Archive of Our Own

“To love and be loved is to feel the sun from both sides.”

— David Viscott

Oscar sits in his car for twelve minutes before he finally gets out.

At ten minutes, he tells himself he's being ridiculous. At eleven, he considers starting the engine and driving away. At twelve, his phone buzzes.

Logan: You here yet?

Oscar stares at the message, then types back: Parking.

The three little dots appear almost immediately.

Logan: Bullshit

Despite himself, Oscar laughs. The sound startles him, rusty and unfamiliar, like he has forgotten how to make it. A genuine laugh, pulled from somewhere deep in his chest, completely involuntary and utterly unexpected.

The wedding venue glows ahead of him, a converted manor house of warm stone and ivy with leaded windows that spill golden light across the manicured lawns. Fairy lights drape from every available surface, from the eaves to the trees to the wrought iron gates, transforming the grounds into something out of a fairy tale. 

The ceremony is over. He knows this because he checked the program carefully. The ceremony started at two, ended at three, and the reception began at four. It is now nearly half past six.

That part, at least, is done.

Lando is married.

The thought settles heavily in his chest, not sharp anymore, not like it would have been three years ago when the mere mention of Lando's name could send him spiralling.

The pain has changed over time, blunted and worn smooth by repetition, like a stone rolled in water for years.

Oscar reaches for the invitation sitting on the passenger seat. The cream cardstock is worn soft at the edges, not because he carries it around, but because he picked it up too many times, read it too many times, put it down and picked it up again. 

The elegant cursive script at the top is burned into his memory: Mr Lando Norris and Mr Isaac Davies request the honour of your presence... He flips it over before he can finish reading, already knowing the rest. He knows every word: the date, the venue, the dress code, the RSVP deadline.

But it is the carefully worded note at the back, written in Lando's own handwriting, that had made Oscar's heart stop the first time he had seen it.

Oscar,

I know this is hard. I know it's probably unfair to ask. But I'm asking anyway. I want you to be there. Not for closure, not for drama, not for anything other than the fact that you're part of my story, who I am as a person, and I can't have this day without you.

Please.

Lando

When he first read it, he had folded the invitation and put it in a drawer, then taken it out, then put it back. A week later, he had RSVP'd yes, and he’s still not sure why. 

Maybe because he knew, deep down, that he would regret it if he didn’t come. 

Maybe because the thought of Lando looking across the room and not seeing him there, of being a deliberate absence, a purposeful hole in the fabric of the day, was somehow worse than being there. 

Maybe because, despite everything, he still loves Lando, and if loving someone means showing up for them, even when it hurts, especially when it hurts, then that is what he is going to do.

His phone buzzes again.

Logan: If I have to come drag you inside, I will.

A pause.

Logan: And it'll be embarrassing for both of us.

Oscar snorts, then finally opens the car door.

~

The evening air hits him like a wave, cool and clean, carrying the scent of freshly cut grass and the distant sweetness of flowers. 

He can hear music now, not just the strings from inside but something livelier, something with a beat that makes him think of dancing. 

He thinks of the first time Lando made him dance, back when they were nineteen in that tiny kitchen in an apartment they called theirs. The song had been something terrible on the radio, and Oscar had been terrible at moving his feet. 

You're so stiff, Lando had said, laughing. Just relax. Let yourself feel it. 

I don't know how, Oscar had replied. 

I'll teach you, Lando had promised. Just follow me. 

And Oscar had followed the way he had always followed Lando, right up until the moment he had let him go.

~

The reception hall is a cathedral of golden light.

Oscar stands in the doorway, one hand still pressed against the frame, and lets the warmth wash over him. Fairy lights drape from every beam, strung in careless loops that somehow look deliberate, the kind of expensive carelessness that only happens when someone with taste and money gets married. White flowers cascade from centrepieces, their petals catching the light, and crystal glasses throw fractured rainbows across cream tablecloths. 

It is beautiful. It is Lando's. Of course it is. Lando has always known how to make things beautiful, even when they had nothing, when their university apartment was furnished with hand-me-downs, thrift-store finds, and a coffee table that wobbled if you breathed on it the wrong way. 

Lando managed anyway. Candles from the discount bin, fairy lights from Amazon, a little vase with flowers he had bought from the old woman on the corner who sold them from a bucket. His own paintings hung on the walls—abstract things in blues and golds that Oscar had never quite understood but had loved because Lando had made them. 

A small canvas of a sunset that Lando had painted during their first summer together still hung above the wobbly coffee table, and Oscar had looked at it every morning while drinking his coffee, had traced the brushstrokes with his eyes and thought: He made this. He made this, and he gave it to me.

We don't have the money for this, Oscar had said once, watching Lando arrange three stems of something pink and yellow in a jar that had previously held pasta sauce.

We don't have the money to be miserable either, Lando had replied, and Oscar had loved him so much in that moment that it had hurt to breathe.

When Oscar had moved to Texas after the breakup, he had packed the sunset painting carefully, wrapped it in blankets and placed it between the pages of a book so the canvas would not bend. He had told himself it was just a painting, just something pretty to fill the empty walls of his new apartment, but he had known it was more than that. It was proof that Lando had existed in his life, that they had built something together, that the love had been real even if it had not lasted.

The painting now hung in his apartment in Houston, above the sofa where he ate dinner alone most nights. He had not told anyone where it came from, had not explained to the few guests he had hosted why he kept it, why his eyes always drifted to it when he was thinking too much. It was the last piece of Lando he had allowed himself to keep, the one thing he had not been able to let go.

~

"Oscar!"

The voice cuts through the low hum of conversation and music, and Oscar turns to find Logan Sargeant weaving through the crowd toward him. Logan's hair is longer than the last time Oscar saw him, maybe two months ago, maybe four; time has started blurring somewhere around the wedding invitation, and he is wearing a suit that actually fits properly, which means either he finally bought one or his girlfriend has intervened.

"Mate, you made it." Logan's grin is wide and familiar and so aggressively normal that Oscar feels something in his chest loosen. "I was starting to think you'd bail."

"Lando asked me to come."

"Yeah, well." Logan's expression flickers, something careful passing over his face before it settles back into brightness. "He asked everyone. Doesn't mean they all show."

Logan has been Oscar's best friend since primary school. He was there for the crush, the confession, the first date, the breakup. He was there for the year after, when Oscar moved to a different country, threw himself into his job and pretended that the ache in his chest was just a muscle he had pulled doing something.

"I'm glad you're here," Logan says, and there is a weight to his voice that tells Oscar he means it. "Really. I know it's hard, but it's good. You're doing the right thing."

"I don't know if it's the right thing."

"It's the thing you needed to do. That's the same thing."

Oscar does not argue because he knows that they can go at it all night, both having a massive stubborn streak. 

"Can I get you a drink?" Logan asks, steering Oscar away from the doorway with a hand on his shoulder. "You look like you need one."

"I'm fine."

"You're lying."

"I'm Oscar."

Logan laughs, "Same thing, mate. Same thing."

They move deeper into the reception, and Oscar lets himself be guided. He can feel the weight of the room shifting as people notice him, the quick glances, the murmurs, the careful way conversations pause and restart. He is a ghost at this wedding, a ghost everyone wasn’t sure was coming and now not sure what to do with.

He recognises faces everywhere. Lando's university friends, with whom Oscar spent years drinking at parties. The small army of people that two people accumulate over a lifetime. Mutual friends. Logan, obviously. Some familiar faces from the high school field hockey team—teammates who had seen him pine after Lando for years before either of them had done anything about it.

All of them look at him with the same expression: We're glad you're here, but also, are you okay, and also, should we be pretending none of this ever happened?

Oscar had prepared himself for this. He spent the entire flight rehearsing how he would smile, how he would nod, how he would say I'm fine and It's lovely to see you and Yes, the wedding ceremony was beautiful, even though he was not at the ceremony. 

He missed it on purpose. That was the line he drew for himself. He could come to the reception because Lando asked him to. He could stand in a room full of golden light, drink champagne and pretend that the person he loved most in the world was married to someone else, was just a normal thing that happens to normal people. But he could not watch Lando say vows to someone else. Not that. Not ever.

"You're doing the thing again," Logan says quietly, steering him toward the bar.

"What thing?"

"The thing where you go somewhere else in your head." Logan's voice is gentle in a way that only someone who has known you for twenty years can manage. "Stay here with me, okay? Just for tonight."

Oscar nods. He can do that. He can stay here.

~

Oscar missed the mornings when he'd wake up, and Lando would already be making coffee, singing off-key to whatever song was playing. The evenings when they'd sit on the couch and read, not talking, just existing in the same space.

They had a system. An unspoken rhythm. The way their lives had woven together so seamlessly that Oscar couldn't remember what it felt like to be alone.

Lando had a favourite mug—it was chipped on the rim and had a crack running down the side. Oscar had tried to throw it out six times, and Lando had rescued it six times.

You can't throw away my mug, Lando had said.

It's broken.

It's sentimental.

It's a health hazard.

It's mine. Lando had cradled it against his chest. You're just going to have to accept that I'm going to drink from a broken mug until the day I die.

Oscar had accepted it.

He'd accepted a lot of things. The way Lando left his socks everywhere. The way he sang in the shower. The way he'd send Oscar texts from the next room because he was too lazy to walk over.

I love you, the texts would say. Just wanted you to know.

Oscar had saved them all.

~

With the bar three-deep in guests, Oscar had no choice but to wait, letting Logan fill the silence with talk of work, his girlfriend and the suit she had forced him to purchase for the occasion. Oscar nodded and murmured in all the right places, but his eyes were already elsewhere, pulled across the room like a compass finding north, settling on the head table where Lando was sitting.

Lando is laughing at something, his head tipped back and his shoulders shaking, his whole body caught up in the force of his joy. 

His skin is sun-kissed, a deep tan that speaks of long days spent somewhere warm, and his curls have grown past the length Oscar remembers, falling in unruly waves across his forehead. He has shaved, the clean line of his jaw sharper than it used to be, and there is a small spray of flowers pinned to his jacket, the kind of detail that Oscar knows Lando must have spent hours choosing. 

He is wearing white, which is so unlike the Lando Oscar used to know, the Lando who always favoured bright colours, and yet it suits him completely. He looks happy. That is the thing that hits Oscar hardest.

Then Lando glances up across the room and sees him.

Everything stops. Not literally, of course. The band keeps playing, the guests keep chattering, the world keeps turning. 

But for the two of them, time fractures. 

Oscar watches the exact moment recognition lands on Lando's face, the slight widening of his eyes, the way his smile falters for just a heartbeat before it returns. Then something softer takes its place, something fond and familiar that makes Oscar's chest ache. 

Lando smiles. Not the bright, public smile he has been offering the room all evening. Not the one for the photographer, for the guests, for all the people who only know the version of him that exists in this golden light. This is smaller. Realer. This is the smile Oscar remembers, the one that used to belong to him alone.

And then Lando raises his glass in a tiny gesture of greeting. Oscar lifts his own empty hand before realising he is not holding a drink, and Lando laughs before getting pulled into another conversation before either of them can do anything else.

The moment breaks, and the room rushes back, noise and music and people and life. Logan lets out a long breath. "Well." Oscar drags his gaze away. "Well."

"You okay?"

Oscar watches Lando across the room, watches how naturally he moves through the crowd, how his laughter seems to draw people in like moths to light. 

The knot in Oscar's chest is there, but it feels different now. Softer. He spent years preparing for this moment, for the possibility of seeing Lando again, for learning that he had moved on. He had braced himself for jealousy, for the familiar ache of loss, for the sharp edge of regret. 

What he had not anticipated was this quiet sense of relief. Relief that Lando's happiness is genuine, that it is not a performance, that he is not simply making the best of a situation he did not choose. Lando loves this life. He chose it freely, and he is thriving in it. 

Oscar lets out a slow breath, and some of the tension he has been carrying for three years finally loosens its grip. "Yeah," he says, and to his own surprise, he means it. "I'm okay."

He tears his gaze away from Lando and finds Logan watching him with careful concern. "I need to say hi to his parents."

Logan's eyebrows lift. "Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"Probably not." Oscar shrugs, a small, rueful movement. "But it would be stranger if I didn't at least try. They've known me since I was a kid, and they were always good to me, Logan. I can't just avoid them all night." He pauses, then adds more quietly, "I'm going to be a decent person if it kills me."

Logan snorts. "That's a pretty big if, but all right. I'll be by the windows if you need me."

"Thank you."

"Oscar." Logan reaches out and squeezes his shoulder. "It's going to be okay. Whatever happens. You're going to be okay."

Oscar nods. He does not believe it, but he appreciates the sentiment.

~

The first time Oscar saw Lando, he was five years old.

It was the first day of primary school, and Oscar had been the new kid. Not just the new kid in the class—the new kid in the whole school. His family had moved to England over the summer, and he'd spent the last six weeks dreading this moment.

He'd been standing by the monkey bars in the playground next to the school, trying to figure out where he was supposed to go, what he was supposed to do. The other kids were running around in packs, laughing and shouting, and Oscar had felt incredibly small.

And then a boy had appeared in front of him.

He had curly hair, a gap-toothed smile and eyes that sparkled like he'd just discovered the best secret in the world.

Hi! the boy had said. I'm Lando. Do you want to play?

Oscar had blinked at him. I'm new.

Yeah, I know. I saw you standing here looking lost. Lando had grinned. That's okay. I get lost all the time. My mum says I'd lose my head if it wasn't attached to my body.

Oscar had stared at him, trying to process. Why are you being nice to me?

Lando had shrugged. Why wouldn't I be?

And just like that, Oscar had made his first friend.

They'd played on the monkey bars, and Lando had shown Oscar how to swing from one end to the other without touching the ground. Oscar had fallen twice, and Lando had laughed both times—not meanly, just with the sheer delight of watching someone else fall.

You're not very good at this, Lando had said.

I'm not very good at most things, Oscar had admitted.

That's okay. Lando had grinned again. I'm good enough for both of us.

~

The walk to Lando's parents' table is the longest walk Oscar has ever taken. The reception hall stretches out in front of him like an obstacle course of memories. Every table holds a face he knows, and every face holds a story they shared. 

He keeps walking, trying not to go somewhere else in his head. But he cannot help it. Every face, every corner of the room, every flash of light and burst of laughter is pulling him backwards in time, and he does not have the strength to fight it. He knew this would happen. That is why he almost didn’t come. But Lando asked him, and Oscar said yes because he has never been able to say no to Lando.

Not when Lando dragged him to spray paint George’s car because he felt slighted, ending with the two of them sitting in Lando's bedroom, grounded for a week, and Lando looking at him with that impossible grin and saying Worth it, though.

Not when Lando asked him to move in together, standing in the middle of the worst apartment Oscar had ever seen, turning in a slow circle and declaring This is where we're going to be happy, I can feel it.

Not when Lando sat across from him in their dining room eight years later and said I think we need to talk about what comes next.

~

"Oscar."

He looks up. Adam Norris is standing in front of him, a glass of wine in his hand and an expression on his face that Oscar cannot quite read. 

"Mr Norris," Oscar says. "It’s good to see you." 

"Adam, please." Lando's father smiles, and it is a warm smile, a genuine one, the kind that has always made Oscar feel like he belongs somewhere. "We've known each other long enough for that, don't you think?"

Oscar nods. He has known Adam Norris since he was five years old, when Lando had dragged him home after school to see his Lego castle, and his parents had fed them both dinner. Oscar had been so nervous that night he could barely eat, but Lando had chattered through the whole meal, showing off every piece, and by the end of it, Oscar had felt like he belonged.

"You came," Adam says. It is not accusatory or surprised, just a statement of fact, and Oscar is not sure what to do with it. 

"Lando asked me to." 

Adam nods slowly. "He was worried you wouldn't." 

"I almost didn't." 

"I know." Adam's eyes are kind in a way that hurts. "I'm glad you did, Oscar. Even if it's hard."

"It's fine," Oscar says automatically. "I'm fine."

"You always did say that." Adam smiles again, something sad flickering at the edges. "Ever since you were a kid. Always fine. Always okay."

Oscar opens his mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. What is there to say? He has spent his whole life being fine, being okay, being the steady one, the calm one, the one who does not make a fuss. The one who let Lando go because he loved him too much to ask him to come with him.

Cisca Norris appears at her husband's side, sliding her arm through his. She is wearing a dress the colour of summer, a soft peach that catches the fairy lights and makes her look like she is glowing. Her hair is the same shade of honey brown it has always been, threaded with silver now in a way that suits her, and when she looks at Oscar, her eyes are wet.

"Oscar," she says, and her voice wraps around him like it always has—warm, familiar and impossibly kind. It sounds like home, like the dinners he had eaten at their table as part of the family. It sounds like everything he has been trying not to feel.

"Oh, Oscar." She hugs him, and it is the kind of hug only mothers can give, the kind that holds you together even as everything around you falls apart. 

Oscar stiffens for just a moment, then lets himself sink into it. Her arms are warm around him, and she smells like the same perfume she has worn for as long as he can remember, something floral and light that always reminds him of summer afternoons in their garden.

"Hi, Mrs Norris."

"Cisca," she corrects, the same way she has been correcting him since he was fifteen. "How many times do I have to tell you?"

She pulls back, looking at him with that expression he knows so well. The same expression she wore when Lando and Oscar sat them down and told them they were breaking up. It is the expression of someone who watched two people she loves destroy themselves doing what they thought was right, who knew all along that it was not going to end the way anyone wanted.

"You look well," Cisca says, then stops and presses her lips together. "But you also look like you could use something to eat."

Oscar laughs, and it comes out broken, but it is a laugh. "I'm okay. Really."

"I know you're okay." Cisca reaches up and touches his face, just for a second, just like she used to when he was a teenager and came over after a bad race. "But that doesn't mean you're not hungry."

"Cisca's right," Adam says. "Go get some food. It's good food. We paid a lot of money for it."

"I will," Oscar promises. "After I..." He glances toward the head table, then back at them. "I should probably say hi to Lando first. Properly."

Cisca's eyes flicker. "Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"You're the first person to ask me that."

"Because it's a reasonable question." Her smile is gentle. "You can take your time, Oscar. Lando isn't going anywhere."

Oscar nods, ready to escape, but Cisca's hand catches his wrist before he can turn away.

"Oscar." Her voice is barely above a whisper. "Promise me something."

He looks at her, and she looks back at him with that expression he knows so well—the one that says she is about to ask something difficult.

"When you leave tonight," she says, "don't leave forever. I know things are different. I know it's hard. But you were family to us, Oscar. And I don't want to lose you again just because the two of you couldn't make it work."

Oscar's throat closes. "Cisca—"

"I know." She holds up a hand. "I know it's not that simple. But promise me you'll try. That's all I'm asking. Just try."

He looks at her, and he sees all the dinners, all the summers, all the years she had treated him like a son. He cannot say no to her. He has never been able to just like Lando.

"I promise," he says, and his voice cracks on the word. "I'll try."

Cisca smiles, and it is the warmest smile he has seen all night. "That's all I ask."

Oscar nods, ready to escape, but before he can turn away, Adam speaks again.

"Before you go—how's Houston treating you? Cisca and I have been meaning to ask."

Oscar blinks, caught off guard. "It's good. Busy. Chevron keeps me on my toes."

"Still with the chemical engineering?"

"Yes. Senior Project Engineering Manager now. Bigger teams, bigger projects." Oscar manages a small smile. 

Adam nods approvingly. "We heard about the promotion. The one that's sending you to Saudi Arabia."

Oscar's breath catches. He had not told anyone about that. "How did you—"

"Chevron announced it a few weeks ago," Adam says. "Lando saw it on LinkedIn. Someone from your team posted about the new appointment, and he—" Adam pauses, a soft smile crossing his face. "He showed us. He’s proud of you, Oscar. He's always been proud of you."

Oscar's chest tightens. He had not known that Lando was still following his career that closely, that Lando had seen the announcement before Oscar had even decided to tell his own family. The thought is warm and painful all at once.

"I didn't know he—" Oscar stops, shakes his head. "I didn't know he kept tabs on me like that."

"He always has," Cisca says quietly. "He's always kept track. Of where you were. What you were doing. Whether you were happy."

Oscar does not know what to do with that information. 

"Saudi Arabia's a big move," Adam says, steering the conversation back to safer ground. "When do you leave?"

“Maybe in a few more weeks. The timeline is still in the works. Nothing's final yet."

"Well, whatever you decide—" Adam claps him on the shoulder. "We're proud of you. We always have been."

~

Oscar takes Cisca’s advice and finds the buffet, loading his plate with the pasta that has been kept warm in silver chafing dishes. It smells like basil and pine nuts and something creamy, and his stomach reminds him that he has not eaten properly in days. He carries the plate to the table where Logan is sitting with Emily and her girlfriend, sliding into the seat beside his oldest friend and setting the pasta down in front of him.

"Oscar!" Emily leans over to hug him, her glass of wine sloshing slightly. "You look good. You look... I don't know. Grown up."

"I think that's just the suit."

"The suit helps." Emily's girlfriend, Claire, smiles at him from across the table. Her own glass is already half-empty, and Logan has a beer in front of him. "We've met before, but it's been a while."

"Right. Sorry." Oscar shakes her hand, then picks up his fork. "It's nice to see you again."

"Emily's been telling me about you," Claire says with a warm smile. "Said you're some bigshot in Houston now."

Oscar laughs, shaking his head. "I wouldn't say bigshot. Senior Project Engineering Manager. It sounds more impressive than it is."

"That's exactly what a bigshot would say," Logan mutters, and Emily snorts into her wine.

"Before you came, we were just reminiscing about uni, Emily was saying you used to do that thing where you'd fall asleep in the library, and Lando would have to come find you."

Oscar takes a bite of the pasta, letting the rich creaminess settle his nerves. "I did that once."

"You did that every week," Logan corrects, gesturing with his beer bottle. "You'd go to the library to study, you'd find a corner, you'd fall asleep, and Lando would have to call your phone to figure out where you were."

"He never minded," Oscar says, and then, quieter, "He always found me."

"Yeah," Logan says softly. "He always did."

The table goes quiet for a moment, the weight of the memory settling over them. Emily reaches for her wine, and Claire looks between Oscar and Logan with gentle curiosity, but no one pushes.

"You two were inseparable back then," Emily says finally, her voice careful. "Everyone thought you'd be the ones who made it."

Oscar's fork stills. "So did we."

"What happened?" Claire asks, and then immediately looks apologetic. "Sorry, that's—you don't have to answer that."

"No, it's fine." Oscar sets his fork down. "We wanted different things. He had a career opportunity with a gallery in London, and I had one in Houston. Neither of us wanted the other to give up their dream." He pauses, something twisting in his chest. "So we let go."

Emily reaches across the table and squeezes his hand. "That's really sad, Oscar."

"It is." He lets out a breath. "But it was also the right thing. And I think we both knew that. Even then."

The conversation drifts around him after that. Emily tells a story about something ridiculous that happened at a party they all went to, and Claire laughs, and Logan chimes in with details Oscar has forgotten. Emily talks about her residency at the hospital, the long shifts and the impossible patients, and Oscar nods along, asking questions when appropriate. The others are drinking, their glasses empty and refilled regularly, while Oscar eats his pasta and tries to ground himself in the ordinary rhythm of conversation.

He tries to focus, tries to be present, tries to do the thing Logan asked him to do, which is stay here.

But his thoughts keep drifting.

~

Their first date was a disaster.

Oscar had planned everything. He had saved up for weeks, working extra hours at the local garage, wanting to take Lando somewhere nice. Somewhere fancy. Somewhere that would prove he was serious about this, that Lando deserved the best.

The restaurant was called something French—L'Étoile Filante, something Oscar had spent an hour trying to pronounce and had given up on entirely. He had practised it in the mirror, had listened to the pronunciation on his phone, and had still butchered it when he made the reservation.

Inside, the restaurant was all white tablecloths and candlelight and waiters who moved with practised elegance. The other diners spoke in hushed tones, and everything seemed important in a way that made Oscar's palms sweat. He had felt immediately out of place.

They had opened their menus and stared at the French descriptions, neither of them understanding a single word. Oscar had tried to decipher it, had recognised poulet and boeuf and not much else. Lando had squinted at his menu, his lips moving silently as he attempted to sound out the words.

I have no idea what any of this says, Lando had whispered.

Me neither.

So what do we do?

Oscar had looked at the prices and felt his stomach drop. We order the most expensive thing and hope it's edible.

They had ordered something neither of them could pronounce. The food had arrived, artfully arranged on white plates, each component placed with the precision of a museum exhibit. It had been beautiful. It had also been completely wrong.

Every bite had felt like a performance. The portions were tiny, the flavours were strange, and Oscar had spent the entire meal worrying about whether he was holding his fork correctly.

It's too much, Oscar had finally admitted, setting down his cutlery. This—it's too much. I can't breathe.

Lando had put down his fork. Yeah. Me neither.

What do you want to do?

Lando had smiled, and it was the best smile Oscar had ever seen. The smile that meant Lando was about to suggest something ridiculous.

Do you trust me? Lando had asked.

Always.

They had left the restaurant. Oscar had thrown some notes on the table—more than enough, he had hoped, too embarrassed to count—and they had walked out into the cool night air. Lando had led him to a McDonald's a few blocks away, and they had ordered burgers, nuggets, fries, milkshakes and walked to the playground where they had first met.

They had sat on the swings, eaten their terrible food and talked for hours about nothing and everything. Lando had laughed at something Oscar had said, and Oscar had felt the tension drain from his shoulders.

Oscar had nodded. I just wanted to do something special for you. You deserve something special.

Lando had stopped swinging and turned to look at him. Oscar. You are my special thing, being with you is enough. You don't have to do anything else.

~

Oscar drifted to the bar after escaping the table, needing a moment to himself. The champagne had gone to his head, and the conversation had been too much—too many memories, too many questions, too many careful looks from people who did not know what to say to him. He ordered another glass, something he did not need, and let his gaze drift across the room.

Oscar had never met Lando's husband, but he had heard about him through the grapevine, through Logan. The husband was good. He was tall, with dark hair and kind eyes, the kind of steady presence Oscar had always associated with people who knew exactly who they were. He was a musician, a classical pianist, and he was the calm to Lando's chaos. They suited each other well. He moved through the world like he knew his place in it, and his place was apparently next to Lando, making him laugh, supporting him, and being the person he came home to.

Oscar had expected to hate him. It would have been easier if he had. But he looked at Lando's husband, Isaac, and he saw how Lando looked back at him. That softness around Lando's eyes. That unconscious way he leaned into Isaac's space, like he was following a gravitational pull. And Oscar realised: he was happy. He was actually happy.

It was the cruellest gift the universe could have given him. Because if Lando had married someone awful, Oscar could have hated him. He could have told himself that Lando settled, that Lando made a mistake, that Lando chose wrongly and would eventually realise it. But Isaac was good, and Lando was happy, and Oscar was just the man who let him go.

"Oscar."

He blinked and looked up. Isaac was standing in front of him. Oscar's heart froze. He had not seen him approach, had not heard him. He was too lost in his own head, too caught up in the spiral of memory and regret.

"Hi," Isaac said, and his smile was genuine. No jealousy. No territoriality. Just friendliness. "We've never really met, but I just wanted to say I'm glad you came."

Oscar nodded. His throat was tight. "Thank you. And congratulations. This is... it's a beautiful wedding."

Isaac's smile widened. "Thank you. Lando planned most of it. He has a gift for these things."

"He always did." Oscar paused, then added, "He deserves to be happy."

Isaac looked at him for a long moment. "He is," he said. "He really is. And I know—I know that's complicated for you. But I wanted you to know that I'm not threatened by you. I know Lando loves me. But I also know that you helped make him the person he is. And I'm grateful for that even if it's a little strange."

Oscar stared at him. This man, this kind, generous, good man, was thanking him. For loving Lando. For being part of his story. For helping shape him into the person Isaac had fallen in love with. It was the last thing he had expected. And somehow, it made everything worse.

"Thank you," Oscar said, and his voice was rougher than he intended. "It is a little strange, but it means more than you know."

Isaac nodded. "Lando was nervous, you know, about whether you'd come or not. When you said you were coming, he lit up. Like someone who'd been holding their breath without realising it."

Oscar swallowed hard. "He's always done that. Held his breath whilst internally panicking. I used to have to remind him to breathe."

Isaac smiled. "He still does that. I have to remind him too."

Oscar did not know what to say to that. So he nodded, and Isaac nodded back, and they stood there.

"I should probably get back to him," Isaac said finally. "He'll be wondering where I am."

"Of course."

"It was good to really talk to you, Oscar."

"Yeah." Oscar nodded. "You too."

Isaac walked away. Oscar watched him go. And then he saw Lando appear at Isaac's side, reaching for his hand, leaning into his space with that unconscious intimacy that spoke of years together. They were good together. They were good.

Oscar's chest ached, but it was a dull ache now. A familiar one. The kind he had learned to live with. He found a spot at the edge of the dance floor and settled in to watch.

~

Oscar was twelve when he realised he had a crush on Lando.

It was a terrible realisation. The worst kind. Because Lando was his best friend, and best friends weren't supposed to look at each other and think about kissing them.

Logan was the one who figured it out.

They'd been at field hockey practice, all three of them—Oscar, Lando, Logan. Lando was talking to someone else, some kid from another school, and Oscar was watching them with a knot in his stomach that he couldn't explain.

You're staring, Logan had said.

I'm not.

You are. Logan had leaned in, lowering his voice. You're doing the thing where you look at him like he's the sun.

Oscar had opened his mouth to deny it, but nothing came out. Because Logan was right. He was looking at Lando like he was the sun. Like he was the centre of Oscar's entire universe.

Oh no, Oscar had said. Oh no no no.

Mate. Logan had clapped him on the shoulder. You've got it bad.

What do I do?

Tell him.

I can't tell him.

Why not?

Because— Oscar had gestured vaguely. He doesn't—he's not—he doesn't like me like that.

Logan had given him a long, flat look. Have you seen the way he looks at you?

I don't—

He looks at you the same way you look at him, Logan had said. Like you're his entire world.

Oscar had swallowed. Really?

Really. Just tell him, mate. Trust me.

~

The reception goes on. Oscar drinks another glass of champagne and then another. The bubbles fizz on his tongue, and the warmth spreads through his chest, and he tells himself he is fine. He is fine. He is always fine.

He is watching Lando, and Lando is watching Isaac, and they are laughing at something. A private joke, probably, the kind of joke that only exists between two people who have built a life together. 

Oscar used to have jokes like that with Lando. He remembers one: a terrible pun that Lando made in their first year of university, something so stupid that Oscar had laughed until he could not breathe. And then Lando had laughed too, and they had lain on the floor of their tiny apartment, gasping for air, and Oscar had thought: This is it. This is forever.

He was wrong. But he does not regret it. That is the strangest part. He does not regret a single moment of it. The love. The loss. The heartbreak. All of it was worth it, because all of it was Lando.

Logan appears at his elbow. "You're doing the thing again."

Oscar sighs. "I can't help it. Everywhere I look, there's a memory."

"I know." Logan's voice is gentle. "That's the whole point, isn't it? That's why you came."

"Is it?"

"I think so." Logan shrugs. "I think you needed to see that the memories are still there. That they didn't disappear when Lando moved on. That you get to keep them, even if you can't keep him."

Oscar is quiet for a long moment. "That's actually really insightful," he says finally.

Logan grins. "I have my moments."

"Don't let it go to your head."

"Too late."

Oscar laughs, and it is a real laugh, the kind he did not think he was capable of tonight. Logan grins at him, and for a moment, Oscar feels almost normal. Almost like himself. Almost like the person he was before he lost Lando.

~

Oscar hadn't confessed. Not then. He'd let weeks go by, months, years. He'd watched Lando date other people—not seriously, never seriously, but date—and he'd told himself that it didn't matter. That he was fine being just friends.

That he could handle it.

The breaking point came when Lando was sixteen.

They were at hockey practice, and someone else was flirting with Lando. Someone Oscar didn't know, someone from another school, someone who was tall and confident and had no idea that Oscar existed.

Oscar was sitting in the corner, watching, trying not to feel sick.

Logan had appeared beside him. Just go over there, Logan said. He's your best friend. Go interrupt. He won't mind.

I don't want to interrupt.

Yes, you do. You want to interrupt, and then you want to grab him and kiss him and tell everyone he's yours.

I don't—

You do. I know you do. Logan's voice was gentle. And Oscar? He's going to say yes. I promise you. I swear on my life he's going to say yes.

Oscar had finally looked over at Lando, who was laughing at something the other boy had said. And in that moment, something had shifted. The fear that had been holding him back—it just... dissolved.

He'd walked over.

Lando, he'd said.

Lando had turned, his face lighting up the way it always did. Oscar!

Can I talk to you? Alone?

The other boy had looked annoyed, but Lando had dismissed him with a wave and followed Oscar behind the bleachers.

What's wrong? Lando had asked. You look—you look like someone died.

I'm in love with you, Oscar had said.

The words had tumbled out before he could stop it, before he could phrase it in a way that didn’t make him seem like a crazy person. Lando deserved a nice speech, not a blunt statement. Oscar wanted to cry. 

Lando had stared at him.

Oscar had braced himself for rejection. For laughter. For the end of their friendship.

And then Lando had smiled.

You are? he'd said. That's—that's good. That's really good. Because I'm in love with you too.

I’m sorry that— Oscar had stopped. What?

I'm in love with you, Lando had repeated, stepping closer. I've been in love with you since I was six years old. Since the day I saw you standing by the monkey bars, looking like you were about to cry.

I wasn't going to cry.

Yes, you were. And I thought, 'That's the most beautiful person I've ever seen. I'm going to have him.'

Oscar had laughed. You were six.

I was also right. You are the most beautiful person I've ever seen.

And then he'd kissed Oscar.

It was a terrible kiss. Awkward and clumsy and all noses and teeth. Lando had pulled back and wrinkled his nose.

That was bad, he'd said.

Really bad.

We should practice.

We should.

They'd practised for hours behind the bleachers, until the stars came out.

It was the best day of Oscar's life.

~

The reception had blurred into something soft and golden around the edges. Oscar had lost count of the champagne flutes he had emptied, the bubbles fizzing on his tongue and spreading warmth through his chest like liquid honey. 

He was not drunk, not quite, just floaty enough that the edges of things had gone hazy and the ache in his chest had dulled to something manageable. The music had become a constant hum beneath everything, the voices of the guests a pleasant murmur, the fairy lights a warm glow that made everything feel slightly unreal.

He had been watching Lando all night. Not in an obvious way, not staring, just letting his gaze drift across the room every few minutes. Each time he looked, Lando was in the middle of something—endlessly grinning, touching someone's arm with his breathless charm. The white suit caught the light, making him look like he was glowing from within. He was radiant. He was happy. He was everything Oscar had always known he could be.

Oscar had not approached. He had meant to, had told himself he would, but every time he started moving in that direction, something stopped him. A conversation he could not escape. A memory that pinned him in place. The simple weight of everything he did not know how to say. So he stayed at the edge of things, nursing drinks he did not taste, watching the man he had loved from across a room full of golden light.

The band had been playing for hours, a mix of covers and originals that Oscar had not been paying attention to. He had heard it all as background noise, the soundtrack to someone else's happiness. But then the opening chords of a song cut through the noise, and Oscar felt his heart stop.

It was an old song. A slow song, one by Frank Sinatra. The kind of song that had been on the radio that first night, the first time they had danced in the kitchen of their tiny apartment. The first time Oscar had realised that this was it, that this was the person he was going to love for the rest of his life.

He was standing at the edge of the dance floor, a glass of champagne in his hand that he had not touched in twenty minutes. The fairy lights were still glowing, the room was still buzzing with noise and laughter and the clink of glasses, but all of that had faded to static. All he could hear was the song. All he could see was the past bleeding into the present. All he could feel was the weight of every memory that had led him here.

Because the song was playing.

And Lando did what he couldn’t do and approached him.

"Oscar."

Lando was there, appearing at his elbow, his face open and hopeful in a way that made Oscar's chest hurt. The fairy lights caught the gold in his hair, the warmth of his skin, the small flowers still pinned to his jacket. His curls had fallen across his forehead in that familiar, untamed way, his cheeks rosy and his eyes—that impossible mix of blue and green that Oscar had always thought looked like the sea on a summer morning—were bright with something Oscar couldn't quite name. He looked like something out of a dream, like a memory Oscar had conjured by wanting too much.

"I didn't think you'd still be here," Lando said, and his voice was soft, almost tentative.

Oscar's voice came out rougher than he intended. "I said I'd come and I don't break my promises."

"No." Lando smiled, and it was the same smile he had always had. The one that made Oscar feel like everything was going to be okay. "You never do."

They stood there for a moment, not speaking. The music swelled around them, familiar and painful, wrapping them in a bubble of sound that seemed to shut out the rest of the world. Oscar could smell Lando's cologne, the same one he had worn for years.

"I want to dance," Lando said finally. "With you. I know that's a lot to ask. But just one dance. Please."

Oscar shook his head. "Lando, I can't."

"One dance." Lando's voice was soft, almost pleading. "For old times' sake."

For old times' sake.

Oscar felt the words sink into his chest, heavy and sharp, because he knew exactly what Lando was asking. He was asking to honour the ghosts of who they had been—the children on the playground, the teenagers behind the bleachers, the young men who had danced in a kitchen and promised each other forever. He was asking to hold onto the love that had shaped them, even if it had ultimately set them free.

And Oscar could not say no to that.

He had never been able to say no to Lando.

"Fine," he said. "One dance."

Lando smiled, and Oscar's heart broke all over again.

The dance floor was crowded with people who were too drunk to pay attention, couples swaying together in the golden glow. Oscar and Lando slipped into a space near the middle, and Lando reached for Oscar's hand.

The touch was electric.

Oscar had forgotten what it felt like to touch Lando. Not just the physical sensation—the warmth of his palm pressed against Oscar's, the way his fingers slotted between Oscar's like they had been made to fit there, the faint calluses on his fingertips from years of holding paintbrushes and shaping clay, the slight roughness of his skin that Oscar had always found grounding—but the emotional weight of it. The feeling of coming home after being away for far too long. It was the same feeling he used to get when he walked through the door of their tiny apartment after a long day, the same warmth that had spread through his chest when Lando would look up from whatever canvas he was working on and smile or when they would sit in comfortable silence, Oscar reading and Lando sketching, just existing in the same space. It was the feeling of belonging somewhere. To someone.

"Hi," Lando said softly.

"Hi."

"This is weird, isn't it?"

"Unbelievably weird."

Lando laughed, and it was the most beautiful sound Oscar had ever heard—bright and unrestrained, the kind of laugh that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside him and spill out like light. It was the laugh Oscar had fallen in love with when they were teenagers, the laugh that had pulled him through every hard moment of their years together, the laugh he had replayed in his head on lonely nights in Houston when he couldn't sleep.

They started moving. Slowly at first, awkwardly, like they had forgotten the steps, like their bodies were still trying to remember how to belong to each other. But then the music worked its magic, and they fell into something easier, something that felt almost natural. A rhythm that had been built over years of kitchen dances and quiet evenings spent swaying in the dark. A rhythm that Oscar's body remembered even when his mind wanted to forget.

"You're a good dancer," Lando said.

"You always said I was too stiff."

"You've loosened up." Lando's hand tightened on Oscar's shoulder. "You look good. You look happy."

"I'm happy enough."

Lando's eyes flickered. "Just happy enough?"

"I'm here, aren't I?" Oscar smiled, but it felt hollow. "At your wedding. Dancing with you. I think that's more than happy enough."

Lando was quiet for a moment as they swayed together.

"That's a nice suit," Lando said finally. "Is it new?"

"I bought it for the wedding."

"You didn't have to do that."

"I know." Oscar swallowed. "I wanted to. I wanted to look—I wanted to be—"

He stopped. He didn't know how to finish that sentence.

I wanted to look like someone who could have deserved you.

I wanted to be the person you would have chosen.

"I wanted to look nice," he said instead. 

Lando smiled, and Oscar felt his heart crack a little more. It was a sad smile, soft and fleeting, but it was real.

"Thank you," he said. "For coming, I know it's not easy."

"It’s not that bad. It was a wonderful ceremony, and you have a beautiful reception.”

"You don’t have to lie to me, Oscar." Lando's voice was barely a whisper. "It’s okay. I didn't think you would’ve come. I know I wouldn't have been able to."

Oscar looked down at Lando. At the person he'd loved for so long. At the person he'd let go because he'd loved him too much to hold on.

"I came because you asked me to," he said. "I came because—because you were right. If I weren't here, then an entire chapter of your life would be missing."

Lando stepped closer like he needed the comfort of Oscar's presence.

"I miss you," Lando said. "Not in the way—not like I want to get back together. But I miss you. I miss having you in my life."

"I miss you too."

"You look good."

"You said that already."

"I know. I'm saying it again." Lando smiled. "You always did look good. Even when we were teenagers, and you wore those terrible polo shirts."

"I didn't wear terrible polo shirts."

"You absolutely did. You had one that was bright yellow. I told you it looked like a banana."

Oscar laughed. It came out broken, but it was still a laugh. "It was not a banana. It was the Australian cricket team jersey."

"Which was the colour of a banana."

"And now you've offended all of Australia."

"See, you agree it was the colour of a banana." Lando was grinning now. "Bright, terrible yellow. And you wore it with those terrible khakis"

Oscar shook his head. "You're impossible."

"You wore those khakis no matter the season. I had to throw them away every winter when we lived together, or else you would've gone in the freezing cold with them on."

"You told me they got lost in the laundry."

"I lied."

They were smiling at each other now, and for just a moment, Oscar felt like they were sixteen again. 

But then Lando's wedding ring caught the light, glinting gold in the fairy lights, and Oscar remembered.

"Lando." Oscar's voice was quiet. "I've been thinking a lot about what happened. About how we ended."

Lando's expression shuttered. "Oscar, I don't want to—"

"I know. I know it's not the time. But I need to say this. Just once." Oscar took a breath. "I don't regret anything. I don't regret loving you. I don't regret the choices I made. I don't even regret letting you go."

Lando stared at him. "You don't?"

"No. I don't." Oscar's voice was steady, even though his heart was breaking. "Because if I hadn't let you go, you wouldn't have this. You wouldn't have Isaac, and you wouldn't have this beautiful wedding, and you wouldn't be so happy. I wouldn't have been able to make you happy, making you give up on your dreams like that. And I love you too much to take that away from you."

Lando's face crumpled. "Oscar—"

"Please don't cry." Oscar's voice cracked. "Please. I can't—I can't handle you crying."

"I'm not crying."

"You have tears in your eyes right now."

"I'm not—" Lando swiped at his eyes. "It's the lights. They're too bright."

"The lights are not too bright."

"They are. They're very bright and hurting my eyes."

Oscar laughed. It came out watery and broken, catching in his throat. "You always did blame the lights even when we watched those movies that made you cry."

"It's a valid excuse."

"It's a terrible excuse, but I always let you get away with it."

Lando looked at him, and Oscar looked back, and for just one moment, the years between them dissolved. They were no longer two people who had chosen different paths, no longer the man who had left and the man who had stayed—they were simply Lando and Oscar, the same people they had always been. The people who could finish each other's sentences without thinking. The people who could read each other's silences better than anyone else's words. The people who had once known every corner of each other's hearts.

"Do you ever think about it?" Lando asked, his voice barely above the music. "About what would have happened if things had been different?"

Oscar's throat tightened. He had thought about it more times than he could count—in the quiet moments before sleep, in the middle of meetings when his mind wandered, on long flights back to Houston when he had nothing to do but remember. "Sometimes," he said, and even that felt like a lie.

"Me too."

The silence stretched between them, heavy with everything they weren't saying.

"Every day," Oscar admitted, and the words came out before he could stop them. "I think about it every day."

Lando's breath caught, his hand tightening almost imperceptibly on Oscar's shoulder. "Every day?"

Oscar nodded, and the confession felt like a weight lifting and settling all at once. "Every day. I wake up in the morning, and I think about how you used to make coffee. The way you would hum under your breath while you waited for it to brew, the way you always brought me a cup before I even asked. And I go to my kitchen, and I make my own coffee, and it's never right—too bitter or too weak or just... wrong. Because you were the only one who knew how to make it the way I like it."

"Oscar."

"And then I go to work, and I love my job. I'm good at it. I'm proud of what I've built. And I tell myself that this is what I wanted. That this is what we chose. That we both made the right decisions." Oscar shook his head slowly. "And I believe it. I truly believe we made the right decisions. But believing that doesn't make it any easier to wake up in an empty apartment, to drink coffee that tastes wrong, to come home to a place that doesn't feel like home."

Lando looked at him, and there was so much tenderness in his eyes that Oscar couldn't breathe—the kind of tenderness that held no pity, only understanding. 

"I know," Lando said softly. "I know. It doesn't make it easier."

Oscar's voice was steady even as his heart splintered. "I wouldn't change anything. Even if I could go back and undo the choices we made—I still wouldn't. Because it was the right thing. It was the only thing."

"I know." Lando's voice was thick, and Oscar could see the sheen of tears in his eyes. "I know. Me too. I wouldn't change anything either."

They were quiet after that. The music swelled around them, and Oscar let himself feel it. Let himself feel everything. The warmth of Lando's hand in his. The familiar rhythm of their bodies moving together. The weight of years of love and loss and everything in between.

Lando rested his head against Oscar's chest, and Oscar felt the soft brush of his curls against his chin. He closed his eyes and let himself pretend, just for this one song, that nothing had changed. That they were still nineteen and dancing in their tiny kitchen. That the future was still unwritten. That they had all the time in the world.

But the song was wrapping up. Oscar could hear the final notes fading, could feel the momentum shifting. The dance floor was starting to thin.

He had so many things he wanted to say.

So many things he needed to say.

But he could not. Because Lando was married now, and Oscar was a relic of a life Lando had already left behind. Nothing he said would change any of it.

"Thank you," Lando said as the song ended. "For the dance."

"Thank you for asking."

Lando lifted his head and looked at him. His eyes were wet, and his smile was a terrible effort.

Lando leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to Oscar's cheek. It was not romantic. It was something more complicated and more painful—a goodbye, a thank you, an acknowledgement of everything they had been to each other. The ghost of his lips burned on Oscar's skin.

Then Lando stepped back and let go of Oscar's hand. The absence of his touch was immediate and painful, like losing something vital.

"I should go," Lando said. "Isaac will be wondering where I am."

"Of course." Oscar nodded. "Go."

Lando took a step, then stopped. Turned back. His eyes were wet, and his smile was a terrible effort.

"Goodbye, Oscar," he said.

"Goodbye, Lando."

Lando walked away.

Oscar stood alone on the dance floor, surrounded by strangers who did not know him, listening to the same terrible song fade into the next. He could still feel the warmth of Lando's hand in his. He could still feel the ghost of Lando's lips on his cheek. He could still hear the echo of Lando's voice saying goodbye.

He watched Lando walk back to Isaac. Watched Isaac take his hand. Watched them lean into each other, heads bent together, sharing a private moment. 

"Hey."

Logan's voice appeared at Oscar's elbow, gentle and careful.

"I need to go," Oscar said. "I can't—I need to go."

"I'll walk you out."

"Logan—"

"I'll walk you out," Logan repeated. "Just let me grab my coat."

Oscar nodded. He couldn't speak. His throat was too tight.

Logan disappeared into the crowd and came back a moment later with his coat. He had an arm around Oscar's shoulders before Oscar could protest, steering him toward the exit.

"You did well," Logan said as they walked. "You did really well."

"I feel like I'm going to be sick."

"That's normal. That's—that's actually very normal."

They reached the door. Oscar stepped outside, and the cold night air hit him like a slap. He gasped, and Logan's arm tightened around him.

"You okay?"

"I don't know." Oscar shook his head. "I don't—Logan, I don't know."

"It's okay not to know."

"I came here tonight to—I don't even know what I came here for. Closure? Is that what it was? I don't think I got closure." Oscar laughed, and it was a broken sound. "I think I just opened a wound."

"Closure's a myth," Logan said quietly. "It doesn't really exist. You just learn to live with the wound."

"That's supposed to be comforting?"

"It's supposed to be honest."

Oscar looked back at the reception hall. He could see the glow through the windows, could hear the faint strains of music. Somewhere in there, Lando was dancing with Isaac.

He would be okay.

They both would be.

"I love him," Oscar said. "I know that sounds stupid, because I let him go. But I love him. I loved him then, and I love him now, and I'm going to love him for the rest of my life."

"I know."

"Even though he's happy with someone else. Even though we made the right choices. I'm still going to love him."

"I know." Logan looked at him. "That's okay, Oscar. That's not a problem. It's just—it's just a fact. You loved him. You'll always love him. That doesn't mean you can't have a good life. That you can’t fall in love with someone else."

Oscar nodded slowly.

"Come on," Logan said. "Let's get you home."

They walked away from the reception. Away from the golden lights. Away from Lando.

Oscar didn't look back.