Ship: Lando Norris x Oscar Piastri Words: 2.2k
Summary: Lando and Oscar journey back to their hotel room after the race while a thunderstorm slowly descends upon them. It's the Miami GP 2026 debrief.
Notes: so Miami made feel a certain type of way + it was a rainy day today where i live + my brain's writing muscles stopped responding to calls for thesis sentences so I decided to give them a little creative stretching exercise.
ao3 + full fic under the cut.
The air in the sedan smells damp and musty under the struggling artificial citrus of the car freshener as they shuffle in. They'd come to the paddock at separate times in the morning, but didn't have anything else scheduled after the McLaren debrief they'd just exited, so here they were, splitting a cab back to the hotel.
Lando is in his regular clothes, but Oscar can see the champagne still sticking to the hair at his nape—understandably unwilling to waste time on a shower at the paddock, then. His face is turned away, staring out of the car window, eyes absently tracking the rivulets sliding down the pane. His right knee is jiggling up and down where it's pressed up against the car door on the other side.
"Did you speak to Charles before leaving?" Lando is the first to talk.
"No, didn't get a chance. Didn't really see him around after, to be honest."
"Yeah, probably a good thing. Not sure he'd want to talk to you of all people right now." Lando says with a chuckle.
Oscar raises his eyebrows. "You implying I pushed him off?" He keeps his tone light. Teasing.
"No, but I'm not sure he's ready to see it that way yet." Lando turns his head for a second to flash him a grin. "Wish I'd gotten to watch that in real time. Was way more interesting than whatever was happening on my side of the track," Lando continues—tone casual—as he arches his back to work out the tightness that always set in their shoulders after two hours of being cramped up in the cockpit. His eyes are still transfixed on the apparently enrapturing droplets—borderline methodical in his cataloguing of their paths down the glass.
Oscar has to huff out a laugh at that. "Didn't exactly feel that way inside the car," he remarks with a sarcastic lilt.
"But you pulled it off. Gave everyone hell those last few laps." Lando's facing him again—eyes holding his, voice carrying an undercurrent of sincere appreciation, despite the teasing smirk tilting his lips.
Despite all his years in a public sport, responding to compliments was a skill that continued to evade Oscar. So, he just smiles back in response, as genuinely as he can, allowing the creeping heat to colour his cheeks for a moment.
Lando's eyes soften. For one moment, it's just them in the car.
Then, Oscar ducks his head and Lando fixes his gaze back on the watery kaleidoscope of the Miami streets.
From the corner of his eye, Oscar can make out that the motion of Lando's leg had now paused, but the energy appeared to have transferred to his fingers instead—with them taking up a restless tapping rhythm against the armrest.
There is a brief silence for a few minutes. Usually, it isn't a problem. Today—
"Maybe I shouldn't have wished so hard for a dry race." Lando shatters it with an awkward half-laugh before the icy quiet has a chance to set in. The storm brewing outside reminding them of what they were supposed to have been racing under. "Bet Kimi's stats on wets aren't half as good. Although, who knows what that Merc is like in the rain. Maybe that fucking rocketship is the bastard son of a submarine as well."
That startles a laugh out of Oscar, his body tilting forward slightly with it.
"Yeah, no, I bet Toto went full IVF with that machine. Must have been vetting gene pools for years."
Lando's answering titter fills the remaining space in the car.
They have to shield themselves against the onslaught as they step out in front of the hotel lobby.
The walk is not long enough to be worth pulling out an umbrella for, so they just hike their collars up, pull their jackets close, and duck their heads as they make a quick run for it.
In the elevator, Lando leans against the railing in the corner and takes off his cap to shake his wet hair out like a dog. Tiny droplets splatter across the mirror on the back wall. Oscar feels a barely-there mist arc across his own face, but he's already too wet to be bothered by it.
"Did your rears feel okay?" Lando questions with a frown, as he rakes his fingers through his curls, trying to get them to lift up from where they were plastered to his forehead. "Mine were so much better than Suzuka, but you said you had some problems in quali."
"Yeah, no, they were fine in the end. Car felt good."
"Good, that's good." Lando nods to himself. "I know the engineers were hoping for more specifics, but I don't know what else to say other than—" he cuts himself off. "Anyway, they'll be able to compare their work themselves in Canada. Just sucks that—" he sighs, before trying again, "The one weekend we could have—" he shakes his head absently, looking off to the distance, as his voice trails off.
"Yeah." Oscar keeps his tone small, but the word drops like lead into the thin, stale air of the closed compartment.
He pauses to collect his thoughts. "I'm still calling the point deficit a Shanghai problem, though," he offers in the end, coating his tone with an appropriate teasing slyness.
Lando throws his head back as he cracks up. "Yeah, we're not outrunning the shadow of that nightmare this whole year. At least it reminds us to be more grateful for the flavour of problems we're dealing with now."
When they get back to their—Lando's—room, Lando peels off his sopping jacket and drops it into the little laundry bag supplied by the hotel. The t-shirt he's wearing underneath is soaked all the way from his neckline to halfway down his chest, and is clinging to his skin in translucent patches.
"I'm going to— uh— I need to shower." Lando says looking away from him.
Oscar could push.
But.
Not yet.
So, he nods, "Yeah, I'll just take a quick one in mine."
He sees the wet outline of muscles under Lando's shirt soften as he toes off his squeaking shoes and walks into the bathroom.
By the time Oscar gets back from his room, finally warm and dry and swaddled in his warmest hoodie, Lando still isn't out.
Oscar picks up his phone, crawls under the fluffy cover on his side of the bed, stretches his legs out across the smooth and clean sheets, and slumps against the headboard.
At least the weekend was over. The price his body had to pay for the heat and the humidity was rivalling the toll of Singapore.
He takes up the task to reply to the several congratulatory messages piling up in his inbox as he slowly lets his muscles uncurl against the soft mattress.
He is on a video call with his mum by the time Lando makes his way out. He keeps quiet, stays out of the frame as he slides into the other side of the bed. He doesn't really need to, but Oscar gets it. It had been that kind of a day.
When he disconnects and glances over, Lando is scrolling twitter on his phone.
Oscar sighs without meaning to.
Lando's eyes connect with his in a guilty flash and he powers off the screen and places his phone face down on the bedside table.
Oscar just watches him. Open, non-accusing.
Lando groans as he bumps the the back of his head against the headboard. "It's just—just hard to brush them off as jokes when they're correct, you know? It's just— embarrassing— fucking— pit strategy."
His eyes trail across the ceiling as he lets out a breath and clenches his hand in the sheets, "How many times? It's basic racing shit. And we can't—"
He groans again as he squeezes his eyes shut and brings his hand up to rub against his forehead.
"Anyway. It's no use. Far better use of our time to talk about the— the new rules. We need to do that anyway."
Lando shakes his head as if to clear it, gathers himself, and sits up straighter in the bed, facing Oscar fully now. Blinks to focus on him before jumping in.
"What did you think about the overtaking? D'you reckon that was better? I feel like we did less yo-yoing this race. And fuck what Lewis says, that's what it was and I was sick of that shit. Apart from that, didn't feel that much of a power difference if I'm being honest, but at least no crazy crashes this time? As for the car, you were able to keep George behind—which I don't know if it was us finding pace or him having a shit weekend—and I was able to get within five tenths of Kimi at certain points—"
Oscar engages him. He always does—and Lando is right this time, anyway—they do need to talk about this stuff. They'd touched on it briefly in the team debrief, but they needed to talk about it, still.
So, he gives him all. Lets Lando pick at his brain as the rain pattering outside picks up speed.
Lando was meticulous when he needed to be. When it came to his work, he was thorough. The hour of the day didn't matter, and neither did the exhaustion creeping up both their spines. He goes through every new upgrade with Oscar—asks how the car felt at every turn. Asks about the start, about each overtake, about each car they fought off. Slow, methodical. Thinking, nodding, filing away mental notes to bring up with the engineers later.
They've been at it for longer than an hour when Oscar looks up—having turned away for a minute to think about his answer—and finds Lando's eyelids shuttered and neck bent at an awkward angle against his own shoulder.
Oscar lets out a breath. Finally.
Oscar slides out of bed as gently as he can—turning his bedside lamp on as he passes. He picks up Lando's phone from his side table and fishes his own out from wherever it had gotten lost in the sheets. Then, retrieves their chargers from their backpacks and plugs both in next to their bed, before walking to the entryway and flicking the light switches off.
The dark that descends on the room suddenly intensifies the quiet inside. It makes his ears pick up the rain that had been beating against their window much more—the sound of water now significantly louder and harsher.
The long promised thunderstorm had finally descended on them.
Lando is still in his half-upright position in the bed, his profile illuminated by the soft yellow of the lamp. His curls—now almost dry—brush against his forehead and the bed-frame. Dark, except for the golden halo created by the edges of the lamplight.
There is a loud crack outside as bright light floods into their room for a split second. Painting everything in a cold, haunting white—stretching the shadows in the room, making them look angular and unnatural.
Lando twitches, mumbles, frowns, but doesn't wake up.
Oscar gets back into the bed next to him and leans over him to nudge him awake. Just as he does, the delayed thunder rolls around in a loud rumble, and Lando startles awake.
"Fuck!" His eyes are wide and wild as they scatter before finding Oscar's in the dim light. His face is inches away from Oscar's—his warm breath coming in pants, fanning across Oscar's lips.
Oscar winces in apology. "Sorry, just thought you'd want to sleep on your back."
Lando blinks at him, confused for a moment, before giving a slow nod and sliding down into the bed with Oscar and curling into his arms.
He buries his face in Oscar's chest, before letting out another—
"Fuck." Softer, exhausted, broken.
Oscar wraps him in his arms and pulls him close.
"I was dreaming— I— I forgot— I—"
He feels Lando breathe heavily in the circle of his grip—once, twice—chest rising and falling in deep breaths.
"I lost." Barely audible, but deafeningly loud.
Oscar's heart breaks.
You didn't lose, you came second, Lando.
You won yesterday.
You didn't make any mistakes.
You fought so hard, did so well.
He could mumble any number of reassurances. But Lando already knows them all to be true. They don't change anything. Don't make it better.
So he just holds Lando tight and cards his fingers through his hair.
He doesn't agree. He doesn't dismiss.
He lets him breathe.
After a moment, he feels Lando swallow, clear his throat. "Sorry, I'm making this all about me—" as he starts to pull away, but Oscar refuses to let him go. Only winds his arms tighter around him, dragging him back closer.
Lando doesn't fight him. Melts back into his embrace immediately. As if looking for the slightest excuse to let go. As if tired. Depleted from holding himself together all day.
"You're not. You're allowed to have a moment."
Lando nods, a little lost, a little helpless against his chest.
Oscar slides his hand down to rub softly across his back—his palm a warm, grounding pressure. He tilts his head down and presses a soft kiss to the the mop of curls in his field of view.
Lando shudders. And lets himself be held. For one moment. For one night.
Safe here.
Nestled in a cocoon of warmth and forgiving love—as the cold and unforgiving rain beats down on the world outside their four walls.
