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Even after almost two years, it all still feels brand new to Oscar. The car, the team, the cheering fans. He’s unused to the attention, feeling awkward in his limbs, apart from when he’s cradled in the moulded seat of his car.
Tonight, the MTC is crowded with tailored suits and draping dresses. It’s a customary gala, right before the summer break officially starts. Everyone had known about it for months, Oscar included.
As soon as he walks in, Oscar does a quick visual sweep. The entrances and exits are all where he knows they are. The vast glass panelling is dimmed slightly, somewhat blocking out the setting evening sun. He stares straight into the flat circle of light, residual photopsias flashing through his eyeline.
Everywhere he looks, there’s a fact file. Name. Age. Role. Partner, if in attendance. He feels crowded, muddled with all the information he needs to play his part.
He plants himself in the back right corner, by the same pillar he’s always next to. It was trial and error on everyone’s part to learn to just let Oscar be. He always winces visibly, remembering how he’d almost exploded at an intern who’d insisted he should be front and centre, instead of lingering like a wallflower. He apologised profusely, of course, for his unprofessional behaviour. So did Mark. And Zak. And Andrea. They justified it with a litany of reasons: stress from being a new driver, adapting to a new life, worrying about being good enough. Of course, to Oscar, there is nothing about it to be justified. He’s weird, idiosyncratic. He’s simply an arsehole, which makes it worse, somehow.
But he is also full of shame. Oscar thinks he can probably remember every bad thing he’s ever done, starting with being purposely obtuse to his mum aged five, to snapping at a teenager over fulfilling his pre-agreed contractual social duties aged twenty five.
Oscar’s loath to admit there’s any part of his job that he truly dislikes, but he hates this even more. The sponsors and the socialising and keeping the higher-ups and lower-downs sweet. It’s unfortunate that all Oscar wants to do is race, so much so that he’ll do all the extra bits anyway.
—
It happens early enough into the evening.
Oscar’s milling. He knows he’s bland, as one sponsor had kindly put it. He can’t help but file everything away methodologically, even if it only makes sense to him. He’s, at his core, a simple guy. He thinks before he talks or reacts or moves. He picks through the cabinets in his mind, flicking through each folder to make sure there’s not something similar from before, another scenario to be a perfect frame of reference.
He’s taught himself to echo something normal. If you look closely, his chest does in fact move up and down as he breathes.
It’s a regular attendee who swoops him up into the throes of conversation eventually. He blinks regularly so his eyes don’t glaze over, is always a beat too late to interject with a genuine opinion, and by the time he works out how to weave it in, the topic shifts again.
Oscar’s an introvert at heart. Sue him.
He gently excuses himself, flashes a somewhat wonky-feeling smile and cites an empty glass as an emergency. He knows it’s flimsy, with waiters every four square metres who will ask, “How high?” before Oscar even has the opportunity to say, “Jump.”
It says something that the sponsor doesn’t even blink as Oscar walks away. He consciously chooses not to read into it.
This toilet was picked specifically; close enough for plausible deniability and just too far away for any stranger to walk in on. The bathroom is empty, and Oscar’s reflection looks like it should. His collar is starched and tight. His tie sits right below the colon of moles on the column of his throat. His jaw is smooth from his earlier shave. The powder shrouding his eye bags is fading slightly.
The door shudders, and he chooses to ignore it. He imagines its a member of staff taking a moment of reprieve, just like him.
A hand grips his elbow tight. His whole body goes taut — startled — surprised at how self-absorbed he’d been. He makes eye contact with the offender.
Blue. Green. A little bit of hazel.
“I didn’t think I’d catch you tonight.” Lando’s voice is low, dulcet in the corner of the room. Reading between the lines, what Oscar knows Lando means is that he’s aware he’s being avoided.
Oscar clears his throat. His tongue catches on some residual roughness behind his teeth. He reminds himself to brush extra tonight and consciously relaxes the muscle.
Zak had told him not to scowl.
“I didn’t think you’d be here.” Oscar knows that what he should’ve said was: yes, I am avoiding you.
This thing they have had existed for long enough to lose some lustre, and yet, Oscar still feels butterflies when their gazes overlap, when Lando has his fingers wrapped exactly where he wants them. Wherever Lando takes him, Oscar follows. Wherever Oscar goes, he’s always looking for Lando.
And he’s dressed nicely tonight. He looks older, yes, but deliberately so in a sleek, tailored suit. Polished Oxfords, red bottoms, no broguing because Lando had said his father told him it looked uncouth. A Richard Mille sits on his right wrist, an old parting gift, worn there because Lando likes everything important on his dominant side.
They met in the somewhat conventional way. Lando had won two championships and retired, but the shine of continuing to help the McLaren he played a part in rebuilding drew him back in. Oscar was a rookie, dropped in his lap with the half-hearted promise of carrying on the legacy Lando had painstakingly reignited. ‘Advisor’ was his official title. Oscar can’t, for the life of him, recall a single piece of genuinely helpful advice that Lando has given him.
Critique, though — Lando has always had plenty of that.
Still, he lets Lando’s touch guide him out, warm enough to feel through every layer, and back into the gala.
All Oscar knows is that the older man’s company makes these events less taxing. Lando knows these guys better, has a rapport a decade wider. He talks and talks and talks. Oscar doesn’t mind playing arm candy. Oscar doesn’t mind being quiet.
What he does mind is how much he notices the absence when Lando lets go.
—
At some point, Oscar has to detach from the sick sense of comfort that Lando gives him. There are still people to speak to, premeditated hints to be dropped. He wrongly trusts Lando to keep his damn hands to himself.
A woman has been flirting with Lando for the last half an hour, always visible in Oscar’s periphery. He’s grown enough to admit that it stings a little.
They’re laughing together. She has one petite, manicured hand pressed to the angle of his shoulder, and he’s not shrugging it off. Lando isn't like that with Oscar. They can’t afford to waste much time on foreplay. She is tall and lean and objectively beautiful. A face for film. A face that was missing from his homework. How crass of Lando to flirt with a plus one. He could, at least, make it worthwhile.
Oscar knows he’s being petulant. A little bit of flattery never hurt anyone, least of all Lando. If the sponsors are happy, then he should be too.
It’s not that Oscar doesn’t think about letting whatever they have develop into something softer; he just tries his best not to. Lando is demanding and whiny and grating. Oscar is uptight and stoic and childhood soft. Lando isn’t sweet. They aren’t sweet. But Lando is looking awfully saccharine, batting his long lashes at a stranger.
And it’s cruel, maybe, what Oscar decides to do next. He knows exactly how Lando’s career played out, down to every unrequited crush and car crash. He sees Alex Dunne not too far away. Oscar almost wishes Daniel or Carlos had taken up the invite. Up the ante, or whatever.
It’s nice, admittedly, to chat to his teammate. It’s easy; the time flows nice and steady instead of a jerky stop-and-start. They swap stories of lower categories, exchange one bit of gossip for another. It’s odd for Oscar to feel so relaxed — posture soft and laughter genuine. He hasn’t realised how tightly he’d been wound until now.
Alex’s story is abruptly interrupted, something about the F3 grid the year after Oscar departed. Lando’s curls only hit about eye level on Alex, but he takes up all of Oscar’s vision.
“A word, please.” He’s not asking a question; he’s walking away with the expectation that Oscar will follow.
And follow Oscar does.
The outside wind is blowing Lando’s curls, knotting them up. Oscar knows exactly how it feels to untangle them with the pads of his fingers.
They’re standing opposite each other. Two parallel lines.
“Bored?” Lando is condescending, purposefully belittling.
“No. The opposite, actually.”
“You don’t usually go for younger men.”
Oscar would throw his hands up in exasperation if he didn’t know deep down that someone, somewhere, was watching the entirety of this interaction — if he wasn’t so fraught to admit that he liked the change of pace that this sick little game the pair of them had going brought.
“Great observation. You’d know all about that.” The retort lands sharp, and Oscar can tell Lando wasn’t expecting it.
“Are you only going to piss me off tonight, Oscar? Or are you coming home with me too?”
He’s met with silence. Oscar is momentarily bewildered because Lando is the last to say it out loud. He’ll wrap an arm around Oscar’s waist, winking behind Andrea’s back. He’ll churn out innuendos in front of Oscar’s garage, but he will not, ever, say it out loud.
Lando juts his chin, jaw twitching. He looks tired here, lines cutting sharper in the cold, artificial light. His shoes click against the cold tiling as he walks away, harshly brushing past Oscar. His voice is barely carried by the wind when it gets to him.
“Get in the damn car.”
For a second, it’s all about appearances. Oscar nods, praying that it looks amicable enough to the onlookers and the CCTV. He keeps his expression carefully neutral and hopes, as he walks to Lando’s car, that no one here tonight is willing to break an NDA for a news story.
He shoots a quick text off, alerting someone at least that he’s gone home. No need for anyone to worry or anything.
And the car is silent aside from the click of seat belts and shuffle of fabric. Lando is white-knuckling the steering wheel. It’s all off kilter. This is not how it’s supposed to be. Oscar is fumbling the ball in his court. His collar is chafing and his tie is suffocating, but Lando doesn’t tolerate untidiness. Oscar is neatly folded in the passenger seat. He feels reprimanded, like a child.
“Are you pissed that I didn’t win?” The question tumbles out before he can stop it. “In Hungary?”
He really can’t help but ask. Lando didn't come to Hungary, didn’t give Oscar a little pep talk and a kiss on the lips. Didn’t call or text after. It wasn’t great, and Oscar’s fucked up enough pole positions to get over it quickly. Except when it’s something he can’t control. He did get a good start, tight and clean. It’s another front left that clips the rear of his car, sending him careening off track and rejoining twelve places lower than where he’d started.
Oscar thinks it’s only natural to feel offended when a passion project fails.
“No.” Lando turns the key in the ignition. “I’m pissed you lost me a whole lotta money.”
He grins, shows gum. Maybe it’s punishment.
It made Oscar a little sick at first when he learned that Lando would bet on him. He’s sworn to secrecy, obviously, but he also can’t deny the pleasure of the added pressure he feels every time he gets into the cockpit. He can catalogue each sensation: the vibration of the PU, the warmth behind the seat, the belts strapping over his shoulders. He feels Lando, the desire to win for him, too.
On track, Oscar is a natural predator, swaying the car like ocean waves. With Lando, he is prey; thighs parted, stomach up, softly gasping into his open mouth. Oscar may be coveted — snapped from the jaws of Alpine straight into the maw of McLaren — rookie of the year, fighting for a championship already, but he learned his lesson quickly, aptly. There is always something with bigger teeth.
He can almost tamp it down for the full 305 kilometres, the creeping almost-disgust that pools from his stomach, wrenching upwards into his oesophagus. It feels like betraying his team sometimes, prioritising the joy of weak earned cash over teamwork. No one can see him smiling behind the helmet anyway. No one can see him playing predators and prey.
Oscar sits quietly for the 35-ish minutes it takes to reach Lando’s house in Richmond. He tastes blood in his mouth from repeatedly worrying the rough flesh of the inside of his cheek. He itches to scrape a long fingernail along the marring to restore the lining of his buccal mucosa to smooth flesh. Lando is quiet too, though this is not unfamiliar. His hand stretches over the tensed muscle above Oscar’s knee — unless he is changing gear.
The car is warm, and the garage they pull into is cold. Oscar is reluctant to crack the door, resultant of a pipe dream maybe. A dream where he isn’t strange and Lando opens it for him, and walks him to the front door like a gentleman. Maybe he’d take Oscar’s coat with grace. Instead, Lando knocks on the passenger window impatiently. He raises an eyebrow, eyes blank and dark beneath. The door clicks open from the exterior, and Oscar is hit with a wall of frigid air. The lighting in the garage is yellow-gold and downright ugly. Lando is backlit, the figure of a perfect man standing on a trophy plinth.
Oscar steps out of the car onto the level concrete, and Lando moves towards the side door. It slams shut behind him, and the automated lights turn off. Oscar takes a deep breath and pretends he doesn’t feel abandoned. He takes another, grateful for the absence of the damn overhead lighting, and shuffles forward in the pitch black to where muscle memory tells him the entry might be.
—
If Oscar is honest, he hates the house. It’s all white and sparse and straight out of a magazine. The Victorian features have been preserved and slapped over with a coat of Dulux White Gloss. And who the fuck installs de Gournay wallpaper in a room that he sits in maybe three times a year? Only the office has some semblance of personality to the man who owns the property. Rows and rows of helmets line the walls, though Oscar had only ever had a glimpse. Doors shut by owners are seldom opened by guests.
And Oscar is. A guest.
Lando has already poured two drinks by the time Oscar unlaces and toes off his shoes. Everything is momentarily overshadowed by the cool relief of the tile on his sore feet.
There are two glasses: a crystal-cut tumbler halfway filled with an amber scotch and a copa glass with an inch of clear liquid sitting in the curve of the bowl. A low-ball would’ve sufficed for Oscar’s gin. They both know that, but Lando prefers Oscar drinking out of ‘more feminine glasses’, whatever that means. It does mean that Oscar’s hand tremors as he reaches for the delicate stem of the cup. It means Oscar’s cheeks flush a warm pink at the thought that he’s right where Lando wants him.
Oscar feels Lando watching him, his smirk showing only contentment for the moment. He pats the velvet of the sofa cushion next to him. Oscar sits timidly, perched next to Lando’s reclining form, shrugging off his suit jacket, unbuttoning the collar of his shirt.
“You looked good tonight.”
“You dressed me.” It’s a slightly sharp response, mostly because Oscar knows what they’re here to do. Whilst a part of him is static with anticipation, a much smaller, younger part of him can’t wait for it to be over, to be in an extortionately priced Uber back to his flat somewhere in Surrey that he couldn’t point out on a map.
It’s another thing they have going on. Lando’s fond of playing dress up. Oscar spends most of his life in team branded kit, so to see him, dress him up? It’s just another way Oscar willingly nestles himself further into a volatile web.
Lando hums at that retort, low and pleased. He takes a sip of his drink instead of responding. Lets the pause stretch. Oscar watches his throat move, the way his mouth tightens briefly around the rim of the glass. He’s focused on the way Lando stretches out, pressing his knee to Oscar’s own.
He mirrors him a moment too late, bringing the glass to his lips with care. The gin burns clean and sharp. Oscar coughs. He feels exposed in his stillness, hyper-aware of his posture, his breathing, the way his body keeps leaning further in despite himself.
“You don’t have to rush,” Lando says. “I like to play with my food.”
Once again, Oscar has no reply. The warmth of Lando’s body pressed right up against him is distracting. He’s forgiving Lando for his fuckery already, pressing into the splay of a palm at his waist.
Lando’s smile wavers. He looks unbelievably beautiful, shadowed in the lamplight. The flush on his cheeks creeps up to the smattering of grey at his temple. His nostrils narrow with the panting he’s suppressing.
It’s unbearable to Oscar, the thought that he’s the reason for this, not the consequence.
Lando’s lips are cold as they drag along the curve of Oscar’s jaw. He’s stock still, cataloguing the explorations he’s subject to. Hands tighten at his waist, and Oscar sucks in involuntarily.
It feels nice to be wanted. God, it feels nice to be wanted.
A tongue is lapping below Oscar’s ear, followed by teeth. The pain is sharp, and Oscar’s shudder is involuntary. He wishes he could see the way Lando nestles into the crook of his neck, half overlapped in his lap.
“You know the rules, yeah?” Lando pulls back momentarily. He whispers in the shell of Oscar’s ear.
The nod is jerky, silted. It’s not enough, judging by the blank expression on Lando’s face. Oscar sits still, palms folded between his knees, and recites the rules from memory.
“Red for stop, yellow for pause and green for good. Three, two and one taps respectively.”
“You use the taps when?”
Oscar feels his face blush solid crimson, feels it spread from his neck to the top of his cheek. “I use the taps when my mouth is full, Lando.”
Lando removes himself entirely from Oscar, standing up and gripping a rough hand in his styled hair. Oscar’s neck is craned up so that he can’t look away even if he wanted to. A hand collides with his face, sharp and solid. Oscar’s cheek is throbbing, and he’s gasping for breath.
“Fix it.”
Lando pulls at his hair a millimetre more, and Oscar almost hates the way he can feel pain pricking at each individual follicle.
“I use the taps when my mouth is full, sir.”
“Better.” Lando licks his teeth. “You get fifteen today, by the way.”
Oscar sniffles. He makes sure it’s a pathetic sounding thing. He lets the tears pool in his waterline, mostly because Lando is sometimes kinder when he thinks Oscar is being brave just for him. There’s delight for Lando in seeing Oscar cry, mostly because they are both incapable of showing any vulnerability outside of the bedroom.
“Why, sir?”
“I watched you flirt with your teammate for fifteen minutes. I hope next time you’ll keep it short and sweet.”
“Yes, sir.”
Lando studies him for a moment too long. There’s something evaluative in it.
“Stand up.”
Oscar does. His legs feel boneless, unreliable, but he manages it without wobbling noticibly. He keeps his eyes forward, jaw set, and hands at his sides like he’s waiting to be inspected. Lando steps in close again, close enough that Oscar can smell the scotch on his breath, feel the warmth of him without being touched. His breath stutters anyway.
“Look at you,” Lando murmurs, not unkindly. “All wound up.”
Oscar swallows. He doesn’t respond. He knows better.
A finger hooks under his chin, tilting his face up. Lando’s touch is firm. Corrective.
“This,” Lando continues quietly, “is what happens when you forget yourself.”
Oscar tips his head in agreement. The gesture is small and earnest but Lando hums, unconvinced. His thumb presses briefly into Oscar’s jaw, more than enough pressure to remind him of the earlier sting, then withdraws.
“Kneel.”
Oscar obeys wordlessly, settles himself onto the floor, posture straight, knees together. He feels ridiculous and exposed and achingly aware of every inch of himself. He keeps his hands visible.
Lando doesn’t lower himself to Oscar’s level. He paces instead, slow and deliberate. The floorboards creak faintly around them, old bones under new skin.
“You know,” Lando says at last, stopping in front of him, “I don’t mind you being wanted.”
Oscar’s chest tightens.
“I mind,” Lando continues, “when you forget who wants you.”
A hand at the back of Oscar’s neck pushes him down. It’s sudden, takes him off kilter for a long second. He reminds himself that it’s just Lando, that this is all just Lando, even when his cheek is pressed into the grooves of the wooden floor, when he can smell the polish on the leather of Lando’s shoes.
And Lando takes his time, breaking Oscar apart and then pulling him back together gently. It’s akin to driving the car, he supposes, a delicate process cloaked in something muscular. Oscar thinks they've never really striked that perfect equilibrium. He wishes, almost, that Lando didn’t intertwine the tension and tenderness with so much ease.
He wishes that the pain of it all didn’t feel so good.
Lando’s strategic with each stroke. The first two are spread evenly over the exposed skin of Oscar’s backside. The third and fourth come in such sudden succession that he’s lurching forwards before the crack of the impact has fully dissipated. His face was already crimson, now further warmed by the friction of the floor.
There’s a pull at the dropped waistband of Oscar’s trousers, and Lando is tutting, pulling the leather belt out of its loops. Oscar feels himself getting rearranged, a hand tucking his legs back into place from where he’d spread out. He’s pliant as his arms are pulled back and hands settled at the base of his spine.
The belt wraps around his wrists with ease, looping over and under and back around with little slack.
Oscar can only just map the movements around him, so when a knee is slammed down next to his face, he jolts. His breath is heavy, slicking his lips and condensing on the varnished oak.
The next smacks are spread over the backs of his thighs. Oscar loses count somewhere in the middle, heady with pain. It’s only when he registers the repetitive soothing of Lando’s hands on him that he realises the punishment is over.
He’s good.
Oscar is so good that even through the tears in his vision and the dents of his teeth in his lips, he musters the strength to crane his head up to look straight at Lando.
“Thank you.” His voice is cracked. “Thank you, sir.”
It pauses Lando in is his movements. His face does something complicated and awkward, settling halfway between a grimace and surprise.
Oscar’s blinking his wet puppy dog eyes. He’s nudging his head towards Lando’s knees.
It’s another thing about Oscar — he struggles to ask — unable to say more than ‘Can I?’ before he’s choking on Lando’s dick pretty soon after. He’d much rather whine and writhe and moan, because it’s as much a learning experience for him as it is for both of them.
See, Oscar isn’t a dog, as much as Lando might want the both of them to think that. He knows how to play this game too, to disarm Lando just as quickly as he unravels Oscar. Oscar knows where all of his teeth sit and his claws lie, so much like any sleeping beast, he likes to stretch them sometimes.
It’s a hum of pleasure that escapes him when Lando’s finally dragging Oscar up by his shoulders, sitting him in seiza. It’s a buzz of anticipation when Lando finally, finally, drops the slacks and the boxers, standing in front of him.
Oscar’s leaning in, nuzzling into the gap between Lando’s dick and hip bone, muttering ‘please, please, please’ into the clammy skin like divine intervention is the easiest way to get Lando to come on his face.
Before Lando, sex was always a means to Oscar’s end. His body was a tool, to be toned and stretched and optimised. Right now, he wants and he wants and he wants — to suck and be fucked hard and fast, fingers in his mouth, tears in his eyes. He wants to be pushed and pulled and fragmented so for ten minutes he can forget all of this, put everything down and just feel.
He doesn’t want to think about any of it: Alex’s face at being shown some genuine attention from his teammate, the stack of missed calls in his phone, the offers in Mark’s inbox. The fact that he’s still being fucked by his childhood hero raw every two weeks, give or take, despite the fact that he’s almost 100% sure that at least Zak and Andrea have put two and two together and successfully made four.
It doesn’t hurt that Lando can pick up what Oscar puts down quite quickly.
It does hurt when Oscar is suddenly nose to skin with Lando’s pubic bone and there’s no air in his lungs anyway. It’s long and girthy enough that there’s a stretch to the edges of Oscar’s lips. He drags his tongue from left to right, applying a little pressure to the skin he can reach in the confines of his own mouth. Oscar swallows hard and a breath from above hits the top of his fringe. He wonders exactly how long Lando will be able to hold still this time. It’s a weakness of his — any tight, wet heat.
Movement starts slowly, shallow thrusts that allow a little bit of air back into Oscar’s chest cavity before Lando decides to get physical again.
Oscar wonders if all middle-aged men have such stamina or if this is just Lando specific.
Each push becomes a little more forceful, so Oscar goes slack, opens his throat and laxes his body so that all the rocking comes from his knees. His head is cloudy, only tethered by the sensation of hands on either side of his face. Drool is dripping down his chin, pooling on his chest and glistening on the floor below.
Oscar tastes something slightly bitter, and Lando is pulling out of his mouth, chest heaving and eyes dark. He runs a thumb under the swell of Oscar’s lower lip, collecting a glob of spit and sweat and precome before bringing up to his mouth. He sucks his own thumb into his mouth, and it hits like a freight train, the reminder that Oscar is here because he wants this.
He can lie and moan and play it cool all he likes, but he wants to be here, kneeling and spit slick, in front of the one man who could rip his throat out in one fell swoop but chooses not to.
Oscar’s voice is small when he asks. “Kiss?”
There’s pain when Lando hauls him up and crashes their lips together. It’s violent like a kerb crush. It feels like they collide with 50 gs of force.
It’s cute almost, how Lando fumbles with the belt, muttering ‘off, off, off’ into Oscar’s mouth, and it finally falls, clattering onto the stairs as they migrate up and into the belly of the house.
Oscar is sliding his hands under Lando’s suit jacket, letting it slip to the floor. His fingers fumble with each shirt button, but Lando is patient, pressing kisses to whatever part of Oscar he can reach — grabbing Oscar with one arm, pushing the bedroom door open with the other.
Always a multitasker.
His breath is released with a whoosh as Oscar is shoved backwards onto the bed before Lando pounces like a man possessed. He’s dragging Oscar’s slacks and boxers off with a single tracked mind, undoing each button of his shirt with a startling efficiency. He’s pulling Oscar’s knees up to his chest, intimately familiar with the limits of his flexibility.
Oscar drops his head to the mattress, exhaling heavily. He wants this. He wants this.
A hand comes up, gripping his jaw. Lando squeezes, and Oscar drops his lower jaw on pure instinct, tongue lolling out of its confines. Lando walks the pads of his index and middle fingers to the top of the crest of his mouth, pressing hard, pooling the saliva in Oscar’s mouth.
It’s suffocating. Oscar is shaking, quivering from the singular point of contact where Lando is slicking up his fingers. He’s reacting to the futile gentle sweep of Lando’s right hand at his jawline.
“Good. Always so good for me.” Lando looks… fond. “Always good once you remember you belong to me.”
It’s the praise that makes Oscar moan. He’s an athlete, his entire job revolves around being good enough. At least here, he’s not worrying about it. He knows Lando will take what he needs regardless of his goodness. He knows with certainty Lando won’t change the way he sees him, even if he isn’t.
Oscar is blinking up at Lando with heavy eyelids. He’s mouthing something that looks like the word relax, but all Oscar can focus on is the hand in his hair and the other rubbing smooth circles at his hole.
It’s instinct to just let Lando in, soft touches and softer moans as he opens him up exactly the way Oscar likes. He’s curving his fingers perfectly, scratching that perpetual itch that Oscar only notices once it’s been soothed. It feels good to lie there, selfish to enjoy this as much as he does.
Oscar thinks that Lando must feel much the same as he’s slicking his cock with some lube from fuck knows where. It’s none of his business anyway.
All Oscar knows is that if he’s given an inch, he’ll take the full mile, except in this case he thinks he’s taken a league.
He’s stretching open as Lando pushes in bit by bit. He’s writhing so much that Lando clamps down on his hips, hard enough to pinch. Hopefully hard enough to bruise. His grip stutters, just for a second when Lando’s hips are pressed fully up against the curve of Oscar’s ass.
It’s the momentary pause, coupled with the unreadable look on his face when Lando is staring at the point where the pair of them are connected, that makes Oscar start to panic. He’s thinking no, no, no. This is how it ends. This is how he realises he’s done. He’s a bird, pinioned. He feels like he’s prematurely given everything up for this. Oscar does his best to tamp down the betrayal that erupts in his chest with little warning. But it’s not working; his heart is steadily racing into zone three territory. He’s thinking if he needs to tell Lando how he’s feeling, if that will just mean he’ll ask Oscar to leave. But his clothes are scattered, and he’s got no car, no recollection of where in the house his phone might be. He’s panicking, gasping for breath, clutching at Lando, even though he doesn’t realise it.
But it’s a bone crush, the way Lando spreads his whole weight over Oscar, cradling his waist in the palms of his hands. His eyes are blue in the shadows, green in the lamplight, and Oscar exhales, dislodging the constricting band that settled around his lungs. Lando’s hands come up to his face, firm and encompassing. Oscar registers the sound of his name, low and close. His touch is like sunlight, and Oscar is a heat-seeking vine, forever reaching up to try and touch this great ball of light that sustains him.
It’s nice to lie there together for a little while. It gives Oscar the opportunity to repair the jagged edges of his fractured fantasy. It gives Oscar enough time to debrief and regroup and roll his hips with renewed intention.
He’s schooling his face into something neutral when Lando’s head hovers directly above his. Lando’s eyes look hazel up closer like this, and Oscar has the distant thought that he’s pretty like this, when he’s taking care of him. Except, he must’ve said it out loud because he can feel the vibrations of a laugh travel through the contact of their chests.
“Of course I look after you.”
“Yeah, I know you do.” And maybe it’s too earnest for them, for two carbon copies embedded in different timelines, but Oscar means it. And he’s tired of bagging up how he feels about everything each time he’s zipping a suitcase closed or stepping into a new time zone but this, he knows, is an itch that stays an itch. He doesn’t deserve the relief of a scratch that doesn’t belong to him. He doesn’t deserve to live in a house he hates in Richmond or to ruin tonight.
So Oscar pulls Lando back to him, lips on lips, pressing his thighs into Lando’s hips as he drags them together, grinding closer and closer. Oscar doesn’t get to have it all, so he’ll take what he can. He’ll make it worthwhile.
Lando isn’t complaining; in fact, he’s groaning, licking into Oscar’s mouth with renewed vigour as he’s flipping them over, sitting Oscar on his knees still connected by the hilt.
“Look,” Lando says, and he’s running a hand over the bone of Oscar’s shoulder from behind, across his chest to play with a nipple. He pinches, hard. He strokes his hand back up, lingering on a collarbone, loosely circling the width of Oscar’s neck. He tilts his face up, soft but firm. “Look at yourself.”
The mirror is a new addition to the bedroom. New to Oscar, at least.
He makes eye contact with himself and immediately looks away. Lando taps twice on his jaw, always the disciplinarian, and their eyes catch momentarily. It’s obvious, the way Lando softens slightly at the action.
“How could anyone not want you?” He’s still in his reflection, gaze roaming the obscenity that is Oscar, out on display in front of the mirror. “How could I be so lucky to get you?”
Oscar’s knees are spread wide, cock flushed pink and jutting upwards. The blush from earlier seems permanent, only now spreading lower down his chest. One of Lando’s hands stretches across Oscar’s sternum, holding him upright. The other rests at Oscar’s throat with the implication of pressure.
“Fuck.” It comes out panting and needy, everything Oscar strives not to be. And Lando laughs quietly, muffling the sound into the back of Oscar’s head.
He wishes mildly that Lando would just come now.
Oscar can see the pre-come glistening over his tip, trails of wetness where it’s dripped over the shaft. Lando starts to move again, bottoming out with an intensity that sends Oscar reeling. He feels everything, the slow drag of skin, the curls of Lando’s chest hair against his back. The look on his own face almost disgusts him: jaw slack, lips parted, eyes glossy. It’s worse when the hand around his throat tightens and the wetness in his eyes spills over. He watches his own face sag with the relief of getting exactly what he wants.
Lando’s getting sloppy, hips stuttering as one big hand comes and wraps around Oscar in his entirety. The glide of his palm is tacky, catching in just the right way so each stroke sends a fresh wave of pleasure to the pool steadily building at the base of Oscar’s stomach.
It’s painful, holding it in, but he’s good. He can wait.
Oscar’s head is thrown back, nose pressed to the pulse in Lando’s neck. He’s heaving with the sensation of it all. The familiar pressure returns, wrapping around his jugular with the press of fingers and thumb.
Lando’s voice is raw when he finally, finally gives Oscar the much-coveted permission. “Come, Oscar. For me.”
And it’s like stepping off a cliff, reaching terminal velocity. It’s like overtaking on a straight: raw power and nothing else.
Oscar feels his whole body spasm, spilling and spilling into Lando’s waiting palm.
He’s sagging down into the lap below, but Lando is gentle, laying him on his back in the plush sheets, positioning himself so his hips hover just over Oscar’s face.
He uses his hand filled with Oscar to finish himself off, and Oscar is caught somewhere between awe and misery that Lando won’t be dripping out of him tonight. Oscar catalogues every expression, the strain of the muscle in Lando’s neck as he pushes himself to the edge, eyes clenched shut. Lando’s whole body stills, only his hand moving with one final stroke until he’s coming, all over Oscar’s face, his lips, his hair.
And it’s silent in the aftermath. Lando is catching his breath, splaying out so he’s half lying over Oscar, face buried into a pillow.
Oscar’s hands come up, skirting the expanse of Lando’s back, weaving around the moles he now knows the placements of by memory. He’s still buzzing with something he can’t quite identify. He drags a finger along Lando’s spine, momentarily distracted by the up and down of his vertebrae through skin. For the first time, Oscar lets himself consider it.
Even if he never lifts the trophy, never gets his signature carved into coveted metal, will he be strong enough to not blame Lando too?
Can he look back at this one day and admit it wasn’t a mistake?
“Hungry?”
“Not really.”
“Thirsty?”
Yeah, Oscar thinks. I’ve just had every appendage of yours down my throat. Of course I’m thirsty, you fucking moron. Instead, he shrugs.
Lando leaves the room, and Oscar is alone. He focuses in on the sensation of breath leaving his lungs, air flowing out of his mouth and all the way back in.
He’s sore but not in a bad way, with an ache between his legs, his shoulder blades, his jaw. The skin on his neck is stubble raw, from where Lando burrowed in, muffling his needy little gasps. He’s tacky all over but wet in a singular spot that the washcloth didn’t reach, and frankly, Oscar’s a little too worn out for the sensation to truly bother him. In a way, he wishes he could bottle this, distill and dilute the way he feels for objectively worse days. A reminder for the moments where it gets too much, and Lando is much too full of envy for it to ever be love.
He can’t though, bottle it. He’s not even sure he’d crack the seal even if he could. He’s much too enthralled by the thought of a ‘next time’, a physical refresher to bring back the dulled edges of momentary bliss.
There’s a clink as the door opens, a tray with two glasses of water and two steaming mugs. Lando rounds the bed, sitting on Oscar’s left side, and lifts a glass of water to his lips.
It’s crisp and cold, so refreshing that Oscar has no inclination to refuse at all. He lets Lando guide the glass, pressing into the swell of his lower lip, tipping liquid higher and higher into his mouth. He drinks, mostly because Lando wants him to.
Another hand comes up, thumb brushing over cheeks and bone.
His eyes glance upwards, meeting Lando staring right back at him. His expression is hard to decipher, but his hand is still raised, flowing water into Oscar’s mouth. Oscar drinks slowly, swallowing rhythmically, even though he’s had enough now. He’s satiated. But he only stops when the glass is lowered, when Lando takes it away.
The touches are soft now, one to his neck, another to his shoulders. He’s being guided up and away from the bedroom.
He’s handed a towel and a toothbrush, but Oscar understands this routine better now. It’s his turn to play house. Oscar presses a hand on Lando’s shoulder, dropping him to sit on the lid of the toilet below. It’s not often that he gets to look down at Lando from such a height. Even when he’s in the car, hands on the steering, he looks up at Lando, always up.
Lando opens his mouth wide, pearly teeth on full display. The toothbrush starts at the back left molars. It’s easier to brush the lower teeth first. The paste foams as Oscar continues his dental explorations. He counts each tooth from left to right. Sixteen lower, sixteen upper, no wisdom teeth. One golden filling nestled in the back.
Oscar swivels the brush, and his tongue jerks — a strange, pinkish appendage when it’s attached to another person — and Oscar apologises anyway. Not that he feels all that sorry. He has a momentary vision of shoving the brush down the back of Lando’s throat, a sudden urge to watch him gasp and flail until Oscar gets to decide when to pull it out.
Instead, he runs the bristles over each tooth once more, catches the pink of the gum line and nods over to the sink. He vacates the bathroom, letting Lando rinse his mouth out alone.
Back in the bedroom, Oscar is hunched, perched at the foot of the bed. Lando laughs at him when walks back in and Oscar isn’t entirely sure why. It’s an addictive thing to hear Lando’s laughter, pure and unfiltered. It’s confusing maybe that Lando does this to Oscar — laughs genuine and forgiving — when Oscar is unused to being the recipient of such gentle behaviour.
Lando climbs back into the bed, pats the right side for Oscar, and draws him in for a kiss, square and mint tinged, on the lips. He rolls over. The lights click off.
Oscar lies on his back, skin tingling, heart thudding. The bed is slightly too soft for Oscar’s liking — he tries to relax and sinks further in, feeling the mattress mould suffocatingly to the firmness of his outline.
He holds his breath. And he waits.
—
Lando is sleeping, breaths puffing out into the room audibly. He’s peaceful, looking about ten years younger when the thrill of a power trip isn’t marring his face.
Oscar picks up every item of discarded clothing on the floor. He hangs both Lando’s and his suits up and hooks them onto a cupboard handle. He’s dressed only in a t-shirt and shorts left behind from another venture. His phone vibrates, alerting him that his taxi driver is only two minutes away.
Oscar leaves through the front door.
He thinks he’s earned that much at least.