#offermethatdeathlessdeath

Lando's stomach mostly consists of tequila sloshing on top of rum, a vodka shot for punctuation, and at least two Long Islands. He's also barely eaten all day. Maybe that's why alcohol is hollowing him out until he's nothing but a pulse and a reflection, gripping the sink in the pristine marble bathroom of the afterparty thrown in honor of his world championship. His World Championship. The words feel too big to hold, too bright to look at directly. So he stares into his own eyes in the mirror like he’s waiting for his reflection to blink first, his head pounding in time with the music making its way through the walls, each beat a vaguely uncomfortable pulse behind his eyeballs. And that’s when the door bangs open.

Max.

Not that Max. The other one. His Max. The one who knows him well enough to barrel in without knocking because if Lando has disappeared into the bathroom for this long, he’s either crying or drowning.

“Oi—” Max starts, though whatever else he has to say is aborted halfway through.

 Lando know it's because of how he looks. He can see it in the mirror, the wrongness there. The way his skin's gone ashen, eyes glassy. Like the night has drained through him and left only a shell propped up against porcelain.