Chapter Text
Lando Norris is good at a lot of things.
He’s a proficient golfer, a half-decent maker of coffee, a charming wingman, and clearly, a fucking wicked F1 driver.
He’s also really good at holding grudges.
It’s similar to his whole shtick with food, really. He’s self-aware enough to admit that. As a kid, certain smells and textures had freaked him out, and that had been enough for him to make up his mind about them. So, yes, no fish for Lando Norris, even though he hasn’t really given it a shot since before he sprouted pubes.
Anyway, back to grudges.
It’s easy for him to just decide he doesn’t like something, or someone. And most of the time, as Max likes to point out, it’s for no apparent reason other than he just doesn’t. When he was 15, he decided, on a random Tuesday, that he really did not enjoy the color red. And that was that. Or only last year, he’d taken one look at their new downstairs neighbor and had spent the entire elevator ride up to their floor telling Max all the reasons why he couldn’t be trusted.
It's instinctual, Lando likes to think. Max thinks he’s just an arsehole.
He’s good at the administrative part of his job, too. He shows up to the MTC with enough time to greet everyone, say hello to his engineers and mechanics, offers to participate in more PR content than he’d like to only to see Sophie’s tense shoulders relax, listens attentively during debriefs and makes a point out of thanking everyone when they wrap up.
Except for today. Today he wants to stay home so he can keep fuming in peace; wants to e-mail every single person in charge and demand an explanation for this nonsense.
He knows the negotiations have been underway for weeks, but he still swears colourfully when he receives an e-mail from McLaren’s CEO announcing the new hire. He hadn’t been the most discreet in expressing his lack of enthusiasm over it, to Zac’s chagrin, but apparently that hadn’t mattered, because Oscar Piastri was officially his new teammate now.
When Lando had spoken to Zac about it, had brought up the incident from years ago, Zac had only rolled his eyes and huffed a laugh before saying, “You were 12, Lando. I think you should let it go and give him a chance. He’s got an impressive –”
Lando had tuned him out after that, completely indifferent to the way Zac seemed intent on waxing poetic about Oscar’s successful career. Which he hadn’t kept an eye on, at all.
But Zac had listened, or so Lando presumes given the fact that he’s summoned to a meeting the day before the official launch so that Oscar and he can get to know each other without cameras. Which meant Zac was afraid of a fight breaking out between them and didn’t want other people to know about it. Great.
So Lando arrives at the MTC with minutes to spare, takes his sweet time stopping by everyone’s desks and asking about their lives, and makes it upstairs 20 minutes after the requested hour. His mother would not be proud.
Zac doesn’t take the bait, merely raising an eyebrow as Lando flops into the only available chair, opposite Zac and next to –Oscar, who is simply sitting there with his hands over his lap, a polite expression on his face as he stares at the front, ignoring Lando’s entrance completely. Arsehole.
“Nice of you to join us, Lando,” Zac drawls, and then looks at Oscar with an expression that Lando often doesn’t mind but is suddenly infuriated by because it’s the kind of fond exasperation that is usually directed at him and his antics, but that Oscar is not part of.
Lando doesn’t say anything, simply raises a shoulder and starts moving his left leg impatiently. He’s being a brat, he knows, but he can’t help it with Oscar there.
Zac sighs and says, “I believe introductions are not necessary, given your, uh, shared history,” he chuckles nervously, claps his hands to diffuse the tension. “So, let’s move on to the juicy stuff. The car has…”
Lando rolls his eyes and tunes out, having already heard this spiel a few times over the past month. The car is better, it’s faster, it’s improved. Lando loves his team but has learned the hard way that it’s better not to get his hopes up. Instead, he peers out of the corner of his eye at Oscar.
He doesn’t look that much different from the last time they were in a room together. Sure, he’s significantly taller, and his arms are bigger, and his neck has tripled in size, and his hair is – anyway. He looks the same as Lando remembers, back when they used to be friends. Lando’s mind has been drifting to one memory lately, ever since the news broke out internally, of his 10th birthday party. Oscar had been there, Max, too, and Lando remembers how he’d held on tightly to each of them, their arms slung around his neck, as his mother came out of the kitchen with a cake, the lights dimmed, his siblings and friends all around the table, and how his father had yelled out “make a wish, kid!” and he’d closed his eyes and wished that they could keep karting together forever.
What a silly thing to wish for, given the circumstances.
Oscar’s nodding at Zac’s words, but he slips his gaze and catches Lando’s eye, a questioning brow thrown his way. Lando snaps his attention back to the front, and says, “that all sounds wonderful, mate. Can’t wait to test the car and all, make sure it’s sturdy enough for when Oscar here inevitably fucks it all up and crashes into me, as he tends to do. Are we done?”
Oscar rolls his eyes and pinches the skin between his eyebrows, eyes flickering to meet with Zac and again, share that ridiculous look that makes him feel 3 years old.
Zac looks at Lando, then at Oscar, and back at Lando. “You need to sort this out, stat. I’m not having this –”
“What are you going on about? We’re golden, Oscar and I,” Lando bristles. “Practically besties, aren’t we, Osco?”
Lando knows using his old nickname for Oscar is a low blow, if his expression is anything to go by. But whatever. He’s fed up with this, and he wants Oscar as far away from him as possible, so if it hurts him, good.
Zac is turning red, and his mouth is opening, surely to remind Lando of his place, but Oscar beats him to it. He stands, inclines his head politely in Zac’s direction, and steps directly in front of Lando’s chair. His jaw is set, eyes cold. Lando has never seen him angry, had thought him incapable of it.
“I wasn’t expecting much, but I definitely thought you’d at least grown the fuck up,” he sneers. “Clearly, I was wrong. And for the record, you crashed into me. Thank you, Zac, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
With that, he leaves. He doesn’t slam the door, of course not, Oscar Piastri could never dare to do that.
The room is silent, and Lando’s still fuming, but he’s also exhausted, and he just wants to leave this goddamn office so he can forget it ever happened. Zac’s looking at him funny, an expression Lando hasn’t seen him wear before. It makes his skin prickle. So he stands up, heads for the door, and says, “In front of the cameras, I’ll do whatever you want. But I’m not pretending anywhere else.”
***
The car launch goes as well as it can when you have two drivers who hate each other’s guts pretending to like each other for the sake of the cameras around.
They pose for pictures next to each other, fake smiles plastered on their faces. A reporter asks about their karting days together, and Lando evades the question by drawing attention to the new and improved front wing. Oscar is asked what he looks forward to the most at McLaren, and he pointedly avoids mentioning Lando. When they’re asked if they’ve had time to hang out and get to know each other, they both strain out laughs and say they’ve been extremely busy.
Zac’s not happy, but everyone else seems to be, so Lando takes it as a win and decides that he can do this, he can pretend to play nice with Oscar, and just focus his time and energy on driving the car.
There’s a knock at his door as he’s taking his new race suit off, and he absentmindedly yells, “come in” thinking it must be Will or Tom or Andrea coming in to say hi. It’s Oscar.
Lando yanks his zipper up too hard, and it snatches on his fireproofs in a very delicate area. He groans.
“Hey – uh, are you okay?”
“Mint,” Lando strains out, eyes shut as he recovers. “What do you want?”
Oscar’s eyes grow cold again. He seems to hesitate, hand still hovering over the doorknob. Good, go away, Lando thinks. But then Oscar takes a deep breath and speaks.
“I know you hate me, okay?” he starts, and Lando gets caught up on the fact that he didn’t say we hate each other which is weird, because they do, but Oscar keeps talking. “I can deal with that. I just – ” he trails off, and Lando wonders if he knew what he wanted to say before he came in, or if he was just going to wing it.
He rolls his eyes. “What, you want us to be friends or whatever? Fat chance.”
“No,” Oscar scoffs. “I don’t give a shit about being friends with someone like you. But I’m also not going to let you ruin this for me, so I think we need to – I don’t know, talk about what happened— ”
Oh, absolutely not.
Because Lando is really good at holding grudges. Especially those that are justified.
“I don’t think I’m going to ruin anything for you, mate, sorry to break it to you,” Lando seethes, grabs his things and heads for the door, where Oscar stumbles slightly to let him out. “You’re capable of doing that yourself. Fuck off.”