Archive of Our Own

"What the fuck."

Lando hears George and Alex giggle, but he doesn't look at them, instead focused on the cause of their reaction. Because in the middle of his living room, where his couch used to be, there is a huge box that isn't supposed to be there.

He arrived from the factory, dead on his feet, ready to take a long shower and go to bed, only to find these two idiots inside his flat (when did they even get a key??), laughing their asses off without any apparent reason.

The box is bigger than Lando himself. A plain, brown cardboard box; nothing to indicate what might be inside it. Lando frowns at it, apprehensive, wary. What are Alex and George up to now?

“What the fuck is that and why did you put it here?” Lando manages to ask, stunned. "And where is my couch?"

George turns to answer him while Alex unsuccessfully hides his chuckle behind his hand. "The couch is in your room. As for the box: it’s a gift for you. So you don’t feel so lonely anymore.” He seems to be barely suppressing his laugh and Lando frowns.

"That tells me absolutely nothing," he protests but he is too tired to fight, knows his friends well enough to know they won't give him a straight answer.

Alex, who managed to stop giggling, grabs George and pushes him towards the door. "We'll let you open it alone. Have fun!"

He gives Lando one final amused look before closing the door behind them, George following close behind him. The silence and quiet that settles into the apartment after reveals to him how much the pain is drilling into his head.

Lando massages his temple and stares at the box, wondering what the fuck could they gift him that could be bigger than himself.

He sighs and after meditating whether to deal with this now or in the morning, he finally caves, curiosity getting the better of him. It takes a knife and a chair for him to do it, and more effort than he had wanted to make after a long work day, but he finally manages to rip the box apart. He figures there's no use in not destroying it—and at this point, he doesn’t care to try either.

He climbs down the chair and pulls away his hair from his eye to take a better look at the content.

Lando briefly wonders if he’s dreaming.

At first, he thinks it's a big real life doll, though that would be ridiculous. Why would George and Alex give him a giant Barbie?

A second look tells him that his first thought hadn't been too far off. It's not a Barbie, he realizes, and it’s hard to tell how it looks or what he is wearing, because of the plastic around it, but it looks like a full size person in a box.

This is weird as fuck, he thinks. But he has no other choice, he figures. This is his problem to deal with. He uses the knife to cut the plastic, finally getting a look at whatever the fuck the thing—a doll? a robot?— is.

The shock makes him turn a step away. Confusion and anger fill up his chest and make it harder to breathe. 

Did they do this on purpose..?

There’s no way. They couldn’t have, his rational side tells him. George and Alex don’t know about it. He’s never told them.

But then...what is going on? Because the real life size in his living room looks too fucking familiar.

His body acts without him realizing: he bends down and grabs a pamphlet he hadn't noticed before.

New merchandise: for a week, get your own Oscar Piastri! He can talk and sing like the real singer! Product only available for a month, in celebration of the 4th year anniversary of his first EP.

"What the fuck," he whispers, like saying it louder is too dangerous. He doesn't recognize his own voice.

He looks at the face of the robot (he still isn't sure what this is supposed to be, just knows it’s creepy as fuck). His gaze travels through the soft lips, the constellation of moles, the long eyelashes almost touching his cheeks, the fluffy prince-like hair. It looks so much like him that Lando's heart squeezes in his chest. He lets himself tumble down to the floor and just sits there, as a wave of nostalgia fills him up and he allows himself something he has been evading for a long time—he allows himself to remember.

Lando remembers long nights, tangled in bed, some video in the background. He remembers laughter and comfort. Familiarity that only comes from years in each other’s presence. He thinks if he tries hard enough, he could remember every little detail, every moment, all of them safely saved inside him, hiding behind all the walls he had to build to avoid falling completely apart these last years.

It also means remembering this Oscar —this doll, or robot, or clone, whatever the hell it is— is not his Oscar. That Oscar is not even his anymore. Hasn’t been for years. He has no right over him. And yet—

And yet those eyes are the same he remembers, big, brown, full of innocence, of passion. Eyes that glowed when Lando rambled or kissed him by surprise.

He is so deep in thought, so lost in the past, that he startles when it speaks. "Hello," it says. The surprise makes him jump. And hearing his voice again...of course he heard his voice in the last years, on the radio singing or giving an interview, but it's a whole other thing hearing it in person.

'He's not really Oscar' he repeats to himself.

"I’m Oscar. Nice to meet you! I'm so glad we will be together for the next seven days. You can ask me whatever you want."

The voice is wrong. Too cheerful, for starters. A softer accent than in Lando’s memory. And now that he can get a better look, the eyes are wrong too. They lack something—the thing that made Oscar himself. His soul or whatever. They are too cold. Impersonal. Oscar looked at him a million different ways—enamoured, angry, happy, dissapointed—but never like this.

Lando frowns. "Seven days?" he asks.

"Yes, this product only lasts seven days for security reasons. But we will make the most out of them. What is your name?"

‘I don’t want to tell you my fucking name,’ Lando wants to scream at it. It hurts too much.

He stares at it, trying to decide what to do. He can’t believe he will have to deal with this for seven days.

"I'm too tired for this," he finally says. "Do you have a turn off button?"

Fake-Oscar laughs.

"Of course not! Why would you want to turn me off?"

Great. Brilliant.

Lando sighs. "Please just stay here and don't do anything. I would offer you the couch but I have no idea what my friends did to it."

"I don't need to sleep," says fake-Oscar. "But do you think...could I use your TV?"

It sounds so much like the real Oscar, the way he used to ask for things shyly, while scratching an eyebrow, like Lando wasn’t willing to give him anything he asked for. Like Lando wouldn’t give him the whole world.

Lando shrugs.

“Sure. Whatever.”

He turns around and goes to his room. His mind is too tired to make sense of all of this. With luck, when he wakes up, all of this was some imagination from his sleep deprived mind.

He collapses onto the bed and closes his eyes.

***

Lando knows it had been wishful thinking that sleep would fix this. But he gets up, like usual, and is almost startled when he finds Oscar is sitting in the kitchen, staring into nothing.

“Good morning,” he says when he sees Lando. He is a little less cheerful than before, more similar to the real Oscar, who detested mornings.

“Good morning,” Lando mumbles back, sleep still lingering in the way he moves around while he gathers the stuff he needs for the day. “I am going out but help yourself to any food.”

“I don’t need to eat either,” Oscar informs him. Lando holds back a groan.

“Okay,” he simply says back. He’s already late. “Just don’t leave this flat, okay?” The last thing he needed was to deal with a fake Oscar wandering around Monaco.

“Sure,” not-Oscar agrees.

Lando has the stupid impulse to peck his lips, like he used to do, the old routine creeping back as a painful reminder of what was, and isn’t anymore. He catches himself in time.

He wants to bang his head against the wall. He wants this week to be over.

He contents himself with leaving the suffocating place.

***

"So, does it have a penis?"

"Max!"

"What? I'm just asking!"

The coffee shop is loud enough for their words to blend with the background noise but Lando blushes all the same.

They had agreed to have breakfast a few days ago. If Lando had known what would go down the day before, he would have never scheduled this, less of all in a public space.

He loves Max, truly. And he is one of the only people who knows about Oscar, about them, which he guesses it’s helpful in this situation. But he might not be the perfect person for this sort of crisis.

Need to game and get your mind off of stuff? Max is your guy.

Receive as a gift a real life size imitation of your secret ex-boyfriend? Not so much.

“It’s some kind of fucked up merch I guess,” Lando says, with a sigh. “And I can’t exactly throw a 1,78m man in the trash, so I’m stuck with it for seven days.”

“Living your own dark romantic comedy movie, mate.”

“Piss off,” he spats. Max just laughs. “It’s more of a horror movie,” Lando admits, as he plays with the strings of his hoodie. “I have to live with the poor version of my ex-boyfriend who doesn’t have a clue who I am. And he looks like him, but the details are all wrong. It’s creepy.”

Max presses his lips together in sympathy. He looks directly into Lando’s eyes. “When was the last time you spoke to him? The real Oscar?”.

Lando doesn't have to think hard about it. Four years, five months and fourteen days ago.

“When he broke up.”

Max winces. “That’s tough, mate.”

Lando hums. He bites into the last piece of his croissant and glances at the ceiling, pensive.

“What I don’t understand…,” he says. “is why George and Alex did this. They don’t know about Oscar so they clearly weren’t trying to torture me. So why? What was the point?”

Max fidgets in his seat and Lando leans forward, narrowing his eyes. After a bit of a staring contest, Max sighs.

“I hate to be the one to tell you this but…you have been a bit pathetic lately.”

“Pathetic?” Lando cries out.

“Lonely,” Max corrects himself. Lando stares at him in astonishment.

“All of this because I haven’t been dating?”

And he hasn’t. Not for the last four years. Not since Oscar. He has gone on a first date once or twice, when his friends pressured him into them, but never followed up with any of them. He couldn’t.

Truth is, the thought of touching another person makes him want to throw up and crawl out of his skin. He couldn’t bring himself to try again. Not if they weren’t going to have adorable brown eyes, cute teeth, fluffy hair, be prone to blushing…

Lando rubs the back of his head and Max stares at him, tilts his head.

“It’s not only about dating,” he says, softly. “You are closed off. You go out less. Focus too much on work…”

“I am fighting for a championship—”

“And that doesn’t seem to make you happy. Lando, we care about you. That’s why we are all trying to help, in our own way.”

Lando chews his thumbnail. He has no retort, no defense. But it’s not like he’s living dead. He smiles, plays padel with friends, laughs with fans. He’s doing his best. 

“I hear you Max, okay? I do. But I have to go. I have like a million meetings, before summer shutdown.”

Max leans on his chair with a big resigned sigh. “Ok. We are still on for Ibiza, right?”

Lando leaves a bill as a tip and gets up.

“Yes. Sure.”

***

Lando and Oscar meet each other the classic way: a pub in London, before both their careers took off.

Since it is June, Lando is wearing a white shirt, unbuttoned up to his chest, and curls styled the way he knows it's eye-catching. He is not looking for anything particular, just enjoying a beer with friends to get his mind off motorsports, to feel like the young man he is despite feeling constantly bombarded with expectations and pressure—but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t like the attention. He likes people’s eyes on him when he knows he looks good. Revels in that kind of recognition.

It’s nice. Catching up, having a night off and talking like they used to—although they mostly talk about gaming. It’s harder keeping in contact now that they’re all off doing their own thing.

When Lando’s friends send him to the bar to get another round, he goes, dragging his feet and protesting under his breath. He wanted to continue discussing Call of Duty.

He’s been waiting five whole minutes for the bartender to serve him, already considering batting his eyelashes at him if it will help speed things along, when he spots him. Across the bar. Fluffy hair, pink cheeks—Lando can’t tell if it’s the heater inside the place or he always looks like this—, thighs to die for squeezed into some shorts that are working harder than they should.

Pretty, Lando’s brain supplies.

He knows he is staring but he can’t bring himself to care. The other boy turns to him. Meets his eyes. Looks him up and down.

Lando smirks—that’s his in.

He slips off the barstool and makes his way towards him. Leans on the bar. Gives him his best sultry look. “Do you come here often?”

The other man gives him an unimpressed look and raises an eyebrow.

Lando truly had no intention of picking someone up that day. But the bloke is fit. He is hot in that nerdy awkward way that is not his usual type, but it’s working for him now. And when he speaks, an Australian accent mixed into it, Lando is a goner.

Years later, he realized he never stood a chance. Not against Oscar.

“Original,” he says, voice dripping with sarcasm. Lando's lips curl upwards.

“A classic,” he retorts. “What’s your name?”

The man purses his lips, as if considering whether or not he wants to continue the conversation. Lando bites his lips, expectant. The man stares at it, exhales. “Oscar,” he caves.

“Like in Fish Hooks!” Lando exclaims and Oscar chortles.

“Uhm, sure. Yes, like in Fish Hooks.”

Lando tilts his head and looks at him. Oscar’s cheeks turn pink under the scrutiny.

“Oscar,” he repeats, testing the sound in his mouth. “I like it. It fits you.” He receives a smile as a reward.

“Your hair looks a bit like him,” Oscar acknowledges, more of an internal thought than something he planned to say out loud. Lando wants to act offended but the laugh that escapes him betrays him. Oscar has the decency to look embarrassed.

“That’s mean, Oscar,” he teases. He brushes Oscar’s arm as he sits in the barstool next to him, knees touching in the small space. “So, tell me. What’s an Australian doing all the way here in England? Came to enjoy the weather?”

Oscar snorted. “Sure mate. I was in Australia thinking ‘oh, I would love not seeing the sun during half of the year’.” His tone is dry and Lando laughs. “No, I came here to be a musician.”

“Oh, cool!” he responds, his enthusiasm honest.

Oscar must recognize the sincerity because he smiles closed-mouthed, cheeks rising and outer corners of the eyes wrinkling.

“I think so, yes.”

Lando stares at him, beautiful under the dim light, desperately wondering what it would be like to sink his hands into the brown hair, what sounds it would pull out of Oscar, how he would taste if Lando licked into his mouth.

He blames this train of thoughts for the idiotic thing he blurts next—

“Wanna make out in the bathroom?”

Lando thinks he messed this up for sure. But Oscar shrugs, nods. “Sure.”

So Lando gets up with shaky legs and makes his way into the bar’s bathroom. Oscar follows him suit, and it’s not long before Lando is pushing him into a stall, clashing their lips together. Oscar releases a surprise moan and Lando swallows the noise, pushes a hand into the hair like he’s been dying to.

Oscar lightly grazes the tip of his tongue against Lando’s and he almost faints. He can’t blame the alcohol for the way his head is spinning. It’s all Oscar. His touch, his taste, his scent. Engulfing, captivating.

They make out until their lips are sore and their breaths are ragged.

“My friends are probably looking for me,” Oscar mumbles, Lando’s lips against his. Lando doesn’t want to ever let go.

Reluctantly, he does.

“Mine too,” he says back. Oscar’s lips are swollen and wet. Lando presses a peck to them.

They straighten their clothes, Lando tries unsuccessfully to adjust his curls, until they are decent enough to leave the stall. Outside the bathroom, they stand in front of each other. Oscar is barely taller than him but he remembers the thrill of being embraced by those arms.

Lando clears his throat. “I am Lando, by the way.” He extends his hand, which in hindsight was weird, considering they just shared saliva. But Oscar takes it.

“Oscar.”

“Yeah, mate. You already told me that.”

“Right.”

Lando lets go of his hand, even when all he wants to do is hold on. Preferably, forever. “It was nice to meet you.”

“You too.”

Lando wants to ask for his number or last name or anything, but he waits too long—Oscar already turned around, on his way to find his friends. So Lando thinks that’s that, which is a shame, because he liked Oscar. But he can accept reality. He’d remember fondly of the cute Australian he met at a bar one time and move on.

Max is still sitting at their table, with a knowing-smile. They have new drinks—someone else must have gotten them, tired of waiting for Lando.

“I see you have met Oscar,” Max teases, amused. Lando looks at him surprised.

“Wait, do you know Oscar?”

Max looks terribly smug as he shrugs.

There’s no way Max will ever let this go. He will tease him for eternity. But— “Can you…Do you know his last name?”

Max grins. Lando knows he will regret this later. He can’t bring himself to care.

“Yes. It's Piastri.”

It doesn’t take long for Lando to find him on social media, considering Max already follows him. Oscar's profile is filled with pictures with friends, landscapes, videos singing with a guitar. Before he can overthink it, Lando presses the follow button.

When Lando gets home, he sees the notification:

Oscar Piastri has followed you back!

***

Before returning to his apartment, Lando could almost forget about the hell that fell on his lap. But as he opens the door and hears the TV, he knows he has no other choice—he has to face it.

He’s dead on his feet again, after spending the whole day in the simulator, yet he tries to force his brain to process this whole thing. He gathers the information he has so far: this is some kind of fucked up merch. He hasn’t recognized Lando, so he doesn't have Oscar’s entire brain. Or had he been faking?

He finds fake-Oscar sitting on his couch, TV set to an old F1 race. On it, Charles is leading the race, Lando trying to catch up to him after a pit stop. The whole situation is surreal; he considers the possibility that this is all a product of maladaptive daydreaming.

Lando sits by his side, leaving a good space in between them.

“So…” Lando starts, fidgeting with his sweatshirt sleeve, and having no idea how to approach the situation. He has so many questions he is having trouble knowing where to start. “Do you have the real Oscar's memory?”

Oscar turns to him. “No,” he answers, deadpan.

“What about his…I don't know, awareness? Are you connected to him, right now?"

Fake-Oscar looks at him like he is dumb. Lando doesn’t think that reaction is fair. “I am more of a toy.”

“Right.” Lando nods twice, rapidly. He feels himself growing frantic and tries to swallow it down. “So what do you have of him then? The real Oscar?”

Fake-Oscar shrugs, a flicker of a memory crossing Lando’s mind at the familiar gesture. “I was created from all the public information about him. And some extras, I guess.”

“Mint.” Far from mint. So far you could travel to a different galaxy. Bloody scary would be more accurate, but he can’t say that. “So, just to double check, you don’t know who I am?”

“Um, no. You didn’t introduce yourself.”

Lando exhales, relief washing through him. Perhaps a bit of disappointment too, although it’s so deeply hidden there’s no use in dissecting it.

“Good. Okay. I can live with that.”

Fake-Oscar tilts his head, confused by Lando’s squirming. But luckily, he doesn’t ask questions. Maybe he’s not programmed to do so. Small victories, he guesses.

An idea strikes him. It might be really dumb but—

"You...Oscar," he corrects himself, "used to wear this perfume and I never got to ask him which one it was."

If Oscar thinks it’s a weird question, he doesn’t show it. Maybe he is used to weirder requests. “I don’t know about perfume…but I do wear a chocolate scented deodorant. Lynx Dark Temptation.”

Lando is teletransported to years ago, a first date, him sitting on a kitchen counter, Oscar in between his legs, both of them drinking hot cocoa. He shakes his head, trying to get rid of the memories.

He desperately needs a shower. And dinner. And sleep. In that order. But he stops before leaving for his room. "I'm Lando, by the way," he says.

Fake-Oscar smiles at him. "Nice to meet you."

***

The doorbell rings while Lando’s hands are covered in flour. He opens the door to find Oscar, wearing a light-colored shirt, his hair fluffy as always. Oscar raises an eyebrow when he sees him.

“What exploded in your kitchen?”

Lando huffs, light-hearted. “Nothing, you muppet, I am making pasta. Come in.”

Lando’s flat is tiny, unusually tidy. His roommate, Sacha, is out. The table is set and there's wine on the table, some Argentinian malbec that they had in the apartment (Yes, Lando is trying to impress. Sue him).

The kitchen, however, is a bit more chaotic than Lando would have liked. He is not that much of a cook, and he has never cooked pasta from scratch in his life, but he has been following a video tutorial and wishing for the best.

“You look pretty.”

Lando’s smile widens as Oscar’s cheeks turn pink. He’s obsessed with it. Wonders how many blushes he can get out of him the whole evening.

“Thank you,” Oscar mumbles, shyly. Lando turns back to focus on stirring the sauce to avoid kissing him.

If he kissed Oscar now, they wouldn’t eat at all.

“I am almost done,” he tells him. Lando strains the pasta and places it inside the sauce.

“It smells good,” Oscar lets him know, which earns him a bright smile—Lando’s always been a fan of compliments.

He is standing in the kitchen unsure of himself, shifting his weight from one foot to another, so Lando shoos him. “Go sit on the table, I’ll be there soon.”

Oscar obeys and Lando makes sure he plates the food correctly to look pretty, like the girl in the video. Once he is satisfied, he takes the two plates back to the dining room. Oscar looks up at him, brown eyes wide and earnest smile, as Lando sets his plate in front of him.

“I didn't have much faith in your cooking skills but I have to admit this looks good.”

“Oi, mate!” he whines. Oscar raises an eyebrow unimpressed.

“Don't call me mate when you've had your tongue in my mouth, Lando,” he says deadpan and Lando chokes on saliva, starts coughing uncontrollably.

When Oscar smiles, he shows his bunny teeth. They are a bit uneven, Lando notices. Cute. He hides his blush by looking down and sitting in the chair opposite him.

Oscar takes a bite, hums around the fork. Lando looks at him, expectant, but Oscar takes his time to savor it. “This is amazing,” he says sincerely at last and Lando beams, he lights up like a Christmas tree.

“Thank you, Osc.”

It’s Oscar time to blush at the nickname. The second one of the night, Lando keeps count.

“So…” Lando says, taking a sip from the wine, tilting his head with curiosity. “I want to know the real story of how Oscar Piastri ended up living in England.”

Oscar shrugs. “Not that interesting of a story I am afraid. I moved here when I was 14 and attended a boarding school with a good musical program. Sorry to disappoint.”

“You could never disappoint,” Lando states firmly. “Why music?”

“I’ve always loved it, especially the lyrics. I grew up reading poetry in secret,” he says with a small laugh. Lando is transfixed in him, in the way he speaks, how he articulates his thoughts, the sutil fidgeting his hands are doing under the table. He wants to know everything there is to know about him. Grabs every piece of information shared like picking pebbles on the way home, treasured forever in the drawers of his mind. Oscar traces the rim of the glass absentmindedly. “I wasn't that good of a singer but I liked writing songs. Or…more like I needed it. It sounds dramatic…but yeah. Figured I could learn how to sing.”

Lando frowns. “You are a great singer.”

He is. Lando has heard his covers on Instagram.

“Now. You should’ve heard me when I started,” Oscar jokes. Lando wants to protest, to say that he doesn’t believe that for a second, but he allows him to keep talking, knowing it’s not about that. It’s about Oscar opening up to him. “It was a lot of work. I guess I could have become a songwriter, but I felt that if the words were about my life, I needed to voice them. Does that make sense?”

Lando nods, wanting to hold Oscar’s hand. Wanting a way beyond words to express that he gets him, that he cares, that he wants to keep making sense of his mind for as long as Oscar allowed him to. “It does.”

They stare at each other, eyes meeting in an assessing gaze, air thick and heavy with tension despite the silence, until Oscar looks away.

“Sorry, I’ve been talking about myself too much.”

Lando shakes his head, grabs his hand that was resting on top of the table. He gives it a squeeze. “Nonsense. I like hearing you talk.”

Oscar’s lips curl upwards, shy, content.

“What about you? How's the motorsport world treating you?”

What a loaded question. It’s not Oscar’s fault—Lando just hesitates about sharing his doubts and anxieties to everyone. Not because he is ashamed. Because he’s been met with a lot of people who don’t get it, who tell him to grow a thicker skin, to get over it. Who tell him that if he’s already thinking like this so early in his career, he doesn’t have the right mentality for this sport.

But Oscar’s eyes are unjudging, caring. He wants to drown in them. Knows he would be safe in them.

“I adore it but it’s hard at times,” Lando finds himself admitting. “Sometimes I feel like I don’t belong there. That maybe I’m wasting everyone’s time; the team, the engineers, my own. And other times I am scared this is all I am, all I am ever going to be. So what will I do if I am not good enough for the only thing I am good at?”

Oscar’s the one squeezing his hand now, furrowed eyebrows. “You are too hard on yourself.”

Lando isn’t sure that’s true but he doesn’t argue. He stands up, clears his throat and grabs their empty plates. “I’m going to clean this up.” His voice is a bit strained but Oscar doesn’t comment on it.

Oscar follows him into the kitchen, rests his hip against the counter and protests when he sees Lando approach the sink, “You cooked, I should do the dishes.”

No way. Lando shakes his head. “You are my guest. And there’s not much anyways.”

Oscar observes him, steady, pensative. He grabs his bottom lip with his teeth. “I make excellent hot cocoa…”

Lando exhales, tension leaving his shoulders. “I love hot cocoa.” He grins and Oscar nods once, pleased with himself.

Lando points at a top cabinet and Oscar takes a measured stride towards it. He grabs what he needs and moves around the kitchen in meticulous, careful motions. He turns to the stove. Lando finishes washing the dishes and sits on the counter by Oscar’s side—something he has been told a million times not to do, but keeps doing anyways—to watch him work. He is fascinating, his quiet confidence alluring in a way Lando has never experienced before.

Ingredients combined in the saucepan, Oscar turns to him, catches him staring. Lando doesn’t have it in him to be embarrassed. The desire bubbling under his skin is evident. It’s burning him whole. He wants to bury his hands in Oscar's swoopy brown hair and never let go. Tug into him and tilt his head up. Breathe in his scent from up close, lips almost brushing with expectation and the thrill of anticipation….

Oscar’s eyes travel down him intently.

Lando’s heart is pounding on his chest—he is sure Oscar must be able to hear it.

The words are out of his mind before he can think better of them. “Did someone ever tell you you have a good nose?”

“A good nose,” Oscar repeats, amused. Lando nods and traces it with his fingertip and Oscar's eyes flutter close to the touch.

Lando can’t help himself—he boops it.

“Yes, very good. It has personality. Very old Hollywood actor.”

Oscar huffs. His eyes open again and he focuses back on stirring the cocoa. “You are bullshiting.”

“I am really not.”

Oscar stares at him, intently, head tilted. His cheeks are pink again. Number three, Lando counts smugly.

Oscar turns the heat off. He adds vanilla and pours the mix into mugs. “You know…you shouldn't feel like you don't belong. You are very good.”

This perks Lando’s curiosity. “How do you know?”

“Uhm…Actually, I kinda follow your career.”

Lando smirks, has trouble toning down a shit-eating grin. “Osc, are you a fan?” Oscar looks away, which is as good as confirmation. Lando gasps. “Oscar, by chance are you my number one fan?” he teases, amused.

Opposed to being embarrassed, Oscar steps into the space between his knees. On instinct, Lando wraps his legs around his torso.

“Of course,” he says matter-of-factly. If Lando had to pinpoint it, this would be the moment he fell completely in love with Oscar Piastri. “Does that earn me free merch for life?”

Lando grabs him by the nape and presses their mouth together. He sighs, content, against Oscar's chapped lips. His lips taste like wine.

When they part, Lando speaks. “Whatever you want,” he confirms. His voice is hoarse.

Oscar kisses him again, despite both of them smiling too hard for it to work properly.

***

The next day, Lando buys the deodorant fake-Oscar told him about. The smell felt like coming home.

He cries in the shower.

***

They are drinking tea—or, well, Lando is. Not-Oscar is sitting in silence, an almost plastic smile. Oscar’s lips were always chapped. Not-Oscar's lips are always perfect. Glossy, even.

It’s day four and Lando can’t handle it anymore. He needs answers. It’s been years, driving himself mad, losing sleep and wondering about Oscar, not really mustering the courage to reach out. He thinks this might be an opportunity. Maybe it’s a blessing in disguise, if he plays his cards well.

Lando grabs the mug with two hands. It’s the same one Oscar made him hot cocoa all those years ago. He smiles at the memory, and it somehow gives him the courage to ask, “Can you tell me what your songs are about?”

Not-Oscar gives him his full attention, probably happy to be of significance for the first time in days. “Which one?”

“The one from your first EP, I guess.”

Oscar’s first EP, “the remnant of you”, had included three songs: ‘bye bye baby’, ‘breathe’ and ‘you all over me’. It got famous so quickly, songs playing on the radio, sold-out shows all around England. It catapulted him to fame overnight.
“They are about mourning a relationship that was not working,” says not-Oscar. Lando wants to roll his eyes—that’s absolutely no help. At all.

“And who are they about?” 

Not-Oscar’s face loses all expression, glitches, and his voice adopts a robotic tone, “Error. This product cannot disclose that information.”

Creepy.

Lando sighs, resigned. He feels nauseous.

“Okay,” he says. “But can you tell me at least if you regret it? The relationship? If you could go back.”

Again. “Error. This product cannot say that.”

“Bloody hell.” Lando is fuming now. He’s spent years without answers and this is the closest he’s gotten, only for this stupid, useless robot to fail. He feels like hitting something.

It’s gut wrenching how much he misses Oscar. Misses his wheezing laugh, his sarcastic responses, his boyish delight. Misses their dumb arguments and their internal jokes. The shared memories. The comfortable silences. The calming presence.

Lando goes to his room, shuts the door behind him, making sure to slam it, the hard sound of a child throwing a tantrum against the universe.

He needs this nightmare to be over.

***

Lando gets absolutely hammered.

He usually tries not to drink during the season, except on celebrations after races. He knows Jon will reprimand him, later. They are too close to the second half. He should be making responsible choices. But Jon is not living with a weird empty shell of his fake boyfriend who he hasn’t seen in four years, so Jon should give him a fucking break.

It’s almost impossible to imagine a worse scenario. This Oscar is so close, so present, it’s almost real, plays tricks on his eyes who cannot tell the difference. But Lando’s heart can. It writhes at the dissemblances. It twists at the farness. He cannot handle the almost of it all. Not when he is filled with regret. Not when he misses, wants, the real thing so bad it’s hard to breathe. He feels like he’s going ballistic.

He takes another swig from the bottle, takes a sharp breath. His phone’s screen is blurry, whether it’s from the alcohol or the tears Lando can’t tell, and finds the contact number. He presses call.

Alex picks up at the first ring. “Lando?” he asks, confused. It’s not late, but late enough for it to be weird that he is calling.

Lando tries to talk but he hiccups, chokes on a sob. Luckily, Alex seems to understand.

“I’ll be there in 10,” he says and ends the call.

It’s less time than that when Lando hears the knock on the door. He opens the door and is immediately engulfed in a hug, and then he is crying into Alex’s chest, leaving snot and tears on his snot. Alex doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t talk at all, just holds him tight, preventing Lando from falling apart, pieces of him collapsing on the floor.

It’s then that not-Oscar enters the room, standing awkwardly staring at them. “Um…hi.”

Alex stares back. “Oh, I’ve forgotten about that,” he confesses.

Not-Oscar stays put, shifting his weight from one foot to another. It reminds Lando of that fidgeting Oscar did when he was unsure. Like he did the first time he came over, that first date too many years ago.

Before he knows it, Lando is rushing to the bathroom, emptying the contents of his stomach on the toilet.

***

Alex calls George from where they are locked up in the bathroom, so they don’t see not-Oscar. Lando is hugging the toilet bowl. Alex keeps throwing him worried glances, while updating George.

“I don’t know what’s going on with him,” he says. He’s told George this at least three times already. “He hasn’t told me anything. He called me earlier and he was absolutely wankered,” Alex explains.

“Okay, okay. I’m on my way,” Lando hears George saying from the other side of the line.

Alex comes over and sits down on the bathroom’s floor, near enough that Lando can feel him being supportive, not close enough to touch.

“George is coming,” he says softly. “Are you ready to tell me what’s going on now?”

Lando looks up at him, eyes filled with tears. "It's so hard. I miss him like hell."

“Miss who?”

“Oscar.”

Alex frowns. “Oscar is right outside.”

Lando winces in disgust. “Not that one,” he says. “The real one.”

Alex looks at him surprised. Understandable.

“Okay, clearly I am missing something here.”

Lando opens his mouth to explain when the door opens. They both turn surprised, Lando bracing himself for that now familiar stomach lurch he feels when he sees the poor imitation of his ex-boyfriend, but it’s a disheveled George holding bottles of Gatorade. He absorbs the image of the room and drops into the floor, legs crossed under him.

“So, what did I miss?”

Lando starts his retelling. He tells them about how they met. Their first date. Their time together. How Oscar doesn’t just laugh—he folds in half. How his cheeks are perpetually pink. How his eyes crinkled when he discussed music.

Alex and George listen attentively. They hold him when he starts sobbing again, his voice wet and body trembling. They give Lando to share the memories he has held close to his chest for dear life, too precious to be forgotten. They don’t judge. They don’t rush him. 

Lando reaches the end. He states it, without additional information. Clinical. Four years ago was the last time I saw him.

And then, the question.

“Why did you two break up?”

***

Lando has been trying to explain why it didn’t work between him and Oscar for years—but he doesn’t have the words for it. Oscar was the one who always filled the spaces for him. He understood Lando’s language, translated it into English. When they broke up, Lando felt he had lost language entirely.

Until he heard one of Oscar’s songs. It came one day, on the radio. Hearing Oscar’s breathy voice in it made his stomach churn. But the real punch in the gut were the lyrics: “‘Cause you took me home but you just couldn’t keep me.” Because Lando had wanted to. But Formula One didn’t work like that.

His first year had been rough. He was a rookie, arriving at a place he didn’t feel he belonged in. The stage. The cameras. The scrutiny.

“Everything is pressure. Sometimes I am scared I lost the enjoyment. I love driving but it all feels like a lot,” he told Oscar once, late at night cuddling in the dark, his head on Oscar’s chest while the youngest stroked his hair.

Lando had been told many times, by many different people, that being in Formula One would imply sacrifices. He never expected that sacrifice to be the love of his life. He’s still not even sure that was necessary, truly. But at the time it did. Because he saw the toll it took on Oscar. Oscar, who was so supportive, even though it was killing him. Oscar, who was getting his own career started too. Oscar, who got tired of hiding, of not being a priority, of Lando forgetting facetime dates and acting single for the press—worse, acting straight. Oscar, who still was so kind, so tender, when he held Lando’s hand as he told him they should break up. Oscar, who drove away, leaving Lando’s shattered heart behind and taking a part of his soul with him.

Afterwards, Lando listened to Oscar’s EP on repeat for months. Oscar had the words to explain the breakup. He had poured his heart out on his EP. Three perfect songs, encapsulating the end of them.

It’s been years, but Lando still doesn’t have the words to explain it. Probably, because explaining it means admitting it made sense, when to Lando it doesn’t. Admitting that it’s truly over, when he is so deeply sure they were meant to be together for the rest of their lives.

Lando is not the smartest person alive and he doesn’t try to be, but there’s some definitive truths he always trusted. His instincts on the car. His parents support. And that Oscar is the love of his life.

It’s been years. Four years, five months and seventeen days since he saw Oscar for the last time. And he still can’t let go. Can’t say goodbye. Can’t consider Oscar his past.

The only thing that stopped him from reaching out were Oscar’s own words. Him describing how he felt tired, knowing he made the right decision ending it. How it had almost killed him walking away, but they were never really meant to be. And his later work, where he sounded better. He was healing. Moving on.

Lando loved him too much to compromise that. If you love someone, set them free, right?

So he doesn’t have explanations or rationale, but he has a new truth: he will always want what’s best for Oscar. Even if that life doesn’t include Lando.

***

And just like that, the seven days are up. He’s free from not-Oscar, at last.

It's weird—he detested its presence in his home, but now the flat feels too big, too empty, the echo of the could have been in every corner.

A part of him felt like just when he started getting a piece of Oscar back, even if it wasn't him, the floor got pulled from under him, only so he could lose him all over again.

He continues with his daily routine as best as he can. Ignores how he feels hollow. Numb. The feeling of being abandoned hitting a little too close like home, bringing back all the memories of last time and leaving him hunted.

He realizes he’s been waiting, keeping his life in pause since Oscar left, like Penelope waiting for Odysseus. He’s kept the door open with the hope that Oscar would come back one day. Not moving, so he could be easily found.

There's been an Oscar Piastri’s hole in his life. And now that wound has been exposed, raw and undisguised.

He goes to Ibiza. But he doesn’t have a good time. He is knackered in the type of way sleep can’t fix and he spends the whole time with his headphones Oscar’s first EP on repeat. Remembering the months after their break-up, where he did the same. And then he listens to the rest of his music. It kills him to be aware that out there, an after-him Oscar exists. One he doesn’t know anymore. One who maybe fell in love again. Who made new memories. Who found other—better—doors to walk through. Since he has no information about it, his imagination fills the gaps with what hurts the most.

His friends are worried about him. They try to cheer him up, drag him to parties and fun plans—but nothing excites him anymore.

He decides to put his focus back on his racing, in the championship. It feels like maybe that’s all he has left. Maybe if he finally gets it, it will bring meaning. It will make this worth it.

He doubts it.

***

Before he knows it, he’s back at the paddock. He goes through the motions of the weekend on autopilot. Media day. Free practices. Qualy. Race.

He manages to get a podium, which means a press conference. He sits on the familiar couch, lets his body fall heavily with the weight he’s been feeling for weeks, for years. His mood is noticeable —Charles throws concerned glances his way, George squeezes his arm in support.

Lando lets the questions not directed at him wash over him, the voices sounding distorted and very far away.

He only realizes they must have asked him a question when he sees everyone staring at him, expectant. He grabs his microphone. “Sorry—what was the question?”

“Lando, considering we are in the second half of the season and considering the criticism regarding your mentality, do you regret how you approached the championship so far?”

Regret. What a word. He's spent years drowning in regret. Oscar’s face shines bright in his mind. His knuckles around the microphone are white as he moves it closer to his mouth.

“I have tons of regrets in my life,” he starts, trying to choose his words carefully. “Not living more authentically, for example. Not fighting hard enough for people I love, especially at the start of my career in F1. I sacrificed a lot for this opportunity, and not all of it was worth it. But I lived, and I learned.” The whole room is hanging onto every word he says. He exhales deeply, trying to get back on track with the original question. “So about this? No. No regrets, at all. If I win, I want to win as myself. On my own terms. Otherwise, it’s not worth it.”

It’s more honest of an answer than they deserve, but Lando doesn’t know how to be anything else anymore. He's tired of trying to hold everything together in the way he is supposed to. His skin feels too tender, too raw, too exposed. He has no pretense left in him. He is stripped bare for the world to see—every bruise, every claw mark, every wound, once a source of shame, now a proud badge of honor.

He has never felt more free.

***

A little over a month later, they are at the end of a triple header. He is the championship leader and although all the races are important, for some reason this one feels important. To extend the lead, yes, but also as a statement. As a way to prove to himself that he can do it.

He qualified first, by a small but enough margin. George will start on the first row with him, and Lando is excited by the fight.

It’s less than an hour until he has to get in the car when he sees him, heart bursting at the sight.. His eyes give him the information but he keeps staring, convinced he must be dreaming. Because anything else makes more sense than the real Oscar Piastri in the Formula 1 paddock when they hadn't seen each other in 4 years. When Oscar probably forgot all about him while Lando kept all the memories.

Was this another fake-Oscar slash merch of some kind…?

Except it looks like Oscar. His Oscar. A bit older, hair longer, more muscles. But Oscar’s eyes. Oscar’s chapped lips. Oscar’s calming presence. They don’t make eye contact but Lando’s heart is racing all the same, faster than the car he is about to drive. It’s like Lando’s heart can recognise the right one, a light inside identifying it and burning bright after spending time with a pale imitation.

Maybe he’s here with some sponsor, and it has nothing to do with him, he tries to tell himself to calm down. But hope begins to creep in with each accelerated heartbeat.

Lando gets in the car, his motivation at an all time high.

If it is really Oscar, it’s another reason to do well. For him. For how much he supported Lando at the start. To make him proud.

He grabs the steering wheel and focuses.

If Oscar is here, he is going to make it worth it.

***

The few first hours after the race he spends it thanking the people coming to congratulate him for the win and convincing his friends he doesn’t want a big celebration. He’s more concentrated in trying to see if he catches another glimpse of Oscar, starting to believe he was delirious.

He sneaks to the hotel the first chance he gets and googles Oscar Piastri and Formula One. And it’s there, a million pictures—proof that Lando didn’t imagine it. 

Oscar had been there. For real.

There’s a knock on his hotel door and it startles him. He nervously closes his computer, hiding the evidence, although he is not doing anything particularly wrong. He opens the door, thinking it’s going to be Jon or Max, but when he opens it, the surprise knocks the air out of Lando’s lungs.

Because Oscar is on the other side.

“Hi,” he says and Lando is too stunned to speak.

“Oscar,” he says breathlessly. “What—?” 

Oscar cuts him off, not unkindly. “We are staying at the same hotel,” Oscar explains. Which is not really an explanation. “Can we talk?” He is nervously fidgeting, anticipating an answer.

Lando rubs the back of his head and sighs, knowing a hard conversation is coming. "We should probably do this inside. It's late, come in."

Oscar walks into his hotel room, hesitant, careful. Lando points towards the couches and Oscar sits in front of him. The silence extends, dense and heavy. Lando is about to open his mouth to say something, anything, when Oscar finally speaks. "Did you mean it?"

"I...what?"

"That interview. Did you mean it?"

Suddenly, Lando understands. "Wait, how do you know about that?"

Oscar sighs like he is carrying the weight of the world. He brushes a hand through his hair. He looks exhausted and it makes Lando want to tuck him into bed, to force him to rest.

"I've been following your career since you started, Lando. I didn’t stop because we broke up"

Lando is rarely rendered speechless.

He is now.

“I–”

Oscar seems to be embarrassed, catching up with his actions in the last minutes. “Sorry, it’s been so long. It was dumb of me to come here…”

“No!” Lando almost shouts and Oscar is startled. “No, please don’t leave… I did. Mean it, that is. And it was not dumb of you to come here. You just caught me off guard. I thought I saw you today at the paddock but I figured it was wishful thinking—”

He knows he is rambling. He takes a breath, trying to calm himself.

“I’ve missed you a lot,” he confesses, softly.

Oscar’s breath hitches.

“Then why didn’t you try to get in touch with me?”

"I thought," Lando looks down and plays with his fingers, "that you were better without me. I heard your songs and you sounded sad at first, which hurt because I caused it. And then you seemed to be getting better, healing and forgetting about me, and I thought 'what's the point in opening the wound? especially when he thinks it wasn't meant to be'. That's why I didn't contact you. I stayed away. Still listened to your music, thought, and wondered if any word you sang was about me. I could never quite tell.”

Oscar reclines against the chair and closes his eyes, as if holding eye contact during this conversation was too much. He lets out a deep breath.

“They are all about you, Lando,” he mumbles. “Everything I do, everything I write, has you written all over.”

The confession settles in the space between them. Lando feels breathless, like the words monopolized the air in the room.

The moment stretches.

“You are too.” Lando’s voice is barely a whisper, as if the sound of the words deserve intimacy. “Sometimes I think you are in every breath I breathe.”

Before he knows it, Oscar is holding him, arms circling his waist and pulling him close, until he is embraced by his warmth, his scent, his touch, and all he can think is Oscar, Oscar, Oscar. The real one. Finally. At last. Lando's fingers curl into Oscar's hoodie, trying to convince this is happening, this is real.

Lando can’t contain the words.

“I love you.”

His voice comes out thick with emotion. It’s been too long since he said them out loud but he doesn’t care. When Oscar leans back enough to look at his face, misty-eyed and pink cheeks, Lando can’t find it in himself to regret it.

Until Oscar smacks him in the arm. “God, you are so dumb.”

“Hey!”

Oscar laughs, the laughter Lando has missed so much. The one that seems to come from deep inside him, folding him in half. And Lando is smiling so hard his cheeks are hurting.

Oscar’s eyes are gleaming when he speaks again. “I could never forget about you, Lando.”

His thumb grazes Oscar's cheek. There’s a lump on his throat that only grows bigger when Oscar speaks softly, sincerely, “I love you too.”

They kiss, soft, gentle. And then they are hugging again, needing the solid pressure of their bodies pressed together to convince themselves they are not going to suddenly vanish. Lando inhales the chocolate scent of Oscar’s deodorant.

“I tried to convince myself we were not meant to be. That doesn't mean I was successful,” says Oscar, voice muffled against Lando's shirt. He leaves a kiss on top of his fluffy hair.

It feels like he can breathe again.

***

When he wins the championship and gets out of the car, the first person he searches for is there. Bunny smile on full display. Lando doesn’t hesitate before throwing himself into his arms, knowing he will be catched. He is trembling, from laughter, from tears, from a million different emotions. Oscar holds him through all of that.

“I am so proud of you,” he mumbles in his ear. Lando kisses his cheeks, his forehead, his mouth, anywhere he can reach, drunk on happiness.

“It means more with my number one fan here.”

He feels Oscar’s body shaking with laughter in between his arms.