Chapter Text
The group chat had finally gone quiet—mostly because Lando had turned off notifications and tossed his phone facedown onto the floor. Franco lay beside him in the dim hotel room, one hand curled behind his head, the other resting lightly against Lando’s knee. The air between them was still humming with the afterglow of the night—of confessions, teasing, stolen kisses, and the overwhelming relief of no longer pretending.
They hadn’t said much in the last few minutes. They didn’t need to. Sometimes silence meant everything.
“You really wrote about me playing guitar?” Lando finally murmured, turning his head slightly.
Franco chuckled, a low sound that rolled through his chest. “You’re telling me you don’t have main-character energy? Please.”
Lando rolled his eyes. “I’m going to find that fic and read it out loud in your accent.”
Franco laughed again, then shifted onto his side, his fingers brushing gently over Lando’s wrist. “Go ahead. It’s dedicated to you anyway.”
Lando went still.
“You serious?” he asked, voice quieter now, more fragile.
Franco didn’t look away. “Always was.”
There was a beat, heavy and soft, and then Lando leaned in, pressing his forehead to Franco’s. The closeness felt different now—less hesitant, more weighted with intention.
“I was scared,” Lando whispered. “After Carlos. And Daniel. And even Oscar, a little. I thought I’d just screw it up again.”
Franco’s thumb traced a light circle against his arm. “You’re not screwing this up.”
Lando smiled faintly. “Not yet.”
“Not ever,” Franco corrected.
The kiss this time was slower. Not urgent, not searching, just... full. Franco’s lips were warm and careful, like he was trying to make a promise with each movement. Lando melted into it, hands fisting gently in the fabric of Franco’s shirt.
Eventually, they shifted. Lando’s legs tangled with Franco’s, the covers pushed halfway down. The heat between them grew in quiet waves—fingertips on bare skin, mouths brushing down jaws and throats, breath caught in soft gasps that said finally and don’t stop .
Franco pulled back for a second, breathless, eyes searching.
“Still scared?”
Lando nodded, then whispered, “But I want this anyway.”
Franco smiled. “Then we’ll go slow.”
“Liar,” Lando whispered with a grin, pulling him back in.
Their laughter was swallowed in kisses, in touch, in something that felt like more than lust, more than fantasy. It felt like home.
Lando pulled Franco closer, lips trailing down his throat as his fingers slipped beneath the hem of Franco’s shirt. The room was dark, but not silent—filled with soft rustles of sheets, breath caught between kisses, the hush of skin meeting skin. Everything was warm. Alive.
Franco’s hand slid up Lando’s back, his touch confident but careful, like he was tracing a path he'd imagined a hundred times but never believed he'd actually follow. His mouth brushed Lando’s collarbone, open and hot, and Lando shivered, tilting his head to give more.
“You okay?” Franco murmured against his skin, voice low and frayed.
“Yeah,” Lando whispered, breath catching. “Just—feels real now.”
“It is.”
Their mouths found each other once again, deeper this time. Hungrier. Lando didn’t even remember when Franco rolled over onto him—just that the warmth of his body settled over Lando’s like it belonged there. That every kiss deepened the ache that had lived just beneath his skin for weeks. That when Franco mouthed at his throat, slow and deliberate, Lando gripped his waist tighter than he meant to and whispered, “Mine.”
Franco paused, lips resting against his pulse. “Yeah?”
Lando nodded, heart racing. “Say it.”
Franco looked up at him then—those green eyes glassy with need, but so, so clear.
“I’m yours.”
Something inside Lando broke open.
He surged up, kissed him like he wanted to leave no part untouched, hands roaming—greedy and reverent all at once. His voice was rough when he spoke again, breath hot against Franco’s jaw.
“You don’t get to kiss someone else again,” he whispered. “Not Pierre. Not anyone.”
Franco shuddered beneath him, arching slightly into Lando’s touch. “Okay.”
“I should’ve said something sooner,” Lando went on, pressing Franco down into the mattress now, one thigh slotted between his, grinding just enough to make Franco gasp. “I should’ve claimed this. Claimed you.”
“You’re doing a pretty good job of it now,” Franco breathed, hands fisting in Lando’s hair.
Lando kissed down his chest, slow, deliberate, biting just enough to leave a mark. “Good. Let them see.”
Franco laughed, breathless. “You want to mark me?”
Lando looked up from between his ribs, lips swollen and voice wrecked. “I want them to know who you belong to.”
Franco’s breath hitched. “Then show me.”
And Lando did.
He moved with purpose now—hands and mouth trailing fire. He mapped every inch of Franco’s body with fingers that trembled from how long they’d waited. Every gasp Franco made went straight to Lando’s spine, every roll of his hips fed the burn in his stomach.
When Franco whispered his name, broken and pleading, Lando kissed it from his mouth.
“Say it again,” he whispered.
“Lando—”
“Louder.”
“Lando.”
It was a chant, a promise. And when Franco came undone beneath him, head thrown back, chest heaving, Lando held him through it—his name still echoing off the walls.
After, with the sheets a tangled mess and sweat cooling on their skin, Lando pulled Franco into his chest and pressed a kiss to the crown of his head.
“You’re mine,” he whispered again, softer now. “And I’m yours.”
Franco smiled against his shoulder. “That so?”
“Yeah. And I’m gonna make damn sure Pierre knows it.”
Franco laughed, low and wrecked and content. “God, you’re jealous.”
“I’m in love,” Lando corrected. “That’s worse.”
Franco looked up at him, eyes suddenly wide. “You—?”
Lando blinked. Realized what he’d said.
Didn’t take it back.
“Yeah,” he whispered, softer. “I think I am.”
Franco’s breath caught. Then he kissed him again—slower now, tender—and murmured, “Good. Because I am too.”