Chapter Text
Lando is moving on autopilot, going through the motions of his day. He silences his alarm, shuffles his feet to the bathroom, washes up, throws on the first hoodie he digs out of his closet, trudges to the kitchen, and sets out to prepare his coffee.
There's more than enough water in the kettle for him to make his coffee. There are two mugs set up on the counter. The door opposite Lando's bedroom remains shut.
There's no one to sleepily mumble “good morning”, or someone for Lando to poke fun at for his terrible bedhead, or someone to earnestly thank Lando for the coffee as if Lando had just bestowed the world's greatest gift upon him.
The second mug of coffee remains untouched, because Oscar is dead.
Lando sinks to the floor, back sliding against the cabinets, and tries not to have a breakdown about it. Like he'd just done yesterday. And the day before. And the night before that too. All the ache and the yearning, it's all too unbearable. The unshed tears in his eyes burn, the tremble in his hands violent.
He misses Oscar, so bad. He hasn't gone out in the days since Oscar's passing, ignoring his pending work projects, barely acknowledging his phone. He's amassed a shit ton of emails and texts and missed calls.
Lando doesn't know what he's still living for, when the man who completed his whole life isn't by his side anymore.
He hears it then. In a voice just barely above a whisper, immediately sending goosebumps erupting on Lando's skin-
Lando.
Fuck, is he actually hearing things? Has all the mourning gone to his head, he's becoming schi- skiz- something- frenic.
He can't figure out the word, and Oscar isn't even fucking here to help him.
“Fuck you, Oscar,” Lando mutters into the space of his palms, fingers pressing into his orbital bone.
And then-
That’s rude, mate. Is that how you welcome me back?
Lando startles, hard enough he bangs his head into the wood with a dull thunk. Hearing his name getting called is one thing, but there’s also something to be said about hearing a full actual sentence from the voice. The voice is louder now, and clearer too.
It's also unmistakably Oscar's.
It almost sounds like it's coming from right over the counter, where Oscar would usually be hovering every single morning, reverently sipping on his coffee while his body and brain boots up for the day. It’s so much like Lando’s gone back in time a whole month to when Oscar was still alive, as if nothing at all had changed, as if Oscar hadn’t been hit and killed upon impact by that drunk driver.
It’s so impossible. So impossible for time to have turned back, or for Oscar to have come back to life, or for his ghost to haunt his own apartment. But Lando is also pitiful and broken, he can’t help but hope as he rises to his feet.
And he sees-
Lando has officially gone mad.
-
They had met back in university. It was a Calculus I class, because apparently graphic designers needed to learn math. Lando hadn't understood it then, and he still doesn't now.
Lando had tumbled in through the doors twenty minutes late for the very first class, curls a windswept mess and greasy from the drizzle, panting from running up the flight of stairs and dodging milling students, because his last class had ended late. His last class had been in the Design and Media building, which was a good 30-minute walk away. He couldn’t be blamed for his shitty first year schedule, he would never subject such a torturous schedule upon himself voluntarily.
Smiling serenely, the professor had greeted him, something caustic in her tone when she called his name, and directed him to a seat.
Right in front of her desk.
Thinking of her face still gives Lando nightmares until today.
Obviously, no one in the right mind would pick a front row seat, save for the nerds and try-hards. Lando was definitely neither of those, and he wasn't particularly fond of canoodling up to them. Fortunately, the whole row of them seemed more than happy to steer clear of him - him and his baby blue hoodie with his Palm Angels scarf that he’d been gifted for his birthday wrapped around his neck. These maths nerds probably had never even heard of that brand.
But that also meant floundering as the professor droned, with no clue as to which part of the introduction she was on and with no one to guide him along. He remained lost as she went on about numbers and assignments and pages 4 to 6.
What the fuck page, where could he even find this fucking page.
He felt a light tap as someone poked at the back of his seat, nail clacking against the wood, and then in a low voice, “It's in the PDF file, the course outline.”
Lando shot the man behind him a grateful smile and whispered “thanks”, turned back to his laptop, and then did a double take, because fuck, the guy was cute. The guy was still looking at him, amused smile playing on his lips.
“Hi,” Lando breathed dumbly.
“Hey yourself,” he replied leisurely.
Lando shifted in his seat to properly turn to face him. “I'm Lando. Graphic design. I don't know what the fuck I'm doing here actually.”
The man laughed, a light and breathy sound that sent flutters in Lando's heart.
“I'm Oscar. Engineering. I reckon I should know what I'm doing here - math seems pretty important for us.” A lazy shrug.
And then it was Lando's turn to laugh. He muffled his laughter into the fabric of his scarf as he ducked under his table. He could hear a soft snicker from behind him.
When Lando resurfaced, face red from the exertion of suppressing his loud laughter, he asked, “Hey, do you have a roommate yet?”
-
Lando knew better than to mix feelings with his living arrangement.
Which meant that he and Oscar could only remain friends. Totally platonic. Which was fine. Oscar was a great roommate. He wasn't the absolute tidiest, but he kept his mess to his own side of the room, and he smelled nice. Not in, like, a creepy way. Lando’s never gone to sniff his pillows. Or something. He just appreciated a man with good hygiene, that was all.
He was also a great friend, someone who willingly put up with all of Lando’s loudness and whininess and occasional grouchiness, and complimented it with his infinite patience and calmness. He was someone Lando could talk to for hours without getting tired, someone to laze around watching TV and playing video games with, sometimes falling asleep on the sofa curled up together and waking up the next morning with the worst cricks in their necks but having a sleep-rumpled Oscar in his arms making it all worth it, and someone who would go along with Lando’s whims whenever he was feeling antsy and restless by bringing him or accompanying him on random drives in the middle of the night.
Lando also learnt that he was smart as fuck, and was on a scholarship. The fortunate thing about being roommates and best friends with this guy meant that he had easy access to his own private tutor.
But that's where the issue came in.
Oscar was always so patient and willing to answer all of Lando's inane questions, no matter how stupid and thoughtless they were, gently tutoring him even when the professor was convinced Lando was nothing but a nuisance in her classes. And something about the close proximities with the other man, the distance between their bodies small enough for the scent of his shampoo to tickle Lando's nose, and seeing the soft swoop of his brown hair falling endearingly over his forehead as they poured over their scattered papers and laptops, sent Lando's heart into overdrive, feelings gone rogue no matter how much he knew it was a bad idea.
It didn't help that Oscar remained very much single throughout their whole university life (Lando did too, but that's because his heart was already taken), which meant that they had nowhere they needed to be after they graduated. And naturally, they ended up moving into a two-bedroom quaint little apartment together, conveniently close enough to the city where Oscar did his horrible 9-to-6 desk job with a magnificent pay, and where Lando regularly went down to when meeting his clients, but also far away enough that they had enough privacy away from the bustle of people. This apartment, fit for just for the two of them, had become what Lando considered home. Or at least it was his home, up until the accident.
But it’s that very same home that may or may not be haunted right now.
Haunted by Oscar's ghost.
Because that’s the only explanation as to why he can see Oscar in the flesh, standing there with that unmistakable swish of his hair, and the warm brown eyes that Lando had grown to love, thin lips quirked up in that familiar half-smile of his, and dressed in one of his many identical plain white t-shirts that Lando has given him plenty of grief over.