Chapter Text
The apartment was too quiet. Too empty. Too small for the weight Logan carried alone. Rain tapped relentlessly against the window, a slow, mocking reminder that the world outside kept moving, while he had stalled somewhere months ago.
He sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on knees, staring at his phone. The screen glowed pale against the dim light of the room. He had gone over it a hundred times in his head — the message, the call, the possibility of rejection, the what-ifs. But no one had ever mattered like Oscar. Not like him. And he couldn’t do this alone anymore.
His thumb hovered over Oscar’s name. Don’t. Just don’t.
A sigh escaped him, hollow and ragged. The apartment smelled like rain, sweat, and cheap takeout he’d been too exhausted to throw away. His chest felt tight, every inhale shallow. He thought of the fights, the tension that had grown over weeks, then months. Words thrown carelessly, things said in anger and pride, things that never got fixed. And finally, the silence.
Logan had convinced himself it was easier that way. Easier to avoid the guilt in Oscar’s eyes. Easier to avoid being reminded of what he’d lost — not just his seat, but the connection he had let slip through his fingers.
But it’s too heavy now, he thought. I can’t breathe like this.
He scrolled through their past messages, a chain of small, mundane things — jokes, plans, insults wrapped in affection — and felt the pang of nostalgia turn sharp. There were months of empty silence, words unsaid and moments unshared. And now, after all that distance, he couldn’t keep the phone in his hand without acting.
Finally, with shaking fingers, he tapped “call.”
The ringing felt endless. Each tone sliced through him. What if Oscar didn’t pick up? What if he had moved on, had forgotten the bond they shared?
“Logan?” The voice was cautious, almost too calm, but it hit him like a lifeline.
He froze, tongue tied. The flood of relief, fear, and shame nearly buckled him over. “I… I don’t know who else to—”
“You don’t have to explain,” Oscar said softly. Beneath the calm, there was something warmer, something familiar that Logan hadn’t felt in months.
He bit his lip. The silence stretched between them, rain tapping like a heartbeat against the window. He whispered, barely audible, “I think I’m… at my lowest.”
A pause. And then, a promise: “I’ll be there.”
Logan hung up before he could say more. He sank against the wall, letting the relief wash over him, but fear still clenched his chest. This was real. Oscar would come. And yet, part of him expected disappointment, rejection, a barrier that would keep them apart forever. He didn’t know what terrified him more — that Oscar would come, or that he wouldn’t.
Hours passed in nervous pacing, checking the window, listening to the rain. Every creak of the floor made his stomach twist. And then — a knock.
Soft. Tentative. Careful.
Logan froze. His chest squeezed. It’s him. It’s really him.
He opened the door, and there was Oscar. Rain-soaked, hair plastered to his forehead, hoodie half-zipped, eyes full of worry, eyes full of forgiveness.
“I… I shouldn’t have called,” Logan whispered, voice breaking.
“I know,” Oscar said softly, stepping inside, closing the door against the storm. “But you did.”
And that, somehow, was enough.
—
Oscar stood in the doorway for a moment, rain dripping from his hoodie, the storm outside echoing the storm between them. Logan wanted to shrink away, wanted to pretend he’d never called. But the pull in his chest told him otherwise — that tiny thread of hope he had been clinging to.
“You’re… wet,” Logan said awkwardly, gesturing to the water pooling around Oscar’s sneakers.
“I walked through a storm for this,” Oscar replied, voice calm but firm. “You think I’d let you sit here alone?”
Logan flinched, guilt cutting sharp. He remembered the last time they had spoken — arguments that had escalated from petty annoyances to real, cutting words.
“You never think about anyone but yourself.”
“And you’re so fragile, Oscar, always overreacting.”
“I’m done. I can’t deal with this anymore.”
The memory stung like salt in an open wound. That fight had broken them. That fight had started the silence that had eaten him alive for months.
“I—” Logan tried to speak, but the words caught in his throat. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean for it to… you know, end like that.”
Oscar stepped inside, shrugging off the wet hoodie. “I know. You didn’t mean it. And neither did I.”
The tension hung heavy. Neither wanted to touch the other yet, both too afraid of what might happen if they did. Instead, they sat on the floor, backs against the wall, the silence stretching like a tightrope between them.
“You know,” Oscar said finally, breaking the quiet, “I was worried you wouldn’t call. I thought… maybe you wanted me gone.”
Logan shook his head, voice low. “I… I didn’t know how to reach out. I’ve been… I’ve been falling apart, and I didn’t want to drag you into it.”
Oscar’s eyes softened. “You could never drag me away. I’ve always… I’ve always come back for you. Even when you don’t want me to.”
Logan swallowed, the lump in his throat so heavy it felt like it might crush him. He looked at Oscar, really looked — the faint redness under his eyes, the tightness in his jaw, the small, almost imperceptible signs of worry he had ignored for months.
“I’ve been… I’ve been at my lowest, and I… I didn’t think anyone would care enough to—” His voice cracked.
“I care,” Oscar interrupted gently. “I always have.”
For a moment, neither moved. Then Logan remembered the nights they had spent arguing over trivial things, only to have moments like this later — moments that had always reminded him why Oscar mattered.
“You always know how to find me,” Logan whispered. “Even when I’m… impossible.”
Oscar smirked faintly, though his eyes glimmered wet. “It’s kind of my specialty.”
A fragile, shaky laugh escaped Logan. The tension eased just slightly. He remembered more flashbacks — their first season together, the small victories, the shared pranks in the paddock. Those memories, bright and warm against the storm of guilt and fear, reminded him why he had to try again.
“I don’t know if I can… do this right away,” Logan admitted. “I don’t know if I can forgive myself yet.”
“You don’t have to. Not all at once,” Oscar said, sitting closer. “We start slow. You’re not alone in this anymore.”
For the first time in months, Logan let himself breathe. The storm outside had slowed, the rain a soft patter now. And though the tension between them still lingered, fragile and raw, it was no longer insurmountable.
Oscar had arrived. He hadn’t left. And somehow, that made all the difference.
—
The drizzle outside had turned into a gentle, steady rain. Logan and Oscar remained on the floor, leaning against the wall, shoulders brushing lightly, both exhausted and still tense. But something had shifted — the sharp edges of their conflict had softened into fragile understanding.
Logan let out a shaky laugh. “You know… I really thought you wouldn’t come.”
Oscar smirked faintly, though the concern in his eyes never wavered. “I never said I would. But you know me. I always come back.”
Logan swallowed, the lump in his throat growing heavy. “I… I think I needed this more than I realized. I’ve been so… alone. And stupid. And angry at myself for feeling like this.”
“You’re allowed to feel like this,” Oscar said gently, brushing wet hair off Logan’s forehead. “I’ve been worried about you, even when you didn’t notice. I’ll always be worried. Because I care. Because you matter.”
Logan let himself sink closer, resting his head tentatively on Oscar’s shoulder. The warmth was grounding, and for the first time in months, he felt something like peace.
“Remember when we went to Monza that one year?” Logan said after a pause, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I spilled coffee all over your notes and you didn’t even yell at me.”
Oscar chuckled, the sound soft and comforting. “Yeah, I was trying not to murder you. But you looked so guilty, I couldn’t.”
The tension eased, replaced by quiet laughter and memories. Logan realized how much he had missed this — the shared moments, the small comfort of Oscar just being there, unshakable and patient.
Hours passed. They moved from floor to couch, blankets thrown over them, sipping lukewarm tea, and talking quietly. The conversation meandered — past regrets, small victories, silly jokes, confessions whispered in the darkness. Logan felt his chest unclench a little more with each word.
“I think… I think I can start trusting myself again,” Logan said finally, voice soft. “And trusting you. Slowly.”
Oscar nodded, his hand brushing over Logan’s. “Step by step. That’s all it takes. I’m not going anywhere, Logan. Not now, not ever.”
Outside, the rain faded into a quiet drizzle. Inside, Logan realized he hadn’t felt this safe in months. And even though there was still work to do — healing, rebuilding, forgiving himself — he wasn’t alone anymore.
Oscar’s presence was proof of that. Solid, patient, unwavering. Logan closed his eyes, leaning into the warmth, letting it fill the cracks he had carried for so long.
“I… thank you,” Logan whispered.
“For what?” Oscar asked, smiling faintly.
“For staying. For coming back. For everything.”
Oscar shrugged, mock-nonchalant, but the glimmer in his eyes betrayed the care behind it. “I told you. I always come back.”
And in that quiet, rain-soaked apartment, Logan believed him. For the first time in a long time, he believed him.