Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Before Oscar c ould wonder about why they had all gathered at the auditorium again, his huge face flashed across the screen with his tense grin and folded arms. 

He slammed his hands onto his head—almost missing out on Logan’s screech of laughter. 

“You’re practically balding!” He wheezed. 

In the cafeteria, a bag with green highlights and design is plopped down onto his table—Coach Webber gives a cheery grin before walking off. 

At night, Oscar runs down the street in a black oversized hoodie, shorts and socks in crocs, running over the side of the street and pulling open the car door of a blue Porsche—the world thanks Alex for rich parents and a driver's licence. He crashes straight into Fred, who groans and jerks onto Logan, who is squashed against the car door, face pressed against the window. 

“Piastri!” Logan groans. 

“Sorry.” Oscar thinks the exhilaration of wearing frumpled untidy clothes to a fancy fine-dining restaurant has gotten to his head. Fred shifts to Logan’s side and Oscar shuffles in, slamming the door shut. 

“And this pyjama party we have going on here…” George’s voice echoes from the passenger seat as he waves a judging hand towards the back of the car. 

“Logan didn’t have anything fancy to wear so we all decided to leave no man behind,” Fred announces. 

“And these are nice clothes.” Oscar defends, grinning. The two seniors stare back at them. George with a bemused, disapproving look and Alex with judgement all over his face. 

“All this for qualifying,” Alex says, amused, swerving out of the parking spot and onto the street. It’s dim, and the only lights illuminated are the street lamps a hundred metres apart from each other. It all becomes a blur when the car goes faster. 

“Alex.” George gives a pointed look. Just yesterday, Alex had just missed out on the 800-metre semi-finals. A millisecond away from qualifying. 

“Shut up, George, I’m driving.”

“And?”

Alex spins the steering wheel. Oscar is thrown onto his side, Fred and Logan sliding towards him as well. They were heading a very sharp left, down a corner, steering way too harshly. 

“ALEX!” The three of them scream in the backseat. Alex, chuckling, unwinds the wheel. George grips Alex’s arm and shakes him hard in return. 

“Well, speaking about the heats…” George mutters, running a hand through his hair and clasping a handle on the top of the car door tightly. “The four-by-four is tomorrow, yes?”

“Oh, can we not talk about that?” Logan covers his face and groans. “I’m going to be sick if I think about it.”

“But you’re the fas-“

“Fred. No!” Logan cuts him off quickly. 

Fast. The last time Oscar had used the word on Logan, he had sprained his ankle the day before his first U-15 race. And the year before, Alex had remarked the same words during their time trials, and Logan had come down with a fever days before, and qualified last in his heat. It was a curse Oscar didn’t know existed, but it haunted Logan with every waking second. 

“The next thing you know, Logan gets shoved into the grass in the four-by-four.” Alex chuckles. 

“Please no.” Logan puts his hands together and prays to whatever almighty there is above. 

The car gets to a slow stop. It’s a fancy seafood restaurant they had reservations at, with bright blinding lights, colourful sea animal graphics and tanks of fish standing out. Fred takes a video of the groupers and bass. Logan knocks at the glass. 

“We’ll get you guys later!” Alex rolls down the windows and waves a handout. George does as well but pulls Alex’s hand back in as he starts to roll away. The images of George and Alex as parents flash through Oscar’s mind. 

They walk in, awkward smiles towards the servers who are dressed in fancy suits and blazers. Oscar sidles in beside Fred at the table, and Logan settles down right on the opposite side. His leg prods Oscar unintentionally, and he sees Logan’s footwear of choice. Sandals with socks. Absolutely horrendous. Absolutely amazing. 

They select the food from the menu before the waiters retreat, and they are left to their own vices. Logan pushes a leg up onto Oscar’s lap, clearly trying to be as annoying as he can while Fred pokes around at the appetisers and sauces. He tips over a sauce bottle and the soya sauce spills all over. 

“Fred!” Oscar hisses, as he watches the salty liquid trickle down onto his pants. 

“Fuck—sorry-“ Fred grabs a napkin and starts rubbing it on his pants. His arms push against Logan’s sandals, his hand digging into Oscar’s crotch.

Oscar snatches the napkin out of his hands, shakes Logan’s foot off and wipes the stain. “I said dress stupidly, not act stupid in the restaurant.” He mutters but laughs along with them. Maybe a little too loudly. 

The food starts to be served, and they dig in. Other than Logan catapulting the last garlic prawn dish into his lap, the dinner was normal. Dinner was good. Celebrations were on with the way they poured iced tea into wine glasses and brought them together to cheer. The mains had started to arrive, not anything too expensive because they were in high school. Oscar was de-shelling a prawn, one of his favourite foods. 

Until, of course. 

A loud group passes by them. They’re all in nice white dress shirts, Oxford slacks and polished dark shoes. Oscar is just in the last bits of the shell when a hand stretches out in front of him. 

He looks up and it’s. Brown curls and all, moles dotting his cheeks and a slightly wrinkled white shirt, the top buttons undone. 

Oscar chokes on his iced tea. “N-Norris?”

“Piastri!” Lando’s smile widens. His pearly whites shine bright in the dim light. 

He stands up quickly, stumbling over the table legs. He can hear short snickering from Fred and Logan as he takes Lando’s hand. 

“Four by four, tomorrow?” He quirks up an eyebrow. His gaze is heavy, staring up and down at him, hands now retreating into his pockets. His left leg bends slightly and he leans back. 

“Yeah.” Oscar puts his own hands in the pockets of his hoodie. He suddenly wishes he hadn’t worn sandals with slippers. Or a black hoodie. Or shorts. “Uh, fancy meeting you here.”

“Small world,” Lando says. 

“Small world.” Oscar agrees. 

“Impromptu meeting or…?” Lando jerks his head upwards, looking straight at Oscar’s hoodie. He gives a grim smile, and Lando bites his lip in amusement. His stomach twists a little.

“Yeah, my friends threw me into a car and started driving.” Oscar lies, pointing to Logan and Fred who are hunched over, munching on crawfish, speaking in hushed tones while looking at him. 

“Lando!” 

A voice yells from the entrance. Lando gives a lazy wave towards them before smiling at him, turning slightly. “I’ve gotta go. I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah? What time’s the comp?”

“Oh, um…” Oscar’s brain short circuits, but it supplies the information just in time. “Three.”

“I will be there. Without a capri sun.” Lando salutes. Oscar lets out a small smile as he leaves, breaking out into a small run to catch up to his friends. 

“Bye.” Oscar turns back to his table, where the plates are empty and Logan and Fred are watching him expectantly. He sits down, looking down at his half-eaten food and the nice porcelain sitting on the table. 

“So.” Logan starts. 

“So…?” Oscar stares. 

“Oscar.” Fred grins. 

Oscar looks away, picking up the last of his prawns and de-shelling them. “…What.”

“Who is that? I didn’t know you had friends outside of school.” Logan pulls the prawn out of Oscar’s hands and bites down. Oscar throws his hands onto his face.

“Yeah, friends .” Fred enunciates the word in a suspicious, not-friend-like way, spooning some of the leftover sauce into his mouth. “Are you guys friends?”

“Yes, we are.” Oscar’s time to defend himself. He’s watching that prawn that’s still stuck between Logan’s teeth, glaring at it since he can’t seem to make eye contact with the two of them. “We met on race day.”

“Meet-cute.” Fred echoes. Logan laughs.

That’s it. Oscar doesn’t act on his impulses most of the time, but a wave of mischief rises in him. He uses his sandals and swerves, pushing Fred’s chair away. 

“WAIT–I was kidding-!”

Boom. The sound of Fred collapsing onto the floor on his side, the chair following, toppling right next to Fred, right at the feet of another table. Logan erupts into uncontrollable laughter, sinking into his seat, and almost falling off himself. Oscar gives a grim smile, slightly regretting it, but also feeling a sense of satisfaction as Fred groans on the floor.

And, to top it off. They may have been ushered out of the restaurant. With Oscar’s prawn in hand, calling George on the other. But he’ll never confirm. 

The car ride is like getting picked up when you got into a fight and your parents were called.

“Guys,” George groans over the passenger seat. “Our school reputation!”

They’ve just left the restaurant. Oscar can almost imagine the looks of disapproval as the receptionist watches their car drive away.

“We weren’t wearing the uniform.” Oscar protests. 

“Our school is ten minutes away. They’ll know exactly who you guys are!” 

“The guests seemed to think it was funny.” Fred pointed out. 

“What about the waiters, the cooks, the manager?” George is staring at them like they had burnt a witch at the stake. Actually, maybe that wasn’t the right metaphor. People enjoyed burning witches.

“Hey, I mean, personally I-” 

“Alex, shut up.” George nudges him. “Did you guys do some other stupid shit?”

“Logan pushed his sandals up my cock.” 

“Bro, you poured hot sauce all over my food too!”

“Oh yeah, and Fred spilt soy sauce all over the table.”

“That was an accident!”

George slams his hands over his face. “I’m done.” He really looks like a motherly figure here. 

Alex snickers and George groans “Keep driving!”. Awesome. Spectacular. They were definitely going to get reported from that seafood restaurant. 

Before parking on a street opposite Oscar’s house, Alex bumps fists with the backseat juniors, before Oscar shimmies over Fred’s body to get the door, stumbles out, and feels the breeze down his neck as the Porsche rolls away in the dark street.

He says one last goodnight to his parents before retreating to his room. He packs his duffle bag with his normal running shoes, spikes, his change of clothes, a Pocari drink, water and his race tag. Throwing it onto the floor, Oscar rolls onto his bed. 

-

“Listen, we just have to qualify,” Alex tells them, as the morning sun shines brightly onto the bleachers, as they’re all pulling their socks up and changing into their jerseys. “Four by four is a straight final, and we could get fourth or higher if we just get everything right.” 

Four full laps, four runners gunning for the top. The aim is to get less than four minutes, so they could hold another trophy to their name in the school records. Twenty-four schools and only eight make it to the end. 

Logan’s the first runner, so they could bridge a gap between the other schools and get a lead. Then it’s Fred since he also runs long distances. Next up is Oscar, whose 400 was good enough to make it into the team. Alex, who has the best speed-endurance next to Logan, goes last, to cover any losses that they may have opened. 

“I’m going to practice my starts.” Logan’s jumpy, running his hand through his head every few seconds, breathing a little harder than usual, shaking his legs. He runs down the bleachers and disappears.

“Maybe I should give him one of my Danish pastries to calm him down,” Fred says, between bites. 

“Call time is in five minutes, Fred,” Oscar says, with a faraway voice. He’s scanning the stands for a familiar face, and if his name is Lando Norris, Oscar will never tell.

“And what are you doing?” Alex quirks up a smile at the corner of Oscar’s eye. Oscar ignores him.

“Looking for his long-lost lover,” Fred replies. 

He sighs and just looks away. He did have a race he needed to focus on, after all.

-

Oscar lines up in the row of runners who run in the same round as he does. Logan is perched on the start block, before he’s in the air, running. Suddenly, he’s at the straight, then he’s at the second curve, then he’s running towards Fred, far away from the other runners. Oscar knew Logan was impressive, but the gap between him and the other runners was insane. It was unbeatable. 

Fred starts to move, jogging a little as his hand remains outstretched. Logan almost throws the baton onto his hands, and Fred is off. When the second runners had taken off with their baton in hand, Oscar was escorted onto the track, situated at lane 3. Logan’s close to him, still catching his breath. He gives Oscar a little pat on the bicep before walking off.

Oscar’s eyes scan Fred’s route, but they make a quick getaway towards the bleachers. There are too many people. Too many brunettes whom his eyes could mistake for him , too many people cheering and roaring. His eyes dart back to the race, and Oscar almost jumps at how close Fred is to him. He was at the start of the last hundred, eyes set on Oscar with a wild look on his face. There was another runner, sprinting closely, almost knocking into Fred as the both of them lunged for the finish line. When Fred’s legs hit the number three on the track, Oscar sets off. His hand is welcoming, and he feels cold metal pushed into his hands. He pulls it close and goes off. 

In the moment, he doesn’t think and lunges for the inside. And in the moment, a runner, in a yellow and red jersey does too. 

They crash, the impact creating shockwaves that get under Oscar’s skin. He takes a second to recover before building his momentum again. The adrenaline is thrown off course. Oscar almost drops the baton. He claws for a grip on his spikes again and tries to get back into speed. 

He runs. He had been devising the perfect race pace to get the best possible timing, but the encounter had wrecked his thoughts. Nothing was going through his brain except run, run, run ! He does, going faster and faster, feeling the world blur.

It was at the second curve that he calmed down. His breaths are getting shorter, and his muscles strain with exhaustion.

Focus. You need to do this for the team.

He goes all out for the last hundred, feeling loud footsteps echoing behind him. The feeling of urgency is crashing onto his brain like waves lapping at the shore of a beach. He aligns himself with Alex.

“Up!” He screams.

Alex’s hand shoots out. Oscar smacks the baton onto it. He pulls, and it’s off.

Everything stops. Oscar stops. The world spins for a minute before it doesn’t. And Oscar can feel the rubbery track on the ground.

Oh, he’s fallen. That’s new. Disorientated, Oscar tries his best to get air back into his lungs. His hands clobber at the track lazily, grabbing at something that wasn’t there. His legs are like stone. 

“Oscar!” 

Oscar blinks, sweat dripping off his eyelashes. There’s a hand on his shoulder.

“Huh?” He manages.

“It’s Lando. Now get up, you’re a traffic hazard.” A hand slips right under his eyes. He grabs it, and they pull. 

The bright sun is dazzling in his eyes. He looks down, wiping the sweat off his forehead, pushing the hair back. 

Lando. It’s Lando when Oscar had been looking for him, searching. He feels a little celebratory. Even if his team doesn’t qualify, doesn’t get in, it’s–it’s whatever. Lando is here. He did promise, after all. Oscar feels a little strange that he feels more emotion for a random stranger than for his team he’s been in since he was fourteen.

“Are we first? What’s going…” He mumbles as they start walking.

He can hear the amusement in Lando’s voice. “Probably, yeah. Come on mate, let’s get you a Pocari.”

Oscar looks up now. Lando’s wearing a teal cap this time, a white polo and khaki shorts. He’s grounded by Lando’s appearance, and that’s when he realises he’s still holding onto Lando tightly. Palms together, feeling the warmth in his hand, sweaty and sticky.

Oscar pretends he doesn’t realise. 

Lando pulls them into a white tent. There’s a bunch of coolers lying on the floor, and Lando bends over, hands swishing into the icy waters, and pulls out treasure. He releases his grip from Oscar to twist the cap open, before handing it to him.

When the sweet liquid hits his throat, everything seems to cease. 

“Thanks.” He manages to say.

Lando doesn’t answer him. He’s looking out of the tent, at the red race track. “You won’t pass out if I tell you Alex finished two seconds quicker than all the other racers, yeah?”

He can’t, because just as Oscar’s knees start to sink, he feels a mass grab onto him, jumping into the air. “OSCAR! WE GOT FIRST!”

Curse Alex and his uncontrollable enthusiasm and energy.

-

Lando takes their group photo. Logan sends it off to Coach Webber. If Oscar opens Instagram an hour later, he’ll be sure to see a story of four boys, flushed, sweaty, smiling and blinking under the hot sun. 

“Nice job, mate.” Lando shoves his phone into his face. He sees their rankings. Numero Uno.

Oscar’s throat goes dry. “Wow.”

“Wow.” Lando grins.

Oscar feels someone tap him on the shoulder. He turns, and it’s Logan.

“Wanna get lunch? Or you wanna..” He gestures nonsensically between Lando and Oscar. Oscar turns to Lando, who has a little expectant grin on his face.

“Uh…” Oscar hesitates. 

Logan just curls an eyebrow up, waiting. 

“Sure, yeah.” Oscar shrugs. He has nothing better to do. Lando’s smile gleams.

“Okay, see you.” Logan bumps a fist to his shoulder and leaves.

They’re alone now, standing at the back of the bleachers. There are shouts, whistles, laughs, whatever. 

“Do you-“ 

“I-“

They stop. Stare. Lando lets out a huff of amusement. Oscar smiles awkwardly. 

“You go.” Lando cocks his head. 

“No, I-I forgot.” Oscar lies. 

Lando snickers. “Okay, well, coffee date? I know a good spot.”

Oscar doesn’t drink coffee. Or, well, he doesn’t need to. The last time he had tried coffee, it was pure black brewed by his father and fucking disgusting. Milo was better.

“Yeah, okay.” He agrees anyway. Sue him, he doesn’t care. 

They set off, down to the metro, chatting, getting to know each other. It was a little crowded, as they squeezed their way into a small spot. The train doors close, and Lando is off in some little spiel about his school or something. Oscar is trying very hard to pay attention. 

 He swings his duffel bag off his shoulder, just at the right time when the train lurches off. He stumbles, falling right onto Lando. 

It’s not romantic at all. In fact, it’s very humiliating. Lando lets out a small yelp, Oscar hits his head on the walls of the metro, and his duffel bag falls out of his hands. It hits Lando’s feet squarely. And, they’re stuck in this position for five seconds because Oscar could not find a way to get out of the position without touching Lando inappropriately. 

“Sorry. Sorry!” He squeezes his eyes shut and pushes himself off with a hand gripping onto the wall.

“All good, mate, people need to learn not to shove.” Lando groans. He pulls up Oscar’s duffel bag. “Fuck, that hurt! What’s in that bag?”

He takes the bag, cheeks flushing. “Um, my shoes and stuff. And blocks.”

“That is a hazard,” Lando says pointedly, but he’s grinning. “We’ve talked for less than an hour and you’ve already incapacitated me.”

“Incredibly sorry, Your Highness.” He replies, watching as Lando’s eyes crinkle, his smile lines brightening and his teeth flashing. And oh. Wow. Oscar’s going to melt. 

The metro ride is okay after that. They get under the bustling heat, walking down a street of busy shoppers, office workers out for lunch and runners with dogs leashes to them tight. Oscar feels the exhaustion kicking in, his muscles in his legs strained, his hands hissing in pain. 

He can almost hear Coach Webber’s voice. Stretching is very important! He squawks in his head. 

A hand slips onto his shoulder. Oscar jumps, and sees Lando's tanned hand, grabbing onto the strap on his duffel bag. 

“Let me get it.” He offers. 

“Oh-um—“ Well, Oscar can’t really say no, with Lando’s hand already pulling it off his shoulder. The weight of it all immediately vanishes, and he almost just sinks from how much he relaxes. “Thanks.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Lando shrugs it on like it’s nothing, and they continue. 

Eventually, they reached the coffee shop. It’s beige, in the modernist style with simple and sharp font outlining ‘ ARABICA’, small round tables cluttering the outsides and insides, and environmentally friendly cup warmers hugging the plastic cups, which was very juxtaposed by itself. 

The menu is exclusively coffee. That’s…a little bit of a problem. Oscar had expected them to serve tea or something. Maybe some oolong, or a hot chocolate. But it was a coffee shop, so maybe that was his fault. Whoops. 

“What do you want?” Lando opens his wallet. Shiny cards gleam back at him. Oscar’s almost dazzled. 

“Wow, um.” He clears his throat. “Recommend a few for me?”

“There’s this salt coffee; it sounds like shit but it’s a Vietnamese special or something, so it’s pretty good. Then, of course, there’s some weird Arabica blend because the name of the shop is—“

Oscar may have lost track. The names are listed off like a list of formulas he needs to remember for Geometry.

“I’ll…just get Weasel Coffee.” Oscar mumbles, the words rolling on his tongue weirdly. He doesn’t remember if Lando had mentioned this one, but hey, worth a try, no? It sounds interesting. 

Lando stares at him, humour evident on his face.

“What?” He relents. “Should I get something else, then?”

“No, it sounds good!” Lando lets out a stifled giggle. His voice pitches high when he does it. 

“What?” Oscar repeats, but Lando goes.

Well. He feels like he’s made a big mistake.

Oscar finds a nice spot, right next to the huge windows that keep most of the sunlight away from his eyes, but emit a soft, warm glow. The sweat is evaporating off his clothes, and he pulls out his phone.

Instagram has a notification. Oscar prays it isn’t from his school. He jinxes himself because he clicks on their profile and sees his sweaty face grinning tensely into the phone. 

In his DMs, Logan had sent the story to him, with crying emojis right next to it. He also sends a photo of Fred with ketchup staining his face, looking like a kid had tried out clown makeup. Alex is blurred in the background, and he can barely make out a laugh on his face.

Logan sees it almost immediately.

Oscar sends him a photo of his middle finger.

“Coffee is here!” Lando announces, setting two mugs down onto the table. Oscar jumps, clicking the off button on the side of his phone.

“Looks…great.” Oscar doesn’t know what to say. There’s this strong, heavy pungent smell that just suffocates his nostrils, the brown liquid steaming and…ew. 

“What’d you get?” He asks Lando. His coffee has a dollop of ice cream on it. Oscar is regretting not getting it.

“Affogato.” Lando smashes a spoon into the ice cream, mixing it around aggressively, unfazed as some of the coffee spills over. 

“Nice.” Oscar stares at his own cup. “So…what is this?” He picks up the courage and sips it. 

It’s…okay. It tastes less bitter than the black coffee he had drank a long time ago. It’s still slightly unpleasant, but there was a smoothness about it that was…good enough for him to finish it.

“It’s a really special coffee from Indonesia.” Lando starts. “It’s so popular that this coffee shop had to search all over to get ethical and good coffee beans. It’s called weasel coffee, because the coffee cherries used in this coffee were eaten and pooped out by the weasels.”

Oscar spits his coffee out. 

It sprays all over his duffel bag, which is perched nicely on his lap. He lets go of the cup, and it lolls around the table, spilling the rest of the coffee all over the table. 

“Sorry–what?” He splutters, opening his bag desperately to get tissue. 

“The weasels…” Lando says, even slowly, a wide, wide grin spread over his face. “Pooped the coffee out, and they used it to brew the coffee.”

Oscar is going to throw up.

“Sorry-” He throws his bag onto the chair and runs. Pushes the door open to the washroom. He spits into the sink, and drinks the tap water into his mouth.

Now, what the fuck. 

Oscar pulls out his phone. 

Oscar waits. He runs a damp hand through his hair. 

Okay, not helping, Logan. Oscar thought he was supposed to be his best friend.

Logan’s profile flashes over his screen. Oscar presses 'call' and shoves the phone to his ear.

“Logan!” He hisses.

“Bro, how did you manage to drink weasel poop coffee?” Logan’s slightly shaky voice comes through. He’s laughing, that traitorous fucker.

“Rich people coffee. I’m going to kill myself.”

“Wait, wait,” Logan says hastily. “Okay, I just searched it up. Apparently, it’s super exotic and rare and super delicious. Was it nice?”

“No!” Oscar whisper-shouts in the bathroom. He hopes whoever’s taking a shit in the cubicles has a good discharge. The image of a weasel pooping out a cherry from its butt flashes through his mind. 

“And Lando didn’t tell you?” Logan laughs.

“He told me when I was drinking it. Logan, I spat the coffee out…I spilt the coffee all over the table…” Oscar moans, covering his face with his hand. “Fuck! I should’ve just gotten a cappuccino or something. They didn’t even have the normal fucking coffees there!”

He should've known Lando was a jokester. Well, he knew, from how he had squirted the Capri sun on their first meeting, but wow. Weasel Coffee. Out of all the things Oscar could've chosen, it was that.

“Curse rich people and their love for being different.” Logan clicks his tongue. 

“This is humiliating. I’m never coming out of the bathroom.”

“Hey, I mean, when you have children with Lando–”

“WHAT–”

“You can tell them the story of your amazing first date,” Logan says smoothly. 

Oscar’s about to make a noise of exasperation when the door opens. Dread pools through Oscar’s stomach. It’s Lando, with a slightly sheepish smile on his face, stained dark tissues in his hand. 

“Fuck, Logan, I need to go, call you back later–” Oscar says softly.

“What? Why–” He hangs up. 

“Hey…Piastri.” Lando gives a grim smile. 

“Hi.” He barely manages to croak. 

Lando drops the tissues into a bin nearby and comes closer. His expression flashes from amusement to something half serious. 

“I wiped up the place. Nobody really saw, so it’s okay.” He says sincerely.

“Yeah. Great—um, nice.” Great. Great. Lovely, wonderful.

“Look, um.” Lando sighs. “Sorry. I should’ve said something at the start. Obviously, you know nothing about coffee–” Oscar’s cheeks redden, “--so I should’ve stepped up. Should’ve ordered a matcha latte or something. I just thought it was kind of funny.” His hand drags down the back of his nape. “And it is a good coffee.”

“Not.” Oscar corrects. 

“Not?” Lando chuckles. “Is this your first coffee or something?”

“Uh…yeah..?” Oscar watches Lando’s eyes widen slightly.

“Oh, shit, then I’m really sorry. Should’ve gotten you something less strong.”

“It’s fine.” Oscar leans back against the sink. The adrenaline is calming down. “It was funny, I guess? And you didn’t know.”

“So, why did you agree to go to a coffee shop if you don’t drink coffee?” Lando folds his arms. Both of them are more relaxed now that the situation is kind of over. 

“I…plead the fifth,” Oscar says instead. They laugh, tension easing up.

“Let’s just go, then.” Lando jerks his head towards the door. Oscar nods and follows. They grab their bags and leave, out into the sunny day again. 

The same familiar friendly feeling settles in Oscar’s chest again. They walk around for hours and hours, just exploring, talking amiably, before the sky turns warmer and it’s time for dinner. They head to the metro, about to go separate ways when Lando speaks up again.

“This was nice.” he starts. 

“Yeah.” Oscar agrees.

“Do you want to keep in touch?” Lando pulls out his phone. He looks slightly eager, his eyes halved as he smiles. “We could do Instagram or something.”

Yeah, Instagram. Because that was easier than asking for someone’s phone number. You could follow and unfollow, easier than the attachment of having someone’s personal contacts resting in the long list of familiars and unknowns. 

“Sure, mate.” Oscar pulls out his phone. His Instagram is quite barren, with one highlight dedicated to reposting whoever had tagged him in what, and a single post about his track team. His profile picture is just a photo of him, Logan and Fred posing stupidly at a landmark in Japan on their last internalisation trip. 

Lando searches his name on Oscar’s Instagram, and it's…wow. It’s the epitome of a popular high school kid. He has posted every month, the most recent one of him in a high-quality photo, crossing the line, tongue out and arms up. He’s gleaming with a slight sheen running down his forearms, his jersey flying out, and Oscar can see the gap under his arm, the small patch of skin from the side of his ribs down to–

The caption reads: skipping school is my fav hobby

There are fifty-two comments, and Oscar wonders how a normal teenager can gather fifty-two people to smother their love all over a post. Not that it’s bad. It’s incredibly impressive.

Oscar hits follow. “This is cool, wow.” 

“Thanks. I’ll follow ya later.” Lando winks. Oscar’s stomach curls. 

“Okay, well…” He shuffles in his spot. “See you?”

“Definitely.” Lando grins, before merging with the crowd and disappearing. Oscar watches, blinking, and looks back down at his phone. 

He pulls up the post again, staring at Lando’s build, before he decides to tap twice. At that moment, a banner flies down from the top of his screen.

Oscar grins slightly. Nice.