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Oscar’s just gotten back to their room when Lando corners him.
“Mate,” he intones, like he’s a parent scolding Oscar for sneaking back in late. Well. He’s not sneaking. And it’s not that late.
“Where have you been?” Lando asks, hopping off his bed to trail after Oscar as he shrugs off his robes.
“Studying,” Oscar says, and he can feel the way Lando’s staring at him, even without turning around.
“...Right,” Lando says slowly, “studying.”
Oscar nods, plopping down in his desk chair and unloading the books from his satchel.
“With Max?”
Oscar nods again.
“Little study date?”
Oscar narrows his eyes, setting the last of his scrolls on the desk. “Yes,” he says, willing his voice to come out even.
“Cute.” Lando hops onto Oscar’s bed and just stares, employing his usual tactic of awkward-silence-until-Oscar-breaks. It has a high success rate.
After a few minutes of Oscar pretending to sort through papers and Lando staring unblinkingly at him, Oscar sighs. “What,” he says, turning to Lando, “do you want.”
Lando grins wolfishly. It’s the same look he and Max – his Max – share, and it makes them look uncanny. “You, Oscar Piastri, are not going on study dates with Max Verstappen. I want the truth, Osc. What’s actually going on?”
Oscar can’t help but feel a little offended at that. Lando’s right, of course, but he could have been going on study dates with Max Verstappen. If Max were actually interested, that is. And – Oscar doesn’t like men, so it doesn’t matter anyways.
“We were studying,” Oscar says simply, because that, at least, is the truth. A few weeks ago, just after this whole mess started, Max had shown Oscar his favorite tucked-away corner of the library, where it was quiet enough to focus, even in the middle of the day. They’d taken to staying late there a few nights a week, pouring over texts for their Advanced Transfiguration class.
Lando huffs theatrically. “You’re actually impossible. I mean, why are you pretending to go on dates?”
Oscar tugs at the cuffs of his shirt, crisp white lines that he takes care to fold nicely when he does his laundry. He likes things to be controlled. All of this has gotten so, so uncontrolled.
“It’s all because of Charles,” he starts, and Lando listens, rapt, as he tells the whole story.
The first day of term, Oscar had been confused and hopelessly lost, feet unsteady as he tried to remember the way around his new school. Hogwarts had been a dream to transfer to, but if he didn’t find the Middle Courtyard soon, it was going to be over before it even began. Late to his first class. How embarrassing.
He pushes his way past a thick, oak doorway and almost sighs in relief as he sees the sky, finally out of the maze of interior hallways. If he hurries, he might still make it on time. Oscar’s about to head towards another doorway across the courtyard, when–
“–And he’s right here–” Someone grabs him.
Oscar whirls around, off-balance, eyes tracing the strong hand gripping his arm to a guy, about his age, wearing (of course) Gryffindor robes. He looks confident in a way that makes it seem like he might be lying, which is immediately confirmed when he turns to Oscar and says, “This is my boyfriend.”
Oscar freezes as the group the guy is speaking to – a Hufflepuff, a Ravenclaw, and a Slytherin – goes silent, staring at him. “Uh,” he says, and then, belatedly, because what else is he supposed to say, “Hi?”
The guy gives him a winning smile, like he’s glad Oscar played along.
“Oh, Oscar!” the Slytherin says, and Oscar recognizes him as Charles, the Slytherin Head Boy that had given him a tour a few days ago. Charles turns to the guy still holding Oscar’s arm, eyes narrowing. “But Oscar’s new this term, how do you know him?”
What a great question, Oscar thinks dryly, as his anxiety about missing class grows. How is he meant to explain to his professor that he’s late because he got roped into being someone’s fake boyfriend?
“Ah, it’s a long story, and we have to go, we are late for Vettel’s class,” the guy says, glancing at the textbooks Oscar’s carrying. “Let’s go, schatje,” he tugs intones as he tugs Oscar away from the group.
Oscar frowns as soon as they’re far enough away – Skat-jey? Is it a spell? – but forgets to shrug off the guy’s hand.
“I’m Max,” he, Max, mutters, shooting forced smiles at the few students that stare at them when they pass. “Sorry about all of that. Thank you for, ah, cooperating.” At that, he turns and gives Oscar a real smile. “You are heading to Vettel’s, yes? For Transfiguration?”
Oscar nods, all of the things he wants to ask piling up in his throat until he can’t say any of them.
“Good,” Max says, “I am too. You know Charles?”
Oscar backtracks through the past few minutes, and then nods again. Charles, Head Boy. Thinks… Max and I are dating.
“Then you understand. We– he is–” Max huffs in annoyance, “frustrating. He was insisting I could not, that I did not have anyone. Which was true, but I didn’t want him to…” he cuts himself off, shaking his head, “you know him, you understand. Yes?”
Oscar does not understand, at all, but nods slowly anyway. Maybe Max wants to… make Charles jealous? Charles is a good-looking man, certainly, and why else would Max lie about seeing someone? That must be it. Max likes Charles, and wants to make him jealous. So, fake boyfriend. Sure.
“Do you speak at all?” Max asks as he pulls Oscar down a hallway, “And I am sorry for involving you, it won’t be for long. I can tell him we broke up once he stops being nosy.”
“I–” Oscar starts, awkwardly, “I speak. Yeah. No… problem.”
Max grins again, and then nods to the door they’ve stopped in front of. “This is our class,” he says, and the conversation is over.
Lando knows the rest of it, really, so Oscar doesn’t bother recounting it all. He and Max started lying, and never really… stopped. But Oscar doesn’t mind, not really. Oscar likes Max – not like that, obviously, just likes being friends with him – so he doesn't mind helping Max out with this. He tells Lando as much.
Lando frowns. “Charles is dating Carlos, though,” he says, and Oscar nods. He’d found that out a few days after the arrangement started, when he had accidentally interrupted them in a closet, looking for potion ingredients.
“Max is trying to show he’s a better boyfriend than Carlos,” Oscar sighs. When Lando looks at him skeptically, he adds, “...I think. That would make sense, right?”
“I mean…” Lando flops back on Oscar’s bed, arms spread wide. “I guess. Max just doesn’t seem the jealous type to me.”
Oscar shrugs. “Well, I can’t think of any other explanation,” he says, and Lando can’t argue with that.
“I thought of another explanation,” Lando raises his voice over the wind. Oscar shoots him a look, tightening his hold on his broom as they curve around the Castle and dip towards the lake.
“For what?” he asks, though he already knows. His little ‘arrangement’ with Max is all Lando seems to want to chat about, recently.
“Oscar,” Lando says, “you two aren’t really dating right?”
Oscar snorts, prepared to laugh the comment off, but when he looks over, Lando’s uncharacteristically serious. “Yeah,” he responds after a moment, “we– aren’t.”
“But he got you flowers today.”
Oscar rolls his eyes. “The daisies and dittany are potions ingredients, Lando.”
“And the roses?”
Oscar pulls his broom up into a sharp ascent, knowing Lando will follow.
“Oscar.”
“I don’t know,” he snaps, as soon as they break through the first layer of clouds. They’re stratocumulus clouds, Oscar knows because Max was talking about them the other day. Max is always talking to him. Oscar doesn’t know what any of it means.
“I’m just saying, if I had a fake boyfriend, I wouldn’t be doing all that,” Lando nudges him, slowing down and maneuvering so they’re facing each other.
“You have a real boyfriend, and you don’t do all that,” Oscar points out.
Lando just gives him a look, like, exactly.
Oscar shifts uncomfortably, looking away so he doesn’t have to meet Lando’s eyes. “What’s your theory, then?” he asks, though Lando’s basically spelled it out.
“Why won’t you admit that you like him?” Lando says instead, which isn't quite what Oscar was expecting.
His broom drops half a foot as his focus breaks, and he scrambles to get a tighter grip. “Uhhh,” he says, eloquently.
Why won’t you admit that you like him. Of course Oscar likes Max, he likes the way Max talks to him about anything and everything, filling the silences, and he likes the way Max will pull him aside in random corridors to say hello. He likes how Max is so clever, and knows so much about the charms in their Transfiguration class, and he had really liked the almost-bashful look on Max’s face when he’d handed Oscar the flowers this morning. The way he’d bundled them was obviously for convenience, but it still somewhat resembled a bouquet.
With all of that, though, comes something else, a sharp, aching mess of feelings in Oscar’s chest. He tries to parse it out as he slowly lowers through the sky, heading towards the landing of the Astronomy tower. He feels more than hears Lando following.
“I’m being a good friend,” Oscar says with a certain finality, as they land on the balcony. “It's not anything… other than that. It can’t be.”
He’s glad that Lando doesn’t voice any of the million responses Oscar’s sure he’s got lined up – you weren’t friends when this started, friends don’t get their friends roses, are you sure it isn’t anything more, why can’t it be anything more – he just lets it go, setting down his broom and turning to look out at the castle below.
Oscar thinks Lando’s finally dropped the topic for good, when Fewtrell confronts him.
The Greenhouse is usually empty on Wednesday mornings, which is why Oscar’s made it a habit to water his plants then. The dittany Max gave him is getting along well, and his honking daffodils are having a quiet day today. Oscar almost jumps out of his skin when Max – Lando’s Max – appears next to him. Normally, the only other person here is his Max.
“Lando said you’d be here,” he starts, and Oscar bites back a sigh. He’s got nothing against Fewtrell, but they aren’t all that close, either. They get along enough for Lando to be happy about it, but that’s the extent.
“Tell me what your deal is with Verstappen,” he says without preamble when Oscar doesn’t reply.
“We’re dating,” Oscar responds automatically. It’s his usual answer.
“Don’t give me that shit.”
“...Everyone but you and Lando think we’re dating,” he amends.
“Oscar.”
Oscar finally turns to face him. Taking a fortifying breath, he looks Max in the eye. “I like him, and it’s not – I can’t.”
Max regards him for a moment. “Why can’t you?” he asks, like it isn’t obvious.
“I’m not – one, I don’t like men,” Oscar starts, counting off on his fingers, “and two, it would be a… betrayal of trust. He wouldn’t really date me, and he’s only fake-dating me because he thinks I wouldn’t really date him either.”
Max ignores his first point, skipping straight to the second. “I think he would date you, actually,” he says, and Oscar scowls. Max is clearly just saying that. “But even if he wouldn’t, he’d not be a dick about it. If he rejected you, I mean.”
Oscar groans, turning back to his pots, rubbing his hands in the dirt so it gets under his fingernails. “I’m not getting rejected, because I’m not asking him out, because I don’t like him.”
He looks up after another awkward stretch of silence to Max staring him down. “Not good enough,” he says, because he’s used to putting up with Lando being difficult so he certainly can put up with Oscar being difficult, too.
“And he likes Charles,” Oscar grumbles, irritated at the truth of it and how he sounds like a jealous kid who has to share his favorite toy.
“Does he?” Max asks, and Oscar turns to him, incredulous.
“Yes,” he says, gesturing nonsensically with his hands, trying to convey the scope of it, “that’s what this whole thing is. He wanted to – to impress Charles, make him jealous or something.”
“I don’t think…” Max says slowly, "that’s.. what it is.”
“What else could it be?” Oscar asks, nearing the end of his patience. He’s finished his Herbology tasks, and he’s close to just turning on his heels and leaving Max here to argue with the empty room instead. It might be more productive.
“Well, he’s like, hyper-competetive,” Max continues, like he’s sounding it out for someone exceedingly idiotic. “Especially with Charles. What if he just wanted to prove that he could get a boyfriend? Since Charles had already?”
Oscar blinks slowly, taking that idea in. As much as he hates to admit it, it does make sense. For all his Max seemed to like flaunting their (fake) relationship in front of Charles, he never seemed to hold any real ill will towards Charles’ relationship, and he wasn’t someone to hide such a thing, either.
But if he just wanted to win, to prove that he could get a boyfriend, then – was it still fake?
The sudden, distinct possibility that Oscar might be involved in something closer to real is enough to send a wave of nausea through him. He grips the edge of the table, knuckles white, How could he have missed this? And if it was real, what did that mean? That Max really wanted to do those things – take him to get coffees in Hogsmeade, spend afternoons flying around the castle, or studying until the candles in the library spluttered out – and Oscar wanted them too? Could he want them? Was that allowed, without the distance of plausible deniability?
“Oscar? Mate?” Max Fewtrell bumps his shoulder, knocking Oscar out of his stupor.
“Y-Yeah,” Oscar says shakily, unsure what he’s even responding to. “I’m gonna–” He gestures to the door, scooping up his satchel and bolting before Max can respond.
A few days later, a grinning Lando holds up a sprig of mistletoe, triumphant. “It's the perfect plan,” he says, and his boyfriend rolls his eyes, resigned.
“If this backfires, you’re taking the hit, Bob,” Max says, his tone too affectionate to have any real bite.
“Of course,” Lando agrees, certain that his brilliant plan absolutely cannot backfire.
Lando’s plan backfires immediately when he can’t even find Oscar. It was supposed to be simple: Find Oscar, find Max, whisper a little wingardium leviosa, and bam, mistletoe! Max and Oscar would definitely sort out whatever their feelings are when faced with the threat – or promise – of a kiss. It worked for Lando two Christmases ago, anyways. And then Lando will be the best roommate-slash-wingman ever for finally helping Oscar turn his fake relationship into a real one. It's foolproof, really.
Of course, he first has to find Oscar. Which means he ends up asking Max Verstappen.
“Where’s your boy?” Lando hollers over the din of the Great Hall. Max is eating lunch with a few other Gryffindors, but they don’t bat an eye at his green tie when Lando slides into the seat next to him.
“He’s your roommate,” Max retorts, through bites of chicken sandwich. “Haven’t seen him today.”
Lando frowns. Normally, Max and Oscar would get breakfast together – low-key, but visible, the perfect fake-dating stunt.
“He is worrying about a test, I think,” Max says after a few more bites, “I'm guessing. He didn't say. But he was like how he is when he has a test.”
Lando’s frown deepens. If the calendar pinned to the wall of their dorm is to be believed, Oscar doesn’t have any tests for the next week. Which means he’s worried, but about something else.
“Okay,” he says, “well, let me know if you see him.”
Max nods as Lando stands from his seat, scanning the room one last time before he leaves, heading in the direction of the library.
Daniel doesn't seem too enthused about Lando’s plan. “Don’t you think you should tell Oscar?” he whispers, to avoid the wrath of the librarian, “I think if he saw mistletoe he would just spook. He seems the type to spook, right?”
Lando sighs, slumping down in the chair opposite. “He does,” Lando sulks, but he’ll never agree either! This is the only way.”
Daniel taps his pencil on the table in an uneven rhythm. “But think about it this way: if you get Oscar on board, it’s basically a guaranteed success. We already know Max wants to kiss him, so if you get Oscar to initiate–”
“We already know what?” Lando squawks.
“Lando, library. Be quiet.” Daniel hushes, but he’s grinning. “Max was chatting my ear off about Oscar at the last House rager, drunk off his ass. About how they’re taking things slow and all that. But he definitely wants to kiss him. Trust me.”
Oscar eases the door open silently, stepping into the pitch-black room. He’s stayed long enough at the library – a different corner than usual – so Lando should definitely be asleep now. No more midnight confrontations.
“Incendio,” Lando casts, and the brazier in the middle of the room lights up. Fuck.
Lando’s sitting cross-legged, on Oscar’s bed, and he looks frighteningly determined. “I’ve figured it out,” he declares, and Oscar has half a mind to back out of the doorway, but he was planning to get up early tomorrow so he could have breakfast early and avoid Max, so he really needs his sleep. Better to get this over with.
He gestures vaguely for Lando to continue as he crosses the room and sets his bag down, an echo of the first time he and Lando really talked about all this. He feels like he’s aged years since then.
Lando launches into some rambling explanation about how he and Fewtrell got together, a story Oscar’s already heard before and is only half-listening to now. Something about –
“–mistletoe. I’ve already got some, too, so I can just hide behind the pillar when you two get breakfast tomorrow, and then you can kiss and figure it out!”
Oscar fumbles the books he’s setting on his desk, and they fall to the floor. “Kiss?” he asks urgently, whipping around? “What– kiss Max?”
Lando nods, producing the spring of mistletoe from his pocket. Oscar steps back like it’s something dangerous. In a way, it is.
“No,” he says firmly.
“It’s literally perfect,” Lando insists, unfolding himself off of Oscar’s bed and stepping forward. “You don’t know whether or not you really like him, right?”
Oscar grimaces. That’s basically it, yeah – more, he’s still reeling about the fact that he apparently doesn’t know himself as well as he thought he did, and maybe he has been into men the whole time, or maybe it’s just Max, or maybe it isn’t max, and the fake-dating thing has gotten his wires all crossed – he swallows all of that down, and nods hesitantly.
“Well, if you kiss him, you’ll figure it out!” Lando says, like it’s obvious.
“But I can’t just–” Oscar flounders; he and Max had an agreement. The only foundation for this whole… thing. “We agreed not to,” he says weakly.
Lando grins. “You can, though! It’s mistletoe, you have to. If you’re still fake dating, you’ll be obligated to, to keep up the ruse. Get it?”
Oscar’s worried about the twinkle in Lando’s eye, but he’s even more worried about how Lando’s actually right. Kissing Max would give him an excuse to sort out his feelings. And mistletoe would give him an excuse to kiss Max.
“We said we wouldn’t–” he tries weakly, but Lando cuts him off again.
“Who said? Whose idea was it?”
“Uhh…” Oscar thinks back to when he and Max had huddled together in their corner of the library, awkwardly sorting out the details. “…Mine?”
Lando looked at him expectantly.
“That doesn’t mean he would–“
“I don’t think he’ll be opposed,” Lando says flatly.
Oscar tries a new angle. “Breakfast tomorrow?” He asks warily, remembering Lando’s initial proposition.
“Yes, Oscar,” Lando says, exasperated, but a hint of a smile is tugging at his lips, like he knows he’s already won.
“In the Great Hall?”
“Yes, Oscar, keep up,” Lando advances on him again, brandishing the mistletoe. “Unless you want to do it somewhere more private so you can really explore the idea?” he smirks.
Oscar flushes, spluttering, and shoves past him to collapse dramatically on his bed.
“Tomorrow!” Lando sing-songs, plan finally in place.
“Tomorrow,” Oscar echoes, resigned. He closes his eyes.
It actually happens so quickly that Oscar can’t clamp down on his immediate disappointment when Max pulls away – just a quick peck, more than anything – but Max is still looking at him. And still standing under the hovering mistletoe. A few steps inside the Great hall, where they’d almost collided as Max was on his way in. He’s staring, Oscar thinks absently. Will he kiss me again? I… want him to kiss me again.
Oscar’s face must be doing something complicated, because suddenly max is pulling him out of the room and into a side-corridor, ignoring the wolf-whistling of their friends, and Oscar’s wordlessly following.
As soon as they’re alone, Max turns to face him.
“I am sorry,” he starts, and Oscar, suddenly compelled by the urge to never hear him apologize again, surges forward.
It's awkward and uncoordinated and by all accounts a bad first – or second – kiss, but they get the hang of it after a few moments. Oscar can feel a vague edge of panic rising, like he’s maybe misread the situation, but as he starts to back, Max grabs the back of his neck and pulls them together again. By the time they break apart the candles on the walls are burning a fair bit lower.
“I thought you – you said you didn’t want–” Max starts, and Oscar takes no small amount of pride that he, he, put Max Verstappen at a loss for words.
“Changed my mind,” Oscar breathes out, eyes flicking over Max's face as he tries to calm his heart before it beats out of his chest. His eyes land on Max's lips, slightly chapped but slick from his spit – his spit, oh my God – and he feels almost faint.
“You changed your mind?” Max asks, mouth curling into a half-smirk.
“You,” Oscar corrects. “Um. You… changed my mind.”
At that, Max's face splits into a grin, and he leans in to pepper another couple of kisses along Oscar's jaw. Oscar kind of wishes Max had shoved him against the wall or something, because his knees are feeling weak.
“Maybe I can change your mind about a few other things,” Max grins, “first of all, skipping Vettel’s class and coming back to my room.”
Oscar sighs, but it comes out more weak than stern like he’d been aiming for. “Max–”
“We’re late already," Max says, and then turns towards the direction of Gryffindor’s tower before Oscar can protest.
Oscar, of course, follows him. Like he’d ever do anything else.