollar empire on his back most weekends. The quiet was easy. Familiar. No need to talk if there wasn’t anything to say.

Then Max pulled his phone out like the screenager he was. He tilted it toward the skyline. Snapped one photo. Then another. Moved slightly to the left and took a third. Lando raised an eyebrow watching him with a delightful mix of judgement and disbelief. “Are you serious right now?”

Max didn’t even flinch. “What?”

“You just got here and you’re already doing the influencer thing?”

He brought his phone down and swiped through the shots, brow furrowed. “It’s not for me.”

“Oh, right, of course,” Lando drawled. “It’s for the brand.”

Max hummed, unbothered. “Charles isn’t here, so someone’s got to make sure I look like I travel with taste.”

Lando laughed into his glass. “You’re on my terrace drinking my my. You better tag me.”

Max snorted, leaning back against the house. “I’m not tagging you. You’re already unbearable.”

“You’re lucky I don’t push you off the terrace.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve almost died because of you.” His attention was back on his phone now, presumably sending the shots off to Charles, or someone on his comms team who’d clean up the shadows and post it on his story with something effortless like: Recharging. 🍷

Lando looked out over the city again. It was quieter now. Later. Lights blinking on in kitchens below. Trains passing in the distance. It was good, this. Comfortable. 

Oscar would be here in two days.

And there was still that song. 

The morning came grey and a little cold, which was perfectly London of it.

Lando had texted Max at 10:02 AM.

lando

u alive or should i tell charles you died trying to navigate a hotel smart kettle

supermax 🦁

alive

barely

hungry

lando

good. im outside.

He wasn’t really outside. He hadn’t even left his apartment yet. But Max suffered from this disease called negative urgency and if Lando told him he’d be there in ten, they would be leaving twenty minutes later. And it worked because Max was already in the hotel’s vestibule by the time Lando pulled up, hoodie pulled tight over his ears and sunglasses in place despite the total absence of sun.

“You look like a man who just got dumped by a Scandinavian minimalist,” Lando said by way of greeting as Max folded himself into the passenger seat. 

“Thank you,” Max muttered, already reaching for the aux cord. 

They drove west. Lando took the long way, winding roads through residential streets and sleepy neighbourhoods where the cafés had just started putting out their little blackboard menus. London was always beautiful when you weren’t rushing through it.

They pulled up outside the place Lando had picked: a sort of understated glam brunchery that served things like “soft egg crème brûlée” and lavender hollandaise. The kind of spot where Max Verstappen didn’t look out of place, but still managed to draw every eye in the room. The valet recognized Max immediately, and with a nod and a discreet smile, took the keys without comment.

“Don’t scratch her,” Lando called after him.

Inside, they were tucked away in a corner booth, shielded just enough to give them a sense of privacy, even if the low murmurs around them hinted otherwise.

Max glanced around approvingly. “Very you.”

“You hate it. That’s code for too many plants and overpriced butter,” Lando said, flipping open the menu. 

They ordered in a kind of half ritual. Max got black coffee and a bloody mary. Lando ordered a mimosa, followed by one of those health juices he’d end up forgetting about halfway through. Sourdough toast, scrambled eggs, fancy mushrooms that had been foraged somewhere in the Scottish Highlands. It wasn’t until the food arrived halfway through Max’s second bloody mary that the conversation shifted.

“So,” Max said casually, “what’re you playing tonight?”

Lando swallowed his bite of toast, wiped the corner of his mouth with the edge of his thumb. “Some of the usual. The newer EP stuff. The charity asked for something uplifting, so I had to cut a few of the sadder ones.”

Max nodded gravely. “They all make me cry, but sure. Uplifting.”

“I like to make people emotionally devastated, thank you.”

Max sipped his coffee. “You gonna play anything new?”

Lando hesitated, his fork pausing in mid-air. “Not yet,” he said finally. “Nothing’s finished.” Max raised an eyebrow but didn’t press. 

Lando sighed, pushed the eggs around his plate. He would share anyway. “I just… I’m having trouble, I guess. Finishing things. Even starting them. It’s like… there’s nothing in my head but static. I can’t find the thread. Nothing worth writing about.”

Max watched him for a beat. Then: “If it were me… I’d write about Charles.”

Of fucking course. Lando groaned so loud the couple next to them turned. “That is the worst advice you’ve ever given me.” plus he literally didn’t ask.

Max grinned, unrepentant. “It’s the truth.”

“Charles, Charles, Charles,” Lando muttered theatrically, dropping his head onto the table. “The whole album would just be you whispering ‘my tiny French prince’ over sad violin.”

“Monégasque,” Max corrected. “And yes. And it would go platinum.”

Lando looked up, face twisted in mock agony. “I hate you so much.”

“You love me,” Max said, and it wasn’t a question. 

After brunch, they drove straight to Heathrow, coffee cups still rattling in the cupholders, Max tapping restlessly at his phone. Oscar’s flight was late, only by a few minutes, but long enough for Max to start muttering about the inefficiencies of air travel, the way a man who traveled by private jet more often than not had no business doing.

When Oscar finally appeared at the top of the arrivals ramp, dragging his suitcase with one hand and adjusting his hoodie with the other, Max lit up in a way Lando noticed too quickly. “Oi!” he called, stepping forward, arms already out. “You took your time.”

Oscar laughed, bleary eyed but grinning. “Customs asked me if I was really traveling for pleasure with you. Thought I was lying.” he joked. Lando appreciated that joke. Wished he had thought of it first. Damnit. 

Max pulled him into a hug. A real one, not the kind of awkward, one-arm-back-pat you’d expect from two guys who spent most of the year sweating next to each other in racing suits. Lando stood a step back, letting the moment unfold. Apparently, they were friends who hugged now. Something about it made Lando’s chest feel a little tight. He wasn’t sure why. 

He pushed it down and stepped forward when Oscar turned to him. “You’re shorter than I remember,” Oscar said, offering a hand.

“You’re shorter than you think,” Lando shot back, smiling as their hands clasped, firm, quick, warm.

They didn’t hug.

Max clapped his hands together. “Right. Now that we’re all here, Charles has ordered me to generate some Instagram content that isn’t just blurry skyline photos.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “Is this like… an assignment?”

“He gave me a list,” Max explained. “He’s very disappointed in my artistic development.”

Lando snorted. “Your tumblr 2013 rooftop sunsets weren’t good enough for him?”

“He said, and I quote, you are not a girl on a gap year.”

Oscar laughed, the sound a little hoarse from the flight, but easy. “You post like you’ve just discovered poetry.”

“I have discovered poetry,” Max said, defensive.

They took the city slowly. Max wanted ‘authentic moments', so Lando drove them through Shoreditch and Notting Hill, let them wander through markets and beside graffiti covered walls. He trailed them sometimes, taking pictures on his film camera, the one Charles had gifted him and told him to “use like a French boy in the rain.”

Oscar bought a croissant from a street cart. Max made him pose with it. “Charles will hate this,” he said with a grin, snapping a photo with Lando’s camera.

Lando stayed a step back through it all, watching the dynamic unfold. Max at the center, always, pulling people into his orbit. Oscar didn’t resist it, didn’t seem to mind. He was quieter than Max, more thoughtful in the way he looked at things, but not shy. They fit together in a way Lando couldn’t quite name.

By the time the light started to fade, they had a camera full of photos, a half dozen receipts in Max’s pocket for things he didn’t need, and four hours until the show. As they piled back into the car, Max turned to Lando from the passenger seat, grinning. “See? You can’t say I don’t support the arts.”

“You just dragged us on a photo scavenger hunt,” Lando said, but his voice was fond.

Oscar leaned forward from the back seat. “Do we get points?”

“You get to sit front row tonight,” Lando said, tossing a smile over his shoulder.

Oscar met his eyes for a moment longer than expected. “Then I think we already won.”

Which could mean nothing.

Lando cleared his throat, ignoring the way Max was grinning at him from the passenger seat. “Uh, my place and then dinner?” he asked, shooting Max a glare. 

Oscar nodded in Lando’s rearview. “Yeah. Somewhere photogenic.” 

“Define ‘photogenic,’” Lando said.

Oscar didn’t even look guilty. “Somewhere I can be papped outside but left alone inside. I’ve apparently died over the summer break, and the internet is concerned.”

Max burst out laughing.

“Tell them you joined a monastery,” Lando said.

“Tried that,” Oscar replied. “They said the robes didn’t suit me.”

So they went, Lando grumbling, Max deeply entertained, and Oscar slipping back into media mode so easily Lando was quietly impressed. They stopped at Lando’s flat first, had some wine and sat back on the terrace. Max made it his mission to purchase Lando deck chairs. Lando quietly mourned his floor time. 

Max chose the restaurant. The place was called something minimal and Scandinavian. Tall ceilings, glass panels, a front entrance with just enough lighting to make every photo turn out golden. There was already a paparazzi camera or two across the street by the time they arrived, and Oscar made sure to step out of the car second, the middle of the trio, poised enough to be noticed without upstaging Max, who never really could be.

Lando let Max take the lead walking in. He lingered a beat longer on the sidewalk, adjusting his jacket, a small gesture, but deliberate. Not for the cameras. For himself.

The interior of the restaurant was all polished concrete and hushed lighting, a moody jewel box of a place where the walls were dark enough and the crowd rich enough that no one was going to pull out a phone without permission. 

They were led to a half circle booth near the back, barely illuminated but close enough to the kitchen for Max to start critiquing the menu layout within seconds. “Why is this called a ‘culinary narrative’?” he asked, pointing. 

“Because the chef has a god complex,” Lando said, already halfway through the wine list.

Oscar settled in beside him, stretching his legs under the table. “Can I tell you something terrible?”

Lando glanced over. “Always.”

“I kind of like all this,” Oscar said, gesturing around them. “The PR stuff. Not the PR friendships and influencer part, but the performance of it. How it works.”

“Careful,” Max said. “That’s how it starts. First it’s a dinner reservation, then it’s brand alignment and suddenly you’re on a yacht with a wellness brand and six TikTokers named Sky.”

Lando laughed. “He’s not wrong.”

Oscar smiled, but it wasn’t self-conscious. “I think it’s just interesting. What people choose to see. How they interpret what we let them see.” And there was something about the way he said it, thoughtful, not jaded, that made Lando sit with it for a second longer than he expected.

The food came in a slow, curated flow. The kind of place where courses were announced like movie titles and edible flowers were par for the course. Max bitched about every portion size, Lando teased him for not knowing what a persimmon was, and Oscar kept things afloat with the kind of dry humor that made everything funnier the longer it went on. It was good.

Lando let himself feel that, just for a moment.

Good.

The three of them, all orbiting slightly different things, a race team, a stage, and yet, sitting here in this darkened booth, it felt less like a performance than expected. No flashing lights. Just wine and candlelight and the warm brush of Oscar’s knee against his under the table that neither of them moved away from.

Max was the one who reminded them of the time, checking his phone with a wince. “Alright,” he said. “Showtime.”

Oscar clapped his hands once, exaggerated. “Are we groupies now?”

Lando rolled his eyes. “I prefer ‘audience support system.’”

They left through the front again for the cameras, and sure enough, the shutters clicked and someone called out his name, once. They waited a minute for valet to pull Lando’s car around. Oscar didn’t even flinch at it all. Just stepped into the night beside Lando and said, softly, “Break a leg.” 

The venue was nestled on a narrow street in Fitzrovia, down a little side alley that looked unremarkable from the main road. The kind of place you'd only find if you were looking for it. Lando liked that. The exclusivity of it, yes, but more than that, the intimacy.

Inside, the space was low lit and beautiful, dark wood floors and walls half-lined with bottles. There was no “stage” to speak of, just a raised platform at the front where the host usually stood to announce tastings. Tonight, it was his.

He arrived with Max and Oscar, the two breaking away to enter the venue from the front. His manager met him by the back, pressed a kiss to his cheek, and handed him a short list of donors and important guests seated near the front. All older. All rich. All eager to clap for something that made them feel cultured. “Just the acoustic set tonight,” she reminded him. “Play it cool. Warm. You know. Your usual but a bit, happier.”

The backroom that passed as backstage was little more than a wine storage closet with a mirror. Lando tuned his guitar, rolled his shoulders out, and did his usual vocal warmups in a whisper. 

From the thin wall behind him, he could already hear the crowd swelling, laughter and clinking glasses and the low thump of something bassy from the bar. The kind of sound that made your pulse start to climb in response, no matter how many times you did this.

He was halfway through tuning his low E string again, out of habit, not necessity, when he felt his phone buzz.

supermax 🦁

front table. Bring the house down or I’m requesting wonderwall.

He smiled to himself. A moment later, another buzz.

supermax 🦁

We’re right in the line of fire. No pressure. -Oscar

Lando didn't reply. Just ran a hand through his hair, adjusted the cuff of his shirt, and stepped out into the noise. The lights dimmed only slightly when the host introduced him, just enough to hush the bar. A ripple of quiet rolled over the room, not total silence, but something like it. The kind of silence you could step into.

He started with something soft. Something known. One of the singles from his last EP, reworked into something stripped down and warm.

The crowd responded. They leaned in, nodded along, smiled behind wine glasses and expensive watches. Max and Oscar were right there in the center, Max loose in his chair, Oscar a little more upright, a little more still, but both of them watching.

Lando let himself look at them only once.

After that, he let the music carry him forward. The set was short. Six songs. One unreleased. Acoustic but full-bodied, his voice a little lower than people remembered from the radio, the guitar bright, his posture loose by the third track. 

By the time he reached the chorus of his last song , unfinished but a soft, swaying thing about a balcony and a second drink and something unsaid, the entire front table was silent. Even the ones who didn’t care, even the ones who came for the photo opportunity.

He ended with a thank you and a quiet bow, the applause gentle but genuine, a few standing claps from the back. Max was already on his feet, grinning like Lando had just won a race. Oscar clapped until his hands went red. Lando left the platform with flushed cheeks and a head full of static.

His manager squeezed his arm on the way past. “You were fucking brilliant.” 

Backstage again, or, the wine closet, he sat on the stool, guitar still in his lap, letting the adrenaline come down slowly. There was a knock on the door. Without waiting for a response, Max poked his head in, followed by Oscar, a glass of something expensive in each hand.

“You killed it,” Max said, pushing a drink into his hand.

Oscar leaned against the doorway. “I liked the last one.”

Lando raised an eyebrow, looking up at him from where he sat, lips tugging into a smile. “Yeah?”

Oscar nodded. His face was calm but his eyes were swirling with something Lando couldn’t quite pin down. “The unfinished one.” And for a second, everything stilled;the wine, the warmth, the hum in Lando’s chest that hadn’t faded yet.

“Me too,” Lando said softly.

Max clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Now come on. There’s a woman in a floor-length gown trying to convince me to invest in a lavender farm. You have to save me.”

Oscar passed him his jacket. Their fingers brushed. 

Max was the first to go. He lasted longer than anyone expected, but around half past eleven, after fending off one final business card and successfully dodging a conversation about Monaco tax law, he cornered Lando near the back and declared, “I’m going. You’re on your own.”

“You’re ditching me?” Lando feigned outrage, but he could already see the weariness around Max’s eyes.

Max just gave him a tired, crooked smile. “I’m ditching everyone.” He hugged him tight, the kind that only ever came after a few drinks, and then disappeared into a waiting Uber, slipping away like a ghost into the soft city dark.

Lando stayed.

He made the rounds, as one did. Thanked the donors, nodded earnestly through compliments, let himself be told how much “emotion” there was in his set and how “grounded” he was for someone so young. His manager watched from the corner like a proud aunt. She mouthed ten more minutes with a wink.

And then he was free. He went looking for Oscar.

The place had thinned out a lot so it wasn’t that hard to spot him. He found him at the bar, half-lit by amber sconces, the stem of his glass pressed between two fingers. He wasn’t drinking, not really. Just sipping something dark and neat, nodding occasionally at the bartender. She was a woman in her forties with a shock of white blond hair and the air of someone who’d seen it all.

Oscar didn’t look tired, just calm. Lando slid into the space beside him. “Making friends?”

His mouth tilted into a smile. “She’s telling me about the worst celebrity tipper she ever served. I’m not allowed to say who.”

The bartender gave Lando a sideways glance and said, “You musicians are usually the worst. Never carry cash.”

“That’s true,” Lando admitted. “But I make up for it with devastating charm.” She rolled her eyes and wandered down the bar.

Oscar sipped his drink. “That was good, by the way. The show.”

Lando leaned on the counter with his elbow, looking at Oscar, perhaps a bit too searching. “Thanks.” he said, hushed.

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. Just... charged. Like they’d walked through a doorway somewhere and couldn’t go back through it, not without pretending too hard. Eventually, Lando cleared his throat. “I’ll drive you back.” 

Oscar blinked. “I thought Max-”

“He already left.”

“Oh.”

They left together, no flashbulbs now, the night cooled and pressed close around them. Lando’s car was parked in a side lot, and they rode in a low thrum of quiet for a few blocks. It wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t anything, really. Until Oscar murmured, “You okay?”

Lando flicked his turn signal. “Yeah. Just… keyed up.”

Oscar looked over from the passenger seat. “Post-show crash?”

“Something like that.” Lando hated performing when he was overly emotional. He wasn’t sure what tonight made him feel so restless but that final song had almost brought him to tears. And he just had to sit with that while he mingled. 

Well. Actually, he knew exactly what it was. And it was sitting right next to him in his 2023 Audi GT. 

He couldn’t really explain the way Oscar made him feel, just that he felt something and it was terrifying. Lando had only dated one person before, a girl in primary before he knew much about himself. Luisa. She was nice but it had sort of crashed and burned. Like, he was outed to the entire school type of crash and burn. Which wasn’t a great image for someone who still wanted to be a Formula 1 driver. 

These things, public image and whatnot, they were complicated for someone in Oscar’s position. That’s why Max kept Charles so under wraps. Their friendship was no secret and people had made their jokes but no one actually knew besides those that were meant to. It was just easier that way.  

He pulled into the hotel drive and idled. Oscar unbuckled, but didn’t move. Lando kept his eyes forward. “You want to come back to mine?”

Oscar glanced at him, a quick flicker of something unreadable in his face. “To yours?”

“I’m not tired,” Lando said. “I thought maybe… I don’t know. A walk?”

Oscar’s hand hovered near the door. He looked at Lando, really looked at him.

“Alright.” 

The streets of London were quieter now. Past midnight and still warm, the city softened by summer and streetlamps. They walked without a destination, hands in their pockets, shoes tapping lightly against the cobblestones. They didn’t speak at first. Not because there was nothing to say but because sometimes quiet said it better.

They passed a bakery with its shutters down. A record shop that looked like it hadn’t been open in decades. Lando pointed out a lamppost that always flickered at this exact hour. Oscar said it was probably haunted.

“I didn’t know you believed in ghosts,” Lando said.

“I don’t,” Oscar replied. “But I think London might be the exception.”

They kept walking. Eventually, they turned off the street and into a garden square, empty except for a single bench under a birch tree. They sat. The silence stretched again, this time gentler.

“I haven’t really written anything since Monaco,” Lando said. “Not properly. That last song, the unfinished one? That’s the closest I’ve gotten.” 

Oscar looked at him. “Why not?”

“I don’t know.” Lando let his head fall back against the bench. “Maybe I used it all up. Maybe I’m just… waiting.”

“For what?”

Lando didn’t answer right away. The question hung between them, not demanding anything, just existing.

“For the next thing that makes me feel something real,” he said at last.

Oscar shifted slightly, just enough that their shoulders brushed. He didn’t move away. They sat there under the birch tree a little longer, and Lando found that the quiet didn’t bother him like he thought it would. Not with Oscar. It wasn’t silence, really. It was something softer. Like the stillness of an old song you hadn’t heard in years but somehow remembered all the words to.

Lando leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Did you always want to drive?”

Oscar blinked, turning to look at him. “Like, F1?”

“Yeah.”

He nodded once. “Since I was five.”

“That young?”

Oscar smiled distantly, as if recalling upon a fond memory “My dad took me karting. That was it.”

Lando watched him a moment. “And you never doubted it?”

He tilted his head slightly, thoughtful. Lando thought he looked beautiful in the soft light of the lampposts. “No. I think I always thought… if I just kept going, I’d get there eventually.” There was something in the way he said it. Not arrogance. Certainty. Quiet, bone-deep certainty.

Lando laughed once, low in his throat. “That’s your ego talking.” he said even though it wasn’t.

“You didn’t feel the same about music?”

“No. God, no.” Lando looked up at the leaves above them, shifting in the night breeze. “I thought I’d burn out of everything at sixteen. But the time I actually released something I spent weeks stressed thinking I’d fade into some background playlist on a Zara sales floor.”

Oscar huffed a laugh. “Romantic.”

“I try.” Another silence. Lando turned to look at him again. “So what about now?”

Oscar raised a brow. “What do you mean?”

“Do you still think you’ll get there? Like, win races. Championships.”

Oscar didn’t answer right away. Just held Lando’s gaze for a moment longer than necessary. “Yeah. I think I will.”

Lando didn’t look away. “Good.” 

Oscar cleared his throat gently and glanced away. “Should probably get back.”

Lando didn’t move right away. Then he stood, brushing off his jeans. “Come on. I’ll drop you.”

They walked side by side out of the garden square. The city was quieter now, no cars, just the occasional hum of late-night foot traffic or the dull hum of neon from a kebab shop still inexplicably open. At one point, their hands brushed. Neither of them said anything. Neither of them did it again.

Lando unlocked the car, and Oscar slid into the passenger seat. He fastened his seatbelt, leaned back, and didn’t speak until they were two blocks away from the hotel. “That last song,” he said quietly, “you said it started on a balcony?”

Lando nodded, eyes still on the road. “In Monaco.”

“What happened after?”

Lando glanced at him. Oscar wasn’t looking back. Just staring out the window, like it didn’t matter. “It ended with a comma,” Lando said. “Not a full stop.” 

Oscar smiled softly. “So it’s still happening?”

Lando didn’t answer right away. Just turned down the street toward the hotel, headlights washing pale across the pavement. “I guess we’ll see,” he said. And they fell quiet again, the kind of quiet that had weight. They were almost at the hotel when Oscar spoke again.

“What would you want to write next?” he asked, softly, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to ask.

Lando glanced over at him, fingers tightening slightly on the wheel. He pulled into the parking lot instead of directly in front of the building. “You mean, after the song that hasn’t ended?”

Oscar nodded once, eyes still forward.

He considered the question. Rolled it over a few times in his mind. Considered what it would mean to answer it honestly. “I don’t know,” he said eventually. “Something… slower, I think. Not sad. Just soft. Real.” Oscar turned toward him, quiet now. Waiting. Lando exhaled. “I want it to be about something I can’t quite name yet. Something that’s just hovering. Out of reach.”

Oscar didn’t say anything, but his gaze lingered. And in the hush that followed, Lando felt it again. That shift. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t thunder crashing or violins swelling. It was just… closeness. The kind that crept up on you, like gravity, until you couldn’t tell whether you’d leaned in or whether the space between you had simply disappeared.

Oscar was closer than he had been. Their knees angled slightly toward each other. Shoulders brushing just faintly as Lando turned off the ignition and the soft hum of the engine faded. The lights of the hotel blinked faintly outside, casting warm shadows across the dash.

Oscar’s voice was quieter now. “Sounds like you already know what it’s about.”

Lando didn’t respond. Couldn’t. His heart was loud in his ears, and he suddenly became very aware of the space between them. Of how little of it there was. He looked at Oscar, really looked, and Oscar was already looking back. Not with expectation. Not with assumption. 

Just openness.

Lando’s gaze dropped.

First to Oscar’s mouth.

Then back up.

Oscar tilted his head slightly, almost imperceptibly. Not a move. Not a question. Just a possibility. Lando’s breath caught. 

His mind was running a mile a minute. And then he blinked, jerked back just slightly, too fast. The moment broke like a string pulled taut and then suddenly let go. “Right,” he said, voice too bright, too thin. “Well. Guess I’ve still got some mystery left for the next record, huh?”

Oscar froze for half a second. Then nodded, once, sharp. He cleared his throat, fingers curling around the door handle. Lando couldn’t look at him, his cheeks flaming. His heart was sinking. “Yeah. Mystery,” he said, tone unreadable. “Good luck with that.” Lando winced.

Oscar opened the door, stepping out into the warm night without looking back. He paused briefly as he pulled the door closed, gaze flicking to Lando’s, but it didn’t linger. “Night,” he said simply.

And then he was gone. The door clicked shut with a soft finality. Lando sat there a moment longer, the air inside the car still too warm, too full of something he’d just tried too hard to pretend wasn’t there.

He let his head fall back against the seat, closed his eyes, and whispered to no one at all, “Shit.”

—

 📱 @gridtracktea

📸| British pop star Lando Norris was spotted out and about in London with Red Bull Racing’s Max Verstappen and Oscar Piastri over the F1 summer break 👀

A thread no one asked for, but we all needed 🔽🔽🔽

#LandoNorris #OscarPiastri #MaxVerstappen #F1SummerBreak #GridGossip

📸: [Image]

Max and Lando at brunch earlier this week. Looks like Max is saying something truly cursed because Lando is just face down on the table.

[pap photo, slightly blurry but undeniably them, Max mid-laugh, Lando slumped over dramatically]

💬 

@mercedesf1wives: i can HEAR the chaos

@cursedlando: it’s giving “i asked you one question and now i regret knowing you”

@sunshineoscar: where is oscar tho 👀 

📷: [Image]

From Max’s Instagram story: “Date with the team. 🥐📸”

Oscar holding a croissant like it might bite him, giving the most painfully awkward thumbs up of all time. A true rookie in the wild.

💬 

@maxverstappen44: why does he look like he’s about to cry

@notlando: this is what happens when you don’t let the media train them

@fanfictionwritesitself: i’m writing this as a meet-cute as we speak

📷: [Image] 

Also from Max’s story: Same croissant. Same Oscar. New character.
Lando has photobombed from the side, mid thumbs up, grin wide, face way too close to Oscar’s shoulder. Oscar is smiling at him now instead of the camera.

💬 

@landofthegrid: guys. GUYS

@deluluoscar: okay but like… that is not a normal smile

@chaoticneutralmax: the way max just posted this like he isn’t stirring the pot

@oscarfan03: maybe they’re just FRIENDS??!?! not everything is flirting u guys r insane 

📸: [Image] 

Pap shot: Lando, Max, and Oscar walking into an upscale restaurant. Lando’s a step behind. Oscar’s looking back at him, holding the door open like a damn romcom protagonist

💬 

@piastrinators: i’m biting drywall

@slowburnlando: this is literally “wait up!” coded

@normalperson44: am i the only one who sees NOTHING romantic here??? they are just walking. with their feet. like people.

@cryptidpopstar: if this was anyone else y’all would be writing essays on the male gaze rn

🎤: [Quote] 

From a fan who attended the charity show:
“Didn’t get good photos but Lando was incredible tonight. Tiny venue, no stage, just him and his guitar. I think he played a snippet of something unreleased, but he looked like he was thinking really hard about it.” 

💬 

@oscarinmyhead: if the next album doesn’t have one (1) love song about a croissant i’m rioting

@f1shippinghell: he’s sooooo in his feelings i bet oscar said something insane and lando wrote a 7-minute ballad about it

@gridtracktea: We’ll be watching 👀 

—

📸 @verrewinebar

Last night was magic. ✨

A massive thank you to everyone who came out to support our acoustic charity evening in partnership with @foundationsounds & @thisislandonorris

An unforgettable night of music, community, and giving back

Swipe through for some of our favorite moments ▶️

#LondonNights #CharityShowcase #LiveMusic

 📷 Slide 1:

[A professional shot of Lando on stage. Dim golden light bathing him from behind, guitar in hand, mouth open mid note. Eyes closed. Fingers relaxed against the strings.]

 📷 Slide 2:

[The crowd, full and hushed. Wine glasses in hand, heads tilted toward the music. The photo centers a woman near the bar with her hand over her heart, smiling gently.] 

📷 Slide 3:

[Max and Oscar near the back, captured from the side. Max’s hands are mid-clap, face lit up with pride. Oscar is turned just slightly toward the stage, not clapping, just smiling. Wide, soft, shameless.] 

📷 Slide 4:

[Candid mingling. Donors with wine, murmurs of conversation. Max with a hand on Lando’s shoulder, both mid-laugh. Oscar in the background, talking to a guest, a glass in his hand, glancing toward them.] 

💬

@verrewinebar (comment): Can confirm these three brought excellent vibes and excellent wine taste 🍷💫

@maxchaosclub: oscar hanging out like the new transfer student trying to keep up 😭

@heartcorelando: i’m going to write fanfic about this entire night

@lanoscartruthing: no one look at me i’m too normal about this

@piastrified: oh my GOD

@formulalovebot: oscar “heart eyes” piastri ladies and gentlemen

@gridmatchmaker: we’re all thinking it so just say it

@justvibesok: he’s literally never smiled like that even when he scored points

@landosspacetrash: oscar’s in his dating popstars era 

@etherealroses: the way you can feel this atmosphere 

@maxxedout: okay but whoever your photographer is deserves a raise

@larrystarrmusic: the first photo is insane. frame it.

@charitybuzzuk: we raised so much, and this voice? unreal.

@stevieconcerts: i haven’t cried in a wine bar since 2019 but THANKS i guess

Chapter Text

Lando flew into Nice the day before Christmas Eve. Heathrow had been bleak and overly cheerful in that cruel mid-December way. All tinny carols and delayed flights and overpriced peppermint lattes. But he’d booked a business class seat because if he was going to be emotionally unmoored and semi-abandoned, he might as well have legroom. 

His parents had decided, in the most aggressively Norris fashion possible, to spend Christmas in Bali on what his mum called a “healing hike” and what his dad called “finally cashing in on that yoga she made me do”. They’d sent a selfie from the airport in coordinated linen. Lando had liked it out of obligation and then booked his flight to France out of spite. 

Max and Charles had extended the invite a while ago, one of those throwaway offers people make in passing that Lando had decided, quite suddenly, to take them up on. “Come to Monaco for Christmas,” Max had said in Abu Dhabi, already halfway into holiday mode. “Charles makes a really weird yule log and his mum keeps asking if he has any normal friends”. 

So he did. 

The plane touched down a little late, the sun hanging low over the Cote d’Azur, casting a warm glow that looked staged. Like a postcard or a perfume commercial. The kind of light that made you forget you were alone for the holidays. 

Sort of. 

Charles met him at arrivals, dressed like a man who had just stepped out of a luxury fashion ad and not a December airport pick-up. Black coat, scarf lopped perfectly, Ray Bans, even though the sun was barely there. He spotted Lando immediately and gave him a grin that somehow managed to be both dazzling and exasperated. “There he is,” Charles said, stepping forward. “The orphan of Christmas.”

“Piss off,” Lando grumbled, letting Charles pull him into a brief hug anyway. 

“I hope you brought presents,” Charles said as he grabbed the handle of Lando’s suitcase like a benevolent chauffeur. “I told my mum you were coming, and now she’s making an extra tartiflette.”

“She didn’t have to do that,” Lando muttered, but his stomach rumbled in anticipation anyway. “My parents ditched me for Bali.”

“Of course they did,” Charles said, leading him out into the cool Mediterranean air. “Why Bali?” 

“They read some wellness article about sweating out your inner toxins through a hike to a volcano. I think it’s their way of pretending they’re not aging.”

Charles blinked. “That is both deeply concerning and incredibly on brand.”

“Yeah,” Lando sighed. “They’re really leaning into their millennial renaissance.”

“Maybe we will do the same one day,” Charles said with faux sincerity. “You, me, and Max. Hike up a volcano. Cleanse all of our trauma.”

“We can’t even get Max to wear sunscreen properly,” Lando snorted. “He’d shrivel halfway up the mountain.”

They reached the car, a sleek red Audi Charles had stolen from Max, and tossed Lando’s bag into the boot. As they pulled away from the airport, the coastline opened up to the left, the sea shimmering and endless.

“Max is already home,” Charles said, switching the subject as he adjusted the heat. “He will be pretending he didn’t rearrange the living room to make space for everyone. He moved the mirror, too. Said something about how the light hit it wrong and gave him ‘weird vibes.’”

“God, he’s so dramatic when you’re around.” 

“Yes,” Charles agreed, smiling slightly. “He’s very in love with me.”

Lando rolled his eyes. “Disgusting.”

“But you missed us, didn’t you?”

He glanced out the window. The riviera passed by in blurry splashes of holiday lights and red-tiled roofs. And, yeah. He kind of had. “Maybe,” he said instead, a small admission.

“Thought so,” Charles said, leaning back with unearned satisfaction. “Welcome home, then.” 

By the time they reached Max and Charles' flat, the sky was streaked in bruised lavender and the wind had a winter sharpness to it that felt almost theatrical for the south of France. The penthouse was already warm when they stepped inside, golden light glowing from under cabinet strips and a scented candle burning near the fireplace that was clearly Charles’ doing.

Lando dumped his suitcase in the guest room without ceremony. It hadn’t changed since his last visit: neutral toned, hotel clean, but with little traces of Charles' presence; an art print leaning against the wall, a scarf draped over the chair, a well thumbed copy of Sapiens that neither Max nor Lando would ever read but Charles insisted was important to have around.

When he re-emerged, Charles was already popping open a bottle of red wine at the kitchen counter, corkscrew in one hand, his other gesturing toward the fridge. "Max got truffle cheese," Charles said, dismayed. "Do you want to know how hard it is to serve that without looking like a fraud?"

Lando snorted and perched on a barstool. “You are a fraud.” Charles shot him a withering look.

Max appeared then, barefoot and smug, holding three glasses in one hand. “Stop judging my cheese, it's festive.”

“This isn’t festive, it’s elitist,” Charles said, pouring the wine and taking a victorious sip as he handed Lando his glass. “Arthur’s coming before dinner, by the way.”

“Yeah,” Max said, leaning against the counter. “Figured we’d all go out. Celebrate being together, or whatever.”

Lando narrowed his eyes. “That’s suspiciously sentimental of you.”

“Shut up.”

“As long as you’re paying.”

Max raised his glass. “Always. Nothing’s too good for my boys.” Lando rolled his. And they say Charles is the dramatic one. 

“That’s what you said before you made me share a room with Arthur in Italy,” Charles muttered. “He FaceTimed his gym trainer at 2am.”

“He’s very committed.” 

“He’s very annoying.”

Lando smiled into his wine, soaking in the moment. The gentle buzz of warmth, the smell of roasted chestnuts from outside drifting in through the barely-cracked terrace door, the sense that, for now, nothing else was required of him. 

But then Max set his glass down and leaned forward with the kind of deliberate casualness that always meant he was about to get annoying. “So,” he said. “Oscar.” Of course. 

“What?” he groaned. 

Max only shrugged, looking far too self satisfied. “You know. Your little situation.”

“I don’t-”

“He gets weird when you come up,” Max continued, cutting him off. “Like, red in the face. Shy. It’s like watching a deer blush. It’s pretty cute, actually”

Charles, predictably, perked up. “He does get weird. Max mentioned it the other night and then we watched one of your music videos and he-”

“What?” Lando groaned, face already in his hands. 

“-looked like someone had handed him your diary and told him to read it out loud,” Charles finished, pouring more wine like this conversation was just getting good.

“Max said you two had a thing,” Charles added slyly. “That’s what he called it. A thing.”

Lando groaned again, sinking lower into his stool. “It was almost a thing. And then I… didn’t let it be.”

“Why?” Max asked, genuinely baffled. “He’s lovely. He laughs at my jokes. That’s like… rare.”

“I freaked out,” Lando admitted. “We were talking. And there was, like, a moment. And I looked at him and it felt like–Like, something could actually happen. So I-” He waved vaguely. “-did the deflection thing. Said something stupid. Ruined it.”

Charles made a noise somewhere between a sigh and a disappointed father grunt. “Mon dieu. You idiot.”

“You massive idiot,” Max echoed, in full agreement. “He’s so into you. You know how hard it is to get that man to look up from his shoes when someone talks to him?”

“Yeah but, he was like… He was leaning in,” Lando muttered, half to himself.

“He was leaning in,” Charles confirmed. “And you pulled away. Christ.”

“I got nervous.”

“You write, like, albums about this kind of thing and you still managed to fumble it,” Max said. “That’s almost impressive.” 

“Leave me alone,” Lando mumbled, but there was no real bite to it. Only the kind of weary affection reserved for people who knew your worst habits and still wanted to sit at your table drinking overpriced wine and mocking your love life.

“You’ll fix it,” Charles said, already topping off their glasses again. “It’s Christmas. Miracles. Kisses in the snow. All that shit.”

“There’s no snow.”

“Then improvise.”

Chapter Text

The motorway hummed under Lando’s tyres, the pre-dawn grey of the m25 stretching out in front of him. Heathrow was still twenty minutes away, his weekend bag rattled in the boot every time he changed lanes, and his Spotify playlist had betrayed him by hitting shuffle and landing on a song he wrote two years ago that now made him want to crash into a ditch.

He hit skip. Twice. Then called Max.

It rang only once before Max picked up, voice far too cheery for the fact that it was so, so early in the morning. “ Morning ,” he chirped through the phone, blissfully tuned out of Lando’s misfortune brought about by an appalling lack of sleep.

“Remind me why I agreed to book flight at six a.m.,” Lando said, glancing at the clock on his dash. 05:26, it blinked back at him. He groaned. “You better be awake when I land.”

“ I’m in Aspen already. Sun’s out. Powder’s perfect. Chalet has a hot tub and a heated pool. ” to ring in the New Year, Max had let Charles talk him into planning the most obscene rich person display of richness Lando had ever had the misfortune of being invited to. The couple rented a ski chalet in Aspen . Like they were snobby high schoolers on daddy’s money staring in an American young adult drama. Lando was beyond excited.

But he would rather die than admit that so instead he rolled his eyes. “Of course it does.” There was a pause, a rustle on Max’s end like he was shifting around in bed or climbing over someone. Honestly, with Max, either was possible. Lando squinted at the road ahead. “So who’s actually coming to this thing?” 

Max hesitated. Lando knew that hesitation. It was the same one Max used when he’d absolutely done something to piss someone off but was trying to pretend he hadn’t. He knew it so well because it was usually Lando himself that he was trying to piss off every time.

Lando narrowed his eyes. “Max.” He couldn't believe he’d fallen for it again. Swindled. Hoodwinked. Absolutely bamboozled and he didn’t even know what it was yet. But he had a sinking suspicion that he knew exactly what it was.

“What?” Max said, far too casual. “It’s just me. Arthur, Charles, Logan, you know. Daniel might swing by. Couple Red Bull people. You’ll love it.”

“You’re forgetting someone.”

“I don’t forget people,” Max said, which was the kind of bold faced lie only Max Verstappen could deliver with zero irony and total confidence in the fact that his audience would believe him. 

Lando sighed. If Max was going to make him spell it out then he would. “Is Oscar going?”

Max made a sound that could only be described as a verbal shrug. A noncommittal little hum that suggested casualty but was anything but casual to the trained ear.. “Don’t worry about it.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the right answer.”

Lando let his head thump against the steering wheel at the next red light. “I already booked the flight, didn’t I?”

“You did.” Max sounded positively delighted with himself now. “Too late to back out. Chalet has your name on a door and already knows what you’ll be helping cook at dinner tonight.”

Lando groaned. “You’ll love it,” Max said again, maddeningly. “It’s very healing up here. Mountains. Silence. Thin air. No emotional repression whatsoever.”

Lando gave a one handed gesture to no one in particular. “You’re the most emotionally repressed person I know.”

“That’s why I go skiing,” Max said cheerfully. “To scream into a void. See you soon.” Max was surely not a skier, this much Lando knew. In fact, that had seen him ski once, a black diamond because Max just had to one up Lando in everything and Max had almost died.

The line clicked off before Lando could point that out.

Lando stared at his phone for a beat before tossing it onto the passenger seat. The motorway stretched ahead, and the sky was still miserably grey. “Great,” he muttered to himself. “Good thing I packed my lorazepam.”

He changed lanes. The suitcase thunked again. It was already too late to turn around. 

Heathrow was already awake by the time Lando pulled into the short-stay car park, the whole place buzzing with the same barely contained mayhem that made him hate flying commercial. He slung his duffel bag over one shoulder and tucked his headphones around his neck, sunglasses on even though the sky was still the same grim British grey.

When he was traveling for tours he always had security, something his manager would organize for him when she drew up his flight itineraries and organized airport arrivals. He hated the commotion. Flying on his own was always a bit freeing and it wasn’t as though he minded interacting with fans so long as they were trying to, like, kidnap him, or something. 

“Lando Norris?” a teen asked near the check-in desk, holding her phone like she wasn’t sure if she was meant to aim it or hold it in reverence.

He smiled, soft but automatic. “Yeah, hi.” 

She grinned, asked for a photo, then two more joined, and it took maybe five minutes for the mini-queue to form. He didn’t mind. Not really. He even made a joke about how he hadn’t brushed his hair so they weren’t allowed to tag him in anything. 

By the time he made it through to departures, he was fully leaned into the role of man who is about to vacation like his therapist begged him to . He found the lounge. Got a croissant. Answered three texts and ignored one from his manager that just said Do NOT ski into a tree, please . He was going to ski. He was going to not spiral about Oscar. He was going to survive Colorado and whatever Max had cooked up. Just another holiday. 

—

📱 @ellabella_06

12:34  · Dec 30, 2023

GUESS WHO I JUST MET AT HEATHROW??

Lando Norris!!! He was super sweet and looked unfairly good for someone flying at this hour 😭😭

(yes I asked where he was going. no he didn’t tell me. yes he laughed. yes I died)

#LandoNorris #HeathrowSightings

📸: [image] Lando leaning in and smiling with a fan near the check-in counters. Hoodie. Sunglasses pushed into his hair. Designer weekender bag slung over one shoulder. 

💬

@papayatruth: WHY does he look this hot at 8am???

@grid_sniffer: sunglasses inside = suspicious activity confirmed

@formuladelulu: i’m sorry but where is he GOING like that???

@char.leclercs: skiing. it’s giving chalet-core. do not ask me to elaborate

@mxversun: i don’t wanna start anything but… someone spotted oscar at MEL like 45 mins ago??? 👀👀👀

 ↳  @sofpiastri: DON’T PLAY WITH ME LIKE THIS

 ↳  @cursedbyDR: soooo lando flies out of LHR the same morning oscar’s seen at Tullamarine???!

 ↳  @maxielwitches: grapevine is saying max is in aspen. the math is mathing

@gridgossipgirl: this is either a PR stunt or the greatest slow burn of all time and i’m invested either way 

—

The Uber wound its way up the mountainside without care for Lando’s motion sickness. Snowbanks lined the absurdly long driveway like a seasonal moat, and somewhere between the third decorative reindeer statue and the fifth pine tree dusted just so, Lando genuinely considered whether Max had rented a Bond villain’s vacation home.

He’d barely unzipped his coat before the front door swung open with dramatic flair. “ Enfin! ” Charles announced, arms flung wide like he’d been waiting at the window for hours. “You’re late.”

“I landed on time,” Lando said, blinking against the glare of sunlight on snow. “Blame the Uber and the altitude and also your boyfriend’s taste in absurd luxury.”

Charles ignored that and stepped forward, pulling him into a hug, the kind that was equal parts welcome and annoying for the sake of being annoying. When he finally stepped back his eyes were already flicking over Lando’s outfit. “You look like you haven’t slept since 2022.”

“I took a lorazepam and wore an eye mask.” 

“Mmm,” Charles said, entirely unconvinced, then stepped aside to let him in. “Shoes off. It’s Max’s rule.” Lando kicked off his sneakers in the entryway and followed Charles inside. 

The chalet was, predictably, disgusting. Vaulted ceilings, exposed beams, a fireplace that probably cost more than Lando’s entire kitchen. The heat wrapped around him like cashmere. The floor heated under his socks. Lando’s jetlagged brain took a second to catch up. He glanced around the wide front hall, eyes narrowing.

Charles noticed. Of course he noticed. He folded his arms and grinned, mischievous, plotting, very Charles. “He’s not here yet.”

Lando blinked, playing dumb. “Who?” He knew exactly who Charles was talking about. He didn’t want to talk about it. 

Charles gave him a look . 

“I didn’t ask.” Lando muttered, turning away and feigning disinterest. It had barely been a week since their conversation over Christmas. Lando had flown home on the 26th feeling unsettled and very, very targeted. They had spent the whole week teasing him, telling him to text Oscar as if Lando didn’t feel enough shame already.

“Non, you just looked around like you were waiting for him to pop out from behind the coat rack.” 

“I’m allowed to know who’s here.” Lando turned back to glare at him though it lacked any real passion. 

“You’re allowed to relax ,” Charles corrected, already taking Lando’s duffel in one hand, the other coming up to pat at Lando’s curls, disparaging. Lando swatted his hand away but he carried on without care. “Oscar’s flying in later tonight. Max went to pick him up. They’ll be back by dinner.”

He tried not to react to that information. He failed spectacularly. He could practically feel the blush high on his cheeks. Instead, he cleared his throat and asked, deflecting: “Max’s driving? In the snow?”

Charles shrugged, dropping it easily. “They’ll either make it or the headline writes itself.” 

Lando exhaled slowly and turned to hang up his coat. “Cool. Great. Super normal about this.”

“You know what would help with that?” Charles grinned, tilting his head. Lando already knew that he probably wasn’t going to want anything to do with what he was about to suggest.

“No.”

“A drink and a hot tub.”

“I said no .”

Charles was already halfway down the hall. “I didn’t ask. Come see your room!” He led the way up the stairs like a tour guide at a five star ski resort he secretly loathed. 

“This one’s yours,” he announced, swinging open a thick wooden door at the end of the hall with the dramatic flair of someone unveiling a hidden masterpiece. “Complimentary view of the mountains and—if you lean out far enough—the start of the driveway. Gives you just enough time to prepare for the inevitable.”

Lando stepped inside, eyeing the massive bed, the fur throw that was definitely not faux, and the floor-to-ceiling windows that framed a winter postcard so perfect it made him irrationally suspicious. 

It was objectively stunning. Of course it was. 

Charles leaned on the doorframe, grinning. “If this doesn’t meet your standards, Oscar’s room is just across the hall.”

Lando threw a pillow at him.

Charles caught it mid-air, dropped it dramatically onto the reading chair, and stepped inside like he’d been invited. “You look good, by the way,” he said, suddenly sincere enough to give Lando whiplash “Tired. But good.”

“It’s been a week.”

“Which is basically a lifetime without you.” Charles huffed, dramatic.

Lando shook his head, pulling open his bag to rummage for swim shorts. “What, you missed me that much?”

“Terribly,” Charles said, flopping onto the edge of the bed uninvited. “Max has been insufferable without you. Arthur’s trying to win a bet with Logan about who can survive the longest in the hot tub. I have no one with sense.”

Lando snorted. “How long have they been out there?”

“Forty minutes. Arthur’s trying to prove that Monegasque skin doesn’t prune.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“Excuse you,” Charles gasps, feigning offense. 

Lando ignored him and just sighed and straightened up, swim trunks in hand. “Fine. Give me five minutes and I’ll come stop your brother from dissolving in chlorine.”

Charles beamed, already back on his feet. “Splendid. I’ll warm your towel.” And then he was gone, leaving the door open just enough for Lando to glance across the hallway.

Oscar’s door stood closed. Silent.

Lando exhaled through his nose and muttered, “Happy bloody New Year,” to no one at all. 

By the time Max finally arrived, the sun had dipped behind the ridge and turned the snow outside the chalet a soft, glowing blue. The hot tub had long since given way to the heated pool, where steam curled lazily off the surface and Arthur and Logan were attempting synchronized handstands while Charles heckled from a deck chair in a plush, fluffy robe.

Lando was floating, half submerged, head tipped back against the edge, eyes closed beneath his sunglasses. He’d made it this far without dying of altitude, overexposure, or the sheer energy of Charles. That was a win. Charles had even mixed him some ridiculously over the top mimosa thing that he’d pretended to hate but secretly finished.

Then the front door slammed. Loud. Deliberate. The kind of entrance only Max made.

“ Hallo allemaal! ” came the shout through the open patio doors. “Dinner’s in two hours and you’re all useless so I need six sets of hands!”

Charles raised his voice without moving from the deck chair. “We’re cultivating leisure!”

Max didn’t respond, but a moment later he appeared on the snowy stone steps, hoodie shoved back, cheeks red from the wind, grinning down at Charles. He had snow in his hair and smugness in his walk.

Lando pushed himself upright. “Nice of you to show up.”

“Nice of you to still be alive,” Max shot back. “How’s the jet lag?”

“Drowning it. Trying to.”

Max clapped his hands once. “Too bad, pool time’s over, I want this chalet to go Michelin.” 

Lando hauled himself out of the pool and grabbed the towel Charles had “pre-warmed” on a chair. “Where’s Oscar?” Casual. So casual that. He nailed it.

Max didn’t even blink. “Upstairs. Probably unpacking.”

Lando nodded, casual. He dried off with practiced indifference and didn’t glance toward the house more than once. Charles snickered somewhere behind him, sliding deeper into his robe like it could protect from the responsibility of cooking and watching Lando over the folds of fluff. But there was nothing to see here. That’s how casual Lando was. 

Eventually, Max herded them all inside, yelling at them to not get water on the hardwood floor and to please change before entering the kitchen. Lando took the stairs two at a time, towel slung over his shoulder, damp hair clinging to his temples and trunks squishing faintly with every step. The chalet was too warm now, compared to the cold outside and the heat made everything smell like cedar and chlorine.

Behind him, Charles trailed at a more reasonable pace, arms folded, ever the self appointed narrator of Lando’s life. They reached the landing and turned down the hall. Lando was already tugging his towel off his shoulder when Charles said it. Casual, tossed out like a snowball he didn’t mind if he hit his mark or not. “He’s across the hall, remember.”

“Who?”

Charles gave him a look. The kind that said, don’t insult both of us.

Lando sighed, rubbed the back of his neck. “Right. Cool. Good.”

Charles raised a brow. “You sure?” No he wasn’t sure. Why would he be sure? The last time he saw Oscar the guy had tried to kiss him and Lando had freaked like a damn teenager who had never experienced an ounce of intimacy in his very short life. 

But Lando just waved him off, turning toward the bathroom. “Yeah, mate. I’m not thirteen. I’m capable of sharing a hallway.” He ignored the way his stomach twisted anyway.

It was stupid. He hadn’t even seen Oscar yet. Just knew he was there. That he'd walked through the same front door. That his things were in a room barely six paces from Lando’s. That at some point, inevitably, they’d be in the same space. And Lando would have to say something. Anything. Something that wasn’t a fake smile or an awkward nod across a cheese board. 

He pushed into the bathroom, flicked on the light, and stared at himself in the mirror for a second longer than necessary. The skin under his eyes looked tired. His shoulders were tense. His mouth had that pressed flat line it always got before interviews.

He exhaled, dragged a hand through his hair, and muttered, “Just talk to him. Before it gets weird. Before you make it weird.” God forbid a guy give himself a pep talk in the mirror. 

The water helped. A little.

He stayed under it longer than he needed to, letting the heat chase off the chill from outside, the jet lag and the altitude from his skin. He washed his hair twice. Scrubbed behind his ears like it might rinse off the nerves. By the time he stepped out, the mirror was fogged and the bathroom smelled like expensive soap and eucalyptus.

He wrapped the towel around his waist, pressed both palms to the vanity, and stared at his reflection again. 

He looked like himself. Sort of. Just slightly off. Like he’d been drawn from memory. “Okay,” he told himself quietly. “Okay.”

He reached for the moisturiser in his bag—Charles had guilted him into using one that didn’t smell like petrol—and let the rhythm of the routine calm him down. Face. Hair. Deodorant. A long-sleeved black tee and sweats. Soft. Easy. Harmless.

No one could accuse him of trying too hard.

He had no reason to try too hard. 

The hallway was quiet now as he pulled open the door, muffled sounds drifting up from downstairs. Arthur’s laugh, Logan groaning about cutting garlic too small, Max insisting he knew how to boil pasta properly.

Lando stepped out.

And walked directly into Oscar. 

Quite literally.

There was a dull thud, shoulder to chest, and they both stumbled slightly in the narrow hallway, Oscar’s socked foot slipping just enough on the wood to make him catch himself against the opposite wall.

Lando reached out instinctively. “Shit, sorry-”

Oscar blinked up at him. His curls were damp. His hoodie slightly twisted at the hem, like he’d just tugged it over his head in a hurry. His mouth opened like he meant to say something, then closed again. Lando’s hand hovered in midair for a beat too long before he let it drop. They stared at each other. The hallway felt narrower than it had a second ago.

“Hey,” Lando said finally, voice low, softer than he meant it to be.

Oscar’s eyes flicked up to meet his. “Hey.”

A pause. Not quite awkward. Not quite not.

“You just get in?” Lando asked, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, suddenly aware of how bare his feet were.

Oscar nodded at first, didn’t say anything but then seemed to decide he needed to and said, “Yeah. A bit ago. Was… unpacking.”

“Cool,” Lando said. Brilliant. Riveting stuff. He was super good at this. He cleared his throat, grasping for something better. “The pool’s heated, by the way. If you, uh. Didn’t know.”

Oscar smiled, small and crooked. “Saw the steam. Was wondering if someone died in there.” 

“Arthur almost did.” and Oscar huffed out another laugh at that, short and punched out as if he hadn’t expected it.

Another silence.

This time, Oscar broke it.

“It’s good to see you,” he said, quiet but not hesitant. Like he was sure it was actually good to see Lando which did surprise him a bit. Considering, well. London. August. All of that.

Lando blinked. His chest did something strange and traitorous. “You too.” And he meant it.

He didn’t say anything else. Neither did Oscar, but they stood there for a second longer than they needed to, just enough for something unsaid to press into the space between them. Then Lando took a half step back, nodding toward the stairs. “We’re doing dinner prep. You’re not safe.”

“I’m a great sous chef.” Oscar nodded, slightly deadpan, enough that Lando stifled a laugh.

“We’ll see.”

He turned first, heading down. Oscar followed without hesitation. 

Dinner had ended at least thirty minutes ago. Lando and Oscar were standing side by side in the kitchen, Oscar with a tea towel slung over his shoulder, using another to dry the dishes as Lando handed them to him. They had been the tragic victims of a game of rock-paper-scissors. Charles had absolutely and very obviously cheated at the end but Lando let him get away with it. Oscar didn’t comment either. 

They collected the dishes in silence, the kind that comes not from discomfort but from the comfortable drag of exhaustion and good company. The kitchen was warm, lit in golden tones from the under-cabinet lights. Outside the window, snow was falling again, soft and slow, a curtain of white against the dark mountain sky.

Lando had his sleeves rolled up and the tap turned on. The water ran hot. Steam curled in lazy tendrils over the sink as he filled it.

They didn’t talk.

The only sounds were ceramic against ceramic, the rush of the faucet, the occasional soft clink of a dish placed down with care. Lando passed Oscar a wine glass, stem first. Their fingers brushed.

Oscar stilled.

Lando did too.

The moment held, just long enough for the weight of it to settle. And then Lando, almost without thinking, said softly, “Sorry.”

Oscar didn’t say anything at first. They both knew what the apology meant. It wasn’t about the wine. Or the dishes. It stretched back further, across cities, across weeks of silence, across a song that still didn’t have a second verse.

Sorry for London.

Sorry for not letting you kiss me when I really, really wanted you to.

Sorry for making you think I would, when I couldn’t. 

Lando cleared his throat, eyes on the soapy water. “I’d… like to make up for it. If you’ll let me.”

Oscar didn’t take the glass. Just set it back down in the sink slowly. Quietly. Lando’s pulse stuttered. He turned, drying his hands on a dish towel, then resting them flat on the edge of the counter. He looked at Oscar fully now, no distractions, no excuses. “You look really good, these days,” he said, voice low, stripped of all his usual armour. “Like you’ve settled into yourself a bit.”

Oscar blinked, startled. He didn’t look away.

“I mean it,” Lando said. “You walk into a room and I feel it. And I know it shouldn’t matter but I- I mean. I notice. You. I’ve noticed you.”

The silence after that was louder than any conversation they’d had in weeks. Oscar wasn’t saying anything. So Lando pressed on, voice quieter now, as if the words were coming from a part of him he hadn’t unlocked in a while. “I want to finish that song. The one I started.”

Oscar tilted his head. “The balcony one?” He finally said, tone soft, voice quiet. Curious.

“Yeah.” Lando nodded. “Not a full stop. It still doesn’t have an ending.”

Oscar was quiet again, but his eyes didn’t leave Lando’s. They were dark and searching, soft around the edges but steady. And something in his jaw twitched slightly like he was weighing everything Lando had just said and trying to decide whether it was real. Whether he could let himself believe it.

“It was a good song,” Oscar said eventually.

Lando smiled, a little lopsided. “It was an honest one.” He hesitated, then added, barely above a whisper, “I didn’t pull away because I didn’t want to. I pulled away because… I don’t- I was thinking too much. I didn’t know what it would mean if I didn’t.”

Oscar exhaled slowly, like a held breath was finally being released. “And now?”

Lando looked down at the floor. And now? Now what. Lando wasn’t any more ready than he had been in London. He wasn’t really looking for anything, sure, he was still a bit stumped with his writing. Hadn’t been able to string anything together in months. But he knew that he missed Oscar. He thought of Oscar, thought of those two nights. Thought of what they meant, of what they could mean. 

He had spent hours pouring over videos, clips, TikToks, races, anything with Oscar face in it. His smile. The little bunny teeth that Lando could literally wax poetry about. The strangely handsome swoop of his curls over his forehead and the way when he did PR with Max he laughed with his whole body. Lando wanted that in his life. He didn’t know how or what it would mean, but he wanted Oscar in his life. 

He looked back up, met Oscar’s eyes. “Now I think I want to find out.” 

The room went still again. The snow fell outside in thick silence. Oscar reached for the towel, folded it carefully over the handle of the oven. His movements were precise, thoughtful. Then he turned, leaned slightly back against the counter beside Lando. Not touching. Not yet. But close . His voice was quiet. “So what’s the next lyric?”

“I don’t know,” he said, smiling faintly. “Might have it start in a kitchen.”

Oscar chuckled at that, smiling fully. Lando’s mouth twitched at the corner. He wasn’t even fully aware of the motion at first. One hand came to rest gently on Oscar’s shoulder, his thumb brushing the fabric of Oscar’s hoodie. Then, in a careful motion, he let his fingers travel upward, curling softly along the slope of Oscar’s neck, fingertips slipping beneath a stray curl that had fallen behind his ear. 

Oscar hadn’t moved away from the touch. His breath had hitched slightly, chest rising just a bit more than before but he stayed still, gaze locked on Lando’s like he didn’t want to blink and miss it. Lando’s thumbs brushed lightly against the edges of his jaw, just under his ears. His skin was warm. Soft.

Oscar tilted his chin slightly, gaze flicking down to Lando’s mouth for half a second. Lando’s breath caught. He didn’t mean for it to but something in his chest folded. Their foreheads could’ve touched, if either of them leaned just a little. Their lips barely a few inches apart. Oscar’s hand come up, tucked a curl over Lando’s ear, brushing his cheekbone on the way back down. 

Lando leaned forward just a bit.

Oscar didn’t move.

Their noses nearly brushed. Their eyes didn’t close yet. That moment before a kiss where everything feels like it’s holding still just for you-

“ LANDO! ” 

They both jerked apart, like they’d been hit with a live wire. Lando nearly elbowed the dish rack. Oscar took half a step back, blinking fast, as Max barreled through the archway into the kitchen. “I know you had my speaker tonight,” Max announced without preamble, eyes scanning the room like his speaker would be sitting on the kitchen counter next to the dishrack. “It’s not in the living room, it’s not in the guest room, and Charles says it’s beneath him to check under the couch cushions-” He stopped mid-rant.

Frowned.

Looked between them.

Oscar was standing a little too still beside the counter, towel now twisted up in his hands like rope. Lando was flushed, cheeks high with colour, mouth still parted slightly like he hadn’t fully recovered from what was about to happen. Max’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t say anything right away.

Lando cleared his throat, voice a touch too casual. “I gave it back. Check your room again.”

Max stared for another beat. Then, mercifully, shrugged. “Fine.” He turned back into the hallway, glanced once more over his shoulder, shook his head, and then left. His footsteps padded away, vanishing into the quiet noise of the rest of the house. 

Lando let out a breath. Then turned back to Oscar, who was looking at him with a stunned kind of softness, like he hadn’t decided whether to laugh or collapse.

“Remind me why we’re friends with him?” Lando asked, voice light but tight around the edges.

Oscar huffed, quiet and breathless. “Because he’s Max.”

“Unfortunately.”

Another silence.

They were still close. Not quite where they had been, but not far enough to pretend nothing had happened either. Lando looked at him. Let his gaze drop again to Oscar’s mouth. Just a split second. Then he stepped back, just a little. Enough to give them space. Enough to say I’ll let you decide if we come back to this. Oscar didn’t move but his eyes stayed on Lando like he was reading something off his skin.

Then he said, softly, “You should finish that song.”

Lando nodded once. He smiled, softly, mostly to himself but also a bit to Oscar. “Yeah. I think I can add a thing or two.” And then he turned to finish drying the last plate, hands still steady, but his heart beating like he’d never put a full stop at the end of a sentence again. 

—

📲 @oscarpiastri

🎥 posted 3h ago (TikTok)
🎶 audio: “Pull Up” – LMB DG
📍 Aspen, Colorado
Caption: he said he could ski 🏔️🤔 @ thisislandonorris

[video: Lando from behind swerving down a ski hill, arms outstretched to either side, poles clutched in his gloves, legs wide on his skis. He almost serves into the bruhs lining the slope. There’s a cut and then a clip of him doing the same again, this time sliding and falling flat on his face. The camera comes around to the front of him, shaky as he looks up at the camera, goggles up on his hat, grinning.] 

🗨️ Comments

@maxverstappen1: why does he ski like he’s trying to escape the scene of a crime

 ↳  @charleslec: because he is. the crime is fashion

 ↳  @landonorris: i’m filing a defamation case

@fan44f1: THE TAG??? OSCAR TAGGED HIM LIKE A BOYFRIEND

@deluluonmain: no way this isn’t flirting. this is domestic. this is couple behaviour. this is “babe film me” core

@hot_tub_scout: no i’m sorry the way he grins at him at the end????? i’m going to eat drywall

@flirtmode44: the way oscar zooms in like he’s filming his man being sexy for later. FBI GET UP

@papayawives: that’s not a tag. that’s a CLAIM.

@charleslec: stop giving them attention they will get worse

  ↳  @maxverstappen1: it’s too late they’re already insufferable