Summary: Lando hasn't spoken to anyone after leaving the parc fermé, maybe some fistbumps but not a single word. After the podium celebration, he makes sure to seek you out first.
Song: Not Around · Nova
Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! <3
Word count: 1.8k
MASTERLIST - F1
The roar of the Italian Grand Prix crowd was still a physical force, vibrating through the soles of your shoes even as you stood on the periphery, watching the chaos of parc fermé unfold.
You’d seen Lando’s McLaren, a scarlet blur of victory and near-misses, pull into its designated spot.
The air crackled with the exhaustion of the race, the aftermath of a battle fought at impossible speeds.
You’d kept a watchful eye on him, a silent anchor in the storm of post-race intensity.
From your vantage point, you’d seen the ritual unfold: the helmet tossed aside, the brief, hard-won smiles exchanged with mechanics, the quick, almost perfunctory fistbumps that flew like small, controlled explosions.
But it was the moment his eyes found yours that stole your breath.
There, amidst the triumphant, the disappointed, and the utterly spent, you saw it. A flicker of profound sadness that no amount of champagne or cheers could ever hope to mask.
It was a weight that settled deep in his gaze, a shadow that clung to him despite the roaring applause that was already beginning to build for Max.
You’d held his gaze for a beat longer than was strictly advisable, a silent question forming on your lips, but the encroaching presence of a stern-faced interviewer, microphone thrust forward, yanked him away from you.
The podium ceremony was a blur of forced smiles and the deafening crescendo of the tifosi.
Max, deservedly, was basking in the adulation. Oscar, your Lando’s teammate, stood beside him, a picture of youthful triumph. And then there was Lando.
He’d been elevated to second place, a precarious perch forced upon him by circumstance, a cruel twist of fate that felt as sharp as broken glass.
You knew the story, the whispered explanations that flew around the paddock: the pit stop, a fraction too slow, had cost him precious seconds, a cascade of errors that saw him relegated to third, Oscar inheriting second.
But the team, in a move of such blatant sportsmanship it felt almost archaic, had voluntarily handed the position back.
A gesture that spoke volumes about the team’s integrity, but did little to soothe the raw wound it had inflicted on Lando’s performance.
As he stood there, the bronze trophy clutched in his hand, a wave of something akin to disbelief washed over you. The crowd, the very people who had cheered his name for laps on end, turned on him.
Boos, sharp and aggressive, rained down from the stands. It was ugly, vicious, and entirely undeserved. You felt a primal urge to erupt, to shout, to defend him, but you held yourself in check, a knot of righteous anger tightening in your chest.
You watched him, your heart aching, as he forced a smile, a performance for the cameras that you knew was a million miles away from how he truly felt.
After the podium, the press conferences, the mandatory media obligations, you waited. You found yourself chatting with Rebecca.
You spoke of the race, Lando’s performance, the bittersweet victory, all while your eyes kept scanning the throngs of people, searching for that familiar shock of brown hair.
You offered a polite conversation but your mind was a million miles away, replaying the look in Lando’s eyes when he'd first seen you.
Then, a gentle pressure on your hand. You turned, your breath catching in your throat. Lando.
He was wearing fresh clothes now, the sweat-stained race suit replaced by a soft, grey jumper and dark jeans. His hair, still damp from a shower, was tousled.
But it was his eyes again, the same deep pools of emotion you’d seen earlier, now softened, vulnerable. His fingers, calloused from the steering wheel, were intertwined with yours, a silent, profound connection.
“Rebecca, if you’ll excuse us,” you said, your voice a little husky, a silent signal passing between you and Lando. She offered a knowing smile and melted back into the throng.
He didn't speak, but his grip on your hand tightened as he led you away. He seemed to have an unspoken destination in mind, a path that bypassed the throng of fans and the buzzing paddock.
ou followed, a silent understanding passing between you. He led you through a maze of corridors, the noise of the celebrating crowd fading with each step, until you arrived at the quiet sanctuary of his driver’s room.
The door clicked shut behind you, plunging the room into a relative silence. The air was thick with the lingering scent of adrenaline and the metallic tang of the track, but here, it was muted, a ghost of the intensity that had consumed him hours before.
He turned to face you, his shoulders slumping slightly. The carefully constructed composure that had adorned him on the podium was fraying at the edges.
He walked towards the small sofa, sinking onto it with a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the entire race. You watched him, your heart aching with a tender sort of sorrow.
He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair, his gaze fixed on the floor. The silence stretched between you, thick with unspoken words.
You wanted to say something, anything, to ease his pain, but the right words felt elusive, inadequate.
Finally, he looked up, and the dam broke. His eyes, which had held such quiet devastation before, were now glistening with unshed tears.
A single tear traced a path down his cheek, followed by another, and then another.
He didn’t try to stifle them, didn’t attempt to regain the stoic facade he usually wore with such practiced ease. He just… cried.
You moved closer, perching on the edge of the sofa beside him. You didn’t speak, didn’t interrupt his release. Instead, you gently reached out and took his hand again, interlacing your fingers.
His thumb began to stroke the back of your hand, a small, repetitive gesture of comfort.
The rough texture of his skin against yours was a grounding sensation, a reminder of the man beneath the helmet, the human being grappling with disappointment.
He leaned his head against your shoulder, a soft groan escaping his lips. The sound was raw, laced with frustration, with a deep, visceral pain that went beyond a mere second-place finish.
It was the sting of what could have been, the frustration of external forces dictating the outcome of his own hard work.
You felt the tremor of his body as he wept, the quiet sobs wracking his frame.
“It’s not fair,” he finally whispered, his voice thick with tears. “They… they shouldn’t have booed.”
You squeezed his hand. “I know, Lando. It’s awful.”
He pulled his head away from your shoulder, wiping his cheeks with the back of his hand, smearing the tracks of tears. “It felt… it felt like they were booing me. For what? For being second? For a pit stop that wasn’t my fault?”
“They were booing the situation, Lando, not you,” you said, your voice firm, trying to inject some conviction into your words. “They’re passionate here. They wanted Max to win, and Oscar did brilliantly, and you fought like hell. A few ignorant voices don’t define you.”
He looked at you, his eyes red-rimmed but clearer now. “But it felt like it. Standing there, hearing that… it makes you doubt everything. Makes you wonder if you’re even cut out for this.”
“Don’t you dare,” you said, your voice sharp with disbelief. “Lando, look at me.” You gently turned his face towards yours. “You are one of the most talented drivers on this grid. You’ve proven that time and time again. This race, this result, it’s a blip. A frustrating, unfair blip, but a blip nonetheless. Your team believed in you enough to give you that position back, didn’t they? That speaks volumes.”
He managed a weak, shaky smile. “Yeah. They did.”
“And that’s what matters,” you continued, stroking his cheek, your thumb gently wiping away a stray tear. “Your team, your passion, your sheer grit. That’s what defines you. Not a crowd that’s being unfairly loud, or a single pit stop that went wrong.”
He leaned into your touch, his eyes closing for a moment. The quiet sobs had subsided, replaced by the ragged rhythm of his breathing. He was still trembling, but the intensity of his distress was beginning to ebb.
“I just… I wanted it so badly at Monza,” he murmured, his voice barely a whisper. “To win here. For the team. For… for us.”
That last part hung in the air, a tender confession that made your heart swell. You pressed your forehead against his. “I know you did. And you drove an incredible race. Don’t let this take that away from you.”
He shifted, pulling you closer. You found yourself wrapped in his arms, his head resting on your shoulder. The scent of him, a mix of clean laundry and something undeniably Lando, was comforting.
You held him, letting him feel your presence, your unwavering support. You didn’t need him to speak; the silent language of touch, of shared space, was enough.
You felt the tension slowly drain from his body. His breathing deepened, becoming more regular. He was still hurting, you knew, but he was processing it, releasing it.
And you were there to witness it, to hold him through it, not as a fan, but as someone who saw past the glitz and the glamour, past the roar of the crowd, to the heart of the man.
After a long while, he pulled back, his eyes still a little clouded, but the raw pain had softened into a weary acceptance.
He looked at you, a gratitude so profound radiating from him it was almost palpable.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice still a little hoarse, but clear. “For… for not saying anything. And for listening. And for… well, for everything.”
You smiled, a genuine, heartfelt smile that reached your eyes. “Always, Lando.”
He leaned in, his lips brushing against yours. It was a soft, tentative kiss, a promise more than anything else.
A promise of shared burdens, of unwavering support, of a bond that ran deeper than any podium celebration or disappointed crowd.
“Let’s just… stay here for a bit,” he murmured, pulling you back into his embrace.
And you did. You sat there, in the quiet sanctuary of his driver’s room, your hand still entwined with his, the echoes of the Italian Grand Prix fading into the background.
You let the silence speak, let the unspoken understanding flow between you. Because sometimes, the most profound connections are forged not in the deafening roar of victory, but in the quiet, shared space of vulnerability.
And in that moment, with Lando’s arm around you, Lando’s quiet strength beside you, you knew you were exactly where you were meant to be. . . .
haven't clipped the radio yet but again to acknowledge how excellent of a teammate oscar is when told to swap he said "we agreed pitstops are a part of racing" and still IMMEDIATELY made the swap. with all of the negative talk and 'conspiracies' coming from a certain camp, i hope this finally drives home (despite there already being multiple examples) that oscar is a team player and even to his own detriment (we're gonna work on that part)
