Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Thursday broke soft.

Oscar woke in the hotel room to low amber light and a sky smeared pale gold over the city. The bed was clean and dry, the air smelled of cotton and the faintest whisper of cinnamon from dessert the night before. 

Lando was already awake, a loose shape on top of the duvet, hair mussed, voice gentle when he said, “Morning, Osc. How d’you feel?”

“Better,” he said - and meant it. 

Better in the bones, better in the chest that wasn’t tight anymore. 

The memory of the accident in the night had stopped feeling like a sharp thing and settled into something ordinary and survivable because Lando had made it that way.

They brushed their teeth together, a normal boyish clatter of cups and taps, and watched the sun climb the edge of the city from the window seat. 

When Thursday’s media started, Oscar kept himself big - clear voice, neat answers, shoulders squared. He noticed how easy the eye contact felt when Lando hovered at the edge of his day like a quiet comet: there if needed, not smothering.

Oscar didn’t know he could wake up without that incessant aching at the base of his skull. His memory from the last few days were fuzzy, and he could still feel the distant longing to be little again at the back of his head, but he pushed it away.

He had a race to win.

“Check-ins by text?” Lando suggested between interviews, thumb hovering over his phone.

“Yeah,” Oscar said. “Please.”

So they did.

A tiny ‘water?’ reminder. 

A photo of two identical bananas with the caption ‘choose your fighter.’

A quick ‘proud of u.’ The day clicked by like gears that finally fit. Oscar stayed big from morning to night and fell asleep quick, the body trusting the promise that had been kept.

They went out for a small dinner that evening, and finally discussed their boundaries within their new dynamic.

Oscar felt at ease.

~~~

Friday had a different temperature.

The paddock was bright, loud and tinny at the edges, like someone had turned up the saturation and the grain at simultaneously. The concrete steamed where the sun caught it; the garage light was a clean white that flattened faces and made the chrome sing. 

There was a sweet-chemical smell of fuel hung low, braided with hot brakes, tyre blankets and rubber shaved into curls. Engines woke and slept in the neighboring bays, each bark of revs a push on Oscar’s chest.

He was fine, he told himself. He had slept, he had eaten. 

He was big.

But the morning had too many small interruptions. 

His new ear inserts didn’t sit right, a seam in his undershirt rubbed an angry line along his collarbone, someone swapped his water bottle for a near-identical one and the lid clicked in a way he didn’t expect. 

It wasn’t any one thing. 

It was pebble after pebble after pebble in his shoe.

Each pushback forced the fuzz down a little harder on each side of his head.

“Run plan’s straightforward,” Lando said in the prep room, skimming the whiteboard. “Two laps install, then we’ll step you through the braking maps. Speak up if anything feels even slightly off, yeah?”

Oscar nodded. “Yeah.” He meant it. He would.

Part of him was glad that Lando was on the pit wall for first practice; his own teammate looking out for him. 

The step-up engineer on Lando’s side of the garage Josh - sharp eyes, clipped voice, a way of smiling mostly with his teeth - hovered at the edge of the room. 

He had been with that side of the garage for the past few races, and had very quickly obtained a reputation for being exacting. Oscar had been working around that since his first week: hit your marks, and you never felt the edge.

“Remember we need professional comms today,” Josh said, sing-song light, which somehow made it worse. “Keep it grown-up, yeah? No… moods.”

It sounded like a joke. The smile made it a joke. 

But something in the tone wasn’t.

“I’m always professional,” Oscar said, even, but he heard the catch half a second late.

Josh had been there when Oscar had his breakdown earlier that week.

“Sure,” the engineer said, as if humoring a kid who’d claimed he could lift the car by himself. “Let’s prove it.”

Lando’s head tipped, a fraction. Noted. “Helmet on,” he said to Oscar, easy, redirecting the current.

FP1 began.

Out-lap, temps, bite points. Normal things. The car bit well enough on entry and chattered a hint on exit; the wind pushed hands on the straight. Oscar communicated. He kept it crisp. He could do crisp in his sleep.

Back in, cooling fans roared against the sidepods. The garage filled as well as emptied with people, noise and bright screens moving data in rivers. 

Josh planted himself at Oscar’s shoulder with a tablet angled so the screen’s white flare was a rectangle of glare in Oscar’s peripheral vision.

“See that?” He said. “You’re late here. We talked about being early, not late.”

“Copy,” Oscar replied, face red. He adjusted his seat, then stopped adjusting because the fabric snagged. He unclipped a glove finger and clipped it again to hear the click land clean.

The ache at the back of his head was getting worse.

“Eyes on the drive, not the glove,” Josh said. He had a tight smile, teasing, and then he wasn’t teasing. “Unless we’re playing dress-up today.”

Lando looked up from the run sheet. His mouth didn’t change, but his eyes sharpened. “Give him the numbers,” he said mildly, and the engineer did - pace, gradient, temps - so fast the syllables stacked like dominoes.

Oscar kept up. He could keep up when it hurt.

He hadn’t noticed it before, but the aching fuzz had crept down his spine, the edge of his headspace calling to him.

He nodded at the right places, and his brain did split-screen: one part solving, one part calculating how long until a quiet corner and a slower light. It would be fine after lunch. 

He only had to hold it until then.

The second run: a crosswind. A rattle from somewhere in the left-rear that nobody could hear but him. He over-braked once. Josh’s fingers moved across the tablet - tap tap tap - as if the sound could goose Oscar forward.

“Big boys brake earlier when the wind’s wrong,” he said, voice light. “That’s the adult choice.”

Oscar froze, a pit dropping to the bottom of his stomach.

He was being made fun of.

He breathed in and out through his nose, the way the sports psych taught him. In, hold, out. Box box.

Just a bit longer.

~~~

By FP2 the garage had a static that made the hair lift on Oscar’s arms. The sun had swung high; light slid under the shutter edges in white knives. 

The neighboring team practiced pit stops to a metronome clap that drilled holes in the hour. Someone somewhere kept dropping a ratchet. Every time, his shoulders jumped.

He caught Lando watching him between tasks, that quick sideways look that said ‘I’m here’. He held Lando’s gaze for half a second.

It helped. 

Then Josh cruised back into his space like a tugboat crowding a canoe.

“You’re fiddling,” he sing-songed. “Let’s keep hands still unless you’re driving, yeah? You’re not… five.”

It was barely louder than a whisper. Nobody else heard it.

That was the trick; the honeyed tone, the smile. The way he stood half an inch too close so Oscar had to decide between stepping back and being a statue.

“I’m not,” Oscar said. keeping his voice level. He flexed his fingers once under the desk and stilled them.

“Good lad,” the engineer said, and the pat on the shoulder was light enough to be nothing and heavy enough to feel like a brand. “Helmet.”

Oscar blinked. The air felt thick, like walking underwater. He put the helmet on wrong the first time and had to take it off, and Josh’s eyebrows lifted in tiny theater - no words, just surprise shaped to sting.

On track, he clipped a kerb sharper than intended. It knocked his head and set his hearing fizzing. The radio hissed in his ear, and for a second the words weren’t words - just a square wave of sound that pushed him somewhere small.

“Pit confirm,” Tom said, calm in his ear, and Oscar latched onto the calm like a rung on a ladder. He pitted.

The moment the wheels stopped turning the world got huge. Fans thundered. A jack thumped the car belly, followed by a mechanic apologising to someone too loudly.

Josh leaned into his window and said something - friendly, sharp, both - and the syllables scraped across Oscar’s skin.

“Sorry?” Oscar said, louder than he meant to. He couldn’t sort the sentence. It broke apart in the air and fell at his feet. “Say again?”

“Eyes,” Josh repeated, tone sweet, tapping the side of his own helmet. “Grown-ups look.”

The word ‘grown-ups’ landed like a slap.

Heat spiked behind Oscar’s eyes. The wrongness of the ear inserts felt like swallowing grit. He yanked his belts open with stiff fingers and climbed out too fast for how many cables there were to remember. 

A sensor lead tugged, and someone caught it; he heard the ghost of a curse from across the garage, not at him, but it threaded into the rest anyway.

“Osc?” Lando asked from his side of the garage, already out of his car and walking over. “Hey- breathe.”

“I am,” Oscar said, except he wasn’t. He could feel the breath snagging in his throat, high and thin.

He could feel the way the light made two of everything, could feel the shape of his mouth going wrong, the way words dropped out of it as if they’d forgotten the floor.

Josh’s voice was already cutting through the noise. “Debrief room,” he said, tablet under one arm, the other gesturing toward the side door. “Two minutes, quick run-through.”

A couple of the mechanics from Oscar’s side - Dan, Miguel, and Claire - looked up from the tyre data table.

“Now?” Claire asked. “He just boxed.”

“Exactly,” Josh said with that clipped smile. “Best time to teach.”

Oscar hesitated in the middle of the garage, helmet halfway off. He could feel himself floating sideways inside his own head, the roar of fans and compressors smearing into one long sound. 

Stay big, he told himself. Stay here.

But the edges were already going soft. His fingers worried the strap of his glove without permission.

“C’mon,” Josh said, snapping the tablet open. “We’ll make it quick.”

Claire caught Miguel’s eye and then looked at Oscar, concern flickering across his face. “You want me to grab Lando? He’s just getting a drink-”

Josh waved him off, already halfway to the door. “No need, I’ve got him. Five minutes, tops.”

Miguel frowned but didn’t argue; there was still work to do. The remainder of the crew shared a few uneasy glances before going back to their stations.

Oscar followed because everyone was watching, because the room wouldn’t stop moving, because saying ‘no’ felt like another bright sound he couldn’t handle.

The light in the small room was harsher than the garage - flat white, no shade. Too many chairs full of half recognisable faces, a long table, screens frozen on telemetry. The air-con was too cold; it needled the sweat on his neck.

Three of Oscar’s side-garage staff had filtered in behind them - standard quick debrief crowd. Dan leaned on the back wall, tablet tucked under his arm, already sensing the tension. 

Claire took a chair by the corner, her eyes flicking between Josh and Oscar. 

She’d seen this kind of drift before: the distant look, the smaller voice, the way Oscar’s hands kept twisting the edge of his sleeve like he was grounding himself.

Josh didn’t notice - or pretended not to. “Sit,” he said, dropping the tablet onto the table. Numbers glared back in colours that fought each other.

Claire murmured, “He looks a bit off, Josh. Maybe give him a second?”

Josh didn’t look up. “He’ll be fine,” he said, voice tight. “He needs to focus, not fidget.”

Dan shifted, uncomfortable, but stayed quiet.

There was a gentle knock at the door and Miguel crept into the room, taking a seat next to Claire who began whispering to him almost immediately.

Oscar lingered a moment longer, but then sat because sitting was easier than choosing not to.

“Right,” Josh said, dropping the tablet onto the table. Numbers glared back in colours that fought each other. “Read this section to me - out loud.”

Oscar blinked at it. The rows and columns swam. The letters stopped being letters. “What?”

“The throttle traces,” Josh said, tapping the screen. “You keep saying you’re fine, so show me fine.”

It came out half-mocking, half-teacherish. It was the tone that made Oscar’s scalp prickle.

“I can’t-” He rubbed at his temple. The words on the tablet wriggled like insects. “Can you just- tell me what line?”

“All of them,” Josh said. “Come on, you’re a big boy. You can read data.”

The words ‘big boy’ hit too close to the wrong place in Oscar’s brain. His stomach dropped, heat surged behind his eyes. He shook his head, small and fast.

Claire’s chair creaked; she opened her mouth again. “Josh- seriously, back off. He’s overloaded. Let him cool down and we’ll run it later.”

Josh’s laugh was soft and patronising. “He’s an adult, not a toddler, Claire. He can read a few lines of text.”

Oscar’s breathing hitched. Dan rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, murmuring, “Mate, let’s just wait for Lando.”

“Lando’s busy,” Josh said without looking up. “We’ll finish before he even notices.”

Fuck. Too much, too much. 

“Stop,” Oscar said. “Don’t-”

Josh’s sigh was theatrical. “Every time something’s hard you check out. You want Lando to fight your battles for you too?”

That landed like a shove even before the hand touched his arm.

Josh wasn’t rough - just firm, guiding, fingers pressing above the elbow to move him closer to the desk - but in Oscar’s overloaded skin it felt like static.

He stamped his foot once, the movement sharp and childish before he could think, sound ricocheting off the tile.

“Stop touching me!” His voice cracked halfway up the scale.

“Excuse me?” Josh’s brows lifted, his tone dipping sweet again. “We don’t shout here, Oscar. That’s not professional.”

He stepped in again, reaching to turn the tablet toward him, and the edge of it brushed Oscar’s wrist. The light, the noise, the smell of hot brake dust still on his suit - it all folded in on itself. 

His body did the moving for him: a push, both hands flat, a no that lived in muscles, not words. The tablet skidded, hit the chair leg, clattered to the floor.

Everything went very quiet for half a heartbeat.

Josh’s smile came back, smaller, poisonous. “Right,” he said softly. “Timeout, then.”

“What?” Oscar’s breath hiccupped. His heartbeat was in his ears. The word didn’t make sense; it belonged somewhere else, in a softer world, not here under the white light.

A stunned silence rippled through the small room.

Dan blinked. “Wait- what? Josh, you can’t just-”

Claire pushed her chair back with a scrape. “He’s not yours to handle like that, Josh. If he’s slipping, you call Lando. We were briefed about this literally yesterday!”

Miguel, quieter but firm: “Seriously, man, you’re not his caregiver. Back off.”

Josh’s smile didn’t move. “Relax. It’s just a breather,” he said, sing-song bright. “Five minutes to calm down, that’s all. We all want him focused, don’t we?”

The others looked at each other, uneasy. Claire half-rose from her seat, but Josh’s pleasant tone and the weight of hierarchy settled like a lid. “I’ll sort it,” he said, final, dismissing them with a small tilt of his head.

No one wanted to make a scene in front of the rest of the garage. One by one they sank back into their places, the scrape of chairs loud in the silence.

Then Josh turned back to Oscar, voice syrup-smooth again.

“Come on, up you get,” Josh said, tone honeyed for the people who might overhear. “Corner. Face it.”

“I don’t-” Oscar started, but the room was shrinking. He couldn’t line up words.

His feet stayed where they were.

Josh gestured, impatient now, hand brushing Oscar’s arm again to pull him up. “Corner, Oscar. Now.”

The touch wasn’t harsh, but in his head it was another bright spark, too much. He stood, but jerked away, stumbling sideways. His breath tearing out of him as his palms hit his ears. “Stop!” he shouted, voice too big, eyes too wide.

Outside, someone laughed at something unrelated; the sound stabbed. Josh exhaled through his nose, the put-upon sigh of a man dealing with a tantrum.

“Fine,” he said tightly. “Then stand there. Face the wall. Five minutes.”

The words were a door closing. Oscar didn’t move. He couldn’t understand what was happening anymore - only that his name sounded wrong in Josh’s mouth and that if he didn’t do something, it would get louder. 

So he turned, because turning was a command he could follow. The wall was cold, but he put his hands on it anyways. He stared at the paint until the pattern blurred.

Josh adjusted the chair back into place, tone switching to bright and public as he turned to the rest of the room. “All sorted. Right, where were we?”

From outside, it sounded like management. Inside, it felt like static.

Oscar’s breath came in shallow pulls. His brain spun between ‘timeout’ and ‘trouble’ and ‘bad’. He didn’t know how long to stand. He didn’t know if leaving would make it worse. 

The patterns he was looking at became the whole world: flat paint, white light, the hum of the vent above him. Somewhere far away, the garage kept humming along, unaware.

At some point, comprehensible words filtered to his brain.

“Yes, should take about five minutes,” Josh said to the air. Then he stepped outside and the door clicked to mostly-closed.

Oscar’s mind caught up as he realised he had been standing there a lot longer than five minutes. 

But he had to be good. 

Had to make Lando proud.

Time thinned and stretched. 

The pad of Oscar’s right index finger felt each grain of paint as if through a microscope. The scratch in the plaster at shoulder height became all he could see; the cold bit his forearms.

A sound somewhere in the hallway - rolling flight case - threaded into the light whine. His heart counted too fast, and he tried to slow it, but couldn’t.

The word ‘bad’ lit like a sign behind his eyes, and once it was there he couldn’t unsee it. 

He had been bad. 

He had done the wrong thing.

He should stay still. 

He should keep the room safe by being small.

He tried to count to sixty. He got to eighteen and lost the numbers. 

He tried again. 

He lost them at eleven. 

He made a bargain with the corner: thirty breaths, then he could look. At breath four his chest hiccupped and reset the counter and he decided the bargain had always been thirty. 

He didn’t remember what Josh had said about leaving. He didn’t know if the door was locked. He didn’t know if moving would make it worse.

So he didn’t move.

The world went very narrow and very loud and very far away, all at once.

People walked past outside, voices rose and fell. From within the garage, FP2 kept moving. Nobody meant harm. They saw order and assumed kindness lived inside it.

Behind him, the world kept happening.

He could hear them talking - muffled voices bleeding together, the clink of tools, the rise and fall of meetings breaking apart. 

Every so often a familiar voice cut through: Claire’s low and worried, Dan saying something that sounded like “we should tell Lando” before another door closed and swallowed the words.

One by one the noises thinned.

Chairs scraped. A laugh too loud, someone calling for a data printout. The meeting broke, people drifted away, and the soundscape narrowed again to footsteps and the constant hum of the lights.

The door creaked once, like it wanted to open and didn’t. 

Then silence.

~~~

From his spot at the pit wall, Lando had kept half an eye on Oscar since the last run. 

Even through the helmet cam he could see it - the soft edges in his voice, the too-careful movements. He’d come back to the garage looking more relaxed than most drivers did after FP1, but Lando recognised that loose, far-away focus.

Then FP2 came and he was back out on track.

He got through it best he could, but then he spotted him as they entered the garages again.

When Josh had leaned into the cockpit and started talking, Lando had caught only the body language: the clipped gestures, the way Oscar’s shoulders went up instead of down. 

Oscar wasn’t completely out of that smaller headspace; he was hovering somewhere between. Still managing, still professional, but not anchored all the way since FP1.

A flash of irritation, maybe, but nothing dramatic - just another over-eager debrief, he’d thought. Lando’s comms were full of tyre data and strategy chatter; he’d looked back at his screens, trusting that the others on their side of the garage would keep things gentle.

It wasn’t until half an hour later, when the wall meeting wound down, that he noticed the quiet.

Oscar hadn’t drifted past once.

Two of the data analysts from another group were packing up near the monitors. “Hey,” Lando said, casual on the surface. “You seen Oscar? He was supposed to drop his telemetry notes.”

They exchanged a quick look. One of them frowned. “He went into the debrief room with Josh ages ago. Thought you sent him.”

“I didn’t.” Lando’s pulse ticked once, hard. “He’s still in there?”

The other shrugged. “No one’s said anything. We figured it was a discipline thing - looked like a timeout or something? Josh told people he had it handled.”

Lando’s blood was like ice in his veins. 

Discipline.

Timeout.

Phrases reserved only for caregivers and their littles.

“Where exactly?” he asked, already moving.

They pointed toward the side corridor. Behind them, conversation rippled - confusion, guilt starting to dawn - but Lando was already gone, weaving through the garage at a near-run.

He caught sight of Josh halfway down the hall, tablet under one arm, face pale. The man looked up, froze, then bolted for the debrief room door ahead of Lando, the sudden panic giving away everything before a word was said.

Lando closed the last few metres in three long strides, his heartbeat keeping time with the thud of his boots on the floor.

Josh was already fumbling with the door, muttering something about “he just needed to cool off.” The phrase made Lando’s jaw tighten.

“Move,” he said quietly. It wasn’t loud, but it was the kind of quiet that people obey.

Josh hesitated a beat, tried to find the bright, managerial smile that usually fixed everything, then thought better of it. He stepped aside, flattening himself against the wall as Lando reached for the handle.

The air that came out of the room was cold and smelled faintly of burnt electronics and floor polish. The overhead light buzzed.

At first Lando didn’t see Oscar; just the wall, the chairs, the tablet on the floor. Then he saw the shape of him, pressed small into the wall next to the corner, hands flat against the paint.

For a moment, Lando just looked. Every muscle in his body screamed to move, but he forced himself to register what he was seeing: the too-still shoulders, the fixed, worryingly blank stare, the tremor that ran down one arm like a short circuit.

He didn’t have to guess how long Oscar had been there; the answer was written in the stiffness of his posture.

He turned his head slightly. “How long has he been standing like that?”

Josh opened his mouth. Closed it. “Five minutes,” he said finally, voice small.

Lando’s gaze flicked to the clock on the far wall and did the math automatically. Thirty-three minutes since Oscar had boxed.

He exhaled through his nose, slow.

“Five, huh.”

He didn’t look at Josh again. “Get out. And call Claire. Quietly.”

Josh swallowed and went, footsteps retreating down the corridor.

Only then did Lando step forward, lowering himself until he was at the same level as Oscar’s shoulder. He didn’t touch him yet. He didn’t speak. 

He just matched his breathing to Oscar’s shallow rhythm until it started to synchronise. The noise of the garage receded in his ears; all that existed was the small, cold space and the boy in it.

“Osc,” he said finally, voice soft as cloth. “It’s me.”

The shoulders flinched once, a startle more than a response. Lando stayed where he was. He switched off the nearest light so that only the desk lamp glowed, a warm puddle of gold against the cold white.

“I’m here now. You’re safe. You can move whenever you want.”

Oscar’s fingers flexed, slow, as if the signal had to travel a long way. The air stuttered between them.

Behind Lando, the door eased open again and Claire slipped in. She took one look, went pale, and stayed by the door, silent except for the quick breath she took. Lando caught her eye and gave a small shake of his head- later.

He waited until Oscar’s breathing shifted from jagged to uneven, a tiny sign of coming back. Then he spoke again, steady and low, the voice he used when bringing a car out of a skid.

“You’re not in trouble. You didn’t do anything wrong. You got overwhelmed and someone made a bad call. That’s on him, not on you.”

Oscar’s knees trembled. Lando caught him by the elbow - not dragging, just a support - and guided him to stand straight again.

The contact made Oscar jump once, then melt, a tiny sound catching in his throat.

Lando pressed the heel of his hand gently between Oscar’s shoulder blades, a point of gravity. “That’s it,” he murmured. “Breathe with me. In. Out.”

He could feel Claire moving quietly behind them, turning off the second bank of lights, then shut the door behind her on the way out. The hum dropped another octave.

When Oscar finally whispered, “’m bad,” it was so faint Lando barely caught it.

“No,” he said, without hesitation. “No, sweetheart. You’re not bad.”

Oscar leaned his forehead against the wall. “H’said timeout.”

Lando’s jaw tightened again, but his voice stayed gentle. “That’s not his word to use. You only have timeouts with me, and we always talk first. Okay? We went over this yesterday, sweetheart.”

A small nod. Oscar’s gaze was fixed to the skirting board in front of him, eyes glassy. His headspace was dragging him down further by the minute; he had to ground him.

“You’re allowed to look at me,” Lando said. “Or you can keep looking at the wall. Either way is okay. You tell me which one is less hurty.”

A small sound - almost a laugh, but flat at the edges. “Hurty.”

“I know, silly word isn’t it.” He breathed with him for a few beats - four in, hold, four out - telling the breaths like story beats so Oscar didn’t have to count. “Can I-” Lando stopped and corrected. “I’d like to give you my hoodie string, but you don’t have to take it.”

A beat. Then, tiny: “mm.”

Lando slid his hoodie off, threaded the drawstring free, and knotted it into a soft loop. He held it out and Oscar picked it up like a relic, wrapped it round his fingers, and something in his shoulders dropped a centimetre.

He sat like that for a long minute, back against the wall, holding a loop of cotton like a lifeline in a storm.

“You can leave the corner,” Lando said, because nobody else had said it. “You don’t need permission. You’ll never need permission from anyone but me to finish a timeout. And I won’t put you in one without helping you calm down first. That’s our new rule. Remember?”

A tiny nod, then a small shake like he didn’t trust his memory.

“You’re allowed to turn around,” Lando said again, after a while, not as instruction but as gentle reminder. “You’re allowed to sit on the floor. You’re allowed to ask for me.”

Oscar turned. 

Not all at once. First the head, then the torso, the way you test a sore muscle. He slid his back down the wall until he was sitting on the cold linoleum, knees up. He kept the string and he kept Lando in the corner of his eye like a lighthouse.

“There you are,” Lando said, as if Oscar had just come into a room. He kept his hands palm-up on his knees where Oscar could see they were empty. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Oscar said. His voice was small and scraped, but it was a voice again. His eyes were pink at the rims. “Am I… are you… mad?”

“No,” Lando said, with a weight that pinned the word to the floor. “I’m not mad. You got upset. The engineer was a meanie, and I’m going to fix that.”

Oscar’s mouth wobbled. “Bad. Pushed him.”

“You pushed his tablet away from your face,” Lando said, precise. “Because your body was shouting. We can talk about safer ways to ask for space - hands on your own chest, stepping back, words if you have them - but right now the task is to be kind to yourself for being scared.”

Silence, then a long breath that sloped down. Oscar’s shoulders finally met the wall. His head tipped sideways until it hovered an inch from Lando’s shoulder and then, like a decision was made, rested there.

“Would you like water?”

Silence. Then, “’mkay.”

Lando reached sideways for the bottle he’d brought from the hall - his, with the scuffed lid and the little sticker near the base because sameness helps. 

He set it on the floor within Oscar’s reach, cap already loosened. “It’s there.”

Oscar’s right hand peeled off the floor next to him like it had been glued. His fingers trembled. He took the bottle and lifted it and the first mouthful shook so hard some sloshed on his chin.

He flinched at the wet like it was a shout. Lando reached a hand underneath Oscar’s to support him; the second mouthful landed cleaner.

“Good,” Lando said, quieter than the hum. “Good job.”

Oscar put the bottle down as if it might break. He took a breath that juddered like a car stalling.

“Touch okay?” Lando asked, still asking.

Oscar’s eyes welled, and just like that, he was gone. Tears flooded down his face as a choked sob escaped him, nodding frantically. His headspace clouded him like a weighted blanket. 

Lando wasted no time scooping Oscar onto his lap, one hand stroking the hair at his nape, and the other holding his lower back. “Oh, my darling. I know, shh. I’m here now. I’ve got you.”

The little only clutched desperately at the fabric of Lando’s shirt and brought the string of the McLaren hoodie to his mouth, an effort to self-soothe. Pained noises escaped him as he pushed his nose into Lando’s neck.

“Da!” He cried out from behind the string, and Lando’s heart shattered.

He’d have that bastard for pushing Oscar so deep back into his headspace.

Lando wasted no time. Using his added strength, mostly from his caregiver instincts going overboard, he managed to stand still holding Oscar. He then shuffled the little until he was resting on his hip.

Immediately, Oscar whined at the change of position and he buried his face in Lando’s shoulder instead, his thumb replacing the string as his legs dangled either side of his caregiver’s leg. 

Lando bounced him on his hip for a minute or two, giving Oscar a chance to calm down.

He then carried him through the corridor, footsteps quick but careful, eyes fixed ahead. The few mechanics still nearby stepped back automatically, their chatter dying into an uncertain silence. Nobody tried to stop him.

He was halfway to the motorhome when Josh appeared at the far end of the hall, tablet still under one arm. The man froze. The professional smile came on a beat too late.

“Everything under control?” Josh asked, bright, brittle.

Lando stopped a few feet away, Oscar’s head still tucked against his shoulder, the tremors easing only fractionally.

“Under control?” Lando’s voice was low, even. “You left him alone, Little, in a room having a panic attack. You don’t get to use that phrase.”

Josh’s eyes flicked to the small shape in Lando’s arms and back again. “It was just- discipline. He lashed out-”

“He was overloaded,” Lando cut in, sharp enough that Josh flinched. “And you made it worse. He’s a little. You’re not part of his care setup, and you won’t ever be putting him in that position again. I’m taking this to Zak and Andrea.”

For a moment Josh’s mouth opened like he might argue, then closed. He stepped aside.

Lando walked past him without another word.

The rest of the walk blurred into the rhythm of Oscar’s breathing against his chest, the steady weight anchoring both of them. By the time Lando pushed through the motorhome door, Oscar’s sobs had thinned to hiccupy breaths.

Lando dimmed the lights without asking this time and set Oscar down on the sofa. He covered him with a blanket and then set a glass of water down, grabbing a pair of noise cancelling headphones and putting them over his little’s ears for the time being.

The breath he let out sounded like surrender.

Oscar was still trembling when Lando lowered him onto the cushions. He looked wrung out, his suit half unzipped, the colour drained from his face. Lando crouched so they were eye level.

“Hey, deep breaths,” he murmured. “In through your nose, out slow. That’s it.”

Oscar’s eyes tracked him but didn’t quite focus. He still had one hand locked in the fabric of Lando’s hoodie string, as though letting go might drop him into space.

Lando moved around the small cabin, gathering what he knew would help, his koala from the cupboard, a small packet of fidgets, and the spare kangaroo pacifier that always lived in the side pocket of his bag. He brought them back and set them on the low table within reach.

“Here,” he said, holding the water to Oscar’s lips. “Sip, love.”

A long minute passed in silence except for the small sounds of swallows, and the hum of the air-con. Slowly the tightness left Oscar’s shoulders. He looked young in that light - eyes too big, lashes still damp.

When Oscar pulled away, Lando put the bottle back down and readjusted the blanket covering Oscar. The little settled amongst the pillows, his headphones sliding off as he blinked up heavily at Lando.

He whined but was soothed as a hand brushed through his hair.

Lando knelt on the floor beside the sofa, leaning forwards to kiss Oscar’s forehead. “You’re okay now. Nobody’s going to make you do anything. You’re just a little fussy and need a nap, love.”

Oscar nodded, a tiny movement. Lando swapped the headphones for his pacifier that was sat on the table and pressed it to his little’s mouth, who instantly latched on.

His eyelids drifted half-closed in comfort.   

A few minutes passed and Lando just watched as Oscar drifted, the bobbing of his pacifier slowing, his breaths growing deeper, only the occasional soft grunt breaking through the quietness.

Only when Oscar completely settled into sleep did he stand.

Lando hesitated as he moved to the door, hand hovering over the handle. He didn’t like leaving him, but someone needed to hear about what had just happened.  

He quickly set his phone on vibrate, placed it beside Oscar where he could see the screen light if it went off, and stepped out.

~~~

Zak and Andrea were in the glass-walled conference room, a scatter of papers between them. They both looked up when the door opened.

“Lando,” Zak said. “Everything alright?”

“Not really.” He shut the door behind him. “We’ve got a problem with Josh.”

Andrea straightened. “What kind of problem?”

“The kind where he decided he was in charge of Oscar’s emotional welfare.” The words came out clipped, one after another.  “He isolated him - left him standing in a corner shaking. I found him half an hour later.”

Zak blinked. “He did what?”

“I know,” Lando said, forcing a breath through his teeth. “Oscar’s been working through some stuff. He’s only just started going into his headspace, and we’ve been figuring it out together. But it’s ours to manage. Not Josh’s, not anyone else’s.”

Andrea rubbed a hand over his face. “Lando, I didn’t even know-”

“Yeah. Because it’s private,” Lando said, softer but still fierce. “But Zak did, and so did most of the garage because of Austin. He’s still trying to regulate his emotions, and they were told that.”

Zak’s voice dropped to something careful. “We’ll speak to Josh. Properly.”

“Speak, suspend, whatever you have to do,” Lando said. “But this doesn’t happen again. Not while I’m here.”

He’d started pacing without noticing - tight loops around the end of the table, hands in his hair. His body couldn’t decide between fury and worry.  And then, mid-stride, the worry won.

A cold pull gripped the centre of his chest, a sense that something in the motorhome had shifted. He stopped, hand flattening over his sternum.

Andrea frowned. “You alright?”

Lando shook his head. “No… something’s wrong.  He’s awake.”

He didn’t wait for questions. The chair legs screeched as he shoved past them and was gone down the corridor before either man could stand.

~~~

The hallway blurred as he ran. The closer he got, the stronger the feeling grew - an instinct honed by the last week of sharing long days, long flights, the quiet hours between.

The door was still closed when he reached it. Inside, he could already hear the soft, broken hiccups of someone trying not to cry.

Lando eased it open. “Hey, love,” he called gently. “It’s me.”

Oscar was on the sofa still, curled tight under the blanket, pacifier nowhere to be seen. Lando’s hoodie was bunched in both fists, eyes were wide and glassy, tears soaking the collar where his face had been pressed into it.  

He looked lost, like he’d woken in a strange country with no map.

Lando crossed the room in two strides and dropped to his knees beside the sofa. “Oh, mate… I shouldn’t have left you.”

He reached out slowly, giving space for a flinch that never came, and rested a hand over Oscar’s clenched fingers. “You woke up and I wasn’t here, huh? That must have been scary.”

Oscar’s breath stuttered. He nodded once, hard, unable to speak.

“I’m sorry,” Lando said. “Next time I step out, I’ll wake you first. You deserve to know what’s happening. You’re safe now, yeah? You’re safe.”

He waited for a moment, but then Oscar threw off the hoodie and blanket, surging for Lando, arms around his neck and clinging to him. Lando held him tight, gently rocking him until the trembling of Oscar’s body dulled.

Once the little had calmed, he reached for the pacifier and string he had spotted that had fallen into the cushions and held it out for Oscar to take. “Here. This’ll help.”

Oscar’s fingers loosened around the front of Lando’s shirt just enough to grab the item and put it to his mouth.

His breathing slowed a little more as he started fiddling with the string at the same time.

“Good boy,” Lando murmured. “We’ll head back to the hotel once you’ve had another nap. I’ll stay right here till then.”

With great difficulty, as Oscar had refused to let go, Lando managed to shuffle forward and lay down on the small sofa, pulling Oscar on top of him.

The air was cool; the only sounds were the hum of the air-con and the soft clicks of the paddock winding down outside.

The toy Koala was squished between them, but neither one of them seemed to care. 

Oscar’s hand found the edge of Lando’s sleeve and stayed there, anchoring himself as his head found refuge in the side of Lando’s throat, inhaling deep.

Within minutes the weight of him grew heavy again, his breathing deep and even.

Lando watched him for a long time, the anger in his chest from earlier was slowly replaced by something steadier.  

He would talk to Zak again, make sure the boundaries were written in ink, not air. For now, though, the only job that mattered was this one: making sure the kid on top of him would never have to wake up alone and afraid again.

Chapter Text

The paddock had thinned out to a hush after the noise of qualifying.  

Around the garages, the lights still burned too bright, washing everything in sterile white. Oscar sat on the low wall outside the hospitality suite with his race bag between his feet, the sound of distant generators filling the air.

He’d done media already - the same handful of questions, the same careful answers. 

“The car was okay. We just didn’t have the pace today.”  

He could hear his own voice still, measured and polite, as though the words belonged to someone else.

The eighth-place finish sat like a pebble under his ribs. Seventh on the grid tomorrow, thanks to a grid penalty that had nothing to do with him. 

It should have felt better than it did. Instead, there was that dull sting of knowing how hard he’d tried and how little it had changed.

Since yesterday’s practice, with the run-in with Josh and his subsequent drop, he had barely spoken with Lando. 

He didn’t remember much within his headspace, other than a lot of crying and sleeping, but when he woke up this morning, he was big; it was like a switch flipped.

Lando didn’t notice it at first, automatically greeting him, “good morning, sweetheart.” 

Oscar went bright red when he choked out a small, “I’m big, Lan.”

His teammate only chuckled, “Sorry. Morning, mate.” 

And that was that. 

They moved with swift practice as they got ready for the day. Upon arrival to the Paddock, media swept them away and so did their respective parts of the garage as they prepared for Qualifying.

Josh never so much as even glanced in his direction.

His thoughts had found themselves on Lando again.

Oscar would never admit it out loud, but something twisted in his stomach at hearing Lando call him, ‘sweetheart’ out of headspace. 

He decided at that moment that he wouldn’t correct him if it meant he could keep hearing that. 

Lando would soon figure out when he was big anyways.

Speaking of.

He broke from the grasp his mind had on him when he spotted Lando across the paddock, still talking to a cluster of journalists near the McLaren boards.

His smile was bright enough for cameras, but Oscar could see the tiredness underneath it.  

He caught fragments of the answers - “I haven’t been sleeping well lately, honestly not sure how I pulled that move off.” The same self-deprecating charm as always.  

It made Oscar’s ache in a way he didn’t understand.

He waited until the last mic was lowered before heading over. Lando caught sight of him, grin flickering real for a second. “Hey, seventh, right? Proper grid shuffle that.”

“Yeah,” Oscar said. He tried to smile and mostly managed it. “How you feeling?”

“Tired as fuck, mate,” Lando admitted, voice low now that the cameras were gone. “You?”

Oscar shrugged. “Frustrated, I guess.”

Lando clapped a hand lightly on his shoulder. “C’mon. Let’s grab food. You look like you’re about to overthink yourself into next week.”

~~~

The air outside the circuit still buzzed faintly with the noise of the crowd and the metallic tang of fuel. 

They crossed the paddock quietly, team radios still squawking in the background as mechanics rolled carts into the trucks. By the time they reached the waiting car, the sky was smudged purple.

They didn’t talk much.  

Lando had his cap pulled low, half-smile set in place for anyone who happened to recognise them. Oscar kept his head down, replaying laps in his head until even that loop of thought wore thin.  

When they reached the Uber - a dull silver sedan waiting under the streetlight - Lando gestured for him to climb in first.

The door thunked shut and muted the world.

Their Uber smelled faintly of cinnamon and hot tarmac. The driver greeted them in Spanish and pulled into the river of traffic that streamed past the stadium.

Then, the city rushed by in broken streaks of colour - neon, taillights, open shopfronts with metal shutters halfway down. They didn’t speak for the first few minutes; the hum of the tyres filled the silence.

Lando was the one who broke it. “You were pretty hard on yourself out there,” he said, not accusing, just observing.

Oscar shrugged. “Could’ve been better. I kept missing the apex and was too careful. That’s a tenth every lap, easy.”

“Still, P7 start tomorrow,” Lando reminded him. “Could be worse.”

“Doesn’t feel better, though,” Oscar muttered.

“Trust me,” Lando said. “Some days it just… doesn’t come to you.  Doesn’t mean you did anything wrong.”

Oscar nodded, but it didn’t stick.  

His gaze dropped to Lando’s reflection in the window. He looked worn out - eyes shadowed, jaw flexing like he was holding in a yawn.  

It was the kind of exhaustion that came from too many flights and too many late-night debriefs.

Too many days spent being a Caregiver to a clueless Little.

“You said in media you haven’t been sleeping,” Oscar said after a while, pushing away the internal comment.

“Yeah,” Lando admitted, resting his head against the window. “Bit restless lately. Too many thoughts, not enough hours.”

“Because of me?” Oscar asked before he could stop himself.

Lando froze for a moment before turning his head, a frown softening into confusion. “What? No. Why would it be?”

“I don’t know,” Oscar replied, heat creeping up his neck. “You’re always… there. Ever since Texas, and the accident I had the other night. You keep me grounded and it’s- it’s a lot. I just thought maybe I was… keeping you up.”

Lando blinked, then laughed quietly, not unkindly. “Mate, my insomnia’s been around since karts. You didn’t invent it.”

“Still,” Oscar said, voice small. “I feel like I’ve made it worse sometimes.”

“You haven’t.” Lando shifted slightly closer, knees bumping. “If anything, you gave me something to actually think about instead of counting ceiling tiles. So thanks for that.”

Oscar’s mouth twitched, a reluctant smile forming. “Weird way to say I’m your distraction.”

“Best kind,” Lando said.

His words landed somewhere deep. 

The car slowed for a red light; Lando reached to steady the bag on the seat between them and his hand brushed Oscar’s. 

Though the contact was small, almost nothing, it felt electric.  

Oscar stilled. His heart stumbled in his chest.

When the light changed, he pulled his hand back and pressed it to his knee, trying to look out the window.  He could still feel the warmth where their skin had touched.

Lando didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he did - he was smiling faintly to himself as the city rolled by.

~~~

The ride ended under the hotel awning, where a bellhop was stacking luggage carts. 

Inside, the lobby was all marble and polished brass, smelling faintly of lemons and rain from the open doors.  

Lando thanked the driver, slung his bag over his shoulder, and looked over. “You eating before bed or just pretending to?”

Oscar lifted a shoulder. “I’ll probably crash.”

“Not yet,” Lando said. “C’mon. Snack raid.”

They shared the elevator with a pair of tourists chattering in Spanish. Lando leaned against the mirrored wall, eyes half-closed.  

The fluorescent light caught the tired half-smile on his face, softening it. When the doors opened on their floor, he stretched and yawned. “You’re on the left, right? Come steal my food.”

~~~

Thirty minutes later, after their showers and borrowed sweats with a hoodie from Lando, the bed looked like a picnic had exploded.

Room service had blessed them: noodles, dumplings, wrappers, cans, and half a chocolate bar balanced on a few plates and napkins.

The TV played a dubbed sitcom; the laugh track sounded like it was underwater.

Oscar sat cross-legged, trying to unwind but still knotted tight inside. Lando leaned back against the headboard, socks half off, a bottle of coke balanced on his knee.

“You really haven’t been sleeping?” Oscar asked again, softer this time.

Lando shook his head. “Couple of hours here and there. Don’t worry, mate. I’ll crash eventually.”

“You sure I’m not-”

“Osc,” Lando cut in gently, leaning forward. “You’re not the reason I can’t sleep. You’re the reason I get through it, especially when I know you’ve been taken care of. Big difference.”

The words hit him harder than they should have.  

He felt them settle somewhere beneath his ribs, warm and aching. “Still feels like I take too much of your time.”

“You can’t take what I want to give,” Lando said simply.

For a moment, Oscar couldn’t speak. He stared at the TV, pretending to focus on the nonsense dialogue. His fingers tightened around the crisp packet until it crinkled.

He risked a glance sideways. Lando was watching him now, eyes tired but kind. “You okay?”

Oscar nodded quickly. “Yeah. I’m just a bit all over the place at the moment.”

Lando tilted his head. “You look like you’re trying to solve physics.”

“Just thinking,” Oscar admitted.

“About?” Lando pressed.

“Everything,” he said, voice small.

Lando’s smile was soft. “Try not to. Tomorrow’s enough on its own.” He nudged Oscar’s knee lightly with his own. “Deal?”

Oscar smiled back. “Deal.”

The touch lingered longer than it should have.  

Lando leaned back again, attention drifting to the screen, and the blue light from the TV painted his face in cool shadow.  

Oscar watched him quietly - the curve of his jaw, the flicker of expression as he half-smiled at a line of dialogue, the steady rhythm of his breathing.  

It struck him, all at once.

He felt safe.

Not just comfortable, but safe in a way he hadn’t known he needed.

He didn’t know what to call it yet - the warmth in his chest, the way his pulse skipped whenever Lando looked at him - but it sat there, patient and certain, waiting to be understood.  

And when Lando finally drifted off mid-episode, head tilted slightly toward him, Oscar sat in the blue glow and let the quiet fill him.

For the first time since qualifying, the weight of disappointment lifted.  

In its place was something new, something that made the world feel just a little bit brighter.

Chapter Text

Hotel breakfasts on race day were always the same: polite chaos, too many people pretending to relax.  

The smell of coffee hung over everything. Lando sat opposite him in the corner booth, cap backwards, scrolling through his phone.

“Did you actually sleep?” Oscar asked.

Lando smirked. “Define sleep.”

“You’re hopeless.”

“Maybe. But I make it look good.”

Oscar shook his head, but a laugh escaped him. They talked about nothing - tyre strategy, weather radar, music.  

Normal things.  

The kind that made the hours before a race feel almost ordinary.

As they stood to leave, Lando reached past him to grab a spare water bottle; the back of his hand brushed Oscar’s arm.  

A small, harmless thing that still left his pulse jumping.  

He caught himself smiling like an idiot all the way down to the waiting cars.

He blamed it on pre-race jitters. 

~~~

The lights went out.  

Chaos.  

Heat and grit and the radio crackling.

Up front, Turn One was chaos: Max, Charles, Lewis. All fighting for positions.

For a while there was no room for thought, only the tunnel of focus: tyres biting, the car moving exactly where he told it.

He heard Lando’s voice over the comms a few times - updates, calm as ever, especially when he was so far ahead in the lead.

Every time, something in Oscar relaxed, even when he was fighting for positions like never before; changing strategy. 

Whatever it took.

By Lap Sixty-One, he’d dragged himself to fifth.  

He could see Bearman’s rear wing glinting in the distance but ran out of laps to reach it.

Checkered flag. Lando first. He heard the crowd’s roar even through the radio static.

When he crossed the line, the engineer congratulated him on the recovery drive, but it was Lando’s laugh over team radio - bright, disbelieving - that hit hardest.

He was proud. 

Stupidly, overwhelmingly proud.

~~~

The engine died and the silence hit like a wall.  

No more radio, no more roar - just the tick of heat leaving metal. His hands were still locked around the wheel for a heartbeat too long before he remembered to let go.

The car smelled of rubber and hot oil and something faintly sweet from the fuel. His visor fogged as he exhaled.

His world had been so loud for two hours straight; now it was nothing but static in his head.

He climbed out slowly, every muscle trembling, flashes of orange and white in his periphery as mechanics leaned in.  

Someone slapped him on the back, said “nice drive”, but the words barely landed. He could already hear the crowd erupting for the three drivers on the podium.

Oscar looked once, just once.  

The sunlight caught Lando’s helmet, the team surging around him like a wave. The sight twisted something in his chest - pride and envy and something warmer that he couldn’t name without falling apart.

He turned away before it showed on his face. The weight of the helmet felt wrong in his hand.  

Too heavy, too small, both at once.  

He walked past the chaos - past the photo flashes, the pit wall hugs, the smell of champagne already in the air - and found a patch of quiet behind the hospitality unit.

The adrenaline crash came hard. Knees a little unsteady, he sat on the low concrete wall. His gloves were still on; he peeled one off and flexed his fingers, watching them shake.  

Fifth. It should have felt good. It didn’t.  

The numbers ran circles in his head, one singular point separating the championship lead. 

That could be the decider for the winner.

He shut his eyes for a second. The crowd noise rolled over him in waves. 

He could picture Lando now, halfway through the cooldown room, voice rough from celebrations, that nervous laugh he always used when he didn’t know what to do with joy.

Oscar smiled faintly in spite of himself. No one deserved it more.

He rubbed a hand over his face, the edges of everything blurring - exhaustion, pride, the hollow thud of almosts. 

He just needed a minute.  

One minute to breathe before he went back out there, before he had to smile for cameras and tell the world how happy he was for someone else.

~~~

The paddock was winding down. 

Its noise had shrunk from thunder to hum; crew radios hissed softly, punctuated by the clatter of packing crates. The air still smelled of brake dust and champagne.

Oscar sat on the low wall behind the hospitality building, half out of his race suit, legs kicked out in front of him.

He hadn’t yet moved.

The adrenaline had finally started to fade, leaving only the ache in his arms and the heaviness in his chest. The roar of the crowd from the podium was already distant.

He heard the footsteps before the voice. “Hey,” Lando said.

Oscar looked up. Lando was still in his fireproofs, hair a mess from the cap, eyes bright but tired. He was soaked with champagne, a big grin on his face.

Of course he’d won. 

It was written all over him - the strange mix of disbelief and joy that came from finally getting everything right.

“Hey,” Oscar managed. His voice came out hoarse.

Lando sat beside him without asking, elbows resting on his knees.  For a moment neither spoke; the sound of a forklift reversing filled the gap.

“You okay?” Lando asked finally.

Oscar gave a small shrug. “Yeah. Just… processing.”

Lando nodded. “That was a long one.”

“Yeah.” He picked at the edge of his sleeve, eyes on the tarmac.  “You drove insane today.”

“Got lucky,” Lando said automatically.

“Don’t,” Oscar said, half-smiling. “You didn’t get lucky. You earned it, even if some of the crowd booed.”

Lando glanced sideways. “So did you. P5 from where you started? That’s solid.”

“Could’ve been better.”

“It always could’ve.” Lando bumped his shoulder lightly. “Still good though.”

Oscar exhaled through his nose, a soft, tired laugh. “You’re annoying when you’re right.”

“That’s why they pay me the big bucks.” Lando smiled, then let it fade, gentler now. “You looked upset earlier. In Parc Fermé.”

Oscar’s throat tightened. “You’re ahead again, in the points. I was trying to catch you and now it’s- ” He broke off, shaking his head.  “Doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters,” Lando said quietly. “You care. That’s not a bad thing.”

“I just-” Oscar rubbed a hand over his face. “I don’t want you to think I’m mad at you. I’m not, I’m proud of you. I just wish I’d done more.”

Lando nodded slowly, like he understood something unspoken. “You always want more. It’s why you’re so bloody good.”  He leaned back on his hands, looking out toward the darkening circuit. “Listen, this doesn’t change anything. Points swing both ways. You’ll have your day again, especially when there’s still four races to go.”

Oscar looked at him, really looked - the tired grin, the calm certainty that always made things feel manageable. It hurt in a strange, beautiful way.

“You always know what to say,” he murmured.

Lando chuckled softly. “Only because I’ve had to talk myself down a few times.”

They sat in silence again, watching mechanics roll tyres into stacks.  The floodlights threw long shadows across the asphalt, and the sound of the city beyond the track was faint and distant, like another world.

After a while Lando stretched, then looked back down at him. “You hungry?”

Oscar blinked. “You’re still thinking about food?”

“Always. Champions get burgers.” Lando grinned, then caught the look on Oscar’s face and softened. “Hey. We’ll grab something, yeah? Celebrate both of us. I mean it.”

Oscar hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah, okay.”

“Good.” Lando stood, offering a hand. “C’mon, love. Let’s go do media before they close the kitchen.”

The word slipped out easy, habitual, the same tone he used whenever he was grounding him.  

But now it landed differently - warm, dangerous. Oscar’s pulse jumped. 

He took the offered hand anyway, fingers curling around Lando’s.

He tried to ignore the tug in his chest seeing Lando get champagne in his eyes during the team photos, how he shivered in the cold from the change of wind.

Oscar pushed away the longing to wrap him in soft blankets, like Lando had done for him earlier that week.

Later, when they walked toward Lando’s motorhome, as Oscar had managed to get fully changed after media, the last of the light faded behind the grandstands. Oscar felt the strange ache under his ribs settle into something quieter.  

Pride and longing tangled together until he couldn’t tell them apart.  

He’d lost a few points, but standing beside Lando, listening to his laugh echo across the paddock, it didn’t feel much like losing at all.

~~~

By the time they left the circuit, the sun had folded behind the hills and the sky was streaked purple and copper. 

The city lights were already starting to shimmer below the mountains, thousands of tiny mirrors catching the last light of the day.

They didn’t talk much on the drive. 

The low hum of the car filled the space instead. Lando had his window cracked, his hair ruffling in the breeze, and Oscar caught himself glancing sideways more than once - the line of Lando’s jaw, the easy curve of his mouth even now when exhaustion hung heavy between them.

It still didn’t feel real - how far they’d come, how close they’d gotten. 

Lando winning. Him clawing back through the pack. The ache of what-ifs had already started to settle in, but beneath it was pride so strong it almost hurt.

At the hotel, the staff barely looked up as they passed. Their race suits were long swapped for team shirts and soft pants, just two worn-out drivers blending into the quiet rhythm of the lobby.

They ended up in Oscar’s room, not planned - just convenience. It was cleaner than Lando’s, the bed still made on one side, the curtains open to the city.

Lando kicked off his shoes, collapsed onto the sofa, and groaned. “I think I’ve used every muscle I have. Twice.”

Oscar smiled faintly. “That’s the price of glory.”

“You say that like you didn’t drag yours from P9 to P5,” Lando said, grabbing a bottle of water from the table and tossing another toward him. “You were flying by the end.”

Oscar caught it, unscrewed the cap. “Would’ve felt better in clean air. Still…”

“Still nothing.” Lando tilted his head, catching his gaze. “You drove well. Don’t take that from yourself.”

The words sank into the quiet, heavier than they should have been.

They ordered room service eventually - burgers and fries because neither of them could think straight enough for anything else. 

The smell filled the room as the city glowed outside, a thousand little constellations between the high-rises.

They ate in near silence, too tired for small talk. 

But there was something in it - an easy, safe kind of quiet. Oscar watched the way Lando picked at his fries, thumb running along the salt edge of the carton, eyes flicking up whenever he laughed softly at something on the muted TV.

At one point their hands brushed when they both reached for the ketchup packet. Oscar felt the spark all the way to his ribs, and a little bit like an idiot from the ‘Disney Movie’ moment.

He drew his hand back too fast, trying to swallow the smile that came with it.

Lando didn’t seem to notice, but a moment later he said quietly, “You know, you don’t give yourself enough credit.”

Oscar blinked. “What?”

“You keep thinking I’m losing sleep because of you, or that you’re dragging us down or whatever nonsense your brain tells you. But you’re the reason I’m up there. You push me harder. You keep me grounded. You make this-” he gestured around vaguely, “-bearable.”

Oscar stared at him, heartbeat a little too quick. “You mean that?”

Lando met his eyes, steady. “Yeah. I don’t say things I don’t mean.”

For a long moment, neither of them looked away. 

The air between them felt thin, charged, something fragile hanging there. Then Lando smiled again, small and warm, the kind that undid him every time.

“Hey,” he said, softer now. “You okay?”

Oscar nodded, swallowing. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”

Lando’s smile deepened. “Try not to do that too hard tonight, yeah?”

“I’ll try.”

The silence after stretched, gentle and full. 

On the TV, a late-night highlight reel replayed the podium. Lando didn’t look at it. Oscar did, watching the replay of his teammate lifting the trophy, his grin wide and bright.

He should have felt jealousy - maybe he did, a little.

But mostly, what he felt was pride. 

Pride and something deeper that had been growing in him all weekend, something that was suddenly impossible to ignore.

Chapter Text

The city was in its quiet element, the weather turning with the change of season, November fast approaching.

Oscar sat at his kitchen counter, the hum of the fridge the only sound. He’d told himself he was going to rest, especially since he hadn’t felt the need to slip since Mexico a week ago.

Instead, he was scrolling through old photos, the ones where Lando was laughing, squinting against sun, head thrown back as if joy were the easiest thing in the world.

He’d been thinking about Texas and Mexico more than he wanted to admit - the exhaustion, the noise, the way Lando had just been there. 

No questions, no demands.

Just a steady voice cutting through the static. It had done something to him, softened corners he didn’t know he had.

He was also thinking about Lando more than he’d liked to admit. 

He didn’t know when it had occurred, but something had shifted between them.

Maybe it was after the summer break and he hadn’t realised, or maybe last week. Maybe somewhere between airports and race weekends, between the easy jokes and the quiet check-ins after bad sessions.  

At first it was comfort - someone who understood the noise, the pace, the pressure. Then it became routine: texts at odd hours, a voice note just to say “you good?”, the way silence between them always felt full instead of empty.

He’d told himself the breakup with Lily a year ago had been about time, distance, the job. 

That was true, but not all of it.  

The truth, was that even then he’d been measuring everything against one person who wasn’t supposed to matter that much.

It had crept in quietly, the way light fills a room before you realise it’s morning.  A warmth behind every word - the steady calm in his voice on the radio, the brush of a hand on his shoulder, the gentleness that never asked for thanks.

And lately the signs had multiplied.  

Since things had changed between them - since trust had become something tangible, a heartbeat between words - the feeling had depended into something sharp. 

It sat under his ribs, constant, impossible to ignore.

The way his chest tightened since he started delving into headspace, when he heard ‘love’ slip into conversation; how ‘sweetheart’ sounded like safety when it came from him.  

Even in headspace, they’d been throwaway words meant to soothe him when his head went quiet and small, but he’d started craving them when he was fully himself, wide-awake and grown.  

That was dangerous, because it meant the feeling wasn’t just comfort anymore - it was something deeper, hungrier for truth.

He’d tried to reason it away, to call it gratitude or habit or simple dependence. None of it fit the rush in his pulse when their eyes met, or the way the world steadied just by standing beside him.

It was too late to pretend now.

He was in love with Lando.

His phone blinked. Empty chat window. He typed ‘hey’ and deleted it. Typed ‘want to hang out?’ and deleted that too. He tried again.

Lan 

Hey, how’s the break treating you?

Would you want to get food later?

(Sent 10:06)

The message sat there like a dare.

The reply came almost at once.

u read me mind

Same cafe by the meriner??

(Delivered 10:06)

Oscar smiled at the screen, nerves curling pleasantly in his stomach. 

Sure.

Marina* ;)

(Sent 10:07)

:P

(Delivered 10:08)

His hands shook as he got ready.

~~~

The café breathed with the sea. Big windows were flung open to the harbour, and the breeze rolled in smelling of salt and oranges from the trees along the promenade. 

Lando had claimed a table near the window, elbows on the rail, sunglasses balanced in his hair.

“Look who made it out of hibernation,” he said when Oscar appeared.

Oscar laughed under his breath. “You act like you didn’t text me three times last night.”

“I texted twice.”  Lando squinted. “Okay, three. But one was a meme, that doesn’t count.”

He waved to the barista for cold drinks, and when the cups arrived the glass sweated instantly in the afternoon heat. Lando stirred his with the straw, clinking ice against the sides.  

Oscar watched the condensation roll down onto his fingers, noticing the way sunlight slid across the tiny scars on his knuckles from years of karting.

“Still think you’d survive a week without a milkshake?” Lando asked.

“Doubt it.” Oscar sipped and hummed at the sweetness. “You?”

“I’d replace it with plain sugar,” Lando said, grinning. “I’d make it three days, maybe.”

The grin lingered a moment too long. 

Their eyes caught, held. The background noise of chatter and cutlery faded until there was just that look: something searching, amused, a little uncertain.

Oscar felt heat climb up the back of his neck.  

He glanced away, pretending to study the boats outside. “So,” he said, “you actually doing the break thing before Brazil or still training every morning?”

“Bit of both,” Lando said. “I ran this morning.”

Oscar rolled his eyes. “Of course you did.” 

“What about you?”

“Sleeping counts as training if you do it enough hours in a row,” Oscar said. That earned him a quiet laugh, the kind that made Lando’s shoulders shake. 

The sound drew a smile out of him before he could stop it.

They stayed like that, trading small jokes, letting conversation drift into quieter places. Lando leaned forward when he talked; his fingertips traced lazy circles on the table. 

Once, when Oscar reached for his drink, his hand brushed Lando, and neither of them moved for half a heartbeat.

Outside, the sun slid lower, painting the harbour in honeyed light.  Their shadows stretched together across the tiled floor.

~~~

They left the café when the light turned gold; the marina path glittered with reflections from the water.  

Lando’s stride was loose and unhurried; every so often he nudged Oscar’s shoulder to steer him away from a loose paving stone. The air smelled of salt and diesel and fried food from the stalls further down.

“Still think you want to live anywhere else?” Lando asked.

“Not a chance,” he said. “You?”

Lando shook his head. “Too used to the view.”

He stopped to lean on a railing, looking out at the anchored boats.  “Sometimes I forget how quiet it gets when we’re just here, away from the Paddock,” Oscar murmured, joining Lando. 

The sound of halyards tapping against masts filled the silence. 

For a long moment they didn’t speak; their shoulders almost touching. Then Lando turned slightly, close enough that Oscar could feel the warmth of him even with the evening breeze.

His stomach skipped.

“Feels weird, doesn’t it?” Lando said. “After everything. Like the noise just… stops.”

“Yeah.” Oscar swallowed. “You start hearing yourself think again.”

“And is that a good thing?”

Oscar hesitated, then smiled faintly.  “Ask me tomorrow.”

Lando laughed softly, the kind of laugh that carried in the moment. The sound drew Oscar’s eyes up again. 

The space between them tightened for a heartbeat; then Lando straightened, tapping the rail.  

“Come on,” he said.  “Let’s watch a film. My place.”

~~~

Lando’s place felt lived in - soft sofa, dim lamps, with a faint smell of citrus cleaner and the ocean drifting through the open balcony door. He kicked off his shoes immediately; Oscar followed suit.

“What are we watching?” Oscar asked, sinking into the sofa.

“Something with explosions,” Lando said. “You pick.”

They scrolled until they landed on something neither had seen. Half an hour later, the plot hardly mattered. The light from the TV threw slow colours across the room, blue to orange to blue again.  

Lando leaned back, one arm resting along the top of the couch. Oscar could feel the heat of it at the back of his neck.

They made small comments about the film - half jokes, half distractions. Somewhere near the middle, Oscar realised he was laughing just to hear Lando’s voice over the noise of the action.

When the credits finally rolled, the silence that settled wasn’t the easy one they’d shared before. It was thicker, quieter.

Oscar set the empty bowl on the table and rubbed his hands together, nerves kicking back in. “Thanks,” he said, voice low. “For, you know. Taking care of me and being there for me in headspace.”

Lando’s gaze flicked to him. “You don’t need to thank me for that.”

“I do.” The words came out more vulnerable than he’d meant. “You didn’t have to be there like that.”

“Of course I did,” Lando said simply. “That’s what friends do.”

Something about the word ‘friends’ hit a nerve; Oscar felt it like a pulse. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Friends.”

The hum of the projector filled the room. Outside, a horn echoed somewhere in the harbour. Lando’s eyes met his again, and this time neither of them looked away.

“I should go,” Oscar said finally, standing because it was the only way to break the tension.

“You don’t have to,” Lando rushed.

Oh fuck.

“I don’t want it to get weird.” He said, a chill creeping up his spine.

“It isn’t.”

Oscar shook his head. “It could be.”

Lando stood too, voice soft. “Only if we pretend we don’t know what’s happening.”

He reached out, fingers catching Oscar’s wrist, gentle but enough to stop him. “Hey. Look at me.”

Oscar did. The light from the TV flickered across Loz’s face, painting every hesitation, every bit of wanting they’d both been ignoring. 

The air between them felt electric.

Lando’s voice dropped. “When things get hard for you and you drop, I’m the calm one. That’s how we work, despite the opposite on track. But this- this is different. It’s us and I’ve wanted to tell you this for a long time.”

The next few seconds hung suspended: Lando leaning in a fraction, Oscar breath catching. 

“I-” Oscar cut him off, he couldn’t take it anymore.

His hands found their way to Lando’s face, thumb brushing his cheekbone. He watched as his breath hitched, the contact unexpected.

Neither moved for a moment, their eyes locked.

Then, Lando’s eyes fluttered, and for a split second, his eyes dropped to Oscar’s mouth.

Oscar thought no further of it, he leaned in, slow but sure. 

The first touch was tentative, a brush of lips that felt more like a question than an answer. Then the question was gone; they were kissing, soft and warm, the air spinning around them. 

Lando was kissing him back.

Then it was as if a bucket of water had been dumped over his head.

Oh fuck. I’m kissing Lando Norris.

Oscar pulled away, his heart in his throat. “I shouldn’t have-”

“Don’t,” Lando said quickly. But Oscar was already moving, panic catching up with him, the room suddenly too small.

“I just- I need to go, ‘m sorry.” He grabbed his jacket and headed for the door, pulse hammering. Lando called his name once, then again, but Oscar was already halfway down the corridor.

~~~

The streets of Monaco were mostly empty, and the sea wind pressed cool against his flushed face. He walked fast, half-running, the sound of his footsteps echoing off the stone.  

Every thought came in fragments.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck. 

What did I do?

What now?

How can I even face him?

He was rounding the corner by the marina when he heard it - a voice behind him.

“Oscar!”

He turned. Lando was there, breathless from the sprint, eyes wide and determined. 

For a moment they just stared at each other, the world narrowed to the space of the quiet street and the flicker of the harbour lights.

A flood of guilt consumed him.

“I shouldn’t have left like that,” Oscar rushed, voice breaking. “I just- panicked.”

Lando shook his head. “Don’t apologise. I should have said it sooner.  You think I haven’t wanted to do that for months?”

The air shifted again; the noise of the city faded to a pulse.

“I don’t want to ruin what we have,” Oscar whispered.

“You haven’t,” Lando said. “You’ve made it real.”

He stepped closer until there was no distance left. His hand came up, thumb brushing along Oscar’s jaw, and the tremor in his chest eased at the touch.

This time it was Lando who leaned in, and Oscar stilled, eyes flickered up and down his teammates face.

Their lips touched, warm and featherlight. 

Oscar let his eyes close as he pressed back, their mouths moving in perfect sync, his hands reaching to clutch at the front of Lando’s shirt.

It was deeper, steadier, the kind that said everything words couldn’t. 

When they finally broke apart, Lando’s forehead rested against his.

“Come back upstairs,” he murmured.

Oscar hesitated, then nodded, heart still racing.

They turned back toward the apartment, side by side, the marina lights flickering across their joined shadows. 

The city hummed softly around them, but for once the noise felt far away, and the quiet between them was enough.