#orb fic

People were welcome to think what they'd like inside the walls of their heads, but Lando and Oscar weren't ready to have a formal conversation about this with the team yet. What they had was still too fragile to be placed under the microscope of workplace protocols and PR machinery, too delicate to be turned into a thing—into a situation to be handled.

They'd been doing this thing since the end of Oscar's rookie year, but it was only mostly through their second season that they'd begun to stop pretending it was going to boil over and go away on its own, and had started coming at it seriously. They both knew it ran deeper than a casual teammate dalliance now, if those even existed. They still hadn't figured out the whole shape of it, but they'd at least stopped running away from it and from each other.

"Hey," Lando says softly, finishing spooning the reheated rice from Oscar's meal pack onto a plate with his chicken and salad before handing it to him as he walks in. He looks up at Oscar when he does so, eyes soft and open, face gently inquiring. There's a tentative hope in there that Oscar has neither energy nor desire to deal with right now.

Granted, it's a mellowed out version of how Lando had been looking at him immediately after the race, eyes firmly on him despite Andrea between them and the interviewer across them, talking about their constructors' win. Eyes full of too much hope, guilt, trepidation, concern, everything all at once. But, even the present toned down version is still far more than Oscar has the physical or emotional capacity to handle right now.

He takes his plate, says a quiet thank you while avoiding Lando's eyes, and heads to his bedroom. He can hear the soft sigh Lando lets out as he walks off. He shuts the door firmly behind himself.

A few races into this season, they'd figured out that they were more or less going to be fighting each other for the championship. As elated as they had been to have the privilege to make a play for their life's dream, they were also aware enough to know that it wasn't exactly going to be conducive to their relationship with each other.

So, like the world class motorsport athletes they were, used to thinking through systems and strategies, and planning things down to the millisecond, they put protocols in place. They talked through possible on-track scenarios and potential race outcomes, predicted how they would feel in those moments, and then put down rules to follow for when they wouldn't be at their best. One of those measures was their sleeping arrangements.

They still shared a bed almost every single other night, but they knew that post race nights were a whole separate affair. They'd been in the game long enough to know what they were like after the GPs, worn down to the bone after hours on track and hours at press; their emotions running high and their patience running low.

They'd worked out that the best course of action would be to give each other space when they needed it. But, having that conversation at the end of every race was almost more draining than simply putting up with the proximity. So, they'd decided they would always default to sleeping in their separate bedrooms on race nights. The last thing either of them wanted to do after a hard race was scrape the bottom of their emptied emotional barrel to find kind words to tell the other that they didn't feel particularly fond of them in that moment, and needed them to temporarily sod off.

But, they also needed a way to let the other know when they didn't feel that way and would actually be open to sleeping together, if possible. So, they had agreed upon a silent signal, leaving their door ajar if they wanted to share a room, and all the way shut if they didn't. It had been working as intended so far; they'd managed to avoid post-race arguments and saying things at night that they'd regret in the daylight almost entirely.

By the time Oscar emerges out of his room to put away his empty plate, it's hours later and Lando has already gone to bed. That's good. Oscar had deliberately spent too long killing time in his room to avoid running into Lando again. As he walks to the kitchen, he doesn't need to look in the direction of Lando's bedroom door to know it's been left cracked open. With how Lando had been acting since the race ended, he'd expected as much.

He puts the dish in the sink and retreats back to the safety of his sealed room. He shifts around on his bed, trying to find a comfortable position and willing himself to go to sleep. His body is wrung out; Singapore isn't kind even on the best of days and this was definitely not one of them. His heart, though, is even more twisted up, pulled tight, and stretched thin.

Too much had happened tonight for him to even begin processing. He knew he needed to rest before he could attempt to make sense of any of it. He doesn't yet know how he feels, he doesn't know what he wants to do about any of what he feels, and he especially doesn't want to think about any of the things that others expect him to be doing about what he feels. But, his mind has other plans.

He tosses and turns for an hour, trying to get his brain and body to come down from the high, to not act like he was going at 300 kph anymore. His skin feels itchy all over despite the shower and the fresh clothes. The sheets feel too smooth and too rough at the same time, and the mattress never settles into a comfortable press against his spine.

He knows what's wrong, knows what he's missing, but he can't ask for it. Not tonight. He doesn't even know if it would help today, it could just make everything worse.

After another fifteen fruitless minutes of trying to get himself to do what he struggles to do alone on the best of days, he gives up. He walks up to his bedroom door, hesitates for a second, then jerkily reaches out and twists the knob. The door creaks a little as he pulls it slightly open on its hinges.

He knows Lando's door is still open. He knows he could walk over and slide into his bed right this very moment. He knows Lando would want him to. But he can't. Not this night, not after everything. He can't go all the way yet; he still needs more time.

So, he leaves his door ajar and returns to his bed, curling up on his side. It's around one in the morning now, and the chances of Lando still being up are very low. His body would be similarly exhausted, and his mind probably less scattered and agitated than Oscar's after his podium. He knows there's no use waiting, hoping, pretending he isn't doing either of them.

He hates himself a little in that moment, hates his heart that can't stop yearning despite being beaten and bruised. He hates that even in his worst moments he can't stop needing Lando, not even when Lando is the maker of those very moments. Oscar feels like a puppet, all his strings wrapped tightly around Lando's fingers, pulling his limbs into twisted shapes at will, dragging his body across the stage to fulfill every narrative arc Lando had written for him; all to amuse the ones who'd sat down to watch their story unfold.

It's less than a few minutes before he hears the faint creak of Lando's bedroom door being pushed further open and his soft, socked footsteps making their way over on the hardwood floors of the hallway. Oscar lets out a soft, involuntary exhale. He doesn't really know what he had been wanting to happen, but he feels his body loosen all the same.

Lando pushes into his room and crosses over to the other side of his bed. Oscar doesn't react or turn even as Lando pulls the covers up and slides in behind him. Only when Lando wraps his arm around Oscar's waist does his body give in, all tension ebbing out of his muscles in one fell swoop. He pushes himself back tightly against Lando, eliminating any space between them. He feels Lando's firm chest press against his back, fitting perfectly against his spine the way the mattress never did. Oscar pushes his legs back until they are tangled completely with Lando's—thighs sliding between thighs, calves wrapping around shins, heels pressing into ankles—until neither can tell which limb belongs to whom. The room was warm, almost too warm, but Oscar hadn't realised how cold he had been despite it, until he found himself encased in Lando's warmth, his body far too used to this sensation by now to adapt to its sudden loss.

Lando, mercifully, does not speak. Oscar doesn't know if he could handle that right now; even so much as hearing his name escaping Lando's lips would cut deep enough to draw blood. Lando just drops his forehead to rest against Oscar's nape until his lips graze softly at the tip of Oscar's spine. Oscar shivers, despite himself. Lando just curls his arm tighter against Oscar's torso, pulling him impossibily deeper into the curve of his body and slides his hand up to cover Oscar's chest, resting on his heart.

Oscar reaches out—needs to—without thinking. He feels like he's in free fall; like he's adrift in the middle of the sea at night, the black starry sky reflecting onto the waves and becoming one with them, the horizon blurring until he's not sure which way is up and which way is down. He needs something to hold onto, something to anchor himself. His hand comes up to catch Lando's on his chest, fingers intertwining and pressing until he's squeezing them too hard to pass off as normal.

He loosens his grip abruptly. But, Lando doesn't pull away, only adjusts his hold to cover Oscar's hand with his own—palm to palm now, his first two fingers sliding between Oscar's index and middle, and the other two wrapping around his thumb to rest against the back of his hand. His heads shifts to come around and hook his chin onto Oscar's shoulder, making his curls brush softly against Oscar's cheek and ear. Oscar hadn't realised how much he'd missed that sensation until now.

He feels his brain finally starting to wind down in response, thoughts getting slower and more spaced out, eventually trickling out of his skull entirely. His breathing gets less rapid with Lando's smell flooding his senses, the lingering singed rubber and champagne from tonight's race mixing with the scent of his citrus body wash and their shared laundry detergent, reminding him of everything Lando was, a racer, his rival, his.

He knows they're not out of the woods yet. That this resolves nothing, that they're still going to have to talk tomorrow. Both, between the two of them, and then with the rest of the team; the debrief from the night races always being pushed to the next morning. He knows what's coming. Too many uncomfortable words and feelings, too much honesty and vulnerability required of both of them.

He loves Lando, and he loves racing. He even loves racing Lando, but he would be lying if he said the constant strain of the title fight and the complicated conversations it kept forcing them to have with each other wasn't getting to him. After each race he felt like he needed to flay himself open for Lando to see, so that he could find exactly the places where Oscar had shattered and pick the pieces up. Sometimes, all Oscar wanted to do was shut himself away from the world, away from Lando, and never let anyone see how much he hurt.

But, he knew where that led. And he didn't want that. He would do this a thousand times over if it meant he could have Lando curled up around him like he was right now; his warm breath tickling across Oscar's cheek with every exhale, his chest moving in tandem with Oscar's back, and the soft press of his skin enveloping Oscar in every direction. Holding him tight, yet so gentle, like Oscar meant something, like he meant everything.

Oscar didn't know what he was doing. He didn't know what either of them was thinking getting themselves into a situation like this. Teammate title fights were complicated enough without throwing a whole romantic relationship into the mix. He felt untethered—reckless and wild—pushing boundaries that were never meant to be pushed. Boundaries no one else had survived pushing. He felt a little insane, perpetually seconds away from catastrophe, the way he never even felt in the car, anymore.

But, Lando hadn't been able to sleep tonight, either. He'd come within minutes of Oscar opening his door, like he was orbiting around Oscar and was pulled into his gravity at the slightest of nudges. Like all he'd been doing all night was keeping his systems locked onto Oscar, sensors primed and poised to detect the minutest of blips, his ears peeled to catch the second he was allowed to close the distance between them, the moment he was allowed back in.

That was a bit crazy, too. That after a success like Singapore, after inching ever so closer to the championship of his dreams, all he could think about was Oscar. If Oscar was okay, if he could hold Oscar, if he still had Oscar.

Maybe Oscar was mad, but it didn't really matter. Because, Lando was mad right there with him.

He knew that championship battles got stressful, competitive. He knew that his main job here was to win, but he also knew that that was his job. It was what he did for a living now. This was his life. This was going to occupy all his waking hours, and many of his sleeping hours too, for many, many years to come. And because of that, he knew how lucky he'd been to get Lando as a teammate.

Not just due to his years long stupid little crush on Lando Norris (even though he still couldn't wrap his head around how he'd manifested that) but mostly because of who Lando was. He was one of the kindest and warmest drivers on the grid. He'd welcomed Oscar to the circus that was formula one with such comfort and ease and had gently nudged him along the right directions, helped him find his balance, all without ever showing off what he was doing or asking for anything in return. He was the one person who Oscar felt comfortable believing truly meant what he said, and that he was genuine when he said he believed in Oscar.

Even when that trust had come close to breaking a few times last year, they were always able to work it out. They spoke, they heard each other out, and they apologised when they felt either of them had fucked up. They always met each other halfway, because they both wanted to make this work. If he was going to be at McLaren, and at formula one for the rest of his working life, he was going to need to find a way to feel stable and happy and secure. He couldn't be constantly burning up with fear and paranoia and the burden to prove himself. This career was a marathon, not a sprint. He needed to ground himself, plant his feet. He needed an anchor, and Lando had been that for him.

So, he couldn't for the life of him figure out what had gone so wrong, so suddenly. What had he done for Lando to go so cold on him. They hadn't even started with the actual races yet. There couldn't possibly be anything he'd accidentally done that set Lando off, or anything that Lando had taken as a sign to shut himself away. He'd never been this distant with Oscar, not even at their worst moments, not even during the last few races in their title fight last year. He always made it a point to find a moment to meet Oscar's eyes and give him his big smile. He never once forgot to clasp his hand after a race, no matter what had gone down on the track.

Oscar's head was spinning. He had put in the work over the break and gotten better at managing his emotions, but he hadn't expected his new skills to be trialled by fire like this. Not this soon; he wasn't ready yet. He hadn't expected them to reach this point until at least halfway through the season. He found himself inches away from descending down a full spiral every time Lando ducked his head before Oscar could catch his gaze, and every time he gave him that polite smile that never reached his eyes. He knew what Emma would say—that he needed to calm down, get some distance, think about this rationally. That there could be any number of things going on in Lando's life that had nothing to do with Oscar. But Oscar had already admitted to himself he wasn't that good at this mental stuff yet. His beginner level emotional regulation skills couldn't fend off this boss level attack. He couldn't be normal, not about Lando. Plus, Lando had had his own life these last three years as well, but nothing happening in it had ever changed how Lando looked at him. So what had changed now? What had blown up so violently between them that no trace of their friendship remained? Was this how it was going to be for the rest of this year? God forbid, for the rest of their careers? Had he and Lando forever lost what they used to have?

Oscar knew he should stop jumping to conclusions before he could even talk to Lando about it, but Lando never gave him so much as a chance to catch him alone to clear the air. He was always brushing him off with some poor excuse or pretending he had somewhere else to run off to, promising he'd find Oscar as soon as he was done. But he never did.

So, they were stuck in a stalemate. Neither of them able to make any moves towards the other. Deadlocked. That's how it kept going for their whole time in Bahrain.

_____

Oscar wasn't a panellist at the press conference today, but he hung around in the back of the room for a bit, and unsurprisingly spent most of that time with his eyes glued to Lando. There was a time he used to be embarrassed by it, but he gave up on trying to hide it after the millionth McLaren PR video of them doing some stupid challenge hit the internet and comments called him out on his 'heart eyes' all over again. He'd resigned himself to his fate; there was nothing left to hide anymore. The people knew. At least, today, the cameras in the room were focused on the drivers at the front, and not on him, giving him an ever freer pass.

On the surface, Lando seemed fine. He would pay attention when he was being asked a question, he would give his perfectly polished PR answers, he nodded and smiled at the right times, he even threw in the occasional joke when the moment called for it. To everyone else he was being his regular Lando Norris self. But Oscar wasn't just anyone else. No, he was a professional in the study of Lando Norris, for more reasons than he cared to count, but at the very least just based on the amount of time he'd spent looking at the guy.

So what Oscar's trained eyes picked up on was that whenever the attention shifted away from Lando for a second, whenever he felt like the room was looking elsewhere, his smile would drop just a fraction. Although he was still using his cap as a shield, you could just about see his eyes get that slightly distant look that had been haunting them all week. Whenever Lando felt like he could take a moment to breathe, when he thought no one was watching, the mask would slip just a little bit, so infinitesimally that it would be undetectable to anyone even a little preoccupied. But Oscar was only ever occupied with Lando, and he was so attuned to every micro-expression Lando Norris' face was capable of making, that he could see the aberrations from a mile away. They would have been as clear as a glaring neon sign to his eyes even if he didn't have the context of how Lando has been acting the last few days.

The longer he watched Lando, the more the room felt like it was closing in on Oscar. Every negative thought he'd worked for months to keep at bay was flooding back into his brain. The minutes crawled past, escalating his paranoia. He could feel anxiety pooling in his stomach, rising up to fill his lungs. By the time the press conference came to a conclusion, he'd half convinced himself that it was all over, that their relationship was done, that Lando hated him and would never look him in the eye ever again, that Lando would ask McLaren to terminate either of their contracts as soon as he could, and that Oscar would end up with his heart broken and life destroyed and be asked to rebuild it all alone finding himself a new home in formula one.

As soon as the cameras were off and people started getting up from their seats, Lando, predictably, disappeared into some back hallway of the building. Surprisingly, though, he wasn't the only one to notice Lando's weird behaviour this time. A few journalists a couple of rows in front of him were chatting lowly amongst themselves when his ears caught Lando's name being mentioned.

"Hey, did you manage to see where he went? He said something about the PU in my interview with him this morning that I wanted to follow up on."

"Oh, I didn't see which way he left. But, I don't think he'd be in the mood to answer any more questions right now. Nor would it be polite to ask him, actually."

"What, why? He's usually happy to talk about the car."

"It's not about the car. It wouldn't be polite because it's obviously not a great time for him. I think you should give the poor lad a little space, at least."

"What—what do you mean? Did something happen?"

"Oh, you haven't heard? Well, there have been rumours floating around the paddock of him and his girlfriend breaking up recently. No one can confirm anything, but, smoke and fire, you know."

The words hit Oscar like a truck. Knocked the air right out of his lungs. But he couldn't breathe in his next breath until he confirmed, until he knew for sure. In a blind haze he made his way to the McLaren building. Before he knew what he was doing, he found himself banging on Lando's door.

"Lando, I know you're in there. Open up." Oscar was beyond caring at this point. It had been a long fucking week. Every time Lando had managed to once again just barely slip out of his grasp, Oscar had been inching closer and closer to his limit. That limit had been crossed just now. He needed answers. And god help him he'd make Lando give them to him, and give them to him now.

"Lando, please. I need to speak to you." He said again when there was no answer. He didn't know how he was managing to keep his voice steady because no part of him felt calm, actually. His whole body was buzzing with tension.

By some miracle, Lando opened the door. He had his head tilted down, still wearing that stupid papaya cap, the one he'd been using to hide his eyes all week.

"Oh, hey Oscar." Lando said in that same fake, polite tone that had been grating on Oscar nerves for days. "Sorry, I know I've been very busy this week, but this isn't really a good time—"

"Is it true?" Oscar demanded, words spilling out before he could care to put thought into how he framed his question.

Lando stopped. "What? Wait— what is—"

"Did you and Magui break up?" Oscar didn't see any point in wasting time anymore. He was already here, he might as well go through with it.

Lando's face fell. "I— how do you know about that?" He said in a voice so low it might as well have been a whisper.

"Is it true?" That was all Oscar cared about right now. He could deal with the explanations and apologies later. He needed to confirm the facts first, so that air could fill his chest again.

"I— you shouldn't—"

"Lando." Oscar would beg if he had to.

Lando took a slow, deep breath in. He pulled Oscar into the room and shut the door behind him.

"Yes," he exhaled softly. "I'm sorry, I know I've been acting off this whole week. I know I'm not supposed to let it affect my performance at work, but it was just so sudden and I—"

Oscar wasn't paying attention anymore. Had tuned out everything Lando had said after that soft, barely audible 'yes'. He had a vague awareness that Lando was going on about his work performance of all things in this moment. God. Oscar couldn't believe it. How was that even remotely relevant right now. He would shake some sense into Lando, but he wasn't doing too good himself, at the moment. The relief was washing over him him in such powerful waves he was a little dizzy with it. He wasn't fully sure if he was inside his body right now. He didn't know if his brain was working properly. He almost definitely was not thinking straight anymore. All he could do was look at Lando and feel his mind repeat over and over again—

It wasn't me. It wasn't me. It wasn't me.

Not because of me. Not because of me. Not because of me.

I haven't lost him. I haven't lost him. I haven't lost him.

"—and you shouldn't have to see me this way. I'm sorry, Osc, I know I should do better by you, but I just needed some time and—" Lando was looking at the floor, now, one hand tiredly rubbing at his eye, the other softly gesticulating around.

Oscar snapped back into his body then. He hadn't even realised how afraid he'd been that Lando would never call him 'Osc' like that ever again. He barely contained his whimper. Hearing Lando utter that syllable in that soft voice of his again, Oscar couldn't do much but just stare at him stupidly, but the—goddamn—orange fucking McLaren cap was blocking his view, and he'd been deprived of Lando's eyes for too long, and so like a starving man half delirious with hunger, he just reached up and pushed it off Lando's head before he could even think about stopping his hands.

Lando paused. He looked up now. There was a slight furrow in his brow, his eyes were soft. A little confused, a little questioning, but they were fully meeting Oscar's own now. Actually resting on his face, looking at him for longer than a millisecond.

"Osc?" Lando blinked, softly.

And Oscar couldn't do it anymore. Couldn't keep himself buckled safely to this rollercoaster ride of emotions with this boy, finding himself thrown up and down cliffs and canyons in the span of minutes, coming undone by every look he sent his way, deconstructed every time he decided to say his name like that. He was so, so fucked. So completely whipped, wrapped entirely around Lando Norris' talented little fingers.

He felt his hands reach up to cup Lando's face as if they had their own mind. They were doing that a lot today, Oscar thought absently. Lando's face shifted to a slightly surprised expression now. His eyes widened, his mouth parted slightly, as if the beginning of a question was forming on his lips.

But before any words could make their way into the air, Oscar's mouth was on his. The surprised sound Lando made in the back of his throat was swallowed directly at the source by Oscar's own.

His lips were so soft. More than they had any right to be. Oscar's own were always slightly chapped, he knew, but of course everything about Lando had to be perfect. Of course. Oscar moved his mouth softly against Lando's kissing his bottom lip first, then his top lip.

Oscar was lost in his own world. Everything since that press conference had felt like a waking dream. His head was somewhere in the clouds (where else could it possibly be when he was finally kissing Lando Norris) but as Lando stood there frozen, reality was slowly crashing down on Oscar. He was in Lando's driver room, and he'd just interrupted Lando talking to him about his break-up with his girlfriend by planting his mouth on his. Oh my god. Just what exactly had he done. He'd just violated all the boundaries in their relationship and gone and kissed his bloody teammate. His colleague! His co-worker!! Whatever relationship he'd been praying to salvage this past week, he'd ripped to shreds with his own hands now. The purple hues of panic were slowly beginning to tinge the edges his rose-coloured delirious brain.

He stopped all motion. But before he could push himself off Lando, he heard Lando make a sound in his throat and felt one hand come up to wrap around Oscar's shoulders and the other grab the back of his neck. He started furiously kissing Oscar back. So much more heat and raw desire in the way he attacked Oscar's lips than whatever Oscar had been doing for the past few minutes.

Oscar's brain fully short-circuited now. It was completely fried. All the wiring was cooked, probably never to be fixed again. There were no thoughts left knocking around inside his skull. He was standing in the Lando Norris' driver room, being kissed back by that very same man, a man he'd been stupidly obsessed with for as long as he'd known about him, right after he had just pounced on that man when he was going through a huge breakup. He really was the worst person, wasn't he? So why was he being rewarded like this for his completely unacceptable behaviour? Had he martyred himself for some great cause in his past life or were the gods just in a good mood today?

"Are you really going to stand there and not kiss me back after you started this?" Lando murmured against his mouth, breaking Oscar out of his daze.

Oscar let out a groan against him, willing his body back into motion. He wrapped one arm around Lando's waist, pulling him even closer, and the other hand softly cradled the side of his head. "No, no, I—" he kissed Lando. "I'm just not too sure why this is working out for me." He let out a little breathily, kissing Lando again.

Lando let out a soft, soundless laugh against his lips. "Ah yes, that's definitely a question you should ask yourself after you throw yourself onto someone."

Oscar whined softly against his lips. He wasn't too sure what was happening anymore, just that Lando was making fun of him for something.

"I like you, Osc. If that hasn't clicked for you yet for some reason."

Oscar wasn't sure anything would ever make sense to him again. Here was Lando telling him that he liked Oscar. It was so far from the way he imagined a confession of affections ever going between the two of them. Oscar could feel the last bits of his mind beginning to slip away. So, he asked the only thing he could still feel stuck in some corner of his head.

"But— but Magui—" he uttered in gaps between the press of their lips.

Lando paused for a moment, not shifting away, just resting against Oscar. "I don't think this will help make that big head of yours any smaller, but you were part of the reason we broke up," he let out softly, warm breath tickling Oscar's sore lips. Lando had managed to kiss them raw in the span of a few minutes, somehow.

What. What. What was Lando even saying at this point. Just words. Oscar gave up. Sense could be made later. Right now he had a Lando Norris in his arms and his lips against his mouth. He could waste time doing silly things like thinking and talking at some other time, when he didn't have the object of his heart's deepest desires wrapped up around him, licking into his mouth.

He didn't know if minutes or hours had passed by the time Lando finally tore himself away just a fraction, earning a groan and the tightening of his arms from Oscar.

"We shouldn't," Lando said reluctantly, now, eyes all soft and guilty, but still blown too dark with desire to take seriously.

"Yeah, we shouldn't," Oscar agreed, simply.

"We still have a world championship to fight for," Lando tried to convince, mostly himself.

"Yeah we do," Oscar just looked at him.

They paused for a second, eyes not moving from each other.

"Kiss me again?" Lando said, tilting his head, sweetly.

Lando just looks at him. Holds his gaze with the same piercing light in his eyes that Oscar blooms under the attention of every other day. Today, the beam feels too bright. Searing. Casting itself into every dark crevice and shadowy corner. Burning through his skin and illuminating every ugly, jagged part of his shattered spirit.

Oscar wants to turn away, but Lando doesn't give him the chance, shuffling in closer. He reaches a hand around to the nape of Oscar's neck and softly tugs his head down. Oscar goes all too willingly, any backbone long melted out of his body by the heat of Lando's touch and and the warmth in his eyes. He burrows his face in the space between Lando's neck and shoulder, hiding. Lando's fingers take up a slow, soothing rhythm running the tips through his hair.

"I'm not sorry for winning," Lando graces his senseless barb with a reply, delivering it in the same soft and steady voice—the gentleness of it too far at odds with the violence his words were meting out.

"Racing you—" Lando continues, pausing to draw a breath in. "Oscar, I've spent my entire life on track and nothing has made me feel more alive—in the car, in my own body—than fighting you this year.

"And I know the last thing you want to hear from me right now is how good you are, but you are. You're so fucking good."

Lando laughs a little, before continuing. "You're scary, you know that? And I've said that to everyone who would listen tonight.

"And I know that it would be so much easier if it wasn't the two of us. If we didn't have to battle it out while also having—this—between us," the hand in his hair lifts up briefly to gesture when he tries to find the words to describe them.

"And I wish I could say that I wanted it to be different. But, I don't. I would be lying.

"So, no, I'm not sorry for winning. And, I'm not sorry for beating you." A little puff of air escapes the wry twist to his lips as he continues under his breath, "You know— you know, I like it. You feel it too when you're the one a step above me.

"But I'm just—" his voice tenses back again now, pitching up tight towards the end. Lando's hand pauses in his hair, fingers curling unconsciously to find something to hold on to. There is a strained moment when he struggles to find the right words.

"I'm not sorry for having this, but I don't like that I have to take it from you," he finishes a little loud and ragged, as if the words were torn from his throat, turning his voice raw and gravelly.

A tear leaks out of Oscar's eyes and sinks into Lando's skin. He didn't even notice the pressure building up behind his eyes. He tries to gather himself—to pull back and stitch himself tight again—but the weight of Lando's arms around him, the press of his fingertips against his scalp, the warmth of his breath fanning across his hairline, and the smell of him—oh god, the smell of him, of home—it steals the thread from Oscar's trembling fingers and pulls him loose.

"I know it's not my fault. I know that. But I still did—cause it, in a way," Lando's voice drops to a whisper now.

"So, I am sorry. I'm sorry for being the reason it hurts."

Lando is holding him so carefully—the featherlight pressure of his body enveloping him from every direction proving to be the final straw, the hundredth decimal point on the wrong side of the promised tensile strength. The dam breaks. A flood of tears Oscar didn't even know he still had left in him gushes out with a vengeance.

The tide of emotions pours out of him more strongly now than at any past point in the night. He feels his chest heave with noiseless sobs. His breath comes in low, sharp gasps into Lando's neck as a salty wetness coats both their skin.

Lando doesn't say anything, but immediately pulls him in tighter, grip almost bruising in its force. The pressure of his arm around Oscar's waist remains the only thing tethering Oscar to his body. Oscar clutches back at him blindly, desperately.

Oscar knew he wasn't being fair, wasn't being rational. He was breaking down in Lando's arms like a little child who got refused something he wanted for the first time; behaving like he was the only one who knew what it felt like to lose a championship. But the pain of it was so blinding and intense when it came that it burned away every other thought that could exist, immolating him in his isolation.

Some part of him hanging onto the last shred of rational consciousness knew better. He knew that there was someone in his exact place every single year. Hell, Lando had been last year. He knew better than anyone what it felt like to have your dreams slip like sand through your fingers, to be this close to everything you ever wanted, yet miles afar at the same time.

Lando had probably had this exact same breakdown last year. All alone. Oscar hadn't even been there to hold him through it. They still slept in their separate hotel rooms back then—hungrily seeking each other out after the races, but then getting up and moving back into their own space as soon as it was sated.

They had been attempting to build a friendship outside it by then, had given up halfway through last year on pretending that the heady tension between them was going to clear out at some point. But, they were still far away from being any degree of vulnerable with each other. Any emotions related to their careers, to racing, still too complicated and uncomfortable to unravel, so they just flat out refused to acknowledge them. It was almost impressive, really, how they'd managed to become intimate in nearly every single physical way possible, but had evaded outright even the most basic emotional intimacy.

So, Lando had gone back to his room alone that night. Hadn't turned up at Oscar's door halfway through the night. And Oscar hadn't wanted to push it either. He'd told himself he was being kind, giving Lando the space he so clearly needed. If it had anything to do with the stilted and awkward feelings that crawled up Oscar's throat when he imagined seeing Lando sad and broken, he ignored them and pretended otherwise.

Lando had probably laid in his bed that night, almost a year to the date, and felt every single emotion that was currently wracking through Oscar's body.

Was that why he was here?

To help Oscar through what he knew was coming his way tonight? Too kind to let him rot here alone on his soggy pillowcase?

Had he left the celebration of his lifetime early so that he could let Oscar cry into a shoulder he had craved himself the year before but hadn't gotten?

The weight of the sentiment crushes any remaining breath in Oscar's lungs.

How could Lando be so—

How could he do this, be this person.

Be Lando.

And Oscar had been laying here, watering the twisted roots of his bitter resentment until they wrapped around his chest and choked any love out of it. Cursing Lando for doing his job. For doing it well. Just because it had been Oscar at the parrying end of the sharp blade of his skill.

And Lando had been worried about him. About them. He'd given up all his glory and glamour to come back to him because he couldn't risk losing the small chance that Oscar wanted to see him tonight. Because, to Lando, if Oscar had wanted it, and he wasn't there, that in itself was unforgivable. One more slash of irreparable damage to the already strained fabric of their relationship.

They have to shield themselves against the onslaught as they step out in front of the hotel lobby.

The walk is not long enough to be worth pulling out an umbrella for, so they just hike their collars up, pull their jackets close, and duck their heads as they make a quick run for it.

In the elevator, Lando leans against the railing in the corner and takes off his cap to shake his wet hair out like a dog. Tiny droplets splatter across the mirror on the back wall. Oscar feels a barely-there mist arc across his own face, but he's already too wet to be bothered by it.

"Did your rears feel okay?" Lando questions with a frown, as he rakes his fingers through his curls, trying to get them to lift up from where they were plastered to his forehead. "Mine were so much better than Suzuka, but you said you had some problems in quali."

"Yeah, no, they were fine in the end. Car felt good."

"Good, that's good." Lando nods to himself. "I know the engineers were hoping for more specifics, but I don't know what else to say other than—" he cuts himself off. "Anyway, they'll be able to compare their work themselves in Canada. Just sucks that—" he sighs, before trying again, "The one weekend we could have—" he shakes his head absently, looking off to the distance, as his voice trails off.

"Yeah." Oscar keeps his tone small, but the word drops like lead into the thin, stale air of the closed compartment.

He pauses to collect his thoughts. "I'm still calling the point deficit a Shanghai problem, though," he offers in the end, coating his tone with an appropriate teasing slyness.

Lando throws his head back as he cracks up. "Yeah, we're not outrunning the shadow of that nightmare this whole year. At least it reminds us to be more grateful for the flavour of problems we're dealing with now."

When they get back to their—Lando's—room, Lando peels off his sopping jacket and drops it into the little laundry bag supplied by the hotel. The t-shirt he's wearing underneath is soaked all the way from his neckline to halfway down his chest, and is clinging to his skin in translucent patches.

"I'm going to— uh— I need to shower." Lando says looking away from him.

Oscar could push.

But.

Not yet.

So, he nods, "Yeah, I'll just take a quick one in mine."

He sees the wet outline of muscles under Lando's shirt soften as he toes off his squeaking shoes and walks into the bathroom.

By the time Oscar gets back from his room, finally warm and dry and swaddled in his warmest hoodie, Lando still isn't out.

Oscar picks up his phone, crawls under the fluffy cover on his side of the bed, stretches his legs out across the smooth and clean sheets, and slumps against the headboard.

At least the weekend was over. The price his body had to pay for the heat and the humidity was rivalling the toll of Singapore.

He takes up the task to reply to the several congratulatory messages piling up in his inbox as he slowly lets his muscles uncurl against the soft mattress.

He is on a video call with his mum by the time Lando makes his way out. He keeps quiet, stays out of the frame as he slides into the other side of the bed. He doesn't really need to, but Oscar gets it. It had been that kind of a day.

When he disconnects and glances over, Lando is scrolling twitter on his phone.

Oscar sighs without meaning to.

Lando's eyes connect with his in a guilty flash and he powers off the screen and places his phone face down on the bedside table.

Oscar just watches him. Open, non-accusing.

Lando groans as he bumps the the back of his head against the headboard. "It's just—just hard to brush them off as jokes when they're correct, you know? It's just— embarrassing— fucking— pit strategy."

His eyes trail across the ceiling as he lets out a breath and clenches his hand in the sheets, "How many times? It's basic racing shit. And we can't—"

He groans again as he squeezes his eyes shut and brings his hand up to rub against his forehead.

"Anyway. It's no use. Far better use of our time to talk about the— the new rules. We need to do that anyway."

Lando shakes his head as if to clear it, gathers himself, and sits up straighter in the bed, facing Oscar fully now. Blinks to focus on him before jumping in.

"What did you think about the overtaking? D'you reckon that was better? I feel like we did less yo-yoing this race. And fuck what Lewis says, that's what it was and I was sick of that shit. Apart from that, didn't feel that much of a power difference if I'm being honest, but at least no crazy crashes this time? As for the car, you were able to keep George behind—which I don't know if it was us finding pace or him having a shit weekend—and I was able to get within five tenths of Kimi at certain points—"

Oscar engages him. He always does—and Lando is right this time, anyway—they do need to talk about this stuff. They'd touched on it briefly in the team debrief, but they needed to talk about it, still.

So, he gives him all. Lets Lando pick at his brain as the rain pattering outside picks up speed.

Lando was meticulous when he needed to be. When it came to his work, he was thorough. The hour of the day didn't matter, and neither did the exhaustion creeping up both their spines. He goes through every new upgrade with Oscar—asks how the car felt at every turn. Asks about the start, about each overtake, about each car they fought off. Slow, methodical. Thinking, nodding, filing away mental notes to bring up with the engineers later.

They've been at it for longer than an hour when Oscar looks up—having turned away for a minute to think about his answer—and finds Lando's eyelids shuttered and neck bent at an awkward angle against his own shoulder.

Oscar lets out a breath. Finally.

Oscar slides out of bed as gently as he can—turning his bedside lamp on as he passes. He picks up Lando's phone from his side table and fishes his own out from wherever it had gotten lost in the sheets. Then, retrieves their chargers from their backpacks and plugs both in next to their bed, before walking to the entryway and flicking the light switches off.

The dark that descends on the room suddenly intensifies the quiet inside. It makes his ears pick up the rain that had been beating against their window much more—the sound of water now significantly louder and harsher.

The long promised thunderstorm had finally descended on them.

Lando is still in his half-upright position in the bed, his profile illuminated by the soft yellow of the lamp. His curls—now almost dry—brush against his forehead and the bed-frame. Dark, except for the golden halo created by the edges of the lamplight.

There is a loud crack outside as bright light floods into their room for a split second. Painting everything in a cold, haunting white—stretching the shadows in the room, making them look angular and unnatural.

Lando twitches, mumbles, frowns, but doesn't wake up.

Oscar gets back into the bed next to him and leans over him to nudge him awake. Just as he does, the delayed thunder rolls around in a loud rumble, and Lando startles awake.

"Fuck!" His eyes are wide and wild as they scatter before finding Oscar's in the dim light. His face is inches away from Oscar's—his warm breath coming in pants, fanning across Oscar's lips.

Oscar winces in apology. "Sorry, just thought you'd want to sleep on your back."

Lando blinks at him, confused for a moment, before giving a slow nod and sliding down into the bed with Oscar and curling into his arms.

He buries his face in Oscar's chest, before letting out another—

"Fuck." Softer, exhausted, broken.

Oscar wraps him in his arms and pulls him close.

"I was dreaming— I— I forgot— I—"

He feels Lando breathe heavily in the circle of his grip—once, twice—chest rising and falling in deep breaths.

"I lost." Barely audible, but deafeningly loud.

Oscar's heart breaks.

You didn't lose, you came second, Lando.

You won yesterday.

You didn't make any mistakes.

You fought so hard, did so well.

He could mumble any number of reassurances. But Lando already knows them all to be true. They don't change anything. Don't make it better.

So he just holds Lando tight and cards his fingers through his hair.

He doesn't agree. He doesn't dismiss.

He lets him breathe.

After a moment, he feels Lando swallow, clear his throat. "Sorry, I'm making this all about me—" as he starts to pull away, but Oscar refuses to let him go. Only winds his arms tighter around him, dragging him back closer.

Lando doesn't fight him. Melts back into his embrace immediately. As if looking for the slightest excuse to let go. As if tired. Depleted from holding himself together all day.

"You're not. You're allowed to have a moment."

Lando nods, a little lost, a little helpless against his chest.

Oscar slides his hand down to rub softly across his back—his palm a warm, grounding pressure. He tilts his head down and presses a soft kiss to the the mop of curls in his field of view.

Lando shudders. And lets himself be held. For one moment. For one night.

Safe here.

There are many who have come after him who have stood higher, wielded swifter ordnance with smoother finesse— comparable in their beauty.

But to even acknowledge their accomplishment—to speak of them in the same breath—is a thought that is so abruptly shunned, it's as if Ayrton were agreed to have ascended to godhood; woven into the scriptures of religion, and making them fearful of committing sacrilege.

They say never speak poorly of the dead. With Ayrton, the boundaries of the word seem to have been drawn narrower and narrower, until anything less than worship was heard as outright insult.

Do they all feel obligated to participate in this charade as penitence for taking his life away? As a too-late and entirely insufficient atonement that they all pray is heard by a god benevolent enough to wash away their sins?

Do they feel responsible for making him push and push and push himself, all the way until utter annihilation, all for their entertainment?

Do they know that his unbelievably human shoulders were bone-crushed under the weight of the myth they had hand-woven and shrouded him in?

Do they?

Did they?

Finally?

Finally?

None of them knew him like he did.

They had always been too blinded by the silver glint of chain-mail for their eyes to have caught the chinks in his armour.

Admittedly, Ayrton hadn't made it easy to.

He had been more committed to upholding his legend than anyone else.

He'd joined the craftsmen and masons on their second day at work and helped construct the monument piece by piece with his own bare hands.

And then he'd chased it. Relentlessly. Wanted it, wanted to be it.

But he wasn't.

No mortal man ever could be.

And he had resented Alain for seeing that. Seeing through him. Ayrton had spent so long, worked so hard, to turn the smokescreen solid. He had tried harder with him—just one man—than with everyone else in the world.

But Alain always saw— saw the carefully hidden away patches of fear, the holes of insecurity that he had tried to fold away from sight, the threads of shame that gripped the fabric of his soul tight around its most delicate parts.

Every time Ayrton failed to do something he had set out to, he was stung by the same infection of doubt that every other living man had to contend with.

Each time he saw Alain standing a step above him, he had to grapple with the age-old dilemma every soul who had ever dared to desire something faced— the question if his own flesh was capable of realising the dreams his mind spun around every night, twisting and permeating every crevice of his being until his spirit was choking on sheer need.

And Ayrton didn't just hate Alain for turning his skin transparent and peering through his organs, he hated himself letting it happen, too. Just another failure for him to hold inside himself, to have to breathe carefully around every minute of his life.

Alain wonders, not for the first time, if all these people would be inclined to talk about Ayrton the way they do now if he had lived.

He always reaches the same conclusion.

They wouldn't.

It doesn't matter how many more laurels he could have added to his belt. Men that lived long enough to be replaced by their children were never bestowed this treatment. They aged in front of the world's eyes, letting the river of life erode the smooth and supple skin of their youth, the sands of time chipping away at them until they exposed the uneven, ridged, flawed surface underneath.

The rosy haze surrounding a man at the prime of his youth was nature's fog machine. And the yarn that could be spun from the sinew of callow muscles was incomparably superior to one woven at any other point in time.

To grow old was to grow slower. To grow into being less. To grow worse.

He knows how much Ayrton would have loathed to be trapped in his failing body; the war he had waged with his own limitations since the moment he'd been born coming to a head and the tide turning more against his favour with each passing year.

Alain wishes that he had seen him lose the battle, anyway. He wishes he had seen Ayrton degrade.

He wishes that Ayrton had gotten to keep the remaining years of his life only for himself instead of them being relegated to the public domain; becoming fodder for the wandering imagination and musings of critics and commentators, pedestrians and poets, all alike.

'You either die a hero' is how the saying goes, isn't it? Well if martyrdom was the price for this idolatry, then he wishes Ayrton had never become a hero at all. He wishes he had been exiled to the forgotten catacombs of history like the rest of them.

He wishes, desperately, that Ayrton had gotten to be more man than story.

And he wishes, quietly, selfishly, privately, that he had gotten to keep Ayrton instead.

my storm, my ship, my shore, my sea (ao3, tumblr post)

2.6k, landoscar, post singapore 2025, bedsharing, developing relationship, angst, nonverbal communication, nonsexual intimacy After a complicated race, Lando and Oscar struggle to balance their need for space and their need for intimacy.

my anchor, my lighthouse (ao3, tumblr post)

17.5k, landoscar, post abu dhabi 2025, bedsharing, angst, crying, talking, making out, fix it? ish. sequel to my storm, my ship. Lando comes back to their shared apartment after his WDC celebration. An entire year's worth of emotions are unpacked over one long conversation in bed. 

inclement weather warning (ao3, tumblr post)

2.2k, landoscar, post miami 2026, rain, lightning, thunderstorms, bedsharing, hurt/comfort, cosy fic Lando and Oscar journey back to their hotel room after the race while a thunderstorm slowly descends upon them.

all the rumours are true (ao3, tumblr post)

3.5k, landoscar, bahrain pre-season testing 2026, past relationships, breakup, misunderstandings, making out, getting together Lando has been looking sad and shifty and avoiding Oscar all throughout the week and it's sending Oscar spiralling. So, he decides to chase him down for some answers.

in lieu of flowers, send him back (ao3, tumblr post)

"Ponkie?"

"Mmm?"

There's a moment of hesitation, like Sam's regretting it. He sucks in a deep breath. 

"Do you… um… do you wanna come here?"

He pauses, and slowly shifts in his seat, counter digging into his arms, turning to look at Sam. He's fidgeting with his fingers, flush visible even through his fur. 

"Do I wanna come over there?"

"Uh huh," Sam says, voice soft with embarrassment. He shifts under Ponk's raised eyebrow. 

"...do you?" Sam asks when she doesn't say anything.

"Hmmm." They set his switch down on the counter before they spin the stool a bit, turning their entire body towards him. "What for?"

"Cuddles?" Sam says, voice tinged with hope. Both sets of hands are fidgeting with each other. 

"Cuddles?" Ponk repeats.

"Yeah."

"You're asking me for cuddles?" He never asks for cuddles. Hell, he doesn't ask unless it's something risque, and he damn well never asks if Ponk wants anything. It just happens, and if Ponk wants out, he wiggles out. And then they figure it out in the moment.

"If you want to," Sam says weakly. "Just - just if you want to." 

"And it's just cuddles?" Ponk reiterates. 

"Yes."

"And you're askin' for them?"

"Yes," Sam says, voice barely above a squeak. Green blush is searing through his fur. He clears his throat, then grabs the edge of the patchwork quilt. It's the fuzzy one Sam made to use as a weighted blanket cover. They never ended up using it, since they upgraded to a queen size instead of a twin. Sam's body disappears up to the shoulders under the brightly patterned fabric. He's pouting, the slits in his cheeks filling with his teeth. It'd probably look intimidating to anyone else. Sam's cheeks showcase another inhuman part of him - the inside of his mouth looks like it could function as a meat grinder. 

That hasn't stopped Ponk from putting her tongue in there, though, and it's not about to stop her from using him as a cushy pillow. 

They huff, abandoning their stool at the counter and heading into the living room. Sam's face brightens the moment he realizes what's happening. They fiddle with his switch as they step around the corner of the ugly sofa, setting it on top of the cushion. Sam kicks the quilt to the side, relocating his book to the sofa's armrest. His hands come up preemptively to support them as they sit. One settles, warm and firm, against their back.

Sam grunts as Ponk's weight settles on his stomach, rubbing a little circle on the small of his back. 

"Hey there," he rumbles. She pats his tummy as she swings her legs up over his. Sam groans theatrically at the shifting weight. As thanks, she flops back onto his chest. His breath floods out of him in a hissing wheeze.

"Ponkie," he gasps. "What was that for??"

"For acting like a dramatic bitch," they inform him coldly. He thumps their chest.

"All of your weight is on my tummy , Ponk. It's not very comfortable."

"Hmph," he mutters. He reaches for Sam's switch. Sam grabs it before he can get it, lifting it above his head. " Sam ."

"I'll give it back in a minute." He tilts it towards him, blinking at the screen. "What are you - did - did you use my flowers to make a - a -" Ponk grins a bit, knowing exactly what he's talking about and exactly why it's reduced him to giggles.

"A what?" She asks, far too innocently. It sets Sam off again. His stomach bounces under her as he laughs, accompanied by the wheezing of his port. (Oh, shit - she shouldn't have flopped back. If she broke the loom thing Sam leans on, he wouldn't be able to lie on his back.)

"A p - a - a weenie," he giggles. "Wh - why did - Ponkie ." They fake a deep gasp.

"It's a T , Sammy! Get your head out of the -"

"No it's not!" Sam squeaks. "No, no it's- that's -" he bursts into giggles again, setting the switch on Ponk's stomach so he can bury his face into his hair, still giggling like a middle schooler.