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He’s met at the door by Lando.
Or rather, by a mountain of oversized fleece that happens to have Lando’s face peeking out from the top. The hoodie is massive, swallowing his hands and brushing against his mid-thighs.
He looks cute like this. Small, almost fragile, under the weight of it.
Of course Oscar would find him cute even when he’s sick and a complete mess of sniffles and congestion.
It’s kind of tragic, honestly.
He knows he’s wearing that look, the one that’s halfway between an awkward grimace and helpless fondness.
He can’t help it. Lando has always been his blind spot.
But he only looks cute though, because clearly, being sick hasn’t stripped him of his attitude.
“You coming in or not?” he asks, one brow arched, looking at Oscar expectantly. His voice is thicker than usual, rougher around the edges.
“Uh. Yeah. Sorry,” Oscar mutters, stepping past him. He kicks off his shoes by the entry, right where Lando always insists he leaves them so he doesn’t ‘bring any dirt or shit in.’
“You took fucking ages. What did you do? Get lost in Monaco?”
Oscar almost laughs as he drops the bags he’s been carrying onto the kitchen counter. He can see Lando hovering nearby in his peripheral vision.
“I would’ve been here sooner if you’d just answered the freaking door,” Oscar shoots back. “And I grabbed some stuff on my way, thought it might help with the cold.”
“It’s not a cold, I’m sick, Oscar,” Lando grumbles, drifting closer than he normally would, “And it was a mission just getting to the door,”
“Maybe it wouldn't be such a mission if you just gave me a goddamn key, since I’m here all the time anyway,” Oscar mutters under his breath.
It’s the truth, and they both know it. Oscar spends more time in Lando's flat than his own, a place he’s barely even settled into yet.
For the past year, ever since they started fucking on a regular basis, they’d somehow defaulted to Lando’s apartment.
It had started after a particularly brutal race weekend, when Lando had quietly asked Oscar to just fly back to Nice with him. To come home with him.
Of course, Oscar had said yes.
Since then, it was the blueprint: Oscar being in Monaco usually meant he had some sponsor bullshit event to attend or Lando needing to blow off some steam before the next double-header and wanting Oscar’s very specific help to do it.
Eventually, Oscar had figured that living in Monaco was actually a decent call. The privacy, the sea, the sun... plus the tax haven thing didn’t hurt. Half the grid lived here anyway. So why not give it a go?
The fact that Lando would be his neighbor was just a convenient, happy coincidence.
That’s what he’d told himself, anyway.
But even after Oscar got his own keys to his own apartment, their routine hadn't shifted. If anything, he just spent more time at Lando’s.
They didn’t bother going to Oscar’s much, except to grab a clean shirt or because Oscar felt the weirdly need to give him a tour of the new decor.
His remark about the key seems to vanish into thin air, though.
Lando ignores it completely. Oscar can’t tell if it’s on purpose or if the fever is just making him too slow to react, but he doesn't rise to the bait.
Instead, he just edges closer, clearly more interested now that he’s clocked the bags. He peers inside, eyes glinting with a shy smile that makes him look like a kid.
“Did you bring all this for me?”
“Obviously,” Oscar shrugs, trying to keep his tone casual.
He remembers the grocery lists his mum used to send him when he first moved to the UK, back when he wasn't used to the biting cold and the constant dampness. He’s learned the hard way what actually helps.
“I brought some nasal spray, sea water for one, then another with essential oils or something,” he says, lining them up on the counter. Lando is hovering, almost pressed against his side now, drawn in by the attention.
“Then we’ve got paracetamol to help with the fever, if you actually have—”
“I do!” Lando interrupts, his voice cracking slightly.
He reaches out, his fingers hot as they wrap around Oscar’s wrist to pull his hand toward his forehead.
His eyes are glassy, his cheeks flushed a soft, feverish rose. Oscar lets him, turning his hand so the back of his knuckles press against Lando’s skin.
He lingers there for a beat longer than necessary. Lando’s skin is radiating heat, but it’s the way he leans into the touch, just a fraction, that makes Oscar’s heart skip.
Yeah. Definitely a fever.
He clears his throat, pulling his hand away, “Okay, then you’ll take one of these,” Oscar says before focusing on the bags, meticulously unpacking everything.
He has to stay busy. If he doesn't, he might actually give in to the urge to just wrap his arms around Lando and hold him until the fever breaks.
He should have known; a sick Lando is even more high-maintenance than a healthy one, radiating a desperate sort of cuteness that Oscar is dangerously weak for.
“You brought soup?” Lando asks, his voice bordering on incredulous, when he spots what was in the bag.
“Yeah. I got it from that traiteur you like, a few streets over,” Oscar answers, setting the container aside.
Because of course he knows exactly where Lando likes to eat when he’s not on a Jon-enforced-misery-diet.
Apparently, he’s spent the last year becoming a walking encyclopedia of Lando’s preferences.
He isn't sure Lando even wants soup in the middle of the afternoon, but he feels the need to justify it.
“My mum always made me chicken soup when I was sick. It helped.” He shrugs, a bit self-conscious about the domesticity of it all.
Lando doesn't say anything for a long beat. Then, slowly, he leans in. He presses himself against Oscar’s back, resting his chin right on his shoulder, a heavy weight that sends a jolt straight through Oscar’s chest.
“Soup is sad,” Lando mumbles, his breath warm against the skin of Oscar’s neck.
“Agreed. That’s why I also brought you this.”
Oscar digs his hand into the last bag, feeling Lando shift against his back, peering over his shoulder to get a better view.
He pulls out a full pack of Kinder Maxi and a bottle of Lando’s favorite electrolytes to keep him well hydrated.
Lando doesn't even wait for Oscar to put them down. He snatches a Kinder bar with a satisfied hum and, in the same movement, presses a warm, lingering kiss against the side of Oscar’s neck.
A jolt of heat that has nothing to do with the fever shoots down Oscar’s spine. He laughs softly, turning around in the small space of the kitchen to face him.
“Better than soup?” he asks, his voice dropping an octave as he takes him in.
Lando gives a slow nod, unfolding his Kinder Maxi and letting out a satisfied hum as he takes a bite. Up close, Oscar can’t ignore how deep the exhaustion goes; it’s in the red-rimmed puffiness of his eyes and the constant, miserable sniffing.
He’s used to Lando being demanding. But not like this, more like when he’s being a total brat, demanding every ounce of his attention and energy.
He knows the version of him that’s restless in the garage; the one who won’t stop digging into the data or hounding the engineers until he gets exactly what he wants.
And he knows that same side of him in bed, too. Where Lando gets mouthy and bossy, who shuffles and arches and directs Oscar’s every move, making sure Oscar has the perfect view of him while he’s riding him.
Oscar loves every bit of it.
But seeing him like this? Vulnerable and quiet? It’s new.
Lando had practically begged him to come over, claiming he was ‘about to die in the next few hours’, and that if Oscar didn’t show up, he’d have to carry that guilt on his conscience forever.
Oscar came, obviously.
He didn’t actually need the blackmail, though he’d never admit it.
So yeah. Oscar is used to being fond of him; he has been since day one. But this is on a whole different level.
He can't help himself, he reaches out, brushing his thumb gently just under Lando’s eye, tracing the dark circle there.
“How d’you feel?” he asks, his voice barely a murmur.
“Like shit,” Lando mumbles, his mouth pulling into a heavy pout. He scrunches his nose and shifts his gaze away from Oscar, as if he's suddenly shy about being seen so clearly.
“D’you wanna lie down, maybe? On the couch?” Oscar offers.
“No,” Lando huffs, sounding genuinely offended. “I’ve been on that fucking couch all day. We’ve reached a point where we can’t stand the sight of each other anymore.”
Oscar can’t help the lopsided smile that tugs at his lips. “Fair enough. D’you want to eat something then? Or is it too early?”
“Not in a nursing home yet, am I?” Lando teases, though there’s no real bite to it. He reaches out to pinch at Oscar’s side, his fingers lingering on the fabric of Oscar’s hoodie. “No. Don’t want to eat your sad soup yet.”
“What would make you feel better, then?” Oscar asks, his hand drifting up to catch a stray curl on his forehead and tuck it back gently.
“I don’t know,” Lando whines, the sound vibrating with a mix of exhaustion and genuine, feverish frustration.
He steps back, breaking the contact as if he’s too restless, or maybe just too overwhelmed, to stay still. “That’s why I called you. Because I don’t know.”
Oscar takes a slow, steadying breath. He doesn’t roll his eyes, though the urge is nearly overpowering.
“And you thought I would know better?”
“I was hoping so, yeah,” Lando retorts, crossing his arms over his chest in a move that’s clearly meant to be defensive but just makes him look smaller in that oversized hoodie. “I can always call someone else if the task is too difficult for you.”
Oscar bites his tongue. Hard. The last thing he needs is to say something stupid and painfully honest, like No, don’t. I like being the one you call. I want to be the only one.
Instead, he just leans back against the counter, watching the display with a dry, amused smile.
Lando is being a brat, difficult, prickly, and completely impossible.
As always, Oscar finds it deeply, pathologically endearing.
He watches him for a beat, his mind clicking through the options until an idea finally takes shape.
“Have you showered yet?” Oscar asks.
Lando arches a brow, a distinctly suggestive look flickering across his face despite the fever. “Is it you offering sex?”
“No, I—” Oscar starts, the denial catching in his throat for a split second.
“Are you trying to take advantage of an ill man, Oscar?” Lando presses, his voice dropping into a mock-offended tone. He’s leaning into it now, a cheeky, tired smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
Oscar just shakes his head, a soft laugh huffing out of him as he relaxes. “No. I was just thinking a bath might help you feel a bit better. Wash some of the misery off.”
Lando pulls a face, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “I don’t know…” he drags out.
He looks exhausted by the mere idea of standing under a shower, let alone actually scrubbing himself.
“I could wash your hair for you,” Oscar offers.
The words are out before he can filter them. Lando’s eyes widen in surprise. He stays still for a heartbeat, then finally closes the gap, pressing himself against Oscar’s chest.
Oscar doesn’t even try to fight the reflex to loop his arms around him.
It’s muscle memory at this point. His hands settle naturally, fingers splaying over the small of Lando’s back, and God, his waist is so tiny.
“Would you, Oscarrr?” Lando drawls, looking up through his lashes to see if Oscar is actually serious.
This time, Oscar actually does roll his eyes. “Yes. I would.”
Lando bites his lower lip, considering it for a second. Then he murmurs, “Okay. Yeah. That sounds... actually really good.”
*******
He hadn’t really thought it through before proposing.
He’d never washed anyone’s hair but his own, and certainly not curly hair.
He knows how much Lando loves his curls and how annoyed, and annoying, he gets when they don’t cooperate.
A tutorial would have been a great idea, he thinks, but it’s too late now.
He stands over the bathtub, testing the water, making sure it’s warm enough to be soothing without being scalding.
As he settles onto the bath mat, he finds himself reconsidering everything. It feels really exposing, offering something this personal, this intimate.
It’s one thing to have sex with your teammate; it’s something else entirely to offer to bathe him.
In the distance, he can hear Lando still in the living room, sending voice notes to Max, probably, based on the tone.
Oscar looks around, spotting the array of products he’s seen a hundred times in Lando’s suitcase when they’re traveling. Shampoo, conditioner, a hair mask… He sighs.
He’ll just have to try his best, then.
The water is almost at the top when his train of thought is interrupted. Lando appears in the doorway, looking smaller than usual, and, if Oscar is reading him right, a little bit shy.
“All good?” Oscar asks, rising to his feet.
“Yep.” Lando’s gaze shifts past him, taking in the scene.
Oscar had found some old candles in the bottom drawer and some questionable, probably expired bubble bath, though he’d figured soap doesn’t really have an expiration date.
When Lando doesn’t say anything right away, Oscar feels his cheeks burn. A twist of shame curls in his stomach.
Maybe he overdid it. Maybe the candles were a bit too much after all.
“Is it alright?” he dares to ask, glancing vaguely at the tub, the water thick with bubbles and the bathroom bathed in a soft, intimate glow.
Lando stays quiet for a beat. For a second, Oscar thinks he’s actually touched, that he’s seeing the effort for what it is.
But then, a smile tugs at Lando’s lips. It’s that smug little smile Oscar usually gets when he’s being a bit too obvious.
“Aren’t you cute when you’re trying to take care of me,” Lando teases, his voice light. “Do I get the full service, then?” he asks.
“Full service?” Oscar repeats, amused.
“Yeah. Obviously,” Lando says, his voice taking on that smug, self-satisfied lilt. He leans back against the sink, watching Oscar with hooded eyes. “I mean, I’m a very sick man, Osc. I’m practically an invalid. I don’t think I can be expected to move my own limbs. You’ve gotta do the work.”
Oscar huffs a laugh, shaking his head, pretending to be annoyed when he, really, is just fondly annoyed.
“Poor you,” he murmurs, stepping into Lando’s space. “I guess I’ll have to manage, then.”
He reaches out, his hands finding the soft hem of Lando’s hoodie. “Arms up, princess.”
Lando obeys with a cheeky grin, lifting his arms as Oscar pulls the fabric up and over his head.
When the hoodie comes off, Oscar is met with the sight he craves every single day: the tanned skin, the sharp lines of his abs, and those tiny moles scattered like constellations across his chest.
His eyes snag on a faded hickey just above the waistband of Lando’s briefs.
He remembers leaving it there a few days ago, when Lando had been whining and desperate under his mouth, begging for more.
This single memory makes the bathroom feel ten degrees hotter.
Lando’s head pops out of the collar, his hair a mess of curls and his smile toothy and triumphant.
Oscar doesn’t give him time to make another comment; he drops to his knees, hooking his thumbs into the elastic of Lando’s boxers.
He drags them down Lando’s legs, slow and careful. He can’t help himself and presses a few lingering kisses against the warm skin of Lando’s lower belly, along his thighs.
He deliberately steers clear of Lando’s cock, though. He avoids it with a focused sort of discipline, knowing all too well that if he let his hands or mouth wander even an inch too close, they’d both be screwed.
Lando is supposed to be recovering, not getting worked up on a bathroom floor.
Once the boxers are gone, the chill of the room seems to hit Lando all at once. Oscar watches a shiver ripple through him, Lando’s shoulders hunching as he tries to hug what's left of his warmth.
“‘M cold,” Lando mutters, looking small against the tiled walls.
“Get in the water,” Oscar says softly, guiding him by the elbow. “It’s warm. Should be how you usually like it.”
Lando doesn't argue for once. Oscar watches him lower himself into the tub, his body trembling the second it hits the surface before he finally sinks in, letting out a long, shaky breath.
He settles against the porcelain, bubbles clinging to his collarbones, then looks up at Oscar with a pointed, expectant frown. “You’re not coming?”
Oscar can't help but smile, gesturing toward the tub with his chin. “A bit small for the both of us, no?”
“But…” Lando huffs, splashing a bit of soapy water toward Oscar’s jeans. “What’s the point, then?”
“The point is for you to relax,” Oscar counters, ignoring the splash on his denim as he settles on his knees by the edge of the tub.
A flash of mischief flickers across Lando’s face, cutting through the tired haze of his fever. “You know exactly how to get me to relax,” he says, his gaze dropping suggestively between his legs.
“As you said,” Oscar deadpans, “I’m not taking advantage of a weak man.”
That actually earns him a real laugh. Lando’s eyes crinkle at the corners, that specific look Oscar loves more than he’d ever admit out loud.
Lando just shrugs, as if it’s Oscar’s loss anyway, before leaning his head back against the rim. “Okay. Let’s get to it, then.”
Oscar stands for a moment to toss his own hoodie onto the sink, staying in just his t-shirt to avoid getting soaked.
He can feel Lando’s eyes tracking his every move. Sinking back down, Oscar finds a comfortable position and reaches for the soap.
“You should do my hair first,” Lando interrupts, his voice softer now, the teasing edge fading. “And when the mask is on, you can wash my body. That’s how I usually do it,” he adds.
Oscar nods. “Alright.” He grabs the shower head and turns on the tap. “Could you, like, lean your head back a bit?” Lando obeys, his eyes already drifting shut with a faint smile.
He wets Lando’s hair gently, running his fingers through the curls as he goes. Lando hums lightly, settling into the warmth. “Is it okay?” Oscar asks, watching for any sign of discomfort.
Lando nods, his smile widening just a fraction. When Oscar decides the hair is wet enough, he turns off the water and reaches for the shampoo, pouring a generous amount into his palm.
“D’you know how expensive that is?” Lando asks, peeking one eye open. “You don’t need that much.”
“And how would I know,” Oscar mutters for himself, feeling a bit sheepish as he tries to put some of the excess back into the bottle.
Once his hands are finally in Lando’s hair, Oscar realizes just how intimate this is. To wash someone’s hair, to take care of them like this, it feels different.
Lando fully naked in the bath while Oscar stands there, fully dressed, hovering over him.
He feels a sudden warmth spreading through his chest as he works the shampoo in, scrubbing gently around the scalp, trying to mimic the way he knows Lando likes it.
When Lando lets out a content sigh, Oscar feels a flicker of pride.
He takes his time, his fingers moving methodically through every curl. Then he rinses it all off, careful to shield Lando’s forehead to keep the soap from his eyes.
“That feels nice,” Lando says eventually, his voice thick with relaxation as the water washes the suds away.
He moves on to the conditioner, finding the process easier than expected. It’s not so different from the shampoo, though he doesn't have to scrub; he just glides his fingers through the strands, coating them in the thick, scented cream.
The bathroom is mostly silent, the quiet only broken by the soft splashing of water and the little hums and sighs Lando lets out every time Oscar touches him.
Having Lando like this is new.
He’s so pliant, so soft under his hands. Oscar feels a sudden wave of luck, gratitude, almost, to be the one Lando called, the one who gets to see him like this.
Even though they’ve been fooling around for almost a year, it’s rare that their time together is about anything other than sex.
They haven’t talked about what it means, this thing between them.
It just happened once, then again, and again. They never stopped.
It was convenient, after all; they live in the same city, travel together, and spend almost every weekend side-by-side. At some point, it simply made sense.
But as Oscar watches the steam rise around them, he can’t ignore the thought that maybe it’s always meant something more to him than it does to Lando.
He doesn’t mind, though.
Or at least, he tells himself he doesn't.
He likes being around him. He likes being wanted. He’s more than willing to take whatever version of himself Lando is ready to give.
Once the mask is finally coating Lando’s curls, Lando opens his eyes slowly. He looks more relaxed, more peaceful than he has all day.
Oscar can’t help the stupid smile tugging at his mouth. He leans in, bending down further to press a soft kiss against Lando’s lips.
It’s the first real kiss they’ve shared since he arrived.
Usually, they don't bother with it outside of sex, it’s like they’ve mentally filed it away under things we only do when we’re fucking.
Lando is a literal addict for it, though. He treats kissing like an essential part of the act itself, something he could easily lose hours to if Oscar let him.
Before Lando, Oscar hadn't really gotten it. Kissing was fine, sure, a means to an end, but with Lando, it had devolved into something else entirely.
It was the backbone of their teasing, the way they worked each other up until the air felt too thick to breathe.
Lando, draped across Oscar’s lap, all spit and tongue and friction, kissing him until Oscar was so strained from the grinding that he actually had to choke out a plea for him to stop, before coming into his pants like a teenager.
Other times, they only kiss when Lando is too drunk to care and drags Oscar by the wrist into a club bathroom to kiss him stupid behind a closed door.
So. Yeah. A bit new.
Lando looks genuinely surprised, but he doesn't pull away. He says nothing, though Oscar is certain he can see a faint flush creeping up his cheeks that has nothing to do with the heat of the water.
“Alright,” Oscar murmurs, clearing his throat to regain his composure. “Let’s wash the rest of you now.”
Lando’s eyes spark with that familiar light, he smiles. “You just want an excuse to touch me, you perv.”
Oscar huffs a laugh. “Sure.” He grabs the soap and starts with Lando’s feet, deciding it’s best to work his way up.
“Always knew you had weird kinks,” Lando chirps, watching him.
“Not that interested in your feet, mate,” Oscar deadpans, focused on the task.
“Oh, no?” Lando says, actually wiggling his toes against Oscar’s hand. “It wouldn’t turn you on to suck them off?”
Oscar feels his face heat up instantly. “No.”
“Liar! It totally would.”
“‘S not your feet. More like…” Oscar shrugs, his eyes meeting Lando’s for a brief, honest second. “Everything about you turns me on anyway. It doesn’t take much.”
That shuts Lando up. The teasing grin falters, and he looks away, his blush deepening until it matches the warmth of the bathroom.
Oscar works his way up both of Lando’s legs, scrubbing and scratching gently.
When he gets between his thighs, Lando arches a brow, wearing that look that says he’s waiting for a move. Oscar just rolls his eyes.
“Don’t start.”
He can feel Lando’s cock stirring a bit when he reaches it, but he doesn’t spend much time there.
He’s not about to let this turn into a sex thing. Not that he doesn’t want Lando—he always wants Lando—but it just doesn’t feel like the right time for it.
He moves on, soaping up his lower belly, his chest, and then his shoulders. He’s intensely focused on the task, mostly because he’s doing everything he can to avoid meeting Lando’s gaze.
He knows if he looks up and sees Lando smirking at him, he’s fucked.
“Get up a bit, please,” Oscar asks gently.
Lando lifts himself just enough so his back isn’t pressed against the porcelain, letting Oscar reach his spine and the back of his neck.
“Looks like you’re all set,” Oscar says, his voice a little thicker than he’d like.
“You forgot my face. I have something...” He trails off, tilting his head. Oscar looks around the edge of the tub and grabs a bottle that looks like a face cleanser.
He takes extra care with this part, holding Lando’s chin firmly but gently between his fingers to keep him still.
Up close, it’s even harder to stay detached.
He wants to kiss him again.
It isn't just about the sex, isn’t it? He wants to drag Lando to bed and just stay there. He wants the right to be here for the boring stuff, the sick days, the quiet moments—fucking everything.
It’s a massive, inconvenient amount of wanting that it’s actually starting to get a bit scary.
He does nothing about it.
After a good thirty minutes, Oscar finally rinses him off and pulls the plug.
As the water drains away, Lando shivers immediately, his skin prickling with goosebumps the second it hits the cooler air of the room.
“D’you have a bathrobe or something?” Oscar asks, already reaching for a towel to wrap around his own damp arms.
“Yeah... hung up just there,” Lando mutters.
Oscar stands up, his knees slightly stiff from the floor, and grabs the plush robe.
He helps Lando stand and wraps him in it, pulling the collar tight around his neck until he looks properly bundled up. “All good?”
Lando nods, a small smile on his face. It’s a quiet, genuine look, none of the usual performance.
“I could do your hair on the couch, maybe?” Oscar suggests, because apparently he hasn’t had enough just yet.
“Do my hair?” Lando asks, looking amused.
Oscar feels his cheeks go scarlet. “Yeah, y’know... when you curl it right, or whatever.”
“And how would you know?” Lando teases, catching him out. “You know my hair routine now?”
Oscar just shrugs, feeling completely busted.
He’s definitely spent more time than necessary watching Lando in front of the mirror after their shared showers.
Lando’s expression softens, and he reaches out to take Oscar’s hand. “Fine. You can do my hair on the couch,” he says, a smug, faint smile playing on his lips. “But I want your hoodie.”
It’s not like Lando to ask. He usually just takes. But Oscar doesn't even think about protesting.
He finishes drying Lando off with a soft towel, his movements careful, before handing his hoodie over.
Seeing Lando submerged in the oversized fabric, with the 'OP81' stark against his back, hits Oscar harder than expected. A sudden, sharp prickle of possessiveness flares up in his chest.
Maybe he wants to see Lando buried in his clothes every fucking day.
Lando seems to settle into it instantly, tucking his nose behind the collar and inhaling deeply, like he’s looking for Oscar’s scent.
The warmth that blooms in Oscar’s belly is familiar, but right now, it feels dangerously strong.
*******
They end up on the couch, Lando settled between Oscar’s legs with his back pressed firmly to Oscar’s chest.
It’s the only way Oscar can actually reach everything, though having Lando this close, smelling like expensive conditioner and Oscar's own laundry detergent, is a massive distraction.
“Take some product,” Lando says, gesturing vaguely at the coffee table. “Yeah. No. Not that much, Osc! You’re not greasing a cake tin, for god's sake. Just a pea-sized amount.”
Oscar sighs, wiping the excess onto a towel. “I’m trying, mate. You have a lot of hair.”
“It’s an art form. Okay, now take a lock,” Lando continues, tilting his head back against Oscar’s shoulder to look up at him. “Yeah, that one. Now curl it around your finger. Gently! Like that. Yeah... perfect.”
It takes forever.
Every time Oscar think he’s done, Lando points out a section that looks ‘tragic’ or ‘flat,’ making him redo it. Oscar doesn’t complain, though.
He knows he’s being selfish, dragging out the process just to keep Lando pinned against him, but he also knows Lando is definitely milking it.
It’s a quiet power struggle where they both win.
Once the hair is finally deemed acceptable, Lando doesn't move. He just murmurs a quiet “thank you” the words barely more than a breath.
He slumps back, his hand slipping under the hem of Oscar’s t-shirt to trace mindless, lazy patterns against his stomach.
The rest of the evening is slow and hazy.
Lando insists on watching an anime he knows Oscar likes, his way of saying thank you without actually saying the words. He casts it to the TV while Oscar goes to the kitchen to deal with the soup.
“Don’t burn it!” Lando yells from the couch.
“It’s soup, Lando. I think I can handle it,” Oscar calls back, shaking his head but finding himself unable to stop smiling like an idiot.
They eat side-by-side, knees knocked together. Lando is like a magnet; even with a bowl in his hand, he’s constantly finding a reason to touch Oscar, a foot hooked over Oscar's ankle, a shoulder leaning heavily into his.
Oscar realizes that he hasn’t actually known the meaning of personal space since the day he became Lando’s teammate.
But as the third episode starts, Lando’s energy begins to flicker out. He gets restless, shifting under the heavy blanket and huffing at the screen.
Oscar watches him, noticing how his eyes are starting to droop and his snarky comments are becoming half-muttered nonsense.
“Maybe you should go to bed?” Oscar asks eventually, after another heavy, bone-deep sigh.
“Mmh?” Lando mumbles, his voice thick with sleep.
“You look tired, mate. I can head out and let you get some proper rest.”
Lando’s head snaps up, his brows furrowing as he turns to look at Oscar, looking a bit more annoyed. “What d’you mean you can head out?”
“Uh.” Oscar falters.
He hadn't considered that staying over was even an option. They don’t usually do this.
They only sleep together—actual, eyes-closed sleeping—when sex has been involved and neither of them has the energy to make the trip back to their own hotel room or apartment.
When they’re just hanging out, if that’s even what this is, a sleepover isn't usually on the table.
Oscar must stay silent for a second too long, his brain trying to calculate the shift in their usual routine, because Lando’s frown only deepens.
“So?” Lando prompts, his voice getting that defensive edge again.
“I just didn’t think you’d want me to stay,” Oscar answers honestly.
He’s too tired to play games or tip-toe around the unspoken boundaries they've built over the last year.
He looks at Lando, his voice trailing off into a question. “We don’t... we don't usually do that?”
It comes out sounding more like an enquiry than a statement, like he’s waiting for Lando to either confirm the rule or break it.
Lando almost smiles, and his cheeks turn a shade darker. He clears his throat, shrugging with a sudden, forced indifference.
“Well, I can’t spend the night alone, obviously,” he says, trying to sound like it’s a matter of logistics rather than feelings.
Oscar fights the urge to roll his eyes. He knows this routine by heart. Lando would rather invent a thousand fake reasons than just say the words and ask for what he actually wants.
It makes him think back to that one night.
Everything between them had still been so new then, they’d only fucked once or twice, still testing the boundaries of whatever this was.
And Lando had just won in Miami. His first win, ever.
He’d celebrated until the sun was practically up, drenched in champagne and adrenaline and way too much tequila.
When he’d finally stumbled back to the hotel, he hadn’t gone to his own room. He’d come straight to Oscar’s.
Oscar remembers opening the door, blinking through the sleep in his eyes to find Lando standing there, smiling shyly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, rambling some absolute nonsense just because he couldn't bring himself to ask to come in. To ask to stay.
In the end, Oscar had been so tired, and so fond of him already, that he’d just reached out, grabbed Lando by the front of his shirt, and hauled him inside.
He’d kissed him until Lando was nothing but a beautiful, breathless mess against the sheets.
Yeah. Lando rarely asks for what he wants.
But tonight, Lando is sick. He’s vulnerable. And to be completely honest, he does look particularly cute in Oscar’s hoodie.
So.
Oscar doesn’t mind playing along, doesn’t mind finding out what Lando wants without asking for it.
“No?” Oscar answers, a teasing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he gently strokes Lando’s hair.
“What if I die? And nobody’s there?” Lando adds, putting on his best pathetic face.
Oscar chuckles, nodding slowly. “Makes sense, yeah. Would be tragic to die all alone in your penthouse.”
“So... you’re staying?” Lando prompts. His voice is casual, but there’s a slight tension in his shoulders while he waits for the answer.
Oscar pauses for a beat, pretending to actually weigh his options. He’s not fooling anyone, least of all himself; the second Lando asked, the debate was over.
He’d probably agree to move in if Lando asked with that specific look in his eyes.
“Yeah, alright. Since it's a life-or-death situation,” Oscar says, straightening up and and offering a hand to help Lando off the couch. “Let’s go to bed, drama queen.”
When Lando doesn’t move from the cushions, Oscar pauses and turns back, one brow raised in a silent question. “Coming?”
Instead of getting up, Lando just lifts his arms toward him, looking up with a completely shameless, expectant expression.
The realization hits Oscar instantly, making him let out a breathless laugh. “You want me to carry you? Are you for real?”
Lando doesn’t even bother defending himself. He just keeps his arms up, waiting him out with a stubborn tilt of his head.
He knows he’s already won.
“Unbelievable. You are such a baby when you’re sick,” Oscar mutters, though he’s already bending down, looping his arms firmly around Lando’s waist.
“Am not,” Lando counters, though it’s more of a muffled mumble against Oscar’s shoulder than a real protest.
“Are too, baby,” Oscar murmurs back, his tone way too fond for his own good. He huffs as he adjusts his grip. “Help me out a bit, come on.”
Lando finally cooperates, shifting just enough for Oscar to hoist him up. He hooks his legs around Oscar’s waist, clinging like a koala.
Lando isn’t particularly heavy, but Oscar isn't exactly a weightlifter either; he has to brace himself, feeling the solid weight of Lando against his chest.
It’s worth the effort, though. Lando flashes him a sleepy, toothy smile and nudges Oscar’s cheek with his nose.
He’s soft, warm, and smells like Oscar’s hoodie.
He almost sighs. Oscar is just a man. A weak man when it comes to Lando Norris.
He just wants to hide him under the sheets and keep him there forever. Is that too much to ask?
They finally collapse under the sheets, and Lando doesn’t even wait for the light to go out before he’s pressing his entire side against Oscar’s, face buried deep in the crook of his neck.
Oscar’s just staring at the ceiling, trying to get his heart rate to chill out, when Lando mumbles something into his skin.
It’s so quiet Oscar almost misses it.
“I’ll make you a key.”
Oscar blinks, his brain short-circuiting for a second. “A key?”
“Mmh,” Lando hums, shifting until he’s basically draped over Oscar like a second skin. “So next time I’m sick, you can just... help yourself in. Whatever.”
Whatever.
Oscar finds himself smiling like an idiot at the dark room. Because it’s not just about the key, isn’t it?
It’s Lando giving him something. Something new, something more.
It’s enough for now. Oscar isn't going to push him to say the actual words; he’s not that much of a prick.
He’s just happy to lie there with the realization that Lando actually wants him here.
And that there's definitely going to be a next time.