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Oscar leans over toward the lamp on the bedside table, ready to settle down and get some rest after today's race. Before he can reach the switch, a small - rather hesitant - knock rings through his hotel room. What's strange is that the sound doesn't come from the main entrance, but from the shared door in the centre of the wall opposite his bed.
A tired sigh on his lips, Oscar peels back the warm covers - taking care to fold them back over to retain as much heat as possible - and shuffles barefoot towards the wall between himself and his teammate.
It's not that late. It's not horrendous. But Lando is usually spark out after a tough race which makes this all the more peculiar.
Slowly swinging the door open, Oscar feels his heart twist in his chest.
Lando looks tiny. Physically teeny weeny.
He's drenched head-to-toe by soft pyjama clothes that are just this side of too big for him. His eyes are rimmed red and there's a blush stretching from one cheek to the other - pinkening his nose on the way. He's clutching his pillow as he looks up at Oscar - a mixture of desperation and defeat pressed firm into his gaze.
“Lando... What's going on, mate?” He's trying to use his gentle voice, but it's hard when he's bone tired and confused.
“I can't sleep...” It's mumbled, scratchy, and followed by a soft little sniffle. “I can't get comfy and,” another sniffle, bigger this time, “my throat really hurts and my head hurts and my eyes hurt and I feel like I'm gonna cry...” Oscar can hear it now - the stuffy thickness in Lando's voice, the nasal tilt to his words - even past the cracks towards the end of his sentence.
That's not blush on his nose; he's rubbed it raw with tissues.
The Aussie lifts a hand to the elder's forehead, letting out a shocked gasp at the molten heat radiating from Lando's, usually-freezing, skin.
“I think you've got a cold coming on, mate.” Lando's face crumbles in on itself, the Brit whining like a child that's just been told he can't have a puppy for Christmas. “Frickin’ hate colds.” He's frowning too, eyebrows pushed tightly together as though his favourite swing at the playground is currently occupied by someone else.
Oscar does not find him endearing.
With his brain barely online as is, Oscar simply hums in agreement and gently nods his head; the two are still standing in the strange doorway, neither crossing the threshold.
Although only a moment ago Oscar had been close to falling asleep upright where he stands, the young driver finds himself fully alert as Lando grips tighter to his pillow - shoulders beginning to shake. “Hey, hey. Lan, it's alright.” He reaches out a pale hand, smoothing small circles into Lando's arm. “Try to take some deep breaths for me, okay? Crying is only gonna block you up more, honey.” The pet name was... unintentional, to say the least. But Lando seems to calm slightly as he hears it, breath coming in deeper and steadier as the Aussie tugs him gently forward and into his room.
Lando is still trying to stop himself from shattering into a billion tiny pieces of cold-ridden-depression as he feels the warmth of Oscar's chest against his cheek, the younger's arms winding around his shoulders to draw shapes into his back.
“D'you wanna try sleep here tonight, sweetheart?”
Lando sniffles, head sort-of-nodding where it shuffles against Oscar's chest - hair tickling the Aussie's neck.
Oscar releases Lando slightly, the elder whining at him as he slowly manoeuvres the Brit to the warm part of the bed. “Don't lay down yet. Just wait here a second for me, love.” As he turns towards the bathroom, Oscar curses himself quietly for the plethora of pet names he should be keeping to himself. But he's tired, and he always gets affectionate when he's looking after someone, okay?
When he pads his way back over the carpeted flooring toward the bed, Oscar hands his teammate a glass of water and two cold-and-flu tablets. Lando takes them gratefully before turning back to Oscar, cheeks darkening while the younger runs a vaseline coated finger over his chapped lips and the raw red of Lando's nose. His skin already feels so much better, but he's really not sure if it's from the vaseline or Oscar's hand.
“Thank you, Osc…”
At this point, it's mumbled blearily into the crook of the Aussie's neck; both drivers having shuffled down the bed and pressed in close.
“Sweet dreams, Lan.”
It's all he gets out before each of their breaths blend into one - soft and shallow, one slightly wheezing against the other.
–
Waking up the next morning with Lando bundled in his arms, Oscar feels a scratchy burn sitting heavily in his throat.
He mentally shrugs; worth it.
He'll wait a couple days before telling Lando he passed the cold on, he doesn't want the elder to feel bad. He might not come to Oscar in future if he did.
At least they have two weeks to recover before the next race.