Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The first thing Lando Norris ever remembered was a pair of eyes.

Not his mum's face, though he was sure he must have seen it. Not the blue of his baby blanket, or the yellow of the sun streaming through the window, or the green of the grass in the garden. The very first thing his brain decided to keep forever was a pair of round, brown eyes staring right at him.

They were the colour of chocolate buttons, the kind his mum gave him when he was good at the supermarket, and they were looking at him like he was the most interesting thing in the whole world.

His mum, Cisca, loved telling the story.

Baby Lando had been loud. Very loud. He screamed when he was hungry, screamed when he was tired, screamed when he wanted something and couldn't have it. His little face would go red, his tiny fists would clench, and his mouth would open so wide Cisca swore she could see his tonsils.

He was, by all accounts, a lot.

Their neighbours, the Piastris, were lovely. Nicole had beautiful brunette hair just like her baby, and she always smelt like vanilla. She would have Cisca over for tea, and Cisca, desperate for five minutes of quiet, would bring little Lando along even though she knew he'd probably start screaming again.

One afternoon, when Lando was barely a year old and Oscar was about ten months, Lando had been working himself up into a proper scream.

His face was red, his whole body was stiff, and nothing Cisca did could calm him down. She was bouncing him, shushing him, offering him a teething ring, and he just kept going, his wails bouncing off the walls of the Piastris' cosy kitchen.

Nicole had simply smiled from where she sat on the sofa. She looked down at baby Oscar, who was sitting on a playmat surrounded by soft blocks, and said, "Let's try something."

She picked Oscar up—he was a solid, heavy baby with thighs that had three rolls each—and placed him right in front of Lando.

Lando stopped screaming.

Just like that. Mid-wail, his mouth still open, he stopped. His watery blue eyes, red-rimmed from crying, focused on the baby in front of him. His whole body went still.

Oscar blinked his big brown eyes, a tiny curious frown on his face.

A line of drool was making its way down his chin. He stared at Lando for a long moment, studying him the way babies do, and then he reached out a chubby hand with fingers like little sausages and patted Lando's cheek.

Lando made a noise that wasn't a cry and wasn't a laugh. It was soft and amazed, like he'd just discovered something wonderful. His little hand came up and grabbed Oscar's sleeve, and he held on.

From that day on, it was Cisca's secret weapon.

Whenever Lando started to get fussy in the car, she'd reach into her bag and pull out her phone. "Lando, look!" she'd say, showing him a photo of Oscar from the week before, sitting in his high chair with yogurt in his hair.

The tantrum would dissolve instantly.

Lando would grab the phone with both hands, his whole face going calm, a gummy smile spreading across his mouth. He'd stare at Oscar's photo for the entire drive, only looking up when they pulled into the Piastris' driveway.

--- ❀ ---

Now they were four years old, and nothing had changed.

Lando still thought Oscar Piastri had the best eyes in the whole entire world. They were big and brown and sometimes looked like chocolate, which was Lando's favourite thing to eat, and sometimes looked like the colour of tree bark, which was good for climbing.

When Oscar looked at him, Lando felt warm inside, like he'd just drunk hot chocolate with too many marshmallows.

Their back gardens faced each other, separated by a wooden fence that Lando had tried to climb exactly once.

He'd made it halfway up before his foot got stuck and he'd hung there, upside down, crying until his dad came to rescue him. After that, their dads built a little gate between the properties, a proper one with a latch that Lando could reach if he stood on his tiptoes.

He used it approximately a hundred times a day, according to his mum. He didn't know what approximately meant, but it sounded like a lot, and it probably was.

Today, they were in the digging zone.

That's what their mums called the patch of mud behind Lando's house where they were allowed to play with their trucks and diggers.

It was a messy square of dirt that used to be grass until Lando and Oscar had dug it all up. Their mums had given up trying to fix it and had just declared it the digging zone instead.

There were always worms in it, which Oscar liked to pick up and show Lando, and sometimes they found interesting rocks that they put in a bucket by the back door.

Lando stood guard at the edge of the mud patch, holding a stick that was almost as tall as he was.

It was a good stick—straight and strong, with a little curve at the top that made it look like a sword. He had found it yesterday on a walk with his dad and had carried it all the way home, dragging it behind him and making scratch marks on the pavement.

His job was very important. He had to protect Oscar while Oscar made the mountains.

There could be enemies at any time—squirrels, or next-door's cat, or, worst of all, Oscar's older sister Hattie, who sometimes came over and knocked over their piles on purpose.

Behind him, Oscar sat in the mud with his bright red plastic truck.

The truck had a yellow scoop on the front that really moved, and it was Oscar's favourite one. His cheeks were so round and chubby that Lando thought they looked like little apples, soft and pink, and sometimes when Oscar wasn't looking, Lando wanted to poke them just to see what they felt like.

Oscar was pushing dirt into a pile, his tongue sticking out the side of his mouth because he was concentrating very hard. His dark curls were flopping over his forehead, and there was a smudge of mud on his chin that he didn't know about.

"Lando!" Oscar called out. "Look!"

Lando spun around so fast he nearly tripped over his own feet. He dropped his stick—the enemies could wait—and ran over to Oscar, his wellies making squelching noises in the mud.

Oscar had made a mountain. It was a very big pile of dirt, almost as tall as Oscar's knee, and he had put a little stick on top like a flag. A feather was sticking out of the top too, probably from one of the birds in the garden.

"That's the best mountain ever!" Lando said, his eyes going wide. He plopped down next to Oscar, not caring that his Spider-Man wellies were getting mud all over them. "It's so big!"

Oscar beamed, his whole face lighting up. "I put a feather on it. For decoration."

"Decoration," Lando repeated, liking the sound of the word. "Can I help make the next one?"

Oscar nodded, his curls bouncing. "We can make a really really big one. Like, all the way up to the sky."

"To the moon?" Lando asked, tilting his head back to look up at the clouds.

"To the moon," Oscar agreed seriously. "We need more dirt though."

They worked together for the next twenty minutes, pushing dirt with their hands and their trucks, scooping and dumping and patting it down. Lando's job was to scoop the dirt into Oscar's truck with a plastic spade that had a blue handle, and Oscar's job was to push the truck to the pile and dump it out.

They worked very slowly because they were four and kept getting distracted by worms and interesting rocks and a ladybug that landed on Oscar's hand.

"This is a good mountain," Lando said when they were done, wiping his hands on his shorts and making them even muddier.

It was not very big, and it looked more like a lumpy pancake than a mountain, but Lando thought it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever made. Mostly because he'd made it with Oscar.

Oscar nodded, and then he wiped his hand across his forehead to push his curls out of his eyes, leaving a long streak of mud right across his forehead. "We made it together."

Lando liked that word. Together.

That was probably his favourite word in the whole world, even better than "biscuit" and "Lego." Because everything was better when Oscar was there.

Sandwiches tasted better when they ate them sitting side by side on the steps. Biscuits were crunchier when they shared them. Even going to the doctor wasn't as scary when Oscar sat in the waiting room chair next to him, holding his hand.

--- ❀ ---

Later, they sat on Lando's back steps while Cisca knelt in front of them with a wet cloth. She made a lot of "tsk tsk" noises as she wiped the mud off their faces, but she was smiling, her eyes crinkling at the corners.

"You two are a handful," she said, but she said it like it was a good thing, like being a handful was something to be proud of.

Oscar's mum, Nicole, came through the gate with a plate of biscuits. They were digestives, the plain round ones that Lando normally thought were boring, but Nicole had spread jam on them—strawberry jam, Lando's favourite—and suddenly they were the best biscuits in the world.

"Who wants a snack?" Nicole asked, her voice warm.

"Me!" Lando shouted, raising his hand so high he almost fell off the step. His muddy wellies kicked out in front of him.

Oscar raised his hand too, but quieter. "Me, please."

They got two biscuits each, and they sat on the steps, their shoulders pressed together because the step was only big enough for one person really but they always squished together anyway.

They ate their biscuits and watched the clouds drift slowly across the sky, big and fluffy and white like the marshmallows in hot chocolate.

"That one looks like a dinosaur," Lando said, pointing with his biscuit. A blob of jam dripped onto his knee but he didn't notice.

Oscar squinted up at the sky, his face scrunching up the way it did when he was thinking hard. "I think it looks like a car. A racing car."

Lando looked again. He tilted his head to the side, then the other side. "It could be a dinosaur car," he decided. "A dinosaur that drives a car. That would be so cool."

Oscar thought about this for a moment, his jammy biscuit held forgotten in his hand. "Would the dinosaur be driving, or would someone be driving the dinosaur?"

Lando had to think about that. He chewed his biscuit slowly, considering. "Both," he said finally. "The dinosaur drives the car, and also someone is sitting on the dinosaur telling it where to go. So there are two drivers."

"That's silly," Oscar said, but he was smiling, his brown eyes crinkling up the way Lando liked.

Lando grinned, his teeth sticky with jam.

He liked making Oscar smile. Oscar had a very nice smile. It made his whole face change, made his eyes go all sparkly, and Lando thought that was the best thing in the whole world.

Even better than biscuits. Even better than Lego.

--- ❀ ---

The first time Lando felt sad about something, really properly sad, he was four and a half.

It was a Tuesday, which was already a bad start because Tuesdays were the longest day at school.

He was sitting at his little desk, the one with his name tag stuck on the front in wobbly letters, and his teacher had put a worksheet in front of him. It had letters on it—big ones, little ones, all in a row—and she wanted him to trace them.

Everyone else was doing it. He could hear the scratch-scratch of their pencils, the quiet hum of concentration. But Lando just stared at his page.

The letters looked wrong.

He knew what an 'a' was supposed to look like—his mum had a magnet on the fridge that said 'LANDO' in colourful letters—but the one on his paper had a line that went the wrong way. The 'b' looked like a 'd', or maybe the 'd' looked like a 'b', and when he tried to follow the dotted lines with his pencil, his hand made the shape backwards.

"Lando, you need to try," his teacher said, coming to stand behind him. She sounded tired, the way his mum sounded at the end of a long day.

He tried.

He pressed his pencil down and tried to make the letters, but they came out messy and wobbly and not right at all. The 'L' he made looked like a bent stick. The 'A' had a roof that didn't close. A boy at the desk behind him leaned forward to look and then giggled.

When he got home, he didn't want to play in the mud. He didn't want a biscuit. He didn't even want to go through the gate to Oscar's house.

He went straight to his room, climbed onto his bed, and wrapped his arms around his knees. He pressed his face into his knees and just sat there, feeling like there was a rock in his tummy and a cloud in his head.

He didn't know why the letters wouldn't stay still. He didn't know why they looked different on his paper than they did in his head. He just knew that he was doing it wrong, and everyone else was doing it right, and it wasn't fair.

There was a soft knock on his door. Then it opened, just a crack, and Oscar's curly head poked through.

"Lando?"

Lando didn't look up. He kept his face pressed to his knees.

He heard Oscar's footsteps, and then he heard something else. A flashing light, red and green and yellow, flickering on his bedroom floor. He looked up despite himself.

Oscar was wearing new shoes.

They were bright blue, the brightest blue Lando had ever seen, like the sky on a summer day. And when Oscar took a step, lights flashed in the soles. Red, green, yellow, then red again, blinking with every little movement.

"Your shoes light up," Lando said quietly.

Oscar looked down at his feet, then back up at Lando. He did a little stomp, just to make the lights flash again. "Mum got them for me yesterday. They're light-up runners."

He walked a few more steps, watching the lights, his head tilted. Then he looked at Lando, and his smile faded. His face got serious, the way it did when he was trying to figure something out.

"Why are you sad?"

Lando shrugged. He didn't want to say it out loud. Saying it out loud would make it real.

Oscar didn't push. He just came and sat on the bed next to Lando, the mattress dipping with his weight. Lando noticed he was holding a book—one of the thin ones with the glossy cover, the kind they had at school for learning to read. The cover had a picture of a dog wearing a red hat.

"I brought this," Oscar said, holding up the book. "My teacher gave it to me today."

"I can't read it," Lando mumbled into his knees.

"That's okay." Oscar said it like it was nothing, like not being able to read was no different from not being able to reach the top shelf or tie your shoelaces yet. "I can read it to you."

Lando lifted his head.

His eyes were hot and his nose was running, and he wiped it with the back of his hand. "The letters at school," he said, his voice coming out wobbly. "They don't look right. Everyone else can do them, but I can't. I tried, but I couldn't."

Oscar listened, his brown eyes fixed on Lando's face. He didn't say anything for a moment, just let Lando talk.

"My teacher said I wasn't doing it right," Lando continued, the words tumbling out now. "And Lance behind me laughed. He laughed at my letters."

Oscar's face did something then. His eyebrows pulled together, and his mouth got tight. It was the same look he got when Hattie knocked over their mountains, times about a hundred.

"Lance is mean," Oscar said firmly. "Your letters are good."

"They're not," Lando whispered. "They're all wrong."

Oscar opened his book, the pages making a soft whisper sound. He put it on the bed between them, his small finger pointing to the first word. "This says 'The,'" he said. "It's a tricky word. You just have to know it. My teacher said so."

He looked at Lando, waiting.

Lando sniffled. "Okay."

Oscar's finger moved to the next word. "This says 'dog.' D-O-G. Dog."

"D-O-G," Lando repeated, looking at the letters. They looked like they were supposed to, he thought. The D looked like a D, not a B. Maybe it was easier when Oscar was there.

"See?" Oscar said. "You can do it."

And then Oscar started reading.

His voice was slow, and sometimes he got stuck on a longer word, his finger tapping it while he sounded it out.

"P-p-p... p-l-a-n-e-t... planet," he'd say, and then keep going. Lando leaned against him, their shoulders pressing together the way they did on the step, watching the pictures and listening to Oscar's voice. When Oscar's foot swung, the shoes lit up, flashing colours on the floor, and Lando watched them while Oscar read.

When the book was finished, Oscar closed it and looked at Lando. "Do you feel better?"

Lando thought about it. The rock in his tummy was smaller. The cloud in his head had floated away. "A little," he said.

Oscar nodded seriously. He put the book on Lando's bedside table, right next to his lamp shaped like a race car. Then he looked at Lando with the most serious face Lando had ever seen, his brown eyes big and steady.

"You don't have to worry about the letters," Oscar said. "I'll read you every book. Every book on every planet."

Lando blinked. "Every planet?"

Oscar nodded, his hair bouncing. "Every single one. There's lots, my teacher said. Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune. And Pluto, but it's small."

Lando didn't know what most of those words meant, but he liked the sound of them. They sounded like adventures.

"What about the planets far away?" he asked.

"I'll go there," Oscar said, like it was obvious. "And I'll bring the books. And I'll read them to you."

"You promise?"

Oscar held up his pinky. It was small and a little bit sticky from something, but Lando wrapped his own pinky around it anyway. They shook on it, the way they'd seen their dads do when they made deals about the lawnmower or the barbecue.

"Pinky promise," Oscar said.

Lando felt something warm spread through his chest. The rock was gone. "Okay," he said. "I'm not sad anymore."

Oscar smiled, his whole face lighting up, and Lando smiled back.

"Can we go to the digging zone now?" Oscar asked. "I want to make a really big mountain. The biggest one ever."

"Okay," Lando said. He slid off the bed and put his hand out to help Oscar down, even though Oscar didn't need help. Oscar took his hand anyway.

They ran through the house together, their footsteps loud on the floor, their hands swinging between them. Lando's mum called something about putting on their wellies, but they were already out the back door, the gate swinging behind them.

They didn't make the biggest mountain ever that afternoon. They got distracted by a worm, then by a game of tag, then by Lando's dad coming out with ice lollies that stained their mouths bright red. They sat on the grass, their wellies covered in mud, eating their ice lollies and watching the sun get lower in the sky.

But that night, when Lando's mum tucked him in, he had a question.

"Mum," he said, pulling his duvet up to his chin. "How do you get to be an astronaut?"

Cisca paused, her hand on the light switch. "An astronaut, sweetheart?"

"We need to go to the planets," Lando explained, his voice getting sleepier. "Me and Oscar. He's going to read me all the books, so we have to go to all the planets. To Mercury and the other ones."

Cisca came back to the bed, sitting on the edge. She brushed his hair back from his forehead, her fingers gentle. "Well," she said slowly, "you have to work very hard. And you have to learn lots of things. Maths and science and... reading."

Lando nodded, his eyes already half closed. "I'll learn the letters. The right way. So I can help Oscar read the books."

"That sounds like a very good plan," Cisca said softly. She leaned down and kissed his forehead. "Goodnight, my love."

"Night, Mum."

She turned off the light, and Lando lay there in the dark, listening to the quiet sounds of the house. Somewhere outside his window, he could see a star, small and bright in the dark blue sky.

He thought about being an astronaut. He thought about going to the planets with Oscar. They would wear the big white suits and float in space, and Oscar would read him books, and they would eat biscuits that floated too. It was going to be the best thing ever.

He fell asleep with a smile on his face, dreaming of rockets and stars and a pair of brown eyes looking at him from across a galaxy.

The next morning, Lando woke up and the first thing he did was put on his wellies—inside out, because he was in a hurry—and run to the gate. He pushed it open, the latch clicking, and ran across the grass to Oscar's back door. He knocked, loud and impatient, bouncing on his heels.

The door opened, and Oscar stood there in his rocket pyjamas, his hair sticking up in twelve different directions. He was rubbing his eyes with his fists, blinking in the morning light.

"Lando?" His voice was croaky from sleep. "It's early."

"I know," Lando said, already pushing past him into the kitchen. "But we have to start."

"Start what?"

Lando turned around, holding up the book he'd grabbed from his room on the way out. It was the same one Oscar had read to him yesterday, with the dog in the hat. "Practising. For the planets. You read to me, and I'll try to look at the letters. So when we go to all the planets, I can help read too."

Oscar stared at him for a long moment, his eyes still half closed. Then a smile spread across his face, slow and sleepy, and Lando's tummy did that warm thing again.

"Okay," Oscar said. He yawned, covering his mouth with his hand. "But we need biscuits first."

"Biscuits?" Lando's eyes went wide.

"Astronauts need breakfast," Oscar said matter-of-factly. "My mum says so. You can't go to space on an empty tummy."

That made sense. That was very smart. Lando nodded seriously. "Okay. Biscuits first. Then reading. Then we make a mountain?"

Oscar nodded, already opening the biscuit tin on the counter. "A really big one. The biggest."

They sat on the kitchen floor, their backs against the cupboards, eating digestives and looking at the book. Oscar read the words, his finger following along, and Lando pointed at the letters, trying to remember what they were called.

He got some of them wrong—he called a 'b' a 'd' twice, and he couldn't remember what 'e' was called even though Oscar had told him three times—but Oscar didn't laugh. He just said the letter again, slow, and let Lando try again.

"You'll get it," Oscar said, his voice sure. "We have lots of time."

Lando looked at his best friend, sitting on the kitchen floor in his rocket pyjamas with a biscuit in his hand and messy hair, and he believed him.

They had all the planets to visit. They had all the time in the world.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔⋆࿔.ೃ⋆°❀

The first thing Oscar Piastri ever cried about was Lando Norris.

Not because Lando had done anything. Lando hadn't stolen his cookie or kicked his mountain or done any of the things that usually made Oscar cry.

No, the first time Oscar Piastri ever cried—really cried, with tears and hiccups and a runny nose and his whole face going red—was when Cisca Norris came to visit his mum, and she came alone.

He was a baby, too small to remember it himself, but his mum told the story all the time. How Cisca had knocked on the door without baby Lando because Lando was napping and she wanted a hot cup of tea without having to bounce a baby on her knee.

How Oscar had been sitting on the living room floor, stacking his wooden blocks into a tower—he was very good at towers, even then, his blocks always straight and careful—when he looked up and saw only Cisca standing there.

Nicole said Oscar's face had gone through about five different expressions in three seconds.

First, his little forehead had crinkled, like he was trying to remember something. Then his eyes had gone wide, looking behind Cisca at the empty doorstep. Then his eyebrows had pulled together, confused. Then his bottom lip had started to stick out. And then—devastation. Pure, absolute devastation.

His bottom lip had wobbled, that tiny tremble that babies do right before they lose it.

His little eyebrows had pulled together so tight they almost touched. And then he'd let out a wail so loud and so sad that Nicole said she almost started crying too. It wasn't a hungry cry or a tired cry or a wet-nappy cry. It was a heartbroken cry, the kind that made you want to pick them up and never put them down.

He'd crawled as fast as his baby legs could carry him, his little knees thumping on the carpet, straight to the front door. He'd looked past Cisca, his head turning left and right, searching, searching—and when he didn't find Lando, when he realised that the doorstep was empty and there was no pram and no baby and no Lando, he'd sat there on the doormat and sobbed. Big, fat tears rolling down his round cheeks, his whole body shaking with the force of his crying.

Cisca had laughed—not meanly, just surprised—and picked him up, and Oscar had grabbed onto her shirt with both fists, his little fingers holding on so tight his knuckles went white, and he'd cried for a full seven minutes until she promised to bring Lando over as soon as he woke up.

"The betrayal on his little face," Nicole always said, shaking her head and laughing. "You'd think we'd told him there was no such thing as biscuits."

Oscar, at five years old, didn't remember crying about baby Lando. But he knew it was true, because even now, everything was better when Lando was there.

Sandwiches tasted better. Biscuits were crunchier. Even the boring parts of the day, like waiting for dinner or brushing his teeth, were better if Lando was doing them too.

--- ❀ ---

Now they were five, and Oscar had a big idea.

It happened at school, during story time. Their teacher, Mr. Stella, had brought out a big book about a bear who lost his hat. It was a funny book—the bear asked everyone if they'd seen his hat, and he was very serious about it, and at the end he got it back.

Oscar sat on the carpet with everyone else, his legs crossed the way Mr. Stella taught them, but he wasn't really listening. He was looking at the bookshelf against the wall.

It was so tall. Taller than his dad, probably. Taller than the door.

It was made of wood that was a bit scratched at the bottom where kids had kicked it by accident, and it had five shelves, each one packed with books. Books with shiny covers and books with crinkly covers. Books with pictures of dogs and cats and dinosaurs and rockets. Books with gold letters and books with bumpy letters you could trace with your finger. So many books. All of them had words inside. Words that told you what was happening. Words that could take you to places you'd never been.

Mr. Stella finished the bear story and closed the book with a soft thump. "Who knows what we call the person who takes care of all the books?" he asked, looking around the circle.

A girl in the front row put up her hand. She was wearing a pink hairband and her pigtails bounced when she moved. "A librarian!"

"That's right," Mr. Stella said, nodding. "A librarian. They look after all the books in the library. They know where every single book is. Every single one."

Oscar's hand shot up so fast his arm almost hurt. "Do they get to read them?"

Mr. Stella smiled. It was a crinkly smile, the kind that made his eyes go all soft. "They can read as many as they want. That's one of the best parts of the job."

Oscar put his hand down slowly. His brain was thinking very fast. Faster than it had ever thought before.

A librarian. Someone who had all the books. Someone who knew where they all were. Someone who could read as many as they wanted.

That was what he wanted to be.

Because if he was a librarian, he could find Lando all the books. Every book. Like he promised that day on Lando's bed, when Lando was sad about the letters. Librarians had all the books. That was the whole point. Right?

He wiggled on the carpet for the rest of story time, his bottom shuffling back and forth, too excited to sit still. He barely heard the second story. He barely heard the instructions for their drawing activity. All he could think about was the bookshelf and the books and Lando.

When the bell rang for playtime, he jumped up so fast his legs nearly tangled together, and he ran straight to Lando's desk. Lando was drawing, his pencil scratching on the paper, his tongue poking out the side of his mouth the way it did when he was concentrating.

"Lando!" Oscar grabbed his arm and tugged. "I know what I'm going to be!"

Lando looked up. His pencil was still in his hand, and there was a smudge of pencil grey on his cheek where he'd rubbed it. He was drawing a cat. The cat had very long legs and was driving a car. Or maybe the cat was the car. It was hard to tell. Lando's drawings were always like that—very fast and very wobbly and very Lando.

"What?" Lando asked.

"A librarian," Oscar said. He was so excited his voice came out louder than he meant it to. "I'm going to be a librarian!"

Lando put his pencil down. His forehead did a little scrunch. "What's that?"

Oscar took a big breath. He wanted to explain it right. "It's someone who has all the books. All of them. Every single book in the whole world. They know where they all are. And they get to read them. As many as they want."

Lando's mouth dropped open. "All the books?"

"All of them," Oscar said. He nodded so hard his hair bounced. "And I'm going to read them to you. Every single one. So you don't have to worry about the letters because I'll do that part."

Lando stared at him for a moment. His eyes were very blue in the morning light coming through the window. Then his whole face broke into a smile, so big and so bright that his cheeks pushed up into his eyes.

"All of them? Every single book?"

"Every single one," Oscar said again. "I promised, remember? Every book on every planet."

Lando grabbed Oscar's hand and squeezed it. His fingers were sticky with something—probably glue from the art table—but Oscar didn't mind. "That's the best job ever! I'm going to be an astronaut, remember? So I can go to the planets with you."

Oscar nodded. He'd remembered. He always remembered everything about Lando. "You can be my helper."

"Helper?" Lando tilted his head.

"Yeah. Like, you help me find the books. Because you're going to be an astronaut, so you can fly to all the planets and find the books there and bring them back to me and I'll read them."

Lando thought about this for a moment. His face did the scrunchy thinking face he always did, his nose wrinkling up. "Okay. I'll be your helper. But I still get to be an astronaut."

"You can be both," Oscar decided. "Astronaut librarian helper."

Lando grinned. "Astronaut librarian helper," he repeated, like he was tasting the words. "That's a long name."

"It's a good name," Oscar said.

They shook on it, right there in the classroom, while the other kids ran past them to the playground.

Pinky promise. The strongest kind.

Oscar hooked his pinky around Lando's and they shook once, twice, three times, the way they always did.

Oscar felt warm all over. Warm like hot chocolate on a cold day. Warm like sitting too close to the radiator. They had a plan. A real plan. For when they were grown-ups.

--- ❀ ---

That afternoon, Oscar went home and found his mum in the kitchen. She was standing at the stove, stirring something in a big pot. The kitchen smelled like tomatoes and onions, and there was flour on the counter from something she'd been baking earlier.

"Mum," Oscar said, tugging on her sleeve. "I need to practise."

"Practise what, sweetheart?" Nicole asked. She didn't stop stirring, but she looked down at him with a smile.

"Being a librarian," Oscar said. "I need to read books to Lando. That's what librarians do."

Nicole stopped stirring. She put the spoon down on the spoon rest—the one shaped like a cat that Oscar had made her for Mother's Day—and turned to face him properly.

"That's a very good idea," she said. She had her soft voice on, the one she used when Oscar said something that made her happy. "But we don't have any new books right now."

Oscar's face went droopy. His shoulders sagged. "We don't?"

"We've read all the ones on your shelf lots of times," Nicole said. She reached out and tucked a curl behind his ear. "The frog book, the bear book, the train book..."

Oscar knew she was right. They'd read them all. Over and over until he knew some of them by heart. But he needed new ones. New ones for Lando.

Then Nicole's face changed. It got thinky, the way it did when she was trying to remember something. "But I saw a sign," she said slowly. "There's a book fair in the town square. Every evening after work. Maybe your dad can bring something home tomorrow."

Oscar's eyes went so wide he thought they might fall out. "A book fair?"

"With new books," Nicole said. "Ones we've never seen before."

Oscar spent the rest of the evening bouncing.

He bounced on the sofa. He bounced on his bed. He bounced all the way to the dinner table and Hattie told him to sit down because he was making her dizzy. He told her about the book fair anyway, even though she said "go away" three times. He told his dad when he got home from work, talking so fast his words got stuck together and came out all jumbled. He told Geoffrey, his stuffed koala, who sat on his pillow and listened without interrupting.

When his dad left for work the next morning, Oscar stood at the front door in his pyjamas, his feet bare on the cold floor, and yelled after him. "Don't forget the books! New ones! From the fair!"

His dad turned around at the gate and laughed. His laugh was big and warm and it carried across the garden. "I won't forget, mate. I promise."

--- ❀ ---

The book fair was in the town square, which was a twenty-minute walk from the company where his dad worked.

It had tables and tables of books, all different colours and sizes, some standing up and some lying flat. There were lights strung between the trees, little white ones that twinkled like stars, and there was a man playing guitar somewhere, music drifting through the air.

Oscar's dad went there after work, just like he'd promised, and when he came home he was carrying a bag. A paper bag with handles, the kind that crinkled when you touched it.

Oscar met him at the door, bouncing on his toes so fast he thought he might float away. "Did you get them? Did you get them?"

"I got them," his dad said, and he knelt down so he was at Oscar's level. He reached into the bag slowly, making Oscar wait, and pulled out the first book.

It was about a frog and a koala. The frog was green and shiny on the cover, and the koala was grey and fluffy-looking, and they were sitting on a rock together looking at a butterfly. The title was written in bumpy gold letters that Oscar traced with his finger.

The second book was about a a little boy who built a rocket ship out of cardboard boxes and flew to the moon. The rocket was painted red and had a flag on top. The boy was on the rocket and waving out the window to his rabbit bestfriend.

The third book was about rabbit who went on a treasure hunt.The rabbit had a map and a little backpack and a determined look on his fluffy face.

Oscar held each book very carefully, like they were made of glass. He opened them one by one, turning the pages slowly, smelling that new book smell that his mum said was the best smell in the world. He ran his fingers over the pictures, over the words, over the shiny bits on the cover.

"These are the best books ever," he breathed. "Lando is going to love them."

"Are they for Lando?" his dad asked, raising an eyebrow.

Oscar nodded, clutching the books to his chest so hard the edges pressed into his skin. "I'm going to read them to him. All of them. I'm going to be a librarian and read him all the books, and he's going to be an astronaut helper and we're going to go to all the planets together."

His dad looked at his mum, who had come to stand in the doorway. They did that thing where they smiled at each other without saying anything, the thing that grown-ups did when they thought something was cute.

"That sounds like a very good plan," his dad said finally.

"It's the best plan," Oscar said. And he meant it.

The next day after school, Oscar took the three new books and marched straight to Lando's house. He went through the gate, the latch clicking behind him, and across the grass to the back door. He could see through the kitchen window that Cisca was making tea, but he went around to the front and knocked anyway, because that was the proper way.

Cisca opened the door. She looked tired, Oscar thought. The way his mum looked when she hadn't slept well.

"Hello, Oscar," she said, but her smile was different today. Smaller. "Lando's in the living room."

Oscar walked in, his new books tucked under his arm. He found Lando on the sofa, sitting with his legs tucked under him, his hands in his lap. His eyes were a little red, like he'd been crying or rubbing them a lot. He was wearing his favourite jumper, the blue one with the race cars on it, and his hair was sticking up in the back where he'd been leaning against something.

Oscar's tummy did a worried squeeze. He climbed onto the sofa next to Lando, the cushion dipping under his weight. "What's wrong?" he asked.

Cisca came and stood in the doorway. She had her tea in her hands, the mug with the flowers on it. "Lando went to see someone today," she said. Her voice was soft. "A lady who helps with the letters. It was his first time, and it made him tired."

Lando didn't say anything. He was looking at his knees, at the race cars on his jumper.

Oscar looked at Lando's face, at the red around his eyes, at the way his shoulders were all hunched up. He wanted to make it better. He wanted to make the tired go away. He wanted to make everything better.

He pulled out the frog and koala book and held it up. "I brought new books," he said. "From the fair. My dad got them."

Lando looked up. His eyes went to the book, to the green frog and the grey koala on the cover. "New ones?"

"Brand new," Oscar said. He put the book on Lando's lap, letting him hold it. "This one is about friends. They don't know each other at first, but then they do. Like us."

Lando looked at the cover for a long moment. Then he looked at Oscar. "Can you read it to me?"

Oscar took the book back and opened it to the first page. The pages were crisp and new, making that nice sound when they turned. "I'm a librarian," he said, because that was important to say. "That's what I do."

He started reading. His voice was slow and careful. Some of the words were tricky—"friendship" was a long one, and "together" had a lot of letters—but he sounded them out, saying them over and over until they came out right. Lando leaned against him, his head on Oscar's shoulder, his hair tickling Oscar's neck.

"The frog lived in a pond," Oscar read. "The water was green and the reeds were tall. The frog liked to sit on his rock and watch the water go by."

Lando made a small sound, something soft and happy. Oscar kept reading.

He read the whole frog and koala book. Then he read the rocket ship book. Then he started the rabbit treasure hunt book. He was halfway through, reading about the rabbit counting down the coins—one, two, three—when he noticed that Lando's head was heavier on his shoulder. That his breathing had changed.

Oscar stopped reading and looked. Lando's eyes were closed. His mouth was open a little bit, the way it did when he was sleeping. His hands were limp in his lap, and his whole body was soft and relaxed against Oscar's side.

He was asleep.

Oscar sat very still. He looked at the book in his hands, at the picture of the rabbit near the treasure chest. Lando couldn't hear him anymore. Lando was sleeping.

He kept reading anyway.

He read quieter this time, so quiet it was almost a whisper, his lips barely moving. He read about the rabbit finding the treasure chest. He read about the rabbit still being sad, looking for his bestfriend turtle. He read about the rabbit finally finding his bestfriend, both of them sharing the coins.

He didn't know why he kept reading. Lando wasn't listening. Lando was asleep on his shoulder, his breath warm through Oscar's t-shirt.

But he kept reading anyway. Because that was the promise. Because librarians read books, even when the person was sleeping. Because maybe Lando could hear him in his dreams.

When he finished the book, he closed it and sat there. Lando was still asleep, his cheek pressed against Oscar's shoulder, his hair all messy. Cisca came in at some point—Oscar didn't know how long he'd been sitting there—and she put a blanket over them. She smiled, her hand over her heart, and she didn't say anything. She just went back to the kitchen.

Oscar sat there for a long time, not moving, not wanting to wake Lando up. He looked at the three books on the coffee table, their covers bright and new. He looked at Lando's face, peaceful and soft in sleep. He looked at the way Lando's fingers had curled into the edge of Oscar's jumper, holding on even in his sleep.

He didn't know the words for how he felt. His teacher said he was smart, said he was good at reading, said he was ahead of the other kids. But there wasn't a word in any of his books for sitting on a sofa with your best friend asleep on your shoulder and three finished books in front of you.

It was just a good feeling. A really really good feeling. The best feeling.

He wanted to do this forever. Read books to Lando until they were old. Until they'd been to every planet. Until there were no more books left.

And if there were no more books left, he would make new ones. Just for Lando.

--- ❀ ---

A few days later, Oscar's dad came home without a bag.

Oscar heard the door open and came running from his room, his feet slapping on the floor. He got to the hallway just as his dad was taking off his coat. There was no bag. No crinkly paper bag with handles. No new books.

"Where are the books?" Oscar asked. He could hear his own voice coming out too high.

His dad turned around. He had a sorry face on, the kind he made when he had bad news. "I'm sorry, mate. The book fair is gone. Packed up and moved on to the next town this morning."

Oscar's face went scrunchy.

He didn't mean to cry. He was five years old. Five-year-olds didn't cry about books. But his eyes got hot and his throat got tight and then the tears were coming, rolling down his cheeks before he could stop them. His nose started running. His chest got all tight and wrong.

"I wanted a new book," he said, but his voice came out all wobbly and cracked in the middle. "I need a new book for Lando. I promised I'd read him all the books and now I don't have a new one and—"

He couldn't finish because he was crying too hard. The hiccupy kind of crying, the kind that made his whole body shake. His shoulders were going up and down and he couldn't make them stop.

His mum came running from the kitchen, her hands still wet from washing up. His dad knelt down in front of him, his big hands on Oscar's shoulders.

"Oscar, it's okay," his dad said. His voice was gentle. "We can get books from the library. Or we can order some online. It's okay, mate."

But Oscar couldn't stop.

This was the fourth time he'd cried in his whole life. The first time was when Cisca came without Lando. The second time was when Hattie stole his cookie, the one with the pink icing that he'd been saving for last. The third time was when Hattie kicked over his mountain in the digging zone, the one he and Lando had spent all afternoon making.

And now this. Because he couldn't get Lando a new book.

He was still crying, his face all wet, his nose running, when he heard the gate click.

Lando appeared at the back door, his wellies on the wrong feet like always. His hair was messy and his jumper was inside out and there was a jam stain on his cheek. His face was all worried, his eyebrows pulled together.

"Oscar?" he said. "What's wrong?"

Oscar tried to answer but his voice was all choked up. He pointed at his dad's empty hands. He pointed at the door where the book bag usually was. He tried to say "no new books" but it came out as a sort of wail.

Lando looked at Oscar's dad. Then at Oscar's mum. Then at Oscar.

Then he walked over and took Oscar's hand.

Oscar's hand was wet with tears and probably snot, but Lando didn't seem to care. He just held it, his fingers wrapping around Oscar's.

"It's okay," Lando said. His voice was soft. "You don't need a new book."

Oscar sniffled. It was a loud sniffle, the kind that made your whole nose move. "But I promised—I promised I'd read you all the books—"

"You don't need new ones," Lando said. He squeezed Oscar's hand. His fingers were sticky. Probably jam. "I like the old ones."

Oscar wiped his nose on his sleeve. "You do?"

"Yeah. I like the frog one." Lando shrugged. "I don't need new books. I just need you to read."

Oscar stared at him. His crying had stopped, but his face was still wet and his nose was still runny and his eyes probably looked like a tomato. "You don't want new books?"

Lando shook his head. His messy hair flopped around. "I want you to read. I don't care which book. I just like when you read."

"But—" Oscar sniffled again. "But I was supposed to find you all the books. That's what librarians do."

"You're my librarian," Lando said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "You can read me the frog book again. That's my favourite."

Oscar thought about this. Lando was right. Lando was always right about the important things. The frog book was good. The frog book had the koala and the butterfly and the hug at the end. They'd read it lots of times already, but Lando still liked it.

"Okay," Oscar said. His voice was still a bit wobbly, but the crying was gone. "We can read the frog book again."

Lando smiled. It was a big smile, the kind that made his whole face light up. "Can we read it now?"

Oscar nodded. He let Lando pull him by the hand, through the kitchen and up the stairs to Oscar's room. His feet felt heavier than usual, and his face still felt tight from crying, but Lando was holding his hand and that made everything better.

Oscar's room was messy, like always. His duvet was on the floor. There were crayons on his desk and socks on his lamp and a half-eaten apple on his windowsill. But his bookshelf was tidy—Oscar had made sure of that, had organised them by colour last week when Lando couldn't find the bear book.

Oscar sat on the bed. Lando went to the shelf and ran his fingers along the spines, the way he always did when he was looking for something. He pulled out the frog and koala book and brought it over, climbing onto the bed next to Oscar.

Oscar took the book. The cover was a bit worn now, the edges soft from being held so much. The corners were slightly bent where Lando had dropped it once. But the frog was still green and the koala was still grey and the butterfly was still purple and yellow.

He opened it to the first page. His eyes were still a bit puffy and his nose was still a bit runny, but Lando was next to him with their shoulders squished together and that was all that mattered.

"The frog lived in a pond," Oscar read. "The water was green and the reeds were tall."

Lando pointed at the picture. "That's the frog's rock. He sits on it."

"He sits on it," Oscar agreed. He kept reading. Lando leaned against him, the same way he had on the sofa, his head on Oscar's shoulder.

They read the whole book. When they got to the part where the frog and the koala hugged, Lando's hand came up and pointed at the picture.

"They're hugging," Lando said.

Oscar looked at the picture. The frog and the koala had their arms wrapped around each other. They were both smiling. "Yeah."

"It's a good hug," Lando said.

Oscar nodded. "Do you want me to read it again?"

Lando nodded. "Again."

Oscar turned back to the first page. He read the whole thing again, and then again, and then they read the rocket book and the rabbit book too. By the time Oscar's mum came to get him for dinner, they'd read all three books two times each.

At the gate, Oscar stopped. The streetlights were starting to come on, making orange pools on the pavement. Lando was on the other side, his hand on the latch.

"Tomorrow too?" Oscar asked.

Lando nodded. "Tomorrow."

"I don't have new books," Oscar said. The words came out small.

Lando shrugged. "That's okay. Bring the frog one."

"You don't want a new one?"

"I want you to read," Lando said. He said it like it was simple. Like it was the easiest thing in the world. "I don't care which book. I just like when you read."

Oscar felt something warm in his chest. It was the same warm he'd felt on the sofa with Lando asleep on his shoulder. The same warm he'd felt when Lando took his hand in the kitchen.

"Okay," Oscar said. "I'll bring the frog one."

Lando smiled. "Good."

He closed the gate and ran back to his house, his wellies slapping on the path. Oscar stood there for a moment, watching him go. Then he turned and walked back to his own house, the frog book tucked under his arm.

That night, Oscar put the three books on his bedside table next to Geoffrey the koala. But he kept the frog book on top, right where he could see it. He traced the letters on the cover with his finger—F-R-O-G and K-O-A-L-A—saying them quietly to himself.

Before he went to sleep, he practised reading the first page. Just to make sure he had all the words right.

Because tomorrow, he was going to read it to Lando again.

And the day after that. And the day after that.

For as long as Lando wanted him to.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔⋆࿔.ೃ⋆°❀

They had read the frog and koala book twice more, sitting on the back steps, their shoulders squished together like always. Lando's favourite part was when the koala shared his eucalyptus leaves with the frog, even though frogs didn't eat leaves. Oscar said that was the point—you share what you have, even if it's not what the other person needs.

Lando thought about that for a moment. Then he jumped up so fast he nearly fell off the step, his Spider-Man wellies thumping on the wood. "Oscar! We should build the biggest sand mountain ever! At the park! Bigger than the one in your garden! Bigger than anything!"

Oscar looked up at him, his brown eyes going wide. "The biggest?"

"The biggest," Lando said, nodding so hard his curls bounced. "The sandpit there is huge. We can make a mountain so big it touches the sky. Like, all the way up to the clouds. Maybe even higher."

Oscar's face broke into a smile, the crinkly one that Lando loved. "Okay. But we have to ask our mums first."

They ran inside, both talking at once, their words tumbling over each other like toys spilling out of a box. "Park, park, can we go to the park, please please please, we need to build the biggest mountain, the biggest one ever, we promise we'll be good, please please—"

Their mums looked at each other, the way they always did when Lando and Oscar got like this. Cisca laughed, shaking her head. Nicole pressed her lips together but she was smiling.

"Fine," Nicole said. "But you stay together. And you come back when I call you for dinner. No wandering off, no talking to strangers, and you hold hands crossing the street."

"Together," Oscar said, grabbing Lando's hand.

"Together," Lando agreed, squeezing back. His fingers were a little sticky from the jam on his waffle, but Oscar didn't seem to mind.

--- ❀ ---

The park was only a five-minute walk away.

Past the big oak tree with the tire swing. Past the red postbox that Lando was still too short to reach. Past Mrs. Patterson's house with the garden full of flowers that smelt like honey.

Lando held Oscar's hand the whole way, swinging their arms between them, their wellies crunching on the pavement. Oscar carried the frog and koala book tucked under his other arm, holding it carefully like it was made of glass.

The sandpit was at the far end of the playground, past the swings and the slide and the roundabout that made Lando dizzy. It was a big square of soft yellow sand with wooden edges that were perfect for sitting on. There were already some buckets and spades scattered around, left behind by other kids, some red and some blue and one green one with a crack in the handle.

Lando let go of Oscar's hand and dropped to his knees in the sand, grabbing the biggest bucket he could find. "This is it," he announced. "This is where the mountain goes."

Oscar sat down next to him, crossing his legs, and put the frog book carefully on the wooden edge where it wouldn't get sandy. He tucked it right next to the post so it wouldn't fall. "How big are we making it?"

Lando stood up and spread his arms as wide as they would go, stretching until his shoulders hurt a little bit. "This big."

Oscar's eyes went huge, round like saucers. "That's bigger than our whole garden."

"Bigger than the whole world," Lando said, dropping back down. "Now help me dig."

They dug for a while, scooping sand with their hands and piling it up in the middle.

Lando's job was to bring sand to Oscar, scooping it up in handfuls and dumping it in front of him. Oscar's job was to pack it down, patting it with his palms until it was flat and firm. They worked the way they always worked—Lando doing the fast, messy parts, sand flying everywhere, and Oscar doing the slow, careful parts, his tongue poking out the side of his mouth the way it did when he was concentrating.

Slowly, the mountain grew. It was big. Not as big as Lando's arms had said, because Lando's arms were only so long, but big enough. Bigger than their knees. Almost as big as their waists. Sand was everywhere—in Lando's hair, in Oscar's eyelashes, in the folds of their jumpers.

Lando sat back on his heels to admire it. "It needs something," he said, tilting his head. "Decoration. Like the feather we put on the one in the garden. Remember? The one from the bird?"

Oscar looked at the mountain, his head tilted too. "What kind of decoration?"

Lando looked around. There were leaves on the ground near the trees, brown and red and yellow. There were sticks, some long and some short. There were tiny pebbles that sparkled in the sun. Maybe there were flowers if he looked hard enough.

"I'll go find some," Lando said, already getting to his feet. "You stay here and guard it. Don't let anyone touch it."

Oscar's face went serious. He sat up straighter, his hands on his knees, his eyes fixed on the mountain like it was the most important thing in the world. "I'll protect it," he said. "No one's kicking our mountain."

Lando ran off towards the trees, his wellies kicking up sand behind him.

He found a good stick first—straight and strong, with a little curve at the top that made it look like a flagpole. Then he found a leaf that was bright red, not brown like the others, with little veins running through it like tiny rivers. Then he found a few tiny pebbles that sparkled, the kind that looked like treasure, and he put them in his pocket so they wouldn't fall out. He was bending down to pick up a yellow flower when he heard it.

A thump. A crunch. A soft yelp.

Lando spun around so fast his wellies nearly tangled together. His heart did a funny jump in his chest, the kind that happened when you missed a step on the stairs.

Oscar was sitting in the sand, his hands up to his face, his whole front covered in sand. The mountain—their mountain, the one they'd spent so long building—was gone. Collapsed. Kicked over. Just a pile of sand now, flat and sad. And standing over it, with a big mean smile on his face, was Lance.

Lance Stroll. The biggest kid in their class. The one with the blue jacket and the loud voice. The one who laughed when Lando got his letters backwards. The one who called him stupid when the teacher wasn't looking. The one who made Lando's tummy go tight and his throat go hot and his eyes sting.

And now he was standing over Oscar, his foot still in the sand where the mountain used to be, his hands on his hips like he'd done something funny.

"Oscar!" Lando dropped his stick and his leaf and his flower and ran. His wellies pounded on the ground, sand flying up behind him. He slid into the sand next to Oscar, his hands going to Oscar's arms. "Are you okay? Did it get in your eyes? Are you hurt?"

Oscar lowered his hands slowly. His face was covered in sand, his hair full of it, his eyelashes clumped together with it. He was blinking fast, fast, fast, his eyes red and watery. There was sand in his eyebrows and sand on his nose and sand on his chin.

But he was okay. He was blinking. He was breathing. He was okay.

Lando turned to Lance. His whole body felt hot, the way it did when he was angry but too scared to say anything. His hands were shaking a little. "Why did you do that? That was our mountain. We made it. We spent ages on it."

Lance shrugged, his smile not going away. "It was a stupid mountain anyway. Looked like a pancake. A flat, squishy pancake."

Lando's hands curled into fists at his sides. His fingernails pressed into his palms. "It was our mountain. We built it. It was good."

"So?" Lance took a step closer. He was bigger than both of them, his shoulders wider, his voice louder. He looked down at them like they were bugs. "You're both losers anyway. Especially you, Norris. Can't even read a simple book. My mum says there's something wrong with your brain."

Lando felt the words hit him like a punch in the tummy. His eyes got hot. His throat got tight. His bottom lip wanted to wobble but he pressed his teeth into it to make it stop. He wanted to say something, wanted to push Lance the way Oscar had pushed him that one time, but his body wouldn't move. It was frozen, stuck to the sand.

But Oscar moved.

Oscar stood up. He brushed sand off his shorts with shaky hands. His face was still sandy, his eyes still red, but his chin was up and his shoulders were back. "Don't talk to him like that," he said. His voice was quiet but it wasn't wobbly. It was hard. Like rocks.

Lance laughed. It was a mean laugh, the kind that bounced off the playground equipment and made the little kids on the swings look over. "What are you going to do about it, Piastri? Read me a book? Bore me to sleep?"

Oscar's face went red. His hands curled into fists too, the same way Lando's were. "Lando is my best friend. He's not a loser. He's smart. He's the smartest person I know."

"Yeah?" Lance crossed his arms, leaning back on his heels. "Why are you even friends with him anyway? For the books? That's the only reason, right? Because without the books, you're just—" He waved his hand at Oscar, looking him up and down like he was something gross on the bottom of his shoe. "Boring."

Oscar blinked. "I'm not boring."

"You are," Lance said. He was smiling again, enjoying this. His eyes were narrow and mean.

"You're always reading him the same book. The frog one. Over and over and over. That's what boring nerds do. Read the same book a million times because they don't know any other books. Because they can't get any other books. Because nobody wants to give them books because they're boring."

Lando saw Oscar's face crumble.

It was small at first—just a wobble in his bottom lip, a flicker in his eyes. But then it spread, like a crack in a window, like a tear in paper, until his whole face was doing the thing it did right before he cried. His eyebrows pulled together. His nose went pink. His chin crinkled up. His eyes filled with tears, the tears making the sand on his lashes clump together and fall down his cheeks.

"You're boring, Piastri," Lance said, watching Oscar's face with satisfaction. His voice was slow and mean, like he was tasting the words.

"That's why nobody else wants to be your friend. Only Lando, because you read to him. And he only likes you for the books. Without the books, you're nothing. Just a boring nerd who sits in the sand and reads the same story over and over."

Oscar's breath hitched. A tear rolled down his sandy cheek, leaving a clean white track behind it. Then another. Then another. His shoulders started shaking, just a little, the way they did when he was trying really hard not to cry but couldn't stop.

And something in Lando snapped.

He didn't think. He didn't plan. He didn't even know he was doing it until it was already happening. He bent down, scooped up a handful of sand—the biggest handful his small hands could hold, sand spilling through his fingers—and threw it.

Right at Lance's face.

The sand hit Lance right in the eyes, in the mouth, in the nose. Lance stumbled back with a shout, his hands flying up to his face, his feet tangling in the sand. He coughed and spluttered and spat, sand falling out of his hair and off his jacket. He looked like a sandcastle that had fallen over.

"My mom is right there," Lando said. His voice was shaking, his whole body was shaking, but he didn't care. He pointed at his house across the playground, where Cisca was sitting with Nicole, both of them drinking tea from their travel mugs.

"She's right there. She can see us. And if you don't leave right now, I'm going to scream so loud she comes running. And then I'm going to tell her you kicked our mountain and called us names and made Oscar cry. And then she's going to call your mom. And then you're going to be in so much trouble."

Lance's face went through about four different expressions in three seconds. Anger. Surprise. Fear. And then, finally, something that looked like defeat. His hands dropped from his face. His shoulders slumped. He kicked at the sand with his shoe.

"You're both weirdos," he muttered. He wasn't looking at them anymore. He was looking at the ground, at the fence, anywhere but at Lando. "I don't even care. The mountain was stupid anyway. You're both stupid."

He turned and walked away, his shoulders all hunched up, his steps quick. He didn't look back. He went all the way across the playground, past the swings, past the slide, out the gate, and then he was gone.

Lando stood there for a moment, breathing hard, his heart pounding in his chest like a drum. His hands were shaking. His legs were shaking. His whole body was shaking. He'd never thrown sand at anyone before. He'd never yelled at anyone like that before. His mum always said to use his words, to be kind, to walk away from people who were mean.

But Lance had made Oscar cry. Lance had made Oscar's face crumble. Lance had said Oscar was boring, that nobody wanted to be his friend, that Lando only liked him for the books.

And that was a lie. That was the biggest lie in the whole world.

He turned around.

Oscar was still standing where he'd left him, his face wet with tears, his whole body looking small and crumpled. He was trying to wipe his face with his sleeve, but his hands were shaky and he kept missing, smearing sand across his cheeks instead. His shoulders were still doing that little shake, the one that meant he was still crying but trying not to.

Lando knelt down in the sand next to him. "Oscar. Look at me."

Oscar looked. His eyes were red and puffy, his cheeks wet, his nose running. There was sand in his eyebrows and sand in his hair and sand on his shirt and sand on his hands. He looked like a mess. A sad, sandy, sniffling, shaky mess.

And Lando thought he was the best thing he'd ever seen.

"Are you okay?" Lando asked. He reached out and brushed some sand off Oscar's cheek, as gentle as he could. His fingers were sandy too, so it probably didn't help much, but he did it anyway.

Oscar sniffled. His voice came out small and wobbly, like a toy with a battery running out. "He said I'm boring."

Lando shook his head. "He's mean. He says mean things to everyone. He said my brain was broken. He doesn't know anything."

"He said you only like me for the books."

Lando's chest hurt. It hurt like when he'd fallen off the swing and landed on his back. He grabbed Oscar's hand and held it tight, squeezing his fingers. "That's not true. That's not true at all."

Oscar looked down at their hands. His lip wobbled again. His chin did that crinkly thing. "But I always read you the same book. The frog one. I don't have any other ones. Not really. I only have three. And you've read them all. So maybe I am boring. Maybe I don't have enough books to be a librarian. Maybe—"

"Oscar."

Oscar stopped. He looked up, his brown eyes wet and uncertain, waiting.

Lando squeezed his hand again. "Do you know what my favourite book is?"

Oscar blinked. Sand fell out of his eyelashes. "The frog one?"

Lando shook his head. "Nope."

Oscar's forehead scrunched up. "The rabbit one?"

"Nope."

"The rocket one?"

Lando shook his head again. "My favourite book is the one you read to me. Any book you read to me. I don't care which one it is. I just like when you read."

Oscar's face did something. The wobble in his lip slowed down. "You do?"

"Yeah." Lando nodded, his curls bouncing. "Remember when you didn't have new books? And you were crying? In your kitchen? And I came through the gate and you were crying?"

Oscar nodded slowly.

"I meant what I said," Lando said. "I don't need new books. I don't need lots of books. I just need you. You could read me the same book every day for the rest of our whole lives until we are old like our grandma and grandpa's, and I would still like it. Because it's you reading it. And you're not boring."

Oscar stared at him. His eyes were still wet, but the tears had stopped falling. His hands weren't shaking as much. "I'm not?"

"Nope." Lando shook his head. "You're the least boring person in the whole world."

"That's not true," Oscar said, but his voice was less wobbly now. A tiny smile was trying to come out, Lando could see it. "You're the least boring. You threw sand at Lance. You yelled at him. You made him go away."

Lando grinned. His chest felt all puffy. "Yeah. I did."

"You were so brave."

Lando's chest puffed up even more. "He made you cry. Nobody makes you cry. You're my best friend. If someone makes my best friend cry, I have to throw sand at them. That's the rule."

Oscar laughed. It was a small laugh, still a bit sniffly, but it was real. "That's not a real rule."

"It is now," Lando said. "I just made it. The Lando Rule. If someone makes Oscar cry, you throw sand at them."

Oscar laughed again, bigger this time. His face was still wet and sandy and his nose was still runny, but he was laughing. Lando felt warm all over. That laugh was the best sound in the world. Better than biscuits. Better than waffles. Better than anything.

"Come on," Lando said, tugging Oscar's hand. "Let's go clean you up. You've got sand in your eyebrows. And your hair. And your nose. Actually, you've got sand everywhere."

Oscar let Lando pull him up. His legs were a bit wobbly but he stood. They walked over to the water fountain, the one with the rusty button that you had to push really hard. Lando pushed it and water came out in a wobbly arc.

He wet his sleeve—his mum was going to be so mad, his sleeve was going to be wet all day—and carefully wiped the sand off Oscar's face.

He did Oscar's forehead first, pushing his curls back. Then his cheeks, wiping away the tear tracks. Then his chin. Then his nose. Oscar stood very still, his eyes closed, his hands at his sides, letting Lando clean him up.

"There," Lando said when he was done. He stepped back to look. Oscar's face was clean now, pink from the wiping, but clean. His eyes were dry. His smile was real. "All better."

Oscar opened his eyes. He looked at Lando, really looked at him, his brown eyes soft and warm like chocolate buttons. And then he did something unexpected.

He leaned forward and bumped his forehead against Lando's.

It wasn't a kiss. It wasn't a hug. It was just their foreheads touching, Oscar's skin warm against Lando's, their noses almost brushing, their breath mixing together. Lando could see the little flecks of gold in Oscar's eyes. He could count his eyelashes if he wanted to.

"Thank you," Oscar whispered. His breath was warm on Lando's lips.

Lando's heart did a funny thing. A good funny thing. A fizzy, warm, lemonade-bubbles thing. "For what?"

"For throwing sand at Lance. For saying I'm not boring. For being my best friend."

Lando smiled. "You're welcome. And you're not boring. You're my favourite person."

Oscar pulled back. His face was clean now, his eyes dry, his smile real. "You're my favourite person too."

They stood there for a moment, just looking at each other. The playground was noisy around them—kids on the swings, kids on the slide, a baby crying somewhere—but it all sounded far away.

Then Lando looked over at the sandpit, at the ruins of their mountain, at the bucket and spades scattered around. "Should we build another one?"

Oscar followed his gaze. He looked at the flat pile of sand that used to be their mountain. He thought about it for a second. Then he nodded. "Yeah. But this time, we build it bigger. Way bigger. And we put sticks all around it. And guards. So no one can kick it."

"Guards," Lando said, nodding. "Lots of guards. Like last time, when I had the stick. But more sticks. A whole army of sticks."

"You can be the head guard," Oscar said. "And I'll build. I'm good at building."

"You're the best at building," Lando said.

They ran back to the sandpit, their hands swinging between them, their laughter bouncing off the playground equipment. They built another mountain, bigger this time, with sticks and leaves and the yellow flower Lando had found. They put guards at every corner—sticks standing up in the sand, four of them, one on each side. Lando stood watch with a stick in each hand, his eyes scanning for danger, while Oscar packed the sand down carefully, his tongue poking out the side of his mouth.

And when the mountain was finished, tall and proud with its flower on top and its guards all around, they sat next to it, their shoulders touching, watching the clouds go by.

"Lando," Oscar said, after a while.

"Yeah?"

Oscar was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "I'm going to find more books. Lots of them. I'm going to be a librarian with a whole library of books, and I'm going to read you every single one."

Lando leaned his head on Oscar's shoulder. His curls tickled Oscar's neck. "I know."

"And even when I have a hundred books," Oscar continued, "I'm still going to read you the frog one. Because it's your favourite."

Lando closed his eyes. The sun was warm on his face. Oscar's shoulder was warm under his cheek. The sand was warm under his legs. "It's my favourite because you read it."

Oscar was quiet for a moment. Then he said, very softly, "I'm glad you're my best friend."

Lando smiled without opening his eyes. "I'm glad too."

"Forever?"

Lando opened his eyes. He looked at Oscar, at his brown eyes and his pink cheeks and his messy curls. At the boy who read him books. The boy who promised to read him every book on every planet. The boy who was going to be a librarian just for him.

"Forever," Lando said.

And they sat there, in the sand, with their ruined mountain behind them and their new mountain beside them, and everything was exactly as it should be.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔⋆࿔.ೃ⋆°❀

Oscar knew something was wrong before anyone told him.

It started in the morning. His mum was making breakfast, but she kept staring at the toaster without putting any bread in. Her hands were on the counter and she wasn't moving. Oscar stood in the doorway for a whole minute before she noticed him.

"Oh," she said, blinking. Her voice sounded funny. "Good morning, sweetheart."

She smiled, but it wasn't her real smile. Her real smile went all the way to her eyes. This one stopped at her mouth.

Oscar's tummy did a little flip.

The news was on in the living room. That wasn't strange—his dad always watched the news in the morning. But the volume was up too high, and the lady on the screen was talking very fast, and his dad wasn't eating his toast. He was just sitting there, staring at the TV, his hands in his lap.

Oscar walked past the living room on his way to get his cereal. He saw the screen. There were pictures of buildings he didn't recognise. There were people holding signs. There was a man with his hands over his face.

He didn't understand any of it.

"Mum," he said, pulling on her sleeve. "Why is the news so loud?"

His mum looked at the TV. Her face did something. She walked over and turned the volume down. "No reason. Eat your breakfast, love."

Oscar ate his cereal. It tasted like nothing.

--- ❀ ---

The whole day was like that.

His dad kept going into the other room to make phone calls. Oscar could hear his voice through the door, low and fast and worried. He heard the word "money" a lot. He heard the word "police." He heard the word "gone."

His mum kept checking her phone. Every few minutes she'd pick it up, look at it, put it down. Pick it up, look at it, put it down. Her hands were shaking a little.

And the news stayed on all day.

Oscar tried to watch cartoons. He tried to play with Geoffrey. He tried to read the frog book, the one Lando liked, but he couldn't concentrate. The words kept sliding off the page.

Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

In the afternoon, there was a knock on the door. His mum went to answer it. Oscar stood in the hallway, hidden behind the stairs, and listened.

It was Mrs. Patterson from down the street. The one with the nice garden that smelled like honey. The one where Mr. Patterson always gave him and Lando jellies when they walked past.

But Mrs. Patterson wasn't smiling. Her face was red and her eyes were puffy and she was holding a tissue in her hand.

"He didn't do anything," Mrs. Patterson was saying. Her voice was all wobbly. "He just worked there. He didn't know. He didn't know anything about the money. And they—" She stopped. She pressed the tissue to her face. "They threw a rock through our window. Through our window, Nicole. While we were inside."

Oscar's mum made a sound. A small sound, like a hurt animal. "Oh, Margaret. I'm so sorry. Is James okay?"

"He's at the hospital. He's okay, he's okay, just a cut, but he was so scared. We were both so scared. They were yelling. They said—" Mrs. Patterson's voice broke. "They said he stole from them. He didn't. He never would. He's a good man. He's a good man, Nicole."

Oscar stood behind the stairs, his hands on the wall, his heart going thump-thump-thump in his chest.

Mr. Patterson got attacked. The nice man who gave them jellies. The one who always waved from his garden. Someone threw a rock through their window. Someone hurt him.

Why? Why would anyone hurt Mr. Patterson?

His mum closed the door after a long time. She stood there with her back against it, her eyes closed, her hand over her mouth. Oscar watched her from behind the stairs. He wanted to go to her. He wanted to ask her what was happening. But his feet wouldn't move.

His mum opened her eyes. She looked down the hallway, straight at the stairs, straight at him.

"Oscar," she said. Her voice was soft. "Come here, sweetheart."

He went. His feet were wobbly. His hands were cold.

She knelt down and pulled him into a hug, squeezing him tight. Her arms were warm. She smelled like vanilla, the way she always did. But her shoulders were shaking a little.

"Mum," Oscar said into her neck. "Why did someone hurt Mr. Patterson?"

His mum didn't answer for a long moment. Then she said, "Sometimes people get angry. And when they get angry, they do things that aren't nice. But it's going to be okay. We're going to be okay."

Oscar wanted to believe her. But her voice sounded different. It sounded like her smile this morning—like it was trying to be real but couldn't quite get there.

--- ❀ ---

That night, Oscar couldn't sleep.

He lay in his bed with Geoffrey tucked under his arm, staring at the ceiling. The frog and koala book was on his bedside table, right next to the sticky note Lando had left yesterday. Lando had drawn a spaceship on it, all wobbly and lopsided, with words underneath that Oscar had to sound out.

BILD IT TOMRO

Build it tomorrow. They were going to build a spaceship tomorrow. Out of cardboard boxes. Lando's dad had some from the new fridge. They were going to be astronauts.

Oscar turned his head and looked at the note, Lando had made two—one for each of them to remember. Oscar wouldn't have forgotten anyways.

He traced the wobbly letters with his finger. Lando's writing was always messy, the letters backwards sometimes, but Oscar could always read it. He could always read anything Lando wrote.

Tomorrow. They were going to build a spaceship tomorrow.

But something was wrong. Something was very wrong. And Oscar didn't know what it was, and nobody would tell him, and his chest felt tight and his tummy felt sick and he couldn't sleep.

He got out of bed.

His feet were bare on the cold floor. He walked to his door and opened it, just a crack, and listened. The house was quiet. But there was a light on downstairs. And voices.

Oscar crept out of his room. He went past Hattie's room—she was asleep, he could hear her snoring a little—and down the hallway to the stairs. He sat down on the top step, the way he always did when he wanted to listen without being seen. The stairs were cold through his pyjamas.

His parents were in the living room. The TV was off now. The house was dark except for one lamp. Oscar could see the light spilling out into the hallway. He could hear their voices, low and tight.

"We can't stay here, Nicole." That was his dad. His voice sounded old. Older than Oscar had ever heard it.

"You don't know that. The police said—"

"The police said they'd do what they can. But you saw what happened to James Patterson. You saw what happened to his house. His window. His face." His dad's voice cracked. "Those were his neighbours. People he's known for twenty years. And they—" He stopped. Oscar heard him take a breath. "We can't risk it. We can't risk you. The kids."

"What about James? What about everyone else who worked there?"

"I can't think about everyone else. I have to think about my family." His dad's voice was hard now, the way it got when there was no more arguing.

"The company executives are gone. They took the money and they ran. And now everyone who worked there is paying for it. The town is angry. They want someone to blame. They're not going to stop. They're going to keep looking for people to hurt."

Oscar sat on the stairs, his hands on his knees, his heart going thump-thump-thump.

"So we're just supposed to leave?" His mum's voice was higher now. "Without telling anyone? James and Margaret are at the hospital, Chris. The Norrises are right next door. Cisca is my best friend. We can't just—"

"We tell no one."

The words hung in the air. Oscar's breath caught in his throat.

"We tell no one," his dad said again. "If anyone knows we're leaving, someone might talk. Someone might tell the wrong person. And then—" He stopped. "We can't take that risk. The kids come first. You come first. We leave, we go to Australia, we start over. We tell people later. When it's safe."

Oscar's mum was crying. He could hear it, the little sounds she made when she was trying to be quiet. "The Norrises. Cisca. Adam. Lando. Flo. They're not going to hurt us. They're our friends."

"I know. I know they are. But if we tell them, they have to keep a secret. And secrets don't stay secrets. Not in a town like this. Not when people are angry and looking for someone to blame." His dad's voice was soft now. "We'll call them. When we get there. We'll explain everything. They'll understand."

Oscar's mum was quiet for a long moment. Then she said, "When?"

"Tomorrow night. I've booked the tickets. We leave at midnight."

Oscar's hands tightened on his knees. His fingers were white.

"Midnight?" His mum's voice was barely a whisper.

"We need to go when no one will see us. When everyone's asleep. We'll pack tomorrow during the day. Quietly. We'll leave the house as it is. We'll go to the airport and we'll be gone before anyone even knows we're not here."

"And the kids? What do we tell them?"

"We tell them we're going on a holiday. A surprise. They don't need to know the rest."

"They'll ask questions. Hattie will know something's wrong. Oscar will—"

"We'll deal with it. We'll deal with everything. But we have to go, Nicole. We have to go tomorrow."

Oscar sat on the stairs. His hands were cold. His feet were cold. His chest was cold. Tomorrow. They were leaving tomorrow. Midnight. Without telling anyone. Without telling Lando.

Without saying goodbye.

He stood up. His legs were wobbly. His eyes were hot. He turned and walked back to his room, his feet making no sound on the carpet. He closed his door. He climbed into his bed. He pulled the duvet over his head.

And then he cried.

He cried the way he'd cried when Cisca came without Lando. He cried the way he'd cried when Hattie stole his cookie. He cried the way he'd cried when Lance kicked his mountain.

But this was bigger. This was all of those things rolled into one. This was the biggest cry he'd ever cried.

He didn't want to leave. He didn't want to go to Australia. He didn't want to start over. He wanted Lando. He wanted the frog book and the sandpit and the gate between their gardens. He wanted to build a spaceship tomorrow. He wanted to be a librarian. He wanted to read Lando every book on every planet.

He wanted his best friend.

He threw the duvet off and got out of bed. His feet hit the floor. He was going to go to Lando's house. Right now. He was going to knock on the door and tell Lando everything and then they would figure out how to stop it. Lando always knew how to fix things. Lando threw sand at Lance. Lando said Oscar wasn't boring. Lando would know what to do.

He got to his door. His hand was on the handle.

"Oscar."

His mum was standing in the doorway. Her face was wet. Her eyes were red. She looked at him, at his wet face and his messy hair and his hands on the door handle, and her face crumpled.

"Oscar," she said. "Oh, Oscar."

She knelt down and opened her arms. And Oscar, who had been about to run, about to find Lando, about to fix everything—Oscar ran to her instead. He crashed into her arms and buried his face in her neck and cried.

"I don't want to go," he sobbed. His words were all jumbled, mashed together, barely coming out. "I don't want to leave. I don't want to go to Australia. I want Lando. I want Lando. I only want Lando."

His mum held him tight. Her arms were shaking. Her face was pressed into his hair. "I know, baby. I know."

"Can't we tell them? Can't we tell the Norrises? They won't tell anyone. They're our friends. Lando is my best friend. He wouldn't tell. He wouldn't tell anyone."

His mum didn't answer. She just held him tighter.

Oscar pulled back. His face was wet, his nose was running, his whole body was shaking. "Please, Mum. Please. I need to say goodbye. I need to tell Lando. He's my best friend. He's my best friend in the whole world. I can't just leave. I can't."

His mum looked at him. Her eyes were red and wet. Her lip was wobbling the same way his did. "I know, sweetheart. I know."

"Then let me go. Let me go tell him. I'll be quiet. I won't tell anyone else. I promise. I promise."

His mum closed her eyes. A tear rolled down her cheek. When she opened them again, they were sad. So sad. The saddest Oscar had ever seen.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry."

Oscar's heart broke. It broke like the mountain when Lance kicked it. It broke like the window at Mrs. Patterson's house. It broke into a million tiny pieces that scattered all over the floor.

He cried harder. His whole body shook with it. His mum picked him up, the way she used to when he was a baby, and carried him back to his bed. She sat down with him on her lap, holding him against her chest, rocking him the way she used to.

Oscar cried until he didn't have any tears left. He cried until his eyes were dry and his throat was sore and his body was heavy. And through it all, his mum held him, rocking back and forth, humming something soft that he couldn't quite hear.

"I don't want to leave Lando," Oscar whispered. His voice was gone, just a scratchy little sound. "He's my best friend. He's my astronaut library helper. We're going to all the planets and read all the books everywhere. We made a pinky promise."

His mum's arms tightened around him. He felt a tear fall on his forehead. "I know, baby. I know."

"Why does this have to happen? Why are people angry? Why do they have to hurt people? Mr. Patterson didn't do anything wrong. Dad didn't do anything wrong. Why do we have to leave?"

His mum didn't answer. Maybe she didn't know the answer. Maybe there wasn't one.

Oscar's eyes were closing. He was so tired. His body was heavy, his arms and legs like sandbags. He fought it. He didn't want to sleep. If he slept, tomorrow would come. And tomorrow, they would leave.

But his eyes kept closing. His breathing got slower. His body stopped shaking.

The last thing he saw was his bedside table. The frog and koala book. Geoffrey, sitting next to it. And the sticky note from Lando, with the wobbly spaceship and the messy words.

BILD IT TOMRO

Oscar stared at the note. His eyes were too heavy. His hand reached out, but it didn't go far enough. He couldn't reach it.

His mum was still rocking him. Still humming. Still crying.

Oscar closed his eyes.

The last thing he thought, before sleep pulled him under, was Lando. Lando with his blue eyes and his Spider-Man wellies and his messy drawings. Lando who threw sand at Lance. Lando who said Oscar wasn't boring. Lando who said he was his favourite person.

Lando, who he was leaving tomorrow. Without saying goodbye.

A tear slid down Oscar's cheek. It was the last one he had left.

His mum kissed his forehead. She tucked the duvet around him. She picked up Geoffrey and put him under Oscar's arm. She picked up the sticky note with the spaceship and put it on his pillow, right next to his face.

"Sleep, my love," she whispered. "Sleep."

Oscar's hand found Geoffrey. His fingers found the sticky note. He held them both against his chest, the spaceship and the koala, the promise and the friend.

Tomorrow, he would leave.

But tonight, he had this. He had the note. He had the memory of Lando's voice, Lando's laugh, Lando's hand in his. He had the frog book and the sand mountain and the pinky promise.

He had forever.

Even if forever was only one more night.

Oscar slept.

--- ❀ ---

In the morning, the sticky note was still on his pillow. The spaceship was still there, wobbly and lopsided, with the words underneath.

BILD IT TOMRO

Oscar looked at it for a long time.

Then he folded it carefully, very carefully, and put it in his pocket.

They were leaving tonight. They were going to Australia. He wouldn't see Lando again.

But he had the note. And he had the promise.

And maybe, somewhere, some other time, on some planet, they would build that spaceship after all.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔⋆࿔.ೃ⋆°❀

The next morning, Lando woke up and the first thing he did was look at the drawing on his bedside table. The spaceship he'd drawn for Oscar. The one with the wobbly lines and the backwards letters.

BILD IT TOMRO

Today was tomorrow.

Lando grinned. He threw off his duvet and ran to his wardrobe, pulling out his favourite jumper—the blue one with the race cars on it—and his Spider-Man wellies. He put the wellies on the wrong feet first, then switched them, then put them on the wrong feet again, then finally got them right. He was too excited to think straight.

They were going to build a spaceship. Him and Oscar. A real one, out of cardboard boxes. His dad had said they could have the boxes from the new fridge. They were big. Big enough for two astronauts.

Lando grabbed the drawing off his bedside table and ran downstairs. His mum was in the kitchen, pouring tea into her flower mug. She looked tired, Lando thought. Like she hadn't slept very well.

"Mum! Mum! I'm going to Oscar's! We're building the spaceship today! The big one! The one that goes to the moon!"

His mum turned around. She smiled, but it was a funny smile. Not her real one. "That sounds lovely, sweetheart. But maybe wait a little bit. It's early."

"It's not early! The sun is up! Oscar is up! We have to build it before lunch so we can fly it before dinner!"

Lando was already at the back door, his hand on the latch. He could see the gate between their gardens. He could see Oscar's back door, the one he knocked on every day. He could see the curtains in Oscar's window, the ones with the little stars on them.

He pushed the gate open and ran across the grass. His wellies made squelching sounds in the dew. He knocked on Oscar's back door, the way he did every morning, knock-knock-knock, then two more for good luck.

The door opened.

But it wasn't Oscar. It was Oscar's mum.

She was wearing her dressing gown. Her hair was messy, like she hadn't brushed it yet. Her face looked pale. Her eyes looked red, the way Lando's did when he'd been crying. She was holding something behind her back, something she was hiding.

"Hi, Mrs. Piastri," Lando said, bouncing on his toes. "Is Oscar ready? We're building the spaceship today! The one from my drawing! My dad gave us the boxes!"

Mrs. Piastri looked at him. Her face did something. Her mouth moved, like she was trying to say something, but nothing came out.

Then she knelt down, slowly, like her knees hurt, and put her hands on Lando's shoulders. Her hands were shaking a little.

"Oscar is sick today, sweetheart."

Lando's bouncing stopped. His face fell. "Sick?"

"Mm-hmm. He's not feeling well. He needs to rest today."

Lando looked past her, into the kitchen. He could see Oscar's cereal bowl on the table, half full. He could see Oscar's shoes by the door, the blue ones with the lights. The ones that used to flash when he walked. He could see the chair where Oscar always sat, the one with the cushion that had a dent from his bottom.

"Is it bad sick? Does he need medicine? I can get him medicine. My mum has medicine. The pink one that tastes like strawberries."

Mrs. Piastri's eyes looked wet. She blinked fast, the way Oscar did when he was trying not to cry. She took a deep breath, the kind that made her shoulders go up and down. Then she brought her hand out from behind her back.

She was holding the frog and koala book. The one they read every day. The one with the worn cover and the bent corners and the pages that were soft from being turned so many times.

"I want you to have this," she said. Her voice was wobbly, like it might break. "To look after. Until Oscar is better."

Lando took the book carefully, the way he'd seen Oscar hold it, like it was something precious. He ran his fingers over the cover, over the green frog and the grey koala, over the bumpy gold letters.

"But it's Oscar's book. His favourite."

Mrs. Piastri smiled, but it wasn't her real smile. It was the kind of smile that looked like it hurt. "He'd want you to have it. He'd want you to read it while he's resting. So you don't forget."

Lando clutched the book to his chest. "I won't forget. I never forget."

"I know you won't." Mrs. Piastri reached out and tucked a curl behind his ear, the way Lando's mum always did. Her fingers were cold. "Maybe tomorrow, okay? Maybe tomorrow you can build your spaceship."

Lando nodded slowly. Tomorrow. That was okay. Oscar was sick. When you were sick, you needed to rest. That was the rule. And now he had the book. He could read it while he waited. He could keep it safe for Oscar.

"Okay," Lando said. "I'll come back tomorrow."

He turned and walked back to the gate, the frog book pressed against his chest. He looked over his shoulder. Mrs. Piastri was still standing in the doorway, watching him. She was holding the door frame with one hand, like she needed it to stand up. Her other hand was pressed against her mouth.

Lando waved. She waved back, but it was a shaky wave, the kind that looked like it took all her strength.

He went home and told his mum that Oscar was sick. His mum made a funny sound, something between a sigh and a sniffle, and she pulled him into a hug that lasted longer than usual.

"He'll be better tomorrow," Lando said, his face pressed into her jumper. The frog book was squished between them, pressing into his chest. "We're going to build the spaceship tomorrow."

His mum didn't say anything. She just held him tighter.

--- ❀ ---

Tomorrow came.

Lando woke up and ran to Oscar's house, the frog book tucked under his arm. He was going to give it back. Oscar would be better today, and Lando would give him back his book, and they would build the spaceship, and everything would be normal.

The back door was closed. The curtains were still drawn. He knocked. Knock-knock-knock, then two more.

No one came.

He knocked again. Harder this time. The sound echoed in the quiet garden.

"Mrs. Piastri? Oscar? It's me! Lando! I have your book! We're building the spaceship today!"

Nothing. The door didn't open. The curtains didn't move. The house was silent. The only sound was the wind in the trees and Lando's own breathing.

Lando stood on the doorstep, the frog book held against his chest, his hand still raised to knock. He waited. One minute. Two minutes. Five.

He went to the window, the one with the star curtains, and pressed his face against the glass. He could see inside. He could see Oscar's bed, the one with the rocket duvet. It was empty.

The pillows were gone. The bedside table was bare—no Geoffrey, no lamp, no stack of books. The walls were bare—no drawings, no posters, no pictures. The room was empty. Scrubbed clean. Like no one had ever lived there.

Lando's heart started beating funny. Fast. Too fast.

He ran to the front of the house and knocked on the big door, the one visitors used.

Knock-knock-knock-knock-knock.

He didn't stop. He kept knocking until his knuckles hurt, until the sound echoed in his ears.

Knock-knock-knock-knock-knock.

Knock-knock-knock-knock-knock. 

No one came.

He ran back to his house, his wellies slipping on the grass, his breath coming in gasps, the frog book bouncing against his chest. He burst through the back door, into the kitchen, where his mum was standing at the counter with a cup of tea that wasn't steaming anymore. Like she'd been standing there for a long time.

"Mum! Oscar's not there! His room is empty! His bed is empty! All his stuff is gone! Where is he? Where did he go?"

His mum turned around. Her face was doing the same thing Mrs. Piastri's face had done yesterday. Pale. Wobbly. Like something was wrong. Her hands were wrapped around her mug so tight her knuckles were white.

"Lando—"

"Where is he? Why isn't he answering? Is he still sick? Did he go to the doctor? Mum, where is Oscar? I have his book! I have to give it back! It's his favourite!"

His mum set down her mug. She knelt down, the way Mrs. Piastri had knelt down yesterday, and pulled him into her arms. Lando could feel her heart beating. It was going too fast. The frog book was pressed between them, the cover digging into his chest.

"Oscar went on a vacation, sweetheart."

Lando pulled back. His face was scrunched up, confused. His hands were still clutching the book. "A vacation?"

"Yes. A vacation. With his family. They went away for a little while."

"But—but he didn't tell me. Oscar tells me everything. He told me when they went to the beach. He told me when they went to his grandma's house. He always tells me. He told me about the book fair. He told me about the books. He tells me everything. Why didn't he tell me?"

His mum's face wobbled. Her chin did that crinkly thing, the same thing Lando's chin did when he was about to cry. She looked at Lando's dad, who was standing in the doorway. He wasn't wearing his work clothes. He was still in his pyjamas. It was the middle of the day and he was still in his pyjamas.

They did that thing where they looked at each other without saying anything. Lando had seen them do it a million times. But this time it was different. This time it looked sad. It looked like something was broken.

"Sometimes," his mum said slowly, her voice cracking a little, "people have to leave very quickly. And they don't have time to say goodbye."

Lando stared at her. His eyes were hot. His throat was tight. His hands were shaking around the book. "But he promised. He promised we'd build the spaceship. He promised we'd go to the planets together. He promised he'd read me every book. He pinky promised. Pinky promises are forever."

His mum's arms tightened around him. He could feel her shoulders shaking. "I know, baby. I know."

"When is he coming back?"

His mum didn't answer right away. She looked at Lando's dad again. His dad came into the kitchen and knelt down next to them. He put his hand on Lando's back. His hand was heavy and warm.

"Soon," his dad said. His voice was quiet. "He'll be back soon."

Lando looked at the frog book in his hands. He looked at the cover, at the green frog and the grey koala sitting on the rock together. He looked at the bumpy gold letters. He traced them with his finger, the way Oscar used to.

The Frog and The Koala

Oscar had read this book to him a hundred times. A thousand times. Every time, his voice was slow and careful. Every time, he sounded out the long words. Every time, he pointed at the pictures and said, That's us. That's you and me.

Lando pressed the book against his chest.

"Okay," he said. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve, even though he wasn't crying. He wasn't. "I'll wait. I'll wait for him. And I'll keep his book safe. So when he comes back, I can give it to him."

His mum pulled him closer. Her face was pressed into his hair. "That's very kind, sweetheart. That's very kind."

--- ❀ ---

The first week, Lando went to Oscar's house every morning. He knocked on the back door. He knocked on the front door. He looked through the star-curtain window, even though there was nothing to see. Empty room. Empty bed. No Geoffrey. No books. No Oscar.

He took the frog book with him every time, tucked under his arm, ready to give it back. But no one ever answered.

The second week, his mum stopped him at the gate.

"He's not back yet, sweetheart. Maybe give it a few days."

Lando stood at the gate, his hand on the latch, looking at Oscar's house. The curtains were still closed. The garden was getting messy. The grass was too long. There were leaves on the doorstep. The gate between their gardens creaked when the wind blew.

"You said he'd be back soon," Lando said.

His mum put her hand on his shoulder. "I know."

Lando looked down at the frog book in his hands. He'd been carrying it everywhere, keeping it safe. The cover was getting even more worn now. The corners were soft. The pages were starting to come loose from the spine.

"I'll wait," Lando said. "I'll wait for him."

--- ❀ ---

The first month, Lando stopped going to the house.

But he still looked. Every morning, he looked out his window at Oscar's house. Every night, before he went to sleep, he looked again. The curtains never opened. The lights never came on. The garden grew wilder, the grass knee-high, the bushes spilling over the path. The doorstep got more leaves, then more leaves, then more. No one came to clear them.

Lando kept the frog book on his bedside table, right next to the spaceship drawing. He read it sometimes, the words he could read, the words Oscar had taught him. He sounded them out slowly, the way Oscar used to.

The frog lived in a pond. The water was green and the reeds were tall.

The koala lived in a tree. The leaves were soft and the branches were strong.

They did not know each other.

"But then they met," Lando whispered to the empty room. "And they became best friends. And they stayed best friends forever."

The room didn't answer. It never did.

--- ❀ ---

The sixth month, Lando asked his mum again.

"When is Oscar coming back?"

His mum was folding laundry. She stopped, her hands holding one of Lando's jumpers. She put it down slowly. Her face did that thing again, the wobbly thing, the thing that meant she was trying not to cry.

"I don't know, sweetheart."

"But you said soon. You said he'd be back soon. It's been a long time. That's not soon. Soon is like... like tomorrow. Or next week. Not this long."

His mum sat down on the bed next to him. She took his hand. Her hand was warm. Lando's was cold. The frog book was on the bedside table, watching.

"Sometimes," she said, "soon means something different. Sometimes it means... we don't know when. But we hope."

Lando looked at her. "Do you hope?"

She looked at the window, at Oscar's house, dark and quiet in the afternoon light. "I hope every day."

Lando nodded. "Me too."

--- ❀ ---

The first year, Lando stopped asking.

He still looked at Oscar's house. He still read the frog book. He still kept the spaceship drawing on his bedside table. But he stopped asking when Oscar was coming back. Because his mum didn't know. His dad didn't know. No one knew.

He didn't notice when a few more years passed, time was confusing without Oscar in it.

One night, Lando heard his parents talking. They were in the kitchen, their voices low, the way they talked when they didn't want him to hear. But Lando was eleven now. He was good at listening. He stood at the top of the stairs, the frog book in his hands, and he listened.

"I can't believe they just left," his mum was saying. Her voice sounded tight. Like a rubber band about to snap. "No word. Nothing. All these years. I was her best friend. We told each other everything. And she didn't even say goodbye."

"They had to, Cisca. You know what happened with the company. The town was angry. People were getting hurt. The Pattersons had to move too. It wasn't just them."

"But we would have helped them. We would have done something. We were their family. And they just... disappeared. Like we meant nothing."

There was a long silence. Then his dad said, "Maybe it was too hard. Maybe saying goodbye would have made it impossible to leave."

Lando stood in the hallway, his back against the wall, his hands holding the frog book so tight his knuckles were white.

They left. Oscar left. He didn't go on a vacation. He left. And he didn't say goodbye. His mum knew. His dad knew. Everyone knew. And no one told him.

Lando went back to his room. He sat on his bed. He looked at the spaceship drawing, the one with the wobbly lines and the backwards letters. 

BILD IT TOMRO. 

He looked at the frog book, the cover worn soft, the spine cracked, the pages loose. He looked out the window at Oscar's house, dark and empty and quiet, the garden a jungle, the gate rusted shut.

Oscar was gone. And he wasn't coming back.

Lando didn't cry. He was eleven now. Eleven-year-olds didn't cry. He lay down on his bed and stared at the ceiling and didn't cry. He held the frog book against his chest, the way he'd held it that first morning, the way Oscar used to hold it when he read.

His chest hurt. It hurt like something was missing. Like a piece of him had gone away and taken all the air with it.

He opened the frog book to the first page. He traced the words with his finger, the way Oscar used to trace them for him.

The frog lived in a pond. The water was green and the reeds were tall.

The koala lived in a tree. The leaves were soft and the branches were strong.

They did not know each other.

"But then they met," Lando whispered. His voice cracked on the last word, the way his voice did sometimes now that he was getting older. "And they became best friends."

He closed the book. He put it on the bedside table, next to the spaceship drawing. He folded the drawing carefully, the way he did every night, and put it under his pillow.

Maybe Oscar wasn't coming back. Maybe Lando would never see him again. Maybe the promise was broken. Maybe forever wasn't as long as they thought it was.

But Lando wasn't ready to let go. Not yet. Not ever.

He would wait. He didn't know what he was waiting for. He didn't know if it would ever come. But waiting was the only thing he knew how to do. Waiting was the only way he knew how to love Oscar.

--- ❀ ---

Two more years passed.

Lando was thirteen now. He was tall. His voice was deeper, though it still cracked sometimes. He didn't wear Spider-Man wellies anymore. He didn't carry the frog book everywhere. He didn't look at Oscar's house every morning.

But he still looked sometimes.

He stood at his window, looking at the house next door. The garden was completely wild now, the grass up to his knees, the bushes swallowing the path. The gate between their gardens was rusted, the latch stuck, the wood rotting. The paint on the door was peeling, grey flakes scattered on the doorstep. The curtains were still closed, faded now, the stars barely visible.

But the pit was still there. The digging zone. The place where they'd made mountains and guarded them with sticks. It was overgrown now, covered in weeds and grass and brambles. But Lando could still see it. He could still see Oscar sitting there, his tongue poking out, his chubby cheeks covered in mud, his brown eyes bright.

He could still hear Oscar's voice. We made it together.

Lando put his hand on the window. The glass was cold.

"Oscar," he whispered. "Where are you?"

The house didn't answer. It never did.

Lando turned away from the window. He had school tomorrow. He had homework. He had a life. A life without Oscar in it.

But sometimes, late at night, when he couldn't sleep, he would take out the spaceship drawing from under his pillow. He would unfold it carefully, the paper soft as fabric now, the lines almost gone.

He would look at the wobbly spaceship and the backwards letters. And then he would pick up the frog book from his bedside table, the cover worn smooth, the spine held together with tape, the pages yellowed at the edges.

He would open it to the first page. He would trace the words with his finger. And he would remember.

The chocolate eyes. The pinky promise. The boy who read him every book. The boy who said he'd read him every book on every planet. The boy who left without saying goodbye.

The boy Lando was still waiting for.

Lando would close the book. He would fold the drawing back up. He would put them both under his pillow.

And he would wait.

He didn't know what he was waiting for. He didn't know if it would ever come. Twelve years had passed. Twelve years of waiting. Twelve years of hoping.

But waiting was the only thing he knew. Waiting was the only way he knew how to love Oscar, still.