Chapter Text
Thursday nights are Lando’s third favourite of the week.
He’s had numerous discussions with Oscar about his top 3 ranking before, but he stands by it.
First place obviously goes to Friday night, the opportunities endless and two whole days off just ahead. Max always has cheap beer around and Alex is the best at convincing everyone to hit the club, even George. It’s better than Saturday really, because the anticipation of no classes is sweeter than the actual time off. Lando loves those night with his friends, especially if Oscar joins them and they are truly all in it together.
Second place is reserved for Wednesday night, courtesy of the tradition Lando and Oscar started in their first year of uni, which consists of Oscar coming over in the afternoon, straight after his last class ends a little later than Lando’s that day.
They always cook together and either watch their trashy tv show or spend the time gaming, bickering or ranting. (It’s mostly Lando who rants. Oscar is a really good listener though, and he’s always equally interested in the gossip Lando has on people their age even if his usual reserved character wouldn't suggest so to outsiders.)
They do see each other at uni every day, despite their different majors, but it's not the same. Oscar is always extremely busy during the week, but Wednesdays, without a fail, are sacred Lando and Oscar hangout time.
Sometimes Lando thinks of upgrading them to first place in his ranking, but he feels like Oscar would look at him with that sincerely surprised look that always makes him nervous and Lando really does like going out on Friday nights.
But anyway, that leaves this Thursday evening on a solid third place.
Thursdays are nice, chill. He likes the photography class in his schedule, likes the outlook of having only Friday next.
He likes how waking up on time feels easier on Thursdays too, which probably stems from having eaten something real at an appropriate time the day before. And also having Oscar ushering him to bed no later than midnight every time, which means he gets some solid hours of sleep for once.
In turn, he gets through his classes easier, is more concentrated throughout the day and gets more done before he even comes home and that leaves him with an unusually stressless evening.
All courtesy of their Wednesday evening routine. Or, in truth, an accurate description of Oscar’s impact on his life. Sometimes Lando wonders how much he’d get done if Oscar moved in, but that’s just one of his silly ideas really. And anyway, Oscar’s insane working hours and minutely timed study alarms would probably grow annoying quickly.
Oscar says he's crazy to rank Thursday evenings over the weekend, but maybe if Oscar would also sometimes leave a project a little too long, he'd understand the quiet magic of those perfect Thursday evenings where it all comes together and the future ahead looks bright.
But Oscar always hands in everything on time, despite overworking himself with an internship at the same time. He’s crazy smart like that.
Lando is proud of him for that, often going around saying “that's my best friend” whenever Oscar hits another insane benchmark achievement at university. It makes Oscar's ears go red and Lando's grin wider.
He smiles at the memory now, comfortable in his Thursday evening bliss, when the doorbell startles him.
It’s disturbing enough for Lando to pause mid-step.
He already had leftovers for dinner, there is no food delivery on its way. It is way too late for regular postal services as well, his windows already turned dark. Did the cranky neighbour downstairs come to complain again?
He waits for another second, listening.
It’s one of those late, windy fall evenings that prove that winter is right around the corner and that Lando has to be careful with putting aside money for the heating again. Nothing happens.
Could it be a mix-up?
The doorbell goes off again.
No mix-up then.
Lando bites his lip, unsure. Of course it could be one of his friends, but he is positive everyone close enough to him to show up unannounced is busy. Maybe he should grab that one baseball bat Carlos gifted him last year with stern instructions to hit first and ask questions later. Just in case.
He hesitates for a second before he does. He’s not a mistrusting or violent person, in general. But this part of the city is decently sketchy, and frequently has Oscar complaining about the crime rate in the streets around for a reason.
Lando lives on a tight student budget though, so he stays, and the bat it is. The wood feels comforting in his shaky hands. He’s got this.
He can’t see shit through the peephole, one because it sucks and two because it’s way too dark in the hallway. But…someone is there.
The chain at the door slides into place easily and Lando carefully takes a step back before looking out.
Leaning against his doorframe in the dimly lit hallway, panting and huffing is-
“Oscar?”
Lando’s eyes go wide, taking in the too big shirt, half lidded eyes and messy hair of his best friend.
Messy hair, when it comes to Oscar, is a significant statement considering he can't be asked to comb it most of the days, no matter how many times Lando tells him to.
Lando gapes in surprise before he sets down the bat, loosens the chain and lets the door swing open. “Hey, what are you doing - woah are you drunk?”
Oscar is shaking slightly, waving when he tries to stand upright. And - that’s new.
Because Oscar isn't a drinker. He doesn't even go to parties, unless Lando drags him out. And, as already established, it’s a weekday.
That means Oscar has an 8 am math class tomorrow at the uni campus furthest away from his apartment. Oscar is also always the responsible one between them two, and he never misses class.
A slight stab of jealousy flashes through him. Where had Oscar been, partying, showing up drunk at his doorstep? Judging by his latest texts, Lando was under the impression he was collecting enormous amounts of unpaid overtime at his internship.
“Are you gonna vomit?” Lando asks instead, carefully ignoring the possessive part of him wondering who Oscar went out with. It’s a valid question too, knowing his bathroom is the farthest room away from the door and he'd rather have him throw up out here than inside.
“I’m sorry.” Oscar finally speaks, voice a lot thinner than Lando expected and uncharacteristically dazed.
He can't make out his face, the corridor’s light switch stuck again after it had just been fixed. Lando silently curses the old apartment building, takes in the unexpected sight in front of him. Something feels wrong.
Oscar wobbles.“I didn’t know where else to go.”
Then, he takes one step forward and collapses into himself.
"Wha-wow!" Lando jumps forward, managing to hold onto Oscar's shaking frame before he goes down.
“Oscar?!”
For one, terrifying second Lando doesn’t get an answer back and then Oscar groans through a grimace.
The new angle puts them closer to the light from inside his apartment and all of the sudden it all adds up.
Oscar's lip is split open, a thin river of blood down the corner of his mouth. His cheek is bruised, his one eye swollen.
He isn’t leaning on Lando because he’s drunk but because he's clutching his ribs like his life depends on it. Which - it could.
The shock feels like being plunged into ice.
“Jesus fuck, Oscar, what happend?” Lando screeches, staggering under the weight and his panic, unsure where to put his hands in order to usher Oscar inside without hurting him further.
His mind is running, trying to piece together his nerdy, quiet best friend Oscar with the roughly beat up young man in front of him. It’s like he suddenly fell into one of those bad movies they sometimes watch, only that he can’t laugh at the absurdity now.
“Were you mugged? Are you okay? How can I - is this okay?”
Lando manages to wrap his arm around what seems to be Oscar's better shoulder, gritting his teeth with the way the other lets his weight slump on top of him exhaustedly.
“Fuck, okay, let’s get you inside and I’ll call an ambulance-”
“No.”
It’s the first, actual thing Oscar has said that sounds conscious, his voice rough but resolute.
"What?" Lando presses out, manoeuvring them through the doorframe. “We need to get you checked by a professional Osc, you’re really scaring me-’
‘No doctor.” Oscar heaves, making attempts to separate himself from Lando's grip even though he looks moments from passing out.
It throws their precious balance off, and Lando has to hold onto the kitchen counter for stabilization.
“Okay!” Lando yelps quickly. “No doctor, got it. Let me just - freaking - get you to the couch.”
Oscar breathes out, his head falling back down. Their short argument seems to have drained the last amount of energy from him and Lando drags him to the couch more than they walk together.
“Careful.” He orders when he tries lowering Oscar down as gently as possible despite their height difference.
Oscar still moans, a strangled whine punched from his lungs when he hits the backrest.
“Sorry, fuck, sorry.” Lando panics, hovering above the slumped figure with his eyes flying around the room. Where is his phone? He clearly needs to call the goddamn ambulance. “Oscar, you need to tell me where it hurts the most.”
“Rr- pfff.” Oscar slurs, almost choking on air. His eyes are tightly squeezed shut. “Ribsss….hurt.”
“Fuck, alright.” Lando breathes, willing himself to ignore the swelling of Oscar's face, stopping himself from losing his mind over the details. Ribs, first.
“We need to get you out of that shirt. Can you lift your arms up?”
The sounds Oscar makes when he tries to lift his arms over his head downright cut through Lando’s heart.
“Okay, fuck, no, we need something else, we need - stay here, I’ll be back, don't move -”
It's silly to say really, with the way Oscar huffs through gritted teeth in an effort not to black out. He’s not moving at all until Lando comes back, kitchen scissors and medical bag kit in hand.
“Sorry for the shirt.” he mumbles, mostly to distract himself when he slices through the fabric with shaking fingers and cuts it right down the middle. It’s dirty and wet, clinging to Oscar's skin in various spots but Lando’s still not prepared for what’s underneath.
“Jesus Christ, Oscar fuck-”
Oscar's right side is swollen, angry blue and purple bruising spreading across his ribs, with some parts of the skin burst open and bleeding. One of gashes is significantly bigger than the rest, angrily red and gushing.
Landos brain briefly goes offline before a singular thought comes back with insane speed: Oscar is hurt, badly, and Lando needs to fix it right now.
“Oscar, please, let me call an ambulance, this looks really bad you need-
“My ribs…4th to 6th, I think, is broken, some fractured.” Oscar says, eyes lidded but stubbornly staring ahead. “One of them is pressing on my lung. That's why - 'so hard to breathe but - can't heal ‘cause there is still something stuck inside and I can't - fucking - reach it.”
“WHAT?” Lando breathes. There is nothing but panic in his heart, but a spine-chilling confusion creeps into his thoughts. “Oscar, what- how do you even know -what do you mean when you say- your lung?!”
Then his eyes fall downwards and the picture clicking into place rips the final string of sanity from Lando’s grip.
“Oscar, what is this?”
His voice is low, strange to his own ears.
The living room light is much brighter than the hallway, illuminating the reds and purples on Oscar's face.
It also spotlights the crumpled fabric in Oscar's white-knuckled grip, the excess material pooling around his waist where the cut open shirt ends and the skintight material closes around Oscar's hips to his feet.
The suit, only done up halfway. Fine, blue particles, red highlights.
The fabric in his hand - a mask.
One Lando has seen way too many times on television not to recognize immediately.
For a second, there is no air in his lungs.
“Ohmygod.”
Lando thinks he might be going into shock.
He has never fainted, rarely even fallen sick as a child, but the way his skin is vibrating and his vision swims feels close to what he imagines as warning signs before passing out.
“Oh my god, you’re’-”
He stares down on the bloodied mess of a nest Oscar calls his hair. It takes him a few more seconds to look up, his one good eye rapidly blinking up at Lando.
“I’ll go.” he croaks wetly. “I’ll go in a second, just a second it’s not - please don't tell anyone, no doctor, I’m gonna - and you can - just don’t -”
He is moving now, good arm rummaging around in an attempt to find a way to push himself up. The anxiety radiating from Spiderman's body is so palpable that Lando’s own heart recovers from giving out to working overtime.
It’s so off putting, seeing someone so calm and collected be so visibly distraught, combining Oscar’s face with the suit and the truth it lays bare.
It’s like two different pictures overlaying. No match.
“Please, I’m sorry but - please Lando-”
The way his voice breaks on Lando’s name in the end jolts him into action.
“Woah, what are you doing?! You can’t go anywhere like this.”
He catches Oscar's arm, guiding him back down into the pillow. There is a surprisingly strong resistance, kind of an impossible one with how shallow Oscar’s breathing sounds.
It lasts only for an eye widening second though, before Lando can literally watch the haze taking over Oscars one unswollen eye.
Spiderman looks so different to the person Lando knows. Knew?
Lando stares at him, the superhero on his couch, and fights the dull ache creeping over his skin. Everything is wrong.
A wet cough and a following groan shake him out of his stupor. Oscar’s eyes are pressed closed in a frown, shaky palms pressing down on his side.
“I’ll – let me.” Lando says.
He doesn't wait for an answer, just kneels down in front of where Oscar sits on the couch, focusing on the purple mess on his ribs.
If he pretends this isn’t real, he’s got this.
That’s not Oscar in front of him, injured, out of it. That’s not an actual, painful wound, that’s a textbook example he has to find the best way to treat for. Like a test. Exactly. This is like university, an exam only.
If Lando pretends he doesn’t know, just for a little while, this earth shattering secret tilting his world on its head, he can function.
“Okay, I’ll need to clean this first.” he says, not looking up. “There is dirt in there that needs to be gone before I can put anything on it.”
Talking helps visualizing his plan. He’s got this, as long as he doesn’t think about why there is dirt, gravel and other bloodied material in and around Oscar’s ribcage.
“This is going to hurt, I’m sorry.” he grimaces and then he gets to work.
Wiping and disinfecting is - a lot.
Oscar is being unbelievably good, so much so that Lando can't help but let his mind stray wondering how much practice he has in enduring this kind of pain. It only bolsters the strangely detached lull in Lando’s head when the skin under his hand twitches at the next touch.
He is clinical, calm, efficient and he doesn’t look up.
But the particularly nasty gash on Spiderman’s upper right side is tricky and no amount of deep, controlled breaths can hide the whimpers falling out of his – Oscar’s - mouth.
Despite it all, it makes Lando’s heart clench. “I know, god, I’m sorry, it keeps bleeding.”
“There is-” Oscar huffs, teeth pressed together .”There's something - stuck-inside. I thought I got it all but - a piece must have broken.”
Lando thinks he might throw up.
“Fuck. How do you - Are you sure?” he asks. Needs to be sure.
Oscar nods, once.
“Okay.” He’s so, so fucked. "Okay."
“You need to - pull it out. Take the tweezers and - get it out.” Oscar declares, eyes closed like he's readying himself. The panic comes back, full force.
“I- I can’t do that, I don’t even have anything to do that with - and- you shouldn't even remove objects like that, It can cause inner bleeding and - didn't you say your lung? - and you’re gonna bleed out and I won’t be able to stop it and then-”
“Lando.”
Oscar's voice is soft when he interrupts, but solid.
“Yeah?” Lando breathes.
“I’m not gonna bleed out, I promise. But I can’t heal with it inside me, I need your help.”
Lando stares at him. Oscar, his best friend for the past three years, eyes closed, figure slumped on his couch, dirtying his pillows with blood.
The spiderman suit dangling from his hips.
“Okay, yeah.” Lando whispers, hands shaky when he reaches closer to Oscar’s ribs again, tweezers in hand. “I’ll be - quick.”
He isn’t quick, matter of fact it feels like hours until Lando has carefully and painfully pulled out the sharp, metal-y thing from Oscar’s ribcage, maneuvering around the gushes of blood and Oscar’s rigid form.
“I got it.” Lando finally yelps when the thing comes out. It’s smooth, glimmering in blood and something else. A shrapnel, a piece of something rounded and edgy at the same time.
“You-you got stabbed.” Lando says, like it might register more if he voices it out loud. “That’s like a - claw - in your ribs, someone fucking - clawed you open, Oscar-”
Unbearable amounts of emotions curse through his body at the realisation, torn between rage and fear. “Oscar, you-”
He looks for Oscar's face and shuts up.
Oscar is always pale, never compares to Lando’s healthy glow, but now he is white as the wall, sweat film on his forehead and cheeks.
His eyes are still closed.
“Oscar?”
He doesn't get an answer. The edges of his vision go blurry.
“Oscar?! Please, are you okay? Please be okay, fuck, we can still call the ambulance, just- please tell me you’re alright I’m- I’m gonna -“
“Mhm.” Oscar makes and it's the best sound Lando has ever heard.
The string of curse words leaving his mouth leave a bitter taste on his tongue.
“Fuck, oh my - thank god. Don’t ever, ever do this again.” Lando rambles, adrenaline skyrocketing. “You actually cannot be doing this – just showing up at my doorstep like that are you crazy-”
Oscar manages to crack open one eye, sad and defeated.
“‘’m sorry.” he mumbles.
“No - no - I didn’t mean – fuck, I meant - lets clean the rest, okay, and then take some painkillers-”
“Don’t work.”
“What?”
“Painkillers don't work. Metabolism too fast.” Oscar mumbles and Lando only blinks once before he finds it again.
“Okay -okay, then - we’ll clean and bandage you up and then you’ll…”
What then? He can’t help Oscar, can't relieve any of his pain. He’s helpless against the chaos Spiderman has brought in when he almost collapsed on his doormat.
“I’ll heal.” Oscar says, like he read Lando's spiralling mind. “I’ll heal on my own, now that you removed it.”
“Like - heal heal like - quickly?”
“Like, quicker, yeah.” Oscar moans trying to upright himself a little more.
“Okay.” Lando nods. “Okay then.”
He busies himself cleaning Oscar’s shoulder, dabbing his swollen eye, getting him ice for his cheek and his left ankle.
He makes tea even though Oscar doesn’t look up when he sits it down and they make it through the painful ordeal of wrapping Oscar’s upper body in bandages and pulling one of Lando's old shirts over his head.
He gets a pair of his comfiest shorts as well, both of them pointedly ignoring the tense silence when Lando helps pulling the tight suit down his legs.
The material feels foreign between his fingers, thick yet light and like nothing Lando has ever touched.
The thoughts threaten to spiral and pull Lando down and he swallows aggressively.
It’s too much for one day, his head brimming with questions and the insane urge to scream, and Lando doesn’t spare the piece of clothing another glance when he throws it onto the floor in the bathroom.
In the end, Oscar still looks sore, bruised and beaten up, way too pale and definitely missing any of his usually witty banter. But the bleeding has mostly stopped and today, that is a win in Lando’s book.
There is one more thing left though.
“Your…uhm..hair is really dirty, I think we should wash it.”
The usually chocolate brown is clammy, sticking together in blotches of red and muddled black.
“I don't think I can make it to the shower.” Oscar says, voice thin. He sounds deflated, bonelessly tired and Lando wonders how he hasn’t reached his limit yet through all of it.
“That’s okay. I could quickly go through it with a washcloth if you want?”
It’s settled when Oscar doesn't protest, but it’s awkward when Lando stands behind the couch, fingers prickling where he touches his scalp.
He forces himself to focus on the weight of the comb, the strategy of carefully making his way through the strands, cleaning and wiping and sorting the mess out, feeling Oscar's head for further injuries simultaneously.
It’s dirty work, taking longer than he thought. His tongue feels coated when he speaks again, simply to put something in the silence between them.
“It’s really tangled. Please scream if it hurts too much.”
“Doesn’t work.” Oscar mumbles and the way he says it, so incidental and low, lets Lando know it just spilled out from his tired brain.
Lando pauses, hands stilling. “What?”
Oscar stays silent for a second too, realising his misstep.
“Nothing.” His voice is gravely.
But Lando has already rounded the couch and bullies his way into the other’s eyesight.
“Oscar.” he starts again, calm despite the way his heart wants to jump from his ribcage. “What did you mean by that?”
Oscar stares down at where Lando is crouching. Their eyes meet but Lando can tell Oscar is not actually looking.
Then, something in him seems to crack.
“He didn’t stop.” Oscar whispers. “He threw me around and picked me up again and held me down and he didn’t stop even when I couldn't fight back.” There is a wet sheen in his eyes. “It hurt so bad, but he didn’t stop. I screamed so much, it felt like my lungs were bursting but he didn’t - he -.”
A choked sob and Lando doesn't know if it’s from Oscar or himself.
All he knows is that one second his heart is breaking and the next second his arms are carefully wrapped around his best friend sobbing into his shirt. He’s never seen Oscar cry, ever.
The smell of dirt and earth and metal cling to the man in his arms and Lando wants to throw up thinking about how every piece he combed out of his hair got in there in the first place.
“Oscar-“ He starts, doesn’t know what to say, feels the shaking weight on him and holds a bit tighter. “I’m so – I’m sorry. You’re safe now, okay, you’re here. I promise, I’ll make sure you’re safe here.”
“That's my - my job. My responsibility.” Oscar chokes out, another cry jolting his ribs, his shoulders, causing another wave of pain. “I’m supposed to - but I didn’t - and now-”
He's panicking, losing all semblance of the sanity he managed to hold onto since he showed up on Lando’s door and Lando feels his own tears well up. He wishes he could do more, be the comfort Oscar clearly needs right now, hold him like he always did.
But there is a lump in his throat, a cold presence reminding him of the fact that this is not the same person he used to know. He wants nothing more than for it to be gone.
“You did enough.” He settles on. “You need to get some rest and focus - focus on getting healthy again, yeah? Only focus on that.” His hand comes up, softly stroking along the patches of Oscar’s back he is sure aren't injured. “For now nothing else matters, okay, nothing.”
Oscar doesn’t verbally agree, but at some point his shaking shoulders come to a rest and his frantic breathing slows down so much that Lando realises he fell asleep pressed against his chest.
He doesn’t dare move then, not when Oscar has finally calmed down a little and before he knows it, Lando has dozed off as well.