once upon a dream
Lando looks down at the crowd, at the all the smiles directed at him, and can't help his own smile widening. His eyes catch his mom's and he blinks back tears, at the look of adoration, of proudness, on her face. He did it. He did it. On the top step of Silverstone, and he still can't believe it's real - he closes his eyes for a second, as finally his anthem echoes over the screams of fans, of his team. Silverstone. It feels even more special than Monaco, and he knows why. His home race. His dream since he was put in a kart at 6 years old and was old enough to understand what racing meant. And today, finally, finally, after seven years in Formula One - it's his. His.
He can't help, but steal a glance beside himself, at Oscar, as they're handing them the trophies - he knows, that Oscar got mad, at the decision, at the penalty, at the unfairness of it all. He also knows Oscar is not mad at him - they smiled after the race, clapped each other, they talked during the cooldown room… but there is something, still, and they will have to talk about it later. He doesn't worry too much about it - there's no point, anyway. He trusts Oscar, he trusts himself - it will be okay. For now, he just has to enjoy - enjoy his win, enjoy the number one trophy in his hands, enjoy the smiles and the sun and the screams. He's on the top step at Silverstone.
His smiles threatens to break his cheek, with how wide it is, but he's allowed to, especially today of all days. He goes to pick his champagne bottle, to raise it, his eyes on Oscar - again, always, can't help himself, he's a magnet that draws him in, the light that calls to his moth. It's Oscar, and even when it's not Oscar, it's still Oscar. He wants to celebrate, his win, their podium, he wants to to make sure everything is okay, he wants to burrow himself between his arms, to lay his head on his chest, to smell his perfume that is so inherently Oscar, he wants -
And his alarm rings, deafening against his ear, as Lando struggles to even lift his hand, to hit the "stop" button. Silence falls, as heavy as his body feels. Mornings are always harder, when he dreams so vividly, to a point he doesn't know where he is when he wakes up - but sounds pick up, one by one. The cars down in the street, as people take the road to go to work. The fridge in his kitchen, rumbling lightly. The vibrations of his phone, notifications starting to pill up. It was just a dream. It's always just a dream. A long, never-ending, dream, coming back almost every night. Another life, almost, except that it's silly of course - because he doesn't drive super fast cars for a living, isn't a Formula One driver, isn't a rich millionaire living in Monaco.
He's just Lando. Londonian Lando, who wakes up every morning in his tiny but cosy flat, who gets ready for work while grumbling because he's not a morning person, who pets his cat, Yuzu, a loving void demon, who drinks his orange juice with his nose scrunched up, who steps out on the street in a confortable graphic hoodie and grey joggers. Simple, basic, Lando, who works in a coffee shop a few streets away, doesn't even need to take the tub to get there. Not Lando Norris, McLaren Formula One driver since he was 19 years old, number 4 on the grid for years now, fourth youngest podium finisher ever in F1. And that's fine. That's okay.
That's just a dream anyway. He has a life to live.