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'81' is painted on the back of the racing suit, something about it almost mocking.

It's not the first time he's dreamed about being in Oscar's drivers room, but he hasn't — it's been a while. A few months at least. These days his fantasies are more refined; plush, feather-filled hotel pillows and crisp white sheets; the Italian leather sofa in his apartment back in Monaco; once, even, the marble of his kitchen countertop, the hard ridge of it digging painfully into his hips.

He's always been creative like that, even in sleep.

The drivers room is the same one it always is, the layout exactly the same as his own. Usually, though, he isn't alone here — not in his dreams. Never been much for loneliness at the best of times; the least his brain can do is summon someone up to keep him company. Oscar, more often than not, for reasons he can't think about for too long, the stark truth of it too large and too terrifying to face head on.

Here, though, it isn't so bad. Here he can pretend for a while; for the night, if he's lucky.

Shifting his body weight from the ball of his feet to the heels and back again, he commits to a rocking motion, hands buried deep into his pockets as he waits. Oscar will turn up eventually.

After all, this is Lando's dream, isn't it?

Like the universe hears him, the door swings open, and —

Lando's breath catches in his throat, chest swelling with it.

It's Oscar, sure, but it's also — someone else. Someone with their hands in Oscar's hair, backing him up into the drivers room, crowding him inside with a confidence that hits Lando as familiar. Oscar's hands are on the mystery man's waist; Lando can see the clench of his fingers, a death grip like he's worried someone will steal him away.

They don't notice Lando at first, neither of them do. They're too busy trying to maneuver their way towards the sofa without breaking their kiss, wet, slick sounds ringing out into the room, deafening to Lando's ears. A moan slips out before it's swallowed down, and Lando realises he doesn't know which of them made the sound — it's a sound he knows, but it doesn't have the tone of Oscar's, lilting and deep at the same time.

"Fuck," he says aloud, when recognition hits.

He feels like he's floating out of his body, blood rushing south in a way that feels too real, too vivid for a dream. Wonders if he'll wake to wet sheets in the morning, something he'll be red-faced about when he thinks of the hotel house cleaning. It's a fleeting thought, drowned out immediately by the much more pressing situation.

Max hasn't featured in Lando's dreams for — a while. He can't put a figure on it, wouldn't want to try.

But he's here now, kissing Oscar. Or he was, because they've jumped apart, apparently startled by Lando's interruption, and they're looking at him with twin wide eyes and open mouths, mirrored expressions of absolute fear.

Lando frowns.

It makes no sense for them to be scared. Not here. This is his dream and, honestly, it's a wonder he's never thought of it before; the three of them, like this. Has never combined his fantasies of the two before, and he's kicking himself for it now, because Oscar and Max together is — indescribable.

Mouth-watering.

"Carry on," he says, because apparently dream Oscar-and-Max need permission from him, or something. The way they're still staring at him, like they're waiting for a reaction; expecting a bad one, for him to hit the wall. Lose his temper, like this isn't the hottest image his brain has ever conjured.

"Uh," Oscar blinks at him. "What are you — we didn't —"

"Bob," Max steps in, an act of kindness to Oscar that makes Lando's heart hurt a little. "What are you doing in here?"

"Waiting for you," Lando feels his face twist, impatience bleeding across his features. Usually, the people in his fantasies are much less — suspicious. It's beginning to feel less like a sex dream and more like one of those boring dreams he has sometimes, where he goes through his daily routine like he's actually awake, and then wakes up feeling cheated out of something good.

Dream Max is looking at him curiously, eyes narrowing the slightest amount. Blink and you'll miss it, an almost imperceptible reaction. But Lando knows Max in every life time, and he knows what that look is. Calculating. Thoughtful. He's running through a hundred variations in his mind, thoughts that Lando couldn't even hope to keep up with.

It's comforting, in a way. To know that the Max in his dreams is the same as the Max in real life.

"You heard him," Max licks his lips slowly, deliberately. Lando watches as he crowds in behind Oscar, pressing the front of his body to the length of Oscar's back; Oscar's breath is audible, the hint of a whine curling at the edges. "He was waiting for us, Oscar… reckon we should make it worth his while, yeah?" A hand creeps back up to Oscar's hair, fingers curling into the soft locks at the nape of his neck before pulling, Oscar's head going back, the long line of his neck turned to Lando temptingly. "What do you think?"

Oscar tries to nod but seems to realise he can't, not with Max manhandling him like this. He meets Lando's eyes, lips parted.

"Yeah. Yeah, we should."

—————-

Lando wakes to the sound of his alarm, the tune too loud, cracking through the early morning serenity like a whip.

He fumbles for his phone awkwardly, thumbing across the screen to silence the noise. Pauses when he sees the notification.

8 new messages from Max.

Max Fewtrell

mate

are u awake

this is going to sound weird

but i swear you were in my dream last night lmao

obviously not really but

it felt kind of real???

anyway