Chapter Text
There were several things that Lando knew for a fact. He knew that he loved playing volleyball – had since he was four years old and always would until the day he was no longer physically capable. He knew that he was a talented player, that he was quicker than almost all his previous teammates and that he could score points at will without having to struggle for it. He also knew that he was going places and that he would get into university with a scholarship in volleyball, even if he had to fight tooth and nail for it. These were all true, indisputable facts in Lando’s mind.
He also knew that he and Oscar Piastri were unspoken rivals, and that he hated the younger player with every fibre of his being.
To Lando, Piastri was a pest – a crime against all that was good and a constant thorn in his side. He managed to weasel his way into everything Lando did and poison it. When Lando was ranked as the top player of the season, Piastri had to snatch his place. When Lando’s team managed to rack up points in the league, Piastri and his stupidly successful team would suddenly pass them on the scoreboard without fail. When his team played amazingly and managed to advance in a tournament, it always ended with them losing against Piastri’s. Every. Single. Time.
When that happened, which it had more times than he could count, the humiliation and feeling of crushing defeat wasn’t the worst part of it in Lando’s eyes. No, the worst part was having to stand there and try to keep it together as Piastri looked at him from the other side of the court, a shiteating smirk on his otherwise expressionless face.
God, Lando hated him more than anything else in the world.
If anyone asked him how it all had started, Lando had a difficult time explaining it, but it was an irrefutable fact that Piastri had been put on this Earth with the sole purpose of making Lando miserable.
Although he couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment he started to despise the other, Lando knew he’d felt like this since they were kids. Even at six years old, Piastri had been infuriatingly talented. A naturally gifted volleyball player, his parents always said, gushing over the boy two years Lando’s junior and effectively making Lando hate him even more. He dominated every team he was in without fail, always scoring the most points and cementing his place as a star player on the court in every game he played. It was maddening to watch and to realise that Piastri truly had no weaknesses. He was an allrounder – he could serve like a cannon, spike from any part of the court, almost never fumbled a receive or a block, and not to mention a prodigy setter. Lando knew all of this against his will – either because his parents had told him time and time again, or because he’d had to find out for himself in every fucking game he’d played against the younger player.
Of course, all of this wouldn’t be too bad if it wasn’t for the fact that Lando also couldn’t stand Piastri as a person. Lando could live with the fact that Piastri outperformed him in some areas on the court – not all, but some. He was competitive, but not impossible. There were several players that he’d played with and against that he’d been ruthless with on the court but that had turned out to be great guys off it. People like his friend Max Fewtrell for example – a person he could easily argue with on court but that he’d also gladly hang out with in his free time. Lando was an outgoing guy, social to a fault and always up to make friends after all.
When it came to Piastri however, it was impossible to even have a decent conversation with the guy. Everything that he was personality wise simply clashed with Lando on a deep, fundamental level. Where Lando was talkative, Piastri was quiet. Where Lando was inviting, Piastri was cold and mysterious. Where Lando was fun, Piastri was painstakingly and mindnumbingly boring. They didn’t mix, and that’s that. Like oil and water – it simply wasn’t meant to be.
To make it even worse, Piastri also had a tendency to get on Lando’s nerves regularly without fail. It was just something about the way he held himself, the way he looked at Lando when their gazes met on opposite sides of the net. It was somehow a mix of indifference and pity – like he knew he’d beat Lando without even having to try that hard, and like said fact didn’t matter to him in the slightest. It made Lando’s blood boil. It made him want to scream and yell at him until his throat hurt – made his fingers itch to reach out through the net and strangle the younger player. It would be worth it only to make that insufferable smirk disappear off his lips for even one second.
He hadn’t tried to make any of his more murderous thoughts about Piastri reality yet, but they had fought a lot over the years. When two people couldn’t stand each other like the two of them did, it was inevitable that some insults were thrown on the court and off it. Lando doesn’t know who had started it in the beginning, but he knew that he wasn’t the only one out of them that felt the urge to rip the others’ head off every time they ended up in the same room. Of course, Lando was probably the more impulsive out of them, and so he could imagine that he had started most of the fights if anyone were to keep track. Still, Piastri had always been quick to return the favour, throwing hurtful insults right back even when the judges told him off for it.
As was expected, Lando’s tendency to verbally fight the other player every chance he got hadn’t been appreciated by those around him. His team found it stressful, although they did agree with Lando that Piastri’s attitude was shit and that he deserved to be put in his place. The coaches hadn’t been as understanding, constantly telling him to be the bigger person, to ignore Piastri and focus on his own effort, that he was making it hard on the others in his team and so on. His parents were the worst out of everyone – unable to understand how their usually loving and smiling son could hate someone with so much contempt and despise.
Lando had tried to explain it to them – had told them about Piastri’s unsportsmanlike scheming on court, his condescending attitude and his unshakeable nonchalance that made Lando want to rip his hair out – but it was like talking to a wall. He didn’t know why, but his parents had some bizarre admiration when it came to the young player, and Lando would be lying if he said it didn’t hurt. It felt unfair – because wasn’t his parents supposed to support him? To take his side when it came to things like these? If it was, his parents clearly hadn’t gotten the memo, always singing Piastri’s praises as though trying to convince Lando of the fact that he wasn’t so bad after all.
To say they were trying to do the impossible would be an understatement. They could have told Lando that two plus two equals five and he’d be much more inclined to believe that than Oscar Piastri being a decent person.
Despite having told them all his reasons to hate Piastri, it was still difficult to explain the actual root of his animosity. How could he explain to someone the feeling of resentment that grew in him at the mere mention of Piastri’s name, the taste of it like bile in his mouth, or the sudden urge to break something that exploded in him against his will every time Piastri was in his proximity? The hate he felt wasn’t something intellectual or spiritual any more, hadn’t been for a very long time. It was something corporeal – as physical as a punch to the gut – and Lando couldn’t control it no matter how hard he tried to.
It all came to a head during their last tournament against each other. It had been a major one, the National Junior Championships, the one Lando had been preparing himself for up until that point. Him and his team had worked their asses off – practiced techniques until their arms hurt and gone over strategies until their eyes bled and their brains turned to mush. It had been a horrible couple of months prior, but Lando felt that he was more ready than he’d even been before. He had improved almost everything about himself – he was faster than before, jumped higher, managed to receive more successfully and then some. In his eyes, he was almost perfect, and he was going to make sure his team managed to win the tournament this time.
Those dreams all came crashing down on him the moment he was met with Piastri’s team in the final.
His team had fought hard. It was the best they’d played since he’d joined years ago, and they executed their tactics flawlessly. They were like a well-oiled machine at first, racking up points despite the challenge that was the team in front of them. For a second, Lando had hoped. Hoped that they would win, believed that they could. It wasn’t an impossibility anymore, and the exhilaration of it all was dizzying. Victory was so close, Lando could practically taste it.
Then, Piastri had gone and ruined it all like he always did.
From one second to the next, it was like the whole game had been flipped on its head. Instead of their opponents messing up receives to Lando’s spikes, Piastri had been there to block them. When Lando’s team had managed to keep the points even, Piastri would deliver five serve aces in a row and effectively leave them in the dust. Every time the front line of Lando’s team tried to coordinate a block, Piastri would feint them with his eyes or simply drop the ball over on their side instead, looking on smugly as Lando’s teammates all scrambled to the floor in hopes of reaching the ball in time.
They never did, and Lando was so furious he could scream.
They went from winning two sets to suddenly losing two, ending up with a tie and an inevitable last fifth set. Lando was exhausted, and could tell by the labored breathing of his teammates around him that they were too. Still, he refused to give up – refused to believe it was over yet. They had been the ones with the upper hand in the beginning of the game, and they would win it back and show Piastri and his stupid team that they were just as good, if not better, than them.
Lando fought like he’d never fought before then. He ran at full speed after every ball he could, crashing into the wall and spectators’ bench because of it. He threw himself on the ground, every muscle in his body screaming in pain when he hit the hard floor, and he still forced himself to get up again to try and score another point at the net. He pushed himself to run faster, jump higher, spike harder – ignoring the ache in his bones and the mounting pain in his arms and legs. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered if they lost this game – not the team’s efforts and not Lando’s.
He remembered seeing a ball fall over the net again, being dumped from Piastri’s hands and hitting the hardwood floor with a deafening thud. Lando had looked up at the scoreboard although he already knew what the standings were. 22-24 – match point for Piastri’s team. Fury and disbelief mixed in Lando’s stomach, the anger making him nauseous. This can’t be fucking happening.
Their coach had called for time out then, gathering the team in a depressing circle just outside the lines of the court. He gave them pointers and encouragement, trying to awaken the previous confidence they’d had in the beginning of the match and subsequently lost with every tick against them on the scoreboard. Lando wasn’t listening though – his attention was on the other side of the court still, eyes glued to Piastri’s back as he stood huddled with his own team. He glared at the number on his shirt – 81, the same number that had haunted him for over a decade now. Everything around him was a blur, his pulse thudding in his ears and every part of him drained to the core.
The only thing that was crystal clear to him then was that he had to beat Piastri, even if he had to break himself while trying.
The sound of the whistle cut through his senses, and he walked onto court with the rest of his teammates in a daze. His heart was hammering painfully behind his ribs, salty sweat sticking his hair to his forehead and making his eyes sting. He took his position on court, legs wide and arms at his sides, ready to receive the serve coming from the other side of the court. The second whistle sounded, indicating the start of the rally, and Lando tracked the ball as it came flying over the net.
Extending his arms just right, he felt the familiar sting as it hit his bruised forearms, flying in a perfect trajectory towards their setter. He didn’t waste any time before taking off, running forward with a yell on his lips and jumping, ready to execute a quick like they’d been planning before the serve. It was their most successful type of attack – it was fast and ruthless, catching the opposing team off guard almost every time, and Lando was the only one on the team who could do it because of his agility.
The setter passed the ball to him, the lightest touch sending it soaring to him like his hand was magnetic. Lando didn’t hesitate, whipping his arm forward with all the power he had left, his hand tingling as it hit the ball right on target.
The ball flew forward, only to hit straight into Piastri’s awaiting block, changing trajectory and bouncing right back onto Lando’s chest and down towards the floor.
Lando’s mind went blank, his arms and legs not cooperating as he tried to save the ball at the last minute. It was useless however, and the ball hit the floor just before Lando did, losing his balance and landing in a heap next to it. The air around him was quiet for a moment until it erupted in applause and cheering, the room practically vibrating.
Lando only sat there, the reality of what had just happened slowly dawning on him and making his gut twist painfully. He had fucked up, and it had lost them the match. It was humiliating. How could he have missed the block when it had been right in front of him? He could’ve done something – aimed differently or hit the ball upwards, making it travel above the block and dip down at the floor that had most likely been unguarded behind it. Instead, he’d manage to fully send it into an indestructible wall, effectively losing him and his entire team the whole championship.
Shame roiled in his stomach, making his throat constrict painfully. He felt a faint but familiar stinging at the corners of his eyes, and for a second he truly and utterly hated himself. Without thinking, he looked up, vision slightly blurry but still able to make out Piastri still standing there, looking down his nose at him.
The sight of it set all of Lando’s insides on fire in an instant.
He’d never felt like this before. He felt small underneath Piastri’s gaze, insignificant. Like a bug about to be squashed underneath Piastri’s shining white sneakers. He didn’t even try to hide the patronizing look on his face this time, only raising a disdainful brow as his eyes met Lando’s through the square pattern of the net between them.
Then, he smirked at him.
Lando had wanted to do it then. To step over the red line on the floor separating his side of the court from Piastri’s in order to punch him square in the jaw – to wipe the condescension and miscalculated superiority right off his face. The need to hurt Piastri was so vivid in Lando’s mind that it frightened him for a second, the sheer mass of his aggression catching him so off guard he had to stay put out of shock. He’d watched Piastri tilt his head at him in curiosity, turning on his heel and walking off to celebrate with his team, white hot anger still burning inside him.
His teammates had been quick to tell him it wasn’t his fault – to douse him in soothing reassurances accompanied with claps on his back – and Lando smiled at them although he didn’t believe a word they said. Nothing could make him believe he hadn’t just fucked it all up, and he didn’t know if he’d rather scream or cry. Standing in the showers of the changing rooms, Lando debated whether he should just drown himself in the cold water and get it over with but decided against it, instead letting it wash the stray tears away from his cheeks as he tried to scrape the mortification off his skin with soap.
Knowing his luck, Lando probably should have expected it, but it still caught him off guard to see Piastri sitting outside the changing rooms when he walked out. It made his breath catch for a second, shock quickly turning into the familiar rage as Piastri’s brown eyes looked up to meet his own. Lando noted that it was a bit odd – Piastri sitting there by himself when the rest of his team was standing a few meters away – but anger took precedence as he glared at the other. A million insults were forming in his head, begging to be thrown at the younger athlete, and it took every millimeter of Lando’s willpower to keep his mouth shut. He knew that fighting Piastri wasn’t worth it in the long run, knew he’d probably have to endure more gloating than he’d ever wish if he started anything now, and so he forced himself to rip his eyes away from Piastri’s, moving to turn away.
Apparently, Piastri didn’t get the memo, the smirk on his lips audible as he spoke.
“Got something to say, Norris?”
The words stopped Lando dead in his tracks, annoyance flaring in his chest anew. He whipped around to glare at Piastri again, jaw clenched painfully as he held back the insults on his tongue. He could hear whispers somewhere to his left, glancing there to see the rest of his team watching the exchange with worried looks on their faces. The sight of it made him pause again, clenching his fists and making his nails dig into the skin of his palms so hard it hurt.
Attempting to take a stabilising breath, Lando exhaled sharply out of his nose and narrowed his eyes at Piastri. The other was watching him intently, those intense eyes unrelenting as they bored into Lando’s own.
“I wanted to congratulate you on your win,” Lando grinded out, the compliment foreign and unpleasant on his lips. He hoped fervently that his efforts would land him some kind of appreciation from his team and coaches, because it truly drained him of any energy he had left. “You played well.”
Piastri only looked at him, his neutral and nonchalant face so punchable it made Lando’s hands itch. Then, he raised a brow, leaning back on the bench like he owned the whole arena. The next words out of his mouth were laced with contempt. “Wish I could say the same, but you played much worse than you usually do today. It was pretty miserable to watch, really.”
All thoughts on acting civil for his team’s sake flew out the window in an instant, and Lando took two threatening steps toward the boy in front of him. The whispers had quieted now, not only the ones coming from Lando’s own teammates but Piastri’s as well. There were no coaches in sight to stop their fight however, and so Lando glared down at Piastri with all the disdain he could muster.
“I played badly today?” Lando huffed a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “Bullshit. You won on sheer fucking luck, and nothing else. We played perfectly, and you know it.”
Piastri didn’t back down. Instead, he stood up from the bench, taking a step forward so they were only a hand’s width apart. Lando hated the fact that Piastri had a few centimeters on him – unable to do anything as the other looked down his nose at him effortlessly.
“If that was your best, I’d be ashamed,” Piastri said, words laced with venom. Lando bristled, regretting showing any sign of being affected at the jab the moment it made Piastri’s smirk widen. He leaned in further, tilting his head and whispering the next words so only Lando could hear them. His breath tickled the shell of his ear, making Lando’s hair stand on end. “If only you hadn’t smashed straight into my block, then maybe you would’ve had a chance at winning still, although I sincerely doubt it.”
It wasn’t a creative insult in the least. On any other day, in any other context, it probably would’ve only made Lando roll his eyes. His usual response would probably have been to tell Piastri he was an asshole and possibly, but pretty unlikely, walked off.
Today, however, the words made something inside Lando snap – and before he knew it, his fist had connected with Piastri’s jaw with an audible crack.
Piastri’s head snapped so the side instantly, his body falling backwards. He managed to catch himself however, his hand grabbing onto the bench and keeping him upright. When he turned to look at Lando again, there was something unreadable that flashed in his eyes. Was it shock? To Lando, it looked more like triumph, like he’d wanted Lando to punch him and gotten what he’d wanted. The insanity and arrogance of it made Lando see red, and he couldn’t stop himself before lunging at the other again.
Piastri met him halfway this time, grabbing his arms harshly and trying to push him away. He’d miscalculated how angry Lando was however, unable to avoid the kick the older aimed at his thigh. It landed, eliciting a satisfying groan from Piastri, but Lando only got to enjoy it for a second before Piastri returned a punch to Lando’s own cheek. Pain exploded all over his face, and it was at once horrible and exhilarating.
Looking back at it, Lando knew the first and only physical fight between the two of them that day had been predictable but inevitable. He’d been overwhelmed after having just lost, exhausted and fed up with the universe for failing him once again. Most of all, he’d been soul crushingly disappointed with himself, the thoughts whirling around his head since that final ball hit the floor beating him up mentally and reducing his confidence to dust. The rivalry between him and Piastri had also built for years at that point – since they were eight respectively five – and it had finally reached its crescendo at that particular moment outside of the changing rooms. It had built without any real sense of release, and it had all escalated into the mayhem it now had created.
It didn’t last for long before their teammates finally stepped in. Honestly, Lando wished they could have gone on longer – he wanted to beat the living shit out of Piastri, and in a sick and twisted way he felt that he himself also deserved a beating after failing so miserably on court. Sadly, they were torn apart by their respective teams, and Lando fought against their solid grip as he tried to lunge at Piastri again. He felt like a wild animal, completely void of all logical reasoning as he screamed at the top of his lungs.
“I’ll fucking kill you, Piastri!”
Instead of being taken aback by the sheer fury in Lando’s voice, Piastri only seemed to revel in it. Compared to Lando, he was the image of calm, barely even struggling against his teammates’ hold on his arms. His cheek and jaw were bruised and red, and his lip split as he grinned at Lando. There was something off about it, almost maniacal.
“I’d like to see you try, Norris.”
The consequences of the fight weren’t surprising to Lando in the least. Seeing as he’d landed the first punch, he was seemingly the sole person to blame for the whole fiasco. His teammates had tried to shift the blame onto Piastri instead, but given Lando’s record of aggression towards the younger player, they had a hard time believing them. It didn’t help that Piastri’s entire team had also seen Lando punch Piastri straight in the face out of nowhere, and so Lando took the chastising and chewing out with his mouth shut. It wasn’t without grievance of course – Lando could still feel the bitter taste of bile in his throat at the image of Piastri getting off scotfree, always treated like an innocent angel by the adults around him. When not even Lando’s own parents took his side, he wondered if he’d ever hate a person as much as he did Oscar Piastri.
All in all, there were several reasons for Lando to despise Piastri, but the one reason that trumped all others was the fact that he’d cost Lando his dream volleyball scholarship because of that fight. No matter how hard he tried to impress the university with his application letters and stunning experience in volleyball beforehand, he was always met with the same reason behind him being denied.
“Due to reports of aggression on and off court, we regret to inform you that you are not a suitable fit for the scholarship at our university. We thank you for your application and wish you luck in your continued search.”
Given a few years and distance between them, Lando could imagine that he’d probably get over his rivalry with Piastri after some time. They had been kids when it started after all, and there were a lot of childish and petty feelings involved to begin with. He’d never be friends with the guy, let alone friendly, but he’d probably wake up one day and feel neutral at the thought of seeing Piastri again.
However, that was before Piastri had ruined his chances of getting a scholarship, effectively ripping his future away from him in the span of a few seconds.
Now that – that was something Lando could never forgive him for.
♖
Two years had passed since then, and a lot had changed.
Following the end of the Junior Championships and other final tournaments in his age group, Lando had struggled with university applications for a very long time. Not only had his fight with Piastri made his life much harder in that respect, but his family’s economical situation also didn’t broaden his horizons much. In order to play volleyball at university like he wished, he had to get a scholarship with the majority of the tuition discounted, something that wasn’t offered at any of the closer universities in his area – or at least not by any that were interested in paying for Lando’s attendance.
As it was, Lando had been unable to start university immediately after graduating college because of it. He had the grades for it, although they weren’t amazing seeing as he’d been buried in volleyball throughout his teenage years, but he’d actually performed far better on his A-levels than he’d ever imagined. Lando wasn’t someone who was naturally gifted when it came to academic achievement, but he damn well knew how to work for something he wanted. It was the way he powered through life, and he wasn’t going to let a stupid fight with Piastri ruin his chances of playing university volleyball like he’d always wanted to.
Some would probably call his incessant efforts for a scholarship obsessive and fruitless – god knows Lando had been told this by several of his friends who’d already let go of their potential career in volleyball to pursue what they considered more realistic jobs. Jobs like engineering and economics or whatever the hell normal people studied for. What they didn’t understand was that Lando had been working for this his entire life – he’d wanted to be a volleyball player since he was four, ever since his big brother had thrown a volleyball his way and showed him how to do a bump. He’d fallen in love in an instant, marvelling at his bruised forearms and the exhilaration he’d feel whenever he managed to hit a spike just right.
He’d decided then that he was going to be a volleyball player, and that was that.
It didn’t matter that his dream university didn’t want him, because he’d just apply for others. He kicked everything into high gear – he got two separate jobs to put aside money for tuition fees, effectively working day and night almost every single day of the week. He played volleyball every second of free time that he got – joining his old teammates at their recreational matches and practicing techniques by himself when he could. There was nothing that terrified him more than his skills that he’d worked for his entire life diminishing because he was slacking off, and it turned out that fear was an amazing motivator.
He also contacted every university in his region, and some distance outside it, looking for any possibility of a scholarship involving volleyball. Lando wouldn’t be surprised if the contact centers for every university in Britain knew his name by now, this being somewhat confirmed when he accidentally called the same university twice and was told he didn’t have to introduce himself. He’d also written and rewritten his application until it was spotless, void of anything negative that could make the person reading it doubt his suitability. To make it even better, he’d managed to earn himself some shining references from all his previous coaches, trainers and teammates, making sure to add them in every application he sent off.
After going through all that trouble, Lando feared he was going to break completely if he still wasn’t able to get in. He’d put his all into it, every last bit of energy and ambition, and he was certain that the only thing awaiting him on the other side would be a deep depression if it didn’t go his way.
Luckily, it did.
After one whole year of tireless work, it finally paid off with a partial scholarship at Kingsbridge University, an average ranking university some distance away from his parents’ house that offered scholarships for some of their volleyball players. Lando had screamed outright when he’d gotten the acceptance letter online, running around the house in ecstasy and hugging every one of his family members. His big brother had picked him up like he’d done when they were kids, spinning him around in the living room and laughing loudly, yelling his name. Lando hadn’t been able to be quiet about it for the entire day, tiring out his entire family before calling his closest friends to scream about it some more.
“Max, I fucking did it!” He’d yelled into his phone, disbelief and victory making his whole body feel light. “I got a scholarship at Kingsbridge!”
“Jesus fucking Christ mate, you’re bursting my eardrums,” had been Max’s reply, but Lando had been able to hear the smile on his face even through the phone. “Does this mean we can finally go out and get pissed again?”
“Abso-fucking-lutely.”
Lando hadn’t hesitated before signing the contract, joining the university and by extension the volleyball club the second he got the chance. Part of him had been afraid it had all been in his head – an elaborate prank – and that the opportunity suddenly would get snatched away from him again. But nothing of the sort had happened, and Lando was now finally attending a university with a volleyball scholarship like he’d always known he would. The road there hadn’t been as easy as he’d first imagined, but he’d done it.
On the whole, there was a lot that had changed. Although it wasn’t everything Lando had dreamed of, it was good enough – he got to play volleyball in a team that appreciated him and with teammates he actually liked. They didn’t dominate the Regional Tournament by any means, but Lando could feel that everyone on the team was as hungry as he was to change that. The team was mediocre, but it had a lot of potential. The first thing the team captain Charles LeClerc had told Lando was that he was definitely overqualified, his prior experience way above the rest of his teammates. He’d said it like he believed that Lando could be their break – that he was one of the final puzzle pieces that would be able to put Kingsbridge on the map again.
The idea of it thrilled Lando. He finally had a new purpose and goal to work towards – make Kingsbridge champions again, and destroy Piastri when he met him on the court again.
It wasn’t perfect, but Lando was definitely content for now.
He probably should have realised that nothing ever was that easy for him. He should’ve known that the comfort he felt was temporary, and that it would only ever be the calm before the storm that was Oscar Piastri.
♖
Lando ran forward, his sneakers squeaking against the vinyl floor of the gymnasium. His eyes were directed at Gabi to his right as he yelled with all his might. “Mine!”
He saw Gabi meet his eyes, not hesitating for a second before setting the ball Lando’s way. Lando had already jumped before the fact, levitating off the ground and whipping his arm forward. His hand hit the ball with a loud smack, flying between Alex’s awaiting hands and hitting the floor behind him with a satisfying thud. Kimi dove for it, although unable to get there in time, ending up with him simply lying there on his stomach as his chest heaved.
Lando celebrated the second his feet touched the ground again – throwing his hands in the air and shaking his hips in a way that he knew would make Alex disturbed. As usual, he was correct – watching in delight as Alex frowned at him, disgust evident in his eyes.
“There is something deeply wrong with you,” Alex said, voice dead serious. It only made Lando’s grin widen.
“I could twerk instead if you want?” Lando offered – or more like threatened, judging by the horrified look that passed on Alex’s face at the words. “A victory twerk, if you will.”
“Don’t you fucking dare.”
“I’d like to see that, actually,” Carlos piped up from the other side of the net. He was standing next to Alex, sweat coating his forehead but a mischievous smile on his lips despite the exhaustion.
“Don’t encourage him!” George whined. “He’s like a toddler – if you get him going, he’ll never stop. He’s worse than my niece, and she’s two years old.”
“At least toddlers are cute,” Alex continued, seemingly egged on now that George had taken his side, like he always did. “Lando is just painful to watch. I get so much second hand embarrassment, I can barely block properly.”
“Alright, I get it,” Lando said, voice bordering on irritation. “You could tone down the personal attacks, you know.”
“But you make it so easy,” George teased. His blue eyes were wide with false innocence, and Lando felt his brow twitch in annoyance. “I have material for days. Honestly, the jokes just write themselves–”
“Alright, that’s enough,” Charles cut in, effectively interrupting what would most likely turn into a back and forth of disses between the two spikers. He walked into the center of the court, giving Lando a pat on the back and a friendly smile. His handsome face still made Lando pause despite having been on the team for half a year by now, and so it took him a second to smile back.
Charles’ hand slipped off his back as he turned to the rest of the players around him. “Alright everyone, gather around. I know everyone just wants to play games all the time, but I do think we should practice some drills as well before that.”
Lando groaned at the words, joined by the majority of the others on the court. Charles only rolled his eyes at them, crossing his arms. “No more complaining. I know this is our first practice of the semester and that you’re all very excited to compete against each other, but the season starts in under a month. So if you don’t mind, I’d really appreciate it if we didn’t suck like last year.”
“Hey, we didn’t suck!” Ollie complained. “It’s not like we placed last.”
“Sure, because placing third to last in the league isn’t defined as sucking,” George muttered.
“Come on Charles, one more game, please! The coaches aren’t here today, they don’t have to know,” Kimi said, still lying on the floor. He propped himself up on one elbow, looking up at the captain with a pout on his lips. “Besides, I agree with Ollie – we just need a little more practice and then I have a feeling we’re gonna go to the semis this year at least!”
Kimi was right in the fact that their two coaches – Guenther Steiner and Toto Wolff – were nowhere to be seen today, busy doing admin work in the beginning of the term. They wouldn’t have an opportunity like this again until next year, their future being destined to involve hours of unrelenting drills and suffering. Still, Lando knew for a fact that Charles wouldn’t be that easily swayed no matter how much Kimi pouted. He’s just scary like that.
“I appreciate your enthusiasm, but we’re not reaching the semis unless we practice our receives,” Charles said, voice brooking no discussion. “The last practice game against Alderwick was a disaster that I’m not keen to live through again.”
Lando remembered that game. They’d lost over ten points and the entire match because they hadn’t been able to pick up the other team’s floating serves and powerful spikes – the balls hitting their arms at wrong angles and then flying off into the distance, none of them able to catch them before they hit the ground or the wall. He winced. “Yeah, that was brutal.”
“Exactly,” Charles agreed. He clapped his hands together, pointing at the baskets with volleyballs in a clear command. “I want you to pair up two and two and practice against each other, then we’ll do the same but over the net. Every time you fuck up a receive, I want to see five push ups.”
“Five push ups?” Alex exclaimed, looking at Charles like he’d grown a second head. “What is this, military bootcamp?”
“You could use some push ups, Albon,” Lando teased, pinching the other’s bicep as he walked past. “You do look awfully scrawny.”
“Kind of like a chicken,” Carlos agreed.
“Or a Victorian child dying of starvation,” George said. Seeing as he was closest to Alex, that earned him a slap to the neck.
“If you guys don’t start the drills I’ll make you all do one hundred push ups,” Charles threatened, effectively making them all shut their mouths.
Lando turned to Carlos instantly, raising his brows in question. Carlos was already walking his way however, and Lando grinned as he found them a spot a bit further from the net to start tossing the ball to each other.
Out of all the people on the team, Lando found that he and Carlos were the most alike. They were both middle blockers for one, something that had made Lando feel threatened at first before he realised Carlos was one of the sweetest guys on the team. Sure, he could be scary when he wanted to, but he never was when it came to Lando. They had a kind of big brother, little brother relationship going on, and Lando found that he really enjoyed Carlos’ company and silly humour.
“Come on, Landito,” Carlos called from some distance away, dialect shining through heavily. “Show me what you got.”
Lando threw the ball in the air, sending it Carlos’ way with an overhand pass. Carlos hit it back with a bump, and Lando immediately spiked it down, making Carlos dig it up with another bump.
They went back and forth, only missing a few receives and subsequently having to do some push ups. It didn’t bother Lando much – he was light, the only weight on his body being muscle. The same couldn’t be said about Carlos, seeing as the man was both taller and heavier than Lando. He was throwing out repeated curse words in Spanish, and Lando snickered as he heard Charles’ name being mentioned at least twice, albeit never when the Monegasque was close enough to overhear.
Lando got lost in the drill, his brain only focusing on hitting and catching, eyes zeroed in on the ball in front of him. It was something he loved about the sport – the fact that he could disappear into it completely, his brain shutting out everything else, leaving him completely free of distractions. As someone who tended to think a lot of unnecessary thoughts, it was a haven, and Lando revelled in it.
He was so focused on the drill that he didn’t notice the doors of the gymnasium opening, the fact probably getting filtered out of his consciousness as someone getting water. It wasn’t until Charles’ voice piped up, making Carlos pause, that Lando realised something was terribly, horribly wrong.
Because the words on Charles’ lips had been “Oh, Oscar, welcome! I didn’t think you’d be able to make it today.”
Something deep awoke in Lando’s gut then, a twisting and familiar anger that he’d thought he’d be able to avoid for the foreseeable future. Because he already knew who would be standing there when he looked up – even though his brain told him it couldn’t be, that the universe couldn’t be that fucking cruel. There’s absolutely no way.
Still, it was with a mixture of rage and dread that Lando turned to follow Charles’ gaze, eyes finding with a new surge of annoyance the tall figure standing in front of the doors. He was standing there with his hands in his pockets, clad training clothes and with the usual nonchalant air to him as his eyes instantly met Lando’s own.
Oscar fucking Piastri.