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It's quiet when he walks through the lit hallways of the McLaren hospitality, bag slung over his shoulder.
Outside the tall windows, the sky is dark and murky, grey clouds scattered across in random patterns. It's not exactly late, only six in the afternoon, but the days are always cut short when September bleeds into October, turning cold and sharp.
He bids a few interns goodbye on his way, and knocks on Zak's office window to wave goodbye, the man flashing him a smile, before Lando walks out to the common area adjacent to the entrance.
The room is empty, and at first, he doesn't notice the figure on the couch. Then his brain registers the papaya color in his peripheral vision, and he looks over his shoulder to see a sleeping Oscar. The younger man has his jacket on and cap resting next to his head from where it had fallen off, his feet planted awkwardly on the floor, probably to avoid muddying the cushion because he's polite like that. His bag sits right by his legs, and Lando hesitates, stopping in his tracks.
Oscar is sort of curled in on himself, his hands clasped and tucked under his head as a makeshift pillow, despite the available cushions on the seats. Lando figures he unintentionally fell asleep there, strung out from the day's long debriefs and PR schedules. Lando feels it too, his limbs heavy with weariness, and all he truly wants is to reach the car McLaren provides for him and to floor it to his bed in record time.
But it wouldn't be very team-player-like to leave Oscar here, especially since he clearly didn't intend to nap on the admittedly uncomfortable couch, which will definitely leave him with a crick in his neck if Lando doesn't intervene. So, Lando crosses the space between them and crouches, hand outstretched to nudge the younger man awake. Then, his hand hovers in midair, awkwardly and uncertain.
Oscar looks exactly like the young racer he is on the grid, like this, with his face relaxed and easy in sleep, unkempt hair curling over his eyes. It's easy to forget sometimes, with how serious and professional he is most of the time. When Lando leans back a little to really get a good look at him, he notices that Oscar looks small, a bizarre thought considering the younger man has a few centimeters on him and a relatively bulkier frame compared to Lando's leaner one. But it's the only way Lando can describe it, and it's endearing, for lack of a better word. It's not quite what one expects when looking at Oscar, yet it simultaneously makes perfect sense in the way unexpected things often do.
It's distracting, and Lando has the odd impulse to put him in his pocket—a peculiar thought even for him, one he can't quite explain. He pushes it aside and refocuses on his original intention, gently shaking Oscar awake.
"Wakey, mate, time for school," Lando sing-songs, albeit softly, and watches in mild fascination as Oscar's nose scrunches and his eyelashes flutter. It's all very entrancing, if Lando's being completely honest. Oscar peeps one bleary eye open and mumbles something incoherent.
Lando breathes out a laugh. "What's that?"
"So h'larious," Oscar says more clearly, obviously aiming for a retort, but misses the mark by a mile, with his words slurring.
Patting the younger man on the shoulder to keep him from falling back asleep, Lando replies with a mock-serious tone, "Yeah, champ, nothing new you're telling me. Up you get, c'mon."
Surprisingly, Oscar doesn't put up much of a fight, offering only a groan before pulling himself into a sitting position, one hand running through his hair. The strands look soft. Lando's fingers twitch.
"What's the time?" Oscar asks, putting his papaya colored cap back on, and therefore pulling Lando's focus back to his brown eyes.
Lando politely refrains from mentioning the watch on Oscar's own wrist and instead glances at his own. "About six-fifteen. Why?"
"Fuck," Oscar says, his mouth unknowingly forming a barely discernible sad pout. "Missed my cab. Must have fallen asleep while waiting."
The invitation is out of his mouth before he can think it through. "Lemme give you a ride back to your hotel."
He’s staying with Max in a different one, and he is almost certain it’s out of his way, and he’s exhausted, but he can’t bring himself to care about any of that right now. Not when Oscar looks all sleep-ruffled and it's doing strange things to Lando's heart.
Oscar's eyes go wide in surprise, and then the air around him turns bashful, one hand scratching the back of his neck. "That's asking too much of you, mate. I'm sure I can manage on my own. It's not too late."
Shaking his head, Lando pats Oscar twice on the thighs before rising, his knees protesting from crouching too long. "Nope, can't let you do that. I'm terrible with rejection, Piastri. Don't do this to me, man. I'll cry, I swear."
It feels like a small victory when Oscar laughs, a little subdued but still lighting up his face. Lando is not too embarrassed to lay it on thick if it means getting that kind of response. Shameless is like, his second name at this point.
"Can't have that, can we? The media will come chewing my head off for messing with their golden boy." Oscar says dryly, amusement dancing in his eyes. "I reckon I will have to take you up on that offer."
Lando barks a laugh, and it rings a little too loudly in the empty room. "See, you're starting to get it, Osco! I'm a proper national treasure."
"Yeah, yeah," the younger man concedes, accepting Lando's proffered hand. Oscar's hands are smaller, Lando unconsciously observes—daintier, with thinner fingers compared to Lando's thicker ones. And his palm is warm, strong.
Ignoring that unusual thought, along with all the other unprompted Oscar-filled observations he's made in the last five minutes, Lando claps the younger man on the back once and initiates the walk to his car.
They don't talk much after that, with Oscar resting his eyes during the journey, his head leaned against the window, occasionally jolting awake when Lando drives over a bumpy road.
And if Lando doesn't drive as fast as he normally would, just to make the drive smoother despite his own exhaustion, no one but him will know that fact.
It's sort of worth the smile Oscar flashes him when they reach his hotel.
After that, it becomes almost impossible for Lando to look away from Oscar when he finds him sleeping somewhere—in a quiet corner, an empty room, or even, on rare occasions, in a room bustling with people.
He gets his suspicions confirmed—or suspicions might be too strong a word, but he gets something confirmed—and it's that Oscar does, in fact, make himself smaller when napping. He folds in on himself, knees pushed up towards his chest, arms crossed, shoulders curving in, and chin tucked down.
And it's sort of overwhelming, being faced with this side of Oscar. Lando has never seen the other man sleeping around the facility or anywhere else before, never even thought Oscar would feel comfortable enough to do that outside the comfort of his home. And maybe that's on him, for not looking. The closest he has gotten is Oscar coming in with sleep still in the creases of his eyes early in the morning, but even then he is alert enough that it goes unnoticed.
It does something weird to Lando's stomach, is the thing. All fluttery, and swooping, and bothersome.
This time he finds Oscar in his driver's room, after their first practice round. It had been a tough one, with bad visibility and heavy, dark clouds in Mexico City. He isn't too worried about it when it's time for qualifying, because the weather tends to smooth itself out when it counts, but today had left them all slightly disappointed.
Oscar had disappeared into his room some time after that, mumbling something along the lines of be right back, and then hadn't resurfaced since then.
"Will you find him? Debrief's in five," Andrea says, while Lando sits on one of the barstools in the kitchen, phone in hand. The older man looks disheveled, a little stressed, so Lando easily agrees. He has got nothing better to do, anyway.
"Oscar, mate, you in there? Meeting in five," Lando calls into the closed door, Oscar Piastri written there in black. He follows up with a few knocks, and then another three when he's still met with silence.
Lando's never been known for his patience. "Alright, mate, I'm taking a peek. If you're in here wanking or something, it’s on you if it scars us both."
As it turns out, Oscar is not wanking but instead asleep in a way that must be uncomfortable for his neck. He’s curled up on the only available seat in his room, a hard leather-covered bench by the wall mirror. With his knees pulled up and arms crossed, his body leans sideways, supported by the shelves to his side. His cap covers most of his face, but it hardly matters when he looks so—so soft.
The bizarre thought of putting him in his pocket reappears, but this time it feels a little more pressing.
Fuck, he is losing it, isn’t he? Metaphorically putting a grown man into his pocket—maybe those unemployed people online were right about him being dropped as a baby.
Putting his little dilemma aside, Lando approaches Oscar with tentative steps. "Osc, mate?" He raises his voice slightly, because even though he’d love to let Oscar sleep, they have strategies to discuss, and he doubts Oscar would appreciate missing out on that.
Oscar startles at the call, but Lando places a hand on his shoulder to ensure he’s fully awake. “Hm? L’ndo?” the younger man mumbles, and it's not cute at all, especially not with the way Oscar does the nose-scrunching thingy again.
"Meeting in five," Lando repeats, his voice sounding a bit strangled to his own ears. He watches as Oscar unfurls from his position, and it's anything but graceful—stiff limbs and all.
Oscar stretches his neck, his face showing a hint of strain. Lando makes a mental note to remind him to check in with his performance coach later. "Thanks, mate. Sort of nodded off after washing my face," Oscar says sheepishly. "The water was warm and cosy."
Lando hums. "Been a long day. Let's get a move on before they send the whole team after us."
Oscar grimaces. "Yeah, let's not have a repeat of that."
Throughout the whole meeting, the only thing Lando thinks about is a snug Oscar sleeping.
It's becoming a problem.
"I have a problem, lads."
Max snorts somewhere to his right. Carlos keeps on playing FIFA on the TV, occasional Spanish gibberish falling from his lips. Lando doubts it's anything nice, judging by the way he is aggressively pressing the buttons.
"Nothing you have to tell me, I know," Max answers, the bastard smirking as Lando turns to glare at him.
Yeah, he took a gamble deciding to unload his heart's burden onto these guys. A pigeon outside would probably be better company. He doesn’t have the liberty to turn to anyone else right now, though, because Lando had showed up on short notice to their little sleepover after the debrief, so he’ll have to man up and endure all the assholery in the room. Dealing with a crisis sucks.
Max must see something on his face, because he sobers up and his smirk turns into a small smile. "Just messing with you. What's up?"
There is no finesse to the way his mind starts working through the words to address his, truthfully, silly problem. Hell, he doesn’t even know what’s really going on. He decides to just say it plainly. “I have an Oscar problem.”
This catches Carlos's attention. He abandons his game—well, the game abandons him, with bold red letters spelling out MATCH LOSS a little mockingly. "Oscar? Are you guys fighting? Is that why you sucked on track this morning?"
Lando splutters. "What? No, you muppet!" The notion of fighting with Oscar, seeing those soft, crinkled eyes turn hard and cold against him, churns something awful inside him. Then, because he has to defend his dignity, he adds, "And give me a break, mate. You could barely see five meters ahead, it was absolutely grim out there."
Max placates both of them with a hand on their shoulders, clearly used to this, where he sits between them. "Carlos, stop picking a fight with the poor boy. Let's hear him out."
Lando nods gratefully, and Carlos settles back with a long-suffering sigh, but Lando knows it's all an act. Carlos adores him, even if the fucker denies it.
"Okay, so," Lando starts, trying to sound confident, then pauses, unsure how to phrase it without sounding weird and creepy. There’s really no way around it. Besides, he’s probably said worse before, so they’re all used to it. "When I watch Oscar sleep—" At this, Max’s expression turns stupefied and Carlos looks like he’s seconds away from bursting out in laughter. "—I kind of get this funny feeling in my stomach? And like, weird as shit thoughts. I don’t know how to deal, man."
"One thing first," Max says, his voice patient in a forced way. "What the hell do you mean 'watch him sleep'?"
Lando frowns, puzzled. "Like, I walk around in our hospitality area and find him asleep sometimes?"
Carlos does laugh at that, one hand over his face and shoulders shaking. Both him and Max ignore the older man in favor of continuing the conversation. "Jesus, Lando, phrase it like that then next time." Max reprimands, face relaxing again.
Shrugging, Lando says, "Sorry."
"Funny feeling, huh?" Carlos smiles secretively, looking at Max with one raised eyebrow. Max smiles back, something teasing in his smile.
Lando doesn’t approve of the look they are sharing. He feels like he’s being left out of something very important here. And being laughed at, probably.
"What? Why are you two staring at each other like muppets?"
"You can be so slow sometimes, cabron," Carlos tuts. Lando ignores him once again, looking at Max for guidance, the only sensible person in the room.
"Lando, when you look at Oscar sleeping, does this funny feeling feel like the fluttering sensation you get when your car accelerates and you feel weightless for a moment?"
He feels his eyes widen in recognition. "Yeah. Yeah, fucking hell, it does, kind of? How the fuck did you get that?"
Max nods. "Okay, I'm going to spell this out for you because I don’t think you'll get there on your own, and this is getting unbearable to watch from afar. You like Piastri."
Lando huffs. "Duh, yeah? Would be weird if I didn't, mate."
"Por el amor de Dios," Carlos exclaims. "You like the guy romantically, you idiot."
Lando blinks at them. "No, I don't."
"Yes, you do." Max stresses, and even he is starting to look exasperated.
Starting to feel very wrong-footed in this conversation, Lando laughs nervously. "Mate, I reckon I’d know if I fancied Oscar in that way, don’t you think?"
"No." Carlos and Max say in unison.
"Mate," Lando says, at a loss for words, sounding unsure, and a little pained.
He tries looking for some hint of humor on their faces, a small crack he can prod at to make them break character, just so they can laugh at him and get this bit over with. He doesn’t find it.
Dread washes over him. Does he really like Oscar romantically? He doesn’t think his friends would lie about something like this; they aren’t cruel, and this would be a particularly cruel joke. But then why hasn’t he realized it on his own? Lando considers himself pretty in tune with his emotions, and it would be strange to miss something so significant. Right?
"Hey," comes a gentle voice, breaking him out of his spiraling thoughts. It's Max, who has moved closer to him. He knows Lando seeks physical comfort when he’s unsettled, and despite not being big on it himself, Max has always been a good friend in that way, all teasing aside. Carlos, on the far end of the couch, no longer looks amused, probably sensing Lando’s anxiety. He remains quiet, letting Max handle the consoling.
"Hey," Lando responds lamely.
Max continues, "I'm sorry for pushing that on you so suddenly. I thought you might have had an inkling about it, but I was clearly giving you too much credit."
Lando can't help but chuckle at the lighthearted joke, giving Max a playful shove with his shoulder. Max grins.
"How come I didn't realize?" Lando says miserably. As he thinks about it more, past the initial panic at the revelation, he finds that they are right.
He makes silly jokes that don’t make much sense, just to prompt one of those wheeze-giggles from Oscar, to see the way it scrunches his face and turns his eyes into half-moons. He always feels a little lonely, like something integral is missing during summer and winter breaks when he doesn’t get to see Oscar for a while.
His eyes always linger a second too long on Oscar’s waist, with his fireproofs pooled around his hips. They also linger on the way sweat curls the hair by his forehead, turning it a shade darker.
And he wants to put Oscar in his stupid pocket, for fuck's sake, because he wants to keep him close, to sleep next to him and hold his curled-up form, feel the warmth the younger man emanates naturally. He wants that warmth to seep into his own easily freezing frame.
He wants to plant a wet one on Oscar, or maybe a few more, if Oscar will let him. It’s all so dizzying to think about. He feels lightheaded.
"It happens, cabron," Carlos pipes up, shrugging. "Sometimes you don’t feel the underlying attraction until something brings it out. And in your case, that was watching Oscar sleep like a creep."
"Fuck off, you absolute fuck!" Lando laughs, jumping up from his seat to pounce on Carlos.
They start tussling, the air around them lightening and no longer suffocatingly serious. Max mutters something about associating with children under his breath.
Lando is a man on a mission.
After last night’s revelations, they had drawn up a plan for him. According to Carlos, Oscar seemed to like him as well, though Carlos had put it more dramatically than that, in typical Carlos flare.
“He’s got a crush of a schoolgirl on you, man,” Carlos had said, matter of factly. “Laughs at all your stupid, lame jokes like someone kicking their feet and twirling their hair.”
Lando has blushed beet-red at that.
Now, he doesn’t know how much he can trust Max’s and Carlos’ judgement on this. They’ve never led him astray before, but this—this is serious. If they have miscalculated this and Oscar doesn't see him as anything other than a teammate, then Lando is about time make this painfully awkward and there is no turning back.
Oscar would probably let him down gently, because he’s a good guy and wouldn’t want to hurt Lando. But it could end up making him feel uneasy. What if he stops talking to Lando? Stops laughing at his jokes? Has to pretend to get along with him until their contracts run out? Lando doesn’t think he could survive that.
He is quite literally putting himself in the jaws of death by even considering this, doesn't even care how dramatic he is being by wording it like that. He could probably wither away and die of heartbreak, so not too far off track. Possibly.
In conclusion, the cons outweigh the pros beyond doubt, but Lando's never been a pussy about anything in his life. If there is even a slight chance that Oscar might actually reciprocate, then it’s time to put his game face on.
According to their plan, step one is to gift Oscar something thoughtful to ease him into this, to butter him up, as Carlos had grossly put it. One suggestion was to get him something that reminded him of home, and Lando had immediately thought of the perfect thing. Easy. (It wasn't, actually. Who knew acquiring Mint Slice biscuits from Australia could be so difficult?)
The second step is to ask him if he’s free after this weekend's Grand Prix. They have one or two days to themselves during the week leading up to the next race, so Lando will have to calculate that into his plan. They could maybe catch lunch or dinner in São Paulo, try some tasty Brazilian food (find a place that hopefully sells chicken fingers and fries, as well as fish), and then walk around the city to make the most of their day. It's good, it's a start. And if he manages to score enough points with Oscar, he could probably be persuaded into another date with Lando.
Cocky, Max had voiced, but he looked proud too, when Lando suggested this.
The last step, and admittedly the most nerve-wracking one, is to walk Oscar home, which in this instance would be back to their hotel. It works out well because it means more time with Oscar. And then, if Oscar would be willing, a kiss to end the day. Just a press of lips, nothing too scandalous. Lando doesn’t want to chase him away.
Lame, Carlos had interjected rudely. Is this what youth is nowadays?
It was a foolproof, simple plan. Definitely doable, if you ask him.
That’s how Lando finds himself at Oscar’s driver’s room, once again, after the second practice. Everything had gone smoother today, to everyone’s relief, so the debrief had been shorter and they had been let go in no time. Both Oscar and Lando had been busy talking to their engineers afterwards and checking in with physio just to stay on the safe side, so he hadn't seen much of the younger boy since.
Lando had gone back to Oscar's side of the factory, but Mark informed him that they had finished up a little while ago. So, he has to make his way back to hospitality with his stomach in knots.
“You got this, you got this,” he repeats to himself as a mantra. Then he recounts all the steps again, just to be safe, with Arnott's Mint Slice clutched in his hand. He probably looks stupid as fuck to anyone passing by, face twisted in nerves and standing out in all his papaya glory, shitty biscuits in hand.
Charlotte is in the kitchen when he walks in, first glancing at him absentmindedly before doing a double take, her eyes squinting.
“What's wrong with you?” she asks simply.
Lando huffs, stance going defensive. “Nothing’s wrong with me. What’s wrong with you?”
She doesn’t bat an eye at the weak retort, taking it with the grace of someone used to Lando’s antics.
Lando sighs, defeated. "Look, I'll tell you later, yeah? I reckon I have to, if it goes well. Just, have you seen Oscar?"
Charlotte looks like she wants to press, but ultimately lets him off the hook, her soft spot for him evident. "Upstairs, in his second driver’s room."
Lando smiles cheekily. "Thanks, Char. Appreciate it."
She shooes him away before turning back to her work. As he walks by quietly, all his nerves come crashing back, the distraction of their conversation gone. He feels like he’s walking toward his doom, taking the stairs one at a time instead of his usual two.
Lando Norris, national treasure, he reminds himself. I'm a catch, anyone would be lucky to have me.
Only, the person he wants might not want him, so it’s not really okay, but as far as pep talks go, he thinks this one isn’t so bad. He really wishes he had Max to reassure him. He would even go for Carlos right about now. Or Daniel, the busy fucker.
When he finally reaches the door, he can't really see into the room, with the blinds shut at the windows. He knocks once, but it's weak, his hand shaking with nerves. He tries again, firmer this time, still clutching the stupid biscuits in his other hand like a lifeline.
When no answer comes, Lando has a hunch about why. He carefully opens the door a crack to peek inside and finds Oscar fast asleep on the couch. The TV is on but muted. The windows on the other side of the wall aren't shut, so the afternoon sunlight is streaming into the room, casting a warm glow over Oscar’s frame and highlighting the dirty-blond streaks in his hair.
And just like all the other times Lando has seen him like this, his limbs are all squeezed together in the confined space he has. His shoes are off, and his bare knees are visible from where his shorts are riding up. One hand is tucked under his head on the armrest, while the other hangs loosely off the couch. His chin is slightly tucked toward his chest, but Lando has an unobstructed view of his peaceful face.
I guess that concludes my plan for today, Lando thinks, with a pang of disappointment, but the sight of Oscar sleeping so serenely softens his mood. His heart squeezes futilely at the sight of Oscar’s slightly jutting lips, at the way his eyelashes cast shadows on his cheeks. Compelled by a mixture of juvenile like longing and affection, Lando carefully places the pack of Mint Slice on the small coffee table and kneels beside the couch.
He doesn’t know what he’s doing, his body seemingly acting on its own accord. His fingers, which have been itching to touch Oscar’s soft-looking hair, do just that, carefully, barely daring. Gently, almost reverently, he traces the strands that have fallen over Oscar’s forehead, brushing them aside to get a clearer view of his face with a bated breath. Lando is acutely aware of how foolish he is being, but he can’t bring himself to care about the potential consequences that will follow if Oscar happens to wake up and find him here, like this.
A crow croaks outside the window, and Lando startles, breaking out of the trance-like state he’s been in, his hand making to draw away from Oscar's face. He doesn’t get far before a hand grips his wrist with a strength that seems improbable for someone just waking up. Lando nearly jumps out of his skin.
When he looks away from the grip on his wrist and meets Oscar's gaze, he finds those brown eyes alert.
His stomach drops like a stone.
"Oscar," he breathes out, voice trembling slightly. "Fuck, mate, I'm sorry. I didn’t—I didn’t mean to creep in on you like that."
"What were you doing?" Oscar asks, his eyebrows drawn together.
Lando's heart sinks. They’ve messed up. Max and Carlos must have misread Oscar, taking acts done out of friendship and turning it into something it never was, and now Lando has spooked him out beyond repair, and he is so stupid.
"I'm sorry," Is all Lando manages to say, his voice filled with genuine misery. He knows he must look as wretched as he feels.
Oscar’s expression softens, a hint of concern in his eyes. “Hey, I’m not mad at you.”
Lando shakes his head, his guilt palpable. “You should be.”
Oscar cracks a smile, easing some of the tension from Lando. As Oscar sits up, his grip on Lando’s wrist loosens. Lando tries not to miss the warmth of it. Feeling a bit awkward kneeling on the ground, he shifts to sit on the coffee table, which seems to hold his weight comfortably.
"I reckon that’s for me to decide, depending on your answer," Oscar says. His gaze shifts to the pack of Mint Slice next to Lando, his eyes flickering with something unreadable before settling back to their usual calm.
The thing is, Lando definitely has an out here. He could either pretend he was about to wake Oscar up for a meeting that doesn’t actually exist, or say Charlotte’s asking for him downstairs and hope she pulls through.
Oscar would accept his answer, he knows this, because Oscar trusts him. And that’s enough to make Lando lean towards the truth. Despite how stupid and lovesick it might sound, he doesn't want to betray the trust Oscar has placed in him, even if Oscar would be none the wiser.
And he is exhausted from doing mental gymnastics to avoid this conversation, because he knows himself well enough to recognize that his feelings for Oscar will only continue to grow until they become obvious to everyone around them. Eventually, Oscar would notice, and the fallout from that would be far worse than if Lando were to address it directly now.
And maybe, just maybe, there’s a glimmer of hope that this might not be as one-sided as he believes. Perhaps there’s something to what Carlos said about Oscar laughing at his jokes when no one else does. And maybe the fact that he hasn't seen anyone else make Oscar laugh quite as much as he does means something.
"Alright," Lando says, settling into his decision. "But first, you gotta promise not to knock my teeth out, yeah?"
Oscar splutters, looking genuinely bemused and a bit hurt. "Why would I?—I wouldn’t do that to you." His reaction soothes Lando's nerves, even if only a little.
Lando smiles, infatuated. He can't believe it took the combined braincells of his friends to make him realize how gone he is for Oscar. "Yeah, man, but you gotta promise anyway." And on a limb, he extends his pinkie.
Oscar rolls his eyes, but it's all fondness, Lando can see it, as he extends his own pinkie and they lock them together.
"Promise," Oscar says gravely, the corner of his mouth ticking up in thinly veiled amusement.
"Thanks, mate," Lando says uselessly, just to delay the inevitable by a few more seconds. "I didn't come in here loom over you like a creep or anything, I can assure you that." He clarifies first.
"Good to know," Oscar says, tone dry.
Lando ignores him. He's got this. National treasure. A catch. That's him.
And because he is Lando, and his brain is incapable of sugarcoating his words, or adding tactfulness to it, he just tells it as it is. "I came in with Mint Slice biscuits, because I know they are your favorite, and you don't indulge because of your diet. Plus, I know they remind you of home since they are also your dad's favorite."
Oscar looks taken aback, mouth going slack.
"And after giving you the biscuits and maybe charming you a bit, I was going to ask you out on a date. You know, when the team isn’t all up in our faces during the week—maybe around São Paulo, or back home in England during the winter break. Or in Australia, depending on where you end up. If you'd be willing."
"A date?" Oscar inquires carefully, and Lando doesn't think he’s imagining the hope in Oscar’s eyes or the faint blush on his cheeks. It’s enough to make him push through, getting the last bit of his speech out of the way.
"Yeah, a date. 'Cause I like you." Lando says finally. Adds, "Romantically." To shut down any potential confusion.
The last bit pulls a wheeze from Oscar, and he looks genuinely happy, if Lando dares to say so. Content, even, not at all disgusted or repulsed, and certainly not like someone who is about to reject him.
Lando chokes on an exhale, having momentarily forgotten how to breathe. He did it. Lando Trooper Norris, baboom.
“I would like that, yeah,” Oscar says, his voice soft and shy, and reserved in the way Oscar is by nature, with a smile that makes Lando’s heart race. Lando wants to bite his flushed cheeks, but that would probably be too much too soon, and he isn't about to scare Oscar away when he just got him. He will put a pin on that thought.
"Yeah?" Lando grins, feeling all floaty with relief and giddiness.
Oscar nods. "I like you too, in case that wasn't perfectly clear."
"Can't hurt to hear it."
Oscar grins something pretty, the sunlight hitting him just right, turning his eyes honeyed and sweet, and Lando is so, so gone for him, with the cheesy shit his brain is supplying, but he can't bring himself to care.
Oscar holds out his palm, and Lando takes it gently, memorizing the contrast between the tan of his hand and the milky hue of Oscar's. Lando's larger hand slightly engulfs Oscar's smaller one, tracing the callouses there almost absently.
"Oh, by the way," Oscar perks up from where he had been watching Lando trace shapes on his palm, expression equally smitten. "I don't fancy Mint Slice. I only ate them for a week straight because my mom sent a parcel full of 'em."
"Mate, you cannot be serious." Lando says weakly, face paling.
Oscar laughs hard, his eyes crinkling into crescents by the force of it. Before Lando can fully process his shock (or feign offense, for that matter, for being laughed at), Oscar is pulling him in by their linked hands, sharing the taste of his joy with him.
All in all, it's a success.