Chapter Text
The light in Charles Leclerc’s bedroom was the pale, forgiving grey of a London morning that couldn’t quite commit to being day. It spilled across the rumpled duvet, over the long, athletic line of Max Verstappen’s back and neck, currently adorned by multiple intentional bruises by a certain Monegasque leech.
Max was face-down, the duvet pooled around his hips, one arm hanging off the side of the bed. He was asleep, or pretending to be. The quiet, steady rhythm of his breathing was the only sound besides the distant, muffled thump of bass from someone’s too-early music downstairs.
Charles, wearing only a pair of dark boxers, moved through the room with the silent, proprietary ease of a man in his own space.Which it was. And wasn’t.
The lines had blurred, melted, and reformed so many times over the last year that the map was useless. His back, turned to the bed, was a roadmap of its own—a few fresh, pink lines from Max’s nails, a faint, older bruise from a gym mishap, the familiar slope of his shoulders.
He filled the electric kettle at the small sink in the corner—a concession to late-night tea and early-morning chaos—and clicked it on.
It was Charles's aesthetic excitement of the mini-kitchen in his room that had made him practically spin on the balls of his feet, glowing like quiet fireflies in a fog that made Max give this room to him when they first met without a single thought.
The quiet roar filled the room. He pulled two mismatched mugs from a shelf: one a pristine white with a delicate gold rim (his), the other a chipped, garish orange thing with a faded cartoon lion on it (Max’s, left here so often it might as well have citizenship).
Max didn’t know what it was with Charles. That was the bedrock truth of it.
He’d moved into this shared house because the rent split three ways was the only thing in London that didn’t feel like financial suicide. He’d walked in, a duffel bag over his shoulder, a scowl on his face, ready for anonymous, functional cohabitation. He’d found Lando Norris, a whirlwind of glitter and chatter, and Charles Leclerc, who’d looked up from a textbook with eyes the colour of a stormy Mediterranean and said, “You must be Max. Lando said you were… intense. He was right.”
That was it. The trap was sprung before he even knew it was a trap.
Carlos and Daniel lived opposite, with Carlos being close to Lando and Charles and Daniel being the happy extroverted plus one who immediately became a part of their group.
They lived in their own universe of coupledom, which was a relief. Their love was a loud, physical, Spanish-Australian fact. It came with shared grocery runs, bickering over washing-up, and the kind of easy, brutal honesty that only exists when you’re utterly secure.
Max watched them sometimes through the window, a strange, hollow feeling in his chest. He’d never had a model for that. His model was his father’s voice, a sharp, cold instrument that measured worth in the decimal points of percentages and found most things, including softness, including deviation, including wanting another boy, to be fatal flaws.
Accepting the attraction itself had been a war. A silent, internal trench warfare fought over months.
Lando, with his devastating, romantic certainty about Oscar, had been baffled but kind. “But you look at him,” he’d said once, confused. “Like, all the time. With your face. What’s to figure out?” Carlos had been more practical, offering a blunt, “Desire is not a debate. It is data.” Daniel had just hugged him, hard and wordless, which had somehow said more than anything.
But Charles… Charles had been the battlefield and the sanctuary all at once.
Max knew, with a hindsight that was almost painful, that Charles had been attracted to him from the start.
It was in the way Charles’s gaze would linger a second too long when Max came back from a run, sweat-soaked and buzzing. It was in the deliberate way he’d bump their shoulders when they cooked together, in the coffee mug that had appeared one day, in the fact that his bed had become more Max’s than the perfectly good one in Max’s own paid-for room down the hall.
They acted like a couple. A sappy, domestic, infuriatingly in-sync couple. They had inside jokes that made Lando gag. They bickered over training regimens and grocery lists with the heat of an old married pair. They fell asleep on the same sofa more often than not, limbs tangled, Charles’s face buried in Max’s neck.
But they weren’t dating.
Max knew the hesitation was his. A cage of his own making, welded from old, toxic voices and a fear so deep he couldn’t name it. The fear that if he named this thing, if he made it real with a word, Charles would see the full, flawed reality of him—the competitive aggression that could curdle into coldness, the social clumsiness, the sheer, exhausting intensity of him—and decide it was too much. That he was too much.
And underneath that, a quieter, more insidious fear: that maybe Charles didn’t want to date him either.
Maybe this—the shared bed, the easy intimacy, the sex that was somehow both frantic and deeply tender—was enough for him. Maybe Charles Leclerc, beautiful, charismatic, effortlessly adored Charles, saw Max as a convenient, compatible distraction. A situationship with good chemistry. The thought made Max feel sick.
“You’re thinking very loudly,” his sleep-rough voice mumbled from the bed.
Charles turned, leaning back against the small coffee table as the kettle clicked off. Steam billowed around him. “I am thinking about Lando.”
Max pushed himself up on his elbows, the duvet slipping further. The morning light caught the planes of his chest, the dusting of freckles across his shoulders. “What about him?”
“His mood. It’s… low. Lower than usual. Even after their ‘Ache Protocol’ call the other night, there’s a… a heaviness. He’s just going through the motions. I’m worried.” Charles’s brow was furrowed, his fingers drumming a nervous rhythm on the table behind him.
And there it was.
The other side of the coin.
Charles the Worrywart. Charles the Mama Bird. His capacity for care was vast, oceanic. It enveloped Lando, it stretched to Carlos and Daniel, it even, Max knew, extended to George and Alex and Oscar across the world via proxy.
But sometimes, lying in this bed that wasn’t quite his, Max wondered if he was just another item on Charles’s list of people to care for. A project. A particularly challenging, emotionally-stunted project.
A petty, bruised feeling rose in Max’s throat. He knew Charles had been buried in his own architecture mid-terms, a hellscape of models and stress, and that Charles had been understandably busy. But there had been no dates. No attempts to pull him out of it. Just coexisting in the shared chaos.
“Why don’t we just rent another house together?” Max asked suddenly, his voice quieter than he intended.
Charles froze, his drumming fingers stilling. He turned his head fully towards Max, his expression one of pure, unvarnished surprise. “What?”
“You and me” Max clarified, though the idea was forming as he spoke it, ugly and desperate. “Get a place. Just us two. After this semester. Cut out the housemates.”
Charles studied him, his head tilted. The stormy eyes were searching, seeing too much. “I… thought you and Lando were super close. That you liked it here.”
“I do,” Max said, the lie brittle. “It’s fine.”
“Then why?”
The silence stretched. The room felt too small, the air too thin. Max looked down at his hands, clenched on the duvet. He could feel the old walls trying to slam up, the urge to snap ‘forget it, it was nothing.’
But he was so tired of the nothing. Of the un-named thing between them that took up all the space in the room but had no name.
“Because,” Max started, the words dragged out of him, rusty and sharp. “Even though we’re not… you know. In a proper… thing. A relationship. It feels like you spend all your time with Lando. Or with Carlos. And I’m just… here. In your bed, or in my room, or… just here. And it’s lonely.”
The confession hung in the steam-filled air, raw and shocking in its simplicity.
Charles didn’t move for a long moment. Then, a slow, dawning, heartbreakingly soft understanding washed over his face. It melted into something else—an overwhelming, fond aggression. He made a sound, a choked, cooing noise in the back of his throat, and crossed the room in three swift strides.
“Oh, mon cœur,” he breathed, descending onto the bed. He didn’t kiss him. He smothered him.
He wrapped his arms around Max, pulling him half into his lap, burying his face in Max’s neck, pressing kisses to his shoulder, his jaw, his temple. It was an assault of affection, physical and verbal.
“You ridiculous, perfect, stupid man. You feel lonely? With me? Have you met me? I am a stage-five clinger! I have been trying to glue myself to you since you walked in with your stupid scowl and your stupid lion mug!”
Max grunted, caught between embarrassment and the desperate, sinking relief that came with being held so tightly. “You’ve been busy,” he muttered into Charles’s skin.
“I have exams! You have exams! We live in the same house! I cook you dinner! I let you drag me to the gym at 5 AM! What more do you want, a signed contract?” Charles pulled back just enough to cup Max’s face, his thumbs stroking over his cheekbones. His eyes were fierce. “You think I don’t want a proper thing? With you? Max, I have been waiting for you to be ready. I didn’t want to… to spook you. I know it’s been… complicated for you.”
The directness was a lightning strike. It burned away the fog of assumption. “You… were waiting for me?”
“Of course I was!” Charles laughed, a little hysterically. “You think this is how I am with all my friends? You think I let just anyone give me scratch marks and steal my good pillows? Mon Dieu. Lando was right, I should have just pushed you against a wall and asked you months ago.”
The image, so vividly Charles, made a shocked laugh bubble out of Max. The tension in his shoulders, the cold knot in his stomach, began to dissolve, replaced by a warm, spreading incredulity.
Charles’s expression softened. He leaned forward, resting his forehead against Max’s. “I am sorry you felt lonely. That is the last thing I ever want you to be. I will spend so much time with you, you will beg me to go see Carlos. I will become a nuisance. A barnacle.”
“Promise?” Max whispered, the word feeling foreign and hopeful on his tongue.
“I promise.” Charles kissed him, soft and sure. Then he pulled back, a mischievous glint in his eye. “In fact, we are going on a date. Today.”
“Today? I have a studio critique at—”
“After. I will pick you up. We will go somewhere that does not have instant coffee and roommates. We will hold hands in public. I will buy you overpriced food. It will be disgusting and romantic.”
Max stared at him. A date. A real, intentional, named thing.
The cage door didn’t just open; it vanished. The fear was still there, a background hum, but it was drowned out by the louder, brighter truth of Charles’s hands on his face, his promise in the air.
“Okay,” Max said, a slow, real smile finally breaking through. “But I’m paying.”
“We will fight about it later,” Charles declared, kissing him again, thoroughly this time. When they broke apart, he sighed, a happy, settled sound. “Now, I must go and be a mama bird to Lando for one hour. But then,” he nipped at Max’s lower lip, “the rest of the day is for being a boyfriend to you. Yes?”
The word reverberated in the small room.
Boyfriend.
It was a question, not of doubt but of acceptance, of an invitation, of whether Max Verstappen wanted to forever be stuck with Charles Leclerc.
And Max, for perhaps the first time in his life, felt the right to something sweet and uncomplicated, something without any conditions.
He nodded.
“Yes.”
Charles expressions glowed, the same fireflies in a fog that Max had seen the first day.
Max's firefly planted a final and punctuating kiss on Max's lips before he finally got up to make their overdue, terrible instant coffee as Max sank back into the pillows. The grey light seemed warmer now. The bruises on his back and neck felt less like secrets and more like proof. He could hear his firefly (as once wasn't enough to satisfy his wobbly heart) humming in the corner, a tuneless, happy sound.
Down the hall, Lando’s music started up, something sad and beautiful.
Charles would go to him, and he would worry, and he would care. And that was okay. Because later, Charles would come back, and he would take Max’s hand, and they would step out of this ambiguous, shared space and into the clear, defined light of a London afternoon, together.
It wasn’t a grand confession. It was a quiet realignment. A subtle, powerful shift in the calculus of their wanting. And for Max Verstappen, it felt like the most monumental victory of his life.
.ೃ࿔ ✈︎ *:･
The confirmation email landed in Oscar’s inbox at 3:17 PM on a Thursday.
He’d been pacing a trench into the floorboards of his room for two days, ever since he’d sent the meticulously argued, heavily cited proposal to Professor Higgins, outlining the 'commercially viable internship-to-capstone substitution pathway' (Lewis’s words, which he’d borrowed). The wait had been a special kind of torture, every ping of his phone sending a jolt through his system.
This ping was different. It was the deep, authoritative thunk of his university email.
Subject: RE: Proposal for Accelerated Completion & Capstone Substitution - OSCAR PIASTRI
His hand hovered over the trackpad. For a wild second, he considered not opening it. The hope was a live wire in his chest, and rejection would be like dousing it in water.
He clicked.
Mr. Piastri,
Your proposal is, in a word, exceptional. The clarity of argument, the demonstrable quality of your internship data, and your proactive engagement with the university’s academic regulations are all highly impressive. I have consulted with the Head of Department and the industry liaison for AeroTech Dynamics.
We are prepared to approve your proposed pathway.
Oscar stopped breathing.
Your final submission, comprising the consolidated viability report and reflective portfolio, will be due by 5 PM, November 3rd. Upon successful assessment, your final exam requirement for the Thermofluids and Advanced Systems clusters will be waived, and your degree will be conferred at the November graduation session. This is a significant acceleration, Mr. Piastri. I trust you are prepared for the intensive work this will require over the next six weeks.
Congratulations. Do not make me regret this.
Prof. Higgins.
A sound escaped Oscar—a punched-out, disbelieving gasp that was half-laugh, half-sob. He read it again. And again. November 3rd. It was real. It was approved. The track had been shortened. The finish line was in sight, and it was draped in Lando’s birthday.
He burst out of his room, phone held aloft like the Olympic torch, and skidded into the living area where George and Alex were engaged in a heated debate over the best way to load a dishwasher (a debate that had been ongoing for nine months).
“He said yes!” Oscar blurted out, his voice cracking. “Higgins. He approved it. November 3rd. I’m done November 3rd!”
The dishwasher debate died an instant death.
George’s eyes went wide. Alex dropped a plate back into the sink with a clatter.
For a second, there was silence. Then, chaos.
“NO WAY!” George shouted, launching himself off the sofa.
“YES, MATE! YES!” Alex echoed, abandoning his post.
They converged on him in a tangle of limbs and back-slaps, a three-way hug that was more of a celebratory tackle. Oscar, still buzzing with adrenaline, laughed, the sound bright and unrestrained. They jumped, a little three-person pogo stick of joy, the old floorboards of the converted warehouse creaking in protest.
“DID YOU HEAR THAT?” George yelled, presumably to the universe. “OUR BOY IS A GENIUS! HE BEAT THE SYSTEM!”
The jumping intensified. A picture of a generic beach scene that Lewis had hung (and they’d never taken down) rattled on the wall.
The noise must have carried, because a voice, sharp and resonant as a gunshot, sliced up through the floorboards from the café below.
“IF YOU THREE DON’T STOP JUMPING, YOU ARE PAYING FOR THE NEW FLOORS! I AM NOT JOKING! I HAVE A HAMMER!”
It was Nico. At his most maternal instinct, which was to say, terrifying.
They froze mid-hop, collapsing into a heap of giggles on the rug, hands clamped over their mouths. Oscar’s heart hammered against his ribs, a happy, frantic drumbeat. He could picture Nico downstairs, wiping his hands on a apron, glaring at the ceiling with the fury of a man who knows exactly how much structural repairs cost.
“Sorry, Nico!” Alex called down, still wheezing with laughter.
A grumble, inaudible but deeply felt, was the only reply.
Catching his breath, Oscar scrambled to his knees, grabbing his phone from where it had fallen. The giddy triumph had found its natural target. Lando. He needed to tell Lando. His thumb flew to his contacts, to the heart emoji saved right next to ‘Lan.’
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” George said, reaching out and covering the screen with his hand. “Where do you think you’re going?”
Oscar blinked up at him, his face the picture of open, eager confusion. “To call Lando? To tell him?”
Alex shook his head, a slow, conspiratorial smile spreading across his face. He exchanged a look with George. It was a look that said, This one is too pure. We must protect him.
“No,” Alex said simply.
“No?” Oscar’s brow furrowed. He looked genuinely distressed, like a puppy who’d been told he couldn’t greet his owner at the door. “But I have to tell him. I don’t… I don’t lie to Lando.”
“It’s not lying,” George insisted, shifting to sit cross-legged in front of him, adopting the posture of a wise sage (if the sage wore mismatched socks and a hoodie with a hole in the elbow). “It’s… strategic information management. Think about it. If you finish November 3rd…”
“Lando’s birthday is November 13th,” Alex finished, his eyes gleaming.
The pieces clicked into place in Oscar’s mind with an almost audible snap.
The early finish. The ten-day gap. The proximity to Lando’s birthday. His eyes went wide, the confusion melting into dawning, awe-struck comprehension. “I could… I could go there. For his birthday.”
“You could surprise him for his birthday,” George corrected, his voice dropping to a dramatic whisper. “You could show up. In London. At his door. With, like, flowers or whatever disgustingly romantic thing you two do. He would lose his mind. He might actually faint. Charles would have to record it. It would be legendary.”
The sparkle in Oscar’s eyes wasn’t metaphorical. It was a physical, palpable glow of pure, unadulterated possibility. The idea of surprising Lando, of being the one to bridge the distance instead of just talking across it, of seeing that specific, shocked, joyous expression on his face… it was better than any academic approval.
“But… how?” Oscar breathed, already mentally calculating flights, visas, savings. “I’d have to keep it secret for weeks. On our calls. I’m a terrible liar. He’ll know.”
“That’s why,” Alex said, pulling out his own phone with a flourish, “you don’t do it alone.”
<iamnotwoody added woody'sbf, brittneyisurmom, ihateonions, osciismyboyokie?, bananaleclerc, maxverstappen, iloveanaussie, iamtheaussie>
<iamnotwoody name the group chat, "SHREK'S SWAMP">
SHREK'S SWAMP
iamnotwoody: PEOPLE. GATHER. EMERGENCY MEETING. THIS IS NOT A DRILL.
woody'sbf: Babe seriously?
brittneyisurmom: George your obsession with Shrek is unhealthy.
bananaleclerc: ???? Lando is napping. He is sad. This better be good. Max is trying to fix the shelf I broke and is judging me.
maxverstappen: It’s a simple bracket, Charles. How did you even.
bananaleclerc: PASSION.
iloveanaussie: Daniel says hi. He is eating my yogurt.
iamtheaussie: ITS OUR YOGURT CARLOS. also hi.
iamnotwoody: GUYS SHUT UP AND HEAR OSCAR OUT
oscieismyboyoki?: So. I had an internship and turns out I could use it for extra credit and I got the approval. So I can finish the sem by 3rd November. No finals.
bananaleclerc: OSCAR!!!!!! THAT’S AMAZING!!!!!!
maxverstappen: Ok that’s actually huge. Congrats.
iloveanaussie: ¡Felicidades! This is wonderful news!
iamtheaussie: MY SMART SON!!!!!!
brittneyisurmom: Knew you could do it. Told you the loophole was there.
ihateonions: Proud of you, son. Really. Knew you had it in you.
oscieismyboyoki?: Thanks. Feels unreal.
iamnotwoody: OK BUT LISTEN TO THE PLAN. WE DON’T TELL LANDO.
woody'sbf: We surprise him. For his birthday. Oscar just… appears.
bananaleclerc: OH MY GOD.
bananaleclerc: OH MY GOD YOU WANT TO SURPRISE HIM.
bananaleclerc: ON HIS BIRTHDAY.
bananaleclerc: IN LONDON.
maxverstappen: Charles breathe. Into a paper bag. But also yeah that’s genius.
bananaleclerc: I DON’T HAVE A PAPER BAG I HAVE A BOYFRIEND WHO BREAKS SHELVES. WAIT.
maxverstappen: YOU BREAK THEM, I FIX THEM.
iamtheaussie: I AM SCREAMING. I WILL HELP. I AM EXCELLENT AT SURPRISES.
iloveanaussie: The last ‘surprise’ was you hiding in my boot for 6 hours. You gave yourself cramp.
iamtheaussie: AND IT WAS WORTH IT FOR THE LOOK ON YOUR FACE. This is better. Way better.
ihateonions: Nico’s eyes just got that scary planning gleam. I recognise it.
brittneyisurmom: It’s called competence, Lewis. You should try it sometime.
ihateonions: You love my particular brand of incompetence and you know it.
oscieismyboyoki?: ew.
iamnotwoody: seconded. ew.
woody'sbf: thirded. please.
brittneyisurmom: Focus. Logistics. We need logistics. Flight dates. Keys. Distractions.
ihateonions: Nico is now in his element. I’ve created a monster.
brittneyisurmom: You love it. Oscar, what’s the earliest you can fly?
oscieismyboyoki?: If I submit the 3rd, maybe Nov 6th or 7th? But his bday is the 13th. I’d have to hide in London for over a week.
iamnotwoody: STAY WITH US YOU DUMMY. Me and Alex will be there for that internship thing, remember? We have a flat!
woody'sbf: It’s a shoebox with a leaky tap but it has a sofa. You can suffer in secret with us.
oscieismyboyoki?: suffer with you two? that’s a given.
bananaleclerc: This is PERFECT. We will handle Lando. We will take him out for birthday dinner. Keep him out late. You lie in wait at our dorm.
maxverstappen: I’ll make sure he doesn’t suspect. I’ll act normal. (I am always normal.)
bananaleclerc: You glared at a barista yesterday for saying ‘have a good one’.
maxverstappen: It was vague. I prefer specificity. That’s normal.
iloveanaussie: Daniel will not be able to act normal. He will grin like a maniac for two weeks.
iamtheaussie: I CAN BEHAVE! I AM A SAINT. Also I can be distraction. I will take Lando to do weird Australian things to confuse him.
bananaleclerc: Please no more attempts to teach him AFL in the living room. The last vase…
iamtheaussie: IT WAS A SACRIFICE TO THE SPIRIT OF SPORT.
oscieismyboyoki?: I… I don’t know what to say. This is…
ihateonions: Say yes. Let us help you give him this.
brittneyisurmom: It’s settled then. Operation: Birthday Ambush is greenlit. George, you and Alex are in charge of Oscar’s London hideout. Charles, Max, you are on Lando-wrangling. Carlos, Daniel, you are on general deception and morale. Lewis and I will be mission control and transfer funds for 'emergency supplies' (wine, for the stress).
ihateonions: You just want an excuse to buy that expensive Burgundy.
brittneyisurmom: Stress is a multi-layered experience. It deserves a good palette.
bananaleclerc: I AM GOING TO CRY. HE’S GOING TO CRY. WE NEED TO RECORD IT.
maxverstappen: I’ll handle footage. I have a steady hand.
bananaleclerc: You do. It’s very hot.
maxverstappen: Noted.
iamnotwoody: This is the best thing we’ve ever done. I feel alive.
oscieismyboyoki?: Thank you. All of you. Seriously.
iamtheaussie: NO CRYING IN THE WAR ROOM! ONLY PLANNING! Okay a little crying.
iloveanaussie: I have made a shared spreadsheet. Do not be afraid.
iamnotwoody: of course you did.
brittneyisurmom: Osco, flight details. Send them to me when booked. I will use my ‘boring adult credit card’ for points.
ihateonions: He means our joint account.
brittneyisurmom: Silence, Hamilton.
ihateonions: Sorry wifey.
bananaleclerc: What is the birthday dinner venue? It must be sufficiently distracting but not so good he wants to stay forever.
maxverstappen: The Italian place he likes. He always gets the carbonara and talks about Oscar’s cooking for an hour after. Ideal melancholy vibe.
iloveanaussie: I will make the reservation under a fake name. 'Mr. L. Pining.' Very subtle.
iamtheaussie: what about ‘Mr. Definitely Not Awaiting a Surprise’
maxverstappen: Too obvious.
iamnotwoody: What do we do if he video-calls Oscar during the hiding week??
woody'sbf: Fake background. Pretend to be in Sydney. 'Oh just at the library, lan, yeah so tired, miss u'
oscieismyboyoki?: I can use the old Sydney background pic. And only call from 'my room' at night. It’ll work.
iamtheaussie: LIE TO YOUR HUSBAND! FOR LOVE! IT’S BEAUTIFUL!
ihateonions: It’s a strategic temporal misdirection.
brittneyisurmom: That’s my line. Stop being sexy, it’s distracting.
oscieismyboyoki?: GUYS. PLEASE.
maxverstappen: What’s the code word if something goes wrong? If Lando finds out?
bananaleclerc: “The pasta is dry.”
iloveanaussie: Appropriate.
iamtheaussie: what if the pasta IS dry? at the restaurant? do we abort??
maxverstappen: Then we have bigger problems.
ihateonions: Oscar, focus on your report. That’s the priority. We have the rest.
oscieismyboyoki?: Copy that. Starting now. And… thank you. For all of this.
iamnotwoody: don’t get mushy. just go be a genius. we got your back.
woody'sbf: what he said. now shut up and work.
bananaleclerc: WE LOVE YOU!
bananaleclerc: @oscieismyboyoki? I’m so proud of you. Lando’s going to cry so hard he’ll probably need an IV. This is the most romantic thing anyone’s ever done and I’m literally tearing up right now thinking about his face when he sees you. Max, take notes.
maxverstappen: …
maxverstappen: I already ordered you that limited-edition racing helmet you wanted but wouldn’t buy yourself. It arrives Tuesday.
bananaleclerc: !!!!!!!!!!!
bananaleclerc: THAT’S NOT NOTES THAT’S THE WHOLE ESSAY I LOVE YOU!!!
<oscieismyboyoki? has left the chat>
iamnotwoody: wait he actually left
woody'sbf: can’t handle the emotional support i guess
bananaleclerc: He left because of the sap??? Isn't he the same man that once described missing Lando as a ‘constant low-frequency hum of absence’?????
iamnotwoody: ew
woody'sbf: ew
maxverstappen: ew
iloveanaussie: ew
iamtheaussie: ew
brittneyisurmom: ew
ihateonions: You lot are terrible