Archive of Our Own ^beta

Oscar learned early that numbers did not ask questions.

They sat obediently on the page, patient and exact, waiting to be arranged. Two plus two was always four. Gravity always pulled downward. Stress equaled force divided by area. There was comfort in this—an unspoken agreement between him and the universe that some things, at least, would not betray him.

He was a sophomore now, hunched over a scarred desk in the engineering building, pencil balanced between his fingers as if it were an extension of his hand. The lecture hall buzzed with low conversation, the scrape of chairs, the careless laughter of students who had not yet learned how quickly sound could be taken away. Oscar watched their mouths move. Envied and despised, at the same time, the sounds they made. He imagined the words as symbols, floating abstractly, stripped of noise. It was easier that way.

The professor began speaking. Oscar could hear him, but he did not need to. The equations appeared on the board, chalk dust drifting like pale snow. He copied them with meticulous care. This was the part of the day he liked best. When the world reduced itself to variables and known quantities. When uncertainty could be isolated, boxed in, solved.

Control, he had learned, was not the same thing as safety but it was close enough to feel like relief. 

He had not always been silent.

This was the fact that haunted him most. Not the absence of sound, but the memory of it. The way his own voice had once existed without effort, rising when he was excited, cracking when he cried, softening when he whispered secrets he believed the world would keep.

He was seven years old when it ended.

Memory came to him in fragments, never whole. The smell of rain on asphalt. The backseat of the car, the fabric rough beneath his small hands. His sister’s shoe on the floor, one lace untied. His mother turning around from the passenger’s seat to tell him something—what was it? To buckle his seatbelt? To stop kicking the seat? He could never remember, and the forgetting felt like another kind of loss.

Then the sound. It wasn’t a single sound, it was many all at once. Metal screaming, glass breaking, the impossible roar of impact. Pain arrived later, distantly, like it belonged to someone else. He remembered trying to scream and feeling nothing come out. He remembered the taste of blood and the awful, ringing quiet afterward.

But the silence was not empty. It was full, crowded with echoes.

They told him later that his vocal cords had been crushed. Permanently damaged. The doctors spoke gently, carefully, as if volume alone could injure him further. He watched their lips move, that same ringing plagued his ears as he watched his aunt cry into her hands.

He understood before anyone explained it to him.

He would never speak again.

He hears everything. The scrape of a chair leg against tile arrives before the apology, the apology before the thought that caused it. He hears the way rain hesitates on the window, testing the glass with soft knuckles, and the way a room exhales when everyone leaves. Sound is a river that keeps its promises; it always comes.

His voice, however, does not.

They did not tell him about his family right away.

Or maybe they did, and his mind simply refused to accept it. He remembered sitting in a hospital bed too large for him, swinging his legs that no longer felt entirely like his own. He remembered waiting. Waiting for his mother to come back from wherever they had taken her. Waiting for his father’s voice in the hallway. Waiting for his sister to complain about the food.

Waiting became a habit.

Eventually, his aunt sat beside him and took his hands in hers. Her fingers trembled. Her face was red and swollen.

“They’re gone, Oscar.”

The words did not make sense. Gone was something toys did, something socks did in the dryer. Gone meant temporary. Gone meant return was possible.

He waited anyway.

The Leclerc house was quieter than his old home, though not silent. There were footsteps overheard, doors opening and closing, the hum of the refrigerator at night. But it felt like stepping into a life already in motion, one where he would always be slightly out of step.

Charles was twelve then. He was tall, all elbows and impatience, already halfway to being a teenager. Arthur was eight, only a year older than Oscar, with fluffy hair that never lay flat and eyes that noticed everything. They stared at Oscar when he arrived, not unkindly, just uncertain.

Oscar stared back.

He did not know how to be a cousin. He did not know how to be anything anymore.

At first, Charles avoided him the way children skirt around things they do not understand. Arthur tried harder. He sat beside Oscar at the table and pushed his peas into little piles, mimicking the careful order Oscar imposed on everything. Sometimes he smiled at him, wide and hopeful, as if that alone might bridge the gap.

The guilt began early.

It settled in Oscar’s chest like a weight he could not shift. Why him? Why was he the one who survived, lungs filling and emptying, heart stubbornly beating, when everyone else’s had stopped? He imagined his little sister, how she must’ve been so confused and scared that night. He imagined his parents’ last moments endlessly, reconfiguring the scene like an equation he could solve if he just tried hard enough. If he had spoken up. If he had buckled his seatbelt faster. If he had not asked that question from the backseat.

If, if, if.

Numbers did not do this. Numbers did not ask him to justify his existence.

Sign language entered his life not as a miracle but as a necessity.

A speech therapist introduced it first, hands moving with purpose, face animated in a way that felt exaggerated. Oscar learned quickly. His hands were small but precise. He liked that signs had rules, that meaning could be built from structure and motion. It felt like engineering somehow. Communication reduced to mechanics.

Arthur learned with him. He didn't have to because he had a voice, unlike Oscar, but he did anyway because speaking to Oscar with his hands just seemed right.

At night, they sat on Arthur’s bed, books spread between them. Arthur’s fingers stumbled at first, clumsy and impatient, but he did not give up. Charles joined later, reluctantly, complaining about how stupid it looked until he realized how much it mattered. Then he practiced in secret, coming back weeks later with signs almost as smooth as Arthur’s.

Oscar watched this happen with a quiet, aching gratitude he did not know how to express.

Arthur became his interpreter, his shadow, his anchor. He defended Oscar with a ferocity that surprised everyone, including Oscar himself. When a boy in their class laughed and made exaggerated gestures in mockery, Arthur shoved him hard enough to knock the wind out of him.

You don’t get to laugh. You don’t get to decide what’s funny. Arthur signed furiously afterward, hands shaking, despite the boy not understanding a lick of what was said.

Oscar had cried then, silently, shoulders shaking while Arthur awkwardly patted his back.

That was the day Oscar understood that love could exist without sound.

They met Logan the summer Oscar turned nine.

Logan lived down the street, a new kid with a skateboard and a smile that seemed permanently crooked. He was loud in the way boys often are, unafraid to take up space. Oscar expected the worst. He had learned to.

To his surprise, Logan only watched.

He watched Arthur sign to Oscar, watched Oscar respond. There was a carefulness that was more curiousity than mockery or judgment when he tilted his head. The next day, he showed up again. And the day after that. Finally, he asked Arthur what they were doing.

“Talking,” Arthur said.

“How?”

“With our hands.”

Logan nodded as if that settled everything. The following week, he showed up with a library book on sign language. He did not ask permission. He did not ask questions Oscar was expected to answer. He simply learned.

The first time Logan signed Oscar’s name correctly, Oscar felt something loosen in his chest.

Normal. That was the word that came to him. Normal, fleeting and fragile as it was. With Arthur and Logan, he was not a problem to be solved or a silence to be filled. He was just Oscar. He was a normal boy just like them.

The three of them became inseparable.

They built forts in the backyard, elaborate structures held together by physics Oscar understood intuitively. They raced bikes down the hill until Pascale shouted at them from the porch. They lay on their backs at night, counting stars. Arthur and Logan talked endlessly. Oscar watched, signed when he could, listened in silence.

Sometimes, late at night, when Arthur was asleep and the house was still, Oscar lay awake and imagined what it would be like to call out. To say Arthur’s name. To shout Logan’s. The imagining hurt, but he did it anyway, like pressing on a bruise to remind himself it was real.

Growing up meant learning that grief did not fade. It only changed shape.

In middle school, Oscar became quieter. Quieter than he’d already been. Not because he had less to say, but because saying anything required effort. He learned to measure his movements, to decide whether a thought was worth the work of translating it into signs or writing it down. Often, it was easier to keep it to himself.

Teachers praised him. Quiet. Focused. Disciplined. They did not see the way his hands clenched beneath his desk when a fire alarm went off, the way his breath hitched at sudden movements. They did not hear the noise in his head.

Arthur noticed. Logan noticed.

They worried, openly, loudly. Charles worried too, though he hid it behind teasing and roughhousing. On Oscar’s birthday one year, Charles gave him a notebook filled with neatly labeled tabs.

For your thoughts, Charles signed, a little awkwardly. Or whatever.

Oscar kept that notebook for years.

Everyone said engineering was an obvious choice because it was logical, practical, sensible. It made sense to Oscar in a different way. Engineering promised answers. It promised that with enough information, enough care, things could be predicted. Controlled. Built to withstand pressure.

Oscar had learned growing up that people were not built that way.

At university, the distance from Arthur and Logan felt vast, even though they texted constantly, even though video calls bridged some of the gap. Arthur studied literature. Logan bounced between majors, restless and curious. Oscar stayed where he was, rooted in certainty.

But some nights, alone in his dorm room, the guilt returned in full force.

He saw the crash again. He saw the empty seats at the dinner table that followed. He pressed his hand to his throat, feeling the scar tissue beneath his skin. He wanted to scream—not in sound, but in release. To let something escape him that had been trapped for too long.

He couldn't. Instead, he opened his notebook.

He wrote equations. He wrote memories. He wrote things he would never sign, never show anyone. He wrote until his hand cramped and his vision blurred. It was not healing, not exactly, but it was survival.

Arthur visited him one weekend in the fall.

They sat on the campus lawn, leaves crunching beneath them. Arthur talked about his classes, his professors, the poem he couldn’t stop thinking about. Logan joined them later, dropping his bag at their feet, grinning that same lopsided smile like no time had passed at all.

They signed and talked and laughed. People stared. Oscar noticed, then didn’t. The world aligned for a moment. Past and present overlapped. Loss did not vanish but it loosened its grip.

Arthur bumped Oscar’s shoulder.

You’re still here, he signed.

Oscar nodded.

He always would be. Silent and scarred, but surviving. He would always carry guilt and love in equal measure as he built himself a life not out of sound, but out of hands, numbers, and the fragile certainty of connection.

It was not the life he had imagined at seven years old.

But it was his and it was all he had.

Oscar moved dorm rooms in October, when the air sharpened and the campus trees began the slow, theatrical shedding of themselves.

The official explanation was irreconcilable roommate differences, which was the housing office’s polite way of flattening an entire month of discomfort into a phrase that could be stamped on a form.

The truth was messier. His old roommate had been loud in careless ways. Music blaring late into the night, friends spilling in and out, laughter ricocheting off the walls.

None of that was the problem though. Not really. Because Oscar could live with the noise. He could live with the vibrations through the floor. Noise was, after all, a mere compensation for his perpetual silence.

What he could not live with was the staring.

The way his roommate’s friends would glance at him, then glance again, curiosity curdling into something like pity. The way explanations had to be repeated. He doesn’t talk. He can’t talk. No, he’s not ignoring you. Each clarification felt like peeling skin away.

So when housing emailed him about a last-resort option—a shared dorm room, meant for two, currently occupied by a single final-year student—Oscar accepted before he could talk himself out of it.

The room was older, a little farther from the engineering building. The upside was that the other occupant apparently spent most of his time elsewhere. Oscar clung to that sentence like a promise.

The first thing he noticed when he stepped into the new dorm room was the mess.

It wasn’t dirty. Just… lived in.

Clothes draped over the back of a chair like discarded thoughts. Sheet music scattered across a desk, some pages face down, others curled at the edges as if they had been worried between restless fingers. An instrument case leaned against the wall, scuffed and well-loved. There was a faint smell of coffee and something sweeter, citrusy, unfamiliar.

And there, by the window, was Lando.

He was sitting cross-legged on his bed, guitar balanced against his knee, fingers moving absently over the strings. The gentle melody filled the room, sound bouncing off the walls like it has always found a home in the room. Lando looked up when Oscar entered, eyes bright and curious.

“Hey,” Lando said.

Oscar froze.

This was the moment he dreaded. The small, ordinary exchange that always carried too much weight for someone like him. He lifted a hand in a brief, awkward wave. His other hand tightened around the strap of his bag.

Lando waited. He waited for something that he didn't know was never going to come.

Oscar reached into his pocket, fingers brushing the worn edges of the small notebook he carried everywhere. He pulled it out, flipped to a blank page, and wrote quickly.

Hi. I’m Oscar.

He held it out.

Lando frowned—not unkindly, but with confusion. “You… don’t talk?”

Oscar shook his head.

“Oh,” Lando said. He glanced at the notebook, then back at Oscar. “Uh. Okay. Cool.”

The word landed wrong. Cool was what people said when they didn’t know what else to say. Cool was temporary. Noncommittal.

Lando gestured vaguely around the room. “Guess you’re the new roommate.”

Oscar nodded again.

“Well,” Lando said, setting the guitar aside and standing. He was shorter than Oscar by a few centimeters, but close enough that Oscar became acutely aware of the details he hadn’t let himself notice when he first stepped inside the room. The faint scar on Lando’s nose, the dimple that appeared when he smiled, the easy confidence in the way he moved.

“Welcome to the chaos.”

Chaos.

Oscar’s chest tightened.

If Arthur had been there, he would have signed something reassuring. If Logan had been there, he would have cracked a joke, smoothed things over. Alone, Oscar defaulted to what he had always done. He became small.

He unpacked with methodical precision, folding his clothes, arranging his books in neat rows. He kept to his side of the room, an invisible line he refused to cross. Lando watched him for a while, leaning against his desk, arms crossed.

“You don’t have to be so… careful,” Lando said. “It’s just a room.”

Oscar wrote again, slower this time.

I like order.

Lando snorted. “Yeah, I can tell.”

There was something sharp in his tone. Oscar pretended not to notice.

They did not speak—or write—much after that. Lando came and went at odd hours, sometimes gone for days, sometimes back long enough to drop his bag and change shirts before leaving again. When he was there, the room felt fuller, louder somehow, even without sound. He practiced his guitar late into the night, fingers flying, body swaying as if caught in a private storm. Oscar lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling, counting breaths, counting heartbeats.

Control, he reminded himself. This was temporary. He could endure discomfort. He always had.

But discomfort had a way of becoming something else when left to fester.

Lando studied music because it thrilled him.

He liked that it resisted precision, that it slipped through fingers and refused to be pinned down. He liked improvisation, liked stepping onstage without knowing exactly what would happen next. He believed life was a series of moments meant to be felt, not solved.

Oscar, from Lando’s perspective, was an enigma—and not a flattering one.

He barely looked at him. He never responded when Lando spoke, not even with a nod or a shrug. He moved around the room like a ghost, quiet and self-contained, as if Lando weren’t there at all.

“Are you always this stuck up,” Lando muttered one evening, not bothering to lower his voice, “Or am I just special?”

Oscar was sitting at his desk, textbook open, pencil poised. He stiffened. The words reached him like a punch to his guts. Oscar’s hands trembled. He did not turn around. The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable.

“Unbelievable,” Lando said. “I mean, I get it, you’re an engineer or whatever. Too good to talk to the rest of us.”

Oscar closed his eyes.

This was familiar territory—the misinterpretation, the resentment born from absence. He had learned long ago that explanations did not always fix things. Sometimes they made them worse.

He hunched further over his desk, retreating inward. If he became quiet enough, maybe Lando would lose interest. Maybe this, too, would pass.

It didn’t.

The room only grew suffocating as the days passed and blurred into each other.

Lando began leaving his things in Oscar’s way. Shoes by his chair, cables snaking across the floor. He turned his music up louder, strumming harder, watching from the corner of his eye to see if Oscar would react. He made sarcastic comments under his breath, exaggerated sighs, slammed drawers just a little too hard.

Oscar absorbed it all.

Each small cruelty echoed something older, deeper. The schoolyard taunts. The looks of impatience. The way people’s faces shifted when they realized conversation would not come easily, if at all. He felt seven years old again, trapped in a body that refused to do what it was supposed to.

At night, when Lando was out, Oscar lay awake replaying the day, dissecting it the way he dissected problems in class. Where had he gone wrong? What variable had he failed to account for?

The answer, always, was the same.

Himself.

One evening, after a particularly tense day, Oscar gathered his courage.

Lando was in the room, pacing as he talked on the phone, gesturing wildly with his free hand. Oscar waited until he hung up, until the room settled into a fragile quiet. Then he stood, heart hammering, and raised his hands.

His movements were careful and meticulous. He closed his right hand into a fist and pressed it against his chest, moving it in slow circular motions. I’m sorry, he apologized the only way he knew how. I don’t mean to ignore you.

Lando stared at him, bewildered.

“What?” he said. “What are you doing?”

Oscar’s hands faltered. He signed again, more slowly, desperation creeping into the shapes. I can’t speak. I’m not rude. I just—

But Lando doesn’t speak the same language. He couldn’t understand.

“Are you seriously messing with me right now?” Lando snapped. “Is this some kind of joke?”

Oscar’s throat constricted.

He shook his head violently, pointing to his mouth, then to his throat, then back to his hands. He mimed writing, tried to reach for his notebook, but Lando was already turning away.

“Unreal,” Lando said. “If you’ve got a problem with me, just say it. Or don’t. Whatever. I don’t have time for this.”

He grabbed his jacket and left, the door slamming behind him.

Oscar stood there long after, hands suspended in the air, signs dissolving into meaningless motion. Slowly, he let them fall.

The room felt unbearably empty.

He did not try again after that.

Something old and heavy settled over him, a familiar withdrawal. He spoke only when necessary. Through writing, through curt gestures. He avoided Lando’s gaze. He became efficient, invisible.

Lando grew angrier.

There was something infuriating about Oscar’s quiet refusal to engage. It felt like defiance. Like a challenge. Lando prided himself on getting reactions out of people. He was so used to pushing buttons and stirring things up that Oscar’s silence left a bitter taste in his mouth. 

Oscar gave him nothing so he pushed harder.

He invited friends over unannounced, filling the room with bodies and movement. He joked loudly about “the silent treatment,” laughing when his friends laughed. He played his guitar aggressively, strings snapping under the force of his fingers. Once, he purposefully knocked Oscar’s neatly stacked papers onto the floor.

“Oops,” he said, not sorry at all.

Oscar knelt to pick them up, hands steady despite the way his chest burned. He did not look up.

That night, he texted Logan.

I made a mistake, he wrote. I shouldn’t have moved.

Logan replied immediately.

He doesn’t know, Logan typed. People act stupid when they don’t understand. It’s not your fault.

Oscar stared at the screen.

It always feels like it is.

The contrast between them became unbearable in its clarity.

Oscar woke early, moved through routines with clockwork precision. He attended lectures, studied late, measured his life in deadlines and deliverables. He liked knowing what was expected of him.

Lando slept when he felt like it, ate when he remembered. He chased inspiration, followed whims. His life was a series of crescendos and crashes, moments lived at full volume.

They shared a room, but not a world.

Sometimes, Oscar watched Lando from the corner of his eye, fascinated despite himself. There was a freedom in the way Lando existed, unburdened by the need for control. It was terrifying and beautiful all at once.

Sometimes, Lando watched Oscar, irritation softening into something more complex. There was a sadness to him, a gravity Lando couldn’t quite name. It lurked in the way Oscar flinched at sudden movements, the way he folded into himself when the room grew tense.

Neither of them bridged the gap. Pride, misunderstanding, and unspoken truths piled up between them like debris.

One night, after a concert that left him buzzing and restless, Lando came back to the dorm to find Oscar sitting on his bed, notebook open, eyes distant.

“Look,” Lando said, rubbing a hand through his hair. “If I did something—”

Oscar looked up. Hope flickered, traitorous and bright.

Lando hesitated, then scoffed. “Never mind. You wouldn’t say anything anyway.”

The door slammed again.

Oscar’s hope collapsed in on itself, leaving only exhaustion behind. He closed his notebook. Silence pressed in, thick and relentless.

He wondered, not for the first time, if this was all he would ever be to the world. A problem without a solution, a voice forever trapped behind scar tissue and fear. He wondered how many times he would have to live this same story, with different faces, different rooms.

Numbers, at least, did not misunderstand him.

People were variables he could not control.

And in the four walls of their shared living space, Oscar learned just how lonely survival could be when understanding never came.

By November, Oscar stopped noticing the days.

They arrived and departed without distinction, a procession of identical hours measured only by the dull ache behind his ribs. Lectures blurred together. Equations that once offered solace now felt inert, symbols drained of their quiet magic. He still completed his assignments on time but the satisfaction was gone. Control no longer soothed him; it merely kept him upright.

He stopped listening to music entirely, even the instrumental tracks Logan once sent him, carefully curated because they “felt like you.” He stopped sketching designs in the margins of his notebooks. He stopped responding to texts with anything more than the bare minimum.

Arthur noticed first.

Oscar had gone home for the weekend, the Leclerc house unchanged in the ways that mattered. The familiar creak on the third step of the stairs, the smell of coffee that lingered no matter how often Pascale cleaned. Arthur found him in his childhood room, sitting on the edge of the bed, hands folded uselessly in his lap.

You okay? Arthur signed, eyebrows drawn together.

Oscar shrugged.

Arthur didn’t accept that. He never had. He sat beside him, shoulder brushing Oscar’s. You’ve been quiet, he signed. Then in a gentle voice, he adds, “Even for you.”

Oscar stared at the wall. He focused on a small crack in the paint, tracing it with his eyes until it became a map, a fault line, something geological and inevitable.

Logan joined them a few minutes later, leaning in the doorway with the easy familiarity he’d earned over years. He took one look at Oscar and his grin faded.

“Hey,” Logan said aloud, then caught himself and signed too, clumsily but earnestly. What’s going on, man?

Oscar felt cornered. Not threatened, but seen in a way he hadn’t prepared for. He hated this part, the extraction of truth, the moment when keeping everything locked inside became more painful than letting it out.

He reached for his notebook. Arthur placed a hand gently over it.

You don’t have to write, Arthur signed. Take your time.

Slowly, haltingly, he raised his hands.

I think something’s wrong with me, he signed. I don’t feel… anything.

Logan’s brow furrowed. Arthur went still.

I go to class. I study. I sleep. But it’s like I’m watching someone else do it. I don’t care the way I used to.

Arthur swallowed. Since when?

Oscar hesitated. The answer sat heavy in his chest, dense and immovable.

Since I moved, he signed. Since my new roommate.

Logan exchanged a glance with Arthur. Roommate trouble? he asked gently, signing along.

Oscar nodded. The dam cracked.

He told them about the dorm—the mess, the tension, the way the air felt charged all the time. He told them about Lando’s sharp words, the way they landed like blows he couldn’t dodge. He told them about trying to apologize, about hands moving desperately in a language no one there understood.

He thinks I hate him, Oscar signed, fingers trembling now. And I think he hates me. And I don’t know how to fix it.

Arthur’s jaw tightened. Logan swore softly under his breath.

“That’s messed up,” Logan said. “He’s an ass.”

Oscar shook his head immediately, guilt flaring even now. I don’t think he’s bad. I just— He faltered. I don’t want to be… this.

Arthur leaned back against the wall, thinking. “What’s his name?”

Oscar hesitated, then signed it.

L-A-N-D-O

Arthur blinked. “Lan— Lando? Lando what?”

Before Oscar could answer, a familiar voice cut in from the hallway.

“Lando Norris?”

Charles stood there, jacket half-off, having arrived more quietly than any of them had noticed. He took in the scene: the tense postures, the half-raised hands, the open notebook on the bed.

“Well,” Charles said slowly. “That explains a lot.”

Oscar stared at him.

Arthur frowned. “You know him?”

Charles huffed a laugh. “Know him? I practically survived my senior year because of him. Yeah. I know him.”

Oscar felt something twist in his chest. You do?

“Same music program,” Charles continued, stepping inside and leaning against the dresser. “I was assigned as his senior mentor. Which, by the way, was the worst administrative decision the university ever made.”

Logan snorted despite himself.

“But,” Charles added, holding up a finger, “Also one of the more interesting ones.”

Arthur crossed his arms. “So he’s… what? A jerk?”

Charles considered this. “He’s blunt. Has zero filter. If a thought enters his head, it exits his mouth immediately, usually without stopping to see who’s in the way.”

Oscar winced.

“But,” Charles went on, “He’s not cruel. Not intentionally. He just assumes everyone’s playing the same game he is. Say everything, feel everything, deal with the fallout later.”

He doesn’t seem like he means well, Oscar signed quietly.

Charles met his gaze, something serious settling over his expression. “That’s because you’re seeing him at face value. Lando’s… layered. He jokes to cover nerves. He pushes when he feels shut out. He hates silence.”

Oscar’s hands stilled.

Arthur looked between them. “He doesn’t know Oscar can’t speak.”

Charles’ face shifted immediately. “Oh.”

The word was heavy. Regret bloomed there, unguarded.

“Oh, that changes things.”

Logan leaned forward. “So what’s he actually like?”

Charles smiled, small and fond. “Annoying. Brilliant. Kind in ways that sneak up on you. He’ll insult your taste in music and then stay up all night helping you prep for an exam. He’s the kind of person who feels things too loudly and doesn’t know what to do with it.”

Oscar absorbed this in silence.

He hasn’t been kind to me, he signed, the admission painful.

Charles nodded. “I know. And I’m not excusing it. But… he’s terrible at reading what isn’t spelled out. If he thinks you’re ignoring him on purpose, he’ll escalate. He always does.”

Arthur exhaled sharply. “So he’s been bullying Oscar because he thinks Oscar’s judging him.”

“More or less,” Charles said. “Which is stupid. But very on brand.”

Oscar looked down at his hands.

Do you think… He paused, searching for the right shape, the right movement. Do you think there’s a version of him that doesn’t hate me?

The room went quiet.

Charles didn’t answer immediately. He pushed off the dresser and sat next to Oscar on the edge of the bed.

“I know there is,” he said finally. “I’ve seen him with people who challenge him, who don’t fit neatly into his expectations. He gets frustrated first. Then curious. Then, if you let him, he gets loyal.”

Oscar’s chest ached with something that felt dangerously close to hope.

Arthur signed gently, You don’t have to fix this alone.

Logan nodded. “And you don’t have to put up with being treated like shit, either.”

Oscar knew that. Intellectually.

Emotionally, it was harder.

Because the problem wasn’t just Lando. It was what Lando represented. The fear that no matter how far Oscar came, no matter how carefully he built his life, he would always be misunderstood at the most fundamental level. That he would always be too quiet, too broken, too much work.

That survival had come at the cost of being fully seen.

Later that night, alone in his room at the Leclerc house, Oscar lay staring at the ceiling he knew by heart. He replayed Charles’ words over and over.

Kind in ways that sneak up on you.

He thought about Lando’s messy desk, his restless energy, the way his face lit up when he talked about music. He thought about the hurt behind the anger, the offense born from silence.

For a brief moment, Oscar allowed himself to imagine a different version of their shared room. A version where the air wasn’t thick with resentment. Where hands could move freely, where misunderstanding didn’t calcify into cruelty.

A version of Lando who didn’t hate him.

He didn’t know if that version would ever exist in his life. He didn’t know if he had the strength to reach for it, to risk being hurt again.

But as he lay there, breathing slowly, steadily, Oscar realized that the numbness wasn’t gone. But it had cracked. And through that small fracture, fragile and uncertain, something like possibility began to seep in.

Lando met Charles at a café just off campus, the kind that tried very hard to look accidental. It was loud in the way Lando liked—overlapping conversations, the hiss of the espresso machine, a constant undercurrent of life happening all at once.

He arrived late, as usual, guitar case slung over his shoulder like a second spine. “Sorry,” he said, dropping into the chair across from Charles. “Got stuck rewriting a bridge. Again.”

Charles smiled, tired but genuine. Graduation had softened him in strange ways. He was now less sharp around the edges, more settled, like a song that had finally resolved into its final chord. “You’re always rewriting bridges.”

“Because bridges matter,” Lando shot back. “They’re the moment where everything either collapses or lifts.”

Charles raised his coffee in mock salute. “Still dramatic.”

Lando grinned, then unzipped his case and pulled out a stack of sheet music, already creased and annotated. He spread it across the table, fingers tapping restlessly. Music spilled out of him even when he wasn’t playing, rhythms in his movements, crescendos in his speech.

They talked shop for a while. About tempo. About restraint. About how sometimes the hardest thing to learn was when not to fill the silence. Charles offered feedback the way he always had, blunt but thoughtful, pushing Lando to articulate why he made the choices he did.

Eventually, conversation drifted, as it always did.

“So,” Charles said, leaning back. “How’s your final year treating you?”

Lando groaned. “Like it wants me dead.”

“Good sign,” Charles replied. “Means you’re doing something right.”

Lando laughed, then sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Honestly? The music’s fine. It’s everything else that’s… weird.”

“Oh?” Charles prompted.

“My living situation,” Lando said, rolling his eyes. “They moved some guy in with me. Mid-semester. Total nightmare.”

Charles stiffened almost imperceptibly. “Moved in?”

“Yeah. Apparently housing screwed up and needed a last-minute solution.” Lando scoffed. “Guy’s like a walking iceberg, I swear. And I was enjoying all that space to myself too.”

Charles’ fingers tightened around his cup. “What’s his name?”

“Oscar,” Lando said without hesitation. “Oscar something. I don't know his last name. I don’t think I even asked? I don’t remember.”

The café noise seemed to recede, like someone had turned down a dial.

Charles stared at him. “Oscar Piastri?”

“Yeah! Yeah, that’s it,” Lando continued, oblivious. “Engineering kid. Never talks. Never looks at me. Just writes in a notebook like I’m not even there. Honestly—” He hesitated, then shrugged. “Has he always been this stuck up?”

The word hung between them, ugly and blunt.

Charles didn’t respond right away.

His gaze dropped to the table, to the sheet music spread like evidence of a different life. His jaw worked once, twice, and then it remained clenched with words he didn't want spilling out. When he finally looked up, something in his expression had hardened. It wasn’t anger, but something colder. Protective.

“Stuck up?” Charles repeated quietly.

“Well,” Lando said, sensing the shift but not understanding it, “Yeah. I mean, I’ll say something and he just… ignores me. He doesn't answer, doesn't react. It’s like living with a wall.”

Charles exhaled slowly through his nose.

“That’s funny,” he said, voice flat. “Because my Oscar is many things. But he’s not stuck up.”

Lando frowned. “You know him?”

Charles let out a humorless laugh. “I don’t just know him. I practically helped raise him.”

That got Lando’s attention.

“What?”

Charles leaned forward, forearms braced on the table. “Oscar’s my cousin.”

Lando’s mouth opened, then closed. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Charles said. “He’s kind. Painfully so. Polite to the point of disappearing. He keeps to himself because he doesn’t want to bother anyone. He apologizes for things that aren’t his fault. He’s never rude. Never angry, half the time I think he doesn’t even know how to be.”

Lando shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“That’s… not how he comes across.”

Charles’ eyes sharpened. “Tell me exactly what’s been happening.”

So Lando did.

He talked about the silence, the way it pressed on him until it felt personal. Until it felt like rejection. About how Oscar never responded, never explained, never met him halfway. He talked about the frustration, the resentment that built when every attempt at connection hit a dead end. He talked about the petty things too—the messes, the music, the jabs meant to provoke something, anything.

“I know I wasn’t exactly nice,” Lando admitted, voice quieter now. “But I thought if I could just get a reaction—”

Charles went very still.

When Lando finished, there was a long pause.

The café noise flooded back in, suddenly too loud, too sharp.

Charles’ hands were clenched into fists on the table.

“He tried to apologize to you, didn’t he?” Charles asked.

Lando blinked. “What?”

“He tried to explain,” Charles said. “At some point. He did something with his hands?”

Lando’s stomach dropped.

“Yeah,” he said slowly. “He started… gesturing. Weirdly. I thought he was mocking me.”

Charles closed his eyes.

For a moment, Lando thought he might actually stand up and leave. Instead, Charles opened them again, and the look there made Lando’s chest tighten.

“Oscar is mute,” Charles said.

The words landed like a sudden, brutal chord. Loud, dissonant, impossible to ignore.

“He can’t speak,” Charles continued. “Not won’t. Can’t. He lost his voice when he was seven.”

Lando felt the blood drain from his face.

Mute.

His mind reeled backward, replaying everything with this new knowledge laid brutally over it. Oscar’s silence. The notebook. The hands moving desperately in shapes Lando hadn’t understood. The way Oscar flinched. The way he shrank.

“Oh,” Lando whispered.

The café seemed to tilt.

Charles’ voice was tight now, controlled in the way people get when they’re holding back something sharp and furious. “He communicates through sign language. That’s what you saw. He was probably apologizing to you, or at least, trying to explain it to you.”

Lando swallowed hard. His throat felt raw.

“I didn’t know,” he said, uselessly.

“I know you didn’t,” Charles replied. “That’s the problem.”

A sick, heavy guilt spread through Lando’s chest, blooming fast and uncontrollable. He’s never held so much guilt within him. Images rose unbidden. Oscar kneeling to pick up his scattered papers. Oscar sitting rigid on his bed, notebook open, eyes distant. Oscar’s hands frozen mid-air as Lando walked out.

“I thought he was ignoring me,” Lando said hoarsely. “I thought he hated me.”

Charles laughed softly, without humor. “Oscar doesn’t hate people. He assumes they hate him.”

That did something to Lando. Something deep and painful.

“He’s spent his entire life being misunderstood,” Charles went on. “People think he’s cold. Or arrogant. Or broken in some way that makes them uncomfortable. They don’t see how hard he tries. How much effort it takes for him just to exist in a world that isn’t built for him.”

Lando stared at the table, at the inked notes and penciled corrections. Music—his refuge, his language—suddenly felt insufficient.

“I was awful to him,” he said.

Charles didn’t contradict him.

“I pushed him,” Lando continued, words tumbling now. “I said things. I wanted him to snap, to yell at me, to—” He broke off, breath hitching. “I wanted proof he was human.”

Charles’ gaze softened, just slightly. “He is human. He just expresses it differently.”

Silence settled between them again, but this time it was heavy with reckoning.

“I need to fix this,” Lando said finally.

Charles studied him. “Do you?”

“Yes,” Lando said without hesitation. “I don’t know how, but—yes.”

“Good,” Charles said. “Because he’s already retreating. That’s what he does when he feels unsafe.”

The word hit Lando hard. Unsafe. In the shared space of their dorm room where he was supposed to be comfortable, where he was supposed to be able to rest and not think about the harshness of the world outside. He had felt unsafe, and Lando played a hand in it.

“He doesn’t deserve that,” Lando said.

“No,” Charles agreed. “He doesn’t.”

Lando ran a hand through his hair, agitation radiating off him. “I need to fix this.” He repeated. “Then fix it.” Charles said simply.

Lando nodded, already mentally rearranging his life around this new axis. “Okay.”

“And,” Charles added, “Don’t expect him to trust you right away.”

“I wouldn’t,” Lando said quietly.

Charles leaned back, studying him with a critical eye. “You really didn’t know?”

“No,” Lando said. “But I should have realized. I should have asked. I just assumed…” He trailed off.

“Assumptions are easy,” Charles said. “They’re also dangerous.”

Lando nodded.

When they parted ways later, the afternoon light had shifted, shadows stretching long across the pavement. Lando walked back toward campus slowly, guitar case heavy on his shoulder. His mind was louder than any concert hall.

He saw Oscar everywhere now. In every quiet corner, every withdrawn figure with their head down. He replayed their shared dorm room in his mind, overlaying memory with truth. The chaos he’d brought into that space. The cruelty disguised as provocation.

Lando didn’t feel energized by the mess like he usually did.

He felt ashamed.

And beneath that shame was unfamiliar resolve.

He didn’t know if Oscar would ever forgive him. He didn’t know if there was a version of himself who deserved that forgiveness.

But as he reached the dorm building and paused outside the door, hand hovering over the handle, Lando knew one thing with absolute clarity.

The silence between them had never been empty. And it was his responsibility now to finally learn how to listen.

Lando did not sleep that night.

He lay on his bed staring at the ceiling, the glow of the streetlight outside slicing the darkness into pale bands. The room was quiet in a way that no longer felt neutral. It felt accusatory. Every familiar shape—the cluttered desk, the guitar propped against the wall, the other bed across the room—seemed to hold a memory up to the light and demand that he look at it properly this time.

He did.

He replayed everything.

The first day Oscar walked in, small and careful, like someone stepping onto thin ice. The wave. The notebook. The way Lando had said cool and meant nothing by it, and how that nothing must have sounded like dismissal. He remembered the confusion he’d felt, the irritation that followed, how quickly irritation had hardened into something uglier when it was left unanswered.

He remembered his own voice, too loud, too sharp.

Are you always this stuck up?

The words echoed now, stripped of the heat of the moment, exposed in all their cruelty. Lando winced and turned onto his side, pressing his face into the pillow as if he could smother the memory there.

Stuck up.

He’d called Oscar stuck up because Oscar hadn’t spoken. Because he hadn’t filled the silence the way Lando needed him to. Because Lando, who thrived on reaction and feedback and noise, had mistaken quiet for contempt.

He dragged a hand down his face.

“How many times,” he muttered to himself, “Have I done this?”

There was a pattern there, if he was honest. Lando had always been bad with silence. It made him restless, suspicious. Silence felt like judgment, like disinterest, like being left behind. So he poked at it. Prodded it. Tried to force it open until something, anything, spilled out.

With Oscar, he’d pushed harder than usual.

He remembered leaving his shoes in the way. Turning his music up, watching from the corner of his eye. The satisfaction he’d felt when Oscar flinched, twisted immediately into frustration when Oscar still didn’t react the way Lando wanted him to.

God.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

Oscar kneeling on the floor, gathering the papers Lando had knocked down. Oscar’s shoulders tense, his movements precise, controlled in a way that now felt heartbreakingly familiar. Oscar standing there with his hands raised, moving in shapes Lando hadn’t bothered to understand.

Are you seriously messing with me right now?

The words tasted bitter now. Petty. Small.

He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling again.

Mute.

The word still rang in his head, foreign and heavy. It rearranged everything. It turned every memory inside out, recast every interaction in a light so unforgiving it made Lando’s chest ache.

The silence hadn’t been indifference.

It had been a limitation. A reality. A boundary Oscar lived with every day.

And Lando had treated it like a personal attack.

He let out a shaky breath.

“I’m such an asshole,” he whispered to the empty room.

Across from him, Oscar’s bed was neatly made, the blanket folded with almost clinical precision. Oscar himself wasn’t there—he’d left early that morning, as he always did, slipping out like a shadow. Lando realized with a jolt that Oscar probably timed his exits around him, minimizing contact, minimizing risk.

The thought hurt more than Lando expected.

He sat up abruptly and reached for his phone.

He didn’t think. He thought he probably had already done enough damage. He opened his browser and typed, with clumsy urgency: how to say sorry in sign language.

The results loaded slowly, each second stretching.

Finally, a video thumbnail appeared—a smiling instructor, hands raised, title bold and simple. Lando tapped it.

The video began. The instructor signed sorry slowly, breaking down the movement. One hand, a gentle circular motion over the chest. An apology made physical, grounded in the body.

Lando froze.

His breath caught.

Because he had seen those exact motions before.

He saw Oscar standing in the middle of the room, hands moving with careful intent. He saw his own scowl, his irritation, the way he’d turned away. He saw the door slamming shut.

“Fuck,” Lando breathed.

Heat flooded his face, shame blooming so sharp it almost hurt. His stomach twisted.

Oscar had been apologizing.

Not mocking him. Not dismissing him. Apologizing.

And Lando had brushed him off like he was nothing.

He scrubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hand, then dragged his fingers back through his hair, gripping hard. The realization settled deep, heavy and undeniable.

He had been cruel to someone who was already carrying more than he could see.

The video kept playing, the instructor moving on to other phrases, but Lando barely noticed. His mind was too loud now, full of regret and resolve tangling together into something sharp and urgent.

He needed to apologize.

Really apologize. Not the half-formed, verbal apologies he was used to tossing out when things went wrong. This had to be different. This had to be in Oscar’s language, had to be sincere and intentional.

But the idea of doing it wrong, of fumbling, of offending Oscar again, made his chest tighten. He imagined standing there, hands shaking, signs coming out clumsy and incorrect. He imagined Oscar watching him with that careful, guarded expression.

Fear curled low in his gut.

“I’ll mess it up,” he murmured.

The admission didn’t absolve him of responsibility. If anything, it sharpened it.

Lando glanced at his guitar, leaning against the wall. His hands knew that language intimately. They knew how to shape sound, how to coax emotion out of strings and wood. They knew how to say things he couldn’t articulate out loud.

He looked down at his hands.

If his hands could do that—if they could speak to strangers in crowded rooms, make people feel understood, seen—

Then surely they could learn this.

Surely they could learn how to speak to Oscar.

Lando approached learning sign language the way he approached everything else—obsessively.

He started with videos, hours of them, watched late at night with headphones on. He replayed them again and again, mimicking the movements, pausing to adjust his fingers, his wrists, the angle of his hands. He practiced in the mirror, face flushed with concentration.

He learned the alphabet first, fingerspelling until his hands cramped. He learned basic phrases. Hello, thank you, sorry, I understand. Each new sign felt like acquiring a new note, a new chord shape. Awkward at first, then slowly, satisfyingly familiar.

He ordered books online, thick ones with glossy pages and detailed illustrations. When they arrived, he tore into the package like a kid on his birthday, spreading them across his bed, already dog-earing pages.

He practiced when Oscar wasn’t around.

That part was deliberate.

He didn’t want Oscar to see him fail. Didn’t want to make a spectacle of his ignorance, to turn learning into another intrusion. This was penance, in a way. Quiet work done in the margins.

He studied in snatches of time between classes, between rehearsals. He skipped parties. He skipped jam sessions. When his friends asked what he was up to, he waved them off with vague answers.

He studied harder than he ever had for any exam.

Because this mattered more.

Oscar, meanwhile, moved through the dorm like a ghost.

He took up as little space as possible, shoulders curved inward, steps light. He timed his showers, his meals, his studying, all carefully calibrated to avoid Lando when he could. When they did cross paths, he kept his eyes down, notebook clutched close to his chest like a shield.

The room felt unstable to him, unpredictable in a way he hated.

Oscar despised uncertainty.

He despised not knowing where he stood, not knowing what variables he was dealing with. With Lando, everything felt out of balance. One day hostile, the next merely tense. Silence stretched between them, thick with things Oscar could not name.

He felt it in his body as though it was an itch he couldn’t scratch.

At night, lying in bed, he stared at the ceiling and tried to solve the problem the way he solved everything else. Identify the inputs. Map the outcomes. Find the point of failure.

But this wasn’t an equation.

There were no constants here, no reliable rules. Just two people misaligned, trapped in a space too small for their misunderstanding.

He hated how powerless it made him feel.

Control had always been his refuge. Control over his work, his schedule, his emotions. Losing it, even partially, sent a familiar anxiety spiraling through him. It reminded him too much of being seven years old, strapped into a car he couldn’t escape, life veering violently out of his grasp.

He clenched his fists under the blanket.

He wished, irrationally, that Lando would just say something. Explain. Resolve it. Even anger would be easier than this suspended state.

Lando didn’t.

But in the silence, Oscar noticed a shift in small, almost imperceptible ways.

The music stopped late at night. Lando still played, but softer now, shorter sessions. The clutter receded slightly to one side of the room. Papers were stacked, and cables were coiled. Lando’s presence felt restrained, as if he were holding himself back.

Oscar didn’t trust it.

He’d learned not to.

Oscar returned to the dorm earlier than usual on one random evening, a canceled lab freeing up an unexpected pocket of time. He froze just inside the door.

Lando was sitting at his desk, a book open in front of him.

Not sheet music.

A book filled with diagrams of hands.

Lando hadn’t noticed Oscar enter immediately—too engrossed in the book he was reading, and Oscar knew that the older boy hated the silence and how it crept up on him, so he reached for the light switch by the door and flickered the overhead lights on and off to announce his presence somehow.

Lando startled when he finally noticed Oscar, book snapping shut reflexively. “Oh—hey,” he said, then seemed to remember something and winced slightly.

Oscar nodded, eyes flicking briefly to the book before dropping to the floor again.

He crossed the room quickly, silently, heart pounding. He didn’t ask. He didn’t sign. He changed clothes and left again, head buzzing.

I imagined it, he told himself. It doesn’t mean anything.

Still, the image lingered.

Late that night, Lando sat on his bed with one of the sign language books open on his lap, hands aching from practice.

He flexed his fingers slowly.

He thought about Oscar—about how he moved, how deliberate his gestures were. How much effort must be packed into every interaction, every explanation. How exhausting it must be to live in a world that constantly asked him to translate himself.

“I see it now,” Lando murmured to the quiet room.

He didn’t know when he’d get the chance to apologize. He didn’t know if Oscar would give him one at all. All he knew was that when that moment came, if it even came, he needed to be ready.

He needed to speak with his hands.

And this time, he needed to listen.

Lando chose a Thursday.

He didn’t know why—only that Thursday felt quieter, less burdened by expectation. Mondays carried too much dread, Wednesdays too much momentum. Thursday existed somewhere in the middle, unremarkable, easy to overlook. It felt like the kind of day on which small, important things could happen without announcing themselves.

He rehearsed the signs in his head all morning.

Sorry.

I was wrong.

I want to talk.

He practiced them with his hands under the desk during lecture, fingers twitching like they were restless to begin. He practiced them again in the bathroom mirror afterward, shoulders tense, breath shallow. Every time, doubt crept in. What if he messed up the grammar? What if he signed something offensive without realizing it? What if Oscar thought this was a joke?

The thought made his stomach twist.

By the time Lando reached the dorm that afternoon, his resolve was frayed but intact.

Oscar was there.

That alone surprised him. Oscar was usually gone at this hour. He’d usually be at the library, in study rooms, anywhere but here. He was sitting at his desk, spine straight, pencil moving steadily across a page, so focused he didn’t notice Lando come in.

For a moment, Lando just stood there.

He took Oscar in properly for the first time. Not as an obstacle, not as a problem to be solved, not as a silence that pressed on his nerves. But as a person existing in the room with him.

Oscar looked smaller when he was still. Not physically. If anything, Lando registered dimly that Oscar was broader through the shoulders than he’d ever noticed, taller too, though he carried it in a way that made him seem compact, self-contained. It was the stillness that did it, the way Oscar folded himself inward, as if he were trying not to spill into the space around him.

Lando swallowed.

This was it.

He took a step forward. The floorboard creaked.

Oscar startled, shoulders tightening instantly. He turned in his chair, eyes flicking up, and freezing when he saw Lando watching him so intently.

The familiar guardedness slid into place like armor.

Lando felt a spike of guilt so sharp it almost derailed him.

“Hey,” he started aloud, then stopped himself.

No.

He took a breath, closing his right hand into a fist and holding it to his chest in gentle circular motions— like he’s seen Oscar do, like he’s watched an online instructor do countless times.

Sorry.

The motion was hesitant, not as smooth as it had been in the videos, but unmistakable.

Oscar’s eyes widened.

Lando kept going, hands trembling now.

I was wrong.

The words hung between them, visible and fragile.

Oscar stared at his hands as if they were something unreal, something conjured. For a split second, something flickered across his face. Shock, but also something darker, more complicated.

Embarrassment.

Then hurt.

Oscar’s brows knit together. His lips pressed into a thin line. He stood abruptly, chair legs scraping softly against the floor. Without signing, without writing, he pulled his phone from his pocket and typed quickly, fingers flying with a sharp, practiced anger.

He held the screen out.

You don’t have to do that. I can hear just fine.

The words felt like a slap.

Lando’s chest tightened.

This wasn’t how he’d imagined it. Not relief, not cautious acceptance, but something raw and defensive. He realized, belatedly, that to Oscar, this might look like pity. Like a performance.

“No,” Lando said, voice gentle but urgent, then caught himself again. He forced his hands back up, slower this time, grounding himself.

I know you can hear.

Oscar’s eyes narrowed slightly.

Lando swallowed and continued.

I want to.

Oscar’s fingers twitched at his sides, as if caught between retreat and response.

Lando pushed on, heart pounding.

I want to speak your language.

The words landed differently.

Oscar stared at him, unmoving from where he stood.

No one had ever said that to him—not like this, not with intention so naked it hurt to look at. People accommodated him. They tolerated the inconvenience. They learned enough to get by. But want implied something else entirely. Choice. Desire. Care.

Oscar felt something shift beneath his ribs, subtle and dangerous.

Hope.

He hated how quickly it came.

Years of careful emotional engineering kicked in immediately, alarms blaring. Hope was unstable. Hope made you reckless. Hope made you forget all the times you’d been misunderstood, dismissed, hurt.

He typed again, slower now.

You don’t have to change for me.

Lando shook his head before Oscar even finished showing the screen.

I’m not changing, he signed. I’m learning.

Oscar’s breath hitched.

Lando watched it happen. The way Oscar’s shoulders dropped a fraction, the way his eyes softened despite himself. It felt like witnessing a system recalibrate, tension easing incrementally.

Lando realized something else. This was the first real conversation they’d ever had.

Not accusations hurled into silence. Not misunderstandings piling up. A conversation. Two people facing each other, hands moving, meaning exchanged.

The realization left him oddly lightheaded.

Oscar hesitated, then slowly, cautiously, raised his hands. You were… really mean, he signed.

The honesty stung, but Lando nodded immediately. I know, he signed back. I’m sorry. This time, the motion was smoother. More confident.

Oscar looked at him for a long moment, searching his face like he was scanning for flaws in a structure before trusting it with weight.

Why? Oscar signed finally. Why do this now?

Lando opened his mouth, then closed it again. The easy answers—because I felt bad, because Charles told me—felt insufficient.

He signed carefully. Because I didn’t see you before.

Oscar blinked. And now?

Lando’s gaze didn’t waver. Now I do.

Oscar felt something fissure in him. Like a fracture finally releasing tension. It didn't break because breaking implied damage beyond repair. This was different. This was the sound of ice shifting under pressure, the warning and the promise all at once.

He looked away, overwhelmed.

Lando took the opportunity to really look at him. Tentative, reverent. Up close, Oscar was… startling.

His hair was soft-looking, falling in gentle, almost princely waves framed around his face, refusing to be severe no matter how tightly Oscar tried to hold himself. Freckles dusted his cheeks and nose, scattered like constellations across pale skin. There were moles too, small and dark, trailing down his neck in a way that felt strangely intimate to notice.

His eyes—hazel, Lando realized, shot through with green and gold—were mesmerizing when they weren’t shielded. They held depth, history, a quiet intelligence that didn’t demand attention but rewarded it.

And his teeth. God. When Oscar frowned, they barely showed, but when his lips parted in uncertainty, Lando caught a glimpse of them; Slightly prominent, endearingly imperfect. Bunny teeth, his brain supplied uselessly.

Lando swallowed.

Oscar shifted his weight, and Lando became suddenly aware of how solid he was. Broader than Lando. Stronger-looking. Like he was someone who carried weight, emotional or otherwise, without complaint. Taller by just enough that Lando had to tilt his head back a fraction to meet his eyes.

Then Lando noticed the scar.

It was faint, even paler against Oscar’s already pale skin, just visible at the base of his throat if you really looked. Old and healed, but unmistakable once seen.

It was the physical marker of everything Oscar had lost. A line drawn across his body where sound had been taken.

The urge to reach out, to touch, to apologize with more than words, rose sharp and sudden, and Lando crushed it immediately. Too much. Too soon. He lowered his hands.

Oscar noticed his gaze, followed it instinctively, then stiffened slightly when he realized what Lando had seen.

It’s old, he signed, defensive. It doesn’t hurt.

Lando shook his head. I know, he signed gently. I wasn’t… staring.

Oscar gave him a skeptical look, raising an eyebrow at the blatant lie.

Lando huffed a small laugh and signed, a little clumsily, Okay. Maybe a little.

To his surprise, Oscar’s lips twitched. Just barely, but it felt like a victory.

They stood there in the shared dorm room, surrounded by all the ghosts of their earlier hostility, and something fragile but real settled between them.

Oscar felt it keenly. The unfamiliar sensation of being met where he stood. It scared him. He had learned, painfully, not to trust sudden kindness, not to lean too quickly into warmth that might vanish.

Still.

This felt different.

Not loud. Not overwhelming. Just intentional.

He signed slowly. I don’t trust easily.

Lando nodded without hesitation. That makes sense.

Oscar studied him. I might pull away.

I know.

I might assume the worst.

Lando’s mouth curved into a soft, rueful smile.

I already did that. I survived.

Oscar exhaled, something easing in his chest.

We’ll see, he signed.

Lando nodded. We’ll see.

They didn’t shake hands. They didn’t hug. They didn’t declare anything.

But as Oscar turned back to his desk and Lando sat on his bed, the room felt different. Less suffocating, less sharp around the edges.

Silence didn’t feel like a weapon anymore, so Oscar allowed himself to imagine a future variable he hadn’t accounted for before. A friendship. Maybe more.

And Lando, watching Oscar’s hands move with quiet grace and the careful way he existed, realized with a jolt that this new understanding carried its own terrifying thrill.

Oscar was beautiful.

And Lando had no idea what to do with that.

By December, Lando started calling him Osc.

It happened casually, the way all meaningful things seemed to with Lando. Without ceremony, without warning. One afternoon Oscar was bent over his desk, reorganizing his notes for the third time because the margins didn’t align the way he wanted them to, when Lando leaned over from his bed and signed, Hey, Osc—have you seen my charger?

Osc.

Oscar’s pencil paused mid-line.

He looked up slowly, brows knitting together, as if checking whether the word had really landed where he thought it had. Lando met his gaze, utterly unselfconscious, hands already moving on to something else.

I swear it keeps disappearing. I think my stuff migrates when I’m not looking.

Oscar stared for another second longer than necessary.

Then, very carefully, he nodded and signed, It’s under your desk. Next to the amp.

Lando blinked, leaned over, and laughed aloud when he found it exactly where Oscar said it was.

Thanks, Lando signed, grinning. You’re the safekeeper of our dorm.

Oscar rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth lifted despite himself.

Osc.

No one else called him that. It wasn’t a shortening that came from convenience. It felt chosen. Personal. Like Lando had reached into Oscar’s name and gently reshaped it to fit the space between them.

Oscar didn’t ask him to stop.

But what startled Oscar most wasn’t the nickname. It was how fast Lando learned. How quickly he became fluent in the only language Oscar spoke.

At first, Oscar had assumed Lando’s signing would remain clumsy, functional at best. He was used to that. Most people plateaued quickly. They learned enough to get by, then stopped. They blamed time, difficulty, forgetfulness.

Lando did none of that.

Within weeks, his movements smoothed out. His fingers stopped hesitating mid-sign. His grammar improved, his facial expressions growing more precise, more intentional. He began catching Oscar’s more subtle cues. The pauses, the shifts in posture, the small changes in tempo that carried as much meaning as the signs themselves.

There was one evening when Oscar signed something offhandedly sarcastic, not expecting Lando to catch it.

But Lando suddenly snorted and signed back, Wow. Rude.

Oscar blinked.

You understood that? he signed.

Lando beamed. Yeah. Tone and everything.

Oscar stared at him, something warm and startled blooming in his chest.

How? he signed.

Lando shrugged. You make sense.

No one had ever said that to him so simply.

They began to live together with intention. Not just coexisting, not just avoiding each other’s edges, but actively shaping the space they shared.

It started small. Lando asked before playing music late. Oscar, in turn, stopped flinching when he did. Oscar labeled shelves and drawers; Lando followed the system without complaint, and even added his own handwritten tags in messy ink.

They ate together sometimes. Not always. Oscar still needed his solitude, and Lando still vanished unpredictably. But often enough that it became a rhythm. Lando cooked chaotically, tasting as he went, and treating recipes more as suggestions than rules. Oscar cooked with precision, measuring, timing, cleaning as he went.

One night, Lando watched Oscar chop vegetables with meticulous care and signed, You cook like you’re solving a problem set. Oscar raised an eyebrow and retorted, And you cook like you’re committing a crime.

Lando laughed so hard he nearly dropped the spoon.

They learned each other’s habits the way people learned weather patterns.

Oscar learned that Lando hummed when he was anxious. He could hear it in the dark of the night, he could see it in the rapid rising and falling of Lando’s chest, the way his throat moved. Lando learned that Oscar organized when he was overwhelmed, that straight lines and right angles calmed him down more effectively than words ever could.

Lando learned not to touch Oscar’s things without permission, not to rearrange anything in the room that might disrupt the order Oscar had made. Oscar learned that Lando talked with his hands even when he wasn’t signing, gestures wide and expressive, as if he were always conducting an invisible orchestra.

They adjusted. They made room.

Oscar smiled more too.

It happened gradually, almost unnoticeable if you didn't pay attention, like light returning after a long winter. At first it was just small expressions. Softening eyes, a barely-there curve of his mouth. Then one night, Lando signed something so absurdly dramatic about a professor’s ego that Oscar’s shoulders shook with silent laughter.

Lando froze mid-rant.

“Was that—” He paused, eyes widening. “Osc, are you laughing?”

Oscar covered his mouth reflexively, embarrassed.

Maybe.

Lando’s face lit up like he’d just won something monumental. “Holy shit. I did that.”

Oscar glared at him, but he was still smiling.

He found, to his own surprise, that he liked this version of himself. The one who laughed, even silently. The one who wasn’t constantly braced for misunderstanding. The one who wasn’t waiting for something wrong to happen. The one who didn’t feel like he had to justify his existence with competence and control.

Lando, in turn, began to slow down.

Not entirely. He was still restless, still impulsive, still unpredictable. But there were moments now when he stopped chasing the next thrill. When he sat with Oscar in comfortable quiet, content to exist without filling the space. He learned that silence wasn’t always rejection. Sometimes it was trust.

Lando had signed to him on one of the quiet afternoons they shared in the confines of their room, What are you thinking about?

Oscar hesitated.

In the past, he would have deflected, redirected, offered a safe answer. Now, he signed honestly. Nothing useful.

Lando grinned. Those are the best thoughts.

Oscar considered that. He wasn’t sure he believed it yet. But he wanted to.

There were still limits.

Sometimes curiosity got to Lando. Not demanding, just present as the want to learn more about Oscar. As they curled on their respective beds at night, the room lit only by the soft glow of a desk lamp, Lando signed hesitantly, Can I ask you something?

Oscar nodded.

Lando’s hands moved slower this time, careful. How did you lose your voice?

Oscar’s body went very still.

The room seemed to contract, air thickening around him. The old reflex kicked in immediately. Withdraw, compartmentalize, lock it away. His hands trembled faintly in his lap.

He looked at Lando, saw the concern there, the gentleness, the absence of demand.

Still.

I don't want to talk about it, Oscar signed. And then added a few moments later, yet.

Lando nodded instantly, no frustration, no disappointment.

Okay.

That was it.

No pushing. No awkwardness. No wounded pride.

Oscar exhaled, tension draining from him in a rush so sudden it made him dizzy.

Thank you, he signed quietly.

Lando smiled. Whenever you’re ready, Osc, I’ll be here to listen.

The words lodged deep in Oscar’s chest.

In small, unexpected ways, Lando began to understand what Oscar’s life was like.

He started noticing how often people spoke without looking, how frequently Oscar was excluded from conversations without anyone meaning to. Lando found himself repositioning automatically—stepping into Oscar’s line of sight, extending the conversation to him, signing alongside speech without thinking about it.

Oscar would stare at him afterward. You didn’t have to do that, he signed.

“Do what?” Lando asked, perplexed by the statement. Sign when you can just speak. Oscar told him.

“Oh.” Lando shrugged, and then signed, I didn't even notice. I guess I just wanted to.

Again. That word. Wanted.

Oscar felt it burrow and take root in him, solid and grounding.

In return, Oscar began to learn from Lando how to live without constant calculation. He let himself leave problems unsolved overnight. He agreed to spontaneous coffee runs. He skipped a study session once to sit on the floor and listen to Lando play, feeling the vibrations through the wood and into his bones.

They became, unmistakably, friends. The people around Lando knew Oscar’s name without having to meet him the same way people thought of Lando’s name first when they saw Oscar.

The kind who knew how the other took their coffee. The kind who noticed immediately when something was wrong. The kind who fought occasionally—small, sharp disagreements that resolved quickly because neither of them could bear the thought of returning to that earlier silence that was both full and profound.

They knew each other’s histories in fragments. Lando knew Oscar had cousins who’d raised him, that he’d chosen engineering because it felt safe, because it made sense. Oscar knew Lando had grown up restless, chasing feeling because standing still scared him.

They understood each other.

And sometimes, late at night, when the room was quiet and the world felt very far away, Oscar caught himself watching Lando with an intensity that unsettled him.

The way Lando’s hands moved. Not just in sign language, but always, expressive and alive. The way his face softened when he focused. The way he looked at Oscar now, openly, without the old defensiveness.

Lando noticed too.

He noticed the way Oscar’s smile lingered longer around him. The way Oscar leaned closer without realizing it. The way his hazel eyes darkened when he was engaged, when he was present.

Neither of them named it. Not yet.

But it was there, humming beneath the surface of their carefully built routines, like a note held just long enough to echo and ache.

Oscar still liked numbers. Still liked control. Still liked answers. But now, when something didn’t make sense, when a variable refused to resolve, he didn’t immediately panic.

Sometimes, he let it be.

Sometimes, he let Lando be.

And Lando, for the first time in his life, didn’t feel the need to chase chaos just to feel alive. Because whatever was growing between them felt like music he was finally learning how to play.

Oscar had always believed that if he kept enough things ordered, if he lined his life with enough structure and predictability, then the past would stay where it belonged.

It had worked, mostly. Or at least well enough to function.

Until one night, when the dorm was quiet in a way that felt too complete, when the hall outside was emptied of footsteps and laughter, when even Lando’s usual hum of restless energy had gone still. Rain pressed against the windows in a fine, persistent pattern, not loud enough to be dramatic, but steady enough to be impossible to ignore.

Oscar sat at his desk, staring at equations that refused to settle. Numbers blurred. Symbols lost their meaning. He erased the same line three times, rewriting it with increasing pressure, as if force alone could compel it into coherence.

It didn’t.

Behind him, Lando watched.

He didn’t interrupt. He had learned, over months, when to speak and when to wait. He recognized the signs now. The rigid posture, the way Oscar’s shoulders crept upward, the too-careful movements that suggested control was slipping.

Lando called out to him softly, “Osc.”

Oscar stiffened.

Slowly, he turned his chair.

Lando’s face was open, concerned but not alarmed. He signed, You’ve been gone all evening.

Oscar looked away.

I’m fine, he signed automatically.

Lando didn’t challenge it. He didn’t argue. He just nodded once and signed, Okay.

Then he added, more gently, But I’m here.

Something in Oscar cracked. Not loudly, not all at once, but enough that he felt it. A hairline fracture spreading through something he’d kept intact for years.

He stared at the desk. At his hands. At the scar on his neck, pale and thin, half-hidden beneath the collar of his shirt.

He signed reluctantly, Do you remember when you asked me how I lost my voice?

Lando’s breath caught. He nodded, careful.

Oscar swallowed. His throat tightened, phantom pain flaring where there should have been sound.

I think… He paused, searching for steadiness. I think I can tell you now.

Lando didn’t move. Didn’t rush closer. Didn’t speak. He just watched Oscar with a kind of focused stillness that made space rather than filling it.

Oscar exhaled. He signed haltingly at first, like someone learning a language he already knew too well.

I was seven.

The number sat heavy between them. He was seven. He was only seven.

We were driving at night. I was in the car with my parents and my little sister. His hands faltered briefly before continuing. It was raining. Worse than this.

He gestured vaguely toward the window.

There was a truck. It ran a red light. I remember the headlights. They were too bright and too close.

Oscar’s fingers curled inward, knuckles whitening.

I remember the sounds, he signed, and his hands shook. Metal. Glass. Someone screaming.

He paused.

Lando realized, with a jolt, that Oscar meant himself.

After that, Oscar continued, there was nothing. I woke up in the hospital. My throat hurt, my head hurt, everything hurt.

His hand drifted unconsciously to his neck.

They told me my vocal cords were damaged permanently. They told me I was lucky to be alive, but I didn't know if that was true. Sometimes… I still think they were wrong.

The quiet admission of the grief deeming a life not worth living anymore twisted something sharp inside Lando. Then he remembered the number. Seven. How could a child feel that way?

They didn’t know how to tell me the rest.

Oscar’s eyes burned. He blinked hard and fast, trying to chase the feeling away.

I lost my parents that night. My sister too. She was four.

Lando’s chest ached, breath shallow, helplessness flooding him.

Oscar signed, faster now, like once the dam had cracked there was no stopping it.

I kept thinking they’d made a mistake. That they were in another room. That if I waited long enough, someone would bring them back.

He laughed silently, a broken motion that barely qualified as humor.

I tried to scream when I realized they weren’t coming. I couldn’t.

His hands stilled completely.

That was the first time I noticed.

Silence stretched, thick and heavy.

I thought God took my voice because I survived, Oscar signed. Like a punishment. Like I didn’t deserve to cry loud enough.

Lando felt his eyes sting.

Oscar kept going.

After the funeral, I went to live with the Leclercs. Charles tried to be strong. Arthur tried to make me laugh. Logan showed up and never left.

A faint smile flickered at the memory, then faded.

They were kind. Patient. They learned my language.

He looked up then, eyes finding Lando’s.

But I learned something else too.

Lando waited with bated breath.

Oscar signed, That surviving doesn’t mean you get to stop paying for it.

The words hung between them, raw and unfiltered.

Every birthday. Every holiday. Every quiet car ride. His hands slowed, each sign deliberate. I wonder why it was me.

He hesitated, then added, almost ashamed, And sometimes I hate myself for wondering.

That was when Lando moved.

He crossed the space between them in two steps and sat on the floor in front of Oscar’s chair, close enough that Oscar could feel the warmth of him. He didn’t touch him yet. Just looked up, eyes glossy, jaw tight, utterly undone.

Lando signed clumsily at first, emotion disrupting his fluency.

Osc… I don’t have words.

Oscar nodded. I know. No one does.

Lando’s hands dropped uselessly to his lap.

Then, slowly, carefully, he reached out.

Oscar didn’t pull away.

Lando wrapped his arms around Oscar’s waist and pressed his forehead against Oscar’s chest. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t desperate. It was grounding, solid, present.

Oscar froze for half a second, muscle memory and old defenses flaring, then sagged into him.

His hands came up hesitantly, resting against Lando’s shoulders.

They stayed like that.

Lando felt Oscar’s breathing—shallow at first, then uneven, then slowly, painfully steadying. He felt the tremor that ran through Oscar’s frame, the silent grief finally given permission to exist outside of his own head.

Lando didn’t try to fix it.

He didn’t say it would be okay. He didn’t say everything happens for a reason. He didn’t offer platitudes that would ring hollow against something this vast.

He just held him. He held him until the ache of the grief molded into something smaller, something more palatable.

Oscar’s face pressed into Lando’s hair. His fingers tightened, then relaxed, then tightened again, like he was learning how to hold on without hurting.

Oscar let himself cry without sound. It was strange, how much grief could fit inside silence.

When Oscar finally pulled back, his eyes were red, his expression exhausted but lighter, as if something long-buried had finally been set down.

Lando looked up at him, heart aching with a fierce, protective tenderness. He signed carefully, wanting to get it right.

Thank you for trusting me.

Oscar nodded.

I was afraid, he admitted.

Lando frowned gently. Of me?

Oscar hesitated. Then, honest as always, Of losing this.

He gestured between them.

Lando stood and pulled Oscar fully into his arms this time, standing, holding him close enough that there was no room for doubt.

“You won’t lose me because you told the truth, your truth,” Lando spoke, voice muffled against Oscar’s shoulder. “If anything…” He stopped, unsure how to finish.

Oscar waited.

Lando whispered, “I feel closer to you now.”

Oscar’s throat tightened again, but this time the feeling was warm, almost hopeful.

Me too, he wanted to say, but didn't. They stayed wrapped around each other for a long time after that, the rain outside softening into a distant murmur. The world didn’t fix itself. The past didn’t lose its weight.

But Oscar wasn’t alone with it anymore.

After that night, something between them deepened. Not in grand gestures, but in quiet understanding.

Lando became more careful, more attuned. He noticed when Oscar’s gaze lingered on passing cars, when sudden flashes of light made him tense. He didn’t comment. He just adjusted. He slowed his steps, grounded him with a touch to the arm, a steady presence at his side.

Oscar allowed himself to lean into that care.

He let Lando hold him when memories surfaced uninvited. He let himself be seen in moments of weakness without immediately recoiling in shame. He let someone else share the weight he’d been carrying since he was seven years old.

When Lando recognized the familiar sight of Oscar’s shoulders curling inward, he signed, You know… your voice didn’t disappear.

Oscar looked at him, curious.

Lando touched Oscar’s hands gently. “It’s here. It’s just different.”

Oscar considered that.

He thought of numbers. Of patterns. Of the way his hands spoke more honestly than words ever had. Of the people who had learned his language because they wanted to hear him.

He signed, softly, Maybe.

Lando smiled.

For the first time since the accident, since the hospital room and the unbearable quiet that followed, he felt something dangerously close to peace. Not because the pain was gone. But because it had finally been met.

Held.

Understood.

And that, Oscar thought, might be enough to begin with.

Lando had been trying to convince Oscar for three days.

Not by nagging—Lando had learned quickly that pressure only made Oscar retreat—but by suggestion, by implication, by weaving the idea into conversation like it had always been meant to be there.

There’s a party on Friday, Lando signed one afternoon, sprawled across his bed with his guitar balanced precariously on his stomach. Engineering kids won’t be there.

Oscar didn’t even look up from his laptop. That’s not a selling point.

Lando grinned. Music kids will be.

Oscar paused, fingers hovering over the keys.

That’s even worse.

Lando laughed, shoulders shaking, then sat up and signed more seriously, You don’t have to stay long. Just… come with me. Please?

Oscar finally looked at him.

There was something earnest in Lando’s face—open, hopeful, almost vulnerable—that made Oscar’s usual defenses falter. Lando wasn’t asking because he needed an audience. He was asking because he wanted Oscar there.

I don’t belong at parties, Oscar signed.

Lando tilted his head. You belong where you want to be.

Oscar thought about it, discomfort curling in his stomach. He didn’t want to want things that complicated his careful life.

I’ll hate it, he signed.

Lando smiled. Probably.

Oscar sighed. An hour.

Lando shot off the bed in triumph, nearly dropping the guitar, “Yes!” He’d exclaimed so excitedly.

Oscar watched him, lips twitching despite himself.

When Friday night came, Oscar stood in front of the mirror and felt ridiculous.

He adjusted his shirt for the third time, smoothing imaginary wrinkles, tugging at the collar that revealed the faint line of the scar on his neck. He considered changing outfits entirely, then stopped himself.

This was exactly the kind of spiraling he hated.

Control. Certainty. Predictability.

He grabbed his phone and typed a quick text to Arthur, Going out with Lando tonight, then hesitated before sending it. He didn’t know why he felt the need to tell someone. Maybe because part of him was bracing for impact.

Lando knocked lightly before entering, already dressed like the night was a stage meant just for him; Jacket slung over one shoulder, curly hair artfully messy, grin bright.

He stopped short when he saw Oscar.

Wow, he signed, eyes lingering. You clean up dangerous.

Oscar felt heat crawl up his neck. It’s a shirt.

It’s your shirt, Lando corrected, like that explained everything.

Oscar rolled his eyes but didn’t miss the way Lando kept looking at him as they walked out together.

The party was loud in a way Oscar felt rather than heard.

Bass thudded through the floor, vibrations traveling up his legs, into his chest. Bodies crowded the living room, moving unpredictably, spilling drinks, laughter sharp and erratic.

Oscar stiffened immediately.

Lando noticed.

Without comment, he shifted closer, placing himself slightly in front of Oscar, a quiet buffer against the chaos. He leaned in and signed close to Oscar’s line of sight.

We can leave whenever you want.

Oscar nodded, grateful.

They stayed near the edge at first, watching. Lando introduced Oscar to a few people. “This is Osc,” he signed and said simultaneously, and for a while, it was fine. Not good. But manageable.

Lando kept glancing back at Oscar, checking in, smiling whenever Oscar met his eyes. And Oscar, against his better judgment, found himself enjoying that. The way Lando’s attention anchored him. The way he felt less like an observer and more like someone who was meant to be there.

Lando wordlessly took Oscar’s hand in his as they weaved through the night.

Oscar startled, then stilled.

Something warm and tender pulsed beneath their palms. Lando watched his face carefully.

Oscar’s eyes lit, just a little. It pressed a weight that carried too much meaning on Lando’s chest.

In that moment, as he watched Oscar and saw his spine soften under his touch, Lando felt it with startling clarity.

He wasn’t just fond of Oscar.

He was in love with him.

The realization didn’t arrive gently. It hit like a dropped chord, wrong and right all at once, reverberating through him. Lando swallowed hard, heart racing, suddenly aware of how close they were standing.

Oscar smiled at him then, small and unguarded.

Lando nearly forgot how to breathe.

It happened quickly. 

A group of students—half-drunk, loud, careless—pushed past them. One of them noticed Oscar’s silence. “Hey,” The guy called, waving a hand in Oscar’s face. “You deaf or something?” He yelled the words like it would make a difference.

Oscar stiffened. Lando’s smile vanished instantly.

Oscar signed, Ignore it.

But Lando was already stepping forward.

“He can hear just fine,” Lando snapped aloud, voice sharp. “There’s no need to be rude.”

The guy laughed. “Then why isn’t he talking?”

“Because he’s mute,” Lando said, jaw tight. “And you yelling at him isn’t going to change that.”

The laughter faltered. A few people shifted uncomfortably.

Oscar’s chest burned.

He grabbed Lando’s arm, pulling him back, signing urgently, Stop. Please.

But the damage was done.

Oscar could feel eyes on him now. Curious, pitiful, invasive. His carefully constructed sense of normalcy shattered under the weight of attention.

Oscar dragged him to a less populated space and Lando turned to him, concern flooding his expression. Are you okay?

Oscar shook his head, throat tight, hands trembling as he signed, Why would you do that?

Lando frowned. They were being assholes.

I didn’t ask you to fix it, Oscar signed, sharper than he intended.

Lando blinked, taken aback. I was just trying to help.

You made it worse, Oscar signed. You made me feel like—

He stopped, unable to finish.

Lando’s frustration flared. Like what?

Oscar’s hands dropped to his sides.

Small, he signed quietly. Like I can’t handle my own life.

Lando recoiled as if struck.

“That’s not—” He caught himself, forced himself to sign instead. That’s not how I see you. I don’t think you’re lesser. I never have.

Oscar’s eyes shone, shame and hurt tangled together. Then why do you keep fighting my battles for me?

Because I care about you, Lando signed, voice breaking through his hands. Because I don’t want anyone hurting you.

You can’t protect me from everything, Oscar signed. And when you try, it just reminds me of everything I can’t do.

The words landed hard.

Lando stared at him, chest heaving, overwhelmed by the collision of fear, guilt, love.

He signed, more roughly now, So what—should I just stand there and let people be cruel?

Oscar looked away. I just want to be normal.

Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating.

Lando ran a hand through his hair, agitation radiating off him. He looked around, and something in him snapped.

“I can’t keep doing this,” he muttered, voice tight. “I’m trying here, Osc. I’m trying so hard. Can’t you see? I’m trying my best, and it’s never enough. I don’t know how else to get to you.”

Oscar’s heart lurched. Lando—

But Lando was already stepping back.

I need air, he signed. I need to not fight right now.

Then, because he was angry and overwhelmed and human, he turned and walked away.

Oscar stood frozen.

Watched Lando’s back disappear into the crowd.

Watched the space between them swallow him whole.

The worst part—the cruelest part—was knowing he couldn’t call out. Knowing there was no sound he could make to stop Lando, no voice to carry his apology, his fear, his regret.

His hands lifted uselessly, then fell.

The party pressed in around him, noise and movement blurring into something unbearable.

Oscar left.

The walk back to the dorm felt endless.

Cold air bit at his skin, grounding and punishing all at once. His thoughts spiraled uncontrollably, every insecurity clawing its way to the surface.

He should never have come.

He should have known better than to let himself believe he could exist comfortably in Lando’s world. He should have kept things simple, controlled, contained.

He unlocked the dorm room and stepped inside alone.

The silence was different without Lando.

Not peaceful. Not chosen.

Empty.

Oscar sat on his bed, hands clenched in his lap, eyes fixed on the door like it might open if he stared hard enough.

It didn’t.

Hours passed.

Midnight came and went.

Lando didn’t come home.

Oscar lay back and stared at the ceiling, chest aching with a familiar, bitter frustration. The same one he’d felt at seven years old, standing in a hospital room full of unsaid things.

Once again, he had something important to say.

Once again, there was no sound to carry it.

The first night, Oscar told himself it was temporary.

People needed space. Lando had said as much, I need air, and Oscar, for all his hurt, understood the impulse. He had spent most of his life needing air. Needing distance. Needing silence that was chosen rather than imposed.

So Oscar washed his hands, methodically. He placed his shoes beneath his bed, aligned them with the leg of the frame. He changed into sleep clothes and lay down, eyes fixed on the door, waiting for the familiar cadence of Lando’s presence—the vibration of footsteps, the careless push of the door, the quiet chaos that always accompanied him.

It didn’t come.

Oscar slept poorly, drifting in and out of shallow dreams where headlights flared too bright and rooms were always missing one person who was supposed to be there.

When morning arrived, pale and unconvincing, Oscar sat up and checked his phone.

Nothing.

No message. No apology typed clumsily at three in the morning. No are you awake? No explanation.

His chest tightened, but he breathed through it.

He’s busy, Oscar told himself. He’ll come back.

He would always turn to certainty when he was falling apart. Even when it was borrowed, even when it was imagined, he clung to it because the alternative, uncertainty, felt like standing at the edge of something vast and bottomless.

He went to class.

He took notes with meticulous precision, every letter neat, every margin respected. He copied down equations he already knew, grounding himself in their logic. Numbers did not abandon you without explanation. They behaved. They obeyed rules.

Love, he was learning, did not.

By the time evening fell, the dorm room still smelled faintly like Lando, like soap and old paper and something warm and indefinable. Oscar found himself pausing mid-task, turning instinctively toward the door whenever footsteps passed in the hallway.

Still nothing. He ate alone. He went to bed early, then lay awake far too long.

The second day was harder.

The absence began to feel intentional.

Oscar woke with a dull ache behind his eyes, a heaviness in his chest that made even sitting upright feel like effort. He stared at the empty bed across the room. The unmade sheets, the jacket draped over the chair, the guitar stand standing like an accusation.

Lando hadn’t taken his things.

That should have been comforting. Instead, it only felt cruel. Like a promise half-kept.

Oscar picked up his phone and typed a message before he could talk himself out of it.

Are you okay? Are we okay?

He stared at the words for a long time, then deleted them.

What if Lando didn’t want to hear from him? What if reaching out only confirmed everything Oscar feared? That he was too much, too fragile, too complicated?

He set the phone down, hands shaking slightly.

Arthur texted mid-morning.

You alive? You didn’t answer last night.

Oscar read it twice.

Then Logan followed.

Hey, man. Haven’t heard from you. Everything okay?

Then Charles, an hour later.

Arthur says you’re not answering. Just checking in.

Oscar turned the phone face down.

The messages sat there, buzzing occasionally with reminders that people still existed beyond the narrow confines of his mind. He didn’t respond.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to. It was that he didn’t know how to explain something that made no sense even to him.

How did you quantify heartbreak?

How did you diagram abandonment?

How did you explain that someone had come into your life, learned your language, held your grief with such care—and then walked away knowing you could not call after them?

Oscar skipped his afternoon lecture.

He told himself it was because he had too much work to catch up on, but really, the thought of sitting in a room full of people, pretending to be functional, felt unbearable.

He reorganized the dorm room.

He cleaned surfaces that were already clean. He aligned books by height, then by color, then by subject. He straightened Lando’s things, even though he knew he shouldn’t. Each movement was precise and controlled.

It didn’t help.

The more he tried to impose order, the louder the uncertainty grew.

Where was Lando sleeping?

Was he angry? Hurt? Regretful?

Did he miss Oscar at all?

Oscar hated these questions. Hated how they multiplied without offering answers. Hated how they made his chest feel tight, his thoughts slippery and unmanageable.

By evening, once again, the room felt too quiet.

Oscar sat on his bed, back against the wall, knees drawn up to his chest, arms wrapped tightly around himself.

He hadn’t felt this small in a long time.

The third day broke something in him.

Not dramatically. Not with tears or panic or outward signs of distress. It broke quietly. Oscar woke and felt… nothing.

No sharp ache. No anxious spiral. Just a flat, hollow heaviness that pressed down on him, made everything feel distant and muted, like the world was happening behind thick glass.

He didn’t check his phone.

He didn’t go to class.

He stayed in bed far longer than he should have, staring at the ceiling, counting the small cracks and imperfections he’d never noticed before.

Control had always been his anchor. When things went wrong, he fixed them. When he couldn’t fix them, he understood them. He mapped them out, broke them down into components small enough to manage.

This, whatever this was, refused to cooperate.

There was no formula for what he was feeling.

No equation to solve for why it hurt more that Lando had left than that others had misunderstood him.

That realization frightened him more than anything else.

Because it meant this mattered. It meant Lando mattered.

Oscar sat up abruptly, nausea rising in his throat.

He had let himself believe, just for a moment, that he could trust someone outside the small, carefully guarded circle he’d built around himself. He had let himself hope that this connection was different, that it was stable, intentional, real.

And Lando had hit him in the one place that had never healed.

By leaving without giving him a way to respond.

Oscar pressed his palm to his throat, fingers resting over the scar he rarely thought about anymore.

He wasn’t seven years old.

He wasn’t trapped in a hospital bed, trying and failing to scream.

And yet, the feeling was the same. Powerlessness. He hated himself for it. Hated that he still cared. Hated that even now, part of him was scanning every sound, every vibration, hoping—stupidly—that Lando would come back. He rolled onto his side and faced the empty bed again.

You knew better, he told himself. You knew love doesn’t make sense.

Love didn’t offer certainty. It didn’t provide answers. It didn’t obey logic or rules or clean lines. Love was unpredictable. Messy. Unquantifiable. Everything Oscar had taught himself not to be.

Growing up, he had learned to survive by minimizing risk. By choosing what made sense. Engineering. Numbers. Silence. Control.

Love asked him to relinquish all of that. And he didn’t know how. The realization sat heavy in his chest, pressing down until breathing felt like work.

By afternoon, he hadn’t eaten. He didn’t feel hungry. He didn’t feel much of anything at all. Arthur’s name flashed across his phone again. Oscar ignored it. Logan called. The vibration startled him, sharp and intrusive. Oscar let it ring out. Charles left a voicemail he didn’t listen to.

Oscar curled inward, retreating into himself the way he had learned to do as a child—making himself smaller, quieter, less noticeable, as if that might protect him from being hurt further.

It didn’t.

Thoughts looped endlessly in his mind.

If I hadn’t snapped at him…

If I hadn’t gone to the party…

If I hadn’t believed—

He stopped himself there, jaw tightening.

Belief was the problem. Belief led to vulnerability. Vulnerability led to pain. This was why he liked certainty. Why he liked answers. Why he liked things that could be proven.

You couldn’t prove love. You could only feel it.

And Oscar felt it now, painfully, inescapably—threaded through anger and resentment and longing, impossible to separate cleanly.

He loved Lando.

The thought made his chest ache.

He loved him despite everything. Despite the hurt. Despite the abandonment. Despite knowing, logically, that this situation did not make sense and did not fit into the life Oscar had carefully constructed.

That contradiction tore at him.

He sat there, alone in the quiet dorm room, surrounded by evidence of a life he’d briefly shared with someone else, and felt himself slipping back into old patterns. Withdrawal, numbness, emotional isolation.

It was easier to shut down than to sit with uncertainty. Easier to retreat than to risk more pain.

As evening fell on the third day, Oscar lay back down on his bed, staring once more at the ceiling.

He didn’t cry. He didn’t rage.

He simply existed in the uncomfortable space between what he knew and what he felt, between control and chaos, between the life he understood and the one that had suddenly, inexplicably, begun to matter more. And that, more than anything, terrified him.

The knock on the dorm door was hesitant, tentative, almost afraid to exist. It was not Lando’s usual style. He was rarely tentative. Rarely quiet. Rarely unsure. But tonight, something held him back, something heavier than casual mischief or impulsive energy.

Oscar didn’t look up. He sat slumped on the edge of his bed, hands resting limply in his lap. The room smelled faintly of rain and old paper and something of Oscar himself, something Lando had never noticed until now.

“Osc…” Lando began softly, then stopped. Words felt inadequate, inadequate to bridge three days of absence, of silence, of damage that had festered in the spaces where words had failed. He stepped inside slowly, watching the carefully constructed lines of Oscar’s body. The rigid shoulders, the hands that trembled ever so slightly in repose, the faint hollow in his eyes where Lando’s presence should have already brought light.

Oscar’s gaze met his, unblinking, blank, and Lando felt something crack inside him. The calm, collected boy who had mastered control and numbers, who had survived catastrophe, who had learned to hold grief like a puzzle piece pressed into place—he looked undone. Not fragile. Not delicate. Simply… undone. And the sight hit Lando harder than he could have imagined.

You’re cruel, Oscar signed, almost accusingly, though his hands shook just slightly.

Lando’s chest seized. Cruel. He had not intended cruelty. He had walked away thinking he was giving space, thinking he was leaving Oscar the choice to breathe, the chance to process. He had thought absence would help. He had been wrong. So violently wrong.

“I know,” Lando whispered aloud, then immediately caught himself. He raised his hands and signed, I’m sorry, Osc. I’m so sorry.

Oscar’s lips pressed into a thin line, looking down at his own hands. His fingers twitched faintly, betraying a tension he tried to mask. Lando moved closer, crouching in front of him now, hands open, unthreatening, asking permission with the barest tilt of his head. Oscar didn’t resist, though he didn’t meet Lando’s eyes either.

I… I shouldn’t have left that night, Lando signed carefully, slowly, feeling the weight of every motion. I… I regret it. Every second. I— He paused, swallowed, tried again. I was wrong, Osc. I should have stayed. I should have spoken. I should have… been better.

Oscar’s throat moved, an unconscious, unvoiced shiver passing through him. He wanted to say something, to protest, to argue, to shield himself behind sarcasm or distance, but the words wouldn’t form even in his mind. He could only look at Lando, at the concern etched across his face, at the vulnerability that matched his own.

I… Lando’s hands moved again, hesitant now, more intimate, signing, I didn’t act that way because I think you’re weak. Not because I think you’re fragile. Osc… I— He faltered. Breath caught. I care about you. More than just… friends.

Oscar blinked slowly. He understood. The statement sank like something heavy and warm pressing into him, and yet, it made his chest constrict.

You love me? he signed, almost incredulously, because the word itself felt dangerous. Love. Fragile, unpredictable, destabilizing. He didn’t know how to process it. He didn’t know how to allow himself to process it without feeling smaller, less precise, less in control.

Lando nodded, a soft smile breaking through, and continued, slower now, measured, precise: I do. But I know it isn’t enough. Not by itself. It has to come with effort. With listening. With understanding. With conscious care. And I… I want to do all that. I wanna be better. Because I respect you, every part of you. Because I care so much.

In the three days that Lando spent away from Oscar, he’s come to realize that speaking the same language isn’t just words. It’s willing every intention of being present in all the ways that matter.

Oscar’s fingers trembled as he signed back, almost frantically, I don’t want pity. I don’t want you seeing me as someone broken who needs saving. I don’t want you to look at me and feel like you're doing charity.

Lando’s hands cupped Oscar’s face gently, thumbs brushing lightly across his cheeks. His eyes softened, full of care, full of understanding. “I see you,” he spoke with a tenderness that was only reserved for Oscar.

“I see all of you, Osc. You’re not fragile. You’re not broken. You’re more than your voice, more than your scars, more than your silence. You’re… everything I didn’t know I was looking for, and I don’t want to lose you.”

Oscar’s chest felt like it might split under the force of his own pulse. All the uncertainty, all the irrational chaos of feelings he had tried to order, he had tried to calculate, he had tried to control—it all washed over him at once. The logic he depended on crumbled. Love offered no answers, no formulas, no equations. Only sensation. Only risk. Only surrender.

For a moment, he considered retreating, curling inward into himself the way he had during Lando’s absence, hiding behind numbers and certainty. But the warmth radiating from Lando’s hands, the sincerity in his eyes, the steady pulse of intention, the deliberate choice to be present, made the idea impossible.

He swallowed, shaking slightly, and let himself lean into Lando.

Lando didn’t wait. He pulled Oscar into a full embrace, holding him close, pressing their bodies together. Oscar’s hands came up instinctively, resting on Lando’s shoulders at first, then loosening, letting the contact steady him.

It was silent, but it spoke everything words couldn’t.

Oscar tucked his face in the crook of Lando’s neck. Lando rested his chin on the crown of Oscar’s head, soft hair brushing against his lips, and simply held him. The rain outside rattled against the windows, the hum of the city beyond the dorm building muted, insignificant. In this moment, there was only them. Only the quiet, only the understanding, only the fact that they were no longer alone.

“I can’t promise I won’t mess up,” Lando spoke gently into Oscar’s hair. “But I can promise I’ll always try. I’ll try to understand, to listen, to be here. I’ll try to speak your language even when it’s hard for me. Even when it’s hard for both of us.”

Oscar’s chest swelled under the gentle contact. His thoughts, chaotic and spiraling for days, began to untangle just slightly. The words he had no voice to say—the fear, the frustration, the anger, the yearning—were all acknowledged without judgment.

Oscar pulled away just enough to give his hands space between them. He signed with trembling hands. I… I want that too. Even if it doesn’t make sense. Even if I can’t control it.

Lando’s hands tightened around him, gentle but firm, holding him in place. He ran his fingers through the fringe of hair falling over Oscar’s forehead and whispered, “You don’t have to make sense of it alone. I’m here, I’ve got you.”

Oscar felt tears welling, the kind that didn’t need sound. The kind that didn’t need explanation. He felt the weight of months of uncertainty, of control lost, of love unquantifiable, pressing down and lifting all at once. He felt the scar on his throat, the silence that had defined him for so long, and realized it no longer marked him as incomplete. It was simply part of the whole. Part of him that Lando saw, that Lando held, that Lando accepted fully.

Oscar was finally feeling the fragile kind of surrender that didn’t terrify him.

Lando rested their foreheads together, breaths mingling. His eyes searched Oscar’s for permission, for understanding, for the faintest acknowledgment that this was okay.

Oscar’s lips curved, shy and uncertain, but enough.

Enough to speak volumes without sound.

As if he was afraid to break the fragile equilibrium, Lando cautiously leaned forward and pressed his lips against Oscar’s. Gentle. Unsure at first, then growing steadier as Oscar responded, leaning in, hands threading into Lando’s hair. It was not dramatic. It was not perfect. It was precise in its tenderness, in its intent, in the way it acknowledged the shared history of hurt and absence and longing that had brought them here.

Oscar closed his eyes, letting the sensation anchor him, letting the chaotic, unpredictable, unanswerable feelings settle around him. Lando’s arms held him, not to contain him, not to control him, but to give him space to just exist safely.

They pulled back slightly, breathless, foreheads still pressed together. Oscar’s hands rested on Lando’s chest, feeling the steady, warm beat beneath his palms. Lando traced gentle lines along his arms, along the curves and planes of his shoulders, memorizing the body he loved, the boy he wanted, the friend he would now never leave unheld.

You’re not alone, Lando signed softly between them, reading Oscar’s breathing, his slight trembles, his hesitant smiles. Not anymore. Not ever.

Oscar nodded, trembling with the weight of relief and fear and wonder all at once. He signed back, And neither are you.

Oscar felt the chaos of life settle into something tangible, something shared. He realized, slowly, that he did not need to control everything. He did not need answers to all problems. He only needed presence, understanding, and care. And that Lando was here because he chose to.

Charles, Arthur, Logan—they were always there. But this was different. This was intimate. Personal. The bond forged in absence, in misunderstanding, in frustration, and finally in surrender.

They kissed again, slowly, intentionally, not for show, not for anyone else, but because the world had narrowed to this moment, to each other, to the quiet trust that had been rebuilt brick by brick.

Oscar rested his head against Lando’s shoulder afterward, silent tears tracing his cheeks. Lando pressed a gentle kiss to the top of his head despite being shorter just because it felt more sincere, murmuring softly, “I love you, Osc.”

Oscar’s hands clutched at him, trembled, then relaxed. He felt the words, even though he could not speak them aloud. He felt the weight, the meaning, the promise.

He allowed himself to exist in uncertainty with trust. In surrender.

With Lando’s hands holding him, steady, safe, unjudging.

The world beyond the dorm room still existed—chaotic, unpredictable, unanswerable—but within these four walls, with Lando, Oscar understood something he had almost forgotten: that love could be tender, deliberate, patient, and transformative. That it could exist alongside grief, fear, and uncertainty. That it could heal, even if slowly, and even if imperfectly.

And in that quiet, intimate embrace, Oscar finally let himself fall completely, because Lando was there. Lando, who spoke his language, who understood his silences, who held him when the world had not. Lando, who was no longer just a presence in his life, but a partner in it. A witness. A refuge.

When they pulled apart, Oscar lifted his hands to sign, Even when you’ll never hear me say it back? Even when you’ll never hear me at all?

“I can hear you,” Lando smiled, holding both of Oscar’s hands in his and pressing ardent kisses on the skin there, “Just in a different way.”

And for the first time, Oscar felt fully, dangerously, unquantifiably alive.

The morning of Lando’s graduation was crisp, sunlight pale and gentle as it filtered through the campus trees. The sky held a quiet promise, and yet Oscar felt a tension in his chest that made him almost resent the beauty of the day. He adjusted his tie—one of the rare times he allowed himself to wear something more formal than casual college attire—and checked his reflection in the dorm mirror.

Lando was already dressed, pacing lightly across the room with the restless energy that had always defined him. His cap and gown hung slightly too large, sleeves bunched at the wrists, the mortarboard sitting crooked on his head. Oscar watched him, a soft exhale escaping even though no sound came.

You ready? Lando signed, walking over with a wide grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Oscar tilted his head, expression calm, collected, composed as always. Yes, he signed back. His hands didn’t tremble, but Lando saw the faint line of worry in his eyes. The subtle tension in his jaw, the way his fingers flexed against each other.

Lando stepped closer, brushing a hand lightly over Oscar’s shoulder. You don’t have to be calm for me.

Oscar’s lips twitched, barely forming a smile. I am calm. You’re the one graduating, not me, he signed. But Lando could read the dissonance, as he always could. That quiet, imperceptible way Oscar betrayed emotion beneath a veneer of control.

The ceremony itself was a blur of robes, speeches, and applause. Oscar’s attention was less on the pomp and more on Lando. He watched the way Lando walked across the stage, head held high, smile genuine, eyes searching for him in the crowd. Lando’s achievements—talents long honed, hours of practice and relentless creativity—were apparent to everyone, but to Oscar, the small gestures mattered more: the way Lando’s fingers twitched in that familiar conducting motion, how his posture remained unconsciously theatrical, yet grounded, how his gaze softened when it finally landed on him.

Afterward, in the cluster of family and friends spilling onto the lawn, Oscar’s hands moved without thought, signing congratulations to Lando. There was a tenderness in his movements that made Lando’s eyes light up at each one, smiles growing wider, laughter spilling unrestrained and alive.

Arthur leaned on one side, grinning broadly, and signed to Oscar, He’s all yours, officially, now that he's graduated and unemployed.

“Hey! I’ve already submitted applications, okay?” Lando pouted at this, earning a silent laugh from Oscar.

Logan nudged from the other side, eyes sparkling, Lando’s good for you.

Oscar’s lips curved slightly. Yes, I know, he signed, fingers brushing lightly against Lando’s hand. The motion was intimate but unannounced, a quiet claim that was understood without words.

Charles appeared behind them, having already congratulated Lando on his music and mentorship accomplishments. He clapped Lando on the shoulder and then signed at Oscar with a knowing smile, You’re in good hands.

Oscar’s chest tightened slightly, not from pride, not entirely, but from the weight of acknowledgment. The people who mattered most in his life—those who had guided him, supported him, and witnessed his quiet struggles—were all here, and they saw him as whole. And now, they saw the two of them together, not as separate, but as partners in something fragile, delicate, and real.

Later, when the crowd thinned and the excitement began to dissipate into the warm sunlight, Lando took Oscar’s hand, guiding him away from the noise. They walked slowly toward the old quad, the grass soft beneath their shoes, the distant chatter of students floating like music over the open space.

Lando’s expression shifted subtly, something quieter now, almost hesitant. He had a secret weighing on him that he had not shared, one that he knew would unsettle the delicate equilibrium they had built over the past months.

“Osc…” He began, his hand brushing over Oscar’s, the gesture intimate but hesitant. “I have to move out of student housing. After today, I won’t be here anymore.”

Oscar didn’t speak, didn’t sign for a moment. His composure held, like a tether securing him against the chaos of unexpected emotion.

But Lando knew. He always knew. The slight flare of Oscar’s nostrils, the faint narrowing of his eyes, the subtle tension in the curve of his shoulders—Lando could read it as clearly as any sentence spoken aloud.

I know, Oscar finally signed, calm but measured, composed in a way that concealed every flicker of internal conflict.

Lando shook his head, almost frustrated at the silence. No… I know you know, but… I mean, I don’t want this to feel like distance between us. I don’t want it to change anything.

Oscar’s lips curved just slightly. Change is… inevitable, he signed. The words were careful, almost detached, but Lando could feel the tremor beneath them, the unspoken ache that accompanied every attempt at control.

Lando drew a deep breath and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a small, folded key and brought it up to show Oscar, “Here.” 

Then his hands moved almost ceremoniously. It’s a duplicate to my new place. If you want… you can come visit. Or… I don’t know. Maybe live with me? Stay with me?

Oscar blinked, momentarily stunned. He stared at the key, then at Lando, and back again. It wasn’t just a key. It wasn’t just permission. It was a declaration. A choice. A step that meant something profound. Lando wasn’t offering convenience. He wasn’t offering temporary comfort. He was offering permanence. Commitment. Trust.

Oscar’s chest tightened. His lips curved, just a faint, almost imperceptible smile, but it carried weight far beyond what words could express.

He signed slowly, I… will come.

Lando’s grin broke across his face, unrestrained, genuine, alive. “Yeah?”

He pulled Oscar close, hands resting lightly but firmly on his shoulders, thumb brushing along the curve of his jaw. Oscar leaned in slightly, letting the warmth and certainty of Lando’s presence anchor him.

Arthur and Logan appeared then, lingering near the edge of the quad, smiling knowingly. “About time,” Arthur whistled, a teasing edge in his fingers.

Logan laughed, light and musical, “No funny business, okay?”

Oscar’s eyes flicked to Lando, and Lando’s to him, a shared understanding passing between them. There was no need for words. The gestures, the looks, the quiet acknowledgment. Everything was understood.

Charles stepped in between them, wrapped his arms around their shoulders, and whispered into Lando’s ear, “You hurt him, I kill you, okay?”

“Jesus, Charles.” Lando sputtered, the words catching in his throat. Oscar’s shoulders shook in silent laughter.

He felt a swell of emotion he couldn’t fully articulate. Oscar allowed himself to finally feel the depth of everything he had been avoiding—the uncertainty, the unpredictability, the chaos of love and change—without fear. He felt it because he was not alone. He was tethered, yes, but not confined.

Later that evening, they stood together at the threshold of Lando’s new apartment. The building smelled faintly of fresh paint and new beginnings, the space empty and uninhabited, waiting for them to shape it, to fill it with life. Lando brought the duplicate key out again and this time, he let Oscar hold it in his hand, letting him choose when to step forward.

Oscar turned the key over, feeling its weight, feeling the promise it carried. He looked at Lando—his messy hair, his expressive eyes, the quiet confidence tempered with tender vulnerability—and knew the answer.

He signed, delicately, I’ll move in. With you.

Lando smiled, heart pounding, and pressed a gentle kiss to Oscar’s temple. “Welcome home.”

Oscar’s lips curved in a silent, assured smile. Finally, something he could trust. Something he could hold onto without fear of it dissolving into uncertainty.

And as they stood together, framed by the empty space waiting to be filled, Oscar felt the weight of his past, the uncertainty of his future, and the constancy of now. Lando was here—present, waiting, loving.

The key was heavy in his hand, but in a way that was comforting, not burdensome. It wasn’t just an invitation. It was a declaration of a promise of safekeeping. A tether to something that made sense even when it didn’t.

To feel certain about something that wasn’t numbers or formulas or control was a foreign concept to Oscar. It was a language he didn't speak.

But it was Lando’s, and so despite all fragility and irrationality, Oscar felt certain about love.

They spent the rest of the afternoon unpacking boxes in silence at first, then slowly filling the apartment with small touches, laughter, music, and shared memories.

Arthur, Logan, and Charles had insisted on helping, teasing and signing at Oscar when he rolled his eyes, laughing at Lando’s antics, and praising their careful navigation of the new, shared space.

“What’s that room gonna be?” Logan pointed towards the room at the end of the hall. Lando shrugged his shoulders, “I’m not really sure. Maybe Oscar can turn it into his study room.”

Oscar looked at Lando, eyebrows furrowed in confusion, and he signed, That should be your music room.

I was thinking of just renting a music studio nearby. Lando replied with a smile, but was met with a frown from his boyfriend.

We can share it, you know. My study room and your music room, Oscar said.

Would you like that? Lando grinned. Oscar nodded, I would love that. I love hearing you play and sing.

Every box placed, every picture hung, every small compromise—it was a rhythm they built together. A shared life beginning to take shape.

Oscar realized that moving in wasn’t just about proximity. Lando wasn’t just letting him share a space; he was letting him share a life.

The apartment was quiet, save for the faint hum of the city beyond the windows, a distant, almost irrelevant soundtrack. Boxes still littered the corners of the living room, half-unpacked, evidence of movement and new beginnings. Oscar and Lando had spent the day arranging their shared space, laughing softly, teasing each other over misplaced books and crooked picture frames.

But now, evening had folded into night, and the apartment was theirs in a way that went beyond furniture or layout. It belonged to them in subtle, unspoken ways—the way Oscar’s hand brushed against Lando’s shoulder as they moved past each other, the way Lando’s fingers lingered on the back of Oscar’s neck when they sat close together on the couch, the quiet, mutual acknowledgment of desire that had been undeniably building.

Oscar sat on the bed, leaning against the headboard. The key to Lando’s new apartment rested on his nightstand; a symbol of commitment, of trust, and of belonging. He watched Lando move toward him, bare feet making no sound on the carpet, eyes soft and luminous under the muted glow of the lamp. 

Lando’s presence had always been overwhelming in its intensity, but now it was gentle, intentional, as if every step, every glance, had been measured for tenderness.

Without speaking, Lando crawled into bed and pressed himself against Oscar’s torso, resting his head on the younger boy’s chest. Oscar held him steadily, one hand on the small of his back and the other on the back of his head.

Lando sighed and let himself bask in the warmth for a couple moments before he’s propping himself up to look at Oscar, a hand reaching up to cup his face. His eyes searched Oscar’s, seeking permission, asking for consent without words, and Oscar, as always, understood. He nodded slightly, fingers brushing lightly over Lando’s hand in affirmation.

They moved together slowly in a careful, intentional choreography born from months of familiarity and trust. Oscar’s hands trailed along Lando’s back, memorizing the lines and planes of him, feeling the warmth beneath his fingers, the way his muscles tensed and relaxed. 

Lando’s hands roamed over Oscar’s shoulders, down his arms, brushing lightly over the scar that ran along his neck. Oscar’s chest tightened at the touch, the memory of pain mingling with the thrill of intimacy.

Lando’s fingers lingered at Oscar’s jaw, thumbs brushing along the curve of his cheeks. “God, I love you.” He whispered into the stillness of the night.

Oscar’s chest swelled with conflicting emotions as Lando looked at him in surrender. Relief, fear, desire, tenderness, and shame all intertwined. He wanted to express that he loved Lando too, but no sound would emerge. No words. He could only look at Lando with his eyes wide.

Lando placed a hand over Oscar’s heart as Oscar hovered over him. “You’re so beautiful, Osc.” Lando quietly spoke, their breaths mingling.

Oscar stilled. His heart raced.

He was hyper-aware of the silence that defined him—the inability to produce sound, to let Lando hear his pleasure, his sighs, the little noises that marked human vulnerability. A creeping insecurity rose in him, cold and uninvited. He stiffened slightly, uncertain how to communicate the depth of sensation he felt.

“You okay?” Lando asked. Oscar nodded, swallowing thickly and forcing a smile. He didn’t want to stop. He didn’t want Lando’s loving gaze to morph into something like pity.

They explored the intimacy that was both new and familiar. Lando’s body responded, trembling under Oscar’s touch, and Oscar felt the delicate responsibility of being the anchor. The responsibility of holding him together while Lando allowed himself to fall apart, to let go. Lando’s hands gripped at his shoulders, his nails tracing gentle paths over skin, his body pliant, open, vulnerable.

Oscar adjusted his movements, careful, mindful of Lando’s responses, feeling the pulse of life and warmth beneath his hands. He wanted so badly to just let himself exist in the moment without needing to vocalize it, but he was almost bursting at the seams with the desperation of trying to communicate what he cannot speak.

Lando’s breath hitched, eyes closing briefly, and he let himself go, allowing himself to be supported, to be grounded by Oscar’s presence. The vulnerability in him was beautiful, haunting, and Oscar’s heart clenched with the intensity of it. He kissed Lando’s neck softly, pressing light, reverent kisses along the curves of his jaw and collarbone, holding him steady.

Lando sounded so beautiful. Oscar could hear him, could see the way his lips part, could feel the vibrations against his skin.

Oscar felt the insecurity creeping back into his chest like a stubborn vine growing and regrowing no matter how many times he tries to cut them at the base. He also wanted to express how good it felt, how intense, how utterly consuming, but there was no sound to bridge that gap. His hands paused, unsure, and Lando felt the hesitation.

“It’s okay, Osc,” Lando’s voice was barely above a whisper. “You don’t have to make sounds for me.”

His chest rose and fell rapidly. Tears threatened to spill. The impossibility of communication, the impossibility of translating the fullness of sensation into speech, pressed on him, but Lando understood it anyway. He understood it through the slight tilt of Oscar’s head, the pressure of his hands, the way he guided Lando with steady hands and steady intent.

Oscar pulled away just enough to bring his hands between them. His fingers trembled as he signed, I love you. I want you to know. I want you to hear me. But I can’t— I’m sorry. I love you. I’m sorry.

An expression of hurt flashed in Lando’s face but it was gone as soon as it came, “Hey. Hey, look at me. It’s okay. You’re okay.” He reached up to cradle Oscar’s head in his hands, thumbs rubbing soothing lines on the warm skin of his cheekbones trying to erase the ache

“I don’t need to hear you say it, Osc. I know you love me, because I feel it. I feel it every day. I feel it in the way you look at me, touch me, hold me. I feel it in all the things you do to, with, and for me. I don’t know what to say to make you believe me because the truth is, there are no words that could express just how loved I feel by you.”

Lando’s hands and eyes and presence grounded him. Oscar leaned forward, pressing his forehead to Lando’s, allowing the warmth and steady rhythm of their shared breaths to fill the silence.

The insecurity didn’t fully recede—it never fully would—but Lando’s reassurance, steady and unyielding, wrapped around him like the way the moon embraced the earth at night.

Lando ducked his head and pressed a soft kiss to the scar on Oscar’s neck. It was a gesture of reverence, of love, of acknowledgment. “This is part of you.” His lips brushed against the soft skin with every word, “I cherish it, I cherish all of you.”

The shame, the fear, and the insecurity that had taken root in the cavities of Oscar’s chest ebbed slightly, replaced by the overwhelming tenderness of being seen, wholly and without judgment. He pressed closer to Lando, letting himself absorb the affirmation, the trust, the intimate declaration that he was enough.

And then, unhurriedly, they resumed. The pause gave them a renewed rhythm, a new connection. Every touch, every motion, every careful adjustment carried the weight of understanding, of love, of mutual respect. Oscar held Lando steady again, eyes watching him, memorizing the curves and warmth of him, and Lando met his gaze, hands tight on Oscar’s shoulders, lips parted slightly, eyes shining with unspoken gratitude and desire.

In that space, time slowed. The world outside became insignificant, the chaos of uncertainty and insecurity irrelevant. All that mattered was this—this shared presence, this intimacy, this delicate balance of vulnerability and care.

Oscar felt Lando tremble beneath him, heard the silent rhythm of his heartbeat, and knew with certainty that he was enough. And Lando, in turn, felt the strength, the steadiness, the quiet power that Oscar carried, the silent force that guided them both through everything.

They kissed again, ardently. Oscar pressed his lips to Lando’s, heart racing, emotions raw and exposed. He couldn’t speak it aloud, but in his touch, in his embrace, in the intensity of his focus and care, Lando could feel it. Every small movement, every gentle caress, every intentional touch became their language, more powerful than words.

Hours passed in the quiet, in the shared intimacy, in the slow unfolding of trust and passion. Oscar felt the occasional prowling insecurity, the persistent question of whether he was enough, whether he was understood, whether he could ever communicate fully without sound. But every time it surfaced, Lando was there—reassuring, grounding, loving, patient, reverent.

They rested in the aftermath, tangled together in limbs and warmth. Lando pressed kisses along the lines of Oscar’s neck and shoulders, fingers brushing over the scar like it was a map of survival, a testament to resilience.

Lando propped himself up on his elbows and smiled softly at Oscar, flexing his fingers to sign, I love you, and if you need me to constantly remind you, I will.

Oscar tries to return the smile, albeit reluctantly, Even when the silence becomes too much?

“I think I’m loud enough for the both of us.”

The night stretched on, quiet and luminous, punctuated only by the soft breathing of two people who had found in each other not just love, but sanctuary, affirmation, and home. In that intimacy, in that tender, unspoken conversation, Oscar understood that love could exist beyond words, that connection could be profound without sound, that desire could be expressed through presence, through touch, through unyielding attention.

Oscar surrendered. He let himself fall completely. Not perfectly, not without doubt, but fully. They drifted off to sleep together, the scar on Oscar’s neck kissed one last time before the world outside became irrelevant, each heartbeat a quiet vow—that here, in this shared life, their shared language was enough.

They loved each other in a way that made even silence speak volumes.

And in that understanding, Oscar finally allowed himself to exist without control, without answers, without certainty. 

Simply, beautifully, unquantifiably,

with Lando.