Chapter Text
Lando
Lando juggles a pint of milk and a carton of eggs in one hand, trying to fish the key to his flat out of his pocket with the other. He tries his front pockets, then his back, the eggs teetering precariously as his desperation grows.
No key. But he knows he locked the door, which means—
He digs into his coat pocket, feels the small hole he’s been worrying at with his fingers that has now become… key-sized. Fuck.
He shifts from foot to foot. Of course he has to piss like a goddamn racehorse, too. He weighs his options, which aren’t great. He could try the fire exit, climb up to his floor’s egress and jimmy open his window. He’s pretty sure he left it cracked in a pointless effort to air out any smoke so he could maybe get a partial security deposit back when he’s inevitably kicked out. But it’s a 6-foot climb, and he’s skipped arm day for the last… well, 20 years.
He could also go down to his landlord’s office, get him to open up his apartment. It would only take a few minutes. But he can’t remember if he left his weed out in plain sight, and anyway, he still owes back-rent from October, as he’s sure the letter he found stuck on his door this morning pointedly reminds him.
So. 6-foot climb it is.
He debates leaving his milk and eggs outside his front door, but the last time he left groceries outside his door and ran down to grab his mail, they disappeared in the few minutes it took for him to return. He can’t chance it, not when he won’t have the money to make another grocery run for at least a week.
He loops his belt buckle around the handle of the milk jug and shoves the eggs under his armpit, then heads out the fire exit. Impressively, it’s not until he’s halfway up the fire escape and drops his eggs with a loud crack that he feels like he’s hit rock-bottom.
It’s stupid, really. Things can always get worse.
He makes it up to his window without further incident and feels almost triumphant as he opens the window and shimmies inside, milk in tow. He might still have some stale cereal from his last grocery run, so it’s not all bad. He likes cereal, he can eat it for breakfast and dinner and maybe go free sample-surfing at Tesco’s in-between. He’ll make do until he can figure out a way to replace his camera and line up his next photography gig. He always manages. Somehow.
He’s feeling almost hopeful until he flips the light switch and realizes he forgot to pay the electricity bill. He opens the fridge door to put the milk inside, but there’s no point. It’s barely cold at this point. In fact, it’s colder in the flat, with no heater on in late December. He leaves the milk on the counter, next to the letter stamped OVERDUE in big red letters from the power company.
In retrospect, he probably should have opened that as soon as he got it.
He grabs a jumper from his closet and throws that on over his coat to try to get warm, then grabs the letter from his landlord that he tossed on the counter. Misery loves company, may as well get it over with. He rips it open, his gaze going unfocused as he scans the words three months’ past due and three days to settle your balance before formal notice of eviction.
So. Rock, meet bottom.
Lando sinks onto his bed—just a mattress on the floor since he sold his bedframe, computer and streaming set-up last month to pay just enough rent to keep his landlord off his back. He glances around his nearly-empty flat, shivering a little as the cold seeps in from the poorly insulated window, and puts his head in his hands.
He’s honestly not sure where everything went wrong. Somewhere around the double-whammy of dropping out of school and coming out as bi, then getting disowned—and cut off financially— three years ago. Or maybe it was when his ex broke up with him four months ago, claiming he had no ambition, and abruptly moved out, leaving him with no way to pay her half of the rent.
But maybe it all went wrong much earlier than that. He’s always felt like things would work out for him, if he just had a good attitude. If he just tried. He tried streaming, and just as it was taking off, he lost his girlfriend and had to sell his shit to pay rent. He tried getting back into photography and had even gotten a few well-paying wedding gigs, and then he was mugged and had his expensive camera stolen. He tried proving that he could live alone, that he didn’t need anyone to help him, and he failed at that, too.
Maybe his dad was right. Maybe he was destined to be a fuck-up.
He throws himself back on his bed and covers his face with his pillow, half hoping it’ll suffocate him and put him out of his misery. He’s always been told that he was spoiled, born with a silver spoon, incapable of achieving anything if it wasn’t handed to him. He thought he could handle this—living without his parents’ support, without anyone’s support, and he couldn’t.
He briefly considers ringing his best mate, Max, and seeing if he could help out, then discards the idea immediately. He asked Max for money last month and still hasn’t paid it back. And anyway, Max's streaming hasn't taken off yet, either, and there’s no way he can scrounge up three months’ worth of rent in the next three days.
He knows he could call his parents, get on his knees and beg for them to send him just enough money to help him get back on his feet. But that would mean admitting that they were right. And they’d probably demand he come back home instead, work for his dad’s software company and spend the rest of his life in a fucking cubicle. He thinks that might actually, genuinely, kill him.
So, no. He got himself into this mess, and he’s going to get himself out. No matter what it takes.
Oscar
Oscar has no one to blame for the mess he’s in but himself. Knowing that doesn’t make it any less embarrassing, though.
He gingerly extracts himself from the surprisingly tight grip of the man he barely remembers coming home with last night. He never lets himself get that drunk. He knows better. But he was fresh off the end of his (miserable) first season back in F1 after two years without a seat, had just gotten back to the UK after Abu Dhabi, and his girlfriend met him in their apartment with packed bags and an explanation that there was “no passion” in their relationship and that they’ve “always been more like friends.”
He doesn’t really know why he thought it was a good idea to get blisteringly drunk in some seedy club and go home with the first guy who a) expressed interest, and b) didn’t have a clue who he was. He was better than this, normally. Smarter. He knew the press would have a field day if any news came out about him being gay. This season proved that he isn’t talented enough for any team to deal with the sponsor backlash that would come from that sort of press attention.
But he was so upset after the last race. He DNF’d and then had to endure endless press questions about whether he lost his touch after two years on the sidelines, about his future with the team, about whether McLaren was disappointed that he finished ninth in the championship while his teammate, Carlos, finished fifth. And then he went home, just wanting a nice cuddle with Lily to take his mind off things, and instead he was promptly dumped.
So, yeah, fine. Maybe he wasn’t exactly thinking rationally when he let himself get pulled into a dance by a vaguely attractive guy with wandering hands and hair the exact shade as Lily’s. Or when he got into a cab with him. It wasn’t until he was in the guy’s flat under stark overhead lights that he sobered up and realized he was acting insane. He stuttered an excuse to the guy about being too drunk, asked for a charger so he could power his phone on and call a car. And then, when the guy looked at him with a pitying expression on his face, Oscar agreed to the offer to rest in his bed while his phone charged and fell asleep within minutes.
All in all, it could have been worse. But it never should have been this bad in the first place.
Oscar quietly gathers his phone and slips his shoes on, then tip-toes out of the room and opens the front door a crack. He peeks outside to make sure the hallway is clear, then darts out and down the hall, taking the stairs to the bottom floor three at a time.
He exits the building. It's barely dawn, the sky still pink around the edges. He walks two blocks away from the building as if it has a sign on it that says Gay People Have Gay Sex Here and he’ll be incriminated just by standing in front of it. Then he calls a car.
Thoughts whirl through his mind as he waits for his ride. He was so stupid. What if this guy does know who Oscar is? Or what if he finds out later, and then sells some story to a gossip site or a journalist? Oscar can practically see the articles writing themselves now: After two years without a seat and a disappointing first season back, McLaren driver Oscar Piastri has found a new way to occupy his time—sucking dick! The worst thing is, nobody would believe him even if he said nothing happened. It's bad enough that he went home with a guy, even if all he did was fall asleep in his bed.
He hasn’t done anything like this in five years. The last time, he was 21, two months away from achieving his dream of reaching F1. He went out to celebrate, got way too drunk, and woke up in a stranger’s bed, smelling like sweat and sex. The guy had posted a photo of him on his Instagram story—just of them in the club, nothing that would spill any of Oscar’s secrets—but Oscar panicked, demanded he delete it, inspected his photo gallery to make sure he had no other pictures, then apologized and fled. He hadn’t even given him his real name, but Oscar was terrified for the next two weeks, checking his name for news alerts and convinced he was going to get a call from Zak Brown telling him he lost his seat.
After that, he vowed against dating men. Not as long as he was in F1. He called up Lily, his old girlfriend from school, and asked if she wanted to try again. He thought this time, if he really tried, he could make it work with her. He liked her so much, is the thing. She was warm, sweet, comfortable. She felt like home.
Like a sister, his mind supplies, and he shakes his head as if he can banish the thought. Maybe the problem isn't him. Maybe it's that he’s only ever tried to be in love with one woman, and she's not the right one. Maybe if he finds the right one, he can be happy.
But even as the thought crosses his mind, he recognizes the lie in it. He's known he was gay since he was 14, in boarding school for the first time. And try as he might, he doesn't think he’ll ever like a woman.
He slides into the backseat of his car when it arrives, thankful when the driver doesn't do anything more than glance at him before heading to his apartment. He stares out the window, watching the gray buildings flash by in a blur.
He loves F1. More than anything, he loves it. When he lost his seat at Red Bull to Daniel Ricciardo after his first year and was forced to stand on the sidelines for two years after, he knew that nothing else would make him happy. And if being in F1 means being alone, well… he'll deal with it. He moved away from home and everything he knew at 14, after all. He's used to being alone.
Or, well. Not entirely alone. He's grateful to have Logan on the grid. He's the only person who knows about Oscar’s sexuality. Oscar blurted it out that same night five years ago, after calling Logan in a panic to ask what to do now that he had thrown his future away for a one-night stand. Logan hadn’t even blinked about the whole gay thing, just calmed Oscar down, told him there was nothing to worry about, quietly thanked him for telling him, then invited him out for lunch.
As Oscar makes his way up to his apartment, he pulls his phone out and texts Logan.
Shit. Right. He hasn’t told Logan the news. He isn't sure he really wants to get into that right now, honestly. He unlocks his front door and lets out a relieved sigh once it closes behind him. He already feels a bit better. He'll go on a run, take a long shower, and reset. Everything will be fine.
He heads to his bedroom to change. He's halfway through pulling on his joggers when his phone rings. He sighs and answers, putting it on speaker phone.
“Hello?” Logan demands expectantly, and Oscar sighs again.
“Yes, hello,” he mutters, grabbing a moisture-wicking long-sleeve out of his closet next. It's cold outside.
“You can’t just text me that and then not explain.”
Oscar pulls his shirt over his head, then sits on his bed to lace up his runners. “Lily broke up with me,” he says shortly, and he hears a sharp intake of breath on the other end.
“That sucks. I’m so sorry. How are you— I mean, are you feeling okay?” Logan asks tentatively.
Oscar knows what he’s really asking. Logan’s always been of the opinion that the thing with Lily was a lost cause, that Oscar was being unfair to both Lily and himself trying to make it work.
“I’m…complicated,” Oscar finally answers. “She was one of my best friends, you know? And I know maybe we weren’t…right for each other. But I guess I just thought—I don’t know. I thought we could still be happy together, even if we weren’t totally compatible…” He trails off, hating how pathetic he sounds.
Maybe he was naive, to think that he and Lily could make things work. But it’s not like he didn’t enjoy kissing her. She was soft, and warm, and she smelled good. And the sex was…fine. Though now, looking back, they were incompatible in that arena, too. When he tried to talk to her about trying something new out, about him taking charge and being more controlling, Lily complained that he was too pushy and asked if they could just go back to doing things how they used to.
Logan makes a sympathetic sound, waits an appropriate beat, and then asks, “Okay, so, then you went and had a one-night stand…?”
Oscar groans, runs his hand through his hair. “I was so stupid, mate. I wasn’t thinking. Nothing even happened, but now I’m, like, panicking. Last time at least I was able to check the guy's phone for evidence. I don’t think this guy took any photos, he didn’t even know who I was, but what if that was all a ruse? What if he posts something, or says something to someone, and—”
“Oscar,” Logan interrupts, his voice firm. “Breathe. It’s going to be fine. Just like last time.”
Oscar takes in a deep breath, lets it out in a whoosh. “But what if it’s not?” he asks, his voice small.
“Then we’ll figure it out,” Logan says easily.
Oscar feels something loosen in his chest, a tension he didn't even realize he was carrying.
“Have I told you I love you?” he asks, and Logan chuckles.
“Not nearly enough.”
Oscar smiles, standing up and stretching his arms across his chest. Maybe things actually will be okay.
“Okay, so, what are you going to do to make sure you can get what you need without ‘throwing your future away’?” Logan asks suddenly.
Oscar blinks. “What do you mean?"
“Like, you realize you can’t just be with some random woman. But you also freak out after every one-night stand. So maybe you can have them sign an NDA first?”
Oscar scoffs. “Absolutely not. I’m not bringing an NDA to a one-night stand. Anyway, I always make sure they don’t know who I am before I go home with them, and if I whip out a legal document, they’re going to start asking questions.”
“Okay, fine. What about, like, an escort service? People do that, right? You could find one that’s really discreet, official paperwork. I don’t think you even have to use your real name. And those people want to keep their jobs, so they’re not going to go blabbing.”
It’s a sign of his desperation that Oscar actually considers it for a moment. But then he shakes his head. “It’s not like I need to get laid,” he says. “I can handle getting through my F1 career without a partner. And it feels kind of pathetic to have to pay someone to have sex with me.”
Logan must hear something in Oscar’s tone, because he changes the subject after that. They talk for a few more minutes, chat about how they’re planning on spending their winter breaks—Logan’s going on some boating trip with friends back home in the States, and Oscar has no plans other than training and trying not to feel too sorry for himself.
It isn’t until he’s hung up and is facing the sterile silence of his empty apartment that Oscar has a sobering thought: It may be pathetic to pay someone to have sex with him, but he feels even more pathetic having his dream career and still feeling this unhappy.
He sighs, takes another glance around his apartment, and heads out for his run.
Lando
Maybe deciding to mug somebody isn’t the best idea Lando’s ever had, but who can blame him for being desperate?
He recognizes that as the flimsy defense it is, and sure, it absolutely would not hold up in court, but if all goes well, he'll never have to see a courtroom, anyway. So who needs a defense?
The plan is simple. Wait around one of the popular running spots in the early morning before it gets busy, stop one of the annoyingly productive members of society that jogs by wearing some nice headphones or carrying a phone he can pawn, pretend he’s dangerous and off his rocker—to be fair, he might be off his rocker—nick the expensive shit, then profit.
Simple.
But it’s been an hour, and Lando hasn’t seen so much as a squirrel scurrying past. It’s a Saturday. Nobody wakes up at 7 in the morning to go running on a Saturday. And it’s freezing out. He wore his muggiest clothes—black hoodie, black pants with holes throughout and a black long-sleeved shirt—but he just feels like an idiot who got lost on the way to an emo night, stood here shivering behind a tree.
He doesn’t even know what his plan is, really. It’s not like he’s actually going to hurt somebody, so he’s just, what, banking on someone feeling threatened enough by all 175cm of him to give up their most expensive belongings? And how many people would he have to mug to make enough money to pay off his rent? This was such a bad idea.
He’s just about to call it a loss and resign himself to pan-handling in Oxford when someone rounds the corner of the running path. Lando darts back behind his tree, then peeks out around the corner once the man has passed by.
Lando stares at his retreating back. High-end shoes that cost more than he spent on groceries over the past three months, and—there! The glint of a watch in the sunlight. Lando doesn’t have time to think things through a second time. He just sprints after the guy, shouting, “HEY! WAIT!”
He’s already made it 30 meters down the path, and instead of stopping, the guy just turns around to stare at Lando, jogging in place. Lando resists the urge to roll his eyes and speeds up, coming to a stop right in front of him.
He bends over, gasping, his hands on his knees. Fuck, he’s out of shape. He has to stop smoking cigarettes, christ.
Lando’s still bent double, but he can see the man’s expensive shoes, still shuffling from one foot to another. He forces himself to straighten up and almost gasps again when his gaze trails up and he gets a good look at the guy’s face.
It’s just. He’s like. Proper fit. He’s got this tiny waist, broad chest, a sharp jawline, and swoopy, soft-looking hair that is just falling into his eyes on one side.
“Yes?” The man prods, his eyebrow raised. "Did you need something?"
And of course his voice is hot, too, all scratchy and… is that an accent? Lando mentally curses. The guy’s not out of breath at all. He doesn’t even look like he’s broken a sweat, though he’s certainly been running longer than Lando has. Lando feels irrationally angry about that, which helps him get back on track.
“Give me—” He takes another breath, trying to get his breathing under control. “Give me all your money.”