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Oscar is sick.
There’s no denying it. Believe him, he’s tried. At first, it was just a burning throat. He thought that, maybe, the ramen he had eaten the day before were too spicy. The fact that it hurt as he swallowed made sense, then, if his throat was irritated.
Then, his nose kept getting clogged. Maybe his body was reacting to his throat in a weird way.
Then, his body started hurting. His muscles got sore, his back started killing him. Must have been from his day in the sim at the MCT.
Then, his head started throbbing, his mouth turned dry, his body temperature started shifting between freezing cold and burning hot.
There was no denying that.
So, he’s sick.
The thing is, Oscar isn’t really sick. Sure, he gets the occasional cold when the temperature changes too quickly, but even that is pretty rare. When he does get sick though, it’s for real, and it’s generally the type to keep you bedridden for a full week. He had lost his voice on multiple occasions, too. His youngest sister had said he always got sick “the hardcore way”, whatever it meant.
So, after a bit, he understands that it’s his hardcore winter sickness. The flu, perhaps. As soon as he does, he downs the last of his cough syrup — which is probably expired, by now —, drinks two full cups of lemon tea with honey, and takes an aspirin.
It doesn’t do as much as he had expected, but his throat feels protected. Maybe the placebo effect will kick in and take care of the rest.
That’s what he’s thinking about as he parks his car in front of the MCT, putting on a mask with a quiet groan. His head is heavier than ever, but he can’t really do anything else about it.
Instead of complaining about it, he gets out, walks in, and goes for a full day of team meetings. He lets his ears and hands do the work, scribbling out every word that comes out of his engineers’ mouths, trusting his cured brain to work through the notes later on. For now, he can’t do more.
“Are you good, Oscar ?” One of the engineers ask, deep frown on his face, “you look terrible.”
Oscar knows. “Yeah, just a bit under the weather. Don’t worry. So, my trajectory into turn 8…”
They drop it. He doesn’t have to dismiss it too hard for people to let him be; he vaguely wonders how other McLaren drivers must have been, but shortly forgets about it as his head throbs harder.
He’s doing fairly well up until they reach the bigger meetings. His energy levels are getting dangerously low, his brain getting overstimulated by every single sound or light around him. As he puts his forehead in the palm of his hand, looking down at the scribbles on his page, his phone vibrates. Once. Twice. Thrice.
With a silent sigh, he reaches in his pocket, takes it out to possibly turn it off, before he notices the name on his screen.
From: Lando Norris (McLaren F1)
damn
you look like shit mate
u good ?????
When he looks up, Lando is looking at him pointedly from across the table. His face is torn between compassion and curiosity, a weird grimace that would usually make him chuckle.
To: Lando Norris (McLaren F1)
I’m sick
Don’t come close if I don’t have my mask
I’m contagious I think
Probably the flu
He sees Lando rolling his eyes at the texts, answering so quickly Oscar doesn’t have enough time to close his eyes and headbutt the table — his head is so, so heavy.
From: Lando Norris (McLaren F1)
youre getting your ass kicked
do you have meds ? i can ask one of the guys for some stuff if you want
Oscar eyes his pocket as if he could see the half-empty aspirin bottle through the fabric. He’s not going to send his teammate on errands for him. He’s not insane. They're barely friends outside of the track.
Being sick is just ups and downs. So he just has to wait the down out for the up to come. Then, he’ll be able to go out to buy his own meds. He’ll be okay. He’ll most likely just sleep through it anyway.
To: Lando Norris (McLaren F1)
It’s fine
Shouldn’t last too long
Lando throws him an unconvinced look but doesn’t insist. Oscar doubts he could get into a semi-polite argument about it anyway. His brain is on the verge of simply exploding.
The rest of the day goes terribly bad. He doesn’t die — somehow —, but his head hurts so bad he considers digging his brain out of it. His eyeballs burn and itch, he can’t breathe properly, and his body hurts every time he moves.
But he keeps quiet about it. His ears stay focused, his hand makes sure he has enough notes to fall back on in a few days — sometimes, the words stop by his brain so that he can give a proper answer, but it’s rare.
He ignores Lando’s concerned glances but gladly takes the cup of tea he puts in front of him when he comes back from his snack break.
He’s not sure if it was part of the plan or not, but they let him go home early that day. Maybe he just looks that pathetic. Who knows. He’s not going to beg to find out and fight the decision — he might have, under different circumstances, but he’s sleep deprived, and sick, and he hates everything about it.
He’s back in his hotel room by 4pm, where he simply slides under his bedsheets and decays for a couple of hours. His body keeps going from freezing to overheating, his fringe glued to his forehead by a sheen of sweat. Sleep refuses to come, so he simply lays there with his eyes closed, shaking under his too thin blanket.
Up until someone knocks at his door.
He drags himself out of bed, wipes his forehead on his sleeve, puts a new mask on. He opens the door just enough to show his face. “Yes ?”
“Oscar,” Lando starts, a frown soon appearing on his face, “wow, mate, you look worse than you did earlier.”
“Lando ?” He grumbles, his head painfully reacting to his own voice. “What- what are you doing here ?”
The Briton shifts his weight on his other hip, raising his arm just enough to show the very full grocery bag in his hand. “Got you some stuff. Not, like, for you. The new intern looked super bored so I said I needed them to buy some groceries with me to get them out of the meeting. A great excuse.”
Oscar’s head is too painful for him to really focus. He just nods, stepping away to let him in. As soon as he is, he turns back to his bed, dragging himself back slowly.
Still, sick or not, he tries to be polite. He just sits on his bed, eyes tiredly following Lando as he walks in, dropping the groceries on the small couch by the television. “Not, like, trying to help you or anything. Is that alright, still ?”
Oscar blinks slowly, each blink sending a wave of pain across his head. He gives up and lies down on his side, facing Lando but closing his eyes to keep the throbbing to a minimum. “Sure.”
“Okay, so, I got you some pain meds, some nose meds, some Vaporub — not sure if you need it but it worked great for me as a kid so I try to have some around all the time — or, well, my mom does, at least,” he explains as he pulls them out of his bag, “a bunch of other stuff they’ve given me, some soup, too, and cooling patches.”
His sentences are too long for Oscar to really get everything, so he just hums quietly, still shivering.
“Damn, you really look like shit. Have you taken anything today ?”
Head shake. “This morning, nothing recent.”
“Okay. I’m going to get you some water, and you’re gonna take some aspirin.”
Oscar vaguely nods, lets him do his thing. When he stops by his bed, he has a small glass filled with water, and two pills in his hand. The Australian tries to ignore how badly his body hurts as he sits up. “Alright,” he agrees, his voice coming out croaky and oh so wrong, “alright.”
Lando watches intently as he puts the pills on his tongue, swallows the entire glass with it in one go. The Briton simply nods once he’s done, puts the glass on his sidetable, and slides a cooling patch on his forehead. His movements are precise but careful, softly pushing away his hair to make sure none gets stuck in it.
“Fuck,” Oscar breathes out as it sticks to his forehead, the coldness so efficient it goes right through his skin, “thank you.”
He smiles, pats his shoulder. “No problem, man. Do you want me to do anything or … ?”
Oscar uses the few seconds of clarity he gets from the cooling patch to think about it. “No, just… you can do whatever you want. I’m… I’m going to lay down for a bit.”
Lando nods, looks around. “I’ll just play with my switch. You can, like, watch.”
Oscar makes a non-committal noise deep in his throat and slides back under his blanket. He feels the way sweat glues his shirt to his skin, the tension in his abs from constantly shaking.
But it’s okay. Lando plugs his switch to the television, makes himself comfortable on the couch. Surprisingly, he opens Animal Crossing.
“Didn’t know you were playing that kind of game,” he calls, moving the blanket just enough to let him hear his voice, “thought you’d play something fast-paced.”
Lando looks back at him, shaking his head. “Nicer for you to see something calm.”
Oh. That’s pretty nice.
So, Oscar watches him play. Lando’s character looks just like him, small and cute and cozy. His island, though, is a mess, and he bullies a few of his neighbors. It’s easy to just… watch him go around, to let himself slip into a half-asleep state, even though his head is still throbbing. Still, the medicine must be working, because he closes his eyes at one point, the sounds of Lando’s island lulling him to sleep.
When he wakes up, the first thing he feels is sweat. Sweat covering his back, his forehead, his neck. Intense warmth. He’s shaking, too. He can feel his pulse resonating through his body, making his head throb every time. Disoriented, he pushes away his blanket as well as he can, and eyes the room.
Lando is on his stomach, on the couch, scrolling on Instagram quietly. The television is off. He doesn’t notice Oscar right away.
“Fever spike,” he croaks quietly, watching as Lando jumps.
That’s enough to get him to move. He walks up to him, eyebrows meeting in concern. He doesn’t run, but his movements are jerky, nervous. “Shit, mate, you look even worse. Do you- Can I do anything ?”
Thinking hurts. Moving hurts. Hell, breathing hurts. His face is burning up, hotter than lava, and it spreads down his head, down his neck. “I don’t…” He takes a small breath, ignores the way his eyes burn. “Think I’m around 39°C.”
Lando’s eyebrows shoot up but quickly go back to a deep frown. His hand jerks forward, as if he wanted to press it against his forehead, check for himself but thought better of it. “Shit, you’re drenched, too. Look, I… I can, like, wash you. If you want. You know.”
Oscar frowns, tries to imagine being washed by Lando. Lando’s careful hands undressing him, pressing a wet cloth against his skin, lighting him on fire in a different way.
Sick or not, he’s too proud. He shakes his head. “No, no, but… a shower sounds nice. I can…”
As soon as he gets up, though, the world spins, and his legs shake, and he thinks maybe decaying in bed for the rest of the week is the best solution.
Lando doesn’t think that way. His arm easily slides around his waist, and he half-carries him to the bathroom. “You can’t shower by yourself in this state,” he grumbles once he’s forced him to sit down on the toilets, crossing his arms. “Let me wash you. I won’t look, I swear. You can, like, keep your underwear.”
How embarrassing. Oscar’s head may be on the verge of exploding, but he’s still got his pride. “I’m alright, just… I’m good.”
The Briton grumbles for a few seconds, turning around. “Okay, okay. You can… take your shower alone. But I’m staying in the bathroom.” When Oscar opens his mouth, Lando’s hand flies up to stop him. “Not negotiable. I don’t want you slipping and dying like an idiot.”
Oscar pinches his lips, but nods. Fair enough. He’s not sick enough to be irrational.
After Lando turns around for good, using his phone as an excuse, Oscar undresses. Slowly. Very slowly. Every movement threatens to make him fall, dizziness hitting him so hard he has to hold everything around him just to take off his pants. Raising his arms up is hard and tiring, and he tries thrice before finally having enough. “Lando,” he croaks, extending his arms his way, “my shirt.”
Lando seems to get it right away ; in one quick stride, he’s in front of him, between his arms, and pulling the fabric away from his body. However, even once he’s shirtless, Lando’s arms stay under his, careful. “You good ?” He asks, visibly hesitant to step back and let him move alone, but not quite comfortable enough to touch him. He’s glad he wore basic, black underwear. It would have been even worse if he was wearing the koala pair his mother got him for Christmas, a few years back.
“Sure,” he says quietly, even though he’s lying, “I’m good.”
A lip pinch and a few grumbles later, Lando faces away from him and lets him move into the shower. It’s a bit weird, at first, to shower with Lando so close — he can see his knee if he pushes the shower curtain a bit — but he appreciates the gesture.
Weakly, he slips under the stream of warm water, gladly welcoming its warmth.
“Have you seen Charles’ dog pics on Instagram ?” Lando calls after a few seconds, probably getting bored. “He’s, like, super small. I didn’t think he was serious when he said he wanted to get one, really, but I guess he was. Is he going to take it to every Grand Prix ?”
Oscar likes Lando’s voice, the constant peaceful flow of his words following the sounds of his shower. It helps him focus on things that aren’t his shaky legs or his headache suddenly coming back stronger. “Don’t know, haven’t talked to him.”
“Alex’ll have a shit ton of advice for him, that’s for sure,” he answers, before starting to hum a song Oscar doesn’t know.
Just like during race weekends, Oscar slips into Lando’s world, one that doesn’t know silence or boredom. He doesn’t mind, doesn’t really think about it. The water is warm on his skin, just the right pressure, and it helps him breathe properly, too. Circles of steam roll around his legs and feet, disappearing every time he tries to follow one with his eyes.
It feels good. Too good. With his eyes closed, he starts to wash his body, going as slow as his body wants it, up until “too good” becomes “strangely good” and “actually bad”. It switches from pleasant to uncomfortable, his body aching and the hotness of the room making his head spin harder than before.
A slight groan escapes him as he straightens up, stilling for a few seconds to try and stabilise himself.
“What’s up ?” The constant noise of Lando talking stops as soon as he hears him groaning. “Are you okay ?”
“Uh, yeah, just… Gonna cut the water.” Lando hums, stays quiet as Oscar tries to shampoo his hair. His arms ache, heart pumping blood so loudly he can’t hear anything else. “Uh, Lando, do you…”
“Yes, please, let me help. I’m going a bit crazy just waiting for you to collapse.”
Oscar chuckles, sighs and shrugs all at once. Based on Lando’s fingers appearing on the curtain, he’s getting more worried every second. “Just, uh… my arms hurting. Struggling to wash my hair.”
It doesn’t take more for Lando to throw the curtain open. “I’m doing it for you.”
Oscar blinks the water away from his eyes and frowns. “Look, no, it’s good, I can…” He vaguely gestures to the ground, thinking that if he sat down against the edge of the bathtub, it wouldn’t be so bad.
“Right, yeah, you should sit down. Also, don’t care, didn’t ask, I’m doing it for you.”
Oscar doesn’t have the strength to argue. Slowly, he sits down, barely noticing his warm back touching the cold bathtub. He’s shaking before he knows it, tired and weak. “Okay, just don’t- don’t put shampoo in my eyes.”
“I know how to shampoo hair. I have sisters, you know,” he informs him sternly as he grabs the showerhead to gently wet his hair once again. Oscar leans back and lets him, closing his eyes to avoid embarrassing eye contact. “Tell me if it hurts.”
It doesn’t hurt. Of course, it doesn’t. Lando is incredibly gentle with him, hand holding the back of his head or brushing hair out of his face. He makes sure the water rolls down his back, not down his face, and lets him rest his head against the bathtub and his chest. “Sorry,” he whispers, afraid to break the spell, “don’t mean to get water on your hoodie.”
Lando hums, his hand sliding down his scalp to make sure there are no knots left before putting the showerhead down in the bathtub next to him. The water’s spraying his legs, keeping him warm. “Don’t need to apologise. I told you, I have sisters. I’ve done this a million times. Probably more. My hoodies are all used to this.”
So Oscar stays quiet.
The dizziness is slowly going away, only a residual presence in the back of his mind, reminding him that he’ll have to be careful when getting up. Every time Lando’s nails gently drag across his scalp, it pushes his headache away, far, far away from him.
He hears him squirting shampoo on his hair, and tries to not completely melt when he starts spreading it, hands massaging his head gently. The pressure is divine, his touch ethereal, and Oscar wonders for a second if he’s not hallucinating all of this, passed out on the bathroom tiles. “Fuck,” he mumbles, quick to continue when the hands still for a second, “this feels great.”
“Ah !” Lando sounds proud, and a quick upside-down peek confirms his suspicions. He’s smiling happily, right above him. “Told you, mate. I’m great at shampooing hair.”
Oscar smiles back, a bit bigger when Lando uses his pinky to keep shampoo from running down his temples. “When you retire, you can always do that. I’d come to your salon every day.”
“When I retire, you’ll be an old man, Osc.”
“What ? I’m younger than you, you know. You don’t plan on doing a Fernando, do you ?” He answers, eyeing him curiously. The fever is giving him a much needed break, and he’ll definitely enjoy those few minutes.
Lando shrugs, moves to grab the showerhead. His shoulder bumps into his hair, leaving a noticeably wet patch on his hoodie. Oscar should feel bad about it. He doesn’t, likes the idea of them being close enough to leave hints of their presence on the other. “Nah, I’ve got too many things to do. Like, shampooing your hair, apparently.”
Oscar chuckles softly, which means Lando smiles even more while rinsing his hair. It’s a pleasant moment, with Lando’s hands keeping his headache at bay. The fever must still be around, though, because he catches himself wishing for Lando to do this every day. Dropping by. Taking care of him.
“Do you want me to do your back, too ? If you can’t raise your arms, you know.”
Call it emotional vulnerability, weakness, or whatever, but it answers for Oscar right away. “Sure, if you want.”
So, he keeps massaging the shampoo out of his hair — if Oscar wasn’t sick, he’d fall asleep right then and there, before letting his hand slide to his shoulder. A small tap is enough to make him understand ; Oscar leans forward, sitting crossed-legged in the bathtub. “Should have brought rubber ducks or something.”
“Naughty, Oscar, naughty,” Lando hums in answer, rinsing his back carefully before grabbing the shower wash the hotel gave him.
It makes him smile. “Who said anything about naughty ? I’m just bored, mate.”
“And sick — do sick person things instead of complaining,” he answers cheekily as he washes his back. His hands travel across his skin with ease. They’re big — Oscar will never fail to be surprised by that fact — so it only takes him a couple of minutes to clean his back properly. It feels nice. Really nice. “Right, done.” A few more seconds and he’s rinsed everything completely. “Okay. That’s done. Want to get out ?”
“No, but if I don’t want my skin to fall off, yeah.”
Lando laughs, the sound enough to kill the remnants of his headache and dizziness. He softly takes Oscar’s arm, helps him up with no difficulty. His face turns tensed for a second, as if he had to refrain from simply carrying him out of the bathtub. “Come on, old man. My grandpa’s faster than you.”
“You’re the worst,” he snorts, but gladly welcomes the towel pressed against his chest. He feels a bit stupid, standing there in wet underwear as Lando rushes around to get all of his clothes. “I can-”
But the Briton is already moving with a second towel, drying off his legs with ease. Kneeling in front of him, he taps his foot twice. “Leg up, Osc.”
Oscar obeys, suddenly realising the domesticity of the situation. Lando, kneeling in front of him to put his sweatpants on. Lando, washing his hair and his back. “You don’t have to…”
Lando shrugs, slides the sweatpants on his legs easily. He grabs his arms, next, dries them, then his torso. “Aw, are you blushing, Oscar ?” He asks when he looks up, catching sight of his red cheeks.
“It’s the fever.”
“Sure,” Lando chuckles — but he doesn’t seem mad. If anything, he takes longer, gently sliding a clean t-shirt over his head and body. Always teasing, of course, he puts the towel over his head and starts drying his hair, keeping eye contact for an overly long time. “You look better.”
“If you’re trying to get into my pants, you’ve chosen the wrong week.” He answers with a small sniffle and a shrug.
Oops. It didn’t quite come out the way he wanted it to — not planning to insinuate that there is a right week to get into his pants, really. “Wow, Oscar,” Lando coos, eyebrows wriggling teasingly, “I’ll make sure to keep it in mind. Hit you up on the right week.”
“Right,” the words come out by themselves, now, autonomous, “you’ll find my number in between models and actresses.”
Lando’s smile drops, a confused frown taking its place.
How rare for Oscar to mess up twice in a row. He’s biting the inside of his cheek right away, wondering how to undo that. “Sorry. I’m not thinking right. Sick.”
It doesn’t put the smile back on Lando’s face. Instead, he stares at him, and stares, and stares. Quietly. Analysing.
A wave of discomfort hits Oscar. “I’ll, huh, go back to bed, now. Thanks for… for the shower and everything. Sorry.”
He’s out of the bathroom before the last word is out of his mouth. It takes a few quick strides to reach the bed, each step sending electrical shocks through his spine. Right. He is sick. It isn’t just a lie to get out of weird situations.
He’s sliding under his blanket when Lando speaks. “Hey, dont-”
“I’d like to sleep,” he answers automatically, words coming out despite what his brain is whispering. Sorry, I messed up. I didn’t mean to say that. I’m a bit dumb sometimes.
“Okay, just-” he makes a noise in the back of his throat, sounding more upset than before, “my phone isn’t full of models and actresses’ numbers.”
Despite the nausea hitting him, Oscar sits up, stares at Lando in the frame of the bathroom door. He’s leaning against it, looking relaxed if it wasn’t for the obvious frustration in his voice. “Look, I overstepped,” he explains, “I didn’t mean to. Sorry. Sickness is making me stupid.”
The Briton shrugs, takes a step forward while fidgeting with his bracelets — from where he is, Oscar counts four of them. Blue, yellow, pink. Orange. “I don’t…” Another step. “I know where your number is.”
“Right.”
“Like, on my phone. I know where it is.”
Oscar blinks. He feels the frown forming on his face. “Sure, yeah. We’ve exchanged numbers a while ago.”
Lando nods, eyebrows rising hopefully. “Yeah, we did. And, I know where yours is. Not between actresses and models.”
“Huh, okay ? Good ?” The Australian pinches his lips, nausea barely fading away. “Can I go to be-”
“Oscar, I-” He cuts himself off, visibly frustrated. Oscar isn’t sure what he’s supposed to understand. “Nevermind.”
What a strange day. Licking his lips, he turns around to get a sip of water. “Sorry, headache is coming back.”
Lando’s frown disappears, replaced with concern. He closes the gap between them, quick to look into the bag of groceries he brought. He rummages through it for a few seconds before taking out a small protein bar. “You’re not supposed to eat before bed but you look weak. Here.”
Oscar wants to say that being sick generally makes you look weak, but he doesn’t. Instead, he takes the protein bar, eats it slowly, staring at Lando. He’s just standing there, next to him, eyes focused on his face. “D’you want a piece or…”
“Can I sleep here tonight ?”
Sleeping here. With him ?
Of course not. He probably means on the couch. To keep an eye on him. Or something. “You have a room,” he answers matter-of-factly.
“Yeah, and you’re sick. And alone.”
Oscar fails to understand the logic behind his words. Still, he shrugs, shifts a bit in bed until he’s perfectly snuggled in the middle. “Sure, if you want.”
He closes his eyes, tries to breathe through his nose without struggling when the bed creaks. A heavy weight settles behind him, already exuding warmth under the blanket. It takes a few more minutes for Oscar to understand Lando is lying down behind him. “You looked better in the shower.”
“Were you ogling me ?” He asks, choosing to ignore the fact that they’re going to sleep in the same bed.
“Sure, sure, Osc, you were quite the sight,” he chuckles in the dark, hand moving to rest on his own chest — Oscar feels the movement against the blanket. “I’m serious, though. Looked calm and a bit less sick.”
Oscar shrugs with a frown, too focused on managing his headache to notice his own words. “Well, it was quite relaxing. Could have slept there.”
Lando clears his throat, moves on his side — the bed creaks again, loud in the silence of the room. “I could— If it helps, I can, you know…”
Oscar doesn’t know. His brain is too mushy, by now, to function properly. “Mh ?”
“Like, you know…” After a few seconds of pure silence, Lando huffs, moves again. His hand stops right behind Oscar’s head, gently. Then, he extends his fingers, and slowly runs them in Oscar’s hair.
As embarrassing as it is, Oscar can’t deny it helps. The gentle motion of his hand simply playing with his hair instantly turns his mind off, headache backing away. As easily as that, he feels sleep tugging at his eyelids ; Lando’s hand, his warmth, everything seems to be lulling him to sleep.
“Ah,” Lando chuckles slightly, Oscar only now realising he’s made a small relieved noise, “knew it’d help.”
And, because he’s sick, and out of it, and sleepy, Oscar turns around to face him, moving ever so slightly closer to let him play with his hair some more. If Lando seems surprised, he doesn’t say anything about it, even lets him rest his head on his bicep, and keeps petting him.
Maybe it isn’t normal. Maybe. Oscar will have plenty of time to figure that out once he’s back on his feet ; for now, though, he closes his eyes and falls asleep like that, curled up with his teammate.