Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Lando was an early riser.

For some reason, that fact tended to surprise people. They’d look at him and his white Monster and his protein bar and his sweatshirt and sweatpants and, apparently, not clock him as someone who liked to rise with the sun, or whatever. That was fine, honestly. He didn’t really care about whether people thought he was a night owl or early bird, or whatever the sayings were. He had classes to worry about, his Twitch channel to come up with content for, housemates to annoy, all that jazz.

Speaking of—

He looked over at his new roommate, still dead to the world, only his swoopy, light brown hair visible above his boring grey-blue blanket. Daniel had found his own place across campus, closer to the business and engineering buildings and further from the media and journalism buildings, and the Grid. The not-quite-frathouse, affectionately called the Grid by all current and former inhabitants, was not technically an official university fraternity house, but the Grid was so well-established at the school that it basically… was? There were articles about it in the school newspaper, at least, like the time a few years ago that all the inhabitants TP’d the vice principal’s house in protest against the decreased support for international students. The Grid tended to be pretty international, at least in all the time Lando had known about it.

That, in turn, led to its secondary nickname: the International (frat)House of Pancakes, or IHOP. Or IFOP, as Lewis tended to correct because he believed that the “frathouse” part of the name deserved to be included in the abbreviation even though the restaurant chain was called IHOP and not IFOP and—anyway.

Anyway, Daniel left, and Lando spent almost the entire month of January with no roommate, the other twin bed in the small attic room bare. Oscar, initially, was supposed to be rooming at Alpine, the predominantly-French uni building not far from Dan’s new place. That fell through, or something, and then Logan told Lando that Oscar was applying to live at the Grid. According to his application, Oscar was an engineering student like Max, but apparently was double-majoring in journalism, too, which was cool. With Lando in journalism and minoring in social media literacy, he thought that maybe they’d have a bit in common.

He thought wrong.

Oscar efficiently moved all of his stuff into the room in under two hours. Lando watched from the couch in the living room as Oscar and a tall, broad-shouldered, vaguely familiar man with the squarest fucking face Lando had ever seen methodically brought in three plastic totes and one duffel bag from the Honda SUV parked in one of the two guest parking places in front of the house on the street (the garage and driveway being otherwise occupied). The pair then took the totes up to the room, Oscar slinging the duffel over his shoulder and carrying one tote while Mr Square Face took the other two.

Lando thought that was it, but then Oscar reappeared, bounded out to the car like he was auditioning for the track team, and came back in with a second duffel, a backpack, and a smaller plastic tote full of bubble wrapped somethings that he put on the kitchen island. Probably plates and stuff, then.

Lando migrated up to his room, curious despite himself. He smiled and waved at the pair when he entered, pretending to busy himself with his own backpack, still a mess from the previous semester. He had a collection of tests that he still didn’t know what to do with. His mum used to take them and sort them into folders, but after he went to uni, keeping non-essential academic papers was… less appealing. Lando had a drawer full of tests and stuff, though, and last semester’s collection would probably be joining the rest.

Oscar and Mr Square Face, whom Lando learnt was named Mark when Oscar addressed him (with a surprise Australian accent!), unpacked Oscar’s things fast. The rooms came with two beds, two desks, and two chests of drawers, plus two small closets set in the walls. Lando watched as Mark made Oscar’s bed with grey bedding, Oscar unpacking the duffels and putting clothes into his chest of drawers and tiny closet. His backpack rested on the chair for his desk, a small cup of pens and a stapler the only items gracing the desktop itself.

It took another fifteen minutes, not that Lando was counting, for the rest of Oscar’s things to be settled. A couple novels, a stack of textbooks, some charging cables, and a small figurine joined the stapler and cup of pens on the desk, and then Oscar rolled up the duffels and stuffed them up onto the shelf in the top of the closet alongside some spare linens and another grey-blue blanket.

And then Mark ruffled Oscar’s hair and left.

Right.

Lando’s roommate was a fucking enigma.

He held himself like he was trying to crack a walnut with his butt, spoke approximately five words each day (though Lando was slowly getting Oscar to warm up to him, and actually held several full conversations with the guy, so basically he was winning at life), occasionally mumbled to himself when working on homework at his desk, and was, frankly, extraordinarily disorganised. Lando wasn’t great, but he liked knowing which drawer held his socks and which held his athletic shirts. Oscar was a “shove it where it fits” kind of guy, and he never made his bed after getting up.

Well, Lando was usually gone before Oscar woke in the mornings, but when he got back from his afternoon classes and went up to the attic to change into yoga clothes for the class he taught at the university athletic centre, Oscar’s bed was always messy, covers thrown back and pillow sideways.

Lando wondered if people thought that Oscar was an early riser. Probably. People probably saw his stick-up-the-arse demeanour and decided that he was someone who went on runs at 5 am, or something.

This was not useful, Lando told himself, stretching and sitting up. He pulled himself out of bed and straightened his blankets before throwing on clothes and taking the stairs two at a time all the way down to the ground floor.

The Grid had three floors, plus an attic and a basement that flooded every other time it rained. The ground floor held a massive kitchen and living room, all open concept, with a bathroom that had an evil shower that only sprayed cold water. Charles and Carlos were on that floor, in the bedroom underneath the stairs. Lando lived with Carlos in that room for a while, before he decided he hated living under the stairs and moved up to the attic when George and Alex decided to move from the attic down to the second floor. Lando was joined by Daniel in the attic, who moved up there from his room with Max on the third floor. Lando still didn’t know what caused Dan to ditch Max, because they were kind of like “The Duo” of the Grid? Anyway, Charles came from one of the dorm halls on campus that everyone heard horror stories about, and Charles definitely had horror stories, but he still worked the front desk in that dorm hall, so clearly he wasn’t too traumatised. Or maybe it was a Stockholm Syndrome situation, who knew? He and Carlos got along like a house on fire, though, and they both spoke Italian, so they were sort of a roommate match made in heaven.

It also didn’t hurt that they had crushes on each other, though Lando was pretending he didn’t know that, for his own peace of mind.

The second floor had three bedrooms, two being big enough for two people and the other one being a single. Currently, the setup was George and Alex in the room at the front, Yuki and Pierre in the room at the back. and Logan Sargeant in the single between them. Logan was on academic probation because he missed a bunch of classes in his first year. Lando wasn’t actually sure what happened there? He knew Oscar, though, and was the one to approve Oscar’s application to move in when Lando was still a bit on-the-fence about it.

Yuki was in the culinary school, and he almost always cooked dinner for the house, unless he was pissed off about something, and on any given day the chance of Yuki being pissed off was, like, at least 25%. Pierre was in business, like Dan, and minoring in art history (the nerd). He worked at the art exhibition on campus, the one that displayed all of the fancy shit that the art students put together. Lando sometimes wrote articles about the new exhibits there for his journalism classes, always happy to put one of his housemates in the spotlight.

The third floor had the same room setup, with two doubles and a single. Max, in engineering, and Liam, a fashion student, were in the front, and Lance and Esteban were in the double in the back (business and chemistry, respectively). Lewis Hamilton, a fashion design graduate student who’d lived at the Grid for so long that Lando was sort of scared of what might happen if he left, was in the room in the middle facing west.

The attic was just him and Oscar.

It was sort of nice being so removed from the rest of the house, not that Lando ever felt alone. God, no. Sound carried in the house like nobody’s business, meaning that Lando could pretty clearly hear when Carlos and Charles got into an argument in the living room about the arrangement of the couches, which happened just about every-other party. Charles was an architect, and Carlos was a double major in graphic design and business. They had conflicting opinions with regards to the couches and armchairs, so everyone else just got used to the living room looking different every so often.

Lando pulled a white Monster out of the fridge and cracked it open. Charles, standing and glaring at his espresso machine, gave him a wave and a French-sounding noise that probably meant good morning.

Max thumped down the stairs, causing Carlos to call out something derogatory in Spanish from his room. Max shouted back in Dutch. It was their standard morning routine.

Lewis walked in the front door wearing running clothes. Lando’s mouth went a little dry, and he sipped his Monster and returned Lewis’ wave with one of his own.

Lewis was a bit of a celebrity on campus. He led several protests and demonstrations a couple years ago when the school refused to say anything about the rising anti-black sentiment in the student body, and he single-handedly raised the standard for all design majors after getting multiple deals with big-name designers that Lando couldn’t ever remember. He was also, crucially, drop-dead gorgeous. Lando was pretty sure that everyone in the house had had a crush on him at some point, and Lewis definitely knew, but he stayed kind and understanding and drop-dead gorgeous and smart and… okay, Lando, calm down.

Lewis greeted Roscoe when the bulldog trotted up to him, and Max, similarly, greeted his two cats when they ran over to him to yell for food.

Yup. Normal morning.

Esteban and Pierre thundered down the stairs, arguing in French about something that was probably football, or maybe business? Or art? Lando could never keep up with what they were mad at each other about that week.

If Lando, Charles, Max, George, and Lewis were the early risers of the house, then Esteban, Pierre, Logan, and Carlos were the… the medium-risers? Was there a word for people who woke up at a normal time? Anyway, they were the next wave. Then the late risers were Liam, Alex, Lance, Yuki, and Oscar. Lando actually didn’t know when that group woke up, because his first class was at 8:00 am, and they were almost never up when he left.

Anyway.

Esteban was on pancake duty, and he shooed Charles to the other side of the kitchen to wait for his stupidly-slow espresso machine to finish pulling a singular shot of espresso.

Lando liked this silly tradition, borne after the TP debacle. Daniel came up with it, which tracked, writing a pancake assignment chart next to the chore assignment chart. The next morning, he made enough pancakes to feed the whole block, or, perhaps, one house full of 14 extremely hungry college students.

The next day was, according to the story, Nico Hulkenberg’s turn, and he burnt two pancakes before getting the hang of it and making edible ones. As the story goes, he gave the burnt ones to Kevin Magnussen and ended up being chased down the street by one angry Dane brandishing two burnt pancakes and a broken plate.

Lewis took pictures and got them printed out, and they hung on the memory wall in the living room, in the place of honour above the mantle of the fireplace.

Hulk and Kevin ended up moving into a flat together afterwards when they both got into the school’s graduate kinesiology department. Lando was invited to the celebratory party that turned into a karaoke competition halfway through.

Good times.

Esteban was good at making pancakes, Lando quickly learnt after moving in. Daniel’s tradition lived on no matter how many people moved in and out (at one point the tradition was in jeopardy because a French student with no cooking experience set fire to most of the kitchen and almost himself, but then everyone had mandatory pancake-making lessons after that, so it was fine), but certain inhabitants were assigned to pancake duty more than others.

Esteban, despite claiming that he had no prior cooking experience, was very, very good at pancakes.

Lando accepted his plate and retreated to the living room to eat them as fast as possible—he had to leave soon. More footsteps on the stairs made him look up.

Oh.

Oscar stood at the foot of the stairs, hair in disarray, still in his pyjamas, his sweatpants slung so low on his hips that a strip of skin was visible between the waistband and the hem of his faded T-shirt.

Right behind him on the stairs stood Logan, looking characteristically stressed.

“C’mon, Osc, move,” Logan muttered, poking him.

Lando ate another bite of syrup-soaked pancakes and watched, along with half the rest of the house, as Oscar slung himself onto one of the barstools at the island and slumped onto his arms.

Logan shook his head and went to the fridge.

Lando couldn’t stop looking at the bit of skin on display. What the hell.

He glanced at his watch, then sipped his Monster, then looked at his watch again, wide-eyed. Fuck, he needed to leave now or he’d be late.

Max was in a similar state of distress, shoving his feet into still-tied shoes while shovelling pancakes into his mouth at an unholy rate. Lando slapped his half-finished plate on the counter by Oscar with a “sorry” directed to Esteban, who looked like he did not care in the least.

Oscar lifted his head and blinked at the plate. Lando knew he should be rushing, but he paused for a moment.

“You can finish them, if you want. I’m not going to be home until, like, three, so. Yeah.”

“Oh.” Oscar was still staring at the plate.

Lando had to go. “Yup. Right. Bye.”

He pulled on his trainers and bolted, Max barely a step behind them. Lando went left at the end of the street, Max went right, and all thoughts of Oscar and pancakes and swoopy, messy, light-brown hair left Lando’s mind as he raced for the media building.

~

Look. Oscar didn’t mean to fall in love with his roommate only four hours after meeting the guy.

Okay, well, let’s back up a bit.

Ever since he was little, Oscar had been called “well-behaved” and “reserved” and “quiet” and pretty much every other word that meant “almost dead fucking silent and painfully introverted.” And he was, for most of his life, dead fucking silent and painfully introverted. He didn’t have much to say about anything he didn’t find important, which was basically all things outside of family, cars, and Tim Tams. He had exactly one friend, then exactly two friends, no more and no less. Lily was sweet and understanding and talked more than enough for the both of them, and Logan was funny and thoughtful and really, really pretty.

Oscar figured out he was gay when he was 11 years old and confused about the jokes his parents made about him and Lily crushing on each other.

He didn’t really care about sexuality—his or other’s—and he never officially came out. At one point, he brought Logan home and introduced him as his boyfriend, and his parents had both nodded after a moment of shock and asked if Logan would like anything to eat or drink.

Oscar and Logan were together for a while before going back to being best friends, and they went to the UK together for boarding school when they had the opportunity. Logan didn’t like to talk about why he was in Australia to begin with, so all Oscar knew for a while was that his home life wasn’t great and it was best for everyone that Logan was in Australia and not in Florida.

England was pretty great, too.

They got into the same university, Logan in marketing and Oscar in engineering physics and journalism. That was reassuring, that they’d know each other still in a new, unfamiliar place.

Then Logan befriended this Thai-British guy, Alex Albon, and Alex said that there was room in his “house” if Logan needed a place to stay, and Logan accepted and asked if there was room for Oscar, and there was, but only after the first semester.

That was fine for Oscar. He had a flat in one of the buildings full of pretentious French people, sharing the space with a TA named Fernando who had the most bizarre working hours and acted sort of like a criminal, not that Oscar cared. A roof was a roof and a bed was a bed.

But he moved into Alex’s “house” which was apparently called the Grid, and also the International (frat)House of Pancakes? There wasn’t any sort of interview process besides the usual application, which had a little box labelled “able and willing to make pancakes in the morning on occasion” that probably had something to do with the IHOP nickname. Oscar checked the box, because he did know how to make pancakes, and forgot about it.

And then he met Lando, his roommate.

At first, he didn’t register the guy sitting on the couch in the living room as he and Mark carried things in from Mark’s SUV. He wanted to get out of the blistering cold as soon as possible, and Mark had to get back to his job at the mechanic’s before the guy he didn’t like, Sebastian or Stephen or whatever, told on him to their boss.

So Oscar was focused on that and not Guy On The Couch, until Guy On The Couch turned into Guy In His Room.

Oscar had just finished putting away his stuff when he turned and locked eyes with the prettiest person he’d seen since… well, ever, actually. Tan skin, curly brown hair, wide, easy smile, nebulous eyes—yeah, Oscar was kind of done for, at that point. He’d smiled his usual awkward smile, aware of the fact that he had all the expressiveness of a particularly mundane brick wall, or perhaps a stained mug with some sort of stupid slogan on it like “don’t talk to me before I’ve had my coffee.”

“Hey, I’m Lando. Lando Norris!” Pretty Guy said, holding out his hand, still grinning. Oscar could see white, minty-smelling gum held between his molars. Was that a weird thing to notice? Probably.

Oscar shook his hand. “Oscar Piastri. Your, uh, your roommate now, I guess.”

“Yeah. What’s your major, again?”

And listen, normally Oscar avoided small talk like the plague. He was really good at getting out of conversations he didn’t want to be in, and he had a prepared list of excuses for when he wanted to leave an awkward situation.

But Lando Norris asking him his major didn’t really feel like small talk. It felt… well, it felt genuine, like Lando actually wanted to know.

“Engineering physics and journalism. I’m, uhm, I’m double-majoring.”

“Oh, wow. Busy then, huh? Why engineering?”

They spent the next four or so hours talking about their respective majors and choices and childhoods and interests and just about everything else under the sun. At least, that’s what it felt like to Oscar. He hadn’t talked this much in his life, surely, not even when he and Logan got high and reminisced about their karting times.

By the time Lando looked at his watch and cursed and ran out, yelling about yoga, Oscar was a goner. Totally, completely done for. He’d fallen for his roommate, for Lando Norris, and there was nothing to be done.

He’d just have to deal with it.

Unfortunately, “just deal with it” was easier said than done.

In that first month rooming, Oscar learnt a lot about Lando. First, Lando got up at the crack of too-fucking-early-in-the-morning. While he was usually pretty quiet—getting out of bed and putting on clothes that were honestly barely a step up from pyjamas—some days, Oscar would wake up when Lando accidentally kicked his bed frame and blink as Lando hopped around clutching his foot, cursing, or see him disappear down the stairs, always taking them two at a time. Most of those days, he could fall back asleep pretty quickly, getting another couple hours of shut-eye before he had to get up and go to class.

Some days, though, he tossed and turned until he had to get up and go down to the second floor to Logan’s room and flop onto his best friend’s bed to watch him work. Then, only after Max and Lando, and Pierre (on Wednesdays), and George (on Thursdays) went to their 8:00 am classes, Oscar went down to the kitchen to get some pancakes.

Lando in the mornings was cute. It was very inconvenient for Oscar.

But he dealt. Logan told him that even when they were dating, he never knew what Oscar was really thinking or feeling except in extreme situations. Besides the high-highs and low-lows, Oscar was a bit… let’s say inexpressive.

In this case, that was in his favour. No one knew about his tiny (massive) crush (by this point, definitely more than a crush) on Lando Norris, least of all Lando himself.

At least, that’s what Oscar thought.

As he worked his way through the pancakes that Lando left, rushing out the door with Max (it was a Monday, so Pierre’s first class was at 11 am and George had no classes, just an afternoon lecture), Lewis slid onto the stool beside him.

Esteban had disappeared back up the stairs for his online class, Charles had taken a plate of pancakes into his room for Carlos, and everyone else had dispersed, leaving the two of them relatively alone.

Oscar eyed Lewis suspiciously.

“So,” Lewis began, tapping his tattooed fingers on the counter top, “Lando, huh?”

Fuck. Oscar went through the five stages of grief and settled reluctantly on acceptance as he turned his body towards Lewis. “Yeah,” he sighed, forlorn.

Lewis nodded sympathetically. “You’ll be okay man.”

“Says you,” Oscar shot back before his brain-to-mouth filter could catch up.

Luckily, Lewis just laughed, his “hehehe” giggling more than enough to raise Oscar’s spirits again.

Lewis stood, clapping Oscar on the shoulder in a friendly bro-manner. “I’m here if you need to talk, man. I know it’s rough.”

“Yeah. Right. Thanks.”

And Lewis left, scooping up his bulldog and heading up the stairs cooing at Roscoe like he hadn’t just left Oscar’s head spinning.

Pierre appeared at the door to the basement, an armful of laundry hiding most of his body. “Lewis, huh?” he said understandingly. “We’ve all been there.”

And then Pierre, too, disappeared upstairs.

Oscar clunked his head back down onto the counter top.

This is why he usually slept in

~

“Alex. Alex, you need to get up.”

Alex did not want to get up. He was sinfully comfortable, warm, sleepy, and it was just cold enough outside of his covers that the prospect of leaving his bed sounded like abject torture.

“Up, come on, if you miss this class you know you’ll get a passive-aggressive email from the professor, mate.”

“Don’t mate me,” Alex said.

George made a small scoffing noise. “That’s what you respond to?”

“Georgie.” Alex held out the last syllable until a pillow whacked down on his head. He couldn’t contain his laugh and finally rolled over and opened his eyes, blinking into the light coming in from the window.

George, clad in pyjama pants and what looked like Alex’s ugly Christmas sweater from last year’s Christmas party, looked positively radiant in the morning light. He was sitting on the edge of Alex’s bed, hair perfectly mussed, blue eyes sparkling.

Fucking hell. No one should look that good this early in the morning.

George laughed. “You should see yourself then.”

Oh, Alex said that out loud. Whoops.

“You know, it’s Esteban’s turn for pancakes.” George sounded faux-casual, but Alex could hear the smug bite in his tone.

And fuck, it worked. Alex stretched and sat up, groping around his bedding for the socks he yanked off in the middle of the night when they got too annoying. He pulled them on, wrapped his blanket around his shoulders, kissed George good morning, and went to get pancakes.

He never missed Esteban pancakes.

Oscar was slumped on the kitchen island, maybe asleep, maybe having some sort of crisis. Carlos, in biking gear, was poking him with a pencil, phone on the counter as he undoubtedly waited for a response from Valtteri, his biking buddy and former member of the Grid. He waved at Alex and then went right back to the poking.

Okay then.

Alex pulled a few pancakes from the stack kept warm on the back of the stove. An empty plate of former-pancakes rested at Oscar’s elbow, so Alex grabbed that and put it in the dishwasher, where a row of similarly-syrupy plates stood already.

Two forks later, because George would beg for a bite until Alex gave in, Alex headed back upstairs. Carlos had stopped poking Oscar, mainly because he was glaring at Carlos like a cat contemplating the best way to get away with murder, and was now quickly typing on his phone. Oscar gave Alex a half-hearted wave and then returned to his glaring.

Only a month into the semester and those two already had a fantastic little rivalry going on. That was probably a record?

Alex dodged Logan thundering down the stairs, backpack slung over one shoulder, and finally made it back to his and George’s room, pancakes intact and blanket undisturbed from his shoulders.

“Has Yuki gotten up yet?” Alex asked, flopping onto his bed and crossing his legs.

George didn’t look up from his law textbook. “Not sure. I didn’t see him when I was down there earlier. How many pancakes were left?”

Alex thought about it, chewing a mouthful of delectable pancake. “He must be still asleep, then.” Esteban always made extra so that Yuki could trial multiple. He was trying to reverse-engineer Esteban’s recipe, because Esteban, the over-achiever that he was, didn’t use the box mix that almost everyone else resorted to. (Lewis had a vegan recipe that tasted like cinnamon and home, and Oscar was surprisingly adept at crepes, so when he deigned to get up early enough to cover his shift, he made those and not the thicker pancakes that the rest of them did.) Yuki made good pancakes, too, but he was rather fixated on Esteban’s secret recipe. Esteban made extra to help Yuki figure it out. He was nice like that.

Alex liked to make sure that Yuki didn’t sleep in too late, or else he’d miss pancakes (which was always a travesty but especially on Esteban mornings). He’d also have to miss out on his usual morning exercise, and that would make him cranky for the rest of the day, and if he was cranky, then the chances of him making dinner for everyone went down, like, at least 20%. So Alex took on the self-appointed job of Get Yuki Up. The job execution would wait until after his own pancakes, though.

George hummed and looked up, eyeing Alex’s plate keenly.

Alex held out his extra fork and the plate over the small gap between their beds.

George accepted both.

In the silence of the morning, Alex thought that he would never get bored of George, or the Grid, or their always-entertaining morning routines.

~

Lance woke up and listened to Esteban’s professor talk about… something. The tinny sounds of Esteban’s laptop speakers was a common wake-up alarm for Lance, to the point where it was kind of becoming a problem? It was Pavloving him, or something. They were watching a YouTube video the other day and Lance was so awake and alert he had to take melatonin to fall asleep that night.

Anyway.

He stretched and rolled over in bed, almost-but-not-quite tumbling off of his bed in the process. Stupid twins. One of these days, Lance would sit down with Charles and figure out a way to give everyone double-size beds, even if it meant knocking down walls and reorganising the current bedroom setup. Charles would probably agree, too, and then all Lance would have to do would be text his dad about it.

“Pancakes are on your desk,” Este said softly.

Lance said thank you into his blanket and didn’t move for another solid minute, until a student in Este’s class asked something and made the speakers ring with feedback. Then he sat up and grabbed the plate—still warm. With a lecture on organic chemistry in the background, Lance ate his pancakes.

He checked his phone, noting that Pierre had sent a text to the Grid group chat about them being low on laundry detergent. There was a period of time when everyone supplied their own, but then the Detergent Debate of 2019 caused Max and Charles to almost implode the internal relationships of the Grid, and Lance decided that he would get all of their laundry necessities alongside covering groceries, to keep the peace.

Lance liked that he could do things like that.

He wasn’t the most outgoing of the current Grid inhabitants, not like Charles or Carlos or Lewis. He liked his solitude, and he liked his Esteban, and he was self-aware enough to know that his social awkwardness deterred most people from getting close to him. He tried to show his appreciation for his housemates in other ways, then. His first year, that was through getting takeout every Friday, and then takeout every Friday turned into covering groceries when he thought he could get away with it, and then that turned into the official setup they had. There was a magnetic whiteboard attached to the fridge that held an ongoing list of groceries (though people often stuck sticky notes to the fridge instead of using the whiteboard), and Lance would buy them every other week, or really whenever he noticed something new added. Necessities like detergent, dishwasher pods, milk, and pancake mix were immediate buys, though.

Lewis told him once that he didn’t have to single-handedly cover groceries for everyone. Lance actually laughed in Lewis’ face, then, before feeling bad about laughing.

“I want to,” Lance said, “I’m doing it because I want to. It’s not—I don’t feel, like, obligated to.”

Lewis accepted that, and after a while, he stopped trying to wire Lance money. Lance got that enough from his dad, who, bless his heart, was rather a bit out-of-touch with regards to just how much money was reasonable for one university student.

I have enough time to run to the store before classes, he thought, glancing at his phone and dragging himself out of bed to change out of his pyjamas. He could get detergent now, and then place a grocery order to be delivered when Yuki got home from cooking class.

“Headed out to the store,” Lance told Esteban, who was doodling scribbles in the margins of his org chem notebook. The hexagonal pattern was pretty mesmerising.

“Okay. Have fun,” Esteban replied, looking up when Lance brushed a hand across his shoulders, heading for the door.

“Always do.” Lance grinned.

He wasn’t lying when he said that. Maybe he wasn’t outgoing like some of the others, or big on hugs like Lando, or stupidly smart like Max, but he did enjoy providing for the Grid.

~

All of the art-related buildings were clustered right to the north of campus, sandwiched in between the sprawl of business to the east and the massive music building that tripled as a concert hall, auditorium, and conference space to the west.

Charles jogged up the main steps towards his building, tugging his wool coat tighter as a gust of wind whipped down the thin corridor that the two buildings on each side of him created. One was a painting studio, he knew, and the other might’ve been something to do with digital art? He’d never been in there, but Carlos had a class in there on Wednesdays, at the same time that Charles had his blueprint class.

Today, though, Charles was TA-ing the introductory architecture class that was 50% “here’s what not to do” and 50% “draw a design and your peers will rip it to shreds while you try not to cry.” It was pretty good for filtering out the people who weren’t passionate about architecture or design, but Charles still had nightmares. When he applied to be a teacher’s assistant, he sort of expected to get one of the intro to design classes, because those were the softballs that non-majors could take to fill out their general requirements. Intro to architecture was also a non-major class, but there were enough horror stories about it that most non-majors steered clear. But, when Professor Prost reached out and asked for him specifically to TA the architecture class, Charles screamed a little and then accepted, because being Prost’s TA was every architecture student’s dream.

Charles slipped into the classroom, closing the door quietly behind him. He peeled off his wool coat and headed for the little desk in the corner meant for TAs and the administrative people who came in once per semester to assess the class. A few students were already there, spread out amongst the giant tables overlaid with graph paper that they used for their designs. Ollie Bearman, a first year with an unshakably positive attitude, smiled and waved at Charles from the table in the front. Next to him sat little Kimi Antonelli, who always looked about two seconds away from quitting the class.

They were still early enough in the semester that quitting wouldn’t show up on transcripts, but Charles knew that Kimi had a massive crush on Ollie, so he expected the kid to get at least halfway through the semester before bailing. Kimi was in physics, taking the architecture class to fill one of his requirements. Technically, Prost did talk about the logistics of building design from an engineering standpoint. Obviously, if your design couldn’t actually exist in real life, it wasn’t a good design. Kimi got into quite a few arguments with Prost over it. Charles considered bringing popcorn to the class, as the arguments were guaranteed free entertainment, but Prost had a strict “no messy foods in the classroom” policy that apparently included popcorn, so.

Charles got out his tablet and flicked through the designs he’d been grading. Students filtered into the classroom over the next five minutes, before Prost entered, quietly as always, and stole the attention of everyone in the room.

Alain Prost was a tenured professor at the university who got into arguments every other Sunday with one of the tenured engineering professors, Ayrton Senna. They had an ongoing debate over the best building material to use—or something like that, Charles never fully listened to their arguments—and were often seen walking around campus together, bickering and greeting students in the same breath. Few people had both professors, given that Prost was in the art department and Senna was in engineering, but architecture students had to take classes in both departments, meaning that they were prime subjects for both professors to interrogate about the other.

Charles vividly remembered the engineering class he had with Max in his first year. When Professor Senna learnt that he was in architecture, he—rather casually—asked if Charles had any classes with Prost. Charles did, and at that point in his academic career, he was not yet aware of the rivalry between the two. He said yes. For the entire semester, Senna constantly bothered him about whether Prost said anything about Senna. It was sort of endearing in a weird way, but most annoying.

Prost was quite short, but he had a presence about him that easily commanded every room he entered. He wasn’t loud or particularly mean, but he was strict, no-nonsense, and expected the best from each and every one of his students. Charles loved him to bits and pieces, and they often spoke French over the heads of the students during in-class brainstorming sessions.

Charles stood and started moving about the room as the students brought out their designs that they were supposed to work on over the weekend. Ollie’s looked quite promising, Kimi’s was just on the cusp of being physically impossible to build, and everyone else looked like they wanted to cry already.

Prost clapped his hands together and began speaking.

~

Despite what his housemates might think, Max did not, in fact, have an 8:00 am class on Monday and Wednesday mornings.

At the beginning of the semester, he’d left alongside Lando and went over to the east side of campus to meet up with Daniel for coffee and a much-needed debrief post-winter-break. Everyone just sort of… assumed that he had a class. Max never said anything to convince them otherwise. He knew, of course, that no one would judge him for meeting up with Daniel for coffee. Everyone loved Daniel, and when he announced that he was moving across campus, they threw him a going-away party of such proportions that Max was pretty sure everyone was still a little hungover.

So it wasn’t like Max was scared of being judged.

He wasn’t.

Okay, maybe he was, a little. He just didn’t see why it was any of their business what he did on Monday and Wednesday mornings! It’s not like he outright lied, and no one ever directly asked about what he was doing, what class he was going to, so it was fine.

Daniel pulled Max into a tight hug, almost lifting him off his feet, when he got to the student-run cafe that served all of the ever-exhausted engineering, physics, and chemistry students. Max sat at their usual table, an Americano already waiting for him next to Daniel’s always-changing order of some kind of latte that had too much milk and too much syrup.

“Thanks,” Max said, dragging the Americano closer to him and allowing the warmth of the drink to defrost his fingers. He’d forgotten his gloves that morning, made late because of Esteban’s pancakes.

“Course, mate,” Daniel said, sipping his sugary coffee and leaning back in his seat, always casual, always smiling.

Well, usually smiling.

Max hadn’t wanted to say anything last semester, when Daniel’s smiles turned brittle and fixed, when Max knew he was struggling with the graduate programme he was in and with the idiot professor who wanted Daniel gone from the department for some stupid fucking reason. Max hated Helmut Marko with a burning passion, and he’d never even met the man. The way Daniel talked about him, though, made him think that the guy was some sort of Satan-incarnate, sent to earth to torture Dan and other business students.

Then again, Daniel probably felt the same about Max’s advisor, Christian Horner, so they were about even in terms of murderous intent towards authority figures.

Daniel asked about his discrete maths class, and Max talked and waited for the ever-present tension in Dan’s shoulders to slowly seep out, sip by sip, word by word. Max was good at talking. He wasn’t good at a lot of things, but he was good at talking, good at distracting Daniel from his worries.

They went back and forth, exchanging anecdotes, until Daniel checked his phone and sighed softly.

“We’ve got to get going now,” he said, and Max wanted to chuck his phone across the room and say No, stay with me here, please, because the tension had returned to his shoulders and Max couldn’t bear to see Daniel unhappy, not like this.

Instead of saying that, though, or reaching across the table to pull him close and kiss him, Max just nodded, draining the rest of his Americano and standing up. He shouldered his bag and took their cups back to the counter while Dan collected his things. Together, they walked north. Dan’s class started a couple minutes before Max’s, because the science classes were on a slightly offset schedule from the rest of the school in order to allow student enough time to get from one side of campus to the other. It meant that Max could walk Dan to his building and then turn right back around and go to his own, without being late.

Daniel was saying something about his visit to New York City that winter break, with Lewis and a couple other graduate students who used to live at the Grid. Max just listened, until they got to Daniel’s building and had to part ways.

“Same time Wednesday?” Daniel asked, tone light-hearted but expression a little anxious, as though he was scared that Max might say no, that Max might say “actually I don’t want to see you every Monday and Wednesday morning.”

“Of course,” Max replied. “Wednesday.”

“Right. See ya, Maxy.” Daniel pulled Max into a side-hug and then jogged off, disappearing into the building.

Max stood there until someone brushed by him with a muffled “excuse me.” Then he turned and headed to his own class, thoughts of Daniel and New York City and Americanos waiting hot and ready swirling through his head.

~

Lando glared at his backpack, sitting on the slope of the hill leading down from the media buildings towards the student centre and dining hall in the middle of campus. To his left, a friend group set out a couple picnic blankets and were chattering away about their winter breaks. He watched them for a moment, envious of their spread of food, and went back to glaring at his backpack.

In his distraction and haste that morning, he’d forgotten to grab the sandwich he made the night before. He could picture it vividly in his mind, sitting wrapped in plastic on the shelf in the fridge next to Yuki’s latest attempt at beef ragu in a glass container.

Fuck.

He didn’t have time to go home and get it and come back and eat it, but he also didn’t have time after class to eat, because he had to get to yoga and only had enough time to change and grab his yoga bag.

Maybe, if one of the guys was still home, he could ask them to put the sandwich in his yoga bag?

Lando reached for his phone, pulling up the Grid group chat.

“Lando!”

His head shot up and swivelled around. Someone definitely just called his name, but he couldn’t tell from where. Did he imagine it—?

“Lando! Hey!” Oscar appeared from the crowd of students filing up and down the stairs set into the hill that led directly from the media building to the student centre.

And he was holding—he was holding Lando’s sandwich.

“Osc! Is that my sandwich?”

Oscar presented it to him. “Yeah, when I grabbed my lunch I noticed it still in the fridge. Thought I’d bring it to you.”

Lando grabbed it and started unwrapping it. “Thanks, mate, you’re a lifesaver.”

“Yeah, well.” Oscar rubbed the back of his neck, still standing awkwardly above Lando. “I know you don’t have, like, time, you know, before your class at the gym, so. Um, yeah.”

Right. Oscar knew that… how? He usually wasn’t home when Lando was flinging himself through the house racing against the clock. Pierre was, and he always laughed when Lando inevitably had to run up and down the stairs an extra time because he forgot something. Everyone else was either in classes or tucked away in their rooms. Oscar, Lando knew, had his photojournalism class during that time, on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.

“Thanks,” Lando said again, instead of something horrible like “how do you know that” or “why do you care if I eat.”

“No problem. Um, yeah, I’ll—I’m gonna go—” Oscar turned away, and before Lando could think, he reached out and grabbed his wrist.

“You don’t have to. C’mon, I know you have the same lunch break between classes that I do. Sit down, mate.”

Lando… actually didn’t know how he knew that, really. He and Oscar had never talked about their class schedules beyond the occasional “in my engineering class today…” or “my media literacy prof said…” so Lando didn’t actually know Oscar’s schedule for certain, but last week he’d seen Oscar climbing the stairs around this time, headed from the science section of campus towards the media section, and hadn’t Oscar mentioned once about eating his lunch, his stupid chopped salad, in the photography building because it had a nice view of the cherry blossom trees? They weren’t blooming, but even the bare branches were pretty.

Okay, so maybe Lando did know how he knew that Oscar had a break now. Weird.

Oscar looked genuinely surprised at the invitation. “Oh. Uh, sure. Thanks. Yeah.”

Lando refocused on his sandwich, painfully aware of the slight brush of Oscar’s shoulder against his as his roommate sat down on the grass and reached into his bag for the Tupperware of salad he always had for lunch. They ate in mostly-silence, broken by Lando pointing out when a particularly interesting person went by.

See, the thing was that Lando knew he wasn’t straight. You didn’t share a room with Carlos Sainz Jr. and not learn a couple of things about yourself. Or, honestly, Lando had things figured out by the second time he looked at George’s stupid, carved-from-marble face and went “oh, he’s pretty” so, like, he was quite comfortable in his sexuality, and stuff. He liked girls, he liked boys, he liked whatever, it was all good.

But Oscar was so… he was so different from anyone else Lando had found attractive. Carlos was all intense, dark features, Lewis was a god in human form, George had possibly the most expressive face Lando had ever seen. Even Lando’s baby crush on Max was based in the fact that the guy was so blunt it hurt, but still thoughtful as hell.

Oscar was very, very bland in comparison.

At least, that’s what Lando tried to tell himself as he brushed bread crumbs off of his coat. It was too cold for these thoughts, honestly. The weak, almost-March sun had tempted a lot of students out onto the green spaces on campus, but whenever the wind blew, just about everyone shivered and eyed the warm buildings around them for possible shelter.

The click of Oscar’s Tupperware closing brought Lando back out of his thoughts. Right. He still had one more class, then yoga, and then he could panic about his maybe-crush on his roommate.

Jesus Christ, what kind of idiot developed a crush on their roommate?

~

Oscar was such a fucking idiot.

He thunked his head down on the table and very pointedly did not scream into his folded arms. Next to him, Zhou Guanyu, a photography major and fashion minor, laughed at his anguish.

“Bad morning?” Zhou said, once Oscar had lifted his head back up.

“No, just—” he cut himself off. Zhou was nice, funny, a good listener, all the makings of a great friend. Oscar hadn’t talked to him much at first, not even when they were both in a photojournalism class last year being taught by Lewis and a very stoic, non-talkative Finnish guy whose name Oscar couldn’t remember. Oscar was silent, Zhou was scarily good at photography and had a lot of opinions on fashion (which is why he eventually picked up the fashion minor, at Lewis’ encouragement), and they didn’t talk.

Then they were in this class together, the history of photography, and Zhou seemed intent on dragging Oscar out of his self-imposed shell.

“Just—just a crush,” Oscar said, deciding that it would probably be good for someone to know about his crush. He couldn’t tell Logan, because Logan lived at the Grid, too, and was dealing with his own troubles, anyway. Zhou would be a good, neutral party.

“Rough,” Zhou said, sympathetic. “Do they not like you back, or…?”

“Well, he’s my roommate, to start with,” Oscar said, and yeah, it was just a stupid said aloud as it was in his head. Zhou winced. “And he definitely does not like me back.”

“How did that all happen?”

So Oscar told him about moving in and talking with Lando for four hours, how easy it was, how low-pressure it was. Oscar didn’t feel obligated to contribute, not with Lando seemingly capable of holding a conversation with a brick wall. Oscar was a great brick wall. But he also felt just as comfortable talking about himself, something that very rarely happened with complete strangers. And Lando was, unfortunately, exactly Oscar’s type. Handsome and pretty at the same time, funny, easy-going, smiley, smart, matching Oscar’s dry humour with his own often over-the-top jokes and mannerisms.

Zhou was a good listener, even as the class started and the droning of the rather lacklustre professor filled the room. He let Oscar get everything off his chest, humming and nodding and making understanding, sympathetic noises every so often.

“That really is rough, man,” he said, once Oscar finished his rambling story with a “so, yeah” and a shrug. “If you ever need to get out, I have a place right off campus with Val, close to the Grid, yeah? You know, we both lived there last year, when we were waiting for the lease on our place to start.”

Val, or Valtteri Bottas, was a student athlete who could often be seen cycling all over campus and leading tour groups around. Oscar knew that he used to live at the Grid, in the room that George and Alex now inhabited, but keeping track of all of the former inhabitants and moves that had been done was sort of impossible. George probably had a spreadsheet somewhere, keeping track of everything. Max, too, or maybe he just had it all memorised.

“Thank you,” Oscar said, genuine. Logan would be proud of him making another friend. Lily, too.

They took notes in silence for a few minutes before Zhou spoke again. “What is your schedule after this class?”

“Multivariable calculus, then writing and rhetoric, then nothing. You?”

“Ah, geography of art and then I am going to Schumi to work out.”

Schumi, or the Schumacher Athletics Centre, was the university’s gym that boasted two swimming pools, a whole floor of treadmills, stairmasters, and stationary bikes, multiple rooms of weightlifting equipment, a dance studio, and Lando’s yoga class. Oscar went every other evening, sometimes doing cardio and sometimes doing weights, always avoiding the mirrored room by the basketball court that held daily yoga sessions. Sometimes, when Logan was able to join him, they would do laps in the pool, the two of them racing each other or just going back and forth, enjoying the other’s company without needing to say anything.

“Did you want to come over after your last class? We could get a head start on this project.”

Oscar was not surprised by the invitation (why else would someone ask what your schedule for the day was?) but he was slightly surprised at the feeling that Zhou was being wholly genuine. He actually wanted to have Oscar over.

“Sure. I mean, I’d like to.”

“Great.” Zhou slid his phone over to Oscar, open to a blank contact. “I will text you the information, yeah?”

Oscar put in his number and texted himself from Zhou’s phone so he’d have his number.

It would be nice, he thought as he left the class to run across campus towards the mathematics building, to have another friend outside of the Grid.

~

The culinary school was not on campus with all of the other departments, not mixed in between business and art or whatever. It was technically an old offshoot of the university, stationed several train stops away from the main campus in a large, industrial-looking building that used to be a massive restaurant-office combination.

All of Yuki’s cooking classes were in the afternoon and evening, in order to give students adequate time to fill their general education requirements. Yuki, however, crammed almost all of his gen eds into his first year, meaning he could double up on the cooking classes without worrying about anything else. It was a suggestion from Pierre, actually, when Yuki was lamenting having to go from campus to the culinary school and back every day.

So, now in his second year, Yuki was able to waste away the morning sleeping, eating, and working out at Schumi, before getting his coat and knives and bag and taking the train three stops away to the culinary school.

He swayed slightly with the movement of the train, watching buildings pass and half-listening to a conversation between two of his fellow culinary students about the dessert section that just about everyone was struggling through.

The train car swayed again, and someone bumped into Yuki, almost sending both of them tumbling. He turned, mouth open to tell them off, and then paused.

“I am so sorry,” the guy said, French accent curling around his syllables the same way Pierre’s did. “I am not—I didn’t mean to.”

“It is fine,” Yuki said, shortly.

Isack Hadjar was a first year, Yuki knew, in food science and not the culinary school, but still taking a cooking class, probably to fill some sort of requirement or something. He was almost as short as Yuki himself, and he charmed just about everyone he talked to. Yuki was not exempt. Isack was weird, sort of loud, and very funny, and Yuki was weirder, louder, and just as funny, in his opinion. They were supposed to be paired together for some of the exec chef and sous chef lessons later in the semester, so Yuki held back the rude remark about looking where you’re going and let Isack’s semi-nervous chatter wash over him. He was smart, Yuki could tell, but somewhat unsure of his place in the food science track. Yuki wanted to tell him to just commit fully to the culinary school, science be damned, but they probably weren’t at that level of familiarity. Yet.

Half the car got off at the culinary school’s stop, students spilling out onto the platform and heading towards the ominous building a block away, visible from the raised track.

“You are a culinary student, yes?” Isack asked, interrupting himself and looking at Yuki closely.

Yuki nodded. “Second year.”

“And you—you like it? All of the…?” Isack made an all-encompassing sort of gesture.

“Yes,” Yuki said firmly. He did like it, truly. He knew his parents and some of his friends expected him to do something else, like business or media or maybe something in athletics, but to him, food was everything. You could say a million things with a single dish, pour all of your emotions into your creation, and not have to speak a single word. Yuki didn’t learn English the usual way, sitting in a classroom conjugating verbs or whatever. He learnt from cooks, sitting in the back of kitchens while his uncle rushed around giving orders and finishing plates. He picked up habits from those kitchens, saying “corner” and “behind” and “milk on the stove” when he didn’t actually know what any of those words really meant. Yes, cooking was everything. He couldn’t imagine doing anything else, really.

“Yes,” he repeated, when Isack still looked pensive. “I like it. It is—it is very fulfilling, you know? To make something for someone else, and knowing they enjoy it.”

Isack nodded. “Yes. Yes, it is.”

They entered the building then, everyone going off to their lockers to prepare for class. Yuki bumped against Isack’s shoulder, friendly, supportive, understanding, and got a smile in return. Maybe Isack would not need his convincing to stay in the culinary school for good, after all.

~

Esteban learnt that he got into the physical chemistry graduate programme two months ago. He’d been sitting on that information ever since, unsure of who to tell, and how. He wasn’t really close to his family, not after getting a scholarship and leaving to pursue his dreams at university. They weren’t—it wasn’t bad, but they just didn’t talk very often. Maybe his parents might like to know that he got into graduate school, or maybe they’d sigh and exchange a look and talk passive-aggressively about how he’d be away from home even longer if he did graduate school there and not in France.

Lance would want to know. Of that Esteban was sure. Lance put up with the late nights of studying for organic chemistry tests, the rants about how stupid quantum chemistry was, the stained lab coats that smelt like sulphur hanging on the back of their bedroom door.

Yes, he would want to know. Esteban just didn’t know how to tell him.

The current inhabitants of the Grid were a bit of an oddball group in terms of their spread of ages. When Esteban first moved in, in the second semester of his first year, there were second and third years living right alongside PhD and graduate students. Lewis was a fourth year, Max was a first year, Lance hadn’t moved in yet, Daniel was a third year, Nico and Kevin were sharing a room, Romain was talking about moving to the states, and Sebastian still dropped by every other Saturday to make sure their boiler hadn’t exploded yet, and then when it did explode, he came around to replace it, poking fun at Kimi, then sharing a room with an Italian student, and ruffling Esteban’s hair good-naturedly. At that point, Lewis wasn’t yet the celebrity that he was currently; no, Sebastian was. And now Seb worked at a local car mechanic shop and occasionally gave lectures to the engineering students, and those lectures drew literally hundreds of non-engineering-track people to the big lecture hall Seb used.

Anyway.

A lot had changed since Esteban first moved in, and he felt a little out-of-place, to be going into graduate school when guys like Oscar and Logan were only just moving in and working through their second year. Should he move out, like Daniel did? Lewis was still around, but he was Lewis, and Esteban was… well, Esteban was just Esteban.

Maybe it would be for the better if he announced his moving out when he told everyone about his graduate programme spot.

He could do it the next time he was on pancake duty. People liked him better on those days. He could get up early, too, earlier than even Lewis or Lando.

Yeah, that would be good.

He should still tell Lance first, though.

Esteban glanced over at the rumpled, empty bed across the room. Daniel had gifted a massive Canadian flag to Lance as a bit of a joke welcoming gift, and Lance pinned it to the wall above his bed so it was the first thing you saw when you entered their bedroom. When Esteban moved in a semester later, taking Hulk’s spot, he begged Lance to take it down, or at least move it to a different wall. Lance, the cheeky shit that he was, refused.

In retaliation, Esteban got a massive French flag and hung it above his bed, so now anyone who glanced in their room thought that they were, like, really passionate about their nationalities, or something.

How to tell Lance? Esteban gently pushed away the magnetic flux problem he was fruitlessly working through. He’d put off taking the mandatory physics classes until now, and he was paying it back tenfold. He liked chemistry—he was good at it, even—but physics was a whole different can of worms.

Oh, wasn’t Oscar a physics major, or something? Maybe… well, maybe he could ask for help?

God. Esteban ran a hand through his hair, grimacing at the feeling of gel on his fingers. Maybe he just needed a break. He’d been up early, or at least, early for him, in order to make pancakes for everyone before he had to log on to his online class. Online org chem was not his idea of a fun morning, but it was, in his opinion, better than in-person org chem. He could turn his camera off and fuck around instead of pretending to listen for one-and-a-half hours knowing full well he’d go on YouTube later and look for video essays that explained the topics better.

Yeah, a break sounded good.

Mondays were odd days at the Grid. Lando and Max had classes early, Yuki had his cooking class until, like, 4:00 pm, Lance and Liam and Oscar were usually out pretty late, Pierre had his internship in the middle of the day, Lewis was teaching, Carlos and Charles were both out until 5:00 pm consistently because they got dinner together at the dining hall on campus, Daniel was- well, Daniel didn’t live there anymore. Logan was hiding in his room, George had his lectures, and Alex was basically nocturnal at this point. It was a rare couple of hours in the middle of the day where Esteban was home completely, or almost completely, alone.

He left his room and padded down the stairs, keeping quiet in case Alex or Logan were sleeping, and dug through the kitchen pantry for a snack. In the Grid, snacks were for everyone, and if you finished something, you put it on the grocery list to be replaced as soon as possible. Lance handled the groceries, because he decided that if his dad was going to give him a fuck-off massive allowance, he’d put it to good use. Before then, Lewis was the one to organise groceries, and everyone chipped in to the food fund bit by bit.

So the pantry was a bit of a free-for-all, and any personal food was either kept in bedrooms or labelled with sticky notes.

Esteban drifted over to the living room with a packet of salt and vinegar crisps. There was an ongoing war between Carlos and Pierre regarding the validity of salt and vinegar as a flavour. Carlos was pro, Pierre was against. Esteban kept his nose out of the arguments, and kept adding the crisps to the grocery list.

Just as he flopped onto the plush dark green couch that had been a Lance addition after the putrid yellow couch broke two years ago, the door slammed open.

Max skidded into view, kicking his trainers off one at a time and getting them sort of near the shoe rack. He waved at Esteban, who raised his snack as Max ran up the stairs. This, too, was common. Max went on runs after his classes, usually remembering to check in if he was out for longer than an hour, and Esteban had heard this exact sequence of sounds (front door opening, shoes being kicked off, footsteps on the stairs, bedroom door being flung shut, then open, then more footsteps, another front door slam) from the safety of his bedroom.

It was nice to have a different perspective on it.

He ate a few more crisps and then got up to check the pancake chart. He was on duty in… ten days. Right, so he had ten days to figure out how to tell everyone and find a place to live for next year. And tell Lance first.

God, he wished everything was as black-and-white as arguments over salt and vinegar crisps.

~

Max was running late.

Okay, well, technically it was impossible to be running late to something that he did completely voluntarily on his own time, but he liked to keep a routine on Mondays and Wednesdays, and that meant that he was running late. He changed into running clothes at light speed and hopped down the stairs pulling on his running shoes. Esteban was now standing in the kitchen studying the pancake chart—Oscar was up next, with Charles as backup in case Oscar slept through his shift—and didn’t acknowledge Max as he finally got his running shoes on fully. He checked that he had his phone and earbuds in his pocket and then ran out the door.

Max didn’t really exercise like the other guys exercised. Lewis had his morning runs and afternoon weightlifting sessions at Schumi, Lando did yoga, Liam weightlifted with Lewis, Esteban and Lance had their callisthenics that they did in the basement when it wasn’t flooded—it seemed like everyone but Max had, like, a thing. Even Oscar worked out, just late at night instead of at any normal time, and the guy was, like, scarily buff.

But Daniel went on runs and occasional bike rides, and Max knew that if he wanted to keep up at all, he’d have to start running on his own.

Someone once told him that in the first couple of months of someone’s crush, they’d do just about anything for the object of their affection. Max scoffed then, but God, they were fucking right. Max hated running—hated most forms of exercise, actually—but Daniel liked running, and Max liked Daniel, so he thought things like “oh no I’m late for my daily run” and tried not to cringe at himself.

Max’s usual route took him around campus, all the way to the outskirts of the sprawl of art buildings and then around the business side back towards the chem labs. Then back around west, to the Grid.

Coincidentally, the route took him right past Dan’s new flat.

Every so often, but more commonly on Mondays and Wednesdays than other days, Max would spot Dan leaving the business buildings and walking back to his flat. On those days, Max would jog over to him and pretend to need the excuse to walk and catch his breath. When he was first starting out running, it wasn’t so much an excuse as the plain truth, but he’d built up quite a bit of endurance, and stopping to walk really was an excuse now. Not that Dan noticed either way. He always just seemed happy to see Max.

Max could, probably, try to read into that a little bit more. Maybe, if he looked at it from the right angle, he’d see that Dan liked him as more than a friend, more than a coffee buddy, more than a former roommate.

Max did not read into it.

On this cold, kind of sunny day, though, he was in luck.

“Maxy! Time for your run, eh?” Dan clapped a warm hand to Max’s sweaty, clammy shoulder.

“Yes,” Max said, stupidly. Even more stupidly, he added, “I think that there might be buds on the trees in the quad, now.”

Daniel hummed, hand dropping from his shoulder. “S’that so?”

Max nodded, stopping for a moment to stretch his leg up, intertwining his fingers to hook his hands around his knee and pull it to his chest. He stepped forward and did the same to the other leg. Daniel paused as well, waiting for Max.

No, he wasn’t going to read into it.

Daniel started talking about the intro to business class he was teaching, how it was sort of awkward because he knew one of the guys in it because they were on the same padel team last semester when Schumi put together a bunch of friendly competitions of different sports. Max would’ve joined Dan, but he promised Liam and Yuki to join their football team, and they were going to be up against Charles and Carlos’ team, and Max couldn’t pass up the opportunity.

Well, that, and he was trying to convince himself that he didn’t have a crush on Dan at the time, so he was rather avoiding his best friend as much as possible.

In retrospect, that probably didn’t help with the whole, like, stressful graduate programme thing for Daniel. Maybe he should try to apologise in some way…?

Daniel whistled back at a bird perched in a bare, bud-less tree, and Max thought that maybe he didn’t need to apologise. Maybe things were good the way they were now.

~

There were people in the house.

This was fine.

George slipped off his Oxfords and put them away carefully, righting Max’s trainers from where they were strewn across the entry hall. He could hear talking in kitchen, at least one voice he didn’t immediately recognise, and he took a moment to centre himself before continuing on. He had some unread messages on his phone—maybe he’d missed the warning about people being over.

He came into view of the living room and kitchen, smile already fixed to his face.

“Ah, hello, George,” Yuki said, standing over a cutting board, knife in hand. Next to him, an unfamiliar boy lent against the counter, hands stuffed in the kangaroo pocket of his university sweatshirt.

“Hello,” the boy said, French accent familiar.

“Oh, Isack, this is one of my housemates, George.”

George gave a little wave. “Nice to meet you.”

“I am in Yuki’s cooking class,” Isack explained. “He is telling me to switch to culinary school.”

“You are already decided!” Yuki burst out, knife moving rapidly over the cutting board, dicing an onion with precision. “You have made your mind, you are just—”

He said something in Japanese that sounded mildly frustrated, and George assumed that this was an ongoing debate.

“Are you doing dinner, then?” George asked, dropping his briefcase by a stool and taking off his suit jacket.

“Yes. I am going to get the ragu right this time, or else I am quitting school.” Yuki threatened to drop out every other time he made dinner. George had stopped worrying over it.

George unbuttoned the cuffs of his sleeves and started rolling them up. Isack’s gaze was following the movement in a rather amusing fashion. Alex would want to stake his claim, if he were here seeing this.

“Georgie!”

Speak of the devil.

George turned and caught Alex’s hug, allowing the bit of tension that had crept up his spine to melt away. “Hi, Alex.”

“Good class?” Alex asked, pulling back to peck him on the lips quickly. They weren’t big on PDA, not even in the comfort of the house—not that anyone had ever told them off.

“Normal class,” George answered. His lecture was well-received, as usual, and Professor Hakkinen seemed pleased with his work.

George finished rolling up his sleeves and went to see what leftovers they had. Yuki was good at making enough food for everyone, and they usually had some amount of leftovers. George took it on himself to eat the leftovers so nothing went bad, and he gave his feedback to Yuki with his opinion on how everything reheated and tasted after sitting for a day or two.

Alex struck up a conversation with Isack about something, and George glanced at the clock on the stove right as the door opened, voices spilling in along with bodies and a brush of cold air.

Oscar appeared from the entryway first, cheeks and nose red and leading—

“Zhou! Oh, wow, haven’t seen you in a while!” Alex embraced him tight, ruffling his straight black hair lightly. “How have you been? Miss us?”

Zhou laughed, pushing off Alex’s hand. Behind him, Carlos and Charles were talking in what was probably Italian, leading Liam, Pierre, and Lance in as well.

“No, no, I am here for Oscar,” Zhou replied, gesturing to where the Australian was sorting through his backpack for something. “We are going back to mine to work on a photography project.”

“History of photography,” Oscar said, half-buried in his bag. “Something to do with the Pulitzer prize, or something.”

George hummed. He knew that Oscar was also majoring in journalism, but he didn’t strike George as the type of guy to be interested in that sort of thing. Engineering physics? Yes, of course. Journalism? Not really. It required a level of personableness that Oscar didn’t really seem to have, but then again, to each their own. Zhou, on the other hand, had a creative eye that was perfect for photography and fashion. Did he know Liam…? No, George, stop trying to network for people.

He pulled out the beef ragu from the night before and popped it in the microwave to reheat. The sharp smell of onions permeated the kitchen—Lewis wouldn’t be happy.

Pierre and Lance were talking in French, and George could pick up just about every other word. Living in an international house meant that everyone could speak a little of a lot of different languages, but they stuck to English was a baseline.

It seemed to be something about art? Pierre’s art history minor and Lance’s anthropology minor had a lot of overlap, after all.

Alex came over and draped himself over George’s back, mostly out of the way of Yuki and Isack, now dicing tomatoes. Oscar and Zhou moved over to the living room to talk about something too quietly for George to hear, and Liam went up the stairs with a wave and a “be down in a little bit” to Yuki. Liam often helped Yuki, who deemed him the only person competent enough to handle his fancy knives. Pierre and Lance had claimed two of the bar stools at the island counter, and Charles and Carlos were still speaking in Italian, their voices just audible from the open door of their bedroom.

It was nice, the feeling of everyone alive around him. George didn’t like not knowing when unknown people would be in the house, but even still, the sound and the sense of life and connectedness was grounding.

Alex sighed, the sound reverberating through George’s own chest. “I’m glad we live here.”

Seemed like he was feeling the same things as George. “Me, too.”

~

Oscar ran up to the attic to grab his computer charger and then ran back downstairs, not wanting to keep Zhou waiting. He was talking to George and Alex, the former of which now eating reheated beef ragu, and he nodded to Oscar when he held up the cable to him. They gathered their stuff and said their goodbyes, Oscar telling Yuki to save him a portion to have when he got back. He’d be out late, in order to work on this with Zhou and also get some time in at Schumi, but he was always going to make time to eat Yuki’s cooking. At this point, he was basically their personal chef. God bless Alex for making sure he was always in the mood to cook.

Oscar wondered vaguely, as he pulled on his coat, whether the other inhabitants realised that Alex specifically ensured that Yuki was happy to cook every day.

Maybe?

“Ready?” Zhou asked, fidgeting with the fingers of his gloves.

“Ready.”

Oscar went to open the front door, only for it to open almost into his face. Lando spilt into the entry hall, and Oscar, working off of instinct, reached out to steady him.

They looked at each other for a long, silent moment.

Oscar stepped back and let go of his roommate, who shuffled to the side to let Oscar and Zhou leave. It was horrible. It was awkward. Was it just Oscar’s crush making it awkward for himself, or was there something more? Did Lando—fuck, did Lando know? He must’ve realised today, when Oscar showed up with his forgotten sandwich and then stayed and ate his own lunch. Shit. Fuck. This was not good. He’d have to leave—he’d have to move back in with Fernando the maybe-criminal.

“Hey, Lando!” Zhou said, greeting him with a hug.

“Oh, Zhou, hi! What are you doing here?”

Zhou slung a friendly arm around Oscar’s shoulders, and Oscar allowed it because he was still reeling. “Photography project with Osc. We are going to my place to work together!”

“Right.” Lando’s gaze seemed to shift from Zhou to Oscar to somewhere in between them, and back again. “Have fun, then.”

“Thanks,” Oscar croaked out before mentally slapping himself. So unsuave, honestly. What even the hell.

“Catch you later!” Zhou said, and then he dragged Oscar out of the house and let the door shut behind him. “Man, you are such a lost cause.”

Oscar groaned and buried his face in his hands, trying not to scream from frustration and anguish. That would be decidedly too dramatic. “I know.”

“Come on, I will make you hot cocoa and we will talk. And Valtteri, too. He is very good at talking.”

“Alright.” Oscar followed Zhou down the street and to the left, a couple of blocks west. They stopped by a house not dissimilar to the Grid, just smaller, and fewer stories. Zhou unlocked the door to the right and led him up a flight of stairs tot he second floor. Ah, so instead of being all one connected house, like the Grid, it was separated into individual flats. That would probably be smart if the Grid ever had a massive falling out, or something. Not that Oscar thought that would happen. No, everyone was way too intertwined. He’d only just begun to understand the complicated dynamics between Esteban and Pierre, and Lance and Lando, and Max and Charles. It was sort of like a sitcom, really. Everyone knew everyone from something or other, whether it be a random shared first year class or years of childhood friendship. Even Oscar’s sort-of-rivalry with Carlos was nice, in a weird way.

“Ah, welcome. It is a little messy right now, but the Grid is worse, so. You will deal.”

In all honesty, it wasn’t that bad. Two racing bikes lent against the wall to the left of the door, a couple abandoned water bottles beneath them. A shoe rack and carpet finished the entryway, which was completely open into the living room. It was cosy- homey, really. The Grid was homey in the sense that it was so full of people that you really didn’t have a choice, but this was homey like the inhabitants actually wanted to live there long-term.

Maybe they did.

A hallway led to the back, to a connected dining room and kitchen. There, they found Valtteri cooking pasta and glaring at the boiling water like that would make it cook faster.

“Val, this is Oscar. Is it okay if we work in the living room, or do you need it?”

“No, living room is okay. Oscar… you are Oscar Piastri?” Valtteri was giving Oscar a completely inscrutable look.

He nodded. “I am.”

“Yes, Lewis mentioned you.” Valtteri did not explain that, which was fine. Oscar didn’t really want to know more about what Lewis Hamilton might be saying about him to former Grid members.

“Right.” Zhou grabbed Oscar’s wrist and dragged him back to the living room. “I will make hot cocoa, and you will sit here.”

They set themselves up on the couch, Oscar’s laptop displaying the project requirements on the coffee table. Zhou, apparently, already had a list of ideas. Oscar was happy to let him take the lead on this. Photography wasn’t really his strong point- he much preferred writing and reporting over anything to do with pictures and video. But photojournalism was required for his major, so Oscar grit his teeth and bore it.

About halfway through their session, Zhou put his laptop on the coffee table as well, studying Oscar with a keen gaze. Oscar focused on the mug in his hands, freshly filled with another helping of hot cocoa.

“So. Lando.”

“Lando,” Oscar repeated, having a moment of deja vu. Hadn’t he just had this conversation with Lewis this morning? “I know it’s—well, it’s a bit embarrassing, honestly.”

Zhou shrugged. “I do not think he knows, if that is what you are worried about.”

Oscar gave him what he hoped was a disbelieving expression. “Right.”

“Really. I think—honestly, I know you are not believing me, but I think he may like you, and he may not know it yet.”

Oscar stared at Zhou. What? How could you… not know you liked someone?

As though hearing his thoughts, Zhou continued. “I think maybe things are clearer for you, but it can be… difficult, I think. It was difficult for me.”

Valtteri appeared behind Oscar like a wraith or something, scaring him when he spoke. “It is difficult, yes. You don’t always realise at first that what you’re thinking and feeling is romantic, you just feel… weird, I guess.”

That sort of made sense. But—“Lando does not like me. He doesn’t.”

Zhou shrugged, and Valtteri shooed them to the sides of the couch so he could sit between them, a bowl of pasta in hand. Oscar sipped his drink and pondered it for a moment. He’d always been pretty good at figuring himself out. Maybe it didn’t show on the outside, but his emotions were just… simple, really. When he liked Logan, he knew he liked Logan. With Lando, the whole “falling in love” process happened so rapidly that it was impossible to misconstrue.

Maybe… maybe there was some merit to what they were saying. Maybe Lando was settling in to… to everything. Oscar wasn’t exactly an easy person to know, or to like, even as a friend. He probably wouldn’t like himself that much.

“Alright,” he said, after a while. “Thanks.”

‘No problem,” Zhou replied, smiling. “Now, I was thinking that if we take non-Pulitzer photos and break down what made them unworthy—”

~

God, yeah, Lando is so fucked. He was an idiot. An idiot who fell for his roommate, who was currently “working on a photography project” at Zhou’s flat.

Listen, in his defence, he’d been thinking about Oscar all goddamn day, working himself into a frenzy trying to figure out if it was just the proximity doing things to his head. He was not expecting to open the door to the Grid and immediately be confronted with Oscar in his stupid coat and with his stupid hair and stupid eyes. He wasn’t expecting to trip over the threshold and be caught, he wasn’t expecting the sudden closeness, and he definitely wasn’t expecting Zhou to pop up right behind Oscar’s shoulder.

He shouldn’t feel jealous, but Zhou was touching Oscar, holding him close (in a friendly way, Lando told himself) so casually, like—like he was allowed to touch him, and Lando was not.

It was something Lando had noticed early on.

Lando—and he half-blamed Carlos for this—was a very touchy-feely guy. He liked giving his friends hugs, liked sitting close to others during parties, liked when Carlos or Max or Charles or George or Alex tucked him under their arms against their sides. When he was feeling down, he sought out Alex or Carlos specifically because they, too, liked to ground themselves with physical touch, which meant that between the two of them, Lando was usually able to get some good old fashioned cuddle time. He’d feel better within minutes and then go about his day, business as usual.

The Grid was good overall about non-toxic masculinity. Lando had a whole period of his life where he felt like he had to be really macho, to make up for being bisexual. Yeah, internalised homophobia is fucking rough. Luckily he grew out of that, and when he started working at Schumi, specifically leading the yoga sessions, he got even more in touch with his more feminine side. Sue him, he looked great in skorts.

Anyway.

What was the point?

Right. Oscar. Touch. Or, well, the lack of.

Oscar, Lando noticed, was really good at holding himself separate to the others, even in big groups. The start-of-year party that they held, which was less of a party and more of a sit-down-and-eat-dinner-and-watch-Glee event, had a lot of former Grid members crowded into the living room and kitchen. Lando remembered skirting around the edge of the room, headed towards Max and Charles on the Lance couch, before he was distracted by Oscar.

Oscar, who stood perfectly in between the two rooms, in the area where no one else wanted to stand because it wasn’t “living room” enough to be counted at the living room, but too awkwardly far away from the kitchen for one to comfortably hold a conversation from there. Everyone, like Lando had just done, passed from one room to the other without lingering in the in-between. Somehow, Oscar had noticed this and perfectly positioned himself to be excluded from both groups.

Was it on purpose?

Maybe.

Lando changed plans, then, heading back towards the kitchen as nonchalantly as possible. He paused by Oscar, giving his roommate-of-ten-days a wide, alcohol-easy grin. “Hey, mate. Enjoying the party?”

A loud debate about the validity of one of the Glee characters arose from the living room, and Esteban, Lance, Seb, and Checo stomped into the kitchen, each holding far too many cups, probably for refills. The movement caused Lando to step closer to Oscar and out of the way, and Oscar, in turn, swayed ever-so-slightly away from Lando, maintaining a good amount of space between them.

Lando wasn’t hurt, really. Some people liked their space, and that was okay.

Once the group passed, he stepped back. Yes, Oscar was there on purpose, he decided.

“Good party,” Oscar said, then, when Lando looked back at him from the group in the kitchen. Checo was pouring more tequila into the punch bowl that already held an entire bottle. Right.

“Yeah, good party,” Lando agreed. He held his hand out for a fist bump, turning away casually like he was distracted and about to leave.

Oscar gave him the fist bump. Cool. That was cool.

Lando smiled to himself and made his way over to the Lance couch.

So, yes, Lando noticed that Oscar didn’t like touch, and Lando did like touch, and that was okay. But then Zhou—and honestly, when did Oscar even get to know him? They had, like nothing in common, right? Besides photography?

Anyway, Zhou was able to touch Oscar. He was able to sling an arm around Oscar’s (broad, literally what the fuck) shoulders casually, like he was used to doing that. And Oscar just… let him.

Right.

So.

Lando definitely had a crush on his roommate.

He could deal with this.

No, shut up, he could totally deal with this. His and Carlos’ friendship was still intact and strong as ever despite his embarrassing crush, and Lando was occasionally known to keep his hands to himself no matter how strongly he wanted to hug someone. Lewis only let Max and occasionally Valtteri touch him, and that was a-okay.

God.

What the fuck was he getting himself into? Barely a month into the semester and he already had a crisis on his hands.

“Eh, Lando—you good, mate?”

Lando shook himself slightly and tore his gaze away from the now-shut front door. George was looking at him with big, concerned eyes.

“I’m good. Just—long day. Cold as fuck outside, honestly.”

As he expected, that set off Pierre on a rant about how much he hated the cold, and Lando was able to toe off his shoes and hang his coat up on the rack in peace. He needed to be alone for a bit, to process this realisation. Then he’d probably find Alex and lay on him for a while, and then he’d be okay for whenever Oscar came back. From Zhou’s. Fuck. How was he going to deal with this?

Chapter Text

Charles always liked Fridays, but it seemed like this semester was out to kill him. The week had been weird, to begin with. Lando was strangely clingy to Carlos, Esteban was hiding something, Max openly cried on Wednesday—which terrified everyone who hadn’t seen him cry before—Lewis swore, and Yuki didn’t make dinner on either Wednesday or Thursday, because he had a late cooking class on Wednesday that put him in a bad mood, and that bad mood carried over into the next day. Not even Oscar actually getting up to make his delightful crepes on Tuesday was enough.

By the time Friday rolled around, everyone was tense, two sharp-edged words away from an all-out war.

Charles didn’t really know how to fix it. Normally, he was good about not letting other peoples’ moods affect him, but the beginning of the semester had been pretty stressful, and his usual level of self-control was unachievable. He’d taken to hanging out up in the attic, with the permission of Lando and Oscar, just to get away from it all for a bit.

Not that that worked. Max’s crying fucking echoed through the house. Not even Lewis was able to console him, at least not for about an hour. They had to call Nico (Hulkenberg, not Rosberg) over to help, and Nico brought Kevin, and Kevin brought none other than Ollie Bearman, who looked around the house with wide, curious eyes and attached himself to Carlos’ side when Carlos took up Yuki’s job of making dinner. Yeah. Wednesday was fucking rough.

But now it was Friday, which meant that Charles could throw his backpack into his room without feeling the need to immediately start working through assignments and grading. It was a small, but significant, plus.

Lance stood in the kitchen by the fridge, studying the grocery list. Charles opened the freezer, blocking Lance’s forehead with his hand so he wouldn’t brain the poor guy on the freezer door, and grabbed a handful of frozen grapes to munch on while figuring out dinner. Yuki seemed to be in a better mood that morning, but Charles wasn’t going to risk it. His papa taught him how to make a couple good pasta dishes that were always a hit with the Grid. Yuki could take another day to cool down; Charles had dinner that night covered.

“Did you get more parmesan?” Charles asked, letting the cold of the grapes calm him down.

“Yup.” Lance popped the “p” and stepped back from the grocery list, typing into his phone.

Lance and Oscar seemed to be the only people unaffected by the strange mood in the house. Lance was sort of immune, really, always keeping up a laid back appearance no matter what happened. Charles was a little jealous. Oscar, on the other hand, wasn’t necessarily laid back, but rather seemed to not care about the goings-on of the Grid members. When Lewis was off finding Nico, Oscar sat with Max in complete silence, expressionless and steady, uncaring of the wet spot growing on his shoulder. Charles had no idea how he did it.

It meant that they were safe spaces for the rather emotional rest of the house, which was funny because they were also the most introverted. Charles was sure that Oscar was going to kick him out of the attic when he got back early from classes on Thursday, but Oscar just nodded to Charles, splayed out on Lando’s bed, and sat at his desk to work.

Anyway, Charles liked being around Lance, because Lance was always chill, and that meant that, for a little bit at least, Charles could also be chill.

He pulled out the carton of eggs and the parmesan (which Lance had to point out because it wasn’t in the usual spot in the fridge because that spot was taken up by takeout containers from Thursday) before digging around the fridge for the bacon that he knew they still had. It wouldn’t be the most authentic carbonara because the meat wasn’t correct, but everyone would be fed, at least. Lance got out two of the big boxes of spaghetti for him and started filling the biggest pot with water to boil. They worked together in mostly-silence, Lance’s phone now softly playing a French rap song that Isack, one of the more common non-Grid-members to come around, had recommended the other day.

As the scent of cooking bacon permeated the house, people filed down from their rooms to the kitchen and living room. Fridays were oddball days in terms of schedules. The university didn’t have many afternoon or evening classes, meaning that just about everyone was in the house by 4:00 pm. Lando had his yoga class, Yuki was still at the culinary school, and Lewis was in a meeting, but everyone else was home.

Oscar and Logan curled up on one of the couches, joined by Esteban after he shoved their feet over to make room. Carlos sat at the counter, typing on his phone, and Pierre joined him after a moment of contemplation, looking between the living room and the kitchen sort of cartoonishly. Charles accepted Liam’s help when he offered to stand over the cooking bacon and monitor it, so that Charles could mix the egg-yolk-parmesan-black-pepper mixture. Max also slumped at the counter, leaning on Pierre and looking wrung out. Charles was waiting for him to crack and explain why he was so off that week, but for now, everyone gave him space and allowed him his silence. George and Alex took the other couch, and Charles would bet good money that Lando would join them when he got back from Schumi in… twenty minutes or so.

Charles directed Liam to the cooking spaghetti to see if it was ready, and he removed the bacon from the pan, putting it into a bowl to add back later.

“It’s done,” Liam said, and he drained the pasta after saving a cup of pasta water. Charles put the spaghetti into the bacon-grease pan and tossed it a bit before pouring in the egg yolk mixture. After a moment, he added the pasta water, and some aggressive stirring and mixing turned it creamy and smooth. Lance got out a stack of plates and started setting them out on the counter for Charles to put helpings of carbonara on. They worked in tandem, Liam sprinkling the chopped bacon bits on top of the heaps of spaghetti, and then started handing out the plates.

Yes, everyone was tired, everyone was tense, everyone was relieved the week was over.

Everyone was also still happy to coexist. Charles ate his pasta with a smile.

~

Lewis toed off his running shoes at the door, glancing at his watch to check the time. Saturday mornings were slow in the Grid, everyone sleeping in just a bit later than usual, even Lando. Lewis liked to keep his running schedule consistent, so he went out at his usual time. The still-dark morning, cold and refreshing, always woke him up better than anything else he’d tried, and he’d tried a lot.

Roscoe nudged his leg, looking for affection, so Lewis scooped him up before heading up to his bedroom. He had just enough time to shower before he needed to start on his pancake shift, if Lando kept up his usual weekend schedule.

Just as that thought crossed Lewis’ mind, he almost ran into Lando on the stairs.

“Oh, sorry,” Lando said, voice a bit rough from sleep. He looked rough, too, like he should have stayed in bed a bit longer, gotten a few more minutes of shut-eye before getting up.

“Hey, man. You good? Sleep alright?”

Lando shrugged.

Lewis had noticed how off he’d been all week, starting Monday and only worsening as the days passed. At first, Lewis thought it was the usual stress that came with the beginning of the semester. A month in, everything started picking up, the first round of tests and projects coming in and all that. Lewis remembered how much it sucked, and he knew that fashion wasn’t quite the same calibre as journalism. And didn’t Lando have a minor, too?

So yes, Lewis thought it might be the usual stress, but then Lando was clinging to Alex and Carlos, and Charles, too, when he was around, and it didn’t seem like how Lando dealt with stress the semester before, or last year.

Time for some digging.

Lewis would never admit it out loud, lest Sebastian overhear and say “I told you so” enough times to make Lewis’ ears bleed, but he had sort of… adopted all of the younger guys? He knew they looked up to him as a role model, and in turn, he tried to be there for them when they needed him. He always liked looking out for them. Case in point, Max on Wednesday, and Logan the week before, and Lance last year, and Pierre consistently just showed up in Lewis’ room when he needed help or advice. Lewis hadn’t quite cracked Oscar yet, because the guy was a locked box when it came to his emotions (Lewis had filed the Monday morning conversation as an aberration that likely would never happen again), but he was working on it.

Lando had very easily wormed his way into Lewis’ heart. It wasn’t hard to like the guy, honestly. He was honest, funny, and thoughtful—far more observant than his demeanour indicated.

“I’m gonna shower, then make pancakes. Wanna help me?” Lewis knew Lando would say yes.

“Yeah, sure. Do you—should I get started on them?”

Lewis shook his head. “Nah, just get the ingredients out and stuff. You remember the recipe?”

“It’s pinned in the group chat, but yeah.” Lando reached out and pet Roscoe before they parted ways.

After his shower, Lewis left his braids loose, just hooked behind his ears so they didn’t fall in his face while cooking. Saturdays were for sweatpants and comfortable jumpers, not for fashion, so Lewis and Lando were a matched pair as they moved around the kitchen together, making pancake after pancake.

Thumping on the stairs made both Lewis and Lando look up. A door somewhere above them opened and then shut. Lewis thought that it sounded like whoever it was went down two flights of stairs, which meant that they were in the attic, which meant that it had to be Oscar. Huh. It was strange, how easily Lewis judged that. Side-effect of living in the same place for… shit, 8 years now? What the hell?

Lewis flipped three pancakes in quick succession, the griddle hissing. “So, do you wanna talk about it?”

The way Lando froze, guilty, gave him away. “Talk about what?”

“You’ve been off all week, Lands. I know something’s up.”

Lando was stubborn. Lewis was even more stubborn, though. Probably only Max had him beat. Or Nico, maybe. No, stop thinking about Nico.

“I just—” Lando huffed, clearly frustrated.

Lewis gestured for him to hold out the plate and placed two cooked pancakes on top of the stack. At this point, he knew to stay silent, to give Lando time to figure out how he wanted to say whatever it was that he wanted to say.

Then, softly, he spoke. “It’s… Oscar?”

Oh. Suddenly a lot of things just clicked. “You like him, don’t you?”

Lando gaped at him.

Lewis pointedly did not say “I’ve been there” or “I can recognise the signs” or “don’t risk it” or “you’ll regret it if you never tell him.” He just smiled and flipped pancakes and listened as the house woke up. Lando seemed to want to leave the conversation there, and Lewis didn’t push it. When Charles stumbled out of his room and started fighting with his espresso machine, Lewis greeted him normally, watching Lando’s shoulders creep back down from where they’d been tight up to his ears.

It was a bit of a taboo subject, Lewis knew. Honestly, he wasn’t entirely sure why it blew up the way it did, but Lewis knew that just about everyone at their godforsaken school knew about him and Nico. Rosberg, not Hulkenberg. Kevin would bite his head off if he so much as looked at Hulk that way. Would also probably bite Hulk’s head off, too, just for the fuck of it.

No, Lewis did mean Nico Rosberg. Former Grid member, fellow fashion student, and ex… ex-something. They never put a label on what they were, beyond best friends, but “best friends” was a bit of a weak descriptor for how they lived in each other’s pockets for over a decade straight. Lewis couldn’t go in the attic anymore, because every time he saw the window alcoves that jutted out of the sloped roof, he thought about how they would stand there, so close together, watching cars and people pass outside, making up stories and giggling to each other like children. Then Lewis won the fashion scholarship, and Nico didn’t, and Lewis got into the graduate programme first, and Nico had to apply a second time and submit an extra essay, but he did get in and Lewis thought that they were okay, he thought—God, he thought that they’d never leave this stupid fucking house, their room in the attic. He thought they’d fucking… co-parent, or something, all the younger students who drifted in and out of the Grid. He thought—he thought they’d be okay, now that they were both in the graduate programme.

He was so, so fucking wrong.

Nico moved out the same day he told the Grid that he’d gotten into the programme and was being advised by Toto Wolff. Lewis had Niki Lauda for an advisor, and he knew that Nico was jealous about that, but—

Well, in the end, he’d thought a lot of things that turned out to be wrong.

Nico moved out, and Valtteri asked if he could move into the attic with Lewis. At that point, Lewis had taken to sleeping on the couch in order to avoid the attic, so he said “you can have it” to Valtteri and then begged Sebastian (literally on his hands and knees) to give him the single bedroom on the third floor. Seb took pity on him and moved in with Kimi, which caused a whole shuffling of the room arrangements that Lewis was too selfish to feel bad about.

He’d stayed in the third floor single bedroom ever since.

Esteban and Pierre came falling down the stairs, shouting at each other in too-loud French. Somewhere upstairs, Max was shouting at them to shut the fuck up, and Charles kept trying to get a word in edgewise to break them up.

Lewis was just about to raise his voice, which always worked to shut them up, when Lance appeared in the basement doorway looking positively murderous. Lewis hadn’t seen him come down. When had he gone downstairs? More importantly, why?

“Shut up, will you?” he spat, voice full of such venom that Lewis almost took a step back.

Everyone shut up.

Lewis watched Lance ascend the stairs, footsteps very carefully controlled like he was trying not to stomp, and then shared a wide-eyed look with Lando.

Esteban looked like he was going to cry.

It wasn’t even 8:00 am yet.

“Right,” Lewis said. He needed to bring in the big guns. “I’m calling Sebastian.”

~

Pierre didn’t mean to eavesdrop on Esteban and Lance’s conversation. Really, he didn’t. He liked his privacy as much as any of the other guys, and he knew that, in this house, privacy was hard to find.

But their room was right above his and Yuki’s, and they were not being quiet, and the French was so—so sharp-sounding that his curiosity was piqued and he stood still to listen. Yuki was asleep, completely covered by his blanket, and the house was dead-silent besides some noises from the kitchen (Lewis, without a doubt), and the conversation between Esteban and Lance.

It was strange that Lance was up this early, especially on the weekend. It was stranger still that they were talking this early. Both Lance and Esteban liked their silence.

But the French was loud, and Pierre was curious, so he listened.

And after hearing the surprisingly-quiet footsteps of someone heading downstairs, he poked his head out of his room.

Esteban stood on the stairs up to the third floor looking absolutely wrecked, watching Lance’s retreating back as the Canadian went down to the ground floor. If Pierre knew him (and he liked to think he did) Lance would end up in the basement cataloguing how much laundry soap they had left. Esteban saw Pierre looking at him and his face twisted, ugly, hurt. He looked like he’d been crying. Pierre wasn’t really sure whose side he was on in the argument, but given the way Lance had just reacted, he was leaning away from Esteban’s.

“You fucked up,” Pierre said. He didn’t mean to be that blunt, but, well, it was the truth. “Really—”

“Oh, give me a fucking break!” Esteban burst out, and they were off, just like old times, arguing. “Just because you have everything fucking figured out already—”

“You know that’s not true. You just know you fucked up and you’re too proud to admit it!”

Max started yelling at them, also in French, to shut up or go downstairs, so Pierre shut the door of his bedroom and headed for the stairs. Esteban joined him, shouldering him away, and they took their argument to the ground floor.

Pierre registered Lewis and Lando making pancakes together. Charles was already fighting his espresso machine. He might have found it strange to see them all up this early on a weekend, if his brain power wasn’t being taken up by the fucking idiot standing next to him. Honestly. Thinking he had to leave the Grid just because he was going into graduate school next year? How fucking dense was he? And telling Lance like that, at 7:30 in the morning on a Saturday, as though Lance hadn’t been in love with him since they were children?

After Lance told them off—and that was a fucking bit of whiplash hearing such venom from a guy whose “bad days” consisted of online shopping sprees and spontaneous deep cleans of the house while listening to opera—Pierre took a deep breath and tried to calm down. Both Esteban and Lance looked rough.

“Merde, you are—” Pierre bit his tongue, hard, and turned away from Esteban.

Esteban was looking at Lance anyway, fully distracted from Pierre. Good. Pierre sort of felt like he might punch the guy if he said one more stupid thing about not belonging.

“Right. I’m calling Sebastian.”

“Désolé.” Pierre took a couple steps towards the kitchen, genuinely a little ashamed.

Lewis waved him off, looking concerned. “Is everything okay?”

Pierre glanced back. Lance had gone back upstairs, and Esteban was standing, hands held loose at his sides, looking completely lost.

Lewis repeated himself, and Esteban startled and turned. Pierre had to look away—Esteban wasn’t someone who cried outside of sad movies. Max crying was sort of like a fire alarm going off. Esteban crying was just… well, it made you want to cry, too.

Lewis put his phone down—was he actually calling Seb?—and went over to Este. “Hey, man, come here. It’ll be okay.”

Pierre sidled up to Charles, close enough that the sleep-heat emanating from his body pierced through Pierre’s sleep shirt. He didn’t like fighting Esteban, really. It was just—habit. Second nature. And honestly, Pierre liked Lance, and Esteban definitely hurt Lance with his stupid, self-centred insecurity, so Pierre thought he should say something.

He didn’t mean to eavesdrop.

~

Oscar did not know French. At least, not officially. Mark tried to teach him Spanish, which was kind of like French if you didn’t know anything about either language, whenever Oscar hung out at the shop, and Oscar had spent enough time in international spaces to pick up some basic phrases and swears in a lot of languages. And a lot of the argument happening, echoing through the house, was just swears, meaning that Oscar picked up quite a bit of it.

He’d gone down to Logan’s room after Lando woke him up when he dropped his phone on the ground by accident. Logan dragged Oscar into his bed, fond of sleeping in on the weekends, and they were both just drifting off when the argument began.

With Pierre and Esteban being right outside Logan’s door, it was kind of hard not to hear them. It was also hard to go back to sleep once they stopped, because the argument was really rather heated, and adrenaline was zipping through Oscar’s body as though he had participated in it.

“I’m going to get up,” Oscar murmured to Logan, who nodded and released his hold on Oscar.

When he got downstairs, he was met with quite a sight. Esteban was sitting on the ground at the foot of the stairs, leaning back against the stair railing, Pierre and Charles were leaning against each other by the hissing espresso machine, Lewis was kneeling by Esteban, speaking softly, and Lando was flipping pancakes.

“Morning,” Oscar said and went to his usual stool at the counter.

“You are up early,” Charles said, smile a little bit wobbly.

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. Kind of hard to sleep with shouting right outside your door.”

“We were on the second floor,” Pierre defended, still looking sheepish.

“Oh. I was in Logan’s room, actually.”

“Oh, you were?” Charles sounded like he was looking for gossip.

“Yes.” Oscar had no idea how to explain his relationship to Logan. He decided to go for dry humour, as that usually worked. “What, are you jealous?”

As he hoped, it got a loud bark of a laugh from Charles and an amused huff from Pierre. Score. See, Lily? He could talk to people normally!

Oscar got up to get coffee from the Keurig that all the non-Charles coffee drinkers of the Grid used. Max and Liam came down the stairs, followed by George with Alex attached to his back and looking almost completely asleep. Oscar felt that. He, too, did not want to be awake right now.

“Fuck,” Lando hissed, jerking back from the stove. Oscar turned and then lurched towards him, reaching a hand out.

And somehow, he caught the plate of pancakes that had been plummeting towards the floor.

For a moment, everyone in the kitchen was still.

Oscar set the plate on the counter and lent back, away from Lando, who was still cradling his hand to his chest, staring wide-eyed at Oscar.

“Fucking hell, mate,” Liam said, laughing a little. “Fast reflexes, huh?”

“Yeah.” Oscar tore his gaze away from Lando’s shocked face. “Didn’t want to lose the pancakes.”

The Keurig beeped to announce it was finished, and Oscar grabbed his mug and stepped away to let Max make his own coffee. Lando made a jerky sort of movement, and Oscar frowned at where he was still holding his hand.

“Are you alright?”

Lando looked down at his hand. “Yeah, just—burnt it, a bit.”

Charles whipped his head around. “You are hurt?”

Oscar got fully out of the way and let Charles take care of Lando. Charles got like that whenever anyone was injured, Oscar learnt rather early on, when he came home after burning himself on a burner in lab (he hated chemistry) and was immediately ushered into the ground floor bathroom where Charles held his hand under running water for ten solid minutes, chattering the entire time. It was sweet, really, even if it got a little overbearing at times. Lando shared a look with Oscar over Charles’ head as he was dragged over to the kitchen sink, Charles studying the burn that Oscar could now see stretching across the side of his palm, red and angry. Oscar gave what he hoped was a sympathetic expression, but he wasn’t exactly sure how successful he was at that. It wasn’t like he could see his own face, and he’d already spent enough time in front of the bathroom mirror practising expressions when he was younger.

With Lando now occupied, Oscar decided he should look after the pancakes. Lewis, when Oscar glanced back at the stairs, was still with Esteban, now sitting next to the Frenchman and gesturing while speaking softly. Oscar missed enough of his pancake duties that it would be hypocritical to judge Lewis for missing his, especially given that he was helping out Esteban, who still looked wrecked.

Yuki stumbled down the stairs next and beelined for Pierre. Oscar was still 50/50 on whether they were dating or not. Not that it was any of his business, really.

Anyway.

He flipped pancakes and finished out the last of the batter. While waiting for the pancakes to start bubbling in the centre, he pulled the syrup out of the fridge and got the butter dish. Everyone was pretty silent as they got their pancakes and settled down to eat, which was unusual for a Saturday morning. Granted, it was about two hours earlier than when Oscar normally got up to get pancakes, so maybe he was used to the steady chatter of people who had been awake for longer than ten minutes.

Or maybe the weird vibes were finally getting to everyone.

Oscar didn’t really know how to handle it, honestly. Yes, Lando was sort of acting weird, and yes, Max crying was a bit disconcerting, but at least Oscar knew why Max was crying, so it was less concerning for him than it probably had been for Lewis and Charles.

He finally got to meet Nico Hulkenberg and Kevin Magnussen outside of a party, though, as well as a gangly first year student who was in the class that Charles TA’d. And Max stopped crying after the second hour, so it wasn’t even, like, the worst crying session Oscar had ever witnessed. That still belonged to Lily and Logan when the three of them watched Brokeback Mountain. Now that was truly worrying.

Noise slowly rose as everyone ate and finished waking up. Oscar moved to the bay window in the living room, pushing aside the massive, fluorescent yellow blanket that Lando liked to curl up in whenever they watched movies. Carlos came out of his room and was talking with Lando about their golf plans on Sunday, Charles, Pierre, Esteban, and Lewis were talking in quiet French about… something, and Max, Yuki, and Liam were bickering over football. Lance was still in bed, it seemed, and Logan was able to sleep through just about anything if he was in the right headspace, so Oscar wasn’t expecting to see him until noon, give or take.

George and Alex joined Oscar in the bay window. It was just big enough for three people to sit comfortably side by side, and for once in his life, Oscar wasn’t irked by the company.

In fact, it was really quite nice.

Huh.

~

Okay, so maybe Esteban could’ve gone about the whole telling-Lance-about-his-graduate-programme thing in a better way. Maybe he could’ve waited until Lance was fully awake, maybe he could’ve said it a little less abruptly, maybe—maybe he could’ve let himself see what he’d been so scared of for years. God, he’d never get Lance’s teary expression from his mind. And Pierre, the absolute arsehole, was totally right. That just made the whole thing worse. Pierre was right that Esteban fucked up, that he should’ve been nicer to Lance, that he should fix this as soon as possible.

He maybe could’ve said it a little nicer, though.

What, like you were nice to Lance? A mean voice in his brain said snidely.

Yeah, he had to fix this.

He accepted the plate of pancakes that Pierre pressed into his hands, a silent apology, and midway through eating them, he cleared his throat and got the attention of everyone in the living room and kitchen.

“I got into the chemistry graduate programme here.”

As he expected, everyone started cheering. Lewis clapped him on the shoulder, Pierre nudged him, Charles ruffled his hair.

“Nice, mate! Knew you could,” Alex said, cheersing with a forkful of pancake from the window.

“This means a party, right?” Lando said.

Esteban laughed wetly. Lando was always down for a party.

“Tell them the rest. Tell them what you told me.”

The noise very abruptly cut off, Lance standing a couple of steps up on the stairs and glaring down at Esteban. Pierre, similarly, was giving him a knowing sort of look.

“Eh, yes.” Esteban figured that, if both Lance and Pierre hadn’t really reacted well, the rest of the house would probably wouldn’t, either. “I applied for a flat for next year. It is closer to the labs.”

“You want to leave?” Lewis asked, because he was all-knowing or something.

Esteban couldn’t lie. “No. I do not.”

“Then why?” Max asked, blunt as always. “Just don’t leave.”

Everyone nodded in agreement. It would’ve been funny, if Esteban didn’t feel like his lungs were collapsing. Yeah, maybe it was just that simple to Max, to the others. Everyone listened when Max spoke, of course. But Esteban had never truly felt like he belonged at the Grid. Lance moved in right after he did, because Esteban’s scholarship covered on-campus housing, which the Grid was not, and Lance didn’t want Esteban to be alone in the dorms. Esteban had to meet with his advisor three separate times in order to get off-campus housing approved, all while Lance said he could cover Esteban’s portion of rent just fine. And then Esteban did move in and replaced (no one said the word “replaced” but Esteban felt that way anyway) Nico Hulkenberg in the room that became his and Lance’s. It was during one of the many periods where Nico and Kevin were fighting so bad they couldn’t room together, and then they made up and Esteban moved in and he never really got over that feeling of… of inadequacy, the feeling that he was temporary. A place-holder until someone better came along, like Mick, who lived on the couch while his building was being renovated and whom everyone loved to bits and pieces, including Lance.

So maybe it was that simple to the others, but Esteban had stayed up all night making pancakes the night before his first turn because he needed them to be perfect, to be good enough to make him worth it.

Stupid, perhaps. Unnecessary, maybe.

Max was smart and had lived there since the summer before he actually started college, Lando was funny and everyone liked him, Lewis had been there before any of them, even Oscar was sort of endearing in a black-cat type of way. Esteban felt small compared to them. He truly thought it would be better if he moved out and let someone like Mick, someone sunshine-y and funny and so widely-loved, move in and take up a permanent residence where his had been temporary.

“I know it’s a big change,” Lewis said, breaking through Esteban’s thoughts, “but seriously, man, you can stay. We want you to stay. Just because you’ll be moving up doesn’t mean you have to move out.”

Again, easy for him to say when he was someone everyone listened to.

But Esteban knew he’d be fighting an uphill battle if he tried to explain himself and his thought process, and he’d already cried once that morning and the lump in his throat was threatening a second time.

“Okay,” he said. “I will stay.”

Chapter Text

They did decide to throw a party, of course. That strange Saturday was all planning; figuring out who to invite and when it should be and what food and drinks to get. Liam went out with Lance, Yuki, and Carlos to the store three separate times that weekend, as Yuki wanted to make actual food and Liam and Carlos were his sous chefs by that point. Why Yuki didn’t just make Isack do all the work, Liam would never know, but he would also never turn Yuki down when asked to help.

Yuki wanted to try his hand at some American foods, as well as making his infamous sashimi and sushi rolls. Everyone was sworn to secrecy on those, because if word got out that Yuki was making sushi, they’d find half the goddamn school at their door asking for some.

Sebastian Vettel showed up on that Saturday (apparently Lewis had asked him to come over and provide moral support, or something) and he offered to drive them to the bigger store further north.

So Liam found himself squished in the backseat between Yuki (who refused to be in the middle) and Carlos (who glared Liam into submission). Lance, of course, got the passenger’s seat, because he and Sebastian went way back and wanted to yap on the way to the store.

At the big store they got ingredients for buffalo chicken dip—where Yuki heard about that, Liam would never know—and sliders, as well as a fresh stock of salmon (Lando would be pissed) and avocado and cucumber and sushi rice and nori sheets and everything else that Yuki would need.

Over the next week—because Lewis had decided that the first weekend of March was the perfect time to host a party, for some reason—Liam helped Yuki prepare everything for the sushi. It was mostly slicing the vegetables into thin sticks and making rice that they put in containers to sit in the fridge. Carlos was going to help with the chicken dip, until Logan caught wind and assigned himself the task of making sure that it was authentically American. Yuki was thrilled.

On second thought, actually, Logan might’ve been the one to tell Yuki about it in the first place. It was the start of “March Madness” in the states and Logan, despite having not lived there for however long, was keeping up with all of the games.

In between julienning cucumbers, Liam went to classes and followed Lewis around. He would fully admit that it was a bit lost-puppy-ish of him, but Lewis was happy to mentor him. Liam was less in the design side of the major and more in the literal construction of garments. He would’ve gone into the theatre, into costume design and creation, but the fashion world was objectively fascinating. Liam would never be as brave as Lewis, but he liked to think that his outfits and designs weren’t awful. He hadn’t failed yet, at the very least, and he even had a job as a photographer for a fashion magazine. He was learning tons.

Sebastian came over almost every day that week leading up to the party. Liam wasn’t super close to him, but Sebastian was the kind of person you just had to get along with. Before he moved out, he apparently taught Lewis how to parent the younger inhabitants. Grid Dad duties, he called it, not that Lewis ever admitted that what he was doing was parenting. Sebastian was trying to drag Oscar out of his shell, but Oscar was apparently the mentee of Mark Webber, Sebastian’s arch nemesis, or something. Liam wasn’t actually sure what that whole deal was, because Sebastian looked like a man in love whenever Oscar mentioned Mark’s name.

With Oscar apparently off-limits, Sebastian turned to Liam, Logan, and Yuki, the next-newest Grid members. That meant that he spent a lot of time taking up space in the kitchen while the trio of them argued over how early they should start preparing the sushi for the party, and whether or not the chicken dip would be better served hot or cold. Yuki wanted everything but the sliders to be cold, while Logan insisted that the dip was better hot. Liam was just trying not to lose his fingers to the hungry blade of Yuki’s paring knife—he had no temperature opinions.

He blamed his past self for his current status as Grid sous chef.

When he first moved in, he made little gifts for everyone based on what he knew about them. For Yuki, it was an apron with several pockets. It was super simple, honestly, and took him less than a day to make, including the hand-embroidered name and lucky number. Yuki’s was 22, so that was on the middle pocket while his name was in the bottom corner.

Yuki accepted the gift, looked at Liam, and said “you will help me with dinner now” and Liam didn’t have the chance to say no before a knife was shoved in his hand and he was stationed in front of a cutting board of peppers.

He was, apparently, far better with a knife than anyone else in the house, which Liam knew was a lie because he’d seen both Pierre and Oscar dice tomatoes for their salads in the morning, and Liam could never get his tomatoes to look that good. He always squished them a little too much.

Despite all that he had to complain about, he was looking forward to the party.

Their second trip to the store was for booze and mixers, which Esteban was in charge of. The man could make a frankly insane cocktail and had a heavier hand than anyone else. Esteban would never admit it, because this was Esteban they were talking about, but Liam knew he liked making drinks, because he knew he was good at it. Liam still had dreams (and nightmares) about the Cosmopolitan he had at last year’s Halloween party. He didn’t remember much else, but he remembered that drink.

When he and Lance got back with all of the drinks, Liam handed off his bags to Esteban and let him and Lance figure out the bar setup. They’d made up on that strange Saturday, after some quiet talking in the corner of the living room that everyone pretended not to listen in on. Liam went to finish the essay he was writing for his gen ed writing requirement, sitting in the bay window because Oscar was asleep on one couch (he had been up early, Liam acquiesced) and Sebastian and Lewis were stretched out over the other one like a pair of octopi. Octopuses. Whatever.

The bar setup changed with each party, more or less. Sometimes it was just the kitchen island, other times they pulled up the table in the basement and set it up in the corner of the living room. A couple of times, when the basement wasn’t flooded and the invite list spanned three whole pages, they just set up the bar down there. Well, honestly, “bar” was a bit too formal a word. “Outrageous spread of alcohol and mixers on any available flat surface” was more accurate.

With it being the Friday after the weird Saturday (and them deciding that the celebratory party should be a Saturday night), the food argument had come to a head. The weirdness of the previous week had ceased, everyone once again getting along with each other, so the days flew by in a haze of classes, photography, and pancakes.

Liam kicked off his shoes and headed for the stairs. “I’ll be right back down!”

Yuki and Logan, arguing in the kitchen, didn’t acknowledge him

Par for the course, honestly.

He ran up to his and Max’s room, Max being at Daniel’s right now, not that Liam was supposed to know that, and tossed his backpack on his bed. His camera bag went under his bed, and he pulled off his rather nice lace shirt (it might be winter but he was proud of how the blouse turned out, sue him) to exchange it for a sweatshirt he didn’t mind getting dirty. Yuki told him about twice every day that he needed to make himself an apron, and maybe also Carlos and Charles and Oscar, the only other people who really used the kitchen, and Liam always said “maybe later when I’m less busy” but he never really got “less busy.”

Liam took the stairs back down two at a time and joined Logan and Yuki in the kitchen.

“It will not be fresh tomorrow,” Yuki was saying, arms and expression crossed.

Logan, wearing the same sweatshirt as Liam (the generic university one that just about everyone on campus owned), rolled his eyes. “If it’s going to be cold, you’ll need to refrigerate it either way. It’s not going to be fresh.”

They glared at each other like a low-budget cowboy stand-off. Liam looked at the list Yuki wrote, the to-do’s of that day, and pulled out the plastic cutting board that they used for chicken and chicken only. Whether they were making the dip today or tomorrow, the chicken would need to be cut into cubes to cook faster and for more surface area to brown. They also still needed to cut the green onion that would go on top of the dip, and Yuki wanted to test another variation of the recipe Logan had provided. They’d gone through more cream cheese in the past week than they’d used in probably the entire previous year, and Yuki still wasn’t satisfied with the level of spice in the dip.

It was sort of an inspired combination, though. Buffalo chicken dip and sushi, plus mini burgers, along with whatever crazy drink Esteban decided was the drink of choice. Liam couldn’t look at Pink Whitney the same anymore, not after being subjected to what Esteban insisted was a “not-that-alcoholic Shirley Temple” and ended up being, like at least 25% Everclear and 25% Pink Whitney. It didn’t even taste that bad, despite the Everclear.

Honestly, why did they still get Everclear?

Actually, Liam knew the answer to that question. Esteban put it on every party grocery list, and Lance got it because anything Esteban wanted, Lance would get, even if it meant that everyone had the hangover from hell afterwards.

God, Liam was glad that they hadn’t fallen out over the whole situation. Throwing a party was probably not the best form of fixing the problem or whatever, but there hadn’t been a psychology major to give everyone therapy in the Grid since Massa, though Kevin took a slew of psychology classes to support his sports medicine career and Liam had heard amusing stories about him armchair diagnosing everyone with bullshit disorders.

With the ever-familiar tones of Yuki’s and Logan’s bickering, Liam set to cubing the chicken.

~

Max wondered if Liam needed to be saved. He looked, well, not miserable, but definitely sort of resigned to his fate in the kitchen. Logan was on one side of him, Yuki on the other, the pair of them arguing around him like he wasn’t there.

It was hilarious, actually.

Max had expected this, truly. Every time he’d gotten home that week, someone was in the kitchen doing something in preparation for the party. It was always like this before parties, though, a low level of stress about making everything perfect. Sometimes it was Lewis making sure all of the old members of the Grid would be there, and other times it was Carlos putting together tapas for three days straight. Yuki, once he’d moved in and started taking over cooking, tended to be a bit of an angry perfectionist with his dishes. Max had trialled somewhere around five different recipes for a spicy chicken thing that tasted good all five times. His feedback was “let me eat more of it, please” and Yuki would glare at him and go find Pierre, because Pierre always gave him good feedback.

Yuki was scary when he was like this, solely focused on his work. It made him a damn good chef, but it was terrifying.

The bickering between him and Logan was becoming rather commonplace. Logan had many opinions and not a lot of confidence to express those opinions, so the arguments that Max heard while avoiding the three (sometimes four, when Seb was over) people in the kitchen were usually pretty embarrassing for the American and triumphant for Yuki.

Liam looked up as Max approached the bar stools, the air of resignation palpable. “Hey, mate. Have a nice—uh—” Liam looked a little panicked. “Uh—I mean, how’s Daniel doing?”

Oh, fuck. “Fine. Saw him on Wednesday. He’s enjoying teaching.”

“Right.”

Max glanced at Yuki and Logan, still wrapped up in their own argument and completely oblivious to the outside goings-on. “How did you figure it out?”

Liam had the grace to look a little sheepish. “When you called him yesterday, I wasn’t actually asleep.”

Right. Max had missed a call from Daniel while he was in class, so he called him back when he got home. He’d thought that Liam was asleep, given that he was completely stationary lying face down on his bed, but apparently not.

Liam was good, though, so Max knew he wouldn’t tell anyone.

“Keep it quiet, yeah?” he said anyway, just to be sure.

“Of course, mate.”

Yuki said something in Japanese and turned away from Liam and Logan. Max didn’t know any Japanese—Oscar was the resident non-Yuki Japanese speaker, what with the classes he took, and apparently Liam was passable with swears—but it sounded angry. Logan looked triumphant this time, meaning that their argument, which was about the cursed chicken dip, ended in his favour.

“Oh, hey, Max. How was your advisor meeting?” Logan asked, dumping his cutting board of scallions into a bowl.

Max met Liam’s eye, the Kiwi already stifling a grin. “It went fine. Horner was difficult, like usual.”

Logan hummed apologetically. “Rough, man.”

Yes, it was rough.

~

“Should I invite Ollie?”

Lando groaned into his folded arms along with half the room. Charles had been talking himself in circles ever since they sat down to play Cards Against Humanity at Logan’s and Oscar’s insistence. Lando, the weak fucking man he was, folded the moment Oscar looked at him over his bowl of beef stew (thank you, Yuki) with his stupid big, brown eyes. Charles also agreed, because Logan got Alex to say yes, and Alex dragged along George, who bullied Charles into joining them. Charles had then spent the entire fucking evening going back and forth on whether he should invite a kid in the class he TA’d.

Lando had stopped caring around the second time Charles changed his mind.

Alex, the current judge, gathered up the white cards they placed down. Lando watched his hands move, letting Charles’ voice wash over him.

Lewis, currently winning with seven black cards to Oscar’s six—and where the fuck did Oscar get this sense of humour from?—hummed politely when Charles asked a rhetorical question about the propriety of inviting your student to a party.

Lando only had four black cards, and one of those almost went to George when Oscar, the judge at that time, couldn’t pick between their two white cards. They flipped a coin in the end, and Lando got the card.

“He knows Nico, of course,” Max said, for the fourth time that night. He’d won four black cards in a row before ducking out of the game to work a bit on the thesis his advisor wanted him to write, and Lando probably would’ve left as well, if only to get away from Charles’ waffling. Max was a goddamn saint for actually answering him.

“Why don’t you just tell Nico to invite him?” Oscar asked, taking the black card when Alex decided the winner. That tied him with Lewis, then. Lando sighed. He knew his card wouldn’t win that time, but it was still pretty funny.

Charles abruptly shut up. Wow. Lando had almost forgotten what silence sounded like.

“Oscar, you are smart!” Lando lifted his head just as Charles grabbed Oscar’s face and kissed both his cheeks, before digging his phone out of his pocket.

Lando shuffled closer to Oscar and whispered. “Why didn’t you say that sooner?”

Oscar just laughed in response.

Lando had to admit, ever since Lewis so starkly addressed his feelings for Oscar during that horrible Saturday morning, he’d felt a lot more secure. Able to admit that Oscar’s laugh was cute, that it made Lando’s heart race a little bit. He’d actually let himself acknowledge his feelings. Yes, he liked his roommate. Yes, his roommate certainly did not like him back. Yes, Lando was a fucking loser for falling for the guy he spent like 50% of his time with. Yes, he’d survive this. He’d had crushes on worse people, and Oscar was nice, at least.

It was only a crush, anyway. It wasn’t like it was anything serious.

“Sent!” Charles announced, dropping his phone to his chest and flopping back on the green couch. Pierre tried to push him off of his lap, being the other inhabitant of the couch, but Charles was not to be deterred. Lando watched for a moment as Pierre struggled, before he looked back at his hand of cards and the current prompt.

Logan, despite being the one to suggest the game, had no black cards. That didn’t put him off at all, though. He seemed to be having fun because everyone else was having fun. Lando understood that on a spiritual level. He, too, relied on other peoples’ attitudes to have a good time.

Lando tossed a white card onto the table face down and stood up. “Anyone want hot chocolate?”

He got a chorus of “yes”s and headed to the kitchen. Charles had this homemade (family recipe, apparently) hot chocolate mix that they kept on top of the fridge. It just needed to be mixed with hot water or milk and boom, hot chocolate. Given that the beginning of March had been horribly fucking cold—despite the almost-mild string of days at the end of February—Lando figured they all deserved something hot to drink. The Grid wasn’t too cold, but it was quite an old building that was pretty fucking draughty. The attic was absolutely miserably cold during the winter, despite the space heater that lived permanently in the corner of the room.

As he waited for the electric kettle to boil, Lando dumped spoonfuls of the mix into several mismatched mugs. Everyone brought their own cups and dishes and such when they moved in, meaning that their cupboards were full of a random assortment of items. Oscar had a mug with a koala on it, Charles had three different mugs with various French sayings about Monaco, Max had a hideously orange mug that was also as big as Lando’s head, and Lando himself had brought his collection of souvenir mugs from the time he road tripped around the states and decided that mugs and shot glasses were the best souvenirs to get.

The shot glasses were used every party for ill-advised activities. The mugs were stained from tea and coffee and the occasional microwave mug cake.

Hot water went in each mug, and Lando brought them out two at a time. Lewis got the heat-activated mug that went from black to white with some sort of equation on it that, according to Max, was something to do with torque? Lando didn’t understand why it was on a heat-activated mug. Max got the rainbow mug that had a picture of Roscoe on it. Lando wasn’t actually sure who got that one, only that it had been in the cupboard ever since Lando moved in. According to Daniel, it preceded even him moving in. Oscar got his koala mug, because Lando knew it would make him smile, and Pierre and Logan both got the mugs that the journalism department made every year. Alex and George both still had their own mugs of tea, and no one else had asked for hot chocolate, so Lando settled back on the ground with his own mug (he got it in Gaylord, Michigan during his trip) and sipped it while Lewis and Logan bickered over who won the black card.

It was a nice change of pace to have a (mostly) quiet evening. Sure, Yuki and Logan had argued until Carlos came and shut them up by kicking them both out of the kitchen, and Lando forgot his yoga bag at the gym and had to run back in the cold and dark to get it, but then everyone settled for the night, mentally preparing for tomorrow which would undoubtedly be hectic. Esteban would probably insist that everyone start drinking at breakfast, and then they’d all frantically clean and avoid the kitchen while Yuki had seven simultaneous panic attacks, but that was tomorrow. For the time being, Lando was happy to sip his hot chocolate and lose at Cards Against Humanity.

~

Oscar woke up to a cat in his face.

It was dark outside, and absolutely freezing fucking cold, and there was a cat kneading on his chest and trying to butt its head into his chin. Dazedly, Oscar wiggled a hand free from the twisted mess of his blanket and gave the cat a scratch on the head. In the dark, he had no idea if this was Jimmy or Sassy, but based on what Max said about their personalities, Oscar would guess the former. Sassy wasn’t much of a cuddler.

As he woke up more, Oscar wondered how on earth a cat got in the attic. He and Lando both agreed that it was best to keep the door to their room shut, in order to better conserve heat.

Speaking of heat, Oscar couldn’t hear the ever-present hum of the space heater, and the attic seemed quite a bit colder than usual.

Oscar looked over at Lando’s bed.

It was empty, blankets mussed and wrinkled.

Oscar gently shoved the cat to the side and sat up, the cat settling into the warm space from his body. Max would call him a criminal for doing such a thing, but Oscar prioritised Lando, sleep, and warmth (in that order) over keeping a cat comfortable.

His bare feet were immediately freezing from the cold of the floor, not even the ugly orange area rug enough to offset the near-frozen hardwood floors. The door at the bottom of the stairs that led to the attic was slightly open, just enough for a cat to slip through.

Lando sat in the bay window, holding a mug and looking out at the darkened street. He didn’t seem to notice Oscar when he came down the stairs. The light that was usually on above the stove in the kitchen was dark, and Oscar momentarily wondered if the power was out, before being distracted from that train of thought by a sad little sigh from Lando.

“Hey.” Oscar kept his voice quiet, conscious of the bedroom right off of the living room containing Charles and Carlos, both notoriously light sleepers.

Lando jerked slightly, head whipping over to the stairs. His eyes widened. “Oh. Hi. What are you doing up?”

“One of the cats got up in the attic.”

“Sorry. Must’ve forgotten to shut the door.”

Oscar slowly approached him, feeling a bit like someone timidly approaching an injured animal in the wild. “Are you okay?”

Lando looked away, back to the window. “Yup.”

It was clearly a lie. “Okay.”

Lando tucked his legs up, a silent invitation for Oscar to join him in the window. For a while, they stayed quiet, Lando sipping his hot chocolate and Oscar trying not to fall asleep with his forehead against the cold glass of the window. The only light in the entire downstairs area came from the moon and the stars, the Grid being too far from the street lights to catch their light. It made the whole scene feel a little surreal, a little strange, like he was still asleep and dreaming.

“I think the power might be out,” Lando said, breath fogging the window from how close his face was to the glass. Oscar had been studying his reflection to keep from drifting off.

“Probably.” He should say more than just “probably” but all coherent thought had flown from his head around the same time as he’d sat down. “Probably” was as good as it was going to get.

Lando didn’t seem deterred by his lack of response. “We’ve held parties in blackouts before, a couple times, but I know Lewis always gets weird about the power being out and having people over and stuff.”

Oscar figured that made sense. It was, like, a safety hazard, wasn’t it? Partying in the dark and all.

Lando shivered and curled up even tighter. Oscar experienced what could only be called a moment of homosexual-fuelled insanity as he realised that the sweatshirt Lando was wearing was one of Oscar’s, from the physics department. It swamped him, because Lando was rather… would slender by too weird of a word? He had a sort of delicate frame, willowy where Oscar had always been a bit wider, prone to keeping muscle on his shoulders. The few times that their laundry had gotten mixed up, Oscar noted that Lando’s shirts were always tight on his arms and chest, and Lando looked a little bit like a kid who got into his parents’ closet. But this—this wasn’t a laundry mix-up. That sweatshirt had been draped over Oscar’s desk chair, because he’d been wearing it while playing CAH and took it off to go to bed because he hated sleeping in long sleeves.

Should he say something…?

No, best not to. Lando might not have realised it was Oscar’s sweatshirt he was grabbing—Oscar himself had accidentally taken Lando’s things when he was especially tired in the morning. Bringing attention to it would probably not—no, yeah, best to keep his mouth shut.

“Have you ever been out on the roof?” Lando asked suddenly, looking away from the window and directly at Oscar.

Oscar jerked back to full wakefulness. He’d been halfway asleep. “No.”

“C’mon, I’ll show you.”

Oscar followed Lando, because Oscar would always follow Lando, back up the stairs all the way to the attic. Oscar grabbed the sweatshirt at the foot of his bed—he pretty much always kept multiple on hand—and pulled it on while Lando wrestled with the window in the alcove furthest from their beds. The cat was still curled up on Oscar’s bed, now watching the pair of them with slow blinks.

With a loud creak, Lando got the window open. Oscar watched him carefully push it out, the old hinges protesting noisily, and then sling one leg out. Oscar stepped forward and offered Lando his hand to help him out, and then he followed his roommate out of their room and onto the sloped roof.

Oscar watched Lando carefully shimmy over and up, above the roof of the window alcove where it was safer. He copied his movements, keeping his centre of gravity low, and settled back on the roof, looking up at the stars.

It was absolutely freezing cold, and Lando was audibly shivering, but Oscar thought he could stay out there forever.

~

Carlos was usually not an early riser. He liked his sleep, and everyone went to bed rather late last night, so he was fully expecting to get up later than usual.

Unfortunately, Yuki got up at the crack of dawn (he was always fuelled by stress on big cooking days), and he dragged about half the house into the world of wakefulness by blasting Adele and clanging around in the kitchen.

Carlos shared a commiserating look with Charles, whose eyes were just visible above his blanket. The house was unusually cold, though the temperature overnight wasn’t supposed to be any lower than it had been the past couple of weeks.

“Why is it so cold?” Charles complained, voice low and rough from sleep. He was glaring now. If Carlos was a little bit more awake, he probably wouldn’t find it as endearing as he was. Probably.

Instead of responding to his roommate, Carlos reached for his phone. It was dead.

“There is no—no electricity,” he said, tapping the screen as though that would somehow make it turn on.

“Oh, no,” Charles reached for his phone, which turned on. Lucky. “Lewis is texting to say that if it does not turn on soon we will have to postpone the party. Ah. Yuki says no. He says he put too much work for it to go to waste. Pierre is agreeing. And George and Lando. I will text to say your phone is dead, non?”

“Grazie.” Carlos got up, immediately searching for a jumper to put on. Normally he liked to change into day clothes immediately, but it was so absolutely freezing that he couldn’t make himself. He doubled up on layers, pulling on a business school sweatshirt over the faded red jumper he pulled from his closet, and went out to get something hot to drink. Charles watched him the whole time, and Carlos tried not be visibly affected by his attention.

“Morning.” Pierre looked still half-asleep, hair ruffled and eyes squinting into the wash of light coming in from the windows. Yuki was bounding around the kitchen with far too much energy. The light above the sink flickered on suddenly.

“The electricity is back!” Yuki announced loudly as thought they didn’t also have eyeballs that worked, speaking over the music blasting from his miraculously-not-dead phone.

“Good morning,” Carlos returned to Pierre, wrestling with Charles’ evil espresso machine so it could start pulling a shot while he made himself a normal cup of coffee. “That is good. My phone is dead.”

Liam came down next, which Carlos expected. Trust the guy to follow through when he promised to do something for you. If he told Yuki he’d help with food preparations, he’d move heaven and hell and all the Grid members to keep his promise. Carlos had to admire that about him, even if he didn’t really know Liam that well personally.

“Is it just me or is it fucking freezing?” Liam asked, flicking the switch on the electric kettle to turn it on.

It was a bit of a running joke that neither Liam nor Oscar could handle the cold well (and it was mostly true) because of where they were from, but this time, Liam was right.

“The electricity was off for most of the night,” Pierre said. “We got an email from the school about it—apparently most of the campus was out, too.”

“Damn,” Liam said, holding his hands over the spout of the kettle to warm in the steam.

Lewis came down the stairs holding Roscoe, also still dressed in his pyjamas. “Morning, guys. Power’s back, so we’re good for tonight as long as it doesn’t go back out again.”

Carlos wondered if Yuki was trying to melt Lewis with his glare.

He sipped his coffee and stayed out of it. The espresso shot was ready, so Carlos dumped it in the fluorescent yellow mug that Lando designed with his social media logo on the side. Carlos knew that Charles would make a disgruntled face at the sight of it, because it really was oppressively bright. He got the milk out of the fridge and steamed some while Yuki talked about the plan for food. Carlos wasn’t listening. Lewis probably wasn’t listening, either. Pierre might be listening because he loved Yuki in a way that meant he put up with Yuki’s oddities, not that Carlos could really judge. He’d moved in with Charles at the first available opportunity as though he didn’t already have a crush on the guy—he was familiar with putting up with the strangeness of the person you loved.

At least Yuki knew Pierre loved him.

Charles was about as observant as a plant, or maybe a tenured professor who should be in a nursing home and not a university. Carlos could do a tap dance ending in a love confession and Charles still wouldn’t get the fucking hint.

Carlos poured the milk into the fluoro yellow mug, added three pumps of caramel syrup, and brought it and his own coffee back to the bedroom, where Charles was sat up a little more, still in bed with a blanket pulled around his shoulders.

The heating noisily kicked on as Carlos shut the door. “For you, Lord Perceval.”

Charles laughed and held out his hands, phone falling into his lap. When Carlos presented the yellow mug to him, his face predictably scrunched up, displeased. He took it, of course, but he glared at Carlos, looking so absolutely betrayed that Carlos couldn’t help but laugh.

“Oh, mate, your face!”

Charles’ expression twisted even more, before he rolled his eyes and took a sip of the drink. Carlos nudged Charles’ legs to the side so he could sit at the foot of his bed—their usual morning routine when neither of them had anything they needed to do.

It wasn’t particularly peaceful, because Adele was still rattling the walls and everyone in the kitchen was trying to speak over the music (mostly unsuccessfully) but Carlos wouldn’t give it up for anything. Even when Lando barged in and flung himself onto the bed between Charles and the wall, feet in Carlos’ lap, he was content.

~

Any excuse to party.

It was, at this point, a mandatory part of living in the Grid, or being friends with Grid members (and former Grid members, and possible-future Grid members), that you were down to party for any reason, or no reason at all. A good grade on a test, getting into graduate school, getting a new job, moving rooms, moving out, moving in, holidays, birthdays—literally any possible event was taken as an excuse to throw a party.

And the Grid was a fantastic place to throw a party.

Nico remembered some of the rowdier parties during his time, when everyone was chomping at the bit to get some energy out, that happened literally every weekend for a whole semester. He and Lewis took charge for a couple, but for the most part, it was the dying relationship (and burgeoning hatred) between Sebastian and Mark that kept things going.

Ah, good times.

Then Mark moved out and Daniel moved in and suddenly the parties were a little less angry and a lot more joyful, a lot more focused on having as much fun as possible in a four-to-six hour period. That was also the start of the decline of Nico’s friendship with Lewis, and those parties were little safe havens where his father’s pressure and the school’s disinterest in him couldn’t find him, when Lewis got drunk enough to smile at him with his eyes, too, and not just his mouth.

As a former Grid member, Nico always received the invites to the parties that the current inhabitants threw. He turned them down, because he really was quite busy figuring out the business side of fashion. He was pretty good with designs, but that had always been Lewis’ forte, whereas the actual marketing and business ventures were Nico’s. They always said that they’d work together, start a business together, make clothes and start trends and end up on runways together. Lewis would design, Nico would put those designs in the shows—it was foolproof.

It was optimistic and naive.

Esteban Ocon hadn’t overlapped with Nico at the Grid, as Nico moved out right at the end of his fourth year and Esteban moved in sometime later (he didn’t know exactly when, actually, because there was a harsh period of time where he staunchly ignored everything and everyone to do with the Grid in order to distance himself from memories of Lewis, not that it worked). Still, he saw the kid around on campus and he knew that Esteban was a good guy; nice, thoughtful, all the sort of things that parents and employers wanted to see in a young man. So when Seb texted Nico a screenshot of his invite with a question mark and nothing else, Nico thought about it.

He actually considered going.

Sebastian always did this. Lewis would invite Sebastian and tell Sebastian to invite whoever he wanted, because Seb was still in contact with far more Grid members than Lewis, and then Seb would screenshot the invite and send it to Nico to see if he would go this time.

Since moving out, Nico had gone to two parties. Two and a half if he counted the time he hung out on the front stoop and then left without going inside.

One was Sebastian’s graduation party. The absolute bitch had flown through the engineering programme to graduate after just five years (compared to the typical six or seven) and already had a job lined up at the same mechanic’s shop that Mark worked at. Nico could very clearly remember watching the pair orbit around each other most of the night, Sebastian looking hilarious in cut off jean shorts and a cropped shirt that Daniel made that said “Isaac Newton’s Favourite Whore” in glittery sequins, and Mark looked like he came directly from work in a grease-covered polo and slacks that Nico desperately wanted to get his hands on to fix the fit of. Nico also very clearly remembered stumbling upstairs to find an open bathroom, only to walk in on the pair of them swapping spit like the past four years hadn’t happened and they were still the stoic-grad-student-overenthusiastic-second-year roommates that they started out as.

The other party was Max’s 18^th birthday party, which actually happened the year before, the same year that Nico was trying to avoid anything Grid related. Max had skipped some grades, meaning he started at the university when he was only 17 years old. He was living in the Grid, too; his father was apparently still in contact with the landlords and got him a place. Nico would’ve been concerned, but he was occupied with his crumbling relationship with his best friend (boyfriend) at the time, so all of the drama surrounding Max’s moving in flew over his head. When he got the invitation (directly from Sebastian, of course) he stared at the letters spelling out “eighteen years old” and felt, for the first time in his life, old. The party did the same thing as that glitter-covered invite. Everyone was celebrating the kid finally becoming an adult, and Nico felt drunk two-and-a-half drinks in. Old. He escaped up the stairs, all the way up to the attic and out the creaky window onto the roof. It was second nature to scoot up the rough tar tiles to the apex and look up at the sky, listening to the sounds of the party beneath him.

A few minutes later, Lewis joined him.

It was the first time in months, maybe even years, that they were in each other’s company without fighting. They didn’t speak at all, but Lewis’ pinky covered Nico’s for a moment, and in that moment, everything felt like it would be okay.

Then someone downstairs broke something with an almighty crash that sent Nico and Lewis hurtling back to reality, and they both went down to figure out what happened. (Turns out that fifty drunk university students dancing in the living room surrounded by somewhat fragile objects like trophies and awards and flimsy coffee tables was not, in fact, a recipe for a whole and unharmed house.)

Nico knew he was more mature now than he was when he moved out.

In fact, he felt far more secure and confident than he had felt in years, possibly ever. Lewis’ successes, which he heard about constantly, no longer felt like personal jabs at his own inadequacies, but instead triumphs and joys to be celebrated and shared. He kept up with Lewis’ work and never once had the green monster of envy take over his mind.

So he sent Sebastian a thumbs up and an “I’ll be there” that he fully intended on following through.

Maybe this time—maybe this time they’d find themselves on the roof again, and maybe this time Nico wouldn’t run away.

~

Sebastian slipped on a patch of ice for what had to be the twelfth time during the walk over to the Grid, and he braced for impact only to find himself hanging by the hood of his coat, scruffed like a newborn kitten. He looked up and beamed.

Mark rolled his eyes and released his hold on Sebastian’s hood.

Seb couldn’t help but notice that Mark waited until he was steady on two feet before letting go.

“Headed to the Grid?” Mark asked, because he was nice and always made awkward small talk with everyone, even the people he hated (and Sebastian was man enough to admit that he definitely fell in that category, even if such admittance made his heart hurt).

“Where else?” Sebastian replied, making sure that his smile and his tone were as obnoxious as possible.

As he’d hoped, Mark visibly grimaced and braced himself for the walk over.

Seb continued. “You know, Nico’s coming this time.”

“Hulk always shows up—”

“No, I mean Rosberg,” Sebastian interrupted, using the excuse of avoiding a patch of snow to get closer to Mark.

Despite the both of them working the exact same job doing the exact same things, Mark had packed on muscle like nobody’s business, whereas Sebastian stayed the same height and build all throughout university and his time at the shop. He was strong, he was capable, and he was also a good head shorter than Mark and about half as broad. He’d be lying if he said it didn’t do something to him to be absolutely dwarfed by his most bitter rival.

It meant that as they walked side-by-side, Seb as able to sort of curl himself into Mark’s form, emphasising the difference between them.

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t know it did something to Mark, too.

“Britney will be there?” Mark asked, sounding incredulous. Seb had had the same reaction when he got the text from Nico. “I can’t remember the last party he went to at the Grid, honestly.”

“My graduation,” Seb said immediately.

Mark probably hadn’t noticed, but Nico walked in on them in the bathroom at one point before very quickly hightailing it out of there. Seb wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t been so attuned to the sounds of the party going on, anticipating someone asking where he was and coming to look for him. It was his party, after all.

“Right.” Mark was undoubtedly remembering all that had occurred at that party.

This was a very familiar dance.

Sebastian moved into the Grid in the middle of his first semester, when David Coulthard, the TA for one of his required gen eds, was complaining about not knowing anyone “good enough” to take his spot. Sebastian jokingly asked if he could, and DC looked him up and down and said “if you can hold your own, it’s yours.”

Turns out, Sebastian could hold his own. He hated his dorm room and the dorm hall and everything that came with living on-campus, and he dug his heels in when some of the other guys poked fun at him and called him a twink and a girl and other bullshit. Yes, Sebastian was pretty small compared to a lot of them, but he more than made up for it with having the biggest fucking personality out of all of them, and the biggest brain.

And, as it turned out, one of the nicer guys at the Grid was also an engineering major.

Sebastian remembered how thrilled he was when he learnt that, how he banged on the guy’s bedroom door every evening to get help on his homework. Mark begrudgingly put up with him at first, and then they became… well, they became friends? They moved into a double room when one became available, figuring that it would be easier that way as Mark worked through the grad programme and Seb doubled-, tripled-, and quadrupled-up on engineering classes, and they grew closer and closer and closer.

And Sebastian wasn’t fucking blind.

He saw the way Mark looked at him—looked at the two of them together. He’d been down bad for the guy from the first moment he saw him, but he didn’t expect anything to come of it.

So when they got drunk at a party for Fernando and stumbled up to their bedroom leaning on each other, Seb really did expect for them to just… go to bed. He beelined for his bed and started pulling off his shirt, stained with splashes of tequila and a lime margarita mix, and found himself turned around and pressed up against the wall, Mark’s mouth on his before he could say anything.

Things sort of escalated from there.

Of course, the more intense their relationship got, the worse their arguments were. They would go weeks without talking, and then they’d make out and Sebastian would wake up in Mark’s bed with Mark’s stupid octopus limbs wrapped around him and he’d think that they were okay. And they would be, until Sebastian boasted about his accelerated engineering track or until Mark got highlighted in the engineering bulletin and then they’d be right back to fighting, trying to one-up each other like… like fucking peacocks, or something.

God.

Then Mark graduated but stayed close by at the shop and their situation never really… changed. It didn’t get better, it didn’t get worse, it just sort of existed. They saw less of each other (in every sense of the word) so they had fewer opportunities to argue, but also fewer opportunities to—to make up. Or make out. Seb would take what he could get.

When Seb was offered a job at the same shop—and he’d been apprenticing there for a while to get some hands-on experience—he said yes without a second thought. Mark’s distraught expression when he walked in the first day proudly wearing the uniform would stick in his head forever.

They performed this song and dance whenever there was a party. Sebastian would push and Mark would grit his teeth and try to be civil (and wait to complain to Fernando and Jenson and also Oscar, apparently) and either they’d fight and end up on opposite sides of the Grid for the whole party, or Mark would pull him into a bathroom or the basement or, on one memorable occasion, Lewis’ room, and they’d not talk at all for a rather long time.

It was still light out, because Lewis had asked Sebastian to show up early to help set up, but the sun was slowly setting and turning the campus red-gold. Sebastian stood still in a slant of sunlight between two buildings for a moment to soak up a bit of the waning sun, wishing that spring would hurry the fuck up.

He only realised that Mark had stopped, too, when he opened his eyes and saw him standing just out of the sun in the shade cast by the next building.

It was probably poetic, but Seb had never taken any of the poetry classes offered by the university, so he wouldn’t know how to spin the words to best capture the moment.

“Come on,” Mark said, voice soft and—and kind. “We’ll be late.”

And he held out a hand to Sebastian, just like he used to do in those few months between becoming roommates and their first big falling out, that golden and beautiful-like-a-sunset period of time where Sebastian thought that maybe what they had could last longer than the rest of Mark’s time at the university.

Sebastian reached out and took his hand, letting Mark pull him out of the sunlight and into the shade with him.

He didn’t let go until they walked up the steps to the Grid door.

~

“You need to stop collecting the fucking first years, mate.”

“Don’t call me mate—”

“I’ll call you whatever you want if you stop collecting the first years!”

Nico glared at Kevin, and Kevin glared right back. Currently, they were escorting not one, not two, but three whole first years to the Grid party. Charles had only asked Nico to invited Ollie, and Kevin thought that meant “text him the invite that Carlos put together on whatever programme he used for his other graphic design projects and tell Charles whether or not he accepted” and not “text the invite and plan to walk the fucking first year to and from the Grid.”

But Kevin thought “it’s only one, it’s fine” until Ollie (whom Kevin adored, of course) asked to bring along his friend Kimi (not Raikkonen, a different Kimi, what are the fucking chances) and then Nico took the initiative to also send the invite to his latest charity case, Gabriel.

Kevin had to admit that Gabriel was exactly the right level of insane to fit in with the rest of the Grid, Nico was correct in that assessment, but Grid parties were for Grid members and Grid-adjacent people like significant others, not—not adopted children. Though Gabriel didn’t fit in that category either, because he was way too self-sufficient, and Fernando already had taken him under his wing, anyway.

“When we were first years—” Kevin began, only to find Nico’s hand clamped over his mouth. He licked it, knowing full well that it would do absolutely nothing, and then bit down on Nico’s index finger hard. He let go. “When we were first years—“

“Yes, yes, we walked ourselves home and whatever,” Nico said, rolling his eyes and studying the indents of Kevin’s canines in the flesh of his finger. “But Ollie specifically asked because he and Kimi live in the far dorm hall, you know the one?”

Kevin did, in fact, know the one. “Fine. But Gabriel—”

“Gabi will be staying with us, actually.”

“What?” He would’ve liked to know this before the literal day of the party.

“I offered,” Nico said as thought that explained anything.

And, like, Kevin had his own little first year ducklings that trailed after him whenever he had office hours for the biology class he TA’d. He looked after the new athletes and the kids who toured the athletic facilities with their parents and stared at Kevin like he was someone to look up to.

He was not particularly fond of having aforementioned first year ducklings in his flat.

“And Gabriela is very sweet; you have met him—” Nico suddenly stopped talking, and Kevin looked over at him from where his gaze had fallen on their red couch. Nico was staring out the window down at the pavement. “That is Seb and Mark, look.”

Kevin stepped closer and squinted at the two figures passing by. Yes, that did look like Mark and Sebastian—tall and dark and short and blond—and both of them lived nearby so Kevin often saw one or the other walking past. Sometimes they’d stop and wait for him and Nico to walk with them to parties at the Grid.

Sebastian stopped walking right where a bit of sunlight came through the gap between their building and the next, his face tilted up slightly, into the light. Mark stopped walking as well, looking back at Seb. Kevin couldn’t see very well through the dirty window and down to the pavement, but he thought that Mark looked… wistful, perhaps.

Nico hummed softly, and Kevin looked over at him to see him regarding the pair closely.

“Do you think—oh, look, Mark’s talking.”

Kevin whipped his head around. Mark was saying something, and then he—he held out his hand to Sebastian. And Sebastian took it.

They continued down the street and disappeared around the corner, still holding hands.

“Holy fuck.” Nico looked at Kevin, wide-eyed.

“I’m telling the group chat!” Kevin said, scrambling for his phone.

They’d had a group chat going to monitor the bet they placed a while back on whether Mark and Sebastian would get their act together or fall apart for good. So far, Daniel was winning with his prediction that it would take at least another year for anything to happen. Lewis had his money on them never working it out (and he said he totally wasn’t projecting) and Felipe (Massa, not Nasr) thought that they’d end up getting in a physical fight and then working it out. Personally, Kevin thought that they were already past the worst of their rivalry and on their way to figuring it out, and this just proved his point.

“I should’ve gotten a picture,” Nico said, still staring out the window.

Kevin sent off the all-caps, no-punctuation text to the group chat. JUST SAW MARK AND SEBASTIAN WALKING AND HOLDING HANDS PAY THE FUCK UP

“Yes, you should have.”

Nico whacked him on the shoulder.

PROOF???? Daniel sent back along with several indecipherable emojis.

Nico didn’t get any pictures Kevin replied with the rolling-eyes emoji, because he was a normal person who used emojis normally. I would not lie about this just to get ahead.

TRUE TRUE MY MARVELLOUS DANE Daniel said, and Jenson sent a screenshot of the spreadsheet he kept to monitor the bet. Everyone with “they work their shit out” was moved up. Felipe down-thumbsed the screenshot. Kevin won a mini bet that they would do something outright romantic instead of just making out and fucking every so often, so Fernando, Jenson, and the other Nico owed him money.

Sometimes Kevin wondered how the hell Jenson ended up as the athletic director at the university when he was the biggest shit-stirrer he’d ever met, but then he did something like make spreadsheets to keep track of bets, and it made a little more sense. Jense and Lewis had been the darlings of the university for a while, both of them raking in awards from all of the fucking conferences and shit they went to. First year roommates and they were already wrecking havoc on everyone else. Those were the fucking days.

“Ah, Gabi is on his way over,” Nico said, waving his phone in Kevin’s direction.

Right. The ducklings. “I will set up the couch.” Then, because he knew that Nico was probably considering it— “Why do we not have the other two over as well? We have the space.”

It was true. They had a giant air mattress that they slept on for the four months that they didn’t have an actual bed, and their living room was pretty big and pretty empty. If two of the first years were fine sharing the mattress, then they’d all have a comfortable place to sleep that night, and they wouldn’t all have to walk back to campus.

Nico grinned at Kevin, the lovey-dovey sap that he was, and smacked a kiss to his cheek before typing on his phone.

The things he did for this man, honestly…

~

Yuki sidestepped Esteban digging around the fridge for the already-open bottle of vodka in there, and handed off the platter to Sebastian. He felt like a live wire, like one wrong touch would shock him and everyone else. Pierre always told him that he got a little intense with his cooking, and Yuki knew that was true, he admitted it himself, but it was a different thing altogether to be confronted with that fact so obviously.

He’d been on-edge all day, waking up early to ensure that everything was good, everything was prepared or ready to be prepared. He flipped the little beef patties on the griddle and made sure to clean it thoroughly before cooking the vegetarian patties—and he was kicking himself for not remembering to do them the other way around so he wouldn’t have to clean the griddle in between—and Liam was sorting out the toppings for the sliders while Logan monitored the soft sesame seed rolls that were warming in the oven. Everything was going fine, everything was going the way it should be going, and yet Yuki still kind of wanted to cry.

Sebastian came back after setting the platter on the kitchen island and gently placed a hand on Yuki’s shoulder. “Take a moment, yeah? Everything is okay.”

And somehow, that worked to shut up Yuki’s overactive brain.

Everything was okay. Lewis and Mark were hanging the banner that said “CONGRATULATIONS ESTEBAN” in the living room, Esteban himself was flitting around holding various bottles of alcohol and mixers, already putting drinks together to pre-game, Liam was studiously putting the toppings together in bowls and setting them out on the platter, and Logan had just pulled the rolls from the oven and they looked exactly right. Everyone else had been in and out telling Yuki that everything looked good, smelt good, that they were looking forward to trialling the new recipes he’d put together. Pierre had already had four pieces of sushi—but Yuki had anticipated that and made lots extra.

George came down the stairs already dressed in jeans and a loose button down with the top buttons undone, looking just as stressed as Yuki had felt up until a few moments ago.

“Liam, do you have your sewing kit?” George asked, dodging Mark walking through with the box of decorations that they kept from every party to use at the next one.

Liam looked up from the onion he was cutting into neat semicircles. “Yeah, it’s in my room. Why?”

“The tag on this tore a hole by the collar, see—” George turned around, and Yuki breathed and let the normality of it all bring him back down to earth. He tended to get a little in his head about things, intense and dramatic.

But everything was okay.

Everything would continue being okay, too, even if he had to manhandle everyone who walked through the front door to make it so.

Chapter Text

Daniel bent in half, laughing so hard that black spots blinked in his vision. He reached out a hand to hold onto Max next to him so he didn’t actually tip over.

“Right, so I look at them and I start speaking Spanish, because it’s the first thing that comes to mind,” Logan continued speaking. “I mean, what else are you supposed to do?”

Daniel caught his breath and pushed himself back upright, squeezing Max’s arm before letting go. Logan was grinning, which was nice to see because in the semester that their time at the Grid overlapped, Daniel got the feeling that Logan was a person who was supposed to smile and hadn’t had a lot of reason to. Everyone else in their little group in the corner of the living room was still laughing.

“I am going to go get another drink,” Max said, swaying close to Daniel to speak in his ear without having to shout. “Do you want anything?”

Daniel handed over his empty glass. “Another one of whatever this was! And give Estie a kiss for me!”

Max laughed and disappeared, and Daniel tried (and failed) not to watch him go.

When he refocused his attention on the group, he found several pairs of eyes looking at him, amused. Even Oscar, whom Daniel knew next to nothing about, looked a little too knowing for his liking.

“So… Max, huh?”

Honestly, for a group of what, first and second years, they were way too fucking perceptive.

Daniel waved his hand. “Whatever you’re thinking, nuh uh, stop it.”

“Mate,” Logan said, because he’d picked up so many British-isms. Somehow, he’d skipped right over Australian slang, much to Daniel’s disappointment. Oscar—and Liam, to an extent—were the only people who really got Daniel.

Kidding, of course.

Max got him too.

~

Alex kept one hand in the small of George’s back and the other wrapped around his cup containing a violently pink mixture that tasted absolutely delicious. Esteban, when pressing the glass into Alex’s hand, had said that it was a “mix of cocktails” and didn’t elaborate, so Alex and George played their favourite party game of Figure Out What Was In The Drink. So far, they knew it had grenadine (the colour was a dead giveaway) and grapefruit juice (the slight bitterness and the jug of juice out on the table was a no-brainer) and definitely some kind of orange-flavoured liquor, maybe triple sec? It didn’t really taste like alcohol at all, which was Esteban’s specialty and also frankly fucking magical given the amount of alcohol in every one of his concoctions.

Max passed by holding two glasses of something violently blue.

“Curaçao,” Alex said, in tandem with George.

They sipped their pink drinks, and Alex decided that the booze of choice was definitely tequila and not vodka. Esteban hadn’t gotten out the Everclear for this party, after being scolded by Lewis and Jenson at separate points in the night last time.

The music changed, something loud with bass suddenly rattling the walls and windows in their frames, and several people cheered.

“Wanna dance?” Alex asked, eyes following Esteban who was being dragged by Lance from the table of booze towards the clear space in the middle of the living room designated for bad dancing.

George accepted his outstretched hand. “Of course.”

~

Despite it being cold as actual tits outside, a fairly large group had gathered on the front steps, existing tangentially to the increasingly noisy party inside. Pierre took a drag off of his cigarette and listened absently to the “Marlboro reds or Camel blues” debate that came up at every single party without fail. Charles reached out, free hand making a grabbing motion for Pierre’s cigarette, and he handed it over and took Charles’ cider as payment. One step down, Sebastian was sat on the stairs and leaning back against Charles’ legs, happily participating in the argument, on the side of Camel blues.

“Non, the blues leave a film in my mouth!” Isack protested, his pack of reds held out in his hand like evidence.

Gabriel, another first year that had shown up with Nico and Kevin, passed his blunt to Ollie, who looked already a little high and a lot drunk. He’d said it was his first time doing weed in any form, and Pierre momentarily considered heading inside to get an edible from Lando to have him try instead of Gabriel’s weed, but then he thought “that’s not my problem to deal with” and decided to just keep an eye on the first years.

Yuki, further down on the stairs, was deep in conversation with Zhou and Valtteri, the three of them eating chips and dip from Zhou’s plate and each smoking.

The door opened, almost hitting Pierre, and Logan and Oscar stepped out, both holding bottles of what looked like more cider and giggling quietly. Music blasted from inside, quieting again when the door shut.

“Sorry, sorry,” Logan said, manoeuvring his way down the steps and somehow avoiding stepping on any of the paper plates and crushed cans strewn about.

Oscar followed him down, an arm resting on Logan’s shoulder for balance, still giggling about something. Pierre had never seen him this drunk—normally he was standing quietly with Logan or alone, just observing. He exchanged a look with Charles, who raised an eyebrow and tilted his head, clearly thinking something. Pierre glanced again at the pair of them now settled at the bottom of the stairs, pressed against each other. Huh. Hadn’t Oscar said something about sleeping in Logan’s room the other day?

Pierre looked back at Charles, and it was clear that his friend had picked up the same vibes.

“So how long has that been going on, do you think?” Charles asked in French, voice soft.

“They have known each other a while.” Pierre considered it. “Probably since before they moved in, right?”

Charles hummed, and Pierre looked back down the stairs at everyone gathered. A bit of a hodgepodge group, but he wouldn’t trade it for the world.

~

Okay, Mark was totally not freaking out because he couldn’t find Sebastian.

Totally not.

Nope.

“Why don’t you two get some air,” he said, gently coaxing Oscar and Logan to the front door. Oscar had latched onto Mark a couple minutes ago, a bottle in each hand and a flush that told Mark that he’d been drinking a lot that night. Logan looked about the same. They stepped outside, and Mark turned back to survey the room again. Fernando, Jenson, Kimi, and a few of the kids were in the kitchen, eating and drinking and shouting over the music, and the crowd of people in the living room had thinned slightly. Still, no head of blond hair.

Maybe he was upstairs…?

Mark stepped over Lando, sitting at the bottom of the stairs with sleepy red eyes, and headed up to the second floor. He glanced in the rooms that were open and listened for a moment at the bathroom door to see if someone was in there throwing up. Nothing. The next floor was the same, except the bathroom was definitely occupied by two people going at it. Mark hated that he knew his friends well enough to clock the pair as Nico and Kevin.

Seb never went up to the attic, but the door to the stairs going up was slightly cracked, so Mark took them two at a time to check, just in case.

Still nothing, but the window at the far end of the room was open, and he could hear voices…

Oh, the other Nico, and Lewis.

Mark was not going to interrupt that lest one of them bite his head off. If they were finally talking, that was good for him and his bet in the pool. Actually, he should try to get evidence—

No, he should find Sebastian.

Mark turned and went back down the stairs to the ground floor, pointedly not listening to the noises coming from the third floor bathroom as he passed. He hadn’t looked in the basement, but then Lewis had said that it was partially flooded from the melting snow and ice (hence the drinks table being set up in the living room instead).

The front door flung open and two of the first years stumbled in, clinging to each other.

In the brief moment that the door was open, Mark got a glimpse of the group outside. Charles and Pierre were standing at the top of the stairs, and sitting on the first step was Sebastian.

Of course.

Mark dodged the first years now digging into the food on the kitchen island and went outside. He wouldn’t say he was sober, but he was a bit less gone than the people lounging on the steps, Sebastian included.

“’Scuse me,” he muttered, stepping between Charles and Pierre.

Sebastian looked up at him, grin splitting his face, and Mark would deny the stupid flutter in his stomach until the day he died.

“Mark! Sit with me!” And Sebastian reached up and dragged Mark down onto the step with him, nearly toppling over the first year on the next step down.

“Sorry,” Mark said, moving closer to Sebastian to give the kid some more room.

“C’est bon,” the kid said before taking a drag off his cigarette.

“Mark.” Sebastian said his name like he was testing out the individual letters in his mouth.

Mark looked at him, noting vaguely that because Sebastian was slumped over so much, Mark towered over him. Jesus. “What?”

Sebastian held out his cigarette, mostly just filter at that point, with his eyebrows raised in a clear question.

Mark shook his head. He’d stopped smoking a while back, much preferring to lick the taste from Sebastian’s mouth instead.

Where the fuck did that thought come from?

Alright, maybe Mark was a little further gone than he thought.

~

“We should check on the ducklings,” Kevin said reasonably, after they’d been in the bathroom for what had to be at least twenty minutes. No one had come pounding on the door to get them out yet, so Nico was fine staying right where they were, but then—well, Kevin was right.

“Yes, okay,” he said, backing up from Kevin and turning to glance in the mirror. No one cared what they looked like, and showing up with mussed hair and swollen lips would get a few catcalls and back slaps and that was about it. Still, Nico didn’t want to go back downstairs looking too dishevelled, so he fixed his hair as best he could and then turned around and set Kevin to rights, too.

Downstairs, they dodged Lando (asleep, maybe?) on the stairs and surveyed the crowd of people dancing in the living room. There was Kimi, sandwiched between Max and Daniel and holding a glass of what looked like plain water. Nico met Max’s eye and gestured to Kimi with a questioning look. Max sent him a thumbs up. Good, so Kimi wasn’t doing bad.

“Uh, Nico, mate.” Kevin elbowed him.

Nico looked over and quickly stifled a laugh. Gabi and Ollie were slumped against each other sitting at the kitchen island, a bowl of pretzel sticks between them and the chicken dip thing that Yuki made just in reach. Gabi said that he had weed and was planning on smoking, but this was rather—well, too high was better than too drunk, in Nico’s opinion. They’d be fine by Monday morning, at least.

“Time?” Nico asked Kevin. He checked his watch.

“Just after one. Time to go, you think?”

“Yes. You get Kimi?”

Kevin nodded and went to the trio in the living room. Nico came up next to Gabriel and placed a hand on his shoulder to get his attention. It took several long, agonising seconds for Gabi to register the touch and look over at Nico, but when he did, his face split open in a wide grin.

“Nicooooooo,” he said, leaning away from Ollie and into Nico. This sent Ollie toppling over, until Fernando appeared out of nowhere and caught the boy by the shoulders to hold him in place.

“I will help you,” Fernando said, voice stern but gaze soft.

Yeah, he’d always had a massive soft spot for the kids. Nico could very clearly remember being parented by Fernando when he was in his second year, allowing Nando to worriedly take care of him when he was feverishly sick that one time and then watching him do the same to everyone else when they got sick, too.

They traded, so Fernando picked Gabriel up and Nico took Ollie, because Gabi turned and recognised Fernando and immediately tried to get to him and away from Nico. He couldn’t even be insulted, because Gabi was crooning in Portuguese along to a song that was decidedly not playing, head in the clouds.

Kevin appeared with little Kimi tucked under his arm and Max and Daniel in tow.

Older Kimi also appeared in Nico’s line of sight, surveying the group with his usual completely stone-faced expression. “You are leaving.”

“Yes. These three are staying at ours.” Nico nodded to the three first years.

“I walk with you.”

Alright, then.

There was a bit of a tussle making sure that everyone had everything they came with. Phones, keys, wallets, coats, shoes (Nico had no idea when or how Ollie lost his shoes but he spent five minutes digging around the entryway for them), and jewellery, because little Kimi had no idea where his signet ring had gone and was a bit beside himself with worry.

“We will find it,” Max said, placing a comforting hand on the Italian’s shoulder. “No one will have taken it, of course, so we will find it. You go, now.”

Finally, they left. Nico had Ollie on his back, the gangly teen half-asleep with his cheek on Nico’s shoulder, and he carefully avoiding stepping on anyone as he made his way down the front steps to the street. Charles called out “see you Monday” to Ollie and Kimi, to which Ollie groaned and Kimi waved.

They were a bit of an oddball group. Fernando had Gabriel on his back, like Nico with Ollie, and little Kimi was sandwiched between Kevin and older Kimi, who was walking in step with the bass still audible from the Grid. He didn’t talk much about the period of time he was in the military, in between undergrad and grad school, but the evidence remained in the way he held himself and acted. The last time he got drunk had to have been at Sebastian’s graduation party, honestly.

Older Kimi split off from the group at the start of Nico and Kevin’s street, but he stood and watched them walk all the way to their building. Nico waved as Kevin unlocked the front door, and Kimi held up a hand and then turned and headed… back to the Grid, it would seem. Probably walking everyone home, then. He was good like that. Silent and sort of terrifying at times, but good.

Nico hefted Ollie higher on his back and ascended the stairs to their flat. He’d had the presence of mind to fully inflate the air mattress before leaving, so it only took a little bit of re-inflation to make it good again. Fernando deposited Gabi on the mattress, and Nico did the same with Ollie. The two boys were giggling again, both looking quite tired, and little Kimi flopped onto the couch and kicked off his shoes.

Fernando left after making Nico promise to text him if they needed anything. By that point, Gabriel and Ollie were asleep and curled around each other like cats, apparently both being clingy when high. Kevin was wrestling Ollie’s shoes off, so Nico set about doing the same for Gabriel. Together, they got the trio of first years comfortable, with plastic-bag-lined trash cans nearby in case any of them were sick overnight or in the morning. Nico had never been one to throw up when drunk or hungover, but he’d gotten used to taking care of people who were while living at the Grid. Other Nico was a puker, though Lewis was always the one taking care of him, and so was Daniel, because Daniel tended not to heed his limits. Kevin had a lot to say about that when he was taking all those psych classes, not that Daniel ever listened. Nico tended to be the one looking after Daniel when Max wasn’t available to, often staying in his room to make sure he didn’t choke on his own vomit or whatever. Recovery position, and all that.

Kimi seemed to be alright, though, happy with the water Kevin handed him and looking remarkably sober for a first year attending his first Grid party.

“We will keep our door open,” Kevin said, when Nico lingered in the living room looking at the pair on the air mattress. “So we will hear if they need anything.”

“Okay.”

Nico and Lewis and Seb and Mark might not have figured out their relationships, but Nico was glad that he and Kevin had gotten over their own rivalry to get to where they were now. He couldn’t really imagine trying to get through the kinesiology department’s bullshit without him.

He let himself be pulled to the bedroom, door left open, and pushed his worries to the back of his mind.

~

Lewis looked down at his phone when it buzzed on his thigh. Fernando’s contact popped up with a text.

“Hulk, Kevin, and three of the first years are home safe at Hulk and Kevin’s place,” he said aloud, voice soft to maintain the calm atmosphere that had fallen over him and Nico on the roof. “Fernando is headed home as well.”

If they moved to the other side of the roof, they’d be able to look down at the street and front stoop and see everyone leaving, but where they were now, they could almost be alone in the world.

Charles’ loud, cackling laugh echoed up.

Mostly alone, then.

He got another text, this one from Kimi. Older Kimi, not the little Kimi who’d attached himself to Max’s side the moment he arrived. “Kimi’s walking people home.”

“That is good,” Nico said.

He hadn’t looked at Lewis once since they came out on the roof.

They’d talked about work, because of fucking course they talked about work, and they’d listened to the sounds of the party drifting up and speculated on who would be the most hungover the next day. Lewis would always put his money on Daniel, but Nico seemed to be convinced that it would be one of the first or second years instead. Honestly, Lewis himself was pretty far gone. Normally he was good about eating and drinking water before putting any alcohol in his body, but that day had been a bit of a mess what with the electricity going out and making sure Yuki’s head didn’t explode or something. He’d completely forgotten to eat until Yuki put a plate of sliders in front of him on the kitchen island and Lewis inhaled like four in under a minute. Then Mark and Seb showed up and Lewis’ phone started exploding with texts to the SebMark betting group chat and he’d done two shots of tequila with salt and lime with them before having any water.

Anyway.

Lewis hadn’t known Nico would be there. Sebastian was the one who invited him each time, and Lewis got used to the “he’s not coming” text to the point that Seb just stopped sending them. It was just a given: Nico wouldn’t be there.

But then suddenly he was, alone on the front stoop and sandwiched in between the arrivals of Hulk and Kev and their first years, and Val and Zhou with Kimi (older Kimi, not little Kimi). Lewis had gone to prop the front door open so he wouldn’t have to keep opening it to newcomers, and there Nico stood with his blond hair and bright eyes and stupid fucking nose that Lewis could still feel pressed into his cheek if he thought about it for a moment.

For a while, everything was fine. Lewis danced with George and Alex and Charles until Charles went outside with Pierre to smoke, and then Lewis was between Jenson and Fernando as they sang along to Piano Man (poorly, Lewis should add). The drinks table had been converted into a drinking game that Esteban, Lance, George, Alex, and several others were enthusiastically participating in. Lewis went to get another drink and maybe a glass of water and ran smack into Nico in the kitchen studying the remaining burgers like they owed him money.

“These are vegan,” Lewis said offhandedly, gesturing to the plate he’d been eating from. He turned to dig through the fridge for the margarita mixer he’d hidden into the back for exactly this purpose and when he pulled it out and turned back around, Nico was standing still, looking at him.

“You know I’m vegan?”

Of course Lewis knew he was vegan. Everyone and their mother told him when Nico decided to go vegan for a month, and when that month turned into several, and then a year, and then indefinitely, but Lewis knew even before then because Nico posted about it on Instagram, and Lewis still followed him using a secret account that slipped in amongst all of the other accounts following him when Nico had his big runway a couple years back. So, yeah, Lewis knew.

“Of course.” Lewis grabbed the vodka—the tequila was completely gone, thank you Checo—and set about making himself a drink.

He was not going to comment on how well he still knew Nico—how well Nico undoubtedly knew him.

They sort of just existed near each other in the kitchen, and Lewis knew that Fernando and Jenson were watching them from the living room, so he picked up his drink and raised his eyebrows a bit when Nico finally looked him in the eyes. Yes, they still knew each other very well. Nico nodded slightly, and Lewis turned and headed upstairs. He knew Nico would follow.

That was how they found themselves out on the roof in the cold of early March listening to the people below swap spit and cigarettes and stories without a care in the world.

Lewis decided fuck it and turned to face Nico, barely stable on the slope of the roof. He’d finished his drink and left the cup on Oscar’s desk in the attic, so his hands were free—he could catch himself if he started slipping.

“Nico,” Lewis began, waiting until Nico looked at him to continue, “did you—did you ever think we’d make it? Together?”

“Together?” Nico repeated, nose scrunching up a little like it always did when he was confused.

“I always thought,” Lewis barrelled on, scared that he wouldn’t get to say his piece, “that it would be—that it would be us, you know? Like—” he paused for a moment, rolling the words over in his mouth to try them on like a dress off the rack—to see how he could fix it—“like we would just always work together, live together. Be. Be together. I—we talked about living here, at the Grid, and that was just jokes but—I don’t know. I miss it.”

I miss you he didn’t say, but Nico’s expression said he heard it anyway.

~

Okay, so Logan was definitely drunker than he thought he’d be tonight.

The stairs up to the front door were spinning, he had no idea who was sitting near him besides Oscar, and the cloying scents of cigarettes and weed were somewhat nauseating and somewhat soothing. Logan looked down at the bottle in his hands and went to take a sip—it was fully empty. Oh. Dang. Well, actually, maybe that was good?

“How much have we dr-drank? Drunk?” Logan asked, stumbling over the sentence as he tried to figure out what the right word was.

“Think it’s drank,” Oscar said, the fucking nerd. “N’ you’ve had… six drinks? N’ a shot of—of that raspberry stuff.”

“They were Esteban-drinks, though,” Logan said, in a moment of clarity.

“Oh.” Oscar was glaring at the ground, clearly trying to work out the Esteban-drink-to-normal-drink ratio. “So. Nine?”

That sounded somewhat reasonable. Logan barely had the mind to ask about how many drinks he’d had, let alone figure out what was or was not the correct amount. Oscar always kept track of their drinks, because he liked counting, or something. The fucking nerd.

“You’re a nerd,” Logan decided to say out loud, just in case Oscar had forgotten.

Oscar nodded seriously. “Yes. Mhmm.”

“Yeah.” God, Logan either needed to smoke a cig himself or go inside. “M’going inside.”

“Okay.” Oscar stayed sitting as Logan hauled himself up with the aid of—actually, he had no idea who that was. He patted them on the head in thanks, anyway, and gripped the railing tight in order to not fall over on his way up the stairs. Mark helped him get to the door, which Pierre held open for him helpfully.

Inside, someone had turned the music down quite a bit, and the party had turned into a sit-and-yap in various locations. Daniel was passed out on a couch, and on the other couch, George, Alex, Max, and Checo were speaking. Max kept sending worried looks over at Daniel’s prone form. It would’ve been endearing in any other circumstances.

Jenson was sitting with Lando on the stairs, and Logan had a vague memory of seeing Lando on the stairs when he and Oscar first went outside. He must not have moved the whole night.

Logan mumbled “whole night” to himself, drawing out the “o” as he made his way to the kitchen. Kimi held out a glass of water to him, and suddenly water sounded like the best thing ever, so he accepted the glass and started drinking. Kimi said “slowly” so Logan tried to listen and not gulp down the whole thing in one go.

It seemed like everything was winding down. Logan sort of wanted to go outside and sort of wanted to go to sleep, and the latter won over once he finished his water. He’d remembered to open the window in his bedroom before the party started, so the room would be nice and cold and refreshing and perfect for sleeping. Yes, sleep. Good idea, Logan.

Logan fumbled for his phone and then dropped it. Stupid fingers.

Kimi picked it up, because he was nice like that, and asked him what he was trying to do.

“Gotta tell Osc I’m going to sleep,” Logan explained.

“I will tell him.”

Oh, that was nice. “Okay. Thanks, Kimi.”

Logan took his phone back and stumbled to the stairs. He just about fell flat on his face trying to not kick Lando or Jenson, and Jenson reached a hand up to help him get past them. Then it was smooth sailing up to the second floor.

Mostly smooth, at least.

Logan stripped to his boxers, dragged his trash can closer because he knew himself, and fell asleep in seconds.

~

“You can take the other couch,” George said, guiding Isack to the couch across from the unconscious Daniel Ricciardo. Max had already put himself on watch duty to make sure Daniel was okay, curled up in the armchair they’d shoved back to the wall to make space in the middle of the room for dancing.

Isack let George push him down onto the couch, too drunk to do much besides go where he told him. It was pretty endearing, if George was being honest.

In a mirror image to Daniel, George set up a trash can on the floor beside the couch and put a water bottle on the coffee table, once again returned to its rightful spot, within reach of the first year. Alex was dazedly putting away the leftover food, of which there was very little, and Jenson was still sat on the stairs trying to coax Lando into getting up. They still had the slightly-broken couch in the basement, and it was fine if you flung a thick blanket over the cushions to protect you from the spring stabbing up from the frame of it. If Jenson needed to crash here, he could take it.

Alex pressed a hand to his back, palm wide and warm over his spine. “I’m going to shower.”

“Alright.” George turned his head and lazily brushed his lips over Alex’s cheek. “Could you try to help Lando up?”

“Yeah, ‘course, Georgie,” Alex said, catching George’s lips in a brief kiss before slipping away.

George made his way down to the basement to the stack of blankets they kept there for times like these. The wire shelf held a strange amalgamation of things: laundry detergent and lighter fluid and boxes of batteries that might work or might be dead. The top two shelves were for the blankets, well away from the damp spots of pooled water. The broken couch was propped up on bricks to keep the wood legs from rotting in the wet, and a dehumidifier hummed softly near the washing machine. George grabbed a couple blankets and went back up.

Daniel was still asleep or unconscious, but Isack looked up at George with strangely clear eyes.

“Merci,” he said as George draped a fleece blanket over him.

“Bathroom’s right down the hall and there’s paracetamol and stuff in the cabinet.” George resisted the strangely compelling urge to fluff Isack’s pillow (a throw pillow with a gaudy print on it that resembled a work of modern art that people said “I could make that” about) and busied himself with checking Daniel. His pulse was fine, his temperature was fine, and when George held open an eyelid, he groaned slightly, meaning he was just asleep and not fully unconscious. Probably okay then. Max would take care of him, and Lance had pulled George aside to let him know that he only had one drink at the beginning of the night (the drinking game had just been tonic and lime juice for him, George knew) and would be good to drive people back to their flats or to the hospital if necessary.

“Text Lance or me if you need anything, yeah?” George said to the two conscious people. Isack gave him a thumbs up, hand sticking out from beneath his blanket, and Max nodded and went back to scrolling on his phone.

Lando had disappeared up the stairs when George was down in the basement, and Jenson hovered by the door looking somewhat conflicted.

“Couch downstairs is free, mate,” George pointed out while Jenson considered the mess of shoes in the entryway.

“Right.” Jenson spun on his heel and went downstairs without saying anything else. George decided to ignore the fact that he missed almost every single step on the way down.

Outside, a handful of people were still smoking and sobering up. Pierre had gone in with Yuki some time ago, so when George stuck his head out the front door to do a headcount, he came up with only four people. Charles and Sebastian were passing a cigarette back and forth, Mark was looking up at the sky, and Oscar had his back against one railing and his feet up against the other, a complete tripping hazard to anyone trying to get down to the street. They looked alright, but—

“Valtteri and Zhou left, then?” he asked, keeping his voice low.

“Yup.” Mark popped the “p” at the end of the word. “You checking on everyone, then?”

“Yes.” George pulled out his phone to avoid this conversation. He’d talked to his therapist already about his habit of keeping track of the people close to him, the itch that settled in his bones and in the back of his throat when he didn’t know where Alex was, or Lando, or any of his housemates and former housemates and friends and—it wasn’t for any nefarious purposes, it wasn’t like he was stalking them or like he actually cared where they were. He just needed to know.

Kimi (the older one) had texted the larger group chat that held all current and former members of the Grid, the one that most of them had muted to keep the notifications down. Bottas and Guanyu home. Colapinto and Doohan in dorm. All first years taken care of, yes?

Trust Kimi to also keep track of people. Also, George had no idea who “Colapinto and Doohan” were, so it was good that Kimi was on the job as well.

George sent a quick Isack staying here, he’s good which Kimi reacted to with a thumbs up emoji.

Sergio also sent a single thumbs up emoji to indicate that he was home safe as well, Nico and Kevin and Fernando had all checked in a bit ago (Kevin sent a picture of Gabi and Ollie asleep curled up together like otters, Kimi in the background asleep on their sofa), Jenson had just texted a blurry selfie from the basement, George knew that Lewis and the other Nico were still on the roof, and Lance had ushered Esteban, Liam, Carlos, Pierre, and Yuki to their beds and fussed over them for a while before turning in himself. That was everyone, right?

“Are you two good to get home safe?” George asked, indicating Sebastian and Mark.

Sebastian considered the question very seriously while Mark shrugged and nodded. Then Seb nodded, too, and George told them that they were welcome to stay over if they were fine sharing George’s bed while George shared Alex’s. Mark just waved him off. He seemed to be alright, not too drunk anymore.

Oscar was well and truly out of it, though. George helped him up and led him back into the house and up the endless flights of stairs to the attic. It was a bit of a process, given that George was still decidedly not sober and Oscar kept staring out into space, distracted.

“Do you want to stay with Logan tonight?” George asked when they made it to the second floor.

Oscar shook his head, scrunching his nose. “He throws up in the morning, ‘S gross.”

“Right. Come on, then.”

The attic was quite cold when they reached it, somehow feeling worse than outside. Oscar didn’t seem to notice, sitting on his bed and peeling his plain black socks off with single-minded focus. Lando was sprawled across his bed, half under the covers and half not, so George set about making him comfortable while Oscar continued stripping down to his boxers.

“You good, then?” George asked, once Lando was fully covered and Oscar had stopped stripping.

He got a thumbs up. Yes, that was Oscar. He’d be fine.

George really did not want to interrupt the pair on the roof, but given that the actual inhabitants of the attic were headed to sleep, it would only be polite to bring Lewis and Nico in.

He really, really did not want to interrupt, though.

With a glance to Lando and Oscar, who had turned over to face the wall in the time George took to deliberate, George left the attic. Lewis and Nico could handle themselves—they were adults, and they hadn’t gotten into a fight yet. If they woke up Lando or Oscar, that would be their problem to deal with.

But George didn’t go to sleep until he heard the door to Lewis’ room close and he’d gotten texts from Mark that he and Sebastian were good.

~

Charles had never been good at sleeping when he was drunk. High? Yes, out like a light. Drunk? He’d be lucky if he got an hour. Someone had once told him that his body metabolised drugs faster, meaning his hangover set in earlier, and Charles didn’t know much about biology but he did know that if he got into bed and closed his eyes, the nausea alone would keep him up until sunrise.

So he stayed out on the front steps, a blanket from the stack George had put in the living room wrapped around his shoulders, and waited for the worst of it to pass.

It was cloudy. Charles wouldn’t have been able to see the stars anyway, between the tree branches and pollution, but something about the dark black sky stuck out to him.

Carlos never had trouble sleeping when he was drunk. He could go from awake to not in two seconds flat, just like seemingly everyone in the Grid. Well, almost everyone. Max hated sleeping when he was drunk, Lando liked to be horizontal but only dozed at best, and Charles had no idea what Oscar was like when he was drunk.

Sometimes he’d sit up in bed, comfortable against his pillows, and put on YouTube videos to watch while he sipped water like a hamster in a cage, barely registering the video’s contents while his mind wandered. Other times, after George went to sleep, Charles would pull on his shoes and take his headphones and go for a walk around the neighbourhood, passing by all of their friends’ buildings while listening to whatever music or podcast struck his fancy. Recently, he’d run into Ollie doing the same thing a couple of times.

Charles wished he could sleep when drunk, though. Sometimes, if he was only a little tipsy, he was able to reach that “asleep within two seconds of his head hitting his pillow” state that everyone else seemed to find with ease. Those were some of the best nights, when he was just out until the smell of coffee woke him up in the morning. That was usually Lando in the kitchen on those days; otherwise, it was Charles who pulled out the big coffee machine to make a massive pot for everyone. The job of the first person up after a party: coffee and breakfast. They all had Lance’s Deliveroo account login information for breakfast orders.

Charles didn’t go for a walk that night.

He went inside instead, after his thighs started protesting the cold seeping up through his trousers from the concrete steps, and curled up in the window. Max was folded into an armchair, small, and Isack and Daniel were both sleeping peacefully.

In a couple of hours, Charles would get up and pull out the big, industrial coffee machine and a fleet of mugs and wake everyone up with the tantalising, stomach-turning smell of coffee.

For now, he let the cool glass of the window stave off his nausea, comfortable and hungover and awake.

~

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

Alex buried his head further into his pillow, temples throbbing with his heartbeat. He knew that if he stretched or moved, it would only get worse, but the scent of coffee drifting up from the ground floor was so fucking tempting and he wasn’t going to get anymore sleep like this.

George was still out, feet sticking out from under the covers like a cartoon. God, Alex loved him so fucking much.

Someone was retching somewhere in the house, Charles and Max were talking just loud enough for the sound to drift up the stairs, and the sliver of light shining through the curtains pierced Alex’s eyes when he opened them fully. He shuffled upright and fumbled for the sunglasses he kept on his bedside table for these mornings. Once they were on, he grabbed the bottle of water George left out for him and started sipping it, searching half-heartedly for his socks so his feet wouldn’t freeze on the hardwood floors.

Downstairs, Charles was sitting on the floor half-hidden by the kitchen island, fingers curled around a mug of coffee and eyes red and slightly puffy. He smiled at Alex, painfully gorgeous despite being clearly horribly hungover. Max was sat at the kitchen island, his own coffee between his hands, and little Isack was deliriously sorting through the contents of the fridge. He’d pulled out the eggs and a pack of apple-chicken-thyme sausages that genuinely sounded so good.

“I have ordered us breakfast,” Charles said, voice soft and still making Alex’s head pound.

“He insisted on making something,” Max added, gesturing to Isack, currently squinting at the fridge light.

Alex got his own cup of coffee. Daniel was still asleep on the couch, the trash can by his head clearly having been used at some point in the night. He’d be alright, then.

“These fucking umbrellas, mate,” Jenson huffed, suddenly appearing in the doorway to the basement. He kicked at a couple of the little paper umbrellas they got for the cocktails, not that they ever actually ended up in cups. Alex was pretty sure that more ended up buried in Lando’s hair and tucked behind ears like flowers than actually were put in the drinks.

For being a medium sized party, the place didn’t look too bad. Alex had a vague memory of putting away the leftover food (a tiny portion of dip and two vegan sliders), and people were mostly good about not discarding their cups on the ground. A handful were pushed to the middle of the table in the living room, some more were scattered around the kitchen, and Alex knew that there’d be at least two out on the front stoop if he went to check.

He did not go to check.

Lando stumbled down the stairs, eyes red and a blue umbrella stuck in the crown of his head, curls horribly messy. Jenson retrieved the umbrella as he passed by, glaring at it before flicking it into the trash can by the island.

Lewis came down next, face set in stone as he beelined for the coffee machine. Five, four, three, two, one, zero—

“So, how’s Britney?”

Lewis whipped around to glare at Max, who was grinning into his mug shamelessly. Jenson had doubled over, shaking with silent laughter and gripping his head, and Charles was attempting to smother his smile with his hand. Alex sipped his coffee, pleased that he’d correctly predicted both Max’s comment and Lewis’ reaction. George would want to hear about this.

“I believe Logan is throwing up right now,” Lewis said, a clear grasp at a different subject.

Alex took pity on him (and Logan). “I can check on him. He’s usually good about taking care of himself in the mornings, though.”

If there was one thing the American was good at, it was setting himself up for success with handling his hangovers. Out of all of the people Alex knew, Logan was the most consistent with his symptoms. He’d throw up a couple of times, then have a headache for the rest of the day. Alex had witnessed one of his pre-party preparations once and it still amused him, the clinical way Logan folded his blankets and pulled out a rather ratty one that had seen better days, how he opened his window to let in the cool, fresh air, the careful positioning off a trash-bag-lined bin right by his pillow, the damp flannel ready to wipe his mouth. It was sort of impressive, how well he knew himself.

Alex set his coffee down and headed back upstairs, feeling about ten times better than he had coming down.

Logan was, indeed, throwing up. He flashed Alex a thumbs up when he flopped back on his bed after convulsing over the bin for a couple seconds.

“Need anything?” Alex asked, eyeing the empty glass on his desk.

“Water, yeah,” Logan replied. “Everyone else good?”

“So far, yeah.” Alex was expecting the next wave of people to wake up in about ten or so minutes. He and George traded their usual morning habits when they were drunk, Alex waking up early and George sleeping in late, but George would definitely have heard Alex and Logan talking, and that would get him up now.

Honestly, the only unknown to Alex was Oscar. Esteban and Lance would be asleep until midday, Pierre was probably already awake and trying to get Yuki up, Carlos would be getting up soon, same with Liam and Daniel and whoever else had stayed over. Alex didn’t know how Oscar was when he was really hungover—and he knew that Oscar had gotten way drunker last night than ever before at a Grid party.

Logan waved him off once Alex got him the water. George was, in fact, awake, waiting for Alex to go downstairs. Nico (Rosberg) was also up, making his way down the stairs in a pair of Lewis’ pyjama bottoms and nothing else.

Alex shared a significant look with George and followed him down.

~

Ollie woke up very, very slowly. He very distantly registered something soft under his head, something warm wrapped around him. Then he could hear quiet shuffling of feet, a bird chirping. Light filtered in, red through his eyelids, and his mouth felt like he’d been gargling sand. He felt very pleasantly heavy, though, like if he just sipped some water he’d be good to doze for a while longer.

“Hrgh.”

Someone groaned and then yawned, very, very close to Ollie’s ear. Huh. Fun. He stretched his legs and tried to burrow his head further into his pillow. Another soft noise, still close by.

“Are you awake?”

Great. Talking. Ollie made a noise around the sand in his mouth, figuring he’d let whoever it was know that he was not dead and, in fact, maybe even awake.

Slowly, it dawned on him that his pillow had moved with the words, and was still moving, up and down in a steady rocking rhythm. Ollie blinked his eyes open, sleep-crust uncomfortably clumped to his lashes, and studied his predicament. He was on a partially-deflated air mattress, a plaid blanket pulled up over his shoulders, face buried into the chest of—of Gabriel Bortoleto.

They were rather tangled together (Ollie’s fault—he was a total octopus when he slept), and Gabi gave him a grin when Ollie tilted his head to look up at him.

“Sorry,” Ollie said, still trying to work through the sand. He figured out where his hands were and started drawing away. Every movement felt sluggish.

“It is my fault, I think. You’re very easy to hug.”

Ollie had to consciously bend his elbow to prop himself up on the air mattress. He yawned and flopped back to stretch. The mattress made him and Gabi slide back together, and they both cracked up at that, helplessly giggling.

Right. They’d gotten pretty fucking high last night, on top of drinking a couple of vibrant drinks that Nico had warned them to be careful with.

“Good morning, sleeping beauty,” Nico said, standing in the doorway. He had a plate of something in hand and a bottle of water in the other, which he chucked at the mattress.

Ollie scrambled for it, shoving Gabriel’s hand away, and downed half of it before coming back up for air.

“Be quieter.”

Ollie stared at the lump on the couch that had just grouched at him and Gabi. Kimi’s brown-gold curls and bright brown eyes glared back at him.

Gabriel nudged his side. Ollie handed over the water and shuffled off of the air mattress awkwardly. After cracking his back, he stood and offered a hand to Gabi, who allowed himself to be dragged up as well. Ollie hadn’t known him before meeting him at Nico’s, but they hit it off. At the very least, the weed and drinks had smoothed the conversation into something easy and stupid. Ollie couldn’t really remember much besides the feelings of heavy contentment and hunger.

Some small part of him told him that he should probably feel awkward about aggressively cuddling a near-stranger on an air mattress in his TA’s friend’s flat after getting drunk and high, and in front of his crush at that, but he couldn’t bring himself to feel much about anything that wasn’t his clawing hunger.

Food first. Awkwardness second.

Chapter Text

“So we look here at this angle between the wire, which for the purposes of this lesson we’re assuming to be a grid of atoms bonded together in this pattern, in order to standardise the elasticity of the rope—”

Oscar’s notebook page had only triangles drawn all over it. He’d started doodling in the top corner and then just kept going throughout the lecture, listening every couple of minutes to see if the professor had moved on from tension yet. So far, the answer was a resounding “not even close” and so the doodling continued.

Yesterday, Sunday, had been really rather nice despite the hangover.

Oscar vividly remembered waking up sometime in the middle of the night to see Lewis and Nico creeping in the window, and then he fell right back asleep. He woke up much later, the sun streaming in through the windows, Lando’s bed mussed and empty and the heater completely turned off. Drifting up from the third floor were the sounds of Lance and Esteban talking loudly in French, and Liam singing in the shower. He had a great voice, so no one complained except Yuki.

Everyone spent the day recovering and slowly cleaning up from the party. The freezer once again contained a partially-empty bottle of vodka, the space beneath the sink held the rest of their booze, the stupid paper umbrellas and straws had been thrown away, the cups were washed, the floors mopped and the rugs vacuumed, and the living room returned to rights. Charles and Carlos had gotten in another argument about the layout of the furniture, and Oscar had been sat in the very armchair they were bickering over, eating leftover pasta and watching the back-and-forth like a tennis match.

Post-party Sundays were pretty calm, Oscar was learning. Everyone just wanted to clean up and nurse their hangovers the way they liked, so fights and loud noises were generally kept to a minimum. No music blasting, no petty arguments over the washing machine (Charles and Carlos fighting over the furniture was an outlier and did not apply to the “no petty arguments” rule that Oscar internalised), no group dinner. If Logan wasn’t still nauseous when Oscar got his lunch of leftover pasta, he would’ve been up in his room, the pair of them fucking around on their phones or computers. But Logan was, so Oscar ate his food in the living room, first lifting his legs when George came through with the vacuum and then backing up into the seat when Charles approached him with the single-minded focus of a man intending to move an armchair before his roommate could protest its movement.

Still, it was nice.

Then Monday came and Oscar still felt a little rough, his throat raw and his nose running. He rallied and grabbed one of the reusable to-go mugs to fill with coffee to help get him through his classes. It sat, half-empty, next to his notebook of triangles, still warm because the cups were really fancy and good at holding heat.

On his way to the media building, he saw Lando sitting on the hill, picking at his sandwich. Oscar almost went over to him, his own container of pasta sitting heavily in his backpack, but Lando kept looking around like he was waiting for someone, so Oscar figured he’d leave him alone. He continued up the stairs, flushed and warm and wanting to take his coat off as soon as possible. Zhou wasn’t in class, so Oscar shot a text to him asking if he was doing alright. He didn’t get a response before the class started, so he put his phone in his pocket and tried to take good notes so that Zhou could copy them next class.

As the minutes ticked closer to the end of the class, Oscar felt worse and worse. He wanted to curl up in a ball and sleep for an entire day, he wanted to drink ice cold water until his head hurt, he wanted to take a hot shower to soothe his aching muscles, he wanted a bowl of soup.

The droning of the professor wasn’t helping.

Oscar grit his teeth and tried to focus.

By the end of class, he’d stripped down to just his T-shirt, thankful that it was black and the sweat sticking it to his back wouldn’t be immediately visible. He jogged down the stairs to go back to the science section of campus for his calc class, and by the time he got there, he was somehow still hot. He dropped into his seat, wondering if maybe one of the liquors hadn’t agreed with him—his mum swore up and down that she was allergic to tequila, so it might be in his genes?—and looked up to see Sebastian fucking Vettel leaning against the desk, looking a little pale and shaky. He was staring down at his phone, not moving, and Oscar pulled out his own phone to see if he’d missed an email or something about their professor being out and having a sub. Nothing.

Once everyone was settled—at least, as settled as they could be with Sebastian still being a big name at the school—Seb began the lesson, which was just a standard continuation of the partial derivatives they’d already been working on. Oscar could do calculus in his sleep, and in fact did calculus in his head while drunk, so his current state of less-than-fully-awake wasn’t actually too bad.

Unfortunately, Sebastian looked less and less steady as the class continued.

He stopped it after only an hour, instead of going the full hour and a half, claiming that since he was their sub he’d be able to dismiss them early. He threw out a wink that had everyone laughing or swooning, and the class slowly cleared out.

One more class, Oscar. Just one more class.

He put his notebook away, then fully missed the front pocket of his backpack when he went to put his pen in it. The pen dropped to the ground with a muted clatter, and Oscar stared at it uncomprehendingly.

“Hey, mini-Mark.”

Oscar looked up to see Sebastian standing in front of him, smiling and looking remarkably tired. If he was more awake, Oscar would protest the nickname, but he was, in fact, tired, so he just gave Sebastian a slight smile and stooped to pick up his pencil.

When he righted himself, the world spun alarmingly.

“Oh.”

“Ah, scheiße. Whoa, kid.” Sebastian grasped Oscar’s shoulders and stilled him. It took another couple of seconds for the world to stop tilting, too. “So, you, too?”

“Me, too?” Oscar repeated, slowly standing up and keeping a hand on the back of his chair to steady himself. Sebastian’s hand on his shoulder followed him up.

“Mark and I were not feeling that good, today or yesterday.” Sebastian pressed a hand to Oscar’s forehead and tutted, not unlike his father would do. Oscar tried not to lean into the touch too obviously. “You have classes still?”

“Uh, one.” Just writing and rhetoric, thankfully.

Sebastian shook his head. “You need to go home. I think maybe it is a bug we all got.”

Oscar decided that sounded good. Going home, sleeping, opening a window in the attic so he didn’t actually roast alive. Yeah. “Alright.” Oscar shouldered his backpack, fumbling with the strap slightly. “See you, I guess.”

Sebastian snorted. “I am coming with you, obviously.”

Oscar watched him grab his bag, fingers flying over his phone screen for a moment before he pocketed it. They slowly walked to the Grid, Oscar trying not to shiver as his sweat cooled and evaporated in the chill March air. He’d rolled up his coat and sweatshirt to shove into his backpack, and he didn’t want to get them out. Luckily, the Grid wasn’t too far from his calculus class. He’d never done that walk actually, because he was always on campus already when he walked to the class, and he went straight to his writing class afterwards.

Oscar twisted the doorknob to test if it was locked. It wasn’t. That was usually a bad sign, or just someone being forgetful. Today, probably the former.

The first thing he noticed upon entering was Charles draped over the green couch with an ice pack on his head. The bottle of paracetamol they usually kept in the downstairs bathroom was open on the coffee table, a couple of pills scattered across it haphazardly. Carlos was similarly prone on the ground with a somewhat vacant look in his eyes, off in his own little world. Lance was slumped across the kitchen counter, maybe asleep, and Yuki looked a little green around the gills as he sorted his knives in their leather carrying case.

The door opening got everyone’s attention.

“Hmm, yes,” Sebastian said vaguely, “I think we all are sick.”

Lando suddenly came rocketing down the stairs at mach speed, trying to break the sound barrier or something. Oscar lurched to the side and out of the way, stumbling slightly when his head spun from the too-quick movement.

“Sorry, running late!” Lando called as he ran out the door, shoes half-on.

“Everyone but him, seems like,” Oscar said after a moment of everyone existing in bewildered stillness.

~

Lando felt like absolute shit.

He’d woken up with his head pounding and his throat so dry and scratchy he could barely return Lewis’ “good morning” when they passed each other on the stairs. Even after forgoing his usual Monster for a cup of black tea with honey and lemon, it wasn’t much better. He didn’t really have time to consider his options for the day, running late because he woke up far later than usual, so he just grabbed a plain bagel from the bag on the counter and sprinted to class. He had no idea where Max was, and he really didn’t have the brain power to care.

He felt a little bit better after his first class, having grabbed a bottle of water from one of the vending machines on campus to rehydrate, and by lunch he sort of dismissed the awfulness of his morning as a strange, leftover bit of his hangover.

As he ate lunch on the slope by the media buildings, he kept an eye out for Oscar. His roommate was absolutely dead to the world that morning, not stirring even when Lando coughed obnoxiously loud and then banged his foot on the leg of his bed.

Lando had spent pretty much the entire party high and pining.

It was embarrassing, honestly. He’d taken what he thought was a very small amount of weed and hadn’t even gotten that drunk, because being crossed was not the goal of the night. The “tiny amount” hit him hard, unfortunately, and Lando had to sit his arse down on the stairs so he didn’t fall over. The stairs had a perfect view of Oscar, and it was very inconvenient to Lando personally. Oscar was quite drunk, drunker than Lando had ever seen him, and very clingy to Logan and Mark and, on one occasion, Fernando. He was flushed and laughing and his stupid bunny teeth were stupid and very, very cute, and Lando was very, very high and pining and wondering how he managed to fall for the absolute worst possible person.

Not that Oscar was a bad person.

No, he was wonderful, but his position as Lando’s new roommate made him rather off-limits.

Lando was not in the habit of denying himself small joys, though, so as he ate his sandwich and contemplated missing his yoga class to take a nap, he watched for Oscar. The flood of students up and down the stairs set in the side of the hill made it difficult, though, and by the time Lando finished his sandwich, he had to accept that he’d totally missed Oscar, missed his chance to sit on the hill with him as they ate their lunches and people-watched.

The grossness of the morning returned full-force as Lando headed home to change for yoga. He coughed once, twice, thrice, each one deeper and more rattling than the last. Still, he kicked off his shoes and raced up to the attic as per usual. As he wiggled his foot through the slim leg of his yoga pants, he heard the front door open again, and he grabbed his bag and launched himself back downstairs, determined to get to the gym early enough to do some stretches before the class.

Oh. It was Oscar standing at the front door, Seb right next to him.

Lando vaguely registered that Oscar looked a little pale and tired as he ran past, grabbing his running shoes and jamming his feet into them hastily. He shouted back a quick “sorry, running late” to the pair and finished getting his shoes on as he hopped down the front steps.

The class went fine, everyone a little bit sluggish and tired that day. The slow, methodical stretches that Lando led everyone through helped calm his mind, but then he was hyperaware of the tickle in his throat and the tightness around his eyes and the exhaustion in his limbs and overall it just wasn’t very pleasant at all.

By the time Lando got home, he was ready to sleep for seven years straight.

It seemed that his housemates were in agreement, too.

Just about everyone was sprawled out and listless, scattered across the living room, kitchen, and Charles’ and Carlos’ room. Their door stood partially open, giving Lando a clear view to Carlos’ bed, upon which the pair were laying. Charles’ bed seemed to be occupied by Ollie and little Kimi, whom Lando had vague memories of from the party.

Sebastian was in the kitchen stirring something in the big stock pot. It smelt good, a little spicy and warm and comforting.

Lando toed off his his shoes and tossed his gym bag off to the side of the entryway, too lazy to go all the way up to the attic to put it away.

“Hello, Lando,” Seb greeted him. “Doing okay?”

Lando groaned dramatically and plopped himself down on one of the bar stools. He tried to speak, but it seemed that sometime between leaving the gym and arriving at the Grid, his throat had checked out, so he made a sort of croaking sound and then gave up.

Seb hummed sympathetically. “I think we are all sick now.”

Sure seemed like it. There was a pile of limbs and blankets on the ground between one of the couches and the coffee table, half-hidden from view so Lando couldn’t tell who it was. Pierre and Yuki were pressed together on the green couch, Yuki shuffling his head every so often. Rubbing against Pierre’s chest like a cat. When Lando twisted around a little more, he found Oscar and Logan tangled up in the bay window, the actual cats curled up with them. He looked away quickly, eyes skirting over the pair and back to the armchair that Lewis was folded up into, clutching a mug of tea like a lifeline, Roscoe in his lap.

“Charles dragged the first years from his class back here,” Sebastian continued speaking, ladling out soup into a bowl with a focused expression. “And Kevin and Nico said they are watching the other one, the—what was his name, eh, the tall one?”

Lando had no clue. He barely knew Ollie and Kimi, and that was only because Charles talked about the pair of them having crushes on each other for, like, three straight hours the other day. Lando hadn’t been fully listening, but he did remember their names.

“So everyone’s really sick?” Lando managed to say, voice rasping horribly. “All of them?”

“No, Kimi is fine.” Seb placed the bowl in front of Lando along with a glass of water.

Well, Lando probably should have guessed that. Kimi had the immune system of someone who spent their entire childhood eating dirt and mould and other questionable things, and when he was sick, it was an all-hands-on-deck situation.

Lando blew on a spoonful of soup. Maybe he could skip classes tomorrow, if he was still this bad. He’d overheard someone talking about some sickness going around, the usual cold nonsense that took half the student body out at one point or another in the first bit of the semester. Yeah, skipping sounded like a good plan.

And maybe, if Oscar skipped, too, they could spend the day in the attic being miserable together.

Embarrassing, Norris, Lando thought to himself, swallowing the spoonful of delicious soup. Pull yourself together.

~

April 1^st always resulted in a series of pranks that lasted until someone damaged something a little too valuable, got scolded by the owner of the item, and decided to duck out of the war. Last year, Lando had won it by very carefully moving all of the furniture in the living room a little bit at a time, drawing it out over several days, and then suddenly moving everything back to the original positions. The resultant fight that had broken out between just about everyone in the Grid had caused a week-long “no speaking except for emergencies” rule. The paper upon which George had angrily scribbled the rule was still held to the fridge with a custom magnet of Kevin’s chocolate-covered face.

Carlos could still hear the sound of Max breathing purposefully loudly just to piss George off.

This year, though, Charles and Carlos were not participating in the prank war, on the basis of being too busy with the massive exhibit that the art departments were organising together. That was fine by Carlos—he’d had fun last year teaming up with Lando, but he really was way too swamped with work, and Max and George had enough repressed animosity between them that Lando on his own doing literally anything was like pouring oil on a fire. He sneezed a little too loud at breakfast and George accused Max of switching out his seasonal allergy meds for non-medicated placeholders. It was great. Carlos dragged Charles out of bed just to witness the tense stand-off that the trio had every morning when they interacted.

What was not fun was the bathroom situation.

Carlos had no idea what happened, because he went to bed at a normal time and woke up at a normal time—unlike some of the Grid’s inhabitants—but he got up one morning after going to sleep with a working bathroom to find a handwritten sign on the closed toilet lid that read NOT WORKING − DO NOT USE OR ELSE.

So that was great.

Carlos went upstairs to use the second floor bathroom and paused, staring at the strings criss-crossing the floor like a poor remake of a museum robbery scene in a heist movie. Very carefully, because Carlos just knew that if he brushed any of the strings, something stupid would happen, he made his way to the bathroom.

Just as he went to close the door, George appeared in his bedroom doorway, on the phone and clearly distracted.

It was like watching a car crash.

George stepped directly on a tangle of strings.

A series of small containers precisely taped to the ceiling dumped their contents, dousing George in multicoloured glitter and sending confetti everywhere. George froze, phone still held to his ear, and then he shouted louder than Carlos had ever heard him speak before.

“MAX EMILIAN VERSTAPPEN.”

Carlos slowly closed the bathroom door. He could swear he heard giggling coming from the third floor.

Two days later, the downstairs bathroom was fixed, courtesy of Lance’s dad’s recommended plumber. The glitter and confetti would continue showing up for many, many years to come, unfortunately.

~

Charles sometimes wondered if he was born without a heart. Maybe the doctors missed something—his atoms misaligned, bonds broken, wrong and undetected. His chest felt tight, like his ribs were too small for his lungs as they gasped for life, and his unmade heart beating off-rhythm. He wondered if that’s why he constantly grasped at others. Maybe, if he held on tight enough, he could take little pieces of all the people he loved and make a heart all his own, built of the scraps they let him have.

He would never know a life that was not greedy for affection.

For a whole entire week, he and Carlos shared a bed, the two poor first years in Charles’ bed and equally miserable. Ollie seemed to have it worse, unable to keep even water down for a while, while Kimi fully lost his voice and had taken to miming exaggeratedly to communicate. Carlos and Charles were just sort of cold and congested, and when the first years fell asleep in Charles’ bed that first night, Carlos had opened up his arms and gestured for Charles to join him in his bed. They stayed like that the whole week, because Charles didn’t want Ollie and Kimi suffering on their own, probably unable to make good food and definitely feeling as alone as Charles did. So they stayed, and it was fine. It was nice, even.

But when everyone recovered and the first years all returned to their rightful dorms, Charles laid in his twin bed, alone, and cursed his greedy, grasping self, the cage of his ribs more like a bear trap laid to keep unsuspecting others close by.

Carlos didn’t say anything about sharing a bed, not when they walked Ollie and Kimi to their dorm, not when they walked back to the Grid, not when they dressed in their pyjamas, not when Charles tossed and turned in his bed for an hour before settling. The ache in Charles’ chest had become secondary. It was just background noise; a constant thing for him to carry, to the point that he didn’t even know how heavy it truly was, not until moments like this when his arms shook from the weight and threatened to take him down with it.

It was fine.

He was fine.

Life returned to business-as-usual, his classes and students blurring together through the whole month of march, until suddenly it was April 1^st and Charles was dodging the three-way prank war between George and Max and Lando that rendered the downstairs bathroom unusable for days and turned the second floor into a warzone. The ache in his chest was manageable again, even if the memories of Carlos’ arms around Charles in the dark of their bedroom haunted him every night.

~

God, being sick was so fucking awful. Max buried his head into his pillow and tried to block out the sounds of birds outside the window. Normally, he didn’t care about the world outside, but with his head screaming at him like the worst hangover and his ears ringing, he wanted to throttle each and every bird personally.

“Dude,” Liam groaned from the bed across the room, “this is fucking awful.”

Day three after everyone getting sick, and they were all still wallowing around the house in varying states of coherency and wakefulness. Lando and Oscar in the attic were a bit like moaning, groaning wraiths, Lance somehow kept dragging himself to class, a KN95 mask on and a thermos of tea in hand, and Max knew that Carlos was holding online office hours for the class he TA’d. Max felt like if he tried to think too hard, his brain would pack up and take a vacation in Monaco, so he emailed his professors and advisor and said “nope, not happening” and curled up in bed.

Max had never been great at handling sickness. He always felt a little too dramatic, a bit like he should just be gritting his teeth and dealing with it. Then Liam told him last year “just let yourself be miserable—you’ll get better faster than pushing through like this,” and Max decided fuck it, he’d been good for long enough and let himself be sick and miserable and lazy.

By Friday, he felt good enough to go to classes, turning in the work he missed and getting lecture notes from his designated note-buddies. “Note-buddies” sounded fucking stupid, but it worked at keeping them all up-to-date when they missed class. Christian told Max to take better care of himself, and it would have sounded like he was worried about Max if Max didn’t know that he meant it in a “you can’t be missing classes like this, do better” way and not an “I’m concerned about your health and wellbeing” way.

Daniel showed up at the Grid that evening, clingy and touchy-feely and following Max around the house yapping about his friend’s startup that Dan was helping with. Max was still just tired enough to be irritated by the constant noise. He snapped, just once, and then felt so bad that he dragged Daniel up to his room and pushed him onto his bed and sat and ate dinner while listening to Daniel talk. He didn’t know how to apologise, but Daniel must’ve seen the apology in his eyes anyway.

By Monday, everyone was better again.

This sort of thing happened pretty regularly. Someone would get sick, and because they all lived in each others’ pockets, everyone else would be sick within a day. They’d all be miserable for a week or so, then half a year later the cycle would repeat. On one particularly memorable occasion, everyone got a stomach bug, and they’d kept all of the windows open to keep the sour smell to a minimum. It was awful. In comparison, this bit of a cold they all had was nothing.

Max continued through March without changing his routine. Coffee with Daniel on Mondays and Wednesdays, afternoon jogs, classes, ignoring Christian’s not-so-subtle remarks about the advanced PhD track. It wasn’t until he came home really late in the evening of the first Friday of April to see Charles slumped at the dining room table no one ever sat at that anything changed.

“Oh.” Charles looked like he’d been crying, green eyes wet and glassy and face red. “I thought everyone was—” hiccough—“asleep already.”

Max and Charles had a very long and complicated history, having known each other since they both were very little and in the same karting circles. Actually, a strange percentage of the Grid’s current and former inhabitants did karting when they were kids, and when they got shitfaced and started arguing over who was better, they’d get out old videos and watch them and pretend like they weren’t just taking the excuse to reminisce. Max stopped before going to the single seaters, because he realised he’d rather bite his fingers off one by one than follow in his father’s footsteps so closely, but Charles had continued for a little while and then stopped. Max had asked once, why he stopped. Charles had given him a haunted sort of look that rattled Max to his core, and he’d let the subject drop without protest.

Anyway, they knew each other from karting, then ended up at the same university at the same time in the same house. They weren’t close the way Carlos and Lando were close, or Lance and Esteban, but Max liked to think that he and Charles had a different sort of bond—a lasting one.

Max kicked off his shoes and went to figure out what Charles had been drinking. “How much have you had?”

Charles rocked his head back and forth non-committally. “I—I do not know. Some.”

Max opened the cabinet under the sink and saw that the brandy and triple sec had been moved. A lazy sidecar then, probably. It was Charles’ cocktail of choice when he wasn’t having dirty Shirleys, and one of the easier ones to eyeball to make for yourself. Max hadn’t been planning on getting drunk—no one had any interest really, given that they’d all gotten so sick after the party—but he wasn’t going to let Charles mope on his own.

“What are you drinking about?” he asked, pulling out the vodka and setting it on the counter.

Charles hiccoughed again and sniffled. “Sometimes I think I am too broken.”

Damn. Max poured an amount of vodka (he was not measuring it, not in a million years) in a glass and then upended a Red Bull in it, carrying the glass over to the dining table as it poured. When he sat down, Charles gave him an absolutely miserable look, like a dog in a sad movie, or something. Jesus.

Jimmy came over and jumped onto the chair next to Max, curious.

“Broken how?” Max asked, studiously keeping his eyes on Charles despite every bone in his body aching to make him look away. The full force of Charles’ attention was always heavy and intense, like he was one word away from from crying all over you or taking you apart. Or both? Max didn’t necessarily avoid the attention, but he tended not to gravitate towards Charles when he got in these sorts of moods. Pierre or Carlos were much better at handling him.

But Pierre or Carlos weren’t available, and Max was, and he was painfully familiar with Charles. You didn’t go through years of racing against each other to not be familiar, to not have a set-in-your-bones sense of unconditional and infallible trust. If asked who he trusted most of his friends, the order would be Daniel and then Charles.

“I feel—my heart is not right, it is always wanting and always—it is always wanting more. Like I will never be loved enough to make the wanting go away.”

Charles was a romantic. That was a fact. The sky was blue, the grass was green, and Charles was a romantic. It was amusing at times, when he cried over bittersweet movies and always got too invested in the relationships in shows.

Now, however, Max understood how it could be suffocating.

“Of course, we all are—” Max was not a romantic—preferred to express his gratitude and empathy and love in actions instead of words—but he could grit his teeth and try to match Charles’ level of openness—“we are here to love you, Charles. You do not—it is not a burden.”

Charles shuddered as though he had never heard that before.

Max repeated himself. “It is not a burden to love you, Charles.”

For a moment, those quiet words hung in the air untouched.

Max had no idea what his face was doing, but Charles looked a little starstruck. He fiddled with the glass in his hands without looking at it, absently running a finger around the rim, and Max broke their eye contact to drink his vodka Red Bull and try to figure out the strange atmosphere he’d caused. When he raised his gaze again, Charles looked contemplative.

Max knew that Charles kept up a facade of airheaded-ness, maybe leaning into it on purpose at times. People tended to think that he was stupid, or a little absent-minded. He had his pretty-boy looks and wide smile, and his eyes tended to look a little sightless, like he was stuck in his own head, uncaring of the world around him. People sort of just… never looked past that. It cracked Max up to think about, because he knew that Charles was devastatingly smart—he just liked to be in his own head sometimes.

In times like these, that habit was to his detriment.

In times like these, Max wished he was in Charles’ head with him, picking apart his worries without having to stumble through two rounds of translations to understand, to communicate.

“Max,” Charles said, seriously.

“Charles,” Max returned, letting go of the reins of the conversation. He’d said his piece.

Charles, unfortunately, did not pick up said conversation reins. He just continued to look at Max like he was putting together a particularly baffling puzzle, or trying to read English when he was tired. Eventually, after Max had finished his drink and taken Charles’ glass to finish his, he stood and held a hand out to his drinking partner.

“We can talk tomorrow, yes? It is late now.”

Charles took Max’s hand and let him pull him to his feet. He swayed for a moment, and Max reached out to support him, free hand around his hip like they were never needed need to speak on track to understand each other, and they didn’t need to speak now, either. Max pressed a kiss to Charles’ cheek, tasting the salt of tears on his lips, and guided Charles to the stairs.

If it was unconditional trust he needed, Max could give that to him. He couldn’t give much more, but call it an April Fool’s Day resolution: he’d stop living each day waiting for Daniel, for a relationship that wouldn’t happen, and he’d focus on the other people in his life a bit more.

Max knew that Charles was in the same boat, as well. He had eyes—he could see the way Charles looked at Carlos. This was first and foremost a convenience, mutual trust and a friendship that hadn’t faltered despite years of rivalries and obstacles.

~

“This house is getting way too incestuous.” Alex tossed a card on the pile. Green 5.

Carlos put down a green 2.

Lance had only a vague idea of what Alex was really talking about, but he agreed. “Yup. Agreed. We need spring break to make us normal again.”

“You guys are literally contributing to the incestuousness.”

“Incest, Lando, not incestuousness.” Oscar put down a red 3 on top of Lando’s green 3.

“Excuse you,” Alex said, sounding genuinely insulted. “George and I were together before we moved here.”

Lance finally got to play his red skip card. “And Este and I have known each other forever, so we don’t count.”

Lando made a grossed-out noise.

“By that logic, do Max and Charles count?” Oscar asked.

Lance thought about it a moment. “No, they count.”

“They definitely count,” Alex confirmed. “Uno!”

“So why do they count, and Lance and Esteban don’t?” Lando asked, glaring at Alex over his hand of… was that 13 cards? Lance wasn’t going to count all of them.

“Eh, Lance and I were basically together already,” Esteban said, finally contributing to the conversation. He’d been hovering over Lance’s shoulder and judging every card he put down. Supposedly he was doing homework, but Lance hadn’t heard the telltale click of his laptop keys in a while, so that was a total lie.

“We are right here, you know,” Max piped up from the bay window, where he and Charles were being gross and cute together, curled up with Jimmy sprawled across the both of them.

Honestly, Lance hadn’t seen it coming. Lando said something about the pair being inevitable, but Lance had been under the impression that both Max and Charles were interested in other people. Daniel and Carlos respectively, to be specific. Being woken up by Esteban shaking his shoulder and telling him that he heard from Pierre who heard from Yuki who heard from Liam that Max and Charles had been sleeping in Max’s bed the past couple of nights was not really on Lance’s bingo card for the year. Yeah, they had history. Lore, if you will. Lance knew that the pair had known each other since they were kids, long before Lance had known Esteban. As the story went, they raced against each other when they were young, fell out of touch when they both stopped racing, and then suddenly ended up in the same house at the same university years later. Happenstance, mainly. Lance knew that there was a connection between them that went far deeper than he’d be able to parse out. Lando, who had also raced, explained it to Lance like this: when you’re racing other kids, there’s a level of trust there that’s nearly unshakeable, even if you never actually speak to your opponents. You trust them to race responsibly, mostly-cleanly, to not put you in danger. It’s insanely vulnerable. Lando was still really close friends with some of his own racing friends for that exact reason. Lance understood that kind of inexplicable trust—he barely spoke to Daniel, but he’d go to bat for the guy without asking a question.

So Lance didn’t see it coming, but maybe it wasn’t something for him to see or not see.

And Max and Charles worked together in a strange way. It seemed very casual and comfortable, very take-it-day-by-day for them. He wouldn’t be surprised if they ended up married in ten years time, but he also wouldn’t be surprised if they broke it off at the end of the school year and went on being friends-with-a-strangely-unshakeable-bond afterwards.

Lance put down a yellow reverse and grinned when Oscar groaned and started pulling cards.

He still had eyes, though. Lance might not have seen the relationship coming, but he could see its effects. Carlos looked truly devastated when he came out of his room to see Max and Charles together in the bay window. Lance almost asked out loud how he was handling it, because it was a bit of an open secret that Carlos had the most massive crush on Charles.

At least, it was an open secret to Lance.

And Daniel had called Lance the other night, asking about the relationship, asking about how Max was, if Charles was treating him right, if they were okay. If Lance hadn’t already been subject to a drunk confession of “I really, really love him, Lancelot” he probably wouldn’t have known what to do. As it was, he let Daniel know that the relationship was fine, all consensual and whatever. Lord knew that if George caught wind of anything nefarious, he’d have the both of them sat down with a PowerPoint presentation on safe sex.

Yellow 6. “Uno.”

Alex grimaced. He had only two cards in his hand, and Lance knew for a fact that one of them was a yellow reverse, because Alex had giggled when he’d taken it, and he only giggled when he thought he had the upper hand. A bit of deducing led Lance to believe it was a yellow reverse, and unless Alex wanted to gamble at pulling enough cards to match him to Lando, he’d play it, which meant Lance could put down his—

“Yellow skip!” Lance declared victoriously.

Lando slumped down and splayed his hand of cards on the coffee table, take-twos and wilds skidding across it. Lando always swore that his strategy was better, but in all the times Lance played Uno against him, he’d never won, so Lance decided his method was superior.

Whether or not Carlos, Daniel, Max, or Charles had feelings wasn’t really Lance’s business. Este was a gossip, and Lance liked to listen to him speak, so by default he knew the goings-on of the Grid. Professor Piquet probably knew the goings-on of the Grid, honestly.

What Lance cared about right now was winning at Uno.

Chapter Text

Spring break arrived later that semester than they usually had it, falling in the middle of April instead of the usual end of March. It was quite nice, because then you actually got some “spring” with your break instead of just old slush, freezing rain, and still-bare tree branches waving like they were trying to get help.

The Grid was pretty evenly divided into two groups: those who went home for break, and those who didn’t.

For his first year, Esteban stayed on campus for spring break, knowing that the financial strain of even the cheapest flight home just wasn’t possible for his family. It sucked, but he video called his parents and sent them a couple of pictures from the walk he went on around the city, just to prove that he wasn’t cooped up in his room alone and miserable.

He was alone and miserable, but they didn’t need to know that.

Of course, Esteban could never hide anything from Lance, who had gone home to Canada and then hiked the Appalachian trail in the states for some godforsaken reason. The moment Lance returned, sunburned across the bridge of his nose and beautiful with his too-wide smile, he clocked Esteban’s attitude immediately.

“You told me you were going home.” His voice wasn’t accusatory, because Lance liked to give people the benefit of the doubt, second and third and fourth and fifth chances before he got truly angry.

Esteban could only shrug.

The next year, Lance forced a plane ticket upon Esteban with a pointed glare, and Esteban spent spring break being alone and miserable in his room at home instead of in his room at the not-quite-a-frathouse. Lance, once again, picked up on his mood the moment they reunited.

“Next year, you’re coming with me,” he decided, and Esteban knew better than to try to argue. He’d find himself drugged and kidnapped, halfway across the Atlantic ocean before he even realised what was happening.

It was a very fun trip, that next year. They didn’t go anywhere big, instead taking a road trip to drive around Lake Superior, just the two of them.

This year, Esteban put his foot down (politely, because if he didn’t do this right he’d end up hurting Lance, again).

“I’m staying here,” he told his roommate, when they were sat across from each other on their respective beds trying to toss grapes in each others’ mouths, “for the break.”

“Oh.” Lance chewed a grape thoughtfully. “Why?”

Midterms had already passed (hence why the break was so late that year—everyone complained about the post-break testing that made the whole point of the break kind of nil because you just spent it studying and stressing) so Esteban couldn’t use the excuse of studying. He didn’t really want to be dishonest, anyway.

“I just want to stay here.” He shrugged, crunching a particularly crisp grape in half to avoid looking at Lance for a moment.

The thing about Lance was that he probably (definitely) had some issues he needed to work out, self-esteem and stuff like that. Communication skills, too. He didn’t really tend to be outward in his affection, but he also didn’t have Max’s bluntness that helped him work around his own reticence. Instead, Lance gave gifts. Honestly, if it wasn’t for the mandatory spending cap on Christmas presents, he’d buy everyone a car and a motorcycle and a signed helmet from their favourite F1 driver and a vacation to, like, the Bahamas, or something. Esteban only realised that Lance considered him a friend after overhearing a conversation he had with his sister. Before then, Esteban just sort of assumed that Lance pitied him for being poor and kept him around for entertainment, or something.

It clicked, then, that the gifts weren’t random. They were expressing gratitude, usually. If Esteban covered Lance’s shift doing the dishes, he’d find a new lab coat on the back of the bedroom door. If he went out of his way to get a coffee for Lance from the shop they both liked, he’d end up with a container of bakery-fresh pain au chocolat on his desk. Even something small like saying “I enjoyed spending time with you” would be returned with a bag of sweets, or takeout, or tickets to the movie he was looking forward to.

If Esteban turned down anything, Lance internalised it. Esteban often wondered if Lance kept a running mental list of everything that anyone he’d ever gifted anything to had ever said, like some sort of mental Excel spreadsheet cataloguing the good reactions and the bad reactions.

Lance would never outwardly show disappointment if you turned down a gift, but Esteban knew it stuck with him.

And it took a while, but he taught himself to accept the gifts the same way he would accept anything else. After all, Esteban never turned away an offered hug or an “I love you.”

All that to say, he couldn’t just outright refuse the plane tickets and whatever else Lance wanted to bestow upon him. Esteban wouldn’t mind going to Lance’s family’s beach house in wherever-the-fuck, Canada, but he’d much prefer to stay at the Grid this year and have a calm spring break with pancakes and the company of whoever else stayed.

He said as much to Lance, tossing another grape across the room and horribly missing Lance’s mouth. It bounced onto the bedspread, and Lance picked it up and blew on it before eating it anyway.

“Alright,” he said after swallowing. “I’ll stay with you.”

Esteban would’ve been surprised, if he hadn’t half-expected Lance to offer exactly that. As it was, he smiled and continued their silly little game.

~

“Alright, so Esteban and Lance are sticking around for the break,” George said to no one in particular, the night before the break officially began. “That makes… six?”

Alex hummed in agreement around a mouthful of meatball.

“And Max said he’d be coming back Sunday.” George had that in his phone calendar, along with Carlos and Charles coming back with a couple days to spare from Spain and Monaco, respectively. Charles said “probably Thursday” and Carlos had already sent George his flight itinerary.

George had invited everyone who didn’t already have plans to his parents’ house, at his father’s insistence. Oscar and Liam decided that it wasn’t worth the money or the hassle flying all the way back to Australia and New Zealand respectively, for only a week-long break, but they had both turned George down, which he’d expected. The fashion school had a big show coming up, working together with the theatre school and art school, so both Lewis and Liam were absolutely swamped with work. Oscar, George had learnt very early on, would not accept anything from anyone, even something so measly as an invite to George’s parents’ house. Logan, similarly, was also staying at the Grid for spring break, both because he didn’t want to go to the states and also because he was still working out his academic probation. George had helped him figure some things out, so he should be fine by summer break, but for the time being he was staying at the Grid and focusing solely on school. Lance and Esteban rounded the group out to an even six.

George knew that no one would accept his invitation. That’s why he asked at all, of course.

“I’m also coming back early,” Lando piped up from the living room, tucked into a tiny ball in an armchair.

George swivelled around on his stool. “When?”

“Wednesday, I think. My parents are headed to Austria for some work thing, and I didn’t want to go.”

George added that into his calendar.

“Do we want anything special for the break?” Lance asked, sitting next to George and going through the mountain of sticky notes that had ended up on the fridge, each one holding grocery items written in various handwritings. Max’s chicken scratch was the most prominent, and George still had no idea how Lance managed to decipher it.

Oscar, leaning against the island scraping the last bits of yoghurt from the container, shrugged. “I’m good.”

“We need more milk,” Alex said, around another mouthful of meatball.

“On the list,” Lance replied. “All of the basics are here. Maybe—hm.”

George had already packed and would be leaving as soon as he finished his meal of leftover spaghetti and meatballs (currently mostly spaghetti, because he was losing meatballs at an astonishing rate due to Alex stealing them one-by-one), and Alex would be joining him after seeing his family (at least, the family that was in England and not Thailand). He wouldn’t be coming back until very late next Sunday, if his plans went as he hoped they would, so what groceries they got didn’t really concern him. They’d have to restock after the break anyway.

Still, Oscar would never ask for anything non-essential, and Logan was much the same. George pulled his phone out and texted some suggestions to Lance, who nodded to George and added them to the list he was compiling. Good.

George and Lance had their differences in the past, disagreements and the like. Lance was very “take things as they come” while George much preferred to plan ahead. He’d rather have a set grocery order scheduled each week, but Lance just randomly sorted through the notes and lists stuck to the fridge every week or two. It was nerve wracking at first, seeing all the little yellow and green and blue squares scribbled on and not knowing if or when the order would come. Lance was good at ensuring someone would be home to bring everything in, though, if Lance didn’t go out to the shops himself, and the notes were never up longer than two weeks. And everyone had Lance’s login information to the delivery service he preferred, anyway, so if they needed something urgently, they could get it themselves.

Not long ago, George clicked with Lance over their shared need to more or less parent their friends. Lance was very much ask-and-I-will-provide and George was more like I-am-anticipating-your-needs, and together they were pretty well able to make sure everyone was looked after. This past bout of sickness proved that, as George was able to keep track of the progression of everyone’s individual cases of whatever the fuck it was they all got, and then he texted Lance when someone needed more lozenges or tissues or whatever. It was a good system.

With multiple people in the house unable to ask for what they wanted, George took it upon himself to figure out their needs (and wants) and give that information to Lance to do with as he pleased. In this case, it was Tim Tams for Oscar, ice lollies and lemon juice for Logan (who complained about the plain vanilla ice cream that Charles had gotten on the one warmish day last week, as well as the “that’s not lemonade” lemonade that still confused George), and the raspberry chocolate for Liam that Alex had found and shared with everyone. Liam had fucking loved it, having probably the biggest sweet tooth of everyone at the Grid, but refused to add it to the grocery list because it was, admittedly, a bit on the pricier side.

Lewis, at least, was good at getting what he wanted, and Lance probably already had Esteban fully covered.

George ate another forkful of spaghetti and watched over Lance’s shoulder as he added the treats to his online list. It was a job well done, he thought.

In his pocket, a little box still weighed heavy.

~

Logan glanced down at his phone as it buzzed on his bedspread. A shock of adrenaline ran through his body like ice, leaving the sick, heavy feeling of anxiety in its wake. He carefully picked up his phone, setting his computer to the side, and accepted the call.

“Hey, dad.” He shuffled back a little further to sit up against his pillows, trying to breathe through the panic.

“Hey, champ.” His dad didn’t sound mad, or even mildly put-out. Logan relaxed a tiny margin, clenching his hand tight at his side and releasing it carefully.

Logan listened as his dad started rambling about the recent promotion he got at his job, apparently content to fill the silence without expecting much of a response from Logan. He hummed and went “uh huh” at the right times and let his dad talk, wondering what this call was really about.

It always went like this.

Logan’s dad would call out of the blue, yap about nothing important, and then drop a bomb on Logan like “we’re moving out of your childhood home and getting rid of all of the stuff in your room” or “the dog passed a month ago and we just got his ashes, did you want us to send you some for a keepsake” or “we’re no longer supporting your college career, best of luck kid.”

“Anyway, I told Martha about you working in marketing and all that, so you’ll be getting an email from her soon probably.”

“Um, who is Martha?” Logan asked, trying to keep his voice level and politely curious, mildly apologetic.

His dad huffed, annoyed, but didn’t seem to get truly angry at his question. “My colleague, Logan. Weren’t you listening?”

“Sorry, I think I just didn’t catch her name at first, sorry.”

“Alright, champ. Look out for that email. How’s school going?”

Logan started talking about the recent project he submitted in his legal studies class that covered some of the biggest marketing civil lawsuits of the century. His dad listened for a pretty long time, almost two whole minutes. Then he interrupted and said he had to go, and he hung up with a quick “take care, Logan.”

Logan let his phone drop back onto his bedspread, fingers shaking.

Oscar popped his head in the doorway. “Hey, Loges, do you—oh.”

Logan watched Oscar approach him with a sort of detached feeling, like he was sitting a foot to the left of his body. “Hey.”

Oscar moved Logan’s computer and phone onto his desk and shoved him over on the bed to slot himself in next to him, pressed together shoulder-to-ankle. “Family call?”

Logan nodded.

“All good?”

Another nod.

“Alright. Um, I was just gonna say that I’m getting lunch—Lance told me to order takeout for everyone. We’re thinking Indian, um, but if you want something else we can do two orders. There’s that new place that opened up that’s, like, American stuff. You can complain about it, if you wanted.”

Logan held out his hand to Oscar, who placed his phone in it without question. Oscar hadn’t changed his password since getting his first phone, like, 6 years ago, and it was just the number 81 repeated three times. Logan opened it and started looking through the food options, grimacing at some and considering others. They ended up placing the order right there, Oscar texting Lance to let him know when the food would be delivered.

Then they just laid there, until Logan stopped feeling the claw of anxiety in the back of his throat.

He stopped telling his family his holiday plans when they initially sent him to Australia to “learn about the world” and “get some perspective” and they never asked. If he wanted, Logan could find their new address and book a flight and Uber there and show up and it probably wouldn’t even be that bad. Yeah, his dad would yell at him for not being better, and yeah, his mum would tell him that he’s the disappointment of the family, but he’d get to see their faces. He’d refresh his memories, now as old as Oscar’s first phone, and see if the little mole on his mother’s cheek is still there, if his dad’s eyebrows have gotten any wilder. He’d see his brother.

“Food’s here!” Lance said, knocking on the door but not entering. His accent, just as North American as Logan’s, was strangely comforting. “It’s on the kitchen island. Do you want me to bring you guys some?”

“We’re good,” Logan replied, gently shoving Oscar to get him up and off of Logan. “Be down in a sec.”

“Alright,” Lance said easily, and Logan heard his footsteps retreat as he stretched and stood up.

He’d overheard some people in his queer literature class (which is family definitely did not know about) talking about the importance of found family, even when you had an open and accepting given family. He understood it from a theoretical standpoint, that yeah, friends were good to have and all that. It wasn’t until really clicking with the other Grid members that he truly understood what “found family” meant, because it wasn’t just friends. Friends were people you talked with over lunch, the people in your classes, professors and childhood buddies. Support systems made a found family, and the Grid was a fantastic support system to have.

“D’you think the lemonade they got is actual lemonade?” Logan asked, tapping his fingers absently on the stair railing.

Oscar snorted. “No. You could make some yourself, though.”

“We have lemon juice?” Logan hadn’t added that to the grocery list in a while.

“Yup. I think Lewis got it. For you.”

Oh. That was nice. Another tick in the “found family is really great actually” box in his head.

~

Nico usually went home over break, or somewhere with Kevin if home wasn’t a viable option. He wasn’t particularly fond of seeing the forlorn international students stuck on campus and lonely. Kevin said he had a saving people thing. Nico just figured he was more compassionate than his peculiar boyfriend, who once saw a first year crying outside the art building and said “I do the same when I’m in there.”

And really, Nico wasn’t nearly as bad as Sebastian or Lewis or Britney, who still refused to acknowledge that Max was as much his adopted Grid child as he was Nico’s. Of course, Max was also very much Lewis’ Grid kid, despite their fight over who would be chosen to represent the school internationally at some stupid conference that Nico and Kevin steered well clear of. Max ended up going, and when he came back, he brought a bunch of fancy fabrics and supposedly-bespoke clothing pieces for Lewis. Nico knew that Lewis wouldn’t hold the grudge for longer than maybe a month anyway, but the gifts definitely sped along the process. Britney, on the other hand, saw Max as an adopted nuisance. Which he was. Absolutely, 100%. Nico had just gotten used to his brand of mania, and they’d known each other for a really fucking long time, so it was difficult to get annoyed with him now.

Max was going home for the break, but Nico was staying, because Jenson had a project for him and Kevin to tackle in order to clean up the athletic department before the spring and summer sports really picked up. Nico, like a fucking idiot, said “yeah sure we can do that” without checking with his wonderful, peculiar boyfriend, who was, in fact, not available over the break given that he was going home for a family-only event that Nico didn’t want to be anywhere near.

So Nico was stuck. At the school. Watching the moping international students on the grass and the too-dedicated nerds living in the library and the buff, macho athletes who usually had issues at home but didn’t know how to talk about them because they were emotionally stunted and so drenched in toxic masculinity that just being around them gave Nico hives. And they thought that he was one of them—damnit, Kevin, why couldn’t you stay—which made everything much worse.

It was truly fucking intolerable.

Normally, as a grad student in kinesiology, Nico helped rehabilitate the athletes who got injured. He did post-workout stretches and massages and stuff. That involved very little talking, as it was either physically painful for the athletes or just plain awkward to try to hold a conversation. Nico didn’t have to skirt around the topic of girlfriends, the athletes kept their big, dumb, macho beliefs inside their heads, win-win all around.

Now, though, Nico was rearranging the locker rooms and cooldown rooms and helping the coaches move offices. They enlisted the help of the athletes who stayed for the break, because if you need to move five 200-pound filing cabinets, it’s nice to have some jacked footballers on hand, you know?

Unfortunately, that meant small talk.

Even more unfortunately, the coaches were too busy for Nico to stick around them, meaning he was in charge of the undergrad athletes 90% of the time.

He complained about this to Kevin, at length, and Kevin just laughed at him.

“You’re not being very understanding,” Nico said during one late-evening call, his phone on speaker as he tossed vegetables in a stir fry sauce. Gabriel, who showed up with Ollie earlier and broke into his flat when Nico didn’t answer the door—because he was handling a bunch of man-babies in the athletic offices, which Gabi knew and Ollie knew—grabbed his phone and started complaining to Kevin as well, but he was complaining about Nico complaining, which was not at all fair. He was supposed to be on Nico’s side!

“Oh, suck my balls, mate,” Kevin replied, voice tinny over the phone speaker, “You’ve been complaining for an hour at least.”

That was a gross over-exaggeration.

“You can’t just, like, mention that Kevin is your boyfriend, or something?” Ollie asked, sitting on the kitchen tile with his legs crossed. He’d been sprawled out before, but then Gabi almost tripped over him into the stove, so Nico banished Ollie to the corner and told him to keep his limbs out of the way if he wanted to keep them attached to his body.

Kevin made a noise at that. “They will not believe him. They all think I am dating the other grad who works with Button.”

“Oh, Courtney?” Ollie asked. “She’s really nice. She gave my writing class a lecture last semester, it was great.”

Courtney had only just become a grad student, on an advanced sports medicine track because she was both insanely intelligent and insanely busy. Nico had only met her a couple of times, including the moment that led all of the lacrosse players to believe that she and Kevin were together. Courtney had stood on Kevin’s shoulders in order to change out a lightbulb in the weight room while Nico used the only ladder they could find to get another one. The lacrosse players watched on and were wholly convinced, much to Nico’s amusement and Kevin’s ire. Courtney had just laughed it off. She was painfully American, but really rather nice once you looked past it.

Anyway, the rumour spread to the rest of the athletes, and given the fact that many had seen Kevin’s hands on Nico’s arse while they stood closer together than could be heterosexually explained away and yet still managed to heterosexually explain the situation, Nico knew that simple words wouldn’t work.

“It is only four more days,” Gabriel said reasonably. “When he returns, you can just kiss him and it is fixed.”

Nico looked up at the ceiling. He didn’t have four more days of patience. He was also pretty sure that one of the swimmers was hitting on him, but given that his experience with flirting amounted to putting Kevin in the hospital (long story) and then smuggling him into Germany to his parents’ house (longer story), he might be wrong about that.

“Or you can find another guy to kiss in front of them, just to shut them up,” Kevin suggested. “I am sure one of the Grid would be willing. Who stayed for the break?”

It wasn’t too bad of an idea, actually. Nico ran through the list. He didn’t know Logan or Oscar well enough to ask them, everyone knew that Lewis had a thing for Britney (and no one would believe that he’d date Nico, anyway), Liam might but he would definitely use it for leverage, and Esteban and Lance were only just starting to figure their shit out. Nico didn’t want to get in the way of that, even though both would probably be down. Daniel was in the Netherlands with Max, Charles wouldn’t be back for another couple of days… really, there was no one that immediately came to mind.

Kevin seemed to come to the same conclusion. “Or—well, what about—hmm, no. We do not have many friends, I am realising.”

Nico snorted. “None that aren’t Grid-affiliated, you mean.”

“I can do it.”

Nico stared at Gabi, who had hopped up onto the counter at some point and was obnoxiously kicking his heels into the cabinet doors.

“You are a first year,” Nico protested immediately, “and I am basically your TA! That is—no. No.”

“It would work,” Kevin said, and that was definitely his “this is a stupid idea but my middle name is Stupid Idea so I’m on board” tone, which Nico hated. “It wouldn’t be the first time you were dating someone you should not be.”

“Not fair,” Nico said, because they’d agreed not to talk about that.

“Either kiss him or do not. Just stop complaining—” Kevin cursed out Nico in Danish for a while before hanging up, which was pretty much par for the course with how their calls usually went.

Nico turned his phone over with perhaps more aggression than the situation called for, but honestly, the talk between the athletes had been extraordinarily uncomfortable, to the point that he wanted to ask Jenson for solo tasks. He normally loved working with the players, but listening to them talk about how many women they picked up in their remedial rhetoric classes for literally 8 hours straight was not his idea of fun. Some of them were really incredibly intelligent, but a lot got into the school only due to their athleticism, so the smart ones downplayed their intelligence in order to fit in, and that meant talking about sex and parties 24/7 for some fucking reason.

Nico stirred the vegetables and forced the tension out of his shoulders. Ollie and Gabriel were silent behind him, probably having a conversation made up of tiny microexpressions. They’d only just met at the party for Esteban, but they hit if off so well that they declared themselves partners-in-crime and used Nico and Kevin’s flat as their base of operations. They spoke almost exclusively in Italian when Kimi deigned to join them, when he wasn’t hanging around Senna’s office or trailing Max around like a lost puppy.. Otherwise, it was online slang that went over Nico’s head and inside jokes that would probably concern someone who cared a little bit more.

Nico did not care.

“It is just an idea,” Gabriel said at last, and he kicked Nico in the hip when he didn’t respond. “Come on, mate, you were the one complaining.”

Nico portioned out the stir fry onto three plates. “It’s not the worst idea.”

“It is not even a bad idea!” Gabi defended, accepting his plate and a fork and immediately picking all of the broccoli out of the mix of vegetables to push to the side.

Ollie thanked Nico for the food, because he wasn’t an actual gremlin like Gabriel was, but he would also probably eat a cookie off the pavement without any convincing, so neither would be a good measure for the quality of the recipe. Gabriel had a personal war against broccoli—which Nico was trying to fix because the cafeterias on campus pretty much exclusively hit their required vegetable offerings through broccoli—so he’d complain about that if Nico asked. Ollie was also useless, because he’d eat his meal fast enough to qualify as a human vacuum and not actually taste anything. He was just happy to be offered food.

“Fuck it.” Nico shoved a sauce-covered slice of carrot into his mouth. “Anything to make them shut up, yeah?”

~

“Dori, wait up!”

Doriane turned to see the Lewis Hamilton running down the slope from the media buildings, camera bag slung over his shoulder and stylish pea coat clutched tight in his other hand. She braced herself for horrible news—the fashion school was in complete shambles pulling this show together, and Doriane still had to focus on her legal studies alongside fashion. Lewis had bodily dragged her into a meeting with his housemate George, the three of them spitballing ideas for how to work around the legal issues that had arisen with some of the last-minute submissions to the show. Apparently, someone had “taken inspiration” from a designer a little too much, and that designer was not happy. Given that Doriane was straddling the legal world of fashion, one foot in design and one in law, Lewis figured she’d be able to help. And she was able to help, but the fashion school wasn’t the only department that was busy during the break.

Doriane gave the man a smile anyway.

“Hey, man. How’s your break been?” Lewis asked, falling into step as Doriane continued on to the student centre to pick up a couple fresh copies of the specific patent her professor had assigned her. The last two copies were illegible with red ink spelling out her thoughts and analyses, and she was barely halfway done with her dissection of the civil suits related to the patent.

“Busy,” she said. “Did you need something?”

“Could you pass this on to Toto?” Lewis pulled a folder from the camera bag full of equipment. Doriane glimpsed a lens covered in teal and blue paint, and another lens that seemed to be completely shattered and held together with clear tape.

“Yes. I have some ideas for the designs, as well, the ones that were copied.” She’d left all her ideas in her flat, because Abbi said she’d look over them and sketch them out more cleanly, and their schedules that day didn’t line up at all. It was easier for Abbi to use the spare key to get into Doriane’s flat, instead of trying to schedule a convenient time to hand them off.

Maybe, if Doriane hurried, she’d be able to get back before Abbi had to return to the ceramics classroom where she was glazing was seemed to be a thousand little clay cups that doubled as her final project for her Ancient Chinese History class. Abbi probably thought that Doriane wasn’t listening as she rambled on about the extant examples of tea sets she’d studied, but Doriane always listened to Abbi. She really couldn’t help it.

“You’re free tomorrow, yeah?” Lewis asked. She nodded. Tomorrow she’d planned to spend half the day working through the patent project and half the day relaxing. She had time to spare. “Stop by the Grid. George is gone for break, but we can still figure this out, right?”

He sounded more stressed than she was, honestly. Given that he was unofficially hosting the fashion show and officially using it as his graduate final project, it made sense.

“I can do that,” Doriane replied. Lewis kissed her cheek and ran off, leaving Doriane to figure out where exactly the Grid was. She could text Lewis or George for the address, of course, but it would be much more fun to find it on her own. She knew the most common visitors, and the inhabitants, of course, so perhaps she could follow one of them there.

The next day, after stamping her headache down with a glass of water and far too many painkillers (Abbi would disapprove, but Abbi wasn’t there, so there was no one to tell her off), Doriane grabbed the folder of sketches and set out to find the infamous International House of Pancakes, or the Grid. She wasn’t exactly sure which was the more common name, but no one seemed to care what you called it.

In the end, it wasn’t at all difficult.

George had met her at the intersection right off of the media buildings, so Doriane started her search there. As she stood on the corner, debating which direction seemed most logical, she heard loud shouts coming from down the street.

That had to be it.

Doriane followed the noise until she found a sopping wet man standing at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the front door of a rather beautiful brick house. The front garden was a bit neglected, and steps had seen better days, but Doriane thought it was very charming. The charm was somewhat undermined by aforementioned sopping wet man, whom Doriane realised was arguing with an equally sopping wet blond man standing at the top of the steps and brandishing a hose like a weapon.

It took a long moment for her ears to catch up with the argument, as neither of them had the typical British accents that Doriane had gotten so used to hearing. The blond one was definitely American, and the other one was… Australian? Maybe?

“Excuse me,” Doriane said, staying far enough away to not be caught in any potential drenching-via-hose. “Is this the Grid?”

The blond immediately lowered his hose. “Oh, you’re here for Lewis, right? He said you’d come by today.”

“I am. We are working on the fashion show together. I’m Doriane Pin.” She’d take that as a “yes” to her question, then.

The maybe-Australian smiled in a rather endearing way and stepped out of the way. “I’m Oscar, and that arsehole is Logan. Sorry, you can go through,”

“Thank you,” she said. “Have fun.”

They both shouted “thanks” as she stepped into the house, feeling a little confused and a lot amused. This was definitely the right place.

Two tall men stood in the kitchen, one holding a spatula covered in brownie batter and the other wearing an apron with a horrifying picture of Lewis on the front, half-covered by more batter. They both waved at her, the one holding the spatula sending batter flying as he used that hand to wave. She couldn’t help but grin and wave back.

“Do you know where Lewis is?” she asked, kicking off her shoes because that seemed like the right thing to do, what with all of the shoes scattered across the entryway.

“In his room,” the apron-guy answered. “Third floor, the door on the right at the end of the hallway. You’re Doriane, right?”

She nodded.

“I’m Lance. I think we took a human resources class together last year?”

Oh, she remembered him! “You are the one who talked about chickens for a whole class period!”

He grinned. “Yup. That’s me. Nice to see you, Doriane.”

“You, too.” Doriane gave the other man an expectant look, and he quickly lowered his spatula.

“I am Esteban. You are French?”

“Oui!” Oh, this kept getting better and better. She was about to ask where he was from when footsteps on the stairs got their attention.

Lewis appeared, uncharacteristically casual in what looked like a football jersey and loose sweatpants. “Dori! You made it! You should’ve texted me you were on your way, man, I would’ve met you at the door.”

“Logan and Oscar are having a battle out there, I wouldn’t recommend interfering,” Lance said, nodding towards the door.

Doriane laughed. “They are both very wet right now. What happened?”

“Logan dumped a glass of water over Oscar’s head as payback for Oscar taking all the hot water this morning. It escalated.”

“Hmm,” Lewis said, putting an arm over Doriane’s shoulders. “Well, that’s all interesting. We really need to work.”

He dragged her towards the stairs, and Doriane waved goodbye to Lance and Esteban and hoped she would get the opportunity to get to know them better.

The Grid had, so far, lived up to the expectations established by the idiotic stories she’d heard. She was rather excited by what she could learn directly from the source(s).

~

Alex knew George was on-edge. He’d been jumpy all day, startling at every loud noise and almost dropping his plate of fresh waffles when his dad clapped him on the shoulder and said “good morning.” If Alex didn’t know exactly why he was nervous, he would’ve been more concerned, but fortunately or unfortunately, George was about as subtle as a hippo painted glittery pink, and it only got worse when he was overthinking things.

Also, Alex found the ring box in George’s sock drawer like two months ago when he went looking for the thick pair of wool socks he always stole from George when temps dropped below freezing.

They’d talked about marriage before, of course. Given how long they knew each other and how long they’d been dating, their relationship could only go one of two ways. Either they broke up and it was absolutely devastating for everyone involved and completely disastrous for their mutual friend groups, or they got married. Alex had no plans to break up with George, because that man was his fucking soulmate and Alex wouldn’t let him go even if he was held at gunpoint, so they discussed marriage like normal, civilised people, and then let the topic drop when they mutually agreed “of course we’ll get married, but maybe when we are done with school, or at least more settled.”

Alex had quietly asked his mum about proposal ideas that same night, but his plans were still pretty nebulous.

Then George started acting weird in the lead up to spring break, and Alex knew George better than he knew himself, so he figured it out pretty quickly.

Of course, he’d still act surprised, but then George knew Alex as well as Alex knew George, so he’d probably realise within a couple seconds that Alex totally knew, and they’d bicker about it, and then they’d be officially engaged.

“We’re headed out!” George called out to his family, dragging Alex towards the door.

“Be safe and have fun!” George’s mum called back, fully distracted by the little recipe book she’d gotten from one of her aunts. Alex had flipped through it while eating breakfast and waiting for George to calm down, taking pictures of the more interesting recipes that Yuki would want to try out and tweak.

George had some old trainers on, so Alex followed suit and allowed his boyfriend to guide him to the little path behind his parents’ house that led to the woods. The woods were technically all shared property, but each house tended to stick to their little plot of the woods, not wanting to infringe on anyone else’s goings-on. George and Alex knew the woods quite well, as they spent much of their childhood playing games there, exploring and making up fantastical stories about the animals they saw.

As soon as George started walking down the slope towards the little stream that bisected the forest, Alex knew what he had in mind.

They first met when they were both really young, at the age where every other kid you met became your best friend. Alex hadn’t seen any of his friends in a while, as his family was in-between moving and everything was stressful. He remembered the grown-ups around him trying to shield him from reality, from the complications of his mother and half the family moving back to Thailand. They ended up not far from George’s house, and Alex got fully lost in the woods the first time he explored them.

He remembered sitting by the little stream, listening to the water babble over the time-smooth stones, and then suddenly there was this pale little boy staring at him with huge blue eyes.

And the first thing Alex said was “are you a ghost?” to which the boy shook his head and said “no, but sometimes I wish I was one” and it was exactly the sort of meeting that tied them together forever, as best friends, and then boyfriends, and now, hopefully, husbands.

Alex didn’t want to assume, because maybe George was waiting to propose and maybe his nerves were about something else.

But then George turned to him. “Go sit over there?”

He pointed towards the flat rock across the stream.

Alex, just to be difficult, huffed. “Come on, Georgie. I don’t want to get my shoes wet.”

“Then take them off.”

Alex obliged, pulling off his trainers without untying the laces and holding them carefully as he waded across the shallow rushing water to the other bank. He sat on the rock, feet still in the water just like that day so long ago, and set his shoes down behind him, safely away from the threat of the water.

George stood there, pale and huge-eyed and beautiful.

And Alex knew exactly what to do. “Are you a ghost?”

George laughed wetly. “No. But I used to wish I was one.”

“That’s not what you said before, Georgie, come on,” Alex teased.

“Well, I don’t want to be a ghost anymore,” George said. “I haven’t wanted to be one since I met you.”

“Georgie.”

“Lexie.” George grinned when Alex grimaced at the reminder of his old nickname. “Alex.”

And then George knelt down, right there in the middle of the stream. His shorts were just short enough to stay out of the water, but he was getting his shoes wet, and for some fucking reason that was the only thing Alex was able to think as he watched his boyfriend reach into his pocket and pull out the same little jewellery box that he found in George’s sock drawer. He didn’t even have to act surprised, because this whole thing was very emotional and Alex hadn’t really expected the love of his life to bring him here, of all places.

“I thought about a big speech,” George began, turning the box over in his hand, “but you were never one for speeches. I love you, and—”

“I love you, too,” Alex interrupted, feeling like he’d burst if he didn’t say it back right away.

George smiled. He was crying. “Alex. I—we talked about this before, and you said you would, but I wanted to ask properly. Officially. Will you marry me?”

“Yes!” Alex launched himself at George, knocking them both over into the path of the stream that started flowing over and around them. George somehow managed to keep the box dry, and he dragged Alex upright and opened the box to reveal a beautiful gold band. It fit, because George had known Alex’s ring size long before his hands stopped growing, updating his knowledge whenever a ring didn’t fit anymore, and it was simple and plain besides the little engraving on the inside that simply said “the river runs forever” which was the next stupid thing that George had said to Alex, right after his apparent wish to be a ghost.

They trekked back to the house slowly, wandering around the woods and seeing all their old haunts despite being absolutely soaked through. Alex hadn’t put his shoes back on, carrying them in the hand not clasped in George’s, but the feeling of dead leaves and dirt beneath his feet was as familiar as the palm pressed against his own, the fingers entwined in his.

“I assume you have the rest of this process all figured out, then?” Alex asked.

George laughed, beautiful with his head thrown back, just like Alex knew he would.

Chapter Text

Max had not been planning on returning to school early that break. He wanted to spend time with his mother and sister, he wanted to watch bad movies and ignore the work in his backpack abandoned by the door, he wanted to drag Daniel around the town and listen to the broken, Australian-accented Dutch that made just about everyone cringe when they heard it. He was fully prepared to entertain him for the full length of the break, not that it was ever hard with Daniel.

But then his father said something about visiting, and Christian called to talk about the internship he wanted Max to take at a local, up-and-coming computer development company, and then Charles texted him to let him know that he was going back to school early, too, and—

Well.

No one argued when Max suggested that he and Dan head back to school on Friday instead of Sunday. They’d had fun, really. Victoria kissed Max on the cheek and told him to stop being stupid, and his mum gave him the latest batch of fudge she’d made, even better than the one previous which he and Daniel agreed was the best fudge they’d ever tasted. Daniel was a little weird as they drove back—driving, because Max loved to drive and wanted to have his car at school and right now only Lewis and Lance had cars but both were so fancy that Max absolutely refused to drive either one. Max didn’t really know where the weirdness came from. He’d explained that he didn’t want to see his father, that he needed to meet with Christian in-person to hammer out the details of the internship, that he wanted to spend a bit of time with Charles before they were both busy with school again.

Dan agreed that he didn’t want to deal with Max’s dad, either, and it would definitely be best to figure out the internship now rather than after school had started up again, and of course Max would want to spend time with his boyfriend.

Max didn’t know what was wrong.

They left early on Friday and took the Eurotunnel because the ferries freaked Daniel out. They switched off driving once, Daniel telling Max to rest and then he could take over again afterwards, and it was almost 6 pm by the time they reached campus. Max asked if Dan would like to stick around for dinner—Lance had texted to ask when they’d be arriving, in order to schedule dinner so they wouldn’t miss it—and Dan looked like he was considering it, but then shook his head. Max dropped him off at his flat, concerned and confused, and parked on the street right in front of the house. Lance’s Aston Martin and Lewis’ Mercedes took up all the space in the garage, but Max didn’t care all that much about his Honda being out in the open, so the street was fine.

He grabbed his bag from the backseat and went up to the house, taking a moment to bask in the warm light pouring from the windows.

“Max!” Charles exclaimed, when Max entered the house and dropped his bag down. “You are here!”

He went to kick his shoes off, but only got one before Charles pulled him into a tight hug, arms around his neck and face buried right in the crook there. Max hugged him back, pressing a kiss to the side of Charles’ head, and then gently pushed him away so he could finish getting his shoe off.

“How was your break?” Max asked, picking his bag up.

Charles followed him up to his room, regaling Max of his antics with his brothers. As Max emptied his bag, Charles sprawled on his bed, absently playing with a loose thread on Max’s bedspread. It was easy to just exist with Charles, easy to listen to him talk. Of course, they had their differences (Charles tried reorganising Max’s carefully-curated calendar and sparked an argument that split the entire household for a rather stressful ten minutes) but for the most part, they worked quite well together.

“Of course, I met Carlos on the way back so we could fly together,” Charles said, tossing a pillow to the foot of the bed and flopping down aggressively on the remaining one.

They hadn’t really talked much about their… other interests. Of course, Max wasn’t blind. He knew that Charles was in love with Carlos and had been for at least two years, and Charles gave Max a look the other week when he mentioned Daniel, so there was a mutual “we aren’t talking about it” in their relationship that Max both appreciated and resented. He liked to be straightforward with his expectations, which Charles knew, and he wasn’t really a romantic, either. Realistic, he liked to think, while Charles called him a pessimist.

“How is Carlos?” Max asked, dumping an armful of clothes into the hamper.

“He is good. He said that his father will be visiting to give a talk at the business school later this quarter.”

Max made a noise to let Charles know that he was listening, and he continued talking while Max sorted his dirty clothes into darks and lights.

It was easy to exist together. Max just wished they were a little more transparent.

~

Liam was probably the best at keeping secrets. It was a little depressing—Liam was only good at keeping secrets because no one in the Grid knew him well enough to know when he was lying. Yuki sometimes clocked when he was uncomfortable with a topic of conversation, but for the most part, Liam was able to lie through his teeth without anyone the wiser. Max was a bit of an open book, especially to Charles and Lewis and Lando, and everyone else was evenly paired off. Even Oscar had Logan to keep him in check.

So when George approached Liam to get help choosing a ring for Alex, Liam knew he’d guard this secret with his entire being. He was working pretty closely with Lewis and George and the others on the whole fashion show, so Liam put all thoughts of the ring from his mind, especially around Alex.

Liam was in the kitchen when George and Alex returned from George’s parents’ house, and it took exactly thirty seconds for Lando, sitting at the island, to notice the flash of gold on Alex’s hand.

“Holy fucking shit! Oh my God!” Lando abandoned his bowl of minestrone soup and tackled George and Alex with fervour.

Everyone in the living room looked up, and then dismissed the situation as Lando’s usual exuberance.

Liam grinned at George, raising his eyebrows in question.

George nodded. “He said yes.”

Alex, of course, caught the interaction, and his eyes went wide. “You knew!” He turned to George, wiggling free from Lando. “He knew!”

Liam set his own bowl down. “He asked me to help pick out the ring.”

“Ring? What?” Pierre perked up from the couch. “What happened?”

Alex raised his left hand, gold catching in the light.

It was utter fucking chaos. Pierre launched himself over the back of the couch, nearly taking out Carlos, who was skidding in his socks to get a better look. Max and Charles similarly scrambled to get to George and Alex, and the ruckus drew everyone in the upper levels down to the ground floor. Liam stayed back—they were all closer with each other than he was with them—and watched with a wide grin as everyone showered George and Alex with congratulations and giddy affection.

Logan and Oscar appeared from upstairs, joining Liam in the kitchen. They were both wide-eyed and curious, so Liam quickly updated them.

“George proposed to Alex. He said yes.”

“Oh, wow. Good for them!” Logan said.

“They’ve been together a while, right?” Oscar asked, dumping his empty bowl in the sink and rinsing it out.

Liam actually didn’t know the exact timeline. “Yeah, since they were teens at least.”

Lewis dragged them into the group hug, and then Charles and Pierre started planning the celebratory party. Liam watched George and Alex’s amused expressions—no doubt they would want to plan their own engagement party before the Grid could pull together their own celebration.

After getting a blow-by-blow of the proposal from Alex (only occasionally corrected by George), everyone dispersed somewhat. Liam should probably go up to work on his designs with Lewis, who immediately disappeared back upstairs, but he stuck around to listen to the arguments breaking out about who would be bridesmaids and who would be groomsmen and whether it would be fair to split themselves between groomsmaids and groomsmen.

“If Charles is George’s groomsmaid,” Pierre began, “Max has to be Alex’s groomsman.”

“Why is he the maid?” Max asked.

“You can be the groomsmaid, then,” Pierre amended.

“I want to be a groomsmaid!” Charles immediately argued. “We will both be groomsmaids.”

This was an utterly idiotic conversation. Liam absolutely loved this stupid household.

“Hey,” he said, getting everyone’s attention, “who’s going to be the maid of honour?”

As Liam expected, everyone immediately started arguing. Lando was challenging Max to a duel, Pierre and Esteban looked like they were going to bite each others’ heads off, and Lance had ducked behind George to avoid Carlos’ intimidating glare.

Alex somehow slipped away to stand next to Liam, ducking slightly to whisper and still be heard. “You chose the ring with George, right?”

“Yeah. He was a bit—well—”

“A mess?” Alex prompted. Liam nodded. “Of course. But, hey, maybe you can be ring bearer. It would be poetic, yeah?”

“Oh. I mean. Yeah. Sure. If you guys want.”

“And maybe help me pick out a ring for George that matches this one?”

Liam was never going to say no. “Yeah, man. I’d love to help.”

“Thanks, Liam. You’re a great friend.”

So maybe no one knew when Liam was guarding a secret, but he was still a part of the group. Ring bearer. That would be really cool.

~

Lando didn’t often lose bets this badly, but Max (Fewtrell, not Verstappen) read him like a book, and his choice of punishment was that Lando had to bake and ice a cake completely from scratch.

Live. On Twitch.

The bet was so stupid, just something about how many times Lando would complain about his writing and rhetoric professor, and he really thought he was far off from the “twenty five separate instances” they agreed on, but then suddenly in the middle of a stream, everyone in the chat was yelling at him about the cake.

At that point, it was the middle of the night (and also he really had to be going to sleep because he had classes the next day) so he pinky promised to make the cake that weekend and logged off.

Max had already texted him a string of emojis and a “good luck mate” that Lando down-thumbsed before flopping onto his bed. Across from him, Oscar was a motionless lump fully covered by his blankets, head and all. He was a pretty heavy sleeper, except in the mornings when Lando sometimes managed to wake him up with his clumsiness. He very rarely woke up when Lando streamed at night, able to sleep through the whisper-yells and sound effects. Must be something to do with his sleep cycle.

Yuki had a couple of cake recipes he liked, so Lando texted him before he could forget. Yuki responded immediately, also awake despite the late hour, with a couple of screenshots of the recipe for chocolate cake and chocolate frosting. God, it looked stupidly complicated.

Lando very pointedly put it from his mind that week, focusing on classes and avoiding the frantic fashion students crying in various corners of campus. Lewis, George, and Liam had dragged in several other students to their madness, so maybe, if Lando didn’t totally fuck up the cake, they’d like the sweet treat.

Friday rolled around, everyone busy with their own things. Oscar was out with Zhou working on… something, Lando didn’t know. Oscar had gotten a haircut and Lando was distracted from what he was saying by the way the front bit wasn’t aggressively flopping into his eyes anymore. Carlos had decided to help Lewis map out the path that the models would walk, and Charles had involved some of the architecture students and an engineering professor to ensure that the structure they were building was physically sound. Lando heard about it all when he was sat at the dining table (currently being used to hold blueprints, mock-ups, energy drinks, and pattern pieces) the other day, helping Liam sort through his designs and pick the ones that would be finalised into actual wearable garments.

Lando didn’t consider himself fashionable at all, but he was better than Max, and he was also willing to be used as a mannequin. Lewis had given him some items to wear before, wanting to see what Lando thought about how they felt and the reactions he got, and Liam was really quite good at altering clothing to make it fit exactly how he wanted.

Anyway, Friday was a busy day for everyone but Lando, so he went through the fridge and the pantry to see what he would need to get for the cake. He streamed it, his camera dismounted from his computer setup and placed carefully on the far side of the kitchen island. At one point, Max ran through, grabbing a blueprint from the table and a banana and chocolate-chip muffin from the pile of muffins that Yuki made that morning.

“If Charles comes through tell him I have his plans!” Max called back before slamming the door behind him.

Lando scribbled out “cocoa powder” on the sticky note he liberated from the stack they kept on top of the fridge. Would Yuki be willing to help him with the simple syrup stage of assembling the cake? “Moist but not too wet” was rather vague and also specific.

Lando was up at the crack of dawn the next day, armed with the sticky note of ingredients and Lance’s card and Lewis’ keys and Carlos’ headphones because Lando’s had broken when he he accidentally put them through the washing machine with his backpack after he dropped his backpack in a giant puddle and got it all muddy and gross.

One grocery store run later, Lando had everything he needed for his punishment.

He was determined to get the damn cake right.

Lewis came through, accepting his keys and ruffling Lando’s hair before picking up Roscoe and going upstairs. Jimmy and Sassy were interested in what Lando was doing, perched on two of the bar stools. In order to get them in frame, Lando set up his camera on the dining room table and his personal laptop on the kitchen island, the chat already whipping by on the screen.

Lando looked up at the two cats. “Chat says hello.”

Jimmy meowed.

First step of the process was preheating the oven. Lando could do that.

“You’re cooking alone?”

Lando jumped and nearly dropped the round cake pan in his hands. “Jesus fucking Christ, Osc, don’t scare me like that!”

Oscar looked very soft and cute, his hair fluffy and a crease across his cheek from his pillowcase. “Sorry. Y’shouldn’t cook alone. S’dangerous. Loges almost burnt th’house down.”

Oscar yawned and slumped into a bar stool, giving the two cats the same kind of inscrutable look they were both giving him.

“I’m not stupid,” Lando said defensively, setting the cake pan on the stove and turning the oven on.

“You’re not stupid,” Oscar agreed, voice muffled because he had his head buried in his arms. “Just clumsy. ‘N it’s Yuki’s rule, anyway. No cooking alone.”

Lando had printed out the recipe, and the pages were scattered across the kitchen island. Already, he had forgotten what order they were supposed to be in. Maybe… maybe there was some merit to this rule.

“Here.” Lando pushed a cup of coffee across the island to Oscar—turning away before his flaming cheeks could give him away—and started getting out all of the ingredients. Flour, sugar, brown sugar, baking powder, cocoa powder, salt, dark chocolate, instant espresso, butter, eggs.

For the first couple of steps, everything went fine. Dries, wets, butter and chocolate together, blooming the cocoa powder in the hot espresso (Oscar tried to explain the chemistry of that but Lando made him shut up because it was wholly too early for that kind of stuff).

“Hmm.” Lando glared down at the eggs. “I think I scrambled them.”

Oscar lent over the island and looked in the bowl. “Oh. Yeah. Yikes.”

“This is so stupid.”

“It did say to let the chocolate cool down before mixing it in.”

Lando stuck his tongue out at his roommate. “You do it then, if you’re so smart.”

“That’s against the rules, I think,” Oscar pointed out, gesturing to the laptop, still displaying the chat. Lando watched a couple comments fly by and considered it.

“I make the rules. You’re helping me.”

Oscar stood and rounded the island to stand next to Lando. He picked up the now-organised recipe as he did so. “Fine. We’ll have to scrap this and start again, though.”

With Oscar helping, everything went a lot smoother. They didn’t scramble the eggs again, and even got to the mixing dries and wets stage before something went wrong again.

“Did you add the salt and baking powder to this?” Oscar asked, holding up the bowl and giving it a sniff for some reason.

Lando turned and found both containers looking… somewhat untouched on the bench. Maybe not? “I don’t know.”

“I’m gonna taste it.” Oscar dipped a finger into the mixture and stuck it in his mouth. Lando’s tongue abruptly felt three times too big as he watched everything unfold. “You definitely forgot the salt, and it’s not bubbling like it should be with the baking powder.”

Lando bit his lip. “Can we add it now?”

“I think so, yeah.”

So far this was going great.

They managed to not fuck anything else up, and they got the batter in the pans and in the oven without issue. Oscar set a timer on his phone, and Lando got out a fresh bowl to start making the frosting.

Grid members came and went, Carlos and Charles bickering about some change that Charles made to Carlos’ digital plans and then Liam and Lewis running through with armfuls of fabric. Doriane grabbed a couple leftover banana muffins for her and Abbi (not her girlfriend but not not her girlfriend, apparently) and then dragged George out of the house. Alex showed up a bit later, wondering where his fiance went, and then left in his pyjamas to go hunt down George and Doriane.

Pierre threw Yuki at them a bit later before leaving with Esteban to go hunt down Isack and Ollie, who were apparently wrecking havoc at an impromptu football game. Yuki refused to help them, instead making disapproving noises whenever Lando or Oscar fucked up a step.

In the end, though, they managed to put together a cake. It even tasted good! Yuki ate his entire slice and then gave them a “six out of ten” before leaving to go after Pierre.

Lance got a slice of cake as well and gave them “five stars, this is great” before going back upstairs, probably to go back to sleep.

Oscar cleaned up the kitchen while Lando carefully put the cake under the big cloche and into the fridge to hopefully not get super dry and gross. Isack liked chocolate things, so he’d probably give them a better score than Yuki had. Hopefully. If they were lucky.

Lando tried not to get distracted by the bit of chocolate frosting on Oscar’s upper lip and ate his slice of cake. All in all, not the worst punishment he’d had to do for losing a bet.

Chapter Text

It turned out that Kimi was a bit of a design prodigy when it came to creating an on-theme runway for the fashion show. Charles hadn’t really been expecting that when he initially approached Professor Prost with the folder of design ideas. Alain shuffled through the pages of sketches, face unreadable, and then he looked right at Kimi and beckoned the kid over. Charles hadn’t talked with him since Esteban’s party, but he knew that he and Ollie were as close as ever.

“What do you make of this?” Alain asked Kimi, presenting the folder to him.

Kimi went through the different concepts, his doubt clear on his acne-covered face. He was not impressed. “This is for the fashion show, yes?”

Charles nodded. Lewis had shoved the folder at him that morning, basically begging him to help. Charles was already working on the wall designs with a handful of art students known for their skill with oil paints. They were putting together a kind of rainy city look, with blurred globs of bright paint indicating the lights of cars, the reflections of neon signs off of the wet pavement, that kind of thing. It was all very abstract because, of course, the walls and the background of the show were not the main focal point. Charles thought that Lewis and his team had the actual literal runway under control, but after going through the design ideas himself, he had his doubts.

From what he understood, the fashion show was focused on street fashion in many different major cities around the world. Individual students were assigned a city and a style and told to create three or so looks based on those parameters. An entire class had tackled Tokyo, given that it was sort of a hub of different styles. Liam apparently had Chicago and “denim” as the basis for his designs, but he was also helping Lewis with his “London formal” designs that would open the first show.

That helped Charles put together his rainy city backdrop, but it seemed that whoever was in charge of the runway itself was… struggling.

“I have an idea,” Kimi said, after working on the designs a bit while the rest of the class were paired off analysing their own bus stop blueprints.

Charles accepted Kimi’s slightly ragged sketches, eyes wide.

“Lewis is focusing on—on sustainability, right? So here could be live plants, not fake.” Kimi pointed at a bit of scribbles in his design that were labelled “plants?” in Kimi’s near-illegible handwriting. He was almost as bad as Max, honestly.

“What is your schedule today?” Charles had to text Lewis and his team as soon as possible.

Kimi, thankfully, didn’t have a class until the afternoon, so Charles dragged him from class—with the permission of Alain, of course—and across campus to the Grid, where he knew Lewis was holding a meeting in the living room.

Charles burst in and basically threw Kimi at the team of fashion students. “He is designing the runway.”

Lewis caught Kimi when he stumbled, holding him upright and looking confused and hopeful.

Abbi Pulling was their resident artist who took their designs and made them better. Charles presented Kimi’s sketch to her, noting how close she and Doriane were sitting. As far as he knew, they were still dancing around each other, not dating but hopefully getting there. It was sort of cute to watch, and sort of painful.

“Oh, this is good!” Abbi exclaimed, turning the paper around to show everyone else.

Charles couldn’t help but be proud of Kimi.

The event space was the large, plain room in the theater usually reserved for conventions and other events like that. With Charles covering all the walls with canvas fabric painted over to look like city scenes, that left the runway and seating areas to take up the main space. Lewis knew he wanted it to be very geometric and angled, to fit with the more industrial look of most cities, and a team of technical students designed and set up a lighting system consisting of spotlights and neon lights, involving the few art students who knew how to work with neon. Their idea was much like Charles’: the spotlights were meant to emulate street lights, and obviously the neon would give the idea of the models walking past street signs.

Kimi had taken that idea and run with it.

His runway looked like worn pavement, with weeds and moss in the cracks and bits of graffiti and paint here and there. The actual path was lined with more greenery, and if they used live plants, they would be able to make a statement about the lack of green spaces in most cities (Lewis had a whole rant locked and loaded about that exact subject, one that Charles had heard at least ten times since moving into the Grid).

It seemed so obvious, now that Charles looked at Kimi’s idea. A couple people had tried to put together a similar concept, using street lines and symbols, but their designs ended up being too bright and obvious. Kimi’s was far more subtle.

“You’re hired,” Lewis said, pointing to Kimi blindly while studying the bird’s-eye view of the room he and Nico had put together to plot out the path that the models would take.

Charles looked at his watch. He had to get to class, and he needed to check on how the paint was drying on the long pieces of canvas. It seemed to be doing okay, not curling weirdly or flaking off of the fabric, but they didn’t have much time until the show, so if they needed to redo anything, it had to happen now.

Kimi seemed content to sit with George and listen to his rundown of everything that still needed to be done, so Charles said goodbye and ran back to the art buildings, just in time for his class.

As exciting as this was, he would be happy when it was over.

~

Valtteri would never say this to Zhou, because he was doing so, so well with all of his work, but Valtteri hated a lot of the fashion and media professors. They seemed to expect their students to find time to work outside of class on top of all of the work that nearly every department was doing with the fashion show, and Zhou hadn’t gone to bed before midnight in at least two weeks.

Valtteri, as a student athlete and a sports management major, was at first not at all involved. The fashion students created the outfits, the art students put together the stage’s design, the architecture and engineering students made the runway and lighting system, the models were a mix of theatre majors, design majors, and students pulled from other departments, the journalism and photography majors helped publicise and document the event, and even some of the law students were involved to ensure that no existing designs were plagiarised and no patents were infringed upon. Valtteri met with Nico and Kevin the other day for lunch, and the three of them lamented that all of their friends were too busy to hang out. Even Nico and Kevin’s boytoy (not that they would admit that he was their boytoy) was busy helping Fernando, who, despite having a degree in criminology, was working with Doriane and George on the legal side of the fashion show. They had moved on from “oh fuck we’re infringing on patents” to ensuring that the students’ designs weren’t going to be taken, because apparently Lewis had gotten the attention of quite a few designers who weren’t above stealing from students.

Valtteri tried to keep his displeasure to himself, because Zhou seemed fine with the workload, but there were moments that he wanted to take Zhou’s camera bag and hide it in the ceiling so that Zhou was forced to actually rest.

As it was, all Valtteri could do was make food and pack Zhou lunches and lay on top of him to make him take a nap when he had a moment.

He ended up involved in the fashion show despite himself.

Lewis asked him if he’d like to be a model, and Valtteri figured that he might as well. He’d be attending anyway, as Lewis was saving a ticket for him while all of the others were snapped up by friends, family, and interested souls who saw the flyers that a couple of enterprising media students posted all over the city.

The other models were similarly bemused as Valtteri when they all gathered together to get their outfits. Of course, Valtteri knew that it was all supposed to be inspired by street fashion, but there were stark differences between the designs. Ollie, whom Valtteri went cycling with sometimes, had been recruited as a model due to his height and stature, and he was shoved into an all-black outfit that seemed solely comprised of geometric angles and high-quality suiting wool. Valtteri ended up in a pleated skirt that was patchworked from several different fabrics and a flowy, see-through top with only one sleeve. The designer squinted at him for a moment before digging through her pile of designs and handing him another one-sleeve shirt which she told him to put on under the top he was already wearing.

Ollie, now fully decked out in all-black and towering over everyone due to the thick-soled boots he’d been coerced into wearing, watched Valtteri wrestle with the second top with an amused expression. Carlos, who’d been scouted as a model by Lewis the very moment the show was announced, was in a leather jacket and looked the exact same as usual. He was just as useless as Ollie. Surprisingly, Oscar had also been convinced to model, and his designer was actively pinning pieces of fabric to him like a dummy. Zhou would probably be able to name that fashion style, but Valtteri had no clue what it could be.

All of the models had multiple outfits, but they practised on the runway in the most uncomfortable of their designs. Well, Lewis hadn’t said “most uncomfortable” but Valtteri figured that “least walkable” was about the same. Lewis stood at one of the turns in the walking path, giving everyone tips, telling them to walk like they would on the street and helping some of the less-confident find their stride.

Valtteri was fine with alternative styles, so Lewis just waved him on and focused on the next model.

The room was completely unrecognisable; it was really quite impressive. The runway looked exactly like cracked pavement, and a couple of students with green thumbs had filled the faux cracks with moss and bits of grass and weeds. Potted plants lined the runway, and strategically placed lights gave it the look of an actual city street at night. Painted swaths of fabric—which Valtteri knew Charles had designed—lined the walls, and Valtteri thought he should be proud. He also kind of wanted to see if he could get a piece of the fabric as a keepsake.

He didn’t know all of the models, but he knew a lot of them. Ollie, Carlos, Charles was somewhere around here, Oscar was hiding by Carlos despite somewhat hating the guy, Alex had been coerced into participating, Lance and Esteban had volunteered as far as Valtteri knew, and Courtney, also in the sports department, had on an almost business-casual style outfit and possibly the largest boots Valtteri had ever seen. She looked phenomenal.

“Alright, you’re all free to change back and leave!” Lewis said, hopping up onto the runway once everyone had walked a few times. Valtteri found his designer and accepted her help in undressing, and Zhou met him at the door. He’d been taking some behind-the-scenes pictures of the try-on process, mostly focusing on the students and Lewis.

“Ready?” Zhou asked, handing his camera bag to Valtteri.

Valtteri settled it on his shoulder. “Ready. Did you have fun?”

“Yes! I got a good shot of Oscar and his designer pinning all the fabrics that I think will be a good cover photo for the article Lando is writing about him. And some pictures of you, of course.”

“Good. Pasta?” Valtteri suggested, pulling his jacket a little tighter against the evening chill. Despite April being quite a bit warmer than usual, the temperatures still dropped at night.

“Pasta,” Zhou agreed.

~

Nico placed a glass Tupperware container on the table in front of Lewis, right on top of the pattern he was supposed to be approving for the fashion magazine they were working with. Nico said “supposed to” because he knew that Lewis was actually spacing out while staring down at the paper, not actually going over it for final checks or anything.

Lewis didn’t react.

Nico reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder, keeping a steady pressure as Lewis jerked and looked up. “You need to eat. There is couscous and spinach and feta in there. It’s all vegan.”

Nico brandished a fork. Lewis looked at it, then at Nico, then back down at the container. “Oh. Thanks.”

It was a testament to how utterly exhausted he was that Lewis didn’t argue. Normally, Nico had to guilt-trip him into eating, or bodily drag him away from his work station while forcing food on him. This had happened a couple times before, though, when Lewis got so caught up in work that he didn’t have the ability to argue. Nico could bring him home and tuck him into bed and Lewis would just accept it, until he slept long enough to get some energy back and then argue.

Nico watched carefully as Lewis opened the container and stuck a forkful of food in his mouth. “How long have you been working?”

Lewis glanced at his wrist (it was bare), then frowned. “What time is it?”

Nico checked his watch. “Almost eleven.”

“Either three hours or fifteen.”

Judging by the deep circles under Lewis’ eyes, Nico was going to assume it was the latter. “You’ve been here since eight in the morning, then? No breaks?”

Lewis looked at him, glaring. His skin, usually dark and rich in tone, was horribly pale, a grey tinge stealing his liveliness. “I’ve been working, Nico. This isn’t going to fix itself.”

“What have you been working on?” Nico had just met with Toto, George, Doriane, and Mika to finish filing the copyrights for some of the designs that the graduate students made, as well as to ensure that the undergraduate students wouldn’t be ripped off. It had been a long and arduous process, but Nico wanted everything done correctly so the students going out into the world soon would have a solid basis already. A couple designers reached out asking to hire some of the designers as well, and Nico handled that, too.

Lewis said that he had the patterns set for the magazine. Nico knew Lewis was busy—already-overloaded with students asking for last-minute help—but the Lewis he knew was good at setting boundaries.

Apparently, he wasn’t all that good at it anymore.

“Liam and I were working through the designs. Chloe is completely finished, but I wanted her to mark out where she’s putting the pins on Oscar, which meant I had to get Oscar and have them do another fitting for him. Then Liam said he’d gotten a handful of items that still needed to be finished, but the serger we usually use is with Susie, so Liam was finishing all the seams using the overlocking setting on his sewing machine.”

Nico gently took the container from Lewis’ hands as he spoke and pulled him away from the table, towards the sitting area that no one ever used because they were all too busy to sit down for any amount of time. Lewis just let him. Honestly, he was scaring Nico a little. Nico was prepared for arguments, for anger and sharp, biting words that always cut a little deeper than intended. This sort of tired emptiness was… unusual. It wasn’t a side of Lewis that Nico saw often, and he’d known him for almost 20 years.

“Eat.” Nico pushed the container back into Lewis’ hands after sitting him down in a plush, dusty armchair.

Nico turned back to the table.

Pattern pieces lay scattered across the top, carefully labelled and each assigned a little caption for the magazine. Nico put this article together initially as a bare-bones concept breaking down the process of designing an outfit from a blank slate to actual, wearable garments. Pattern creation was an annoying-but-necessary step of the process, along with mock-ups and muslins and fittings. The pattern pieces were ready to be scanned and submitted, so Nico quickly organised them and went over to the copier. He looked back at Lewis as he waited for the machine to begrudgingly get to work and found dark brown eyes watching him keenly.

It was the work of a few moments to send the scans to the computer on the desk in the corner, log into his email, and send them to the editor of the magazine.

Nico collected the papers on the table and set them to the side. Everything else could wait.

“I still have to—”

“No.” Nico turned off the lights over the workspace and took the now-empty container from Lewis to snap the lid back on. “You’re going to sleep.”

Lewis puffed up like he was going to argue, and Nico felt the final little bit of self-control shatter within him.

He reached out, wrapped a hand around Lewis’ neck, and yanked him closer. Habit had them kissing like they’d never stopped, and exhaustion had them ignoring all the reasons it was a bad idea. The little ball of hurt that set up shop in the Lewis-shaped hole in Nico’s heart put out a “closed for maintenance” sign as Lewis ran his tongue over the seam of Nico’s lips.

Lewis tasted like spinach and vegan feta cheese.

Nico also tasted like spinach and vegan feta cheese.

The bizarre thought that it had been a long, long time since they tasted the same crossed Nico’s mind, before the much more normal thought that this was a bad idea replaced it. He pulled away, and avoided Lewis’ gaze by putting the Tupperware in his bag and adjusting the strap on his shoulder.

“Nico.”

God, he never could resist Lewis. “You need to sleep.”

“I sleep better with someone else in my bed.”

Nico knew that. “Come on, then.”

They left, Lewis hitting the light switch while Nico dug around his pocket for the spare keys that Toto had forced on him several years ago. He locked up the building, and when Lewis offered him a hand, he took it.

They went back to the Grid because it was a bit closer than Nico’s flat, and Oscar, sitting at the dining room table with several sheets of graph paper spread across it, gave them a sharp look when they entered together. Nico gave him a look right back—Oscar had no foot to stand on, what with his massive crush on his roommate. Pierre had somehow got it in his head that Oscar liked Lewis, which Nico only knew because Pierre told Esteban, who told Lance, who told Hulk, who called Nico almost crying laughing. Nico knew that Oscar liked Lando because no one looked at their platonic roommate the way Oscar looked at Lando, so he wasn’t worried. Besides, Oscar wasn’t Lewis’ type.

Nico followed Lewis up to his bedroom, accepting the worn shirt and sweatpants that he pressed into his hands before going to take a much-needed shower.

When they curled up together in Lewis’ bed, Nico felt, for the first time in years, at peace.

~

Lance was having so much fun with the fashion show.

It would be running for two days, with half the models walking on the first day and the other half on the second day. Lance was on the second day, with Esteban. They’d gotten a pair of designers who put together outfits for couples, the matchy-matchy kind that Lance always saw when he wandered around London as a teen, bored out of his mind while his dad was in meetings and stuff.

Lewis had made it so all of the Grid members were in the second-day showing. Lance saw Oscar in what looked like a veritable mountain of fabrics earlier, being fussed over by a very short girl with an American accent. Lance found a programme to figure out her name: Chloe Chambers. Out of all of the models, Oscar had surprised Lance the most. Sure, he was handsome and sort of tall, absolutely built from all the exercise he did, but he was even more introverted than Lance was. Maybe Lewis had blackmailed him, or something.

Lance was mainly doing this because Esteban wanted to, and because Lewis had looked him dead in the eyes and said “you could truly be a model if you wanted” and Lance figured yeah, why not?

He’d gone to watch the first fashion show, and it was truly something to behold.

Lewis was in his element, greeting everyone and explaining the premise of the show; the theme, the work the students put in, the department leads, all that. Lance knew that Charles designed the backdrops, little Kimi came up with the runway, and Maya Weug designed and built the lighting system. Lewis introduced each of the models and the designers, and Nico Rosberg closed the show with a comment on sustainability in the fashion world. The programme everyone got at the beginning of the show also had a note on green spaces in cities, no doubt Lewis’ doing. Lance could probably recite his whole spiel from memory. And if you threw Sebastian into the mix, you’d get a bonus spiel on electric cars and renewable fuels. Lance was all-for environmental protection, but sometimes he just wanted watch a video about a cool car without Seb’s scolding voice in his head.

The first show went off without a hitch. Lance had stationed himself right at a turn in the runway path, where the models had been instructed to pause for a moment and give the audience time to take in their outfit. The fashion students had really gone all-out.

The next day, Lance walked to the theater hand-in-hand with Esteban, Oscar trailing behind them and Lewis leading the charge.

Lance’s first outfit was all denim, as was Esteban’s. Liam was the designer of this particular outfit, and he was apparently very pleased with how it came out. Lance had been to Chicago and wouldn’t necessarily consider it a fashion capital of the world, not like Tokyo or New York City were often described, but Liam had captured the middle-America vibe quite well. At the very least, the outfit was comfortable.

Ollie was an absolute wraith in his all-black “mode” outfit (one of the Tokyo street fashions, if Lance wasn’t mistaken), and he went out right before Lance and Esteban. He got some approving murmurs, and then Lance stepped out, casual in his denim and with Esteban at his heels.

Oscar was right after them, Lance knew, so at one of the turns in the path, he turned around to show off the detailed back of his jacket and watched Oscar breeze down the runway to the first turn. His outfit got several gasps and a flurry of blinding photographs—Chloe had really created a masterpiece. According to Lewis’ commentary, she’d been assigned another Tokyo style that was all about layers and reusing thrifted items.

Esteban gently tugged on Lance’s hand, and they continued on their way, slipping through a gap in the painted canvases and back to the dressing rooms. They needed to change quickly into their second outfit.

~

Abbi never expected to fall for a feisty French girl. Honestly, she wasn’t really expecting to fall for anyone when she went to university and dedicated all of her time to art. She’d never had crushes growing up, at least not in the fleeting way that her peers seemed to have. She liked people, sure. After all, who didn’t find Idris Elba attractive? Or Anne Hathaway?

But amongst her peers, she never really understood or felt that head-over-heels pull of a crush. The one time she was interested in someone, it was her friend of four years, and that went nowhere, which was fine.

She didn’t care. Crushes weren’t necessary. They didn’t really make much sense, either. She had friends whom she adored with all her heart, family who supported her, and an already-burgeoning career as an artist. University was just the next step, a continuation of her already-fulfilling life.

And then she befriended Doriane Pin.

They clicked. Abbi had plenty of friends, but with Doriane, it was almost… well, almost like a friendly rivalry, really. Doriane kept Abbi on her toes, and Abbi, in turn, kept Dori from going apeshit when an absolute bastard of a professor gave her a failing grade on a project that Abbi knew Dori had worked for ages on. Together, they were able to dispute the grade, and that cemented their friendship, turning it from “friendly rivalry” into just… well, friends.

Dori was a complete wild card. She was intelligent, she was talented, she was driven, she was beautiful.

Abbi had no idea when she fell in love with her, but that wasn’t really important. She just didn’t know what to do with the love. Doriane was just as busy as Abbi, what with the fashion show and her legal work and her interest in patent law that might require her to get a degree in the sciences first. They were going to live together that year, but then the school said she had to stay on campus in order for her financial aid to cover housing, which sucked. Dori said it was fine, but they didn’t get to see each other nearly as often. They had pretty much opposite schedules, so when Dori asked Abbi to fix her sketches, she left them in her flat, and Abbi let herself in with the key Dori insisted that she take.

It was lonely.

Luckily, Charles reached out to Abbi to enlist her work on the backdrops, and suddenly Doriane was everywhere. They weren’t working together, but given that half the masterminds of the fashion show lived at IFOP (or did they call it IHOP?), they saw a lot more of each other. Abbi was even able to sit with Doriane during a meeting with Lewis. It was thrilling.

Abbi kind of understood the appeal of a crush, then, feeling the warmth of Doriane’s thigh pressed against hers.

Somehow, Lando Norris clocked her crush first.

Abbi had a length of canvas spread out over the living room floor of the Grid, sketching out the basis for the oil painting that would go overtop, and Lando appeared next to her.

“You’re close with Doriane, then?” he asked.

Abbi tried to stay calm. She mostly succeeded. “Yeah, we’re friends. Met in first year, all that.”

Lando hummed. “You like her?”

Abbi couldn’t hide the way her face flamed. God, was it really that obvious? Lando just teased her, then, and they moved on, but Abbi tried to watch herself going forward. Well, tried being the operative word. The moment she pulled away from Dori, she got a wide-eyed, hurt expression, and she crumbled immediately.

Now that the fashion show was over, though, Abbi wouldn’t be working so closely with Doriane anymore. Of course, they wouldn’t be busy with the fashion show, either, so maybe… maybe Abbi could ask Dori out on a coffee date?

“Did you like the show?”

Abbi turned and found herself face-to-face with Nico Rosberg, looking quite dashing in an off-white suit. She rather abruptly felt self-conscious, which was a bit of an unusual feeling. As one of the artists who contributed, she knew she had to dress up and attend both of the shows, and she knew she looked good. There was just something intimidating about Nico Rosberg in what had to be a bespoke suit, blond hair artfully swept back and light touches of makeup making him look almost otherworldly.

“It was really well done,” she said honestly. “All of the designs were just gorgeous.”

“You worked on the backdrops, right?”

“Yeah, I did all the initial line work. None of the actual painting, though.” Was this the kind of networking that her dad was always talking about? “It was fun.”

“If you don’t mind, I would like to introduce you to a couple of people who were interested in the work that went on behind-the-scenes.” Nico was already guiding her towards a group of well-dressed people talking with Lewis and—Abbi’s heart traitorously sped up—Doriane.

“Sure,” Abbi agreed, because if she said no then her dad would give her an earful about “laying down the groundwork” of her career.

Doriane grinned and winked at Abbi, far more smoothly than she’d ever be able to do.

Yeah. Coffee date, maybe. Dori liked coffee.

Abbi just needed to survive networking and talking about her five-year plan.

~

It was over!

Lando couldn’t believe how well the whole show went, both days going off without any issues and Lewis getting the attention and approval he deserved. Lando went to both shows, sitting next to Lance at the first one and whispering whenever a particularly clever design went by. Lando liked to think he was fairly stylish (he was better than Max, at least) but some of the outfits and concepts he saw were truly groundbreaking.

The second day, almost every Grid member and former Grid member (minus the ones actually in the show) took up a whole row of seats. Lando ended up sandwiched between Max and Daniel, both of them awkwardly avoiding eye contact over Lando’s head while trying to carry a normal conversation. Clearly, Daniel was not taking Max and Charles’ relationship well, even though that relationship would crumble the moment either Max or Charles realised that Daniel and Carlos, respectively, were interested in them.

Lando tried to smooth things over, but then Lance and Esteban were striding down the runway looking absolutely fantastic, and then Oscar stepped out and Lando’s mouth dropped open.

Strips of fabric were sewn together to create patchwork swaths of fabric that the designer (Chloe Chambers, apparently) pinned together to create a multi-layered effect. Oscar’s arms were just visible, the top being sleeveless, and someone with makeup skills had clearly gotten to him, as he had multicoloured glitter on his eyes and cheekbones that caught in the neon lights.

Lando could tell he was a bit uncomfortable, but he doubted anyone else caught on besides Logan sitting a couple seats down.

Oscar’s second outfit was a little less out-there, consisting of some oversized pieces layered over each other. It was completely second-hand, according to Lewis’ commentary, and again, Oscar looked phenomenal. Lando would probably never get the image of him glowing under the spotlight out of his head.

After some necessary shmoozing and a promise from Zhou to send over the pictures he took, all of the Grid members left. A couple of particularly tenacious theatre students were going to start striking the lighting system, but Charles said he would wait until the next day to take down the canvas backdrops.

It was time to party.

Pierre had gone back a little earlier to pull the drinks from the fridge and freezer and set up the bar, and Esteban, still sporting some glittery white highlight on his cheekbones, quickly set about making a slew of dirty Shirleys for everyone. Lando ran up to the attic to put his sport coat away safely, but he left his button-up on, just with the top couple of buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up. Everyone was in various states of formal to casual wear, anyway, so it was fine.

Carlos, Alex, and George pulled Lando into a couple rounds of shots, the salt-rim and lime going down with tequila like water. Lando actually liked tequila more than most other liquors, though he usually only had it as shots, not in mixed drinks. The shitty vodka and Everclear (because of course Esteban got the Everclear out for this) was much better in the mixed drinks.

The shots hit a bit later, when Lando was dancing with Doriane, whom he got to know more over the past couple of weeks. She was basically living at the Grid for the few days leading up to the show, crashing on the couch after late nights of legal stuff that went way over Lando’s head. She was clearly also drunk, and Lando was having the time of his fucking life. The Grid hadn’t held this many people in ages—normally, they stuck to current and former Grid members, but Lewis and Liam and the others had invited over what seemed like all of the designers, artists, engineers, and theatre people who worked on the show. The living room was crowded from wall-to-wall, the furniture pushed back and holding yet more people who were making out and being studiously ignored by the more sober individuals. Lando thought he saw Logan and Franco going at it, but he could be wrong.

Doriane was pulled away by a girl who Lando was pretty sure was named Abbi or something like that. He’d talked with her earlier in the week when she was working on the backdrops, but there were so many new faces around that Lando wasn’t 100% sure of her name. They seemed happy in their own world, so Lando turned to find another dance partner. He ended up face-to-face (or rather, nose-to-nose) with none other than Oscar Piastri, still covered in chunks of bright glitter and with a couple of bright red lipstick kisses on his cheek. The only person wearing bright red lipstick that Lando knew was Zhou, and he knew that he and Oscar were good friends now. A little twinge of jealousy burned deep in his stomach, but he pushed it down. The kisses were on Oscar’s cheek, after all, and Zhou was very affectionate when drunk. Lando had received cheek kisses of his own before.

“Osc!” Lando exclaimed, throwing his arms over Oscar’s shoulders and pulling him out of the way of Charles and Max stumbling by. “Do you wanna dance with me?”

Please say yes, please say yes, please say yes—

“Yeah, alright.”

Lando cheered and pulled Oscar even closer as the music changed to some bass-heavy house track that had everyone shouting and grinding on each other. Oscar was clearly drunk, but not as drunk as Lando, so he used his drunkenness as an excuse to sway his hips and try to get Oscar to do the same.

It was so fun. It was so stupid and light-hearted and everyone was giggly and happy from the successful fashion show, and it was fun.

“Wanna do a shot with me?” Oscar asked after dancing for a while. He lent close to Lando’s ear, and Lando suppressed a shiver at the sudden intimacy.

“Of course!”

Lando dragged Oscar from the crowd and back to the table holding all of the alcohol. Esteban and Lance were making out against the wall, drink-making forgotten, so Lando found his shot glass (it was a souvenir from a lighthouse in Michigan, from Lance) and Oscar found his (a metal one with some French place engraved on it) and they did two shots each, spilling more alcohol than they were actually getting in the glasses because Lando kept wanting to dance to the music and his coordination was not great when sober, let along this drunk.

Thirty minutes later, Lando found himself pressed to the wall in the stairwell going up to the attic, Oscar’s lips on his and his hands tangled in Oscar’s hair.

Oh, that was exactly how he wanted to end the night.

~

If Jack knew one thing, it was what medications not to mix with alcohol. He thought it was common knowledge that you shouldn’t have acetaminophen after drinking because acetaminophen was filtered from your system by your liver, which was already trying to deal with the alcohol. Mixing the two could really fuck you up.

When he woke up, hungover and sprawled out on an unfamiliar dark green couch in an unfamiliar, party-messy living room, he found a bottle of acetaminophen open on the nearby coffee table and a rather handsome stranger about to take some with a glass of water.

“Ibuprofen is better.”

The stranger jerked, water spilling. “What the fuck!”

Jack didn’t really get hungover, not if he paced himself and drank water between each drink, which he did do last night. He yawned and stretched and sat up, blinking the sleep from his eyes and wondering how he ended up at the Grid for what had to be the biggest party of the year. The living room was unrecognisable in the light of the morning—last night it had been awash with flashing colours from a couple different party lights, dark and full of people Jack barely knew. In the light, it was a warm yellow colour, with wood floors white crown moulding and a stone fireplace and a big area rug that currently had a couple different coloured stains on it. Someone had clearly haphazardly cleaned up, piling cups and other trash in one corner and placing some yet-unopened plastic trash bags by it.

“Sorry,” Jack said, belatedly. “Just—you should have ibuprofen, not that. Uh, Advil?”

The guy blinked at him. “Advil. Not—alright. Sure. Why?”

“You really want a biology lesson right now?” Jack asked, standing and wondering if it would be overstepping to start cleaning up. Probably not, right?

“God, no,” the guy answered. “Do you need anything?”

“Ibuprofen, if you’ve got it. Do you live here?”

“Yeah.” The guy, who was definitely American or Canadian or something, disappeared into one of the rooms and then returned with a blister pack of ibuprofen. They shared his glass of water, and then Jack remembered how to be a human.

“I’m Jack Doohan, by the way. Pharmaceutical science major.”

“Logan Sargeant, marketing. I think I remember you from Esteban’s party, actually. How’d you end up on our couch?”

Jack shrugged, going over to the trash pile and opening one of the trash bags. “I’m not really sure. Think I was just too tired to go home and fell asleep. No one woke me up, so.”

“Fair. I didn’t even make it up to my bedroom.”

Jack collected the glasses left around the room, wondering why the Grid members used breakable things at parties where people were less-than capable of being coordinated. Then again, not his circus, not his monkeys. Logan joined him in setting the room to rights, telling him to ignore the stains on the rug because Lance was always the one to clean it, anyway. Jack didn’t know who Lance was, but he wasn’t about to go digging for cleaning supplies at however-early on a Sunday morning it was.

Lewis Hamilton appeared on the stairs when Jack went to put his now-full trash bag by the door, looking a bit confused and a lot sleepy. He waved to both Jack and Logan, apparently accepting that there was a stranger in his house, and then loomed over an industrial-looking coffee machine, glaring while it brewed a large amount of coffee.

The smell seemed to wake the house up, as several more people joined Lewis in his looming, while Logan and Jack finished cleaning up. He really didn’t mind—after all, he’d slept over without meaning to, so it was the least he could do.

“Stay for breakfast,” Logan said, clapping Jack on the shoulder when he made to leave. “People usually come over, anyway, and I think you’ll fit in.”

Jack ended up back on the couch he’d slept on, this time sitting up and stuck between Logan and Pierre, whom Jack knew already from his art history class last semester. Everyone just seemed to accept Jack’s presence, as if strangers sleeping over on the couch were a regular occurrence. Maybe it was. Maybe all of the residents were once strangers on couches.

Lance identified himself by showing up in the middle of breakfast with cleaning supplies and a determined look on his face. He tackled the rug, and everyone just lifted their legs and shuffled around as needed to give him the space to work. The light scent of lemon and chemicals filled the air, and Lance’s partner, Esteban, opened a couple of windows to help air out the downstairs.

It was comfortable. It was—it was familiar, really. Logan was right in saying that Jack would fit in. Esteban dragged him into a conversation about chemistry that ended up involving half of the people in the room as they debated the merits of different painkillers for the specific use of dealing with hangovers. Jack stood by his no-acetaminophen opinion, while Max Verstappen argued that he’d never had issues with paracetamol, so why should he change his habits now?

Their argument was interrupted by Lewis, looking around the group closely. “Where’s Lando? He’s usually one of the first ones up.”

Jack sort of vaguely recognised the name, but he couldn’t put a face to it.

“Oscar is also asleep still,” Charles said.

“Do you think they—” Max began to ask, raising his eyebrows in a way that probably meant something to people who were not Jack.

Indeed, half the group started loudly arguing about Lando and Oscar (Jack wondered if anyone else realised that they said the two names as though they were one, LandoandOscar instead of Lando-and-Oscar).

He may not know these people, but they seemed like an alright group. Even if some of them had horrible opinions about painkillers.

Chapter Text

Oscar woke up with a strange pressure on his chest, and in his sleep-addled state, he gently pushed at the offender. Lando must have forgotten to close the door again, and one of Max’s cats took advantage.

But instead of the soft fur of a cat, Oscar’s hands ended up buried in curly, product-crunchy hair.

His eyes flew open, and indeed, there was Lando, asleep, his head resting on Oscar’s chest, one arm slung across him to curl a hand at his hip, and the other tucked between their bodies, pressing kind of painfully against Oscar’s ribs. Between the two of them, Lando was the lighter sleeper (though Oscar knew that Lando thought that Oscar slept through his Twitch streams when, in fact, Oscar had the streams pulled up and silent on his phone as he curled up beneath his covers feeling like he was doing something illegal). Oscar was a bit surprised that he hadn’t woken up yet. It had to be pretty late in the morning for Oscar to be waking up naturally like this, even after a party.

They’d apparently fallen asleep in their clothes—Lando would have to get his shirt dry cleaned and pressed, because it looked to be completely wrinkled. Oscar himself was wearing a T-shirt and jeans, the same outfit he’d worn to the theater (he didn’t need to dress up when he was a fucking model and wearing the ingenious creations of someone much, much more fashionable than himself).

What happened last night?

Oscar abruptly became very aware of the headache pounding against his eyes, the dry feeling in his mouth and vague sense of nausea that belied a bad hangover, for him. He didn’t really do hangovers—the only time he threw up was after consuming two entire bottles of wine, otherwise he was normally just a bit tired and headachy after drinking.

He’d completely blacked out last night, though.

He could vaguely remember dancing, and at some point, he’d done two shots of tequila in a row, and he normally steered well clear of tequila. Lando liked tequila, especially as a shot. Had Oscar done shots with Lando, then? God, he must’ve drank far more than he anticipated, if he’d gotten blackout drunk. There’d also been a Shirley Temple that had a non-zero amount of Everclear in it (Esteban needed to see someone about his Everclear affair, honestly), and then another drink… okay, actually, Oscar could remember a bit more. He’d danced with Lando for a while, and then they did shots, and then they danced some more, and then they did more shots, and then—

Oh.

Uh.

Hmm.

Okay, so Oscar hadn’t really intended to kiss Lando while extraordinarily drunk in the stairwell up to the attic. He meant to put Lando to bed, because at some point Lando’s ability to form sentences had completely disappeared, and that was usually the indicator that he should be cut off and probably removed from the party atmosphere. Oscar could remember carrying Lando up the first two flights of stairs, and then Lando sort of… wiggled free, for some reason.

If Oscar was near-blackout—and he wasn’t entirely convinced that he had the order of events correct, or that he wasn’t missing other memories—then Lando was probably even worse. He was a bit of a lightweight, preferring to get high at parties instead of drunk. If he’d been keeping up with Oscar, that was a bad omen.

Right, Oscar needed water and more water and more sleep, then breakfast. Maybe coffee if he was brave enough to tackle the three flights of stairs down to the ground floor.

Oscar carefully wiggled towards the wall and away from Lando, who momentarily held Oscar tighter before relaxing. Oscar sat up and managed to get out of bed without upsetting Lando, and he very suddenly felt far more hungover as he righted himself and waited for the room to stop tilting like he was on a ship at sea. Okay, so he might throw up, actually. Vomit pending…

Nope, he was good. Water sounded a little less appealing, but the tap in the little half bath in the attic got pretty cold, and Oscar sipped it slow enough to savour the cool water chasing away the gross dryness in his mouth. He and Lando kept a couple glasses up there for exactly this purpose. Oscar filled a fresh cup and placed it on the little table between their beds, wondering if he could get away with moving Lando over to his own bed without waking him. Probably not?

Coffee. Coffee would help.

Oscar had the presence of mind to change into worn pyjamas before going down, wanting to be as comfortable as possible, and he very bravely went down all three flights without stumbling even once. If he was gripping the stair railing for dear life, that was between him and God. And the railing.

It seemed like just about everyone else was awake and gathered in the living room.

Oscar surveyed the group for a bleary moment, noting a couple unfamiliar faces and former Grid members. Logan gave him a Look, slightly raised eyebrow and suspicious, squinty eyes, and Oscar gave him a flat smile in return, moving to the kitchen. Lando’s obnoxious yellow mug was clean, so Oscar pulled that down when he grabbed a mug for himself. Lando would like the coffee, especially this late in the morning. It really was unlike him to sleep this late—Oscar should go back up to check on him. Yeah, the coffee could wait (Oscar had to brew another pot anyway because there wasn’t enough coffee left from the last batch for one cup, let alone two), Oscar should make sure Lando wasn’t, like, sick or something. Maybe wake him up—

He turned and ran straight into Lando.

There was a very pointed moment—where Lando rocked forward while Oscar lent back in order to keep the both of them upright—that Oscar thought maybe this could work out.

And then Lando threw up all over the floor. And Oscar.

~

“I’m really sorry.”

It was the fifth time that Lando had apologised, after Lance cleaned everything up and Charles and Carlos dealt with Oscar and Lando, respectively. Carlos hadn’t been keeping track of how much Lando drank at the party, because Lando was an adult and could take care of himself, but he knew that Lando didn’t usually get this hungover. Then again, he didn’t usually get that drunk in the first place. This was… odd. Concerning. Carlos already had some suspicions, given that Lando slept in and Oscar was the first of the pair awake. Something happened. But that “something” was definitely done while both were very, very drunk, and neither seemed to be conscious enough to interrogate.

Then again, if Carlos threw up on the guy he’d had a crush on for however long, he’d probably want to ignore everything and everyone, too.

“It’s okay,” Oscar replied, for the fifth time. Carlos glanced over at where he was propped up against Charles. After dragging him upstairs, Charles stripped Oscar and shoved him in the shower to clean off. Lance had taken both Oscar’s and Lando’s dirty clothes, after Carlos got Lando undressed and sitting in the bathtub on the first floor. He didn’t throw up again, but he did refuse to eat anything. Carlos got some water in him, and then Lando just about fell asleep sitting up, so Carlos just washed him as best he could and then dressed him and dragged him up to the attic. By that point, Charles had gotten Oscar dressed and sitting on his bed with a cup of water that the kid was staring at like it held all the answers to his engineering homework. Charles gave Carlos an exasperated-but-fond look that Carlos couldn’t help but return while he half-carried, half-dragged Lando to his bed.

And that’s where they found themselves ten minutes later, Lando now awake and sober enough to apologise, and Oscar still staring at his water while leaning on Charles.

They were a match made in heaven.

Lando accepted his water when Carlos offered it to him, and Max came up to let them know that a group was headed to the theater to help Lewis strike the runway set. Carlos had intended to help, but Lando was clinging to him so tightly that his ribs hurt, so Carlos wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while.

Charles frowned slightly. “I need to get the paintings—”

“I will get them. Abbi is helping me, of course.”

Carlos saw Charles visibly melt a little, smiling and blushing because Max was so thoughtful like that. It left a bitter taste in the back of his mouth, but he was nothing if not a gentleman, and Max had acted on his feelings for Charles before Carlos. They were clearly happy together, and Carlos had to admit that they worked. They fit in a way that many couples did not. He knew they had history—rich history that their occasionally-talked-about stories barely scratched the surface of—but they had an unspoken connection that Carlos watched grow and bloom throughout the first couple of weeks of their relationship. It hurt, a little, to see them so sweet together. But Carlos had lost his chance with Charles, and he would accept that. He was accepting that. It was just taking longer than he anticipated to get over his feelings. That was all.

Max left, and Oscar set his now-empty glass on the table. He seemed to be more awake as well, not in the barely-present stage that he tended to linger in during the slower mornings. Carlos once had an entire conversation with Oscar that Oscar completely forgot about because he’d basically been asleep the whole time. Earlier, when Oscar came down to the kitchen, Carlos thought he was awake, but then he’d reacted to Lando throwing up on him by doing literally nothing, so Carlos had to step in and help.

He was awake now, though, and looking thoughtful.

“Lando,” Oscar said, and Carlos shared a significant look with Charles. They’d talked at length about the not-so-subtle, not-so-small crush that Oscar had on Lando, and whether Lando returned his feelings. Carlos was of the opinion that the feelings were wholly reciprocated, while Charles thought that Lando might be a bit confused about how he felt, sort of tentatively accepting his own crush. If Oscar was going to confess, Carlos wanted to be anywhere else.

“Osc,” Lando responded, using Carlos to pull himself more upright.

“D’you remember anything about last night?”

Oh, this could be bad. Charles looked panicked, and Carlos felt about the same. What happened last night? Carlos spent most of the party outside with Fernando and Gabriel (before he ran off with the other first years) and Maya (once she showed up after taking down the lighting system) and all the people who wanted to smoke, so he had no idea what was happening inside, besides the living room becoming a dance floor basically from wall-to-wall. According to Liam, Logan and Franco made out on a couch for a while, and Nico (H.) had walked in on Doriane and Abbi kissing in the bathroom. Carlos knew that Daniel had gone home early, mostly-sober, which itself was concerning (and wasn’t that awful, that Carlos knew something was wrong with Daniel because he didn’t get blackout drunk), and then Lewis and Nico had parented all of the younger guys as the party wound down, bafflingly hand-in-hand. Carlos was waiting for someone else to bring that up—he certainly wasn’t brave enough.

At some point, Oscar and Lando had gone up to bed. Carlos didn’t know when, and no one else could clearly remember when (or why). Esteban said he did a shot of tequila with them, but he also said that he had no idea how much either of them drank otherwise, because he’d been busy with Lance.

Even George, normally hyperaware of other peoples’ drinking habits, was fully distracted by Alex for the second half of the night. Carlos couldn’t blame them—they were already in the honeymoon period and they weren’t even married yet.

“Uhm.” Lando looked slightly constipated, which Carlos knew was his “deep in thought” face. “Tequila?”

Carlos looked back at Oscar in time to see him grimace. “Yeah. Lots of tequila.”

Charles looked politely disgusted. Carlos knew very well that he hated tequila outside of very specific cocktails, while Lando absolutely loved to do straight shots of tequila with a lime wedge or two for a chaser. Did Oscar like tequila? Carlos had never really noticed his preferences—he usually just did whatever shots other people were doing.

“How’d we end up—” Lando cut himself off, and Carlos had a front-row seat to the emotional roller coaster on Oscar’s face following Lando’s words.

“Mate. I have no clue.”

Carlos shared another look with Charles. He did not want to babysit the pair for the rest of the day, but if both ended up blackout last night, then monitoring would be the responsible thing to do.

“Let’s go downstairs,” Carlos decided, standing and helping Lando up. Lando, fortunately, didn’t resist.

Oscar did resist somewhat. Carlos would help, but he had to support Lando, who was listing to the left, and Charles seemed to have everything in hand. They made their way down to the living room, and Carlos deposited Lando in the bay window where he liked to be usually. Lando immediately curled up, eyes fluttering shut, and Carlos sighed.

What a mess.

Oscar, similarly, fell asleep soon after laying down on the couch. Jack and Pierre, on the other couch, watched amusedly as Oscar sleepily batted away Charles’ worried hands before completely conking out. Carlos couldn’t blame them for watching—Oscar was a bit of a character on good days. Drunk, he was downright funny. Hungover, he apparently turned into a grumpy old man (Mark was the same, Carlos knew, so maybe he’d somehow passed it on to Oscar with whatever mentorship they had going on there).

“I will text Jenson,” Charles announced, gesturing towards Lando. “He will want to know.”

“Yes, good idea.” Carlos would have already if he had his phone on him, but he lost it somewhere in his bedcovers and did care enough to fish it out.

With both problem children asleep, Carlos dropped into an armchair and wondered how this had become his life. His crush dating someone else, his best friend hungover and heartsick, feeling more alone than he had in years despite all of the people around him.

It would be okay.

It had to be.

~

These fucking kids. Jenson was way too old to be dealing with with this. Or too young? God, he didn’t fucking know anymore. He hadn’t intended to adopt a mess of a first year back when he’d only just gotten the offer to become the athletic director, back when he was still wet behind the ears and following DC around like a particularly ambitious puppy. David Coulthard, the former athletic director before he got a full-time position in administration, had been the one to warn him about getting too close to the younger students. Jenson had ignored him—he wasn’t the parental type at all and was way more likely to encourage a hapless first year to do a line of coke off of someone’s spine than to, like, tuck them into bed or look after them when they were drunk.

But then Lando was so goddamn endearing that Jenson’s unspoken decision to distance himself from any possible pseudo-adoptions crumbled into dust.

He blamed this on Lewis, though Lewis still thought that he was just a “mentor figure” to the younger guys. Jenson only momentarily shared a room with him, before he and Nico decided to take over the attic together, but Lewis was usually the guy looking out for everyone else. He was just as wild as Jenson, but he tended to get a little… protective. Jenson was dragged into his schemes a few times after sharing a room, too, walking people home and looking after little Max when he was 17 and sick with some stomach bug that took out the whole house except Jenson, Lewis, and Seb.

Lando was a bit of a pipsqueak for a long while (if Jenson was being entirely honest, the guy was still pretty small, though now lithe and muscled in the way a dancer might be) and he tugged at Jenson’s heartstrings in the same way a sad, wet kitten would. He first met the kid at a calm, low-key Grid event, everyone lounging, eating and drinking and talking, but not a full party. At first, Lando deflected any attempt at a serious conversation with increasingly obnoxious attempts at humour. Jenson kept at it until Lando finally answered a question honestly, and then it was like a dam broke. He got an earful about Lando’s insecurities and his worry about his place in his family (apparently one of his sisters was a very accomplished showjumper?) and Jenson decided that yeah, he could afford to look out for the pipsqueak.

It was small things. Lando would reach out asking for advice, Jenson would stop by the Grid after he heard that Lando got a bad test grade, they’d go work out at Schumi or hang around shooting the shit in Jenson’s office in the athletic buildings. Sometimes Nico and Kevin were around, sometimes they weren’t.

When Jenson woke up after an absolute rager of a Grid party to find a text from Charles that began with I am a bit concerned about Lando, he felt his heart stop for a moment, dread filling the cavity of his chest like a physical weight.

He was dressed and out of his flat in record time.

The front door was rarely locked on weekends, Grid members and former members going in and out too often for it to be sensible to keep the door locked. That meant Jenson could go right on in, barrelling past the shoe rack and dropped book bags and table holding what looked to be twenty different sets of keys. He’d seen Lando curled up in the bay window from outside, so he nodded to the people in the living room and went straight there.

Well, he looked alright. Maybe a little pale, a little sweaty, but not nearly as bad as some of the hangovers Jenson had witnessed. He hoped he never had to ride in the back of an ambulance again, wondering if his friend would make it or not.

“He had water, but he has not had food,” Carlos said. Jenson hadn’t noticed him, tucked into the armchair in the corner of the room.

“He’s okay, though, right? I mean—” Jenson hadn’t really kept track of him last night, not like he usually did. He was too busy trying to wheedle information out of Nico and Lewis with Fernando, Mark, and Seb. The pair were together, he just knew it, but they were being very vague in order to keep the betting pool guessing.

“M’fine, Jense,” Lando grumbled, whacking away the hand Jenson had placed on his forehead.

He knew better than to try to argue, or to put his hand back. “Budge up, then.”

Lando scooted closer to the window, turning so he was facing Jenson as he slid to occupy the vacant space.

“There’s coffee whenever you want it.” That was Logan, definitely. Jenson blindly gave the room a thumbs up to let him know he heard him, and drifted back off to sleep, his kid (not his kid) tucked against him and breathing evenly.

~

Listen. Listen.

Gabriel didn’t intend for the whole kiss-to-make-homophobes-shut-up plan to go anywhere. Honestly. Nico was just complaining, and Gabriel understood the deep-set want to shut people up, to look the world’s expectations in the eye and then turn the other way. He also wanted Nico to stop complaining, because it was annoying. Kevin agreeing to their plan didn’t really register at all, not until Jenson apparently got a picture of his kiss with Nico and sent it to Kevin with a bunch of question marks because he thought that Nico was cheating on him. Kevin then texted Nico the crying-laughing emoji and a screenshot of Jenson’s texts.

And in the moment, Gabi thought oh no, that was a very nice kiss immediately followed by oh no, Kevin will be so angry.

The plan worked, though, allegations of cheating aside. Nico said that the guys wanted to know about his hot young boyfriend, and Gabriel very firmly did not think about showing up at the athletic offices unannounced to surprise Nico (something he might do if he was, in fact, Nico’s hot young boyfriend). When Kevin returned at the end of the break, Gabriel couldn’t look him in the eye, feeling like he’d be able to see straight through Gabi’s poorly-constructed facade of normality and right to the little ball of feelings that he kept tightly wound in his chest.

Nico and Kevin were cute together. They were well-matched, what with Kevin’s wild fieriness and Nico’s slightly calmer weirdness. Gabi liked hanging out with them, even if they were just sitting doing work in the same room, not talking or interacting much.

Nico was weird. Kevin was weirder.

They were weird together, and they were weird with Gabriel and always matched his level of intensity. He sometimes gotten shit for it, for the way he acted. He liked physical touch, liked kissing his friends on the cheeks and hugging them tight and feeling every emotion so intensely that it sometimes knocked the breath out of him. Sometimes it was too much for other people, who liked to keep to their own little bubbles of personal space, and that was fine, it was totally cool—but Kevin and Nico welcomed Gabi’s intrusions. It was strange. It was unexpected. It was nice.

Really, really nice.

Gabriel would not be a homewrecker. Nico and Kevin were good together, and Gabriel needed to get over his stupid crushes on the both of them before he ruined his friendships.

Unfortunately, neither of them seemed to get the memo.

So Gabriel spent more time with Fernando, helping him and the other students working on the fashion show with their various projects. Nando wanted to look out for Gabi, which was much appreciated, but that unfortunately translated to some overbearing mother-henning. He didn’t need to be coddled (a little voice in the back of his mind said Nico and Kevin wouldn’t treat you like an idiot kid) but Fernando seemed intent on parenting him to death.

Ollie pulled him aside a couple days before the fashion show, looking uncharacteristically serious.

“Mate, what are you doing with Kevin and Nico?”

Gabriel’s brain sort of stuttered for a moment before picking up again. “Uh, nothing? We are friends?”

Ollie looked a little sceptical. “That’s not what I heard.”

“What?”

“Valtteri said that Nico and Kevin were—” Ollie flushed bright red, tripping over his words a little—“that you were all together.”

The emphasis he put on the last word left no room for alternate interpretations. Gabriel valiantly fought to keep his emotions off of his face as he tried to figure out a proper response. Unfortunately, the only thing he could think about was Nico’s lips pressed against his, the way Kevin’s beard scratched against his face when he kissed the man’s cheek the other day. Stupid.

“Well, we are not,” Gabi finally said, and it came out far more morosely than he intended. Ollie gave him a look that very clearly said “I don’t believe you” but let the subject drop.

At the post-show party, after lingering on the front steps with Fernando and some others, Gabriel stayed with the other first years, following Ollie and Kimi around and getting to know Isack better. He was really funny, similarly awkward in the crowd like Gabi, and they discussed their contrasting experiences at university. Gabi had very quickly found friends, while Isack took several weeks to warm up to the people in his classes, and even longer to talk to Yuki, whom he was now very close with.

Throughout the party, Gabriel was very aware of Nico and Kevin, hanging out in the kitchen with some of the older guys. Maybe it was just his hopeful imagination, but he thought that they were keeping an eye on him as much as he was them.

That was proven right when they appeared at his side the moment he separated from his group, intending to go back outside and maybe head to his dorm. He was tired, and drinking more didn’t sound at all appealing. He’d barely had anything to drink at all, actually, nursing a beer and then making a random mixed drink that he abandoned shortly thereafter. He wanted to talk to Franco, but Franco was sucking the American’s face and rather distracted. Going back to his dorm sounded better than sticking around seeing all the cute couples pair off. He watched Oscar gently corral Lando up the stairs (they were very drunk, Gabriel knew, having done several shots with them before ducking out), and then suddenly Nico and Kevin were on either side of him.

“Looking a little lost there,” Nico said, voice low next to Gabi’s ear.

Kevin place a hand in the small of his back, gently leading him towards the door. “Let’s head out.”

Gabriel allowed them to guide him out the door and down the stairs, hyperaware of Fernando’s watchful gaze and Valtteri and Zhou’s conspiratorial glance.

“Do you want to go back to your dorm room?” Nico asked as they turned to head towards campus. It was the same way they would go to get to Nico and Kevin’s flat, too.

“Or we could go back to our flat,” Kevin suggested.

His hand was still on Gabriel’s back.

Okay. Right. Yeah. Gabi could be so normal about this. “Your flat.”

Kevin actually said “good” out loud in response, and Gabriel was thankful that it was so dark out because he was definitely blushing right now.

~

Ollie didn’t want to know.

He really, really didn’t.

Gabriel left with Nico and Kevin, and Ollie pointedly turned to Kimi and asked about his upcoming presentation in his multivariable calculus class. The party was winding down at that point, and Ollie wanted to leave, but he didn’t want to go back to his dorm room, back to his uncomfortable twin bed that was too short for him despite being an extra long. Listening to Kimi rant in Italian was a good distraction from the idea of his new friend leaving the party with a much older couple, and from the looming knowledge that, at some point, Ollie would have to go back to his dorm room.

Unfortunately, Esteban and Charles both clocked Gabriel leaving with Nico and Kevin, and they both pestered Ollie for information when Kimi left him to find Max.

“I don’t know and I don’t want to know,” Ollie said after several rounds of interrogation, and Charles let the subject drop and plastered himself to Max’s side when Kimi returned with him. Esteban went to find Lance, meaning Ollie was left alone and undistracted. Not the turn of events he wanted.

He should just leave.

Ollie once read an article about how much exercise drunk people got, stumbling from bar to bar, from the party back home. He watched Pierre squatting Yuki (slung across his shoulders awkwardly) in front of the house, being recorded by an amused Maya (who refused to go inside because of the two cats and Roscoe), and he thought that maybe the article was on to something. Ollie certainly had his moments. Kimi was the runner, always wanting to go somewhere and do something when he was drunk, but Ollie liked a good walk when drunk, sobering up in the night air before returning to his dorm. Sometimes he saw Charles, and they’d walk together. Maybe he could go for a walk, actually. That sounded nice.

Before he could commit to leaving, though, Nico (Rosberg—honestly how the hell did this group deal with having multiple people named Nico and multiple people named Kimi?) dragged him into the kitchen and forced a bottle of water in his hand, liberated from one of the many cases of water that the Grid kept under the sink right next to the alcohol they didn’t get out for parties. Ollie accepted the water and watched Nico flit over to Lewis, kiss his cheek, and give Kimi the same kitchen-bottle-of-water treatment.

Alright. So that pair was… together? Ollie didn’t know all of the lore there, but he’d gotten a bit of a rundown from Charles and had been inducted into the betting pool by Nico (Hulkenberg, obviously).

They were steadily working their way through the crowd, gathering the younger students like ducklings. Something that Charles once said rose to the forefront of Ollie’s mind.

“They always wanted to look after everyone. Grid or not. My first year, Nico had just moved out, and Lewis—he did not—he was not the same. Everyone always said he changed. He is changing again now.”

They were both certainly very parental now.

Kimi lent against Ollie’s arm, water bottle empty. He didn’t idolise Lewis the way Isack did (according to Yuki, Isack chose to go here because Lewis went to this university, even though he was in a completely different major) but Kimi had a certain respect for both Lewis and Nico. He’d been wholly adopted into the strange fashion-law group, with Lewis and Nico and Doriane and George and sometimes Valtteri when he could be pulled away from his bike. Ollie got an earful about how cool everyone was, how Kimi was able to get closer to Max, too.

Ollie hadn’t told him about his feelings yet, but he thought he might soon.

Not now, though.

Now, he wanted to go for a walk. Listen to some music, enjoy the balmy night.

Lewis came over and ruffled his hair lightly. “You sober enough to walk back to your dorm alright?” Ollie nodded. Next to him, Kimi nodded, too. “Go together, yeah? And text once you’re in.”

They both agreed to do so, and they ended up with Checo walking them back. He lived the same distance from campus as the Grid was, just in the exact opposite direction, which happened to be the same way Ollie and Kimi’s dorm was. Ollie didn’t know Checo well at all. He was a law student, according to Nico, and he was very Catholic, according to Charles. He lived at the Grid for a little while before finding his own place, but he stayed in contact with the people he liked. That was almost verbatim (supposedly) what Max told Kimi, who then relayed that information to Ollie while they were categorising all of the current and former Grid members on a boring, rainy day last month.

Max and Kimi was a bit of an odd pairing, in Ollie’s mind. Of course, he’d been wholly adopted by Charles (he only participated in the fashion show because Charles dragged him to one of the early design meetings with Lewis and a couple other fashion students, and one student took a close look at him and signed him up to be a model, and then Charles forced him to follow through because he couldn’t “let those features go to waste,” whatever that meant). But Kimi seemed to idolise Max the same way Isack idolised Lewis. And because Checo was Max’s friend, that made him another target for Kimi’s endless questions about everything under the sun, up to and including hypothetical zombie apocalypse plans. Checo was surprisingly willing to discuss his hypothetical plans. Ollie was a bit too drunk to really want to join in, but also too sober to be wholly content being excluded.

Checo watched them enter their dorm building, and Ollie parted ways with Kimi, who lived on a high enough floor to have an excuse to take the lift up. Ollie was just on the second floor, and he preferred to take the stairs even when sober. This time, though, it gave him an excuse to separate from Kimi. He started walking up the stairs, then paused, texted Lewis that he was safe at his dorm, and after standing and doing nothing for an indeterminate amount of time, he turned back around and left the building.

The campus was generally a very safe area, and he usually kept his late-night wanderings to familiar streets, but Ollie didn’t want to risk running into anyone he knew. He turned north, away from campus, and walked until he hit a street with no official cross walk. Then he turned left, and then left again a couple blocks later.

He didn’t know how long he walked for, but it was past 3:00 am when he finally returned to campus. He almost accidentally passed the Grid, having somehow managed to loop all the way around campus, but luckily the muffled sounds of familiar voices tipped him off, and he darted down an alleyway to the next street over.

The night guard at the dorm hall gave Ollie a piercing look, but didn’t stop him as he passed by and took the stairs two at a time.

Kimi was sat on the ground outside Ollie’s dorm room, phone in his lap and his head tilted back against the wall. He was asleep. What? Why was he here?

He didn’t want to wake him, though, so Ollie unlocked the door and pushed it open carefully before picking Kimi up (he was tiny and light and Ollie had asked Oscar for his exercise routine a while ago because the guy was able to pick up Charles without struggling and Charles was not a light man at all) and carefully manoeuvring so he didn’t accidentally whack Kimi’s head against the door frame.

Ollie’s roommate, Dino, slept so heavily that Ollie was sometimes worried that he was dead, like that one time he accidentally knocked half the things off his desk to the ground and Dino didn’t even twitch.

So, bringing Kimi in, Ollie wasn’t worried about accidentally waking him.

He deposited Kimi on his bed and pulled his shoes off, shoving them with the pile of shoes under his bed. Kimi had changed before going to wait at Ollie’s door, so Ollie got into comfortable clothes as well and slid under the covers, pulling Kimi close so neither of them would fall off the edge of the bed in the middle of the night.

“Where were you?” Kimi asked, voice thick with sleep. He rotated in Ollie’s arms to face him, staying close.

“Went for a quick walk,” Ollie replied. “Needed to sober up.”

“Alright.” Kimi wiggled closer and tucked his head under Ollie’s, nose pressed into the hollow of his throat.

Ollie held him close and, for the first time in what seemed like months, he fell asleep without any issues.

~

Mark wiggled a hand free from the blankets and grabbed his phone off the night stand. It had been buzzing semi-regularly, indicating that one of the group chats was active, and Sebastian had pressed his freezing toes against Marks’ calves and told him to shut his phone up or else.

Like the lovesick fool that he was, Mark obliged.

The Unintentional Grid Dads group chat had over 100 new messages. Jenson had sent the most recent. Mark didn’t tend to check the chat very often, because his pseudo-adoption of Oscar happened very intentionally, thank you very much, and he had no interest in whatever argument Lewis and Fernando were hashing out about their it’s-not-a-joint-adoption of Franco.

Jenson also didn’t text the chat very often, which is why Mark paused at seeing his name and, after a moment, opened the thread of messages.

Jenson had sent He’s doing better but completely blacked out apparently in response to Britney’s question about how Lando was doing, which in turn was a follow-up on Charles’ (a new addition once Kimi realised he’d basically adopted that lanky first year, Ollie) text about Lando and Oscar.

Oscar.

Mark was suddenly very awake.

“Mark?” Sebastian grabbed at Mark’s waist and tugged him closer. “What’s wrong?”

“Oscar.” Mark scrolled up to the top of the unread messages, worry worsening with every flash of Oscar’s name across his phone screen.

It took a bit of scrolling, but Mark found the first message about Oscar. It was from Charles, a short message that simply read I am a bit concerned about Lando. He and Oscar are very hungover, Carlos and I are helping them. It was immediately followed by Lewis, Lando threw up. Oscar looks like he might join which Hulk laughed at and Fernando down-thumbsed.

In all his years of knowing the kid, Mark had never seen Oscar throw up. Really, he’d very rarely seen the kid hungover beyond a bit of fatigue and mild nausea. Probably something with the Aussie blood—Daniel was an outlier because he refused to heed his limits. It was rather concerning, not that Daniel ever allowed Mark to look after him or try to help him with either his graduate process or his massive crush on Max.

Sebastian, who had been reading over Mark’s shoulder, sat up. “Come on. We will go and look after them. Maybe bring Oscar back here. Or both, if Jenson is willing to let Lando go.”

“No, it’s alright,” Mark protested, trying to push down his worry. Sebastian had been the one to insist that Mark take a day off of work to coincide with his PTO, so that they could have a nice day together without any commitments or other responsibilities looming over them. He deserved a break, and if he wanted Mark to join him on his break, then Mark would obviously oblige.

“Mark,” Sebastian said, tone serious, “I want to make sure they are okay, too. Come on.”

He was a weak, weak man. Mark got up and dressed in worried silence, and they made the drive over to the Grid in record time. Walking up the front steps, Mark could see Lando’s messy head of curls in the bay window. The door was unlocked, and almost immediately Mark found Oscar’s equally-messy hair just visible above the quilt that Lando’s grandmother made two Christmases ago. Mark heard about the quilt from Jenson, who apparently got a quilt himself from Lando’s grandmother in celebration of him getting the athletic director position.

“Thank fuck,” Logan said, standing up from where he’d been crouched by Oscar’s couch. “I don’t want to be awake right now.”

Logan clapped Mark on the shoulder as he passed him to go upstairs. Mark gently placed a hand on Oscar’s shoulder, copying Logan’s previous position, and the kid slowly raised his head and squinted at Mark with bleary, unfocused eyes.

“Mark,” Oscar said after a long moment where Mark had no idea what to do or say. “I think I’m hungover.”

Someone snorted off to the left. Mark looked around the room then, noting the stranger lounging on the other couch talking with Pierre and Liam. Carlos sat in the armchair by the bay window, which contained Jenson in addition to Lando, and Charles popped his head out of his room, looking a little rough himself. Clearly, everyone had gone harder than intended the night before.

“We’re here for Oscar,” Mark told him, standing up and gently shaking the blanket loose from Oscar’s grip. “I want to keep an eye on him.”

“You’re Aussie, too?” came an unfamiliar voice in a familiar accent.

Mark turned slightly. It was the stranger. “I am. Queanbeyan. You?”

“Queensland. Gold Coast. I’m Jack Doohan.”

“Doohan?” The surname sounded unusually familiar.

The kid was clearly used to this reaction, though. “My dad’s Mick Doohan.”

“MotoGP,” Oscar mumbled, his voice reminding Mark of what he was here to do. He could catch up with far-from-home Australians once his kid didn’t look like he had one foot in the grave.

Sebastian, who had gone over to Jenson and Lando in the window, helped Mark coax Oscar off of the couch and into Sebastian’s car. Lando would be staying at the Grid under Jenson’s supervision, both of them refusing Sebastian’s invite to Mark’s place. Sebastian drove while Mark babysat Oscar in the backseat, though the kid miraculously made it without throwing up or falling asleep. He did complain quite a bit, but quieted when Mark helped him out of the car and into his flat.

“Sorry,” Oscar said, after Seb helped him sit down while Mark fetched a bottle of water from the fridge. “I didn’t—I don’t—”

“Hey. It’s okay.” Mark ruffled Oscar’s hair as much as he dared. “I’m here to look out for you, okay?”

Oscar turned his surprisingly piercing gaze on him, then seemed to accept that Mark was telling the truth and not, in fact, secretly mad at him or whatever. “Okay. Can I sleep?”

“Of course,” Sebastian answered, dragging Mark towards the bedrooms and gesturing Oscar into the guest room. “Call if you need anything!”

And then Seb pushed Mark back down into the still-present indents of their bodies left on his mattress, seemingly intent on getting some more shut-eye himself. Mark allowed this only because Seb left the door open, meaning he would be able to hear if Oscar was moving around or needed anything.

After texting the Unintentional Grid Dads group chat a brief update, Mark fell back asleep, both of his in-the-country loved ones present and accounted for. What a novel feeling that was.

Chapter Text

Lando woke up very, very slowly. It felt a bit like that trick he sometimes used to try to fall asleep faster, where you relax each part of your body one by one, starting with your toes and ending with your neck and head. He became gradually aware of his body, his mind, each finger and elbow and knee. Next to his head, his phone was going off, his usual wake up alarm seemingly a little more muted than usual. When he gathered the wherewithal to free a hand from his blanket trap and grab the offending item, he saw that it was a couple minutes past the hour, his usual Monday schedule displayed on his lock screen.

Monday.

Monday?

What happened to Sunday? The last thing Lando could consciously remember was the party, which definitely happened on Saturday night, so logically, it should be Sunday, right?

Lando rolled over, almost falling off his tiny twin bed, to look at the bed across the room.

It was empty.

Was he in some fucking parallel universe where Oscar wasn’t his roommate and Sundays didn’t exist?

His alarm’s continued ringing cut through his thoughts, reminding him to turn it off, and Lando pushed himself upright and groggily went through his morning routine. If it was Monday, then he had to go to class. Maybe he could coerce Charles into letting him use his espresso machine to make himself a coffee to-go. Lewis always encouraged them to use the reusable to-go cups he got, after all.

When he got downstairs, Lando was slightly surprised to see Charles and Carlos both already awake, sitting at the counter eating pancakes. Carlos was pretty good at pancakes and always diligent in making more than enough for everyone, and he rose when he saw Lando, heading to the griddle to make some fresh. A pre-made stack waited on the bench, which Lando took a couple from, still feeling a bit under the weather all around.

“How are you feeling?” Charles asked, when Lando sat down next to him, cup of coffee and syrup-covered pancakes in hand.

“Mostly fine?” Lando responded, a little unsure of how to bring up the whole can’t-remember-Sunday thing. “Tired.”

“I’m surprised to see you up, cabrón.” Carlos flipped a pancake with clean precision. “You were not so good yesterday.”

Lando hastily gulped his coffee. So Sunday did happen, then. It was just that he… couldn’t remember it.

The last time Lando skipped a day like that was after an especially bad bit of drinking in Max and Daniel’s room that almost resulted in a hospital visit. Lando swore never to drink that much ever again, and he’d succeeded in that regard. After getting high once, he decided he much preferred it to being drunk, and he was a lot better at figuring out his tolerance. If he couldn’t remember Sunday (or much of the party, at that) then he must’ve gotten way drunker than he’d ever intended to get. That was bad.

“What happened? I can’t really… remember much.” Lando didn’t want to see the disappointment in Carlos’ eyes, so he focused on cutting his pancakes with the side of his fork.

“From what we know,” Charles began, “you and Oscar took a lot of shots and then left the party early. Doriane said she danced with you a bit, and Gabriel said Oscar was trying to make you sleep. He did shots with you, he said.”

God, Oscar had to handle Lando being super drunk, then? What if—

The empty bed reappeared in the forefront of Lando’s mind.

Oh, fuck.

Had he said something to Oscar when drunk, and now Oscar was steering clear of him?

“Then in the morning,” Charles continued speaking, “Oscar came down and then you came down and—well, you threw up. On him. And the ground.”

“What?” Lando had genuinely no memory of this. What the fuck.

Carlos was nodding seriously. “Charles and I cleaned you up and then Mark came and took Oscar to his flat to look after him.”

“And Jenson was here taking care of you,” Charles added.

“Is Oscar—” Lando cut himself off, trying to figure out what to say without completely outing his crush.

“Mark said he is okay this morning,” Charles said. “He threw up apparently, but now he is okay.”

A little bit of that panic in Lando’s chest settled. “So we were both really drunk?”

“Very.” Carlos and Charles said at the same time, their voices eerily similar.

Okay. Okay so maybe if Lando was blackout, then Oscar was, too? And he was just recovering, like Lando, which is why his bed was empty.

Esteban came thumping down the stairs, prompting Lando to look at his phone for the time. He needed to be going soon. He finished his pancakes and coffee, feeling much more settled and awake, and spent a bit of time getting all of his stuff together for his classes. With all of his professors aware of his involvement in the fashion show, he hadn’t had any work that weekend to do beyond editing his article, and he was basically finished with it, anyway. He waved goodbye to Carlos and Charles and headed out.

The day slipped by quickly, all the way until lunch when Lando sat on the grass, his rain jacket that he kept in his backpack specifically to sit on underneath him and his sandwich in hand. He didn’t even think to look out for Oscar, not until the first trickle of students up the steps caught his attention and he looked up to see Oscar smiling down at him.

“Hey, Lando.” Oscar was backlit by the sun and the blue sky and the puffy clouds, turning him into a painting. “Can I join you?”

Lando nodded, feeling like his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth.

Oscar sat, apparently uncaring about the damp grass getting his jeans wet, and pulled out his usual Tupperware. They ate together in silence, until Lando couldn’t take it anymore and opened his mouth to ask about the party, about Sunday.

Oscar beat him to it. “Do you remember the party at all?”

“Mate, I can’t even remember yesterday,” Lando blurted out, before he could consider if that was something he wanted Oscar to know.

“Right. Um.” Oscar looked up at the sky. Lando couldn’t take his eyes off of him.

“Do you?” Lando asked. When Oscar didn’t answer, he pressed. “Do you remember the party? Or yesterday?”

Slowly, Oscar nodded.

Lando waited. Sometimes, Oscar just needed time to figure out how he wanted to say things, and Lando had gotten very good at waiting for him to finish thinking. He took another bite of sandwich, though his appetite had completely left him, and chewed it. Oscar looked a little tired, maybe a little pale. His hair was just as swoopy as it usually was, and Lando could see the clouds reflected in his eyes. He hastily took another bite of sandwich to force himself to stop staring at Oscar like a creep.

“We kissed.”

Lando choked. Rather violently. “What?”

A flush crawled across Oscar’s cheeks, Lando noticed, but he still didn’t look at him. He was still staring at the sky. “The party. Um. I remember we were really, really drunk, and I wanted to—um, I mean, I thought you should go to bed, maybe, or just—like, at least rest a little, sober up. Um. And then we kissed. On the stairs. The ones up to the attic. So, um. Yeah. I really don’t remember much else, honestly.”

“I kissed you?” Lando knew he was blushing, too. He knew he was a bit of a flirty drunk when left unattended, but this was—God. Great job, Norris. Real smooth.

For some reason, Oscar shook his head and finally looked at Lando. “I think I kissed you, actually. The first time.”

“There were—we kissed multiple times?!”

“It was—um—” Lando had never seen Oscar blush this hard, ever. He also very suddenly understood what Oscar was saying.

“We made out?!”

A group of students lounging a little further down the slope looked up at Lando and Oscar, curious, and Lando ducked his head and hid behind his sandwich. He and Oscar had made out, and he couldn’t fucking remember it. Just his luck, huh?

“I’m really sorry.” Oscar sounded… kind of wrecked?

Lando stopped hiding behind his sandwich in order to give his roommate a confused look. “What the fuck for? We were drunk.” He’d done tons of things while drunk that he didn’t necessarily feel the need to apologise for, and generally, kissing fell into that category.

“We were drunk, yeah, but Lando—” Oscar groaned, clearly frustrated, and ran his hands through his hair, messing up the swoop of it. If Lando didn’t have mayonnaise on his fingers, he’d try to fix it, but alas. The price of eating a sandwich. “Lando, it was still my fault. I—Jesus Christ. I like you. Alright? And I kissed you first and you were drunk, and I—I’m sorry.”

Mayonnaise fingers be damned, Lando reached out and grabbed Oscar’s face in order to make him look at him. “You like me?”

Oscar nodded.

“I like you, too. A lot. Like, a lot.”

Oscar just stared at Lando.

Maybe he was still drunk. Maybe he was so drunk he was hallucinating. Or maybe Lando was finally lucky for once in his fucking life, and the guy he liked actually liked him back. “Can I kiss you?”

Apparently, Oscar wasn’t so far gone that he couldn’t understand that question. He nodded, eyes wide, and Lando kept his grip on Oscar’s face in order to tilt it towards him as he lent in—

And he kissed him.

Lando kissed Oscar square on the mouth, and he knew he wasn’t drunk or asleep or hallucinating because not even his fucked up brain could so clearly come up with the scent of mayonnaise lingering all over the place from Lando’s messy sandwich. It wasn’t a romantic first kiss (did it still count as a first kiss if you technically kissed before but couldn’t remember that kiss because you were absolutely blind-raging, blackout drunk?) but by God it was the best first kiss Lando had ever had, because Oscar was so responsive.

He reached up and threaded his hands through Lando’s hair, easily rearranging them so that he could move Lando’s head to a better position and then stick his tongue in his mouth—

“You were eating fish!” Lando pulled away, still not dropping his hand from Oscar’s face.

Oscar grinned, a full grin with his bunny teeth on full display, and settled back slightly. Lando finally let his hand drop as Oscar moved, awareness coming back in full as he realised that they were still sitting on the very public slope by the media buildings, and journalism students were a bunch of absolute fucking gossips.

“Sorry, sorry,” Oscar said, not sounding the least bit sorry.

Honestly, Lando couldn’t care less about the fish, really. Gross, yeah, but then he definitely tasted like turkey and mayonnaise and cheddar cheese, so neither of them were at their best.

It was Oscar, and that made it all worth it.

~

Lance elbowed Esteban hard in the middle of their usual mid-day lunch break. Last semester had been bad because none of their breaks lined up, but then this semester seemed to be like an apology from the school—aside from two days, they shared every single break, even with the odd schedule that the science students were on. That meant eating lunch together. So Lance established himself at the table by the quad that had a bit of shade from a sapling tree and waited for Esteban to get there from the chem buildings, and they ate lunch, sometimes in silence and sometimes exchanging gossip from their classes.

Today, though, Lance had his gaze set on the pair across the quad and halfway up the slope to the photography building. It took a moment for him to identify them, but that was definitely Lando’s head of curls and Oscar’s obnoxious orange backpack.

“Quoi?” Esteban said irritably, rubbing his ribs.

“The hill. Look.” Lance pointed as subtly as he could, not wanting to get the attention of the people sitting at nearby tables. “Do you see Oscar’s backpack?”

It took a moment, but then Esteban tensed, and Lance grinned.

“They are kissing!” Esteban whisper-yelled, shaking Lance’s shoulder.

Lance wasn’t one for gossip or spying, but Lando and Oscar had picked a rather obvious spot to kiss, so it wasn’t really spying, was it? And really, they were kissing for a rather long time.

“Do you think something happened when they left the party?” Lance asked, turning back to Esteban once the pair seemed to realise where they were and separated. He would give them their facade of privacy.

“Charles told Pierre that neither of them could remember the party,” Esteban replied, also settling back in his chair. “But Charles said that he did not believe them.”

Lance had heard the same from Yuki. “I think something happened but they only just talked about it.”

Esteban’s face cleared. “Ah, so they did not talk before, and then they were both sick, and now they are talking.”

Both of them looked over at the slope, where the pair were now sitting a bit closer together.

“It’s good,” Lance declared, “that they’re talking. And working it out. And whatever.”

From across the table, Esteban grasped his hand and squeezed it lightly. “It is good.”

~

Pierre glanced down at his phone in the middle of class, surprised to see Esteban’s contact staring back at him. He and Este had their differences, of course, but they were bonded in that same unshakeable way that Charles and Max were—they’d probably stay close for the rest of their lives, barring something really big happening. Still, he didn’t text Pierre very often, and certainly not in the middle of the day when they were both busy with classes and work and such.

So Pierre opened the text, curious and a little worried.

Lando and Oscar got their shit together

A very blurry, zoomed-in photo accompanied the text of two figures sitting together, Oscar’s orange backpack the only real identifying feature. He thought that Oscar liked Lewis, though, given Lewis’… everything? Pierre had seen him looking rather red after talking with Lewis—maybe he’d jumped to the wrong conclusion.

Pierre typed a response one-handed, still holding his pen and half-listening to the professor.

Spying again ?

Esteban responded immediately, throwing Lance under the bus, and then explained that they’d seen the pair kiss. Pierre laughed at his description of them, apparently unaware of their very public surroundings, and opened his text thread with Yuki to let him know.

~

Isack glared down at his seised chocolate. It wasn’t crumbling the way he wanted, the way his dessert required for the topping. It should be easy to fuck up the chocolate, after literal years of learning now not to fuck it up, but some sort of muscle memory made him hesitate when adding the water and now his chocolate was half-seised and half-not.

“Look.” Yuki suddenly shoved his phone in Isack’s face. Where did he get that from? Isack kept his phone in his bag during classes, after a poor kid accidentally dropped his into a pot of boiling water and lobsters.

It took a moment, but Isack actually read the texts on the screen. “They figured it out?”

Yuki bounced back to his station, typing away. “They figured it out!”

~

Isack slammed the door to Ollie’s room open so hard it bounced off the doorstop and back into Isack’s face. Ollie nearly flung his stylus across the room in surprise, barely catching it by the tips of his fingers.

“Lando and Oscar are together!” Isack crowed, throwing himself onto Dino’s bed.

“What?” Ollie asked, before the words clicked. Then he repeated, “What?!”

“Esteban and Lance saw them by the quad, and Esteban texted Pierre, who texted Yuki, and Yuki showed me the texts in class.”

“What happened?” Oscar pushed away from his desk and pulled Isack over to his bed so that Dino, who would be getting back from his class soon and would almost certainly want to take a nap before dinner, would have his bed free.

Isack explained to Ollie the whole kiss-by-the-media-buildings thing, and then again to Kimi when he dropped by. Ollie didn’t know what Kimi was there for, and he didn’t stay long enough for him to figure it out, either. Maybe he had some non-Isack news to share, or something. Ollie could ask later.

Isack left to go pester Yuki for details and dinner at the Grid, and Ollie sought out Kimi, first checking his room and then going to the dining hall.

“No Isack?” Kimi asked, when Ollie found him at a table by the windows.

Ollie shook his head. “He likes to eat with Yuki at the Grid. He just came by to tell me about Lando and Oscar.”

Kimi perked up slightly then, and Ollie settled down across from him and listened to his theories on why and how the pair only just got together.

~

Of all of the students he looked after and advised, Toto was not expecting Andrea Kimi Antonelli to hurl himself into his office at 8:00 am on a Tuesday.

“Hello, Toto!” he chirped, slinging his backpack sideways and folding himself into the chair Toto kept specifically for his wayward mentees.

“Hello, Kimi,” Toto replied, already feeling a headache building behind his eyes. “What is it you needed?”

“You know Lando and Oscar?”

Toto did, in fact, know the two students. Lando had just sent him his article on the fashion show to be forwarded to the magazine Toto partnered with to publicise the event, and Oscar had been the model working with Chloe Chambers, a rather creative, ingenious student double-majoring in computer science and fashion. Christian had his claws in her, but Susie had reached out to Chloe to discuss her designs for the show, putting Toto in touch with Oscar to organise some extra fittings and brainstorming sessions.

He gestured for Kimi to say whatever it was he wanted to say.

“They’re together now!”

Toto could not overestimate how little he cared. “That is nice, Kimi. Was there anything else you wished to discuss?”

Kimi shook his head. “No! Bye!”

He ran off, and Toto waited a moment before pulling out his phone. He might not care, but Susie almost certainly would.

~

Doriane called Lewis after her morning meeting, wondering how her Tuesday got so off-track. When Lewis picked up, she had honestly no idea what to say, except—“Is it true that Lando and Oscar are together now?”

She could feel the confusion across the line. “What?”

So Doriane explained her meeting with Susie Wolff, how it started on-topic and quickly veered off into gossip territory, which was a rarity with Susie. She knew, apparently, that Doriane was close with several members of the Grid, and then implied that Toto had heard that Lando and Oscar were together. It was a game of telephone that Doriane couldn’t even begin to unravel, and Lewis was usually well-educated on the goings-on of the Grid, hence her call.

Lewis, somehow, did not know. “I’ll call you back.”

~

Max ran into Lewis on the stairs, having to steady the both of them because Lewis looked uncharacteristically distracted. “Is everything okay?”

Lewis squinted at him. “Did you know that Lando and Oscar are together now?”

Max, for once, could answer yes. “Liam just told me this morning.”

“Liam?” Lewis repeated, face scrunching in confusion. “How did he hear that?”

“How did you hear that?” Max inquired. Liam said he heard from Yuki, which meant Pierre knew, and if Pierre knew, then Charles definitely knew and also Esteban, too, probably. Maybe Lewis also heard from Pierre?

“Doriane,” Lewis answered, voice filled with as much disbelief as the answer sparked in Max. Out of all the people, Doriane was not the one he was expecting Lewis to say. “And get this: she heard it from Susie, and said that Susie got it from Toto.”

Who the fuck was telling Toto Wolff the Grid gossip?

~

Oscar sat at the kitchen island eating his cereal and trying not to count the minutes to when Lando’s yoga class got out. He barely registered Logan sliding onto the stool next to him, a plate of reheated lasagna sending tantalising wafts of tomato and cheese Oscar’s way. Damn, he didn’t know Yuki had made lasagna, otherwise he would’ve ditched his usual mid-evening snack for that.

“So, you and Lando worked it out finally?” Logan asked, his tone smug.

Oscar gaped at him. “Wha—we haven’t even told anyone!”

Logan grinned back. “Well, I heard it from Jack, and Jack apparently got it from Mark, who heard it from Sebastian, who heard it from Lewis, who got a call from Doriane, who was told by Susie, who got it from Toto, who was apparently told by Kimi—little Kimi, that is—who heard from Ollie, who got it from Isack, who was told by Yuki after Pierre sent him a screenshot of the texts he’d gotten from Esteban.”

“And Esteban?” Oscar prompted, a little afraid.

Logan’s grin turned shark-like. “He and Lance saw you and Lando kissing yesterday during lunch.”

Jesus Christ. This house (and all its associates) was a fucking nightmare.

The front door opened then, letting in a gust of unseasonably warm air and a ruffled, yoga-sweaty Lando who grinned at Oscar before leaning down to take his shoes off. Oscar grinned back, then remembered Logan’s presence and dropped his head onto his arms.

“Hey, Lando,” Logan said, and Oscar could feel the mischief rolling off of him.

“Hey, Loges,” Lando replied. Two thunks indicated that he’d tossed his shoes at the rack and missed, and then footsteps approached the kitchen. Oscar still didn’t raise his head up.

“So, you finally planted one on Oscar?” Logan continued, his tone faux-casual like he was talking about the unusually warm spring they were having.

Lando’s sputtering should not have made Oscar’s heart speed up the way it did, but alas. “How did you—we didn’t tell anyone!”

It was so close to what Oscar said that he couldn’t help but snort, finally lifting his head to look at Lando. “The Grid grapevine.”

Lando’s face fell, understanding painted across his features. “Okay, so who saw us?”

“Esteban,” Oscar answered. “And he told Pierre—”

“And Pierre told Yuki, who told everyone else?” Lando finished.

Logan shrugged, scooping up a bite of lasagna on his fork. “More or less, yeah. Pretty much everyone knows by now, I think. Including about half the professors.”

“Right. Is it too late to cancel my lease renewal?”

“Aw, but you love us, Lando!” Carlos bounded over into the kitchen, followed by a much-more-sedate Charles. “You would not leave us like this!”

Oscar watched fondly as Lando and Carlos tussled, neatly avoiding the glassware on the island as Carlos tried to get Lando in a headlock and Lando, in turn, kept kicking the backs of Carlos’ knees to destabilise him. Charles went the other way around the island to pull out some things from the cabinets, setting out the ingredients for what looked like some kind of stew on the bench. Oscar dropped his head back onto his arms when the thought that they all knew crossed his mind and made his cheeks flame.

Logan laughed, his hand steady on Oscar’s shoulder.

He knew everything would be okay. Him and Lando being together was fine, as proven by the countless other successful couples inhabiting the Grid, but it would take some getting used to, that everyone always knew everything about everyone else.

Chapter Text

“Calm down.”

Ollie ignored Dino for the fourth time, turning to pace another lap around their tiny dorm room. He was able to make it from one end to the other in just a couple of strides, so the pacing wasn’t doing much to help him process anything. He would go for an actual walk, but Dino forbade him from leaving because he knew that if Ollie left, he’d chicken out of telling Kimi about his crush, and according to Dino, that was unacceptable.

Someone knocked on their dorm door, and Ollie flinched hard, cringing away and lurching to go open it simultaneously. Dino ended up getting to it before Ollie.

“Oh! Paul!”

Ah, fuck. Not Kimi, then. Ollie went back to his useless pacing, Dino and Paul avoiding him as they went to lounge on Dino’s bed to gossip about whatever the fuck it was those two gossiped about. Ollie liked Paul well enough, because he was funny and smart and listened when Ollie mentioned not feeling one-hundred-percent comfortable with masculine pronouns and terms and stuff. Not that Ollie meant to talk to Paul about that. He didn’t really regret it, but he sort of wanted to think it over himself a bit more before talking about it. Then suddenly Paul was asking to practise a nail design on Ollie so he could get the technique down (Paul was majoring in cosmetology, taking classes at a nearby school that was linked to the main university in some way while also working in the theatre department doing hair and makeup for the shows). Ollie, apparently, couldn’t quite contain his interest and pleasure at the more feminine look of intricately painted nails, and Paul deftly opened up the conversation to the topic of gender presentation.

Anyway.

Ollie was fine with Paul. More than fine, really. They were friends.

Kimi was not quite fine with Paul, for some reason. Ollie didn’t know the history there. He just knew that Paul was neutral about Kimi, and Kimi was neutral about Paul, and every interaction Ollie had witnessed had been fairly cool and very brief.

“So, you are finally going to tell him?” Paul asked, wiggling back on the mattress until he was sitting with his back against the wall. Ollie nodded, not stopping his pacing. “Good, good. What is your plan?”

Ollie pointed at the tote bag on his bed. He’d put together a picnic, getting Isack and Yuki’s help with the sandwiches (chicken pesto with tomato and mozzarella, and roast beef and caramelised onions) and going back through his notes app looking for all of the times he’d written down Kimi’s favourite snacks. He’d acquired salt and vinegar chips, Twizzlers (cherry, not the standard strawberry ones), a specific brand of lemonade, off-brand Oreos (seriously, what the hell, Kimi?), and all the ingredients to make a caprese salad. All that alongside the sandwiches made for a pretty good picnic, in Ollie’s opinion. He even had Arthur holding a nice spot in the little park a few blocks away, claiming the singular shaded area in the entire grassy field so that Ollie and Kimi wouldn’t be boiling under the stupid hot sun.

Unfortunately, Ollie also felt a bit like he had a mozzarella ball stuck in his throat, so he left Dino to explain the plan to Paul.

Another knock sounded, and this time Ollie leapt to open it.

Kimi stood before him in a shirt that looked like a Lewis prototype and jeans, his curly hair looking especially fluffy due to the humidity. “Where are we going? You have been so secretive about this!”

Ollie couldn’t help but laugh, a significant portion of his nerves fading in the face of Kimi—familiar, silly, warm. “You’ll see. We’re walking there.”

Kimi greeted Dino and Paul while Ollie picked up the tote bag and picnic blanket that was a chequered fabric on one side and waterproof on the other. It had been raining near-constantly all week, so when Ollie checked the forecast and saw that there would be a single sunny day, he jumped at the opportunity and even called Toto fucking Wolff to ensure that Kimi would be free.

“Come on!” Ollie said, grabbing Kimi’s wrist and pulling him from Dino and Paul.

“Bye!” Kimi called back before turning to walk with Ollie. He didn’t pull his wrist free, but Ollie would be a bundle of nerves if he tried to hold Kimi’s hand right now, so he dropped his arm and fiddled with the strap of his bag to cover the action.

“It’s a couple blocks over.”

They walked, Ollie silent and Kimi yapping about the friction that rubber tires at various pressures caused. Ollie knew a little about physics—just the basics, really, Newtons and all that—but most of Kimi’s rants went way over his head. Not that he minded. He would listen to Kimi recite from a phone book, honestly, if it meant that he’d be close to him.

Kimi’s head swivelled around as they reached the park, meaning that Ollie could make pointed eye contact with Arthur, who waved and relinquished ownership of the shaded area. Luckily, the park was pretty empty. Kids played on the playground while their parents watched on and talked with each other, and a few people in the field were either playing Frisbee, football, or sunbathing. A group of university-aged guys off to the far side of the park were setting up their own picnic, but Ollie was mostly focused on steering Kimi towards the spot Arthur just vacated and not the inhabitants of the park.

“A picnic?” Kimi asked, when Ollie stopped beneath the largest tree and started unrolling the blanket. “Oh, I have always wanted to have a picnic here! How can I help?”

Together, they spread the blanket out. Ollie’s family was always a shoes-off-the-blanket family, so he kicked his Docs off and used them to hold down the corners. Kimi copied him. His socks had planets on them, which was so endearing that Ollie felt another bit of anxiety fall away.

“I got your favourites,” Ollie explained as he unpacked the tote bag. Kimi inspected every item, making little hums of approval and interest, before he placed the caprese salad (in a nice glass Tupperware borrowed from the Grid) down in front of him and fixed Ollie with a sharp look.

For all that Kimi could come across as a little goofy and absentminded, he was sharp as a whip in many ways, and his interpersonal skills were honestly something to behold. He had no shame, Ollie quickly learnt after befriending him, which ended up translating well into making friends and networking.

“Um,” Ollie began, eloquently, “well, I—um, I wanted to tell you something.”

Kimi nodded. “Mhmm.”

If Lando and Oscar could communicate after supposedly kissing while blackout drunk and having what Ollie heard were the worst hangovers ever, then Ollie could tell Kimi he liked him. Even if Kimi didn’t like him back—and listen, Ollie might not be super perceptive, but he’d seen the way Kimi’s gaze lingered on him sometimes—it was still unlikely that Kimi would change anything about their current friendship. He wasn’t the type at all.

“I like you,” Ollie said, enunciating each word. Almost immediately, he felt a rush of relief, and his next words came easier. “I like you a lot, Kimi. As, um, not a friend. Like, romantically.”

God, he always forgot how good it felt to get a crush off your chest, even without knowing the immediate outcome.

“Well that is good!”

And suddenly Ollie had a lapful of squirmy Italian, as Kimi flung his arms around his neck and hugged him within an inch of his life.

Alright, context clues. Kimi probably definitely liked him back. Judging by the hug, he would be open to a relationship, maybe. Judging by the sitting-in-his-lap, Ollie could maybe ask for a kiss, even. The world was his fucking oyster, and he had the pearl in his arms.

~

Alex pushed the colour swatches towards George, his preference on top and his second choice right under it. Some people might consider George’s insistence to do everything himself to be overly controlling, or even annoying. Certainly he had his quirks, and his very specific way of categorising literally everything ever, but Alex wouldn’t trade it for the world. Who cared if George wanted every colour swatch for every item organised by a number system for Alex to choose from? He got to express his opinion, George was comfortable with his spreadsheet of hex codes, and they were spending time together.

Across the dining room table, which was really getting a strange amount of use recently, Max and Charles sat looking over fabric samples. Lewis had supplied them once George and Alex settled on a date for the wedding, so they fabrics were all the right material for the weather. George had wanted fabrics for all the possible temperatures, but Alex was able to talk him down from that. George might not have an opinion on when they were married, but Alex did, and George respected that.

The four of them worked in silence (relative silence, as Charles’ phone was playing soft R&B in the middle of the table), and Alex had never felt so much love in his life, for his fiance or for his friends.

“Hmm, the—the shine is not good,” Charles murmured.

Alex looked up from a fleet of lavenders to see Charles rubbing a piece of fabric between his fingers, his expression displeased. “Not good?”

Charles delicately wrinkled his nose. “It is uncomfortable. The texture is… lingering.”

Ah, yeah. Alex hated those kinds of fabrics that felt like they stuck with you no matter how hard you scrubbed your skin after touching them. “Throw it away, then.”

Charles flicked it towards the slowly-growing pile of fabric samples. It unfolded after a moment in the air to land a couple inches short of the pile, but Max picked it up and placed it on top without a word.

Alex considered the couple, his colour swatches less important than observing the two.

They weren’t a surprising paring, to an outsider. Anyone who knew the two of them had said “yeah, that makes sense” in response to their getting together. Alex had given them his well-wishes, keeping his doubts wrapped up. It was only later, in the safety of his and George’s room, that he mentioned it.

Because maybe Carlos hadn’t noticed, but Charles had been in love with him since right before he moved into the bedroom under the stairs. And maybe Daniel was in denial, but Max had loved him for… well, multiple years, at the very least. If Alex had to bet, he’d say five years, while others would go with the safer option of three or four. They often forgot that he’d shared a room with Max for a few perilous weeks before George swept in and saved him. In those few short weeks, Alex heard Daniel’s name from Max’s mouth more than everyone else combined, and it wasn’t the suddenly-lovesick type of thing. No, Max had grown into his love for Daniel by that point. Alex might not be a maths major, but two plus two still equalled four when you were a veterinarian.

The thing he doubted was Max and Charles’ ability to communicate.

It was pretty ironic. The reason people weren’t surprised when they got together was because they knew each other so well that they didn’t really have to speak to understand each other. Max would raise an eyebrow, Charles would dip his head, and they’d leave a bad party in sync, not a verbal word exchanged. Alex had seen it happen multiple times, the psychic link between the two creepy at best and downright horrifying at worst. It meant that they didn’t talk. Not about things that mattered at least, and their crushes on other people definitely mattered. Alex knew that Max knew about Charles’ crush on Carlos, because Carlos knew Max before university. Likewise, Charles knew about Max’s crush on Daniel, as proven by the little gossip session Lando and Alex had with Charles while watching a particularly handsy dance party last year.

The couple could fucking telepathically communicate, and yet Alex would be willing to bet all of the pancake mix in the pantry that they hadn’t talked about their crushes even once.

And if Alex knew Charles, he knew that it was absolutely eating him alive.

Honestly, if George had a crush on someone and Alex knew that and they were still together, he’d probably be a little wary at first. Then again, George was Mr Healthy Communication and probably would’ve prepared a PowerPoint presentation about it in order to give Alex the rundown. If the situation was reversed, Alex would’ve wanted to talk about it before ever entering into the relationship to begin with. He wasn’t expecting Max or Charles to be celibate just because they had crushes, obviously, but the longer they went without talking, the worse the inevitable fallout would be.

He could only hope that no one was hurt, emotionally or otherwise.

“This is your favourite?” George asked, picking up a warm, sunflower yellow from a stack of yellows of various shades and hues.

Alex glanced at the pile and then nodded.

George typed its hex code into his spreadsheet, and Alex firmly pulled his head from his musings. Max and Charles’ relationship was none of his business at the moment. They were doing well, and any hidden resentment wasn’t affecting anyone but Charles (the moment Max picked up that something was wrong, he’d definitely ask about it, because he was blunt and efficient like that).

Yuki came down the stairs holding a reusable grocery bag that looked like it contained four entire bottles of wine. Alex pushed his lavenders over to George, a more cool-toned swatch on top, and idly watched Yuki. He pulled a baguette from the pantry, then opened the fridge and took out two Tupperware containers full of something that Alex couldn’t quite make out due to the condensation on the glass. These items also went into the bag.

When Pierre appeared holding a folded-up picnic blanket, Alex blinked.

“You guys are picnicking?” he asked, just to make sure he wasn’t misreading the situation. Yuki and Pierre got up to weird shit all the time, so he wouldn’t necessarily be surprised if the answer was no.

“Yup!” Yuki chirped cheerfully. “We are going to spy!

“On?” Alex prompted.

“Two of the first years.” Pierre accepted the bag from Yuki, who turned and pulled out a second bag from the fridge holding even more food. “Ollie and Kimi.”

“Isack says that Ollie is going to tell Kimi that he likes him.”

Alex noticed that that got even George’s attention and added a point to the little column in his mind of moments that proved that George was as big a gossip as the rest of them.

“Can we join?” Alex asked, standing from the table. He was getting tired of colour swatches, honestly.

Yuki’s smile turned sharp. “You have to provide your own food.”

~

Yuki glanced at his watch and grinned.

A certain French-Algerian birdie told him about a certain picnic that would be occurring at a certain time, and after helping Ollie create and make a couple of sandwiches and seeing said sandwiches disappear into a bag full of picnic-able snacks, Yuki knew he wasn’t going to let this be.

Fortunately, Pierre was always happy to indulge him, so Yuki prepared their own picnic and, after getting confirmation from Isack that Ollie and Kimi were en route to the park, he pulled Pierre out of bed.

He was half-expecting to be joined by someone also too nosy for their own good, and he had prepared more food in anticipation of that exact situation, so when Alex asked, he said yes. Of course, he had to lie and say they’d have to provide their own food. Pierre was under no assumption that this was a romantic date with just the two of them, so Yuki didn’t feel bad about having more join them. After all, he’d made sushi! And he’d had to wake up in the middle of the night to keep it secret from everyone, otherwise it wouldn’t last long enough because no one in this house knew what “no” meant when it came to food. Especially sushi.

Yuki was vaguely aware of Alex scrambling up the stairs as he took more containers of sushi from the fridge and carefully stacked them in the second bag. Max and Charles had gotten up from the dining table and were moving around the kitchen doing something, and George disappeared into the basement. Yuki thought he probably had more picnic blankets down there, saved from the few times that the Grid all went out together to cheer on the local kiddie football teams and wreck havoc in the playgrounds.

Yuki handed the second bag to Pierre as well, smiling when Pierre rolled his eyes at him. Max and Charles, as it turned out, put together an impressive array of snacks compiled from their shared stores in the pantry. Those two were big snackers, much to Yuki’s ire. He wanted to feed them, but so often they snacked and spoiled their appetite and God, Yuki felt like his grandmother just thinking that.

He wasn’t wrong, though.

The pair had also scrounged up two more bottles of wine, some type of really cheap sparkling white that Yuki wouldn’t be getting anywhere near, thank you. Pierre’s horrible French wine was bad enough already.

“Do you all really have nothing better to do?” Lewis asked, having appeared in the doorway to the basement. Yuki didn’t know he was down there—more often than not, Lewis was at Nico’s, and Yuki didn’t want to start the bet on when he would move out, but he knew it had to be soon.

George loomed over Lewis’ shoulder, looking a little sheepish. “He asked why I was getting the blankets.”

Yuki was fully prepared to defend his nosiness (Lance and Esteban had their fun with Lando and Oscar, so now it was his turn) but before Lewis could say anything, Max fixed him with a Look and said, “You were just as interested in Lando and Oscar getting together, so…”

Yuki went back to packing up the containers of sushi to ensure they would break if they bumped against each other in the bag. Only Logan had ever broken a Tupperware, and Yuki wasn’t about to join him on the fridge notes of shame. “Days since breaking glass” was at 99, and Carlos and Lando had banned anyone from using glass until they made it to 100. Except Yuki, because he knew how to treat it correctly.

“We should go now,” Yuki interrupted the bickering between Max, George, and Lewis after catching sight of the time on the clock above the stove.

The park was pretty much just a big open field with a couple of lines marking out football fields and a playground at one end. Yuki could see clear to the tree that Isack said that Ollie would be at. Charles’ little brother waved at them, grinning while he reserved the prime shady spot for Ollie.

As expected, there was a mad rush for the sushi when Yuki took it out, and Alex had to smother Charles when he caught sight of Ollie and Kimi so that he wouldn’t give them away.

It felt like getting away with a crime when neither Ollie nor Kimi noticed the group of them over to the side.

Yuki ate a piece of sushi that had extra avocado (one of Pierre’s favourites) and watched as the two boys set up their own picnic. If Kimi didn’t like the spread that Ollie put together, he was going to march over there and kick him. Alex tackled Charles a second time when the two first years embraced, Ollie’s confession clearly going well.

He might go over anyway. They weren’t eating the sandwiches, and Yuki knew that they would be getting horribly soggy.

~

Kimi squinted across the park. Something about two of the people across the field seemed familiar, and ever since they’d gotten to the park and he noticed the group of guys having their own picnic, the group had itched at the back of his mind. He pulled apart a cherry Twizzler and mulled it over while Ollie talked about their architecture class which he was doing quite well in, unlike Kimi.

“Alain is quite nice once you get to know him,” Ollie said, and Kimi glared at him. “Really! He just wants us to succeed.”

“He is so annoying!” Kimi said, throwing a piece of Twizzler at him.

Ollie threw it right back. “He is just a little set in his ways is all. He likes you, you know.”

Kimi looked away, refocusing on the group of uni guys. He knew Prost wanted him to do well in the class and was only challenging his designs so he could figure out how to make them work and defend them, but sometimes he wished he wasn’t Toto’s little prodigy. Sometimes, he just wanted to be like any other student, expected to do their best and given grace when their best was less-than-perfect.

“Is that George?” Kimi blurted out, when a figure in the distance stood up.

Ollie turned around. Kimi squinted a little harder, blocking out some glare from the sun with his hand. Yes, that looked like George, now towering over the still-sitting group. He seemed to be gathering trash, which was definitely a George thing to do.

“Oh, my God,” Ollie groaned, slumping until his forehead pressed against Kimi’s shoulder. “They are stalking us.”

“Mhmm,” Kimi replied. Now that he knew they were there, he was easily able to identify Pierre and Yuki, Charles and Max, Alex now helping George clean up, and Lewis.

“Sorry about them,” Ollie said, “I asked Yuki and Isack for help with the food.”

And Yuki was by far the nosiest gossip of the group when given the opportunity, Kimi knew. He and Isack together were a force to be reckoned with, and they both had the I’m-innocent-I-know-nothing look down so no one ever suspected them. Bastards. Kimi was so glad he’d met them.

~

“Oh, fuck, they saw us!”

“Scatter!”

“No, no, other way, other way!”

“Yuki! Save yourself!”

Ollie and Kimi descended on the group laughing maniacally, Ollie tackling Charles and Kimi throwing his jacket at Lewis to take him down that way. George managed to stay out of it, half-dragging Alex clear of where Max was wrestling Kimi away from Lewis. Yuki had managed to grab the bags of containers and leftover snacks, and he thrust them into George’s hands before literally jumping on top of Ollie, helping Pierre pull him away from Charles.

Next to George, Alex was filming the scuffle, laughing so hard that George was a little concerned that he wasn’t getting enough air. One time, Alex laughed himself into a panic attack, and George was not looking for it to happen again.

“Should we help?” he asked, lifting up the bags as Lewis rolled by, Kimi in a headlock and Max tickling the poor first year mercilessly.

“Are you kidding me?” Alex gasped out between laughs, “We can’t stop this.”

He was right. George pulled one of the unfinished bottles of wine from a bag and sipped it while watching his friends make fools of themselves.

Chapter Text

“Which graduation group are you a part of?”

Esteban looked up to find Pierre looming over him, hand held out expectantly. It was still strange being a year above him, when they were always in the same classes when they were younger. Then Esteban moved and was pushed up a year, and it was only when Pierre moved into the Grid (coincidentally at the same time that Esteban did) that Esteban realised they wouldn’t be graduating at the same time.

“One-B.” Esteban had just gotten the information yesterday, along with all of the other students graduating that spring.

“Friday, second group?” Pierre clarified, whipping out his phone. Esteban’s phone pinged a moment later, Pierre’s name popping up in the full-Grid group chat. Immediately, Lance, Charles, Max, and Lewis responded, and Esteban turned the ringer of his phone off and ignored the vibrations. It was still strange that people cared that he was graduating, especially when he wasn’t going to be moving or anything. He wasn’t even switching schools. Carlos and Lance had already sent their group designations (1C and 1A respectively) to the chat, and everyone was fighting over who would attend which graduation. There were three ceremonies on Friday and one on Saturday, splitting the graduating class into four due to the size. The auditorium could only fit so many people, and their year was the largest class that the university had seen in decades. That limited the number of tickets each student was given for their family to four, and Lance already said his dad and sister were claiming two tickets. Esteban wouldn’t be able to attend Lance’s ceremony because at that point in the day, he’d be preparing for his own (students were required to meet three hours before their graduation to go over the ceremony proceedings in the indoor football field near Schumi), but he had a ticket of his own with Lance’s name on it.

Esteban’s family wouldn’t be able to make it out. They had a prior commitment, and, as his mother so succinctly put it, “You’ll be here in the summer anyway, so we can celebrate then.” That left Esteban with three free tickets, and he was waiting for the others to figure out the who-attends-what before putting his own two cents (and three tickets) in the mix.

“I’ll be there,” Pierre said, interrupting Esteban’s spiralling thoughts. “It is at one, non?”

Esteban nodded, feeling a little numb. He knew, logically, that Pierre didn’t hate him—had, in fact, never hated him. There was some resentment from when they were kids, when Esteban moved away without telling anyone and then fell out of contact when things were rough, and then they’d always had slightly abrasive personalities with Pierre being a bit too loud and Esteban a bit too quiet and everyone around them a bit too intense to let them make up on their own time.

He knew that Pierre still cared about him.

Esteban cared about Pierre, after all.

But there was a stark difference between that, and choosing to attend his graduation ceremony, instead of going to the lunch that Valtteri was planning or the mid-day party at the business school that Daniel had already sent out invites for. There were a lot of them graduating that year, and so far, Esteban was the only one in the 1B group. He wouldn’t blame anyone for missing it, especially when Lewis was already going to the 1A, 1C, and 2A ceremonies. Granted, he was required to attend the 1C ceremony as that was when the fashion students were graduating, and he’d had been invited to the other ceremonies as a guest speaker, but the 1B group was full of science department students, and Lewis was not at all connected to the science department, so Esteban didn’t hold it against him that he probably wasn’t attending. It was fine.

“Yes, one pm,” Esteban finally responded, “I can give you your ticket tomorrow.”

He had to find them, first. He’d written Lance’s name on one and given it to him—and Lance now carried it around in his wallet like a good luck charm—but then Esteban stuffed the other three somewhere and tried to forget about them. By the fact that he couldn’t clearly remember if they were in his backpack or his desk drawer, he’d succeeded in that regard.

Pierre nodded and left, and Esteban returned to his research paper.

Two people. Two people would be cheering for him.

Esteban grinned at his computer screen and continued sorting through his citations.

~

After getting off a painful call with his dad, Max left the house. Daniel shared his phone location with Max way back when they were sharing a room and one or both of them would be out late and wanted to be safe. Pretty much everyone, current and former, from the Grid had each other’s phone locations. Max never looked at the little tracking app except to find Daniel, but he knew that Pierre and Charles had some kind of betting situation based on how often they caught Mark and Seb at each other’s flats, and Lewis tended to stay up after parties, watching the app until everyone got home safe. Max often thought that it would be far easier for them to just track phones after parties, instead of the complicated checking in via multiple group chats that George did now, but the older guys seemed to like walking the firsties home and checking in, and Max wasn’t going to put up a fuss about it.

All that to say, however, that Max knew exactly where he needed to go after the call.

A glance at his phone informed him that Daniel was at the southernmost laboratory building, the new one that had all the fancy venting for the chem classes. It also held the materials science equipment that Daniel was using for his research on magnesium alloys—and if Max kept every broken off chunk of metal that Daniel gave him from his research, that was between him and Liam (who helped Max line them all up on his desk) and Charles.

Max scanned into the faculty entrance to the building, around the side from the main entrance that the students used, which was definitely fully locked at this time of day. Christian had given Max one of his spare IDs so that Max wouldn’t have to ask his permission every time he needed to access equipment after-hours, and that meant that Max could go literally anywhere on campus that wasn’t a personal office or physical-key-only.

The telltale hum of electricity led Max to the basement where they kept the bigger machines used for stress testing.

“Hey, Maxy,” Daniel greeted, not looking up from the two broken cylinders of dark grey metal in front of him. “What brings you these parts?”

Max really, really didn’t want to talk right then, but this was Daniel. “My dad.”

Almost immediately, Dan looked at him, clearly concerned. “What happened? Are you okay?”

He couldn’t hold Daniel’s eye contact. Max found a bit of clear bench top and hopped up to sit there and watch Daniel work. “I am fine, of course. My dad is just—”

Daniel just nodded, despite Max cutting himself off and not finishing the thought. Of all the people Max had gotten to know at uni, from the professors to the TA’s to the students, Daniel had been the one to listen to Max every time he talked about his dad. He’d been the one to distract Jos when Max was having a minor panic attack because his dad had just randomly showed up in the middle of the day to “check on” him. He’d been the one to drag Max to get ice cream after Jos left, going to a business meeting that had been the real reason he was in the area.

Dan had also been the one to convince Max to go to therapy, using the school resources to finally talk to a professional about all the shit his dad got up to. Dan never pushed, never demanded answers, and still Max went to him after bad appointments and unexpected calls so he could talk to someone who understood, who made the world make sense again.

So Max found himself talking, despite himself. He was good at talking around Daniel, as silences weren’t anything to be afraid of. If Max dropped a train of thought, Dan just let it happen. Thinking out loud, he called it, the one time Max asked if his random subject changes annoyed him.

“He said he’s going to come to graduation,” Max said, after breaking down the majority of the rest of the phone call for Daniel.

That got Dan’s full attention again. He’d gone back to his magnifying glass and break analysis a little ways into Max’s rant. “I thought you didn’t have any tickets left?”

“I don’t,” Max confirmed, “but he does not know that. I—I didn’t know how to tell him.”

When Max got his allotted four tickets, he saved two for his mum and sister, one for Dan, and one for Lewis. A long ways back, Lewis had promised that he’d be there to watch Max walk at graduation, way back when Max didn’t think he’d have anyone who wanted to support him. His sister and he were going through a bit of a rough patch in their already-tumultuous sibling relationship then, and his mum was reluctant to go anywhere that Jos might be (understandable, given their history). Max had just started uni and had exactly one-and-a-half friends who only occasionally put up with him, and with his history of pushing people away, he figured he’d graduate alone and he had to be okay with that. Lewis, for some reason, reached out after Max had a particularly hurtful interaction with Britney and forced him to talk about his feelings. Max, of course, dumped a lot of trauma on him, and Lewis accepted it and promised to be there for his graduation no matter what.

When Max got the tickets, Lewis was the first person he talked to.

No one else knew he was graduating, funnily enough. He was a fourth year, so on the traditional tracks he’d be graduating, but everyone knew that the engineering department ran a little differently. Seb had an unheard-of five-year college career, and Mark had done the usual six years. Max hadn’t chimed in when Carlos and Lance (and eventually Esteban, via Pierre) started talking about their graduation plans in the group chat, and luckily Daniel, Lewis, and Charles kept quiet. Because Charles had to know—Max never said anything outright, but he’d been wrapping up his capstone for the past couple of weeks, and Charles was observant.

“Do you think you can get an extra ticket from someone else?” Dan asked, moving away from his samples towards Max. “Esteban’s in your group, right?”

He was, because the engineering and chemistry departments were both counted under the “STEM” label that was slapped on the 1B group. And so far, Esteban had only given tickets to Pierre and Lance, meaning he had two free. Max could, in theory, claim one for his dad, whenever he eventually told people he was graduating.

Unfortunately, the tickets weren’t the problem.

The problem was that Max didn’t want his dad at his graduation at all.

Way back at the beginning of the semester, Max completely broke down in the physics building after a random call from his dad left him reeling. Oscar had been there by happenstance, and he dragged Max into an unoccupied room to calm down. He stayed until Max could breathe again (and then sat with him the next day, too, when Max broke down again at the Grid). Max swore to himself—and to Nico and Daniel—that he wouldn’t let his dad get to him like that anymore, because at this point in his life, he was completely self-sufficient. Yes, his dad’s contacts might have gotten him a place at the Grid and an in with Horner, but it was his own intelligence and dedication that took him to where he was now, graduating in four years when Seb had to take five and Mark took six. It was unprecedented, and Max was proud of himself.

His dad had never said he was proud.

So, really, Max could cut his dad out of his life without repercussions.

He blinked and steadied himself against the counter, the smooth bench top cold against his hands. Was he really considering… that?

Dan placed a hand on Max’s shoulder, drawing him from his thoughts. “It’s your choice, Maxy.”

~

Charles gently squeezed Max’s hand and got a squeeze back. Liam and Dan sat on the bed across from Max’s, and Lewis and Hulk were on the ground in between, silently supportive. Kevin lent against the door, his own phone in hand, and Lewis’ Nico sat at Max’s desk. Charles hadn’t been surprised when Lewis’ Nico showed up at the Grid that morning, but he was surprised when Max pulled him into his and Liam’s room and Nico was there already.

It just seemed a little odd, given their history.

Max’s phone rested on the bedspread in front of him, his father’s contact pulled up. Charles ignored the pain in his hand as Max’s grip tightened further, and everyone stayed silent as the phone rang.

Jos Verstappen picked up on the third ring. “Max, we talked two days ago. What is it?”

Charles tried to tune out the uncomfortable small talk exchanged between his boyfriend and his boyfriend’s father. Too many of the guys in the Grid had shithead fathers. Logan’s entire family was awful, George’s dad tended towards verbal abuse, Esteban didn’t talk about it but his family had pulled away when he went to school outside of France, and even Carlos’ father put a lot of pressure on him. Jos Verstappen was probably the worst out of the bunch, not that Charles wanted to quantify or compare neglect and abuse.

It was another thing that Max didn’t talk to Charles about.

He didn’t want to be a controlling boyfriend. Charles liked to think that he was quite calm and mature when it came to relationships. He appreciated open communication and knew when to give space and when to push. But when he checked Max’s location after not hearing from him all day, and found him with Daniel in Daniel’s research building, he had to take a moment. Of course Max wouldn’t cheat. He was not like that, and everyone who knew him would agree. Max was nothing if not hugely dedicated to his loved ones, friends and family and partners alike. Charles didn’t—he knew Max wasn’t—well, at the end of the day, they didn’t talk about it. Max didn’t talk about Daniel, and he didn’t engage when Charles talked about Carlos.

Charles only learnt after the fact that Max had gotten a call from his dad, and that’s why he went to Dan.

“What did you say?”

Charles yanked himself from his thoughts and back to the present moment. Jos did not sound happy at all, and Max’s hand in his was trembling and clammy.

“I said you cannot come to my graduation.” Max’s voice was surprisingly steady, though Charles could hear the tightness in it, the carefully restrained tears. “I do not have any tickets left, and I do not want you there, anyway.”

Holy fuck, that was certainly a nice, blunt way of getting the point across.

“You listen, boy—”

“No,” Max interrupted, sitting up a little straighter. “No, I am done. You are not coming to my graduation, and I don’t want to see you this summer, either. Goodbye, dad.”

“Max Emilian Verstappen, don’t you dare—”

Max ended the call, and Charles gave him a few moments to breathe before he pulled him into his chest. He was shaking hard, so Charles ran his free hand through his hair. Daniel had gotten up and joined them on Max’s bed, giving Charles a small smile before he draped himself on Max’s back.

The tension in Max’s body abruptly left as though drained by Dan, and Charles held him a little closer.

Everyone said that they worked well together, him and Max. That they “made sense” as a couple. Charles was truly grateful for the past several months with Max. People were right that they worked, and there had never been a moment in their relationship that was strained or awkward. They’d become partners just as easily as they had been friends, and Charles knew that they could go back to being friends without any hassle. Yes, it might surprise the nosy former Grid members who thought they were so slick with their betting and meddling, but if their friendship could withstand 2019, it could withstand this.

They didn’t talk about it.

But they would.

… later, though. After the end of school, maybe, after things had calmed down.

~

A phone with a dark case pinged on the kitchen island, the screen lighting up with a Weather app notification. Carlos glanced at it before going back to his pantry search, looking for the bar of dark chocolate he’d stashed behind a bag of rice. He could have sworn it was the jasmine rice, but maybe not…? Yuki had rearranged the pantry a couple weeks ago.

A second ping got his attention again. Whose phone even was that?

Severe thunderstorm warning and a flood watch. It was already raining pretty hard and had been all day, but just as Carlos put the phone back down, lightning flashed. Thunder immediately followed, shaking the walls of the house disconcertingly. They’d managed to get through spring so far without a bad thunderstorm, just some heavy rain here and there, but it seemed like their luck no longer held.

Carlos pulled out his own phone and texted George to let him know that they’d need to flood-proof the basement, and then the power went out.

Great. Wonderful.

Charles came out of their bedroom looking bedraggled—Carlos had left him to nap for the afternoon, because he really needed it, but the thunder must have woken him up.

Lewis appeared on the stairs at the same time. “Power’s out. Who’s not here right now?”

“Logan,” Carlos replied—he’d left to return a bunch of books to the school library about an hour ago and hadn’t returned yet.

“Is the power out?” Ollie asked, popping his head out from behind Lewis to look around him.

“Yeah, just went,” Lewis said, typing on his phone.

Carlos continued his search for the chocolate bar, though he was losing hope. People moved behind him—it sounded like Lewis and Charles came to sit at the kitchen island, while Ollie went back upstairs. He, Kimi, George, Alex, Lando, and Oscar were all in the attic doing something that Carlos didn’t quite catch when the two first years went running past, hand-in-hand.

George came down the stairs right as Carlos gave up his chocolate search. “Have you checked the drain in the street?”

Carlos had not. “I will go now. There are the plastic bags under the sink for the basement.”

George flashed him a thumbs up, and Carlos pulled on the big rubber boots that everyone used for the arduous task of going out into the street and clearing the drain right by the house that so often became clogged with sticks, leaves, mud, and litter. Carlos had actually checked the drain earlier that morning, when the rain worsened after breakfast. It hadn’t been too bad then, but the wind picked up quite a bit since.

As Carlos went around to the side of the house to grab the rake there, a window on the second floor opened with a bang. Nico stuck his head out.

“There’s a leak in the attic!” he called down.

Oh, Carlos had fucking called it after the last rainy day that resulted in some shingles being blown off the roof. “Did you tell Lance?”

“Yes, but Lando insisted I tell you, too!”

Of course. “There are buckets in the basement.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m on it.”

Nico disappeared, only to be replaced by Gabi, who stuck his entire top half out of the window for some reason. Max pulled him back inside, and Carlos put that out of his mind as he went back around to the street. It wasn’t bad yet, but at least one drain was definitely stopped up.

He just wanted his chocolate bar.

~

Oscar positioned the buckets under the leaks while Alex and Kimi pushed Lando’s bed to a corner away from the steady drip that had been going for a while before anyone noticed. Lando’s bed was partially soaked and would need to be aired out and washed, but the other leak had a very slow flow rate and was just to the side of the bathroom door, so nothing else had gotten wet. Lando went down to find Carlos, and from the shouting, Oscar figured that he’d been found. George had also gone down to prep the basement with plastic bags over everything valuable, meaning their board game was temporarily paused. Maybe they could take it down to the living room.

Lando reappeared after Ollie and Kimi carefully transported the game downstairs, Alex trailing after them with his phone in hand. He’d taken a picture of the board so they’d be able to set it up the same and not have to start a new round.

“Hey, Osc,” Lando said, his shadow falling right beside Oscar.

“Hi, sorry. I just wanted to dry the standing water before I went down.”

“You’re good.” Lando’s hand rested on top of Oscar’s head, playing with his hair. He lent into the touch for a moment before turning to grab another rag. “I wanted to wait for you.”

Oh.

That was nice.

Ever since spring break, Lando had been doing strangely thoughtful things for Oscar, things that he didn’t quite know how to handle. His favourite snack on his desk in the morning, an encouraging note on his maths notebook before a big test, his hoodie washed and dried and folded at the foot of his bed after he’d stained it with phenolphthalein in the lab, an extra blanket on the colder nights. Lando helped Oscar study for a photography quiz without even being asked; he just noticed Oscar studying and sat down to help. During the lead-up to the fashion show, Lando had prepared several servings of Oscar’s usual lunch salad, and Oscar had no idea what to do with the knowledge that Lando had gone out of his way to handle raw salmon… just for him?

Of course, after learning that Lando had, in his words, “accidentally got a crush” on Oscar sometime in March, the nice gifts made more sense. Oscar was certainly a do-er more than a say-er when it came to expressing affection, but Lando was a say-er, so Oscar tried to be a little more free with his words. It seemed that Lando had realised that Oscar wasn’t really one to want to be smothered in platitudes and endearments, and he had turned to just… doing nice things for him.

Like waiting for him when everyone else went down to the living room to set up their game there.

Oscar gathered up the wet rags. “Okay, done.” He steeled himself for a second—if Lando could go out of his way to do nice things for Oscar, Oscar could go out of his way to say nice things to Lando. “Thank you for waiting for me.”

“’Course, Osc.”

They checked the buckets and the roof, and Oscar set an hour timer on his phone to remind himself to come back up and check that no new leaks had developed while everyone was downstairs. Lando put away the unused rags and held open the door at the foot of the attic stairs for Oscar—another thoughtful gesture.

George was just finishing lifting the shelves onto their usual cinder blocks when Oscar got to the basement to deposit the wet rags in the washer. They wouldn’t be able to run it without electricity, though, so Oscar floundered for a moment on what to do, before George asked for his help in raising the couch onto another set of bricks to ensure that it would be safe from the wet. Oh, well. Better put all his time in the gym to good use.

Up in the living room, Kimi and Ollie had convinced Charles to join their game, and Charles, in turn, had dragged Carlos into being on his team.

“Pandemic doesn’t need teams,” Alex argued, “You can just be your own player even if the max is seven.”

“No, no, I play with Charles,” Carlos declared. He looked a little damp, meaning he was definitely on drain duty.

Oscar checked his phone for any texts from Logan and then retook his spot between Lando and Ollie. Playing a game based on everyone working together was rather interesting given how utterly competitive the entire household was usually, but Oscar enjoyed it. Kimi had been the one to suggest it (given his obsession with the zombie apocalypse, Oscar couldn’t say he was surprised by the choice of a game all about the prospective end of the world).

They picked up the game where they left off, not close enough to the end of the world to be concerning, though Oscar knew that they’d decided to jump in the deep end of the game with the decks of cards and initial setup. It was only a matter of time before they lost again.

Lando pressed his shoulder against Oscar’s, and Oscar pressed back. It was nice to lose together, for once.

~

Gabriel spun slowly on Liam’s desk chair. His shoulders were damp from sticking himself out the window earlier, but Nico had given him his sweatshirt, so all was well.

Well, mostly?

Gabi had heard secondhand, from Nico, that Max had uninvited his dad from his graduation (and Gabi had been sworn to secrecy, not that he was planning on telling anyone anyway). Then Max’s dad had called the school and threatened… something? And so Max and Nico and the legal department were ensuring that one Jos Verstappen could not enter school grounds, which was cool of them to do and disappointing that it was necessary.

As Nico’s… boyfriend? Were they boyfriends now? Kevin had certainly implied that, and Nico hadn’t disagreed, exactly, but he hadn’t said anything to confirm it, either, so… okay, well, that wasn’t the point. The point was that Gabi was something to Nico, now, so according to Max, that meant that he was invited to the Damage Control that Nico and Max were doing with regards to Max’s dad.

Funny how it worked like that.

Gabi ran into Ollie earlier, who was also at IHOP with Kimi for a game night with some of the current residents. Liam was in Yuki and Pierre’s room with Isack, the four of them planning something for Esteban’s graduation. Gabi only knew that because Kevin was a gossip who heard everything and liked that Gabi listened to him. Apparently, Nico “had better things to be doing than gossiping” which was a complete lie in Gabriel’s mind. Also, Kevin was nice to listen to, and attractive, and intelligent, and yeah, Gabriel never stood a chance, did he?

“We can at the very least ensure that your graduation will be safe,” Nico was saying, leaning back in his seat (Max’s desk chair) and talking to Max, who was sprawled out on his bed.

Gabriel allowed himself a moment to admire Nico. With the power out, the only light in the room came from the windows, and it was grey and shadowed due to the clouds and rain. It cast Nico’s face in darkness, only his nose and cheekbones highlighted. As much as Gabriel liked to poke fun at him (and Kevin, sometimes) for his age, Nico was really in his prime. Gabi felt a bit (a lot) like a newborn donkey next to him. Where Nico was all broad, practised strength, Gabriel felt too lean, too tall, too eager.

But somehow, Gabriel had gotten Nico’s attention, and Kevin had far fewer hang-ups with regards to their age gap and had apparently been interested in Gabriel for quite some time before the three of them got together.

And now Gabriel was sitting in Liam’s desk chair, involved in what he knew was Max’s personal family business (and Nico was basically family to Max, at this point, as much as Nico seemed not to realise that at times), with more friends than he really knew what to do with.

Nico absently reached a hand out to Gabriel when he rolled his chair closer, and Gabi propped his feet up in Nico’s lap and took the offered hand with a smile.

~

“Here, we go in here.”

Jack ducked under the little roof over the steps up to the familiar house while the vaguely-familiar guy banged against the door. He had his phone out in his free hand and open to a group chat that Jack couldn’t quite see the name of. The other guy, also sort of familiar, pressed in close to Jack, apparently uncaring of traditional expectations for personal space. Not that Jack was complaining. The guy was cute as hell, sue him.

Jack had been completely caught out by the storm, heading back to campus from the 24-hour diner he’d been posted at for the past… how long? Eight hours, maybe? Anyway, a bolt of lightning took down a tree that knocked a telephone pole down, meaning there were live wires all over the street by the diner. Normally, that wouldn’t matter, but multiple other streets were completely flooded due to the shitty drains, meaning that if Jack wanted to get back to campus (which he did) then he’d have to reroute almost half a kilometre east or west.

He was grabbed by a guy that Jack knew he should know the name of. He had dark hair and an almost Roman profile, and he apparently recognised Jack because he said, “we are going to the Grid” and didn’t clarify. Not that Jack asked. He knew what the Grid was—he just hadn’t expected that to be the solution to his current problems.

They picked up the other kinda familiar guy along the way, the first guy taking back alleys that Jack never knew about in order to avoid the flooded streets and live wire situation.

“Sorry,” Cute Guy said, “I do not mean to crowd you, it is just—”

“You’re good,” Jack said, smiling in what he hoped was a reassuring way.

The front door to the house finally swung open. Lewis Hamilton gave them all a cursory glance before beckoning them in. Jack quickly toed off his sodden running shoes and silently bemoaned his equally-damp sweatpants and hoodie.

“Come on, let’s get you dry, then,” said George. Jack could only remember his name because he was very much a character. Even the way he spoke felt cartoonish.

Jack dutifully followed him up the stairs and accepted the dry clothes and towel offered. Cute Guy went to the bathroom to change, while Jack stayed in George’s room when George said he could change there. The dry clothes were blessedly warm and comfortable, and Jack towelled off his hair as he left the room to find where to put his wet stuff. At the same time, Cute Guy stepped out of the bathroom, completely swamped in the too-large loaned clothing. George was quite tall, after all.

“I do not think we have officially met,” the guy said with a cute smile, stepping forward with his hand outstretched. “I am Franco.”

“Jack Doohan,” Jack replied, hastily freeing a hand and hoping it wasn’t clammy or gross or anything.

“Jack,” Franco repeated, as though testing the name. Then he smiled, and Jack tried very hard not to blush too horribly. “It is good to meet you.”

He had to smile back. “You, too.”

Chapter Text

With the attic under construction to fix the leaks and all of the third-floor bedrooms being searched for mould growth, several people were out of a place to sleep. Finals were creeping up, too, so no one wanted to sacrifice their sleep, meaning that a lot of people were doubling up on beds to avoid the back-breaking couches. Only the dark green one that Lance bought was at all comfortable for multiple nights of sleep, and Liam quickly claimed that for himself the moment that Lewis got off the phone with the roofers.

“Alex and I can share,” George said diplomatically once it became clear that Liam’s claim would not be compromised.

Lance and Esteban took the now-free bed, just as willing to share with each other. Logan didn’t know if Lando would be willing to let Oscar share a bed with him, but he figured he’d ask, anyway. Max and Charles had already decided to share Charles’ bed, and Logan knew that Carlos would be willing to share with Lando, too.

“Osc, you can bunk with me if you’d like?” Logan interjected the growing argument between Yuki and Pierre.

Oscar and Lando shared a look, and then Oscar gave Logan a thumbs-up as Lando turned to Carlos, who was already nodding.

“Right,” Lewis said, finally putting his phone down after typing away on it for fifteen minutes. Logan was willing to bet good money that he’d be staying with Nico—“I’ll be across campus with Nico, so that’s everyone settled, right?”

Everyone nodded and went to move their things around. Logan had already helped Oscar and Lando strip their beds to wash their rain-water-logged sheets, and while he babysat the washer in the basement to make sure it didn’t rock off of its supports (they put it on bricks to keep it above the usual flood water level), the pair finished bringing their necessities down to Logan’s room, which had enough space for them to store their stuff. Charles and Carlos’ room was one of the smallest, for a double, and definitely wouldn’t fit two extra duffel bags of clothing and all of Lando’s hair products.

Logan dodged Max’s bag on the stairs as he went up to see if anyone else needed help moving stuff, Oscar at his heels.

“Mind if I move your things in the closet?” Oscar asked, standing by Logan’s bedroom door.

“Go ahead,” Logan said with a vague wave of his hand. Lance beckoned Logan towards him, clearly asking for help.

It wasn’t until Logan heard Oscar’s shout that he remembered what he’d put in his closet.

Lance and Esteban looked towards the stairs, both holding stacks of chemistry textbooks while Logan held up a plastic sheet to protect Lance’s framed artwork from the potential mould.

“Logan Hunter Sargeant!”

Oh, fuck.

“What the fuck is this?!”

Oscar stomped up the stairs clutching a thick packet of paper in his hand, slightly wrinkled from how tightly he was holding it. A red-lettered “APPROVED” was stamped across the front in big, bold font, half-covering up the “Transferral of Credit Request” titling the front page. It looked cartoonish, now that Logan thought about it.

“Your middle name is Hunter?” Lance asked, sounding amused.

Logan couldn’t find it in himself to joke back. He kept his focus on his best friend. “I can explain.”

Oscar didn’t get angry. He didn’t yell, he didn’t raise his voice, he didn’t have a temper outside of the occasional bit of usually-mild road rage. If something made him mad, he either boxed the emotion up so tight that he was able to work through the anger until it dissipated, or he gave you a Disappointed Look and made you feel about two feet tall.

Logan had never felt smaller in his life.

He’d also never heard Oscar shout like that before, or glare like this before.

“Then explain,” Oscar demanded, holding out the packet with a completely frozen, stony expression.

“I got a—um, well, it’s like—” okay, maybe he wasn’t really able to explain that well. Logan clenched his hands tight and tried to breathe through the growing panic in his lungs. “My advisor talked to me about an internship opportunity in the states, and I took it. It counts for college credit and I’d still be able to take classes through a local university.” The plastic crinkled in his hands. “I got the approval to transfer last week.”

Oscar turned around and went back downstairs without responding, each step methodical and quiet. Oscar outclassed almost everyone in the building in terms of weight and muscle—he could really be terrifying, if he tried—and yet, as Logan watched his retreating back, his control was impeccable.

This was the angriest Logan had ever seen him, and it was all his fault.

~

“Well,” Lewis said mildly, “that was something.”

Nico, leaning against the island beside him, snorted softly. “Now imagine how they’ll respond when you tell them you’re moving out.”

Lewis sipped his green smoothie and watched Roscoe be groomed by two of Max’s cats. He was wholly dreading it, and Nico knew that well. It had taken a joint effort between himself, Nico, Toto, and Ollie Bearman to keep little Kimi quiet about Lewis moving out, because Kimi likely would be moving into Lewis’ old room (once it was confirmed to be free of mould). Ollie and Isack had their eyes tentatively set on George and Alex’s room, as the pair already had a flat figured out that was a bit further from campus and a bit closer to Alex’s assistant veterinary position. Lewis wouldn’t want to live in a frathouse if he was married, either.

Well, the Grid was a bit of a different can of worms than a true frathouse, and maybe Lewis daydreamed about owning it with Nico and looking after the younger guys, but the sentiment was still the same.

Of course, George and Alex didn’t know that Lewis knew about their flat, because Lewis only knew about it through the interior designer they hired who had contacted Lewis to ask his opinion about curtain fabrics. He hadn’t meant to snoop through the files, honestly. He just wanted to get a better idea of the clients’ goal for the space, and then he saw “George and Alex Albon-Russell” and… kind of forgot everything else.

At least he knew his fabric recommendation would be good.

“Ready to go?” Nico asked, taking Lewis’ now-empty glass and rinsing it in the sink.

Lewis looked over at his suitcases by the door. “Yeah. I think I am.”

~

Charles hooked his elbow through Max’s arm and gently pulled him to a private section of the cafe, hidden from plain view by a wall of wildly-growing plants covered in fragrant flowers. Lando and Oscar had just returned to the attic after the roofing people finished fixing it and cleaning up the water damage, and with Carlos out of town on a school-sanctioned trip to London, that meant that Charles and Max had the room to themselves.

Still, Charles didn’t want to talk about this in a house of extraordinarily nosy and gossipy uni students, so he dragged Max out of the house to the new cafe that Lewis loved so much.

Now secluded behind the plants with their coffees and pastries spread out on the table between them, Charles allowed himself one last moment of unhurried enjoyment.

“Max,” he began, waiting until he had his full attention before continuing, “I think we should be friends again.”

For a moment, Max’s shoulders tensed, and the flaky croissant in his hand fell back down onto the plate. Charles waited, breathing through the slight anxiety and hurt he was feeling. They had been good together. In another life, perhaps they stayed a pair until death, too closely intertwined to be anything but lovers.

In this life…

“Okay,” Max said, slowly. “Okay. Why? Are you not… not happy? Did I hurt you?”

“No, no,” Charles rushed to reassure him. “It is just—”

The words hung between them, unspoken as they had always been. That was the issue, after all. Charles could not bring himself to say them aloud, and Max was content to let the conversation stay unspoken.

“You have Carlos, and I have Daniel.” Max picked up the croissant, and Charles’ breath left him in a pained whoosh.

“Yes. And we never talked about it.”

Max nodded, his endearing bluntness and black-and-white way of seeing the world unfailing. “You know Carlos loves you.”

Charles knew that Carlos cared about him, in the same abstract way that they all cared about each other. But love? Perhaps he was too much of a romantic, but Charles did not know about love. “Maybe. If you know that Daniel loves you, then…” he trailed off.

Max, surprisingly, nodded again. “I had thought, of course, that he saw me as… too young. But now, I think I know.”

This was possibly the least cohesive conversation that Charles had ever had, and yet with Max, everything was crystal clear. They did not need to lay out their feelings and thoughts and opinions in a research paper with two pages of citations and 30 footnotes. They knew each other, for better or for worse.

Charles finished his americano as Max brushed crumbs from his hands, his own americano already gone.

“We will be friends, of course,” Max stated as though he had no doubts in the world of that fact.

“Of course,” Charles parroted, only a little bit mocking.

And then Max started talking about his graduation preparations, and Charles let the last of his worries drain away. This was Max, the same Max he’d known since childhood, the same Max that got him a Christmas present even when they weren’t talking to each other, the same Max that held him when he cried for the people he lost and vowed to never join their number.

Of course he wasn’t going to lose him.

A grin crept across Charles’ face unbidden. Now, he could pester Max about Daniel like he’d always wanted to do, and there was nothing Max could do to stop him.

~

Oscar drove Logan to the airport in Lewis’ Mercedes, Lando in the backseat half-asleep and Lewis next to him on his phone. Logan stayed silent the whole drive, though he accepted Oscar’s hand across the console and clutched it tight. The whole Grid came together to send him off with a massive party over the weekend, the first of many going-away parties they’d be throwing that summer. While the party itself had been wild, Oscar kept his eye on his best friend as Logan flitted from group to group accepting congratulations, good luck wishes, and goodbyes. He seemed… calmer. Not necessarily happier, though.

“You can always come back,” Oscar said while they waited at a standstill in the airport traffic.

“I know.” Logan squeezed his hand. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

He had to trust him on that. Once they reached Departures, everyone got out of the car to help Logan unload his bags and say goodbye. Lewis whispered something to him when they hugged, and Lando nearly picked him up off his feet.

And then it was time to say goodbye.

Logan wasn’t a crier, at least not in front of people. Still, Oscar could see the sheen of unshed tears and had to swallow back the lump in his throat as he embraced his oldest and closest friend. With Lily back in Australia, that left Oscar alone, with his newer uni friends now his only company.

“Oh, no, don’t cry, Osc,” Logan said, laughing in an awful, watery way. “You’re gonna make me cry.”

“I’m sorry,” Oscar lied.

Logan sniffed obnoxiously. “No, you’re not.”

“You need to go, Loges,” Lewis said, voice soft.

Oscar pulled away and stepped back to allow Logan to gather his things. Lando stepped into the empty space, taking Oscar’s hand and curving into him. Silent support, as usual.

“Right,” Oscar said, after Logan had been out of sight for a while. It was a miracle they hadn’t been scolded for parking for so long in the drop-off zone. “Let’s go.”

Lando slid into the passenger’s seat as Oscar went around to the driver’s. The drive back was just as silent as the drive to the airport, though this time the hand in Oscar’s was larger and softer, without Logan’s familiar calluses.

George and Alex were in the middle of loading a truck when Oscar pulled up to the driveway, which was missing Lance’s Aston Martin (probably because Lance and Esteban were dealing with the interior design of George and Alex’s new place). George clapped him on the shoulder and then Alex pulled him into a brief hug, muttering “he’ll be okay” in his ear before going off to get another box.

Lando went up to the attic, and Oscar wanted to join him and also wanted to be alone. He stopped on the second floor, looking at Logan’s empty room.

“Max is moving in there.”

Oscar turned slightly towards Charles. They’d broken up about a week ago, and while neither had made moves on Carlos or Daniel, Oscar knew it was only a matter of time. “Who’s taking his spot, then?”

“Isack.”

“I thought Isack was moving into George and Alex’s old room, with Ollie?”

“Kimi is moving in with Ollie now.”

“Then who would be in Lewis’ room?”

“Yuki and Pierre are sharing it, because it is the biggest. And Franco and Jack are in their old room.”

“This seems…”

“Complicated?” Charles grinned at him. “You will see. It is so much worse than it seems.”

Over the next week, Charles’ prediction was proven right. The twin bed in Lewis’ old room ended up on the landing between floors for three entire days as everyone debated what to do with it. Eventually they decided to store it in the attic with the other unused odds and ends that were kept safe under a massive tarp, well-away from Lando and Oscar’s space. Lance supplied a queen-sized bed for Yuki and Pierre, who immediately started arguing over who got what side of the bed. While that occurred, Ollie and Kimi set up their own room, aided occasionally by George and Lance. They were rather sickeningly sweet, Oscar thought as he caught them working together one morning when it was Ollie’s turn to make pancakes.

At the end of the week, Franco and Jack showed up, completely unable to look at each other without blushing profusely. There was something about the Grid that made it a hotspot for couples, Oscar supposed, avoiding looking at them directly for fear of scaring them out of the strange mating ritual that they were enacting. Maybe it was the mould.

Max got with Daniel before Charles got with Carlos, the pair kissing before God and everyone on the Grid right in the middle of an Esteban-pancake Saturday morning. Daniel had slammed in the front door so hard there was a dent in the wall. Oscar won quite a bit of money from the betting pool, including from both Charles and Carlos who separately joined without knowing that the other was also involved in the bet. That was good, otherwise they might have gotten together before Max and Daniel.

Or not good, because it meant that everyone was subject to their pining for even longer. At least Daniel didn’t live at the Grid, so Max’s pining was rather quiet and unobtrusive. Oscar had to hear Lando complaining about Carlos complaining about Charles every night.

Logan sent Oscar updates just about every other day, sometimes with pictures and sometimes with voice notes. Lando printed out a couple of the nicer pictures to put up on the memory wall, alongside other new photos—like that time Pierre flung a pancake into the fireplace during trivia night—and a lot of professional photos of the fashion show. Chloe reached out a couple times to Oscar to use him as a model for the pictures she was sending to different magazines, and Oscar had, surprisingly, been offered a couple of modelling gigs. He accepted some of them, but turned most of them down. Logan demanded pictures of the ones he accepted. Lando promised to provide. Oscar regretted ever introducing the two, and dreaded the day that Lily joined in their scheming.

When graduation weekend arrived, all of the graduates went a little bit berserk. Max completely shut down until his sister showed up and demanded a tour of campus, Esteban was being doted over by Lance and Lewis and Nico (Rosberg) while he had a mental breakdown every other hour, Lance’s dad had already hired renovators for five different projects within the Grid, and Carlos’ entire extended family stayed for dinner one night and ended up completely clearing out their alcohol. Like, entirely. By the time Daniel showed up (and he ended up knowing Lance’s sister’s husband somehow?) Oscar was about ready to find a crowbar and knock himself out with it. It was only Yuki’s good idea to distract everyone with sushi that brought a little peace and quiet to the International (frat)House of Pancakes, the evening before the first day of ceremonies.

~

Esteban helped Lance get dressed, Chloe sitting on the bed looking through Lance’s collection of ties to choose one suitable for graduation. Chloe had already promised to record the ceremony for Esteban to watch later, and Lawrence had brought out some fancy camera to use. Both more or less adopted Esteban the moment they arrived, doting on him to the point that he had to get Lance to call them off for the morning.

“It’s time, Lance,” Lawrence said, rapping his knuckles on the door frame and poking his head comically into the room.

“Right,” Lance said, looking a little pale and green.

Esteban understood. Max was with his family and Daniel and would be meeting Esteban on campus. Until then, he was at the mercy of Lance’s family, and also Lewis and Nico and Charles and Pierre. Esteban ended up inviting Ollie with his last free ticket, Charles and Pierre basically inviting themselves and Lance being a given from the beginning. After the picnic date debacle, Esteban got to know Ollie quite a bit better, mostly-accidentally mentoring him through the end-of-year exams. When Ollie learnt that Esteban had a free ticket, he asked about it, and Esteban just… gave it to him.

With Lance gone, Esteban had to focus on getting ready himself. Half of the Grid (current and former) was preparing for a massive party for all the graduates, complete with more food and alcohol than anyone would ever need. Campus was a complete mess as first years moved out of their dorms (and into nearby flats) and graduates and their families roamed all over taking pictures and videos. You couldn’t walk ten feet without bumping into someone you knew, and Esteban had taken to hiding with Lance while they both avoided the masses. Esteban was usually better at handling people (he was the one dragging Lance into group discussions at parties, after all), but after holing himself up in his room working on his final thesis presentation for weeks on end, it was a bit overwhelming.

“I think you should wear this one,” Chloe declared, barging back into the room after Esteban shooed her off to get dressed himself. She was brandishing a dark green patterned tie like a weapon, and Esteban hadn’t caught a good look at the one she gave to Lance, but he thought this looked rather similar.

It wouldn’t do to disagree, though, so Esteban accepted it and quickly tied it at his throat, stuttering only once in the movements when he remembered that it was his father who taught him this specific knot. If Chloe caught it, she said nothing.

The Strolls left some time later, and it was only when Ollie bounded into the room and dragged him down to the first floor that Esteban realised the time.

“Go, go! We’ll try to get seats close to the front for you and Max, yeah?”

Esteban found Max by looking first for Daniel. They were at the doors to the building, surrounded by what seemed like half of the STEM graduates. When Esteban joined, they all brought him into bruising hugs.

The practise flew by quickly, Esteban gripping the little paper with his name printed on it and getting smudges of ink on his fingertips. When they all filed into the formal auditorium space, the reality settled heavy around his shoulders. Only the excited shouts from Charles and Pierre kept him from sinking too far into his mind; and there they were, leaning over the railing on the first mezzanine and waving at him to get his attention. The whole group took up almost an entire row of seats, with Charles and Pierre on one end, then Lance with Ollie next to him, and then Lewis, Daniel, and Max’s mum and sister on the other end. Only one seat remained in the row, but it seemed likely to stay empty.

Esteban waved back. With him stuck in the “O” section and Max several students back in the “V” section, he couldn’t exactly get Max’s attention easily. He waited until they sat down and ended up being directly in front of Max, who immediately started tapping his shoulder.

“Did you see them?”

“They’re up there,” Esteban said, pointing until Max was able to find their group. They all waved once they realised Max and Esteban were looking at them, and Lance brandished the fancy camera at them. So he’d be recording, then. Good. That would be… good.

While Esteban’s parents hadn’t asked for a recording of the ceremony, they’d probably appreciate having one anyway. If nothing else, it would be be nice to look back, however many years down the line.

~

Daniel bounded down to the building exit—all of the graduates were told to, essentially, scatter to the four winds so that there wouldn’t be a massive crush of families trying to find their student. Luckily, Esteban was on the taller side, so Daniel scanned the crowd of crying families and overexcited graduates until his eyes caught on familiar fluffy brown hair.

“Over there!” he shouted, pointing in Esteban’s direction. Lance took off towards him, and Daniel quickly followed behind as the crowds slowly started dissipating around them.

Lance flung himself at Esteban, and while Daniel wanted to congratulate him, he had his own priorities.

Max’s gaze hadn’t left the crowd around him for one second.

“Hey, Maxy,” Daniel greeted, carefully laying a hand on his shoulder. “I’m proud of you.”

As though he didn’t hear him, Max spoke. “He didn’t come. He really didn’t come.”

Something old and well-rooted made its existence known in the depths of Daniel’s chest at the broken words. For so long, Max had spent his days trying to make his dad proud, trying to live up to his lofty standards. When Daniel first met Max, he was a dichotomous kid, both painfully young and painfully grown up. He looked at Daniel and listened when he spoke and Daniel knew about the puppy crush, but then he thought… well, he had his own self-esteem issues, and when Max had people like Charles interested in him, it was hard not to compare yourself. There were moments, of course, that Daniel thought “maybe” and “it could work” and “he might be interested” but those moments were few and far between. Usually they came on a Monday or Wednesday when they met for coffee and Daniel tried to act the same as he always had. It was hard when Max looked like that. Looked at him like that.

And all throughout the four years that Daniel knew Max, his dad loomed over him. Daniel was lucky that his family was good, that his parents were supportive and just wanted him to be happy. It was hard, at first, to understand the mindset of Jos Verstappen, and even harder to understand Max. The little angry monster in Daniel’s chest wanted to rip the man apart for what he had done to his son, and that monster’s voice had never gotten any quieter.

Daniel tucked Max into him in a tight hug. “He’s not here. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

Max shuddered against him and only pulled away when his mother and sister hugged him, releasing Daniel to bury his head in their shoulders. Lewis stepped up beside Daniel, still an unwavering pillar of support for the younger guys who all seemed to have something a little wrong with them.

“I’m glad he has you,” Lewis said, voice low so the noise of the crowd kept the words private.

Daniel nodded. It was a long time coming, him and Max. He wouldn’t give it up for the world.

~

“Here they come!” Lando darted away from the window and back into the darkened room where everyone else was waiting. The grads and their families had all gone out for a big joint dinner, those in-the-know purposefully lingering long enough for the remaining Grid members to set up the party.

George, of course, had put himself in charge of organising everything, from the cake with all four grad’s names on it to the drinks (because Esteban would be kept well away from his usual bartending position so he could enjoy the party). The first years (now soon to be second years) threw themselves into the preparations with unmatched gusto, excited about helping set up their first real Grid party. George had Ollie putting up streamers and Kimi on the other decorations, Isack in the kitchen with Yuki, and Jack and Franco moving the furniture around to make space for everyone. Nico, Kevin, and Gabi (now living with them) showed up early to help as well, and then everyone else arrived when Lewis texted George that they were wrapping up dinner. George then sent out the “get your arses over here now or else” message to the specialised group chat and stressed until everyone had shown up and hidden.

George and Alex would be greeting the grads at the door as normally as possible, then on Alex’s signal, everyone would jump out to surprise them.

A key turned in the lock, and the door swung open with a slight squeak. Max was the first one in, leading Lance and Esteban, and Carlos bringing up the rear.

“Congratulations,” George said sincerely.

“Yeah, congrats, guys!” Alex lent into George’s side. “We’re so proud of you!”

That was the cue.

Two dozen people popped out of various hiding spots and shouted a bunch of different phrases (no one could agree on what to say, and eventually George just gave up and told them to say whatever they wanted) that resulted in a cacophonous boom of noise. Lando was singing something, Jenson had shouted what sounded like “penis” loud enough to be heard over everyone else, and Kimi Raikkonen was once again looming by the cake to protect it from the more impatient people.

George ended up buried by Lance and Esteban in a very tight hug, and by the time he managed to extract himself, Lando had gotten hold of the speakers and was playing house music at a surprisingly normal volume level. He glared and stuck his tongue out at George when he gave him a confused look, clearly conveying “I’m not always chaos incarnate” as Oscar not-so-subtly stuck his hand in Lando’s back pocket.

George was going to leave them to it. He had no interest in… whatever the fuck that was.

Yuki and Isack bullied everyone away from the cake so they could cut it, and then more congratulations went around as people cheersed with their slices of cake and forks.

A flash of movement drew George’s attention from the heart-warming scene, towards the slightly-cracked bedroom door of Charles and Carlos.

Alex nudged him and then lent in to whisper. “I think they’re doing it!”

“Really?” George sidled around the edge of the room towards the door. There were so many people that it was pretty easy to stick to the edges and stay relatively unnoticed, as Charles and Carlos must’ve done as well.

A peek in the door confirmed Alex’s guess.

The pair stood, arms wrapped around each other, kissing like their lives depended on it.

“We won that betting pool, then,” Alex said at a normal volume, causing the pair to spring apart as though burnt.

Charles glared daggers at them, while Carlos just pulled him back into him once he realised it was only George and Alex. George had honestly expected them to beat around the bush a bit more, dance around each other for another month and then get together over the summer once they figured things out a little bit more securely. Alex, however, had been convinced that they were right on the cusp of getting together, and George went with what Alex thought.

“We deserve fifteen percent,” Charles declared, still glaring.

“Max and Danny didn’t get fifteen percent,” Alex pointed out.

Charles waved his hand dismissively. “They do not care about the betting.”

“And you do?”

George grabbed his fiance’s hand and dragged him away. “Let them have fifteen, they probably deserve it.” Then, shouting back over his shoulder—“We’re happy for you!”

Alex set about collecting the betting pool, dragging Jenson with him to make sure his spreadsheet was up-to-date (George would be keeping some of the spreadsheets next year because Jenson would be busier with his job and likely unable to run both the old man betting pools and the younger betting pools).

When Carlos and Charles finally left their room and rejoined the party, George pressed a drink each in their hands (a cherry-heavy one for Charles and a lime-based one for Carlos) as an apology and congratulations. Alex was sulking about having to give them a cut of the pool, but George knew he’d come around. It made sense, after all, and Alex would see that. Besides, he could never stay mad for longer than, like, five minutes tops.

The new couple accepted the drinks and toasted each other and George. Though the party’s volume kept him from hearing their words, George knew exactly what they said. “To us.”

~

Eventually, people trickled out into the warm night, propped up on each other and full of good food and drink and cheer. Nico allowed Lance to pull him aside, away from Lewis, to talk about some building details for the Grid, while their respective partners said goodbye to the next wave of departures. Lance, unsurprisingly, had plans for renovations over the summer when most Grid residents would be off enjoying the break, and Nico sipped his tonic water (with a wedge of lime) and half-listened. He’d remember this conversation in the morning and schedule an official meeting with Lance, but for now, he was content to let his mind wander.

Lewis had finally finished moving in with Nico, and they already had plans in the works for the long-abandoned dream of running a designer clothing company together. At the same time, their fashion mentees (and also all of the other students who latched onto them) were insistent on selling the patents of the more popular designs that came out of the fashion show. To them. Chloe had, apparently, been working with Oscar to put together an entire folder of cohesive ideas, and she cornered Nico in the sewing room to schedule a joint meeting with him, Lewis, Toto, and several other younger fashion students to see about collaborating.

Their no-longer-abandoned dream was not so secret, anymore.

Lewis was, of course, thrilled. Nico had been working closely with Professor Hakkinen and Kimi (Raikkonen, not Antonelli) to build the foundation of their business, eventually bringing Daniel into the mix when it became clear that his specific business expertise would be beneficial. Charles dragged Max, Oscar, and Professor Prost (an interesting group that Nico was wholly disappointed to miss out on) to look at the potential brick-and-mortar spaces that Nico had bookmarked in their “ideas” folder for Lewis to consider. Alain then actually willingly went to Senna to discuss the more whimsical interior building designs that Lewis and Charles made. Nico had been present for that bizarre meeting. He didn’t want to talk about it.

Having all these people involved made Lewis somehow even more stubborn and determined to make their business work, and Nico couldn’t say no when Lewis got that look on his face. That was Hamilton against the world, and in his experience, Hamilton won in every match.

A brief reprieve in their work came just in time for graduation. Nico was waiting to hear back from three property managers, Lewis reached a breakthrough in one of his collections and was able to put it aside for the first time in weeks, and their underlings (not that Lewis would call them that) were happy for the break.

Unfortunately, that reprieve meant that everyone and their mother wanted to talk to Nico or Lewis about something or other. In this case, renovating the Grid.

Lewis accepted a kiss on the cheek from Carlos’ aunt—or grandmother or cousin or whoever—and made a face at Nico expressing his clear intent to leave. Nico smiled and turned back to Lance, clapping a hand on his shoulder.

“We can talk more tomorrow, yes?”

Lance, good-natured boy that he was, accepted the dismissal and the hug from Lewis with a smile and a promise to get some sleep and eat more cake in the morning.

As they walked home, hand in hand, Nico marvelled at how his life had turned around so quickly in just one wild spring semester. From not speaking with Lewis at all to (re)planning their future together, from having a couple close friends to being bombarded with texts every day from people he knew sincerely cared about him.

Post-graduate-fallout Nico wouldn’t believe it. Even Nico-of-six-months-ago would probably scoff and look away.

Right now, though, he couldn’t imagine himself anywhere else.

~

Lando woke up early and rolled over in his bed to look across at Oscar’s bed. A lump of person with only their hair visible confirmed that Oscar was still passed out and likely to stay that way, so Lando slid out of his bed and stretched. His back cracked delightfully as he bent down to place his hands flat on the ground, only possible after literal years of yoga.

He didn’t bother changing out of his pyjamas, only grabbing his phone from the charger and placing a kiss on Oscar’s hair before heading down.

Isack was an early riser, Lando learnt soon after he moved in with Liam. Lando just about had a heart attack when he went down to start on his pancake shift, only to find Isack bouncing around the kitchen making muffins. The new residents (which Charles had taken to calling the rookies for some reason) had been seamlessly integrated into the pancake chart, as they all said on their applications that yes, they were able and willing to make an insane amount of pancakes once in a while. Honestly, Lando had no idea what was up with the formal applications to move into the Grid, given that usually the applications arrived after the applicant had moved in, or in Ollie’s case, after he’d already had pancake duty. George used to handle the applications, and he still did some things despite moving out, but the process had always been less-than-functional.

Lando accepted a cup of coffee from Isack, who had taken to experimenting with different flavoured syrups with Yuki. There was a matcha syrup in the fridge and an in-high-demand apple cider syrup in Mason jars in the pantry, but this coffee tasted like some kind of fragrant herb that Lando didn’t know the name of, and lemon. Weird combination with coffee, but not bad.

“It is rosemary,” Isack explained.

Esteban appeared to begin on his pancakes, shooing Isack to the other side of the island to sit with Lando. Kimi joined them, another early riser. He always looked and acted like he’d had five Red Bulls the moment he woke up, though Ollie insisted that they had no caffeine in their room and “that’s just how Kimi is.”

“Good morning!” Kimi greeted, far too loudly for a post-party morning.

Not a lot of people had actually gotten super drunk, surprisingly. Lando had one drink that he nursed for a while before getting some brightly-coloured, sugary mocktail that tasted like lemon and blueberries and was so good that Lando didn’t have anything else the rest of the night. Not even Oscar’s green apple drink was better, and normally Lando was a slut for anything green apple.

Max thumped down the stairs. Carlos yelled at him in Spanish, and Max only grumbled in Dutch as he tackled Charles’ espresso machine. Their stint as a couple had hooked him on americanos in the morning, in addition to his usual Red Bulls. Oscar said that americanos were Max’s go-to drink at a coffee shop, and when Lando asked him how he knew that, Oscar just shrugged and said “I just know” which was not helpful and also kind of scary.

Lando had half-expected Max to go home with Daniel after the party, given how codependent they could be, but maybe he’d decided—ah, never mind.

“Good morning, my wonderful friends!” Daniel boomed, tumbling down the stairs and looking more sober than Lando had ever seen him after a party.

The front door opened, admitting Charles, who held a brown paper bag labelled with the new bakery’s logo.

Someone hugged him from behind, their face buried in his neck. Lando turned his head to the side, nose brushing the top of the person’s head. Oscar’s floppy hair was slightly greasy from sleep and sweat and he smelt like a brewery and apples, and Lando couldn’t stop the smile that spread across his face.

“Daniel wake you?” Lando asked. Oscar nodded, his nose rubbing against the worn collar of Lando’s sleep shirt with the movement. “Do you wanna lay on the couch and sleep more?

“With you?” Oscar’s voice was deep and raspy with sleep.

Well, he wasn’t going to turn down an invitation like that.

Slowly, the rest of the house woke up and filled the kitchen and living room, and Lando watched while Oscar fell back asleep laying on top of him. Everyone had things they had to do that day—Esteban was helping a professor clean out one of the labs, Lance apparently had a meeting with Nico (Rosberg, not Hulkenberg), and Carlos and Charles needed to do inventory for one of the art buildings. Lando listened to everyone talk around him (ignoring the multiple pictures taken of him and Oscar on the couch) and dozed off, too happy to care about things like blackmail or meetings.

Chapter Text

In the mountains, in the cities, you can see the dream. Look around you; has it found you? Is it what it seems? There’s a world you’re living in. No one else has your part. All God’s children in the wind—take it in and blow hard.

~

“—honeymoon before coming back for school.”

Max shut the front door behind him, catching what seemed to be the tail end of Alex’s explanation to Lando and Charles of what the post-wedding plans were. George had shared a calendar with everyone that had all the pertinent times and dates on it so they would know the exact schedule of the wedding itself, but the calendar also had the dates and locations of the happy couple’s subsequent honeymoon.

George’s parents had gone all out for their kid, meaning that Max found himself up in Scotland in the middle of the wilderness at what he could only describe as a massive hunting lodge, or something.

Max helped George and Alex settle on their wedding parties in the middle of the night in June, after the chaos of graduation and moving and Lance’s plans for renovation that were currently being enacted, as no one was at the Grid right now. Alex had gone with his long-time friend Lily Muni He for his “best woman” as he described her, and George had Lando as his “man of honour.” The rest of Alex’s side consisted of his brother, Luca, his three sisters, Chloe, Zoe, and Alicia, and Charles. George asked Max, Lewis, and Kimi to be a part of his party, and all three of them agreed. They joined two of George’s siblings, Benjy and Cara, to round out the party. Liam was, for some reason, their ring bearer, and little Kimi was their flower girl. He insisted on the title of flower girl, too.

Max drove up with a car full of people, alongside Lance’s Aston and Lewis’ Mercedes, just as crammed. Daniel in the passenger’s seat had almost fully twisted his body around in order to keep up with the conversation happening between Yuki, Pierre, Isack, Liam, Sebastian, and Mark. Max had never driven with all eight seats filled, and Yuki in between Pierre and Liam in the backseat was the only one Max could clearly see in his rear view mirror. He did not look happy.

Lewis also had an eight-seater, with Jenson, Doriane, Valtteri, Zhou, Britney, little Kimi, and Ollie joining him. Lance’s Aston could only fit five, including the driver, so he rounded out their road trip group with Esteban, Hulk, Kevin, and Gabriel.

When they got to their destination, Max half-thought that they were in the wrong place. A massive house towered over them, surrounded by dense forest that they’d been driving through for an indeterminate amount of time.

Daniel’s two-way radio crackled to life.

“Aston to Honda,” Gabriel said, the only one in the Aston car willing to indulge Daniel’s ridiculous idea of having walkie talkies to keep in touch with the other cars instead of anything normal like a group chat. “We’re pulling around to the garage in the back. Over.”

Max followed Lance around the massive house, Lewis now behind him, and the three cars parked side-by-side in the six-car garage, which was separate from the main building. A beautiful red Ferrari and a silver Mercedes were already parked in the garage, and there had been another Honda parked in the driveway up to the front door of the house.

21 people piled out of the cars.

George and Alex came out to greet them, clearly amused by the sheer number of people who managed to fit into three cars, and then gave them a brief tour of the house. It had four floors each with six bedrooms and three bathrooms, and most people would have to be doubled up.

Max latched onto Daniel as everyone else paired off and accepted their room assignments. Once they had all settled their things, they met back in the main hall for a late lunch. George had handled all of their wedding outfits (rightfully not trusting two dozen college students to treat expensive suits and dresses and whatnot with the right care) and the entire afternoon was filled with last-minute try-ons and alterations. Max had opted for a traditional suit, Valtteri was in a pantsuit, Lewis had on a full dress, and everyone else looked a bit like they should’ve been a part of the fashion show.

About halfway through the impromptu runway, Lando and Oscar walked in the front door, the former carrying a massive box of clinking glass somethings, and the latter with so many bouquets of flowers in his arms that he wasn’t actually visible. Max only guessed that it was Oscar based on the maroon shirt and black shorts combo.

That first evening, everyone ended up in the basement, playing pool and foosball and video games and cards and catching up on their summers. Max hadn’t actually seen many people since June, and the whole joint drive up from campus happened mostly on accident. Mid-August saw a lot of people coming back to campus to move into or out of accommodations, and when Max offered up his car in the group chat, Lewis and Lance did the same, and it turned into a whole Thing that they were driving up together.

It was nice to catch up.

George put Max to work picking up an order of table decorations the next morning, and after taking it to the venue (about a five-minute walk from the main house through a gorgeous trail in the woods to a wide open pavilion that already looked wedding-ready), Max returned to the house. That was where he found Alex, Lando, and Charles discussing the honeymoon.

As much as he loved his friends, Max did not want to stick around to hear about whatever sappy shit George and Alex would be getting up to, so he waved and walked through the main hall to the kitchen.

As expected, Yuki and Isack (with the reluctant help of Liam) were working on the rehearsal dinner. George and Alex had gone professional with the main wedding dinner and cake, but they’d enlisted Yuki’s talents for the rehearsal dinner.

Through the kitchen, Max continued to the secondary dining room (the house had three) and then beyond that to the sitting room that connected to the back porch. Doriane, little Kimi, Ollie, Gabriel, and the recently-arrived Chloe Chambers had been tasked with arranging flowers for the dinner table centrepieces, and from what Max saw as he passed them and went down the steps to the backyard, the arrangements were looking gorgeous.

“Oh, Max, good!” Daniel called out as Max approached Oscar’s car, the sixth and final one to occupy the garage. “Here, take these.”

Daniel handed Max a case of cider, and then another, and another. Oscar already had what seemed like the most wine one could possibly ever need cradled in his arms, and his car wasn’t even half empty. Max understood why George entrusted Oscar with the alcohol (pretty much everyone else would be far too tempted, and also generally couldn’t be trusted with large amounts of glass), but it was amusing to see the normally-stoic Australian looking absolutely baffled and uncomfortable with a car full of more booze than the average liquor store.

“This is going to the walk-in cooler in the basement,” Oscar told Max as Daniel carefully picked up two boxes of champagne bottles.

It took seven total trips to transport everything into the house, down the stairs in the kitchen to the basement, and then across the massive basement to the freezing cold room where bulk food and drink were being held for the wedding.

Max loved his friends dearly. He really, really did. George and Alex deserved the wedding of their dreams, and with George’s organisational abilities and Alex’s stubbornness, they’d definitely be getting it.

Max would be happy eloping with only two witnesses and a minister.

It would be a long couple of days.

~

Oscar felt a lot like a security guard as he directed guests away from the house and towards the trail that would take them to the wedding pavilion. George and Alex had gone with several shades of blue for their wedding colours, and despite not being a part of the wedding party, they’d insisted that everyone be dressed appropriately in one of those blues. Oscar went with a particularly dark navy for his suit with accents of a light teal colour in his tie and pocket square and cufflinks. As he gently steered an elderly couple, also dressed in shades of blue, in the right direction, he shifted so the fabric across his shoulders settled more comfortably.

Lando’s suit was primarily that teal colour, over a satin blouse that was the same dark navy as Oscar’s suit. They matched. Logan, who only arrived that morning, said they were very cute. Zhou agreed.

With the best woman and man of honour busy keeping the two grooms from panicking, Oscar took it upon himself to keep nosy (or simply lost) guests from intruding on the house that held most of the Grid (current and former) and the immediate family of George and Alex. Most of the rest of the wedding party was running around ensuring everything was exactly right, and Lily had given Oscar the go-ahead when he asked if it would be helpful for him to direct guests towards the trail.

The Wolffs arrived in a stylish Mercedes, and Susie kissed Oscar’s cheeks after Toto gave him a tight hug. That was nice, if a bit confusing. Oscar didn’t know either of them well, and had only worked with them a couple of times for the fashion show and with Chloe.

Speaking of—

“That’s everyone who RSVP’d,” Chloe said, holding up her phone. George’s mum had been marking off the guests as they arrived, and texting a group chat that consisted of Oscar, Chloe, Doriane, and Alex’s dad. “Mr Albon says we should head to the pavilion now.”

Oscar shifted his shoulders again.

The trail to the pavilion was paved and well-kept, but the decorating committee (headed by Ollie and little Kimi) had taken the extra flowers and ribbons and such and lined the path beautifully. White chairs with garlands of dyed-blue flowers made up the seats for the wedding itself, somehow managing to fit under the massive pavilion despite the insanely long guest list. Oscar didn’t know which Etsy witch George made a deal with to ensure they had good weather, but whatever it was, it worked. A few fluffy clouds drifted across the sky, a light breeze blew through the pavilion every now and again—ruffling the decorations and carrying the scent of sun-warmed grass—and despite it being the absolute depths of summer, it was neither hot nor humid.

The ceremony itself was beautiful as well.

Max and Charles led the wedding party, and little Kimi took his job tossing flower petals very seriously. Both George and Alex walked down the aisle, one after the other, and their vows had public and private parts. The public ones were funny and heart-warming, and whatever they whispered to each other, too quiet to be heard over the rustling leaves and sniffling guests, made them both tear up. Oscar wasn’t a crier at weddings, but Lando was. Oscar had a little travel pack of tissues in his inner pocket ready for him.

It was the work of about fifteen minutes for pavilion to go from wedding-ready to dining-ready, with professionals sweeping through to set up the tables and move the chairs around. All of the guests spread out in the clearing around the pavilion, admiring the flowers and lights and recovering from the emotions of the ceremony.

Oscar found Lando and quietly handed him a tissue.

George and Alex were making their rounds accepting congratulations and well-wishes, and Oscar had never seen either of them look happier in all the months he knew them.

“Did you think you’d be attending a wedding eight months after meeting everyone?” Lando asked, voicing Oscar’s exact thoughts.

He shook his head. “Not even close.”

Logan joined them and also accepted a tissue. “You’ll have to keep me updated on how insufferable they are next year.”

Oscar agreed easily.

Once the tables and everything were finally set up, everyone found their seats (George had an efficient numbering and labelling system that had everyone sat in under five minutes) and the food was brought out. Alex’s dad started the toasts with a moving speech that had almost everyone in tears, and Lando ended the speeches with one that had everyone laughing. As the sun set over the trees, George and Alex had their first dance, lit by the red-gold sun, and Oscar sent a silent thank you out into the universe.

Eight months ago, he thought he’d be suffering quietly through an awkward semester of living with thirteen other guys who all seemed to already be best friends. He’d never been happier to be proved wrong.

~

The happy couple went off on their honeymoon immediately, but everyone else stuck around an extra day at the house in order to clean up and transport all of the wedding gifts back to George and Alex’s new flat near campus. Lewis volunteered his car for gift-moving duty, meaning only he and Nico would be in it driving back. The other six occupants were spread out amongst the other cars, and Lewis looked away when Ollie and Kimi folded themselves into the boot of Max’s car with matching grins. As far as he knew, everything that was happening was 100% safe and legal. Even better, he knew nothing. He was just innocently helping his dear friends out by managing their wedding gifts while they made the most of the time before uni started back up.

They left early the morning after the wedding, the sun still rising and dew clinging to every blade of grass. Nico navigated them out of the forest and then took over the music to play experimental Italian rap.

“You know,” Nico began, “our wedding is going to be even worse than that.”

Lewis sighed, even as his heart beat faster at the fact that Nico was thinking about their wedding. It had been something they talked about a lot, whether they wanted to elope and then throw a massive party for their reception, or if they wanted to go through with the whole wedding and reception in the traditional sense. There was a difference, though, between mutually discussing your hypothetical wedding, and speaking as though it was a fact that it would happen.

If he hadn’t been driving, Lewis would’ve kissed Nico.

“Yeah,” he said, instead of leaning across the console to tongue his boyfriend. “Definitely going to need George’s help organising it all.”

“We can hire him as our wedding planner.”

Lewis thought that Alex might actually kill them if they tried to hire George to organise their wedding. He said as much, and the conversation devolved into figuring out who the worst wedding planner would be. Nico seemed to think it would be Max, while Lewis thought that the combination of Ollie and Kimi would be the worst. Or maybe Yuki and Isack. They’d be good for food and not much else.

They reached campus much sooner than Lewis was expecting, and he used his key to George and Alex’s flat to put all of their wedding presents in the living room. The rest of the flat was fully set up for them, ready for when they returned from Spain (the last stop on their honeymoon).

Lewis showered once they got back to their flat, Nico unpacking their suitcases in the meantime, and then they waited until everyone had checked back in that they were safe wherever they needed to be before they went to bed. Lewis might not live at the Grid anymore, but he wasn’t going to leave them out to dry. A lot of the kids (and he had no idea when he started thinking of them as kids) were rather hungover, and while Max, Lance, Oscar, and DC were all responsible and didn’t drink much the night before, Lewis was still concerned at the health of his friends.

Everyone was okay, though, so Lewis fell asleep curled around Nico and dreamed of sunflower-yellow suits.

~

Rushing across campus to get to the art buildings was getting old, but then Charles had complained of this exact thing when he was Alain Prost’s TA last semester, so he supposed he could only blame himself. He was only running late because Ollie didn’t know where the photography building was—not the main one, but the one with all the dark rooms that they used for teaching the film students how to literally develop film. It was hidden behind the photography exhibit that connected the two buildings together (really just a glorified hallway with a bunch of gorgeous pictures hung from the ceiling) and Charles himself had once spent twenty minutes looking for it when he decided to try his hand at developing film. He sucked at it, of course. The time spent lost and wandering was more useful than the actual class, for him.

Carlos had waited for Charles, though, texting him to let him know that he was right outside the east entrance of the west-most art building.

Charles nearly tripped as he skidded around the corner. Carlos stood by the steps leading up to the entrance, distracted looking down at his phone, and Charles used the time to collect himself so he wouldn’t look totally ridiculous.

Then again, this was Carlos. He should be used to Charles looking ridiculous.

“Ah, mi amor, there you are.” Carlos reached out a hand towards Charles as he jogged up to him, still catching his breath. “Professor Prost was just by. He said he was looking for you?”

Charles accepted the hand and let Carlos pull him into him. “I submitted my portfolio for my capstone this year and he emailed me about meeting to talk about it.”

“Mmm, impressive,” Carlos said, sounding genuinely sincere. He always did seem impressed by Charles’ work. “Are you ready?”

What did you get when you put to romantics together in a relationship? Well, a lot of things, actually, but mainly this: Carlos was TA-ing a class on digitalising one’s art, focusing on several major editing platforms. Charles needed to get better at using online tools for his designs. He signed up for the class, and Carlos promised not to grade him leniently, but they were both romantics at heart. Carlos had given Charles’ start-of-year assignment a 100%.

Maybe the class was early, but it was an excuse to learn valuable skills and spend more time with his boyfriend, so he would never complain.

~

Nico looked up and sighed as Gabriel skipped into his office, Kevin right behind him holding a paper bag of takeout. He knew he’d been working hard to start up the autumn athletic season—and both Gabi and Kevin pointed out that he needed to take a break—but they’d had an influx of talented athletes who all needed special tutoring in different subjects (getting in on a sports scholarship had its drawbacks, after all), and Nico was in charge of organising the tutors and sessions.

“I have solved your problem!” Gabriel announced, sitting on Nico’s desk and leaning across it. He managed to make the cliché move look enticing. Nico knew he was overpowered here, so he closed his laptop and gestured for Kevin to set the food down and get comfortable.

They were still exploring their dynamic, three instead of two, but Gabi fit magnificently with the routines and habits that Nico and Kevin already had. He was busy with undergraduate classes still, too, so much of his spare time was already occupied with studying, projects, and kissing up to professors to get extensions on deadlines. Only recently had he freed up his schedule, and it seemed to Nico that Gabi was firmly determined to spend as much time as possible with him and Kevin.

“Kimi is able to tutor for mathematics on Tuesday and on Thursday, and Ollie said he will tutor in the writing. Wednesday and Friday. And Pierre is in business, so he will help as well with the economics classes.” Gabriel accepted his polystyrene container of food from Kevin and grinned down at Nico. “That is everything, right, old man?”

It was. Kevin had pointed out that with as many people as they knew, it was likely that Nico would be able to find a friend to fill in the deficits that their usual tutors couldn’t. Scheduling had been especially difficult, and there were athletes who needed tutoring on days that the usual tutors were not free. If Kimi, Ollie, and Pierre were in fact capable of tutoring, then that would fix Nico’s problem beautifully.

He didn’t want to inflate Gabriel’s ego, but he had just helped immensely. “Yes, Gabriela, that is everything. Thank you.”

And Gabi preened just as Nico expected he would. Kevin shared a smirk with Nico over the lid of his container, equally amused at Gabi’s reaction.

They finished their food with the conversation bouncing from the newly-reorganised athletic department to Gabriel’s latest idiot classmate (who was apparently Ollie’s roommate last year, or maybe Ollie’s roommate’s friend?). It was easier than Nico had initially feared, especially after being forced into close proximity by the wedding in August. Kevin would have driven the three of them up, but then his car exploded (kind of) and they had to hitch a ride with Lance and Esteban. Then at the house, there were limited rooms, so the three of them shared and very quickly had to get comfortable with each other. They’d been “official” for a while, but it was still slow-going, despite having Gabi move in with them.

Nico still harboured some doubts, but then he also knew that Fernando would probably kill him if he hurt Gabi. It was hard to be worried when he was being held so obviously accountable.

Kevin balled up his paper napkin and flung it at him, drawing Nico from his thoughts.

~

Abbi nearly kicked the door down as she made her way into the flat. Doriane kept saying she’d fix the messed up hinges, and Abbi kept accepting her words at face value, and then nothing happened and Abbi would have to throw her entire bodyweight against the door in order to get in.

Honestly, she didn’t really mind. She was just more baffled at how Doriane managed to unstick the door, given that Doriane was, like, ninety pounds soaking wet.

The sound of angry French permeated the air.

Abbi pulled her shoes off and found her roommate (and girlfriend!) arguing with Isack Hadjar about something. Isack was holding what looked like a photo album out of Doriane’s reach, clearly taunting her.

It had taken a little while to parse out, but eventually Abbi realised that Isack and Doriane were old childhood friends. Not super close, but close enough that both of their families had precious childhood photos of the two of them. Abbi had seen a lot lately. After Doriane’s work with the fashion school the year before, she’d decided to take a couple of classes. One of the fashion school projects required the students to find childhood photos to restyle with paper clothing, or something like that, but unfortunately, most of the pictures that she had of her and Isack were of them rough-housing or karting together.

There was a strangely large concentration of former-karters at the school. Probably just a coincidence.

(A universe over, several dozen professional racecar drivers felt a chill fall over them, like the feeling when someone in a crowd is watching you. They all dismissed it.)

Abbi was a good head taller than Doriane, meaning she was easily tall enough to liberate the photo album from Isack. Apparently, neither one noticed her coming in.

“Thanks for this,” Abbi said sarcastically, dodging both Isack’s and her girlfriend’s grasping hands. “Didn’t you say something about dinner, Dori?”

Doriane spun on Isack, more French falling from her mouth, and Abbi flipped through the album as Isack started on dinner. As the scent of thyme and garlic filled the air, she relaxed. Her days were busy, her wrists hurt from working with thick acrylic, and she had no paint-less trousers suitable for work, meaning she’d have to either get them specially cleaned, or get new clothes.

None of that mattered now.

Doriane pressed against her side and started explaining the more interesting pictures.

~

Lewis and Nico revealed their store right before winter break, and Liam turned in his application to be on their team that same day. They’d asked him about his interest in helping physically construct the garments (not everyone interested in fashion could necessarily sew) and Liam, of course, said he’d love to work for them.

The store announcement, though, was a bit of a surprise.

Liam helped Nico with some of the paperwork for the place they’d settled on, but he saw the place himself and knew it would take a lot of work to make it a proper store. Charles and a handful of professors were helping, Liam knew, but beyond that, he’d been focused on his own work. Ollie had been working on the set for one of the shows that the theatre school was putting on, and Ollie got Liam in contact with the head costumer, so Liam had been helping with alterations for the many costumes in the show.

He was also adjusting to being Isack’s roommate. Max had been very self sufficient and independent, but Isack wanted to take Liam with him everywhere. To the park, to the gym, to a show, to the cinema, to a cooking exhibition. Even if he was just going downstairs to make lunch, he’d annoy Liam until he joined him. It was… strangely nice, honestly. To be so obviously wanted, or whatever.

Anyway, Lewis and Nico revealed their store, and along with it, they revealed the name they’d settled on.

Lauda had a brick facade and hardwood floors, a sitting area near the front and a pedestal for customers to stand on to show off any garments they tried on, similar to bridal stores. Half of the space was taken up by fabric samples, mannequins modelling some of Lewis’ designs from the fashion show, and a massive book of vintage patterns on a large sewing table. The whole place had the vibe of a comfortable, posh sitting room in some billionaire’s mansion, but it worked.

Already, Lewis and Nico had been contacted by interested clients and several fashion magazines, meaning Liam would be starting right away. He already had a pile of patterns and the bolts of fabric, as well as the measurements of the model who would be wearing the design.

After the grand opening of the store and Liam’s official hiring, Lewis and Nico went off on vacation, and Liam started putting together the various garments. Occasionally, Isack would drag him and whatever piece he was working on down to the kitchen to keep him company while he cooked, but more often than not, Isack would bring a bowl of whatever up to Liam, to make sure he still ate despite working nearly 24/7.

Friends. Liam had friends.

~

The semester ended uneventfully, for Oscar, at least. He had his exams, he had his final presentation about the properties of magnesium alloys put under stress and tension (thank you, Daniel), and he participated in the celebratory end-of-semester party that tended to double as a Christmas party, general holiday party, winter party, New Year’s party, and an excuse to clear out any old alcohol and mixers in the fridge.

A year had passed since he first moved in.

A year was a lot of time, Oscar came to realise, even if the days felt like they flew by faster and faster. His and Lando’s seven-month anniversary was coming up, but sometimes Oscar opened his eyes in the morning and felt like their first kiss happened just last week. Their relationship had never been fragile in that way many early relationships tended to be—they skipped right from “honeymoon period” to “old married couple” according to Alex, who was still firmly in the literal “honeymoon” part of his and George’s relationship. He talked about their time in Spain near-constantly. It was getting a little grating.

A year.

Going into things, Oscar had two friends. Logan, who’d stuck with him through thick and thin, and Lily, who liked to give him a reality check every other month by dropping some awful truth on him and then sending him a picture of herself giving a cheery thumbs-up.

Now, in the new year, Oscar had a minimum of ten people whom he would consider friends. Lando, obviously. Charles. George and Alex. Carlos, somehow. Max, obviously, and then Ollie, strangely enough. Zhou and Valtteri still invited him over (and sometimes even allowed him to bring Lando with him), and Yuki, Liam, and Isack all liked to use Oscar as a test subject for their kitchen concoctions. And then Chloe often reached out just to talk, without needing him as a model, and Jack was a stand-up guy, really—okay, so well more than ten people, actually.

It was really quite wonderful.

Oscar still hated getting up early in the morning, and he’d thankfully gotten a wonderful schedule for last semester that allowed him to lounge until noon, but this upcoming semester would be brutal. A 9:00 am class. He wouldn’t make it. Even worse, it was quantum physics. Quantum chemistry had already kicked his arse (and he even had Esteban’s help for that class, in return for helping Esteban with his physics), and yes, he was good at physics, but quantum shit made his head spin. Pierre said it was all just “probability theory” which was not helpful, and Lando looked at his work upside down and said it seemed to be the same as right side up.

It was Yuki, strangely enough, that pointed out when a year had passed.

He presented Oscar with a small cupcake that had a singular candle stuck in the chocolate frosting. “Happy one year at the Grid.”

“Thank you.” Oscar accepted the cupcake and blew out the candle. “What flavour is the cupcake?”

Yuki spoke as Oscar took a massive bite, definitely getting frosting on his nose. “It is raspberry and cinnamon and a bit of rosemary. It is good?”

It was very good. “I like the rosemary. And the chocolate frosting is good, too. Maybe add some cinnamon to it, too?”

Yuki nodded seriously and went to write that down, and Oscar finished the cupcake.

Friends. Who fucking knew?

~

“They are giving you the shop? Just like that?”

Mark grinned wide. “Just like that.”

Sebastian squinted at him suspiciously. “And you… are not firing me?”

“I’m not firing you. You’ll be helping me run it.”

Sebastian rolled his eyes. “Of course you are needing my help.”

“Not needing,” Mark corrected. He moved so he was leaning over Sebastian. “Wanting.”

~

Jenson glanced at his phone, lighting up with a text from George. You won the pot on who’s married next.