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They finished the last race before the summer break. Lando was left with the buzz of a win under his skin and the excitement of the second half of the battle yet to come. It was close between him and Oscar, and whilst he would've preferred to have been leading the championship going into their break, he can't complain about his position too much. He'll relax during his time off and then be back, ready as ever, for the second round of races.
Plus, he got to spend his break with Oscar. The first break they would spend together as an official couple. Lando couldn't wait.
Though he noted a tickle in the back of his throat when they flew back home to Monaco. He had shrugged it off, downed some Lucozade, and thought that would be the end of it.
He had thought wrong.
Lando wasn't unfamiliar with your average, run-of-the-mill illnesses. He travelled a lot and was exposed to so many people week in, week out, that getting the odd cold or sore throat was expected. Though it felt worse than that. What had started off as a dry scratch had crescendoed into the feeling of swallowing sandpaper, throat raw where no amount of spray or liquid seemed to help.
He knew it was bad when he woke up one day and tried to say good morning to Oscar and instead half the words were lost, cut short, and his voice was barely a wheeze.
Oscar eyes him from where he sat at the kitchen peninsula. "You okay? It sounds like you've gargled marbles."
"Har har, very funny," he gritted out, then mumbled, " sore throat."
His boyfriend gave him a sympathetic look, "It sounds bad, Lan. I don't envy you. It's— what's the saying? The one about frogs?"
Lando blinked, unamused.
"Oh!" He clapped his hands together, almost too proud if you were to ask Lando. "A frog in your throat!"
"A— what?"
"Sounds like you have a frog in your throat, which basically means you have a sore throat," Oscar clarified. "It must have something to do with sounding croaky, I think? They use it for people who lose their voice or find it hard to speak because it hurts."
"So me. Great. Fuck—" his voice broke, rough, "—ing great. Fantastic."
"Damn, that really does sound rough. I can make you some tea if you want?" Oscar offered, getting up and rummaging through their kitchen cabinets. "I'll put some honey in it. Might not fix you right away, but it'll taste good."
Lando settled into the stool Oscar had just been occupying. Maybe being pampered and looked after by his boyfriend would be nice. Maybe a croak— or, as Oscar put it, a frog in his throat— wasn't too bad.
No. He had thought wrong. Again. It was bad.
It did not take long for Lando to completely lose his voice. Any attempt to speak came out in a high-pitched squeak, grating against the inside of his throat as if he had swallowed shards of glass. It was uncomfortable. He felt weird. He didn't like not being able to speak, being reduced to hand gestures and nods and, now, a whiteboard Oscar had bought so he could communicate via written-down sentences.
Despite Oscar reassuring him that he was okay, that everything was fine, Lando still felt embarrassed. Whenever he needed to speak to Oscar, he would either groan out an incomprehensible sound or tug on Oscar's sleeve like some desperate child needing attention. There had been prior commitments he had signed up for— a few days off relaxing together before he went to a couple of events, flashed his PR smile and went on his merry way. Instead he was left without a voice, a chunk of him missing, as he cancelled event after event.
It felt dehumanising. No matter how many times Oscar told him it was fine. It was easy for him to say that; he hadn't lost his spark, his personality. Who was he if he couldn't shoot off quips and make people laugh? He liked to stay modest, he really did, but he knew he was funny. He could entertain. It was a skill that came naturally to him, where others may have felt a bit awkward or stiff, he thrived in chaos and chatter.
Now he didn't have any of that.
He felt like a blank slate. Oscar would curl up with him in bed; he could tell Lando hated feeling so exposed and would mutter, "It's okay, baby. You're still you."
Though that did not feel like enough. Words from others didn't help when he couldn't even use his own.
At least when he contacted sponsors to say he was ill, they were polite and understanding. It was a week and a half in, the doctors had prescribed him a little pill he was swallowing four times a day, when Oscar mentioned they had planned for a dinner party. It was meant to be with some of their friends: Alex, Charles, George, and Carlos, for a meal. Last time George and Alex had hosted, so it was only fair they swapped that duty around.
Lando had shaken his head rapidly.
"No?" Oscar questioned, raising a brow.
Lando scrabbled for his whiteboard. I can't talk, he made sure to underline the word 'talk' three times to emphasise the point.
"So?" Oscar said it as if it didn't mean anything. As if the thought of Lando being rendered useless around his friends (people he loved, cared for, and respected) was almost enough to set him off in a downward spiral. "Lan, you'll be fine." Oscar continued, "They get it, you've lost your voice. No one's going to care."
They wouldn't get it, though. Even Oscar didn't seem to get the intricacies underneath. Lando scribbled out: I don't want them seeing me like this. It felt stupid to look at his scratchy handwriting, the words exposing a truth he was still trying to keep hidden. A part of him was scared. Scared that he would be laughed at. Scared that his friends would realise how much of a downer he was, how different he was, when he didn't have the power of wits and charms.
"It'll be okay," Oscar promised.
No it won't.
Oscar sighed and the noise made Lando retreat into himself. "Lan, it will be okay. It's just friends. And all that has happened is you've lost your voice."
Lando may have hated himself at the moment, weak and pathetically scrambling for validation, but he hated the idea of disappointing Oscar more. So he nodded slowly, wiped away his words on the whiteboard, and that was the end of the conversation. Oscar seemed content and Lando buried his fears deep within himself to not worry his boyfriend.
The following evening their friends arrived and some jabs were made towards Lando— though it was nothing he couldn't handle. He brushed them off, the jokes, because he knew there would be remarks; he imagined he would do the same if the positions were flipped, just to lighten the mood. And, sure, they stung— comments about how he was so different, a joke where they asked Lando to answer a question and then said, Oh wait. At one point, he couldn't find his whiteboard pen, and sure, he could use his phone, but he had become so accustomed to the whiteboard, panic clawed at his throat until someone revealed they had found it.
He felt like a stranger in his own home. He felt alienated when they went to eat, everyone chirping away happily and he just sat, picking at the food. He pushed it around his plate with the fork absentmindedly.
Then, a comment was made. He wasn't even sure who had said it, voices melding into one murmured conversation. He hadn't been properly listening but his lost voice had cropped up again as a topic to discuss and then someone asked—
Oscar, you must be glad to finally have a little bit of peace and quiet round here, aye?
Lando stood abruptly, his chair scraped across the tiles. The conversation halted as all eyes landed on him but he didn't care. It most likely looked petulant to push his chair back into place and storm out, even when someone called his name, though he was already down the hall and slamming the bedroom door behind him. He slipped down the closest wall and brought his knees to his chest and hung his head low between them.
He got caught on a breath. He choked on it. His arms wrapped around his legs, fingers dug into the side of his knees as he counted to four, attempted to hold his breath, exhaled, counted to four again. His next inhale was shaky, not solid, count to four—
A knock, soft, on the door.
Lando couldn't respond; he felt like he was dying. His body was shutting down; that had to be it. There was no way to control his breathing and tears were squeezing their way past his shut eyes, rolling down his cheeks, and dripping onto the carpet.
"Oh, baby, I'm so sorry," Oscar had apparently opened the door and stepped in, shutting it again to give them privacy. Lando hadn't heard any of it.
It shocked Lando into moving again, stumbling to his feet and blinking at Oscar. He'd ruined their night. It was supposed to have been a fun evening with friends and Lando, selfish and afraid, had only thought of himself and had caused a scene. Oscar was surely there to scold him, to tell him off for being dramatic.
"Lando, I need to know what's wrong." he glanced over to see Oscar holding out the whiteboard, arm outstretched. An offering.
Something snapped. His chest still heaved. His cheeks were wet. The stupid whiteboard— he was so fucking tired of it. Tired of not being able to talk. Tired of feeling useless in his own body. Tired of his suffering being seen as an easy joke that people could make lighthearted jabs at.
He snatched the whiteboard and hurled it across the bedroom. It hit the opposite wall and clattered to the floor. Anger boiled under his skin, he choked on air, the noise half like a sob, and ran his hands through his hair. He tugged harshly on the curls.
In for four, hold for four, out for four—
Why wasn't it working—
He stumbled back, hit the wall behind him again, and returned to his crouched position, pulling his legs close to his chest.
Oscar silently sat down in front of him, cross-legged, and reached over to grab Lando's hands in his own. He pried them away from Lando's legs, stopped them from pressing small purple indents into his skin.
"Sweetheart, can you breathe with me?" Oscar started exaggerating his own breathing, taking in a loud, deep inhale. He'd then hold it before exhaling, blowing the air out theatrically.
He rubbed circles across the back of Lando's hands using his thumbs and continued the overemphasised breathing for several minutes until Lando finally managed to replicate it. Then they repeated the action a few more times, enough for Lando to unfurl himself as he blinked back the blurriness. When the tears had cleared, he saw that Oscar was staring right back at him.
He opened his mouth and barely managed to say, "Sorry."
"No, no, please don't apologise, Lan. I should be the one saying sorry. Not you."
He went to try and speak again but Oscar held up a hand, stopping him. "Don't strain yourself. I don't want you hurting yourself more. I—" Oscar breathed in, tense. Then bit his lip. His brows furrowed. A conversation was happening in his mind and the answer Oscar had silently arrived at was apparently one he was happy with because he relaxed a little. "I'm sorry. You said you didn't feel comfortable with people coming round, even our friends, and I didn't listen. I said it would be fine and didn't take your feelings into consideration. I'm so sorry, Lan. I really am."
Lando made a grabbing motion to the other side of the room, Oscar shuffled far enough to reach the whiteboard and revealed the pen from his pocket.
I'm sorry for overreacting.
"You didn't overreact," Oscar said, squeezing Lando's hands. "I didn't think it was that big of a deal losing your voice. But it is a big deal to you and that's perfectly valid. I should have realised that it was stupid of me to invite our friends round when you clearly tried to tell me you were uncomfortable."
Are they still here?
Oscar shook his head. "No, I told them you must not be feeling well. They wished for a swift and easy recovery. I think they knew, deep down, that the comments were a bit too harsh. They wanted me to tell you that they didn't mean anything harmful."
I'll message them at some point. So no one thinks there's any bad blood. It just, he paused, trying to think of the right words to write, hurt me. I didn't like the jokes. It feels silly but I just want my voice back.
Oscar opened up his arms, Lando discarded the whiteboard and slotted into place. "I know," his boyfriend mumbled into his hair, arms tight around Lando, "I'm sorry, baby. We weren't being considerate. But we'll get through this, together— I don't want you feeling alone anymore, okay? We'll figure this out and you'll be back to normal in no time."
Lando was inclined to believe him.
It was two days later when something shifted. Oscar was cooking breakfast; the blender was whirring loudly as it mixed up a smoothie. Lando was more of a milk guy, while Oscar liked to drink a mushy fruit concoction first thing.
Lando skidded into the kitchen, socked feet gliding against tile. He only donned his boxers, hair not brushed and still tousled from sleep as he had rushed in as quickly as possible.
At the commotion, Oscar turned and smirked, "Someone's excited."
"Osc," his voice wasn't perfect; it sounded rickety. It still faded in and out, but it was there. "My voice— I can talk!"
Oscar, delighted, closed the gap and enveloped Lando in a warm embrace. "That's amazing, Lan," he said, breaking away so he could plant a kiss against his boyfriend's lips. "I've missed hearing your voice so much."
"Really?"
"Really." He confirmed. Lando responded by leaning in and kissing Oscar again.