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Lando learned early that hair was not neutral.
People thought it was vanity. The curls, the way they refused to lie flat, the way they sprang back no matter how aggressively a helmet pressed them down.
It became a talking point, then a joke, then something people felt entitled to comment on, touch, rearrange.
They didn’t know what it meant to him.
Hair, for Lando, wasn’t about how he looked. It was about who was touching him.
It lived in comfort.
It lived in trust.
It lived in Oscar.
Only Oscar.
Oscar’s hands in his hair were never careless. He never grabbed, never tugged, never surprised. There was always a pause - a fraction of a second where Oscar made sure Lando saw it coming.
“Okay?” Oscar would murmur sometimes, barely audible, fingers hovering before making contact.
And Lando would nod, or lean in, or just tilt his head back slightly; permission given in body language rather than words.
Pressure came slow and predictable, fingers warm against scalp, touch steady enough that Lando’s nervous system could settle instead of spark.
It was grounding.
It was love.
Anyone else and it felt wrong in a way that was difficult to explain without sounding dramatic.
It wasn’t just discomfort - it was a disruption, like someone knocking over carefully stacked blocks inside his chest. It pulled at the wrong wires, made his skin feel too tight, his thoughts scatter.
And it had already been a long week.
The helmet alone messed with him enough. The repeated tugging on and off, the sweat, the way curls stuck to his forehead when he pulled it free - all of it left him slightly frayed by the time he stepped out of the car.
So when fingers suddenly caught in his hair in the cooldown room, of the final race of the year, Lando froze.
It wasn’t aggressive. It wasn’t violent. It was almost affectionate - a congratulatory ruffle, a light pull paired with laughter.
The kind of thing that would have meant nothing to most people.
To Lando, it felt like a hand shoved straight through his boundaries.
His smile stayed where it was supposed to be. Cameras were everywhere. His water bottle was heavy in his hands, anchoring him just enough to stop him from flinching outright.
His omega went rigid beneath his skin, instincts flaring sharp and panicked.
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
He didn’t move. He didn’t say anything. He just waited for it to stop.
He looked in the direction of the retreating hand.
His stomach dropped.
Mohammed Ben Saulayem. The president of the FIA.
Across the room, Oscar was mid-conversation with Max, nodding absently, but he felt it before he saw it - that instinctive hitch in his chest, the subtle pull of the bond tightening.
He turned just in time to catch the aftermath rather than the act itself.
Lando’s shoulders were too high.
His eyes were unfocused for half a second too long.
His hand twitched like he wanted to fix something that hadn’t actually moved.
Oscar excused himself without ceremony and shuffled closer, positioning himself within Lando’s space but not touching him yet.
Presence first, always.
“You good?” Oscar asked quietly, eyes scanning Lando’s face the way he’d learned to over the years - the tiny tells, the micro-pauses.
“Yeah,” Lando said automatically. Too quick.
Oscar hummed, not convinced, but didn’t push. Not here.
The moment passed. The room moved on.
It happened again on the podium.
Bright lights, champagne and applause crashing like waves. Lando stood there trying to hold everything at once; joy, disbelief, relief, when another hand reached for his hair like it was part of the spectacle.
Another tug. Another laugh.
Lando laughed too, because it was easier than recoiling.
Oscar’s jaw tightened.
He didn’t say anything. He just edged closer, shoulder brushing Lando’s arm, grounding him through proximity alone.
It wasn’t enough to fix it, but it was enough to keep him upright.
By the time they were told they’d be attending the FIA awards in Uzbekistan, Oscar already knew this wasn’t a one-off.
Lando hadn’t said a word about it, no matter how many times Oscar prompted it. He rarely did when the issue involved authority, but his body had told the story clearly enough.
And Oscar trusted bodies.
The FIA awards were not a seated affair.
There was no safe place to fold into himself, no table edge to grip, no discreet angle to turn his body away. It was all stage lights and open space and the weight of eyes - photographers below, officials behind, the kind of attention that pressed in from every direction at once.
Lando stood where he was told to stand. Hands clasped neatly in front of him. Suit immaculate, smile rehearsed and held.
Oscar was a step to his left, close enough that their sleeves brushed when they shifted, not touching but present.
Grounding.
The president stepped in behind them, broad smile, expansive gestures, talking loudly enough that the microphones caught every word.
“And here we have our World Champion,” he announced, one hand clapping Lando’s shoulder.
Then the other hand came up.
Lando felt it before he saw it - fingers sinking into his curls, ruffling, tugging just enough to rearrange them completely. Not malicious. Not violent.
Oblivious.
Lando’s body reacted before his mind could catch up.
His shoulders pulled in sharply. His head turned away on instinct, trying to escape the contact without making it obvious. He took half a step back, but there was nowhere to go - stage marks fixed, cameras everywhere.
The fingers followed.
Lando’s smile flickered.
It was small - most people wouldn’t notice - but Oscar did.
Oscar saw the way Lando’s jaw locked.
Saw the way his breath stuttered.
Saw the way his eyes went unfocused for half a second too long.
Lando’s omega surged, panicked and sharp, screaming wrong wrong wrong - but he swallowed it down, forcing his body still.
He forced the smile back into place.
The president laughed, gave one last fond pat to Lando’s head, and moved on.
As soon as the hand was gone, Lando’s fingers twitched like he wanted to fix his hair, to put it back where it belonged - but he didn’t dare. Not yet.
Not here.
Oscar didn’t touch him.
Instead, he shifted closer - barely an inch - and let their arms brush deliberately. A quiet anchor. A reminder that this moment would end.
“You did good,” Oscar murmured under his breath, lips barely moving.
Lando swallowed hard and nodded once, eyes burning.
The applause swelled. The lights flashed.
And Lando held it together until he didn’t have to anymore.
~~~
The flight home was mercifully dim and quiet. End-of-season exhaustion hung over the cabin like a blanket.
Zak was already half-asleep, jacket folded into a pillow. Andrea was scrolling through photos on his phone, shaking his head fondly. Lily had headphones on. Magui leaned across the aisle, animated again now that the pressure was off.
“So,” she said, smiling at Lando, “World Champion. How’s that sit?”
Lando snorted softly. “Ask me in, like… six months.”
She laughed. “Fair.”
Then, without thinking, her fingers lifted toward Lando’s curls.
Lando flinched.
It was immediate, instinctive - shoulders tightening, head turning away before he could stop himself.
“Please don’t,” he said softly, guilt flooding him almost as fast as the panic.
Magui froze. “Oh- I’m sorry. I didn’t mean-”
“It’s okay,” Lando rushed to say. “I just- yeah.”
Oscar had gone completely still.
Later, when the cabin had settled again, Oscar leaned closer, voice low.
“You don’t like people touching your hair.”
Lando blinked. “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t need to,” Oscar replied gently. There was no accusation there, only sadness. “I saw it.”
Lando swallowed. “I didn’t want to make it a thing. He’s… powerful.”
Oscar’s mouth tightened. “That doesn’t make it okay.”
The words didn’t demand anything. They just were.
Lando shifted, then leaned into Oscar slowly, carefully, like he was testing whether the ground would hold. He nudged again, more insistently this time, pressing his forehead into Oscar’s chest.
Oscar waited until the permission was unmistakable before lifting his hand. His fingers slid into Lando’s curls with deliberate care, slow strokes that didn’t tug or rearrange - just held.
Lando exhaled, a long, shaky breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding all day.
“There you go,” Oscar murmured.
Lando made a small, pleased sound he didn’t try to hide. His omega settled, soothed by the one touch that never hurt.
Zak glanced over, took in the scene in a single look, and quietly took responsibility for the trophy instead. Andrea adjusted a blanket over their legs.
No one commented.
By the time the plane touched down, Lando was asleep, curled into Oscar’s side, curls deliberately tangled under Oscar’s steady hand.
~~~
The McLaren celebration was private. No cameras, no expectations.
Zak raised a glass, grinning. “I’ve waited all year to say this,” he announced, “and now I finally can- Lando, I wanna mess up your hair.”
Lando laughed immediately, champagne warm in his chest.
Before Zak could step closer, Oscar moved without thinking - not claiming, not declaring - simply reaching out first. His fingers slid into Lando’s curls, gentle and familiar, occupying the space before anyone else could.
Lando laughed again, softer this time, leaning instinctively into the touch.
Zak paused, then chuckled. “Alright, alright. Fair enough.”
Oscar withdrew his hand just as easily as he’d placed it there, the moment passing without fuss.
Later, outside under warm lights, Lando reached for Oscar first. Fingers curling into his suit jacket, forehead resting against his.
“I don’t say this enough,” Lando murmured. “But… thank you. For seeing it. All of it.”
Oscar tilted his head. “That’s kind of my job.”
Lando huffed. Then, quieter, more serious:
“You’re my alpha, always. Right?”
Oscar’s breath caught.
He kissed Lando gently - nothing rushed, nothing showy - and rested his forehead against his.
“Always,” he said.
And this time, Lando believed it without hesitation.