Chapter Text
When Lando parks his car neatly in front of the number one stand, he stays seated for a second longer. He’s thanked his team, waved to the fans, all that, so there’s truly no need. Yet he knows that if he were to stand up, he’d drop down in an instant. Even while seated, he can feel his limbs tremble, his knees buckle. Fuck, the heat of the race has really gotten to him this time.
He’s given it his all, he’s won, but only barely. Oscar had been all over the back of his car, pushing and forcing Lando to race more reckless than he’d liked for the circuit and temperature.
He lets out a heavy sigh. That’s racing, right? Especially against a Beta teammate. Thank god Oscar isn’t an Alpha, that would have been really annoying to deal with. They are tough on track, ruthless and at times even dangerous. Take Max Verstappen for example. Alpha’s, the majority of the drivers. The aggression that is frowned upon out there in the real world, it is appreciated on the track. Lando doesn’t do that. Actually, he doesn’t do any second gender. It’s not something that’s known, but Lando has yet to present.
A very uncommon happening.
So for everyone, he’s a Beta. That’s easiest, doesn’t make him suffer through annoying questions, remarks and extra health-checks. And the FIA, surprisingly, does not care much at all. Formula one is strangely open to drivers being of any second gender, for they care more about having the best drivers of the world compete and their own silly rules.
Yet there are no Omegas in Formula one. Lando is sure many have tried, but no one has succeeded. Omegas just aren’t F1 material.
It’s not prejudge, it’s fact.
Majority of the paddock consists of Alphas. Be that as it may, he’s sharing the podium with two Betas today. It’s him in first place, Oscar in second and then Charles in third. Well deserved too, Charles had to fight off Max several times with perfectly executes manoeuvres.
Both of them are out of their cars, though they’d parked later than Lando. Fuck, how long has he been sitting here? With shaking hands, he pushes himself up through the helo, leaning on it heavily as to not fall down. It really must have been a hell of a race for his body, he doubts he’s ever felt this bad. Black spots float around his vision and he’s grateful for the helmet’s coverage, otherwise the media would have had a field day. He’s already being portrayed as vulnerable, with his down-talk and insecurities, he’s not about to add more to that image.
Now that he’s standing, another wave of heat crashes over him. And it’ll only get worse he knows, he still has an interview to go before he can spend mere minutes in the cooldownroom. Not to mention the podium, he’s already dreading the standing, the music and the spray of champagne. How ungrateful he’s being.
-Is something the old Lando would think. No, he’s working on that, won’t think bad about himself like that. So last season, the self-doubt.
He lifts his hand to swipe at the sweat on his forehead and smashes his fingers against his helmet, forgetting it’s still on. Right. Gotta get out of the car, take the helmet off, maybe drink some water.
On autopilot, he bends over to detach his stirring wheel. The drink-system and radio are next, and then he rights himself again. Easy, easy, he reminds himself as he sways.
A shiver shakes through him, and that’s the first sign that there’s more to his troubles than simply the race being a tad difficult.
The next is a bit more obvious. A sticky feeling gathers between his legs and he winches in reflex. He’s absolutely soaked through his fireproofs. And now that he’s standing, he can feel it dripping down his inner thigh a little. Has he really wet himself? It happens, races are long and when one must go, there’s no other choice than to just…go. But it’s never happened to him before, and certainly not unknowingly. Yikes.
He’s too hot and bothered to feel the shame that comes with wetting one’s pants, but the discomfort he does notice. Well, another annoying thing to add to the growing list.
Thank fuck his racesuit doesn’t stain, or else it would have made quite the picture on the podium.
“Lando?”
Gripping the helo to remain standing, he looks up. It’s Oscar, helmet in his hands, a worry look on his face. “You getting out on your own?”
Out? Oh, out of the car!
“Yeah yeah mate. It’s fine.” He waves his teammate off and finally stumbles out of the car. A small wave is all he’s able to give the public, standing on the hood and punching the air seems like a far-fetched dream right now.
His team waits behind the barrier, bright smiles, a supportive wave of Papaya that swallows him gently as he greets them. They pat his back, his helmet and yell at the incredible results of today. He hears it, he sees them, but his senses are clouded over and he knows that there must be panic in his eyes. There’s a fire underneath his skin and every touch sets it alight.
Miraculously he finds his footing, makes his way back to Oscar and attempts to walk to the box with number one and a promising bottle of water on it without visibly stumbling. “Just a little dizzy. The heat, you know?” He chokes on the words as he says them.
Oscar looks at him like Lando’s told him monkeys can fly. “Mate, what heat?”
“You’re not-never mind. Lets just go.”
Without saying another word, Oscar follows, sticking to his side like glue. While walking Lando pulls off his helmet, the tight enclosure making his senses go haywire. His neck protection comes off with it and finally Lando feels like he can take a breath. Not a deep one, for the heat weighs on his chest like stone.
“Fuck, what a race,” he hums, just loud enough for Oscar to catch. He doesn’t get an answer, but the other driver pats his shoulder gently. Then Lando is intercepted by someone telling him he still has to get weighted, which, fuck. How could he forget that?
The scale tells him about another abnormality. This race has cost him four kilograms. Something that does not happen often, certainly not while racing under colder circumstances like today. Usually it’s about two.
“Thanks,” he mutters when they give him the good to go.
When he turns around, Oscar is waiting for him, a worried look on his face. “Can you-” Lando attempts to lift his helmet higher, but his arms trembles when he does. Oscar takes the helmet immediately. “Landers? Are you really okay?”
“Four. Lost four kilos.”
“Oh. That’s-That’s unusual.”
“Hmm. Yeah.” Lando peels off his balaclava, swaying on his legs. “Reckon I need to lay down in a bit.” Another wave of heat crashes over him and he claws at the collar of his racesuit, not caring that he might look frantic to the public. “Fuck, this heat is insane Osc.” He starts fanning himself with his hand.
When they reach the numbered boxes of parc fermé he sees that they are all waiting for him. The cameras, the people, and third placed driver.
Charles is shifting his weight impatiently and lets out an audible sigh when he sees Lando and Oscar arriving. “Finally, that took you long,” he says, his accent thick and heavy. Lando can only nod, too focussed on placing one foot in front of the other.
Oscar puts down both of their helmets. He hands Lando a bottle of water, and Lando is grateful but he can’t find it in him to thank his teammate. He downs the bottle in one go, turning his back to the cameras that want to get a lucky shot.
Honestly, the cool water makes him feel a lot better instantly. It brings down the heat within him a little and his thoughts clear. “Ah, sorry for making you all wait. Just a minute, I’ll be ready to go in a bit.”
It makes the media people antsy, but at least Lando won’t be passing out any second. That would give even more trouble. He can see the headlines already, ‘Lando Norris, not suited for winning.’ ‘Has Norris lost it?’ or, ‘Racing, it’s not for the faint of heart. Norris proves that, when will he finally break?’. No, nope. He’ll get through this in one piece, fainting he can do between the safe walls of his driver room.
Charles is already getting ushered away to do the interview, being third. Oscar will be up next, but he’s not moving.
“Osc?”
“They can wait. We’re walking together.”
It shouldn’t, but Oscar saying that lifts a weight off Lando’s shoulders. He’s not alone, and whatever is going on, Oscar is helping. He sighs.
“I’m fine.” But he doesn’t protest when Oscar grabs his wrist and squeezes it softly.
“Lets get this over with,” he says, tone so gently that Lando wants to curl up in his arms and trust that he’ll will be fine indeed. He won’t do it, of course not. It’s urge that he’s never had before in his life, but the thought enters his mind so easily that it doesn’t startle him.
Really, anyone with eyes can see that Oscar is rather handsome, and Lando is just feeling a little vulnerable. If his mum were here, he’d wanted the same with her. Someone that holds him.
He wonders if he’d ask, would Oscar? Probably, he’s a nice guy. Which is exactly why Lando doesn’t ask, he’d want to much, like he always does.
He wipes his forehead with his free hand and focusses on keeping his legs steady.
“Right, yeah. Lets get this over with.”
Oscar walks closer to him than he would usually, like he’s being pulled towards Lando, like he needs to be there. And maybe he does, because just when Lando wants to ask for some space, his knees grow weak as he’s hit with an unexpected snap of pain. Oscar’s gentle hand on his lower back is the only thing keeping him standing.
“Ow, what the fuck?” This whole situation is going from bad to worse. It feels like a cramp, lower in his belly, radiating to his back. But to his knowledge, he’s not twisted in any strange way, nor has he had any problems during the race.
Oscar frowns at him. “Lando, what the hell is going on with you?”
He sounds mad to Lando’s ears, and that has him winch. “I-I don’t know, something is wrong, I think. I’m so hot, and-” he presses a discreet hand to his stomach, “-cramps. I’m having really weird cramps.”
Oscar’s breath stokes and his eyes widen. He looks like something has just been revealed to him.
Lando twitches in unease. “W-what?”
“Lan, I have a hunch.” His voice sounds serious, like something might be truly wrong. Yet Lando is sure that whatever it is, Oscar’s got it.
“Oh-”
Oscar sniffs the air once, twice. He leans closer to Lando, closer to his neck. Where his scent should be strongest if he’d presented like all the others of his age. Heat radiates from the other driver and everything in Lando screams ‘safe’. He can’t hold back a soft whimper. “Fuck, Osc-”
“Hold still.” And Lando freezes, without any questions asked, instincts acting for him.
Oscar is so close that Lando can feel his breath on his skin. The tribunes seems to be holding their breath, so Lando pats Oscar’s back firmly to make it look like a simple hug between teammates. There are enough stories about them circulating as it is. This is far more intimate than a simple hug between teammates, but that’s theirs to know.
“Oscar, what are you doing?” He forces a stern tone in his voice, while all he wants to do is press into Oscar’s touch and sigh with relief.
“Sorry.” Oscar stays right where he is. “I had to check.”
“Check what?”
It’s then that Oscar takes a step back. He looks dazed, overwhelmed. “Lands. I think you’re in heat?”
Lando snorts and laughs one of his boisterous, loud laughs. It’s mostly from surprise, because nothing at all about this is funny. “Mate, you good?”
“I’m serious. You smell...sweet.”
At that moment, another cramp torments Lando and the sticky feeling between his legs grows.
Oscar’s pupils become so wide that most of his eye is dark. “Yeah, mate, that’s heat. I’m telling you.”
Lando feels himself become white as a ghost. “H-Heat?” That’s-Omegas get heats, not him. He’s not-right? A sick feeling creeps up at Lando. After all these years of nothing, of being presumed a Beta, today is the day he presents?
He tugs harshly at the collar of his fireproofs trying to ground himself. This can’t be happening.
His insides squirm and there’s no way of denying this. It’s heat, just like Oscar says.
“Fuck,” he whispers. That’s a really big problem. First of all because he still has an interview and a podium to get through, secondly because he has no idea what to expect. Not prepared, not knowledgable, no nothing.
“It’s really heat?” he asks Oscar, to be sure he’s heard him right. Or maybe he just needs to hear the others voice, needs the confirmation that this isn’t a fluke.
“Mate,” The word sends shivers down Lando’s spine like it never has before, “With that scent, no doubt. You didn’t know? I thought they needed to be scheduled by FIA rules.”
“Yeah. Err. I’ve never-” He stops talking. How to explain that he’s a late-bloomer? That he’d given up the thought of being anything else but not designated?
“I’ve actually never presented.” Plain, like Oscar usually says the difficult stuff. Turns out that Oscar is good in telling things how they are, but not so in hearing them. He startles, takes a big step away from Lando, barely avoiding stumbling over his feet, and seems to choke on his own spit. “Holy fuck. Shit.”
Lando grins nervously, tugging at his collar yet again. The heat is really getting to him, sweat is pooling at the back of his neck and Oscar’s cursing does something to his heartbeat that he strictly ignores. “I’m not sure what I should do. I’ve always been a Beta.”
“That’s so-” Oscar audible swallows his words.
“Messed up? Yeah, I’m aware.”
“Hot,” Oscar whispers under his breath. Lando pretends he hasn’t heard him, that clearly wasn’t meant for his ears. His body doesn’t get the message, scent sweetening to the point that Lando glances around nervously. Someone could notice.
Fear raises up its head as he makes eye contact with a woman. She’s frowning at him, her heels going click-clack against the tarmac of the track as she walks up to him. Lando has to fight the urge to hide behind Oscar’s strong, broad back.
“Oscar? We cannot stall any longer,” she says.
Lando lets go of the breath he hadn’t noticed he was holding. She’s PR, not onto him. Instantly the smell of burned pastries that had surrounded him vaporises. What a treacherous thing, being an Omega.
Oscar gives her a nod and then turns to Lando. His face does that thing that means he’ll say something really important. “Lan, listen to me. Do not mention the heat of the race. Nothing about heat, okay? Just say it was a tough one.”
“Wha-why-” Confusion clouds Lando’s mind, thoughts all a mess.
“Because we gotta figure out what is going on first, before everyone starts poking their nose in business that isn’t theirs.”
Oh. right. That makes sense. Lando is nodding before Oscar stops speaking. “Okay, I’ll just keep it short?” He’s not asking for permission, but somehow there’s a question mark attached to his words.
Oscar nods, once. He looks really hot when focussed.
Suddenly Oscar gulps and takes a sudden step back. “Lan- Don’t-” With it, he takes the illusion of safety away and Lando lets out a soft whine. “Mate, calm down. You-you smell really strong right now.”
It’s even sweeter than before, lemon, vanilla and pastries engulfing Lando like he’s inside a bakery. He’s leaking too, but that must be clear as day to Oscar.
“Fuck,” Lando mumbles, and waves his hand around as if that would make the scent disappear. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay, just focus. It’s important to-”
“I got this. Really.” Lando straightens his shoulders and looks away from Oscar. As long as he doesn’t think about the Beta, he should be fine.
“Okay.” Oscar squeezes his wrist. “See you in the cooldown room?”
The woman from before is gesturing at Oscar, sharp stress of her annoyance making Lando even more jittery.
“Yeah.”
And Oscar does not want to leave him waiting there, his whole posture screams protection and reluctance to walk away. But he has to, the interview is not waiting and they have a job to do. He plasters a smile on his face and turns his back to Lando. Even the back of him, papaya clad and strong, looks so handsome.
With his shoulders broad like that, he could pass for an Alpha, Lando thinks.
Lando’s interview goes slow. Well, not really, but it feels that way. His words are PR approved, this stance jittery like always, his eyes flicking away all the time. Nothing out of the ordinary. But with every breath he takes, there’s a need to curl into himself. He’s hyper aware of the wet feeling between his legs and the sharp stinging of the cramps. Being a professional, he hides it well, and makes it to the end.
“Yeah, tough race for me, but the team has given me a mega car this year. Oscar has driven a great race too, a good day for the team.”
“Seemed like you had some trouble getting out of the car, though?”
He ignores the failure that clings to his bones at that statement. Surely the press will have a field day if his answer is not carefully crafted.
“Just enjoying the victory a little longer. And like I said, tough race. Now it’s preparing for next weekend. Thanks again to the team, and the fans. It’s been a good weekend for us.”
“Well, enjoy your celebrations, congratulations.”
“Thanks.”
And off he is, out of the camera’s ways, away from judgemental eyes. Back to Oscar’s side, to the fake-safety he’s mentally created for himself. Because unlike he has said, Oscar did not go ahead to the cooldown room but has waited for Lando instead. That absolutely does not make the butterflies inside Lando’s stomach flutter their wings. Really, it does not.
“Didn’t mention anything,” he says proudly. And curses silently at his need for approval. It’s only gotten worse now that he’s apparently presented. (He’s deliberately forgetting that he’s in the first stages of heat, and that it’s Oscar’s approval that he wants, on one else's.)
“Good. That’s good.”
The praise runs down his spine and makes him shiver.
“You cold?” Oscar is already inching closer to him, his body warm and comforting in its nearness. Lando finds himself cold at the mere suggestion. Yes, he is in heat, but now that the excitement of the race is over and the seriousness of the situation is dawning upon him, he’s longing to curl up against something warm, preferably Oscar. If it’s in the cards.
“I don’t know,” he says, because he can’t find it in him to voice his thoughts. They’ve never looked at each other that way, or, Lando has never. He doesn’t want to make this any more weird than it already is.
Oscar doesn’t look like he believes him, but grants Lando the kindness of a mere hum. The low sound thrills through Lando’s bones and he shifts his weight nervously. “I-I think we need to get going. That woman from before didn’t look happy and I don’t want to make it any worse than I’ve done.”
The FIA-people are strangely absent, like they’ve given up on getting the McLaren drivers were they need to be in time. It creates the illusion of peace, at least on the outside. Inside Lando’s blood in boiling, his soul is bouncing off the walls of his existence.
Oscar is lost in thought, rumbling lowly and leaning towards Lando. The sound he’s making is not quite a purr, neither is it a growl. It confuses the hell out of Lando and makes him lick the corners of his mouth nervously, tongue flicking left and then right. Since when does Oscar make those kind of sounds?
“Osc? We need to go.” He places a gentle hand on Oscar’s arm, tugging him slightly into the direction of the cooldown room. Fear courses through him, the heat is pooling low in his stomach and the sooner they get him back to the hotel, the better. The air around him smells like stale sweat and sweet vanilla and he’s sure someone will notice. Oscar clearly does. He seems enthralled, pupils wide, a blush high on his cheekbones. Lando panics.
“Fuck, Oscar Piastri, get it together! I need you to help me!”
That does it, Oscar snaps out of it. “Shit, shit, sorry!” He runs a hand over his face, wiping the starstruck expression off his face. Picking up the pace, he leads the both of them to the cooldown room. “I just-Yeah. Sorry. You smell really good.”
Lando goes cross-eyed. “You can smell me that well?” It’s well-known that Beta’s have a poor sense of smell compared to Alphas and Omegas, so Lando’s scent must be really strong for Oscar to notice it. Fuck.
“Sorry. Won’t happen again.”
What won’t happen again? Lando looks at him with confusion. “Wh-”
“You are late again!” They have reached to cooldown room, where Charles is, yet again, waiting for them. “Look, they have started the re-cap, you missed parts.” He points at the screen, it shows one of Oscar’s attempts to overtake Lando.
Lando sighs and unsticks himself from Oscar’s side. “Got held up, apologies.” He beelines to the where the water is and grabs his second bottle post-race. Then he finds himself a chair to plop down on. Behind him, Oscar sets down both of they helmets where they’re supposed to go and sits down next to Lando. The both of them let out a collective sigh.
The backrest of Lando’s chair has the perfect form to press his shoulders against, pushing his chest up and hollow his back. He groans softly at the stretch.
Next to him, Oscar gulps so loudly that the microphones must have picked it up.
“Look, look!” Charles points to the screen excitedly, “Max almost had me.” He’s completely oblivious to the papaya stress in the room.
Lando hums, playing nervously with the zipper of his racesuit and sipping his water. The cooldown room helps to get his head straight, the temperature bringing down the flush he’s sure is on his face. Oscar seems at ease as well. His eyes don’t flicker through the room as if in search of a threat and his rigidity vaporises when he relaxes in the chair next to Lando.
“What a race,” he hums and focuses on the highlights on the screen. Lando wishes he could do the same, but he’s too aware of the heat already overthrowing the cooling effects of the room. And worst of all, he thinks the slick dripping down his thighs is almost at the back of his knees now. With a huff, he changes his posture slightly, crossing his legs. Nothing about this is comfortable, but it might help him through the podium and back to the hotel.
On the screen, Oscar’s car has a lock-up just as he wants to try to overtake Lando. “Ohh,” the both of them groan, and Charles giggles. “You guys make quite a show for the fans, non?” he says delighted, like he and Max didn’t do the exact same thing.
Next up, a clip of Max breaking late and taking a wide raceline gets shown. A fire-y red Ferrari cruises by on the inside of the corner, passing Max elegantly. Max is forced to go even wider and when they show his cam, the driver is flipping the bird at Charles angrily. Alphas, Lando sighs mentally. Can’t help but be aggressive.
Instead of being frustrated, Charles takes a sip from his water and smiles brightly. “Ah,” he hums, “I love fighting my Max like that.”
And adds to the memes with that.
If Lando hadn’t been feeling this shit, he’d have rolled his eyes. Oscar does it for him, loyal like always.
“A bit on the nose, mate,” he snips at Charles.
Mate.
An unexpected rush of annoyance barrels through Lando, seemingly coming out of nowhere, wanting him to hiss at Charles and pull Oscar flush against him. What the fuck?
Since when is he feeing possessive over Oscar, of all people?
Out of view from the camera’s, he flashes his teeth at Charles on reflex. “Osc-” he says.
Both Oscar and Charles turn to stare at him in confusion. That’s when Lando realises what’s happening. He’s acting like Oscar is-
He shakes his head, “Never mind.”
The red screen congratulating them and the cue to get up on the podium has never come at a better moment.