Work Text:
Tap tap tap.
“Lando? Are you in here?”
It’d been days since he’d seen the other driver, and his absence was starting to worry Oscar.
Not that he’d admit it, of course.
All he got in response was a muffled groan, as if a disgruntled caterpillar had been rudely awoken from his beauty sleep. Oscar sighed, relieved at the fact that his friend had been located. He swung open the door and--
Oh, no.
“Mate, are you alright?”
Lando, who’d wrapped himself up in a gigantic fluffy blanket, did not show any indication of being alright. His face, usually adorable and so cute (nope. nope, nope, nope) had turned into a mess of snot, tears, and other things Oscar could not bring himself to name -- instead, he opted to rush over to his incapacitated friend.
“Hi, Osc,” the McLaren driver sniffled out. “I missed you.” And if that wasn’t the cutest thing on Earth.
He feels the tips of his ears heat up.
The younger smiles fondly at the sight before him. He rests his palm against the other’s forehead, trying to gauge the severity of Lando’s fever and simultaneously trying to resist the urge to kiss him silly as he leans into the touch . Oscar thought he looked like a little cocoon, with only his head and toes sticking out of the fluffy material.
“What happened?” asked Oscar, who had begun absentmindedly petting Lando’s mess of curls in an attempt to make him feel better.
“I dunno, man. One minute I’m perfectly fine, and the next, boom , I feel l’ a bag of bricks,” Lando says, his accent slightly slurred due to the exhaustion and sickness. He shifts slightly, leaning into the warmth of the Aussie. Oscar thought it was adorable. Stop it.
“I’m sorry to hear that, mate. Can I do anything to help?” the younger asks, sympathizing with the sick driver. He’d never had the strongest immune system, so he could understand getting sick without any warning.
Lando sniffles. “Nah. Jus’ wish I had some soup.” He glances at Oscar.
Oscar peers at the sleepy figure beside him, distracted by the eye contact and the beautiful face it accompanies. “I can make you some, if you want.”
And, what?
Oscar has never made soup before, except for that atrocity back in the secondary grades that contained radishes and prawns and unfortunately was NOT good at all . What is he thinking?
Except, except, except -- Lando is looking at him with such a hopeful look in his eyes and is uttering the words would you really? and Oscar is a weak, weak man. Anything for such a beautiful boy.
He should really stop staring .
“Of course I would,” he says, relishing in the way Lando’s smile grows impossibly larger and perhaps just a little bit fonder -- before realizing his fate, and realizing that nothing good will come out of this. “Just so you know, it’s probably not going to be very good. I’m not a master chef or anything.”
Lando pays no attention. It’s like something changed in the atmosphere after Oscar’s offer, as if he realized something crucial.
And, fuck , apparently the world is out to get him, because the older seems unphased by the disaster unfolding before him. In fact, Lando must strive to make his life as difficult as possible, because the sluggish man before him crawls onto his lap , where he gets as comfortable as possible.
What the fuck. What the fuck?
The older has managed to wrap his arms around Oscar’s waist and has tucked his head deep into the spot where the younger’s shoulder and neck meet, wiggling around to maximize comfiness. He’s mumbling something, and Oscar can barely make out the word koala. What?
It’s definitely the sickness.
Oscar, whose cheeks must be gradually achieving the color of Charles’ car, is unable to further resist the warm mass presented to him and wraps his arms around the sleepy man. An unimaginable warmth permeates throughout his entire torso, spreading down to his legs and to the rest of his body -- perhaps even into the sofa he’s gradually sinking in. He feels content, safe, privileged to see the other driver in such a state.
What is happening?
“Hey, hey -- Lan, what’s up?” the younger murmurs, if only to cut through the tender atmosphere that has enveloped the two drivers, as if they are the only people alive. The only response he gets is a mumbled I’m cold and a further rearrangement of limbs. “How am I supposed to make you soup?” he continues, fighting the urge to kiss the crown of Lando’s curls. How am I supposed to survive if you keep this up?
Lando, seemingly unaware of his internal struggle, lifts up his head to stare at Oscar through tired eyes.
“Make soup later,” he says, unwilling to move from the pleasant spot he’s acquired. Lando studies him for a while, and Oscar can swear he sees something flicker in his eyes. He must be imagining things. Maybe Lando is contagious.
He smiles at the older, wishing and praying he could understand the love pouring out from him, onto the ground, into the cracks that span deep within to the core. He wishes and prays as Lando squeezes his waist just a little bit harder , as if afraid that the younger will dissipate if he lets go. He wishes and prays as he turns his head to look at the other driver, face reheating when he realizes how close they are, without a care in the world -- safe, happy.
How poetic.
And his heart stops beating for a second, because Lando closes the gap and presses a kiss to his jaw.
Startled, Oscar jolts from where he sits, slightly disturbing the older driver out of his very comfortable seat, thank you very much. He swears his eyes must be as wide as saucers, especially when he looks at Lando’s, which are on their way to becoming completely black -- the pupil taking over. He blinks lazily.
What the fuck. WHAT.
It’s got to be the sickness. It must be. Did I imagine that?
“Lando?”
“Hi,” he says, nonchalantly? after what just happened? and returns his head to its previous resting spot. Oscar is sure his heart is going more kilometers per hour than the racecar he drives on the daily.
“Why did you do that?” Oscar asks, fear gripping his heart. He suddenly feels like the sick one. What if it doesn’t mean anything?
“Because I wanted to,” he says in the same tone as before, sleepiness swirling in his voice.
Oscar peers at him.
Lando stares at him back.
He can’t take it anymore. The ice in his stomach is crackling.
“I thought I made it obvious?” Lando says, looking into the Aussie’s eyes, searching for confusion -- and sitting up when he finds tears welling. “Hey, hey, hey, what’s wrong? Osc?”
Oscar is in shock. He doesn’t want to believe it. How can he, when he’s spent so much time longing for the one thing he cannot have, could never have -- and now you’re telling him that he could have had it all along?
He looks at the older, hope blooming in the driver’s chest. It must show on his face -- a little smile has appeared on Lando’s lips.
“You didn’t know? I thought anyone could see it from a mile away.”
Fuck me. Maybe I should get my eyes checked.
Oscar slowly breaks into a huge, huge grin, the kind that shows all his teeth and his emotions. It’s not often anyone gets to see this smile, but he thinks it’s a necessary moment.
He can’t believe his luck -- all along, he’d wanted him too . He can barely contain his joy as he wraps his arms around the man nestled up in front of him, all cozy and beginning to fully grin as Lando realizes nothing is wrong. “These are happy tears, I swear.”
They squeeze each other for what feels like forever, basking in each other’s warmth. Eventually, Oscar pulls back to gently grab Lando’s face. He isn’t sure if he’s ever seen such a beautiful boy, even if he is sick as can be -- but he’s his , and he sure as hell not letting him go now.
And then Oscar feels as if he could melt when Lando returns the gesture and starts sweeping his thumbs over the plains of the younger’s face, cheeks, neck. He wipes away the few tears that have rolled down his face. Oscar preens at the attention, certain the love within him is radiating out and spilling onto Lando’s features, as if a dam has broken.
“Can I kiss you?” Lando inquires, and if Oscar’s heart doesn’t stutter at the words. It must show on his face as he nods frantically, because Lando leans in as if he’s crossing the finish line.
I’ve made it in life. P1? Pfft. Who even needs that.
It’s glorious. Even if Lando is sick, even if Oscar can hardly breathe through his happiness. The younger feels like he’s slowly turning into a driver-shaped mound of goop, with the way Lando’s body is radiating warmth and he never wants it to stop and his lips are just so soft -- what lip balm does he use?
When they pull back, Oscar thinks he's never looked prettier -- face dappled red, eyes almost completely black. Holy fuck. He looks like an angel, or like one of those adorable cats that pop up on his feed occasionally.
What have I done to deserve this?
“Mate, I’m for sure going to be sick now,” Oscar gripes, if only to get a reaction out of his boy.
“That sounds like a you problem,” is his only response, accompanied by a blinding grin.
Oscar decides he cannot stand the minuscule distance between them, one hand going to re-adjust around Lando’s waist and the other snaking around his neck to angle his head. He presses kisses to every spot on Lando’s face within reach -- his forehead, his nose, the corners of his mouth, his cheeks -- and thriving with the knowledge that it makes Lando squirm, attempting to hide his reddening face.
Beautiful. The younger’s heart hurts with the overflowing love he has for Lando.
“Besides, even if you do get sick, that means you have to stay with me.”
As if I wouldn’t do that already.
They beam at each other. Heart-eyes Piastri.
Heart-eyes…Norris?
--
“Do you still want that soup?”
He doesn't go far.