Archive of Our Own

Oscar was running late.

Not in the traditional sense, no - but he was running behind on his own set schedule. He had a thesis paper to write for his engineering PhD, and it simply refused to be written. No matter how hard he tried, he just couldn’t get the words punched into his laptop in an order that got his point across. He’d been at it for weeks, going through every writing technique and online resource he had available. Oscar believed in the rigidity of rules, of following a fixed routine and completing all the necessary steps to reach the finish line in a strict order. It had gotten him this far, and the fact that his elaborated system of rethink - research - reform was failing him was simply not something he could accept.

So, he found himself at the one place he knew held all the answers - the library.

Oscar had recognised early on in his uni life that the books and magazines on the upper floors were usesful for the superficial things only. He knew that the real hidden treasures, the books that held all the answers, were in the basement and below. Truth be told, he’d stumbled upon this section by accident; in a sleep-deprived state (even he wasn’t immune to writing late-night essays), he’d pressed the –3-button instead of the 3-one. What he’d found had been rows and rows of books, old and new alike, as meticulously sorted as on the upper floors, but answering questions much more detailed. It was like an archive of every single scientific question and their answers under the sun.

Which was why the –4-button in the elevator absolutely baffled him. Oscar came to the library every Monday, Wednesday and Sunday to research these days, and everybody knew that –3 was the lowest level of the library. However, this bronze-framed button appeared as real as the other ones. It was the late afternoon, the sun already setting outside with winter lurking around the corner, and there was nobody in the elevator with him.

Oscar pressed the ominous button.

Now, Oscar wasn’t a risk-taker, but if there truly was a new sub-basement with new books to explore.. well, it was Tuesday, which was already a break in his routine, so why not play a little more with fate today? Not that he believed in it, but maybe it would reward him for his courage nonetheless. As the elevator descended with a low rumble, he adjusted his reading glasses, a thin, silver frame with round glasses perched on his freckled nose. He pushed his hair out of his forehead as the doors opened.

Oscar was met with quite the sight. Rows of shelves greeted him in a typical concrete-walled basement, but instead of books, they were filled with crates with what seemed to be.. letters? Above his head, a long halogen lamp was flickering, and he stepped out of the elevator onto the floor, the cold of the concrete seeping through his loafers. He was just mentally noting the absence of a typical book-like smell in exchange for one that was almost like simmering embers, which was concerning in a room full of paper. However, as he was beginning to contemplate that, a voice pulled him out of his head.

"You’re late, Oscar," the man said without looking up from his desk, his voice carrying the rhythmic weight of a clock’s pendulum. "The 4:12 p.m. regret just arrived, and it’s a heavy one. Grab a pair of gloves before you help me carry this, though; we can't have your logic smudging the ink."

“..What?” Oscar replied eloquently. He hadn’t noticed him or the desk in the left corner of the room before. The man had brown curls, stormy blue eyes, and a healing cut on the bridge of his nose that was partially hidden by a pair of dark glasses. He was dressed similar to Oscar, in the way that he looked academically put-together. A green-white, argyle-patterned V-neck sweatshirt and dark brown chinos with black Oxfords. Was that the chain of a pocket watch hanging out of one pocket?

“Oh,” the man said, looking up at Oscar. His expression was open, young. “I suppose we haven’t met in this timeline yet, then. I’m Lando, the consultant of this place, you could say. I’m here to keep up with all the emotions of the world, written down despite not having been written yet. I was just finishing up filing away all of today’s confessions, but as I said, the regret has arrived and it’s a bigger workload than normal, I could really use some help here. Also, welcome to sub-basement 4!” He finished by extending his arms and swiveling around in his desk chair, only adding to the utter absurdity of this moment.

Oscar exhaled a long, controlled breath. “Nice to meet you, I suppose. If this is some sort of prank, though, now’s a good time to come clear,” he replied, keeping his voice level. Sometimes people threw him weird looks, others outright told him that his working morale and dedication and logic were off-putting. He couldn’t, for the life of him, think of one person who hated his commitment enough to pull off a joke of such extent. A whole extra sub-basement, different timelines, unwritten letters? A man he didn’t know who was so in on it that he played this role like a professional actor? No, that was simply not possible. Logic didn’t work like that, the laws of physics didn’t work like that. The world didn’t work like that.

“I can hear you thinking, Oscar,” Lando said, having stood up from behind his desk and stretching out his tight muscles. He seemed to be about Oscar’s height, maybe a little smaller, and his scent carried over. Glowing embers, cedarwood and something citrusy. Yuzu, maybe. “You’re frightening the innovative thoughts with your structure.” The man came closer, approaching Oscar, halting an arm’s length away. His scent was engulfing Oscar now, pleasant but surprisng - he’d never been much of an olfactory person. “You don’t believe a word I’m saying, do you? This is real, Oscar. Look.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow, a silent challenge. It had to be a hidden camera or something; nobody would pull off an elaborate act like this on their own time and resources. Something about Lando, though, made him look on. Maybe it was the glasses making him look trustworthy, or his intense eyes locked on his own. Lando got his pocket watch out of his pants, raising it up next to his face. The chain was longer than it seemed. It was an intricate thing, silver and polished to perfection, an sigil finely etched into it: A primrose and a sage twig. The other man popped it open, and where Oscar expected a normal dial, he saw a translucent one, shining with the colours of the rainbow, the handles spinning wildly. “It isn’t working,” Lando said, as if that would explain everything.

“I can see that,” Oscar replied, “but how is a pocket watch supposed to prove that you’re not part of some absolutely deranged scheme designed to make me question my sanity?”

“The colours shifting don’t suffice, I see,” Lando said. Then, he sighed, snapping the watch shut and pocketing it again, while Oscar pretended not to flinch from the sudden noise. “Come with me,” Lando beckoned him, turning around and walking towards one of the many shelves. When he didn’t hear Oscar’s footsteps behind him, he turned around to address him. “Help me carry the newest shipment, please? That should prove it, promise. I need to sort these today, and they’re really heavy.” With a shake of his head, he followed Lando, incredulous. The man led him through what must’ve been the entire basement before stopping, just as Oscar had been about to ask him to direct him back to the elevator before getting lost for real. It was like a maze.

They stopped in front of a black crate, filled to the brim with letters. It wasn’t big, easily carried by one person. Oscar raised an eyebrow at Lando again. “What, you need help with that? That’s one crate,” he said. He didn’t mean to sound bitchy, but this situation was grating on his nerves. He’d come down here to find answers in order to finally continue with his thesis paper, not get roped into a play. He bent down, taking ahold of the crate, channelled his gym time to lift through his legs instead of with his back, and..

nothing. The crate moved barely an inch off the floor before dropping from his hands. Oscar looked at it, baffled, before looking up at Lando and trying again. To his detriment, the result stayed the same. Lando looked at him with a mix of a smirk and a slightly forlorn expression. Not quite an I told you so, but not not one. “Are you hiding cement in here?” Oscar asked.

“Try lifting a single letter,” Lando requested, vaguely waving his hand. Oscar did it, picking a cream-coloured envelope at random, the name Franco etched onto it in a delicate handwriting. It was heavier than it looked, not unlike his 10kg-dumbbells, and as he touched it, he felt a chill wash over him, the light flickering again. “How?” is all he asked.

“It’s full of regret,” Lando replied, voice sad but conveying that he was used to this detriment. “The bigger the regret, the heavier the letter and the more physical its effects.”

“I still don’t fully believe it,” Oscar replied, but even he couldn’t shake the eerie emptiness off entirely. He gingerly placed the envelope back down. “But I guess I’ll help you carry this. Why do you need to sort them, anyways?” he asked as he bent to get a good grip of the crate, Lando on its other side doing the same. Together, they managed to lift it off the ground, straining with the effort as they carried it all the way back to the desk. If the walk before had felt like an eternity, this was worse, and definitely replaced Oscar’s workout for the day. Lando pondered for a while before answering, both from the physical and mental strain.

“I’m responsible for these letters. They’re all unwritten, you know, at least in this timeline. I have to sort them into their respective lives, make sure they do get written, because if not.. well, I’m actually not too sure about that. All I know is that, when an unwritten letter hasn’t ever been written and its time has passed, it will evaporate, and it will take the non-writer, in this case, with it.” This statement left Oscar’s mind puzzled with even more questions, but also the heavy implications behind it. Before he could dwell on it, Lando continued, “Besides, I must find my own. I have a letter to write in order to leave here, and I’d really like to leave.”

His shoulders dropped as he said so, heavy not only with exhaustion but something else, something deeper, almost fundamental. “How long have you been sorting, searching?” Oscar asked, somehow not coming up with any other question. It felt instinctive, almost.

“What date do we have today?” Lando asked. “The full one, year included.” He wiped at his eyes underneath the rims of his glasses, a heavy sigh escaping him as he plopped back into his desk chair, the weight of the crate in front of him making the mahogany tabletop creak dangerously. 

Oscar replied dutifully, not needing to look at his phone. “April 2nd, 2026.”

“Hmm, roughly 70 years, then. Closer to 71, actually.” Lando shrugged, giving Oscar a half-hearted smile, and Oscar would’ve found it pretty despite its pain-hiding purpose had he not been so put off by the number. “I know, I know, I don’t look a day over 25,” Lando tagged on, “but that’s just the air down here. Works wonders in keeping me young.”

Oscar needed to sit. He knelt in front of the desk instead, no second chair available, and that’s when it happened. One of the letters had apparently fallen out of the crate as Lando had started rummaging around in it, right in Oscar’s field of view. What caught his eye, besides it’s pristine white colour, was the name scribbled right across it in a messy scrawl. Sure, there are thousands of Oscars in the world, but this one called to him, almost making itself known - almost like it was addressed to him, not any of the other Oscars that existed at the same time (Or almost the same time?) as him. The young man reached to grab it, and the movement caught Lando’s eye. “Oh, did- Oscar, wait!” he exclaimed, but Oscar already held it in his hand, intent to return it.

He never got to.

Around them, the world warped, hundreds of thousands, maybe millions of papers flying in the air, creating a cacophonous rustling sound and hiding the rest of the world from view. Inside the letter tornado, it was just them, looking at each other with their eyes full of uncertainty. “What is happening?!” Oscar called out to Lando, getting up from the floor. Now he might have to change his views on logic, but only to bend them a little bit.

“You found it,” Lando shouted back, the noise growing louder, the letters coming closer. Lando reached out his hands to Oscar. “The letter I have to send. You found it!”

“Is that good or bad? Because it feels bad right now,” Oscar said, taking Lando’s hands in his. They were big and warm and held onto his own clammy ones tightly. For some reason, he felt secure, steady amidst the whirlwind of paper. He could barely hear Lando’s reply, though.

“It’s good, but you found it before I could send it. This hasn’t happened before,” he let him know, “I don’t know what’s happening now!”

As sudden as it had started, the tornado found its end, all the letters flying back into their rightfully sorted place. Even the crate full of regret was empty, save for one letter. Lando, after letting go of one of Oscar’s hand, grabbed it, still clinging to Oscar with the other one. “This doesn’t feel like regret,” he said, which Oscar seconded. The brief moment that he’d held the paper in his hands had felt electrifying, exhilarating and happy and loving. “It didn’t,” he confirmed, not letting go, either. He felt wobbly where he was standing on the cold floor, but he couldn’t feel the chill of the sub-basement anymore.

“It feels like nothing,” Lando said, letting go of Oscar’s other hand to open the envelope. One look confirmed his suspicions. He looked at Oscar, expression suddenly fragile. “It’s empty.”

“Maybe you need to write it again?” Oscar said. He’d taken to sitting in front of the mahogany desk that Lando had been working at for nearly 71 years now, holding his reading glasses in his hands. He had no idea how much time had passed by, only that it was enough for him to have downed a cup of tea that Lando had made him. He’d ignited the candle for the stove with a red, sparking letter. “Anger,” he’d said, smiling fondly, “has its uses, too.” The statement felt much more meaningful than it seemed, the letter used just to heat up water. Oscar went on, “You spoke of timelines, right? Maybe you haven’t written it in this timeline yet, and that’s why you couldn’t find it?”

Lando stilled where he was perched on the desk, half-laying on it. He sat up straight abruptly. “Oscar, you’re a genius!” he exclaimed, standing up and almost running across the room to another desk. He pulled open a drawer, a stack of paper nearly falling out. Lando grabbed a sheet and an envelope from another drawer as well as a pen, returning to his primary desk. “How do I do that, though?” he asked, pensive.

“What do you mean, how do you write a letter?” Oscar asked. “You write it, simple.”

“No, no,” Lando shook his head. “It needs to be meaningful in the way only raw emotions can be. No thoughts, no planning, just unbridled emotional energy. It’s what gives them their powers, like the weight of the regret,” he explained, and it made sense, Oscar thought. Still, he asked, “So, going about this logically is not an option?”

“Not really, no,” Lando replied, shoulders sagging. He took a sip of his own cup of tea. “Why did you even come down here in the first place?” Lando asked, curious as he looked at Oscar over the rim of his glasses. They were slightly askew on his nose; Oscar absentmindedly had half a thought to fix them, but dismissed it. He looked up at Lando over his shoulder, then turning around to not have to crane his head so uncomfortably. “I need answers,” he replied. “My thesis paper is stuck and I feel like it’s all becoming too much to handle.” It was raw, unguarded - why he trusted a near-stranger with it, he didn’t know, but it felt right. This entire day was nothing but defying all he’d ever believed in, anyways. For some reason, he trusted this stranger, who looked his age but claimed to be much older (He had to be, like, at least 100 years old, no?), who spoke of different timelines and magical letters and everything Oscar had always denied to exist.

Lando let out a little chuckle at his answer. He readjusted his glasses with his index finger. “Ah, yes, that sounds like you.” As he said it, Oscar believed to hear some recognition, but also nostalgia in his voice. “You tend to look for answers and snoop around, which is how you always end up here, different versions of you. This isn’t your first thesis paper, actually, but somehow you’re not the same Oscar. I don’t get many visitors down here, you know?”

“And yet you addressed me by name without ever looking up, despite us not having met. How?” Oscar asked, a realisation dawning on him, one that he struggled to acknowledge. The way Lando spoke, almost like he knew him, or other Oscars, like they’d met countless times - it couldn’t be, yet he seemed so convinced, it made Oscar ponder, a little. How could Lando have known him, his name?

“We’ve met in many timelines, just not in this one until today. Actually, for the last decade or so, it’s only ever been you coming down here, nobody else. Sure, you always look a little different, older, younger, working out more or less, but it’s always you. Other people stopped coming down here. It’s different versions of you, sure, but always you.”

Oscar didn’t know how to feel about that. “Isn’t that cruel, though? To always meet someone who never recognises you?” At that, Lando let out another chuckle, this one a tad more mirthless. “A bit,” he shrugged, but I get to know more of you, too. I mean, I need a foundation to write my letter on, no? Albeit I wish I finally knew which version of you my letter should go to. I think that’s why I’ve had to meet you over and over again, to find the right timeline for me to get back in.”

“Do you.. Do you think it might be mine?” Oscar asked, playing with his fingers, looking away from Lando’s searching gaze. He refused to acknowledge his own tentative hopefulness. Oscar wanted to help Lando. Whether he fully believed it or not - the sheer imagination to be stuck in a loop of timelines, trying to figure out which one you belonged to, sounded nothing short of horrifying. “How did you even get stuck in this situation?” he asked.

Lando sighed, heavy. “That’s a long, long story.” He paused, contemplating, a minuscule upwards twitch playing with the corners of his mouth. “But I do think that my timeline might also be your timeline, yes.”

“Have I ever returned after leaving? The same version of me, I mean. Have you seen one version more than once?”

“No.”

In the end, Oscar figured he had to leave. He couldn’t just leave everything behind, couldn’t risk his friends and family putting out a missing person-notice for him. Besides, he still had answers to find for his thesis paper, and so far, he’d only found more questions. Inside of him, as he approached the elevator, everything was going on a rampage, guts rebellious and head dizzy, almost as if his body wanted him to stay in sub-basement 4. Lando had made him dinner with his limited resources, a grocery store rather scarce to come by. “It doesn’t work like that,” he’d said, smiling softly. Oscar still had a lot to learn, a lot to comprehend.

The elevator dinged, signalling its arrival. Oscar chanced another look back at Lando as the doors slid open with a hiss. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said. Not an empty saying, a promise.

At home, he collapsed face-first onto his bed, but sleep found him hardly, his mind too busy spinning itself around a newfound narrative. 

Upon waking up, Oscar had thought it a very elaborate dream - almost, that is, until he stumbled upon a cup of tea on the counter that his mum must’ve made for him. Sage with a hint of vanilla, and something floral in it, too. It could’ve been written off as a coincidence, and the Oscar from two days ago definitely would’ve done so. With all the strange memories still fresh in his mind, though, it was difficult to let logic take the wheel here. Or was logic believing what he saw? He wasn’t sure anymore, and it irked him, to have his world view spinning upside-down so suddenly.

He knew he had to go back to the library, but what really did him in was the store he passed by on the way to the library, selling nothing but bright-coloured primroses. On a whim, he bought one. Purple and in full bloom. “Mystery, enchantment, new beginnings. Tied to the faerie realms,” the old woman selling the flower told him with a wink. Oscar accepted it gracefully, thanking her for the wisdom she had to share, and wished her a nice day.

Once in the elevator, after having pressed the still-there button, he exhaled a sigh of relief he hadn’t known he’d held. After all, with how suddenly the button had appeared, it could’ve been gone just as quickly again, a manifestation of a sleep-deprived brain.

As he stepped out of the elevator, he heard Lando speak up again, bent over a stack of papers of varying size and noise level, some of them shrieking, it seemed like. “Oh, Oscar, great! These anxious letters here are giving me a headache. Have you got earplugs, by any chance?” The other man didn’t look at him, instead trying to wrestle a particularly clingy piece of paper off his hand. Anxious attachment, probably. In lieu of a reply, he went up to the desk, putting the flower out for the letter to cling to, which it did immediately, wrapping around the stem. “Hi,” he said simply, handing the flower over. “For you.”

“For me? How did you.. Oh! You’re really back!” Lando exclaimed, a beaming smile taking over his entire face. He gently plucked the flower from Oscar’s hand, careful as to not disturb the now quiet letter. “You’re back,” he said again, voice now almost a whisper, like he couldn’t believe it.

“I told you I would be,” Oscar replied, smiling. “Seems like it really is our timeline, wouldn’t you agree? Albeit it’s still hard to wrap my mind around,” he admitted, lightly shaking his head in fascinated disbelief. Could it be called disbelief anymore? “Can I help you with anything?” he asked, lightly blushing as he went on, “I’m afraid I don’t have more primroses for them to cling to, though.”

Lando carefully set the flower aside, leaning it against his glass of water. He wouldn’t want to get the paper around its stem wet, lest he shift a timeline off its axis. “This already helps a lot, thank you. Hmm, the goodbyes are scheduled to arrive in about half an hour. Could you grab me a couple empty crates, please? I think the ones in the shelves are all full, it’s been a while since I had some of them come in. Maybe you’ll find something for your thesis, too.”

“Of course,” Oscar replied, going to retrieve some crates from where Lando had pointed him to.

It went on like this for a week. Oscar would visit Lando, who was always pleasantly surprised to see he was still in the same timeline, and each time happier than the last. Seeing him light up upon realising Oscar hadn’t changed quickly became a highlight of Oscar’s day - he really wanted Lando to return to his - their - timeline. He also managed to progress with his thesis writing, bringing his laptop with him by the third day. There was no connection so deep underneath the earth, but Oscar found that he didn’t mind being shut off from the rest of society, instead focusing on what was important. Furthermore, Lando possessed a lot of knowledge, and a lot of input on his thesis paper, and managed to provide him with enough mental stimulation so as to not be bored as they both worked alongside each other. They learned more about each other, too, from simple things like their favourite teas to more complex matters like the fabric of the universe and how it adapted things like different timelines.

Oscar found himself studying Lando almost as a side effect of their proximity.

The social studies may not be his forte - social cues went over his head often, and he tended to not quite fit in anywhere. Sure, he had friends, close ones, even, but more often than not, people tended to treat him as not more but an acquaintance. Someone to turn to if nobody else was there, or a walking encyclopedia at times. With his thesis paper taking up most of his time, he barely interacted with people who weren’t his parents or closest friends, and Lando’s presence was refreshing. He was weird in the way people were when they were living for themselves, uncaring of other people’s opinions, which Oscar found oddly inspiring. Lando was charming, attentive, quickly learning Oscar’s favourite snacks and tells for when he got hungry or needed a break. He was flirty, too, making Oscar blush, and possessed a profound level of introspection and knowledge that Oscar couldn’t help but admire him.

In short, Lando had a lot of facets to him and was extremely easy to like, from his ruffled hair to the way he kept adjusting his glasses by scrunching his nose.

Oscar might not be good at social studies and integrating himself into social groups, but he had a great eye for details.

He could see it in the small things how his own presence was affecting Lando every day. From his eyes lighting up when he entered to his smile slowly fading away as he left. It was visible in the way he kept offering Oscar his own snacks, brought him his cup of tea first before taking his own, gave him input in the form of thoughtful questions instead of direct solutions, but not enough to overwhelm Oscar and make him feel like he was regressing in his research. How he kept asking him for help with menial things, reminded him to take a break, encouraged him to do what he thought was best, taught him about the universe as he knew it.

Lando must’ve been lonely before he came along, he gathered. Spending eight decades in the same place, unable to leave, not seeing the daylight, new developments, the state of the world - it sounded horrible. Oscar updated him on everything in return for the knowledge he gathered about the subtle ways that magic was imbedded in the world’s very fibres, watching with awe as Lando discovered technology or compared the economy to the one from a hundred years ago with memories so vivid they could’ve been created just yesterday.

After two weeks of this, Oscar found himself being unrational again. Maybe it was the proximity, but he thought he’d like to take Lando on a date, one day. Not immediately, not even in the close future, but one day, why not?

First, though, they had to get Lando out of sub-basement 4.

“Did you ever think about what could happen if you finally send your letter?” Oscar asked one afternoon, tapping a pencil on his chin. He was taking his notes by hand, loose thoughts brought into an order on paper before being transferred into his final digital document. The pencil was probably older than him. “Like, what if the age catches up with you once you get out of here? Will you get out at all?”

Lando snorted. “I’d sure like to think I’ll get out of here before I die,” he replied, superficially joking, but Oscar could see the question eat at him. He’d clearly thought about it before, the possibility of him not making it out of the basement. After all, the universe had its own peculiar way of working, and they had no idea what would happen. “I mean, I haven’t aged down here at all. I like to think that, once this situation is over, I’d continue aging normally, and not rapidly. If time can be halted for me, it can resume normally, no?”

“I’d like that, too,” Oscar replied, pensive. He really wanted Lando to see the outside world, see how far it had progressed. Integrating back into it would be extremely difficult, though. “What will you do, though? I’m pretty sure somebody has declared you dead by now on paper.”

That retrieved a laugh from Lando. “That’s a good question,” he said, taking a sip of his tea - apple and rosemary with cinnamon, a dollop of honey at the bottom of the mug. “I think I just have to trust the universe on this one. When I came here, my ID and everything disappeared, so maybe it’ll just reappear with a somewhat fitting birth year on it. As for a job or a place to live, though, I have no idea.” Lando sighed. He’d been sorting his way through a stack of particularly angry unwritten letters today, wearing special gloves as some of them were scorching hot, others tending to bite. 

“You can live with me until we figure that out,” Oscar offered immediately, not thinking about any of the implications. How he’d explain it to his mum, he had no idea, but they’d think of something - Lando was indeed a talented actor, creative and convincing when he needed to be, Oscar had learned. He continued, blushing at his own rapidness, “I mean, if you want to. We’ve got a guest room you could use for a bit.”

Lando smiled at him, warm and heartfelt, before pulling his gloves back on. “That’d be lovely and a great help, thank you for this gracious offer. Reckon someone would hire me?”

“Absolutely,” Oscar replied, entirely convinced. “What were you even doing before you were sent here, job-wise? Did you study, work, anything?”

“I was a student, too, swimming up to the neck in my own PhD research. Anthropology.”

Oh, Oscar thought, social skills, and all that. How perfectly matching.

As Oscar made rapid progress with his paper, Lando still seemed to be stuck on finishing his own unwritten letter. Thinking about it, Oscar couldn’t fault him - it must be difficult to figure out what to write, considering the circumstance that Oscar, who the letter would be addressed to, was there almost all the time, and that Lando had met countless versions of him, apparently. That thought still gave Oscar a bit of a chill; Lando knowing so many different Oscars while he only knew Lando. He was coming to terms with the fact that the world, based on physics and logic, everything he found pride and comfort in, wasn’t solely made of that, really, he was. It was a work in progress, though.

One afternoon, over a cup of tea and biscuits that Oscar had brought with him (definitely not only to see Lando’s eyes light up at the sight of them), the two of them tucked away on a little two-seater in one of the many hidden corners of sub-basement 4, Oscar asked, “Have you always known that the world isn’t what it seems at first glance?”

It was a loaded question, he knew, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled over them, eating biscuits with their shoulders touching ever-so-subtly on the couch that was just a tad too small to accommodate them both. Neither of them changed anything about it, though.

“Hm,” Lando started, taking another sip of his tea, chamomille this time around. He looked at the ceiling, pondering, before turning his head to face Oscar. “I guess I have?” he replied, more a question than an answer. He smiled, more to himself, the way someone did when they remembered a particularly fond moment in time. “I mean, not to this extent, no. I did always believe that there was more to the universe than just what we could see, perceive, or analyse. My mom would always go on about the moon, the stars and their meaning. She told me to keep my mind and heart open to anything that might happen.” The mention of his mother made Lando smile more, adoration mixed in with sadness. “I miss her, you know? My entire family, of course, but especially her. I wonder what became of them.”

“You haven’t heard anything from them since you came here?” Oscar asked, incredulous. “What even happened? Why are you here, Lando?” he asked, the questions now spilling out of him, his tea forgotten where he’d set it down on the small glass table in front of them. The question had been on his mind for a while, but Lando had always been evasive about this topic, and there’d never been a proper chance to ask without Oscar risking to awaken unwelcome thoughts in Lando. Now, though, it had to be asked. Around them, it felt like the unwritten letters were humming, louder and louder, adding to the mental static they were experiencing.

The air vibrated, charged with emotions, both from them and the letters, as Lando answered, honest and open, mouth smiling but a single tear glistening in his eye. “You know, there are many of us, actually, trapped here either by choice or not. The letter I was supposed to receive got mixed up, sorted incorrectly, sent to the wrong version of me, the wrong timeline. Something shifted in the fabric of the universe, then. As a result, I became lost in time. There’s no way to hear much from the outside world down here.”

It all made a lot more sense now. The meticulous care Lando exhibited when handling every single letter, treating them with the utmost attention. How he took his time with them, making sure everything was in order, sorted, structured, organised. Avoiding that anybody else had to be in such a place that existed outside of time and space against their will. He was caring for the entire population, in a way, protecting billions of people from the same fate.

Oscar hugged him.

It was the most physical contact they’d ever shared, normally confining themselves to fleeting touches and lingering moments, but it was a no-brainer then. Oscar lurched forwards, closing the gap between them as he pulled Lando against his chest with a hand on the other man’s neck. Lando’s hands wrapped around Oscar’s waist as he sobbed into his sweatshirt.

“I’ll find out what happened to them, to you,” Oscar whispered, raking a hand through Lando’s hair, calming, steady, present. A promise.

It was nearing two in the morning when Oscar’s mum knocked on his bedroom door. She leaned in the doorway, hair mussed from sleep, pyjamas crinkled, a kind smile on her face. “What’s keeping you up, sweetheart?”

“Research,” he replied tiredly, yawning. He’d begun his hunt for information on Lando’s family right after leaving the sub-basement, only stopping for dinner with his own family before resuming his task. “A friend needs my help on something,” he elaborated upon seeing his mother’s raised eyebrow. “That’s awfully vague,” she replied, stepping into the room and sitting on Oscar’s bed. “Don’t you think you can help them better when you’ve rested up a bit? It’s two in the morning, dear.”

“Oh,” Oscar exclaimed, not having noticed the time that much. It was way beyond his normal bedtime. “It’s important, is all, I didn’t even notice the time.”

“It must mean a lot to you both, I can see that,” she said, to which Oscar simply nodded. It was in moments like this, quiet and understanding, that he noticed how much his mum meant to him more than usual. She asked, “Can I see what you’re looking for?”

Upon receiving her son’s approval, she got up and stepped closer, peering over his shoulder at the old newspaper and the article open on his laptop. “Oh!” she exclaimed after skimming it, eyes lighting up in recognition. “I’ve heard of this case. Their son went missing, didn’t he? Roughly 70 years ago? He was around your age, back then, I think.”

“70, actually,” Oscar corrected, eyebrows furrowing, “How do you know of this?”

At that, Nicole smiled, ruffling Oscar’s hair. “Your great-grandmother was close friends with Cisca Norris, Lando’s mother. If I’m not mistaken, after he went missing, the rest of the family moved away, but Cisca and her older son stayed here. She couldn’t leave her other son behind, on the chance that he ever returned. I don’t know if Oliver, her other son, is still alive, but if he is, he’s probably still in the area. Why is this case so important to your friend?” She asked, looking at Oscar in curiosity. Oscar blushed as he thought of Lando, not knowing how to explain that to his mum. He didn’t want to risk it - what if telling her shifted the timelines again? He’d have to consult Lando first. “He’s researching unsolved cases that happened in the area for this final thesis,” he said, hoping he was convincing enough. He hated lying to his mum, but it had to be done in that moment. “He was just struggling to get good information on this one, and I offered to help. Gotta get out of my own work for a bit and get a new perspective, take a little break.”

“That’s a good idea, and kind of you. Now you’ve got something to tell him. Who knows, maybe you’ll find out if Oliver still lives here. Tomorrow, yes?” she said, pressing a kiss to the top of Oscar’s head. “Tomorrow. Thank you, mum, good night,” he replied, smiling. Nicole wished him a good night, too, and Oscar turned off his laptop.

Oscar was hellbent on finding out more about Oliver Norris.

The next day, Lando told him that it was a good thought not to tell Nicole anything as a precaution, but if she came here with Oscar together, it should be fine. “You’re as much tethered to this place as I am,” Lando explained, “since we share a timeline. If you’re there, this place will stay the same, just like me.” They’d hugged upon seeing each other today, which had left Oscar minimally giddy, which he bravely ignored. He didn’t want to tell the other man about his brother yet, not before knowing if he might actually still be around. False hope was one of the most painful things, and Oscar wanted to spare him from that pain. 

Sadly, he couldn’t ask his own great-grandmother about it, as she’d died quite a couple years prior, but he could ask her son, his grandfather. When Lando asked why Oscar was leaving earlier, he seemed sad about it, but Oscar’s brief explanation had him perk up and tighten the goodbye hug. “I’m going to go and find out information about what happened to your family. I promised, didn’t I?”

Catching up with his grandfather had been long overdue, anyways.

They’d both dropped the subject for a week, instead working on their own respective tasks once more. Oscar’s thesis was nearing its finishing stage, most of the research compiled, only a conclusion left to be written. Lando seemed to be progressing on his unwritten letter, too, if the scraps of ideas were anything to go by. Besides that, they worked together on organising the archives, fingers brushing more often than not, shoulders and thighs pressed together during their tea time break, a hand ruffling hair in passing, a hand squeezing a shoulder.

When Oscar returned to sub-basement 4 one sunny Wednesday morning, he wasn’t alone. 

Convincing Oliver to join him had been easy. Once he’d introduced himself, he had smiled upon remembering her mother’s old best friend and her son. The old man, sitting in a wheelchair, had let Oscar into his house in the suburbs where he lived with his daughter who was caring for him, telling him about how he and Oscar’s grandfather grew up together, too, but had sadly lost touch except for birthday wishes. “I can reintroduce you,” Oscar had offered. After all, his grandfather had still remembered Oliver’s address, which had luckily turned out to still be correct. Truly, Oscar was grateful for the opportunity - after all, his own grandfather was over 90 years old, and Oliver had passed the century mark, even. Maybe aging well ran in the family. “This is the house we all grew up in,” Oliver had explained, “when we’d still been a complete family, you must know. Lando’s belongings are all still there, too, in the attic.”

Of course, the other man had been hesitant when Oscar had told him that Lando was still alive. “How did you even find him? He was declared dead long ago.”

“By accident,” was all Oscar replied, stopping as he spotted Oliver’s pocket watch. “Can I see that?” he asked, pointing at the shiny object. Oliver laughed heartily, handing it over with shaking hands. It looked identical to Lando’s. “We all had one, you see. Mother and father had them engraved for the four of us. A family heirloom, in a way, at least the flower language. Our mother was very fond of it. Tell me, does Lando still have his? You seemed to recognise this.”

“He does,” Oscar smiled, hopeful eyes looking at Oliver. “Never puts it away, actually.” It didn’t need more convincing.

Oscar had picked Oliver up at his house, his daughter driving them to the library. The young man pushed the wheelchair inside towards the elevator, just the two of them going inside. He could tell how excited Oliver was to see his brother again. Oscar hadn’t had the heart to explain to him that Lando hadn’t aged, hadn’t known how to, but he’d told him to not be too surprised. He merely hoped that their mother’s opinion on the supernatural, the universe and its secrets, hadn’t been lost on Oliver. Oscar was shaking with nerves himself as they descended, wondering how Lando would react. It was a big gamble, in a way, sure to bring back old memories and a bunch of emotions, too. However, he’d promised this to Lando, to find out what happened to the most important people in his life.

Witnessing the way Lando’s face morphed from confusion to recognition to unbridled happiness as they stepped out the elevator was the biggest reward Oscar could’ve received.

“Oliver?” Lando choked out, already approaching.

“Is that really you, Lando?” the old man replied, turning his head to look at Oscar, who smiled at them, and then back to his brother. “You’re alive,” he breathed out, seemingly uncaring of Lando’s temporarily immortal state. Lando bent down to hug his brother, and then Oscar, tighter than ever before. He thanked him profusely, endless thanks whispered into his ear through happy tears, and Oscar returned the affection just as forcefully. “I’m going to wait on the ground floor. Enjoy your time,” he whispered, leaving the two brothers to catch up.

When Oliver returned, the sky had darkened, an entire afternoon passing by. Oscar had spent the time talking to Oliver’s daughter about their family, his studies, any topic imaginable, really. She told him that her father had said that he couldn’t die before knowing what had happened to his brother, and his fighting spirit had, apparently, brought him to over 100 years of age. “He’s been getting weaker for a while now, steadily, but when you told him that Lando was alive, it was like he regained life force,” she said. After the two of them left - not without Oliver thanking Oscar profusely, teary-eyed and happy - Oscar went down to say his own goodbyes to Lando for the day.

When Lando asked him to stay the night, though, he couldn’t refuse.

Oscar handed in his thesis paper a week after that. 

Lando gave him a big hug, whispered and nearly vibrated out of his skin at the news, the expression of his happiness infectious. They shared a piece of cake that Oscar had brought, a slice of Belgian misérable cake, which made Lando’s smile brighten impossibly more. They finished Lando’s work with the unwritten letters up earlier than usual that day, too, instead spending the rest of the evening together reading books and talking about everything that came to mind.

“What will happen now that you’ve finished your paper?” Lando asked, head tilted as he regarded Oscar.

“What do you mean?” Oscar asked back. He was afraid of where the question was headed, but not so much of his own answer. “If you’re asking if I’ll still come here, the answer is yes. How could I not?” 

Lando gave him a shy smile, looking at the floor as a flush rose up on his face. “I’d miss you terribly if you didn’t,” he admitted. “I don’t think I can go back to solitude now.”

“You mean too much to me to let that happen,” Oscar said, voice steady, confident. He didn’t speak about his feelings much, neither to his family nor anybody else, not even to himself. That didn’t mean he wasn’t aware of them, though, or didn’t think about them. In fact, he liked to think that he was quite introspective, and when it came to it, he didn’t mind sharing his feelings with other people openly. 

The air felt charged with something after his statement, and they let it mellow down. 

Oscar hadn’t been counting the weeks in which he’d known Lando. He didn’t know if Lando had, but he wouldn’t put it past him. Lando kept track of a lot of things, consciously or not, for example how many times in a row Oscar would tap his fingers against the keyboard of his laptop when he was stuck writing a specific sentence. If Oscar had to guess, though, it had to be somewhere between two and three months now of them spending time in each other’s orbits every day. In the grand scheme of things, that wasn’t a lot of time, and yet Oscar found nothing but the truth in his own statement.

Being around Lando so much and learning about him and the universe had changed him, there was no doubt about that. Not everything could be or had to be logically explained, as much as he might aspire to do so. There was a fine line, there, between wanting to find answers to improve upon his own knowledge and stressing himself out along the way. Oscar still strived to find solutions and explanations as it was a key part of who he was, but he was now capable of accepting and willingly seeking out new approaches, less logical and more emotional ones. 

This short amount of time had changed them both, though.

Lando, for his part, had learned to rely on Oscar. It was unbelievably difficult for him to trust somebody when the people in his life tended to disappear and not remember him, even if that wasn’t their fault - Oscar’s fault, in a way, at least over the last decade or so that it had only been other versions of him coming to visit Lando. It was a life lived in solitude, in confinement, and staying positive and trusting had taken an immense amount of energy. Oscar had given him more energy, an outlook on a new future. Most importantly, by sticking around, Oscar had given him life.

Oscar wouldn’t call it irrational, leaning forwards to meet Lando in the middle, and Lando would call it an act of trusting the unknown. Two things that neither of them could have imagined before meeting the other, now made possible by the connection they shared.

As Oscar unpacked his bag that evening, early still with the sun setting later each day, putting the contents onto his desk at home, he noticed something that hadn’t been there before.

A letter.

His own name was written on top, a flourish in a handwriting so familiar he could recreate it with enough practice. A smile crept onto his face, genuine and overwhelming, and his hands shook as he folded the paper open. There were tears springing to his eyes even before reading the first paragraph, mainly because the existence of this piece of paper in his hands meant but one thing: Lando had sent his letter. 

Dear Oscar,

thank you. There are so many things to thank you for, I can’t even begin to list them all. Most importantly, though, thank you for being there. For not leaving even though you could have. For helping. For staying. 

Hopefully, when you read this, I’ll be able to leave the basement, leave the job to someone else. There will be a replacement for me, I’m sure. I don’t want to spend one more second than necessary down here if it’s a second I could spend outside, seeing the world, with you. I must admit that it is a frightening thought, having to relearn how the world works, and I have not the slightest clue as to what is waiting for me out there. However, I’m not afraid to face it if it’s with you by my side.

I know that it is early to speak like that, and I’m feeling a flush on my face as I write this. If I have learned one thing down here, though, it’s to trust the universe, despite it all. You’ve come to me so often, and I’ve seen what your life could be like many different times, in many different ways. Now, I feel like it’s time to be a part of it, to write history for you and myself at once. It’s early, yes, and I’m sure we will take our time - now that we can finally have it, if you’ll have me. If you’ll share your timeline with me. That would make me the happiest man right now, in whatever timeline we might be. It doesn’t matter to me as long as we share it.

I can’t wait to discover what life is like now. What the world is like. I want to see everything you’ve told me about, the good and the bad, and be a part of it. It’s ambitious, but dreaming big is freeing, in a way.

Still, the little things matter so much. I also can’t wait to learn more about you, especially the small details. The way you look right after waking up, the private sights. Or you around your friends, how you smile at them with your eyes crinkling, or is it a bellowing laugh? Both? What are they like? What about your family? You speak of them all so fondly, I can’t wait to meet the people who shaped you into this insightful, clever, witty and incredibly forthcoming man I’ve had the pleasure of meeting and spending so much time around. (Your unrivaled handsomeness is a great bonus, too.)

Long story short, in this letter I am writing to you to ask if you’ll do me the honour of spending this life with you around. I wouldn’t want to imagine it to be anyone else.

Thank you, Oscar, for helping me be free.

Oscar didn’t wait a second longer. With his heart pulsing out of his throat, blood rushing through his ears, tears streaming down his face in overwhelming anticipation, he rushed right back to the library. Upon his mother’s confused question as to what was happening, all that he replied was that he’d be bringing somebody over for dinner.

Lando stood on the street in front of the library, eyes closed as he breathed in the air of the city, fresh oxygen tainted by fumes in his lungs, a refreshment compared to the stale basement air. Oscar wrapped himself around him, holding his face with his hands as he leaned in and they kissed with the salty taste of their tears between them.

With that, Lando was free.

When the news of Oliver’s death reached them, it was through a parcel delivered by Oscar’s grandfather. “Apparently he wanted you to have this, son. I’m glad you were there for him.”

Inside was the pocket watch Oliver had carried, along with another letter.

Dear Oscar,

thank you for bringing Lando and me together for one last time. It is incredible to know that he still has a full, wholesome life ahead of him, all thanks to you. Please never forget how much that means to me and my entire family, most of all Lando himself. Please accept the pocket watch as a symbol of my thanks and take care, both of it and of yourself.

May happiness bless you in your life, with all the joy from the big and little moments. Stay healthy, and, if you would grant me this one last wish, take care of Lando, too. You mean so much to him.

All the best,

Oliver

Primroses and sage. Renewal and longevity.