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Lando stares at the boiling pasta settled on his stove. It’s supposed to be done in five minutes, then he has to put it in a baking tray with four different types of cheese. He added salt, pepper — not too much ‘cause he can’t take spicy food —, a bit of smashed garlic, maybe he should’ve done some sauce, cut slices of bread to follow with the main meal.
He learned that pasta is a tricky repast. In general, he goes for the safe recipe, not always being bold enough to try something new. In theory, he even knows how to make carbonara and lasagne. He has time for that typa thing now, learning how to cook. The cheese is already separated in the corner of the island that stands in the middle of the kitchen, its messily shaped form stares back at Lando as he turns off the stove and drains it. He knows he should look again at the phone by the sink, where the next step is explained in every detail, but he rather do it his way. Messy and chaotic. Fingers red after burning them in the process of draining the pasta.
He has time for that. For trying out the feeling of being burned by the hot vapor that comes out of the food. He has time for picking Oscar’s clothes he leaves on the floor and arranging them in a little space in his closet. It occurs to Lando that he looks like a housewife, it’s just his sad mind being mean to him — which happens more than it should —, it’s not really something he should dwell on, but he does. He always does. His therapist told him about internalized trauma, about the harsh reality he was raised on, about his father’s prejudice being hidden under Lando’s eyelids. He also has time for therapy.
Even though they said Lando had no choice on getting mental health treatment after the accident, he took more than three months to actually contemplate the idea of stepping into a psychiatrist's floor.
Lando walks around the kitchen, waiting for the food to be okay, and eventually, he wanders to the dining room, where the table is just waiting for the main menu to be finished. He goes to his bedroom, the lights are on so Oscar can just come in, he doesn’t have to stop and— click on the light button. Lando feels like his mania is overdoing, suffocating him, grabbing his neck and tearing it apart. He leaves. Back in the living room, check the TV, it’s alright. It’s working. Why shouldn’t it be, after all. He feels like drowning.
He probably goes to all the rooms in the apartment, before remembering the food and sprinting towards the kitchen. It’s burned. Not all burned, mostly the side part, the middle is just darker than it should. Lando wants to scream at himself. His thoughts are always loud, don't change when he is upset, and surely don't change when he makes tiny mistakes like this. The smell of burning cheese floats in the air, announcing he is a shitty chef. Lando shakes, holding for dear life the whisper in his head that tells him to catch the tray with bare hands, letting it scorch layer by layer of his skin until he’s satisfied. Until the whisper is gone. Until the bleeding flows out of him.
Two knocks on the door is what brings him back to real life. He shakes his head, as if that is going to make the rotten ghosts there go away. They never do.
Lando scratches the back of his hand, it feels like it’s numb but he knows better than that. He murmurs a string of curses before cleaning his hand and rushing to the door. He stops before opening it, once again haunted by the ghosts telling him this is way too domestic to someone he’s not even dating properly. Ignoring won’t solve, so he just let them linger, a mist covering his mouth.
It’s always weird when Oscar smiles at him. Undeserved, to be more specific. Like receiving a candy after lying to his mother, something obnoxious crafting its way to his guts. Lando almost loses his appetite the moment he opens the door, as his heart crumbles over the smell of fresh deodorant. The feeling of not being worthy of the mere presence of Oscar in his place remains quietly on his veins.
“Hi.” A whisper gusting from Lando, that’s what it is, mainly because he can’t find the right words, but he’s not trusting his voice to be louder than that.
Oscar is sickeningly patient when it comes to Lando, which builds up this atmosphere of care whenever he’s around, making it look as if it matters if Lando is alright or not. Oscar is always careful when he knows Lando is having one of those days, he doesn’t understand if it’s because he is too obvious, the small signs gripping his neck and exposing him. He chews his nails, bounces his leg, if he’s lucky enough, it’ll stop before the hyperventilating, before throwing up his dinner, before the voices.
“Hello there.” he replies, sufficiently tired, but so pretty.
Lando casually thinks Oscar will be his breaking down, the verge of death that supposedly takes him to the other world, it’s not an everyday occurrence though, nothing he actually shares with anyone besides himself. Oscar has beautiful eyes that follow every movement Lando makes, staring at him, taking a glance at his bruised soul and staying after that. He also has a nice body, strong arms, and maneuvers them into all the positions thinkable, but sex with him is more than pleasure. It’s sinking into a shell of kisses on the forehead and light touches on his waist, it’s slow and emotionally submersible, makes the reality not so harsh to live on, but it can also be rough and steady, draining their energies to the point of exhaustion. Can be everything.
He thinks of kissing Oscar, right in the hallway, saying he can make himself home and yap about this movie he watched in the evening, like they are married and Lando was waiting for him to come back from war. Yet, he just leaves space for him to get inside, they’re nothing. There is no marriage, and there is no relationship besides Oscar being pitiful on Lando.
Oscar is a better man than Lando could ever come to be. He is a bit of a touchy guy when he comes to be intimate with people, a hand on the elbow, shoulder touching, legs pressing on another, Lando found all of that when they were still teammates. His heart throbs to think about that time, a painful reaction of what seems to be another reality. Oscar sometimes smells too much like the garage, like the burning tires when he just did a hot lap and qualified pole, like the carbon that composes the car. Lando can’t stand him these days. It’s unbearable to think about years where he would be the one coming home tired from the simulator and laying flat on his back.
Oscar enters, his suitcase right after, he’s going to stay. His eyes are wide, as he touches Lando’s arm, impelling him to come down to reality. It’s a gentle reminder that he is there, standing in front of him, close enough to hug. Lando looks up, cursing the height he has been given, and smiles. A fake one. That type of smile that rips the skin of his cheek — where Oscar kisses — and bleeds down his throat. It’s hard to maintain the pose, but he’s been doing that for quite a while now. Still, it never passes through Oscar’s eyes.
“Are you okay?” Red flag! Red flag! Lando, are you okay? A pause. It’s Oscar. It’s not Will. Fresh deodorant and cleaned clothes, not rain and mud. He is home, he is not in the car.
“Yeah— yeah, just a bit sleepy.” The lie drips from his mouth as easy as it could. He hates lying, nevertheless, he does it anyway. After a whole evening trying to do something nice, paranoia won’t kill the mood. “I made food.” He states, very subtle.
Oscar smiles at him, shows his teeth and his dimples appearing outta happiness, Lando feels like it’s okay to shatter little by little if it’s worth a smile from Oscar. It’s not the type of thing he would settle for, being home when he could be anywhere, but Oscar likes this stuff. He likes eating and chatting about anything but racing, he rather stay cuddled in the bed than be at a club, drinking his ass off. Lando holds on to the idea that he is fine with the amount of time he gets to have this, tells himself it doesn’t matter whatever Oscar will be doing when he’s working, when he is far away in another country, closer to pretty people and cool parties, it’s fine as long as his compassion brings him back again and again.
Lando gets the horrific suspicion that he is developing some kind of disease. One that makes him accept whatever is necessary to keep a moment of Oscar locked inside of him. He knows Oscar doesn’t hook up with anyone, which gets his mind worse ‘cause creates hope of something. Hope of— getting Oscar to be his. Only and exclusively his.
As they walk to the table, where the food is perfectly settled, Lando realizes he’s been trying so hard to be useful that he is out of place when there is nothing to be done. He already organized everything, in an empty effort to make Oscar see that Lando is not completely incompetent. They sit close, mainly because they’re friends, mostly because this weird strangled relationship turned them into touch starved people.
“How was your day?” Oscar asks innocently, his quiet voice shooting Lando’s ears and pouring a huge amount of intimacy between them.
He asks these questions when they are together, whether if Lando slept well, if he ate, if he is feeling fine, then frowns when he gets a positive answer to all three, one is always missing. The majority of times it’s the sleep, since nightmares haunt Lando whenever he’s breathing. It’s not always the crash, sometimes it’s just random scenarios while he hears his own voice on the radio, hoarse and numb in pain, asking why his legs are hurting so much. He could never let Oscar know that sometimes he is one of the ghouls that plays with his sanity in dreamland, an endless nightmare of being left no matter how much he breaks and rebuilds. He wakes up on those nights, and doesn’t sleep again. He walks through the room, reminding his brain that legs are still working, and he sobs to thoughts of Oscar, nothing to do besides wishing and wishing for him.
“Uhm, preparing some project with Quadrant, but the colors Max chose are weird,“ There is no need in explaining that, because Oscar knows he’s been over perfectionist with his brand, but as long as that keeps his mind from drowning, it’s okay, “How was yours?”
It’s an act of courage, really. To ask to hear about the races in the state where he gets a panic attack only to think about going to the paddock. Oscar stares at him, while Lando takes the food to the middle of the table, pretending and pretending. He hopes the conversation won’t go further on the topic, grabbing pieces of his mind and putting them together as he prepares for whatever he’s about to hear. Lando slightly shakes under his clothes, maybe he’s just not ready to talk about that with Oscar. Maybe. Maybe he does not want to know about the feeling of freedom that comes with the car, or the changes they’ve done, or why Oscar’s been thinking of leaving McLaren.
Lando could never expect Oscar to live up to his shattered dreams, winning a championship painted with papaya colors, catching an empty team and making it a home. Cry and laugh, restore the unimaginable, cut off his chest and expose the wound. He can’t expect Oscar to be ill like he is. He’s not ready for bright orange to be dark blue, even though that’s not even in his life. Lando — swaying around the lies he tells himself — believes his words on the case are futile, even when he is the one endeavoring with every single feeling of his to get Oscar to stay.
“‘Was nice.” He continues to stare. Lando looks at the food, not at him, which is no help seeing the ugly appearance of the meal. Gosh, it’s horrible. He did a fucking shit work— “You sure you’re okay?”
A quiver runs through Lando’s upper body, almost unnoticed to him, notwithstanding Oscar’s heavy gaze, who seems to catch it even before happening. Lando ignores both. His legs are bouncing a bit, brushing on Oscar’s knee and on the cold wood of the table, he ignores and just puts some pasta on their plates. Cheese is messy on his plate but he managed to place the right amount on Oscar’s. His plate is pretty and that’s what matters. Oscar matters, his happiness, his gentle nature, his passionate eyes, that’s what the world lives for. That’s what Lando lives for.
Oscar is nice enough to not push it further. He doesn’t want the heavyweight dancing in between to fall into a bittersweet mess, at least that's what Lando can tell by the looks. His mouth, once shutted into a thin line, opens to taste the pasta, a bit of cheese stays on his lips until he licks it off, jaw chewing calmly, tasting the sauce and garlic. Lando doesn’t realize he’s staring, as his own guts announce he’s hungry, he ignores the fact to wait patiently for something to be said.
Oscar raises his eyebrows, confused by the behavior.
“It’s good,” he says, and proceeds to take another bite, “I liked it.”
Lando can only tell it’s not fully true when he has a fork full of it. Salt is a bit too much, makes his mouth salivate to the touch, sauce was nice but it got over the point, shouldn’t have been more than thirty minutes in the oven, pasta was supposed to be soft but somehow ends up being hard on the edges. It’s a full lost cause, not even edible. Lando breathes sharply, frustration crawling up his brain as rage begins to flow in his mind. It’s shit. Fucking disgusting to the point his stomach hurts only by looking at it. Oscar continues to peacefully eat, chewing that nauseating substance like it’s not sickening enough. It’s suffocating.
“Oscar,” Lando’s voice dies, not exactly from the desperate need to get something better for them, but from the violent sadness corrupting him inside, “Don’t eat that.”
He looks confused again, frowns. “Why not?”
There is an Australian thing in him that makes Lando think of hot summer and vast ocean lines, there is hope in Oscar, he is the kindest person that ever stepped into Lando’s life. He was kind when the accident happened, and continued to be after that. His kisses taste like a refreshing bath after staying too long on the sand. He is capable of becoming what the world has never seen, still, he stands with a bewildered look on his face, while chewing cheese that tastes like death itself. It’s too much tenderness floating around, smothering Lando over and over.
“Because it’s disgusting,” He can’t move correctly, chained to anxiety that numbs his body, “C‘mon, I can order takeout for us, just don’t eat this.”
“But I liked it, really.” No he didn’t, there is no possibility of a dog eating that and liking it, let alone a human being.
“No, Oscar, it’s shit— don’t do that to yourself.”
“Lando, is this really about the food? Because—”
“Here, let me get rid of it.”
“No.” Oscar looks offended, his face is constantly changing between worry and confusion, “I want to eat it.”
Lando can’t tell what possesses him as he pushes the plate to the edge of the table and lets it fall off the floor. Pieces of the shattered ceramic flying to the corner, breaking a part of what was once a nice dinner idea. Pasta splashed on the hard surface finished the scene into an empty silence after the loud noise. Oscar seems uncomfortable, shrugs his hands in a painful manner to look. Lando wants to step on every single sharp fragment, bleed out, poke them into his skin and offer Oscar his pain, a sacrifice for him, for forgiveness, get on his knees, dance, jump, let all his scarlet liquid paint the photograph of his insanity.
“Stay there, I’ll get this cleaned up.” Oscar gets up, doesn’t even have to search for a plastic bag, just catches what he needs like it’s home, like he never left.
“You don’t have to do that, I’ll do it, just give me the—”
“I think it’s not a good idea, Lando.” He’s already halfway through it, at this point there is just the print of where the pasta fell. Yet, it is not right.
“I’m not fucking disabled, Oscar, I can do whatever I want to.” His tone is cold, judging even, far away from the independence he was searching for.
“I know, I didn’t—” Oscar stops mid phrase, throws the trash on the bin under the sink and turns fully to Lando. He looks so tired that a night of sleep might not be enough. “We’re doing this, then.” He crosses his arms, a way to help his body stand up a bit more and not fall dead exhausted on the floor.
“It’s not— ‘M not picking a fight with you, if that’s what you’re thinking.” A bit of a lie.
Lando does not want to fight, ‘cause it drags him into a line of thought that can’t be easily avoided. He feels like drowning. He feels the walls crumbling into him, he feels the car drifting, and he feels useless again. It all leads to this right moment where he makes himself duplicate into more, so he can do whatever it’s necessary to keep away from that, but still. Still. He finds a way of failing. He can’t race anymore, Christ. He is nothing more than someone meant to fail, to be miserable, and that’s why Oscar is in his kitchen, because he pities Lando.
And he prays that God may never let him leave, Lando got too attached to the strings he’s been given, holding Oscar to him and tying them again and again, how many times it’s necessary for him to just be there. They were teammates when it happened, and now Oscar’s been having a season with another person. It kills Lando inside out.
“You want to talk about it?” And that’s so— Oscar. To ask. To be nice when he’s receiving a shit treatment.
“I feel like,” Lando stops, thinking about the right words, but it only brings a furiosity to his belly, “I feel like I’m— sinking into this deep depressive hole and I’m dragging you with me, and I can’t even do something nice to you.”
“That’s not true—” Oscar tries, he’s kept still, not daring to look anything but calm.
“Why do you do that?” He’s a bit incredulous at his own mess of feelings, too late to stop the flow, “I don’t need your sympathy, why are you being nice to me?” It’s not even one of those questions that needs an answer. He is Oscar. He is nice above everything. “Why don’t you fucking shout at me?”
It’s scary to think of a scenario where Oscar actually yells at him for whatever reason. Mainly because it’s just not who he is. His sparkling eyes and pretty face tends to be always plain, not an emotional expression to show his alive part, and Lando felt horribly for it. For this person that refuses to acknowledge his defeated side as a human.
“Why would I shout at you to begin with?” He’s being reasonable. Thinking a way out of the situation, it’s almost like Lando can hear the engines in his head trying to find an escape. He is just trying to actually make sense of the situation.
However, it stings. Deep down, on Lando’s lungs, cuts his breath sharply, makes his body go stiff, he can’t tell where the anxiety starts and where the rage ends, all mixed and swirling his insides.
“Because you fucking should, Oscar,” his voice is loud, uncomfortable on his ears, or maybe it’s the creepy silence pushing itself into the flat that gives the feeling, “Stop trying to be all smart ass on me, save that to the next teammate you’re gonna fuck.”
It takes more than a second of silence for Lando to realize what he said. It’s not the quiet nothing that stands between them but the very song of the wind going through the windows. He is not in the position to ask, take, or do anything more than give, although Lando would very much like to have Oscar. For the most part, racing became a blurred memory, but inevitably, Lando has a cellphone. He knows Oscar will race again and again and again. So Lando will have enough time to twist himself into the very liking of Oscar, until it’s enough to have more than fragments.
“Oh, wow.” For someone who was waiting for no reaction — typical Oscar thing — Lando feels ashamed, “So it’s about that. I had a feeling ‘t wasn’t the food,” He moves to the table again. “Wanna explain it to me?”
No. Mostly because thinking about racing it’s enough to make Lando throw up, his therapist is still trying to work him out of the flashback thing he gets every time he has contact with something related to Formula 1. Ironically, he’s in love with a driver.
He shakes his head, mumbling some sorry words like a pray, not a single drop of courage running inside his veins. That guilty feeling hits instantly after he hears himself. Oscar sighs heavily with the realization there is no way they’re going to be adults and have a logical discussion about whatever just happened.
“Okay, but— Later? We can’t just ignore it and move on.” He is way too kind to be real.
“Tomorrow?” Oscar makes a face at that, pondering for some minutes before just giving in. “You, bath,” Lando says softly, almost a whisper, pointing to the directions like Oscar’s not already familiar with it, “I prepare the bed.”
He smiles, dimples and all. Real one. Lando could hold the sky on his back for this to happen everyday.
“Sounds like a plan.”
There is this feeling of home whenever they get to do simple tasks like that. Oscar gets out of the shower with a hair dripping water around the carpet, so Lando asks him — obligates him — to sit while drying his hair properly. The bedroom smells clean thanks to the bathroom door connecting it together, and there is also some fog around due to Oscar’s taste for hot water. Lando can’t blame him, it helps relaxing, his muscles must be sore, and above all, he just really is fatigued from the trip. The guilty comes again, stronger, hits him harder, he has to bite his tongue to stop himself from kneeling on the floor and begging Oscar’s pardon.
It’s slightly cold in London, but Oscar has shorts on and a white washed shirt, plain white one, not even a dumb phrase or something to indicate that it’s actually his. At this point, clothes are already blended together, Lando just knows he’s wearing something from Oscar when he notices how big it is. The little things that make it look like home.
Oscar is the first one to lie down, but Lando can feel the burning gaze on him as he switches into his own pajamas. He doesn’t sleep, even when they’re already curled into this weird hugging position where Oscar just holds Lando between his arms. He kisses Lando’s forehead multiple times, then the corner of his eyes, his cheeks, brushes his lips on the nose and finally the lips.
“Hey.”
“Hi.”
In the lowlights of a silent room, Lando wants to cry. He wants to rip off his chest, mess with the bedsheets, ruin them with his scarlet red blood. Oscar's eyes shine towards him, so pure and filled with something yet to be discovered. Passion flows from his heart, pours on his body the same way Oscar drops his melted shy love on Lando. Another kiss, this time, his hand draws a pattern right on the cheekbone of Lando, close to a little spot — he wants to brush his lips on all of the spots —, where he would kiss too, but it’s getting out of hand, neither of them can stand the causality rooting between them.
“I—” love you, Oscar wants to say, “worry about you, mate.” He says instead.
“I know.” Lando chuckles, peculiar word choice. Mate.
They walk in a thin line, bound to break when the time comes. Although Lando holds for dear life, maybe it won’t be enough. He allows himself to get closer, smell that scent of clean clothes and soap, Oscar is a bit bolder and gets his hand on Lando’s hip, circling around the bone there. Their legs tangled one another, skin to skin, slowly bringing that warm feeling, but even if the hell came to earth and burned the surface, they would refuse to break apart.
“I’ll get better.” He actually doesn’t know about that, and maybe he won’t, maybe he will feel sad forever, maybe he won’t get over the fact that he can’t race anymore, and eventually succumb to the emptiness, “And I’ll make apple pie.”
Oscar laughs, rib cage shaking, his head in a race as it always is when he’s close to Lando. It’s awfully easy how he falls for that, how he would have felt to Lando in any possible scenario.
“Apple pie it is.”
There is a hidden connotation hanging in his words. Lando never said they would make them apple pie. Nevertheless, Oscar wants to be there. Have a taste of the sugary fruit flavor, maybe have it with a spoon of ice cream, ‘cause Lando always finds a way to make it more sweet. If they’re lucky enough, they can invite more people, his family would accept any time, his sisters couldn’t deny when he tells them there is something he wants to say. He can grab Lando by the hand and properly introduce him as a boyfriend, and then show the flat, put on some card games for his sisters, talk privately to his dad, hide and kiss Lando from time to time — he could never do that in front of his mom — until it’s late and they have to go.
Oscar hopes and Lando dreams. He close his eyes to the feeling of being taken care, dreaming over and over about a life where Oscar helps him cleaning the dishes, hugs him from behind, picks a bad movie but they don’t even make it to the end — too lost on each other’s touch —, he goes to races and doesn’t panic about it, watch Oscar win more than once, be the future of Formula 1 as he was bounded to be.
And if that ever happens, if Lando ever feels alright again, he will make delicious apple pie. And hopefully, Oscar will eat it too.