Driven

by jsunzy

Summary:

@𝗽𝗶𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗿𝗶𝗳𝗿𝗮𝗺𝗲𝘀
thanks for the ride

@𝗳𝘂𝗹𝗹𝘁𝗵𝗿𝗼𝘁𝘁𝗹𝗲𝗹𝗮𝗻𝗱𝗼
no, thank YOU for the ride

In which Oscar is a photography nerd with a thing for fast cars and even faster drivers, Lando is a cocky street racer who wasn’t ready to be someone’s muse—but here we are.

Neither of them knows how they ended up in this mess (but neither wants to leave).

Notes:

Don’t ask. Watched Fast and Furious and got inspired. Clapping cheeks, keep reading.
I don’t even know. Enjoy.

It’s 1am i did not beta read, goodnight

Chapter 1: In the Passenger Seat

The pulse of Melbourne’s midnight streets throbbed with the bass-heavy rhythm of a thousand car engines. Beneath the glowing city skyline, Docklands had transformed into a neon-lit playground for the city’s most daring street racers and the crowds that worshipped them.

Oscar adjusted the strap of his camera, its familiar weight a small anchor in the chaos around him. The lens cap swung on its tether as he moved through the packed crowd, weaving between clusters of men and women dressed in sleek leather and denim, faces alive with excitement. The air smelled of burnt rubber, gasoline, and the faint sweetness of someone’s cigarette, a mix that made his heart race.

This was where he belonged, though he’d never admit it aloud. The street races were illegal, dangerous, and undeniably alive. His camera thrived here, capturing frozen moments of grit and glory. But tonight, it wasn’t just the art that called to him.

It was him.

Lando stood by his car—an aggressively tuned Nissan GT-R, its body sleek, green with a luster that caught the light like molten metal. His presence was magnetic, effortlessly commanding attention. The confidence in the way he leaned against the hood, casually sipping from a bottle of water, was almost infuriating. His fitted black jacket, zipped halfway to reveal a hint of a silver chain, and his dark jeans seemed to mock the rest of them with their perfection.

Oscar lingered by a nearby group, raising his camera and pretending to shoot the skyline while his lens inched toward Lando. The racer hadn’t spotted him yet, but Oscar wasn’t sure he wanted to be spotted. Not by him.

He looks so damn cocky, Oscar thought, his fingers twitching on the camera’s shutter. Lando always carried aura luke he’s untouchable, just like his car. And yet, there was a pull Oscar couldn’t deny.

Lando, for his part, wasn’t oblivious to the attention. He never was. He thrived on it. The girls who leaned a little closer than necessary when asking about his car, the guys who pretended not to envy him—it all fed the fire that made him come alive behind the wheel.

But tonight, there was something different. A tension he couldn’t quite place.

————— the other day

The studio was dim, lit only by the soft, red glow of the safelight hanging from the ceiling. The world outside was quiet, but inside, Oscar’s focus was razor-sharp. He dipped the glossy paper into the tray of developer solution, rocking it gently. Slowly, the image appeared—a car caught mid-slide, tires kicking up plumes of smoke under the city’s electric glow.

His breath hitched.

It was perfect: the framing, the movement, the energy. But it wasn’t just any car—it was his car. Lando’s.

The prints hung in neat rows on the line strung across the studio, droplets of liquid glistening at their edges. Each photo told a story of speed and chaos: the raw power of engines, the glow of headlights cutting through the dark, and the sharp, angular beauty of the cars themselves. Yet one figure seemed to dominate the collection, a constant in the frenzy of motion and metal.

Lando.

Oscar sighed and leaned back against the counter, wiping his hands on his dark jeans. His eyes wandered to the corner of the room, where his laptop sat open. The glow of the screen illuminated a digital collage—a draft for a physical album he’d been obsessively designing during every free minute that he had. The title hovered at the top: Melbourne’s Street Kings.

He sat down, throwing his legs up on a small coffee table, scrolling through the layout. Each page was meticulously curated—shots of cars mid-race, candid moments of drivers laughing or arguing, and, of course, Lando. Oscar lingered on a close-up he’d taken a few nights ago: Lando leaning against his GT-R, the green of the car shimmering under neon lights, a self-assured smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

Oscar’s lips quirked in frustration. You’re way too obvious, he told himself, though he knew he wouldn’t remove the photo. It wasn’t just about the cars anymore; it was about him, about the way he owned the night like he was born for it.

The quiet buzz of his phone pulled him out of his thoughts. A notification from Instagram.

@fullthrottlelando: Just posted a new reel.

Oscar hesitated, then opened the app. The reel was classic Lando—clips of him working on his car intercut with shots of it roaring down city streets. It ended with a teasing caption: “Who’s ready for tomorrow night?”

Oscar’s stomach flipped. He didn’t need the reminder. The big race had been all anyone could talk about.

——————

Lando’s garage was alive with the steady hum of machinery and the sharp clang of tools. The fluorescent lights overhead cast a stark glow on the Nissan GT-R, its hood propped open like a beast waiting to be fed.

Lando laid on his back, half under the car, tightening a bolt with practiced ease. The smell of oil and grease clung to the air, grounding him. His white tank top stained with un-washable marks. This was his sanctuary, the place where all the bravado fell away, replaced by focus and precision. He had beyond a shit ton of friends, a huge circle of connections yet his garage was strictly to himself.

He slid out, wiping his hands on a rag. His fingers traced the edge of the car’s hood as he stood, admiring the machine. It wasn’t just a car; it was an extension of him, a symbol of his skill and determination. Tomorrow night, he’d prove that again. The thrill, the adrenaline flowed in his veins.

But there was something else gnawing at the edges of his thoughts.

He pulled his phone from his pocket, flicking through Instagram stories. His finger paused over one—a shot of his GT-R from the last race, captured in perfect detail. He tapped on the profile: @piastriframes.

He’d been noticing this guy for weeks now. Always in the background with a camera, always lurking just enough to be seen but not enough to draw attention. And those photos…they weren’t just good. They were personal, like the photographer saw something no one else did.

Lando smirked. He’s following me, he thought, though it wasn’t entirely unreciprocated.

He tossed his phone onto the workbench and leaned against a workbench, arms crossed, observing the mechanical beauty. Tomorrow, the race would be everything. But as much as he lived for the thrill of the asphalt, part of him was curious about who might be watching from the crowd.

—————— present

The street was buzzing with anticipation, the air electric with the sound of revving engines and the murmur of the crowd. Cars lined the pavement, their glossy paint jobs catching the glow of the streetlights. Lando’s GT-R sat at the center of it all, as untouchable as a king’s throne.

Oscar wasn’t lurking in the shadows this time. He stood closer than he ever had before, everyone could tough the cars freely so why couldn’t he? His camera was held in a tight grip, eye looking through the lens. He still hid behind his camera.

Oscar approached the car slowly, drawn to it like a moth to a flame. He finally released his relentless grip on the device, letting himself enjoy the moment. The green and black paint shimmered like liquid under the lights, and Oscar’s fingers itched to touch it, to feel the cold, smooth surface beneath his hand. He stopped just short, his reflection rippling across the car’s body.

“You don’t have to just look, you know.”

Oscar’s head snapped up. Lando was leaning against the driver’s door, arms crossed, his smirk sharp enough to cut through the noise around them. He looked like he hadn’t a care in the world, but his eyes were sharp, studying Oscar with a mix of amusement and curiosity.

Oscar tilted his head, forcing himself to stay calm even as his heart hammered. “I didn’t want to leave fingerprints.”

“Respectable,” Lando said, pushing off the car and stepping closer. His hands slid casually into the pockets of his jeans as he closed the distance between them. “But somehow, I don’t think you’re here to admire the paint job.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching into the faintest of smiles. “The car’s impressive,” he said, voice steady. “But it’s not the only thing worth noticing.”

Lando’s smirk faltered for half a second, replaced by something quieter, a flicker of intrigue in his deep green eyes. Oscar never noticed closer featured of the racer. “Bold,” he said, his voice low enough that it almost didn’t carry over the roar of an engine nearby.

Oscar shrugged, his confidence holding even as his pulse raced. “You don’t seem like the type to be impressed by shy.”

“You’re not wrong,” Lando said, leaning just slightly closer. His voice softened, his teasing edge replaced with something more genuine. “But I’m still trying to figure you out, camera guy.”

Oscar chuckled, his hand brushing over the camera strap. “Oscar,” he said. “Figured I should at least give you my name since I’ve already been accused of stalking you.”

Lando grinned, leaning back a little, the tension diffusing just enough. “I never said stalking. Admiring, maybe.” He nodded toward Oscar’s camera. “You don’t just take pictures. You see things. I’ve noticed that.”

Oscar’s breath caught at the unexpected compliment, but he quickly masked it with a smirk of his own. “And you’re not just a racer,” he said. “You own the streets.”

For a moment, the noise around them faded. Lando studied Oscar, his expression unreadable. Then he glanced back at his car. “You coming to watch me win tonight?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Oscar said, his voice calm even as his heart pounded.

Lando stepped closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “Good. I’ll make sure it’s a show worth remembering.”

As he turned to climb into his car, Oscar stayed where he was, feeling the warmth of Lando’s words settle in his chest. His fingers brushed over his camera, but he didn’t lift it. For once, he didn’t need a photo to remember this moment.

——————

The roar of engines drowned out the world as the racers lined up on the deserted stretch of road. The crowd pressed closer, the tension thick in the air, anticipation crackling like static. Lando’s GT-R idled on one side, its deep green sheen catching the flicker of streetlights. Beside him was George, a challenger with a reputation to match Lando’s. His matte black Supra snarled like a predator waiting to strike.

Oscar stood at the edge of the crowd, his camera ready, the lens focused on the two cars. He could feel the energy radiating off the racers, the unspoken rivalry fueling their determination. He’d seen dozens of races, but this one was different. It wasn’t just about speed. It was personal.

The starter raised her hand, a scarf dangling between her fingers. The engines revved higher, each driver’s focus narrowing to the stretch of asphalt ahead.

The scarf dropped.

The tires screamed against the pavement as both cars launched forward, the force of their acceleration sending a wave of sound rippling through the crowd. Oscar’s camera snapped rapidly, capturing the blur of green and black as they tore down the street, headlights cutting through the darkness.

The GT-R and the Supra raced neck and neck, weaving through the makeshift course with terrifying precision. Lando’s car roared as he took a corner with impossible grace, the tail end sliding out just enough before snapping back into line. George was right behind him, his Supra surging forward with brute force.

Oscar moved quickly, finding higher ground for a better shot. His lens followed the cars as they hit the straightaway, engines screaming at full throttle. The streetlights above flickered as they streaked by, the sheer speed almost too much for the eye to follow.

Then came the finish.

Lando crossed the line half a second before George, his car skidding to a stop in a haze of smoke and burning rubber. The crowd erupted, a mix of cheers and groans, but the tension didn’t ease.

——————

The city was quieter now, the chaos of the race replaced by an eerie calm. Oscar found himself wandering down a darker street, his camera still slung over his shoulder. He wasn’t ready to go home yet; the adrenaline was still coursing through him, and his thoughts kept circling back to Lando.

He turned a corner and saw it—a garage door half-open, a soft light spilling out onto the pavement. It wasn’t until he got closer that he recognized the car parked inside. The GT-R.

Oscar hesitated, glancing around. The street was deserted. Curiosity tugged at him, and before he could think better of it, he ducked under the door and stepped inside.

The space was small but meticulously organized. Tools lined the walls, and a faint smell of oil lingered in the air. Lando was there, leaning against the workbench with his back to the door, his head bowed as he ran a hand through his hair.

Oscar froze, unsure if he should leave or make his presence known. He took a small step forward, his shoe scuffing against the floor.

Lando turned sharply, his eyes narrowing for a moment before recognition softened his expression. “You again.”

“I—uh—didn’t mean to intrude,” Oscar said quickly. “The door was open.”

Lando sighed, straightening up. He looked tired, the fire from earlier dimmed but not gone. “Yeah, well, it’s not exactly Fort Knox.” He grabbed a water bottle from the bench and took a long sip before looking at Oscar again. “What are you doing here?”

Oscar hesitated. “Honestly? I don’t know. I saw the light and…” He gestured vaguely. “I guess I was curious.”

Lando studied him for a moment, then smirked faintly. “Curious, huh? About the car or about me?”

Oscar felt his face heat but didn’t look away. “Both.”

Lando huffed a quiet laugh, setting the bottle down. The hum of the city outside was distant, muffled by the heavy steel of the garage walls. Inside, the fluorescent lights cast a pale glow over Lando’s GT-R, its green paint still streaked with grime from the race. Lando’s shoulders were tense, his jaw tight.

Oscar stood a few feet away, unsure whether he was intruding but unwilling to leave. The silence between them stretched, thick with unspoken words. Finally, Lando broke it.

“George is an idiot,” he muttered, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. “He thinks everything’s about him. Can’t handle being second for once.”

Oscar nodded, leaning slightly against a tool cabinet. “He’s definitely got temper,” he said, keeping his voice neutral. “But that fight… it wasn’t just about tonight, was it?”

Lando’s eyes flicked to him, sharp but not angry. He hesitated before answering. “It’s never just about one night,” he admitted. “This whole scene—it’s not as glamorous as it looks. You’ve got to fight to stay on top, to stay relevant. People like George—they see it as a game. But for some of us…” He trailed off, his gaze dropping to the floor.

Oscar tilted his head, sensing the opening. “For some of you, it’s survival,” he finished quietly.

Lando let out a bitter laugh. “Yeah. Something like that.” He picked up a wrench from the bench, turning it over in his hands as if it could distract him from his thoughts. “You think this is about glory? About showing off? It’s not. It’s about proving something. To the crowd. To the other racers. To myself.”

“Proving what?” Oscar asked softly.

Lando’s jaw worked, his fingers tightening around the wrench. “That I’m not a failure. That I can take control of something—anything. My car, my races… my life.”

The vulnerability in his voice was unexpected, raw. Oscar’s chest tightened, but he didn’t push further. Instead, he stepped closer, his voice calm. “You don’t have to prove that.”

Lando looked up at him, something unguarded flickering in his eyes. Before he could reply, he tossed the wrench back onto the counter with a clatter and straightened. “Come on,” he said, grabbing his keys. “Let me drive you home. Cops are probably still swarming the streets. It’s not safe.”

——————

The race car hummed quietly as they cruised through the city. Lando’s hand rested casually on the gear shift, his other gripping the wheel with practiced ease. Oscar watched him out of the corner of his eye, noting the way the streetlights played across his face, softening the edges of his usual cocky demeanor. He couldn’t believe that this was actually real. His camera rested in his lap, fingers gently brushing over the buttons.

Music filled the car, something low and rhythmic that matched the pulse of the city outside. Neither of them spoke at first, the silence between them comfortable.

“You didn’t have to do this,” Oscar said eventually, his voice barely audible over the music.

Lando glanced at him, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “What, let you into my car? You’re probably the only guy in this city who hasn’t asked for a ride.”

Oscar chuckled, shaking his head. “No, I mean tonight. The race. The fight with George. Why do you put yourself through it?”

Lando hesitated, his fingers tapping against the wheel. “Because it’s the only thing I’ve got,” he said finally. “Racing is the only place where I feel like I’m in control. Where the rules are mine.”

Oscar turned to look at him fully, his curiosity outweighing his caution. “And when you’re not racing?”

Lando didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he turned the car down a quiet street, the city lights fading behind them.

——————

The GT-R came to a stop on a lookout spot on a hill. Lando killed the engine, and the sudden quiet felt almost deafening. He opened the window, soft chirping filling the atmosphere.

For a moment, neither of them moved. Lando leaned back in his seat, spreading his knees apart and staring out at the skyline. “I don’t talk about this stuff,” he said, his voice low.

“You don’t have to,” Oscar replied. “Not if you don’t want to.”

Lando turned to look at him, his dark eyes searching. “But you’re asking anyway.”

Oscar held his gaze, calm and steady. “Yeah, I am.”

Lando exhaled sharply, running a hand over his face. “My family doesn’t get it,” he said, his voice edged with frustration. “They think all of this mechanical car stuff and racing is a waste of time. They wanted me to go to uni, get a degree, do something respectable. But that’s not me. It never was. This car? These streets? They’re mine. They’re the only place I feel like I belong.”

Oscar reached out, his hand brushing lightly against Lando’s arm. “You don’t have to carry all of it by yourself,” he said softly. Hell they’ve known each other properly for an hour yet here they are, sharing the most heartfelt conversation.

Lando froze at the touch, his breath catching. Slowly, he turned toward Oscar, their faces inches apart in the dark. The tension between them was electric, the air thick with unspoken possibilities.

Lando leaned in first, his eyes flicking down to Oscar’s lips before meeting his gaze again. He hesitated, just for a moment, before closing the distance.

The kiss was slow, deliberate, a quiet release of everything unspoken between them. Neither of them knew where this was coming from, or why. Oscar’s palm cupped Lando’s cheek, their tongues and lips dancing slowly, sensually. When they finally pulled apart, Lando’s breath was uneven, his hand still resting on the gear shift.

“I don’t usually do this,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

Oscar smiled faintly, his hands back on his camera. “Neither do I.” a chuckle followed.

Neither of the two knew what the spark was, but the two dove into yet another kiss, this time a bit more aggressive after testing the waters. Maybe this was exactly what the two needed — a night away from all of their worries. Just a one night stand?

Lando took off his leather jacket, his tank top followed. Oscar leaned back against the window, camera in hand. Lando chuckled. “Make sure i look good.”

Oscar hadn’t expected this—not here, not tonight. But now that it was happening, he couldn’t stop the spiral of emotions that tangled with his usually steady resolve.

Is this real? Am I reading this wrong?

The weight of Lando’s gaze bore into him, his dark eyes searching, unguarded in a way Oscar had never seen before. The confidence that usually radiated off the street racer seemed to flicker, replaced by something softer, something unsure. And that uncertainty only made Oscar’s pulse pound harder.

He’s right there. Say something. Do something. Don’t ruin this.

His heart hammered against his ribcage, each beat louder than the last. His fingers twitched, taking probably the worst shot of his life. “You always look good.”

Lando hauled over, sitting right in Oscar’s lap. Their eyes locked, cheeks dusted rosy pink. “You really think I haven’t noticed you before.” Oscar’s eyes shifted, embarrassed, he was supposed to be invisible at almost all times. He felt Lando’s weight press against him.

Lando’s hands basically ripped the shirt off Oscar, throwing it in the backseat before connecting their wet, pink lips once more. Oscar’s hands trembled, palms sliding from Lando’s waist down to the zipper of his jeans.

Lando kept his eyes on Oscar, a smug grin plastered. Oscar slid down Lando’s jeans, his boxers bulging already, a wet spot ruining the perfect image. Oscar couldn’t contain himself, in a frantic frenzy he snapped a second shot, only Lando’s fit body and spread knees riding his thighs, in frame. It was a tight, uncomfortable space, but they made it work.

“Fuck, Lando…” Oscar felt aroused from only imagining how good the shots will turn out, making a mental note to not let anyone in his studio for the next few days while the photographs rendered. “What is it?” Oscar managed to pull down Lando’s boxers, cock hard, slapping against his own stomach. “Like what you see?”

“Mhm…” Oscar nodded in response, not containing himself anymore. Oscar’s jeans felt beyond uncomfortable, Lando took notice, helping out with the removal of the last few clothing pieces. Lando’s back was already aching from being bent over.

“Shit, do you have lube?” Oscar asked, his cock painfully hard, blood rushing. Pre-cum already leaking from his tip, he felt shy in the other’s gaze. “Don’t worry, Osc.” Lando chuckled, much more relaxed than the younger. Lando snatched the camera and leaned back. Even both of them painfully erect, Lando took a shot. He had to take a moment to contain himself from the sudden image displaying on Oscar’s camera. “Fuck.”

Lando propped the camera on the drivers seat, pressing record. This made Oscar’s blood rush to his cock even faster. His hands gently rested on the racer’s glutes, kneading the muscle, leaning his head back. Lando took the lube out of the dashboard, a fresh tube. He squirted the cold liquid onto Oscar’s dick, receiving the most lighthearted, breathy chuckle.

“You seem to be prepared.” Oscar commented, Lando moved forward, holding onto the photographers shoulders. He replied with a laugh “more or less…” Oscar took over the lead, lubing up his fingers as well. Slowly but surely, with quick prep, his dick slid in Lando with a bit of struggle.

Lando clashed against Oscar’s body, biting onto his pale shoulder, not containing his moans. “Fucking hell! You don’t- don’t,” huffs and grunts kept interrupting his sentence. “…give off big dick energy,” he whined “at all..” this comment eased the tension. Oscar shut his eyes, nibbling his bottom lip, before attaching his lips against Lando’s sweaty and tan skin. He placed the most delicate kisses, biting the skin ever so slightly. Soft moans pooled from his throat as well. “You’re good…you’re good…” his hand gently stroked his waist, while the other snatched the camera. The closeness was intoxicating.

Lando spent a few moments sitting, basically a strangers cock buried deep in him. “Oscar…” he whimpered, his bravado gone, vanished completely. “No one will know-“ his breath hitched “…will know, about this. No one,” Lando’s body gently trembled, the photographer’s touch easing the tension ever so slightly. “No one will know.” Oscar confirmed. He stopped the recording mode, snapping another image.

Lando started to grind his hips, whimpers filling the space. Oscar always saw the serious and untouchable Lando through his lens, but here, he was touching him, hands gripping every single inch of his tan skin, making him moan with his cock in deep.

“Never knew you were this vocal,” Oscar teased, bucking his hips upwards, Lando’s jaw hanging, unholy sounds filling the car. Their moans and whimpers, especially Lando’s, could be heard loud and clear outside of the car as it swayed.

“Fuck! Oscar!” he shouted, arms wrapped securely around Oscar, nails digging into his pale skin, skin biting hard into the younger’s flesh.

“M-Mhm? What is it? You like this, pretty boy?” Lando’s skin was red from Oscar’s grip as he hammered into the smaller man. “You’re so good, you’re doing so- so well.” He kept repeating in a whisper as Lando struggled to form a thought.

Lando was overwhelmed with pleasure, his cock slapping against the skin at the same rhythm of Oscar’s thrust. He couldn’t take it anymore, without a warning, he came undone, the white fluid pooling on him and Oscar.

Oscar let out a breathy chuckle, as Lando seemed to relax for a second, but Oscar continued, thrusting upwards, the Brit responding with lightest bounces. “Osc- stop- I-,” Lando pleaded, from the overwhelming pleasure and heat in his stomach. Oscar reached his high, coming whilst still inside. He kept hammering the other for a few short moments, making a total mess of themselves before stopping.

Lando’s body dropped limp against the Aussie’s chest, panting, shivering. Oscar held the other close as their breaths evened out, whimpers subsiding.

—————

01:56am

𝗽𝗶𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗿𝗶𝗳𝗿𝗮𝗺𝗲𝘀
thanks for the ride
𝗳𝘂𝗹𝗹𝘁𝗵𝗿𝗼𝘁𝘁𝗹𝗲𝗹𝗮𝗻𝗱𝗼
no, thank YOU for the ride

Chapter 2: Framework

Summary:

In which Oscar tries to work, but Lando turns ‘helping’ into stealing his couch, his studio, and maybe his heart.

Notes:

happy new year <3
took me long enough :>>

biggest biggest ever thank you!!! to Lola (@twinkodium) for helping me out with the spice

The notification buzzed on Oscar’s phone, breaking the stillness of his studio. He glanced at the screen, expecting another mundane message or alert, but instead, it was a DM from Lando.

@fullthrottlelando: Nice shot.

Attached was one of Oscar’s recent Instagram posts—a moody, black-and-white shot of the GT-R mid-drift, from a few night’s ago. Second photo followed: a candid shot of his studio. Rows of drying prints hung in the dim red light of the darkroom, their stark beauty illuminated by the glow. Lastly, a casual selfie—Oscar, leaning back on his studio couch, hoodie pulled snug, his hand resting on the back of his head.

Oscar stared at the screen. He hadn’t expected Lando to notice, let alone comment. He quickly typed a reply, trying to sound casual.

@piastriframes: Thanks. I’d say the subject does most of the work.

He hit send before overthinking it, wondering if he sounded too casual—or worse, too eager. The dots appeared almost immediately.

@fullthrottlelando: So that’s your studio? Looks like something out of a movie.

@piastriframes: It’s not much. Just where the magic happens.

@fullthrottlelando: I want to see it.

Oscar blinked, rereading the message. He hadn’t expected that.

@piastriframes: It’s nothing fancy. Trust me, it’s more clutter than cool.

@fullthrottlelando: Still. Invite me over. I want to see how you work.

Oscar’s fingers hovered over the keyboard. His nerves buzzed with anticipation, but he forced himself to type.

@piastriframes: Alright. You’re just angling for free photos, aren’t you? If you’re serious, come by tonight. I’ll send you the address.

The response was immediate.

@fullthrottlelando: Maybe. Be there in 30. Don’t tidy up on my account.

Oscar set his phone down, exhaling a long breath. His eyes flicked around the studio—prints scattered across the worktable, equipment piled high on shelves, and a stray lens cap rolling dangerously close to the edge of the desk.

———————

The knock came faster than expected. Oscar padded over to the door and pulled it open, revealing Lando leaning casually against the doorframe.

Except, Lando didn’t feel as casual as he looked.

He’d been cool the whole drive over, but now, standing in the doorway of Oscar’s studio, his confidence was suddenly on shaky ground. His heart thudded uncomfortably fast as he took in Oscar—hair slightly mussed, hoodie sleeves bunched at the elbows, looking every bit the artist who lived and breathed his craft.

“Come on in,” Oscar said, stepping aside.

Lando took his que, his gaze sweeping over the studio like he was stepping into another world. The space was eclectic and raw, with an energy that buzzed under the surface. House music played distantly in the background, no where near the volume of their voices. To his left, a white backdrop for portraits stretched floor to ceiling, waiting for a performer, a muse.

A couch, worn but comfortable-looking, was tucked into the corner, laid a forgotten laptop, and a discarded hoodie. Nearby, shelves groaned under the weight of journals, film canisters, and an assortment of camera equipment. A table tucked in another corner with note blocks, a calendar with many colour coded dates and scribbled red marker, its surface littered with prints, The air smelled faintly of chemicals and coffee, with a hint of something distinctly Oscar.

Lando’s fingers twitched at his sides, the urge to touch everything—a lens, a print, even the fabric of the hoodie—almost overwhelming.

“This is… so cool,” Lando said, his voice betraying a rare note of hesitation. “cooler than my garage.”

Oscar smiled, seemingly pleased. “Glad you think so. It’s kind of my second home.”

Lando turned to respond, but before he could, Oscar’s phone buzzed on the cluttered table. Oscar glanced at it, frowning slightly.

“Sorry, I’ve got to take this. Won’t be long. Just… don’t touch anything, yeah?”

Lando nodded, raising a hand in mock surrender. “Got it.”

Oscar shot him a look—half warning, half playful—before slipping out of the studio, the door clicking shut behind him.

Left alone, Lando felt the stillness settle over him. He wandered aimlessly at first, his gaze skimming the prints scattered on the couch. They were incredible—candid shots of racers and cars, raw moments of the races frozen in time. He could see Oscar’s eye for detail in every frame, how he captured the energy of the moment, the adrenaline, and the humanity behind it.

Then his attention drifted to the door slightly ajar across the room. The darkroom. Oscar had said not to touch anything, but technically he hadn’t said not to look.

Curiosity won though. Lando pushed the door open and stepped inside, the soft red light washing over him. The scent of chemicals was stronger here, mixing with the warmth of the space. Lines crisscrossed the room, each one dotted with photographs clipped to dry.

He moved closer, his eyes widening as he took in the images. Each photo told a story—cars mid-drift, faces lit with the raw intensity of competition, close-ups of hands gripping steering wheels or feet stomping pedals. He noticed quite a few portraits of himself as well. They weren’t of him with a cocky expression, leaning against his car. It was his face, painted a seriousness right before a start. Every muscle flexed. Lando had never seem himself in this position. “Oh shit,” he could only whisper, amazed by the Australian’s craft. There was a rhythm to the collection, a pulse that mirrored the races themselves.

Lando was floored. He’d never seen anything like it.

Then, as he rounded the corner of the drying lines, his eyes landed on a set of prints tucked in the shadows. At first, he thought they were just more shots of the GT-R. But as he stepped closer, his breath hitched.

It wasn’t just the car.

It was them.

The photos were intimate, almost unbearably so. One captured the interior of the GT-R bathed in the faint glow of the city lights, their faces partially obscured. Another showed his hand resting on the gearshift, with Oscar’s fingers just barely visible brushing against his wrist. Another one of Lando’s smile, mid laugh, teeth flashy.

The most striking, though, were the few final ones. Lando leaning towards Oscar, his expression unreadable but charged with emotion. Then their bodies, the heat basically radiating through the photographs. The images were grainy, far from perfect, but it made his chest tighten in a way that was almost painful. They were raw, unpolished, untouched by any editing softwares.

His thoughts spiraled.

He should’ve felt exposed, maybe even violated, but instead, he felt… seen. Completely and utterly seen. He felt good. He was enjoying this. Like Oscar had peeled back every layer of his bravado and captured something he hadn’t even known was there. He had seen other photographer’s shoot him and his car but never the insane detail that the younger could.

The door creaked open behind him, and Lando turned sharply, the movement sending a drying photograph fluttering on its clip.

Oscar stood frozen in the doorway, his eyes wide as he took in the scene. “Lando!”

Lando held up a hand before Oscar could launch into what was clearly going to be a panicked apology. “Relax. I didn’t break anything.”

Oscar’s face flushed. “I told you not to touch anything in here.”

“I didn’t.” Lando’s voice was calm, but his gaze flicked back to the photos. “Oscar… these.”

Oscar followed his line of sight and visibly winced, stepping forward to unclip the prints. “They’re nothing. Just… experiments. I didn’t mean for you to see—” his hands reached out, Lando tried stopping him.

“They’re not nothing.” Lando’s tone was quiet but firm, cutting through Oscar’s rambling. Oscar hesitated, “I wasn’t trying to—”

“I know,” Lando interrupted, his voice softening. “But these… they’re incredible. You didn’t just take a picture, Oscar. You captured… everything.”

Oscar swallowed, his heart hammering. “You don’t think it’s… weird?”

Lando shook his head, stepping closer. “No. I think it’s brave. You’re brave. And so fucking cool.”

Oscar’s hand trembled as he set the photos down on a nearby counter, his fingers brushing against Lando’s for a fraction of a second. He couldn’t look at him directly—not when Lando was this close, his gaze piercing and steady, his presence overwhelming in the confined space of the darkroom. His fingers hovered near Oscar’s wrist, almost hesitant before finally brushing against his skin.

Oscar swallowed hard, his eyes darting to the drying photographs as if they might somehow shield him from the intensity of the moment. “You’re not mad about the pictures?” his camera wasn’t in his hands, he couldn’t hide behind it.

Lando shook his head, his lips curving into the faintest of smiles. “Mad? No. Flattered? Most definitely. But… there’s more to this, isn’t there?”

Oscar’s breath hitched as Lando leaned closer, his voice dropping to a low murmur.

“You didn’t just take those because they looked good,” Lando continued, his eyes flicking between Oscar’s face and his trembling hand. “You felt something. Didn’t you?”

Oscar’s heart pounded, his skin glistening under the soft red glow. Lando wasn’t supposed to see the photographs. Or no one ever for that matter. He didn’t know why he even printed them. That was fucking stupid. “Lando—”

Before he could finish, Lando closed the distance, his hand resting on the edge of the counter, boxing Oscar in without fully touching him. The proximity sent sparks through Oscar’s chest, his pulse hammering in his ears.

“I see it. I’ve seen it for a while now.” Lando murmured, his voice steady despite the turmoil in his chest.

Oscar’s lips parted, a breathless exhale escaping as he met Lando’s gaze. The vulnerability between them was electric, the tension stretching thin until it finally snapped.

Lando moved first, his other hand coming up, right underneath Oscar’s shirt. Oscar didn’t resist, his body leaning instinctively into the touch. Lando’s lips attacked the artist’s neck. Slowly, delicately nipping the skin, his ear lobe which got an immediate ticklish reaction.

Oscar’s hand kept him stable while the other found it’s way to Lando’s curly hair, clutching it tight in his palm as if trying to get something more. Lando pressed closer, his thigh etched between Oscar’s legs, the tension between them dissolving into something warmer, more consuming. The younger instinctively started to grind his hips against the other’s thigh.

“Eager much?” Lando whispered, pulling away, leaving the cold to consume both of them. It pained, Oscar suddenly letting out the quietest whine ever. “You’re so unfair.” He pushed himself off the counter, brushing past Lando. “I didn’t tease you like that in your car.” he suddenly reminded.

Lando chuckled, his plan to get themselves worked up succeeding.

———————

Oscar ran a hand through his hair, his frustration palpable as he stepped out of the darkroom. His cheeks were still hot, brain working overtime to process what had just happened.

The room felt suffocating now, and he needed air—or at least a change of scenery—so he marched to the couch, flopping down with all the dramatic flair of someone trying to distract themselves.

He reached for his laptop, flipping it open with an exaggerated sigh. The screen flickered to life, displaying half-finished layouts for the photo book he was compiling. His fingers hovered over the trackpad as he muttered to himself, “Mhm. Yep, Invite him over — they said. Show him your work — they said.” Oscar tried to focus his lighthearted frustration into editing. “You suck by the way.” he mumbled, hoping Lando could hear him loud and clear.

Lando appeared in the doorway, his own face still tinged with a faint blush. He leaned casually against the frame, but his eyes gave him away—they were still burning with the heat of their moment in the darkroom.

Oscar studiously avoided looking at him, keeping his focus glued to the screen. He clicked around aimlessly, opening and closing files as if that would make him look busy enough to avoid the awkwardness.

Lando moved closer, watching Oscar with a grin that was far too self-satisfied for Oscar’s liking. “You’re not very good at hiding when you’re annoyed, you know that?”

Oscar didn’t look up from his laptop, his fingers flying across the keyboard with a little more aggression than necessary. “I’m not annoyed. I’m—” He waved a hand vaguely in the air. “—expressing my artistic frustrations.”

“Right,” Lando drawled, grabbing Oscar’s laptop, placing it on the table. “And by ‘artistic frustrations,’ you mean me?”

Oscar finally glanced up, giving him a flat look. “Wow, would you look at that, he can read between the lines. Maybe there’s hope for you after all.”

Lando rested one hand on the back of the couch, just behind Oscar’s head, while the other braced against the armrest, effectively boxing him in.. “Careful, mate. Keep talking like that, and I might think you don’t actually want me here.”

“I never said that. I just said you suck.” Oscar huffed, face to face with the racer once more.

“Ah,” Lando said, nodding solemnly. “Big difference.”

“Exactly.”

Lando’s grin widened, and he leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “You know, for someone who claims I suck, you’ve been… letting me hang around an awful lot tonight.”

Oscar didn’t want to give in further for Lando’s temptation after being left hanging mere moments ago. “Fuck off. You’re in my space,” Oscar said, his voice clipped, though the way his throat bobbed gave away his nerves.

“Your space?” Lando teased, arching an eyebrow. “I thought you invited me here. That makes this our space, doesn’t it?”

Oscar leaned back, trying to create some distance, but the couch cushions didn’t offer much escape. His knees brushed against Lando’s leg, only adding to the tension. Lando’s hand trailed up Oscar’s thigh, cupping his semi-bulge through the tight jeans.

“Lando,” Oscar started, his voice carrying that mix of exasperation and something panicked he didn’t want to acknowledge. “What are you doing?”

Lando’s smirk softened into something more amused, his head tilting slightly. “Making sure you’re not ignoring me. Seemed like you needed a reminder I’m still here.”

Oscar rolled his eyes, trying to will away the flush creeping up his neck. “Trust me, you’re impossible to ignore.” Oscar’s breath hitched, his gaze darting between Lando’s teasing eyes and the curve of his lips. He swallowed hard, trying to summon his usual sarcasm, but his voice came out quieter than he intended.

———————

In minutes, most if their clothes were gone, Lando’s jacket somewhere on the floor, Oscar’s jean’s thrown on a chair. The music had subdued into more intimate, quieter beats pulsated.

Lando took his time preparing Oscar. “Fuck, Lando, I’ve done this…like once…” the sudden confession almost made the racer combust at the thought. Remembering how confident Oscar was in the car, but as soon as Lando took control — his confidence wavered into something sensitive and sacred.

“You’ll be okay.” Lando whispered, his cock rimmed the other, slowly pushing through with the most gentle ease. Oscar clutched both of Lando’s shoulders, biting into the neckline of his t-shirt in a way to hold in the ecstatic sounds.

Lando’s gold necklace dangled off his neck, the charm right above Oscar’s. He stayed rimmed in Oscar “I’m going to move alright?” the Aussie simply nodded, too busy chewing on the fabric. Lando reached over, tugging it out from between his teeth. “Hey, I want to hear you.”

Oscar nodded once more, his body trembled, eyes darting all over Lando. His nerves were jittery. “Yeah…yeah, alright…please.” he whispered, it was all it took before Lando started to pull his hips outwards, pushing back in with a rough slap. Oscar’s moan pitched at the contact. He was envious of Lando, for how confident he was on top and below. The way he rode him that night, full of confidence.

Lando’s thrusts got more aggressive, their moans synchronising. “Never knew you’d be so vocal, Osc.” Lando joked, but quickly noticed tears pooling in the other’s eyes, one streaming down his cheek. “Hey, hey what’s wrong?” his thrusts stopped completely. Oscar shook his head, “please, Lando, please keep going..”

“Oscar, what’s wrong?” Lando leaned in close, hand cupping Oscar’s cheek, wiping the wet tear trail with his thumb. “It’s good…it feels good…” he managed to whisper. Lando could only chuckle. He gently kissed down Oscar’s neck. The warmth of Lando’s lips and hand grounding Oscar as his world seemed to tilt. Lando interlinked their fingers, locking their palms in a strong grasp. Oscar held Lando close by tugging at his messy curls.

“You’re fucking perfect.” Lando managed, through the moans, his chest tight from not lust, but joy, ecstasy. They fit together perfectly.

—————

Oscar’s laptop rested on his thighs, the soft glow of the screen illuminating the otherwise dim studio. He sat back against the couch, his hand tangled loosely in Lando’s hair as if it was the most natural thing in the world. He could probably state that the curls were his favorite part of Lando. The Brit was tucked against his side, his head tilted to rest just beneath Oscar’s collarbone, one arm lazily slung across Oscar’s stomach.

It had started as an unspoken truce after their earlier moment, both of them too stubborn to leave but too content to keep pretending they didn’t enjoy the proximity. Now, Oscar’s fingers moved deftly over the keyboard and trackpad, switching between editing tabs and adjusting exposure settings on the photos from the latest race.

“This is the fun part,” Oscar said softly, his voice breaking the comfortable silence.

“Looks like a lot of clicking,” Lando mumbled, his voice muffled as he shifted slightly to get more comfortable.

“It’s art,” Oscar retorted, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Every click makes it better. Watch.”

He brought up an image of Lando’s GT-R from many night’s ago, the headlights slicing through a haze of smoke. The shot was raw, but even in its unedited state, it captured the chaos and control of the moment. With a few clicks and adjustments, Oscar deepened the shadows and heightened the contrast, making the car pop against the swirling backdrop.

Lando’s eyes, previously half-closed in contentment, opened fully as he watched the transformation on the screen. “Damn. That’s insane,” he murmured, his voice laced with awe.

Oscar chuckled, feeling a spark of pride at the genuine reaction.

Lando tilted his head to look up at him, his expression a mix of admiration and something warmer. “I still think it’s a lot of clicking,” he teased, though the softness in his tone took the bite out of his words.

Oscar smirked, his fingers pausing on the trackpad as he looked down at Lando. “Careful, or I’ll start charging you for these ‘clicks.’”

“Fine,” Lando said, feigning defeat as he nuzzled closer. “Guess I’ll just stay here and be your moral support.”

Oscar shook his head, returning to his editing. “You’re terrible at moral support. All you do is distract me.”

“Distractions are good for creativity,” Lando shot back, his grin audible even without looking.

Oscar could heavily argue with that. The warmth of Lando pressed against his side, the steady rhythm of his breathing—it was grounding in a way Oscar hadn’t realized he needed.

A few minutes passed in quiet collaboration, with Lando occasionally offering unsolicited (and unhelpful) advice. When Oscar pulled up another older shot—one of the candid portraits he’d taken of Lando mid-laugh with a group of his friends, Oscar guessed. Lando leaned forward, his curiosity piqued.

“You always keep these?” Lando asked, his voice soft.

Oscar hesitated, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. “Yeah,” he admitted. “It’s… good.”

“It’s more than good,” Lando said, his gaze lingering on the screen before flicking back to Oscar. “You really see things differently, don’t you?”

Oscar shrugged, a little embarrassed under Lando’s scrutiny. “It’s just what I do.”

“And you’re damn good at it,” Lando murmured, his tone quieter now, laced with something Oscar couldn’t quite place.

The weight of Lando’s words settled between them, heavier than the lighthearted banter they’d shared before. For a moment, the editing was forgotten, and Oscar found himself meeting Lando’s gaze, the laptop screen casting faint shadows across their faces.

“Thanks,” Oscar said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Don’t mention it,” Lando replied, his smile soft as he rested his head against Oscar’s shoulder again.

Lando shifted beside him, his fingers playing absently with the hem of Oscar’s hoodie. “You know,” he started, his voice low and almost shy, “this might be the most relaxed I’ve felt in… forever.”

Oscar tilted his head, glancing down at him. “That says more about your life than it does about my couch,” he teased, though his tone was gentle.

Lando chuckled, nudging Oscar’s side with his elbow. “Nah, it’s not the couch. It’s you, dumbass.”

Oscar blinked, the words catching him off guard, ignoring the meaner remark. “Me?”

Lando nodded, “Yeah. You’ve got this way of making everything feel… I don’t know. Less heavy.”

Oscar’s chest tightened at the admission, and for once, he didn’t have a quick retort.
“Well,” Oscar said softly, “you’re not so bad yourself. For someone who’s been stealing my space all night.”

Lando grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Your space, huh? Thought we already established it’s ours now.”

Oscar rolled his eyes but didn’t pull away. “Fine. Ours.”

The word hung between them, warm and easy, as Lando shifted to tuck himself closer, his legs tangling slightly with Oscar’s.

“You’re lucky I like you,” Oscar murmured, his voice barely audible.

Lando’s grin widened, and he tilted his head to press his forehead against Oscar’s shoulder. “I’m counting on it,” he replied, his voice equally soft.

The laptop’s screen finally dimmed to black, but neither of them moved to close it. Instead, they sat there, tangled together on the couch, the world outside the studio feeling far away and unimportant.

For once, everything felt perfectly still—perfectly theirs.

Chapter 3: Unfiltered

Summary:

Wherein Lando discovers that words can indeed cut deep. Featuring: hurt feelings, lingering stares, and one GT-R too many.

Notes:

This wouldn’t be my story without angst—sorry not sorry :>>
Better days ahead <33

The low hum of engines reverberated through the air, a restless energy hanging over the gathering crowd at the edge of the track. Streetlights buzzed faintly overhead, casting long shadows as racers and spectators milled around. Chatters of the crowd adding to the vibration. Oscar stood just outside the main cluster, his camera in hand but his focus scattered, fingers fidgeting with the buttons and settings.

 

He wasn’t sure why he’d come tonight. Lando hadn’t texted him about the race—hadn’t said anything, really, since their last time together hanging out. But that hadn’t stopped Oscar from showing up as always, hoping for some unspoken confirmation that what they had wasn’t just in his head.

 

The sight of Lando’s GT-R parked near the lineup had been enough to anchor him. Even from a distance, Lando’s presence was magnetic—a confident figure in the middle of the chaos, chatting with other drivers and regulars, a half-smirk curling his lips as he chatted with one of the underground regulars.

 

Oscar lingered at the edge of the shadows, his camera poised. He wasn’t photographing for anyone tonight—not really. The pictures were just an excuse to stay, to watch.

 

But then he heard it.

 

“Yeah, he’s great with a camera,” Lando said, his voice carrying just enough for Oscar to catch through the laughs and murmurs. “Good for the brand, you know? Makes everything look sharp. Not a bad guy to have around.”

 

The casual tone made Oscar freeze, his finger hovering over the shutter button.

 

The other racer, a tall guy Oscar recognized vaguely as Max, raised a brow. “You two seem close, though. I’ve seen him hanging around you a lot.”

 

Lando shrugged, looking effortlessly nonchalant. “He’s just a photographer, mate. Keeps things professional. Don’t read too much into it.”

 

Oscar’s chest tightened, the words cutting sharper than he expected.

 

Just a photographer.

 

Like the hours spent in the studio, the few hangouts in Lando’s garage as well, the quiet, intimate, deep conversations—were they all meaningless?

 

He lowered the camera slowly, backing away. The chatter of their conversation faded as Oscar slipped further into the crowd, his heart pounding in his ears.

 

—————

 

Lando leaned against the hood of his car, the cool metal grounding him in the chaos of the pre-race energy. He smirked at Max, who was mid-story about his latest win against a snob, but his focus wasn’t entirely on the conversation.

 

His gaze kept drifting, scanning the crowd instinctively. For Oscar.

 

“So,” Max said, nudging him slightly, “you and that photographer guy. What’s the deal here?”

 

Lando blinked, his smirk faltering. “Piastri?”

 

“Yeah, him.” Max crossed his arms. “You’ve been hanging out with him a lot lately. In your garage as well, saw the stories. Figured there’s something going on.”

 

Lando’s stomach tightened, an uncomfortable heat creeping up his neck. He hadn’t meant for people to notice. He liked Oscar, immediately after their first conversation. Which lead to the few night’s getting to know each other, exploring the unknown territory. Lando loved what they were creating, whatever was sparking and bubbling, but he was afraid of the public and his closest friends’ reactions if they were to assume anything.

 

“Nah, nothing like that,” he said, his tone breezy. “He’s just a photographer. Takes absolute killer shots, though. Good for keeping the GT-R in the spotlight.”

 

Max raised a skeptical brow. “Right. Just a photographer.”

 

The words hung in the air, and Lando felt a pang of guilt he didn’t entirely understand. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to say more. It was that saying more—admitting how Oscar’s quiet presence made him feel a little steadier, how the guy’s sharp eye saw through every layer of his carefully built confidence—felt too big.

 

The way Oscar touched him.

 

Too vulnerable.

 

So he kept it light, brushing off Max’s comment with a shrug and a half-laugh. “He’s cool, though. Keeps it professional.”

 

The conversation shifted back to racing, but Lando couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d said something wrong. That something—or someone—was slipping further away.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he caught a familiar figure disappearing into the shadows. His chest tightened, but he didn’t move, didn’t call out.

 

And for the first time, standing in the middle of the crowd, Lando felt truly alone.

 

—————

 

Oscar stood at the edge of the dangerous street, the roar of engines and the buzz of the crowd blurring into white noise. The conversation he’d overheard was replaying on an endless loop in his mind, each word twisting deeper into his chest.

 

Just a photographer.

 

He clutched his camera tightly, its weight grounding him. The rational part of him tried to argue—maybe Lando didn’t mean it, maybe it was just a throwaway comment to deflect Max’s questions. But the sting of hearing it was undeniable.

 

The race was moments from starting, the drivers revving their engines in synchronized defiance of the night’s quiet. Lando’s GT-R was going against another european driver, gleaming under the streetlights like a predator ready to strike. The new paint job made the car look ever better.

 

Oscar raised his camera, taking a deep breath. He wasn’t here for Lando—not tonight. He was here for the shots, before meeting Lando. That was all he had, and all he could count on.

 

The cars tore down the empty streets, engines screaming between buildings. Oscar tracked the cars instinctively, snapping shot after shot of each car.

 

The race ended quickly, Lando predictably claiming victory, but Oscar didn’t linger to congratulate him or even make himself visible. Instead, he slipped away.

 

—————

 

Oscar sat cross-legged on the couch in his studio, staring at the freshly edited photographs. They were nice, one of his best—moody, intense, raw. It encapsulated everything drivers embodied, the speed, the recklessness, the magnetism.

 

He hesitated for a long moment before uploading it to Instagram without a caption or tags.

 

It wasn’t long before the notifications began to pour in—likes, comments, shares.

 

A DM chimed in:

 

@fullthrottlelando: Got some time later? Want to do a quick shoot with the new paint job. Car’s looking clean tonight.

 

Oscar had read it three times, the words both tugging at him and pushing him further away. A part of him wanted to say yes, to grab his camera and rush over, pretending he hadn’t overheard what Lando said to Max earlier. Cars and photos were his passion after all. But the other part—the part that felt hollow and raw—couldn’t bring himself to respond.

 

His fingers hovered over the keyboard, typing and erasing replies.

 

Sure. Delete.

 

Can’t tonight. Delete.

 

I’m just a photographer, right? Delete.

 

The phone screen dimmed in his hand as he let out a shaky breath, staring at his reflection in the dark glass. The thought of facing Lando now, of standing there while he played cool and indifferent, made his chest ache.

 

Instead, Oscar shoved his phone into his pocket and left the studio—walking aimlessly through the city, not photographing anything. Not feeling like going home either. He didn’t know where he was going, but it was better than sitting alone, stewing in the aftermath of everything he’d heard.

 

—————

 

Lando leaned against his car, checking his phone for the third time in ten minutes. The new paint job on the GT-R gleamed under the streetlights—a sleek black body with subtle neon green details that caught the light when the car moved. He’d been excited to show it off, to get Oscar’s take on it.

 

But there was no reply.

 

He scrolled back through their texts, rereading his message. It wasn’t anything special, but it wasn’t bad, right? It was exactly how he always texted. He tried not to overthink it. Maybe Oscar was busy. Maybe he didn’t see the text. Maybe he didn’t want to come.

 

The last thought stung in a way Lando didn’t expect.

 

He saw three bobbing dots for a good few moments before disappearing.

 

@fullthrottlelando: Got some time later? Want to do a quick shoot with the new paint job. Car’s looking clean tonight.

seen

 

He tried to shake it off, crossing his arms and glancing around the lot where a few racers were still hanging out. Max had long since left, but Lando’s conversation with him lingered in his mind. He hadn’t meant what he said earlier—at least, not the way it came out. But deflecting questions about Oscar had felt like the safest option at the time.

 

Now, though, he wondered if Oscar had heard.

 

Pulling out his phone again, Lando typed out another text.

 

@fullthrottlelando: You up?

sent

 

He stared at the screen, willing the dots to appear. But they didn’t.

 

“Whatever,” he muttered under his breath, shoving the phone back into his pocket. He climbed into the car and revved the engine, letting the low growl fill the silence. The car felt different tonight—not just because of the paint but because of the emptiness in the passenger seat.

 

Just a photographer. The words tasted bitter now, twisting in his gut as he peeled out of the lot and onto the open road.

 

—————

 

Oscar sat on the steps of an old building, scrolling through the shots he’d taken that evening. They were good—technically perfect, even—but they felt hollow. His thoughts kept drifting back to Lando, to the way his voice had sounded when he brushed off their connection like it was nothing.

 

His phone buzzed again, and he glanced at the screen.

 

@fullthrottlelando: You up?

 

Oscar bit his lip, torn between wanting to respond and needing to protect himself. His thumb hovered over the notification. Finally, he set the phone aside and stared out at the city lights. For once, he wasn’t sure if capturing the moment would make him feel better—or worse.

 

—————

 

He thought about turning back, about driving to Oscar’s studio and asking him—no, demanding to know why he hadn’t shown up. But what would he even say? Hey, sorry I treated you like a prop for the brand. Wanna take some pictures of my car now?

 

The thought made him wince.

 

He slowed the car, pulling over to the side of the road and cutting the engine. The quiet was deafening, broken only by the faint hum of the city in the distance.

 

Grabbing his phone, Lando opened Instagram, scrolling aimlessly until he found Oscar’s latest post. It was a shot from earlier in the night, a moody, black-and-white image of the race. No caption, just the stark beauty of the moment.

 

Lando stared at it, his chest tightening.

 

Oscar had been there.

 

He’d seen the race. But he hadn’t come to the lot afterward.

 

Swallowing hard, Lando typed a comment.

 

@fullthrottlelando: Nice shot. Missed you tonight, though.

 

He hesitated before hitting post, his finger hovering over the button. Finally, he closed his eyes and pressed it, tossing the phone onto the passenger seat like it might burn him.

 

Lando leaned back, staring at the ceiling. For someone who thrived on adrenaline and risk, he’d never been more afraid of crashing than he was now.

 

—————

 

Lando stood in front of Oscar’s studio door, the faint chill of the night biting at his neck. The text he’d sent earlier still sat unanswered in his phone, mocking him. He glanced at the locked screen for what had to be the tenth time, a sliver of hope flickering. Nothing.

 

The tension building in his chest had driven him here, the GT-R parked haphazardly outside as he tried to figure out what to say—or if he should even be here at all. He didn’t knock right away. For five minutes, he just stood there, staring at the faint glow of light spilling through the cracks of the blinds.

 

Finally, he raised his hand and knocked. Once. Twice. Nothing.

 

With a frustrated sigh, Lando reached for the handle, almost testing it out of habit. To his surprise, it turned easily.

 

Oscar had forgotten to lock it.

 

“Idiot,” Lando muttered under his breath, stepping cautiously inside. The air was cool, the ac was left on, providing a stark contrast between the temperatures outside and inside.

 

The studio was a mess of organized chaos. Just like the first time he came here. Their, no,— the couch buried under scattered camera lenses, and print sleeves. Even his—Lando’s—hoodie laid on the armrest.  Oscar’s laptop was still open, the faint glow of its screen lighting up the couch.

 

He was snooping once again. His eyes darted to a digital spread on Oscar’s laptop.   It was an unfinished spread, the photos clipped into place but not yet secured. One of them was a candid shot of him leaning against his GT-R, mid-laugh, another of his hands on the wheel, the angle intimate and deliberate. But what hit him the hardest was the last one—a close-up of his face in profile, his eyes focused and intense, caught in a moment he hadn’t even known Oscar was watching.

 

His chest tightened. The photos felt personal, too personal. Like they weren’t meant for anyone else’s eyes.

 

“What the hell are you doing here?”

 

Lando turned sharply, guilt flashing across his face. Oscar stood in the doorway, his brows furrowed and his jaw tight.

 

“I knocked,” Lando said, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “Door was unlocked.”

 

Oscar’s gaze flicked to the laptop, then back to Lando, his expression hardening. “So you just let yourself in? And decided to go through my work?”

 

“I was curious,” Lando admitted, though the words felt weak. “I wanted to see—”

 

“See what?” Oscar cut him off, stepping further into the room. “What makes you think you can just walk in here like it’s no big deal?”

 

Lando didn’t answer right away, his eyes drifting back to the album. “Your work,” he said quietly. “It’s… incredible, Oscar. I didn’t mean to snoop. I just—”

 

Oscar’s frustration faltered for a moment, his lips parting as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. Finally, he crossed his arms, his tone sharper than it needed to be. “I’m tired, Lando. You should’ve called first.”

 

Lando’s eyes held steady on Oscar’s, his voice soft but unwavering. “I did. I called. You didn’t answer.”

 

Oscar froze, the words cutting through his simmering frustration. His phone was still in his pocket, buzzing faintly, the notifications piling up.

 

But the tension between them didn’t ease—it twisted. He looked at Lando, his chest tightening with something raw and sharp. “Why would I?” he asked, his tone cool but edged with hurt. “I mean, I’m just a photographer, right? Nothing more. Nothing worth… prioritizing.”

 

Lando’s brow furrowed, his posture shifting. “Oscar, that’s not—”

 

“You made it clear,” Oscar interrupted, his voice cracking ever so slightly. “Sorry for listening in, but all those jokes, the comments… sounded like I was just someone tagging along for the ride. Like whatever this—” He gestured vaguely between them. Their thoughts drifting to all of their hangouts “—was, didn’t mean a damn thing to you.”

 

Lando’s breath caught, his chest tightening as guilt surged through him. “That’s not what I meant,” he said, stepping forward instinctively.

 

Oscar laughed bitterly, shaking his head. “But that’s what I heard. And stupid me, I really believed there was something between us.” He tried to keep his composure. “Guess I was wrong.”

 

The weight of Oscar’s words hit Lando like a punch to the gut, and he didn’t know what hurt more: the pain in Oscar’s voice or the realization that he’d put it there.

 

“I screwed up,” Lando said, his voice low but insistent. “I know I did, and I know I made you feel small when you’re the furthest thing from that. You’re… incredible, Oscar. I don’t know how to fix it, but I’m here because I want to try. Because you matter to me.”

 

Oscar’s arms dropped slightly, his guarded expression faltering as he processed Lando’s words. But the hurt lingered, carving a space between them that neither was sure how to close.

 

He exhaled, a long, shaky breath escaping his lips. The hurt still simmered beneath the surface, but he refused to let it dictate everything between them. He stepped back a little, looking at Lando with a mixture of frustration and vulnerability. “I don’t know what you want from me, Lando,” he said quietly, the weight of his words hanging in the air. “I’m just trying to do my thing—trying to build something real… and then I get this. After everything we’ve experienced.”

 

Lando swallowed hard, feeling the urge to close the gap between them, but he stayed rooted where he was. He needed to let Oscar speak, to let the frustration out. “I get it,” Lando said, voice almost a whisper. “I don’t expect you to forgive me just like that, but I want to explain. I guess… I didn’t know what I had, what you were offering, until it almost slipped away.“

 

Oscar shook his head slightly, his gaze never leaving Lando’s. “You’re not some prize, Lando. I’m not here to prove anything to you or anyone else. This wasn’t about… whatever you thought it was. I’m just trying to live in the moment, and when you kept me at arm’s length…” Oscar’s voice cracked a little, but he steadied himself. “It hurt. It really did.”

 

Lando took a step closer, his voice firm now, but soft. “I never wanted to hurt you. I wasn’t pushing you away because of you, Oscar. I was scared. Scared of this—scared of something I couldn’t control. But I can’t keep hiding behind that fear.”

 

Oscar looked at him, eyes searching Lando’s face for sincerity. The raw honesty in his voice, the way his eyes softened as he spoke—it was different from the careless cocky act he’d seen before. There was a shift, a change, and something in Oscar softened. His lips parted, but he struggled to find the right words.

 

“You don’t have to be perfect, you know,” Oscar murmured, his voice quiet, almost reluctant. “I don’t need that from you. Just show up. Be real. Because all of those nights—it seemed like you were here just for fun.”

 

Lando nodded, his heart pounding as he took another step forward, closing the distance between them. “I’m here. I’m sorry for making you feel like you were the last person I cared about. Because I care. A lot more than I’ve let on.”

 

Oscar’s shoulders eased, and he took in a deep breath. There was still a heaviness in the air, but it didn’t feel quite as suffocating as before. “Okay,” he said, almost timidly, before a small smile crept across his face.

 

He looked at Oscar, his heart still racing but finally, finally feeling like he was on the right path.

 

Oscar met his gaze, the tension between them dissipating just a little. “And no more of that ‘photographer’ talk, alright? You make me sound like some part-time hobbyist,” Oscar added, his voice teasing but warm, the weight of the conversation easing into something more comfortable.

 

Lando grinned, shaking his head. “I’ll do my best,” he replied, his smile genuine. “But… I think you’re pretty damn good at what you do.”

 

Oscar’s smile widened, his fingers twitching at the thought of his camera, but for once, he didn’t need it to capture the moment. He could just… be. And that felt like enough.

 

“Yeah, well,” Oscar replied, his tone softer now. “I’m not bad at this either.” He gestured between them, his gaze meeting Lando’s with a quiet understanding. “I’m glad you came by.”

 

Lando’s grin faded into something softer, his eyes lingering on Oscar with more warmth than he’d shown before. “Me too.”

 

And for the first time in a long time, it felt like things might just be getting back on track.

 

Oscar’s heart beat was steady, but it felt like it was picking up speed, a little faster than usual. He caught himself wondering if Lando was feeling the same way. Was this real, or just another fleeting moment to add to the list? But the look in Lando’s eyes—the softness, the vulnerability there—told him that maybe, just maybe, this was different.

 

“I’m not perfect, Oscar,” Lando said again, his voice quieter this time, but the sincerity in it lingered. “I don’t have all the answers, and I probably screw up more than I care to admit. But I’m trying to figure it out. With you.”

 

Oscar swallowed, the words settling in his chest. He couldn’t ignore the pull between them, the way his pulse quickened every time Lando looked at him. The truth was, despite the mess they’d gotten themselves into, there was something here. Something real. Something that didn’t have to be perfect to be worth it.

 

He took a deep breath, his mind slowly quieting. “It’s not about being perfect, Lando. Just be real, honest. Not only with me, but yourself.”

 

Lando nodded, the weight of Oscar’s words sinking in. He understood now, in a way he hadn’t before. Oscar wasn’t asking for grand gestures, wasn’t asking him to change. He just wanted him to be present—to be real .

 

It was simple, but it wasn’t always easy. And that’s what scared Lando the most: the fear of not being enough, the fear of losing what he hadn’t realized was worth keeping until now. There was no need for more words right now. They had spoken enough.

 

“I’m glad you came by,” Oscar said, his voice a little quieter now, almost hesitant. His gaze drifted down to his feet before meeting Lando’s again, and for the first time in a while, Oscar wasn’t trying to protect himself. There was no camera, no distance. Just… them.

 

“Yeah, me too,” Lando replied, his voice a little steadier now. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, as if releasing the last of the tension that had built up between them. It was then that he realized he hadn’t been breathing properly, hadn’t fully allowed himself to just be —with Oscar, in this moment, in this space.

 

Oscar’s lips curled up into a small, almost shy smile, the air between them lighter than it had been when Lando first knocked on the door. “You better make it up to me.”

 

Lando laughed, a soft, genuine sound that brought a wave of warmth to Oscar’s chest. “I will,” he promised. And for the first time in a long while, Lando felt like he meant it.

 

The quiet settled again, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It felt… familiar. The kind of silence that spoke volumes without needing to say anything at all.

 

Oscar stepped forward, moving closer to Lando in that easy, natural way that felt like they were both giving in to something they didn’t have to hide anymore. He paused for a second, then, without thinking, he reached out and placed a hand on Lando’s hand. It wasn’t a grand gesture—just a simple touch—but it was enough to make Lando’s breath catch.

 

As the night stretched on, the tension from earlier melted away into something lighter, something worth holding onto. Neither of them had all the answers, but in that moment, they didn’t need to. They had each other—and for now, that was enough.

 

The rest of the world felt a little less heavy. The future was still uncertain, but it didn’t feel so scary anymore.

 

“Good night, Oscar,” Lando said softly, his voice steady.

 

“Good night, Lando,” Oscar replied, the quiet affection in his voice unmistakable.

 

And as Lando stepped out of the studio, the door closing softly behind him, Oscar stood there for a moment longer, taking a deep breath, feeling something shift inside him. Maybe it wasn’t perfect. But maybe, it was enough.

 

And for now, that was all that mattered.