Chapter Text
The world was spinning. It always was. From time to time, it felt like he was going to pass out. His vision blurring, and everything was so bright, before it all turned black, and he could barely see where he stepped. Spots danced in his eyes, all colourful and fun. And the emptiness inside of him, the feeling that he had gotten used to so early in his teenage years, it played with him. He felt nauseous, and dizzy, and completely insane, because this wasn’t normal. He thinks this wasn’t normal, anyway.
After last season, after Silverstone, he thought he was getting better. He thought that he would try; and he did, he tried so hard. He tried to get rid of the feeling; You’re not good enough—it’s your fault—you’re disgusting—you’re stupid—you don’t matter—they don’t need you; and for a while, it did work. For a while, after Silverstone, after Hungary, during the summer break, throughout the rest of the season, he could look in the mirrors he had hung up in his flat, (that he had also covered up, because he was tired of getting scared every time he passed one), and not feel like he was dying, like he would fall apart.
But, then, something inside flicked in him during the winter break, as he travelled the world. Australia, Finland, Ibiza; God knows where he’s been. And suddenly, this weight crushed down on him. The same weight that he felt when he was 15 and 16, then took a break before it knocked him off his feet again at 19. And, really, he was getting better. He searched up ways to feel better, to strengthen your relationship with food, how to not feel guilty as he ate, (incognito tabs, of course). The start of the season, 2023, was kind of one step forward, two steps back, but then, after Oscar and he got along, started hanging out in each other’s driver’s rooms before and after debriefs and practises and qualifying, he was getting better, and he was eating.
And then winter break. And the few weeks he sat alone in his flat, staring at the food in front of him, disgust in his face and a pit in his stomach, that seemed to crawl in on itself. Still, he craved this feeling. This feeling of emptiness, the one where his stomach caved in on itself, screaming at him to just eat. And he did nothing.
Obviously, he didn’t starve himself. But he wasn’t far off. He’s passed out before. A handful of times, maybe. Most of them alone, luckily. Randomly waking up on the floor of his flat, a killer headache and this weakness and heaviness that weighed him down, forcing him to lay there, in the middle of the floor.
He deserved it. It was fine.
Jon asked him, on the flight over, to Jeddah, from Bahrain, how he was feeling, that he seemed a bit out of it. Lando looked at him and said, “Mate, I need sleep.” And Jon rolled his eyes and asked him if he had scrolled through Instagram and Tiktok the whole night, which Lando then nodded his head, guilty, and smiled cheekily. It was a lie, though. He had slept, like a baby, in fact. But his body was screaming at him. He was hungry. That morning, he had half an apple, before he decided it was enough and decided to throw it away. Then, when he landed in Jeddah, with the team, he went straight to his hotel room, left his messy suitcase by the door, flopped down on the bed and hugged his stomach to try and ease the pain.
Nobody asked him what was wrong, because he said he didn’t sleep well. They all believed him, because they didn’t know he could lie. Still, he lied to them and himself every day, all day.
After his P6 in the race, last week, in Bahrain, he couldn't help but feel hopeful. It was the first time they’ve gotten points in a first race in two years. Oscar was only two cars behind, too. And, also, after three decent free practice sessions, he felt confident for qualifying. Of course, not too hopeful, he knew what expectations did to himself and people around him. But he was aiming for Q3, preferably top 5. He ended up qualifying for sixth. Oscar took fifth. But, if there was someone who Lando was okay with having been better than him (even if it hurt and tore him apart inside), it was Oscar. Guy is a great driver and solid person, Lando said. Funny, once you got to know him, and comfortable. Lando liked him.
So, honestly, Lando wasn’t all that disappointed when he got out of the car, post-quali. The brakes and tyres were still hot, and he had lots of data to go through. His head was spinning, and he feared that he might have to run off to the bathroom if the nausea that was haunting him didn’t disappear soon. Not that he had anything to throw up, there was this dull ache in his stomach, it was all empty. Even later, when Jon would force him to eat something, even if it was room service or takeout, after, he knew he would excuse himself to the bathroom, saying, “‘scuse me, gotta take a leak,” turn on the faucet, and throw his brains out.
This, purging, he found when he was somewhere around 15, (at that awkward time when everyone else in his year had already turned 16, and they made fun of him for being the youngest and shortest, and, obviously, smallest, all ways considered). After a while, when he couldn’t fool his parents anymore, they forced him to eat, and wouldn’t let him leave the table until he did. (He appreciates it now, and wishes he took it more seriously, then). Only, when he couldn’t not eat, starve, whatever, he found other ways to get rid of the food he consumed. Even if it hurts. Even if it made bile rise in his throat every time he even looked at or thought of food.
And then he never stopped.
It got better, but it never really stopped. At times, when he felt like he ate too much, and he drowned in his own guilt, anxiety tugging at him until he eventually went to the bathroom to push two fingers down his throat. Nobody asked when he returned, and tears burned in his eyes, so close to falling over the edge, and his cheeks were slightly more red than they were when he left.
He looks through the data with his engineers, still in his sweaty papaya and black race suit, running a hand through his hair to try and get it away from his forehead, and putting his cap on. Backwards, of course. Made him look more careless. Like he didn’t just try his absolute hardest to put the car in the top 5 and still wasn’t enough. Because, his not rookie, but still less experienced teammate, put in a faster lap than he did. And it didn’t only hurt because he’s never been unqualified by a teammate in a whole season, but because this time he tried his absolute hardest, and he still wasn’t enough. Never enough, he reminds himself. Will never be enough. Fucking stupid. Idiot, ugly, stupid-
“Lando?”
He snaps out of his thoughts, eyes wide as he looks into his performance engineer's eyes. They’re full of concern. Concern he doesn’t deserve. Or, maybe it was just curiosity. His hair fluffy and his eyes familiar. “Yeah?”
“The meeting will start soon, just so we can go over everything for tomorrow and check all the data for today,” Will says, a hand on Lando’s shoulder as he speaks. There’s an emotion in his voice which Lando can’t place. Somewhere around apprehension and agitation and protectiveness. He’s a lot more observative than people think. He also decides to ignore it.
“Yep. Quick shower and I’ll be right there,” Lando says, looking around the room, if only to avoid Will’s gaze. The engineers, the crew, his friends, are working on the car, covering it over to wait in the garage until they need it once again for tomorrow.
“Yeah, you smell. See you there.”
Lando walks away before Will can clap his shoulder.
The buzz of people dissipates the further away from the garage he gets. It always does. The energy drains out of him the further away he forces his body to move, and the dizziness once again settles into his brain. It fogs his head and makes it hard to see. The dancing spots in his vision. Colourful and not so fun. Only, this time it feels worse. He didn’t eat yesterday, except for the hotel breakfast he had with Jon, (which included half a sandwich and a glass of orange juice), and the day before that was the same, only he had dinner (room service) because Jon forced him to, which he threw up the moment he was alone, because he couldn’t bare the weight and guilt that seemed to come with a full stomach.
His vision shifts between black, blurry and white, like his eyes are trying to adjust to the light but can’t find the right level, and it feels like he’s stumbling with every step he takes. Maybe he is. Maybe people are staring at him, and he wouldn’t know, because he can barely see where he’s going.
But then the door to his driver’s room shuts close, and he crumbles to the floor, almost hitting his head on the massage table that stands along the wall. The ceiling lights are too bright, as he lays on his back, trying his best to keep his eyes open and the bile out of his throat. He needs to get up and get out of his race suit and into the shower, or he’s going to be late to debriefing. But, everything feels so heavy. Everything feels impossible, and for no reason at all, Lando wants nothing more than to curl into a ball and cry.
Which is exactly what he does. Well, almost. He doesn’t curl into a ball, his limbs are too heavy to move, so he lays sprawled out on the floor, staring at the ceiling lights, as tears forms in his eyes and rolls down his cheeks- hollow, because he’s still lying. A sob escapes his lips, and he wished he could get his hands on his earbuds, just so he could blast music in his ears in a worthless attempt to isolate himself from his own thoughts. Everything is so loud, and everything is so big, and he is so small. In this giant world, he’s just an ant. In a billion stars, nobody would notice if one goes out. And he cries, and he has to listen to his own broken sobs, as the light in the ceiling shifts from bright to dark. It’s all dark, and he can’t see anything. Can’t feel anything. It’s all numb, and it makes him want to scream. Yet, he can’t do anything. Because he can’t feel, and he doesn’t know if he’s breathing or not.
Maybe he isn’t.
Maybe it’s better that way.
✎_______________
Oscar knocks on Lando’s door. His hair is wet, from the shower, and it’s dripping down his neck. He wishes he cared a bit more about whether it was dry or not, before he left his room, but it was too late now. And, maybe it was quite nice, in the heat and humidity of Jeddah. But, still, he knocks on the door again. The door where it clearly says “Lando Norris,” and which is in fact unlocked, but Oscar doesn’t want to barge in.
They always go to the meetings together. It’s become a habit, since last year, when Oscar was late for one because he fell asleep after a particularly exhausting quali, and Lando went to check on him. And then Lando was late for one, because he “showered too long and forgot the time,” he said, and Oscar stood outside and waited for his teammate to open the door.
But, now, Lando wasn’t answering. Not in the normal, “It’s unlocked!” or “You can come in!” or “Be right there!” No. Nothing. Not even when Oscar makes sure there’s nobody around to see him, and he presses an ear to the door, his flushed cheek squished against the cold door, does he hear anything. For a moment, he wonders if Lando’s already left, that maybe he’s just not feeling like company at the moment, and decided not to wait for Oscar. But, even then, in his worst races and quali sessions last year, (Mexico included), did he wait for Oscar. Why would today be different? They both got to Q3 and had decent runs of it. Unless Lando’s just fallen asleep, earbuds in and way too loud. It’s happened before.
Oscar knocks again.
It remains quiet.
“Lando?” he calls out, standing as close to the door as he can, hopeful that maybe it will make Lando see him. Through the door. Stupid. “Lando? You in there, mate?” he calls again, then checks the clock on his wrist. Debriefing starts in about seven minutes, and Lando likes to be early. Even though he’s late more often than not.
Oscar presses down the door handle and slowly pushes the door open, still not poking his head through. “Lando?” he says, one last time. When he doesn’t get an answer, he pokes his head through the gap, and his eyes come across Lando. On the floor. Still in his race suit. His head is laid on the side, and his brows are furrowed and cheeks flushed and his eyes are puffy. And, maybe Oscar shouldn’t think of his teammate (teammate, especially!) as pretty, but in moments like this, he can’t help it. Lando quite literally looks like an angel that’s fallen straight from heaven. Except he has teartracks on his cheeks, and his breath is shaky, and Oscar hurries inside and closes the door behind him. “Lando?”
He kneels down next to the man on the floor, and he feels his own pulse quicken. He shakes Lando’s shoulder, telling him to wake up, and time stretches out to what feels like an eternity. Lando’s breathing (shakily, but he is breathing) and his pulse is mostly normal, and when Oscar grabs his shoulder to shake him again, Lando is much lighter than he thought. He files that thought away for later, and keeps shaking Lando, as gently turns to urgency.
Then, Lando's eyes flutter open, and he brings a hand to his head, rubbing his forehead as he groans, and Oscar can’t help but pull the other man into a hug, tight and mostly uncomfortable, because Oscar is sitting on his knees with Lando half in his lap, and Lando isn’t hugging him back, but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter because he can smell Lando’s dried sweat from qualifying and can feel his breath against his chest.
“Oscar?” Lando asks, and his voice is confused and weak and vulnerable in a way Oscar’s never heard it before. “Osc- what-”
“What the hell happened?” Oscar interrupts, and he pulls Lando away from him, holding the other man by his forearms as he stares into his eyes. They’re dull, clear eye bags and his whole face screams exhausted.
Lando looks down, his lips parted and cheeks flushed, as Oscar stares at him.
“Lando-”
“It’s nothing,” Lando says. “I’m fine, just fell asleep.”
Oscar raises one eyebrow. “On the floor?”
“Don’t pretend like you haven’t seen me sleep on the floor before.”
“I’m not, just-” Oscar thinks for a while. One doesn’t just fall asleep on the floor and not wake up when you knock or call their name or shake their shoulders violently. Something is wrong. “You’re lying,” he says, and cringes the second the words leave his mouth.
But, he’s on the right path, apparently, because something flashes across Lando’s face when he says it. “You’re accusing me of lying, Osc?” Lando asks, in a playful tone, but now Oscar can see right through him. There’s something more. Something that Lando’s not telling him. Something that Oscar’s going to find out.
“Yes,” Oscar says, and he stares straight into Lando’s eyes, watching as an unreadable emotion flashes across his face, bites his lips and looks down. Which is when Oscar knows he’s won. Kind of. Lando could easily just get up and walk away and never talk to Oscar again. But that’s not Lando. He wouldn’t do that. He hopes he wouldn't do that. “Talk to me,” Oscar says, his tone as gentle as it can get.
Lando swallows, his Adam’s Apple bouncing as he does, and he curls in on himself. It looks as though he’s trying to make himself look as small as possible, (as if that would be a challenge, Oscar thinks), like maybe everything disappeared if he did. Still, there’s something inside of him that stings, seeing Lando like this. Hurt, he is.
“Lando?” he asks, a firm grip on Lando’s shoulder. “Please tell me what’s going on.”
Lando shakes his head, and he puts his head between his knees, hiding his face away from the rest of the world. From Oscar. From help. “I can’t,” he says, and his voice is hoarse, like he’s on the verge of tears.
“Yes, you can,” Oscar says, and he wraps his arms around Lando, placing his chin on the other man’s head. “You can talk to me, I won’t tell anyone,” he says.
Lando pulls away from him, and he looks straight into Lando’s eyes. He was never able to make out their colour, no matter how much he stared. In the sun, they looked green, a mix between green and lime and mint, and in the shadow of the garage, they looked blue, a stone and sapphire, crystal clear blue, and then in the car, when he had his visor up and the camera man zoomed in on his eyes, the slope of his nose, and his long eyelashes, they looked cyan and teal and turquoise, seeming to be glowing, and maybe Oscar had spent too much time studying his teammate’s eyes.
“Please?” Oscar pleads, rubbing his thumb up and down Lando’s arm. They had hugged before, had felt each other’s bodies pressed against each other, but never this intimate; Lando was sitting with his legs crossed, his knees touching Oscar’s, Lando’s hands in the air where Oscar was grabbing his wrist, keeping him from pulling on his own hair. “Please, Lando.”
Lando shakes his head, gently, and tears run down either side of his hollow cheeks, catching in the thin hairs on his jaw. He still looks like an angel, Oscar thinks, with a halo glowing above him and the wings of cupid, the beauty of Aphrodite.
Oscar asks, “Did you pass out?” his voice soft and he looks into Lando’s eyes, and a sob escapes the other man’s lips, a grimace on his face as if he’s in pain. He keeps holding Lando’s wrists.
Lando nods.
“Do you wanna tell me why you passed out?” Oscar asks, rubbing the pad of his thumb against Lando’s palm, in what he hopes is soothing.
Lando bites his lips, which are already chapped and red; dark, dried blood in small creases, right where Lando’s canine teeth bite down into the flesh. Oscar stares intently.
“Have you eaten?” Oscar asks, and he knows he’s hit the spot when Lando’s eyes go wide and looks away as quick as possible, his shoulders almost reaching his ears as he caves in on himself. Oscar doesn’t need an answer. “Why don’t we go and grab something to eat before the meeting, then?” he suggests.
“I can’t,” Lando squeezes out, and his body is shaking, somehow, even in the heat of Jeddah, and the still very present sweat on Lando’s forehead.
“Why can’t you?” Oscar asks, squeezing Lando’s wrists once, and again when Lando doesn’t answer. “Have you eaten at all today?”
Lando shakes his head, again.
“What about yesterday?” Oscar asks, and he prays for an answer that includes more than a head shake.
Lando looks down in his lap, not meeting Oscar’s gaze, almost as if he’s scared what will happen if he does. “Breakfast,” he says, quietly.
Dread swells up in Oscar’s stomach.
“Day before that?”
A panicked look spreads across Lando’s face. “Breakfast… and, uh, dinner. But, uh…” Lando’s voice trails off, and he looks ashamed, like he's done something wrong: like he’s broken his mother’s favourite vase, and tried to cover up the fact that he did and blamed it on their dog- his mother wasn’t angry about the vase, but rather that her son hadn't been honest, and had received a look of disappointment, which he will remember forever.
“But, what?” Oscar asks, and it feels like he's talking to a child. That same kid who ruined his mother's favourite vase, and who hates himself for it. “What happened?”
“I didn’t- I-” Lando stutters, and his eyes start darting around the room, almost as if looking for an escape route. Oscar squeezes his wrist again. “I threw it up,” he says, holding his breath as if it was his last, and the dread in Oscar’s stomach is replaced by something of bewilderment and surprise and an alarming feeling of fear.
“You-” he paused, then tried again, “you threw it up?” Oscar asks, and he never realised how hard he was holding Lando's wrists until the other man started to squirm, and he immediately let go.
Lando only nods, and he can see the tears in Lando’s eyes.
This: all of it, this whole mess that he seems to have walked in on the moment that he opened the door and saw Lando on the ground, that he has a feeling that he won't be able to get out of- and doesn't want to get out of, if it meant Lando would be left behind, and if it meant Oscar could somehow help him, even if it was as simple as asking him if he's eaten, or sit with him as he does- he cares. He cares about Lando and his health. He doesn’t care because Lando’s his teammate, he cares because it's Lando. Lando, who he, somewhere along the way of his rookie season, has fallen head over heels for, and who's sitting in front of him, his frame shaking as he struggles not to cry.
Same Lando, who he wraps his arms around, and who melts into the embrace.
“You need a shower, and then we'll go to the meeting, and then, after, if you want, I can come to your hotel room,” Oscar says. He's pretty sure Lando knows what he means, so he doesn't clarify.
Lando nods. Oscar stands up and helps Lando, hands clamped together as he pulls the other man up from the floor. (He knows why Lando's so light now, and takes the thought that he had filed away for later to the bin).
Oscar helps Lando out of his race suit, and stands outside of the shower, giving Lando a towel when he needs it, and hands him his clothes. They don’t talk, he doesn’t want to pry, especially since Lando’s hands are trembling, and his eyelids seem heavy and his breathing is just the tiniest bit abnormal, but he’s spent enough time focusing on the way that Lando breathes to know what’s normal and not.
They walk side by side through the halls to the meeting, sitting down on opposite ends of the table. Lando ignores the questions, stares and jokes about them hooking up, so Oscar does too, but he keeps a close eye on Lando through the meeting. (Mostly because Lando looks like he’s about to fall asleep, which his engineer comments on, and Lando gives him a weak smile in return, but then he glances at Oscar, and he knows Lando’s not just sleepy, but starving).
He can barely focus through the whole meeting. Every time he looks at the images with thousands of thousands of data, an imagine of Lando, limp on the floor, passed out (and sometimes, when Oscar leans down to feel Lando’s breath against his cheek, there’s nothing), pops into his brain, and when he picks Lando up bridal style, his tears fall down and lands on Lando’s face, and maybe, he would open his eyes and smile, that cheeky toothy grin that only Lando has and is able to pull off, but then there’s nothing, and Lando disappears in his arms, (he was too late), and then he blinks and he’s back at the meeting. And, just for his own insecurities, he looks over at Lando, his hair still wet and messy and a bit frizzled, because he didn’t feel like fixing it after his shower, and his eyelids seems heavy, like it took all of his power just to keep them open, and for some reason, he looks exactly like he usually does during their meetings.
✎_______________
He knocks on Lando’s door. It’s late, he wouldn’t be surprised if Lando had fallen asleep already, considering what he had looked like during the meeting and when they parted ways in the parking lot. But, still, there’s this glimpse of hope inside his chest, that maybe Lando’s awake, and maybe he’ll be able to help, and maybe, Lando will let him in.
Before he left his own room, to head for Lando’s, (where he hoped Lando was waiting for him), he took up his phone, and googled for eating disorders. There was bulimia, binge eating, avoidant restrictive food intake, insufficient food intake (this is the one that Daniel has, if he remembers right), and then anorexia, which, as far as he knows, is the one that seems to fit in with Lando.
For a second, he wonders if Daniel knows about this. About Lando. About whether he might have talked to Lando about it, or noticed it, or something- anything. (And as much as he hated to admit it, maybe even Carlos. He still doesn’t know what he did to make the Spaniard hate him). Or if Lando had kept quiet for as long as this had been going on. Which is another thing he needs to find out: how long all of this has been going on, how long Lando’s been feeling like this, and how long he’s been starving himself. Why he’s been starving himself.
He’s just about to knock again, when the door opens, and behind it stands a Lando. He looks small, curled in on himself, tired, in chequered flannels and a too big hoodie, and he almost looks ashamed.
He doesn’t bother waiting for an invitation. Instead, he takes a long step forward, and he wraps Lando in a hug, a tight embrace where there’s no space for protests. By the looks of it, it’s exactly what Lando needs, as he melts into him and holds his t-shirt in tight fists. And if Lando cries a little, Oscar pretends he doesn’t notice.
“Have you eaten yet?” he asks, moving one of his hands up and down Lando’s back and the other massaging Lando’s scalp. “Since you got here?”
Lando shakes his head, tucked under Oscar’s chin. “No.”
Oscar just manages to hold in an annoyed sigh. “Why don’t we order something, then?”
Again, Lando shakes his head, and he balls Oscar’s t-shirt just a bit tighter. “I don’t think I can,” he whispers.
Oscar runs his fingers through Lando’s hair. “We can try. We’ll just order something and I’ll eat whatever you don’t because I’m starving,” he says, and even though he has to poke Lando in the side a few times, eventually Lando nods, and lets go of his t-shirt.
They sit on the couch in front of the television. Because they can, and because Oscar wants Lando to be as comfortable as possible, and he thinks sitting by the table in the kitchen part of Lando’s huge hotel room would make him more nervous than sitting pressed together on the couch with the TV running in the background. None of them were paying any attention to it. Two plates of roasted chicken and french fries in front of them, steaming, and all Lando was doing was eyeing the foods.
“Come on, just a little,” he says, looking at Lando who’s looking at the plates. “Don’t want you passing out again, now do we?” He tries to give Lando a smile, something that’s supposed to be comforting and convincing, but he’s pretty sure that Lando can see the fear in his eyes and hear the concern in his voice, so he adds, “Please?”
Lando nods, and he leans forward, taking a singular french fry from the plate (“Mate, they’re called chips,” Lando said earlier, when he called room service. “I know, but it says french fries on the menu,” he had fired back, smiling into the phone when Lando had rolled his eyes), and slowly put it in his mouth. He can’t help but think that Lando’s scared of it, with the way he’s chewing as if it was poisonous.
“How long has this been going on?” he asks around a mouthful of chicken. He too hasn't eaten since he got back, because he wanted to eat with Lando. He read somewhere that it can be easier to eat if everyone else is, too.
“Long,” Lando says, nibbling on another chip. He's sitting cross legged on the sofa with the plate in his lap.
“Lando,” he says, chewing and swallowing a piece of chicken. “How long?”
Lando looks at the TV, avoiding Oscar’s gaze. “Years. I think I was 15, when it started,” Lando says, and Oscar can feel the dread in his stomach.
“Does anyone else know?” he asked, hoping–praying–for another answer than a head shake.
Lando doesn’t answer, and he’s stopped eating, holding one of the chips between his fingers as if it would bite him. Oscar swallows. He scoots himself closer to Lando on the couch, his own plate of food on the coffee table, as he wraps a hand around Lando’s arm, around his wrist that feels smaller than it should, compared to his hands. He can feel his pulse, hurried and anxious, yet Lando remains zoned out next to him. He gently lays an arm around Lando’s shoulder, and when he feels him tense he only pulls him closer. Lando lays his head on Oscar’s shoulder, melting into the embrace once again.
“Your parents?” Oscar asks, hopeful.
Lando shakes his head. “No. I think Jon knows I have trouble eating, but I never told him anything about it.”
“And he never asked?” Oscar asks, equally curious and furious.
Lando only shook his head again, letting out a loud sigh. Oscar wishes he could see his face, but stroking his palm with his thumb will have to be enough. “He knows better,” Lando says, eventually, and Oscar wonders just how much Lando’s keeping to himself.
“Just try and eat a little?” Oscar says, burying his nose in Lando’s washed hair. It smells of peaches. “Please?”
Lando looks up at him, intrigued, like he’s searching for something in Oscar’s eyes. “Please?” Oscar repeats, and he cups Lando’s cheek and presses a soft kiss to his forehead. He doesn’t know what possessed him to do it, or where the sudden confidence came from, but in that moment, it just felt right. Like it always does with Lando. (Almost, anyway).
But Lando leans in, and he nuzzles his face to Oscar’s neck, and he's pretty sure he can feel a pair of chapped lips being pressed against his throat.
“Okay,” Lando whispers, and they sit up straighter, and Lando puts the plate back in his lap. And for good measure, Oscar takes a piece of chicken from Lando’s plate and puts it in his mouth. He moans around it, because no matter how sensitive this moment is, food in a starving stomach is one of the best feelings ever. And maybe he did it, because Lando laughs at him, genuinely, a laugh he hasn't heard in longer than he realised, and it makes his chest warm and fuzzy.
“So, whatcha’ wanna watch?” Lando asks, still leaning against his side as he slowly nibbles on a chip.