1 - Brazil 2019

Lando is 20, barely, and Carlos is 25, and the night is still young after a very unusual podium celebration.

Carlos’ first.

Lando’s first.

It’s a night of firsts.

After celebrating, champagne sticky on his hands, Lando doesn’t know why he follows Carlos into his driver’s room. Just that he does, as if he’s hypnotised, as if he’s being reeled in, following gravity, falling.

No thoughts, no questions, just Carlos’ huge brown eyes, glowing, burning with desire. His arm around Lando’s waist, strong, firm, breathtaking. His gaze lingering, waiting, until Lando pushes and whispers “Yes,” against his lips.

Carlos’ kisses are searing. Like nothing Lando has ever felt before.

He closes his eyes and feels.

Every touch is instinctive. 

Fingers in his hair, a hand on his lower back, holding on, slipping lower, grabbing his buttock.

He gasps, and Carlos groans, and his stubble rasps against Lando’s cheek.

Fingers on his bare hipbone, under his shirt, and it’s —

Everything and more.

Lando pushes into the touch, chases Carlos’ lips, doesn’t care how needy he sounds and how desperate he is. He has no idea what he’s doing. His heart is racing. He has never been touched like this.

Adrenaline, slowly ebbing off from the race, returns with a vengeance. 

The first time Carlos slips his hand down the front of his pants, Lando sighs embarrassingly high; he almost comes the second Carlos’ fingers wrap around him.

“Lando…” Carlos moans into his mouth, lips slick and tongue impatient, and that’s all he says.

It’s their first time. Lando’s first time with a guy.

He comes what feels like three strokes later, into Carlos’ hand, with the taste of Carlos’ skin on his lips and his smell in his nose. He rubs his thigh between Carlos’ legs, feels him shiver, feels his hips stutter, feels him cum with a beautiful groan.

They breathe the same air. 

It’s heady and quick, just like the last kiss they share.

Lando is 20, barely, and he has no idea what just happened.

Every nerve of his body is singing and if Carlos came looking for him again — yeah, he would do it again.

2 - Austria 2020

It doesn't happen again for what feels like forever, because winter break and then the pandemic keep them apart.

Lando almost questions whether he imagined what went down in Brazil the year before, but then they race on the Red Bull Ring and — he makes 3rd place. Carlos runs into his arms in the pitlane, and his eyes are glued to Lando during the celebration, like magnets.

With endorphins running high, Lando's strung too tight and flying and something has to give, he can feel it.

What happens is that Carlos catches Lando and shoves him into his driver's room – container, whatever – and down onto the couch and Lando has all of two seconds to accommodate him between his legs. Pulls down his mask in time with Carlos throwing his own on the coffee table and acutely forgets how to breathe. 

Fuck the pandemic, they tested negative.

Sharing the same air again, hot puffs on Lando’s neck and he’s so, so hard.

Just like Brazil.

So he didn’t imagine Brazil.

No; he looks up at the column of Carlos' neck and feels vulnerable and small and wanted under Carlos, by Carlos. Latches onto his pulse point, tastes salty skin and heat, and Carlos moans beautifully.

Kisses happen. Out of nowhere, like something inevitable, like both of them have been waiting for this; like flying through the Esses at Suzuka, like going through Maggotts and Becketts in Silverstone, following the natural flow of a track and nailing it.

Lando tilts his hips up against Carlos’, finds him just as hard, bulge straining against the zipper. Pants into Carlos’ mouth, dizzy with reassuring vindication. Follows Carlos’ treasure trail with his fingertips, reaches into his boxers, finds skin smooth. Ever since Brazil, Lando wondered how Carlos might taste, but he’s quickly distracted by Carlos nibbling at his ear. “You too,” is all he says before fiddling with Lando's zipper.

They're still clothed, mostly, and yet exposed. Not quite all out with each other, and right in the middle of it all the same. 

Touching. Stroking. Bodies moving together, naturally, easy. 

It happens in waves. Carlos rolling his hips, driving Lando insane. And then more, and more, and still not enough. Their lips find each other’s when their fingers intertwine above Lando’s head, and then it’s a race to the finish. One last wave, and Carlos’ release is pooling in Lando’s belly button. Arching his back, Lando adds his own within the next second.

They stare at each other, chests heaving, eyes wide. It happened again.

Lando doesn’t let himself think about it too long.

It happened, and it was amazing. 

3 - Abu Dhabi 2020

There are no tears.

P3 in the constructor’s championship and two successful years together, full to the brim with laughter and wonderful memories — none of that deserves tears.

They film their paddock walk with Sky Sports and it’s good.

They film their last ever episode of Unboxed together and they’re good.

Then, silence falls on the racetrack for another year and they leave, one last time, as teammates. Lando tries to be thankful for what they had, but he can’t —

Can’t find it in himself to be happy about P3 because he has no idea how next year is going to go with Daniel. Sure, Daniel is fun. But he’s not Carlos.

They don’t talk about it, him and Carlos.

Carlos just hooks his pinkie into Lando’s and tugs him towards his hotel room at the end of the night. Gentle, like an invitation Lando can refuse, as if he ever would. He needs this just as much.

For what’s probably the last time, Lando peels Carlos’ McLaren shirt off him. Kisses along his collar bone, twists his nipple, groans against his heated skin. Buries his face in Carlos’ chest, because he can, because Carlos hasn’t waxed, bless him.

Carlos’ hands are in his hair, shaking.

This — Lando likes this.

He undresses Carlos. Takes his time, looks his fill. Lets himself be undressed in return until there’s nothing between them, nothing separating them. Falls into the sheets of Carlos’ hotel bed, settles on top of him, the skin under him sweaty and hairy and there are no curves, no boobs, no — just Carlos, and Carlos’ lips, and his broad shoulders and his massive hands on Lando’s hips. His mouth, his plump bottom lip fitting so well between Lando’s, stealing the air right out of Lando’s lungs.

It’s probably the last time, but they don’t talk about that either.

It has some sort of finality to it. A proper goodbye.

So Lando lets them have this — giving and taking and petting and kissing, and when Carlos comes, he moans into Lando’s mouth, tugs him close, brushes his finger down between Lando’s butt cheeks and Lando follows him in an instant. 

That’s how they stay. Lando with his face in the crook of Carlos’ neck, breathing, falling apart but holding on, held by Carlos’ fingers splayed out on the small of his back. 

There are tears, after all. In Lando’s hair, on Carlos’ neck.

They don’t ever talk about Abu Dhabi 2020 again.

4 - Singapore 2023

Lando is 23 and Carlos is 29, barely, and under the Singaporean night sky, they write history together.

“Imagine!” Lando’s words from years ago still ring in his ears. “Imagine if we were P1 and P2!” As if that was completely ludicrous. Which it was, at the time.

Not any more.

Now, one of them may be in rosso corsa instead of papaya orange, but they are P1 and P2.

An air of anticipation is hovering between them; an unspoken something that has been simmering low under Lando’s skin from the moment he realised Carlos kept him in his DRS on purpose. He’s been half-hard ever since — when Carlos turns into his own strategist, it’s simply beyond hot. On the podium, the way Carlos let Lando spray him in the face with champagne seemed like foreshadowing. The energy, the cockiness in every one of Carlos’ smiles, is daring and dashing at the same time.

It may not be their first time, but they haven’t done this in three years.

Lando has confidently grown out of his awkward teenager frame. Had his experiences, too. Learned what he likes and how to get it.

So this time, Lando follows Carlos into his hotel room with a new level of confidence.

Heart pounding in his throat, he stands in front of Carlos, fully clothed, shaking with desire, with the bone-deep need, but all the things that were instinct once have been lost along the way, somehow.

Carlos eyes him up and down, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Come here, cabrón,” he says, his voice shot to hell, shakier than he lets on.

He smells of champagne, his kisses taste like sin, like forbidden fruit, and Lando melts in his strong arms.

He still gasps embarrassingly high when Carlos sits him down on the edge of the bed. Leans back to rest on his bent elbows to watch Carlos, to lock eyes with him when he opens his mouth and takes him in.

And then there’s only wetness and heat and delicious suction and Lando crumbles with a moan. Loses himself under Carlos’ mouth and fingers, stroking his stomach, his hipbone, his balls. Carlos’ lips are tight and perfect and there’s stubble against Lando’s inner thigh, which. Fuck.

“Carlos, I —” he starts, sighs, pushes at his shoulder. “I need to — can I… oh.”

Carlos pulls off just long enough to say, “On my face, please,” and strokes him to completion.

Thick white drops on his bushy brows, in his long lashes, down the ridge of his nose, dripping off that plump bottom lip.

Lando did that. Because he’s allowed to do that. Because Carlos is —

Lando can’t let himself think this sentence through.

Can’t think when Carlos stands up to drop his pants, and climbs atop him to straddle his chest. He’s heavy. A whole man. He’s gorgeous, all sinewy muscle and strong thighs that Lando can’t stop caressing with both hands, up and down and up. His eyes are on Lando as he pumps himself, eyebrows raised in a question, and Lando can’t think, can’t look at him, so he just nods, once, then closes his eyes. He needs to feel this. Needs to catalogue how Carlos’ hand moves, and how his own chest moves under Carlos’ body as his toes curl, as he comes on a moan.

There’s cum on Lando’s cheek. On his lips. Down his neck.

He doesn’t mind. He let Carlos do that. Carlos is the only one who gets to do that.

Carlos shifts back, leans down, runs his hot, wet tongue up the side of Lando’s neck, cleaning up his own mess, and they shiver, both of them.

He wonders how he made it three years without this, because it turns out his body has been craving it, and Lando doesn’t know if he needed the orgasm or if he needed Carlos, here, on top of him, heavy and gorgeous and fucked-out and all because of Lando.

Lando is 23 and Carlos is 29, barely, and history was written that night in Singapore, in more ways than one.

5 - Australia 2024

Coming into Melbourne, Lando didn’t think anything would be in the cards. After all, Carlos had his appendix removed two weeks earlier  — but he didn’t just start the race, he won it. 

After Singapore, Lando has been waiting for a win, for an excuse, for something that falls under their unspoken rules. The expectation that this would happen again has been firmly there; it’s bubbling in his stomach now, hot and exciting. Lando can still feel his hand tingle, long after helping Carlos climb the top step of the podium.

His touch, his presence, it’s electric. Lando could have sunk to his knees right then and there in front of the whole crowd, but he waits until Carlos is comfortable on the sofa in his hotel room before he actually does. 

For so long, Lando wondered, and finally, he gets to taste.

Gets to brush his lips, feather-light, over the bandage on Carlos’ stomach that hides the healing scar. Gets to breathe him in, gets to be the one to go —-

Down, down, and open up, and then there’s a prick in his mouth and it’s skin, musk, Carlos, and Lando groans around him. It’s heady, feeling so full, his jaw aching with it after sucking and bobbing on it a few times. He has to palm himself through his shorts to keep it together.

“You tell me if we need to stop,” he reminds Carlos breathlessly, the first words out of his mouth since he came to Carlos’ room.

“Don’t stop,” Carlos sighs, not more than a whisper. “Please don’t stop.”

It’s a headrush. Lando has never felt better.

He draws it out. It is a reward, the kind only Lando is allowed to give. He nibbles at the head, licks across the slit. Places Carlos’ hand on the back of his head — a hint, a suggestion, a request — but Carlos just runs his fingers through Lando’s hair.

The sheer thought of being pushed down onto Carlos’ hardness, made to take it, is enough for Lando to lose it. He shoves his shorts out of the way and comes in seconds, hand on his dick, choking on Carlos’ in his mouth.

It’s so fucking good.

Nothing prepares him for the raw look Carlos gives him when he notices what just happened.

Nothing prepares him for the spurt of cum on his chin and neck and lips.

Nothing prepares him for how Carlos guides Lando’s fingers, the ones still sticky with his own release, to his mouth, wraps his sinful lips around his index finger and licks it clean.

“Better than champagne,” he muses, eyes half-open.

Lando stares at him, a hot flash shooting through his veins that has nothing to do with the sex they just had. Then, he crawls into Carlos’ lap and kisses him silly and wonders where this will lead them, eventually.

It can’t be worse than Abu Dhabi. But they don’t talk about Abu Dhabi.

+1 - Abu Dhabi 2024

There are tears. Open and deliberate.

To bring it home, to single-handedly carry the constructor’s championship over the literal finish line — it’s pure and utter relief.

There’s also pride, and happiness, and Lando gets to feel all of that with Carlos next to him — driving beside him during the in-lap, standing next to him on the podium, and, after everything is said and done, waiting for him at the exit of the McLaren garage.

His intentions are clear, no doubts to be found in his sparkling eyes. His hair is all gorgeously, effortlessly floppy; his stubble is more pronounced this late at night; and he’s beautiful, glowing.

He’s exactly the guy Lando has admired so much for years, and he’s —

He’s the love of Lando’s life, really.

The realisation almost makes his chest cave in. But it’s there, has been there, undeniably there, just like Carlos.

“Hey,” Lando flirts, sidling up to and leaning into him, nudging his shoulder. “Come here often?”

Carlos chuckles and ducks his head. It’s cute. “When I want to pick someone up, yes.”

They fall into step easily, walk out of the paddock, towards parties and rest and winter break. But first, a celebratory tumble in the sheets, as is now tradition.

“So, is this what I think it is?” Lando asks out loud, bravely.

“Depends. What do you think this is?” Carlos challenges him, and that’s already more conversation than they usually have during one of these… encounters.

Lando snorts, and Carlos smiles, and Lando is so gone on him, it’s not even funny. “You picking me up?” he jokes.

“Obviously,” Carlos replies, flat.

So, Lando humors him, but ups the ante. “I meant ‘picking me up’ as in, take me to your room and fuck my brains out, like in Miami and Zandvoort and Singapore.” 

“We’ve still got to make up for Mexico, no? Because I wanted to, so bad, then.” Carlos’ last win. Their latest excuse. He looks at Lando from the corner of his eye, hands buried in his pockets. “But with my family there, no chance.”

“Yeah, shame, that. Dinner with your family was lovely, though.” Lando hesitates, then decides that five years of not talking about it is enough. “So, we just… tick that check box and then I won’t see you until Bahrain? Won’t have this again until Melbourne, at least?”

“Ask me what you really want to ask me,” Carlos prompts him with a smirk that makes Lando shiver and tilts his head sideways.

Silence stretches between them. Heavy. Poignant.

In the dim light of the street lamp, at almost midnight in Abu Dhabi, Carlos’ freckles don’t stand out as much as they do in the direct sun. Lando wishes he could count them to collect himself, to find his courage.

Eventually, Lando sighs. “I’d like to ask if we really need an excuse every time.”

Slowly, Carlos reaches out, places his warm hand around Lando’s neck, strokes his thumb along his hairline, leaving goosebumps. “I think you know the answer to that,” he whispers, and he’s right. “I thought it was clear how much I adore you.”

“So why are you making me ask?” Lando says, just to tease, his voice breaking, betraying him. The confession makes his stomach do a somersault and a different kind of relief flows through him all at once.

“Because you’re cute when you’re blushing.”

“Kiss me,” Lando begs, pressing into his body, giddy, needy, not like the first time, but like it’s their first time all over again. “Kiss me, please.”

“Anytime, Landito, no excuses needed,” Carlos mutters against his lips, and does just that.

THE END