Chapter Text
The sun has just begun to set when victory becomes undeniable. The soldiers whip off their helmets and toss them to the red-dyed dirt. They avoid looking at the corpses, the heads, the stray fingers detached from palms already beaten to smithereens. Even surrounded by death, they never quite get used to it. Instead, people go searching for their comrades, the only family many of these men have left. Every little hearth of life. Eventually, some will have to look down.
It was not a large battle, but not a small one, either. Unexpected—that’s the best way to describe it. Their mission started simple: move the newly-crowned King to their stronghold in Borealia as soon as possible, with as little fanfare as possible. And look at how that turned out. Thank God Lando decided last-minute to lead the escorting troops himself.
How did they know what route we were going to take? Lando wipes his blade with his—well, what once was a cape, now more spider string than fabric. There were too many of them. They were confident.
He sheathes the sword in one fluid motion. Does that mean there’s a mole?
“He doesn’t even know how to hold it,” Lando hears one of the soldiers titter behind him. He scowls. They’re all bloody and tired, itching to throw off the rest of their cagey armour, yet here is a soldier giggling like a grade schooler. At least that means morale is high.
Lando turns to face the subject of their conceit: none other than the Prince-turned-King, the fledgling ruler, Oscar Jack Piastri. He’s separated from the rest of them, and shaking.
Lando edges a little closer.
“Your Majesty, are you okay?”
No response. Lando can barely see his face, but he notices his hands, desperately clutching onto a tiny, dull dagger. The soldier was right. He is holding it wrong.
“You’re safe now, you can give me the d—”
“Look,” Oscar hisses. His eyes are bloodshot. “Look at him.” Slowly, he extends the crooked dagger forward, straight towards…the ground?
Lando shakes his head. “You’re in shock, Your Majesty. Please give me the dagger before you accidentally hurt yourself—”
Mid-sentence, Lando blinks.
The ground is not ground. It is a body. Marred and maimed, drowning under the mud. Whoever it was must have died early in the battle, to be so thoroughly trampled by the end.
Oscar has aimed the blade straight above the head. He sinks it in deep, allowing his hand to be swallowed by the dirt. Brows furrowed, Oscar probes. Everything is quiet for a few quick seconds, save for the shallowness of their shared breaths.
A dull, mucusy clink. Oscar stiffens. He’s found—something. Whatever it is he wanted to find. In one sharp exhale, he drags it up to the light.
It’s—
a crown.
The crown, Lando corrects himself quickly. It’s the crown of King Lorencranz. No one could miss the giant rubies and the snakes of golden vines, even if they’re hidden behind layers of grime. Lando has personally spent years studying it, filled libraries with lunatic strategies of how they can find, torture, kill the man who dons that halo. Amran Lorencranz has no relatives. The only child left in a lineage marked by tragedy; not a single person has ever lived past 40. If he dies, then he only completes the circle. And Lando’s kingdom will have won the War.
“Shouldn’t that crown be with their King?” Lando blurts out.
Oscar peers at him incredulously. The first time he’s acknowledged, really acknowledged Lando all day, and it’s to gawk at him like he’s some kind of mutant animal. Lando feels his jaw clench. “...Commander Norris. That”—he kicks at the body—”is their King.”
Then he turns to the rest of the men as if he didn’t just flip Lando’s world upside down.
“Everyone, I have some…news to announce,” he calls out, voice cracking.
So, that’s how the War ends. A damn coincidence. A freak accident.
“It’s good to see you again, Commander Norris.” King Piastri greets. Squeaks, more like. If it were anyone else sitting in that beautiful archway throne, their voice would be reverberating throughout the royal chamber. The whole room was built so the king would sit in the perfect vantage point to stun. Every one of his whispers projects to a boom, every angle sharpens to paint him a God.
But King Piastri, as it stands, has defied all intention and design.
“Same to you, Your Majesty.” Lando stands from his kneel, carefully avoiding stepping on his new cape. “How has…kingship been treating you?”
“That’s actually what I called you here to talk about,” Oscar says. “It’s been treating me, alright. It would be much easier if not for, you know.”
“I know?”
“The things your men have been saying,” he prompts.
Lando tilts his head and hopes it makes him look more innocent. He almost wants to add a “what have they been saying?”, but that might be taking it too far.
Oscar leans forward. “‘Runt.’ ‘Fledgling.’ ‘Borealia bloodsucker.’ Any of that sound familiar, Lando?”
“I didn’t know we were on a first-name basis now…” And he can’t stop himself. He really can’t. “...Oscar.”
To Lando’s surprise, Oscar doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even look offended. “I get it. My parents and my sister won your loyalties. Not me. None of you expected me to sit here one day. Neither did I.”
Lando bristles. Cold dramatics and beating around the bush, Piastri had really learned nothing from his family. That’s what you get from someone who’s spent more of his life sipping tea in an Eldwing boarding school than in his own kingdom, he supposes. Borealia bloodsucker, damn right. “Is this conversation supposed to have a point?”
“...The people need someone to rule them. I can’t do that alone,” Oscar says. “You don’t have to respect me—you just have to work with me. We present a unified front.” He stops, but then adds, like a little endnote: “You’ll have to discipline your soldiers, so the citizens don’t keep suspecting you’re going to start a coup.”
“And if I don’t want to?” Because that is the crux of the whole matter, isn’t it? If Lando doesn’t want to, then Oscar is done. Lando’s men will sooner follow him to the ends of Hell than listen to one command from this strange, artificial king. And the people go where the weapons lead.
Oscar contemplates this quietly.
“Then, I will abdicate.”
Lando barks out a laugh. “What?”
“I will fuck off and go back to Eldwing. You can even exile me to show off your power.”
He can’t believe it. “You’ll give the throne to me.”
“I’ll give the throne to you.” Oscar drums the side of his throne impatiently, like this is just another line on his to-do list and not the fate of an entire kingdom. “So, do you want to lead together?”
Now, it’s Lando’s turn to contemplate.
Don’t get him wrong. Lando knows Oscar is incompetent the same way he knows the sky in Eldwing is blue or the water in Limany violet. You don’t need to see it in order to know it.
Oscar was hardly ever a prince, much less a king. In Eldwing, he didn’t need to be either. Lando assumed he would marry into a wealthy foreign family, strengthening some political ties and becoming a pretty arm piece for a countess or duke. If he leads Borealia alone, Lorencranz will get the last laugh; there’s no need to destroy a kingdom who will end up destroying itself.
But that doesn’t mean Lando wants him to fuck off. Oscar is still the late Piastris’ son. The same family who took an orphaned boy off the streets and placed his destiny back into his arms. Who didn’t laugh when he nearly sliced his own throat with one of the armory swords, but commissioned a smaller one for him to practice with instead. Who made sure no child ended up on those streets again.
And, truth to be told, Lando doesn’t enjoy being a commander. What he wouldn’t give to go back to when he was the soldier tittering, singing in the mess halls and drinking cheap mead. Responsibility has transformed him into something he no longer recognizes in the mirror.
He shudders at what kingship might do.
In other words, Lando is stuck between a rock and a hard place. His eyes narrow. Which is exactly where Oscar wanted him to be.
When Lando looks up at Oscar again, Lando notices the faint lilt to his lips. The twinkle in his pupils. He’s been waiting for Lando to arrive at the same conclusion he found ages ago.
“What the hell did they teach you down in Eldwing?” Lando mutters.
Oscar begins to descend his pedestal. Just as Lando thinks it’s enough, that he might stop, he takes another graceful step down. Until they’re eye-to-eye with each other.
“I’m glad to have you on board.” He sticks out a firm hand.
Lando can barely stop himself from spitting on it.
The second time they meet after the War is one week after the first, and Lando arrives precisely 30 minutes after their appointed time.
“Nice of you to join us,” Oscar says when Lando enters through the ice-cold corridor. “Take a seat anywhere.” Funny. There’s only one remaining seat in the small roundtable. Mind you, Lando doesn’t expect a roundtable, but he doesn’t not expect one, either. Lead together, my ass.
It’s just his luck that the last chair’s right next to the devil himself, who continues to skim the paper in his hands as he talks. “We can’t waste more time doing introductions again, so you’ll have to get everyone’s names later.”
At that cue, the man to Lando’s left launches right back into discussion. “That rate is absurd. You’re basically taxing the shit out of them.”
Across the table, another man stands. “Maybe they deserve to get taxed the shit out of—they killed millions, for God’s sake!”
“So did we! If we do this, we are never going to be able to properly assimilate them into our society.”
“I’d like to see you talk about assimilation to the families who are mourning their dead.”
Lando leans a little towards his right, away from the noise. “Mind telling me what we’re arguing about?”
“What to do with Cranz, or–New Boreal, I guess that’s what they’re called now,” replies Oscar.
“You picked that name.” Lando shoots Oscar a pointed look. He actually quite likes the sound of New Boreal, if he’s being honest.
“Did I? I don’t remember,” Oscar says dryly. “Anyway, I’ll steer them away from this topic now. I'm getting tired of Russell and Verstappen yelling at each other.” He clears his throat, hardly making a noise, and yet the room immediately silences.
“25% sounds like a good compromise to me,” Oscar says. “Before you say anything, Sir Russell, herbs and other medicines will be exempt. And no, Mr. Verstappen, I do not think half of every New Borealian’s total produce should be taken by us every year, unless we want a rebellion in the next month.”
He flips to another page in his paper.
“Since Lando is finally here, let’s talk army. Immediate concerns, anyone?”
Russell’s hand juts up like a stake. “There is no reason we should have as many horses as we do right now, it is a maintenance nightmare.”
Lando pinches the bridge of his nose. It’s going to be a long day.
By the time they break for dinner, Lando has had to convince George that no, we need all ten-thousand cavalry horses because the threat from New Boreal is not completely gone yet four separate times.
“Haven’t you noticed that whenever he comes up with a new reason to cut down, I don’t know, five hundred horses or something, he interrupts whatever topic we’re talking about to bring it up!” Lando throws his hands up into the air. “I can’t believe Oscar’s just letting him do this.”
“You’re on first-name basis with His Majesty?” Lewis—Lando almost has all their names down, now—asks between bites of murrow beans and plunefish zest. Fish. Disgusting.
Lando winces. “Technically–”
“What about His Majesty?” A familiar voice interrupts. Teasing.
“Speak of the devil,” Lando grumbles.
“And he shall appear,” Oscar completes. Lando can hear his grin before he sees it.
Lewis jumps to his feet in an instant, legs pressed together in a rigid bow. “Your Majesty. Did you already finish dinner?”
“I wasn’t too hungry, Sir Hamilton,” Oscar responds, vowels drawn-out and lazy. “I wanted to talk with Lando since I didn’t get the chance to properly greet him this morning.”
“Of course. I’ll leave you two be.” After another quick bow, Hamilton vacates the room, leaving Lando completely at Piastri’s mercy.
He doesn’t want Oscar to get the first word in. “So I’m ‘Lando’ and Lewis is ‘Sir Hamilton,’ huh?”
“Alright, Commander Norris.” He says with the same sardonic sweetness he once said Commander Norris. That is their King. “What do you think?”
“About what?”
Oscar sweeps his arms in an everything gesture. “Hamilton. Verstappen. I’ve already heard your opinion on Russell, so you can leave that one out. They’re the whole cabinet of advisors I’ve assembled for us.”
Lando snorts. “Us? You’ve already made it very clear that I’m just another person you only listen to when it’s convenient.”
“I promised you we would lead together.”
“And how many people did you promise that to?”
“One.” Oscar sounds genuinely (what?) crestfallen. “You.” A pause.
“But you didn’t think we could do it with just the two of us, right? Every king in Borealia’s history has had a cabinet. Just because I studied in Eldwing doesn’t mean I don’t know that.”
“You didn’t consult me once before you hired them. Verstappen, Russell, Hamilton…who are these people, Your Majesty?” Lando chokes out the title like he’s flinging a curse. “You don’t even know how the cabinet is normally selected! You first ask the previous cabinet members for their recommendations. Each gives you one or two, and you bring them all together for a debate–”
“The old cabinet members didn’t want to talk to me, Lando.”
That shuts him right up.
“They are either dead or they didn’t want to talk to me.” Oscar shakes his head. “I’m sorry, you’re right. I should have told you, maybe you could have convinced them, but–but I was too ashamed.”
Lando’s chest tightens abruptly. He opens his mouth, then snaps it close.
The Piastris were kind, but they were not nice. The nannies and swordmasters were even less so. Lando has lived his entire life without learning what to do with vulnerability, and now, he is being slapped in the face with it.
His skin feels raw.
“They…shouldn’t have treated you that way,” he finally says, lamely.
“Right.” A wry smile tugs at Oscar’s lips. He thinks Lando is fucking with him.
“Next time they disrespect you like that, tell me. They won’t do it again.” The words fall out of his mouth, faster than he can stop them. And for some strange reason, he finds he doesn't want to stop them. “Unified front,” remember?”
Oscar doesn’t answer right away, and Lando suddenly finds himself transfixed by the sparse plate of beans Lewis forgot to take when he scurried out of the room. It’s not because he’s afraid of what Oscar’s face might show. That would be ridiculous. Come on. Lando Norris, commander of the Borealian army and a whole ten thousand horses, scared of the guy who can’t even hold a dagger?
(...Maybe.)
"’Unified front,’" Oscar murmurs at last. "Of course I remember."
They lapse into a kind of faux silence. Somewhere nearby in the palace, a tap drips steadily.
“Verstappen is a true nationalist,” Lando begins.
Oscar freezes for a split second before hurriedly pulling a notepad and pencil from his satchel. He came prepared.
“Aggressive, but purposeful,” Lando continues. “He pretends there’s no boundary he won’t cross, but he always stops just short of inciting mobs. Russell’s his opposite. He knows supporting New Boreal–especially in the way he does right now–is dangerous, so he overcompensates.
“Hamilton sits somewhere between them. He’s attentive, the first to notice the flaws that others overlook. Reminds me a little of you.” He coughs. “When we start delegating them to the provinces, send Verstappen north. Russell can take the east. Hamilton would do well anywhere. Just don’t let Verstappen near Wantakey; they’ll lose their minds over his fifty-percent taxes and million-kilo reparations and twist him into the perfect symbol for their vengeance. Similarly, keep Russell as far away from New Boreal as possible.”
Oscar scribbles furiously. “And you? Where do you want to be placed?”
“I’ll be wherever you are.”
Oscar’s hand stills.
“You’re still Borealia's figurehead,” Lando says. “We might be leading together behind the scenes, but every decision will be attributed to you. If people are unhappy and want to make their dissent felt, they’ll go through your guard.”
He meets Oscar’s eyes. “That’s me.”
Oscar nods and writes that down too.
Lando draws a breath, considering what else he’s missing.
…And that’s when his stomach chooses to rumble. Awkwardly, he rustles his cape, trying to conceal the sound.
No such luck. "Are you still hungry?" That annoying humor has returned to Oscar's tone.
"No."
"I noticed you didn't grab a plate of food when everyone else did, but I assumed you brought your own." Oscar glances at the door. "I'm sure there are still some leftovers. Murrow beans and plunefish are a real Borealian delicacy. You wouldn't want to miss it."
"Don't say that.”
"'You wouldn't want to miss it?'"
"'Borealian delicacy.' It makes you sound like an Eldwingean oil tycoon."
Oscar immediately deflates. Lando wants to smack himself. Good job, Lando. Remind him of Eldwing again, why don't you. "Sorry," Oscar says, carefully monotone. "Guess you can’t teach an old dog new tricks."
"You don't look like much of an 'old dog' to me." Lando scrambles to rescue the conversation. He prays Oscar can’t tell. “You can’t be much older than…26?” He can’t be because Mae, second-to-youngest, was two weeks from 27 when they slit her throat. Oscar Piastri was once the youngest of the family, and is now the only. Lando has known this for a while, but he didn’t know it.
He tells himself the heaviness in his head is just from worry, worry that Borealia is now just as fragile as Cranz was.
“I turned 23 just this April." Right–now Lando recalls the tiny celebrations peppered across towns. Typically, all the major Borealian cities host big festivals for the King and Queen’s birthdays. They did it even despite the start of the War. In a rare addition to tradition for Princess Edie’s twenty-third, people released auburn lanterns embroidered with messages of admiration and awe onto Yasboro River, leading straight to the royal palace. Oscar, being none of those people, received only a couple of well wishes.
For some reason, 23 feels like an important number. Lando rubs his neck. Oh. This was supposed to be Oscar's last year of university.
“See? Not an old dog at all. Happy belated birthday, Your Majesty.”
“…Thanks.”
“Do…do Eldwingeans even know how to throw a good party?” Lando cringes.
“Most of my friends were other maths students, so…” Oscar looks at Lando lopsidedly, realizing Lando doesn’t get his implication. “More people spent my birthday studying for final exams than wrapping presents. Not that I blame them, of course.”
So four months ago, the biggest challenge in Oscar’s life was what mark he was going to get in his math class. “I didn’t peg you for a numbers person.”
“I’m not. Pure math is…” Oscar doesn’t have to finish his sentence; the horror on his brow says enough. “But I like inventing. My senior project was going to be a new arquebus design.”
“Those clunky things?” Lando would much rather have his sword, hell, even a lance.
“If they were just a bit lighter, they could revolutionize warfare forever,” Oscar argues. “All you’d have to do is change the barrel material to elony, bring the twisting knob a notch higher, and—”
“--make it easier to shoot when there’s rain, aim from a distance, and not take 28 damn steps to reload?” Lando laughs.
“I was working on it.” Oscar says sheepishly. “When my prototype was done, I was thinking of sending it to you guys in Borealia, to help with the war effort.”
Aw, that’s…quite sweet, actually. “And by help, I assume you mean help Cranz blow us up with your faulty arquebuses?”
“Oh no, I’ve been foiled. I was in secret communication with Cranz that whole time, how did you know.” Oscar says, rolling his eyes.
Lando looks away quickly. Back to the beans. The first time the operation to move Oscar from Eldwing to Borealia was proposed to the knights, there were genuinely rumors about Oscar being a potential Cranz spy.
"There you are again, staring at those beans like they’re made of death.”
"I have nothing against beans.” Lando makes a face at the little toothpick bones glittering on the porcelain. “But all fish should be struck from the face of Borealia."
Oscar lets out a little laugh. It...suits him (what?). "I should've known you'd be pickier than a newborn draglet. I'll ask the kitchens to make something else for you right now.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“It’s not a bother.”
“I’m not hungry.” “Your stomach literally rumbled.”
“Okay, fine,” Lando concedes. “But you don’t need to order something else, they…should already have something for me.”
“Really? I could’ve sworn you didn’t tell the kitchens anything.”
“I–”
“--In fact, I’m surprised you even knew where they were.”
“I grew up here, Oscar.” The first name slips out before Lando can stop it.
Oscar frowns. “You’re related to one of the staff?”
“I’m an orphan,” Lando says. Doesn’t stop to think too hard about why the admission—to Oscar, of all people—was so easy. “Your parents took me in, the staff raised me. It was after you went to Eldwing. Probably why you didn’t meet me until now.”
“...I didn’t know that.”
“Believe me, no one knows why they did it. Not even me.”
“But that was…good of them.” Has Oscar always sounded a little faint, or is Lando imagining things?
“Yeah. It was.” Lando nods, squinting. “I’m grateful.”
Oscar clears his throat. When he speaks again, his voice is stabler.
“Everyone will be finishing their meals by now. We’ll reconvene at eight, give you some time to grab your food.”
Shit. Lando had nearly forgotten what they were all here for.
“Thanks,” he sighs, dreading another three hours of George’s passionate rants. “I’ll see you later.”
But Oscar is already gone, leaving the room without so much as a wave goodbye.
They have many more meetings like this in the weeks that follow, until they’ve practically become daily.
Lando has to admit: Oscar didn’t do such a shitty vetting job after all. For a trio of accidental hires, Hamilton, Verstappen, and Russell prove themselves better than men with twice the experience. From issuing grants funding war veterans’ university tuitions to reforming mining regulations now that the demand for rare earth metals has eased, not a single industrial sector, kingdom province, or state-sanctioned program escapes a lengthy discussion at their roundtable.
Their work is not perfect. People host protests and strikes and even dye Yasboro River blood red one morning to remind them it’s not. But, bit by bit, Lando hopes they’re at least starting the work it’ll take to one day rebuild Borealia.
True to his word, Piastri makes a point of showing the cabinet that Lando is his peer, not his subordinate. At a meeting not long after their dinner conversation, he asks, out of the blue, “Commander Norris, what’s on your agenda for us today?”
And that is that.
Yet, they haven’t talked, just the two of them, since that very dinner. Lando hopes that’s just because Oscar hasn’t run into any more trouble with stubborn former-cabinet members (a good thing, he should be happy for him), and not because he’s since decided that Lando is an insufferable prick whose face he’d rather not see beyond the several hours a day he’s forced to.
A groan leaves him as he re-reads the same page of notes for the third time. Appease the blacksmiths and miners, make sure they aren’t inspired by the apothecary strikes. Speed up the knights’ yearly promotions. Convince Oscar to take proper self-defense lessons…fuck, he’s being ridiculous. Their agreement was to work together, yes, tolerate each other, maybe, and keep the kingdom from collapsing in on itself–definitely. None of the fine print mentioned anything about being friends.
It’s better this way.
Apart from his arquebus project and studying maths, Oscar hasn’t mentioned anything about his time at Eldwing. Logically, this means Lando should be suspicious; how can 15 years in Eldwing be reduced to merely five sentences? But, also logically, Lando has seen how Oscar throws himself wholly into his work. No traitor would devote this much time to a nation he intends to betray. And maybe Oscar’s time in Eldwing was really just filled with numbers and weapon designs.
Thus, what should really concern Lando is that the less associated he is with Piastri, the less time he has to waste absorbing the nation’s ire. Unsurprisingly, he has not yet won the hearts of the people. Lando expected it to take time for people to warm up to him. After all, it certainly took him a while.
But if Oscar’s goal is to collect as many insulting nicknames as possible, he’s achieving overwhelming success; he can now add Cranz spare heir to the list, which already includes Borealian bloodsucker, Eldwingean scum, and fledgling king.
What in the world is he doing? Lando throws his pencil on the desk with no little frustration. Cooped-up in the palace all day, acting all these policies are being generated by a miraculous force from God. Until he owns up to his ingenuity, no one’s opinion of him is going to budge.
He leans back in his chair, completely given up on his to-do list. His mind drifts. It’s not fair, he thinks, how Oscar is always so focused. Unphased by everything that comes his way. Physically incapable of not knowing line 42 of the economic statistician’s most recent report, or the allergens in the dessert served that day.
Take last week, for instance. George was more than an hour late to their regular morning meeting. Unusual, especially for him, who was normally ten minutes early, if not twenty.
Lando did not miss his tinny voice, the relentless cadence. He did not.
In the narrow sliver of time Oscar allowed between the first order of business and the second, it was Max who finally asked, “Where is George?”
“Caring for his sister, most likely,” Oscar replied, not missing a beat.
“He has a sister?” Lando exclaimed.
“You didn’t know? She was diagnosed with chronic omapority three years ago, and gets acute attacks sometimes during the winter,” Oscar listed it all from memory. “All the more reason we must put an end to these apothecary strikes now. Sir Hamilton, you said you had some new ideas?”
“Since their main complaint is how the Medical Commission hasn't compensated them properly for all their work during the War…” Lewis continued, while Lando was still reeling from the shock. Not only was Oscar somehow versed in George’s entire family tree, he talked like he’d been their primary care healer for years. And, really, wasn’t that just so—Oscar?
Oscar doesn’t command attention the way his parents did. He lacks Edie’s seamless ease, Mae’s classic charm. Even Hattie, who reminds Lando the most of him, held herself to a standard of honor Oscar abandoned the moment he issued Lando that poisonous ultimatum: lead alone or lead together, but lead nonetheless.
But Oscar learned the names of every servant within two weeks. He tells new kitchen hires that Lando doesn’t like coffee before Lando remembers it himself; he gifts Lewis’s new dog the first chew toy it ever owns. On the day of Max’s big equestrian triathlon, he cancels their daily meeting and buys them all tickets to watch. They barely get out intact after someone in the crowd finally recognizes—not Oscar, their King, but Lando.
In other words, Oscar cares. He cares like it’s second nature, easier than breathing. He cares in a way no other Borealian king ever has, in a way no king ever should. When the decisions you make are all about sacrificing one mass of people for another, a king sees the mass, not the people. And a king should never see himself, standing at the front, as just another piece to be sacrificed.
So, frankly, Oscar scares the fucking shit out of Lando.
“Nope,” Lando says as he easily sidesteps Oscar’s offensive swing. “You’re putting too much of your weight on your right foot.”
Oscar scowls, and tries again.
“Higher.”
And again.
“Faster.”
“I can’t do this anymore,” Oscar pants, tossing his wooden practice sword to the courtyard field. “We’ve been at this for four hours–”
“--more like two, but okay–”
“--without a single break! Let me drink some water, at least.”
Grumbling, Lando grabs the bottle on the bench and throws it towards Oscar, who catches it mid-air. “You should start running or swimming, it’ll build your endurance.”
“Yeah, I’ll start running so I can run away from you,” Oscar says, deadpan. Lando smirks. Right after their meeting this morning, he had grasped Oscar by the arm and frogmarched him to the training grounds. With the way he'd been flailing a spectator might've thought Lando was kidnapping him which, to be fair, was not far from the truth. Lando has never seen Oscar outside the palace for more than five minutes at a time.
“Whatever it takes to get you moving,” Lando retorts. “Honestly, I’m surprised you’re so bad with a sword. Haven’t you taken classes before?”
“When would I have had the time?” Oscar says. “I had back-to-back math lectures all week, then back-to-back homework assignments all weekend.”
“Not in university, like grade school or something,” Lando tries to explain. “The mandatory assessment you have to pass in year six?” Nope. “High stance, mid stance, low stance?” Nothing. He tries one more time. “…Right parry and left jab?”
Oscar shakes his head. “I moved to Eldwing when I was eight, Commander, I thought you knew this?”
“I do, yeah. But eight’s not–” –that young? Lando stops. All of a sudden, it hits him. Eight. Not even in the double digits. Oscar probably couldn’t read books without pictures. Could he even reach the washroom sink without a stool? Not even in Borealia are eight-year-olds required to swing a sword taller than they are.
Oscar takes a swig of water. “Exactly.”
“Eldwing doesn’t have any self-defense classes baked into their educational system?” Lando frowns.
“Of course not. They’re a nation of academics, “ Oscar shrugs.
“As opposed to…what?” Lando asks casually. “A nation of brutes?”
Oscar takes another sip from the bottle. It’s a long sip, tilted up so it nearly covers his entire face, but not quite. So Lando can see that Oscar has this look. His poker face is good, has been good since Lando first met him, but Lando is no longer completely stumped by his dead-set mouth and even eyebrows. When Oscar’s eyes begin peering up through a window only he can see, that’s when he’s nervous.
He closes the water bottle. “I don’t mean to say anything bad about…here,” he clarifies. The first step of any good compromise, Lando’s sure Oscar’s learning a lot about that. “It’s just two different cultures, with two different strategies for prosperity. Both work well, if Eldwing’s wealth and Borealia’s victory don’t already speak for themselves.”
“A textbook perfect answer, Your Majesty. Bravo.” Lando claps. “However, the textbooks don’t get everything right. Eldwing is a nation of academics, that’s true. But Borealia?”
He picks up Oscar’s wooden sword, tosses it to him.
“We are a nation of brutes.” Lando grins, grabbing another practice blade. “Come on, let’s exercise your parries this time.”
Oscar groans, but he stands up nevertheless, a smile of his own growing over the anxiety.
Left, flat, thwack. Twist, push, smack. They repeat the motions on the left and right, up and down. Oscar’s not half as bad at this as he was at direct offensive attacks. In fact, he even seems to enjoy it, developing a rhythm that almost looks like dance.
“How did you get so good with a sword, Commander?” Oscar says as he dodges one of Lando’s slashes. “I don’t think basic swordfighting classes could get you to this level.”
“No,” Lando agrees. Left. “When I first moved into the palace, your parents saw that I was fascinated by the sword displays.” Flat. “So they had me start training with the swordmasters in grade five, a year earlier.” Thwack.
“Oh.” Twist. “Cool.” Huh?
Push. “Is that not the answer you expected?”
Smack. “There wasn’t an answer I was expecting.”
No, Lando definitely isn’t imagining it this time. For some reason, Oscar became fainter, quieter, every time Lando mentioned the late Piastris.
Lando physically cringes. For some reason? Of course Oscar wouldn’t want to talk about his, well. His dead family. Between Lando and the cabinet and all the post-war repairs, he hasn’t had the time to breathe, much less to properly mourn.
“Shit, Osc–I mean, Your Majesty,” Lando splutters. He drops his sword. “I’m so sorry.”
Alarmed, Oscar freezes mid-parry. Then he drops his sword, too. “For what?”
“I don’t mean to keep bringing up, um, your parents. The next time I do it, you can just tell me to stop. I will. Wait, not that I am going to do it again–”
“It’s alright. Genuinely,” Oscar says, carefully carving through the whirl in Lando’s mind. “I am not too—I mean—Commander, I don’t remember them that much. Only my mother visited me during the first couple years, then the War started and obviously they couldn’t visit me at all.”
This is when Lando should have shut up. If he could go back in time and change one thing in his life, he wouldn’t choose to score a little higher on his blade assessment, avoid one or two hours of additional training. He wouldn’t even choose being the one to discover the Rosencranz crown instead of Oscar.
He would choose to shut up.
But Lando can’t go back in time, and he blurts, “So why did they send you away in the first place?”
Oscar flinches—just for a split second, fuck—then schools himself, wipes the reaction clean from his face.
“...It’s like what you said, Commander.”
“What do you mean?”
“When you called Borealia a nation of brutes”—Oscar glances at the wooden sword on the ground—“I think you meant a nation of warriors. And that I am not.” He chuckles. “Too weak or too slow, maybe, and my parents realized that quickly. But who would have guessed? I ended up here anyway.”
Lando blinks. Oscar’s tone is light, even cheerful. But not for one second does it mask his disdain.
Oscar Jack Piastri, the sixteenth King of Borealia, the prince who stepped up and the fastest learner Lando knows, is talking about himself. Like this.
To make matters worse, he doesn’t seem to realize he’s saying anything absurd at all. Voice unwavering, he continues, “You mentioned the swordmasters a couple times. Igor’s the one who likes fruits, right?”
Say something, Lando urges himself. Don’t let him change the topic.
“I…” Lando begins, feebly.
Mistaking Lando’s shock for confusion, Oscar elaborates, “He only gets breakfast on Thursdays and Thursdays, and that’s when all of the strawberries are gone.”
For just two hours every day, enough light threads through the frosty clouds to bathe the whole palace in gold. No matter if Lando has ten missions to dispatch or fifty, piles of laundry or none at all, he always makes sure he’s in the halls to see it.
That’s where he is now. One knee propped over the other, Lando rests on a verdant emerald couch in the West Library, several meters from a nook he’d once been small enough to slot right into. A familiar melody plays in his ear. A sea shanty he learned from Max Fewtrell, Lando’s first real friend in the army. They’d always bunk together, stealing the laces off of other soldiers’ shoes until they got disciplinary warnings from their lieutenants.
Living with Fewtrell made living easy. He’s one of those rare people who can always smell out bullshit, gives credit where it’s due, and doesn’t think twice before sticking their neck out for a friend. Lando has never met someone more attuned to themselves and the people around them, which is probably why Fewtrell returned to being a jewelry merchant as soon as the War was over. Add all of those things to his charismatic smile and perpetual friendliness, and you have a natural-born swindler.
Sometimes, Lando imagines Max in his place, advising Oscar instead of selling pricey rocks on foreign shores. He would have known exactly what to usay in response when Oscar was talking himself down.
“I fear not the land, I fear not the sea,” Lando hums. The song’s ending is the only part he remembers with any real clarity. “All there’s to fear is what time makes of me.”
“Commander?” Someone calls out behind a nearby bookshelf.
Lando sighs, dragging himself away from his thoughts. “Who is it?” he asks, even though he already knows the answer.
“George told me I could find you here,” Oscar says as he steps into view. With the sun striking the window as it does, he is utterly illuminated. Radiant.
“You always seem to appear right when I’m thinking about you,” he says, without thinking.
Oscar tilts his head. “You think about me?”
“Yeah,” Lando answers simply. He supposes he should sound more embarrassed than he does. “Why were you looking for me?”
“One of my meetings today got moved two hours later. I was wondering if we could talk about the knight promotions.”
Always at work, naturally. “You’re lucky I have my notes right here.”
“Very.” Oscar smiles bemusedly. “Alright. Run me through the basics.”
“We currently have three solid candidates for captain,” Lando recites as he flips open his notepad. “Charles Leclerc, Yuki Tsunoda, and Carlos Sainz Jr. We can only choose one.”
“Carlos Sainz Jr,” Oscar repeats slowly, as if tasting every letter. “That name sounds familiar.”
“He was also at the escort mission,” Lando recalls. “Trustworthy, decisive, good with a shield and spear. He’s already taken unofficial command over his troupe, and his men like him. Everyone’s been saying he was the one who dealt Rosencranz in.”
“A hero,” Oscar nods approvingly. “How about Charles Leclerc?”
“He earned his renown at the Battle of Plottsberg. Records say he took down fifteen Cranz mercenaries, and saved ten injured soldiers by…” Lando rubs his eyes and reads the line again. “By hiding them under the dirt.”
“...Not bad. Unconventional.”
“But he’s currently out of commission from a leg injury sustained during Plottsberg as well,” Lando says. “Thankfully, the healers didn’t have to amputate, but it’ll take at least four more months for him to fully recover. He might be a better candidate for the next cycle.”
“And Yuki Tsunoda?”
“He actually trained with me under Igor and Michael a couple years ago,” Lando says. “I’ve never seen him with a weapon he isn’t good at.”
Oscar raises an eyebrow. “Is he better than you?”
“Mate, have you seen me with a lance?” Lando snorts. “I’ll take your head clean off. By accident.”
The corners of Oscar’s lips twitch upward. A small victory. “I feel like there’s a ‘but’ coming.”
“Yup. Unfortunately, he also has one of the fiercest personalities I’ve ever met.” Lando winces at the memories. “Incredibly competent, but highly critical when others aren’t just as skilled as he is. He could make a decent leader in a year or two, though.”
“Sainz sounds like the best option, then.” Oscar folds his arms. “If he’s already earned the trust of his men, then the promotion is just a formality.”
Lando cringes. “There’s one thing.”
“...Yes?”
“He’s been quite…vocal. About disliking you.”
“Ah,” Oscar says. He sounds relieved. “Not a problem. I can talk to him.” Like how I talked to you, is the quiet implication.
“I’m not sure if he can be so easily convinced.”
“Just give me a chance to try.”
“He’s from Wantakey,” Lando says, as if that explains everything.
“He serves Borealia,” he insists.
“You know, if you would just go out and talk to the people in Wantakey, we wouldn’t be facing this problem right now.”
“Really,” Oscar says, short and curt. “You want to talk about this now.”
“If not now, then when?” Lando’s fists clench, tiny crescents carved into his palms. “You can’t avoid visiting the provinces forever.”
“I’m not avoiding, I’m just…there’s so much else we need to get done.”
“There will always be so much we need to get done,” Lando says. “Maybe you’re waiting for the ‘perfect’ time to talk to the people, but—we’ll never find it. We’ll only know when we’ve missed it.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Oscar snaps.
“Oh, you want to know what I think?” Lando hears himself tremble, a performer on a tightrope act. “I think you’re scared.”
At that, the air turns brittle.
Neither of them exhales.
The sun climbs to its winter crescendo. Oscar looks like a man possessed.
Lando is no different.
“Commander,” Oscar says, his voice low, measured. “Are you calling me a coward?”
“No, Your Majesty,” he responds without hesitation. “I’m reminding you you’re human.”
Oscar’s eyes widen.
Outside, the clouds have already begun to catch up to its star.
Less than a month later, they finally take their first steps outside the palace to assess the kingdom’s satisfaction with the new policies.
Russell heads east, Verstappen north, and Lewis dead center—just as Lando had first suggested. That leaves Oscar and Lando to take on the west, including Wantakey and New Boreal.
Lando doesn’t know what he expected their ride to the provinces to be. A horse, maybe. One of the beautiful Andalullan mares he’d always ogled at when he was a kid.
Anything but this rickety, paper-box carriage.
“You should’ve told me you were motion-sick,” Oscar says as he swipes Lando’s back with gentle, repeated pats.
“Obviously, I didn’t know,” Lando groans. His eyes pinch shut. He cups his stomach, like he can squeeze the sickness out of himself.
With his spare hand, Oscar bunches the thin curtains to one side and shouts to the coachman, “How far are we?”
“Still half a day to go, Your Majesty. Hasn’t changed since the last time you asked me.”
If Oscar’s disturbed by the coachman’s cheekiness, he doesn’t show it. “It’s getting dark out. Let’s stop here, find a room for the night.”
“That’s going to make us late for tomorrow,” Lando protests weakly. But even spending the little effort it takes to form a short sentence makes his stomach somersault—he dry-heaves.
A hand immediately lifts to brush his hair back. Oscar again, of course. “Are you okay?”
Lando can feel every pad of Oscar’s fingers. They’re warm. Delicate. “Just…peachy.”
“Oh. Um. Well,” Oscar coughs into his hand, conveniently releasing Lando’s curls at the same time. Silently, Lando mourns the loss. “It’s better to arrive late than arrive covered in vomit. Right, Jax?” Taking that as his cue, the coachman—Jax, Lando substitutes—drives the carriage to a full stop; the sharp metal shriek must be Oscar swinging open the rusty door. “Commander Norris?”
Lando peeks up from his fetus curl on the velvet cushions. Oscar’s shoulder faces Lando, his hand resting on his hip. All things considered, it’s an unnatural stance. Makes him look like a pregnant woman.
Then another wave of nausea claws into Lando’s abdomen, and all the snarky comments he’s thinking head straight for the door. He slumps down again.
“Idiot,” he hears Oscar breathe. “I meant for you to take my arm.”
Before Lando knows it, he’s been half-dragged, half-carried out of the fancy wagon. And Oscar’s even grabbed their bags.
“You weren’t this strong the last time we trained together. Have you been secretly practicing behind my back?” Lando grumbles, still clinging onto Oscar’s shoulders for support.
Oscar ignores him (rude). “Alright, Jax, we’ll see you in the morning,” he says to the coachman. “I’ve left thirty coffents on the seat. Is that enough to help you pay for a place to stay?”
“More than enough, Your Majesty. Thank you.”
“Have a good night.”
Jax’s whip cracks and the horses are up and away, taking the portable torture device with them.
“Commander, the inn is just to your left. Can you walk?”
Reluctantly, Lando forces his feet to move. One step, followed by two. Three. Four, five. He's completely lost count by the time Oscar releases one of his arms to twist a doorknob, and the frost nipping at Lando’s chin dissolves. They’re inside.
“Room for two, please,” Oscar says.
“Sorry, sir, but we have none left,” the receptionist answers. “Business is booming.”
“Wouldn’t have guessed it, looking at this place,” Lando mutters, vertigo finally loosening its grip. Without it comes the absurdity of their situation. Ratty inn. Half a day from Wantakey. And a crowd of fervent, flag-painted patriots who will not be happy when Oscar shows up late tomorrow.
Oscar beams him a critical look. Lando sends one straight back. Hey, this inn is in the middle of nowhere. Also, why did you get off that carriage when you knew it’d fuck up your whole reputation in Wantakey?
…Oh. Right.
For Lando.
“Haven’t you heard? The King’s coming out west for his first public appearance since the end of the War,” the receptionist explains casually. “People from as far as Laberta are coming just to catch a glimpse of him. Personally, I would sooner dive into a pit of vizores than breathe the same air as that bloodsucker. But each to their own,” he chortles, hog-like.
Lando glances worriedly at his companion, but Oscar’s face remains impassive, revealing nothing. “You’re sure you have no more rooms. Not even one?”
“Only one, sure. It’s a single.”
Oscar procures a burlap wallet from his pocket. “For how much?”
“Hmm…twenty coffents total.”
Twenty coffents. This guy is crazy. Lando is just about to say as much when he hears a couple of clinks drop on the table.
“Keep the change,” Oscar says.
“You’re too kind, sir,” the receptionist replies, hardly as enthused as his words may imply. He hands over a petite bronze key. “Say, are you guys here for his big speech?”
Oscar starts. “Well—“
“What if we are?” Lando snips.
“You don’t want to be. I heard—” Lando’s indignation must be immediately apparent, because the receptionist quickly cuts himself off. “But like I said, each to their own.”
“Thank you,” Oscar interrupts, before Lando can further escalate the situation. “We’ll be going up to our rooms now.”
As the two are pulling away, the receptionist adds, “By the way, the floor isn’t too bad. We try to clean it whenever we can.”
“That means never,” Lando mutters once they’re up the stairs and out of earshot. He gestures vaguely. “Look at this place, your grand appearance tomorrow is the only reason it’s staying in business. He even upcharged us for the single, I mean, twenty coffents for one bed? That bastard–”
“Commander.” Oscar slots the key into the lock. Click. “It’s fine.”
He opens the door to a candle burning by the window–and sure enough, just one bed. The pillows are so thin and lifeless they look like just another lump in the mattress, which is jaundiced and moth-eaten. Great.
“You reckon this is how all their rooms look, or did he recognize you at the end?” Lando says, irony pressed into every syllable.
“I said it’s fine.” Oscar places their luggage on the one patch of floor that doesn’t look like it’s fused with the dust.
“I heard you,” Lando snaps. “Both times. That doesn’t mean it’s actually ‘fine.’”
“Well, what do you want me to do?” Oscar’s sudden bitterness slices through the air, sharper than any sword.
Involuntarily, Lando takes a step back.
“Go back down there and grab him by the neck, force him to apologize? Order the whole inn to be burned down?” Oscar drags a hand down his face. “They already have a million reasons to hate me—”
Oh no you don’t, Lando thinks. He stayed quiet when it was like this once. And once was enough.
“Once we talk to them,” he interrupts, “they’ll stop believing in every single one.”
“No, Commander. I am no Edie.” Oscar’s volume rapidly rises. “I’m an alien, and they all know it. I never belonged, I was never meant to belong. My parents made sure of that. You don’t understand—I have to force myself to speak without an Eldwingean accent.”
Lando’s chest clench. “Please, Oscar.”
“I’ve undone decades of my family’s work just by standing here with this crown on my head. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.”
“That’s not tr—”
“Don’t you dare tell me that isn’t true, Lando Norris, you agreed with everything they were saying just a couple months ago.”
At that, Lando has to fall silent. Because Oscar’s right. A couple months ago, Lando hated Oscar for scooping that crown from the ground—for taking his last shot at battlefield glory. A couple months ago, he was wondering if it was too late to take the throne himself. Why, Lando regretted, had he been so terrified of complete control? Why couldn’t he skin off his boyhood, like he’d skinned away his softness and his grief?
A couple months ago, Lando stepped into a weekend farmer’s market choked by the stench of honeyed persimmon. He had gagged, then. It smelled just like Oscar.
Now, enveloped in the same scent, Lando only wants to stay there a little longer.
...Oh.
The realization falls into his lap like a feather.
“I was wrong, Oscar,” Lando says.
“You’re not.”
Maybe it's been there for a while, waiting patiently to catch his attention.
“Everyone who agrees with them is wrong. Even if that includes you.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
Lando knows the sky in Eldwing is blue. The water in Limany violet. And he knows, truer than all else, that he loves Oscar Piastri—softly, wholly, undoubtedly.
When he finally takes a breath, it feels like the first time he’s breathing.
“It does,” Lando whispers. “Your family would be so proud to see what you’ve accomplished.”
Oscar kicks off his shoes, too angry to respond. Or too tired.
“Your plan to reintegrate War veterans into Borealian society through the universities was ingenious. Queen Piastri couldn’t have thought of something better herself.”
Oscar strips off his jacket, his scarf. His socks. Until all that remains is a tank top and black briefs.
“The way you handled negotiations with the ambassador from San Visby felt like a page taken directly from Princess Edie’s playbook.”
Quietly, Oscar slides into bed.
“And the propaganda campaign advocating for New Borealians has been working even better than we expected. Even sentiments in Wantakey are shifting,” Lando adds. “You’re brilliant. But that’s not the only reason the cabinet follows you.”
That’s not why I do.
“You laugh at George’s jokes, even when they’re not funny.”
Oscar freezes. That takes him off-guard.
“You donated all the libraries’ plantology books to a local apothecary. You find the time to join the dining staff’s weekly knitting circles. Your hands fly every time you talk about something you’re passionate about, and—I’m always mesmerized,” Lando admits. With every detail, every sentence, he thinks—I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you.
Oscar dips his head, unguarded and resigned, the reflex of someone who's spent his life noticing others, never aware that he was noticed, too.
“Thank you,” he says, as the ghost of a smile graces his features. It’s so gentle that Lando almost misses it. And it’s so genuine—that he has to will his whole being to not reach forward and kiss Oscar, right here, right now.
“Are you going to join me?”
That breaks Lando out of his reverie.
“...What?” His chest heaves up, down, then right back up again.
“Well, I’m not going to let you sleep on the floor,” Oscar chuckles; Lando trembles at the sound. He wants to bottle it beneath his fingernails, let it trickle from both hands. He wants to pour it into rivers, watch it run through flower farms. And he wants to lie down for just a moment, cover his eyes—
—not make a sound as he cries and cries and cries.
“Okay,” someone whispers. Maybe him.
His boots come off without a fight. Then so does his coat and cape. His feet carry him to the bedside all on their own, and then there is nothing left in him to move.
Cheeks pink and dusted with sleepiness, Oscar looks so…domestic.
He’s compacted himself all in one corner so Lando has more space, puffed out the two pillows so they stand with more fluff. His arms, all lean muscle and sunspot freckles, are entirely exposed to the crisp air. Tiny goosebumps dot the sides of his neck, and Lando has the irrational desire to count every single one.
If sleeping in a disgustingly dirty, disgustingly overpriced guest room means Lando can see Oscar like this every day, then business is about to be booming indeed.
“Are you done staring?” Oscar sounds amused.
“Not quite,” Lando murmurs. “Give me ten more minutes.”
Oscar flushes the prettiest shade of red. “Get in already,” he says quickly. “I’m cold.”
Lando’s limbs finally rediscover motion, and he clambers in. The covers barely stretch far enough for two.
“Actually,” Oscar says, after a beat. “...Can you go blow out the candle? I forgot to do it.”
“Come on,” Lando bemoans, but he’s already up and half way to the window. In less than a minute, the candle is dark, curtains shut, and Lando back in bed.
They sleep faced away from each other. Oscar to the wall, Lando to the nightstand.
Mind you, Lando doesn’t want to be making eye contact with a mahogany desk, would much prefer the slope of Oscar’s nose instead, but he also doesn’t want to make Oscar any more uncomfortable than sleeping in the same bed might be making him already. One priority trumps the other, and that’s why Lando’s been tracing the swirls on the wood grain for twenty minutes, cursing every god that made them so close, yet so far apart.
At one point, Lando hears Oscar’s breaths even out. He must be close to sleep, if it hasn’t claimed him already.
But then: “Lando, do you think…”
Lando answers at once. “Yes?”
“...I thought you’d fallen asleep.”
“I’m awake.”
A pause.
“Do you think they took you in to replace me?” Oscar swallows. There’s no need to name them; they both know who he means.
Unwittingly, Lando sucks in a sharp breath.
Oscar immediately backtracks. “Shit, I didn’t mean it like that. I’m sorry, pretend I didn’t say anything.”
“No, wait.” Fuck it. Lando shifts to face Oscar’s back. He places a hand on his shoulder, the touch soft and tentative, so Oscar can shrug it off if he wants. “I’d be lying if I said I never wondered the same thing.”
“Don’t,” Oscar says resolutely. “My parents probably knew they had to have you the moment they saw you. It doesn’t matter if I was here or there or nowhere because I had nothing to do with their decision. They loved you for you.”
“They loved me for who they thought they could shape me into, sure.” Lando shrugs. “We weren’t really close. Edie, Mae, Hattie, and I—we never played together. We didn’t even eat together. I spent all my time with the cooks and swordmasters. It was practically a given I’d move out of the palace the moment I turned eighteen.”
“…What? That’s horrible.” Oscar recoils. “You were just a kid, being treated like that by the people who were supposed to care for you like family.”
Lando snorts. It’s funny only because Oscar is saying it. Oscar, the kid sent to Eldwing at age eight. Oscar, the one who was actually supposed to be “cared for like family.” It was his birthright, far more than Lando’s. But at the end of the day, neither of them got what they wanted anyway.
“The alternative was living with the other orphans, where no one was supposed to be or become anything,” Lando says. “So I reckon I got pretty lucky.”
“You shouldn’t—” Oscar stops himself and turns to fully face Lando. For a second, he is blinded by the sheer intensity in Oscar’s eyes. Kaleidoscope specks of green. “You shouldn’t have had to go through that, Lando. Not the homelessness, not the separation, not the ostracization. None of it.”
“If I didn’t, I’d never become the same soldier I am today.”
“You would’ve become the same person you are now,” Oscar is adamant, unyielding, “just with a lot less pain.”
“But what if I don’t know who I am without the pain?” Lando responds without thinking.
His own words startle him. They’re truer than he intends. Truer than he expects.
When the whole bush is beaten and its fruit laid bare, does he know if he’s more part Lando, or more part fear?
“Then you’ll learn,” Oscar says, unblinking. “And I’ll help you, if you’ll let me.”
It’s not that simple, both of them know that. But when Oscar says it like that, it feels at least…doable. Lando will learn. Oscar will help him. There’s no other way, there doesn’t need to be. “...Yeah. Of course.”
Oscar’s returning smile is small, but bright enough to fill up Lando’s whole vision. Every puff of air that leaves Oscar’s mouth, he can feel on his cheek. Like a faint caress.
Again, Lando feels that sharp prickling. That ravenous want.
Not too fast. Everything in its time, he mantras. Now that he’s certain of what he feels for Oscar, he’ll take it slow. Oscar deserves handmade pottery presents and picnics under apricot trees and, not stolen kisses in borrowed rooms. Lando doesn’t want their first kiss to be driven by impulsive realization.
Everything in its time.
“Let me know if this is okay,” Lando breathes, gently wrapping an arm around Oscar’s head.
Oscar doesn’t say anything, but the hand that comes to grasp Lando’s is answer enough.