Chapter Text
Yuki Tsunoda's funeral was held on a Wednesday. A blindingly sunny Wednesday in the middle of July, perhaps the hottest day of the year.
Standing right under the mid-day sun wearing a black suit jacket was the last thing Lando expected to be doing on a day like this. A drop of sweat threatened to drip into his eye as he tried his best to stand still, hands clasped together in front of him. The heat was oppressive, the kind that made your shirt stick to your back and your thoughts slow to a crawl.
George Russell didn't seem to be faring any better, adjusting his cuff links and shifting his feet slightly. His tall frame cast a long shadow on the ground, but it did nothing to shield them from the relentless sun. Silently, they watched as the coffin was lowered into the grave, the only sounds the quiet sobbing of Yuki's family and the distant hum of London traffic.
Yuki's death had left all of them reeling. Him and Yuki weren't the closest of buddies, but they'd still been friendly at Fairview Academy. Yuki had been a big Man United fan just like him, and he’d always been quick with a joke, always ready with a smile. Last Lando had heard, he'd just gotten promoted to sous chef at a Michelin-starred sushi restaurant in the heart of London. Lando had seen the Instagram posts—Yuki in his chef's whites, beaming with pride, surrounded by immaculate plates of food that looked more like art than dinner.
And now he was dead. Suicide, they said. No matter how he wrapped his head around it, it just didn't make sense.
With the limited French Lando remembered from school, he'd overheard Charles on the phone with Pierre, Yuki's next-door neighbor, a few days ago. The four of them—Lando, George, Alex, and Charles—had been having lunch when Pierre called.
"...what could've possibly caused this... he was happy... he would've told me if something was wrong..." Pierre's tinny voice had sounded confused, broken almost, crackling through the speaker of Charles's phone.
Charles had gone pale, murmuring responses in French that Lando couldn't quite follow. When he'd hung up, he'd stared at his untouched pasta for a long moment before saying, "Pierre found him. In his apartment. He doesn't understand what happened."
None of them had.
"Awfully good weather for us to be having on a day like this, eh?" George's voice broke through Lando's thoughts. His strides crunched on the dead grass as he walked beside Lando, their dress shoes leaving slight markings in the ground behind them. The reception was to be held in a white tent a couple hundred feet from the cemetery plot, and Lando couldn't wait to get in the shade.
"Yup," Lando said, tugging at his collar. "And I thought I was somewhat used to the warm weather, having spent a week in Ibiza last month."
"How was that?" George asked, clearly trying to make conversation, to fill the heavy silence with something, anything normal.
"Hot. Lots of people. We went clubbing, and then I got absolutely wrecked at padel tennis by Max the next morning." Lando laughed humorlessly, picking up his stride to match George's longer ones. Curse him for being so damn tall. "And I swear he drank way more than me the night before, which makes it worse."
They reached the pavilion quickly, the shade a blessed relief. Lando could already feel a headache forming from the heat. They gravitated towards Charles and Alex, who were in line for food at a buffet table laden with sandwiches, fruit, and various other refreshments.
"Seems like basically the whole year pulled up," Alex said, gesturing around them with his paper plate. "It's like a sad class reunion."
Lando looked around, and nodded in agreement. Yuki had been well-liked throughout their year at Fairview Academy; always friendly, willing to help with homework, always down to sneak extra food from the dining hall for late-night study sessions. It made sense that so many people had come to pay their respects.
Their boarding school class of fifty seemed to be mostly accounted for, save a few faces. Carlos Sainz was deep in conversation with Esteban Ocon. Lance Stroll stood next to them, arms crossed, looking uncomfortable in his suit. At one of the tables near the back, Max Verstappen was gesturing something with his hands, engrossed in conversation with a man that sat across from him.
Lando couldn't quite see the man's face, could only make out wavy brown hair and broad shoulders. His suit jacket lay next to him on the bench, and his shoulders filled out his white dress shirt nicely. Very nicely.
Lando blinked, shaking his head. What the hell? This was a funeral. He was not checking out some dude at a goddamn funeral.
"Who's the guy talking to Max?" he asked, setting his plate of food down on the table and reaching for the water bottle he'd tucked under his arm. Charles's head whipped around to the direction Lando had gestured towards, and Lando had to hold back a laugh when he and Alex made eye contact across the table. Charles, always and forever whipped for Max Verstappen.
"I can't tell, I don't have my contacts in today," Charles said, squinting. He pouted slightly. "Could be Piastri? Oscar." He added when Lando's face stayed blank.
"No way, that guy is packing muscle under that shirt." Lando flippantly commented, poking at the sandwich he'd randomly grabbed. It was egg salad, which he didn't particularly like, but he'd been too distracted to pay attention. "Wasn't Piastri, like, hella skinny?"
Oscar Piastri. Lando tried to conjure up a memory of him. Quiet kid, didn't speak much from what Lando remembered. They'd definitely shared a class or two—maybe history? Or was it literature? But they'd never really talked. Nerdy, was probably always in the library or the robotics team room in the basement of that creepy science building Lando had avoided like the plague. The kind of kid who kept to himself, nose always in a book or bent over some incomprehensible engineering project.
Lando knew, through George, who had run the school newspaper, that Oscar had scored absurdly high on his A-levels. Like, scary high. The kind of scores that got him published in the fucking school newspaper to begin with, scores that made teachers use words like "exceptional" and "once in a generation." So Oscar had probably fucked off to some absurdly prestigious university right after Fairview.
On the other hand, this man, at least his back, could be featured on some magazine cover. Broad shoulders, trim waist, the kind of build that suggested regular gym sessions and good genetics.
"Maybe he had a growth spurt," Alex suggested, biting into a strawberry.
George said something else that Lando didn't entirely register. He was still looking at the mystery man, trying to figure out if it really could be Piastri under all that muscle.
No, he decided. That is not Oscar Piastri. Oscar Piastri probably weighed about as much as a strong breeze could blow away. This guy looked like he could bench press Lando without breaking a sweat.
Lando shook himself out of his reverie and continued eating his sandwich, grimacing at the egg salad. When he looked up, Max Verstappen was making his way towards their table, mystery man in tow.
"How's it going, everyone?" Max said, his usual confident smile softened by the somber occasion. He clasped hands with Charles and George in that typical guy greeting, the kind that was half-handshake, half-hug. "Hate that we're seeing each other under these circumstances." He grimaced. "Oscar and I thought we should come over and say hi. It's been a while since you've seen everyone, hasn't it, Oscar?"
Oscar.
The man stepped out from behind Max, and all thoughts promptly rushed out of Lando's head.
It was Oscar Piastri. Somehow. Impossibly.
His hair—when they were in school, Oscar had kept it short, usually slightly gelled back in that trying-too-hard way teenagers did. The Oscar that stood in front of him had longer, messy hair that fell into a swoop across his forehead. It slightly curled at the back, like he'd been running his hands through it. The sun caught the lighter brown highlights in it, making it look almost golden.
Second of all, Oscar was built. Not in an obvious, gym-bro way, but in a way that was impossible to ignore. Even through the dress shirt, Lando could see serious arm muscles. His shoulders were broad, his waist trim. He'd grown into his features too—angular face, strong jaw, straight eyebrows above expressive caramel brown eyes that flashed golden under the sunlight filtering through the tent.
Lando pinched himself under the table. Focus, Norris. he chided internally. This is a funeral. For Yuki. Your classmate who is dead. Not the time to be having a crisis over Oscar Piastri of all people.
"Yeah, I was in the US for a couple of years for my masters," Oscar was saying, his voice deeper than Lando remembered. Or maybe he just didn't remember Oscar's voice at all. "Almost accepted a PhD position actually, but this guy," Oscar pointed a thumb at Max, smiling wryly, "convinced me to come back and work for his startup. Offered me Tim Tams, told me they needed an engineer more stubborn than he was, and here I was, buying a plane ticket back to the motherland."
The group chuckled at that. Lando forced himself to crack a smile, even though his mind was racing at a thousand miles an hour. Oscar's smile was lopsided, charming in an understated way. When had Oscar Piastri become charming?
"No, I think he came back for the weather, actually," Max quipped, putting an arm around Oscar's broad shoulders. Lando tried to ignore the weird feeling in his gut when he saw that. "That bloody lovely English weather beats anything, doesn't it?" Max said the last part in an exaggerated British accent, gaining an eye roll from George.
"Absolutely dreadful," George said dryly.
Oscar laughed breathily, and Lando swore his heart skipped a beat. What was happening to him? Sure, he hadn't really had a full-on relationship since forever, but why was good old nerdy Oscar Piastri making him feel this way?
This was ridiculous. He was being ridiculous.
Max checked his phone and whispered something in Oscar's ear. Oscar nodded, and Max turned back to the group. "We better run. Duty calls, unfortunately." He smiled at the four of them, eyes crinkling. "Good seeing you guys."
Within the Oscar-induced haze that Lando had found himself in, he could see Charles literally melt when Max's attention lingered on him for just a second longer than necessary. Poor Charles. His crush on Max Verstappen had been going strong since their third year at Fairview, and it showed no signs of stopping.
Lando watched their retreating figures as Oscar and Max walked back to their table to grab their jackets. Oscar's gait was confident, relaxed. He moved like someone comfortable in his own skin, which was such a stark difference from the hunched, nervous kid Lando vaguely remembered from school.
"Lando? Earth to Lando?" Alex was waving a hand in front of his face.
"What?"
"I asked if you wanted to come to mine tomorrow for FIFA. You completely zoned out."
"Oh. Yeah, sure. Tomorrow works."
George and Alex had moved on to discussing something about a case George was working on, something about corporate law that went completely over Lando's head. Charles was on his phone, probably texting someone.
But Lando was still thinking about Oscar. About the way he'd changed. About how he'd barely even looked at Lando when Max had introduced them, like Lando wasn't worth a second glance.
Which was fine. Totally fine. They'd never been friends at Fairview anyway.
So why did it bother him so much?
Back in his apartment, suit jacket abandoned on his bed and tie hanging loose around his neck, Lando sat before his desktop. He placed his hands on his keyboard, took them off, and then placed them back on again.
This was stupid. He was being stupid.
But his fingers were already typing: Oscar Piastri.
He paused before hitting enter, giving himself one last chance to not be a complete creep. Then he pressed the key.
Instantly, a LinkedIn profile popped up in the search results. Oscar's headshot was an older one, face still holding onto remnants of youth and baby fat. He was smiling in that awkward way people did for professional photos, like they weren't quite sure what to do with their face.
When Lando scrolled down to his achievements, his mouth dropped open.
Bachelor's degree at Imperial College London, completed in three years instead of the typical four. Straight to MIT for his master's in Materials Engineering. Published research under a renowned professor who'd won a Nobel Prize. Lando only knew this because Max had been raving about it for weeks, going on and on about groundbreaking research in nanomaterials or neural networks or something equally incomprehensible.
Multiple awards, scholarships, honors. The kind of academic record that made Lando feel like an underachiever with his decidedly average A-levels and his decision to pursue streaming instead of university.
Lando wasn't the most well-versed in engineering universities, but even he knew the bits and pieces from Max's endless chattering. MIT was top-tier. Imperial was top-tier. Oscar was, apparently, next-level talent.
So why had he given up a PhD position? Why had he come back to England to work for Max's startup, which, while promising, was still just a startup? It didn't make sense. People like Oscar Piastri, they became professors or researchers at prestigious institutions. They didn't come back to rainy London to work at a tech company that was probably operating out of some converted warehouse in Shoreditch.
Lando tried, and instantly failed, to wrap his mind around it. Sighing, he closed the tab and leaned back in his chair, running his hands through his hair.
Maybe he should stream. His next sponsored stream wasn't scheduled until tomorrow night, but he could do a casual session now, just to take his mind off things. Off Yuki. Off funerals. Off Oscar Piastri and his stupidly broad shoulders.
He opened Twitch, started setting up his overlays.
Streaming always took things off Lando's mind. He could open a stream, talk to his viewers, get immersed in whatever game he was playing, and everything would fade to grey. It was his escape, his safe place, the one thing that was entirely his.
It's like you have a different persona, Max Fewtrell had once said, years ago when they were still friends and Lando was just starting out. You put the headset on, and you're suddenly Lando Norris, the streamer, instead of our little Lando.
A twinge of disgust broiled in his gut at the memory. He hadn't thought about Max Fewtrell in a long while. Hadn't wanted to. The falling out had been ugly, final, the kind that burned bridges until there was nothing left but ash.
Lando immediately squashed any further thoughts down, pulling the headset over his ears. Streaming was his safe place, and no one would ruin that, least of all Max Fewtrell.
He went live, greeting his chat with his usual energy, and for a few hours, everything else disappeared.
-----------------------
Lando woke up to sunlight filtering through his window and some faint voices coming from the street below his apartment. He groaned, rolling over and checking his phone. 9:47 AM. Decent, considering he'd streamed until 2 AM and then lay awake for another hour thinking about—no, he wasn’t going to think about that. Not now.
As he pulled back the curtains, squinting against the bright morning light, a white moving truck came into view, parked directly in front of their building. Immediately, he pulled out his phone and opened the group chat.
Lando: yooo do yall see the moving truck
Lando: someones moving in
George: Oh really? I've got to bake something for them.
Alex: Yayyyy new neighbor!
George, always the welcoming one. Lando smiled, placing his phone back onto his nightstand and pulled on a t-shirt. Walking to the kitchen, he made a mental list of things to do today. Start editing the video he'd recorded last week. Go grocery shopping, as he was down to his last energy drink and some questionable leftover takeaway. Set up his streaming room properly; the desk was still slightly crooked from when he'd moved it last month.
His gaze fell onto Yuki's funeral obituary, lying on the granite countertop where he'd left it yesterday. Picking it up, Lando looked—he really looked—at Yuki's smiling face. The photo was from a few months ago, judging by the uniform Yuki was wearing. His smile was genuine, eyes crinkled at the corners, radiating the kind of contentment that came from doing what you loved.
Yuki's easygoing demeanor, the jokes he'd crack when their literature teacher became too engrossed in Shakespeare, the way he'd always shared his snacks during study sessions. What possibly could have been the reason he ended his own life?
Lando thought back to Pierre's conversation with Charles, the confusion and heartbreak in their voices. If Pierre, who was dating Yuki didn't even know what was going on...
He shook his head, not wanting to consider the possibilities. Depression could hide in plain sight, he knew that. But something about it didn't sit right. Yuki had just been promoted. He'd been excited about it, posting about it constantly. People who were planning to kill themselves didn't usually post enthusiastic Instagram stories about their career achievements, did they?
Downing the rest of his energy drink (his last one, he noted with dismay), Lando picked up his car keys and headed towards the door.
Still mulling over Yuki, Lando haphazardly walked through the hallway, his mind elsewhere. He was thinking about that last Instagram post, the one of Yuki holding a beautifully plated dish, when he rammed directly into someone carrying a box.
The box shifted dangerously, and Lando's hands shot out instinctively to steady it before everything went tumbling.
"Sorry!" Lando choked out, trying to regain his balance. As he looked up, apology at the tip of his tongue, his mouth went dry.
Oscar Piastri was standing right in front of him, his muscular arms supporting a box of what looked like books. Engineering textbooks, from what Lando could see of the spines. Oscar was wearing a white t-shirt and grey sweatpants, and there was a slight sheen of sweat on his forehead.
"I’m so sorry!" Lando repeated, his brain catching up with the situation. He was touching Oscar's arms. He was steadying a box while his hands were on Oscar Piastri's arms, which were just as solid as they looked.
He snatched his hands back.
"So, uh, you moving in?" Lando internally chastised himself for asking the obvious. Of course Oscar was moving in, he was literally carrying boxes in the hallway of their apartment building.
It must have shown on his face, the embarrassment, the awkwardness, because the corners of Oscar's mouth twitched slightly, like he was fighting back a smile. But then his expression settled back down into a neutral, almost blank look.
"I am." The answer was curt, hitting Lando like a bucket of cold water.
Right. Oscar clearly wasn't looking to make any new friends then.
Lando put on a smile and nodded, turning around to walk down the stairs. "Well, welcome to the building. I'm in 4B if you need anything."
Oscar didn't respond, just adjusted his grip on the box and continued down the hall.
Lando stood there for a moment, feeling oddly deflated. He was probably busy, Lando reasoned, heading down to the parking garage. Tired from moving, maybe. Or both. Moving was stressful. Oscar probably had a million things on his mind and didn't have time for small talk with a neighbor he barely knew.
That was fine. Totally fine.
But Oscar wouldn't leave his mind for the entire day.
As Lando shopped for groceries, loading his cart with energy drinks and microwave meals he probably shouldn't be eating, he was reminded of the curve of Oscar's biceps under his white shirt. The way the fabric had pulled taut across his shoulders when he'd adjusted the box.
As he edited his latest YouTube video, a vlog where he'd gone go-karting with some other streamers, he kept getting distracted. The fact that he was the shortest of the group in the video reminded him of the way Oscar had been a few centimeters taller than him in the hallway. Not towering, not overwhelming, just... taller.
The perfect height to look up at, some traitorous part of his brain supplied.
Lando squashed the thought immediately, but not before he could feel his cheeks heating up. This was getting ridiculous. He'd seen Oscar twice—twice!—since Fairview, and suddenly he couldn't stop thinking about him.
His fingers itched for his phone, to open the group chat and tell George, Alex, and Charles about his latest dilemma. But he hesitated. No, telling his best mates from boarding school that he had the hots for another kid from the same school was definitely not the way to go. He could already imagine Alex's teasing, Charles's knowing looks, George's exasperated sigh.
Besides, it wasn't the hots. It was just... attraction. Basic physical attraction to an objectively attractive person. That was normal. That didn't mean anything.
Fuck, he really needed to blow off some steam.
Looking at the clock, he had two hours before his scheduled stream. Just enough time to hit the gym. Work out some of this tension. Forget about Oscar and his stupid perfect face.
The small apartment gym was mostly empty when Lando opened the frosted glass doors at 8 PM. He liked coming at this time, when most people were eating, or winding down for the night. Fewer crowds, less waiting for equipment, and he could put on his own music without bothering anyone.
He went to the water station first, filling up his bottle. The gym was decent for an apartment building, a few treadmills, a Peloton bike, some free weights and cable machines. Nothing fancy, but enough to get a good workout in.
A figure dressed in a black hoodie was sitting on one of the benches near the free weights, holding a dumbbell. From the back, Lando couldn't tell who it was.
The figure turned around as if sensing Lando's presence.
Some fucking luck he had.
Oscar Piastri, the reason for Lando's current pent-up frustration—no, tension, it was tension—was sitting right in front of him. At least he'd had the decency to hide those arms under the hoodie this time, though it didn't help much. The sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, showing off his forearms.
Why were forearms attractive? When had Lando developed a thing for forearms?
The fleeting thought that he could leave, just turn around and walk out of the room, was instantly squashed. That would be weird. Obvious. Oscar would know Lando was avoiding him, and then it would be awkward every time they saw each other in the building.
No. Lando was an adult. He could handle being in the same gym as Oscar Piastri.
It's just Oscar Piastri, he told himself. Just some guy who happened to get hot after boarding school.
Lando put on his best friendly smile and walked towards the Peloton bike next to the weight rack Oscar was using.
"So," he said, swinging a leg over the bike with perhaps more casualness than he felt. "Didn't expect to see you again. Today, I mean. Not in general. Obviously we'll see each other since we live in the same building now."
He fought the urge to facepalm. God, why was he like this?
Lando watched from the reflection of the TV screen in front of the bike as Oscar shrugged.
"Gym's close," Oscar said, not looking at him.
That was it? That was the whole response? Lando felt a pang of something—rejection, maybe, or disappointment, or the sheer audacity of Oscar being so curt when Lando was trying so hard to be friendly.
He tried again. "How's settling in going?" He pulled up a workout on the Peloton screen, selecting a 45 minute ride. "Moving is always such a hassle. I remember when I moved in here, I couldn't find my toothbrush for three days."
"Fine." One word. Sharper than before, even.
Rude. Okay, well if Oscar didn't want to talk, then Lando wouldn't either. He turned the noise-canceling feature of his headphones on and dug into the bike pedals, trying his hardest to ignore the man sitting five feet away from him.
Lando focused on the cadence of his pedaling, the steady burn in his thighs, the instructor's voice in his ears encouraging him to push harder, faster. He kept his eyes forward on the screen, jaw tight, pretending Oscar wasn't there at all.
But he could see him in his peripheral vision. Could see Oscar finish his set, wipe down the bench with methodical precision, and stand. Oscar didn't glance in Lando's direction. Didn't acknowledge him at all.
Lando waited a full minute after Oscar left before pausing the workout and slowing the bike down. His heart was pounding, and not just from the exercise.
"What the fuck was that," he muttered to no one.
If Oscar wanted to be dry and curt and act like Lando didn't exist? Fine. Two could play at this game.
Except, as the days passed, Lando realized that he, in fact, could not play at this game.
It started small.
A week after Oscar had moved in, Lando was heading up to his apartment after a grocery run, arms full of Amazon boxes. He'd finally ordered the parts for his new PC build (something he'd been putting off for months) and he was excited to start putting it together. He could stream the build process; his viewers always loved that kind of content.
He passed by the glass windows of the game room on the way to the elevator, and something made him pause.
Alex and George's tall figures were easy to recognize. But the third person. Lando had thought it was Charles at first, but Charles was away visiting his family in Monaco this week. The fluffy brown hair, wide shoulders, that particular stance...
It was Oscar.
Oscar Piastri was laughing, actually laughing, a bright, wide laugh that transformed his entire face. He was reacting to something Alex had said, his shoulders loose and relaxed, one arm braced casually against the wall as they talked.
Lando couldn't hear what they were saying through the glass, but he moved closer anyway, drawn in like a moth to a flame.
"—and to make things worse, her dog went crazy on me!" Alex was saying, gesturing wildly. "I swear, he had some personal vendetta against me. Wouldn't stop clawing at my shoes for the entire date."
Oscar smiled, and Lando noticed for the first time that he had slightly prominent front teeth. Bunny teeth. It was cute. Unfairly cute.
"You sure it wasn't your cooking?" Oscar asked, his tone teasing. "Maybe you burned something and the dog could smell it."
"I did not burn it!" Alex protested. "Okay, fine, I did. But how was I supposed to know that crème brûlée needed that much attention? The recipe made it sound easy!"
Oscar laughed again, shaking his head. "That's your problem. You don't read the whole recipe before starting."
"That's exactly what George said!" Alex groaned lightheartedly.
Lando stood there, frozen, watching the easy camaraderie between them. Oscar looked completely different than he had in the gym—relaxed, open, engaged. Like a completely different person.
He slowly got closer to the doorway, heart doing something stupid in his chest. George and Alex noticed him and waved enthusiastically.
Oscar only tilted his head in the barest acknowledgment, his body language shifting immediately. His shoulders tensed, his smile faded, and he turned his body slightly away, like he was already preparing to leave.
Lando mustered a weak wave back, then quickly headed towards the elevator, the boxes in his arms suddenly feeling much heavier.
One way to reject a man, he thought bitterly.
Later that week, George mentioned it off-handedly while they were having coffee.
"You know Oscar? From our boarding school days?" George stirred his latte absently. "I played a nice game of chess with him yesterday. I reckon I've finally met my match, actually."
"Yeah?" Lando tried to sound casual.
"Brilliant mind. We got to talking after, and he helped me carry a package up to my apartment. Proper gentleman, that one."
Lando made a noncommittal sound and took a sip of his cappuccino, fighting a sigh.
Charles echoed similar sentiments a few days later, sprawled on Lando's couch with his feet up like he owned the place.
"I don't know why I wasn't friends with Oscar during Fairview," Charles said, scrolling through his phone. "We grabbed coffee yesterday, and he's actually hilarious. His sense of humor is lowkey dry, but it catches up to you, you know? You just gotta get him talking."
"Mm-hmm," Lando said, not looking up from his laptop where he was editing a video.
"You should hang out with us sometime. I think you'd like him."
"Maybe," Lando lied.
He didn't mention to Charles or George or Alex that Oscar barely spoke to him. That every interaction they had was curt and cold and made Lando feel like he'd done something wrong, even though he had no idea what.
Lando just smiled and nodded, not saying a word. Because he had tried. He'd tried to be friendly, to make conversation, and Oscar had shut him down every time.
So clearly, the problem was him, it seemed.
The next time he really saw Oscar—apart from the fleeting glimpses in the hallways, game room, or building lobby—was on a Thursday evening three weeks later.
Lando was heading to Alex's apartment for their weekly FIFA tournament, a tradition they'd maintained since Fairview. He was running late, having gotten caught up in editing a video that had taken longer than expected.
He was hurrying down the hallway when he saw Oscar struggling with what looked like an entire grocery store's worth of shopping. Paper bags were digging into his forearms, one tilted dangerously to the side, about to spill its contents all over the floor.
Lando absolutely did not notice the way Oscar's biceps bulged through the white t-shirt he always seemed to wear. He definitely did not notice the way the shirt pulled tight across Oscar's chest as he tried to adjust his grip on the bags.
"Hey," Lando said, stepping forward automatically, hands already reaching out. "I can help—"
"I've got it," Oscar cut in, quick and firm, his voice sharp.
Lando froze mid-step. "Oh. Okay." He quickly retracted his arms, feeling his face heat up with embarrassment. "Right. Sorry."
Oscar adjusted his grip on the bags, finally managing to get his keys out of his pocket. His jaw was tight, eyes focused intently on unlocking his door like it was the most important task in the world. One bag ripped slightly at the side, and Lando watched an apple start to roll out. He reached for it instinctively, but Oscar shifted the bag before it could fall.
"Right," Lando said again, stepping back. "Well, I'll, uh, leave you to it. Let me know if you need anything."
Oscar nodded once—a single, curt acknowledgment—and headed inside, door closing behind him with a soft click.
Lando stood there longer than necessary, staring at Oscar's closed door. Then he turned around and headed back towards the stairs, each step feeling heavier than the last.
He didn't bring it up later. Didn't ask Alex or Charles or George why Oscar laughed so easily with them but spoke to him like it was a chore, like every word cost him something. If he could even count their interactions as speaking—mostly they were just Oscar giving one-word responses while Lando desperately tried to fill the silence.
Lando told himself it didn't matter. That he was overthinking it. That some people just didn't click, and that was fine. Not everyone had to like him. That was okay.
But every time he caught Oscar smiling at someone else—at Alex in the game room, at George in the building lobby, at Charles in the coffee shop down the street—it felt like standing outside a room he wasn't allowed into. Close enough to hear the warmth in Oscar's voice, the genuine laughter, the easy camaraderie. But still shut out. Still on the wrong side of the door.
And the worst part was that Lando had no idea why.
What had he done? What had he said? Had they had some interaction at Fairview that Lando couldn't remember? Had Lando been a dick to him somehow, in some way that teenage Lando hadn't even registered?
He lay in bed and wracked his brain, trying to remember. But Oscar Piastri had been so far outside Lando's orbit at Fairview that he couldn't recall a single conversation. Couldn't remember ever being mean to him, but also couldn't remember ever being nice. Oscar had just been... there. Background noise. A face in the crowd.
And now Oscar wanted nothing to do with him, and Lando had no idea why, and it was driving him slowly insane.
He lay in bed that night, staring at the ceiling, Oscar's words echoing in his head.
I've got it. Three words like three knives in his stomach.
Every time he caught Oscar smiling at someone else, it felt like standing outside a room he wasn’t allowed into—close enough to hear the warmth of his voice, but still shut out.
And the worst part was that Lando had no idea why.