five times lando saw oscar's face and one time the world did

whatever, whenever

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Lando didn't remember much from the next however many hours it took to get back to Monaco. He faintly recognized that he was being piled into an Uber, Charles and Max pressed against either side. Their presence should've been comforting, but all that Lando could imagine was the constricting crowd that ensnared him minutes ago. It was suffocating. He shrank into himself, trying to get away from their touch.

His eyes burned as he stared blankly ahead. But it was nowhere near as painful as the phantom warmth from where Oscar's hands held his shoulders, or as excruciating as the ache in his fingertips where he'd gripped Oscar's waist. Even the point where Logan jabbed him hurt more, stinging like a brand with every pulse of his heart.

He drifted as the landscape flew by, because what could possibly matter now? He'd broken everything between Oscar and him, probably irreparably. The pieces weren't just scattered, they were destroyed.

The next thing Lando knew, he was in someone's hotel room. There was quiet whispering behind him, but he couldn't be bothered to decipher what it was. He was handed an old T-shirt and a pair of pyjama bottoms and was silently guided to the bathroom. In a trance, he changed, rubbed some toothpaste on his teeth, and exited.

Max was bent over the sofa, cushions scattered around the floor as he pulled out the folding bed. He turned back to face Lando after hearing the door open. Charles, he noticed, was gone.

"Hey, Lando," he said. His blue eyes were searching, and if the way he bit his lip was any indication, he wasn't happy with what he found. "Take the bed for tonight, yes?"

Lando nodded mutely, too exhausted to fight. There'd been too many fights today. He didn't know if he could handle another.

So he climbed into the bed, and curled up. He didn't remember falling asleep, but he knew he did because as he cracked open his eyes, he stood in his own hotel room. Lando blinked, swaying slightly in the middle of the room as Max and Charles pulled his strewn clothes back into his luggage. He watched as Charles picked up a plain black T-shirt off the bed. Lando tried to tell Charles it wasn't his, but his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth. It was thrown in with the rest of his clothes before he could get out a word.

Then all that remained were flashes of another car ride, a plane he somehow dragged himself onto, and then he was standing in his Monaco apartment, Charles giving him a hug and Max telling him to get some rest.

It wasn't until the door closed behind them that the tears began to fall. It started slow. A sniffle, then a single tear tracing a wet trail down his face. But once the first tear dropped off his face and splashed on the ground, the floodgates opened. An ugly sob tore its way out of his throat.

He sank to the floor in the middle of his entranceway, losing the strength to stand. His keening cries echoed around the empty flat. Lando was starkly alone in his misery.

He didn't know how long he was there, lying on cold tiles that slowly warmed with his body heat, weeping for what he'd lost. It could've been minutes, it could've been days. It didn't matter.

Eventually, the tears dried. The snot plugged his nostrils and his hiccuping breaths slowly evened out. All that was left by the end was a pounding headache and a hollow throbbing in his chest.

He wanted to cry more. But there was nothing left, and that only made him feel worse. If his tears weren't tangible, was his pain even real? If he couldn't cry, then wasn't that just pathetic. Lando felt like an imposter, an undeserving, disappointing excuse for a human who couldn't even conjure tears. He could imagine Oscar's curled lip, the sneer written on his face as he looked down at Lando.