Chapter Text
Hypergame (n.): A “game within a game” which occurs when one player does not fully know how to play (or that they’re already playing).
Lando Norris doesn’t know where he’s going. This is true on most days, but especially today.
Hypergame Studios is a maze of glossy hallways and locked doors. It’s morning in London, the light low and cold. A window behind the Brit casts his shadow far ahead of him.
Step, step, step, rattle-rattle, click-clack. A laminated badge taps Lando’s button-up as he jiggles each handle. None give. Great.
Lewis did say the café was on the fourth floor, right? What was the name again? Quarter? Quartet? Quadratic? Lando never was good at math.
The name doesn’t matter—there are no signs. The plaques beside each door are blank, shiny as mirrors.
Lando examines his reflection and smooths brown curls. Last night’s lack of sleep has rimmed blue eyes pink.
Maybe I oughta go back and ask for directions.
Lewis won’t judge him for it. Probably. The artist seems kind enough, if scattered. Granted, he hadn’t known the intern was starting today, let alone that he had one for the next six weeks, but that was to be expected in such a fast-paced workplace.
Lando shoves down the unease bubbling in his gut.
How often does a fresh uni grad get an arts internship at the UK’s top games company? Not very often, Lando thinks. He wouldn’t mind getting lost every day to keep the line on his CV, never mind getting paid to do it—even if it is minimum wage.
It’s Day 1 of 42—or 30, not counting weekends. He can’t run back to Lewis with his tail between his legs.
Right. All I have to do is find this café.
Lando rounds the corner, and his target reveals itself.
Before him stands a wall of glass. Thin silver rails partition its panes. Beyond them, on the inside, an expanse of black and white. Checkerboard tile. Tables and chairs. A long bar piled with gleaming machines. This must be the place.
The intern picks up his pace, jogging toward the narrow opening. If I’m lucky, I’ll be first in—
Smack. Thud.
The ceiling spins. Hm, that’s not good.
Pain blooms from the center of his face. It throbs. Tears prickle, unbidden, and the world ripples. A cloudy blob looms above him.
Great, I’m seeing things. Maybe I’m concussed. Well done, Lando.
Oh. The blob is talking. A deep voice rises in both pitch and volume. Lando strains to hear it past the ringing in his ears.
“—ello? Hello? Can you hear me?”
The blob has an accent. Spanish, maybe, or Portuguese, or Italian. Lando can’t tell the difference. He never was good at geography, either. Or linguistics.
“…Mierda. Charles, call 999.”
Definitely Spanish. But who’s Charles?
The Spaniard’s still blobby, but starting to sharpen.
Something sticky smears Lando’s upper lip. He licks it—it tastes of pennies—before he speaks.
“No, no ambulance. M’fine,” he mumbles, aware he’s likely not, but unwilling to be carted off on his first day.
“You are not fine, amigo.”
Damn. This guy’s good.
Lando hauls himself onto his elbows. Then, a large hand on his chest presses him back, and he flinches.
“Don’t touch me there,” Lando says, humiliated the instant he does. “Erm, please.”
“Sorry, sorry.” The man begins to swim into view. Lando can make out two tanned arms, raised in apology. “I am sorry. But you hit your head, no?”
“Nah, mate,” Lando lies, “just my nose, I think.”
“Okay.” There is a hesitant pause. “Eh… can I see your—¿Cómo se dice “pupilas”?—pupils?”
“Leave him be, Carlos,” says a different voice, and this one sounds Italian. Or is it French? That must be Charles. A silhouette shifts, clearly agitated, in Lando’s periphery.
“For your information, Charles, I am first-aid certified, so I have a responsibility to—”
“My god, this again? You think you are so slick—”
As the two bicker, Lando blinks them into focus.
Oh no. They’re hot.
The man kneeling over him—Carlos, Charles called him—is a portrait chalked in soft pastels. His palette is cohesive: almond, chestnut, coffee. Despite this, he’s all sharp relief, hard lines in a black tee.
His jaw, a right angle, clenches. Charcoal brows contrast canvas skin as they furrow at his counterpart.
Charles, on the other hand, is a sculpture, face straight from the French Romantics. Alabaster cradles sea green eyes. There’s a beauty mark dotted beneath one, placement careful.
Swallowed in a gauzy white top, he stands contrapposto, arms crossed. It feels posed.
But it’s no time for a figure study, though Lando could do this all day. He hasn’t felt so inspired since finishing his degree. Something about the male form, he thinks wryly.
Lando shakes his head and the hall tilts harder. He pushes himself up on sweaty palms.
Carlos and Charles, still arguing, don’t see him sit, then squat, then stand. Only when he clears his throat do the pair take notice.
“See?” Charles motions, offhand, to Lando. “He is fine. Carlos, we need to set up or we will be late.”
So they work here? Yeah, that makes sense.
Lando dabs his nostrils with a sleeve. The blood’s mostly dried, flaky like old paint, but one blot of red stains cornflower blue. It blossoms, feathers. He rolls his cuffs with a whispered curse.
Carlos stares up at them, then slumps in defeat. He rises, fishing jingling keys from his pocket, and unlocks the door. It slides open, soundless.
Lando can hardly see it, even with the smudges he left. “Should probably polish that less,” he says as they enter. “Safety hazard, innit?”
Neither man replies. Three sets of footsteps ricochet off tile, each keeping different time.
The café is bleak, at least by Lando’s standards: grayscale, bare-walled, polished to a glare. Chrome napkin holders serve as each table’s sole décor. They glint with light artificial and not.
The trio approaches the counter.
Ultra-thin text comes into view across its front: QUADRANT. The Q holds a scope’s crosshairs like a first-person shooter. It’s stark, masculine, and perfect for Hypergame, the intern supposes.
Charles ducks behind the bar, then re-emerges with a spray bottle and yellow-green cloth. “You take his order,” he says to Carlos.
It’s not a question.
“I will…”—Charles continues, jabbing in Lando’s direction—“clean up after this one.”
What. A. Prick.
“I have a name,” blurts Lando, surprising even himself.
The two gawk at him like he’s gotten naked.
“I mean—I’m Lando. And I can clean up after myself, thanks.” He reaches for the rag and bottle.
Charles yanks them out of range. “Congratulations.” His tone is akin to contempt, or sarcasm, or perhaps pity.
The maybe-Frenchman stomps away with a huff.
Carlos looks mortified by his coworker’s behavior. Sorry, he mouths, lips moist, mottled as if they’ve just been bitten. It’s not a bad look.
Lando waves him off, flustered.
The barista stations himself behind the counter. “What do you need? I have to get everything ready, but I will make your order straight away.” His tongue skips off the letter R like a stone across smooth water.
God, he’s lovely.
Carlos cocks a brow.
Lando bites his tongue and prays he didn’t say that aloud.
What did Lewis want, again? Lando doesn’t see a menu anywhere. He sniffs and feels a twinge, then a trickle down his chin. Shit.
Carlos pales white as paper. “Dios mío. Come here.”
Before Lando can move of his own accord, cool fingers wrap around his forearm. They close all the way.
He sways, suddenly dizzy. I must be losing a lot of blood.
Carlos tugs his customer around the corner, through a doorway, then another. It’s a blur of smell and color. Through the metallic tang, there’s a sweetness Lando can’t place.
Then, darkness. His vision sparkles.
Click. Fluorescent bulbs hum to life.
They’re in a supply closet, or some such room. Besides the electric buzz, it’s quiet.
Cardboard boxes rest on industrial shelves. There’s a washbasin in the back corner, wicker bin beneath it.
On the left wall is a small row of lockers. Carlos approaches the nearest one, which bears a weathered Real Madrid sticker, and twists the lock. It pops open.
“Rrright,” he trills. “Take off your shirt.”
Lando really might faint. “What?”
The Spaniard glances over his shoulder. “You cannot wear that, eh?”
The Brit peers down. Crimson spatters his front like a crime scene. With the comic timing of an actor, another drop drips onto his collar. “Erm, no, but—”
“Please, I am trained to deal with blood and you are… probably not. Take that off.” Carlos’s tone isn’t dismissive or demanding, just hurried. “Here.”
In one hand, the man holds a handkerchief; in the other, a burgundy dress shirt on a flocked hanger.
A handkerchief. What film is this guy from?
Lando accepts both items anyway. The shirt is silk, slippery to the touch, entirely too nice for him. It’s a grown man’s shirt. The handkerchief is the same.
He stuffs the latter into his pocket and prays for the floor to swallow him whole.
“Don’t worry, amigo,” says Carlos in reassurance. He covers his eyes with two palms like a toddler. It’s weirdly endearing. Between wrists dusted with dark fuzz, white teeth gleam. “I will not look.”
Somehow, Lando believes him, this man he’s known for five minutes. Still, he turns around to change, facing the door from whence they entered.
He’s got two buttons undone when it opens.
It’s not Charles.
The stranger is tall-ish, mid-thirties, broad-shouldered. His eyebrows are blond, almost invisible, while brown hair and stubble frame his face. Cerulean eyes widen at the spectacle before him.
Lando squeezes his own shut, along with his shirtfront. Arms cross against his front as if bracing for impact.
This has to be a nightmare. But why is everyone in it so handsome?
“Carlos, my friend… why do you have a boy in our pantry? And why is he getting undressed?”
Okay, this guy’s French. Boy rather than man hurts; Lando can’t pretend it doesn’t.
“Carlos has who in where doing what?” asks another, similarly accented.
How many French people work here? Where did they post this job, the bloody Paris Metro?
He risks a peek. The newest arrival peeks back, wedged between a bicep and the doorjamb. He’s slighter and younger than the other, but no less blond, scruffy, or attractive. They look related, if distantly.
The man winks at him, and heat curls below Lando’s belly button.
I’m too gay for this.
“Oh? What’s happened to you?” the older one inquires. He leans in and licks a thumb to rub at Lando’s philtrum and chin. It brushes his bottom lip. Yep, he’s going to faint.
“Romain! Biohazard,” Carlos barks. “You made us do that training! Go wash your hands in the kitchen.”
Romain shrinks. “Sorry,” he says, more to Lando than Carlos. There’s a lilt to his inflection, lifting like everything’s a question. “A father’s instinct, you know?” He gives them an apologetic grimace, then exits.
Lando scrubs his face with the handkerchief. Unsanitary or not, Romain’s method proves effective; barely any mess is left. The hair on the back of Lando’s neck stands up—he has the sense he’s being watched.
When he slowly lowers the fabric, he is.
The remaining Frenchman grins. “That’s better. Look at you.” If Romain spoke only in questions, this one does the same with flirtation, every word heavy with suggestion. “What’s your name?”
“Leave us, Pierre,” Carlos warns.
Neither Lando nor Pierre’s gaze wavers.
“Just making conversation, Carlos.” Pierre’s eye contact is constant, piercing; Lando squirms. “So,” the blond stage-whispers, “are you a… friend of his?”
Bang. They both jump as Carlos slams his locker shut. “Cabrón. You are making him and me uncomfortable. Leave.”
“But I need f—”
“Now.”
Pierre slinks away with a sullen expression.
Lando exhales. He hadn’t known he was holding his breath, and his ribs ache. His nose still hurts, too. Come to think of it, so does his head, and the muscle knot he woke with in his neck has yet to dissipate. He wants to cry.
I’m only 23, and my body is falling apart, and I’ve embarrassed myself in front of four gorgeous men.
Carlos sighs, which snaps Lando from his reverie of self-pity, not for the first time. “Sorry about them,” he apologizes. “The bakers. They get here too early; I think they lose their minds.”
“Hah. No need to be sorry,” says Lando, who thinks he means it. “But, erm… does this door lock?” He flushes at the potential implications, but Carlos seems unfazed.
“No,” the Spaniard says, “not since the incident. But I will hold it for you.”
The… incident? “O-oh. You don’t have to—”
But Carlos already is, hand on handle, gaze averted. “Go ahead, hermano.”
Brother. It’s one of the few terms Lando retained from primary-school Spanish.
Comfort settles over him like a duvet fresh from the dryer. His fingers stop shaking, and belatedly, he realizes he was shaking.
Without shame—and with only slight hesitation—Lando unbuttons his top and shucks it off. It falls with the softest sound.
Carlos, upright and true to his word, does not look. From this angle, he’s less a pastel portrait, more a soldier painted in oils: hair mussed just so, fist white-knuckling steel, spine an arrow to the sky. A man out of time.
Beautiful Carlos. Who are you? Where did they find you?
Lando, out of habit, covers himself to change. Raised crescents underscore flat pectorals. The scars are better than they were. Sometimes he forgets they exist. Those times are the best.
The feeling’s not exactly euphoric—at least, not like he’d imagined. It’s better. Instead of pleasure, a release from pain, from discomfort. A knot loosed in the chest, a set of wings spread. A freeing.
The sleeves feel like nothing when he slips them on.
“Okay,” Lando croaks once he’s tucked and buttoned, badge clipped back into place.
Carlos cautiously turns, then beams. “Wow. It’s nice, no?”
“Really nice. Very, very nice. A bit too nice…?”
“No, no, please. I insist.”
Carlos pinches Lando’s soiled top between a thumb and forefinger. He walks it to the bin, drops it in, then starts to wash his hands.
“Este… what was your order?”
“Oh.” Lando’s synapses finally decide to fire. “A… large iced americano, oat milk, no sweetener. For Lewis.”
“Arts Department, eh?” Chuckles bubble over running water. “First day? I have never seen you before.”
“Yeah.” His emphasis on the you, plus the implication he’d have remembered, makes Lando’s stomach flutter. “Well, I’m just an intern. But I’ll be around—at least, for the next six weeks.”
“Six weeks, eh? Hm.” Carlos turns off the tap. “That is not such a long time.”
Does he sound… disappointed? Lando dismisses the errant notion. There’s a line between hope and delusion. In any case, the man’s words are encouraging, even if he didn’t intend them to be.
“And what for you?”
“Huh?”
Carlos dries his hand with a fresh towel from the shelf beside him, then chucks it, too, in the basket. “What would you like? A drink, a pastry? We charge to the company, you know.”
“Ah…” Lando can’t manage food right now, and he doesn’t drink caffeine, besides the occasional milk tea at midday.
What do grown men with real jobs drink?
“C-coffee. Black coffee. Please.”
“Okay. We do French press, not drip.”
Of course they do. It’s French. What does that even mean?
“Hot or iced?”
“Erm… hot?”
“Are you asking me, hermano?”
Carlos’s remark is good-natured, but Lando blushes regardless.
“Heh, just kidding. Hot it is.” The barista studies his wristwatch. “Ay. I should go. Charles will have my head.”
“How long’s it been?” The question tumbles from his lips on instinct. Lando doesn’t know why he asks when they’re both in a hurry, why he wants to prolong this conversation past its expiration date.
Carlos humors him anyway. “About ten minutes?”
“Oh.” Longest ten minutes of my life, then. “That’s not bad.”
“No.” Carlos steps toward him once, twice, and all the air drains from the room.
They’re so close their noses almost touch.
For a breathless second, Lando thinks they’ll kiss.
Carlos squints, then frowns, and that thought pops like a bubble. “Your… pupils? They’re big. Keep an eye on them.” He opens the door with an elbow. “No pun intended,” the Spaniard sing-songs, then he’s gone.
Lando’s rooted to the spot, stunned, until a blond head pokes into the pantry.
“Carlos left? Good,” Pierre says. “I do need flour.” He leans against the wall with a smirk. “By the way, I didn’t get your name.”
In lieu of a response, Lando passes the Frenchman, whose cologne smells of roses. He drifts down the hall, past the kitchen with a diligent Romain, toward the bustle of the café.
It’s lively now, too much so for a Monday morning. His headache pounds.
Maybe the coffee’ll help.
Carlos and Charles are blurs behind the bar. The speed at which they work is at once awe-inspiring and frightening. Carlos, in particular, moves with practiced ease, competence honed like a sword’s edge.
Two cups—one opaque paper, one transparent plastic, both in cardboard sleeves—appear on the countertop.
Carlos bows with a flourish. “Two up for Lando.”
Oh. It’s the first time Carlos has said his name.
Lando assumed the Spaniard hadn’t caught it in the moment, but here it is, returned to him, a boomerang out of the blue. It strikes him right in the temple, and he sees sparks.
Uh oh. This is bad.
Carlos waits, expectant, toned arms propped on the bar.
As much as Lando wants to grab those instead, he settles for the cups.
“Thanks, mate,” the intern says. “I mean, Carlos. Thank you. For… all of that.”
The words feel anticlimactic—flat, even—but Carlos bows once more, lower this time. “My pleasure, Lando.” He surfaces with a blinding smile.
More employees come up to order, rushed.
“Carlos,” Charles calls. “A little help over here?”
Carlos’s smile falls from just his eyes. “Sorry,” he mutters to Lando.
Then, to Charles: “Coming!”
As Lando departs, he swears two separate stares burn holes into his back.
Miraculously, his feet don’t fail him on the way out. He doesn’t faint, or trip, or slip into a one-kneed kneel and propose marriage. It’d be just his luck, today.
He floats to the lifts amidst a throng of suits, one starling in a flock, mind a million miles off.
The doors close and the lift ascends.
As it does, Lando tries to decipher Carlos’s all-caps Sharpie scrawl. The clear cup reads LEWIS :) while the white cup reads LANDO ♡. Oh.
Lando, the man had called him. Twice! Three times, if writing counts. Yes, it’s his name, but it sounds different from Carlos’s mouth, made new. Melodic, like birdsong or windchimes.
Ding. Here’s his floor. Level 7: Arts Department.
An open-plan labyrinth of monitors sprawls before him.
Lewis isn’t at his station, so Lando roams an ocean of unfamiliar portraits until he spots braids and a violet jumper, hunched over a binder of looseleaf concept sketches. A red grease pencil’s tucked behind his ear.
Lando coughs.
“Gah!” Lewis startles at the intern’s abrupt appearance.
Indigo veins branch around inky eyes. His deep skin is sallow. Even his tattoos—clean, bold lines—seem to sag with fatigue.
“Jeez. Don’t scare me like that, kid.”
“I just… walked over.” Lando’s baffled, but he knows the artist isn’t frazzled at him, specifically. “Here.”
He sets Lewis’s drink on the desk, ignoring the dizziness the simple motion gives him.
The man snatches his cup and takes several swigs. “Ahh, thanks. Got a busy day ahead of us, man. Ack—”
He breaks off, clutching his forehead, and Lando hovers in awkward alarm.
“Brain freeze. Gimme a sec.”
Lewis’s panic is understandable. It’s deadline week for preliminary storyboards for Hyperdrive II: Drive 2 Survive, the latest-and-greatest Hypergame Studios racing sim.
Lando’s never played the original, and he plans to take that fact to his grave.
“Wait, did you—” Lewis scrutinizes the intern top-to-bottom, then shakes his head. “Never mind. Anyway, we’ve got that Story Mode meeting with Writing in…”
Lando lets his boss fade into soft focus. He’s not expected to contribute, just follow along like a dog—a good dog that sometimes fetches coffee. He nods and takes a gulp of his own.
It’s… not what he expected.
It’s hot—hot-hot—and strong. Sharp acidity roils in his gut like a rogue wave. He reels with the much-ness of it.
Carlos was right. I am not fine.
“Whoa, Norris, you good, buddy? You don’t—”
He retches. A Pollock splatters the folio.
Lewis freezes statue-still, an ice sculpture, or performance-art portrayal of shock.
“M’sorry,” Lando gasps as the curtains fall.
It’s pouring outside St. Bartholomew’s.
George’s silver Ford Focus idles at the curb, its clouds rivaling those in the sky, gray on gray on gray. It’s a melancholy palette.
His flatmate’s side profile—unfairly chiseled—makes a striking bust through the window. Even in silhouette, he looks distressed.
Lando lets the nurses wheel him to the door, but no further.
He stands on shaky legs and grabs his canvas rucksack. He’ll have to thank Lewis for handing it to the EMTs—that is, assuming the man will ever talk to him again. He cringes.
Hell of a first impression, Lando.
“Lando!” George calls as the automatic doors part.
Lando recoils again—not from embarrassment, but pain. He covers his ears, then his eyes. He can’t decide. It’s all too bright and too loud.
Thankfully, George gets the message.
The lanky man moves to bracket Lando, coat in hands, covering him from the elements. George loads his passenger—and his passenger’s bag—into the car. He takes care not to slam the door, although he’s getting soaked.
Lando’s chest swells with either vomit or affection.
George slides back into the driver’s seat. Even damp, he’s handsome, tawny locks gone chocolate. Baby blue eyes are blown wide; raindrops drape from his face like jewelry.
“Lando,” he says. “Bleedin’ hell. You alright? Your text didn’t explain much. Scared me half to death.”
“Yeah, m’good. Well, concussed, duh,” Lando concedes, bleary. “Hurt my nose, too. Stupid. My fault. Sorry to interrupt your school stuff.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” George scoffs. “You’re never an interruption. Plus, no classes today. So you saved me from the sad, solitary fate of library science revision.”
“Happy to be of service.” Lando attempts a salute. It’s pathetic, and George isn’t even watching.
The student taps away at his phone, its screen cracked. “Alex just got off work. We’re getting takeaway, that kebab you like. D’you wanna fill me in now, or d’you wanna wait for him?”
“Want Alex.” Lando curls into his seat. The world spins, though the car hasn’t moved. He breathes, fighting the urge to be sick.
George hums and cracks the passenger’s side window.
“Thanks.” Lando preens in relief. “Love you.”
“Hmm. But not as much as Alex, right?”
Lando snorts, then groans at the sting.
“S’okay. I like him best too,” George says of his boyfriend, like it’s an admission. He scans the hospital parking lot. “Not been long since we’ve been here, has it?”
Lando recalls his top surgery just months ago, the care with which George and Alex had helped him into the car, their flat, his bed. The next day, they washed his hair in the bath with such tenderness Lando felt he’d shatter. He tingles at the thought. “Guess not.”
“Better circumstances, that.” George buzzes his lips at his maps app, roads forming a red spiderweb. “Blimey. Gotta go Westminster way, cross at Lambeth. City traffic’s a bloody cluster.”
Lando winces. “Sorry.”
“Why?” George sets his phone speaker-up into a cup holder and shifts gears. Over robotic directions, he continues, “You can’t control the traffic, love. Or the weather.”
“…Guess not,” Lando repeats, though that’s not what he meant.
Rain speckles his window. One droplet sneaks through the sliver. It rolls down the inside, little but quick, to kiss a freckled wrist. It’s cold.
Lando jumps, but doesn’t brush it away.
“Hey. You alright?” George asks, hand on the passenger’s seat, prepared to back out.
“Yeah.” Lando’s exhausted, full of emotions too big for his body. “Just wanna go home.”
“Good thing that’s where we’re going.”
Despite the finality of the statement, George’s gaze lingers on the younger man, who bristles, brittle. “What? ”
“That a new shirt? Never seen it in the wash.” The driver cranes his neck to reverse in earnest. “S’nice on you, is all.”
“Oh. Erm, thanks.” Lando closes his eyes, cheeks aflame. Silk clings to clammy skin. “Long story.”
“It can wait, then… Oi! Don’t fall asleep.”
It does wait, and Lando doesn’t sleep—not for lack of trying. Between rain-patters and the waning sun, the passenger would gladly have succumbed, were it not for George and his rants on urban planning.
It’s night when they arrive in Camberwell.
Each block looks alike, even after dusk: four stories, brick façade, weak orange lamps. Windows glow in curtain-filtered hues. Wet blacktop glistens with colorful squares like confetti.
Wish I had my camera. Wanna paint this later.
Lando vows to commit it to memory instead.
George pulls into a space by their front door. The artist counts his lucky stars they’re on the first floor—he’s not sure he could handle stairs right now.
Alex’s blue Astra is parked one spot over. A protection amulet dangles from its rearview mirror. Alex had protested when his mother hung it up, but had gifted similar charms to his flatmates days later, “just in case.”
Lando’s amulet lives in the rucksack on his lap, while George’s adorns his neck, tucked under his tee. Lando knows it’s navy, but in the dark, it’s almost black like Carlos’s. Oh, Carlos.
But, speaking of George, he’s speaking. “—ando. Lando?”
“Huh?” Lando yawns. “Sorry. Zoned out.”
“…I could tell. Stay with me, okay?”
“Stay with me? What is this, Casualty?”
“Why on earth do I put up with you?”
“Because you love me, duh.”
“I do.” George, as ever, ruins the mood with sincerity. “Idiot,” he adds, pocketing his phone. “Right. Don’t get out yet; s’nasty. I’ll come get you.”
“Mmkay.” Lando unbuckles his seatbelt as the driver exits. He hugs his bag to his torso as heavy rain lashes the windshield.
George yelps, audible even to Lando in the airtight cab.
Then, they’re both washed bright. Yellow spills forth from their entryway.
Lando’s door opens, and an arm snakes around his waist, other lifting his bag. “M’not infirm, George,” he protests, but he doesn’t reject the assistance. He leans left and swings weary legs to the pavement.
Another body braces his on the right, and oh—that’s Alex.
“Poor dove,” he coos as the two hoist Lando aloft. George grunts; Alex doesn’t. “Let’s get you inside.”
They manage it, only mildly drenched for their efforts.
George hangs Lando’s rucksack on a coat hook.
Six shoes shuffle against the welcome mat. Two gray cats weave through the trio’s legs.
“Duckie, Goosey,” Alex chides, “not the time, darlings.”
The twins never listen, and they don’t start now.
Alex picks up one of them—Lando can’t be sure which—George the other. Two tails trail into the living room.
It’s dim, warm, and smells of fatty lamb. Everything is salmon pink, thanks to George’s recent purchase of two Himalayan salt lamps.
“They don’t do anything, George,” Alex had complained.
“They’re for ambiance, Alexander,” his partner had countered.
Now they’re the only light in the flat, for which Lando is privately grateful. He’s sure it was Alex who set this stage. It’s rosy, amniotic.
They flop on the sofa three wide, Alex and George at either end. Two hands fly up to shield the back of Lando’s skull, cats cradled in opposite arms.
Somehow, his flatmates’ hovering annoys him. He’s not going to hurt himself further by sitting down. He’s not that useless.
I’m not a goddamn kid. Especially not theirs.
Anger flares like a floodlight at sea, cast outward, illuminating nothing. The aftertaste is a guilt bitter as bile, gradual as the tide.
Lando bounces his knees, aware the pair hates it, but unable to stop.
Alex’s thigh steadies his like a seawall, then George’s does the same.
It works. The choppy water in him calms.
Newly settled, Duckie and Goosey flank Lando with purrs he can feel more than hear. Alex and George, ever in sync, rub his back and pet the twins.
What right do I have to be upset with them?
“So,” Alex begins. Bronze skin shimmers with the remnants of rain, droplets lodged in brassy dyed waves. He’s stunning, generous, and not an ungrateful brat. “What happened?”
Lando laughs humorlessly. “Huh. Loaded question.”
Their takeaway rests on the coffee table, an ideal diversion.
Lando unknots the bag and grabs a container. Styrofoam squeaks against damp fingers. The other two follow suit, as if given permission.
Over plastic forkfuls of pita and meat, Lando relays the day’s events.
To their credit, Alex and George rarely interrupt, only to clarify names—“So there’s a Carlos and a Charles?”—and details—“Wait, actual silk? In this economy?”
By the time Lando’s finished, he’s both full and spent.
“And now I’m off work for at least a week, but you two got me home and took care of me. So… thanks. For that, and for listening.”
“Always,” says George, so earnest it hurts. “Always here for that, Lando. …And to provide you with cat therapy.”
It’s too much for Lando; he has to deflect. “Hmm. Alex, is ‘cat therapy’ a thing? Sounds fake.” He holds his fork to Alex’s mouth, a mock mic.
“No. Seek a human therapist.” Alex raises a pointer finger. “It is unfair to expect such emotional labor from our furry friends.” He kisses Duckie—or is that Goosey?—between triangular ears.
“What?” George cries quietly. “Cat therapy is a thing! You coined the phrase!”
“Oh no, darling, I don’t recall that at all,” Alex jokes between cat-smooches.
“Uh oh, George, I think I’ll have to side with the licensed veterinarian on this one.”
“You two are the worst. The actual worst.”
George, scorned, retreats to the kitchen. Then, just as quickly, he returns, padding soft on socked feet.
“Didn’t wanna shout. Lando, can I make you anything? Tea?”
“Erm, well,” Lando scratches the back of his neck. “Gotta stay awake, or else you’ll have to wake me up every few hours. Sorry.” He hates saying it, the burdensome worry that gnaws at his gut.
Alex’s forehead creases. “Did the doctor tell you that?”
“Everyone knows that. Saw it on Reddit or something.”
“I… don’t think that’s factual,” Alex says gently. He runs a thumb along Lando’s knuckles, their peaks and valleys. “You hit your head, what, this morning? More than a few hours ago. So you can sleep, love.”
“…So you don’t think I can do it?”
Lando’s met with exasperated groans, plus a muttered “Here we go.”
“No, you don’t think I could stay up, even if my life depended on it?”
“It doesn’t, though,” George says. “Feel like that’s key.”
Lando disregards the interruption. “Why, because I’m a baby? Because I’m a child with a bedtime?” Airing his grievances feels good, even if it’s not helping his case. He has the sneaking suspicion that, were he 10+ years younger, this tangent would be dubbed a tantrum. He doesn't disagree.
“Fine,” Alex sighs. “Stay awake. How d’you propose we help you do that?”
Lando ponders his options.
Black tea’s caffeinated, but he only likes his made with milk, and they’re out. Green tea tastes like grass. Coffee tastes like something that rhymes with grass, but it’s a taste he wants to acquire.
“Erm. Coffee, maybe?”
Alex and George gape at their flatmate, and Lando’s struck by déjà vu.
George grabs his keys.
“Where are you going?” Lando asks, bewildered.
“Back to Barts, and you’re coming with me, because you’ve clearly suffered more damage than they thought.”
“C’mon, I’m serious!”
“So am I,” George says. “You’re not acting like yourself.”
“Let him have some coffee, babe,” says Alex, stuffing takeaway remains into the bag. “What’s the harm? He has a week off work; we have a toilet. And a bucket. Worst case, he’ll still stay awake.”
George whines and wrinkles his nose, but relents. “Fine,” he sighs. “But you’re making it. And a cup for me, too, if you please.”
Alex reluctantly shuffles to the kitchen. The pat-pat pat-pat of his terrycloth slippers mimics a heartbeat.
Lando’s been banned from screentime—doctor’s orders. In the wake of this edict, he and George come to a compromise. The older scrolls TikTok for him to find (and describe) funny videos.
Sadly, their humor doesn’t quite mesh, and Lando ends up more perplexed than amused.
“No, no, there’s a smaller capybara on top! S’usually f-fruit,” George explains, tearful with mirth. “You’ve seen th-the hot spring videos from Japan, right? Where they put oranges on them? Just wa—Well, can’t show you, actually, but. S’cute.”
“Right, but how is that funny?”
“Dunno, it just is. Alex would get it.”
There’s a lot Lando doesn’t get, lately.
As if summoned, Alex returns to the sofa, steaming mugs in hand: two in one fist, one in the other.
He hands the lone mug to Lando, who tries not to read into that, then peeks at the screen—“Hah! Ah, yeah, it’s funny. Sorry.”—and pecks George on the cheek.
George is chuffed as he takes his coffee. “Cheers?”
Clink. The couple toasts, but waits to drink.
The video’s restarted, and George points out the best parts to Alex. The low-angle glow exaggerates their features, down to the fine lines. They’re years older, pencil drawings of themselves. Eyes whisker in unison as they wheeze.
It must be funny after all.
Lando stares into his cup, its deep, unblinking eye, and wonders why it feels familiar.
No matter. It’s getting cold.
He takes the first sip.