#hemera snippet

Lando looks down at the crowd, at the all the smiles directed at him, and can't help his own smile widening. His eyes catch his mom's and he blinks back tears, at the look of adoration, of proudness, on her face. He did it. He did it. On the top step of Silverstone, and he still can't believe it's real - he closes his eyes for a second, as finally his anthem echoes over the screams of fans, of his team. Silverstone. It feels even more special than Monaco, and he knows why. His home race. His dream since he was put in a kart at 6 years old and was old enough to understand what racing meant. And today, finally, finally, after seven years in Formula One - it's his. His.

He can't help, but steal a glance beside himself, at Oscar, as they're handing them the trophies - he knows, that Oscar got mad, at the decision, at the penalty, at the unfairness of it all. He also knows Oscar is not mad at him - they smiled after the race, clapped each other, they talked during the cooldown room… but there is something, still, and they will have to talk about it later. He doesn't worry too much about it - there's no point, anyway. He trusts Oscar, he trusts himself - it will be okay. For now, he just has to enjoy - enjoy his win, enjoy the number one trophy in his hands, enjoy the smiles and the sun and the screams. He's on the top step at Silverstone.

His smiles threatens to break his cheek, with how wide it is, but he's allowed to, especially today of all days. He goes to pick his champagne bottle, to raise it, his eyes on Oscar - again, always, can't help himself, he's a magnet that draws him in, the light that calls to his moth. It's Oscar, and even when it's not Oscar, it's still Oscar. He wants to celebrate, his win, their podium, he wants to to make sure everything is okay, he wants to burrow himself between his arms, to lay his head on his chest, to smell his perfume that is so inherently Oscar, he wants -

And his alarm rings, deafening against his ear, as Lando struggles to even lift his hand, to hit the "stop" button. Silence falls, as heavy as his body feels. Mornings are always harder, when he dreams so vividly, to a point he doesn't know where he is when he wakes up - but sounds pick up, one by one. The cars down in the street, as people take the road to go to work. The fridge in his kitchen, rumbling lightly. The vibrations of his phone, notifications starting to pill up. It was just a dream. It's always just a dream. A long, never-ending, dream, coming back almost every night. Another life, almost, except that it's silly of course - because he doesn't drive super fast cars for a living, isn't a Formula One driver, isn't a rich millionaire living in Monaco.

He's just Lando. Londonian Lando, who wakes up every morning in his tiny but cosy flat, who gets ready for work while grumbling because he's not a morning person, who pets his cat, Yuzu, a loving void demon, who drinks his orange juice with his nose scrunched up, who steps out on the street in a confortable graphic hoodie and grey joggers. Simple, basic, Lando, who works in a coffee shop a few streets away, doesn't even need to take the tub to get there. Not Lando Norris, McLaren Formula One driver since he was 19 years old, number 4 on the grid for years now, fourth youngest podium finisher ever in F1. And that's fine. That's okay.

the leaves start to golden, falling to the whims of the wind. oscar looks at the old buildings in front of him, their history settling deep in his bones, his heart hammering against his ribcage - loud, only for him. silence settles around him, strangely - he sees souls passing by, but can't make out any noise from them. the silence might be in his ears, in his mind - in how heavy his heart feels. everything is about to change. everything changed, already, to be fair - but today is a new step he wasn't sure would really happen. and yet.

we are dreaming of tomorrow and tomorrow isn't coming, we are dreaming of a glory that we don't really want, we are dreaming of a new day when the new day's here already, we are running from the battle when it's one that must be fought, and still we sleep.

loud laughs in the hallways, reverberating on the walls, warm melody heard by all. friends running and cursing and screaming. orange sunset, half hidden by the hill. two boys sitting against the archways, stealing glances behind their books, smiling at each other when their eyes cross. closed-world, where the rules are their own, where everything is different, where it's so easy to forget about the obligations they were born with and the pressure that lays heavy their shoulders.

we are listening for the calling, but never really heeding, hoping for the future when the future's only plans, dreaming of the wisdom that we are dodging daily, praying for a savoir when salvation's in our hands, and still we sleep.

clifton academy, bristol. they all go there - children of the aristocracy, golden spoon in their mouth, a different kind of light in their irides. they all go there - old money, new money, the ones that will one day rule the world. they're just kids - not really, not even teenagers anymore. young adults, everything possible under their grasp, even if they don't fully realise it yet. everything seems idiyllic, in-between the red bricks history has assembled. kigdoms are built, alliances are sealed, and friendships are never forgotten.

and still we sleep, and still we pray, and still we fear. and still we sleep.

— poem by ted anderson, dead poets society.