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Summary
“Oscar…”
“Don’t.” The word was a growl, an instruction, the fingers around his wrists tightening enough to make Lando wonder if he’d have to be wearing long sleeves in the heat of Qatar the following week. Their foreheads were almost rested together, but nothing so tender was passing between them. Instead, the millimetre of space that sat there was purposeful, calculated, deliberate. “Don’t try to make it better.”
He wasn’t going to. And he wanted to bite that back, scream that at him. How could he possibly even try and make it better? What use was words now? It was done, it had happened. Decisions were made and taken, out of their control. He wasn’t going to try and make it better because there was no feasible way he could.
Instead, the air between them grew hotter, heavier, the settling anticipation and the uncertain next move. Eyes darted in the low light, and Lando shifted, trying to find an inch of space between them, to no avail. Every single molecule of Oscar was pressed to him, the weight of him keeping him there with more than physical force.
Post Vegas.