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Oscar Piastri has a certain type of expression. The one that’s come to define his brand. Something signature. Some call it expressionless. It’s not like he hasn’t seen the memes – or the debate of it all.
Is he that professional and focused on his goals? Or does he not care about anything?
The truth of it, the look, isn’t because he’s the cool, calm, professional world championship leader. It isn’t because he’s careless, or cocky, or indifferent. It isn’t because he’s a ‘polite cat’ like everyone on the internet keeps saying. It isn’t even because he’s overwhelmed with what his life has become.
It’s because he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.
He thinks he’s been waiting for a while.
From being the big brother in his early childhood, to missing out on being the big brother when he left to pursue racing, to his dad eventually going back home to Australia, to realising that maybe he could actually get a spot in f1 if he just went for it, to leading the world driver championship.
He doesn’t know what it is. Not dread, or superstition, or some sort of anxiety that’s holding him back.
It’s just – it’s something like guilt, and something like shame, and something like feeling alone even though he really, really, isn’t.
And it’s not about the car. It’s not even about the championship – it’s not about racing at all. It isn’t, and it wasn’t, and it won’t be – and he means it. Even if it isn’t the cause of his ‘chill guy’ look, he is calm and professional and he is the world championship leader, and he is a good racer.
But he’s in fucking formula 1, and his manager is Mark fucking Webber, and his teammate is Lando fucking Norris.
And Oscar is good at this. He is made for this. He has made it. It’s a fucking fact, and he is not the type of person to ask for praise – not when he can earn it-
But when he hears the congratulations over the radio when he finishes a good race, when he’s told that he did good, and his throat constricts slightly, and his tongue feels heavy – then suddenly the most important thing in the world is to avoid begging them to say it again.
Because sometimes he feels exactly the same as he did when he was a little boy – maybe he feels littler than he did when he was a little boy, helping with his sisters and wanting to prove himself. Maybe that’s the problem.
Maybe the problem is also that Lando keeps unknowingly pushing the subject like a bruise in Oscar’s brain.
He gets the text from Lando on a Wednesday night during their break after the triple header.
Wanna game?
Oscar isn’t exactly ‘all in’ with the regression thing. It’s not like he has toys littered about, or a colouring book, or – god forbid – anything babyish enough to be truly incriminating. Though still, he’s got the feeling of it, the whatever it is, smallness? Any way he slices it, it leaves him cringing. The point is that on this Wednesday night, there’s nothing to clean up, nothing to hastily hide under his bed. Still, he doesn’t exactly feel like a grown up.
It feels cowardly to turn Lando down with a ‘not a good time, sorry’, but he’s typed and deleted the words three times already now.
Jesus Osc
You can just say no lmao
Oscar sighs, rubbing a hand down his face. Now he’s unintentionally made things worse. Even though he can tell that Lando is most likely laughing at the screen. Why has he just made something out of nothing. Literally nothing.
Polite cat
He actually groans out loud then, the trance broken. His fingers type out a message without a second thought.
Don’t start
He can practically hear Lando saying it too, all cheeky and teasing, massive smile on his face.
There he is
There’s still the creeping, tingly feeling over his skin, and the overwhelming feeling in the pit of his stomach and his head, that’s saying don’t talk to anyone because he doesn’t feel grown up enough.
But this is Lando, on a Wednesday night, on their break, asking to hang out. It’s casual and friendly, and he doesn’t want to turn that down either. Decision made.
Give me 10
Lando sends a thumbs up and that’s that.
Oscar mentally packs up the childishness as best as he can, drags his hoodie string out of his mouth, turns the tv off and immediately misses the quiet children’s show that had been playing.
He answers when Lando calls him, they start playing games like normal. The nervous weight that had been resting on Oscar’s shoulders lifts the longer the conversation goes without Lando saying he’s acting weird, or some other embarrassing call out.
What is embarrassing, is when he has a drink of water and starts entertaining the idea of something truly stupid, because it’s not like he doesn’t know that there are sippy cups for people who do the whole regression thing-
He almost chokes when he swallows and has to ask Lando to repeat himself like five times because he’s pissing himself laughing at Oscar and apparently Oscar’s been zoned out too long to remember what they’d been talking about.
It’s so embarrassing. Kind of the idea of it, kind of the idea of the reality of it, kind of the fact that he could but he won’t because that’s not- that’s not necessary, and it’s weird, and he’s got a name that’s kind of a brand now, and isn’t that in itself reason enough to never consider indulging in anything practical when it comes to the whole not feeling like a grown up thing?
Oscar scrunches his face up in discomfort as Lando groans loudly through his headphones.
“At least pretend to listen, mate! Let me down slowly, jeez.”
Oscar blinks, willing himself to shut down the part of his brain that won’t shut up about how one stuffed animal won’t hurt.
“Ah, sorry. Bit out of it.”
“No way.” Lando casually teases, before his voice pitches itself a little kinder. “You wanna talk about it?”
His throat feels tighter. “About what?” He indulges, unsure where else to steer the conversation, even if this doesn’t feel like a great direction.
Not so much as a halfhearted laugh to ease the uncomfortable awkwardness that has settled over them from Lando. The pause screen shines too brightly in Oscar’s eyes. “About what’s been bothering you?” Lando phrases it like a question, like Oscar’s being weird for not understanding. “You’ve been off since last week.”
Huh? Well now Oscar actually doesn’t understand what’s going on. What the hell does that mean?
“I thought you were just pretty tired after the triple header but like, you okay?” Lando continues, too concerned for Oscar to appreciate it. Uncomfortable.
“What- what makes you say that?” Oscar laughs a bit, flipping back and forth between the pause and the settings buttons for something to do with his hands.
“I don’t know.” Lando says, a little defensive. “Just seemed different.”
That’s not a great sign. “Yeah, I was a bit wrecked.” Oscar concedes with practiced casualness. “You weren’t?” He jokes, though he knows it’s always going to fall flat when Lando’s like this.
Lando hums. Oscar feels like a chastised kid – one who has been refusing to share communal toys with the other kids and is now getting that disappointed look because you’re older than them Osc-
“If you ever wanna talk about something though, you know.”
“Yeah.” God Lando’s just so good. He’s so kind. Far, far kinder than anyone in the media has ever been to him in return. “Yeah, I know. Promise, everything’s good.” He runs a hand through his hair with nervous energy.
“Alright.” Lando gives in and lets Oscar flee. First from the conversation, and then fifteen minutes later, from the game, and subsequently, the phone call.
Oscar has to repeat to himself that everything is good. Lando can’t actually see right through him. He curls up in bed and hugs his pillow. He does not need to buy a stuffed animal.
He’s pretty sure that Lando has a sixth sense for when Oscar’s feeling less like a grown up. Simply because he’s almost always just there. A random text as he’s put on a kids movie, a hand on his shoulder when he gets a little overwhelmed by everything he’s being told at MTC.
And then there’s when it happens on track.
He wakes up way too tired, headache forming before free practice one, making him feel almost sick during free practice two. He’s screwing up, he knows, and everyone claps him on the back and says it’s fine, he obviously isn’t feeling well, but he knows it’s more than disappointing. Leading in the championship points and yet here he is, barely making it across the track, let alone in a good time.
He wants to go home – wherever the hell that means anyway. Somewhere warm and calm, a place where he can watch a stupid Disney movie and cuddle a toy puppy or something. Take something for the headache and take a long, long nap. However, that is definitely not on the cards, so he awkwardly stands next to the car in the garage and tries to listen to what people are saying at him, and hoping to god that there aren’t any photographers capturing this moment where he is so obviously not in the mood to play happy McLaren poster boy.
He feels stupid, and unwell, and not at all like a competent adult who’s competing in a world championship. Thank god it wasn’t in qualifying, or the race. Though it doesn’t feel like much of a positive.
Just a silly little boy.
He kind of wants to cry. Wouldn’t that be something? Expressionless robot Oscar Piastri, crying in the garage like a child after fp2. It’s not fair. He doesn’t even get it, if they took like five seconds to scroll through any social media account, they would see him smiling in every second photo, why is it such a big thing? It feels like being bullied at school again-
“Need some aspirin?” Oscar turns his head to find Lando hovering close by, who knows when he got there, a knowing expression on his face.
Oscar sighs, though it’s more like relief than overwhelm, and he finds himself beginning to show a tired smile despite himself. “Please.” He begs humorously. Lando cocks his head in a motion for Oscar to follow him.
“I’ve always got some in my driver’s room, way better than getting a million questions from a medic.” Lando starts rambling, leading them further into the building. “Besides, bit of a habit, not so bad now, but I used to get like proper motion sick after every drive.”
Oscar stops walking, so Lando does too. Oscar looks him up and down, feeling almost shy in a weird way.
“You’re lying.” He accuses – with good reason, because Lando absolutely is – but he says it with a soft voice. Disbelieving, like a child.
Lando tilts his head. “Yeah.” He giggles, nudges their shoulders together – because he can, because they’re always so damn close. “Just tryna make you feel better.”
“Right.” Oscar rolls his eyes, then immediately squints and rubs the back of his hand against them. Bad idea, God his head hurts. Lando settles his hand on Oscar’s back, his thumb gently rubs back and forth. Oscar starts to feel nauseous. Totally unrelated.
“Sorry you feel shitty.” Lando says, sympathetic and kind and Lando-like. “Hopefully you just need a couple pills and you’ll be fine again tomorrow.”
Oscar is inclined to agree.
They make it to Lando’s driver room, quiet in comfortable and uncomfortable companionship – though Oscar isn’t sure if the latter is just a him problem. Lando looks fine. Whatever.
There’s another lot of back rubbing from Lando as he takes some meds, something which Oscar quirks an eyebrow at and Lando sheepishly shrugs in response for. “Sorry I’m- I get touchy when I don’t know how to help.” He explains, lifting his hand away. He wishes he didn’t miss it so much.
“Really?” Oscar asks dryly. “Pretty sure you’re always touchy.” If the way Lando almost constantly has his hands on Oscar after they podium is anything to go by at least.
Lando shrugs, sheepish expression turning into something smug and familiar. “Nah, that’s just for you.”
If he wasn’t half focused on the headache, and half focused on trying not to feel like a little kid, he might have found the words to reply in some witty, clever, way and one up Lando. Flirting. Because that’s what they’re doing at the end of the day. Whether it be tires almost touching on overtakes, or a too possessive hand on each other’s back during celebrations. It’s all the same game.
As it is, he feels a blush start to spread on his cheeks and no words leave his mouth. Too much of a silly little boy to know what to say.
He doesn’t have to worry about the interaction for much longer anyway, they both get lost in meetings and strategy talk, and everything else that Oscar doesn’t feel quite grown up enough to be listening to.
The headache fades, at least.
He likes flirting with Lando. He never quite knows how much is real and how much isn’t – he suspects both are important parts of whatever game they’re playing, so he doesn’t mind it so much. He likes it. Certainly more than he likes the idea of bringing up the regression thing with Lando. Which is something that sounds impossibly hard and completely unnecessary – if only he would stop being so fucking kind when Oscar feels like that. Like he knows something even when he doesn’t. Because Lando doesn’t know, he’s just such a good guy that he’s always so – so good. His voice always dips softer in that way that Oscar loves when he isn’t feeling so adult. Always enables the feeling – makes Oscar feel littler and littler the longer they’re close to each other when he’s like that. Feels like Oscar is going to have to bring it up because otherwise Lando’s going to ask about it, and that somehow feels worse, and it’s all too much to actually think about so he tries not to.
Kind of makes the flirting feel easier though. In comparison.
He doesn’t plan on actually explaining the whole thing, but he’s sick of thinking about it all the damn time, so he goes for a casual approach in the hopes that Lando will just get what he’s saying. It’s not like that’s unusual. They’re hanging out between media duties, a brief break in the schedule that calls for a now or never in Oscar’s mind.
Lando must know that something’s up, because while he’s bouncing his leg in one of his classic fidgets, he isn’t talking much. Leaving room for Oscar to start the conversation – nice of him, but also makes it feel bigger than it should be. This was meant to be casual and not important, right?
The only reason it’s ‘meant’ to be casual though is because it’s so not. The concept itself is so far beyond casual that it’s actually fucking funny, because no matter how you spin it, you absolutely can not make ‘regressing to the mindset of a young child’ sound in any way casual. The act of it isn’t casual, the way it sneaks into all the cracks of Oscar’s life isn’t casual, bringing it up in conversation isn’t casual.
But sure, he can totally pull off trying to drop this idea into a casual conversation with Lando fucking Norris. Sure. Great job Oscar.
How does he even explain it in a lighthearted manner anyway? Half of the feeling like a little kid mindset is wanting to cry about how lonely he feels – and the last thing he’s doing is like, ‘trauma dumping’ or whatever. Putting an actual out loud voice to the stupid, petulant thoughts that go through his head when he starts feeling like he’s below the age of five.
Kimi’s dad travels to every race and he’s in f1. Why couldn’t his dad stay? Did he really seem so grown up? or did he matter less?
What’s even more stupid is that that’s not fair at all. Kimi is 18, of course his dad is with him. And it’s different – it’s so different. It’s an excuse to think the thoughts that Oscar really shouldn’t ever be thinking in the first place because it’s not like it’s his dad’s fault for moving back to Australia, and it’s not like Oscar even cares about it that much – it’s the idea, not the situation.
He wants someone to choose him. He doesn’t want to prove why they should. He doesn’t want to show that he’s good enough. He doesn’t want to fight for it. He does enough of that on the track – where it should be done. He wants someone to see him. Not because he’s the fastest, or has the best ‘race mindset’. Just because he’s Oscar. He’s sick of feeling like a little boy, lost in the real world that’s full of grown ups and expectations.
He clears his throat and wipes his now sweaty hands on his knees. Casual. Keep it casual. Keep it light. Keep it as a funny little thing that doesn’t mean that much.
Oscar leans back in his seat, tilting his head back and closing his eyes with an almost-sigh. Like he’s tired, which he is, and therefore doesn’t particularly care about what he’s saying.
“Sometimes, I swear, I just feel like a kid again.” He says, out loud, for the first time, or at least the first time it’s in this context, regardless of whether or not Lando knows that.
Lando hums, barely taking his eyes off of his phone. “I feel like that sometimes when I see my mum after a win.”
Cool. He can work with that. “Yeah?” Oscar questions, stupidly. Shouldn’t have. Giving himself away. Before he can correct it with something more confident, Lando nods.
“Yeah, ‘course. Anyway, think everyone ever has had a ‘I need my parents’ moment at least twice in their adult life.” He shrugs, looking up at Oscar and smiling. “Are you going through a crisis or something?”
Oscar rolls his eyes. “Not just when you’re in a crisis.” He clarifies.
“Yeah, still then I guess- Oh!” Lando sits up in his chair, suddenly leaning in Oscar’s space as he excitedly talks with his hands. “How about- you know when you smell a smell, but it isn’t really a smell, it’s just like, nostalgia?”
Oscar stares. “What?”
“Like you’ll be doing something normal and then just for like a second it kinda smells like kindergarten? You know what I mean?”
“Oh.” Oscar nods his head, momentarily pleased that his teammate isn’t going insane. “Yeah, okay-”
Lando laughs, shoving him. “Don’t look at me like I’m crazy! I swear-”
“I’m not.” Oscar’s hands spring up placatingly before Lando can get himself really riled up. “I promise.”
Lando leans back in his chair with a groan. “You can totally sometimes smell memories. It’s a real thing!”
“I know. I know.”
“Is that kind of what you’re saying though?” He looks towards Oscar, the kind of casualness that he had been going for easily displayed. It suits Lando.
Oscar takes a breath. Nods. “Sure.”
Lando tilts his head with the least convinced expression that Oscar has ever seen. Neither of them offer anything else up. “Sure.” Oscar repeats with a nod, trying to sound more confident in himself. He doesn’t know if he’s relieved or disappointed that it seems to be failing.
Lando leans further back into his chair, almost melting. Oscar fights the urge to laugh at the sight. “For the record, I think that’s pretty normal though. Not a big deal, Osco.”
Oscar rolls his eyes on instinct. “Yeah, thanks.” He replies, a little frustrated, but it’s honestly the best real response that he could have hoped for.
Not a big deal.
That’s what he wanted, right? Should feel like a good thing. He’s not sure that it does.
Stays like that for the rest of the day. Then the rest of the week. Then until Oscar is pretty sure that Lando doesn’t even remember the conversation at all because he probably hasn’t given it a second thought since it happened. Because he isn’t insane. Unlike Oscar.
The races are good. The media are shit. The flirting is great. Everything is as normal as it ever gets. Not a big deal.
‘Normal’ gets obliterated around the time that the flirting gets a little too great, and it ends with them sharing a hotel room. Oscar has always been a little too obsessed with knowing exactly what’s happening, but he’s also a little too obsessed with Lando Norris, and so he thankfully doesn’t ask something fucking stupid like ‘what are we?’ after it becomes apparent that this probably isn’t a one time thing.
Lando smiles like he always does – the kind that Oscar stares at for far longer than he should – in a way that seems too casual for just slept with my teammate, but he’s also one of the most caring people that Oscar has ever met in his life so. It all seems to balance out.
Especially when it happens again the next weekend.
And then again at Oscar’s place.
Adrenaline rush doesn’t even begin to describe the high of it, though with the high comes the incredible low. He’s probably got to actually explain the regression thing to Lando if this is something that’s going to stick. Which, yeah. Yeah, it’s going to stick. So long as Oscar has a say in it. So long as Lando keeps smiling like that.
He tries to bring it up, really. It just turns out that it isn’t the easiest thing to bring up. Kind of hard to find a good segue, and he really doesn’t like the idea of opening up a conversation like that out of nowhere, even less the idea of needing to sit down all prepared and make it all serious, but it’s not like he can just do a drive by either.
Oh, by the way, sometimes I feel like a little kid. No, like actually. Full on thinking and behaving like a toddler. Just something you should probably know about if we’re gonna continue seeing each other like this. Anyway, are we using the term boyfriend yet?
Not a good idea.
“You okay?”
Oscar’s head snaps to the left, where Lando sits beside him on the couch. “Yeah.” Oscar blinks a few times, before rubbing his hands over his face. “Sorry, tired. What’s up?”
He doesn’t buy it for a second, clearly. “You seemed pretty out of it.” Lando states, an invitation that Oscar can’t be grateful for.
“Sorry.” He repeats, Lando’s expression faltering.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know, seriously, all good. I just need some sleep. I promise.” He tries to defend, and jesus, he didn’t mean for this to turn into such a big thing, nothing is even wrong and fuck, now Lando is worried and it’s all Oscar’s fault. Why can’t he just figure his shit out? Lando is so good and Oscar just makes him worry over things that don’t even matter, and now they’re both quiet and the silence has so much pressure to it and-
And all of a sudden, Lando gets this look. Like he can’t stop himself any longer, the dam breaking. Working himself up to say something that’s been on his mind – something that Oscar can’t seem to do for himself.
Something changes, the shift palpable. Usually when Oscar feels like a child staring up at a grown up, they don’t tend to look down at him like they are thinking the same thing. Yet he can’t help but feel as if Lando, the obvious grown up here, can see right through him. Lando tilts his head ever so slightly, chin tipping down in such a subtle movement, the kind that doesn’t suit him at all, his bottom lip pulled between his teeth in an anxious habit. It’s the most suffocating silence that Oscar has ever experienced in his life.
“When you said, about feeling like a kid,-” Lando slowly starts, words careful and tone quiet in a way that is almost polite, if anything. His fingers twitch, like he desperately wants to fidget. Holding himself back as if the movement might spook Oscar. Like he’s a mistrusting animal or a shy child. It’s awkward. It’s all awkward. Even when it’s blatantly obvious that Lando is trying to be so nice about it. “-Is that something that’s kinda important?”
There’s a dreadful feeling in Oscar’s stomach. His vision starts to blur. His throat closes up. God, he’s going to start fucking crying.
It feels a lot like the other shoe just dropped.
There are absolutely no words that can answer that, none that Oscar can seem to find, but the gig is most certainly up now, and he’d sooner win every race for the rest of his career than try and deny everything. Not when Lando is so fucking good that even where Oscar fails to speak, he gives him the perfect, insane opportunity to finally let this out.
He nods, a bit jerky, a lot pathetic, as the first tears completely blur his vision to the point that he can’t actually make out Lando’s expression – a blessing or a curse, he can’t be sure. Embarrassing, either way.
Lando makes some awfully sympathetic noise of comfort, one of his large hands reaching over to rub Oscar’s arm, as he frantically nods his head. “Okay.” He says quietly. “Okay, it’s alright, I’m sorry.” A slight tug on his arm – Oscar still can’t see properly, and he sniffles loud and gross as Lando pulls him into a hug. His shoulders jolt with a completely unnecessary sob that he’s so embarrassed by that he might never show his face again. What the hell is he doing?
“I’m sorry, baby, I didn’t mean to upset you, it’s okay.” The hand on his back rubs up and down, pressing firmly enough to keep Oscar in place. He wants to stay forever, even though he feels a whole tangled mess of awful emotions. Imagine if the media saw him now. Lando might get a break from being called ‘too sensitive’ for once. How does the world championship leader keep on top of everything? Well, he doesn’t, and he probably never has.
Lando’s going to kill him. Definitely not on purpose, of course. In fact, Oscar can imagine just how bad Lando would feel about it all. Doesn’t change the fact that if he keeps using that tone of voice to say words like baby in Oscar’s direction, he’s actually going to die on the spot.
“Hey, I am sorry, yeah? Shouldn’t have brought it up like that.” Lando starts, an edge of something in his voice that leads Oscar to believe he’s annoyed at himself, because of course he is. Oscar is literally getting tears and snot on Lando’s hoodie and he’s beating himself up. Then the rambling starts. “I just thought – I don’t know, I should have said that differently. It’s gonna be okay Osc, I promise. It’s not a bad thing, it’s all cool, I wouldn’t – I wouldn’t even like mention it if it was a problem, but I know it’s a lot.”
Oscar sighs, a smile twitching at the corners of his lips despite still feeling awfully vulnerable. He keeps his face pressed firmly against Lando’s shoulder. “Lando?” He can feel Lando’s entire body force itself still as he listens intently. “Breathe.” He mumbles shakily.
Lando Laughs, the real kind of laugh that Oscar has been addicted to for years.
“Yeah, okay. Got it.”
They stay how they are for a while, quiet. Then they talk, still quiet. It wouldn’t be much without Lando’s prompting questions, but Oscar realises that he doesn’t actually have much prepared to say – beyond the surface level explanation of age regression, what is there to say? He’s never been especially ‘all in’ with this, after all.
But Lando takes it all in stride, doesn’t get put off by Oscar’s lack of elaboration. Asks about a million questions, and Oscar thinks he only has answers to about five of them. Turns out that Lando has a follow up to everything that Oscar assumes is a dead end. Also turns out that ‘what do you like playing with, what toys do you have?’ isn’t answered by ‘I don’t?’ and instead gets an immediate ‘What do you want to have?’ in response. Also turns out, that’s a really hard question to answer. A lot harder than Lando’s soft eyes and smiling face should warrant.
He doesn’t want to ask why it matters, because he isn’t stupid – he gets Lando’s implications. Now he knows, so now he’s asking questions because he’s involved.
But Oscar doesn’t want to jinx it, and definitely doesn’t want to ask. Doesn’t want to ask Lando to stay, or help, or like it. Especially not when Lando seems unfazed by everything – excited more than anything, which honestly can’t be that surprising, given that out of the two of them, Lando is probably definitely considered the more childish one. He’s likely thrilled to have an excuse to buy toy cars or something equally ridiculous.
Which is great, but it’s not the part that Oscar is worried about. He’s going to see that Oscar is awkward and small and needy, and he will realise that he’s in over his head, and that will be that.
Lando disagrees. Strongly. There’s only one way to find out though, so Oscar lets himself be selfish this once. Let’s Lando in. Let’s the vulnerability strangle him two days later, when they have the afternoon free and Lando is buzzing with energy.
Oscar had insisted on limited children’s things, because while it’s more or less of a dream come true – More. Without a doubt, it’s more – he doesn’t want the first time he’s little around Lando to be an afternoon where he just spirals and has a breakdown over a pacifier.
So now he’s sat at the kitchen bench, trying to relax his shoulders and not look so stupid, while he tries to decide on a coloured pencil to use for the colouring in book laid out in front of him. Lando has been as helpful as he can be, keeping his back to Oscar as he makes a sandwich. Without someone watching him, it feels less like he’s going to make the wrong decision, but there’s nothing to cure the awkwardness that has settled deep in his bones.
He's chosen the picture of a puppy, because that feels right. Should mean he needs to use like a brown or something, right? Or is he meant to choose something weird, like blue? Does it matter? Should he be using orange and make the dog papaya? Would that be cute and funny, or would it make him seem like a loser who can’t be anything if he isn’t McLarens driver? Should he ask for Lando’s opinion? No, definitely not, they’re barely ten minutes into trialing this for the first time, he’s not asking for help with something as small as this. He’s a big boy.
Lando looks over his shoulder, and Oscar finds himself tied between wanting to sit up straight and wanting to slouch over the table. He doesn’t mention that Oscar hasn’t started colouring yet – doesn’t even look disappointed.
“You want one or two, kiddo?” He questions, easy smile, bright eyes, chill as ever while Oscar struggles to even pick a colour. With Lando’s soft expression looking at him, Oscar can’t deal with it anymore. Blue. He’s choosing blue. Right now. He grips the pencil and starts shading next to the thick line art of the puppy before he can change his mind.
Where Oscar never has been – too embarrassed, too busy, too much of a coward – Lando is very much all in. Something that’s been apparent since he brought the regression thing up, and has only become more apparent with every interaction about it since.
Feeling overwhelmed and small, too little in a world where he’s expected to be a grown up – that’s something he’s used to. Something he can accept. Children’s toys and cute pictures and everything else – that feels like too much to touch. Lando clearly doesn’t agree.
“Um-” Oscar squirms in his seat. This is weird. Isn’t this weird? Is there a right answer to this? Lando doesn’t miss a beat, starting on another sandwich.
“Let’s do two, yeah? I’m kinda hungry as well.” Lando turns to face him with a smile. “How’s your picture going?”
Oscar looks down, the uncharacteristically neat shading inside the lines stares back at him. He fights the urge to clear his throat and instead shrugs a shoulder. “Good.”
He can hear Lando sit the sandwiches on a plate, even as he keeps looking down, awkwardly shading a little more blue onto the page. “Yeah?” Lando lilts, excited and bouncy like the puppy Oscar is colouring. “Here, let me see.” He says, walking over beside Oscar and leaning his hand down on the bench next to Oscar’s arm – closing him in, making him feel smaller than he is. “Oh, Osc, it looks so good! You’re doing so well, bud.”
Oscar bites his lip, suddenly feeling nauseous. It takes all his will not to run away. He’s doing this wrong; he’s always been doing this wrong, and now Lando’s here, and Lando’s doing it so perfectly, and isn’t that a slap in the face? If Lando didn’t think he was a freak for the regression thing, then the fact that Oscar can’t even do it right should do the trick. Now he’s stuck in his head, isn’t he? His coloured pencil awkwardly hovers above the paper, and he isn’t responding – he should probably say ‘thankyou’ at the very least, right? Is it too late to say it now?
A soft but sure kiss is placed on the top of his head, and his brain short circuits. He lifts his head to look up at Lando with wide eyes, unsure what to say. Lando’s grinning, because of course he is.
“Do you wanna move to the living room? Put something on the tv?” He asks, looking like everything about this is so easy for him. Oscar wishes he could say that he feels the same.
Oscar nods, smiles tight lipped. “Yeah, sure.” He slides out of his chair.
Even that doesn’t sound right out loud. Kids aren’t really that adaptable, right? Should he be less casual? More casual? What is a way to agree while being more childish but less… whatever he’s doing now?
Lando flops that whole debate on its head easily enough. “You really are such a polite boy, even now, huh? Oh, bring your book, you can still colour while we eat.” Already leading the way.
Right, okay. He can follow that.
It’s only when he sits at the couch, Lando pulling the table close enough for Oscar to comfortably lean over his colouring book, does he realise that Lando’s put the sandwiches on one of those plastic, kiddy plates. When in the world did he get that? – and more importantly, what else should Oscar be on the look out for? – and even more importantly than that, he hopes an ambulance can get to Lando’s place in a hurry because Oscar might have a heart attack, depending on what else could be in store.
Lando hasn’t said a word about it, comfortably navigating the tv remote while he scrolls through children’s movies. Cool. Oscar won’t bring it up either then. He slowly reaches for a sandwich and tries to decide what colour the puppy’s collar should be. Red. Definitely.
He glances up briefly when he hears the intro to Bluey, and rolls his eyes at Lando, who looks appropriately cheeky. “Can I colour this one?” Lando points at the page closer to him, and Oscar nods, only mildly startled when Lando immediately gets a bit feral and messy with it, not particularly concerned about keeping completely inside the lines. He knows it’s just an example for him, but it works, a bit. He feels his shoulders lose some tension, and lets his own colouring get less technical too. By the time the sandwiches are finished, – and reveals a cutesy zebra and giraffe on the plate, not that he’s been wondering about it or anything – his page has become less and less refined, a very physical piece of evidence for how he feels like he’s slipping deeper and deeper into this. Even with the ever present anxiety of something he doesn’t even understand. Should he really be fearing embarrassment when Lando is this confident?
“Osc, yours looks so good, baby! I think we deserve a treat for all of our hard work.” Lando smiles, and Oscar can’t help but giggle when Lando winks at him as he walks to the kitchen.
Lando comes back with a bag of cookies, handing it out for Oscar to pick from. When he reaches out, Lando pulls it back slightly with a grin. Where he’s sure he would normally laugh, he finds himself settling into a pout, his face betraying how small he now feels.
Lando instantly and visibly shifts gears. “That was mean of me, sorry Osco. I shouldn’t tease, huh?”
Oscar shakes his head, reaching out again. “’s mean.” He mumbles, grabbing two cookies while he has the chance. Lando doesn’t mention it.
“Yeah, bud. Should’ve known better. You forgive me?”
He sounds awfully sincere, even with that smile on his face. Oscar nods, would probably forgive Lando for anything, and Lando’s smile grows.
“That’s good!” He nods, sitting down beside Oscar, close enough that their shoulders almost brush against each other. “‘Cause I was kinda hoping I could ask for a cuddle.”
Oscar squirms in his seat. Without any conscious thought at all, he finds himself mumbling again – that must just be how he operates when he feels smaller. He supposes he hasn’t really had much reason to talk out loud when he’s been especially in it, but it feels right. “I like that.” He admits.
Lando tilts his head, and Oscar is certain that there has to be like, a puppy or an actual child or something around here because he’s sure that he can’t be the reason that Lando has that cutesy, soft kind of look on his face. “Yeah?” He questions, voice equally quiet and even more soft than before. “Well, I like that too.” He nudges Oscar’s shoulder playfully.
Oscar finds himself giggling, just for a second. At the absurdity, and the excitement, and the way it feels like him and Lando are exchanging a really important secret that’s just between them. They kind of are, he guesses.
There isn’t anyone he thinks he would be more comfortable sharing it with though. So he thinks that everything has worked out pretty good for him. Even if it takes a few goes of this before Oscar starts getting the rhythm of it down. The idea of doing this again and again is something that fills him with more excitement than anxiety, which is a win that seemed absolutely impossible a month ago.
And everyone must know by now that there isn’t anyone he enjoys celebrating a win with more than Lando.