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Lando had always known he wasn’t everyone’s favorite. He could live with that -or at least he thought he could. But nothing prepared him for the sheer scale of it, the cold, brutal vastness of hate that seemed to sprawl endlessly beneath his name.
He shouldn’t have looked. God, he knew he shouldn’t have looked. His psychologist had told him. His PR had begged him. “Validation doesn’t live there,” they said. But he kept coming back. Because deep down, he still needed it. He still craved proof that he was more than a placeholder, more than a name people tolerated because they had to. Instead, he found venom.
“He’s not good enough to challenge Max.”
“If he didn’t have a rocket ship under him, he’d barely crack the top ten. Hell, he does have a rocketship and still couldn’t be 1st in Suzuka.” They were daily cuts he’d learned to sneak glances at, like checking on a bruise to see if it still hurt. Spoiler: it always did.
The words blurred after a while, maybe from his tears or maybe from how much he read them over and over again till they made no sense at all. He read them in the dark, alone, like a secret shame he couldn’t shake. He believed them. They were facts and real events after all...
But it was that post that really broke him. The one that made something hollow crack wide open in his chest. Someone had written that he should “perform like Bianchi,” and Lando froze. For a moment, he couldn’t even process it. His mind blanked, the words echoing with such cruelty that it made his stomach twist. That was a new low. Even for the internet. Even for him.
And maybe on another day, he could’ve shrugged it off, swallowed the lump in his throat and moved on. But not today. Not when he was already barely holding himself together, not when even breathing sometimes felt like too much. His mental health had been teetering for months after Abu Dhabi.
Don’t get him wrong, winning the constructors’ championship felt good, but he could not relax for once, thinking about the 2025 season and how he will perform. He spent all his days in his gym, so much so that it worried Oscar. Some days, Oscar would find him dozing off on the bench press machine and would scoop him up to take him to bed. Now Oscar is not there, and posts like that shoved him closer to the edge.
Then came the digs at Quadrant. A brand he had poured so much of himself into. A place he had helped to build in hopes of a space for athletes to feel seen. But people hated that too. Or worse, they hated it because he was a part of it.
The final blow was an old article. Hungarian GP 2024. The title alone made his skin crawl, shame surging so fast it made his head spin. He was incredibly ashamed of what he did, and people had never let him forget.
He had just checked into the hotel. The door had just closed behind him properly before he collapsed onto the stiff beige couch and broke. Bawling like a kid, palms pressed against his face, trying to muffle the sound in case someone outside might hear. It wasn’t one of those cinematic cries, it was raw and ugly and real. And in that moment, he wasn’t a Formula 1 driver or a brand owner or anyone worth cheering for.
He was just… Lando. And he felt like nothing.
At this point, he couldn’t have cared less about how puffy his eyes were or the growing patch of snot soaking into the sleeve of his shirt, because he couldn’t fucking get up to grab a tissue. His body felt heavy, nailed to the couch. He didn’t even bother to turn off mute on his phone. Didn’t flinch when it buzzed. Didn’t move when the sun began dipping below the horizon, casting his hotel room in amber light that only made the silence louder.
His eyes were dry now, so dry that it physically hurt to blink. He’d cried himself past the point of tears, past the point of thought. He felt fucking awful, and calling it that still felt like the understatement of the century.
At some point, he must’ve drifted off, because the next thing he knew, he was being dragged out of a half-sleep by a frantic, loud banging on the door. He groaned, swore under his breath, and dragged his body up off the couch like it weighed double. He stumbled toward the door, already pissed, already planning to tell whoever it was to fuck right off. Until he opened it.
And found Oscar.
And the realization hit him. Shit they were supposed to meet at the lobby. Oscar was possibly the one who was calling Lando countless times. Oscar’s fuming face turned into an alarming look. His expression, usually so calm and unreadable, twisted into something Lando can't decide whether it is worry, confusion, or panic. “Lando, are you okay? What the hell happened?” Oscar’s voice cracked as he reached out, gripping Lando’s arms like he needed to physically check. His eyes darted over his socked feet to messy hair to tear-streaked cheeks and the dried-up salt lines under his eyes.
No blood. No bruises. No cuts. Nothing visible. That is good. Right?
Oscar gently cupped his face, and that was all it took. Lando broke again, tears welling up in his already-red eyes, spilling over silently like a fucking toddler. His lip trembled. He tried to hold it back, but the warmth of Oscar’s hands, the way he looked at him like he mattered, really mattered, made it impossible.
Oscar stepped inside without letting go, nudging the door shut with his foot. He kept one hand on Lando’s cheek, the other cradling the back of his neck, grounding him. “Love… talk to me, please.” His voice was low, trembling, but soft.
Lando let out a breathless whimper and nodded, barely, more a motion than a sound, and a few more tears slipped free. He grabbed Oscar’s hand, not tight, just enough to hold onto something and tugged him gently toward the balcony. He needed air. He needed space. He needed to breathe because the walls were caving in again.
Outside, the Jeddah air was dry and warm. Lando dropped Oscar’s hand once they stepped onto the balcony and gripped the railing like it was the only thing keeping him upright. He took a deep breath, then another, trying to steady the quiver in his chest. Behind him, Oscar stood frozen in the doorway, fists clenched, worry climbing higher with every second. His mind was already halfway to calling Andrea, panic threatening to override his calm. Lando turned his head slightly, not looking at him yet. His voice cracked as he spoke.
“I-I did something, Osc… Please don’t get mad at me.”
Oscar took a step forward. “Okay,” he said gently, “just tell me. You can tell me anything Lan,”
“I just… I wanted to know what people thought of me now,” Lando whispered, with shame. “You know... Now that I’m finally leading the World Championship… performing…”
Oscar’s stomach dropped. He didn’t need the rest of the sentence. He already knew. Lando had looked at social media. He’d gone digging through the noise, through the poison, through the hell that Oscar himself avoided like a plague for exactly this reason.
“Lando…” Oscar’s voice was a breath, pained and low. He stepped forward slowly. “Well,” Lando let out a broken chuckle, trying desperately not to cry again but the tears kept falling, silent and relentless. “As you can see, it didn’t go well.” His voice cracked halfway through, choking on the words while trying to laugh it off.
“I- nearly did” he trailed off, the rest caught in his throat. His entire frame looked like it was collapsing in on itself. He bit down on a sob, but it forced its way out anyway. “I nearly did it…” he repeated, and suddenly he looked more wrecked than Oscar had ever seen him—like something inside him had already given up.
Oscar’s breath hitched. “Baby, what?” he asked, stepping closer, his voice trembling with rising panic. “I- I'm sorry, I don’t understand. What did you think about? About leaving Formula 1?”
But Lando’s body shook violently, like a leaf in a storm as another sob tore through him. “ I nearly caved in to attempt. Fucking up all my progress. I picked up the blade Osc! I nearly did it.”
Lando reached behind him with a trembling hand, digging into the back pocket of his sweatpants. Slowly, he pulled out his phone and, without a word, placed it in Oscar’s palm. Oscar stared at it, he couldn’t form a word, his heart pounding. He hesitated, then typed in Lando’s password. The screen lit up. And Oscar’s blood turned to ice. It was a photo of Jules Bianchi. Lando had saved it. But it wasn’t just the picture.It was the caption.
In bold white font at the top of the image, above Jules’ face, the words read:
“The performance we all want to see from Lando Norris.”
Oscar’s stomach dropped. He felt like he was going to be sick. He looked up at Lando, his beautiful, sensitive, brilliant Lando, standing there like he was barely stitched together, trembling in the golden light. His arms were wrapped around himself like armor, like he was holding in all the pieces threatening to fall apart. His eyes, red-rimmed and glassy, had cried more than anyone should have to in a lifetime. His mouth opened once, twice, trying to say something, but no words came out.
And Oscar felt it all like a knife to the ribs. Because he knew God, he knew the battles Lando fought behind closed doors. The scars he hid beneath long sleeves, under his shorts. The late nights curled up in silence, fingers digging into his own arms, blade opening up his skin just to feel something real. He knew how much Lando hated those parts of himself, how he thought they made him less lovable, less worthy. But to Oscar, they were proof of how fiercely he tried, how deeply he felt, how human he was.
Oscar had kissed every scar, every line, every place Lando once flinched away from. He made love to Lando like he was a prayer, gentle, reverent, worshipping every inch Lando had ever wanted to erase. He held him through nightmares, through panic, through relapses and recoveries and those quiet victories that no one else saw.
And today marked 81 days. Eighty-one fucking days clean. Ironic, isn’t it?
Oscar slid the phone into his pocket without even finishing the caption. He didn’t need to. Just the look in Lando’s eyes told him everything he needed to know.
And then he saw it Lando’s fingers, trembling, snapping the elastic band around his wrist over and over again. A sharp snap. Then another. And another. It echoed like a gunshot in Oscar’s ears, a sharp, stinging rhythm of pain. Lando wasn’t even blinking, his face utterly blank, his eyes glazed over like he wasn’t really there. Like he’d left himself behind somewhere hours ago.
The red line forming under the band grew darker with each pull. It was as if Lando had locked all of his pain behind his ribs and the only way out was through his skin. Oscar’s chest physically ached. He had seen Lando at his lowest before. But never like this. Never so gone. The therapist had said the band could help. It was better than the alternatives. It could be a grounding technique when Lando felt like he was spiraling. But this wasn’t grounding. This was punishment. This was despair clawing its way out in desperate little snaps against fragile skin.
And Oscar couldn’t stand still and just watch him fall apart like this.
“No. No, no, baby, please,” Oscar whispered, his voice shaking as he stepped closer, hands held out like he was approaching something delicate and sacred and on the verge of breaking. “Lando, love, do n’t-don’t do that. You don’t have to do that. I’m here. I’m here, okay? Talk to me all yuou want”
But Lando kept going. The sound was unbearable. His breath hitched in jagged little bursts. His lips quivered. His entire body looked like it was moments away from folding in on itself. His knuckles had gone white, clenching. Oscar could see how hard he was fighting the sob that threatened to shatter whatever fragile composure he still had.It was like watching someone drown in slow motion and Oscar wasn’t going to let him do it alone.
He closed the distance between them and gently caught Lando’s wrist, stopping the next snap mid-motion. “Lando, look at me,” he murmured, thumb brushing gently over the reddened skin. “Come back to me, my love.”
But Lando wouldn’t lift his head. He just stood there, trembling, frozen with shame. Like he was afraid of being seen like this, like he wasn’t strong enough.
Oscar didn’t hesitate. He wrapped Lando into his arms, pressing him tightly to his chest like he could protect him from the whole damn world if he just held him hard enough. And maybe he could. They stood like that, Lando’s fingers curling into Oscar’s shirt, the fabric growing damp from the tears he couldn’t stop shivering. Oscar held him steady, one hand gently stroking his hair, the other splayed across Lando’s back. Lando sobbed into his chest, shaking, falling apart, and Oscar simply let him. No questions. No pressure. Just silence.
There would be time for hard conversations tomorrow and appointments to be made. But right now, Lando didn’t need words or plans. He needed arms. He needed safety. He needed to fall apart somewhere soft. And Oscar was more than willing to be that place. He was honored, that Lando had trusted him enough told him. He cupped the back of Lando’s head, thumb brushing tenderly behind his ear as he kissed his under-eyes tasting the salt over and over. His own eyes stung with tears because watching Lando like this, so raw, so hurt, it tore something inside him wide open. Lando didn’t deserve this. He had done nothing to deserve this pain. He was just a young man still only 25 trying to learn a world that was too harsh, too loud, too cruel for someone so tenderhearted.
Oscar whispered, “You’re okay. I’ve got you. I’ve got you, love,” over and over again. Like a lullaby. He repeated it until the tremors in Lando’s body softened. Until the tears slowed. Until the weight pressing on his chest started to lift, even just a little. And when silence finally settled between them, warm, worn, and full of love. Oscar didn’t let go. He just held him, breathing in time with Lando. After what felt like an eternity, Oscar pressed a gentle kiss to the crown of Lando’s head and whispered, “Honey… what do you say to a bath, mhm? Warm water, soft towels, I’ll be right here when you get out.”
Lando gave a tiny shake of his head, his face still buried against Oscar’s chest. “Mmph… too tired, don’t wanna let you go” he mumbled, voice cracked and muffled. Oscar’s heart squeezed. God, he looked so small like this, folded in on himself, eyes swollen, body slack with exhaustion. “I know, baby. I know you're tired,” Oscar said “but what about I help you, hmm? We’ll go slow. Just a quick shower, and I’ll be with you every step. You don’t have to do anything .” Lando didn’t respond right away, just breathed in, chest stuttering slightly.
“It’s been a hell of a long day,” Oscar added softly, fingers carding through his curls again. “Let me take care of you, love. You’ve carried so much today, you deserve a moment to let it go.”
He felt Lando nod faintly against him. Oscar pulled back just enough to look at him, brushing a thumb beneath his red-rimmed eyes. “There’s my boy,” he murmured. “Let’s get you clean and into bed, yeah? And then I’ll wrap you up like a burrito and we can even have cookie dough ice cream, no one has to know. Deal?”
Lando let out a breathy, tear-worn laugh. “Deal,” he whispered, his voice breaking on the word.
Oscar kissed the corner of his mouth and whispered, “That’s my brave boy.”
As they entered the bathroom, Oscar’s eyes immediately landed on the disassembled razor on the counter, and the loose blade lying on the floor tiles. He felt Lando flinch beside him, his body shrinking in shame, curling in on itself.
Oscar didn’t say a word. He guided Lando to sit on the closed lid of the toilet. Then, with careful hands, he picked up the razor and the blade, heart clenched tight in his chest, and tossed them into the bin. The sound of metal against plastic echoed more loudly than it should have. When he returned, Lando was staring down at his socked feet, hands clasped tightly together between his knees, knuckles pale from the pressure.
“I’m so proud of you, baby,” Oscar said. “You didn’t give in. You were hurting, and still, you didn’t let it take you. That’s brave. That’s stronger than anyone will ever understand.”
Lando's lip trembled, and he looked like he might shatter again right there, just from the softness in Oscar’s voice. But Oscar didn’t push for words.
He knew Lando tended to be in his head when he was stressed, and this situation must have made him definitely stressed and also emotionally drained. He also knew that he was physically drained because of all the crying. He moved to open the shower to warm the water, but was stopped by a hand curling on his wrist. Lando is still looking up at him. “I am just going to turn on the shower, honey”. Lando was still silent, but let go of his hand. Oscar moved to turn on the shower handle to the hotter side, knowing that Lando liked very warm showers.
Oscar came back just as the steam from the shower began curling around the corners of the mirror. He paused before helping Lando undress, his voice was soft. “Love, I know you told me you didn’t do anything… but I just want to be sure. Are there any open wounds?” His eyes were gentle, but his heart felt like it was holding its breath. “You know we can’t risk a shower if there’s anything that might get worse.”
Lando blinked slowly and gave the faintest shake of his head barely a movement, but enough. Oscar exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and leaned down to press a kiss into the curls at the crown of Lando’s head.
Then, lowering himself to his knees in front of him again, Oscar reached up to brush a curl away from Lando’s forehead.
“Do you want me to help you undress, love?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper, like the question itself might hurt if spoken too loudly, he knew Lando was sekf conscious about his body. Lando nodded. Oscar moved carefully, like he was undressing something sacred. He lifted the hem of the shirt- his shit, the one Lando always stole from him and pulled it over Lando’s head with gentle hands. Then, just as gently, he reached for the waistband of Lando’s joggers. With a tap on Lando’s hip, Lando lifted his hips up, and he eased joggers down along with his boxers, kneeling lower to slip them off Lando’s feet, one at a time.
Oscar undressed quickly, not out of haste, but because he didn’t want to let Lando go for too long. Not when he was this fragile. He guided him under the stream of warm water, pulling him close, holding him. The showerhead was wide, but Oscar wasn’t sure if it was that or if they were just so close and pressed together, chest to chest, that even a small stream would’ve soaked them both. And maybe that’s all Lando needed right now.
Once Lando’s hair was wet and soft, clinging in curls to his forehead, Oscar gently shifted him to the side where there was a little ledge built into the wall. He helped him sit down, running his fingers through Lando’s damp curls with such care that Lando’s eyes fluttered shut. Oscar reached for the bottle of shampoo, Lando’s special one for his curls, and poured a small amount into his palms. Then he stepped closer and massaged it gently into Lando’s scalp. He scratched lightly at his scalp, the way Lando liked, coaxing a soft breath from his lips. Oscar washed him slowly, like Lando was something breakable in his hands and he was determined to be gentle enough to keep him whole. His touch was tender over every inch shoulders, arms, back never lingering where he knew Lando didn’t want eyes, but never avoiding him either. He wanted Lando to feel clean, to feel safe, to feel loved.
When he was done, Oscar quickly scrubbed and rinsed himself off, never straying far. And once finished, they stood together again under the warm water. Oscar reached out, wrapping his arms around Lando's waist from behind, his chest pressed to Lando’s back, lips brushing the curve of his damp shoulder. They stood there in the falling water, both silent, it felt like the world was quieter now.
Oscar’s attention had never weared down even after the shower he wrapped them both in towels. Lando was nearly limp in his arms, too tired, too worn from everything that had happened, his head lolling back against Oscar’s chest as he guided him to the counter and lifted Lando up to set him on the counter before plugging the hair dryer in, glanced over at Lando, who was already half-falling asleep, his eyes fluttering closed with exhaustion. He could see the struggle in Lando’s face, trying to stay awake, trying to keep himself together, but it was a battle he couldn’t win tonight.
He set the dryer to a gentle heat, letting the warm air run through Lando’s hair slowly. The curls began to soften and fluff, though they weren’t quite perfect. The texture was different, not quite the way Lando liked it, but it was the best he could do. He knew that Lando’s hair would not be the best after not diffusing and not using any hair products Lando uses but they had to make it work because now Lando was one second away from faceplanting on the ground from on top of the counter because he was nearly sleeping. As he worked, he leaned down to press countless soft kisses against Lando’s forehead, his cheeks, the tops of his shoulders, anywhere he could reach. Lando barely moved, just letting Oscar care for him with quiet surrender. Every now and then, a soft hum of contentment escaped from Lando, a sound so tender it tugged at Oscar’s heart.
Finally, when Lando’s hair was dry enough, Oscar turned up the heat to quickly dry his hair too and placed the dryer down, looking at the way Lando’s eyes were closing again, the exhaustion creeping back. He gently cupped Lando’s face, brushing a thumb over his cheek as he whispered, “You ready for bed? We could always have that ice cream later. I promise”
Lando let out a soft, sleepy sigh, his head resting more comfortably against Oscar’s hand. “Yeah wanna sleep” he mumbled, his voice thick with drowsiness. Oscar smiled softly, unable to resist kissing the top of his forehead one last time. “We’ll sleep, baby. Just a little rest, and tomorrow will be a new day.”, helping him down the counter. Guiding him toward the bed. They both threw on a pair of boxers, not trying to find some shirts in the heat of Jeddah. Lando was in bed already half asleep, curling up into the cool sheets, his body sinking into the mattress like he was ready to give in to the much-needed rest, but even in the midst of the calm, his mind wandered, a thought slipping through the haze of sleep.
A grin tugged at Lando’s lips as he shifted slightly, his voice drowsy but teasing. “I gotta wife you up as soon as possible,” he mumbled, eyes still half-lidded, not entirely aware of how cheesy or silly the words sounded. Oscar let out a soft laugh, shaking his head slightly, but the warmth in his chest only tightened as he pulled Lando closer. “Is that so?” he murmured, his voice a mix of amusement and affection, already feeling his own exhaustion pulling him under. Lando hummed in response, the corners of his mouth curling up even more as he settled deeper into the warmth of Oscar's embrace. “Promise,” Lando mumbled sleepily, closing his eyes, his breath slowing as sleep began to claim him, a soft smile lingering on his face.
Oscar chuckled softly, brushing a kiss to the top of his head before allowing the weight of sleep to pull him under too.