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“Oscar Piastri, huh?” Lando mumbles to himself, shouldering his cello case. With the departure of his previous stand partner, he expected someone else in the section to take the spot, but that, evidently, is very much not the case.
“Yeah, mate,” Max pipes up as he falls into step beside him on the way out of LSO St. Luke’s. “I looked him up.”
Why Max Verstappen, concertmaster, would be so intrigued by the new assistant principal cellist, is completely beyond Lando, but now he’s curious too.
“Mm?”
“He’s probably got one of the best CV’s out there. Crazy talented, the guy,” Max says, and his hands move animatedly as he speaks. “Moved from Melbourne to attend the Juilliard School Pre-College Division, participated in NYO four years in a row, and then got his Bachelor of Music from Juilliard, and the entire time, he was going to too many music festivals to list and even subbed in a couple times for multiple professional orchestras in the States… so, of course, I think you have an idea now.”
Jesus Christ. Lando’s stuck with an overachieving prodigy now.
“You don’t look happy about it, but you were basically the same, mate.”
Lando sighs. Touché. “He should’ve stayed in the US, then. New York Phil or the Met Opera or, I dunno, anywhere else.”
That was a stupid sentiment to make, on his part. When a spot, a high-paying spot at that, in an orchestra as prestigious as the London Symphony Orchestra opens up, of course, everyone’s going to audition.
The only thing is, nobody really gets the position of assistant principal fresh out of conservatory, regardless of how talented they are or how stacked their CV’s look. Even Lando was at the back of the section when he first joined—although, to his credit, he did get in without a degree—and four years after, it all paid off.
Lando quickly pulls his phone out and searches for Oscar on Instagram. The only thing that pops up is a private account with a profile picture of a cello, how boring, but when he clicks on it, his eyebrows fly up.
“Max, he already follows me on Instagram.”
Well.
This should be interesting.
Lando has never been nervous for a rehearsal before, not when he first joined, not when he was promoted. And yet.
Perhaps it’s more out of anticipation than anything else.
He knows his hands aren’t shaking, but they certainly feel like they are as he stands his case against the wall and goes through the processes of tightening his bow, applying rosin, taking his cello out, giving the strings a cursory wipe, all mindless little tasks now.
For the first time in a long time, he’s early, so he tunes his instrument and plays a couple scales to warm his fingers up. And then he flips through the folder for this week’s set.
Someone sits next to him.
“Hi,” Lando breathes, hoping his voice doesn’t come out an octave too high.
Okay, he’ll admit that he spent way too much time looking Oscar up, combing through old YouTube videos and essentially anything he could get his hands on. Nothing could’ve prepared him enough to actually meet the man in person.
“Hello.”
Fuck, maybe Lando has a thing for handsome Australian men. He didn't know that.
“Um, I’m Lando Norris.”
“Oscar. Piastri.”
Alright, then.
Lando would offer a hand to shake, but that would require maneuvering his bow into his left hand, and knowing himself, he might end up poking his own eye. Maybe it’s also a good thing that he doesn’t because if he shakes Oscar’s hand, then that would mean feeling his hand, and he might have a thing for calluses too. That’s something he doesn’t quite want to find out about himself yet, and he’s dated a lot of other musicians in the past too. He curses whomever made him so queer and far too susceptible to hot, talented people.
So Lando sits there awkwardly for a moment as people continue to trickle in before going back to playing scales.
He doesn’t even like scales that much.
“I really like Stravinsky,” Lando says at last, just to fucking say something. If he plays another four octave B-flat Major arpeggio, he might go insane.
“Cool.”
If Oscar could give him something to work with here, that would be amazing. These one-word responses remind Lando of his last ex when they were on the verge of breaking up.
That’s just depressing.
“Yeah, uh, The Rite of Spring is probably one of my favorite pieces.” Lando stares straight ahead at the sheet music. “Very fun.”
Oscar lifts a questioning eyebrow. “I guess? Do you like the more contemporary pieces?”
Oh, thank fuck. Relieved at the nudge hinting at the beginning of a beautiful conversation, Lando eagerly nods.
“With nineteenth century stuff, it’s so predictable, mate. Twentieth century and later works are more… groovy.”
“‘Groovy’,” Oscar repeats, voice flat. “Never heard that one to describe some dead Russian bloke’s music before.”
“But you know what I mean,” Lando insists. Just to punctuate his statement, he flips to the back of the music and gestures vaguely to the Sacrificial Dance.
“Sure.”
Lando wants to cry at the lack of enthusiasm in Oscar’s voice. He pouts, deciding that maybe it’s futile to try to talk to him. God forbid he ends up talking at him, instead.
But fine. Whatever. It’s not like Lando hasn’t had deadbeat stand partners in the past, and it’s not like they have to be friends or anything. They just have to get along well enough to play the music without having any issues.
He goes back to playing his scales.
After two hours of rehearsal, Lando’s eyes widen, horrified, when Oscar stretches, spine popping in at least three places.
“Mate, that can’t be good for you,” he says before he thinks twice about it. Lovely. Two hours in, and he’s already being critical of the new guy.
Oscar only looks at him, expression unreadable.
“I do yoga,” Lando continues and fights the overwhelming urge to punch himself in the face. There was no need to tell Oscar that tidbit at all.
“Okay.”
Lando purses his lips to avoid saying anything else, exhaling through his nose in relief when Seb’s baton goes up again.
It’s intimidating how precisely Oscar plays. And, yes, they’re professional musicians, but even professionals make mistakes, however slight they might be. Not Oscar Piastri, though. He stays exactly in time, perfectly syncing up his breaths and gestures with Lando’s.
Lando has never had the privilege of sharing a stand with a musician as in tune with him and everyone else in the ensemble. Energetic but not showy, blending in smoothly with a level of maturity that comes after years of experience playing in an orchestra.
Oscar runs like a well-oiled machine, his cello thrumming under dexterous fingers, and Lando is loath to admit that he finds it unbelievably sexy.
Whoa, back up for a moment. Sexy?!
Okay, Lando is man enough to acknowledge that Oscar is good-looking, but he’s dated plenty hotter people in the past. And yet. Not a single one of them has been this capable.
Not only is Oscar a skilled musician, but he’s also an incredible stand partner, and those are few and far between. He swiftly turns the pages with barely a sound at exactly the right time, he marks the music just enough, he plays the correct parts during the divisis, he immediately holds the stand steady when Lando picks up the pencil, and he stays out of Lando’s way. It’s like someone took Lando’s ideal stand partner and handed Oscar right to him.
Somehow in between overwhelming thoughts about his stand partner, Lando has yet to stumble, muscle memory taking over as he reads The Rite of Spring for approximately the tenth time in his career as a cellist. He wonders whether Oscar has played it before—he must have, at some point—but he doesn’t want to ask and risk another stilted, one-word answer.
Maybe the reason Oscar hasn’t played in a single rest yet, regardless of how familiar he is with Stravinsky, is because he’s about as professional as they come.
And that, to Lando, is just about one of the hottest things he’s ever encountered.
It’s probably a good thing that Oscar takes horrible care of his back. That’s the only thing really stopping Lando from jumping him in front of all hundred or so members of the orchestra as soon as Seb lowers his baton.
“Thank God, he has some flaws, after all,” Lando mutters to himself, much louder than he intended, and his hand flies up immediately to cover his mouth as his eyes widen. He just narrowly avoids stabbing anyone with his bow, because that would just make things so much worse. “Um.”
“What?”
“Uh, you’re, like, exactly in time with Seb. Usually, we play slightly after the beat, so make sure you… do that too.”
Well, fuck.
“Fuck me, mate,” Lando whines into George’s shoulder.
It’s embarrassing, just how quickly he got out of his seat once rehearsal concluded, nearly forgetting to collect his cushion and not even deigning to stick around and potentially clear up any misunderstandings that lingered. Oscar definitely thinks he’s some grade A arsehole now. If there’s anything worse than a loser, that’s exactly how Lando feels at the moment.
“No, thank you.”
Lando whacks George’s shoulder after peeling his face off of it. “That’s your loss. Anyway, I just need to know-”
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Oscar leaving the building, and he’s not alone. Next to him is some other guy that Lando doesn’t recognize, most likely also new to the LSO, but what makes Lando slightly miffed is that they’re talking, conversing as though they’re old friends or something. More importantly, he’s smiling, like he’s actually enjoying the conversation.
Lando frowns, letting out a little noise when George nudges him. The other guy’s carrying a bassoon case, so maybe Alex knows who he is.
“I lost you there for a moment, mate.”
“Ugh, I’m such a likable person, Georgie,” Lando drawls, on a roll. “But then Oscar Piastri comes along, and suddenly, I forget how to act! Maybe it’s because he’s so awkward, huh? Can’t have it all, I s’pose. No amount of music training in the world can magically give you communication skills and a personality that isn’t plain boring.”
Behind him, an accented voice sarcastically quips, “Thanks.”
Lando swallows, remorse flooding him as he makes eye contact with Oscar, whose expression is just as unreadable as ever. Oh, but he’s definitely upset. There’s not a single doubt about that at all.
“Fuck,” Lando mutters as soon as Oscar is out of earshot again. “Fuck, I didn’t even mean what I said. Maybe I’m just fucking stupid. I can’t have this- him thinking I’m some dickhead, when we’re meant to work together.”
George claps his shoulder and replies, “I think you’re just unused to not being instantly liked. You just have to apologize and work for it a little more this time.”
“I’ll just end up fucking up the apology too, at this rate.”
“Well, mate, you never know unless you try.”
That’s so cheesy, but it’s also such a George thing to say.
Lando chews on his thumbnail and nods. He doesn’t usually have the patience to practice, but it seems like now’s as good a time as any to find some.
He might never forgive himself if he somehow manages to fumble and make Oscar hate him even more.
For the second time in his life, Lando is shaking with nerves before a rehearsal, and he hates it.
Just apologize. Sorry. That’s it, he reminds himself, and then promptly freaks out while overthinking it. Oscar would probably find him insincere if he only utters a ‘sorry’ and nothing else. Insincere might just be slightly better than another backhanded compliment, though.
Lando sits up a little straighter—this indicates just how important getting into Oscar’s good graces is to him because he never makes an attempt to sit straight—as soon as he catches a glimpse of swoopy brown hair and a black cello case. He nibbles on his bottom lip and watches Oscar warily.
As soon as Oscar approaches, Lando blurts out, “I’m sorry.”
“I once downed twenty Jägerbombs in one sitting after my senior recital,” Oscar says flatly at the same time, the corner of his mouth pinching like he isn’t sure he should’ve imparted this small but crucial piece of information after all.
Lando gapes at him, brain misfiring. “What?”
Running a hand through his hair, Oscar blows out a breath and shrugs. “You called me boring, which was unfair, given we exchanged maybe ten words total.”
“It was more like twenty,” Lando says weakly. “And I’m the one who said most of them anyway- wait, no, I’m meant to be apologizing. You’re right. You didn’t deserve that.”
Oscar gives him a long look, something shifting in his brown eyes. “No, I didn’t. But I suppose I wasn’t the… friendliest either. So. Apology accepted.”
“No, no, there’s honestly no reason for you to be overly friendly to a literal stranger,” Lando protests, eyes widening. Relief courses through him nonetheless. “You were being polite. I wasn’t. I come on too strong sometimes.”
And Oscar raises an eyebrow and asks, “If you call that coming on too strong, then how would you describe Max?”
The sudden joke—and mild jab at Max—startles a sudden laugh out of Lando.
“Don’t tell me you’ve already been a victim of Maxsplaining before your second day here.”
“He really likes music theory.”
“Ugh, I know, mate. I like it as much as the next musician, and I say this with the utmost fondness, but he is, like, insane about it.”
“Hm, yeah,” Oscar agrees. “I mean, I had to take so many theory classes at Juilliard, and I enjoyed them, but not that much.”
Just on the other side of the podium, Max sneezes.
When rehearsal concludes, Lando doesn’t immediately get out of his seat like he did yesterday. Instead, he hovers uncertainly, wondering if he should try again.
“Sooo, do you like Alpine or Rite more?” he attempts. “You seem like the type of person to enjoy big orchestral works. And, uh, tone poems. I mean, I like Strauss too, so this program is exciting.”
“Definitely Stravinsky,” Oscar replies. “And at the risk of sounding too nerdy, it’s impressive how he managed to stretch the conventions of music.” He makes a vague waving gesture. “Overtones and such.”
Lando brightens. “Exactly.”
He might make fun of Max for being too much of an enthusiast, but he can be exactly the same sometimes. At least Oscar looks somewhat interested when he begins blabbing about rhythms and how seemingly random they feel until settling into something that’s quite obviously mechanical. It's-
“Groovy,” Oscar says as soon as Lando pauses to suck in a breath. He gives him something of a lopsided smile.
Blushing, Lando nods. Even as he’s putting his cello away, his cheeks burn hot just because Oscar paid the tiniest bit of attention to him. Hidden by his case, he takes a moment to press his hands to his cheeks.
He yelps when Max pokes his shoulder and wonders if he’s still small enough to lock himself in his case.
“Chamber rehearsal, mate?” Max asks, thankfully brushing aside Lando’s disproportionate reaction. “Have you started looking at the radio stuff yet?”
Lando shakes his head. “If it’s not something I’ve played before, I’ll just sight-read it. Where’s Charles?”
“He took the earlier train, of course, while you were chatting with your new boytoy.”
“I- what?! Max!” Lando screeches. “I am not-” He snaps his mouth shut when he sees that Max is laughing at him. “You’re a jerk, Verstappen.”
“And you’re way too easy to fluster, mate,” Max retorts, reaching out to pat the top of his head. “Oscar actually told me an interesting little detail earlier. And it’s not something you can find online.”
“What is it?”
Max only grins smugly, and Lando makes a noise of outrage, reaching out to shake his shoulder with all the force in his body.
“Okay, okay, calm down, you spicy little cat. Remember when you noticed he follows your Instagram? Well, mate, he’s obviously a fan.”
“No way,” Lando immediately denies. “He plays cello, and I play cello. That’s all. I don’t even know if he likes me or not.”
The look on Max’s face screams that he’s absolutely over Lando’s antics, like he’s about to slap some fucking sense into him. It’s a good thing he’s still carrying his violin because he treats it like his baby, so he would never let it witness any sort of violence.
“-and then, I was like, ‘Carlos, it literally says piano in the music. What the fuck are you playing so loud for, mate?!’” Charles rants, arms coming up in exasperation. If he hadn’t put his viola down, Max’s head would’ve been in imminent danger.
Lando nods fervently, entirely too used to chamber rehearsals turning into mini gossip sessions. And by the looks of it, Max doesn’t mind either, as he’s quite busy staring at Charles.
“It’s always the former violinists and their superiority complexes,” Charles continues complaining. “No offense, chou.”
Max shrugs, utterly besotted. “None taken, of course.”
Although they’re on fairly good terms, Lando loves hearing his ex get slandered. They have to be on good terms to still play in the same orchestra, sitting approximately four seats away, but witnessing Carlos getting bashed by none other than his stand partner is one of Lando’s guilty pleasures.
He’s glad he cleared things up with Oscar while he still could. The thought of being in the same orchestra as someone who hates him makes him shudder.
Lando immediately turns pink. He did not just liken sharing a stand to dating. With Oscar, no less. Nope. Not at all.
“Lando, is it too warm in here?” Max asks, smirking. He’s absolutely teasing. England is cold year-round, and Lando is pretty much never warm. “I can open a window.”
“Fuck you.” Lando stands up and marches into Max’s kitchen. “Do you still have those biscuits?”
“Yeah, of course. They’re on the top shelf.”
Lando climbs onto the counter, crowing in delight when he snags the last packet. This is another reason why he loves chamber rehearsals. Max always has snacks.
And then Charles exclaims, “Ooh, Lando, you must tell us about Oscar!”
Biscuits in hand, Lando nearly falls off the counter.
Oscar is asleep.
He’s asleep on the balcony—the chairs are very comfortable, to be fair—but Lando has no idea how. The horns are going absolutely insane, but it's Esteban and Pierre, so that's normal, Fernando’s buzzing his glissandos, and oh, Lance just joined him, and now they’re both warming up loudly.
And Oscar’s somehow sleeping through it all?
Lando kind of wishes he could sleep through this much noise so easily. Instead, all he can do is stare at his stand partner in awe and debate whether or not he should wake Oscar up for rehearsal.
Thankfully, that bassoon guy that Oscar’s apparently now friends with approaches him and shakes him awake, and Lando almost wants to coo at how much Oscar resembles a cat as he makes a grumpy face, visible across the entire rehearsal space. It’s good that he’s gotten much more comfortable here, after a couple weeks of getting used to the atmosphere and his surroundings.
It’s especially good because tomorrow is the first concert of the season.
Lando’s about to play his first concert with Oscar as his stand partner tomorrow.
“You ever feel like you don’t belong, Osc?” Lando asks. He internally kicks himself for being so blunt.
Obviously, intermission is the best time to have a heart-to-heart, and he plops down onto the floor to prepare his back for the second half of the concert.
His knees nearly touch the floor in a butterfly stretch.
Sitting down next to Lando but rolling his sleeves up instead of making any move to join him, Oscar hums thoughtfully. “No, not really. In school, definitely, though. I didn’t first pick up a cello when I was, like, two years old, and imposter syndrome hits hard when you’re constantly surrounded by talent and drive, y’know?” He runs a hand through his hair and tilts his head to look directly at Lando. “But if anything, it pushed me harder, and I worked hard for my position.”
It really hits Lando just how mature his stand partner is, despite being almost two years younger.
“I started out on the piano,” Lando blurts out. “My entire family are musicians. I thought I’d be like my brother, and my parents enrolled me in lessons when I wouldn’t stay away from the Steinway at home.”
He doesn’t really know why he’s suddenly sharing his life story with someone he’s only known for a month, give or take.
“So,” Oscar prompts, “cello?”
“Oh, Oscar, it’s such a beautiful instrument. I didn’t see the appeal when Mum practiced alone at home, but after going to a concert for the first time, I just knew. Never looked back since.”
Yes, Lando is absolutely his mother’s boy, but she wasn’t the one who taught him, always insisting that she’d never be strict enough to properly nudge him in the right direction.
Instead, they’d sight-read through Kummer duets and then eventually Popper études together, laughing whenever Lando’s fingers would inevitably falter and stumble.
“I was five.”
Oscar looks him up and down and finally remarks, the corner of his mouth twitching up, “What’d you start on, mate? A one-sixteenth size?”
“Wha- huh? That was so uncalled for! My first cello was an eighth size, for your information,” Lando huffs indignantly. “Ugh, Flo, the older of my younger sisters, was taller than me for the longest time, so it was a good thing she played viola and not cello. It would've been so embarrassing if she reached a full size before I did.”
“Hah.”
They lapse into silence, still sprawled out on the floor of the holding room in their expensive suits. It’s not uncomfortable at all, the silence, which comes as a surprise, and it lasts a good two minutes.
“So I see you’ve become quite popular, Osc,” Lando teases, poking Oscar’s shoulder. Sue him for being unable to keep quiet for long.
“I wouldn’t call befriending two people popular,” Oscar retorts. “Logan came up to me because we newbies have to join forces against you old souls-”
Lando gasps in offense.
“-and I only recognized Guanyu because our time at Juilliard overlapped, but I never had a reason to talk to him until now. He showed me so many pictures of his cat the other day.”
“You’re a cat person?”
Oscar lifts a shoulder in a half-shrug and replies, “I think I’m generally just an animal person. Cats are really cute, though.”
“Max has two cats. They like napping in his violin case.” Lando laughs to himself. “Whenever I’m at his place to practice chamber music, I always nearly leave with two extra passengers. Or I end up staying an extra hour because I can’t just remove them to put my cello away.”
That earns him a smile, small but as genuine as they get.
The PA announces their five minute call, so Lando quickly scrambles up off the floor and brushes himself off before offering a hand to Oscar. It takes him all the self-control in his body not to immediately retract it, simply because Oscar taking his hand means they’d be touching, skin-to-skin. Call him a Victorian maiden for blushing at the mere thought of it, but he’s too busy ogling his stand partner to care.
Oscar hesitates for a second before taking it, and his palm is warm and dry against Lando’s clammy one.
Lando tries desperately to ignore just how strong Oscar is, how easily he could’ve just pitched right into Oscar’s chest, right where his collared shirt has been unbuttoned.
“Good talk,” he mutters, fingers lingering against the back of Oscar’s hand. It feels too intimate. “How’s your back?”
Oscar’s spine pops in response, and he huffs a sheepish little laugh. “It’ll survive just another hour or so. Don’t worry, mate.”
At this point, Lando is so ready to offer a private yoga session, practically bursting at the seams because hearing Oscar’s back crack and pop makes him want to cry, but he chooses to save face and fetch his cello instead. But, oh, how he’d love to show Oscar how flexible he is!
Lando trips over thin air, and he nearly trips again when Oscar steadies him with a firm hand on his shoulder. Holy forearms.
“Whoa, you okay?”
“Ahaha, never better. Time for Rite of Spring?”
“Time for Rite of Spring.”
Oh, and Oscar in concert blacks? Absolutely phenomenal. Life-changing, even.
The first time Lando invites Oscar to his flat after a long day of rehearsals is to watch Star Wars, of all things. He would’ve liked it to perhaps be for a different reason, but Oscar insisted.
So they’re going to have a nine-movie marathon.
“I’m not a sci-fi lover, mate,” Lando protests on the Tube. “There’s no reason for me to have watched it before.”
Oscar makes a face. “You never watched it just because it was popular? Wait, have you at least ever listened to the soundtrack before?”
“Ah… well, you see…”
“Lando.”
“Oscar,” Lando whines. “I was just gonna sight-read it during rehearsal anyway. You’ve been spending too much time with that American boy.”
“You mean Logan?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Oh, this has nothing to do with him. My dad runs a vehicle diagnostic company, so of course, he made me and my sisters watch all the movies and pointed out all the inaccuracies when we were younger.”
Lando pouts at him and asks, “So you’re going to do the same thing to me?”
“Nope. I don’t know enough about the technicalities to care,” Oscar replies, “It’s all just fictional anyway.”
“You’re such a nerd, Osc.”
Oscar rolls his eyes.
The moment Lando enters his flat, he announces, “You can do whatever you need with my laptop. Password’s my birthday—that’s thirteen-eleven-nineteen. I’m going to change and then order us spring rolls.”
“Spring rolls?”
“Don’t judge me, mate. I like them.”
Lando disappears into his bedroom as Oscar stands his cello up against the wall next to Lando’s, tentatively sits on the couch, and reaches for the laptop on the coffee table.
Only when Lando is safely behind a closed door does he freak out about having Oscar in his flat with a mere wall between them. And Oscar’s going to be staying at least overnight to finish nine fucking movies with him. And he did that out of his own volition! He’s willingly spending time with Lando!
Thank fuck there’s no rehearsal tomorrow. Lando doesn’t particularly enjoy getting his ears blasted off by the brass section, Fernando in particular, after pulling an all-nighter.
And then he starts freaking out all over again because what if Oscar ends up falling asleep on him?!
“Took you long enough,” Oscar says, twisting his head around. His eyes immediately stray to the hem of Lando’s shorts.
“I like being comfortable,” Lando defends as he crosses his arms across the front of his softest hoodie and sits down next to him on the couch. “And I’m allowed to be comfortable in my own home.”
Oscar doesn’t say anything, gaze still fixed on the stretch of thigh above Lando’s knees. And then he clears his throat. “I believe I was promised spring rolls.”
The spring rolls arrive shortly after the words to the first movie finish scrolling, and Lando gestures for Oscar to sit on the rug with him, so they can use the coffee table. Like everything else, he didn’t think this through enough, and now, he’s suffering the consequences.
Lando shoves a spring roll into his mouth to stop himself from thinking about Oscar’s leg pressed right up against his own. What’s worse is that Oscar smells nice too. If Lando’s not careful, he’s going to end up with his nose shoved into the crook of Oscar’s neck and rub his face against him like a cat, and they’re nowhere near close enough for that.
Spiritually, he means. Metaphorically. Whatever.
It’s way past midnight when Lando wakes up, confused at how he managed to sleep through all the sounds his laptop is making. And then one of the little guys in the movie says his name, and he jumps, startled.
That’s when he realizes exactly where he was sleeping, if the groan that his nice, warm pillow underneath his cheek lets out isn’t indication enough.
“This is… so embarrassing for me,” Lando mumbles, hurriedly moving away from Oscar. He hides his face in the collar of his hoodie, only peeking at his laptop when Han Solo says his name again.
“Wha-?” Oscar blinks once, twice, and finally registers what’s going on. He shrugs, way more nonchalant about it than he should be. “Oh, yeah, you fell asleep after what, your seventeenth spring roll? I didn’t want to wake you up, so, uh, I just decided to sleep too.”
Lando makes a noise. “Fuck, we missed a whole hour.”
He rewinds the movie, fingers tapping the back arrow quickly, even though he knows that there are way more efficient ways to do it.
“I mean, are you going to fall asleep again?” Oscar asks. “Because it’s probably not worth trying to stay awake if you are. I can go.”
“Don’t be stupid, Osc. It’s fuck knows when in the morning. Sleep here. We'll continue tomorrow- I mean, later today.”
Oscar’s mouth closes with a snap, allowing Lando the time to think about how he has just the one bed and this old, lumpy couch. He raises an eyebrow, as if to communicate, See? and Lando won’t have that at all.
“I’ll sleep on the couch. You’d like my bed.”
“Weird of you to say, but I’m not letting you sleep on the couch. It’s your bed.”
“Seriously, take the bed, mate. Your back’s already fucked enough as is,” Lando insists, although he doesn’t exactly want to give up his precious, fluffy bed either. “Or share with me. I don’t care.”
Oscar’s cheeks redden as he chokes out, “You’re strangely fixated on my back.”
“And it was generous of you to fixate on that part of what I said,” Lando mutters to himself. “Come on. But take a shower. You smell disgusting.”
“Thanks.”
Lando must be a lot more tired than he thought because as soon as his head hits his pillow, he dozes off. When he feels a weight sink into the other side of the bed, he immediately shuffles closer to the source of warmth, uncaring in his exhaustion. Oscar smells like his shampoo, and in a borrowed hoodie and sweats, he’s like a cuddly teddy bear that Lando can’t help but wrap his arms around while half-asleep.
Oscar doesn’t immediately push him away, so perhaps he’s okay with cuddling too.
Cuddling isn’t usually something that people who are only meant to be stand partners do, not that stand partners usually spend extensive amounts of time together either, but Lando doesn’t question it, too happy and satisfied with Oscar’s presence surrounding him to do anything but fall asleep again.
They end up finishing their movie marathon when they wake up again. Neither of them mention the cuddles.
“God, that’s exhausting,” Lando bemoans, collapsing against Oscar after a long concert. He feels drunk, loopy off of nothing but his own banging headache and the adrenaline of finishing a performance. “I can’t wait for Rach- Rach… help.”
“Rachmaninoff,” Oscar supplies helpfully. “Yeah, me too. Star Wars is always fun, but I feel like my head’s stuck between Guanyu’s cymbals right now.”
The mere image that paints is painful. Lando shakes his head and covers his ears a bit too dramatically.
“What else is in the repertoire for next week?” he asks.
“Some modern piece, I think.” Oscar frowns at his phone. “The lunchtime concert’s full of Baroque stuff.”
Lando makes a face. Baroque music isn’t his favorite, but he likes all music, so this really just means that he enjoys playing Telemann and Bach slightly less than Rimsky-Korsakov or Borodin.
“Hey, Osc?”
“Mm?”
“What’s your favorite era of music?”
“Romantic, probably,” Oscar answers immediately, and Lando teases him, making obnoxious kissing noises at him. “And just because of that, Impressionist.”
“Ooh, you like Debussyyyy,” Lando ribs, all while internally cringing at his own botched pronunciation of Debussy’s name. He pokes Oscar’s reddening cheek for good measure.
“Are you done?”
Lando laughs gleefully, his headache long forgotten.
Oscar is unfortunately great with kids.
Okay, that’s actually a bit of an exaggeration. Lando loves the LSO Family Concerts at the Barbican, and it’s not only because his brother always brings his nieces over to attend them. He gets to witness Oscar awkwardly singing along with the little kids and their parents too.
It’s really cute.
If Lando wasn’t also busy belting out tunes too, he would definitely have his phone out and recording, just for his own camera roll. What he lacks in singing ability, he makes up for with confidence, even if it forces Oscar “I Went to Juilliard and I Have Perfect Pitch” Piastri to wince away from him on occasion. He can deal.
“Mister, are you a prince?” one kid asks, tugging on the sleeve of Oscar’s black button-down. “Your hair looks like a prince’s.”
“Um, n-”
“Yes!” Lando interrupts, instinctively reaching up to cover Oscar’s mouth with one hand and combing through Oscar’s hair with his other, fluffing the princely swoop of it. He nearly loses his balance in his enthusiasm, but Oscar steadies him with an arm hovering near his waist. “He’s a good and diligent prince, who practices cello every day. It’s important to practice daily because that's how you can become as good as Oscar. And then he can serenade all the princesses and princes, and they’ll all fall in love with him!”
Oscar gives him a look, a flat one that conveys, What the actual fuck? but Lando ignores him in favor of cooing at the little kid and bending down to give him a hug with one last promise that if he practices hard too, he too can become a prince who makes everyone fall in love with him.
“So does that mean you’re in love with him?”
“So what’s your preferred fingering?”
“Oh my god, how forward of you, Oscar!” Lando gasps. “Well, I prefer one first, and then, when I’m relaxed and comfortable, two, three, and maybe even four- what?”
Oscar’s face, neck, and ears are all a bright red, and it looks like he’s sweating too. He wipes his hands on his jeans and adjusts his cello, quite possibly to hide the other big wood between his legs. “Um, I-”
“Oh! You meant for the music! Well, in that case, you still start with one for the D and then go to fourth and then thumb for tenor clef.”
“… thanks.”
“Hmm, that probably didn’t sound any better, did it?”
“Nope.”
It all comes to a head about three days before the last concert of the year. Lando’s head has been swimming with various tunes from The Nutcracker, and he’s looking forward to having a month away from LSO St. Luke’s and the Barbican.
But first-
“I’ll be right back. Feel free to make yourself at home.”
Lando stares at the posters in Oscar’s studio, chewing on a fingernail. When he found out that Oscar followed him on Instagram, he didn’t realize just how closely Oscar followed him. There are LSO posters dating all the way back to 2019, the first season he performed in as an official member.
And he knows it’s not just because Oscar might really like the London Symphony Orchestra. What other reason is there for the programs tacked to the wall, all flipped to the page with Lando’s name on it, highlighted, circled, with little hearts drawn around it? That last part isn’t true, but it might as well be.
This all makes him feel slightly insecure.
What if Oscar had some idea of him prior to meeting him, and his carefully crafted image of him all came crashing down after? Lando still cringes when he thinks about their first rehearsal as stand partners, and while he doesn’t often doubt his abilities as a musician, he can’t help but wonder if he has ever disappointed Oscar with his playing. He's good, but he isn't role model good.
And his brash assumptions about Oscar when he had yet to open up to anyone, calling him cold and stoic and boring, when in reality, he’s been anything but? It’s a wonder that Oscar forgave him so quickly after overhearing him when he was whining to George.
But they’re friends now, or at least friendly enough for Oscar to have invited him back to his flat to hash out some technical details.
“Thinking that hard can’t be good for you, mate,” Oscar says from behind him, voice tinged with amusement. “You haven’t even put your cello down.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
A sigh.
“So… what’s on your mind, Lando?”
“Nothing, just.” Lando looks at Oscar, properly looks at him, and his next breath leaves him in a loud exhale. Of course, Oscar’s gaze is gentle, warm. “I haven’t been the best stand partner this season, have I?”
Taken aback, Oscar raises his eyebrows. “What? No, you’ve been fine.”
“You know that’s not true,” Lando says, scoffing. “What’s that they always say? ‘Never meet your heroes,’ or something like that? Oh God, not that I should be anyone’s hero at all.”
“Sure,” Oscar concedes after a beat of silence. For once, the silence is excruciating. “Never meet your heroes…” He’s suddenly mere millimeters away from Lando, and it floors him, just how much Oscar can occupy a space when Lando thought him to be insignificant in the past. “Never meet your heroes, unless you want to develop all-encompassing feelings for them. Positive feelings, for the record, in case you needed that clarification. Romantic, even.”
They were supposed to talk about music, but there’s only a faint buzzing noise in Lando’s head right now as his lips part in shock, and he stares up at Oscar through his lashes.
“‘Feelings?’” he repeats hoarsely, and the crazy part of him likens this moment to Strauss climbing the Alps and getting caught in a storm on the way down. “Don’t fuck with me, mate.”
“There’s really no reason to fuck with you,” Oscar replies. How the hell is he so calm about this? Right now? “And, like, you don’t have to return them, or anything, but I guess you should know.”
Is he insane?
Lando’s been drooling over him, his perfect stand partner, for the better part of the half year or so that they’ve spent together, and he thinks he isn’t going to return his feelings?
How stupid.
“I’ve probably put you on a pedestal before,” Oscar continues, oblivious to the absolute crisis that Lando’s going through at the moment, “and sure, it was pretty intimidating at first because you’re you, and then I let my nerves lead to a less-than-smooth start. Um, yeah. But it’s been really nice getting to know you as a person and not just a talented musician, and- and you smile at me now.”
Oh.
The storm that’s been whirling around in Lando’s gut settles, replaced by a small, bashful smile. It’s like the sunset from An Alpine Symphony.
“Yeah, just like that.”
His voice is soft and fond, washing over Lando and making him want to curl up inside it.
The fact that Oscar likes him back hits him all over again, and he blushes, hurriedly covering his face with his hands and letting out a little muffled scream. He rarely, if ever, gets this flustered, and it’s worse when Oscar laughs at him, pulling him into a hug. The fact that he’s even comfortable enough with Lando to do that is crazy.
“Hey, I still have no idea what you’re thinking.”
Flailing a little in Oscar’s arms, Lando wails, “Of course, I fucking like you too, you muppet! Why do you think I care so much about how you perceive- mmh!”
Immediately, he deflates, the tension leaving his body in an instant when Oscar closes the gap between them, pressing their lips together. His hands are gentle when they move to rest at Lando’s waist, tentative, despite how forward he’s been up until now.
The kiss is chaste and far too short for Lando’s liking, and he involuntarily whines when Oscar pulls away too fucking soon.
“Oscar,” he mumbles, so close to begging him for kisses, of all things.
“God,” Oscar sighs against his lips. “If someone told eighteen-year-old me that I’d be kissing one of the best cellists in the world, I’d tell them to punch me in the face to knock me out of my delusions.”
Still blushing, Lando tugs at his sleeve impatiently. “That’s all good and flattering, Osc, but you haven’t been kissing me quite enough for that yet.”
The hands on his waist tighten, making him gasp. And then he loses the ability to breathe altogether when Oscar pushes him up against the wall, right next to the Stravinsky poster from the first concert set of their first season together.
It’s kind of fitting, isn’t it?
Fernando’s buzzing his mouthpiece, Pierre and Esteban are trying to outdo each other rather loudly, Yuki’s instrument is still taller than him, Alex and Logan are deep in conversation, Lewis is literally making a new reed while George is busy licking his as another one soaks in his little cup, Charles is still tuning his viola, and Guanyu is going nuts on the bass drum as Valtteri picks the triangle up and does the same.
And of course, Lando is playing his scales. He pauses when a rock stop is dropped onto the floor by his right foot.
“Same Osc, new season.”
Oscar sits down next to him, devastating with his little smile and the way he flips his hair out of his face as he tightens his bow and pulls his end pin out. “Well, I have a boyfriend this time, don’t I?”
“I think, in a way, you’ve had me since the beginning of last season too, Mr. Perfect Stand Partner.”
Lando flips their folder of music open and beams when he sees the name emblazoned across the first page.
“More Stravinsky?”
“You better loosen up and get groovy again, darling!”