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For one moment Lando was flying, his wheels spinning uselessly over the sodden track, the next, he was spinning. His car whipped around, spraying water everywhere as his wheel snapped over his front wing. He frantically tried to right himself, but nothing seemed to work as he kept spinning over and over. After what felt like forever, he finally stopped, his car sliding backwards. He took a deep breath, and tried to ignore his now rising panic. He could’ve died. He had been going 185mph in the rain, and he had lost control and spun God knows how many times. What if there was someone coming behind him? What if he could’ve killed someone else with his own driving?
Lando tried to hold his breath, knowing that if anyone saw him hyperventilating it’d be in the news for a week and what with the shit the FIA had been pulling, he could be pulled out for not being “mentally fit” or whatever. He had been stopped for a moment now, and as he settled back into himself he realized just how fucked he was. What if he couldn’t race? What if something was terribly wrong? He tried to move his hands, just to see, just for a glimmer of hope that he was okay. A sharp burst of pain shot out from his left wrist, and he swore quietly, praying that there was no real damage. He still couldn’t breathe.
He heard another driver coming up behind him, but he couldn’t muster the strength to look. What he needed to focus on now was not passing out, and not making it seem worse than it was. He’d already fucked up a car, he didn’t need to fuck up McLaren’s image. Well, more than he already had. God. As soon as he got into a room alone, away from the press and anyone else, he was going to be sick. He could just feel it. Lando didn’t have a choice now though, there were eyes across the world on him, and they had just watched him fling himself into a wall. He needed to be okay, and if he wasn’t, he needed to pretend to be okay. Shit. Someone was asking if he was okay on his radio.
No, no he wasn’t, he couldn’t fucking breathe and he could have killed someone out there, and he was cold and wet and his arm fucking killed, and he could have killed another driver and-
“Yeah, fuck, I’m sorry guys.” He wheezed, trying desperately to sound calm. “Sorry boys, we should have…we should have had a good one there. I let you down. My bad.”
Nothing he said could possibly convey how awful he felt. Of all the times to crash, this was the worst. He would’ve probably gotten top three in qualifying, maybe even pole, but no. He had to fuck it up by crashing. Sure, the weather sucked, but everyone else was doing fine. Why did he fuck it up? God. He could’ve fucking died. He could’ve killed someone else. It was sheer dumb luck that no one else was right behind him, he knew that, and he knew everyone else knew that. The damages on his car were going to be a fucking nightmare to fix. God, he had fucked up. Logically, there was nothing he could have done. But Lando couldn’t think logically right now, not as he was being helped out of his car, his steering wheel was being taken from him, and the cameras all following him into the medical car.
God, his arm fucking hurt.
On the way to medical, Lando continued to try to keep breathing slowly, but no matter what he did he knew that he looked panicked. At least the cameras were pointed away from him. Thank God for that, he couldn’t do any more surprises. He’d probably be sick if he got any more surprises. Quite honestly, the moment people stopped crowding him and asking if he was okay he knew he was going to be sick. He was fine. His car wasn’t. He was so fucked. He was a burden on his team and had cost them the top three spots he should’ve made had he not crashed.
As he looked around medical, he noticed no members of his team there. Fuck. Were they discussing kicking him off? Had he fucked up that bad? God, he really was a burden on his team. He moved his arm to rest his head on it, but once again, burning pain shot down his left arm. He swore loudly, briefly forgetting his attempt to stay quiet.
Shit.
At his exclamation, medical staff rushed in, asking if he was okay. Lando nodded, gritting his teeth trying to mask the sheer agony he was in. They were saying something to him, but he couldn’t tell what, all he could think of was how terrible he felt and that he couldn’t breathe. What if he was seriously injured and couldn’t race anymore? What would McLaren do if he had seriously fucked up. There were so many people counting on him, financially, and fuck it, emotionally, and he knew he couldn’t afford to have ended his career in such a stupid manuver.
Fuck. They were sending him to the hospital, just as a precaution, but still. He couldn’t breathe. He was so fucked. What the fuck was he going to do if he couldn’t race tomorrow? Shit. He was so fucking fucked.
__
With a sharp inhale, Lando opened his eyes.
Fuck.
Someone was knocking on the door. His entire body ached, and his head pounded. He was lying in his hotel bed, blankets twisted around him. For a moment, Lando wondered if he could even get to the door. He sat up carefully, fighting the urge to stay in bed. His ribs fucking hurt.
Wait.
His ribs hurt. Not his left arm. His ribs. Lando shakily took a deep breath, desperately trying to calm himself down. He was in Vegas. It was 2023. Not Spa. Not 2021. What the fuck kind of pain medication had he been given? The knocking continued, and Lando struggled to his feet, praying he wouldn’t fall on the way there. If he did, he knew he would not be able to get back again. Thankfully, he managed to get to the door safely, though the pain shooting through his body burned every step of the way. Leaning against the wall, he unlocked the door, and opened it.
“Are you okay?”
“What are you doing here.” It wasn’t a question. Why the fuck was Oscar here? “Good job mate. Tenth and fastest lap is pretty good.”
“Thanks. It should’ve been better.” Oscar sighed, looking concerned. “Are you okay though?”
“I’m sorry.” He paused for a minute. “It’s fine.”
“Can I come in?”
“If you want to. Sorry about the mess.” Lando moved aside, still leaning against the wall. God, his ribs fucking hurt. He closed his eyes and inhaled, trying to ignore the agonizing pain spreading through his body. Every shallow breath he took hurt, and after a moment, Lando realized just how fast he was breathing. Shit. He was getting dizzy. Lando forced his eyes open, but as soon as he did, his vision blurred with tears. Choking back a sob, he leaned his head back against the wall hoping to find some stability. Suddenly, there was an arm around his waist. Fuck. He had forgotten Oscar was there. He shakily pushed the arm away, and stepped away, trying to hide the ever growing shame he felt.
Then he slipped.
“Lando?!”
He was on the floor.
No, that wasn’t quite right. It was too soft to be on the floor. He blinked, and stared into the very concerned eyes of Oscar, who was practically cradling him on his lap. Oh fucking Christ . Now he was worrying Oscar. God, he was fucking useless.
Oh fuck.
“I’m so sorry,” Lando rushed, trying to rush to his feet, desperately trying to ignore the stabbing pain through his body. Saving Oscar the difficulty of dealing with him was far more important than anything else. But he didn’t get very far.
“It’s okay. Are you alright?” Despite his steady voice, the look in Oscar’s eyes betrayed his fear. Lando tried to push himself off his lap again, but Oscar carefully put a hand on his shoulder.
“It’s fine, let me up.” Lando wheezed, still trying to get up.
“Let me help. Please.”
For a moment Lando considered refusing his offer, but he knew that Oscar knew he couldn’t get up alone, and no matter how hard he tried, Oscar was ultimately going to end up helping him. He took a deep breath, desperately trying not to cry at the sheer agony he felt in his chest. After a moment, he nodded, and Oscar very carefully helped him to his feet. As Oscar led him to the bed, Lando tried not to think about the careful grasp he held him in. Oscar’s arm was wrapped around his waist, notably not around his bruised and battered ribs, and he walked slowly, as if Lando was something fragile, something to be cared for. But he wasn’t. He was just another formula one driver (soon to be ex-formula one driver, if he kept up this shitty work), trying and failing to stay relevant despite clearly being inadequate. God. If only Oscar knew just how pitiful he was, maybe he’d have just left him on the floor. Maybe things would be better that way. Oscar would go out and have a grand career, and he’d be out of a career from fucking up on the third lap of the Las Vegas race.
Maybe things would be better that way, but that was not how things were. How things were could easily be summed up in two simple facts: 1) Lando was a complete idiot and a shit driver, and 2) Oscar (for some unknown reason) had made it his mission to help Lando. Upon reaching the bed, Lando all but collapsed, twinging his ribs again. He groaned in pain, but as soon as he tried to sit up, he was greeted with a handful of pain medication.
“Huh?”
“It’s Ibuprofen. Take it.” Oscar urged, still holding out the handful of pills. There was definitely more than the recommended dosage.
“How many is that?” Lando paused. “Will that kill me?”
“Uhh... It’s probably not strictly advisable for the average person, but neither is driving 300 kilometers around an upside-down pig.”
It wasn’t like his night couldn’t get any worse, and Lando was growing tired of being in pain, so he took the pills in hand, grabbed the water bottle on the nightstand, and eagerly gulped down the medication. With any luck, it would kick in sooner rather than later, and he’d stop being such a burden on Oscar.
“Are you okay?” Oscar asked, taking the water bottle from Lando, and setting it down. He looked worried and in the dim room lighting, the shadows on his face made him look exhausted. Come to think of it, Oscar was probably exhausted. It was definitely past four in the morning, and instead of sleeping, he was baby-sitting his sorry ass. “Lando?”
Fuck. He’d forgotten Oscar had asked him if he was okay. What was he supposed to say in response? Yes, I’m fine, ignore the agonizing pain, or would he have to admit to the truth. Oscar wasn’t stupid. Lando knew this. He would not believe it if he lied, and while he probably wouldn’t push, Lando would feel bad for lying to Oscar when he had spent so much time helping him. But, that meant telling the truth, and potentially worrying Oscar, which could make him feel like he needed to stay up even longer. Lando couldn’t have that. He had ruined enough of Oscar’s night, especially since he had gotten P10, in possibly the worst track Lando had ever seen. He’d scored points for McLaren, and now instead of sleeping he was wasting his time.
“I’m fine. You can go.” Lando didn’t really want him to go, but he couldn’t keep him any longer. It would be unfair to Oscar to make him stay up.
“Are you sure? Because I’m really worried, and I don’t want to leave you if you need me.”
“Oscar, it’s fine. I’m okay.” Lando snapped, “Leave me be.”
“Lando. I can tell you’re not doing well, just let me help!”
“No!” Lando shouted, clearly surprising Oscar, but also himself. He collapsed back against the pillows, the shouting having taken all of his last bit of energy out of him.
Oscar looked stunned. It was probably the most emotion Lando had ever seen him portray. Immediately he felt guilty. Oscar was missing out on sleep because of him and he had just yelled at him for no reason. God, he was terrible. He deserved to be alone.
“I’m sorry,” Lando said quietly, digging the palms of his hands into his eyes. “I’m sorry Oscar. Just…please go. Let me be, I’ll be fine.”
Oscar was silent and for a moment Lando blissfully thought that he had actually left. Then he felt the bed dip next to him and a hesitant hand rested on his leg.
“It’s alright if you’re not fine,” Oscar said softly. “And you don’t have to push me out because you think that it is what’s best for me.”
“It is what’s best for you,” Lando muttered.
“No,” Oscar said, more firmly this time. “I wouldn’t be able to sleep knowing that I left you here by yourself when you clearly needed someone.”
Lando sighed. He didn’t need someone, he could get through this on his own and everything would be fine in the morning. But if it would help Oscar sleep better then Lando really didn’t want to fuck up his night worse than he already had.
“Fine,” Lando said, lifting his gaze to look at Oscar. “You can stay. But because it will help you, not because I need it.”
“Thank you.”
They were both silent for a minute, before Lando spoke again.
“I’m sorry I shouted. You were trying to help.”
“It’s alright.”
“If it’ll help you…do you maybe wanna stay the night? So you don’t need to worry?”
“If you want me here, I would like that.”
While he was still stressed, Lando was glad Oscar would be there. It would be nice having someone to help him stay calm, especially someone like Oscar, who was the epitome of calm, and who was (most importantly) kind. For the first time that night, Lando took a deep breath and allowed himself to relax, despite his aching ribs. It was going to be okay. He wasn't spinning uncontrollably in Spa, or staring down sparks on the Vegas track, he was safe in his hotel bed, and no matter how much it hurt to stand up, or how scared he was of getting back on the track, Oscar was going to help him. He felt Oscar getting up from the bed, flicking off the lights, double checking the door, and finally, sitting in bed with him.
“Do you want me to stay in bed with you? I can take the couch if you want, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable or anything.”
God . Oscar was so fucking considerate. First, he had stayed up way later than he should’ve out of worry, then he had actually gone in to check on him and when he got yelled at for helping he continued to help, and now, after all of that, he was offering to sleep on the couch. What had he done to deserve this level of kindness?
“Lando?” Oscar asked, just barely above a whisper. The weight on the bed shifted as Oscar stood up. “Do you want me to sleep here or the couch?”
Fuck. He hadn’t answered Oscar.
“Yeah, mate, after all you’ve done for me, I’m not making you sleep on the couch.” Lando sleepily mumbled. “Just stay here.”
“I don’t want to hurt you though.”
“You won’t.” A beat of silence. “Please stay.”
Lando heard Oscar sigh and tentatively sit down, clearly trying not to nudge Lando’s still aching body. “Alright. Well. Goodnight. Please let me know if you need anything.”
“Yeah, okay. Thank you, Oscar.”
After a moment, Lando heard Oscar yawn and turn over onto his side, facing away from Lando. He was as far as he could’ve possibly been from Lando, clearly, once again, keeping in mind Lando’s injuries from earlier. But Lando didn’t want the distance between them. He had already cried and collapsed onto Oscar, was it really that strange if he just wanted a hug?
After a moment of deliberation, he leaned in closer to Oscar, just barely touching him, praying neither of them would remember his clinginess in the morning, took a deep breath, and finally closed his eyes.
Next to him he felt Oscar tense quickly before relaxing at Lando’s light touch. He rolled over slowly, clearly not wanting to accidentally smack Lando and risk injuring him worse, how considerate of him.
Tentatively, Oscar wrapped one arm around Lando’s waist, giving him the gentlest squeeze possible.
“Is that what you wanted?” Oscar whispered.
Lando didn’t have any energy to respond, he just nodded weakly into Oscar’s chest, praying he got the message.
Oscar shifted again, this time tucking Lando’s head against his chest and running his fingers lightly through his hair before giving him another gentle squeeze.
“I’ll be right here if you need me, mate,” Oscar said. “Try to sleep, okay?”
Lando nodded as his eyes grew heavy. Oscar was warm and safe. He inhaled as deeply as he could and relaxed into Oscar’s embrace.
“Thank you,” he muttered as he drifted off to sleep.
He didn’t hear Oscar’s response, but he knew he would wake up and Oscar would still be there in the morning, holding him close, and that was all that mattered.