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Lando can’t hear a fucking thing. It’s fine, he doesn’t really want to, but the rushing in his ears is starting to make him feel sick. Dizzy. A little off balance.
Someone’s shouting something at him, he can’t really make out who it is, just sways into their side and nods. Shakes his head. Grins. He hasn’t been able to stop grinning all night.
It feels good. The rush in his ears, the knot in his stomach, he doesn’t fucking care, it all feels so good.
His hearing is gone, voice gone, and he wonders which sense will go next. Hopefully all of them, he wouldn’t care. He doesn’t even know where he is—barely knows. He got on a plane, got shoved into a car, had a drink, or seven, poured down his throat and now he’s in a fucking palace that is way too nice for the team to be in and he just doesn’t care. It’s loud, hot, dark, and the room spins.
God, he feels sick. He tips his head back, feels the lights flash across his face and parts his lips. He needs a drink. He needs to sleep. He wants to feel skin beneath his hands.
He opens his eyes to a shot being shoved at him, half of it sloshing over his skin. If he drinks anymore he’ll vomit, he needs something to fucking eat and he hears Jon’s voice in his head talking about calories and fuel and downs the shot anyway.
He barely tastes it but it still burns.
Lando jumps when a hand finds his waist. He’s had hands on him all night, shoved around like he’s paper-thin, but this touch burns through him with an ugly, uncomfortable heat.
It feels good. He hates that it feels good.
He turns his head slightly, barely needs to turn at all; Oscar’s face is by his own, grinning and smiling and smirking all at once and Lando has that feeling again, like he’s going to be sick.
Oscar’s hand turns tight, almost rough, on his waist and Lando feels a shudder run through him, this full body thing that Oscar has to notice.
Lando can’t stop his face splitting into that same grin, the one he’s been wearing all night, matching Oscar. He doesn’t know what they look like, shoved together and still dripping in champagne, wet and sticky and hot and grinning at each other like they’ve got nowhere else to be.
Lando wants to take Oscar’s face in his hands, so he does. He can feel Oscar’s smile under his palms, his thumbs right over the dimples of his cheeks and Lando’s obsessed. So fucking obsessed.
“Hi, baby,” Lando says, shouts, he doesn’t know. He can’t hear himself.
Oscar looks surprised but doesn’t falter, leaning closer into Lando. Lando doesn’t know what he’s doing, what to say, but Oscar looks so loose and happy and soft and Lando fucking loves him. He loves the team. All of them. The love he feels for Oscar is no different, but something fucking else entirely, too.
Oscar says something back, Lando watches his mouth move, feels it beneath his hands but has no fucking clue what Oscar says. He stares, looks at the shape of Oscar’s teeth and is hit with an urge to trace them with his fingers. He wonders what shape they’d leave, biting someone’s skin.
“Huh?” he shouts, head dizzy.
Oscar’s eyes catch on Lando’s mouth in return, neither of them sure where to settle their gaze. He moves in closer and Lando guides his face to his neck, until his lips are by the shell of his ear.
His hand is still at Lando’s waist, curls around it until he’s got Lando pressed close.
“I need air,” Oscar says. Lando hears him loud and clear and his voice is fucked, scratchy and tired, like he’s been shouting for hours and Lando realises he probably has.
Oscar doesn’t move back and Lando keeps him close, brings his touch to the nape of Oscar’s neck and resists the urge to fist Oscar’s wet hair in his fingers.
Lando nods, wonders if Oscar feels it and says nothing when Oscar tugs at his waist, getting a grip on his forearm and pulling him away. Lando practically stumbles, blinks his eyes and falls into step behind him, his touch insistent as he weaves them through the room. There’s people everywhere, bodies moving and shouting and swaying and Lando doesn’t think they’ll be noticed, let alone missed.
Fresh air hits him like a wave, smacks him right in the fucking face and he has to claw his hands at Oscar’s arm just to keep up right. He’s not sure where they are, but it’s suddenly deafeningly quiet, the base of the music a low thrum from somewhere behind them.
Lando blinks, lets his eyes adjust and realises they’re in a courtyard, maybe some kind of garden. It’s small and quiet, enclosed in walls, everything green and lush and Lando feels hidden, like they could disappear here.
They haven’t been alone all night, have barely had a second together since this morning, or was it yesterday? Lando has no fucking idea what time it is, but, they’ve been together for hours, Oscar’s barely disappeared from his side, and suddenly they’re so completely alone. It feels good, Lando takes a breath, feels that sick feeling in his stomach and it feels good.
“Fucking hell,” Oscar whistles, falling back against the stoned wall, half hidden. He’s still got his hand on Lando, doesn’t let go, and Lando wonders if he even knows his touch is there.
He doesn’t want Oscar to figure it out, to realise he’s got Lando beneath his skin and choose to let him go.
Lando gets in close to him, feels the way Oscar’s fingers flex on his waist. Oscar’s got his eyes closed, cheeks red and the skin under his eyes dark, tired and almost bruised. Lando watches him, looks at him now he’s all up close and doesn’t know the feeling that settles somewhere by his chest.
“I’m never drinking again,” Oscar murmurs with a slight smile and Lando copies him, even though Oscar’s not looking.
Lando hums in response. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, can’t explain it, when he touches his fingers to Oscar’s face. Oscar’s eyes blink open, dark and tired and he doesn’t flinch, barely reacts, but Lando’s so close he can see the way his pupils dilate.
Oscar’s grip on him tightens, Lando can almost feel his blunt nails through the damp material of his shirt and he has to steady himself, anchoring his balance with a hand on Oscar’s shoulder. He has no idea what the fuck he’s doing, and maybe he can blame it on the alcohol, the win, something else fucking entirely, but he doesn’t think about it too much when he presses his mouth to Oscar’s. Gently. Too fucking softly.
Oscar makes a noise against him that Lando doesn’t think he’s ever going to forget. Something like surprise, something exasperated, something deep and desperate and Lando thinks maybe it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him. God. What the fuck. He’s not thinking straight, but then again, was he meant to be tonight?
Lando shoves Oscar tightly against the wall, gets all up in his space and realises absentmindedly that he’s tracing the shape of Oscar’s teeth with his tongue. Oscar moans, tries to suck on Lando’s tongue and Lando doesn’t know if he’s ever been more obsessed with him.
It’s not like this with Oscar, they don’t do this, and Lando can’t even say it’s something he’s ever wanted to do, he’s never even thought about it. But. But they’re doing it now, and Lando can’t work out why they haven’t before.
He pulls at Oscar’s hair, scratches at the side of his neck and Lando wants to crawl right into his skin. He wants to say something stupid, something fucking ridiculous, like how this feels better than winning. It would be a lie, because of course it would. It has to be.
Lando lost his mind hours ago, what’s the rest of the night going to do.
Oscar bites at the corner of his mouth and Lando gets a thigh between Oscar’s legs. He wants to lift him, hold by the waist and press him against the brick and thinks he could; the alcohol has led to delusion, clearly, but the thought is a heady one.
Oscar murmurs something against him, trying to speak, but the words barely form—he won’t pull away from Lando’s mouth. Lando trails kisses away from his lips, biting down on his jaw just to draw the sound out of him. Oscar presses into his thigh, Lando can feel him getting hard and tries not to think too much about how the thought of it alone almost bowls him over.
“Lando,” Oscar breathes, barely audible, and there’s something so raw and open in it, in hearing Oscar say his name like that, whilst they’re like this. “What—” Oscar tries, his voice trailing off when Lando sinks his teeth into his neck.
Lando can’t think, can’t breathe. He wants to get on his knees, his back, put Oscar on his and keep him there.
What the fuck. What the fuck is going on.
Oscar’s skin tastes like champagne and sweat and Lando’s dick jumps; he presses in closer, lets Oscar feel the way he’s hard, wants him to know.
“Lando,” Oscar says again, pulling Lando’s mouth to his own and kissing him feverishly. It’s intoxicating, makes Lando feel more drunk than he has all night with the thought that Oscar wants him, really wants him. It makes Lando want to give him everything.
Oscar runs an almost frantic hand down Lando’s middle and clasps his hand over the buckle of Lando’s belt. He pulls, gets their dicks against each other through fabric and Lando feels like a teenager, like he’s going to come in his pants.
He’s not going to give Oscar the satisfaction.
He joins his hands with Oscar’s, gets their hands all tangled up over his belt buckle and tries not to get caught up in the feeling of Oscar’s hand in his own. It makes him feel something he can’t name, makes him feel desperate, needy, like he wants to kiss over Oscar’s closed eyes and help him win a race.
Lando shakes that away, leans back just enough to rip open his belt, popping open the button of his jeans. He wants to shove them down, get out his dick and get Oscar’s hand on it but he pauses, looks up at Oscar’s face and feels himself flush.
Oscar’s watching him, his hands somewhere by Lando’s hip and Lando’s never seen him like this. But shit, maybe he has. Oscar looks vulnerable, open, like Lando’s something sort of fucking wonderful and beautiful and Lando doesn’t know what that means. Oscar watches his face, runs his fingers over the bare skin of Lando’s waist, his shirt hitched up and Lando nods, leans forward to press his lips to the corner of Oscar’s mouth.
Yes, Lando thinks but doesn’t say. Yesyesyes.
Oscar takes him by his waist, grips on tight and pushes Lando forward, turns him quickly until he feels the wall against his back, rough and hard and Oscar not caring when he shoves Lando up against it. Lando grunts, feels it all over him and pulls Oscar back into him. He kisses him, licks his tongue into his mouth and holds Oscar by the side of his neck. His thumb is over Oscar’s Adam’s apple; he can feel him swallowing.
Oscar doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t stop, when he shoves down Lando’s jeans, his pants, getting a hand around his cock. Lando makes a noise he isn’t proud of, almost collapsing against Oscar and grateful he’s holding him so close. He tips his head back against the stone, grunts again, whines, fucking keens when Oscar grips him roughly, starting to jerk him off.
Lando breathes, winces slightly at how dry it is, and opens his eyes when Oscar stops a second later. Oscar’s looking down between them and removes his hand, lifting it to his mouth and Lando goes offline, completely fucking shuts down, when Oscar spits into his palm.
Oscar’s hand is on his dick, wet with his spit and Lando drags him in to whine against him, trying to practically swallow his tongue in a kiss. It’s dirty, dry, too much and not enough and Lando feels like he’s going to come faster than he ever has in his life. He doesn’t know what they’re doing, feels two steps behind and slow, unable to comprehend the consequences of doing something so fucking stupid.
Because it is. Stupid, that is. It’s stupid to allow himself this with Oscar, to want it, to go for it; he should keep his hands to himself, never touch Oscar again, but Oscar’s touching him like that’s the last thing he wants.
They’ll never do it again, Lando has enough sense to realise that, so why not just let himself enjoy it.
Lando knocks his forehead against Oscar’s, stops kissing him just enough to breathe and practically pants against Oscar’s mouth. It’s not hot, can’t be, but Oscar chases his lips like he needs it. Lando’s practically fucking himself into Oscar’s fist, wishes he was just fucking him full stop and his legs almost give way with the thought of it.
Oscar keeps him upright, his hold punishing and Lando wants to be touching him in return, making Oscar lose it. He’s being selfish, doesn’t want to be but can’t help it; Oscar’s picking apart his brain, turning it to liquid.
Today feels important, and Lando knows it is, but he can’t think of why right now.
“Want—” Lando tries, can’t make his mouth move quick enough, “want this.” He doesn’t know what that means, why he says it, but Oscar makes this little whining noise, this fucked up tiny thing that makes Lando claw his hands at his shoulders.
“Me too,” Oscar practically fucking whispers and Lando can’t explain it, doesn’t know why, but he’s going to come.
“Fuck, Oscar.” He’s tensing up, feels it down his chest, his middle, his legs. It burns up along his spine and he can feel the thrum of the bass from inside at his back, at his feet, and Lando doesn’t know what they’re doing, what he’s feeling, but he comes. He holds Oscar by his hair, pulls too tight but Oscar works him through it, whispers something against Lando’s skin that he doesn’t hear and Lando’s done for. Over. Pack him up and send him home.
Oscar slows his hand, dragging it out of him and Lando shivers, feels cold and burning all at once, hiding his face in Oscar’s neck. He objectively smells awful, but something about it makes Lando twitch, makes him close his mouth over Oscar’s pulse.
Lando’s not sure how long they stand like that, Oscar tucking him back into his jeans and Lando grimacing at the feel of his own come in his briefs. He’s had worse, is already disgusting anyway and Oscar wipes his hand on his own shirt, which is definitely fucking worse; why does Lando kind of like it?
Lando tries to calm down, tips his head against the wall and closes his eyes. He’s running his fingers absentmindedly through Oscar’s hair, right at the nape of his neck and drenched in champagne. He hums, isn’t even aware he’s doing it, and scratches his nails there. Oscar keens, purrs like a god damn cat and Lando grins.
He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even open eyes, just pulls Oscar into him and blindly hopes he finds his mouth. He does, sighing when Oscar kisses him and wonders if they could stay here all night. Fuck, this is so stupid. Lando can’t stop thinking about it, hears a voice in his head telling him to push Oscar away and claim some sort of plausible deniability.
He doesn’t. He won’t. At least not right now.
He can’t promise anything tomorrow.
Oscar is moving his hips, just these small, little rocks like he’s not even aware he’s doing it. It presses him up against Lando, Lando can feel his hard dick against his own softening one and it’s too much, two layers of material between them but it feels like Oscar may as well be touching his over-sensitive dick raw.
Lando gets him in tight, gives him something to really rock against and wonders if Oscar could come like this. He’s breathing heavy like he is, like he can, and Lando would love to see it. But he’s impatient, needy, and he wants to do this for Oscar, to him.
Lando runs his fingers down Oscar’s front, over his chest, before pressing his palms flat against Oscar’s sternum; he feels the way he breathes, like he’s choking on it, and Lando hasn’t even touched him yet. Lando gets that sick feeling again, like this important and too much and too fucking good.
“Can I?” Lando murmurs, pressing his lips along Oscar’s jaw.
Oscar nods without hesitation, grips at Lando roughly. “Mate, if you touch me, I think I’ll be done in like, two seconds.”
“Is that a bet or a promise?”
Oscar laughs, barely, but the sound there. Lando has to kiss him, taste what his laugh feels like, which is so stupid. He does it anyway.
He gets a hand over Oscar through his trousers, grins when Oscar moans into his mouth and Oscar wasn’t kidding, it really might be over before it starts.
There’s so much Lando wants to do; heady, impulsive things that make his toes curl and head swim. They don’t have the time, it’s certainly not the right time, in some palace in a place Lando can’t remember the name of and he spares a thought to someone catching them, the consequences, and pushes it down.
He wants to lay Oscar out beneath him, nothing between them, touch Oscar for as long as he wants, as much as wants, until Oscar hates him with how much he wants it. He pictures Oscar on his knees and Lando can’t explain it, but the thought makes him want to get on his own.
“Can…” Lando tries, not sure what he wants to ask. He turns them, gets Oscar back against the wall, and Oscar’s so easy for him he goes without resistance. Lando takes a step back, keeps a hand at Oscar’s waist but takes a moment just to look at him. He’s flushed, all red in the face, and Lando never wants to stop touching him. Has Oscar always been beautiful?
Oscar whines impatiently, reaching for Lando and Lando lets himself be pulled in.
“Tell me no,” he says, anchoring his hands on Oscar’s hips and sinking to his knees in the grass. Stupid. Stupidstupidstupid.
Lando thinks Oscar stops breathing, puts his hands over his thighs and feels how tight they are; he’s all coiled up, ready to snap, and Lando’s desperate to see it. He looks up at Oscar, digs his thumbs into muscle and Oscar groans, deep and half out of control.
“Tell me no,” Lando says again, getting his fingers on the zipper of Oscar’s trousers. Oscar looks at him, really fucking properly looks at him and Lando’s never felt more exposed, more raw. He wonders what Oscar sees, how he feels, and it scares him too much to ask.
Oscar puts a hand to his face, cradles his jaw gently and it feels too intimate, too flaying and Lando shudders. “Lando…” he says softly, thumb at the corner of Lando’s mouth. Lando gets it, he doesn’t need Oscar to say anything else.
Lando doesn’t waste any time, no point overthinking it; he shoves Oscar’s pants down just enough to get his cock out, hates himself a little for how much he wants it. He focuses on the want instead, focuses on Oscar, and gets his hand around him.
Oscar almost buckles, digging a hand painfully into Lando’s shoulder to keep himself upright. Lando likes it.
He gives Oscar’s cock a few lazy drags of his hand, wanting to get his mouth on him but getting distracted by Oscar’s face. His eyes are closed, teeth sunk deep into his lower lip and Lando can tell he’s fighting the urge to come.
It’s been more than two seconds. Lando loses. Or maybe he wins, depending on how you look at the glass.
Oscar’s got a nice dick, all red and wet at the tip and Lando wants. He gets in close, keeps his hand where it is and presses a kiss to the sliver of exposed skin at his groin. He can hear Oscar practically fucking panting, thighs shaking, and Lando can’t help but hum—just a bit—when Oscar fists a hand in his hair. His grip isn’t necessarily rough, certainly not mean, but it’s tight enough that Lando feels it kick something in his gut. Fuck. He’s probably going to get it up again. Oscar’s such a little fucker.
Lando’s shoves at Oscar’s hips with both his hands, digs in his thumbs and puts his mouth over Oscar’s cock, tight and wet and taking him down as deep as he can go. Lando’s not exactly a fucking expert, he can admit that, but Oscar’s breathing like he’s never had better.
Lando can taste precome on his tongue, should hate it but doesn’t and knows there is no way Oscar’s going to last. He’s actually sort of impressed that Oscar didn’t come in his mouth the second he got it on him. Lando probably would have, if he’s being honest.
Oscar’s whining, running his hands restlessly though Lando’s hair and Lando thinks he’s saying something, trying to say something, but Lando’s too far gone to hear it.
Lando comes off his cock, replaces his mouth with his hand and looks up at Oscar. Even in the dark, with only the soft glow of the light from inside on his skin, Lando truly, properly sees him.
“Oscar,” Lando says softly, voice gone. He tightens his grip, watches the way it makes Oscar buckle. “Osc,” he says again, a little louder, and Oscar looks at him, finally.
Oscar comes.
Oscar comes on his face.
Lando’s not proud of it, not fucking proud at all and he’d never admit it, will ensure he bitches Oscar out, but it makes his spent cock twitch valiantly.
Ugh. What the fuck.
Lando works him through it with his hand, feels Oscar’s come on his mouth, his tongue, his chin. It’s disgusting, Lando wants to hit him, and he has to duck his head so Oscar doesn’t see how fucking red in the face he is. He's getting hard again; he’s trying to find the shame that should come with that and it doesn’t.
The noise Oscar makes is completely intelligible. His touch is all tangled up in Lando’s hair, one hand at the side of his neck, running down to his shoulder and back again until he rests on Lando’s jaw. His breathing is heavy, fucking gasping for it, and Lando has to hold him roughly to save him from falling when his thumb runs through his own come right by Lando’s mouth.
“Oh, fuck,” Oscar groans, pulling at Lando’s hair. “Lando—I—I didn’t mean to—” he’s rambling, can’t get his words out and Lando pushes him back gently against the wall, letting him go. He thinks Oscar might need the space for a second.
Oscar’s got his eyes closed, breathing through it, and Lando leans forward to pull at the hem of his shirt. Oscar doesn’t react, probably doesn’t notice, when Lando uses Oscar’s shirt to wipe the come off his face.
He deserves it.
Lando sits back on his heels, feels sort of disgusting and hot all over and wishes he had the feeling in his legs to stand up. He wants Oscar’s face on his and doesn't care if Oscar’s all prudish about kissing him after his dick’s been in his mouth.
He wonders if Oscar will still want to kiss him at all, now that they’ve done… whatever the fuck this is. Lando’s head feels all soupy, too thick, and he knows it will hit him soon, it will, he just wishes it wouldn’t.
He wonders what Oscar’s thinking, wishes so desperately to know and so equally not to. He looks up at Oscar and realises that maybe right now he’s not thinking much of anything at all, like Lando’s sucked his brain out through his dick. It doesn't matter, post-nut clarity will hit like a bitch and Oscar will realise what they’ve done. What he’s let Lando do.
Lando sort of doesn’t want to be around to see it.
He’s going to get up, get up and leave and go and party with his team. They can pretend this never happened and that will be just fucking peachy, for Lando. Things between them sometimes feel screwed up enough, without whatever this is thrown in; everything with Oscar is too heavy, sometimes too vicious, and Lando doesn’t think they know how to operate in halves.
He just wants to send it, when it comes to Oscar.
Lando’s going to go, he looks down at his hands, takes a breath and tries to connect feeling to his legs.
“Hey,” Oscar says softly, pulling Lando out of his head. Lando looks at him and almost wishes he didn’t. He has no clue what to say now.
Oscar seems to decide something, balancing himself to get down on the ground, sitting up against the wall. Lando doesn’t have time to react before Oscar’s pulling him in and he has to lean forward on his knees, almost crawling up into Oscar’s space; Oscar takes his face in his hands and kisses him.
Oh.
Lando’s easy for it. But then again, he was always going to be.
It doesn’t last long, is positively fucking innocent compared to everything else they’ve done and Lando puts a hand to Oscar’s face gently before he lets go, leaning back and moving to sit by his side.
They sit like that, asses in the grass, the stone wall of a palace at their backs and their thighs pressed together tightly.
Oscar sighs and Lando copies him, unsure where they go from here.
“I’m, uh, sorry for the—sorry for the whole, face thing.”
Lando laughs, can’t help it. “Sorry about your shirt.”
“Huh?” Oscar says as he looks down, groaning a second later. “Oh, fucking—fuck, I need to change. Where am I going to get another shirt from?”
“Eh. It’s dark,” Lando shrugs and Oscar lets out a low chuckle, exasperated and a bit disbelieving. Lando can feel him moving, feels it all down his side.
It feels good. Normal. Like them.
“I—look,” Oscar tries, “about—what we just—”
“Nah, it’s fine. Don’t—we don’t have to…”
They’re both stumbling over their words, suddenly awkward and slow and Lando hates it.
“We should, uh, probably get back,” Oscar says finally. And he’s right, they should, they need to, but Lando never wants to move again.
“Yeah,” he says, but doesn’t move. He gets that sick feeling again, that one that’s been lingering all night. He doesn’t know if today has truly hit him yet; the win, the championship. He did it—they did it—and Lando realises that despite everything, no matter what happens with Oscar, he’s glad Oscar’s the one going through it with him.
He doesn’t know how to tell Oscar that, so he won’t; he hopes he gets it.
Lando opens his eyes, doesn’t look at Oscar and chooses to look at his hands instead. Oscar’s are on his thighs, almost bunched into fists and Lando’s not going to hold his hand, or anything absurd like that, but he thinks he might want to.
Winning the constructors has made him stupid.
(He doesn’t regret it.)
“Alright,” he says finally, sitting forward. He moves to get up, is about to, when Oscar’s hand curls around his wrist.
Lando stills, looks at Oscar’s hand and then his face. Oscar looks—
Lando doesn’t know, but it terrifies him. He feels like he sees everything Oscar’s never said to him, written all over his face.
It terrifies him and it feels… good.
“We can—we could stay a few more minutes, right?” Oscar asks.
Lando swallows. “Yeah.”
Oscar nods and Lando leans in closer, doesn’t know what else to do.
Oscar’s hands stays on him, moves a little lower and wraps around Lando’s.
Lando doesn’t think about it, doesn’t want to; he opens his palm to let Oscar’s fingers find the gaps in his own.
“You’re a liar, by the way,” Lando says quietly.
“Huh?”
“Took you more than two seconds.”
“I—”