Yield Not to Temptation (landoscar oneshot wip)
"lici!" you cry, "you have 2 published wips, why tf are you posting snippets of another future work?!?!?" and the answer is: I am shameless, emotional, and need to share this absolute travesty.
pls enjoy and feel free to scream at/with me😇
summary: Oscar Piastri is a man of God, a good son, and an upstanding member of his church. His ideals and beliefs are solid, his control steady and sure. But a stranger's kindness and a string of chance encounters might just unravel his carefully constructed life.
⚠️warnings⚠️: angst, themes of blasphemy, internalized homophobia
Snippet 1
It's the middle of the night when Oscar gets caught in a torrential downpour. Halfway between his parents' hotel and his modest London flat, he hunkers down at a bus stop. It does nothing to help cut the sharp sting of autumn wind, but it at least shelters him from the rain.
He sits on the thin, red bench with a sigh, his breath a plume of grey swirling in the air.
In his coat pocket, a piece of paper haphazardly ripped from a hotel notepad has a name and phone number scrawled on it in his mother's looping handwriting. When his parents initially told him they were coming to England to visit him, he hadn't thought they'd bring their meddling along for the trip.
He should know better by now.
Oscar wonders if the rain has drenched him enough to soak through the thick fabric of his coat, enough to saturate the paper until the ink bleeds, leaving the numbers illegible.
He doesn't check. Later, he promises himself.
Arms resting loosely on his thighs, Oscar's head hangs low. Rainwater drips from the ends of his hair, splattering onto the concrete beneath his feet. He should probably feel cold, he thinks. Instead, he only feels numb.
Oscar's felt numb for a long time. And yet, he can't articulate why, like his own body is a language he can't read.
Or, maybe, he just doesn't want to learn.
Suddenly, a pair of boots, black and thick-soled, enter his line of sight. Slowly, almost sluggish, Oscar looks up. Tracks his eyes over tight leather hugging slim legs. Up, up, up, until the tops of the boots stop at mid-thigh. Small slivers of sheer black tights are visible before they disappear under an oversized, light grey hoodie.
It's a stark contrast, Oscar thinks inanely. Scanty versus modest.
Above the hoodie's neckline, tanned skin is adorned with a fine, silver draped choker. Chain earrings, thin and asymmetrical, dangle from ears pierced in multiple places.
Then, a small chin dimple, a heart-shaped mouth, straight nose, and stormy eyes framed by thick, long lashes. The man has his hood drawn up, but a few stray brown curls poke out from underneath, laying artfully over his forehead.
Light from the streetlamps lining the road cast him in a warm glow.
He's… pretty. Pretty like the dancing flame of a lit candle.
Oscar's stomach twists and phantom pain stings the skin of his right wrist.
Before he can say anything—a greeting, a question, an apology—the man is holding out an egregiously fluorescent green umbrella.
It takes Oscar a couple of seconds to realize what's happening.
"Oh. Thank you, but I couldn't possibly-"
"I insist." The man smiles, close-lipped and soft. His cheeks dimple.
Oscar notes the smattering of raindrops rapidly soaking the man's shoulders where the bus stop awning doesn't quite reach over him.
"What about you?"
Withdrawing his free hand from the pocket of his hoodie, the man points his thumb to the left. "I'm parked just down the street. I reckon you need this more than me." His grin morphs into a slight smirk, head tilting ever so slightly to the side. "Unless you'd prefer to sit in the cold and wet for a few hours, waiting for the next bus," he tacks on, humour evident in his tone.
Too stunned to argue, Oscar tentatively accepts the umbrella. As he does, he can't help but notice how large the man's hands are, as well as the several rings that decorate his long fingers.
"Thank you," he murmurs, staring down at the vibrant green nylon.
The stranger simply hums in response before chirping, "See ya!"
Before Oscar can likewise wish him farewell, the man is jogging off into the distance, his silhouette quickly swallowed by the deluge of rain.
Oscar exhales a breath he didn't know he was holding.
He walks home in a slight daze. Unlocks his door, shrugs off his coat, toes off his shoes—all done mechanically, only by muscle memory.
When he places the umbrella next to his own, plain and forgotten, it's a break in the monotony. The corner of his mouth quirks up absent his volition.
As he goes through his nightly routine, Oscar wonders if a stranger's kindness always feels so warm.
He forgets to check his coat pocket.
— — —
It's a different day, different weather, a different time, when Oscar finds himself at the bus stop again.
His parents flew back to Australia a few days back, and this bus stop isn't directly en route between his work and his home. He's not exactly sure why he's here again.
The sun is setting, colouring the sky in shades of purple, pink, and orange. The breeze grows cooler, sharper, as minutes pass. He has nowhere to be except home, and the only reason to hurry there would be to beat the chill of night.
Oscar has no need to rush.
It's quiet, this late in the evening and nearing the outskirts of the city. Only a few cars drive past, random and inconsistent. People walking, fewer still, and more sporadic.
"If we keep meeting like this, I'm gonna start thinking you're a stalker."
Startling slightly, Oscar looks to the side and finds the stranger from a week ago.
His attire is perplexingly dichotomous again, consisting of a mint green hoodie and leather bootcut trousers. However, his jewelry remains largely the same as it was the last time Oscar saw him—dainty, twinkling silver.
Realizing he's staring, Oscar faces forward and clears his throat.
"Yet it's you who's approached me both times."
Oscar's already cringing at himself, because he has no earthly idea why he said that, when the man huffs in amusement. A little 'ha!' that's more breath than laughter.
"Touché."
He joins Oscar under the awning, leaning against the bench, far enough away to be respectful. Oscar looks at him quizzically, brows lifting minutely.
The stranger faces him with a cheeky grin. His eyes are beautiful, a green-grey-blue that's reminiscent of something familiar that he's unable to place, so captivating that Oscar nearly misses what he says next.
"I work across the street." He nods his head in said direction. "What's your excuse?"
I don't have one, Oscar thinks and hopes the way his face warms isn't visible on his cheeks.
"Resting a moment while taking the scenic route from work to home," he replies, because that technically isn't a lie.
"Hm, suspicious," the man remarks, squinting his eyes.
Oscar's about eighty percent certain that he's joking. Only eighty because social situations always feel like a test designed for him to fail.
Case in point, he has no clue how to respond to that, so he just chokes out what he hopes is a friendly-sounding chuckle and stares forward again. He contemplates leaving, thinking of how best to announce it, when the stranger fills the silence once more.
"What do you do for work?" His eyes flit over Oscar's clothes, a white button-up shirt and black slacks, pressed and pristine.
He's awfully chatty for a Brit, Oscar muses before he replies.
"Sounds like something a stalker would ask."
"Reckon a stalker would already know the answer," he retorts with a conspiratorial smirk.
"Touché."
Oscar feels weirdly accomplished when that earns him a true laugh. Short, but high-pitched and airy. It reveals a small gap between his two front teeth. His canines are pointed and sharp, serpentine.
Unable to tear his gaze away, Oscar wets his lips.
When the man looks at him again, Oscar answers, "I'm a parish administrator."
The stranger blinks several times.
"Sorry, I have no idea what that means, mate."
Oscar can't help the quirk of his lips. "I manage the finances, communications, and other behind-the-scenes responsibilities of my church."
"Ah, a man of God." Oscar isn't quite able to place his tone, but he thinks his expression remains open and relaxed. "Do I call you Reverend? Father?"
Coughing lightly, heat returning to his cheeks, Oscar shakes his head. "No, those are just for clergy members. Just my name is fine."
"And that name is?"
"Oscar Piastri."
The man laughs again, though Oscar doesn't know why. Until, after he calms, he asks, "You go around telling every strange person your full name?"
"When they ask, yes," Oscar says. "And it's not my full name if I didn't give you my middle name."
The stranger's eyes crinkle at the corners. "Of course, of course. Middle names are reserved for the fifth date, at the very least." He holds out his hand. "Name's Lando Norris."
Breath caught in his throat, Oscar shakes his hand. His palm is warm, but his rings are cool to the touch. When they let go, Oscar's hand tingles. He shoves it in his trousers' pocket and curls it into a tight fist.
"So, what about you?" The words tumble from his lips unbidden.
Lando cocks his head to the side. "What about me?"
"Your job. You said it's nearby?"
"Oh! Yeah, I work as a club waiter part-time. I'm a freelance artist, so it helps pay the bills when clients are scarce," Lando explains with a shrug and a lopsided grin.
Whatever Oscar was expecting, it wasn't that. Interest piqued, he opens his mouth to ask a question he hasn't even prepared, only to pause when Lando suddenly curses.
Oscar watches as he pushes one of his sleeves up to look at his watch, something digital and sleek. He peeks a variety of bracelets as well, a mix of beaded and corded and metal. "Shit, speaking of work, I need to go."
Pushing off of the bench, Lando smiles at him, crooked and bright. Mischievous, almost.
"See ya around, Oscar Piastri."
Swallowing a confusing mix of wonder and disappointment, Oscar offers a smile back. "Take care, Lando Norris."
Lando gives Oscar a lazy two-finger salute, inexplicably charming when it would undoubtedly be cringe-worthy coming from anyone else. Then, he's spinning on his heel, crossing the road with a bounce in his step.
Oscar tries to ignore how his trousers hug tight to his thighs. Fails miserably.
Nails cut into his palm where his hand is still balled into a fist. His wrist throbs.
Snippet 2
Oscar remembers, with stark clarity, the first time he thought about kissing a boy.
He'd been 12 years old, at a summer retreat, and swimming in the lake with his best friend. Following a brutal splash fight, they'd stopped to catch their breath in between uncontrollable giggles. Facing the setting sun, Logan's eyes had been bright, his smile blinding.
Oscar had wondered what that smile would feel like against his own lips.
The fear that had gripped him then was ice-cold and paralyzing. He hadn't been able to look Logan in the eye for the rest of the retreat.
Once back home, Oscar had went to his church's confession booth as soon as he could. Voice still yet high and cracking, he'd told the priest that he'd been having thoughts he shouldn't be having. He hadn't even been able to say what those thoughts were aloud. Had only apologized, over and over and over again, until the priest offered him a suggestion, his penance, and absolution.
As for the suggestion, Oscar had been advised to wear a rubber band around his wrist. To snap it whenever he was plagued with sinful thoughts.
A form of aversion therapy, Oscar would later learn.
It was meant to be a technique to break habits; instead, it felt like punishment.
No one had questioned the rubber band on his right wrist, and he'd been discreet about snapping it. Thankfully, he'd never been asked about its presence.
He wouldn't have known how to explain that he'd had to use it so frequently that the band would often break. Cyclically, he'd replace one that had snapped or had stretched too thin with a brand new one. Rinse and repeat.
He'd continue to do so until he was 15, when he had finally learned that such thoughts aren't simply a habit that one can break.
Snippet 3
"I see how you look at me," Lando remarks, tone betraying nothing. The strobe lights bleed into the tight hallway, painting his cheek in a kaleidoscope of colours.
"And how's that?"
"Like you're starving."
Oscar inhales sharply. Flexes his fingers where they hang at his sides. "I'm straight." He doesn’t bother reminding Lando that he's already told him this.
"You sure about that?" he asks, head cocked to the side, the beginning of a smirk forming.
"What?"
"You said you like to know things, that it bothers you when you're not certain about something. How can you be certain you're straight if you've never been with a guy?"
Oscar throat clicks when he swallows around nothing. "Not sure it works like that." The words are rasped, weak.
"For some people, it doesn't. For some people, it does. Depends on the person." Lando shrugs before fixing Oscar with a stare so intense, so enchanting, that he can't look away. "Which are you?"
Opening his mouth, Oscar moves to answer. Nothing comes, so he shuts it. The tips of his ears are burning.
Lando leans fully against the wall behind him, tilting his chin up to peer down at Oscar like a challenge.
"I can be your test, if you'd like. You can kiss me."
Oscar's gaze drops to his mouth unthinkingly. The rosy pink colour, the bow of his upper lip, the shine of what must be lip balm or gloss. He wonders what those lips would feel like pressed to his own. What they would taste like.
Apparently, Oscar is silent for too long because Lando breathes out a little 'ha!', quiet and bemused.
Tearing his gaze away from Lando’s mouth with far too much effort to be normal, Oscar forces himself to meet his eyes. Lando looks away when he does.
"Not gonna twist your arm, mate. Just thought I'd offer."
He shifts to walk away, angling towards the dance floor, and Oscar moves without thought.
Adrenaline racing through his veins and alcohol blurring his inhibitions, Oscar grabs Lando's bicep to push him back against the wall. He chooses to not think about his surprised expression as Oscar crowds into his space like he's owed the subtle heat radiating off of Lando's body.
Then, stupid and daring and reckless in a way that he never is, Oscar leans in.
Lando's lips are soft and plush. He smells faintly of apples. And his surprised gasp, muffled into the kiss, is sweet and addicting.
Snippet 4
Oscar leans against Lando, selfishly letting him do all of the work. His hands rest loosely on his waist, forehead against his shoulder. He traces the four of Hearts tattoo that lives on Lando’s ribcage like he can discern it's meaning through touch.
"Your tattoo… does it mean anything?"
Lando pauses for a moment, surprised perhaps, before slowly continuing to rinse the soap from Oscar's skin.
"Well, four is my lucky number. The Hearts suit symbolizes love, obviously. But it's also a reminder to treat others with kindness and empathy."
If there's anyone who needs a reminder to be kind and empathetic, Oscar thinks as conditioner is rinsed from his hair with careful fingers, it isn't Lando Norris.
"You only have the one?" Oscar questions, like he hasn't become intimately familiar with the view of him—something which should have remained hidden from sight and mind.
"The pain of getting this one scared me away from getting any more," Lando chuckles.
Not for the first time, Oscar wonders what it's like to be so open about your own vulnerabilities, to not fear their existence.
"Are the hearts meant to look different?"
Oscar winces, immediately regrets asking, is worried it will cause offense.
In an equal amount of time, his worries vanish when delighted, squeaky laughter echoes off of the shower tiles.
"Yeah, they are," Lando affirms warmly. "I had each of my family members draw them." He gently extricates himself from Oscar’s grasp to twist and point to each heart as he lists:
"My dad." Top left heart.
"My older brother, Oliver." Top right heart.
"My younger sisters, Flo and Cisca." The bottom hearts, left and right respectively.
"And my mum." The two twin hearts under the card numbers. "She got two hearts because, well, she's my mum," he finishes, humour-laced fondness layered in his voice.
"Oh," Oscar breathes. "That's…" Surprisingly sentimental. Extraordinarily sweet. Painfully endearing. "Neat."
Lando offers him a small smile, water trailing down his skin like rain on marble, like even the elements yearn to study his body for the answers to their own chemistry.
His smile is patient, like he's fluent in a language that Oscar's still learning. He says softly, "I like to think so."
They finish showering in silence.
Lando offers Oscar the biggest shirt and pair of sweatpants that he owns so that he doesn't have to wear clothes that smell like alcohol and the beginnings of regret.
He drags Oscar to his bed to cuddle because 'it's important'. So Oscar obediently sits up against the headboard and allows Lando to press himself into his side, one arm slung over his lap and wrapping loosely around his waist.
"You can stay if you want," he breathes out. The words tickle Oscar's hip, slightly exposed where his shirt has ridden up. Goosebumps form and he fights back a shiver.
Oscar hums. Not agreement or denial, but an acknowledgement.
The silence stretches.
"You know," Lando starts, speech slurred on the brink of slumber, "card suits originally symbolized social classes. Hearts, which actually used to be Cups, represented the clergy and their role in offering…" he waves his hand in the air like he can weave words into existence, "solace and compassion."
A yawn interrupts him for a moment, too brief for Oscar's scattered thoughts to become comprehensible.
"It also symbolized the path—or, the struggle, really—to achieving inner peace."
Swallowing around the sudden lump in his throat, Oscar tries not to search for meaning in information so drenched in significance.
"Neat, huh?"
Oscar hums once more. A recognition, a plea, a thank you.
Lando's breath slowly evens out.
Oscar allows himself a moment to watch the way his eyelashes flutter, the way his lips part slightly, the way the tension in his muscles steadily bleeds away.
With only the quiet and his own thoughts for company, his wrist stings.
He carefully slips out of Lando's loose embrace. He changes back into his clothes, folds Lando's, sets them on the couch, and leaves.
Oscar's always been afraid of his own weaknesses.
Snippet 5
When noon rolls around and both of their stomachs rumble, Lando shoves his phone into Oscar's hand to order takeout for delivery.
"Order anything you'd like. Except fish."
"You don't like fish?"
"Fuck no. You do?"
"Yeah."
"Tragic."
Oscar obediently doesn't order fish, and when their fish-less lunch arrives, they eat in bed.
For hours, they talk about anything and everything, meaningful and meaningless.
"Nothing really matters. Not in a 'doom and gloom' type of way, just… our lives are too short to be truly significant."
"Seems… bleak."
"Really? I think it's beautiful. Even with what little time we have, despite our insignificance, we still try to be good. We choose to be gentle. We choose to be loving. We choose to be kind through the smallest acts of compassion."
"Like giving a stranger your umbrella?"
"Or by indulging one in conversation."
They learn about each other, slow and easy and uncomplicated.
Oscar shares tidbits of his life; leaves them as offerings at the altar of a false idol.
"I also have three siblings. All younger sisters."
"No way! That makes sense though, you give off oldest child vibes."
"And you give off middle child vibes."
"I'm taking that as a compliment even though I know it's not. What are your sisters' names?"
"Hattie, Edie, and Mae."
"Are they all in Australia?"
"Yeah. With my mum and dad."
"Do you see them often?"
"I fly down for the holidays. And they occasionally travel here for a short visit."
"Do you get lonely, so far away from them?"
"Sometimes."
And, somewhere in the interim between warm gazes and innocent touches, Lando asks another question. Innocuous, maybe, if the answer were anything except what it is.
Broken down by vulnerability and rebuilt by tenderness, Oscar is honest.
"What's the bravest thing you've ever done?"
"Kiss you."
Snippet 6
They lie on their sides, wrapped around each other, and he watches as Lando's eyelids begin to grow heavy, right before he nuzzles his face into Oscar's neck.
Oscar closes his eyes and prepares himself.
"You always leave after I fall asleep," Lando murmurs against his collarbone.
It isn't a question. Oscar nods anyway. Prays that Lando won't ask why.
"Then… if I don't fall asleep, will you stay?"
Somehow, that's a far more difficult question to answer.
"Please stay," Lando whispers.
Oscar holds him tighter, even as his wrist stings.