parc fermé kisses

Race Week fic series

Australia – The Sweater

China – Could be Worse

Japan – Depth of Feeling

Miami – Maybe it'll Rain

Canada – Groundhog Day

Monaco – Keep Me in a Daydream

Barcelona-Catalunya – This Dream was Me and You

Austria – See Me After

Britain – Fish and Ships

Spa – Dogs Don't Care

Belgium: Dogs Don't Care

George Russell & Lando Norris / 900 words / rated T

There’s a big fuck-off gate at the start of the lane that’s been doing an excellent job of keeping everyone out all weekend, and Christ, George thinks, if Lando had booked a place that had a gym or a fitness centre or even a single, solitary treadmill jammed in a corner of one of the dozens of rooms, he wouldn’t have to be venturing out here, in what might as well be broad daylight even thought it’s— he checks his watch— nearly 7pm, just to go for a run. What kind of luxury villa has a pool table and a hot tub and a sauna and a bar – a bar! – and doesn’t have any bloody exercise equipment. A bit further away from the track wouldn’t have hurt either. Fuck. He lets the heavy, wrought-iron gate close again without going through it.

Britain: Fish and Ships

George Russell & Lando Norris / 500 words / rated T

The heat hasn’t let up, but at least they can take the yacht out, find a secluded area and cool off in the water. Lando sits on the swim platform, flippered feet dangling in the water and a snorkel mask beside him, watching and waiting for George to resurface. He doesn’t entirely get it – the desire for silence, the need to dive until his lungs are all but screaming for oxygen – but George is always happier when he pops up again, hair plastered to his forehead, blinking into the sunlight. That Lando likes. 

Austria: See Me After

George Russell & Lando Norris / 1k words / rated T

Sunday afternoon – Post race “Russell!” Christ. It’s like being back at school. George’s insides lurch for a second, sure he’s in trouble, before the sounds of the paddock being dismantled reassert themselves around him. Lando does a hop-skip-run to come up beside him as they walk, and George cocks his head, smiling when he sees who it is. “Yes?” “Heard you’ve admitted to cheating, Russell. Naughty.” George’s head tilts the other way and his eyebrows go up. Really? “The regulations are very clear,” he starts. He’s been over it multiple times, with the team and with various pundits. Still, if Lando wants to play it this way, he’s not going to turn down the chance to explain the difference between single and double waved yellows, the very clear trace that shows he lifted well before he got to the corner where Max had buried his Red Bull in the tyre wall on the other side of the gravel, and how he was in complete control the entire time. Reduce speed and be prepared to change direction. He’d seen the flag, followed the rules and been sufficiently flying that even having to take his foot off the power for Max binning it in front of him couldn’t ruin his lap. Might be one of his best poles yet, he thinks. “Nah,” says Lando, momentarily dropping the headmaster act before George can get too deep into his explanation. “Not that.”

Barcelona-Catalunya: This Dream was Me and You

George Russell & Lando Norris / 784 words / rated T

Sunday, a week ago (after the Monaco Grand Prix) George is numb. It’s Monaco, we’re not doomed repeats over and over in his head. Maybe he was particularly bad in a past life, he wonders, although he doesn’t think that sort of thing’s real. Maybe the three of them – him and Lando and Alex – used up all their luck believing in Lando last year, even if Lando didn’t exactly believe he could win the title until he’d done it. It seems just as likely. Maybe he’ll feel better after a good night’s sleep. Lando’s more sanguine about it. He’s not okay with his car giving up for whatever bajillionth time that makes it this year, but there’s nothing he could’ve done about it, so he takes up the invitation to DJ on someone’s yacht that night and enjoys the music and the tumult and the celebration of being on the water in Monaco, like the race was something that happened to someone else and he’s just here to party, because it’s the Monaco Grand Prix and life is short. He’s a heavy weight across George’s hips in the not-so-small hours of the morning when he comes home, an extremely agreeable Dionysian wake-up call, tasting of Riesling and mint and fizzing with desire. “Hi,” George says, gravelly. He runs his hands up Lando’s thighs before wrapping his arms around him. “Have a good time?” “Yeah,” Lando mumbles into the next kiss, “but not as good as you’re about to.”

Monaco: Keep me in a Daydream

George Russell & Lando Norris / 1563 words / rated G

George rubs Lando’s ankle idly as he’s stretched out beside him on the couch, feet in George’s lap. Despite Lando’s efforts, George still doesn’t understand golf, but he’s content to scroll on his phone while it plays on TV and Lando pores over his iPad, not entirely watching it either. The balcony doors are open and the clamour of the city – noisier than usual in the build up to the Grand Prix – drifts in with the heat.  Lando counts under his breath. “Eight,” he says. “I think.” “Eight?” echoes George, looking up at the TV, then at Lando. Even with his limited knowledge, he’s pretty sure eight isn’t a golf number. Lando nods. “Wanna take the Jolly out for a midnight mission?” * * * Lando’s alarm goes off at half-past two in the morning, and by three they’ve done the Homage to Princess Grace fountain in Larvotto, and are heading back towards Casino Square. The car’s not the most inconspicuous, but it’s the easiest to get in and out of, and the most tolerant of George’s inventive parking. He tucks it in between a couple of bollards meant to stop anyone doing precisely that, and Lando tugs his hood as far down as it’ll go. They’re both wearing black. George taps the steering wheel, trying not to feel suspicious and failing miserably, as Lando hops out and lobs a handful of coins into the casino fountain. “That’s two,” he says, gleeful, then bolts across the road to the Sky Mirror. There’s the unmistakable ding of metal on metal before the next splashes.

Montréal: Groundhog Day

George Russell & Lando Norris / 1184words / rated G

Friday “They’re marmots.” “Oh,” says George, peering into the box that’s sitting in the middle of the glass-topped dining table. “Everyone’s been calling them groundhogs.” He rubs his fingers back and forth through the soft brown fur on the head of one of them, and Lando knocks his hand away with a grin. “Stop it, you’ll muck up my arrangement.” He fluffs the tissue paper around the three stuffed toys. It’s grey for three-quarters of the box, then there’s a line of white before it switches to green, carefully snipped into tendrils resembling grass. “It’s not gonna make him cry, is it?” Lando looks suddenly hesitant. “So long as you’re not a dick about it. It’s not like he meant to hit it.” “And he was the one who joked about his mum making him adopt a family of them, so I thought …” George nods, bumping against Lando’s shoulder as they stand side by side. “Mmmhmmm. Course you did.” 

Miami: Maybe It'll Rain

George Russell & Lando Norris / 891 words / rated T

It’s got to be here. He unpacked it yesterday, put it in the wardrobe with the rest of his gear and hasn’t touched it since. It’s not grown legs and walked off, so it must be in the hotel room somewhere. George paces into the lounge, circles the sofa, considers the visible surfaces of the kitchen, then stalks back into the bedroom. “Have you seen my—” He sticks his head out onto the balcony and finds Lando stretched flat on his back on the lounger, arms behind his head and pale pink Mercedes Miami cap covering his face to protect him from the sun. “—team cap,” he finishes, following the constellation of freckles on Lando’s torso diagonally down to where they disappear under a pair of bright white swim shorts. Probably a bad idea to reward stealing his cap with a blowjob, but it’s tempting. “No,” says Lando, from underneath it. His smile’s obscured, but dimples appear either side of the brim. “Haven’t seen it, mate. ’m sure they’ll give you another one if you’ve lost it.”

Suzuka: Depth of Feeling

George Russell & Lando Norris / 785 words / rated T

"Great photography is about depth of feeling, not depth of field.” – Peter Adams It’s been ages since Lando’s felt like this, the manic itch just under his skin to do something, make something, pour yourself into it. It’s partly because he channelled everything into his on-track performance last year and his creative side took a hit, but he knows he’s also trying to escape the shit start to this season – Australia was okay, but the 1 on your back can only carry you so far when you don’t get out of the garage. It coalesces during the stopover in Hong Kong. So many camera shops and so many cameras: new, second hand, digital, film, high end and toy. He gets the Hasselblad because Ash’s eyes light up when he sees it and it’s barely the cost of a decent watch, even with the lens. He has a play with it just to prove his chops, but if Ash keeps it on permanent loan, that’s okay. It’s the silly, fun cameras that really appeal, and he gets himself a small collection in Japan. They’re not good by any professional standard and that’s what’s exciting. Almost no control, just point and shoot. See what you get. All digital, instant gratification. Plus, he gets much better photos of George with the Hello Kitty camera. It’s his smile – he can’t look at the pink plastic body and not grin that big goofy grin. Cuts through all his defences.

Shanghai: Could be worse

George Russell & Lando Norris / 571 words / rated T

“Could be worse,” says Lando, out of the blue. Well, out of the dark, really. It’s 2am and George has been lying still, listening to Lando shift restlessly and trying to will both of them to sleep, for hours. The race hadn’t turned out the way that either of them had wanted, albeit on very different ends of the ‘had a bad day in the office’ spectrum. “Yeah?” He rolls over so he’s facing Lando. He can just make out the edges of him – the tip of his nose and the curve of his chin – as he stares at the ceiling. “S’pose you could’ve had a black eye as well.” There’s a soft snort. “Can’t believe you told everyone it was from having a wazz in the middle of the night.” Lando turns his face towards him. “Tried ‘bar fight’, but no-one believed me. Least I didn’t broadcast my piss to the world.”

Melbourne: The Sweater

George Russell & Lando Norris / 667 words / rated T

“Got you something!” “In here!” George calls, reaching for the remote as the front door thuds shut. It’s not as if Lando won’t walk straight into the lounge, but now he’s got in the habit of calling out, he can’t seem to stop. He tips his head onto the back of the couch, waiting, as the tennis continues mutely in the background. The bottom of a navy carrier bag appears in his vision, and he follows it until Lando’s leaning over the couch, arms around his shoulders and the bag’s dangling just above his lap. The gold, all capitals ‘Ralph Lauren’ embossed on the side is somehow both discrete and ostentatious. “Got me your hand-me-downs?” says George, planting a quick kiss on Lando’s cheek. He smells like hairspray and make-up, and from what George can see of his flattened curls, he’s probably going to make a nuisance of himself later until George relents and gives him a scalp massage with the fancy oil that makes his hair smell so good. He lifts an arm and scritches the back of Lando’s head.

George Russell / Charles Leclerc, 1.1k words

AO3, archive locked

Charles is sleep-warm against him, head on his shoulder, and George carefully unfolds his arms from between the two of them. He feels awkward and gangly, unsure what to do until he gives in and refolds them around Charles. “Can I — hang out for a bit? I just need … I don’t want to be …” George can’t bring himself to say alone. It’s ridiculous enough being here in hastily pulled-on joggers and hoodie, hair in every direction and barefoot for the short walk down the hall. He’s got his phone, but he’s not sure he remembered a room key, and the tightness in his chest increases.