George Russell 8x Race Winner Apologist

He leaned back against the counter as he stared out across the shop, listening to the person speak through the receiver. 

“Fun in Space? Yes, we have plenty of stock on that one,” Oscar replied without needing to look at the inventory binder, “It’s a good choice. I can hold one for you if you want to come pick it up.”

As the caller mumbled their thanks, his gaze caught on a teenager loitering in the Rock section, loose records stacked atop the cart at her side, while she eyed an album in her hand like it had personally offended her. The trainee. Her name escaped him for a second.

“Certainly. I will put one behind the counter for you. Cheers.”

Oscar turned to hang up the phone. He then drifted out from around the counter and over towards the aisles, joining his confused teenage trainee in front of the T section. He skimmed his finger along the tops of the wrapped vinyl records until he found Taylor, Roger and pulled out a brand new copy of Fun in Space.

Glancing at him, the trainee held up a copy of London Calling, “Does The Clash go under ‘T’ or ‘C’?”

“‘C’,” Oscar replied, “‘The’s and ‘a’s are filler words we ignore.”

“Ohh, that’s why I couldn’t find them,” she chuckled sheepishly, eyeing the ‘T’ section they were standing beside, “I’ve been standing here for ages.”

Oscar offered a polite and patient smile, “Yeah, it’s a little confusing at first.”

As she moved farther down the aisle toward the C’s, Oscar returned to the cash desk, slipping the ordered album behind the counter with a sticky note bearing the customer’s name. He crouched to reorganize the clutter beneath the register—pulling out the long-forgotten hold items, shuffling what remained into some kind of order.

Around him, the record shop dissolved into its usual white noise: the hum of overlapping songs, muffled chatter between rows, and the groan of the ceiling fan that never spun quite fast enough. He barely registered the familiar jangle of the front bell. He was too used to it by now.

But it was the boisterous laughter that caught his attention and Oscar didn’t need to look up to know who it was. Only one person entered Reckless Records like they owned the place.

“Oi, Oscaaaaar!” Lando’s voice carried like it was on stage at Wembley, his joy ever present in his voice for all to hear.

Oscar straightened just in time to see him saunter in, all swagger and charm, one arm slung around the shoulders of a girl Oscar had never seen before. She clung to him like static, all bangles and bubblegum perfume, her hair coiffed and her coloured eyeliner smudged around her eyes—like she’d stepped straight off the pages of Seventeen. The duo was a sight to behold, demanding the attention of plenty of the store’s patrons with the flamboyancy with which they entered. Despite this, neither seemed to notice…or care.

Instead, they sauntered up to the front counter where Oscar was standing. 

With his voice dull at the glaring sight of the woman beneath Lando’s arm, Oscar sighed, “Hey, Lando.”

“Hey, yourself, Osc,” Lando tugged his sunglasses off with his free hand, folded them against his chest and then tucked them in the collar of his shirt, “Working hard or hardly working?”

Oscar raised an eyebrow, “Always working hard. Can’t say the same for you.”

“Life’s too short to work,” Lando replied with a shrug, always the same.

The girl burst into giggles and set her hand flat against his chest like he’d just delivered the punchline of the century. Oscar watched the motion with something bitter gathering at the base of his throat.

He knew, of course, what kind of life Lando lived; the partners, the parties, the restless bouncing between cities and lovers. It was easier not to think about it when it wasn’t staring him in the face, pressed up against Lando’s side with glittery lip gloss smeared across her mouth.

She hadn’t even said a word, and already Oscar felt like he hated her.

Lando’s arm tightened around her shoulders, “This is Denise.”

The girl’s smile faltered a moment, giggles halting, and she corrected him with a stern, disbelieving, “Deborah.”

Lando smiled sheepishly and removed his arm from around her shoulders, “Right. Close enough.”

Oscar swallowed his pride, desperately trying to keep a hold on his professional demeanor, and asked a simple, “What are you even doing here?”

He was met with no reply as Lando reached across the counter to adjust his nametag on the breast of his uniform polo like he had every right.

OSCAR My favourite album is: ‘A NIGHT AT THE OPERA’

Lando’s fingers tapped the laminated tag, his voice edged with performative teasing as if wanting his new girlfriend to acknowledge his banter, “You ever want to change that thing, or is it just a warning label now? Like—‘Caution: man likely to cry over Bohemian Rhapsody’.”

“Lando,” Oscar’s voice was firm in warning and laced with embarrassment, eyes flicking across his store as if to make sure no customers were witness to his friend’s relentless teasing. 

“Right, right, I forgot,” Lando stood up straight again with that playful smirk of his, “it was just sweat from your eyes from how bloody hot it was that day.”

As much as Oscar yearned for him to leave him alone while he was on shift, there was something so endearing about Lando’s playful smile that had Oscar’s tough exterior cracking. Lando looked at him like they shared something between them that was bigger than this—bigger than the random lovers, bigger than the shop, bigger than what either of them dared to name.

And it was infuriating. Because Oscar couldn’t decide if it meant nothing to Lando, or if it meant everything.

Bored, the girl—now labeled, properly, as Deborah—detangled herself from Lando and sauntered towards the aisles of records to leave the two alone. It took everything in Oscar not to sigh in relief. He knew it was rude that he hadn’t acknowledged her and clearly didn’t make much of a first impression of himself but if anything he knew about Lando was correct, she wasn’t going to be sticking around for long anyway.

So Oscar turned his attention back to its rightful owner, “Can I help you with something or did you just come here to be a pain in my ass?” 

“Oh, well, I’m very good at that, aren’t I?” Lando bent himself forward over the counter and rested his chin in his hands as he stared up at him, “Just wanted to pop in and make sure we’re still set to meet tonight.”

“Yeah, of course,” Oscar replied easily, “I’m off at 4:30 and I’ll head to the park right after.”

“Mint.”

Oscar was more than thankful for the customer who approached the counter at that moment with a stack of cassettes in hand. It gave him something else to focus on—something simple and professional—when the last thing he needed was to get distracted mid-shift. He had a reputation to uphold, after all.

Lando, thankfully, took the hint. With one last look and that familiar smirk tugging at his mouth, he trailed after his arm candy down the aisles of the record store, leaving Oscar to his responsibilities. 

As he typed in the codes and prices of the cassettes into the register, Oscar was attuned to the overwhelming presence of Lando and Deborah across the store. They were talking over each other—giddy, nonsensical, loud—as if she had already easily forgiven him for forgetting her name. She picked up a Madonna album and squealed about how she loved this one, while Lando shouted something from farther down the aisle about her terrible taste. 

The customer at the counter raised their eyebrows at the noise, casting a glance over their shoulder. Oscar clenched his jaw as he finished bagging the customer’s items, offering an apologetic smile that he hoped read I’m sorry my friend is insufferable.

Lando always had a way of commanding any room he walked into, that was well known to Oscar two years into their friendship. But, here, now, at his workplace, the usually endearing antics were grating on him, an unwelcome performance in his sacred space. 

And it certainly had nothing to do with the obnoxious woman who had suddenly tagged along on Lando’s arm. Definitely not. 

Oscar tried to focus his attention on ringing up the customer he was tending to, but it was getting harder to ignore. Their chatter seemed to echo through the store, earning the attention of other patrons who sent them sideways glances and Deborah’s shrieking laughter at what Oscar guessed was a very unfunny joke Lando cracked actually sent an older gentleman leaving the store before he could buy something. 

Oscar clenched his jaw as he handed back the customer's change and sent them on their way with the most patient professional smile he could muster. 

“Oh my god, babe, we should totally make a mixtape for each other!” Deborah shouted, like she’d just invented romance.

“You’d put only cheesy slow songs on mine,” Lando replied with a laugh, dropping two of the many cassettes he was trying to hold, “You’re so obsessed with me.”

Oscar closed the till a little too hard.

“Okay, Lando, seriously,” he said firmly as he stepped out from around the counter, “you guys have to go.”

Lando blinked innocently, “What? We’re just browsing.”

“Loudly,” Oscar deadpanned, “You’ve scared off half the store.”

Deborah rested her arm on Lando’s shoulder and snorted under her breath, “Someone’s a little touchy.”

Oscar ignored her and looked at Lando, “Please? I’ll see you at the park later, yeah?”

There was a brief pause—just long enough to make Oscar question if he’d overstepped—but then Lando grinned, completely unbothered. Always an expert at bouncing right back. Oscar might have almost been envious. 

“Alright, alright,” he said and ungracefully shoved his collection of cassettes into Oscar’s hands, dropping two more to the floor in the process, “I’ll catch you later then, Osc.”

The sound of the bell above the door dinging with their departure had the tension melting from Oscar’s body with a heavy sigh. His eyes closed for just a moment, letting some overplayed pop song soothe him through the store’s crackling speakers. It felt as if there were a lead block on his chest, suffocating him and squeezing his heart under indescribable pressure. 

It had been clear since they had met that Lando wasn’t the type to settle down. Oscar ran out of fingers on both hands if he even so much as tried to start counting the amount of fleeting partners Lando had in the two years. The odd few that lasted longer than a night or two always seemed to turn him into an exaggerated version of himself; like his baseline was cranked up five notches. 

And just hearing about these escapades was one thing—allowing Oscar to pretend it was all made up stories—but seeing one of these individuals in the flesh? Seeing the way Lando interacted with her? Played up his game to get a reaction out of her? How he touched her waist? Oscar felt like a fucking fool.

It had been two years since they met and if Lando hadn’t given him any indication he was into him yet, the chances of that changing were slim to none. 

“Oscar?”

He snapped his eyes open to see his trainee standing in front of him with her empty cart, only the mess of cassettes littering the ground between them.

“Do you need help cleaning this up?”

Oscar swallowed his pride and nodded dumbly, “Yeah…that’d be great. Sorry.”

He carefully dumped the eight cassettes from his arms onto her empty cart to be sorted back onto the shelves as she crouched down to start to pick up the fallen ones. Work was always a good distraction for him, something that made him feel like he had a purpose…and was wanted. Saying it out loud felt pathetic so he never dared.

It was fine. He was far too familiar with hiding himself in music anyway.

The breakroom smelt like stale cigarettes and broken dreams as Oscar changed out of his uniform shirt between the two rows of rusty lockers. Thankfully, the worst of his shift had been Lando’s little appearance and the rest had been smooth sailing after that. He closed his locker with a clang that echoed through the tight space, slinging his backpack over his shoulder on his way to the exit. 

He was looking forward to a nice summer evening in the park with his friend. Normal, and very much deserved.

Before he could leave, his store manager stepped out of the back office with a call of his name, “Oscar, can I speak with you for a second before you leave?”

Sebastian was a fine boss; laidback and easygoing but still ran the store enough like a tight ship to keep it afloat. He had opened it some time in the 60s when he, himself, was fresh out of university and wanting to share the joy of rock and roll to the city of London and he still carried that same passion. 

He was an older guy—enough to have two kids—but had just enough relatability about him to earn the admiration of his younger employees. He always liked to claim that his shoulder length scraggly hair was his attempt at looking ‘cool’. Oscar wasn’t going to be the one to break his boss’ heart that long hair was so 70s. 

The main office of the record store was packed full of vinyls; most in their sleeves, the odd ones out. Stacks upon stacks of outdated records were covering every surface until the desk only had a two-foot clear space to actually work on payroll and paperwork. Sebastian took his seat in the rickety office chair that creaked under his weight like it was from last century. Oscar lingered in the doorway. The folding chair on the other side of the desk was full of a crate of newly arrived stock. 

“I’m glad to have caught you before you left,” Sebastian said kindly, “I had an opportunity arise and you were the first person I thought of.”

Oscar folded his arms across his chest with intrigue and leaned against the worn wallpaper, “What kind of opportunity?”

Sebastian leaned back in the creaking chair and plucked his half-smoked cigarette from the ashtray on top of another stack of records, “There’s this up-and-coming college band performing downtown tonight. Their audience has been growing steadily and I want us to start to stock their debut album when it releases next week. I was thinking you could go on down to the venue, introduce yourself to their sales team, and maybe link us up with some copies. It would be a great networking opportunity for you.”

“Oh, wow,” Oscar shifted in place.

Sebastian took a drag of his cigarette while Oscar pondered the offer. In his year-and-a-bit of working at the store, he had never been trusted with such an important opportunity. And it definitely would be a good networking opportunity for him, especially if he wanted to stay in the music industry and find a way to connect his degree there. On site to stake out an up and coming band. The next Queen even.

But Lando. 

Lando was waiting for him at the park for him by then and he couldn’t just stand him up. Oscar had also been looking forward to seeing Lando for a while since he had been so busy with work that it was hard to find time. The logical part of his brain knew that taking this opportunity would be a good choice, but the emotional part of his brain was yearning to just sit by the river with Lando and forget the world.

It didn’t take a genius to know which part won over. 

“I’d love the opportunity, Seb, but I have plans tonight that I can’t get out of,” Oscar said with as much regret as he could inject into his voice. 

Sebastian waved his hand through the smokey air between them, brushing off Oscar’s reluctance, “Ah, no problem. I knew it was a stretch to ask day of.”

“Next time?”

“Next time, kid, you got it.”

Oscar nodded politely at him with a smile and tapped the doorframe on his way out of the office.

Battersea Park was always a little busier on summer weekdays after working hours. The paths were a mess of office workers breaking out of their glass framed jails, children tugging on the hands of exhausted parents, and those who made jogging with their dogs their entire personality. Oscar weaved between the crowds to his usual spot on the north side of the park, right where the green grass bowed down towards the River Thames.

He always thought it to be the most peaceful spot in all of London—nothing but homes across the river—where the noise of the city gave way to the rustle of trees and the chirp of birds and the gentle lap of water on the hull of passing river boats eased his senses. Even on those stressful university weeks, a trip to Battersea Park relaxed him, a breath of fresh air, his sacred space. It was only a given that he would share it with someone as trusted as Lando. 

Said trusted companion was already laying on the grass when Oscar arrived. One arm slung over his eyes in the bright summer evening sun, he was relaxed upon the riverbank, knees bent and feet flat on the embankment, one Adidas sneaker tapping. As he drew closer, Oscar could see the headphones buried amongst Lando’s mess of curls and covering his ears. The Walkman was tossed on top of his backpack beside him on the grass. He was beautifully alone.

Oscar smiled at the sight and scurried down the small embankment to join him, alerting him of his presence by his shadow interrupting the relentless sun. Lando removed his arm from his eyes, his face still screwed up in an almost permanent squint, but his first sight of Oscar and he was breaking out in a grin. 

“There you are! Was starting to think you stood me up,” Lando greeted playfully as Oscar placed himself beside him on the grass. 

Oscar chuckled and shrugged off his backpack, “No, Seb caught me on my way out the door. Blame him for my tardiness.” 

“Freakin’ Seb,” Lando said with a dramatic sneer that held no real malice as he tugged off his headphones. 

Oscar smiled at him and, like always, Lando smiled right back. Lando wrapped up his headphone cord around his Walkman while they fell into a normalcy that was inherently them. 

“What’re you listening to?” 

“Queen’s debut. Obviously.”

“Of course.”

“How was work?”

“Fine, once you left.”

“Lying doesn’t make you cool, Osc.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Bet you missed me to bits.”

“Always do, don’t I?”

“Want some?”

Oscar tore his eyes away from the river to glance over to where Lando was holding out a bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag. 

“What is that?”

“Well it’s not freaking milk, mate.”

Oscar reached out to take the paper covered bottle from him and he brought it to his nose to sniff. The strong stench of liquor made his expression rumple; it was an unpleasant and yet familiar smell that had his nose burning and his chest clenching. With it came the memories of the living room dimmed down to a single table lap and the stacky television, the echoing clink of ice against the glass in his father’s hand, the house stretched exponentially between them and yet coiled tight and suffocating all in the same. 

Breaking out of the bitter-tasting memory, Oscar held the paper covered bottle back out to Lando.

With a tut, Lando took it from him, “Y’know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you drink a drop of alcohol in all two years of knowing you.”

Oscar wrapped his arms around his knees as he peered out across the river, squinting in the early evening sun, “So what?”

“So you’re a mega prude, mate. Gotta let loose a little.”

“I’m fine the way I am, thank you.”

“Suit yourself.”

Oscar rested back on his hands and watched as Lando lifted the bottle to his lips and took a lengthy sip. It wasn’t new to him—Lando’s habits, the drinking, the occasional drugs—they’d always been part of the package. And Oscar had never once tried to stop him because who was he to say anything, anyway? His own personal hangups weren’t Lando’s problem.

Still, sometimes the smell alone was enough to bring back old memories, ones he’d rather keep buried. The ones that came with shouting behind doors and broken glass on the kitchen floor. The scent that couldn’t be washed out no matter how hard you scrubbed, no matter how much time had passed. 

If he wanted Lando around—and he did, more than anything he had ever wanted before—he had to take him as he was. Baggage and all.

Sometimes, though, that baggage felt heavier than others.

But it felt a little easier in the calmness of the sunshine, watching how the wind streaked through Lando’s hair, the reassuring smile on his rosy cheeks. It wasn’t tied into darkness like the kind Oscar had left behind and that made it a bit more bearable. 

Lando lifted a hand over his eyes to shield himself from the sun as he glanced over at Oscar beside him, “How’s it been since Nick the Prick moved out?”

Being offered a respite from his swirling thoughts, Oscar’s face softened and his lips turned up in a lightly amused smile at the crude nickname Lando always held for his old roommate. It had been a few weeks since Nick had moved out of their flat and returned to his hometown up north, mutterings going around that his rich father gambled away all their money. Oscar wasn’t fazed; it just meant more peace and fucking quiet for him at home without some asshole making uncalled for remarks at him at every turn. 

“It’s been good,” Oscar replied simply, “Logan and I have been managing rent quite well, just the two of us. I guess it helps since I got my raise.”

“I like Logan,” Lando mused, pausing to take another sip of his poorly concealed whisky, “He’s quiet.”

“You only like quiet because you’re so loud,” Oscar deadpanned. 

Lando dropped his head back with a laugh that was almost funnier than the joke itself. Well, it wasn’t much of a joke if it was true. 

When he regained his composure, Lando continued, “Maybe, but I meant more that Logan’s not a fucking homophobic wanker.”

Oscar let out a snicker to the riverbank, “Yeah…”

“Embarrassing, innit? Nick?” Lando glanced over at him as if searching for his validation he knew he’d get, “Always going on and on about you kissing boys and whatever? Like he wanted to see it or something.”

“Yeah…”

Oscar felt like a broken record for a moment, skipping over the same word, but what else was he supposed to say? ‘Yeah, I want to see me kissing a boy too…you if we’re being specific’. God, no.

Regardless, he felt like it was written all over his face and so he kept his attention straight ahead, watching the boats sailing along the Thames. 

But then—as if it were nothing more than the weather—Lando asked, “Have you ever even actually kissed a boy before?”

Oscar nearly broke his neck with how fast he looked at him, “What?”

Lando shrugged, like it was no big deal, like he always did with anything, and he lifted the bottle back to his mouth, “Just curious.” 

He sipped, slow and casual. Oscar watched the way his throat bobbed when he swallowed, the way the liquid left a shimmer across his pillowy lips, the slight alcohol-induced flush of his cheeks. If Oscar was brave like Lando was, maybe he would have leaned in and answered his question with an action. But he wasn’t. And as much as he tried to ignore it for his own well-being, the existence of Deborah lingered in the back of his mind. He wasn’t that kind of person. 

So he turned back to the river, swallowing back the confessions that clawed at his throat, the words desperate to escape. 

Oscar wasn’t sure if he wanted to know the answer, but he found himself asking the question back anyway, “Have you?”

“A couple. Here and there.”

Lando said it like it was no big deal. He lived his life like everything was ‘no big deal’. In a way, Oscar envied that; being able to live every day as it came. No label, no rules, nothing but whatever he wanted to do, however he wanted to carry himself. Free. 

He could feel Lando staring at him, his eyes burning into the side of his face. Oscar dared not look, not trusting himself and his words if he met Lando’s gaze in that moment. 

Before he could change the subject or even so much as finish a breath, Lando was diving in front of him and pressing their lips together in a clumsy, off-centered kiss. 

Oscar tensed up right away in surprise, freezing like someone had dumped a bucket of ice cold water down his back. Freezing, apart from the heat of Lando’s lips on his. But then Lando was pulling away just as quickly as he approached and Oscar blinked like a pathetic fool. 

He hadn’t even kissed back—had barely registered what was happening until it was already over. His heart was hammering, wild and uneven, while Lando looked as relaxed as ever. Like it meant nothing. Like it was just a joke or a dare or some other fleeting, meaningless thing.

“See? No big deal.” Lando muttered, flopping back onto the grass again.

“What—” Oscar stumbled out, trying to remember how to form words, how to be normal. Annoyingly, despite all that, all he could figure out what to say was, “Lando, you have a girlfriend.”

Lando simply guffawed, “We’re not exclusive or anything…we’re just having fun. I can kiss whoever I want.”

Oscar tried not to read into it; whoever he wanted. 

Wanted.

When he licked his lips, they tasted like whisky.

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