Chapter Text
For the first time in potentially years, Lando wakes up early.
In contrast to his previous morning, this one is considerably less pleasant and infinitively more disorienting. The sound of waves crashing against rocks wakes him up, accompanied by the calls of seagulls. The morning sun's orange rays slide through the open blinds, strips of vermillion light shining into his eyes.
The bed underneath him is not smooth-as a matter of fact, it's full of sand. Rough, grainy sand that chafes against his entirely naked body. His head isn't pounding-they didn't drink yesterday-but his limbs ache and his ankles throb. The previous night comes to him slowly, while he stretches awake in his bed.
He lets the sheets pool in his lap, gaze traversing over their quaint, homely little room. Lando felt a gazillion times more comfortable in their new surroundings-the Inn distinctly lacked the finesse and sharpness of the luxury hotel they had spent the first night. Instead, the room was an odd mixture of floral, plush armchairs and lovely shuttered windows. Their beds were simple wood frames, with intricately carved headboards. The sheets were plain cotton, the comforters printed with rose vines.
His eyes, as if always drawn to him, land on Charles.
Last night had been a rare vision of vulnerability from the other. Charles had never been overtly emotional-always serious but happy in their youth, and enraged for their last year of high-school. Holding the other while he sobbed had been a bit of a revelation for Lando. If he focused carefully, he could still feel the chill travelling down his palms from where he had held Charles’ frigid little body.
He still looks small now. The heat had made him strip down to his underwear as well. His back glows in the sunrays, like molten gold, with the faintest sheen of sweat. Lando can see his face from where he lies, delicate features loose and relaxed in a way Lando has seen him seldom. His mouth purses into a soft pout, the arch more pronounced and inherently feline, like a golden housecat or a pocket-sized cheetah.
He's beautiful.
Because Lando is depraved and insane and fucking perverted, his gaze starts sliding down, and down, and down. A perfectly shaped ass, strongly muscular legs. A waist that surely Lando could hold between his hands, encircled completely by his fingertips. Narrow hips, dimples in his back, he's a fucking vision. A creature sent down from heaven to remind Lando of his homosexuality.
Max was such a fucking idiot.
The thought appears out of nowhere in Lando's mind. On auto-pilot, he opens Instagram and clicks on Max's profile in his DMs. He brings a hand up to bite at the cuticle of his thumb, contemplating.
Nando Loris
Charles came to the trip
Lando watches in anticipation as the Typing Bubble starts, three dots dancing across the screen, and then stops. Starts, and stops again. Lando lets out an undignified snort, switching out of the chat and to his Instagram feed. Daniel posted a picture of him and his new girlfriend. His co-worker, Magui has posted a bikini pic that Lando likes without thinking. She knows he's gay, or at least…Lando thinks she does.
Oscar's posted something.
Landi's thumb stops scrolling. He looks at the picture.
It isn't anything outrageously sexual, or even a good picture. Oscar's just standing in the middle, surrounded by members of his family, Lando supposes. Behind them is a house, not particularly big or extravagant. But it looks like a home. A proper home, with a little Australian flag waving about in the air and a porch with a dreamcatcher and a swinging chair. The caption is something stupid, referencing TimTams and koalas and something stereotypically Australian.
Lando's thumb and forefinger pinch at the screen and zoom into the picture. Oscar's face is split open into a wide grin, one he sees very rarely and only in the confines of their apartments. Hattie's on his left, his mother presumably on the right. Lando hates that he only knows that because the woman seems significantly older than Oscar.
But Oscar looks tired. There are bags underneath his eyes, and his smile is captured in a twitch, the twitch he only makes when he's faking his grin. Lando wants to reach through the screen and smoothen out the wrinkles starting to form with age at his forehead. A life lived with ease, without luxury but with a home.
He looks sweet though. A plain white shirt and khaki shorts, because his closet was entirely made up of just pairs and pairs of khaki shorts in various shades of beige. His hair's been cleverly pushed around to hide his hairline, and the thought makes Lando stifle a grin into his palm. It's so…endearingly human.
Lando from ten years ago would've made fun of someone like Lando.
He likes the photo and keeps scrolling. Max doesn't respond, which sends a strange thrill through Lando's bones. Like he's finally found someone with as many skeletons in the closet as himself. The mouthy, clever, insanely wealthy not-so-little blonde rendered speechless.
The idea pops up into his head, too tempting to ignore. Before he knows it, he's clicking on the little plus button next to his profile, and aiming the camera at Charles. The Monègasque is photogenic as fuck, so the picture turns out hot even though it was supposed to make him look ridiculous. Lando adds a caption, something about OnlyFans and payment, and adds it to his story. He still doesn't have Charles’ Instagram, something he laments over. But the face is recognizable enough.
Lando considers it a job well done.
It's five in the morning, too early for breakfast. But Lando feels restless, so he gets up and gets dressed without a fuss, not daring to breathe lest he wakes Charles up. He gets dressed in his running shorts and worn down shirt, and slips into his running shoes. The inn's hallways are quiet. When he dares to peek into Alex and George's room, he finds them snoring away quite disgracefully.
The stairs creak when he descends down them, and he simply prays no one wakes up. Luckily, he manages to make his escape easily enough, jogging down the pebbled path and swinging the iron gates open. The beach is less than a kilometer away, so Lando hurries down the streets, letting the breeze cool his sweat off.
The sun is still just rising, turning the sky a billion shades of reds and yellows. The ocean glints strangely, the blue water reflecting the warm tones of the sky and swirling into an incomprehensible mixture of colours. Lando's fingers itch for an easel and oil tubes, the urge to paint sudden and imminent.
He’d been going through a bit of an art block before he'd come for vacation. Oscar had reckoned he needed a change of scenery. But sometimes, Lando wondered if his art had been inextricably tied to his wealth-it had been easy enough to create when he'd had the funds for oil paints and water colours and whatever medium he'd decided to master in the week.
But the lack of proper materials had weighed him down the last 10 years. Art is an expensive hobby-his modest atelier shared with four other people, his watered down, cheaper paints and the careful measurement of whether a particular project deserved or warranted the use of canvases that had become so expensive, all reminded him of how easy life had been. It left the art feeling hollow, something wretched out of a dying source rather than something flowing from abundance.
But sometimes that felt like salvation too. Because now, Lando didn't paint for the sake of being different, of being cultured. He painted to mean something. His paintings went from shallow imitations of landscapes people couldn't afford to see and displays of wealth very few had, to scenes of modest cafes, shitty apartments, public libraries.
But Lando could feel his soul dying with his art. Like he was etching bits of it into paint, signing his life away with every signature at the back of the canvas.
He jogs down the beach, and he thinks.
The perfect thing to paint, Lando realizes, is the scene back at the Inn. It's like an overlap between his past and his present, he realizes. An extravagant road trip through Europe but inherently modest dwellings. A figure from his past-Charles-but grown up. Something he wouldn’t sell, though he hates selling his art in principle.
Lando didn't always want to paint Charles though.
When the Monègasque had first joined the school, Lando had taken him under his wing out of a sense of pity-the poor, pretty boy looking rather small and fragile in the vast expanse of the school hallways. Charles had bumped into him after Lando had returned from a particularly nasty rugby match, and had painstakingly fixed him up so that Lando wouldn't have to face the Matron's wrath or her disgusting pain medication.
But Charles had fit in so seamlessly, once George had claimed him as one of his own. Bright green eyes dancing over their group, shining with mirth as long, slender fingers danced across the grand piano in the common room, playing classics and jazz tunes for them to dance to.
Charles was Charles.
It was no wonder Carlos fell for him.
Carlos, who Lando had been obsessed with since the 8th grade. It wasn't love, Lando knew that back then as well, as much as it was a possessive need to own completely. Carlos was supposed to be his friend, he was supposed to fall in love with Lando. Lando who's tanned skin didn't contrast with Carlos’ as much as Charles’ did, Lando who fit into the Sainz family and understood Carlos’ vaguely misogynist jokes and accepted Carlos to simply be old fashioned, a gentleman.
As Lando looks out into the ocean, coming to a standstill, he wonders if that had been another fissure in the otherwise smooth marble of their friendship. Lando's inability to hold people accountable. He'd known on a fundamental level that Carlos needed someone to keep him in check, to make him understand that the bullshit pumped into his head by his father wasn't true nor funny, but he'd thought keeping the status quo to be more important.
Charles hadn't.
They'd been explosive, Charles and Carlos, like two sides of the same coin. One second they were close as ever, whispering about Bach and music and their favorite hockey players. The next, Charles was yelling, screaming, rolling his eyes and throwing accusations around, calling Carlos a rape-apologist and a hundred other things Lando would tune out because of how horrible they were.
And Carlos, unable to comprehend this slip of a boy, so pretty and pink and outraged, had fallen in love. He'd lost most of his bravado, turning into a meek little puppy whenever Charles was there. Lando had felt sickened when he saw Carlos tailing the Francophile. How dare Carlos, a descendent of Spanish Royalty, give chase to a hairdresser's son.
Lando never acknowledged his own insecurities. He chose to blame Charles for being a seductress, and chose to make fun of Carlos for turning into a wimp. He didn't try to understand the love Carlos felt, nor did he try to understand why Charles didn't love Carlos back.
He understands now.
Oscar makes him a better person too. And the ultimatum, come to Hattie's wedding or don't come home, only made Lando love him more.
Love?
Lando shudders and collapses into the sand, heaving for air. His phone pings in his pocket, and he pulls it out, typing in his password quickly. It's a notification from Instagram, a reply actually.
DUDUDUDUUU
I'm coming over
Where are you
What the actual fuck.
Lando scrambles to hit the call button next to the Dutchman's profile, and anxiously waits for the other to pick up. He rises to his feet, gazing anxiously over the horizon. He wasn't even able to appreciate the scenery properly, too anxious about Max's words.
What the fuck did he mean by that.
His thumb gets trapped between his teeth yet again, as the blonde takes his sweet-fucking-time picking the phone up. Lando starts pacing in a tight circle, right at the edge of where the water washes up on shore, his shoes leaving imprints into the soft, mushy sand.
Pick up. Come on.
“Lando.”
“You CANNOT come, Max. He doesn't want to see you-!”
“And how do you know what he wants?”
Lando sighs, placing two fingers on his temple and rubbing aggressively to ease the hammering starting in his brain. His grip tightened on the phone again, tongue twisted slightly.
“Max, you know he doesn't want to see you. You're only going to make things worse, don't start-”
“Lando, I just want to see him.” Max's voice breaks mid-sentence, and Lando has never heard him sound like that. Upset, on the verge of tears. The elder had always sounded so put-together, in control of everything.
He still loves Charles.
“I swear, I won't talk to him, I won't even try. I just-how is he? Is he…is he okay?”
“Yeah. Yeah, he's fine, Max. He's happy, and he's kind of rich as well now. He's willing to try, Max. I can't ruin that.”
If the world was easy and right, and if childhood friends could ever survive being lovers, Lando would've let Max see Charles. But he can't. It's selfish, and wrong and disastrously immoral but Lando lost Charles as much as Max did.
Lando gets to keep him. He isn't going to sabotage that so that Max can get a few minutes of peace that will simply torment the Dutchman instead.
Lando will not sacrifice Charles for Max again.
“Please, Lando. He's still asleep, yeah? Even when we were younger, he wouldn't wake up early unless you forced him to. I can be there right now, Lando. He won't even know. I just need to see him.”
Lando tilts his head up to the sun and it feels like repentance. The words that fell out of his mouth damn him eternally, and it has never felt more freeing to say them out loud.
“I don't know if you deserve it, Max.”
Dead silence. Lando sighs and pulls the phone away from his ear, ready to cut the call and go back to the Inn, when Max's voice whispers through the speakers.
“Who are you to decide that?”
Lando stops in his tracks, a frown pulling at his face.
“Wha-”
“Are you god? Or Charles’ keeper, or his warden or his guard or something? As far as I'm aware, Norris, you're just about the same to him as I am-nothing. You aren't his boyfriend, and you fucked up just as much as I did. The only difference is you aren't willing to put in the same effort that I will to get him back.”
“How dare you-”
“Listen to me, you fucking ass. If you touch him, if you try to hide him, if you try to run, I will find you. I'm not going to let some washed up bully keep me away from Charles. If he tells me to leave, if he tells me to stay away and never come close again, I will make sure to never come within 200 kilometers of him. But I will not listen to people like you again. I will not let you decide what Charles needs, or wants.”
Lando's chest heaves as he struggles for words. Max's tone is poisonous, the words spit out from someplace shadowy. He wants to say something, anything. He wants to retaliate, but Max's words have brought forth another memory, this one less noteworthy but nonetheless significant.
“Lando, please. I just-I need to talk to him. I need to apologize.”
“Do you want to get hurt, Max?” George had snapped out, eyes red-rimmed. Lando hadn't known why he was crying-the bastard was the reason Charles had declared all out war against their friend group.
Lando had tried to talk to Charles, he had. But Charles had simply asked him, in a dulcet tone with fragile hope shining in his eyes, if Lando had stopped talking to George and Max.
Lando could still hear the resounding slam of the door after he'd shaken his head in cowardice.
“Or maybe you want to take advantage of the fact that Charles loves you too much to be mad at you. Maybe you want to apologize when he's down and friendless so that he'll have no choice but to accept you with trembling arms. Is that your plan? To manipulate him into forgiving you.” George sneered.
But there had been a twinge of something in his voice. Resentment, remorse, guilt. Love, even. Not for Max, for Charles. Overprotectiveness shining through the venomous words, the need to keep Charles safe and happy and untouched from the poison spreading throughout their friendgroup. Daniel stands next to Max, while George, Lando and Alex sit around what used to be their table in the courtyard. No one tries to occupy the empty fourth side of the square bench.
“How fucking dare you, you cunt-”
“Oh please. Even if he does forgive you, comes running back to your arms, he'll never trust you again. You broke him, Verstappen, just as much as I did. The best thing you and I can do for him is to leave him the fuck alone. You don't want Jos to find out, do you? Poor Charles won't be able to handle his boyfriend's father calling him a fa-”
Verstappen has his hand around Russel's throat before he can finish the sentence. His palm spreads wide against the pale expanse of George's aristocratic neck. Lando had felt a sick sense of satisfaction trail down his spine when he saw the Brit grapple for air, his pale complexion going ashen from a lack of oxygen, hand thumping weakly against the steel table seeking help-
Oh. He's asking Lando for help.
It was too late though. One of the sisters rushes forward, breaking through the circle of students that had formed around the five students. Lando remembers looking up only to see a grim expression on Ricciardo's face as Max was wrenched away from George by some of the stronger students.
“This is your fucking fault, Russel. Damn you, damn you all, I hope you rot in hell, you hear me? You did this, you broke him-! You fucking hear, you heartless bastard, you broke him-! And if he kills himself, it's your fucking fault-Let Go! LET GO OF ME, I NEED TO KILL HIM, he won't forgive me and its his fucking fault-”
Max gets dragged across the grass, struggling and stumbling, shirt tearing at the seams with the force of his desperation, hands reaching forward to deprive the Brit of oxygen.
When George starts crying, no one tries to comfort him.
“You don't even know where we are.”
“I do now.”
Lando's blood runs cold. Verstappen Holdings, specialising in software manufacturing. Resources to find numbers run license plates-
Trace calls and track locations.
“Nice, France. I'll be there in an hour. And if I find out you tried to touch a hair on Charles’ head, Norris, I'll-”
Lando cuts the call before Max can finish, and runs home.
He's out of breath when he stomps up the stairs, uncaring of who he wakes up or how. He needs to get to George and Alex immediately.
He slams the door of their room open, and Alex almost immediately sits up in bed, tired and weary and shocked. George tilts his head up from where it rests on his silk pillowcase, lifting the edge of his sleeping mask to glare at Lando with one eye.
“We need to go. Right now.” Lando wheezes out, grasping the doorknob and panting for breath, a grimace on his face from the burning in his lungs. Alex scrambles up the rest of the way, glancing at the timing on his phone before looking back at Lando, a puzzled expression on his face.
“Max found out we're in Nice. He's coming. Right now.”
George sits up the rest of the way, blue eyes startled and wide. Alex doesn't question it, simply rising up from his mussed up sheets and shrugging on a pair of jeans over his long, brown legs, winding his belt through the belt loops while simultaneously trying to find his shirt.
Alex had always been the more reactive out of the two.
George is…distracted.
Lando almost groans when he sees the way the Brit eyes the half-naked man, in a way all too inappropriate considering that Alex was getting married. Vaguely incestuous dynamics in their friend group had been welcomed since the beginning of it, but it had never taken precedence over people's ACTUAL relationships.
It's only when Alex looks back at George while buttoning his shirt up that George breaks out of his blatant eyefucking and turns back to Lando. “Hold your horses-how did Max find out?”
“I may have texted him to make him jealous. I called him when he said he was coming to see us, and he tracked my phone.”
That spurs George into motion as well, the brunette making quick work of his satin pajamas, revealing long planes of muscle and a long, aristocratic structure. He looks a bit on the thinner side, Lando muses, eyes travelling over George's figure-
“Are you out of your mind?! Why would you tell him-”
Lando sputters, eyebrows furrowing as he watches the two rush to get dressed. “I didn't want him to forget Charles and what-”
George finally pulls a pair of sorts on and crosses the room at record speed. His bony fingers grasp Lando by the shoulders, both hands digging into the planes of his shoulder-blades with an intensity that hurts. George stares dead into his eyes, his voice plaintive and firm. “It's Max. I don't think he's capable of forgetting about Charles.”
Alex hums in assent while pulling his socks on haphazardly. Lando's pretty sure he's wearing one of George's, actually.
“You know, Daniel asked him out three years ago? Max rejected him, Dan was heartbroken. When he asked Max why, Max just said that it ‘wouldn't be fair’. Everyone kinda knew who he was talking about.”
“They're such losers-” Lando sighs, running a hand over his face as George slips into a pair of sandals. Alex had started to shove their belongings into the suitcase, and George started heading out of the room towards the adjacent one. Lando followed wearily.
Charles is still asleep, the mole-filled expanse of his back to the door. George leans forward, draws the curtains, and starts shaking the almost-entirely-clothless brunette awake. Charles mumbles sleepily, twisting and burrowing further into the sheets.
“MATE, WAKE UP, WE'VE GOT TO GO.” Lando screams in Charles’ ear, and the Monègasque scrambles away, drawing the sheets to his torso to protect his modesty. Lando snorts at the inherently virginal mannerism, before George smacked the brunette at the back of his head and said firmly: “Charles, get ready, we're leaving as soon as possible. You can brush and wash later. ”
“What is the rush? Drive's only five to six hours from here to Cinque Terre?” Charles mumbles, wide eyed as George rushes to start shoving Charles’ laptop into his (Lando's teeth hurt just thinking about how much that costs) Bottega briefcase.
“Um…Lando got into a fight with the Inn's owners. We don't want things to get messy.” Lando stifles an indignant shout at being made the scapegoat, but Charles doesn't even seem to buy it, narrowing his eyes at the both of them, before sitting up against the headboard, sheets now covering him from collarbone to mid-thigh.
“What did you even do?” He asks, addressing Lando with a suspicious once-over. “You don't speak French, and Thomasine doesn't speak English.”
“Her name is Thomasine?” Lando wonders out loud, only to get cut off immediately by George looking at Charles and stating: “Exactly. He tried to speak in French with her.”
Charles’ eyes widen in horror and he points a silent finger to the door, commanding the two to get out and let him get changed. George and Lando scramble out of the room, panting slightly as the door slams shut behind them. George wipes away sweat that doesn't exist off his forehead, while Lando leans against the door, huffing.
“Why'dya make me the villain?”
“Thomasine is a sweetheart. The only thing disastrous enough to make her mad is you, and Charles knows that.”
“Fuck you, Russel-”
Just then, the pitter-patter of heeled shoes comes up the staircase, as the pretty French woman in question makes her way up, hands trailing across the bannister. She approaches the two, a pleasant smile on her face, eyes earnest and wide. “J'espère que vous avez apprécié votre séjour ! Je vous ai préparé des croissants frais à déguster avec de la confiture — offerts par la maison-”
The door swings open, revealing a shirtless and rather frazzled looking Charles. “Lando, where are my shoes? I cannot find them anywhere-”
Thomasine is red in the face, blushing like a schoolgirl in front of her crush. Her eyes are trained over Charles’ pecs, and Lando can almost see the drool dripping from her perfectly heart-shaped teeth. Before he even knows it, his stupid, stupid mouth is opening and-
“Leave me alone, woman-! I'm sick of you, you hear me?! SICK-!”
Lando really does feel bad. Especially when Thomasine's eyes widen and she looks like she's on the verge of tears. Charles’ eyes also widen, while George stifles his laughter into the crook of his elbow. Alex chooses to appear at the exact moment, gently steering the shell-shocked Tomasine away from the other three.
Lando can hear her delicate, faint voice echoing up the stairs as Alex leads her back down: “Je voulais juste lui offrir le petit-déjeuner. Il n'aime pas les croissants ? Oh non... serait-il allergique ? Il aurait pu le dire, tout simplement... J'espère que je ne l'ai pas vexé... Le pauvre... être allergique aux croissants... Je n'ose même pas imaginer.”
Luckily, Charles isn't paying much attention.
"Lando, you're wearing my shoes.”
“Oh, sorry mate-”
They head back out on the road. Alex makes sure Charles doesn't come close to Thomasine, who looks at Lando with sympathy and pats at his head while they eat. She doesn't let him touch the croissants, so Lando assumes she's mad at him and has simply drawn to the conclusion that he's insane.
George drives, and by some stroke of luck (or misfortune, Lando doesn't know how the two of them feel about each other yet), Charles ends up in the passenger seat. The car is much sleeper, it's still only seven in the morning. Charles rests his head against the window and falls asleep.
The drive from Nice to Cinque Terre is five to six hours, but George drives like a snail. The drive is pleasant enough, much like the one the previous day. They roll by long stretches of the coast, sea breeze strong and salty against their tongue. Charles naps so they don't switch on any music: instead, soft conversation passes swiftly between seats, jokes and memes and anecdotes. Their voices don't heighten, nor do they become overtly excited, and Charles sleeps on, mumbling softly in his seat.
Lando's phone opens to Instagram again. No messages from the Dutchman, but Lando isn't worried anymore. They'd only told their friends their road trip was starting in Spain and ending in Monaco. The itinerary was completely wack as well-way more detours and moving around than necessary. Nice was around 20 kilometers away from Monaco: Max would head there first assuming Lando had messaged him towards the end of their trip. But they were heading towards Italy instead: to a town Max wouldn't expect them to go to.
Lando wonders if he made the right decision, running away again.
He hates that he knows he didn't. Max was right, on the phone call. Things could've been fixed, if the four of them hadn't been so self-sacrificial and selfish and egotistical. A simple apology, something to show Charles they cared; instead they'd chosen to do the ‘right’ thing, which in reality was just the path that was the easiest, that caused the least pain. Drawing away from Charles for ‘his sake’ was just a farce, a cover. The truth was, they'd been too scared of losing him forever.
He scrolls past his feed. Carlos has posted a picture of himself and his girlfriend in Milan. Max is there as well, with Daniel at his side. They're all dressed in finery, Rebecca in a long, sapphire gown, Carlos in a strict black suit, Daniel and Max in waistcoats and shirts unbuttoned at the collar. Young aristocrats, distinguished and formal.
A message pings on his phone.
Dad
Lando, please.
I just need to see you, once. Son, please, just come-
Lando swipes away the notification and continues scrolling.
Eventually, Charles wakes up from his nap, bleary eyed and puffy. Alex coos over him and Charles retaliates by throwing his shoe into the backseat. It hits Lando, so he throws it back in retaliation, only to smack into George's perfect white polo's sleeve. It leaves a large, nasty looking footprint on the pristine shirt.
The only person not laughing is George himself.
They stop at the side of the road, Alex helping George wash the footprint away using a can of Celsius that only serves to make it worse. Charles perches himself on top of a rock, facing the sea side, chucking stones into the vast blue expanse of the Mediterranean.
Lando tries to help Alex out with George, but when he accidently gets a chocolate-y thumbprint on the shirt, George shoos him away with a glare and a stern finger. Alex only gives him a sheepish smile before ushering him away. Lando has no choice but to sit next to Charles.
(Lando is way too happy about sitting with Charles.)
Charles has a Peroni beer clutched in one hand, and a camera dangling from his neck. He's selecting a stone to throw into the ocean when Lando slips onto a slab of rock right next to him. The morning breeze is cool, but the sun beats down on them. It turns Charles’ skin a pale shade of golden. Lando's skin tans much more quickly, warm and bronze under the harsh sunlight.
“What if some poor sod's at the bottom on the beach and is just getting nailed by those stones you're throwing?”
“Well, he should have moved by now, oui? It would be strange for him to just stand as I physically assault him with stones.”
“Maybe he thinks they're a sign from god.” Lando suggests, a grin on his face as Charles pins him with a deadpan glare. Behind, he can hear George squawking indignantly. Alex is laughing, the sound interlining with the crunching of gravel. The road is deserted, not many tourists except for them at this point in summer. “Coming from a youthful adonis such as yourself, maybe they are.”
Charles blushes a deep lobster red, shying away and hiding his face in the palm of his head. Before Lando knows it, they're both chuckling, Charles shaking his head in mirth.
“That was so bad, mate. ”
“Give me a break, I haven't done this in a while.”
Charles side-eyes him heavily, a glint appearing in his emerald green irises. Lando feels a sweat break out on the back of his neck. “Because of Oscar?”
“Oh, Oscar? Really chill guy, bit stiff though.” Alex pops up, George sullenly following him, a much larger, brownish stain on his sleeve. “What happened to the shirt?” Lando asks, pinching the fabric between his fingers. George slaps his hand away as Alex tries to sit in Charles’ lap.
“He's not stiff, he's just…Australian.”
“Aren't Australians supposed to be funny?” Charles asks, as they all begin to head back into the car, buckling themselves in. George spends an unnecessary amount of time fixing his rear-view mirror and adjusting his seat again. “No, mate, that was just Daniel."
“He's funny! You guys just don't get it.” Lando sulks, looking away. Charles laughs in front, thumping his head against the back-rest noisily. “I'm sorry mate. I'm sure he's lovely. What does he do?”
“Oh, he's a web-designer. Some technical bullshit, but he's good at it and it pays the bills.” Lando's eyes widen at the statement, something raw and unfiltered passing through the words. He laughs uneasily. “Or at least that's what he says. He likes his independence.”
“Oh, that's actually quite…normal. I thought you'd be dating a supermodel or something. You and Carlos also had something going on.” Charles admitted, casting a gaze into the backseat. His easy expression made Lando relax. Charles would like Oscar and his normality.
“Well, if you're planning to get married, make sure you sign a pre-nup. I'm sure Lily made Alex sign one too.” George said, flashing a grin in the rearview mirror.
A chill makes its way up Lando's spine. Alex laughs easily, and even Charles chuckles,though it sounds a bit strained. But Lando can't shake off the wrongness of the statement, the implication of it.
“He's not a gold-digger, George.”
“What?” George sounded genuinely confused, eyes darting to look at Lando before sliding back onto the road. “Mate, I didn't even-”
“Just cause he's not fancy and rich like you doesn't mean he's some kind of leech or a sugarbaby or something.” Lando snaps out. The tension in the car thickens.
Alex tries to placate Lando, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Mate, I don't think he meant-”. But George cuts him off, rather harshly. “I'm not saying it cause I think he's poor or using you or something, Lan. It was a joke, stop taking everything so seriously.”
“Guys-” Charles starts, but Lando's getting fired up now. The idea of George implying that Oscar was-”You wouldn't be saying that, or making that joke if he wasn't poor according to your standards. But you obviously think all poor people are just opportunistic fucks trying to take advantage of us innocent little well-off folk.”
“Mate, I made the same joke about Alex, and he's probably richer than me. I don't look down on Oscar, the bloke's doing well for himself and is very clearly upper-middle class, and I've seen his career strategy. He's going to get far in life. Get off your high-horse, Norris, you sound like you're projecting.”
The car falls silent. Lando gazes out of the window solemnly.
Isn't he the one freeloading off of Oscar?
He thinks of Oscar's apartment, clearly bigger than his and well furnished with a king sized bed and centralised air-con. He thinks of Oscar's neat little khaki pants and his golf with his co-workers. He thinks of all the paints Oscar’s bought for him over the years, the trip to Miami, the plane ticket Oscar offered to pay for.
Oscar isn't rich, nowhere near it. Not even new money like Charles is (Lando doesn't know exactly how cushy his new job is, but his clothes and his expensive laptops and leather briefcases tell him he's got to be doing as well as Alex and George are, even with all the rings he had to jump through to get there), but well-off enough to afford vacations during the summers in international waters. It's Lando who's stuck in this cycle that almost tastes like poverty.
He is the vermin. Oscar is the one who needs a pre-nup.
It was a joke. Even Charles, who'd struggled financially for almost all the years Lando had known him, didn't take it seriously, because it wasn't serious.
It hurt because it reflected Lando's own insecurities back onto him.
“What about you, George? Got anyone yet? A little-birdie told me a certain secretary has been following you around with hearts in her eyes."
“WHAT?” Charles chokes out, whipping his head around to stare at Alex, who's got a mischievous smirk plastered to his face. From here, Lando can see George's strained expression of calmness, though his rapidly reddening cheeks betray his embarrassment. “You filthy dog-”
“It's nothing! Alex is exaggerating.”
“No, I am not, I'm telling you Charlie, she's in love with him-”
“Carmen and I have a strictly professional relationship you disgusting pervert-”
They stop at Sanremo after passing the borders between Italy and France. The change isn't sudden, but the language begins shifting away from French and towards Italian, yet another language that Charles (the multilinguistic fuck) speaks.
Sanremo is coastal, but the locals don't seem to be used to foreigners. They stop at a café that seems inherently run down, like it isn't used to catering to anyone with a budget of more than 30 euros. Charles and Alex go in, leaving Lando and George behind by the car.
“I really didn't mean anything by the joke, mate. I'm sorry.”
Lando sighs, rubbing a hand over his neck and shaking his head. “I overreacted. I think…it's just getting to me.”
“What's getting to you?” George questioned, pocketing the keys and leaning against the door, looking like the epitome of perfection. His hair remains perfectly styled, his cheekbones glinting under the Italian sun and his cupid's bow perfectly pert. Lando feels a bit jealous, especially knowing that he's got pit stains on his shirt and his hair's gone frizzy with the salty sea air.
“Everything. The cramped car, the sea air. I mean, it constantly smells like fish, everywhere. And I bet you Alex and Charles are going to come out of that cafe with more salad and flatbread. I've had more salad and flatbread in the last two days than I have in my entire life. I miss cheeseburgers.”
George laughs, this sound that lacks both the unrestrained joy of Alex's and the soft tinkling of Charles’. George laughs like he's just…amused. Not happy, not trying to be pretty, just enjoying the moment. “You've turned into a proper American, haven't you? Soon enough, you'll be talking about baseball. How's the art going?”
“It's…it's going.” The need rises again, the need to hide away and run and lock down behind a wall of his own making. George isn't safe, isn't trustworthy. But Lando decides he has nothing to base that off of. George was a right twat to Charles, but he'd treated Alex and Lando well. They'd been a close knit group. Lando often muses that they were like termite-infested wood, strong looking but crumbling and rotting from the inside.
Because they'd only been decaying within themselves.
“I mean…it's hard. Art is hard. Do you…I want to paint so much, but I don't know what's worth painting, y'know? I wish I did, but I don't. Nothing seems worth the effort.”
“Have you tried painting Oscar? I've heard it's easier to paint things you love.” George comments, pushing a pair of sunglasses onto his eyes. Late in summer, there aren't many tourists in Sanremo. North-western Italy is a bit fantastical because the mountains start right at the edges of the coast. Steep mountains, climbing higher and higher into the sky, looking down upon the sea. Tiny, pastel buildings dot the otherwise green surface of the land, inherently toy-like.
“I don't love Oscar, George.”
George tsks, this condescending sound that grates on Lando's nerves slightly. “Mate, the way you talk about Oscar…if that isn't love, I don't know what is.”
“So what you and Max had…that wasn't love?”
“Max and I had nothing, you hear me? You know that as much as I do.”
Lando does know.
Despite all his faults, George cannot be called delusional. The Brit was practical to the point of annoyance. Lando doesn't know what was going on between George and Max, but he does know it was unrequited. For all that was wrong with Max, there was one admirable thing that redeemed him everytime: he loved Charles more than he loved himself, maybe.
Lando doesn't know much about how the three met, exactly. What he does know is that Max and Charlss have known each other since they were six. Hérve Leclerc was a mechanic and co-owner of a famous karting track in Nice, one frequently visited by a tiny Max Verstappen. Charles and Max had been at loggerheads for most of their first year, till Charles stopped karting when his father died.
Lando knows that that was when George met Charles. Around the time when Hérve died, Max and George were forced into a friendship by their fathers’ mutual desire for connections. Max had taken George to meet Charles. George, who lived in Monaco, got closer and closer to Charles, while Max and George became sworn enemies.
Then George and Max shifted to the same boarding school at 10 years old, and met Lando and Alex, who'd been going there since childhood. Charles only joined when he was…14? Or maybe 13, Lando wasn't sure.
“Maybe you should try painting Charles.”
“What?!” Lando nearly shouts, despite George's hiss to keep quiet, eyes widening almost comically. “I am not in love with Charles Leclerc.”
“I didn't say you were, Lando. The guy is aesthetically pleasing. He plays piano for gods’ sake. Beauty inspires, or whatever. Draw him, you can't stop staring at him anyways.”
“Sure, I'll give you the drawing so that you can hug it at night.”
“Fuck off, dude.”
Lando laughs, as Alex and Charles come back out of the café lugging bags of food. Charles is on the phone, and the dialogue sounds very legal so Lando assumes he's talking to his coworkers. Alex mimes zipping his voice shut before stage whispering: “One of his clients is freaking out. The guy at the counter says we can camp out on that hill up there and eat brunch. We just have to bring the blanket back."
Charles doesn't carry anything, continuing to calm down his client with smooth words and soft intonation. George refuses to touch the baskets because they're made of some sort of bamboo and he doesn't want to get a splinter. So Alex and Lando lug all of it up the hill themselves.
When they reach the top of the hill, Lando can't help but be thankful that they came up here. The view is phenomenal, miles and miles of ocean on one side, and large expanses of lush greens on the other. There are thousands of small wildflowers growing across the hilltop, white petalled ones with soft yellow pollen centers, long purple ones that seem to be made of dozens of petals, even a few dandelions.
Alex rolls out the mat, a stereotypical picnic mat with red and white patterns on it. Charles continues to babble into the mic of his phone, looking more and more harassed by the second as the others choose to sprawl onto the mat. George gingerly sits on the ground in fear of tics. Alex starts collecting flowers, plucking them up and sorting them by colour.
“This place is beautiful. Can you imagine living here?” Alex finally says, tilting his head up to let the sun graze his face. Lando watches him, eyes squinted as George forays around the picnic basket for their food. There are some ceramic plates with chipped edges, a few forks and knives and China bowls packed with salads and flatbread (Lando knew Charles would get more salad and flatbread) and even a tiny bottle of wine and a thermos of espresso.
“Yeah, I'd like to. Wish it was quieter though-” George mumbled, sending a nasty side-eye to Charles, who was walking around in frantic circles, trampling over some of the poor flowers, speaking in rushed French to whatever CEO he was defending.
“Ugh-”
Alex gets up from where he's sprawled out, marches over to Charles and plucks the phone out of his grip, ignoring the Monègasque's cry. He presses the speaker button, and firmly says into the microphone. “Mister whoever-you-are, our friend agreed to go on a vacation with us after disappearing for 10 years, and we're trying to catch up on said 10 years. I'm sure your world-ending problem can wait.”
The sound of rich, amused laughter sounds from the speaker, before a deep voice proclaims: “Ah, Monsieur Leclerc is on vacation-! I'm sorry for interrupting his time off with the worries of an old man such as me. I will meet you straight in your office, Monsieur. My apologies.”
The call ends.
Charles has gone red in the face. Alex simply laughs, chucks his phone back at him and drags him over to the picnic.
Alex puts flowers in Charles and George's hair.
Their hair isn't overtly long, but he still painstakingly threads wildflowers through every strand, forcing the two to lie still. Lando finishes off his salad and lies down, lazily watching the clouds roll over them. Somewhere along the way, Charles and George's hair get entangled, light brown strands twisting into dark brown. When Lando looks at them from the top, he marvels:
Objectively, the two are gorgeous. Together, they look like Greek gods, the contrasts so beautiful and precious. Charles’ native Monègasque tan against George's pale cheeks, their hair twisting into each other, still wrapped up in hundreds of flowers, arms pressed together. Lando takes a picture from Charles’ camera from up top, and they set back out.
They set back down to their car at around 1 in the afternoon, full and sated. Lando feels slightly buzzed after drinking all of the wine by himself, so he curls up in the backseat sleepily, head in Alex's lap while the Brit drones on and on about software and tablecloths.
His dreams are strange: he dreams of Max chasing him around with a lacrosse stick, and of George with a crown made of thorns looming over them. He dreams of Alex as a raven, watching over Lando's every move. The most horrifying dream he has is one where he enters their dorm room to find Charles hanging from the ceiling with a noose around his neck.
Lando wakes up pretty quickly after that, just in time for the four of them to stop by a gas station.
George asks Lando to fill the car up while they get supplies in the gas station: food and drinks and whatnot. But something about stepping away from Charles at the moment makes Lando's insides turn, so he sticks close to the brunette, hand wrapped firmly around his wrist. Instead, Alex goes out to get the petrol and the three of them head inside.
Lando fills up a cart with an unnecessary amount of snacks and drinks. He tries to get some healthy options: a takeout container of salad that looks a bit suspicious but should work for George, and some shredded chicken. He gets bottles of water and soda and anything else they might need, and heads to the counter.
George and Charles are chatting pleasantly to the till workers, a man and a woman who apparently own the store. They both speak English well enough, albeit heavily accented.
“But you have not seen all that we have to offer! You took the fastest route, barely even went by the coast. You will reach Genoa by 3 or 4, and Cinque Terre isn't far after. Here, take the coastal road instead. You will reach Genoa bit later, but the view is incredible.”
“I don't know…we were hoping to reach as quickly as possible. We have a dinner reservation-”
“Pish-! Cinque Terre is nothing in comparison to Imperia. Don't take the motorway, only tunnels. Move to the sea route. Takes a bit longer but much more pleasant.”
“Ah, but it looks like it’s going to rain.” The man comments, looking out at the completely clear, cloudless sky. The woman scoffs, and smacks the man, presumably her husband, on the head. “It is not going to rain, don't go scaring the poor boys. Do you want me to ring you up, sweetheart?”
They push their supplies into the trunk, and George settles into the car again. They're just about to head out when Charles says: “Are we taking the scenic route?”
Alex perks up immediately, eyes widening in excitement. Clearly, the other was tired of the boring motorways they'd been following for half of the journey. “Scenic route? Yes please, if I see another tunnel I might actually kill myself. Please, George…”
“Mate, it's getting late. I think we should head back to the motorway. We can have fun in Cinque Terre.”
“Oh, George is too much of a bore to do anything fun.” Charles says, huffing quietly and looking out the window. George simply sighs and starts driving again. But instead of rejoining the motorway they were supposed to take, he slips away to the coastal road.
The sea greets them once more but this is a harsher sea, tumbling aggressively over the rocks and sending sea spray all the way up to the car. Lando's body is still cold from the nightmare, but the spray makes him feel a bit better, childishly leaning out to the edge and sticking out his tongue to taste the sea salt.
Charles rises on his seat and sticks his head out the top of the car, arms in the air and screaming. George drives with a dry smile as Alex tries to pull Charles back into his seat.
Lando feels alive. The road is curvy, cut out of the edge of a mountain, and it's got a certain wildness to it: like everything is alive and he is too. The vines creeping at the sides of the mountains, the cerulean sea looking angrier than ever. The place makes him feel angry too, rage pooling at the bottom of his stomach like heady wine. He laughs and feels a bit invincible as they ride smoothly through the increasingly heavy sea spray.
They come to a diversion, but the signs are too worn down to tell where to go. Their GPS stopped working at the gas station, so Alex pulls out an old fashioned map and traces their way through it, eventually coming to the conclusion that up is the way to go, to cut over the mountains and then move down to the coast again. George frowns slightly, but starts the engine and begins climbing up.
The road is narrow, so narrow they're just about squeezing throughit, and they leave the coast behind. The wilderness has completely overtaken this path, vines crawling over the road and trees looming over them menacingly. It's a steep ascent, which slows them down.
Lando feels gripped with a strange chill, like something bad is about to happen. But nothing does: just the car rolling on and on and on, working its way further and further into the guts of Italy, a place where they probably weren't supposed to be. After 30 minutes of driving, Alex voices his concern:
“Are we going to be able to reach in time? I think the people who told you about this route might have underestimated how much longer it would take to move to Genoa?”
Charles shrugs, seemingly uncaring of the time they were losing. “Well, can't exactly turn back now, can we? No spot to reverse. It's fine, we’ve got a tank full of petrol and I've still got service.”
“We should've stuck to the plan, Charles. I don't know where we are, my GPS still isn't working.” George mumbled, but Charles simply turned away and rose from his seat, clicking pictures using his camera.
Lando sees wildlife stare at them curiously, deer with their babies watching them with lovely brown eyes, their spotted coats glinting under the greenish rays of sunlight filtering through the leaves. Birds chirp around the car, voices high and sweet and repeating the same song over and over. The chill doesn't leave his body, and he keeps his head in Alex's lap, hoping his warmth might chase it away.
Thirty more minutes, and Lando realises something:
They're moving further into the mountains. Deep into them in fact, the ascent steep and the road becoming more worn down-not a shortcut but something entirely else. The wildlife is untouched, and the animals don't seem scared of them-because humans aren't a threat, just an anomaly in these parts.
And then the heavens break open.
It's not a downpour, as much as it is a steady drizzle. The convertible’s top goes up, protecting them from the dripping water. They're lost, and they can't do anything about it: the only way was through, in hopes that the road led to something.
“I don't know where we are, mate. Alex, didn't you fail your Boy Scout test? Are you sure you read the map right?”
Alex hums in assent, but his face has gone bleak. Lando narrows his eyes at the other. “Alex, show me where the diversion on the map was.”
Alex nods and whips out the map, opening it-
Upside-Down.
Jesus fucking Christ.
They've been on this road for an hour and a half. It's almost 4 in the evening and sunlight has begun to dim. But they don't have a choice, they keep carving into the mountain. Their phones go out soon after and the rain picks up, though it isn't storming yet.
George is furious, and before Lando knows it, he and Charles are at it again.
“I told you to follow the motorway, but god forbid Charles listens to me. Because clearly, I'm always in the fucking wrong, aren't I?” George snaps out, fingers tightening on the steering wheel.
Charles lets out a caustic little laugh, his voice quick and sharp. “If you would've just followed the coastal route, we would've reached by now. Don't try and push the blame onto me. It's not my fault I'm a bore like you.”
“A bore? I just wanted to get us there safely, Leclerc. In one piece, something you seem to be allergic to.”
“Oh, shut it you two.” Alex snaps out wearily, eyes narrowing at the two in the front. “We'll try and get directions from someone. This road has to lead somewhere.”
And they find out.
The forest starts petering out, slowly but surely, the trees growing sparser and sparser on one side of the road till the car breaks out cleanly on what is surely the top of the hill. The second they do, George parks the car to the side of the road and climbs out of the car.
Close to what seems to almost be a cliff-like formation over looking the vast expanse of sky, a group of rocks forms a gentle structure. Alex tugs Lando along with him to the edge, despite everything in Lando protesting the separation from Charles. But the view distracts him very quickly because Jesus-
Miles and miles of rolling hills, covered in lush forests. Right underneath the cliff, a meadow of lush grass, dotted with cows. The sky is cloud filled, but the horizon is clear and the sunset is dazzling. Shades of vermillion and orange and gold streaking across the sky, giving even the grey, angry looking clouds a dull, pinkish twinge. Far off, the sea glints, and thousands of tiny lights shine in a cluster that is surely Genoa, not very far away either. If they continue down the road, they'll meet the meadow, and curve onto the coast again. It's not a shortcut but the view-
Thunder strikes loudly, and Alex yelps, ducking under the shelter of the pillars of rocks. Lando follows, a high, free laugh bursting from his chest and relief spreading through his veins. They know where they are, and the detour may have been stressful but this place is beautiful-
The sound of yelling breaks him out of his relief-fueled joy. Angry yelling.
Alex and Lando look at each other, and rush to the car again. George and Charles are right behind it, Charles facing the car while George stands opposite to him. They're clearly yelling at each other, both growing damper and damper by the second. Alex places a comforting palm against George's shoulder while Lando stood back, watching the two carefully-
“-if keeping us safe makes me a hardass then so be it-!” George yells, as Charles takes an angry step forward. The flowers in his hair are desperately clinging to the strands, but the rain is getting heavier-soon enough it'll be too dangerous to drive in this weather. They've got to head out now and move towards the meadow, maybe ask the farm for lodging.
But Charles only spits back, anger boiling in his eyes. “Us? Oh please, Russel, don't act like some sort of fucking martyr, the only person you care about is yourself.”
This isn't about the detour at all.
Lando feels the pit in his stomach widening as George takes another step forward, menacingly, so much taller and stronger than Charles, hands tightening into fists. Lando's worried, worries George is going to hit him and send him sprawling to the ground. They can't afford to fight now, not so far away from civilization. Alex seems to realise this, because he tries to pull George back, warning him with a careful call. “George-”
And then George lunges. And it's a lot worse than what Lando would've thought. No bandage will fix the wounds inflicted by what he says.
“No, I care about keeping Lando and Alex alive, because unlike you, us three aren't fucking suicidal.”
“GEORGE!” Alex pulls him back sharply by his collar but the damage has been done. Lando's stomach collapses and he feels like he’s going to vomit because something similar has happened before.
He sees the way it's arranged. Them three on one side, Charles on the other. Separate.
Always separate.
“Do you even care, George? Fuck, did you even miss me?” Charles chokes out, eyes glistening with moisture that can't be attributed to the rain. This is not the time for this. Lando knew in the beginning this would blow up in their faces but not like this.
Charles looks dead. One of the flowers in his hair drops to the ground, as thunder crackles ominously in the background. The sun is halfway down, its dying rays only illuminating their surroundings just so.
“You didn't even apologize-”
“I apologized every year-”
“Empty apologies don't count, George-!” Charles cries out, taking another step forward. “You made those apologies to feel better about yourself, so you could sleep at night believing you're a good person and I'm the bad guy. I'm the heartless monster who can't forgive his best friend. But you didn't even care, George. I spent the last 10 years agonising over-over losing my best friends, the love of my life and none of you cared-!”
I cared. I cared. I subscribed to every legal magazine in hopes of catching a glimpse of your face in them. I camped outside of your rumored apartment building and visited what was supposed to be your unit only to find out you didn't live there. I spent the last of my fortune looking for you, searching for you, I swear Charlie. Life hasn't been the same, since you left. I see your face in every stupid French art film and in Oscar’s face and in the sunsets because you always looked the best in orange-
I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care I care.
Come back home to me, Charlie.
Something in Lando's chest caves and he collapses to the muddy ground, chest heaving. Alex is crouching beside him immediately, holding him together but George and Charles take no notice of him, too busy destroying themselves.
“You know, I was shocked enough when I heard Alex inviting me to his wedding, but it all makes sense now. You only invited me so that you guys could pretend like everything is normal and perfect, and you don't have to explain to anyone why the poor charity case of your friend group isn't there with you. You don't care about me, none of you ever cared about me! You just liked to feel superior and better than me and lord it around because look, George Russel is friends with a mechanic's son and he's so fucking humble-”
“Lando, you can't act like a jealous boyfriend if you aren't my boyfriend, okay? Either you fucking commit or you don't ask questions if I want to go out and get fucked-”
“Just set me free, let me go. I'm tired, I'm tired of being left behind. I thought, thought maybe if you saw how well I was doing, how good I was being, you'd accept me but you won't. I'll always be the charity case to you, the scapegoat, the expendable one. I was always just going to be an accessory to you, but I'm so tired-”
“Ah, my son tries too hard.” Pascale said, gently, as they waited for Charles to take his seat on the piano in front of the auditorium. “He forgets to take care of himself.”
Lando watched as George took Pascale's wrinkled, calloused hand in his, a strained smile pulling at his cheeks: “We promise to take good care of him, Mrs. Leclerc. He's an amazing student and an even better friend.”
Two weeks later, George would have sex with Max Verstappen, Charles’ boyfriend.
Lando cannot breathe.
“How could you?! You knew what he did, what they did and you hid it from me, Lando-!” Charles shrieks, hand flinging out and shattering the lamp set aside on the nightstand.
“He's my friend, Charles!” Lando screams. He watches as all the life drains out of Charles’ features, the rage, the hatred, all of it gone.
“And I'm not. Am I.”
Lando collapses. He doesn't know what causes it, just that he can't hear anything after Alex screams for George. His arms lock up, his legs refuse to work and his chest heaves as he tries to breathe through the mud staining his face.
George kneels in front of him, helping to lift him up, but Charles doesn't come. Charles doesn't come, but Lando's positioned enough to watch as the Monègasque looks at him with eyes full of hurt.
Lando knows what it looks like.
Their friend is having a mental breakdown and they're here comforting Lando. But Lando wishes he could speak to tell them to turn around, to look at Charles, because the brunette simply turns around and disappears into the forest.
Another failure, in Lando's long list of them.
Lando is unable to move for the next 10 minutes, but it only takes Alex one to notice Charles isn't making a sound.
Alex turns around, and calls out for Charles but the Monègasque is nowhere to be found. Lando has no way to tell them where the other has gone because he cannot speak. He can only watch as George makes him sip water while Alex searches for Charles in the car, in the rocks and fearfully checks the bottom of the cliff to see if the brunette had fallen off.
Alex eventually comes to sit next to where they've moved Lando, in the rock shelter on a soft blanket. The three of them huddle on the floor. George bites at his perfectly manicured nails, gaze fixed on the cliff. Lando knows what he's thinking about. It's dark now, the sun having completed its death, and the chill is beginning to seep through his bones.
They cannot leave without Charles.
Alex and George find some wood to start a fire with, and they use Charles’ discarded lighter to light it. They have a roaring fire soon, which helps Lando's limbs unlock, but the chill eats away at his brain, no matter how physically warm he is. Alex takes turns fretting over him and gazing off into different places.
George doesn't respond when they try to speak to him.
At least they're warm.
20 minutes later, Lando can speak again. “He went into the forest. You need to go get him.”
“I'll go-” Alex starts, but George snaps out of his reverie almost instantly, gaze swivelling around to pin the Brit in pace. “You'll go nowhere, you hear me? You'll stay here with Lando. We can't afford to , and he needs you."
“Yeah, and Charles doesn't need us, does he. Fuck off, George. You might be able to go to sleep without knowing if your friend is alive, but I can't. I can't leave him there.”
“We should've never gone.” Lando mumbles, biting at his lip to stop the trembling. This panic is different. It isn't anxiety that causes him to sob, it's the feeling of helplessness. They're stuck in a storm, the closest settlement is at least an hour's drive away and Charles is missing in the forest in who knows what state-”We shouldn't have asked him to come along. If he dies, it's our fault. Fuck, none of us are good for him. You should've left him alone like he asked, George.”
Because now he's going to end up dead.
“I didn't say none of us were going to go.” George said grimly, rising to his feet and felling around his pockets. He pulls out a penknife, the type with a serrated knife attachment. “I fucked up, I'll fix it.”
“Why, so that you can feel better about yourself? So that-so that in case we find him half eaten, at least you can say ‘well, we tried’ like you did 10 years ago?” Alex asks bitterly, rising as well. Land stares off into the fire and tries to pretend he's still with Oscar, in his shitty apartment, or in the coffee house serving over-priced bean water while Magui flirts with the customers. He tries to pretend that he's yelling at Max, the guy who shares his atelier, for using his paints without permission.
“Do you have service? Check your phone.” George instructs. Alex does in fact have service, but it isn't any help. They dial emergency services but none of them speak Italian and the operator's English is poor, and all that they're able to figure out is that the police aren't taking them all too seriously. Charles’ phone lies abandoned in the car.
“Okay.” George says, finally, looking at Alex. “You stay here with Lando. I'm going to find Charles.”
“Let me come-!” Alex insists, but George shoots him down immediately. “No. He needs someone, he's had an anxiety attack and he still can't move his legs. Stay here.”
And with that, George disappears into the foliage.
Alex moves away to figure out their sleeping arrangements for the night. Lando thinks it's because Alex is too nervous to stay in one spot. It's only when he comes close enough to hear him that Lando finally has the strength to say something.
“It's not your fault.”
Alex swivels around, eye twitching as he comes closer and crouches down in front of Lando. Lando doesn't even want to know what he looks like-he's probably got snot and tears and mud smeared all over his face. But he needs Alex to know that this wasn't his fault.
It was-
“You just wanted to help me. I was the one who couldn't stop being a fucking attention-whore for two seconds.”
Alex's face consorts painfully, eyes softening as he places a clean hand on Lando's face, wiping gently underneath his eye. Lando's crying again. He knows that.
“Hey, no. You couldn't help it, okay? You froze up, you couldn't help it. None of this was your fault. I should've read the map correctly.”
Lando shudders, and he feels a bit more human with the physical contact. “At least the view is nice.”
It's not a good joke, but Alex laughs nonetheless and stands up, a weary smile on his face. “I'll make us some food. That salad you bought might actually be useful.” He's just about turned away when Lando finds it in himself to say the words they've both been dreading.
“It's been an hour since George left, Lexi. They should've been back by now.”
“They'll come back, Lan. I know they will.”
Alex walks away.
Lando's thought a lot about friendship, about pride and about egos on the trip so far. He's thought about poverty and what it means to be hungry. He's thought about beauty and love and heartbreak and how it feels to have your chest ripped open and your insides devoured. He thinks about his own cowardly pride and how he's let it take so much from him, and how he can't let it take away Charles too.
He picks his phone up and types a number he hasn't typed in 10 years.
The phone rings, once, twice, thrice, and then finally:
“Lando?”
Adam Norris sounds incredulous, and he sounds weak. Lando feels a sob bubbling up in his chest at the sound of his father's voice. It's familiar and yet so foreign at the same time. But there's only one person in the world who ever understood what Charles meant to Lando.
“Dad, I-”
Lando cries.
There's not much to be said about the conversation, just that Adam Norris is delighted to hear from his son again, so-much-so that he cries on call. Lando cries too, the past 6 hours have weighed heavily on his shoulders and his dad's tentatively hopeful voice doesn't help either. The conversation starts with a gazillion apologies and more than a dozen ‘I Love You's, and it ends with Lando's dad resolutely using his connections to call for an emergency search and rescue operation and helicopter to Italy, ready to comb through the woods to find his son's friends.
Lando doesn't have time to dissect the conversation and how he feels about the reunification. He tells Alex about the rescue team, and sees hope bloom across his haggard expression.
They eat a miserable meal of salad and chicken, washing it down with bottles of water. The rain has turned into a downpour, reducing their visibility to shadows. Lando's just finished with his portion, settling down to lie on his side, when he sees movement and rushes to his feet.
It's George.
He's alone.
Lando's about to plop down to the ground in disappointment when Alex also jumps to his feet, his face breaking into a relieved grin and screams: “CHARLIE!”
Lando lurches forward, and sure enough, a meter or two behind George, Charles is walking albeit with a slight limp. George grins at Lando when he reaches the settlement, but there's something weary in his eyes that tells him nothing has been fixed.
Lando does not care about what is going on between George and Charles.
He rushes to meet the Monègasque halfway, uncaring for the rain that soaks through his meager clothing. Charles smiles tiredly at Lando, walking closer and closer when-
THWACK.
Charles is on the ground, covered in mud with a very angry, pissed off Lando Norris.
“If you ever leave me again, Leclerc, I will beat you with your own femur and ship your bones to Arthur's house-!” Lando screams, dropping to his knees and shaking the brunette by his shirt, hands fisted in the white shirt. Charles laughs, and it sounds a bit strained but it's alive, and it's real and he's-
Lando kisses him.
They're wet and their shirts stick to each other's skin, but Lando is hot against Charlss skin. The other's lips slot perfectly against Lando's, unlike Oscar's whose lips overlap his. He tastes like something fruity and diet coke and mint for some reason. Before he knows it, he's gathered the other into his arms and sat him firmly in his lap, hands sneaking up the other's shirt in hopes of warming him up.
Their tongues touch tentatively and it's good, it feels good. It feels like Charles is alive and breathing and he can feel the air he exhales pressing against his face. Lando can count his ribs now, feel them under his fingertips and Charles’ skin breaks into goosebumps when Lando trails them over his freezing skin.
He's alive. He isn't leaving.
He is cared for.
He breaks away, and they're panting into each other's mouths, foreheads pressed together. “I care. I've always cared, Charlie. I searched for you everywhere, I camped outside hotel rooms cause there were rumours you were staying in them. I spent the entire year after graduation looking for you in Harvard to make sure you got in. I don't think there's a universe out there where I wouldn't care about you, wouldn't miss you.”
Charles is exhaling shakily, his shoulders trembling as he clings to Lando's shoulders with a desperation that has Lando's hands fisting wet brunette hair still interlaced with flowers. He laughs incredulously, picking a leaf out of the other's hair before pressing his lips to Charles’ again in a brief peck.
“Promise me. Promise you won't leave again. Never again. I had to live 10 years without you, Leclerc, I won't survive another second. Please.”
Charles shifts in his lap, and gently takes Lando's hand in his. Lando watches as he slides his little finger into his and interlocks them.
“I promise.”
(Lando tries not to think of the fact that even while kissing Charles, all he could think about was Oscar.)