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Oscar knows how to play poker quite well. In fact, some things were necessary to learn when you went to an all-boys boarding school. Like how to throw a punch and lie about it, play coin knuckles, and other things they all pretended weren’t going on when asked about them by the teachers.
Poker after dark was just one of those things.
Oscar sips on his soda and is reminded how far removed he is from the dark sleeping halls, with flashlights and card games, to which he has long since forgotten the rules. He’s comfortable in an armchair, in a private jet, a flight attendant topping up his Sprite, and Sam Bird in front of him dealing cards for a friendly game of poker.
The buy-in was 10k.
Everything 13-year-old Oscar would dream about, maybe with a few more models and a little less Sprite.
Lando has a terrible tell, he smiles and then immediately tries to look serious, “It’s my poker face Osc.”
Oscar grins, shaking his head at Lando’s futile attempt at masking his hand. “Mate, your poker face wouldn’t fool a blind man,” he says, tossing a casual glance at his own cards, jack-deuce. One heart, one club, he couldn’t have worse luck.
Lando rolls his eyes but chuckles, leaning back in his seat and tossing a chip into the centre. “Well, not all of us can be good at everything.”
“Correction,” Oscar says with a raised finger. “Wait– awe you think I’m good at everything.”
The table erupts into laughter, even Sam Bird, who has been carefully making the deck neat – a far cry from a professional dealer – smirks.
“Focus, gentlemen,” Sam says with mock seriousness, flicking the deck to deal the flop. “We’re here to play. And Lando, maybe don’t show your cards to the entire plane next time.”
“I didn’t– oh, come on!” Lando protests, slapping his hand down to cover his cards as Oscar and Sam laugh again.
A 6th of spades, 9th of clubs, and a king of spades is on the table, he knows Lando has pocket kings, and with the way Sam is staring down Oscar, he probably has a hand worth fighting Lando.
Oscar calls anyway, and acts as if a hundred pounds isn’t the type of money he still thinks is a lot.
Sam’s brow furrows slightly. Oscar hasn’t learned to read him well enough in their time together, mostly cause their schedules are rarely overlapping, he thinks he can count on 2 or 3 hands the amount of times he has seen the other McLaren drivers. But none of that matters now, Sam seems confident, but there’s hesitation – just a flicker. He calls as well.
The turn card flips over.., A four of hearts. Useless for Oscar’s hand, but he doesn’t flinch. Instead, he takes a long, deliberate sip of his Sprite, the carbonation fizzing in his throat as he glances between Lando and Sam. Bluffing is half the fun, even when your hand is as tragic as his.
“Alright,” Lando says, sliding a stack of chips forward, his grin plastered wide across his face. “I’m raising. Fifty.”
Oscar raises an eyebrow. “Big spender tonight, are we?”
“Got to keep things interesting,” Lando replies, though his voice cracks just enough to betray his nerves.
“We both know your hand.” Sam reminds Lando, followed by Oscar folding and Sam copying his action.
Lando grumbles as he rakes in his measling winnings.
A few hands later, Oscar finds himself staring down at pocket aces. The flop hits, and another ace graces the table. A perfect hand, and just in time, Lando is tipsy now, his judgment clouded, throwing around bets like he owns the place.
“Three grand,” Lando says, his words slurring just slightly as he pushes his chips into the pot.
Oscar matches him without hesitation. He probably should hesitate, but he has learned not to gamble if he doesn’t expect to not lose everything.
Sam folds at their stupidity, then turns another ace, and Oscar knows he has won.
“All in!” Lando screeches, shoving the rest of his chips into the pot with a dramatic flourish.
Oscar can’t hold back his laughter, nor can Sam, who leans back in his seat, shaking his head at the spectacle.
“Oscar?” Sam prompts, his eyes locked on Oscar.
“Yeah, sure,” Oscar says, casually flicking a single chip into the pot. “All in.”
The river card flips, but it’s irrelevant. Lando throws his cards down with a loud, victorious shout. “I’ve got two pairs! Look! I win!”
“Sorry, mate,” Oscar says with a grin, flipping his cards over to reveal his hand. “Four of a kind.”
“That’s cheating! You’re cheating! It’s not fair!” Lando sulks, crossing his arms like a child as he tosses his cards onto the table. “I’m out of chips.”
Sam and Oscar share another laugh. Oscar rakes his winnings in quickly, before Lando gets the chance to give some reason why the last hand was actually a foul.
Zak wades down the aisle, Oscar can smell his breath before he even opens his mouth, he takes a drink of his Sprite to swallow down the cringe in his muscles. “What’s going on over here boys?”
“Lando is losing,” Sam supplies easily, quickly, about as eager as the rest to have Zak standing over their shoulders.
The large man takes a fast look of the table, and his eyes are quickly drawn to Oscar's overflow of chips in comparison to the other two. “It seems you should come with me after Vegas next year, Osc.”
Lando knocks his knee under the table, Oscar knocks it back, as if to say you have about 3 million other names you call me.
“I’ll think about it, but I think it’s more because these two are terrible.” Oscar smiles, and Lando knocks his knee again, with far more force. You’re mean to me.
“You keep being a good investment.” Zak laughs and finally wades back to his seat, and Oscar feels a bit bad for Andrea having to sit with Zak. Yet… Not enough to offer to exchange seats, not in a million years.
Lando knocks his knee again, gimme attention.
He looks over.
“Oscar you are a good investment.” Lando mocks Zak’s american accent, and Oscar laughs.
Sam too. He had forgotten the other driver was here too for a moment.
Another hand gets dealt.
“I don’t have another 10 in cash, is my shirt enough?” Lando asks, and Oscar is left with far more questions than he actually wants answers to. He forgets to ask any of them as Lando is dragging the shirt off, his breath catches in his throat and Lando looks at him. Oscar has to force his gaze back onto the table.
During that brief moment, Lando steals about as many chips back from Oscar as he can with two hands. Oscar lets him and tries not to do the quick math on how much money that translates to.
“Mate, you could’ve just Venmoed me,” Oscar says, still trying to keep his eyes from Lando's abs that are now on display. He forgets to look at his cards and just calls whatever blind was put down.
Sam does the same, and Lando triumphantly tosses the shirt onto the pile of chips in the centre of the table.
“I’m making it interesting,” Lando declares, flexing his arms like he’s just made the greatest sacrifice of all time. “Plus, it’s a limited edition McLaren merch. That’s gotta be worth something, yeah?”
“About fifty quid on eBay,” Sam mutters, earning a mock glare from Lando.
Oscar glances at the shirt, then back at Lando, trying his best to act nonchalant about the whole thing, he’s calm and collected, and acting so normal. “I’m not sure ‘limited edition’ adds value when it’s sweat-soaked, Norris.”
His throat is dry.
More Sprite.
“Not sweat-soaked! Just... well-loved,” Lando counters, his grin as unrepentant as ever.
Sam shakes his head, clearly done with the conversation. “Honestly, if you’re going to lose, at least lose with some dignity.”
“Dignity’s overrated,” Lando fires back, plopping back into his chair and ruffling his hair. The movement draws Oscar’s gaze for a fraction longer than he’d like, and he quickly shifts his attention back to his remaining pile of chips. Not fast enough, though – Lando notices.
“What?” Lando asks, grinning like a kid who’s just caught someone sneaking an extra cookie. “You distracted, Osc?”
Oscar narrows his eyes. “Not by you, mate.”
“Sure, sure,” Lando says, but his smirk lingers, a silent challenge hanging in the air. Oscar doesn’t take the bait. Instead, he slides a 50 chip into the pot, ignoring the faint flush threatening to creep up his neck.
“Your move, Norris,” he says calmly, gesturing toward the chips.
“Oi– I’m here too…” Sam trails off as he realises the other two very clearly don’t care.
Lando leans forward, squinting at the cards on the table like he’s trying to decipher a secret code. “Okay, I raise,” he announces, grabbing a handful of chips. “And…” He hesitates for a moment, looking down at himself. “My belt. That’s gotta count for something, right?”
Oscar groans, burying his face in his hands as Sam lets out a bark of laughter. “Lando, no one wants your belt. Keep your pants on, mate.”
Lando’s grin widens as he tugs at the buckle dramatically, clearly enjoying the chaos he’s creating. “It’s not just any belt. This is premium leather, Osco. Look at it! Stylish and functional.”
“Functional like your poker skills?” Oscar shoots back, leaning on his hand and watching Lando’s antics with a mixture of amusement and disbelief.
Oscar watches, his jaw tightening slightly as Lando dramatically places a single shoe on top of the pile of chips. His grin is devilish, bordering on absurd, as though this was the most cunning play poker had ever seen.
“I’m serious, Osc,” Lando says, leaning back with exaggerated nonchalance. “Limited edition. You can’t get these anymore, not even with the McLaren discount.”
Oscar narrows his eyes, his patience already fraying at the edges. He’s trying to stay calm – he always stays calm – but the man sitting beside him is making it harder by the second. “Lando, no one wants your sweaty shoe.”
“You’re bluffing,” Lando replies, leaning forward on his elbows. His grin has softened slightly now, not so much cocky as... teasing. It’s the kind of smile that makes Oscar’s skin prickle, though he’d never admit why. “Admit it, Oscarina. You’d love to win this.”
“God help me,” Oscar mutters under his breath, reaching for his Sprite and downing half the glass in one go. The carbonation does nothing to soothe his nerves, nor the flush creeping up the back of his neck.
Sam, sitting off to the side with the air of someone who’s seen too much, lets out a tired sigh. “You two are insufferable. Just show your hands so we can move on.”
There aren’t any cards on the table, no flop turn neither river, and Oscar isn’t really sure what they are measuring their hands on. He still ends up with Lando’s shirt and shoe in his lap.
Two hands more where they actually remember Sam is there, and Oscar sits with another shirt in his lap (Sam’s), Lando’s other shoe, and his belt as well.
Oscar still has his pullover sweater on.
“I’m bored,” Lando complains, and Oscar has a sinking feeling about two things; 1. He’s not getting the money he won, and 2. Lando is going to make his boredom Oscar’s issue.
Lando shifts in his seat and makes a request to one of the attendants that he wants a blanket, he makes himself comfortable under the blanket, draping his legs, feet and the blanket over Oscar too.
Yup, Oscar’s issue.
Sam gets out of his seat – Oscar throws his shirt back at him – before he goes to sits over by some of the others, Oscar eavesdrops just long enough to catch “The children need to nap.”
Oscar makes a face at that, he could use a nap.
Lando clearly has other ideas as he kicks the shoes out of Oscar’s lap and his shirt and belt too.
Oscar is already regretting his empty glass.
He stares at the ceiling of the jet cabin, as if it holds the answers to how his life ended up like this. Lando’s feet, obnoxiously socked in something resembling racing stripes, are now taking up residence in his lap. The blanket draped across them does little to soften the intrusion, only hiding it away from the rest of the plane.
“Lando,” Oscar says evenly, his voice teetering on the edge of exhausted patience. “Why are your feet on me?”
“I’m bored,” Lando repeats, as if that explains everything. He wiggles his toes under the blanket for emphasis. “And you’re comfy.”
“I’m not comfy,” Oscar retorts, trying to shove Lando’s legs off his lap. They won’t budge. Instead, Lando presses them down harder, grinning like he’s just discovered a new game.
“Comfy enough,” Lando says with a smirk, propping himself up on one elbow to look at Oscar. His hair’s a mess from the blanket, and his eyes glint with the mischief that always precedes disaster. “Come on, Osc, loosen up a little. You’re so uptight all the time.”
Oscar exhales sharply, staring at Lando as if he might combust. “I’m not uptight. I’m just not a fan of having your feet in my lap.”
“Why not?” Lando asks, tilting his head with mock curiosity. “They’re good feet. High-performance, as Daniel would say. They’ve done a lot for McLaren, you know.”
Lando presses his foot right in the middle of Oscar’s thighs… Oscar groans, he’s only a man. “You’re unbelievable,” his voice is strained.
“And you love it,” Lando says, his grin turning smug. He leans closer as his foot presses further, his face hovering in between their seats, “Admit it, Osc-topus.”
Oscar stiffens, his pulse quickening in a way he absolutely refuses to acknowledge. “Admit what?” He mutters, and shifts in his seat, Lando’s foot still pressing against him.
“That you love me annoying you,” Lando says, his voice dropping just enough to send a shiver down Oscar’s spine. “Because you’d be bored otherwise. Admit it, Oscar. Your life would be so dull without me.”
Oscar can’t think of a single thing to say to that, mostly because Lando keeps shifting his foot and–
“Refill?” The attendant asks, and Lando immediately shifts, his feet back on Oscar's knees as Lando happily gets another glass of some cocktail mix Oscar still hasn’t clocked what is.
Another Sprite for Oscar.
Then the moment is lost and Lando is back to yawning.
“I don’t wanna play anymore,” Lando says, a hint of a pout in his voice. “But only because I’m tired.”
Oscar doesn’t respond. He wasn’t aware they were *playing* anything. He closes his eyes instead, trying to will away the heat still lingering on his cheeks. Lando shifts again, and Oscar can feel the press of his legs through the blanket, warm and oddly comfortable. It’s infuriating, really, how easily Lando can worm his way into his space and make it feel... not terrible.
“Night, Osc,” Lando murmurs, his voice soft and teasing all at once. “Sweet dreams.”