Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The rain had started sometime in the early morning. Monaco was still heavy with summer warmth, but the sky had turned soft and grey, the kind of weather that invited stillness. Lando stirred slowly, cocooned in layers of familiar weight—his favourite duvet, the scent of last night’s coconut shampoo still lingering faintly on the pillow, and the soft pressure of Charles’ arm slung loosely across his middle.

The bed was quiet.

That was the first thing Lando noticed. No Carlos mumbling Spanish curses into his pillow, no Max grunting as he shoved someone’s knee out of his side, no Oscar snuffling against someone’s chest. Just… stillness. The sheets on the far side of the bed were cool.

Lando blinked blearily at the ceiling, confused.

Then the smell of earl grey and the sound of gentle turning pages floated in from the living room, and he relaxed.

They weren’t gone. Just up.

He turned onto his side, careful not to disturb the empty space Charles had left behind. The ache in his chest was quiet this morning. No races, no press. Just a slow day. Just them.

And the flat always felt safest when Charles was the one awake first.

Dragging himself up, Lando shuffled down the hallway wrapped in Max’s too-big hoodie (stolen and unwashed because it still smelled like Max) and a pair of Oscar’s soft pyjama pants with cartoon suns on them. He padded into the living room with sleep still clinging to him like lint.

Charles was curled into the corner of the window seat, legs folded underneath him, tea steaming gently on the sill. The sky outside was heavy and soft. Rain slid down the glass in slow, winding trails.

Lando didn’t say anything—he just walked over and dropped into Charles’ lap with a sigh, arms looped lazily around his waist. Charles chuckled, low in his throat, and reached one hand up to card through Lando’s mess of curls.

"Bonjour, mon Doudou," Charles murmured, voice soft and lilting with sleep-warmed French.

Lando made a pleased noise in the back of his throat and burrowed in closer, cheek pressing against the smooth cotton of Charles’ tee. "Where’d everyone go?"

"Breakfast run. Carlos and Max wanted something specific from the bakery with the really stupid line. Oscar went for coffee."

"Without me?"

Charles smiled into Lando’s hair. "You looked too peaceful to wake up. You were wrapped around Oscar like an octopus."

"I always am."

"I know." Charles tugged him even closer. "Mon Doudou."

Lando scrunched his nose. "You’re gonna have to explain that one again."

Charles laughed under his breath, wrapping both arms around him now. "You always pretend you forget."

"I do forget. You use too many cute French words. I can’t keep track."

"It’s not just a cute word. It’s what French kids call their comfort toy. You know, the one they carry everywhere. The thing that makes everything feel okay."

Lando blinked up at him, still sleepy-eyed. "...You think I’m a stuffed animal?"

Charles leaned in and kissed the tip of his nose. "No. I think you’re the softest thing in the world, and I feel better when I’m holding you."

That made Lando go still.

Not because he was embarrassed—he’d long since passed the point of hiding his reactions to their affection—but because sometimes Charles said things that didn’t go through the normal emotional filters first. He just said them like facts, like they were obvious.

And it hit Lando right in the chest.

He pressed his face into Charles’ neck and whispered, “You make me feel safe too.”

Charles hummed, low and content. “I’m glad.”

They stayed like that for a while. Rain tapping the windows. Charles’ fingers drifting up and down Lando’s back in long, soothing strokes. The kind of morning that made you forget about anything outside the flat.

"...Do you think they’ll bring me back one of those little almond croissants?" Lando mumbled.

Charles kissed his hair. "They better. I told Carlos if he didn’t, I’d tell his mother he’s still using shampoo from the supermarket."

Lando snorted. "Brutal."

"He said that’s your fault, by the way. He caught you stealing his bottle last week."

"I didn’t steal it. I just—borrowed the good-smelling one. He always smells like coconut and I wanted to smell nice too."

"You always smell nice." Charles kissed the shell of his ear this time. “You smell like home.”

Lando melted further into him, tucked safe and warm and folded under the rhythm of Charles’ voice and the storm outside. They might’ve stayed like that all day, if the front door hadn’t clicked open moments later.

Oscar’s voice filtered through first. “—no, Max, you cannot just bribe the woman at the counter with race tickets—oh, hi!”

Charles laughed as Oscar peeked his head into the room, cheeks pink from the walk and curls damp at the tips. “We brought pastries. Max got rained on, Carlos got mad about it, and I have a flat white and a Kinder bar for Sunshine.”

Lando grinned sleepily, raising a hand from Charles’ lap in greeting. “You’re my favourite.”

“I better be,” Oscar teased, coming to drop a kiss on the top of his head before disappearing toward the kitchen.

Carlos and Max followed, voices loud and overlapping. The apartment came alive with familiar sounds—bags rustling, coffee cups clinking, Carlos muttering something about wet socks in Spanish.

And through it all, Charles kept his arms wrapped around Lando’s middle.

"Mon Doudou," he whispered again, and this time Lando didn’t pretend to forget.

Chapter Text

The apartment was quiet, except for the faint sound of explosions echoing from behind the closed door of the gaming room. Charles had gone to bed first, curling up on the far left of their enormous shared bed with Oscar nestled into his side not long after. Carlos had paced the hall a few times, muttering to himself in Spanish before finally giving up and retreating to bed too, grumbling something about tired eyes and bad habits.

But Max? Max stayed up.

He leaned against the kitchen island, arms folded, staring at the glowing light seeping from the bottom of the door. It was nearly 2:30 in the morning. Again.

He hated this part.

Lando always got like this after race weekends. Wound up, buzzing, incapable of coming down. It didn’t matter if he won or lost, if he had pole or finished P8. If he didn’t funnel that restless energy somewhere, it ate at him. And lately, that somewhere had been his console, headset on, eyes glazed, too loud, too fast, too late.

Max stepped forward and knocked twice, firm. “Lando.”

Nothing.

He knocked again, harder this time. “Lando, seriously.”

The explosions stopped. There was a pause. Then the door creaked open, revealing a flushed, wide-eyed Lando, curls a mess under his headset. His hoodie was off one shoulder, eyes bright and twitchy from screenlight. He looked far too awake for someone who was supposed to be in bed with four other people.

“I was just finishing this round,” Lando said quickly, already shifting like he wanted to close the door again. “Literally like two minutes.”

Max stared at him. “It’s 2:30.”

“I know, but—”

“Lando.” Max’s voice dropped, warning.

Lando blinked. “I’m not even tired.”

“You will be tomorrow. You have a workout with Jon at ten and sim work after lunch. You said you wanted help keeping a better sleep schedule.”

“Yeah, but that was before I got completely creamed in ranked and I needed to work back up. I was doing fine before you barged in like a bloody hall monitor.”

Max’s brows furrowed. “Excuse me?”

Lando flushed but didn’t back down. “You always act like you’re in charge. Like you get to decide when I sleep, what I eat, what’s good for me.”

“Because you never look after yourself!” Max snapped, louder than he meant. “You run yourself into the ground and then you crash and then the rest of us have to pick up the pieces while you sulk under a blanket for three days! You say you want help, but you don’t let anyone help you!”

The silence hit hard. Lando stood frozen in the doorway, lip twitching like he was trying not to cry or yell or both. Max regretted the words immediately, but they were out now, and neither of them knew how to take them back.

Lando slowly took his headset off and dropped it onto the beanbag behind him. He looked down at his socked feet.

“Fine,” he said quietly. “I’ll go to bed.”

He brushed past Max, not touching him, not looking at him. The hallway lights caught on the shine in his eyes, the tightness in his jaw. Max turned to follow, heart hammering against his ribs.

The bedroom was dark except for the glow of a single nightlight near the headboard. Lando climbed into the far right side of the bed and curled onto his side, facing away from the rest of them. He didn’t even try to snuggle up to Oscar or Charles. Just lay there, small and quiet, shoulders hunched like he was trying to disappear.

Max stood frozen in the doorway. Carlos lifted his head, eyes narrowing.

“Did you sort it?” he whispered.

Max hesitated. “I think I made it worse.”

Carlos sighed and rolled over, pulling the duvet tighter around him. Charles shifted in his sleep. Oscar made a soft noise but didn’t wake.

Max crossed the room quietly and sat on the edge of the bed. He looked down at Lando’s turned back.

“Lan,” he said softly.

No response.

He reached out, hesitated, then rested a hand gently on Lando’s hip. The fabric of the pyjama pants was warm under his palm.

“I’m sorry,” Max said. “I didn’t mean to yell. I just—I worry. You don’t always know when to stop.”

Lando was quiet for a long time. Then: “You said I act like a child.”

Max winced. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Then how did you mean it?”

Max lay down behind him, not touching yet, just close. “I meant that you don’t have to keep pushing yourself like this. That you can let go sometimes. That’s not childish. That’s human.”

Lando sniffed. “You scared me. You sounded really mad.”

“I was. But not at you. At the situation. At myself, maybe. For not knowing how to help you without pushing too hard.”

Lando turned his head slightly, just enough that Max could see the outline of his cheek in the dark.

“You do help,” he whispered.

Max reached out then, gently brushing a curl off Lando’s forehead. “You know why I call you schatje?”

Lando gave the smallest shake of his head.

“It’s what my mother called me when I was little. When I got scared or upset. When I was sick. When she wanted me to know I was loved, even when I was difficult. Especially then.”

Lando blinked. His voice was barely a breath. “You think I’m difficult?”

Max smiled, small. “You can be. But that’s not why I use it. I call you schatje because you matter to me. Because I want you to feel safe with me, the way I felt with her. Even when we fight.”

Lando finally shifted, turning in the bed to face Max. He looked soft now. Small in a different way. The kind of small that made Max want to wrap him up and keep him from every sharp edge in the world.

“Say it again?” Lando asked.

Max leaned in, pressing a kiss to Lando’s temple. “Schatje.”

Lando smiled faintly. “Say the other one too. The weird one.”

Max chuckled under his breath. “Liefje.”

Lando tucked his head under Max’s chin, breath evening out. “You’re a really annoying hall monitor, you know.”

Max kissed his hair. “And you’re a brat. But you’re my brat. Our brat.”

They fell asleep like that, tangled together under the duvet, surrounded by the soft breathing of the others. The storm inside Lando finally calmed, lulled by the sound of Max whispering Dutch nicknames in the dark.

And when Charles stirred and reached out in his sleep, and Carlos rolled over to tuck himself around them both, and Oscar murmured something unintelligible before settling in again, Lando let himself feel what he couldn’t say out loud.

Safe. Loved. Home.

Chapter Text

The apartment smelled like eucalyptus and honey. The diffuser Carlos insisted on using during "recovery days" puffed gently in the corner, and soft classical guitar played from the speakers—one of the many playlists Carlos swore by for keeping the mood calm. Outside, the Monaco sun baked the shutters, but the apartment was dim and quiet. Peaceful. Almost.

Except for the part where Lando burst through the door in a sweaty hoodie, wheezing.

Carlos looked up from where he was chopping garlic in the kitchen, eyebrows lifting. "¿Qué haces? You went running like that?"

Lando bent over, bracing his hands on his knees. "I needed the air."

"You have a cold, Lando. You can’t just—"

"I’m fine," Lando insisted, waving a hand as if that would dismiss the hoarseness in his voice or the redness in his cheeks.

Carlos crossed his arms. "You sounded like a dying seal when you left. And now you’re worse."

"Stop being dramatic," Lando muttered, wobbling slightly as he stood upright.

Carlos was at his side in a moment. He pressed the back of his hand to Lando’s forehead, then sighed. "Ven aquí. Couch. Now. You’re burning up."

Fifteen minutes later, Lando was sniffling on the sofa with the same hoodie pulled up to his nose and a distinct layer of denial coating every word that came out of his mouth.

"I'm not sick," he croaked.

Carlos didn't look up from where he was stirring a pot of chicken broth. "Claro que no. That's why your nose is red and you sound like a frog."

Lando made a wounded noise and flopped sideways on the couch, limbs dramatically sprawling. "You're being mean to me."

Carlos rolled his eyes fondly and turned off the heat under the stove. He walked over with a steaming mug and held it out. "Tómalo."

Lando peeked at it suspiciously. "What is it?"

"Tea. With honey and lemon and a little ginger. It will help your throat."

"I hate ginger."

"I know."

Lando scowled. Carlos simply raised an eyebrow. Eventually, with a grumble, Lando took the mug and held it like it was personally offending him.

Carlos sat beside him and nudged his knee. "You're too stubborn, pequeñito."

Lando sniffled again. "You always call me that when I feel like crap."

Carlos smiled gently. "Because you pretend to be big, even when you're falling apart. It reminds me you're mine. That I have to look after you."

Lando didn’t respond right away. He sipped the tea and winced at the taste, then sipped again anyway. Carlos rested a hand on his shin and rubbed slow circles.

"You should be in bed," Carlos said after a moment.

"No. Everyone's out. It's weird being in the big bed alone."

"They're just grabbing lunch and groceries. Max said he'd get you those Kinder bars you like."

"He better."

Carlos chuckled. "Eat your soup when you're ready. It's on the stove. I put the little pasta stars in it."

That earned him a real smile. Lando ducked his head. "Thanks."

Carlos' chest warmed. "You're welcome, mi corazón."

They sat in silence for a while, Lando leaning against Carlos’ shoulder while Carlos scrolled mindlessly on his phone. Every few minutes, Lando would cough or let out a pitiful little sigh, and Carlos would hum or pat his knee in response.

"You gonna make me have a bath too?" Lando asked eventually.

"If you don’t fall asleep first. You’re sweaty and grumpy and your hair’s sticking up everywhere."

"So rude."

Carlos kissed the top of his head. "So true."

Lando laughed, then groaned. "Laughing hurts."

"Then don’t be funny."

"I can’t help it. I’m naturally hilarious."

Carlos shook his head. "Go brush your teeth. I’ll run the bath."

"Bossy."

"Go."

Ten minutes later, Lando was sunk into warm water, arms resting over the edge of the tub while Carlos knelt beside him and poured cupfuls over his curls. The eucalyptus scent was stronger in here. Lando let out a pleased hum, eyelids fluttering.

"You like being looked after," Carlos said quietly.

"Maybe. Just a little. By you."

Carlos' chest squeezed.

He reached for the conditioner and worked it into Lando’s hair, gentle and sure. Lando relaxed fully, the tension leaving his shoulders. His cheeks were still flushed, nose pink, but he looked softer now. Easier.

"Carlos?"

"Hm?"

"You don’t think I’m annoying, do you? When I get sick like this."

Carlos frowned. "Of course not. Where did that come from?"

Lando shrugged, water rippling around him. "Just feel useless, I guess. Like you have to drop everything to babysit me."

Carlos cupped his jaw, thumb brushing Lando’s cheek. "Listen to me, pequeñito. Loving you is never a chore. Not when you're bright and bouncing around the flat, not when you're tucked under a blanket and snoring like a kitten. Not ever."

Lando blinked at him. Carlos leaned in and kissed the tip of his nose.

"You take care of all of us in your own way," Carlos murmured. "With your smile, your noise, your ridiculous dance moves. Let us take care of you back."

Lando nodded slowly. "Okay."

"Good."

Carlos rinsed the last of the conditioner out and helped him up, wrapping him in a towel the size of a small country. Lando leaned into him like he couldn’t hold himself up.

Back in the bedroom, the other boys had returned. Max was sitting against the headboard reading something on his iPad. Charles and Oscar were curled up on the other side of the bed, whispering and giggling about something that smelled suspiciously like croissants.

Carlos guided Lando into the room, kissed his temple, and said, "Look what I found."

Max looked up and smiled softly. "Feeling better?"

Lando nodded. "A bit."

Oscar perked up. "I saved you a chocolate one."

Charles reached over and pulled down the duvet. "Get in before you melt."

Lando looked back at Carlos. "Will you come too?"

Carlos smiled. "Always."

They all curled up together, a warm heap of limbs and affection and crumbs from contraband pastries. Carlos tucked Lando under his chin and whispered again:

"Pequeñito. Mi corazón. Mi vida. Mi pequeño terremoto."

And Lando, safe and warm, hummed happily.

Then he fell asleep with his fingers curled in Carlos' shirt, and Carlos didn’t stop touching him the whole night.

Chapter Text

The kitchen was filled with sunlight and the scent of melting chocolate. Lando had flour on his cheeks, sugar in his curls, and one sock halfway off his foot like it had given up mid-morning. He was humming something tuneless as he swayed around the counter, spoon in one hand, mixing bowl in the other.

Oscar leaned on the kitchen island and watched him with a fond, if slightly flour-dusted, smile.

"You’re making a mess," Oscar said, voice light.

Lando grinned. "I’m making joy."

"You’re making cookies."

"Joy-shaped cookies."

Oscar rolled his eyes and stepped in to help, steadying the bowl while Lando stirred far too enthusiastically. Batter sloshed over the edge. Lando giggled and licked a bit off his knuckle.

"You’re going to get salmonella one day," Oscar muttered.

Lando just winked. "Worth it."

They were attempting Kinder-inspired cookies. Lando had begged to try them after a TikTok video, and Oscar, predictably soft when it came to Lando’s whims, had given in. There was hazelnut spread, crushed biscuits, and more chocolate than any one recipe reasonably needed.

Lando bounced from counter to cupboard, pilfering chocolate chips and humming a new song every few minutes. His energy filled the space like heat from the oven.

Oscar couldn’t help it. The words came out soft. "You really are my sunshine."

Lando froze, halfway through scooping cookie dough. "Huh?"

Oscar flushed slightly, but didn’t look away. "I call you that sometimes. You know. Sunshine."

Lando blinked at him. "Yeah, but... why?"

Oscar stepped closer, reaching up to brush a smear of flour from Lando’s cheek. "Because you light things up. Even when you're being a goofball. Even when you spill flour everywhere. Even when things feel messy or we’re fighting or the world’s hard—you make it feel a little warmer. Brighter."

Lando looked down. The corner of his mouth twitched. "Sometimes I don’t feel like sunshine."

Oscar’s brow furrowed. "Lan..."

"I mean it. Sometimes I feel like a storm cloud. Like I’m too much. Too loud. Too everything."

Oscar took his hand. "Even when it's cloudy, the sun’s still there. It doesn’t stop being the sun."

Lando blinked quickly and bit his lip. Oscar squeezed his hand.

"You don’t have to be bright all the time to be my sunshine," Oscar said. "Just being you is enough."

There was a moment of silence—just the hum of the oven and the soft whir of the fan overhead. Then Lando leaned forward and rested his forehead against Oscar’s.

"You’re so sappy."

"You love it."

"Yeah," Lando whispered. "I do."

They sat on the floor while the cookies baked, backs against the lower cupboards, legs tangled together. Oscar brushed a hand through Lando’s curls while Lando hummed again, this time quietly, a little off-key. The flour dusted over their shirts and faces made them look like ghosts from a very sweet haunting.

When the others came home—bags rustling, Max calling out for where the hell the baking tray went, Charles loudly declaring that the bakery had been out of the good croissants—they found the kitchen a disaster.

More importantly, they found Oscar and Lando curled up on the floor, two cookies in hand, cheeks smudged with chocolate and eyes soft with some unspoken understanding.

Max paused. "Should I even ask?"

Oscar didn’t look away from Lando. "We’re good."

Charles chuckled. "You look like children."

"Your children," Lando said sleepily.

Carlos smiled as he stepped into the room, taking in the wreckage and the warmth alike. "Bueno. Let’s clean up before someone gets stuck to the floor."

Lando looked up at Oscar and smiled, slow and full of something quiet.

"Still your sunshine?"

Oscar nodded. "Always."

And Lando, glowing despite the chaos, believed him.