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The hotel suite in Imola was quiet when Lando walked in, still wearing the tail end of his race-day buzz like an afterglow he wasn’t sure what to do with. The door clicked softly behind him, the only sound cutting through the silence aside from the faint rustling of sheets in the bedroom, where Luna was curled up in her travel bed near the foot of the mattress.
Oscar had beaten him back, which didn’t surprise Lando. He hadn’t said much after the podium, , just a tight-lipped nod in the cool-down room, a glance exchanged before he turned his eyes to the floor. The kind of frustration that wasn’t anger, not really, just a lingering sting that clung to every movement. Every clipped word. The weight of wanting more and knowing you could’ve had it.
Lando had known better than to push.
He exhaled softly, slipping off his shoes and jacket, the tension in his own shoulders slowly catching up with him. His body was exhausted, but his mind was still racing, , replaying the start, the pit calls, the moment he saw Oscar drop position into Turn 2. He’d watched the frustration build in real time, saw it in the way Oscar clenched his jaw during interviews, the way he answered questions with the minimum, no flicker of a smile behind his eyes.
It wasn’t anger at him that he'd face tonight. Lando knew that. But the problem was… he also knew Oscar. And he knew this would stick to his boyfriend like residue. He wouldn't lash out. He’d stew. He’d bury it and pretend like it didn’t bother him. Until it did.
Luna lifted her head as Lando moved through the suite, letting out a soft chuff before padding over, tail swaying low. She brushed against his leg with quiet insistence, and Lando reached down, fingers curling behind her ears, grounding himself in the familiar feel of her fur.
“Hey, baby girl,” he murmured. “He’s upset, huh?”
Luna didn’t answer, obviously. But she looked toward the bedroom, then back at him, as if nudging him along.
The door to the room was cracked open, the edge of a hoodie peeking out from where Oscar had tossed it over the armchair. Lando hesitated for a beat before stepping inside.
Oscar was sitting on the far side of the bed, in a shirt and boxers, hair damp from a shower that had clearly done nothing to wash the frustration from his expression. He was hunched over slightly, elbows on his knees, hands rubbing slowly over his face as if trying to scrub the memory of the race from his mind.
Lando stayed by the door for a second. Just watching. Then:
“I got us pasta.”
Oscar didn’t look up.
“It’s from that place you liked last year,” Lando continued, voice soft. “The one where the guy gave you that weird sparkling apple juice you liked and said you had ‘kind eyes.’”
Oscar let out a breath. Not a laugh. But not quite silence, either.
“I’m not hungry,” he mumbled eventually, words muffled against his palms.
Lando crossed the room slowly, Luna trailing at his side before hopping onto the bed with the soft thump of practiced ease despite still being so little. She nudged Oscar’s arm once with her nose before curling beside him, tail wrapping around her body.
Lando sat on the edge of the bed, not touching Oscar yet, just close enough that their knees brushed faintly.
“You were fast today,” he said quietly.
Oscar’s hands dropped from his face. “Don't do that Lan please. It doesn’t ’t matter.”
“It does.”
“No, Lando, it doesn’t,” Oscar snapped, not sharp like a knife, but frustrated, brittle, like something thin under pressure. “I started from pole. And I blew the start. I let past and never got it back.”
Lando winced. Not at the tone, but at the harshness in Oscar’s voice. The way it wasn’t aimed at him, not really, but at himself, like he was trying to bruise the failure deeper just to feel something. Lando knew that feeling all too well.
Oscar was pacing near the hotel window, jaw tight, arms crossed so tightly across his chest he looked like he was holding himself together through sheer tension.
“I had fucking pole,” he snapped, not looking at Lando. “I had it. I earned it again. And then I just—what? Forgot how to launch a car?”
Lando sat frozen on the edge of the bed, letting Oscar's anger breathe. He knew it wasn’t directed at him, but that didn’t mean it didn’t sting a little.
Oscar let out a bitter laugh, voice rising. “I’m supposed to be the calm one. That’s my whole thing, right? But no, first sniff of pressure, and I screw it.”
Lando’s voice was quiet. Careful. “You still finished P3. That’s not—”
“Don’t.” Oscar turned to him sharply, eyes flashing. “Don’t try to dress it up. I lost the win. I lost it. Not the car, not the strategy, me.”
The silence between them stretched, taut as wire. Lando’s mouth opened, then closed again. He knew what that kind of self-directed anger felt like, knew how deep it went when it was your own hands that slipped.
Oscar ran a hand through his hair roughly. “I bet they’re already calling it a learning moment,” he muttered, more to himself now. “That I’m still young. That it’s part of the process.”
He looked at Lando then, something raw behind his frustration. “But if it had been you, they'd say you choked. Again.”
Lando didn’t flinch. Not this time. He just held Oscar’s gaze, quiet and unwavering despite the littlesting he felt at his boyfriend's words.
Oscar’s anger cracked then, just a little. His shoulders sagged as if the fight had drained out of him all at once. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I’m not mad at you. I just... I hate feeling like this.”
His shoulders slumped as he ran a hand through his hair, looking away again. “It’s not fair.”
“Maybe not,” Lando said softly. “But today was just one bad start. You still got a podium.”
“I didn’t want a podium,” Oscar bit back, voice hoarse now, not angry but tired. “I wanted the win. I could’ve had it. I should’ve had it.”
“You will.”
Oscar finally let out a breath, but it didn’t come easy. It sounded like it scraped its way out of him. “It’s just, everything went to shit after that first lap and I felt like I was chasing the whole race. I couldn’t get the tyres back in the window and my second stint was garbage and—” He stopped again, pressing his fingers against his eyes like he could will himself to shut up.
Lando reached out then, his hand curling over Oscar’s wrist and pulling it gently away from his face.
“I know,” he whispered. “I’ve had days like that. All the time.”
Oscar didn’t move, but he didn’t pull away either. He just let Lando hold his hand, let Luna lean against his thigh like she knew, like she was trying to help carry whatever this was.
And Lando could see it, behind the frustration and the tightness in Oscar’s jaw, the sharp edges of disappointment in himself, not anyone else. He knew how it lived in the chest like something sour, how it made food taste like ash and sleep feel like a punishment. He also knew what it felt like when someone tried to be there for you and you didn’t know how to let them in without snapping at them first.
So Lando didn’t let go. Even when Oscar’s fingers stayed stiff and uncurled. Even when he didn’t answer.
“I’m not trying to cheer you up because I think you need fixing,” Lando said softly. “I’m here because I love you. That’s all. You dont owe me anything back.”
Oscar’s lips parted, as if he wanted to say something, but nothing came.
And Lando just sat there, hand wrapped around his, waiting.
Not for Oscar to be okay.
But for him to know he didn’t have to be alone.
Oscar’s breath caught, not loud, not obvious, but Lando heard it anyway. The sound of someone holding themselves too tightly finally letting a single thread slip. His fingers twitched in Lando’s grip, the only movement between them for a long moment. Luna shifted, her tail tapping gently once before she settled again with a soft sigh.
Lando didn’t push. He just let it stretch, that quiet, until Oscar’s shoulders began to sag, until the tension slowly unwound from his frame like over-wound string finally giving out. His other hand came up to cover Lando’s where they were joined, not tightly, not with force, but the weight of it was enough. Enough to say don’t go. I’m still here. I just don’t have the words yet.
“I didn’t mean to snap at you,” Oscar murmured eventually, barely above a whisper. “I just… I didn’t want it to be like this.”
Lando shook his head, gentle. “You don’t have to explain. I get it. I promise I do.”
Oscar’s thumb moved slowly, rubbing over the back of Lando’s hand like he was trying to keep himself anchored to something real. “It just, starting on pole, it was supposed to mean something, again. And then one mistake, one shitty launch and I feel like I just handed it away. And I hate that feeling, Lando. I hate sitting in the car knowing I should be further up. I hate hearing them tell me it’s okay when I know I could’ve done better.”
Lando swallowed, his throat tight. “You’re allowed to be angry. You’re allowed to be disappointed. Just… don’t turn it on yourself, yeah?”
Oscar glanced up, finally, eyes rimmed with the red sting of fatigue and frustration, but clearer now. “That’s what you do,” he said quietly.
Lando looked away.
Oscar’s hand tightened around his. “It is. You bottle something or the car isn’t perfect or someone gets past you, and you act like it’s all your fault. Like every bad thing on the track confirms what people online already say.”
Lando’s jaw clenched involuntarily. “That’s because it feels like that for me. Like they’re just waiting for me to mess up. And when I don’t, they still say I’m mediocre. And when I do—” He broke off, shaking his head. “They act like it proves them right. Like I never belonged here in the first place.”
Oscar’s gaze softened, something breaking behind his sternum. “Lando…”
“I’m not saying it to make it about me,” Lando said quickly, almost stumbling over his own words. “I just… I see you hurting and I don’t know how to help without sounding like I’m making it about myself. But I know what this feels like, love. The weight. The voice in your head that won’t shut up no matter what people say to your face. And I just… I hate seeing it happen to you, too.”
Oscar let the silence settle again, softer this time, like the fall of dusk. His thumb kept moving over Lando’s hand, rhythm steady, grounding.
“I think I’m mostly mad because I wanted to celebrate with you,” Oscar said after a while. “But I didn’t want to do it feeling like I failed at the same time. That’s a shit combination.”
Lando’s lips quirked slightly, sad and understanding. “You didn’t fail.”
“I know. But that doesn’t make it feel less like I did.”
They sat there for a while like that, side by side on the edge of the bed, neither of them moving, both breathing in tandem with the sound of Luna’s soft huffing sleep beside them. The weight of the race, the podiums, the pressure, the sting of loss even in the shadow of victory slowly began to bleed out into the room, dissipating into something manageable. Not gone. But less suffocating.
Lando shifted finally, nudging Oscar’s shoulder with his own. “You hungry yet?”
Oscar huffed, small and tired. “Not really.”
“There’s tiramisu in the fridge.”
Oscar gave him a look. “You got tiramisu?”
“I said I got us pasta,” Lando replied, mock-affronted. “Did you think I’d not get tiramisu from an Italian restaurant?”
For the first time that evening, Oscar smiled, a real one, crooked and reluctant and a little defeated, but honest. “You’re such a softie.”
Lando bumped him again, gentler this time. “Only for you.”
Oscar leaned into the touch just slightly, resting his forehead briefly against Lando’s temple, their skin warm and sticky with the remnants of long days and long emotions.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Again. For snapping.”
“I’m sorry you felt like you had to,” Lando said.
They both exhaled at the same time, and Luna opened one eye at the sound before closing it again with an unimpressed sigh, as if to say finally.
Lando let his head fall against Oscar’s shoulder, their hands still tangled.
Oscar didn’t move for a while. Not even when Lando’s weight leaned into him fully, his temple resting against Oscar’s shoulder like he’d been holding it in all day and only now let himself rest. His hand was warm in Oscar’s, but there was a slight tremble still, not fear, exactly, not anxiety even, but that lingering residue of needing to do something, fix something, be something.
Luna had shifted again at the end of the bed, paws stretched lazily over the duvet. She was warm and golden in the late Italian sun filtering through the windows, her breathing slow and content in a way that neither of her humans quite managed yet.
Oscar finally sighed, long and low, his cheek brushing the top of Lando’s curls.
“I didn’t go straight to the hotel,” he murmured. “I sat in the car in the paddock for almost half an hour.”
Lando didn’t respond, didn’t pull away. His body stayed soft and still beside him, as though he’d melted into the moment and didn’t dare break it.
“I kept thinking… I should be happy. P3 isn’t bad. But it felt bad. It felt hollow. Because I know I could’ve done better and because—”
“Because the people who think we’re machines don’t know what it’s like,” Lando whispered, voice rough. “When you want to give your best and you do everything right except one thing, and that one thing ruins the whole thing.”
Oscar nodded. “Yeah.”
Lando’s fingers tightened slightly. “I know that feeling. I know it too well.”
“I know you do.” Oscar paused, staring ahead at nothing for a moment. “It’s why I’m not mad at you for trying to cheer me up. Even if I didn’t deserve cheering.”
Lando finally pulled back just enough to look at him, his eyes soft and hurting. “You always deserve it. You’re not only worth something when you win, Oscar. P1 or P20, I'll be here to try and make you smile.”
Oscar’s jaw clenched slightly, like that truth still didn’t sit right.
“I mean it,” Lando insisted. “You’re not here because of podiums. You’re here because you’re you. Because you work harder than anyone I know. Because you think about the team, because you fight for every place. That start today? It was one bad launch. That doesn’t erase everything else. You still held on. You still brought it home. That’s not failure. That’s racing.”
Oscar’s eyes flicked up to meet his, a flicker of something unreadable in them, too many feelings trying to come out at once, but not quite able to choose.
“And when it’s me?” Lando asked quietly. “Do you think they’re right?”
Oscar’s brows furrowed. “What?”
“When it’s me they’re talking about. Washed. Broken. Bottling everything. Do you think that?”
“Of course not,” Oscar said immediately, sharp and certain. “Never.”
“Then maybe it’s time you let yourself believe that I feel the same about you.”
Oscar’s breath caught again, and he finally reached up with his free hand to cup the side of Lando’s face. His thumb brushed gently along Lando’s cheekbone, reverent. “You don’t know how badly I wish I could protect you from that.”
“I don’t need protection anymore, I thought I did but…,” Lando said, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “I just need you. Like this. Not pretending. Not holding it in.”
Oscar’s eyes dropped, suddenly overcome, and he leaned forward, forehead pressed to Lando’s, their breaths mingling between them. “I’m sorry I shut down when you tried.”
“I don’t care,” Lando whispered. “You came back. That’s what matters.”
They stayed like that, still and close, until Luna let out a dramatic sneeze from the foot of the bed and shook her fur, as if to remind them the world existed beyond their small orbit.
Oscar let out a quiet laugh, shaky but real. “She’s a diva.”
“She’s our diva,” Lando murmured, turning his head to kiss Oscar’s palm where it still rested on his cheek. “We should get her some gelato or something.”
Oscar huffed. “She’d love that.”
A quiet moment passed before Lando added, “She helped me wait for you, you know. Curled up right next to me. Didn’t move the whole time.”
Oscar’s face softened. “She knew.”
“She always knows.”
They both looked toward her, now sprawled dramatically with her head on Lando’s pillow like she paid rent.
Oscar’s fingers ran slowly through Lando’s curls, absent but tender. “Do you ever wish it wasn’t like this?”
Lando blinked. “Like what?”
“This whole thing. The pressure. The noise. The media. The constant judgement. That we could just race and go home and be left alone.”
Lando gave a small nod. “Sometimes. Yeah. But then I think… if it weren’t for all of this, we might not have this either.”
Oscar smiled faintly, eyes heavy. “You’re annoying when you’re poetic.”
“You love it,” Lando grinned, half-asleep himself now.
“Unfortunately,” Oscar muttered, leaning in to kiss him.
The sun outside had dipped lower, shadows lengthening, soft gold turning deeper amber. There was a knock at the door, probably room service or the pasta Lando had sneakily ordered ages ago, but neither of them moved to answer it yet.
For now, they stayed.
Together.
The rest of the world could wait.