Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The backstage hallway smelled like lavender hand cream and hot tea.

Low yellow sconces lit the path in pools, like a hotel corridor more than a concert venue. Crew whispered instead of shouted. A production assistant padded past in thick socks, carrying a tray of glass mugs. The silence wasn’t awkward—it was earned. Practiced. Reverent.

Oscar stood in front of the dressing room mirror, adjusting the collar of his soft navy shirt. The top button undone. His hair slightly mussed in that just-came-in-from-the-cold way. He looked… calm. Not numb—just quiet. Like someone watching snow fall through glass.

Outside, behind the velvet curtains, the Oslo crowd was filling in. Nearly 7,000 people. No stadium lights. No pyrotechnics. Just paper programs at each seat, each one embossed with a simple silver line:

CALL ME BACK? LIVE TOUR — NIGHT SIX

His in-ears sat on the vanity next to a handwritten setlist. There were ink smudges across the bottom half—he’d added a song late last night, one that wasn’t on the official press sheet. One that hadn’t existed a week ago.

Lando leaned against the doorframe, hands tucked in his coat pockets. He’d been quiet since they arrived—watching, recording little pieces on his phone for future edits. A shot of Oscar warming up his voice in the greenroom. Another of him rubbing balm into his palms. Little things.

“You alright?” he asked, gently.

Oscar nodded once. Then, softer: “Yeah. Just… letting it catch up to me.”

Lando stepped inside. “What is?”

“That we’re halfway through,” Oscar said, looking into the mirror again. “That people are still coming.”

Lando smiled like he couldn’t help it. “Of course they’re coming.”

Oscar fiddled with the chain around his neck. “It still surprises me. I think part of me expected to be playing to twenty people and a sound tech.”

“You’re playing to packed theatres in Europe,” Lando said, coming behind him. “And they’re singing your lyrics back to you.”

Oscar smiled. He closed his eyes.

The knock came softly—three taps. Showtime.

A stage manager peeked in and gave him the signal: five minutes.

Oscar stepped into his boots slowly. Not rushed. It was a ritual now. One sock slightly mismatched, shirt tucked loosely, rings carefully chosen. Then he took the paper setlist and folded it once. Slipped it in his back pocket.

As they made their way down the hall, the hush followed them. Crew moved out of the way gently. Some nodded. Some smiled.

Lando stayed a few steps behind—camera on, phone steady, but not filming everything. Just enough to remember. Just enough to keep.

They waited at the wings, where the curtains broke just slightly to let in the faintest wash of blue stage light. A violinist tuned softly in the pit. The house lights dimmed. The crowd quieted—like the air had been sucked out of the room.

Oscar didn’t move.

He stood with both hands clasped loosely in front of him, breathing slow. One inhale. One exhale. Again.

Lando whispered from behind him, like a prayer:

“They’re ready.”

Oscar nodded. And then—he stepped into the light.

The applause wasn’t thunder. It was something better. It was sustained. Warm. Rising slowly like a tide. The kind that made you feel held.

Oscar crossed the stage, took his place at the mic, and for a moment—

He didn’t say anything.

He just looked out. At the faces. The balcony. The way the spotlight touched the edge of the piano bench. His hands didn’t shake. Not anymore.

And when he began the first line of “Halfway Home,” it wasn’t just a song. It was a thread pulled gently between him and everyone there. Something delicate. Real.

Backstage, Lando watched.

And smiled like he’d never stop.

The applause had faded. But it hadn’t left.

It clung in the folds of Oscar’s shirt, in the skin behind his ears, in the way his hands trembled faintly where they rested on his thighs. The dressing room was quiet except for the muffled hum of roadies packing up cables and clattering cases down hallways. Warm lights buzzed softly above the mirror. The room smelled faintly of hairspray, wood polish, and something sweeter—his cologne, maybe. Or Lando’s.

Oscar sat still, like the air around him was heavy silk. One boot off, one still half-laced. The towel around his neck had cooled now, clinging damp to the back of his shirt. His navy top hung open, sleeves rolled to the elbow, throat bare. He hadn’t spoken in several minutes. He was somewhere else—somewhere still humming with reverb.

Lando crouched beside him.

Not filming. Not teasing. Just there.

One hand came up to brush back the damp hair curling at Oscar’s temple, then lingered. His thumb traced gently along Oscar’s jaw, grounding.

“You’re okay,” he murmured, barely above a whisper. “You’re back now.”

Oscar blinked slowly. His eyes were glassy—not crying, just full. Like his chest didn’t know what to do with everything inside it.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “I just—I can’t come down yet.”

“You don’t have to yet,” Lando said. “You can land in your own time.”

Oscar’s eyes fluttered shut. His shoulders sank, just slightly. A thread of tension unwinding.

“I didn’t think it would ever feel like this again,” he whispered. “Like… I belong here.”

Lando’s hand slid from his jaw to his shoulder, steady. “You do. You always did.”

Silence, but not the empty kind. The kind that settles when two people know the same truth.

Oscar opened his eyes again, slower this time. “Did you know the new song was about you?”

Lando nodded once. “Yeah. I figured when you looked at me before the second chorus.”

Oscar gave a weak laugh. “You saw that?”

“I always see you,” Lando said.

And he did.

In that moment, Oscar looked soft around the edges, like he’d been drawn in pencil instead of ink. Sweaty curls, flushed cheeks, the open vulnerability of someone who’d just given too much of himself on stage—and had somehow still come away whole.

“Come on,” Lando murmured, thumb brushing lightly beneath his eye. “Let’s get you out of here.”

Oscar nodded.

Lando helped him stand, hands warm around his wrists. Oscar swayed slightly, muscle memory still full of chords and lyrics and bright lights. Lando steadied him easily, slipping an arm around his waist like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Their foreheads bumped for a second. Neither pulled away.

“You smell like stage,” Lando said softly.

“You smell like me,” Oscar replied, just as quiet.

Lando laughed, breath warm against Oscar’s cheek. “Come on, superstar.”

They walked slowly through the back corridors—past cases labeled PIASTRI KEYS and CALL ME BACK — LIGHTING, past the crew nodding goodnights, past half-eaten catering and empty water bottles. Oscar moved carefully, a little dazed. Lando didn’t let go of his hand.

Outside, the car was waiting. The air was cold. Lando opened the door and guided him in like a secret.

In the backseat, Oscar leaned against him, head on his shoulder, fingers curled into Lando’s hoodie like he didn’t even realize he was holding on.

“You okay?” Lando asked again.

Oscar nodded. “I am now.”

The city lights blurred past the window. Everything was quieter now, softer. Just them again, in the aftermath of everything.

Lando kissed his forehead once. “You were brilliant.”

Oscar didn’t answer. Just tucked in closer, letting himself be held, letting the world fade into the hum of the road, and the familiar scent of Lando’s skin.

The rest of the night stretched ahead—hotel room, shower, takeout maybe—but none of it mattered more than this:

The show was over.

The night was quiet.

And they were still here, together.

ADRI 🦋 @norrisbeloved

IT TOOK HALF A YEAR BUT I DID IT

*video of adri front and backflipping*

↳ ADRI 🦋 @norrisbeloved

I am seeing Oscar tmr what are the chances Lando will be there too lol

↳ ADRI 🦋 @norrisbeloved

Gonna be so fr rn I am tweaking OUT

The hall smelled faintly of stage lights and cold night air. The buzz of the show still lingered in the walls — low laughter from the last few fans, the hush of security by the exit, the soft murmur of crew packing down equipment backstage.

Oscar stood to the side, signing a worn copy of Call Me Back? for a girl with tear-smudged eyeliner. Lando hovered close, taking it in like he always did, like he wanted to remember all of it — not just the stage, but this: the quiet aftermath, the trembling hands, the people who’d waited.

Then the next name on the list came forward.

She was around their age. A little older, maybe. Dark coat, simple shoes, a quiet steadiness in the way she held herself.

Lando’s eyes caught hers — and then widened, slow.

“No way,” he said. “Adri?”

She paused mid-step, caught off guard. “You… know me?”

Oscar turned too, blinking at her like he was putting something together. “That Adri?”

Lando let out a soft laugh. “Yeah. The one from Twitter. You made that massive thread on my stream playlists. You used to timestamp everything.”

“And you made that bet,” Oscar said, recognition settling into a smile. “MCC. Front flip and backflip if Lando won.”

Adri flushed. “Oh my god. That was over a year ago. I didn’t think you’d actually remember that.”

Lando smiled, something gentle in it. “We don’t forget the people who stick around.”

Adri reached into her bag and wordlessly pulled out a folded-up phone tripod and a small photo print. She placed the photo down carefully. A still from a video — her, mid-air, arms flung back, caught in a full, if slightly chaotic, backflip. Grass beneath her. Sky above.

“I promised I’d do it,” she said, voice quiet. “So I did.”

Oscar picked it up, holding the photo delicately. “You learned this… because of a tweet?”

“I think I learned it because I needed something to hold on to,” she said. “You—both of you—you gave me something to be part of. Something that felt consistent, even when my life wasn’t.”

Neither of them said anything at first. The moment stretched, weighty but calm.

“I started following Lando years ago,” she continued. “Back when I was still living with my parents, working double shifts. I’d get off late and watch his streams to feel less alone. And then one night he played one of Oscar’s demos—one I don’t even think had a title then—and I just… I cried. I felt something again. I’d forgotten what that was like.”

Oscar’s grip tightened slightly on the edge of the table.

“So I stayed,” Adri said. “And I wrote. I posted. I documented. Because it helped. Because you helped.”

Lando looked down. His voice, when it came, was soft. “Thank you. For carrying us like that. For staying.”

Oscar stepped around the table. No hesitation.

“Come here,” he said.

She let herself fall into the hug. It was quiet. No phones, no cameras. Just three people standing under low, warm lights, the air still heavy with music.

“I hope you know it goes both ways,” Oscar said. “You might think we’ve changed your life. But you’ve made us feel seen, too.”

Adri laughed under her breath, a wet sound. “I didn’t expect to cry tonight.”

“Join the club,” Lando said softly. “It’s been that kind of tour.”

They took a photo, eventually — one of those instant prints the crew handed out to VIPs. Adri stood between them, shoulders still trembling a little. Lando held up the flip photo next to her face. Oscar’s hand rested lightly at her back.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t viral. Not yet.

But it was real.

ADRI 🦋 @norrisbeloved

You said I wouldn’t do it. I did. But more than that — I made it here.

Thank you for being my reason to keep going 

🤍

@OscarPiastri @LandoNorris

Lando lifts his phone a little higher, squinting against the sun as it ricochets off the bakery glass behind him. The window is a little fogged from the ovens inside, and someone’s drawn a smiley face in the condensation. He’s standing in the middle of a cobblestoned Copenhagen street, just outside the market square, holding a croissant like it’s a museum artifact and not a slightly squashed pastry he bought with barely-understood Danish.

The chat’s alive, twitchy and fast—frog emotes, peaches, endless teasing about his hat and hoodie combo. Someone’s already clipped him struggling to pronounce wienerbrød three minutes ago.

“Alright, listen,” he says, tone mock-serious as he brings the pastry closer to the camera. “I know Oscar said no more emergency pastries, but this is breakfast. And also lunch. Technically a meal. Technically two.”

He bites in with a satisfied hum. Crumbs flake off and catch in his hoodie zipper, but he doesn’t seem to notice. The camera swings slowly as he spins on his heel, showing off the market around him: little stalls stacked with strawberries and clementines, a street artist hunched over a canvas, the flash of a red umbrella catching the sunlight near the canal. Somewhere nearby, a brass quartet is warming up, the melody breaking off mid-scale like a yawn.

“Copenhagen’s got it all,” Lando grins. Then, more offhandedly, “Oscar’s off doing press—poor guy. Full makeup at nine a.m., can you imagine? I’m basically on vacation.”

The chat floods in like it always does when Oscar’s name drops:

WHERE IS OSCAR 😭

tell him we say good luck pls 🥺

go STEAL him for 5 min we miss you both

Lando do a backflip rn or ur fake

He grins, tilting the phone back to his own face. The camera catches his eyes squinting into the sun, a tiny flake of pastry on his cheek.

“He’s busy doing singer things,” he replies, voice warm and careless. “I’m letting him do his thing, alright? We balance each other out. He does the high art. I point the camera at waffles and scream.”

He turns down a narrower side street, where the noise from the square fades into a dull hum. The buildings here are close together, painted soft colors—peach, sage, dusty blue. Potted flowers spill over wrought iron balconies. The light softens into something slower, more golden.

A kid plays violin at the corner, standing barefoot on a flattened bit of cardboard. Lando lets the camera hover there, not speaking, just letting the sound float through the stream. It’s a little out of tune, but sweet. Familiar. For a moment, the chat goes quiet with him, as if listening too.

Then a notification pings—one of the smaller donos, highlighted in soft pink:

“Are you and Oscar okay?” — £3.00

He sees it and blinks. It’s not dramatic. Not demanding. Just… curious. Earnest, in the way some of these messages sometimes are.

Lando adjusts his grip on the phone. Breathes out.

“Yeah,” he says after a beat. “We are.”

He kicks gently at a stone on the street, eyes still on the message as it fades into the scroll. “Oscar’s just a bit distracted lately. But it’s nerves. Big shows, new city every other night. It’s a lot. I get it.”

His voice gentles, just a notch. “He’s a bit like me—gets in his head sometimes. It doesn’t mean anything’s wrong.”

He presses his thumb to the corner of the screen, like wiping it, even though there’s no smudge. Just habit. Something to do with his hands when his chest feels a little tight and he’s not sure why.

A beat passes. Then he brightens.

“Also,” he says, pivoting the camera toward a sausage stand where a busker is flipping something wildly spicy over a tiny grill, “he would hate this spice. Absolutely hate it. I’m buying it anyway.”

Chat explodes:

LMAO SEND HIM A SNAP RIGHT NOW

streamer bf duties fr

LANDOSCAR LORE

this is marriage actually

Lando just smiles, and doesn’t answer. He tucks the little spice jar into his hoodie pocket like it’s treasure, then keeps walking. The street opens back up into a long path that runs parallel to a narrow river. He can see the shimmer of water through the trees. There’s a bridge ahead, and he figures he’ll cross it. No plan. Just vibes.

The chat’s still talking. He responds less now—just quiet little comments here and there. Sometimes he turns the camera to show a dog he passes, or a funny sign. But mostly he lets it breathe.

There’s something calming about being out like this, about the ordinary slowness of a city that doesn’t know him. No schedule, no brand deals today. Just his trainers against the cobblestones and the music from the street corner still echoing somewhere behind him.

Oscar will text when he’s done. Or maybe he won’t. Maybe he’ll come back to the hotel later with a thousand-yard stare and his curls all flattened from studio headphones. Maybe he’ll play something new on the acoustic and refuse to let Lando post about it.

He’ll probably go quiet once the stream ends. Might sit by the lake. Might play that new track Oscar accidentally left looping in their shared playlist.

Just for the ambience.

healy 😻 @haythisisbad

i SAW LANDOSCAR i saw LANDOSCARRRR AHHHHH

↳ healy 😻 @haythisisbad

im in the netherlands btw THIS IS SO COOLL

The air smells like salt and bread.

The kind of scent that’s settled—not sharp, not jarring, just present. Like the town’s been soaked in it for generations and now carries it in its bones. Oscar blinks slowly, letting the breeze pass through the collar of his jacket. A gull cries overhead, too loud for the quiet, and he flinches, just slightly.

Somewhere behind him, the low hum of a bicycle bell. A dog barks once, muffled. A child yells something in Dutch, all consonants and laughter.

The sky stretches grey and wool-soft above them, thick and wide. Not threatening rain, exactly, but thinking about it. A kind of weather that holds still.

Lando’s just ahead, walking backward again like he hasn’t tripped over enough uneven pavements this week. Phone in one hand, hat tilted wrong, his grin threatening to split his face. He’s mumbling something to chat, narrating the croissant-to-cobblestone pipeline with the fervour of a man who hasn’t had caffeine in two hours.

Oscar watches him for a beat longer than necessary.

And then keeps walking.

The bakery’s built into the corner of a weathered brick building, its awning a faded lemon yellow that flaps softly in the breeze. There’s a hand-drawn chalkboard resting against the door—some looping Dutch words, aanbieding something, and a little doodle of a pretzel. Oscar reads it twice. Doesn’t quite get it.

He steps inside anyway, bells tinkling overhead.

The air is warmer here—bready and sweet, humid from the heat lamps. He steps up to the counter, listens for the vowels in the way the man ahead of him speaks. Repeats the words in his head.

When it’s his turn, he tries it. Voice low, just in case.

“Uh… één zakje van deze?” He gestures vaguely at the twisted pastries behind the glass.

The woman behind the counter pauses, then smiles. “Goed zo,” she says gently, nodding once as she bags them. Not mocking—encouraging.

Oscar exhales. Shoulders loosen like thread pulled slack. He hands over a few coins. Doesn’t try to count them out.

He ducks back outside with a small paper bag clutched to his chest like it might be inspected.

Lando appears immediately.

“Oh my god,” he breathes. “You did it. You obtained treasure.”

Oscar narrows his eyes. “I asked for one bag.”

“Which makes it ours,” Lando argues, already reaching.

Oscar twists away, holding the bag out of reach. “Oi. These were earned.”

“They’re public property now. You’re dating a streamer.” Lando sticks his tongue out. The camera turns briefly to catch him mid-bite, half a pastry vanishing in one go. “The people demand carbs.”

Oscar sighs. Not annoyed, not really. He lets Lando take one, even holds the bag out for him this time.

They don’t have much of a plan.

That’s the point.

No call times, no backstage wristbands, no press rooms with cold coffee and plastic chairs. Just the open day, stretching loose and undemanding in front of them.

The town isn’t big—low buildings, faded shutters, old signage painted onto stone. Oscar doesn’t know where they are, exactly. He likes it that way.

They walk. A lot.

Past shopfronts with chipped glass, past a bookstore with a cat sleeping in the window. At some point, Lando slows in front of a tiny art gallery. Takes a clip of Oscar pretending to critique a print of a wave in dramatic, fake-French.

They buy grapes at a street stall. Oscar accidentally says merci instead of dank je wel, and the vendor just smiles.

Lando records everything.

Not all of it goes on stream—some clips are just for his camera roll. He doesn’t say that, but Oscar can tell. The angle’s too low, too soft. He’s watching, not broadcasting. The lens is there, sure, but it isn’t a wall.

Back at the flat—rented just above a florist that smells like lavender and wet wood—they cook in near silence. The kitchenette’s too small for two, but they work around each other, half-dancing to avoid bumping knees.

Lando’s chopping peppers like they insulted him. Oscar watches him out of the corner of his eye, amused.

“You’re gonna bruise them,” he says.

“They deserve it.”

“You’re holding the knife wrong.”

Lando flips him off. Oscar doesn’t flinch when the edge of Lando’s elbow brushes his side. The touch is light, casual, familiar in a way he’s stopped questioning.

The sauce is improvised. The pasta slightly overcooked. The music a playlist Oscar made a few months ago and never published—stuff that was nearly a song, but not quite.

They eat cross-legged on the couch, paper towels in place of napkins. The telly’s playing clips from a past show—grainy phone footage, blurred lights. Oscar looks too tired in it. Or maybe too sharp.

He doesn’t say anything about it.

Lando leans into his side halfway through the meal, chewing slow.

“You’re quiet,” he says eventually.

Oscar shrugs. “I like the quiet.”

Lando nudges him. “You’re thinking again.”

“I live with thoughts, Norris.”

But he doesn’t push him away.

The light’s gone lavender by the time they film the quiz.

It’s meant to be fast—one of those PR throwaways for socials, something like How Well Do You Know Each Other? They use a tripod propped on the windowsill, the curtain half-drawn to get the right light. Oscar sits on the left. Lando keeps inching into his space on the right.

They answer with too much sarcasm at first. Then, gradually, it shifts.

“What’s Oscar’s go-to snack after a show?”

“Microwave popcorn.”

“That’s my microwave popcorn.”

“Possession is nine-tenths of the snack, mate.”

“What’s Lando’s comfort movie?”

Oscar pauses. “Finding Nemo.”

“…That’s private information.”

By the end, they’re leaning into each other. Lando’s shirt rides up slightly when he laughs, and Oscar’s hand brushes against his hip for a second longer than necessary.

They don’t post the video that night.

Just save it.

Later, there’s music again. One earbud each, backs pressed against the headboard. Oscar’s phone screen glows low between them.

He’s scrolling through old voice notes, half-melodies with no names. Some are just background noise—a guitar line, a breath between lyrics. But one is a piano loop. The one he played months ago. The one he still hasn’t used.

Lando doesn’t ask what it’s for. Just listens.

Oscar leans his head gently against Lando’s temple. His hand is warm where it rests between their knees.

For a long while, neither of them speaks.

Not about the shows. Not about the cameras. Not even about the song.

Oscar closes his eyes.

And doesn’t notice—until much later—that Lando’s watching him with something too soft to name.

*Oscar and Lando sitting on a couch, soft lighting, Oscar mid-eye-roll, Lando grinning sideways at him.*

How Well Do We Know Each Other? (Tour Edition) | Oscar & Lando

48,123 views   15 hr ago   ...more

👤 Lando Norris 1.29M        🔔

Comments 

@Youtube ✔️ 3 hr ago

My OTP 😍😍

< 1   👤 Max Fewtrell

🔒 Messages and calls are end-to-end encrypted. No one outside of this chat, not even WhatsApp, can read or listen to them. Learn more

oscar 🚗

Hi Max

This is Oscar

Sorry if this is out

of the blue, but I need

a favour.

Lando wakes to an empty room.

At first it doesn’t register—just the soft, cottony warmth of sleep still clinging to his skin, the quiet hum of the minibar fridge, the ghost of Oscar’s shampoo in the air.

He blinks slowly, face half-buried in the pillow, and reaches a hand across the mattress like he always does. Instinct. Thoughtless.

But there’s no one there. Just a faint dip in the sheets, already going cold.

The curtains are half-drawn, letting in a thin wash of morning light—cool, pearly, gentle in a way that makes the silence feel heavier, not softer. Pale gold on the windowsill. A distant noise from the street below, muted by glass and altitude.

Oscar’s hoodie is folded over the back of the desk chair. Not thrown, not crumpled—folded. Like he didn’t want to wake him. Like he’d planned this.

Lando props himself up slowly, thumb already reaching for his phone. A small weight building in his chest, unformed. Not panic. Not yet. Just… wrongness.

There’s one message waiting:

Had to take care of something. Back by soundcheck. <3

No timestamp. No extra punctuation.

He reads it twice. Then a third time. Thumb hovering, like the longer he holds still, the more it might reveal.

Had to take care of something.

Vague. Way too vague. Oscar’s not like that—not in the mornings, not with him. He’s always precise, almost hilariously so.

Gone to get coffee.

Went for a run.

Checking in with Lily—back soon, don’t let housekeeping steal your socks.

But this—this feels like a placeholder. Like a note left on the table with the ink still wet.

He types out:

all good?

Then stares at it. Deletes it. Types it again, slower.

Deletes it again.

The room feels too quiet. Not unfamiliar, just stripped of something—an undercurrent. A hum he hadn’t noticed until it was missing.

He lets the phone fall against the duvet and scrubs a hand through his hair.

It’s probably nothing.

He says it out loud. Just to hear something.

Then he gets up, barefoot on the cold tile floor, and pads over to the window. Cracks it open a little. Lets the morning in.

Somewhere below, a tram squeals as it rounds the corner. A woman laughs. Church bells start to chime—soft and real and far away.

Lando leans against the glass and lets the breeze hit his face. Watches the city move without them.

Two hours later, he’s walking through a narrow cobbled lane in the heart of Vienna, the kind of street that looks like it should only exist on postcards.

Everything smells like damp stone and espresso. A little rain must’ve come through earlier—pavement still dark in the crevices, flowerboxes dripping under windowsills.

The stream’s been running for about thirty minutes now. Lando keeps switching angles, half-talking, half-wandering—camera panning up to the ornate facades painted in pale yellows and blues, then swinging down to catch a bakery display stacked with powdered sugar crescents.

Somewhere to his left, a vintage tram squeals along its track, rust-red and boxy, framed against the curve of the street. There’s a woman playing cello under a bridge archway, the music trailing out slow and liquid like something out of a fairytale.

“Right, chat,” Lando says, adjusting his grip on the phone. “We’re in Vienna today. Max is coming on the VC later,” He gives the camera a little spin for effect, catches the skyline between two buildings. “Oscar is…”

He trails off for a second. The word catches in his throat. Then he grins, a bit too quick. “Busy being mysterious. I’m letting him have his dramatic solo arc.”

The comments flood in:

HE LEFT YOU ON READ???

what’s the arc tho 👀

bro we need the lore drop

oscar off doing side quests again

Lando laughs—actually laughs—for a moment, the tension in his shoulders loosening like a hinge. “Exactly,” he says. “He’s on side quests. I’m the NPC with a croissant.”

He pans the camera to show his half-eaten pastry. A horn pings in the distance.

But the second he stops talking, the silence folds in strange.

A couple walks past across the tramline, bundled in matching scarves, their steps in sync without even trying. Shoulder to shoulder. Moving like it’s second nature. Lando watches them a beat too long. Doesn’t realize his smile’s faded until it’s gone.

His voice comes back softer. Barely lifted over the sound of the cello still echoing behind him.

“I’m not used to not knowing where he is,” he says. Like it’s just a comment. Like it means nothing.

But it hangs there—static and quiet. Real.

The chat doesn’t move for a second. Then it explodes again, but Lando’s already looking away.

He ends the stream ten minutes early. No sign-off. Just pockets his phone, leans on a rail, and watches the tram roll by.

Still no new message. Still nothing but that one-line text.

Across the city, tucked down a quieter street behind an iron gate coiled with ivy, Oscar stands alone in a jewelry shop.

It’s the kind of place you’d miss if you weren’t looking for it—no sign, just a small brass plaque by the door, the windows dimmed against the afternoon glare. Inside, it’s hushed. Cool. Lit by a soft golden lamp above a central case.

His coat is still buttoned. A bit too formal for a casual errand, like he didn’t want to risk looking out of place. Or maybe like he needed something to keep himself wrapped up. His hands stay half-curled at his sides, hovering just above the glass, never quite touching.

The clerk—a middle-aged woman with soft grey hair tucked in a twist—emerges from the back with a quiet nod. She doesn’t ask questions. Just retrieves a narrow velvet tray from beneath the counter and sets it down in front of him.

A handful of rings arranged with quiet intention: thin brushed silver, warm gold with a slight matte finish, a few bands with barely-there textures—subtle, intimate, nothing flashy.

Oscar doesn’t speak at first. Just studies them.

He reaches for one. Then changes his mind. Then picks another—hesitant, like even touching it feels like too much. He tries it on. It slides past the knuckle but sits too loose. He frowns, takes it off. Another one—slightly narrower—catches the light as he lifts it. This time it fits, more or less.

His fingers shake just slightly.

“Take your time,” the woman says gently, in English. Not a salesperson’s script. Just kindness.

Oscar nods once, eyes still on the tray. A breath drags in and out of him like he forgot he’d been holding it.

He tries on two more. Turns one between his thumb and forefinger, then looks down at his own hand for a long beat—studying the shape of it, like he’s trying to picture what it would look like on someone else’s.

Eventually, he makes a choice.

The woman wraps it with quiet efficiency. A small black box, tucked carefully into a discreet paper bag with no branding. It vanishes into the inside pocket of his coat like it had never been there at all.

He thanks her in a low voice. Bows his head slightly in the doorway as he steps back into the street.

Outside, the clouds have started to break—slow, diffuse sunlight warming the edge of the pavement. The breeze smells faintly of dust and rain-soaked stone.

Oscar hesitates at the edge of the sidewalk. Checks his phone. Doesn’t text.

He turns the corner and disappears down the hill, the ivy-covered gate swinging gently shut behind him.

Back in the hotel, Lando’s on the couch, watching the steam rise from a cup of tea he doesn’t remember making. He checks his phone again. No update. Just the same text.

He doesn’t call.

He trusts Oscar. Of course he does. But there’s a difference between trusting and understanding—and right now, there’s a quiet blank space where the understanding used to be.

He taps his fingers against the cup.

Then sighs.

He’ll be back by soundcheck.

He always is.

The door clicks open just after four.

Lando looks up, startled for a second—like waking from something half-remembered—and exhales when he sees Oscar slip inside. He’s windswept and flushed, cheeks bitten pink from the cold, hair ruffled beneath his hood. His coat’s still buttoned at the top, scarf loose and trailing like he forgot to fix it. There’s a dusting of moisture across his shoulders, half-melted snow or rain. His expression is unreadable in that soft, too-quiet way he sometimes gets after being alone.

“Hey,” Oscar says, like it’s any other day. His voice is calm, maybe a little breathless, like he walked faster than he meant to. He sets his bag down by the dresser—carefully, precisely, like it’s fragile. “Sorry I was gone so long.”

Lando sits up straighter on the couch. His tea’s gone cold on the table. His phone is face-down beside it.

“S’okay,” he says, after a pause just barely too long. “Everything good?”

Oscar nods. Crosses the room and leans down to press a kiss against Lando’s temple, slow and grounding. The kind that says I’m here now more than I missed you. His hand rests on Lando’s shoulder for a second longer than necessary. Lando can feel the damp chill of his coat through the fabric of his hoodie.

“Yeah,” Oscar murmurs. “All good.”

The words settle between them, light as snow. They don’t move.

Lando doesn’t ask. He thinks about it—just a flicker, a faint spark in the back of his mind—but the moment slides past before he can catch it.

Oscar doesn’t offer.

The stillness stretches, then shifts. The city hums beyond the window. Time resets itself.

By the time they reach the venue, it’s already started to dissolve—folded back into the familiar rhythm of movement and noise. The dressing room smells like hairspray and dust and something floral someone left in a vase near the mirror. The stage is lit in soft amber as the techs run their cables. It’s warm inside and Lando’s forgotten his jacket anyway.

He balances a takeaway coffee on the corner of an amp, half-watching Oscar talk to the sound engineer. Oscar’s fingers are curled around the neck of his guitar, tuning pegs clicking, concentration etched into his brow. Lando holds up his phone and records a quick clip without thinking.

“You’re gonna get me banned,” Oscar says out of the corner of his mouth, not looking up.

“Would never,” Lando deadpans, panning the camera slowly just to catch the exact moment Oscar rolls his eyes. The video ends on a grin.

The room is all soft echo and muted feedback, cables coiling like vines across the floor. Oscar tests the mic. Plays a few lines of Halfway Home, barely above a murmur, the words falling into the empty chairs like water into still earth.

Lando exhales, lets his shoulders drop. It’s familiar now. Easy.

He doesn’t remember when it got easy again.

The show goes on. It always does.

The crowd is louder than he expects—Vienna’s got a strange kind of electricity, a tension that rises slow and lingers. The lights spill gold over the stage, hazy around the edges. Oscar moves with that slow, steady precision Lando’s come to recognize. Not rehearsed—sure. Like he knows exactly how far to lean into the mic, how long to let the pause stretch before the chorus hits.

At one point, Oscar glances sideways into the wings, just for a second. Lando meets his eyes. It’s nothing, really. A flicker. A beat between verses. But something in it lodges quietly behind Lando’s ribs.

Then the moment moves on.

Oscar plays the last chord of the final song with his head bowed slightly. Says thank you like it’s been waiting in his chest all day. The crowd erupts.

Lando forgets about the text.

They walk back to the hotel after, breath fogging in the cold. Their shoulders bump now and then. Oscar’s got his hands shoved in his pockets, hood pulled up. He’s laughing—something about a fan asking if he’d marry them on the spot. Lando says, “Did you say yes?” and Oscar grins without answering.

The streetlights flicker overhead, soft gold against wet pavement. Everything’s slightly blurred. Vienna feels like it’s holding its breath.

By the time they get inside, the heat makes Lando blink. The lobby smells like waxed floors and cinnamon. Oscar brushes snow from his hair with one hand and lets out a yawn so wide it makes Lando smile.

They don’t talk about the morning.

They don’t need to.

When they finally collapse into bed—limbs tangled, the covers a haphazard mess, both of them warm and loose with exhaustion—Lando presses his face into Oscar’s shoulder and sighs like something’s finally let go.

The silence now is different than before. It’s safe again. Heavy in the good way.

He doesn’t think about the hours Oscar was gone. Doesn’t think about the coat, or the careful way the bag was set down, or the cold kiss that felt like reassurance more than affection.

It doesn’t matter.

Not when everything’s back to normal.

Not when they’re okay.

Not when Lando can close his eyes, tuck himself into the quiet, and let it fade.

< 1   👤 Max Fewtrell

🔒 Messages and calls are end-to-end encrypted. No one outside of this chat, not even WhatsApp, can read or listen to them. Learn more

oscar 🚗

Thanks so much mate

I might need your

help again, during my

last show.

Max Fewtrell

no worries m8

jst take care of him yea?

if it counts for anyth,

im v happy for the both of u

and dont worry, he'll def

say yes

oscar 🚗

We'll see.

The lounge is half-empty, the kind of muted space that hums with white noise—soft overhead announcements, the wheeled click of suitcase rollers, the hiss of espresso machines from the café down the hall. The air smells faintly like warm milk and someone’s expensive cologne.

Oscar’s curled into the corner of a lounge chair, knees pulled up slightly, hoodie drawn half over his face. Headphones in, the wire tucked into his collar, phone balanced carefully on his thigh. He types with slow intention—thumbs steady, brows drawn in faint concentration. Every now and then, he pauses to reread something, his lips moving just a little, like he’s mouthing words to a melody only he can hear.

One hand taps against his knee—an absent rhythm. Not restless exactly, but focused. Like he’s trying to match a beat playing in his head.

Lando shifts beside him, still slouched in his own seat, legs sprawled out with the lazy posture of someone who’s already half dreaming. He’s got his cheek propped against his fist, watching Oscar from under heavy lids. There’s something meditative about it—the way Oscar’s fully absorbed, how he folds into the moment like no one’s watching.

And then, of course, he notices.

Oscar glances over, catches Lando’s gaze, and for a breath, something flickers. Not guilt, not panic—but something just sharp enough to break the rhythm.

His thumb slides across the screen, and he flips the phone face-down against his leg in one fluid movement.

“Work stuff,” he mutters, pulling a headphone out. His voice is low, half an apology, half a deflection. “Nothing exciting.”

Lando hums without opening his eyes. “Didn’t ask.”

Oscar huffs a soft laugh—quick, relieved. “Right. You didn’t.”

The silence returns, not quite awkward. Just suspended. Lando lets it stretch out, lets his eyelids fall closed again. He doesn’t push. He doesn’t need to.

It’s not the first time Oscar’s gone a little quiet lately. Disappearing into his own head between cities, in the back of cars, in hotel lobbies and backstage dressing rooms. It’s subtle, and always explained away. Emails. Notes. Demo tweaks. He still smiles when Lando makes dumb jokes. Still reaches out in the dark when they fall asleep. But something’s shifted—just slightly. Like a room rearranged while you weren’t looking. Familiar, but different.

Lando trusts him. Of course he does. If Oscar’s working on something, it’ll come out when he’s ready. That’s how it’s always been.

Still, when the announcement for their platform comes through, and Oscar straightens to grab his bag—phone slipped into his pocket with a too-casual hand—Lando watches him for a second longer than necessary.

Just wondering.

Then he stands, stretches, yawns dramatically.

“C’mon,” he says, brushing their arms together on the way to the gate. “Let’s go be glamorous on regional transit.”

Oscar snorts. “Truly the dream.”

They walk side by side toward the blinking gate sign, bags bumping, footsteps quiet against the tile.

Behind them, the lounge settles again into quiet, the mystery of the moment sealed shut in Oscar’s pocket.

The hotel room is dim and warm, lit by a single lamp on the bedside table casting a soft yellow glow across the sheets. The city outside is still humming—headlights passing on wet cobblestone, voices echoing faintly from a bar down the street. It’s the kind of night that feels slow and far away from anything real.

Lando’s out cold.

He’d collapsed half-on, half-off the bed an hour ago, mumbling something about venue wifi and overpriced pasta before burying his face in the pillows and knocking out completely. His hoodie’s still on. One sock has fallen halfway off. His breathing is even, mouth parted slightly in the kind of sleep only travel can pull out of you.

Across the room, Oscar sits at the desk, lit only by the glow of his laptop screen. Headphones on, body angled in toward the keyboard like he’s trying not to take up too much space.

The track he’s working on is still rough—a few bars of soft acoustic guitar looped gently, hesitant and raw. He taps a chord out on the small MIDI controller beside him, adjusts something, leans back to listen.

Then: a whisper, almost inaudible.

“…if you asked me, I’d stay. I wouldn’t think twice…”

His voice trails off.

He deletes the line. Types it again. Changes one word. Repeats it under his breath until it settles into the rhythm.

On his screen, a document flickers open. Untitled – LN Song. The text is scattered—half-written verses, fragments of chorus, questions in parentheses. It’s not ready. It’s not even close. But it’s becoming something.

Behind him, the bedsheets rustle.

Oscar freezes.

He doesn’t turn—just sits still, barely breathing, one hand hovering over the keyboard like it might hide him.

Lando stirs in bed, face still buried in the pillow. Then, groggy, soft:

“You coming to bed?”

Oscar’s hand shoots to the trackpad. Save. Close. The screen goes black.

“Two minutes,” he says quickly, peeling the headphones down around his neck. “Just finishing something.”

Lando makes a noncommittal noise and flops onto his side, one arm stretching toward the empty half of the bed. He doesn’t ask. He’s already falling back under.

Oscar watches him for a second. The slow rise and fall of his back. The way his fingers twitch a little when he sleeps.

Then he turns back to the laptop and slides it into his backpack.

He leaves the desk light on a moment longer than he needs to, just sitting there. The guitar loop still playing in his head. The words still echoing in his mouth.

By the time he crawls into bed beside Lando, the city’s gone quieter.

The only sound left is breath and fabric and the kind of silence that holds a secret inside it.

The green room buzzes faintly—distant bass thumping from soundcheck, someone laughing down the corridor, the occasional walkie static from crew shuffling past. But here, for a moment, everything feels suspended. Like breath held in a quiet room.

Oscar sits cross-legged on the worn velvet couch, pressed into the far corner as if trying to take up less space. His notebook is open in his lap. A black pen spins idly between his fingers.

The page is messy—lines crossed out, arrows pointing nowhere, fragments that don’t quite link. Near the top, a phrase has been rewritten four times in the same slanted handwriting. The margins are littered with notes in parentheses: (too dramatic? too soft?) (what would he actually say?)

Oscar’s brows knit tighter.

He mouths a few words silently, then scratches something out again. Taps the pen once against his knee. Then again. Then stops.

The door opens.

“Knock knock,” Lando says, shouldering his way in with a paper bag clutched in one hand and two takeaway cups balanced precariously in the other. “I bring offerings.”

Oscar startles.

He flips the notebook closed like it’s muscle memory, palm flattened over the cover before he even looks up. “You journaling again?” Lando teases, setting the drinks down on a crate-turned-table. He’s not looking closely—just breezing in, cheeks pink from the cold and hair slightly damp from drizzle.

Oscar blinks. “Just scribbles,” he says too fast. “Doesn’t make sense yet.”

Lando doesn’t press.

He never does.

Just shrugs out of his jacket, reaching back into the bag. “They forgot your weird sauce again, by the way,” he says, and Oscar rises, crossing the room quickly—too quickly—to help him unwrap napkins and plastic lids and foil containers. His hands move fast, a little too practiced in the art of deflection.

They sit, shoulder to shoulder, unboxing things and talking lightly about crowd size, set order, how someone’s mic wasn’t working this afternoon. The conversation turns warm again, easy, but the notebook stays closed on the couch behind them.

Neither of them looks at it.

And when Oscar laughs at something Lando says—real, bright, the kind of laugh that slips out when he’s not paying attention—he glances back toward the notebook just once, like it’s calling him back. Like something unfinished is still waiting inside it.

He doesn’t return to it.

Not yet.

But the pen is in his pocket.

And the line he crossed out—“If I’d known it was you, I’d have run faster”—echoes behind his teeth like a lyric that almost worked. Like something that might be the ending, if he can just get it right.

< 2   👤 max f 🤪

🔒 Messages and calls are end-to-end encrypted. No one outside of this chat, not even WhatsApp, can read or listen to them. Learn more

lando👁️🫦👁️

hey r u free

can we game?

max f 🤪

yea sure

1min

The room is quiet except for the soft clicks of a controller and the gentle rustle of the city night beyond the window. A low hum of air conditioning blends with distant, muffled traffic—cars drifting by like ghosts on empty streets. The warm glow of the TV casts flickering light on Lando’s face, who sits slouched on the couch, controller balanced loosely in his hands. On screen, his pixelated avatar moves methodically across a patch of virtual soil, planting rows of potatoes with slow, deliberate taps. The rhythm is hypnotic, almost meditative.

From the kitchen, Max’s voice filters through the speakers of Lando’s headset, calm and easy, a steady presence on the other end of voice chat.

“Alright, planting all the potatoes you promised, or what?” Max’s teasing cuts through the quiet like a gentle ripple.

Lando chuckles softly, his lips twitching but his eyes fixed somewhere past the screen, distant and unfocused.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m just… thinking.” His voice is low, hesitant, carrying an undercurrent of something unsaid.

Max doesn’t push, letting the silence stretch comfortably between them, the game providing soft background noise.

After a few minutes, Lando breaks the quiet again, his words quieter this time, cautious.

“Max… you ever notice when someone’s around but not really here?”

There’s a pause. Max shifts in his chair, the sound crisp through the mic as he leans closer to his desk.

“Like distracted? Yeah. Happens.” His voice is steady, understanding.

Lando exhales, the breath slow, weighted.

“It’s Oscar. He’s… been off. More than usual.” His fingers tighten around the controller. “I walk in and he slams his laptop shut before I even get close. Or disappears into his room without a word. Says it’s ‘work stuff,’ but it feels like he’s hiding something.”

Max’s tone softens, careful and thoughtful.

“Yeah? That sounds rough.”

Lando runs a hand through his hair, frustration simmering but held in check.

“It’s not that I don’t trust him. I do. But it’s like there’s this wall between us now. And I don’t know if I’m supposed to be patient or if I’m just missing something—something he’s not telling me.”

Max leans back, the faint scrape of his chair audible, thoughtful.

“Sometimes people need space to figure things out. Maybe he’s working on something big. Could be a surprise or just something personal he’s not ready to share.”

Lando bites the inside of his cheek, frowning.

“Yeah, maybe. But it feels like I’m waiting for a door to open—and it’s just stuck. No key, no handle.”

Max’s voice lowers, steady, like a warm hand reaching across the distance.

“Patience is hard. But if anyone can pull something like that off for you, it’s Oscar. He’s not subtle, no, but he’s got his reasons. Maybe he’s just figuring out how to show you the parts he can’t say out loud yet.”

Lando blinks slowly, fatigue softening the edges of his expression.

“I just… miss the him I know. The easy parts.”

Max smiles through the mic, not with words but with the quiet reassurance in his tone.

“He’ll come back, in his own time. And when he does, it’ll be worth the wait.”

The game hums softly again. Lando’s character moves over a patch of wilted crops, watering them slowly and deliberately, like a promise.

Lando exhales—half a breath of hope, half patience.

“Yeah. Guess I can wait.”

They don’t say much more after that. The silence settles again, but this time it’s softer, less empty—a quiet understanding shared between two friends tethered by distance, screens, and the weight of waiting.

< 4   👤 Max Fewtrell

🔒 Messages and calls are end-to-end encrypted. No one outside of this chat, not even WhatsApp, can read or listen to them. Learn more

Max Fewtrell

Oscar can you

be more slick?

Lando is catching on

oscar 🚗

👍

It’s nearly midnight, but Oscar’s still awake.

The city glows like a held breath just beyond the glass — windows lit in patches, streetlights flickering, a pulse of red tail lights crawling across the horizon. The hush of distant traffic rises and falls like the sea, barely there. The balcony door is open a crack, and the room is cool with summer air that smells like rain on concrete, heat-soaked lemons, and something faintly metallic.

Oscar sits cross-legged on a balcony chair, laptop open, headphones cupped over his ears. A simple guitar loop plays on repeat — open chords that breathe in and out, slow and patient. His voice drifts in beneath it, low and spare. It doesn’t need much. Just space. Just truth.

You don’t have to ask me twice / I’d give you the rest of my life…

He leans back, exhales through his nose. Not quite smiling, but softened. Relaxed in a way he hasn’t been in days — like the knot in his chest has finally loosened, the tension gone from his fingers.

This is the part he lives for. When it starts to click.

He reaches for the EQ, nudges a few frequencies. The air around him hums gently, held together by the quiet rhythm of the song.

Then — a sound behind him.

Oscar flinches, snaps the laptop shut out of habit. The music cuts off in his headphones. He turns, already half-apologizing—

Lando stands in the open doorway. Slouched, quiet, hoodie loose around his shoulders, the soft pink of sleep still in his cheeks.

Oscar breathes out. His body doesn’t tense this time — it settles.

“Didn’t think you were still up,” Lando says, voice rough-edged, words loose with fatigue.

Oscar lifts a shoulder. “Didn’t mean to stay up. Just… got stuck in it.”

Lando steps closer, barefoot. His presence changes the air — shifts it subtly. Oscar watches the way the low lamplight catches in his curls, the way his eyes trace Oscar’s face without asking for anything.

“You working on something?”

Oscar nods, then shakes his head. “Sort of. Just chasing a feeling.”

Lando hums, something unreadable behind his half-lidded eyes. He studies Oscar for a beat longer, then says — not accusing, just amused:

“You’re in a good mood.”

Oscar huffs a quiet laugh. He doesn’t try to hide it. “Yeah. Something good happened.”

Lando raises an eyebrow. “Are you gonna tell me what it was?”

Oscar doesn’t answer. Not with words.

He rises slowly, every movement deliberate, like time itself has gone syrup-thick. He steps into Lando’s space, close enough to feel the heat coming off him. His fingers find the drawstring of Lando’s hoodie and tug it gently, pulling him forward.

“You’ll find out soon,” Oscar murmurs, voice barely brushing Lando’s mouth.

Then he kisses him.

It starts soft. Like a breath drawn in. Oscar’s hand cups the back of Lando’s neck, thumb brushing slow arcs into his skin. Lando leans in without hesitation, like this is the part of the night he’d been hoping for without realizing it.

But something’s different tonight.

Oscar kisses him like he means it — not in the hungry way, not in the desperate way. In the way that says I’m here. I’m whole. And I want you to feel it too. The kiss deepens — slow, steady, nothing rushed — and Lando follows, hands sliding beneath Oscar’s shirt, mapping familiar territory with fresh reverence.

The room is quiet, save for the soft sounds of fabric shifting, breath caught and released, mouths parting and meeting again.

They don’t speak.

There’s no need.

Oscar walks them backward toward the bed without breaking the kiss, guiding Lando by the waist, both of them bare-footed, sleep-warm, a little undone. The sheets are still tangled from earlier. The lamplight is golden and low.

When they fall onto the bed, it’s with quiet laughter caught in their throats, and then the silence returns — not empty, but full.

Clothes come off piece by piece, like a story told in long pauses. Oscar moves over Lando with a kind of reverence, fingers trailing down his chest like he’s learning something he already knew but forgot to believe in. Lando pulls him in closer, thumb brushing Oscar’s jaw, his ribs, his hip — like every touch is a question and an answer at once.

When they make love, it’s quiet.

Not fragile. Not shy.

Just honest.

The rhythm is slow, drawn out. Oscar closes his eyes and listens — not just to Lando’s breath, but to the feel of him. There’s no rush, no goal beyond this: the weight of skin on skin, the warm anchor of Lando’s body beneath him, the grounding intimacy of being wanted, known, met.

The kiss never breaks for long. Hands slip and search, find and stay. Lando sighs into him like an exhale he’s been holding for too long. Oscar cups his face, presses their foreheads together, doesn’t look away.

They move together like music without structure — like a song that never needs to resolve. Just ebb and echo, pulse and hold.

And when it ends, when they’re still and tangled in each other, the silence that follows is rich with everything they didn’t have to say.

Lando’s hand rests across Oscar’s stomach, fingers splayed. His breathing evens out. Oscar stays awake, just for a little while, watching the shadow of the curtain shift gently in the breeze.

The laptop is still outside on the table. The song is still waiting.

But this — Lando asleep beside him, warm and real and full of quiet gravity — this is the song.

Oscar presses a kiss to his hair.

The rest can wait.

Tonight, he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be.

The sky is the color of nothing yet.

Just the softest breath of grey, seeping through the hotel curtains like a secret. It’s not quite morning, not quite night — the kind of hour that doesn’t exist unless you’re awake for it. Unless you need to be.

Oscar is.

He sits curled on the edge of the bed, hoodie zipped to his throat, sleeves pulled down over his hands. The room around him is still, held in a hush that feels almost sacred — like the world is paused, holding its breath. His laptop glows soft against his thighs, casting quiet light up into his face. The only sounds: the low hum of his headphones and the faint click of the keys under his fingers.

A mug sits untouched on the nightstand. Tea, gone cold hours ago. The kind of gesture you make out of habit — boil water, add honey — like it’ll ground you in your body when your mind’s been floating just beyond reach for too long. He doesn’t need it anymore. He’s here now. Fully.

The session file is open in front of him. His DAW stretched wide across the screen like an exhale, tracks layered in calm repetition: the fingerpicked guitar, stripped and clear. Subtle harmonies woven underneath like threads. His voice — quiet, but unshaking — carrying the melody like it was always meant to hold it.

Everything’s in place.

It’s not perfect. But it’s true.

Oscar presses play one more time. Not to fix anything. Just to feel it again.

The chorus drifts through his headphones:

If it’s you, I’ll stay / If it’s you, I’ll wait / No matter the miles or the years or the weight…

And for the first time in weeks, his chest doesn’t seize up at the sound of his own voice.

It lands gently. Like rain after a long dry spell. Like someone finally answering a question you were too tired to keep asking out loud.

He leans back against the headboard, lets his eyes fall shut, the laptop still balanced over his knees. His breath slows. Deepens.

The feeling that comes isn’t loud. It doesn’t crash over him like relief usually does.

It arrives quieter than that.

Like a click in the lock. Like a door he hadn’t realized he’d been holding closed just… opening.

Completion.

Readiness.

That strange, holy silence that only comes when something is finished — and something else is about to begin.

He exhales, long and low.

Then he moves again — methodical, practiced. He saves the file. Exports the stems. Splits them into folders. One for playback. One for Lily. One for his own archive. Everything backed up twice. Uploaded and named with the date, the key, the BPM.

He’s done this a hundred times, but this time it feels different — like every click matters. Like every step is an offering to what’s coming next.

His friends are flying in for the show. So are Lando's. Zak has given the green light.  The crew knows the updated setlist. Lighting cues locked. Photographer discreetly scheduled. Lily has the PR ready. Mark double-checked the plan.

The ring—

The ring is zipped in the front compartment of his guitar case. Beside a small file, tucked between a spare charger and a packet of lemon lozenges. He’s checked it five times today. He’ll check it again before they leave.

He knows what he’s going to say. Every word’s been written and rewritten in his head — late nights, long drives, backstage pacing. He’s run the speech over so many times it’s become muscle memory. But he also knows it’ll change the moment he sees Lando’s face. He’s okay with that.

His heart kicks a little. That sharp-edged rush. Excitement tangled with the kind of nerves that don’t feel bad — just big. Like standing on the edge of a diving board, knowing the water will catch you, but still needing to leap.

Oscar snaps the laptop closed, gently this time.

The sound feels final.

He doesn’t move for a while.

Just sits there in the dim, the hush. Legs drawn up, hoodie still wrapped around him like armor, or maybe like comfort. His eyes linger on the dark screen, the ghost of the project still lingering in his chest like a second heartbeat.

The light from the curtains has shifted slightly — still grey, but now tinged with the faintest warmth. A hint of sun curled under the horizon.

He’s never felt more still.

He’s never felt more ready.

Oscar presses his palms together, rests them against his lips for a moment. Breathes in deep, through his nose. Out through his mouth.

And smiles.

Not wide. Not giddy. Just quiet. Real. The kind that lives behind the eyes.

It’s done.

The song. The plan. The waiting.

And everything else—

Everything that matters—

Starts tomorrow.

Time Sensitive

Bring the R !!!                            1m ago

Today, 11:15 AM

The light is the softest kind of grey. Filtered and hesitant through the hotel curtains, it bathes the room in a hush that feels borrowed — like even the sun is holding its breath.

Oscar lies still in the sheets, awake before the alarm. Eyes open. Heart ringing.

Not fear. Not quite excitement either.

It’s something in-between — something sharp-edged and bright, like the hum of stage lights just before they rise. Like the moment before a confession leaves your mouth. Like knowing you’re about to fall, and choosing to lean forward anyway.

He hasn’t really slept. Maybe an hour here, a half-hour there — but his brain’s been moving the whole time, looping the setlist in the dark, whispering and rewriting verses that are already done.

It’s finished.

The final song. The preparations. The secret.

There’s nothing left to do.

But his hands still twitch under the duvet. His legs shift restlessly beneath the covers. Every breath he takes feels slightly louder than it should, like the air is charged and waiting for something.

Beside him, Lando shifts in his sleep. Mumbles something soft and unintelligible, the word curling at the edges like a dream. His face is turned toward Oscar, half-buried in the pillow, hair a soft halo of curls and sleep-mussed edges. His jaw slack. Lips parted. That faint, familiar furrow in his brow that never quite leaves, even in rest.

Oscar watches him in silence. He doesn’t reach out. He just looks.

So much of this — all of this — has been for Lando. And still, about Lando. But there’s something different this morning. Not weightless, exactly, but clearer. Like all the fog has finally burned off, and underneath it, there’s just the truth. And a path forward.

Eventually, he slides quietly from the bed, careful not to shift the mattress too much. The floor is cold under his bare feet, grounding. The air carries that hotel-specific stillness — recycled air, faraway footsteps, the hum of electricity in the walls.

He pads over to the corner where his guitar case leans upright against the closet door. It’s muscle memory at this point — fingers finding the zipper, heart jumping even though he knows what’s inside.

He checks anyway.

Unzips the small inner pocket. Opens it slowly. The ring box is still there, snug and gorgeous and undeniably real.

He stares at it for a long moment. Not thinking anything in particular — just feeling it. The weight of it. The finality. The intention.

Then he zips it closed again, returns the case to its place. He doesn’t need to look again. Not until tonight.

The shower is scalding, full of steam and silence. He doesn’t sing — not out loud. Just mouths lyrics to the fogging glass. Lyrics he knows inside out now, ones that used to feel impossibly raw but today… today they feel settled. Owned.

They taste different in his mouth. Less like grief.

More like truth.

By the time he’s dressed — soft t-shirt, black jeans, hoodie, necklace tucked beneath the collar — Lando’s awake, stretching with a groggy noise and rubbing his hands over his face.

“Gonna run out,” he mumbles, voice still thick with sleep. “Coffee and pastries. You want the usual?”

Oscar nods, leans in, presses a kiss to his shoulder, lingers there just a second longer than necessary.

“Be safe,” he murmurs.

Lando blinks at him, faintly amused. “It’s a croissant run, not a battlefield.”

Oscar smiles. Shrugs. “Still.”

The door clicks closed behind him, and just like that, the stillness returns.

But it’s different now. Focused.

Oscar doesn’t hesitate.

He moves with precision — a quiet ritual unfolding: unzip the backpack, retrieve the laptop, the headphones, the mic, the guitar. The room becomes a workspace again, stripped of its domestic calm. His stage before the stage.

He doesn’t sit. Just paces. Small, steady circles around the room as the demo track plays in his ears. His voice already layered over it, low and close and clear.

He sings along. Not rehearsing. Not anymore.

Remembering.

Reminding himself how it feels when the words leave his mouth and mean exactly what he wants them to. When the melody isn’t armor but offering. When the love in his chest doesn’t ache — it glows.

Halfway through the bridge, he stops playing. Lets the loop carry on without him. He walks to the window and stares out at the waking city — hazy sunlight brushing rooftops, the faint hum of early traffic, the sky beginning to warm by degrees.

He closes his eyes. And he sees it —

The crowd.

The light.

Lando, somewhere in the middle of it all, laughing or crying or maybe both.

The music folding into stillness, and then—his voice, asking the one question that’s lived inside him for months.

A hum starts in his chest again. Familiar now. Not nerves. Not anymore.

Just readiness.

His phone buzzes softly where it rests beside the bed.

One text from Lily:
“tnites yours. wtvr it is, im here 4 u🫶”

And a voice note from Max: “You’ve got this, mate. He’s gonna say yes. Unless you sing off-key, in which case—no promises.”

Oscar huffs out a breath, startled into a laugh. His heart stutters and steadies again.

He sets the guitar gently back on the bed.

Pulls the headphones around his neck. And picks up the mic.

He sings the final verse again.

Quieter now. No performance in it. No polish.

Just the truth, plain and bare—Like a secret being told for the very first time.
And this time, it’s not practice.

It’s a promise.

Oscar gets to the venue early. Earlier than necessary, really—but nobody questions it. The crew are used to his rituals by now, the way he moves through spaces like he’s tuning the air itself. He’s soft-spoken, polite, focused. Doesn’t waste time. Doesn’t make noise unless it’s music.

They know the plan. Know something’s different with him, too. Maybe the way he double-checks everything twice. The way he hovers near the lighting desk for longer than usual, murmuring something low to the tech on duty. The way his guitar case never leaves his sight.

But they don’t ask. It’s not unusual for artists to get weird before a show. Especially a home stretch show. Especially one with a reputation like his—no band, no backup, just him and the stage and the quiet devastation of his lyrics.

Oscar sets up like always. Strings, pedals, cables. Mic stand, checked and adjusted.

Then: the guitar. The one he always saves for last.

He plugs in, nods to the sound engineer, and begins to play the new song—but no vocals. Just instrumental. The melody spills out, crisp and clean through the empty venue. Warm, spacious, quietly glittering. He walks slowly across the stage as he plays, gauging how it feels in the room, how it sits in the air.

It’s the kind of tune that doesn’t demand attention so much as ask for it gently. And still, it fills the space like it was written just for this place, just for tonight.

He adjusts the reverb on his pedal. Hums a few notes. Doesn’t speak the lyrics—not yet. Not until it matters.

Halfway through, the back door creaks. Oscar glances up and sees Lando, hoodie slung over his shoulder, coffee in one hand and confusion flickering across his face.

Oscar falters for only half a beat. Then he keeps playing.

Lando makes his way down the aisle of seats, a slow grin growing.

“What was that?” he asks when the last chord rings out.

Oscar shrugs, casual as he can fake. “Just fiddling.”

Lando quirks an eyebrow but doesn’t push. He never does. Just holds out a drink. Oscar takes it with one hand and subtly shakes out the other behind his back.

His hands are trembling. Not enough to see, probably. But he feels it—his grip unsteady as he adjusts the mic height again.

The stage lights warm the top of his shoulders. They always do. But today they feel brighter, weirder—like a dream bleeding through into real life. The house is still empty, but he can already see it: the crowd, the lights down, Lando in the wings.

The ring is zipped into the small back pocket of his guitar case. He can feel the weight of it even now.

Tonight, everything changes.

And Lando doesn’t know a thing.

The house lights dim like a sigh. One by one, the overhead beams fade into black, and for a second the venue holds still — hushed and humming, full of potential. The air changes. Thickens. It always does, right before the start.

Then: light again.

Not bright — just a soft gradient blooming from the wings, silhouetting Oscar as he walks onto the stage. One slow step at a time. Guitar slung low across his chest, loop pedal already powered on, pickups live.

The applause rises — full, immediate, already warm.

He lets it wash over him. Doesn’t smile yet. Doesn’t wave.

He breathes it in like incense — lets it settle into his skin — and then lowers his gaze to the board. One foot forward. A click. Then another.

A single guitar note unfurls.

Plucked clean. Hanging in the dark.

Then another.

Then a loop.

He starts to build it.

Layer by layer — Fingerpicked harmonics, subtle percussion tapped on the guitar body, a soft pad faded in with care. Everything minimal. Intentional. Steady.

Like breath. Like prayer.

There’s no band behind him. There never is. Just Oscar, in a pool of light, surrounded by cables and echoes. Sculpting sound from silence.

It’s how he started.

It’s how he wanted this night to begin.

The crowd doesn’t move much. Some already swaying in time. Some filming. Some just watching him, quiet and reverent, like they know — even if they don’t know why — that this night will matter.

Oscar’s eyes flutter closed for a few seconds. He lets himself sink into it.

By the time the first full song lands — Halfway Home” — the room is his. Not in a possessive way. Not dominance.

It’s something gentler. Something shared.

And he gives it to them — track by track, moment by moment.

The set moves like water.

“Loose Ends,” then “Petals of Daisies,” then songs off his first album, “Pale Fire,” and “Come On, Do!"

All of them sequenced to flow — looping layers built live in front of them. A kind of alchemy. Percussion from a single foot tap. Harmonies stacked from his own voice. Time folding in on itself.

It should feel automatic by now, and in some ways it does — muscle memory in his hands, setlist carved into his spine.

But tonight… tonight, it’s different. Not because of the songs.

Because of what’s waiting at the end of them.

In between, he speaks. Little things — not just filler, but real breath between songs.

“Thanks for being here,” he says softly, somewhere after the second track. “You have no idea how much it means to be in this room tonight.”

They cheer. They always do.

He tells a story, too — a small one, from the first time he ever played this city. He was twenty-two, he says, nervous as hell, and someone threw a paper airplane at him mid-set with their number on it.

“It landed in my guitar case,” he laughs, “and I forgot about it for two weeks. Sorry, whoever you were.”

The crowd howls. It’s easy. It’s warm. He feels held.

And still—beneath the ease, beneath the practiced flow and the soft, crafted calm—there’s something tightening in him.

He knows the moment is coming. It’s getting closer with every song.

Every loop. Every beat. Every breath.

And then, somewhere mid-verse in track five, one of his first ever songs—“Alma”—he feels it break loose inside him.

Not panic. Not exactly.

More like a swell. A wave.

His throat catches, just barely. A half-breath, snagged on the lyric.

If I never make it home, will you know I tried?

The note wavers for half a second. No one in the crowd notices. But he does.

And that’s what matters.

Because he knows what that crack really is.
Not a mistake. Not weakness.

It’s the weight.

The truth in his pocket. The new song waiting in the wings. The question still unspoken.
The ring zipped into a case backstage. Lando, somewhere nearby — maybe in the wings, maybe in the crowd — watching him. Smiling. Oblivious.

Oscar exhales, careful and long, during the outro.

He tunes again. Retightens the pedalboard cables with shaking fingers.

He doesn’t look for Lando now. Can’t.
If he sees that face — that light — he might not make it through the rest.

So he just plays.

Keeps playing.

Song six. Then seven.

And every second that passes, the knot in his chest grows tighter — but steadier, too. Like a bow being drawn. Like a fuse burning low.

He’s done all the hard parts already. Written the song. Finished the setlist. Packed the ring. Made the call.

Now all that’s left is the last note.

The last track.

The question.

Oscar closes his eyes. Breathes in once.
He feels the shape of it waiting for him —
the love that carried him here, the moment he’s about to offer.

The world doesn’t know yet.

But it will.

In just a few minutes more.

And Lando—Lando is about to know everything.

The final loop of the second-to-last song fades, echoing soft as breath. It feels like the edges of a dream — gentle, dissolving, already gone.

Oscar steps back from the mic.

His shirt clings to him, spine damp with sweat and adrenaline. His lungs are too full, like he’s been holding his breath through the entire set. Maybe he has.

The crowd cheers. Full-bodied, grateful, expecting the usual thank yous. Maybe an encore. Maybe not.

But Oscar lifts a hand — just a small motion, palm raised — and the room stills almost instantly.

A hush. A hum beneath it. Thousands of people leaning forward at once.

He steps back to the mic. Fingers flexing once at his sides to shake the tremble out.

Then:

“Thank you,” he says, voice rough with use. With emotion.

“Really. This tour’s been… everything.”

He swallows. The lights blur a little around the edges. He glances down at his guitar, then out again — into the sea of shadows, half-lit faces.

And he finds him.

Lando.

Standing just where he always is. Not quite under a spotlight, but visible enough — familiar in silhouette. Hoodie sleeves pushed up. Hands loose at his sides.

His eyes are wide.

Oscar breathes in again.

“I wasn’t gonna play this one,” he says, quieter now. “It’s new. It’s not on the album. Not really meant for release.”

He pauses. The silence bends around him.

“It’s just for someone who’s made all of this worth it.”

Another pause.

And then he begins.

No loops. No synth. No layered reverb.

Just the soft, human creak of the guitar strap. The dry sound of fingers pressing strings. The first chord — low, clean — rolling out into the dark.

His voice follows it. Bare. Unguarded. Almost shy.

Not a performance. Not even close.

A confession, maybe.

Each lyric lands like a secret unspooling — tender, aching with truth. Not polished for audience replay, not crafted for catchiness. Just fragments of memory wrapped in melody. The shape of something fragile being held up to the light.

He doesn’t look at Lando, but he feels the shift — the exact second he recognizes it.

The way he goes still.

The way the moment tightens.

The way the crowd quiets, as if they can feel it too.

You don’t have to ask me twice / I’d give you the rest of my life

Oscar’s voice wavers once — not from nerves, not now — but from the sheer honesty of it.

Because this is everything they’ve carried.

The hallway pacing. The nights one of them didn’t speak. The mornings that stitched them back together.

The apology without the word sorry.

The choosing. Again and again.

You found me pacing the hallway again

And you didn’t say much—just stayed until I slept.

I said i don't think I deserve you yet

And you said

I already picked you.

That’s when the shift in the room becomes palpable. A stillness that isn’t silence, but reverence.

Oscar hears someone in the front row start to cry. Feels his own voice catch again. Keeps going.

If it’s you, I’ll stay

If it’s you, I’ll wait

No matter the miles or

the years or the weight

He takes a deep breath.

So if I ask

Will you say yes?

Not just to now, but all the rest—

The quiet days, the mess and the mornings.

Will you say yes to all of it?

To me?

The final chord lingers in the air like smoke.

Then fades.

He lets the quiet stretch. Doesn’t fill it. Doesn’t rush.

Just stands there, guitar still in hand, until his body remembers what comes next.

He unstraps it.

Lets it hang from one hand.

Steps forward.

Right to the edge of the stage.

The light feels too sharp now. The crowd is just blur and color.

But Lando—Lando is crystal clear.

Oscar reaches into his jacket pocket. Pulls out the ring. Just a simple black box. No fanfare.

A murmur starts in the audience. Confusion first. Then realization. Then stillness again.

He sinks to one knee.

There’s no mic. No amplification.

But his voice carries.

“Come up here?”

It’s barely a question. A plea wrapped in hope.

Lando doesn’t move at first. Frozen in place, like he can’t quite believe this is real. Then he’s moving — fast, stumbling slightly, a crew member catching his elbow and guiding him up the side stairs.

Oscar watches every step.

Lando’s hands are shaking when he reaches him. He doesn’t hide it.

They’re inches apart now. The ring between them, small and steady.

Oscar looks up. His mouth curves into something half-laugh, half-breath.

“So,” he says. “What do you think? Want to keep doing this with me?”

And Lando — oh, Lando — he just stares. Mouth open. Eyes glassy.

Then: “Yeah,” he breathes. “Yeah. Of course I do.”

The crowd explodes — screams, sobs, hands in the air.

But Oscar doesn’t hear any of it. Not really.

He drops the mic without ceremony. Moves toward him like gravity’s been pulling him the whole time. Presses his mouth to Lando’s in a kiss that feels like yes, and yes, and yes again.

It’s not showy. It’s not choreographed. It’s just real — the kind of kiss you give someone when the storm is finally over. When the promise is no longer hypothetical.

Lando’s hand cradles his jaw. They break only to breathe.

Their foreheads touch. They’re both laughing now, stunned and breathless and somehow still inside the same moment.

The lights dim again.

The stage fades to black.

But neither of them move.

They stay like that, locked in the middle of everything.

Still there.

Still holding on.

Still choosing each other.

“In Every Universe, It's Always You” – Oscar Piastri and Lando Norris On Love, Music, and What Comes Next

An interview by Nico Rosberg for Sky News Entertainment

There’s a particular kind of silence that only comes after something seismic.

Not the silence of absence—but the one that settles when everything has just shifted, and the air hasn’t quite caught up. After the lights drop. After the applause melts into static. After the crowd spills out into the night, still humming with what they’ve just witnessed.

I was there, in London, when one of those moments unfolded.

Final night of a sold-out tour. Oscar Piastri stepped forward under the lights, guitar in hand. No loop pedal. No backing band. Just a new song, a breath, and a question that landed like a pin-drop across a breathless room.

A proposal. Not choreographed. Not broadcast in advance. Just a single ring, a song written for one person, and a yes that split the night wide open.

Weeks later, we’re sitting in a sun-drenched studio loft in Barcelona. The whole place smells faintly of espresso and fresh linen. There’s a record spinning somewhere, low and unobtrusive. Oscar and Lando are curled up together on a couch that’s clearly too small for two, but they’ve made it work—limbs tangled, mugs precariously balanced, the edges of comfort blurred by affection.

They’re still a little stunned by it all.

“We were going to wait,” Oscar says, thumb brushing his bottom lip like he’s still working it out. “I had this whole plan. Quiet, private, probably on a beach. Something cliché but sweet.” He smiles, faint and sideways. “Then about three shows into the tour, I realized I couldn’t imagine not asking.”

Lando nudges him with his knee. “I should’ve known. He got weird about his guitar case. Started keeping it basically handcuffed to his side.” He pauses, then grins. “Though, to be fair, he’s always weird about that guitar case.”

They laugh—soft and easy. The kind of laughter that comes from surviving things. From earning the safety they now rest inside.

Because this isn’t the beginning. And it’s not the comeback.

It’s the continuation.

Their relationship—once so public, so dissected—has settled into something quieter. Not hidden. Just… protected. Nearly a year ago, they made headlines for their breakup. Now they make quiet history in the everyday.

Oscar’s second album, Call Me Back?, climbed charts across the globe. A haunting, deeply personal record, it was hailed as both a sonic evolution and a lyrical gut-punch. Lando, meanwhile, reimagined his streaming presence, blending high-viewership Twitch broadcasts with quieter, offbeat IRL segments. Their respective fanbases are still massive—but what those fans get now feels different.

Smaller in scale. Bigger in truth.

“We’re not hiding,” Lando says, his voice softer than it used to be on camera. “But I think we’ve learned—earned—the right to decide what’s just ours.”

Oscar nods, nursing his coffee. “The music will always be honest. That’s not going to change. But the rest…” He shrugs, thoughtful. “Not everything needs to be for everyone.”

There’s a weight to that statement. A knowing.

Both took time off after the final show—Oscar retreating into songwriting again (“Just demos,” he insists, though Lando rolls his eyes and calls them “album-three material”), while Lando’s channel pivoted toward a lo-fi calm: walking tours, food stalls, half-joking hot takes on local pastries.

“Sometimes we just roam,” Lando says. “No script. No schedule. Just… us being people.”

Still, there are whispers of what’s next. A third record. A collaborative short film. Maybe even a wedding.

But they’re not rushing.

“I think we did our rushing already,” Oscar says, stretching out along the cushions. “All that crashing forward, all that urgency—we’ve been there. Now we just build.”

And what, I ask, are they building?

Oscar looks over to Lando. Lando looks back. No words. But the answer is obvious.

A life. A home. A story with no defined ending.

Before I leave, I ask them to rewind—to go back to that stage. That song. That proposal. Not the social media version. Not the press photo, the fan footage, the viral tweet.

Just the truth of it.

Oscar is quiet for a beat. Then Lando reaches over, laces their fingers together like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

“It felt like choosing each other,” Lando says. “Again.”

Oscar glances at him, all softness, and adds, “Always.”

Fin.