Lando knows it's ridiculous to be getting jealous. Of course George would celebrate Lewis winning—the whole damn world is. But George has been all over him the entire weekend, from parc ferme after qualifying to grabbing his shoulder in the post-race interview the second Rosberg looked their way, like he was defending his man from a crazy ex. It's not fair.

Sure, Lewis is George's old teammate. And his hero. Lando's too. The bitterness isn't personal. But he worked his arse off for that P3—the first podium he and George have shared all season—and they didn't even get to spray each other in champagne.

"Are you jealous?" George asks, spinning around in the hotel office chair, hands clasped in front of a smirk like a second-rate Bond villain.

"Whatever," Lando scoffs. "Why don't you run off and party with the tifosi?"

"Aww, you need attention? Is that it, darling?"

Lando thinks to snap back that it makes sense for George to be riding Lewis so hard when his own team is doing the same, at George's expense. But that's over the line, and he's distracted by George crawling up the bed and hovering over him, hands braced on the headboard on either side of his shoulders.

"You were ignoring me on the driver's parade," George teases. "Thought you might be sick of me."

Lando rolls his eyes. George had spent the better part of five minutes swatting at his back, purely trying to get a rise out of him. And yes, Lando had resolutely ignored him, but only because George gets so much more desperate for it when Lando plays hard to get.

He doesn't like the shoe being on the other foot.

"Only when you're being a knobhead," Lando replies.

George swoops down to kiss him, annoyingly soft and sweet when Lando knows he's being a prick. But he can't help but let out a contented sigh when George lightly brushes his cheek, or the pathetic whine when George pulls away.

"We'll have a lot more podiums together," George says, serious, as though he could possibly promise such a thing.

"You will," Lando grumbles. With the top two teams so far ahead—Lewis even sneaking his way into the title fight, if the pundits are to be believed—his only way into the top three is through pure luck. And he hasn't had a lot of that this year.

"I'm sorry your car's a bit shit," George says, only a tinge of joking to it.

If someone had asked midway through last year, Lando would have said he'd be happy finishing last for the rest of his career if it meant winning the title. He had plenty of other things to do in his life. But now that he has a taste for winning, he understands how people get addicted to it.

"Not your fault," Lando sighs. "Sorry it's been so hard for you."

"Eh," George shrugs. "It's never easy."

Lando can't help himself. "Did your favorite mentor Lewis teach you that?"

George rolls his eyes and plants his lips on the side of Lando's neck, sucking a deep hickey into the spot he knows makes Lando squirm. Lando stifles a moan, but arches his back into George, searching for any kind of friction.

"I'll be right back," George says, pulling away. "Will you survive five minutes while I change into something more comfortable?"

Lando would suggest that George simply get rid of the jeans he's visibly straining against and get on with it, but he knows George is particular about things like smell and not leaving dirty boxers on the floor when they spend the night.

"I guess," Lando sighs dramatically, retrieving his phone and throwing a hand behind his head like he's not bothered one bit.

As soon as George closes the bathroom door behind him, Lando has a devious idea. A quick flick through his photos and a few texts later, he taps post and waits for George's phone to ping in the next room.

Sometimes the only way to deal with George's nonsense is to take it one step further.

Lando hears the vibration of George's phone against the bathroom counter. He wonders whether the notification is for him or for Lewis. Doesn't matter when it's a shared post.

The distinct thunk of a cell phone hitting tile floor comes only a second later.

"What the hell???" 

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