Oneshot Landoscar---
(landoscar/ angst / fuck buddies / fluff/ non explicit)
“Oh my God,” Lando whispers in his pillow, barely audible, the sound swallowed by the dim quiet of the bedroom.
His legs feel boneless, shaky where they’re tangled in the sheets, and his chest rises and falls like he just ran a marathon. Every part of him feels too raw, too open. Like his skin hasn’t settled back on properly yet, like he’s still coming down from something he doesn’t have words for.
Oscar moves beside him, the bed dipping slightly. He doesn’t speak.
Just reaches for the bottle of water on the nightstand and takes a slow sip, throat bobbing. His hair’s still damp from where Lando had run his fingers through it hours ago. Or minutes ago. Time’s gone syrupy.
They don’t look at each other. It’s easier that way, Lando thinks.
Eventually Oscar gets up without a word, stepping into his boxers and stretching his back with a quiet crack. He disappears into the bathroom, the soft click of the door punctuating the silence. Lando stares at the ceiling.
They’ve done this before. More than once. More than several times now. But this time Oscar cleaned him after. Had asked Lando if it feels good during it, if they need to change the angle, if he hurts him. Had kissed him not just with hunger but with something slower, something tender. Fingers brushing his face, brushing his jaw, brushing into him like he was something to be held. Not just used.
And that’s what’s confusing. Because they don’t talk.
They never talk.
He shifts under the sheets, feeling the way his thighs stick, how his body aches in the places Oscar had been focused on for far too long. His neck stings faintly where Oscar had sucked hard enough to leave a mark. There are handprints on his hips. There’s a scratch on his shoulder.
There’s a piece of Lando that still feels like belongs to Oscar now.
The door opens, and cool air drifts in. Oscar emerges shirtless, toweling off his hands, still slightly flushed from the shower. His expression is unreadable as he walks back to the bed, eyes sweeping over Lando’s face like he’s thinking about something.
“You should get in,” he says softly, voice low from disuse.
Lando nods but doesn’t move.
“You’re gonna regret it if you don’t. You smell like…” Oscar’s mouth twitches slightly, the closest thing to a smile. “...a locker room orgy.”
Lando exhales a sound that’s almost a laugh, but it gets caught somewhere behind his ribs. Oscar holds out a hand without waiting for a response, just quietly offering it. Lando takes it. Lets himself be pulled to unsteady feet. The carpet is soft under his toes. Lando steps past him, ducking his head as he goes.
The water’s still warm, still smells faintly like Oscar’s body wash, he washes quickly, roughly, not trusting himself to linger. He scrubs until every trace of sex is gone and still doesn’t feel clean. When he emerges, wrapped in a towel, Oscar is sitting on the edge of the bed again, fully dressed now. Simple plain hoodie, those dark blue baggy jeans. He’s scrolling something on his phone, calm and relaxed like nothing in his world is complicated.
Lando feels suddenly stupid in his own flat. Barefoot, flushed, towel slipping, heart thudding. Oscar glances up and says, “Come here,” like it’s nothing.
Like it means nothing.
Lando hesitates. Then crosses the floor slowly. Oscar holds out a clean pair of briefs. “Put these on.” Lando takes them wordlessly.
Once dressed, he fumbles for a shirt, but Oscar’s already moving, reaching for the one they’d discarded earlier and gently shaking it out. He steps in close, calm and quiet, and starts dressing him like it’s routine. Like it’s allowed. Almost like its nothing.
His hands are warm as they guide Lando’s arms through the sleeves. They pause briefly at the hem, smoothing the fabric down over his sides, his chest. It makes Lando want to lean into him. Just rest there. Just ask something, maybe. Anything.
But he doesn’t.
Oscar’s eyes flick up. “Is that okay?” Lando blinks. “Yeah,” he breathes. “Yeah, I just…”
He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t know what the end of it is.
Oscar finishes buttoning the shirt, then steps back, giving him space. Like he knows. Like he feels the tension without needing it said. The silence between them stretches too long. Lando suddenly wishes Oscar would just say something. Make a joke. Say what this is.
Admit that this feels different now. That it’s not just fucking anymore. Instead, Oscar picks up Lando’s hoodie and tosses it to him.
“You’ve got that shoot at four, yeah?”
Lando swallows. “Yeah.”
“I‘m heading out then”.
The words are simple, but something in them twists in Lando’s stomach.
He nodds. “Right.”
Oscar starts gathering his things again, quiet and methodical. Toothbrush, laptop, charger. Lando watches him and feels the panic bloom behind his ribs.
Because Oscar’s being nice. Oscar is always nice. He listens to his rants about the team and the last race, doesn’t complain about eating proteinbars for breakfast the next morning, lets him fall asleep with a hand over his waist because Lando is always a bit more touchy. But he never says anything. Never defines it. Never asks.
And Lando is scared that if he does… he’ll ruin it. He bites the inside of his cheek, hard, and forces himself to speak.
“Do you… do you do this with anyone else?”
Oscar looks up slowly, brows drawing together. “What?”
“This,” Lando says. “Uhh- the staying over. Banging and stuff”.
Oscar’s eyes soften just slightly. “No.”
“Okay.”
Lando nods once. His throat feels thick. The relief is sharp but fleeting. It answers nothing. It solves nothing. It only makes it worse.
Because no one else means nothing if this still isn’t something.
Oscar steps a little closer, not quite touching. “I like… being here,” he says, after a second. “With you.”
Lando sways slightly. “But we’re not..?”
Oscar blinks. “Are you asking if we’re dating?”
Lando flushes. “No. I mean. I don’t know.”
Oscar studies him for a long moment. Then says, almost too quietly, “We don’t have to talk about it tonight.”
Lando wants to scream. Wants to ask why not. Wants to ask if it’s just him, spiraling. But he doesn’t.
Instead, he nods again, too quickly. “Okay.” Oscar leans in and presses a soft, warm kiss to his forehead. Then his temple. Then the left corner of his mouth. Pulls away before Lando can chase it. He slings his bag over one shoulder and heads to the door.
“I’ll text you later, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Lando says, standing in the middle of his own flat in a hoodie that doesn’t feel like it fits anymore. “Sure.”
The door clicks shut behind him.
