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When Lando woke up, he didn’t have a single thought in his head except for an urgent need to consume his body weight in water.
Unfortunately, the path to the kitchen sink from his bed that he had mapped out in his mind fell apart when he finally wrenched his eyes open and did not see the bedroom ceiling he was so familiar with.
Ignoring the stabbing pain behind his eyes, Lando shot up in bed, heart rate increasing as he desperately tried to piece together how he ended up in a random bed with no recollection of how he got there.
Not only that, he was naked.
Slowly, he swivelled his head round to take in the room he had woken up in. It was clean, but bare. Pristine white walls and a navy blue carpet, a double bed — that he was currently laying in — with a white duvet patterned with blue fish. One small framed painting on the wall, signed by some artist Lando probably should know by name but didn’t pay enough attention in art history to pick up.
He really needed to figure out what the fuck was happening.
Suddenly, his eyes caught on the bedside table (a small wooden set of drawers). More specifically, the printed sheet of paper that lay on top of it, next to a tall glass of water and pack of paracetamol. Lando leaned in, eyes widening as he took in the words on the paper:
DON’T PANIC!
There is paracetamol on the bedside table, as well as a glass of water. The bathroom is straight across from you.
Where am I?
In the spare bedroom of the bouncer you were talking to last night. You weren’t in a state to be left alone, wouldn’t/couldn’t get in a taxi, and none of your friends were answering the phone.
Where is my…
Phone? Check under your pillow.
Tightfitting jewelery? In the first drawer.
Clothing I threw up on? In the washing machine, there’s some hoodies and sweatpants in the second and third drawers.
What now?
Whatever you like, sneak out without a word (follow the road downhill to the city centre), or stay in bed, there’s clean towels on the banister, possibly food in the fridge, a sticker with the WiFi password on it somewhere in the living room, and Netflix on the TV. I’m out right now but I’ll be back at 12:30.
Well, if this was a serial killer, then they were certainly a considerate one. A serial healer, maybe? Was that a thing?
Without further anxiety, Lando picked up the water and quickly chugged half of the glass, stifling a moan as the cold slid down his throat. He quickly followed up the water with two paracetamol pills, chucking them into the back of his throat and swallowing them down gratefully. Finally, he reached for his phone, mind blanking until he found himself hovering over Carlos’ name in his phone app.
“Lando?” Carlos sounded as wrecked as Lando felt. “I feel like shit, what is it?”
“Hey, Carlos. Did you see who I went home with last night?”
“Who you— what? Bro, I don’t know… some guy with brown hair. Think he was Australian. You don’t remember? He was really serious, talking about, like, ‘It’s not safe’. Meanwhile you were draped over him trying to flirt.”
Lando rubbed the space between his eyes with two fingers, sighing dramatically as he started to understand the situation.
“Mate, I don’t remember anything. I woke up in this random bedroom, the guy has left this printout with directions on, like, where everything is. I don’t even think he’s here right now.”
“...¿Qué quieres que haga, Lando?”
“What?”
“Do you want me to pick you up? Or are you staying?”
“I’m… I think I’ll stay. For a bit. I’ll call you later, okay Carlitos?”
“Bye.”
Carlos didn’t seem too excited to talk, and Lando suspected he was suffering a similar hangover.
Well, if he was going to be here for a while, he might as well explore his surroundings.
He lowered his legs to find the carpeted floor, padding over to the set of drawers before opening the first one and inspecting the hoodies that the mystery man had to offer.
He picked up the first hoodie on the top of the pile. It was a size L black hoodie with a small logo on the front that read, ‘Good Times Club’ in a swirly font. Interesting. The second hoodie was scrunched up in the corner of the drawer, and Lando unravelled its bright orange fabric to reveal ‘McLaren’ in bold black text over the chest. Did this guy work for McLaren, or was he just a fan? Either way, he had terrible taste. Lando greatly preferred Red Bull.
Finally, he picked out a soft pink hoodie with an embroidered yellow smiley face on its chest. Lando slipped it on, the sleeves slightly drowning his arms before he scrunched up the wrist. It was comfortably oversized.
He grabbed a pair of grey sweatpants from the drawer below before padding out into the doorframe, glancing down the corridor and taking in the serenity of silence. Sharing a flat with Carlos meant that Lando didn’t get much time to himself, and he was strangely grateful that this man had allowed him the privacy to wake up in peace. Not that he thought it was on purpose, but he still appreciated the sentiment.
Making his way down the corridor, Lando couldn’t help but gaze at the pictures lining the walls, staring intently at each person. An Australian with brown hair.
Eventually, his gaze landed upon a beautifully brown-haired man, and although Carlos’ description was unhelpful at best, Lando found himself desperately hoping that the man who carried him home last night was the gorgeous one from the photo.
Continuing on to the kitchen, Lando opened the fridge with a silent prayer that the mystery boy had stocked his fridge recently. And it seemed that he was in luck, as there were jams and marmalades lining the shelves of the fridge. Hopefully, he also had some bread.
Taking out the strawberry jam and a stick of butter, he focused on searching each cupboard for some carbohydrate until he finally turned around and saw the bag of sliced bread on the table.
Great, thanks.
Once he had sufficiently fueled himself, following his toast with another glass of water, Lando left the kitchen and headed into the next room, where a flatscreen TV and a dark grey sofa sat next to two lampshades. He briefly considered whether he was overstepping by staying to watch Netflix.
Maybe telling him he could stay was just a formality, but the man couldn’t really expect him to understand that.
Satisfied by his justification, he flopped down dramatically onto the sofa and reached for the remote, flicking on Netflix. The only profile available had a picture of Will Graham from Hannibal, and the name of the profile was ‘Oscar’.
Huh. Oscar.
Lando thought that was a nice name. A nice name for a nice boy. He wondered if Oscar would like the name Lando. He wondered if he already knew it, if Oscar had remembered his name through every slurred observation Lando had probably made in the man’s general direction.
Even so, it was nice to put a name to the personality he had practically made up in his head.
Clicking on the profile, it brought him to Oscar’s recently viewed.
Lando always loved to know the insignificant details about the people he was interested in. A watch history may seem boring or redundant to some people, but to him, the insight it gave him into their character felt almost… intimate.
Maybe he should just choose a show and get on with it.
Oscar’s most recently watched show was House MD, of which he was halfway through an episode. It was followed by Taskmaster, Oppenheimer and NBC Hannibal.
Lando resigned himself to another rewatch of Taskmaster Season 7, settling back into the sofa with a relieved sigh.
The cushioned fabric was so comfortable and Lando knew the episode he was watching from back to front. He felt himself losing focus slightly, burrowing deeper into the sofa and bringing the collar of his hoodie up until his nose was hiding behind it. The hoodie smelled of Oscar. Or, what he assumed to be Oscar. Or his washing powder. Had he even worn these hoodies, or were they especially for his caring-for-drunk-people regime?
Slowly, Lando allowed his eyelids to flutter shut. Just to rest them, he promised himself.
—
“Hey.”
Someone was tapping Lando’s shoulder. Someone was speaking to him. Why won’t they leave him alone? Can’t they see he’s sleeping?”
“Mmmghf…” he mumbled, retreating further into the deliciously comfortable hoodie.
“Lando, you can go back to bed if you’d like, but don’t sleep on the couch. It’ll hurt your neck.”
Lando finally cracked open an eyelid, looking up at the man standing over him from beneath the hoodie. He started to understand what had happened.
How did he fall asleep, again?
“Oscar…?” he managed, straining his eyes against the bright white sunlight filtering into the living room. Oscar nodded, smiling softly.
“If you hadn’t fallen asleep on my Netflix profile, I would be flattered that you remember my name. Now, let’s get you to bed, okay?” Oscar replied, holding out a hand for Lando to take. The feeling of finally touching Oscar’s skin almost made up for the pain of having to get up from his awfully serene position on the sofa. Almost.
He didn’t let go of Oscar’s hand once he was fully upright and Oscar let it be, leading him back to the bedroom without saying another word. Once they entered the bedroom, Lando was led dutifully to the bed where he gratefully sank into the pillow with a huff of breath. The other man chuckled quietly at Lando’s fatigue, procuring another glass of water from thin air and placing it ceremoniously on the bedside table.
Was this man an angel?
“Not quite, but thank you,” Oscar grinned, Lando burning red as he quickly realised he had said the words out loud. This wouldn’t do. Lando didn’t want to be the flustered one.
So — and Lando knew he was acting without thinking — he pulled Oscar over, wrapping a hand loosely around the back of his neck before leaning in close and placing a brief kiss on the tip of the other man’s nose.
“I wanna sleep,” Lando replied, shuffling down the bed until his head was on the edge of the pillow and his face was stuffed into the duvet. He didn’t look at the way speckles of pink dotted their way all over Oscar’s face and he didn’t listen to his voice hitch as Lando pulled away.
“...Okay,” Oscar stuttered out finally. “Goodnight. Or — have a good nap. Okay. Bye.”
—
The third time Lando woke up in Oscar’s house, he started to convince himself that he lived there. At the same time, he was suddenly hit with a panicked feeling that he was intruding into someone else’s life. Oscar had never asked for him to get too drunk and collapse on top of him. He had probably expected Lando to leave quietly before Oscar returned from whatever business he had to attend to.
Meanwhile, nine hours later, he was laying in bed listening to the sounds of life coming from the kitchen and feeling like he should have never drank last night.
He promptly got out of bed, locking himself in the bathroom to wash out the sleep from his eyes and make sure his hair was facing the right direction (it wasn’t, Lando guiltily rummaged in the bathroom cupboard to find a comb capable of taming his curls). Taking a deep breath, he finally exited the room and made his way slowly, uncertainly, to the kitchen, where he could hear the sound of pans being moved and distant water boiling.
Oscar finally came into view where he stood in front of the stove, stirring a pot of some liquid. Lando’s eyes couldn’t help but focus in on the way the man’s back muscles shifted under the tight white t-shirt he was wearing, slightly damp around the collar as his wet hair soaked the fabric. He had been in the shower, then. Lando considered it rude to imagine, but he did so anyway.
Oscar turned around, starting to walk to the table before he stopped in his tracks after noticing Lando. Lando froze up, unable to look away from Oscar’s intense gaze.
“Good morning.”
“It’s — uh…” Lando suddenly took note of his surroundings, frantically searching the walls for a clock.
“Almost 7pm, I think.”
“Oh.” So Lando had completely overstayed his welcome. “Sorry, Jesus… I didn’t mean to stay so long, I’m sorry. I’ll go home now.” He silently chastised himself for imagining Oscar grimacing slightly.
“Oh, right… Yeah, you probably have stuff to do. Uhm. Yeah.” Oscar seemed almost as awkward as Lando. Was he really that difficult to be around? “Your shoes are by the door.”
Lando paced past the kitchen to the doormat, uncertainly glancing between the door and Oscar, who seemed more uncomfortable by the second as he idled awkwardly behind him. The pot was boiling over.
“Your pot is boiling over.”
Oscar’s eyes widened as he seemed to remember the meal he was cooking, and he raced back to the stove to turn down the heat. The bubbles retreated back into the pot, and the man breathed out a sigh of relief.
“Thank you, Lando. I– uh,” he started, clearly unsure how to word something. Lando waited until he spoke again. “Well… if you have places to be, then I get it. But… I’ve boiled pasta for two. So if you’re free,” he gestured to the pot (of pasta, Lando now realises), and then to the table, “you can stay.”
Lando didn’t know what to say.
So, as usual, he did something stupid.
He kicked off the one shoe he had halfheartedly stuck his foot into, walked over to the man in front of the stove, placed his hands on his shoulders, and kissed him.
Oscar immediately responded to the kiss, moving his hands to wrap around Lando’s waist as they pulled each other in closer. Lando’s hands travelled up, up, to thumb at the coarse hair at the bottom of Oscar’s scalp. He tugged on it slightly, and Oscar gasped. Lando grinned into the kiss, and then Oscar was grinning, and then they were both trying and failing to sustain the kiss through their smiles until it was simply teeth knocking against teeth.
Oscar pulled away for a moment.
“Is that a yes?” he asked breathlessly.
“Shut up. Did you undress me last night?”
“Your clothes had vomit on them.”
“I said shut up.”