Chapter Text
The morning in the house was quiet, almost crystalline, soaked in the sleepy breath of those still in bed. Only Jules was already up, silently tinkering with the coffee machine in the kitchen, when he heard the soft shuffle of bare feet. Oscar stood in the doorway with the rumpled grace of youth, his face etched in bold letters with sleeplessness and worry.
“Jules,” his voice was hoarse from sleep or nerves. “Can I… talk to you?”
Jules nodded quietly, pulling out a second mug. They sat at the kitchen island when Oscar started speaking, his words tumbling out rushed and uneven. About the party at Lando’s. About how they “fell asleep.” About his father showing up in the morning. About the icy stare he gave his disheveled son and an equally rumpled Oscar.
“He just… pointed at the door,” Oscar whispered, staring into his mug. “Then he yelled at him. A long, sharp lecture about shaming the family, that the house isn’t a brothel for his questionable one-night stands. So now Lando’s grounded. Banned from bringing anyone over. Even friends…”
Oscar said Lando tried at first—tried to be the perfect son, to meet expectations—then just broke and stopped trying, and things only got worse. His voice was laced with helplessness.
Jules listened in silence, his usually calm face now serious. Then he stood, took both mugs, and with a nod invited Oscar into the living room. They settled into a corner of the large sofa, in a stripe of morning sun. Jules wrapped an arm around the boy’s shoulders and pulled him close. Oscar leaned into him, and Jules felt that tense body slowly soften.
“Tout ira bien, mon garçon,” (Everything will be all right, my boy) Jules said softly, his lips brushing the top of Oscar’s head for a moment.
“Mais je ne parle pas vraiment français!” (But I don’t really speak French!) Oscar snorted in protest, though he pressed closer. He really only knew a few phrases, but the tone—the genuine tenderness in Jules’s voice—needed no translation.
Then Jules spoke again, his gaze fixed on the waking city outside.
“You know, Dani and I have an apartment in Monaco… It’s almost always empty. The keys just sit there,” he paused, letting the words settle. “If you two ever need a place… just to be together—the door’s always open. Or rather, the key’s always yours.”
Oscar looked up at him, eyes full of silent disbelief and a hope he was almost afraid to set free.
“Really?”
“Really,” Jules smiled his quiet, disarming smile.
They stayed like that for a long time, in a silence broken only by their voices—quietly discussing practical details, then simply chatting about nothing. And in that quiet, sheltered by a steady shoulder and a simple, generous offer, the heavy stone in Oscar’s chest slowly began to melt.