Chapter Text
Lando is so fucking cold. His fingers are sore, he half wonders if he's getting frostbite. His nose is stinging, and he's getting a dull ache behind his eyes because he thinks the ice on the roads is somehow diffusing into his brain. His breath comes out in visible puffs. He won't be surprised if there are icicles forming on the tips of his curls.
He tries to tuck his chin into the collar of his coat, burying his nose in the cotton. But the sudden gust of chilly air cements the fact that it's all futile as long as he's still out here on the sidewalk.
And the worst part is that it's not even snowing. It's just fucking cold.
He spots a bar, then, with a modern, black-stoned exterior, ceiling to floor glass doors and windows, with fairy lights hanging across. A few people are milling about in nice looking clothes, so he gathers the standard of the bar should be decent. Also he's really kind of desperate for some warmth, and he recalls some documentary he'd seen about the Russians being heavy drinkers to keep themselves warm. So. Alcohol is very much needed right now.
And the interior really is nice, with soft lo-fi music playing over the speakers, a few tables with soft orange lamps hanging over them to cast a warm comfortable glow, and a long bar table with shiny polished wood.
He eyes his seating options. He’d prefer the bar table, since he’s here alone and that’s where the lone ones tend to gravitate towards. The bar table is long enough to seat ten people. The nearest empty seat isn’t an option because that would mean being sandwiched between a lady (who is admittedly very pretty but she’s currently snapping away angrily at her phone) on one side - and Lando doesn’t want to be in the vicinity when she inevitably goes into a fit - and a sickeningly romantic couple on the other side - and Lando is painfully single right now, he really doesn’t need that reminder being shoved in his face. He definitely can’t take the seat on the other side of the couple because then he would still have to put up with their nauseating flirting and PDAing- it currently looks like the woman is trying to bite off the man’s tongue with how hard she’s snogging him, gross. So, in summary, not an option.
The second possible option is next to a man who looks mostly on his way to thoroughly sloshed, and is currently in the midst of making a fool of himself as he dumps half the contents of his drink down his shirt rather than in his mouth. His face is turning a sickly shade of green, and Lando reckons his drinks will be staying down for just another ten minutes tops. The bartender is unperturbed, probably because he sees this on a daily basis, and wordlessly slides a glass of plain water over. The man doesn’t take it, loudly proclaiming that he is not drunk, I’m just a little tipsy, is all . Yeah, Lando doesn’t really fancy getting vomited on, so he’s steering clear from that.
That leaves the final empty seat, which is the second seat from the wall. The man seated next to the wall looks young, about Lando’s age. He isn’t creating much of a fuss, and he’s nursing his drink slowly, rather than downing it like it’s a race. Overall, very unassuming and very safe looking, so that looks to be Lando’s best bet at having a peaceful drink while he continues to hide from the raging winter cold outside. So, he heads over and slides into the barstool.
This isn't like his usual haunts - he's more of a club person, but when he orders a vodka and the bartender pours him a glass from a bottle of Belvedere, he decides he loves this place.
The man next to him is good at seemingly minding his own business as he frowns down at his phone, eyebrows pinching together. His brown hair is soft but messy - it could simply be windswept but Lando has a feeling he just hasn't bothered to brush it - and it falls across his honey brown eyes, which is nicely illuminated by the fairy lights lining the length of the bar. Honestly, nothing too remarkable there but still nice on the eyes. Lando turns to angle his body towards him.
The man seems to notice the attention because he glances up, meeting Lando's gaze. He smiles, and. Yeah, definitely nice on the eyes.
“Hello,” he says.
“Hey,” Lando says, offering him a smile in return.
The door opens as someone enters the bar, bringing in a cold draft, and Lando can't suppress his shiver.
The stranger's eyes flit to the door as he says, “It's cold today.”
“Very,” Lando agrees, grumbling. “It's not even fucking snowing.”
The man lets out an amused snort. “Snow would be nice.”
Now that they've exchanged quite a few sentences, Lando can tell that his voice is quiet, very calming, with an accented lilt, and it's quite… pleasant.
“Is that an accent you've got there?” Lando asks. “Are you from around here?”
“I live here now,” the man says, “Moved here when I was fifteen to study, but, well, I'm still here. I'm originally from Australia.”
“‘Straya, mate.”
The other man shoots him an utterly incredulous look, probably because he's just insulted the whole population of Australia with his offensive attempt at an Australian accent, including their fucking kangaroos and koalas. But the man bursts out laughing then, a soft breathy sound, that has him bending over, and it's kind of fucking endearing.
“Yes, exactly,” he says, voice still soft and light from his laughter, even though that was definitely far from what entails exactly an Australian accent.
Lando might be a bit more drunk than he’d thought because he thinks he falls in love slightly with the way this man so easily goes along with what he says, laughing like he’s just told him an amazing joke. Definitely very drunk, because he doesn’t even know the guy’s name.
“Does it snow in Australia?” Lando asks.
“Where I'm from - Melbourne - not really. So it's always pretty cool to see snow here.”
Lando drags a scrutinising gaze down the man's body, then back up to meet his eyes. He's simply waiting him out, fair eyebrow cocked in question. Lando darts his tongue out to wet his lips. He doesn't miss the split-second moment where the man's gaze drops.
“You don't dress like you're cold,” Lando says in response to the unspoken question.
He lets out another huffy laugh, hair swooping as he ducks his head.
“Sure. Not enjoying the view?”
Lando scoffs, caught out. “What view?”
“Ah, right. I'd have to give you a mirror to show you one.”
Fucking hell.
Lando's face is positively heating up now. Fucking embarrassing, blushing over some stupid flirty joke. But the way he'd said it, all calm and cool, devoid of inflection, in the exact same tone as he'd used to comment on the weather, has Lando fucking blushing stupidly.
He downs his glass, flagging over the bartender for a refill.
“You drink vodka straight? Does that even taste good?” the man asks, looking genuinely curious.
Lando takes a sip, taking his time to answer. Then he deliberately licks up the remnants of the vodka off his lips. The man's eyes on him are unwavering - he knows he sees it.
“You want a taste of this?”
Lando leans over, their arms brushing on the table. He's not really talking about the drink.
“If it's good, I’m open to it.”
The man leans back, just a brief pressure against Lando's arm. He's not really talking about the drink either.
Lando's lips split in a coquettish grin. “Oh yeah, it's really fucking good. Gets me all nice and loose.”
The man orders another glass of whatever he'd been drinking, attention barely leaving Lando. It's something pink and sweet looking, Lando doesn't even want to consider taking a sip of it.
And yet.
He wonders what this man will taste like, if he will taste as sugary sweet as that nasty concoction he's been nursing, if the taste will linger when Lando runs his tongue along the ridges of the man's teeth, if his pale skin will bruise easily when Lando bites into it, if the man will fuck him as calmly as he looks.
Lando leans over, warm mouth and breath and the barest hint of tongue, just grazing the warm shell of the man's ear. “Wanna feel how wet it is?”
-
Apparently it's easy to get drunk when you're distracted with company, because Lando blacks out and the next thing he knows, he's waking up in a foreign bed, as well dressed as the day he was born, with a pleasant ache in his lower body. And by an ache, he's kind of really aching, but that's most likely a size thing rather than a lack of proper preparation thing.
Damn, he'd finally found a dude with a dick as pleasant as his face, and he remembers absolutely nothing about it.
He's also noticeably clean and dry. He'd clearly been cleaned up nicely.
He finds a sticky note on the bedside table:
feel free to take a shower before you leave. left a cup of water for you and some paracetamol just in case. just leave them wherever
it's fine if you wanna take a look around too :)
And. That's really freaking sweet of him. Definitely a catch but unfortunately, just a one-night stand.
Lando downs the glass of water along with the pills because, as the kind stranger had expected, his head is killing him. The shower water is nice and warm, and he finds a spare disposable toothbrush next to the sink. He brushes his teeth as he inspects his body for any damage.
Apparently the guy really has good one-night stand etiquette, because he hadn't left a single mark, apart from an inconspicuous hickey on the top of his thigh. Not an issue because it could be easily hidden unless Lando's parading around in his underwear. Surprisingly careful in contrast to the way he had been fucked thoroughly enough to feel it the morning after.
He finds his clothes on the dresser where it's been folded, well, not exactly neatly, but it's the thought that counts. Somehow the man had found time to put his clothes in the washer and dryer because it feels crisp and smells faintly of detergent.
Really, where the fuck did this guy come from?
Lando takes up the man's offer to snoop because he's way too nosy for his own good. The bad folding was apparently an indication of how messy the man could be. Not disgustingly so, but there's a used hoodie in a pile behind the sofa - probably fallen from where it had been hanging. There aren't any crumbs or spills on the bar table, but there's a small stack of dishes inside the sink. There's… a table. He wouldn't say it's a dining table because there's barely any space to dine there. It's covered with papers, most of it covered with boyish scrawls and writings. Lando’s headache gives a dull twang when he so much as glances at the writing, trying to decipher it, so he gives up. By the doorway, the shoes are aligned in neat rows, but definitely not arranged by a pedantic.
He finds his shoes neatly placed there too. He casts one last glance around the apartment, patting down his pockets to check his belongings, before tugging on his shoes and closing the apartment door with a soft click, automatic locks sliding into place behind him.