Chapter Text
14TH MARCH, 2025–BAHRAIN, SAUDI ARABIA
A drop of blood hits Oscar’s dress shoes.
Spiderman lays unconscious against the white couch, a towel under his torso.
Oscar pulls Spiderman’s suit down to his waist, holds a towel against his bleeding side, and looks around the room. His eyes land on the phone against the wall, dusty, wired, half the buttons worn.
He drops the towel and shuffles across the floor, he punches in a phone number and prays it goes through, prays he’s gotten it right.
The phone rings three times before the call is answered, then it’s silence for a second too long, then;
‘Charles Leclerc speaking, who is this?’
“Charles,” Oscar exhales, shaky, uneven yet full of relief. ‘Oscar? What phone are you calling me on?’ Charles’ voice doesn’t waver, he hushes someone behind him, Oscar pulls at his own sleeve.
“Hotel phone,” He says, he shoots a glance over his shoulder as Spiderman makes a noise. “Can you come to my hotel room? I—“ He hesitates. “I need help.”
‘Yes,’ Charles speaks through shuffles of movements, an apology to someone Oscar still hasn’t named or heard, then the chime of car keys. ‘—he’s complaining—is it alright if Carlos accompanies me?’ Oscar’s shoulders stiffen, he stares at Spiderman.
“Can he keep a secret?”
‘Yes—is knowing this important, Oscar?’
“Yes,” Oscar takes a breath. “You’ll know why when you get here—he can come.”
There’s a hum on the other line, a click of a door lock, and the chime of an elevator. ‘We’ll be five—we’re on our way.’
“Thank you.”
The line goes silent, Oscar hangs up. He runs a hand over his face and turns to face Spiderman. He doesn’t move from where he stands, his hands fold into fists, nails biting at the skin of his palms. His chest tightens, he takes a large breath and swallows hard.
He moves back to Spiderman’s side, shaky hands press a towel down against Spiderman’s skin as he crouches. His lips draw back into a line, pressed together with worry and uncertainty.
He holds the towel down until a knock pulls him from his thoughts. The towel drops, Oscar rushes towards the door. Charles’ brows furrow as the door opens, Oscar’s expression holds something he can’t quite name—something he’s never seen on Oscar’s face before.
Charles shares a glance with Carlos before stepping inside as Oscar moves further into the room. Carlos closes the door behind him, Charles’ figure stiffens.
“When you said you needed help, you didn’t say medical help.”
Charles steps closer, kneels down at Oscar’s side. “Shit—Carlos, can you grab a bowl and fill it with tap water?” Carlos moves towards the kitchen, Oscar bites his lip. “Oscar, go find clean towels,” Oscar blinks, nods as he stands, holding his stare against Spiderman for a moment too long. “He’ll be alright.”
Another nod, Oscar moves towards the ensuite, slow in his steps. His breath is deep, chest heaving with a worry he won’t ever name. He rubs his eyes, holds the sink for balance with both hands.
After five minutes, Carlos taps his shoulder, soft, grounding in a way Oscar wouldn’t dare admit. Carlos takes the towels, says nothing and leaves him be. Oscar thanks him, silently, with nothing more than an eased grip on the sink and a nod.
Oscar takes his time, silence and worry wearing him thin as he steps into the living room. “Oscar,” Charles looks over his shoulder, worry knitting his eyebrows together. “Take your time, but what caused this?”
There’s a damp towel against Spiderman’s side, pressed tight under Charles’ hands. Oscar presses his palms to eyes, blocking out the light as his head drops. “We—“ “We?” Charles questions.
“Lando, and myself,” Oscar’s hands drop, they tug at the sleeves of his suit. “We were at dinner, we were fucking robbed—Lando ran off to find Spiderman, and Spiderman was shot.” Oscar’s nails bite into the skin of his palm, once again, and Carlos doesn’t falter. “Where’s Lando now?”
“I don’t know,” Oscar stares at the carpet. “Our phones were stolen, I—“ Oscar cuts himself short and stares at the phone on the wall, moves towards it without thinking and punches Lando’s number in. The room falls silent, beats with anticipation as the phone dials.
The soft hum of a dial tone rings, it comes as a surprise, makes Oscar drop the phone and leave it hanging by the cord. The sound echoes from Spiderman’s suit, Carlos grabs the sleeve. “His watch,” Carlos watches Oscar’s name flash against Spiderman’s watch. “Fuck.”
Oscar has never moved across a room faster. His hands hook under the fabric of Spiderman’s mask and he pulls it off. Rips it off like it’s a bandaid, like a wound he doesn’t want to keep hidden. His breath is staggered, sharp in his chest.
The mask hits the floor. Crumpled, forgotten.
Oscar gasps, his hands retreating to slap his mouth. Charles and Carlos exchange glances, shock written deep into their features. Oscar steps back. “Fuck.”
Charles moves without speaking, his hand running deep through Lando’s curls as the man stirs. Oscar looks at Carlos, once, twice, three times, his hands tugging at his own suit.
“Oscar, take a breath,” Carlos’ accent comes out thick with worry, hands firm against Oscar’s shoulders, grounding him, trying to soften the edge of his panic.
“Lando—“
“I know, I know,” Carlos nods, voice stern and calm against the tension in the room. “He’s okay, trust me, he’s okay.”
Oscar shakes his head, palms pressing against closed eyelids once again. Lando makes a noise, the whole room stills. Charles sits back against his knees, still holding the towel with one hand.
“Lando,” His voice is calm, quiet compared to Oscar’s panic, softness coats the edges of his words, breathy and hushed. “Open your eyes for me,” His hand still runs through Lando’s curls, slow, careful, delicate in a way that lingers.
Lando stirs, his head rolls to the side, shoulders hunched and tensed. His eyes open, slowly against the light of the living room. His eyes find Charles’ worry first, then they find the panicked Oscar hidden behind Carlos. “That’s it!” Charles hums, he nods when Lando’s eyes land on him again. “—He’s okay, worry about yourself.”
Lando shakes his head. He doesn’t care that his spider-suit is around his waist, doesn’t care that his identity is being aired out like laundry; Oscar is his one priority.
“Oscar.” His voice is strained, tight with exhaustion and sharp around the edges. Oscar moves around Carlos, hesitates for a second, before moving forward and collapsing to his knees. Charles moves aside, moves back to tending to Lando’s side.
“Lando—“ Oscar chokes, Lando raises a hand to Oscar’s jaw. Slow with the amount of strength he doesn’t have, muscles tight against the pain coursing through his figure. Oscar leans into his hand, holding it in place.
“Don’t scare me like that again.” Oscar’s expression tightens, trying to hide his worry and failing miserably. Lando says nothing, his jaw tightening as Charles wraps his waist. Lando groans, Oscar removes the hand from his jaw and holds it—grips it tighter than he should, lips pressed against Lando’s knuckle.
It’s silent after that, Charles and Carlos take their leave—they sit out on the balcony, takeout in their laps, far enough away to not hear a word, but close enough if needed.
Lando and Oscar sit in the quiet, thick and choking. Lando’s hand never leaves Oscar’s, Oscar’s lips never leave his knuckle—he mumbles sweet nothings, prayers that are barely heard, promises that won’t see the light of day, anything to fill in the ache of almost losing Lando.
Lando says nothing in response, accepts whatever Oscar is saying. He knows Oscar needs this, knows that Oscar is wearing himself thin—knows that if he moves Oscar might break like he’s glass.
But the silence doesn’t last forever, it simply can’t.
Lando pulls his hand away, watches as Oscar’s expression falters. “I’m okay,” a whisper, soft against the silence but loud enough to be heard. Lando runs a hand through Oscar’s hair, pushing his fringe back before pulling him down. “I’m okay.”
Lando’s lips press against Oscar’s forehead, they hold for a moment too long, soft and reassuring, a gentle reminder that Lando is right in front of Oscar. He’s here, he’s not going anywhere.
Oscar’s eyes shut as he lowers his head, it creeps into the crook of Lando’s neck and slots perfectly into place. Lando’s hand rests at the nape of Oscar’s neck, fingers massaging soft circles.
Lando stares at the ceiling, half present against the pain humming through his bones. His breathing is shallow, shaky against his ribcage, tight in his throat.
Lando hates it. Hates the worry radiating from Oscar, the way he’s curled in, close, safe, worried that if he moves too quickly Lando will cease to exist—worried that if he moves at all, Lando will be an inch too far away, and he won’t be able to catch up.
And Oscar hates it just as much.
“I’m sorry,” Lando breaks the silence after a while, voice hoarse against the thick air. “For not telling you, for making you worry, I-I’m sorry.” Lando’s hand pauses in Oscar’s hair, holding him closer than he’d like to admit. Oscar says nothing, barely even hums in acknowledgment—his mind is still playing catch up, still reliving every Spiderman encounter he’s ever had, every time he begged to hate him.
Lando takes a breath, lips drawing into a thin line as the silence grows thicker around them. “Oscar,” A plea. A beg for acknowledgment, a statement, even just a word—a beg for anything. “Say something, please.” Lando’s voice is small, Oscar removes himself from the crook of Lando’s neck.
Oscar doesn’t meet Lando’s gaze, he avoids eye contact like it’ll save his life.
Lando places a hand against Oscar’s chest, warm and grounding. “Say something,” This time, he whispers, smaller than before, with a smile to soften the blow. “Please.”
Oscar shakes his head. “I have nothing to say.”
“We both know that isn’t true,” His hand reaches for Oscar’s jaw again and Oscar can’t help but melt into his palm. “Talk to me.”
Oscar chews at his bottom lip, begging for the words to catch in his throat. It’s no surprise when they don’t.
“I almost lost you, Lando,” His voice cracks, aches under the surface of half-hidden emotions. “I could’ve lost you,” He holds Lando’s hand on his cheek, soft, delicate, on the edge of breaking open. “I don’t want to go through that—why didn’t you tell me?”
Lando hesitates for a moment, his lips part and then shut. “I couldn’t,” Lando shakes his head, his thumb stroking Oscar’s cheek. “It was too dangerous—it’s dangerous even now. I didn’t want to risk it.”
“Lando—“
“I would’ve told you if I could. We both know that.” Oscar looks away for a moment. Lando’s right. He would’ve spilled every secret he’s ever kept the moment the time was right—this impromptu identity reveal was never the way Lando wanted it, he had it planned, the moment the world was safe he’d tell Oscar everything.
“You mean the world to me, Oscar,” Lando’s voice is hushed, breathy in a way that catches Oscar off guard. “Keeping a secret from you is beyond painful—but it had to be this way,” He shakes his head, a sigh escapes his lips. “Trust me. It was for the sake of us both.”
Lando pulls Oscar down, presses their foreheads together and closes his eyes. “It was better that way. Safer.” His voice is small, warm as it brushes against Oscar.