these are not new inters

"And why the fuck would you do that? I mean, I know you guys have the whole 'teammates first' shtick, but that seems absurd, even for you."

"Ummm," Lando hums, upending the rest of the bag onto the counter, which creates a clatter so loud it startles even the unresponsive ghoul that's been haunting Alex's room for the past half hour. "I kinda owe him. For gently letting down a date or two after a night out. And maybe some alibis, too."

"Well, I'm not his slighted girlfriend, am I?" Alex huffs, bending down to pick up the kitchen utensils the hotel staff could just as well have lent them. He pauses with a knife in his hand. "Wait," he says. "Does he think I'm his slighted girlfriend?"

"He just said you'd probably prefer not having to look at his face tonight anyway," Lando shrugs. "Besides. It'll be fun! When was the last time we had some fun, huh? Just you and me and that sentient storm cloud over there."

Alex shoots a sidelong glance at George, who's lying face-down on the couch across the room, muttering dark imprecations into the suede upholstery.

"I'd rather spend a night with Oscar licking my boots than having to eat whatever comes out of your cooking!" he decides, putting the knife on the counter.

"Ew!" Lando says. He's still shaking the bag. "If you let him do that, no wonder he thinks you're his girlfriend."

Finally, he manages to shake loose two six-packs of canned gin and tonics. They slide across the counter, bowling down all the utensils Alex has just picked up again.

"You know," Alex sighs, "you're a millionaire, right? And you can't even treat me to some room service?"

"Too late to bother the staff," Lando insists. He's pulled out his phone and Alex can see over his shoulder that he's typing how cook spaghetti into Google, then pauses to look up at George over by the couch. "Will he be eating with us?"

Alex shrugs. "We'll see, I guess. He's put on such a brave face for the press, we should let him wallow for a bit."

"Sounds like he's putting some kind of dark spell on your hotel couch, mate," Lando says, disregarding all the kitchen utensils and ingredients to go straight for the canned cocktails.

Alex shrugs again. "What's one more curse, really?" he says and grabs one of the cocktails as well, because if Lando's starting his cooking session with that, he'll need it.

Lando goes back to his Google search for how cook spaghetti 3 people, Alex goes to wash the tomatoes he brought, and George continues to curse parmesan, the Pope, and everything else the country of Italy has ever produced.

"This says I need two kilos of tomato!" Lando pipes up, sounding genuinely aggrieved. "Two kilos, for a bit of sauce? I'm not lugging around two kilos of tomatoes, that'd be mental!"

"Could've cut back on the booze or half the McLaren motorhome kitchen interior you brought," Alex points out.

"Shouldn't two kilos of tomatoes make two litres of sauce?" Lando muses, not listening. "That's too much for us, no?"

Alex doesn't even want to begin reasoning with him about that one, so instead he just gives a defeated, "Why didn't you look up the recipe before you came?" and silently mourns the loss of Oscarian boot-licking for tonight.

"Didn't think it would be that complicated," Lando admits, then decides cheerfully, "So none for George then."

"I think we're covered for a simple aglio e olio," Alex says, pointing at the three entire heads of garlic Lando thought were necessary alongside the handful of tomatoes.

From behind them comes a sudden hiss at the carelessly uttered Italian words, which makes them both jump, but George doesn't rouse from the couch, so they both turn back to the food.

"Tell me what do!" Lando says, as though Alex is his substitute Google.

"Can you peel and slice garlic?" Alex asks, doubtfully.

"I can crack open a gin and tonic with my teeth," Lando offers.

"Please don't. You're gonna hurt your – alright. Cheers I guess."

Alex accepts the opened can that's handed to him and doesn't try to stop Lando from using his teeth on the second one, too. He's rich enough to buy himself a new set of teeth every day for the rest of his life, probably. If that's what he wants to spend his money on – still better than a yacht.

At least Lando is surprisingly deft with a knife, two cans into the six-pack. He needs precise instructions, but once he's got the hang of it, he's not a total disaster. Alex busies himself bringing the pasta water to a boil, and just when it's ready, he hears a strange snapping sound from behind.

Lando hears it, too. He whips around and almost slices Alex's arm open as he yelps and flails.

George must have floated off the couch sometime in the last few minutes – now he's standing by the table Lando unpacked the ingredients on, snapping every single piece of spaghetti in two while looking like a haunted porcelain doll.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Lando screeches, as Alex side-steps the knife flailing. Understanding dawns on him a second later, and he gasps, "Oh my god! Are you doing this to spite Kimi? Does the spaghetti act like an Italian voodoo doll?"

"How dead would both our teams kill me if I posted this in my stories?" Alex muses, fishing for the phone in his back pocket.

Lando manages to grab his wrist just in time. He looks genuinely concerned. "Mate, come on! You'll be fired!"

Which – wow! A startlingly sensible thought from him.  Last year's media training must have been extensive. Either that, or…

Alex squints at him, then whispers, "…Oscar?"

"Mate, you really can't handle any alcohol at all, can you?" Lando-maybe-Oscar grouses.

"Of course!" Alex crows, slapping the counter. "That's why they put you both on inters and somehow killed your car when you were driving into the points! Because the race results wouldn't be fair if you were bodyswapped, so Papaya Rules demanded you both finish outside the points!"

"Still a better explanation than 'We thought there’d be a sudden flood'," George interjects weakly – the first words he's spoken all night. It makes both Alex and Lando forget their argument as they fall into loud cheering instead and join him at the table to finish destroying the rest of the offending pasta.

It's only when the fire alarm goes off that they realise Lando had already turned the stove on and was cooking a pan of olive oil into a plume of smoke.

"Well fuck," Lando says, entirely too easily. "That's happened to me before. Won't be cheap, mate. They send out like a bazillion fire trucks if you trigger the alarm at a hotel."

"You know I'll be sending you the bill, right?"

"Mate, send it right to Osc – this is all his fault. Plus, what is he doing with his fuckton of money anyway? Buying shirts from Uniqlo is what!"

"You have a point," Alex admits, watching out of the corner of his eye as George, even in his zombified state, drifts over to switch off the stove and shuffles to the hotel phone to let reception know they should cancel the alarm if they still can.

Maybe Alex should've thought of that himself. Maybe he really is drunk.

"Okay then, which one of you's in the nicer hotel?" he shouts over the shrieking alarm, ambling into the bedroom to grab the suitcase he's never really unpacked. "I'll be crashing at one of yours tonight."

"Mine's close to a McDonald's," Lando says. "Plus Oscar's room is free now, I guess."

"Perfect," Alex nods, grabbing George's elbow as he passes and pulling him out the door with him. "Nothing Italian about a McDonald's."

****

Alex 

I'm in your room

Oscar 

?

Alex 

*hotel 

If you're texting back you must be able to read the news 

Just so you know 

You have even more to make up for now

Oscar 

Yep. 

Sorry 😔🥺

****

Alex hides a tired smile in the sheets that still smell like Oscar's fucking chocolate deodorant.