Archive of Our Own

In Lando's opinion, there is only one thing worse than bottling a start, finishing sixth from pole, and basically handing Verstappen his fourth Championship on a silver platter– and it's doing all of that and getting sick right after.

It's divine punishment, he reckons, because his luck really can't be this shite. He even dodged the typical stomach bug every driver gets during the asian leg, only to catch the biggest cold of his life the moment he stepped foot back in Monaco. Max blames it on the rain. His mum says it's the stress. Lando knows it was most likely his own fault because he can't seem to do anything right these days. Not even keeping himself healthy. 

He was coughing and snotting all over himself, shivering and sweating under five different blankets when Max found him on his bed. He drove Lando to a clinic, then bought him the meds the doctor had prescribed, and stocked his pantry with tea before the pity on his friend's face started to annoy Lando a bit too much. 

He doesn't deserve to be pitied– he lost. He failed. He is everything the people on the internet said he was. A bottler, a good-for-nothing driver. Not fast enough, not mentally strong enough. Too weak. Too soft. 

So, when the panadol finally kicked in, and Lando was lucid enough to convince Max to leave with the assurance that he would one hundred percent, pinky promise, "on my mum's good name, mate," take his meds at the right time, he was left alone to punish himself the way the Universe apparently wanted him to. 

Yet, of course, when the only thing he wants is to be left alone to drown in his self-hatred, that is the moment everyone around him believes they need to insert themselves into his life as if he's one scroll through X away from jumping off his balcony. 

His phone is blowing up with texts from his mum, his sisters, his dad. Jon stopped by and left chicken soup in his fridge with a sticky note attached to the container– the message too sweet and reassuring for Lando to stomach to read through. Carlos is sending him memes and cute dog videos because he knows that's a way to cheer Lando up without blatantly saying that's what he's trying to do. George and Alex are making plans for the winter break in their group chat, pretending like Sunday never happened. Even Max Verstappen dmed him, the fucking bastard, praising Lando's season and encouraging him not to give up because the next one is definitely his.

Everyone… except the one person whose attention Lando wouldn't mind having right now. 

Oscar hasn't texted since Brazil. Not that it's strange; they don't typically text outside of race weekends other than to arrange the occasional hook-up or share a Ferrari meme. It still stings a bit that after all this time doing– whatever the fuck they've been doing for this past year– Oscar isn't even pretending he cares how Lando is doing after messing up his chance at the Championship. 

And look, Lando's not naive, alright? He's not delusional. He's very much aware of who his teammate is and how he is. The whole reason why Lando even started all of this was that it was Oscar, and Oscar was supposed to be easy. Casual. A dick he could jump on when he needed to shut up his brain without worrying about being ratted out or caught by the papz. Someone who could eat Lando out and then race him the next morning like his jaw wasn't still sore. 

And it really was like that, for a long time. But, as previously established, Lando is a failure– so it's no surprise he screwed the "keep your fucking feelings out" part of their arrangement too. They never talked about it; there really was no need to. It's painfully obvious, if you think about it for more than two seconds, given who they are and what they do. Like– your teammate is supposed to be your biggest rival on track… not the fuckbuddy you end up developing a crush on. 

It's basic math, and it's more evident than ever that Lando sucks at it. 

Not like Oscar cares– or noticed, for that matter– so the only one feeling hollow when the other has to go back to his room at the end of the night is Lando. Dumb, stupid, idiot Lando and his wee wee feelings because he can't seem to do anything right, even if he has everything playing in his favour. 

Fastest car for the majority of the season? Watch him bottle every start from pole. 

Emotionless, cold and uninterested teammate? Watch Lando fall for him.

The fever seems to be ramping up again, because the chills are back and his eyes feel like they might pop out of his head at any moment. He's been hiding under a mountain of blankets since Max left– how long has it been since that, by the way?– but somehow they are not doing anything against the bone-deep cold he's feeling. He knows he probably needs to shower, piss– eat Jon's soup, maybe. Take his meds, like he promised Max. Text back the dozens of people that might be worrying about him without falling to the temptation to open Insta and read the millions of others that are probably ripping him apart. 

He can't move; it's the thing. Or open his eyes, for that matter; so the only thing left for him to do is sleep. And it must be really bad, because as soon as he gives up, he drifts off to a place filled with warm brown eyes and soft hands. 

When he wakes back up again– sweating and with all the blankets balled up on the other side of the bed– it's to a pitch-black room and the feeling of missing something he never had. He lowkey wants to cry, maybe even throw up a bit. He feels like utter shite, and the fact that he needs but can't seem to do either of those things makes him feel even worse. He's so miserable he's about to text Max to please come back and take care of him, but then he notices a new message on his screen. 

osc 🥐

Max said you are sick? 17:12

Lando must be hallucinating. That, or the thirty-plus unread texts from Max mean that his best friend was forced into desperate measures to get some sort of proof of life out of him. 

ye 18:43

feel like shit lol 18:43

Do you need anything? 18:44

And if Lando wasn't sure he was dreaming before, he totally is now. Why was Oscar saying that anyway? Was he even willing to do what Lando asked for? And the quick response too– like Oscar was waiting for him to text back. As if he was worri– No, not doing that. Oscar's just being considerate, a good teammate and all that, and most likely doing Max a favour. 

He brings his thumb to his mouth, bites anxiously on a cuticle. He knows bloody well what he needs, but asking for it feels like a massive breach of their unspoken agreement. He feels weirdly vulnerable, like he's exposing himself fully for Oscar to scrutinize. His eyes sting a bit when he writes: 

can u come? 18:46

He's honestly not sure what he's about to get next. Maybe a gentle let down. A kind denial with a side of wishes to get better soon. Oscar is a weird bloke; Lando's only sure about his read on him like 50% of the time, and this is totally out of character for him. It's usually Lando the one who texts– sending stupid stuff or asking Oscar over so he can rail Lando and get rid of his anxious thoughts. So when the next message comes– immediately, once again– Lando has to blink and read it a few times just to make sure he's not imagining it. 

I'll be there in 10 18:46

Holy fuck. 

Oscar's coming. 

Oscar's actually coming to his apartment and about to see Lando in the most fucked up state he has ever seen him. He's in an old tee and boxers. He hasn't showered or brushed his teeth since yesterday. His curls are probably a mess too, and he doesn't even want to think about all the snot and sweat he's covered in. Even if he wanted to, ten minutes with his body feeling like he's carrying thirty pounds of sand attached to each foot is not enough to fix anything about how he looks right now. 

Still, the fear of Oscar seeing him like this is nothing compared with the overwhelming relief of knowing that he's coming after Lando asked him to. Lando asked, and Oscar said yes, and now he's on his way here to– to what? Take care of Lando? Surely he's not expecting them to… to fuck, right? That would be insane, and probably nasty with all of Lando's germs. 

But they've never– they don't normally hang out without some sort of sex happening. Minimum a quick handy when they are too exhausted to do anything else after a race. Lando reckons he could do that– if Oscar wants to. He just needs to move his hand up and down; how hard can it be? Oscar likes a soft grip anyway, so it won't matter that he's weak as fuck right now. Speed might be an issue, though; every movement Lando makes feels a bit like it's in slow-mo… but Oscar would understand, right? He always notices when Lando is making a great effort, showers him with praise– he wouldn't mind getting some of those on a day like this, if he's honest. 

That line of thought gets interrupted when the door rings. His phone lights up as well, but he doesn't need to check to know who it is. Oscar's here. Has it been ten minutes already? Damn, time flies when you are fevered up– anyway, he goes to stand up, a bit too eager, and his body immediately punishes him for it. He wobbles, nausea rising quickly. It takes a minute to find his balance and push away the urge to chunder, but when he does, he starts heading to the door, taking a blanket and wrapping it around himself as he does because suddenly he feels really, really cold. 

The way to the entrance proves more difficult than it should be, and that makes Lando panic a bit. Maybe he's worse than he thought– maybe this was a terrible idea. What if seeing him like this just makes Oscar realize how pathetic and worthless Lando is? What if Lando's neediness reveals too much, too suddenly, and makes Oscar bolt the other way? What if he can't coordinate his fist right and doesn't manage to make Oscar come? Fuck– he would be deemed worthless. Not even good enough to be Oscar's little pleasure toy. 

He's still thinking about it when he swings the door open. 

"'M sorry– we can't fuck," he mumbles, eyes to the floor, blinking the tears that are threatening to form away. He's so frustrated with himself it makes him want to cry. Ugh– add crybaby to the fucking list, why not.

When no response comes, Lando dares to look up. 

Oscar's wearing a cap and a hoodie with the hood up: standard protocol for when they are sneaking into each other's apartment, all fine and normal. He looks surprised by what Lando just said; both brows up to his hairline. He's got a backpack over one shoulder and a plastic bag in the other hand. Lando recognizes the logo on it from the store at the end of his street. 

"I know," Oscar says after a few seconds, blinking slowly and giving Lando a once-over. "Not why I'm here," he says next, and all of Lando's worries dissolve like candy floss touching water. "Can I come in?" 

"Yeah," he says, but he doesn't get out of the way right away– he gets stuck in the way Oscar's looking at him: Warm, gentle, patient. A little worried, maybe, but it could be Lando's brain playing tricks on him. Putting on Oscar's face what he wants to see instead of reality. Yet Lando can't lie and say he hasn't seen that look on him a few times before– but never in this context. Never when Lando's looking so shit. Never right after losing a Championship. 

He must be taking forever, because Oscar moves instead, softly placing a hand over Lando's hip and guiding him backwards until he can get them to the other side of the door. He closes it then, placing his backpack and the plastic bag on the floor. He just manages to take his shoes off before Lando is throwing himself at him, burying his face in his chest, and breathing in as deeply as his stuffy nose allows him. 

He always smells so good– it's the chocolate deodorant. The bastard! As if Lando needs any more reasons to be completely obsessed with him, does he also have to smell like a giant Kinder all the time? Swear to god, sometimes it seems like he's doing it on purpose. 

Oscar brings his hands up, cradles Lando's hair. "You're burning," he whispers, guiding Lando's face up to look at him. His thumb strokes Lando's cheek and– and it feels so fucking good. "Did you take something yet?"

"Huh?" Lando asks, blinking slowly. He's starting to feel a little dazed, but he's not sure if it's the fever or the way Oscar's touching him. 

"Meds, Lan," Oscar repeats, and they start moving. His hands are on Lando's waist and guiding him deeper into the apartment. "Did you take any panadol yet?"

"Yeah, after– before Max left, I reckon," he says, and all of a sudden he's in his bed, Oscar tucking him in and fluffing the pillow behind his head. 

His room is only illuminated by the night lamp beside his bed, and yet its soft glow is enough to have him squinting. It might be painful, but it's worth watching Oscar move in his apartment like he has been here a million times. Which, to be fair, he has been– but never in this scenario. Never to just take care of Lando when he's having one of the worst days of his life. For some reason, Oscar's presence in this moment feels pointed– feels important– and no matter how tired Lando is, or how much his eyes hurt, he doesn't want to miss a second of it. 

He notices Oscar reading the note Max left next to his meds on Lando's nightstand. The note Lando blatantly ignored the two or three times he was conscious and went right back to sleep. Oops. 

"Lando," Oscar scolds, waving the note at him. "You were supposed to take these four hours ago."

"I'm sorry," Lando whispers, bringing the blankets up to his nose. He's not that sorry, really– I mean, look at what not taking his meds got him: Either Oscar 'Cool, calm and collected' Piastri fussing over him, or a very convincing hallucination of him. 

He doesn't get to revel in the feeling of glory too much, because soon Oscar clicks his tongue and walks out of the room. Oh. Of course– who would want someone who can't take care of themselves on the most basic level? Oscar was probably waiting for an excuse to run out of the door the minute Lando told him they wouldn't be able to fuck. He buries his face in the pillow– if he closes his eyes and inhales, he can still smell Oscar in the places he touched. 

Lando is starting to settle for a long night of misery and loneliness, just like he deserves, when a light touch on his forehead startles him. 

"You're here," Lando chokes out, and Oscar chuckles at him. He would be annoyed by Oscar finding his suffering apparently funny if he wasn't this close to crying with relief. 

"Just went to the hallway to get you this," Oscar says, shaking a red Gatorade (His favourite!) in his view. Lando knows he ran out of them before the triple-header, so Oscar probably bought it on his way here, and he has no idea what to do with that information. "Sit up, you need to take these."

He hands Lando three different pills and the Gatorade with the cap off after helping him up, and Lando takes both eagerly. He downs the drink in one go, not realizing how thirsty he was, and the cold-but-not-too-cold liquid feels so amazing that when Oscar helps him down and tucks him in again, Lando finds himself saying: 

"Don't leave," and his voice is a mess of tiredness and neediness and sadness. He would be embarrassed if he wasn't so fucking tired of failing, of messing things up, of letting everyone down, of pretending Oscar is not the one thing he wants with the same desperate urge– if not even more– as winning a Championship. 

Lucky for him, Oscar seems to be in the mood to indulge him even in this pathetic state, because he brings his hand to his curls and moves them away from Lando's eyes gently. 

"Not leaving," he whispers, now shifting his cold fingers until they are stroking Lando's cheekbone. "Sleep, yeah? I'll wake you in a few minutes when the meds kick in, and you can eat something." 

That sounds nice: Waking up feeling well enough to eat and in an apartment with Oscar still in it. Sounds like magic, honestly, like a fantasy– so when he lets his eyelids fall, his sight still filled with Oscar's dark eyes, it really isn't Lando's fault when the lines start to blur together. Golden mornings, limbs tangled under a blanket. Conversations about rent prices and scrolling through an animal refuge's Insta. He dreams of putting up a Christmas tree and kisses that taste like chocolate.

The next time he wakes up, he immediately notices two things: He's really hot, and he left the telly on. There's a tennis match going– no wonder he felt asleep. The clock on his nightstand says it's half past eight, and the dryness in his mouth tells him he probably should take this opportunity that he's feeling better to actually take care of his bare necessities. 

He goes to sit up, moving all the overheating blankets aside, and that's when a wet cloth falls from his forehead to the place between his hands he's using for leverage as he tries to move. Hm, weird. He doesn't remember Max using a cloth to lower his fever, and there is no way he would do that himself, so how is that–

"Feeling better?" 

Lando, quite literally, jumps. He swings around to find Oscar– the Oscar, his teammate Oscar– on the other side of his bed. His posture is relaxed, lying on top of the duvet with his legs stretched and one arm reaching behind his head to act as a pillow. He's got the remote in the other hand, and Lando has suffered through enough tennis talk between Oscar and Andrea to understand who the culprit for the choice of channel is. 

Holy shit– it wasn't just a fever dream. Lando actually asked Oscar to come over to his place, and he's been taking care of Lando for real. Putting fucking– cold cloths over Lando's forehead and buying his favorite flavour of Gatorade. That happened. That actually happened.  

"Um–" it's all that Lando's got at the moment. He thinks about the way he might look right now. Jesus Christ, Lando probably stinks. "Yeah, I guess," he says next, wiping the sleep from his eyes and running a hand through his curls. His fingers come back greasy. Fuck. 

"Figured," Oscar says, and Lando is too much of a coward to look at him. "You reckon you could eat something? Jon left chicken soup in your fridge; I could heat it up for you." 

What? Lando thinks, because honestly– what? 

Is Oscar being for real right now? Lando already bothered him so much by asking him to come all the way over here after a grueling triple header. After Lando fucked up his chance at a Championship. After the team asked Oscar to give up his own fight to help him. Oscar should be furious; he should hate Lando's guts– even if he was worried or whatever, he already made Lando take his meds; that should be the extent of his kindness.

He seems to be taking forever to respond, because his teammate speaks again. 

"Or maybe you want to shower first?" He asks, and Lando feels a warm hand touch him lightly on his lower back, most likely to get him to look at him. 

Right– yeah, of course. That's why Oscar's still here. Because Lando might be shit at everything he does, but he's still a good enough hole to fuck. Sure, they don't usually bring race stuff to bed, but Lando would bet good money that Oscar might want to play a bit rough tonight after all his efforts went to waste on Lando's failed campaign for the title. Maybe he feels like Lando needs to be punished for it. 

It wouldn't be a bad thing on any other day when his mind and body would be fine. He likes it too, asks for it sometimes, but– bloody hell, he just wants Oscar to care about him, not just about the sex. If it can't be forever, just for tonight would be mint. And, yes, he knows it's unfair of him to ask that of Oscar; it was never part of their deal, after all. But Lando can't help but want all the things he can't have anyway. 

"Sorry, Osc, I'm really not up for anything tonight," he says, and the words taste like poison. Like a tragic ending. He's never rejected Oscar before; there was never a reason to, so he has no idea how the younger driver will react. 

It's not the scandalized, "what?!" That Oscar says, though. 

"Lando, what are you talking about?" He asks next, but when a reply doesn't come, he gets on the move, standing from the bed and rounding it until he's sitting on the edge of Lando's side. "Why do you keep saying that?" He demands to know, his tone firm but with something underneath it. Hurt, Lando's brain provides. 

"Dunno," he shrugs. "Is it not what you want?" He looks up at him; holds Oscar's stare. What he sees in his face destabilizes him: He doesn't look mad, just– sad. Lando holds his breath, waiting for the inevitable breakdown, for Oscar to tell him if he can't fuck Lando, then what's the point in all of this? He expects to be brushed off, to be left on his own again. 

Oscar just sighs. 

"No, Lando," he says, and his eyes jump everywhere around his face. Like he's looking for something– like he's trying to memorize it. "I didn't come here to have sex." 

Oh. But then–

"Why did you then?" He dares to ask. Dares to hope. 

"I was worried," he says. "I asked Max how you were doing after–" Losing. Failing. Disappointing everyone. "– I just wanted to know if you were alright. He said you were sick." 

Lando deflates a bit. Obviously it was just that; what was he waiting for Oscar to say anyway? Confess he's here because he's in love with Lando and can't stand the thought of him being alone while sick and nursing a shitty (horrible, terrible, the worst of the worst) weekend? Dumb. 

"I'm just trying to help," Oscar continues, one hand reaching up to take Lando's away from his mouth. He didn't even notice he was chewing on a cuticle. "So let me, yeah? Promise it's just that." 

He's starting to get tired again; this is definitely not a good time to be having this conversation. He's so worn out, in fact, that he realizes that even if it's just an illusion– just a little isolated incident, Andrea would say– he wants to let Oscar help. Even if he knows this will just fuck up with his heart even more, he can't bring himself to want Oscar gone. 

"Okay," Lando sighs and gives Oscar's hand a reassuring squeeze. A tight smile on his lips. "I wanna shower first– I feel gross." He decides, making grabby hands at Oscar to signal that he's expecting help to get up. 

Hey, he offered to take care of him, right? This is never gonna happen again, so Lando might as well indulge a little. 

Oscar breathes out an amused laugh, shakes his head slightly– but he still helps Lando to his feet. He even stabilizes him when Lando wobbles, both hands firmly on his waist. 

"Sorry, still kinda dizzy," he explains. 

"You haven't eaten anything all day, Lan. That's probably why," Oscar counters, his thumb tracing circles on Lando's skin. "I'm gonna prepare dinner while you clean up. Not too hot, yeah? You're still a bit fevered up." 

Lando nods, but he wants to ask him how he knows that. How does he know Lando's temperature is still off by just touching him so gently? He debates with himself for a little if it's too late to ask Oscar to join him in the shower– not to fuck– just to keep him holding him like this. To keep touching him like Lando is the most precious thing in the world. 

"Go," Oscar says, leaning forward to plant a soft kiss in the middle of Lando's greasy forehead, and oh my god, is he trying to fucking kill him?

He nods– again– and begins to move to the bathroom, feeling a bit like he's in a trance. He gets the shower going, not burning hot like he usually would– but barely warm enough to make it tolerable. He washes off slowly, the water simultaneously bringing him back to life and taking it away. He doesn't do his full hair routine for two reasons: One, he can't be arsed. And two, he wants to go back to Oscar as soon as possible. So it's just the good ol' shampoo and conditioner for now.

When he gets out, towel around his waist, he finds in the vanity area a fresh pair of boxers and one of his old McLaren tees he wears to sleep sometimes, folded neatly on top of the counter. His heart squeezes at the sight– because Oscar has seen that one before. Lying on the floors of hotel rooms and even on Lando himself when he packs a bag for the night at the other driver's apartment. He might have recognized it in his closet; surely that's the reason why he picked that specific one.

Fuckin' Oscar, mate. How does he expect Lando to not fall when he does shit like this? Honestly– this muppet. 

He dresses slowly, brushes his teeth to get rid of the sour taste in his mouth, and eyes the blow dryer with resentment. Probably not a good idea to go about with his hair wet when he has a cold– but he just wants to go back to his bed, and to this new chocolate-filled reality he's pretending he belongs in.

The walk back to his room is already harder than the first trip to the bathroom, and when he finally gets there, he stops dead in his tracks at the sight. Oscar's finishing making the bed– presumably even changing the sheets, judging by the mountain of old ones discarded on the floor. Clean sheets do sound fucking mint right now, and it makes him so frustrated and so weak on the knees at the same time that Oscar somehow got ahead of that exact need. Eventually his teammate notices him standing by the door; he sports the softest smile when he asks:

"All good?" And he's already walking over to Lando, who, obviously, is only thinking about how life can be so unfair by putting the perfect bloke for him right there, right next to him; close enough for him to reach but expect him to never try to hold. "This won't do," Oscar says next, combing his fingers through Lando's wet curls. He can't stop himself from closing his eyes at the touch. 

"Didn't feel like drying it up," Lando excuses, letting his head fall over Oscar's shoulder because he's greedy, and needy, and can't help but want, want, want.

"Let me towel it off a bit more, at least," Oscar whispers in his ear, and Lando would much rather stay like this forever, but his teammate seems to be on a mission to be the most perfect pretend boyfriend or whatever, and is already moving Lando to sit on the bed to go fetch a towel. 

When he's back, he also has a few hair products and a comb with him. He starts by gently squeezing Lando's curls with the cloth– something he must have learned from sheer proximity, cause what the fuck? How does he even know he has to do that for Lando's hair to dry without frizz?– taking as much water as the process allows him to. 

Then he puts a bit of curling cream on his fingers and spreads it around, and this– this is way fucking more than just worrying for Lando's health, right? No way in hell doing someone's hair is included in the go-to guide to taking care of someone with a cold. 

He says nothing, though, because now he's intrigued by how far Oscar's knowledge will go. So he sits quietly while Oscar scrunches his hair, even shapes a few curls on the top of his head as the final touch. Lando can't help but stare dumbfounded at him while Oscar wipes his hands on the towel and admires his job. His well-done job. Lando doesn't even need to check in a mirror to know that his hair is just how he likes it. 

"What?" Oscar asks, and Lando can tell he's embarrassed about it when he can't seem to be able to catch his eye. 

"You did my hair," Lando points out, because surely Oscar must realize how bonkers that is. Lando can't be the only one thinking this is completely out of the ordinary for them– it just can't. 

"Is something wrong with it?" And the tone is challenging– but his cheeks are tinted pink, and there's only one of the two with the excuse of a fever, and it isn't Oscar. 

"No," Lando quickly says. "It's perfect," he adds. That is the problem. Why can't Oscar see that? 

"Good," he says and clears his throat. "I know you feel better when your hair is done so–" 

That's true. And also, not something a teammate you fuck for convenience should know. 

"Yeah," Lando agrees, and he's starting to feel a little warm himself. It's the fever, obviously– the butterflies in his stomach are probably its fault too. "It's gonna get all messed up though, when we go back to sleep." 

The plural slips accidentally, but it still serves an important purpose. 

"We can fix it again in the morning," Oscar says, not a hint of doubt in his voice, and holy fucking shit. Lando's not sure he didn't die in the middle of the night; maybe he should ask Oscar to pinch him. "Want your soup in bed?" Oscar mumbles quickly, like he's just realizing the enormity of what's being stated here and giving Lando an easy out. 

He'll take it, not because he's scared– or worried about what Oscar might say; he's not– but because there is no way this is the moment they decide to talk about it. Now, when Lando still feels a little like he's on the verge of throwing up if he moves too fast. Now, after a year of pretending they both knew the rules of the game they've been playing. Now, after Lando just lost a Championship. 

"Maybe the couch is better," he says, going to stand up, once again with Oscar's help. Once again, with Oscar keeping his hands on Lando as if he's expecting him to melt through the carpet. 

Valid. Lando feels a little like he might. 

"A'right, take a blanket and set up there," Oscar instructs, picking up all the hair stuff and the towel from the bed. 

"You're really into giving me orders today," Lando teases, and Oscar throws him back one of those devastating lopsided smiles. 

"Just because you're being so good and listening to all of them," he says, and Lando feels his jaw falling open, but he still laughs at Oscar's cheekiness. Oscar laughs too, and it's breathy, and intimate, and everything Lando wants to hear for the rest of his life. 

Christ, it's so fucking over– Lando's got nothing to be giggling about right now, yet here they are. 

"Off you go, I'll get you your food, okay?" Oscar asks and, again, leans forward to kiss Lando on his forehead. 

It's the second time Oscar has done it since he woke back up, yet it still manages to catch Lando off guard and make his heart skip a beat. This kiss lasts longer, though, like he's just pressing his lips to Lando's skin– but right when it would start to be awkward, Oscar backs away and starts his way to the bathroom. 

Lando takes another blanket from the closet and gets comfortable on the couch. He also took one for Oscar– it's a chilly November night, after all; he wouldn't want his teammate to freeze– and he sets it up in the spot right next to him because who is he even trying to fool anymore. 

Oscar comes into the room not long after, carrying a tray with a bowl and utensils and leaving it on Lando's lap when he's there. After a second trip to the kitchen, he also gets him another red Gatorade and a small plate with sliced apple. 

"Bit late to keep the doctor away, I reckon," Lando jokes, and it makes Oscar roll his eyes at him– but he still laughs! He always laughs at everything Lando says.

"It's on Jon's meal plan, you muppet," and ah, that's another thing he was doing even before they started messing around– calling Lando muppet, like that is not totally one of Lando's things. He likes that. Loves that he's leaving small imprints of himself on Oscar. 

Once Oscar gets his own food (a pasta salad he stole from Lando's fridge), he puts on a random golf documentary on Netflix, and they start eating in relative silence, broken only by the occasional comment from Lando. The detail that is something he would like to watch doesn't escape him, but Oscar has always been generous with their shared screen time; always picks something Lando's interested in. 

Jon's soup is actually fire, and it's a good sign that he has enough appetite to eat it all. When they are done, Oscar takes care of the dishes too– washes them, even, judging by the sound of running water from the kitchen– and when he gets back to Lando is with one steaming cup of tea in each hand. He hands one to Lando, and he can immediately tell something's off with it by the color. Oscar lets out a laugh as he sits back down. 

"Before you even– yes, it's herbal," he says, taking a sip of his own tea. 

"Why?" Lando whines, swirling the pale liquid around. He tries to smell it, but he can barely get a hint of chamomile. 

"Because you don't need the caffeine and I also put lemon and honey in it– doesn't exactly go with black tea, does it?" He explains, and then gives Lando's shoulder a gentle push. "Go on, try it." 

Lando takes a sip, and it's not bad– the lemon and the honey are perfectly balanced: not too sweet, not too sour– it's just that he would love some Yorkshire right now, and this isn't it. His mum raised him well, though, so he doesn't complain about it, simply drinks his leaf juice while trying to lean more of his weight on Oscar after each sip. 

When both cups are empty, Oscar takes care of those too and, at this point, they are just playing house. Lando doesn't mind it, though, quite the opposite. He could imagine himself living like this for the rest of his life– nights of dinners on the couch and sharing a cuppa after. Cuddling and watching Netflix until they are groggy and sleepy and end up arguing if it's even worth moving to their bed or not. 

How nice would it be– if they weren't who they are. If only Lando was someone Oscar would want to share a life like that with. 

Once his teammate is back, Lando is already fighting to keep his eyes open. The food and the tea made his body relax, but he doesn't want to sleep– not yet. He's having a taste of heaven, and he's not quite ready for it to be over. So when Oscar gets comfortable, Lando gets brave, and he climbs on top of him until he positions his whole body flushed against Oscar's; both of them lying completely on the couch. 

They don't speak. Lando just presses his cheek to Oscar's chest and listens to his heartbeat. It's a bit frantic, but it gets steadier and steadier the longer they lie there quietly. Oscar brings both of his hands up and sneaks them under Lando's tee– traces his fingers up and down his spine. It lulls him, almost makes him lose the fight and fall asleep, but then Oscar whispers in his ear, his tone now worried: 

"You're heating up again," he says, and places both hands flat on Lando's back. "It hasn't been four hours, though." 

He moves then, taking one hand out and using it to tilt Lando's face up, the movement small but enough to grant him access to his forehead and kiss it– again. And it's lovely; Lando is not complaining, but also–

"Why do you do that?" He mumbles, the returning fever clearly loosening up his tongue. 

"Huh?" Oscar asks, and when Lando is about to try and repeat himself, he continues. "Ah– The kissing? I'm checking your temperature," he explains. "My mum used to do it like that; you feel better with your lips, you know?" 

"Oh," Lando says, and something warm– probably unrelated to the fever– starts blooming in his chest. "'S cute," he dares to say, hiding his face in the crook of Oscar's neck right after. 

"Yeah?" He hears him say, and he sounds a bit choked up too. "Not too much?" Oscar asks, and he has the audacity to sound genuinely unsure. Like he really believes Lando would be annoyed by it–

Hold on– shit. 

Does he?

They really need to talk about this. 

But Lando is already feeling the familiar weight of the tiredness taking over, and it's probably better for both of them to wait until Lando's lucid enough to have a conversation like that one. So instead, he takes the delulu route, gives Oscar's jaw a soft kiss, and says: 

"No," and he's terrified, but maybe he's been reading it all wrong and– and what if this is not as impossible as Lando thought it was? What if they've just been drawing the same wrong conclusion from the other? So, just in case, he makes sure to sound completely certain when he adds: "You're amazing, Osc." 

Oscar goes rigid under him, and for a moment Lando really thinks he fucked it up irreparably; that this is over. Oscar will get up, quickly explain that Lando's got it all wrong, and leave. 

"You uh– you're amazing too," he says instead, quietly, and it's now Lando's turn to feel like his soul left his body. "Seriously, Lan, I couldn't– I couldn't stop thinking about you after the race. I wanted to make sure you knew how good you are. You did incredible this season, really."

Oh– Fuck. No. 

There's no fucking way this is the time Oscar chooses to bring up Brazil. The absolute cunt– he has to know that was not what Lando was talking about. This stinks like a cop-out, and Lando won't let him get away with it. 

"Why didn't you text then?" He sniffs, using all his strength to sit up and look at him properly. "Brazil was three days ago."

"You don't like it when people bother you after a bad race," he explains, his voice breaking in the middle. He doesn't buy his own bullshit. 

"You are not people, Oscar," Lando says, and the determination is surprising even to himself. "I thought– I thought you didn't care." And he sounds horribly hurt– broken. 

He expects Oscar to fight him on it– to defend himself and tell Lando he's expecting too much from someone who is, by their own silent rules, just his teammate. How was Oscar supposed to know anyway? They've never done it before– they've always preferred space after a shitty weekend, so why was Lando demanding something different now? 

"I'm sorry," Oscar says instead, and maybe Lando's rationale is not fully operational– but he sounds truly genuine to him. He reaches for one of Lando's hands, locks their fingers together. "I do care," he whispers, eyes fixed on their joined hands. 

Lando looks down too. He knows he's being a bit of a twat– Oscar's here, after all, and willing to take care of him for nothing in return. So he sighs, gives the other driver's hand a little squeeze. 

"Let's just go to bed, yeah?" He asks, and when Oscar looks back at him, he offers a tight smile. Truce. 

For now, at least. 

They take the blankets back to Lando's room and stand side by side while brushing their teeth. They don't speak while Lando goes through his skincare routine and then insists on doing Oscar's too. He sits on the toilet, looking up at Lando like he's watching Picasso paint or something, and the urge to lean down and kiss him is so overwhelming he has to remind himself multiple times that he's sick, and full of germs, and that it's not polite to pass them around like that. 

They move to the bed then. Lando buries himself under multiple blankets once he gets comfortable and, after one last trip to the kitchen to turn off the lights and fetch two glasses of water, Oscar lies next to him too. He reckons there'll be a little awkwardness in their new situation– they do cuddle, but it's usually after they both are spent and thoroughly satisfied. They've never just slept in the same bed, so Lando is not expecting much in the snuggles department.

But Oscar seems to have other plans, because he turns off the lamp on his nightstand and then pulls on Lando's hip until he's settled into his arms, face pressed to Oscar's neck. He then brings one hand up to move Lando's hair out of the way and check his temperature, once again with a sweet little kiss. 

"You're warmer," his new favourite thermostat says. "I'll wake you in an hour to take another panadol; it's still too soon since your last one." 

"Okay," is all Lando can muster, because the fever is genuinely starting to overtake him now, and he's way too comfortable in Oscar's hold to even pretend he'll be able to fight the sleepiness for any longer. 

He does want to say one more thing, though, before he blacks out. 

"Thanks," he whispers, lips pressed to Oscar's skin, one arm around his waist. "For coming." 

Oscar doesn't say anything back, but his arms do grip a little tighter for a second, and that is all Lando needs before letting himself fall. 

The rest of the night, to put it simply, sucks arse. 

Lando wakes up multiple times. Sometimes on his own, sometimes because Oscar is forcing liquids or pills on him. He slips in and out of consciousness– dreams bleeding into reality. One moment he's kissing Oscar from the top step of the podium, their bodies covered in champagne; the other he's shivering, quietly whimpering in Oscar's arms, and asking him to please take the cold away. 

At least Oscar is present in both realities. 

That's the scariest part, isn't it? It doesn't matter if it's in a dream, or on top of the podium, or while suffering a terrible fever– when Oscar is around, Lando feels safe. He feels taken care of. He knows he has people who love him; who would go above and beyond just to make sure Lando's happy and alright. But still, it doesn't feel quite like– like this. Like breathing easily for the first time. Like jumping off knowing someone is down there to catch him. 

And maybe it's the fever, but he realizes with unwavering certainty that this is not the first time that he has felt this way.  

When Oscar joined McLaren, Lando understood that he would have to swap roles. He was the older driver now, the more experienced driver; the one Oscar could look for guidance, for stability. He thought he would have to deal with his teammate's emotional roller-coaster rookie season, and that Oscar would need to constantly lean on him to ease the burden of his new life. 

That couldn't be the furthest from the truth. 

From the very start, Oscar has been the constant in Lando's insane equation. The one Lando can burst into his room to rant about Verstappen and be quietly listened to. Oscar never told Lando he was too much– too loud, too emotional. He nodded every single bloody time Lando would ask: "You get it, Osc, right?" He always believed him when Lando voiced an issue with the car; backed him up against the engineers or Zak, even if he wasn't having the same problem. 

Oscar wasn't like Carlos– perfect and untouchable. Oscar wasn't like Daniel– explosive and with something to prove. Oscar was someone with whom Lando could learn and share. Back and forth between the two, like the pull and push of the tides.

When Oscar joined McLaren, Lando finally got a teammate. 

Maybe that was why Lando was so drawn to him, so desperate to make him want to be in Lando's company. He wanted Oscar to think he was cool, and smart, and funny, and good at driving. Being next to Oscar felt more than just nice; it felt right. 

And Christ– it's the fever; it has to be, because there really was no reason for Lando to be so surprised Oscar is here with him, isn't it? When has Oscar ever been absent when Lando needed him?

More importantly– when has Oscar ever said no to him? 

It was a joke, at first, what people on the internet said. Oscar's "heart eyes", they called it. Lando thought they were exaggerating, making a way bigger deal than it was– like the internet always does. But then Lando noticed it too and was forever cursed with the desire to be looked at like that for the rest of his life. The worst part was that Oscar never seemed to mind Lando's attempts at getting that look out of him. As if he enjoyed the attention Lando was willing to shower him with. As if…

As if he wanted it.

Oscar never said no to him. 

Not when Lando invited him to play FIFA in his hotel room way past when they should have been asleep. Not when Lando climbed on his lap after winning 5-0. Not when they started making out. Not when Lando bruised a possessive kiss on his neck while his hand slid down, down, down…

Oscar was supposed to be simple. 

Except that if Lando wanted simple, he would have shagged a random form Raya and be done with it. 

Except that if Oscar wanted simple, he wouldn't have come running as soon as Lando asked with a bag for the night and Lando's favourite flavor of Gatorade. 

Shit– they're so freaking stupid. 

When Lando wakes up, it's to an empty bed and the sound of birds outside his window. 

He can immediately tell there's an enormous improvement in his state because, even after all the tossing and turning from last night, he finally feels rested. His throat still bothers him a little, and his nose is stuffy too, but those are the minor details. He can deal with them with lemon-honey tea and a hot shower. 

He sits up; takes a look around. His phone seems suspiciously absent, but the cloth is back and occupying the place on his nightstand where it should have been. Next to it is an empty bottle of water and an actual thermometer that he's one hundred percent sure wasn't in his house before. Looks like Lando wasn't the only one fighting the fever last night, and that– that makes his heart do backflips in his chest. 

How could he not notice before? How could he be so blind? Thinking Oscar didn't want him– dumb. 

Not even his anxiety can do its usual thing and give him a panic because Oscar isn't next to him in bed– Lando knows he didn't sneak out last night. He knows Oscar is just going about his normal life somewhere outside of Lando's room. Probably in the kitchen, making breakfast and coffee that Lando can't smell yet. 

And he's right, but the low music from the TV was a detail Lando wasn't able to predict. 

Oscar has his back turned on him when Lando approaches quietly in his bare feet and the clothes he picked for him last night. He watches as Oscar hums faintly to the rhythm of the music and stirs something in a pan, still in the tee and shorts he brought from his house to wear as pajamas. 

Lando's phone is on the island, facing down, because Oscar probably knows that if he left it on Lando's nightstand, he would have checked Insta when he woke up, or even worse, X. So he brought it with him, of course. After all, he's everything Lando wants, but also everything Lando needs. 

Right next to it is a tray with a plate of toast and avocado, and a steaming cup of tea. Lando obviously can't tell by just looking at it, but he's willing to bet good money on it: No milk, two sugars. Just how he likes it. 

Jesus Christ– this man. 

Lando sits on one of the stools behind the island, watches with both arms crossed on top of the stone as Oscar finishes the eggs he was making before he clears his throat to get the other driver's attention. 

"Shi– Lando," Oscar frowns after jumping around, but his expression softens when he notices Lando's cheeky grin. 

It's not Lando's fault. How can he be expected not to smile when he just got a fever-induced realization that the bloke he has a crush on loves him? 

"Mornin'," Lando says, his smile widening. "Were you about to get me breakfast in bed, mate?" 

Oscar turns the stove off. Wipes his hands on a towel. He looks around at the crime scene, his cheeks turning just a tad pink. 

"I was planning to, yeah," he admits, distracting himself by combing a hand through his hair and straightening his tee. Cute. So freaking cute. "How do you feel?" He asks, running a quick check down Lando's body as if he could tell by just looking at him. 

Maybe he does. 

"Great," Lando says, and it's true. The glee of knowing Oscar wants him took everything away. The fever, Brazil– all gone and forgotten. "Date me," his bravado brings him to say next, picking up the toast from the plate and giving it a big bite. 

Oh, it's got butter on it. Duh– obviously. Lando loves butter. And Oscar loves Lando.

Speaking of…

Oscar blinks. Once, twice– his face doing all sorts of funny things. Lando chews slowly, waiting for his teammate to process what he just said. 

"What?" He asks, carefully.

"Date me," Lando repeats, going to take a sip of tea. "I'm in love with you, and you just spent the entire night taking care of me and doing all this–" he gestures around them, "– sweet stuff for me, so… let's just cut the bullshit and be boyfriends or whatever." He finishes, feeling himself flushing a little. He's not exactly anxious, but he is a bit on edge. 

This is still a confession, after all, even if unconventional. 

"Or whatever," Oscar parrots, amused, and chokes out a laugh. As if he was holding his breath before that. 

"So?" He asks, raising a brow at him. A challenge. But Lando's heart starts to thump louder, his palms get sweaty. 

Oscar shakes his head slightly; bites his lower lip to stop himself from saying something. He walks then, slowly– so, so slowly– rounding the counter with his eyes locked on Lando's until he's standing between his legs. He's got no other choice but to look up at Oscar like this; his mouth falling slightly open for him, wanting, wanting– but Oscar chooses to bring a hand up and move his curls away to kiss his forehead instead, making Lando grunt with frustration. 

"I don't have a fever, Osc," he whispers, grabbing him by the waist just in case he's got any crazy ideas of moving away. He sneaks a hand under his tee; touches skin. "I'm like– crazy for you," he mumbles, letting his forehead fall on Oscar's chest, right above his heart.

It's so embarrassing– talking about it, that is. Maybe that's why it took them so long until finally one of them broke. It kinda bothers Lando that it had to be him, but they couldn't keep going like this. Not when the possibility of something better– of something more– is right there for them to take. 

He feels Oscar's fingers comb through the curls at the back of his neck. Slowly, gently. Like it's more instinct than intent. It makes Lando shiver. It makes Lando want. 

"I thought–" he starts, but his voice cuts. Lando gives his hip a tiny squeeze to encourage him to keep going, but he doesn't look up yet; he knows that Oscar needs the space right now. "I thought you didn't want something like that. Always worried if I was being– too much, I guess," he says, and that does make Lando snap up. 

"What?" He asks, incredulous. "Oscar, I'm the one always asking you to– to hang and stuff." 

"Yeah– to fuck, Lando," Oscar shrugs and– is that hurt in his voice? "Not like– not that I didn't like it, 's just… I don't know," he sighs, sliding his hands until they are cradling Lando's face. "Reckon I just wanted– more," he whispers, his eyes dropping down, down– until they find Lando's lips. 

"Why didn't you ask, then?" Lando wants to know, his hands traveling deeper into Oscar's tee until he can press them flat on his lower back, encouraging him forward even if realistically there is no space left between them.

Oscar laughs, but it's a tired one. 

"I thought I was being fucking obvious, if I'm honest," he says, cheeky little lopsided smile on his face. "Didn't think I was going to need to spell it out for you, didn't I?" He asks, giving one of Lando's curls a tiny tug. Lando pinches him on the side in return, and suddenly they are laughing, and Oscar is leaning forward into Lando's space because of it, so Lando wraps his arms around him, and Christ, how can they be so dumb?

"I want more too," Lando whispers when they quiet down again, his face now pressed against Oscar's neck. 

"Yeah– got that when you asked me to date you, mate," Oscar laughs, and Lando loves that sound. Loves the glee, the lightness of it. Wants to seal it in a jar; carry it around in his bag for when he's feeling down. For when he's missing his teammate. 

"So– yes, then?" He has to ask, not because he's in doubt– he just wants to hear Oscar say it.

"Yes," he giggles, taking Lando's face with his hands and making him look up. "Let's date… or whatever." 

"Piss o–" Lando starts, but gets rudely (wonderfully) interrupted by Oscar pressing his lips against his. He flinches backwards, the contact shocking him. "Mate! Germs!" He squeaks, horrified, looking up at Oscar with plates for eyes. 

Oscar just rolls his eyes at him. 

"Lando– you coughed, snotted, and sneezed all over me last night. I already got whatever you got, trust me," he says. "It's up to my immune system now– so come here and let me kiss my boyfriend." 

And honestly, who is Lando to fight with that logic? Not a doctor, that's for sure. So he laughs, closes his eyes as his cheeks grow warm, lets himself accept the win, and kisses back.