Chapter Text
It was about 1 AM when they decided to go to bed.
Watching Love Island together was great. Not because the show was good, but because the small touches continued. Lando kept gently stroking Oscar's stomach, his nose always near to his neck and his free hand feeding him popcorn.
Even though Oscar wanted to make jokes about how cringy it was. He didn’t.
Because maybe (just maybe) his inner omega liked being courted by an alpha that didn’t drown him in his scent.
“It’s really okay if I sleep on your couch, Lando—”
Lando turned around mid-step, eyebrows raised in pure offense. “ That couch? Oscar, you already suffered through that death trap once. I’m not letting you relive that trauma.”
Oscar gave him a tired smile. “Didn’t seem to care back then.”
“Yeah, well, back then you were a high-risk wildcard who barely looked me in the eye.” Lando pointed toward the hallway. “Now you’re a slightly more stable wildcard who occasionally insults my taste in tea. That earns you bed privileges.”
Oscar huffed. “You're ridiculous.”
“I’m right,” Lando said with a grin, already disappearing down the hall. “Besides, that couch has a vendetta against spines. Mine included.”
Oscar lingered in the living room for a second, eyes flicking to the couch. The same one where he’d curled up months ago, body sore, head spinning, unsure if he’d even wake up safe.
He wasn’t that Oscar anymore. At least… not exactly .
With a quiet sigh, he followed.
When he stepped into the bedroom, Lando was already opening the closet to pull something to sleep in. “You can take the good side,” he said. “I don’t hog the blankets. Much.”
Oscar paused near the edge of the bed. “We’re really doing this?”
“We’ve done worse.” Lando grinned. “And unless you’ve developed a secret desire to suffer, the bed’s a better choice.”
Oscar narrowed his eyes. “I’m only doing this because I know the couch squeaks.”
“And because I’m charming.”
“You wish.”
Lando turned around with a way too familiar pink set of pajamas in hands. “Why the fuck do you have that?!” Oscar jabbed it out of his hands.
“Well someone had to take your luggage back to London…?”
“Okay, so why were you keeping it?!”
Lando raised both hands in mock innocence, but the smirk tugging at his mouth betrayed him. “I don’t know. Maybe I was waiting for you to ask nicely.”
Oscar scoffed. “You’re weird.”
“I’m sentimental,” Lando shot back. “There’s a difference.”
Oscar turned away with a dramatic huff and disappeared into the ensuite bathroom, muttering something about "weird alphas and their creepy little scent kinks."
When he emerged a few minutes later, Lando nearly choked on his own breath.
The silk clung to Oscar’s frame like sin itself. Pink, shiny, and way too pretty for the situation. The shirt was a bit loose, the shorts far too short, and Oscar’s face completely unaware of how good he looked.
Or maybe… very aware.
He padded across the room, pretending not to notice Lando’s stare as he crawled into bed, lifting the blanket with more grace than should be legal. “You’re staring.”
“No, I’m… okay, maybe a little.”
Oscar arched a brow. “You got something to say?”
“I think,” Lando said slowly, turning on his side to face him, “that I finally understand the concept of divine punishment.”
Oscar blinked, caught off guard. “The fuck does that mean?”
“It means,” Lando murmured, eyes trailing from Oscar’s flushed face to the exposed curve of his thigh, “you look like you were designed to ruin me.”
Oscar’s breath caught. His throat felt dry. “That’s a lot of drama for someone who owns more hoodies than books.”
Lando laughed quietly. “You’ve been cataloguing my bookshelf?”
“I’ve been cataloguing your bullshit .”
Silence settled again. But now it pulsed between them, warm and electric.
“I can switch if you want,” Oscar offered, eyes avoiding Lando’s.
Lando didn’t move. “No. I like you here.”
Oscar looked at him then. Really looked.
And maybe he shouldn’t feel safe. Maybe he shouldn’t want this. But here, in this stupid mansion, in these ridiculous pajamas, with an alpha who was all teeth and softness, he did.
“I think I’m gonna do something stupid…” Oscar’s voice was a whisper. Almost unsure. Almost.
His hand moved like it had a mind of its own, reaching out under the sheets until his fingers brushed Lando’s stomach.
A tense breath caught in Lando’s throat. He didn’t stop him. Didn’t move either. Just lay there, every muscle pulled tight like a tripwire.
Oscar's palm flattened gently, thumb stroking over the faint line of hair below Lando’s navel. The silk of his sleeve slipped down, baring his wrist, delicate and trembling ever so slightly.
“This is…” Oscar muttered, his gaze flicking up to meet Lando’s in the dark. “...stupid, right?”
Lando didn’t answer at first. His pupils were blown wide, chest rising a bit too fast.
“Yes,” he finally rasped. “Very stupid.”
Oscar didn’t move his hand. “But you’re not stopping me.”
“I can’t...”
The silence stretched. Fragile. Charged.
Oscar’s lips parted like he might say something more, but then he stopped. Because Lando had shifted, ever so slightly, and now their legs brushed beneath the covers. The heat of it. The tension of it. That unspoken please crawling between them.
“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Lando said.
“Then why does it feel like one?” Oscar whispered.
And then–
Nothing.
Because neither of them leaned in. Neither of them closed the distance. They just breathed in the same air, mouths inches apart, stuck in some awful limbo between want and restraint.
Lando finally pulled back, eyes squeezed shut. “We’re not doing this. Not like this. Not when you’re still healing.”
Oscar swallowed. Nodded. “Okay.”
But neither of them moved away.
They just lay there in the dark, aching and aware, hearts beating a little too loud in the quiet.
And then Oscar realized it. He was doomed.
In the morning, Oscar woke up alone.
A quiet whine escaped him before he could stop it, instinctive and soft. The sheets beside him were already cold. Lando had been gone for a while.
He blinked up at the ceiling, then slowly sat up, stretching with a grimace. His body still ached in places it shouldn’t, but it was a manageable kind of sore now.
At the foot of the bed was a neatly packed bag. His clothes from the day before, freshly washed and folded. Of course Lando had done that. Always the considerate bastard. He pulled them on with a sigh, then folded the silky pink pajamas and carefully tucked them into the bag.
But then… a thought struck.
A petty, quiet little thought.
He slipped out of the room, padding softly across the wooden floors, making his way to Lando’s dresser. Just looking. Not snooping.
Okay, maybe snooping.
That’s when the instinct hit him, primal and sudden. Something possessive stirred deep in his gut. A low hum in his chest like mine . He opened the drawer and spotted it: one of Lando’s plain black t-shirts, soft and slightly oversized.
He picked it up, buried his nose in the collar.
It smelled like barely anything. Mostly fabric softener and the faint perfume he used.
But it still felt like him.
Oscar looked around, making sure no one was in sight, and stuffed the shirt into his bag before zipping it up again, face burning even though no one had caught him.
Maybe he just needed a piece of something. Something steady. Something warm.
A soft voice interrupted him. “Stealing from me now?”
Oscar jumped and turned. Lando was leaning against the doorframe, hair damp from a shower, a towel thrown around his neck. He looked far too smug for someone who’d just caught an omega mid-theft.
Oscar sniffed. “Don’t flatter yourself. Your fashion taste is mid at best.”
Lando chuckled and crossed the room slowly. “Yet you’re pocketing my shirt like it’s a security blanket.”
“I’m not pocketing anything.” Oscar slung the bag over his shoulder. “You left me unsupervised.”
“Mistake I won’t make again.”
They stood close now, too close for it to be casual.
“Sleep okay?” Lando asked, quieter now.
Oscar’s shoulders dropped a little. “Yeah. Actually… yeah .”
Lando nodded. Something softened in his face, something that made Oscar want to run and stay all at once.
“Come on,” Lando said after a beat. “Carlos said if we’re not downstairs in ten minutes, he’s raiding the fridge and leaving.”
Oscar rolled his eyes. “God forbid.”
He followed Lando out the room, the stolen shirt burning a quiet, guilty hole in his bag.
But he didn’t regret it.
Not even a little.
Downstairs Carlos waited for them. “Morning Oscar…” He grinned at them as if to say ‘do i hear the wedding bells ’ for which Oscar threw him a sharp look.
“Let’s just get going before Lewis notices you’re not at Quadrant.” Lando said, picking up his keys. Oscar didn’t even question why Carlos was here, they probably talked about something business related anyway.
Back at Quadrant, Oscar made it just in time to his therapy session with Lewis.
The room was warm. Not too clinical. Not too sterile. A faint scent of sage and something floral drifted through the air, probably a diffuser Lewis kept near the bookshelves. The man sat cross-legged in his armchair, calm as ever, flipping his notebook shut the moment Oscar arrived.
“You’re a minute early,” Lewis said with a small smile. “Progress.”
Oscar didn’t reply, just sank into the couch with a muffled groan and let his body sprawl.
“Tired?”
“Always.”
Lewis leaned forward slightly. “That’s okay. We won’t dig deep today. Let’s talk about coping mechanisms.”
Oscar made a face. “Sounds fake.”
Lewis chuckled. “Unfortunately real. And necessary. You’ve been doing better, Oscar. But there’s more to healing than just surviving. Your body remembers the trauma, even when your mind wants to move on.”
Oscar nodded, not really listening.
Lewis kept talking, his voice low and smooth. “You need tools for when the memories get too loud. Something to hold on to when you feel like slipping. Like grounding techniques. Naming things you see. Focusing on your breath. Or maybe… carrying something with you that makes you feel safe.”
Oscar’s eyes flicked up at that, just for a moment.
His thoughts wandered again.
To the shirt still folded under his pillow in his room.
To Lando’s scentless warmth.
To the way he touched Oscar without ever taking anything.
To the way his fingers lingered just long enough. But also not really.
“…you can journal, too,” Lewis continued. “Or even just call someone. Not everything has to be internalized. Guilt, shame, anxiety they all feed on silence.”
Oscar blinked.
Right. He was supposed to be paying attention.
Instead, he found himself watching the sunlight dance across the floor. Dust swirling like lazy fireflies. Lewis was still talking, but his voice faded into background hum. Oscar wasn’t ignoring him. Not really. He just couldn’t stay inside his own head for too long without drifting.
Maybe that was a coping mechanism too.
Maybe it wasn’t the healthiest one.
“You know,” Lewis said after a quiet beat, clearly noticing the glazed-over stare, “I’ll take daydreaming over dissociation any day.”
Oscar smirked faintly. “Guess I’m doing great then.”
Lewis leaned back with a small nod. “Some days, great looks like that. We’ll call it a win.” He looked down, writing something down in his notepad. What Oscar wouldn’t give to have a look inside.
“I’ve heard you spent your night with Norris?”
Oscar full on blushed. “Uhm… not like that… ”
Lewis didn’t tease, didn’t smile knowingly. He just nodded, the way someone does when they've already stitched two puzzle pieces together in their mind.
“Not like that is still a lot,” he said, scribbling something slowly. “Do you trust him?”
Oscar blinked, thrown. “I… what kind of question is that?”
Lewis glanced up, pen stilling. “A necessary one.”
Oscar rubbed his hands against his jeans, suddenly aware of how sweaty they were. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I want to. But it’s like… my body flinches before my head can catch up. Like I’m bracing for something that never comes. Or maybe it just hasn’t come yet.”
Lewis hummed, not judging. “That’s fair. Your brain isn’t used to safety. It’s not used to an Alpha like Lando… he is a special case anyway…”
Oscar winced at the word. Alpha. It still sat strange on his tongue, even worse when used about someone who touched him so gently.
“You’ve mentioned before that Lando doesn’t overwhelm you the way others do,” Lewis said carefully, “and that your reactions to him are... confusing. Sometimes good, sometimes not. But often better than expected.”
“I’m not a dog,” Oscar muttered, eyes narrowing. “You can’t just throw a guy at me and call him a support animal.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Lewis said, smiling lightly. “But anchors aren’t about dependence. They’re about stability. Familiarity. Lando might be that, in time. If you want him to be.”
Oscar looked away. “I don’t know if I’m allowed to want that.”
“You’re allowed,” Lewis said. “You’re allowed to want comfort. And closeness. And rest.”
“But what if he wants something else? What if he… if he just wants the job done? What if he wakes up one day and realizes I’m too much?”
Lewis waited a beat, then said gently, “Then he’ll leave. And you’ll survive that, too. But if he stays, maybe let him.”
Oscar swallowed hard.
Stay.
He hadn’t had many people who stayed. In a sense nobody ever did anyway.
“I don’t want to be broken on someone else’s time,” he muttered.
“You’re not broken,” Lewis said simply. “You’re recovering. And if Lando wants to walk with you through that… Well, that’s on him. Not you.”
Oscar didn’t answer. But the warmth curling low in his chest, fearful, tentative, almost bitter. It felt like the start of hope.
He hated it.
But he didn’t want to lose it either.
Then he remembered something. He categorized it as useless info in the morning. But near Landos bed on the bedside table was a framed picture. Lando with a stranger and… Max, lingering in the background.
“I saw something I can’t explain…” He tried to excuse it, just a coincidence. A childhood friend and Lando at the same club as Max. “A picture of Lando and some guy and… Max ”
Lewis didn’t flinch.
That was the first sign something was off .
He didn’t even blink at the mention of Max’s name. Just kept that careful, neutral therapist face. The one Oscar hated because it was impossible to read.
Oscar waited. No reaction. No questions. No ‘ what do you mean’ .
“I said I saw Max,” he pushed, watching Lewis now. “In a photo. On Lando’s nightstand. With him. And someone else.”
Still, nothing.
Just the quiet scratch of Lewis’s pen against paper.
“You’re not gonna ask what it looked like? What I felt like?” Oscar asked, voice rising slightly. “You’re not curious?”
“I think you already know what it looked like,” Lewis said calmly, finally looking up. “And you’re not ready for the answer.”
Oscar’s jaw clenched. “That’s not your call.”
“No,” Lewis agreed, setting his notepad down gently. “It’s not. But I won’t give you an answer that isn’t mine to give.”
“What does that mean?” Oscar’s pulse was rising now. “You know something.”
“I know that trauma is a liar,” Lewis said carefully, “and that right now, your brain is grasping for danger in places it doesn’t fully understand. It’s not wrong to be suspicious. It’s protective. But protection and truth aren’t always the same thing.”
“That’s therapist bullshit,” Oscar snapped. “Just say it.”
“I can’t,” Lewis said, quietly but firmly. “And I won’t.”
Oscar’s fists curled in his lap. “Why?”
“Because some truths,” Lewis said, “are other people’s to give. Not mine.”
He said it with finality, and Oscar hated how calm he sounded. How kind . Like he was still trying to protect him.
“Is this what you do with all your ‘batshit cases’? Talk them down while keeping secrets from them?”
Lewis didn’t rise to the bait. “Sometimes,” he said, “the best way to help someone is not by explaining what they see, but by giving them space to feel what they feel… without jumping to conclusions that can’t be undone.”
Oscar looked away, throat tight.
He hated this.
Hated not knowing. Hated knowing that something wasn’t right, and that everyone else was treating him like glass, like he couldn’t handle the edges of it.
“Does Lando know I saw it?” he asked.
“I don’t think so,” Lewis said.
Another beat.
“Would it change things if he did?”
Oscar didn’t answer.
Because he didn’t know. He did know the anger rising up in his chest. “I can’t.”
He rushed out of the room, down the hall and into the cafeteria. There he saw the pretty curls.
There he was.
Lando Norris.
Back turned to him, hunched slightly over a coffee cup like he hadn’t just shattered Oscar’s already fragile grip on reality. Oscar was jumping to conclusions, but could you blame him?
Lando was laughing at something Carlos said, the corners of his eyes crinkled in that soft, stupid way that made Oscar feel everything and nothing at once.
Oscar didn’t know what the plan was when he crossed the cafeteria. Just that his feet moved like they had a mind of their own. Like they were being pulled by gravity or something crueler.
Carlos noticed him first. His expression sobered quickly, giving Lando a nudge and a nod in Oscar’s direction before stepping away, tactful enough to leave them space.
“Oscar,” Lando said with that warm voice, like he didn’t know anything was wrong. “You look–”
“Don’t,” Oscar cut him off. “Please don’t say I look good.”
Lando blinked, caught off guard. “Okay…” he set his cup down, brows furrowing. “What’s going on?”
Oscar studied him for a second too long. Trying to find it, the lie, the crack, the Max in him.
“You ever think,” Oscar began, voice deceptively calm, “that maybe we don’t know each other as well as we think?”
Lando tilted his head. “Where’s that coming from?”
“Nowhere,” Oscar said quickly. “Everywhere. I don’t fucking know!”
“Oscar–”
“Forget it.” He shook his head, stepping back. “Forget I said anything.”
“Oscar.” Lando’s voice was firmer now. “Talk to me.”
But Oscar couldn’t.
Because if he did, the fragile scaffolding holding him together might give. And he couldn't afford that. Not here, not in front of him.
Not when part of him still wanted to fall into Lando’s arms more than he wanted answers.
So instead, he did what he always did best.
He turned.
And walked out of the building.
Let the door close behind him like a line drawn in permanent ink.