That damn chain.

Lando would catch himself staring every so often, at the little sparkle, or twang it brought.

Whenever Oscar moved, wherever he moved.

..

It was a sliver simple cross, hanging low on his wide neck. He saw it ever since Oscar joined McLaren.

..

And it never left his brain.

The way it’d swing as he cycled at the gym, glisten with sweat after a heavy lift, or just stare him dead in the eyes while they talked.

Oscar was never really religious- atleast not openly. But never took that thing off.

Not in races. Not while working out- anything.

Lando had many wants in his life. Wanting to climb Mount Everest , wanting to win a championship, this-

This was far more ridiculous than any.

..

He wanted to touch that motherfucking chain.

Feel it around his fingers, wanted Oscar to wrap it around his wrists, tie it shut so he could never get out.

..

.

..which he was also currently focused on, as Oscar talked to him about the stupid race.

Lando blinked twice, realizing Oscar had asked him something.

“Right,” he mumbled, “I just think if we push the rears a bit more, we won’t lose so much on the exits.”

Oscar’s mouth curved up. He nodded, head tilting slightly. “That’s what I was thinking,” he said.

He was trying to listen. He really was. But that twitch in the lowest silver link, the way the cross bobbed over the ridge of Oscar’s collarbone as he mimed an overtake, it…ugh.

Lando nodded, making a sound. He wasn’t sure what sound it was, because Oscar’s hands were suddenly on the bench, leaning in, and the chain cut in between them, a handspan from Lando’s nose.

“Yeah. No, yeah, I get you.” He blinked. “Slicks weren’t really—”

“—They weren’t the call.” Oscar finished, grinning, big and toothy. “But I’d rather die on my feet than pit from P1, you know?”

“Always about dying.” Lando meant it as a joke.

Oscar’s laugh was low, his neck flexing as he adjusted on the bench, the chain going taut then falling slack again, and Lando was haunted by the vision of putting his tongue to that little crucifix, tasting soap and skin and metal

He was fully derailing now, not even pretending to care about rear grip anymore or about the engineer hovering behind Oscar’s shoulder, trying not to listen

..

“Well I’d rather live the fastest too, thanks.” Oscar smiled.

“No thanks—” Lando giggled, but his eyes squinted in a way that said ‘try to argue, see what happens.’

Some people wore chains because they were statement pieces

Oscar wore his for a reason nobody else seemed to know, and now Lando wanted it for himself, in the grossest, giddiest, most embarrassing way.

And maybe Oscar knew that

Maybe that’s why he wore it half out of his shirt, the cross winking at Lando through every post-race debrief, every media circuit, everywhere.

Maybe he clocked the hunger in Lando’s eyes. Maybe he was just built like that

After the meeting, Lando hurried through the door after Oscar, almost bumping into him-

Oscar just grinned, holding the door like it had always been his job. The chain gleamed. “You good?”

The engineer trailed them a few paces, murmuring into his phone

Lando and Oscar moved together, his arm reaching to touch the Aussie’s bicep

Wait. What was he thinking?

..

They were somehow at Oscar’s hotel again

Lando got his way, and a bright fuck ass green monster in his hand

He found himself staring at the point where chain met skin, right in the hollow of Oscar’s throat

Almost letting out a helpless, too-high pitched gasp, almost enough to hide how close he'd come to saying something completely fucked

Lando dropped onto the bed, and kicked his shoes off

As he pretended to watch the F1TV highlights on Oscar’s laptop.

..

“See, that’s where you outbrake me,” Oscar pointed out

The chain hovered, tapping the plastic edge

Lando’s brain did bad things

He snorted. “You make it too easy.”

“Yea?” Oscar hummed softly. It was silent now.

Lando's hands fidgeted, folding and refolding the seam of a throw pillow.

"Why do you wear that?" He blurted out.