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Chapter Text

Lando hadn’t heard from Oscar since the podium.

Not after the ceremony, not after the press conference, not even a text. Not the polite kind, not the passive-aggressive kind, not the kind you send when you don’t know what else to say but feel like you should say something. Just silence.

And honestly, Lando hadn’t expected anything else.

They’d spent the last four races barely speaking unless it was absolutely necessary. The tension had grown with every lap, every point, every interview where people asked how it felt to be “teammates and title rivals.” By the time they got to Abu Dhabi, it didn’t feel like they were anything at all.

So when his phone buzzed exactly one week after the end of the season, Lando stared at the screen for a minute longer than he should have.

Send me your address.

No greeting. No explanation. No emoji. Just that.

For a second, Lando thought it had to be a mistake. Maybe a group message that only went to him. Maybe Oscar had meant it for someone else. Or maybe, somehow, it was about team logistics; a debrief, a flight, something boring and impersonal like usual.

But then it came again.

I want to come over.

Will you have me?

That one made his stomach twist.

Lando didn’t respond right away, because Oscar didn’t do this. He didn’t want things out loud. However, the urgent and needy undertone of the message caught him out of guard.

So he sent his location with the kind of detached politeness you offer a stranger on a train asking for directions. Because there was no way. Absolutely no way. Oscar Piastri wasn’t the kind of person who went places without obligation.

But Lando sent the address anyway.

Then went back to pretending he was completely fine, alone in the middle of nowhere in Italy, pretending he didn’t care that he lost. Pretending Oscar hadn’t just won everything.

And when Oscar actually showed up the next night on his doorstep, soaked from the rain and looking like he’d been chewed up and spit out by life itself, a motorcycle helmet in one hand and suitcase in the other, Lando felt his heart rate drop.

“You look like a stray cat.” Lando said, before his brain could process anything else.

Oscar blinked. “Meow?”

Lando’s face did an involuntary wince. Something in him recoiled.

“Don’t ever do that again.”

“Okay.” Oscar chuckled. He leaned his shoulder and face against the doorframe, wet hair dripping onto the wood. His tired and unreadable eyes flicked up to meet Lando’s.

“Please?” he added quietly. “I brought hot chocolate.”

“Better.”

Lando stepped aside to let him in, watching as Oscar toed off his soaked shoes like it was the most natural thing in the world to show up unannounced at someone’s hideaway in another fucking continent.

“You need a shower. Bathroom’s down the hall.” Lando said, voice low, thumb jerking in the vague direction. “Towels in the cabinet.”

Oscar didn’t say thank you, but he nodded, that small, tight-lipped nod he always gave when words felt like too much effort. And then he disappeared down the hallway, helmet tucked under his arm and a suitcase rolling limply behind him.

The second he was out of sight, Lando exhaled like he’d been holding his breath since the moment he saw him.

What the fuck.

He leaned both hands on the kitchen counter, gripping the edge like it might anchor him, staring blankly at the rain dripping down the glass window. 

His eyes caught on the little box Oscar had dropped on the table. The hot chocolate. A tin, old-school and expensive-looking, like something someone’s mom might buy in duty free. Like something you only bring if you’re trying to be gentle about something.

He busied himself with it, pouring milk into a pot and setting it to warm, even though his hands were shaking, just a little. The steam rising from the stove helped. Something about the smallness of the task calmed him.

Then he remembered the biscuits. They were still in the brown paper bag from the bakery down the hill. He pulled them out, placed a few on a plate, and slid them into the oven. 

He kept thinking he heard the shower turn off, but it didn’t. It just went on and on and on.

At some point, he didn’t know what he was supposed to do.

When Oscar finally emerged, the hallway lights caught him just right. His hair was damp and curling at the ends, face clean, skin pink from the heat of the water. He was wearing one big black hoodie that made him look comfy and too familiar, blending into the cabin surroundings all too quickly.

Lando looked away first.

“I made biscuits.” he said, before his brain short-circuited.

Oscar paused halfway to the table. “You? Cooked?”

“I warmed the biscuits.” Lando clarified, with a touch of too much dignity in his voice.

Oscar's mouth twitched. “Right. A culinary masterclass.”

Lando shoved the mug toward him. “Drink your hot chocolate and shut up.”

Oscar took the mug, but his fingers brushed Lando’s for a second too long.

Neither of them said anything.

They ended up on the couch. The storm outside hadn’t let up, soft rain still tapping against the windows, thunder far away now, just a low grumble in the distance. Inside, the cabin was dim and too warm. The fireplace cracked softly. The TV played something they weren’t watching.

Oscar sat on one end of the couch, curled into the corner like he was trying to take up as little space as possible. Lando was on the other end, legs stretched out, remote resting on his stomach, trying to appear relaxed, more than he actually was.

Neither of them had said much since the whole biscuit thing.

Lando flicked through the channels aimlessly. A cooking show. A game show. Some Italian-dubbed soap opera. He kept pressing the button, more out of habit than interest.

Oscar let out a soft, almost-silent breath. Not quite a sigh. Just enough to make Lando’s skin prickle.

The silence between them wasn’t hostile, but it wasn’t easy either. It was the kind of silence full of things unsaid, the kind that made your shoulders tense without realizing.

Lando cleared his throat.

Oscar didn’t look up.

Lando stared at him for a long second before finally asking, voice low and too careful.

“Why are you really here?”

Oscar blinked. Slowly. Like he hadn’t heard, or like he needed time to process the question.

Lando didn’t fill the space. Just waited.

The TV hummed. Oscar kept looking down at his mug, like it held answers. His fingers tightened around it.

“We haven’t spoken.” Lando said, when the silence dragged too long. “Not since–" He paused. Swallowed. “Since Abu Dhabi.”

Oscar nodded once, like he agreed. Or like he remembered exactly how it had ended. Both of them standing on different parts of the podium, too exhausted to look at each other.

It hadn’t been ugly. But it had been… final.

No texts. No celebration messages. Just silence.

Oscar’s jaw shifted like he was grinding his teeth. “I know.”

“Didn’t think I’d see you again, honestly.” Lando added, and immediately regretted it. It came out too flat. Too impatient. Too honest.

Oscar looked over at him for the first time in what felt like hours.

He didn’t smile. He didn’t frown either. He just looked. That sharp, unreadable gaze Lando had seen a thousand times on the grid, now only a few feet away on a couch that wasn’t big enough for all this space between them.

“I didn’t really plan to come here.” Oscar said finally. His voice was quiet. Careful.

Lando waited.

Oscar’s eyes dropped again. He looked like he was choosing his words from a place he hadn’t wanted to open yet. “It just felt like… the only place I could go.”

Something twisted in Lando’s chest. He didn’t know what it meant, didn’t know if it was guilt, or hope, or something worse.

Lando watched him for a long second, brows slightly furrowed.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” he asked, hesitant but sincere.

Oscar didn’t answer right away.

He shifted on the couch, bringing his knees up and resting the mug on them. For some reason he seemed to be trying to make himself smaller since he arrived, something unusual for him. His fingers tapped once against the ceramic. Then stopped.

“I don’t know.” he muttered.

Lando nodded, eyes still on him. “That’s fine.”

More silence. The rain had softened to a hush now. Just background noise.

Oscar took a small sip of the chocolate that probably wasn’t hot anymore, and finally, like he was ripping off a band-aid, he said:

“Mily and I broke up.” He paused to adjust. “Well… she broke up with me.”

Lando blinked. “What?”

Oscar didn’t look at him.

“What?” Lando repeated, sitting up a little straighter. “Why? When?”

Oscar let out a low laugh, but it didn’t sound amused. More like he was tired of the questions too, like he’d asked them all himself a hundred times already.

“Mily broke up with me.” he said again, softer this time. “I still don’t understand why.”

Lando’s mouth opened, but no sound came out.

Oscar leaned his head back against the couch, closing his eyes for a moment. His voice was quieter now, almost thoughtful.

“It was the day after Abu Dhabi.” he said. “She flew home before me, and when I got there she was already packing.” He exhaled slowly. “I think she wanted that for a while, but she was too considerate and waited until the season was over.”

Lando didn’t know what to say. Everything inside him had gone strangely still.

Oscar looked over at him again, eyes unreadable. “It’s complicated.”

Lando gave a small nod, throat tight. “Yeah” he said. “Sounds like it.”

Because, honestly, Lando and Oscar weren’t like that. They didn’t talk about things. Their friendship wasn’t the kind built on comfort or late-night confessions. In fact, it wasn’t really a friendship, not in the traditional sense. It was something else. Something harder to define.

And perhaps because of that it was difficult to find the exact words to ask that, the part that got caught somewhere in the middle of his chest:

Why here?

No. Why me?

And maybe. What the fuck am I supposed to do with this?

But he didn’t say any of that.

Instead, Oscar’s words lingered in the room like heavy smoke.

It’s complicated.

Lando didn’t press further. He just sat there, letting the weight of everything settle between them again, until it became uncomfortable. That familiar kind of tension that made his chest tight and his spine straighten, like he was waiting for a punch that might not come.

Oscar shifted beside him, eyes on him.

“Well” he said, in a firm and resolute voice “what’s a mclaren driver doing in Italy, of all places, anyway?”

Lando raised an eyebrow. “Hiding.”

Oscar huffed a quiet laugh. “That’s dramatic.”

“Says the guy who showed up soaked to the bone like the first ten minutes of a french film.”

Oscar snorted. Lando looked back at the TV. Some kind of cooking competition was on. Two men screaming in Italian over a risotto. Seemed fitting.

“I didn’t want to be anywhere else” he said eventually. “After Abu Dhabi.”

Oscar turned toward him more fully now. His knee brushed Lando’s for a moment before pulling back.

“I thought you’d go home” he said. “To your family and friends.”

“I didn’t want to answer questions” Lando replied. “Didn’t want to pretend it didn’t matter.”

Oscar was quiet.

Lando’s fingers tightened slightly on the remote. “You know what the worst part was?”

Oscar didn’t answer, just waited.

“It wasn’t the losing” Lando said, eyes still fixed on the screen. “It was the way you didn’t even look at me.”

Oscar’s breath caught. Barely, but Lando heard it.

“I didn’t mean–” Oscar started, then stopped. Rubbed a hand over his mouth. “I didn’t know what to say.”

“Yeah, well. You weren’t the only one.”

They sat in silence for a moment longer. The tension in the room had changed, not heavier, necessarily, but sharper. Clearer. Like they’d cracked something open, and now neither of them knew how to close it again.

Oscar leaned forward, setting his mug down on the table with a soft clink.

“I didn’t come here to make it worse” he said, finally. His voice was lower now, steadier. “I just... didn’t know where else to go.”

Lando looked over at him. Really looked.

Oscar’s hair was still damp at the roots. A light, almost invisible stubble had started to shadow his usually clean-shaven face, giving him a sharper, more worn-out look. His eyes looked sunken. He looked tired. Not just physically, deeper than that. Like something had been slowly draining out of him for weeks.

Lando exhaled. “I’m not mad you’re here.”

Oscar didn’t respond to that. But his expression softened, just barely.

Lando tilted his head slightly, voice softer now: 

“I thought Italy would be convenient to escape the driver of the year, especially him being a young talent from McLaren.”

Oscar chuckled softly and amusedly.

“But you’re not easy to get away from.” Lando muttered.

Oscar still had a hint of a smile as he looked at him for a moment with unreadable eyes. “Neither are you”.

They were quiet again after that, but the silence had changed. It wasn’t sharp anymore. It wasn’t quite soft either, but it was livable.

The risotto on TV had turned to flames. The judges were screaming.

Oscar rubbed a hand over his face. “God” he mumbled, “this show is giving me anxiety.”

Lando let out a breath that was half a laugh. “You showed up at my door without warning and this is what breaks you?”

Oscar glanced at him, eyes narrowed. “It’s too much yelling.”

“You were a literal world champion not even a week ago.”

“Yeah” Oscar said, voice distant again. “Doesn’t mean anything right now.”

And there it was again, that risky tone. Lando watched him closely, looking for the deeper meaning of that statement. Didn’t look away. 

Oscar noticed. Then, quietly, like it was a secret being shared in the middle of a storm:

“I missed you.” Oscar said.

And that was enough to make something shift.

Not everything. But enough.

Lando’s mouth twitched. Just the smallest pull at the corner. Barely a smile. But it was real.

Oscar didn’t comment on it.

But he saw. 

He saw Lando.

He always did.

And that started to feel dangerous. That Oscar looked at him like that. Like he saw everything, and still didn’t look away.

Lando woke slowly to the smell of coffee. Rich, earthy, not instant. The kind that required intention. There was something warm behind it, like butter or toast.

He pushed himself up on one elbow and listened.

The cabin was quiet in the way early mornings were; not silent, but layered with low sounds. The shuffle of movement. A pan shifting on a stove. Dishes clinking gently. All of it oddly soft, like someone was trying not to wake him. The thought made his stomach twist.

Oscar.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, took his time standing. His body felt heavy, but not sore, more like he'd been emotionally wrung out the night before. He hadn’t expected Oscar to stay, and certainly not to cook. That part made no sense. Oscar didn’t do spontaneous. He didn’t sleep on couches in the Italian countryside. He didn’t take over other people’s kitchens at 7 a.m.

But the sounds and smells were real, and so was the faint pull in Lando’s chest as he padded barefoot across the wooden floor, tugging the sleeves of his hoodie down over his hands like armor.

He paused in the hallway when he saw him.

Oscar stood in front of the stove like he owned the space. Sleeves rolled to his elbows, barefoot, and a damn stupid apron that made Lando smile and immediately bite his lips to silence himself. 

He was focused, efficient. Turning eggs with the kind of care that made it clear this wasn’t some random experiment. The pan moved with practiced ease. There were two plates on the table already, lined up neatly. Toast. Sliced fruit. A fucking butter knife.

For a second, Lando just watched him.

This version of Oscar didn’t match the one from last night, wet and crumpled and cracked around the edges. This version was… upright. Awake. The air around him felt clearer. Lando could see it in the lines of his shoulders, in the small crease between his brows as he concentrated. Something about him had shifted, like whatever had been weighing him down had loosened.

Like he’d come back on track, like the true world driver champion.

Lando didn’t know what to do with that.

“Didn’t realize I’d hired a private chef” he said finally, voice scratchy from sleep.

Oscar turned slightly, not startled. “You didn’t. I’m volunteering.”

Lando leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Is this some kind of coping mechanism?”

Oscar tilted his head. “Cooking?”

Lando nodded toward the stove. “Overachieving.”

Oscar smirked without looking at him. “Can’t switch it off, apparently.”

Of course not. Golden boy. Always precise, always composed. Even when falling apart, he was composed. Lando watched as he folded the eggs perfectly and transferred them onto plates like it was a competition. Probably was. Everything was.

“You’re alarmingly good at this” Lando said, trying not to sound impressed.

Oscar finally turned to face him, coffee mug in one hand, plate in the other. “You’re alarmingly useless. So, balance.”

Lando rolled his eyes, but followed him to the table.

“Thanks” he muttered, sitting down.

Oscar shrugged like it didn’t matter, like he hadn’t just made a full breakfast from scraps in someone else’s kitchen after sleeping on a couch. Lando picked up his fork, but his appetite was tangled up in something else; the way Oscar looked now. How... recharged he seemed. More alive than he'd looked all season, including when he was lifting a trophy above his head.

And Lando didn’t understand that.

He watched him sip his coffee with that same calm, self-contained look, like he wasn’t aware of the quiet swirl Lando was trying to untangle inside himself. It made no sense. None of this made any sense.

After a few bites, Lando set his fork down. “You always wake up like this?”

Oscar glanced at him. “Like what?”

“Like you’ve got something to prove.”

Oscar didn’t answer right away. Then, with a tone of false modesty, he said, “Maybe.”

There was a pause to consider sincerity.

“I didn’t sleep well” he added.

Lando furrowed his brow. “You look like you did.”

Oscar gave a small smile, but didn’t explain, and Lando decided not to ask.

They finished eating quietly again. But it wasn’t cold. It wasn’t the brittle tension of the night before. It was something warmer, slower. Like settling dust.

When they stood to clear the table, Lando hesitated before speaking.

“So… are you planning to stay long?”

Oscar looked over at him with a raised eyebrow. “That depends.”

“On?”

“How long you’ll have me.”

Lando blinked. The way Oscar said it, not flirtatious, not dramatic, just... honest, sent a slow current through him. Like an exposed wire somewhere too close to his ribs.

He turned toward the window instead, hands shoved into the pocket of his hoodie.

“There’s a cove about twenty minutes from here” he said. “No tourists, just fishing boats and one guy who sells fresh bread from a van.”

Oscar looked intrigued. “Sounds fake.”

“It’s real. I’ve got a cabin boat anchored there. Nothing fancy, but it sails. Quiet out on the water. Good to disappear for a while.”

Oscar leaned against the counter. “Are you inviting me?”

Lando shrugged, too casual. “Sure. If you want.”

Oscar didn’t hesitate. “I’d like that.”

And that’s when it hit Lando.

Not just the words. Not just Oscar’s steady gaze or the warmth still clinging to the morning.

But the reality of it.

He was about to get on a boat, a floating vessel in open water, alone, with Oscar Piastri.

No paddock. No cameras. No team. No escape.

Just the two of them. In the middle of nowhere.

On land, it already felt too much.

And now he was willingly going to isolate himself even more with the one person who made his pulse race and his brain short-circuit in a way he wasn’t prepared to unravel?

God.

He was so fucking stupid.

The sun was still on its climb when they passed through the small village nestled above the hill. Cobblestone streets wound gently between old stone houses, their shutters flung open to let in the breeze. Bougainvillea spilled over balconies in a riot of pink and violet, and the air smelled of citrus, bread, and the faint tang of the sea. The place was quiet, barely waking. An old woman swept her doorstep. A cat dozed on the hood of a parked car. It was the kind of town that felt untouched by time, warm in a way that made Lando’s chest ache.

They walked side by side, helmets in hand, taking the long way toward the trail that led down to the cove. Lando had meant for it to be a brief stop, just enough to stretch their legs, maybe grab a bottle of water. But Oscar kept wandering ahead, pausing in front of windows, pointing out the tiled details of a storefront or the way a lemon tree leaned over a painted fence. There was something easy about him here, something that didn’t fit with the stiff, quiet Oscar from the paddock.

“You know” Lando said, catching up, “I didn’t expect you to be so... comfortable in a place like this.”

Oscar glanced back at him, one brow lifted. “What, you thought I’d melt in the sun like a vampire? You know I’m Australian, right?”

“No” Lando laughed. “I just figured you weren’t the small-village-wandering type.”

Oscar gave a thoughtful shrug. “I’m not, I guess. But I’m enjoying it here with you.”

That shouldn’t have made Lando feel anything. It did.

They turned down a narrow alley that opened into a little piazza, where a café was just setting up its tables. A few early risers sipped espresso under wide umbrellas. Oscar stepped ahead, exchanged a few quick words with the barista, and came back holding two tiny cups of coffee.

“You speak Italian?” Lando blinked.

Oscar handed him a cup. “Fluently.”

“What the fuck?”

Oscar took a sip, eyes gleaming. “I spent three winters karting here. Thought you knew that.”

“I knew” Lando muttered. “I just didn’t think you absorbed the language like a sponge.”

Oscar shrugged again, like it was nothing. “I spent most evenings talking to the mechanics.”

“Mhmm.” Lando sipped his coffee and scowled. Not because of the bitterness. Because Oscar was somehow even more competent than he already appeared.

They kept walking, past weathered stone fountains and little shops with hand-painted signs. No one seemed to recognize them. That, too, felt like a miracle. For once, they weren’t being watched. Weren’t performing. They were just two people in a sleepy Mediterranean town, sunlight brushing over their shoulders.

And Lando, against his better judgment, kept glancing at Oscar. At how easily he moved here. How he seemed to come alive in the quiet. How he smiled when he thought no one was looking.

The road down to the cove was steep and winding, cutting through olive trees and low stone walls that looked like they had been there for centuries. The air was warm, tinged with salt and dust. The hum of the motorcycle beneath them made Lando’s heart beat a little faster, not from fear, but from the strange, quiet thrill of having Oscar behind the handlebars, focused and calm, navigating like he’d done this his entire life.

They had barely spoken on the ride. Helmets on, wind cutting between them, words didn’t matter much. It was enough, somehow, that they were sharing the same motion, the same direction.

The cove came into view gradually. First a sliver of turquoise between hills, then a soft curve of sand, fishing boats bobbing lazily on the water. The houses here were scattered, low and sun-faded, the kind of place where time moved slower and no one looked twice at two boys arriving on a rented motorbike.

Oscar parked the bike off to the side of the trail, kicking the stand into place. Lando slid off behind him, shaking his helmet hair out, squinting toward the horizon. The sunlight glittered on the sea.

“I meant to ask earlier” Lando said, eyeing the bike, “do you have a motorcycle license that works in Italy?”

Oscar smirked, setting his helmet down on the seat. “Technically, I do have a license.”

“That works here?”

Oscar hesitated, then shrugged, all faux innocence. “I mean... it works somewhere.”

Lando stared at him. “Oscar. Is this bike legal?”

Oscar glanced around, then lowered his voice like they were in a spy movie. “Let’s just say not every Italian is a tifosi. A McLaren autograph for a granddaughter? That goes a long way.”

Lando lips made a perfect amused “O”. “There’s resistance?” 

“I was surprised too.”

Lando blinked, incredulous, then laughed, sharp and surprised. “So you bribed your way out of registration?”

Oscar grinned. “Finally putting my fame to good use!”

Lando shook his head, still smiling. “You are full of surprises!”

Oscar laughed too, light and real, and Lando felt it settle somewhere deep in his chest.

They walked the rest of the way toward the shoreline, the gravel crunching under their shoes. At the bottom of the path, near the edge of the water, stood a white van with its back doors open wide. Inside was an elderly man surrounded by baskets of bread. Round loaves, crusty baguettes, and little bundles of pastries wrapped in paper. He looked like he had been carved out of stone, all sun spots and silver hair, his hands moving with practiced ease.

“Buongiorno, ragazzi” the man greeted, his voice thick with age and kindness.

“Buongiorno” Lando replied, smiling. “You’re still here.”

“Always” the man said, pulling out a loaf and holding it up like a prize. “The sea keeps me young.”

Lando chuckled. “This is Oscar.”

The old man turned his kind gaze toward Oscar and gave a knowing nod. “Another racer?”

Oscar blinked, surprised. “Yes, sir.”

“Figured” the man said. “You all have the same look. Like you’re chasing something, even when you’re standing still.” He added poetically, with a high, vibrant timbre.

Lando laughed under his breath. 

Oscar looked at him with a question mark in his expression. Why did he seem so familiar with that place? With those people?

“You’re not the only McLaren driver secretly beloved by the Italian coast.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow but said nothing, accepting the small pastry handed to him.

They made their way to the dock where Lando’s boat was moored, white and sleek, slightly weathered by the salt but still solid, still beautiful. A boat with a cabin, space to stretch out, to exist. Lando hopped in first, untying the ropes with easy hands. He moved with the rhythm of someone who had done this often, who knew the quiet routine of being alone on the sea. It was an unexpected charm.

Oscar stepped in after him, slower, cautious in a way that Lando found endearing. As they pushed away from the dock, the boat rocked gently, then glided forward with a hum.

They didn’t speak for a while.

The wind pulled at their clothes, warm and persistent. The coastline curved in both directions, all craggy cliffs lined with low pine trees, pale stone shining in the sun, flowers spilling over terraces in bursts of pink and red. In the distance, a quiet town climbed the hill, all terracotta rooftops and pale stucco, a church tower rising out of the center like a sentinel.

Oscar sat on the edge of the boat, elbows resting on his knees, eyes scanning the sea. Lando sat beside him, close but not quite touching. The engine quieted to a low hum. Only the water lapped beneath them, rhythmic and slow.

“So” Lando said eventually, breaking the quiet. “Still not seasick. Impressive.”

Oscar tilted his head toward him, amused. “You thought I’d puke on your fancy boat?”

“I don’t know. You give off ‘doesn’t thrive on water’ energy.”

“I give a lot of energies, apparently.” Oscar made a thoughtful face. “Is that like a spiritual assessment or...?”

“It’s a vibe” Lando said, shrugging. “Land-coded. There’s plenty of land in Australia.”

“We are also surrounded by the Indian and the Pacific". Oscar huffed a laugh. “You’re so weird.”

Lando smiled without looking at him. 

Oscar nudged his foot lightly. “Your boat’s nicer than I expected.”

Lando raised an eyebrow. “What did you expect?”

“I don’t know. Something messier. A few forgotten Monster’s cans. A pizza box. At least one broken speaker.”

Lando snorted. “Wow. The bar was so low.”

Oscar looked at him sidelong, eyes flicking down and back up. “You surprise me.”

There was a beat.

“Not just the boat.” Oscar added.

That earned him a glance. Lando didn’t say anything, but a faint pull appeared at the corner of his mouth.

A long silence followed, but this one felt warmer, more lived-in. Lando shifted, stretched his legs out so they bumped gently against Oscar’s. He didn’t move them away.

The town in the distance shimmered a little in the heat. A seagull called far off.

“You keep surprising me too.” Lando said quietly.

Oscar looked over, eyebrows raised. “Yeah?”

“Mhmm. I thought I knew what to expect from you. Cold. Efficient. A little terrifying.”

Oscar laughed under his breath. “Thanks.”

Lando grinned. “But you’re... weirdly charming. In a socially awkward, unexpectedly competent kind of way.”

“I’m not sure if I should be flattered.”

“You should.” Lando said, still watching him.

Oscar blinked slowly and asked eventually. “When did you buy the cabin?”

“Two years ago” Lando said, voice soft. “After a bad season. I needed somewhere to go that didn’t feel like anything else.”

Oscar nodded. “Makes sense.”

“I don’t come here often” Lando added. “But when I do… I breathe better.”

Oscar turned his head to look at him. “I expected you to be here with someone.”

Lando blinked. “Why?”

Oscar shrugged, eyes drifting back to the sea. “You’re never alone. Not in the public eye, at least. There’s always someone.”

“That’s what it looks like.” Lando’s mouth curved, not quite a smile. “The media likes to paint it that way. It’s an easier narrative to sell.”

“It’s not true?”

“I’ve had people” Lando admitted. “People I cared about. People who were good to me. But...” He trailed off, staring at the horizon. “None of them made me feel like I could stop looking.”

Oscar’s head turned slightly, but he said nothing.

They were quiet again. The wind picked up slightly, brushing strands of Oscar’s hair into his eyes. He didn’t move them.

Lando looked over, gaze resting on Oscar longer than it should’ve.

“Your eyes” Lando said, voice almost a whisper. “They’re not brown.”

Oscar frowned. “What?”

“They’re olive” Lando murmured. “I thought they were brown this whole time, but in the light… they’re green. Green with gold in the center”

Oscar’s breath caught. Not loud, but visible. His chest stilled for just a second.

He didn’t speak. Just blinked, slow, like trying to process something heavier than the moment should carry. Then his lips parted slightly, like he meant to say something, but nothing came.

Instead, he just looked at Lando. Really looked. His gaze didn’t drop. Didn’t shift. It held. Unwavering, intense, and so quiet it felt deafening.

His voice, when it came, was lower than before, rough around the edges. 

“You never looked that closely.”

The words slipped out soft, but they landed like a weight.

Lando didn’t move. His pulse thudded in his ears.

He wasn’t sure what had just passed between them, but he felt it, all the way down.

But this time, neither of them looked away. They hold each other’s gaze steady. But slowly there was something terrifying in that steadiness. 

Suddenly, Lando exhaled and shifted his weight just slightly, trying to ground himself. His foot landed wrong.

There was a sharp twist, a flash of pain that raced up his leg, sudden and slicing. It wasn’t loud, wasn’t dramatic; more a quiet curse, a sharp inhale through clenched teeth as he bent forward, one hand catching the edge of the seat.

“Shit” he hissed.

Oscar was holding him in a second.

“What happened?”

“Nothing” Lando lied, almost instinctively, because that’s what you did when things hurt. You said they didn’t. You made it manageable. But the pain had bloomed quick and insistent around his ankle, dull and throbbing already.

Oscar crouched in front of him. “You twisted it?”

Lando winced. “Yeah. Just stepped wrong.”

Oscar’s expression changed. Subtly, but fully. All the softness in his features tightened. His brows drew down. The lines around his mouth went serious. The air shifted.

Suddenly, Oscar wasn’t just the boy from last night, or the guy who made breakfast like it was a coping strategy. He wasn’t even the world champion, not really. He was something else.

Something stronger. More focused. Protective in a way that was startling.

“Can you move it?” Oscar asked, calm, controlled.

Lando tried a small motion and immediately regretted it. “Fuck. No… Not really.”

Oscar stood smoothly, not saying anything. He moved with purpose now, quiet and fast. Pulled the boat gently around, guiding them toward the dock with practiced hands. When they reached it, he anchored them with a precision that spoke of more than casual knowledge. Then he came back, crouched again in front of Lando and offered his arm.

“Come on.”

Lando blinked. “I can walk.”

Oscar gave him a look. Not annoyed, not mocking. Just... steady. “No, you can’t.”

Lando hesitated for half a second longer. Then he looped an arm around Oscar’s shoulders.

Oscar lifted him carefully, like it was easy. One arm under his knees, one supporting his back, holding him with a gentleness that didn’t quite match the sharp focus on his face.

It was the kind of thing that made Lando go still inside. Not just because he was being carried, that was strange enough, but because of how natural it felt. Like Oscar had done it before. Like he was expected to do it.

Like this wasn’t just a moment. It was his moment to carry.

The walk back was slow. Lando had tucked himself in without thinking, hand curled in the fabric of Oscar’s shirt. The world blurred past them. Soft stone, blue sky, scent of salt and citrus. And all Lando could think about was the sound of Oscar breathing and his scent.

When they reached the cabin, Oscar didn’t wait. He pushed the door open with his shoulder, carried Lando straight to the bedroom, and set him down on the edge of the bed like he was something fragile. 

Without a word, Oscar turned and started adjusting the pillows behind him, grabbing two, fluffing one, folding it, angling the other until Lando was half-reclined, half-cocooned, ankle elevated on a throw blanket he rolled tightly like it was muscle memory.

Lando just watched him, dazed. Something warm pooled in his stomach, rising fast to his chest.

Then, Oscar turned.

“First aid kit?”

“Top shelf in the hallway” Lando said, still breathless.

Oscar nodded once and left. Lando sat there, foot aching, but everything else inside him weirdly still. Like something had just cracked open. Not painfully, but... permanently.

Oscar returned less than a minute later, the kit in hand. He knelt again, always with that same quiet surety, and placed it beside him.

“This’ll be cold” he said softly, taking the ice pack and pressing it gently against Lando’s ankle.

Then, in a moment, Oscar wasn’t just holding the ice, and his other hand moved. Slow, circular pressure around the ankle. Not rough, not idle. With purpose. A massage that wasn’t for show.

Lando winced, but didn’t pull away. “Where did you learn this?”

Oscar didn’t look up. “We all get trained. Emergency protocols. Muscle strains. You never know when you’ll be the only one around.”

Lando nodded, watching the way Oscar worked. Clean, efficient movements. Spreading ointment and wrapping the bandage with careful tension, not too tight. His hands were steady, his touch impossibly gentle.

Lando let himself watch.

Oscar’s brows were furrowed in concentration. His jaw was tense, not with anger, but with focus. He looked older somehow, more grounded. Not the Oscar from the grid, from the press, not even the Oscar from Lando’s memories. This one was solid. Present.

“I’ve got it” Oscar murmured, finishing the wrap. “Just keep it elevated for a while.”

Lando nodded again, but the movement was slower this time.

Oscar didn’t get up. He stayed, his fingers resting just above the bandage, unmoving. Then, gently,  he reached for Lando’s other foot, tugged the leg across his lap, and began massaging slow circles into the calf muscle.

Lando stared at him.

“What are you doing?” he asked, voice lower than before.

Oscar didn’t look up. “Muscles compensate when you get hurt. You’ll feel it tomorrow otherwise.”

“I didn’t ask you to–”

“I know.”

The quiet finality of it made Lando’s breath catch.

He wanted to say it didn’t matter. That it was fine. That Oscar didn’t need to. But the words wouldn’t come. Because part of him didn’t want to stop it. Part of him needed this. The silence. The care. The weight of someone else's focus centered entirely on him.

He let his body go limp against the pillows and closed his eyes. The room was quiet, with just the sound of Oscar’s breath, the soft friction of skin on skin, the faint hum of wind outside the windows.

“You’re good at this” Lando said, eyes still closed.

Oscar’s hands paused. Then resumed. “Thanks.”

“It’s a little unfair.”

Oscar glanced up. “What is?”

“That you can drive like that, cook like that, and now you’re also apparently some kind of physio?”

Oscar smiled faintly. “Multifaceted.”

“Arsehole” Lando said, but it was soft. Without bite.

Oscar moved his hand lower, thumb pressing gently against a knot just above the ankle. Lando’s breath caught again. Not from pain this time, but something else.

It took a low moan from him.

When he opened his eyes, Oscar was already watching him.

The expression on his face was unreadable. Serious, but not cold. Intense, but not hard.

And in that moment, Lando realized something: 

Oscar wasn’t just taking care of his injury.

He was taking care of him.

It struck him all at once, that it had been so long since he’d felt this safe. Oscar made him feel small in the best way. Like his softness wasn’t a weakness. Like he was allowed .

Oscar’s gaze said it all. Quiet, unwavering, sure. It pulled Lando back to Abu Dhabi, not with regret, but with clarity. A silent promise that whatever had stood between them then wouldn’t come back. That this time, Oscar wouldn’t just stay; he would stay and hold all the vulnerability Lando had tried so hard to hide, giving every fragile part of him a place to land.

It was there too, in the way his hands moved. In the way he hadn’t asked permission, but hadn’t assumed either. In the way he’d carried him without flinching. In the way he now sat, every line of his body angled toward him like gravity had chosen Lando instead of the Earth.

And Lando, stupid, stubborn, tired Lando, felt his throat tighten.

He looked away, suddenly overwhelmed. His voice barely worked when he said, “You didn’t have to stay.”

“I know.”

“You didn’t have to–” He gestured vaguely. “–do any of this.”

“I know” he said again. “But I wanted to.”

That landed like something solid. Something undeniable.

Lando stared at him, at the way the sunlight hit the edge of his hair, at the calm set of his jaw, at the certainty in his eyes. He looked different. Larger somehow. Not physically – though, honestly, yes – but in presence.

Lando had never seen Oscar like this.

Not like a teammate. Not like a rival. Not even like a friend.

He was someone who could hold things. Not just ankles, not just moments. But everything.

And Lando, painfully aware of how unsteady he’d been all year, of how many times he’d faked calm while hollowed out inside, suddenly wanted to collapse into that steadiness.

Oscar shifted back, settling beside him on the bed now, one leg folded underneath, the other stretched beside Lando’s. He placed a hand on Lando’s tigh, caressing it lightly.

Lando looked down at it. Then up again.

Oscar met his gaze.

“I didn’t come here to fix things” he said, quietly. “But I’m not going anywhere or doing anything unless you ask me to.”

Lando didn’t speak. He couldn’t. There was too much in his chest.

So he did the only thing he could.

He reached forward and placed his hand over Oscar’s.

Not as an answer.

As a beginning.

Chapter Text

Oscar woke up to the quiet.

It seeped into the corners of the room, threaded through the wooden beams above and drifted lazily in the soft rustle of leaves beyond the glass. The darkness still hung in the air, slow and heavy, not yet ready to make space for the morning.

And wrapped inside that quiet, like a secret held too gently to break, was Lando.

Too close.

And still, somehow, not close enough.

He was lying beside Oscar. Curled slightly toward him, one arm tucked under the pillow, the other resting close enough that Oscar could feel the ghost of his warmth. His face was turned in Oscar’s direction, lips parted, breath soft and even.

Oscar didn’t move. He just looked.

His curls had grown since the last time. They tumbled over his forehead in loose, disobedient waves, some drifting all the way to his neck. Longer than before. Softer. They framed his face differently now, messier, almost boyish, and made Oscar ache with something he didn’t want to name.

Then there was his ear, just visible beneath the tousled hair, the curve of it delicately sharp. Slightly pointed, like something out of a storybook. It was absurd, really. How someone who drove like a lunatic could look like that, like not entirely of this world? 

And his mouth, rosy even in sleep. Lips full, soft, shaped like they hovered constantly on the edge of a grin. When he smiled, they curved into something near a heart, and his canines peeked through just enough to make him look mischievous. Like a boy who got away with everything, because of course people would let him. 

Then came the lashes, long and dark, sweeping shadows onto the top of Lando’s cheeks. And Oscar had always known exactly what color those lashes guarded. The blue behind them wasn’t forgettable. A piercing blue that struck his mind and settled at the back of his head like a scar that never healed. He hadn’t seen it in a week, but he could conjure it with ease. It was his first memory of Lando, those eyes scanning past him like he wasn’t there.

Because to Lando, back then, he probably wasn’t.

Back then, he was just another junior trying to earn a spot in a world that already revolved around Lando. There had always been people orbiting him constantly. Always surrounded by friends, cameras, and handlers.

He wasn’t supposed to be important. He was younger. Quieter. The kind of tall that made Lando bristle, even if he never said it. There’d been a moment, Oscar remembered it clearly, when Lando had looked him up and down and seemed annoyed by the difference, as if his height was a personal offense. He hated being the smallest. Hated being underestimated.

Oscar never underestimated him.

Not once.

And now, even years later, even here, Lando still felt too big of a presence for the room. He filled every quiet space without trying. And yet, somehow, Oscar always imagined Lando folding into him. Oscar had the impression that Lando would fit perfectly on him, like his body had gaps only Lando could settle into. 

He had spent so long admiring from a distance. Then they became teammates, and Oscar realized he was looking for Lando in every room, every frame, every quiet second between races. He kept catching himself watching, tracking, wanting. Lando was so many things. Charismatic, magnetic, adored. He belonged to everyone. 

And Oscar hated that. Hated how easily Lando gave pieces of himself away. Even if he never said it aloud.

Then Mily said it for him.

"You talk about Lando like you are in love with him." she said one night, as a joke.

Oscar had denied it, of course he had.

Then she said again, with more care. “You love him”, and smiled, resigned. "You’ll understand eventually”. This time, it stung. Because she was letting him go. Not out of kindness, but because she already knew what he didn’t.

And now he was getting a glimpse of what she saw. 

Because there he was, in Lando’s bed, in the middle of the Italian countryside, watching him sleep like he meant everything. 

And fuck , he did.

Oscar inhaled slowly, letting the moment stretch wide around him. He let his gaze rest a little longer; on the slope of Lando’s neck, the twitch of his fingers, the soft exhale of breath. And then finally closed his eyes again.

For once, he wasn’t fighting the yearning in his chest.

He let it settle. 

And drifted back down with it.

When Oscar woke up again, daylight was creeping through the window, golden and slow.

This time, Lando wasn’t there.

The other side of the bed was still warm and sheets were rumpled. Oscar sat up, rubbed the back of his neck as he listened.

A soft clatter came from down the hall. Ceramic, metal, the scrape of a drawer. Muffled sounds. The kitchen.

Oscar stood, hoodie still clinging to him, and padded quietly down the hallway. He stopped just short of the doorway.

There was Lando. 

Their roles from the other day switched. This time, Oscar was watching.

Lando was barefoot, standing at the counter in an oversized t-shirt. His curls were even messier than before, sticking out like he’d run his hands through them a dozen times. He shifted his weight constantly, couldn’t stay still, muttering to himself under his breath as he stirred something in a mixing bowl.

Flour dusted the air.

An stained ipad laid beside him, in a recipe website.

He cracked an egg too hard, cursed softly, tried again. Oscar couldn’t help the smile tugging at his mouth.

It wasn’t just endearing. It was endearing because of how earnestly Lando was trying.

He wasn’t graceful. He wasn’t clean. But there was effort in every movement, and that was what made it beautiful.

Oscar was used to people who executed things perfectly. He wasn’t used to people who did things so freely and this loudly. In fact, he was envious of those.

And then– 

"Shit!"

Lando’s hand recoiled from the oven and dropped the tea towel.

Oscar moved immediately.

Lando spun around, startled, finally noticing his presence. "Jesus, Oscar!"

But Oscar didn’t hesitate. His hands found Lando’s waist, gripped firmly, and lifted him like it was nothing. Like Lando weighed less than a feather. He sat him on the edge of the counter, high and out of the way.

Lando gasped, wide-eyed. "What are you–"

Oscar didn’t give him time to finish. His face was already set in that look, the one Lando remembered from the boat, from the bandages, from the way he wrapped and anchored.

Serious. Calm. Focused.

He reached for Lando’s wrist, turned on the tap, and guided the hand under the cold water.

Lando sat still, legs parted around Oscar’s hips, heart racing.

Oscar didn’t say anything. Just watched the water run over the burn, adjusting the angle gently, fingers never letting go.

Lando’s skin burned where they touched,  and not from the injury.

"It’s not that bad." he said, voice low.

"Still." Oscar murmured. He met his eyes, unwavering.

Still. Like that was enough.

Lando didn’t understand how Oscar did this. How he could just step in, take over, take care. Like it was instinct. Like he was built to do it.

And worse. Oscar wasn’t flustered. Wasn’t annoyed. He looked like he belonged there, caring for Lando.

Lando swallowed.

Oscar turned off the tap, dried the hand carefully. Then, with infuriating tenderness, inspected it again. His brow furrowed slightly, lips pressed into a line.

Lando should’ve said something. Should’ve pulled back.

He didn’t.

"I was making a cake." he offered instead, as an apology.

Oscar’s mouth twitched. "Ambitious."

"Yeah, well. Turns out, baking is hard."

Oscar raised an eyebrow. "You’ve got flour on your face."

Lando rolled his eyes. "Do I?"

Oscar reached up and brushed it away with his thumb. A slow, grazing touch.

Lando stopped breathing.

Oscar’s hand didn’t move.

Their faces were too close. The kitchen too warm. The air too heavy.

Lando’s knees stayed open, almost inviting. And Oscar stayed between them.

For a moment, one quiet, long moment, it felt like they were standing in the middle of something fragile and huge.

Like one wrong move might break it. Or start something they couldn’t undo.

Lando’s fingers curled slightly into the edge of the counter.

God, he liked being touched like this.

He liked being taken care of.

He hated how much he liked it.

Not because it made him feel weak.

Because it made him feel seen .

Like Oscar not only noticed the broken parts, but wanted to handle all of them.

Lando didn’t move.

Neither did Oscar.

The oven beeped.

That night stretched long and slow, folding around them like a second blanket. They’d migrated from the kitchen to the floor of the living room, buried in a sea of pillows and mismatched blankets, the fire crackling quietly in the hearth behind them. The storm outside had faded to a drizzle, distant and forgotten. The TV still played, muted now, flickering shadows dancing across the room.

A deck of cards laying between them.

Oscar shuffled absently, his fingers smooth and practiced. He wasn’t much of a card player, but it gave his hands something to do and gave him a reason to keep looking at Lando without making it obvious.

Lando was curled across from him, hoodie sleeves tugged over his hands, legs folded underneath him. He looked infuriatingly comfortable. Soft. His curls were still a little wild, falling into his eyes as he tilted his head, watching Oscar like he could see what he was thinking.

“What are we playing?” Oscar asked.

Lando shrugged. “Does it matter?”

Oscar raised an eyebrow.

Lando gave a small smile. “We can play for confessions.”

Oscar paused.

“Loser of each hand says something they wouldn’t normally say.” Lando clarified, casual. Too casual.

Oscar narrowed his eyes slightly. “You just want an excuse to make me say things.”

“Maybe.”

Oscar huffed a laugh, but nodded. “Fine.”

They played.

First hand – Lando won. Easily. Oscar dropped his cards with a soft groan.

“Alright.” Lando said, smug. “Confess.”

Oscar looked down. “Sometimes I want to run off the podium before the anthem even starts. I hate everyone looking at me.”

Lando’s eyes softened, the smugness fading. He nodded once, quiet empathy flickering in his eyes.

Second hand – Oscar won.

Lando grinned, wiggled his eyebrows. “I’m not ashamed of anything.”

Oscar waited.

Lando sighed. “Okay. I knew you were going to win in Abu Dhabi.”

Oscar looked up sharply.

Lando’s voice was softer now. “I could feel it. Even if I didn’t want to admit it. At that point you were… better.” 

Oscar didn’t say anything, but the words sat warm in his chest.

They kept playing.

Cards shuffled. Rounds passed. The confessions got slower. More careful.

“I knew your laugh before I knew your voice.” Lando said once.

Oscar blinked. “What?”

“Back in Formula 3. You used to laugh louder in the paddock with your engineers. I didn’t even know your name yet.”

Oscar’s mouth went dry. Then he gave a slow smile, thoughtful. “I remember you then, too. You had that ridiculous yellow cap you wore backwards. Always looked like you’d just gotten away with something.”

Lando laughed quietly. “I probably had.”

Oscar lost the next hand. 

“You used to intimidate me.” Oscar admitted. “Not because of your driving. I mean, that too. But because at some point I felt like you were everywhere.”

Lando didn’t smile at that. He just looked at him, quiet and thoughtful.

Another round.

Another loss.

“I used to watch your interviews.” Oscar said. “Just to see if you’d mention me.”

Lando’s eyes flickered.

Oscar looked down. “You never did.”

Lando leaned forward slightly. “I wanted to.”

Their hands touched, briefly, reaching for the cards. Neither of them pulled away.

Lando brushed his thumb across the back of Oscar’s hand, a soft stroke that made Oscar’s eyes flutter closed. His jaw tensed.

Next hand. Oscar lost again.

He exhaled slowly. “Sometimes I think you don’t know what you do to me.”

Lando leaned back, his eyes half-lidded, a faint flush blooming across his cheeks. He looked at Oscar like he was trying to read through the words. Focused. Intense. Gorgeous.

Lando didn’t move, looking like a fucking perfect sculpture. “What do I do to you?”

Oscar’s voice was quiet. “You make me crave.”

Lando’s lips twitched. His voice was low, rough at the edges. “That’s not a confession, Oscar.” The tone was almost like teasing, but too breathy to be playful. “That’s revenge.”

And maybe it was. Maybe it was Oscar’s way of getting back at Lando for being so effortlessly magnetic, for the impossible way he lingered in Oscar’s chest long after he left a room. For making Oscar feel this much without ever meaning to.

“It’s fair game.” Oscar said, simply.

Next round. Lando lost.

He stared at the cards like they might save him.

Oscar waited.

“I remember that day in Singapore.” Lando said finally. “You were explaining something to one of the mechanics, something about tire deg and how the car was fighting you in high-speed corners. You were on a baby blue t-shirt and your arms were crossed. An impossible serious expression. And I just stood there. Listening. You weren’t even talking to me. But the way you spoke, so precise and sure… I don’t know. It got to me. Not just the words. You.”

Oscar grinned, shaking his head, cheeks warm. “I remember that day. You wouldn’t stop looking at me, and I was innocent to not know why.”

Lando shrugged. “I thought I was being subtle.”

Oscar looked at him amused. “You weren’t.”

Lando cleared his throat. "Extra confession”. That took Oscar by surprise, and he paid attention. “I hate that shirt you’re wearing.”

Oscar blinked, surprised. “What?”

“Something about the color.” Lando said, lips twitching. 

Oscar’s brow arched.

“Take it off.”

Oscar laughed at first. But then, his eyes darkened. He pulled the shirt over his head, slow and unhurried, and dropped it to the side.

He looked back at Lando, whose breath had visibly caught in his throat.

Oscar lost the next hand.

He smirked. “Your thighs.” he started. "On that vacation in Bali. You leaned to take a picture with me, and I touched them for support." Lando grinned, as if he knew. "You were wearing swimming shorts and my handprint lingered, the same pink shade as them." Oscar looked down as if he was remembering exactly how it happened. "I had to go back to the hotel right after that."

A low groan escaped Lando.

They played another round. The cards barely mattered now.

“Your voice” Lando said, eyes on the floor. “When you get serious. When you talk low. That’s... a problem for me.”

Oscar’s heart skipped. “Yeah?”

Lando looked up slowly. “Yeah.”

There was a pause.

Oscar lost the next hand. He swallowed. “Sometimes I imagine what it would be like if we just stayed. If we didn’t go back. Just stayed here.”

Lando’s expression cracked open. Something raw flickered across it.

Oscar kept going, quieter now. "You’d make breakfast. Burn the toast. Wear one of my shirts. We’d sit out on the steps until the sun hit the trees."

Lando was staring at him.

Oscar held his gaze. “I’d like that.”

The next hand was slow. Deliberate. Both of them playing half-heartedly.

Lando won.

He looked at Oscar carefully.

“Say it.” he said, voice gentler now.

Oscar stared at the cards in his hands. Then looked up.

“That night” he said softly, gaze fixed on Lando. “When I showed up at your door, soaked from the rain. I was exhausted and angry and lost. But the second you opened the door, and I saw your face–” he paused, breathing carefully, “I knew that if I stepped inside, I wouldn’t leave the same person. That I wouldn’t be able to pretend anymore. That I didn’t want you.”

Lando’s breath caught, his eyes flicking between Oscar’s.

And then, barely above a whisper: “What are we doing, Oscar?”

Oscar leaned across the pillows, slow, cautious. He reached up, brushed his fingers lightly along Lando’s jaw. Those olive eyes flicked over Lando’s face, taking in the closeness, the flush on his cheeks, the question lingering like a held breath. He swallowed.

Oscar’s voice dropped, low and serious. “You tell me.”

And suddenly, Lando looked younger, innocent in a way he never looked before, wearing his heart on his sleeve. “Please, don’t break my heart. I couldn’t handle it.”

Oscar leaned in, their noses brushing, and whispered, “I’d rather break myself first.”

Lando closed his eyes, just for a second, and that was all the permission Oscar needed.

The kiss began soft. Still cautious, still slow. Their lips met gently, like they were still testing if this was real. If they could actually have it.

But Lando tilted his head, and Oscar felt it shift.

Oscar’s hand cupped Lando’s jaw, the other anchoring against the floor. The kiss deepened, heat blooming between them like it had been waiting all along.

Lando broke the kiss first.

Just barely, pulling back an inch, lips still parted, breath uneven. His chest rose and fell with a quiet urgency, his flushed cheeks and soft lips glowed in the firelight. His curls were a mess, hoodie pushed slightly askew, and eyes feverish.

He didn’t speak right away. Just laid back slowly into the pillows, gaze fixed on Oscar with a look that made the world tilt.

Then, without breaking eye contact, he shifted, parting his legs slightly, slow and deliberate, the invitation silent but undeniable.

His voice came low, soft, almost wrecked.

“Come here.”

Oscar didn’t blink.

He moved until the space between them was nothing at all. He settled between Lando’s thighs, one hand braced on the blankets, the other sliding up to cradle Lando’s cheek again. 

The warmth of him, the weight, the scent, all of it pressed into Lando, a new kind of touch he didn’t know he’d been craving until it was there.

Lando clung to Oscar, and when their mouths met this time, it wasn’t cautious.

It was inevitable.

The kisses stretched on, slow and endless, not nearly enough for either of them. Lando’s clothes were gone now, no longer a barrier between their bodies, but his hands still clutched at Oscar’s back, as if trying to pull him even closer, as if skin to skin wasn’t close enough.

Oscar’s palm drifted over Lando’s waist, slow and deliberate, while his mouth mapped the constellation of moles along his neck, each one kissed like a promise. There were so many, scattered like secrets, and Oscar treated every single one like it mattered.

He could feel the heat rising beneath Lando’s skin, simmering under his lips, under his tongue, like he was drawing something out of him, coaxing him open one breath at a time.

“Osc–”

Lando’s voice cracked against the air, fragile and high with need, the syllable barely formed. It always came like that – soft and desperate when he was overwhelmed. And Oscar would catch it, swallow it, kiss it into silence.

God , he loved that sound. Loved the way Lando trembled when it slipped out. It made Oscar press closer, slower, deeper. It made him want more.

His hand slid downward, fingers spreading over the swell of Lando’s thigh; full, warm, trembling slightly under his touch. He traced along the edge of his boxers, teasing but never committing, just enough to earn a needy whine.

“Take it off.” Lando gasped, hips twitching.

“Yes.” Oscar murmured, mouth against his skin. 

But he didn’t.

Not yet.

He was savoring this. Every inch. Every sound. Every soft curse and bitten-back moan.

He had no intention of rushing something that tasted like worship.

Then Oscar moved lower.

He kissed his way down Lando’s neck with agonizing patience, each press of his lips dragging heat deeper under Lando’s skin. His mouth found a path over collarbones, down the center of his chest; and lingered. He toyed with Lando’s nipples, tongue flicking, lips wrapping gently, just to hear the noises it pulled from him. And God, the noises. Soft, broken things that made Oscar's blood thrum in his ears.

He didn’t rush. He traced the lines of Lando’s abdomen with the tip of his tongue, following the faint trail of hair that led down, down, down. He kissed low on his hips, one side, then the other, teeth grazing skin like a threat and a promise.

And then he paused. Hovering just above the waistband of Lando’s boxers, his lips brushing the fabric.

His eyes lifted, dark and burning.

"Look at me."

Lando’s chest was rising and falling too fast, pupils blown wide as they locked eyes.

Oscar mouthed at the waistband, then bit it lightly.

“Do you want it?”

"Osc–"

"Say it." His voice was low, commanding. A quiet hunger laced in velvet. "Do you want it?"

Lando's head tipped back for a second, his voice cracked. “Fuck. Yes. Yes, I do.”

Oscar smiled. That slow, devastating kind of smile, and slid his hand down, fingers dragging along the thin fabric. He pulled the boxers down with deliberate care, like he was unwrapping some present. And he kissed the skin he uncovered, first the hips, then lower, then the base; until Lando was completely exposed, flushed and aching.

His hand wrapped around him first, gentle, reverent. He stroked once, eyes never leaving Lando’s face, and Lando whimpered, his entire body twitching.

Then Oscar dipped his head.

The moment his lips touched the tip, Lando made a sound that wasn’t quite human. His hand flew to Oscar’s hair, grasping instinctively, as if he needed something – anything – to anchor him to the earth.

Oscar moaned around him, deep and rich, and it vibrated through Lando’s entire body.

He tasted, licked, teased. Then opened his mouth wider and took him in. Not too fast. But deep enough that Lando’s head slammed back into the pillow, his fingers tightening in Oscar’s hair.

He was good. Too good.

Of course Oscar was good.

"Hot." Lando gasped, eyes fluttering shut. “Jesus, Oscar, your mouth–”

But the words didn’t land. They collapsed into half-sounds, unfinished, his breath catching in his throat before they could take form.

Oscar didn’t stop.

He moved with precision, with intent. Each pass of his tongue, each pull of his lips, was calculated to claim. He hollowed his cheeks and pulled in deep, his hand stroking the base in tandem, the other hand slipping up to slide over Lando’s thigh.

Lando couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. His hips bucked slightly, and Oscar let him, adjusted, welcomed it. He reached for Lando’s other hand and placed it in his hair, meeting his eyes with a quiet command.

Hold on tight.

Lando did.

Both hands gripped Oscar’s hair now, guiding, trembling, helpless against the building pressure inside him.

Oscar lifted Lando’s thighs up easily, locking them over his shoulders, the heat between his legs pulsing against his skin.

Oscar let himself sink deeper, adjusting the angle, taking more, the rhythm growing steady, intense. Every sound Lando made spurred him on; the whimpers, the moans, the high, desperate gasp when he moaned around him again.

Lando was unraveling.

His fingers flexed in Oscar’s hair, thighs tensing and trembling. His head tossed against the pillows, lips parted, cheeks flushed with color. He looked wrecked. And beautiful.

“Fuck–” Lando gasped. “Don’t stop.”

Oscar had no intention of stopping.

He sucked harder, faster, letting Lando fuck slowly into his mouth. He moaned again – a needy, low sound – and the echo of it made Lando’s whole body jolt.

It was too much. 

Just as Lando was starting to fall apart beneath him, with his back arching, breath catching, thighs trembling… Oscar stopped.

He pulled back with maddening control, his tongue dragging in one final, slow pass along the length of Lando’s cock, collecting the taste already starting to spill. Salty and warm. He licked his lips and felt the mess on his chin, but he didn’t wipe it.

Instead, he rose, leaned in, and kissed Lando. Messy, deep, open-mouthed. He kissed him like he wanted Lando to taste himself, like he wanted to mark him from the inside out.

“I was so close.” Lando whispered, a pout in his voice, hoarse and breathless.

Oscar smiled against his lips, voice low and smug. “I know.”

It wasn’t experience. It wasn’t technique. It was hunger. Unfiltered, unrelenting desire that had been simmering under Oscar’s skin for months. Years. He wanted to devour Lando. 

“Touch me.” Oscar murmured.

Lando didn’t hesitate.

His fingers, still slightly cold from the air, ghosted down Oscar’s abdomen, every muscle twitching in response, and slipped beneath the waistband of his boxers. His hand closed around Oscar’s cock, hot and heavy and so hard he could barely hold still.

Oscar moaned.

It was guttural. Like it had been punched out of him. Lando felt it vibrate through his own chest. It was the kind of moan that said this wasn’t just the sex. It was him doing this to Oscar.

He was the reason Oscar was falling apart.

Lando felt his own breath stutter as he stroked him, feeling just how slick he already was.

“You’re so fucking wet.” he whispered, thumb grazing the swollen tip.

Oscar swallowed, eyes locked on Lando’s. He looked wrecked. Flushed and trembling, lips swollen from sucking and kissing. His hair was damp with sweat, and there was a wild look in his eyes like he was barely hanging on.

“I want you inside.” Lando said, voice low and shaking, but steady enough to land like a thunderclap.

Oscar’s brow drew close but his eyes never left Lando when the sound punched out of his throat – part groan, part curse.

Lando had always been talkative in bed, but he wasn’t expecting the same from Oscar. The way his breath hitched, the way he reacted to every word like it struck a nerve. He was so responsive, so fucking open.

Lando’s thumb traced a slow, deliberate circle around the head of his cock.

Then he leaned up and softly kissed the tiny mole near the corner of Oscar’s upper lip.

“I want you.” he whispered again.

Oscar’s breathing was ragged now, his hips stuttering into Lando’s fist.

His other hand slid lower, tugging Oscar’s boxers down until he was fully exposed – hard and flushed and perfect.

“Do you want me?” Oscar asked, voice soft but burning.

“Inside me” Lando breathed, like it was the only thing he could think.

“Fuck.” Oscar exhaled, feeling the tightening grip around him again, Lando dragging his thumb along the underside to watch Oscar twitch.

Oscar's head lowered to Lando's level, until he could whisper in his ear.

“If you keep talking like that, or doing me like this”, he said, as Lando’s hand went back to stroking his cock “I’m going to come before I even get to touch you properly.”

“Then fuck me” Lando said, stopping his hand, but still holding him.

Oscar groaned, eyes squeezed shut like he was trying to hold on to the last shreds of control.

Then, finally, he opened them. Gaze blown wide and full of fire.

“Where are the condoms?”

Oscar’s voice was barely above a whisper, raw around the edges, like the question itself cost him breath.

Lando didn’t answer. He moved fast, shifting just enough beneath Oscar to reach for the side table, fingers fumbling through the drawer until they closed around foil and a bottle of lube. His chest rose and fell in sharp, unsteady waves.

But Oscar never left him.

He stayed close, trailing kisses along Lando’s jaw, his throat, the curve of his shoulder, worshipping him in the spaces between motion. By the time Lando turned back, Oscar was already upright, eyes dark, breath unsteady. He took the items from his hands with slightly trembling fingers.

Then, with a kind of reverence that made Lando’s stomach clench, Oscar reached down, grabbed one of the scattered pillows, and slid it beneath the small of Lando’s back, angling his hips with a care that made it impossible to breathe.

Every touch of his was precise. Thoughtful. Unhurried.

Lando’s breath caught. Oscar didn’t look flustered. Didn’t look unsure. Just devastatingly focused. Confident. Like he’d rehearsed this in his head too many times to count.

He opened the lube, and the sound of the cap clicking open felt louder than it should. A small puddle of cool slick gathered in his palm, and he coated his fingers, warming it slightly before bringing them between Lando’s parted thighs.

"It’s cold" he murmured.

“I know” Lando replied, breathless.

Oscar’s fingers brushed him gently, circling his entrance with barely-there pressure, coaxing soft moans from Lando's lips with nothing more than the promise of what was coming.

“You’ve used this before?” Oscar asked, low, almost gruff.

Lando nodded, voice trembling. “Yeah.”

Oscar glanced at the bottle, brows twitching. “It’s half empty.”

Lando turned his face toward the ceiling, cheeks flushed. “I used it after I got here.”

Oscar stilled. His eyes flicked up. “You did?”

Lando gave him a faint, teasing smile. “I wasn’t exactly expecting company.”

Oscar swallowed, hard. Something in his face shifted. Darkened.

“Did you use your fingers?”

Lando nodded slowly, arousal thrumming in his voice. “Yeah.”

Oscar kissed the inside of Lando’s thigh, tender at first, then with teeth. His voice dropped another octave. “How many?”

Lando’s eyelids fluttered. “Three.”

Oscar froze. His brows drew together sharply, eyes closed, and he growled – actually growled – low in his throat. “Three fingers” he repeated, almost to himself. “Three fingers, all by yourself, while I was wasting time.”

Lando whimpered when he felt the first finger slide in. Then the second.

Fuck . He really inserted two fingers, one right after another.

Lando felt the moan being ripped from him.

Oscar moved slow but deliberate, kissing along Lando’s thigh as he opened him up, teasing, stroking, murmuring filth against his skin.

“Three fingers.” he whispered against Lando's skin. “And I wasn’t here to take care of your needs”. He kissed his thigh, right next to his cock. “wasn’t here to take care of you.”

Oscar groaned, more frustrated with himself than sorry for Lando. 

His hand wrapped around Lando’s cock and stroked once, firmly, and Lando arched into the touch like it was oxygen.

“What were you thinking about?” Oscar whispered, his lips brushing Lando’s skin. “What made you so fucking desperate?”

Lando bit his lip. “Miami.”

Oscar blinked. “What?”

“You. Miami. On the podium. You looked untouchable. Confident. So fucking handsome I couldn’t breathe.”

Oscar stopped moving. His hand stilled. His face turned toward Lando like he was trying to memorize every curve of his expression.

“You thought about me.” Oscar murmured. “When you pushed three fingers inside yourself.” It was not a question.

“Yes” Lando said, soft and shameless. “I wanted you. That night, and every night after.” He whimpered, teary eyes and a choked voice. “I wanted you so bad, Oscar.”

Oscar exhaled through his teeth like the air was too hot to hold. Then he added a third finger; slower, stretching Lando wide. And Lando cried out, grabbing fistfuls of the blanket beneath them, his back arching.

“You’re taking it so well” Oscar rasped, his voice a broken mix of awe and hunger. “Fuck, love , you are too good.”

Lando moaned loudly for that.

Oscar kissed a trail from Lando’s thigh to his navel, one hand wrapped around his cock again, stroking him as his fingers moved in and out.

"You're so warm." Lando whispered, flushed and trembling. “Your fingers feel so good.”

Oscar moaned against his skin, deep and low, like he was trying to hold back something bigger than either of them.

“Enough.” Lando whispered, voice shaky. “Oscar… it’s enough.”

Oscar looked up from where he knelt between Lando’s open thighs, his lips still parted, breath warm against flushed skin. He didn’t move right away. His eyes dragged over Lando’s body like he wasn’t quite ready to stop. Like he couldn’t.

“Please.” Lando added, his voice barely above a breath now, trembling around the edges.

Oscar shifted slowly, rising onto his knees. His hands left Lando with a reluctant grace, as if peeling himself away from something he’d melted into. Lando expected him to reach for something – for him – but instead, Oscar lifted his hand, the fingers that had just been inside him, and brought them to his own mouth.

Lando’s breath caught.

Oscar didn’t break eye contact as he parted his lips and sucked his fingers clean, slow and unbothered, while touching himself, like it was instinct. 

Something in Lando’s chest cracked wide open. The air between them thickened, pulsing. He felt lightheaded, heavy, like he wasn’t entirely in his body anymore. Like Oscar had taken him somewhere else without warning.

“Already good?” he asked, with soft yet deep eyes. “You think you’re ready?”

Lando nodded frantically. “Yes. Please. Please , Oscar.”

Oscar didn’t move immediately.

His eyes scanned Lando’s body. The sweat-shined skin, the pink flush across his chest, the way his thighs trembled with every breath. Oscar looked ruined and in control at the same time.

Lando whimpered. His brain short-circuited at the sight.

“Fuck me now?” he begged, breathless and shaking. “Please, Oscar? Mmhmm ?”

Oscar nodded once, sharp and serious, like he’d just been given orders he’d trained his whole life to follow.

He tore open the condom, rolled it on smoothly, and wrapped his hand around the base of his cock, jerking himself once as he settled between Lando’s thighs.

“I’m going to go slow.” he murmured, voice thick with restraint.

Lando closed his eyes, nodded.

“No.” Oscar demanded. “Look at us.”

Lando blinked up at him.

And then he watched. 

Lando watched Oscar line himself up, watched the tension in his arm, the way his jaw tightened, the soft flush that crept up his neck. He watched as Oscar pressed forward, breaching him slowly, inch by inch, until Lando’s breath turned into a sob.

"Fuck." Oscar hissed. "You’re perfect.”

Lando’s fingers clutched at Oscar’s arms, nails digging slightly into muscle. The stretch was intense. Full. His body didn’t just take Oscar – it welcomed him.

Oscar paused once he was fully inside, forehead pressing against Lando’s, their breath mixing in tight, shallow gasps.

Then he moved.

Slowly, at first. A gentle rocking motion that made Lando’s mouth fall open with every drag and push. The rhythm built with each thrust, hips meeting with an ache that bloomed into fire.

Every sound Lando made fed Oscar’s hunger.

Every moan, every plea, every whispered “don’t stop.”

Oscar fucked him like he was trying to memorize every part of it. The way Lando’s back arched. The way he clenched around him. The way his hands reached for Oscar’s face, his arms, his shoulders… anything he could touch.

Oscar kissed him through it. Deep, needy kisses. Biting kisses. Gentle ones when Lando shook beneath him.

“You feel so good.” Oscar whispered against his cheek. “So good for me.”

Lando could only nod, eyes half-lidded, mouth swollen and open.

“You’re so pretty.” Oscar moaned, breath hitching.

“Say it again.” Lando whispered, his voice low, sweet, brushing right against Oscar's ear.

“You’re so pretty, aren't you?” he said, softer this time. “Your eyes. Your mouth. Your body. So fucking pretty.”

Lando let out a shaky breath, head falling back against the pillow, mouth parted. He looked wrecked already, flushed and shining, like the words alone were undoing him.

“Yes… don’t stop.” He whimpered, hips twitching.

Oscar smiled against his skin, dragging his mouth down to Lando’s neck, voice just a thread of breath.

“Love your sounds.” he whispered.

Lando’s fingers tightened on Oscar’s arms.

“I love the way you are opening up for me” Oscar went on, barely audible now, speaking between slow, deliberate kisses to Lando’s throat.

Lando was trembling beneath him.

“You’re so responsive” Oscar said, lower now, dirtier, right at Lando’s ear. “So fucking desperate for it, aren’t you?”

“Yeah” Lando moaned, eyes fluttering closed.

"Fuck. Me too. I’m desperate for you."

Oscar nipped his earlobe, then soothed it with his tongue. “You drive me crazy, Lando.”

Lando groaned, utterly undone. “Oscar, I’m close.”

Oscar gasped and reached between them, wrapping a hand around Lando’s cock. He stroked him in time with his thrusts, faster now, deeper.

“Come for me” he growled. “Let me see you come.”

And Lando did – loud and messy, falling apart beneath him, crying out Oscar’s name like a prayer.

His body tightened around Oscar, trembling violently as waves of pleasure overtook him. And just before Oscar could spill inside him, he pulled out, biting down on a groan. He wanted to stay present, to see Lando come undone, every flicker of expression, every sound.

And he did.

Oscar watched him. Watched the way Lando's body arched, head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut, lips parted in a silent cry before it broke into a helpless moan. Watched his face flush scarlet, his chest heaving, stomach tight, thighs trembling. From the crown of his head to the soles of his feet, Lando was flushed, glowing. Slick with sweat and shining like he’d been carved from some fever dream.

When Lando finally opened his eyes, they were glassy, unfocused. His pupils were blown wide, the vivid blue of his irises eclipsed in a daze that looked half-bliss, half-otherworldly. Like he wasn’t fully there anymore. Like his mind had slipped somewhere Oscar couldn’t follow.

And then, still breathless, his muscles trembling from the aftershocks, Lando moved.

Oscar blinked, confused as Lando pushed himself up. He didn’t speak, didn’t have to. He placed a hand on Oscar’s chest and nudged gently, coaxing him to lie back.

Oscar obeyed instantly, eyes never leaving Lando’s.

Lando straddled him in silence, his legs spread wide, his thighs trembling slightly. His body was still recovering, but his hands were steady as he reached between them and wrapped his fingers around Oscar’s cock; slick, flushed, still hard and twitching with need.

Oscar’s breath hitched in his throat as Lando aligned them. Every nerve ending in his body screamed at once.

And then Lando sank down.

Oscar’s vision went white.

His hands flew to Lando’s hips, gripping tight. Lando’s walls were still sensitive, still fluttering around him, and it was too much. Too hot. Too tight. Oscar cursed under his breath, head thrown back as Lando slowly began to move.

He was gorgeous. Flushed pink from his cheeks to his chest, mouth parted in a soft muted moan, curls stuck to his forehead with sweat. His cock was still semi-hard, bouncing lightly against his belly with every motion.

Oscar wanted to say something – anything – but words failed. All he could do was hold on.

“Lando… please –” he sounded desperate, not knowing what to do with himself, or Lando, or anything anymore. 

But Lando just placed one hand on Oscar’s chest to hold him down, his other bracing on Oscar’s thigh as he rode him fast, deliberately.

His eyes stayed locked on Oscar’s. Half-lidded and wild, like he was drunk on it.

Oscar’s toes curled. His fingers dug into Lando’s hips. He could barely hold himself back, barely stay grounded.

And still Lando moved.

“Fuck, Lando –” Oscar gasped, his orgasm building again, rising like fire in his spine. “I’m–”

He couldn’t finish the sentence.

And then it hit. 

Oscar’s orgasm slammed into him like a crashing wave, ripping through his body with a force he couldn’t contain. He cried out – louder than ever – body arching beneath Lando as he spilled deep inside him, his hands shaking.

And still Lando didn’t stop.

He moved through it, milking every drop from him, dragging it out until Oscar’s whole body convulsed, hypersensitive, overstimulated.

And it hurt so good . 

It was unbearable. It was perfect.

Oscar trembled violently beneath him, body limp and twitching, breath coming in ragged gasps.

And only then did Lando stop.

He collapsed over Oscar, pressing their chests together, their bodies still sheened with sweat. He buried his face in Oscar’s neck and kissed his throat, slow and soft, like he was trying to anchor himself.

Oscar wrapped his arms around him instantly.

Neither of them spoke.

They just held each other, their breathing tangled, their heartbeats racing.

The seconds passed. Many minutes even.

Oscar ran a soothing hand down Lando’s back, the other cradling his nape, threading gently through damp curls. Lando pressed even closer, curling into the warmth of Oscar’s chest like he never wanted to move again.

His body still buried deep inside Lando.

“You’re insane.” Oscar murmured eventually, breathless.

Lando laughed weakly, voice hoarse. “Takes one to know one.”

Oscar smiled and kissed the top of his head.

He reached behind Lando, careful and slow, pulling a blanket over them both. Lando shifted with a soft noise, finally slipping off him and curling up at his side, looking at Oscar.

Oscar pressed a kiss to Lando’s temple.

“You okay?” he whispered.

Lando nodded. “Yeah. Just… light.”

Oscar’s smile deepened. “I’ve got you.”

He held his hand, bringing it to his lips and kissing gently.

“Do you need anything?” he asked quietly.

Lando shook his head. “No. Just you.”

Oscar kissed him again. “Yes. All yours.”

They laid side by side, the blanket draped loosely over their tangled legs, facing each other. The fire had burned low, casting soft shadows across Lando’s cheekbones. His curls were messy, sticking slightly to his forehead, and his lips were still kiss-bitten and pink.

Their eyes locked in the quiet that followed. No more pretending, no more tension, only the raw stillness of what lingered between them.

Oscar reached out and traced his knuckles gently along Lando’s jaw. “I think I’ve been in love with you for longer than I realized.”

Lando blinked, but didn’t look away.

“Maybe since last year.” Oscar continued. “Maybe before that. I just– I didn’t want to look at it too closely. But now, I’m sure.”

Lando was quiet for a long moment. Then, softly, “I don’t know when it started for me. I didn’t have a moment where it clicked. I just… kept thinking about you. Looking for you. And then one day, pretending I didn’t know what it was got really hard.”

Oscar’s throat tightened.

“I tried not to know.” Lando added. “I tried so hard not to admit it. But when you showed up in the rain… I felt it. I think, deep down, I already knew I was gone for you.”

Oscar swallowed hard and reached for Lando’s hand between them, threading their fingers together. “I should’ve said something sooner.”

“I don’t think either of us really knew how.” Lando said, a little helpless, a little embarrassed. “I’m still not sure I do. But… I wanted you here. I wanted you, Oscar.”

“I’m here.” Oscar said. “And I want you too.”

Lando shifted closer, just an inch, enough that their foreheads nearly touched.

“I like this.” he murmured. “You looking at me like that.”

Oscar smiled. “And I like looking at you.”

A beat passed. Their joined hands rested lightly between them, thumbs brushing in slow movements.

“You’re not afraid?” Lando asked after a while.

Oscar shook his head. “No. Are you?”

Lando nodded, slowly. “No.”

They stayed like that. Quiet, warm, holding hands in the dark, watching each other like something precious and real. 

And finally, as sleep began to wrap around them both, Lando’s voice found the space between them one last time.

“You make it feel easy.”

Oscar squeezed his hand gently. “With you, it is.”

Their eyes closed, still facing each other, still touching.

Neither of them knew what tomorrow would look like.

But tonight... tonight was theirs.

And they weren’t letting go.