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Oscar doesn't like to mope around. He never has.
Sure, after a bad race he'll give himself some time to feel sorry for himself, but then he'll get over it and try to reset. It isn't productive, he thinks, to mope about things that can't be changed, so he always tries his best to put a bad race weekend behind him as fast as he can.
However, there are times when he'll allow himself to wallow in pity. It happened numerous times last year. He threw himself one hell of a pity party after Abu Dhabi. And he wouldn't say he's over what happened, but the sting has certainly gotten better.
(He knows the sting will never go away, but he doesn't feel like he's burning alive anymore.)
Today's race is one Oscar will be moping about for a few days.
He had a shot to win today. He had a chance. He should have been in the fight for the win. He should have gotten the chance to.
But he didn't.
Fucking Carlos Sainz.
Oscar's seething. He's sure he'll be seething for a while. He hasn't felt this angry in quite some time. He just—he doesn't have the words to describe what happened today.
Carlos ruined his race because he couldn't respect blue flags, and he had the nerve not to even apologize for it.
(Oscar knows his gearbox failed, but it doesn't take away from what Carlos did.)
Oscar swears he could actually punch him. He wouldn't, obviously, but he could.
There's so much anger in his body, just begging to be released, but there's also a lingering disappointment. The disappointment has been following Oscar around since the start of the season, really. It's like a fucking cloud over his head, and he hasn't been able to shake it. His season has been that bad.
He had the podium in Suzuka, which was nice, and then the third-place finish in Miami, but even with those, his season hasn't been anything to write home about. It's been pretty unremarkable.
But today, he finally had a chance to do something. He had a chance to win.
It, of course, went to shit.
Oscar's so glad the summer break is here. He's ready to make the most of it. He's ready to use it to forget about this nightmare first half of the season.
His door opens. Oscar lifts his head to see Lando hovering in the doorway.
"Hey," Lando greets.
"Hey," Oscar echoes softly.
"Do you wanna be alone?" Lando questions, not moving any further into the room, waiting for permission.
Oscar lifts one hand, making a motion with it. "Come here."
Lando fully steps into the room, closing the door behind him. As Lando makes his way over to the bed, Oscar moves further against the wall to make room for him. As soon as Lando is on the bed, Oscar moves his head to be tucked under Lando’s chin, humming contentedly when a hand starts to run over the back of his head. He melts into the touch.
There are some days when Oscar prefers to be alone, but now is not one of them. Right now, all he wants is Lando.
“I'm sorry about your race.”
“You're not the one who doesn't respect blue flags,” Oscar mumbles into Lando’s chest. “You're also not my gearbox.”
There's a chuckle from Lando. “I'm still sorry.”
Oscar squeezes his eyes shut. “It is what it is, right?”
“It shouldn’t have been that way,” Lando murmurs.
And Oscar agrees, of course, but he doesn't want to spend any more time thinking about Carlos Sainz, so he stays quiet. He just nestles further into Lando, letting the tension and anger fade from his body as he rests in the arms of his boyfriend.
Lando continues to run his hand over the back of Oscar’s head, and if Oscar were a cat, he'd probably be purring. It feels so good and so nice, and Oscar cherishes it.
The post-race adrenaline is finally starting to fade, replaced by a wave of tiredness, and Oscar’s eyelids begin to feel heavier. He's well on his way to crashing. When he's held like this by Lando, his post-race nap always happens faster.
“It’ll get better,” Lando says, shifting against Oscar until he's able to kiss his forehead.
Oscar peeks an eye open. “Maybe after summer break, I'll have a chance.”
“You will,” Lando assures, eyes earnest.
Oscar's lips twitch faintly. “I want to fight you.”
“So do I,” Lando returns. “I miss it.”
Oscar hums, eyes slipping shut again. “Congratulations, by the way. Don't know if I said it earlier.”
“You did,” Lando informs, a kiss being pressed to the crown of Oscar's head now.
Oscar goes quiet after that. He focuses on Lando’s touch and Lando’s heartbeat, a melody that has sung him to sleep dozens of times before, a melody that soothes whatever storm might be in his head.
Oscar's usually the big spoon, but on days like this, all he wants is to be held. All he wants is this warm and loving embrace.
“I love you,” Oscar says at some point. “Thank you.”
“I love you,” Lando returns just as softly. “And if you thanked me every time I held you, I'd literally be the richest person in the world.”
Oscar chuckles. “I meant it in a ‘thank you for being here’ way.
“You never have to thank me for that, Osc.”
“Well, I did. I do. And you literally do the same.”
“Fair.”
Oscar smiles into Lando’s chest. He knows without having to look that Lando's smiling too.
They once again fall into silence, and Oscar knows he’s right on the brink of being dragged into unconsciousness, and by the way Lando’s hand is starting to slow, he thinks Lando might be on his way to falling asleep too. This is always one of Oscar’s favorite things to do with Lando, just falling asleep tucked against him. There isn’t a more warm or safe place on this Earth.
As he’s finally pulled under, he thinks about how there’ll always be bad races, but having someone to hold you through it certainly makes things better.
And perhaps in Zandvoort, Oscar will get to take a post-victory nap with Lando. He hopes so.