Chapter Text
Oscar expected England to be cold.
He packed for it. Layers, thermal socks, even one of his sister’s oversized hoodies because she said he’d miss the smell of home. He thought cold meant crisp air, frosted windows, breath visible in clouds. He expected something cinematic. Maybe dramatic, like he’d seen in the movies when he was barely old enough to watch TV past seven in the evening.
Instead, it’s just grey.
Grey skies, grey roads, grey light that seeps through the bus windows like it’s not quite committed to existing. The kind of weather that doesn’t hit you all at once. It just clings. Soft and constant and sort of disappointing.
Oscar keeps blinking like he can rinse the homesickness out of his eyes. It doesn’t work. His eyelashes feel damp.
The bus shudders when it turns off the motorway, the road narrowing, bending between hedgerows that look more like walls than plants. Oscar imagines them taking him in like those in Harry Potter, if maybe they’d spit him out ten years later and he’d be what he hopes he’s starting to become by coming here: Formula 1 World Champion.
He’d settle for SKC Champion this year. Maybe that way he’ll be able to go up categories and make himself known. It’s why he moved to Europe anyway. No one comes to Australia to scout young talent.
He glances at his phone. His sisters have sent a selfie from the living room. The dog’s in it too, paws up, a little drool in the corner of his mouth. There’s a caption that reads Big British Lad, don’t forget us little people xoxo and a meme about tea. He doesn’t reply, but he would if he had the energy to make a joke about the wording Hattie chose. Instead, he just taps the screen off and lets the message sit unread for now.
Rain taps harder against the glass as the bus slows. The driver mutters something about the school, about how lucky they are to be near a track. Oscar barely hears him. He’s too busy looking out the window.
Until there it is.
The track.
It snakes out behind the buildings, drenched and shining under the rain like spilled oil. Even through the window, Oscar feels it. That familiar tug in his stomach. That tiny flame of excitement that cuts through jetlag and nerves and numbness. Sixteen hours of flying, layovers, a missed shuttle, and the kind of aching behind his eyes that feels like it lives in his bones now. And still, he feels it.
It’s like he’s regained some of his senses. Like tiredness just evaporates from the sight of what you’d been waiting for your whole life. A future.
There’s kids already on the track, their kart splashing water away, spray barely fifty centimeters above the ground from how slow they’re going, from how wet the track is. Dangerous. Oscar’s always hated the rain. He’s also never been as excited to kart as he is right now.
There’s a few guys near a small building Oscar can only guess is the rental place. Two giants, smile stretchy like they’re faking it and another one leaned against the wall, hidden by an oversized hoodie.
Oscar doesn’t realise who he’s looking at at first. Just sees someone talking with his body, his hands, hood up, leaning back like he owns the place. It’s the stance that does it. Loose-limbed. Careless. Comfortable in a way Oscar can’t quite understand yet.
But then the guy looks up.
And somehow, Oscar just knows. It’s him.
— — —
The dorms are less Hogwarts and more public school brochure. Four bunks, two desks, a window with condensation fogging the corners. The radiator rattles when he opens the door. It smells like laundry detergent and something slightly metallic, maybe old pipes. He doesn’t hate it.
Oscar picks the bed under the window, top bunk. Not because he wants the view, there isn’t one, just trees and grey sky, but because it feels like the least visible spot. He unzips his duffel bag and starts unpacking in silence.
Socks first, then shirts. His mum rolled them into little fabric cigars, a Tetris game in a soft shell suitcase.
She cried at the airport. Not loudly. Just a few quiet tears when she thought he wasn’t looking.
He tapes a picture of his family above his pillow. Something silly. His sisters with their tongues out, the dog imitating them. Oscar’s mum in the background, squinting her eyes like she’s trying to see what her daughters are up to, like always. She used to say she was Oscar’s lucky star. Like if she believed it hard enough, it would mean something.
Next to it, Oscar pins a karting magazine. Careful not to rip the edges, because the plastic-y paper’s already aged, old, frail. The colours are faded, the spine of the magazine cracked. It still smells like the garage they’d found it in.
Oscar used to look at it every night. Right before he went to sleep, he’d trace the outline of the helmet with his finger until he fell asleep, like maybe, if he touched it enough, Oscar would learn to drive like the kid on the cover, too.
The kid, who, all bright smile and tan skin, was reduced to the big bold headline: Wonderkid Norris disappears after early rise.
There’s a knock on the door, then. Not tentative, not loud. Just two quick raps. Oscar freezes with the magazine still half-pinned in his hands.
“Hey,” a voice says, already too unfamiliar from the accent Oscar knows he’ll have trouble accustoming to, “You the Aussie?”
Oscar turns.
One of the two giant guys from the rental place is standing in the doorframe. And yeah, he’s tall. Almost as tall as the edge of the wall. His black hair sticks out in every direction, flattened by the rain.
Oscar’s almost sure the nickname’s gonna stick, somehow. That in two months, people will still call him the Aussie and his skin’s going to crawl with it but he won’t be able to do anything about it because in that crucial moment, the one he’s currently living, he’ll say: “Yeah,” and condemn himself to a life of being the guy from elsewhere.
“You unpacking or just nesting?” The guy asks, completely unaware of the spiraling Oscar’s brain has just done. He takes a glance at the photo above Oscar’s pillow, then, the taped magazine. His eyes linger there for a second. Long enough to make Oscar want to pull it down. But the guy just smiles a little more and steps into the room.
He has this sort of contradictory vibe like he’s shy but also knows he’s the funniest person in the room. Oscar wouldn't know what to call it. Introversion, maybe.
Oscar shrugs. “Trying to make it look like someone lives here.”
“You’ll regret that when the radiator stops working, mate. Trust me.” He taps the metal with the toe of his shoe, looks up at Oscar again when the sound comes out hollow and raspy, “These things die at the worst times. Had to sleep under a stack of three jackets for two weeks last winter.”
“Sounds fun.”
“Oh, it’s the highlight of the academy,” The guy says, and then grins, sharp and crooked. “That, and the food. If you like boiled everything.”
Oscar sits on the edge of his bed. His hands rest in his lap, fingers twitching a little. He’s trying to figure out if he’s seen the guy somewhere before, if the director of the Academy sent him an email with a picture attached to it of who his roommates are.
He’d kind of known before coming here that he’d have to share a room. But it’s fine, really. Oscar’s had to share a bathroom with three sisters since the small and awkward age of thirteen. He thinks he can handle going to sleep knowing a guy he barely knows wanked in the toilet twenty minutes ago.
The guy drops into the desk chair and spins once, then stops. He’s watching Oscar now, but not in a mean way. More like he’s measuring something. Noticing details. His smile is still as bright as it was when he came in, and Oscar isn’t sure if he’s supposed to feel threatened, or if British boys are just warm and welcoming like they’re scared anyone might call them hypocrites.
“You’ve been here, what, twenty minutes?” He asks, looking out the window like he’s already trying to find a way out of the conversation he’s initiated.
Oscar shrugs. “Forty, maybe.”
“Jetlagged?”
“Badly.”
“Good.” The guy answers, chuckling, “Means you’ll fall asleep before the first-night nerves kick in.”
Oscar raises an eyebrow. He blinks, tries out a smile, “That a threat?”
The answer to that is a laugh, and it’s less polished and posh than Oscar expects. A bit rough. High pitched in a way Oscar’s used to be when he was twelve, “Just saying. First night’s always weird. Might as well get it over with.”
Oscar nods. The rain’s still ticking on the window. Soft now. He thinks of the text his sister sent him, of what to reply. He doesn’t know anymore. He’s not sure he’s ready to be that Big British Lad.
“What’s it like?” Oscar asks after a beat. The guy takes a bit too long to answer so Oscar adds, with a shift in position, “Being here. All the time.”
The guy shrugs. Leans back in the chair, hands in his lap. “Some days it feels like the coolest thing in the world, y’know? ‘Cause it’s your dream and, yeah. Other days it’s, like. Just school. With cars. You forget the rest of the world exists for a bit.”
Oscar thinks about that. The rest of the world feels very far away right now. Home feels like a different planet.
“You get used to it,” he adds. The guy’s voice is a little quieter now, “The grey. The noise. The pressure. Just takes time.” he smiles then, teeth white and smile long, “Faster when you win, though.”
Oscar doesn’t reply. He chuckles maybe, a bit, just enough to be an answer. He’s doing that thing where he fiddles with his earlobe again. He knows his mom would say something silly about it like stop that you’ll stretch it.
It’s kind of weird to think he won’t be hearing his mom’s voice for a while. Longer than he ever has.
After a moment, the guy stands. Brushes his palms against his jeans. “Come find me tomorrow,” he says. “I’ll show you where the good vending machines are.”
Oscar looks up. “You got favourites already?”
“Obviously,” that grin again, the shy but funny one, “I’m practically a local.”
And then he’s gone.
Oscar exhales a breath he didn’t know he was holding.
The rain doesn’t stop, but it softens again, and Oscar lies back on the unfamiliar mattress with his arms crossed over his stomach, staring at the ceiling until his eyes blur, until he remembers he still doesn’t technically know who he just talked to and should maybe ask.
— — —
Oscar learns the guy’s name when the other one from the rental place enters the room a little too wobbly, like he’s not grown into his own body just yet.
“Alex! Have you seen my badge?” His voice is loud even with the distance, and it gets significantly louder as he says, “I bet you stole it you little sh-” and significantly smaller as he says, stalling in place as he looks straight on at Oscar, “Oh. Hi?”
Oscar’s pulled from his scrolling. “Hi. I’m Oscar.”
“George.” He nods. Then his attention’s redirected to Oscar’s other roommate, who is presumably Alex, “Give it to me now.”
Alex chuckles. He’s putting on his shoes, body relaxed and humorous contrasting with George’s tight posture. “What's the magic word, Georgie?” He breathes out as he finishes lacing his left shoe.
George frowns. “You wanna do it this way, then?”
“Do you?” Alex challenges.
“I’m much bigger than you, Alex. You’ll regret it, and you know that.” George retorcs, footsteps already approaching Alex’s bunk, the top one, where Alex is laying down even though he’s just put on his shoes.
The bottom bunk of the same bed is made, too, posters of famous racing drivers badly taped. In the dark of it, Oscar manages to recognize Lewis Hamilton, younger than he is now. A small boy behind him is standing awkwardly, holding a small notebook close to his chest.
Alex sits properly, his covers quickly discarded to the side. “Don’t lie in front of our new roommate, sweetie.” Alex says, a really wide smile stretching his lips. He tilts his head, props his head between his palms, “Don’t want to get a bad reputation, do you?”
George looks like he’s trying not to smile, somehow. Oscar’s pretty sure this is pretend fighting. But the flush over George’s cheeks could also betray his anger. He’s maybe a nervous smiler or something.
Oscar wouldn’t know, would he?
“Wanna take this outside?” George says then, gripping the edge of Alex’s bed. He’s nothing but scary. Oscar’s smaller than him and yet, it feels like it’s a fourteen year old speaking. Maybe it’s the stereotypical British fashion of saying his words. Maybe it’s just George.
Oscar has half a mind to interrupt them, but it’s sort of funny as well. It feels like he might learn more about them from this maybe real fight than if they were sitting in a circle, discussing traumas and the weather.
Alex takes a glance towards Oscar, which betrays his staring. Oscar pretends to read something on his phone again, and Alex says, voice smooth and snarky, “Mind if I do?”
And just like that, they’re out of the door. And Oscar knows nothing about them except that they’re awfully British and that they’re called Alex and George like they’re straight out of a 90s rom-com.
— — —
Oscar arrived on a Thursday, which means he has three days of practice before their in-school race, which isn’t a lot. Especially when it’s raining on and off.
Oscar’s never liked the rain. Doesn’t like the way his wheels don’t grip the track enough, the way he slides all over whenever his foot’s just a bit too low, or the way the wind just makes everything weird and unpredictable.
Oscar likes predictable. He likes finding his marks in four laps and sticking to them for fifty one more. He likes knowing when to brake, when to duck, when to look behind him before a tight corner.
Rain just makes it all go shit.
By Saturday, Oscar manages to spin only once in the span of an hour, which is good enough for him. He knows people are looking, because people always are, but it’s fine for now, because it’s kids. It’s twelve years olds who’ve been scouted a couple years ago because they had the privilege of growing up in England.
When Oscar steps out of his kart, his limbs heavy and sore after hopping too much in the kart in too little time after a too long flight, the kids are still here. Racesuits tied to their hips, talking and pointing to different areas of the track.
He passes by them because they may be six years younger, they still know the track better than Oscar, and the boy is talking about how Lando takes a corner. How late he brakes. How most of the time, he’s braking too late.
Ends up in the barrier.
His friend takes off her cap, dripping with water from the last rainfall and says, chuckling, “No wonder people call him washed, yeah?”
And the other elbow-stabs her and says, too honest, the same kind of stars Oscar used to have at his age in his eyes, “Maybe washed, but still faster than us.”
— — —
Oscar’s engine dies during the second heat.
It’s not the start to his karting season in England he would’ve hoped. He thinks he heard from hushed whispers in a hallway that sponsors would be here. Which is most likely not true, because it’s not an official race. But it’s England. Oscar doesn’t know how any of it works.
He’s not a very angry person. He doesn’t if he would like to be. His dad always said it’d be a bit easier for him to be a bit angrier sometimes. That even if he doesn't feel it, he could act it.
Oscar throws one of his gloves across his tent and feels silly about it. Stupid. He does it again with his other glove, just to prove himself that he can be angry in a moment he should be.
Even if no one’s here to see it.
He stands there for a second, fingers curled and jaw locked like it might help hold everything in. But it doesn’t. The silence is thicker now, louder than the karts still buzzing somewhere on the track.
Oscar drags a hand through his hair, sweat and rain making his hair stick to his forehead.
He squats next to his kart and stares at the engine like maybe if he looks long enough, it’ll give him answers. Or apologies. He knows better, but he stays like that for a while, squinting into the stillness like he’s trying to make it spit something other than air.
Eventually, the buzzing of engines outside stops. The working engines. The ones Oscar couldn’t compete against because maybe he’s fucked something on his. He grabs a rag, still stained from last night after a too long session that left his ears ringing, and starts wiping at the mess. A smear of oil on the frame. Dirt caked into the sides. It’s muscle memory now. Scrub, wipe, check, repeat.
It helps. A bit. Just enough to quiet everything buzzing inside.
Oscar’s so caught in wiping the floor of his kart that he doesn’t even hear anyone walk in. But then, a guy says, “You alright mate?” voice British like all the other guys’ are.
Oscar stills. He didn’t expect to be interrupted. He doesn’t even know the other guys, yet, hasn’t had the mind to introduce himself. He feels bad about it now, as he coughs a, “Yeah, um.” and wiggles down, standing up clumsy. When his eyes go back up, he has to blink a couple times. Cause it’s, “Lando.”
Oscar blinks, again. Lando blinks back. “Yeah?”
“Um.”
Oscar’s holding his rag in his hand, and his face is probably disgusting and greasy and he feels weird. Inadequate. Because it’s Lando and. Oscar probably looks dumb. Fuck.
Oscar scrambles a quick, “Just, uh, yeah thanks. Lando.” which is just about as bad as tripping on your own sock in front of a girl you’ve had a crush on since first grade.
Lando chuckles, a small frown still painted in between a smile and tanned skin. He scratches a spot behind his head and says, “Okay. Well. Cool,” hesitates before shooting a small, “Oscar?”
“Oscar, yeah.” Oscar parrots.
Lando smiles. Flicks a peck of dirt from Oscar’s racesuit, right above where his heart is hammering so fucking loud he almost misses the, “Mint.”
— — —
The first time Oscar sees Lando, he’s nine on a karting site he isn’t sure is very legal. Or maybe it’s YouTube, Oscar’s not so sure, and he’s not experienced enough to know the difference.
Oscar scrolls through countless videos and stumbles on one of those really clickbait-y ones, the title all in caps and explosions effect on the thumbnail.
And Oscar’s young. He sees that and he thinks it’ll be the best and most interesting video he’s ever seen.
And somehow, it’s true.
Lando’s little face fills the screen, eyes big and blue, grin too wide for his jaw. He’s talking and smiling at the same time, and Oscar’s having trouble understanding what he’s talking about, driving stuff and all, but he wants to, he thinks.
Lando chuckles and points to his helmet, all neon yellow with a mandala-like motif on the side. And he points to where it’s been used, where it’s clashed with tyre barriers and gravel and he’s so cool and he’s so funny and he looks so excited to be here and. Oscar’s young. He doesn’t know better.
In the orange light of an early morning in Melbourne, sun filtering through his half open blinds, Oscar, hidden under the covers, promises himself he’ll become just like Lando one day.
He’ll make sure of it.
— — —
They have practice on Tuesdays, because Monday’s their only day off.
They’re supposed to be studying during it, doing homework and whatnot to make sure karting won’t get in the way of them having an education, especially for the younger kids.
Oscar’s not actually bothered to do his homework. He’s always had decent grades even without studying. So when Alex proposes they go for drinks in the city, Oscar’s only too happy to be out of his room.
He’s not the most social person. But Alex and George seem like nice guys and Oscar won’t refuse a distraction from the pressure of karting and being away from his family for the first time in life.
George says, “We’re meeting Lando there. ‘Think he’ll be here before us, with the bus and all.” and Oscar’s suddenly kind of regretting his hasty decision.
There’s just something about hanging out with Lando that makes his shoulders tense. Nervous.
“‘Kay,” Oscar answers, because it’s stupid. He’s able to pretend Lando can be a totally normal, perfectly fine friend that Oscar hasn’t been watching since he’s little. That Lando’s not some kind of demigod or something. It’s fine.
Alex takes a peek at Oscar, and Oscar doesn’t make it look like he noticed.
“Lando’s taking the bus?” Oscar asks, because he kind of thought everyone slept at the dorm in the academy.
George nods, a little chuckle escaping his lips before saying, “The bloke still lives with his mum. ‘Think they’ve got some kind of money problem.”
And Alex frowns, elbow stabs him like George has just said the most outrageous thing ever, “Maybe he just likes taking the bus, yeah? Gives him some routine. You’d benefit from it, you massive sleep-in.”
George puts his hand up, and suddenly, everything’s back to semi normal.
They walk the whole way. It’s a nice day compared to during the weekend, only slightly sunny, mostly cloudy. Oscar doesn’t have to do much about it. Back home, he’d have to wear SPF 50 sunscreen everyday. Now, his skin is clam free and he doesn’t know how to feel about it.
It’s like in sixteen hours of travelling he’s lost the eighteen years he’s lived in Australia. There’s only so much that sticks to him. His accent. The nickname.
He’s sort of scared one day, there'll be nothing left.
Alex and George are busy making snarky comments at each other, so they don’t notice Oscar slowing down a bit. He tries to make it look like he’s observing the trees, even though there’s not much to see.
The bar’s a kind of stereotypical small town bar, with guys well over their 60s drinking beer and playing darts in the corner even though it’s the middle of the day. George waves some barista over like they’re in a five star hotel, calling him a garçon and asking if they could get a table outside.
For four. Because Lando’s coming.
They get seated around this little table that looks too old to still be standing. Alex’s chair isn’t steady. He keeps nearly falling over every time he shifts his body towards George. At some point, George folds a tissue he’s taken out of nowhere and places it under one of the legs of Alex’s chair.
Alex says, “Thanks sweetie,” and George menaces to take it out. Oscar laughs. It still feels like they’re not actually real. Like Oscar’s watching a show and they’re just two guys playing the protagonists.
Lando arrives. A flush on his face, his breath a bit weary, saying, “S’rry mate, the bus was, like, bloody slow,” and Oscar doesn’t even have the time to look up that he’s adding, “oh, hey. Oscar, right?”
“Oscar, yeah.” Oscar answers. He’s not nervous. He’s just. Weirded out, kind of.
Alex is already blabbering on about the exact type of tea he’ll ask for when the waiter comes back and Oscar’s too busy looking at Lando taking three steps and sitting right beside him to actually listen. He chuckles just to make it seem like he did though.
The sun’s shining directly on them now, and Oscar can’t help the bit of warmth from spreading in his body.
“Weather’s been nice at least,” Lando says, too close to Oscar. He’s leaning towards him, Oscar realizes, and he doesn’t know how to feel about that.
His brain musters up a quick, “Yeah, I like the sun,” chuckling a bit to not make it seem as awkward as he feels and Lando smiles. A small thing. It makes his cheek pop up.
“Yeah. ‘Like it, too, I reckon.” Lando takes the menu and flips the couple pages. At some point, he asks, leaning even closer to Oscar, “Watcha takin’?”
And Oscar’s helpless to answer anything but a weak, small, “Lemonade.”
To which Lando answers, with a sort of fist to Oscar’s arm, “I’ll trust you on that, then,” like lemonade’s not the most basic drink ever.
— — —
Oscar decides Lando is not anything like the kid Oscar knew from the videos. He’s less shy. Nicer maybe, if Oscar takes into account the times Lando was too aggressive on track, sending ten year olds into the barriers just because he wanted their position.
He’s also much, much more friendly.
As in, Oscar’s not even taken the first sip of his drink that Lando’s already asking for his number. To keep in touch. To send stupid cat memes as a number test, too apparently.
Because a second after Oscar’s finished typing his number into Lando’s phone, there’s already a kitten with only its ears and eyes showing on his screen, and a text in bold letters saying hi.
Oscar answers hey even though Lando’s sitting right next to him. Lando chuckles, looks at him and wiggles his phone like he’s trying to show Oscar the text he’d just sent him.
Oscar takes another sip of his drink. The citrus in it makes him wince a little, but it’s also what he likes about it. The sour. The fact that it lingers on his tongue hours after he’s tasted it.
— — —
Lando sends a text during Oscar’s shower. The first one since Monday, that afternoon at the bar.
Oscar can only see it after he steps out of the water stream, naked and dripping, and his first thought is just that. That Lando just sent Oscar a text and that Oscar’s reading it naked.
He feels ashamed suddenly. Like Lando knows, somehow, that Oscar’s not clothed. It’s weird. It’s like Lando’s in the room every time Oscar thinks about him.
Oscar realizes that it’s a little too many times lately.
Lando sent a simple: saw you struggle sunday need any help?
And Oscar doesn’t answer. Not immediately. He puts on clean clothes and socks, damp by the time he’s done them up and he folds his racesuit and dumps it in his bag of dirty stuff he needs to put in the laundry if someone’s so kind as to give him a tour of the building.
Oscar combs his hair and applies a pimple patch on his chin and on his shoulder, right where it hurts most, because airplane air sticks to his body like a leech. He takes his phone and puts it in the back pocket of his jeans and he does his best at not replying.
At midnight, when Alex’s finally stopped doom scrolling on social media and George’s been asleep for a while now, Oscar picks up his phone and feels less weird about replying: yeah that’d be great thanks, because it feels less like an exhibionist thing and more like a secret.
Even though Oscar doesn’t actually need help. It’s just. Nice. Friendly. Oscar’s not one to refuse someone who wants to get closer to him, especially if that someone’s on the cover of a magazine Oscar has considered precious for a decade now.
— — —
On the next day, Friday, they have two practice sessions.
They’re going pretty well for Oscar. It’s been sunny ever since Monday and Oscar is always relieved when in the morning he looks at his weather app and it doesn’t show that little cloud with rain drop emojis.
He’s starting to find his marks. The track is pretty small, about three kilometers long, but it has some nice corners. Oscar is already trying to scrape a couple tenths so he’s happy. He watches as Alex and George battle on track the same way they do in their dorm. Playfully. Sneaky.
Near the end of the first practice, some guy spins into the barrier and Oscar has to brake weird and completely destroy his tires to avoid crashing into him. It makes his final lap shit. Which, in turn, means Oscar finishes eighth out of the twelve on track this morning.
His ego’s kind of bruised. But his kart’s even more. Tires are gone, one almost a full flat spot because of the braking. And Oscar’s been a bit harsh on his tires, which means most of them are pretty badly grained and used anyway.
Oscar sighs and slips his visor up.
A couple guys are already talking about going for a snack or something. Oscar wonders if Alex will actually make him see the good vending machines sometime or if it was just to make conversation.
He’s not hungry anyway.
Oscar prompts his kart on the carrier and doesn’t take off his helmet until he’s in the tent, where some of the drivers are chatting and cleaning dirt off their karts, laughing. Oscar doesn’t look at them. But he can hear Lando’s chuckle in the middle of a sentence, and it makes him ache.
He imagines walking up to him eventually, feeling confident enough to talk and not wonder what the fuck he’s doing. Imagine Lando doing the work for him, leaning closer and explaining some shit Oscar probably already knows.
If maybe Lando would snatch the rug from Oscar’s hand and swipe a part of the chassis Oscar didn’t notice was dirty, if he’d talk during like he’s teaching Oscar how to clean a kart. Oscar rubs at a spot and almost believes it’s Lando doing it.
Only it’s his hands in his vision, his hands he can see instead of Lando’s almost comically large ones. It’s pale skin instead of tan, it’s reality instead of reverie.
Oscar changes the flat tire and imagines Lando teaching him how to, even though it’s not like Oscar doesn’t know. But lately, it kind of feels like he’s had to relearn everything from an English point of view.
Lando would use the same words Oscar uses at home, but it’d feel new, because the vowels would be smoother and the consonants barely there. Hands close, fingers brushing accidentally. Oscar would feel it without having to notice, because maybe, Lando would make sure he does.
But it’s all just ifs and maybes in the end. Oscar swipes at his kart alone and Lando’s busy laughing so loud because of a joke his friend made to actually notice Oscar being here.
It’s not like Oscar expected it to be different.
When he was twelve maybe, watching Lando’s onboards and interviews and podiums until his eyes burnt from too much screen time and too-little sleep, he’d wondered if maybe it would ever be like this. If Lando would allow Oscar to be close enough to touch one day.
Now, Oscar’s eighteen and he’s still young and he’s closer to Lando than he’s ever been, so it should be enough. It should.
Oscar rubs his hands on his racesuit, feeling it cling because of the oil and the sweat, and he knows it’s not. Enough. That maybe it will never be. Because it’s Lando. Because it’s Oscar, and Oscar’s always loved to push everything he does to its limit.
When Oscar’s finished, he takes his helmet and carries it underneath his arm, the way he’s done thousands of times before. He passes Lando on his way out. He’s already looking when Oscar tilts his head up, and Lando doesn’t say anything but smirks, a soft, “Not bad for a rookie,” as Oscar’s pushing the tent’s plastic curtain to leave.
Oscar’s smile is shy, a nod barely there, but inside, he’s full of something he doesn’t quite have the words for yet. But it’s the same thing he’s felt since he was ten and stepped inside a kart for the first time, since he was eleven at the top step of a podium.
Since he was fourteen when Lando got back into racing.
— — —
Oscar’s munching on a protein bar he got from a vending machine he found by himself. He thinks this one was part of The Bad Vending Machines™ because it whirred loudly and Oscar lost two euros trying to get a KitKat. Had to settle for a bland protein bar instead, raisins making their home in between Oscar’s teeth dips.
The track is dry. He’s planning on going back for a ride in not too long, because the weather app told him this morning that it was supposed to “spit” late afternoon. And Oscar’s learned in the week he’s spent here in Castle Combe that spit actually means pour.
And anyways. His kart is all good now, so he’s ready to take it for a spin. Not a literal one, preferably.
The aluminum wrap crumples loudly even in the general loudness of the track. Oscar tries to make it into a ball and fails, chucks it in the bin in defeat.
That’s when he hears it. The familiar roar of the engine he’s heard a million times before, taking a corner wide and not apologising for it. Braking late. Turning radically, his tires screeching.
Lando.
It’s the first time Oscar actually sees Lando drive in forever. Current driving, it is. Because Oscar saw Lando drive just last night, only it was from a race ten years ago. He’d won it, obviously, but Oscar hasn’t seen Lando win anything in ages.
It’s also the first time Oscar sees Lando drive in real life. Right in front of him, fifty meters away, Lando’s tucking his head on a straight and adjusting his foot on the brake pedal every corner, taking kerb and splashing dirt from a guy that crashed in the morning off of the track.
Oscar recognizes him right away. Neon yellow helmet.
And yeah, he’s still fast. But also messy. He makes mistakes where he didn’t, brake late but also too late, compromising his exit, burning through his tires recklessly. It’s Lando from back then exacerbated by ten, sometimes fifty, sometimes a hundred.
Oscar winces when Lando brakes too harshly and the sound is reverberated all over the track, kids turning their head in whiplash as Lando almost goes full stop. George is five meters away, his eyes wide, his stance hesitant. Alex shrugs beside him, goes back to talking like nothing happened.
Like Lando driving this way is just another Tuesday.
Oscar hasn’t seen him in too long to guess the opposite. But Oscar can see it. And most of all, he feels it. Lando’s changed.
— — —
The sun is setting, so low in the sky it makes everything look orange. Like some kind of glow settled over the track, just for Oscar to see.
He relishes in moments like this, where he can be alone but not feel lonely. Warmth on his skin making it feel like he’s in the middle of a dream. And Oscar guesses he is, in some way. In the middle of his dream, the one he’s had since that morning under the covers, tablet too close to his face.
He’s not alone, he figures out at some point. Lando’s sitting on the pavement stairs by the track when Oscar is on his way back to the dorms. Large hoodie on his frame, beanie over his head, fiddling with something between his fingers.
Oscar approaches, a small “Hey,” falling from his lips before he can think too hard about it.
Lando’s head jumps up. He smiles a little when he sees Oscar, his lips stretching just enough. Oscar wouldn’t know what to call it. Kind, maybe. Tentative.
“Hi, Oscar.” Lando sighs, pouts a bit. “You goin’ back?”
“Uh, yeah actually.” Oscar nods, plopping his bag of clothes to the ground. “I’m exhausted to be honest. ‘Think I’ll be out in seconds,” he chuckles, and Lando chuckles back.
“Yeah, same.” Lando scratches his neck. He asks, “D’you know what time it is? My phone’s dead.”
Oscar rambles a quick, “Yeah, sure, let me see,” and squats to the ground to take his phone. He swipes the couple notifications on the screen, a text from his mom reminding him to eat dinner even when he’s tired, a snap from Hattie probably demanding he return one not to end their streak, some stupid thing from an app he forgot he even downloaded.
He must take a little too long because Lando nudges him with his foot, giggling a soft, “So?”
“Ah, yeah, sorry.” Oscar winces. “Twenty past seven.”
Lando nods above him. “Thanks.” His fingers play with something again, and Oscar realizes it’s a lighter. Flame lit every now and then, cutting through the silence.
Leaves rustle above them. The warmth of the sun is slowly getting less and less and Lando curls up on himself as it does.
Oscar stands up then, asks before he can stop himself, “Cold?”
To which Lando answers, with a chuckle, “Yeah, kind of. I’m, uh, waiting for my bus, actually.” Lando swallows, bites at his bottom lip, “It’s at seven forty three.”
Oscar chuckles. “Bit of an odd time,” he says, and Lando sighs a laugh, adjusting his beanie over his neck, then his forehead when it’s too low.
“Well, it’s my last bus, so there’s no other option.” Lando lets out in that small high voice of his Oscar recognizes from years old videos. “Y’mind, like, waiting with me?”
Oscar stills, a bit. He’s surprised Lando wants to hang out with him, if he’s honest. But he says, “Uh, not at all,” because it’s also what he’s been waiting for all his life.
Lando’s smile gets only a little brighter, his cheeks pink and orange in the low light of the setting sun. “Mint.” He says, and Oscar feels his own face stretching wide.
Oscar’s just standing awkwardly because he’s not sure how to act. So when Lando pats the little space on his right, he lets out a breath and goes to sit, leaving his bag in front of them. Sitting like this, next to each other without looking or talking, it feels like they’re admiring Oscar’s dirty clothes.
Lando gets something from his own bag after searching for it for a few seconds, the sound of leather and fabric being scratched at the only thing to betray him. He does this little high pitched hum when he finds it. Oscar’s heart clench and there is this weird realization that Lando isn’t just a kid on the cover of a magazine anymore.
He’s a real person, someone who breathes and laughs and. Smokes, too, apparently. Because Lando gets a cigarette out of a packet and puts it between his lips, the lighter he was playing with finally of use when he lights his cigarette.
Oscar has half a mind to say he’s pretty sure they’re not allowed to smoke on school grounds, and that maybe, as someone trying to become a professional athlete, he shouldn’t smoke at all.
But Lando seems so content like this, smoke falling from his parted lips, hair blowing just a little in the picking up wind. He tugs at his beanie again, tilts his head like he knows Oscar is staring even though his eyes are closed.
“You always this quiet?” Lando asks then, out of nowhere, exhaling smoke.
Oscar chuckles, fiddles with his earlobe like he’s a six year old caught in the middle of a mess. “Only when I’m nervous.”
Lando snorts. He shakes his head, takes a drag of his cigarette and says, smoke still filling his lungs, “I’m not that scary, mate,” like he’s not some kind of legend to all the kids here.
Like he’s not some kind of legend to Oscar.
“I don’t know, then,” Oscar starts, looking at his clothes. There’s a sock right on the top of them, like a cherry on the top of a cake, “Guess I’m more of a listener.”
Lando looks at him for a second, right before asking, “Yeah?”
Oscar shrugs. “Yeah.”
Lando hums, and the small wind settles. Oscar tells himself he only looks at Lando’s mouth because it’s getting a bit purple from the cold, because he’s concerned.
The bus arrives at forty two past seven. The sun’s almost gone, leaving only a blue hue in its wake. Lando gets up, picks up his bag and doesn't even say goodbye. Just a small wave when he’s sitting in it, a glass window separating them.
Oscar waves back, still sitting on the stairs. He doesn’t go back to the dorms immediately. He stares at the sock over his bag and wonders if Lando’s noticed it too. If he can guess just from that that Oscar has trouble finding two socks from the same pair in the morning so he settles for ones that look alike.
On Oscar’s feet, beneath his shitty sneakers he’s had since he was 15 and still growing, one of his socks is light grey and the other dark grey. He doesn’t know if anyone but him can tell the difference.
— — —
Oscar remembers to call his mom at breakfast. Pouring coffee in a mug, drinking right after and burning himself, he has this flash of oh shit.
She hasn’t texted him in a while, probably thought Oscar was too busy. And he has been, if he’s honest. Busy adjusting mostly. Busy trying mobile games to make Alex happy, busy reading his telemetry every night until his head hurts so bad he seriously considers getting glasses.
The last thing she’d sent was a small, don’t forget to call once in a while, and Oscar had most definitely forgotten. He doesn’t know if it's a sign he’s a bad person, a bad son, or if it’s just proof he’s growing up.
Once he’s back in his room, back against the wall and feet tucked beneath his blanket, he taps in her contact. The phone rings two times before she answers, a small and rugged, “Hi darling.”
Oscar’s second oh shit moment of the day. He also forgot to check what time it is in Melbourne. “Hi Mom, sorry. Did I wake you?” he asks, putting the call on speaker to sprint to his clock app.
“Wake me?” His mom chuckles, the sound airy from the microphone, “Oscar it’s the middle of the afternoon. I’m just a little sick, don’t worry. Tell me what you’ve been up to?”
“Sick?” Oscar asks.
“Yeah, just a cold, darling. Your dad’s been pestering me about fixing the broken window. ‘Think I’ll put a little more thought into it, now.”
Oscar chuckles. “Good.” He takes his phone back, prompts it on the pillow so he can lay down.
She hums. “You’ve been good, though? No sickness ‘round?”
“No, yeah, everything’s nice here. Rain mostly.” Oscar says. “It’s not raining now, but it was during the night. Everything’s damp and muddy.”
His mom chuckles, fake shudders like she’s in England with him, “Well, that’s good, honey. I know it’s still in a while but I’ve been thinking you could come ‘round for the holidays? Mae misses you.”
Oscar snorts, “Only Mae?”
“Oscar, you know what I mean,” she giggles, sighs.
There’s a small silence. Oscar thinks he can hear his mom already preparing dinner in the background, bubbling noises like boiling water making popping sounds every once in a while.
Oscar hums. He’s been sleeping weird lately, waking up in the middle of the night for no reason. He doesn’t know if it’s still jetlag or if his body is trying to hang on to his habits. But it makes him tired all the way to dinner.
“I miss you, too,” Oscar says, because it’s the truth.
— — —
Oscar has been hanging out in the common room more these days. He’s learned the names of most people, at least the guys his age, and formed what could be acquaintances relationships with them. Alex and George joke they’re Oscar’s emotional support duo when he needs them to make the first step, and Oscar’s okay with being the shy guy as long as they help him out.
It’s a symbiotic kind of thing. Beneficial to both parties. They get to have a laugh and Oscar gets to have new sort of friends. They work, as roommates.
George is a bit of a psychorigid, picking up underwear in the common bathrooms and asking in the middle of lunch whose it is. He cleans after Alex and Alex always says thank you, because he may be a bit of a snarky guy, he’s still kind.
Now, George is busy arranging the pieces of chess he’s collected after about twenty minutes of playing against another guy, Max Oscar thinks his name is, when Lando steps into the room, plops himself right next to Oscar on the sofa.
Oscar is watching some old Formula One race on his phone, broken earbuds playing so loud he’s mainly sure people know when one of the drivers overtake. He’ll have to buy new ones, or maybe trade something. It’s a thing here, trading, like they’re in the Middle Ages and acquiring pest medicine in exchange for herbal leaves or something.
Oscar’s attention is redirected to a thing thrown at him at some point. A bag of crisps. Lando’s grinning in the corner of his eye, pretending like he wasn’t the one that attacked Oscar with crisps.
“What?” Lando asks, voice strained like he’s trying not to laugh, “Wasn’t me,” he adds, shrugging. His fingers tap rhythmically on his phone.
“Never said it was, mate,” Oscar chuckles, props the packet next to him. Between Lando and him actually.
Lando hums. Oscar takes one earbud out, just in case Lando’s being here wasn’t just to assault him. Just in case he wants to chat.
George groans in the background, a clear sign he’s losing miserably. Max is kind of known around here for being really shit at board games, but apparently, George is shittier.
Lando elbow checks Oscar, whispers, “Can’t believe Max is actually winning.”
Oscar shrugs. The race on his phone is still playing as he sets his phone down to turn around and look at George and Max playing chess. Sure enough, Max is smiling like there’s no tomorrow and George has his face between his hands, looking at the table in between the space of his fingers.
“Yeah, well. I can’t believe George is actually losing,” Oscar answers, because George is always so competitive when he plays mobile games against Alex that it feels a bit surreal.
Lando chuckles, “Oh I can.” Lando shifts to look at them too, elbows on the back of the sofa as he struggles to open the bag of crisps, “Back then, you know, like, in junior karting, he lost kind of everything against Alex.”
“Did he?” Oscar asks.
He doesn’t remember Alex being a menace on track. Maybe that’s where he remembered his face from, when they first met. But if Oscar’s totally honest, he didn’t pay a lot of attention to drivers beside Lando.
Lando blinks. “Yep,” he says, popping the p in between two mouthfuls, “the only guy Alex lost against was me,” he adds, chuckling. “But you already knew that, yeah?”
Oscar flushes. “Maybe.” He fiddles with his earlobe again, and sees Lando noticing it.
“Nothing wrong with it, mate. If anything, I’m, like, flattered.” Lando giggles, tilting his head towards Oscar. If plops another crisp in his mouth, says, “Wasn’t totally sure. But I saw how you looked at me on track, so like. Detective reasoning.”
“Deductive reasoning,” Oscar corrects. Lando grins and mutters a small yeah that, like he isn’t annoyed at Oscar doing that.
Lando hums. Shifts on the sofa again, feet under his thighs and back to a very much losing George, “If it helps, I, like, watched some of your races, too.”
Oscar laughs under his breath, sharp, “Y’did?”
“Yeah,” Lando shrugs.
Oscar sits normally too, and makes sure not to notice how Lando’s leg almost touches his. But then Lando taps his foot against Oscar and giggles, so Oscar steals a crisps from Lando and doesn’t ever put his second earbud in.
Instead he listens to Lando hum to himself and laugh every once in a while, probably when the guy on his phone makes a joke.
— — —
It’s the next afternoon, and Oscar’s been roped into laundry duty because George refused to look at his orphan-socked feet a second longer. So apparently, this is the price to pay.
Oscar carries two bags of dirty clothes, one for the white that’s actually not white anymore, because it’s mostly muddy and rain drenched racesuits as well as underwear, and the other colored clothes. He’s learned three minutes ago he was supposed to separate the white from all the other stuff because of stain risks.
So here he is, practically dislocating his shoulders because of the weight of the bags, getting hoodies and pants and t-shirts handed to him in the hallway. He’s trying to find someone that might help him locate the laundry room, because no one has told him where anything actually is yet.
He passes an open doored room during the journey, and Lando’s in it, sitting on one of the bottom bunks and talking really loud with another guy, who Oscar can only hear the voice of.
“Dunno if I wanna go back, Max. T’was a bit shit.” Oscar hears Lando say. It’s a bit muffled because of the whole being in another room situation, but the walls around here are so thin, Oscar can still hear them quite clearly.
Max, Oscar assumes, sighs. “I know, but, like, mate.” He steps into view then, sits next to Lando on the bed, “It’ll be good for you. At least it’s supposed to be, or something, I don’t know.”
“You don’t know,” Lando parrots.
“I mean, mate, I don’t know. But it’s- yeah. I don’t know.” Max says. His voice keeps getting quieter and quieter, and Oscar wonders if he should even come in asking for their laundry. He feels stupid. Their conversation seems important, and Oscar’s mission significantly not.
But as he’s starting to walk away, Lando shouts, “Oi, Oscar!” so. Oscar stops, and peeks at them from the half opened door, a small smile on his face.
“Yeah?”
“Watcha doing here?” Lando asks. Max is looking at Oscar like he’s intruding, and yeah, Oscar feels like he’s intruding.
“Uh,” Oscar nods towards the bags in his hands, trying to shrug but failing miserably because of their weight, “Laundry duty? George put me up to it.”
Lando chuckles, an eyebrow raised. “Did he say it builds character or something?” Lando asks, giggling and blinking at Oscar. “Oh wait. He said it’s, like, some kind of rite of passage, didn't he?”
Lando shifts to look at Max, like he’s trying to see if his joke was funny, and Max manages a small chuckle, like he’s not actually sure he wants to give it to Lando.
Max says, “It’s not the worst in the history of rites of passage, mate,” and Lando’s laugh doubles.
Oscar drops his bags on the floor. He’s somewhat scared he’s witnessing a private joke, and he’s one hundred percent sure he’s not in on it.
So, he cuts them, “Need anything washed?”
Lando looks at him, then switches to look at the bags of clothes on the floor. “I do, actually.”
“Do not give him your dirty underwear Bob,” Max says, grinning. He turns to Oscar then, claps his palms on his thighs as he gets up like he’s some kind of middle aged man, “I’ve got a couple lycras if you’re not too bothered, though.”
Lando deadpans, “Mate, you say not give him underwear but you’re prepared to give your sweaty disgusting musty scenting lycras?” He makes a face at the pile of dirty clothes in the corner of the room, adds, “I’ll wash ‘em. No need to introduce yourself to Oscar there in such crude manor, mate.”
Max laughs, throws the lycras to Lando, who barely ducks at the right time to avoid them getting in his face, “Fine to me. As long as I don’t have to walk through the whole building with them.”
Lando hums, picking them up with crab fingers, fake gagging. Oscar laughs and nods for him to put them in the bag with the colored stuff.
But then, he says, “Wait, how far is the laundry room?”
To which Lando answers, a small frown still painted on his face, “Y’dont know where it is?”
Oscar shakes his head. “No one’s had the mind to make me visit yet. Thought I'd just, figure it out for myself, or something.”
“Figure it out for myself, he says,” Lando parrots, rolling his eyes like Oscar’s just said the dumbest thing in existence, “I’ll help you out. Gotta wash Max’s disgusting stuff anyway.”
Lando picks one of the two bags from the floor, oomphs as Max makes fun of him. Oscar blinks, and Lando’s already ten meters away, looking back like he’s actually sure Oscar is the dumbest thing in existence now.
“You comin’?” Lando asks, body half slumped to the side because of the only one bag situation.
Oscar blinks, again. “Yeah sure. Uh, lead the way?”
Lando giggles, face contorting in this really easy smile, “I’ll be-, wait who’s the guy who discovered America?” He asks, a little panting as they pass another half opened room and a guy stops Oscar to give him a couple t-shirts.
“Colombus?” Oscar proposes. He has to give back one of the t-shirts because it keeps falling over, the bag too full. The guy annoy-sighs and Oscar wonders why he’s even speaking to a thirteen year old.
Lando shakes his head. He’s taking the stairs down one by one, waiting for Oscar to catch up, “Nah, not him. ‘Nother guy with a weird name.”
Oscar chuckles, “It was Colombus who discovered the Americas, mate. I can give you the whole story if you want, but I've got a feeling your eighth grade history teacher already did.”
“Okay, like, maybe he did. But-”
Oscar cuts him, laugh bubbling up and making the painfully heavy duty of lifting a twenty kilo bag of dirty laundry easier, “Maybe?”
Lando rolls his eyes again. “Whatever. Columbus discovered America.” He puts his own bag down then, sighs and adds, “Why are we even talking about this?”
Oscar chuckles, “I think you were trying to say some kind of phrase that ended in me lecturing you.”
Lando gives him a look. He picks his bag up again, complains about the weight under his breath. Oscar is down the stairs before Lando is, looking back with a smile to find Lando’s gaze already on him.
“Laundry room’s this way,” Lando says, nodding to his right.
“You sure, Magellan?” Oscar asks after a few seconds of being in the hallway. The only sign there indicates some kind of floor-shared bathroom and a terrace.
But Lando stops and lets his bag down really abruptly, the sound echoing in the small space. Oscar turns around, doesn’t have the time to ask what’s going on when Lando points his finger at him and practically screams, “That’s the guy I was trying to say!”
And Oscar’s back to laughing, tears starting to prickle in his eyes, “Mate. Oh my God,” Oscar tries to finish his sentence but his laugh keeps cutting him in the middle of it, “Magellan’s used to say someone is lost!”
Lando frowns, a small laugh falling from his lips, “Is he?”
“He is.” Oscar manages, body bent from planting his hands on his knees, catching his breath.
“Whatever, that fucker Max always says the laundry room’s left after the stairs.”
Oscar shuts his lips together, trying not to let out another round of laughter in case anyone’s trying not to be bothered in their room, “Mate.” Oscar starts.
Lando tilts his head. “Hm?”
Oscar points in front of him, where another hallway stretches behind Lando, “That way is left after the stairs.”
Lando turns around. Then back to Oscar, a large smile painted on his face like he was playing some sort of joke when Oscar’s almost sure Lando wasn’t, “Sure it is. Didn’t I tell you that way?”
He doesn’t even wait for Oscar to answer, just grips the plastic handle of his bag and starts walking in the direction the laundry room actually is.
Oscar whispers a small, “‘M sure you did,” already spotting the sign on the ceiling pointing to one of the doors.
The laundry room is this small fully tiled thing, white all over. Every breath feels like it echoes in it, every step a muffled cling on porcelain. Only one of the washing machines is free, three others shut with a “Out Of Service” sheet of printing paper on them, the last already rolling.
Lando shrugs, says, “Well, guess we’ll have to wait here a while,” because they have one washing machine and two bags.
“Guess so.” Oscar is already plopping every white item from his pile in the machine carelessly when Lando stops him, a small frown clinging to his eyebrows.
“Underwear and other stuff separate, Osc, what are you doing?” He tsks jokingly, shaking his head as he takes out everything not underwear or undercloth. “This stuff’s super dirty,” Lando says, his head nodding to every sock and racesuit he places back in the bag, “can’t touch our precious undies, yeah?”
Oscar flushes. He looks at the sock in his palm. Looks up to Lando, who’s gazing at the sock with hesitation in his eyes.
“Pretty sure this one’s biohazardous, by the way,” Lando deadpans.
Oscar snorts. “That’s your sock, isn’t it?” he says, because he’s pretty sure he saw Lando sneak in his dirty underwear in the bags despite Max’s comments.
Lando gasps, clutching his chest. Dramatic. “You wound me, Osc.”
Oscar’s laugh is a little too loud, and a little too real. He covers his mouth like he can take it back.
But Lando’s looking at him like it’s something rare. “You should do that more,” he says, and Oscar’s pretty sure his face is as red as one of the socks he’s wearing today.
“Do what?” Oscar asks, voice cracking like he’s still going through puberty.
“Laugh like a human person.”
Oscar rolls his eyes, grinning. “Don’t push it.”
Lando just keeps on grinning, pulling out one racesuit after the other until it’s only boxers and lycras in the machine. They spin loudly, thumping every now and then. Lando sits on one of the chairs, Oscar beside him on the floor.
Someone comes to pick up his laundry after a while. And later, when Oscar finds another sock without a match, he holds it up and says, “Your other biohazard, I presume?” and Lando laughs so hard he nearly tips his chair over.
It’s dumb. But Oscar thinks it’s theirs now.
— — —
A couple days later, it’s spitting again, and Oscar’s hair is so wet it dribbles down with every step he takes, head down in hopes it’ll make him reach the school building quicker.
Oscar finds Lando on the side of the track again, back against the rental building.
Oscar’s noticed Lando likes to hang out at the track longer than anyone else. After practice sessions, qualifying, races. He doesn’t know if he’s always been like that, but Lando is like that now. Sitting under a roof when it rains, on the tyre barriers when it doesn’t. Just, observing.
Oscar walks past, then pauses, doubles back. “You waiting for the rain to stop?”
Lando shrugs. He doesn’t even need to look up to know it’s Oscar anymore, and Oscar’s hand twitches because of it. “Nah. Just, like, don’t feel like going back, yet.” Lando says, plopping his chin on his knees, hoodie pulled up so Oscar couldn’t dissociate him from a curled up ball of black if he wanted.
Oscar leans on the wall beside him, quiet. Then, after a second, he asks, “You alright?” because Lando kind of looks like an emo kid right now, minus the smudged mascara and chipped painted nails.
“Yeah,” Lando says. After a beat of quiet, he adds, “Just one of those days, y’know?” and yeah.
Oscar does know.
He nods, more to himself than anyone. And instead of walking away, he stays.
Rain drips down the edge of the roof, right in front of Lando’s shoed toes. Lando wiggles them, chuckles. He says, after a while, “C’mon you’ll miss dinner if we mope any longer.”
On the way back, when Lando splashes a puddle onto his own shin, Oscar chuckles. Just enough for Lando to hear.
“Weather’s been nice at least,” Oscar says, making a point of splashing Lando's ankle when he steps too hard in another puddle, Lando doing nothing to avoid it.
Lando giggles, splashes him right back, “That’s England for you, innit?”, making his British accent ten times stronger than it would be if he had not decided to be dramatic about Oscar’s simple remark.
Oscar shrugs, “Aus is pretty bad this time of year too, to be honest. And July in Melbourne is brutal, mate.”
“Is it?” Lando asks. Oscar nods once, sharp. A drop of rain’s landed on his neck, slowly rolling down his spine, “Should come see it for myself, I think.” Lando adds.
Oscar laughs. He doesn’t invite Lando over, but he can’t stop the image of Lando spending his summer in Australia just to prove a point.
They walk side by side, a little fast because of the rain. Lando keeps giggling out of nowhere and Oscar’s in no position to try and stop it. It’s infectious anyway, which means Oscar can’t do much to stop himself from laughing either.
After a couple minutes they start to see the light from the common room. Lando’s steps quicken and Oscar lets him lead the way.
“Can’t stay for dinner too long,” Lando says then, out of nowhere. “Last bus home’s at seven forty three, remember?”
Oscar nods. Then again, he doesn’t invite Lando over, even though he could now, because it’s just to his dorm. And they’ve got a spare bed, Alex, George and Oscar, and Lando could technically stay over.
But Oscar can’t say any of this somehow, something making his throat a little tight around the words. Instead he says, “I’ll walk you back,” brushing a hand in his hair like it’s something natural.
To which Lando answers, voice all high pitched, “Awh thanks, Osc.”
Oscar really tries to blame it on the cold outside when his face heats up. Temperature regulation, or something. But he’s starting to fall into step with Lando when they reach the building, so he doesn’t know how to anymore.
— — —
Hattie sent Oscar an article about Lando. Something not old but not recent either. Lando’s face is all scrunched in it, frown so embedded in his features it looks like he might never be able to smile ever again.
It’s one of those messy headlines that was released after Lando’s break from karting. Not calling him washed, but something close to it. Not useless, but undeserving.
Oscar remembers the first time he got to hear from Lando after those two excruciating years of having to navigate your first kind of real races, championships. He remembers being in Singapore for a race, in the pool of some kind of fancy hotel.
Someone had screamed “Oh my God, Lando’s back in a kart!” and people had come running, teenagers in bathing suits, their feet plick plocking on the ground, hushed voices and nervous laughs. The headline had mirrored the one Oscar holds precious, the one on his magazine.
Wonderkid Norris’s fall after early rise.
Oscar hadn’t ever imagined it’d be this way. He hadn’t even imagined Lando might take up racing again. But here he was, a picture taken after his “disappointing race”, face in his hands. Bloody at his elbow, the racesuit torn.
A girl had gasped, fingers scattered as she tried to tie her towel under her armpits. She’d said, “Are we sure it’s him?”, Chinese accent not even managing to cut through her anguish.
Because Lando was so much more than a kid. He was a driver. A future. Someone actual kids would look up to, despite being an hemisphere away. He’d talk and everyone would listen. Whether it was awe or a collective crush, no one was really sure.
The only thing certain was that Lando was closer to being a God than being a regular sixteen year old, even when the entire world talked about him like he was some kind of defect.
Hattie sent a small, that’s your boy on the pic?, another photo right under. And yeah, it was Lando. Only it was Lando from now, in Castle Combe, frown still embedded, helmet hair and dirty face. It was from those early practice sessions. Maybe even the one he braked too late and almost hit George right in the face.
Oscar manages not to look too long at the text that accompanies it, only skips his eyes above until he reaches the word changed.
Yeah it’s him, Oscar sends back, even though it’s a bit weird talking about Lando like he’s his boy.
Hattie’s answer is a scared emoji, then a dancing flamenco girl for some reason. Oscar doesn’t bother trying to figure out what they mean, because Hattie always sends another text right after.
he’s in the same program as u???
Oscar flushes. He’d sort of known from the start, that this is where Lando practiced. He didn't actually realize Lando practiced here until he saw him that first time in the bus, talking to Alex and George next to the rental place.
Sorta, Oscar sends after a minute. He adds a shrugging emoji just to show how actually sane he is about this. Totally.
sorta????????, Hattie answers, eight crying faces following that. have you already jizzed ur pants or what?
Oscar laughs to himself, and feels weird about it after. The room’s empty, but he still feels like someone’s watching. shut up mate
don’t tell me you have actually. i’m traumatized. i never want to speak to u ever again. bye brother it was nice knowing u i guess, Hattie always speaks in small repetitive texts, the sound notification four rapid pings that Oscar has to turn off when they talk too long.
Sure, Oscar finishes with. He thinks of Lando with the same kind of texting habits. Three pings and nothing for ten hours, then again in the middle of the night.
He doesn’t tell Hattie, but he thinks they’d like each other.
— — —
Tuesday means the first practice session since last Thursday, the rain too violent to drive during the weekend.
Lando’s in a corner of the track, smoking his vape and eating ice cream. His lips are berry red from the cold. Tips of his fingers almost blue. Oscar’s never been one to feel hot easily, but Lando seems to be cold all the time.
His face is all concentrated, mouth open once in a while only to mumble to himself or plop a spoonful of vanilla ice cream in it. At some point he squats, like he’s analyzing the track. Racesuit tied to his hips, one shoe off, nose scrunched, he looks like the corner stole something from him and asked Lando to apologize for it.
Except Oscar had seen it, the crash. He’d seen Lando hit the barriers full on, body hurled forward. He’d seen Lando get off his kart as he was doing a lap around the track himself, saw Lando with his arms crossed over his chest talk to one of the engineers after as he slowed down so people could move Lando’s kart.
Lando didn’t get mad. Oscar thought maybe he would. Screaming, throwing his gloves, shoes, face red from anger.
But he’s just cold. Leaning against a wall, face emotionless. A bit scary.
— — —
Oscar sets the fastest time that day. It feels earned.
Not like the first time when only junior karts were on track, or just after he’s changed tires, engine. No, this time, everyone was on track, except Lando because of his crash, who still managed a decent P5 in the end. Alex and George kept battling like it was a race and not a practice quali, so they mostly threw their laps out the window, but still.
Max doesn’t drive like Lando. Pretty opposite actually, Oscar’s noticed. He takes corners at the apex, centimeters precise, loses in the exit when traction’s a bit shit, which all in all, it always is. The dirt on track makes it hard not to be.
And he did just that today, barely three minutes ago. Took a corner perfectly, lost time anyway. A gust of wind at the right time and there he was, completely off the racing line, grasping second by sheer force of will.
But Oscar was first. And it felt so fucking good. Feels so fucking good. To prove someone, anyone, that maybe, Oscar’s talent isn’t just reserved to sunny Australia, but that rainy England gets to see it, too, once in a while.
He’d made many mistakes during the lap, yes, but it doesn’t bother him that much. Maybe it should. Oscar’s dad would say it should, that even if you set the fastest time you have to look at where you lost time and rectify it for next time. Because the next time, your opponents will have fixed their mistakes, and they’ll be faster.
Oscar’s never perfect. Oscar’s dad only used the word to describe one person, and Oscar doesn’t even remember who it was, because he’d said it in such hypocrisy it’s not worth keeping a memory of that.
And Oscar’s not perfect now, but he’s the best. He set the fastest time.
He gets off his kart, and no one’s looking at him. But he’s happy. He takes his helmet off, grin so wide he can feel it in his jaw, in his eyes, in the grind of tooth on tooth.
Only Lando’s here. And he’s looking at Oscar. Racesuit long gone, oversized t-shirt and shorts replacing it, he looks at Oscar, and Oscar wishes it burnt. Wishes he could remember this for the rest of his life, the intensity of Lando’s gaze, the clench in his heart, the heat in his mouth.
Lando grins back, arms crossed against his chest and shuddering like he’s cold. He makes a head gesture to Oscar. Oscar takes it as a sign to go over to him.
After two steps, he feels something fall on his head. And another. Drops of rain, falling more and more, and Lando’s grin gets even wider, before he screams something Oscar can’t really hear.
He shouts back, “What?”, laughing because he’s happy, laughing because he just set the fastest time, and Lando shakes his head, waving his hand to make him come faster.
The rain is properly falling by the time Oscar’s in front of Lando, and his hair is dripping with it.
Lando takes a strand of it between his fingers, a small chuckle, a, “You’re lucky that didn’t happen during your lap,” easy as anything, because everyone here knows Oscar hates the rain.
Oscar laughs and takes a strand of Lando’s hair, too, lets it recoil when he unclasps it. “Yeah,” he answers, because there isn’t much he can say with Lando looking at him like that, eyes glowy, skin tan, lip red probably from how much he’s been nipping at it.
Lando finally lets go of Oscar's hair, and Oscar lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.
“Everyone’s gone,” Lando says, small, voice swirling around like it’s trying to mix with the ambient sound of rain.
Oscar takes a look around. The last person on track is Max, in the distance, his back turned like he’s trying to escape.
“Yeah,” Oscar repeats.
Lando looks up at him through his eyelashes, a stark black covering the cyan. He shakes his head then, grins, “You wanna-, like?”
And Oscar may be stupid, or just still high on endorphins, or drunk from the beer he drank a couple days ago with Alex and George, but in the end, it’s the same results: he doesn’t understand what he’s saying a third, “Yeah,” for.
Lando giggles and bites at his bottom lip, so small Oscar wouldn’t notice it if he didn’t notice everything. And then he’s off, taking Oscar by the hand and giggling all the way to God knows where, Oscar following, racesuit clinging to his body in a way that is becoming uncomfortable.
Oscar figures out Lando’s taking him to the rental place’s bathroom when they reach the door, which is far too long into the journey, and gives him far too little time to understand what Lando was asking.
But Lando is hauling Oscar into one of those little cubicles all of a sudden, the space so liminal they’re chest to chest, until they aren’t, until Oscar’s face to nothing and Lando face to Oscar’s crotch.
“Uh,” Oscar starts, but quickly shuts up.
He’s still soaked. Everything is wet. His hair, the fabric of his suit sticking to his thighs and stomach and chest, and the cold is only registering now in the places where Lando’s heat touches him. Fingers ghosting over his hips, undoing the zip, pushing his racesuit down without a word.
Just a glance, nothing properly real. So. Oscar remembers something Edie said once, when Hattie was having a panic attack: count five things you can feel around.
He’s not having a panic attack, now. At least he doesn’t think. But still, the bathroom smells like rust and soap and sweat. Not theirs, but someone’s from earlier in the day probably. It sounds like a kart’s being worked on, like the aircon is on even though it’s raining outside.
And Oscar can feel Lando under him. Which is the biggest thing happening right now.
Lando’s hands are so sure. That’s what undoes Oscar at first, scares him a little. The certainty. Not eager, not rushed, just. Confident. The kind of confidence Lando used to exhibit on track when they were ten years younger. Because he’d done it a hundred times, win a race.
Oscar wonders if he’s done this a hundred times, too.
His hand comes to rest against the top of Lando’s head, because Oscar hasn’t done that a hundred times before, so his body still acts on instinct. And he doesn’t push, he knows better than to, but when Lando does that thing, the barest hint of teeth scraping, Oscar grips.
Fingers curling in dry curls, dampened by the humidity but maybe sweat too, maybe lingering sweat from his cut off quali or sweat from right now, Oscar can’t decide, Oscar doesn’t want to decide. Maybe it’s nerves.
But the contact steadies Oscar, a bit. His knees wobble and Lando keeps one hand on the back of his thigh and the other on his hip.
Oscar tries not to make a sound. Tries to bite it all down like he always does.
He doesn’t know where to put the heat. It coils low in his gut, crawls at his spine. He doesn’t know where to put any of it now, with Lando on his knees, his mouth all around him, his tongue. The cover of the magazine, the look, the orphan sock. The high from the lap that put him first, still there, sharper now, headier, fuzzy.
Oscar feels like he might unravel at some point. He feels like everything he is is blending with everything that Lando is. Not with Lando, on his knees for him, but to Lando. Giving, giving, giving.
Lando doesn’t reach out, doesn’t say anything. He pulls back just slightly, just enough to glance up at Oscar. Not teasing. Just looking. Observing.
Oscar has to put his forearm over his eyes. He feels naked. His lycras are folding in all the wrong places, and he feels chafed, used up, panting. He still hasn’t come, isn’t even close to, but Lando’s cheeks hollow as he shifts deeper again, and Oscar feels something in his throat work.
Lando seems so calm. Even on his knees, with Oscar’s hand in his hair, jaw slack. Blinking through heat behind his eyes because it’s too much, too fast, too close, it’s like Oscar is playing catch up.
He thinks about saying something. Thank you, maybe. Don’t stop. Please. But his throat is locked and the rain is still drumming and everything smells overwhelming and Lando, Lando, Lando.
Lando, still quiet, just breathes through his nose. Nothing obscene, not wet and messy like Oscar had seen in porn, cocks springing up and down with rainbows all over. He hadn’t known how it’d be in real life. But he’d never thought of it like this. No sound of spit, no gagging, none of that.
Just deliberate, muffled, controlled. Maybe it’s just Lando.
Oscar wants to ask if it’s okay to touch more, wants to ask if he can lean down and hold Lando’s jaw open wider. But he doesn’t. Because this, this doesn’t feel like an invitation.
It’s an offering. And Oscar doesn’t know how to hold it without feeling like he’s about to drop it, without feeling like it’s already slipping.
Because everything feels like it’s slipping away right now.
He adjusts slightly, foot slipping a little on the tile, hip stuttering forward in a way that makes him feel mortified. Like a boy. Not a driver, not someone who sets the fastest time on a full track.
Lando doesn’t flinch, though. Just takes it. Breathes out through his nose again and tightens his grip beneath Oscar’s thigh, holding him in place like he wants it, like Oscar’s allowed to give in.
Lando’s mouth moves again, slow drag down, tongue flat, lips pursed on the way up. Oscar nearly chokes on it. The sensation, the tenderness, the heat.
Oscar’s hips twitch again. He tries to will them not to, ends up biting the inside of his cheek so hard he draws blood. He tastes metal. The wetness of his lip. The dry heat of his own breathing.
It feels like he’s breaking open. Quietly. Privately. In a public toilet.
He’s not even thinking about coming now. That’s going to happen eventually, of course. Probably sooner than he’d like. But what’s holding him inside out is this. The waiting. The sustained attention. Lando’s mouth around him like it belongs there. Like he'll do this every time Oscar does something right.
“Lando,” Oscar manages, barely a whisper. A crack in the middle. An echo in an empty bathroom.
Lando hums in acknowledgment. The vibration knocks something loose in Oscar’s chest. He exhales like he’s deflating. His body feels slippery inside itself, soft in a way he doesn’t understand.
Lando is looking up at him again. Or maybe he still is, has been since the beginning, Oscar isn’t sure.
Oscar wonders if he’s thinking about the lap. About P1. If Lando watched from the sidelines and thought, yeah okay, he earned it this time. He deserves it.
Oscar feels it building now, his orgasm, low and tight. All the things he hasn’t said yet, most likely never will, the things that haven’t even been words inside him yet, they’re pressing up against his spine now, against his ribs, leaking into his legs and his chest.
He whimpers without meaning to, high and soft and embarrassed, and Lando’s hand shifts slightly on his hip.
Oscar comes with a gasp like something startled out of him, curling over Lando's shoulder and pressing his forehead against the wooden screen, his body jolting once, twice. Lando holds steady. Breathing through it.
When it’s done, Oscar just stands there, shaking. Stupid.
His suit is around his knees, his hand still in Lando’s hair. He takes it off like Lando’s curls just bit him, and Lando looks up. His face is kind of fucked. Red swollen lips, flush over his cheeks, eyebrows still drawn tight.
Oscar shudders. Lando pulls back with a motion so casual it almost kills him.
Lando wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, sniffs once, then flicks his fingers at the ground like he’s trying to shake water off. Oscar wouldn’t know what to call it, really.
His brain is white noise.
He can feel his heart in the sole of his feet.
Lando steps by Oscar, opens the stall door and mutters, “C’mon. You’re still dripping everywhere,” like this is casual, like this isn’t the end of the world.
Oscar doesn’t move at first. He listens to the rain from his hair dripping on the ground. Plick. Plock.
His body feels too light. Or too heavy. He pulls his suit back up, fingers clumsy on the zip. Lando doesn’t offer to do it for him. He’s already at the sink, rinsing his hand, face, like he’s washing away evidence.
He doesn’t look up.
Oscar speaks without thinking. “D’you want anything?” He asks, even though Lando looks like he just wants out of this bathroom as soon as possible. Oscar’s voice sounds raw, like he’s the one that’s just had a dick down his throat.
Lando snorts. His brows furrow, a small grin. Not mean, just surprised. “What, like, a medal?” He shakes his head, and Oscar feels like he’s a kid again. “You were the one to set the fastest lap. This is for you,” Lando emphasizes, like Oscar was the one that asked.
Except Lando hadn’t asked. Not really.
And Oscar doesn’t get to say that, because maybe, this is what he’s always wanted.