Chapter Text
Lando sat cross-legged on the sagging couch, the stack of manila folders spread across the coffee table like they were interviewing for a government post rather than a spare bedroom. Alex had commandeered the armrest beside him, long legs sprawled, a bottle of water rolling lazily between his fingers. The water always seemed to obey him without thought—shifting, sloshing, never spilling—like it wanted to entertain him. Lando, on the other hand, looked bored out of his mind.
“Alright,” Alex said, flipping open the top folder. “Applicant number one. Aaron, twenty-four, works in IT, power is… oh, this is boring… heat regulation? Can make rooms warmer or cooler?”
Lando scrunched his nose. “So basically a glorified thermostat?”
“Don’t be rude.” Alex grinned, skimming. “He says he’s tidy, likes cooking, doesn’t drink much.”
Lando plucked the sheet from his hand. “Yeah, but it also says he collects medieval swords. Imagine waking up in the night for a piss and seeing a claymore leaning against the bathroom door. No thanks.” He tossed the folder aside.
“Fair point,” Alex conceded, laughter bubbling in his voice.
The next few were no better. A barista who could make their latte foam into shapes that held too long; a teaching assistant whose power was the ability to remember anything he’d ever read, which sounded useful until you pictured him quoting tax code over dinner; a girl who could manipulate her hair length at will.
“Useful for a salon, not so much for splitting rent,” Lando muttered, pushing her sheet away.
Alex flipped open another, humming. “Jason, twenty-two. Works at a bookstore. Power is… uh—plant empathy?”
“Empathy?”
“He can… sense if a plant is thirsty?”
Lando barked out a laugh, falling back against the couch cushions. “Brilliant. Next time the ficus looks sad, Jason can hold its hand.”
“Mate, don’t laugh. Maybe he’d keep you from killing all your succulents.”
“They were a gift, and they were already dying,” Lando argued, ears pink.
Alex’s grin was too wide. “Mmhm.”
The pile dwindled. Each folder passed back and forth between them like trading cards, their judgments quick, sometimes merciless, occasionally softened by a shared look that said maybe we’re the picky ones here.
It was Alex who slowed down first, pausing on a new folder. “Huh,” he said thoughtfully, tapping the page with a fingertip. “Oscar Piastri. Twenty-one. University student. Works as a security guard. Power is…” He tilted his head, eyes narrowing as though he couldn’t quite believe it. “Minor telekinesis?”
Lando leaned over, peering at the neat black text. Minor telekinesis. That was it. No elaboration, no clever spin. Just a boring little footnote of a power.
“That’s it?” Lando said, incredulous. "Minor like… only sometimes?”
“Looks like it.”
“That’s…” Lando blinked, baffled. “That’s practically nothing. Who lists that as their power? No one even bothers anymore, it’s so—” he searched for the right word, “—weak. Rare in the pathetic sense, not rare in the useful sense.”
Alex laughed, the sound sharp and fond. “Careful. You’re talking like you’ve got some grand power yourself. Enhanced hearing isn’t exactly top of the charts.”
Lando shot him a look, mock-offended. “Hey, at least mine’s not minor enhanced hearing.”
“True,” Alex admitted, leaning back against the couch arm. “But you’re not exactly turning heads at the superhero registry either.”
“Didn’t ask to,” Lando muttered, but he was smiling despite himself.
Alex flipped another page, reading further down. “Oh. Wait. I know this guy. He's friends with Logan.”
That got Lando’s attention. “Logan? Your Logan?”
“My Logan,” Alex confirmed, lips quirking. “They’re best mates. Logan says he’s chill. Proper nice bloke, no drama. Easy to live with.”
Lando chewed his lip, considering. He trusted Alex’s network of friends—mostly because Alex was the kind of person who collected people like seashells, all smoothed down and kept in his pocket. But still, the thought nagged. Minor telekinesis? That was barely a power at all.
“Seems odd though,” he said slowly. “Someone that young, with something that… flimsy? Feels like there’s got to be more to him, right?”
Alex shrugged, letting his water bottle tilt until the liquid curled upward against gravity, his absent-minded control making it look like the tide caught in a bottle. “Or maybe he’s just what he says he is. Not everyone’s hiding secrets, you know.”
“Yeah,” Lando said, but his voice carried more doubt than agreement. He flipped the folder shut, his gaze lingering on the name at the front. Oscar Piastri. Cool and chill, Logan vouched for him, apparently no drama. And yet—something about it didn’t sit quite right.
Alex nudged him with an elbow. “Come on. You’ve had worse roommates. Give the kid a shot. Worst case, you kick him out when he starts levitating forks at you.”
Lando huffed a laugh, shaking his head. But his fingers stayed on Oscar’s file longer than they should have, like it weighed a little more than the others.
Lando had expected awkwardness. That was the default, wasn’t it? Inviting a stranger over to possibly live in your space, to share your kitchen and bathroom, to make small talk about bills and bins. He had spent the hour before the visit clearing just enough space to look respectable. The laundry was shoved behind his bedroom door, empty takeaway boxes stacked in the bin, and his camera lenses—which had been scattered across the coffee table—were hastily lined up on his shelf. The place still looked lived-in, but not shamefully so. That was enough.
When the knock finally came, Lando was halfway convinced he should ignore it and pretend he’d changed his mind, but he caught himself and swung it open.
Oscar Piastri stood there.
The first thing Lando noticed was that he was taller. Broader too, built like he’d spent his life lifting things heavier than textbooks. But his shoulders hunched forward, his hands shoved into his jacket pockets, as though he was trying to fold himself down smaller, to disguise the frame he carried. His dark eyes flicked up to meet Lando’s, then dropped again almost instantly.
“Hi,” Lando said, stepping back.
“Hey,” Oscar answered, his voice quiet but clear. He moved inside with a kind of self-conscious care, like he was aware of how much space he took up.
“This is it,” Lando said, sweeping a hand at the apartment. “Couch, TV, table that’s older than me, kitchen that barely counts as a kitchen. Bedrooms are down the hall. Bathroom’s small but it works.”
Oscar nodded, lips twitching just faintly. “Cosy.”
Lando huffed. “That’s one word for it.”
For a moment the silence stretched. Lando shoved his hands into his hoodie pocket, trying not to fidget under the kid’s observant gaze. He hadn’t expected Oscar to look so—unassuming, yet somehow sharp-edged at the same time. Like he was trying to disappear into the furniture but hadn’t quite figured out how.
“So,” Lando said, breaking the quiet. “You’re in uni?”
“Yeah. Engineering.” Oscar rocked on his heels.
Lando perked at that. “No way. I’m a mech. Cars, mostly. You into them?”
Oscar shrugged, a half-smile tugging at his mouth. “Easier to understand engines than people.”
That made Lando laugh, unexpected and sharp. “Fair point.”
Oscar’s eyes flicked to him, quick and assessing again, and this time he didn’t look away so fast. Something in his expression softened.
They drifted toward the kitchen, Lando leaning against the counter while Oscar lingered by the table, gaze snagging on the stack of folders Lando hadn’t bothered to hide.
“Is that—?”
“Yeah.” Lando smirked, tapping the pile. “The other applicants. You’ve got competition.”
Oscar raised an eyebrow. “Did any of them make it this far?”
“Not yet,” Lando admitted, grinning. “You should feel special.”
Oscar let out a laugh, short and surprised, like he hadn’t expected it from himself. His shoulders relaxed by a fraction. “I’ll try to live up to the honour.”
There was a beat of silence, not unfriendly, just… cautious. Lando tilted his head, studying him. He couldn’t shake the sense that Oscar was holding himself in, careful, as if any wrong word might draw too much attention. But then he’d drop something quick, dry, and it would land perfectly.
Oscar's eyes briefly skimmed the shelves where a couple of Lando’s old photos were pinned—prints from class projects, scraps of half-finished ideas.
“You do photography?” Oscar asked suddenly, tilting his chin at the wall.
Lando blinked, caught off guard. “Yeah. Studying it part-time. Just portraits and street stuff, nothing fancy.”
Oscar’s lips twitched again, almost a smile. “Looks good.”
The compliment was unexpected enough that Lando felt his ears warm. “Thanks.” He tried for casual, nodding toward Oscar. “So. You’ve got… minor telekinesis, right?”
Oscar nodded, like it was a boring fact of life. “Yeah. I can move light stuff around. Nothing impressive.”
“Like what?” Lando pressed. “Keys? A pen?”
“Mostly.” Oscar’s mouth twitched. “Sometimes a spoon, if I’m feeling wild.”
Lando barked out a laugh, shaking his head. “That’s pathetic.”
Oscar smirked, the expression so brief it almost didn’t exist. “And what’s yours again? Super-hearing? Bet that comes in handy at concerts.”
That shut Lando up for a second, and he caught the spark of amusement in Oscar’s eyes before it faded. Clever. He was cleverer than he let on.
“Touché,” Lando muttered, though he was grinning.
“So,” he continued, tapping his fingers against the counter. “Schedules. You’ve got a job, yeah?”
Oscar nodded once, steady. “Night shifts. Security.”
“Security,” Lando echoed. He hadn’t expected that. “Where?”
“Pulse.”
For a moment, the word didn’t land. Then it clicked, and Lando straightened so fast he nearly knocked over his mug. “No way. Pulse? The club?”
Oscar gave him a look that seemed to ask if there was another Pulse worth mentioning. “Yeah.”
“Mate, you’re joking.” Lando’s grin widened, incredulous. “I play there sometimes. DJ sets. The little booth tucked by the bar—you must’ve seen me.”
Oscar tilted his head like he was checking a mental file. “I don’t think so.”
Lando clutched his chest in mock horror. “You’ve definitely seen me. Sunglasses, best playlists, absolute fire transitions?”
“Not really looking at the DJ when I’m on shift,” Oscar said evenly.
“That’s—” Lando stopped himself, shook his head, then laughed. “That’s fair, I guess. Still—world’s small, huh? You’re guarding drunk idiots while I’m making them drunker.”
Oscar’s lips curved into the ghost of a smile, quick as it came, before looking past Lando once. “Sounds like teamwork.”
Lando snapped his fingers. “Exactly! Partners in crime, basically. Except, you know, legal.”
He leaned back, buzzing with the coincidence. “Alright, so you’re doing night shifts, studying engineering. I’m at the garage during the day, photography classes when I can, DJing whenever I get booked. Means our schedules don’t completely overlap, which could actually work out pretty decent for living together. Less chance we’ll kill each other over the bathroom.”
Oscar nodded slowly, considering that. He had the kind of measured silence that wasn’t awkward but deliberate, like he weighed every word before letting it out.
Oscar’s eyes darted past Lando’s shoulder again, quick and sharp, aimed at the kitchen counter.
Lando didn’t think much of it the first time. Maybe the guy was checking the clock on the microwave, or maybe something had caught his attention. No big deal.
But then he did it again. And again. Each time the same flicker, like there was something interesting happening right over Lando’s shoulder.
Finally, Lando turned around, scanning the kitchen. The counter was clean except for two mugs, one half-empty, the other untouched. No mess, no movement, no reason to be looking. He frowned, spinning back.
“You keep looking,” Lando said, narrowing his eyes. “What’s back there?”
Oscar coughed suddenly, fist pressed to his mouth, and for a second it sounded suspiciously like he was covering a laugh. “Nothing.”
“Yeah, right.” Lando leaned against the counter, not buying it. “You’ve done that, like, three times now. Don’t tell me it’s nothing.”
“It’s nothing,” Oscar repeated, straight-faced. But his eyes gave him away—they darted once more toward the counter before dragging themselves back to Lando like it took effort.
Lando snorted, pointing at him. “Mate, you are so full of shit.”
Oscar’s shoulders lifted in a small shrug, almost lazy. “Guess you’ll have to trust me, then.”
Lando drummed his fingers, weighing him up one last time. Oscar sat opposite, still looking a little hunched in on himself but steady, like nothing could really knock him off balance. Weird glances aside, he wasn’t bad company. Quiet, yeah, but when he did speak it was sharp enough to catch Lando off guard. And considering he already knew the bloke worked nights, studied something proper like engineering, and had the same club on his radar as Lando, it all felt… easy.
“I like you,” Lando said suddenly, decisive. “You’re in.”
Oscar blinked, slow, as though the words needed a second to land. “That’s it?”
“That’s it,” Lando confirmed, smirking as he leaned back against the counter.
“That was… quick,” Oscar said, eyebrows pulling together.
“And easy,” Lando added, shrugging. “I’m a man of instincts. You pass.”
Oscar’s mouth twitched, a sound halfway between a scoff and a laugh escaping before he shook his head. “Alright, then.”
“Good,” Lando said, grinning. “Now we’ve gotta do the boring bit. Chores, house rules, all that rubbish. Unless you’re the type that doesn’t do chores. In which case, I’ll take it back.”
Oscar tilted his head. “I do chores.”
“Excellent.” Lando pushed away from the counter, pacing like he was making a speech. “So—kitchen’s shared. If you use the last of something, replace it. No science experiments in the fridge. Bathroom: keep your hair out of the drain. Living room: communal zone, not your personal storage unit. You got anything you’d add?”
“Don’t touch my stuff,” Oscar said simply.
“Fair,” Lando agreed. “Don’t touch my camera gear.”
“Deal.”
“Oh, and—” Lando spun back toward him, finger raised. “If you hear me playing music at two a.m., that’s either a set I’m working on or me losing the will to live. Either way, don’t complain.”
Oscar’s smirk was barely there but unmistakable. “I work most nights. I usually won’t be here anyway.”
“Perfect,” Lando said, grinning wide. “This is working out better than I thought.”
They spent the next few minutes working through the details—rent split evenly, bills handled online, cleaning rota not written down but verbally agreed. It felt strangely easy, the rhythm of conversation sliding into something practical without ever dropping the thread of humour.
Finally, Lando clapped his hands together. “Alright. So when d’you want to move in?”
Oscar thought about it, gaze flicking down as though mentally checking a calendar only he could see. “End of the week?”
“Sorted,” Lando said. He shoved his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels. “You bring your stuff, I’ll clear some space. Job done.”
Oscar nodded once, calm as ever. “Sounds good.”
And that was that. Quick, easy—just like Lando had said.
They wrapped it up with a few more practicalities, then Oscar stood, thanked him in that clipped, polite way of his, and pulled his hoodie up like he was already halfway out the door. Lando followed him to the hallway, leaned casually against the frame while Oscar laced his shoes, and tossed a last grin his way.
“See you end of the week, then.”
Oscar gave the smallest nod, quiet as ever, before stepping out into the hall. The door clicked shut behind him.
Lando lingered for a moment, chewing on his bottom lip. His instincts told him the guy was decent—he’d decided that already. But something still itched at him, something about those darting glances, the near-laughs swallowed down like secrets.
Before he could talk himself out of it, he let his eyes unfocus just a little, the way he always did when he pushed past the normal limits. The wall softened, peeled away into shapes, layers. His view stretched down through plaster and paint.
His x-ray vision settled into place with the same strange ease it always carried, like sliding a lens into focus. It was one of those abilities he never admitted to anyone—never would. Hearing through walls was already borderline intrusive; people tolerated it because you could joke about eavesdropping. But seeing through them? Seeing through clothes, through doors, through whatever was meant to keep the world private? That wasn’t something friends wanted to know you could do.
Nobody wanted to hang around a guy who could strip their privacy away with a blink. Which was why he never used it on people unless he had to—and even then, he told himself it was only out of practicality. Just quick checks, no lingering, no prying.
So when he let the walls melt away this time, it wasn’t about curiosity, not really. He only wanted to make sure Oscar had left, that the apartment wasn’t still half-filled with his presence. But the picture that came into focus wasn’t what Lando expected.
Oscar was halfway to the stairs, head bowed. He stopped suddenly, shoulders shaking. A quiet laugh slipped out, directed at absolutely nothing. No phone in his hand. No earbuds. Just him, chuckling in an empty hallway. Then he straightened, and carried on down the stairs like it had never happened.
Lando’s brows drew together. “What the fuck…” he muttered under his breath. Schizo? Maybe. Or just fucking odd.
He turned back into the kitchen, shaking his head with a laugh that didn’t quite land. But then he froze.
The mugs.
A minute ago, they’d both been sitting on the counter, exactly where he’d left them. Now, one was perched neatly on the coffee table in the living room. The other was balanced on top of the cupboard, so high up Lando couldn't even reach it on a chair.
He just stood there, staring, brain catching up in fragments. “What the—”
He stepped closer, craning his neck at the mug up top. He definitely hadn’t moved it. And Oscar…
Lando ran a hand over his face, trying not to laugh. “Oh, you sneaky bastard.”
Telekinesis. Had to be. So much for minor, barely-there power. If Oscar had shifted them without Lando noticing, it was only to mess with him. Just a little game.
Lando wasn’t sure if he should be annoyed or impressed. Maybe both. At least it meant the guy could lift more than an occasional spoon, then.
“Alright,” he muttered to himself, smirking at the cupboard. “Game on.”