#kee.fic

Not that anyone’s counting, but they break rules two and three that day too. Two being no hooking up in broad daylight and three being no fucking where any evidence could be found.

Oscar’s careful, though. The second Lando’s gone he peels all the sheets off the bed and throws them into the washing machine that he doesn’t know how to use, and he slings the duvet over the balcony railing to air out, and he checks every crevice of his room for any left-behind socks or underwear or god forbid jewelry. It’s a fit of uncharacteristic mania on his part. He can admit that to himself.

Rule number four is no staying over. They break that one the sixth time they have sex, because they have sex in Lando’s hotel room and Oscar’s room is occupied, and for him to creep back there would break their fifth rule. Rule number five, which they haven’t broken just yet, is never ever mention Lily.

Rule number six only comes into play when Lando makes it official with Magui, and even then it’s really a rule five-and-a-half. Never ever mention Magui.

The rule that says never mention this to anyone at all is unspoken. It doesn’t need a number, because it’s the only one they really, truly, can’t ever break. 

To both of their surprises, Oscar is the one who ends up breaking rule five. Oscar, who spots a hickey on Lando’s collarbone that he knows he didn’t put there, and says, “Magui a biter?”

Lando gives him the strangest look Oscar’s ever seen on him, and he’s seen a lot of strange looks on Lando Norris. 

Lando says, “Sure,” and Oscar realizes what he’s done, and he drops it. 

Maybe Oscar starts losing track of the rules. Maybe he starts losing track of a lot of things as the season goes on. He is, contrary to popular belief, very much aware of how he sounds on the radio these days. Aware of the things being said about him, and about Lando, and about the championship. 

Rule number seven is, obviously, not to talk about the championship. They follow this rule nearly as closely as they follow rule zero. They’re friends, and they’re… friends, also, and bringing this type of work to bed with them is the final ingredient in what’s already a recipe for disaster. This does, unfortunately, fall off a bit when Oscar DNFs.

And this is one of those things that eats at him. Not just the fact that he binned it into a wall on the first lap like he’s an absolute amateur, but the fact that afterward he can’t stop himself from bringing it to bed with him. Can’t stop himself from bullying Lando onto the mattress and taking it out on him, muttering all the while about the car until Lando bullies back. And then Oscar ends up on his back, and he stops thinking about much at all. Lando’s pretty good at that. 

So that eats at him too. Caterpillar vs leaf style, gnawing away at his edges, because Lando’s already DNFed twice this season and he kept it out of the bedroom. Apologized in the media when it was his fault, apologized to Oscar privately, moved on. The consummate professional.

Oscar’s never seen himself as much of a rule-breaker. But he’s always learning something new.

Neither of them are, contrary to popular belief, cracking under the pressure. But it is stressful. It’s incredibly fucking stressful to have fingertips on the championship, to feel the texture of it as it spins out of grip. It’s not out of reach. If it ends up there, out of bounds, foul ball, both of them would only have themselves to blame. Realistically.

Under that weight, rules five and five-and-a-half get more slippery. Lando’s somehow still better at this than Oscar—he’s lovely to Lily in person, and he doesn’t mention her name or make jabs about her when they go to bed together. He keeps everything tidily compartmentalized in a way that makes Oscar deeply suspicious about how many times he’s done this before. So it’s Oscar that makes jabs about it. Oscar who actively avoids Magui, because for no reason it pisses him off to watch them nuzzling each other like Lady and the Tramp in hospitality. Oscar who, when they inevitably fuck again, presses down on love-bites left on Lando’s shoulders like he could rub them away with his thumb. 

“She really—” He starts, and Lando surges up with that weird, wiry, unexpected strength that Oscar’s always startled by.

“Come on, mate,” Lando says. That’s not a rule, but Oscar hates it anyway—to be called mate in bed, to have that tidy slice between teammate/friend/fuckbuddy laid out so clearly in one word. “Chill.”

Oscar chills. Lando’s on top now, anyway, and Oscar’s got no choice but to chill. 

It’ll get worse before it gets better, Oscar thinks. Something’s gotta give, or whatever, unstoppable force versus immovable object. Someone or something’s going to crack at some point and he doesn’t want it to be him. 

She's not been snooping. She's tidying up the flat while she waits for him to get back from a lunch date with Mark, because he still has the sense of cleanliness of a teenage boy, and the maid won't be in for another couple of days. The bed has to be made, the laundry has to go in the hamper. It's easy stuff, really. At least it looks like he's made an effort this time. The duvet's out on the balcony, and the sheets are a soggy heap in the washing machine that she'd had to heave into the drier all by herself, even though they probably weighed more wet than she does.

After a long moment of consideration, she tucks the bracelet in the bedside table's drawer on Oscar's side of the bed. She's very good at acting surprised. He's always been rather terrible at keeping secrets.

—

“Oscar,” says Lily, “You really have got to stop leaving garbage everywhere.” 

Oscar, eyeballs deep in a protein shake, peers at her blearily. She’s only just arrived today, noon sharp, to find Oscar still in bed when she’d let herself into the flat. Now he’s feeding himself without much enthusiasm, and she’s making up the bed. 

She brandishes the condom wrapper at him. He chokes on his shake.

“Really,” she says, and she’s truly doing her best not to sound like a nag. But really. “I’ve not been here in weeks. You must have stomped over this about a hundred times since then.” She’d found it because she had stomped over it, just the once, and found it sticky and stuck to her bare foot. She hadn’t realized the lubricated kind would stay, well, lubricated so long. 

Oscar mutters something that could be an apology. He’s really quite red in the face, and around the ears. She knows what he looks like when he’s embarrassed. 

This isn’t quite it. 

“Really,” she says again, and she lets her arm fall, because for some reason she’s expecting Oscar to lunge over the table and snatch the wrapper out of her hand. “I’m not your mum.”

Oscar nods slowly. He’s doing his very best to keep his eyes on her face, but they keep darting back to her hand. She goes to the bin. Might as well put him out of his misery. She notes, in the way someone might note body language at a poker game, the brand on the packet. 

She startles, dropping the wrapper into the bin. Oscar’s come up behind her and slipped both arms around her waist, and he’s hauling her back, and kissing her neck. 

“I missed you,” he says. His voice is still thick with sleep. She lets him grope at her chest through her shirt and then, when she thinks about how much she missed him, too, lets him turn her around and lift her up onto the counter. 

—

Lily isn’t stupid. She’d immediately clocked that the condom wrapper was a completely different brand and size than the ones Oscar uses with her. 

She’s known Oscar for a long, long time. She knows when he’s lying. When he’s really embarrassed or when he’s keeping secrets. For months, now, he’s been all of those things. For months, now, she’s known he’s been unfaithful.

She finds it in herself to forgive him before she even brings it up in conversation. It makes sense; he’s always in one country or another, and while they are together about eighty percent of the time he is a man. She’s not friends with the other girls—the WAGs, which she refuses to call herself—but she knows them well enough to have heard the stories. Almost everyone she’s spoken to has had the same experience. 

Drivers are cheaters, Rebecca had told her, once, sloppily drunk but not unkind. It’s just the way they are.

—

Lily decides early on that she’s not going to talk to Oscar about it. Not yet. She’d like to give him the benefit of the doubt, but she also knows he’ll try very, very hard to lie to her face if she confronts him. He really is a terrible liar. She’d rather not shatter what she’d thought was the solid bedrock of their relationship by misstepping. 

She does, however, go out of her way to talk to Lando. 

He’s always been lovely to her. She hadn’t expected it, if she’s being honest—she’d anticipated some sort of venom from him, being that she’s partner to his closest competitor. But he’s always been at minimum cordial. Most of the time he’s an outright delight. 

When she runs into him in a cafe in Monaco, he beams at her and pays for her cappuccino. He’s nothing like Oscar, Lily thinks. The opposite in most every way—where Oscar’s pale and curved, broad in the shoulders, Lando’s all dark tan and slender, shapely limbs. He’s easy to smile. He’s very easy to like.

“I have a strange question,” she says, as they sit outside the cafe and sip coffee like old friends. Lando’s bracelet glitters in the sunlight as he sets down his cup.

“Sure,” he says.

Lily presses her lips together. “Is—can I ask how long? You and Oscar, I mean.”

Silence. Silence like a wall, like slick, cold marble. She’d anticipated Lando not having much of a poker face, but it stays frozen in a cooler parody of the easy smile he’d started with. She thinks he’s probably a better liar than Oscar. From what she’s heard, he’s had a lot more experience with this sort of thing. 

“Beginning of the season,” he says, and she really hadn’t expected him to answer at all, much less be honest.

“Hm,” she says. More to herself than anything; she’s surprised that she believes him.

“Sorry,” says Lando. He doesn’t sound all that sorry, really. He plucks at his bracelet; shoots it a rather dirty look when he probably thinks she isn't watching. 

“It’s alright,” says Lily. “Thank you for being honest.”

—

Her options are thus: 

Confront Oscar; risk the relationship they’ve spent the better part of a decade building, go back home to live with her parents while she finishes school. Sleep with Lando; not for revenge, exactly, just to see what’s out there, and more importantly what she’s up against. She thinks he’d probably do it, even though he’s also got quite a lovely partner. Maybe Lily could reach out to Magui. They could make a little club about it. Maybe she could sleep with Magui, too, but she doesn’t think her heart would be in it.

Or she can drop it. Just drop the whole thing. Pretend that she doesn’t know her boyfriend has been not only having sex with someone else but having sex with another man, pretend that he’s not a truly awful liar. Pretend he’s not being objectively quite awful all around.

She’ll have to mull it over.

—

“I know, by the way,” Lily says, unabrasively. She’s just let Oscar make love to her without a condom, which is the easiest way to butter him up for anything. 

Oscar says, “Hmmm?” He’s basically half-asleep, the way he always is after they have sex. Lily’s lived with the secret for too long to be bothered by it when she wonders if he’s fallen asleep in Lando’s arms before. 

“About Lando,” she says. 

The brick wall of silence doesn’t bother her. She sits up and starts to work the tangles out of her hair. Oscar doesn’t move, or speak, but she feels him watching her. She’d like a shower, sooner rather than later, to at least avoid staining the sheets. 

“I don’t mind,” she adds, because she doesn’t anymore. “I understand.” 

Part of her wants him to apologize. The part of her that loves a good romance film wants him to sit up and take both her hands in his, promise to end it with Lando, that it didn’t mean anything, to tell her he loves her and commit himself to her. Part of her wants this very, very badly. 

The other part of her knows what she’s going to get.

Oscar does sit up. He sits up and he watches her and she feels his hand twitch abortively to touch her. 

“I’m, um, sorry,” Oscar says.

Lily pats his bare shoulder; the nearest thing she can reach. She’d like to shrug but she thinks he’s probably feeling rather vulnerable right now. “It’s alright,” she says, climbing out from under the sheets. She really is a mess. “I’m going to go clean up.”

"Feel old yet?" Oscar asks him. He licks his lips.

"I mean," Lando says, "I guess," even though he hadn't really thought about it that way. He's never been all that bothered by the whole ageing process thing. A birthday is just another day for a party. His parents—their parents, Oscar's mum and Lando's dad—insisted they both come stay a few nights to celebrate with family, and with a fridge packed full of drinks.

Oscar looks him up and down with all the subtlety of a dog eyeing your dinner up on the table. Waiting for the right moment to strike. He's had more than a few beers—Lando had made a couple of jabs about him being a baby, is he even allowed to drink, et cetera—and has been blotchy pink in the face for the better part of an hour. Because of the drinks or the jabs, who can really be sure.

"You're two years older than me now," Oscar says.

"Am I not... always?"

Oscar shakes his head so slowly that for a second Lando's not sure if he's moved at all. He doesn't elaborate, either, just keeps staring up at Lando from his spot on the floor. This isn't anything that Lando has any reference for. He's always had younger sisters, never a younger brother. Maybe this is how a younger brother is meant to act? Then again, Lando's never been like this to his brother.

"I like it," Oscar says finally. He's up on his knees now, crawling across the floor. "That you're older."

"Oscar," Lando says. "I'm barely older. You're taller than me." This seems like an important thing to mention. Now that he's starting to understand the shape of it—kind of, sort of—he's half-wary and half extremely into it.

One of the few things Lando's actually learned about Oscar over the last year is that his mum had forced him to come back home right before the wedding. Apparently he'd been living with someone else, an older man and his wife, and Lando'd taken it for an honourary uncle situation until he'd caught the way Oscar staring, like, mournfully at a photo on his phone. The older man. A pair of dogs. Oscar, tucked into the older man's side with a big, genuine grin on his face.

Lando's no genius detective, or whatever, but he can put two and two together to find four.

Oscar has somehow ended up between Lando's knees, both hands spreading Lando's thighs open. He's got delicate, long-nailed hands, like a girl's. It's instinct that has Lando putting a hand in Oscar's fine hair and holding him still by the head. Oscar's working Lando's fly open, and Lando's brain feels like the ice cream about to fall out of the cone.

Possibly he should stop this. The stepbrother thing isn't Lando's kink by any means, nor is the pseudo-older man thing. But he's not going yuck anyone's yums.

He's also not exactly one to turn down a birthday BJ. If Oscar wants to pretend like Lando's much, much older than him, well. At least Lando's going to get something out of it.

The grid picks up on it like a pack of bloodhounds—Oscar starts him off, by virtue of being in such close proximity that it would just be straight up weird for him to not get there first. He's still sleepy, because it's early, so it ends up being one of those strangely tender spoony-fucks that Lando has to actively not think about for a few days afterward.

Max sniffs him out next. Luckily, this time, Lando manages to drag them into a bathroom before Max can stuff a hand down his pants. He's just like that—doesn't really care if anyone sees him with a whole mittful of pussy out in the open. He fucks Lando over the sink, slaps his arse when it's over, tells him that he'll see him on track. Casual as fucking anything.

Franco comes steaming in like a bat out of hell, and he looks so excited that Lando is confused for a second, before he remembers that Franco's not actually been around for a pussy-curse sesh. If he's honest with himself, he expects it to be a bit bad. Franco looks too enthusiastic for it to be anything but sloppy, but then, well.

Franco doesn't even ask to fuck him. Doesn't even get his dick out. Just tails Lando into his driver room and gets on his knees, buries his face between Lando's thighs and eats him out with such precision that Lando comes so hard he kicks off a shoe.

Lando actively seeks out Carlos, next. He's always an attentive fuck if nothing else—has a preference toward getting Lando up in his lap, bouncing him up and down on his dick until Lando's eyes are properly rolling back. He's also very intense about making sure Lando comes, squeezing tight around Carlos' cock to drag him groaning after.

Since he's already at Williams, Lando staggers into Alex's driver room next. Alex, who laughs not-unkindly at him and shrieks over the handprint Max'd left on his arse more than an hour ago, and then fucks Lando on his back. Alex likes to bend Lando into a pretzel, and Lando likes being bent into a pretzel, so his knees end up around his ears and his back and thighs get stretched out in a way that might be adjacently Jon-approved. Alex also always fucks him without a condom. So Lando gets to listen to the squelch of his own cunt get even squelchier when Alex nuts inside of him.

"You know where to go next," Alex says, in a very serious voice with a very unserious expression.

Lando waddles off to Mercedes.

He dodges Kimi—barely—and finds George doing stretches in the back of the garage, earphones in. Lando nudges him in the ankle and says, "Special delivery."

George says, "Ugh, foul," and then spends about ten minutes fingerbanging him, just so he can mess about with Alex's leftover come. It's a bit gross, but kind of romantic if you think about it very, very hard.

After George is done with him, he's fucking exhausted, which he thinks is fair. Not everyone's had a turn but also it's his pussy, and he gets to decide when it takes a rest, thank you very much.

"Sorry," Lando whispers, only he's been at the club and his voice is a bit hoarse so it comes out full-volume anyway.

For a second he gets a flash of Oscar's eye—just the one, shining in the moonlight, and if Lando knew what a word was he could get real poetic about it—before Oscar hunkers back down under the covers. It could have been a glare, Lando thinks, but he's wriggling in behind Oscar anyway.

Lando says, "Hiiii."

Oscar makes a sound that might be a word. Lando snuggles in closer, pressed up against Oscar's bare back, nuzzling into the nape of his neck.

He's a bit horny, is the thing. A quick drunk wank before bed never hurt anyone—probably it's healthy, really.

He starts kissing Oscar's nape with the kind of focus he usually reserves for Sundays on a race weekend. Careful, soft, not wet because his mouth is dry and he probably should've got some water in him before bedtime but it's a bit late for that. Oscar's all warm and soft, stomach twitching under Lando's hands, sagging when Lando kisses his way up his shoulder.

"Yeah," Lando dumbly. "Yeah, you like that?"

Oscar hums. Lando keeps kissing his way down Oscar's arm, rubs his mouth against his tricep and when Oscar sighs he's got to grin.

"S'that turning you on?" Lando asks, all drunken-horny-boldness.

And Oscar, in the softest, sleepiest, most sincere voice, says, "Feels nice."

It somehow has the effect of replacing every horny bone in Lando's body with softer, squishier, more Play-Doh-esque bones. Like he just sort of melts about it, curling around Oscar like a beloved stuffed animal or pet and rubbing his nose against the back of his neck while he grins like a fucking idiot.

"You're cute," Lando whines. "Why're you cute."

Oscar's hand looms out of the dark and pats at Lando's face, long nails narrowly missing an eye.

Lewis catches him out on his stealthy attempt to navigate the paddock. Lewis says, "I think I have a pair of those," gesturing vaguely at George's leggings, and George lets himself be guided into a Ferrari hospitality toilet. Lewis is always good about it. They've only really fucked about it once; mostly, Lewis likes rubbing his big hand against George's fresh pussy through a layer of fabric. Likes grinding the heel of his palm against him until his thighs are shaking, until he can hear the wet of himself soaking through the lycra. Lewis always makes him come, which is nice. Not everyone is so kind.

Relatedly; it's Max who catches him next. It's George's fault, really, for spotting Lando and dodging mindlessly out of the way; George, personally, gets a bit shy about seeing anyone else who's been cursed recently. He's always a little embarrassed, especially, about the way Alex uses Lando's cunt like a messenger pigeon every time. This is beside the point. The point is that George slips down what he thinks is a deserted alley of the paddock, runs directly into Max Verstappen, and ends up bent over right there with his leggings yanked down around his thighs.

Max doesn't speak to him when they do this. Which is fine by George, but it is annoying that there's no perfunctory oh, shall I wear a condom? Would you rather I don't nut inside of you and make a damn mess of the place? Annoying, but unsurprising. Once Max is done, even, he doesn't speak. Just pulls out, yanks up his ugly khakis, and grunts what could be something in the same solar system as a thank-you.

Whatever.

It's a bit easier after that. Williams isn't all that far, and even though George is squelching with every step he manages to avoid everyone else on his way. He dodges Isack—George is sure he's lovely, but he's not looking to find out today—and Franco—who Lando had talked up with great enthusiasm but again, not today—and then finds himself sneaking through Williams' hospitality without any further incident. Even Carlos doesn't catch him this time.

"I thought someone with wet socks was coming to try to assassinate me," Alex says, the second George shuts the door behind him.

"Do shut up," George says, and lets Alex manhandle him onto his back on the couch.

Alex spends a while doing what Lewis does; rubbing George through his pants, working him up until the wet squelching between his thighs is truly embarrassing. He doesn't get his dick out for a long while, which is always a bit annoying, because George does want it. But it's fine, Alex climbing up between George's legs, hitching his hips down in a parody of fucking. It's gratifying how hard Alex gets. The rigid line of him grinding into George's pussy, pushing the lycra up and in until George might as well be flossing with it.

Eventually, after George has startled himself by coming before Alex even has him bared, Alex sits back. His pupils are blown and his hair is hanging over his forehead, heavy with sweat. He's panting, needy, cupping George's cunt like a stressball.

George says, "Well—" at the same time that Alex says, "Oh, fuck it."

Alex gets both hands between George's legs, crooks his fingers into the seam of the leggings, and pulls.

George makes a noise, furiously turned on. These are some of his favourite pants, he doesn't say. Come to think of it, they're also some of Alex's favourites.

Now, George's pussy is bared to the cold of the room, so wet he shivers the second he's exposed. He means to squirm away but Alex is shoving two fingers inside of him, fucking into him in a weird way that George doesn't understand; his fingers are curled, knuckles dragging against George's insides, but not in a way that is designed to make George feel good.

"Are you—"

Alex pulls his hand away, flicks his wrist. What's left of Max's come splatters the floor.

"I'm not even going to ask," Alex says. It's for the better, probably.

In the next second, Alex's joggers are shoved down, and his cock is out, and George is never so desperately wanting as when he's like this. When he has a cunt for fucking, and Alex's cock is thick and hot and bobbing between them. It feels so right that George should be ashamed of it.

The shame, if there ever was any, escapes him the second Alex fits against him and plunges inside.

George is still so wet that it sounds sloppy when Alex fucks him. Sloppy at first and then sloppier, after Alex comes for the first time. Sloppier still when Alex pulls out, slumping over George's body and pushing his fingers back inside, the pad of his thumb rubbing over and over and over George's clit until all George can do is claw at the back of Alex's head. He's not like this often enough to know if Alex is actually good at this, or if it's just because it's him doing it.

Alex, eventually, gets it up again. He pulls the hole in the crotch of George's leggings even wider, the tight rip of fabric tearing, George's whole body tingling with need or want or something worse. This time Alex fucks him slow, bent right over him so they can kiss, which is something they only do when either of them are like this.

When Alex comes again, it's George who locks his ankles around Alex's hips. It's George who clings to him, holds him close so he won't pull out. He just wants to feel it. The pulse and throb of it, Alex's cock softening slow, slipping out on its own, dribbling a trail of come after it that trickles down between George's arsecheeks and soaks into what's left of the leggings. Alex doesn't seem to mind. He's sleepy, sated. Rubbing his face against George's neck and making some joke that George doesn't catch because he's too busy grinding his clit up against Alex's pelvis until he can make himself come again. He mourns the loss of fullness when he squeezes Alex out with the force of it, but he can't mind so much.