For @foolhearts - Lando is in pain. Oscar gives him a massage. Gen at this stage, non-au. Likely more to come, but the muse was with me.
"I'll give you a massage myself if it'll stop your whingeing," Oscar said, looking up from the ground next to the couch. He was sat on the ground in the first place because Lando had insisted that he needed to stretch out for his back, which was apparently seizing up from the approximately forty-five minutes they'd spent in the back of the hire car. Lando had started talking about his back ten minutes into the car ride and hadn't stopped, even though Oscar had obligingly given him the entire couch.
Lando perked up, eyes hopeful. "Would you?" he asked. "It doesn't have to be much, really. Or it doesn't feel like all that much when Jon does it, but it helps."
"Jon's a trained physio," Oscar grumbled, but he pushed himself up to his knees and turned to assess the problem. It would be an awkward angle to try and reach across Lando's back from his position, but if he stood up the low couch would feel rather far away.
"Budge over a bit?" Oscar said, bumping Lando's hip with his knee.
Lando scooted closer to the back of the couch, and Oscar climbed onto the couch to straddle him.
Lando stiffened. "What are you doing?" he asked. His voice sounded strange, probably muffled somewhat by the pillow his face was smushed against.
"Giving you a massage," Oscar said, matter-of-factly. He placed his hands on the small of Lando's back, over his t-shirt, and waited to feel his teammate inhale.
"Jon doesn't usually sit on me," Lando said. Oscar's cheeks burned.
"Jon has a massage table," Oscar retorted, grateful Lando couldn't see his face. "I can stop if you like."
"Nope," Lando said, popping the p. "This is great."
Oscar didn't point out that he hadn't even done anything yet, except for press his hands to Lando's back and hold them there. Lando's body was warm through the thin fabric of his shirt. It was amazing, Oscar thought. He'd never realized Lando had an off button, but his teammate was quiet, breathing steadily. Oscar felt the rise and fall of his chest, the way his breath swelled through his chest and abdomen and belly and then emptied out in reverse. Experimentally, Oscar moved his hands.
Lando let out a quiet noise of pleasure. It startled Oscar, and his hands skipped in their movement, bunching fabric. Lando made a contented sound and snuggled down deeper against his pillow. Oscar did just that for a couple minutes, slid his hands back and forth against Lando’s lower back like he was comforting a toddler after a nightmare. The friction built against his hands, and he realized Lando must be able to feel it, too, so he tugged Lando’s t-shirt up until his tanned lower back was exposed. Oscar nearly chuckled when he saw how pale his hands looked up against Lando’s skin. If he ever turned that color he’d need to go in for a cancer screening.
When Oscar touched Lando’s bare skin, he led with his fingertips, ten individual points of contact. He walked them up along Lando’s spine and back down to the place where his back dipped, and then over towards his hips and back in.
“Sorry I bang on about it all the time,” Lando said, into the quiet that had grown between them. “It’s pathetic. Not even thirty and,” he shrugged, the motion tugging the skin under Oscar’s hands. “Fucking miserable.”
“Is it bad a lot?” Oscar asked. He knew Lando had some back stuff, it came up when they were talking about car design, came up now and again in feedback on the weekend. He’d never paid it all that much mind. The car never really bothered his back.
“Ever since 22,” Lando said. “I had issues before, but that season,” he shook his head. “Awful. It’s never been right since.”
“So what?” Oscar asked. “All the time?”
Lando nodded, moaned softly as Oscar smoothed his palms from his spine outwards.
Oscar felt a stab of guilt. He’d have been less of a judgemental prick in his own mind if he’d realized. He looked down at Lando’s back. The skin had reddened under his touch, some combination of heat and friction. He reckoned it would probably have been better with lotion. He’d remember that for next time.
“Any better?” Oscar asked, swinging his leg back over Lando’s body and returning to his spot on the floor.
“Incredible,” Lando mumbled into his pillow. He turned his head so he was looking towards the room instead of the back of the couch. “Thank you, Oscar,” he said. “That was really nice.”
Oscar stared down at his phone, unsure of what to do with the bursting sparks of pride in his chest. “Anytime,” he said. And he was pretty sure he meant it.
