Chapter Text
The thing about Lando Norris's flat was that it never really felt like his flat. Not in any possessive, territorial sense. The Notting Hill apartment—all exposed brick and floor-to-ceiling windows that caught the afternoon light just right—had become something of a communal space over the years. A headquarters. A sanctuary. A place where wine bottles accumulated on the kitchen island and takeout containers created archaeological layers in the recycling bin.
Thursday evenings were sacred. That's when they all converged.
Lando stood in his open-plan kitchen, lean frame draped against the marble counter, watching the controlled chaos unfold with the easy smile that had launched a thousand fashion campaigns. His brown hair was artfully disheveled—though whether by design or by the autumn wind that had whipped through London that afternoon, even he couldn't say. Green-blue eyes tracked the familiar choreography of his friends making themselves at home.
"Benson, if you put your medical textbooks on my coffee table one more time, I'm burning them," Manon announced, sweeping into the living area with the kind of authority that came from years in public affairs. Her black curls bounced as she moved, and her burgundy blazer was already halfway off, revealing a silk camiskin underneath. She'd come straight from Parliament, still buzzing with political energy.
"You can't burn knowledge, Manon. That's literally fascism," Benson Hall replied without looking up from where they were sprawled across Lando's absurdly comfortable sofa, their short black hair sticking up at odd angles. Dark eyes scanned a passage about cardiac pathology while they simultaneously reached for the bowl of crisps Lando had set out.
"That's not what fascism means," Max Verstappen said, his Dutch accent sharpening the consonants. He was pouring wine with the precision of someone who approached everything—including leisure—with calculated efficiency. The lawyer looked almost uncomfortable in casual clothes, his muscular frame somehow still suggesting a three-piece suit even in dark jeans and a fitted henley. Piercing blue eyes missed nothing.
"Here we go," Charles Leclerc murmured, appearing at Max's elbow like a gentle counterbalance. Where Max was sharp angles and intensity, Charles was soft curves and warmth. His brown wavy hair still had traces of flour from the bakery, and his hazel eyes crinkled with affection as he pressed a kiss to Max's jaw. "Don't start a political theory debate on an empty stomach, mon cœur."
"I brought pastries." Charles held up a distinctive powder-blue box from Pâtisserie Leclerc. "Cannelés, chocolate tarts, and those almond croissants Benson threatened to propose to last week."
"I stand by that threat," Benson said, finally abandoning their textbook to lunge for the box.
The door buzzed, and moments later Ylva Sjöberg glided in, bringing with her the scent of expensive perfume and the crisp efficiency of someone who'd just filed three articles before deadline. Her blonde bob was immaculate, her icy blue eyes taking in the scene with the observational skills of a seasoned fashion journalist.
"I'm not late. You're all just chronically early." She kicked off designer heels and made directly for the wine. "Also, Lando, darling, I saw the Burberry campaign shots. Your jawline is going to make people weep."
Lando's warm smile widened, but something flickered in his expression—there and gone so quickly that only someone who knew him well would catch it. "Just doing my job. Looking pretty for the camera."
"Don't be modest. It's boring," Ylva said, settling into the armchair that everyone tacitly acknowledged was hers. "You're literally the face of London Fashion Week this year."
"One of the faces," Lando corrected, moving around the kitchen with the ease of someone who'd hosted this same gathering a hundred times. He pulled out plates, set out napkins, ordered Thai food from the place they all loved via the app he barely had to think about anymore.
This was his role. The organizer. The host. The one who made sure everyone ate, everyone drank, everyone laughed. The one who listened to Max's courtroom war stories and Charles's supplier dramas, who helped Benson with flashcards and let Manon rant about policy failures, who traded industry gossip with Ylva like currency.
The single one. Always the single one.
Not that he minded. Not really. He'd dated—casually, mostly. A few longer relationships that fizzled out when the other person realized that Lando's emotional availability extended to everyone except whoever he was supposedly dating. That he could be profoundly intimate with his friends while remaining somehow untouchable in romance.
"Earth to Lando," Manon called out, waving a hand. "You're doing that thing again."
"What thing?"
"That thing where you smile but you're not actually here." She pointed at him with a cannelé. "What's going on in that pretty head?"
"Nothing. Just tired." The lie came easily, softened by his natural charm. "Had three shoots this week. One of them involved standing in the Thames in November. For art, apparently."
"Fashion is suffering," Ylva said sagely, raising her wine glass.
"Fashion is stupid," Max countered, pulling Charles down onto the sofa beside him with possessive tenderness that made Lando's chest ache in a way he refused to examine.
"Fashion pays for this wine you're drinking, so show some respect," Lando shot back, grateful for the familiar banter that pulled him out of his own head.
The evening unfolded in its usual pattern—food arrived, wine flowed, conversations overlapped and diverged and reconverged. Benson quizzed everyone on symptoms until Manon threatened to hide the medical textbooks for real. Charles and Max had a loving argument about whether The Great British Bake Off was an accurate representation of baking under pressure. Ylva shared withering commentary about a designer's fall collection that had everyone crying with laughter.
And Lando watched it all, contributing, laughing, hosting. Feeling both completely full and somehow empty. Part of something and apart from it.
Later, after everyone had left—Max and Charles together, hands intertwined; Ylva in an Uber back to her Shoreditch flat; Benson catching the night bus with their textbooks and leftover pastries; Manon heading to her place in Westminster—Lando cleaned up the debris of the evening. Washed glasses. Folded the throw blanket Benson always kicked onto the floor. Reset his space to its magazine-ready aesthetic.
The silence felt too large.
His phone buzzed with the group chat already spinning up:
Benson: Thanks for dinner! You're a saint. Also I definitely left my stethoscope there.
Max: It's on the bookshelf. I saw it when we were leaving.
Charles: Lando, mon ami, you need to let us host sometimes. You do too much.
Manon: He likes doing too much. It's his love language.
Ylva: Speaking of which, I have something that might interest you, Lando. Work thing. Corporate campaign. Stupidly good money. You available for a meeting Monday?
Lando stared at the message, then typed back:
Lando: Always available. Send me the details. And Benson, your stethoscope is safe.
He set the phone down and looked around his immaculate, empty flat. Through the windows, London glittered with a thousand lit windows, a thousand lives, a thousand stories unfolding in parallel to his own.
Somewhere out there, he thought, there had to be someone who made him feel less like the supporting character in his own life.
He just hadn't met them yet.