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Lando sits against the back wall of the McLaren motorhome, cap on the ground beside him, race suit peeled halfway down. His head is between his knees, chest rising and falling unevenly, mistakes still looping in his mind. The press conference was awful.
“What would you do differently at the start?”
“What caused the lock-up in Turn 1?”
“Is this a mindset issue, Lando?”
Mindset. Like it’s a choice. Like it’s his fault for pushing. Like everyone doesn’t already see him as a barely-tolerated little who’s too soft for the grid.
He just needs to breathe. Needs the spiraling to stop. The blockers help. But they don’t make it go away. They just dull the instinct to curl up, to cry, to ask someone (anyone) to tell him he’s okay. They help him hold the image of ‘grown-up’.
He doesn’t hear Oscar approach. Just hears his voice, “Hey. I thought I saw you come back here.”
Lando tenses.
Oscar only hesitates a moment before sitting down beside him. “Media was unfair,” Oscar says. “You don’t deserve that.”
Lando doesn’t respond, doesn’t even lift his head. Maybe if he keeps still enough, Oscar will just go. But he doesn’t. A soft crinkle breaks the quiet, then there’s a nudge against Lando’s forearm. He looks to see what it is –
A juice pouch. Apple. It used to be his favorite when he used to allow himself such things. Oscar’s expression isn’t smug or teasing, he just holds it out like an offering
Lando’s eyes narrow anyway. “I’m not a kid,” he snaps.
Oscar blinks. Draws his hand back, sets it down. “Sorry. I wasn’t – I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Then how did you mean it?!” Lando sits up, heart hammering, “Don’t offer me things like I need – like I need to be – ”
“Cared for?” Oscar finishes.
Lando flinches.
Oscar sighs. “I wasn’t trying to call you out or anything. I just… it’s habit.”
“Yeah, well,” Lando mutters, “Your habit makes me look like a fucking liability.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to overstep.”
It sounds genuine. Not patronizing. Not guilty. Just... ashamed, maybe. Like he’s mad at himself for something he didn’t even fully do. Lando exhales shakily, eyes locked on the ground.
“I used to be worse about it,” Oscar says quietly, like a confession. “Back home. Sometimes I’m still bad about it. I forget how to turn it off.”
That gets Lando’s attention. His head turns, just slightly.
“It just feels like helping,” Oscar says. “Even when people don’t want it.”
Lando studies him with not quite forgiveness, but the beginnings of it. “You’re a caregiver,” he says.
Oscar nods once.
Lando huffs a humorless laugh. “And I’m the most famous little in Formula One.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that, Lando.”
Silence blooms between them again, softer this time. The juice pouch still sits on the ground between them. Lando stares at it. Then at Oscar.
His voice is small when he finally speaks. “If I told you something, could you keep it just between us?”
Oscar’s reply is immediate, “Of course, you can tell me anything.”
Lando swallows hard. “I have to fight it sometimes,” he whispers, “I still feel it even when I pretend I don’t.”
“Do you think… Can I help sometime?” Oscar asks carefully. “Not because I think you need me to. But because I think it would help me too.”
Lando blinks. There’s no pity. It’s not pressure. Just a need reflected back at him. Something in his chest twists sharp. But his breath comes easier. Lando contemplates it all the way back to Monaco.
Oscar arrives at Lando’s to find him curled up sideways on the couch, blanket haphazardly kicked down near the floor, legs swinging restlessly. There’s a controller in one hand and a bag of sour gummy worms spilled across the cushions.
Lando doesn’t look at him when he walks in. Just huffs, “You took forever.”
Oscar hides his smile. “I came as fast as I could.”
“Hmph,” Lando says, arms crossed tight now. “Not fast enough.”
Oscar gently picks up the blanket from the floor and folds it over the back of the couch before sitting beside him. “Didn’t know it was a race.”
Lando glares. “Well it was.”
Oscar nods, not rising to the bait. “I lost, then. Sorry, Lando.”
Lando doesn’t say anything, but his lip twitches like he’s trying not to grin.
“I’m not tired,” Lando declares, which is usually what littles say right before they crash. “I just wanted company.”
Oscar nods again. “Of course.”
“I don’t need anything.”
“I know.”
Lando keeps glancing at him sideways, like he’s waiting to be mocked, waiting to be dismissed. Oscar stays calm. Quiet. Still.
After a long silence, Lando mutters, “I feel weird.”
Oscar leans back. “Weird how?”
“Just... like everything’s too big,” Lando says, nearly inaudible.
Oscar hums. He waits. He knows not to fill the silence too fast.
“I’m not – I’m not that little,” Lando adds. “You’re not gonna start treating me like a baby, right?”
“No,” Oscar says, gentle but certain. “You’re not a baby. Got it.”
That seems to satisfy him. Lando relaxes back into the cushions, letting the controller slide to the carpet. They sit like that for a while before Lando starts fidgeting. He picks at the hem of his hoodie. Chews the sleeve. He whines when he reaches for the blanket and it falls away.
“Want help with that?” Oscar asks.
“No,” Lando snaps, then softens. “Yes. But not like… Just give it to me, okay? I’m not stupid.”
Oscar passes the blanket and doesn’t tuck it around him. He just holds it out until Lando yanks it back and huffs dramatically. He wraps it around himself and then promptly flops his head onto Oscar’s lap, half-hidden in folds of fleece.
“Don’t move,” Lando warns.
“I won’t.”
A long pause.
“I mean it.”
Oscar smooths his hand through Lando’s curls lightly. “I know.”
Lando squirms once like he might complain. Then he sighs. Deep. Content.
Oscar doesn’t move. Not when his leg goes pins-and-needles under Lando’s head, not when his phone buzzes. He just stays, hand resting gently in Lando’s curls, watching the slow, even rhythm of his breathing.
Lando sleeps for almost forty minutes. It’s quiet. Peaceful. Then he stirs with a twitch and a grunt, stretching out like a cat and smacking Oscar in the ribs with the back of his hand.
Oscar exhales. “Careful.”
“Wasn’t me,” Lando mumbles, face still buried in the blanket.
Oscar lifts a brow. “Right.”
Lando props himself up suddenly, eyes brighter than before. A full post-nap regression shift. Not sleepy anymore. Just little and brimming with mischief. He stands up on the couch.
“You’re not supposed to stand on furniture,” Oscar says mildly.
“I want ice cream,” Lando counters, grinning down at him.
Oscar doesn’t argue that logic. He just gestures toward the kitchen. “If you can go get it, you can have it.”
Lando scampers off, socked feet sliding across the hardwood. A cupboard slams. Then another. Then the freezer opens and closes. Five seconds later, he’s back, triumphant, holding a half-empty pint of strawberry sorbet and no spoon. Oscar opens his mouth to ask, but Lando’s scooping a sticky fingerful into his mouth before he can even try.
Oscar stares at him.
Lando grins, strawberry on his nose. “What?”
“You’re gonna get sticky,” Oscar says.
“Don’t care,” Lando shrugs.
He plops back onto the couch, legs draped over Oscar’s lap. He kicks his feet twice, but not enough to actually hurt. Just enough to annoy. Testing. Oscar has to set a boundary.
“If you kick me again,” he says, “I’m stealing your ice cream and making you eat broccoli instead.”
Lando gasps. “That’s illegal.”
“Don’t think it is.”
“You’re evil.”
Oscar hums. “Maybe.”
Lando flops back dramatically. “You were nicer earlier.”
“You were sleepier earlier.”
When he licks the last smear off the rim and lets the container clatter to the floor –
“Do you want help cleaning up?” Oscar asks.
“Nope,” Lando chirps, wiping his hands on the blanket. “I’m clean.”
Oscar lifts an eyebrow. “You are not clean.”
“Don’t care.”
Oscar goes and gets a wet paper towel. He comes back, holding it out, “You can do it yourself or I will.”
Lando grabs it with a huff and starts dragging it aimlessly across his face, missing half of the mess. Oscar lets him try, waits patiently, then gently takes over.
“Hey,” Oscar says, softening his voice. “Can I help?”
Lando doesn’t say anything, just tilts his head toward him, eyes half-lidded. Oscar wipes carefully under his nose, around the corners of his mouth, and down his chin. Lando’s eyes flutter closed.
“There,” Oscar says, once he’s done.
Lando sighs then flops dramatically again. “Ugghhhh.”
“Very eloquent.”
“I’m boooored,” Lando groans.
Oscar leans back. “Want to color?”
“No.”
“Build something?”
“Like what?”
“Blanket fort?”
Lando sits up. Blinks. “Really?”
Oscar smiles.
The fort is awesome. It’s all pillows and blankets and smells like laundry. The light’s all glowy orange at the top and makes it feel like a cave. Or a rocket ship. Or maybe a secret base. Lando hasn’t decided yet.
He’s on his tummy with a pillow under his chest, tongue poking out while he colors. The race car has shiny wheels now. He’s using glitter pens. They’re kinda leaky. His fingers are still a bit sticky. He doesn’t really care.
Oscar’s sitting beside him. He’s not doing anything but watching. Lando keeps coloring until his hand gets tired and the lines go all wobbly. He huffs and puts the pen down, then scoots over and tugs on Oscar’s sleeve.
“M’tired,” he says. “But I don’t wanna go to bed.”
Oscar nods. “Okay. How about quiet time instead?”
Lando nods back, faster.
Oscar helps him move the pillow and gives him a new blanket that smells clean. It’s soft. Lando rolls onto his side and hugs it tight to his chest. It’s warm inside the fort. His legs feel floaty. His eyelids too.
Then Oscar’s hand is in his hair. Lando sighs. It feels nice.
“You’re not leavin’, are you?” he asks.
“No,” Oscar says quietly. “I’ll be right here.”
“’Kay.” Lando hums. “Thanks.”
His eyes flick up to Oscar’s lap. “Can I – ?” he mumbles, already shifting closer.
Oscar doesn’t use his words. He opens his arm and Lando climbs into them, dragging his blanket with him. He tucks himself against Oscar’s side, head against his chest, knees pulled up. Oscar smells like chocolate. Warm and soft and sweet. Lando noses in closer without thinking.
His thumb slips into his mouth.
Oscar adjusts the blanket around them both and rests his face on Lando’s curls.
Lando lets his free hand wander. It twists in the edge of Oscar’s hoodie, then slowly up to the ends of Oscar’s hair. He plays with it, little twirls and soft tugging.
Everything’s quiet and soft and slow. He drifts.