Chapter Text
Lando Norris
hey oscar, lando here
u free to catch up some day?
Oscar blinks down at his phone. Lando Norris. It's been a while since he's last heard the name. He hadn't even realised he still had the contact saved in his phone. But, well, he hadn't bothered to delete any of his contacts from his school days. He probably should some day, before his contacts list becomes too cluttered with unneeded names.
He remembers Lando, that noisy Brit in his college classes. He remembers him for being perpetually late, looking like a harried mess with his head of curls stubbornly askew, always swathed in oversized hoodies even when they were in the peak of summer. Despite that, the teachers loved him. Oscar could see why. He had a bright smile, the kind of laugh that could be described as infectious, and was a natural-born charmer.
Oscar remembers his eyes too—a confusing amalgamation of grey, blue, and green. Basically inviting scrutiny, easy to get lost in them.
Sure, the Brit had his moments. Like the time he'd broken out in fits of giggles that quickly devolved into uncontrollable peals of laughter, leaving him in tears and effectively disrupting the class, just because one of their fellow Aussie classmates had been joking about pubes of all things. It was childish. But Oscar had been a boy too, so he kind of gets it. Probably. Maybe pube talk isn't exactly his definition of peak humour, but some people take a bit longer to mature, and that's completely fine.
Oscar might have been a bit biased in his assessments though. Maybe he had been a tad bit infatuated with the boy. Just a little. Maybe he had been a bit obsessed with the easy way Lando had bestowed nicknames upon him, calling him things like ‘Osc’ or ‘Osco’, even ‘Os'. Maybe it had made Oscar feel a little bit special that he hadn't seen Lando doing the same for all his other friends—and he had many. And maybe he appreciated how Lando seemed to go out of his way to make Oscar laugh, not that it was a hard task to achieve with how easily humoured Oscar was by this mess of a boy.
Alright, maybe Oscar might have had a major crush on the boy. But. That was ages ago. They haven't spoken in the two years since they've graduated.
Oscar lets his fingers hover over the keyboard for a moment, chewing on his lip. He's not deliberating whether or not he'd like to answer. That's not the question here. It's more of an attempt to talk himself out of saying something overly eager and stupid, like, ‘Oh hey Lando. Yes, sure!’, or, ‘I'd love to catch up with you! What are you up to these days?’
Yeah nah, not saying any of that.
He slowly types back a response, a carefully worded, ‘Hey, it's been a while. Sure I can make some time', and hits send before he can second-guess himself. He lets his phone flop onto the space on the sofa beside him, resolutely not listening out for the resounding chime of an incoming text. The notification comes in way too soon though, as if Lando had been on his phone right as Oscar had sent a reply.
Oscar lets out a harsh exhale through his nose, attempts to count to twenty in his head but only makes it to eight, before he plucks up the courage to pick his phone back up and unlock the screen.
Lando Norris
mint
fri 7pm work for u?
Friday night. That's in… two days. Oscar's stomach does something stupid and flippy. Screw his body for getting so easily flustered over absolutely nothing.
He checks his calendar, already knowing full well that he has nothing scheduled on a Friday night, preferring to spend his weekends, Friday nights included, being a recluse on his sofa, gaming or catching up on some cricket match or scrolling mindlessly on his phone.
‘Yup, sure,’ he sends back, to which Lando instantly reacts with a heart emoji, followed by a slew of exclamation marks, and an overexcited ‘cya!!’.
Anxiety is an ugly thing, sending Oscar into a spiral wondering whether it'd be rude to leave the man on read, or if he should say something back. Agonised, he settles for a thumbs up. Overly simple, but it's an acknowledgement at least. Then he proceeds to stare a hole into his screen, hard enough that the Online status vanishes, revealing Lando's last seen timestamp. And then he lets his body melt like putty into his threaded bedsheets.
He's heard the horror stories: Old Acquaintance Reaching Out To Sell Insurance To You. And that could be a possibility, especially with Lando being so good with people and humans and stealing their hearts, he could very easily steal their money by getting them to buy some overpriced investment linked policy plan that they very likely did not need. Not that he thinks Lando could be a scammer. But Oscar also hasn't seen the guy in years, and a lot could change in a man in two years.
Curiosity killed the cat, some might say. And Oscar's aware that his peers liken him to a cat. So sue him, he's curious. Curious to know what's Lando's deal, if he's really just contacting him to sell insurance to him, if he's still the boy that he used to be.
And it's not because Oscar is keen to pry open scarring wounds, see if they'll bleed again. See if there's a chance for his lingering feelings for the boy to finally dissipate after getting some closure, a feat that he has yet to achieve even in the two years of not having heard a single news about the guy. It's absolutely not because of that.
-
Oscar's knee jiggles under the table. He doesn't know what he's so nervous about. It's just Lando. Old schoolmate, random bloke probably just using Oscar to make a living. He was also the most beautiful boy Oscar had ever laid his eyes on, speaking from a completely enamoured and biased perspective. But it's been two years. A lot could change in two years, sometimes even for the worse.
And, oh, it's definitely worse for Oscar's heart when the bell by the door jingles, bringing along a rush of cool air, and a certain Lando Norris comes tumbling in.
He looks… different. Short still, maybe with an additional few centimeters tacked on, but Oscar is pretty sure his head of curls are just adding to the illusion. But his curls—they're just. Beautiful. Like fully shimmering in the light beautiful, Oscar might start to believe in fairies or some shit.
He's dressed nicely too, in a nice shirt and trousers, and he clearly knows how to work an iron. He doesn't seem to know how to pinch his collar together, collar bones peeking out where his buttons lie unbuttoned. It's eye-catching. Oscar hates his eyes for drifting down.
Lando is sporting some admittedly dubious facial hair, hair that he'd struggled to grow back in university, making it everybody’s business with all his moaning and whingeing about it. But despite how it makes him look about ten years older, it's also kind of. Sort of. Really. Hot. Fuck.
His eyes are wide as he enters, scanning the area, and Oscar just knows the swirl of colours there is going to destroy him when he's close enough to get a good look at them. Lando's face splits into a grin when he spots Oscar, and it's just as bright and easy as Oscar remembers it to be. Oscar hopes and prays and pinches his thigh, willing his face not to do something weird, when he stands up to greet the other man.
And he really is a man now. No longer that boy from school, even if he still retained his boyish charms, although his charm is now almost dazzling when it's infused with that easy swagger he now carries himself with.
“Hello,” Oscar says when Lando is close enough.
He hesitates between whether to stick his hand out, wondering if they're even going for a handshake. Too formal? Too proper? But then it ends up with his hand half hanging there, an aborted lift that he hides by awkwardly smoothing down his pants. And that just makes it look too formal once again. Or like he's trying to look good for a date. Which he is not.
“Hi, Oscar,” Lando says back, sounding awfully soft. Did he always sound this soft? Or is that just the sound of Oscar's insides turning to mush just from hearing his voice again? “You look good.”
And fuck. Oscar is not trying to look good, but the compliment has him tugging self-consciously at his collar, prompting a laugh from the other man. His laugh is sweet, like honey and molasses settling in a little groove in Oscar's brain, and Oscar really needs to get his brain checked right about now.
Oscar manages to find his voice, enough to say in as neutral a voice he can muster, “You too, mate.”
Lando laughs again, a light sound, as he pulls the unoccupied chair out to take a seat opposite Oscar.
“Have you ordered yet? It's on me,” Lando says, sliding the menu closer.
And, ah, there it is. Another hint that Lando could be here because he wants something from him. Selling insurance? Still looking likely. Doubly so when he sets his bag on the table and rifles about, and Oscar catches sight of some paper and what looks to be an iPad or something else of that size.
“I'll get a hot chocolate, please,” Oscar replies without looking at the menu, then blinks. “Are you trying to sell insurance to me?”
Lando blanches at that, head snapping up. “Um. Well. Yes. Not exactly. I mean. Yes?”
Oscar sighs. That's a yes then. Oscar inclines his head in a sort-of not-exactly put-upon unwelcoming invitation.
“Alright. Go ahead. Let's get this over with then.”
Lando looks visibly flustered at that, maybe even remorseful when his lips tug down so deeply, it'll likely leave him old and wrinkly if he keeps it up. Oscar doesn't know why he cares how the man will look when he's old and wrinkly.
“Oscar,” Lando says, more than halfway across to a plea.
A plea for what? Oscar doesn't know, he's already handed over the keys, relinquished the stage to him, all for Lando to do his magic and try to convince Oscar that it is of utmost importance he start investing early as in right now early, his hospital coverage isn't enough and the waiting times for his inevitable surgery will kill him before he can get a date, and he needs a death coverage that's at least ten times his annual income—a hard task since Oscar doesn't really know who he's going to be passing that money onto. He'll need to procreate for that, and that's not looking to be in his cards for the future when he's sitting here, two years later, still hung up on this bloke apparently trying to sell him insurance.
“You wanted to get me a drink first?” Oscar reminds him, just so Lando will stop looking at him like he's so desperate for… something.
That seems to do the trick, because he brightens up at having something to do. Something that doesn't involve Oscar turning his services down and ditching him in the café. He heads to the counter to order their drinks, and comes back moments later with two cups perched on a tray. He sets Oscar's hot chocolate in front of him.
“How have you been?” Lando asks.
Small talk. It feels painful and unnecessary to have, but Oscar indulges him. Maybe it irritates him more that this isn't real, that Lando is really just using him to earn money. And a part of him wants to be selfish and grasp onto any excuse to talk, even if it's facetious chit-chat.
“Fine. Just, you know. Living,” Oscar replies with a shrug. “And you?”
“Yeah, fine, I guess. Living life and all that.”
The silence that descends upon them then is, to put it simply, plain awkward. It's awkward when Oscar can't quite tell what kind of small talk he's expected to make before Lando finally decides to get on with doing his actual job, and when Lando seems intent on dragging out this forced small talk session instead of getting on with his actual job. He does want to, though. Wants to know how Lando is doing, if he's settling down, if he's happy. He can't quite get the words out.
“We could, um,” Oscar clears his throat, gestures blankly at the table, and then to find something less awkward to do with his hands, picks up his cup and takes a pointed sip.
“Right,” Lando breathes, sighing almost wistfully. Does he actually hate his job, he’s sighing at the prospect of having to get on with it?
He rifles about in his bag, coming out with a piece of paper that is blank on one side, but suspiciously cluttered on the other side with doodles and illegible scrawls. He retrieves a pen too, and Oscar needs to stop fucking staring at the way he’s simply holding a pen—tanned skin stretched across thick knuckles, tendons flexing and shifting, the vein running up his hand and up to his forearm. Yeah, no, his brain does not need to go there. He tries to focus instead on whatever it is Lando is attempting to conjure up.
When Lando is done, he shoves that scrap piece of paper between them with a flourish, looking oddly proud of himself, his earlier dejection vanishing. Oscar stares at it. Sees a, well, a circle. It's not even a perfect one at that. It's disjointed at one end, and it looks more like an oval the longer he scrutinises it. He stares some more.
“What do you see?” Lando prompts, excitement wavering when Oscar does nothing but stare.
“I can see that it's, um, a circle?”
Lando bobs his head, enthused once again at the response. Oscar can't fathom why he's so excited that someone is able to recognise that it's a circle. Maybe it's that bad.
“Mint, isn't it? That we can see something so simple in so many different ways.” Lando brandishes a hand again at the paper laid out.
“Really,” Oscar intones drily. “What exactly are you seeing then?”
“I'm seeing…” Lando trails off, tipping forward in his seat and clasping his hands together, posing as if he's going to be imparting some sort of sacred knowledge or something onto Oscar, his unfortunate disciple. “The circle of life!”
Oscar blinks. Nothing changes. Lando is still sitting in front of him, and the sad circle— circle of life—is staring right back in his face.
Oscar scoffs. “Right. Are you sure you're not the one who needs an insurance plan? To get your brain checked maybe?”
Lando grimaces. To his credit though, he doesn't back down even at Oscar's skepticism. Frequent rejection probably comes with the job, but Oscar can't help but feel a pang of sympathy for the man. The image of him moping and disappointed in himself for being unable to close his sales is a thought that hurts to even consider, especially when he's usually so bright and brazen.
“Oscar, mate, don't be a fu—” he abruptly cuts himself off, eyes going almost comically wide.
“You can curse,” Oscar tells him kindly.
Lando vehemently shakes his head at that. “No! That's so. So. Unprofessional. Unbecoming of a professional. Improper.”
Oscar nods thoughtfully. “They teach you the thesaurus instead then?”
Lando scowls hard. “Fuck off.” And then remembering himself, smacks his head down on the table hard, their cups tinkering in their saucers from the impact. Oscar winces on his behalf.
Lando stays there for a moment, long enough for Oscar to wonder if he's planning to get an imprint of the table embedded into his forehead and is just about to ask, but then he suddenly sits up straight and brings the paper closer to himself again. Oscar watches as he hastily draws a few lines across the circle, splitting it up like a pie chart.
“So, this,” Lando pokes at the first quarter of the pie chart with his pen, “represents the first stage of your life. You're, what, twenty-three now?”
“Twenty-four.”
“Right, cool. So, you're in here.” He jabs at that first quarter in emphasis.
Oscar raises an eyebrow. “I'm in a circle?”
“The circle of life, Oscar,” Lando admonishes. “That represents the first 25 years of your life. Keep up, mate.”
Right. That's a pretty sad representation of his life, that wonky circle with scratchy lines drawn across it. The sadder part of it is that he doesn't think he can deny it. It is pretty sad that he's slogging his way through a 9-to-5, halfway across the world from his family, and the only thing throwing a spanner in his mundane routine being a man he can't seem to stop pining over.
Lando carries on, “I mean, well, you're probably at the tail-end of this part. You're working already?”
When Oscar nods, Lando proceeds to draw a bunch of arrows pointing to the second quarter of the pie, and then a string of exclamation marks.
He jots down as he speaks. “So you're here, working. Own a car yet?” Oscar shakes his head. “Not yet then. Maybe a house, but that's still too early?” He looks up at Oscar for confirmation.
“I think my single-room now is comfortable enough for me,” Oscar says.
Lando seems to note that down. And then he pauses, body jerking, with his pen hovering over his paper. Oscar shifts in his seat when he realises Lando isn't throwing the next question at him yet. Just when he's thinking of prodding the other man, get him to boot back up and resume functioning again—
“Are you single?” Lando suddenly shouts, a bit too loudly. Way too loudly. He’s attracted stares.
Oscar can't help but flush at the curious looks sent their way. He can imagine what this would look like to an outsider. It almost looks like Lando is trying to come onto him. As if.
“Mate,” he grits out. “You're going to give people the wrong idea here.”
“Am I now?” And now is not the time for Lando to be teasingly and shamelessly batting those long eyelashes framing his beautiful eyes.
Oscar forces on a flat stare, even though he can feel his face heating up. But if there's one thing Oscar has learnt about Lando, is that he's really determined and resilient when he wants to be, even when faced with a client as cold and snarky as Oscar is right now. Which is why Oscar can't quite seem to be able to outdo Lando in their little standoff right now.
“Single. Very single,” Oscar finally grounds out.
Something flashes in Lando's eyes, but it's gone so fast Oscar can't figure out what exactly that look is meant to be. And then Lando is ducking down, writing another line below the existing no car and no house, single-room apartment bullet points: single.
“Are you, uh,” Lando pauses, biting on his lip suddenly looking shy now, “thinking of settling down in the next few years? Like family, kids?”
Oscar wishes the question isn't making him feel so bared open right now. “Right, um. Not really thinking about that now. Still just focusing on my career.”
“Okay,” Lando exhales shakily in what Oscar would think sounds like relief, but there's really no reason for it to be. He repeats again, “Okay.”
He writes that information down too.
“Also,” Oscar adds on, feeling his breath leaving him in a whoosh at what he's going to say next, “depending on my, um— future partner, kids might not exactly be on the table.”
There's a long pause where Lando doesn't respond to that admission. Long enough for the tips of Oscar's to be burning up in shame and he wants nothing more than for the ground to open up and swallow him whole. Long enough that he wonders if Lando maybe isn't even paying attention to him anymore, not that Oscar can confirm it with how hard he's focusing on the smidge of hot chocolate staining his saucer.
And then Lando says lightly, “Cool. That's. Cool. Mint.”
When Oscar chances a look up, Lando isn't looking at him. He's similarly holding a staring contest with the table. He does get on with the rest of the questions, albeit with a noticeable lack of eye contact and teasing. He does look up when he starts to prod about Oscar's family though, something sad and apologetic when he asks.
“I remember your family was back in Australia. Are you still here alone?”
“Yeah, well.” Oscar shrugs. He does miss them, but he's been missing them for the past few years now. There's not much he can do when he still wants to pursue a career here.
Lando lets Oscar ramble about his sisters, what they're getting up to, his mum who is doing pilates now, about his plans to go over and visit them soon when he can. He doesn't actually know if this is important information, but Lando looks so content to let him talk, setting aside his pen and paper. It's only when Lando's phone starts buzzing, that he seems to jolt out of it. He shoots Oscar an apologetic look as he checks his phone. And then he's yelping, hurriedly stuffing his scattered papers and pen into his bag.
“Shit, I'm sorry. I didn't realise the time,” Lando says, harried, and Oscar really just feels bad for him.
He waves him off. “That's fine. Go ahead.”
“Wait,” Lando shoves his packed bag off to the side, tapping furiously on his home screen. “When can I see you again? Or. No. I mean. Like. If you want to? If you're okay with that?”
He looks hopeful, fingers hovering over what Oscar can see is his calendar app. Oscar doesn't know if he's sold on this whole insurance thing yet, because all he's learnt is that his life span is apparently a circle. An endearingly wonky circle. He's also learnt Lando's coffee order, and that he carries around stacks of scrap paper filled with doodles covering one side of them. And that he's either bad at time management or he's easily distracted by a conversation. Or. He's easily distracted by having a conversation with Oscar. Unlikely and delusional, but the thought lingers.
And so Oscar suggests, “Next week?”
Lando beams at him as he nods. They finalise on a time—same day, same time—and then Lando finally picks his bag up to leave. He only makes it two steps to the door, before he's spinning back around urgently.
“Oscar,” Lando calls out, voice going a smidge softer. “Are you, um. Are you well? Like, really? I'm not just asking for the sake of it. I really do want to know how you're doing.”
“Yeah,” Oscar says, feeling himself smile, realising he means it. “I'm good.”
“Cool. See you around, Oscar.”
Lando's eyes crinkle softly when he smiles back.