Chapter Text
It wasn't abnormal for an F1 driver to have their own private bodyguard.
Charles had one; can't blame him either—a few too many cases of close touches, watches snatched whilst he was submerged in crowds of fans. As did Lance, which was mainly due to his father's insistence rather than anything else, but the point stands.
Now it was Lando's turn. After a fan had grabbed him far too harshly, and his PR team had decided enough was enough, so search began. Lando had given a specific list of requirements the man had to meet; he was going to be spending almost every minute with him, so it may as well be someone he could get along with.
The list was as follows:
- doesn't talk much
- can do his job properly
- funny and bearable
- hot.
Even Jon had snickered slightly at the last point, giving the younger a short, almost judgey glance. He couldn't blame him, though; he'd probably insist on something similar.
"Lando, mate, do you really think they'll find someone hot and funny? I admire your delusion..." He'd muttered the last part into his tea as he leaned back, sipping on the edge slowly to avoid burning his tongue.
Lando shuffled in his chair, biting his inner gum as he zoned out, staring at the paperwork on the table. Would he end up spending his entire life with some lowlife who thought he was either hilarious or happened to look like a squid?
Maybe his expectations were beyond his luck, but it couldn't hurt, right?
Then the call came. A few weeks later, sitting back in his Monaco apartment on his sim, his phone rang, Jon sounding slightly exasperated on the other end of the line.
"They actually found someone!" He said, a little blown away.
"What?" Lando replied, hand leaving the wheel to run through his hair, clueless to what his trainer was possibly on about.
"They found you a bodyguard. You'll be happy with him, mate," he smirked over the phone, sounding like he's keeping a few details from the other Brit.
Lando was a little stunned—he'd been told constantly he'd have the shittiest luck with this, like he did with most things.
Jon sent over a number, being the only person who Lando would reply to this early in the morning, the sun only still filtering through the curtains after another sleepless night alone. He saved it, having no idea who this man was apart from him supposedly being, well, perfect.
A few hours passed, a message or two finally being answered, and then he saw one appear from the British phone number he'd saved earlier on.
~O. Piastri
Hey, Jon gave me your number. Said you'd never text without a little push.
That much was true. Lando sighed, walking from his kitchen counter to his bathroom, reaching for the toothbrush and toothpaste, squeezing some onto the brush and sticking it into his mouth, replying slowly, making an effort to avoid any toothpaste blobs landing on his keyboard.
lando
oh, hi, you're my 'bodyguard'?
The message sat undelivered until Lando was wiping his mouth with his hand towel; then the singular tick turned into 2, soon turning blue once he'd sprayed his cologne on. He wasn't even supposed to wear anything other than Ralph Lauren even when the partnership hasn't even been announced yet, but no one had to know, right? It wasn't like people would be asking what he was wearing whilst walking through the private hallways of the airport to get to his rented jet.
~O. Piastri
Yep, that's me.
Lando hummed softly under his breath, clicking on the man's contact, seeing no profile photo, his default name saved as just his first initial and last name. Almost mysterious, he thought.
lando
great. can you also get me water and shit
He smirked at himself, thinking he's the funniest guy out there, eagerly waiting on a reply as he grabs his usual race weekend suitcase, pulling it out the door down to his driver.
The reply never came, however. He'd been left on read by the 4th message; that was a new record.
Great job, Lando.
The flight to Amsterdam was shorter than he remembered it to be, or maybe it was just the nap he took, earphones buried in and blasting some horrid music. He'd drifted off by takeoff, in his own little world as per usual. By landing, he'd been told this 'Piastri' guy would be waiting for him in the car to his hotel, so they'd finally get to meet.
Lando seemed to be getting less and less excited as that moment got closer.
Shuffling through the airport half asleep with fangirls screaming 'ik hou van je, lando!!' was much more overwhelming than he'd anticipated. He slid into the backseat as quickly as possible, groaning into his hands for a few seconds before the sound of someone clearing their throat brought his attention back to his surroundings.
There sat a pale man in a suit, the kind he'd seen other bodyguards wear in his past experiences. He seemed tall, but it's hard to tell when seated. His brunette, brushed-over hair just grazing the car door he was slightly leaning against, hazel eyes trained on Lando like the crowd outside wasn't even there.
Damn.
Lando quickly fixed his posture, clearing his own throat before opening his mouth to speak, only to be beaten to it by the other.
"Thought I'd wait till we properly met to introduce myself. Oscar, Oscar Piastri. Pleasure."
Australian. Interesting.
Lando stared for a second, regaining his composure briefly and nodding.
"Lando Norris. Nice to meet ya..."
He smiled awkwardly, not sure whether to extend his hand to shake the others' or keep it to himself, the car starting to pull away slowly.
Oscar glanced down at his chest, raising an eyebrow and gesturing with his head to the man.
Was he flirting already? Bold. Lando smirked, used to people behaving like this around him. He hadn't expected it this early on, especially with someone like Oscar.
"Your belt."
Oh.
The Brit looked down, everything finally clicking as he reached to buckle his seatbelt in, his face more flushed from embarrassment than he'd like it to be.
"Right, yeah-" He stuttered a little, praying the other didn't notice, mentally punching himself for his cockiness. Fuck.
The silence in the car was loud between them. What do you even talk about in that moment? The weather? Races? Work? Nothing seemed good enough, and frankly, Lando wasn't even bothered right now, imagining the hotel bed calling him for yet another nap before dinner and a busy day tomorrow.
Busy roughly translating to 'getting absolutely plastered at 3 in the afternoon on a boat in some random canals.'
Martin had invited Lando to celebrate Kingsday with him this year in Amsterdam, the message telling him to bring something orange. 'How hard that would be...' Lando had murmured to himself, eyeing the McLaren hoodies stuffed into his suitcase already.
"Plans for tomorrow?" Oscar hummed, looking away from Lando and out the window at the passing streets.
"Party."
"You know I'll have to come, right?"
Lando let out a soft sigh, not sure how to feel. He knew he wouldn't hover if he asked him not to; surely he could just stay close enough to keep an eye on him but also give him space. Right?
"Joy."
"Don't even start. I know you don't really want me here, but it's my job. And I don't really want to get fired on the 2nd day for ditching you."
Fair enough.
Lando sighed again, watching his usual stay come into view, thankful for the small crowd outside as opposed to the hundreds he'd pushed through just minutes prior.
Oscar stepped out first, walking around to his side and opening the door, his hand falling to the centre of his back as he walked through the crowd alongside him, keeping a watchful eye out constantly.
That was new. No one had ever really touched him before, most too scared to. Especially on the first day.
He couldn't complain—he felt safe for once. It was nice.
Once inside, Oscar's hand fell back to his side, still staying beside him.
Lando glanced over, trying to gauge how Oscar was feeling. Pointless. The Australian was either incredibly good at hiding what he felt or he just didn't feel anything. He decided on the latter.