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⸻ ⸻ ⸻
⸻⸻⸻
The dream always starts the same way.
Too real.
Lando never realizes it’s a dream until it’s already over.
They’re in some quiet corner of a paddock that doesn’t exist, not quite any circuit he knows, just a blurred mix of garages and dim evening light. The noise is distant, muted, like someone turned the world down just for them. Oscar is standing close. Too close for reality. Close enough that Lando can see the faint freckles across his nose, the slight crease between his brows when he’s concentrating.
Close enough that their shoes almost touch.
“You keep doing that,” Oscar says.
His voice in the dream is softer than it ever is in real life. Not gentle, exactly, just… less guarded.
“Doing what?” Lando asks.
“Looking at me like you’re about to say something.”
Lando lets out a quiet breath. In the dream, he doesn’t feel nervous. Doesn’t overthink. Everything feels natural, like this version of them has existed for years. “Maybe I am.”
Oscar’s mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile. “Dangerous.”
“Why?”
“Because,” Oscar says, stepping closer, “you never just say something. You do something stupid first.”
Their shoulders brush.
The contact sends a warm, electric jolt straight down Lando’s spine. He doesn’t move away. Neither does Oscar. The air feels thick suddenly, charged in that way that only exists in dreams and almost-moments.
“You’re not stopping me,” Lando murmurs.
Oscar tilts his head. “Did I say I wanted to?”
That does it.
Lando’s hand lifts before he can think, fingers catching lightly at the front of Oscar’s team kit , right near the collar. The fabric bunches under his grip. Oscar’s eyes drop to the touch, then back up again, slower this time.
“Lando,” he says quietly.
It should sound like a warning.
It doesn’t.
Lando steps closer. Their chests nearly touch now, breaths mixing in the small space between them. He can feel the heat of Oscar through the thin layers of fabric, can see the way his lashes lower slightly as his gaze flicks down to Lando’s mouth.
“You gonna tell me to stop?” Lando asks softly.
Oscar doesn’t answer.
His hand lifts instead, resting lightly against Lando’s side, not pushing away, not pulling closer. Just there. Warm. Steady. Enough to make Lando’s heart start hammering.
“Thought so,” Lando whispers.
He closes the distance.
The first brush of their mouths is tentative, like both of them are testing if this is real. It’s soft. Careful. The kind of kiss that feels more like a question than anything else.
Oscar exhales against him.
Then his hand slides up, fingers curling lightly at the back of Lando’s neck, and the kiss deepens. Still slow, still warm, but certain now. Lando’s chest tightens with something almost dizzying as he leans in, pressing closer, one hand sliding from Oscar’s collar to his jaw.
Oscar kisses him back properly.
Not teasing. Not smug. Just… there. Present. Warm in a way Lando has never seen outside this dream. Their foreheads almost bump when they shift, both smiling faintly into it, breath mixing between soft, lingering kisses.
“Finally,” Lando murmurs against his mouth.
Oscar huffs a quiet laugh. “Took you long enough.”
Lando leans in again, slower this time, savoring it, the warmth, the closeness, the way Oscar’s thumb brushes once against the side of his neck. Everything feels suspended. Perfect. Like this is exactly where he’s meant to be.
“Missed you,” Lando whispers.
Oscar’s expression softens in that impossible, dream-only way. “I’m right here.”
“I know, love” Lando smiles and kisses him again.
⸻
“Oi.”
The world snaps back hard.
A hand taps his shoulder. Not gentle. Not romantic. Just enough to jolt him out of sleep.
“Lando. Wake up.”
Lando’s eyes fly open.
Bright motorhome ceiling. Narrow bunk. The faint hum of paddock generators outside. Reality hits like cold water. He blinks up, disoriented, heart still racing from the dream—
—and finds Oscar standing over him.
Very real. Very awake. Very much not soft.
Oscar’s arms are crossed, expression flat in that usual mildly-annoyed way he gets when Lando is being inconvenient. He’s already in partial team kit, headset hanging around his neck.
“You alive?” Oscar asks. “You’ve snoozed through three alarms.”
Lando stares at him.
Oscar raises an eyebrow. “Hello?”
“Oh my god,” Lando whispers before he can stop himself.
“What?”
“Nothing,” Lando says instantly, sitting up too fast and nearly smacking his head on the low ceiling. He drags a hand through his hair, trying to reset his brain. His heart is still pounding like he just ran a marathon. “Why are you in my room?”
“I knocked,” Oscar says. “You didn’t answer. Door was unlocked.” He glances around. “You sleep like you’re in a coma.”
Lando avoids eye contact. Avoids looking at Oscar’s mouth. Avoids remembering literally anything from thirty seconds ago. “Right. Cool. Thanks. You can go now.”
Oscar doesn’t move.
“You were talking,” he says.
Lando freezes.
“…What?”
“In your sleep,” Oscar says casually. “Couldn’t really hear what. Just… mumbling.”
Lando’s soul leaves his body.
He grabs the nearest hoodie and pulls it over his head just to have something to do. “Yeah, well. I do that. Normal. Human behavior.”
Oscar watches him like he’s trying to solve a puzzle, with an intrigued expression. Lando absolutely hates it. “You look weird.”
“I just woke up,” Lando snaps, voice going slightly higher than intended. He clears his throat. “Of course I look weird.”
A pause.
Oscar shrugs finally. “Briefing in fifteen,” he says. “Figured you’d want a warning before Andrea sends someone to drag you out.”
“Heroic,” Lando mutters.
Oscar turns to leave, then pauses at the door. He glances back once, expression neutral, a little sharp around the edges, nothing like the warmth from the dream.
“Try setting an alarm that actually wakes you,” he says. Then he walks out.
The door clicks shut.
Silence.
Lando slowly flops back onto the pillow and stares at the ceiling in horror.
“…Right,” he mutters to himself. “Cool. Great. Normal.”
He presses his hands over his face.
Because dream-Oscar kissing him softly in golden light is one thing.
Waking up to real Oscar standing over him with crossed arms and mild irritation is another entirely.
⸻
The briefing room is already half full when Lando walks in.
He’s determined to be normal.
Completely normal.
Unremarkable.
Unhaunted by extremely vivid dreams involving his teammate and a level of emotional intimacy that absolutely did not exist in real life or will not ever exist between them.
Normal.
He grabs a coffee on the way in, nods to a couple engineers, drops into his usual seat like nothing is wrong. Like he didn’t wake up thirty minutes ago with Oscar standing in his motorhome and the lingering phantom memory of being kissed senseless against a wall.
Normal.
Oscar walks in two minutes later.
Also normal.
Infuriatingly normal.
Too normally normal.
Freshly showered, hair still slightly damp, McLaren polo neat, tablet tucked under his arm. He gives the room a quick polite nod and takes his seat beside Lando like this is just another routine debrief and not the site of Lando’s impending psychological collapse.
“Morning, again,” Oscar says quietly, setting his tablet down.
Lando takes a sip of coffee to buy himself half a second.
“Morning.”
Good. Casual. Calm. He can do this.
Oscar glances sideways at him.
Lando keeps his eyes on the big screen at the front of the room. Telemetry graphs. Lap comparisons. Safe. Neutral. Non-threatening.
“You look tired,” Oscar says mildly.
“I slept great,” Lando says immediately.
Too immediately.
Oscar pauses. “Right.”
Lando stares harder at the telemetry screen like it personally insulted him.
Around them, engineers shuffle papers and connect laptops. Someone at the front starts pulling up data from FP2. The usual pre-briefing buzz fills the room, low voices, keyboard clicks, chair legs scraping.
Normal environment.
Professional environment.
Definitely not a place where Lando should be remembering the feeling of dream-Oscar’s hand in his hair.
He grips his coffee cup a little tighter.
It felt so good to be loved like that.
“Did you get my setup notes from yesterday?” Oscar asks quietly, businesslike.
“Yes,” Lando says. Good. Racing talk. Safe topic. “Yeah. I— I looked through them last night.”
He risks a glance sideways.
Big mistake.
Oscar is already looking at him.
Not smiling. Not teasing. Just… watching, slightly curious, like he’s trying to solve a puzzle.
Lando’s stomach flips.
“Everything alright?” Oscar asks.
“Yes,” Lando says again, too fast. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
Oscar’s mouth twitches faintly. “You’re gripping that coffee like it’s about to escape.”
Lando immediately loosens his grip. Then realizes that makes it obvious. Then awkwardly re-grips it in what he hopes is a casual manner.
Cool as a cat, Lando.
Across the table, one of the engineers glances between them briefly, clearly sensing something off.
Great.
Fantastic.
Perfect.
The briefing officially starts. Data appears on the screen. Their performance engineer begins talking through lap deltas. Everyone turns their attention forward.
Lando tries. He really does.
He nods at the right moments. Asks a question about tire warm-up. Even cracks a small joke about sector two that gets a couple quiet laughs. On the surface, he’s completely fine.
Inside, his brain is running two parallel tracks:
Track A: Professional racing driver. Listening. Engaged. Focused.
Track B: You literally dreamed about kissing your teammate against a wall and then woke up with him in your room. You also wished he would have kept kissing you for longer, either versions of him.
He shifts in his chair.
Oscar notices.
Of course he notices.
“You’re fidgeting,” Oscar murmurs under his breath without looking at him.
“I always fidget,” Lando mutters back.
“Not like that.”
Lando goes still immediately.
Across the table, another engineer glances up again. Then another. There’s a subtle shift in the room, that almost imperceptible team awareness when something is slightly off between drivers.
Lando can feel it.
Great. Now everyone thinks he’s weird.
He tries to focus harder on the screen. Fuel numbers. Strategy options. Anything.
Then Oscar leans slightly closer to see something on Lando’s tablet.
It’s a small movement. Innocent. Practical.
But it brings him just a bit too close.
Close enough that Lando can feel the faint warmth of him. Smell clean shampoo and the ever-present trace of garage air. Close enough to feel his breath land on the side of Lando’s neck. Close enough that his brain, traitor that it is, flashes back to the dream — the almost-kiss, the soft voice, the soft breaths, the—
He inhales sharply.
Oscar immediately leans back.
“…Okay,” Oscar murmurs, now definitely suspicious. “What is wrong with you today?”
“Nothing,” Lando whispers, staring straight ahead. “Absolutely nothing. Never been more normal in my life.”
Oscar watches him for a long second.
Then, very quietly: “Did I do something?”
The question hits harder than it should.
Lando turns his head slightly. Oscar isn’t teasing. He looks genuinely unsure, brows faintly drawn, voice low enough that no one else can hear.
And suddenly Lando feels worse.
Because Oscar has no idea.
None.
He’s just existing. Breathing. Sitting too close and being unfairly attractive and completely unaware that Lando’s brain has betrayed him.
“No,” Lando says quickly, softer this time. “No. You didn’t do anything.”
Oscar studies him a moment longer. Searching.
Then he nods once, accepting it, at least on the surface.
“Alright,” he says quietly.
They both turn back to the screen.
The briefing continues.
But the weird tension lingers, subtle but noticeable. A couple engineers exchange quick glances. Their performance coach looks between them once, faintly puzzled. It’s not dramatic, just enough that people can tell something’s… off.
Lando can feel every second of it.
He forces himself to contribute more. Asks another technical question. Makes a comment about balance mid-corner. Anything to look normal.
Beside him, Oscar has gone very composed. Professional. Focused forward.
But once, just once, Lando catches him glancing sideways.
Not confused now.
Not suspicious.
Something else.
Something almost thoughtful.
And Lando immediately looks back at the screen, heart pounding again, because he has the horrible, sinking feeling that whatever weird energy is hanging between them…
…it’s not just in his head anymore.
——
The briefing ends forty minutes later.
Chairs scrape back. Laptops close. Engineers cluster into small groups to discuss setup changes and run plans. The room fills with low conversation and the rustle of papers.
Lando stays seated a moment longer than necessary, pretending to scroll through data on his tablet. In reality he’s just trying to let his pulse settle before he has to stand up and exist like a normal human being again.
Beside him, Oscar is packing up calmly. Tablet into his bag. Pen clipped neatly into place. Every movement precise, controlled.
Normal.
Always so annoyingly normal.
“Simulator later?” Oscar asks, like nothing in the past hour has been strange at all.
“Yeah,” Lando says. “After lunch.”
Oscar nods. Slings his bag over his shoulder.
Then he hesitates.
It’s subtle. Most people wouldn’t notice. But Lando does, because he’s hyper-aware of everything Oscar does right now in a way that is deeply unhelpful.
“You sure you’re alright?” Oscar asks quietly.
There’s no teasing in it this time. Just genuine concern.
Lando forces a small grin. “You’ve asked me that like four times.”
“And you’ve given the same weird answer every time.”
Lando opens his mouth. Closes it again. Because what is he supposed to say?
Sorry mate, I had an extremely realistic dream where you pinned me to a wall and looked at me like I was something you wanted and kissed me six ways to Sunday and now my brain can’t reboot.
Yeah. No.
“I just slept weird,” he settles on. “That’s all.”
Oscar studies him for a second longer than is comfortable. His eyes flick briefly to Lando’s mouth, then back up again so fast it might’ve been imagined.
“Right,” he says finally.
They stand at the same time.
Immediately almost bump shoulders.
Both stop.
There’s a tiny, awkward shuffle as they try to move around each other in the narrow space between chairs. Lando steps left. Oscar steps the same way. They pause. Then both try the other direction.
For half a second they’re just… standing there. Too close. Not touching. But very aware of each other.
One of the engineers walking past gives them a quick amused look before continuing out.
Lando feels his face heat.
Oscar clears his throat softly and steps back to let Lando pass first. “After you.”
“Cheers.”
Lando walks out of the briefing room trying very hard not to think about how aware he is of Oscar right behind him.
⸻
The paddock is bright and busy outside. Media milling around. Team members moving with purpose. The familiar controlled chaos of a race weekend.
It should ground him.
Usually it does.
Today it does not.
They walk side by side toward the McLaren hospitality without really talking. Not awkward exactly — just… charged. Like something unsaid is hovering between them.
At the entrance, a couple mechanics greet them.
“Good session this morning, boys” one says. “Balance looked strong.”
“Felt decent,” Oscar replies easily.
Lando nods, forcing himself into race-mode conversation. “Yeah, long run pace was better than yesterday.”
Normal. Racing talk. Safe.
They grab drinks from the fridge and lean briefly against the counter while discussing tire deg. A few engineers join. The conversation turns fully technical.
For ten blessed minutes, everything feels normal again.
Then one of the younger mechanics, completely oblivious, grins at them and says, “You two were proper in sync out there today.”
Lando nearly chokes on his drink.
Oscar just raises an eyebrow. “That’s… generally the goal.”
“Yeah but like,” the mechanic continues, gesturing between them, “on track and off. You’re always together lately. Proper duo.”
Lando stares very hard at the label on his bottle.
Oscar gives a short, polite smile. “We’re teammates.”
“Sure,” the mechanic says, clearly unconvinced but not pushing further. He gets called away a second later and disappears toward the garage.
Silence settles for a beat.
Lando exhales slowly. “People are weird.”
“People observe patterns,” Oscar replies mildly.
Lando glances at him. “You saying there’s a pattern?”
Oscar takes a sip of his drink. Doesn’t answer immediately. Just looks out through the hospitality glass toward the garage.
Then, casually: “You’ve been avoiding looking at me all day.”
Lando almost drops the bottle.
“I have not.”
“You have.”
“I literally have not.”
Oscar finally looks at him, one eyebrow slightly raised. “You just looked at the fridge while denying it.”
Lando presses his lips together.
Because… okay. Maybe.
“Alright,” Oscar says quietly, not unkind. “Did something happen?”
The question lands heavier this time. Less casual. More direct.
Lando opens his mouth with another automatic deflection ready.
Nothing comes out.
Because the truth is sitting right there, stubborn and embarrassing and impossible to explain without sounding insane.
Oscar watches him. Waiting. Patient, but intent.
The paddock noise hums around them, distant engines, voices, radio chatter, but inside the little space between them it feels oddly quiet.
Lando exhales.
“…I had a weird dream,” he mutters.
Oscar blinks. Clearly not the answer he expected. “Okay.”
“And it’s just—” Lando gestures vaguely. “You know when you wake up and it feels real for a bit and then your brain doesn’t catch up properly and you’re just… off?”
Oscar considers that.
Then nods slowly. “Yeah. Happens.”
Relief flickers through Lando’s chest. Small but real.
“Right,” he says. “So. That’s all.”
Oscar studies him for another moment. Like he’s deciding whether to push further.
He doesn’t.
“Fair enough,” he says quietly.
They stand there a second longer. Not tense now. Just… aware.
Then someone calls Oscar from across the hospitality.
He pushes off the counter. “Simulator later,” he says.
“Yeah,” Lando replies.
Oscar hesitates half a second before leaving. Just long enough to glance at him once more, something thoughtful in his expression again.
Then he’s gone, heading toward the garage.
Lando stays where he is, staring down at his half-empty bottle.
He tells himself it’s fine.
Totally fine.
Just a weird dream.
Nothing real.
Except for the small, traitorous part of his brain that keeps replaying the way Oscar looked at him just now, not confused, not teasing.
Just… quietly curious.
——
The simulator room is always dim.
Low lights. Screens glowing. The constant hum of machines and cooling fans filling the space with a steady, almost hypnotic sound. It’s usually one of Lando’s favorite places in the paddock — controlled, quiet, predictable.
Today, it feels like a trap.
He’s already strapped into the sim when Oscar walks in.
Lando hears him before he sees him, the soft thud of the door closing, the faint rustle of fabric as Oscar shrugs off his jacket. There’s a chair set up just behind the rig where the other driver usually sits during shared sessions.
It creaks softly as Oscar drops into it.
“Ready?” one of the sim engineers asks through the headset.
“Yeah,” Lando replies automatically.
A few setup adjustments. Steering calibration. Run plan explained. Then the virtual track loads around him, bright and precise across the curved screens.
He focuses on driving.
He really does.
For a while, it works.
Corners. Braking points. Tire management. His mind slips into the familiar rhythm of it, data and instinct blending until everything else fades into the background.
But he can still feel Oscar behind him.
Not touching. Not speaking. Just… there.
Watching.
The first run ends after twelve laps.
“Alright, box,” the engineer says. “Good baseline. Let’s pause and talk through front-end response.”
The sim freezes. Engine sound cuts.
The headset lifts slightly off one ear so he can hear the room.
The engineer starts discussing adjustments, pointing at data on the monitor to the side. Lando nods along, responding where needed. It’s normal. Technical. Safe.
Then the engineer gets called out of the room to check something with the performance group.
“I’ll be two minutes,” he says, slipping out.
The door closes.
Silence settles.
Lando stares straight ahead at the frozen virtual track. Hands still loosely resting on the wheel.
Behind him, the chair creaks softly.
Oscar shifts.
“…Was it a nightmare?”
The question is quiet. Careful. No signs of teasing.
Lando’s grip tightens slightly on the steering wheel.
He lets out a small breath through his nose. “What?”
“The dream,” Oscar says. “Earlier.”
He sounds almost hesitant now, like he’s not sure if he’s crossing a line but asking anyway.
Lando swallows. Keeps his eyes on the screen. “No.”
A pause.
“Just weird,” he adds quickly. “Not bad-weird. Just… confusing.”
Another small creak of the chair as Oscar leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees.
Lando can feel the shift in proximity without seeing it.
“Confusing how?” Oscar asks.
God. He’s persistent.
Lando huffs a quiet, half-laugh. “You’re really stuck on this, huh?”
“You’ve been off all day,” Oscar replies simply. “I’m trying to figure out if I did something.”
That makes Lando’s chest twist unexpectedly.
He finally glances back over his shoulder.
Oscar’s sitting there in the low light, forearms braced on his thighs, looking at him with that same steady, searching expression from earlier. No smirk. No sarcasm. Just genuine concern — and curiosity.
“You didn’t do anything,” Lando says quickly. “It’s not— you didn’t.”
Oscar studies his face like he’s checking for cracks in that statement.
“…Was I in it?” he asks after a moment.
Lando’s brain short-circuits.
He turns back around so fast it’s almost mechanical. “What? No. I mean—” He fumbles. “Not like— it wasn’t—”
Smooth. Brilliant. Incredible recovery.
Behind him, Oscar goes very still.
Then, softly: “So I was.”
Lando drops his head back against the seat for half a second. Mortified. “This is so embarrassing.”
Oscar doesn’t laugh.
That might be worse.
Another small silence stretches between them, thick but not uncomfortable exactly, just… charged with something Lando doesn’t want to name.
“Was I mean?” Oscar asks.
The question is so unexpectedly gentle that Lando’s chest tightens.
He glances back again.
Oscar’s still leaning forward slightly, watching him in the dim simulator glow. There’s a faint crease between his brows now. Almost cautious.
“No,” Lando says quietly. “You weren’t mean.”
“…Right.”
Oscar sits back a fraction, processing that.
He doesn’t push immediately. Doesn’t make a joke. Just lets the answer sit there between them.
Then, after a moment: “So why’re you embarrassed?”
Lando stares at the frozen track again. The glowing racing line. The still grandstands.
Because you were soft.
Because you looked at me like you wanted me.
Because I woke up and for a second I thought it was real.
He swallows.
“…It just felt real,” he admits finally. “That’s all.”
Behind him, Oscar goes quiet.
Not uncomfortable quiet. Thinking quiet.
The simulator hum fills the space again. Low and steady.
After a few seconds, Oscar exhales softly through his nose.
“…Those are the worst ones,” he says.
Lando glances back.
Oscar’s expression is unreadable in the low light. Calm, but distant for a second, like he’s recalling something of his own.
Then he notices Lando looking and straightens slightly, composure sliding back into place.
The door opens just then as the engineer returns.
“Alright, let’s try another run,” he says, oblivious to the tension he’s walking back into.
Lando turns forward quickly, resetting his grip on the wheel.
Behind him, Oscar leans back in the chair again. Quiet. Controlled. Back to normal.
But the air between them feels different now.
More aware.
More real.
⸻
The second run is worse.
Not because of the sim, the car feels fine. Predictable. Stable through the high-speed sections. He hits his marks, adjusts braking points, gives feedback when asked.
From the outside, he looks completely in his element.
Inside, he’s hyper-aware of everything.
The weight of the headset.
The pressure of the seat harness.
Oscar sitting behind him.
Every time he speaks to the engineer, he can feel Oscar listening. Every time he shifts in the seat, he’s aware of the space between them, small, enclosed, impossible to ignore.
They don’t talk again while the session runs.
It’s almost easier that way.
Almost.
“Box, box.”
The sim slows. Stops. Screens fade slightly as the run ends.
Lando pulls the headset halfway off, rubbing a hand over his face. “Front’s better,” he says automatically. “Still a bit of mid-corner understeer, but manageable.”
“Yeah, we see that,” the engineer replies. “Let’s call it there for now.”
Harness unclipped. Steering released. The usual post-run routine.
The engineer starts packing up some notes, already half-focused on the next driver rotation. “Good session,” he says. “Oscar, you’re up in twenty?”
“Yeah,” Oscar answers.
Lando climbs out of the rig, stretching slightly as his feet hit the floor. He grabs his water bottle from the side table, takes a long drink, mostly to give himself something to do with his hands.
He turns.
Oscar is already standing.
They’re closer than expected, only a step or two between them in the tight simulator space. Close enough that Lando has to tilt his head slightly to meet his eyes.
For a second, neither speaks.
Then Oscar says, quietly, “You called me ‘love.’”
Lando nearly inhales his own water.
He coughs once, sharply, lowering the bottle. “I— what?”
“This morning,” Oscar says. Still calm. Still steady. “When you woke up.”
Oh. God.
Heat crawls instantly up Lando’s neck. “You heard that?”
“Hard not to,” Oscar replies.
There’s no mockery in his voice. No smirk. If anything, he sounds… careful.
Which somehow makes it worse.
“I was half asleep,” Lando says quickly. “Didn’t know you were there. Brain wasn’t on. Just— dream carryover. You know. Happens.”
Oscar watches him for a moment.
Not convinced. Not unconvinced. Just… watching.
“Right,” he says.
Lando shifts his weight. Takes another unnecessary sip of water. Puts the bottle down. Picks it up again. Anything to avoid that steady gaze.
“You could’ve pretended you didn’t hear it,” he mutters.
Oscar’s mouth twitches slightly at that. Almost a smile. “Thought about it.”
“Yeah? And?”
“You looked like you were going to pass out already,” Oscar says. “Didn’t want to push it.”
That actually pulls a quiet laugh out of Lando despite himself. He rubs the back of his neck. “Appreciated.”
A small silence settles between them again.
Not awkward this time.
Oscar shifts a step closer to the simulator rig, setting his hands lightly on the edge of it. Casual. Grounded. But he doesn’t break eye contact.
“…So,” he says after a moment. “In the dream.”
Lando groans softly. “We’re still talking about this?”
“You called me ‘love,’” Oscar repeats mildly. “I’m curious.”
Lando drags a hand down his face. Considers lying. Considers deflecting. Considers walking straight out of the room.
Instead, he sighs.
“It wasn’t—” He stops. Starts again. “It was just… one of those dreams where everything feels normal even if it isn’t. Like your brain just decides something’s real and goes with it.”
Oscar listens quietly.
“And?” he prompts.
Lando hesitates.
Then, quietly: “…We were together.”
There. Said.
He watches Oscar’s face carefully for a reaction, a laugh, confusion, anything.
Oscar just blinks once. Slow.
“…Together,” he repeats.
“Yeah,” Lando says, forcing a shrug that isn’t very convincing. “Not like, dramatic. Just… normal. Close. You were being…” He searches for a safer word. “…nice.”
Oscar’s mouth twitches again, faintly. “I am nice.”
“Not like that,” Lando says before he can stop himself.
Silence.
Oh. Brilliant.
He closes his eyes briefly. “Forget I said that.”
But when he opens them again, Oscar isn’t offended. Or annoyed.
If anything, he looks… pleased.
He shifts his weight slightly, leaning one hip against the sim rig now, arms loosely folded.
“…In the dream,” Oscar says slowly, “was I… different with you?”
The question lands softly. Carefully.
Lando’s throat feels dry again.
“Yeah,” he admits.
Another quiet pause.
Then Oscar nods once, like he’s filing that information somewhere private. Processing it without judgment.
He pushes off the sim rig, straightening.
“Well,” he says lightly, composure sliding back into place. “Next time you dream about me, try not to say it out loud.”
Lando huffs a breath of laughter. “Trust me. I will.”
Oscar’s lips curve, just barely, before he turns toward the door.
But as he reaches it, he pauses.
Glances back.
And for a split second, his expression softens into something Lando has never seen from him before. Something quieter. Almost curious.
“…Did you like it?” Oscar asks.
Lando’s brain goes completely blank.
Oscar holds his gaze for exactly one second longer.
Then he opens the door and steps out into the corridor, leaving Lando standing there in the dim simulator room with his heart doing something dangerously close to a qualifying lap.
⸻
The next Grand Prix weekend arrived faster than Lando had expected.
Thursday morning in the paddock, he tried to appear calm. Tried being normal. Tried everything he could think of.
Then he spotted Oscar leaning against the McLaren hospitality railing, coffee in hand, sunglasses tucked into his hair, casually chatting with an engineer.
And the second their eyes met, Lando knew he was doomed.
Oscar’s gaze swept over him, slow, deliberate, like he could see straight through him. Then a small, almost imperceptible smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Oh no.
Lando tried to act casual as Oscar approached. He could feel his cheeks warming, his stomach doing that very inconvenient twist.
“Morning,” Oscar said, voice easy, tone teasing without a word of explanation.
“Hi,” Lando managed, forcing a shrug, backpack strap sliding up as he adjusted it unnecessarily. “Morning. Race weekend.”
Oscar’s eyes narrowed slightly, just enough to look like he was studying him. Lando’s stomach tightened.
“You sleep alright?” Oscar asked, casually, taking a sip of his coffee.
Lando blinked. “What?”
“Sleep,” Oscar repeated, grin flickering. “You looked… tired last time.”
Lando’s heart skipped. He forced a laugh. “Yeah. Fine. Normal. Totally normal sleep. Nothing weird.”
Oscar hummed thoughtfully, clearly not buying it.
“No weird dreams lately?” he asked.
Lando choked slightly on his own breath. Why is he like this?
“I—no, nothing weird,” Lando said quickly, trying to sound casual, trying very, very hard not to betray how flustered he actually was.
Oscar’s smirk deepened, small and utterly infuriating. “Good. Just making sure you’re keeping your head in the game.”
Lando wanted to protest, but all he could do was mutter, “You’re enjoying this far too much.”
“Maybe a little,” Oscar admitted, tilting his head in that way that made Lando want to crawl under the nearest table.
They walked toward the garage, and Lando felt every step like a countdown to embarrassment. He kept glancing at Oscar, who seemed perfectly calm, perfectly collected… and perfectly aware of the effect he was having.
“You’re flustered,” Oscar said suddenly, voice soft, amused.
“I am not,” Lando replied immediately.
Oscar let out a quiet laugh, a teasing glimmer in his eyes. “Sure you’re not.”
Lando groaned internally, trying to focus on the ground ahead of him.
“Relax,” Oscar said, leaning slightly closer. “It’s fine. You don’t have to act normal around me.”
Don’t have to act normal… Lando’s brain short-circuited. He cleared his throat. “I… I am normal.”
Oscar’s grin widened, just slightly, enough to make Lando’s face heat up further. “Yeah, you are. Definitely. Totally normal.”
The engineers didn’t notice. The bustle of the garage swallowed them up. But Lando couldn’t stop feeling every inch of his embarrassment pressed against his skin, and Oscar, as always, seemed to revel in it.
And Lando, against all odds, couldn’t even hate it.
⸻
By mid-morning, Lando had more or less accepted that he was in trouble. Oscar’s calm, teasing presence was impossible to ignore, and every little glance or casual lean made him flustered in ways he hadn’t anticipated.
As they walked past the McLaren hospitality, Lando tried to sound casual. “Careful, Oscar. People might start talking.”
Oscar’s smirk lifted, slow and deliberate, but he didn’t say anything immediately. He let the pause hang just long enough to make Lando’s stomach tighten. “People talk anyway,” he finally murmured, voice easy, teasing. And if Lando wasn’t feeling embarrassed enough, Oscar took the opportunity to throw his right arm over Lando’s shoulders.
Lando blinked, feeling the heat creep up his neck. “Yeah, but—” He cut himself off, gesturing vaguely toward the pit lane, “—don’t give them extra material.”
Oscar’s grin widened, that quiet sort of amusement that made Lando’s chest tighten. “Noted,” he said softly, tilting his head in a way that gave Lando no choice but to turn to him, neck still touching the heated skin of the younger’s bicep. He wished he could just let himself enjoy it, being so close to each other.
They leaned on the pit wall, ostensibly observing the team’s work in the hospitality, though Lando kept finding excuses to glance at Oscar. The quiet energy between them was suddenly noticeable to everyone around, though Lando desperately hoped it wasn’t obvious.
It was.
⸻
By Friday evening, the paddock had quieted down, and the hum of the Grand Prix weekend had softened. Lando was in his hotel room, sprawled on the bed with his laptop open, trying to review some notes, but his mind kept wandering back to earlier that day. Every glance, every touch and smirk from Oscar kept replaying in his head, making concentration impossible.
His phone buzzed on the bedside table. He reached for it and froze slightly when he saw the message.
Oscar:
Ordering room service. Want to join?
Lando blinked, caught off guard, and then smiled. He typed back quickly:
Lando:
sure
be there in 2 mins
Oscar:
👍
Don’t take too long
I’m starving
By the time Lando knocked on Oscar’s door, it was open before he could ring the bell. Oscar leaned casually against the frame, a tray stacked with food in his hands and that easy grin he always wore.
“Lando,” he said, voice light, “glad you could escape your room and join the feast,”
“Yeah, yeah,” Lando muttered, smile unable to leave his face. The room smelled delicious, and the tray was piled with burgers, fries, little sandwiches, and enough sauces to start a small condiment empire.
Oscar set it down and gestured to the small table. “Sit. Don’t hover like you’re still in the garage.”
Lando laughed, lowering himself onto the chair. “I don’t hover. I… supervise. Big difference.”
Oscar rolled his eyes. “Sure, whatever you say, chief.”
They dug in, sharing bites, passing fries back and forth, and teasing each other over the smallest things.
“You’re supposed to be helping me with strategy, not stealing my fries,” Lando said between bites, holding up a hand dramatically.
“I am helping,” Oscar replied, grinning. “Teaching you the art of negotiation.”
“You’re ridiculous,” Lando laughed, shoving a fry toward him.
“And you’re too easy to annoy,” Oscar shot back, snatching it anyway. Lando groaned, throwing his hands up, and Oscar laughed so hard he had to clutch the table.
They talked about everything and nothing—team gossip, the funniest moments from the track, who’d made the worst coffee, how someone had managed to spill an entire box of tools (Lando almost cried laughing when he remembered how one tool ended in the livery during that one practice session). Every time one of them made a joke, the other doubled over laughing, sometimes snorting, sometimes flailing arms around dramatically.
At one point, Lando caught himself mid-laugh, staring at Oscar for just a second too long. Oscar noticed, smirked knowingly, and muttered, “Caught you.”
“Did not!” Lando protested, though his grin betrayed him.
“Totally did,” Oscar replied, laughing again. “Eyes say everything.”
The tray slowly emptied, their stomachs full, but neither of them seemed to care. They were too busy laughing at the ridiculousness of the evening, laughing so much that the room felt warmer, louder, and lighter than it had all week.
Finally, Lando leaned back, wiping his hands. “Alright, you win. This was… actually a lot of fun.”
Oscar grinned, leaning back in his chair. “Of course it was. Admit it, you secretly love my terrible jokes.”
“I admit nothing,” Lando shot back, but he laughed anyway.
Lando knew he was done for.
⸻
As soon as the room service tray was cleared, Lando eyed the extra controller Oscar had left on the bed, after he had proudly announced that he brought his console with him.
“Seriously? You’re challenging me at FIFA now?” Lando asked, raising an eyebrow.
Oscar smirked, sliding onto the edge of the bed. “Of course. I have to make sure you’re not just good at dodging paddock photographers.”
Lando rolled his eyes but settled beside him, gripping the controller. “Prepare to be demolished.”
“Oh, this is going to be fun,” Oscar said, grinning.
The game started, and immediately they were shouting and laughing at each other’s ridiculous mistakes. Lando tried a fancy trick, only to spin out and let Oscar score easily.
“No way! That was cheating!” Lando exclaimed, throwing his head back in laughter.
“Skill, my friend. Pure skill,” Oscar teased, nudging him lightly.
They bantered nonstop, teasing each other about every move. Lando tried to get revenge, snatching the controller when Oscar got distracted by a message on his phone, but Oscar grabbed it back with a laugh. Soon, they were doubled over in laughter, shoulders brushing as they fought for the next goal.
“Okay, okay, truce,” Lando gasped, holding up his hands. “Or we’re both going to break the controller in fits of rage.”
“Too late,” Oscar said with a grin, scooting closer so their legs were brushing. “We’re in too deep now.”
Neither of them noticed how tired they were becoming. They kept joking, swapping controllers, laughing at their own terrible plays, until Lando yawned, mid-complaint about one of Oscar’s goals.
“You’re… going… down…” he mumbled, voice trailing off, eyes already half-shut.
Oscar snorted, nudging him gently. “Sure, sure.” He yawned too, slumping back against the headboard.
The controllers fell onto the bed somewhere between laughter and exhaustion, and soon the jokes turned into quiet chuckles, then soft sighs, until both of them were curled up on the bed, half-on, half-off the pillows, the game paused and forgotten.
By the time the hotel room was quiet, they were asleep, still tangled up in blankets.
Lando fell asleep thinking that maybe, it would be nice to have this, Oscar smiling at him, being happy, together.
⸻
Lando drifted into sleep, and the paddock, the hotel, the world itself faded away. He found himself lying back on a soft bed, sheets tangled around him, warm and heavy. And there was Oscar, leaning over him with that slow, infuriating grin, the one that made every nerve in Lando’s body hum.
“You’ve been thinking about me all day,” Oscar murmured, his voice low and teasing, one hand brushing a strand of hair from Lando’s forehead. “Careful… you might give yourself away.”
“I… maybe,” Lando admitted, chest tightening as he reached for Oscar, tugging gently at the hem of his shirt. “Maybe I’ve been thinking a lot.”
Oscar’s grin deepened, lips hovering just above Lando’s. “Oh? And what exactly have you been thinking about?”
Lando’s breath caught. “You… like this,” he whispered, voice shaky, eyes half-lidded. “Being here with you.”
“Mm,” Oscar hummed, brushing a soft kiss across Lando’s cheek, lingering near the corner of his lips. “I like the sound of that.”
Lando shivered, arching instinctively as Oscar’s hand moved slowly across his torso, teasing just enough to make him catch his breath. “Oscar… I…” he stammered, hands threading into Oscar’s hair. “I can’t… I can’t stop.”
“I know,” Oscar murmured, lips trailing down Lando’s neck, teasing, playful. “I’ve been thinking about this too… about you.”
“I… I need you,” Lando breathed, hips shifting, body on fire with want. “Oscar… please…”
“Shh,” Oscar whispered, lips brushing lightly along Lando’s chest, tracing patterns that made him tremble, fingers threading through the soft curls at the nape of Lando’s neck. “Relax. I’m right here.”
Lando’s heart pounded, every nerve alive with sensation. “I… I want… I can’t… you…” His words trailed off, lost in gasps and half-formed moans.
Oscar smiled softly, brushing a hand down Lando’s side and tugging lightly at his curls as he leaned closer. “I can feel how hard you are… how much you need me,” he murmured, voice low, warm. “God, you feel perfect.”
Lando arched instinctively, hands clutching at Oscar’s shirt, pulling him closer, trying to grind even harder into Oscar’s thigh. “Oscar… please…” he gasped. “I… I can’t hold it…”
“Don’t,” Oscar said, pressing his thigh closer to Lando’s dick, brushing lips along Lando’s collarbone and chest, trailing gentle kisses lower, teasing, never rushing, tugging at Lando’s curls in rhythm with each tremble. “Let me make you feel good, Lan.”
Lando’s body trembled, mind swirling in a haze of heat and want. Every touch, every whisper, every teasing kiss sent shivers rippling through him. He felt the tension building, inch by inch, breath catching, heart hammering, so close he could hardly think.
“I… I’m—so close…” Lando moaned, voice breaking, body trembling. “Oscar…”
“I know,” Oscar murmured, brushing through his curls again, tugging gently when Lando shivered, coaxing him with steady, warm hands. “I can feel it too,”
Hands tangled in each other, hips shifting instinctively, Lando could feel every inch of himself pressed toward the edge. Oscar’s lips, his hands in his hair, the way he whispered and teased—it was everything Lando had ever imagined, and more.
“I… Oscar…” Lando gasped, body coiled tight with anticipation, mind swimming, heart pounding. “I… I’m—”
And then, just as the tension was about to spill over, as Lando’s body trembled and he teetered on the brink, fingers clenching into Oscar’s curls… he woke up with a start.
⸻
Lando’s dream lingered like smoke in his mind—Oscar’s hands in his curls, the teasing whispers, the closeness, the heat. In the dream, everything felt so vivid, so real, so… consuming. He felt himself get caught up in it, every nerve alive, every thought focused entirely on Oscar.
The silence of the room was heavy, broken only by the ragged, uneven sound of Lando’s own breathing. His skin felt several degrees too hot for his body, the ghost of the dream still clinging to him like a fever. He was certain that if he opened his eyes, the sheer force of his blush would illuminate the dark hotel room.
He didn't just cover his face; he pressed his palms into his eyes until he saw stars, trying to physically push the images of dream-Oscar back into the depths of his subconscious.
"Lando."
The voice was too close.
Lando flinched, a small, choked sound escaping his throat. He hadn't heard Oscar move. He hadn't heard the rustle of sheets. But suddenly, the edge of his bed dipped, and a hand—cool, steady, and very real—brushed against his wrist.
"Go away," Lando croaked, his voice thick. "Go back to sleep. I’m dying. Just let me die in peace."
"You’re not dying," Oscar murmured. His tone wasn't teasing now. It was low, vibrating with a gravity that made Lando’s dick twitch. "But you are shaking. And you’re making noises that I’m pretty sure aren't about FIFA."
Oscar’s fingers hooked around Lando’s wrists. He didn't yank; he applied a slow, insistent pressure, pulling Lando’s hands away from his face. Lando fought it for a second, his muscles locked in pure, unadulterated shame, but Oscar was patient. One by one, he pried Lando’s fingers back until Lando was forced to look at him.
In the dim light of the city glowing through the curtains, Oscar looked devastating. His hair was a mess from sleep, his eyes dark and dilated, fixed entirely on Lando’s flushed face.
"Your heart is going through your chest," Oscar whispered, his eyes flicking down to Lando’s throat, then back up. He didn't let go of Lando’s wrists. He pinned them lightly against the pillow, leaning over him until their noses almost touched. "Tell me what you were dreaming about."
"I can't," Lando breathed, his eyes darting everywhere but Oscar’s mouth. "Oscar, please. It was just—I’m tired. My brain is weird—"
"You called me 'love' again," Oscar interrupted. His voice dropped to a near-silent register, the kind that made the fine hairs on Lando’s arms stand up. "And you looked like you were in pain. Or like you were being properly fucked."
Oscar’s gaze searched Lando’s, dropping the last of his playful armor. The air between them was so thick it felt like it could snap.
"Lando," Oscar said, his thumb grazing the pulse point on Lando’s wrist. "Did you really want it to be real?"
The honesty of the question broke Lando’s remaining defenses. He couldn't lie, not when Oscar was looking at him like he was the only thing in the world that mattered. Lando gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.
The shift in the room was instantaneous.
Oscar didn't hesitate. With one smooth, decisive motion, he reached down and gripped the edge of the heavy hotel duvet, flinging it back. The rush of cool air hit Lando’s heated skin, making him shiver, the outline of his cock visible, and to his embarrassment, he couldn’t help but twitch.
Oscar moved, swung a leg over, settling himself firmly over Lando’s thighs, their cocks rubbing a little against each other. The weight was grounding and overwhelming all at once. Oscar sat up, his knees bracketed on either side of Lando’s hips, his hands sliding from Lando’s wrists up to his shoulders, then finally cupping his neck.
"Oscar," Lando gasped, his hands instinctively coming up to rest on Oscar’s waist, gripping the soft fabric of his t-shirt.
"If we're doing this," Oscar whispered, leaning down so his lips brushed against Lando’s ear, "we’re doing it for real. No more dreams."
He shifted, his body weight pressing down on Lando’s cock as he began a slow, rhythmic grind against the older. The friction was electric, the heat of their bodies meeting through the thin layers of their clothes. It was exactly like the dream, but a thousand times sharper—the scent of Oscar’s skin, the sound of his hitching breath, the solid reality of him, the precum staining the front of their boxer.
Lando let out a broken moan, his head falling back against the pillow as he arched into the contact. His fingers dug into Oscar’s hips, guiding him, needing that pressure more than he needed his next breath.
Oscar let out a low, guttural huff of a laugh against Lando’s neck, his teeth grazing the skin there. "Better than the dream?"
"Shut up," Lando choked out, pulling Oscar down by the back of his neck to finally, finally kill the distance between their mouths. "Just… don’t stop."
⸻
The kiss wasn’t like the one in the dream.
The dream had been golden and soft, a hazy question asked in a quiet corner. This was an answer, it was loud, desperate, and crashing into reality with the force of a high-speed collision. Lando pulled Oscar down by the neck, his fingers tangling in those dark curls with a frantic grip, and Oscar met him with a groan that vibrated straight through Lando’s chest.
It was messy. It was teeth and tongue and the salt-sweet taste of skin. It was the sound of Oscar’s heavy breathing filling the small gap between them and the frantic rhythm of Lando’s heart finally finding its match.
Oscar shifted his weight, his thighs bracketing Lando’s hips, and began to move again, after pulling both of their boxers down. The friction was agonizingly perfect. With nothing separating their leakig cocks, every slide of Oscar’s body against his felt like a live wire sparking. Lando’s head thrashed back against the pillow, his eyes fluttering shut as a jagged breath hitched in his throat.
"Osc—" Lando gasped into the kiss, his hands sliding down from Oscar’s hair to grip the hem of his shirt, pulling the fabric taut. "God, you ruin me"
“You’re perfect,darling" Oscar murmured against his lips, his voice wrecked, stripped of all its usual Aussie dry wit. He pulled back just an inch, his forehead resting against Lando's, his eyes dark with a hunger that made Lando feel like he was melting into the mattress. "All for me, Lando"
Oscar’s hands, usually so steady on a steering wheel, were trembling slightly as they slid down Lando’s sides. He pressed his palms flat against the bed, using the leverage to grind down harder, more purposeful.
Lando’s back arched, his hips rising instinctively to meet Oscar’s cock. A broken, high-pitched sound escaped him—a sound he would have been mortified by twenty minutes ago, but now he only wanted to repeat it. He wanted Oscar to hear exactly what he was doing to him. He wanted Oscar to know that the dream hadn't even come close to the real thing.
"You're so red," Oscar whispered, his gaze tracing the flush that had spread from Lando’s cheeks down to the collar of his shirt. He leaned down, his nose brushing against the sensitive skin of Lando’s neck, and inhaled deeply. "You wanted this for forever. Admit it."
"I hate you," Lando breathed, though his hands were busy pulling Oscar’s hips closer, refusing to let him pull away even for a second. "I hate how much you know."
"You don't hate it," Oscar countered, his teeth grazing Lando’s earlobe before he moved back to his mouth. "You love that I’m the only one who sees you like this."
The friction intensified, a slow, torturous heat building in the pit of Lando's stomach. Every slide of their dicks was a promise of what was to come. Oscar’s movements were steady, rhythmic, and devastatingly effective. Lando felt like he was hovering on the edge of a cliff, the same one he’d fallen off in his sleep, but this time, there was no waking up to an empty room.
Oscar caught Lando’s hands, pinning them above his head with one hand, his fingers interlacing with Lando’s. He looked down at him, his expression a mix of fierce possession and a vulnerability that Lando had never seen before.
"Look at me," Oscar commanded softly.
Lando forced his eyes open, his vision slightly blurred. Oscar was looming over him, a silhouette of heat and muscle, his chest heaving.
"It's real, Lando," Oscar said, his voice a low, grounded rumble. "I'm real. And I'm not going anywhere."
Lando swallowed hard, his fingers squeezing Oscar’s. The embarrassment was still there, a tiny flickering ember, but it was being rapidly smothered by something much larger, much more powerful. He wasn't the lonely driver in the motorhome anymore. He was here, in the dark, with the one person who made the world make sense.
"Show me," Lando whispered, his voice cracking. "Show me it's real, love,"
Lando watched, his throat tight and his pulse thundering in his ears, as Oscar spit in his palm and made a quick, slick adjustment. The slick heat of his palm was a sudden, electric contrast to the cool air of the room. When Oscar reached down, his hand sure and steady as he brought their cocks together, Lando’s head hit the headboard with a soft thud, his eyes rolling back in sheer, dizzying relief.
"Oscar," Lando choked out, his fingers digging into the mattress, his knuckles white.
Oscar didn't answer. He settled back over Lando’s lap, his weight a grounding force, and began to grind down again. It was direct, slick, and devastatingly hot. The rhythm was like a countdown, a fast and desperate pace that mirrored the final laps of a race where everything was on the line.
The friction was agonizingly perfect. Oscar’s hand worked with a relentless, driving motion, fingers going over Lando’s split, caressing their throbbing cocks one second, and changing the pace the next. Lando’s world narrowed down to the feeling of Oscar’s chest heaving against his, the scent of hotel soap and adrenaline, and the incredible, heavy pressure of their bodies meeting.
"Look at me," Oscar rasped, his voice a wrecked shadow of itself.
Lando forced his eyes open, his vision swimming. Oscar was looming over him, his face tight with concentration and a fierce, vulnerable kind of want. He looked like he was vibrating with the same tension that was about to snap Lando in half.
"I want you" Oscar breathed, the words punctuated by the rhythmic slide of his body against Lando’s. "This is... us."
The tension peaked, a sharp, white-hot line that Lando couldn't retreat from. His core tensed, in that familiar and burning way he grew accustomed to, but now even more intense. He arched his back, a fractured, high-pitched sound escaping him as he finally climaxed. Oscar let out a low, guttural growl against Lando’s shoulder, his grip tightening as they both came at the exact same moment.
For a long time, the only sound in the room was the ragged, dying echo of their breath.
Oscar collapsed forward, his head resting in the crook of Lando’s neck, his body heavy and warm. Lando’s arms came up instinctively, wrapping around Oscar’s back, his fingers tracing the line of his spine with a slow, trembling touch. The embarrassment that had haunted him all these months was gone, replaced by a quiet, buzzing exhaustion that felt like peace.
Lando shifted his head, his lips brushing against Oscar’s sweat-dampened hair. "Definitely better than the dream," he whispered, his voice barely a breath.
Oscar let out a tiny, huffed laugh, his chest expanding against Lando’s. He didn't move to get up. He just tightened his hold, his voice muffled against Lando’s skin.
"Don't let it go to your head, Norris," he murmured. "But yeah. Way better."
Oscar didn't move to get off him. Instead, he shifted his weight, sliding down until they were lying side-by-side on the tangled sheets, the duvet pulled carelessly over them both. Lando didn't hesitate, immediately curving into Oscar’s side, throwing an arm and a leg over him to lock them together.
He felt ridiculously giddy, a bubbly, chaotic warmth spreading through his chest that had absolutely nothing to do with adrenaline. He was tucked against the crook of Oscar’s neck, listening to the solid, calming rhythm of his heart finally slowing down.
Lando shifted, pushing his nose against the soft skin of Oscar’s shoulder, a breathless, happy giggle escaping him. "You’re actually real," he whispered, feeling a little frantic need to confirm it again. "You’re not going to dissolve into golden light."
Oscar tightened his arm around Lando’s waist, bringing him closer until there was no space left between them. He let out a soft, low chuckle that resonated through his chest. "I think the lack of clothes and the very real cum that’s dripping makes it pretty hard to be a dream, Lando."
Lando hummed, content to just breathe him in. He felt light, dizzy, and overwhelmingly happy. He tracing small, absent patterns on Oscar’s bicep, feeling the tension slowly leach out of his own muscles.
"It was so hard to not do something stupid," Lando murmured, the memory of the dream still warm in his mind, but now replaced by the much better reality. "The way you looked at me all this time, I really thought I was going crazy."
Oscar went quiet for a moment, his fingers playing with the short hairs at the nape of Lando’s neck. The silence wasn't awkward, it was heavy with a new kind of honesty.
"You weren't crazy," Oscar said quietly, his voice stripping away the last of his usual defenses. He turned his head to look at Lando, his expression serious and incredibly intense in the dim light. "Because I've been looking at you like that for a long time."
Lando froze, lifting his head slightly to look into Oscar’s eyes. "What?"
Oscar smiled, a small, genuine expression that reached his eyes. "I've wanted you since the first time I saw you, Lando. Before I even signed the contract. Before I knew what it was like to race alongside you."
Lando felt his breath hitch, his heart rate spiking in a completely different way than before. The giddiness turned into something deeper, something anchoring.
"Really?" Lando asked softly, searching Oscar's face.
"Really," Oscar confirmed, brushing a thumb along Lando's cheek and raising his head to kiss the same spot. "I’m just... not very good at saying stupid things first like you are. I usually do something stupid later." He smirked, that familiar teasing glint returning to his eyes, but it was warmer now.
Lando laughed, a loud, genuine sound that filled the quiet room. He buried his face back into Oscar’s neck, hugging him tighter. "You're a nightmare, you know that?"
"But I'm your nightmare," Oscar murmured, kissing the top of Lando’s head.
"Yeah," Lando whispered, closing his eyes, perfectly content. "My nightmare."