1

we were both young when i first saw you

i close my eyes and the flashback starts

you're standing there, on a balcony in {winter} air

🧡

It was February 2023, the air still sharp with winter, the days at the McLaren Technology Centre short and grey. The sky outside hung low, pale and unmoving, the glass walls of the MTC cold to the touch.

Oscar stepped into the meeting room for the first time, nerves bundled tightly beneath the surface. He held his shoulders back - composed, professional - but his fingers curled slightly at his sides, a quiet giveaway. His eyes moved carefully over the room - the engineers hunched over laptops, the senior staff gathered near the front - and then they landed on him.

Lando Norris.

Soft brown curls spilling messily from beneath a grey beanie, hoodie sleeves pushed halfway down his hands like he hadn't quite decided to wake up yet. His face looked tired, like he'd been dragged out of bed by responsibility alone - but his eyes were gentle. Warm. And when he smiled - slow and small, the kind of smile that looked like it had been earned, not given - something fluttered in Oscar's chest. A warmth spread through him, quiet but undeniable.

He smiled back - shy, uncertain, the kind of smile that asked a question without needing an answer. And in an instant, Lando's eyes lit up - like someone had opened a window and let in the sun. Bright and soft all at once.

Zak's voice cut through the soft hush of first impressions. "Lando, give Oscar the tour, will you?"

Lando was already standing - hoodie sleeves tugged down, shoes squeaking faintly against the floor. "Come on," he said, voice easy and inviting, and Oscar followed without thinking.

They drifted through the MTC - sim rooms humming, the wind tunnel echoing like a giant's breath, the canteen quiet between lunch rushes. Lando talked the whole time - explaining everything and nothing, joking gently, glancing sideways at Oscar more than once. Their hands brushed - once, then again - skin to skin just barely. Each time, Oscar felt a jolt of warmth, like he'd touched something electric and wasn't sure whether to pull back or reach for more. His cheeks flushed. Lando didn't mention it - didn't tease, didn't make it a thing - just stayed close.

Oscar looked like a koala, Lando thought - not in a literal sense, but in something softer. The way he held himself - all tucked-in composure, alert eyes, quiet focus - like he was still learning the terrain but refusing to show how unfamiliar it felt. There was something impossibly endearing about him. Like a quiet kind of gravity.

He liked him. Just like that. No need to explain it to himself.

By the time they made it back to the meeting room, footsteps echoing faintly in the hallway behind them, Lando already knew - this wasn't just a teammate. This was the start of something. Something he couldn't name yet, but felt in the space between brushed knuckles and shared smiles.

Something that felt like it could matter.

🧡

Oscar's rookie season had been rough - full of growing pains, late nights, and too many "what-ifs." But when he closed his eyes now, it all played like a quiet montage behind his eyelids. Every memory had Lando in it.

It started in Bahrain. His debut. A DNF. He felt it - it stung deeper than a technical failure. It cracked his confidence. After the media duties and debriefs, he disappeared into his room, shutting the world out.

Lando waited half an hour, then let himself in.

Oscar sat on the edge of the bed, still in his race suit, eyes fixed on the floor like he was trying to sink through it. Lando didn't speak. He just sat beside him and leaned in until their shoulders touched. Quiet. Steady. There.

"It doesn't mean anything," Lando finally murmured. "I know it was your first race. But it had nothing to do with you, Osc. It doesn't define you."

Oscar didn't answer, but when Lando gently bumped his knee against Oscar's, the corner of his mouth twitched. Barely. But it was enough.

Melbourne was kinder. Home race. The crowd roaring every time Oscar's name appeared on screen. P8. His first points. Lando finished P6. Not perfect, but progress. That night, in the safety of Oscar's hotel room, they ditched the post-race formalities and celebrated like kids - room service fries, ice cream straight from the tub, and two over-tired idiots laughing on the floor until well past midnight.

Silverstone felt like something sacred. Lando's home race. P2 - his best result of the season. The grandstands had screamed for him. Oscar, not far behind in P4, had run straight toward him in parc fermé like he already knew how much it meant. Lando drenched him in champagne after the podium, even though Oscar hadn't been up there.

"You weren't supposed to spray me!" Oscar laughed, blinking bubbles from his lashes.

"You were close enough," Lando grinned. "And you looked thirsty."

In Japan, it finally happened. A double podium. Lando second. Oscar third - his first F1 podium. They stood side by side, champagne flutes in hand for the team photo, and Lando slipped his arm around Oscar's waist like it was second nature. Oscar didn't move. Didn't flinch. He leaned in, just slightly. Enough for Lando to notice.

Later that night, when the cameras were gone and the garage was quiet, they sat together on a stack of tires, still in their suits, legs swinging. They didn't talk about the future. They didn't need to.

It was already happening.

🧡

The 2024 season had been difficult.

Not in the way that breaks you all at once - but in the quieter, sharper ways. The late nights at the factory. The races that slipped away in tenths of a second. The media noise. The pressure. The fear of not being enough.

But when Lando closed his eyes, the moments he remembered weren't defined by failure or trophies. They were all Oscar.

Oscar, who had been there in every high and every low - like gravity, like instinct.

He remembered Miami. His first win. Chaos after the checkered flag, the kind that felt too big to hold - team radio screaming, mechanics cheering, cameras chasing every step. But before the podium, before the interviews, Lando was already searching.

And Oscar was waiting - arms open, smile wide. Lando crashed into him like it was the only place he wanted to be. He didn't let go for a long time.

"You did it," Oscar said into his ear, hoarse and breathless.

But Lando only held him tighter. "We did."

He remembered Hungary, too. Oscar's first win. A perfect race until the strategy fell apart for Lando - a pit call that cost him the podium. Oscar had felt sick with guilt, with the weight of celebration and silence. But after the race, when the adrenaline had faded and Oscar stood alone in the back of the garage, Lando found him.

No bitterness. No blame.

Just a grin and a bottle of champagne. "Took you long enough."

Oscar blinked. "You're not... mad?"

Lando laughed, soft and genuine. "You drove like hell. You deserved it."

And then he raised the bottle and doused Oscar in champagne - their laughter echoing through the paddock like music.

There were quiet moments, too. In the motorhome between practice sessions. Sitting shoulder to shoulder in engineering debriefs. Late-night flights where Oscar would wake with his head leaning against Lando's shoulder, and Lando never moved. Never nudged him away.

It was always like that - subtle, constant closeness. A bond that threaded through every moment, like something neither of them needed to say aloud.

And then there was Abu Dhabi.

Lando's fourth win. The season's final note. The one that sealed the Constructors' title. The radio exploded. The pit wall erupted.

And Lando ran.

Helmet off, suit half-zipped, chest heaving - he sprinted across the garage and into Oscar's open arms. Oscar caught him like he knew he would. Like it had always been inevitable.

Lando wrapped his arms around his neck and laughed - full, unguarded, elated. Oscar felt his own eyes sting.

"We did it," Lando breathed against his collarbone.

Oscar nodded, holding him tighter. "Yeah. We did."

They didn't let go for a long time.

🧡

December 2024. The air outside the McLaren Technology Centre was cold, but not biting - the kind of cold that felt clean, crisp, and honest.

Inside, the team was still celebrating. Laughter echoed down the halls. Music pulsed faintly from the canteen. Glasses clinked and someone had uncorked another bottle of champagne. The Constructors' Championship trophy stood front and center in the main room, a polished monument to months of exhaustion, resilience, and sheer brilliance.

Oscar had slipped away twenty minutes ago.

It was something he'd always done - once the noise got too loud, once the congratulations started to blur together, once the smiles began to feel like masks. Lando noticed the moment he was gone.

He always did.

He found him on one of the upper balconies, just past the simulator rooms. Oscar was leaning against the railing, arms resting on the cold metal, gaze fixed somewhere far beyond the MTC grounds - out into the dark, into the stars, into something else entirely.

Lando didn't say anything. Just walked over and joined him, close enough that their arms brushed. Oscar didn't flinch. Didn't look away. Didn't even turn to greet him.

He didn't have to.

They stood like that for a while - shoulder to shoulder, the murmur of celebration behind them like a distant memory. The wind was gentle, cool against their skin, tugging softly at the edges of their jackets. The kind of breeze that calmed you down from the inside out.

Then, without a word, Oscar reached out and slid his hand into Lando's.

Their fingers fit together easily, naturally, like they'd done it a thousand times before. Lando didn't pull away. He just looked at Oscar.

Oscar met his gaze, eyes soft, unreadable in a way that didn't demand to be understood.

They didn't speak. They didn't need to.

They just stood there, hand in hand, the whole year behind them - and something else quietly unfolding ahead. Something real. Something theirs.