Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The apartment isn’t much. Just a few boxes stacked near the wall, a mattress on the floor, a single lamp.

Oscar drags one of the boxes toward the kitchen and opens it. Inside: two plates, three mismatched mugs, a handful of utensils clinking together. He left a lot of things behind – most of it technically his, but it’s just… easier this way.

He hears drip, drip, drip. The sink. He twists the handle tight, but it only squeaks in protest, refusing to fully seal. He tries again and the sink still drips.

“Fine,” he mutters, letting it go.

He puts a few other things away, moving throughout his new home. He can still hear the drip from the kitchen.

He showers. Undresses under the too bright light, steps beneath the water, lets it pound against the ache in his shoulders.

It hits him then, how quiet it is without the hum of another person. Without Lando’s playlists looping endlessly in the background. Just his breath and the steady rush of water.

He presses a palm flat to the tile. His chest feels heavy. He cries. Not dramatic, just tired. Tears lost in the stream, indistinguishable from the water already falling. He keeps his eyes closed until the heat runs out. He dries off half heartedly, leaves the towel in a heap, and crawls onto the mattress.

The ceiling creaks from the upstairs neighbors.

The faucet still drips somewhere in the dark.

Oscar oversleeps, but eventually drags himself up and stands too long in front of the mirror trying to convince his reflection to look alive. His eyes are swollen from the night before. He throws on a clean shirt, checks the time and swears softly.

He’s locking his front door when the door next to his opens, the sound slightly startling him.

A man steps out: dirty blonde hair, strong features, and broad shoulders that make the narrow hallway feel narrower. If his heart weren’t still cracked down the middle, he’d call the man handsome. Instead, it just reminds him of everything he’s too tired to feel.

The man notices him staring – or just glancing, really – and looks back with friendly blue eyes and the hint of a polite smile. Oscar looks away fast, fumbling with the keys like they’ve suddenly stopped working.

The elevator arrives and of course they both step inside. Of course there’s no one else. Oscar stares at the numbers above the door, watching them flick down floor by floor. He counts his breaths. The stranger smells citrusy and a little like eucalyptus.

When the doors open on the ground floor, Oscar mutters a quiet ‘thanks’ as if the man’s done him a favor by standing there. Stupid. But his head’s a mess. He escapes into the weak morning light, shaking his head at his own awkwardness. But it’s fine.

He survived the elevator.

Hopefully he’ll survive the day.

He’s survived worse.

The cafe is already open by the time he clocks in. Customers lined up, cups clinking, espresso machine hissing. Everything sounds the same as before.

He tries not to notice, but he does anyway. How Lando moves easily through it all, smiling like life has never been better. He jokes and laughs with regulars and coworkers and everyone. He’s good at being liked. Funny, flirty, cute – all the things that drew Oscar to him in the first place.

Oscar keeps his head down, focused on coffee and wiping counters that don’t really need wiping. Every time Lando laughs, the sound catches somewhere behind his ribs.

It’s fine.

They’ve worked together without dating before. They can do it again. He busies himself restocking lids and napkins, eyes fixed anywhere but Lando. It’s easier when he doesn’t look.

Logan comes up from the back with a mop at closing. “You alright?” he asks.

Oscar nods. “Yeah. Fine.”

Logan raises a brow.

Oscar huffs a small breath that isn’t really close enough to a laugh. “Just tired.”

“New apartment treating you okay?”

“Fine,” Oscar says again, softer this time.

Logan wrings the mop out. “Still don’t get why you were the one who had to move. It was your place first.”

“It’s fine,” Oscar shrugs. He’s running out of variations. “Didn’t want to fight about it.”

“You should’ve,” Logan mutters. “I would’ve kicked his ass out.”

Oscar doesn’t answer. He just turns off the lights over the counter one by one.

He doesn’t mean to cry.

It just happens. The quiet just catches up to him, sitting on the edge of his mattress with the lights still off and shoes still on. He lets himself fold forward, elbows on his knees, breathing uneven. He decides, half out loud, that he’ll give himself an hour. An hour to feel pathetic, to wallow, to get it out. Then he’ll move.

When the hour’s up, maybe longer, he wipes his face on his sleeve, gets up, and grabs his keys. He needs groceries.

The store’s fluorescent and too cold. He moves through the aisles quickly, picking up anything that looks like starting over.

By the time he’s back at the building, the sky’s gone pink. The elevator doors are just about to close when someone calls out –

“Hold please!”

He catches the door with his hand, steps back automatically. It’s his neighbor from this morning. Only now he looks different; sleeves rolled up his forearms, hands near black, hair messier. He smells like a garage, like motor oil and cigarette smoke.

“Thank you,” he says.

Oscar nods a little, eyes dropping to the floor.

The man shifts, reaches forward, and Oscar flinches instinctively before realizing he’s just pressing the button for their floor.

“Sorry,” Oscar says softly.

“It’s alright,” he says. “Long day?”

Oscar looks up. There’s a small smile waiting for him. Something about it feels undeservedly kind. He exhales, shoulders loosening. Maybe it’s fatigue or maybe it’s just honesty, but he admits, “Awful day, actually. You?”

The man chuckles low. “Not the best – but I’m guessing not as bad as yours.”

Oscar blinks. “What makes you say that?”

“Looks like you’ve been crying.”

It’s not accusing, just observational. Still, Oscar feels the back of his throat tighten. He looks down again, embarrassed, pressing his grocery bag a little tighter against his side. He bites his lip. Doesn’t trust himself to say anything else.

The man doesn’t push. Just stands beside him in the quiet elevator hum until the doors open.

Oscar steps out first.

The groceries don’t take long to unpack, there isn’t much, just enough to make it look like someone lives here now. He lines pasta and sauce up on the counter, sets everything out neatly like he’s following a recipe for normalcy.

Then he opens one cabinet. He checks another one. It takes a full minute for him to accept it. He doesn’t have a pot for boiling water. He left them all behind.

He presses both hands to the counter, breathing shallowly. It’s such a small thing. Stupid. The tears come fast this time, hot and silent. He tries to swallow them down, but they slip out anyway.

When he can breathe again, he wipes his face with his sleeve and picks up his phone, scrolls through his contacts without thinking.

It’s not sadness or hope that makes him type – it’s just. The instinct to solve the problem the fastest way.

The typing bubble appears almost instantly.

of course
you need it now?

whats your address ? i’ll come by

He stares at the screen for a long time. He doesn’t really want Lando to come here – not yet, maybe not ever. But he can’t picture walking back into that apartment either, where their lives are still half mixed and pretending not to be. He should say no. He could go buy another one tomorrow. But that would mean another night eating nothing, another night of feeling empty in more ways than one.

He types it out slowly, sets the phone down on the counter, and wipes his eyes again.

It’s fine.

It’s just a pot. It’ll be over in thirty seconds. A hand off at the door, polite thank you, goodbye.

But when the knock comes, Oscar’s heart jumps anyway.

Lando’s grin is easy when the door opens, like nothing ever cracked between them. “Delivery service.”

“Thank you,” Oscar murmurs, reaching for it.

But Lando doesn’t let go. His foot nudges the edge of the door before it can close. “Osc? You’re not gonna show me around?”

Oscar hesitates. The word ‘no’ is sitting right there, small and obvious. It would be so simple to say.

He doesn’t.

Lando looks around like he belongs, takes up this space like it’s his, too. Makes a joke about the mess and the leaky sink and Oscar’s poor interior design skills. Oscar forces a smile because arguing would take too much out of him right now.

He doesn’t remember who moves first, only that the air shifts and then there’s nothing to decide anymore. It’s familiar, the closeness. Lando’s hands and mouth and rhythm.

When it’s over, Lando doesn’t linger. Shirt back on, belt buckle snapping closed. His phone buzzes in his pocket.

“See you tomorrow,” he says lightly, like they’d just finished a conversation instead of ruining his sheets.

Oscar doesn’t cry. He just sits there, waiting for the silence to feel like something other than punishment for his own stupid decisions.

A knock comes almost immediately after the door clicks shut and Oscar’s breath catches. He tells himself he isn’t hoping. Not hoping for an apology, not for Lando to ask for him back, not even for another round.

His heart still drops when he opens the door and it’s not Lando.

“Hey,” says his neighbor, clean and citrusy again. He’s holding a plate of cookies covered in plastic wrap. “Thought you could use a proper welcome to the building.”

For a second Oscar just blinks at him. He feels a rise in his throat before he can stop it – that sharp sting of disappointment, of wanting something impossible. Because he was hoping. He really was.

The neighbor tilts his head. “Do they look that terrible?”

“What?” Oscar manages.

“You look like you’re about to cry,” he says, gentle. “Not because of me, I hope?”

Oscar’s smile flickers up, automatic, then fades. “No, not you. It’s – me. I do it to myself.”

The man’s brow furrows, just a small crease. Concern without prying.

Oscar shakes his head quickly, forcing another smile. “Uh. Thank you. You really didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to,” the neighbor says simply.

Oscar nods, takes the plate carefully, fingers brushing his for just a second. “Thank you,” he says again.

“Of course,” his neighbor says. Then, “I’m Max, by the way.”

“Oscar,” he replies.

“It’s nice to meet you, Oscar,” Max smiles. “Welcome to the building.”

He stares at the cookies on the counter for a moment. When he finally picks one up, they’re still warm; when he takes a bite, it’s soft and really, really good. The sharp edge of the day eases a little. He finishes the first, then reaches for another because he had a bad day. Because it’s polite, maybe. Because they’re there.

The second disappears just as fast. Then a third. By the time he sets the plate back on the counter, the ache in his chest has been dulled by sugar and something that tastes like kindness.

He doesn’t bother with the pasta. He leaves the pot where it sits forgotten. Exhaustion pulls his eyes closed before he remembers to brush his teeth, he falls asleep with the taste of chocolate still on his tongue.

Days start to blur. He takes the same new route to work every morning. Memorizes new cracks in the sidewalk. Clocks in at the same coffee shop with the chalkboard sign that never changes. He’s adjusting to this routine now. Or maybe just moving on autopilot.

At the cafe, everyone knows but no one says it. The pitying glances say enough. Logan asks if he’s sleeping; he lies and says yes. Someone jokes that he looks tired; he smiles instead of responding. He keeps busy – pours coffee, wipes counters, counts change twice because it keeps his hands moving.

Then there’s Lando – laughing and smiling. Flirting. Oscar knows it’s flirting. He tries not to look, but it’s impossible not to notice. The cadence is the same, the smile recycled from a hundred mornings they used to share.

When Lando’s attention lands on him, it feels like sunlight. Warm but not for him. Or at least, not only for him.

He just wants Lando to say sorry. That’s all. One word and he’d give. Oscar would probably be on his knees, begging for something he already knows isn’t love. But Lando doesn’t apologize. Never has. Probably never will.

So Oscar keeps pouring coffee. Pretends it doesn’t matter. Pretends this is progress. He tries not to slip into old patterns. He’s getting used to the shape of this new routine: the morning walk, the careful silence at work, the evenings alone with too many thoughts. It’s not happiness, but it’s close enough to stable.

Then one day when he’s about to clock out, he feels it. Lando’s gaze, a familiar weight.

“Hey,” he says casually. “Heading out?”

“Almost,” Oscar answers without looking up.

“Good. Wanna grab a drink?”

He shakes his head before he can think about it. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Come on, Osc.” Lando’s voice softens. “Just wanna hang. We were friends before all of this, y’know?”

Oscar looks up. That smile – gentle, coaxing, just shy of guilt. It hits him right in the chest. Lando has always known exactly where to aim. He wants to say no again. He knows better. But it’s Lando. It’s always Lando.

And even now, after everything, that pull hasn’t loosened.

So they go.

The bar is mostly empty. Lando orders for both of them without asking, and Oscar doesn’t argue.

The first drink goes down too fast. It’s been a while since he’s had anything stronger than coffee and he hasn’t eaten all day. The warmth spreads quickly, softening his thoughts, the music, Lando’s voice.

They talk. Nothing important. Nothing real. About work and old coworkers, inside jokes, stories that only end happy. It almost feels easy. The kind of easy that used to make him feel safe. Lando still knows how to make him laugh. The sound comes out before Oscar can stop it and Lando’s smile widens like that’s all he’s been waiting for.

The second drink tastes sweeter. The third one hits harder. The room tilts slightly, or maybe it’s just the excitement of being looked at again.

It’s fine.

He’s allowed to have a good night.

It starts slow. Lando’s elbow brushes his arm. Presses their knees together. It’s casual, but it makes Oscar’s pulse stumble anyway. He doesn’t move away, but he doesn't lean in either. He’s been so careful not to. Been actively trying not to. But Lando can always read him.

Another drink or two disappears. Lando shifts closer, it’s subtle, but deliberate. Oscar feels it like gravity changing.

Despite the dizziness, Oscar knows exactly what’s happening. He knows it’s Lando who moves first. Lando who starts it. Lando who crosses the line.

And still, he lets it happen.

Lets Lando kiss him, lets him take what he wants. Because saying no feels harder than pretending it still means something. It pulls everything out of him – breath, logic, weeks of effort not to fall back into orbit.

He doesn’t kiss back at first. Then he does. Just enough. For a moment, the bar, the noise, the ache all dissolve. It’s just Lando again. Close enough to forget the rest.

Almost like before.

Almost.

“Come home with me,” Lando says.

It takes Oscar a second to understand. He means the old apartment. The one they painted together. The one they shared. The one he left behind.

Oscar shakes his head. “Come back to mine.”

Lando groans. “No, that place is depressing. Just come over.”

Oscar’s tired and he does miss the place and the alcohol makes it seem less like a bad idea, more like a reward. And it’s Lando. So he nods.

They pay the tab and stumble outside, cool air against their flushed skin. Lando catches him against the brick wall just around the corner, mouth already finding his. The kiss is messy and eager and so, so easy. Oscar closes his eyes and tries to just be in it.

He almost manages.

Then the memories creep in anyway. About that apartment. Home. The place he caught Lando with Magui. Images flash behind his eyelids, the sounds echo in his ears. It hits like nausea.

He pulls back.

Lando smiles, a little dazed. “You alright, baby?”

Oscar’s breath hitches at the word. “I need to go home,” he says quietly.

Lando frowns, confused. “Fine, if you really want we can go to yours – ”

Oscar steps away, shaking his head. “No, Lando. I just… I don’t feel well. Too much to drink.”

Lando blinks. “Alright then.” He shrugs, shifting his weight before shoving his hands in his pockets. “Get home safe, yeah?”

Then he’s gone.

Oscar stays for a moment, leans against the wall to stay upright, breath catching in uneven pulls. He closes his eyes again, just to steady the world. It doesn’t stop spinning.

He keeps it together enough to walk home. Mostly, he’s distracted by the great challenge of getting one foot in front of the other. His eyes burn, but he blinks it back. He’s done crying, he tells himself. Done letting Lando make him feel like this.

The building looks… still not entirely familiar. The lobby light flickers when he passes through. He doesn’t meet anyone’s eyes. Doesn’t look up at the elevator mirror. When he reaches his floor, his hand trembles just a little around his keys.

He stops at his door.

Home.

That’s what he’s supposed to call it, anyway.

He stands there too long in the hallway as it hums softly with other people’s lives.

He tells himself to go in. It’s fine. Turn the key. Keep moving.

But he can’t.

Several thoughts swirl at once. He should’ve gone with Lando. Or he shouldn’t have gone with him to the bar at all. Or maybe he never should’ve dated him in the first place. Each version hurts in a slightly different way.

His knees give before he can think about it. He slides down the door, back against the wood, until he’s sitting on the ground. He tucks his head between his knees as a sob breaks out of him before he can stop it.

It’s not graceful, not quiet. Just the raw kind that leaves his chest aching and his throat tight.

“Oscar?”

His head jerks up. He hadn’t heard the door open, but Max is there, a few feet away with concern written all over his face.

Oscar blinks hard, disoriented. The world’s gone blurry again, and he can’t tell if it’s from the alcohol or the tears or the – everything.

“Hey,” Max says quietly, crouching down beside him. “You okay?”

Oscar opens his mouth, but no sound comes out so he just nods.

Max doesn’t press. “Can I help you up?”

Oscar wipes his face on his sleeve. “No, thank you,” he mumbles.

He tries to stand, but the hallway tilts. The motion sends a wave of dizziness through him, and he tips forward before he can stop it. Max catches him with both hands, firm and careful at his sides. Steady. And the world steadies with him.

“Sorry,” Oscar breathes. “Been drinking.”

Max’s mouth twitches into a faint smile. “Nothing to apologize for.”

Oscar exhales, eyes fluttering closed. Somewhere in the haze of his mind, he knows he should pull away. Be polite or somewhat composed, but he can’t bring himself to care. Not when it feels like this. The sure weight of Max’s arms, the grounding feeling of touch. It’s been so long since being held didn’t come with consequence.

“Let’s get you inside,” Max murmurs softly.

Oscar opens his eyes and up close, Max’s face is all soft edges and tired kindness, blue eyes even more clear at this proximity.

Oscar shouldn’t be leaning on him like this. But Max doesn’t let go. He shifts only enough to reach for the keys still clutched in Oscar’s fingers.

“May I?”

Oscar takes a half step aside, and Max’s hand stays firm around his waist. The keys jingle a few times before Max fits one into the lock. He helps Oscar inside and Oscar doesn’t have the energy to feel embarrassed about the boxes still unopened or the emptiness of the space. He just feels relieved walking through the threshold with someone else beside him.

Max doesn’t comment on the lack of furniture or the bare walls. He only says, “You need water.”

Oscar nods, too tired to argue, and lets himself be guided toward the kitchen. There’s nowhere to sit, really. Besides the floor. So he leans against the counter and closes his eyes while Max opens cabinets. The sound of cupboard doors creaking feels far away. Oscar would help, but he doesn’t remember where he put the glasses. Most of the shelves are empty anyway.

Max finds one eventually and fills it at the sink. When he turns the handle off, the faucet keeps leaking. He twists it tighter, like Oscar’s done a dozen times, but the sound continues.

Drip, drip, drip.

“Sorry,” Oscar mutters. “Just leave it.” He waves a hand, but his balance wavers with the motion.

Before he can steady himself, Max’s arm is there again, doing it for him. He sets the glass down on the counter, then without warning, scoops Oscar up.

Oscar yelps, startled fully awake by the sudden shift, by how easily he’s lifted.

“Whoa – ”

“Got you,” Max says evenly, setting him gently on the countertop.

Oscar blinks, still dizzy, watching as Max picks the glass back up and presses it into his hands.

“Drink,” he urges softly and Oscar obeys with a few slow sips. “What do you want to eat?” he asks.

Oscar shakes his head. “Nothing. You don’t have to – I’m fine. Thanks.”

“Do you even have any food here?”

He nods weakly. “I’m fine. I’ll be… fine.”

Max studies him for a beat, then starts moving around the kitchen anyway.

Oscar sighs, letting his head fall back against the cabinet with a dull thud. “You don’t have to stay with me. I’ll be okay.”

Max doesn’t answer. The fridge door opens, followed by the clatter of bottles and containers that don’t amount to much. Then the freezer. Then a sigh. He pulls out one of Oscar’s sad frozen dinners, turning it over in his hand.

“You actually like this?”

Oscar laughs under his breath. “Not really.”

Max puts it back, shaking his head. “Stay there. Don’t move. Drink your water.”

Oscar smiles faintly, another small, tired laugh escaping him. “Which is it – drink or don’t move?”

“Both,” Max says, already heading toward the door.

Oscar stays put, eyes half closed, taking occasional sips of water. He doesn’t know how long he sits like that before Max comes back carrying a plate of food. Grilled chicken and roasted brussel sprouts.

Oscar wrinkles his nose. “Brussel sprouts?”

“Just try them,” Max smiles, setting the plate on the counter beside him. “Eat and I’ll leave you alone.”

Oscar takes a bite, mostly to be polite but. The chicken is tender. The sprouts are caramelized, a little sweet. He hadn’t realized how long it’s been since he’d had an actual meal. A couple of days, probably. Maybe more. Everything lately has come from a box or the microwave.

“You made this?” he asks between bites.

Max nods, leaning back against the counter across from him. “Yeah. I had leftovers.”

Oscar swallows another mouthful. “It’s really good. And your cookies too, by the way.”

Max smiles. “Glad you liked them.”

Oscar sets the fork down and looks at Max, a little more clear, enough to be self conscious. “Sorry,” he says quietly. “For – making a scene out there.”

“You don’t have anything to apologize for.” Max shakes his head immediately. “Rough night?”

“Most are,” Oscar huffs out a humorless laugh.

Max studies him for a moment. “Wanna talk about it?”

Oscar shakes his head no. “Thank you. For everything… I’m tired.”

“Fair. Think you can get to bed on your own?”

Oscar slides carefully off the counter, testing his balance. His two feet hit the tile solidly and he stands on them just fine. “Yeah,” he says. “I think so.”

“Alright.” Max says. “Just be careful. And drink more water.”

Oscar nods and Max hesitates just long enough to make sure he’s steady before heading for the door with a quiet, “Good night, Oscar.”

Oscar wakes late, head throbbing and mouth dry. For a moment he doesn’t move, just stares at the ceiling and listens to the quiet drip of the faucet.

Half the reason he doesn’t want to go to work is the hangover. The other half is everything else. Lando, the shame curling in the pit of his stomach, the thought of walking in and catching those pitying glances from coworkers who pretend not to know.

He should get up. Go anyway. Instead, he reaches for his phone.

“Hey,” he croaks when Logan picks up. “Any chance you can cover me today?”

There’s a beat of static before Logan sighs. “It’s pretty last minute, man.”

“I know. I just – really rough night.”

“Something wrong?”

Oscar winces. “Just hungover.”

There’s a pause. “You went out drinking?”

“Yeah…”

“With who?” Logan asks skeptically.

Oscar hesitates. Silence fills the line.

“Oscar,” Logan says slowly. “Tell me you didn’t.”

“It was just drinks,” Oscar blurts. “Nothing happened.”

Logan groans. “Why do I not believe that, like, at all?”

Oscar sighs, rubbing his temple. “Okay so we made out. Just a little bit. But really, that’s it.”

He can practically hear Logan’s eyes roll through the phone.

“I swear,” Oscar insists. “He went home alone. And I came home…” He trails off, the memory flickering of Max’s arms around him, the soft sound of his voice.

“…alone,” he finishes quietly.

Logan hums, unconvinced. “Alright. I’ve got you covered. Sleep it off, yeah?”

“Thanks.”

When the call ends, Oscar lets the phone drop beside him and stares at the ceiling again.

He spends most of the day drifting between sleep and silence. He showers late, stands under the water until it runs cool, then microwaves something he only eats half of. The rest of the time he lies on his back, staring at the ceiling.

Lando texts once.
you okay ?

Oscar stares at the screen for a long time before setting it facedown. He doesn’t have the energy to answer. Evening settles in, gold light slipping through the blinds. He’s dozing again when a knock startles him upright. Through the peephole: Max.

Oscar opens the door too quickly and flushes almost instantly. “Hi. Sorry for last night.”

Max smiles, that same easy one. “How many times do I have to tell you to stop apologizing?”

“Sorry,” Oscar says automatically.

Max just raises an eyebrow.

Oscar can’t help it, he smiles. “Alright. I’ll stop. Just… thank you, though.”

“It’s no problem,” Max says simply.

Oscar shifts his weight, uncertain. “Um. I’ll get your dishes – ”

“Don’t worry about that,” Max cuts in gently, holding up a small toolbox. “I was wondering if I could look at your sink.”

“I have a maintenance request in,” Oscar says quickly. “You don’t have to.”

“Those fuckers take forever,” Max laughs. “And they don’t know what they’re doing half the time.”

Oscar hesitates. He wants to protest again, to insist it’s fine, that he doesn’t want to bother him. But Max is still smiling. So he nods and moves aside, letting him in.

The apartment looks worse in daylight and Oscar’s sober now. Embarrassment creeps up his neck. But if Max is judging, he doesn’t show it. He walks straight to the kitchen sink.

“Alright,” Max mutters, ducking his head inside. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with.”

Oscar stands off to the side, uncertain what to do with his hands and not knowing what to say, but the quiet doesn’t feel uncomfortable. He watches Max’s broad shoulders shift as he works.

Then there’s another knock.

He frowns, glancing toward the door, already uneasy.

He opens the door only a crack and there’s Lando, leaning casually against the wall.

“So you are alive?”

Oscar’s stomach sinks. This is why he didn’t want Lando to have his address. Because now he can come and go as he pleases.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Oscar says. “Do you want something?”

“Just checking on you, since apparently you can’t text back,” Lando laughs.

“Okay. Well.” Oscar forces a small smile. “I’m alive, so.”

Behind him, there’s a faint clink of tools and Lando glances past his shoulder. The motion is subtle, but Oscar shifts sideways to block his view.

“About last night,” Lando says. “I shouldn’t have let you drink so much. Didn’t know you’d have to call in.”

“It’s fine,” Oscar says quickly. “I’ll be in tomorrow.”

“So… are you gonna let me in?”

“Not a good time, Lan,” he says quietly.

Lando’s brows lift, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Why?”

“Because it’s not,” Oscar replies.

Lando lingers a second longer, eyes still darting toward the apartment, before he finally shrugs. “Okay,” he says simply. “See you at work.” The smirk that follows feels like salt in a wound.

Oscar closes the door slowly, breathing shallow. He presses his palms over his eyes. He hasn’t cried all day and he doesn’t want to now.

“You alright?” Max asks.

Oscar drops his hands quickly, straightening like he’s been caught. “Yeah. Sorry.”

“Now what did I say about that?”

Oscar huffs a small laugh, the tension easing a little. “Right. Not sorry.”

“There you go.” Max grins. He glances toward the door. “Anything important?”

Oscar hesitates, deciding how much to say. “No. Just my ex.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah… Can’t seem to stay away from him.”

Max gives him a questioning look. “But he came here?”

“Yeah. He – um. I told him where I live so that’s on me.”

Max’s expression doesn’t change much, but his head tilts slightly. “He’s why you’re crying all the time?”

The words aren’t mocking, but they still hit hard. Oscar’s shoulders tense. It is true, and that only makes it worse. “I don’t – ” he starts, then stops. “I’m not crying all the time.”

Max’s expression stays even. “Didn’t mean anything by it.”

For a moment, neither says anything. Then Max turns back to the kitchen and Oscar follows.

“Well,” he says, “the sink’s fixed.”

Oscar looks past him at the faucet. The steady drip that’s filled every silence since he moved in is finally gone. “Thank you,” he says quietly.

Max nods, gathers his things, and pauses at the door, “Let me know if you need anything, Oscar.”

Oscar nods.

The next day, Lando corners him before opening, while the espresso machine’s still warming and the lights are only half on.

“Do I have anything to worry about?” he asks.

Oscar blinks. “What?”

“I know you had someone over last night.”

Oscar exhales through his nose. “And what if I did?”

Lando glares at him. “Are you serious? I thought we were just taking a break, trying to work things out.”

Oscar shakes his head, disbelieving. “It was my neighbor, Lando. Not that it’s any of your business.”

“Are you fucking him?”

Oscar stares, incredulous. “Oh my god. You are so – ”

“I just want to know if you’re moving on.”

Oscar laughs once, sharp and humorless. “You were literally moving on while we were still in a relationship.”

“Really, Oscar?” Lando groans. “How many times do I have to tell you that was an accident.”

“An accident?” Oscar’s voice rises. “What, you tripped and fell into bed with her? In my apartment?”

“Our apartment,” Lando corrects. “Well – my apartment now. And I told you it didn’t mean anything – ”

It dissolves into a small bickering back and forth about what actually constitutes an accident until –

“Guys!”

They both turn. Zak’s standing by the counter, apron in hand, eyes wide. “We’ve got doors in ten. What’s going on?”

Oscar blinks, suddenly aware of the quiet in the shop. A few coworkers frozen mid-task. Customers already lined up out front.

Lando steps back first, flashing an easy smile. “Sorry, nothing.”

Oscar swallows hard, forcing the words past the lump in his throat. “Yeah,” he says. “Nothing.”

Oscar doesn’t cry. Not after the argument. Not after the looks from his coworkers that morning. Not after Lando laughs it off like nothing happened.

He just fumes quietly for days. Keeps his head down. Moves through the motions while his mind circles the same thought. Lando still hasn’t said ‘sorry’ to him.

Not once. Not for the cheating. Not for showing up at his apartment. Not for cornering him at work like he had the right.

Instead, Lando just acts nicer. Makes an extra coffee for him, exactly how he knows Oscar likes. Asks how he’s sleeping. Brushes past him with a light touch on the shoulder like that erases anything. The kind of charm that used to disarm Oscar completely.

“Smile, Osc,” Lando says at one point, winking as he passes.

Oscar bites the inside of his cheek, pretending not to hear and mashing the steamer button a little harder than necessary. Beside him, Logan catches it, rolling his eyes. He mutters something under his breath and goes back to the register.

Oscar’s too polite to scream.

He wants to. God, he wants to.

To tell Lando that being nice every now and then isn’t the same as being sorry. That you can’t ‘work things out’ with someone you broke apart. But he smiles when spoken to, keeps his answers short, and tries not to shake.

He spends most of his next day off unpacking, finally dealing with the last of the boxes. He feels ridiculous for putting it off this long because there aren’t many. A few books, some clothes, a framed family photo.

By the time he’s done, the apartment looks a little less like storage. Still sparse and echoing, but this small, imperfect space is his. Not much to show for a life, but it’s a start.

Oscar decides he probably should’ve taken Max’s dishes back days ago. They’ve been sitting clean and dry on his counter, waiting for him to find the nerve. The door opens almost immediately. Max’s face lights up like he’s genuinely glad to see him.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hi.” Oscar manages a small smile and holds the dishes out, feeling suddenly self-conscious. “Wanted to return these.”

“Thanks. How’s the sink?”

“Oh – perfect,” Oscar says. “Quiet.”

“And how are you?”

Oscar huffs out a soft laugh. “How long do you have?”

“However long you need,” Max says easily.

Oscar blinks at that, caught off guard. His face heats. “Ha. No, I’m fine, really. You?”

“Good.” Max studies him for a second, something thoughtful passing behind his eyes. “You allergic to cats?”

“No?”

“Great.” Max’s grin widens just a little. “You hungry?”

Oscar hesitates, but his stomach betrays him with a quiet twist. “Um – sure.”

“Come on, then,” Max says, stepping back to hold the door open.

Oscar follows, the smell of citrus and eucalyptus and the faintest hint of motor oil drifting out to meet him. The apartment feels so much warmer than his own. Soft lighting, lived-in clutter, a blanket tossed over the couch. There’s a low purr from somewhere near the window, and when Oscar glances over, a bengal stretches lazily.

Max gestures toward the kitchen. “I was just about to make dinner. You can keep me company.”

Oscar nods, still a little shy, but he can’t help smiling as the cat hops down and weaves around his legs. He sits at the dining table, just a two seater tucked neatly against the wall. He can’t help feeling a flicker of envy that Max actually has a dining table, even a small one. His own dinners happen on the floor or standing at the counter when he has the energy.

“So, tell me about yourself, Oscar,” Max says, moving through the kitchen.

Oscar tries to remember who he is. Who he was before Lando, or even during Lando, but it’s hard to find a version that still fits. “I… um…” he starts, then trails off.

Max glances over his shoulder, smiling softly. “Alright, easier question. What do you do for work?”

That takes some pressure off, though not much. “I work at McLaren Coffee,” Oscar says. “Couple blocks over.”

“A barista?”

Oscar nods.

“Cute,” Max says lightly.

Oscar isn’t sure whether to be flattered or embarrassed. “You’re a mechanic or something, right?”

“What gave it away?” Max laughs. “Yeah, I inherited a shop from my dad when he passed.”

“Oh – sorry – ”

“Don’t be.” Max shrugs over the stove. “He sucked. Only good thing he gave me was the shop.”

Oscar blinks, surprised by the bluntness.

“She likes you,” Max says, nodding toward the cat curling around his ankles.

“I love cats.” Oscar scratches behind her ears, and she leans into it, purring. He looks around and spots an identical bengal stretching in the corner. “How many do you have?”

“Just the two,” Max says, glancing over. “Ever thought about getting one?”

Oscar’s smile falters. “No. Well – I have. But my ex was a dog person. We could never agree.”

Max hums, a quiet sound of understanding. “How’s that whole thing going? Manage to keep him away?”

“Well, we work together. So. No.”

Max glances over his shoulder, brows raised. “Oh wow. That must be rough.”

Oscar doesn’t answer. He thinks of the argument at the cafe, of Lando’s sudden kindness after days of cold shoulders, of how easily he still gets under his skin. He hates that he can’t go a single day without thinking about him.

He hasn’t cried about it in days, too angry to do so. But something about the cats, the thought of shared space and companionship, tugs at something deep. The life he used to have, or maybe just the life he wanted to have. With Lando.

It doesn’t make him weepy. Just… sad. Quietly, achingly sad.

“I didn’t even ask,” Max says after a moment, shifting the conversation. “Do you like fajitas?”

“Yeah,” Oscar says, still not trusting his voice for anything more.

“Good,” Max replies, turning back to the stove. The smell of sauteed peppers fills the air.

Dinner unfolds gently and they they talk, but not in the frantic, nervous way new people usually do. It’s easy. Stories told in short stretches between bites, small questions that don’t demand much. Oscar learns Max’s favorite band and how to spot the difference between the two bengals, Jimmy and Sassy. Max learns that Oscar doesn’t like tomatoes and that he once wanted to study architecture before life got in the way.

By the time they finish, it’s late and Max insists on packing him leftovers, even though Oscar tries to say no. He walks him to the door with more dishes than he brought back.

“Thanks,” Oscar says, truly meaning it.

“Anytime,” Max answers, and it sounds like he means that too.

Oscar pauses inside his apartment before setting the leftovers in the fridge. For the first time in a while, the quiet doesn’t ache.

Chapter Text

“It’s making a weird noise,” the man says.

Max nods. “Do you know where from?”

“Somewhere,” he says, shrugging helplessly. “Like ‘oooOO’ – like a ghost sound when I brake. Or accelerate. Or sometimes when I’m just… sitting.”

“Right,” Max laughs under his breath. “We’ll take a look.”

The morning moves fast, Max works through it without much thought. Oil changes, tire rotations, the whine of a drill, the hydraulic hiss of the lift. He doesn’t stop moving; wipes the sweat from his brow when he needs to, and keeps going. Danny’s singing off-key, some old pop song playing on the radio.

From the front, Kimi calls out, “Customer for the Civic says he’ll be five minutes late. Also asked if we have any coupons. Do we have any coupons?”

Danny looks up grinning, ready to be smart about it. Max cuts in before he can. “No, Kimi!”

“Are you sure? Because he seems to think – “

“I’m sure!”

The ghost noise in the customer’s car turns out to be a loose engine cover. Ten minutes, two bolts, and the problem’s gone. Max likes the precision of that. Likes knowing what’s wrong and making it right. He loves all of this, the rhythm of it. The clang and hiss, the smell of solvent and steel. Noise with rules. You twist a bolt, it tightens. You listen, you learn where the rattle’s coming from. Nothing mysterious, nothing you can’t fix if you take the time.

He’s been doing it since he was a kid, standing on a milk crate beside his dad’s work bench, hands too small for the tools he was using. When his dad died some decades later, the shop came to him in a mess of paperwork and unpaid bills. Max fixed it the same way he fixes everything, it stopped bleeding money and started breathing again.

He doesn’t think about legacy much. He can admit now, his father was abusive. Praise never came easy when it came at all, and the sound – metal meeting metal, the click of a clean fix – became the closest thing Max ever got to approval. And there’s always another car, another rattle, another thing to put right.

The garage warms up as the day goes on, the fans overhead move the air but don’t cool it. Max barely notices until the wrench slips in his hand, sweat making it slick. He just wipes his palm on his jeans and tries again.

“Hey, boss,” Danny calls from the next bay. “We gonna eat today?”

Max glances at the clock and it’s already after one. He hadn’t noticed.

“Go,” he says.

“Staying behind?” Danny asks as everyone else clears out.

Max nods, stays at it for another half hour. He tells himself it’s just to finish one more thing, but that’s what he always says.

When he eventually does stop, he heads out back and sits on the low step behind the shop. He eats, more out of habit than hunger, the same simple sandwich he packs every morning. Nothing special.

Across the street, he spots a kid pushing his bike along the sidewalk, the chain dragging loose behind the rear wheel.

He whistles once, sharp.

The boy looks over and Max waves him closer, “Bring it here.”

Max crouches beside him, loosens the link, sets it right. He spins the pedals and it catches cleanly.

“Try that.”

The boy climbs on, circles the alley once, grinning. “It works!” He waves and is gone a second later.

Max thinks about how easy it is, fixing things so small. Easier than fixing people. He thinks about Oscar and his big brown eyes that are always a little watery. His smile that somehow still manages to make him look sad.

Max tells himself he just wants coffee. That’s all. He drinks enough energy drinks in a day to be cause for clinical concern, but right now coffee sounds better.

He’ll probably see Oscar later anyway, bringing back the dishes all blushy and soft-spoken, but he wants to see him now. Maybe to check that he’s okay. Maybe to see what kind of place he spends his days in. Maybe – definitely maybe – to see the ex that’s got him walking around like something inside him is broken.

He waits until the crew gets back and washes his hands. The grease doesn’t really come off, it just gets lighter. He notices a smudge of black on his forehead and wipes that off, too.

“Going for coffee,” he says.

Danny laughs, “You hate coffee.”

Max shrugs, already halfway to the door. “Branching out.”

It’s only once he’s in the truck that the doubt creeps in. He wonders if it’s weird. If it’s stalker behavior, showing up at the guy’s job barely knowing him. They’re neighbors, sure, but how much does that count? The last thing he wants is to make Oscar uncomfortable. Still, he turns the key.

It’s just coffee.

Oscar doesn’t know he doesn’t like it.

When Max walks in, he immediately feels out of place. On top of looking like he just walked out of a garage, he knows he also smells like it. Sweat and grease and rubber. Other scents that cling. Everyone else looks a little… softer.

Oscar’s at the register, orange apron tied at his waist, hair a little messy like he’s been pushing it back all morning. He looks bored, focused on the screen, until he looks up and his eyes widen. A soft pink blooms across his cheeks. Max really likes that about him. The way emotion shows up on his face before he can try to hide it.

Max steps forward, slow and uncertain, boots heavy against the tile. “Hello.”

Oscar gives him a small smile, blinking quickly. “Hi. Um. Can I get you something?”

He gestures vaguely toward the chalkboard menu with fancy sounding drink names written in cursive. Max has no idea what any of it is. He stares for a moment longer than necessary, pretending to decide, though all he can really focus on is the way Oscar keeps fidgeting with the hem of his apron.

“Just a black coffee,” Max says finally.

“Anything else?”

“No. That’s it.”

Oscar nods and turns away to pour it himself, ears still pink. He pulls a sharpie from the front pocket of his apron, uncapping it with his teeth, and tilts the cup in one hand. He writes something quick across the side before he starts pouring. Max lets his eyes linger longer than he should. At his careful movements, his side profile, and the curve of his back.

When Oscar sets the cup down, he inspects it for a heartbeat before sliding it over. Max doesn’t let his fingers brush Oscar’s when he takes it. He just turns the cup in his hands and sees what’s been written.

Max and underneath, a small cat doodle – ears like triangles, dots for eyes, a little upturned nose and whiskers curling outward. A tiny thing, but it makes him grin. His smile widens when he looks back at Oscar, who matches it with a smaller one

“What do I owe you?”

Oscar shakes his head. “It’s on me, don’t worry about it.”

“Well. Thank you, Oscar.”

The sound of his name makes Oscar blush again. Max watches the flush climb higher, the pulse visible at the base of his throat.

Oscar shifts the cup stack beside him. “Um. I have a break in like ten,” he says tentatively. “Unless, like – unless you were just here for coffee.”

Max chuckles quietly, caught. “I’ll wait for you.”

He moves to an empty table near the window and pretends not to be watching Oscar as he moves behind the counter. The pink fades from Oscar’s cheeks when he talks to the next customers. His voice steadies. He smiles still, but it’s not the same.

Max takes a sip of the coffee, remembering instantly why he doesn’t drink it. Bitter enough to make his jaw tighten. He sets it down. Almost spits it out. But Oscar glances over, catching his eye, and Max swallows it instead.

It burns a little going down. It’s worth it.

After a few minutes, Oscar comes around the counter and nods toward the door.

“Sorry you had to wait,” he says as they step outside.

Max doesn’t answer right away. Just smiles at him, patient. It takes Oscar a second to catch on.

“... Not sorry,” Oscar corrects himself with a smile.

Max chuckles. “You better not be. I’m the one that showed up unannounced.” He leans against the brick wall. “Just wanted to see where the magic happens.”

Oscar hums. “Well. It’s not much.”

“I think it’s cute,” Max says honestly. “With your apron and cat drawings. Even better than I pictured.”

Oscar laughs once, quick and embarrassed.

After a beat, Max asks, “So how’s your day so far?”

Oscar’s smile fades a little. “Fine,” he shrugs, eyes dropping to his shoes. That look again, the quiet sadness that creeps in.

“That bad, huh?” Max says softly.

“No,” Oscar answers, shaking his head. “Not bad… just… not entirely good.”

Max studies him for a moment. Oscar never says much about how he’s feeling. Just sidesteps and clams up when the subject gets too close. Like if he says it out loud, it’ll make everything worse. But Max has always believed that talking, even about the small things, takes some of the weight off. He knows what life is like; sometimes it just sucks. And he wants Oscar to let him in. Just a little.

“Tell me about it,” he says.

Oscar looks at him like he’s trying to measure something. Max just holds his gaze because he wants to be trusted. Wants Oscar to feel safe, wants him to feel heard.

Finally, he sighs. “So my best friend – Logan – is off today. Usually he makes this place a little more tolerable, but he’s taking his dog to the vet, so I can’t even be mad about him not being here…” he huffs, half a laugh, “and my boss has had this stick up his ass lately about overtime, but then we end up short staffed – like today when it’s busy…”

Max nods, listening as Oscar keeps going. Not about anything big or real. Annoying customers. Stupid questions. Things not working like they should.

He doesn’t mention the ex, or whatever’s really bothering him, but Max knows it’s part of it. He can see it in the way Oscar stays a little tense, even when he’s laughing. But Max doesn’t bring it up. He just lets him talk. Lets him decide what to share. It’s more than enough. He’s grateful for even this, that Oscar’s talking to him at all.

After a while, Oscar tilts his head, smiling softly. “What about you? How’s your day been?”

“Hot, of course,” Max says first, and Oscar laughs. Then he adds, “Had a customer come in with a haunted car.”

Oscar grins. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, you should have seen it,” Max says deadpan. “First car exorcism I’ve ever had to perform.”

Oscar giggles, a pretty sound, and Max watches him, smiling. The light catches in Oscar’s eyes, and for a second, the sadness isn’t there at all. Just warmth. Just this. Cute, Max thinks. Way too cute.

They’re still laughing when the back door opens.

“Osc!”

Oscar jumps at the sound, his smile vanishing almost instantly.

Max turns to see another employee standing in the doorway. He looks Max up and down, and his expression makes it clear he doesn’t like what he sees.

Max just smirks. He’s used to that. People taking one look at the grease on his shirt and deciding they’ve already figured him out. He glances back at Oscar instead. The change in him is drastic. His whole demeanor’s closed up.

“What do you want, Lando?” Oscar asks, eyes narrowed.

Ah. So this must be him.

“You were supposed to be back five minutes ago,” Lando says. “So can you, like – ” he gestures with both hands vaguely toward the cafe, “come on.”

Oscar’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t argue.

At the door, he hesitates and looks back at Max. The edge in him softens, though not by much. “Thanks for stopping by,” he says quietly.

Max smiles, lifting his cup. “Thanks for the coffee,” he says, holding it up still full, the little cat drawing grinning back at him.

Oscar’s lips twitch into the smallest smile before he slips inside.

Lando watches him go, then throws one more pointed glance at Max before following.

Max stays where he is for a few seconds. He looks down at the cup in his hand again, runs a thumb over the marker lines. He tries another sip and it’s still bitter. He takes it with him back to the shop anyway.

Danny’s leaning against the tool chest with a grin that says he’s about to ask questions.

Max dodges it before it starts. “Get back to work.”

“You’re the one who left.”

“I can do what I want, I’m the boss.”

Danny laughs and gets back to it, singing along with the radio. It plays with more static than melody, but Max finds himself humming along anyway.

He stays late, like he always does. Maybe a little later than usual, making up for time lost on his coffee run. By the time he leaves, the city’s quiet. At home, Sassy and Jimmy greet him by the door, winding around his legs and meowing. He fills their bowls first thing, crouches down to scratch behind Sassy’s ears.

Max showers next, cutting through the day’s grit. When he steps out, he rubs his eucalyptus balm into his hands, softening the roughness before it cracks. Then, dinner’s simple. Chicken, rice, something green. He eats at the counter, glancing toward the door more than once, half hoping for a knock that doesn’t come. It’s late anyway. He already bothered Oscar once today, showing up awkwardly and unannounced. He’s not about to do it twice.

He plays with the cats, a feather on a string, slow arcs over the carpet. Jimmy bats at it lazily before giving up and climbing onto his chest when Max stretches out on the couch. The purr starts low, vibrating through him.

It’s been a good day, Max decides.

He exhales, eyes slipping closed since he can’t move now.

The shop follows him into his dreams; not his, not this new version.

The old one.

His father’s.

He’s small again, his dad looming over his shoulder, impatient. Max flinches at the phantom slap of a hand against the back of his head. It doesn’t hurt, not really. Not anymore. Just memory. A flash that feels real enough to wake him.

He sits up fast, breath catching. Jimmy stirs and gives a soft, annoyed chirp before settling again.

Max drags a hand over his face. His heart’s already slowing. The nightmares don’t hit him like they used to; they just jolt him awake now, quick reminders of where he came from. What he swore he’d never be.

He glances at the clock and it’s early, but not too early to start the day.

Max eases Jimmy off his chest, stretches until his back cracks, and heads for the kitchen. He opens a red bull and packs his lunch. He’s out the door before the sun’s fully risen, the hallway washed in dull gold.

It’s going to be another good day. He can already tell. Because as he’s getting on the elevator, Oscar comes rushing toward him. His hair damp from a shower, bag half zipped, he’s still tugging his shoes all the way on.

Max holds the door. “Late?”

“Yeah,” Oscar pants, running a hand through his hair. “Supposed to be at work at seven.”

“You’ve still got twenty minutes, what’s the rush?”

“I’m walking – well, I guess running today – no car.”

“I can give you a ride,” Max offers without hesitation.

Oscar blinks. “Oh. Um…”

“I don’t mind, really.”

“It’s not out of the way, is it?”

Max smiles. “Not at all.”

Oscar checks the time on his phone, bites his lip, then glances up. “If you’re sure…”

In the truck, he’s quiet. Looking down at his hands once they’re on the road, thumbs worrying the strap of his bag. Too quiet for it to be nothing.

“Did I overstep yesterday?” Max asks. “I didn’t mean to make things weird.”

“You didn’t,” Oscar says quickly. Then slower: “Um. I thought maybe I did.”

“What? How?”

“I just… talked too much, I think. Complained a lot. Probably annoyed you.”

Max shakes his head. “No, Oscar. I like talking to you.” He glances at him. “And listening to you.”

“Well when you didn’t answer last night – “

“You came by?”

“Yeah…”

That makes Max smile, warmth creeping up the back of his neck. “When? I didn’t get home until eight or so.”

“Oh.” Oscar says softly. “It was earlier than that. So. Guess you weren’t home yet.”

“If I had been, I would’ve let you in.”

Oscar finally relaxes, smiling, as they pull up in front of the cafe.

Max glances over, “Maybe we should communicate a little better,” he says lightly. Hesitantly, “Oscar, can I have your number?”

Oscar’s face goes pink. “Yeah,” he huffs a small laugh. “That’s probably best.”

Max unlocks his phone and hands it over without thought.

Oscar smiles, shaking his head. “Okay,” he murmurs, adding himself to Max’s contacts. He sends a quick message so Max’ll have his number too, just a simple smiley face.

“I should probably – ” Oscar says, nodding toward the door.

Max nods. “Yeah. Don’t wanna be late.”

“Thanks for the ride.”

“Anytime,” Max says, meaning it.

Oscar’s smile stays as he disappears inside. Max waits until the door closes behind him before pulling off, the corner of his mouth still curved up. The day’s barely started, but yeah. Feels like another good one.