Work Text:
I'm still, sad.
I'm still, bummed.
It's seven in the morning and Lando winces at the cold biting at his nose the moment the outside air greets him at the front door. In his earphones the unhappy shouting over a plucky guitar riff plays on; he knows he should choose a more upbeat way to start the morning, should at least try having a good day, but he just doesn't have it in him, he guesses.
"Leaving, bye!" he calls loudly through the entryway. No answer from his mum. Slept in today, maybe.
At the bus stop, the song changes to something marginally less depressing, but only marginally. There's only a handful of other students in the neighborhood that go to the same school as him, and all of them are his juniors. They stand around the sidewalk like listless ghosts, eyes either trained blankly on dead tar or with fingers frantically scrolling and tapping on their phones.
Lando keeps a distance from them. In his earbuds the song restarts from the beginning for the fifth time this morning. A friend had recommended it to Lando on a whim, said it was catchy and he liked it. Lando's too embarrassed to admit he'd ended up falling in love with the whole album.
His friend never has to know, though. Lando prefers it that way.
At school, Lando sits through his first period class quietly. Social Studies. An elective he had chosen because he heard the class is really easy.
It is, more or less. Today they're watching the latter half of a movie they'd started two days ago about the upbringing of a Tibetan monk. In the darkened classroom a girl beside him is typing a very long Instagram comment on her phone underneath her desk, and on the other end a boy he's never spoken to is napping peacefully with his whole body hunched over his desk.
Lando thinks the movie is interesting, anyway, but not really interesting enough to keep the uncomfortable squeeze in his chest at bay.
He doesn't say anything to the teacher before he stands and quietly slips out of the classroom. He swears under his breath when he realizes his phone wasn't in his pocket, but whatever. It's an open campus and the park is only a stone's throw from the back exit of the school, but he doesn't even make it all the way down the hall before he hears a voice calling his name.
"Lando," it says, actually not really a call at all as much as it is an assertion of its presence.
Lando has a hand on the exit door of the hall when he turns around to see Mr. Button peeking his head out of his own classroom door, regarding him sternly.
"Where are you going?"
"Bathroom," Lando answers, casual.
"Where's your pass?"
"Mrs. Albon uses a sign-out sheet."
"Yeah? If I ask her that later is that what she's gonna tell me?"
"Probably not," says Lando, leaning his weight onto the door so that it creaks open just that little bit more.
"Lando, you know I have to say something."
And you know I don't really care, thinks Lando. He can't say it. He doesn't want to be rude. Mr. Button has only ever been nice to him.
"Well, guess I'll find out about it when you call my parents."
He feels cool, of course, stepping through the heavy gray doors even after Mr. Button calls his name again, but by the time the entrance gate comes into his vision as he strides across the quad, he just wonders what it is he'll have to do to get in his good graces again.
Or maybe it won't even matter. He's graduating in six months. He'll probably never see him ever again after this is all said and done.
The park is cold and windy. The swings on the swingset float limply this way and that in the breeze, the dead short grass crunching underfoot as Lando steps over the knee-high barrier separating it from the sidewalk. In the distance is a dreary looking playground whose rubbery foundation Lando knows is littered with cigarette butts and discarded hand warmers and stains of spilled alcohol. They hold a clean-up event there every once in a while. His parents had made him go as a first year, once. He hadn't found the experience particularly meaningful.
Lando zips up his coat, tucks his hands in his pockets, and makes for the swings. He doesn't like how far his knees bend against the dirt, how his hips brush against the hooks holding the chains to the rubbery seat. It'd be more comfortable if the seat was higher or a bit wider. He knows the trick about tying the chains together, but right now all he can really manage is staring at his shoes against the brown dirt beneath them, the heels of a hundred other shoes digging out a shallow divot in the ground, and wondering where it is he slots in.
Lando doesn't feel any better for coming here. He wants to cry. Knows his body isn't capable of it.
He swings anyway. Not enough to get any air but just rocking himself back and forth forlornly, rubbing in the self pity like salt in a wound. Earbuds in his pocket but no phone. Idiot. Can't even help himself properly.
Lando stays there cold and alone until five minutes to the end of the period. By the time he gets back to Mrs. Albon's classroom, the bell is just finishing echoing through the halls and he ignores the surprised glances and murmuring as he shuffles through the quickly emptying rows of desks and chairs.
Mrs. Albon doesn't notice him grab his things, or if she does she doesn't say anything to him. Just how he likes it. Second period is a trek to the other end of campus, but in the sea of moving students a hand finds its way to Lando's shoulder.
"Wrong way, mate."
Oscar smiles at him when they lock eyes, and Lando feels part of the tension in his chest unwind.
"What do you mean? Off to Ham Sammy's, right?"
"He actually prefers Hammer Time, he said," returns Oscar. "Also no, it's a B-day today."
Lando jumps.
"Are you fuckin' serious? I didn't do the homework yet!"
"And you probably weren't going to," parries Oscar cheerily, who doesn't mind sticking close to him as they swim against the current of moving students to their history classroom.
And that's not fair, really. He's only bad about his homework in other classes.
Lando slows his steps as he swings his bag around to his front—god, he can't fucking believe this. The math worksheet is just ten problems, but he needs a calculator to do them and he doesn't want to touch his own because it's still covered in snack crumbs from the bottom of his bag. He had ants in there once and he just—doesn't know. He's scared to look.
"You wanna copy mine?" offers Oscar, and Lando shakes his head firmly.
"I can do it myself. I just need a sec."
Oscar is nice like that, and Lando always appreciates him. He always bitches about other kids asking to look at his work, but Lando is the only person he actively offers it to.
It's just that it's different with Mr. Button. If Lando copied, he would know.
"Alright, well. I don't wanna be late. See you in there."
"Yeah, yeah—see you," Lando says distantly, scribbling out some numbers that look correct for the first and second problems. He's already slowed to a stop by the time Oscar announces his leaving ahead, and when the bell has rung and the hall has started to empty out, Lando cedes defeat with his phone calculator and pencil in one hand and the other pressing his worksheet to the rough drywall, trying to write as clearly as he can despite the rough surface beneath it.
By the time the late bell rings another five minutes later, Lando is almost done. He's curled up on the dirty floor of the hall now doing the best he can—he has close to full marks now in this class, on par with Oscar. It's already December. He wants the grade to stick.
When he enters, he enters as quietly as he can—which doesn't amount to very much, because the doors are heavy and everyone's head whips toward him the second he steps in. Nobody says a word and he doesn't look up to the white board where Mr. Button still has a marker in his hand—Lando's seat is pointedly empty, near the back end of the class where Mr. Button keeps his collection of model race cars in a locked up glass case.
"Nice of you to make it in," he remarks, and Lando has to hold back a flinch. The shame bubbles up regardless. "Wednesday's homework is due at the end of class, so don't forget before you leave."
Right, Lando thinks as his cheeks burn with embarrassment. Could've done it during the lecture. Would've been on time anyway.
Lando says nothing and takes his seat and hunches over his math textbook solemnly until the squeaking of dry-erase on whiteboard resumes. His phone buzzes in his pocket, and when he looks over he finds a text from Oscar on his notification banner, a simple moon face emoji and nothing else. He smirks at it and pockets his phone.
It's just a review day today, anyway. Shit they should already know, and Lando does know. This is the only class he doesn't have to study for. The only thing he doesn't have to work to be good at.
By the end of it Lando waits until he's the last one at the submission box before changing his mind and walking over to the busy desk where his math teacher sits.
"Mr. Button?" he says, odd to his own ears because he couldn't decide between careful or firm or nervous.
"Mr. Norris," Mr. Button returns. His head is supported by a fist as he narrows his eyes at some spreadsheet on his laptop. Lando tries not to stare.
"Uh. Can I make sure this is right before I turn it in? I didn't have a calculator."
Mr. Button straightens in his chair and turns to face him fully. "What happened to yours?"
I CAN'T KEEP WASHING MY HANDS.
"Uh, I let my sister borrow it and she goes to a different school."
The latter half is true, at least. She wasn't interested in co-ed. Lando doesn't blame her.
"You let your sister borrow your calculator knowing we're on the calc unit," concludes Mr. Button pointedly.
FUCKING. IDIOT.
"Well she asked me and I'm her older brother, so."
Mr. Button hums and says nothing. He holds out a hand for Lando's homework and glances over it silently.
"You know, you're not doing yourself any favors by pretending to be dumb, because you're not."
Lando does wince this time. Mr. Button sees it and says nothing.
For a few moments, anyway. Lando's words have vanished and his teacher just sighs.
"I spoke with the counselor, Lando. You'll be seeing her in fourth period."
"That's—" Lando starts to protest angrily, but he cuts himself off. This is his fault. He's seen the stern eye Mr. Button gives him less sympathetic to other problem students, though. Gift horses and whatever.
"Fourth period," he repeats firmly. "I don't smell any smoke on you like before. Have you been taking care of yourself? Eating?"
"Yes," he lies.
"And you've started those applications I told you to?"
"No," he shakes his head.
"Why?"
"Because people like Oscar apply to universities, okay?" he snaps. "People like me go to stupid trade schools because we can't do anything else. I don't know why you want me to waste my time, they're all gonna reject me anyway."
"What Oscar does has nothing to do with you, Lando," Mr. Button says evenly, infuriatingly neutral. Won't someone just fucking react to him? "There's nothing wrong with just applying, either. I only want what's best for you."
You don't fucking understand, Lando wants to scream, but he doesn't. He never does. Tears are prickling behind his eyes but he knows nothing will fall. What would be the point? They won't see. He won't be able to talk about it.
"Your homework is fine, son. Go on to your next class. Who do you have?"
"Maxy Pads," he says flatly. Mr. Button snorts.
"I'll let him know you called him that. Take care, okay?"
"Okay. I will. Thank you."
With that he drops his homework in the submission bin and leaves.
He's called up five minutes into fourth period, where one of the ladies at the front desk murmurs something in the ear of Mr. Verstappen and hands him a little slip of paper. He tries not to snatch it from his hands when he holds it out to Lando but he fails, feels bad, and decides the day already sucked as it was. Who cares how many cherries he added atop his shit sundae.
He leaves his bag behind and drags his feet upstairs to the counselor's office. There he talks around his issues and says what he needs to to get the hell out of dodge.
She's nice, Mrs. Collins, but Lando just can't feel safe with her. He'd heard of a girl in his grade once who had the cops called on her, men in uniforms marching right onto school grounds to shun her for needing help. She pops up in the halls sometimes in between classes—Lando's never seen her smile. Ever.
So when he talks with her he puts on just the right amount of sad and pathetic but manageable, because that's the fastest way to escape her shady office tucked in between the Dean's and the Principal's.
When final period finishes and school lets out Lando doesn't feel any better than he did eight hours ago. The tightness is still there. He told Mr. Button he'd stop smoking and he still thinks vaping makes you look like a loser. Doesn't care enough for drugs and doesn't have any friends good enough to hang out with outside of the classroom.
He has his credit card though, and his phone and his earbuds. His schoolbag is a bit unfortunate because of its bulk, but whatever. Maybe he'll end up needing it for something.
The Greyhound station is a bit far from his school, but if he walks for a bit and waits, the public bus there is a straight shot and the fare half off with his student ID.
He starts one foot in front of the other and feels good for the movement. An hour and a half later finds Lando sitting in the Greyhound station lobby with a number of down-and-outs, haggard families, tourists, and young people like himself. He has a bad feeling about the seats, which aren't grimy but you just never know, so he stands in the corner where he can see the TV list of departures and arrivals and thumbs over his bus ticket to a city eight hours away.
~
Lando has been bad, of course. It's why they put him in special needs as a kid, and it's why his family conceded to his every want and tiptoed around the rest of his flaws, even if they were gentle and kind about the worst of it. Our son, who is different. Our brother, who's a bit slow.
It was only last year that Lando hit his growth spurt. It's nice to be on eye level with other boys his age—not all of them, but enough of them. A lot had changed for him, then. He wasn't a kid anymore. When Lando takes his seat towards the front of the bus, he feels a strange mix of relief at how tall the seat backs are. It isn't like the school bus at all; the people in front of him are completely obscured by the deep navy seats, and so is his own person. The lights are on but he knows they'll shut off once they get moving, and then he really will be completely obscured on this unknown harbinger to somewhere he's never been. The bus has seats four abreast but the one beside Lando remains empty even as the bus fills up, so he sets his school bag in it, rests his head on the window, and waits for the bus to depart.
He looks it up on his phone out of curiosity. It's a five hour drive more or less, but with the bus' pit stops in smaller towns and the fact that Friday evening traffic extends to the interstate highways, he's looking at about seven and a half hours in transit. The winter sun is already starting it's descent by now; by the time he gets where he's going, his parents will be blowing up his phone. There's only 45% left and he plans to have music playing in his ears with his ringer on silent until it dies.
Which, by far, will be the worst he's been. He tries not to plan the sorries he'll have to say in his head while he waits for his bus to arrive—he just wants to be in the moment. Or something. He doesn't know. He thinks he does but whenever he tries to get his hands around it there's just nothing there but his own fingers. He just has to go somewhere. Needs some new wind in his ears. He can't understand his life. Nobody can understand him. He can't say the right words. All he can do is hurt himself to make it better.
Lando sinks down into his seat and wants to throw up. Wishes whatever is inside him that makes his body unbearable will come out with it even if he dies in the process.
When the bus moves, Lando tugs his bag into his lap and wraps his arms around it, turns his music up, and sighs. He can't care what happens after this. He just can't bear anything at all.
~
For most of the ride a low grade fear and mild confusion keeps him awake, but he does manage a short nap after a long while has passed and the bus has nearly emptied. When he blinks open his eyes, the bus driver is announcing their final destination and the lights have flickered on above him, a yellow spotlight boring right into his forehead. He glances outside and there are streetlamps and car headlights passing by them in a blur, stoplights and buildings and strangers and a night sky glowing with city lights down on Earth.
Lando stares at everything as they pass and sucks in a breath, tensing his lungs and his stomach hard to hold the air in as best he can, and he sits in the plea that this be the end, that everything will be fixed, that he can be normal now, that he'll stop hurting. He's finally made it. Somewhere else. Nobody knows him enough for the things that have been done to him to matter. He'll cry about it if he needs to. He'll get on his knees and pray for it to be true. Anything. Anything at all.
The brain takes control and he inhales a painful breath of air, and he is Lando Norris. Of course he is. He knew that.
He glances down at his phone, presses the power button twice before realizing the battery actually did die. Staring at the useless slab of dark glass in his hands he feels equal parts mortified and ecstatic, giddy to be helpless and horrified that he's put himself in a situation like this. But then he thinks of course it'd play out that way—he is Lando Norris, and his thoughts envelop his person and make all the things he doesn't want to be real real, while the things he wants to be real can't reach him through the flurry of self hatred.
This isn't helping. You're not helping yourself. Lando repeats Mr. Button's words internally over and over again while he waddles single-file down the bus aisle and down the steps. Outside the air is bittercold, much colder than it is back home. He has a sweater and a light coat on but he can tell this is going to get very painful very quickly.
With no baggage beneath the bus Lando pockets his phone and dashes out of the alighting depot—there he's greeted, as expected, with a foreign city and a foreign darkness. In the distance are cold police sirens and the loud hum of the bus engine seems to fill the air all around and above him. Lando's heart is pounding in his chest and he can't tell if the emptiness is trying to get in or if his own self is trying to push its way out.
The nearest corner store isn't far. They sell gloves and handwarmers there, and cheap beanies and shitty food Lando can't eat. He grabs the gloves and handwarmers and takes them to the counter, tossing in a lighter from beside the register last minute and paying by card.
His card is still attached to his parent's bank account, so they'll find him, maybe. He doesn't know how long it'll take, but they'll know he was here.
Lando walks and thinks about it. He isn't sure if it'll matter. He feels tired, now. He wants to go home. The streets are empty here around the depot, but he passes by restaurants and dives, closed bicycle stores and tall buildings looking for tenants; a stray cat peels out from behind a corner and rubs itself on his ankles while he's paused at a crosswalk, and though he wants to pet it he just thinks about his hands and how he keeps scrubbing the skin off on accident and he just can't risk it because he doesn't want his parents to frown at him anymore and he wants to be normal, just normal. He doesn't want to hurt. It's cold out here and the handwarmers are already growing tepid through his thin gloves.
He walks and walks until his feet grow numb and painful. The nearest establishment that looks open is a restaurant with a bunch of flashing Italian flags in use as signs—at the entrance Lando finds a dais with an open menu, and just a glance at the swirly font and tiny letters printed on the page he knows that he probably couldn't afford to even be standing here.
He's cold though, and too far from home to really feel one way or another about it. That's an interesting feeling, he considers as he skirts around the building to the backside where the dumpsters are. His head starts to feel a little light on his shoulders; he really is alone out here. He could do anything. Anything.
At the dumpsters, Lando does find himself a little lost. There's a big truck parked near the back entrance of the restaurant, and the dumpsters themselves—two of them, almost to Lando's height—are brightly illuminated by spotlights tucked beneath the roof of the restaurant. From inside Lando can hear a loud hissing and a near constant clanking of ceramic dishes against each other; when he finally enters the light before the tall dumpsters he feels completely out of place and out of time.
The lid of the huge metal bin is heavy but evidently not locked. It takes some awkward maneuvering to get the entire thing open all the way, but when he does he's rewarded with the smell of rotting food and a miserably loud clang as the huge metal lid collides with its body and rings out into the neighborhood.
Lando freezes where he is, eyes trained on the back entrance for long enough for his body to start begging for air. There's no motion, and on releasing his breath he figures he's already got his feet in the water.
Honestly, it's a little underwhelming. He doesn't have to do much digging to find a plastic-wrapped bag of bread rolls, and he can eat bread, usually, though if it's cold he doesn't know.
Is this worth risking having a record? Lando asks himself as he paces away from the dumpster. He's already eighteen. It won't look good on his college applications if he ever gets around to them.
Suddenly, maybe even angrily, the back door to the restaurant explodes open and a burly looking man in a white apron whips his head towards the dumpsters, where Lando is still standing frozen with a bag of shitty bread.
"Oh," the guy says, menace slipping from his expression slightly. "You're not the usual guy we get."
Lando stares at him with wide eyes, taking a long moment to find his words.
"Um, I was just hungry," he tries, though he absolutely wants nothing to do with anything he's gotten himself into.
"Look, whatever. Just don't come back enough to get the cops called on you. Not a good look."
The man averts his gaze then, casts his eyes back at the door closed behind him before slipping a cigarette from his back pocket and lighting up.
Lando watches him, more than a little confused—not at him, but at all of this. He's still hungry and still cold but the slop at the gas station would have been better, surely—right? He can go back and force something down and maybe then he'll be able to think clearly about what to do next. He should know that. He should've known that.
An idea pops into Lando's mind, then.
"If I get arrested, will it be warm back there?"
He means it seriously, but the man gives him a once-over and looks at him like he's an idiot.
"You know what they do to guys like you in prison?"
Lando's entire body goes cold, lifeless. In his chest his heart is straining to get anything done and he really, really doesn't want to be alive anymore.
He opens his mouth to speak again but nothing comes out. He feels lost, alone, weak. He might die here. Not even for anything he gets to decide.
The guy can see the fear in his eyes. He scoffs and looks around again before stomping out his smoke and heading back inside.
Lando slinks away without another word. He hopes he starves to death. And if for some reason he doesn't then he'll vow to never eat or do or think or breathe ever again. He'll let his body shrivel up and collapse in on itself before he can resume a good life.
He doesn't pay much attention to where he goes. Each press of his full weight onto either foot sends uncomfortable shocks up through his calves and to his knees, the pain of winter numbness shearing all his thoughts out of his brain. The pain can be good though, he reasons with his face screwed up in discomfort. Pain can be a reason. Pain can be clarity. He's still moving after all, isn't he? He can keep going like this even though it hurts. Because it hurts. The distraction is all he needs to get through it, he knows it.
They're helpful thoughts, but Lando's body can't take the beating as well as he wishes it could. Two blocks later finds him in a dreary suburban neighborhood with low-roofed houses and torn metal fences, and it's in a vacant gravel lot between a shuttered home and a clean fenced one that Lando wanders into that he decides to give up. He had his little adventure. He wants to go home, now.
Home is three-hundred miles away and Lando can't stand how much of a waste his life is despite everyone insisting otherwise. They really don't know. They don't understand. They can't understand. It's just impossible. Lando is unsalvageable.
Lando collapses in the corner of the fence closest to the clean-looking house, pulls his shoes off and curls his feet into his thighs to try and get some warmth in them. For his hands he stuffs them into his shirt against his stomach; he's still shivering even after some time has past but his brain is forgiving today, apparently, lets his despair weave itself into fatigue and pull his eyes closed.
~
His eyes jerk open as soon as he hears the aching gate on the fence being dragged open against the gravel. His heart is already racing and all the hair in his lungs have been forced outwards; it's still dark but the police lights are twirling and their flashlights are all aimed at him, tucked into himself and shuddering into the dirt.
Lando's never felt more idiotic in his life. There are three men from what he can tell, but one of them hangs back while two approach him on swift feet, one nearly a full head taller than the other.
"Hello there," greets the taller one loudly, definitely waking up the houses surrounding them. Lando winces but with how taut his body is held the motion doesn't translate to very much.
"Hi," he says weakly. He isn't sure they even hear him.
"Are you hurt? Why are you sleeping out in this lot?"
His voice is kind but Lando can hear the stern authority beneath it. He wishes he would shrivel up and die. Can there be no real help?
"I got lost," he lies for some reason.
Scrambly voices from the officer's walkie-talkie hooked on his vest put Lando on edge. He hates being a problem. Please don't let this be a problem.
"Where's home?"
Lando can't say it. They can't know. He's so confused. He's so scared. He just wants to go home. He'll walk there if he has to, just leave him in peace. He never has the right words to say.
His silence catches the attention of the smaller one, who gives him a cruel look.
"Are you on anything?" he asks harshly.
"Uh, no."
"What is 'uh, no'?" barks the officer, and Lando flinches. "Are you on anything, yes or no?"
"No," answers Lando again. The sir sits on the edge of his tongue but he's stubborn about it, and though he's on the receiving end of a dirty look he holds his ground meekly.
Again, more loud distorted voices from the walkie-talkie, and he swears under his breath and moves a view paces away to mutter into its speaker.
The first officer regards him with sympathy.
"He's a punk, everyone says it," he tells Lando. "Don't let him get to you. You're not in trouble—not that much, anyway."
Lando manages a smile but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. In the few minutes they've been talking Lando notices that the sky has started to take on some color—only a little bit as daybreak starts to come over the city, but it's enough for Lando to suddenly make out the discarded needles laying around in the gravel. Mr. Button's words from the day before return to him now, about smoke not sticking to his clothes lately. He could be worse. He could always be worse.
The officer looks at him for a few moments longer before reaching out a hand, curled and motionless in the air as if Lando should grasp it.
"Come on, son. Up up up."
The officer tries to help him up, but his grip on his hand is strong and though Lando's gotten taller his weight still left much to be desired. He's wrenched upward and loses his balance, having to catch himself on the officer's shoulder and awkwardly jump away to keep his personal space.
"You still can't be sleeping out here, sorry to break it to you. It's cold and technically counts as loitering. Where's home for you?"
"I don't know," Lando mutters. "I took a bus here."
An eyebrow on his face twitches.
"Did you now?" asks the officer.
Missing person reports, Lando finds out, don't actually require a twenty-four hour grace period before they can be filed.
The taller officer offers him a coffee at the station they take him to, which he declines, but he does help himself to the water dispenser and longingly eyes the candy bowl sitting on a dark desk a little ways away from him in a cornered-off office. They give him a breathalyzer and shine a flashlight in his eyes again and ask him a hundred and one questions that start to annoy him past his full name, age, and address, but he doesn't know what else to do but comply. He left because he wanted to. No, he hasn't acted out before. It's a bother. Lando really isn't cut out for delinquency.
The paperwork has to be done, they said, so they can't let him wander around town until his parents get here, but at least Lando had been right—it's warm in here. They let him charge his phone while he's in there and in the meantime he sits around on armchairs and stools, stares at walls and windows, curls himself up and closes his eyes and waits for this to all be over.
~
On Monday, the air bites at Lando's face and gives his nose an annoying burn he has no choice but to sit through until it's passed. His mom had walked him to the door from the kitchen, had stayed out on the edge of the doorway waving him bye until he had finally turned the corner towards the bus stop.
He feels better today, anyway. He just wants to hold onto it for as long as he can.
So he sits through his classes obediently, laughs along with Oscar during their group work and takes his lunch in Mr. Button's classroom to get away from all the noise like he usually does. By the time the day is over he's more than ready to go home, but he notices Oscar's form looking at something on his phone at the bike racks while he's passing by the main entrance.
It feels like they haven't talked in a while. Really talked. Lando knows he's taking his applications more seriously than he is and is still doing that volunteer work at the library. They're not all that close, really, but Lando is trying to remember that he has good things, he really does. So when he turns around to wade against the current to reach him it feels like an effort worth making.
Oscar jumps a little when Lando taps his shoulder, but smiles brightly when he sees who it is.
"Hey! How's it going?" he greets Lando cheerily.
"Not much here, you?" shrugs Lando.
"Same old same old," he returns.
A few moments pause where Oscar just watches him kindly before something to say pops into Lando's head.
"Oh yeah, check it! That song you showed me was my most played this year!"
He fishes out his phone and opens up his music app for Oscar to see, whose eyes widen at the stats list.
"Holy shit," he awes as a grin breaks out onto his face—Lando watches the skin move carefully, and he can tell it's a real one. That's a relief. He's done something right. Something normal. "I didn't think you liked it that much."
"I told you it was good, didn't I?" he says proudly, pulling his phone back.
"Sure, but I didn't think it was the only thing you've been listening to these past two months."
Lando pauses in his step to give Oscar space to pull his bike out from the bike racks. It's a tight fit to keep side by side while giving space to the other students racing away from campus, but Oscar is careful about his laces and Lando can't say he minds.
"Well, since you don't hate my music taste apparently, I got some new records the other day. Would you wanna come over and listen?"
"Yes!" bursts Lando excitedly, then freezes. Oscar notices and pauses in his step, too.
"Or you can't?"
"No, no, I can, I just, uh. Have to let my parents know first. Do you mind?"
He holds up his phone and Oscar says no, of course, go ahead.
He tries his mom first, because she's more likely to pick up on the first ring, which she does.
"Honey? What's wrong?"
Lando is irritated at how worried she sounds right off the bat. It's not really his place to argue that she should feel otherwise.
"Nothing, mum. I just got out of school. Can I go over to Oscar's?"
"Oh," she sighs. Some ruffling of fabric sounds somewhere off behind her. Lando pictures he shooting out of bed to take his call only to return to it with relief. "Sure, honey. That's fine. What time will you be home?"
"Uh, I don't know." He glances at Oscar, who just offers a shrug.
"As long as you want, my parents don't really care. We can order a pizza?"
"Can I stay for dinner?" asks Lando into the phone.
"Okay, that's fine," his mom concedes easily. "Be back by nine, okay?"
"Okay, sure. Love you."
"Love you too."
He cuts the call first. She loves him. He knows she does. Other people care about him seriously, too. Why didn't it make anything better?
Lando pockets his phone and breathes in the winter chill slowly. Things aren't okay. They really aren't.
"What kind of pizza do you like?" he asks Oscar, and decides he'll deal with it all once he's graduated.