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Chapter Text

Lando Norris was obnoxious. His ridiculous giggle rang out over the courtyard as he and his buddies pelted each other with snowballs. George breathed a small sigh through his nose and checked his watch. Nothing for it–he had to walk through the courtyard if he wanted to be on time for his meeting with the headmaster. He popped his collar and strode into the chilly air, rehearsing his request in his head. Surely, with his grades, it would be reasonable–his train of thought was interrupted by Norris shouting his name.

“Oi, Russell!”

George slowed, aware of the seconds ticking by. He started to turn, only to receive the cold, wet shock of a snowball to the face. 

“Oh, shit, I didn’t mean to get you in the face,” Norris’s laughter lent an element of insincerity to his half-assed apology, but George pasted a smile on and brushed the snow from his eyes.

“No worries, mate,” he resumed walking, and called over his shoulder, “I’ll get you back next time.” He forced a light tone, but when he reached the glass door to the administrative building, his reflection was furious. Eyebrows drawn down, mouth pressed into a firm line. He fixed his hair, brushed a bit more snow from his woolen coat, and relaxed his face before walking in. 

George knocked on the headmaster’s door at precisely 3:15. He stepped back and clasped his hands together behind his back. 

Dr. Sulayem called, “Come in!”

George opened the door and stepped inside. He took a deep breath in an attempt to slow his pulse, which felt as though it were trying to set a world record for beats per minute. 

“Have a seat, have a seat.” George sat, surreptitiously wiping his sweaty palms on the scratchy fabric of the plush armchair. He perched on the edge, back straight. Good posture was important. 

“How are you doing, George?” Dr. Sulayem directed his gaze away from his computer screen and turned to face George across the desk. 

“I’m doing really well, sir, thank you. And yourself?”

Somehow this prompted Dr. Sulayem to embark on a rambling tale about his new office orchid and its inability to thrive in the bitter cold of an English January. George nodded along and exclaimed in all of the right places, offering sympathy for the headmaster’s dilemma. After an eternity (twelve minutes), Dr. Sulayem finally worked his way around to the topic of George’s email and the reason for today’s meeting. 

“Now, George, your email said that you’d like to discuss scholarship opportunities.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m a bit confused–your tuition for the year has already been paid in full, and your parents sent in the deposit for next year just last week. I didn’t realize you were in need of financial aid.”

“Well, sir, the thing is–” George hesitated. “The thing is, I do qualify for merit-based scholarships, so I wondered if I could apply to be considered, even just for my final year.”

Dr. Sulayen gazed at the far wall and stroked his beard. 

“It’s highly unusual, George. Generally merit-based scholarships are given out before students enroll; then they keep them for the duration of their education here. Though you do have an outstanding academic record…” He turned to his computer and clicked a few things, presumably pulling up George’s file. “Hmm…and highly involved, too…Well, it is unusual, but I’ll bring it to the board at our next meeting. It may open a can of worms, so I  wouldn’t count on it, but it is worth considering. In the meantime, I recommend you apply for outside scholarships.” The headmaster stood from his chair, and George was quick to mirror him. 

“Thank you, sir.” George shook his hand and walked outside. His hand shook slightly as he gently closed the office door. He took even, measured strides to the far door. He could hear the blood rushing through his veins. The board. He somehow hadn’t considered that possibility, that the board, full of parents of his peers, would hear that George Russell wanted a scholarship, that he had asked to be considered, and that they would share that news with their children, and worse, with his parents. His parents could pay the tuition. They would pay the tuition. The problem was that they would also remind George how much this school cost, how much they were sacrificing for him, how he needed to work harder, do better, be smarter. Every phone call home was an analysis. Every missed test question came with a heaping side dish of guilt.  George had done the math. 1.5 million Euros. That was how much his parents would have spent on him when he graduated. If he could cut that amount down–even by a hundred thousand–it would be that much less he’d owe them. 

He barely noticed where his feet were taking him until the scent of chlorine overpowered him. George changed into his swimsuit automatically, mind still whirling. A few laps would certainly help him to work things out, and the controlled, rhythmic breathing of swimming never failed to soothe him. He grabbed a towel and headed out to the deck.

He dove into the water and swam neat laps, falling into a quick, but manageable pace. He thought about the board, about the headmaster’s proposal. Surely he wouldn’t mention George by name. No, it was logically much more likely that Dr. Sulayen would draft a neutrally phrased amendment to the school’s constitution, or a motion to allow current students to apply for scholarships. It was highly unlikely that his name would come up, and even if it did, it would be cached in a hypothetical–”take Russell, for instance”–and no one would suspect that he had anything to do with it. George swam until his thoughts were overtaken by tired muscles and the count of his breaths, until he was reduced to a bundle of muscle and blood and bone cutting through the water. Only then did he stop, pulling his goggles off and hanging from the edge of the pool. 

Chapter Text

George’s roommate and good friend Alex arrived back on campus just in time for dinner. They maneuvered through the lines at the dining hall together, catching up after the winter break. 

“How was Monaco, then?” George asked.

“Yeah, it was quite nice. You should’ve come with us, mate.” Alex heaped a pile of pasta on his plate.

“And play third wheel to you and Lily? Nah, I got a head start on the readings for the semester.”

“Y’know, most people use their holiday to take a break from school. Rest. Recover.”

“Yes, I can see how well-rested you are by the massive bags beneath your eyes,”George quipped. Alex rolled his eyes and led the way to their usual table, a booth next to a window that overlooked the courtyard. 

They chatted a bit as they ate, conversation interspersed with the sort of comfortable silences born from a decade of friendship. Just as Alex pulled his phone out, George felt a warm breath on his ear.  A bright scent washed over him, gingery and woodsy, simultaneously fresh and masculine. Then the most intolerable voice in the school spoke quietly in his ear.

“Lose your nerve, Georgie? I really thought you’d try to get me back for the snowball to the kisser earlier.”

George turned his head, but refused to back away. His nose was practically touching Norris’s. 

“Some of us have better things to do with our time than to engage in immature posturing.” George made sure to meet Lando’s eyes as he spoke. He was close enough that he could see the ring of golden brown surrounding his pupils. He wondered how that worked out, genetically–that halo of gold inside of a grey-green iris. Lando grinned, then licked his lips, his tongue jutting out at the bottom corner. 

“It’s okay to admit that you just don’t know how to throw a snowball.” He stood up straight, clapping George on the shoulder.

“Fuck off, Norris,” Alex barely even glanced up from his phone, where he was typing a message to Lily. Lando just giggled and sauntered away. “God, he’s annoying. What was that all about?”

“I almost forgot–he chucked a snowball at me earlier today when I was on my way to a meeting.”

“Tosser.” Alex put his phone away and picked up his tray. “You done?”

“Yeah.” George slung his bag over his shoulder and followed Alex out of the cafeteria, bussing their trays as they went.

“Do you think he’ll be in any of our classes this semester?” George asked as they walked back to the dorms, collars turned up to keep out the brisk wind.

“Who?” Alex rubbed his mittened hands together.

“Norris.”

“I don’t know. We had Business classes with him last semester, right? But–did you see the syllabus for English Lit? The whole of Othello in one week? Mad.”

“Othello does actually go mad in the play. It was playing at the Globe last summer, so my parents took me to see it.” George had also reread the play over break, but he didn’t feel that this was the time to mention that.

“Well, I’m about to become Othello with the workload we’ve got this semester.” Alex scanned his ID at the entrance to their dorm, and they started their walk up the stairs to the second floor.  

“What courses are you taking this semester, again?” George unlocked their shared room and appreciated its cleanliness for all of three seconds before Alex tossed his jacket over the end of his bed and shoved his suitcase (still full from the holidays) onto the floor with a bang. He flopped onto his bed with a sigh and began ticking subjects off on his fingers.

“English Lit, Business, and Maths. You’ve got the same, right?”

George reclined on his own neatly made bed. “Nah, I’ve switched my English out for Graphic Design. It’s quite a useful skill in the marketing world.”

“Bet your dad’s thrilled about that,” Alex sat up and unzipped his suitcase, which burst open, clothes falling out onto the floor.

George stared at the ceiling. “I haven’t told him. And he won’t be able to complain when it gets me into the top universities.”

“Glad it’s you, and not me.” Alex pulled his headphones on and continued to rummage through his suitcase, chucking items into the hamper or tossing them on his bed. George continued his study of the ceiling for another minute before pulling his phone out to distract him from his thoughts.  A holiday photo dump from Lando Norris had him rolling his eyes–family photos in matching sweaters, Lando rolling on the floor with a dog, that ridiculous gap-toothed smile as he lay in the snow with his siblings. The final photo was a slightly blurry shot from what looked like a New Year’s party of Lando with his arm slung around some girl, his shirt unbuttoned, a drink in his hand. George curled his lip at the posts–so much effort put into making Norris appear effortlessly carefree. No one could look that good in photos without trying. 

He scrolled for a few more minutes while Alex finished unpacking. Eventually, once Alex’s side of the room had regained its usual, slightly rumpled look, Alex pulled his headphones off and sat at the foot of George’s bed.

“Cards?” 

“Uno?”

Alex pulled the deck from his pocket, and thoughts of his schoolmates’ socials were quickly banished as an intensely competitive game of Uno began.

Chapter Text

George hadn’t spent much time in the Formulare design building over the last few years, so he made sure to leave early for his 8am class on the first Monday of the semester. The class met for two hours at a time, due to the lab component. George was unsure what exactly went on in a graphic design lab, but he imagined that it couldn’t be too difficult. He really was only taking the course because he had read an article in Forbes about changing priorities in the world of marketing. He also took a perverse sort of pleasure in choosing a course that his father would absolutely not approve of, all while knowing that it would make him a stronger candidate for the top universities.

He slid into a seat in the center of the front row at 7:52am. Over the course of the next eight minutes, the seats behind him filled up. A few other students took spots in the first row, but for the most part, his classmates avoided it like the plague. At 7:59 the teacher, Ms. Mortar, walked into the classroom, heels clicking gently on the tiled floor.  She logged into the computer at the front of the room, then began the usual ritual of taking attendance. George arranged his pen and notebook on the desk while he waited for her to work her way to the end of the alphabet. Before she could reach his name, however, she reached a sticking point.

“Lando Norris?” She looked around the classroom, frowning. “Has anyone seen Lando?”

There were a few murmurs indicating the negative when the door burst open. George turned around to see who had arrived late on the first day of class , and was thoroughly unsurprised to see Norris running a hand through curls that looked as if he’d just tumbled out of bed, uniform shirt unevenly buttoned, tie nowhere to be seen.

“Take a seat, Mr. Norris,” Ms. Mortar ticked her clipboard with an indulgent smile.

“Sorry I’m late, Ms. Mortar.” Lando grinned that too-big-for-his-face grin and started walking toward the front of the classroom. George quickly took stock of the open seats and realized that there were only three unoccupied spots in the entire classroom, all in the front row. He mentally willed Lando to take the seat on the far left, rather than the empty chairs to either side of George. Lando, naturally, slid into the chair right next to him just as Ms. Mortar called out, “George Russell?”

He didn’t even have the chance to glare at Norris–he raised his hand and responded, “Here!” with a practiced smile. To his left, Norris pulled out a tablet and a stylus, then sprawled back in his chair, legs spread, arm hanging over the back, his hand nearly touching George’s arm. He ran his other hand through his hair again, somehow mussing the curls even further. George scooted forward and began writing the header for his notes in neat print letters. He could already tell that Norris would be supremely distracting during class, which was the last thing he needed. 

Ms. Mortar wrapped up attendance, then returned to the front of the class, where she had pulled a powerpoint presentation up on the projector. She explained the class rules and expectations, the general structure–1 hour of lecture, 1 hour of lab–and went over the major assignments for the semester. 

“The majority of your grade will come from your business design project. This project will be completed with a partner–whom I will assign–and accounts for fifty percent of your grade in the class.” 

George gripped his pen tightly. He hated partner work, and on an assignment this big? He glanced surreptitiously around the class, wondering if he would get lucky and be paired with someone trustworthy–Sainz or Hamilton, perhaps. 

“To simplify things, I’ll arrange your partners based on where you sat today. So, Lando and George…” George didn’t hear anything else she said, because he was staring at Norris in open-mouthed horror. 

“Lucky you,” Lando grinned. George’s knuckles were turning white. He could already hear the disappointment in his father’s voice as he tried to explain the poor grade in a Graphic Design course. The smug, snide, “ Well, if you had taken English like we talked about, this wouldn’t be an issue .” He swallowed the bitter taste rising in the back of his throat and covered his discomfort with a scoff. 

“Lucky you, more like.” George pressed his lips together and tilted his chin up, returning his attention to their teacher. He tried to tune out Lando’s half giggle and constant fidgeting as Ms. Mortar began a syllabus review and lecture over the basics of graphic design. George took careful, copious notes while Lando doodled something on his tablet screen in Geroge’s periphery.  George added a new bullet point in his notes. Lando tapped his foot on the floor. George switched to a different color pen. Lando spun his stylus around his fingers. George turned the page in his notebook with so much force that the perforated edge tore along the bottom. 

Ms. Mortar flipped to a new slide. “To return to your semester design project–the challenge is to create a brand kit for an original business. This will include a logo, fonts, color schemes, a website design, social media branding…” She continued to describe the project, and George dutifully copied down requirements, nodding occasionally. When Ms. Mortar paused for questions, George’s was the first hand in the air. 

“Will both partners receive the same grade?”

Ms. Mortar smiled softly. “Yes, barring an extreme circumstance, both partners will receive that same final grade on the project. I know that many of you find this frustrating, but consider it practice for the real world–you won’t always see eye to eye with your coworkers, but you’ll have to work with them on important projects.” There were some scattered groans and muttering, but George settled for an aggressive entry in his notes: partners get same grade. 

A few others asked questions, then Ms. Mortar led the class across the hall to the computer lab. She explained the special softwares that were downloaded on these computers, and handed out sheets with instructions to create a simple design–with their partner. George, feeling resigned to his fate, sat down at a workstation with a clear view of the clock on the wall. Lando plopped down next to him and spun his chair in a circle while George turned the computer on. He read the instructions aloud as he waited for it to boot up. 

“The objective of this assignment is to familiarize yourself with the basic tools of the program. Follow each step to practice image organization, import / export, image adjustments (lighting / color / effects / details / optics), cropping, and masking skills. I have already downloaded an image titled [GD1.jpeg] on each lab computer. Begin by uploading this image–are you even listening right now?” George stopped reading to glare at his lab partner, who was using George’s pen to draw something on the back of his instruction sheet. Lando was biting his bottom lip as he concentrated on whatever he was drawing.

“What?” Lando looked up, blinking those startling eyes a few times as he focused on George. 

“Look, I’m trying to get us through this assignment, so if you could just–”

“Oh, brilliant, the computer’s finished loading.” Lando rolled his chair closer until it was arm to arm with George’s, then proceeded to open the program, upload the image, and click through the settings with shocking alacrity. 

“Ha ha, look, it’s a space cat.” Lando moved the mouse, clicked a few keys, and suddenly the image of the cat that they were (according to the instruction page) supposed to be altering the saturation of was now floating in outer space. George scanned the instruction page, eyes widening in alarm as he found there was absolutely nothing resembling outer space. He looked at the screen to find Lando drawing an astronaut helmet on the cat.

“What are you doing, mate? That’s not what the instructions say.”

“Ugh, but that’s so boring. Like, changing the hue?” Lando opened a tab on the side and dragged a slider back and forth, adjusting the color of the image. “What do you like? Yellow? Purple? Blue like your eyes?” He grinned cheekily up at George, who had stood from his chair to watch the screen over Lando’s shoulder.

“I–what? Erm, blue is fine.” George leaned back and turned his gaze quickly to the instruction sheet and searched for the next step. “It says we’re supposed to adjust the lighting.”

“Already did it. What else?” Lando was adding swirling patterns of light to the background of the image.

“Erm,” George skipped over a few steps, “crop it? And export it.”

“What, that’s it?” Lando exported the image.

“I don’t know if we should upload that one, though.” George said. “Here, let me have a go.”

Lando cleared the screen back to the original image of the cat. “All yours. D’you have any ideas for the project?” He rolled his chair back and combed a hand through his hair. George set the instruction page next to the keyboard and began methodically working his way through it. 

“I was thinking some kind of sports drink could be good,” Geroge offered. 

“Hmm, a bit boring, that. What about an energy drink? Wider audience, more exciting.” Lando pulled a rolled up tie out of his pocket and hung it loosely around his neck. George tried to focus on the computer screen. 

“What, like Monster?” he asked, glancing over at Lando, who had discovered that his shirt buttons were crooked and was in the process of unbuttoning his shirt. 

“Yeah, but we’d make it different.” Lando began refastening the buttons, his large hands dexterously slipping them into place.  George averted his eyes. Honestly, how hard was it to dress yourself before you left your room? He returned to the assignment, completing the next step from the instruction sheet. 

“Why don’t we both do some research before class on Wednesday? We can each bring a few ideas,” George suggested. 

Lando scrunched his nose in distaste. “A few ideas? What’s wrong with the ideas we already have?”

George completed the next step of the assignment. “Because it’s better to have backup plans. And options to choose from.”

Lando rolled his eyes. “Fine, give me your phone.”

“My phone? Why?”

“So I can add your contact info? I’ll text you my ideas.”

“You could just email them to me.”

“Don’t use it.”

“You–you don’t use your email?” George turned his chair to fully face Lando. Their knees brushed, warm bones clicking softly against each other through layers of navy fabric.

“I don’t like it.” Lando, realizing that Geroge was making no move to hand over his phone, held his own out, the screen opened to “new contact.”

George sighed, then begrudgingly entered his information. He suspected that Lando was one of those annoying texters who sent four separate messages just to say hello. 

“Perfect, I’ll text you my info.” Lando started typing as George finished the introductory assignment and uploaded the file. 

“There we go, I’ve turned it in.” 

“Is that it for today, then? Mega, I’ve got time for breakfast now. I love easy first days.” Lando shoved his phone in his pocket and reached for his bag. George debated pointing out that they still had fifteen minutes of lab time, but decided against it. Without Norris distracting him, George could work through the assignment a second time to ensure that he understood everything.

“Cheers.” George nodded. He watched as Lando meandered toward the door, saying hello to what seemed like half the class before he finally disappeared into the hallway. At least he seemed somewhat competent with the design program, though they would need to work on his ability to follow instructions.

Chapter Text

At lunch, George turned his phone back on–he always turned it off during class–to find a barrage of texts from an unknown number.

>>Hiii, Lando here

>>i have two ideas

>>energy drink

>>sports drink

>>pink energy drink

>>lime green energy drink

>>oh wait that’s 4

>>ur turn

George stared down at his phone, brow furrowed. He saved Lando’s contact info as “Pest (LN),” then composed a response.

 Sports drink was my idea. And different colours don’t count <<

“Who are you texting?” Alex slid into the booth next to George and started digging into his lunch like he hadn’t eaten in days.

George locked his phone and turned to face Alex. “My lab partner for graphic design. You’ll never guess who I’m stuck with.”

Alex just raised his eyebrows and chewed his chicken.

“Fucking Lando Norris.” 

Alex’s eyes went wide as he choked a bit on his chicken. He coughed a bit and sipped some water.

“You ok, mate?” George tried to remember how to perform the Heimlich.

“Yeah, yeah, but you’re not, are you?” Alex started to laugh. “I’m assuming the partners were assigned then?” 

George nodded and rubbed his forehead. “My dad is going to kill me if I fail this class.”

“Well, he’s going to kill you for taking it anyway, so he can’t really double kill you.”

George groaned and shoved his untouched sandwich away. He rested his forehead on the smooth wood grain of the table and took deep breaths. Something vibrated near his head and he jerked up before realizing it was just his cell phone.

Alex patted his shoulder. “Sorry, mate. At least it’s only one class. Is it for the entire semester?”

“It is. And the project is worth half our grade.”

“Fuck. That’s–that’s shit luck. God, he’s so annoying.” Alex gestured at the opposite side of the cafeteria, where Lando was flashing his trademark grin at the small crowd gathered around his table, where he was playing apple-fork with his friend Carlos. Carlos held the apple on the end of his fork, three other forks already sticking out of it at various angles. He stared intently at Lando, who was laughing, folded in half, fork held haphazardly in front of him. Carlos said something, and Lando straightened, still smiling that unreasonably large smile. Carlos launched the apple in the air toward Lando and it spun wildly before Lando caught it on the end of his fork. The table cheered as Carlos picked up another fork.

George shook his head. “Someone’s going to lose an eye.”

“I genuinely don’t understand the appeal.” Alex checked his watch. “I’ve got to swing by the room before Maths, want to walk with me?”

“Yeah.” They left the cafeteria; George glanced back at Lando and felt a pang. He was tossing the apple, now riddled with forks, into the air. His eyes were wide, trained on the apple, and everyone else’s eyes were trained on him, bright and alive, always the center of attention. George tore his gaze away and followed Alex down the hall. 

…

That evening, after water polo practice, George swam a few extra laps. He had never been the kind of person who could skate by on talent. Extra laps in the pool, extra time in the library, reading the recommended as well as the required books–he could feel the exhaustion weighing on his bones already, on the first day of the semester. In the shower, he went over his to-do list: maths problems, business readings, debate prep, graphic design brainstorming…he wrapped a towel around his waist and grabbed his phone to text Lando the ideas he’d had while swimming. 

Custom rubber duckies <<

Sweatpants that look like proper uniforms<<

Some kind of investment app<<

Lando replied before George had even gotten his pants on.

>> would kill to wear sweats to class

>>plz tell me more about the duckies

>>how do u think of these things

George pulled the rest of his clothes on and chose to leave Norris on read. He had readings to do and an essay to draft, plus maths homework, not to mention studying for quiz bowl. And he was hungry . And the board meeting was next Wednesday. And he needed to get a head start on applications for internships and universities. And he should probably prepare a personal statement in case his scholarship proposition somehow got approved. Breathe. George ran his hands through his hair and shoved his belongings into his bag before stalking off to the library.

…

At 11pm, Alex texted him to ask if he was all good. George sighed and saved the sad, rather empty-looking draft of his personal statement. He carefully tucked his to-do list into his planner before packing up his books and heading home for the night. His long legs ate up the distance, but his shoulders were bowed. He kicked a rock along the cobblestone sidewalk, letting the frigid night air slap his cheeks and rouse him from the fog of studying. 

When he arrived back at the dorm, he was surprised to see that someone was playing Mario Kart in the common room. The door closed behind George with a bang, and the race on the screen paused. A head of curly hair that was becoming far too familiar for George’s taste rose above the couch.

“Oh, George!” Lando smiled entirely too much.

“Lando.” George nodded and started walking toward the stairs.

“D’you fancy a game of Mario Kart?”

George took a moment to find a polite way to decline. “Sorry, I’m knackered. Another time.”  George severely hoped another opportunity never arose. There was something grating about Lando Norris–his easy charm, his weird, high-pitched laugh, his fuck-me eyes always staring up at him. George gave his head a little shake and offered a tight smile before continuing his journey toward his dorm room.

“I’m holding you to that!” 

George heard the sound of the game resuming behind him as he climbed the stairs.

Chapter Text

Lando’s mind was only half-focused on the game as he resumed playing, listening to George’s steps up the creaky old stairs. God, he was pretty. Sharp cheeks red from the cold, hair just a bit mussed, eyes tired but so lovely, bright blue and framed by luxuriously thick lashes. It bothered Lando, that George was as icy as the weather outside. He knew he shouldn’t care so much, whether or not people liked him, but he felt justified in this case. After all, they were going to be lab partners for the whole semester. 

He finished the race and decided to turn the game off–it was getting on toward midnight now. He bounded up the stairs and burst into the room he shared with Oscar, who was just crawling into his top bunk of the bed.

“S’up, Osc?”

“Lando. How was your day?” Oscar’s Australian accent always sounded stronger to Lando right after the holidays. 

“Yeah, good, got partnered with George Russell for my design class.”

“Well, that should be good, he’s quite smart, yeah?”

“Yeah…yeah…” Lando had noticed–it was impossible not to notice, really–that George was one of those people who really cared how well they did in school. Personally, he was happy with passing marks.

“Didn’t you hit him with a snowball the other day?”

Lando stripped his shirt off and headed to the bathroom to brush his teeth. “Oh my god, I completely forgot about that.” He hadn’t. Not even a little bit. He’d meant to draw George in, get another person involved in their battle, and somehow he’d managed to fuck it all up. He couldn’t aim for shit, and George had turned around at the last second. George had said it was fine, but he’d marched off like he couldn’t get away fast enough, those lovely long legs carrying him away ever so quickly. 

Lando spit his toothpaste into the sink. He got into bed and pulled his phone out. George still hadn’t texted him back. Read 6 hours ago. He sighed and put his phone down. Picked it back up. 

>>Like…custom colour duckies?

He stared at the screen for a minute, but this time George didn’t even read it. Probably sleeping, like he should be right now. Lando pulled the covers over his head and drifted off into dreams of puffy white clouds in blue skies that folded themselves into bright blue eyes and luxurious lashes.

…

On Wednesday, Lando rolled into class right on time. He dropped into his seat next to George and turned to face him. 

“Is your phone broken?”

“What?” George blinked, brow furrowed. His eyes looked remarkably bright for 8am.

“Well, it’s been two days and you haven’t responded to my text about the duckies.”

“Oh. Erm, sorry, mate, I hadn’t really thought that much about it.” George pulled his phone out, read the text, then turned it to airplane mode. “I guess custom colours, custom outfits. We could design ones that looked like celebrities, that sort of thing.”

Ms. Mortar began taking role, so Lando just murmured, “Brilliant.” It was frustrating, how George was clearly smart and an annoyingly good student–his notebook was already open on his desk, neat handwriting labelling the top of the page–but he couldn’t be bothered to even read Lando’s text messages. 

Ms. Mortar’s lectures were still mostly recapping material covered last semester, so Lando spent the majority of the lecture sketching George’s face on his tablet. The man had cheekbones that belonged on magazine covers. He made sure to close the page before they headed to the computer lab. 

The assignment for the day was simple color grading, and Lando once again found himself sitting in front of the computer with George watching over his shoulder. 

“Pick a colour,” Lando tinted the bottom half of the screen blue.

“Pink.” Lando twisted in his chair to glance at George, who was focused entirely on the instructions printout. He turned back around and tinted the top half of the screen pink, then adjusted the transparencies. A purple stripe appeared where the two colours overlapped. 

“Oh, nice. It’s like the bi pride flag.” Lando grinned, but his eyes were trained on George.

Chapter Text

“Is it?” George was on high alert. No one–not even Alex–knew he was gay. His parents were rather…traditional, and while he didn’t think they would react badly, he also didn’t want to make waves. Much easier to insist he was too busy to date; it wasn’t even a lie.

“Yeah, I’ve got a pin on my bag.” Oh. Oh. Was Lando bi? George glanced at Lando and realized he was biting his lip waiting for a response.

“Oh, cool.” Oh god. George was apparently not cool or articulate. 

“Yeah, gotta represent,” Lando said. His grin was back, wide but quick, not quite reaching his eyes. They really were stunning eyes, green and almost hooded, peering up at George through dark lashes. He  wasn’t that much shorter than George, but with Lando sitting down and George standing behind him, he couldn’t help but picture those eyes staring up at him while Lando was on his knees, that cheeky smile about to be wiped off his face.

“We could do a whole line of pride duckies,” Lando suggested. 

“Ah, yeah, that would be great. I imagine those would be quite popular.” George blinked and tried to focus on the screen, and not on Lando biting his lip–another annoying habit of his. No one should chew on their lip that much. Especially not someone as annoyingly attractive as Lando Norris. 

…

On Friday, Lando spent half the lab talking about a party some seniors were throwing in the woods that night. George tried to zone him out–they had an early bus for a water polo match on Saturday. 

On Sunday, George was trying to teach his younger teammate, Kimi, some shooting techniques in the pool. Norris and his friends spent the entire time doing ridiculous jumps and tricks off the diving board, yelling and splashing and generally making it difficult to explain things without shouting. Lando was so distracting, bouncing out of the water with damp curls plastered to his forehead, chain gleaming on impossibly golden skin, tongue darting out between his teeth before he concentrated on a jump.

On Monday, George was struggling with the lab work. He felt that he was playing catch-up in this class; his advisor had assured him that he hadn’t missed much in the first semester, and that it wouldn’t be a problem to switch in halfway through the year. And it had been fine, but this assignment’s directions felt like they were half-written in a different language. So he let Lando take the lead; he read the directions. Every time he questioned a word, or seemed unsure about pronunciation, Lando explained what it was, but in a way that grated on George–”cap height, baseline–top and bottom, yeah? Feels like baseball, right?” “Not like a ship, you muppet, the masthead at the top of a website.” 

George ranted to Alex at lunch. “He just assumes I know all of this,and I what? Forgot it over the winter break? And then he’ll fiddle with some tiny thing on the design for ten minutes and glaze right over the important stuff. And he’s always so flippin’ cheerful about it, too. I can’t handle that much positivity. It’s driving me insane.”

Alex just gave him a wry smile. “God, why can’t everyone be more cynical?”

On Wednesday, George woke up on edge. The board meeting was happening that night, and George’s anxiety gnawed at his intestines. He skipped breakfast in favor of a morning swim, which did a bit to calm his nerves but left his stomach growling during graphic design. Every time it made a noise, Lando looked over at him and giggled, instead of just pretending to be deaf like a decent human being. 

That night at dinner, the dining hall was noticeably quiet, as several students’ parents took them and their friends out for a nice meal while they were in town for the board meeting. George felt guiltily pleased that Alex’s parents were on a business trip and hadn’t been able to attend the meeting. But it meant that he could spend dinner chatting about sports cars and cycling trips they wanted to take next summer instead of wondering what had happened at the board meeting.

…

On Wednesday evening, Alex and George were up late, finishing an essay for their business class.

“The words are actually swimming on the page, I think I need to go to bed.” Alex rubbed his eyes and threw his pen down. 

“Yeah, I’ll just finish this paragraph,” George typed a few more words. Out of the haze of focus, he could hear the wind howling outside. He closed his laptop.”I’m glad we don’t have to go outside in that.”

“Yes, good call on using the dorm study rooms. I’d say most people don’t know they exist, but I think our classmates use them for shagging.” Alex shrugged his back over his shoulder and they began walking toward the hall that led to their room. George’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He checked the screen and felt ice slide down his ribcage and into his stomach.

“I’ve got to get this, go ahead.” 

Alex shot George a concerned look, but continued. George ducked into the nearest study room and pulled the door halfway shut. “Hi, Dad.”

“George. I’m just on my way home from a school board meeting.”

“Oh, that was tonight?” George had been checking his email obsessively since 6pm, waiting for the minutes to come out, for some piece of news. 

“It was.” Silence. His dad was waiting for something. George tread carefully.

“How did it go?”

“Oh, the meeting was fine. Same talking in circles as it always is. I had an interesting conversation with Adam Norris, though.” Fucking Norris. George kept quiet, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Why the fuck did he tell me you’re partners with his son in a graphic design class ?” His dad’s fury was like a living thing, squeezing its hands around George’s neck, strangling his vocal cords. “Do you think you can handle four courses? Not to mention the fees involved in an extra course?”

“I’m not taking four courses.” George was defensive, voice pitchy.

His dad’s voice was a bit calmer when he spoke again. “So he was mistaken? You’re not taking Graphic Design?”

George swallowed. “No, I am. I dropped English Lit. I think it’s–”

His dad cut him off. “Like hell you did. Who’s paying for your education? You’ll take the classes we discussed last year, the ones that will ensure you get into a top university. Graphic design is for faggots and fools. It’s a trend, not a foundation.”

George recoiled from the slur, but found his voice. “We didn’t discuss anything. You talked, I listened. My advisor even said that if I want to focus on business marketing–”

“Your advisor doesn’t know shit, I’m the one who actually works in this field–”

“Every article I’ve read says it’s a good choice!”

“So you trust random strangers over your own father? Ungrateful brat. We spend millions to send you to the best school, get you a proper education, and this is how you repay us?”

George couldn’t defend himself. He would pay them back, every penny, one day. But there was no point in saying that now. “It’s too late to switch back, Dad.”

His father laughed humorlessly. “We’ll see what the dean has to say about that. Start catching up on the English assignments you’ve missed with this stunt. I’m speaking with the dean tomorrow.” The phone call ended before George could protest.

He gripped the edges of the table. Everything was unravelling. There was no mention of the scholarship. They were two weeks into classes; it would be almost impossible to catch up at this point. He knew that graphic design was the future, that it would make him a stronger candidate. He shoved his phone in his pocket and turned around with a scowl.

“Daddy issues?” Lando Norris leaned against the frame of the partially open door. His grin was wide, eyes narrowed and teasing.

“Get out.” George’s voice was too loud, but he couldn’t deal with this right now. He needed to move, needed to sort his thoughts out. A swim, maybe, or even a run. He needed to get out of this tiny room, needed to stop his life from spinning out of control–

“Ooh, I think I’ve struck a nerve!” Norris didn’t know when to stop. He stepped fully into the room. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you shout like that.”

It only took George two steps to cross the room and push Lando back against the door, closing it in the process. He grabbed Lando’s shirt in both hands. They were practically nose to nose.

“Don’t breathe a fucking word of this to anyone, Norris.”

Lando licked his lips. “Or what? You going to tell Daddy?”

George had never been so close to actually growling. “You just don’t know when to shut up, do you?”

Lando’s pupils were blown out, his mouth slightly open, chest rising and falling rapidly.

“Make me.”

George kissed him, then. There was no softness in it, just the brutal need to shut him up, to shut his own brain off. Lando’s head hit the door with an audible thump, but George didn’t stop, just brutally pressed his mouth against Lando's. Lando held his own, had the audacity to bite George’s lip, so George stuck his tongue in Lando’s mouth, tasted his teeth. Lando moaned, a soft, low hum in the back of his throat, and George pulled back. Lando let out a little whine, arms coming up to pull George back in, one hand tangling in George’s hair, the other on his waist. But George was feeling out of control; he needed to have Lando at his mercy, so he turned his attention to his neck and licked his way up, nipping at the skin every few centimeters. Lando’s moans were louder than George had been on the phone earlier. George reached a spot just beneath Lando’s ear that made his breath hitch, so he sucked it and bit it, viciously, wringing obscene sounds from Lando’s lips. “Fuck–George–mmh– George !” His grip on George's waist tightened as the rest of his body turned into putty, sliding down the door to the point where George felt like he was the only thing holding him up.

“Do you want to be on your knees for me that badly, Norris?” George’s fury made him bold. Lando’s eyes opened, gaze lingering on George’s mouth before sliding up to meet his eyes. He smirked.

“Careful what you wish for, Georgie.” He sank to his knees, and George loosened his grip on his shirt. Lando proceeded to pull it off, yanking it over his head so the only thing covering his chest was the thin gold of his chain. Lando licked his kiss-swollen lips and turned those lakewater eyes up toward George. He placed one hand on George’s thigh and then brought the other to rest on George’s already stiff dick. The pressure pushed the fabric of his trousers and the metal of his zipper into the sensitive skin in a delightful way, and he could feel precum forming as Lando began to move his hand up and down. George didn’t know where to put his hands. On Lando’s head? His shoulder? Should he lean on the table behind him?

“So quiet.” Lando said, tilting his head to the side. His left hand crept up George’s thigh and he played with the waistband of George’s trousers.

“Mmgh, uh, I–” George stepped back, panicking. He was doing this all wrong, wasn’t he? He circled around Lando toward the door. “I need to–”

Lando’s eyebrows were drawn together, hands fallen limply by his side.

 “Is something wrong? Is this not ok? I thought–” He sat back on his heels, and pulled his bottom lip back in between his teeth. It made George’s stomach swoop, hot and low and leaden.

“No, it was–I mean, it’s fine–but I, um–” George took a deep breath and tried to find a coherent thought, any thought, but everything in his brain was white-hot panic. He felt for the door handle behind him. “Ineedtogoforaswim,” he blurted before rushing out the door and practically sprinting down the stairs, which wasn’t easy to do when he was still half-hard.

Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit. George burst into the cold outside air without a jacket or gloves, and the sharp wind whipped against his face like a slap of reality. He was practically running, feet sliding on the icy sidewalk. Before long he had arrived at the natatorium. He yanked on the door, but it was locked. He slammed a fist against the glass. He could feel his throat tightening, eyes threatening to spill hot, angry tears. No. He shook his head, and strode toward the forest walking path. It was nearly impossible to see in the dark, but he didn’t slow down. He couldn't slow down, because once he did, he would have to think. His father, the debt, and now this thing with Lando--he didn't have a plan for any of it. And that terrified him.

Chapter Text

Lando sat there, shirtless and confused. What had he done wrong? Too much too soon? But, no, George had started the whole thing, hadn’t he? Lando picked his shirt up and stood, listening to George’s fading footsteps and the slam of the door. He pulled his shirt back on and walked upstairs to his room. In the hallway, he typed out a text to George.

>>u ok?

His thumb hovered over the send button. He deleted the message. He typed it out again. Deleted it. He sighed, a quick huff of air, before opening the door and walking inside. The room was dark, lit only by the moonlight creeping in through the window.

He tiptoed to the bathroom to prepare for bed. When the door was closed, he flipped on the light, and his eyebrows shot up at the sight of himself in the mirror. His hair was mussed, curls wild. And along his neck was a trail of little red marks from George’s kisses. He touched the skin and recalled George’s mouth there, warm lips and nipping teeth. Goosebumps rose on his arm, and he decided a shower was in order if he was going to get any sleep tonight. 

He stepped under the warm spray and considered George. There was no doubt about it, the man was beautiful. Tall, full of lean muscle from hours of swimming and water polo, chiseled jawline, those pretty, pretty blue eyes–yes, George could be a model if his business career didn’t work out. Lando fisted his cock and began to stroke. 

The thing was, George was a bit too put together–usually. Lando stroked faster as he recalled George’s hands fisted in his shirt, slamming him into the door. He just wanted to see him unravel a bit. Lando wanted to see perfect George Russell break down, with his hair messed and his eyes flashing. He wanted to crack open that veneer and find out what was inside. He braced a hand on the shower wall while his right fist continued to pump. He pictured George, head thrown back, a silent plea on his lips, letting go. His own hips jerked at the mental image. He wanted to tie that man to a bed and make him beg until he fell apart, until he shattered beneath him. Lando came with a soft grunt, an image of blue eyes and thick lashes swirling through his thoughts. He leaned his forehead against the shower wall for a minute, breathing heavily, water dripping down his face.

As he finished washing up, Lando couldn’t keep the smirk off his face. Because men didn’t kiss you like that if they didn’t spend a lot of time thinking about you. George Russell might just have a heart hidden beneath that chiseled stone exterior, and Lando was going to chip away at George until he found it.

On Thursdays, Lando was able to sleep in–all he had was an afternoon studio for art and design. He had a vague sense of pleasant dreams, but they slipped from his grasp as soon as he opened his eyes. When he finally rolled out of bed, Oscar was hunched over his desk, working on homework with his headphones on. Lando flicked the side of Oscar’s headphones and nudged the open textbook on his way to the bathroom. Oscar sighed audibly and Lando opened the door.

“Oh my god.” Oscar had never sounded this amused by an interruption.

Lando turned around. “What?”

Oscar pressed his lips together in a weak attempt at hiding his smile. “You’ve got a little something.” He gestured vaguely at Lando’s neck.

“What?” Lando wiped at his chin, then his neck.

“Yeah, you’re not gonna get rid of it like that.”

Lando walked into the bathroom to check the mirror. Ah, shit. Hickey was an understatement. A trail of dotted red skin trailed up his neck to a massive purple mark.

“Jesus, I look like I got in a fight.” Lando giggled. 

“No, mate, it’s pretty obvious what you got into.” Oscar replied from the other room. “So who was it then?”

“A gentleman never tells,” Lando combed his fingers through his hair, which was a disaster after going to bed with it wet.

“What?” Oscar sounded outraged. He opened the door to stare at Lando. “Since when? Your love life is my primary source of entertainment.”

“D’you mind?” Lando gestured toward the open door. He put toothpaste on his toothbrush.

“Nope.” Oscar leaned against the frame. “Spill.”

Lando started brushing his teeth. He pointed at his mouth and shrugged.

“Guy or girl?”

Lando kept brushing his teeth, which was hard when he was trying not to laugh.

“How did you manage that on a Wednesday night? Do I know them? Wait, do they go here?” Oscar’s brow furrowed. 

Lando spat into the sink. “Oh my god, you’re so nosy. Don’t you have school work?”

“Ugh, this assignment is so boring. Are you really not going to tell me?”

Lando sucked his bottom lip into his mouth, then smiled. “It’s a guy. Now get back to your homework.” He pushed Oscar out and shut the bathroom door against his feeble protests.

He examined the bruising on his neck again. Yeah, he was going to need to find some concealer. He grabbed his phone–surely someone had some he could borrow–and saw the unsent text to George from last night. He grinned to himself and snapped a picture of the hickeys. He texted it to George.

>>[image]

>>Have anything to say for yourself?

When George didn’t respond right away, Lando texted a few girls to ask for concealer, then got on with his morning routine. 

…

George finally texted him back around lunch time.

Sorry<<

>>sorry about the hickeys or sorry about running off?

both<<

neither<<

>>interesting

Lando checked his phone again after dinner to find that George left him on read. Again.

“Oh my god, it’s like pulling teeth,” he complained to Carlos. 

“Mate, you need to stop flirting with people who are emotionally unavailable.” Carlos didn’t even look up from the book he was reading.

“Maybe I like a challenge,” Lando said.

Carlos shook his head and murmured a disappointed, “Aye, mate, no.”

On Friday morning, in an unprecedented move, Lando arrived to class early. His eyes went to George like a magnet. He had almost wondered if he would show up today, but there was no way George would miss a class, no matter how intent he was on avoiding Lando. He studied George as he walked to his seat. George’s brown hair looked mousy and frizzy. His shirt had a wrinkled crease down the back. His tie hung loose around his neck, the knot off center. He kept his gaze focused down, waves of short hair hanging in front of his face. Lando slid into the seat next to him.

“G’morning, George.” Lando was fascinated by this slightly rumpled version of George. Anyone else could have shown up to class looking like this and Lando wouldn’t have batted an eye. It was 8am, after all. But Lando hadn’t seen George with an unironed shirt…ever. It made his blood hot, made him want to rumple that shirt properly. He couldn’t resist prying, picking at George like he was an itchy scab.

George glanced at Lando. “Morning, Norris.” His voice was steady, posh as ever, but his eyes looked darker than usual, the blue muted and accentuated by the dark bags beneath his eyes.

“Late night?” Lando prodded. It was a compulsion, needling George like this; like pulling at a fraying thread. 

“Not sure how that’s your business,” George’s tone was cool, his expression arranged into something haughty and distant. Damn. Lando laced his fingers together, hands behind his head. He leaned back in his chair.

“Felt like my business on Wednesday night.”

Chapter Text

George was not surprised when he tripped. He wondered if perhaps he had hoped he would, jogging through the woods in the middle of the night. His toe caught on something–a root or a branch, it didn’t matter–and he flung his hands out, dropped to one knee with a heavy crack. Brittle brown remnants of underbrush whipped at his arms, stinging against the exposed skin of his forearms. His knee throbbed from where it had made contact with the frozen ground. The light dusting of snow soaked into his pants with surprising speed. 

He expected the tears to come with the pain; he had been holding them back and his head ached behind his eyes with the effort. Instead, the urge to cry dissipated. It was replaced with something ugly, a curdled burn in his stomach reminiscent of the way he had felt when he’d received a less-than-perfect result on a test. He had known that his father would react poorly to the graphic design class. He had taken it anyway, but now he questioned the decision. His father had a point–historically an English A-level served people well. It was traditional. It was foundational. He eased himself onto his back and let the acrid feeling swirl in his stomach as he stared at dark silhouettes of naked tree branches waving above him.

Still, he had chosen this path. He felt sure that Dr. Sulayem would refuse to switch George out of his graphic design class without his permission. But the thought of returning to that class now, of sitting next to Lando, clenched an icy fist around George’s heart. Norris was not the type to let this go. Even lying on the cold, wet ground, George felt a hot flush creeping up his neck as he recalled the way he had kissed him–and worse, the way he had fled. The flush spread down to his chest as he remembered the feeling of Lando’s hand, strong and warm, rubbing him through the fabric of his pants. His dick twitched at the thought, and he turned his flushed face into the snow on the ground next to him.

He didn’t even like Lando–sure, he was attractive, but he was also annoying and immature and spoiled. How could Lando, smiling and carefree, who apparently talked to his parents about his classes with some regularity–and then they ratted George out to his father– ever understand him? George was being steadily crushed by a mountain of debt to his parents while Lando was riding a ski lift to the peak. He needed to calm down. He needed to take control. He took a deep breath. Sat up. Took another breath. He brushed leaves and snow from his damp clothes. He began walking back to the dorm, wincing a bit at the soreness in his knee. 

When he got back to the dorm, Alex was still awake, lying in the dark scrolling on his phone. He sat up when George came in. 

“Mate, where have you been? What happened to you?” Alex was frowning, perched on the edge of his bed as if he were about to get up.

“My dad called. I went on a walk.” George couldn’t look Alex in the eye, couldn’t admit to the lie of omission.

“Did you go for a walk or a crawl?” Alex had barely smiled at his own joke before his face turned serious. He was fully standing now, examining George’s sorry state. “Are you alright? Did–did he lose it about you dropping English?”

George shrugged. “I mean, he wasn’t thrilled. He said he’d talk to the dean about swapping me back, but I reckon there’s not much he can do about it now.” 

“No–surely he wouldn’t be able to change your courses. We’re two weeks into the semester, and it’s not his decision anyway.” Alex had always been able to do this–to offer George a reasonable view of a situation that seemed bleak. 

George nodded, ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “You’re probably right. It’s just a bit concerning, is all. I knew that there would be consequences; I just hoped that I might get a but further into the semester before I had to deal with them.”

Alex offered a sympathetic wince. “At least he knows now, right? It might actually be better this way. You won’t have to hide it anymore.”

“Yeah…yeah. Come clean, right?” George focused on his wardrobe. He grabbed a pair of boxers and pajama pants. “Speaking of clean, I’d better have a shower.” He suspected that no amount of soap and water would make him feel clean when he was hiding a bigger secret than swapped classes from his best friend.

…

Thursday morning, George woke before his alarm with the familiar feeling of stones in his stomach. The stones turned into snails, slimy and crawling, when he recalled the previous night. The phone call with his father. Lando Norris on his knees in front of him. He felt his cheeks warm at the memory of how he had fled.

George rolled over and checked the time on his watch. 6:33. He rolled back on to his back and tried to summon the will to go about his day. He had maths from 9am to noon, volunteering at the tutoring center from 2-4pm. Water polo practice from 4:30 to 6pm. Debate team practice from 7 to 9pm. So he could slot schoolwork in from noon to 2. Weight training  this morning that he should probably get a head start on…he dragged himself into a vertical position. When he stood, his knee gave an angry twinge. He was developing a nice bruise, and his arms were covered in tiny scratches. He sighed and packed his school bag with everything he would need for yet another long day.

After maths, George turned his phone back on while he grabbed a sandwich in the cafeteria. He had two texts from Pest (LN), including an image. He clicked on the messages and his grip on his sandwich tightened. He quickly shut his phone screen off. He felt his neck growing warm. His sandwich had turned into a doughy mess. He sat at his usual table, glanced around surreptitiously, and opened the message again. The picture was a mirror selfie; Lando’s chin was raised, jawline looking great, eyes half-closed in a look that could only be described as sultry, and, stunning in shades of red and purple, a trail of hickeys up his neck. George felt a rush of heat to his groin at the sight. He could remember the little sounds Lando had made as he’d sucked his neck. Could smell his cologne, ginger and something woodsy, bitter on his tongue. He read the message beneath the image.

>>Have anything to say for yourself?

George kept his response brief.

Sorry<<

Lando texted back almost immediately.

>>sorry about the hickeys or sorry about running off?

George stared at the message for a moment. He looked up and saw that Alex was approaching the table. He panicked. 

both<<

That felt disingenuous. 

neither<<

He set his phone down and started to unwrap his half-flattened sandwich. Alex slid into the booth next to him. 

“Alright, mate?”

“Yeah, good, thanks, you?”

“Good, yeah. You have to watch this video I found.” Alex pushed his phone at George. A video of a cat was pulled up on the screen. George watched it, grateful for the laugh and the distraction. They watched several videos while they ate, and Alex entertained George with stories about his family’s zoo of cats until George couldn’t delay studying any longer.

In the hallway, George felt as if his phone was burning a hole in his pocket. Once he turned the corner and found himself alone, he pulled it out to check his messages. Lando had replied, and it simultaneously filled George with hope and dread.

>>interesting

He set it aside and tried to focus on studying, though his thoughts kept wandering back to the last study room he had been in. He caught himself mindlessly clicking his pen while he pondered tomorrow’s graphic design class. Surely they could just act as if nothing had happened. George sighed when his reminder for tutoring dinged–he had barely gotten any actual studying done.

…

George dragged himself to the library after debate practice–he had some readings to finish, and he felt that he should email the headmaster to ask for an update on the board meeting and the scholarship proposition. He rubbed his eye sockets and blinked his eyes open wide. He typed out the emails.

Several hours later, George woke up to a dark library. He was drooling on an open textbook. He couldn’t remember when he had fallen asleep–based on the page the book was open to, halfway through chapter six. He wiped the page dry and closed the book. He checked his watch to find that it was just past midnight. He heaved a sigh and stood, stretching his neck from side to side. He slowly packed his things away, stomach tight from the knowledge that he still needed to finish that chapter. Tomorrow. He knew that he would function better with some sleep. 

He walked out of the library, and the tightness in his stomach grew worse as he thought about tomorrow, when he would sit in class next to Lando Norris. Would Lando still be sporting those hickeys? George felt warm just thinking about them–half embarrassed, half turned on. He pulled his phone out and stared at the picture. Lando wasn’t wearing a shirt. He’d missed that, earlier, so caught off guard by the hickeys. Sure, only half of his chest was on display, but it was ridiculously tanned and practically hairless, probably smooth to the touch. 

George reread the messages that accompanied the photo. How was it possible for someone to be so relaxed? George would have been mortified– was mortified–but Lando was apparently unbothered. George looked at the photo three more times before he got back to the dorm, where he quietly got ready for bed. But when his head hit the pillow, his mind whirled, jumping from Lando Norris to his dad to graphic design to English to Lando’s hand on his hip to the reading he needed to finish to Lando’s obnoxious laughter…

The next morning, George felt anything but well-rested when his alarm went off,  but he needed to get this reading done. His brain felt foggy, so it took him twice as long as it should have, and he had to rush getting ready because Alex insisted that, “Pancakes are more important than ironing your shirt, George.”

At least he would be well-fed when he died of embarrassment in Graphic Design.

Chapter Text

“Felt like my business on Wednesday night.”

George flushed, fiery warmth rushing up from his neck and settling in his cheeks. Norris grinned lazily at him, arching a single eyebrow.

George’s nostrils flared as he took a deep breath and imagined cool air rushing over the molten lava heating his chest and slipping down into his stomach. The nerve of this guy. George kept his voice even, though his tone was clipped.

“The only business we have together is this lab project.” George took a perverse pleasure in the way Lando’s smirk fell away, his thick eyebrows drawing together in confusion.

“Have you started the research on color theory yet?” 

“Mate, the research part isn’t due for ages.” Lando rolled his eyes. George wanted to strangle him. He gazed at Lando’s neck and imagined wrapping his hands around it. Squeezing until it bruised while he straddled him, gazing into those pine tree eyes while Lando begged. He could practically see the mottled purple marks now–he blinked rapidly as he realized that there actually were faint bruises on Lando’s neck, hidden under a layer of makeup. 

He cleared his throat. “Well, we need to start the research early. And if we do it now, we won’t have to do it later when the coursework picks up in our other classes.” 

Lando ran a hand through his hair, rearranging the floppy curls.  

“What will you give me if I finish it early?”

George narrowed his eyes. “You’ll get the pleasure of having finished your work in a timely manner.”

“Boring.” Lando drawled, dragging the word out. “How about a bet? If I finish my research by Monday, I win. Otherwise, you win.”

“It’s an assignment, not a game.” George’s heart was in his throat, but he kept his face still. A bet would only end poorly for George. He was trying to save money, not lose it gambling over an assignment that was integral to the grade he would receive in this class.

“Guess you’ll have to wait until March 16 for me to finish it then.” Lando was smiling. There was nothing sinister about that little gap between his teeth, but George still felt like a bird being eyed by a cat. 

“So you’re just not going to do your work? You would risk your grade just for some bet?”

“I’ll get it done!” Lando feigned affront. “Just not until the very last second. I’m a procrastinator.” His smile was impossibly wider now, eyes scrunched in joy over George’s despair.

George opened his mouth to argue, but Mrs. Mortar chose that moment to begin taking attendance, so he closed it again and turned to face forward. He chose to ignore Lando for the rest of the lecture. Lando chose to make George's life miserable by fidgeting relentlessly and brushing against George every time he moved. It seemed like an innocent mistake the first time it happened–a leg stretched out, Lando’s foot bumping into George’s. But then he moved again and nudged George’s desk hard enough to cause George’s pen to jump across the page in a jagged line. George refused to give Lando the satisfaction of a glare. The final straw came when Lando stretched his arms wide over his head, then brushed George’s shoulder on the way down, so gently it was almost a caress. George missed the next slide because he was so annoyed. He could hardly focus on the lecture because he was waiting for the next moment of contact. 

When they finally got sent to the lab, Lando fully hip-checked George out of the way of the first chair. He shot a sly smile at George, who settled in the other rolling chair at the station, which was broken in a perpetually low position.

While the computer booted up, Lando spoke to George as if they hadn’t been interrupted by an hour-long lecture on print design. “So, if I get the color theory research done by Monday, I reckon I get payback, no complaints.”

George tilted his head, confused. It was frustrating to be sat so much lower than Lando. “Payback for what?”

Lando smirked and tapped the side of his neck. George’s eyes zeroed in on the spot where he knew a massive hickey sat. He thought about the picture Lando had sent him, the contrast of the maroon mark on Lando’s tan skin. Imagined how much sharper the contrast would be against his own skin, too pale from hours spent inside studying. Whatever Lando saw on his face had him grinning, dimples popping out. 

“So have we got a bet, then?” Lando held his hand out, still smiling, but staring into George’s eyes so intently that George hesitated for a moment. Then he shrugged and offered a bland smile of his own. 

“So what do I get when you don’t finish it by Monday?” George placed his hand in Lando’s. His hands were surprisingly big, and slightly calloused. The warmth from their handshake spread up George’s arm.

Lando pulled George closer and leaned in. The sharp scent of his cologne was like a vice around George’s chest. “Whatever you want,” Lando murmured, voice low, before releasing George and spinning around to face the work station. 

“What have we got to work on today?” He cheerfully picked up the day’s assignment and began to read the directions aloud. George tried unsuccessfully to raise his chair so that he wasn’t eye-level with Lando’s chest. After his attempt left him even closer to the floor, he gave up and stood to watch over Lando’s shoulder.

…

“You look like shit, mate,” Alex greeted George at lunch.

“How was your morning, George? Have a nice class?” George quipped sarcastically as he cut his cheese toastie into triangles. 

“Well, I thought I’d skip the tirade about Norris today and go right into the lecture on taking care of yourself,” Alex responded.

“You try having a class with him. He won’t take anything seriously; I had to make a bet with him just to get him to do his portion of the research and I can guarantee you that it still won’t get done. And he’ll just laugh it off like he always does, Mr.-Nothing-Can-Bother-Me-Norris. It’s infuriating.” George dunked his sandwich into his soup with unnecessary force.

Alex sighed. “Look, mate, stop worrying about Norris and start focusing on how and when you can get more sleep. And if he bothers you that much, maybe just do what your dad wants and switch back into English.”

George shot a pointed glare at Alex, “I would rather spend my every waking hour with Lando Norris than prove my dad right.”

Alex frowned at that, and chewed his chicken slowly. He swallowed and pointed his fork at George. “Okay, but the thing is, you need to be spending less of your hours awake and less of those hours studying. I feel like I’ve hardly seen you since we got back.”

“Sorry, mate. I’ve got a lot going on. And water polo takes up a lot of my time, too.”

Alex drew his eyebrows together, “Oh, I meant to tell you, I’m visiting Lily this weekend, so I won’t be able to watch the match.”

George refrained from pointing out that perhaps Alex didn’t see him much because so much of his free time was spent with his girlfriend. “That’s alright, should be a bit of a blowout anyway.”

They chatted about water polo for the rest of lunch, and George promised he would try to get a nap in between Maths and practice that afternoon. On their way out of the cafeteria, George watched as Lando held court at his round table, his group of popular friends hanging on his every word. They all burst into laughter just as George passed the table. He glanced back at the group, worried for a moment that they were laughing at him, but the only one looking his way was Lando, his green eyes bright as ever, smile light and curls like a halo. A devil dressed in an angel’s clothes , he mused as he followed Alex into the hall.

Chapter Text

While George dragged himself back to his empty dorm room after practice that night, he investigated the tight feeling just below his ribcage and realized that he still had not heard anything else from either his father or Dr. Sulayem. He pulled up his email and composed an inquiry to the headmaster, asking in his most professional, politest tone that his father’s wishes for his class schedule be disregarded. 

He glanced at the pile of books on his desk. He probably should get a start on studying, but it was a Friday night and he would have plenty of time tomorrow–it was a home match, after all. He pulled up the water polo team group chat. A handful of guys were having a foosball tournament in the lounge–perfect. George threw on some sweats and a t-shirt and headed downstairs.

Even before he reached the basement, George could hear music emanating from beneath the door.  He hadn’t planned on a party. Wasn’t dressed for it at all. He glanced longingly up the stairs, but was well aware that if he returned to his room to change, he wouldn’t return. And he didn’t want to be lame, staying in on a Friday night. He opened the door, and the music pressed loud against his brain, scratchy and pulsing. His teammates were there, crowded shoulder to shoulder around the foosball table. A group of guys and girls were sprawled on the couch, watching a couple of guys playing some video game on the big screen. A game of pool was in progress in the far corner, and someone had comandeered the kitchen as a bar, filling red solo cups with alcohol (smuggled in, presumably, as it was prohibited on campus).  Someone had dimmed the overheads and set up a disco light in the far corner, where he also spotted two massive speakers. A group was dancing, grinding and writhing and pulling out their silliest dance moves. Definitely more than George had bargained for.

He made his way to the foosball table, where his teammates greeted him loudly—partially to be heard over the music and partially, George suspected, because they were more than a little tipsy.

“George! Oh my god, guys, George is here!” Lewis threw an arm around George’s shoulder and dragged him closer to the pool table. 

“Geoooorge. George, you’re so nice, you helped me soo much with my defense.” Kimi was slurring his words a bit, and George wondered how much the extra practice would actually help if he was hung over during tomorrow’s game. 

“That’s alright, Kimi,” he offered an easy smile.

“Do you want to step in for me, George? I’m sure Esteban is getting annoyed with how bad I am.” Ollie drifted off toward the dance floor. George stepped up to the table. He was quickly engrossed in the pinging ball, the flick of the blue plastic players. He laughed as Esteban shot the ball into their own goal. When the game ended, he felt lighter than he had in weeks. He drifted over to the makeshift drinks bar to get some water. The crush of bodies made the basement room sweltering. He pulled a bottle of water from the fridge and leaned against the cool metal for a moment. He uncapped the water and took a sip, gazing out at his peers, drunk and carefree. He thought about his email to the headmaster and the weight returned to his stomach. He capped his water and pushed off the fridge. 

The music changed songs, and he glanced at the dance floor to see none other than Lando Norris standing next to the speakers, staring intently at his phone as he listened to some girl speak into his ear. He nodded at her, shooting a smile over his shoulder before returning to his phone. George wondered if the girl could smell Lando’s cologne, standing that close to him. George was slowly drifting closer to the dance floor. It was unfair, truly, that Lando could wear a hoodie and sweatpants and make it look cool, make it look sexy. George wore sweats and looked homeless. He stepped closer. Then, Lando looked up from his phone, green eyes meeting George’s across the few meters that separated them. A slow smile stretched across his face. He lifted a finger and beckoned George closer, a “come here” without saying the words. George raised one eyebrow. It felt dangerous, getting close to Lando tonight. He walked over anyway, stopping with a good twenty centimeters between them. Lando smiled, licked his lips. George tracked the movement.

“Do you want to request a song? I’m DJing.” Lando leaned in to George’s ear to ask the question, his breath hot on George’s neck. It gave him goosebumps.

George stuck with something popular. “Shape of You? Ed Sheeran?” he asked. “Though I’d settle for just turning the volume down.” 

“What?” Lando stared blankly up at him.

George sighed and put his mouth next to Lando’s ear. “Shape of You.” His lips brushed the shell of Lando’s ear; Lando’s curls brushed George’s cheek. He leaned back.

Lando looked up at him, his eyes captivating under those dark lashes. He smirked. “I heard you the first time.”

George felt a flush of embarrassment begin to warm his neck. Lando set him off-kilter.

“Just wanted to get your mouth on me.” Lando winked with an exaggerated tilt of his head. 

Surely the heat rushing through George was a side effect of standing so near the mess of dancers. Nothing to do with the dim lights and the whiff of Lando’s cologne, with his teasing that bordered on flirting.

George made a show of checking his watch. “I should get going, I’ve got a match tomorrow.” He left without waiting for a response. Patted a few of his teammates’ shoulders on the way out.

He opened the door just as the opening notes of “Shape of You” filled the room, and he stepped into the cool air of the corridor. He let the door swing shut behind him, muffling the song. He stood there for a moment while he drank the rest of his water, cooling himself down, letting his heartbeat return to its usual rhythm. When the song changed, he walked up to bed.

…

George woke up the next morning to a text from Pest (LN).

>>don’t drown

He left it on read.

The match went surprisingly well, considering the amount that his teammates had been drinking the night before. To be fair, they probably could have defeated this team with their eyes shut. Their coach benched George for a lot of the second half, allowing younger players and their usual B squad to get a lot of time in the water. 

The pool deck was muggy, and even in his swim trunks and the towel draped around his shoulders, George was sweating. He cheered for his teammates, but he wished he could be back in the water, where there wasn’t so much time to think. Ollie scored, and the home crowd cheered–mostly parents, a handful of students with nothing better to do on a dreary Saturday morning. Including, apparently, the bane of his existence. George spied a familiar head of chestnut curls in the bleachers on the other side of the pool. Was it just his imagination, or could he actually hear that distinctive giggle cut through the echoing chatter of the natatorium? George frowned and drew his towel tighter around himself. He’s clearly not working very hard on that research or graphic design. George was unreasonably annoyed by that thought. Rather than examine that too closely, he refocused his attention on the game at hand and persuaded his coach to sub him back in to try out a new play.

George locked himself in the library after the game. He wanted to get ahead on his work for the week. He settled himself in his favorite spot, a window seat in the back corner that generally remained unoccupied because the view out of the window was two feet of weedy grass and another brick wall. It was perfect for avoiding distractions. Distractions like the text messages currently pinging his phone.

>>gg

>>do wins that easy really count?

>>i’d say u played well, but i’m pretty sure u spent more time on the bench than in the water

We weren’t about to put our best players in against a team that bad.<<

>>mmhmm

>>whtever u say, georgie

George rolled his eyes and put his phone on airplane mode. He really didn’t need to engage with Lando’s immature antics. Instead, he powered his laptop on and checked his email. There was a message from Dr. Sulayem in his inbox. He could feel his pulse jumping in the vein in his neck. He swallowed, audibly–why did his mouth feel dry?--and opened it.

George,

I appreciate that you feel comfortable reaching out to me. I always aim to be approachable; never hesitate to share your concerns. With that being said, this is really a matter that both you and your father should take up with your academic advisor.  I see from your file that Mr. Wolff is your listed advisor; I have shared your concerns with him. 

Please rest assured that we do not allow parents to change students' courses for them (barring extenuating circumstances). Your fate is in your own hands. I would, however, encourage you to consider the wealth of experience and knowledge that your parents bring to the table.

Cheers,

Dr. Mohammed Ben Sulayem

P.S. The school board was intrigued by your scholarship idea–they will spend the semester drafting an official proposal that will be voted on next fall. 

George sat back in his chair. He ran a frustrated hand through his hair and frowned at the screen. It wasn’t unhelpful, but it certainly wasn’t helpful either. His knee bounced with nervous energy. He composed an email to Mr. Wolff to arrange a meeting. Surely Dr. Sulayem had sent his father a similar message. Which meant that dear Papa would reach out to Mr. Wolff, as well. “Consider the wealth of experience…”  George snorted at that. He stood up, too riled up to sit still. He walked a lap around the library. Took a few deep breaths. Then he sat back down and tried to keep his swirling thoughts at bay while he studied.

…

By 1pm on Sunday, George was feeling lethargic and a little lonely. He liked to start his Sundays with a long early morning swim, followed by breakfast and some low-stakes studying–reading for class, debate team prep, maybe even watching a few technical videos on water polo. But after lunch, the early morning started to catch up to him, and his brain felt foggy. Even stepping outside into the pale January sun wasn’t enough to properly wake him up. He hid a yawn with a gloved hand and decided a nap was in order.

Back in his dorm room, he drew the curtains, stripped down to his boxers, and set an alarm for 3pm. He dozed in and out of consciousness, not fully asleep, dreams melding into the real texture of his cotton blanket. 

It wasn’t the alarm that woke him, an indeterminate amount of time later. Someone was knocking on his door. George stumbled out of bed to the door, assuming that Alex had forgotten his key. He opened the door and blinked, eyes not quite focusing at first. His vision adjusted to the bright hallway lights to reveal someone who was definitely not Alex. Ah. Shit.

“What a sight that is,” Lando giggled. He was practically vibrating with entirely too much energy, his hoodie bright in neon colors, his jeans baggy and paint-splattered.

“What–” George’s voice came out husky from sleep. He cleared his throat. “What are you doing here, Norris?”

“Not interrupting anything, am I?” Lando smiled, wolf-like, and ducked under George’s arm, letting himself into his room. 

“Just my nap,” George said crossly, letting the door close and turning to face Lando in the half-light that filtered in through the curtains.

Lando laughed again, a “hah hah” that almost sounded nervous. He peered around George’s dark room, curiosity evident. He picked up a book from George’s bedside table, weighed it in his hand, then set it back down.

“I finished it,” Lando said. At George’s blank look, he clarified, “the color theory research.”

George wondered vaguely if this was another dream. It felt like one, when Lando stepped closer, slowly raised a hand to George’s jaw. When he gripped it, turned George’s head to the side, and dragged his nose up the column of George’s throat.

“Came to collect my prize,” Lando murmured, hand still on George’s chin, gentle but firm, steering him back towards the bed. His eyes were hypnotic, pupils blown out so far that the inner ring of brown was completely swallowed. 

The back of George’s knees hit the edge of the bed, and he sat on reflex. Lando let go of him, just stood between his legs.

“I don’t believe you,” George said, his voice coming out gravelly, too quiet.

Lando stepped closer, forcing George’s legs wider. George had to tilt his chin up to make eye contact with Lando from this position, and he hated it, felt his lower abdomen burn with the emotion.

“You can check your email, if you like.” Lando wouldn’t bend down, just stared down his nose, left George tracing his jawline with his eyes. 

George swallowed, weighed his options. He felt the weight of Lando’s eyes on him, was suddenly very aware of the differences in their state of dress. 

Lando leaned down, and George mimicked the movement, slowly leaning back toward the bed, abs flexing with the effort until he braced himself on his elbows. Lando’s hands came down, caging him in. 

“Or you could just take my word for it.” Lando was overwhelming George–his face, his voice, his arms, the citrusy smell of him, his tongue darting out of his mouth to moisten his lips–George wasn’t sure how it happened, but one second they were balanced on the edge of the bed, and the next his fists were gripping Lando’s hoodie, their mouths were pressed together, fighting for dominance. Lando was on top of him, making little mewling noises, and then he sat back, straddling George, breathing heavily, triumphant gleam in his eye. The denim of his jeans was scratchy against George’s bare thighs. 

“C’mon, now, I’ve got revenge to carry out,” Lando drawled. 

He grabbed George’s hands, pushed them above his head. He crossed George’s  wrists, and somehow, wrapped a single massive hand around them to hold them in place. George’s chest was rising and falling rapidly, his breath and heartbeat speeding up. Lando trailed his free hand along George’s neck, then down his bare chest, thumb just grazing his exposed nipple, sending a zing of feeling right to his dick. As Lando’s hand continued its path downward, he lowered his mouth to George’s neck, traced his tongue in lazy circles along the side. George felt hot all over, but his skin was erupting in goosebumps. 

Lando’s hand was tracing the elastic of George’s boxers, teasing while he licked his neck, and George felt certain that he had never hated anyone so much as he hated Lando in that moment. Then, Lando put his lips on George’s neck and sucked while he slid a single finger just under the waistband, and George stopped having coherent thoughts. That finger just trailed back and forth, caressing the skin beneath the elastic, moving no lower. Meanwhile, Lando’s mouth was hot and wet, sucking and biting a trail up George’s neck, wringing moans from his lips like George’s mouth was an instrument he was learning to play. 

Lando’s teeth nipped him just there, a sensitive spot above his collarbone, and George’s hips bucked up, dislodging Lando’s finger from his waistband. Lando laughed, a sinister chuckle against his skin, and he gripped George’s hip, hard, to hold him down while he focused all of his attention on that spot, licking and biting and sucking while George writhed beneath him, a string of curses falling from his lips.

“Oh god, fuck, fuck, fuck, mmh, Lando, ahh, god, FUCK, fuck you, mmh”

And it was pleasure and pain and George was hard and leaking through his boxers–was it possible to come just from this?–but then Lando moved on, worked his way back up George’s neck, flicked his earlobe with his tongue. It sent another zing down George’s spine, and he almost finished in his pants right then, but then Lando was releasing his hip and his hands, was sitting up, resting on George’s thighs. He was gazing at George splayed out beneath him, a hungry look in his eyes. A shaft of golden afternoon sunlight filtered in through a crack in the curtain, slicing across Lando’s face, illuminating one green eye, and half of his nose. 

“You alright?” Lando asked. He shoved his hands in his hoodie pocket.

George pushed himself up on his elbows. “I’m good. Are you…?” He trailed off. Lando was scampering off of him, moving to the door. 

Lando opened the door, then peered over his shoulder, mischief glinting in his eyes, trouble etched into his dimples. “See you on Monday,” he offered, cackling when George’s hand went to his neck. The door closed and George jumped up. He walked to the bathroom, where his reflection stared back at him, wide eyed, hair tousled, chest bare. He looked at his neck. Sure enough, it was covered in little red marks that would surely bloom into terrible hickeys by tomorrow. George walked back into the bedroom, mind whirling as he tried to problem solve. He needed a scarf. Or a cravat. Something. 

Honestly, what had he been thinking? Lando Norris. He hadn’t just let him do it; he’d enjoyed it. Had a physical reaction, at least. George picked up his phone, put it back down. Made his bed, which was a rumpled mess. He took a deep breath and decided that a cold shower would clear his mind.

Chapter Text

Lando walked upstairs to his room on autopilot. His brain was replaying the image of George splayed out beneath him, flushed, chest rising and falling rapidly, looking absolutely ruined.  He’d had to leave–didn’t want to take things too far too fast again. And Lando suspected that leaving George wondering would drive him a little crazy. God, but George was fit when his shine came off a bit. He’d stopped looking like a porcelain doll and started to look a lot more fuckable. 

Lando hummed to himself and wondered if George would send him pictures tomorrow morning. Tit for tat and all. He was disappointed to wake up on Monday morning to the usual array of notifications, but nothing from George. He sighed and rolled over in bed, then snoozed him alarm three more times before he finally got up for class. He had just enough time to brush his teeth and pull on his uniform. He forgot his jacket, so the walk to class was freezing, and he arrived five minutes late with frozen fingers and a red nose. 

Lando settled into his seat next to George, who was still bundled up in a wool coat and a light blue scarf. The collar framed his face nicely, and Lando was struck again by George’s resemblance to a marble statue. His skin was so smooth, his cheekbones chiseled. The blue in the scarf accentuated his eyes–they looked almost electric, even if they were aimed anywhere but at him. 

Lando nudged George with his elbow and leaned in to murmur in his ear. 

“D’you have a spare pen?”

George looked at him–finally–and gave a little sigh, then handed Lando a black pen–one of those nice ones, fine tip and clean lines.

“Thanks,” Lando said, twirling the pen between his fingers. He looked down at his empty desk. He leaned back toward George, close enough to smell his shampoo and the faintest whiff of chlorine. “Do you have extra paper?”

George finished writing his header and set his pen down deliberately. He turned to the back of his notebook and tore out two pages. He held them out to Lando and turned his notebook pages back, all while keeping his eyes focused forward. Lando refused to take them, wouldn’t let George just not acknowledge him like that. After a few beats, George turned toward him and raised an eyebrow. Lando reached out and slowly took the papers from George’s hand and stared into his eyes, grinning. 

“Thank you, George.” he kept his voice low and his eyes locked on George. George blinked, and Lando noticed that his eyelashes were positively feathery. He had doll eyes, too blue, too wide. They should be unnerving, but Lando was captivated. George cleared his throat and whispered, “You’re welcome,” before turning back to face the front of the classroom.

Lando spent the class sketching the view outside the window on the paper; he took some notes in the margins. The drawing helped him to focus on Mrs. Mortar’s voice, and he would listen to the recording of the lesson again later. By the time the class was dismissed to the lab, Lando had moved on from the landscape to a sketch of George’s profile; he crumpled that particular sheet of paper and shoved it in the bottom of his bag.

George finally took his coat off when they walked into the lab. He kept the scarf on, though, and that was when Lando recalled the trail of hickeys he had tried to leave along George’s neck yesterday. He tugged the end of the scarf when George sat down, and George scrambled to hold on to the fabric. 

“Don’t,” he hissed, hands clutching the scarf protectively. His tie peeked out beneath it; he looked a bit ridiculous.

“What, no pictures for me?” Lando said it just loudly enough to make George glance around. He assumed there was a red flush creeping up his neck, but it was impossible to see anything beneath the bundle of light blue cashmere.

“So we’re working on the logo today,” George held the instruction sheet up in front of him like a shield. Lando sighed and powered the computer on, then stared at George’s neck and wondered if the scarf would shift when he moved.

“D’you want to take the lead on the design today? I can handle the instructions,” Lando offered, moving to stand from the good chair, which he had made a habit of claiming whenever they worked in the design lab.

George looked apprehensively at the computer screen. “I’ll give it my best go.” He sat and looked up at Lando expectantly.

Lando was surprised to find that this view–George looking up at him–sent a rush of power to his head and a rush of warmth to his dick. He was normally a giver, got turned on by his partners’ pleasure. George on his knees for him though, fuck.

“Directions? You can read, can’t you?” George’s voice snapped Lando out of his fantasy. 

“Yeah, it’s–” Lando looked at the directions and grimaced, because he hadn’t thought this through very well. His dyslexia made reading frustrating on the best of days. He skipped the introduction and went right to step one.

“Choose a shape for your logo.”

George leaned forward and scrolled through a series of shapes. Lando peered at his neck to see if the scarf had moved at all. Nothing. Damn. They continued to work on the logo, and Lando only stumbled over the instructions a few times, but he didn’t get a single glimpse of a hickey before George rushed off at the end of class. 

After lunch, Lando headed back to his room for a quick nap. He settled in his bed and checked his phone. He felt a vein pulse hard in his throat when he saw he had new messages from George.

[image]<<

I don’t recall this being a part of our bet<<

Lando sucked in a breath at the attached photo. It was a picture of George’s hip, bare skin so pale the veins practically showed through. More startling were the finger-shaped bruises, four purple lines from where Lando had held him down on Sunday. Lando didn’t think he’d been gripping George that tightly, but honestly he wouldn’t be surprised if he’d squeezed a bit hard, especially when George started swearing at him–there was something about drawing curses out of George’s perfect, posh mouth. The photo was cropped so that it wasn’t x-rated, but it was a close thing, and the visible lines of George’s lower abdominal muscles made Lando recall the way they had tensed and flexed when he’d played with George’s waistband yesterday.  He didn’t pause to think before responding.

>>Want me to give u a matching set on the other side?

I reckon you should be the one getting bruised next<<

Lando giggled at his phone. So George did have some fight in him. He rolled over onto his back, phone held above his face.

>>is that a threat?

>>george are u threatening me

No<<

Lando pushed his lips together in a pout. Apparently George wasn’t going to play along.

It’s a promise<<

Lando grinned. They were so back. He was quickly growing addicted to the sight of George, rumpled. George, out of uniform. George, lips swollen and dark from punishing kisses. George, muttering his name like a curse. It was such a stark difference from George in class, pens arranged, eyebrows furrowed, writing neat letters in his notebook, raising his hand to ask clarifying questions, always so polite. It was even a difference from the lab, where George was slightly more relaxed, but still so buttoned up, with his forced little laugh and his insistence on following every step of the instructions, no matter how simple the assignment. Lando wondered what George would sound like laughing a big belly laugh, rolling on the floor…or on the bed, while Lando tickled him. 

>>looking forward to it

But Lando was once again left on read. He sent a series of follow-up texts throughout Monday evening and during the day on Tuesday.

>>Georgeee

>>don’t leave me in suspense

>>thought u wanted to come cover me in bruises

>>kinda hot tbh

He still didn’t get a response. On Tuesday evening, Oscar called him out.

“Okay, mate, you’re checking your phone so much it’s making me anxious. Is everything alright?”

“What? Erm, no, it’s fine. All good.” He smiled and set his phone down. “Sorry.”

“Is it that guy? Hickey guy?” Oscar gestured toward his neck. 

Lando bit his lip in a weak attempt to hide his smile.

“Wait, have you seen him again? Does he go here?” Oscar was leaning forward in his chair, eyes wide. 

Lando gave a nervous laugh. “Yes,” he answered. 

“Oh my god. Who is it?” Oscar asked. 

“It doesn’t matter. I think he hates me.” Lando sighed and collapsed on his bed.

“Why? What did you do?” Oscar propped his chin on his hand.

“Why would you assume I did something?” Lando’s voice got higher in affront.

Oscar just raised his eyebrows.

“Ugh, okay, so I might have purposefully made him uncomfortable.” Oscar rolled his eyes and sighed, but Lando raised a hand up in protest. “In a hot way!”

“Lan.” Oscar sounded mildly disbelieving. 

“Like, mildly kinky flirty texts. It’s not that bad!”

“Let me see.” Oscar held his hand out for Lando’s phone. Lando handed it over without a second thought, then remembered the photos and lunged for it.

“Wait!” Lando was too late. Oscar pulled the phone out of reach and jumped out of his chair. Lando had to throw his hand down to prevent himself from faceplanting into the floor. His legs were tangled in his blankets.

“Oh my god. George? George Russell??   Mate.” Oscar looked simultaneously disgusted and impressed.

“Yeah, well. He’s…interesting,” Lando said. He pushed himself back onto his bed and tried to work his feet free.

“Really? Mr. Goody-two-shoes George? I thought he was a bit too bookish to be your average posh upper-cruster. Would not have pegged him as your type.” Oscar was looking at Lando like he had grown a second head.

“See, that’s the fun of it,” Lando tried to explain, “I wanna see how far I can push him.”

“So you don’t really fancy him, then. You’re just playing the game.” Oscar returned to his chair and tossed Lando’s phone back to him.

Lando hummed, but he didn’t like the light that cast him in. He supposed that had been his original intention–get under George’s skin, see what made him tick. Then that kiss in the study room…that had been hot, but surprising. It made him want to see what George was hiding behind those baby blue eyes. 

“I dunno. He’s in my graphic design class, so I see him a lot. He’s, like, weird in a cute way?” Lando opened his phone and scrolled up to the picture George had sent him yesterday without making the conscious decision to do so. Stared at the bruises, dark lines contrasting prettily against pale skin. That vein in his hip had to lead directly to his–

“You have a class together? He’s on the business path with me.” Oscar’s face was twisted in confusion. 

“Oh, that explains a lot. He’s a bit shit at graphic design.” Lando laughed. It was almost embarrassing how hard George tried. 

“God, I hope it humbles him. He’s annoyingly smart in the classes I have with him.” Oscar glared at his business textbook like it had personally offended him.

Lando laughed–he could picture it, George with perfect posture, hand raised eagerly, spouting off some jargony business answer with clipped consonants. 

“God, I can’t believe I got so excited about hickey guy just for it to be George Russell. ” Oscar shook his head. He packed his books into his backpack and donned his coat. “Well, I’m off to the library. Please, for the love of God, don’t let me walk in on you and George Russell when I get back.”

“I’ll put a tie on the door,” Lando called out after him. Oscar’s groan echoed down the hallway, but Lando’s laughter faded when his phone pinged with a new text message. George’s name popped up on the screen.

Has anyone ever informed you of how incredibly annoying you are?<<

>>i like to think of it as persistent

Lando watched the three dots on the screen move, then disappear, then move again, then disappear for good. No new message popped up. 

>>what r u doing tonight

studying<<

>>”studying” okaaay

>>wanna “study” with me?? 😉

Lando felt confident that George genuinely planned to spend his night in the library. He also felt sure that George would respond to messages questioning his commitment to his schoolwork.

Some of us actually want to get good marks<<

>>yeah u like getting marked huh

What does that even mean?<<

>>meet me in the study room tonight and find out

George didn’t respond to that either, but Lando had expected as much. But he also expected that he would find George in the study room tonight.

Lando sauntered down the hall to the dorm study rooms with his hands in his pockets. George had texted him an hour ago.

There are at least thirty different study rooms on this campus<<

>>only one ive ever been in

It gave him a bit of an adrenaline rush, baiting George like this, counting on him to remember their last time together in a study room. The door to the room was closed, but not locked. He turned the knob and the door opened silently. He was greeted with a view of George’s back. He glanced at his watch, then returned his attention to the textbook open in front of him. The blue scarf from yesterday sat on the table beside him.

“Waiting for someone?” Lando closed the door behind himself.

George startled, then twisted to face him. 

“I…” Lando savoured the look of panic that flashed across his face. George schooled his face into something more aloof. “I was curious.”

Lando smiled and played dumb. “Curious about what?”

George squirmed in his chair. Lando stepped closer. He reached for George’s tie. George didn’t move, just watched him, eyes wide. Lando loosened the knot, untied it, and pulled it off. George swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing above the buttoned collar of his shirt.

Lando paused, and repeated his question. “Curious about what, George?”

George was gripping the edges of his chair. His eyes were wide and dark. 

“That weird text you sent.” The words hurtled out of George’s mouth like he had to force them out, like it pained him to admit it.

“Oh?” Lando flicked the top button on George’s collar open. “Which one?”

George was gazing up at him from the chair, legs spread; a tiny crease formed between his eyes. 

“The…” George’s breath hitched as Lando undid the next button. “The one about marks.” 

“Oh, yeah.” Lando grinned and undid a third button. “Well, it seemed like you enjoyed it,” he undid a fourth button and pulled George’s collar aside to reveal a mottled mess of bruises, violet red marks that decorated his collarbones and marred his neck, “when I gave you these.” He traced the marks with a single finger. They bloomed on George’s pale skin, dark red love bites and maroon imprints of his lips. 

“Did it hurt?” he asked. His eyes were still on the hickeys as his fingers traced them.His other hand rested on the fifth button of George’s shirt.

George’s voice came out raspy, “Yes.”

Lando snapped his eyes to George’s, worried. His lips parted, unsure.

“I liked it,” George said breathily, and his hands came up to Lando’s hips, pulling him closer between his legs.

Lando felt his blood rush downward, knew he was sporting a semi from that sentence alone. He tore George’s shirt off the rest of the way and reached for his trousers, needing to see the handprint on George’s hip in person. George stood up and pushed Lando back against the table, caging him in with his arms.

“I’m not about to be the only one undressed again,” he said, and tugged Lando’s t-shirt up from the bottom. Lando shed it willingly, then reached again for George’s belt. George grabbed his arms and pushed them back down to his sides, laughing meanly when Lando whined. 

“I wanna see them,” Lando pouted, nodding toward George’s hip. George didn’t bother to answer, just leaned in and sucked Lando’s protruding bottom lip into his mouth. Lando moaned and forgot about the handprint for a moment. He lost himself in the kiss, in the scrape of George’s teeth against his lip, the quiet pop when his lip broke free. Then their lips were pressed together again, fighting for dominance, and Lando drew his tongue across George’s lip, and he opened his mouth, let Lando in. George was leaning against him, and his ass was pressed into the table, but he could feel the hard ridge of George’s dick pressing against his own through his jeans. He was thrusting his hips forward, chasing the friction, one hand on the table to steady himself, the other fisting in George’s hair, trying to take control of the kiss.

George pulled back for half a second, and Lando took a breath, then pulled him back forward, brought George’s lips back down to his. He was arching up into him, standing on his tiptoes; he snaked a hand around George’s waist and pulled him closer. George let out a little groan at the contact, and Lando swallowed it greedily, pressed his chest against George’s. George’s hands came to Lando’s ass with a smack and pulled him impossibly nearer. Their cocks were grinding against each other, their tongues sliding slickly together in a messy kiss. George guided Lando away from the table, taking slow steps back until Lando was pressed against the wall. Lando grabbed George’s belt loops and yanked him closer, gluing their lips together again. 

George grabbed Lando’s hands and pinned them to the wall on either side of his head. He moved his mouth to Lando’s earlobe, sucking and biting. Lando panted, his chest heaving, his chin tilted up. George nipped the skin just beneath his ear and he moaned at the sensation of electricity down his spine. Lando tugged one of his hands loose and brought it to the front of George’s trousers, palmed his erection, got a few rubs in before George removed his lips from Lando’s ear and grabbed his hand, bringing it back to the wall. His eyes met Lando’s, then, half closed and hazy with lust. 

“Keep doing that and I’ll finish in my trousers,” George warned.

“That’s sort of the idea,” Lando smiled a predatory smile and slid his hands out from where George loosely held his wrists. He slid one hand up George’s chest to his neck; he held it, thumb caressing the marks he’d left there a few days ago. He slid his other hand down again, palmed George over the zipper, kept his eyes on his face so that he could watch him come apart. George’s hands were braced on the wall on either side of Lando’s head, his tall body bent a little. Lando began stroking again, and George’s breathing grew erratic. Lando squeezed gently and George let out a breathy little moan; his face was rapidly crumbling into an expression of unguarded want. Lando continued rubbing, and George thrust his hips forward a bit, into Lando’s hand. His face was positively exquisite now, eyes wide and desperate.

“Lando, p–” George cut himself off before he could fully beg, but Lando was smirking anyway. He took his hand away to undo the front of George’s trousers. George made a frustrated noise halfway between a groan and a growl. 

“Patience, George,” Lando laughed. He returned to his ministrations over George’s underwear, a nice pair of black boxers that were barely containing George’s bulging cock. Lando squeezed and stroked and tangled his other hand in the hair at the base of George’s neck, tugging just a bit as he dipped his thumb inside the waistband of his boxers and rubbed his thumb across the head of George’s cock. George’s face shattered as he came, a guttural moan slipping out of his throat. Lando’s hand was sticky and George was slumped against him, face buried in the crook of Lando’s neck; Lando’s fingers were still tangled in his hair and his own dick was stiff and leaking a bit, if the wet spot in his pants was anything to go off of. 

After a few moments of their heavy breaths mingling in the silence, George straightened up. His face and neck were flushed red; his hair was a rumpled mess; his trousers were still undone and there was cum all over his stomach. Lando thought that he looked beautiful. George averted his eyes and grabbed his shirt from the table. He used it to wipe himself off, then wordlessly offered it to Lando, who wiped his hand off.

“So, do I have to endure another week of silence from you now or will you actually text me back tomorrow?” Lando asked when he handed it back.

George opened his mouth, but apparently had nothing to say, because he closed it again.

Lando continued, “Look, it’s not like I’m not enjoying myself, because whatever this is is sexy as fuck, but I’d like to actually know what’s happening in that freaky brain of yours right now.”

George sighed and stared at a point on the wall next to Lando’s head. 

“Look, mate, I don’t know what you want me to say.”He ran a hand through his hair. “It’s just, like, I’ve got a lot going on, you know? And when we’re,” he gestured between himself and Lando, “together, I can sort of tune everything out, yeah?” His eyes finally met Lando’s, and Lando was struck by how vulnerable George looked, shirtless and somehow small, blue eyes glistening in the stark yellow  light of the study room. 

“Yeah, okay.” Lando picked his own t-shirt up and handed it to George. “I can work with that.” He felt simultaneously a bit cheap, like George was just using him, and flattered, that he was the one who could drive George to such distraction. 

George took the proffered shirt and put it on. “Thanks.” His blush was receding, but it flared a bit as he gestured toward his dirty shirt. “I’d better go wash up.” He began to gather his things.

Lando leaned against the wall just beside the door so that George had to look at him on his way out. “No kiss goodnight?” he teased when George reached for the handle. George looked down at him, and Lando was frustrated to see the mask back in place, cheekbones and alabaster skin and lips pink and plush from kisses, but pressed together. So he was surprised when George leaned in and brushed his lips against Lando’s cheek before he left. It was softer and sweeter than anything they had shared so far, and it made Lando’s stomach lurch and tumble. He stood there for a long while before he returned to his room.

Chapter Text

George headed directly for the shower when he got back from the study room. Thankfully, Alex was scrolling on his phone, headphones on, so George was able to grab clothes and duck into the bathroom undisturbed. He pulled Lando’s shirt off, and the scent of Lando–whatever mix of cologne and deodorant and hair products he used–hit him all over again, and he had to sit down on the edge of the closed toilet lid for a moment. He closed his eyes and dragged his hands down his cheeks.

The whole situation was shit. He was quickly growing addicted to the blissfully all-consuming high of kissing Lando Norris. Not to mention the smaller pings of adrenaline that rushed to his head every time Lando sent him a flirty text that short-circuited his brain for a few seconds. He knew that it wasn’t the healthiest way to cope, but at least he was coping somehow, right? And Norris seemed to be fine with it—golden boy Norris–he probably had a whole roster of guys and girls to fool around with. The thought made George slightly queasy, for some reason.

George ran a hand through his hair and stood up. Shower. Then finish reading that chapter he had been halfway through when Norris finally showed up. Crickey, he had been embarrassingly compliant. He’d asked which study room, even though he’d known immediately—tried to save face, but then Lando had shown up with his disarming dimples and distracting eyes, and George knew he wasn’t fooling anyone. He stepped under the spray of water and tried to redirect his thoughts. Went through tomorrow’s schedule—the usual array of classes, practices, and studying. Plus internship applications and a meeting with Mr. Wolff. 

George wrapped a towel around his waist and gazed at his reflection in the mirror. He had bags under his eyes and a trail of hickeys from his collarbone up his neck. Thank goodness the majority fell beneath the collar of his uniform shirt. He shivered as he remembered Lando’s hands tracing them, finger warm and rough against the sensitive skin. 

He dried himself the rest of the way before pulling on a clean pair of boxers. But he hesitated when he picked up Lando’s shirt. He held it up to his face and inhaled. It was a bit ridiculous, the way the shirt still reeked of him. He took another deep breath, losing track of his mental to-do list as a fizzy warmth hit his stomach. He could feel his neck warming, could only think of Lando’s hand on his dick, his fingers in his hair. 

George tossed the shirt in the hamper and splashed some water on his face. He needed to get a grip–Lando was a distraction, but George couldn’t let him be distracting. He had too much to do to waste time thinking about Norris. He brushed his teeth and focused on his tasks for tomorrow. 

When George left the bathroom, Alex was quick to comment.

“You look a bit flushed, mate, were you having a wank in there?”

George laughed nervously. The semen-covered uniform shirt in the laundry hamper felt especially incriminating now. He side-stepped the question and grabbed a clean shirt from his dresser.

“Would you rather I wank out here?” he asked over his shoulder.

Alex laughed. “Mate, you went directly to the bathroom when you got in. What happened to ‘Hello?’”

“Hello, Alex. How was your day?” George rolled his eyes.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Alex said.

“I would, actually. Go on, tell me how your English exam went.” George was sincere; he also wanted to steer the conversation into a safer topic.

He relaxed as Alex dissected his exam and complained about George’s absence from his English classes. 

“How’s graphic design going?” Alex asked. 

Lando’s face flashed into George’s mind. “Oh, it’s fine. The material is actually quite interesting.”

“And your dad? Has he come around, then?”

“I  haven’t spoken to him, actually. But I’ve got a meeting with my advisor tomorrow, so I’m sure things’ll get sorted then.” George sighed, a familiar weight sinking in his stomach. He settled into the chair at his desk and pulled out his textbook. He really did need to finish reading that chapter.

“I swear you’re the only person in this whole school who actually reads the textbook.” Alex commented. 

“I’ll share the highlights with you,” George replied wryly.

“Oh, is that the business reading? Shit, I probably should look at that.” Alex walked over to the desk and peered at the text over George’s shoulder. Then he gasped.

“Oh my god. George. What is that?”

“What?” George peered at the page, confused. There was a bar graph and a few vocabulary words, but nothing that warranted this reaction.

“On your neck. George! Are those hickeys?” Alex was pulling the collar of George’s t-shirt to the side and openly gawking at the purple-red marks on his skin. George yanked his shirt back over them and scooted his chair away.

“No. What? It’s not..” George’s face felt like a furnace. When had the room gotten so warm? 

Alex was laughing. He had pulled his phone out and was recording. George pulled his t-shirt higher up his neck and kicked at Alex.

“Oh my god, Georgie’s all grown up. Coming home with hickeys. Go on, show them off, George.”

George raised his middle finger on his free hand. “Fuck off, Albono.” He couldn’t help a small smile from forming, though; Alex’s laugh was contagious.

Alex lunged forward and tugged George’s sleeve enough to reveal the hickeys for a moment. George rolled out of his chair and scrambled away. He grabbed a hoodie and tugged it on, hiding his neck from Alex’s prying eyes. The extra layer did not help with his overheating problem.

Alex gave up and flopped on his bed, tossing his phone to the side. He stared at George, eyes crinkled in a smile.

“Who?” he asked, slightly incredulous.

George sat down on the edge of his own bed and scratched his jaw. He couldn’t explain Lando Norris to Alex when he couldn’t even explain Lando to himself. So he settled on a half-truth, an admission that he hadn’t expected to share tonight, but, well, this was Alex, and George had to tell him something, couldn’t lie to him.

“Just some guy. Nothing serious.” He didn’t even have a chance to hold his breath–Alex was already responding.

“‘Some guy?’ Mate, give me nothing, honestly. When? Where? How?” 

George blinked twice, slightly surprised by Alex’s lack of reaction to George’s admission that he liked guys. “Well, generally hickeys are caused by extreme suction, usually during–” He was cut off by the pillow Alex threw at him.

“Smartass,” Alex huffed. “Is he cute?”

George hugged the pillow to his chest. Of course Alex knew. Of course Alex didn’t care. There was a warmth buzzing in his chest, the comfortable glow of knowing that someone is in your corner.

“Obnoxiously so,” he managed to answer.

Alex snorted. “Figures.”

George was surprised to find that he wasn’t really nervous for class on Wednesday morning. Lando would arrive late, try his best to distract George until the lab, and then annoy George while they worked on their project together. Nothing George couldn’t handle. 

Except. When Lando slid into his chair two minutes after class had started, his cologne hit George like a freight train–honestly, did he bathe in the stuff?  Twice, George caught himself having to reread a slide because he was paying too much attention to the way Lando’s tongue poked out of his mouth while he doodled to listen to Mrs. Mortar lecture. And Lando, of course, stretching his legs out and brushing George’s feet; wiggling his eyebrows at the every technical term that could possibly be misconstrued; tapping his stylus on his desk; essentially doing every thing he could to be all George could think about. He was, George thought, the most annoying person he had ever known. Which was why it felt so good to pin him to a wall. George shoved that thought aside and focused on Mrs. Mortar’s discussion of kerning and keming. 

It was annoying, too, how Lando made everything in the lab look so easy, made George feel a bit stupid.

“No, the button to the left, you muppet,” he corrected George with a little giggle.

George clenched his jaw.

“You sure about that colour?”

“There’s nothing wrong with pink,” George argued.

“Yeah, but mate, not that shade of pink. You need something brighter or it’ll just look disgusting with the green.”

George breathed deeply, flaring his nostrils as he adjusted the color. He was hit once again with the bright scent of Lando’s cologne. It did not improve his mood. By the time he left the lab, he was ready to wrap his hands around Lando’s neck and squeeze; wanted to shut him up with a cock down his throat–oh. George took long, purposeful steps across the quad, letting the chill in the February air cool his burning cheeks. Fucking Lando Norris.

After his meeting with Mr, Wolff, George practically sprinted to the pool. He swam with angry, choppy strokes, his form sloppy over the first few laps. He let his mood settle with his form, smoothing his thoughts as he smoothed his form. Mr. Wolff had told George that his father had no control over his schedule, but really George should consider his father’s wishes, and how George was clearly an intelligent young man who would be wasted on a design class. It frustrated George, how no one understood. This was a strategic move, one he had planned for months. Sure, the firms in his father’s pocket would prefer an English A-level. Oxbridge would prefer an English A-level. But those newer organizations and schools abroad–they would appreciate the graphic design. It was a way to pry himself out from beneath his father’s thumb. He let the rhythm of the water sooth him. At least it was his choice. At the end of the day, all he had to do was pass his graphic design A-levels with flying colors. 

In the library that evening, he got a text from Lando.

>>how was ur day?

Stressful as always<<

How was yours?<<

>>pretty good actually

>>set a new mario kart high score

George rolled his eyes and set his phone to the side. He needed to research this company he was applying to intern at. His phone screen lit up again.

>>come over for stress relief? my roomies gone 2nite

George bit the inside of his cheek, considering. He looked back at his computer screen and clicked through a few pages of the company website. His phone lit up again. 

>>[image]

Blimey. There was no way he was getting any work done now. George justified it to himself as he packed his books up. This way, he would focus better tomorrow. He could take some of his frustration out on Norris. He wasn’t really going to get anything else done tonight, anyway. 

Before he knew it, George was staring at the door decals on the floor above his. He hadn’t realized that Lando roomed with Oscar Piastri. Piastri was in a few of his classes. Quiet, smart. Not who George would have pictured rooming with Lando. It was jarring, seeing his name there. It made it feel real; sharpened his thoughts. He could feel his pulse racing in his wrist as he lifted his hand to knock. Tapped the door twice, soft but sure.

George heard feet on the floor, then the door swung open. Lando grinned up at him, green eyes twinkling, and grabbed his hand, pulled him into the room.

“Jeezus, about time,” Lando complained as he pulled George to the sofa. The door swung shut behind them with a bit of a bang. George’s knees hit the edge of the couch and he sat. Lando straddled him, right hand still interlocked with George’s left. 

“It’s been fifteen minutes, tops,” George argued. He snaked his free arm around Lando’s waist and spread his hand across his back, under his shirt. Lando leaned forward, put his mouth on George’s ear.

“Fifteen minutes feels like ages when you’re waiting, mate.” He moved until his lips were millimeters from George’s. “What time is it now?” His breath was hot against George’s mouth. It sent a shiver down his spine. George lifted his left wrist to check his watch; his fingers were still intertwined with Lando’s. 

“Quarter past ten,” he murmured. Lando had two beauty marks on his face. George wanted to kiss them. He leaned forward to do just that, and Lando pulled back. George furrowed his eyebrows. Lando was smiling, but it was a feral, hunter’s smile. 

“Gonna make you wait ‘til 10:30,” he said.

George felt a flush creeping up his neck. His voice came out angry. “That doesn’t even make sense! You have to wait twice as long.”

“Don’t care.” Lando was unbuttoning George’s jacket, but he was too exasperated to pay too much attention.

“You’re being ridiculous. Immature.” Lando pushed the jacket off George’s shoulders and George reflexively pulled his arms out of it. “It’s illogical,” George continued. Lando just smiled absently, tracing a path along George’s arms up to his shoulders. 

“Scoot forward,” Lando ordered. He crawled to the side of George.

“No.” George glared at Lando and didn’t move. Lando squirmed into the miniscule gap between George and the back of the couch. He grabbed George’s shoulders and dug his thumbs in. George hissed and jerked forward.

“Mate, sit still, you’re so tense it’s making me stressed.” Lando pulled George back and eased the pressure of his thumbs, rubbing George’s upper back with surprisingly strong hands.

“You stabbing my shoulders is not going to make it better.” George was still tense, his shoulders hiked up almost to his ears. This was not the stress relief he’d had in mind when he showed up at Lando’s door.

“Stop squirming,” Lando giggled as George tried to escape his hold. George scooted forward on the couch again, only to be stopped by a pair of legs wrapped round his torso. He couldn’t even twist around to glare at him when Lando was wrapped up so close to him, fingers still massaging the tight muscles near his shoulders and neck. He settled back in defeat, and it did feel nice, actually, the push into flesh he hadn’t even realized was sore until Lando’s hands were on it.

“Take this thing off, will you?” Lando was tugging on George’s shirt, hand reaching around the front to feel for the buttons. George let out a little sigh, but acquiesced, undoing the buttons and letting Lando slide it halfway down his arms before those stupidly capable hands were working across his back again. 

“Mate, how have you just been walking around like this?” Of course Lando couldn’t just sit in silence. “No wonder you walk around like you’ve got a stick up your arse.”

“I do not!” George straightened up and twisted, getting halfway turned around and tangled up in Lando’s legs. He narrowed his eyes at the curly-haired annoyance behind him. “Just because I don’t bounce everywhere like you do–”

“Bounce?” Lando’s eyebrows shot up and his mouth dropped open. The exaggerated shock was ridiculous. George twisted even further and reached a finger out, used it to push his chin up and shut his mouth. 

“Bounce,” he confirmed. He watched as Lando’s eyes dipped to his lips, then to the watch on his wrist. Their eyes met briefly, and the next thing he knew he was twisting back around as Lando hopped off the couch. Then he was getting pushed back down against the cushions, and Lando’s lips were on his and that was the only thing that existed, soft lips and the brush of his nose and his hands cupping George’s cheeks. 

When they emerged for breath, panting, George couldn’t look away from Lando’s eyes–the pupils were blown out, the black nearly eclipsing the usual complexity of the iris. George freed an arm from the sleeve of his shirt and brought it up to Lando’s neck, toyed with the chain that was hanging out from his shirt. His father disapproved of chains. George stopped that train of thoughts in its tracks by crooking his finger, pulling on the chain to bring Lando’s lips back to his own. His other hand, still half-trapped by the shirt, caressed Lando’s hip, fingers playing with the waistband of his sweatpants. Lando’s arms were braced on either side of his head–George could feel his fingers slipping into his hair, tugging gently, and he moaned, the sound swallowed up by Lando’s greedy kisses. 

Lando’s fingertips scraped George’s scalp and his hips bucked up of their own accord, chasing the friction of Lando’s body pressed on top of his. He was rewarded with a mewl from Lando, who tugged his hair harder in response, until they were grinding against each other, panting, diving in for sloppy kisses. George had traded the chain for a handful of Lando’s hoodie, and apparently Lando took his tugging as a request to remove it, because he sat up, straddling George–and fuck did that do something to his dick, which grew impossibly harder at the sight of the curly-haired boy atop him, pulling his sweatshirt off to reveal a tanned chest and a smirk, chain caught in his teeth as he tossed the sweatshirt to the side.

George drank the sight in, took a mental picture to examine later, wondered if his inexperience was as clear to Lando as Lando’s experience was obvious to him. He just hadn’t had time to date, had been busy with water polo and debate team and studying, had chosen to prioritize–

“Hey. Cut that out.” Lando’s eyes were narrowed; his hands perched on his hips.

“What?” George blinked, refocused.

“Yeah, that. God, can’t leave you alone for one second.” Lando traced his way down George’s torso, his tough light enough that it tickled. George huffed a laugh. 

“Ooh!” Lando’s eyes lit up when his hand reached the soft hair below George’s belly button. “I nearly forgot.” 

He undid the button, then tugged George’s pants down off his left hip, slotting his fingers against the faded bruises he had left there. 

“‘S hot,” he murmured, leaning down to press a warm kiss against the delicate skin, stretched across bone. George felt the kiss shoot through his frame like electricity. His hand grappled blindly for an anchor, ended up awkwardly gripping the couch. Lando’s mouth migrated toward the center, leaving a burning trail of kisses as he slowly tugged George’s pants out of the way. George’s cock was straining against the fabric–Lando’s mouth was right there , his hair was tickling George’s pelvis–and George shifted, let out a quiet moan. Lando’s head tipped up, just a bit, just enough to make his eyes look huge, peering at George from beneath thick lashes. He grinned roguishly, then unzipped George’s trousers the rest of the way, freed his cock, and licked it, base to tip, before wrapping a hand around the base and pulling it into his mouth. 

George was fully in his body; the feeling of Lando’s mouth, wet and warm around his cock, was where his world began and ended. He started to prop himself on an elbow, to get a better view, but Lando started bobbing up and down, twisting his tongue around, and George was flat on his back, letting out a strangled groan. Lando flicked the head with his tongue, then took George deep into his mouth, and George was fighting not to thrust up too hard into the back of Lando’s throat, but his hips were moving of their own accord, and Lando’s tongue, goodness gracious.

George was panting, breathy pleas escaping his mouth without his permission while Lando worked him. George was begging and he wasn’t even sure what for, but quickly–embarrasingly quickly–his spine was growing warm and heat was pooling low in his belly.

“L-Lando, I’m going to…” George knew his eyes were wide; his hand was tangled in Lando’s curls, not pulling, just…grounding. Lando hummed around George’s cock, an acknowledgement, before quickening his pace, peering up at George through his lashes, and hollowing his cheeks. George came with a gasp and high-pitched groan, felt his skin buzz with the force of it; and something in his brain short circuited when Lando swallowed and licked his lips, tongue darting out while his eyes never left George’s face.

Lando was up on his knees, a hand wrapped around his own cock; he was stroking himself inside of his sweats, eyes darting across George’s face and body. George lay there, barely able to form a coherent thought. He felt sure that he should be reciprocating, but his limbs were jelly and his brain was mush, and when he tried to sit up, Lando pushed him back down and pinched his nipple, sending a rush toward his too-sensitive, slowly softening cock. He keened, and Lando tugged his cock out of his pants, hand moving quickly up and down the generous length. It was swollen and red and the sight of Lando over him, dick in hand, had George half hard again and he was squirming a little beneath Lando.

Lando was panting, his hips jutting forward into his hand in erratic, jerky movements, and then he was grunting and spraying all over George’s bare stomach, ropes of cum making a sticky mess of George’s abs. Lando let out a satisfied moan and laid down next to George on the sofa. George turned his head toward him, meant to say something–thank you, wowzers, crikey–but was cut off before he could speak by a wet, thorough kiss from Lando. He could taste himself, just a hint of salt, on Lando’s tongue. They broke apart, both breathing heavily, and George peered at Lando through half-closed eyes, studying the freckles on his face, the shape of his eyebrows, the variety of greens and browns in his hooded eyes. 

“You’re so pretty,” Lando murmured, a hand drifting up to trace George’s cheekbone down to his jawline.

George tried to stop the blush from blooming up his neck, but he gathered from Lando’s laughter that he was unsuccessful. 

“D’you wanna clean up and watch a movie?” Lando suggested.

George glanced down at his stomach. “A shower is definitely in order.” He stood up. “Um, d’you have…like, could I borrow a shirt?” He smoothed his hair nervously before focusing on buttoning his trousers.

“Oh, yeah, here–” Lando opened a surprisingly neat closet and tossed a few items at George, who just managed to catch them. 

He emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later, clean and smelling like Lando, his hair damp and the sweatpants he was wearing nearly ten centimeters too short. Lando cackled at the sight.

“Fucking daddy long legs over here,” he crowed, but patted the space next to him.

“Not my fault you’re pint-sized, mate.” George sat down next to him and tried to ignore the voice in the back of his head screaming, ‘It’s a Wednesday night, you have applications to submit, you don’t have time for this!’

“Rude,” Lando replied, but shoved himself into George’s space, head on his shoulder, thigh pressed flush against George’s. 

“I hope you like Disney movies,” he added, then pressed play. George couldn’t be bothered to argue; he was too focused on Lando finger-combing his damp hair, on the gentle detangling and the occasional droplet of cold water that fell to his neck and slipped down the collar of his borrowed hoodie.

Chapter Text

They were barely twenty minutes into the movie when George realized that Lando was asleep. His breaths were even and he lay curled around George, head heavy on his shoulder, one arm tucked under his hoodie, hand spread against George’s skin. George wondered vaguely why Lando had even suggested a movie if he was just going to sleep through it. He thought about the studying he could be doing.  But before he had even really considered standing up, he felt the weight of Lando’s head, the warmth of his legs tangled up in George’s, and decided that it wouldn’t be worth it. Instead, he relaxed and brought a hand to Lando’s back, rubbed it in slow circles until his own eyes drifted shut.

He woke up later, when the credits rolled and Lando shifted, stretching and yawning. The absence of his body heat left George feeling cold. George covered his own yawn with his hand.

“I should probably be off,” he said. He slapped his palms against his thighs and stood.

“You could stay if you want.” Lando was searching the couch cushions for the remote, ass in the air. 

“My room’s just downstairs, so…” George squinted at Lando as he righted himself and held the remote up victoriously.

“Uh…yeah?” Lando turned the TV off and looked at George; the uncertainty on his face matched George’s own feelings.

The absence of sound from the television exacerbated the awkwardness of the moment. George cleared his throat. 

“I mean, it’s a Wednesday night, mate.” George wasn’t sure how he felt about sleeping next to Lando anyway. He didn’t know how he would navigate that situation. What was the protocol for that kind of sleepover? How would he brush his teeth? And, anyhow, that would set a precedent, some sort of—he blinked in surprise as Lando pressed his lips against his, then closed his eyes and sank into the kiss. 

Lando pulled back with an obscene pop. “D’you ever stop thinking? I could practically hear your brain whirring, mate.”

George frowned. “Well, it’s not like I can just turn it off.”

“S’alright, I’ll just turn it off for you, yeah?” Lando’s close-lipped smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

George forced a laugh. “Right.”  The flash of hurt in Lando’s eyes settled in George’s stomach like a stone. It made part of him want to stay, to convince Lando of…well, of something. But more of him wanted to flee and escape to his familiar room and comfortable routine. 

“I’ll see you, then,” he said as he stood.

Lando looked small, curled on the couch, biting at the edge of a thumbnail. His green eyes were wide, peering up from beneath his dark curls. 

“Yeah, g’night,” he mumbled. George didn’t think, just leaned down and pressed a lingering kiss to his cheek, drank in the taste of him. 

“Goodnight.” It was strange, how relieved he felt at the sight of a soft, real smile on Lando’s face, teeth biting his bottom lip. But the sinking feeling in his gut lingered, even after he crept into his darkened bedroom, careful not to wake Alex. It clung to his stomach, after he brushed his teeth and washed his face, after he shed Lando’s hoodie and crawled between his own sheets. And even though it was late, and he really was tired, he lay awake, peering into the dark and replaying their conversation over and over and over until he finally fell into a restless sleep.

Thursday passed in its usual haze, and George found himself paying a little extra attention to how he styled his hair on Friday morning. He had even gotten seven hours of sleep last night, so the bags beneath his eyes were looking better than they had as of late. 

He and Alex chatted about their plans for the weekend–George had a water polo match Saturday morning; Alex had plans to attempt the latest viral trend; and they agreed that a FIFA night was in order on Sunday. George wondered, briefly, if he should invite Lando before he came to his senses and realized that would be a terrible idea for a hundred different reasons.

As per usual, Lando stumbled into class two minutes late, bleary eyed, tie stuffed in a pocket somewhere. George couldn’t stop his lips from twitching up into a smile when Lando lay his head on his desk, face turned toward George, and made the biggest puppy dog eyes he’d ever seen.

“I shouldn’t be allowed to take 8ams. It’s, like, intentionally cruel.” 

George chuckled and shook his head. “You’re ridiculous.” 

Lando groaned and turned to rest his forehead on his desk.

“Late night?” George teased, but his stomach took a dive at the implications of a late night for Lando. 

Lando didn’t have a chance to answer before Mrs. Mortar began to lecture. George quickly wrote a header for the day’s notes and focused on the class material. And if he stared at the way Lando flexed his hands while he was drawing, well, he was still listening. 

By the time they migrated to the lab, Lando had either imbibed enough Monster or been awake long enough that he was his usual hyperactive self. He stole the good chair and spun in circles while George read the day’s lab instructions. They bickered over the font for their project until George capitulated (then changed the font back while Lando was distracted). Half an hour later, Lando was moving the text box when he noticed the change.

“You muppet! You changed the font!” Lando clicked the mouse loudly as he changed it back.

“Don’t know what you’re on about, mate.” George knew his smirk was giving him away, but Lando was giggling–that stupidly contagious giggle–and he couldn’t help himself.

After the lab, George walked all the way to Lando’s next class with him, just to continue the debate over which font was superior. They texted back and forth for the rest of the day; eventually Lando’s side of the debate devolved into rude memes. George responded to them with peer-reviewed articles about the psychological impact of different font families. 

As the water polo team walked out of the visitors locker room and into the humid heat of the pool on Saturday, Lewis elbowed George and nodded.

“Is that your parents there?”

George followed Lewis’s gaze and fixed on a smile even as his organs turned icy. His parents were indeed perched in the bleachers. His father radiated power in a dark suit and his mother was perched next to him, the picture of propriety. 

“Yep. That would indeed be the parental units.” George offered a polite wave. His mother waved back. His father nodded. 

George looked back toward his team and tried to listen to his coach. He went through the motions during warm-ups and wondered how he had forgotten that they might show up. The match was near their house; he wondered if his mother would ask him to stay for the weekend. 

He played horribly. It started with one dropped pass, which shouldn’t have been a big deal, but his parents were watching. He could practically feel his father’s disappointment; he threw his next shot too hard and it skied above the net. It spiraled from there. He didn’t even start the second half; his coach told him to take a minute to compose himself, but when George got back in the water he felt more in his head than ever. Halfway through the final quarter, George took a hand elbow to the lungs and ended up swallowing half the pool. He was actually relieved when he was benched for the rest of the game, even if it meant he spent the final three and half minutes of the match avoiding his father’s judgemental gaze. 

The team won the match–just barely–and George made sure to congratulate his teammates. He donned a smile for their benefit, shook hands with the opposing team, accepted Lewis’s pat on the back with a rueful grin. After the team breakdown and a shower, he emerged from the locker room to find his father waiting for him.

“George. You’ll stay with us this weekend.” Steve Russell’s tone was similar to what one might use to comment on the weather forecast. 

“Righty-o.” George hefted his bag on his shoulder. “Where’s Mum off to?”

“The chlorine was giving her a headache, so she retreated to the car.” His father let out a long-suffering sigh. “Are you ready?”

George nodded and followed his dad out of the pool area.

George’s hands were sweating. He turned the air conditioning in the back of the town car higher. His mother had greeted him with a seated half-hug and a kiss on the cheek; he could tell from a glance at her face, pinched between her eyebrows, eyes half closed, that she had a migraine. He rubbed gentle circles on her shoulder and stayed quiet during the drive.

She took a med and retreated to her bedroom when they got home. George wandered into the kitchen to make himself a peanut butter sandwich, and his father followed him there. He put the kettle on and turned to face George. 

“Tough match today. You didn’t look very sharp out there.” He leaned back against the counter.

George weighed his answer carefully. “It wasn’t my best performance, but the team played well.”

His fathers frown deepened. “You can’t always count on the team to make up for your shortcomings.”

“I don’t. But I do trust them to come through on the rare occasion that I have an off day,” George disputed. 

His father harumphed, unimpressed. “You were playing like you’re distracted. Is that graphic design class taking more effort than you expected?” He spit the words “graphic design” out like they had personally offended him.

George felt a flush creeping up his neck. The class work wasn’t worse than any of his other courses, but he couldn’t deny that a certain curly-haired lab partner of his took up far too much space in his head. 

“I have a heavy workload this semester, but I’m managing it.” He tried to keep his expression neutral, unbothered.

“It doesn’t seem like you are.” His father folded his arms and continued, “I’m going to give you a choice. Either you switch out of graphic design, or, if you’re so intent on throwing your career away, we pull you out of Formulae Academy. There’s no point in paying that much tuition for you to waste your time on art classes. ” His lip curled around the last words, turning them into something vulgar.

“Dad, that’s not–” George stopped himself before he could protest that it was unfair; Steve Russell did not believe that life was fair. “We’re already a month into the semester. I can’t just change classes now. I would be so far behind that it would be nearly impossible to catch back up.”

“And whose fault is that?” His father was glowering now, his temper rising with the steam from the kettle behind him.

“Look, I really believe that this class will benefit me professionally.” George wracked his brain for some sort of tangible advantage he could find, something to demonstrate the course’s usefulness to his father. “Experience in graphic design is a requirement on some of the internships I’m applying to.”

“Really?” His father’s lips pinched together. The kettle whistled behind him, and he turned to remove it from the stove. He took his time pouring his tea. George stood frozen at the counter, peanut-butter-covered knife resting on a forgotten piece of bread. He was barely breathing, eyes wide as he waited for his father’s verdict.

His dad finished preparing the tea and turned around. “Very well. Finish the semester in the class. If you get an internship, I will consider allowing you to continue on this path. If not–you’ll be taking English classes over the summer to catch up, and you will rejoin the traditional path next fall.”

George exhaled. He glanced down at his half-built sandwich and resumed spreading the peanut butter. “Yeah. Alright. Understood.”

“Good. I’m off to the office for the afternoon. Make sure your mother eats something.” With that, he took his tea and strolled out. George took a deep breath and aggressively bit into his sandwich. He chewed and considered. He turned the issue over in his head. He needed to focus. This was a good reminder of what his priorities needed to be. He needed to stay focused. Disciplined. That meant cutting out distractions. Even–his heart sank–no, especially–distractions with beautiful green eyes and wide smiles. His throat constricted; he nearly choked on the peanut butter, and surely that was why his eyes were watering. He put the sandwich back in the fridge, uneaten, and headed back to his childhood room to work on internship applications. His phone buzzed periodically, and each time he ignored it, the ache in his chest intensified. But so did his resolve; it was impossible to achieve one’s goals without some sacrifice, after all.

>>congrats on the win!

>>match go ok 4 u?

>>heard u almost got drowned

>>helllooo

>>did u actually drown is that why ur not answering

Sorry, busy.<<

>>ur always busy

>>busy bee 🐝

>>when does ur bus get back

>>wanna come over?

[read]

Chapter Text

Lando had begun dinner feeling excited and maybe a little worried, but as he spooned chocolate ice cream into his mouth at the end of his meal, he was feeling annoyed. He had seen the returning water polo bus pull up on his way over, so he was anticipating George’s return. He was ready to needle him about leaving Lando on read–again. But when the rest of the team made their way in, jostling and joking around, George’s lanky figure was nowhere to be seen. 

“Looking for someone?” Oscar smirked at him from across the table.

“No.” Lando returned to his buttered noodles, stabbing the pasta with more force than necessary.

“Uh huh.” Oscar cut into his steak, a smug look on his face.

“Eh? Who are you looking for?” Carlos turned to face Lando.

“No one!” Lando insisted. He couldn’t stop himself from glancing toward the group again, though. 

“Ah! Yes, you are!” Carlos pointed at Lando with his fork.

“No,” Lando turned his head back to the table. His eyes darted up to the line forming a few meters beyond Oscar’s shoulder.

Carlos turned to Oscar. “Do you know? Wait, is it that guy he’s been texting?”

Oscar didn’t say anything, but he nodded, chewing slowly.

Lando scowled. Carlos went into lecture mode.

“Lando, I tell you every time. Date a nice guy. Someone mature. But you never listen and then we end up here.”

Lando squawked, offended. “He is mature! He’s, like, got his life together and shit.”

Oscar swallowed and interjected, “He actually does. He’s annoyingly competent.”

“I do not believe it.” Carlos shook his head. “Why are you searching then? Like a seagull at the beach.” He craned his head around in exaggerated, sweeping movements.

“I don’t look like that!” Lando laughed, eyebrows raised.

“Mate, you so do.” Oscar laughed at Carlos’s wide-eyed impression of Lando.

Lando rolled his eyes. “I’ll just text him, then.” He pulled his phone out and shot off another message to George.

>>u miss the bus or…?

But George didn’t text him back. He checked his phone when he walked up to grab some ice cream, and the message had been read. Frustration flared hot in his chest because he thought they were past this. Fine. Two could play at that game. He resolutely shoved his phone in his pocket and vowed not to check it for the rest of the day. He joined Carlos and Oscar for a few rounds of padel on the indoor courts and managed to mostly avoid thinking about George. 

He allowed himself a moment of weakness before bed that night, though. He opened their message thread and wondered what he had done. Maybe the drowning joke was too far. More likely, he just…wanted more than George was willing to give. Probably–he punched his pillow into a better shape and rolled over–probably George was tired of him. He’d been told before that he was “a lot.” And anyone as chronically stressed as George definitely didn’t need someone who was “a lot” in their life. He flipped over again and kicked his blankets off. Fine, then. 

Lando arrived at class at his usual two-minutes-past eight on Monday morning. He sat in his usual spot next to George, and even though he was supposed to be Not Caring, he drank in the sight of him. He was simultaneously relieved and annoyed to find that George looked normal–posture straight, uniform immaculate, blue eyes big and a little sad, face like a porcelain doll. Lando kicked his desk leg out of pure spite. George readjusted his sliding pens and pursed his lips.

“Whoops,” Lando laced the word with all the sarcasm he could muster. George didn’t even look at him, just offered a one-shoulder shrug.

Lando frowned and focused on Mrs. Mortar, who was beginning a lecture on motion graphics. He listened intently, his hands sketching on autopilot until he realized that he had started to draw George’s face. He scowled and defaced the drawing, put a crown of sharp icicles on him, melting down his face. Added a mean-spirited slash across his cheekbone and finger-shaped bruises on his neck. Ruined the lips by drawing them in an exaggerated, clownish frown. But then he was thinking about George’s lips, so he started a new drawing and refocused on the lecture.

The lab that followed was the longest hour of Lando’s life.  He sat in his usual chair and George stood beside him, but it felt as if there was a chasm between them. 

“Good weekend?” George asked, ever polite.

“Yeah, it was alright. Yours?” Lando stared at the loading screen as the computer booted up.

There was a long enough pause that Lando wondered if he should turn around. Finally, George said quietly, “Um, yes, it was alright.” 

Lando clicked the mouse rapidly on the slowly loading screen. He could make out a distorted version of George’s reflection on the screen, looking a bit lost. Then the computer finally finished booting up. 

“What are we making today, then?” Lando asked.

George read off the instructions and Lando dutifully followed them while George watched over his shoulder. Twice, George asked him to repeat an action; that was the extent of their conversation. It made Lando nervous; he fidgeted with the chair and the mouse and the keyboard and played with his chain. He interpreted every awkward silence in the worst possible way. They finished their assignment fifteen minutes early, and Lando practically sprinted out of the lab. 

Wednesday and Friday passed in the same fashion–the only thing that changed was that each class, George looked paler and the circles beneath his eyes looked darker than the day before. Not that Lando noticed. And he absolutely did not suggest that his friends go swimming after afternoon classes wrapped up on Friday because he knew that George might be at the pool. 

George was at the pool, as it turned out, swimming laps with graceful strokes. The muscles in his back rippled as he pulled through the water. It was slightly mesmerizing, watching his lanky form glide along. Lando could easily picture those back muscles shifting in a different way–his increasingly filthy train of thought was interrupted by a splash of water as Carlos canonnballed into the pool next to him. Lando laughed and shook the water out of his hair like a dog, prompting barking and horseplay from the lads. By the time things settled down and Lando had the opportunity to look around again, George was nowhere to be seen. Lando rubbed his chest absentmindedly; there was a hollow desire behind his ribcage that had him wishing he could send George some teasing text about how tight his swim trunks were. 

Lando was drinking wine at a board game party in Carlos’s room that evening when George texted him.

Are you busy right now?<<

Lando was a little tipsy from the wine.

>>i’m not coming over 4 booty call rn

>>well i mean

>>maybe if u beg

not a booty call<<

please<<

Lando frowned at his phone. That had been suspiciously easy. 

“Carlos,” he said, turning to his friend, “What do you make of this?” He proceeded to read the text exchange out loud.

“Neither of you have any self-respect,” Carlos replied. “And you’re both lying. Just go get laid and stop telling me the details.”

“I haven’t told you anything!” Lando protested, but he set his wine glass down anyway. Something about this was off. George never sent one-word texts. He threw an “Adios!” over his shoulder and walked through the building to the wing where his and George’s rooms were located. He stopped outside of George’s door, concerned by the sound of heavy breathing coming from the room. He knocked.

“George?”

There was a weird, strangled sound. Lando tried the handle. The door was unlocked, so he stepped inside, hesitant. The room was dark, and it took his eyes a moment to adjust.

“George?” Lando finally spotted him, sitting on the floor, head between his knees, hands gripping his ankles. He was breathing shakily, ragged breaths that sounded like he was fighting for air. Lando rushed over and crouched beside him.

“Are you okay?” Lando was running his hands along George’s back, feeling his arms, then his legs, checking for injuries, for something. The contact seemed to pull George out of whatever haze he was in; his head jolted up and Lando’s stomach plummeted. George’s eyes were wide and scared; there were fresh tears joining the tracks running down his face, and his breathing was still an uneven wheeze. 

“I think,” he paused, panted, “I’m having,” another breath, “a panic attack.” 

“Oh, shit.” Lando didn’t know what to do. All he knew was that he needed to fix this–that seeing George like this was terrifying. “Um, okay,” he placed a hand on George’s back and rubbed in soft circles that he hoped were soothing. “I’m gonna google what to do, okay?”

George nodded and kept breathing rapid, shallow breaths. Lando clicked on the first result and clenched his fist when the letters started dancing across the screen. He took a deep breath, looked away, and refocused. Stay with the person and keep calm. Right, because he was just going to leave? Ask the person what they need.  

“George. Um, what do you need?” Lando petted George’s knee as he waited for those brilliant blue eyes to meet his again. George shook his head a little. Lando looked back at his phone and read the next item on the list. Help the person focus. Ask the person to repeat a simple, physically tiring task such as raising his or her arms over the head. 

“Alright, it says to repeat a simple task.” Lando looked at George and wondered if raising his arms over his head would be a bit much right now. He took George’s hand in his own instead. “I want you to squeeze my hand.” George squeezed with surprising strength. 

“Okay, let go.” Lando’s voice came out just a smidge higher than usual.

“Sorry,” George’s breathing was speeding up again.

“No, no, you’re doing mega, mate.” Lando offered a light squeeze of his own. “Go again. Just keep doing that, yeah?” George nodded, wide eyes focused on Lando, and squeezed his hand again. Lando read the next suggestion. Help slow the person's breathing. You can do this by breathing with him or her or by counting slowly to 10. 

“Right, good work, keep squeezing,” Lando said. “And I want you to breathe with me, okay?” He took a deep breath, inhaled and exhaled loudly. Did it again, and George breathed in with him, then rushed the exhale, took a few more quick breaths.

“I can’t–” George was getting close to hyperventilating again, and his hand had stopped moving. Lando maneuvered himself behind George, kept their hands entwined. 

“Here.” Lando pressed his chest to George’s back, took a full breath in and out. “Feel that? Breath with me.” He squeezed George’s hand, too, a gentle reminder. They sat there, listening to the even cadence of Lando’s breath and the gradually slowing tempo of George’s. The rapid shaking of George’s chest eventually evened out and matched the careful rise and fall of Lando’s. After about a minute of even breathing, Lando spoke.

“You alright?”

George’s thumb stroked over Lando’s knuckles where they held hands. His voice was quiet. “Better.”

They stayed there for a moment, George in Lando’s lap, limbs tangled on the hardwood floor. The moonlight filtered in through the curtains, and it was silent except for the steady sounds of their breath. 

“Does this happen often?” Lando asked, curiosity overwhelming his brain-to-mouth filter (which wasn’t that great to begin with).

George shook his head. “Hasn’t happened in ages. Alex usually…” He trailed off, then resumed. “He’s at his girlfriend’s this weekend, so.”

“What about your parents?” Lando was wondering how he, someone with no idea what to do, had been the person George reached out to.

George laughed darkly. “Yeah, they wouldn’t be much help.” He let go of Lando’s hand and scooted away. “I mean, my mum might, but then my dad would hear about it.” 

“And that’s…bad?” Lando knew he was lucky to be so close to his own parents, but he couldn’t wrap his head around the idea that George’s parents weren’t his first call in a crisis.

“We don’t get on.” George’s head was low; his hair hung down in short waves that shifted when he glanced at Lando. “Can we talk about something else?”

“Sure.” Lando cast about for a different topic. “D’you think giraffes, like, know it’s weird how long their necks are?”

George stared at him. He blinked slowly, then started to laugh. “Mate. What?” 

“What? It’s a valid question,” Lando protested, but he was giggling, too. George just laughed harder. 

“C’mon, then, what do you think?” Lando prompted once their laughter had faded into the occasional chuckle.

“About giraffes? I don’t know. They don’t really look very intelligent, do they? Those big dopey eyes.” George hummed thoughtfully. “I reckon they know they’re different, though.”

They sat in silence for a moment, musing.

“Have you seen the videos of them fighting each other with their necks?” Lando asked.

“What? No.” George’s own big dopey eyes ( Beautiful , thought Lando) were full of curiosity.

“C’mon, mate, you’ve got to see this.” Lando scooted closer to George and pulled his phone out, then opened up a video of giraffes fighting. They watched it, heads bent together over the screen.

“I feel like I shouldn’t laugh, but they’re so loony,” George said.

Lando was already cackling. “It gets better.”

Soon they were both laughing again; they watched the video twice, making little comments throughout. At the end of the second watch-through, Lando shifted–his arse was falling asleep from sitting on the hardwood floor for so long. George caught the movement with razor-sharp eyes. 

“You don’t have to stay, you know,” he said. “I mean–I appreciate it–thank you, really, I don’t know what I would have done–but–I mean–it’s a Friday night–I’m sure you have places to be and–” he swallowed, visibly. In a smaller voice, he offered, “I wouldn’t mind if you did, though. Stay.”

Lando’s heart was pinballing around his chest. “I’ll stay on one condition,” he announced.

“What’s that, then?” George looked relieved.

“We get off this freaking floor, mate.” Lando stood up and kicked his shoes off, then lay on George’s bed, his knees dangling over the side.

Lando felt the bed dip next to him as George laid down beside him. He turned his head to the side so that they were practically nose to nose. This close, he could see the red rims of George’s eyes and the puffiness of the skin around them.

“You sure you’re alright?” he asked. 

George’s eyes glistened a little. “No.” His voice broke. “Haven’t been alright in a while, I think.” He squeezed his eyes shut, and Lando watched the tears leak out of the corners and run down George’s face. He leaned over and kissed them away, then licked the salty taste from his lips. He pulled George closer, let him curl on top of him and bury his face in his chest. He gently ran his hand down George’s back.

“Sorry.” George’s voice came out muffled, but Lando felt the movement of his lips against his chest.

“‘S alright.” Lando stroked George’s hair and wondered what he was apologizing for. Then again, did it really matter? He felt sure, somehow, that if George looked at him teary-eyed, he would forgive him for anything. They lay there for a few minutes, long enough for Lando to close his eyes and grow drowsy. Then George’s chin was poking Lando’s chest. He opened his eyes and propped his head up on his elbow, chin tucked down to his clavicle.

“I turned in the wrong draft,” George said. “Of a paper for my business class,” he clarified when Lando scrunched his eyebrows together. 

“And I got it back and it was covered in red pen and I know I can do better than that–I did do better than that; I was just distracted, and I turned in the wrong one.” George was gripping the blanket beneath them and glaring at it like it had wronged him. Lando kind of wished George would grab him instead. 

“And then I started worrying about everything else I’ve turned in lately, thinking ‘crikey, what if I attached the wrong document to an application?’ and I sort of spiraled.”

Lando hummed an acknowledgement and twirled the soft hair at the base of George’s neck between his fingers. 

George continued, fist still scrunching the blanket. “I just can’t afford any more mistakes this year. Everything has got to be perfect.”

Lando moved his hand to the top of George’s head and tugged a little to bring his eyes back up. “Tall order. Is that why you keep ghosting me? God knows I’m not perfect.”

George flushed, blushing so hard that Lando could see it even in the dark of the moonlit room. “No, I–you don’t need to be–and anyway, you are, so it’s not–” He was stammering and blushing and when Lando laughed, he rolled off of him and huffed, “Fuck off.”

“Think I’ll stay,” Lando replied, cheeky. He turned on his side and pulled George closer, making himself into the big spoon.

“Thanks,” George whispered, so softly that Lando almost missed it. Lando squeezed him a little tighter and let the gentle rhythm of his breathing lull him to sleep.

Chapter Text

George’s alarm chimed at 7am, like it did every Saturday. He tried to roll over to turn it off, only to find that there was a weight wrapped around him. He freed an arm and fumbled for his phone, which he promptly dropped on the ground. The alarm grew louder.

A very sleepy voice emanated from beneath the mess of curls pressed to his shoulder. “No…” Lando. Lando Norris was in his bed, his body wrapped around George’s so tightly he wasn’t sure where his limbs ended and Lando’s began. 

“Sorry, I’ll just–” he pried Lando’s arms off his waist and dangled himself halfway off the bed to pick the phone up and turn the alarm off. Before too much blood could rush to his head, he heaved himself back onto the bed, where he was immediately pulled back under the covers, his back pressed to Lando’s chest.

“‘S cold,” Lando mumbled, snuggling impossibly closer. George tucked the edges of the blanket in and reoriented them so that he was lying on his back with Lando tucked into his left side, lying half on top of him. He wrapped an arm around Lando’s waist.

“Better?” he asked. Lando’s hand was splayed across his chest, warm and steady. 

“Mm-hm,” was Lando’s only response before his breathing evened out and he was asleep again. George lay there in a sleepy haze, replaying the events from the night before as he absentmindedly stroked Lando’s back. He perhaps needed to reevaluate his approach to the rest of the semester—and to the curly-haired menace currently drooling on his shoulder. He shelved that train of thought for the moment and considered his plans for the day. No match this weekend, so he had all day. He had submitted most of his internship applications last week—he could probably send in one more today, if he reworked his cover letter. All he had to do for his business classes were readings, and then, of course, he could probably work on the graphic design project…which brought him back to Lando. Lando, who was sleeping in his bed like he belonged there. Lando, who had shown up last night even though George has been practically ignoring him all week. George barely wanted to admit, even to himself, that he had missed getting triple texts and dumb memes last week. Because they annoyed him. He got the flurry of notifications and his blood pressure went up. 

Then again, they made him laugh. Loads of scientific articles touted the benefits of laughter. So it probably evened out. His reasons for wanting Lando around were logical. They had nothing to do with the warmth that spread from his chest when he looked at him curled against him. Nothing to do with the way his vibrant green eyes made George’s stomach swoop when they peered up at him through dark lashes. Absolutely unrelated to the brilliance of his smile or the way he flirted fearlessly or how he kissed like he wanted to crack George open and drink the sorrow from his bones. Right.

He lay there ruminating until he fell back into the liminal space between waking and sleeping, warm and safe and held. 

Some time later, George woke again, desperately thirsty. He took the water bottle from his bedside table and tilted his head up just enough to swallow the water without choking—Lando was somehow still sleeping soundly and he didn’t want to wake him. Although George was getting a bit restless—he checked the time on his phone and was shocked to see that it was a quarter past ten. He felt the familiar anxiety creep in, but took a deep breath and reminded himself that he didn’t actually have that much to do today. And he had all day tomorrow. Lando shifted against him and stretched, fingers spreading wide.

“Good morning,” George said, voice low.

Lando blinked his eyes open. “Oh. Mornin.’” He rolled off of George and twisted, cracking his back. He scrunched his face up. “Ew, my mouth tastes disgusting. You have mouthwash?”

“Um, yeah, in the cabinet,” George gestured to the bathroom, bemused. 

“Thank god,” Lando crawled out of the bed over George and stretched his arms over his head. George stared at the sliver of tan skin that was revealed when his shirt rode up. Lando glanced at him and winked before walking to the bathroom. George scratched his scalp, then shrugged and unfolded himself from the bed. He straightened the bedding and fluffed the pillows while Lando’s gargles sounded through the bathroom door. He was just getting dressed when Lando reemerged, arms folded.

“I’m still mad at you, for the record,” he said. But he licked his lips and his eyes roved hungrily over George’s bare torso.

“I’m finding that hard to believe you when you’re looking at me like that,” George replied, cocking an eyebrow.

“I can think you’re fit and still be mad at you.” Lando leaned against the door and tried to look annoyed. George flexed his abs and reached up further than necessary to grab a sweater.

“Oh, come on,” Lando complained. 

George smirked and pulled the sweater over his head. “How about I make it up to you?”

“If that’s your plan, why are you putting more clothes on?” Lando asked, voice cracking just a little.

George laughed. “I was thinking more along the lines of taking you out for breakfast.”

“Dining hall’s free, you muppet.”

George sighed, exasperated. “I meant off-campus. Like that cafe off Church Street?”

“Oh,” Lando blinked, mouth hanging half-open. “Yeah, alright.” He narrowed his eyes, but grinned. “You’re paying.”

“Obviously,” George responded, smiling in spite of himself.

Twenty minutes later, they were sat across from each other in a booth in Lucy’s Cafe, Lando’s hair still slightly damp from his shower, and George nervously jiggling his knee under the table. He glanced at the menu–he wasn’t fussy–and decided he would just try the daily special, some sort of quiche. Lando, on the other hand, was carefully examining each menu item that caught his fancy. Lando had quite nice eyebrows, George realized. He was feeling remarkably fond of the boy across from him, with his curls sticking to his forehead and his scrunchy eyebrows and his slightly pouty lips. 

Lando glanced up, green eyes surprisingly sharp, considering how unwilling he had been to wake up a mere half hour ago. 

“D’you want a picture?” Lando smirked and returned his gaze to the menu.

“What?” George felt a warm flush rise to his cheeks.

“I can feel you staring at me. Your eyes are like fucking lasers, mate.” Lando ran a hand through his hair, scrunching it. “Have you already decided what you’re getting?”

“Thought I’d just go with the special, yeah.” George said. He unabashedly resumed his examination of Lando’s face. In for a penny, in for a pound, and all. Lando had two beauty marks that framed his mouth beautifully.

“Quiche? With tomatoes?” Lando grimaced and flipped the menu over. His eyes lit up. “Ooh, crepes!”

Their waitress returned with George’s coffee and a glass of water for Lando.

“Ready to order?”

They placed their respective orders and George sipped his coffee. 

“I feel like I owe you an explanation," he said.

“You think?” Lando folded his arms across his chest.

“I am grateful for your help. I haven’t gotten a panic attack in…years, mate. And Alex was gone and, well, I was panicking, wasn’t I? So I wasn’t really thinking. But I do apologize.”

“Look, mate, I’m not fussed about last night. I was happy to help. It’s just this whole hot and cold thing you’ve got going on. I think we’re finally getting somewhere and then you straight up ignore me for a week. Like, what are you playing at?”

“I…” George winced and averted his eyes. “Look, I didn’t plan on this.” He gestured between the two of them. 

“Obviously,” Lando sniped.

“I have a lot going on,” George began, but the excuse sounded flimsy, even if it was true. “I—I got in a fight with my dad. He’s—I’m—I just really need to do well this semester and you. Well.” 

Lando was looking remarkably confused. George tried to explain himself further.

“I was just using a lot of mental energy, I think, and I thought that if we stopped talking, maybe I could focus better on other things, but clearly that didn’t turn out well for me. So, yeah.” He fidgeted with the coffee creamer on the table. 

“So you’ve been thinking about me?” Lando was grinning again. George’s insides were doing acrobatics again at the sight of that wide, wide, slightly gap-toothed smile.

“That’s what you’ve gotten from this?” George smiled incredulously.

“Yeah, pretty much.” Lando shrugged. 

Their waitress arrived with a cheerful disposition and their dishes. They thanked her and Lando began cutting his crepes. George’s silverware sat untouched; his hands were clasped in front of him; he stared at Lando, disbelief still etched on his face.

“Oh, that is delicious.” Lando closed his eyes and sighed blissfully. George blinked twice, slowly, then picked up his cutlery. He cut a small bite of his quiche and wondered how he always seemed to find himself on his back foot when it came to Lando Norris.

They ate in silence for a few moments while a pop song played faintly from the cafe’s sound system. George put his fork back down.

“So, are you still miffed at me or not?”

Lando swallowed. There was whipped cream on the corner of his lip. George fought the urge to lick it off. 

“I mean,” he licked his lips, getting most of the whipped cream. “If I say yes, are you gonna make it up to me?”

George groaned. “You’re unbelieveable.”

“Yeah, I get that a lot.” Lando grinned. His expression turned thoughtful. “You could start with a second date.”

At that, George gained a newfound appreciation for the phrase “butterflies in your stomach.” His eyes searched Lando’s face as his brain whirled. He wasn’t very surprised that his first instinct was to say yes—after all, he had spent the majority of the last week feeling moody and wishing that Lando would text him, annoying as his triple messages could be. But Lando was, well, Lando . Charming and popular and absolutely wrong for George. And when would they even go for another date? Would that make Lando his boyfriend? Would they tell people? What if they didn’t work out and then spent half the semester awkwardly collaborating on graphic design labs and avoiding eye contact? So George deflected.

“Is this our first date, then?”

“Depends.” Lando leaned back against the booth.

“On what?” George took the bait. He couldn’t help himself.

Lando bit his bottom lip. “If there’s more.”

“Do you want there to be more?” George asked.

Lando giggled. He cut another bite of his crepe and popped it in his mouth with a one-shoulder shrug. George found himself hoping that Lando would choke on this particular bite. He narrowed his eyes at Lando and cut another bite from his quiche. He brought his fork to his mouth and met Lando’s eyes across the table. They stared at each other while they chewed. Lando swallowed and cut another bite without breaking eye contact. As he put it in his mouth, he got whipped cream and chocolate sauce everywhere. George tried to hold in his laugh, but then Lando wiggled his eyebrows at him and he let it out, a full bodied chuckle because somehow Lando had whipped cream on his nose. 

“Mate,” he handed him a napkin and swiped his thumb across Lando’s nose. “You’ve got whipped cream everywhere.”

Lando laughed and wiped his face clean. His eyes were dancing dangerously when he looked at George and licked his lips one final time. George leaned close across the table. He traced Lando’s bottom lip with his thumb, slowly. Lando gazed up at him from beneath thick lashes, mouth slightly ajar.

“Missed a spot,” he murmured. It was a lie.

“Thanks.” Lando’s voice came out a bit higher than normal. 

“That’s alright.” George sat back in his seat and cut another bite of his own meal. 

Beneath the table, Lando’s feet snaked in between his own. On top of the table, he cut a much smaller bite of his crepe. 

“You always a messy eater?” George asked. 

Lando flicked his straw wrapper at George. “No.” He scrunched his face up into an exaggerated pout. “I am quite picky though.”

“Really?” George was surprised until he remembered the day in lab that Lando had spent twenty minutes fussing over which exact shade of blue to use for one of their designs.

Lando nodded. “Yeah. Like, I hate fish. Can’t even stand the smell of it.” 

“So, sushi is out.”

Lando curled his lip in disgust. “Sushi is definitely out.”

George laughed softly and continued eating; he tapped Lando’s feet gently with his own.

They chatted amicably through the rest of their meal. George took note of every nugget of information that Lando revealed about himself—that he had two younger sisters and an older brother, that his favorite color was fluorescent yellow, that he was on the executive team for the GSA club, that he loved to play racing video games.

After George paid for their food, they returned to campus; on the bus, Lando laced his fingers through George’s. His stomach swooped, low and warm. Lando said something, but George was too distracted by the pressure of fingers against his and the thumb stroking the back of his hand to hear what Lando said, so he just murmured an affirmative.

“What do you have the rest of the day?” Lando asked.

“Mm, I have a few more applications to fill out,” George said, and the familiar cold of anxiety crept back into his chest.

“Bo-ring,” Lando flopped dramatically against George’s shoulder. 

“Well, what are you doing the rest of the day?” George asked, a little defensive.

Lando shrugged. “Probably go to the gym, might see if Osc wants to play some Smash Bros.”

George clenched his teeth. “Must be nice.” It was bratty and petty and out of his mouth before he could take it back.

Lando dropped George’s hand and sat up straight to meet George’s eyes. “No one’s making you send in applications to multiple places, mate. I don’t know why you’re bothering; just apply to the one you want and you’re bound to get in.”

“That’s the thing, though; I’m not. The more places I apply to, the higher the chances are of me getting accepted,” George rebuked.

“Or you just end up having to schedule twenty interviews instead of five,” Lando said.

“Sounds like a lot more opportunities.”

“Opportunities for what? Telling another set of strangers some bullshit about how your biggest weakness is your tendency to be a workaholic?” Lando let out a derisive laugh.

“I don’t have to explain myself to you, mate.” George was sitting up straighter, spine stiff with indignation.

“Yeah, whatever.” Lando hunched forward in his seat and pulled his phone out.

George sighed miserably and stared out of the window until they approached their stop. Lando stood up and grabbed George’s hand again.

“C’mon.” He pulled George off the bus and toward their dorm. George let the shorter boy lead him, a bit confused, but mostly just relieved that Lando was holding his hand again. They made their way to George’s room, where Lando gestured toward the doorknob and shifted from foot to foot impatiently while he waited for George to unlock it. As soon as they were inside, Lando had George pressed up against the door, hands pinned next to his head, legs caged in between Lando’s.

“You’re such a fucking brat sometimes,” Lando said, then kissed him, leaning his full weight against him and sucking George’s lower lip between his teeth. When he pulled back for a breath, George took the opportunity to speak.

“ I’m a brat? Have you looked in the mirror recently?”

“Shut up,” Lando’s smile was evident in his voice, which was good, because George had closed his eyes when he felt Lando’s breath on his neck. Lando peppered feather-light kisses from his earlobe to his collar bone, making George let out a tiny whine of frustration. Lando giggled and continued to brush his lips against George’s skin, soft as a butterfly’s wings, across his chest and up the other side of his neck. George made a half-hearted attempt at freeing his hands, but Lando’s grip was firm. He pressed back up on his tiptoes and returned his lips to George’s; George melted into the kiss like hot honey. His hips were flush with Lando’s; both of their dicks were growing hard as the kiss deepened and Lando started exploring George’s mouth with his tongue. George made a sound in the back of his throat and Lando pulled back and groaned, those stunning lakewater eyes dark with desire. He used his grip on George’s wrist to pull him to the bed; George sat and Lando finally let go, only to clamber onto his lap so that they were sitting upright with their chests pressed together and their hips interlocked. Lando's heels dug into George's ass.

George tangled one of his recently freed hands in Lando’s curls and pulled his lips back to his own. He rested his other hand on Lando’s hip, thumb dipping down beneath the waistband of his trousers. He was rewarded by the faint hitch of Lando’s breath—only noticeable because they were breathing each other’s air—so he stroked the skin along Lando’s hip bone, back and forth, while their teeth and tongues devoured each other. Lando pulled at George’s shirt, tugged it halfway off before George relented and raised his arms over his head to pull it the rest of the way. Lando bit his lip and pushed George down so that he was lying fully on his back, with Lando’s hands splayed on his bare chest, his weight resting on George’s hips. George snaked a hand in between them and ran his fingers along the hard ridge of Lando’s dick, barely contained by his sweatpants. Lando closed his eyes and let out a short, breathy moan that went straight to George’s dick. He reached into Lando’s pants and wrapped his hand around his dick, gave it a bit of squeeze and traced his thumb over the head to gather the precum leaking from the tip. Then he withdrew his hand.

Lando made a noise of protest, but George just shifted out from beneath him, rolling Lando to the side so that he could sink to his knees on the floor next to the bed.

“That angle wasn’t working,” he said, then grabbed Lando's hips and pulled him forward so that he was sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Fuuuck, that’s a pretty picture,” Lando said softly, gazing down at George. George looked up through his lashes, then reached up and pulled Lando’s trousers down. His heart was beating erratically—from nerves or excitement, he wasn’t sure. Lando pulled his shirt off, and George swallowed hard. He scooted forward and wrapped a hand around the base of Lando’s dick and brought his mouth to the tip. He began with small, open-mouth kisses on the tip, bringing it into his mouth just enough to start coating it in spit. He peered up at Lando, who was leaned back, clutching the blanket and staring open-mouthed at George. He brought his tongue into play, licking around the head like an ice cream cone, and Lando groaned.

“Fuck, George, that’s so good.” 

George took more of Lando’s cock into his mouth, emboldened by the praise. When he wrapped his lips around the shaft and began to bob his head, Lando let out a little cry and reached out to brush the hair from George’s forehead.

“Just like that, babe, you’re so good, oh god, yeah.” George’s own cock was hard and swollen and leaking in his pants; he was gripping Lando’s thigh with one hand and working the base of his shaft with the other. His efforts were growing sloppier and Lando’s hips were bucking a bit; his eyes were wide and his knuckles were white where his hand gripped the bedclothes. George pulled all the way back, then took Lando’s cock as deep as he could. Lando’s fingers tightened in his hair, pulling it a bit.

“George! Fuck, sweetheart,” Lando was moaning and mumbling and gazing at George with undisguised reverence as George sucked and licked and bobbed, each word from Lando’s mouth encouraging his efforts. 

“George, I’m gonna—gonna come—” Lando’s voice was rough and tight. George wasn’t sure how he felt about swallowing, so he pulled his mouth off of Lando’s cock with an obscene pop and used his hand to finish the job; his eyes darted between the thick, throbbing dick in his hand and the gorgeous look on Lando’s face, eyes glazed, cheeks flushed, the muscle ticking in his jaw as he came, hot ropes of cum shooting out onto George’s chin and bare chest. They sat there for a moment, both breathing heavily, before Lando slid down off the bed to kneel next to George on the floor.

Lando swiped his thumb across George’s chin. “Beautiful.” You are , George thought. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Lando’s lips, slow but hungry. Lando’s hand came to his waist to pull him closer, and George was so close to the edge that that tiny touch nearly had him coming in his trousers. Lando ran a hand up the bare skin of his back and he moaned . He tried to find some sort of friction, anything to ease the aching of his stiff dick. Lando kissed him again, then pulled back and cast a meaningful glance at George’s tented trousers. 

“Need something, darling?” he drawled, his luscious mouth curving up into a smirk. 

George nodded, begged with his eyes. Lando’s hands stayed on George’s waist and his back, stroking the wrong parts of his body.

Lando hummed, leaned in for another quick kiss. George made a strangled sort of sound in his throat. Lando’s proximity, his teasing, was making him impossibly harder. He reached his own hand out, desperate to relieve the pressure. Lando intercepted his hand and raised an eyebrow.

“Please!” George was on the verge of tears, his dick sensitive and pulsing, his chest covered in Lando’s cum, and the scent of his cologne surrounding him.

Lando grinned and licked his hand, then finally—finally—put his hand inside of George’s pants and wrapped it, warm and wet, around his dick. George came embarrassingly quickly, but it felt so good he couldn’t bring himself to care. He buried his face in Lando’s neck and muttered, “Fuck you.”

“Maybe next time,” Lando said. “I don’t put out on the first date.”

George rolled his eyes and pressed a kiss where his lips rested against Lando’s neck before sitting up. “Fancy a shower?”

“Together?” Lando’s eyes lit up.

“Yeah, sure.” George stood and helped Lando to his feet. “C’mon, then.”

Chapter Text

Lando never wanted this day to end. The sight of George, sliding down to his knees, George, overstimulated and face crumbling into something raw and real, George, gripping Lando’s thigh like a lifeline, played on a loop in Lando’s brain while George adjusted the water temperature and grabbed towels. Lando knew that if he looked in the mirror, his pupils would be blown wide–the light in the bathroom felt especially bright.

He refocused when George shed his trousers and stepped beneath the spray.

“You just planning on watching, mate?” George teased while the spray hit his hair, plastering it to his forehead.

“I might, yeah,” Lando said, but he stepped into the shower anyway, goosebumps forming on his skin from the contrasting temperatures. George stepped around him and maneuvered Lando beneath the water before turning to grab the soap. That clean, fresh scent that Lando had come to associate with George filled the air while he lathered up. Lando admired the muscles in his back for a moment before George held the soap out to him.

“Want to get my back?” he asked.

“Do I ever.” Lando let George squirt some soap into his palm, then took his time massaging the suds into the strong, smooth back in front of him. Wide shoulders tapering into a narrow waist, made strong from years of swimming. Lando ran his hands over every inch of skin, worked his way down from those endlessly tight shoulders to his lower back, then gave a cheeky squeeze to George’s well-formed ass. There were definitely some perks to dating an athlete, he mused. The thought made him pause, hands resting on George’s bum. Because, were they dating? They had sort of danced around the issue all through breakfast, but surely… yeah, fuck it, Lando was going to just assume they were dating until George said otherwise. He resumed his lathering, working his way up George’s back.

“You enjoying yourself back there?” George asked, sounding faintly amused.

“Yep,” Lando answered. He noticed, however, that goosebumps were forming on George’s arms, so he grabbed his waist and carefully pulled him back toward the water.

“C’mon, rinse off before you freeze, you muppet.”

George hummed in agreement and swapped places with Lando; their wet skin slid together and their hands were all over each other for balance. Lando lathered himself up; the soap was luxurious and foamy and then George’s hands were wrapping around his chest, dragging the suds around to his back. George’s hands were gentle, his touch feather-light. It was surprising, somehow—Lando half-expected his hands to be freezing cold and sharp against his skin, despite everything.

As George’s soft touch approached his waist, it sent a buzz down his spine, and he giggled.

“Are you ticklish?” George asked, amused. His fingers danced forward, to the sensitive spots along Lando’s waistline.

“No—hehe,” Lando gave himself away by giggling, because he was ticklish, terribly ticklish, actually, and George laughed and continued his attack, merciless. Lando squirmed and tried to escape, but there wasn’t much extra space in the shower to begin with. Soon he was huddled in the corner, shrieking, ass pressed to the cool tiled wall, desperately trying to catch George’s hands as they wrung laughter out of him until he was breathless.

“Stop--haha—George—hehe,” He finally succeeded in catching one of George’s hands, and cut off his sinister chuckles by pulling him closer and kissing him. It was awkward and fumbling and George had to grab the wall with his other hand so that they didn’t slip and fall, but it stopped the tickling, so Lando didn’t mind.

All things said and done, they probably didn’t save any water by showering together. George’s towel was ridiculously plush, dark blue and soft against Lando’s skin. He fluffed his hair, which he hadn’t meant to get wet, but did, so now his curls would be a mess for the rest of the day. He pulled despondently at them in the mirror, trying to arrange them into less of a disaster. He felt George’s eyes on him, that blue gaze warm against his skin. Lando met George’s eyes in the mirror.

“What?”

George’s soft gaze sharpened; he pursed his lips into something more closed.

“I think you’re making it worse.”

“Thanks, mate.” Lando rolled his eyes. “We can’t all just roll out of bed looking like a model.”

George huffed a laugh, and Lando revelled in the red blush that crept up his neck. George turned around to get dressed, and Lando gazed appreciatively at his bare ass before returning to his hair, lips curling up into a smirk.

“I really should get to the library,” George said, fastening his watch while Lando finally pulled his sweats on. His heart sank a little at the idea of George disappearing again. He was also just a little bit—not afraid, but concerned that even though he seemed fine, George might spiral out again if he was left alone with his school work. 

“Mind if I join you?” Lando threw it out casually while he adjusted the hood of his sweatshirt.

George raised an eyebrow. “Only if you’re planning on actually studying.”

“I study!” Lando elbowed George’s ribs, indignant. “I’ll grab my paints from my room and meet you there.” He shoved his feet into his shoes and glanced around the room, checking for his keys, wallet, and phone. 

George was leaning against the bathroom door, legs crossed, one hand in his pocket. Perfectly posh and casual. “Yeah, okay,” he said. Then he sighed like he already regretted it.

Lando giggled and ducked outside, then walked to his room to grab his sketchbook and his paints. He threw his headphones into his bag—then he could listen to some lectures, too. Then he pulled a hat on and made his way to the library.

Predictably, the library was nearly empty on a Saturday afternoon. Lando wandered through the shelves until he spotted George, tucked into a table near a window. Lando plopped his bag on the table and checked the view out of the window. It was the backside of some other building on campus—just a brick wall and a patch of scraggly grass below if you really craned your neck.

“Nice view,” he deadpanned. 

George shrugged, spouted some nonsense about natural light. “I honestly didn’t think you’d show up,” he added, lips pursed, eyebrows scrunched together.

“I said I would,” Lando yanked his sketchpad out of his bag; his paints and headphones and a tin of mints and that concealer that he had meant to return to Rebecca last week all tumbled onto the table, as well. George pressed his lips together in what Lando chose to assume was an attempt not to laugh, and not just a sign of his annoyance. 

“So, what are you working on?” George was watching Lando plug his headphones into his phone, ignoring his own textbook for the moment. 

“I’m gonna listen to a few lectures, work on a painting. We’re focusing on movement right now, and it’s fucking difficult.” Lando felt certain he had thrown away half the pages in this sketchbook trying to capture the slow movement of snow falling.

“You record the lectures?” George’s eyes widened, and Lando could practically see his brain whirring, looking back on the semester so far.

Lando tugged his hat down, shrugged. “I’m a—what’s it called—I learn by hearing.” 

“Auditory learner,” George supplied.

“Yeah, that.” Lando fidgeted with the earbud. 

“Cool.” George nodded, then returned his gaze to his textbook. He held a pen in his right hand and jotted things down in his notebook every so often. Lando forced his knee to stop bouncing, pressed play on last week’s Graphic Design lecture, and flipped through the series of pencil sketches he had made of snow falling against a window pane. 

The time actually passed quickly—Lando had listened to three lectures (on 2x speed, but still) before he got stuck on his most recent painting attempt. He cracked his neck and eyed George across the table, who had a different textbook open now. His hair looked soft, hanging loosely in front of his face. Lando fought the urge to smooth the worry line between his eyebrows with his thumb. He settled for leaning back in his chair and stretching his feet out until his shoes bumped into George’s.

George’s eye flicked up, impossibly blue in the muted light that was filtering in through the window.

“You wanna take a break and get some snacks or something?” Lando asked.

George pursed his lips, gazed into the middle distance, eyes unfocused, then glanced back at his textbook.

“After I finish this chapter,” he said. 

Lando tried to read the book upside-down. The letters might as well be written in Greek. 

“How much do you have left?” He hated that it sounded whiny.

“Just a few more pages,” George was writing a new bullet point on his page. “You don’t have to wait for me, you know.”

The thought to go without George had, embarrassingly, not even crossed Lando’s mind. He defaulted to teasing to draw attention away from that.

“What, don’t want to buy your own snacks?” He smiled and stood up, nudged George with his hip to let him know he was joking. “What d’you fancy? Kinder? Crisps? Haribos?”

“I—” George was blinking and blushing again. God, he was so fucking pretty like that, eyes wide and lips parted. “You don’t have to get me anything, I can just go when I finish this.”

Lando rolled his eyes. “Mate.” He fixed what he hoped was a stern expression on his face and stared at George until he squirmed. It didn’t take long.

“Alright, mate, if you insist. Grab me a granola bar?” George’s chin was raised a little, his voice stupidly posh.

“Sure,” Lando adjusted his hat and sauntered out of the room, whistling to himself. He made his way to the vending machine and acquired two Kinders, a Monster, and a protein bar for George. When he returned to the library, George was sitting exactly where Lando had left him; shoulders hunched, pen in hand, head bent low over the textbook. Lando set his snack haul on the table. George didn’t even look up. So Lando shoved his way onto George’s lap, straddling him and separating him from his precious textbook.

“Sorry, I’m trying to get some work done here.” George’s mouth was pressed into a line, and his eyes darted around the abandoned library.

Lando rolled his eyes. “Thought you said you’d take a break after that chapter.”

George met Lando’s gaze and his eyes crinkled a little at the corners. “Who says I finished that chapter? You were gone for like, five minutes, mate.”

“You were counting down the seconds until I got back, weren’t you?” Lando grinned, hoped for another blush. He didn’t get one. George just laughed.

“Fair enough, I actually have no idea how long you were gone for.” George’s hands went to Lando’s waist, which was exciting until he pushed his chair back and unceremoniously shoved Lando off of him before scooting his chair back forward. “I’ve got,” he flipped the pages of the open textbook, “four more pages.” He looked at Lando, smiling faintly, but his guard was down enough that Lando could see the exhaustion that always seemed to linger around his eyes. 

Lando gave in anyway. “Ugh, fine. I’ll listen to another lecture while I wait.” He grabbed one of the Kinders from the table.

“No one’s forcing you, mate,” George’s voice was already distracted, his head bent over the textbook, his hand writing another neat bullet point in his notebook.

Lando laid down on the carpeted floor, back flat, knees in the air. He pressed play on another recorded lecture and ate his chocolate while he listened.

Eventually, George stood up from the table, and Lando yanked his earbuds out and sat up. George positively towered over him in this position. 

“You comfortable down there?”

Lando shrugged and moved to stand. George reached down to help him up and let go of his hand far too quickly for Lando’s liking. Lando handed George his bar and popped the tab on his Monster. 

“You wanna, like, walk around a bit?” Lando asked.

“Yeah, that’d be nice,” George rubbed his chin thoughtfully, the protein bar sitting unopened in his other hand. 

Lando pushed himself off the table he had been leaning against and took George’s free hand in his own. He interlaced their fingers and tugged. 

“C’mon, I bet you’ve never even walked down the art hallway before.”

“I’m in Graphic Design with you,” George protested, but let himself be dragged along.

“That’s not the real art hallway, you muppet,” Lando scolded. “There’s basically a student gallery by all the studios.”

“Really?” George actually sounded interested. God, Lando hoped he was actually interested. He really couldn’t keep doing this if George hated art. Or music. Lando’s stomach sank with the realization that he had no idea what George listened to.

“Who’s your favorite band?” Lando blurted, still gripping George’s hand as he guided them through the unfamiliar hallways near the library.

George looked a bit taken aback by the sudden change of topic. “Um, I don’t know if I have a favorite band. I like hip hop?”

“Yeah? Who do you like?” And it turned out that George didn’t have the worst taste in music, and the topic got them all the way to the art hallway.

It wasn’t until they were there, looking at Annika’s long exposure shots of cars driving at night, that Lando realized this meant George would see his prints from photography, which were hung up a few metres down. He let go of George’s hand.

George gazed thoughtfully at Annika’s photos. “How does that work? To get the lights to look like that?”

Lando started to explain, the words shooting rapid-fire out of his mouth, monologuing about shutter speed and film exposure for a minute until his common sense caught up to him and he clamped his mouth shut mid-sentence. There was no way George wanted to hear that much detail about it. “So that’s it, basically. Long exposure.”

“You know a lot about this,” George was wearing a vaguely pleased expression that Lando couldn’t figure out.

He shrugged, “I guess.”

George continued his perusal of the art, wandering closer to Lando’s prints with each step. Lando’s heart rate was increasing, and he didn’t think it was from the Monster.

“This is amazing, actually,” George said.”I can’t believe I’ve never come down here before.” He continued his steady progress down the hallway. Lando’s display was the next one.

“There’s more on the other side,” Lando blurted. George glanced back at him, brow furrowed.

“Yeah, I figured I’d just look at those on the way back. There’s not a particular order, is there?”

“Right,” Lando sheepishly scratched the back of his neck.

Before he could come up with another excuse, George had continued down the hallway, and was now staring directly at the portion of the wall covered in Lando’s photographs.

“Blimey,” George’s gaze, always so intense, pinballed from one photo to the next, then snagged on the informational card. “These are yours? They’re brilliant.”

Lando bit his lip in a spectacularly bad attempt at hiding his smile. “Yeah?” He drifted closer to where George was standing and gave the photos a cursory glance.

George bumped his shoulder into Lando’s. “Don’t get shy on me now, Norris.”

Lando laughed. “C’mon, there’s still half the hallway to see.”

George let Lando drag him away, but he did insist on looking at Lando’s photos one last time before they headed back to the library. 

Chapter Text

George ate the protein bar on the way back to the library with his left hand. His right hand brushed Lando’s with each step. Lando was uncharacteristically quiet beside him. 

“Would you like to work on our design project when we get back?” George asked, hoping that he could convince Lando to stick around a bit longer.

“Sure,” Lando nodded. “What do we need to work on?”

“Mate,” George looked over at him, eyebrows raised. “The actual logo is due in a week. Which means we also need to have our fonts and colors locked in by then, because there’s no way we can make the logo without having decided on those already.” 

“Yeah, but we could just, like, make the logo and then match the colors and shit to it later. Base it off the vibes.” Lando sipped his monster again. George refrained from shaking him only out of the fear of spilling his drink.

“Absolutely not. We are not basing a project worth 50% of our grade on ‘vibes.’” George shook his head and wondered how someone who was clearly talented–those photographs were stunning–had the life philosophy of “base it off the vibes.” Probably he was just effortlessly brilliant. Did what felt right and it just worked out for him. God, it was so frustrating.

“I was joking , George, don’t get cross,” Lando grabbed George’s sweater and pulled him in for a quick kiss, then he sank back down off his toes and looked up at George with puppy-dog eyes. George’s stomach flip-flopped and his ribcage got warm.  That was…unexpected. 

“I’m not cross , I’m appropriately concerned about the quality of our very important project.”

Lando rolled his eyes and yanked the library door open, gesturing for George to go first. “Relax, you muppet, we’re working in it now, aren’t we?”

They did work on it; Lando pulled his chair around to George’s side of the table, which was really too small for two chairs, so they ended up squished together bickering over the stupid font again. Lando got chocolate from his second Kinder on George’s keyboard and threatened to lick it off when George complained, which made George think about Lando’s tongue, which somehow ended up with Lando’s tongue in his mouth while he straddled George, only this time George didn’t push him away–in fact, he was actively pulling him closer. He could taste the chocolate from Lando’s kinders and a bit of cinnamon from those mints he liked. 

Lando’s hands were all over George, just like always, roaming under his shirt but making their way lower until his thumbs were dipping beneath the waistband of George’s trousers, his touch like electricity against the sensitive skin there. George pulled back, grabbed Lando’s biceps to steady himself and to stop those wandering hands.

“Alright, let’s–” George was breathing heavily and Lando was sitting there, kiss-swollen lips ajar, pupils blown wide in eyes that looked turquoise in the half-light of the winter sunset seeping through the window next to them.

“We need to,” George swallowed, took another deep breath in an attempt to slow his heartrate back to normal speeds.

Lando’s lips hitched up into a smirk. “Cat got your tongue?”

“ You got my tongue.” George didn’t think before the words left his mouth. He immediately regretted them. Lando laughed, delighted. George plowed on ahead. “C’mon, let’s finish the color palette, yeah?”

Lando groaned and slid off of George’s lap and back into his own chair. “Seriously? I’m about ready to stick my hand down your pants and you’re thinking about schoolwork? ”

“Quit complaining and help me decide which shade of blue looks better,” George deflected, like he always did, because he was getting way too comfortable messing around with Lando like this, and he had stopped him because he knew that if Lando had managed to actually get his hand on George’s dick they would have ended up in a very compromising position in the library, of all places.  And George would have liked it way too much and, well, he didn’t want to investigate that right now.

“Well, don’t use that one,” Lando’s nose scrunched in disgust at the blue George had selected at random and pulled the laptop toward himself. George didn’t miss the way he adjusted himself in his trousers first.

By the time they had a decent logo drafted, it was half seven and Lando complained that he was starving.

“C’mon, it’s pizza tonight and we haven’t eaten anything since eleven this morning.” Lando was shoving things haphazardly into his bag and pulling his beanie over the mop of curls on his head, which were twice as messy as they had been this morning because of George’s hands tangling in them during their little makeout session earlier.

“You’ve had three kinders and a bag of crisps,” George pointed out, because at some point Lando had returned to the vending machine for a second round of snacks. 

“That’s not real food, it doesn’t count.” Lando said, his thumbs whisking across his phone screen.

“Yeah, I suppose I can’t argue with that,” George zipped his backpack and slung it over his shoulder. His own hunger was hidden somewhere beneath layers and layers of nerves about what would happen when they got to the dining hall. Alex was still out of town, and Lando would surely sit with his friends, so George would look like a weird loser if he sat by himself. And he could probably sit with the water polo guys, except he didn’t know who would actually be there, because a lot of them went home for the weekend when they didn’t have a match. 

Lando held the door for him again. George tried not to think about it too much. 

“Oscar is not going to believe me when I tell him I spent all day in the library,” Lando said, that familiar laugh bubbling up out of his throat.

“It wasn’t all day,” George pointed out, “It was half the day at most.”

“Oh my god, let me have this,” Lando opened another door and waved George through it.

“I mean, objectively, it was what? Five hours?”

“Five hours? No way, it had to have been longer than that, we were in there forever,” Lando was fidgeting with his hat while they walked. 

“Well, okay, so we got there around 1:30, it’s 7:30 now, subtract an hour for the art hallway, and that’s five hours.” George smirked, satisfied that he was right, even if it bothered him that what had felt like a blink to him had apparently dragged on and on for Lando.

“Whatever,” Lando bumped his hip into George’s, knocking him sideways a bit. “Are you done studying for the day? Wanna play Mario Kart after dinner?”

George thought he should probably go for a swim, or at least do some lifting, seeing as he’d spent his morning in bed. Then again, the team calendar has today marked “rest day,” so he wasn’t obligated to do anything, really.

“Sure,” he replied.

“Mint. We can ask Osc and Carlos, too.” Lando opened the cafeteria door and nodded George through ahead of him. George headed to the que; Lando followed. George was pleased to see there was plenty of spinach and mushroom pizza left. Lando headed directly for the plain cheese option. George took his time selecting a drink so that he could put off choosing where to sit, but Lando hovered while he dithered about with his tea bag.

“George, did I not make it clear that I’m starving ?” Lando finally burst out, when George, for lack of anything else to do to prolong his tea-making, had picked up a spoon and begun to stir the honey into his tea in slow, measured strokes. 

“C’mon, you can finish your weird tea ritual after we’ve eaten,” he said, then stole George’s tea and marched over to his usual table with it, leaving George no choice but to follow.

George thanked his lucky stars that there were two open chairs next to each other so that he could sit next to Lando and slide his tea back to his own tray. It gave him something to focus on that wasn’t everyone’s eyes shooting up to look at him. 

“Hey, guys,” Lando somehow already had a bite of pizza in his mouth. 

“Lando, don’t talk with your mouth full, that’s disgusting.” Piastri shook his head like he was mildly embarrassed by his roommate acting like a gremlin, then nodded, “George. Hello.”

George nodded back, “Oscar. How’s your Saturday?”

“Yeah, the usual, can’t complain. Yours?”

George arranged a bite of his salad with his fork and knife. “Yeah, quite relaxed. Nice to not have a match this weekend.” 

Lando had apparently finished demolishing his first slice of pizza, because he chimed in. “We were gonna play some Mario Kart after dinner, d’you wanna join?”

“I mean, if you want to get your ass kicked. On the lounge TV?” Oscar smirked.

“The lounge is best, no? The TV in your room is too small for multiplayer,” Carlos added. 

“Yeah, of course the lounge, you muppet. I think my Wii is still down there, honestly.” Lando tore into a second slice of pizza.

George slipped into their banter surprisingly easily, and the rest of the meal was actually quite nice, even if his tea was cold by the time he finished his pizza.

Lando had indeed left his wii connected to the lounge television. They had to send Oscar upstairs to find the remotes, which had apparently made it back to their room even though the console hadn’t. George sat on the couch and fiddled with the television remote, trying to get the right source. Lando and Carlos were arguing over who got to play as Toad, and it quickly devolved into a wrestling match of some sort. George could only tell that Carlos won because Lando got up and huffed and collapsed onto the couch while Carlos raised his arms in victory. Lando let his head lean into George’s shoulder. 

“No idea who I’ll play as now, mate. May as well pack it in now.”

George rolled his eyes. “I think you’ll survive.”

Oscar returned with the remotes and they had to go through the whole argument again over how many tracks they’d play and what to set the bots at and who got to be player one. Once they finally started racing, the group somehow got even more boisterous, and George was surprised to find himself actually enjoying their chaos. 

“Keep your banana away from me,” Oscar swerved away from George, who was tossing bananas on the track behind him. 

Lando giggled from his spot next to George on the couch. 

“Keep your shells away from me, then,” George took a secret route and pulled ahead.

“How did you do that?” Oscar hurled a shell toward George; it was deflected by his last banana. 

“I’m not giving away my secrets,” George laughed and crossed the line in P1. 

During the next race, Lando decided to hit George with two blue shells and three red shells, so the race after that, George made it his mission to terrorize Lando, which resulted in Lando screaming, “GeORge!” at least once a lap.

It was late when they finally finished; Oscar took the remotes and the wii back up to his and Lando’s room, muttering about being able to find them next time and tossing a “Goodnight!” over his shoulder. Carlos gave George and Lando a lingering stare that George didn’t quite know what to make of before saying, “See you tomorrow,” and disappearing toward the opposite wing of the dorm building. Lando was laying on his stomach across George’s lap, where he had been  slumped dramatically since he lost two races ago. His beanie was gone, thrown across the room at some point.

George said, “C’mon, get off of me, I’d like to get to bed sometime before tomorrow morning,” and smacked Lando’s rear for good measure. Lando jolted and rolled onto his side.

“Oi!” He nearly rolled off of the couch, and George had to grab his waist to stop him from tumbling to the floor.

“Well, don’t hurt yourself,” George huffed.

“No, you’ll just do it for me,” Lando whined and brought a hand to his bum and scrunched his eyebrows. 

“Oh, come off it, mate,” George manhandled Lando into a sitting position on the couch next to him. 

George stood up and stretched. Lando cracked his back and finally stood. They walked together up the stairs, but George was surprised when Lando stopped at his floor, instead of continuing up the stairs to the room he shared with Oscar.  Lando opened the door to George’s hallway and gestured George through, then stepped through himself. George wasn’t sure what to make of it–Lando had a way of inviting himself places, and George wasn’t quite sure how to politely ask him what on earth he was doing there. So he unlocked the door to his room and pushed it open, and when he glanced over his shoulder, Lando was following him in.

George toed his shoes off neatly next to the door, then sat on the edge of his bed. Lando kicked his shoes haphazardly toward the door. George raised an eyebrow at him. Lando just grinned cheekily and stepped into George’s space, slotted himself in between George’s legs so that George was looking up at him. 

“Hi,” Lando said.

“Hi,” George’s pulse was racing at the proximity, at the angle, at the glint in Lando’s eyes.  They really were unfairly pretty, mottled green and blue with that ring of brown around the pupil, too stunning to seem real.

Lando bit his lip, then said, “You’re much better at Mario Kart than I expected.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” George scoffed. He leaned back onto his hands and gave himself some space.

“I was trying to compliment you!” Lando put his hands on his hips and huffed out a frustrated laugh.

“Sure, mate,” George smirked. 

“Just c’mere,” Lando said, then leaned forward and captured George’s mouth with his own. George softened into it immediately, let Lando bite his bottom lip and scrape his teeth across it until it popped out of his mouth with an obscene noise. George pushed himself up, moved one hand from the bed to Lando’s hair and the other to his waist. He pulled him back in, locked their lips together in a messy kiss, chests flush against each other. 

Lando’s hands roamed all over George’s skin—grasped his face, slid down his neck, drew abstract patterns on his chest and his back before sliding down to his waist and tugging at the bottom of George’s sweater. Lando yanked the fabric up. George complied, raised his arms so that Lando could get the sweater off more easily. He tossed the sweatshirt aside and grabbed Lando’s face in his hands, hungrily pulled those plush lips back to his own.

Lando hummed against his mouth, then pushed George back onto the bed with surprising strength. Lando straddled him and leaned down, left open-mouthed kisses on George’s throat and down his chest until he was swirling his tongue around George’s nipple and oh . Everything was electricity and sensation and the overwhelming scent of Lando, the wet heat of his mouth and the friction from his hardening dick against George’s. George’s hands fluttered along the hem of Lando’s shirt, grazed his waistband. He traced Lando’s chain with a long index finger slipped beneath the neckline of his hoodie.

Lando sat up and George moaned at the simultaneous loss of contact and increased pressure on his hips. Lando pulled his hoodie and t-shirt off in one fluid motion, tossed them to join George’s somewhere on the floor. George lay there for a moment, panting and staring at the golden skin and the moles that dotted it. He wanted to get his mouth on every one of them. Lando grinned down at him, his curls a messy halo around his head. 

“So pretty,” he muttered. It made George’s stomach fizzy in a way he didn’t want to think about, so he pulled Lando down toward him by the chain around his neck and kissed him, hard, teeth and tongues fighting for dominance, before flipping Lando over and dipping his head down to the mole on his collarbone. He bit the skin around it, sucked on it, laved his tongue across it to soften the sting. He could taste the metal of Lando’s chain and a hint of salt and that bitter tang from his cologne. Lando let out a breathy little moan and George moved to the next mole, a dark dot against Lando’s left pec. He repeated the process, kissed it, sucked it, licked it. Moved down Lando’s torso, left a trail of reddened skin as he worked his way down to the one high on Lando’s hip bone.

“Oh my god, George,” Lando panted and writhed and he really couldn’t stay quiet, could he? George sunk his teeth in, gently, just enough to leave an indent in the skin. Lando keened and twisted his hands in George’s hair, pulling a little. 

George let Lando pull him back up to press their lips together in a desperate kiss; Lando kept one hand in his hair while the other one gripped his glutes, fingers digging in hard enough that George felt sure it would bruise again. He didn’t mind, especially not when their dicks rubbed against each other through their trousers, hard and erect. 

Lando pushed him onto his side so that they laid face-to-face. George pressed quick, firm kisses to those moles that framed his mouth. Lando tried to chase his mouth until he got frustrated and grabbed George’s chin, held him still to kiss him properly. 

At some point Lando’s hand ended up down the front of his trousers and George responded in kind and then they were just breathing each other’s air and staring into each other’s glazed eyes while they got each other off without even taking their pants off. George couldn’t even bring himself to be embarrassed about the mess in his pants because Lando murmured “perfect, you’re so fucking good, jesus, George, so pretty, fuck,” on and on until he stiffened and came with a gutteral groan and a light squeeze of George’s dick that had him muttering his own curses and spilling all over Lando’s hand. 

George buried his face in Lando’s neck and drank in the scent of him, sweat and cologne and hair products, bright and masculine. Lando ran his fingers through the hair at the base of George’s neck; it sent shivers down his spine. 

It only took a few minutes for George to start feeling gross, tacky cum drying on his hand and stomach, so he lifted his head and asked, “Bathroom?”

“Mmm, yeah,” Lando’s eyes were half-closed, his expression sated, but he sat up and followed George to the bathroom to clean up and get ready for bed properly. The pair of basketball shorts George lent him came down past his knees, much to George’s delight. He cackled when Lando tried to pull them up higher and tied them up past his bellybutton.

“I’m not even that small, you’re just a freaking giant,” Lando complained. George was already in bed, the covers pulled back. He patted the spot next to him, and Lando gave up on rolling the waistband in favor of crawling in and cuddling up on top of George. 

George found he was too tired and too distracted by the circles Lando was tracing on his skin to fall too deep into the usual highlight reel of “most embarrassing moments of the day,” and he fell asleep surprisingly quickly.

Lando managed to convince George to stay cuddled up in bed far later than he normally would on a Sunday, but he had eventually gotten away for a swim, then dragged Lando out of bed for breakfast when he returned. He had then told Lando that he really truly needed to submit a few more internship applications and proceeded to lock himself in a study room until lunch, after which he retreated to his room while Lando disappeared for a GSA meeting, but not before extracting a promise from George that they would go check out that new restaurant near campus on Thursday night.

George took a moment to scroll through his social feeds. He felt weirdly relaxed for a Sunday afternoon. He was propped up in bed on some pillows that still smelled faintly of Lando. He was considering a nap when the door opened and Alex walked in, tossing his normal array of bags on the floor near the end of his bed. 

“Hey, mate. Good weekend?” George set his phone aside and stretched.

Alex yanked his headphones off and spun to face George, his face oddly serious. “George. I’ve heard some very strange rumors about you this weekend.”

George blinked rapidly, immediately wracked by guilt. He flipped through his weekend and wondered what he had done before coming to an unfortunate conclusion. He played it cool anyway.

“Oh yeah? What’s the old gossip mill been saying about me?”

“I have been asked by three separate people if it’s true that you’re dating Lando Norris. ” Alex paced back and forth between their beds. “Which is ridiculous, because we hate him. I have spent the last month listening to you complain about how annoying he is. So, I figured it was Lando being an obnoxious little twat again, whatever.” Alex laughed, an unnatural, high-pitched laugh that made the ball of anxiety in George’s stomach swell.

Alex continued, “But then I see Carlos’s story, and there you are, all cuddled up with Lando fucking Norris , so can you please explain this to me.” He held his phone out, and sure enough, there’s a screenshot of Carlos’s instagram story–a frame of a video from last night’s Mario Kart shenanigans. Probably no one else would have spotted it, but Alex had known George since they were kids, so of course he clocked that the headless figure whose lap Lando was sprawled in was, in fact, George. 

George gulped. “Erm, so it’s not exactly what it looks like.”

Alex paused his pacing to stare at George, horror evident on his face.

“It’s–we haven’t put a label on it–it’s, um,” George was well aware that he was digging his own grave with each word.

“Sorry?” Alex’s eyebrows were raised so high George was surprised he could still see them.

“Well, I didn’t mean for it to happen,” George started, then paused again, because honestly, what were they doing?

“Didn’t mean for what to happen?” Alex’s voice cracked on the “what,” which would have been hilarious under any other circumstances. 

George winced. “We’re sort of…hanging out? And, erm, occasionally making out?”

Alex tried to keep a straight face, but the corner of his lip twitched once, then twice, then he was laughing. He folded over and howled, his face growing red.

“It’s not funny!” George protested, but Alex’s laughter was contagious and soon he was chuckling a little, too, despite his best efforts. At least his anxiety was back down to baseline levels.

“Oh my god, no wonder you wouldn’t shut up about him,” Alex managed to say between giggles. He straightened up and wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. He was grinning at George now, an all-too-familiar up-to-no-good grin.

“How long has this been going on for?”

George scratched at the back of his head. “Dunno, a few weeks?”

“Wait, so are you, like, going on proper dates and shit?”

George opened his mouth to deny it, but realized that they had, in fact, gone out for breakfast just yesterday and that he had somehow agreed to go for dinner this Thursday. He closed his mouth and reopened it. “...Yes? I don’t know, it just sort of happened! We haven’t–we’re not–I’m not even out properly!”

Alex shook his head, then laid down next to George. “Firstly, I’m pretty sure anyone with eyes knows you’re not straight, sorry, mate. Secondly–you go on dates, you make out, you spend time together–that sounds like dating to me.”

“Fuck.” George hated the way his pulse sped up that that, hated the way his stomach clenched when he thought boyfriend . He didn’t have time for this, really. “Do you think Lando knows?”

“Oh my god, George,” George didn’t even have to look at Alex to know he was rolling his eyes. “You know what, no, I’m not even going to answer that. Ask him. It’ll be entertaining for me.”

George elbowed Alex and grabbed his phone. “Y’know what, fine, I will.”

He composed a text message to Lando, who was still saved in his phone as “Pest (LN).”

I’ve been informed that we’re dating.<<

Lando responded immediately.

>>yeh

>>duh

>>weirdo

Alex was unabashedly reading his texts over his shoulder. He snorted. “Well, there’s your answer.”

“We never discussed this, what does he mean, ‘duh’?” George was typing back.

When did we decide that?<<

>>probs when u were blowing my brains out yesterday

>>wait that sounds wrong

>>u know what i mean

>>u give good head

>>bf material

“Oh my god, I did not need to see that,” Alex hit George’s phone out of his hand and sent it flying across the bed.

“No one was making you read my messages, mate,” George tried to keep his tone neutral, but he felt his face flush. He flung an arm over his eyes and groaned. “He’s actually the worst.”

Alex rolled onto his side to face George. “So do I need to give him the shovel talk?”

George sighed. “It’s really not that serious, mate.”