Work Text
The cold rain hits him everywhere. Soaks his coat, his hair already dripping wet. Big fat droplets finding their way from the back of his head to his neck—leaving him shivering. There is a warm arm wrapped around his small shoulders, but it really doesn’t help. Nothing helps when he feels like the floor shifts beneath his feet and his whole concentration is on the tombstone right in front of him. Big, bold letters, scolding him. The birth year and the year of death. Too close to each other to feel real or fair . Nothing about this is fair, not in the slightest. The last few days felt like a fever dream. Every night he prayed to the gods—suddenly believing in them—that everything was just a bad dream. That he will wake up the next day, already a string of notifications on his phone from him . But there is nothing. No stupid selfies, no messages. No one to tell him to get his shit together. Just a lot of I‘m so sorry, brother, or Let me know if you can help, and an email: Take your time; call us if we can help. signed by Andrea and Zak. But it still feels surreal. Like a big and important chunk of his heart is suddenly missing. Never coming back. Heartbreaking sobs are all he can hear. Each of them shooting right through him, ripping his chest open and tearing his heart even more apart, piece by piece until nothing more is left than a big black hole. They are haunting. He hears them in his sleep every night. Normally he hates silence, but nowadays? Silence is everything he wants. Silence and darkness, wrapping around him like a blanket. Maybe he can find peace this way. Slowly, he reaches out. Wraps his hand around the person next to him. For a second, the sobs grow even louder while he softly squeezes the fragile bones. Not knowing what to say anymore. Maybe this is the longest time he was silent ever—all energy suddenly gone. Replaced by an empty stare. He lost count of how many times he said thank you today. Surrounded by people he knows. People that know him. But he feels like a stranger. Not longer welcomed between them. Almost like it is his fault. Later that day, he curls himself up in his teenage bedroom. The old knitted blanket—the one his granny made—was thrown over his whole body. Somehow it helps to think about her. How she is with him now, watching over their loved ones. He wants, no, he needs to cry. But there are no more tears left. Just the stinging feeling in his eyes, like someone rubbed sandpaper over them. He squeezes them shut, trying to ignore the sound of the door being opened and softly closed. Even if he made it clear he doesn’t want company, there are those he loves here, surrounding him like planets, watching with fearful eyes because they think he will follow. The mattress dips next to him. A warm, calloused hand starts to caress his hair softly. And then he can feel it. The lump making its way through his throat. A dry sob, more a cry than anything else. But the hand doesn’t go away. A steady rhythm against his shivering body. Like he is 14 again. Small and alone and scared, because it’s hard to make friends when you are so different from everybody else. When nobody gets that it’s petrol pumping trough your veins, not blood. And suddenly, there is a soft voice filling the room. A low singsong, sending him right back into his childhood.
The other night, dear, as I lay sleeping
I dreamed I held you in my arms
When I awoke, dear, I was mistaken
So I bowed my head and I cried
You are my sunshine, my only sunshine
You make me happy when skies are gray
You′ll never know, dear, how much I love you
Please don't take my sunshine away
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
When he wakes up the next morning, there are rays of sunshine tickling his nose. Outside the birds sing their songs, and it seems like the weather finally changed. Normally he would love a morning like this. Laying in bed a little bit longer before facing the day, the training and all the other obligations. But today? He feels nothing. Literally numb. Even when he closes his eyes, he tries to feel inside himself. When he still finds nothing, there is a slight panic taking over. So he takes deep breaths. Counting until 4, holding for 4, and letting it out for 4 seconds. It works, somehow. But it still feels confusing to grab his phone because when he unlocks it, there is that freaking picture of them. Bright smiles and everything, not a care in the damn world. It's not that old, taken a few weeks before the death. Before the thing that... changed everything. Or nothing at all?
Everything else is an automatism. Getting out of the bed with a slight groan, stretching out his muscles before he stands up. Grab some clothing before taking a shower.
Or more—staring at the tiles. The way his body wash mixes up with the water before it rinses down into the drain. For a moment, there is a cold draft, creeping up his spine, gone in the next second. But he stills, one eyebrow raised up. Sure, the lack of sleep gets to him and he just imagined the voice he just heard. The voice that called his name, in the same tone as always. Mocking, teasing, but full of love and tenderness at the same time. Something only he managed to do.
But when he turns down the water, there are just the lively sounds of the house, like always. His parents, his siblings. Loud voices, animated and happy. The sound of chairs scraping over the floor, plates placed on the table.
Surely, everything dies down when he bargains into the kitchen. The conversation is dying and all eyes are on him. Only his sister shows some form of movement, a raised eyebrow when she ogles his outfit. Old, worn sweatpants, an oversized hoodie that clearly saw better days. But he can't bring himself to care.
Not when he is sitting on
his
chair, a burnt toast on the plate. Eyes glued to the big door frame. He can't bring himself to eat or to talk because he cant afford to miss a second because what if
he
suddenly comes back? All smiles, his usual self? Just like nothing happened, just a big fat mistake.
It's the gentle nudge against his shoulder that brings him back to reality. A steaming mug of hot chocolate is presented to him with a soft smile. The voice of his father, carefully asking about his
feelings.
And he barely recognises his own voice. “I’m fine”—the sudden silence at the table feels heavy, everyone looking at him like he suddenly grew a second head or an eye in the middle of his freaking forehead.
What else should he say? I’m feeling numb. I want to cry and scream, but nothing happens. Maybe I lost my ability to feel anything at the funeral? Buried with his body in the cold earth?
So he clears his throat—still feeling like sandpaper—takes a deep breath, sits up a little bit straighter, draws back his shoulders, and tips up his chin before he takes a sip from his mug, smiling brightly at his mother to send her a silent
thank you
.
He grabs the mug tighter, knuckles almost turning white. Like an anchor to keep him in the moment when he raises his eyes to his siblings.
“So. What are everybody's ideas for the next few days?”
“You know, you don’t have to be present? Everyone understands when you need a break?” Andrea says softly while he stares at him with those big brown eyes. Warmth radiating from him, even through the screen. Thick accent like always, but he is hesitant—more careful than normal. Between Andrea and Zak, Andrea was always the empathetic one. Normally, he liked it. But today it just adds to the weird feeling, deep in his bones and his heart.
Sure, he didn't appear in person, but he knew about the meeting today and got the invitation weeks ago. Social media plans for the next season and all that stuff. Back in the days when everything felt normal.
“I got your mails with the plans for the season. I..”
Carefully he tilts his head because Zak appears in the camera. Raises an eyebrow, peeks down on him like he is a baby dear that just lost his mother. “What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be …” Zak waves his big hands in the space between him and Andrea, like he is trying to grab the right words out of the air.
Griefing? Crying? Spending time with the people you love before they also die?
Biting down every snarky comment that lies ready on his tongue, he takes a deep breath. 4 in, hold for 4, 4 out. Puts on a smile for Zak to assure him everything is totally
alright
and
normal
.
“I’m willing to participate in everything.”
The meeting takes hours—at least it feels like this when he closes his laptop and the sun still stands high in the sky. For a few seconds he just stares at his wall, lined with trophies and medals. Memories from his teenage years, karting, and all that stuff. That's when his mind begins to wander. Back to the good old days, when everything slowly fell into place, his future slowly but surely formed.
When he felt like he was on top of the world, unstoppable and wearing his smile because he was happy, not because it was armour to protect him.
I dont even know how to start that freaking letter? Like .. whatever. I guess you all figured out it wasn’t a mistake? Yeah, funny thing - takes a lot of planning to say goodbye to your shitty life. Maybe you all are hating me or did anybody cry? Funny, thinking about myself sitting on a fluffy cloud and watching you idiots holding each other. Hope you got pissed at my funeral.
Nevermind, I hope my letter doesn’t destroy the mood (haha). I only wanted you all to know one thing. This isn’t on anybody, only on myself. And i’m glad to know you all have each other so nobody has to go trough it alone. Once a team, always a team and I’m sure we will meet each other again, in a different life where things are better.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
A few days later—the same routine as always. Waking up, lying in bed for a moment, listening to the birds. But something changed—deep inside of him. The numb feeling is replaced with something else.A beast, the heart of it beating deep inside his bones and veins. An ugly face, red and all-consuming. Silencing every other thought, only that deep red pulsing one. Slowly making its way from his toes to his scalp, eating up his heart and his brain. It happened for the first time when his mother asked him about the laundry. He lashes out, slamming his door shut so hard the walls vibrate with it. And there it is. A picture of them. Christmas, smiling and happy. Holding each other close. He feels like it’s mocking him.
The beast inside him roars.
Metal against metal, a screech, the sound of shattering glass, and a sound he can’t define. Silence, he thinks, before he realises that he screams. Right from the top of his lungs. Screaming at the broken picture frame. Screaming at his shuttered karting trophy, lying at his feet. The next thing he remembers is a piercing pain, shooting from his hand right into his shoulder. “Darl’, you are sure you don’t want to talk about it?” The soothing voice of his mother—back in the day, his source of safety. But right now? Nothing more than another thing on the list that makes him snap. Not even the soft caresses on his knuckles, the bandages placed there so softly that he could feel her love for him in the whole process, helped. The beast in him was just put to sleep, not going away anytime. “I booked a flight home later today.” He can feel it. The judging eyes, the words his mother holds back, just for the peace between them. She nods, pressing a soft kiss onto his cheek, the ghost of a hug lingering over them for a moment, but still, there is no touch. No warm arms wrapping around him. And maybe it's better this way. Better than letting out everything he holds in. Being back in his apartment feels wrong, but so good at the same time. Nobody is watching him with careful eyes, nobody is asking him how he is doing. Just he and his thoughts and the apartment that is filled with memories. Haunting him everywhere. His laptop is in his living room. The big table where they used to eat. Even in his bedroom. Maybe, just maybe, he can smell him. His cologne still lingers in the pillows. But when he smashes his face into the soft cotton, there is nothing. Just his own smell, mixed with the expensive laundry detergent he bought weeks ago. Maybe he should know that it wasn't a good idea to fly back to his apartment. At least the beast inside him was silent for a while. Until he sat down on the big couch, freshly showered, a bottle of whisky on the coffee table. The glass fills up again and again, the brown liquid burning down his throat. Normally it would help. Numb everything he feels. But instead it gets worse. The beast inside him was already roaring again. The emotional pain is slowly turning into physical pain. Bones arching, muscles feeling impossibly tight. A slight burn on his skin, and he wants to peel it off his body. Blunt nails crawling at nothing. Breath shivering, his chest not wide enough to take a proper breath in—or out. Vision blurry, the tears once again back in his eyes, drifting down his cheeks like a small river. His pulse pounding in his ears, his body shifting from left to right because he can't find the right position. Everything is too much and, at the same time, not enough. He doesn't even think about it, but throwing the glass against the wall feels freaking good . From there it all goes down. Flipping the coffee table over, the bottle of whisky bursting on the hardwood floor, brown liquid staining everything. His phone hits the wall next. Followed by everything else. Controller, books, his multi-year contract extension falling into the mess on the ground. Plates, mugs, medals, and pictures smashing on the ground. Everything he can find. He stops when he tries to flip over the couch, simply not strong enough. He doesn't even look at the mess he made.And with every piece that breaks, shattering on the ground, he feels a bit better. Tears are still streaming down his face, but the beast is satisfied. The growling down to a low purr.The next thing he remembers is a warm hand on his shoulder. Someone is kneeling next to him, softly nudging his shoulder. “Wake up…” He groans, turns onto his side, and pulls his legs up to his chest. Why is his bed suddenly so hard? The ground is hard and sticky, the smell of alcohol and sweat lingering in the air. His head hurts, a steady pounding right behind his eyes. He feels sick, sour liquid fighting its way up his throat.“‘M awake.” Soft mumbles, hoping the intruder will go away. He doesn't even think about who it is or how the person came into his apartment. Maybe it's a crazy fan? Maybe someone that will end his life? Would make things so much easier than the living hell he is in now.“ Lando , I swear to god. If you don't get up, I’m going to drag your ass out of the fucking apartment. That is a promise.” Slowly, the Brit blinks his eyes open. Jon is there, hovering over him so close Lando could count his eyelashes. Lando pulls a face, but Jon’s steady hands slowly sit him up. He can hear the elder one taking a deep breath. But there is no judgement or anything else. Just the gentle parenting he always uses when Lando refuses to do anything. So he ends up in the shower. After that, sweats and worn hoodies are swapped with actual gym clothes. His head still hurts. And Jon said a very clear no to painkillers. Sitting through it—or something along those lines. It's not really his fault when he gets a few punches to the side of his head; later, when he and Jon are at the gym, his trainer tries to get the anger out of him. How did he know? Lando doesn't question it. The man knows him probably better than his own parents, years spent together. Ups and downs through everything. Picking up pieces of Lando. But still, he never left.“He just fucking left me..” “Just gone.”The first punch lands on the boxing pads Jon holds up. “He didn’t care about anyone else, just himself.” A second and third punch, with much more force. But Jon is like always. Stone in the surf. “Selfish knob. Always him, never the others.” “Fucking killed himself like a fucking pussy.” “I knew he wasn't strong enough.” “Didn’t deserve all the good shit that happened to him.” “Just left me after everything I did for him.” “ Pathetic ”Lando takes deep breaths between his words, punch after punch landing in the pads. It feels good. So fucking good. To let everything out. Jon doesn't judge. He is just there. Giving Lando what he needs without asking or anything. Every punch comes with much more force, until his arms are shivering, feeling giddy. For the first time since the funeral, Lando feels really freaking tired. Again, there are tears. A big, warm hand on his shoulder, gently guiding him to the changing rooms. Sitting him down on a bench. “I know it hurts, Lando. We all know how important he was. Not to you, for everyone. We all gonna miss him.”
It’s now your turn to take care of our boy. We both know he can be a handful but he just wants to be loved. And I’m sure, you already know this. He is gonna push you away, tease and maybe scream at you. But this is just how he is and I can only imagine how hurt he is now. Just do what you already did a few times - be there for him. Sit with him in silence or do whatever he wants - even if it sounds crazy. You know, he can be impulsive sometimes.
And another thing. I’m glad for the time we spent together. And even if things don’t work out the way you wanted it, I’m sure you have a bright future right in front of you. You just have to believe in yourself and your abilities.
In our world, there is a place for everyone. Maybe you already found it. And if not, you will. I'm really sure.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Slowly, the anger faded. Leaving him once again with that nagging numb feeling. The hole gaping in his heart he just couldn't fill up, no matter how hard Lando tried. Day by day. Training sessions, long talks with Jon and other people. But nothing really eased the pain. The feeling of something, something he needed to do—maybe. And maybe that was the reason for the whole thing. Why he ordered the private chef into his apartment. Pulled out his phone and called his people one by one. His mother told him to. Told him it would help. To talk about the person they all lost. To come together. He thought about setting up a picture, the same thing they did in funerals and stuff. But it felt fake. His whole apartment looked like a memorial ground. Memories of their time spent together scattered everywhere. A time that felt so fucking short. Too short. Because there were so many more things Lando wanted to do. To experience with him. Making memories that will last a lifetime.
Forever pal, yeah? No matter what.
It almost feels pathetic to get ready. To change the worn-out sweats and the stained hoodie against a pair of jeans and a button-up. To style his curls, putting on his mixtures of colognes. The bracelet they both owned. One last look in the mirror, before Lando takes a deep breath. Moving over to the door, almost on autopilot. Opening the door is like opening the box of Pandora. Big brown eyes, red-rimmed and watery, looking at him. Lando lifts his chin, trying to keep up his little bit of control. “Bro.” The hug feels good. Warm and safe, even if the arms around him are shivering, the older man is close to breaking out in sobs. He taps him on the back before taking a step to the side, letting him into the apartment. “Just go through the hallway and take a seat.” Yeah, he was never at Landos. But the Brit can already hear the telltale sound of the elevator, the rest of his visitors arriving. And they do, piece by piece. The next ones are Connor and Tom, both looking freaking pale and slightly uncomfortable. He had last seen them both at the funeral, but still it feels like a lifetime. They change a bit of small talk, nothing to deep, before Lando tells them to join Ban Kai in the living room. Another ping of the elevator, Nirans's tall figure hunched over, one arm slung around Ria’s shoulders. Lando is sure; he has never seen Ria this broken. A steady river of tears is falling down over her cheeks, getting worse when they hug. He tries to soothe her, fighting back his own tears once again. Lando doesn't even know why, but somehow he feels responsible for all of them. Because the person that once did it is now gone. Leaving them all on their own. Steadily his apartment fills up. Arav, Ethan, Ginge, Matt, Lorenzo, and Jamie join them scattered through the next thirty minutes. One last ping of the elevator, two people stepping out. And for a moment, Lando just holds his breath. Just because he has never seen Keegan like this. Big bags under his red eyes, greasy hair, body hidden in some oversized clothes that surely saw better days. Lando realises, once again, that he isn't the only one that goes through hell every day. The hug lasts longer than with the others. One hand softly wrapped around his neck, Lando pulls Keegan into his embrace, face hidden in his hair. “I know, bro. I know. I just…” He doesn't know what to say. So he just shuts up, Keegan's tears staining his shirt, his small body feeling so freaking fragile in his arms. He is scared to break him in some way. Making it even worse. His eyes are glued onto the elevator. Hoping and praying for another last ping. For the doors to open again, to reveal that this was all just a bad dream. To see him—big smile and everything. That telling swagger in his walk, the way he grins at Lando. Used to grin at him. In the end, it's Connor and Tom joining them at the dor, carefully peeling Keegan away from Lando.
He gets overstimulated fast. That's why he always ran away.
They don't want him to run away. So they're trying their best to make space for him, giving him a minute to catch his breath. And just when Lando wants to close the door, the elevator pings again. For a moment, his heart stops. Breath shuddering in his chest, eyes filling with big, fat tears. This is all in his head, right? This can't be happening. When the doors open, he wants to laugh. It leaves his lips, loud and hysterical. Instead of eyes that sometimes look like his eyes, there are two big brown eyes. Instead of curls, a soft brown swoop falling onto a forehead. Pale skin, scattered with moles. Oscar raises his hand, awkwardly waving at Lando. “Thanks for the... invite, I think?” Yeah, sure, he nearly forgot. Oscar was also close to him; they spent some time in the junior series together. And maybe it was his intrusive thought that told him to hug Oscar, to hide his face into the younger one's neck, inhaling his scent—for a second it felt like home. Safe. The dinner goes over scarily well. The glasses of wine on the table are never empty, and Ban Kai and Connor are starting to make light jokes, Ria and Keegan's sobs slowly ebbing away. The whole mood changes, at least for a few moments. Until they all decide it would be better to move over to the living room. Oscar was a steady presence by his side the whole time. Silent, but there. If Lando only knew about the letter Max wrote to Oscar. His friends are scattered all over the living room. On the couch, on the floor—everywhere. His second family, the people that were always there for him, no matter what. But one piece was still missing.
Pal. Do YOU have my stuff or not?
Doesn't matter, huh? I won. And you not
Bob, I’m going to ask again, do you have my stuff?
No, MAX. I don't have it.
You are lying; I know it. [...] Did he really go Chat? Bob, did you just fuck off with my fucking stuff?
The memory of their last exchange hurts so fucking much. Even when Ria lowers her head on his shoulders, wraps her hands around his own to soothe him. They all sit in silence until Ban Kai clears his throat and starts to tell a story. Back from the day when the whole thing started. When he and Max became friends. And so it goes on. Everyone is telling their little stories about and with him, how he made their lives better without even trying. He was always there, the rock for everyone around him. Knowing exactly what everybody needed. Why did nobody know what Max needed? How hard it was for him? Lando tries to swallow his thoughts; he doesn't want the other to feel as bad as him. Its getting later and later and at some point, he starts to shift his weight from right to left on the floor. Sighing, eyes blinking up at Oscar. And Oscar, the good teammate he is, knows. They all promise each other to meet up again, to keep up the legacy Max left. There are things they need to do, taking care of—but not now. When everyone is gone, it's just Oscar and him (and Keegan, who crashed down into the guestroom because he was so drunk he couldn't stand up straight). Lando, sitting down onto the couch, stares out of the window as Oscar sits down next to him, keeping a respectable distance from the Brit. But Landos's thoughts are already spiralling. Back to that fateful day right after New Year's.
Abu Dhabi 02.01.2025
He feels good. Slept for hours, spent time with some of his friends, soaked up the sun, and didn’t think about racing, training, or his freaking diet. Lando was so at ease that he didn’t question it when Max told him that his plans changed. He just sent Max some question marks, and when his best friend left him on read, he sent a dumb selfie, not giving this whole thing another thought because so much stuff was happening, and he didn't want to miss anything. When his phone rings and he reads the name on the screen, his stomach drops for the first time. Normally, Pietra wouldn't call him. It's Max, always Max. But this time, it isn't. His sixth sense is kicking in, screaming at him to just decline the call. Because when Pietra calls him, something must be wrong. But instead his body moved on its own. Thumb hovering over the green button, lifting the phone to his ear. The voice on the other end is shaky. Broken sobs and nothing more. So Lando gathers all of his strength. "Hiya, everything okay?“ His voice is hoarse; his throat feels like the fucking Sahara. Like he hadn't had a drop of liquid for the last days. But he had. Got drunk on champagne and gin nearly every day, starting early in the morning—just for the vibe. All while his world crumpled and he didn't even know about it. "He is dead.“ The sobs turn into screams. Lando can't pinpoint if he screams or Pietra. The sound of her crying, her nearly maniac repeat of the words ‘Max’ and ‘please,’ shoots right through his body. He starts to shake, and before he can stop it, he vomits on the floor. Guilt, sadness, anger—whatever. Everything is mixed up, his breath stopping, hitching in his chest. Pounds lying on his shoulders, one hand still holding the phone while he claws with the other one on his chest. Ribs open his button up because he thinks he can maybe take a breath when the weight is gone. But it's still there. And it gets worse with every sob. And then he understands. Lando is the first person Pietra is calling. The repeat of the name is not for him. It's because she is with him, begging him to wake up, to not leave. Lando doesn't want to, but he can imagine the scene in his head. Clear horror is painted on his face when Tom and Ed join him. “Pietra, Pietra…” He tries to reach her, to help her. But the only thing he can do is talk to her. Trying to will away the images in his head. He just prays her family is somewhere around, because right now he can't do anything. He never felt that helpless. Never.
Maybe there is some switch in reality, because suddenly he feels all that feelings again. Paired with a painful sting on his scalp. The light scratch of nails. Fingers trying to pray away his hands from his own hair. The soft voice of someone, thick Australian accent. “Lando..Lando..just..…I’m here, okay? It's okay.” On instinct, he curls more into the broad shoulders. Feels like his own grip on his hair slowly gets looser. Maybe its Oscars embrace keeping him here. Or just the fact that someone is there. “It’s all my fault. I should have known. He always had trouble with his mental health.” Big fat sobs, making their way out of his body. Whole body shivers, big fat tears falling down his cheeks. Soaking his shirt and Oscars hoodie. “If I had more time for him. Asked how he was. If I… wouldn't be so complicated. He always had to take care of me, and I... and I…” It's his fault. Lando knows. Probably Oscar also knows, already judging him for the death of Max. Because he wasnt there. Selfish, pathetic arsehole. Just thinking about his own rights and wrongs while his better half struggled with so much shit. He struggled so much that he choose to end his life. Because Lando didn't reach out to him, ignored his silent pleas for help, for a shoulder to lean on—anything. And it's all Lando's fault.
Pietra.
My love. I’m sorry for everything. I hope you know that. And I hope you know that I loved you so fucking much. Really, you are probably the best thing that ever happened to me. And this isn't on you, I hope you know that.
But … I’m really sure it's better this way. You deserve someone who gives his everything. Who can love you like you deserve it, not someone who can't get out of his bed on some days, who destroyed his own career.
I know it will take you some time. And you are allowed to hate me, to miss me—whatever helps. But please, be happy. Enjoy the years ahead.
te amo
Max.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Lando has another two weeks left until the season really starts. Media days, testing, shake off and all that other stuff. Two weeks to rot in bed. Cry, sleep and repeat. And it almost seems like nobody would try to take that away from him. His phone is turned off, but there is nobody knocking on his door - asking if he is okay.
So he really
rots
. Watches old streams and karting videos on the big tv in his bedroom, cries so much he struggles to breath and does it again and again. His head pounds and he is so freaking hungry that his whole body aches. But he can't bring himself to stand up. To eat, to shower or to brush his teeth. Lando knows that he has too, but at this point he doesn't have the energy. His thoughts spiral and he catches himself thinking about the whole thing Max did. Why he chose the pills over the blade, why the bathtub and how long he thought about it - just because there were letters for literally everyone around him.
Lando knows his thoughts are dangerous when he trails around the apartment on the hunt for that one package of sleeping pills Jon got him when it was really bad. He does find them, walks over to the kitchen, grabs himself a glass of water before he opens the package. It almost seems like they laugh at him - the pills. Slowly he pushes them out of the dispenser, one by one. How many took Max? How many would be needed to kill him? Five? Or more?
It's not like he really wants to die. But he fears he can't stand the hollow feeling in his chest any longer. So Lando gathers the pills in his hand, counts them. Six pills. Six should be enough, right? And just in the moment he wants to lift his hand to his mouth, there is a knock on his door. Eyes shooting over through the hallway, breath catching in his throat for a moment. Another knock, more insistent this time. He can feel his own breath against the palm of his hand. It would be so easy. Just swallow the pills, lay down and let it happen. End it all before it gets worse. Before the season starts. Before everyone points at him and laughs, because he is weak. Crumbling under the loss of his best friend. The one person that meant everything.
“Open the damn door, you muppet.”
The sudden voice, cutting through his apartment scares Lando so much for a moment, that his hand moves in a jerky motion and the pills land on the floor.
Fucking Oscar Piastri
In slow motion he moves over to the door, doesn't even try to fix his appearance when he opens the door and is met with Oscars eyes. Oscar, who takes a sharp breath when he looks at Lando. There is a duffle bag slung over his shoulder. For what? Oscar lives literally two streets away. And something else that confuses Lando. They way Oscars shoulders slump forwards, like someone took a weight off them. The usual blush on his cheeks, a light tan from his holiday home.
“How can I help you Oscar?”
His own voice is hoarse, nearly like it belongs to a stranger because he didn't bother to talk over the last few days. His gaze shoots down, concentrating on a point between his own socked feet and Oscars trainers. Until Oscar moves, squeezes himself through the door and right into Landos space.
Normally, Lando would be ashamed. Ashamed because his apartment looks like a mess - he looks like a fucking mess. But he can't find the energy to care. At this moment everything seems pointless, so why even clean up?
Oscar walks a few steps into the apartment, bag falling onto the floor before he turns around. Lando expects pity in his gaze, maybe something that makes him feel fragile. But there is nothing. Just the same blank expression he saw so many times before.
“I’m staying until we fly out. The other options would be Jon or Zak and you don't want that. "I know it.”
Lando tilts his head, before he closes the door, strolls back into the kitchen - Oscar on his heels.
“Why do you even care?”
He manages to snatch the packet of pills from his kitchen island and stuffs it into the pocket of his hoodie because Oscar appears behind him. A sneaky swipe with his foot and the last remains of his .. whatever that was, are gone. But his mind is still there. Still busy with thinking about the right amount of pills. He can do it, somehow.
“Because you are.. You are important, Lando? I don't know why you think we don't care? There are so many people out there that are concerned? People that are .. We all know that it is hard. It is .. hard for me too.”
Yeah right, Oscar also knew Max. Before Lando and Oscar meet. Lando often thought about it. Before Max disappeared out of his life. Oscar also lost Max. But Lando can't think about it right now.
“If it makes you happy.”
Instead he grabs two mugs, gets the kettle going for some tea. And then, Oscar is behind him. Delicate hands on his shoulders. He can feel the warmth seeping through his hoodie. Oscar’s smell invades his senses. It would be so easy. To just lean back, break down again in his arms. But he can't. Lando feels like he cried all the tears that were left in his body.
“You should consider a shower, Landers. "You stink.”
No sugarcoating, just this and the underlying teasing tone in Oscars voice. And deep in his chest something stears. Like a flicker of light, just for a second before it turns dark again. Dark and cold. Lando shrugs, pouring the boiling water into the cups. He turns his head around to look at Oscar, gets a sniff of his own skin at the same moment and pulls a face.
At the end he takes the shower, changes his clothes and also manages to brush his teeth. Technically he knows that it helps him to feel better. But still, he feels so disconnected to everything - not even his own tired face in the mirror affects something in him. The package with the pills now in the pocket of his sweats when he leaves the bathroom.
Oscar tried to clean up. Garbage is suddenly nowhere to be seen, also no dirty dishes and mugs. All his clothes gone, he can hear the washing machine from the other side of the hallway. Oscar leans against the kitchen island, arms crossed over his chest while he looks at Lando.
There is something unsettling in his gaze, but Lando can't exactly pinpoint what it is, so he shifts his weight from one foot to the other before he nods in the direction of his bedroom.
“Gonna sleep, I'm tired.”
It's not even 9 pm, but he wants - no need - to hide. To hide from Oscar's gaze. Knowing that there is someone who cares, warms his heart and Lando can't stand this feeling. Not now, when the pills feel like they try to burn a hole through the fabric of his sweat directly into his skin.
Lando sits on the edge of his bed until the apartment falls into silence, the sound of the guest bedroom closing echoing through it when he grabs the packet of sleeping pills from his nightstand. Again, pops six into the palm of his hand. Stares down at them, almost like the answer to all his questions is there. And maybe it is.
But then he thinks about Oscar's words. About people that care about him. That Oscar cares about him, enough to come over and spend the rest of their break with him. Think about Max, how he was always so proud of Lando. Because Lando lived their shared dream. Suddenly there are also his parents in his mind, his siblings. Other people. The faces of his friends when they all meet up at the funeral. The taunting numbers on Max’s gravestone. Young. Too young.
And in the next moment he finds himself in the hallway. Naked feet patting over the expensive wooden floor. Opening the door next to his bedroom. It's dark and the tears streaming down his face don't help, but Lando remembers the layout of this room clearly. There is movement on the bed, Oscar sitting up, the sheets pooling around his waist.
In every other situation Lando would have appreciated the sight - not now. When his whole body is trembling while he chucks the packet with the sleep pills into Oscar’s lap.
“I don't trust myself.”
It sounds strange, distant. Lando can't believe it was really him saying those words. And Oscar? Looks down onto the pills, back up to Lando. There is a crease between his brows, worry etched on his face when he slowly reaches out, small fingers wrapping around Lando’s wrist. Carefully dragging him until he has one knee propped up on the mattress, the other leg still on the floor. For a second they just stare at each other in silence.
“Osc..”
A broken sob, almost a whine. And then there are big arms wrapping around his frame. Pulling him down until he feels the mattress under his body. A blanket, the smell of Oscar mixed with his own laundry detergent. Sheets pulled over him, Oscars arms still there, still holding him close.
“It’s okay Lando. "I'm here..”
His voice is shaking. Not the calm tone Lando is used to. Almost like he is scared. But at the moment, Lando can't think about it. Can't answer himself the question why Oscar is scared. Everything is narrowed down to the warmth that envelops him. Oscar’s warmth. His solid chest under his cheek. Skin on skin. Normally Lando would crack a dumb joke about the situation, about Oscars tits right pressed against his face. But right now he just cries, big ugly sobs paired with body shivers, rippling through him, shaking every bone inside him.
A hand, ghosting down his back again and again. Then in his neck, softly squeezing before he starts to caress his curls. Whispering comforting things into the dark room and ever so slowly, Lando calms down. Tries to sync his breathing with Oscars. Deep, deep breaths. Until it all dies down, there are no more tears streaming down his face. Oscar has probably fallen asleep. But when Lando tries to shift, Oscar's other arm wraps around his waist, holding him close.
“I wouldn't survive if you left too, Lando.”
It's not more than a whisper into the room. For Oscar probably just words. But for Lando .. maybe he would tell him one day, that this one sentence saved his life.