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"Lando Norris—!"
The scream hits first. Then the cheers. Then champagne foam exploding into the Monaco night.
A cork pops skyward and sets the humid darkness ablaze. Under hazy lights, the crowd surges toward him like a tide. He's grinning—sun-kissed honey skin glowing under the strobes, sweat trailing down his throat and disappearing beneath the open collar of his shirt, drawing sticky, hungry stares from men and women alike.
The club's golden boy has returned to his kingdom.
The DJ cranks the bass higher, but it still can't drown out the laughter orbiting him.
He's the kind of main character who never goes home alone. Rumor says he goes through partners faster than Ferrari goes through tyres. Fans speculate daily about who'll be the first to land the "official girlfriend" title. There's a betting pool. The odds shift by the hour.
But watching him in the center of the dance floor, arms slung around whoever happens to be there—maybe this young British driver, born with money and affection in equal measure, just wants to stretch out his freedom a little longer.
---
"Can you introduce me to Carlos Sainz?"
That's the other question the girls always ask.
The Spaniard. The so-called heartbreaker. Those soft, downturned eyes make him look permanently innocent, while his heavy brows shadow warm brown irises that could drown you if you stared too long.
He doesn't frequent places like this often—but no one doubts Carlos Sainz knows how to have fun.
He just sits on a couch away from the dance floor, away from the bar, and the girls still come in waves. He usually says no—but no one leaves disappointed.
"Sorry. Tonight I just want a quiet drink."
When he says it, his eyes crinkle like he regrets it more than you do.
"But your dress tonight? It makes you look like moonlight."
The girl dubbed "Moonlight" walks away glowing.
Another sits down. Minutes later, she leaves grinning at her friends—tonight's "Rose."
Carlos never misses a chance to show off his way with words—even if that talent is really just wrapping a "no" inside a rose and handing it over.
Gossip says he has a thing for British models. If you're from the UK, around 170cm, green eyes, curly hair—you're probably in Carlos's wheelhouse. Half the European modeling circuit could vouch for that.
Anyway. He's experienced.
---
At some point, Lando drifts away from the music and the crowd.
Carlos doesn't look up—but the whiskey in his glass tells him someone's near. The couch dips beside him. Familiar. Unfamiliar. Champagne bubbles with a hint of lemon.
Why isn't he leaning in?
Carlos thinks back to when they were teammates. Lando used to appear out of nowhere and just collapse into his space, natural as breathing. Carlos would laugh, ruffle that messy brown hair, pull the little British curl closer.
Lando would stay quiet, let himself be touched, then look up with those green eyes—damp, shining.
Hey. I was trusted by a future world champion, once.
---
And look where fate brought them.
Ferrari red replaced papaya orange. Different garages. Different celebrations. Different disappointments. The wild laughter and shared secrets stayed in yesterday.
Sometimes Carlos hears Lando mention him in interviews. But he can't just reach out and mess up his hair anymore.
A little tipsy, Carlos finds himself deeply dissatisfied with the distance between them.
Deeply.
But he's happy for him—
He stands and pulls Lando into a fierce hug.
"WORLD CHAMPION LANDO!"
His hand buries into the curls, rough and unapologetic, like he's making up for years of missed chances. The hair is still soft. Still chaotic. Exactly as he remembers.
He hears himself laugh, muffled against Lando's shoulder—a little drunk, a little relieved, and something else he can't name.
Lando's eyes go wide.
Green like a lake catching stars.
---
So how the hell did it come to this?
Carlos Sainz Vázquez de Castro Cenamor Rincón Rebollo Virto Moreno de Aranda De Anterruriaga Tiapera del Tón sits in silence, and not a single person in this city could offer him a solution.
One impulsive kiss. One tangled embrace. Two alcohol-soaked brains.
And now he's here. On the bed. In Lando's hotel room.
Lando is in the shower.
Carlos Sainz is about to hook up with his newly crowned world champion ex-ex-teammate. FUCK.
---
The water's still running, but Carlos has bigger problems.
He stares at his phone like the team just told him the car's overweight and he needs to drop fifteen kilos before quali.
[how to not look like it's my first time!!!]
Three exclamation marks.
Because despite every rumor—
Carlos Sainz. Thirty-one. Paddock-certified heartbreaker.
People he's slept with:
Zero.
The rumors were convenient. Let them think he was a player; it saved him trouble. PR pairings went smoother. The brand value benefited.
But now—
He glances at the frosted glass. A figure moves behind it. Twenty minutes already.
Lando's definitely experienced.
The thought sinks like a stone.
The club kid reputation isn't for nothing. Those stories about changing partners like tyres, those photos leaving hotels with models—Lando Norris, twenty-five, definitely has this figured out.
If Carlos is clumsy... if he gives himself away...
What will Lando think of him?
More importantly—
Carlos's eyes drop, fingers hovering over the screen.
He doesn't know how to confess. Doesn't even know what he's supposed to confess. Just that he's been turning people away instinctively, maybe because—
Since then. I've liked him since then.
The water stops. Carlos scrolls frantically through a tutorial like a student before finals.
---
Lando hurries into the bathroom, closes the door, pretends to turn on the shower—his heart is racing, his head a mess. He stares at the mirror, takes a breath. Another. Another.
Fuck.
He's going to sleep with Carlos Sainz.
The thought loops, volume increasing, until Lando feels like he might actually levitate.
Carlos. Sainz. Sleep with.
He grips the sink, staring at his reflection—already red to the ears—and wants to punch himself to calm down.
HE'S GOING TO SLEEP WITH CARLOS SAINZ!!!! Lando screams internally, fumbling for his phone, opening the chat with George.
"i have a friend who wants to ask—"
[delete.]
"if someone is about to—"
[delete.]
"how to look experienced?"
[delete.]
He stares at the screen for three seconds, then throws the phone in the sink. No. He really can't confess to his best friends: Lando Norris, playboy, club legend, has actually... never slept with anyone.
Those club rumors, those "faster than Ferrari tyre changes" stories—all drunk bullshit. The night Carlos left McLaren, he'd stayed up drinking with George and Alex, pounding the table: "I'm Lando Norris, I'm not gonna die on some crooked tree! Let him go! I'll dance and party just fine!"
Next morning, George asked about "that model."
He stammered out a name.
After that, making up stories became a habit. People asked, he made stuff up, made up enough and it became "real." Later the media started writing about "club kid Lando," and he just stopped explaining—at least this way, no one knew he'd once wanted to cry and beg someone to stay.
But now what.
Now he's clumsily opening websites, playing "tutorials."
"how to seduce in bed"
"say this to turn him on"
"brat's secret techniques"
The voice is syrupy sweet, every word making Lando blush. He grits his teeth and watches one, then another, muttering along:
"aww~ why are you standing so far away..."
"come here..."
"is this too fast..."
"be gentle..."
What the hell is this.
He understands none of it. And he's cringing so hard he might die.
But what choice does he have. Cramming now is better than fucking up later.
He checks the time—almost half an hour. If he doesn't go out soon, Carlos will think he passed out in here.
Lando shoves his phone into his bathrobe pocket, takes one last breath at the mirror. His face is still red, curls still dripping, green eyes screaming I'm going to die.
Lando Norris, you can do this.
You're a world champion.
This is easier than a Grand Prix.
Lando takes a deep breath and pushes open the door.
---
Carlos stands by the window, phone screen lit, looking troubled, fingers pausing and scrolling.
—But why is his shirt already off???
FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK.
Lando's inner monologue is screaming like a Munch painting.
Carlos really has a... body.
City lights flow over his honey skin, shoulders perfectly broad, chest wide and defined—carved by years of training, not gym-showcase bulk. Lower down, his abs are neatly arranged, the V-line disappearing into his waistband.
Lando feels his nose tingle.
He grips his phone, takes a deep breath, trying to psych himself up. At the same moment, Carlos puts down his phone and those brown eyes look over at him.
I can't do this what was the tutorial even saying Lando wails internally.
He walks to the bedside, bathrobe belt hanging loose, water dripping from his hair and catching on his collarbone. His voice feels dry, but he tries to pitch it up like the "teacher" showed:
"Aww~ why are you standing so far away? Come here~"
Carlos's throat moves. His voice is a little hoarse:
"Yeah, Lando... baby... you ready?"
---
They kiss. Awkward at first, just lips touching, then something competitive kicks in and they're properly tangled, breath running thin and hot. Lando's nose stings when they bump teeth changing breath, but he doesn't stop.
Body temperature skyrockets. Lando feels like he's burning—Carlos is so hot, the moment his palm presses against Lando's lower back, Lando's brain goes fuzzy.
Clothes disappear. The bathrobe belt gets tugged loose, slipping to the floor.
When their skin finally presses together, Lando feels it clearly—Carlos trembles.
He trembles too.
So hot.
Carlos's fingers travel over him, back to waist, waist to stomach. Lando feels shy, doesn't know where to put his hands—the tutorial didn't cover this. Carlos's hands are like magic, setting fire everywhere they touch, the calluses on his fingertips burning every spot they pass.
Pheromones flood his brain, making Lando want to fill the silence.
"Carlos... you're not a virgin, right? Haha."
The words are barely out before Lando wants to slap himself.
—WHAT A MOUTH!!!
Carlos looks at him. Something complicated flickers in those brown eyes—Lando can't read it, but instinctively feels scared.
"What did you say?"
His voice drops a few degrees.
Lando laughs nervously: "Just asking..."
Next second, he pays for his mouth.
Carlos pushes him into the mattress, bends down and kisses him—this time not awkward at all. Fierce. Punishing. Kissing him breathless. By the time he's let go, Lando is completely dizzy.
---
Later, memory fractures.
Lube too cold. Fingers careful. Breath sharp. Tension tight and trembling.
"Lando." His voice, wrecked.
Lando opens his eyes and meets that focused gaze. He can't say anything, just reaches up and hooks his arm around Carlos's neck, pulling him closer.
Kisses land on his mouth. His eyelids. His damp temples.
Just when things start to feel good—
"OW OW OW OW OW!!!"
Lando practically bounces off the bed, eyes watering. Club kid disguise, experienced persona, the whole mood they'd been building—all of it flies the fuck out the window. He's just a twenty-five-year-old who's never done this before, in pain, and wants to cry.
Carlos freezes too.
He looks at Lando glaring at him with red-rimmed eyes—hurt, indignant, embarrassed, real—
"Lando." Slowly, disbelief creeping in. "You're not..."
Lando's face freezes.
"What?"
"You're a virgin?"
Lando's face reddens visibly. Cheeks to ears to neck. Red as a monkey's ass.
"I..." He opens his mouth. "I..."
Carlos looks at him.
Then the Spaniard laughs. Eyes crinkling, whole body shaking, burying his face in Lando's neck, muffled laughter spilling out and making Lando want to find a hole to disappear into.
"What are you laughing at!" Lando hits him, annoyed. "Everyone has a first time! What's so funny!"
Carlos lifts his head, looks at him—those brown eyes full of laughter.
"Yeah," he says, bending to kiss Lando's mouth. "Me too."
"Then you just—"
"Yeah," Carlos kisses him again. "Learned on the job."
They move together. Clumsy at first, rhythm a tug-of-war like a dance with no choreography, then slowly finding sync in each other's breathing. Lando's legs wrap around Carlos's waist, starting to match his rhythm. Carlos's thrusts grow deeper, his kisses constant and soft.
Then—
Lando doesn't remember anything else.
---
Sunlight slips through the curtains and falls on Lando's face.
He frowns, tries to turn over—his whole body aches. Back sore. Legs weak. Somewhere unmentionable throbbing with a dull pain.
Fuck.
But where's Carlos?
The blanket still holds someone else's warmth, but that side of the bed is empty. He pushes himself up, just in time to see Carlos walking out of the bathroom.
Lando's heart clenches.
Is he leaving?
The thought hits like ice water, freezing him from the inside out.
Right. Why not? Just a one-night stand. Two people who'd been drinking, doing what people who've been drinking do. Carlos is probably waiting for him to wake up so he can say goodbye, or maybe—
"You're awake?"
Carlos turns. The sun's behind him, his expression unreadable.
Lando opens his mouth. Wants to smile and say "last night was fun, let's do it again sometime" like the rumors say he would.
But nothing comes out.
He just sits there, blanket slipping to his waist, skin marked everywhere. Brown curls a mess. Green eyes still hazy with sleep, but already filming over with something he doesn't realize is there.
Don't go.
He thinks it silently.
Please. Don't go.
What comes out: "Oh. You're leaving? Okay, I'll just—"
"Lando."
Carlos cuts him off.
He walks over and sits on the edge of the bed. The mattress dips beside him—close enough to see his own reflection in Carlos's eyes.
"You thought I was leaving?"
Lando looks away, staring at a nonexistent wrinkle in the blanket: "Why wouldn't I? It was just a one-night stan—"
"No."
"But you need to clean up first."
---
Lando lets himself be washed clean, confused. Like a little kid having his hair dried by Carlos and being tucked into the warm blanket.
He watches Carlos stand up.
Confused. Scared. If it's not a one-night stand, what if—
Carlos can tell Lando wants to say something. He suddenly realizes—back then too, Lando had so many things he never said out loud.
"Lando."
He leans down.
"Breathe."
They kiss in morning light. Monaco's sun slips through the curtain gap and falls on their tangled bodies.
The kiss lasts until Lando's lightheaded.
Then he hears Carlos's voice against his lips. Low. Like it's coming from somewhere far away, landing on his heart like a meteor.
"I'm not leaving again."
Lando freezes.
"Maybe you won't believe me. But I'd rather show you with the future."
Carlos pulls back slightly, looking at him. In morning light, those brown eyes are clear. Dark circles underneath from staying up all night. Nothing elegant or polished. Hair messy too.
"Lando Norris."
His voice shakes a little.
"Do you want to be my boyfriend?"
---
—Do you want to be my boyfriend?
Lando's eyes go wide.
In those green lakes, spring breezes stir. Willow branches sprout. The light he's waited so many years for finally breaks through.
He lets out a yell and launches himself forward.
"YES------!"
Carlos falls backward from the impact, both of them tangled in the blanket. Lando's laughter is muffled against his neck, distorted but louder than anything:
"I DO!"
Carlos looks up at the face so close to his—brown curls a mess, green eyes curved into crescent moons, mouth stretched ear to ear. The whole person glowing like a kid who just found candy.
There couldn't be a happier sound in the world.
He reaches out and pulls Lando closer. The boy in his arms keeps laughing, shaking with it, laughing so hard last night's trophy doesn't seem so valuable anymore.
"Boyfriend." Lando mumbles into his neck. "My boyfriend."
"Yeah." Carlos kisses the top of his head. "Your boyfriend."
---
Outside, Monaco's sun is rising. Bit by bit.
Shining on this messy bed. Shining on two messy fools.
So, yes,
they do.
[End]