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The hotel room could be anywhere. Singapore, Austin, somewhere in Europe—Lando's lost track. They all smell the same anyway, industrial detergent and air-conditioning turned up too high, the kind of cold that never quite reaches your bones. The curtains are heavy and dark and block out whatever city is outside, which doesn't matter because Lando's not looking at it. He's looking at the ceiling tiles, counting them for the third time tonight, and the count keeps coming out different. Seventeen, then nineteen, then fifteen. His brain won't hold onto numbers properly when he's this tired.
The thing about not sleeping is that it tastes. Metallic, like the copper coin he used to find rolling around in the cup-holder of his dad's old Jeep, the one that smelled of petrol and optimism on those early mornings to karting. Like the last desperate sucks on his water bottle when it's gone warm and flat and you're trying to convince yourself there's still something left in there worth having.
Oscar's in the other bed. They'd pushed them together earlier—not for sex, though that had happened too, Oscar taking him apart methodical and thorough until Lando was boneless and wrung out—but because Lando had needed it. Needed Oscar close. The beds are pushed together but there's still a gap between the mattresses, a valley where they don't quite meet properly, and Lando's hyper-aware of it. Of the space. Of Oscar's breathing, steady and even, already asleep or close to it.
Lando's phone says 03:47. He's been lying here for two hours, maybe three. Time goes weird when you can't sleep, stretches and compresses until you can't trust it anymore. Earlier—yesterday? this morning? whenever—there'd been a race. Or maybe qualifying. He'd done alright, he thinks. Third, or fourth. Oscar had been there, had clapped their hands together warm and sweaty after, and Lando had felt the touch all the way up his arm like an electric shock.
They've got a language now, him and Oscar. Built it up over months without meaning to. The roll of Oscar's eyes when Lando's being deliberately thick. The shake of his knee when he's trying not to laugh. Their hands clapped together after everything, good results and bad ones and everything in between. The way Oscar exists in his space now, in hotel rooms that used to be Lando's but have become theirs, though that's not something they've said out loud. The shape of it's there, a feeling in his mouth, something he can't quite speak yet.
"You awake?" Oscar says, quiet in the dark.
Lando turns his head. Oscar's on his side now, facing him, and Lando can just make out his features in the dim light bleeding under the bathroom door. His hair's mashed flat on one side.
"Yeah," Lando says. His voice comes out rough. "Sorry. Didn't mean to wake you."
"You didn't. Been awake for a bit." Oscar shifts, and the mattresses creak with the movement. "Can't sleep?"
"Never can."
It's not quite true but it feels true. Lando can't remember the last time he slept properly, soundly, without his brain chewing on itself for hours first. Maybe after Oscar fucked him earlier, he'd managed a bit. An hour, maybe two. But then he'd woken up and the insomnia was back, settling over him like a weighted blanket he hadn't asked for.
"How long's it been?" Oscar asks.
"Tonight? Couple hours."
"I meant in general."
Lando shrugs, even though Oscar probably can't see it properly. "Dunno. Weeks. Months. It's fine."
"Doesn't sound fine."
"Well, it's not, is it? But I'm managing."
The words come out sharper than he means them to. Oscar doesn't flinch, doesn't react at all really, just keeps looking at him steady and patient. That's the thing about Oscar—he accepts things. Absorbs them. Like rules in a team briefing when Andrea drones on too long, Oscar nodding and taking it in without complaint. Like cameras flashing where they shouldn't, Oscar just turning his head slightly and dealing with it. Like Lando taking priority in the championship, Oscar absorbing that weight as if it had been measured in advance, as if he'd already accounted for it in his calculations.
"Sorry," Lando says. "Didn't mean—"
"It's alright."
"No, I'm being a dick. You're trying to help and I'm—"
"Lando. It's alright."
Oscar reaches across the gap between the mattresses. His hand finds Lando's wrist, fingers wrapping around it loose and warm. Lando thinks about turning his hand over, lacing their fingers together properly, but he doesn't. Can't quite make himself do it. His body feels heavy and light at the same time, exhaustion making everything feel slightly unreal.
"I see someone," Lando says. The words fall out of him before he can stop them. "A therapist. About the sleep and—other stuff."
He waits. For shock, maybe. Surprise. Some kind of reaction that makes it feel like a big deal, like an admission that matters. But Oscar just nods, thumb moving in slow circles on Lando's wrist.
"That's good," Oscar says.
"Is it?"
"Yeah. Does it help?"
"Not really. I don't know. Sometimes." Lando swallows. His throat feels tight. "There's this painting in the background of the Zoom calls. Half a barn and some grass. Shit art. I stare at it every week while I'm trying to explain why I can't sleep."
"What do you tell them? The therapist."
"Dunno, like.” Lando pauses. Huffs. “That I count things and the numbers come out wrong. That I'm tired all the time but my brain won't shut up." Lando laughs, a bit hysterical. "Probably sounds mental."
"Sounds shit," Oscar says simply. "Sounds exhausting."
"Yeah. It is."
Oscar's quiet for a moment. His thumb hasn't stopped moving on Lando's wrist, and Lando focuses on it. The rhythm of it. The warmth. It's grounding, somehow. Makes him feel less like he's floating away.
"You should've told me," Oscar says finally.
"Why?" The word comes out defensive. "What would you have done?"
"This. Whatever you needed."
Lando wants to argue but he can't. Because Oscar's right, isn't he? He would've done this. Would've absorbed it the way he absorbs everything else, made space for it without asking permission first.
"I thought you'd be weird about it," Lando admits. "The therapy thing. Thought you'd—I don't know. Make a big deal."
"Why would I do that?"
"Because people do. They get all awkward or they start treating you different, like you're fragile or something."
"Do I do that?" Oscar asks. His voice has gone very quiet. "Treat you like you're fragile?"
Lando thinks about earlier. About Oscar pushing him face-down into the mattress, hand fisted in his hair, fucking him hard and deliberate until Lando couldn't think about anything except the feeling of it. About the way Oscar had pulled out after, hadn't bothered cleaning him up properly, had just let him lie there wrecked and loose and falling apart.
"No," Lando says. "You don't."
"Right. So why would I start now?"
There's no good answer to that. Lando doesn't try to find one. Oscar's hand slides up from his wrist to his hand properly now, fingers slotting between Lando's. Lando squeezes back, maybe too hard, but Oscar doesn't complain.
"Come here," Oscar says.
"I am here."
"Closer. This gap's doing my head in."
Lando shifts across, bridging the valley between the mattresses. Oscar's mattress is marginally more comfortable than his, or maybe it just feels that way because Oscar's in it. Oscar pulls him in close, arranges them so Lando's head is on his chest, Oscar's arm wrapped round his shoulders.
"Better?" Oscar asks.
"Yeah."
It is better. Oscar's warm and solid and right there, heartbeat steady under Lando's ear. But Lando's still wired, still fizzing with the kind of exhaustion that won't let you rest. His brain's still going, still chewing on itself.
"I can feel you thinking," Oscar says.
"Can't help it."
"What're you thinking about?"
"Everything. Nothing. The ceiling tiles. How many there are." Lando huffs a laugh against Oscar's chest. "Told you. Mental."
"Not mental. Just tired."
Oscar's hand comes up, fingers threading through Lando's hair. It feels good. Feels like something Lando should lean into but he can't quite make himself relax properly. His shoulders are tense, drawn up round his ears.
"Want me to tell you something?" Oscar asks.
"Yeah. Anything."
Oscar's quiet for a moment, fingers still moving through Lando's hair. Then he says, "There's this karting track in Melbourne. Near where I grew up."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Drove past it all the time with Mum. Tiny little thing, barely a kilometre." Oscar's voice has gone softer, almost hypnotic. "One time, I must've been about eight, I made her pull over. Proper stroppy about it. And we sat in the car park for ages just watching people race."
Lando closes his eyes. Tries to picture it—little Oscar, forthright even then, demanding his mum stop the car. It makes something in his chest feel warm.
"I remember thinking I could do it better," Oscar continues. "All these kids out there making mistakes and I'm sat there thinking, I can do that better. Arrogant little shit."
"You were right though," Lando murmurs.
"Yeah. I was." There's a smile in Oscar's voice. "But that's not—the thing is, when I can't sleep, I drive that track. In my head. Go through every corner, every brake point. The whole thing."
"Does it help?"
"Usually. Sometimes." Oscar's hand slides down from Lando's hair to his face. His thumb brushes over Lando's eyelid, gentle. "Close your eyes properly."
Lando does. Oscar's thumb is still there, moving from one eyelid to the other, then grazing over his lips. It's intimate in a way that makes Lando's breath catch. He wants to kiss Oscar's thumb, wants to open his mouth and take it in, but he doesn't. Just lies there and lets Oscar touch him.
"What helps me sleep," Oscar says quietly, "is the car. Movement. You."
"Me?" Lando's voice comes out rough.
"Yeah. You. But right now we're going to focus on the car bit."
Lando wants to argue. Wants to ask what Oscar means by that, by you, but his brain's gone soft and fuzzy. Oscar's voice is doing something to him, making his body heavy in a way that's almost pleasant.
"Picture the track," Oscar says. "First corner's a hairpin. Proper hard braking zone."
"Okay," Lando says. He's not sure he's picturing anything really, just following the sound of Oscar's voice.
"You're approaching it. What're you doing?"
"Braking. Hard."
"How hard?"
"Down to second gear. Maybe first."
"Good." Oscar's thumb traces along Lando's jaw now. "Now you're through it. Short straight, then a quick left-right chicane."
Lando's hand is on Oscar's stomach, he realizes. Doesn't remember putting it there but it is, fingers spread against warm skin. He thinks about moving it, about sliding it lower, but he doesn't. Oscar's still talking and Lando doesn't want him to stop.
"Where's your line through the chicane?" Oscar asks.
"Wide on the left," Lando says. His voice sounds far away. "Clip the apex tight on the right."
"Perfect. See, you're good at this."
Oscar keeps talking. Walks him through the whole track, every corner. Tells him about the off-camber bit that used to scare his mum. About the time he crashed in the rain there, proper embarrassing junior championship moment. His voice stays soft and steady the whole time, fingers never stopping their movement on Lando's skin.
Lando's breathing has slowed to match Oscar's. His body feels heavy now, properly heavy, sinking into the mattress. The metallic taste is gone from his mouth.
"There's this long sweeping right-hander at the end," Oscar's saying. "Leads back onto the main straight."
Lando's fingers move against Oscar's stomach. Not intentional, just following the shape of the corner Oscar's describing. Mapping it out.
"You take it flat if you're brave enough," Oscar continues.
"You always take it flat," Lando mumbles.
"Yeah. I always take it flat."
Lando wants to say something. About how Oscar makes it sound easy, driving tracks in your head. About how his voice does something to Lando's nervous system, makes it settle down. About how this—lying here with Oscar talking him through imaginary corners—is the closest thing to peace he's felt in weeks.
But his mouth won't work properly anymore. His thoughts are going soft and blurry, losing their edges.
"That helps?" he manages to get out.
"What, the track thing?"
"Yeah."
"Sometimes," Oscar says. His hand has moved to Lando's hair again, fingers combing through it slow and steady. "Usually. Depends."
"On what?"
"On whether my brain will let me. Whether I can focus on it properly." Oscar pauses. "Whether I'm worried about you."
That jolts something in Lando's chest. Makes him want to lift his head, look at Oscar properly, but he can't quite make himself move.
"Don't worry about me," he says.
"Bit late for that."
"Osc—"
"Shh. You're meant to be sleeping."
"Can't."
"You will."
It sounds like a promise. Oscar's hand is still in his hair, steady and warm. His heartbeat is steady under Lando's ear. Lando's fingers curl against Oscar's stomach, holding on.
"Tell me another road," Lando says.
So Oscar does. Some B-road in England this time, narrow and twisty. Tells him about the way the light hits the tarmac in the mornings, about the line you'd take through the tight left-hander halfway up. Maps it out with his free hand on Lando's back, fingers tracing the route like he's drawing it into his skin.
Lando tries to follow. Tries to picture the road, the corners, but it's getting harder to hold onto the images. They keep slipping away from him, replaced by the feeling of Oscar's hand on his back, Oscar's fingers in his hair, Oscar's voice wrapping around him soft and steady.
"You're doing the thing," Oscar says quietly.
"What thing?"
"The thinking thing. I can feel it."
"How can you feel me thinking?"
"Your shoulders tense up. You stop breathing properly." Oscar's hand presses flat between Lando's shoulder blades. "Breathe."
Lando does. Deep breath in, longer breath out. It feels stupid but Oscar's hand stays there, warm and grounding.
"Better," Oscar says. "Now focus. We're taking that left-hander. Where are you looking?"
"Through the corner," Lando says. His voice is barely there now, just breath and sound. "Where I want to go."
"Exactly. Where you want to go, not where you are."
Lando thinks about that. About looking ahead instead of at what's right in front of him. About trusting that the corner will come, that he'll make it through. His breathing has gone deep and even without him meaning it to.
"There's another track," Oscar says. "Made-up one this time. Want to hear it?"
"Yeah."
So Oscar tells him. Makes up corners and straights and elevation changes as he goes. His voice never wavers, never speeds up or slows down, just stays soft and hypnotic. Lando's not even trying to picture it anymore, just letting the words wash over him. His body's gone boneless. The exhaustion that wouldn't let him rest before has transformed into something else, something that's pulling him down soft and gentle.
"Osc," he mumbles.
"Yeah?"
"Don't go."
"I'm not going anywhere."
"Promise?"
"Promise. I'm right here."
Lando wants to say more. Wants to tell Oscar that this is the only time he sleeps properly, when Oscar's here talking him through imaginary roads. Wants to explain that the hotel room feels like theirs now, not just his, that the shape of that understanding sits in his mouth even though he can't speak it yet. Wants to say that Oscar accepting things—accepting him, accepting the therapy, accepting the insomnia without making it into something huge—means more than he knows how to articulate.
But his mouth won't work anymore. His thoughts are scattering, losing cohesion. Oscar's hand is steady in his hair, Oscar's heartbeat is steady under his ear, and Lando's breathing has synced up with it without him noticing.
"Sleep," Oscar says softly. "I've got you."
So Lando does.
He lets go of the ceiling tiles, the counting, the metallic taste, the copper coin. Lets go of the worry about tomorrow's race or qualifying or whatever it is they're meant to be doing. Lets go of the space between the mattresses, the gap that doesn't matter because they've bridged it anyway. Lets go of trying to hold himself together when Oscar's already holding him.
The last thing he's aware of is Oscar's voice, still talking, still mapping out roads and corners and brake points. Still there. Still steady.
And then there's nothing but sleep, deep and dreamless and complete, the kind that knits him back together properly. The kind he only gets when Oscar's here doing exactly this—talking him through it, touching him gentle and sure, making space for all of it without asking permission first.
When Lando wakes—hours later, properly rested for the first time in weeks—Oscar's still there. Still holding him. Still keeping his promise.
The hotel room is still anonymous, could still be anywhere, but it doesn't matter. Because it's theirs now. Has been for a while, actually. They just hadn't said it out loud yet.
Lando doesn't say it now either. Just presses his face against Oscar's chest, feels Oscar's hand tighten in his hair, and lets himself stay there. Lets himself have this.
The half-barn and the grass can wait. Dr. Chen and her Tuesday Zooms can wait. Everything can wait.
For now there's just this: Oscar's heartbeat steady under his ear, Oscar's hand in his hair, and the memory of imaginary roads mapped out in the dark. The knowledge that when the insomnia comes back—and it will, it always does—Oscar will be there to talk him through it again.
Will be there to map out corners on his skin, to tell him stories about karting tracks and B-roads and places that might not even exist. Will be there to close his eyes with gentle thumbs, to hold him through it, to make space for all of it without flinching.
Will be there.
That's enough. More than enough.
Lando closes his eyes again and lets himself drift, Oscar's voice still echoing in his head like a promise kept.