Archive of Our Own ^beta

Lando should’ve known something was wrong the second he was woken up, two hours before his alarm, with a splitting headache.

Instead, he lies in bed for ten minutes before dragging himself out (read: rolls out of bed and slumps on the floor for another 5 minutes).

He stumbles into the bathroom, catching his side on the door frame in the process. Lando stares, noncommittally, at his reflection in the mirror, eyes drifting in and out of focus. Vision moving in tandem with the waves of sharp pain from his head. Knuckles turning white from gripping the porcelain of the sink. Thinks about shattering the mirror. He splashes cold water onto his face, hoping to cool the hot flush that had settled there. It does nothing for the pain, nor the growing nausea, though.

“It's probably just the stress,” he mumbles. He's not quite sure who he's trying to convince, because it definitely isn't himself. Either way, he pushes off the sink, turns the shower on, strips, and steps in once the water runs almost unbearably hot. Almost.

Hot water cascades over him, as Lando leans his forehead against the cool tiling. The tan of his skin is beginning to turn a pretty pink from the heat, but it's nothing compared to the pounding in his head. There's that horrible tingly feeling in his body as well, concentrated around his finger tips. Lando washes himself and his hair as fast as his pain will allow, knocks his head against the tiles, two sets of two, and switches the water off.

His towel is slung around his hips as he stares at his fogged up reflection. It's distorted this way. Manageable to observe. Lando doesn't really think about breaking the glass when it's like this.

The bottle sits heavy in his hand; the pills sit heavier. He knocks them back in quick succession. Loses count after six. Stops when the tingling ceases. Breathes in. Breathes out.

Runs the towel quickly over his body, half-arsing the job of drying himself. He pulls his boxers and sweatpants on and runs his hands through his curls. Bends over and almost cracks his head on the porcelain of the sink when the next wave of pain hits. Thinks it might've been easier if he did hit his head. Doesn't let the thought sit for too long.

Lando stands up slow, bones aching. Condensation runs over the surface of the mirror, clearing the fog. He can make out a clearer reflection of himself. Squeezes his eyes shut and rubs them until it burns. Opens them and turns to leave the bathroom.

He manages to make it to the foot of the hotel bed, before another bout of pain wracks through his head. Flops, extremely unceremoniously, onto the bed face first, pulling a pillow over his head, wishing the pressure could make the pain just fuck off. Lies there for maybe a minute, maybe an hour. The nausea is coming on waves, but never staying long enough to actually be a problem. Yet.

Lando sighs, pushing himself up, just enough to grasp his phone from the bedside table. Rolls onto his side to see the screen better.

“Fucking hell,” he groans, after he's blinded by the screen. Lando hates calling, but if he has to spend a second longer than necessary staring at a screen that is still unbearably bright, even on the lowest setting, he's going to scream.

The call connects after four rings.

“Lando, you alright?” Jon's voice is laced with an appropriate amount of concern. Lando's not really known for getting up on time, nevermind early.

“Mate, I feel like someone's cracking my fucking head open.”

There's a pause.

“How long have you had this headache?”

“Uhm,” and it's hard to think, when said headache is causing him so much pain. “I woke up because of it this morning.”

Another pause. Longer this time, and Lando can hear some rustling, and a faint beep, as though Jon is leaving his hotel room.

“So nothing yesterday?” Jon asks, barely concealing his growing panic.

“No, jus’ this morning.” Lando groans again. “Can you get me some painkillers please?”

“Uh, yeah. Yeah. On my way. Have you got anything else? Have you been sick?”

Lando is in pain, but he can still hear the stress in Jon's voice. He thinks it's entirely unnecessary.

“I've not thrown up yet, but I do feel sick. Why are you so stressed? It's just a headache.”

He's barely managed to finish his sentence before the worst wave of pain hits him. It's like someone is clawing at his brain, it's not clean and it's scrappy and he honestly feels like he's about to die. Lando almost blacks out from the pain, and only comes to, when there's a loud set of bangs on his door.

Lando thinks he calls for Jon to come in, but in hindsight it's probably just a groan. He's got the pillow over his head again, and is sprawled on his front. He can feel Jon hovering near the entrance. Cautious. Concerned.

“Are you decent?” he hears, muffled from the pillow.

Lando manages to reply with a half-hearted “mhm”, because thankfully he'd managed to pull some sweatpants on before collapsing, then he whines from another ache settling in his head.

He can hear his trainer moving about the room. The zip of a bag, the ruffle of fabric, the harsh cracking of plastic, the bathroom tap running water, the sound of Jon muttering to himself. It's all so loud and Lando feels like he's going to explode.

“I need you to sit up, so you can drink.”

Lando groans.

“Mate, please.”

Lando groans again, but pushes himself up, and rolls over to sit up properly on the bed. Jon has turned off the main lights, and switched on the small lamp in the corner instead. Small mercies.

He expected a glass of water in one hand, and painkillers in the other. Instead, in both hands, Jon held a bowl, filled with a shimmering liquid.

“What the fuck is that?”

“That is a minor healing potion. It's going to take away the pain you're feeling in your head,” Jon explains, nudging the bowl towards Lando again.

Healing potion? He had a headache. Potions and spells ate never used for little things, normal human things, like headaches.

“I've got a headache Jon, I'm not cursed,” Lando breathes, a laugh curling around his words. He gently pushes the bowl away.

Jon doesn't smile.

Lando stops smiling.

“Shit.”

Lando's slumped at a table, in a dark corner of McLaren hospitality. His team coat is zipped up as far as it will go, the hood slightly falling from his head, exposing some of his curls. His arms are crossed, in front of his chest. Protective. His right leg is bouncing. Anxious.

True to Jon’s word, the potion did take away the pain of the headache. Now his head just felt heavy. Thank God McLaren took the initiative and kept Jon as his trainer when he moved up to Formula One. Having a trainer with healing magic was really proving quite useful.

Coincidentally, the doors to hospitality open. Jon walks in, composed, flanked by Sophie, their communications manager. Unfortunately, she looks a bit more distressed - Lando braces for impact.

“How are you feeling?” she offers, taking a seat opposite Lando, whilst Jon takes the one adjacent to him. Sophie’s tone is light, but careful. It's masking something.

“Fine.” It's short, probably more snappy than they deserved. Jon raises an eyebrow. Lando shifts uncomfortably. “Sorry- yeah. Fine. Pain's gone. Head's just feeling heavy.”

The smiles he gets in return are pitiful.

“Well,” Sophie begins, clearing her throat. The shift in conversation is so obvious, Lando nearly gets whiplash. “Obviously, the elephant in the room is that you're currently under the influence of a curse.”

Jon grimaces.

“At the moment, we're not sure what type of curse, nor how severe-”

“Are you serious?” Lando throws his arms up, and slouches further. He's practically sulking, and Sophie definitely does not deserve to be on the receiving end of his tantrum, but still.

“I know, I know. It's not ideal,” she continues, flashing him a sympathetic look. “Due to regulations, we had to report it. In doing so, I found out that a few other teams are also dealing with their drivers being cursed.”

Now that's… interesting.

Curses, if they ever slipped through, were usually targeted. Either to a single driver, or a team. Like the fits of giggles that Lewis was cursed with, the weekend of the Dutch Grand Prix in 2021. It sounds mildly inconvenient but by the end of Friday he was doubled over in pain (Lando's pretty sure the curse bearer is still banned from all races). Or in 2023, when the RedBull team kept getting hit with a curse that made them speak backwards (sure, the dominance was something to be jealous of, but even Lando was getting annoyed by the end of the season). His personal favourite was when James Vowles was repeatedly dive bombed by eagles during the United States Grand Prix last year. Or maybe back in 1988 when Alain Prost was continuously followed around by singing frogs. Although protection charms around the paddock weren't nearly as advanced as they are now, it was definitely not an external curse, and was most definitely from one Ayrton Senna.

Anyways, he digresses.

The main point is, when curses do end up breaking through or skirting around the protection and curse-repellent charms covering the circuit, they never usually hit multiple drivers.

“I'm not as well versed in The Delphic and curses as you two are,” Sophie starts, spreading out a few papers on the table. “So I was thinking you read through these reports and see if there's anything in common?”

Lando hums, reaching out for the first report.

He thumbs over the line that references severe head pain. Lets his eyes flick over the words “sluggish and heavy”. They settle on his tongue but don't jump out. Just linger, like a bad aftertaste. But familiar. Perhaps that's what made them bad.

Jon's been reading the report too, albeit with a bit of difficulty, from where he's sat beside Lando. His trainer hums in thought. Sophie’s eyes dart between the two, a little frantic. She's not touched by The Delphic herself - in fact it’s just as likely to have magic nowadays, as it is to not have magic. Sensitivity (the official term for those who were touched by The Delphic, but not entirely magic) was on the rise too. Everyone can thank the collapse of the “evil witch” stigma, which led to the mixing of the two groups for that. Nevertheless, she's slightly out of her depth when it comes to curses, so she's waiting for one of them to lead.

Lando sighs.

“Kimi's had the same headaches as me. Only stopped because of a healing spell,” he starts, trapping the second report beneath his index finger and sliding it towards him. “Then he had a massive mood swing in front of Ollie.”

He's trying to lift the mood, so it's a relief when Jon lets a chuckle escape and Sophie smiles. His own smile is halfway there. Feels the metallic taste begin to flood his mouth before he begins his second read.

Lando's leg is bouncing again by the end of the second report. With the similarity in content of the first two, he feels confident to assume the other one will be much of the same. He slides Yuki's report to the left, letting Jon read it properly, and drags the final towards himself. Lando lays them side by side and skims them.

It's time-stamped 10.59am and involves George, with an appearance from Alex. Lando checks his watch. 11.24am. Recent.

All three reports have three things in common: Severe head pain with nausea and/or vomiting, that can only be cured through magical remedies, a feeling of heaviness in the aftermath, and a complete freak out related to the person's powers after a breach of suppressants. These freak outs also tended to occur around non-team and non-family members.

Probably why everyone's being forced to stay in their hospitality, Lando thinks.

He lets himself smirk at the idea of George freaking out because every time he opens his mouth, he sends those around him into severe mood swings. Especially round one Alex Albon, who, despite the suppressants, would still be able to feel every shift in emotion around him. He looks up to find that Jon and Sophie are not smiling along with him.

“Lando, this is serious. We can't risk you having a public incident with your magic. Especially not after-”

“Alright. I think he knows.”

Jon has cut Sophie off, but Lando still had time to fall back into that dingy headspace from last November. He doesn't even have to try that hard to remember the suffocating feeling of the vines around him, after the mess of Brazil. He's certain that everyone else doesn't even have to try that hard either. The scenes of the McLaren motorhome. The mess of Brazil. Specks of papaya trying to break out of the cage of greenery. Tundra thick and dense around the entrance. It was the biggest lapse of suppressants he'd had.

And it was fucking humiliating .

He'd doubled up on his suppressant doses after that. No. That's not quite right. Maybe tripled or quadrupled was closer to the truth. All unregulated, because, of course , there's a recommended dosage intake for a reason, and Jon and his friends and the FIA and McLaren and everyone would go mental if they found out how many suppressants he swallows each day. And he was already on a higher dosage than was normal because he is so fucking sensitive-

Lando is snapped out of his spiral at the sound of the hospitality doors opening.

“Mate you won't believe what I just witnessed- Oh. Sorry.”

Lando stares incredulously at his best friend who looks very bewildered. Max stands at the edge of the table and just stares right back.

“It's alright Max,” Jon begins, collecting the reports. “Actually- you're an Oracle, correct?”

Oracles are still enigmas. Just like Wards and their Deities, and Bloodline Witches and their Familiars. Oracles officially have no magic, barring their knowledge. They are most like Bloodline Witches, with their knowledge passed down through generations. They're all distant descendants of the original inhabitants of Delphi, the town where The Delphic initially spread from. No elemental control, no spell-casting nor jinxing. Just a whole load of knowledge on The Delphic.

Given his current predicament, an Oracle is quite honestly a blessing from the Gods.

“Uh, yeah? Why - what's up?” Max replies, hesitant, which is inevitable. Oracles aren't rare by design. Their knowledge scares people, and that fear grows into violence. Lando doesn't blame his friend for being cautious.

“We've got a bit of a problem here,” Jon starts, collecting the three reports and passing them to Max. “Drivers from multiple teams are reporting curses. Reckon you can figure out what's going on?”

Max hums noncommittally, reading over the papers. Lets the silence hang heavy in the hospitality, only broken, infrequently, by faint footsteps or doors closing. Max's eyebrows pinch together, and his eyes glaze over with familiarity.

Lando feels his stomach flip.

“I saw this - well not this exactly. But I saw this with Charles and Max as I was walking over.” He taps the papers as he speaks, slow, as though he's still thinking, rather than just carefully choosing words. “Yeah, Max like, freaked out, and his magic went haywire. Everyone near him spoke and it was all high pitched and horrible.”

Jon and Sophie share a glance.

“Where did you even get these?” Max continues. “Aren't these like, proper confidential?”

Lando shifts uncomfortably. No one notices.

“All teams are allowed access to curse reports if they have their own concerns of a similar substance.” Sophie clasps her hands together as she speaks.

He looks up, eyebrows furrowed even further. “Own concerns? What do you mean - oh.”

Lando grimaces. His mouth wavers and his right leg is bouncing again. He's too exposed. Flayed out for everyone to see. Max is staring at him and it's sickening.

“Mate.”

And it's not condescending. Or accusatory. Never would be. Never could be. Not from Max. It's not pitiful either, though. Just the right amount of worry and a slight twitch of the corner of Max's mouth to expose the laugh he's holding back.

Lando tries to swallow down his smirk.

“Fuck off,” he grumbles, crossing his arms on the table, burying his head into the darkness. Almost peaceful.

“I didn't say anything!” And he can hear the smile in his best friend's voice. He smiles too. Grumbles a bit.

Max's laughter subsides, and he speaks again. “I don't think it's anything dangerous. The nausea and headaches you had this morning are probably because the curse has had to break through charms and suppressants. It's got to have been strong, and a bit ugly when it hit you.”

Lando props his head up on his hand. “So… I'm good?”

“No. You're not ‘good’, lad - you're cursed. What I'm saying is, it's not hostile or malicious.”

“It's very much feeling hostile and malicious,” Lando groans, rubbing his eyes again until he's seeing floaty things in his vision. His head is so heavy.

“Will he be okay for his media duties? He's due in about half an hour,” Sophie asks, looking up from her phone. Her eyebrows are pulled together and she's been worrying her bottom lip.

Max lets out a heavy sigh, and rubs the scruff that's growing on his chin. If Lando didn't feel like he was a second away from conking out in the back of hospitality, he probably would've made a joke about how little facial hair Max has. Max would've probably told him the same.

As it stands, Lando can feel his eyes getting heavier by the second, and the last thing he wants to do is answer the same four questions in ten different ways.

Yes, the car is fast. No, I'm not finding it easy to drive, hence my issues with quali. Yes, me and Oscar both want the Championship and we're going to fight cleanly. Yes, I like having Oscar as a teammate-

Wait.

Oscar.

Lando had been so caught up in his own doom and gloom that the thought of Oscar also being hit with the curse hadn't even crossed his mind. Speaking of, he hasn't seen the Australian all morning. It's not unusual, but given the circumstances…

“He'll be fine for media. Most likely,” Max replies, oblivious to Lando's inner crisis. He shoots Sophie and Jon small smiles.

He raises his voice a little to make sure Lando hears. “Just don't turn the media pen into a flower garden - what the fuck.”

Lando's head turns around from the spot on the wall he'd zoned out on to meet Max's eyes so fast, he almost gives himself whiplash.

“What?”

Max is looking at him like he's grown three heads, and Jon and Sophie aren't exactly looking at him normally either.

“Why are you all looking at me like I'm crazy?” he snips. He's feeling fuzzy around the edges now, and he's still cursed, so Lando thinks he's allowed to be a bit short with people.

“I don't mean to alarm you mate,” Max starts slowly. Slow in the way he's trying to conceal a laugh. “But you have daisies growing out of your hair.”

Lando freezes.

“You fucking what?”

Max forgoes any attempt of holding back his laughter, now holding onto the table for support. Jon's mouth twitches as he suppresses a smile, and Sophie gazes over the flowers, before returning to her phone and typing rapidly.

Lando unlocks his phone and opens the camera app. Just as Max said, there are eighteen daisies - yes, he counted them, because what the fuck - nestled in between the curls on his head. Most have petals of pure white, though a few that are closer to his ears and forehead have twinges of pink and purple.

Well, shit.

He runs a hand through his hair, harshly. Once, twice, until all the flowers have been successfully uprooted. It's a sorry sight of petals on the table in front of him, but at least they're not growing out of his fucking head anymore.

“Oh my god. That is so embarrassing.” Lando confesses, and slumps down into his chair. Max has had the decency to pull himself together and stop laughing at Lando's misfortune, and even Jon is just shaking his head, looking mildly amused.

Lando hears the soft thunk of a phone hitting the table, and a lot of rustling. He looks up to find Sophie gathering her things.

“I've let Harry know about your situation. Please go to the media pen, but if you feel worse, or anything… strange happens, come back here immediately.”

She sends him a warm smile. The uncertainty is still present in her eyes, but Lando knows she's doing her best, and sends her a small smile back, accompanied with a nod.

She rises from her seat, and collects her bag and phone.

“I'm going to open a report at the OMA. Just in case.”

And then she turns, and heads out of the hospitality. The door swings shut and Lando lets his body go limp and slumps into his chair again.

“Fucking media.”

There's two snorts in response.

There's a hundred things that Lando would rather be doing right now. He tells Harry that much whilst they're on their way to the media pen.

“They just ask the same questions. All the time!” Lando sighs, hands flying everywhere as he tries to convey his feelings to his PR Officer. If he can just make him understand-

“I know mate, but you have to do it.”

He sighs dramatically as they reach the pen. Points up at the cloudy sky. “Someone up there has it in for me.”

Harry sniffs, and looks thoughtful. “Perhaps it's Artemis.”

Lando bristles. Then mulls it over in his head.

“No. Artie loves me.” A nearby bush ruffles its leaves and sprouts little yellow flowers.

Harry raises an eyebrow. Lando grins.

“It's probably Aphrodite.”

There's no answer, but Lando knows he's right. He gathers himself, and says a quick prayer, before heading into the pen.

Most of the questions are, in truth, what he expected. All of the reporters are lively enough that it's not entirely mind-numbing and Lando gets through the majority of his interviews unscathed. The vines curling from the ceiling do not go unnoticed.

His final interview starts off well. Craig has some good enthusiasm that helps pull Lando along. In all honesty, he's exhausted, and very much looking forward to crashing in his driver room after this. Between the stress of the weekend, the curse, and the constant throbbing in his head, Lando's definitely had better days.

“We saw an incident, earlier, with Yuki, and we're still waiting for updates. Do you think he can be fighting towards your end of the field?”

Lando hesitates. Not because he thinks Yuki can't be racing at the front of the field. But because he's unsure if Yuki will be able to race at all this weekend. The report stated Yuki was to be isolated from anyone who wasn't from Red Bull or his family. That doesn't exactly inspire confidence in him.

He can't exactly tell everyone what's going on, though.

“I have no idea, time will tell! Obviously it looks tricky - I think just as much as we’ve said our car is tricky to drive. But we’ve got two drivers who can get a lot out of the car.”

It's a safe answer. Focus on the race. Focus on the driving. Don't mention the curse.

“It seems the same with Red Bull, that it’s tricky to get a nice balance that suits a lot of drivers, or suits any driver, apart from Max and Daniel many years ago,” Lando continues. Craig is wearing a look that screams ‘I want a bit more out of you, but I'm not going to push.”

Lando is a weak man.

“I have no idea what’s going on there, but obviously the strength that we have at the minute is two quick drivers and a strong team.”

Redirection is his weapon as of late, and it seems to work again. Craig looks satisfied with the answer, and Harry hasn't given him The Look yet.

There's a couple more questions about the car and the team and the season so far. They're arriving at the final question, and Lando's practically itching to move.

“Can you imagine a rivalry with Oscar, like Lewis and Nico, or Senna and Prost?”

Lando momentarily short-circuits.

It's not like he's never been asked a question like this before. He's just so hazy today, that any questions where he's had to think too much about his relationship with Oscar, have hit him like a ton of bricks.

He doesn't even really have time to collect himself before he's answering.

“They’re good examples. They’re nice people to be compared to. I don’t think we’ve probably got to that stage, yet - this is our first time really going head to head.”

Lando exhales heavily as his own words register. It's the most media-trained answer he's ever given. He's not even entirely sure it's what he wanted to say. Nevertheless, it's done and he's free. The haziness clouding his head is still there, and he can't wait to sleep it off.

He briefly registers Craig and the cameraman staring at him. Confused? No. Shocked is probably better. Harry is burning holes into the side of his head. Surely what he said was not that bad-

“Your hair,” Harry whispers to him. He makes a vague gesture in the direction of his own hair, and then turns to rapidly type on his phone.

Lando is still none the wiser after Harry's intervention, prompting Craig to school his expression and open his mouth.

“Lando, it seems you have some flowers in your hair.”

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

He's running his hands through his hair now. Quickly. Ruffling it. Letting the soft petals brush past his fingers as he tries to rid his hair of the flowers.

Cherry blossom petals decorate the floor around him.

His cheeks burn with embarrassment.

Lando looks up again, only to find nearby reporters and media personnel, and even other drivers (keep your eyes to yourself Liam) staring right at him. At least Craig has the decency to look somewhat empathetic.

Considering he doesn't have a single nonchalant bone in his body, Lando promptly flushes an even deeper shade of red, stumbles over his words, and makes a break for the exit. He can hear Harry jogging to keep up with him, but right now, it's the least of his worries. Fortunately, he manages to make it out of the media pen without any issues. He's practically sprinting through the paddock now, purposefully ignoring the calls of his name from his PR Officer. Tears are blurring his vision.

So stupid. So embarrassing. Can't even control my own magic. Can't do anything. No wonder everything is going wrong this season. I'm such a fucking fail-

He makes contact with a wall.

Well, a solid wall of human.

Lando's made it to the outside of the McLaren hospitality. People around him, clad in papaya, are staring. Some of them look pitiful, but Lando notices that a lot of them look scared.

“Lando? Are you okay?” There's a hand on his shoulder, but the feeling is numb and Lando's not looking at the person who's speaking to him. He's far too focused on the many pairs of eyes looking at him, and he turns his head further right to look in the direction he just came.

Lando feels his stomach lurch.

The path he'd taken as he'd ran from the media pen is overrun with vines and bushes and greenery. Pink camellias, red and white carnations, larkspurs and white jasmines poke out from the tundra. It's a mess.

There's a hand guiding his head away from the scene.

“Hey. Look at me. You're okay. You're here with me.”

Lando blinks through the fresh tears at his waterline. Finds Oscar's kind, brown eyes staring back. Feels himself well up again.

“Oh fuck. I'm so stupid. So, so, so, so st-”

“None of that. You're not stupid. You're alright.” Oscar's thumb is brushing his cheekbone, and it's starting to catch the fresh tears that are falling. He lets his other hand fall to Lando's waist and begins to guide him into the McLaren hospitality. Away from prying eyes. From the world.

It's the constant pressure on the small of his back that keeps Lando from collapsing entirely. The odd team members, that they pass on their way to the drivers’ rooms, are kind enough to not stare too long. Lando tries to ignore the very obvious trail of greenery that's following them.

They stop outside Lando's room, and it's then that he can feel the small circles that Oscar's thumb has been rubbing into his waist.

“Do you want to be in your room, or my room?” Oscar asks, gently. Not like he's scared of Lando, but maybe, scared of upsetting him. Lando's heart aches.

It's such a simple question, and yet he can feel that fuzziness from before settling, thick, in the base of his head. Like the words are bouncing around in his skull but he can't even think of a possible answer. It's giving him a fucking headache.

Lando whines, a few stray tears slipping out, and presses his forehead into Oscar's chest.

“Yeah, okay. Your room.”

God, Lando wants to kiss Oscar right now. More than he usually wants to anyways.

There's nothing obvious in his words or in his actions, but Oscar just gets it. He just understands that Lando's head is so loud and there's way too much going on for him to make a decision. So Oscar makes it for him. It's nice. It's good.

Shrubbery and daffodils follow them into the room, and star jasmine vines envelope the door entirely once it's shut. Branches extend from the corners of the room, donning more cherry blossoms, as Lando is manoeuvred to his sofa.

He's guided, initially, to sit on the sofa, but his head is so fucking heavy, and he ends up lying instead, curled in a foetal position. The lights are too bright, so he closes his eyes, and covers them with his hands, just to make sure.

He can hear shuffling around him.

Flick. It's definitely darker now. Main light.

Flick. There's a light source somewhere. Dimmer. Manageable. The lamp.

There's more shuffling and he tenses as fingers make contact with his head. They begin to card, gently, through his curls, and his muscles relax. Every four passes, Oscar massages Lando's temple with his thumb.

Lando doesn't know how long he lies there. He knows he doesn't fall asleep though. Can't. The pain is too much. Somewhere inside, his magic still hums, and every so often, there's a rustle of leaves as old greenery makes way for new.

“It's your head.”

It's not a question. Oscar knows. Lando still hums in response.

“I'll get you some water and pain killers.” The thumb is brushing down his forehead, to the tip of his nose.

Oscar stands up to make his way into the attached bathroom, and Lando fights the urge to whine. Again.

Most of the pain is concentrated in the front of his head. The fuzziness is distant again, akin to the hum coursing through him. He pulls himself up on the sofa, leaning on the arm. Stares at the slightly ajar bathroom door.

He'd like to blame his headache for the feeling that Oscar's been in the bathroom for far too long, but Lando knows it's not true. Oscar has been in the bathroom for a lot longer than necessary, and it's kickstarted the horrible feeling in his stomach again.

He has half a mind to call out to his teammate, but the door opens just as his mouth does. He closes his mouth as Oscar enters the room. It's a slow and calculated movement. Not like his words before. No. This time he really is trying not to scare Lando off.

“Mate, what are you…?”

Lando trails off. The white of his pill bottle, nestled in Oscar's hand, burns his eyes.

“It's almost empty.”

Lando just stares.

“We get given a new bottle at the start of each month. Two a day. They're supposed to last us the whole month,” Oscar continues. He's started moving towards Lando. Sets the bottle down on the table.

“Lando, it's the 3rd.” Oscar is looking at him. Seeing him. Brown eyes, soft at the edges. Never harsh, not for Lando. It's like he's staring straight into Lando's soul. Makes him squirm, but he can't look away.

Lando breathes. In and out. In and out.

On the third pass he snaps.

“Will you just fuck off, yeah? It's none of your frickin’ business.”

It's dripping with venom. Lando's being mean, he knows it. But it's meant to be. Oscar's getting too close.

The other man flinches. It's so slight, barely even noticeable. But Lando sees it; he sees a lot of things about Oscar. Feels a little sick. Pulls his knees up to his chest, and sits upright on the sofa, zoning in on no particular spot on the wall ahead. Avoiding Oscar's eyes on purpose.

Part of Lando hopes that Oscar will just drop it. That he'll be put-off by his rash outburst, and leave the room and never speak about it again. Around the back of the sofa, there are now branches with smatterings of cherry blossoms.

He is a fool for hoping.

“It's because of Brazil, isn't it?” Oscar asks, quietly. Tentatively, like he's scared of upsetting him, again.

Lando tenses up.

There's movement around him, he vaguely registers. It's all white noise though, since his teammate spoke. Like his mind just, shut down. The sofa dips to his left and there's the burn of someone staring at him.

The door to the bathroom is completely obscured now, leaves of fern green covering the expanse, with hibiscus syriacus interwoven.

“Lando it's okay-” Oscar starts, and Lando snaps. Again.

“No! No it's not! It's really, really not, Oscar!” He gestures around wildly. “How is any of this okay?”

“I don't understand-”

“This!” Lando interrupts, gathering a handful of fallen cherry blossom petals. “All of this! The garden that's now in my room. The flower wall that followed me here. The flowers in my hair in the interview and in hospitality and the fucking jungle in Brazil. None of this is okay, Oscar!”

And, because the universe hates him (however, looking back, it's proper Aphrodite), a bush of honeysuckle sprouts directly behind Oscar, and pushes him closer to Lando.

“Oh for fuck-”

“Look at me.”

His eyes snap up to meet the younger's. Oscar places his hand on Lando's chest. His heart.

There's a few beats, and then a little smile graces his face.

“What are you doing?” Lando asks softly.

He doesn't respond - with words at least. Oscar removes his hand, briefly, only to grasp one of Lando's and return it to his chest, both hands splayed across his heart.

“You're alive. You're okay.”

And before he can cut in again, Oscar takes Lando's other hand in his own free hand, and mirrors the action on his own chest this time. His own heart.

“Just like me.”

Oh fuck. He's going to cry.

Tears begin to pool in his eyes as he slowly slides his hands out from underneath Oscar's. He averts his gaze in an attempt to not start sobbing, and Oscar decides to thumb over his left hand instead. A repetitive motion. One. Two. Three. Pause. One. Two. Three. Pause.

He hones in on the rhythm, and matches his breathing to the passes and the pauses. Helps him to calm the panic and the want inside him. The need.

With less vigour than before, new plants form along the floor, growing into a flower bed. Gardenias cover the expanse from the main door to the bathroom door. Orchids, lilies and tulips of all colours sprout in the middle of the area, and by the base of the sofa, forget-me-nots nestle into the thickness of leaves.

His heart beats in time with Oscar's.

“Don't do that,” Lando mumbles, words obscured further as he passes his free hand over his face to collect himself. His other hand is still gently holding the other man's. The thumb tracing over his knuckles stops.

“Don't do what?” Oscar asks. His hand is squeezed, and Lando looks up to see brown eyes filled with confusion. And something else.

Love, his brain supplies unhelpfully. He shakes away the thought.

“Don't use your magic on me to fix me.”

The room stills.

“Lando you're not broken,” Oscar starts, and he sounds almost offended that Lando would even suggest that he is. It makes him turn away in shame. He doesn't get far though, as there's a gentle hand under his chin, guiding him to look back at Oscar. “And I would never use my magic on you, unless you'd told me before that it's one hundred percent okay,” he continues, the hand under his chin now cradling his cheek. “Even then, I think I'd be a bit cautious.”

Lando lets out a small huff of amusement at Oscar's doting, before frowning again.

“I don't- Why- How am I so calm? Around you?” he grumbles. It's practically a whine because he just doesn't understand.

A couple beats pass as Oscar takes up thumbing over his cheekbone. He has that dopey smile on his face that makes Lando want to kiss him stupid. The dark brown edges of Oscar's eyes soften as he hums in thought. Lando blinks slowly as Oscar continues to smooth over his cheek. He feels like a cat.

“Probably because I care about you,” his teammate offers, and Lando's breath hitches. Pink blooms on his cheeks. He tries to duck his head. Oscar's hand guides him back up.

“None of that, yeah?” His voice is light, a smirk threatening to break across his face.

Cheeky bastard knows what he's doing.

“You're doing this on purpose. Getting me all flustered ‘nd shit,” Lando mumbles. Oscar's free hand has made its way to one of Lando's knees and is tracing light circles as he speaks.

“I get you flustered?” he grins.

“You- Fuck off mate!” Lando says, bringing both of his hands to Oscar's, in an attempt to remove them from him before he does something crazy, like whimpering at the contact (he can feel a whimper settling at the base of his throat). His cheeks are most definitely bright red now; a complete victim to Oscar's ministrations.

Oscar grabs Lando's hands in his own, halting his attempts, and pulls Lando closer.

They're so close, Lando can see the flecks of amber in Oscar's eyes. Can hear his steady breathing. Can feel the rush of his magic.

“I hate you.”

“Mm… I'm sure you do.”

Oscar tugs him forward to close the remaining gap.

The first press against Lando's lips is soft. Cautious. Like Oscar's not sure, even now, if he can do this. If he can take. Lando presses his own lips firmer. He's rewarded with his hands being freed, and instead a firm hand in the curls at his nape and another cupping his jaw. Lando lets his hands trace up Oscar's arms, smoothing over the muscle there, before resting on his biceps.

Oscar uses his hand on Lando's jaw to tilt his head, and Lando hums into the kiss. He feels Oscar smile into it as well. Oscar lets his tongue trace over the seam of Lando's mouth, and if Lando opens far too eagerly, well, that's between him and Oscar. And Aphrodite.

Oscar dips his tongue into Lando's mouth, and he's ambushed by the whine that escapes his throat and Oscar's tongue slides over his. Lando can feel Oscar smirking against him, so he grazes teeth over his bottom lip, before nipping lightly.

Oscar groans in response and Lando swears he passed away. The hand in his hair tightens for a fraction of a second, before moving down towards his hips. Oscar pulls Lando's mouth open a little wider using his other hand, and, fucking hell, it's like he's trying to map out the contours of Lando's mouth with his tongue.

It then falls from his jaw, running down the side of his body to mirror the other hand sitting at his waist. Oscar hauls Lando into his lap, and the new angle allows him to continue his assault on Lando's mouth.

Landos lets Oscar have full control, and presses himself further into Oscar's torso, humming contently when arms encircle him.

It is, quite frankly, the best kiss (make-out session?) of his life, so, naturally, they have to be interrupted.

Something soft falls from above, and slots itself in between Lando and Oscar's faces. Oscar breaks away from the kiss and tries to ignore the displeased noise Lando makes, as he looks up at the ceiling.

It is covered in cherry blossoms. Completely obscured. There's soft pink petals fluttering about the room, and more flowers are sprouting along the walls. Oscar giggles at the sight and casts his eyes down again, only to start giggling again after seeing Lando.

“What? Why are you laughing at me?” Lando asks, shoving Oscar's shoulder back. Oscar strengthens his grip on Lando's waist.

“You have little daisies in your hair!”

Lando flushes impossibly darker, and immediately tries to brush them out of his curls.

“Oh my god, that's so embara-”

He's stopped by two firm hands on the side of his face, and a kiss to his forehead. And another kiss to his right temple. Then his left. Another two to his cheeks. One to his nose. Oscar keeps pressing quick pecks all over his face until Lando is reduced to a giggly mess.

“Not embarrassing. It's cute!” Oscar reassures, patting down his curls where Lando ran his hands through.

“Don't lie,” Lando huffs, crossing his arms, face falling into an almost pout.

“I'm not lying baby.”

Lando squeaks and falls forward, burying his face into Oscar's neck. He can feel Oscar's chest shake as he laughs, and the comforting rhythm of his hands tracing his spine. Lando breathes in. Home.

The door bursts open, sending fragments of vine across the room.

“Lando. I figured out the curse mate. It's a love curse, but not one of the traditional ones. It's making people's magic freak out when they're around the person they love. So, all we've got to do is-”

Max stops his spiel and takes in the sight before him.

“Think we figured out who Lando loves,” Oscar says, nodding his head towards Lando, still on his lap, head still in the crook of his neck.

Max opens his mouth, shuts it, and then opens it again.

“Yeah, I'm just gonna leave you lot to that…” he trails off, slowly walking backwards out of the room. “You've both been freed from the rest of your media duties by the way!” he adds as he closes the door. Oscar listens to the retreating footsteps.

“My head doesn't hurt anymore,” Lando mumbles into Oscar's neck.

“No?”

“Mm mm.” Lando tries to shake his head, but it's weak, as he slowly succumbs to the weight of sleep. “‘Cause I'm near you.”

Oscar hums. Holds him a little tighter.

Lando breathes. Falls asleep in the arms of the man he loves; the man who loves him.

There's a circle of cherry blossom petals around them. Wonky and uneven, some crushed from stray limbs, and others obscured by the new layer, but full of life. Full of life.

Lando is alive, just like Oscar.