heaviness

Not a jet, but it's still business class. Ridiculous for a flight that will take less than two hours, barely enough of a journey for him to bother settling in.

But Lando's always had a flair for dramatics.

He doesn't even want to know how Lando managed to get his passport details, who out of his closest (and apparently most spineless) friends he'd managed to charm the information out of. He doubts it would have been difficult, and he can't really fault them for it, either. Nobody is immune to Lando.

Tries not to think about how Lando even knows anyway. Fewtrell, if Oscar had to hazard a guess. P and Lily have been closer lately.

It isn't like he was expecting to be able to keep it quiet for long. Still, this feels too sudden. Too fast.

But none of that really matters anyway. It’s all inconsequential, information to be forgotten in an instant considering everything else.

What matters is that Lando's apparently booked him a plane ticket straight to Ibiza, where Lando currently is; with friends and international dj's and influencers Oscar doesn't know the name of.

Where everyone currently is if Instagram is to believed.

A ticket and an address, that's all Lando's emailed him.

It's not enough. It's not nearly enough. Not to mention the flight leaves in less than half a day, giving Oscar no time to get his affairs in order.

Not that he has any. No pet to leave in someone else's care; no family here in Monaco expecting him to be home.

No girlfriend, not anymore.

Logically, there's really nothing stopping him from going at all.

He tries to wrack his brain for an excuse anyway.

Ibiza has never appealed to him before. Not the late nights and the party culture, the posers with blown pupils and fake-white smiles, there for a multitude of reasons: none of which being the music.

But he looks at his phone, eyes burning with the effort of his stare. Like he might shoot lasers from them, carve out a hole in the centre of the screen.