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Lando was sitting so still in the hard plastic hospital chair that it felt like his bones might fuse to the seat.
The vinyl creaked under his clenched fists, and somewhere far off, beyond the buzzing fluorescent lights and the steady beep of machines, someone was laughing.
Not here though.
Not in this too-white room where Oscar Piastri lay completely still, save for the shallow rise and fall of his chest under the thin hospital blanket.
Lando couldn’t remember the last time he’d blinked.
He just sat there, hunched forward, elbows digging into his thighs, staring at Oscar like if he looked away—even for a second—Oscar might disappear. Might slip through his fingers the way bad dreams always seemed to do right when you tried to make sense of them.
The doctor had said it would be fine.
Mild concussion.
Minor anaesthesia to make sure there’s no internal bleeding.
Four stitches.
No worries, mate, he’s young, he’ll bounce back.
But the words hadn't registered properly in Lando's brain.
All he could see was Oscar crumpled at the edge of the track, motionless, a smear of red blooming stark against the white of his helmet. All he could feel was the way his heart had stopped in his chest the moment the crash happened—how everything had frozen, gone mute, except for the roaring in his ears.
He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes now, scrubbing at the dry, scratchy feeling there, as if he could erase the memory if he just rubbed hard enough.
It didn’t work.
Oscar was still lying there, pale and small and terrifyingly fragile.
Lando’s gaze dropped to the bandage on Oscar’s forehead.
A small white square, neat and clinical, covering the place where they had stitched him up.
Four stitches.
Tiny.
Stupidly small.
But to Lando, it felt like a crack splitting his whole world open.
He reached out slowly, fingertips hovering just above Oscar’s blanket-covered hand. He didn’t touch, didn’t dare—like if he did, something might shatter.
His throat ached.
Heavens, he hadn’t even known he was crying until he tasted salt on his lips.
Pathetic.
What if Oscar woke up and saw him like this, hunched over like some trembling idiot, broken open by four tiny stitches?
Lando let out a shaky breath and sat back, hands curled into fists in his lap.
He tilted his head back against the wall, blinking hard, forcing himself to think.
It’s fine. He’s okay. You heard the doctor. He’s fine.
But his mind, traitorous thing that it was, wasn’t done torturing him.
It started playing memories—one after another, relentless.
Oscar, laughing in the kitchen, standing on his tiptoes to grab the box of cereal Lando had hidden on the top shelf.
Oscar, asleep on the sofa, drooling slightly into Lando’s hoodie, Larry tucked into the crook of his knees.
Oscar, blushing furiously when Lando kissed the tip of his nose at a race afterparty because he "looked extra cute" in his stupid bucket hat.
Oscar, sitting cross-legged on their bedroom floor, grinning like an idiot as they built flatpack furniture wrong on purpose just to see if it would collapse when Max sat on it.
Oscar, looking at him one evening in the golden light of the living room with an expression so full of love, so unguarded and wide-open, that Lando had thought—fuck, I have to marry this idiot.
The memory of it thudded through him now, an ache so real he could barely breathe past it.
He thought about the tiny velvet box hidden in the back of their shared cupboard at home.
Tucked between Oscar’s racing gloves and a stack of Lando’s old team hoodies.
A stupid little thing that Lando had picked out on a whim one rainy afternoon, thinking—not now, but soon.
Soon.
When he was ready.
When it felt right.
When he had the perfect moment planned out.
But now, sitting here, watching the slow, careful rhythm of Oscar’s breathing, Lando realized—no moment would ever feel perfect enough.
No plan would ever feel complete enough.
Because life wasn’t safe.
Life was four stupid stitches on a too-young forehead.
Life was a crash you didn’t see coming.
Life was a waiting room that smelled like bleach and fear and bad coffee.
Lando sniffed and wiped the back of his hand roughly across his nose.
He wished he could scoop Oscar up, take him home, wrap him in a dozen blankets, and never let him step foot near a fucking kart again.
He wished he could build a bubble around him, a world where nothing could ever touch him.
Instead, he sat there.
Powerless.
Helpless.
Hurting in a way he didn’t know how to fix.
The fluorescent lights buzzed.
The machines beeped.
Oscar slept, blissfully unaware of the hurricane raging in the chair beside him.
And Lando stayed.
Because that’s what you do when you love someone more than you love breathing.
You stay.
Even when it guts you.
Especially when it guts you.
He stared at the little white bandage again.
Four stitches.
That’s all it took to crack open his chest and rearrange the pieces inside.
"You're okay," Lando whispered, voice raw and shaky and so quiet it almost wasn’t there.
He didn’t know if he was saying it to Oscar.
Or to himself.
Maybe both.
For a while, nothing moved.
Not Oscar, not Lando, not even the heavy, sterile air in the room.
It was like time itself had been frozen, holding its breath with him.
Then—
A flicker.
A tiny, almost imperceptible twitch of Oscar’s fingers against the thin sheet.
A faint crease between his eyebrows.
A soft, broken noise from the back of his throat, so small it barely made it past his parted lips.
Lando shot up so fast from his chair that it scraped loudly against the floor.
He fumbled, panicked for a split second, before his hand slammed down on the alert button above the bed.
It lit up red.
Help. Come help.
Footsteps came quickly, clipped and efficient.
The nurse—kind-faced, middle-aged, someone Lando couldn’t even pretend to know the name of—pushed the door open and came straight to the bed.
She checked Oscar’s vitals with professional calm, eyes skimming across the monitors.
She smiled then, kind but distracted, the way people who saw a hundred miracles a day smiled.
"He’s waking up," she said, pen tapping lightly against her clipboard. "Completely normal after anaesthesia. If he says anything about pain, nausea, or a headache, just call us, okay?"
Lando nodded.
Nodded like his neck was a rusted hinge barely holding together.
He couldn’t find words to push past the lump in his throat anyway.
The nurse gave Oscar’s shoulder a gentle pat, then disappeared with the click of the door behind her.
Silence again.
Just the endless beeping of machines and the breathless, aching stretch of waiting.
Lando stayed standing.
He didn’t dare sit.
It felt wrong to be anything but ready, anything but there.
He rubbed at his face, the back of his sleeve dragging across cheeks already too dry and sore from crying.
Another wave had started up without him even noticing.
Of course it had.
The tears kept coming in stupid, quiet bursts that he couldn’t control, like his body was leaking everything it couldn’t say out loud.
He wiped them off as fast as he could.
Because if Oscar woke up and saw him like this, puffy-eyed and broken open, Oscar would worry.
Would forget all about himself and start fussing over Lando.
Because that’s who Oscar was.
Always had been.
Even when he was the one bleeding.
Even when he was the one hurting.
Even now, stitched up and dazed under hospital lights.
Lando sniffed hard and scrubbed at his nose, trying to pull himself back together with shaking hands.
No use.
It felt like he’d been stripped down to raw nerves and duct tape, barely holding himself up.
Oscar stirred again.
A slow, sluggish shift of his legs under the blanket.
The faintest tremor in his fingers.
A crease deepening on his forehead.
Lando moved instinctively, drawn forward, close enough that he could catch the smallest changes.
His heart was hammering against his ribs like it wanted to break free and climb into Oscar’s hands for safekeeping.
Oscar’s eyelids fluttered.
A tiny, valiant effort.
The kind of movement that looked so normal on anyone else but felt monumental here, in this too-white room where the whole world had been paused, holding its breath for him.
Lando didn’t speak.
Didn’t dare.
He just stood there, muscles locked tight, waiting—
and waiting—
and waiting—
like maybe if he stood still enough, if he wished hard enough, Oscar would come back to him fully.
Oscar’s eyelids fluttered again.
Then a soft, broken blink.
Slow.
Unfocused.
Bleary in that awful way that made something inside Lando crumple up and fold over itself like a dying star.
"Oscar?" Lando said, voice cracking at the edges.
Barely a whisper.
Barely even him.
Oscar’s eyes shifted toward the sound.
Heavy. Dragging.
It was like watching someone swimming up through miles of dark water, gasping toward the surface but not quite reaching it.
Lando leaned closer, breath caught in his throat, terrified to even blink in case he missed it.
Oscar's eyes finally, finally landed on him.
And—
And they didn’t light up.
Didn’t warm.
Didn’t crinkle at the corners the way they always did, the way Lando knew like his own heartbeat.
Oscar stared at him like—
like he didn’t know him.
Like Lando was just another blurry figure standing at the edge of the hospital bed.
A stranger.
The floor tipped sideways under Lando’s feet.
He felt his stomach turn over, a slow, awful roll of nausea.
The blood drained from his face so fast it left him dizzy.
No.
No no no no no no no.
This wasn’t happening.
Oscar couldn’t—
He couldn’t have forgotten—
"Oscar," Lando tried again, louder, more desperate.
He could feel the tears threatening to climb up his throat again, hot and frantic and mean.
Please, please, please don’t let this be real—
Oscar blinked, slow and a little cross-eyed, his head listing lazily against the pillow.
He stared at Lando for a long, unbearable moment.
And then—
with a lopsided, slow-dawning grin—
he said, voice thick and syrupy,
"You're cute."
Lando’s heart cracked so loudly in his chest it felt like the machines should’ve beeped in protest.
He stood there, frozen, blinking at Oscar like maybe he’d hallucinated the words.
Cute.
Cute.
Oscar didn’t even sound like he knew who he was talking to.
He just said it the way you might flirt with someone across a bar you barely recognised.
Someone new.
Someone not important yet.
Someone you hadn't already built a life with.
Lando felt himself start to sway a little.
His hands were numb.
His vision blurred again.
It was like falling out of an airplane with no parachute, plummeting and plummeting and plummeting—
Because if Oscar didn’t remember him—
If Oscar didn’t know him—
If Oscar had forgotten all of it—
the years, the smiles, the nights spent curled up together under a shared blanket, the mornings with coffee and bare feet and sleepy kisses, the tiny box still hidden in their wardrobe at home—
If all of that was just gone—
Lando didn’t know how he was supposed to keep breathing.
He pressed a shaking hand against his mouth to keep the noise in.
Swallowed it down, heavy and burning.
He couldn’t cry again.
He couldn’t cry now, not when Oscar was finally, finally awake, even if it felt like he was standing on the other side of an impossible glass wall.
Oscar was still smiling at him.
Soft, unfocused, dopey.
The way people smiled at strangers they thought were pretty.
It shattered Lando into a million bleeding pieces.
And he couldn’t do anything except stand there and let it happen.
Oscar blinked at him, slow and heavy, and then—
then he frowned.
A tiny, puzzled crease between his brows that Lando had seen a thousand times before.
"You alright?" Oscar slurred, voice rough around the edges, broken and fuzzy like a bad signal.
Lando made a noise that wasn’t really a word.
Swallowed hard.
Rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hand so quickly it almost looked like a nervous tic.
"Yeah," he croaked out, voice wobbling dangerously close to cracking wide open.
He coughed, cleared his throat, blinked fast.
"Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. Don’t worry."
He was lying.
Obviously lying.
The words felt like splinters coming out of his mouth.
But if Oscar—
if Oscar saw him crying,
if Oscar thought even for a second that something was wrong,
then Oscar would panic,
and if Oscar panicked, he might hurt himself more, and Lando—
Lando couldn’t let that happen.
He couldn’t be the reason Oscar got worse.
So he tucked the wreckage of himself into a tight little box inside his chest,
smashed the lid down,
and tried to remember how to breathe.
Oscar’s eyes — slow, unfocused, wrong — kept trying to study him.
A soft squint, like the lights were too bright or the world wasn’t quite making sense yet.
"You look sad," Oscar said, frowning harder now, forehead crumpling like a kid who’d lost his toy.
Lando pressed his palms down against the edge of the hospital bed, grounding himself.
He smiled — or tried to — but it probably looked more like a grimace.
"I’m fine now," he said, a little too fast, a little too brittle.
"Fine. Now that you're awake."
It was true.
Sort of.
If fine meant cracked down the middle.
If fine meant hollowed out and terrified and trying not to fall apart all over again.
Oscar’s head tipped slightly to the side against the pillow.
He blinked up at Lando like he was trying to puzzle something out.
Something complicated.
Something important.
Lando held his breath.
Waited.
Knew — knew — what was coming.
He could already feel it building, the sharp twist of the knife he was about to have to take without flinching.
Oscar was going to ask.
Oscar was going to ask for his name.
Oscar was going to look at him like he was a stranger.
Like everything they had was a dream someone else had lived.
Lando’s hands curled into fists against the bedsheets.
He kept smiling.
He kept breathing.
He kept pretending that his entire world wasn’t about to be torn out of his chest.
Oscar squinted harder, frowning a little like it hurt to think too hard.
Then—
softly, sweetly, terribly—
he said,
"I can help you, you know."
Lando blinked.
Thrown sideways.
The ground he’d been bracing himself against just dropped out from under him again.
"What?" he said, barely a sound.
Oscar gave a slow, heavy nod that almost tipped his head right back into the pillow.
"You look sad," he said again, with this broken kind of determination.
"Need to be with someone who makes you happy."
Lando just stared at him.
Mouth slightly open.
Heart twisting itself into a noose.
Oscar smiled — slow and crooked and a little loopy — and said,
"I can set you up."
Lando blinked.
Just... blinked.
Because what the fuck else was he supposed to do when the love of his life — concussed, stitched up, drugged to hell — was lying there promising to set him up like he was some sad, lonely stranger?
He couldn’t even find words.
His mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
He shut it again.
Oscar didn’t seem to notice.
He just kept going, oblivious, his voice soft and slurred and so sweet it made something new ache in Lando’s chest.
"There’s someone," Oscar said, all confidential, like he was telling Lando a secret that was going to change his life. "He's like a full commitment kinda guy."
Lando nodded, because he didn’t trust himself to speak.
His throat felt like it had glass stuck in it.
His palms were sweating.
He couldn’t breathe properly.
Oscar gave a little giggle — a high, breathy sound that Lando had never heard like this before — and it was so bright, so sugary, it almost hurt.
"He's really cute," Oscar said, smiling now like he was talking about a puppy.
"Like... stupid cute. And he's very open too. Sometimes, he just wanna tell you how he's feeling. Gotta make you understand."
Lando swallowed.
Hard.
Oscar’s hand moved slightly on the bed, weak little twitchy movements, like he was trying to gesture but couldn’t get his muscles to cooperate.
"And funny," Oscar added proudly, like he was ticking off a checklist of Very Important Traits.
"He says these really bad jokes sometimes, but, like... good-bad."
Lando blinked again, slower this time.
His hands were trembling where they were fisted in the sheets.
He thought he might actually pass out.
Or throw up.
Or start crying again because Oscar’s voice was so soft, like he was holding something precious between his hands.
Oscar giggled again, giddy and airy and beautiful in the worst fucking way possible.
"And he drives, like, so good. Like, he knows the game and he's gonna play it," Oscar said, eyes fluttering shut for a second like even that thought made him a little sleepy. "Like, you should see him, he's—" Oscar made a vague wobbly gesture with his hand, "—he's like... whoosh."
Lando’s chest hurt.
Physically hurt.
Like someone had tied a rope around his ribs and was pulling tighter every time Oscar spoke.
He tried to focus.
Tried to understand.
Was Oscar... was he trying to tell Lando to move on?
Was he trying to help Lando find someone new?
Was that it?
Was Oscar trying to set him free in the softest, most Oscar-way possible, because he didn’t think he could stay?
Lando felt the blood drain from his face.
He sat down heavily in the chair, his knees giving out without permission.
Oscar cracked one eye open and grinned at him, lazy and dazed.
"And his ass..." Oscar said, almost dreamily, "it’s so nice. Like, criminal. You could bounce a quarter off it."
Lando made a choking sound.
A horrible sound.
Half laugh, half sob.
Oscar didn’t even notice.
Just giggled into his pillow like he’d said something scandalous.
"You’d love him," Oscar said warmly, a little sigh of contentment in his voice.
"He's, like... your type. You wouldn't get this from any other guy."
Lando tried to swallow but there was no moisture left in his mouth.
He stared, helpless, as Oscar smiled up at him like the world was made of soft pillows and happy endings.
"And his name..." Oscar said, closing his eyes again like he was about to fall asleep,
smiling so dreamily it broke something clean in Lando’s chest—
Oscar mumbled, almost inaudible, almost a secret between them—
"...his name's Oscar."
For a second — a long, dizzying, gutting second — Lando just sat there, frozen, feeling like the floor had dropped out from under him.
Oscar’s words hung in the air, delicate and innocent, like they hadn't just ripped Lando’s chest wide open.
His name’s Oscar.
Lando stared at him, heart squeezing so hard he thought it might actually stop.
Because Oscar didn’t look like he knew what he was saying.
Didn’t look like he remembered.
Didn’t look like he had the faintest idea that they were already —
already them.
A tiny sound escaped Lando’s throat, but he swallowed it down.
Oscar, soft and loopy, blinked up at him through heavy lashes, and smiled.
So sweet.
So trusting.
Like Lando had never, ever hurt him. Like no one ever could.
Lando didn’t deserve him.
He didn’t.
He never had.
He squeezed his hands together in his lap until his knuckles went white, willing himself not to cry again, not to fall apart like he was seventeen years old and heartbroken for the first time.
Because if Oscar forgot—
If Oscar didn’t remember—
If Lando had to win him back from scratch—
He would.
He would spend his whole fucking life doing it.
Over and over and over again if he had to.
He would love Oscar until he remembered.
And if he never did, well—
Lando would love him anyway.
He bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood, fighting the way his vision blurred again.
Oscar shifted a little, wincing at the movement, and Lando instinctively leaned forward, desperate to help, to soothe, to fix it somehow.
And then — soft as a dream — Oscar said:
"Oscar’s never gonna make you cry or say goodbye," he promised, voice loose and syrupy.
"He’s gonna make you laugh all the time. He's gonna... gonna take you karting, and... and make you pancakes. And hold your hand when you’re sad."
Lando’s heart cracked straight down the middle.
Oscar smiled sleepily at him, cheeks flushed pink against the hospital sheets.
"Oscar's gonna love you so much," he mumbled, "like, like always. Like forever-times-infinity."
Lando made a helpless noise, part sob, part laugh, part oh-goodness-I-love-you-so-much-I’m-going-to-die.
His hands were shaking again.
Tears were sliding down his cheeks before he could stop them.
Oscar squinted up at him, still smiling, eyes so stupidly fond it made Lando want to crawl inside his own chest and live there forever.
"You should date him," Oscar said, a little giggle hitching his words.
"You'd be soooo happy. He's the best. He would never give you up."
Lando pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to get a grip, trying to breathe around the swelling in his throat.
He laughed, a broken, wet sound, and leaned closer so Oscar could hear him, so Oscar wouldn’t have to strain his voice.
"Yeah," Lando whispered, voice shaking so badly it was barely a sound.
"Yeah, baby. I will. I promise."
Oscar beamed at him — so beautiful, so his — and in that moment, Lando didn’t care that Oscar didn’t quite remember yet.
Lando stayed bent over the bed, forehead practically resting against the side of Oscar’s arm, feeling the tiny tremors of breath that told him — told him — that Oscar was still here, still alive, still his.
He didn’t even care that Oscar hadn’t quite recognised him.
Didn’t care that Oscar thought he needed setting up with some perfect, funny, sweet, racing-obsessed Oscar-shaped stranger.
It was fine.
It was more than fine.
It was everything.
Lando smiled, watery and helpless, squeezing Oscar’s hand gently between his palms.
It was clumsy — Oscar’s fingers were limp with exhaustion and whatever drugs were still fogging up his head — but Lando didn’t care.
He’d hold Oscar’s hand for the rest of forever if that’s what it took.
Oscar shifted slightly, and Lando immediately straightened up, worried he was hurting him.
But Oscar just blinked slow, sleepy eyes up at him, pupils a little blown, head tipped to the side.
"You know," Oscar slurred, voice soft and warm like a Sunday morning, "Oscar would never give you up."
Lando’s heart twisted so hard he almost physically keeled over.
Oh, baby. Oh, Oscar.
Even without knowing him properly, even half-conscious, Oscar was promising to stay.
"I know, Oz," Lando whispered, brushing his thumb over the back of Oscar’s hand, "I know you wouldn’t."
Oscar blinked at him again, looking utterly content, like Lando had just said the exact right thing.
Lando bit down on his lip to keep from crying again.
He needed to be strong.
For Oscar.
A moment passed — soft, heavy with all the things Lando wished he could say without scaring him — and then Oscar mumbled again, voice thick and sticky:
"Oscar would never let you down."
Lando made a wrecked, helpless sound, low in his chest.
He ducked his head, resting his forehead lightly against the mattress so Oscar wouldn’t see the way his face was crumpling all over again.
Heavens, he loved him.
He loved him so much it hurt.
Oscar didn’t even know who he was right now and still — still — he was trying to make Lando feel safe.
Still swearing loyalty and love without even realising.
Lando laughed a little wetly against the hospital sheets, wiped at his face with the sleeve of his jumper.
"You're the best, Oz," he croaked, voice shaking.
"You're the best thing that ever happened to me."
He could feel Oscar's hand twitch slightly against his, like he was trying to squeeze back.
It made Lando want to start crying all over again.
Another long, thick moment passed.
Lando stroked his thumb gently along Oscar’s knuckles, waiting, breathing, loving him with every fibre of his being.
Then, muffled and sing-song and weirdly rhythmic, Oscar said:
"Oscar would never run around... and desert you."
Lando froze.
He blinked.
Sat back slightly.
Brows knitting together.
That was...
That was a weird way to say it, wasn’t it?
Like.
Not just the words.
The... timing of it.
The cadence.
He brushed it off.
Oscar was drugged out of his mind.
Of course he was going to sound a little funny.
Lando smiled again — forced but real — squeezing Oscar’s hand a little tighter.
"Thank you, love," he whispered.
"Means the world to me."
Oscar grinned, all dopey and perfect, and Lando’s heart practically exploded with love.
He leaned closer, brushing a few messy curls back from Oscar’s forehead with shaking fingers.
Oscar just blinked up at him, dazed and delighted.
Then, out of nowhere, Oscar chirped, a little stronger this time:
"Oscar would never make you cry."
Lando swallowed.
Nodded.
"I know, baby," he whispered.
"I know you wouldn't."
"And Oscar would never say goodbye," Oscar added immediately, eyes going wide like it was a very important point to make.
Lando’s lips twitched into a shaky smile.
He brushed Oscar’s knuckles with his thumb again.
"I’d never say goodbye to you either," he said softly.
"Not ever."
Oscar beamed at him, looking so unfairly beautiful despite the stupid hospital gown and the tiny white bandage on his head that Lando’s chest physically ached.
Goodness, he was so lucky.
He was so —
"Oscar would never tell a lie," Oscar said very seriously.
Lando froze again.
Wait.
Wait.
That was...
Hang on.
"And hurt you," Oscar finished, nodding sagely to himself like he was giving a very important lecture.
Lando blinked.
Blink.
Blink.
Wait a damn minute.
He sat up a little straighter, frowning faintly.
His brain whirred sluggishly through the heavy fog of relief and love and exhaustion.
Oscar's words...
The rhythm...
The phrasing...
It wasn’t just random sleepy declarations.
It was—
It was—
Lando squinted suspiciously down at him.
Oscar grinned up at him like a cat who had swallowed an entire flock of canaries.
Oh.
Oh no.
Oh no, no, no.
"Oscar’s never gonna give you up," Oscar sang sweetly, slurring the words just a little.
"Never gonna let you down..."
Lando’s mouth dropped open.
A tiny, strangled sound escaped him.
"Never gonna run around and desert you~"
"OH MY FUCKING GOODNESS," Lando choked, horror and helpless hysterics crashing over him at once.
He stumbled back a step, staring down at Oscar in absolute betrayal.
Oscar giggled — giggle-giggled, for fuck's sake — like a tipsy little demon child, looking so pleased with himself.
"Never gonna make you cry~" Oscar warbled, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.
"Never gonna say goodbye~"
Lando threw his head back and howled with laughter, nearly doubling over, tears streaming down his face for an entirely new reason.
The little bastard had rickrolled him.
From a hospital bed.
While pretending not to recognise him.
While Lando was on the verge of an actual, clinical breakdown.
He stumbled back to the bed, wiping at his eyes, still wheezing, and grabbed Oscar’s limp little hand again.
"You're a menace," he gasped between peals of laughter.
"A fucking menace, oh my goodness, I thought— I thought—"
He couldn’t even finish the sentence.
He was laughing too hard.
Oscar just smiled dopily up at him, looking like an angel and a gremlin all rolled into one.
"Told you," he said sleepily, "Oscar’s gonna make you laugh."
Lando dropped his forehead onto Oscar’s arm again and just sob-laughed like an idiot, loving him so much it physically hurt.
Lando hadn’t even fully stopped laughing — the kind of hiccupy, helpless, wrecked laughter that made his ribs ache — when he leaned in, grabbed Oscar’s hand again like he couldn't bear not touching him, and pressed a kiss to the back of it.
It wasn’t graceful.
It was clumsy and a little wet and desperate.
But Oscar didn’t seem to mind.
He just giggled, soft and sleepy and delighted, his entire face crinkling up like he was made of pure sunshine.
Lando huffed out a broken little laugh against Oscar’s knuckles, then shifted up, cupping Oscar’s cheek gently in his hand.
He brushed his thumb over the soft, slightly flushed skin, overwhelmed by how real he was — warm and solid and breathing.
Then, without even thinking about it, Lando leaned in and kissed Oscar’s cheek.
Just a soft, lingering press of lips to skin, like a prayer, like a promise, like thank you for being alive, you little shit, I love you so much it’s going to kill me.
Oscar giggled again — pure, thrilled, tipsy little giggles — and Lando could feel the vibration of it against his lips.
He pulled back just far enough to look him in the eye.
Oscar’s lashes fluttered a little, half-awake and half-gone, but he was smiling the biggest, dopiest smile Lando had ever seen.
"You absolute bastard," Lando said, voice thick with leftover laughter and the wreckage of too many emotions all at once.
"Were you pretending not to recognise me?"
Oscar blinked slowly, considering.
Then he gave the tiniest shrug, the kind of shrug that probably took all the strength he had left, and grinned.
"You looked like you were gonna cry," Oscar said matter-of-factly, like it explained everything.
Lando made a wounded noise deep in his throat, clutching Oscar’s hand tighter to his chest like he was anchoring himself to him.
"Of course I was fucking crying, you idiot," he said, way too emotional to even sound properly scolding.
"You got hurt, Oscar, you— you scared the shit out of me—"
Oscar blinked at him, brow crinkling slightly in confusion.
Then he shook his head — barely a wobble on the pillow — and said very solemnly:
"That’s not a valid reason."
Lando stared at him.
Stared at the tiny little frown on his perfect, sleep-rumpled face.
Stared at the absurd seriousness in his voice, like he was giving an official FIA ruling.
Then he burst out laughing again, watery and helpless, forehead dropping lightly against Oscar’s again because he couldn’t — physically could not — keep the love inside his chest.
"Not a valid reason," Lando repeated, incredulous, sniffling through his laughter.
"Not a— Oscar, you crashed! You ended up in hospital!"
Oscar shrugged again, this one even smaller and floppier, and grinned.
"Still not a valid reason to cry," he mumbled against Lando's skin.
"'Specially not when Oscar's fine. S'like... illegal. Against the rules. You know the rules and so do I."
Lando laughed so hard he felt his whole body shake.
He kissed Oscar’s hand again — couldn’t help it, would probably never stop if left unsupervised — and then pressed tiny kisses along Oscar’s temple, his forehead, the tip of his nose, every piece of him he could reach without pulling away.
Oscar just giggled through it, soft and fizzy and delighted, letting Lando fuss over him like a spoiled cat soaking up attention.
"You’re ridiculous," Lando whispered into his hair, still laughing, still half-crying.
"You’re an actual menace. I love you so much it’s disgusting."
Oscar giggled again, nuzzling into Lando’s hair clumsily.
"Good," he mumbled sleepily.
"Means mission accomplished."
Lando pulled back just enough to look at him again — to drink in the sight of Oscar’s sleepy, victorious smile — and felt something shift deep inside his chest.
Like a knot finally loosening.
Like a storm finally breaking into clear skies.
He kissed Oscar’s cheek again, softer this time, lighter than air.
"You’re never allowed to scare me like that again," Lando whispered against his skin.
"Swear it, baby. Swear it."
Oscar, still grinning with half-lidded eyes, lifted their tangled hands between them and tapped Lando’s nose clumsily with one finger.
"Scout’s honour," he mumbled.
"And if I do... Oscar's never gonna give you up."
Lando let out a broken, helpless bark of laughter and kissed him again, and again, and again, until Oscar’s giggles melted into quiet, contented hums, until the whole room smelled like hospital antiseptic and love and sunshine and second chances.