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Words of Affirmation
Lando never thought of himself as insecure. Not really. He was loud enough, bright enough, confident enough—or at least, that’s what people always said.
But under all of it, there was still that quiet doubt, the voice that crept in when he was alone. Am I enough? Did I do enough? Am I really as good as they think I am?
It usually stayed hidden. He was good at covering it with jokes, with laughter, with sheer energy.
But Oscar always seemed to know.
It started in the smallest ways. After a long day in the sim, when Lando dropped onto the couch with a groan, Oscar would glance over and say casually,
“You did well today. You know that, right?” Not as praise, not as flattery—just fact. Simple. Direct.
During media scrums, when Lando stumbled over his words and gave himself a hard time later, Oscar would nudge him and murmur,
“You handled it fine. Better than I would’ve.” And somehow, Lando believed him.
But the moment that stuck, the one Lando could never shake, came after a race weekend gone wrong.
Lando had pushed too hard, made a mistake, and the headlines were merciless. He shut himself in his hotel room that night, trying to laugh it off, but the weight of it sat heavy in his chest.
Oscar knocked once and came in without waiting. He didn’t say anything at first—just sat on the edge of the bed while Lando stared at the ceiling, forcing a grin.
“You don’t have to cheer me up,” Lando said. “I know I was shit today.”
Oscar looked at him, steady and sure. “You weren’t.”
Lando scoffed. “Oscar, did you see the same race I did?”
“I did,” Oscar said. His voice was calm, but there was no room for argument in it.
“And I saw someone who fought until the end. Who doesn’t give up, even when it’s bad. That’s not shit.That’s you. And that’s why you’re good.”
The words hit harder than any headline. Because they weren’t just comfort—they were belief. Unshakable. Honest.
Lando swallowed hard, blinking fast. “You actually think that?”
Oscar leaned back, stretching out beside him, their shoulders brushing. “I don’t think it. I know it.”
And that was the thing about Oscar. He didn’t just hand out pretty words. He said what he meant, always.
And when he told Lando he was enough, Lando believed it—because Oscar’s voice didn’t leave room for doubt.
For the first time in a long while, Lando let himself breathe.
Because maybe, just maybe, he was enough—if Oscar said so.
Quality Time
If there was one thing Lando couldn’t stand, it was silence. Long stretches of it always made him restless, searching for noise, for distraction.
But with Oscar, silence felt different.
It wasn’t empty. It wasn’t awkward. It was… full.
Like tonight. They were back in Monaco, a rare week with no racing, and the city was alive below them—tourists laughing on cobblestone streets, boats bobbing lazily in the harbor.
But Lando didn’t want to be anywhere but here, sitting cross-legged on his balcony floor with takeaway boxes between them, Oscar’s knee brushing against his.
No cameras, no noise, no rush. Just them.
“You could’ve gone home to Australia,” Lando said suddenly, breaking open a fortune cookie.
“Or stayed in London. Or, I don’t know, gone anywhere in the world. Why hang around with me?”
Oscar glanced up from his noodles, chopsticks poised mid-air. “Because I wanted to.”
Lando blinked, caught off-guard. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.” Oscar’s mouth quirked in that small, quiet smile that always made Lando’s chest ache.
“I’d rather be here—with you—than anywhere else.”
The words hit harder than they should’ve, settling warm and heavy in Lando’s chest.
He wasn’t used to being chosen so simply, so surely, without conditions or fanfare.
He ducked his head, playing with the cookie in his hands to hide his smile.
“You know, most people would’ve picked a holiday. Beach, sun, cocktails served in coconuts.”
“I’ve got all that here,” Oscar said, eyes flicking over to him. “Well. Maybe not the coconut.”
Lando laughed, cheeks burning. “You’re ridiculous.”
But Oscar wasn’t laughing. He was watching Lando the way he always did—steady, unhurried, like Lando was the only thing worth looking at.
And Lando felt it then, sharp and sweet: Oscar’s love wasn’t in grand gestures or declarations.
It was in the way he carved out his time, the way he chose quiet nights on balconies over the whole world, the way he made Lando feel like he was enough, just as he was.
It was simple. It was certain. And it was terrifyingly perfect.
Later, when the food was gone and the city lights flickered like stars, Oscar leaned back on his hands, close enough that their shoulders brushed.
“I like this,” he said softly.
“What?” Lando asked.
Oscar tilted his head toward him. “Time with you.”
And just like that, Lando knew—he could sit here forever, in this silence that wasn’t silence at all.
Because it was full of them.
Gifts
Lando had always thought gifts were meant to be big. Flashy, expensive, something you showed off. He’d grown up around people who measured care in numbers—bigger car, bigger house, bigger gesture.
But Oscar’s gifts weren’t like that.
They were quiet. Thoughtful. So small, sometimes, that Lando almost missed them—until he realized just how perfectly they fit him.
Like the packet of his favorite sweets slipped into his backpack before a long flight.
Or the pen Oscar bought when Lando complained that all his kept running out of ink.
Or the way Oscar always seemed to have an extra hoodie ready when Lando inevitably forgot his own.
None of it was big. None of it was loud. But it was all him.
The one that undid Lando, though, came on his birthday.
He wasn’t expecting much—he had everything he needed already, and he knew Oscar wasn’t the type for grand surprises.
But when he opened the small box handed to him after dinner, he froze.
Inside was a simple leather bracelet, worn-looking but sturdy. On the inside, almost hidden, were the initials LN—tiny, engraved.
Lando swallowed. “Oscar…”
Oscar shifted in his chair, looking almost sheepish.
“It’s nothing fancy. Just thought… you’d like something that’s yours. Something to keep.”
Lando traced the letters with his thumb, throat tight. “You had this made?”
Oscar shrugged, eyes flicking away. “Yeah.”
And that was it. No big speech, no explanation.
Just a gift, given because he’d thought of Lando and wanted him to have it.
Lando slipped it onto his wrist, the leather warm against his skin. He stared at it, then at Oscar, and felt something swell inside him, too big to hold in.
“You give me too much,” he whispered, half-laughing, half-breaking.
Oscar met his eyes then, soft and steady. “Not too much. Just enough.”
And in that moment, with the bracelet snug around his wrist and Oscar sitting across from him with that quiet certainty, Lando realized—every little gift was Oscar’s way of saying I see you.
I think of you. I choose you.
And no matter how small, it felt like the biggest thing in the world.
Acts of Service
Lando wasn’t helpless—not really. He could manage his life just fine, thank you very much. But somehow, when Oscar was around, he didn’t have to.
Because Oscar just… did things.
At home, it was in the way Lando’s laundry somehow found its way folded into neat piles, when all he remembered was leaving it in a basket.
Or the way the dishwasher ran without him asking, or his favourite mug always seemed to be clean and waiting in the cupboard.
“You don’t have to do that,” Lando told him once, embarrassed, catching Oscar tidying the avalanche of jackets he’d left by the door.
Oscar just shrugged, expression mild. “I don’t mind.”
And that was the thing—he really didn’t. He never made a show of it, never rubbed it in.
He just did the things that made Lando’s world a little easier, a little softer.
At the track, it was the same.
Lando would throw his gloves down after a frustrating stint, muttering curses under his breath.
By the time he looked up again, Oscar was already there, offering a bottle of water and loosening the velcro on his suit so he could breathe easier.
Or during back-to-back media duties, when Lando was all smiles and jokes for the cameras but fading fast inside, Oscar would quietly slide a protein bar into his hand between interviews.
No words, no fuss—just there.
And then there was the night after a long double-header, when they finally got back to Lando’s flat.
Lando had collapsed on the couch, too tired to move, half-asleep with his shoes still on.
He woke later to find himself tucked under a blanket, shoes gone, lights dimmed.
Oscar sat at the edge of the couch, scrolling on his phone, waiting.
“You didn’t have to,” Lando mumbled, still groggy.
Oscar looked down at him, lips twitching into the faintest smile. “I wanted to.”
Lando lay there, staring at him, heart twisting.
He didn’t know what to do with all this care, all these quiet, constant ways Oscar looked after him without asking for anything back.
It was overwhelming sometimes. Too much. Too perfect.
But then Oscar reached down, brushing the hair from Lando’s forehead, and said simply, “Go back to sleep, yeah? I’ve got you.”
And just like that, Lando let his eyes close again, safe in the knowledge that Oscar meant it.
Because he always did.
Physical Touch
For all of Oscar’s quiet ways of showing love—his words, his time, his thoughtful little gestures—what undid Lando most was his touch.
Because when Oscar touched him, it wasn’t casual. It wasn’t careless. Every brush of fingers, every pull into his arms, every kiss—it all felt deliberate, like Oscar was saying you’re mine, and I’m yours.
It started small. A hand on the back of his neck after a long debrief, grounding him. Their knees pressed together in the car, Oscar never moving away.
Fingers grazing Lando’s wrist when passing him something, lingering just long enough to make his pulse race.
But over time, it grew.
On nights when the world felt too heavy, Lando would crawl into bed tense, mind racing.
Oscar would slide in beside him, wrap an arm firmly around his waist, and press his face into the curve of Lando’s shoulder.
That was all it took—Lando melting, all the chaos quieting, because Oscar’s touch always told him, you’re safe.
And then there were the kisses. God, the kisses.
They weren’t rushed or sloppy, like the drunken snogging Lando remembered from years past.
No—Oscar kissed him like he had all the time in the world. Slow, steady, lips mapping over Lando’s until he was dizzy with it.
One night, after a race that had left Lando raw and exhausted, Oscar kissed him in the hotel room with such aching tenderness that Lando thought he might fall apart.
Fingers in his hair, lips moving with patient certainty, Oscar kissed like he was pouring every unspoken word, every vow, every ounce of love into Lando’s mouth.
And when Lando finally broke away, breathless, forehead pressed against Oscar’s, he whispered, “You give me everything.”
Oscar’s thumb brushed his jaw, steady and sure. “That’s because you’re everything to me.”
The words stole Lando’s breath, but it was the touch—the warmth of Oscar’s hand against his face, the press of his body against Lando’s—that made him believe it.
Because words could be doubted. Time could be fleeting. Gifts could be lost, acts forgotten.
But the way Oscar held him—like he was the most important thing in the world—Lando couldn’t question that.
It was intense. It was overwhelming. It was perfect.
And as Oscar kissed him again, deeper this time, Lando realized he didn’t need to doubt anymore.
Because love like this didn’t need translating. It was already written into his skin.
It hit Lando one quiet morning, the kind that felt suspended outside of time.
They were in bed, sunlight slipping through the curtains, the world still hushed.
Oscar was half-asleep beside him, hair messy, one arm slung heavy across Lando’s waist as if holding him in place.
And for the first time, Lando let himself really see it all.
The words Oscar had given him, steady and certain, cutting through doubt like they were truth carved into stone.
The time—every moment Oscar had chosen him, when he could’ve been anywhere else.
The gifts, small and thoughtful, each one proof that Oscar listened, that he cared.
The acts of service, quiet and constant, making Lando’s world softer without ever being asked.
And the touch—the grounding warmth, the lingering kisses, the way Oscar held him like he was everything.
It wasn’t just one love language. It wasn’t even five.
It was all of them, woven together into something whole, something perfect.
And it was all his.
Lando blinked back the sudden burn in his eyes, his chest tight.
He turned, pressing closer, nudging his nose against Oscar’s bare chest until Oscar stirred, blinking awake with that soft, sleepy gaze that always undid him.
“Morning,” Oscar murmured, voice rough.
“Morning,” Lando whispered back, heart hammering.
He swallowed, words rising before he could stop them. “Oscar?”
“Mhm?”
Lando’s throat tightened. He look up, fingers tracing Oscar’s lips with trembling fingers, needing him to feel it.
“Thank you. For… all of it. For giving me everything.” His voice cracked, soft and aching. “I love you so much.”
For a moment, Oscar just looked at him, eyes clear now, steady as ever. Then he leaned in, kissing Lando with quiet certainty, like he was sealing the words between them.
When he pulled back, Oscar whispered, “I love you too. Always.”
And in that moment, with sunlight spilling over them and Oscar’s hand tangled in his, Lando finally believed it.
Because love like this wasn’t too perfect.
It was simply theirs.