Archive of Our Own ^beta

1.

"Oscar?"

Oscar stared at the steaming cup of black tea in his hand, lost in thought for a long moment before lifting his head at the sound of his name.

"Yeah?"  he replied. He didn't actually like tea—this delicate little cup and its contents felt too British for his taste. He could never get used to the lingering bitterness that clung to his tongue.

He'd stepped into the break room seeking a breather from the mountain of code piled on his computer screen. Instead, he'd stumbled upon Alex from his department and George—clearly here to find Alex—engaged in lively conversation. They'd pulled him into the chat, passing him a cup of tea along the way.

"Do you want to join us this weekend for the New Year's Eve party? At the new bar that just opened in Soho." George's blue eyes lit up like shards of sunlight on water as he leaned casually across the counter toward Alex, one hand propping himself up, the other loosely curling around his drink.

"Unless you've already got plans, of course." Alex chimed in softly, his voice warm and thoughtful.

Oscar blinked, quickly flicking through his so-called "other plans" in his head.

Truthfully, the invitation couldn't have come at a better time. Previous New Year's Eves had been a choice between two fates for him: either holed up in his dorm studying for crucial finals, or dragged by Logan to loud, overcrowded gatherings—crammed in with strangers along the Thames, listening as the chimes counted down the seconds.

But this year, Logan had flown back to the States before Christmas, leaving Oscar with exclusive run of their shared apartment for over half a month. His New Year's plans likely involved lying on the living room couch watching Netflix.

At that thought, he pressed his lips together, then nodded at Alex and George, who were looking at him expectantly. "Sure. Why not?" "Perfect." George made a clinking gesture with his tea cup.

So on New Year's Eve, as he stood in the dazzlingly lit dance floor, a couple holding hands jostled him. Half a glass of gin and tonic spilled onto his sleeve. Oscar let out a slow breath, regretting—for the third time that night—that he hadn't just stayed home binge-watching Netflix.

He scanned the crowd, searching for a familiar face or two, but the sudden surge of lights stung his eyes, making it nearly impossible to focus.

Five minutes later, he finally caught sight of George waving from a corner. Oscar exhaled in relief, muttering "excuse me" as he pushed his way through the swaying crowd toward him.

"He came!" George exclaimed, flinging his arms wide in an exaggerated cheer that set off laughter around them. Beyond George and Alex, the small group included a few faces Oscar didn't recognize—though they felt oddly familiar, probably public figures he'd come across while scrolling social media. 

"Oh right, Oscar—this is Charles, the renowned music producer." Alex gestured toward the man beside him, who had an exceptionally handsome face. Charles offered a warm smile and a wave.

Charles looked like the kind of man who'd adorn magazine covers with headlines like "Hollywood's Rising Southern European Star." Oscar was surprised someone with such striking good looks had opted for a behind-the-scenes role as a producer? It felt like a crime against the fashion and film industries.

"And this is Max…" "Verstappen?!" Oscar finally placed the face, blurting out in shock.

Max raised an eyebrow, a faint smirk playing on his lips.  "You watch Formula One?" "Not really, but my roommates did..." Oscar felt an overwhelming urge to dash home and grab Logan's Red Bull hat from the living room to get this world champion driver's autograph.

What kind of social circles did his dear colleagues even run in? If it weren't for the thumping electronic music still ringing in his ears and the sticky gin stain on his sleeve, Oscar might've mistaken himself for at a celebrity gala, champagne flute in hand.

"Relax, Oscar, they're just people." George rolled his eyes playfully. "We grew up together, more or less.  This is Charles' friend's new bar. We're here to show support."

"It's a nice place, Charles." Oscar's sincerity was hard to doubt. Charles chuckled a few times, his response laced with a soft, honeyed French accent. "Thanks, I'll pass that on to the owner."

Oscar couldn't help but glance again at Max, who was now relaxed and slightly tipsy. After a beat of hesitation, he spoke up: "I hope this isn't too bold, but Max—there's something I've been curious about for ages…" "Please don't ask if I ever peed in the cockpit,"  Max said, widening his eyes dramatically. The group burst into laughter immediately. Oscar laughed too, abandoning his curiosity about the pit stop strategy and slowly relaxing into the moment.

Until the background music took a jarring shift, followed by an unsettling twenty-second lull.

The circle fell silent. Dancing people froze mid-step, confused. The bar went as quiet as a library. The lights dimmed to a near-black hush—Oscar could barely make out his own glass. Suddenly, neon green beams flickered to life one by one, spreading in a swirling ring that sliced through the dark like a dozen chaotic lasers.

The drumbeat exploded, and thundering electronic music engulfed the space in an instant. The crowd surged back to life like a tidal wave, cheers, screams, and footsteps melding into a roaring current.

"Lando's up." Charles said with a smile.

Oscar followed his gaze to the DJ booth. The tall, pierced blonde DJ who'd been there earlier was gone, replaced by a curly-haired guy in a plain black shirt, collar slung open casually. He nodded along to the beat, his silver necklace swaying softly against his chest, stacked bracelets glinting on his wrists. Sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his fingers flew across the console—each movement precise yet fluid, as if he could weave the very rhythm of the room into the tracks. The entire bar's pulse, its energy, was in the palm of his hands.

"That's Lando?" Oscar murmured, almost to himself. When Lando lifted his head and the lights brightened, Oscar caught sight of his face, and couldn't take his eyes off him. His brows furrowed in concentration, fingertips pausing briefly over the buttons. Long, curly lashes fluttered once, twice, before the corners of his mouth tugged into a faint, satisfied smile. With the next track change, he sent the crowd into a new frenzy, the energy spiking so sharply it was almost tangible.

"Blink, Oscar." Alex, standing beside him, nudged his arm playfully. Oscar jolted back to his senses, awkwardly clearing his throat. When he turned, all four of them were watching him with amused grins—heat crept up his neck belatedly, painting his cheeks pink.

"It's okay, we get it. The Lando effect." George clapped him on the shoulder, his tone sounding considerate but clearly loaded with innuendo, making Oscar's blush deepen to a rich crimson.

Yeah, ogling an insanely attractive DJ right in front of coworkers definitely wasn't part of his New Year's plan.

George and the others drifted off to mingle with other friends, leaving Oscar seated at the booth, taking slow, occasional sips from his drink. He'd had his eyes on Lando ever since he'd stepped up there—and he didn't feel the least bit guilty about it. It was only natural, after all. Once you saw him, it was hard to look away.

Oscar had picked up on all sorts of endearing little quirks: the way he'd brush a finger against his nose when deep in thought, the way his eyes would crinkle into half-moons when the crowd reacted just as he'd hoped, the way he'd let his guard down entirely around people—relaxed, unguarded, utterly himself. Oscar found himself smiling softly more than once.

He didn't even know the guy, yet he felt like he was the most captivating person alive.

It wasn't until the crowd started counting down that Oscar realized he'd been planted in that booth for over an hour. Glancing at his wristwatch, he saw he had barely thirty seconds left to ring in the new year alone in this bar. Surrounded by chaos and laughter, not a single person here was truly connected to him.

Ordinarily, his sense of ritual would have him reflecting on the year gone by, but he realized the past twelve months had been little more than the usual milestones: graduation, starting his new job. Nothing more, nothing less.

Oscar chuckled dryly to himself, lifting his head as the twenty-second countdown began. He did what he'd been doing for the past an hour—let his gaze drift naturally toward the DJ booth.

Only this time, Lando's eyes locked onto his.

Their gazes met in an ambiguous hold in the crowd, lingering as the countdown ticked down and the music softened. The surrounding laughter, clinking glasses, and throbbing bassline faded into a distant hum.

Oscar's world shrank into a tiny bubble that belonged only to the two of them. He felt his breath grow heavier, his fingers curling unconsciously around the edge of the bar. 

Lando stood a few feet away, holding his stare. Oscar couldn't parse the emotion in Lando's gaze, couldn't even make out the shifting hues of his irises beneath the lights—all he could feel was the raw intensity of their mutual focus, a tangible thread that coiled tighter by the second.

"Ten! Nine! Eight! Seven!"
　　
Lando bited his lips slowly, and Oscar's heart skipped a beat.

The New Year's countdown hit zero at last. People around them waved sparklers, sending showers of confetti swirling through the air. Cheers and "Happy New Year" in a dozen languages erupted at once. Lando looked at him and murmured softly. Oscar couldn't read lips, but he knew exactly what Lando was saying: Happy New Year.

Oscar stood up, instinctively moving toward him, only to be cut off midway by a drunk George, with Alex's arm looped anxiously around George's waist to keep him from toppling over.

"Happy New Year, Oscar!" George bellowed at him in a voice strained to the edge of breaking, raising another glass that Alex promptly snatched away.

"Happy New Year, George. Alex." Oscar watched the chaotic duo with amusement. George was far too tall, and when he was this wasted, his entire frame crushed against Alex. Oscar was about to step in to help Alex, who was straining to keep George upright, when Alex apologized hastily, "Happy New Year Oscar. He's just too drunk, we're heading out. Have fun… George, put that down!"

"Okay, alright." Oscar watched them leave the bar, then turned to search for the person he'd been watching all night. Lando was gone. In his place stood a new female DJ, her neon pink hoodie searing his retinas.

In the bar's lively chaos, a sharp, unexpected chill settled over Oscar. He glanced around the room, but none of the faces were familiar—not even Charles or Max were in sight. 

Logically, Oscar knew Lando was their friend; there'd be plenty of other opportunities to ask for his contact info later. But emotionally, he couldn't shake the disappointment of letting the perfect chance with Lando slip away on New Year's Eve.

Couldn't he at least say hello? At least respond to his "Happy New Year"? At least mustered the courage to ask if they could grab coffee sometime soon?

Oscar couldn't recall the last time he'd felt this flutter.

So he walked back to the bar in frustration, politely declining two friendly approaches and one less-than-friendly. After several unsuccessful attempts to find Lando or Charles, he finally decided to leave.

He slipped on his down jacket and stepped outside, shivering as the cold London air slammed into him. Winters in the city felt harsher each year. Snow was rare this time of year, yet tiny flakes were slowly drifting down from the sky, dusting the pavement with a faint layer of white.

Even approaching 1 a.m. on New Year's Eve, the streets teemed with people, streetlights and shop signs still glowing warmly. Oscar exhaled, his breath curling into a wisp of white mist that vanished almost instantly.

As he pulled out his phone, Oscar debated whether to hail a cab straight back to his apartment or take a shot in the dark and message Alex again, asking for Lando's contact info.

He opened his chat with Alex and hovered over the keyboard, typing tentatively: "Hey Alex, how's George holding up? Hate to bother you, but do you have L…"

As he typed "L," Oscar realized he didn't even know how to spell his name. Normally it would be L-a-n-d-o, but what if there was a special spelling? Landau? Landoe?

"Hey."

Oscar lifted his head from the glowing phone screen at the sound of a slightly hoarse voice.

Lando stood in front of him, wrapped in a jacket covered in logos, hands tucked into his pockets, his chin buried in a thick scarf. chin peeking out from beneath a thick knit scarf. Up close, Oscar noticed two tiny, adorable moles dotting his cheek—addictive little details he'd missed from across the bar. His eyes were even more beautiful in person: soft, wispy lashes framing irises that shifted like gemstones, swirling between gray-blue and mint green.

Lando made the streetlights and snowflakes behind him fade into utter darkness. Just like in the bar, Oscar couldn't see anything but him.

They stood in silence for a beat too long, until Lando cleared his throat awkwardly and nodded toward the opposite side of the street. Following his gaze, Oscar spotted it: an orange McLaren, sleek and unapologetically bold. Honestly, he couldn't think of a car that suited Lando better. Flashy, charismatic, impossible to ignore.

Lando started toward the car, and Oscar followed instinctively, pulling open the passenger door and slipping inside. The sharp contrast in temperature hit him immediately, and he realized the heater had been cranked up for ages. The air smelled like mint gum and a faint trace of lingering alcohol, a heady mix that made Oscar's pulse quicken.
　　
Lando slid into the driver's seat, drumming his fingers lightly against the steering wheel as if working up the nerve to speak. Oscar felt a flutter of nervousness twist in his stomach. He watched as a flicker of resolve crossed Lando's face  "whatever I'm gonna say it" and then Lando turned to him, a faint, knowing smile tugging at his lips.
　　
"You know, you've been watching me all night."

Oh. That wasn't what he'd expected at all. The car's heater was cranked up so high Oscar's ears burned. Clearing his throat, he mumbled, "Yeah…There were so many people watching you at the bar. I didn't think you'd notice me."

Lando let out a soft, warm chuckle. "You're kind of hard to ignore."

Lando turned on the car stereo, and Oscar realized the DJ's personal taste leaned into emotive American country tunes. So it was to the cheerful melody of Lady A's I Run to You that he heard Lando ask, "Come home with me?"

Baby you're the only one I run to, I run to you...🎵

Oscar's throat felt too tight to speak. He nodded slowly and firmly.

2.

An unfamiliar soft touch slowly pulled Oscar from his slumber.

First came the faint scent of chocolate, unfamiliar to his apartment. Slowly, he realized the silky smoothness of the sheets beneath him was nothing like his own cotton plaid set from the supermarket. Oscar opened his eyes groggily, squinting to make out the minimalist yet distinctly designer pendant light above him.

Then it hit him. Oh, right. Last night he'd ended up in bed with a stranger he'd just met.

He rolled over. The spot beside him was empty, the cool sensation confirming the other person had left some time ago. Oscar propped himself up with aching back muscles, slowly sitting up with sluggishness. The duvet slipped off his shoulders, sending a shiver down his spine as a dull, throbbing ache settled into every muscle. Who the hell had he gone home with last night?

As Oscar's foggy mind struggled to piece together fragments of last night—the deafening music, dazzling lights, snowflakes,  McLaren, and those exceptionally bright eyes—the bathroom door slid open.

Lando emerged wearing a loose white T-shirt and sweatpants, his tousled curls sticking out, a toothbrush dangling from his mouth. The moment Oscar saw him, everything came flooding back. He could feel his cheeks burning bright red.

Lando clearly found his reaction highly amusing—he paused mid-brush, and even through the foam, Oscar could make out the mischievous, satisfied smirk tugging at his lips.

Lando strode to the bedside and leaned down. A wave of cool, refreshing minty air washed over him, mingled with the lingering dampness of Lando's shower and the scent of aftershave. Oscar dared not breathe loudly. Lando leaned in with such natural ease, brushing a minty, bubble-laced kiss against the corner of his lips.

"Morning." Lando said, eyes fixed on him.

Oscar froze, transfixed by this overly intimate yet casually casual morning ritual. He stared blankly for two seconds before belatedly raising his hand to wipe the bubble around his lips with the back of his knuckle. "Morning," he murmured.

Lando ruffled Oscar's hair, straightened up, and walked back to the bathroom while brushing his teeth. Oscar blinked, watching the blurred silhouette behind the glass door. The lingering mint scent made him chuckle softly, then he fought the urge to bury his face in the pillow and giggle like a high schooler. 

God, he's so sweet. He looks sweet, he smells sweet, and he definitely tastes sweet. After the sound of splashing water, Oscar leaned back against the headboard, watching Lando move briskly around the bedroom.

He picked up an expensive-looking frosted glass bottle from the nightstand, poured some clear liquid into his palm, and deftly patted it onto his face with a "slap-slap" sound. Then he opened a massive wardrobe that took up an entire wall. Inside, clothes hung neatly yet densely packed—everything from T-shirts and shirts that looked like they could be bought on the street to well-tailored leather jackets that seemed custom-made.

Lando stood with his hands on his hips, gazing at the wall of clothes as if contemplating some profound human mystery. He pulled out a piece, held it up to the mirror, shook his head, and hung it back up, humming a tune that was off-key—probably a song he'd played while DJing the night before.

Oscar sat quietly on the bed throughout, wrapped tightly in his blanket with only his head peeking out, like a koala observing the world from its nest. In his defense: first, December—oh wait, it was already January—was freezing cold, and second, this seemingly wealthy guy didn't seem to like turning on the room heater.

His gaze followed Lando's busy movements around the room as he finally settled on a light gray sweater with an unfamiliar logo on the back and a pair of faded jeans. Lando opened a jewelry box and selected a necklace adorned with checkerboard elements from a pile of sparkling silver pieces.

Throughout it all, Lando radiated a relaxed energy, as comfortable as if no stranger were sitting on the bed watching his entire morning routine unfold.

When Lando finally fastened the oddly patterned square watch on his wrist and looked up at him, Oscar felt a slight, caught-off-guard flutter in his chest.

"Want me to drive you to work? It's not far from here," Lando asked casually. "Or would you rather sleep a little longer?"

How could he be so calm about this situation?!

Oscar was processing the information. "You know where I work?" His sleepy voice was soft and husky, tinged with a faint Australian accent. Lando's smile deepened, one eyebrow lifting playfully. "Aren't you George's coworker?"

"Oh," Oscar said. His hands twisted the sheets beneath the covers.

"Is it…on your way?" Lando ducked into another small room, presumably sorting through something. His voice drifted out, muffled by distance: "It is if I'm dropping you off. Besides, I'm kind of freelance—I don't have to head into an office today."

Oscar realized belatedly that the phrase "It is if I'm dropping you off" was supposed to be romantic? Just then, Lando emerged holding a scarf. Oscar's gaze inadvertently caught the slightly open collar of Lando's sweater as he bent down to pick something up—revealing several suggestive, now-darkened marks on that patch of skin. They were evidence of last night's passionate encounter. He flinched away as if burned, pulled back the covers, and began fumbling around on the floor for his scattered clothes.

Sitting back in the passenger seat of the McLaren, Oscar still felt a surreal haze. The engine's low growl echoed distinctly through the relatively quiet morning streets. As he bent to fasten his seatbelt, Lando turned sideways, retrieved a warm brown paper bag from the backseat, and pressed it into his hands. Oscar hadn't even noticed when he'd bought breakfast.

"Didn't know your tastes, so I just grabbed a few things."  Lando turned around and kept his eyes on the road ahead, skillfully steering into traffic with the ease of someone performing the most routine of daily tasks.

The warmth of the bag seeped into Oscar's cold fingertips. Inside was a creamy latte and a flaky butter croissant wrapped in wax paper, still warm enough to steam slightly. Oscar murmured his thanks. This sweet, thoughtful gesture couldn't mask the faint chill spreading through him. 

He's so, so calm about this situation.

The car glided to a stop outside Oscar's office building. He unbuckled his seatbelt, his goodbye coming out stiff as a board: "Thanks for the ride. And… everything." He'd tried to keep his tone casual, obviously trying to match Lando's nonchalance—but he felt as awkward as he had at his first middle school dance.

Lando smiled at him, "Any time. Have a good day, Oscar."

Even the way Lando said his name sounded beautiful.  "You too." He stood rooted to the spot as the orange car pulled away cleanly, passed a traffic light, and vanished around the street corner. Oscar clutched the brown paper bag, took a deep breath, and turned toward the office building filled with the scent of warm air conditioning and caffeine.

He set down his backpack and the breakfast Lando had bought him, sat at his desk, and buried his face in his hands, trying to sort through the chaos in his mind while the computer booted up. George, who had been chatting with colleagues by the elevator, spotted him from afar and sauntered over, carrying a mug emblazoned with the words "Sorry did I roll my eyes loud." 

He looked like a different person from the one who'd passed out drunk on Alex last night. Oscar was dying to ask George about his unique techniques for managing his schedule and dealing with hangovers—and maybe his experience with one-night stands (if he had any).

The marketing manager who occasionally popped into the tech department didn't seem in any hurry to pick up on the tangled emotions on Oscar's face. He offered an effortless, natural smile.

"Good morning, Oscar. How was your night?" Before Oscar could muster the energy to reply, George's gaze settled on the brown paper bag bearing a café's bold logo at the corner of his desk. "Huh." George drew out the syllable, sipping his coffee. "Classic Lando." 

The name hit Oscar's ears with sudden clarity. The anxiety that had lingered heavy in his chest all morning plummeted to the bottom of his stomach the second George's words trailed off. He felt absurdly childish for ever hoping for more. 

This was standard procedure for Lando when dealing with a hook-up from a pleasant evening—how could he possibly think it was special treatment? He might not even remember your name three blocks down the road.

"I'm such an idiot." Oscar muttered, staring at the beautiful winter landscape of a Norwegian village on his computer wallpaper. George pursed his lips, about to say something, when Alex—who'd arrived at the office a few minutes later, looking exhausted and resentful—grabbed George's arm and dragged him away.

The crumpled brown paper bag offered little insulation. Soon, the croissants inside would be cold enough to kill any appetite. Oscar, skipping breakfast on an empty stomach, was called into an hour-long project team debrief. Returning to his desk at ten, he stared at the untouched bag for a long moment. Sighing, he picked it up and tossed the whole thing into the trash.

They hadn't exchanged contact details, but Lando's social media was so easy to find.

It didn't take him long to spot an account named LandoN4 in a colleague's Instagram comments—a conspicuous username paired with a neon green profile picture. So on Friday night, Oscar curled up on his apartment sofa, munching on waffles while scrolling through Lando's past posts.

Turns out Lando was a brand designer at a renowned studio. Just as Oscar had expected, his social life was excessively busy, and his social media presence was vibrant and flamboyant. His feed was filled with brand promotions, life details that sparked his inspiration, and messy, scribbled sketches; Photos from dazzling fashion parties where Lando posed with celebrities and models—always surrounded by glamorous, beaming friends.

 In one frame, Oscar spotted Charles, his signature grin bright as ever; in another, Lando wore a sleek racing helmet, leaning lazily against a gleaming, deep-blue Yamaha motorbike,  throwing a casual gesture at the camera as racetrack wind whipped his jacket around his shoulders.

He scrolled to Lando's New Year's Eve post—standing before the DJ booth, one hand holding a glass while the other draped over a friend's shoulder, squinting against the flashes.

Oscar found himself biting his lower lip as he scrolled through Lando's past posts, trying to piece together a complete picture of Lando Norris through his work, hobbies, and social circle.

Then, in an early, goofy selfie taken in front of a mirror, his thumb grew stiff from holding the same position too long and accidentally double-tapped, instantly lighting up the heart icon. That post from years ago had only a handful of likes, making the added number stand out all the more.

"Shit." Oscar cursed under his breath, his spine snapping straight from its slouched position on the couch. He suppressed his racing heartbeat, forcing himself to think rationally. Lando probably didn't even have notifications turned on, right? And with so many people interacting under his account daily, a koala avatar with only a couple dozen followers might not even register on his radar.

Oscar's finger hovered over the cancel button, then froze mid-motion. A reckless feeling crept over him. He stared at the tiny, now-lit heart icon for a few seconds, as if examining his own awkward, misplaced feelings. Finally, with a touch of defiance, Oscar decisively liked every single post he'd just browsed, one after another.

Minutes later, alongside the like notification effects, a private message from Lando popped up. Oscar nearly dropped his phone.

"Creepy, Oscar.😏"

Oscar choked and coughed for a moment. Then he received a notification that Lando had liked his only Instagram post—a photo Hattie had taken during his winter break back in Melbourne last year. He was sitting on the floor in a white T-shirt, cradling the neighbor's curly-haired puppy, his expression caught in a moment of blank surprise. His sister had insisted on posting it to spruce up his otherwise empty profile. He kept telling himself he'd delete it later, but it just stayed there.

Oscar: Sorry, just doing some research?

Lando: Yeah? Find anything interesting?

Oscar: You have questionable taste in hoodies, hate fish, and really love that bike.

Lando: Hey! Those are designer hoodies!😠

3.

They chatted often after that. Of course they did—they were Gen Z, and online chatting was practically their love language or something.

Oscar always had a deep distrust of social media. He wasn't keen on sharing his daily life. His parents and sisters practically had to yank his ears over the phone before he'd sigh and recount his recent activities.

But Lando was the type who wanted the whole world to know about his daily life. Considering his profession, it wasn't surprising. What was unexpected, though, was that beyond his public social media posts, Oscar always found adorable little details hidden like Easter eggs in their private chats.

Like, how his critically acclaimed website design was actually inspired by rainforest poison dart frogs; or how he desperately wanted a puppy but never got the chance; or how the CEO and HR manager of a recent clothing brand collaboration were secretly having an affair.

"No way!" Oscar nearly dropped his jaw. He switched screens to check Lando's joint post about the brand collaboration, then clicked into the CEO's profile. There, prominently displayed, was a sparkling family photo. 

"Right?! God, I really wish I didn't know that." "How did you find out anyway?" "Well, I kinda ran into them making out." " NO WAY." Oscar's imagination painted the scene too vividly—the couple crammed together in the conference room, Lando's face a mix of awkwardness and schadenfreude. Curled up on the couch, Oscar laughed until his stomach hurt.

So he found himself sharing his own mundane daily moments with Lando more often. When encountering a program bug, the team lead's face looked worse than the recent weather; the fish at lunch was undercooked (earning a long string of "ewwww!" from Lando); the neighbor's bulldog had puppies; the department manager was threatening him again to remember to use up his annual leave quota this year, and so on. It got to the point where he had to scour his chat history with Lando for topics during his next call with family.

　　
"Yeah, I keep saying that too," Nicole Piastri declared over the video call, vigorously stirring a bowl of unappetizing salad as she wholeheartedly agreed with his latest update. "Why not take a few days off this winter to come back to Australia? Britain must be freezing."

"My team just launched a new project, Mom." Oscar said with a resigned laugh. He kept the video call open on his tablet while flipping through food delivery apps on his phone.

He landed on a Chinese restaurant Lando had recently trashed in a rant—Lando considered himself London's Chinese food connoisseur, claiming their spring rolls tasted like they'd been soaking in water for a week before serving. Oscar pictured Lando furiously typing on the other end of the screen and couldn't help but chuckle.

Oscar looked up at the sound of a cough. Nicole on the screen paused her movements, watching him with an amused expression. "What?" Oscar felt inexplicably guilty. "Who are you smiling at?" "It's really just the takeout app." Oscar reflexively defended himself, flipping his phone screen toward Nicole. She responded by narrowing her eyes with even greater interest. "You know you can tell me if you meet someone, right?"

He didn't know how to tell his dear mother that he and this person had only shared a one-night stand, yet now they exchanged silly messages daily like middle schoolers, leaving him grinning foolishly at his screen every day. If he and Lando were truly just online friends, he'd feel more at ease about it and would gladly invest himself fully, slowly nurturing a healthy, intimate relationship.

But that night they rolled around together on New Year's Eve complicated everything ten thousandfold—beyond what Oscar's emotional processing module could handle. He had no clue what Lando was thinking, or even if Lando had met anyone else since. After all, they'd made no promises.

Stupid, stupid one-night stand.

　　
It wasn't until two weeks later that Oscar saw Lando again, right outside the company entrance. The guy seemed to disappear and reappear here like it was his designated spawn point. Oscar had just finished work, stepping out of the building with his backpack and puffer jacket. His gaze met Lando leaning against his sports car. He wore a plain beige hoodie layered under an orange-patterned baseball jacket, the hood pulled down to reveal only a few curls. Lando stood cross-legged, head bowed, engrossed in his phone.

Oscar desperately tried to suppress the fluttering reaction his sight caused—at least he tried. He hurried over, and before he even stopped, Lando lifted his head, flashing a smile that felt far too natural and intimate.

"Hey Oscar!" "Lando." Oscar felt flustered. Handshake? No, for Christ's sake, he wasn't a client. Hug? They weren't that close, were they? Lando watched his hand hover halfway between them, uncertain, then clicked his tongue and hauled him into a tight, solid hug.

Lando's hoodie cap slipped off with the movement. Oscar felt the cool air from his sudden approach blend with the warmth of the embrace. Lando released him and offered an explanation before Oscar could ask anything: "I'm here to pick up George and Alex. There's a small event tonight hosted by Lewis."

Oscar recalled Lewis as their studio's owner, whose profile page sparkled with a string of complex design awards and honors, as dazzling as the elegant pearl and diamond jewelry adorning his own person.

Lando suddenly seemed to remember something, his eyes lighting up and his tone growing lighter. "You know what? You should come!"

Whatever kind of small gathering it was, Oscar was ninety-nine percent certain it wouldn't suit him at all. He glanced down at his white shirt, puffer jacket, jeans, and sneakers, then looked back at Lando's layered outfit full of thoughtful details, wrinkling his nose in hesitation.

"Are you sure I should go?" Lando immediately picked up on his hesitation, gently tapping his arm as he laughed and reassured him, "It's fine! It's really just a private gathering. No one's going to judge your fashion choice, nerdy boy. Just be yourself."

Oscar Piastri found himself utterly incapable of saying no to Lando Norris. This was bound to become a serious problem sooner or later.

But that day hadn't arrived yet, so he had nothing to do about it. He nodded obediently, watching the smile slowly spread across Lando's face. His eyes, somewhere between blue and green, sparkled brightly. When he focused on someone, all surrounding noise faded away, leaving only the nameless connection flowing slowly between them—just like that night in the bar. Was this his special ability, besides design?

"Lando!" Their shared moment snapped with a startled shout. They turned together to see George and Alex emerging from the revolving doors of the company building.

Alex spotted the conspicuous car and people by the street instantly, his gaze darting between them like a tennis ball.

"Didn't you tell us to take a cab?" he teased. George stood nearby, arms crossed. "I believe his exact words were, 'Get yourselves over here I'm not your chauffeur.'"

A flicker of obvious panic crossed Lando's face. Oscar noticed, for once, the faint flush on his ears—though he couldn't tell if it was from the cold after standing outside so long. Why hadn't he waited in the lobby on such a freezing day? Oscar wanted to rub his hands together and then massage Lando's ears.

"Shut up, you two. I just happened to be nearby and swung by." Alex rolled his eyes and nodded exaggeratedly, his expression suggesting he didn't believe a word. "I'm not complaining. At least we have a ride." George strolled over, opened the door, and gave Oscar a meaningful wink.

Oscar snapped out of staring at Lando's adorably flushed ears and cheeks, belatedly shifting his gaze. Completely out of the loop, he watched the three exchange glances in a silent puzzle for a moment. But one thing was certain—they'd all stood in the cold wind long enough. So he walked around the front of the car, opened the passenger door, and climbed in.

　　
So, Lando was right—this was indeed a rather private gathering. It was a charity gala Lewis had organized for a pet welfare organization, filled with people Oscar didn't recognize milling about, chatting and exchanging pleasantries in this apartment in Hoxton.

Some looked like prominent figures, while others, like them, seemed to have just escaped a casual party. Lewis was quite the people person, no question.

Unfortunately, just like at the New Year's Eve party, Oscar didn't recognize anyone besides the three people who'd ridden over with them. He really should expand his social circle.

But everyone knew Lando, so Oscar trailed behind him like a little tail, listening over and over as Lando introduced him to this designer, that charity director, this TV host—and over and over again, Lando introduced him: "This is Oscar, software engineer at FIA Technologies."

His title felt like a line of cold, hard code font thrown into a sea of ornate script.

"Software engineer? How did you two come to know each other?" Lewis's curiosity was plainly piqued by the fresh-faced young programmer at his lead designer's side.

"Oh, Oscar is actually George's colleague," Lando replied with a soft smile. It seemed Lewis knew George well and they got along. Lewis nodded knowingly upon seeing him, then turned to look at Lando with a meaningful expression—the exact same look George had given him in the car earlier. What on earth did that mean?!

"Pleasure to meet you, Oscar." Lewis, dressed in a custom red suit, extended his hand. Oscar quickly grasped it. "You too, Mr. Hamilton." Lewis laughed heartily. "Oh, call me Lewis, please." Confidence and ease, yet an overwhelming warmth, radiated from his every word and gesture. Oscar fully understood why so many respected and admired him.

After Oscar had lost count of how many "pleasures to meet you" he'd uttered and how many hands he'd shaken, Lando finally halted his pacing. Biting his lip, his gaze darted around the space, and Oscar realized he'd been searching for someone with purpose ever since they entered.

As his gaze settled on one figure, he exhaled in relief, tugging Oscar's wrist toward that direction. Oscar stood beside a middle-aged man in a three-piece suit, utterly bewildered. "Professor Brown!"

If there was anything beyond the meticulously planned confines of Oscar's life, it unfolded like a kaleidoscope after meeting Lando. He never imagined chatting online like friends with a renowned designer for nearly half a month, never imagined arriving here in Lando's McLaren to meet people he'd only seen on screens, and certainly never imagined standing here now, listening to Lando introduce him to Imperial College's distinguished graduate supervisor in algorithmic research.

Looking back, he vaguely recalled a late night when he casually mentioned to Lando that after work, he'd actually considered continuing his studies—he was quite good at it, after all.

That remark should have washed away like shampoo foam by morning, along with other meaningless chatter—like "What songs have you been listening to lately?" or "What kind of movies do you enjoy?"—instead of being etched into his memory, prompting him to seize an opportunity and introduce Oscar to a mentor in a relevant field he knew.

Lando looked tense, his speech unusually halting as his gaze darted between the professor and Oscar. Only after Oscar and Professor Brown had naturally exchanged business cards and contact details, shaking hands in farewell, did Lando finally exhale, as if completing some epic, monumental task.

"Why would you do this?" Oscar asked softly, his voice barely a whisper as if speaking too loudly might disturb the turbulent emotions churning inside him. Lando snapped his head around, his body instantly tensing again. He blinked rapidly. "Sorry, did I overstep? I remember you mentioning it, and then I recalled Professor Brown would be attending this event... I'm not particularly close with him, though..."

That was precisely the point. "Why would you remember?" Oscar asked. Lando frowned, seemingly baffled by the question. "Because you told me?"

Jeez. Did you treat everyone like this?

Lando watched him for a long moment, silence falling between them. Guilt crept into his expression as he seemed to gather himself for another apology. "Did I do something wrong, Oscar? I just thought it might help."

 Oscar choked back a word, offering a reassuring explanation. "No, no, Lando. It really will help. Thank you. I just didn't expect you to remember." 

I just didn't think you'd care. 

Lando slowly snapped out of his worried state, shook his head, and gave his shoulder a light punch. "You muppet."

Oscar had heard him call him that countless times in chat logs, but hearing it spoken aloud felt entirely different. Oscar chuckled, and Lando laughed too, wrapping an arm around him as they headed toward the next activity area.

They were the last to leave—or rather, the last two besides Lewis and his hosting crew. The elevator descended to the first floor in silence. Standing at the building entrance, they watched Lando's car parked nearby.

"So... how are you getting back?" Lando asked, a hint of unease in his voice.

Oscar took a deep breath as if gathering resolve, feeling he was making the best and worst decision in history. But as he'd said, he couldn't think rationally when it came to Lando Norris.

So Oscar leaned in, gently cupping Lando's face, and kissed his lips amidst his slightly surprised gaze. The memory of their last kiss was already hazy. Now Oscar could taste the champagne from the gala on Lando's lips. By the time Lando realized what was happening and deepened the kiss, they were kissing tenderly like a real couple, exchanging short gasps and uncontrollable giggles.

"Take me home?" Oscar traced his thumb along Lando's cheek, repeating the words Lando had spoken to him on New Year's Eve.

You'll regret this. A voice screamed inside Oscar.

Lando blinked and smiled sweetly, his expression radiating such genuine happiness that Oscar's pulse began to race.

"For sure, Osc."

4.

Oscar wanted to thoroughly research human history, trying to figure out if anyone had ever existed in both heaven and hell simultaneously during the same period.

Being with Lando felt too good. So good it was almost unreal, and in those dazed moments, Oscar would suddenly snap back to the realization they weren't actually together.

Even the most delusional person wouldn't call meeting three or four times a week just for sex "being together." They haven't even had a proper date  (if the charity gala counted, then maybe one).

The closest thing to a date was probbly after sex, when Lando lay on his chest, rambling about a difficult client, while Oscar's fingers tangled in his curls, listening with rapt attention to his overly vivid descriptions of a demanding middle-aged man he'd never met, murmuring occasional responses.

Their genuine, meaningful conversations almost always happened after sex too. That's when Lando was sated and satisfied, his whole body soft and relaxed, and Oscar could fully savor those moments—moments that felt more like love than mere physical intimacy.

Lando made no promises, and Oscar shouldn't have any expectations—this should have been crystal clear before anything began.

Though Lando called himself a semi-freelancer, when he was swamped, he vanished completely. There was even a period when they could only manage brief encounters in the bathroom of Lando's office. When Lando wrapped his arms around his neck, pressed intimately against him, his beautiful eyes misting with tears, and breathed heavily before leaning in to kiss him, Oscar truly didn't care whether they were in a cramped bathroom or a luxury hotel.

Programming wasn't exactly a leisurely profession either, but it was slightly more predictable than design work. So it was often Oscar who got stood up unexpectedly. Mr. Designer did care about him, but perhaps he cared more about his projects, his clients, his half-finished designs born from sudden bursts of inspiration. Oscar had experienced waiting until midnight in Lando's apartment, only to receive a text: "Sorry osc!! I won't be home tonight... I'll make it up to you later!"

The view from the penthouse was breathtaking. Drawing back the curtains revealed one of the city's most vibrant corners. Oscar tossed his phone face-down on the bed, staring into the distant lights, searching for the single glow marking Lando's studio.

Lando's definition of "make it up to you" was quite interesting. He'd lavish Oscar with extravagant gifts—electronics, expensive jewelry, or exclusive, unreleased design merchandise. Some were things Oscar had only mentioned in passing or liked on social media. Lando seemed to keep a Santa's wish list, noting each detail before presenting it. 

As for the last one, it might have been some senseless rambling after sex, where Oscar mumbled about wanting something uniquely belonging to him...of course Lando's amazing brain interpreted it as an unreleased design.

So Oscar was often confused, unsure if this was genuine care or indifference, if Lando truly valued him or if these were merely inconsequential expenses to appease his......friend with benefits? 

Many times, the look in Lando's eyes made him think: if Lando was acting loving him, he was an Oscar-worthy actor (It's even funnier considering his name).

There's one time when Oscar dropped by Lando's studio unannounced, Lando lifted his head from the computer. His tired, vacant eyes lit up instantly. "Osc!" He jumped up, embraced him, and planted countless kisses on his cheeks—moments like these made Oscar feel he'd gladly give up everything for this.

When Oscar slumped back onto the living room sofa of their shared apartment with another deep sigh, Logan was almost unfazed.

"What did he do this time?"

He was one of Oscar's confidants, alongside Hattie, whom Oscar secretly believed had a knack for navigating relationships. Given George and Alex's closer relationship with Lando, Oscar dared not say much to them. But even without saying anything, those two probably already knew everything there was to know. 

Logan had been listening to Oscar mutter that name practically from the day he returned from America, struggling to accept that his usually cool, collected, straight-A friend kept crumbling in front of a playboy, then sighing that indeed, opposites attract.

"He fucked me up." Oscar said weakly.

"Already knew that. Are you guys doing anything other than fucking?" Logan scrolled through his TikTok profile, listening to another wretched complaint from Oscar.

"Ugh... No, Logan. he fucked up my head. Totally."

Logan, seemingly not the best person to seek relationship advice from, offered his umpteenth sincere suggestion: "Have you ever thought about, I don't know, talking? Getting things out in the open?" Oscar shot him a glance. "Right, so I scare him off and he dumps me for good?" 

"You're just torturing yourself right now, doing everything his way and lying to yourself that it's your own choice too." Logan cut straight to the heart. How wise, how true. Oscar suspected that if this continued, Logan would team up with Hattie to tie him to a chair and force him to recite Positive Self-Affirmation.

Dinner with Alex and George had also become a bit strange. It wasn't that they hadn't eaten together often before, but lately it had become significantly more frequent. Mostly because Lando had expanded their previous dinners for three into dinners for four by bringing Oscar along. 

During one meal, George watched their natural, affectionate interactions throughout. When Lando stepped away to pay, he turned to Oscar with what could be called a concerned look. "Are you sure you're okay lately, Oscar?" "Of course. Why wouldn't I be?" Oscar lowered his gaze, avoiding George's eyes, and feigned sudden fascination with the mint leaf on his dessert, fiddling with it absentmindedly with his spoon.

George was speechless. Great. He'd managed to silence the most articulate marketing manager. "I need you to know we love Lando. I literally mean I'd take a bullet for him." George's tone was heavy with meaning. "But right now I'm starting to regret inviting you to that party." Oscar sighed. "Thanks, George, but I don't regret anything I'm doing." "If you say so." George tilted his head to exchange a knowing glance with Alex.

　　
In the course of Lando's work—which he understood to some extent—Oscar knew Lando had recently been consumed by a feature spread for a prestigious magazine. Lando had been tossing and turning until 1 a.m, before finally giving up and climbing out of bed to open his laptop.

Oscar, lying beside him, was roused by the soft movement. Unable to drift back off to sleep, he propped himself up on the headboard, intending to keep Lando company quietly.

Lando shifted closer, nestling snugly into Oscar's arms and setting his laptop on his knees, pointing at the screen and asking which design Oscar thought would work best as a visual showcase.

Oscar didn't understand color theory or composition rules, but the fluorescent green logo on the left was striking and memorable—definitely one of his favorite Lando pieces. So he took Lando's hand and guided the cursor to circle the left option on the touchpad. Lando rewarded him with a smug grin and a kiss on the cheek. "Good choice!"

You already knew which one you wanted to bring, didn't you? Oscar chuckled to himself, resignedly. Resting his chin on Lando's head, he savored the soft feel of his curly hair and leaned down to kiss the top of his head.

When the magazine finally came out, Oscar asked Lando for a copy. He got distracted by a kiss pressed against his lips and the exchange: "Aren't you not interested in this stuff?" "But it's you—of course I'm interested." "Awww that's so sweet Osc" And then a mind-blowing blowjob.

It wasn't until much later that he remembered to look for the magazine—actually, he stumbled upon it himself on a bookstore shelf, recognizing the familiar cover and name. How ironic—he had to buy his own boyfriend's (fuck buddy's?) magazine. Didn't even get that small perk.

So he bought it home. On a decent Saturday afternoon, while tending Logan's plants on the balcony as instructed, he curled up awkwardly with the magazine, flipping straight to Lando's spread.

Such perfect weather was rare indeed. He felt happy for Logan's plants, which had been half-dead all winter. As sunlight spilled onto the magazine pages, the glossy print almost seemed to glow.

Oscar knew Lando's professional background well, and he'd tried to wrap his head around Lando's design philosophy—but what really caught his eye was the interview section. After a few professional questions, the interviewer naturally drifted toward Lando's personal life.

With a smile, he watched Lando share his daily routine, favorite restaurants, coffee recipes, and work habits—because Oscar was deeply involved in nearly every one of them. It has to mean something.

Then he saw the question about Lando's relationship status, and Lando's answer was "tragically single."

It means nothing.

Oscar didn't know how long he'd stood there blankly in the same gesture until he finally remembered to stop. 

By the time he did, the water in the watering can in his right hand was nearly gone, spilling over the pot and seeping across the balcony floor. Apparently he now owed Logan a pot of African violets.

Oscar set down the watering can in his right hand, walked into the living room, tossed the nearly pristine magazine into the trash, then turned to find tools to clean the water stains off the balcony.

In a daze, he realized this wasn't the first time he'd thrown away one of Lando's things. Why couldn't he have woken up completely and stopped all this when he threw away his coffee and croissants?

Those two words haunted every moment they shared like a spell.

Lando picking him up from work, "tragically single". Lando bringing dinner and Oscar's favorite dessert to his apartment, "tragically single". He lay in Lando's big bed, eyes half-open in a daze, and Lando rose early for a project, leaning over to press a sweet kiss on his forehead before leaving, "Go back to sleep, baby koala." Oscar fought desperately not to think those two words, but they still sprang to mind: "tragically single".

He was on the verge of asking the stupidest question you could ever ask a friend with benefits: What am I to you?

Countless times, Oscar had nearly blurted it out, only to choke it down by the way Lando looked at him. George was right—he shouldn't have gone to that party. But then he thought of everything he might have lost because of it, painfully realizing he'd never want to have never met Lando.

　　
5.

Oscar had wondered how long they could keep this up, but when the day finally came, it still caught him off guard. It wasn't even a big deal—just a blurry video clip he'd casually swiped past on his feed.

The video was DJ Lando, and Oscar remembered Lando telling him just days ago that he was too busy to take on DJ gigs lately. The setting was some god-know-where bar, but Lando and the people around him were clearly well acquainted. They cheered, danced, and crowded together in the chaotic lights.

The next shot nearly stopped Oscar's heart for five seconds. Lando was drunk out of his mind, slumped limply against a tall man, his arms wrapped loosely around the man's neck, eyes closed as he rested his head relaxed on his shoulder. The man wore comfortable yet high-quality clothes. Ironically, thanks to Lando's influence, Oscar could even name a few brands and seasonal collections—that was clearly a Dior fall shirt. His left hand rested naturally on Lando's waist as he leaned down to whisper something in his ear. From a certain angle, they looked like they were lost in a passionate kiss amidst the noisy bar.

After pausing the video, the room fell silent save for the hum of the computer tower. Oscar took a deep breath, resisting the urge to hurl his phone at the opposite wall, blinking hard to hold back tears.

"Stop torturing yourself," he heard Logan say, Hattie say, maybe even George say.

Everyone has coping mechanisms for different situations. Oscar's approach wasn't usually burying his head in the sand like an ostrich, but he was utterly helpless until he could devise a better solution.

He had no right to dictate Lando's lifestyle choices, yet he couldn't bear the thought of Lando finding pleasure in another man's arms. 

He wanted to commission designer Mr. Norris to create a brand concept for Oscar Piastri—a logo emblazoned from head to toe, on shoes, coats, jewelry—declaring to the world he's oscar piastri's.

Sadly, designer Norris’s works are way too expensive for him to afford, and boyfriend Lando remains an intimacy just out of reach—never truly his to claim.

That sour, stifling resentment fermented and swelled within Oscar, eventually transforming into a near-masochistic calm. Oscar rose to wash his face. Staring at his own pallid reflection, he thought, Fine. So be it. Sounds like another issue he needs to "work through."

Adaptability was one of his greatest strengths, Oscar wrote in his resume—and it was undeniably true.

Over the next few days, Lando messaged as usual—utterly unaware. A photo of a stray orange kitten he'd encountered, a silly selfie with a woolen beanie.

Lando: Osc, the dessert shop downstairs has new chocolate croissants🥐—got you some!

Lando: I miss you...Come over after work? 🥺

Lando: Alex said you didn't show up for work today. Are you okay?

Oscar stared at the pile of messages marked as read but unanswered until the screen dimmed and locked.

"Ghosting someone is incredibly low-class," Hattie judged mercilessly from the other side of the screen, her face eerily similar to his. But seeing Oscar's gloomy, furrowed expression, she softened her tone involuntarily. " You know this isn't a long-term solution, right?"

Oscar buried his face in his hands. "I really don't know what to do."

Hattie couldn't understand how her brother who could write complex code couldn't figure out such a simple relationship problem. "How about telling him how you feel?"

Oscar's face was blank as he parroted an AI's flat, mechanical tone, "Dear dear Lando, I really enjoy having sex with you—maybe more than just having sex. Could you change your social habits? Delete all those random guys and girls from your phone and just stick with me forever and ever."

Hattie spread her hands dramatically with a look of sudden realization, "Exactly!"

Oscar flipped his phone over on the table.

This obviously wasn't a long-term solution, especially since Lando wasn't exactly known for his patience. His chat window filled with messages like these.

Lando: Been busy lately?🤨

Land: Starting to get worried, Osc

Lando: Did I do something wrong?

Lando: OSCAR PIASTRI, this isn't funny

Lando: You know I could come straight to your apartment, right?

Beyond the nonstop messages came countless calls and video requests. Oscar flipped his phone face-down on the table, watching it vibrate and ring like a ticking bomb—ring, stop, ring, stop.

So that night when the doorbell shrieked sharply, he wasn't surprised at all.

Oscar opened the door to find Lando standing there, wearing only a black hoodie that looked a bit thin. His hair was damp from the snow outside, and his eyes were bloodshot.

Without a word, he pushed past and slammed the door shut. After scanning the room to confirm Logan wasn't there, he took a deep breath, seemingly to steady himself, then spoke with suppressed anger.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" His voice was hoarse, whether from a cold or a sleepless night, Oscar wanted to know.

"What are you doing, Osc?"

Lando sniffed, the initial surge of anger fading considerably the moment their eyes met. His tone now tinged with hurt and confusion as he reached out to touch Oscar.

Oscar took a step back, pressing himself against the cold wall, seeking solace in its chill to stay lucid. He looked at Lando, the pent-up frustration of the past few days turning into a sharp, stinging pain in that moment.

"I saw it," Oscar said, his voice unexpectedly calm. "The video from the bar." He paused, his gaze fixed on Lando's eyes, now filled with utter bewilderment, his tone taking on a sharp, mocking edge unfamiliar even to himself.

"You're really good at that, aren't you?"

Lando stared back at him silently for a long moment, his expression complex. He opened his mouth to speak, but Oscar cut him off.

"Did you bring him home that night?"

And just like that, he was visibly offended. Lando slowly approached, his hands gripping Oscar's collar. His gaze drifted across Oscar's face—his lips, the tip of his nose, the small mole on his cheek—before settling back into his eyes, as always giving Oscar the illusion of being cherished beyond measure.

He stared intently, murmuring his name with a nasal tone, "Osc..."

He lowered his head, refusing to meet Lando's gaze. His voice was as soft as a sigh, yet carried a despair that seemed to drain every last ounce of strength.

"Lando, on New Year's Eve... did you want to take me home, or did you just want to take someone?" He lifted his eyes, his gaze raw with exhaustion. "Did it matter who it was?"

Time ticked away in silence, each second dragging Oscar deeper into the abyss. He watched Lando's reddened eyes, witnessed that rare, almost fragile vulnerability, and felt his heart clenched by an invisible fist, aching with a bitter pain. Suddenly, he felt utterly exhausted—this endless guessing, waiting, and self-consumption had worn him down.

Finally, Oscar drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly, as if expelling every pent-up emotion from his chest. He gently pushed Lando away, straightened his body leaning against the wall, and walked away from Lando into the living room. Lando followed closely behind.

"I can't do this anymore."

A deathly silence fell over the room.

Lando's body swayed almost imperceptibly. His Adam's apple bobbed as if he wanted to speak, but in the end, only a hoarse voice emerged, tinged with a bewilderment Oscar had never heard before, almost pleading: "What do you want me to do, Osc? Tell me, and I'll do it."

Oscar gave a bitter smile, shook his head, and fixed his gaze back on Lando's face. "Would you change for me?"  He paused, "Don't change for anyone, Lando. You're a designer, you lived on your personality."

"I would," Lando insisted stubbornly. "I would. Do you want me to quit my DJ job? Or bring some work home so I can spend more time with you? That night at the bar..."

"Jesus, Lando, did you even hear yourself?" Oscar cut him off painfully. "You have every right to do whatever you want. No one can hold you back." 

He looked at him deeply. "After all, you're single, right?"

That word froze Lando, the color draining from his face. "Osc, I... I don't mean..."

"You don't owe me any explanation, Lando. We're nothing." Oscar said in a tone which felt like a death sentence.

He could feel Lando's eyes fixed on him as he exhaled a shaky breath. After nearly two minutes of silence, Lando finally nodded slowly and whispered, "That's it, huh?"

"I think so." Oscar replied.

Seconds later, he heard the faint rustle of fabric, followed by the soft creak of the door opening and closing. The ending was far too quiet, leaving Oscar feeling as if he were in a dream. He stood rooted to the spot until his legs went numb, finally snapping back to reality and shuffling slowly to the window.

Good heavens, it was nearly March—why was it snowing so heavily? Oscar watched the swirling snow outside, the world blurring into a hazy white.

The bright McLaren parked below seemed like an incongruous presence, out of place in this gray-white world.

Lando opened the door and slid into the driver's seat, but the car remained silent for a long time.

Oscar stood at the window, arms crossed, eyes lowered, watching motionless until his vision blurred—unable to tell if it was the fog on the glass or the mist rising from his own eyes.

Snowflakes settled one by one onto the roof, hood, and windows, slowly swallowing and burying that bold splash of orange. Eventually, it became just a blurred, solitary outline in the snowy curtain.

6.

Lando slid into the driver's seat and slammed the door shut, his temples throbbing as he leaned on the steering wheel, trying to steady his breathing.

He'd been on the receiving end of Oscar's cold shoulder for three, maybe four days now—he should've seen this coming a mile off. And yet, he found himself completely, utterly unable to swallow it down.

Lando couldn't tell if he felt more hurt or more angry, but while looking at Oscar's face, he simply couldn't muster any rage. Now that his emotions had returned, sorrow and fury surged together. Amidst this turmoil, Oscar's mention of a video suddenly came to mind.

He unlocked his phone, and sure enough, there it was—a short clip on Max Fewtrell's feed, filmed a few nights back at the bar. There he was, sprawled unconscious on top of Pierre. From the bystander's perspective, it looked downright suggestive. Lando immediately swiped away and called Max. After a few rings, a lazy voice answered, "Hey mate."

"Max." Frustration and hurt burned hot in Lando's throat; he took a sharp breath and let his anger explode down the line. "Will you quit posting every goddamned video online? What the hell is so funny about putting me out there passed out on Pierre?!"

"Huh?" Max was baffled by the sudden outburst, then realized what Lando was talking about. His tone softened.

"Oh, you mean that one. I mainly meant to post the first part. Forgot to cut the end. Besides, you never complained before," his tone took a playful turn. "Your little boyfriend got upset?"

"I never, ever had a little boyfriend." Lando said, enunciating each word. "He saw it. Then he said it's over."

"So?" Max remained utterly nonchalant.

"So?!?!" Lando couldn't fathom Max's flat reaction. The memory of Oscar ending things earlier, expressionless as if dumping trash, made his heart ache. "He ended it with me!"

"I don't get it. Isn't this your usual MO? You roll with things, no strings attached. Now someone calls it quits first, and you're losing it?" Max's confusion was genuine.

There was a long, heavy silence. Then Max snorted, a sound thick with amusement and realization. "Oh—so it's not endings you hate. It's ending with him. Lando Norris, are you in love with him?"

"I'm not in love with anyone." Lando ground out, his words lacking any real rebuttal power. Max delivered the final blow. "Hmm, except for that Spaniard who flew off into the sunset ages ago."

Lando felt something pinch his heart. He slammed the phone down and tossed it onto the passenger seat as if it were the culprit.

Oscar Piastri was different. Completely different. That New Year's Eve, when their eyes first locked, Oscar's gaze had been so intense, so raw and honest, that Lando had known right then—without a shadow of a doubt—that Oscar wanted him. So he'd gone with the flow, soaking up every second of it like it was sunlight.

But later, he discovered Oscar rarely voiced his desires. Oscar was more introverted than any of Lando's past partners or steady bedmates. Often, Lando couldn't fathom what Oscar was thinking. Lando became obsessed with deciphering every nuance—between the lines, in Oscar's tone, in his eyes—to find anything that might bring him joy. A surprise, a gift, a DJ set tailored just for him...The sparkle in Oscar's eyes and the unguarded affection were priceless treasures.

So what was this? He seemed so into me, yet one baffling video made him cut things off so cleanly. If I hadn't tracked him down, he wouldn't have bothered explaining at all.

Lando pressed his tongue against the roof of his mouth, started the car, and flipped on the windshield wipers to clear the snow.

As his vision cleared, he drove away from this neighborhood he knew too well. After cycling through a playlist, the car stereo jumped to a track with pounding house beats. Only after the intro did Lando realize it was Oscar's playlist.

The first step to slowly ending this, he decided, was deleting Oscar's playlists from his device. The second step was going home to toss the Vegemite and Tim Tams Oscar'd stashed in his fridge. The third step was packing up the few of Oscar's hoodies that had snuck into his wardrobe.

Simple enough. The world wouldn't stop spinning without him, right? It was just Oscar. He could handle it.

He couldn't handle it at all.
　
The studio assumed Lando's recent gloom stemmed from the new project's pressure. They tactfully suggested to Lewis that he could extend the deadline. That same afternoon, Lewis came straight from headquarters to Lando's studio door.

There he was, sprawled sloppily on the communal sofa, a magazine covering his face as he breathed steadily—a master of pretending to sleep. Lewis approached, swept the magazine aside with a flick of his wrist, and Lando squinted against the sudden glare.

"Lewis..." Lando grumbled, his face scrunched in annoyance.

"I hear from my employees that I'm mistreating my designer?" Lewis crossed his arms in front of him, adopting a boss-like stance. Lando wasn't intimidated at all. He reached for the magazine to cover his face again, but Lewis snatched it away.

"I've seen you juggle three concept drafts at once and still bounce around like a jackrabbit, Lando. This is well within your capabilities. What's really going on? Need me to give you some time off?"

"I don't know what Jon and the others told you, but I just haven't been sleeping well." Lando sat cross-legged on the sofa, running his fingers through his messy curls.

It wasn't entirely untrue. Lando never used to need another person in his bed to sleep, but last night he'd tossed and turned until well past midnight. With a silent curse, he'd rummaged through the wardrobe, pulled out Oscar's shirt, draped it over his pillow, and only then fallen into a deep sleep clutching the pillow. Waking up to the crumpled shirt, he'd seriously considered Alex's suggestion about melatonin. Habit was a terrifying thing, nothing else.

Lewis narrowed his eyes, his expression reminiscent of a cheetah on the savannah sensing something amiss. God, whoever could successfully lie to Lewis deserved a medal.

Lando shrugged guiltily, stifling the urge to blurt out the truth: Actually, my fuck buddy broke up with me. Could you even use the word "broke up" for a fuck buddy?

"Does this have anything to do with Oscar? What did you do?"

Lando was stunned by Lewis's sharpness. Before he could begin any explanation, a perfectly timed phone call summoned his dear boss back to headquarters.

Before leaving, Lewis sighed and waved his hand, granting him a week's leave with the perfectly reasonable justification: "You won't get any good ideas in this state." But Lando didn't want it. Now that he had free time, his mind was filled with nothing but Oscar.

How could someone leave such an indelible mark on your life in just three months? They weren't even in a real relationship. He still occasionally found mint candies Oscar had slipped him tucked away in various office drawers and corners. He had no idea when Oscar had placed them there, but collecting them had filled nearly half a jar.

Even after deleting Oscar's dedicated playlist from his car, random songs Oscar liked kept popping up in his playlists. 

When he came home late from work, he hoped to walk into the bedroom and find Oscar sitting on the bed, curled up under the covers with his laptop, watching a movie while waiting for him. He'd crawl under the covers, cold from the air conditioning, burrowing into Oscar's embrace. The laptop would slide off his lap, and Oscar would giggle at his antics. They'd twist together, kissing sloppily.

He'd cherished those moments that had nothing to do with sex at all. He'd simply loved having Oscar there beside him—those bright brown eyes locked on his, soft cheeks squished gently under his palms, his lips brushing every inch of skin across Oscar's face with a devotion bordering on reverence.

None of that existed anymore. Now he came home late at night and didn't even want to enter the bedroom. He didn't want to go home at all. Oscar had left so many little things behind—traces of himself scattered everywhere. Sometimes, in a moment of raw, frustrated emotion, he'd almost picked up the phone and snarled, "Come get your stuff. All of it."

"What did you do?"

That was the first thing George said, the second he finished hearing Lando out.

"Why does everyone think I'm the one who did something wrong?!" Lando sat at Alex's apartment dining table, his voice thick with hurt.

"Well, I think Oscar might have been at fault too, but you're more likely to be the one messing up." George took a calm sip of coffee. Alex brought out a platter of cold cuts from the kitchen and placed it on the table, sitting down beside George.

"I had no idea you two had been separated for two weeks. Why are you just telling us now?" Alex's tone carried genuine concern, as if genuinely lamenting the end of a relationship that never truly existed.

Lando shot him a cautious glance and finally voiced the question that had been on his mind since the start. "How's Oscar?" "Same as always." Alex, who worked in Oscar's department and had more insight, replied.

Perfect. Nothing felt better than knowing he genuinely didn't care at all.

"I really don't get him. He's hard to read." Lando's voice drifted off into the distance as his gaze wandered over the backdrop wall in Alex's dining room. His eyes caught a photo of Alex and Lily on the beach, their faces pressed intimately close to the camera. He realized he and Oscar didn't even have a single photo together.

"Oscar? Hard to read?" George suppressed a laugh that screamed "You're hopeless".

"You really don't know what he's like around you? "

Lando truly thought Oscar was hard to read. Giving Oscar gifts meant guessing, or scouring social media for tiny clues, or just watching the way his gaze lingered briefly at a certain shop window. Even when Oscar got stood up, he never seemed upset. He'd just offer his usual faint smile and lean in for a kiss.

Sometimes, when Oscar watched him quietly, there seemed to be a churning sea in his eyes. Lando couldn't tell if Oscar was truly unruffled or weathering an underwater earthquake. Even when breaking up with him, he'd been blunt without a flicker of an eyelid or a furrow of his brow.

Oscar might care deeply about many things, but Lando wasn't even sure if he was one of them. Oscar turned the page on their relationship as easily as flipping a sheet of paper, leaving behind less trace than the breeze stirred by the turning of the page.

"You guys think... I should..." Lando gestured vaguely. He didn't need to articulate it clearly; George and Alex nodded understandingly.

"I don't know how to do it. I'll screw it up," Lando said, despairing as he slumped over the table.

"You already have. How much worse could it get?" Alex said ruthlessly, chewing on a cookie.

Here's the thing: Lando doesn't do serious relationships. He's terrible at them, honestly. The last time he tried, he scared the guy so bad he bolted thousands of miles back to Spain and never looked back. To this day, Lando still replayed that whole mess in his head, trying to figure out where he'd gone wrong.

He couldn't strike the right balance between giving and needing. It wasn't until the third hookup called him needy that he finally reined in his contact frequency.

Being with Oscar was already the result of extreme restraint—he wanted to be glued to Oscar's skin twenty-four hours a day, to have those eyes fixed on him forever. What if he committed to a serious relationship and Oscar quickly grew tired of him? He didn't think he could recover from that.

"Lando, stop thinking. You're thinking too loud." Alex sighed, unable to bear watching him brainstorm with that pained expression. "So why did you two break up? What was the trigger?" "He saw a video of me at a bar."

Alex waited, and blinked, "Just because of that? I mean, did you have some kind of rule, like not sleeping with anyone else while you were together? Have you talked about it?" 

"No, Alex."

"Not even once?"

"Not once."

"You guys are pretty fucked up." George delivered his verdict like a judge banging his gavel.

"Alright, let's forget all this fuckbuddy-official relationship-caring-not caring-rules-commitments bullshit." Alex, who always got straight to the point, asked, "You just need to focus on one question: do you want to be with him? like, as boyfriend?"

"Want" was a gross understatement.

Have you seen Oscar? If you'd seen him how could you not want him? Lando still vividly remembered the moment he spotted him in the noisy nightclub. Amidst the flowing crowd, Oscar was like the only steady anchor, casually rubbing the glass in his hand as he leaned against the bar. When he lowered his head, strands of hair fell across his eyes. Then he looked up, his gaze locking directly with Lando's—Lando's heart skipped a beat.

How could he not want him? Lando's mind flashed with a million memories. Oscar's hand, a full size smaller than his own, fit perfectly in his palm, Lando hold his hand and cradled his chin, kissing his cheek, Oscar's light breath against his ear lifting him up, body and soul, as high as the clouds in the sky.

Oscar's solid-colored shirts and sweatshirts hung in his flashy wardrobe like a sanctuary carved out of pure simplicity. Every time he opened the closet, he'd sniff like a fool, inhaling the lingering scent of sunshine and chocolate on Oscar's clothes.

The tiny smear of frosting lingering at Oscar's mouth when he ate the cake Lando brought him; Oscar quietly coding in his office, waiting for him to finish work; Oscar's eyes shining brightly like Lando lit up every star in the night sky as he listened to Lando explain his latest design concepts......

OscarOscarOscar, Lando murmured his name softly, like reciting poetry, unable to comprehend why "wanting him" felt like a problem rather than an immutable law of physics.

7.

Sitting in the café across from Oscar's office with a bouquet of flowers, Lando felt like a complete idiot for actually listened to Alex. He placed the flowers on the table, propped his head in his hands, and alternated between staring at the revolving door through the glass window and idly scrolling through his phone, waiting for the clock on his screensaver to strike the hour.

He hadn't a clue what to say to Oscar, but then again, he hadn't planned ahead when he brought Oscar home that night either. Thinking long-term was never his style. Maybe Oscar would soften at the sight of him.

If things went well, he'd be heading home with his little programmer and a bouquet of beautiful flowers. Lando chuckled softly. Good thing he hadn't thrown away the Timtam—at least Oscar would have chocolate to eat when he got home.

Oscar emerged, but he wasn't alone.

He still carried that practical backpack, wearing a slightly oversized black down jacket, walking side by side with a girl. They turned their heads to talk, Oscar wearing a relaxed, natural expression. She was a bit shorter than him, possessing a sharp, objective beauty that softened considerably when she smiled.

As they walked, she wrapped her scarf around her neck. A strand of her golden hair got tangled in it, and Oscar instinctively reached up to free it. Whatever she said made him laugh out loud, and he shook his head slightly, his eyes brimming with obvious familiarity and delight.

Oscar Piastri. All he could hear now was his own thunderous heartbeat and the sharp ringing in his ears. Oscar Piastri. Had he ended things with Lando because of that so-called video, or because someone he actually wanted to pursue a serious relationship with had finally appeared, using the video as a perfect excuse? 

Lando even recognized the new intern in their department from Oscar's rambling—the one who'd messed up sending files multiple times—but he was certain Oscar had never mentioned this girl in any context whatsoever.

When had she entered his life? How much space did she occupy? And to what extent would she turn his act of bringing flowers to Oscar into a complete farce?

He sat motionless at his desk, his gaze unfocused as his mind swirled. Finally, he grabbed his coat and walked out.

Lando scoured Oscar's nearly empty social media feed again, from recent reposts to new follows, finding nothing. He bombarded George and Alex with messages. From his vague, emotional descriptions, they extracted the key details and suddenly understood. "Oh! You mean Lily? She really is the new hire. And she's Australian too! What a coincidence." 

"Yeah, they're both Aussies, same field, and their personalities are kinda similar. Makes sense they'd have a lot to talk about, right? 😌"

Lando fought the urge to block George, and that damn emoji—when had George Russell ever made a face like that?!

Lando Norris was an action-oriented guy. His own words were, "Being a designer means you have to act on any idea the moment it hits you, or you'll lose precious inspiration." So when he was agonizing, confused, and in pain, of course he'd choose to show up at the door again.

Lando nervously bit his lower lip as he rang the doorbell over and over. When he'd left here two weeks ago, he'd thought he'd never come back.

The worst outcome would be Oscar opening the door with that girl—Lily?—so what? If that happened, he'd just turn and leave. Why wasn't he answering? Was he really that busy? Lando nearly wore a hole through Oscar's doorbell before Oscar finally opened it in his pajamas.

"Good evening, Oscar." It was the first thing he'd said to Oscar in two weeks. Way to go, Lando.

Oscar's expression was a mix of surprise and confusion. He made no move to let Lando in, one hand still on the doorknob as he stared at him. "Lando. Are you lost?" Lando peered nervously into the room. "Is Logan home?" "Nope, his new internship's keeping him busy. You here to see Logan?" Oscar sounded unusually playful.

"No... uh, I came to see you."

Thinking long-term had never been his style. His bluntness had earned him online backlash more times than he could count, but a properly functioning brain-to-mouth filter would've saved him a lot of trouble.

"I...I miss you."

Shit shit shit. SHIT. Lando wished he could bite his tongue off.

Oscar took a deep breath, looking like he was half a second away from slamming the door in his face.

"Lando, I don't have the energy to play games with you right now. I'm really tired." 

Where did that pain in his voice come from? What caused that vulnerability in his eyes? 

Why the hell is he the only one who found Oscar hard to read? He wanted to peel away all Oscar's polite facades like unwrapping a Kinder bar, just to see what was really going on inside.

"What did you need me for?"

Do you like her? Lando wanted to ask. More than you like me? She likes Vegemite and sushi, things I hate, right? You two probably never argue over food. Do you like seeing her smile? Do you buy her chocolate bars? Do you stay up late with her, huddled over her laptop? Have you fucked?

"Are you happy being with her?" Half a minute later, when he finally asked, Lando felt like some romantic hero—the drenched protagonist in every British rock ballad's music video, watching his beloved walk away with someone else, yet only managing to say with lingering eyes, "Darling I just want you to be happy."

His heart twisted into a knot, mingling mint chocolate with a nauseating fishy stench. It dragged down Lando's tear ducts and brain, sinking lower and lower until, under Oscar's silent gaze, his eyes grew hotter and hotter. He felt tears threatening to spill over any second.

Time and time again, he'd show up at the door, crying his eyes out. Even Carlos far away in Spain would mock him for never changing. Could anything be more humiliating.

Oscar's hair, freshly blow-dried, looked fluffy. The soft, warm pajamas made him want to throw his arms around him. Why did even something as simple as throwing himself into his embrace have to be so complicated?

Oscar's expression froze for a moment, as if momentarily unsure who this "her" referred to. Then he seemed to realize, yet still didn't grasp the significance of the question.

"You don't have to answer me. I just...I don't know. I care about you."

He stared at him with eyes too deep, and Lando wondered what his own reflection looked like in them now.

Then he said, "I am happy, Lando. If that's all you wanted to ask."

How did the MV character manage to laugh it off so effortlessly? Lando felt a numbing ache in his chest, desperate to shove Oscar against the door and kiss him, bite his lower lip, collarbone, and the two moles on his neck, clutching his waist tightly while he was dazed and whispering "How dare you".

"Okay, alright. Good for you." Lando took a few steps back, ready to leave, when Oscar suddenly called out to him.

"Wait... umm, since you're here."

Oscar turned back into the room and emerged moments later carrying a box. Lando immediately spotted his own scarf, earring, and the notebook covered in messy doodles. And things that should have belonged to Oscar—the watch and headphones he'd given him, plus a special edition necklace engraved with his own logo design.

"I've been looking for a chance to give these back. I thought about asking Alex to return them for me, but..."

"You couldn't even bring yourself to see me in person to give them back, Osc?"

Lando recalled the nights he'd stayed up scouring secondhand platforms to hunt down those limited-edition headphones for him. His hurt and sadness ignited into a surge of anger.

"That's pretty cold. At least we had a good time together, right? I don't need you to return the things I gave you. What's yours is yours—just keep it."

"They don't feel like mine to keep."

Oscar's voice was unnaturally calm; he just possessed the ability to shatter Lando in to pieces with a single simple sentence.

He stubbornly clutched the box. Lando felt physically sick at the thought of glancing inside again.

"Then throw them away."

he choked out. Unable to meet Oscar's eyes, Lando fled the apartment, stumbling home in a daze. 

The moment he opened his door, he began rummaging through every drawer and cabinet, searching for Oscar's belongings. The clatter and commotion were so loud it even alarmed the neighbors. He dumped the clothes, snacks, personal items, and another set of bathroom supplies he'd been putting off organizing into a messy pile in the living room. 

He stood there, arms crossed, staring at the mess for a long moment, tempted to just set it all on fire. Then his eyes fell on that sweater. He remembered Oscar wearing it, holding him close—that warm, ticklish feeling. Utterly defeated, he buried his face in his hands and sobbed, tears streaming down his cheeks.

Looking at this mess now, this is exactly why he didn't do serious relationships.

　　
8.

Charles was at his wits' end lately. He swore this would be his last collaboration with pretentious newbie singers.

The usually mild-mannered, almost affable Monacan sat in the recording studio with a dark expression, listening to this promising singer's lengthy lecture on R&B. The conversation veered into musicals and musical films, with the singer firmly directing which beats, bridge, and chords needed reworking. 

This guy's ego and need to express himself were about to burst through the ceiling. If he were truly that talented a musician, Charles wouldn't be here at all.

"Oh, right, speaking of fashion." 

Charles had no idea how he'd gone from discussing the history of jazz to fashion.

"A clothing brand I'm collaborating on with friends is in its early stages, but we need a reliable brand designer right now. Charles, you have more connections in that field. Any recommendations?"

Honestly, Charles would do anything to shut him up or distract him right now—just go home and cuddle Leo to soothe his weary soul. If he kept nitpicking the arrangement, Charles would rather call off the collaboration altogether.

"Actually, I do know a few. Have you heard of L&H?" Seeing his eyes light up, Charles smirked inwardly. Oh Lando, he's gonna be your problem.

Charles knew Lando's studio like the back of his hand. One arm cradling Leo, he slipped off his sunglasses as he stepped out of the Ferrari, closed the door, and casually greeted several familiar colleagues. No one here didn't recognize him.

"Hey Grace, where's Lando?" The long-haired dachshund squirmed in his arms. Charles soothed it by rubbing its ears until it settled down a bit. He scanned the room but didn't see Lando anywhere. He leaned in to ask an assistant who was organizing client files.

"Oh hello Charles!" Grace looked up, smiled, and greeted him, then her attention was instantly captured by Leo. "Awww hello to you too Leo..." After getting Charles' approval, her bright yellow-painted fingers affectionately stroked Leo's fur.

Being the owner of a celebrity dog meant enduring this, Charles reminded himself. He naturally chatted with Grace, who owned a Corgi at home, about grooming and dog food brands until he spotted Lando emerging from the conference room, suddenly remembering why he was there.

"Charles?" "Oh Lando!" Charles waved, then froze in surprise at Lando's overwhelming exhaustion.

In the heated room, Lando wore a simple white long-sleeved henley and baggy black jeans. His hair stood up in messy, unkempt strands, and he clutched an iPad with its screen still lit. His eyes were dull, ringed by dark circles that were impossible to miss.

It was rare to see Lando—a staunch advocate of work-life balance—so worn down by work. Charles had heard from Pierre that Lando hadn't even been to the bar lately.

Lando motioned for them to talk in his office. The moment Charles stepped inside, Lando closed the door, drew the curtains, and flopped into a chair.

"Mate, you look like you're about to pass out from exhaustion any second. When was the last time you slept?" Charles asked sympathetically, the dog in his arms letting out a soft whimper.

"Doesn't matter." Sleeping had evolved into something that didn't matter to him. Charles considered whether to mention the new job opportunity he had for Lando. Just then, Lando struggled to lift his head. "What's up? you come all the way to the studio to see me?"

"Nothing. I changed my mind." "Charles." Lando repeated, his tone firm. "...It's just that a singer I'm collaborating with is looking for a brand designer. I thought I'd ask. But you probably can't take on new work, right?" Charles glanced at his desk, already messy and now piled high with files and sketches.

"I can arrange that. Give me his contact info?" Lando fumbled for his phone in his pocket.

Charles frowned, his expression unusually stern. "Lando, seriously, haven't you been pushing yourself too hard lately?"  "You can't stop inspiration from striking, Charles. As a producer, you should know that better than anyone." Lando forced a smile, trying to lighten the mood. Charles didn't crack a smile. His gut told him there was more to this than met the eye.

Lando stood up to pick Leo up. The puppy kicked his little legs in the air, trying to burrow into Lando's arms, but Charles stepped back to block him. Lando immediately shot Charles a kicked-dog look.

"Tell me what's going on," Charles said firmly.

Lando sighed, leaning in again to ruffle Leo's furry head with a large hand, raising an eyebrow. "At some point, it's Pierre's fault."

"What?" with his best friend suddenly mentioned, Charles was utterly baffled.

After seeing Charles off, it was past quitting time. Most of the studio staff had left, with only Grace finishing up some tasks. Lando held the psychiatrist's card Charles had given him, hesitated, then slipped it into a drawer. He didn't need a therapist—he just needed time.

He reviewed the progress of the four concurrent projects once more, his head throbbing from the overload of information crammed into it. The downside was he couldn't think about anything outside work; the upside was he didn't have to think about anything outside work.

When he looked up from his desk again, he was alone. Lando hadn't even noticed when Grace had left. He scrolled through social media for a moment, then his heart skipped a beat when he spotted the familiar profile picture with a red update dot in the bottom right corner.

Oscar rarely posted. This update featured last weekend's department celebration banquet. A well-fitted black suit made him look sharp, adding a touch of edge to Oscar's soft facial features.

He was still so handsome it made Lando's heart ache. Group shots of the entire team, a trio with Oscar, Alex, and George, a solo profile shot of Oscar holding a wine glass.

Lando's thumb hovered over the screen as he reached the last photo.

It was a photo of him and Lily together. Lily wore a deep blue gown, elegant as a swan. Both smiled naturally at the camera, standing so close their arms nearly touched.

In that instant, all his recent efforts dissolved into nothingness.

The couple on the screen looked undeniably perfect together. They came from the same country, studied the same major, worked in similar fields—they must share countless inside jokes Lando could never understand.

She might even be Oscar's soulmate. Lando would be nothing more than an unworthy footnote in this flawless love story, as if Oscar had never turned his entire world upside down.

Forgive him—he was too sad, too hurt, and too exhausted. Not a single factor encouraged rational thought. Lando tapped into the long-silent chat with Oscar, hastily typing a line riddled with spelling errors. Without even glancing at it, he hit send, then flipped his phone screen off and slammed it face-down on the desk.

"Dont send me an invitation to your wedding I won't be attending."

Lando stood up, walked to the whiteboard hanging on the wall, and began sketching out preliminary brand concepts for Charles's difficult singer client. Until he couldn't even lift the whiteboard marker anymore, pulled a blanket over himself, and collapsed onto the sofa, falling into a deep sleep.

Clearly, Lando didn't know the studio's heating system shut off on a timer, nor did he think to turn it back on. He couldn't even find the switch.

When Lando finally opened his eyes, his head felt heavier than a shot put. He sniffed, then sneezed loudly. His throat was so dry swallowing saliva was difficult. Burying his face painfully in the thin blanket, he shivered, every muscle aching. Why was everything conspiring against him? Had he done anything wrong to get punished? Did spreading client gossip count? But he'd only told Oscar!

Oscar. The name made him choke back another sob of injustice.

Just then, he faintly heard two knocks on the door followed by a sigh all too familiar. Soft carpet muffled footsteps, yet someone was clearly approaching. Lando pulled the blanket from his face and saw an outline, immediately thinking his illness had brought hallucinations.

Lando blinked, trying to focus. The figure drew nearer, carrying the chill from outside, and crouched before him. It was Oscar.

He wore an olive-green hoodie Lando hadn't seen before, like a rare, vibrant plant in winter, standing out too vividly against the mostly light gray walls of his office. His hair was tousled by the wind, his brow furrowed, his expression carrying all too obvious worry and helplessness.

Lando's brain felt like rusted gears, utterly unable to process this information.

"Osc—" Lando's voice cracked horribly as he spoke, his throat feeling like it had been sanded down. The simple syllables came out garbled.

Oscar's brow furrowed deeper at the sound.

"You slept like this all night?" He reached out, testing Lando's forehead. The cold fingers touching scorching skin made Lando shudder involuntarily.

"What are you doing here?" Lando weakly protested, his arm draped over his eyes to ease the sharp pain from his cold, while trying to open them again to see if Oscar was really real or just a hallucination.

"Lewis called me." Oscar stood up again, scanning the cold studio. His gaze fell on the phone lying on the floor and the scattered documents. He picked up the phone and tried to unlock it, but sure enough, it was dead and powered off.

"He was worried sick about you. You didn't answer the phone and he contacted me." Oscar found the air conditioner switch and turned it back on. The warm air began circulating again with a hum. Lando struggled to sit up. Oscar stood a meter away, looking down at Lando's eyes, misty and fragile from fever.

"I guess you haven't told him about us yet?"

Lewis must have assumed they were still together. That's why, when he couldn't reach him, he'd come straight to Oscar, asking this steady, reliable-looking young man to drag him home.

Lando groaned in pain, trying to sink back under the blanket, but Oscar pulled him upright again. Lando wrenched free from his grip, finally standing unsteadily before him, their gazes locked at a distance neither close nor distant. Oscar's eyes held an unshakable mix of worry and exhaustion. Lando missed the joy that used to dance in those eyes when he looked at him.

"You're burning up," Oscar murmured.

"Why do you care?" Lando snapped back, mercilessly. Fighting against his discomfort, he tried to reach for his coat and car keys. Just as his fingers touched the keys on the table, Oscar snatched them from behind, bracing his hands on the surface and trapping Lando between his arms. Lando turned back, leaving only inches between them. Though he was the one feverish, Oscar felt scorching hot too—his breath, his hand clenching the keys against Lando's wrist, his gaze brimming with so much emotion it felt like a burn.

"Lando, you can't drive right now. I'm taking you home."

Lando felt an urge to cry. He pushed Oscar away, sniffed hard, and took a shaky deep breath. "What does this have to do with you, Oscar? Lewis isn't your boss. You don't have to listen to everything he says."

"He's just being considerate. Clearly, you can't take care of yourself. What the hell are you thinking? Is wrecking your health some kind of game?" Oscar's tone hardened with irritation at Lando's defiance. He'd received Lewis's call early that morning, half-asleep, saying Lando hadn't left the studio the night before and Lewis get away to check on him.

He'd raced over in a blind panic, only to find Lando passed out on the couch, sick as a dog. This wasn't the first time Lando had worked himself into the ground. Didn't any of his new "partner" bother to check on him? Where's that guy in the Dior shirt?

Lando froze at the shout, his own temper flaring. "Fuck you, Oscar. What gives you the right to interrogate me? Why don't you go be all lovey-dovey with your girlfriend?"

"I don't have a girlfriend!" Oscar wanted to grab his shoulders and shake him, demanding to know what nonsense filled that overactive imagination of his. "Yet," Lando added weakly. The two stood in the empty studio, arguing. "You said you were happy with her!" "That's not a confirmation, and I was too mad at you to say anything that could hurt you."

Surprisingly candid. Lando wanted to ask why didn't you say that earlier? He recalled yesterday's update, his heart aching and swelling. "But you two were laughing together, attending the dinner party... she's so beautiful, everyone said you two looked perfect together..."

Oscar let out a bitter laugh at Lando's fever-addled ramblings.

"Lando, do you want her to be my girlfriend or not?"

The air froze. The small office fell silent except for the hum of the air conditioner and their heavy breathing. Oscar, whom he'd thought about day and night for nearly a month, stood right before him. His eyes misted over with intense emotion, as if genuinely awaiting an answer. Lando slowly recalled Alex saying "How much worse could it get?"

Fuck it.

He took two steps forward, reached out, and wrapped his arms around Oscar's neck, pulling him close. His lips, slightly chapped from illness, carried a scorching heat as they pressed against the mouth he'd longed for, almost fiercely. The kiss was clumsy, urgent, and utterly chaotic. Oscar stiffened for a moment before relaxing like a sigh, immediately returning the kiss. His hands gently stroked Lando's back in a soothing gesture, pulling them apart only when Lando gasped for air.

Lando still clung to his neck, burying his face in Oscar's side to steady his breath. After a moment, he suddenly coughed. Oscar couldn't help but laugh.

"Oh, now you're definitely going to infect me."

"Push me away."

Lando murmured through a stuffy nose, clinging to Oscar even tighter in a sulky gesture. 

Oscar tightened his arms around Lando's waist. "I'll take that as a no?"

"No, Osc. I don't want her to be your girlfriend. I want you to be mine, head over heels. You have to tell me what you want. You can't make me guess every time.....I care enough about you to do anything for you." 

"What I want?" Oscar repeated the crucial part of his sentence. Lando lifted his head to meet Oscar's hesitant, conflicted expression. "Yeah, what do you want?"

Oscar looked at him with slightly tearing eyes that could be called sad, his voice uncertain. "Love me back?"

Lando's hazy mind underwent a dangerous jolt. He was fully awake now. Oscar loved him. A wave of pure ecstasy and belated realization washed over him, nearly making him laugh out loud. Forehead pressed against Oscar's, he felt the warmth of his breath brush his cheek. "You don't have to ask for that, baby." he whispered, soft and sure. "I already do."

After exchanging a few more reluctant, intimate kisses, Lando finally surrendered to the cold. He felt like his brain was about to evaporate from the heat in the next second.

First, at Oscar's insistence, he promised they'd have a real, serious talk about this later. Then he let Oscar carry him to the car, home, and swallow the medicine Oscar had dug out of his bathroom cabinet. His last conscious thought was a vague question—why did Oscar know his office and home better than he did? Then the medicine kicked in, and he drifted off again.

When he woke up, his body finally felt like his own again—light, no longer heavy with fever. He rolled over in bed, a warm, delighted smile spreading across his face when he saw Oscar sitting beside him, propped against the headboard and scrolling through his phone.

So it hadn't been a dream. Oscar was his again. All his.

He couldn't help but chuckle softly, propping himself up on his elbows to lean in for a kiss. But Oscar stopped him, pressing a gentle but firm hand on his shoulder. Just as Lando was about to pout, feigning hurt, Oscar's cool hand slid back to his forehead to check his temperature.
　
"Feeling better?" Oscar asked, his voice soft.

"Much better," Lando murmured, leaning into his touch. "What time is it?"

"You slept all day. It's evening now."

Lando turned to look through the slightly parted curtains, where the night sky was already dotted with colorful lights. Nestled against Oscar's chest, his head resting on his warm chest, listening to the reassuring rhythm of his heartbeat, he spoke up.

"I was serious before. You didn't have to ask me to love you. I love you before I even realized it myself." He heard Oscar's heartbeat visibly quicken, and it felt satisfying.

"How did you know? I mean, how could you be sure?"

"Oscar, I literally showed up at your door crying saying I missed you. Twice." Lando lifted his head to meet his eyes. "What about you? How'd you know you loved me?"

Oscar's cheeks flushed, one hand unconsciously stroking the curls at the nape of Lando's neck. Lando was so comfortable he nearly moaned. "Probably from the first time I saw you on New Year's Eve?"

Lando laughed mercilessly. "Ahh, of course. You'd be the 'love at first sight' kind of guy." Oscar shot him a fond glare with a smile. "Shut up." He lowered his head to kiss Lando's lips. Feeling the softness of his mouth, Lando cupped his face and deepened the kiss. Then he kissed the tip of his nose, his forehead, with a unique tenderness and love that was impossible to miss.

"If you're wondering," Oscar suddenly said, "Lily has a girlfriend, and they're pretty serious, so I don't think you'll be getting a wedding invitation from us anytime soon."

"Oh." Lando exhaled sharply, relief washing over him despite his earlier worries. "What invitation?"

Oscar grinned mischievously, pulling out his phone to show Lando the rambling, incoherent DM he'd sent the night before. Lando let out a mortified groan, his ears turning bright red as he buried his face deeper in Oscar's chest.

"For the record," Lando mumbled into his shirt, "At the bar—"

Oscar cut him off with a soft laugh. "Charles already explained it to me. I can't believe you spilled our drama to every friend like it was a soap opera."

"What else was I supposed to do? They're idiots, but I love 'em." 

"Mm-hmm." Oscar hummed, silent for a long moment. "Actually, I just talked to Alex and the others too. Lando, baby," Oscar cupped his face with both hands, locking eyes with him. Lando sank into Oscar's intense gaze, lost in its devotion, before hearing Oscar ask, "Who's Carlos?"

Lando swallowed hard. "I hate my friends so, so much."