Work Text:
Dear Lando,
I am so sorry.
Osc (24yrs.)
***
When Lando was 9, he couldn’t find his mum in the crowd.
He could feel the band-aid from his finger now loose around his glove as he made his way around the track for the last lap. His eyes darted across the fences, in a dedicated search for the soft and proud gaze of his mum, only to find known but not familiar faces.
A week before, Cisca had sat him down by the kitchen counter as she set a butterfly bandage to his fresh cut. Her hand left to find his cheeks, caring as her fingers stroked his cheek.
“Well, at least someone out there just got a brand new mark to show off.”
They had talked about soulmates before, it was almost impossible not to when Lando had always been fascinated by them. He found it romantic even before he knew what romance was, a much younger him already captivated by the idea of this red ink connecting him to someone whose only certainty in life was Lando. It was an idea that, until recently, he would find himself enraptured by, because now as he stares at his finger, he is surprised at his shaky voice.
“You think so?”
“I am sure of it.”
And it meant something. Right? It had to. Because if someone out there knew about soulmates, it was his mum. After all, Lando had grown up watching Adam and Cisca and even in a world in which soulmates were real, they had struck gold. So for the sake of the moment, Lando pushed down his uncertainty and anxiety to a dark corner. He let himself be hugged and he let the hope of a soulmate waiting for him slowly encompass him.
But now, as he gets out from the kart and his eyes scan the crowd in search of Cisca, heart drumming through his chest and a knot to his gut, that feeling he so desperately wanted to avoid snakes its way back. He keeps his helmet on, not wanting the older boys to see him cry, even if it is a single tear.
On the way to the podium, he eventually finds his mum and yet, it doesn't make the realization any easier on him.
He is terrified he won’t find someone out there for him.
***
Dear Soulmate,
My mum cried when I showed her my mark. I don’t quite understand it.
Oscar (8yrs.)
***
Behind the wheel, he focuses on fighting the lump in his throat. The image of Oscar doesn't leave his mind, drenched in champagne, the fading makeup revealing a mark across his nose. A mark matching the scar in Lando's nose.
He feels nauseous instantly.
The red mark sears itself in the back of his mind. He wonders if his smile wavered on that podium, he wondered if the quiver of his lip was from the emotion of having just won his home race for the first time or from the pit in his stomach. Now, after the debrief, making his way home, he wonders if the prickle of his eyes is from holding himself from emptying his stomach on the side of the road or from the red marks he now knows stain Oscar's skin.
He parks his car, his hand hovers over the key, it trembles against the keychain. A gasp escapes his lips, fighting against his determination to not shed a tear.
He makes his way inside.
He can hear his dad in the kitchen. His mum is setting the table, there is a bottle of champagne over the counter. He stays still, doesn't want to admit he is afraid of taking the next step. Cisca turns to him, a smile so big it could be blinding. Under her gaze, his sob resonates through the room, fighting and winning its way out of him. With a drastic change in her expression, her arms are around him in a matter of seconds, Lando giving up his strength.
He wails onto her shirt, the familiar lack of tears washed away by champagne.
Cisca knows these aren't happy tears no more, she doesn't have to look in Lando's eyes when she can feel the hiccups ravishing his body. Her eyes meet Adam's, now exiting the kitchen in search of the heartbreaking sounds. He comes towards them, hands meeting Lando's back in an effort for comfort.
"I saw his mark." He sobs on to his mum's chest. For the first time in his life, the touch of his parents brings him no comfort. "He doesn’t want me."
"What do you mean, baby?"
"He had a red mark on his nose." His hand reaches for his own, once again bandaged after the podium. "He knows it and he doesn't want me."
The hand on the small of his back comes up to cradle his head, his dad petting his curls as he looks onto his tearful eyes.
"There might be a reason for it, baby. Maybe he isn't ready, maybe he hasn't figured it out."
Lando can’t help but shake his head.
"He has to know, he asked me about it when it happened.” A sob escapes his lips as he says. “It was under makeup, dad, he's hiding it."
He can hear his parents trying to find words of comfort, but he can't bring himself to understand them anymore.
Oscar is his soulmate.
Oscar carries the scar on his nose in red, which means he also carries the deliberate dozens of scars littered across his arms, his thighs. He feels sick. He feels twisted and broken. He feels unworthy. He can see his siblings on the stairs, his sister has tears in her eyes. This night should have been perfect, but he ruined it. Lando always finds a way to ruin things. He lets himself cry into exhaustion in his parents' hold.
***
Dear Lando,
You told me it wasn't as bad as it looked. I think you are too desensitized at this point, because if the red gash across my nose is anything to go by, there is no way this isn’t that bad. I guess you are no stranger to this pain by now.
Oscar (23yrs.)
***
When he was 15, Lando had a dream.
It had been a week since the first time he brought a blade to his skin. If you asked him the reason why, he couldn’t tell you, he hadn’t found the words for it yet. Maybe he would one day, maybe he would figure out how to unravel this knot in his gut, to put into words this queasy feeling that travelled within his blood, that reached parts of him he hadn’t yet discovered. That queasiness seeping out of him was a relief, until it wasn’t, so short-lived. It didn't take time for him to realise he had confidently and knowingly stirred the car right into the wall.
And so he woke up from a dream. A dream of sunlit porches, of waves crashing at sunset, of warm nights and found comfort in the arms around his waist, of lips brushing against the skin beneath his ear. So Lando woke up from a dream, with a skin still unmarked if not by his own hands. A skin soon to have a new set of scars across his arm, an attempt of relief from the anxiety of his unfound and silent bond.
And somehow, those dreams became a recurrent thing, something as familiar as the wind gushing through his helmet. There was something methodical about the way he hurt himself, almost calculated. He finds that same systematic approach in his dreams. He would never admit to it, but more than once he had wondered if friends of his were his soulmate, when he would wake up with that same feeling from the dream he had at 15. Recurrent dreams of Formula Renault in 2019 while Max was on the grid. Dreams of brown eyes, so similar to Carlos’. An accent, one that reminded him so much of Danny Ric. Bass beats ringing from behind the door while someone showers, Lando wondering if he would find Martijn on the other side. Dreams of someone nerding out, an amusement so similar to Max Verstappen's. Almost as if his mind, in some desperate attempt, was clawing for bits and pieces of the people who loved him to make an image he might recognize, an image of the one that belongs with him.
When he joined Formula 1, the dreams became more and more frequent with the years and against his better judgment, he would wonder. On good days, if this is where he will find his soulmate, on bad ones, if he had one at all. After all, it wasn’t uncommon to not have found them by your twenties, but to not have a mark? Skin still unblemished by red tint even after years of giving what surely has been a remarkable collection of marks to the other side. Maybe it was time for him to accept it. Accept that something he had dreamed of his whole life was never meant to be his, that there was no one on the other side, that the dreams had been just that, just dreams.
It’s autumn of 2022 when it happens. He just got back from MTC when he has a dream. A dream of a little girl, who, although carries all of Lando’s mannerisms, looks just like Oscar. And he had dreams about teammates before, that had to be normal, right? Sure, Oscar wasn't officially his teammate yet, but that was a technicality. To have dreams of your day to day life, to see the grid, the paddock in his dreams frequently, that was normal…
But the dreams with Oscar were never routinary, never a slice of life. They were of a shared place, shared pets, a shared family, a shared home. Dreams that somehow never match his lack of marks. Dreams that never do anything but dig at his open wounds.
***
Dear Soulmate,
I understand now why mom cried. I hope you find an end to whatever makes you feel like you need this.
Oscar (14yrs.)
***
Lando's heart stopped that night.
His body, cold from the loss of blood, no longer had a beating heart.
The howl that escapes his lips is a surprise even to himself, Kim holding him back as they roll the stretcher out of the room, a paramedic performing CPR over Lando's pale body, both of them tainted in red.
The red that is now gone from Oscar's skin.
He lets Kim hold the pieces of him from falling as the apartment in his dreams crumbles to the ground. The commotion finally brings people to the corridor, but Oscar can't find himself to care.
The apartment remains closed. Dark, with the curtains closed shut. It's empty, no plants on the windowsill, no colorful furniture, no photo frames scattered across the walls, no cats napping in the sun. It remains quiet, no laughter rings through its walls, no dog barking when someone comes home, no child playing catch through the rooms. Dust collects over the floors, over the counters. No one ever came to pick up the keys.
Over the years, there are no news marks. There are no marks at all anymore, his skin fair and unblemished. The scars that used to match them are long gone, decomposing somewhere in Britain.
This is all his fault. Lando is dead and it's his fault.
"Take me with him!" He fights against Kim's arms, even if his legs can't keep himself straight. "Kim, I can't leave him, I can't."
Kim brings him inside of his own room, just across Lando's, sitting him on the couch as he sobs.
"Oscar, you need to breathe."
He doesn't think he can, doesn't think he deserves it, not when Lando can't. He doesn’t need to hear himself speak it, can feel it on his tongue, on repeat like a mantra. Kim tries his best to work with it, but both of them know damn well it will take years to even begin to unravel it.
"No, Oscar, it isn't your fault." His sob manages to resonate through the room even when covered by his hands. "You need to breathe."
He breathes only to cry harder, the words spilling out of him. "He's my soulmate." It fights its way out of him, teeth and nails, ripping through the silence he fought so hard to keep. "I've been hiding it from him…I knew he needed help, but I didn't do anything."
"We'll go to him, alright?" Already standing up, he is held down by Kim. He almost struggles against it, if Kim hadn't continued. "We will go, but now you need to calm yourself."
"It's all my fault." He looks back at his trainer, ignorant to his protest as he continues. “I knew he was doing this, I knew he was being more frantic, getting worse.” The finger to his chest hurts, the words cutting like a bullet. “I didn't do anything."
"It's not your fault."
He doesn't believe it, never will, but he can't bring himself to fight anymore. He goes to wrap himself in a hug, only to find the faintest hint of red in his arms. His marks. "They- they are back." He looks up to find Kim's eyes, pleading. "Take me to him."
He can see the doubt in Kim’s eyes, can see the way it turns into compromise. "Okay, we'll go to the hospital, alright?" He nods, but he can't stay seated anymore, pacing around the room as Kim says. "Let me call Jon to see where they are taking him."
It is all a blur. Kim’s end of the call, the way they sneak through the hotel halls, now filling up with the press, the ride to the hospital. Nothing seems real enough, nothing apart from the marks in his arms, all the faint lines he has grown used to over the years now accompanied by a blistering stain, ragged and loud, running through his forearms. A whole new shade of red. He can feel the occasional worried gaze coming from the driver’s seat, but he can’t bring himself to look away, the mess in his arms pulling him in like a devastating crash on track.
At the hospital, they find Jon in a private waiting room, legs shaking, tearful eyes, picking up calls right and left. Oscar walks up to the chair on the corner of the room before sitting down, hands back to his face as he breathes in to hold back the tears. The white lights and chemical smell of the hospital are grounding, overwhelmingly so when all he wishes is to drift away. His eyes are closed, head resting against the wall when he hears someone sitting down beside him. Jon is the first to speak, especially when Oscar isn’t sure he can fight the lump in his throat.
“He’s been in surgery for a while now.” Oscar nods, looking up to the ceiling trying to contain the burning of his eyes. He can feel Jon’s gaze at him, how it switches between his face and his arms, the red marks in his skin itching beneath the rarest of attention from anyone but Oscar himself. He hears the rustling and sees Jon reach for something in his pocket, only to pull out an envelope. “I guess this is for you.”
It shouldn’t weigh this much, it is just ink to paper after all. And yet, somehow, it’s the heaviest thing Oscar has ever had in hands, the black letters of his name burning beneath his fingertips. It doesn’t surprise him when a tear soaks through the pristine paper. He looks up to Jon for the first time that night, so afraid of the anger he might find, so ashamed of how far he let this come, only to meet a certain sobriety, a resigned sadness in the trainer’s eyes. Jon squeezes his hand as he says.
“I will let you know when we can see him.”
The certainty in his voice is almost comforting, Jon seemingly aware of something Oscar is afraid to even hope for. Almost on cue, his phone rings once again and the ‘Adam’ he can see on the screen is a whole new knot to Oscar’s guts and so he watches as Jon gets up once again to answer. The conviction is Jon’s tone should be reassuring but still, Oscar can’t bring himself to open the envelope in his hands, so fearful that opening it might seal something in their destiny he is not ready to face. He keeps himself seated, fighting and failing to hold back the tears as he tunes out every other thing in the room, so enraptured by his worries, watching the marks in his arms like a hawk, ready to jump at any sign of them losing any color. Almost weary, he tries not to get too hopeful as they appear brighter and more vibrant with each moment, afraid it’s his imagination toying with his frail heart. But even then, it gets to a point that not even Oscar can deny the newfound intensity of the grotesque mirror of self-inflicted gashes.
It’s not long for a doctor to enter the waiting room after that. Oscar wouldn’t even have noticed them if it wasn’t for Jon reaching for his shoulder, a brief nod as he says.
“Let’s go.”
The ICU is practically beside the waiting room and still it doesn’t make him feel any less like his knees will fail him. The view is less gruesome than he expected, Lando is still hooked to machines here and there but already breathing on his own, showing a promising recovery to the anesthesia from what he tried to gather of what the doctor had said on the way. He settles on the chair beside the bed, reaching for Lando’s hand in a way it doesn’t disrupt the cables or the awfully loud white bandages. He looks up to see Jon set a kiss to Lando’s hair, a few lonely tears making their way down his cheeks. Oscar avoids his gaze to the window, his best effort to give him privacy without leaving the bedside, only to find a blue sky outside, the testament for the many hours that have passed since it all and Oscar still somehow feels like it’s been just a desperately long minute.
Eventually he turns his eyes back to the bed, gaze switching from the godawful bandages to the mark in Lando’s nose, a mirror to his own. The curls he has tried so hard to convince himself he doesn’t love lay flat and tousled, the tan of his skin now replaced by an ashy tone that could never fit Lando. Oscar wonders if he had looked this tired before or if it is really just the result of the last night. When he hears Jon leaving the room, he reaches for the letter in his pockets, fingers trembling as he opens the envelope.
It is a quick read, one that would have never sufficed to fill the void of Lando’s voice had he succeeded. Its bluntness is a whole new violation in itself, all the words that could have been said lost to every opportunity Oscar didn’t take. He can't help but remember the puzzling marks that showed up the morning after Silverstone, the ones he couldn't understand until now why they were there and can almost pinpoint their location between the countless minor lines across his own skin. He can’t help but remember how from the moment they showed up they were already brighter, deeper than anything he had gotten in years, and how, even then, they now look insignificant, practically erased beneath the ragged vertical one. There is barely time to cry over the letter because as the tears brim his eyes he feels a pull to his hand, only to look up and find hazel eyes looking back at him. The words are knocked out of his chest when Lando rasps out.
"Geez, who died?"
All he can master to answer is sob, bringing Lando’s hand to his face, resting his fingers against his lips as he cries.
“Osc…”
Oscar breathes heavily against his fingertips, the warm softness of his lips would be so distracting if it weren’t the first time Lando has ever seen him in short sleeves. Not only Lando can see the uncountable marks in his arms but also the deep crimson red that match his own gashes in each forearm. The pit in his stomach hurts more than anything else, a battery of painkillers doing nothing to dull the ache that comes from his heart. His eyes follow the crumpled letter in Oscar’s left hand, Lando’s handwriting poking from it. There is a chill up his spine, a coldness to his skin as he smiles in solidarity, words lathered in a kindness he could never afford to himself.
"You don't have to stay, you know? I will be fine."
Oscar just cries harder. A sob so guttural Lando can feel the hurt beneath it, can hear the way it twists Oscar’s inside, a mess along his emotions. The noise goes directly to Lando’s throat, making it harder to fight the lump that lays there as he says most sincerely.
"I'm sorry, Osc."
He is met with an insistent shake of the head, Oscar denying it so feverously.
"No, I'm sorry, Lando.” His eyes so genuine in their grief. His chokes resonate with pain. “I lied to you and- and you've been hurting so much and I- I didn't do anything."
Lando lets out a wet laugh before he can even think of holding it back, his tone so self-depreciative and yet so honest as he says.
"It's okay, if I was in your place I am not sure I would have helped me either."
That finally brings something else out of Oscar, his tone shifting to a certain sobriety in its regret.
"I should have. You didn't deserve this, Lando, you never did."
Lando adverts his gaze, looking anywhere but Oscar, his voice so small as he says.
"It's my own fault."
There is a certain determination to Oscar’s voice, Lando can almost believe him.
"You shouldn't have to face it alone."
Almost. Because when Lando looks back at him, only to find the matching red on the bridge of Oscar’s nose staring back at him, there is almost bitterness to his next words.
"But I understand, Osc, okay? You don't have to stay here and- hum, and pretend that… I will be fine, alright? We can pretend that we don't know."
The hurt stamped across Oscar's face is almost palpable. "I don't want to." He says it like he wants Lando to understand him, squeezing his hand harder as he speaks. "Lando, I love you."
Lando shakes his head, his tears brimming at his eyes. Sure, people could say that Oscar was cold and collected, it wasn't true but they could say that, but he was never mean, not like this. He chuckles painfully before saying.
"You are being cruel now."
Oscar almost looks offended, but Lando sees it shifting, mutating into shame. After all, it was Oscar’s own reluctance that brought them anywhere close to this situation.
"It's true." He tries so hard to keep Oscar's gaze, failing in the pain of it all. "I wanted this, Lando, I did, I just, I was so scared, I didn't know what to do."
It's the conviction in Oscar’s eyes, in his voice, in the hold he keeps to his hand. It should tell Lando enough and yet, it just sits heavier and heavier in his stomach.
"You don't have to lie, alright? I am not mad at you, Osc, I understand… Please, don't lie.”
He sees the exasperation in Oscar's posture, the way he tries so hard to reach anything Lando might actually believe. "I would dream of our future, you know?" It seems to catch his attention enough, in the way Lando shifts uncomfortably on the bed, on the way he sniffles before looking away. "Of your laugh in our apartment, of morning walks on the beach, of date nights at your favourite place.”
Lando gulps against the lump in his throat, eyes up towards the ceiling in a last desperate effort to contain it all. Oscar doesn't seem to want to leave anything left to interpretation, not anymore.
“I was afraid that allowing me this would deprive me of a career, but I- I don’t really care, ‘cause I don't want a life in which I can't have you, not just in my future, I don't want to live another second without you, Lando.”
Lando shakes his head, the tears finally making their way down his face. How can he refute that?
Oscar’s hands reach for his face, his thumbs brushing the tears from his cheek.
"I love you, Lando, I do, and I am so sorry I kept it from you.”
He can’t contain his sob, not when the red marks littering Oscar’s arms are so close, no longer protected by his usual longsleeve. Oscar's hands leave his face, settling over his shoulders before pulling him into a hug. Lando can’t help but hide his face in Oscar’s chest, crying copiously. He feels the fingers going through his hair in a soothing attempt, he can feel Oscar’s tears falling into his curls.
It takes time for the tears to stop, but when they do it almost feels final. He looks up to meets Oscar's gaze, so loving and apologetic. Without ever breaking eye contact, Oscar caresses the high of his cheek before saying.
“Can I?”
Lando just nods.
The kiss is soft, unbelievable so, at first just a brush of lips, both of them afraid to break this fragile thing between them. It tastes of salt, the tears still so present on each of their lips. But most of it all, it tastes right. Just right. Just like Lando has imagined it would be like his whole life. It's impossible to not give into it, melting into Oscar’s touch everywhere he reaches, into the hand holding his face, into the one on the nape of his neck. He melts into the warmth of Oscar’s mouth, so elated he can't even bring himself to feel embarrassed over the moan that escapes his lips.
He holds onto Oscar’s arms, hands wrapping against something Lando was once sure was a testament to his doomed destiny. The marks burn under his fingertips and his own arms in response, a burn so soft and comforting it almost tingles. Lando can feel the way Oscar smiles into the kiss, his heart doing somersaults inside his chest. They break apart only for the necessity for air.
It’s overwhelmingly warm, the feeling that comes with the reassurance that this is just the first of many. For the first time in their lives, Lando can see in Oscar’s eyes that he feels the same.
***
Dear Soulmate,
I can not wait to spend the rest of my life loving you.
Lando & Oscar (25 & 24 yrs.)