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Lando wakes up to the sound of his phone going off and vibrating violently against the wooden surface of the nightstand. It vibrates itself off the bedside table and lands with a dull, traitorous thud on the carpeted floor.
He groans into the pillow, then freezes.
This is not his pillow. It smells faintly like eucalyptus and expensive detergent. The sheets are smoother, tucked tighter. The ceiling above him is unfamiliar too—too high, too white, with a hairline crack that resembles Italy if you squint.
He blinks. Once. Then twice, trying to blink himself into consciousness.
“Oh no,” he murmurs.
Beside him, Oscar shifts. There’s a quiet sound—half sigh, half hum—as he rolls onto his back, one arm flung dramatically over his eyes like a man in a painting titled The Consequences of My Own Decisions. His hair is a mess, dirty blond locks doing whatever they want, and Lando has the extremely inconvenient thought that he looks unfairly peaceful for someone who is very much part of the problem.
Friends with benefits, they’d said. It’ll be easy, there’d be no feelings and therefore no complications. Late night texts that started as jokes, the bottle of wine that became two, the way “just crash here” had turned into here, the way lines blurred simply because neither of them had tried very hard to see them.
Lando drags a hand down his face, memories assembling themselves with cruel clarity. It’s been a year since they’d started this arrangement, and somehow, they’re still here.
His phone buzzes again from the floor. Oscar groans louder this time.
“Who’s dying,” Oscar mumbles.
“Worse,” Lando says. “George.”
That gets a reaction. Oscar peeks out from under his arm, eyes bleary but alert in the way of someone whose body is still asleep but whose social anxiety has already clocked in for the day.
“What time is it?”
“Too late.”
Oscar fumbles for his own phone, knocking Lando’s knee in the process. They both hiss, then freeze again, bodies suddenly aware of how close they are—bare shoulders brushing, legs tangled in a way that is intimate but also deeply impractical.
Oscar squints at his screen, “Brunch was eleven.”
Lando checks his, “It’s eleven forty-three.”
They stare at each other.
“Okay,” Oscar says, sitting up too fast and immediately regretting it. He sways slightly. “Okay. That’s fine. We can fix this.”
Lando snorts. “Name one time you’ve fixed something by panicking.”
Oscar opens his mouth, closes it. “That’s not relevant.”
He swings his legs out of bed and stands, entirely unbothered by his lack of clothing. Lando turns his head on instinct, then glares at the wall like it personally betrayed him.
“Why are you just—walking around?” Lando demands.
Oscar looks down at himself, then back up, eyebrow raised. “We’ve crossed several lines already, mate. Modesty seems like a weird hill to die on.”
“Put on pants,” Lando says. “For the love of God, put on pants.”
Oscar grins, which is unfair and should be illegal this early in the morning. He grabs a pair of sweatpants from the floor and pulls them on, then runs a hand through his hair in an attempt to tame it.
“Okay,” he says again, pacing. “Excuse. We need an excuse.”
“We could say the trains were delayed,” Lando offers, sitting up now, sheets pooling around his waist. “That could work.”
Oscar shakes his head, trying to ignore the plethora of purples blooming on Lando’s tan skin just below his collarbones, low enough to be hidden under a shirt. “George tracks public transport like a hobby. He’ll fact-check us.”
“Right. Of course he will.”
“What about traffic?”
“It’s Sunday.”
Oscar winces. “True.”
They stare at each other as the weight of the situation settles between them like a third person. They think about the friends they’re about to meet, the questions that will be asked, the looks that will linger just a second too long. It’s not that anyone would be angry. It’s worse than that. Because they’d be amused, then suspicious. And then they’d tease.
And teasing leads to noticing.
Lando scrubs his face again, “We shouldn’t arrive together.”
“Bit late for that, don’t you think?” Oscar laughs, sharp and humorless.
“No, I mean—one of us could go first. The other comes in like five minutes later.”
“And when they ask why we’re both late?”
“Coincidence.”
They move in a frantic, awkward dance—Lando pulling on yesterday’s clothes, Oscar brushing his teeth while attempting to answer Logan’s increasingly aggressive texts. At the door, Oscar hesitates, “Hey,” he says.
Lando looks up from tying his shoes, “What?”
“This—” Oscar gestures vaguely between them, “We’re still… yeah?”
Lando speaks, breathless, “Yeah. Of course.”
Oscar nods, relief flickering across his face before he schools it into something lighter. “Cool. Just checking.”
The brunch place is already loud when they arrive. Among the clatter of plates and utensils, they could hear their friends’ laughter cutting through everything like a bell. Lando spots them immediately. George and Alex pressed shoulder to shoulder on one side of the table, Max and Charles in a heated debate over something that looks suspiciously like syrup ratios, Carlos gesturing dramatically, Logan leaning back with his arms crossed, phone face-down in front of him.
Logan looks up first. His eyebrows shoot up.
“Well,” he says, drawing the word out. “This is new.”
Every head turns.
Lando feels the heat rise to his face. Oscar steps forward smoothly, like he’s done this a hundred times.
“Morning,” Oscar says. “Sorry we’re late.”
George flashes them a teasing grin, “Together?”
“Coincidence,” Lando and Oscar say at the same time.
“Sure.” Alex narrows his eyes at them.
They slide into empty chairs, unfortunately next to each other, because the universe is a comedian with a cruel streak. Lando avoids George’s eyes. Oscar decidedly does not look at Logan’s way.
“What happened?” Carlos asks, “You two look like you ran a marathon.”
“Bad sleep,” Lando says quickly. “Too much wine,” Oscar adds.
“At eleven in the morning?” Max squints at them. “Since when do you drink together?” Charles tilts his head in question.
Lando kicks Oscar under the table. Hard.
Oscar jolts. “Ow. Since—uh—last night. Group thing.”
“What group?” Logan asks, tone casual but eyes sharp. “You know. People.” He settles with a shrug. George huffs out a laugh, “Ah yes. People. My favorite group.”
The table falls into chatter and the moment passes. Lando exhales slowly, reaches for his water, and accidentally brushes Oscar’s hand.
They both freeze.
It’s nothing. A fingertip lightly grazing a knuckle. Still, it sends a jolt through him. He’s reminded of the morning, of the secret humming under his skin.
Oscar pulls his hand back first, fingers curling into his lap.
George leans over. “You okay, mate?”
“Yeah,” Lando says. “Just tired.”
George nods, satisfied, and launches into a story about something Alex did last week that involves a scooter and poor judgment. Lando laughs when he’s supposed to, Oscar adds comments at the right moments; They play their parts.
But every so often, their knees brush under the table, and neither of them moves away.
If anyone notices, no one says anything.
By the time the plates are cleared from their table and the coffee has gone lukewarm, Lando feels like he’s run another marathon but this one is entirely internal. His cheeks ache from all the smiling he’s forcing himself to do, his laugh arrives a second too late, and every move he makes feels monitored, even though rationally he knows no one is actually watching that closely.
Except maybe Logan.
Logan has gone quiet, which is worse than him being annoying. Quiet Logan is Observant Logan, and Observant Logan is the kind of person who remembers what brand of cereal you like and then casually brings it up six months later like he didn’t store it away for future use.
Lando eyes Oscar and sees that he’s slipped into something breezy. He’s leaning back in his chair, ankle hooked over his knee, playing with his napkin like he doesn’t have a care in the world. It’s the version of Oscar everyone knows. Charming, slightly detached, allergic to emotional seriousness. Lando hates how convincing it is.
“So,” Max says, tapping his fork against his plate. “Since we’re all here,”
That sentence alone is enough to make Lando tense.
“We should talk about the summer trip.”
Carlos perks up immediately, “Yes. Finally.”
“Great. Let’s talk about that.” George stretches his arms over his head.
Oscar blinks. “What summer trip?” Logan looks at him like he’s personally offended, “Dude? The one we’ve been talking about for two months.”
“Right. That one.” Oscar mumbles, shifting in his seat.
“I’m thinking Italy,” Max starts. Alex interjects, “But we went there for summer last year.”
“Then maybe Spain. Somewhere warm. Somewhere Charles can complain about the heat dramatically.” Charles makes an affronted sound, “I don’t complain,” he defends himself, “I suffer artistically.”
“You whine.” Carlos tips his head at him, raising a brow. “Semantics.” Charles waves him off.
Lando nods along, trying to look engaged while his brain latches onto one word like a warning siren. Italy. Memories of shared rooms, late nights, alcohol, and beaches suddenly flood his head. Oscar catches his eye for half a second, and Lando knows he’s thinking the same thing.
“Spain is good. Budget-wise,” George continues, “We’ll probably need to share rooms again.”
“Obviously,” Alex says. “We’re not made of money.”
“We should decide pairings early so no one complains later.” Logan speaks, glancing over to Charles.
“Why are you looking at me?” Charles frowns.
“Because you complain later,” Max replies calmly.
The conversation devolves into overlapping arguments, names being thrown around. Lando shrinks back in his chair, hoping to become invisible.
“And you,” George says suddenly, pointing at Lando. “You’ll room with me and Alex. Same as always.”
Relief floods him so fast he almost laughs. “Perfect,” he says. “Love that.”
Oscar feels it too, Lando knows, because Oscar relaxes just a fraction.
“And I’ll room with Logan,” Oscar says quickly, like he’s staking a claim. Logan raises an eyebrow. “You sure? You snore.”
“I do not.”
“You absolutely do.”
“This is libelous, I could sue you for that.”
Charles gives Oscar a look, “I thought you usually roomed with Max.” Max just shrugs, “I don’t mind switching.”
Oscar smiles, sinking in his seat again. “See? Solved.”
Lando takes a sip of water to hide his expression. He tells himself this is fine. This is good. They’ll be in separate rooms, there’ll be distance and boundaries between them.
But the universe, of course, hates him.
“Actually,” Alex says, scrolling through his phone. “That might not work.”
Everyone turns to him.
“The place George sent only has one triple and two doubles,” he continues, “Someone has to sleep on a couch—”
“I’m not sleeping on a couch,” Carlos says immediately.
“—we’ll need to rearrange,” Charles finishes.
Silence.
George frowns. “Okay. So one triple is me, Alex, and Lando. That’s locked.”
“Yes, locked, exactly.” Lando says, again too quickly.
“That leaves two doubles for five people,” Charles says thoughtfully. “Oscar, Logan, Carlos, Max, and me.”
Max grimaces, “I’m not sleeping on a couch.” Carlos hums, “The floor then?”
“I’m not sleeping on the floor.” Max says finality. Logan leans back, “Charles and Carlos can room, and I can room with Max.”
“What about me?” Oscar sputters, “You,” Logan turns to him with a wink, “You still owe me for ditching me in Italy last year. So you’re stuck with me. We can share the bed, babe.”
Lando feels something sharp twist in his chest. He doesn’t like it. He doesn’t have a right to not like it.
Oscar glances—quick, almost imperceptible—at Lando.
“Alright then.” He says, and then adds, “If I kick you in my sleep, that’s on you.”
Lando focuses very hard on the condensation on his glass.
The trip planning continues, mercifully moving on to flights and food and the merits of sightseeing versus sleeping in. By the time they leave the restaurant, Lando feels wrung out.
They spill onto the sidewalk in a loose cluster, the sun brighter than it has any right to be. George claps his hands together, “Alright,” he says. “Who’s doing what today?”
“I’ve got chores to do,” Alex says.
“Same,” George replies.
“Gym,” Max shrugs.
“Nap,” Carlos declares.
Logan stretches and cracks his back, “I was going to drag Oscar out to help me shop.” Oscar groans, “I hate shopping.”
“You love shopping,” Logan says. “You just pretend not to.”
Lando hesitates, then speaks before he can overthink it, “I was just going to head home.”
Oscar looks at him, “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Lando says with a shrug. “Early night.”
Logan looks at Lando incredulously, “You? Early night?” Lando forces a laugh, “I’m growing.”
Oscar watches him for a beat too long.
They part ways, hugs and fist bumps and casual goodbyes. Lando walks in the opposite direction, hands shoved deep into his pockets, shoulders tight. He makes it three blocks before his phone buzzes.
Oscar: You okay?
Lando stops walking. Stares at the screen.
Lando: Yeah. Just tired.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Then appear again.
Oscar: Same.
Oscar: Tonight?
Lando exhales.
Lando: Maybe. Let’s see.
He pockets his phone and keeps walking, the city noise filling the space where certainty used to be.
“I’m so sorry,” the receptionist gives them an apologetic look, “There has been a small issue with the reservations.”
They’re standing in the lobby of a hotel in Barcelona, surrounded by suitcases and raised voices. George sighs, “Of course there has.”
She continues, “Our system must’ve made a mistake on your booking and we weren't able to reserve your rooms.” Alex grumbles under his breath, gently knocking his fist against the reception desk in exasperation, “Please tell me you’re going to do something about it.”
“Of course, sir, ” she gulps, “Since the initial rooms you booked are no longer available, we’ve bumped you to a deluxe suite.”
“For all eight of us?” Charles raises a brow at her. She laughs nervously, “Well, uhm, you see—” she pauses to take a breath, “The deluxe suite can only fit about 6 six people, and that’s with the additional mattresses already.”
“There must be another room available. We’re grown men, we can’t possibly cram ourselves into one room.” George pleads with the receptionist.
“I am not sleeping on the floor.” Max crosses his arms over his chest, “No one’s telling you to sleep on the floor, Max.” George shakes his head.
“Give me a moment please,” the receptionist offers a tight-lipped smile before tapping away on her computer. “It seems we do have another room available,” she clears her throat, “But it’s only a single.”
“Great! We’ll take it.” George immediately says just to get this whole ordeal over with, “Someone’s gotta share the single.” He turns to his friends.
Lando feels Oscar go very still beside him.
“Easy. We’ll figure it out.” Alex cackles as he cracks his knuckles. Charles rubs his temples, “Okay. Let’s be rational here. I’m too beautiful to share a single with one of you buffoons.”
Logan looks thoughtful. Then he smiles, a glint of something mischievous appearing briefly in his eyes. “Oh,” he says. “Easy fix.”
Lando’s stomach drops.
“Oscar and Lando can take the single.”
Oscar chokes on air, “What?”
George blinks, and then gestures wildly towards Oscar and Lando who stood frozen in their spots, “These two?”
“Yeah,” Logan nods like it’s his best idea yet. “They’re both chill. Low maintenance.”
“But what about George, Alex, and me! I thought we were locked!” Lando complains. Oscar laughs, a little too loudly, “We don’t even hang out.”
Logan gives his shoulder a pat, “You do now.”
Lando’s heart is trying to beat its way out of his chest. Oscar twists his body to face him completely, his voice is soft when he asks, “Are you okay with that, Lando?”
Every instinct screams no.
“Yeah,” he hears himself say. “It’s fine.”
As they head for the elevators, they fall behind and walk at the back of the group. Oscar leans in close, voice low, “You didn’t have to say yes.”
“I know,” Lando whispers back. “But I did.”
“This is a bad idea.” Oscar exhales through his nose.
“Probably,” Lando agrees.
The room is small. Too small. There’s one narrow bed at the corner of the room pressed against the wall and it looks like it was designed as a suggestion rather than a commitment.
They stand there awkwardly, suitcases between them like a barrier.
“Well,” Oscar says, “This is… familiar.”
Lando laughs despite himself, “Shut up.”
They unpack in silence, moving around each other with practiced ease that they absolutely do not acknowledge. When evening falls and sleep seems to seep into their bones, they turn their backs deliberately, space carved out between them like a truce.
The truce lasts exactly twelve minutes.
By the time morning comes, they’re tangled again, marked and sore all over. Oscar’s arm is slung over Lando’s waist and Lando’s face is pressed into Oscar’s shoulder.
An incessant knocking on the door jolts them awake.
“Rise and shine!” George calls from right outside their room, “Beach in ten!”
Oscar bolts upright, nearly falling off the bed. “Oh my God.” He hisses, trying to gain some balance as he stands up. Lando sits up, heart racing, “Get dressed, Osc.” Oscar nods, running his fingers through his hair, and then scrambling to put clothes on.
“We’re coming in if you don’t answer,” Alex adds cheerfully.
Oscar and Lando exchange a look—wide-eyed, panicked, ridiculous. Oscar runs to the door to crack it open, “We’re up!”
Logan peers past him, “Why were you both in the same bed?”
Lando freezes.
But Oscar doesn’t miss a beat, “The extra mattress they provided sucked. I’m not sleeping on medieval torture furniture. And the floor’s too cold anyway.”
Max nods sympathetically, “Valid.”
Oscar closes the door when their friends walk away. He collapses against it, breathless. “That,” Oscar says, “was too close.”
“You were amazing.” Lando laughs, shaky and exhilarated.
Oscar smiles, soft and unguarded. “So were you.”
They hold that look for half a second too long.
Oscar watches from across the table, jaw tight.
They find themselves at a bar in the evening, and they meet a woman named Sofia. She’s objectively attractive, blonde with blue eyes, and she smiles at Lando like he's something she wants.
Every witty statement that comes out of her lips is always met with laughter that Oscar feels stupid about his usually dry humor.
She’s funny and sharp, and so very clearly interested in Lando. She leans close and touches his arm like she’s marking her territory.
“You should ask for her number,” Alex says, nudging Lando.
Lando hesitates.
“Come on, cabrón. She’s cute,” Carlos adds.
Oscar brings his glass to his lips and pauses for a beat before he takes a sip, keeping his eyes trained on Lando.
Sofia tilts her head and bats her lashes, “Are you single?”
The question hangs there.
Lando feels Oscar’s gaze like heat on his skin.
“Yes,” Lando answers.
Oscar’s glass clinks a little too hard against the table.
Later, when Sofia leaves with a promise to text, Oscar doesn’t look at him.
“You okay?” Lando asks softly as they walk back to their hotel.
“I’m fine,” Oscar says.
“You sure?”
Oscar stops walking. He turns to face Lando, “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Lando has no answer that won’t ruin everything, so he settles with saying nothing.
The secret stretches tighter, thinner, held together by jokes and excuses and luck. It can’t last forever. They both know it.
But neither of them says it out loud.
They start doing it by accident.
That is, they start spending time together—just the two of them—under the guise of convenience, of coincidence, of everything except intention.
It begins with a text.
Oscar: You busy tomorrow?
Lando stares at the message longer than necessary. He’s sitting on the edge of the hotel bed with a towel around his waist, hair and skin still damp from the shower. He can hear George and Alex arguing down the hall about dinner plans, voices muffled but familiar, comforting in their predictability.
Lando: Not really. Why?
Three dots appear almost immediately.
Oscar: The group’s doing something tomorrow. I was thinking of skipping.
Oscar: Want to disappear for a bit?
Disappear, huh? Lando exhales slowly. He types, deletes, types again.
Lando: Yeah. Okay.
There’s no follow-up explanation. No justification. Just a pin dropped on a map ten minutes later, a café tucked into a side street near the old part of the city.
They don’t tell anyone where they’re going.
That’s new.
The café is small and quiet, the kind of place that smells like citrus peel and old books. Oscar is already there when Lando arrives, sitting outside with a coffee and sunglasses perched on the top of his head. He looks relaxed in a way Lando hasn’t seen since their summer trip—no performance, no sharp edges.
“Hey,” Oscar says, smiling like this is normal.
“Hey,” Lando replies, and the word feels heavier than it should.
They effortlessly fall into conversations that spill out into everything and nothing. They’re sitting there, drinking coffee and talking about the street musician down the block, about the way the light hits the buildings here, about a stray cat that keeps circling Oscar’s chair like it’s considering adoption.
It’s easy.
That’s the problem.
They wander after that, letting the afternoon stretch. They duck into a bookstore, fingers brushing as they reach for the same paperback. They share a pastry, tearing it in half without thinking. At one point, Oscar drifts closer as they walk, shoulder bumping Lando’s, and neither of them moves away even if it kept happening for way too many times to be an accident.
No one is watching them here. No one knows them. There’s a freedom in that, a lightness that makes Lando feel almost giddy.
“This feels illegal,” Oscar says, glancing around theatrically.
Lando laughs, “Why?”
“Because we’re not being supervised.”
They end up at the beach without planning to, shoes in their hands, trousers rolled up. The water is too cold for comfort and Oscar yelps when it hits his ankles, grabbing onto Lando’s arm for balance.
“Jesus,” he says. “That’s criminal.”
Lando steadies him without thinking, hand firm at Oscar’s waist. The contact lingers. Oscar looks at him and something unspoken passes between them, electric and dangerous.
They let go. They don’t talk about it.
They sit in the sand as the sun begins to sink, knees drawn up and shoulders touching. Oscar tells him stories about growing up, about moving countries so often that nowhere ever felt permanent. Lando listens, absorbing the cadence of Oscar’s voice and the rare vulnerability threaded through his humor.
They walk back in the dark, hands brushing again and again but never quite holding. When they reach Oscar’s apartment building, they pause outside the entrance.
“I had a good time,” Oscar says.
“Me too.”
There’s a beat, and then two, until the silence stretches out between them and it feels as though neither of them want to say goodbye.
“You can—” Oscar starts, then stops. He clears his throat before continuing, “You can come up. If you want.”
Lando’s heart kicks hard against his ribs.
“I want,” he says.
The door closes behind them quietly, like it’s complicit.
Inside Oscar’s room, the air feels different—charged and expectant. The city noise filters in through the open window. They stand there for a moment, unmoving, as if they’re waiting for instructions that won’t come.
Oscar breaks first, stepping closer, close enough that Lando can feel his warmth radiating off his body, and smell the faint trace of salt and coffee on his skin.
“This okay, baby?” Oscar asks, voice low.
“Yes,” Lando says immediately. “God, yes.”
They kiss—not rushed, not frantic. It’s slow, deliberate, like they’re memorizing each other. Lando’s hands find Oscar’s shoulders, slide down his arms, familiar and new all at once. Oscar’s fingers curl into the fabric of Lando’s shirt, tugging him closer.
They move toward the bed without really deciding to, shedding clothes along the way, laughter bubbling up when Oscar nearly trips over his own shoes.
“Graceful,” Lando murmurs.
“Shut up.” Oscar says, smiling into Lando’s mouth.
The way they move is careful and intentional, like every single movement carried too much meaning that neither of them could verbalize. There’s a tenderness to it that makes Lando’s chest ache, a sense of presence that feels almost sacred.
They take their time, touching and being touched, slowly becoming aware of and learning all the small details that only seemed to be more pronounced in the way Oscar breathes when Lando kisses his neck, or the way Lando’s hand fits perfectly at the small of Oscar’s back.
Later, they lie tangled in the sheets in the darkness of Oscar’s room, bare skin damp and warm against each other. Lando’s head rests on Oscar’s chest, fingers tracing absent patterns there like he’s mapping something important.
“This is dangerous,” Oscar says softly.
Lando laughs, though it comes out a little strained. “Everything we do is dangerous.”
Oscar hums, noncommittal.
They don’t talk about what it means.
They sleep like that, limbs intertwined, the city murmuring outside.
After that, it stops being an accident.
They start finding reasons.
A morning run that turns into breakfast with just the two of them. A late-night walk when everyone else is tired. A museum visit that somehow excludes everyone else’s schedules.
They get good at it—at slipping away, at crafting plausible explanations. “Training.” “Errands.” “Just needed air.”
Their friends don’t question it at first. Why would they? Lando has always orbited George and Alex the same way Oscar has always had Logan. This is just an overlap. Something temporary.
But temporary, unfortunately, stretches. It’s all temporary until it isn’t.
They develop habits. Like Oscar always ordering Lando’s coffee before he even asks, or Lando always handing Oscar his jacket when the temperature drops, without comment. Or the way they sit closer now when they’re with the group, knees brushing and shoulders leaning in unconsciously.
No one says anything.
Sometimes Lando catches George watching them with a frown, like he’s trying to solve a puzzle with a missing piece. Sometimes Logan’s gaze lingers on Oscar, sharp and curious.
At night, when they’re alone again, the tension melts into something softer.
They have sex in the quiet hours, in the half-lit hotel rooms and borrowed apartments, in moments stolen between obligations. It’s never rushed, never purely physical. There’s laughter, whispered jokes, foreheads pressed together. There are mornings where they wake up wrapped around each other and they don’t move for a long time, just breathing and existing in an ecotone.
They cook together once in Oscar’s place with some mellow music playing low. Lando burns the garlic and Oscar laughs so hard he has to sit down.
“You’re banned from the kitchen,” Oscar declares.
“Rude,” Lando says, “I bring value.”
“You bring chaos.”
They eat on the floor with their backs against the couch as they share a bottle of wine. Oscar talks about a potential move, about opportunities that scare him. Lando just listens and occasionally offers quiet reassurance, his hand resting on Oscar’s knee like it belongs there.
Afterward, they don’t immediately end up in bed. They migrate to the couch instead, Oscar’s head resting in Lando’s lap while Lando is absentmindedly running his fingers through Oscar’s hair.
This is what gets them.
Not the sex, though that’s good—dangerously good. It’s the in-between moments, the domesticity of it. The way Oscar reaches for Lando’s hand in his sleep. The way Lando knows, instinctively, when Oscar needs space and when he needs closeness.
They never name it.
Because naming it would change things.
Because naming it would mean asking questions they’re not ready to answer.
They are not exclusive. At least, not officially.
Lando still gets texts from Sofia. He doesn’t respond much, but he doesn’t shut it down either. Oscar goes out sometimes, flirts easily, and collects numbers he never really uses.
Neither of them brings it up.
There is an unspoken agreement to exist in this limbo, this beautiful, precarious middle ground.
Oscar turns to Lando as they lay side by side on the floor one random evening, “You ever think about what happens after this?” He asks.
“After what?”
Oscar gestures vaguely, “All of it.”
Lando stares at the ceiling. “Not really.”
Oscar nods, “Okay.”
Lando turns his head. “That wasn’t an answer.”
Oscar gives him a small, sad smile, “It was enough of one.”
They kiss, slow and lingering, and they let the question dissolve.
The elephant remains in the room—large, quiet, breathing alongside them—but neither of them acknowledges it. They step around it carefully, pretending not to notice the way it reshapes the space, how it dictates where they can stand, how close they can get without brushing against something fragile and unnamed.
They learn its dimensions by instinct alone, memorizing the angles that keep them from colliding with it head-on. Some days it feels manageable, almost benign; other days it looms so close that Lando can feel its warmth against his ribs, that Oscar has to look away to keep himself from saying something irreversible.
Still, they coexist with it. They make room, and make excuses. They convince themselves that as long as they don’t speak its name, it won’t demand one.
An unspoken transformation hangs in the air between them in the wake of that night.
It’s subtle at first, like the way a room feels different after you rearrange the furniture—no single change you can point to, just a sense that the space now wants something else from you. Lando notices it in the way Oscar lingers a beat longer before leaving, in the way he looks almost reluctant to step back into the world where they are not what they very clearly are when no one else is around.
They return to their friends carrying the quiet weight of that knowledge.
George notices first, though he doesn’t know what he’s noticing. He just knows that Lando laughs differently now, softer, like he’s letting the sound exist instead of throwing it out as a shield. Alex clocks that Lando’s attention drifts more often, eyes following Oscar across a room before he seems to realize he’s doing it. Logan notices everything, files it away, and waits.
Oscar, meanwhile, grows careless in small ways. He forgets to keep distance. He leans into Lando without thinking, rests his chin on Lando’s shoulder during late-night conversations, lets his knee press flush against Lando’s thigh under tables crowded with plates and glasses and noise. Every time, Lando would freeze and fluster, becoming acutely aware of how close they are to being seen.
They’re still not exclusive, still pretending that this—whatever this was—is temporary. But the pretending gets harder.
Oscar texts Lando mid-morning.
Oscar: You busy tonight?
Lando considers the question. He has chores to do, has to go to the gym, has dinner plans with George and Alex. He has, theoretically, a life that exists independently of Oscar.
Still, he replies,
Lando: Not really. Why?
There’s a pause, longer than usual, like Oscar is thinking of the right thing to say.
Oscar: I had a rough day.
Oscar: Thought maybe we could hang out?
Hang out. Not code, not flirting, not even pretending this is just sex. Lando feels something warm and dangerous bloom in his chest.
Lando: Yeah, sure. Come over.
Lando: George and Alex are staying over at Charles’ anyway.
Oscar arrives with takeaway and a bottle of wine neither of them needs. They eat on the couch with their legs tangled, television murmuring uselessly in the background. Oscar talks about work, about pressure, about the exhaustion of being ‘on’ all the time. Lando listens, as he always does, with his fingers drawing idle patterns on the warm skin of Oscar’s wrist.
At some point, Oscar goes quiet.
“Do you ever feel like,” he says slowly, “You’re building something without checking if it’s allowed to exist?”
Lando’s hand stills.
“Yeah,” he answers, because it’s the truth.
“I’m sorry.” Oscar mumbles, “For what?” Lando questions as he moves his fingers from Oscar’s wrist to dance on the palm of his hand instead. “I feel like I always come to you to whine.” Oscar laughs humorlessly.
“I don’t mind, baby. I really don’t.”
The sincerity in Lando’s voice makes Oscar turn to look at him. There’s something open there, something raw, like he’s standing on the edge of a sentence he doesn’t know how to finish.
They don’t kiss.
Instead, Oscar leans his head against Lando’s shoulder and closes his eyes. Lando rests his cheek against Oscar’s hair.
They stay like that for a long time until the sun rises and filters through the curtains painting the white walls a gentle honey color.
The problem with secrets is not that they exist. It’s that they grow.
They grow teeth and edges and shadows. They grow until they start shaping your choices and bending your days around them. Lando finds himself making decisions with Oscar in mind; choosing routes, setting schedules, making excuses just to integrate Oscar in his days. Oscar does the same, though he pretends he doesn’t.
Their friends start noticing patterns.
“Since when do you two text so much?” Max asks, squinting at Oscar’s phone when it lights up for the third time in ten minutes and Lando’s name is displayed on the screen.
Oscar locks the screen instantly. “Since when do you monitor my screen time?”
“Since it got weird,” Max says.
“It’s not weird.”
Lando hides his phone under his thigh and looks down at his drink, suddenly very interested in the ice.
George leans back, arms crossed. “Are we missing something?”
“No,” Lando says quickly.
Oscar’s eyes fleets towards him.
Alex raises an eyebrow, “That was fast.”
The moment is soon buried under laughter and shifting topics, but the air feels thinner afterward.
Later that night, as they’re leaving the pub, Lando falls into step beside Oscar. “They’re getting suspicious,” Lando tells him.
“We need to be more careful.” Oscar says.
Lando smiles faintly, “Do we?”
Oscar stops walking. “Lando.”
Lando stops too, turning to face him under a streetlight that paints his features in gold and shadow. “What?” He asks, “We’re not doing anything wrong, baby.”
“We’re doing everything wrong.” Oscar laughs sharply.
Lando watches him with an unreadable expression. He crosses his arms over his chest and tilts his head to the side, “You don’t sound like you want to stop.”
Oscar averts his gaze and swallows thickly.
“No,” he admits quietly. “I don’t.”
Lando nods once, like that settles something. “Okay.”
“So,” Logan says, “You and Oscar.”
He corners Lando a week later. It’s subtle, as all Logan’s moves are. He waits until they’re alone with no chance of interruption. He leans against the counter in Lando’s kitchen with his arms folded and his gaze steady.
Lando’s stomach drops. “What about us?”
Logan shrugs, “You’re different.”
“That’s not a crime.”
“No,” Logan agrees, “But it is an indicator.”
Lando presses his lips into a thin line. Logan studies him for a long moment before he disrupts the silence that has enveloped them both, “I don’t need details, I just need to know if he’s okay. If you’re okay.”
The question catches Lando off guard.
“He is,” Lando says, “I am—we are, because there’s really nothing going on. Swear.”
Logan nods slowly, “Then I’ll mind my business.”
He pauses at the door. “For now.”
When Oscar hears about it later, he laughs it off, but there’s tension under it, a tightness in his shoulders that doesn’t ease even when Lando pulls him close.
“We can’t keep doing this forever,” Oscar whispers, face pressed into Lando’s neck.
“I know.”
“Do you?” Oscar asks.
Lando closes his eyes, “Yeah.”
It’s raining the night everything almost spills out. They’re all gathered at Oscar’s place, crowded onto couches and chairs. There’s wine bottles dotting every available surface, and the rain drums against the windows, loud enough to drown out the city.
Oscar and Lando sit on opposite ends of the room, an intentional choice that feels like penance. They exchange glances when they think no one’s looking.
Max is telling a story, gesturing wildly, “—like come on! If my mom had balls, she would be my dad.”
Laughter ripples through the room.
George wipes at his eyes, “Okay, okay. New rule. Everyone has to confess something.” The room erupts in a chorus of grunts and groans.
“No,” Carlos says immediately. “Yes,” George insists, “It’s raining. We’re trapped. It’s perfect.”
Logan claps his hands, “I like this.”
“Absolutely not,” Oscar says, shaking his head. Logan points at him, “You’re already suspicious.”
Oscar blinks. “Excuse me?”
“You’ve been weird,” Logan says cheerfully, “Both of you have.”
Lando chokes on his drink.
Charles leans forward, “Oh my God. Are you secretly best friends now?” Oscar laughs a little too loud, “No.”
“Then what?” George asks, eyes flicking between them. The room goes quiet in that way that feels expectant.
Lando could feel his heart in his throat. He sees Oscar’s leg bouncing nervously so he chuckles, “You guys are being weird. Logan and Max have been hanging out a lot, that’s suspicious.”
“Oh, yeah! What are you two plotting?”
The tension breaks, conversation picking back up, but the secret feels fragile now, stretched thin by curiosity and proximity.
When the rain finally stops and they start filtering out of Oscar’s apartment, Lando lingers.
“Stay?” Oscar asks, quiet enough for only Lando to hear.
Lando nods discreetly.
They sit on the floor after everyone leaves, resting their backs against the couch as the rain starts to fall again. Oscar fiddles with the label on his bottle.
“That was close,” he says. “Too close,” Lando agrees.
Oscar glances at him, “Are you scared?”
Lando considers it before replying, “Yeah.” Oscar exhales. “Me too.”
They sit with that for a moment.
“I don’t want to lose this,” Oscar says finally.
Lando’s chest tightens at the admission. “Me neither.”
Oscar turns to face him fully, “Then what are we doing?”
Lando meets his gaze and sees everything there—the fear, the hope, the exhaustion of pretending. “I don’t know,” he tells him honestly.
Oscar nods, eyes shining. “Okay.” He leans in, resting his forehead against Lando’s.
“Just don’t disappear on me,” Oscar whispers. Lando closes the distance, kissing him softly, “I won’t.”
Outside, the rain keeps falling, relentless and honest.
Inside, the elephant in the room shifts, closer than ever.
No one is drunk enough to be careless on purpose. They’re all hanging around Oscar’s apartment again and it’s become a place everyone drifts through without knocking anymore. There’s takeout spread across the counter, cartons stacked like an architectural experiment. Someone has put music on, something low and ambient that no one is actually listening to.
Lando arrives late, hair still damp from a shower, apologizing to his friends with a practiced ease that doesn’t touch his eyes. Oscar looks up when he comes in, their gazes catching for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. Not enough to be noticed. Enough to register.
They don’t sit next to each other; they are careful tonight. Deliberately so that the effort of it is almost funny. Oscar takes the armchair while Lando perches on the couch between Max and Carlos, laughing at the right moments and nodding along. George is on the floor with his back against the coffee table, scrolling through something on his phone, occasionally interjecting with a comment sharp enough to draw laughs.
The elephant is there too, of course. It always is. It takes up a little more space than usual, looming just behind Oscar’s shoulder, curling its trunk around Lando’s ankle when he shifts his weight. And like always, they pretend not to feel it.
They make it through the evening without any incident, but the problem is in the quiet that meets them afterward.
People start peeling off in ones and twos. Max leaves first, complaining about an early morning. Carlos follows, dragging Charles with him, mid-argument about something trivial. George and Alex linger on the couch, absorbed in a shared screen and laughing at something private.
Logan looks up from his phone. “I’m going to grab a beer,” he says, pushing himself to his feet. “Anyone else?”
“No,” Oscar says too quickly, then clears his throat. “I mean—no, I’m good.” Logan shrugs and disappears into the kitchen.
George stands, fixing his trousers, “We should go too.” Alex groans and plops down on the spot in the couch where George previously sat, “Five more minutes.”
“Alright. Five.” George sighs.
The five minutes stretch until the sky gets too dark outside. Logan finishes the last of his beer and begins putting on his shoes. George and Alex make their way to the door, looking back to see Lando still standing in the living room.
“Hey, come on. Time to go.” Alex beckons him over, but Lando shakes his head. “You guys go ahead. I’ll help Osc clean up and then I’ll head home.” He tells them, hoping that they don’t read into it. Thankfully, George takes it, “Okay, but we won’t wait up for you. You’ve got your key on you, yeah?”
Logan is the last to leave. He shoots Lando and Oscar a look, but when he’s met with nothing but blank stares, he gives up and leaves. Eventually, the door closes behind him with a definitive click that sounds louder than it should.
Oscar and Lando stand there in the aftermath. The apartment is suddenly too quiet, too intimate. Oscar turns and leans his back against the counter, eyes on Lando like he’s trying to decide something.
“Are you staying the night?” Oscar asks.
Lando nods, “Yeah.”
The word feels like a step forward.
They don’t move right away. It’s almost ceremonial, the pause—giving the universe a chance to intervene, to send Logan back in with a forgotten jacket or an ill-timed question.
It doesn’t.
Oscar crosses the room first, but he doesn’t touch Lando immediately. He just stops close enough that Lando can feel his warmth, “You okay, baby?” He asks in a gentle voice.
Lando smiles. “Are you?”
Oscar huffs a laugh, “That’s not an answer.”
“Neither is that.”
Oscar’s smile softens. He finally reaches out, fingers brushing Lando’s wrist, tentative despite everything they’ve done before. The touch grounds them, snaps the tension into something warmer and heavier.
They kiss.
It’s slower than usual, unhurried. The kind of kiss that isn’t about urgency but about confirmation that yes, you’re still here; yes, this still works. Oscar’s hands settle at Lando’s waist under his shirt, thumbs rubbing small arcs on bare skin like muscle memory. Lando’s fingers slide into Oscar’s hair, tugging gently.
They move without speaking, the path to the bedroom is worn in by repetition they refuse to acknowledge like it’s a path they’ve taken many times.
As soon as the bedroom door clicks shut, shoes are abandoned and shirts follow along the way, leaving a trail of clothing up to the bed. They laugh softly when Oscar fumbles with a button, the sound dissipating into another kiss.
They have sex the way they always seem to do now—unrushed, attentive, a conversation conducted through breath and touch rather than words. There is nothing explicit in it, nothing that feels like it needs to be hidden except the fact of it. It’s the closeness that feels dangerous, the way they fit together as if this is where they’re supposed to be.
When it’s over, they find themselves in a pile of limbs once again with only the spill of city lights through the window illuminating the room. Lando’s head is tucked in the junction where Oscar’s jaw meets his shoulder; Oscar’s arm is draped over Lando’s back, running his fingers down the line of his spine.
For a moment, it feels like peace.
Then there’s a sound.
The doorknob rattling and the footsteps that follow it ring in their ears. They both freeze, looking at each other with wide eyes. Lando’s heart slams into his ribs, loud enough he’s sure it can be heard from the hallway.
“—swear I left it here,” Logan’s voice says, distant but unmistakable.
Oscar’s hand grips Lando’s arm hard enough to leave a mark.
“Fuck,” he breathes.
They could hear his footsteps cross the living room and get closer to the bedroom. Lando’s mind goes blank in that way it only ever does when anxiety takes over. He thinks of nothing and everything at once: the door, the sheets, their clothes on the floor, the fact that there is no explanation that would sound sane.
Oscar slides out from under Lando, the disappointment of having to part overpowered by sheer panic. He gestures frantically—get dressed, get dressed—and Lando obeys, movements jerky, clumsy with adrenaline.
The bedroom door handle rattles.
“Oscar? You in there?” Logan knocks.
Oscar’s breath hitches.
“Yeah?” he calls back, voice pitched just slightly too high. “What’s up? Why are you back?”
“I can’t find my jacket.”
There’s a pause before the handle jiggles again, more insistently the second time. Oscar moves fast, crossing the room with urgency and pressing his palm flat against the door just in case Logan decides to push it open.
“In the—uh—the chair by the door,” Oscar says. “Where you left it.”
Lando holds his breath.
“Oh,” Logan says. “Right.”
His footsteps retreat and there’s a brief sound of fabric shuffling. The front door opens, “Thanks, man! Good night!” Logan calls out from the front door, then it shuts close.
Neither of them move for a long moment after that, both of them still frozen in the aftermath with adrenaline still flooding their systems.
Oscar walks back and sinks down onto the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.
“Jesus,” he mutters.
Lando lets out a shaky laugh that sounds a little hysterical. “That was—”
“Too close,” Oscar finishes. “Fuck, that was too close, Lando.”
Lando could sense him spiraling in his head so he reaches out, gently resting a hand on Oscar’s shoulder, “Hey. Baby, we’re okay—”
Oscar shrugs his hand off, and it stings.
“No,” Oscar says. “We’re not.”
Lando drops his hand.
“What?” He asks, confused. “Oscar, I—”
“That’s exactly the problem,” Oscar says and faces him. His eyes are bright and his expression is tight. “We keep doing this like it’s fine.”
“It is fine,” Lando responds, reflexively.
Oscar laughs, and it’s short and incredulous, “Is it? Because Logan almost walked in on us, Lando.”
“So what?” Lando snaps, his own adrenaline finding somewhere to go. “We handled it.”
“Barely.”
“But we did.”
Oscar stands, pacing, running a hand through his hair and then flailing them around like he doesn’t know what to do with them. “We can’t keep relying on barely.”
Lando pushes himself up too, frustration flaring, “Then what do you want to do? Stop?”
Oscar hesitates, and the pause is answer enough.
“That’s not fair,” Lando wills his voice to remain stable but failing when it wobbles as he speaks, “You don’t get to freak out and then act like I’m the one being unreasonable.”
“I’m not saying you are,” Oscar says. “I’m saying this is getting messy.”
“It’s been messy,” Lando tells him, “You just didn’t mind before.”
Oscar’s jaw tightens. “That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it?”
Silence stretches between them, taut and fragile.
“You knew what this was,” Oscar says finally, “We agreed on no complications.” Lando laughs, hollow, “We stopped following that agreement months ago.”
“That doesn’t mean we renegotiated it,” Oscar retorts.
“No,” Lando counters, his voice rising despite himself. “We just pretended we didn’t need to.”
Oscar looks away.
“That’s not my fault,” he utters.
Lando feels something crack. “It’s not mine either.”
It’s both their fault, and now the bed between has become an obstacle instead of an invitation.
Oscar exhales slowly, like he’s trying to rein himself in. “I can’t do this if it’s going to blow up our friend group. Our friendship.”
“And I can’t do this if I feel like I’m constantly one wrong move away from being a mistake,” Lando fires back.
Oscar’s head snaps up, “I never said you were a mistake, Lando.”
“That’s okay, you didn’t have to.” Lando spits out.
Oscar flinches at the implication.
“That’s not—” he starts, then stops. He closes his eyes. “I need space.”
The phrase lands like a door slamming shut.
“Fine,” Lando says, too quickly. “Take it.”
He grabs his things, movements sharp, angry, hurt. Oscar doesn’t stop him. He doesn’t even follow him out to watch him leave. The front door closes for the nth time that night.
Only this time, it never opens again. At least not for a little while.
The silence between them is palpable. No texts. No check-ins. No accidental brush of fingers. When they’re in the same room, they orbit each other at a careful distance, polite but detached.
To everyone else, it looks normal.
Lando and Oscar were never publicly close. They didn’t have a baseline of affection for people to miss. Their absence from each other’s space registers as nothing more than a return to form.
George doesn’t notice. Alex doesn’t notice. Max and Charles are too busy with his own dramas to care. Carlos wonders if something is off once, squints at them across a table, then decides it’s probably nothing.
Only Logan notices.
He notices because Oscar is quieter, even more so than he already is. Because Lando laughs less. Because there’s a brittle tension in the room when they’re both present that wasn’t there before.
Logan mentions it casually at first.
“Did you and Lando have a fight?” He asks Oscar. Oscar doesn’t look up from his phone when he replies, “No.” Logan raises an eyebrow at this. “You sure?”
“Yes.”
Logan hums, “Because you’re both being weird.”
Oscar finally looks at him, expression cool. “We’re always weird.”
Logan doesn’t buy it.
He tries George next.
“Have you noticed Lando’s off?” Logan asks, leaning against the kitchen counter. George frowns, thinking. “He’s tired.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“He’s always tired.”
Logan sighs.
He brings it up to Alex, to Max, to anyone who will listen. But every time, he’s just waved off.
“It’s all in your head,” Alex chuckles.
“You’re projecting,” Max tells him.
“You’re bored,” Carlos says.
“You’re dramatic,” Charles adds.
Logan grinds his teeth.
Meanwhile, Lando and Oscar perfect the art of not-speaking. They answer questions directed at them with responses that don’t prompt further questioning. They avoid eye contact. They never end up alone together, and when they do, the silence is unbearable.
It’s worse than the secrecy ever was.
At night, Lando lies awake replaying the argument, cataloguing everything he should have said differently. Oscar does the same, staring at his ceiling, phone face-down on his chest like a temptation.
Neither of them reaches out.
Pride and fear form an uneasy alliance as the weeks pass.
Logan watches it all with mounting frustration, convinced something important is happening just out of his reach. He doesn’t know what it is, but he knows it matters.
So when he gets a chance, he corners them both in the same room with his arms crossed.
“Okay,” he says. “I’m not crazy.”
“Yes, you are,” Max says from the couch.
“No,” Logan insists, pointing at Oscar and Lando, “Something is wrong between you two.”
Oscar stiffens. Lando looks away.
“Mate, you’re imagining things.” George laughs.
Logan gestures wildly, “They won’t even look at each other!”
“That’s called being normal,” Alex says dryly
Logan exasperatedly throws his hands in the air, “I swear I’m not—” Oscar interrupts, voice sharp, “Drop it.”
The room goes quiet.
Logan studies him for a long moment, then sighs sharply, “Fine.”
But he doesn’t let it go.
Because even if no one else sees it, Logan knows this much: whatever happened between Lando and Oscar didn’t end when they stopped touching.
It just learned how to hurt in silence.
They still do not speak. Not in the meaningful sense, anyway.
They say “pass the salt” during dinners and “sorry” when they bump shoulders by accident. They exchange pleasantries so neutral they might as well be automated. They nod and acknowledge each other’s presence, but they do not connect.
It’s excruciating.
Lando learns this first in the mornings, when he wakes up reaching for a phone that does not light up with Oscar’s name anymore. He learns it in the evenings too, when something small and stupid happens like George saying something ridiculous or Alex sending him a video that makes him laugh out loud, and his instinct is to share it with Oscar before he remembers he can’t.
Or won’t.
He tells himself it’s the same thing.
Oscar learns it in the spaces between things. In the quiet moments that used to be filled by Lando’s presence; leaning against him, half-listening to music, existing together without needing to perform. Now those moments are empty, and Oscar fills them with noise. With podcasts he doesn’t care about, conversations that go nowhere, and nights out he leaves early.
Neither of them admits what they’re missing.
Not to themselves. Certainly not to each other.
Pride is a stubborn thing. It convinces them both that reaching out would mean losing something essential, that whoever breaks first will be the one who cared more. And caring more, apparently, is unforgivable.
They’re all gathered at Max’s place, sprawled across furniture that was never meant to hold this many people when it first happens. There’s a game on, something competitive enough to keep everyone engaged but not so serious that it requires full attention.
“So,” Max says, tossing a cushion at Lando. “You playing or just emotionally supporting?”
“Well, someone has to.” Lando chuckles.
Oscar snorts without thinking.
Lando glances over, “You got something to say?”
Oscar looks up, eyebrows raised. “Apparently not.”
Logan blinks, trying to make sense of the scene unfolding in front of him. George laughs uncertainly, “Easy.”
“I’m just saying,” Lando continues, tone light but edged, “Some of us are actually contributing.” Oscar smiles, sharp and humorless. “Yeah, I can see that. From all the way over there.”
Carlos’s eyes flick between them and he lets out a low whistle. Alex clears his throat, “Alright, who wants a drink?”
Logan watches them with narrowed eyes.
It doesn’t stop. If anything, it escalates.
They don’t fight openly—nothing dramatic, nothing that would demand intervention—but the comments stack up. Little jabs disguised as jokes, casual dismissals, a tone that says I see you and I am choosing to be unimpressed.
“You’re late,” Oscar says when Lando shows up after everyone else. “Not everyone runs on your schedule, Piastri,” Lando replies.
“Could’ve fooled me.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Logan groans, “Guys.” They stop instantly when they’re called out, not unlike children who got caught misbehaving. Someone changes the subject but the tension always lingers.
George starts noticing Lando’s mood first. He’s quieter and more irritable. He snaps at Alex over nothing, then apologizes too quickly, like he’s afraid of himself.
“Hey, are you okay?” George asks one night, concern creasing his brow.
“Yeah,” Lando says. “Just tired.”
It’s always tired.
They notice it differently on Oscar. He’s sharper now, sarcasm cutting deeper than usual. He deflects more and laughs less. Logan catches him staring off into space more than once, jaw clenched like he’s holding something back.
“You’re being weird,” Logan tells him flatly.
Oscar replies in a tone that’s just as flat, “That’s my brand.”
“No,” Logan tuts. “This is new weird.”
Oscar shrugs, “Maybe I’m evolving.”
Logan rolls his eyes. “Into what, exactly? A cactus?”
Oscar almost smiles.
The snark peaks during a group dinner that was supposed to be relaxed. They’re at a long table with good food spread out in front of them and good conversations floating around. The energy is good, until it isn’t.
Charles is telling a story, animated, hands moving. Oscar interrupts with a comment so dry it makes Max choke on his drink.
Lando laughs before he can stop himself.
Oscar looks at him, surprised.
“Oh,” Oscar says. “So you do have a sense of humor.”
Lando’s smile drops. “I always did.”
“Sure.”
Logan slams his fork down, “Okay, that’s enough.”
Everyone freezes.
“What?” Oscar asks, feigning innocence.
“This,” Logan says, gesturing between them. “Whatever this is. It’s exhausting.”
Carlos frowns, “What are you talking about?” Logan turns to him, exasperated, “You don’t see it?”
“See what?”
“That they’re—” Logan stops, searching for words, “That something is wrong.”
Lando leans back, crossing his arms. “Nothing’s wrong, Logan.” Oscar agrees, “Yeah. You’re reading into it, Logan.”
Logan stares at them both, “You’re both being assholes.”
Alex sighs. “Guys, can we not do this at dinner?”
Logan looks around the table, frustrated, “You don’t think it’s weird?”
George considers it. “They’ve never been that close.”
“Exactly,” Logan says. “And now they’re being this.”
Oscar scoffs. “So what? We don’t get along. Shocking development.” Lando shrugs, “Happens.”
Logan opens his mouth, then closes it. He looks genuinely confused now, doubt creeping in around the edges of his certainty.
“Maybe,” he says slowly, “You both just have… stuff going on.”
Oscar nods eagerly. “Exactly.”
“Unrelated stuff,” Lando adds.
Logan hesitates. “Unrelated.”
“Yes,” they say together.
The synchronicity makes something twist in Logan’s chest. But everyone else nods, satisfied with the explanation. The tension fades away, and is replaced by chatter and clinking glasses. Logan sits back, unsettled.
After that, he tries less.
He still watches, still notices, but the confidence is drained out of him. Every time he starts to bring it up, someone brushes it off, tells him he’s overthinking.
“Not everything is a conspiracy,” Max tells him.
“You’re bored, cabrón,” Carlos adds.
“Maybe you just want drama,” Charles suggests gently.
Logan hates that last one, because it sounds plausible.
He tells himself he imagined the looks, the timing, the way Lando and Oscar seem perpetually out of step with each other now. He tells himself it’s nothing, that he’s projecting patterns onto random behavior.
Eventually, he almost believes it.
Lando is miserable. He throws himself into routines, into effort. He runs longer, spends more time in the gym, exhausts himself until his body has no energy left to miss anyone. It works, sometimes. Other times, it just makes the ache sharper.
He thinks about Oscar constantly.
About the way Oscar used to sit with his legs hooked over Lando’s, about the way his voice softened in the evenings, about the specific weight of him leaning in close. He thinks about the argument too, replays it until the words blur together, until he can’t remember who said what first.
He considers reaching out every night.
He never does.
Oscar’s misery is louder and messier, a total antithesis of who he is as a person. He goes out more, drinks a little too much, laughs a little too hard. He flirts without intention, collects distractions like they’re proof of something, but none of it sticks.
Every joke Lando would’ve laughed at falls flat now. Every silence stretches too long. Oscar drafts messages he never sends. Deletes them, drafts new ones, deletes those too.
You okay?|
This is stupid|
I miss you.|
He never presses send.
The worst part is how natural the absence starts to feel. They learn how to exist without each other again, slotting back into old patterns that now feel ill-fitting. The secret they once shared becomes a ghost that’s present in every room, invisible but heavy.
Their friends adapt without realizing it.
They stop sitting them near each other. Stop expecting banter. Stop noticing the space where something used to be.
Only Logan could perceive the shift, even as he convinces himself it means nothing.
One night, alone in his apartment, he scrolls through old photos on his phone. Group shots, trips, laughing faces. He pauses on one from Barcelona.
Lando and Oscar are in the background, slightly out of focus. Oscar’s arm is around Lando’s shoulders, casual and easy. Lando is leaning in, head tilted toward Oscar, smiling in a way Logan hasn’t seen in weeks.
Logan frowns.
He locks his phone.
“Probably nothing,” he mutters to the empty room.
The snark fades eventually, not because things are better, but because they’re too tired to keep sharpening the knives. They settle into a brittle neutrality.
Polite, distant, and controlled.
It hurts more than the fighting ever did.
Neither of them says it. Neither of them knows how to fix it without risking everything.
And so they don’t.
They let the silence stretch. They let pride win.
And somewhere between the jokes and the missed glances and the almosts, something essential waits—patient, heavy, unnamed—wondering how long it will be ignored before it demands to be seen.
Lando walks the same streets until they wear him down. Each morning he woke with the same ache, a dull bruise beneath the sternum, and the thought of Oscar arrived like the weather. He could forecast the day by it. If he remembered the sound of his laugh before coffee, it would rain. If it was the look he gave him when he finally stopped explaining himself, it would storm.
He had rehearsed apologies in the mirror until his mouth learned the shapes, but courage is not a muscle you can build by flexing alone. Courage required the dangerous act of stepping out of your head.
And Lando lived entirely inside his,
that he doesn’t see the car until it’s too late.
When he wakes up, the world comes back in fragments.
The sounds arrive to him first. There’s a steady and insistent beeping right by his ears, like a clock that refuses to let time slip unnoticed. Then his eyes are assaulted by the clinical white lights above him. His body follows last, awareness seeping into him so gradually as if it’s testing whether it’s safe to return.
Everything hurts. It’s a dull, widespread ache, the kind that makes even breathing feel like a negotiation.
“Mmh…” He tries to make a sound. His throat is dry and his head feels too heavy for his neck.
“Oh my God,” he suddenly hears George say somewhere to his left, “He’s awake.” Alex leans into his view, eyes wide, relief plain on his face, “Hey, hey. Easy.”
Lando tries to sit up. Fails spectacularly.
“Don’t do that, doctors hate that.” Max says, appearing at the foot of the bed like a concerned gargoyle. “Do not move,” Carlos adds. “You look like you’ve been hit by a bus.”
“Technically,” Charles says mildly, “It was a car.”
“Charles,” Alex mutters.
Lando squints at them, trying to process the room. George. Alex. Max. Carlos. Charles. Logan, hovering a little farther back, arms crossed but eyes fixed on him with something dangerously close to fear.
They’re all here.
Relief washes through him first, warm and grounding. He hadn’t realized how scared he’d been until this moment, until he sees the proof that he’s not alone, that he made it to the other side of whatever happened.
Then the relief fades.
Because someone is missing.
Lando’s gaze drifts, scanning the room again as if maybe he missed something the first time. As if Oscar might be standing just out of sight, leaning against the wall, pretending to be casual while his eyes give him away.
He isn’t.
The realization hits hard, sudden and sharp, like a second impact. His chest burns at the idea that Oscar might not want to be in the same room as him anymore even when he’s lying limp in a hospital bed.
Logan notices first, because he always does.
“Hey,” Logan says gently, stepping closer. “What is it?”
Lando’s mouth opens but no words spill out.
The ache in his chest spreads, blooming into something heavy and unbearable. He hadn’t let himself miss Oscar like this—not consciously, not out loud. He had kept it contained, disciplined, and survivable.
But lying here, wired and bruised and fragile, the restraint evaporates.
His eyes stings.
“Where’s Oscar?”
The room stills.
Carlos blinks. “Oscar?”
“What about him?” Alex asks.
Lando’s throat tightens painfully. “I want—” His voice cracks, completely betraying him. “I want Oscar.”
Max looks at Alex. Alex looks at George. George looks at the floor like he’s trying to find the answer written there. Charles clears his throat, “Lando, mate, you—uh—you’ve been in an accident.”
“I know,” Lando says, tears spilling over now and flowing freely down his reddened cheeks, “I just—can you call him?” George steps closer, alarmed, “Hey, hey. It’s okay. You’re okay.”
“I’m not,” Lando says, voice breaking completely. “Please.”
Logan’s eyes narrow slightly, something clicking into place behind them.
Alex glances at the monitor next to his bed, then back at Lando. “They’ve got you on some pretty strong stuff.” Carlos nods quickly, “Yeah. Pain meds. They mess with your emotions.”
Max offers a reassuring smile, “You’re probably just—fixating.”
Lando lets out a shaky, frustrated sob, “I’m not.”
“Since when do you need Oscar?” George wonders out loud.
“I just do,” Lando cries helplessly, “Please.”
Logan walks over until he’s hovering by Lando’s side, “Don’t cry, buddy, I’ll call him,” he says. Lando looks up at him with big glossy eyes, “You will?”
Everyone turns to him. Alex raises an eyebrow, “You sure?” Logan doesn’t take his eyes off Lando, “Yeah.”
“I mean—it’s probably just the meds.”
“Maybe.”
He pulls his phone out anyway and steps out of the room momentarily.
Oscar doesn’t find out immediately.
He’s at home, pacing his living room for no real reason with phone in his hand. He’s been doing that a lot lately. Holding his phone like it might bite him if he looks too closely.
Oscar knows they were all hanging out that day and he chose to stay in by himself. He hasn’t heard from anyone all day, which should be normal. It is normal.
Yet something feels off.
The call comes out of nowhere, and Logan’s name is flashing on his screen all of a sudden. Oscar almost doesn’t answer but the unsettled feeling in his guts tells him to.
“What’s up?” Oscar says, trying for casual.
There’s a pause on the other end, and it’s unusual because this was Logan. He doesn’t usually wait, he just goes off on a tangent. “Where are you?” He hears Logan ask from the other line.
He answers, “Home. Why?”
There’s another pause but it feels longer this time.
“Oscar,” Logan says carefully. “Lando’s in the hospital.”
The world tilts.
“What,” Oscar says flatly. “He was in an accident,” Logan continues, “Alex got a call—He’s, he’s awake. He’s okay, mostly. But—”
Oscar isn’t listening anymore. He’s already grabbing his keys.
“Which hospital?”
Logan tells him and Oscar hangs up without another word.
By the time Oscar gets to the hospital, his hair is a mess, dirty blond locks flattened on one side and sticking up on the other. He’s wearing a mismatched pair of shoes and his jacket is half-zipped, crooked. His face is pale, eyes wide and frantic, like he’s braced for the worst and trying not to show it.
He barrels past the front desk with only a vague explanation that convinces no one but somehow works anyway.
When he pushes open the door to Lando’s room, the sight stops him cold. Lando is propped up slightly in the bed, face blotchy from crying, eyes red. He looks smaller somehow, swallowed by white sheets and wires.
Oscar’s chest tightens painfully.
“Lando,” he breathes.
Lando’s head snaps toward the door.
For a second, he just stares, like his brain is struggling to catch up with reality. Then his face crumples.
“Oscar,” he whispers.
Oscar crosses the room with long strides and is at his side before anyone can say a word. “Hey,” Oscar says, voice shaking. He reaches for Lando without thinking, hands framing his face carefully, reverently, “Hey, baby—”
The word slips out unguarded.
Unfiltered.
Baby.
The room is stunned into silence.
George’s mouth drops open.
Alex makes a strangled noise.
Carlos’ eyebrows disappear into his hairline.
Max mutters, “Holy shit.”
Charles looks like he’s watching a live-action philosophical dilemma.
Logan throws his fists up in triumph, “YES!”
Oscar freezes. Lando blinks.
“Oh,” Oscar says faintly when the realization catches up to him.
Then Lando laughs—a wet, broken sound that turns into a sob halfway through. He reaches his hands out, gripping Oscar’s jacket like it’s the only solid thing left in the world.
“You came,” Lando says.
Oscar’s eyes shine dangerously. “Of course I did.”
“I missed you,” Lando says, voice wrecked. Oscar lets out a breath that he doesn’t realize he’d been holding, “I missed you too.”
That’s it.
That’s all it takes.
Oscar leans down and kisses him.
It’s not dramatic or hungry or desperate. It’s gentle, careful, full of relief and apology and things they never said when they should have. Lando kisses him back just as softly, fingers curling into Oscar’s sleeve like he’s afraid he’ll disappear if he lets go.
Behind them, the room breaks out into chaos.
“Oh my God,” Charles whispers under his breath.
“Are we all hallucinating?” Carlos asks.
Alex rubs his face. “I knew it.”
George looks offended that he wasn’t made aware, “Since when?”
Logan is grinning like a man vindicated by the universe itself, “I’m not schizophrenic!”
Everyone looks at him.
“What?” Logan says, “You all told me I was imagining things.”
Oscar pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against Lando’s. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs into the space between them, “I was an idiot.”
Lando lets out a weak laugh. “Yeah. Me too.”
Oscar brushes his thumb under Lando’s eye, wiping away a tear, “You scared me.”
“I scared myself,” Lando admits.
They stay like that for a moment, suspended in their own bubble, before the reality of the audience crashes back in.
“So.” George clasps his hands together. Oscar winces, finally tearing himself away from Lando and facing their friends, “Hi.”
Alex crosses his arms, “Care to explain?” Lando sighs, exhausted but lighter than he’s felt in weeks. “We were… not speaking.” Max snorts, “We noticed, smartass.”
Carlos shakes his head in disbelief. “You could’ve killed him,” he tells Oscar.
Oscar nods solemnly. “Fair.”
Logan clears his throat and demands, “I would like a formal apology.”
“For what?” Oscar questions. “For gaslighting me for weeks,” Logan says, “I knew something was going on.”
Lando smiles weakly, “You were right.”
“I know.” Logan beams.
A nurse appears at the door, taking in the scene—seven grown men crowded into a room and one patient holding hands with someone who looks like he ran through traffic to get here.
“Alright,” she says firmly. “One at a time.”
There are groans and protests, but people start filtering out, still buzzing with disbelief. George pauses at the door, glancing back. “We’ll be right outside.” Oscar nods, “Thanks.”
When the door closes, the room quiets again.
Oscar sits carefully on the edge of the bed, never letting go of Lando’s hand, “You okay?” He asks softly.
“I am now.” Lando nods. Oscar smiles, “Good.”
The elephant in the room finally exhales.
And neither of them pretends it isn’t there this time.
Oscar walks Lando out of the hospital the following day, one arm securely around his waist despite Lando’s insistence that he can walk on his own.
Lando is fine, in the grand scheme of things. He’s bruised, sore, and stitched up in places that will itch later, but he’s fine overall. Oscar refuses to leave his side anyway, hovering with an intensity that makes nurses smile knowingly.
“I can walk,” Lando says, exasperated but fond.
“I’m aware,” Oscar replies. “I’m choosing not to trust you.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
Oscar smiles sweetly. “You love it.”
“I tolerate it.”
Oscar leans in and kisses his temple, quick and soft and completely unselfconscious. George makes a noise like he’s swallowed something wrong.
“Jesus,” he says. “You’re already like this?”
Oscar grins. “Like what?”
“Sickening.”
Logan, walking behind them, claps his hands together. “I feel so liberated.”
Max squints at them, “You’ve been dating for—what—five minutes?”
“Technically,” Lando says, “We’re exclusive as of yesterday.”
“Of course you are.” Charles groans.
Lando squeezes Oscar’s hand. “We’re sorry.”
“No, you’re not.” Alex says flatly.
“No, we’re not,” Lando admits. “But we can pretend.”
The pretending only lasts about a week.
They don’t mean to be annoying. They really don’t. But once the secret is gone—once they no longer have to watch every glance, every touch—it’s like something inside them unclenches permanently.
They touch constantly; hands on knees and thighs, fingers laced together, Oscar leaning into Lando’s space like gravity works differently around him, and Lando resting his chin on Oscar’s shoulder while Oscar talks, subconsciously tracing circles into Lando’s thigh.
“Oh my God.” Alex grumbles one evening, watching Oscar comb his fingers through Lando’s curls with infinite care. “You’re like… a rom-com.”
“A bad one,” Carlos clicks his tongue. “Is this what you were hiding from us?” George asks, looking quite amused. “Because honestly, I feel robbed.”
Alex snorts, “I feel betrayed.” Logan, sprawled on the couch, watches them with a satisfied grin plastered on his face, “I feel correct.”
Oscar chuckles. “You should.”
Lando laughs, warmth blooming in his chest. He hasn’t laughed like this in weeks.
They come clean slowly, answering questions as they arise instead of volunteering information. “So,” Charles says one afternoon, arms crossed and eyes narrowed, “When did this start?”
Lando and Oscar exchange a glance.
“Well,” Oscar says carefully.
“Don’t do that,” Alex warns. “Don’t look at each other like you’re trying to decide on a cover story.”
“It’s not a cover story,” Lando says. “It’s just… long.”
“How long?” Max asks.
Oscar rubs at his nape, “Before Barcelona.”
The room goes quiet.
“Before… Barcelona?” Carlos raises a brow, “How long before Barcelona?”
“Italy last year.”
George deadpans, “You’re kidding.” Lando smiles apologetically, “No,” he says, “Not kidding.”
“We made you room together in Italy. You shared a bed in Barcelona,” Charles says slowly, “Multiple times.”
“Yes,” Oscar agrees. “That was… complicated. And worked in our favor, kind of.”
George pinches the bridge of his nose. “So let me get this straight. You were sleeping together, lying to us, fighting like divorced parents, and we just missed it?”
“Yes,” Lando says meekly. “Pretty much.” Oscar hums in agreement.
Max stares at them. “How?” Oscar shrugs, “Skill.”
“No,” Carlos says, wagging his index finger in the air. “Disrespect.”
They let them be mad. That’s part of it too—accepting the irritation, the wounded pride. Their friends tease them mercilessly, accuse them of emotional crimes, and demand reparations in the form of drinks and dinners.
“You owe us,” Alex says firmly. “For what?” Oscar snickers. “For trauma,” George replies. “We watched you two snipe at each other for weeks.”
Lando winces at the memory, “Sorry.” George sighs, “I just don’t like that you didn’t trust us.”
That one lands heavier.
Oscar’s grip tightens slightly around Lando’s hand.
“We weren’t lying because of you,” Oscar says quietly, “We were lying because we didn’t know what we were doing.” George softens, just a little, “You do now?”
Oscar glances at Lando.
“Yeah,” he says. “We do.”
Being openly together feels strange at first, like wearing clothes that fit too well. They keep waiting for something to go wrong, for the other shoe to drop. But it doesn’t. Instead, there are mornings where Lando wakes up before Oscar and just watches him breathe. There are evenings where Oscar cooks and Lando hovers uselessly, stealing ingredients and kissing him mid-sentence.
They argue occasionally, but not like before. Not with that brittle edge, that fear of saying the wrong thing. The arguments resolve, they exchange apologies and explanations not because they want to win but because they want to understand and be understood. They never go to bed with heavy hearts.
Their friends adjust begrudgingly.
They start scheduling things with the assumption that Lando and Oscar will arrive together. They stop being surprised when Oscar answers Lando’s phone or when Lando knows exactly what Oscar wants without asking.
Still, the commentary never stops.
“Get a room,” Max complains when he sees Oscar kiss Lando’s knuckles. “We have one,” Oscar replies cheerfully.
Carlos gags, “I hate you both.”
“You love us,” Lando says.
“Unfortunately.”
Logan watches it all with smug delight. “You know,” he takes a deep breath, “This explains everything.”
“Does it?” Oscar tips his head to the side. “Yes,” Logan says. “Your mood swings. Lando’s emotional constipation. The tension.”
“I am not emotionally constipated.” Lando protests. Oscar laughs, “You absolutely are.”
George raises a glass, “To finally knowing what the hell is going on.”
They all clink glasses.
The fondness sneaks up on everyone. It’s hard to stay mad when Oscar brings soup over without being asked, when Lando shows up early to help Max move, when they listen when someone needs it. They become a unit, without isolating themselves. “They’re good for each other,” Charles says, looking thoughtful.
Max nods, “Annoyingly so.” Alex sighs, “I hate that I approve.”
Logan could only say, “Told you so.”
The first time someone refers to them as a couple casually, Lando feels something settle in his chest. He catches Oscar’s eye across the room. Oscar smiles back, warm and certain.
The elephant in the room is gone now. Not banished violently. Just acknowledged, named, and gently ushered out when it no longer serves a purpose.
What remains is quieter, sturdier.
Love, maybe.
Or something close enough that the distinction doesn’t matter.
They lie sometimes, in the dark, talking about how ridiculous it all was. “We could’ve saved ourselves months,” Lando says. Oscar hums, “True.”
“Why didn’t we?”
Oscar turns onto his side, resting his head on Lando’s chest. “Because we were scared.” Lando buries his face in Oscar’s hair, voice muffled by the dirty blond locks, “Are you still?”
Oscar smiles into his skin. “No.”
Neither is Lando.
And if their friends roll their eyes every time Oscar kisses him hello, if they complain about the sweetness and the clinginess, if they mutter about being lied to, they also smile.
Because Lando and Oscar, finally honest, finally together, finally seen—look exactly like they’re where they belong.