stay, idiot. | landoscar

Lando Norris isn't dying.

That's what he keeps telling himself. He's just-tired. Too tired. The kind of tired that makes your hands tremble when you paint, that makes your world fade to white under fluorescent light.

When he collapses in the middle of the street, it should've just been another headline: Campus art boy passes out, again.

But that day, someone caught him-literally. A photography major with shaking hands and a camera still strapped to his neck.

Oscar Piastri didn't mean to care. But he did.

They meet again, the sunlight from the tall panes framed him in soft gold-Lando slumped over a desk, heartbeat uneven, breath too shallow. Oscar's voice cuts through the silence.

"Sleep well." And somehow, Lando listens.

He shouldn't feel anything. Not this warmth blooming in his chest. Not this quiet safety whenever Oscar looks at him like he's not fragile.

"Why do you keep helping me?" Lando asks one day, voice cracking between guilt and hope.

Oscar shrugs, eyes soft. "Because you keep falling."

Then there's George-best friend, chaos incarnate-who would fight the whole hospital if he could.

Feeling Max's quiet stare on him, George yanks Lando up to use him as a shield.

"What?! You wanna fight, huh?!" His little fists tremble inside his cardigan sleeves.

Max doesn't even blink. "Try me," the doctor deadpans, flipping a chart.

Between sleepless nights, half-drunk cups of coffee, and the hum of a heart that beats too fast for its own good, Lando begins to draw again.

And maybe-just maybe-he's learning how to live again, too.

Because this time, when Oscar offers his hand, Lando doesn't pull away.

a slow heartbeat turning into melody.
a story about falling, again and again, and choosing to stay.