Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“— But Pat,” Oscar whined in the manner only a fifteen-year-old could – that particular pitch of adolescent complaint seemingly designed to test the patience of saints. “Do I have to go all the way to England to pursue my future? Melbourne’s perfectly fine, isn’t it? Or Sydney! Why can’t your business just move to Sydney?”

Pat Cummins looked up from his reading glasses at his younger brother — well, adopted younger brother — sprawled dramatically across the living room sofa. Nearly a decade separated them, but sometimes, especially in moments like this, the gap seemed both immensely wide and impossibly narrow. Since their parents’ passing, Pat had often found himself caught in the strange limbo between sibling and guardian, unsure where one role ended and the other began.

Oscar Piastri. The wunderkind. The brightest child he had ever known. The light of his eyes.

Pat studied him carefully now: all gangly limbs and theatrical indignation, dark hair falling across his forehead in that careless way that made him look younger than his years. Oscar wasn't like the other kids. Hell, he wasn't even like how Pat used to be as a child. Where young Pat had been all charm and carefreeness, skating through life on natural charisma and a winning smile, Oscar had always moved through the world with a quiet, focused intensity. Even as a toddler, he would fix his attention on something — a spinning top, a picture book, the way light filtered through a window — and dedicate everything his small body could offer to the act of watching, of understanding.

Two things had endured that investigation into full-blown passions.

One of them, to Pat's quiet satisfaction, was cricket. A shared interest, planted by their late father like a seed which Pat had never stopped watering. He'd hate to admit it out loud (his business partners would raise eyebrows at the sentimentality), but one of his most cherished memories, even now as a successful businessman always on the move, was simply spending weekend after weekend barefoot in the backyard. He could still feel the scratchy warmth of the grass, still hear the thwack of bat against ball, still see little Oscar — barely knee-high, still in that waddling phase — determinedly gripping a bat almost as big as he was. Pat would bowl deliberately poor deliveries, watching his brother's brow furrow in concentration. He'd drop catches on purpose, just to hear that particular gurgling laugh Oscar had as a toddler, the one that sounded like bubbles rising in a glass.

The second thing, which endlessly confused Pat, was motorsports. He still wasn't sure where Oscar had picked it up. Australia produces cricketers, swimmers, and rugby players in abundance, but Formula One might as well be from another planet. Yet somehow, someway, the fascination took hold. Oscar loved everything about it: the sleek shapes of the cars, the precise chaos of pit stops, the split-second decisions at three hundred kilometres an hour.

And because Oscar loved it, Pat loved it too. It was that simple. Whatever Oscar asked for, Pat delivered. Whatever Oscar needed, Pat found a way.

Gradually, the weekends evolved. The backyard cricket was replaced by weekends spent in their cramped garage, the air heavy with the smell of grease and metal.

Oscar would dismantle machines with the careful precision of a surgeon, then rebuild them with the confidence of someone who had never doubted they would fit back together. All Pat could do was lean against the doorframe, a rag forgotten in his hand, and watch admiringly as his younger brother rambled on, voice rising in speed and pitch with excitement, about torque ratios and aerodynamics, about how the modifications he'd made would shave seconds off a lap time, and why this particular engine configuration was objectively better than the factory standard.

Pat didn't understand half of it. But he understood this: the light in Oscar's eyes when he talked about these things was the very same brightness their father used to have when discussing Don Bradman's batting average. And that light was worth crossing oceans for.

So Pat removed his reading glasses, folded them carefully, and fixed his brother with a look that was half fondness and half resolve.

“Oscar.” He kept his tone gentle. “Broaderson Academy boasts a cricket programme that develops top-tier players. They have alumni in the England squad. And their motorsport facility? State-of-the-art simulators, links to real racing teams, and engineers who’ve worked in the paddock.” He paused, allowing the words to settle. “Australia doesn’t have that. Not for you. Not yet.”

Oscar’s theatrical slump worsened, but Pat noticed the flicker in his eyes – the one that showed he was listening, truly listening, beneath the teenage dramatics.

“Besides,” Pat added, a smile tugging at his lips, “you think I want to deal with London weather? I’m trading my sunrises and beaches for grey skies and rain. For you. The least you could do is pretend to be grateful.”

A pause. Then, reluctantly, the corner of Oscar’s mouth twitched upwards. “Fiiiine,” he muttered, dragging out the word as if it pained him physically. “But I’m holding you to that bit about the engineers. And I’m still not playing cricket for England.”

Pat smiled. “Wouldn’t expect anything less.”

London, it turned out, was just as grey as Pat had feared.

Three weeks in, and he’d already lost count of how many times he’d stepped outside their flat in South Kensington only to be met by a sky that looked like someone had draped wet wool over the city. The architecture was beautiful, he’d give it that – all sweeping crescents and white stucco, iron railings, and private gardens – but he missed the Australian sun. The way it slanted gold through the kitchen windows every morning. The sharp blue of the sky over Sydney. The way everything back home seemed to exist in high definition, while London felt like someone had turned down the saturation.

He was contemplating this now, gazing out the window of their flat at yet another drizzly afternoon, when Oscar’s voice drifted in from the living room. “Pat. Come look at this.”

Pat found him sprawled on the sofa, his usual spot when not at school or eating, with his laptop resting on his stomach. On screen, Broaderson Academy's grounds unfurled: manicured pitches stretching towards ancient stone, indoor facilities that made Pat whistle, dorm rooms suspiciously nicer than any he'd ever seen.

“Not bad,” Pat said, lowering himself onto the arm of the sofa. “A bit old, though. Probably haunted.”

Oscar shot him a deadpan look. “Very funny.”

“I’m serious. Look at that architecture.” Pat gestured at the screen, where a particularly Gothic tower loomed against a perfectly Photoshopped blue sky. “That’s basically Hogwarts. You’re going to get your letter any day now. Expecto Patronum, the whole lot.”

“You’ve been watching the marathon again, haven’t you?”

“It was on the telly! I’m legally required to watch it whenever it’s on – Immigration paperwork!”

Oscar’s mouth twitched, but he didn’t answer. His eyes stayed fixed on the screen, slowly scrolling through pictures of classrooms, common rooms, and the shiny new science wing. Pat watched him for a moment, noticing the tension in his shoulder that hadn’t been there a few weeks earlier.

Three weeks since they had moved to London. Tomorrow, they would help Oscar move in. Two days until school started, not that Pat was counting.

Pat hadn’t pushed. He knew Oscar, knew that pushing only made him retreat further into that quiet, focused shell. So he’d let him have his space, let him pretend that the move was just another adjustment, just another challenge to be analysed and conquered like a tricky engine rebuild.

But Pat had also started noticing the small things: Oscar lingering in doorways before Pat headed to work, the way he’d find excuses to be in whatever room Pat was in, and how he’d gone quiet whenever the topic of boarding school was mentioned in conversation.

Oscar wasn’t afraid of much. But Pat had learned over the years that the things Oscar feared, he buried deep. He treated them like engine problems he couldn’t solve yet: acknowledged, filed away, and revisited later when he had more information.

Pat just wished Oscar knew he didn’t need to sort out everything by himself.

-----

That night, Pat couldn’t sleep. He’d gone to bed at eleven, tossed until midnight, and finally given up at half past. Now he sat in the kitchen with a cup of tea gone cold, staring at the rain running down the window, thinking about his parents.

It happened sometimes. The quiet moments snuck up on him. He’d be fine for weeks, months even, and then something would trigger it: a smell, a sound, and suddenly he was eighteen years old again, standing in a cemetery, holding the hand of an eight-year-old who kept asking when Mummy and Daddy were coming home.

He’d had to learn quickly. How to be a brother and a parent simultaneously. How to comfort a child when his own heart was still aching. How to make Oscar feel safe when Pat didn’t feel safe himself.

The kitchen clock ticked towards one. Pat reached for his cold tea, then paused. He heard footsteps: bare feet on the hardwood. Oscar stood in the doorway, wearing that old cricket sweater of Pat’s that had somehow become his. The sleeves completely swallowed his hands now; he’d grown, but not enough. He looked about seven years old.

“Can’t sleep either?” Pat asked softly.

Oscar shook his head. He shuffled into the kitchen and eased onto one of the stools at the counter, avoiding Pat's gaze. Up close, Pat noticed the shadows under his eyes and the slight puffiness that hinted he hadn't just woken up; he had been lying awake, just like Pat.

Pat turned on the kettle without asking. It was what their father used to do — make tea when words weren't working. Some habits crossed oceans with themselves.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The kettle whistled. Rain tapped against the window. Pat leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching Oscar watch his own hands.

"It's stupid," Oscar finally said.

"Doubt it."

"It's just —" Oscar stopped. Started again. "I've never done boarding school before. I've never been to a school where I didn't know anyone. And I'll be there, and you'll be here, and if something happens —"

"Osc."

"— I know it's fine, I know London's not that far, but you said yourself the traffic here is insane, and what if there's an emergency and you can't get to me, and I'm just —" His voice cracked, just slightly, before he swallowed it down. "I'm not like you, Pat.” He was now picking at a loose thread on his sweater. “I don't make friends easily. I don't know how to just... talk to people. What if I get there and I can't — what if I'm just alone?"

The words lingered in the air between them.

Pat's heart clenched. He set down the tea he'd been making and moved to sit on the stool beside Oscar, close enough that their knees touched. Close enough that Oscar couldn't hide.

"Look at me."

Oscar looked. His eyes were too bright, though he'd never admit it. Pat could see the effort it took for him to stay still and keep it together.

"Do you remember what Dad used to say? When we'd get nervous before a big match?"

Oscar was silent for a moment. Then, so soft that Pat almost missed it: "Fear's just excitement in disguise."

"That's right." Pat smiled, even though his throat felt tight. "Dad was smart about that stuff. He knew we'd get scared, and he knew we'd try to hide it. So he gave us a way to reframe it. To tell ourselves a different story."

Oscar ducked his head, but Pat noticed the way his jaw clenched.

"And do you know what else he used to say? Right before we'd walk out onto the field."

A pause. Then Oscar's voice, softer still: "You've done the work. Now go show them what you're made of."

“Exactly," Pat said, reaching out and resting a hand on Oscar's shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. "You've done the work, mate. All of it. Every weekend in that garage, every early morning at training, every time you chose to understand something instead of just letting it be. That's all still in you. That doesn't disappear just because you're in a different country.”

Oscar nodded without looking up.

"And listen to me." Pat's voice dropped, serious now. "I need you to hear this, okay? Really hear it."

Oscar gazed upwards.

"I don't care if it's the middle of the night. I don't care if there's traffic, Tube strikes, or a bloody hurricane. If you need me, I'm there. Full stop. End of story." Pat held his gaze, willing him to understand. "London's not that big, and I'm not that far, and nothing —" He paused, letting the word land. "Nothing is more important than you. Not work, not meetings, not anything. You call, I come. That's the deal. That's always been the deal."

Oscar's breath hitched just once. He quickly covered it, but Pat saw.

"And about the friend thing." Pat softened his voice. "You think I was some social butterfly at your age? I was awkward as hell. I once told a girl I liked her jumper, and she had to explain it was a school uniform. Everyone had to wear it. I wanted to dissolve into the earth."

Oscar let out a surprised huff of laughter. "That's actually worse than anything I've done."

"I know. I'm providing perspective." Pat grinned. "Point is, you'll find your people. You always do. Maybe they won't be the loudest ones in the room — though knowing you, you'll probably get adopted by someone loud who does the talking for you."

"That's not — I don't need —"

"It's okay if you do, Oscar. It's okay to let people in. It's okay to need help." Pat's voice went quiet again. "I know I didn't... I know after Mum and Dad, I wasn't always great at showing you that. I was so focused on keeping it together, on making sure you were okay, that I probably made it seem like you had to be okay all the time, too. And you didn't. You don't."

Oscar remained very still.

"You're allowed to be nervous," Pat continued. "You're allowed to be scared. You're allowed to miss home, miss me, hate the weather here, and still want to be here anyway. All of that can be true at once. That's not weakness, mate. That's just... being human."

The kitchen was silent except for the rain.

Then Oscar leaned slightly, his shoulder pressing against Pat's arm. Not a hug, Oscar wasn't really a hugger, but the closest thing to one he'd offer voluntarily. Pat didn't move, didn't acknowledge it, just let Oscar take what he needed.

"Thanks," Oscar mumbled.

"Always."

The kettle had long since clicked off. Pat made them tea anyway, and they sat together in the kitchen until past one in the morning, not talking much, just existing in the same space. When Oscar finally went back to bed, some of the tension had eased from his shoulders.

Pat stayed up a little longer, listening to the rain, reflecting on his parents, and feeling deeply, painfully grateful that he was here for this.

He must have eventually fallen asleep, because the next thing he knew, grey light was seeping through the kitchen window and Oscar was standing over him, fully dressed and looking vaguely amused.

"Fell asleep at the table again, old man?"

Pat blinked, noticed the pain in his neck, and groaned. "I'm twenty-five, not eighty-five."

"Could have fooled me."

-----

The next morning was grey but dry, which Pat had learned to see as a win.

Oscar was quiet during breakfast, but it was a different kind of quiet than the past few weeks. Less tense, more relaxed. He ate his toast without being asked, packed his bag without Pat prompting, and only rolled his eyes twice when Pat did his final check of everything.

"I can pack my own things, you know."

"I know. Humour me."

"You've checked my bag four times."

"I'll stop at five."

Oscar's mouth twitched, but he stayed silent.

The taxi ride was an hour through countryside that seemed designed by a committee for maximum Britishness: narrow lanes winding between hedgerows, past fields dotted with sheep and the occasional pub with a sign creaking in the breeze.

Pat kept up a running commentary. "Look, sheep. Very British sheep. Probably have accents."

"Pat."

“That one's sporting a tiny tweed vest, I swear.”

"You're not funny."

"I'm a little funny."

By the time the school gates came into view, Oscar was trying very hard not to smile and failing.

Broaderson Academy was everything the website promised and more: a sprawling Victorian Gothic masterpiece made of honey-coloured stone, featuring pointed arches, soaring windows, and a clock tower with an actual functioning clock. Ivy climbed one corner in a way that looked deliberately chosen rather than neglected. The cricket pitches stretched out to the left, impossibly green, with practice nets set up in the distance. The entire place looked as if it had been lifted straight from a film set.

Oscar pressed his face to the window. "Wow."

Pat grinned. "Told you. Hogwarts. Complete with ghosts, probably. ‘You'll find the kitchens by following the pear on the fruit bowl.’"

"You're such a nerd."

"You're the one who watched all the movies with me. Twice."

"That was your fault."

The taxi pulled up outside the main entrance, and suddenly they were truly there, standing on the gravel drive with Oscar's bags at their feet and a hundred years of history looming before them. Oscar looked up at the building, and Pat watched his face, trying to remember this moment. The way Oscar's eyes widened, the slight parting of his lips, the way he seemed to forget, for just a second, to be cool about it.

"Ready?" Pat asked.

Oscar took a breath and nodded. "Ready."

They gathered his belongings — two suitcases, a cricket kit, and a suspiciously heavy duffel bag that Pat suspected contained half-disassembled machinery — and went inside. The interior reflected the exterior: tall ceilings, stone hallways, portraits of stern headmasters gazing down as they passed. Pat kept waiting for one of them to start moving.

"First years over here," he murmured. "Follow the owls."

"Pat."

A friendly member of staff directed them towards the dormitories, and soon they were climbing staircase after staircase, Oscar's bags growing heavier with each step. By the third flight, they were both breathing heavily.

Oscar muttered, "Should have packed lighter."

"Should have left the engine parts at home."

"Not a chance." Oscar shot him a look, but there was warmth in it.

They finally found the room: a small but cosy space on the third floor, with three single beds, three desks, and a window overlooking the cricket pitches. One bed was already neatly made, with a sleek laptop and a small Thai flag pin on the desk, indicating that its occupant took things seriously. The other bed was a complete mess: clothes spilling out of an open suitcase, racing magazines scattered across the duvet, and a half-empty packet of biscuits on the nightstand.

Pat raised an eyebrow. "You've found your people already."

"We haven't even met them yet."

“I'm telling you, they look like they could already be your best friends.”

Before Oscar could reply, a voice wafted in from the hallway.

"— No, I'm telling you, if you just listened to me about the racing line through Church Corner, you'd shave at least half a second off your lap —"

“You've never even driven through Church Corner. You watched a YouTube video.”

"Watching is learning! It's research!"

Two boys appeared in the doorway, mid-argument. The first was tall and slender, with tanned skin and an effortless confidence in his manner. He immediately spotted Pat and Oscar and greeted them with a warm smile, reaching out his hand.

"You must be Oscar. I'm Alex. Alex Albon." His handshake was firm, with a softly Thai-tinged accent. He glanced at Pat. "Mister…?"

"Pat, please."

"Pat. Don't mind him." He jerked his head toward the second boy, who had already pushed past him into the room.

That second boy was shorter, stockier, with a tangle of dark curls and eyes that seemed to absorb everything at once. He fixed his gaze on Oscar like a missile.

“You're Oscar! The Australian one! The roommate form said you do racing and cricket, which is insane — like, how do you even have time for both? I'm Lando, by the way, Lando Norris, I'm your other roommate — well, not other, as in the alternative; I'm the second roommate, the one who hasn't made his bed yet. Okay, Alex, don't look at me like that, I was going to do it —"

"Were you?" Alex's tone was dry, affectionate.

“ — eventually! The point is, Oscar, welcome. You're going to love it here. The racing simulators are incredible. Have you seen them yet? I went yesterday just to look, and they wouldn't let me actually use one because induction doesn't start until tomorrow, which is basically cruel, don't you think? Showing someone a simulator and saying, 'You can't touch it'? That's psychological torture —"

Oscar was staring at Lando as if he'd just witnessed a car crash in slow motion. But Pat noticed the subtle change in his expression: the almost invisible relaxation around his eyes, the way his shoulders dropped half an inch from where they'd been creeping towards his ears.

See? Pat thought. You'll find your people.

Alex appeared to notice as well. He met Pat's gaze and smiled knowingly.

"They'll be fine," Alex said quietly, as Lando launched into an explanation of why the school's racing programme was objectively superior to every other racing programme in the country. "He grows on you. Like fungus."

"Oi! I heard that!"

"You were meant to."

Pat chuckled. It felt satisfying here, in this strange old building with its stone walls and tall windows, watching his brother stand still amid a human hurricane. "Oscar's the quiet one," he told Alex. "Fair warning."

"Lando's got enough noise for both of them. They'll balance out." Alex glanced at Oscar, then back at Pat. "First time away from home?"

"That obvious?"

“Only because I remember what my mum looked like dropping me off," Alex's smile was kind. "He'll be okay. This place — it's good at finding people's people."

Pat nodded, a weight easing from his chest. "Thanks. That helps more than you know."

"Right!" Lando's voice cut through. "So, fair warning, I talk in my sleep. Alex says I once held an entire conversation about tyre compounds. I don't remember it, but apparently I was very passionate."

"I was there," Alex confirmed. "It was disturbingly coherent."

For the first time since they'd arrived, Oscar spoke directly to Lando: "What compounds?"

Lando's face lit up like Christmas morning. "Oh, you're going to fit in just fine."

Oscar looked at Pat, and there it was: a genuine smile, small but sincere. Pat felt something warm break open in his chest.

"Right," Pat said, clapping his hands together. "I'll leave you to it, then. Unpack. Meet people. Don't set anything on fire."

Oscar rolled his eyes. "I'm not twelve."

"Could have fooled me." Pat pulled him into a hug, the kind Oscar would never admit to needing but always leaned into just slightly. This time, he held on a beat longer than usual. Pat held on too.

"Hey," Pat murmured, quiet enough that only Oscar could hear. "You've got this. And I'm a phone call away. Always."

Oscar's voice was muffled against his shoulder. "I know."

“Midnight. Doesn't matter.”

"I know, Pat."

“And if the ghosts catch you, just remember: Riddikulus.”

Oscar pulled back, laughing despite himself. "You're impossible."

"And yet somehow you're stuck with me." Pat ruffled his hair, ignoring the indignant squawk. He turned to Lando and Alex. "Look after him. He pretends he doesn't need it, but he does."

"We've got him," Alex said, and something in his steady gaze told Pat he meant it.

Lando saluted. "Mission: Look After Oscar is officially a go. I'll report back daily. Hourly, if you want. I can set up a group chat —"

"That won't be necessary," Pat said briskly, though he was smiling. "But thanks."

One last glance at Oscar — gangly, young, and desperately trying to appear cool about everything — and Pat headed for the door.

"Pat?"

He turned.

Oscar stood in the centre of the room, surrounded by unpacked bags, new faces, and a future that must have felt terrifyingly vast. But he stood tall, his eyes steady, and when he spoke, his voice was calm.

"Thanks. For... you know. Everything."

Pat's throat tightened. "Always, mate. Always."

He left before he could become emotional about it.

-----

The door closed behind him, and Pat paused in the corridor, exhaling a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. Oscar was all right. More than all right. Oscar was in a room with a boy who talked enough for both of them and another who radiated a calm, steady presence. It was going to be okay.

He started towards the staircase, already mentally listing everything awaiting him in London: emails to answer, meetings to prepare for, a flat that would now feel unbearably quiet. He'd been gone for just an hour, and the flat already felt empty. He'd need to decide what to do with himself on evenings when there was no one to make tea for, no one to warn about homework, no quiet presence in the next room.

He reassured himself: You'll adjust. You always do.

The corridor stretched out before him, long and stone-flagged, illuminated by the pale morning light filtering through enormous arched windows. These were the sort of windows you'd find in cathedrals, castles, or — yes, alright — Hogwarts. Pat smiled to himself. Oscar could roll his eyes all he liked, but this place was magic. You could feel it in the stones, in the light, and in the hush that seemed to settle over everything.

Sunlight fell in slanting rectangles across the floor, highlighting the dust drifting lazily through the air. The glass was old, slightly warped, casting prismatic fragments of colour across the stone where the leadlight caught the sun. Pat slowed despite himself, taking it all in. There was something about this place that made you want to linger.

He was halfway to the staircase when he caught it: a scent in the air, faint and already fading, as if someone had passed through moments earlier and left a trace behind.

He stopped.

It was odd: not what he’d expect in an old building like this. He had anticipated the smell of polish, old books, and dust that seemed to linger everywhere else. But this was different. Bright. Sharp. Almost sweet, but not in a cloying way. It smelled like –

Pomegranate?

Pat frowned. That made no sense. Who walks around smelling like a pomegranate? Was that even something people did?

He was still trying to place it when he heard footsteps, unhurried, echoing from further down the corridor.

He looked up.

A figure was walking away from him, perhaps thirty metres ahead, having just turned the corner from an intersecting hallway. Pat couldn't see the face — just the back of a person moving further down the corridor, footsteps steady against the stone.

But what a back.

Wait, what? Pat blinked at himself. Did I just think 'what a back'? What is wrong with me?

He couldn't help it, though. There was something about the way this person moved: broad shoulders beneath what looked like a well-tailored jacket, the kind that moved effortlessly with the body underneath. A confident stride, unhurried but purposeful, like someone who knew exactly where they were headed and saw no reason to hurry. Like someone who belonged here, in this ancient place, as much as the stones themselves.

And then the figure moved beneath one of the grand arched windows.

The light hit them perfectly — that pale gold English morning glow, filtered through old glass — and for a moment their hair wasn't just brown or red but something in between, flickering almost like strawberry-blond in the warmth. It was thick, slightly dishevelled in an intentionally carefree way, catching the light like copper catching fire. Like the Weasleys' hair, Pat's brain supplied unhelpfully, and he immediately told his brain to shut up.

Pat's breath caught for no apparent reason he could identify.

The figure kept walking, unaware. As they moved, Pat glimpsed a strong profile — just a flash, just the line of a jaw and the hint of a beard, the kind that would feel rough if touched — before they passed out of sight beyond another window. Then they reached the end of the corridor, turned left, and disappeared.

The corridor was once again deserted. The light continued to cast golden rectangles across the stone floor. Somewhere in the distance, a door opened and closed.

Pat stood there for a long moment, heart beating a little faster than it should have been, trying to remember how to move his feet.

Did I imagine that? The smell, the – all of it?

He shook his head, a bemused smile tugging at his lips. He'd just seen the back of someone's head. From a distance. In a corridor. He'd caught a glimpse of good hair, broad shoulders, and a confident stride, and now he was frozen, like a teenager with his first crush.

Get a grip, Cummins. You're a grown man. You shouldn't stand in hallways staring after strangers like some sort of… of…

He couldn't even complete the thought.

Maybe the ghosts are real after all, he thought, finally forcing himself to walk towards the stairs. Maybe I've finally lost it. Wouldn't put it past this place. All that history, all that magic — it gets to you after a while.

He recalled his earlier joke to Oscar about apparitions. He could almost hear Oscar's deadpan voice in his mind: So let me get this straight. You told me to watch out for ghosts, and thirty minutes later, you're standing in a corridor, sniffing the air like a lost puppy, because someone with nice hair passed by?

Pat burst out laughing, the sound echoing along the empty corridor. Definitely lost it.

But as he stepped out of the building into the grey English morning, he couldn't quite shake the image of that hair catching the light. Strawberry-blond. Almost copper. The confident set of those shoulders. The flash of a jawline that suggested someone who spent time outdoors, who laughed easily, who —

Stop it.

He got into the taxi. He gave the driver his address. The entire journey back to London, he tried not to think about the stranger in the corridor.

He did not succeed.

And he already knew, with a certainty that should have worried him more than it did, that he'd be finding a reason to go back.

Another three weeks went by in a haze of rainy weather and spreadsheets.

Pat eventually settled into a rhythm: the kind you create when you're trying not to think about how quiet your flat has become. Mornings involved emails and crackly calls with Sydney, bridging a time zone that seemed determined to keep him tethered to his desk at odd hours. Afternoons consisted of meetings, learning the rhythms of London business, pretending he understood the tube map without constantly checking his phone (a lie he told everyone, including himself). Evenings were spent staring at the ceiling and wondering if Oscar was remembering to eat vegetables.

But the calls were helpful.

Every Tuesday and Thursday evening, without fail, his phone would buzz with Oscar's face on the screen. And every Tuesday and Thursday, without fail, Pat would answer on the first ring and pretend he hadn't been waiting by the phone for the last twenty minutes.

"You sound out of breath," Oscar said during their second week. His face filled the screen, slightly pixelated, but Pat could see the amusement in his eyes. "Were you running to the phone like a Victorian maiden expecting a telegram?"

“Victorian maidens didn't have to contend with London traffic. I just returned from a meeting.”

"Uh-huh." Oscar's tone was clearly unconvinced. "Sure."

Pat changed the subject. "How's school? Are you eating? Is Lando still talking in his sleep about tyre compounds?"

Oscar's face showed something complex: a brief softening around his eyes, then quickly returning to his usual deadpan. "Lando talks about tyre compounds whether he's asleep or awake. Alex timed him once. Forty-seven minutes straight."

"That's commitment."

"That's brain damage, more like." But Oscar was smiling, just slightly. "He's... he's actually pretty great. Lando, I mean. He's annoying as hell, but he's —" Oscar paused, searching for the right word. "He's a lot. But it's a good lot. He makes everything feel like an adventure, you know? Like, even just walking to class is somehow exciting because he'll find something to ramble about."

Pat felt something warm settle in his chest. "Sounds like you've made a friend."

“I suppose so.” Oscar's voice was carefully casual, but Pat could see the way his eyes softened when he said Lando's name. "Alex is cool too. He's like the responsible one. Makes sure we actually do our homework instead of just talking about racing all night."

"And Lando?"

“Lando makes sure we discuss racing all night anyway.” Oscar's mouth curled into a smile. "It's a good balance."

They talked for another twenty minutes — about classes, about the cricket nets, about the racing simulator that Lando had apparently tried to break within the first week ("He didn't break it, Pat, he just... optimized it aggressively") — and when they hung up, Pat sat in his quiet flat with a smile he couldn't quite shake.

Oscar was fine. Oscar was more than fine. Oscar was making friends, eating properly (probably), and sounding happier than Pat had heard him in months.

It was going to be alright.

-----

It was a Thursday afternoon, three weeks and two days into the new routine, when Pat's phone rang unexpectedly.

He had just finished a meeting with a potential client — something about investments, portfolios, and words he had nodded along to without really listening — and was walking back to his office when the buzz started in his pocket. He pulled out his phone and stopped abruptly in the middle of the pavement.

Broaderson Academy appeared on the screen.

His heart sank to his stomach.

This is it, he thought, already moving aside, already bracing himself. A call before the evening. Something's happened. An injury. A fight. Bullying. Oh God, what if he's hurt, what if —

He picked up on the third ring, his voice steadier than he felt. "Hello?"

"Good afternoon. This is Mr Ben Stokes calling from Broaderson Academy."

The voice on the other end was deep and unhurried, with a British drawl that wrapped around each word like honey. Pat blinked, momentarily thrown. That wasn't what he'd expected. He'd prepared for brisk efficiency, for bad news delivered in a clinical tone. Instead, this voice sounded like it belonged to someone who laughed easily, who took his time with things, who —

Focus, Cummins. Your brother might be in hospital.

"Is Oscar okay?" The words sounded harsher than he meant.

"Oh, yes, absolutely." A warm chuckle flowed through the speaker. "Sorry, I should have started with that. Oscar's fine. He's not in any trouble, I promise. This is more of an administrative matter."

Pat's knees actually went weak with relief. He leaned against a nearby railing, letting out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. "Right. Okay. Good. That's — that's good."

“Are you okay?”

"Fine. Yes. Sorry. You just — calls from schools never mean anything good, do they?"

Another chuckle, low and genuine. "Fair point. I should have led with the reassurance. My apologies."

Pat waved a hand at nothing, then remembered he was on the phone. "No, it's — I appreciate you calling. What's the administrative matter?"

“I'd prefer to discuss it in person, if that's possible. It's about Oscar's scholarship for next year: nothing urgent in terms of an emergency, but we do need to have a conversation about his focus areas moving forward. Would you be able to come in tomorrow morning? Say, ten o'clock?”

Pat's mind, still recovering from the adrenaline rush, took a moment to catch up. A meeting. About Oscar's scholarship. In person. Tomorrow morning. At the school.

Where that corridor was. Where that person had been.

A tiny, treacherous part of his mind whispered: Wear something nice. Just in case.

He ignored it firmly. "Tomorrow at ten works. I'll be there."

“Excellent. The office will send you a confirmation email with my office location. It was a pleasure speaking with you.”

“You too. Thanks for calling and for the reassurance.”

"That's my job." There was a smile in the voice, Pat could hear it. "See you tomorrow."

The line went dead.

Pat stood on the pavement for a long moment, phone still pressed to his ear, trying to remember how to breathe normally.

That voice, his mind supplied unhelpfully. That was a pleasing voice. He told his brain to be quiet.

But when he got home that evening, he spent an extra ten minutes in front of his wardrobe, trying to decide which shirt to wear tomorrow.

He told himself it was about creating a good impression for Oscar's sake.

He nearly believed it.

-----

The next morning was London's version of a perfect dry day, and Pat arrived at Broaderson Academy at quarter to ten, dressed in what he'd finally settled on as "professionally casual but not trying too hard." Dark jeans, a navy sweater, a jacket that looked good without appearing overthought.

He had only considered it for twenty minutes. That was acceptable.

The school looked different today. Less intimidating, somehow, though Pat couldn't say why. Maybe because he knew Oscar was somewhere inside these walls, happy, safe, and making friends. Maybe because the sun was actually trying to break through the clouds for once. Maybe because —

Stop it.

He followed the signs to the administrative wing, his footsteps echoing against the stone that had witnessed decades of students passing by. The corridors were quieter now, with classes presumably in session, and Pat found himself glancing down each intersecting corridor as he passed, half-looking for —

For what? A stranger with strawberry-blond hair? A scent that was probably just his imagination? Get a grip, Cummins.

He eventually discovered the office: a wooden door with a brass nameplate that read Mr B. Stokes – Physical Education. Pat's stomach flipped nervously. He raised his hand to knock, then hesitated.

Stokes. That was the name from the phone call, the voice with the honeyed drawl.

He knocked.

"Come in!"

Pat opened the door, and the smell hit him first.

Sharp. Almost sweet, but not overpowering. The same scent he'd recognised in the corridor three weeks ago, the one he'd convinced himself he'd imagined: Pomegranate.

And then he looked up.

The man behind the desk was rising to greet him, and Pat's mind immediately went blank.

It was him. The stranger from the corridor. The broad shoulders, confident stance, and hair that caught the light: everything was there, now up close, impossibly real. He wore a simple grey sweater today, with sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms that looked like they'd spent plenty of time outdoors. His jaw was even more defined in person, with that hint of beard Pat had glimpsed from a distance. And his eyes — they were warm, crinkling at the corners as he smiled, a smile that felt like an invitation before you’d spoken a word.

"Good morning!" The voice was exactly as Pat remembered from the phone: deep, unhurried, wrapping around each word like a sweetener. "You must be here for Oscar. Nice to see you. Please, come in."

Pat's feet moved. He wasn't entirely sure how. He was faintly aware of stepping into the office, of the door closing behind him, and of the scent of pomegranate filling his lungs with every breath.

The man — Ben Stokes, his memory finally cooperating — gestured towards a chair in front of his desk. "Please have a seat, Mr Piastri."

Pat blinked. "Cummins."

Ben paused, his nose wrinkling slightly in confusion. "Hm?"

They both moved towards their seats — Pat towards the chair, Ben back towards his own — and Pat lowered himself into the offered seat, trying to gather his scattered thoughts. “I'm Oscar's brother,” he explained. “His elder brother. We're adopted. I took our father's surname: Cummins. Oscar has our mother's surname, Piastri.”

Ben's eyes did something intriguing. They flickered for a brief moment to Pat's left hand, where it rested on the arm of the chair. Pat's ring finger. Empty.

Then they were back on Pat's face, warm and interested and somehow different than they'd been a moment ago. Softer, maybe. More present.

"I see," Ben said. He settled into his own chair, leaning back slightly and relaxing his posture. "Thank you for clarifying. And thank you for coming in on such short notice. Would you like some tea? Coffee?"

"I'm fine, thanks." Pat was not fine. Pat was very much not fine. But he smiled anyway, the way he'd learned to do in a thousand business meetings, and hoped it looked more professional than it felt.

Ben nodded, folding his hands on the desk. His sleeves were still pushed up, Pat noticed. Those forearms were very…

"So." Ben's voice cut through the fog. "Oscar."

Right. Oscar. That's the reason he was here.

"Is he alright?" Pat asked. "I know you said he wasn't in trouble, but —"

"He's more than okay." Ben's smile widened, and Pat felt something dangerous happen in his chest. "Oscar is exceptional, Mr Cummins. Truly. I'm his PE teacher, and I also help out with the racing simulations occasionally, so I've seen him in both environments. The boy is a natural. In cricket, his hand-eye coordination is extraordinary: I've watched him pick up deliveries that have older students completely flummoxed. And in the simulators..." Ben shook his head, almost wonderingly. "I've worked with students who've gone on to race professionally, and Oscar has instincts I've only seen in a handful of people. He just understands the machine. The line. The timing. It's remarkable."

Pat felt his cheeks flush with pride. "He's always been like that. Even as a boy, he'd just... focus on something until he understood it completely."

"That's exactly it." Ben leaned forward slightly, his eyes focused. "That determination. That dedication. It's rare, Mr Cummins. And that's why we need to have this conversation."

The shift in tone was subtle but unmistakable. Pat sat up straighter in his chair. "Go on."

"Oscar is on a sports scholarship, you know that. It's a joint scholarship, covering both cricket and motorsport. And that's been fine for his first year, while he's settling in and exploring both. But next year, when he moves into Form 11, the scholarship structure changes." Ben paused, choosing his words carefully. "To sustain his scholarship at this level, we need him to specialise. The school's resources — coaching, equipment, competition entry — are allocated per discipline. We can't continue to fund both at the elite level. So we need to know which pathway he wants to pursue. Cricket, or motorsport?"

Pat blinked. "That's... that's the urgent matter?"

Ben's mouth quirked. "I apologise for the alarm. The school's communication protocols are... not my strong suit. I should have made it clearer on the phone that this was a discussion, not a crisis."

Pat looked at him for a moment. Then, despite himself, he chuckled. It was a little hysterical, but sincere. “I spent the entire evening yesterday imagining every possible disaster," he admitted. "Injuries. Fights. Expulsion. I think I actually googled 'how to bail a minor out of a British boarding school' at one point.”

Ben's laugh was low and warm, filling the small office. "I'm so sorry. That's entirely my fault. I keep forgetting that 'urgent' means different things to different people. To the school administration, 'urgent' means 'we need a decision within the month.' To a parent —" He shook his head ruefully. "I'll do better next time."

"Please do." Pat was smiling now, the residual tension finally leaving his shoulders. "My heart can't take many more calls like that."

"I'll mark you down for 'gentle reminders only.'" Ben's eyes were dancing. "No more urgent anything."

They sat there for a moment, the absurdity lingering between them. Pat felt lighter than he had in hours. "May such problems befall every parent and guardian," he said finally. "A kid who's too talented to choose. That's not a bad position to be in."

Ben's expression changed, a warm and approving look flickering across his features. "That's a lovely way to put it. And you're right: it's a privilege to have this conversation, even if the paperwork makes it feel like a crisis." He paused, tilting his head slightly. "You've raised him well, Mr Cummins. Oscar is kind, focused, and respectful. That doesn't happen by accident."

Pat felt warmth crawl up the back of his neck. "I just... tried to give him what he needed. What he wanted. It wasn't — I mean, he did most of it himself."

“That's exactly what good guardians say.” Ben's smile was gentle. "Take the compliment. You've earned it."

The silence that followed felt unusual. Not awkward, exactly — more like both of them suddenly noticed something shifting in the air between them. Pat's eyes drifted to Ben's forearms again, then quickly moved away. Ben's gaze stayed a moment longer on Pat's face than strictly necessary.

Pat cleared his throat. "Can I — would it be possible to see Oscar? While I'm here? Just for a few minutes?"

“Certainly. I already rang him; he should be en route. I assumed you'd want to say hello.”

"Oh." Pat blinked. "That's — thank you. That's thoughtful."

Ben shrugged, smiling. "Part of the job. Making things easier for families."

There was another beat of silence. Pat's brain, finally catching up to the situation, offered a helpful observation: He said within the month. To make the decision. Which means —

"You have about a month, by the way," Ben said, as if reading his thoughts. "To discuss it with Oscar, to think it over. There's no pressure to decide today. We just need to hear from you by the end of reading week."

A month. Pat's heart made a silly little skip. That means I'll see him again next month. That means —

A knock sounded on the door.

"Come in," Ben called.

The door swung open, and Oscar stepped inside. He moved differently than he had three weeks ago; lighter somehow, with his shoulders less hunched and his gaze more direct. His eyes swept across the room, settled on Pat, and his entire face transformed.

"Pat?" The disbelief in his voice was quickly replaced by something else. His face lit up, a genuine smile spreading across his features, and Pat felt his heart swell.

"Hey, mate."

Oscar crossed the room in three strides and then stopped, suddenly awkward, as if unsure whether a hug was allowed in front of a teacher. Pat solved the problem by standing and pulling him into one anyway, a brief but firm one.

"You all right?" Pat murmured.

"Yeah." Oscar's voice was a little muffled against Pat's shoulder. "Yeah, I'm alright. What are you doing here?"

“Parent-teacher meeting. Apparently, you're too talented, and they want us to choose a side.”

Oscar pulled back, rolling his eyes, but he was still smiling. "That's what this is about? They made it sound so dramatic."

"Right?" Pat grinned. "Mr Stokes here has been warned about his communication style."

From behind them, Ben's voice came warm and amused. "I've been duly chastised. Multiple times now."

Oscar glanced at Ben, then back at Pat, a flicker of something passing in his eyes; too swift for Pat to catch. "Right. Well. I should probably head back to class then."

"I'll walk you partway." Pat turned to Ben and offered his hand. "Thank you, Mr Stokes. For everything. The update, the kindness. I appreciate it."

Ben's hand was warm and firm, his grip lingering just a fraction of a second longer than necessary. "Of course. And please — call me Ben. Mr Stokes makes me feel like I should be grading papers with a quill."

Pat chuckled. "Deal."

Ben released his hand and nodded towards the door. "I suppose I'll be seeing you again soon, Mr Cummins."

The way he said it — Mr Cummins, as if he was tasting the name — made something warm curl in Pat's chest.

"Pat," he corrected. "And yeah. Soon."

He followed Oscar out of the office, along the corridor, towards the staircase. Oscar was silent for a moment, then: “So.”

Pat looked at him. "So what?"

"That's my PE teacher."

"I'm aware."

Oscar's tone was deliberately neutral. "He seems nice."

"He does."

"Very... friendly."

Pat halted and turned to face his brother. "What are you doing?"

Oscar's face was the epitome of innocence. "Nothing. Just making observations."

"Oscar."

"I'm just saying." Oscar started walking again, and Pat fell into step beside him. "If you happen to come back next month for the follow-up meeting, and if you happen to dress nicely again, and if you happen to —"

"Osc."

“— take a particularly long time saying goodbye —"

"I will leave you here. In this corridor. Forever."

Oscar's mouth twisted. "You wouldn't."

“Try me.” But Pat was smiling, and Oscar was smiling, and when they parted ways at the staircase — Oscar heading to class, Pat heading back to the real world — Pat felt lighter than he had in weeks.

He walked back through the corridors, past the arched windows, past the spot where he'd first caught that pomegranate scent. He paused there briefly, smiling to himself.

Then he kept walking. But as he stepped out into the morning, one thought echoed in his mind, persistent and undeniable: I’m fucked. Completely, utterly fucked.

He got into the taxi. He gave the driver his address. The entire journey back to London was spent trying not to think about warm eyes, honeyed voices, and forearms that had no business being so distracting.

He failed.

And he couldn’t wait to do it again next month.