#piastrell

He’d only video called him to ask about Oscar, the name sparking a memory in his usually underutilised temporal lobe: an image of yellow and black flashing before his eyes, Max back at Renault with a handful of other guys who had mostly blurred into one for Lando at the time. Piastri, though. It was a memorable name. For good reason, apparently.

And maybe he’d been too focused on himself, on what it had meant for him, for the team, to pay any real attention to what Max had said beyond the surface level of it all. Oscar’s great, really fast, good fun. Australian. Three sisters back home. A one track mind so no, really, it’s not a surprise he’s finally getting the big break he deserves, and he does deserve it, yeah, Bob, you’ll be fine. You’ll get on.

Innocuous, truly. But Lando should’ve known better, he thinks. He should’ve recognised the softness of Max’s eyes, the crack in his voice when he’d first said Oscar’s name. The way his voice took on a tone that was half adoring; one Lando had heard before, plenty of times — usually employed for his benefit, though the other half was always pure irritation.

So — yeah. Maybe he should’ve paid more attention, asked more questions. Been a little less self absorbed, perhaps, but it had been a mental few months for him, hadn’t it, with all the changes at McLaren, so — he reckons he’s got at least part of an excuse.

It had taken him an embarrassingly long amount of time, in the end, to realise that Max fancied Oscar. Like properly fancied him, wanted to hold his hand and snog him senseless. Some deep-seated crush from their Renault days that Lando felt almost guilty about having no knowledge of, even if Max clearly hadn’t wanted him to know.

At first, anyway.

Not until he’d asked for Lando’s help reuniting him with Oscar.

And it’s — like, it’s fine. Good for them, or whatever. It’s been — what, a couple of months now? And they seem to be getting on great. They’re kind of sickening, actually, but it’s like. Lando sees even more of Max now, and that’s his best mate, so obviously that’s — sick. Proper sick.

Except.

Except Lando knows what jealousy feels like. He’s always been in touch with his emotions — maybe not always enough to name them and give them space — and he’s been envious before. He looks at Oscar and Max, who only seem to come as a couple now, and he feels it; that rising tide of stinging nausea that crowds around his chest and makes him gnash his teeth together like an angry chihuahua.

Thing is, he really isn’t sure which of them he’s feeling it towards. And it’s stupid anyway, considering he’s the one that got them together in the first place — happily, he might add. More than willingly.

Hadn’t realised it would be quite like this, though.

They’re easier around him, much freer now than when they’d first gotten together. And it’s good. It’s so good, they should be. He’s not got a problem with it, except they’re kind of always snogging around him now and these days it’s getting more hot and heavy than he thinks is strictly appropriate for anywhere that’s not, like — the bedroom, maybe.

Like now, when Oscar’s all but crawled into Max’s lap on the sofa right next to Lando; so close he can feel the heat of their bodies echoing against his own. So close that if he spread his thighs just the smallest bit farther apart — like, a millimetre honestly — then one of his would be pressed all alongside Max’s, no air between them. So close that he can hear every hitching breath Oscar makes, every cut off moan that isn’t quite cut off enough.

It’s not fucking fair, really. He’s the reason they’re even together in the first place, and this is how they repay him? Pretty fucking shitty, if you ask him.

And he can’t even — it’s not like he can leave. For one, they’re in his apartment — and Jesus, he has no idea why he even agreed to that in the first place, but Max had asked so nicely and Oscar has those stupid frickin’ doe eyes, and Lando — Lando was just weak.

But that’s not even the point, really. The point is, Oscar’s got his slender fingers wrapped around the fragile bones of Lando’s wrist, as far as they can reach, contrast stark against his tan. He can’t even remember when Oscar did it; sometime in the last five minutes, maybe, but he can’t be sure. It’s not a particularly tight grasp, but it’s pinning all the same. Feels weightier than it should. Has his brain short circuiting like he’s stuck a wet finger into an open electrical socket.

It’s not until Oscar and Max finally break apart and they’re both staring at him, cheats heaving with the effort of re-inflating their burning lungs, two sets of lips spit slick and abused that he realises he is effectively trapped. Has been all along, maybe.

“You can say no,” Max says, and he hasn’t even asked anything, but Lando already knows he’s not going to say no.

It's quiet after, in the way it always is.

Lando is busy curling into Max's side, kissing at the damp skin of Max's jaw. Oscar has to pull his eyes away when Max turns to whisper sweet-nothings into Lando's hair.

He can hear a soft, "good. You were so good. Proud of you", and it makes him ache.

If you asked Oscar how this whole… thing started, he doesn't think he'd be able to tell you. There had always been some sort of tension. Between the rushed handjobs behind motorhomes during Max and Oscar's F3 days, and the way Lando was constantly trying to eye-fuck Oscar, something was always bound to happen. He just… doesn't remember when it became this.

Oscar slides himself out of their bed. Their. Max and Lando's. Just big enough for two. There was no room for three. The thought makes him want to vomit.

On shaky legs, Oscar starts to rummage around, searching for his discarded clothes. The air of the bedroom is hot and sticky. Oscar wishes they'd opened a window or something, but Lando hates when his skin prickles and he's shivering in the middle of sex.

Oscar hates that he knows that about him. He hates that he knows that Lando's back usually aches after they get done and that Max likes to be spooned. He hates that he knows where they keep the chocolate stash for particularly intense scenes and he hates the way his stomach pits and swoops and the way it feels like he's seconds from throwing up. He hates—

"Osc?"

Oscar's head snaps up from where he's bent over, underwear in hand. He finds Lando's eyes, fluffy brows pinched tight as he watches Oscar. "What are you doing?"

He sounds small, if a bit vulnerable. He got like that sometimes, when the session put him in a place he wasn't prepared to go to. He knew what that felt like. Sometimes, Max and Lando both would gang up on him, make him come until he was sobbing and degrade him. Humiliate him until he was gasping on each breath. Then, they'd put him back together and he'd carry himself home, shower until his skin was raw, and crawl into bed.

He hated feeling like that. He hated the thought of Lando feeling like that.

Oscar hated a lot of things about this arrangement.

Most of all, he hated how looking at Max and Lando, together, without him, made his chest ache something awful.

"I—" he starts, unsure. Oscar stands up straight, but his shoulders hunch in when Max turns to look at him, too. He feels too scrutinized. Too seen. "I was just grabbing my things… Was gonna head out…"

Lando looks like Oscar had slapped him, curling soft and small into Max's chest. Oscar curls his hand into a fist, digging his nails into his palm.

"Oh," Lando whispers. Oh. Oscar feels like the biggest piece of shit ever. "Okay."

Max looks between them, able to sense that something isn't quite being said.

"Oscar, pal," he starts, adjusting the way he's got his arm around Lando. They fall into one another so easily, it makes him feel sick with want. Oscar has to look away from them again. He slips his briefs up his legs, skin tacky with dried sweat and a bit of lube between his cheeks. He doesn't care, he just wants to stop feeling so… exposed.

"Oscar, look at me."

Oscar's always been a weak man.

He finds Max's eyes, shining with something he wants to say but isn't sure how to ask for it.

"You know you can stay, right?" Max asks the question as if Oscar were a cornered animal, cautious and unassuming. For a brief moment, Oscar supposes he is like that. He feels ready to bolt. He was going to bolt up until Lando had called his name.

His eyes find the place where Max's free hand is rubbing up and down Lando's bare arm. The movement is almost mesmerizing and he's almost one-hundred-percent sure it would knock him out.

You know you can stay, right? And, oh. Isn't that just Oscar's problem? He doesn't know that he can stay. Hasn't known since this whole thing began.

At first, when they were done, Lando and Max would look at him, thank him with a smile, and ask, "you can let yourself out, right?" It had stung then, just as it does now.

Except, now, Oscar isn't being politely kicked out. He can feel it every time he lingers in their bed for just a bit too long. Lando has octopus arms, wanting to be plastered to someone's side—says he needs it—and has no problem clinging to Oscar when Max has gone to the bathroom to grab a wet rag. He'd be an absolute liar if he said he didn't relish in it.

Sometimes, when things went too far and Oscar had been thrown so off-kilter he couldn't find his feet, he liked to bury his face in Lando's chest and let Max slide in behind him. He liked feeling cared for in a way he was too afraid to let himself.

Oscar kept those feelings locked in a box, though. Pushed it far, far into the back of his mind and piled it with other things. Important things. Things he was allowed to want.

Max shifts again, making Lando whine. It brings Oscar back to reality, just a bit.

"Uh, yeah…" He scratches his neck, cringing at the way his hair is sweaty and sticking to his skin. He needs a haircut. Oscar needs a lot of things. "Yeah, I know…"

"So, why're you not staying?"

Lando says it like Oscar had personally offended him. Oscar tries to keep his face neutral.

"I really should go…"

It earns him a strangled noise, Lando wriggling out of Max's arms to crawl down the bed. He's still naked, but Max had wiped him down with a warm washcloth. It doesn't keep his skin from glowing, pearly and pretty under the warm lamplight. Oscar tries not to stare when he finds his t-shirt.

He needs to leave. He has to go. He has no place here. Their bed has no more room for him. He has no place—.

Lando's hand wraps around Oscar's wrist, warm and wide and heavy. Oscar sucks in a sharp breath, shoulders hunched as he stares at their hands. "Osc," Lando mutters, trying to find the taller boy's eyes. "We're asking you to stay."

"Why?"

He doesn't mean for it to come out that way—harsh. Cold. Lando looks pained once more and Oscar really needs to leave before he does something else to ruin this.

"What d'you mean why? We're asking you to stay, isn't that enough?" Lando's voice trembles, just the slightest, as he answers. Max starts to move, sitting behind Lando. He wraps an arm around his chest, keeping him from falling face first onto the floor.

Oscar doesn't understand. They aren't getting it. They aren't seeing it from his point of view.

Max frowns, hand splayed across Lando's chest. "We want you to stay, mate." There's a soft furrow between his eyebrows and Oscar wants nothing more than to smooth it out, kiss him there, whisper for him not to worry.

Now, Oscar really doesn't understand. He swallows, jaw twinging with the ache of it. He'd had Lando shoved in his throat for nearly thirty minutes while Max teased him. Oscar closes his eyes, trying to scrub the thought from his brain.

He rubs his hands over his face, pushing the heels of his palms against his eyes. He misses the rough callouses of Lando's fingers almost immediately.

"I don't—" he starts, then stops, taking in a sharp breath. He tries to gather his thoughts, searching for the right things to say. He doesn't think there are any right things to say. "We aren't… We don't do that."

The words hang for a second, heavy and thick. Oscar feels like he's trying to swallow down chalk.

Then, "we don't. But, we could."

Max looks so earnest when he says, glancing between Oscar and Lando. Oscar watches the way the hand on Lando's chest tightens, the skin under his fingers turns a bit pink.

Oscar feels like throwing up. It feels like too much. Everything feels too big for his body.

"Oscar, we want to. We want to do this. With you."

The chalky feeling starts to lessen when Lando shuffles forward again, enough to rest one foot on the ground. Enough to grab both of Oscar's hands this time. Oscar takes a deep breath, letting his eyes trail over both of them.

"But, there's no room…" It's his turn to speak softly, chin tucked to his chest. He fiddles with the t-shirt in his hand, unsure, but wanting. He wants them both so badly. "On the bed…"

"So we'll get a new one."

"Yeah, a bigger one. To fit all of us."

Max slips off the bed to stand in front of Oscar, trying to find his eyes as he looks at the floor.

"Look at me, baby. Look at us."

Oscar feels the warmth in his belly at the sweet name. It makes it easy to look at them again. He wants to melt with the way Lando is looking at him, like he could say a thousand things with his eyes that his mouth can't.

It clicks for Oscar, then.

"Are you sure?"

Lando coos, sliding one of his hands up into Oscar's hair. He cups his neck, bringing him closer.

"Why d'you think we've been taking so long with the aftercare lately, ya muppet?"

Oscar's cheeks pinken, suddenly shy. He whines, something pathetic. Max laughs, something sweet and so, so fond. "Why didn't you say anything?"

Max lets his knuckles across those pink cheeks, tender. "Didn't want to scare you… You might think you're hard to read, but we can see when you're trying to run. We noticed every time."

"But, at the beginning… You didn't—"

Lando interrupts him with a sigh, rolling his eyes. "Oscah, mate, there's currently cum dripping out of my arse and you wanna talk semantics? Just get in the fricken' bed…" Oscar feels sheepish, but he feels softened. All of his prickly edges felt like they'd been snicked off.

"Didn't know you knew that word, Lando," Oscar teases, letting his hand slip a bit to tangle his fingers with Lando's. It gets a chuckle out of Max and makes Lando tug on his hair. Oscar can't stop his face from splitting wide and warm, smile too big to contain.

"You fricken' muppet… Give me about an hour… Puttin' that mouth back to good use."

Oscar giggles when Lando pulls his hands away and turns around, muttering under his breath about Oscar "being an ungrateful, little brat", and how he's "gonna show him."

Max cups Oscar's cheek now, and the smile shrinks, but it doesn't lose any of its brightness. Max's hands aren't nearly as big as Lando's, but they're just as comforting. Just as loved.

"Want me to crack the window?" he asks, quiet. Oscar's eyes shine with something he thinks might look like love when Max asks. His own fingers wrap delicately around Max's wrist, head turning to kiss his palm.

Then his wrist.

His shoulder.

Then, eventually, Oscar holds Max's cheek in his hand and kisses him.