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The city never really sleeps—and neither does Lando Norris.
It’s 2:37 a.m., and he’s perched on the edge of a rooftop in Shoreditch, trainers scuffed, hoodie half-zipped, the bruised-purple London sky yawning wide above him. His headphones hang loose around his neck, the ghost of basslines still fizzing under his skin. The crowd he just left is a fading echo now—sweaty bodies, raised hands, strangers who let him hold their hearts in his hands for an hour or two. His gear’s packed, cables coiled tight, USBs tucked away like holy relics. Still, his fingers twitch, muscle memory replaying drops and transitions in the hush of early morning.
This part—the after—is his favorite. The quiet hum that follows the chaos. The moment where everything slows down but still pulses with leftover electricity.
Lando’s always been a creature of the night. His world runs on reversed hours and caffeine. Mornings? He sleeps through them, buried under tangled sheets and blackout curtains that block out any hint of daylight. His flat in 4B is a controlled disaster: vinyl records everywhere, empty Monster cans stacked like forgotten trophies, fairy lights strung up without rhyme or reason. The mattress lies flat on the floor, no frame, no headboard—just soft cotton and a warm mess that feels like home.
He started DJing when he was sixteen—back when his fake ID still said “Bob” and clubs were dark enough no one noticed. Now, at twenty-three, DJ L4NDO is a name people know—gritty undergrounds, rooftop raves, posh parties where he shows up in a thrifted tee and watches rich kids lose their minds to a remix he made in his underwear at 4 a.m. He’s not in it for the fame. He’s in it for the drop. The silence right before the beat hits and everyone loses themselves. In that moment, he’s not just some kid from Bristol. He is the moment.
Tonight was one of those magic sets. Every track landed. The crowd moved like it was choreographed. The promoter even slipped him an extra fifty with a wink and a “You killed it, mate.” His blood’s still buzzing as he walks through neon-streaked streets, the air thick with the scent of rain and kebabs. He considers grabbing a shawarma, but his limbs are heavy with the kind of good exhaustion that only comes after hours of riding soundwaves. Home it is.
The stairwell to his building groans beneath his feet like an old friend. Inside 4B, he kicks off his shoes, lets his backpack slump to the floor, and crashes face-first onto his mattress. The tap in the kitchen’s still leaking—he’s been meaning to fix it for months. Instead, he peels a neon pink Post-it from the stack on his nightstand, scribbles: Fix tap. Or don’t. Who cares. It joins a mosaic of notes stuck to his fridge—reminders, half-finished lyrics, doodles, and random thoughts at ungodly hours.
He queues up a playlist—something slow, ambient, dreamy. Not his usual high-energy stuff. This one’s quieter. Softer. It feels… more personal. The kind of thing you listen to while staring out a rain-slick window, wondering what the hell you’re doing with your life. He doesn’t know why he’s making it—maybe for no one. Maybe just for himself. A lullaby for the boy behind the beats.
He scribbles another note: Finish chill playlist. For no one. Sticks it to his fridge. Smiles a little.
Then, with the city still humming just outside his window, Lando draws the curtains closed and lets himself sink beneath the noise, the silence, the beat still thrumming softly under his skin.
And just like that, DJ L4NDO disappears into sleep, heart syncing with the city that never stops.
****
Lando stumbles into 4B at 4:12 a.m., riding the high of a warehouse set that still thrums in his veins. His hoodie reeks faintly of gin and fog machine, his trainers are halfway unlaced, and the world around him is muffled like cotton—ears ringing from hours of bass and bodies pressed close. But he’s grinning. Grinning like a man who just dropped a Daft Punk remix and watched a hundred people lose their minds to it. That kind of magic doesn’t wear off easily.
He flings his keys onto the kitchen counter where they skid across unopened bills, an expired club wristband, and a rogue neon green Post-it that reads: Buy milk (or don’t, you hate cereal). He kicks off his shoes, ready to collapse face-first into his mattress, when he notices something new.
A yellow sticky note. Right there on his front door.
Mate, your music’s great, but some of us have 8 a.m. lectures. Earplugs aren’t cutting it. —4C.
Lando blinks. Then snorts.
The handwriting is absurdly neat—like painfully neat. Even the dash before the unit number is perfectly aligned. The kind of handwriting that says I use color-coded highlighters and own multiple mechanical pencils. Lando tilts his head, amusement tugging at his lips. He’s never met 4C. Never even heard them, which is kind of a miracle considering how thin the walls are. They’re like some ghostly presence, always just out of sync with his hours. Cryptid-core, with a side of passive-aggressive charm.
He plucks the note off the door and grins to himself, already fishing around for a pink Post-it from the messy stack on his coffee table. Grabbing a pen, he scrawls:
Sorry, lecture guy! Didn’t mean to ruin your beauty sleep. Try noise-canceling headphones—they’re life-changing. —4B.
He pauses, smirking. Too cheeky? Probably. But that’s half the fun.
Before heading out, he rifles through his junk drawer and—miraculously—pulls out a slightly crumpled Earl Grey teabag. Fancy stuff. A lone survivor from a variety box his mum gave him months ago. He tapes it beneath the Post-it with all the reverence of someone bestowing an olive branch. Or at least a caffeine-based truce.
Then he pads across the hall, quiet as a cat despite the hour, and sticks the note squarely on 4C’s door. A little crooked. Perfect.
Back in 4B, Lando collapses onto his mattress, the fairy lights casting lazy shadows across his ceiling. His body is heavy with exhaustion, but his brain’s already spinning with curiosity. What’s 4C like, really? Some uptight engineering student hunched over formulas at 3 a.m., quietly plotting his downfall? Or maybe… maybe they secretly like the music, just too proud to admit it.
He imagines them waking up, finding the note. Frowning. Pausing. Then—maybe—smiling, just a little. The teabag’s probably too much, but Lando’s never been one for subtlety.
He drifts off wondering if he’ll get a reply. And kind of hoping they’re the type who keeps Post-its, too.
****
It’s 5:45 a.m. when Lando finally makes it back to Shoreditch, dragging his feet up the stairs like some half-dead creature fueled only by Red Bull and basslines. His backpack’s a deadweight slung over one shoulder, his shirt sticking to his back, and his curls are still damp from someone’s drink (maybe his own, hard to tell). The set tonight? Absolute chaos. In the best way. Bodies packed wall-to-wall, the floor bouncing beneath their feet, the lights strobing in time with the crowd’s screams. It was one of those nights that makes everything worth it.
But now? All he wants is silence. And his mattress. And maybe five hours of sleep before the sun has the audacity to rise.
He’s halfway through jabbing his key into the lock when he sees it—another sticky note on his door. Same yellow square. Same ridiculously neat handwriting.
Lando grins, teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he peels it off. Game on.
Cheers for the teabag, 4B. Truly the gift of the century. Next time, maybe turn your speakers down? Diagram attached for your primitive sound system. —4C.
A laugh bursts out of him, sudden and too loud in the quiet hallway. He has to lean against the doorframe, wheezing. The “gift of the century” line is funny enough—but the real punch is the folded sheet of graph paper taped underneath. He unfolds it and stares.
It’s… a blueprint.
An actual, ridiculously detailed diagram of his speaker setup. With arrows. Measurements. Calculations written in the margin. There's even a little label pointing to the volume knob that reads: “Not a toy.”
It’s the nerdiest thing Lando’s seen all week—and he went to a cyberpunk-themed afterparty with someone wearing a cape made of USB cords. He’s floored.
He can see it now. 4C hunched at their desk in some oversized hoodie, scribbling angrily in pencil while muttering, “Primitive sound system,” like they’re planning an academic takedown instead of a neighborly complaint. It’s so dramatic. So detailed. So unnecessarily extra.
He’s absolutely delighted.
Back in 4B, Lando drops his bag and flops onto the couch, still holding the diagram like it’s a sacred scroll. He grabs a neon green Post-it and scrawls back:
Nice art, lecture guy. My speakers bow to your genius. But maybe you need better walls? Try this instead. —4B
Then he fishes through a drawer, smirking as he finds them—a pair of crumpled foam earplugs, leftover from a music festival last summer. He tapes them to the Post-it like a badge of honor.
A peace offering? Maybe. An escalation? Definitely.
He pads across the hall, quiet as ever, and slaps the whole thing onto 4C’s door. Slightly off-center. Just to be annoying.
By the time he collapses onto his mattress, fairy lights twinkling faintly above him, Lando’s buzzing all over again—but this time, it’s not from the music. It’s the note. The drawing. The sharp wit laced under every line.
Who is this person?
He imagines them finding his latest reply—rolling their eyes, trying not to smile. Maybe they’ll fire back. Maybe they’ll actually come knock one day.
Either way, he’s all in.
The bass war has begun. And he’s already losing sleep over it.
****
Lando’s curled up on his couch, eating cornflakes with tap water again—because, of course, he forgot to buy milk. Again. It’s 5 p.m., which, in his world, qualifies as breakfast, and he’s still wearing last night’s hoodie. The faint scent of sweat, gin, and someone else’s cheap perfume clings to the fabric like a badge of honor.
He doesn’t even care. He’s more focused on the door.
It’s been two days since he left the earplugs taped to 4C’s door, and he’s been checking his own like it’s Christmas morning. Every time he leaves his flat—even if it’s just for the loo—he does a casual glance, trying to act like he isn’t eagerly awaiting a reply from a neighbor he’s never seen.
This time, as he shuffles back from brushing his teeth (with cola-flavored toothpaste, because he’s out of mint and refuses to admit it), there it is. A fresh yellow sticky note, perfectly aligned, mocking him in its smug, stationery glory.
Earplugs were tragic. But I respect the commitment. Volume still questionable. Diagram forthcoming. —4C.
Lando snorts so hard he nearly inhales a cornflake.
“Tragic?” he repeats aloud, wheezing. “You wound me, lecture guy.”
He’s grinning like an idiot, standing barefoot in the hallway, holding the note like it’s a love letter. The handwriting’s the same—sharp, annoyingly tidy—and the tone? Immaculate. It’s dry and pointed and secretly kind. He can feel the sarcasm under every looped letter, and it’s thrilling. Weirdly thrilling.
He can’t help but imagine 4C behind their door, probably sipping black coffee with a spreadsheet open for fun. Lando pictures them sketching diagrams at a desk covered in color-coded folders, all while his bass rattles their mugs. The fact they haven’t given up yet? That’s a kind of endurance he respects.
Back inside, he tosses the cornflake bowl—mostly water now—onto the counter and grabs a neon orange Post-it from the chaotic stack threatening to avalanche off his coffee table. He scribbles:
Tragic? Harsh, lecture guy. My speakers are artists, not criminals. Try this for your late-night study vibes. —4B
He pauses, taps the pen against his lip, then starts digging through his infamous junk drawer. It’s a hellscape of tangled cords, half-used vape pens, USBs with no label, and a single glow stick. Somewhere near the back, he strikes gold: a mini pack of gummy bears, unopened, probably from some long-forgotten gig.
He peels the sticker on the pack halfway open, then thinks better of it and leaves it sealed—wouldn’t want to come off too unhinged. Then he tapes it gently under the Post-it and marches across the hallway like he’s delivering a diplomatic offering.
The gummy bears dangle there beneath the orange note, bouncing slightly as the adhesive settles. Lando stands back to admire his work.
He hopes they laugh.
Or roll their eyes. Or make another diagram.
Back in 4B, the flat is dim and warm, fairy lights glowing, some ambient synth track floating lazily from his speakers. He collapses onto the mattress, already thinking about his next set—and whether he should sneak in a softer beat, just in case someone in 4C is secretly listening.
This thing between them—it’s not just a noise complaint anymore.
It’s a rhythm. A pattern. A conversation in color-coded stickies and quiet offerings.
And Lando? He’s never been more into it.
****
Lando’s halfway through a lukewarm energy drink—his third of the day, or maybe fourth—when the urge strikes. It’s not even conscious anymore. Just muscle memory. He rolls off his mattress, hoodie still wrapped around him like a blanket, and shuffles toward the front door. It’s barely past 4 p.m., and his curtains are still drawn, the flat lit only by the soft glow of his fairy lights and the lazy flicker of his laptop screen.
He tells himself he’s just stretching. Just checking.
But there it is. Another sticky note.
Small. Yellow. Sharp-edged. Pinned dead-center on his door like a bullseye.
Bass Gremlin.—4C
That’s it. Two words. Written in the same clean, unforgiving handwriting that he’s starting to recognize by the curve of a capital ‘B’.
Lando stares at it for a second, blinking. Then—
“Oh my god,” he wheezes, doubling over in the hallway as laughter takes him by surprise. He clutches the note in one hand, his half-finished drink in the other, and leans against the doorframe like he might collapse.
It’s savage. Perfect. And somehow affectionate in the most annoyingly sarcastic way.
It’s not just the insult—it’s the tone. Like 4C knows exactly what to say to get under his skin and somehow still make it feel like flirting. Like they’re playing a game only they understand, and Lando’s already losing—but he doesn’t even mind.
He storms back into 4B with renewed purpose, hunting through the chaos of his coffee table for a neon pink Post-it. Once he finds one—slightly bent, with an old setlist scribbled faintly on the back—he flips it and writes in big, looping letters:
Wall Wizard.—4B
He considers adding a drawing but decides to save that masterpiece for later. Instead, he grabs a single Skittle from the snack bowl on his desk—one that’s definitely been there too long and has partially fused to another one—and sticks it under the note with a strip of tape. A peace offering. Or a provocation. Honestly, even he doesn’t know anymore.
The door to 4C stays closed when he plants the note on it, and he walks back to his flat grinning like a menace.
---
By noon the next day, he’s already hovering by the door again, pretending he’s not waiting. He opens it casually, like he was totally just about to take out the trash. Sure.
A new sticky note waits for him:
Skittle? Cheapskate.—4C
Lando snorts, slamming the door shut behind him with unnecessary flair. He grabs a blue Post-it from the ever-growing stack now taking over his desk and scratches back:
Better than your sad earplug aesthetic, Wizard.—4B
Then, because he’s extra, he adds a stick-figure wizard—complete with a pointy hat—shooting soundwaves at what is definitely a tiny speaker with legs. It's terrible. Like, offensively bad. But that’s the point.
He marches it over to 4C’s door and sticks it on with pride.
---
An hour later, there’s a new note waiting for him when he opens the door to grab a food delivery.
Your art’s as bad as your volume control.—4C
He bites back a laugh while signing for his shawarma. “Cheers, mate,” he says to the delivery guy, who gives him a look that clearly says get more sleep. Lando closes the door and immediately dives for his green Post-its.
Bet your walls shake from jealousy.—4B
He sticks a gummy worm under this one for good measure. Slightly stale. Still great.
---
By mid-afternoon, it’s become a full-blown sticky-note war.
Gummy worm? Are we 12?—4C
Says the graph paper nerd.—4B
At least I own pens that work.—4C
Bet I’d charm your pens into dancing.—4B
That last one earns a brief pause. Lando draws a little pen doing jazz hands next to the words, then adds a winking smiley. He stares at it a moment longer before sticking it up, weirdly nervous and excited at the same time. He doesn’t usually flirt with people via adhesive paper, but hey—there’s a first time for everything.
The final note of the day comes just as he’s getting ready to cue up some tracks.
Yellow. Neat. Right on time.
Dance? You’d trip. Night, Gremlin.—4C
Lando reads it three times, his grin softening into something quieter. His fingers trace the edges of the note before he plucks it down, staring at the door to 4C for a beat longer than usual.
He doesn’t know this person.
Not really.
But he knows they’re clever. Sharp-tongued. Maybe a little lonely. And they’ve got this timing that fits into his world like they’ve always belonged in it.
He writes back slowly this time, choosing an orange Post-it and sticking it dead center:
Sweet dreams, Wizard. Don’t hex my speakers.—4B
He adds a sleepy moon doodle and a scribbled heart by accident. Starts to scratch it out, then leaves it anyway.
The hallway is quiet. His heart isn't.
Back in 4B, Lando collapses onto his mattress and stares at the ceiling, music humming low through the speakers like a heartbeat. There’s something about this—this ridiculous back-and-forth, the Post-its, the insults, the gummy bears—that makes the silence in between feel a little less empty.
He doesn’t know who 4C is. But suddenly, he wants to. Badly.
And if it takes a hundred more sticky notes to figure them out—so be it.
****
Lando’s somewhere between dead asleep and mid-dream when it happens.
He’s sprawled on his mattress, hoodie twisted around his torso like it’s trying to choke him, one sock half-off and the other mysteriously missing. Fairy lights flicker lazily above him, casting warm, sleepy glows across the mess that is 4B. His speakers are still humming something ambient and weird—spacey synths layered with rain sounds, the kind of playlist he only plays when he’s too wired to sleep and too stubborn to admit it.
In the dream, he’s DJing in a warehouse filled entirely with gummy bears. Like, literal dancing gummy bears. The crowd’s bouncing. He’s killing it. Someone’s waving a giant glow stick. It’s all very vibey—
Thump.
He jerks awake. Eyes wide, heart immediately trying to punch its way out of his chest.
He lies there for a second, completely still, like maybe the universe will rewind and let him pretend he didn’t hear it.
Thump.
Nope.
He bolts upright, tangling himself in his sheets and kicking over a tower of half-sorted vinyls. The room’s dim, quiet, and vaguely threatening. His phone says 5:17 a.m. and his chest says panic, and his brain says dude, ghost.
Because it wasn’t just a creak. It was a knock. A soft one. Almost polite. Which somehow makes it worse.
He stumbles over a pile of trainers on his way to the door, breathing like he’s just run five flights of stairs, and presses his eye to the peephole.
Empty.
Just the hallway. And the flickering light overhead that’s been busted since New Year’s. It’s buzzing faintly like a drunk firefly, casting long, twitchy shadows across the walls.
He waits. Squints. Opens the door an inch.
Still nothing.
No package. No weird note. No candygram. No angry wizard holding a diagram.
Just… silence.
He steps back inside, shutting the door a little faster than necessary. Heart still racing, he grabs a neon pink Post-it from the coffee table and scrawls:
You knocked or I’m losing my mind? Fess up, Wizard. —4B
It’s messier than usual—his handwriting tilted and shaky from adrenaline—but he marches it across the hall and slaps it onto 4C’s door like a man confronting his destiny. No Skittles this time. No gummy worms. Just raw confusion and a mild sense of terror.
Back inside, he leaves all the lights on and lets the ambient playlist run until morning, speaker turned to a low, comforting murmur. It makes him feel a little less crazy, like if anything did knock again, the bass would scare it off. He dozes off eventually, curled sideways, one arm draped over a pillow and the other still clutching his phone like a lifeline.
---
By noon, he’s vertical, groggy, and already halfway through a Red Bull when he remembers.
The note.
He stumbles to the door, opens it with the kind of dramatic flair normally reserved for soap operas, and nearly trips over his own feet when he sees it—new sticky, classic yellow, right where his had been.
4C’s handwriting, as always, is maddeningly precise.
Our building’s haunted, Gremlin. You better pack up—the ghost’s after you.—4C
Lando reads it twice.
Then a third time.
Then he chokes on his drink, half-laughing, half-sputtering it all over the couch. “Oh my god,” he wheezes, wiping Red Bull off his chin with the sleeve of his hoodie.
They’re teasing him. Fully leaning in.
And it’s brilliant.
He spins around his flat, suddenly seeing everything differently. The creaky floorboard near the fridge? Ghost. That random cold draft from the bathroom window that never quite shuts? Ghost. The faucet that drips no matter how many times he threatens it with a wrench? Ghost. Definitely ghost.
4C knows exactly what they’re doing. The smugness is practically oozing off the sticky note. Lando can picture them hunched over their desk, sipping coffee, grinning to themselves while sketching haunted floor plans on graph paper.
He peels a blue Post-it from the stack and scribbles back:
Ghosts love bass, Wizard. I’m safe. You’re the one with cursed walls. —4B
Then, with a burst of genius, he rummages through his junk drawer until he finds a plastic Halloween spider from last year. It’s missing a leg and kind of sad-looking, but he tapes it under the note anyway. For drama.
He places it gently on 4C’s door, like it’s the crown jewel of his passive-aggressive art exhibit. Then retreats, dramatically, like the mysterious hallway gremlin he is.
---
That night, he double-checks his lock. Then triple-checks it.
Not because he’s scared, obviously.
Just... being thorough.
The hallway’s quiet again. No thumps. No flickers. No shadows that move when they shouldn’t.
But Lando lies awake longer than usual, staring at the ceiling, wondering what 4C’s doing behind that wall.
Maybe they’re asleep. Maybe they’re reading. Maybe they’re laughing at him from their bed, plotting their next strike with a smirk and a Sharpie.
Whatever it is, Lando finds himself smiling into the dark.
This wizard is dangerous.
And he might already be enchanted.
****
Lando’s not a creep.
Seriously. He’s not.
He’s just... observant. Hyper-aware. Curious in a very normal, very scientific way. Like an anthropologist, if anthropologists studied their neighbors instead of... you know, lost civilizations.
It’s fine. It’s harmless.
He’s currently slumped against the doorframe of 4B, sipping a lukewarm Monster Energy and staring at the narrow strip of light glowing beneath 4C’s door. It’s been on for hours—since he got up at 3 p.m.—and it’s still on. That’s not normal. Not for 4C. Normally by now the light’s off and it’s eerily silent next door, like the flat’s empty or its resident has ascended into a higher plane of introverted existence.
Lando takes another sip, tapping the can against his knee. “Do you ever sleep, Lecture Guy?” he mutters under his breath.
He’s not trying to notice this stuff. He really isn’t. It just… happens. The hallway is his territory—his runway between caffeine-fueled power naps and poorly timed Tesco runs. And 4C’s door? It’s like a locked quest in a video game. A riddle in human form. A blank canvas that sometimes bites back in yellow Post-its.
It started small. Innocent.
The pizza boxes came first. Every Sunday night, like some kind of ritual, a greasy Domino’s box would appear neatly stacked outside 4C’s door. Always the same combo. Stuffed crust. Extra cheese. Lando only knows this because one time, in a moment of pure, non-creepy curiosity, he peeked. It wasn’t even that dramatic—just a quick glance at the receipt while tying his shoe.
Then there’s the music. Faint classical stuff drifting through the paper-thin walls every Tuesday at 6 p.m. Sharp. Beethoven, probably. Or Mozart. One of those ancient, dramatic guys with wigs. Sometimes Lando lies on his mattress and listens, eyes closed, letting the piano melt into the leftover echoes of last night’s bassline. He doesn’t know if 4C plays it to relax, study, or slowly plot his death—but either way, it’s weirdly soothing.
There’s also the sock incident. Last Thursday. A single, grey, boring sock left abandoned in the hallway like a fallen soldier. No pair. No explanation. It was just there for hours and then gone by morning like it had sprouted legs and walked off. Lando still thinks about that sock more than he probably should.
And the scuff marks on 4C’s doormat. Always on the left side. Like they drag something heavy in and out. Textbooks? Gym gear? A dead body? He’s joking. Mostly.
Maybe.
Today, the light under the door is a little brighter. Sharper. Lando swears he saw it flicker when he walked past an hour ago, and now it’s making him itch with curiosity. He grabs a neon yellow Post-it, twirls his pen, and debates what to write. Something light. Chill. Normal neighbor banter.
What comes out instead:
Wizard, your pizza obsession’s louder than my bass. Also, what’s with the sock? Ghost’s wardrobe malfunction? —4B
He adds a doodle of a pizza slice with little ghost eyes and jazz hands. Because if he’s going to spiral, he’s going to do it with style.
He walks it over casually—too casually—sticks it on 4C’s door, and pretends he doesn’t linger for an extra second, listening for movement behind the door. There’s none. Just silence and the hum of the building’s ancient wiring.
Back in 4B, he throws himself onto the mattress like he’s been emotionally wounded and spends the rest of the evening trying not to check the door every ten minutes like a golden retriever waiting for a treat.
When he finally does crack—and let’s be honest, it doesn’t take long—there’s a new note waiting.
Yellow, square, devastatingly sharp handwriting.
Gremlin, my pizza’s classier than your energy drinks. Sock’s on the run. Catch it next time. —4C
Lando presses his forehead to the doorframe and lets out the most dramatic sigh known to man.
He’s done for.
He grins as he peels the note off, folds it carefully, and adds it to the growing stack in his sock drawer like a total freak. There’s something addictive about 4C’s tone—dry, clever, always one step ahead. It makes him feel seen and challenged and weirdly alive. The hallway war is no longer just banter. It’s ritual. It’s foreplay. It’s better than his DJ sets, and that’s saying something.
He pulls out a blue Post-it, scribbles Sock’s got speed. Ghost’s probably dressing better than you.—4B, and slaps it back onto 4C’s door with a candy wrapper tucked underneath, like a badge of honor.
Then he lies back on his bed, heart too loud, smile too wide.
He’s not obsessed.
Just… invested.
That’s allowed, right?
Totally normal neighbor behavior.
Right?
****
Lando’s night is a certified disaster.
The kind of night that makes you question every life decision, from your career to your hair to why you ever thought DJing for sweaty, half-feral strangers was the dream.
It starts with a dodgy sound system at a grimey Camden club—sticky floors, broken fans, lighting that flickers like a horror film—and spirals quickly into chaos. His laptop crashes mid-set. Dead. Black screen. No music. No recovery.
Then some drunken guy tries to "fix it" by helpfully sloshing his beer over Lando’s decks, shorting the controller with a sizzle that makes Lando feel physically ill.
The crowd turns. Fast. Booing. Someone yells “Go back to Spotify!” and he doesn’t even have the energy to clap back.
He packs up in silence, backpack heavier than ever, and takes the late-night train home like a ghost. He doesn’t even stop for his usual corner shawarma.
By the time he drags himself up the stairs to 4B, it’s just past 2 a.m.
And for the first time in weeks, his speakers stay off.
No pulse. No bass. No Lando.
Just silence.
He strips off his hoodie, tosses it somewhere near the laundry pile (he’ll pretend he’ll wash it tomorrow), and collapses onto his mattress. The fairy lights blink lazily above him, soft and mocking, like they know he failed.
He lies flat on his back, staring at the ceiling, eyes dry but heavy. He’s not angry. Not even embarrassed. Just... numb. Wrung out.
The worst part?
He doesn’t know if he still wants to do this.
He’s had bad gigs before. But this one felt different. Like the universe had held up a big neon sign that read “you peaked, mate” and flashed it in his face.
No Post-it can fix this one.
---
The next afternoon, he rolls out of bed around 3 p.m., sore and stiff like he’s been in a fight. Which, to be fair, he kind of has—just with invisible punches and self-doubt instead of fists.
He’s halfway to the kitchen, craving nothing but toast and maybe oblivion, when he remembers to check the door.
Not that he expects anything. The hallway’s quiet. No phantom knocks. No ghost socks. Just stale air and—
Oh.
There it is.
A square of yellow, stuck dead center on his door like it’s been waiting.
The handwriting is unmistakable: crisp, sharp, and smug as always—but there’s something different this time. Softer around the edges. Less bite, more concern.
No music at the ass crack of morning? The world is ending? Gremlin, you okay mate? —4C
Lando blinks at it for a second. Then laughs. A small, unexpected sound that cracks through the fog in his chest like sunlight after a blackout.
They noticed.
4C—his annoyingly precise, pizza-obsessed, classical-music-loving neighbor—noticed.
And they asked.
He stares at the note longer than he should, fingers grazing the edge like it's fragile. Like it matters.
Then, still in last night’s joggers and a shirt that smells vaguely of smoke and disappointment, he grabs a neon green Post-it and writes back.
No jokes. No sass. Just truth.
Rough night, Wizard. Botched a gig. Crowd hated me. Gear’s fried. Feel like I’m spinning in circles. Why do I even do this? —4B
He hesitates.
He almost scrunches it up.
But then he peels it, sticks it gently onto 4C’s door, and walks back into 4B before he can overthink it into oblivion.
He spends the rest of the afternoon on his couch, not moving. His playlist is off. The fairy lights are unplugged. It’s just him, the mess, and the tiny voice in his head wondering if he just overshared with a literal stranger.
By evening, there’s a knock.
Not a loud one. Not a ghost one.
Just the soft tap of paper being stuck to a door.
He waits a full ten minutes before checking.
New yellow sticky. Same sharp handwriting—but this one’s rounder. Calmer.
Like it took time.
Gremlin, your annoying loud beats? They’re good. Really good. Even if they make my walls cry. Bad nights don’t define you. Keep spinning. —4C
Lando doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until he exhales. A long, shaky thing that pulls from somewhere deep.
Tucked beneath the note is a single coffee bean.
One, perfectly roasted, shiny little bean. Balanced on a strip of tape like a badge of honor.
He laughs—really laughs—because it’s so weirdly them. No explanations. No overthinking. Just a coffee bean and words that feel more like a hug than anything anyone’s said to him in weeks.
His fingers brush over the note again, rereading it twice. Then a third time.
He tucks it into the drawer with the others—his little shrine of yellow squares and scribbled insults—and doesn’t even feel weird about it anymore.
Later, he sticks a pink Post-it on his fridge. Just for himself.
Don’t screw this up, idiot.
He doesn’t know what “this” is yet.
But he knows it’s something.
And maybe—just maybe—it’s something worth turning the music back on for.
****
It starts with a bagel.
A sad, slightly stale, very chewy bagel, which Lando is picking apart like it personally offended him.
He’s sprawled on his couch in the glow of his fairy lights, hoodie half-zipped, Monster Energy sweating beside him. The TV’s on, muted, playing a rerun of some travel show he’s not watching. He’s somewhere between bored and aimless—brain too wired to sleep, too fried to mix—when it happens.
A voice.
A male voice.
Faint, low, muffled—just a few words seeping through the wall between 4B and 4C like a secret slipping out.
Lando freezes, bagel paused mid-bite.
“…stress analysis… due tomorrow…”
His brain blanks.
He leans toward the wall instinctively, ears straining, but it’s already gone. Just the hum of pipes and maybe the distant clatter of a kettle. Still, it’s something. Something real.
He just heard 4C.
Not a sticky note. Not sarcasm in ink. Not a drawn-on pizza ghost or cheeky quip.
A voice.
Warm. Clipped. Kinda deep. Laced with a dry tiredness that sounds like it belongs to someone who’s survived too many all-nighters.
But the thing that really yanks him into hyperfocus?
The accent.
Aussie. Has to be.
It's got that lazy drop to the syllables. That soft edge that wraps around the word “tomorrow” like it’s taking its sweet time getting there.
And just like that, Lando’s done.
Ruined.
Fully spiraling.
He abandons the bagel on the coffee table like it’s diseased and lies back, staring up at the ceiling. His brain starts running wild, tripping over itself trying to build an image to match that voice.
Australian. Right.
So, probably tan. Sun-kissed in the way that feels unfair for someone who’s also clearly a genius. Maybe blonde. Definitely tousled, like he’s just rolled out of bed after staying up all night solving equations and fighting ghosts with sarcasm.
Tall. Has to be. Probably with that casual kind of confidence that comes from knowing you could bench press someone and recite a physics formula while doing it. Or maybe he’s wiry—lanky, lean muscle, with that nerdy slouch from hours hunched over a laptop.
And the glasses. God, he’s definitely got glasses.
Not big ones—no, subtle wire-rimmed ones that slide down his nose when he’s working and fog up when he’s pacing around mumbling about stress analysis and why Gremlin won’t shut up at 3 a.m.
Sharp jawline. Probably. And a sarcastic smirk. That’s non-negotiable.
By the time Lando catches himself, he’s ten minutes deep into imagining a meet-cute in the Tesco produce aisle and what kind of cologne 4C would wear (probably something clean and quietly expensive, like sandalwood and library dust), and he groans, burying his face in a cushion.
He’s officially lost it.
He’s got no name. No face. Not even a glimpse of a shadow.
But now, somehow, he’s got a voice.
And it’s doing things to his brain chemistry.
---
By evening, Lando’s buzzing. Not the usual caffeine kind. The emotional one. The kind that makes his fingers twitch until he’s clutching a neon pink Post-it and a pen, chewing the cap like it’s going to help him keep his dignity intact.
He gives up on dignity.
Instead, he scrawls:
Heard you nerding out through the wall, Wizard. Aussie accent? Hot. Bet you’re blonde and bench-pressing pizza boxes. Spill the deets. —4B
Then, because he can’t help himself, he adds a tiny surfboard doodle underneath the words. It looks a bit like a sad banana, but the thought’s there.
He sticks the note to 4C’s door with the kind of casual nonchalance that only takes five failed attempts and a moment of dramatic internal screaming.
Then retreats.
---
Hours pass.
He checks the door once.
Twice.
Six times.
At midnight, a yellow sticky is waiting for him.
He snatches it up too fast, tries to play it cool, fails miserably.
The handwriting is, as always, irritatingly perfect. This one reads:
Nice try, Gremlin. Voice? Maybe. Accent? None of your business. Pizza boxes don’t lift themselves. —4C
There’s no doodle this time. Just that one perfect line about lifting pizza boxes, and Lando laughs. Like, full-belly laugh that makes him wheeze a little and clutch the doorframe for support.
It’s perfect.
Teasing. Deflecting. Still cheeky as hell.
But underneath the sarcasm, he can feel something. Not just the joke. Not just the flirting.
The familiarity.
4C knows he’s going to spiral. He is counting on it.
And, god, he is spiraling. He’s gripping the note like it means something. Like it’s more than just hallway banter now.
Because maybe it is.
Maybe it’s not about the jokes or the ghosts or the diagrams anymore. Maybe it’s about the way 4C always replies. The way he notice when the music’s off. The way he asks.
Lando pads back inside, heart fluttering for no good reason, and peels off a blank Post-it to tuck inside his speaker case.
Just in case.
He doesn’t know what he’s doing anymore.
But whatever it is—it’s starting to feel like it might matter.
****
It’s nearly 1 a.m., and Lando’s navigating the creaky stairs of his building like he’s in a spy film—kebab bag clutched in one hand, hoodie half-zipped, grease already soaking through the paper. The night’s quiet except for the distant bark of a dog and the hum of a flickering hallway light that’s been threatening to die since February. He’s halfway to his door when he spots it.
A parcel.
Propped neatly against his door.
For 4C.
He blinks down at it, still mid-step, then lowers his food like it’s been accused of something. It’s a small brown paper bag, innocuous and wrinkled, but the contents listed on the receipt taped across the top betray it completely: two packs of crisps, a bar of chocolate, a sad microwave pasta, and an iced coffee can that probably tastes like regret and desperation.
The full 'I’ve got a deadline and no will to live' package.
Lando glances down the hall. Nobody.
He nudges the bag with the tip of his shoe, like it might hiss and retreat. But no, it just sits there, looking quietly tragic. Definitely something 4C ordered in a stress spiral—maybe mid all-nighter, maybe out of spite.
And the delivery guy? Probably half-asleep himself. Dropped it at the wrong door.
Lando stares at it.
Then at 4C’s door.
Then back at it.
This is it. The moment.
He could knock. Like, actually knock. On his door. Hand it over, maybe say something clever like “Your snacks have been compromised” or “Did your thesis eat your will to cook?” Then he’d get to finally see the face behind all the sarcasm and yellow Post-its. The mystery, solved.
But instead, he just… stands there.
Palms sweaty. Heart doing something it really shouldn’t do over a stranger’s snack bag.
What if 4C opens the door and he is nothing like Lando imagined? What if he is… stiff? Or awkward? Or just not interested in meeting the loud, ridiculous DJ who keeps turning his walls into subwoofers?
Worse—what if he is normal?
The thought makes his stomach twist harder than the questionable garlic sauce in his kebab.
So, instead of knocking, he paces.
Back and forth in front of 4B like it’s a runway and he’s about to debut a line called Anxiety, but Make It Casual. He balances the bagel of a decision for twenty full minutes, his food going cold and his imagination spiraling faster than his old Pioneer decks.
Finally, with a resigned sigh and a smirk that’s more bravado than actual confidence, he pulls a neon green Post-it from the pocket of his hoodie.
Your snacks are safe. I haven’t poisoned anything. Yet. Come knock, if you dare. —4B
He tapes it gently on top of the brown paper bag, slides it with ceremony to 4C’s door, and retreats back into 4B like he’s just pulled off a covert operation. Mission: Don’t Be Weird.
The hallway stays silent.
No sudden knock. No startled face peeking out. No sarcastic voice confirming or denying the Aussie accent.
Just Lando, alone in his apartment, fairy lights casting sleepy shadows, kebab half-eaten on the counter as he slouches onto his mattress and lets the night swallow him whole.
---
The next morning, he wakes up weirdly early. Like, before-noon early. He blinks at the ceiling, groggy and disoriented, then stumbles toward the door with one eye half-closed.
There’s a note.
Not his.
Crisp. Yellow. Dead center.
He plucks it off with the same reverence some people use for old love letters.
Nice try, Gremlin. But I’m not that easy to summon. —4C
No snacks. No knock. No wizard behind the curtain.
Just words. Just wit. And a maddening refusal to break the streak.
Lando stares at the note for a long time, biting back a grin even though he’s definitely rolling his eyes. Of course 4C didn’t knock. Of course he is still playing this game.
And god, he loves it.
Because underneath the sarcasm, the teasing, and the crumpled snack bags is a truth he’s only just starting to let himself admit:
He doesn’t actually want this to end.
Not the mystery. Not the notes. Not the hallway dance they keep doing, just shy of meeting.
Sure, he’s dying to know who 4C really is. But also? He’s terrified of knowing.
So instead, he grabs a pink Post-it and leans into the game.
Cowardly Wizard! I’m keeping your next delivery hostage. Fair warning. I charge extra for iced coffee retrieval. —4B
He sticks it on 4C’s door and lingers for a second longer than necessary.
Then walks away, heart buzzing like his Monster’s kicked in, and already wondering what the next note will say.
****
It happens in a blur.
Lando’s halfway into yanking his hoodie over his head, one arm trapped in the sleeve like he’s fighting an octopus, when he hears it—the faint creak of the stairwell.
The sound freezes him mid-flail.
It’s a familiar creak. That specific groan of warped wood that only happens when someone’s heading up from the front door. He knows it because he’s memorized it. Like the click of the radiator when it kicks on or the whisper of classical music bleeding faintly through 4C’s wall every Tuesday night.
It’s 4C’s witching hour. He moves like a myth—always at weird hours, always just out of reach.
Lando stumbles to his door, still one-sleeved and barefoot, yanks it open on pure adrenaline.
He’s a second too late.
All he catches is the back of a grey hoodie—soft, oversized, hood up. One arm clutching a takeaway bag. The figure turns the corner of the stairwell without looking back, moving with the kind of ease that says he has done this a hundred times before. And then—click. The door to 4C shuts, quiet and final.
Gone.
Lando just stands there, caught between their doors, panting slightly like he ran a sprint he didn’t remember signing up for.
That was him.
That was the Wizard.
He missed them by seconds.
He leans against the frame, hoodie still hanging off his shoulder, hair a mess, completely disoriented. His heart is thudding louder than it should. He tells himself it’s the rush of almost catching someone after months of mystery, not anything deeper.
But it’s a lie.
Because now his brain is already playing the footage back on loop. The way the hoodie bunched slightly at the elbows. The glimpse of a takeaway bag—white plastic, probably curry. Or Thai. Or maybe both. Lando’s mind spirals like it’s trying to reverse-engineer a personality from ten seconds of shadowy footage.
Was there a glint of glasses? Did he imagine it?
He exhales hard, dragging a hand down his face. “Get it together, you absolute feral goblin.”
Back inside 4B, the fairy lights feel too bright. His chippy run is forgotten. The grease-stained craving has been replaced with a weird, hollow itch. He paces a few times, almost embarrassed by the way his pulse hasn’t settled. Then grabs a neon blue Post-it like a man possessed.
Saw a flash of motion. You ghosting me in 4K now? —4B
He adds a quick doodle of a ghost holding a takeaway bag, tongue sticking out, floating above a doormat labeled 4C. It’s childish. Petty. A little unhinged.
Perfect.
He slaps it on their door, maybe a bit too hard, then retreats, hoodie finally yanked into place. But he doesn’t sleep right away. He stays up scrolling through playlists and ignoring the takeaway app open on his phone. Every creak in the hallway makes his ears perk. He checks his peephole more times than he’ll ever admit out loud.
But 4C doesn’t knock.
No takeaway ghost. No Aussie sarcasm. No soft footsteps.
Just the quiet of the hallway and the soft flicker of that one annoying lightbulb, buzzing like it’s laughing at him.
---
Morning comes late. Or maybe afternoon. Lando’s not sure.
He shuffles to his door in mismatched socks and zero expectations—but there it is.
A yellow sticky note, centered and smug, like it’s been waiting for him to finally wake up.
4K? Your eyes need an upgrade, Gremlin. Keep up. —4C
He reads it once. Then again. Then three more times, because he can’t decide if it’s more infuriating or more endearing.
It’s classic 4C—dry, sharp, always a little bit out of reach. But this one feels… different.
It’s teasing. Yes. But softer, maybe? Like 4C’s not just mocking him, but challenging him. Daring him to keep playing the game. To try harder.
Lando snorts under his breath, the smile creeping in before he can stop it.
“I will catch you, you hoodie-wearing enigma,” he mutters, pressing the note to the fridge, right next to his ‘Finish chill playlist (for no one)’ Post-it. His fridge door’s turning into a shrine now—equal parts nonsense and emotional damage.
Still barefoot, he digs through his kitchen drawers until he finds a fresh orange Post-it. This one, he keeps blank. Just draws two stick figures—one with headphones and lightning bolts for feet, the other with a hoodie and what he decides is a magic wand. Above them, he scribbles: Soon.
No name. No threat. Just… a promise.
He sticks it on his own door this time. Just in case 4C’s watching, too.
Because whether 4C knows it or not, Lando’s done playing it cool.
The next time they pass in the stairwell, hoodie or not, takeaway or not—he won’t miss them.
Not again.
****
It’s 3 a.m., and Lando’s sprawled across his mattress, the fairy lights in 4B casting a dim, amber glow over his cluttered room. He’s fresh off a gig, still wired, his body humming with the ghost of basslines and adrenaline.
The city’s quiet outside, save for the occasional hum of a passing car, and he’s about to drift off when a sound cuts through the silence—soft, low, unmistakable.
A groan, muffled by the thin wall between 4B and 4C. Lando’s eyes snap open, heart kicking into overdrive. Another sound follows—a breathy moan, raw and private, seeping through the plaster like a secret.
His mind races. It’s 4C. The Wizard. His faceless, sarcastic, probably-Australian neighbor. And he is… fuck. Lando’s instantly alert, propped up on his elbows, ears straining. The sounds are subtle but undeniable—rhythmic, needy, the kind of noises that paint a vivid picture.
A creak of a bedframe, a stifled gasp, then another low groan, thick with want. Lando’s throat goes dry, his skin prickling with heat. He shouldn’t listen. He really shouldn’t.
Don’t be weird, Lando, he tells himself. Don’t be that guy.
But his body’s already betraying him, a slow burn pooling in his gut as he imagines the Wizard—tan, maybe blonde, definitely smirking—lost in his own pleasure next door.
He swallows hard, throat dry. It's not voyeurism, he tells himself. He didn’t go looking for this. But now it’s here, bleeding through the walls in pieces. The way breath hitches. The way silence breaks apart and reshapes itself into something warm and aching.
He shifts, the sheets rustling, and realizes he’s hard, his cock straining against his boxers. “Shit, fuck,” he mutters, half-laughing at himself, but the next moan from 4C hits like a spark, low and desperate, and his hand moves before he can think.
He tugs his boxers down, freeing his erection, already heavy and aching. His fingers wrap around his shaft, tentative at first, stroking slowly as he tunes into the sounds.
Another groan, sharper this time, and Lando’s mind spirals—picturing 4C’s hand moving, his head tipped back, lips parted. Are they thinking of someone? A lover? Or—fuck—could they be thinking of him, the Gremlin, after all those notes?
His strokes quicken, matching the faint rhythm from next door. The moans are sporadic, sometimes soft, sometimes ragged, and each one sends a jolt through Lando’s core.
He tugs his shirt up, bunching it between his teeth, biting hard to muffle his own gasps. His other hand clamps over his mouth, fingers digging into his cheek as he fights to stay quiet. The last thing he needs is 4C hearing him.
But it’s hard—fuck, it’s hard—because the sounds are relentless, each groan painting a clearer picture. He imagines 4C’s body, lean and flushed, hips bucking into his fist, sweat beading on his skin. Maybe he is biting his lip, trying to be quiet too, unaware he is driving Lando insane.
Lando’s hand moves faster, slick with precum, his thumb swiping over the tip, sending a shudder through him. He presses harder against his mouth, the shirt damp from his muffled groans. 4C’s noises shift—faster, needier, a low whine that makes Lando’s cock twitch. He squeezes himself tighter, hips jerking up into his hand, chasing the sound.
His mind’s a mess—flashes of 4C’s imagined face, sharp jaw, messy hair, that hoodie from the stairwell glimpse. He wonders what they feel like, taste like, what their breath would sound like up close. Another moan, almost a growl, and Lando’s close, so fucking close, his body taut as a wire.
When 4C lets out a final, broken gasp—raw, unfiltered, like he have just unraveled—Lando loses it. His orgasm hits hard, hips bucking, cum spilling over his hand, hot and messy across his stomach. He bites the shirt so hard he’s surprised it doesn’t tear, a muffled groan escaping as he rides out the waves, head spinning.
The room falls silent, 4C’s side now quiet, and Lando slumps back, panting, shirt falling from his mouth, hand sticky and trembling.
He lies there in his mess, staring at the fairy lights, chest heaving. What the fuck just happened? He jerked off to his faceless neighbor. The Wizard. The pizza-loving, diagram-drawing, probably-Australian nerd who calls him Gremlin.
His mind replays the moans, that low, needy tone, and he groans, dragging a hand over his face. He’s in too deep—way past notes and banter. This is bad. Or maybe good. He can’t decide. He pictures 4C’s yellow Post-its, his sharp wit, that coffee bean, and his heart does something stupid, like it’s trying to write its own note. He’s fucked. Properly fucked. And he still doesn’t even know his face.
****
Lando is, in short, a walking glitch.
It’s 2:04 p.m. and he hasn’t moved from the same two-meter radius in his apartment. His breakfast—which is just three Haribo gummies and the last sip of flat Monster—sits forgotten on the counter while he paces in front of the fridge like it owes him answers. His fairy lights blink slowly overhead, like they’re judging him with every soft pulse. And maybe they should. Because no amount of blinking string lights can erase the fact that last night, he… yeah. That happened.
He’s tried not to think about it. Really. He even blasted a chill lo-fi playlist this morning, hoping to cleanse his brain with soft beats and passive saxophone. But every time he blinked, he heard it again. That moan. Low, desperate, real. The kind that grabs your spine and doesn’t let go.
4C—his mysterious, hoodie-wearing, sarcasm-slinging nemesis-slash-crush—was on the other side of the wall. Vulnerable. Unfiltered. Loud enough to haunt him.
And Lando?
He hadn’t exactly been innocent either.
He groans now, dragging both hands through his hair until it sticks out in messy tufts. He’s not a perv. He didn’t mean to listen—it just happened. Like gravity. Or terrible decisions at 3 a.m. But now he can’t unhear it. Can’t un-feel it.
He eyes the neon Post-it stack on his desk like it might physically leap forward and write itself. Eventually, after way too much internal monologuing and two failed attempts, he scribbles on a hot pink one with handwriting slightly more chaotic than usual:
Late-night study sessions getting intense, Wizard? Walls are spilling all your secrets. Keep it chill. —4B
He stares at it. Regrets it instantly. It’s weird, right? Like, too much? But also vague enough to play it cool? He adds a shaky doodle of a book wearing headphones (because he’s got artistic integrity, apparently) and grabs a piece of tape. His hand trembles slightly as he sticks it to 4C’s door.
And then he bolts.
Back into 4B like someone just lit a fire under him, slamming the door quietly and leaning his back against it like he’s just survived something traumatic. Or cinematic. Either or.
He spends the rest of the afternoon doing exactly nothing productive—restlessly clicking through his playlist folders, opening and closing the fridge as if snacks will magically appear, and checking the hallway like he’s waiting for a Hogwarts owl to arrive.
Nothing.
3 p.m.? Nothing.
4:12 p.m.? Still nothing.
By 5:00 p.m., he’s convinced 4C has read the note, realized Lando is a creep, packed up their things, and moved out without a sound. He deserves it, honestly.
But then, at 6:17 p.m., he opens his door and there it is.
A yellow Post-it, crisp and smug, stuck dead center like a direct hit to the chest.
Study sessions? Sure, Gremlin. My walls are snitches, but your bass is louder. Earplugs 2.0 incoming. —4C
Taped just underneath the note is a single, foam earplug. Orange. Cheap. Probably useless.
Lando lets out a noise somewhere between a groan and a laugh, running a hand down his face. Of course he'd the sarcasm route. Of course, he'd dodge the obvious with wit and a side of denial. But still—it’s a reply. Which means he is not weirded out. Or maybe he is, but he's still playing.
He tugs the note off the door, carefully detaching the earplug and tucking it into his hoodie pocket like a souvenir. A ridiculous trophy from a ridiculous war he’s very much losing. But it makes something tighten in his chest, in a not-entirely-unpleasant way.
Back inside, he smooths the yellow Post-it onto his fridge, right next to the “Ghosts love bass” one and the coffee bean from the other week. It’s starting to look like a timeline of some very stupid, very slow descent into obsession. Or possibly affection. Lando’s not sure which is worse.
He stands there, sipping flat soda from a takeaway cup he forgot to throw out, muttering under his breath:
“You’re killing me, Wizard.”
And god help him, he kind of loves it.
****
Something’s wrong.
Lando knows it the same way he knows when a track's slightly off-beat or when the bass doesn’t land the way it should. It’s instinct. Vibe. And right now? The vibe’s all wrong.
It’s 6:07 p.m., and the hallway is silent.
Too silent.
No fresh yellow sticky note on his door. No sarcasm. No doodles. Not even a snide remark about bass or snacks or the rising threat of his neon Post-it empire. Nothing.
And it’s been like this all day.
Lando’s opened his door six times now under the guise of needing air. He’s paced up and down 4B like a caffeinated squirrel, fairy lights blinking overhead like they’re mocking him. His decks are off, his laptop’s open but untouched, and the only thing playing is the anxious drumline in his chest.
He knows he’s being ridiculous. People have lives. Midterms. Bad sleep. Social battery drains. It’s not like 4C owes him a note. But after weeks of back-and-forths, silly gifts, and insults dressed like flirting, the silence feels suffocating. He’s gotten used to him. The sarcasm. The hidden warmth. The rhythm of his presence behind the wall.
And now? It’s like he has vanished.
His mind goes places it shouldn’t. Maybe 4C’s sick. Maybe he left town. Maybe he moved out without saying anything, and Lando missed the whole thing because he was too busy mixing tracks or staring at their door like a lunatic. The thought twists something sharp in his chest.
He mutters a soft “Screw this,” and throws on a hoodie—doesn’t even bother to check if it’s clean—then grabs his keys and bolts out the door like the hallway’s on fire.
---
Ten minutes later, he’s back from the corner shop with a Kinder Joy in hand and zero dignity left. He clutches it like it’s some kind of offering, a peace token, maybe a bribe for attention. Something small and stupid and hopeful.
Back in the hallway, he crouches in front of 4C’s door and stares at the scratched paint for a long second. It’s just a door. Plain. Metal. But to Lando, it feels like a wall between two universes.
He peels a neon orange Post-it from his back pocket and scribbles:
Haven’t heard from you since yesterday, Wizard. Hope you’re alive. Don’t make me call the police. (I know uni’s a bitch, so have some Kinder Joy.) —4B
He sticks it to the foil-wrapped treat and gently slides both under the door like a weird, overly sentimental burglar. Then he stares at the floor for a moment, debating knocking. He doesn’t. He’s not ready to hear nothing.
Back in 4B, he tosses himself onto the mattress and pulls the covers over his head like he’s twelve. The silence feels heavier now, like static pressing against his skin. He tells himself to chill, that they’re just busy.
But still.
He doesn’t sleep much that night.
---
The next morning, sunlight tries and fails to slip through his blackout curtains. Lando groans, dragging himself out of bed like a reanimated corpse and trudges toward the door on autopilot.
And there it is.
A yellow sticky note. Crisp. Perfectly centered. Like it never left.
He snatches it off the door with a jolt of relief so strong it nearly knocks the air from his lungs.
Not dead, Gremlin. Uni’s eating my soul, but Kinder Joy’s a lifesaver. You’re soft under all that bass. Thanks. —4C
Taped underneath the note, like a cherry on top of his spiraling emotions, is the tiny plastic spoon from the Kinder Joy. Used, but clean. Like he had washed it just to send it back.
Lando’s grin hits him before he can stop it, stretching slow and lopsided across his face. His cheeks burn, and his heart does something stupid, like a glitchy loop caught mid-drop. He traces a finger over the words, especially the part about him being soft. He is teasing, sure—but it doesn’t feel like a joke. It feels real. Familiar. Warm in a way that scares him a little.
Back inside, he smooths the yellow note next to the others on his fridge and carefully tapes the spoon beside the coffee bean from last week. His shrine of chaos. A scrapbook of sticky notes and silent moments.
He stands there for a long minute, clutching the spoon like a fool and whispering to himself:
“God, I’m so in trouble.”
Because this isn’t just about banter anymore.
He misses him when he is gone. He worries. He cares.
And now he’s got proof taped to his fridge—written in candy spoons and sarcasm—that this might be more than a joke war over wall-thumping bass and pizza boxes.
He’s in deep.
And for the first time in forever, that doesn’t scare him.
****
Lando’s dying. Not literally, but close enough.
He’s bundled up on his couch in 4B like a soggy burrito, a nest of mismatched blankets cocooning his aching body. His nose is raw, his throat feels like he swallowed sandpaper, and his head is pounding to the beat of the world’s worst techno set. A cold, brutal and boring, has taken him down without mercy. His fairy lights glow dimly above him, casting twitchy shadows on the walls, and for the first time in… well, since the sticky note saga began, his speakers are silent.
He hasn’t moved much in the last twenty-four hours. Not to check the door. Not to dig out a neon Post-it. Not even to half-heartedly play music at a petty volume just to bug the Wizard. He's too tired, too gross, and too miserable to lift a finger, let alone flirt through passive-aggressive stationery.
The only thing he’s managed is half a bowl of instant noodles—now cold, congealed, and abandoned on the nightstand beside a mountain of balled-up tissues. Even his hoodie feels defeated.
It’s past noon when he finally drags himself to the front door, wheezing with every step like a haunted vacuum cleaner. Not because he expects anything—but because some stubborn part of his brain won’t stop whispering, Check the door, check the door, check the door.
And there it is.
A yellow sticky note. Neat, precise, perfectly placed like it’s mocking his sloppy, blanket-drunk posture.
Gremlin, I haven’t heard a single floorboard creak in 24 hours..Did the flu kill you or are you ghosting me? —4C
He stares at it for a moment, blinking like he’s hallucinating. It’s the first time 4C’s ever asked if he’s okay. Not in a real way, not with concern wrapped under sarcasm and snark. Lando’s lips twitch into something vaguely resembling a smile, but it wobbles halfway through. The warmth that blooms in his chest has nothing to do with the fever.
Dragging himself to the coffee table, he shuffles through a nest of used tissues and neon Post-its. He peels one off—green, curling slightly at the edge—and grips the pen like it weighs ten kilos.
Half-dead. Send soup. Or your Netflix password —4B
He stares at it for a second, debating whether it’s too much. But his head’s fuzzy and his energy’s shot, so he shuffles out, sticks it to 4C’s door with all the ceremony of a snail, and slinks back to his couch to die dramatically.
---
By the time it’s dark again, Lando’s lost track of time. Fever dreams blur into reality—he thinks he dreamed about 4C playing Beethoven while riding a pizza box across the Thames like a surfboard. Probably not real. Hopefully.
He’s halfway between consciousness and another sneeze when a soft knock startles him upright. It’s quiet. Gentle. Not the kind of knock you deliver when you want to be heard—more like a whisper. He stumbles to the door, barefoot, hoodie slipping off one shoulder, heart thudding like he’s about to walk into a love confession. Or a murder.
The hallway is empty.
But sitting neatly against the wall is a small silver thermos and another yellow note.
Not Netflix, but soup’s better. Don’t die, Gremlin. I’d miss the noise. —4C
He picks it up carefully, like it might disappear if he touches it too quickly. The thermos is still warm, the steam curling up when he cracks it open and the scent of chicken and garlic hits him like a hug. Real soup. Not packet sludge.
Lando sinks onto the floor, back against the doorframe, thermos cradled in his hands like something sacred. His chest aches—tight and unfamiliar in a way that has nothing to do with illness. He takes a small sip, then another, until warmth spreads through him from the inside out.
4C made him soup.
4C noticed he was gone.
4C… missed him.
His fingers hover over the Post-it, rereading every line. He pictures his Wizard, hoodie up, expression unreadable, tiptoeing through the hallway to deliver a thermos and sneak away without a word. Maybe he hesitated. Maybe he stood right where Lando is now, listening to the silence on the other side of the door.
Lando presses his forehead to the wall between them, soup in hand, and whispers to no one, “You’re killing me, Wizard.”
He’s never even seen his face, but somehow, 4C feels like the warmest thing he’s had in days.
He finishes the soup, licks the spoon clean, and carefully sets the yellow sticky note on his fridge. Not with the others, but on its own. Right in the middle.
He grabs a pink Post-it. His voice is still scratchy, but his pen moves steady.
Soup’s magic. You’re a wizard. Will trade DJ set for more broth. —Still-alive 4B
He doesn’t leave it yet. He just stares at it. Grinning like an idiot.
Because he’s pretty sure—cold or not—he’s just a little bit in love with someone he’s never even seen.
****
Lando still feels like shit.
The worst of the cold is over—no more chills or death-coughs—but he’s left with that heavy, groggy feeling like someone’s stuffed his head with cotton balls. Still, after three straight days of being holed up in 4B with only his fairy lights, a crusty tissue collection, and thoughts of his faceless neighbor for company, he needs air.
So he drags himself out, hoodie thrown over a beanie, and ends up wandering Camden like a sleep-deprived raccoon. The market buzzes with its usual chaos—tourists bargaining over secondhand jackets, a busker playing some warbled version of Wonderwall, food stalls sizzling with smells that make his stomach flip in both hunger and leftover nausea.
He’s not looking for anything, really. Just existing. But then, like fate—or rom-com plot convenience—he stumbles into a tiny vinyl stall tucked between a vintage bookstore and a churro truck. It's dim and cramped, walls stacked with records like they’re hoarding secrets. He fingers through dusty sleeves: weird old techno, synth-heavy 80s trash he secretly loves, one Bon Jovi album that makes him cackle.
Then he sees it.
A crisp, cream-colored sleeve. Bold serif font. Beethoven – Piano Sonata No. 14 in C-sharp minor. Moonlight Sonata. It’s pristine, the kind of record that feels important. He freezes. He doesn’t even like classical music, not really—not unless it’s been sampled into a remix—but this? This is so 4C it hurts.
He hears it clearly in his head now: the faint, mournful piano notes that always drift through their shared wall on Tuesday nights. It’s been background noise for weeks, barely noticed between bass drops and speaker wars. But now? It feels intimate. Like something he was meant to notice.
He buys the vinyl without thinking. Doesn’t even check the price.
---
Back in 4B, he stands in the middle of his living room, clutching the sleeve like it might vanish if he lets go. It suddenly feels… too much. Too personal. This isn’t just another pack of gummy bears or a diagram-themed insult. This is thoughtful. Specific. It's real.
He debates. Overthinks. Paces the room with the record under one arm and a neon Post-it stuck to his forehead while trying to brainstorm something casual. Nothing feels right.
Eventually, he writes what he feels:
This made me think of your Tuesday wall-symphonies. No bass this time, promise. —4B.
He stares at the note for a beat longer than he should, then tapes it to the vinyl’s sleeve. With a deep breath and the confidence of a man about to jump off a building, he tiptoes into the hallway and slides the record under 4C’s door, the cardboard scraping softly against the floor.
He retreats immediately.
And then he waits.
---
An hour passes. Then two. Then three.
Nothing.
He checks the hallway three separate times, casually pretending to take the bins out or fiddle with the doorknob like it’s broken. Still no yellow note. No sarcastic doodle. No sign that 4C’s even seen it.
Panic creeps in. Maybe it was too much. Maybe vinyls cross some weird unspoken neighbor line. Maybe 4C’s opened it, rolled their eyes, and decided the sticky note war was officially dead.
He starts scribbling an apology note—something vaguely self-deprecating with a side of dumb joke—but when he finally cracks open his door for the fourth time, something’s changed.
There it is.
A single yellow sticky note, dead center.
You’re annoying. And sweet. I hate you. This is perfect.—4C
Lando stares at it, reading it once, twice, ten times. The handwriting is still precise, sharp-edged. But it’s softer. Or maybe he’s just imagining that part. In the bottom corner, there’s a doodle of a treble clef… with tiny devil horns.
And something in his chest twists.
It’s not just because 4C liked the gift. It’s that he knew. Knew what it meant. Knew it wasn’t just about music. That it was about noticing. Listening. Caring. Even if it's all hidden behind insults and Post-its and ghostly Tuesday piano.
Lando presses the note to his chest without thinking. His fingers tremble a little—could be the cold, could be the nerves. Probably both. He backs into his flat slowly, grinning like a man who just got away with something ridiculous and romantic and incredibly dumb.
The vinyl’s still spinning in his mind. The imaginary version of 4C—hoodie, coffee mug in hand, maybe sitting cross-legged on his bed while the music plays—feels closer than ever.
He’s not sure what he’s doing anymore.
But it doesn’t feel like a game.
It feels like the beginning of something real.
****
It’s just past 1 a.m., and Lando’s lying on his back, one leg flung off the edge of his mattress, staring at the ceiling like it’s got answers. His speakers hum quietly—silent for now, waiting. His fingers hover over the playlist queued on his laptop. Not his usual vibe. Not even close.
Tonight, there’s no bass, no chaotic drops, no synths climbing like roller coasters. Instead, he’s lined up a series of soft indie love songs—wistful, honey-warm melodies, vocals that sound like heartbreak wrapped in cashmere. The kind of music you’d play during a slow dance in a rainstorm. It makes his skin itch, honestly, but it also… kind of fits. Not him, necessarily. But the Wizard.
He thinks of that one voice memo he caught through the wall weeks ago—low, clipped, maybe Aussie. A voice that sounded way too put-together to be living next to a human goblin like him. A voice he’s since filled out in his head with a hundred details that may or may not be accurate. Messy hair, hoodie, glasses, long fingers. Probably allergic to chaos. Definitely sarcastic. Definitely smarter than him. Possibly hot. Unfortunately.
Lando shakes his head, hits play.
The first song filters through his room: soft acoustic guitar, murmured lyrics about brushing hands and unspoken glances. He grins as he cranks the volume—not loud, but just enough to make it bleed gently through the thin wall they share. He imagines 4C pausing mid-diagram, brows furrowing. Maybe rolling his eyes. Maybe smiling. He hopes it’s the second one.
He lets the playlist play out like a message in Morse code, drifting off somewhere between Taylor Swift and a painfully earnest song of The 1975 "Somebody Else".
---
The next day, around noon, he finally stumbles to the door—still in his hoodie from yesterday, hair resembling a haystack—and finds it: a yellow sticky note waiting like a taunt.
You okay, Romeo? Blink twice if you’ve been replaced. —4C.
Lando actually wheezes. He clutches the note dramatically to his chest like it’s a love letter, then bolts back inside to grab a neon green Post-it.
I'm expressing my range, Wizard. Don’t pretend you didn’t like track 5. —4B
He doodles a tiny acoustic guitar and sticks it on 4C’s door like a declaration of war. Or affection. Both?
By evening, there’s another yellow note on his own door, casually scathing:
Track 5 slapped. Still hate you. Try some Alec Benjamin next time. —4C.
He rereads it four times. He doesn’t even know what Alec Benjamin sounds like, but he’s already queuing them up.
---
The war begins.
That night, he switches out his usual set for something gentler: Alec Benjamin , then another band 4C would probably approve of—The neighbourhood, maybe. Something poetic and slightly depressing. He leaves a blue Post-it after:
Alec Benjamin? Solid. Bet you can’t handle my next pick, Wizard. —4B
4C strikes back within hours:
Your taste’s improving. Barely. Try Phoebe Bridgers. Don’t cry too hard. —4C.
Lando scoffs, already searching Spotify.
The next few days are a blur of curated playlists and sarcastic notes. Phoebe Bridgers has him questioning every emotional decision he’s ever made. He retaliates with a soulful remix of “Moon Song,” just to mess with them. 4C responds with a sticky note and a doodle of a tombstone that says “RIP Gremlin: Death by Feelings.”
He’s falling. Hard.
But it’s more than that. Each recommendation, each note, each passive-aggressive doodle feels like a thread, tying them tighter together. He finds himself staring at his speaker mid-track, wondering if 4C is listening at the same moment, headphones off, letting it play through the walls. Maybe he sits in the same spot each time. Maybe he started tuning out their own music just to hear his. Maybe, just maybe, he is starting to wonder the same things.
Lando queues another song.
It’s stupid and sappy and probably cliché, but he plays it anyway. Because he’s tired of pretending it’s just banter. Because 4C knows track 5 slapped. Because every note is starting to sound like a love letter, and maybe he’s okay with that now.
****
Lando’s heart won’t shut up.
It’s 2:03 a.m., and he’s pacing barefoot across his cluttered flat, hoodie strings bouncing with each nervous turn. The fairy lights blink softly behind him, casting a wash of color over the mess—his unmade bed, an empty Monster can, and the pink Post-it pad now missing one very stupid, very dramatic note.
He really did it.
He actually wrote it. On neon pink, no less. In his worst handwriting and worst state of impulsivity. A full, messy confession—not that he was in love or anything (God, not yet), but still a pretty big leap for someone who hadn’t even seen the guy’s face.
Wizard, your notes are the best part of my day. Maybe it’s dumb, but I kinda, definately like your vibe. Don’t hate me. —4B
Definately. With an A. Like a twat.
He’d stared at it for ten minutes before sliding it under 4C’s door. Just pushed it through, palms sweaty, heart in his throat, and then ran back to 4B like it was a bomb he’d just armed.
That was hours ago.
And now? It’s gone.
Vanished.
Not on 4C’s mat. Not stuck to the door. Not half-crumpled and thrown in passive-aggressive retaliation. Just gone.
He checks the hallway again for the fifth time, peering down the dim corridor like the note might have sprouted legs and walked off. Nothing. Only a suspicious draft and the creaky sigh of old floorboards.
“What if it went under 4A?” he mutters, horrified. “What if the guy with the stained tank top read it? What if—fuck—what if 4C saw it and chucked it?”
He flops back onto his mattress, groaning into his hoodie sleeve. There’s a cold pit in his stomach. He’s never wanted to evaporate more. Of all the dumb things to send without a buffer joke or a doodle.
And the spelling. Jesus Christ.
By noon, he’s made peace with the idea that 4C either hates him now or died from secondhand embarrassment. He debates one last note to clean it up—maybe something like just kidding lol I was drunk (I wasn’t) or haha prank from 4D—when he finally opens his door.
And freezes.
A yellow sticky is waiting for him. Perfectly aligned. Crisp. Mocking.
4C’s handwriting is there, sharp and smug:
If you’re going to confess you like my handwriting, at least spell “definitely” right. —4C.
There’s a doodle next to it: a smug-faced pen wearing sunglasses. It’s obnoxious and tiny and completely perfect.
Lando stares at it, heart doing this awkward stutter-hop thing in his chest.
They saw the note.
They read the note.
And they didn’t ghost him.
They didn’t mock him (well, not cruelly). They didn’t back away from the weirdness or call him out for being too intense. They just… replied. Like always. Cool and sarcastic and kind of maddening.
He’s mortified. Also, weirdly euphoric.
Clutching the note, he stumbles back into 4B like he’s just won something. His cheeks burn and his chest feels stupidly full. He laughs, half out of nerves and half because, wow, he really is in deep.
Sinking into the couch, he grabs a neon blue Post-it, scribbles fast with a hand still shaky from adrenaline:
Spelling’s not my vibe, Wizard. You keeping my note hostage or what? I want it framed. —4B
He doodles a very sad, crooked frame next to it and adds a heart in the bottom corner without thinking—then scratches it out in panic, replaces it with a badly drawn question mark, and slaps it onto 4C’s door.
As he retreats back inside, he doesn’t care that he’s acting like a disaster. Because the Wizard saw him—spelling fail, nerves and all—and still played along.
And that? That feels a little like hope.
****
Lando isn’t expecting much when he opens his door. It’s just after sunset, and the hallway hums with that in-between kind of silence—not quite quiet, not quite alive. He stretches, hoodie riding up over his stomach, and yawns as he peeks outside, expecting maybe bills or a sarcastic jab from the Wizard.
What he finds instead stops him in his tracks.
A single yellow sticky note.
He plucks it off the door like it might vanish if he’s not careful. 4C’s handwriting is familiar by now—sharp, angled, precise—but something about it today feels… softer. Less bite, more breath. His eyes scan the words once, then again, slower this time, like he needs to be sure it’s real.
Gremlin, your annoying noise has helped a lot these past few weeks. Keeps the quiet from feeling so heavy. Don’t feel alone or homesick with you blasting away. Don’t let it go to your head. —4C.
There’s a tiny doodle in the corner: a speaker with a little heart buzzing out of it. Simple. Kind. Intimate in a way their notes rarely are.
Lando’s throat goes tight. His thumb brushes the edge of the paper as if he might feel the warmth behind it, feel them. He stares at the note until the hallway buzz becomes too much, and he stumbles backward into 4B, door shutting behind him like it’s sealing him in.
He presses the note to his chest. His fingers curl around it, breath hitching.
He’s not crying.
Okay, his eyes sting, but it’s allergies. Or dust. Or maybe it’s just that 4C—his faceless, hoodie-clad, possibly-Aussie, aggressively sarcastic Wizard—just said the quiet part out loud. That his chaos, his late-night playlists, his blaring speakers and spontaneous drum loops—he meant something. He helped. He filled a silence that felt too heavy.
It’s the first time someone’s said something like that about his noise. Not tolerated it. Not shushed it. Needed it.
His feet carry him to the fridge without thinking. Stuck dead center is a neon pink Post-it from weeks ago, the handwriting jagged and rushed.
Finish chill playlist. For no one.
Lando stares at it, lips twitching in disbelief. He remembers writing it after a 3 a.m. slump, trying to fill the silence in his own chest with ambient synths and acoustic guitar. Something soft. Something that could hold you without smothering you.
He yanks the Post-it down with more force than necessary, heart pounding, and slaps it onto his desk. Pen in hand, fingers trembling just slightly, he scratches out For no one and writes in bold, slightly wobbly ink:
For Wizard.
He sits down hard in his desk chair, still gripping the pen, heart thudding like he’s mid-set in front of a packed crowd. Except this is louder. Realer. Music’s always been how he talks when he doesn’t have the words, how he says things without really saying them.
And now he’s got someone to say something to.
The playlist is already halfway done—soft indie tracks, layered synths, beats like rainfall. He adds a Clairo track 4C might like, something with a slow build and lyrics that don’t try too hard. Then a lo-fi remix he once played during a storm, thinking of how it sounded like comfort.
He tweaks the order. Then tweaks it again. Because it has to feel right. Like him. Like them. Like everything unsaid between the notes on their doors.
He doesn't send it tonight. He’s not ready.
But it’s taking shape, track by track, a quiet love letter wrapped in bass and breath and melody.
He leans back in his chair, wiping at his eyes, and sticks the updated Post-it to his laptop. It’s wrinkled now, a little smudged. But it’s there. For Wizard.
His speakers hum low, like they’re listening.
*****
Lando’s lying flat on his back, eyes wide open, fairy lights throwing soft golden halos against the ceiling of 4B. It’s 2:47 a.m., and his room feels too quiet, too still—like the city outside forgot to keep breathing. He’s tried everything: warm tea, cold shower, even letting a boring playlist roll on repeat. Nothing helps. His thoughts are too loud, looping like a broken synth—about his gigs, his playlist, and more than anything… them.
The Wizard.
He rolls over, eyes flicking toward the wall he shares with 4C. There’s no music bleeding through, no faint movement, just silence. But something tells him—he is awake too. Same way he always seem to be, lingering behind the quiet. He grabs a neon pink Post-it, scribbles without thinking:
Can’t sleep. What keeps you up, Wizard? —4B
He doesn’t hesitate this time. Slips it under their door, heart thudding like he’s sent out a secret. He barely makes it back to his mattress before he hears the softest shuffle. Minutes later—when he peeks through the peephole, there it is: a yellow sticky on his door. He grabs it with shaking fingers.
Life. Deadlines. Thoughts that won’t shut up. You? —4C
Lando exhales. Somehow, it makes the night feel less endless. He grabs a neon green Post-it, his handwriting messier now:
Same. Every time I stop moving, the anxiety fills the space. Music’s the only time I feel like I’m enough. What’s got your brain spinning? —4B
He tacks it back, this time lingering near the door just in case. He hears it again—a pause, a careful slide, then another yellow reply.
Feeling like a brain in a hoodie. Tired of proving I’m more than my grades. More than potential. You ever feel like you’re faking it? —4C
The words punch a hole in Lando’s chest. His fingers tighten around the paper as he returns to his desk, grabbing a blue Post-it.
Every gig. Every set. Afraid the crowd’s gonna realise I’m just a kid with decks and no plan B. You’re more than grades, Wizard. You’re clever and funny and... kinda terrifying. —4B
He adds a tiny doodle of a hoodie with lightning bolts. Slides it back under. His heart’s thumping now, not with nerves—but something softer, something dangerously close to hope.
A longer pause this time.
Then: another yellow sticky.
Terrifying, huh? I’ll take that as a compliment. For the record: your noise? Weirdly comforting. Like, chaos I can count on. —4C
Lando bites back a grin. Chaos he can count on? That might be the nicest thing anyone’s said about him. He scribbles fast on a violet Post-it:
That sounds like a love letter, Wizard. You trying to confess under cover of darkness? Should I play your favourite sad indie song right now? —4B
The reply comes quicker than he expects.
If I confess at 3 a.m., deny it ever happened. And if you play Phoebe Bridgers again, I’m switching apartments. —4C
He cackles into his sleeve. It feels easy again—like banter, like warmth, like them.
Okay, okay. No sad girl bops tonight. Just… thanks. For the notes. For not ghosting me. For being real. —4B
This time he doesn’t doodle. Doesn’t need to. The silence stretches, soft and not so empty anymore. He doesn’t expect another reply, but just before 4 a.m., a final yellow sticky waits on his door. It reads:
Don’t thank me yet. You’re stuck with me, Gremlin. Now get some sleep. That noise better be back tomorrow. —4C
At the bottom, a doodle of a tiny speaker with sleepy eyes and a heart-shaped cord.
Lando clutches the note, presses it to his chest. The weight behind those scribbles makes his throat tighten. He collapses back onto his mattress, the sticky still in his hand, fairy lights glowing soft and steady above him.
He finally sleeps—not because the world quieted down, but because someone on the other side of a paper-thin wall said he saw him… and stayed.
****
Lando’s down to his emergency stash of socks—the mismatched, questionably clean ones that live in a forgotten corner of his drawer. There’s a Garfield print and something that might’ve once been neon green. It’s tragic. Utterly tragic. So at 9 p.m., with a hoodie thrown over his mess of curls and a canvas laundry bag slung over one shoulder like a post-apocalyptic Santa, he makes the trek down to the building’s basement.
The hallway hums with that weird, flickering fluorescent light energy that always makes him feel like he’s walking into a horror movie. The kind where the killer is just an unpaid utility bill and maybe a rogue raccoon. But he’s too focused, too tired, and too sockless to care.
Then he hears it.
A voice—low, soft, humming—slipping past the thick laundry room door like a secret. Lando freezes, one foot hovering over the next stair. That accent. That half-melodic hum. That is 4C. The Wizard. Humming. Downstairs. Right now.
He nearly drops his laundry bag.
His heart stutters, hammering like he just got caught sneaking backstage. It’s the same voice he’s memorized from muffled late-night lectures and sleepy sighs through their shared wall. The same voice he’s imagined saying his name, or calling him “Gremlin” with that annoyingly fond tone.
He tiptoes closer, hands suddenly clammy. The hum is soft—some classical melody, maybe the Tuesday Beethoven ritual he’s grown weirdly fond of. For a moment, he just stands there, holding his breath, picturing 4C in his oversized hoodie, maybe perched on the dryer, eyes closed, lost in the music, completely unaware of the emotional breakdown Lando is having just outside the door.
He should go in. Say something. Be normal. He takes one careful step forward—
And immediately trips over a rogue detergent bottle left in the hall like a trap.
The plastic bottle clatters to the floor with an earsplitting crash, bouncing once, twice, before it rolls to a tragic stop under the vending machine. Lando stumbles, trying to catch the bag that’s already slipping from his shoulder. It thuds against a nearby laundry cart with a slap that might as well have been a foghorn.
He freezes, mid-chaos, eyes wide. The humming stops.
Shit.
Lando bolts into the laundry room, frantic. “Sorry! I didn’t mean—!”
It’s empty.
Just an industrial washer chugging away, spinning someone’s clothes in slow, soapy circles. There’s the faint scent of lavender detergent in the air, warm and clean. But no hoodie. No Wizard. No humming.
He missed them. Again.
Lando leans on the dryer, letting his head thunk gently against the cold metal. His cheeks are hot, and his ego is bleeding out on the linoleum floor. He mutters a quiet, “Cool. Love that for me,” before dragging his bag back upstairs, socks still unwashed and pride very, very bruised.
He doesn’t check his door immediately when he gets back to 4B. He flops face-first into his bed, groaning into a pillow and contemplating whether the universe just hates him or finds him entertaining.
It’s almost 11 p.m. when he finally cracks and peeks out into the hallway.
There it is.
A yellow sticky on his door, waiting like a smirking ghost.
Stalking me in the laundry room now? Should’ve just said hi. —4C
A doodle of a detergent bottle with cartoon eyes and a wink mocks him from the corner.
Lando groans into his palm, half-laughing, half-dying inside. “Unbelievable,” he mumbles. But he’s grinning. His cheeks ache, and it’s a little embarrassing how fast his heart’s beating. He can almost hear the smug smile behind that note. So close. So, so close.
He grabs a neon pink Post-it from his desk, scribbles messily:
Next time I’m bringing backup socks and guts. You won’t get away so easy, Wizard. —4B
He tapes it to 4C’s door, tapping the paper like a challenge. He walks back to 4B, grinning like an idiot.
One day soon, he’s going to see the face behind that humming. But not yet. Not tonight.
Tonight, he dreams of lavender and low voices and the sound of a soft laugh just out of reach.
****
The power goes out at exactly 10:03 p.m.—Lando knows because he’s mid-mix, headphones on, when everything dies. The fairy lights blink once, then disappear. His laptop screen goes black. Even the building’s usual low hum—the fridge, the hallway light, the ancient radiator clanking like it’s haunted—falls silent.
“Shit,” he mutters, pulling off his headphones as 4B sinks into thick, humming darkness.
No music. No WiFi. No microwave. No distraction.
Lando stares out the window, but even the streetlights are down, the entire block swallowed in blackout. It’s eerie—how the city, usually buzzing with late-night sounds, feels like it’s holding its breath.
He checks his phone: 12% battery. No service. He sighs dramatically and flops onto his bed like a Victorian widow.
“This is how I die,” he tells the ceiling. “Alone. In silence. With no bass.”
But then… his eyes flick to the wall.
If he’s stuck, 4C is too. No Zoom calls. No study playlists. No thesis. Just them, in 4C, probably frowning at their dead laptop like the power cut personally insulted them.
The thought makes him grin.
He grabs a flashlight, a pen, and a stack of neon Post-its from his desk drawer. If there’s no WiFi, they’re going old school. He scribbles, handwriting a bit wobbly in the dim beam:
Power’s out, Wizard. My speakers are grieving. You surviving without your nerd calls? —4B
He tiptoes across the hallway like he’s on a secret mission and sticks it to 4C’s door, flashlight clenched between his teeth.
Ten minutes later, when he opens his own door to check, there’s already a note waiting:
Gremlin, my thesis is currently eating itself. No Zoom. No caffeine. Just darkness and despair. Draw me a sad speaker. —4C
Lando snorts, ducking back into 4B. He grabs a pink Post-it and sketches the world’s saddest speaker—literal tears, dramatic frown, even a cracked aux cable. He scribbles back:
Sad speaker delivered. Looks like it’s about to drop a breakup album. Your turn—doodle your face. I dare you. —4B
Back it goes.
This time it takes a little longer, but the response is worth it.
My face? You couldn’t handle the beauty. Try a koala instead. Easier for your tiny gremlin hands. —4C
And a doodle: a smug, wonky koala clinging to a stick with a speech bubble that says, “No thesis, only naps.”
Lando wheezes.
Koala done. It's got your vibe. Round, grumpy, probably judging me. I bet you're blushing though. Come on, flirt better. —4B
He adds pink cheeks to the koala, sticks out its tongue, and sends it back.
Flirting’s not my major, Gremlin. I minored in Chaos. You're the one sending love letters via cartoon wildlife. —4C
Another sticky soon follows:
Although, full disclosure: I'm still smiling at that sad speaker. Might name my next playlist after it. “Existential Aux.” —4C
Lando presses his fist to his chest like he’s been wounded. He nearly knocks over a lamp scrambling to reply.
Playlist title: 10/10. Tragic. I’ll drop beats for it. First track’s just the sound of me crying into a synthesizer. —4B
Track 2: the emotional journey of a koala with commitment issues. —4B
4C fires back:
Track 3: Thesis Ghosts (feat. Anxiety & Procrastination). —4C
Bonus track: Bassline of Regret. —4C
Lando’s laughing so hard he nearly forgets the blackout. The hallway smells faintly of someone’s candle burning down the corridor, but 4C’s notes are lighting the whole night up better than electricity ever could.
By midnight, just as he’s debating whether to tape a full mixtape concept to their door, the lights flicker once—twice—and then snap back on.
The fairy lights in 4B glow softly again. His speakers blink to life. But Lando barely notices.
There’s one last yellow note on his door.
Electricity’s back. Tragic. You were more fun than my thesis. Don’t let it go to your head. —4C
A doodle is taped below it—a smug little gremlin holding a glowing lightbulb above their head like they saved the world.
Lando presses the note to his chest, smiling like a total idiot. He wanders back into 4B, sticky notes fanned out on his desk like evidence in a case he’s definitely losing—because yeah, he’s falling. Fast.
****
Lando’s hands won’t stop trembling.
His laptop hums softly on his desk, the screen glowing in the warm, quiet flicker of his fairy lights. It’s 1:14 a.m., and he’s been staring at the same line of the playlist title for at least ten minutes, cursor blinking like it’s mocking him.
"For Wizard – when the quiet gets too loud."
It’s done. Finally. Weeks of tweaking, reshuffling, second-guessing every track. It’s the most careful he’s ever been with music that wasn’t for a gig—this one’s not for a crowd. It’s for someone he hasn’t even seen. Someone who only exists in loops of handwriting, doodles of koalas and speakers, and that maybe-Australian lilt through paper-thin walls. Someone who called his noise comforting. Someone who’s been haunting his thoughts at 3 a.m., who left a sticky note during a blackout that made Lando laugh so hard he forgot the dark.
And now… he’s giving them this.
The playlist is soft—indie love songs, dreamy ambient loops, a sprinkle of Bon Iver, a couple instrumentals that feel like lying on your back at midnight staring up at a ceiling you’ve memorised too well. It's intimate, almost embarrassingly so. Every track bleeds the things he doesn’t know how to say.
He reaches for a neon pink Post-it. His fingers are clammy, the pen slipping slightly as he writes. He doesn’t let himself pause.
Hey Wizard (don’t even know your real name yet—what a wild ride), I made you a playlist. For when you feel lonely, or you’re studying, or the walls feel too quiet. It’s got a few bangers. Mostly chill stuff. Music’s my love language, always has been. So this is… me being honest. I like you. A LOT. Like, a lot a lot. You don’t have to like me back. Or say anything. I just needed you to know. It’s been getting unbearable. You’ve become this constant in my life, and I couldn’t keep pretending it’s just notes and banter. I hope this doesn’t ruin everything (if it does, I’m absolutely moving to a different country, do not test me). Anyway, NO PRESSURE HAHAHA. Hope you like the playlist. —4B
He tapes it to a tiny USB stick, labeled in bold, slanted sharpie: Wizard Vibes.
It looks harmless. Casual. But his stomach feels like it’s folding in on itself.
He doesn’t let himself think. Just bolts out into the hall in his socks, the floor cold beneath his feet, and crouches to slide the drive and note under 4C’s door. It disappears with the softest whisper. That’s it.
He stares at the spot for a beat too long, before fleeing back to 4B like he’s just dropped a bomb. Slams the door. Leans his forehead against it, eyes squeezed shut.
And then… panic.
Real, breath-catching, oh-God-I’ve-ruined-it panic.
He paces, tearing off his hoodie, the heat crawling up the back of his neck. Why did he write so much? Why did he say a lot a lot like a toddler with a crush? Why did he add NO PRESSURE HAHAHA like he’s in a bad rom-com?
He lies on his bed, arms splayed, staring at the ceiling like it has answers. His fairy lights blink softly, mocking him.
You’ve officially lost your mind, he thinks. You gave a mixtape confession to someone whose face you’ve never seen.
He groans into his pillow.
Minutes crawl. An hour passes. Then another.
Nothing.
No knock. No note. Not even a thump through the wall.
By 3 a.m., Lando’s curled on his mattress, playlist still open on his laptop like it’s watching him unravel. His chest aches. The silence is louder than it’s ever been. No witty reply. No doodled speaker or sarcastic jab.
You ruined it, whispers the anxious part of his brain. You made it real.
He closes his eyes, fighting off the weight in his chest, trying not to regret telling the truth.
And then—knock.
A single, firm knock on his door.
His eyes fly open.
He doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t move.
Another knock, this time softer. Hesitant.
He shoots upright, heart in his throat. The fairy lights flicker gently, casting golden halos on his walls. He stumbles to his feet, nearly trips over his own blanket, and crosses to the door on legs that don’t feel entirely real.
He hesitates. His hand hovers over the knob.
****
Lando’s frozen.
The hallway is quiet, too quiet, save for the faint hum of the overhead light and the ringing in his ears from his own heartbeat. His chest is tight, lungs forgetting how to function as the knock echoes again in his mind. It wasn’t loud. Just three soft taps. But to him, it might as well have been thunder.
He swallows. His throat is dry. Every part of him is screaming, don’t open the door, but his legs are already moving, slow, reluctant, like they know that whatever’s waiting on the other side is about to change everything.
Hand trembling, he unlocks it. Pulls it open.
And sees him.
For a second—maybe longer—Lando just stares.
There, standing in the glow of the hallway light, wearing that familiar grey hoodie with the sleeves pushed to the elbows, is 4C. The Wizard. The boy behind all the yellow notes. The stranger who’s been haunting his thoughts, who’s turned Post-its into poetry.
He’s real. He’s right there.
Wizard is taller than Lando expected—not towering, but with a lean frame that fills the doorway in a quiet, effortless kind of way. His posture is relaxed, but his eyes give him away. They’re warm brown, wide, searching, a little cautious around the edges but still bright. Freckles scatter across his nose and cheeks like someone flicked cinnamon on porcelain, and Lando's brain short-circuits at the sight.
And then he sees it—the smile. Soft, hesitant, crooked on one side. And the bunny teeth. Lando’s heart quite literally seizes in his chest.
“Oh my God,” Lando whispers under his breath, absolutely and utterly doomed.
Wizard’s hair is slightly messy, strands flopping over his forehead like he’s been running his hands through it all night. He looks like he hasn’t slept—there are soft shadows under his eyes—but it doesn’t dull anything. If anything, it makes him look real. Human. His.
“Gremlin,” Wizard says, his voice barely more than a breath, laced in a low, sleepy Aussie lilt.
And that’s it.
The sound of that one stupid nickname in that voice knocks all the breath out of Lando like he’s been sucker-punched by fate itself.
Before he can come up with anything remotely coherent to say, Wizard takes a step forward. Closes the distance.
And then—hands on his face. Warm. Firm. Gentle and urgent all at once.
And suddenly—lips.
The kiss crashes into him like a wave, sudden and overwhelming. There’s no preamble, no pause. Just Wizard, kissing him like it’s something he’s been holding back for weeks—months. It’s messy and desperate, not soft at all, and Lando gasps into it, because holy shit, he’s kissing me. His hands scramble before finding purchase—one gripping Wizard's hoodie, the other clutching his hip like he might fall if he lets go.
Wizard’s mouth is hot, slightly chapped, and he tastes faintly of mint and something sweet—Kinder Joy, maybe? The kiss deepens, lips parting, tongues brushing, and Lando moans into it, caught between shock and absolute need. His whole body feels wired, thrumming under his skin like his own speakers are pulsing in his bloodstream.
Wizard leans in harder, pressing him gently back against the doorframe, and Lando lets him, lets his hands slide up under the hem of Wizard's hoodie to curl around the warm skin of his waist, fingers digging in, anchoring. Their mouths move in sync, all teeth and tongue and months of pent-up tension. Wizard kisses like he means it, like there’s no room for second thoughts or doubt. Like he’s wanted this just as badly.
Lando’s dizzy. Drunk off it. His knees are weak and his chest is too full and he thinks, distantly, I’m never going to recover from this.
They break apart slowly, reluctantly, lips brushing even as they breathe.
“Wizard,” Lando pants, voice hoarse, almost wrecked.
Wizard's forehead leans against his, their noses brushing, breaths shared. His eyes flick up to meet Lando’s. Soft. Unapologetic.
“Oscar,” he murmurs back, and his smile widens. His teeth show again—those damn bunny teeth—and Lando’s pretty sure he might actually fall over.
He lets out a breathless laugh. “Seriously?”
Oscar chuckles, low and breathy. “Yeah. It’s a stupid name, I know.”
“No,” Lando says, hand now gently cupping Oscar’s cheek. “No, it’s—fuck, I love it.”
They kiss again, slower this time. Less frantic, more real. Like they’re letting it sink in. Like they're savoring it. “Lando,” he whispers, lips brushing Oscar’s, and Oscar’s smile widens, a low hum vibrating between them. Their kisses slow but don’t stop, softening into something tender but still charged, tongues brushing, hands wandering.
Their lips move in unhurried sync, mouths open and warm, the kind of kiss that speaks for them both: I’m here. I’m real. I feel it too.
Lando doesn’t know how long they stay like that—five minutes, maybe more. Long enough for the hallway to feel like its own world, quiet and soft and flickering around the edges.
When they finally part again, Lando’s grin is loose, breathless, and a little stunned.
“You read my note,” he says, voice rough and filled with too much.
Oscar nods, cheeks flushed, the corner of his mouth quirking. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Liked it. Alot alot.”
Lando groans, half-laugh, half-mortified. “You’re never letting that go, are you?”
Oscar smirks. “Not a chance.”
Lando grabs the front of Oscar’s hoodie again, tugging him in for one last kiss—quick, messy, his—before pulling back and whispering, “Good.”
Because finally, after all the Post-its and playlists and hallway almosts… the Wizard has a name.
And he’s kissing Lando like he means it.
****
Lando’s heart is trying to escape through his throat. He’s standing just outside their building, slightly damp from the misty London drizzle, pacing in slow circles like a very confused puppy. His hoodie’s one of the few clean ones he has that doesn’t have sauce stains, and he’s even attempted to style his hair, though it’s already wilting under the damp. He keeps tugging on the drawstring of his hoodie and checking his phone, which doesn’t have any new notifications—because obviously.
The neon pink Post-it he left under 4C’s door that morning still haunts him.
Wizard—Oscar—let’s test this thing out. Record shop, coffee, rooftop movie? Tomorrow, 6 p.m. Don’t ghost me. —Lando.
He’d panicked after sliding it under the door, almost immediately scribbling a second one to retract it. But Oscar’s reply had come fast, in that sharp-but-soft yellow-papered way of his:
Only if you don’t misspell my name, Gremlin. I’m in. —Oscar.
Lando’s stomach has been in knots ever since.
It’s 5:59 p.m. when the door to their building swings open, and there he is.
Oscar.
Not “Wizard,” not a smirking note through the wall, but a real, breathing boy with soft brown eyes and freckles and a stupidly unfair jawline. He’s swapped his usual grey hoodie for a navy jacket that clings to his frame just right, his light brown hair damp and curling slightly from the drizzle. He’s clutching a small umbrella that looks half-broken already and has a cautious, nervous smile that melts Lando’s knees.
“You’re early,” Oscar says, a tiny lilt curling through his voice. “Didn’t strike me as the punctual type.”
“I’m not,” Lando says, grinning despite the flip his stomach does. “I’ve been down here for like twenty minutes pretending I wasn’t.”
Oscar snorts, eyes crinkling, and hands Lando the umbrella. “You’ll need this. I think it’s cursed.”
They barely make it two blocks before the sky opens up, full British vengeance. The umbrella flips inside out like a cartoon, sending them both scrambling under the nearest awning, laughing breathlessly. Lando’s hoodie is soaked through, and Oscar’s curls are plastered to his forehead.
“London,” Oscar mutters, tugging the umbrella down and inspecting it like it betrayed him. “I swear this city’s actively trying to drown me.”
“You’re too Aussie for it,” Lando replies. “You’re not built for this level of emotional rain.”
Oscar laughs again—loud, unfiltered—and the sound knocks the air out of Lando’s lungs. He wants to bottle it. Replay it. Turn it into a sample for a track called I Think I’m Screwed.
Eventually, the rain lets up just enough for them to half-jog to the record shop in Camden. Inside, it’s warm, musty, and everything smells like old vinyl and lavender oil from the incense counter. Lando starts flipping through crates of records with the casual swagger of someone who doesn’t know what he’s looking for, just so he doesn’t have to look at Oscar too long and combust.
Oscar, meanwhile, is methodical—fingertips grazing spines, eyes narrowed, muttering titles under his breath. He pauses at the Phoebe Bridgers section, holds one up with a pointed look. “Tribute to the playlist war.”
“You’re never letting me live down that playlist,” Lando says, grinning as he edges closer, their arms brushing.
“Not when you confessed your love with Bon Iver.”
Lando’s cheeks go nuclear. “It wasn’t love, it was—vibes. Emotional ambience.”
Oscar’s smile turns smug. “Sure.”
At the till, Lando reaches for his wallet—only to come up empty.
“Oh shit.” He pats down every pocket like it might magically appear. “Oh my god, I left it. I left my wallet in my charger drawer.”
Oscar doesn’t even blink. “You’re lucky I like chaos.”
He pays for both records with a theatrical sigh and a smirk. “You owe me, Gremlin.”
“I owe you everything,” Lando groans. “This date’s going to cost me my dignity.”
They head to the bus stop for the café. Lando misses the stop button by an inch, too busy watching Oscar talk about a weird first-year flatmate, and the bus rolls right past their stop. They hop off into another downpour, no umbrella this time, soaked within seconds.
“We’re cursed,” Lando laughs, flicking his wet fringe out of his eyes. “I think this date is genuinely cursed.”
Oscar’s grinning, cheeks pink from the cold. “Nah. It’s just London testing your sincerity.”
They abandon the café plan and stumble into the nearest chip shop, which smells aggressively of vinegar and fried everything. They split a cone of fries and sit on a damp bench under a flickering streetlight, their shoulders touching, hands brushing every so often in the bag of fries.
They talk. About music. About uni. About how Lando once tripped over a fog machine onstage and Oscar once submitted a whole essay with the word “buttress” misspelled seven times. The conversation flows easily now, wrapped in the quiet intimacy of rain-drenched clothes and salty food and shared laughter.
The rooftop movie is canceled. They knew it would be, but Lando still pulls out his phone just to confirm it—he doesn’t want the night to end yet. They stay seated, rain now more of a drizzle, Lando’s knee bouncing like he’s holding something in.
Oscar watches him with gentle curiosity.
“I’m not good at this,” Lando blurts.
Oscar’s brow lifts. “At… dating?”
“At feeling stuff,” Lando says, voice a bit too raw. “I usually joke. Or run. Or blast music until it’s gone. But with you, I—”
Oscar reaches for his hand. No words. Just a warm, steady grip that makes Lando shut up immediately.
They sit like that for a long moment, fingers laced, listening to the wet hush of the city.
Then Lando shifts closer, heart in his throat. “This is so dumb,” he murmurs, laughing under his breath. “But I’m so into you.”
Oscar doesn’t say anything at first. He just leans in, his hand still in Lando’s, and kisses him.
It’s not like the hallway kiss. That one had been frantic, breathless, a firework mid-fuse. This is slow. Certain. Their mouths meet with more intent, lips moving carefully, like they’re reading each other through the silence. Oscar tastes like salt and rain and fries. Lando’s hand finds the curve of his neck, the skin warm and damp, thumb brushing just under his jaw.
Oscar sighs into it, a small sound that makes Lando shiver, and Lando deepens the kiss without thinking. Their noses bump slightly. Oscar’s teeth graze his lower lip. They pull apart only when a gust of cold wind makes them both shiver.
Oscar presses their foreheads together, still close. “You’re not dumb,” he says softly. “You’re just loud. And I like it.”
Lando exhales shakily, giddy and wet and freezing, and completely gone for the boy holding his hand under a half-dead streetlight.
“Okay,” he says, smile breaking across his face. “But I still owe you coffee. A real one. No chips. No rain.”
Oscar hums, smirking. “We’ll see if the city allows it.”
****
The rain from their chaotic date is still clinging to their clothes, damp hems brushing against sneakers as they stumble into the building’s hallway, laughing softly, breathless and soaked. Lando’s hair is sticking to his forehead, and Oscar’s curls are beginning to dry in soft tufts, haloed with frizz that somehow makes him look even more boyish—infuriatingly endearing.
They pause outside their doors, 4B and 4C looming like familiar guardians of the walls they’ve spent weeks talking through. Lando’s thumb fiddles with the frayed sleeve of his hoodie. He doesn’t want the night to end.
Oscar shifts beside him, his voice low and warm. “Wanna see where the Wizard works his magic?”
Lando blinks, caught off guard by the words—then Oscar smiles, a slow curl of lips, bunny teeth just peeking out, and Lando’s stomach flips. He nods, trying to swallow the grin tugging at his own face. “Only if you’re ready to see the Gremlin’s lair first,” he says, already turning toward 4B.
Inside, 4B is… a disaster. A personal, musical, chaotic disaster. Fairy lights snake along the walls, one set drooping suspiciously low near the curtain-less window. Empty Monster cans form an accidental art installation on the windowsill. His mattress is splayed across the floor in an open rebellion against the concept of bed frames, and a half-eaten bag of crisps peeks out from under a record crate.
Oscar steps inside and does a slow, theatrical spin. “Looks exactly how I imagined,” he says, voice deadpan. “The spiritual home of the Gremlin.”
Lando laughs, half-embarrassed. “Shut up, it has character.”
Oscar picks up a tangled headphone cable, raises an eyebrow. “It has something.”
There’s no judgment though. Just soft amusement and a look in Oscar’s eyes that makes Lando feel… seen. Not just for the mess and the loud music, but for everything beneath it. He wants to kiss him again, but instead says, “Your turn. Show me where the Wizard studies magic and burns pizza.”
Oscar rolls his eyes, but the smile doesn’t leave his face as he opens 4C.
It’s a contrast—neat, thoughtful. Lived-in, not messy. His desk is cluttered with textbooks, graph paper, and half-finished notes in three different colors of ink, but it’s the kind of clutter that says I care, even if I’m tired. A small Bluetooth speaker sits on a high shelf, and a half-empty bottle of cold brew stands sentry beside an empty cup. A worn hoodie is folded on the desk chair. The scent of coffee, faint lavender, and something warm lingers in the air.
But what makes Lando freeze—what punches the breath right out of his lungs—is the sticky note.
Pinned above Oscar’s desk, stuck right to the otherwise bare wall, is one of his neon pink Post-its. The handwriting is his. The message.
Every gig. Every set. Afraid the crowd’s gonna realise I’m just a kid with decks and no plan B. You’re more than grades, Wizard. You’re clever and funny and... kinda terrifying. —4B
He’d written it in a haze one night, silly and flippant. But here it is. Kept. Taped up like it means something. Lando stares at it, throat tightening.
Oscar notices his silence and follows his gaze. “It helped,” he says, soft. “That day. I was spiraling, and then you—well. That note made me laugh.”
Lando doesn’t say anything. He just looks at him. Really looks.
Oscar is standing in the middle of the room now, jacket slung over the desk chair, sleeves rolled up, freckled forearms exposed. He’s tugged off his shoes and looks more relaxed here, in his own space. His hair is still a little damp, curling at the edges, and Lando takes in the detail like he’s cataloguing a song—light brown strands, the slope of his jaw, that barely-there scar on his knuckle, the tiny twitch of his smile when he catches Lando looking too long.
Then Lando’s gaze shifts—to the bed.
It’s tucked into the corner, navy duvet pulled tight, pillows neatly lined up. It sits flush against the wall they share. That wall.
The same wall Lando had once pressed his ear to, trying not to think about the sounds he heard—Oscar’s soft, unfiltered gasps, the quiet creak of the bedframe, the rhythm. Lando swallows. His brain, traitorous as always, floods with imagery. Not imagined this time—replayed. Too vivid.
Oscar. That bed. That sound.
Now he’s picturing Oscar pinning him to that bed, those lean, muscled arms caging him in, freckled face flushed with want. Oscar’s lips, warm and demanding from their hallway kiss, would trail down Lando’s neck, teeth grazing his collarbone.
Lando pictures himself gasping, legs spread, Oscar’s hands—calloused from gripping pens—gripping his hips, fucking him hard, relentless, the bed creaking louder than it did that night. Oscar’s brown eyes would darken, bunny teeth biting his lip as he thrusts, deep and rough, Lando’s moans mixing with his, the room filled with heat and need. Lando’s hands would claw at the duvet, body arching, chasing every brutal, perfect push, Oscar whispering “Gremlin” in that low, teasing lilt as he drives him over the edge.
“Lando?” Oscar’s voice cuts through the haze.
He blinks. Hard.
“Y-yeah. Yep. All good,” he squeaks, voice cracking like a teenage boy in choir.
Oscar squints at him, a teasing smile creeping in. “You sure? You look like you saw a ghost.”
“Just—um. Processing the minimalist interior design. Very sparse. Chic.”
Oscar chuckles and plops onto the bed, stretching back casually, arms behind his head. His t-shirt lifts a little, revealing a sliver of pale skin. “It’s just cleaner ‘cause I have a shelf. You have a sock graveyard.”
“I will ban you from my room.”
Oscar’s grin widens. “I’ve been banned from worse places.”
They settle into a rhythm again—trading teasing jabs, Lando rifling through Oscar’s record shelf, and finds the Beethoven vinyl that he gifted him. Lando turns back at Oscar and smiles holding the vinyl in his hands and the Aussie smiles back.
Oscar flipping a pen between his fingers as he watches Lando explore his space. The nerves settle a bit. Not completely. Not with that damn bed behind them and a whole kiss still simmering between them—but enough.
“Hey,” Lando says eventually, toeing at the pizza box in the corner. “You wanna… maybe listen to the playlist sometime? Together? Not like, romantically pressure-y or whatever. Just… like music.”
Oscar’s head tilts. “Like Wizard Vibes?”
Lando flushes. “You remember the name.”
“I have the USB in my desk drawer.”
Lando smiles, soft and sheepish. “Cool. Okay. One day. Playlist party.”
Oscar leans back further, his gaze locked on Lando’s face. “I like having you in here,” he says, like it’s the simplest truth in the world.
Lando looks at him—this boy who used to be nothing but a voice and some sharp Post-it comebacks—and feels something shift. Something settle.
“I like being here,” he says, barely a whisper.
And he means it.
****
The playlist hums low in the background, casting gentle echoes across the small room like the soundtrack to a dream Lando’s not sure he’s awake for. Taylor Swift murmurs softly through Oscar’s worn little speaker, mixing with the quiet percussion of rain tapping against the windowpanes. 4C is dim and still, lit only by the golden desk lamp in the corner and the faint flicker of the hallway light seeping under the door.
Lando’s on the floor, back against the side of Oscar’s bed, legs sprawled out over the soft rug, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands. They’ve been talking for hours. Not about anything earth-shattering—just music, uni, dumb stories, the worst gigs Lando’s ever played, Oscar’s cursed first year flatmates, what their families are like. The conversation keeps drifting into comfortable silences, punctuated only by occasional laughter and quiet confessions that feel weightier than either of them acknowledges aloud.
When a crack of thunder rips across the sky, Lando flinches instinctively. It’s subtle, more of a jerk in his shoulders than a full-body startle, but Oscar notices. Of course he does.
“You could just crash here,” Oscar says, voice soft and a little hoarse from talking. He’s sitting on the bed now, legs folded, fingers idly tugging at the edge of his duvet.
Lando looks up, blinking. “Crash? Like, here here?”
Oscar shrugs, but there’s a lopsided grin pulling at his mouth, something teasing layered over nervous energy. “Yeah. You’ve basically moved in anyway—with all the Post-its and emotional damage.”
Lando snorts, heart hammering. “Emotional growth, thanks.”
Oscar laughs, quiet and warm. “Bed’s small,” he adds, a little more uncertain now. “But… we’ll figure it out.”
And somehow, that’s how Lando ends up pulling off his hoodie with fumbling hands, folding it neatly (for once) and perching on the edge of Oscar’s narrow bed while trying very hard not to combust. Oscar kicks the pizza box out of the way, tosses a second pillow over, and climbs in beside him like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
They lie on their sides, facing each other, the duvet drawn up to their chests. The first few minutes are a chaos of limbs—knees bumping, Oscar muttering “sorry” as their ankles tangle, Lando awkwardly elbowing him in the ribs. But eventually, they settle. They figure it out, just like Oscar said.
Oscar offers one earbud, and Lando takes it without a word, their fingers brushing in the handoff. The “Wizard Vibes” playlist loops again—track three, soft and string-heavy, playing like a sigh.
“Too sappy?” Lando whispers.
Oscar’s eyes are barely open, brown and impossibly warm even in the dim light. “Sappy’s your vibe, Gremlin.”
There’s a pause. Then: “You looped track five, didn’t you?” Lando grins.
Oscar gives a tiny, guilty shrug. “Caught me. It’s disgusting how good your taste is when you’re not blasting bass.”
Lando’s grin stretches wider, sleep creeping in around the edges. They fall quiet again, the kind of silence that’s thick with unspoken things—gratitude, attraction, something deeper neither of them dares to name just yet.
Oscar’s breath slows first, his lashes fluttering once before he’s out cold, lips parted, face turned slightly into his pillow. Lando watches him for a beat, memorizing the softness of his mouth, the relaxed set of his freckled jaw, the way his hand—now tucked between them—curves just barely toward Lando’s.
He doesn’t remember falling asleep.
But he wakes to sun spilling through half-closed curtains and the muted sound of rain still drizzling, quieter now. Lando’s groggy, mouth dry, but it’s the warmth pressed against him that snaps him back to awareness.
Oscar’s arm is around his waist, one leg hooked lightly over Lando’s. Oscar’s chest pressed against Lando’s back, legs tangled beneath the navy duvet. And then Lando feels it—Oscar’s hard cock pressing against his ass, hot and firm even through layers of fabric. His breath catches. Oscar’s still asleep, face tucked close to Lando’s neck, warm exhales brushing along his skin, and Lando’s heart is doing violent gymnastics in his chest.
His own body stirs traitorously in response, blood rushing downward, heat curling low in his belly. He swallows hard, trying to think of literally anything else. His grandma. That one weird biology class from Year 11. A cringey memory involving a DJ set and a rogue confetti cannon.
It doesn’t help.
But more than the very real morning wood situation, what wrecks him is the intimacy of it all. Oscar’s breathing is steady. His fingers twitch once where they’re curled against Lando’s hoodie. The way he holds Lando is soft and unconsciously protective—like it’s natural.
Lando doesn’t move. Doesn’t dare. He just lies there, letting himself feel it—the closeness, the quiet, the way Oscar’s body curves into his like they’ve done this a hundred times before.
He could live here, in this moment.
And maybe he already is.
****
Oscar’s still pressed against him, face buried in Lando’s neck, warm breath fanning across his skin. The sleepover’s haze lingers, their hands still loosely tangled from sharing earbuds and the playlist last night.
But it’s the hard, unmistakable press of Oscar’s cock against Lando’s ass that jolts him fully awake, sending a rush of heat through his veins. His heart hammers, and he’s caught in a mental tug-of-war—stay still, don’t be a creep versus the intrusive, burning urge to move, to feel. The urge wins.
Lando shifts, slow and deliberate, pushing his ass back against Oscar’s erection, the thin fabric of their boxers doing little to dull the sensation. Oscar’s cock slots perfectly between his cheeks, hot and firm, and Lando bites his lip, stifling a moan as he rolls his hips just enough to savor the friction.
It’s filthy, reckless, and so fucking good. Oscar’s arm tightens around Lando’s waist, fingers digging into his hip, and a low, rough groan rumbles from Oscar’s chest, vibrating against Lando’s back. “Not even two dates in,” Oscar whispers, lips brushing Lando’s ear, voice thick with sleep and want, “and you’re rubbing your ass against my cock.” The words are teasing, dirty, that Australian lilt making Lando’s skin prickle.
Lando’s breath hitches, and he grinds back harder, emboldened, his own cock throbbing in his boxers. Oscar’s grip tightens, pulling Lando flush against him, and he rocks his hips forward, dragging his erection against Lando’s ass with slow, deliberate pressure.
“Fuck, Lando,” Oscar murmurs, kissing the sensitive spot behind Lando’s ear, teeth grazing lightly. Lando can’t hold back the soft moan that slips out, his head tipping back as Oscar’s lips trail down his neck, sucking gently, leaving a faint mark.
Their bodies move together, a lazy, heated rhythm, until Oscar pulls back, panting. “Want you,” he says, voice raw, eyes dark and intense as he meets Lando’s gaze.
Lando nods, too far gone to care about anything but Oscar. They kiss, messy and desperate, Oscar’s tongue sliding against Lando’s, tasting of last night’s fries and something uniquely him. Lando’s hands tangle in Oscar’s light brown hair, tugging lightly, earning a low growl.
Oscar rolls them so they’re side by side, Lando’s back still pressed to his chest, and fumbles in a drawer, producing a condom and a small bottle of lube. “You sure?” Oscar asks, voice soft but urgent, his face flushed. Lando nods, whispering, “Yeah, Wizard. Want you.”
Oscar’s fingers are careful but sure, slick with lube as he eases Lando’s boxers down, exposing his ass. He starts slow, one finger circling Lando’s hole, teasing, before slipping inside.
Lando gasps, the stretch unfamiliar but electric, his body clenching then relaxing as Oscar works him open, kissing his shoulder, whispering, “You’re so tight, Gremlin.”
A second finger joins, scissoring gently, and Lando’s moaning softly, hips rocking back, chasing the burn. Oscar’s free hand strokes Lando’s cock through his boxers, slow and teasing, until Lando’s trembling, begging, “Oscar, please.”
Oscar rolls on the condom, slicking himself up, and positions himself behind Lando, still sideways, one arm under Lando’s head, the other guiding his cock. He pushes in slowly, inch by inch, and Lando’s breath catches, the stretch intense but so fucking good.
Oscar pauses, letting him adjust, lips brushing Lando’s ear. “You okay?” he murmurs. Lando nods, panting, “Keep going.” Oscar thrusts, slow at first, then deeper, harder, each movement hitting that spot that makes Lando see stars.
Their bodies rock together, the bed creaking, Oscar’s hand gripping Lando’s hip as he fucks him steadily, his groans mingling with Lando’s moans.
Lando’s lost in it, the heat, the fullness, Oscar’s cock driving into him with a rhythm that feels like a perfect mix. He reaches back, grabbing Oscar’s thigh, urging him faster. Oscar obliges, thrusts growing rougher, his breath ragged.
“Fuck, Lando,” he groans, and Lando’s name on his lips is enough to make him whimper. Oscar pulls out, gentle but quick, and flips Lando onto his back, missionary now, their eyes locking.
Oscar’s face is flushed, bunny teeth biting his lip as he slides back in, deeper this time, Lando’s legs wrapping around his waist. The angle’s intense, Oscar’s cock hitting that spot with every thrust, and Lando’s hands claw at Oscar’s back, nails digging into pale skin.
They kiss again, sloppy, all tongue and teeth, Oscar’s lean muscles flexing under Lando’s hands as he fucks him harder, the bed shaking.
Lando’s cock is trapped between them, leaking against his stomach, and Oscar’s hand wraps around it, stroking in time with his thrusts. “Come for me, Gremlin,” Oscar whispers, voice rough, and Lando’s gone, his orgasm crashing through him, cum spilling over Oscar’s hand, his body shuddering.
Oscar follows, groaning Lando’s name, hips stuttering as he comes, collapsing onto Lando, both of them panting, sweaty, tangled.
They lie there, Oscar’s face pressed to Lando’s neck, their breaths slowing. Lando’s hand traces lazy patterns on Oscar’s back, the intimacy as overwhelming as the sex.
“Wizard,” Lando murmurs, grinning, and Oscar lifts his head, brown eyes crinkling. “Oscar,” he corrects, kissing Lando softly, and Lando laughs, whispering, “Lando,” against his lips.
The morning’s theirs, messy and perfect, and Lando’s already dreading the moment they have to leave this bed.
****
The late-morning light spills through Oscar’s window like a lazy spotlight, casting soft gold over the mess of crumpled sheets, tangled limbs, and two utterly wrecked boys clinging to the warmth of the bed. Lando’s lying on his side, hair an absolute disaster, his hoodie long abandoned somewhere on the floor. His face is still flushed, lips a little swollen, eyes half-lidded with that post-orgasm glow that makes his freckles pop even more. Oscar’s behind him, chest warm against Lando’s back, breath slow and steady against the curve of his neck.
Everything smells like them—skin and sweat, a hint of detergent clinging to the duvet, and the unmistakable trace of something headier, like shared secrets and satisfaction.
Oscar shifts slightly, his arm tightening around Lando’s waist. “Didn’t know Gremlins could keep up like that,” he murmurs, voice rough and sleep-roughened, but that teasing lilt is unmistakable. The smile Lando shoots over his shoulder is all faux-scandal and dimples.
“Oh, please. I led that whole performance,” he says, voice a little croaky. “You were the one panting like a winded golden retriever.”
Oscar snorts, pressing his face into the back of Lando’s neck, and the next words come between soft laughs: “I was literally doing the work, Gremlin.”
Then he kisses him.
Slow, deliberate, warm.
Lando shivers as Oscar’s lips trail a line down the slope of his neck, pausing to suck gently at a spot near his collarbone. A quiet gasp escapes him, his fingers clenching the edge of the duvet as Oscar hums against his skin, teeth grazing just enough to make it feel dangerous.
“Stop trying to make me fall in love with you,” Lando breathes, even though he already is—has been for weeks.
Oscar smirks against his neck. “Bit late for that, isn’t it?”
The banter keeps flowing like it always does, easy and electric. Oscar eventually rolls onto his back, hands folded behind his head, staring at the ceiling like it just confessed something embarrassing. Lando props himself up on his elbow beside him, resting his chin on his hand.
“Your desk’s too clean. Feels illegal,” he mutters, eyeing the neatly stacked textbooks and alphabetized pen holders.
Oscar turns his head toward him, eyes twinkling. “That from the guy whose room looks like it lost a bet with a raccoon?”
Lando grins. “I am the raccoon. Surprise.”
They burst into laughter again, the kind that comes from feeling safe and seen. Between them, the bed creaks under the weight of two boys trying and failing not to fall deeper.
Later, after stealing one of Oscar’s T-shirts and raiding the fridge for something vaguely breakfast-y, Lando returns to 4C while Oscar’s brushing his teeth and grabs a neon pink Post-it from the edge of his desk. Still shirtless and grinning like a gremlin who got away with something, he scribbles:
Wizard stamina’s no joke. I’m wrecked. Round 2 tonight? —Lando.
He sticks it neatly on Oscar’s pillow, carefully centering it like it’s a trophy, and saunters out with a bounce in his step that absolutely gives him away.
---
That evening, the hallway is quiet except for the low hum of Lando’s speakers, and when he opens his door after a shower, there it is—Oscar’s reply, stuck dead center with dramatic flair:
Wrecked? You loved it, Gremlin. Round 2’s on you. —Oscar.
There’s a doodle in the corner: a smug little gremlin with wild hair and heart eyes, flopped dramatically on a bed, arms flung wide like it’s been slain by pleasure.
Lando cackles, clutching the note to his chest like it’s a handwritten love letter from the gods. His cheeks hurt from smiling.
He’s so gone. Completely, stupidly gone for the boy with the bunny teeth and paper-sharp wit, and it’s not even a secret anymore—not to Oscar, not to himself, not to anyone who’s been watching their sticky note war unfold like the world’s most chaotic love story.
And now? It’s not even a war anymore.
It’s a truce, sealed with kisses, playlists, and morning breath jokes.
And if Lando has his way, Round 2 is going to be the start of something that doesn’t come with an ending.
****
It’s been months since that first kiss in the hallway, months since the late-night sticky notes turned into morning coffees, shared playlists, and accidental sleepovers that aren’t so accidental anymore. Time, somehow, has stretched and folded around them in the best possible way, each moment stitched with a kind of quiet joy Lando didn’t know he was allowed to have.
Now, it’s a chilly autumn evening in 4B. The window’s cracked just enough to let the breeze in, the curtains fluttering like lazy ghosts. Lando’s fairy lights glow gold against the walls, casting warm shadows over a new, lived-in kind of chaos: his ever-growing vinyl stacks now share space with Oscar’s neatly labeled notebooks, color-coded tabs peeking out like they belong. Oscar’s textbooks have migrated from 4C entirely, forming a precarious tower on Lando’s kitchen counter beside a half-finished coffee and a crumpled packet of crisps.
Oscar’s thesis was submitted last week. It took two all-nighters, four pizza boxes, and one minor breakdown over footnotes—but it’s done. They celebrated the only way they know how: with too much takeout, bad rom-coms, and a night tangled naked under Lando’s sheets, whispering sleep-drunk compliments and dumb jokes until the morning turned pink.
Lando’s picked up a semi-regular DJ gig at a local bar—not huge, but it pays, and more importantly, Oscar’s there every time, sitting front row, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows, bunny teeth flashing in a grin that somehow still turns Lando’s stomach into sparkles. He cheers too loud, always, and yells “That’s my boyfriend!” whenever Lando mixes something new. It’s embarrassing and perfect.
Oscar’s duvet lives in 4B now. So does his toothbrush. So does his laugh, which echoes through the apartment like music Lando never wants to stop hearing. In return, Lando’s favorite hoodie has taken permanent residence on Oscar’s desk chair in 4C, smelling faintly of cheap cologne and something sweeter, something Lando never dares ask about but secretly hopes is just him.
Tonight, they’re curled up on Lando’s mattress, limbs tangled like headphone cords, sharing earbuds as Bon Iver hums softly between them. Oscar’s head is pillowed on Lando’s chest, light brown hair brushing under Lando’s chin. His fingers toy absentmindedly with the hem of Lando’s shirt, like he doesn’t even notice he’s doing it, like touching Lando is just habit now.
Lando swallows hard. His heart’s doing that familiar soft techno rhythm—like the buildup before a drop that never comes—and he knows it’s time.
He pulls a small USB drive from his hoodie pocket, the plastic cool against his fingers. A neon pink Post-it is stuck to it, the edges curling slightly. It reads, in his familiar messy scrawl:
Still can’t flirt properly, but this is me trying. —Lando
He hands it to Oscar wordlessly.
Oscar takes it with a curious glance, eyes flicking from the Post-it to Lando’s face. He reads it once, then again, and something tender blooms across his freckled features—eyes soft, mouth lifting in that shy half-smile Lando’s secretly obsessed with. “You made another one?” he asks quietly, thumb running over the sticker.
Lando nods, suddenly shy. “It’s... different. Just for you. Like, really for you.”
Oscar says nothing, just leans up and kisses him. Slow, unhurried. No tongue, no urgency—just lips pressed to lips, warm and steady, like punctuation at the end of a sentence that doesn’t need explaining. He pulls back and rests their foreheads together. “You’re such a sap,” he whispers, breath brushing Lando’s skin.
Lando grins. “You like it.”
Oscar hums. “I do like it.” He turns the USB over in his hand, then says, “Is it sappy enough to include that embarrassing voice memo you recorded of me snorting on the couch?”
Lando’s ears turn pink. “No comment.”
The playlist’s already queued up on Oscar’s laptop, and a few minutes later, they’re listening to it together—pressed thigh to thigh, backs against the bedframe. The music is softer this time: tender indie tracks, dreamy lo-fi, layered with meaning. There’s a Phoebe Bridgers song Oscar once said made him feel like walking home in the rain. There’s a Taylor Swift track that Lando only ever plays when he’s thinking too much. And at the very end, when the music dips into silence, there it is—Oscar’s laugh, tucked into the file like a secret. A soft chuckle, followed by his voice going, “Lando, stop recording me, you absolute menace.”
Oscar turns to him, mock-scandalized. “You did not.”
Lando grins, eyes wide. “Immortalized you, mate. You’re welcome.”
Oscar shakes his head, laughing for real this time, the sound doubling back into the playlist as if on cue. Lando watches his face—freckles, bunny teeth, the crinkle of joy around his eyes—and thinks, I’d remix this moment forever if I could.
In 4C, on Oscar’s bookshelf, tucked between a Beethoven vinyl and a half-folded pizza box, sits a small, silver frame. Inside there are two fading neon pink and yellow sticky notes—creased and slightly stained at the corners:
Mate, your music’s great, but some of us have 8 a.m. lectures. Earplugs aren’t cutting it. —4C.
Sorry, lecture guy! Didn’t mean to ruin your beauty sleep. Try noise-canceling headphones—they’re life-changing. —4B.
A relic. A monument. A beginning.
Lando catches Oscar looking at it sometimes, his smile soft and private, like he’s living two lives in parallel—the one where he’s here, in this moment, and the one where it all started in silence and scribbles.
Later that night, long after the playlist fades, Oscar’s curled into Lando’s side again, tracing invisible shapes on his stomach. “Track 29’s my favorite,” he whispers, sleepy.
Lando’s eyebrows scrunch. “There’s only 28—”
And then he hears it. Oscar’s laugh. Real laugh. That stupid, unfiltered, wheezing one from the voice memo.
Lando groans. “You’re the worst.”
Oscar just kisses his shoulder and mutters, “Track 29,” against his skin.
And Lando thinks, Yeah, okay. This is it.
No bass drop. No finale. Just soft reverb and a boy in his bed.
They never stopped writing notes. They just stopped needing paper.