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The smell of old paper and rain-dampened wool was the permanent soundtrack to Lando Norris's Tuesday nights. He was slumped over a mahogany desk in the East Wing of the library, surrounded by rolls of film and half-edited photos for his final project. His eyes were burning from the glow of his laptop, and the lo-fi beats in his headphones weren't doing enough to drown out the silence.
He leaned back, stretching his arms until his spine popped. That’s when he saw him.
Three tables away, sitting in the exact same spot he occupied every single night, was Oscar Piastri. Oscar was the kind of person who looked like he had been sketched into existence with a very sharp pencil—clean lines, steady hands, and a focused gaze that never seemed to waver from his physics textbooks.
Lando found himself staring. He had been staring for three months. They had never actually spoken, aside from a brief moment at the coffee machine when Oscar had handed him a sugar packet without looking up, but Lando felt like he knew the rhythm of Oscar’s study habits better than his own course material.
Lando looked down at his camera. On a whim, he lifted it, framed the shot through the long-lens, and captured the way the golden library lamp highlighted the bridge of Oscar’s nose.
Click.
The sound felt like a gunshot in the quiet room.
Oscar didn't jump. He slowly, deliberately, turned his head. His dark eyes met Lando’s through the lens. Lando froze, his finger still on the shutter, his heart performing a frantic rev-limiter bounce against his ribs.
The silence of the library’s East Wing felt like it had physical weight. Lando’s heart was drumming a frantic rhythm against his ribs, the kind of beat that usually preceded a panic attack or a very bad idea. He didn't lower the camera immediately; he couldn't. He felt paralyzed, caught in the crosshairs of Oscar’s steady gaze.
Oscar didn't look annoyed. He didn't look surprised. He just tilted his head slightly, the yellow light of the desk lamp catching the sharp line of his jaw. Then, the corner of his mouth quirked up—not a full smile, but a tiny, devastatingly clever smirk that told Lando he’d been caught red-handed.
Oscar closed his heavy textbook with a soft thud, stood up, and began walking over.
Lando’s internal monologue was a scream. Abort mission. Run. Hide behind the bookshelves. Pretend you’re taking a photo of the architecture. But it was too late. Oscar was standing at the edge of his table, smelling faintly of cold rain and expensive espresso.
"You know," Oscar said, his voice a low, smooth baritone that vibrated through the wooden table. "If you wanted a portrait, the lighting in this corner is actually terrible. You’ve got a massive shadow cutting across the mid-tones."
Lando blinked, his face heating up until he was sure his ears were glowing bright red. "I—uh. I wasn't... I mean, the composition was just..."
"It’s okay," Oscar interrupted softly, pulling out the empty chair opposite Lando without asking. He sat down, leaning forward so their personal space disappeared. "I’m Oscar. Engineering. And you’re Lando. The guy who spends more time editing photos of the library than actually studying for his Media exams."
Lando’s breath hitched. "You know my name?"
"Hard not to," Oscar replied, that tiny smirk returning. He gestured toward Lando’s camera. "Let me see it. The shot you just took."
With trembling fingers, Lando turned the camera around and hit the playback button. The screen glowed between them. In the photo, Oscar looked ethereal—focused, quiet, and impossibly handsome. The grain of the film-sim gave the image a nostalgic, dream-like quality.
Oscar stared at the screen for a long time. The teasing light in his eyes softened into something more contemplative. "You have a good eye, Lando. You managed to make me look... peaceful. That’s a difficult thing to do during finals week."
"You always look peaceful," Lando whispered before his brain could filter the words. He immediately looked down at his lap, his curls falling over his eyes. "I mean, compared to everyone else. You’re like the only person in this building who doesn't look like they’re about to have a mental breakdown."
Lando’s pulse was still racing. He liked the way Oscar said his name. He liked the way Oscar was leaning into his space, his presence grounding the chaotic energy Lando always carried. It wasn't just attraction; it was a magnetic pull, an inexplicable need to be closer to the stillness Oscar provided.
"It's a mask," Oscar said, his voice dropping to a whisper. He looked around the empty library, then back at Lando. He reached out, his hand hovering near Lando's on the table. He didn't touch him—not yet—but Lando could feel the heat radiating from Oscar's skin. "Inside, I'm just as stressed as you. I just happen to be very good at hiding it. Or I was... until you caught me."
The air between them felt charged, like the atmosphere right before a summer thunderstorm. Lando felt a desperate urge to reach out and close the gap between their hands, but the fear of breaking the moment kept him still.
"I can delete it," Lando offered, though the thought felt like losing a treasure.
Oscar looked at him, his gaze dropping to Lando’s mouth for a fraction of a second before snapping back to his eyes. "Don't. Keep it. But on one condition."
Lando swallowed hard. "What condition?"
"Pack your bags," Oscar said, glancing at the rain-streaked window. "The library closes in ten minutes. Walk with me to the 24-hour diner down the street? I need a coffee that doesn't taste like cardboard, and I think you need to tell me why you’ve been staring at me for three months."
The heavy oak doors of the library groaned shut behind them, sealing away the scent of old books and the hum of fluorescent lights. Outside, the London air was sharp and tasted of ozone. A light drizzle had turned the pavement into a dark, shimmering mirror, reflecting the amber glow of the Victorian streetlamps.
Lando pulled the hood of his sweatshirt up, but he didn't move to speed up. He wanted this. He wanted the slow, rhythmic sound of their footsteps hitting the wet asphalt in unison.
Oscar walked with a strange, graceful efficiency. He kept his hands deep in the pockets of his dark overcoat, his shoulders squared against the chill. He wasn't talking, but the silence wasn't the heavy, awkward kind Lando usually felt with strangers. It was a space Oscar was inviting him into.
Lando trailed half a step behind, his eyes tracing the silhouette of Oscar’s profile against the city lights.
Observation one: Oscar doesn't look at his feet when he walks. He looks straight ahead, as if he already knows exactly where the world is going to be before he steps into it.
Observation two: When the wind picks up, he doesn't shiver. He just ducks his chin slightly into his collar, a small, stoic movement that made Lando’s heart ache with a sudden, inexplicable fondness.
"You're doing it again," Oscar said, his voice cutting through the sound of a distant bus. He didn't turn his head, but a soft smile played on his lips.
Lando jumped, nearly tripping over a loose paving stone. "Doing what?"
"Analyzing. I can practically hear your brain clicking like a camera shutter," Oscar teased. He slowed his pace just enough so they were walking perfectly side-by-side. Their shoulders brushed—just a light, fleeting contact through their layers of clothing—but it sent a jolt of electricity straight to Lando’s core.
"I can't help it," Lando confessed, his voice dropping. "It’s how I understand things. If I can see the details, they aren't so scary."
They passed under a bridge where the rain tapped a rhythmic beat on the metal above them. Oscar stopped for a moment, looking at a puddle where the neon sign of the diner was bleeding red and blue into the water.
"And what do the details tell you about me?" Oscar asked. He finally turned to look at Lando. In the dim, shadowed light under the bridge, his eyes looked deeper, almost infinite.
Lando stayed quiet for a long beat. He noticed the way a single drop of rain caught on Oscar’s eyelash before falling. He noticed the way Oscar was waiting for his answer, not with pressure, but with genuine curiosity.
"That you’re lonely," Lando said softly, the honesty of the thought surprising even himself. "You sit in the most crowded part of the library every night, but you never talk to anyone. You’re surrounded by people, but you’re always in your own bubble. I think... I think you like the noise because it makes the quiet inside your head feel less empty."
The look that crossed Oscar’s face was gone in a flash, but Lando saw it. It was a moment of pure, raw recognition. Oscar didn't look away. Instead, he took a half-step closer, closing the gap until the heat from his body was the only thing Lando could feel in the cold night air.
"Engineering is about how things fit together, Lando," Oscar whispered, his voice catching slightly. "But they don't teach you how people are supposed to fit. I think I’ve been waiting for someone with a lens to show me where I belong in the frame."
The diner was only fifty yards away, its "OPEN" sign flickering in the dark, but neither of them moved toward it. The rain was starting to come down harder, soaking into Lando’s curls, but he didn't care. He was too busy memorizing the way Oscar was looking at him—like he was the most interesting thing in London.
The bell above the diner door let out a cheerful, tinny ring as they stepped inside. Immediately, the warmth hit them like a physical wave—a thick atmosphere of steam, frying oil, and the muffled sound of an old jukebox playing something from the eighties.
Lando’s glasses instantly fogged up, turning the world into a blur of warm yellow light. He let out a frustrated huff, pulling them off to wipe them on his damp hoodie. Without his lenses, Oscar was just a soft-edged silhouette, but somehow, that felt even more intimate.
"Over there," Oscar whispered, his hand lightly touching the small of Lando's back to guide him. The contact lasted only three seconds, but Lando felt the imprint of Oscar’s palm through the fabric like a brand.
They slid into a corner booth, the red vinyl seats squeaking under their weight. It was the most secluded spot in the place, tucked behind a tall plastic plant and a stack of menus. As they settled in, the temperature difference between their cold skin and the heated air caused the large window next to them to cloud over. Within minutes, the neon lights of London were nothing but soft, glowing orbs of pink and blue behind a veil of condensation.
Lando set his camera bag on the seat beside him, his hands still a bit shaky. "It feels like we're in a submarine," he joked weakly, gesturing to the foggy glass that cut them off from the rest of the world.
Oscar didn't laugh. He was busy unbuttoning his overcoat, revealing a simple grey sweater underneath. He looked... softer. Less like the untouchable genius from the library and more like a boy who had walked through the rain just to have a conversation.
Oscar placed his hands flat on the laminate table. Lando couldn't help but stare at them. They were long-fingered, steady, and clean—the hands of someone who built complex machines. Oscar’s right hand was resting only inches away from Lando’s sleeve.
"You look different under these lights," Oscar said quietly. He was tracing a small circle into the condensation on the table with his index finger. "Less like you're trying to hide behind your camera, and more like you're actually here."
Lando swallowed, his throat dry. "I use the camera because it's a shield. If I'm looking through a viewfinder, I'm just an observer. I don't have to be... part of the scene. I don't have to worry about what I'm saying or if I'm being too much."
"You're not 'too much', Lando," Oscar replied, his voice dropping to that low, grounding frequency again. He stopped tracing circles and let his hand go still. His pinky finger was now barely a centimeter away from Lando's hand. "In fact, I think the library is too quiet for you. You have all this... light... inside you. It needs somewhere to go."
Lando looked down at their hands. The gap between them felt like a canyon and a thread all at once. He wanted to close it. He wanted to feel if Oscar’s skin was as warm as it looked. He reached out, his heart leaping into his throat, and tentatively rested his hand on the table, his knuckles just barely grazing Oscar’s.
Oscar didn't pull away. Instead, he tilted his hand slightly, allowing their fingers to brush.
"Is this part of the 'details'?" Oscar asked, his eyes locking onto Lando’s with an intensity that made Lando forget how to breathe.
"No," Lando whispered, his courage surging for a brief, flickering second. "This is part of the reality."
The air in the booth felt warmer now, thick with the scent of maple syrup and the low, comforting hum of the diner's old radiator. The tiny point of contact where their fingers grazed was the only thing Lando could focus on. It felt like a live wire—a small, buzzing connection that made the rest of the world fade into the background.
Lando took a shallow breath, his heart doing a nervous dance. "If you've been noticing me... if you knew my name before I ever said it... when did it start?" he asked, his voice barely louder than the sizzling grill in the kitchen. "When was the first time you actually looked at me, Oscar? Not just as 'the guy with the camera,' but... as me?"
Oscar didn't answer immediately. He leaned back slightly, his eyes searching Lando’s face as if he were replaying a film in his head. He finally let out a small, huffed breath that sounded almost like a laugh at himself.
"October twelfth," Oscar said, the precision of the date catching Lando off guard. "It was raining then, too. You walked into the library ten minutes before closing, completely soaked, and you were carrying three different cameras around your neck like they were your children. You looked like a disaster, Lando."
Lando let out a shocked, embarrassed laugh, hiding his face in his free hand. "Oh, God. I remember that day. My bag broke in the quad."
"I know," Oscar said, his gaze softening, his fingers finally moving to fully hook around Lando’s hand, anchoring him. "I watched you spend twenty minutes trying to dry your lenses with the hem of your shirt. You were so careful with them, so gentle. I remember thinking that I’d never seen anyone look at an object with that much affection. And then, you looked up and bit the end of your pen—the blue one with the chewed cap—because you couldn't figure out how to reset your ISO."
Lando froze. He did bite his pens. He did it constantly when he was overthinking. "You saw that?"
"I saw everything," Oscar confessed, his voice dropping to a lower, more intimate register. "I saw how you always pick the desk near the heater but never actually turn it on. I saw how you get distracted by the birds outside the window for exactly five minutes every hour. I even know that you prefer black coffee when you're stressed, but you always regret it after three sips because you actually like the sweet stuff."
Lando felt a strange, dizzying warmth spreading through his chest. It wasn't just that Oscar was attractive; it was the fact that Oscar had studied him. While Lando was busy capturing Oscar through a glass lens, Oscar had been capturing Lando in his mind, filing away every quirk, every habit, every nervous tic.
"I thought I was being the sneaky one," Lando whispered, his thumb tentatively brushing against the back of Oscar’s hand. "I thought I was the only one looking."
"You're hard to look away from, Lando," Oscar replied simply. It wasn't a line; there was no ego in his voice. It was just a fact of physics to him, as certain as gravity.
Oscar shifted, his knee knocking against Lando’s under the table. He didn't pull it away. Instead, he kept the pressure there, a steady, solid weight that made Lando feel like he was finally grounded.
The atmosphere in the booth was becoming a world of its own, a small pocket of warmth where the laws of the outside world—deadlines, grades, and the fear of being seen—didn't seem to apply.
Lando was still reeling from Oscar’s confession. Knowing that Oscar had a "file" on him, that he’d been noticed on a random rainy Tuesday in October, made Lando feel both exposed and incredibly special. He felt a sudden, desperate urge to show Oscar something in return—to show him the world through the eyes that had been watching him back.
"I have more," Lando whispered, his voice a bit breathless. He reached for his camera with his free hand, but his other hand was still tangled near Oscar's on the table. "Not just that one shot from tonight. I’ve... I’ve been practicing on you for a while. Usually from behind a bookshelf or the coffee machine."
Oscar’s eyebrows shot up, a playful glint in his eyes. "Is that so? Am I your Muse, Lando?"
"Shut up," Lando laughed, his cheeks flushing. "You’re just a very stable subject. You don't move."
He turned the camera on, the small digital screen casting a pale blue light onto their faces. He scooted closer, sliding along the red vinyl seat until his shoulder was pressed firmly against Oscar’s. Oscar didn't hesitate; he leaned in, his head tilting until his temple was resting against Lando’s. The scent of him—something like cedarwood and the lingering chill of the rain—wrapped around Lando, making his head swim.
"Look," Lando said, scrolling through the gallery.
There were dozens of them. Oscar leaning over a blueprint, a stray lock of hair falling over his forehead. Oscar staring out the library window at sunset, the orange light making him look like he was made of gold. Oscar asleep for five minutes over a calculator, his expression finally, truly relaxed.
Oscar was silent. He watched the images flicker by, his breathing slowing down. "I didn't realize..." he started, his voice thick. "I didn't realize you saw me like that."
Just as Oscar reached out to touch the screen to see a photo of himself laughing at a text message, the waitress appeared. She was carrying two heavy mugs of steaming coffee, sliding them onto the table with a practiced, hurried clatter.
"Here you go, boys," she chirped.
The sudden intrusion was like a jolt of electricity. Both of them jumped, their hands flying back in a reflex to make room for the mugs. In the scramble, Lando’s hand didn't find the table; it found Oscar’s. Their fingers collided, but instead of pulling away in a panic, their instincts took over.
Oscar’s fingers instinctively curled around Lando’s, and Lando’s hand gripped back. For a heartbeat, their fingers interlocked perfectly, a mess of damp skin and sudden heat.
The waitress didn't notice. She walked away to the next booth, leaving them frozen.
Lando looked down at their joined hands. The camera was still on in his lap, the screen showing a photo of Oscar’s silhouette, but the reality was much better. Their fingers were laced together, tight and certain. It wasn't an accident anymore. It was a choice.
Lando’s heart was hammering so hard he was sure Oscar could feel it through their palms. "I think the lighting in here is actually perfect," Lando murmured, looking at the way Oscar’s eyes were darting between their hands and Lando’s face.
Oscar squeezed his hand, his thumb tracing the soft skin of Lando’s knuckle. "Yeah," Oscar whispered, his gaze finally settling on Lando’s eyes, intense and unwavering. "Best shot of the night."
The coffee sat forgotten, the steam curling lazily into the air between them. Lando’s hand felt small and incredibly alive within Oscar’s grip. Every time Oscar’s thumb grazed his knuckle, Lando felt a shiver that had absolutely nothing to do with the cold rain outside.
"Since you're the master of observation," Oscar said, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial murmur, "let’s play a game. No cameras, no lenses. Just the truth. Tell me something about yourself that I couldn't have figured out by watching you in the library for three months."
Lando bit his lip—the very habit Oscar had called out earlier—and looked down at their joined hands. "A secret? That’s high stakes for a first date that isn't technically a date."
"Is that what this is?" Oscar teased, his eyebrows arching slightly. "I thought it was an engineering consultation on lighting."
Lando laughed, the sound warm and genuine. "Fine. A secret." He leaned in closer, his shoulder pressing into Oscar’s, the fogged-up window acting as their only witness. "I’m terrified of being ordinary. Everyone thinks I’m this confident, loud guy because I take pictures and I’m always talking, but it’s a distraction. I’m scared that if I stop making noise, I’ll just... disappear into the background. That’s why I take photos of people like you. Because you look so settled. So real."
Oscar’s grip on his hand tightened, not in a way that hurt, but in a way that felt like a promise. He didn't offer a platitude or a "don't be silly." He just listened.
"My turn," Oscar said, his expression turning serious. He looked at the red neon reflection in the window. "People think I’m a machine because I’m good at math and I don't freak out during exams. But the truth? I’m so tightly wound that I’m afraid if I let one emotion through, the whole system will collapse. I don't stay quiet because I’m peaceful, Lando. I stay quiet because I’m trying to keep everything inside."
Oscar turned his head, his nose inches from Lando’s. "Until tonight. You didn't just take my picture, Lando. You waited for me. You followed me into the rain. You broke the system."
Lando felt a lump in his throat. He reached out with his free hand, his fingers tentatively brushing the soft wool of Oscar’s sweater before settling on his forearm. "I think your system needed a bit of chaos," he whispered.
"I think you're right," Oscar replied.
They sat there for a long time, sharing pieces of themselves—Lando’s childhood fear of the dark, Oscar’s secret love for old, dusty poetry books he hides under his physics notes, the way they both felt like they were pretending to be adults in a world they didn't quite understand. With every secret shared, the distance between them evaporated.
Lando noticed a new detail: when Oscar gets honest, his voice loses that robotic precision and becomes a little rougher, a little more human.
"Oscar?" Lando asked, his heart suddenly in his throat.
"Yeah?"
"I don't think I can go back to just watching you from across the library tomorrow."
Oscar smiled—not the smirk, but the real, soft smile that Lando had captured on his camera earlier. He lifted Lando’s hand and, in a move that was so uncharacteristically bold for the 'Ice Man,' he pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the back of Lando’s hand.
"Good," Oscar murmured against his skin. "Because I’ve already decided where you're sitting tomorrow. Right next to me."
The walk back to the dorms was a blur of neon reflections and the rhythmic splashing of their sneakers against the pavement. Neither of them seemed to notice the cold anymore. Oscar’s arm was draped firmly over Lando’s shoulders, pulling him in close to share the shelter of his coat, while Lando’s arm was hooked around Oscar’s waist. They looked like a single shadow moving through the dark.
When they finally reached the stone steps of Lando’s dorm building, the world felt painfully quiet again. The rain had slowed to a fine, misty drizzle that clung to their hair like tiny diamonds.
Lando turned to face Oscar, his back against the heavy wooden door. He felt that familiar spike of anxiety—the "what now?" feeling—but before he could overthink it, Oscar reached out. He didn't say a word; he just gently took Lando’s phone from his hand.
Lando watched, breathless, as Oscar’s thumbs moved quickly over the screen. He tapped into the Notes app, typed a few lines, and locked the phone before sliding it back into Lando’s pocket.
"Don't read it until you're inside," Oscar whispered, his voice grazing Lando’s ear.
Lando nodded, his heart hammering. "Oscar?"
"Hm?"
"I... I had a really good time. Even the part where I was dying of embarrassment."
Oscar stepped into Lando’s space, his hands finding the sides of Lando’s face. His palms were warm, a stark contrast to the cool night air. He looked at Lando with an intensity that made the library feel like a lifetime ago.
"Me too, Lando," Oscar murmured.
And then, it happened. Oscar leaned in, tilting his head just enough. It wasn't a tentative brush like the back of the hand; it was a real, soft, and lingering kiss. It tasted like the sweet coffee they’d shared and the crispness of the rain. It was gentle, a slow-motion collision that felt more like a promise than an ending.
Lando’s eyes fluttered shut, his hands clutching the front of Oscar’s sweater, pulling him closer as if he were trying to memorize the very fabric of him. For those few seconds, the "Ice Man" and the "Camera Boy" didn't exist. There was just a boy who noticed everything and a boy who wanted to be seen.
Oscar pulled back just an inch, his thumb stroking Lando’s flushed cheek. "Goodnight, Lando. I'll see you at our table tomorrow. Don't be late."
With a final, lingering look, Oscar turned and walked into the night.
Lando stood there for a long minute, touching his lips with his fingertips, feeling the ghost of the kiss still humming in his skin. He stumbled inside, his legs feeling like jelly, and leaned against the radiator in the hallway.
Remembering the phone, he pulled it out with shaking fingers and opened the note Oscar had left.
Detail #47: When you’re nervous, you look at my mouth. I’ve been waiting for you to stop looking and start doing something about it. I'm glad you finally did.
Sleep well, Lando. - O.