hola!! i'd like to make a request for carlando, 13, T 🩷
hola mi amor 💖 this got a bit more angsty than i planned, but alas...
~ Carlando, Parallel Universe, 1.2k words ~
Lando realizes something is wrong the moment he wakes. With his eyes still closed, he knows he’s alone in bed. The hum of the air conditioning is different, and the flat is silent. If he’s alone in bed, there should be voices in the kitchen, sounds from the living room. He’s alone.
When he opens his eyes, it takes only a moment before he understands where he is. His old flat in Monaco. The one he sold, three years ago. What the fuck?
He gets up. He’s wearing the same boxer shorts as he went to sleep with. On the nightstand there’s a phone, but it’s not his phone. He checks it anyway. The Face ID recognizes his face. The date is correct. It’s the day after yesterday. What the fuck?
Lando opens the closet, finds some joggers. They’re from his LN brand, but he can’t remember designing this specific one. He quickly puts them on, keeping his phone in his hand. It’s burning. He dares not check the text messages before he has examined the whole flat for clues.
The kitchen is empty. The fridge is full of ready-made meals, Jon’s recognizable handwriting spelling out the contents. The living room is a mess, gaming computer setup in one corner, the sim rig in another. The shelf with all his helmets is still there, the same spot as when he put it up all those years ago. It’s all so achingly familiar.
But it’s not right. He sold this flat three years ago, when he moved back to England. Where he bought a house, with… Fuck, where is Carlos?
He braves himself, unlocks the phone again and opens the messaging app. The top conversation is with Max, messages from yesterday, planning a night of gaming, Max being mad that Lando stood him up. Lando doesn’t remember any of that.
He scrolls further down the list. His mum, Alex, Andrea, even Oscar is there. He has to scroll a long way until he reaches the conversation thread with Carlos. They haven’t texted each other in… two months. What the fuck?
Lando startles when the phone rings. It’s on silent, but the buzzing reverberates through his entire body, echoing in the empty flat. It’s Alex.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck… What do I do?”
He answers, puts the phone to his ear. Shuts up, nervous, no idea how this is gonna go.
“Lando? Are you there?” Alex’s voice is curious. “Hello?”
“Yeah,” Lando clears his throat, “I’m here. What’s up?”
“What’s up? Did you forget?”
“Uuuh, forget what exactly?”
“George and I are at the padel court. We’ve been waiting for like 20 minutes.”
“Oh, fuck. Uhm–”
“Is everything okay?”
Lando wants to cry. Nothing is okay. He doesn’t know what’s going on. He doesn’t understand.
“Lando? Do you want me to come over?”
Lando can hear George in the background too, words garbled but the worry shines through. He clears his throat again, tries to keep the tears at bay. “No, I’m fine. I’m just… not gonna make it today, mate. Sorry.”
He hangs up before Alex can say anything. The phone rings again. Alex’s name flashes on the screen. Lando rejects the call, a sense of dread filling him. He needs to talk to Carlos. He types in the number he knows by heart, Carlos’ name pops up in the suggestions. He calls. It rings, and rings, and rings. No answer. Lando tries again.
“Fuck.”
*****
He’s standing outside Carlos’ old flat in Monaco. The passcode for the building entrance is the same as it was back when Lando would come here, secretly, dressed in big hoodies, caps, and sunglasses, to hide who he was. Before they took the next big step. He can only hope Carlos still lives here, just like Lando apparently still lives in his previous flat.
Take a deep breath. Ring the doorbell. Wait. Wait some more. Hear footsteps behind the door, a voice, recognizable through the wood, familiar.
Carlos.
“Lando?” The look on Carlos’ face makes Lando regret even coming here. A deep frown, accompanied by a nose scrunch - usually Lando finds that cute, but not now. Carlos quickly looks behind himself, steps outside and closes the door behind him. “What are you doing here?”
“Uhm, are you not gonna let me in?” Lando asks.
“Rebecca is here.”
“Rebecca? Who the fuck is Rebecca?”
“Lando, don’t piss me off. What are you doing here?”
“I don’t– I–” Lando can’t talk. He dries his sweaty palms on his joggers, his throat hurts when he swallows. How do you even explain something like this? Hey, so last night, we fell asleep together, in our bed, in our townhouse outside of London, and today I woke up alone in my old flat in Monaco and I really wanna know what the fuck is going on.
“Are you okay?”
Lando doesn’t know if he’s okay. “Why won’t you let me in, even if this Rebecca is here? I assume she knows who I am, what’s the big deal?”
“Are you serious right now?” Carlos says, exasperated.
“Uhm, yes, very much so.”
“She’s still mad after she caught us– uh, you know.”
“Caught us? Doing what?”
“Did you hit your head?” Carlos gives him a lookover. A body scan, from head to toe, and back up again.
“I– I don’t know what’s going on,” Lando admits. “This isn’t… this isn’t real.”
“I’m taking you to the hospital,” Carlos goes to open the door, but Lando stops him, wraps his hand around his wrist. His hairy wrist. Yesterday, Carlos was shaved, now he’s as hairy as he’s ever been.
There’s a white hot pressure behind his eyes. He’s gonna cry, he just knows it. “Fuck.” It’s only a whisper. “I’m sorry I came here.” His voice is shaky. “I didn’t know who else to ask, for help, for an explanation. I–” A shuddery breath escapes him. “I’ll leave. I’m sorry.”
“Lando, no, stop.” Carlos mirrors Lando’s own actions. A hand wraps gently around his wrist, fingers barely touching. Lando can feel the tears rolling down his face. This is too familiar, too common, it’s too much, because it doesn’t feel the same way as it usually does.
“Lando, please, tell me what’s going on,” Carlos pleads.
“I don’t know how! And stop doing that!”
Carlos’ thumb stops rubbing on Lando’s wrist, where the skin is the thinnest.
“Don’t do that, please. It’s–” what you usually do to calm me down.
“Lando…” Carlos looks at him with his big stupid brown eyes, the ones Lando fell for all those years ago. Carlos’ face is the first thing Lando sees almost every morning. But now…
“I woke up today, in the wrong bed, in the wrong flat, okay? I wasn’t even in Monaco last night. I was in England, in our house, in our bed. I woke up all alone, you weren’t there and neither was–” he bursts out crying, his whole body wracked by sobs. Suddenly, drawing a breath is the most difficult thing Lando has ever done. He leans forwards, sideways, any way, looking for support, for secure footing.
He’s warm. Enveloped, safe, in the arms of his lover, who’s not his lover here, in this bizarre mirror of the world he knows. A hand in his hair, brushing, soft strokes in time with the rise and fall of Carlos’ breath. “It’s gonna be okay,” Carlos promises, “we’ll figure it out.”
“I just wanna go back. Please.” His words are muffled by Carlos’ chest, broad as always, comfortable, home. “I just wanna go home.”
