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anonf1writer · 13 days ago

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like you always did. like he always did. — LN4

summary: lando is going through something and he pushes you away. written. 8,8k words. content: angst to hurt to comfort. warning: suggestive language. mental health struggles. based on this request

note:¹ sorry lando I used a few real moments from your races to write about something that says more about me than about you lolll but I was in the mood and this is what I came up to.

note²: this was supposed to be 500 words 🤪

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April 13th.

The Bahrain Grand Prix.

That’s when things started shifting.

It had taken you a while to see it, but now, if anyone were to ask, you’d be able to not only find the exact date on the calendar but also prepare a PowerPoint presentation of all the little things that had been piling on since then. The missed call at the airport, the distracted answer when he got home. The extra silence on your way to the grocery store. The way he reached for your hand and unconsciously brushed your knuckles with his thumb, but his mind wasn’t really there.

Back then, you told yourself he was taking his last weekend harder than usual. Qualifying sixth, finishing third, getting a five-second penalty and dropping to 14th. It all weighed on him. Of course it did. You didn’t need to be a genius, or his girlfriend, to know that. Not if you had seen his interviews, right after the race. If you had heard the disappointment in his voice. In his words.

The self-blaming had been there, not just between the lines, but laid open for everyone to see. For everyone to judge. For everyone to share an opinion on.

So you didn’t take it personally. The quietness, the unhappiness, the overthinking. The shifting. Because it didn’t feel about you. It felt about him.

Instead, you gave him some space and made sure to be there for him in any way you could be. You asked him about it, of course. About his feelings. About his well-being. But you didn’t push when he deflected the topic. Neither entertained him when he wrapped his arms around your waist and apologized for not answering your call.

“It’s fine,” you said, threading your fingers in his curls while he hid his face on your neck. “Are you okay? Wanna talk about it?”

Lando shook his head and nuzzled further into you. And so, you respected that. You didn’t insist. You cooked some dinner, chose some random and superficial sit-com for you to watch together. You tried to make him laugh. You tried to cheer him up. At night, you spooned him in bed, pressed your lips right between his shoulder blades, and expressed how proud you were. From his overtaking, to his fairness, to his ability to stay true to himself. And then when he sighed and leaned into your touch, you kept smothering his back with kisses. You reminded him how impressive he was. And how despite everything, he still had managed to make his way up and get a spot on the podium for himself. And you were proud—so, so proud.

Lando still didn’t talk, still didn’t share, but he did roll over and kissed you. He tangled his legs with yours, sneaked his hands under the fabric of your old t-shirt, and made sure to fill you with affection. He murmured how much he had missed you, how good it was to be back. How much he loved you. How beautiful you were. He proved how thankful he was to you. Proved with his actions, with his determination to make you feel good. To have you gasping for air, sighing his name, and biting your lip after cursing in ecstasy over and over again.

The next morning, things seemed better. Not perfect, but better. As if he was on his way of getting himself back out there. He joked more. He laughed from the heart. He snuggled with you on the couch, and he absently thread his fingers in your hair before falling asleep. There was a lot of kissing involved, too. A lot of distraction. All the time. A lot of making the most of your time together, before he had to leave again.

By Thursday night, after you had helped him pack, you were both in the shower, breathing out each other’s names, saying goodbye in that intense, filthy and yet loving way you always did before a race.

So, yes, things had seemed better.

Despite the sadness.

Despite the frustration.

Despite everything.

Lando had seemed better.

Things between you two had seemed better.

Normal.

Or, at least, that’s what you thought.

Because then, on Friday morning, before the sun had risen and when he left again, he didn’t leave you a note. He kissed your forehead in your sleep, you vaguely remembered that, but he didn’t leave a cheeky post it on the fridge. Something he always did. Even when you were there, watching him scribble down the words right in front of you. From Bahrain to Bahrain. Including Australia. China. Japan.

Just a reminder that I love you. And I’ll miss you. x

I love you. And I’m gonna miss your head… I mean your brain, naughty girl! ;)

Just so you know, last night I let you win at Mario Kart. Please forgive me. I love you.

Damn you look hot sleeping all naked in bed. Gonna miss that sight. See you soon! Love you.

Please wear my clothes while I’m away. Wanna be all over you even when I’m not. x (ps: I love you)

That morning, uneasiness quivered in your belly. You looked around the kitchen, once and twice, just to make sure a new note hadn’t fallen on the floor. You checked the bed. You checked the nightstands on each side of the bed. When you didn’t find anything, you frowned.

Had something happened?

It was silly, though. You knew that. It wasn’t his obligation to write something down. He didn’t have to do it. Still, the bell rang inside your mind. An invisible red flag waved right in front of your eyes. Because it was odd. And because it felt out of place for him. It felt distant. It felt worrying. It felt like a sign of something. Like a breach in your already stablished routine.

And yet, it was just a post it.

Just a note.

Something that felt really—really—silly to mention. After all, Lando had never given you any reasons to overthink things. He had never made you feel anything less than the most important person in his life. He had never treated you with anything but love, kindness, and respect. Not even during that past week, when his mind had been clearly swamped by thoughts and pressures he hadn’t been ready to name. He still kissed your forehead every morning, even before he left for the next grand prix. Still made your tea exactly how you liked it, without even asking. Still pulled you close at night like you were the only solid thing anchoring him to the world. So you didn’t want to be the kind of person that made a big deal out of such a small detail. Out of nothing. Especially when his mind seemed to be already so full of guilt.

And therefore, you didn’t say it.

You didn’t bring it up.

You made yourself coffee, texted him good morning, and asked him to let you know when he had landed in Jeddah. You also joked about already missing him in bed, how cold it already felt without him. You kept it light-hearted. Kept it simple. Kept it normal. And you moved on from it. You got yourself ready for work. Checked social media. Texted some friends. Stepped out into the outside world.

Hoping to bring some normalcy to yourself.

Eventually, he replied. As soon as he landed. Casual. Simple. Affectionate. Just like usual. Proving a tiny slip up in your routine didn’t necessarily mean a thing.

So, you convinced yourself everything was normal. Because there was no reason to think otherwise.

Later in the afternoon, you texted him a picture of you watching the first practice session. Like you always did. From your living room, wearing one of his older McLaren hoodies. Adding a random comment here and there. Just to let him know you were paying attention. That you were there for him, even when you weren’t. Then, as soon as it ended, you congratulated him on finishing second. You told him those 0.007 seconds were nothing, and that you believed he could finish at the top of the list next time. After that, you put your phone aside. You did some laundry. You went through some emails. And you waited for him to text back. Like he always did.

Except this time, he didn’t.

Hours went by, the second free practice session was about to start, and you had to double-check your phone to make sure it had actually happened. That he really hadn’t replied. Even though he always did. No matter what. Just to let you know he was there. That he was thinking of you, too.

You swallowed, opening his chat. Sitting on your couch, still wearing his clothes. Peeking at his beautiful face on the big screen as he got ready in his car, surrounded by his team. Only to find out your texts had gone from delivered to seen, and yet never replied. And with that, you frowned at your screen.

Because for the first time since you’d started dating, Lando had read your text messages, and hadn’t acknowledged them. At all. Not even after the hour went by and the live transmission ended. Nor, at least, after you swallowed your pride and tried reaching out again. And again. Congratulating him on finishing first, reminding him how you knew he could do it. How much you believed in him.

As if you hadn’t noticed his absence.

As if you hadn’t noticed the shift.

As if you weren’t feeling it now.

The fear.

The doubt.

The agitation.

The heat on your chest.

The heaviness in your belly.

The skipping beats of your heart.

That Friday night, you laid awake in bed longer than usual. Rereading your texts. Scrolling down his Instagram posts. Checking fan accounts if only to make sure he was okay. That nothing bad had happened to him.

It was ridiculous, though. To stress like that.

To overthink without reaching out.

So you tried again, because you couldn’t pretend anymore.

Hey, you sent to him, feels weird not to hear from you all day. Is everything ok?

His reply, and apology, came only after midnight. It woke you up, of course. You were waiting for it. For the moment your phone would buzz in your hand. For the moment he would show up.

Sorry, he texted. Just got back to the hotel.

He explained himself, then. Apologized again. Told you how exhausted he was. What a long day with the team it had been. Going over strategies, through details, all the mistakes. Trying to make little changes, trying to help him win. Now, he just needed to catch some sleep, he needed to be rested for practice, and then for qualifying. He needed to focus. He needed to do better. So again, he apologized, then promised to call the next morning. As soon as he woke up.

And you took that.

Half-relieved, half-even-worse-than-before. Pretending not to be hurting, not to be confused. Saying not to worry about it, saying that you understood. Because you did. At least part of it.

You told him you’d be waiting for his call. That you loved him. And wished him a good night.

Lando replied right away after that. He told you he loved you as well. So much. That he missed you. And that he hoped he would dream about you.

His sweet words brought a smile to your face, and you hold onto that. You fell asleep hoping it would get better, praying things wouldn’t fall apart. Because why would they?

On Saturday morning, true to his words, Lando called. It was brief, too busy around him, a lil distracting. But he called. He asked how you were, he whispered how much he missed you, he repeated he loved you more than a few times. He sounded off, but not at yourself. More like tired. More like worried. More like afraid. So when you asked about the race and he changed the subject, you bit back your honest answer. You closed your eyes, took a deep breath, and tried not to think too much of it. You played along. And you didn’t let him know how constantly nervous he was suddenly making you feel.

Before he hung up, he promised you he would text after the third practice session, like he always did. And once again he didn’t let you down, he stayed true to his words. He texted a picture from the car, an excited “donnnneeee” with a funny face underneath his helmet. You smiled at that. You congratulated him. Texted a random selfie yourself. Let him know how hot you thought he looked driving like that. Flirted a little bit. Then blushed and giggled when he flirted back. Naturally, when he announced he had to go, you wished him good luck. You told him you’d be watching him. Cheering for him. Like you always did.

When you thought about it, you couldn’t help but wonder what would’ve happened if qualifying that day had been different. If he hadn’t crashed. If he hadn’t missed the opportunity to start on pole. Because you could tell that, even though things had started shifting in Bahrain, it had been Saudi Arabia that had officially blown everything up.

You were watching, when his car hit the wall. Of course you were. And even though you could tell he was fine, your heart might’ve as well been in that car with him and smashed into tiny pieces, wanting to absorb his frustration and swallow the million thoughts that were probably swirling in his mind. Because you heard it in his voice, when he called himself a “fucking idiot” to his team.

Lando wasn’t okay.

He wasn’t okay at all.

Aware of that, you didn’t wait for him to call.

You called him.

Once.

And twice.

And thrice.

By the fifth time, he answered.

“Hey,” he said, low and exhausted, carrying heartbreak in every letter. “Can’t really talk right now, but I’m fine. Don’t worry about it. Not a scratch. Text you later, ok? Love you.”

And then he hung up. Before you could even open your mouth to reply.

You frowned and stared at your phone for a few minutes before understanding what had happened. Before making sense of the many voices in the background, the calling of his name, the rushing that could only come from the paddock. You had to force yourself to imagine being in his position, and then to accept he couldn’t control everything around him. That there were commitments he couldn’t run away from. So you couldn’t take it personally. You couldn’t make it about you. About the relationship. About how worried, weird and confused you were feeling right now.

You had to force yourself to let him be.

So, you didn’t text him. Not like you wanted to, at least. Because you did send an ‘I love you’, followed by a red heart emoji, and you did tell him to please call you as soon as he could. But you didn’t mention how much it stung not hearing from him, not being the first and only thing in his mind. And you didn’t let the petty side of you snap at him when he finally showed up. Because he did show up. Later than you wished. From the darkness of his quiet hotel room. Shirtless, lying in bed. Symbolically sharing a pillow with you while staring at your face through the screen of his phone—a position you were mirroring from your side, as well.

“It is what it is,” he said, voice low and emotionless. “Gotta make sure to sleep well tonight and overtake as many cars as possible tomorrow.”

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, comfy and tucked in, just like him.

“Why? I’m the one who drove into the wall.”

You pressed your lips together and sighed. Searched for words inside your brain and tried to comfort him. Tried to cheer him up. But you knew there was no point to it. You could feel it, in his voice, in his breathing, in his silence.

So, eventually, you asked, just as carefully as the topic felt, “Is there something else going on?”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know.” You shrugged. “Something feels… Off.”

Lando sighed. He moved his head, snuggled his face into the pillow, and looked at the hand holding his phone. Or his wrist. Or his fingers. Or just whatever there was in front of him. Anything, but your face.

“I’m starting p10 tomorrow,” he said. “That pole could’ve been mine, but I crashed into a fucking wall, so…”

You furrowed your brows.

“And I get that, I just—”

“Can we please… Can we just not talk about it?”

You closed your mouth and blinked. The sharpness in his voice wasn’t necessarily attacking you, but it made it clear that he wasn’t too far off from exploding. And if there was one thing you knew, is that you didn’t want to be the one lighting up the match the night before a race.

“Okay.” You nodded, your cheek brushing the fabric of your pillowcase—his pillowcase. “Yeah. Of course.”

Lando rolled over, then. Lying on his back and staring at the ceiling while keeping his arm stuck in place. While holding his phone—holding you—away from him.

You blinked again. And again, and again. Your chest tightened, and your stomach clenched tight.

“Hey,” you murmured, words getting out of your mouth before you could even think of them, “I love you, you know that, right?”

A beat of silence went by.

Faint streetlights outlined him just enough for you to notice the way he breathed in slowly, filling his lungs before letting it all out at once.

And then, he rolled back to his side, his cheek hitting his pillow and his eyes landing on you.

“I know,” he murmured, and a smile twitched at his mouth. Just barely. “Yeah. I’m sorry. For everything.”

“You don’t—”

“I need to get some sleep.”

You pressed your lips together, then swallowed the lump in your throat.

Chest tightening.

Heartbeat speeding up.

“I can’t…” He shook his head, then rubbed one hand down his face. “Fuck. I love you. And I’m sorry. I really am. But I just… I can’t do this right now. I really can’t.”

He hung up, then, and the thud of your heart pulsing in your chest made it hard for you to comprehend things. You darted your eyes across the apps on the screen, around the dark bedroom, back to the phone. As if somehow you would find him there. Or maybe find some answers, at least.

Once again, you tried to understand him. See it from his point of view. The traveling, the racing. The pressure. The loneliness. The frustration. It made sense. Of course it did. It wasn’t easy. You knew it wasn’t. And yet…

Your breath hitched, and your eyes glistened.

You put your phone away and blinked rapidly, although not fast enough to stop the first tear from slipping out. Still stunned, still confused, you covered your face with both hands and cried quietly. All alone. Your chest aching with the weight of whatever was happening to him.

Because no matter how much you understood, it hurt. The fact that he wouldn’t lean into you when he clearly needed the most. The fact that instead of seeking your presence, he was pushing you away. So suddenly, so unexpectedly. So easily.

It hurt you so much that you barely slept that night.

And it hurt you so much that when Sunday morning arrived, you didn’t text him. At all. You stared at your phone, you laid in bed, you tried to do something useful. But you mostly just watched time go by. How the clock ticked, how race time became closer and closer each hour, and minute, and second.

How he never reached out.

It hurt you so much, and it confused you so much, that you didn’t text him good luck. Nor praised him every time he overtook. Nor celebrated the fact that he started tenth yet managed to finish four. It wasn’t easy, but you didn’t know how to behave. For the first time in so long, you didn’t know what to say to him. How to make it better. How to fix it.

How could you even fix something you didn't know it had broken in the first place?

Unable to keep watching him, to keep feeling like that, you turned off the TV and got up from the couch. You didn’t need to hear his voice during post-race interview. You didn’t need to see his life moving forward while you felt paralysed in time, just waiting for him to show up.

And so, Sunday went by, and you got no word from him. At all. And you cried. A lot. Because you had no idea why. And because he didn’t seem to need you. Because he didn’t seem to want you.

Then it was Monday morning.

And Monday afternoon.

And a lot of pacing was done.

Sadness slowly turned into anger.

Disbelief.

Self-love.

Awareness that, no matter what, you didn’t deserve that.

Finally, when nighttime arrived, and before emotions took fully over, you texted him again.

Thought you’d be home by now, you said, did you fly yet?

Surprisingly, he typed a response right away.

Yeah. Changed my flight to London, he said.

Mid-way to the kitchen, you stopped on your track. Heat flushing through your body and ears ringing as you read and re-read his words. Nostrils flaring as you breathed in. And out. Deeply. Heavily. Loudly.

Are you being serious right now? you typed back.

Yeah. Going to Surrey tomorrow morning and flying straight to Miami on Wednesday.

And then, alone in the apartment, you laughed.

Mostly because you didn’t know what else you could do.

Because your hands were shaking, and your heart was racing, and your boyfriend was trying so hard to stay away from you that he wasn’t coming back home anymore. And he hadn’t fucking let you know.

Well thanks for the heads up, you found a way to text. Good to know that’s where I stand in your life.

Sorry, he said.

Are you? Really?

Unsurprisingly, this time he didn’t reply.

He read. He typed. He gave up. And then he left the app, a loud and clear last seen underneath his name indicating he wasn’t even trying to reach out. Not anymore.

Things were a blur after that. Tuesday sucked, stepping out into the world and having to live your normal life sucked. Being awake sucked. All you wanted was your bed, to cry yourself to sleep, to wake up from whatever nightmare you had been stuck in.

Then his friend texted you, asked if he could give you a call. And you frowned, but said yes, of course, and answered even before the phone could fully buzz in your hand.

“Have you talked to Lando today?” he asked.

You gave a bitterly laugh at that, closed your eyes and pinched the tip of your nose.

“I haven’t, no.”

“Figured,” his friend said. “I’m worried.”

And that got to you. Not because you hadn’t been worried up until then, but because it proved this—whatever this was—was bigger than you.

So you sighed, dropped your body on the couch, and stared at the wall across from you.

“Yeah, me too,” you admitted. “He was supposed to come home, but… Did he tell you? He was going to London?”

“Not really. He just showed up on my door.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah…”

Silence.

“We were supposed to fly with him tomorrow,” his friend added.

“And you’re not anymore?”

“No. He said we shouldn’t.”

“Shit.”

You texted Lando that night. After you and his friend realized you didn’t know what to do. That something was up, but Lando wasn’t sharing it with anyone. You told his friend you had never seen him like this, that he had never shut you out like this, so you didn’t know what to do. His friend, on the other hand, told you it wasn’t his first time experiencing it, although it had been so long ago he had even forgotten about it. He shared a few stories about Lando’s struggles, being careful not to expose him too much, but also trusting you needed to know. Because, according to him, Lando needed you right now, he was just too afraid to ask.

So, of course, you caved in and reached out.

Can we talk? , you texted. I’m worried.

But he didn’t reply.

He also didn’t answer your call.

And then, before you knew it, Lando was flying back to Miami. Adding oceans and thousands of miles to the already stablished distance between you. Sharing with strangers the excitement over the one-year anniversary of his first win. Posting pictures on Instagram as if things weren’t falling apart.

The following weekend, the aching feeling in your gut didn’t only get worse, but it lingered. It settled. Because by then, it was official. Lando had fully stopped talking to you. He had stopped calling. He had stopped texting good morning. He had stopped sending silly photos from the garage. He had simply stopped sharing the little updates he always used to. The ones that didn’t matter to anyone but you.

He also never texted after practice. Or after sprint qualifying. Or even after winning the sprint race.

Friday.

Saturday.

Sunday.

Nothing.

Not even once.

This time, you couldn’t watch the Grand Prix. So you didn’t. You got the news from social media, you heard it from his friends, from his family. People who apparently had no idea of what was happening to him.

Just like you.

Then again, you didn’t congratulate him for finishing second. You also didn’t have the strength to worry about him finishing second.

Because it wasn’t fair.

And because you really couldn’t understand.

Not anymore.

It hurt, and you still didn’t even know where it was coming from.

You didn’t see it coming.

Because things had changed after Bahrain, yes. But had they really changed that much? To the point of him going radio silent for two, three, four, five days? A week? To the point of him changing flights and not coming back home? To the point of him running away from you?

Was it really supposed to be like this?

Wondering when he would be coming back?

If he would come back?

Once again, you cried yourself to sleep.

You screamed at your pillow.

You stared at his social media way longer than you should’ve.

And then, you saw it.

The story on his sister’s close friends. A picture of him sitting on the floor with his niece, apparently hanging out at his brother’s house.

It was the last drop of water before emotions fully flooded inside you.

Before you finally understood you had to do something about it. You had to say something. You had to speak up. You had to be strong, determined, and firm. And you had to let him know you couldn’t do this anymore, because you truly couldn’t. Not like this.

And so, you texted him.

One last time.

One last try.

When you put your phone away, your brain and your heart battled against each other. Part of you wanted to run away and never look back, part of you wanted to wait to see what would happen next. You knew people would tell you to gather your things and get out of his place. You knew people would tell you he didn’t deserve a second chance. You knew people would tell you the mere idea of forgiving him was ridiculous.

But these people didn’t know him like you did. These people didn’t live the relationship like you did. They didn’t understand long commitment came with patience, and listening, and growing. They spoke with the mind, they told you what they read about, they shared what perfection was supposed to be like. But they didn’t stop to hear your side. Or any side. They didn’t stop to analyse the many times you had messed up. The many times Lando hadn’t judged. The many times Lando had been there for you. They didn’t stop to see it from your point-of-view. From your perspective. The perspective of someone who couldn’t let go of him just like that. Not without hearing him first. Not without trying to understand him first.

That is…

If he wanted to be understood.

If he wanted to be forgiven.

If he wanted to be heard.

And when you thought about it, you weren’t so sure he did.

Especially as time went by, and by.

And he didn’t text.

He didn’t call.

Even though he read.

Even though he knew.

Eventually, crying and wondering consumed you.

Wearing the same old McLaren hoodie of his, curled up on the couch, staring at the window. With a long-forgotten cup of tea sitting on the coffee table, a random TV show running non-stop on the opposite wall. Volume so low you couldn’t even make up their words.

You fell asleep.

Somehow, at some point.

And then, you heard it. The soft clicking of keys hitting the bowl by the door.

You jumped slightly and blinked a couple times, neck hurting from the awkward position you’ve been in. In the darkness of the living room, with nothing but the telly still on, you felt the tension in the air before you looked to your side and over your shoulder. Before you found him. Lando. Standing across from you, outlined by nothing but the restless flashes of whatever episode Netflix had made it through.

You froze, then. Felt the air get stuck in your lungs. Felt his own pain. His own fear. His own nervousness. Staring all right back at you.

“I got your texts,” he said. Or murmured. Voice low and tired.

You blinked, unwillingly ignoring his words as you took his presence in. Noticing how the flickering screen casted shadows that carved deep lines under his eyes, exaggerating the already intense amount of tiredness and sadness he didn’t even try to hide. Noticing how his curls looked messier than usual, how he hadn’t shaved, and how his hoodie and joggers looked all wrinkled, as if he had been wearing them for days.

He didn’t look any better than you. If anything, he looked worse. Focusing on you with his hands stuffed in his pockets, holding himself back as if he wasn’t sure he was allowed to be there in the first place.

“I thought…” he tried, he paused. He breathed in and out, he cleared his throat. “Was afraid I wouldn’t find you here anymore.”

You held your breath at that. Looked away from him, sat straight on the couch, rubbed your eyes. Then answered with the same energy as him. “You could’ve texted back. I would’ve told you.”

From the corner of your eyes, you caught the way he nodded. How he looked away just to take his hand off his pocket and place his phone and car keys next to the bowl. Next to where he had already placed his apartment keys. Like he always did.

“I fucked up,” he said.

Silence settled, and the distant laughter from the audience vibrated from the TV, filling the room.

You snorted, then. You shook your head. You placed your feet on the carpeted floor and stood up from the couch.

“You did way more than that,” you said.

Lando didn’t move, but he glanced at you. Watched you turn on your feet and meet the aching green of his eyes, then cross your arms across your chest and shrug.

“You ignored me. You pushed me out. You woke up one day and decided to lash out on me for whatever frustrations you were feeling on the track. You left me wondering what the hell I could’ve done to you. You made me cry night after night. You made me feel like shit. And for reasons that I have yet to understand.”

He blinked. Then looked down to your feet.

A beat of silence settled between you.

And then another one.

And another one.

“And I’ve been so worried, Lando. So fucking worried. Because I can see that something’s up with you. That you’re being weird because you are going through something. But then I’m just so… Confused. Because why are you punishing me, and only me? Why are you going to your friend’s, taking pictures with fans, smiling at everyone at the paddock, spending time with your family, but ignoring me? Honestly, why only me? What have I done? Why can’t I be the person you run to?”

“I’m… Fuck, I’m sorry.” With a sigh, he closed his eyes and placed the heels of his palms on top of them, growling with frustration. “You’re right, I know you are. I just, I didn’t want you to… Fuck.”

He breathed in, and out. Slowly, heavily. As if trying to calm himself down.

“Not again, not again,” he whispered, right before a light sob punched its way out of his throat. “Fuck.”

You flinched, taking in another chocking sound as he shook his head and failed to contain the tears in his eyes. His body shuddering as he finally exploded. Right in front of you.

In all these months together, you had never seen him fall apart like this. You had seen him get emotional, you had seen cry from so much laughing, you had comforted his sad days. But you had never seen him like this. As if something had fully broken inside him. As if he genuinely felt past way and beyond repair.

Instincts touched your heart. They woke you up. They had you taking a step forward and dropping your arms to your sides, before freezing you on the spot again.

But then he took a step backward and hit his back against the door, dropping down to the floor while sobbing and gasping for air. And that was more than enough to push you forward. To have you sprinting across the living room and kneeling next to him.

“Lan…” you murmured, hands already reaching for him.

“Fuck,” he cried into his hands, shaking his head and pulling his knees to his chest as if he was trying to make himself disappear. “Fuck, f-fuck… Fu-ck…”

You fought his resistance and found the strength inside you to force him into you. To grab his shoulders and pull him firmly enough until he was falling against your chest and crying on you. With you.

“I… I can’t…”

“Shh…” you whispered, kissing the top of his head and then nuzzling your cheek onto his curls. “It’s okay… Just let it out… Just let it all out…”

He sobbed again, but didn’t fight it anymore. He let you hug his shoulders and hold him close to you, and in return you let him pour everything out. Both sitting on the floor, still under the flickering of the TV. Your back half-against the door, half-against the wall. Legs sprawled while he leaned into you. As awkwardly and as uncomfortably as you could possibly be.

The way he cried and gasped for air hit you with a knife in your chest. You remembered his friend’s words, how this wasn’t the first time it happened to him, how in the past it hadn’t been a one-time thing. And the thought of it scared you. It broke your heart. Imagining him going through this all by himself, in his hotel room. Away from home. Away from you.

Eventually, you lost track of time. You could feel the overall tension of your body. The scratchiness of your own throat after you’d stopped holding back your own tears. The heaviness of his body breathing against you. Then, there was silence. His shakiness slowly turned into weakness, his arms found its way around your waist, and his face nuzzled onto your neck. Gently. Carefully. So vulnerable and so shattered that part of you was afraid of what would come next. Of how he would react to it.

Until he sniffed. And you sniffed.

And then he kissed your shoulder, pressed his lips on top of your—his—hoodie, and pulled back. Sniffing a couple more times, sitting upright, trying to gather himself.

“Thank you,” he said, then cleared his throat. Voice raspy, husky.

You didn’t move from against the wall, just sat a little bit straighter and searched for his eyes. And for his hand. Linking your fingers with his and not letting him pull away. Not again.

“Of course,” you whispered, as if any startling noise could scare him away. “Are you okay? I mean… Not okay, but… Y’know… Okayish? Better than a minute ago?”

Lando’s mouth twitched, as if your words amused him.

“I am, yeah. Better than this whole week, actually.”

You nodded. Slowly. Knowing what the next question would be.

“Have this been happening a lot?”

Lando shrugged. He looked down at your linked hands, brushed his thumb on your knuckles, then rubbed the back of his other hand under his nose and sniffed again.

“Not a lot but… I guess so, yeah… I don’t know.”

“Lan… Babe… Why didn’t you—”

“Don’t.” He closed his eyes. “Please. I hate that you saw me like this. This wasn’t… I didn’t want you to see this.”

“Then what am I here for? Hm? If not to be there for you when you need it?”

You squeezed his hand, and he squeezed back, finally glancing back at you.

With red, puffy, exhausted eyes.

Eyes that searched all over your face.

Eyes that seemed to get softer and softer as they examined you.

“God, you’re just so… Fuck,” he sighed. “I’m sorry. For everything. I didn’t want to push you away, I just… I didn’t know how to be around you when I’m like this… I didn’t know how to talk about it… I didn’t want it to happen in front of you… And I just… Fuck I don’t know. I made it all worse. Pushing you away made it even worse. I wanted to talk to you so many times… Wanted to get you on a plane and have you right next to me… And when you stopped texting and I realized what I was doing I panicked even worse… I couldn’t stop it anymore, and I didn’t know how to take it back, and I just… Fuck I don’t know, I don’t know. But I’m sorry babe, I’m really sorry.”

You swallowed the new lump in your throat and nodded, blinking away a few tears, then wiping away the one that found a way to fall down your cheek.

“I know,” you said. “I really wish you had told me, tho. I would’ve jumped on that plane in a heartbeat, and I wouldn’t have judged you. Just like I’m not judging you now.”

Lando nodded, looked down at your still connected hands, shuffled on the carpeted floor. “I wasn’t afraid of how you’d react,” he said. “I know you wouldn’t judge me. I was just… Embarrassed, I guess. I don’t… God this is so hard. I hate that I’m failing like this. And I hate that it’s everywhere. I hate that I fucked things with you, I hate that I let you down. I hate that I’m letting everyone down. I hate that I haven’t been driving like I know I can. I hate that—”

“Hey.” You squeezed his hand and leaned forward, closer to him, noticing the way he was working himself up again. “You didn’t let me down.”

“C’mon.” He scoffed, but still glanced at you. “Of course I did. You were right before, about everything you said. How I treated you the last few weeks.”

“I mean, yeah…” You moved closer, your thighs pressing against his as you sat right by his side. Facing him. “I don’t agree with the way you handled things so far, but you didn’t let me down, Lan. I was just… Worried. Because I could tell you weren’t doing okay, and I wanted to be there for you. That’s all.”

He dropped his shoulders, as if leaning into you, too.

“I wished you were there, too,” he whispered, as if sharing a secret that was only for you to hear. “So many times.”

“Well, I’m here now.” You placed your hand on the back of his neck, the one that wasn’t still attached to his fingers, and watched him close his eyes at your touch. Your mouth curled up. “And I’m not going anywhere. Unless you kick me out, of course.”

He sighed, and even if his eyes were still closed, his lips twitched up. Just like yours. “I could never.”

“Good.”

A moment went by. A moment in which you just sat there on the floor, with the TV flickering around you as you scratched the back of his neck and watched him relax under your touch.

“Should we go to bed now?” you asked. “Put things on pause for a bit, get some sleep, and wait until tomorrow to talk about what’s been going on?”

“Fuck, yes.” He dropped his head back with a sigh, as if that was the best idea he’d ever heard. “Please. I haven’t slept properly for so long.”

You smiled and dropped your hand from his neck. “That’s because I wasn’t in bed with you.”

“Oh, I have no doubts of that.” He chuckled and stood up from the floor, then helped you out to do the same. “You actually have no idea how badly I want to hold you right now.”

“I think I do, actually.”

Standing across from each other, you and Lando shared a look, a knowing one. And then you tilted your head towards the bedroom, murmured a c’mon, and moved around him to turn off the TV. Sticking to your words and putting everything on pause. Cursing and chuckling when you realized it was suddenly too dark to see where you were going, then thanking him when he walked ahead and turned on the lights down the hallway.

It felt easy, to find your way back to him. It felt natural. The routine. The little details. As if despite everything, nothing had changed. Not really. You still walked into the bathroom together, then brushed your teeth with the door open. Then, when you walked to the closet and changed into a clean, old t-shirt, Lando stayed behind for a quick shower. Like he always did after a flight. You got into bed first, scrolled down your phone just for a bit, then snuggled under the covers. Facing the wall, the windows, like you always did. Allowing the streetlights and the brightness from the bathroom to be the only things illuminating the room.

A few minutes later, you heard the water from the shower slow down to an end. You heard him move around. You heard him turn off the lights, then step outside and drag his feet to bed. Finally joining you in. Wearing nothing but boxer briefs, smelling like soap, deodorant and shampoo. Wriggling his body closer to yours.

“Fuck this feels good,” he murmured. Breathed out. As if all the tension had finally, finally, left his body.

You smiled. Absorbed the darkness of the night. Felt his hand land timidly on your waist while the warmth from his body made its way to yours.

“Um… It this… I mean…” He cleared his throat. “Can I?”

You frowned at the windows. “Can you what?”

“Y’know…” he trailed off, then tapped his fingers on your side.

“Seriously? Are you asking permission to touch me?”

“I mean, yeah…” He chuckled, a little bit shy. “I’m trying to be respectful. After what happened, I just… I don’t know. Don’t want to assume.”

You rolled your eyes, but let your lips curve into a smile anyway. And then you grabbed his hand and pulled it forward, bringing his arm around you as you kissed his fingers and then pressed them against your chest.

“Don’t you dare stop touching me.”

He sighed, loudly, another chuckle of relief shaking off his chest. Pressing his chest to your back and sneaking his other arm under your neck. Fully spooning you. Tangling legs with you. Kissing the back of your shoulder once, and then twice.

You closed your eyes, but you could tell how much was still happening inside him. How many conflicted emotions were still battling for attention. How much apprehension kept holding back his actions. And you knew you couldn’t change that in one night. You knew half-conversation wouldn’t suddenly fix whatever had cracked between you in the last fifteen days. But you also knew you were ready to stay anyway. You were ready to listen. You were ready to understand. Or at least try. Because that’s what you always did. Because that’s the kind of person you were.

And then Lando sighed. Just barely. Half-held in his throat. His knee brushed the back of yours. Then pulled away, then touched again. His fingertips moved around your hand, his arm against your chest loosened, then tightened, then stilled again. His other arm, under your neck, twitched. You kept your eyes shut, pretending you weren’t noticing, but keeping track of his tiny movements. How his nose brushed your hair once, then again, like he was turning his face. Finding a spot. How his breath tiredly hit the back of your neck, how his foot tickled yours.

And that’s when you finally whispered, “You’re tossing.”

“Sorry.”

Silence.

Except for his breathing, never settling into a slow rhythm. Never slowing down.

You blinked your eyes open and rolled over, shuffling on the mattress until you were lying face to face and both of your hands were resting on his chest.

He adjusted instantly, eyes meeting yours in the darkness, hand now on your back and sneaking underneath your t-shirt.

“What’s going on?” you asked.

“Nothing,” he murmured, his breath hitting your chin.

You leaned in just enough to press your forehead against his. Voice lowering to a delicate whisper when you spoke again. “Liar. What’s on your mind? Tell me.”

“You don’t want to know.”

“Oh, I do. I definitely do.”

He smiled. Tip of his nose gently brushing yours.

“I missed you,” he said.

And that got a smile out of you, too.

“I missed you too. But am I supposed to believe that’s what’s keeping you awake?”

“I mean…” Lando chuckled, then shrugged.

Through blurry sight, you watched his eyes shift the attention to your mouth, then the way he parted his lips and slid his tongue between them, getting them wet. Those puffy, sweet, tender lips you had missed so much.

Your belly fluttered. Your heartbeat expanded all through your chest.

Taking a deep breath, you moved one hand to his neck, spreading your fingers open until your thumb was running across his mouth.

Lando closed his eyes and pursed his lips, laying one gentle kiss. And then another one. As if he was getting your fingerprint.

You knew where you were getting to. You knew what your next move would be. And yet you didn’t rush it. It was only when Lando pressed his hand on your back and pulled you the tiniest bit closer that you finally caved in. That you moved your hand to his cheek and finally kissed him.

It wasn’t hurried. Not at first, at least. Not while you both curled around each other with tenderness and carefulness. Him enveloping your bottom lip, while you took care of his upper one. And then switching so you could both get a taste of all of it.

Lando sighed, as if the last piece of the puzzle had been placed, and you felt yourself smiling at him. So you pulled away, just enough to take a breath and drag your tongue on your own lips, as if savouring him. Or maybe just getting you wet and ready for more. And that seemed to be enough to shift something inside him, because he launched himself forward and covered your mouth with hunger. Taking control over the kiss and demanding a more urgent pace.

It was your turn to sigh. Hand moving to the back of his head and leg hopping around his hips. Mouth parting wider to let his tongue slip in and search for yours.

Lando pushed you onto your back, pressing half of his body on top of yours while one arm remained under your neck and the other wandered down your side.

“Bloody fuck I missed you,” he murmured, kissing you deeper. Louder.

You whined just softly enough for him to hear you, both arms wrapping around his neck, then both hands threading through his still wet hair.

Lando pulled back, then. Panting. Moving his lips down to your jaw, then to your neck. Palm digging onto your flesh as he moved to your belly, then up your chest.

“I love you,” he said. “So much.”

You closed your eyes to the ceiling and smiled, fingers still brushing and still stroking the back of his head.

When he moved back to your face, he pecked your mouth one, two, three times. Then rested his forehead on yours, catching his breath.

“Yep. Now I’m good to sleep,” he murmured.

And at that, you cackled. Genuine laughter floating up your chest and getting through your mouth louder than you intended it to be.

“You’re such an idiot,” you laughed.

And he smiled. Watched you with nothing but fondness and admiration in the green of his eyes.

“I am, yeah.” He moved his hand back to your waist, gave it a light squeeze, and quickly pecked your lips. “And I’m sorry. For everything. I don’t want to lose you. You make everything better. You make me better. And I just... God, I really fucking love you.”

That softened the smile on your face. Teasing and playfulness fading into seriousness and attention.

“I thought I’d stay at my brother’s until I had... Things…Under control... But then I...” He closed his eyes, shook his head. “I was so bloody stupid for thinking I’d be able to get through this without by my side. Without letting you know what was going on. Because then I’d spiral even more… When I couldn’t call you… When I couldn’t talk to you… And then I read your texts... And you asked if I was trying to break up with you...”

He laughed, but there was no humour in it.

“Never panicked more.”

You pressed your lips together. Let a sigh out of your nose and tilted your head.

“I would apologize for it, but… If that’s what it took for you to come back to me, then I’m not sorry for anything I said.”

He nodded, rolled back on his side and pulled you along with him.

“I know. You shouldn’t be. No matter what I was going through, it wasn’t fair to you.”

“Glad we agree on that.”

Lando smiled, and you smiled, too.

“We do have to talk about what happened,” you added, “but you’re not losing me. You just gotta let me in. Believe me when I say I love you too, every side of you. Even the chaotic, anxious one.”

“Even the loser one?”

“You’re not a loser.”

“Still...” He pulled back an inch and swallowed, searching for your eyes in the comfort of your own dark room. “Will you love me, even if I lose?”

“Babe, I’ll love you even if you decide to leave Formula 1 and run a farm in the mountains.”

Lando smiled. And then he chuckled.

“Yeah, I’m not doing that,” he said, leaning back in and encouraging you to roll over until you were facing the windows once again. “Not now, at least.”

He spooned you from behind, just like he always did.

And then he spoke again, just a quiet murmur by your ear.

“Maybe in the future… When we have kids.”

“Kids?” you gasped with amusement, your voice an octave louder than before.

“Yeah. Kids. Family. The whole thing.”

“You’re thinking about having kids?!”

“Not right now, but... Yeah. In the future. Is that ok?”

You bit your lip, staring through the window as you pictured Lando as a dad. As your husband. As your forever partner in life.

And then, you nodded.

“It is, yeah,” you whispered. “In the paddock… In the mountains… Wherever you want. I’d love to grow old with you.”

He hummed and snuggled into you. And you closed your eyes, relief and happiness finding its way back to you. Like it always did when you were next to him.

“Good night, babe,” he said. “I love you.”

Exhaustion, warmth and comfort pulled you into unconsciousness, but not before you could whisper one more time, “I love you, Lan.”

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#lando norris x reader #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #f1 fic #lando norris fanfic #lando norris imagine #lando norris x you #lando norris angst #lando norris fic

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