Chapter Text
17th March, 2025 - Melbourne, Australia
Lando hasn’t slept. Not because of the hype of first place, and not because of the after-party he was barely present for. It’s all because some lunatic decided falling into a vat of radioactive shit was a lovely two-in-the-morning type of idea—and Lando was the one that had to deal with it.
It’s six-oh-five when the sun smacks him through half-closed curtains. He hasn’t had a wink of sleep and it’s showing. He forces himself to lay on his back in the still-made bed, his hands rest over his bare chest and his spider-suit rests half-tugged off around his waist, pulled off his torso and down to his waist in protest of being hot and sweaty, but never fully removed out of laziness and wanting to sleep—sleep he never ended up getting.
He drags himself up to a sitting position with a groan and looks at the alarm clock on the bedside table to his right. In reality, he could get another three hours of sleep in before the post-race meeting, but he also knows if he tries, he most likely will sleep through whatever alarm he actually sets.
He takes a breath and his eyes move to focus on the end of the bed. He should get up.
He groans as he stands, his bones ache with each movement and his muscles are tight in protest. He moves towards the barely unpacked, messy suitcase at the foot of the bed, grabbing a set of clothes and laying a Mclaren hoodie on the end of the bed. He then turns on his heel and moves towards the ensuite.
He strips the spider-suit off the moment he steps inside and his feet thank the gods for the cold tiled floor. He lays his clothes on the vanity to his right and leans into the shower, he turns the faucet tap towards the wall and steps in, letting the water pool into his hands until he knows it’s warm enough to stand under. The water prickles into his skin, massaging his bones and muscles in soft, warm pokes. He closes his eyes under the water, letting the outside world fade away just until he’s ready to face it again.
He stands in the shower for a solid thirty minutes before turning it off, then he stands there again, for another five, as his skin—ever so slowly—dries.
Eventually he steps out and grabs a towel to his left, patting his damp skin dry before he forces on boxers and his spider-suit. Then, over the top, goes a shirt, and jeans. He steps out of the bathroom, throwing the Mclaren hoodie on over the top—it hides whatever small bits of the suit are still peeking through. He lets his hair drip dry, only running a small amount of hair gel through it before descarding the bottle back into his suitcase.
He glances at his phone as he enters the kitchen, it’s barely seven-twenty. He makes a coffee, not without burning his thumb in the process, and then moves to the balcony. He sits at the table provided, it’s small and the arm chairs are cozy. He sinks into the cushions and stares. There isn’t much to stare at, in all honesty, just an excess amount of tall sky scrapers and rich buildings—it bores him instantly.
His attention immediately moves to his phone, he scrolls for five minutes before deciding he hates social media as much as he hates the view of the sky scrapers in front of his balcony. It takes him ten minutes to finish his coffee, and another five to drag himself out of the comfortable armchair and back into the kitchen to wash his mug. Another glance at his phone—no new notifications, no new messages.
He sighs. It’s thick and coated in hours of boredom.
He leaves the cup on the bench next to the sink, letting it dry itself off as he moves to the bedroom. Packing his—mostly-packed, never really unpacked—suitcase is the next best time-killer, even if it’ll only take ten minutes off the clock. His flight leaves at three this afternoon. He flies out on the same private jet as Oscar. At least it’ll give him someone to talk to—unless, of course, he sleeps the whole time.
His legs groan as he kneels to the floor, slowly folding his clothes to lay them neatly in the bottom of his suitcase. Then, after standing, he moves to the ensuite, grabbing his bag of toiletries, brushing his teeth and discarding the bag in his suitcase. He does one lap around the hotel to make sure he has everything—it’s not like he’s going anywhere anytime soon, but if he does it now, he doesn’t have to worry about it later. He zips up his suitcase and moves it to the living room. It sits at the end of the couch, ready to go when he actually needs it.
He sits back against the couch and checks his phone. Eight-ten. Fifty minutes. He lets out a sigh of relief, the boredom is still thick in his throat and post-race meetings usually make it worse, but it gives him something to do, even if that something is sitting in a rented out conference room half-listening to whatever is being said.
A notification lights up his phone.
[Oscar]: You up?
He stares, doesn’t reply straight away and just… stares. His teammate has never been one to text—especially not him, and even more so, especially not to initiate the conversation—but seeing the time and the amount of boredom he’s drowning in, he responds.
[Lando]: Have been for hours.
It doesn’t take long for another message.
[Oscar]: I’m going for coffee. Tag?
[Lando]: Sure. I’ll meet you in the lobby.
His phone shuts off and he stares into space for a minute. Despite the fact that he’s just had one coffee, he could definitely go for another. He rubs his eyes, slips on a pair of sneakers and stands. Grabs the keycard from the kitchen bench and heads out the door.
He takes the elevator from the top floor to the bottom, it’s a silent elevator ride, he checks his phone every time he passes a floor, and even more so when it stops. The elevator music sucks, it drills into his head like a pre-forming headache and sticks like one that’s already over-stayed its welcome. He massages his temple as the door opens to the lobby floor and steps out without hesitation.
Oscar stands by the entrance of the elevator, his phone in hand.
“You look like shit.” Oscar looks up to meet Lando’s sleep deprived face, giving a small, half-assed breathy laugh with his comment. Lando rolls his eyes.
“Well, hello to you too, Oscar,” Lando stops at his side. “—So, tell me mister Melbourne boy, where are we going for coffee?” Oscar steps into a slow rhythm and Lando follows through. “I know a place, it’s small and secluded, we won’t get noticed.”
“Good,” Sarcasm runs from Lando’s lips. “Because that’s what I was worried about.” Oscar sighs, still looking at his phone screen and still smacking the keyboard with his finger tips. “It’s five minutes down the street,” Oscar says, like he’s talking more to himself than he is to Lando. “We’ll make it back for the meeting.” Lando nods, nothing said, nothing more.
The Melbourne weather is nice to step into, there’s cool breezes whenever he steps into a shadow from a nearby tree, and the sun is warm—not scorching hot, just warm enough for him to enjoy it without sweating.
It really does only take them five minutes to get to it, it’s worn down and warm, welcoming in the way it’s tucked into a small street-art filled alley. The sign above the door hangs by rusty chains just strong enough. Oscar enters first and a bell at the top of the door sings, he holds the door open for Lando.
“This place is so cozy.” Oscar picks up two menus as he nods, he doesn’t respond with anything other than a hum in agreement. Lando’s eyes fall to the menu handed to him—he goes over every caffeinated beverage, he will take anything to kick start his energy at this point.
The café is all but quiet. Only two other people sit inside, both tucked into separate booths by the window—one has a laptop, though is more scrolling on his phone than actually working, and the other sits with her knees to her chest reading a book. This place is nice.
He decides, after burning his finger this morning, that an iced drink is his best friend now. His eyes land on a regular iced latte and he nods. He’ll take that. By the time he looks up, Oscar is ready and waiting, he raises a brow. “I’ll pay—what are you getting?” He nods towards the waiting worker, who stands at the cash register in a small hushed conversation with a coworker.
“Are you sure? I can pay for myself—an iced latte.”
“It’s fine—bold choice.”
They stand like this for a while, having two conversations all tied in together until Oscar moves to order—then the jumbled up conversations start again as they wait.
It takes a total of three minutes for them to get their drinks. Oscar’s is handed out first—an iced mocha, it has more chocolate than it does coffee and it’s way too sweet for Lando—Lando’s is second. The coldness of his drink immediately chilled against his still-sore thumb. He takes two sips as they move to exit the café, and he practically melts into the taste.
The walk back to the hotel is quiet, both men focused more on their iced drinks than keeping up an unimportant conversation. Lando holds the iced drink against his thumb, it slowly soothes the burn he never ran under cold water.
They make it to the hotel with five minutes to spare and immediately enter the conference room. It’s a large room, a big screen against the wall with three wires running from it, all to connect into a singular laptop. A table sits in the middle, enough seats for at least ten people, with extra seats stacked in a corner by the door.
Lando takes a seat closest to the door and Oscar slides into one next to him. He places his drink on the table, drags his knees to his chest and pulls out his phone. He scrolls Instagram, goes through his sister’s story, then half reads posts, then pockets his phone and tilts his head back. His eyes close momentarily and Oscar makes a sound, something along the lines of a cough, but not close enough.
“Don’t tell me you’re falling asleep,” He says, without looking up from his screen, without even knowing what Lando was doing. “The meeting hasn’t even started.”
“I haven’t slept, Oscar.”
“And who’s fault is that?”
Lando’s lips draw into thin lines, he wants to throw blame on the guy he had to fight, but he knows he can’t—not without throwing his double life in front of a bus.
“—Exactly.” The silence answers Oscar’s question and he sighs. “Maybe, if you didn’t stay up all night partying with George, you’d be awake.” Lando groans, as much as he thinks he’s right, he isn’t. Lando wanted sleep, wanted to lay down and pass out and not wake back up until morning, but he didn’t get any of that because the people of Melbourne didn’t know when enough was enough.
He sighs as the rest of the team enter the conference room, all with joke filled remarks poking at the already comfortable drivers.
“How long have you two been here?” One asks, barely shooting them a glance as he slides into a seat across from them. “Not long.” Oscar says, finally pocketing his phone and looking up. “—About five minutes.” Lando shrugs, he moves to sit properly in the chair and looks to the screen as it lights up.
The meeting drags on for an hour and a half. Lando sips his latte whenever he feels a little bit too tired, whenever his eyes get a little too heavy. Oscar kicks his leg whenever his head drops for more than a second, usually he’d be mad but it’s honestly keeping him awake.
By the two hour mark the meeting is over. Lando drags himself into his hotel room and collapses on the lounge. Of course, knowing his luck, his relaxation was short-lived. Another villain, another mutant—another person for Lando to deal with.
He’s exhausted by the end of it, and covered in enough cuts and bruises to make it worrying. He stands shirtless in front of the bathroom mirror, cleaning dried blood off with a towel and a glass of salt-mixed water. He hisses at the touch, pausing momentarily to look at himself in the mirror.
He looks… gone. Like he’s half present in the moment because of how exhausted he is. The bags under his eyes weigh tons, ever present and never leaving. He blinks out of his stare and groans as he pulls his spider-suit up his torso. Every movement is a fight. It’s a battle to pull his jeans up his legs, and a tougher one to raise his arms through the holes of his t-shirt and hoodie.
By the time he’s done, it’s two in the afternoon and Oscar’s knocking on his door. He answers the door looking more exhausted than he did last time Oscar saw him—but Oscar says nothing, not now, not yet. He just waits at the door as Lando does another lap of double checking and grabs his suitcase. Once again the elevator ride to the lobby is silent, Lando’s exhaustion makes him hate the music ten times more and he glares at the patterned floor.
They check-out of the rooms and they uber to the airport, every inch of it is silent. Their breathing fills the car and Lando’s eyes become even heavier. No, he shakes his head. He can’t sleep. Not yet. He’ll sleep on the plane. Definitely.