Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: The Veilguard (Video Game)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Ashur | The Viper/Tarquin
Characters: Ashur | The Viper, Tarquin (Dragon Age)
Additional Tags: Queer Themes, Partial Nudity, Mild Language, Asexuality, Asexuality Spectrum, Asexual Relationship, Canon Trans Character, Pre-Relationship
Summary:
Minrathous was in the middle of the hottest summer in living memory, and both Ashur and Tarquin have their reasons not to shed their layers among the Shadow Dragons.
Hey! Love Ollie +Skip. Can we read abt Teen Ollie? That would be interesting 👀
oh my good teen ollie.... your mind.......
my prompts are open but pls be patient w me <3
-
Scott was sitting on the sofa with his laptop when Ollie slinked up to him, pretending to casually be in the living room as well. He wasn't fooling anyone, though.
"What's up?" Scott gave him a smile.
"Dad," Ollie started. His voice was at that horribly awkward stage where it kept cracking. At least he was blessed with parents who could afford a good dermatologist who mostly saved him from acne. The early teens were truly rough. "Can I stay over at Devon's house tonight?"
"Who's Devon?!" Scott asked, mildly perplexed. He'd never heard the name.
"From hockey camp," Ollie said quickly, "We're, um." Slightly-too-long pause. "...friends."
Scott raised his eyebrows at Ollie, and Ollie blushed violently, even though he was clearly trying to hide it.
"Friends?" Scott repeated.
Ollie nodded. "Yeah, totally."
Scott shut the laptop. "You know I'm not a huge fan of you staying over at friends' houses when I don't know them or their parents."
Ollie rolled his eyes, slumping with his whole lanky body. "Daaaad!"
Scott just raised one eyebrow at him and said nothing, not trying to argue.
"Uncle Ilya knows Devon!" Ollie argued, his voice escalating.
Scott sighed. "I don't know, buddy."
Ollie grumbled unhappily, turning on his heels. God, he was so tall now; it made him look like a lanky, awkward puppy, because he hadn't grown into it at all yet.
"How about you ask Devon to stay over instead?" Scott suggested, trying to be amenable. Ollie turned back, looking surprised.
"Really?"
"Yeah. Then we can meet..." It occurred to Scott that he wasn't sure what Devon's gender was. The camps were co-ed after all. He went with, "Then we can meet. And maybe next time you can stay over at Devon's house."
The smile that spread on Ollie's face was worth it. "Thanks, dad." He dashed around the couch and gave Scott a quick squeeze. Scott had to admit he felt pretty self-satisfied with his parenting.
Once Ollie was back in his room with his phone, Scott texted Kip.
it's so rough being 14
Kip replied shortly after. What happened?
Do you know who Devon is?, Scott texted. Because he/she/they is staying over tonight.
Kip's ensuing LOL did not instill confidence in Scott. I think Ollie has a crush
agreed, Scott replied. Then, do you think it's a good idea? not inappropriate?
i think it's just a crush so far but won't hurt if you talk to him? ttyl, lecture!!!! was Kip's reply.
Rubbing his hands across his face, Scott mumbled a quiet "Shit" to himself. Then, he hoisted himself up from the couch and padded down the hallway to Ollie's room for a capital T Talk.
-
"Oh, they're so cute," Kip whispered in the kitchen, craning his neck to see.
There wasn't much to see, really, just two heads behind the backrest of the sofa, where Ollie and his friend were playing a hockey game on console. Ollie had clarified earlier that Devon was, in fact, a boy, but kept denying that he had a crush at all. Devon seemed sweet enough, with very angelic-looking blond curls and blue eyes. Apparently, he played goalie.
"So far, all they've done has been talking about hockey and playing the hockey game, so maybe we're good." Scott poured himself some beet juice. Supposedly it helped with joint pain, even though Scott was doubtful about the ability of a vegetable to undo the damage decades of hockey had done.
Kip raised one brow at him. "Don't let your guard down, now."
Scott scoffed. "I'm not on guard."
"Sure." Kip patted his chest, then stood on his tip-toes to kiss him. "I think you can talk hockey and kiss, those aren't mutually exclusive, especially to teens."
Scott chuckled, wrapping his arm around Kip. "Oh, really? I wouldn't know, I didn't date as a teenager."
Kip smoothed his body against his. "Yeah. Poor sweet teenage Scott."
Before Scott could flirt back any more, Ollie yelled from the living room, "Dad? Can we order food?"
"For sure, buddy," Scott replied without hesitation. Kip gave him a surprised smile. Usually, Scott was very much a "eat what's in the fridge" type of person. But this time, he gave Kip a shrug.
"Letting him impress his crush?" Kip whispered, amused.
Scott shrugged. "It's nice that he gets to have this."
Kip's eyes softened, and he cupped Scott's cheek. "That's true." He sighed, his smile turning a little mushy before he repeated, "That's so true."
"For the love of God, someone put a cork in Dum-Dum's mouth before he wakes up the Sergeant," Morita snaps, slapping Steve on the arm he just triple checked for pieces of leftover shrapnel. Steve winces, not from pain but from sympathy. Bucky's just managed to lie down, and while he might sleep like the dead, Dum-Dum's shrill voice could probably wake up a corpse, if not the whole cemetery.
It's past midnight, the moon their only source of light in the wilderness, and more than half the team's asleep. They're all piss tired and hungry, but the mission's done, they're alive and so far past sleep-deprived that everything's a little but funny, at least to Steve, who's listening to Dum-Dum's voice with a detached sort of amusement.
Dum-Dum, who's the one who took the actual blow meant for Steve, and is still high off the adrenaline and fear, starts singing even louder.
"Oh, fun—ny when you're near me, I'm in the mood for lo—ve," he cackles, unaware that a Bucky-shaped shadow is steadily moving behind him in the makeshift tent they've got out here. Morita opens his mouth like he's about to warn him but Steve catches his eye and shakes his head just a touch, receiving a disappointed look back. Hey, he's gotta get his entertainment from somewhere, alright?
Unaware of his impending doom, Dum-Dum continues: "Heaven is in your eyes-s-s, bright as the stars we're under—Jesus fucking Christ, get off me, Barnes! You're gonna kill me for real!"
"Shut the fuck up," Bucky rasps, holding Dum-Dum in a headlock, eyes bloodshot and murderous. "If you don't go to sleep right the hell now I'm putting a hole through your head."
Steve makes the mistake of snorting, and Bucky's pale eyes immediately zero in on him, smelling blood in the water. Uh oh. Morita, the traitor, just smirks.
Landoscar with prompt 16 from your list with Lando as an omega and Oscar as an alpha pleaseeee!!
prompts request here :)
THANK YOU for asking for this. I've always wanted to try writing the Omegaverse!! this is a first. I truly tried my best.
bear with me please.
and as requested, you'll find Alpha!Oscar and Omega!Lando :)))
I also tried something a bit new with the way this story is written, mainly because it's from somebody else's POV. Hope you will enjoy it anyway!
landoscar - omegaverse - 4,2k words
Max always thought he had mastered the various shades of Lando’s moods – could tell whether he needed to be left alone or dragged outside from a single glance at his face, or tell by the way he angled his body if he wanted to be lectured or comforted, cuddled against Max’s chest.
Years of being his closest friend had taught him that Lando was actually remarkably easy to read – easy to handle, even – if you actually bothered to pay attention.
And Max always did.
Without exception.
It’s because he always thought he had Lando all figured out that he’s so surprised to see his phone light up with the simple display: “Oscar Piastri - Incoming Call”.
Oscar and Max don’t call each other.
Like, ever.
They rarely even speak these days, save for the occasional brief exchange in the paddock whenever Max manages to attend a race, killing time while waiting to snag Lando for a spare minute.
But they certainly aren’t close anymore – not since their Formula Renault days.
They are definitely nowhere near close enough for a random phone call on a Tuesday, in the dead middle of summer break.
Especially not while Max is supposed to be enjoying an uninterrupted week of freedom alongside his mates, housed in a villa Lando had booked without so much as a blink at the string of zeroes on the invoice.
Maybe Oscar’s just trying to reach Lando for some business reason, or maybe he wants to schedule a teammate-bonding padel session.
Maybe he’s short on friends and trying to reconnect with old ones.
Could be a lot of things, really.
Nothing Max could have imagined, though.
He hits accept without second-guessing it.
“Hey,” he says, attempting a cheerful tone, trying to be a good teammate’s friend.
After all, he’s got no reason left to dislike Oscar now that Lando has won the championship.
He can finally retract his claws, hide his teeth.
The speaker crackles as Oscar clears his throat on the other end.
“Max, hey, uh.” Oscar begins. His voice sounds strange – thick, slightly off-pitch. Or maybe Max just isn't used to hearing him through a phone line. “I know it’s a bit weird, but… is Lando with you? Could you put him on the phone?”
If Lando wanted to answer his phone, he certainly would have. And if he didn’t, well... that should be answer enough.
Max frowns, a sudden urge to tell him to fuck off rising in his chest.
They’re on holiday. Oscar, of all people, should know how precious this time off is – how rare a few free days are in the middle of the season, and how vital it is to actually make the most of them.
Whatever business Oscar has with Lando can wait until they’re back at the factory.
“Mate, sorry, but I think Lando might be out somewhere–”
“Max. I need to talk to him. Like. Right now.”
That makes Max's brow furrow even deeper.
Oscar is an Alpha, just like Max.
And it’s unwritten etiquette – sheer common sense – that Alphas don’t pull Alpha shit on other Alphas.
Things like slipping into that low register, edging close to a growl to force compliance, to demand.
More importantly, it’s so unlike Oscar to act like this.
Max doesn't claim to know the guy inside out, but Lando never misses an opportunity to remind him how Oscar defies the classic Alpha stereotype – he isn't overbearing, arrogant, or constantly trying to assert dominance just because Lando happens to be an Omega.
He’s actually really sweet, Lando had shrugged one afternoon, a few months into Oscar’s rookie season.
Max had swallowed down a sharp scoff, wanting nothing more than to remind Lando how he’d whined for weeks about weird, quiet Oscar Piastri taking Daniel’s seat.
But he’d stayed silent that day, unable to look away from the faint, rosy flush dusting Lando’s cheeks as he stared down at his phone screen.
“Oscar, mate, you’re being really weird,” Max sighs, starting to get a bit annoyed now, shifting uncomfortably on the couch. “Just try him again later, alright?”
He hears Oscar sigh through his teeth, clearly holding back.
Max can picture him closing his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose, probably pacing around his flat.
But Max doesn’t really care if Oscar’s annoyed with him – he just wants to protect Lando’s privacy, his peace. The kind of peace Lando doesn’t allow himself to have very often.
“I think something’s wrong with him.”
Max can’t help but scoff.
They’re in Ibiza, for fuck’s sake – finally getting a precious week to breathe. They’ve been having a blast, hiking, hitting the beach, taking a boat out, partying until dawn.
Nothing is wrong.
Sure, Lando has been pushing himself with daily workouts to stay sharp, because the season is far from over, but he seemed perfectly fine to Max. All things considered.
“Just because he doesn’t text back doesn’t mean something’s wrong, bruv.”
He thinks he hears Oscar murmur a low, muttered "Jesus" under his breath, but decides to let it slide.
If Oscar wants to take it personally, that’s hardly his problem.
“Could you just check on him?” Oscar presses, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I wouldn’t have called you if it weren’t important.”
Max rolls his eyes with a dramatic sigh, but pushes himself up from the couch anyway.
He knows Oscar won’t back down, won't let him off the hook until he does precisely what he’s asked. He briefly considers just hanging up... but something in the back of his mind warns him that wouldn’t be a smart move.
Truth is, Lando and Oscar get along surprisingly well – which is convenient for McLaren, convenient for the two of them.
Max hadn't been convinced it would go so smoothly last year. He’d had his doubts about whether they could keep things clean on and off the track.
But they’ve managed.
And even if a petty part of Max resents Oscar sometimes; envying him for getting to share all of it with Lando, being by his side day in and day out, racing with him, against him... Max refuses to be a bitter dick about it.
Oscar is a decent guy, he reckons. And if they’re bound to cross paths in the paddock all year round, they might as well find a way to make this work correctly.
“Yeah, fine,” Max mutters, stepping out of the living room and heading down the quiet hallway toward the bedrooms. “But if he throws something at my face for waking him, I’m holding you personally responsible.”
“Sure, whatever.”
There’s a sharp edge to his voice, like he’s clenching his jaw, his throat tight with frustration.
Max frowns, mostly because something inside him is starting to react, too – a sudden instinct prickling at the base of his neck, sending goosebumps down his arms as the puzzle pieces finally begin to slot together.
Oscar calling him out of nowhere. Oscar sounding frantic.
Lando, whom he hasn’t seen since this morning after his workout. Lando, who had seemed exhausted last night when they went out, insisting on heading back to the villa way earlier than anyone else.
Odd.
Without a second thought, Max picks up his pace down the hallway, his senses suddenly on high alert.
Max isn't the type to actively track Lando's scent – it just exists around him, unavoidable, because Lando never bothers with scent patches in his presence. He never has.
He is so conditioned to Lando’s natural scent that it’s become second nature, mere background noise he’s spent years learning to tune out.
He would have listened to those instincts, though, if Lando had let him.
But Lando had made it crystal clear early on that it wasn’t like that between them – that just because he was an Omega didn’t mean he was destined to be Max’s Omega.
Which Max always agreed to.
Though, he can’t say things never got weird between them, can’t pretend the lines between friendship and something else never blurred.
He can’t pretend he’s never craved more — more of Lando’s mouth, more of his breathless moans against his ear, more of their stupid, undeniable biological compatibility.
But whenever his traitorous mind strays down memory lane, he forces himself back to cold reality.
He doesn’t want that.
He could never give Lando what he actually needs.
It was just hormones talking back then anyway.
Besides, he’s genuine when he tells himself he’s content with what they have, relieved that whatever clumsy, hormone-fueled phase they stumbled through never ruined their friendship.
It’s not until he’s knocking at Lando’s bedroom door that the smell bleeding through the cracks finally registers.
It’s nothing like the fresh, sun-kissed peach and warm vanilla Lando usually radiates.
Especially out here on holiday, where his scent naturally blooms sweeter, like fruit ripened to perfection, fueled by pure contentment.
The soft and golden scent he usually gets after a good meal, when Jon lets him have dessert, after a flawless race weekend, or when he’s been thoroughly fucked, all lazy smiles and clinging limbs.
Right now, the air in the room is thick, heavy.
It smells like fruit left to rot under a scorching sun; bruised and overripe. Suffocatingly sour.
Something is deeply wrong. He can feel it twisting in his gut, like a raw, primal instinct.
He twists the handle and pushes the door open without waiting for permission.
“Jesus Christ,” Max murmurs under his breath, freezing in the doorway as his eyes adjust to the scene before him.
A feverish Lando lies buried in the center of his mattress, trapped inside a pathetic excuse for a nest; a makeshift pile of hoodies, crumpled t-shirts, and God knows what else.
He’s stripped down to nothing but briefs, which makes total sense given the furnace-like heat radiating from the room. His skin gleams with a sheen of sweat, dark curls plastered flat against his forehead. Tiny, whimpering sounds break from the back of his throat, every breath sounding like a battle.
“Max,” Oscar’s voice pierces the silence, tight and razor-sharp. “How is he? What’s happening?”
“I—” Max stammers, completely at a loss.
The words die in his throat because he genuinely doesn’t know what the fuck he's looking at.
This isn't a heat.
He’s navigated Lando’s heats before.
He knows the flushed, rosy glow that spreads from the tip of his nose all the way down his chest. He knows the helpless squirming, the way Lando arches his spine, begging to be touched, eager to speed things along.
This is nothing like that.
Lando looks sick. Properly, dangerously ill.
“Max,” Oscar repeats, his voice harsher this time.
And it must cut through the haze, because it gets Lando to open his eyes – glassy, unfocused eyes that struggle to settle on anything. He looks like a lost puppy, his face contorted in a painful grimace.
“Osc?” Lando whimpers softly, his voice dry and scraping against his throat. He tries to push his upper body off the mattress, but gives up almost instantly, his limbs looking impossibly heavy, useless.
Hearing that tiny voice, almost pleading, does something painful to Max’s chest. He tries to ignore the sharp hitch in Oscar’s breath over the phone line.
“Settle down, it’s alright,” Max murmurs, walking closer to the bed.
But the closer he gets, the worse he feels.
This doesn’t look like Lando at all.
His own primal instincts are on high alert now – a sudden, protective urge to soothe him washes through his blood, making him want to do stupid shit.
Like wrapping him in a blanket or trying to scent him just to calm him down.
But Lando just closes his eyes again, curling in on himself, murmuring nonsense against the fabric of a sweater.
“He’s, uh... Fuck, man, I don’t even know,” Max stammers into the receiver, his own voice sounding distant, almost detached.
He can’t pull his gaze away from Lando, who has dropped his head back onto the sweaty sheets, chest heaving as he struggles to breathe properly. Max hovers helplessly beside the mattress.
“He looks really rough. I think I need to call a doctor or something—”
Oscar lets out a sound through the phone – something Max has probably never heard from him before.
Something raw.
Something hurt.
“Put him on the phone,” Oscar asks, almost pleads. “Please.”
Something in Max's chest tightens painfully, making him hesitate for a split second, his inner Alpha fighting against the intrusion of another one. But there’s something about the way Oscar says it – the desperation in his voice – that forces him to give in.
He switches the phone to speaker and lowers it toward Lando.
“He can hear you.”
Looking at him, though, Max isn't so sure Lando can actually hear anything, isn't sure he’s even aware of what's happening around him.
“Lando,” Oscar breathes through the speaker. His voice is deep and calm, yet profoundly soft. Something laced with worry, but designed to soothe – like a balm meant to take the edge off.
The way Lando’s body reacts instantly almost makes Max flinch, taking a small step back. Lando's entire frame goes taut, his back arching off the mattress, his eyes snapping open as his mouth opens in a silent gasp.
“Osc,” Lando whimpers again, his voice cracking down the middle. Then his face twists in pain. “Oscar, it hurts.”
“I know, baby, I know,” Oscar murmurs.
Oscar’s voice comes out tender – so painfully tender that Max has to fight the urge to throw his phone against the wall.
He doesn’t want to hear this. He doesn’t want to hear Oscar calling Lando sweet things, his brain stubbornly refusing to process the words.
Lando lets out a broken sob, pressing his lips tightly together as he twists in the sheets.
“Please,” Lando begs softly.
Max hears Oscar curse under his breath before pulling the phone away from Lando and bringing it back to his own ear.
“Mate, what the fuck? He’s getting worse by the minute, he–”
“Tell me how he looks,” Oscar demands, cutting him off, almost breathless, his voice low and trembling.
Whatever irritation Max felt when the phone rang, whatever defensive suspicions were brewing in his mind, it all evaporates instantly. He swallows hard and submits to the distress in Oscar’s voice, stepping closer again, hovering over Lando.
“He’s sweating. A lot. Like–” Max leans over the bed, pressing the back of his knuckles against Lando’s cheek. “Like fucking burning up. His breathing is super heavy, too. He’s... almost unconscious, man.”
The word tastes like iron in his mouth, it terrifies him to admit it out loud. He firmly grips Lando’s shoulder, feeling the tense, shuddering muscle flex beneath his palms.
“Bob, mate, come on...”
But Lando just whines low in his throat. He doesn’t move an inch, just keeps asking for Oscar.
Again and again.
“What else, Max?” Oscar demands, his tone strained, sharp. “Tell me what else.”
“I don’t fucking know, alright? He’s in pain. His... his nest is a disaster, Oscar. There’s all kinds of random shit in here, I don’t even–”
Max pauses, his gaze sweeping over the tangled sheets, finally registering what Lando has dragged into his bed.
“There’s my shirt. And... Ed’s hoodie. And–” He hovers carefully, afraid to disturb the frantic structure. “It’s filled with all our stuff. Like he was trying to...”
“Substitute an Alpha’s scent,” Oscar finishes for him, a quiet, breathless edge to his voice.
“Yeah,” Max breathes out.
That’s when his gaze catches the fabric buried right against Lando’s cheek.
A soft, well-worn dark green t-shirt, stamped with a bold, bright yellow 81 across the chest. And tangled in Lando’s white-knuckled fingers is a faded maroon tee – a shade Lando would never, under any circumstances, put on his own body.
Oscar’s merch.
Oscar’s personal clothes.
The puzzle pieces in Max’s head shift and rearrange themselves with sickening speed.
His throat tightens, the air suddenly trapped in his lungs.
“What’s happening to him?”
There’s a beat of silence on the line, as if Oscar is trying to find the right words.
“I’m not entirely sure, but... I think it might be scent sickness,” Oscar says carefully. “It happens when an Omega is deprived of their... an Alpha for too long.”
Half-forgotten fragments of high school biology resurface in Max’s memory, stuff he’d tuned out as a teenager, too distracted by the sexual mechanics of it all to care about the medical details.
But the terms ring a distant bell now.
The intense codependency that can form between an Omega and an Alpha, the abrupt separation that triggers a massive hormonal crash. Severe fevers, body aches, exhaustion – almost like an acute depressive state.
It’s supposed to be rare when two people aren’t mated.
But he knows it can happen.
Because it’s happening right fucking now.
And he knows the only way to make it better is for the Omega to find an Alpha, to be taken care of, to be cherished and–
He throws away everything he’s tried to keep at bay for the last few years, ready to do anything to make Lando feel better.
“I could help,” Max tries, clearing his throat, his eyes landing on the soft curve of Lando’s parted lips as he struggles to breathe. “I can stay with him. Maybe it’ll help.”
He hears Oscar inhale sharply through the speaker, followed by a quiet, “I don’t think that’ll work.”
“Why not? I’m an Alpha. He needs an Alpha, his Omega needs it and–”
He tells himself he’s doing this for Lando, and he genuinely means it. But there’s a voice at the back of his mind whispering, louder and louder, that he wants this too.
He wants to be the solution.
He wants to be the Alpha Lando needs. He wants to watch him wake up, curled against his chest, and see the sudden realization in Lando's eyes that, all along, it was meant to be like this.
“You know why, Max,” Oscar says tightly, his voice laced with warning. “Don’t be so dense.”
The words hit him like cold water.
A sudden flare of possessiveness leaps in Max’s chest, sharp and agonizingly hot. It burns through his veins – a bitter heat he can only recognize as jealousy.
It’s a ghost of the feeling he’d buried deep years ago. That exact same ache from the day Lando had first found someone who truly fitted him, someone who meant enough for Lando to gently end things with Max.
We can't just fool around anymore, mate. It wouldn't be fair, right?
Max stares at the worn green shirt with the bright yellow 81 clutched in Lando’s sweating hands.
The silence on the phone stretches, heavy and accusing. His brain desperately tries to build another lie, another excuse, but every wall he’s put up over the years comes crashing down at once.
He doesn’t want to understand what it means.
But standing in this suffocating room, surrounded by the proof, he has no choice.
“You’re fucking with me,” Max breathes out, the realization turning his voice hollow.
On the other end of the line, Oscar doesn’t deny it. He doesn't offer a dramatic confession or an apology either.
The heavy silence between them is answer enough.
“I found a flight to Ibiza,” Oscar says instead, completely bypassing Max’s unraveling ego to focus on the emergency at hand. “I should be there by tonight.”
“What are you talking about? You’re not going to come here, mate, what—”
“We won’t get any better if I don’t.”
“We?”
Max hears Oscar sigh heavily, the distinct sound of a palm rubbing over a tired face. Max isn't trying to be difficult on purpose, but his mind is desperately lagging behind, fighting the reality unfolding right before his eyes.
That Oscar is the Alpha Lando belongs to.
That it’s not a random coincidence that the hoodie pressed to Lando’s cheek bears Oscar’s number.
That the truth has been staring him in the face all along, and he’s just been fucking blind.
His gaze softens as he looks down at Lando, whose body is beginning to shudder with fine tremors.
Leaning over, Max pulls the edge of the blanket up to his shoulders, his thumb gently smoothing over Lando's damp temple in an almost unconscious gesture of comfort.
“Yeah. We,” Oscar confirms, his tone guarded. “Listen, I’ll explain everything later. I need to get on this plane. Just... look after him, please?”
Max tries to swallow, but his throat is bone-dry, like he’s been breathing in sand. His eyes remain glued to Lando, unable to stop the sudden wave of bitter visions invading his mind.
Lando tucked warm against Oscar’s broad chest instead of his own.
Lando tracing lazy kisses up Oscar’s throat.
Lando, soft and vulnerable, whimpering to be taken care of, offering all of his gorgeous body. Lando whispering in Oscar’s ear that he loves him–
He cuts the thought short because he knows it leads nowhere. He knows this whole fantasy he’s clung to never stood a chance of becoming real.
He made damn sure to kill that possibility the very first time he and Lando slept together, brushing it off as just a bit of fun – nothing gay here, move along.
And he’d double-locked that door, throwing away the key the day he committed himself to Pietra.
“Yeah, ‘course,” he breathes out, hollow.
He doesn’t wait for Oscar to say goodbye before ending the call, letting his phone tumble onto the bed.
***
He doesn’t leave Lando’s side for the entire afternoon, except to grab a few bottles of water and some of Lando’s favorite pre-made protein shakes.
There’s hardly any shock on anyone’s face when he briefly explains the situation and mentions that Oscar is on his way.
As if it was obvious all along.
As if Max was the only one to miss every single sign.
Lando doesn’t improve much. He sleeps through most of the afternoon, and whenever he drifts awake, Max struggles to get him to swallow even a sip of water.
He tries to comfort him, tries to soothe him with a scent that should feel familiar and safe, but the moment Max reaches out, Lando recoils, his skin twitching as if the touch stings like a sunburn, like he can't bear the physical contact of anyone.
Anyone who isn’t Oscar, Max’s brain helpfully supplies.
Which turns out to be painfully true once Oscar actually gets here.
He’s never paid overly close attention to Oscar before, but the second he steps through the entrance, Max can tell he might be just as sick as Lando.
His skin, usually pale as milk, has taken on an awful greenish tint, as if he’s on the verge of throwing up. Heavy, dark circles weigh under his eyes, and his shoulders, usually kept rigidly squared, slump in utter defeat.
He looks as though he’s carrying the weight of the entire world.
“Wow,” Max mutters, taking him in. “You look like absolute shit.”
Oscar forces a tired half-smile. “Cheers, mate.”
He drops his bag on the floor and opens his mouth to say something, but Max sees it happen in real time – the way Oscar’s head snaps toward the corridor leading to Lando’s room.
It’s as if he can smell him from right there, tracking his body through the walls with an instinct so sharp it’s almost terrifying.
He completely forgets about Max.
About everything that isn’t Lando.
“Is he...”
“Yeah,” Max croaks.
Oscar doesn’t wait for more. He takes off down the hall, Max right on his heels.
“Oscar, wait, maybe you–” Max starts, but Oscar is already pushing the door open.
A wounded sound escapes his throat as Lando’s smell hits him, his body doubling over as if he’s taken a punch to the gut.
He doesn’t even look at Max before stepping into the room and shutting the door behind him, leaving Max standing there. Alone.
Max stays rooted to the spot for a long minute – staring at the blank wood of the door, his heart hammering in his chest.
He tries to make sense of everything that’s happening. Tries to admit to himself that it was bound to go down like this all along, from the exact moment Oscar said he was coming over.
Max might not have paid much attention in biology class, but he knows better than to interfere with a protective Alpha driven to take care of his distressed Omega.
Yet, a bitter, stupid part of him still wants to push that door open.
The urge is cut short when a gentle hand touches him, long, manicured fingers curling softly around his wrist.
“Come on, babe. Let them have some privacy,” Pietra says gently, pressing a light kiss to his cheek.
He has no argument against that, nothing except the curiosity to know, to hear or see for himself what he’s been missing this whole time.
As he lets Pietra pull him away, the last thing his senses register is how the sweet scent of ripe peach is slowly, completely buried under a thick layer of warm chocolate.
Harper drove a 1990s pickup and kept a leather jacket, knee high boots, and a specific type of makeup in the glove box for when she wasn't at school or at a cheering function, for fuck's sake.
--
"What's the matter, Eugene? Never got beyond eating like a dog beneath a table or a cat scoping out restaurant trash?"
--
Kimberly actually, factually had Skull park a block from her house under her neighbor's unkempt, overgrown magnolia trees before she got up the nerve to try and finish the act she had attempted from the top of the ferris wheel; because she really couldn't learn her lesson and she wanted.
--
Which of course meant that Bulk didn't even blink when sometime, in the aftermath of Rocky getting caught by the sentries and mutilated for information before the Coinless had bailed him out, Aisha asked if he could help Rocky feel good about himself in the aftermath of his own distortions.
--
Trauma could explain away a lot of the behavior Matt exhibited as the weeks pressed on, especially when he actually accepted that he and Bulk might actually have become friends in the interim between realizing they were two of the only three civilians that knew the Power Rangers' identities and that he and the larger boy were operating on the same wavelength to keep Skull from either getting mired down in the effects of the new meds he was on or somehow forgetting that he was a living organism that needed food and water and rest.
Assad is sick, a viral infection that's making him rest his forearms on the toilet seat and shiver on the floor. he's sick and he hates it, his fever is high and he just wants to be taken care of, wants someone to rub soothing hands on his back and kiss his forehead. make him soup and tuck him in with blankets. but he doesn't feel comfortable asking anyone as he doesn't want them to get ill as well. luckily- it turns out- Eric is the one who made him sick (and likely infected him at that cast party two weeks ago where Assad had had a little too much to drink.) And Eric's gotten better again. A knock on his trailer door and a familiar voice nearly makes Assad cry as he hugs his knees to his chest.
😘😘😘
Assad wakes up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat.
He'd been fine, completely fine, when he'd gone to sleep. A little tired, maybe. But fine!
He's not fine now. He sobs as a painful shiver wracks his body, sending his teeth chattering. The bedclothes are soaked through under him. He'd been warm enough when he went to sleep to climb into bed naked. Now he's freezing, but when he moves to try to sit up with the vague idea of getting some clothes on, his stomach churns so violently that he has to run to the bathroom to make it to the toilet before he vomits up the dinner of carrot sticks, hummus, tortilla chips, salsa, and olives he'd thrown together last night in lieu of cooking.
The movement of his stomach is so painful that he sobs as the vomiting turns to dry heaving, wiping at his mouth and grimacing at the taste of salt and bile.
He's shivering so hard that his breath is uneven. He hadn't turned the light on when he came into the bathroom, but now that he's on the floor the thought of getting up seems inconceivable. He feels sore all over. Even his skin hurts.
He thinks about his phone, all the way back on his nightstand. He should call for help. He really doesn't want to go to the hospital, but he knows he should have someone here in case he becomes incoherent.
He can feel himself trying to justify not calling anyone. He's probably not that sick. He just needs to get back in bed and sleep it off. He'll be fine as long as he gets some water.
But nagging in the back of all of that is the aching need to not be alone right now.
He wants to call Eric. Of course he wants to call Eric.
Daddy, he thinks weakly as he rests his cheek against the toilet seat.
He can't call Eric. Eric is old. Assad can't be the reason he catches the flu. Or Covid. Or norovirus.
Assad stomach heaves again and he pitches forward, coughing as a rush of sickening orange liquid burns his throat and floods the toilet bowl. When it finally stops, he pants as he hits flush.
He can't call anyone, can he? Sam has already gone home. Jacob has small kids; Assad can't risk getting them sick. He could call Luke, maybe, but as much fun as Luke is he isn't the best in a crisis. And hell, he doesn't want to get him sick either.
Delainey would come if he asked. He hates the idea of getting her sick too, but she's probably the best option.
His phone is so far away.
He thinks again of Eric. Assad had booked this room for an extra three weeks just to have time with Eric after they wrapped. He'd assumed that Eric would be thrilled to have him around, and he'd seemed it, at first. But maybe Assad should have been clearer about why he'd stuck around, because a few days after the wrap party Eric had dropped off the face of the Earth.
Assad hadn't bothered him. He knew how to take a hint. It didn't take more than two unanswered text messages for him to get the picture. It had hurt his feelings, sure, but Eric was a busy guy, with young grandchildren and professional obligations. Assad had been silly to expect him to drop everything without any notice. It had been foolish to think it would be a nice surprise for him to stick around without first making sure that Eric would be free.
A violent shiver shakes him enough to make him realize he's ruminating again.
"Shhhhhh," he whispered to himself, rocking slightly over the toilet bowl. "Sh sh sh sh sh…"
Suddenly, horrifyingly, there's a hand on his back.
Assad jumps. The movement sends a wave of pain and nausea through him and he groans, even as his heart beats a frantic rhythm in his chest. Who is in his apartment? Who is touching him?
"Shit," a familiar voice says, and Assad's nervous system immediately begins to calm. "Shit, I'm sorry, kid, I didn't… fuck, I didn't mean to scare you. Shhh, shhh, it's okay, baby, it's just me. Is it okay if I turn the light on?"
Assad nods blearily, but the light hits him hard and he has to squint while his eyes adjust.
He must look awful. He really doesn't want Eric to see him like this.
"Oh, sweetheart," Eric coos, like he's talking to an injured kitten. "Oh, you poor thing."
He grunts as he lowers himself down into Assad's line of sight. He looks kind of blurry, but even without his glasses and through the haze of illness Assad can see that he looks tired and thin.
Assad wants to ask if he's okay. He wants to tell him to get out of here quick, before he catches whatever awful bug has Assad puking on the floor of his bathroom. But when he opens his mouth, he has to lean forward quickly while his stomach expels another torrent of thin, acidic liquid.
He closes his eyes and sobs, shaking, and can only lean into the touch when Eric rubs his back in soothing circles.
"I brought some Gatorade," Eric whispers. "I had a feeling… didn't know what color you like, so there's a red, a dark blue, and a light blue. I dunno, those are the ones my kids like. They all kinda taste the same to me."
Assad laughs weakly.
"I am not a Gatorade connoisseur," he says. His voice sounds weak and scratchy. "I'll take whatever. Or give me Harry's favorite, he has good taste."
Eric snorts, but he hands over the bottle of alarming light blue liquid.
Assad struggles a little with the cap, but he manages it before Eric can take the bottle back and do it for him. He swishes the first mouthful around his mouth and spits, then kind of wishes he hadn't, because seeing the blue liquid mix with his vomit does not make him want to drink what's left in the bottle.
Eric seems to follow this train of thought, because he flushes the toilet and says, "Drink. Trust me, you don't want to let yourself get dehydrated."
Assad does his best. The Gatorade is sweet and disgusting, the flavor unidentifiable, and when it hits his stomach he's not sure it's going to stay down. Still, as he drinks he can feel his headache easing just a little, so he presses on until half the bottle is gone, then crumples, breathing hard and wiping at his mouth.
He's suddenly very aware that he's completely naked on his bathroom floor, intermittently vomiting in front of Eric. This is so unbelievably embarrassing.
Eric takes the bottle gently, which Assad now realizes he's been holding at an angle, and sets it on the floor.
"Let's give it a minute to see how your stomach does with that," Eric says. "And then get some Tylenol in you and get you back to bed. Do you have, uh, like, a bucket?"
Assad laughs weakly. It hurts his ribs. He shrugs.
"Okay," Eric says. "I'll look for one."
But when he tries to stand, Assad grabs him by his shirt.
"Don't go," he says. "Please."
"Okay," Eric says, settling back onto the floor and stroking Assad's hair. "Okay."
Assad frowns.
"No," he says, shaking his head gingerly. "No, sorry. Don't want… you should go. Don't want to get you sick."
When he looks up, Eric is grimacing.
"Yeah, I don't think you need to worry about that," he says. "Pretty sure you caught this from me when I stuck my tongue down your throat at the cast party."
It takes Assad a moment to process that. When he does, he pushes himself upright too fast, and has to take a moment to let the spins subside.
"You've been sick?" he asks, distressed.
"Yeah," Eric says nonchalantly. "Sorry I didn't answer your texts, I was, uh…"
He scratches the back of his head sheepishly.
"In the hospital."
"I'm fine, I'm fine!" he adds in response to whatever Assad's face is doing. "I just needed some IV fluid, and then because I'm an old fart they wouldn't let me go until they were sure I wasn't about to croak. But it's not Covid or anything, it's just the flu."
Assad leans weakly on the toilet seat.
"The flu isn't 'just the flu' when you're 72, Eric."
Eric rolls his eyes.
"Yeah, well. I'm alive, aren't I?"
A violent shiver wracks Assad's body and he whimpers.
"You had this?" he asks. "It's awful!"
"Do me a favor and don't picture it."
Assad squeezes his eyes shut.
"I said, don't…"
"I'm not picturing it," Assad manages, voice strangled. "I'm trying not to throw up again."
Eric reaches into his pocket and pulls out a blister pack.
"Here, they sent me home with some Zofran. Have you ever taken Zofran?"
Assad shakes his head.
"It's great. Really takes the edge off the nausea. You don't swallow it, you just let it dissolve under your tongue. Open up."
Weakly, Assad turns his head and opens his mouth.
Eric's thick fingers gently nudging under his tongue feel strange and comforting and painfully intimate all at once. Assad waits for them to retreat, then closes his mouth around the little pill, already feeling it start to dissolve under his tongue.
"Good boy," Eric murmurs, and kisses the top of his head. "Now let's get you in the shower. It's a fucking hotel, damn the drains. The water will help the pain."
He feels Assad's forehead with the back of his hand and suddenly Assad is a kid again, too sick to go to school.
"Let me know when you think you can keep Tylenol down, I'm a little worried about your fever."
Assad whines when Eric stands.
"Shhhh," Eric says. "I'm not going anywhere."
Assad is vaguely aware of the shower turning on and Eric's clothes hitting the floor beside him. He allows himself to be gently guided to his feet, leaning on Eric's warm, familiar body as he's helped into the shower.
Eric lowers them both down into the tub, pulling Assad in between his legs. The shower spray on Assad's belly is uncomfortably cool, but Eric is warm behind him, and almost as soon as he rests his head on Eric's chest his eyes are fluttering closed. He feels so, so tired.
"It's okay," Eric whispers. "You can sleep. I've got you."
