this one is different because it's us

It had taken him half a day to realise that people couldn’t see him.

In hindsight, the signs were all there. He hadn’t been stopped for a photograph or an autograph; he hadn’t noticed anyone pointing their iPhone in his way, snapping pics they thought were discrete but absolutely weren’t; nobody had interrupted his run. Nobody had even said ‘good morning’, and that — well, it was strange. People weren’t always the friendliest here, sure, but there was always one without fail, a neighbour who was over-eager to greet him like a pal.

He’d gotten all the way through his run and back to his apartment, passing the floor length mirror Lily had insisted he put in the hallway before she broke up with him, and — he hadn’t had a reflection.

For a split second, he’d thought he was still asleep. Pinching the back of his hand hard, the pinprick of pain doing nothing to alleviate his panic. He’d passed the mirror a few times in quick succession — was it a glitch? Was he mistaken?

But no — there was no doubt. Oscar Piastri was invisible.

He’d chosen to deal with it the same way he liked to deal with all of life’s little unexpected hindrances; alone. And it was fine, in the end, because by the time he woke up the next morning, he was visible again. Fully formed, his red face staring back at him in the mirror, his hair sticking up in all directions from a rough night's sleep.

There wasn’t any point in telling anyone, he’d reasoned with himself. Because it had sorted itself out, hadn’t it?

Except it kept happening. And happening. And happening. Until random bouts of invisibility came as natural to Oscar as everything else in his life.

——

He doesn’t mean to use his newfound talent in nefarious ways; truly, he doesn’t.

It’s just — one day he ends up walking into Lando’s drivers room and he doesn’t even realise he’s gone invisible again — really, he doesn’t.

At least, not until Lando’s stripping down to his underwear and digging a hand under the waist and of his shorts, phone gripped in the other. He has earbuds in so Oscar can’t hear it, but he can see enough; the scene playing out on the screen.

He didn’t know Lando was into men until that.

He wishes he could say he left — that as soon as he realised what Lando was doing he backed up out of the room and vowed never to do it again.

But he doesn’t. Oscar stays. Oscar stays and watches as Lando jerks himself off furiously whilst a guy with pale skin and a sprinkling of moles fucks into another man on the video on his phone; smaller, a golden tan and a head of curls.

He slips out of the room just as Lando’s coming, a glimpse of thick, white spurts all over that massive hand of his, and Oscar’s hard and aching in his shorts, desperate to get a hand on himself.

——

It’s not supposed to become a thing. Really.

But he figures it out — Lando’s little pre race ritual. Like clockwork, every Sunday in the hours before they’re due on track, Lando will sneak away to his drivers room and wank himself silly.

Oscar can’t follow him every time, of course; he doesn’t know how to turn the invisibility on and off, can’t control it like that no matter how much he tries.

Somehow, it feels logical to take the next step. To slide his hand into his own shorts as he settles into the chair opposite Lando’s couch, where he likes to get himself off without fail. And there’s something unbelievably hot about it; the way Oscar has to bite his own lip to stop from making a sound, to stop himself from revealing his secret. He comes quietly and desperately, watching Lando and imagining what it would be like, if Lando could see him. If they were doing this together for real. If he could get his hand around Lando and say the things he wants to say.

——

In Barcelona, the air is dry and hot. Oscar’s already invisible by the time Lando excuses himself; he follows him, careful to keep his steps light and his breath muffled.