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writingredrose · 2 days ago

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the nightmare before our love story | Skully J Graves x reader

summary : being stuck in another world isn't new for you, but it seems you've found someone who perhaps truly understands you

warnings : reader is known to be Yuu

fic type : fluff and maybe a bit of angst

a / n : MAN I AM IN LOVE WITH THIS NEW EVENT!! I hope I get Skully's personality right! ( I put a reference there. Good luck on finding it! It's pretty easy <3 ) Also I would like to mention that I started making this while I was watching part two and going into part three of the event. So it may be a bit rusty on the edges

HAPPY HALLOWEEN 🎃

This is Halloween.... This is what Halloween is about...

Yes, indeed, that's what the magic of Halloween is all about

The night was quiet in Halloween City. Out there, in the City Hall, some people were arguing over meaningless things.

“This was supposed to be teamwork... what's happening?„ “Your friends have a lot of energy.. don't they?„ On a bench not too far away from the arguing houswardens, you, Skully and Jack were staying in a little group. Unfortunately not even Grim could escape from the complaints of the houswardens. The mayor too was clearly angry at everyone's stubbornness but it seems even he couldn't stop everyone.

“ I wouldn't expect much from them. I've gone to that school enough to know they're hopeless„ You sighed and let yourself numb on the wooden bench. “I miss my dorm mates, man„

A pair of orange eyes looked at you from under a pair of black glasses. “How lovely! Truly! You too have companions in your dorm?„ You smiled at Skully brightly. “Yeah! They're an amazing company, it's fun to be around them, even if there are only 5 of us!„ “How wonderful!„ “I would've loved to meet your companions too, Y/N! If they are as you say, it would've been a blast working with them” Jack Skellington smiled at you from above, you could tell he was thinking about how it would've been to meet them. You smiled and looked back at the others in front of the stage. Still arguing... What could be done..? You wanted to get up and try to get them to shut up, but the mayor himself decided to do it for you. “EVERYONE SHUT UP!” You heard a quiet laugh from next to you, of course it was none other than Skully, you could tell by the way his hand was covering his mouth. “Can we not argue at least today? We need to finish the Halloween preparations in these 3 days!„ “Yes yes! I promise I shall do another lottery tomorrow, until then, please do your best to work together„ The Houswardens looked at each other. Vil gave a long sigh. “We don't have a choice do we?“ Shaking his head, he accepted his fate as well as the others. “How troublesome..„ Jack whispered before going out of the city hall, quickly followed by Skully and you, Grim too, quickly jumping on your shoulder to accompany you outside.

What a day, what a day... As expected the teams made absolutely no progress. The mayor was mad, Jack was worried, and Skully...well, he's trying to get people to try his ideas but it seems like it's not working as well as he wants to.

The day has finally come to an end. Even if no progress was made, you and the others were able to accommodate more with Halloween town. Except, there may be one problem. “And where exactly should we sleep„ Sebek was the one to disturb the silence. Now that you're thinking about it, you really didn't think about the sleeping problems. “My, I haven't thought about that at all! Hm, well my house can't possibly fit all of you...Ah yes! There are plenty of open graves for you to use!„ Did he just say graves? “Uh no thank you, we're fine sleeping somewhere else„ “Oh! I'm pretty sure I can find someone that has enough space under their bed for you all! Or perhaps a cozy coffin I can borrow from a vampire!” Well, Jack clearly seems to have some... interesting ideas “I'm sorry under a what now?“ “No way, sleeping in a coffin is definitely not for me!“ “How about sleeping in the hall?„ Jamil was the first to propose the idea. Sleeping in a city hall didn't seem that bad. Beats sleeping in someone's wall. “Are you kids sure? I simply cannot let you sleep in such an uncomfortable place! You are our guests after all„ “Oh no, we insist! We will be just alright!“ “Well, if you say so, I can't be the one to oppose the idea“

It all started when you and the others found a mysterious book lying in the middle of the market. Initially, you planned not to open it, but Grim, being the little curious furball he is, opened it without thinking at all. And here you are, in Halloween Town, with a bunch of different monsters and Jack, who to you seems very familiar for some reason. In the forest you've woken up, you also found Skully, who in your eyes was a very nice guy. He was a gentleman, and seemed to respect every one of you, even if the others made fun of him a lot. Skully also seemed to pay attention to you the most, asking about your opinions ( even if they're not needed ), asking for advice and just being there with you. You can't lie and say you haven't been thinking about taking him back at NRC. The headmage owes you a lot after all. You just hope you'll be able too. After all, he looks like he needs some good company.

You're not sure what woke you up, the uncomfortable feeling of the wood bench you were sitting on, or the shuffling and steps close to you. You slowly opened your eyes and looked around, not much to see in the dark, but you spotted a tall figure opening the door of the hall and going out. Skully..? You thought. Why is he awake at such an hour? You silently got up and started walking to the door as to not wake up Grim and the others. You slowly opened the door and the cold weather greeted you. Looking up at the sky, the light of the full moon greeted you, like saying good morning. You were thinking it's morning, since the cold air was the first thing to hit you when opening the City Hall's door and your black patchworked suit wasn't a very good shield against it. You looked around searching for Skully's figure, and you quickly spotted him going out the town's gate.

You picked up your pace, the city was quiet so your call wasn't unheard by the boy. “Skully, wait up!„ He quickly turned around and spotted you, you couldn't miss the way his eyes lit up and his lips that were in a straight line were now a happy smile. “Ah Y/N! What a nice surprise! What are you doing here? I recall you being asleep„ You stopped next to him, catching your breath. “I heard you going out and I got worried something happened, so I came to see if you're ok„ You've never seen Skully smile so brightly. Your gesture made him happy beyond belief, to think someone as kind as you cared enough to check on him warms his heart. Skully put his hands on his chest, gesturing how happy he was. “Ah! To think you went all the way here to check on me! It really warms up my heart! My dear friend your kindness is unmatched!„ You left out a giggle at his compliments. No one really gave you such compliments, not here and rarely at home, you can't help but blush a little at Skully's devoted compliments. You caught him bowing again, catching your hand in his and placing a kiss on the back of it. Now this was one of the things that truly made you a red blushing mess. “Ah.. there's no need for that... it's ehm, it's nothing really, it's what friends do!„ He looked at you and laughed. “Nonsense! I have to show my gratitude no? Now! — Skully slapped his hands together, closing his eyes — how about you join me on my walk?“ “Your walk?“ “Indeed! I was planning on going on the spiral hill to take a better view of the endless field bathing in the moonlight! It's a once in a lifetime experience and I can't miss it! Would you like to come with?„ He extended his hand for you to take, and how could you possibly refuse?

The truth was that what you experienced when you first met Skully was love at first sight. And then your love grew bigger with every care he showed you.

So you took his hand and he slowly guided you to the hill. The silence between you was comfortable, you could hear your loud heartbeat while walking and you were almost 100% sure it would pop out of your chest.

Both of you made your way on the hill and sat close to the edge of it, enjoying the now slightly warmer breeze that the wind offered you.“Beautiful isn't it? I've been dreaming of coming here for so long! To finally see Mr. Jack and the Halloween Town! It's a dream come true!„ You smiled at his statement, but as soon as you looked back at him, his face quickly turned into a frown. “Something tells me this isn't all you want to say“ He looked at you, your cheeks having a pink tint to them after noticing the light in his eyes when he looked at you, and you only. “My dearest friend, can you keep a secret?„ You nodded smiling, whatever he had on his mind, you'll keep it secluded, close to your heart. “The truth is, that I am quite disappointed. Mr Jack is not how I imagined him to be. He wants Halloween to be happy, lively, with people to celebrate with. But that's... THAT'S JUST ABSOLUTE BULLSHIT„ You slightly jumped at Skully's screaming. Is this how he usually is? “Music and dancing, bright colors? NO! That's not how it's supposed to be! Halloween is a nightmare! Halloween is a dream! It's scary! This is Halloween! That is Halloween!„ Skully clenched his fists and looked ahead, eyes full of pure fury. “If Mr Jack cannot understand that, maybe I'll have to take matters into my own hands„ Looking back at Skully, you understood that more than all, he was disappointed that he was let down, you understood his feelings, you understood them well.

Without thinking, you put your hand on his, reassuring him silently. Skully jumped a little at the contact, his hand stiff, but quickly relaxing under your touch. He looked at you, an expression of shock and adoration. “Ah, I apologize my friend. I don't know what happened for me to raise my voice like that. Oh no no, Mr Jack is a gentleman, he definitely wouldn't like me acting like this„ He slowly turned his hand so that he could interlock your fingers with his. He looked at your hands, a visible pink blush peaking from behind his glasses. “Thank you, for being here for me my friend. Your companions laugh at me, calling me names, but you, you aren't like them. You understand me, and I appreciate that more than you think„ You smiled at his confession, thinking about the thoughts you had earlier today. “Skully, when...when we get out of here, I..I can try and get you enrolled in the school I'm staying at. I'm sure that my dorm will welcome you with open arms. No one to make fun of you. I'm sure you'll fit amazing„ The white haired boy looked at you with hope in his eyes. He thought that maybe, just maybe, he can be with the one whom he loved so much from the start. He looked at you with a hopeful smile. “It would be lovely! I must say I'm very curious about your friends out there. The thought of staying with you makes me jump in excitement„

You laughed at his antics, and looking back at him simply made your heart beat faster and faster. Skully seemed to think the same, because slowly and quickly at the same time, both of you found yourselves closing the distance between you. Stopping just as your lips barely touched, Skully looked at you one more time, searching in your eyes for any sort of hesitance, once he saw the soft glint in your eyes, he put a hand around your waist at the same time you put one of your hands on his cheek and finally closed the distance between you.

The kiss was enough for both of you, because you put all your feelings about each other in it. So many unspoken words were now spoken through a simple kiss, a kiss that none of you will ever forget. The hands that had your fingers interlocked had never quite loosened their grip, now gripping tighter at it, as if one of you thought the other would disappear if you'd dare to let go. You broke the kiss in need of air, you and Skully still being caught in the blissful moment, went for another one, and another. While the dim light of the moon seemed to illuminate only the two of you as if supporting your confession.

After what seemed like an eternity, you both stopped, both your faces red, looking at each other with only adoration and love being present in your eyes. Skully and you got up still holding your hands in his. Then unexpectedly, he gripped your waist and twirled you around. You couldn't help but laugh at the action. Even after stopping, he held you in his arms, kissing both your knuckles and looking at you. “My love for you goes beyond the moon, Y/N. I love you and adore you like no other„ You kissed him again, your hands coming behind his neck.

“And my love for you, Skully, goes beyond this world, Twisted Wonderland, and my very own, I love you so much, like no other person I've loved in my life„ He let out a laugh, kissing you again and again, making you giggle. He took your hands and started dancing with you, slowly, while humming a melody.

Both of you were happy, so happy. And you were sure, you were sure that even after getting out of here, you'd find each other again, the devotion and love for each other guiding you in the form of a beautiful red string, making sure you'll never forget.

BONUS :

Meanwhile in the city hall ...

“Hey, where is my henchhuman??„ Jamil and Vil looked around. “Huh, now that I think about it, I haven't seen the Prefect when I woke up„ “Indeed, and Skully too, he seemed to have disappeared„ Sebek came between them speaking loudly. “Skully told me he went to watch the sunset or something like that. I'm pretty sure I spotted the Prefect following him after a minute he left„ The houswardens looked at each other.

After a while Jack showed up asking about the two, Sally coming after a while, incredibly happy. “Why good morning Sally! What's gotten you so happy?“ She got closer to Jack whispering something that the others couldn't hear. Jack let out a happy laugh. “Reminds me of our early days. Love is truly beautiful isn't it?„ “Love? What love? What are you talking about?„ Vil demanded answers, but got nothing in return.

The two residents of the town decided to keep it a secret. And let you enjoy the moment just for a little while more.

#the fact that i finished this when i found out about the ending is absolutely wild #guys this went through so many changes and I'm still not satisfied #SKULLY I MISS YOU SO MUCH HOW COULD YOU DIE AND NOT TELL US!!!!#you know i feel like the ending i wrote could be a perfect way to say I'm making another fic for Skully #anyway HAPPY HALLOWEEN Y'ALL I HOPE YOU'LL ENJOY THIS #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twst #twst x reader #skully #skully j graves #skully x reader #skully j graves x reader

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senipsenipsenip · 14 hours ago

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The Pines family sat at the table, quietly eating their breakfast, when Mabel slammed her hands on the table and shouted “KERMIT THE FROG”.

Dipper leapt forward to right his orange juice glass, gathering nearby napkins to sop up the puddle. “What?”

“Kermit the frog! He plays the banjo!”

“Yyyyes?”

Ford raised his hand. “Who’s Kermit the Frog?”

Stan snapped his head up from his plate. “Who’s Kermit the Frog? The Muppets, Pointdexter, you were around for The Muppet Show. They had a movie and everything.”

Ford frowned. “Muppets.”

“Yeah, they’re a riot! There’s this Bear whose got some great puns and this pig who really know how to throw a punch. You’d love it, they’ve even got a scientist!”

Ford raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t realize you were such a fan of children’s television.”

“Children?!”

Dipper stirred his cereal. “I’m just impressed you remember all that. Yesterday you forgot you were married.”

“That’s because The Muppets are forever!” Mabel exclaimed.

“Wait, Stanley you were married?”

“Yep. Actually, unless I’m forgetting a divorce, I might still be married.”

“You didn’t,” Mabel chirped. “I’d have it on my Romance Chart if you did. You’ve missed a lot of anniversaries.”

“So has he!” Stan argued. “I’m not the only bad husband here!”

Ford spluttered. “Husband?”

Dipper frowned. “I think we’re getting a little too far away from why Mabel screamed Kermit the Frog and knocked my orange juice over.”

Mabel nodded. “Right, so, I was thinking of Mr. McGucket -

“Stanley you have a husband?“

“I was thinking of Mr. McGucket,” Mabel interrupted. “And how he could maybe help around the Shack. And he plays banjo! He could play banjo and people could put money in his lil banjo case like a real musician.”

At the mention of money, Stan leaned forward.

“But like, no one knows banjo music,” Mabel continued. “So I was like, maybe pop hits banjo? But then BOOM! Kermit the Frog! People love that frog. He could play the rainbow song. He’d be a hit!”

“Interesting,” Stan muttered. “Preying on people’s nostalgia to milk them for cash. I love it!”

Ford hummed. “Actually, that’s not a bad idea, Mabel. Activities like playing musical instruments have been proven to help patients with Alzheimers and dementia. Not that Fiddleford’s condition has the same root cause, but it may prove beneficial to memory recovery.”

“Eugh, don’t ruin this for me.”

“If playing an instrument helps with memory loss, maybe Grunkle Stan should learn an instrument,” Dipper suggested.

“Ooo!” Mabel squealed. “What about guitar? Or the piano? OH!” She clutched Stan’s arm with a fervor. “The triangle!”

Ford grimaced. “Maybe not that one.”

“Sorry, kid. I’m not exactly a music guy,” Stan shrugged out of Mabel’s grasp. “Let’s leave that to the professionals.”

Mabel frowned, but let the topic go.

Ford stood from the table. “Well, I happen to be visiting Fiddleford this afternoon. I can broach the topic and see what he thinks.”

Fiddleford, as it turns out, loved the idea. To the surprise of everyone, Fiddleford admitted that he had always wanted to play in a jugband when he was younger, but could never get over his stage fright enough to audition for the local band. Then he went off to college and then…everything else.

“Maybe I zapped away that scared bit enough to play!” he had cackled, knocking at the side of his head with his knuckles.

It was settled. “Fiddlin’ Fridays at the Mystery Shack with Fiddleford McGucket”. Dipper tried to point out the title didn’t make sense since it was a banjo, not a fiddle. Stan argued that “customers are suckers for alliteration”. The set up was just Fiddleford dragging an old rocking chair onto the porch and opening up his banjo case. Mabel had made a large glittery banner, but it was quickly absconded by Fiddleford’s raccoon.

“Tell your wife to give me back my banner!” Mabel had yelled, chasing the raccoon into the bushes.

“Ex-wife,” Fiddleford sighed sadly. “Apparently I was too emotionally available.”

Ford pulled at his hair. “Did everyone get married without telling me?”

“Excuse me?” A voice piped up. Fiddleford and Ford turned to see a little boy standing at the bottom of the porch. He was dressed in hiking clothes that were obviously new. In the distance, a young woman was unstrapping a baby from its seat in an SUV. Obviously city folk coming to the “wilderness” for the first time.

“Are you a real hillbilly?” The boy asked. Suddenly the door slammed open, Mr. Mystery striding through, eyepatch in place.

“Sure is!” Stan grinned. “Our very own genuine hillbilly just waiting to play you a tune! All you gotta do is put some of your mom’s money in his case there.”

The little boy’s eyes widened, turning around to race towards his mother.

“Stanley,” Ford admonished. “Fiddleford isn’t some show monkey to throw money at.”

“During work hours he is.” Stan turned to Fiddleford. “So, did Mabel teach you that song she was so excited about?”

Fiddleford sat frozen, watching the little boy yank at his mothers pants to try and get her attention, the baby beginning to fuss.

“Well…” Fiddleford cleared his throat. “Some good news and bad news fellas.”

Ford furrowed his brows. “What is it?”

“Good news is, my mind ain’t all broken.” Fiddleford hugged his banjo and turned to look up at Ford. “Bad news is I knows it ‘cause I still got stage fright.”

Stan scoffed. “Stage fright? C’mon it’s one kid and a couple o’ city slickers who would probably think you playing three wrong notes and spitting is ‘authentic’.”

“Stanley, be supportive.”

“I am! Look I’ve been at this job forever. All you gotta do is smile and if something goes wrong, you blame a ghost or something. They eat that up.”

Fiddleford shook his head. “But this is music. If’n I mess up music, ‘specially somethin’ they know. Music is real special to people, I can’t spoil it.”

Ford knelt down next to Fiddleford’s chair. “You don’t have to play that song Fiddleford. You don’t have to play at all.”

Fiddleford looked anxiously between Ford and the family. It seemed the little boy had finally gotten his mother’s attention and was excitedly pointing toward the porch.

“I…” Fiddleford shook his head. “I can’t let the little ‘uns down. ‘Specially not those ones.” As he said this, he gestured with his chin towards the other end of the porch where Dipper and Mabel sat bickering in lawn chairs. Mabel had returned from her raccoon chase covered in twigs and holding a surprisingly docile raccoon. Dipper was leaning away from the pair while trying to convince Mabel to stop feeding it gummy worms before it developed a taste for human food and tried breaking into the Shack.

Ford's gaze drifted to the twins. "Alright," he relented. "But you still don't have to play Mabel's song."

Fiddleford bowed his head.

"Yet!" Ford offered. "Not yet. She'll understand I'm sure."

Fiddleford frowned, looking unconvinced.

"Of course not yet!" Stan interjected. "You can't go playing the grand finale right out of the gate! You gotta warm 'em up first, keep 'em wanting more." Stan slapped his hand on Fiddleford's back. "If you give 'em what they want right away, they won't come back! Hold that one off until tomorrow or...uh...next week. Tease it or something."

Stan had started rubbing the back of his neck with his other hand as he spoke, a tell Ford was quick to recognize. It was the same one he did when he would "begrudgingly" let Mabel choose the movie for movie night or let Dipper rope him into another game of Dungeons, Dungeons, and More Dungeons. Covering the most vulnerable part of his body while he let his emotions go soft.

Fiddleford seemed to perk up at Stan's words.

"Well," Fiddleford offered. "I do know some proper jugband music. Only, it don't have the same ring to it without a jug."

"We've got a jug!" Mabel cheered from the other side of the porch. It seemed the raccoon argument had reached enough of a truce that the twins were once again paying attention to the concert. "I used to keep pond water in it, it's in the kitchen!" She hopped off of her chair, lugging the racoon along with her like it was a rather expensive lap cat.

Dipper followed her. "Why did you have a jug of pond water?"

"Because, dummy, if I met a frog prince he would need something in the shack to remind him of home."

"Aren't you supposed to turn him into a person though?"

Whatever Mabel's retort was to be was cut off by the door swinging shut.

"There ya go," Stan grumbled. "You're getting your jug. Just in time too." He gestured toward the SUV. The mother was walking toward the Shack, one hand holding the baby, the other gripping tightly to the little boy's hand. The little boy gripped a few dollars in his fist, eyes alight with excitement.

Fiddleford looked frantic. "I can't sing and play the jug at the same time!" He gripped at his hat, pulling it down over his ears.

Ford sighed. "Then don't play the jug."

"It won't be the same!" Fiddleford shook his head. "A jugband without a jug that's...that's like a body with no heartbeat!"

The door swung open and Mabel emerged with an old ceramic jug.

"Here it is!" she exclaimed. "And it only sort of smells like pond scum."

"I don't think that will be necessary," Ford smiled gently. "It seems Fiddleford can't play both simultaneously."

Mabel frowned. "But it's a jugband. It's in the name!"

"How about we wait another day," Ford offered, patting Fiddleford awkwardly on the back. "Maybe someone in town will join you."

"Oh for Pete's sake, give it to me." Stan snatched the jug out Mabel's hand, sniffing at the tip and giving a grimace.

Fiddleford stopped pulling at his hat, peeking out from under the brim. "You'll play?"

Stan grunted. "I'm not missing out on good money just because you have a case of the heebie jeebies. Besides, how hard can it be? It's like blowing on the top of a beer...er...I mean soda bottle."

Dipper crossed his arms. "Grunkle Stan, we know what beer is."

"Not from me you don't."

Mabel squealed. "It's happening! Grunkle Stan is learning an instrument!"

"It's not an instrument, Pumpkin. It's dishware."

"It's a scrapbookortunity!"

Mabel dashed into the house once more, leaving Dipper to grin at their Grunkle Stan.

The family was only a few yards away now. Fiddleford looked between Stan, Ford, and Dipper, and straightened up in his seat.

"Alright. Alright!" He clapped his hands together. "Stanley, you get down here with me, otherwise your feet are gonna get mighty sore from standing." He yanked at Stanley's hand until he sat beside the rocking chair with a grumble.

"Now when I tap my foot," Fiddleford instructed. "You blow on the jug. One short note at a time." Fiddleford tapped his foot in demonstration. "You got that?"

Stanley rolled his eyes. "Gee, I don't know. Seems pretty complicated for the guy without a PhD."

Mabel burst through the door, camera clutched in her hands. "Got it!"

"Excuse me?"

The little boy stood on the porch, approaching the banjo case with far more trepidation than before. Eyes darting between the assembly, he dropped a few dollars in the case.

"Is this enough to play a song?"

Fiddleford didn't bother looking at the money. He turned his gaze to Stanley, who shrugged and raised the jug to his lips.

Fiddleford grinned. "You know ‘Boodle Am Shake’?"

The little boy shook his head.

"Well you're about to!" And with that he was off.

By Fiddleford's standards, it wasn't a horribly complicated tune. Ford had heard him pluck out more complex riffs while waiting for the coffee pot in their dorm room to brew. But Fiddleford was smiling. His shoulders had dropped from around his ears, and he was nodding at the little boy to tap his feet along with him. Ford hid his smile behind his hands as he watched Stanley, eyes focused on Fiddleford's bare foot with as much attention as one would give to diffusing a bomb. Next to him, Mabel was snapping pictures of the pair. Dipper stood on his other side, wearing the small smile he tended to get when feeling introspective. Ford laid his hand on Dipper's shoulder, and Dipper leaned into the touch.

The mother was smiling at her little boy, her baby having finally stopped fussing. Maybe it wasn't the grand attraction Mabel had planned, but Ford thought it was worth far more than those few dollars anyway. Nothing could be worth more than his family standing around him, his closest friend singing again.

I know this song, it don't mean a doggone thing. Just do that good old Charleston swing. When you sing...

#WHOOPS #this was supposed to be a silly hc post #like lol after weirdmageddon mabel gets fiddleford to learn her favorite songs on banjo #instead this happened #also he absolutely does learn rainbow connection eventually #he makes sure to end every performance with it just for mabel #he also learned disco girl to mess with ford #but then he found out how much of a fan dipper was and couldn't help but add it to the set #also Stanley’s husband is ol goldie btw #anyway how do i tag this #gravity falls #gravity falls ficlet #stanley pines #stanford pines #fiddleford mcgucket #dipper pines #mabel pines #grunkle stan #grunkle ford #fiddleford hadron mcgucket #fic #gravity falls fic #schedule the following #I JUST realized I posted this on #fiddleford friday #that wasn’t even intentional it’s just when I got it done aka hahaha

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wolff-cub · 3 days ago

Text

Last Laugh

a Landoscar stand-up comedy AU

“Okay, so, let me get this straight. You think I’m unfunny. You think I don’t deserve a spot on that stage. You hate me.” “Yes. Exactly. Glad it’s finally gotten through that thick skull of yours.” Oscar just fixes his big, impassive brown eyes on Lando. “You hate me, and yet you’re always in that same little corner seat in the back of the pub when I’m onstage... watching a set you hate.”

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As the most successful comedian on the Fringe Rising showcase lineup, Lando believes he should have been given the show's prestigious final billing slot. Over the course of the festival, his resentment for the amateur Australian comedian who's stolen his spot grows... into something else altogether.

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Special thanks to @jadesaturn for beta-reading and @afriques for the lovely banner!!

Read on AO3 or below the cut:

“Papaya!”

Onstage, the spotlights shine almost directly into his eyes as Lando springs upwards like a demented jack-in-the-box, popping forth on one leg, arms swinging around wildly. A split second later, he stops abruptly in the middle of the stage, directing an unimpressed look into the inky blackness beyond the stage.

“Okay, but really. Have any of you even had a papaya? That’s right. It’s a shit fruit. It has none of the zest, the fun, that its name implies. Who even named it? What the fuck were they thinking?!”

As his tone borders on hysterics, laughter washes over him like a warm blanket, sent his way from the shadowed masses before him. Keeping his energy up like this, even as his set draws to a close, is never easy — but so worth the laughs. The spotlights shining into his eyes are so bright that the crowd is nothing more than a series of imposing, faceless silhouettes.

But Lando doesn’t need to see his audience to connect with them. If performing a comedy set is like screaming into the void, well… Lando has always been capable of drawing laughter from within the void.

“Yet here I was, sipping from a glass of papaya juice so good that I thought I’d tasted heaven. One sip was all it took… to move me to tears.” Here, his voice grows theatrical, and he begins feigning an almost clownish kind of sadness. His fingers tremble as he mimes a comically small sip from the world’s tiniest teacup. Somewhere in the audience, someone cackles so loudly that their voice cracks.

“Thank you.” Lando can’t help but grin back in the face of such open adulation, which only garners him even more cheers. “Anyway, I’ve changed a lot since then. I discovered therapy, for one. And antidepressants. The lows? No longer as low. The highs? No longer juice-related.”

Cheers. Whistles. Laughter. Oh, how he loves the sound of it.

“That’s right, folks! It’s only going uphill from here! I’m taking my life and making it papaya!”

“Papaya!” someone in the crowd shouts back.

Lando doesn’t miss a beat, turning that tiny bit of reciprocity into a full-on chant, clapping his hands over his head in time with the beat. The crowd roars back at him without needing much encouragement at all. Their silhouettes sway back and forth in time. “Papaya, papaya!”, and the abyss laughs, and laughs, and laughs right back at him.

“Thank you so much, everybody! I have been Lando Norris, and you… oh, you have been such a great crowd!” Lando crows, even as the crowd keeps up its chant for him. Not even his clumsy attempts to affix the mic back to its stand — the customary sign that his comedy set is about to end — discourages them from continuing to bid him farewell. “I’ll be here doing Fringe Rising every Tuesday and Thursday, along with a solo show during the festival, every other day of the week! Hopefully, I’ll see some of you there, but until then, that’s my time! And—you’vebeensuchagreataudiencethankyoubye!”

The grin that spreads across Lando’s face as he rushes offstage is so wide, it makes his cheeks hurt. The crowd’s sustained clapping is so buoyant for his spirits that he might as well be floating down the stage steps, a cartoon character drifting through the air on a cloud of his own high. He’d had no doubts about the success of his set tonight — he is, after all, the biggest name on the lineup. But god, does it feel good to bask in an audience’s adoration.

Lando almost wishes he could run back onstage again, arms outstretched, and drink it all in. He is, after all, none other than Bristol’s boy king of comedy, whose career went stratospheric after two years of pain, self-doubt, and tireless honing of his craft through it all. He’s worked hard for everything he has to his name — the slot on this prestigious, curated showcase at the Edinburgh Fringe, the sold-out solo shows running all month long, the appearances on primetime comedy television, and even the Netflix comedy special in the works. Every clap, every cheer, has been earned. After so long, Lando is finally — finally! — reaping what he’s sown.

It isn’t exactly going uphill from here. As far as Lando is concerned, he’s already at the top.

Lando’s eyes adjust to the relative darkness of the venue in time to give the MC a customary high-five and backslap, as tradition calls for. Every comedian gets a high-five no matter how their set goes — a congratulations if the set goes well, or a commiseration if it’s bombed. Of course, Lando hasn’t had any of the latter in a while. Failure is something he no longer remembers the taste of. And with how hard he’s been working… surely, that’s just what he deserves.

“Whoa! Wow, wow, wow! You guys!”

Onstage, Alex Albon — part-time comedian, full-time zookeeper, all-around good guy, and tonight’s MC — has to shout into the mic over the rapturous applause, still going after Lando’s set. “Oh my goodness! I would tell you to give it up one more time for Lando Norris, but you guys clearly got the memo already!”

Lando’s smug grin remains even as he weaves past the front-of-stage seating, beelining towards a swarthy, dark-haired man nursing a beer alone at the back of the venue. He parks himself smoothly on an adjacent bar stool and gratefully fist-bumps his old friend, his grin not fading as Alex continues to sing his praises onstage.

“Oy, cabrón! You fucking killed it up there!”

“Aw, thanks, Carlos. It was nothing.”

“Oh no, Lanno. You cannot be doing this false modesty thing all the time. You know you did well, so… take the compliment, eh? Most of these people are probably here because it’s the only way they’ll get to see you. Your solo show sold out so fast!”

Lando smirks at the sound of his longtime comedy compatriot’s signature mispronunciation of his name, courtesy of the strong Spanish accent that makes him so popular with crowds. “No way, mate. You got plenty of cheers before your set even started, and you’ve been doing this comedy thing for much longer than I have. All the Fringe veterans are probably here to see you, all the way over from España.”

“Ah, but I am not the one who has been on Taskmaster in two countries. I don’t even want to do this full-time. If a genie came to me and asked me, ‘Carlos, would you rather have your own Netflix special, or improve your golf handicap by two?’ I would take the handicap.”

“But I still think you should reconsider that way of thinking. If I’ve made it to where I am today, you’d make it farther in half the time. Your comedy is genius, Carlos. You deserve a sold-out solo run and a Netflix special as much as I do!”

Carlos just shakes his head. “Sometimes it’s not about what we deserve, cabrón. It’s about what we want, and what we do to get it.”

Lando is about to argue, but Carlos shushes him so dismissively that he sits back in his seat like a told-off child. Onstage, Alex’s speech is approaching a crescendo, and Carlos has always been the type to show fellow performers as much decorum as possible.

“Anyway, thank you all so much for being here tonight at Fringe Rising! You’ve made it such a great opening night for me and our amazing line-up here, and we all appreciate you taking the time to come out and see our little showcase. Please, put your hands together one more time for our wonderful comedians from far and wide — Charles Leclerc from Monaco! Carlos Sainz from Spain! And Britain’s very own, Lando Norris!”

Lando’s grin reappears as the cheers wash over him, while Carlos puts on a demure smile, ducking his head down behind his beer bottle jokingly.

“Where is Charles, anyway?” asks Lando, suddenly realising that the showcase’s usual opener is absent. “Doesn’t he know you aren’t really supposed to leave before everyone’s done with their sets?”

Carlos shakes his head. “Don’t be so harsh on him, Lanno. He’s new, but he’s not stupid. He had to leave early to do that showcase that George Russell hosts every year.”

Lando has to stifle a snicker. “Charles is doing the comedy Powerpoint showcase?!”

“Ay, don’t look so surprised. He’s actually very funny if you give him a chance.”

Lando would beg to differ, but doesn’t want to argue with Carlos over the sound of Alex’s speech. At the risk of sounding petty and mean, Charles is still a rookie comedian, and all his sets that Lando has seen have been unpolished at best and amateurish at worst. Lando can tell that Charles cruises through his sets; that he doesn’t workshop his material and probably doesn’t even know how to. And Lando would definitely never say this out loud, but deep down he suspects that Charles had only landed this Fringe Rising spot (and plenty of other comedy club slots) only because he might be the hottest man to ever attempt a career in stand-up comedy.

But, that also explains why Charles is a rookie, and why Lando is within grasp of the top rung of the stand-up comedy ladder. Nobody works for this quite as hard as him. Nobody deserves this like he does.

The crowd soon falls into hushed whispers as the cheers for past performers gradually dies down. Onstage, Alex quickly segues into the next bit of his speech before any more stray cheers add even more time onto their already overtime showcase.

“We’ve got one more set for you tonight,” says Alex, “and boy, am I excited to introduce him. Now, this next act is like the ghost of international stand-up comedy. Almost nobody’s seen him perform… and yet everyone’s talking about him! This man is so very difficult to pin down, mark my words — but we’ve managed to wrangle him to the Fringe Rising stage, all the way from Australia, for what might be one of the rarest and most hype-worthy performances at this fest. Let’s get the energy back up in here, guys! Please give it up for… Oscar Piastri!”

Carlos leans in towards Lando. “Oh, I’m interested to see this guy. Some people are saying he’s only done five shows total, and nobody can stop talking about him.”

Five shows total? Is he fucking serious?!

Lando’s fist clenches involuntarily. Just like at concerts and festivals, the last set in a showcase is always awarded to the most prestigious performer on the lineup. When he’d gotten the email that he would be performing second-last in the night, Lando had presumed that Alex had somehow managed to land a real big hitter — one of the rare few comedians who sold out arena tours and ran their own TV shows.

But this is who they’d given the final billing to instead of him? A complete fucking amateur?!

“You’d think the show closer should be someone more… accomplished,” Lando starts, only to get shushed by Carlos again as Alex ducks offstage and the lights dim once more.

The filler music fades, and a lone figure clad in a hoodie, cargo shorts, and Birkenstocks — no mean feat for Edinburgh weather — walks slowly onstage, lifting a hand in front of his eyes to fend off the harsh spotlights. His short brown hair is accentuated by a long, floppy wave of a fringe that falls into his eyes carelessly, making his boyish face look even younger than he already is.

“Whoa,” says the newcomer, his voice slow and languid with a stereotypical Australian drawl. “Pretty bright up here, hey?”

A few people in the crowd start chuckling. Lando’s brow furrows. What the hell is going on? The man hasn’t even said anything actually funny?!

“Anyway, how’re ya doing tonight, Edinburgh? My name’s Oscar, and… well, apparently I’m here to do some comedy. But I’m not quite sure how this whole comedy thing works in these parts — I’ve come all the way from Australia, and, well, you know. We do everything upside down there. So, uh, you’re gonna have to be pretty patient with me, alright? Cause I’m, uh… not actually supposed to be here.”

He shoots the audience a conspiratorial look, and a rustle of both anticipation and uncertainty travels through the crowds. No laughs yet, though — and Lando secretly hopes that it remains that way for the rest of his set.

“So, I just moved up here from Melbourne,” continues Oscar, “and I don’t really know anyone here — no friends or family. But the other day, I had to go to the hospital, and the nurse… she took down my details, and what I was at the hospital for… and then she asked me for an emergency contact. And I told her, ‘Barbara, I don’t have an emergency contact in this country. I don’t know anyone here except… well, you. So maybe you could be my emergency contact.’ And Barbara just shakes her head and keeps saying, ‘No, I can’t be your emergency contact. You need to give me the name and phone number of someone in the United Kingdom that you trust.’”

Lando slumps over onto his crossed arms and lets out a yawn. Overly long buildup, lacklustre delivery… where is this even going?

“Now, I’m a little offended by this.” Oscar puts his hand over his heart, feigning shock. “I said, ‘Barbara! How could you imply that I don’t trust you?! You’re the only person in this country who knows my deepest, darkest secret, Barbara. You’re the only person in this country who knows I have haemorrhoids!

“I put my trust in you, Barbara, and this is how you treat me? By not wanting to be the emergency contact for someone who has been so vulnerable with you by telling you that he has haemorrhoids?!”

A few isolated laughs rise from the crowd. Oscar raises an eyebrow at the crowd, seemingly dissatisfied by the reception to this joke.

“Uh, hello?” A small smirk flashes across his face. “Did you guys get that? No? Ah, fuck.”

To Lando’s horror, this blatant request for more laughs gets Oscar exactly that. Full-bodied guffaws and a lone whoop rise from the crowd, as Oscar pulls a comically mortified expression. Lando scans the audience, tries to read into their body language from all he can see of their backs. Are they even watching the same set as he is?! Is this really what counts as comedy at the Fringe these days?

“Long story short, guys, Barbara didn’t want to be my emergency contact.” A chorus of ‘aww-s’ prompts Oscar to nod along, gratefully accepting the crowd’s pity. “Thank you, thank you. Anyway, now that I’ve also entrusted all of you with knowledge of my haemorrhoids… would anyone here like to be my emergency contact?”

Something in the room snaps as soon as Oscar’s joke comes full circle. Even though he’d forcibly torn open the floodgates himself, the crowd suddenly seems more than happy to grant him their approval. No sooner than he delivers his first punchline with a self-deprecating smirk, the audience starts shrieking, howling, with pure delight.

Next to Lando, even Carlos is crowing with laughter; his wheezy chuckles reminiscent of a dying pterodactyl’s cries. Lando regards his friend with utter disbelief — but Carlos is too busy laughing; too enraptured by Oscar’s joke to even notice Lando’s disdain for the set.

“Wow,” Oscar remarks dryly, once the audience’s hysterics have calmed to a volume low enough for him to be heard once more. “You guys really liked that one, huh? Okay, noting that down.”

He flashes a comically embarrassed look at the crowd, and a new wave of cackles escapes the audience.

“Like I said, I’m not really supposed to be here. After leaving the hospital, I just Googled ‘things to do in Edinburgh that don’t involve sitting down.’ Aaaand… now I’m here. Doing stand-up.”

Lando rolls his eyes at the pun, feeling embattled as the crowd rewards this lowest form of humour with roars of laughter. He’s almost grateful that there isn’t a real scale for measuring how much a crowd is enjoying any given set. If that existed, he’d certainly want to compare his own metrics to Oscar… and he’s no longer confident that his results would knock the other comedian’s out of the park.

For some unfathomable reason, the Australian doesn’t need to work for the house’s approval at all. He merely needs to ask them to laugh, and the crowd will acquiesce like clockwork.

Oscar leaves the stage to thunderous applause and cheers so deafening that it feels as if the walls might crumble any second. Carlos turns to Lando as the venue lights come up, grinning wider than the Cheshire Cat. Even as Lando is slumped over onto folded arms beside him, Carlos remains completely oblivious to his new pensive mood.

“Oi, Lanno, come on.” Carlos hoists himself off his bar stool, boisterously gesturing for Lando to do the same. “Let’s go to the green room and congratulate him. What a set for an almost-newcomer, huh?”

Lando shakes his head slowly. “You know, I actually don’t really feel so good. Might go back to the hotel and get an early night…don’t wanna risk having to cancel my show tomorrow.”

Distracted by his intent to head backstage, Carlos doesn’t see through his lame little lie. “Ah, okay. You push yourself too hard, Lanno! Five shows a week is crazy, even Charles isn’t doing that many. Get some rest, okay, cabrón? I’ll tell the new guy you said hi.”

“Yeah, sure,” replies Lando, even though the last thing he wants is for the new guy to think that he holds him in any kind of esteem.

Part of him wants Carlos — one of the only comedians in this room that he actually respects — to notice his frustration. To ask what’s wrong, and maybe abandon going backstage in favour of buying him a drink. But, just like all the flaws in his set; all the failures of comedy theory that Lando could so easily list if asked, his contempt for Oscar is both as imperceptible and irrelevant as his growing chagrin.

Nobody notices… and nobody feels the same.

///

Over the next few days, Lando’s disdain for Oscar grows and festers like an untreated wound. His excitement for Fringe Rising before the start of the festival had been virtually unquenchable. Now, he thanks his lucky stars that he only has to do this showcase twice a week. Having to see Oscar any more than that would make him inclined to blow his brains out on stage.

Every time he sees the floppy-haired Australian and his shit-eating smirk, he is reminded of just how unfair everything has become. Lando is only where he is today after shedding plenty of blood, sweat, and tears. He owes his success to the countless nights spent perfecting his sets, even when it meant pushing through sheer exhaustion accumulated over too many shifts at too many thankless part-time jobs.

All that, and for what? To be ousted for final billing at a Fringe showcase by a no-name from the world’s most godforsaken continent, with a mere five shows under his belt?

That just doesn’t seem right. Something’s gotta give.

But night after night, Oscar never bombs — never even comes close to bombing, because the audience always inexplicably becomes putty in his hands the moment he asks them to laugh at him.

Lando never bombs either, but nobody seems to care that he doesn’t.

So Alex never offers Lando final billing, and Lando’s own opinion that this is a grave oversight never changes either. The Fringe soon becomes a kind of mental purgatory for him, with nights spent stewing in a cocktail of his own envy and rage. Day after day, the festival ticks by… but nothing ever changes. And Lando grows ever more resentful.

In an ideal world, his path would never cross Oscar’s, apart from the times they are forced to watch each other’s sets from the back of the venue in the name of artistic courtesy. But, as this entire experience has already shown him, the world he lives in is very far from ideal.

In reality, their paths cross more times than he would like. In the dressing room backstage, where Oscar always sends a meek hello his way, and where Lando — without fail — doesn’t even acknowledge him before storming back out. At the venue bar — same thing. Lando even runs into Oscar at the grocery store, once. That pre-show snack run ends with him leaving Tesco empty-handed, after lying that he’s leaving and in a big hurry, just to avoid any further conversation with him.

Lando does his show hungry that night. His stomach starts hurting twenty minutes into his fifty-five-minute set — but at least the loud growl of his gastric pangs earns him an unexpected extra round of laughter from the audience.

Wednesday may be hump day, but Tuesday and Thursday are the real bookends to Lando’s shit sandwich of a week. Unlike Charles, Lando has nowhere to be — or even to pretend to be — during Oscar’s sets. So he always has to stay, to watch a set that never gets funnier than the last, delivered by a comedian who never grows more appealing, no matter how many times he’s forced to look at him.

And look at Oscar he does. Because what the fuck else is he supposed to when he’s a captive audience member for a set he can’t walk out of for fear of being cancelled by comedy Twitter?

Soon enough, the Australian’s visage becomes one he can recall on command, every detail instantaneously available. The short, shiny, yet floppy brown hair. The long, rabbit-like front teeth hiding behind lips almost permanently curled into a lazy smile. The smattering of freckles and tiny moles all across his cheeks and neck. The deep brown eyes.

Sometimes, when he is alone at night, Lando summons all these details in his mind’s eye, painstakingly assembling as detailed a picture of Oscar as he can. Then he tacks it to a dartboard in his mind and fucking obliterates it.

The most infuriating part of all this? Despite how open Lando’s hostility is, Oscar doesn’t seem to notice… or care. Before every show, a hello. After every show, a wave goodbye, even though Lando scrambles out of his seat to leave the moment Oscar descends from the stage.

Lando soon convinces himself of a secret third possibility — that Oscar has noticed, and does care, and is using their forced proximity as a reason to rub his omnipresence in Lando’s face. To terrorise Lando with his constant hellos and heys and painfully Australian okays. To ensure, simply speaking, that Lando will never know peace as long as the Fringe is running.

What’s worse is that, after barely any time at all, Oscar’s nefarious form of psychological warfare actually works. As Lando’s animosity towards the Australian grows, he begins to search for him wherever he goes, obsessed with fantasies of telling him exactly what he thinks of him.

He searches for Oscar in the crowds at his solo shows, his eyes straining under the spotlight, desperate to catch sight of that floppy brown fringe somewhere in the seats. He even begins frequenting the Tesco Metro on snack runs more often than not, hoping that Oscar will be there for him to unleash the full power of the contempt in his heart, even if the Australian opens with his naive little hello.

But, as always, this is not an ideal world. Oscar never returns to the Tesco Metro. Lando never goes to the green room. Their paths remain as distant as they can, for two comedians working the same show.

And then, one night, Lando is offered redemption.

He spots Oscar in the crowd for his solo set immediately after he bounces onstage. The Australian’s placid brown eyes are fixed on him in the split second that Lando notices his presence — and, judging by the slow, relaxed smile that crawls onto his face, he knows he’s seen him. Lando’s smile freezes for a beat as he spots his nemesis. He fumbles to remove the mic from its stand, spending extra seconds clambering about as the audience waits for him to begin.

So, Oscar has really done it. He really had the balls to show his face at the superior comedian’s set. Well, if he wants so desperately to get schooled in the art of real stand-up, who is Lando to deny him?

That night, the show is unequivocally the best solo set he’s ever put on in his entire life. Lando’s brand of comedy has always been fairly slapstick and energetic, but tonight he is something else altogether onstage. He’s a whirling dervish — jumping higher, acting harder — all to get the crowd laughing louder and louder to feed the hungry void of ambition within him.

Not even halfway through the set, a few people in the front row are actually wheezing with exertion. The air positively sparkles with mirth, along with the glint of teary-eyed audience members, who are doubled over and crying with laughter.

But Lando barely notices any of this. He’s performing for one audience member alone, eyes fixed on the dead centre of the room, tracking Oscar’s every reaction like a hawk. He sees when Oscar smiles, sees when he laughs, sees when he throws his head back and lets out a full-bellied guffaw right when Lando’s repertoire is meant to take the audience by surprise.

Do you see it now, Oscar? he wants to say. This is how comedy is meant to be done.

The crowd is electric when the lights come up. The buzz and rustle of their post-show discussion remains at a constant volume as his audience relives their favourite moments from the set amongst themselves. Only a few figures make their way to the exit almost immediately. The rest remain milling around the bar, or even in their seats — waiting for Lando to come around and mingle with the audience, all wanting a piece of him.

Lando spends the rest of the night working the crowd. Making small talk with new fans. Hugging old fans he recognises from back in the day. Taking pictures with Fringe grannies who have dedicated their twilight years to exploring the arts — and don’t they love a dashing young man who can make them laugh.

He almost forgets about the unwelcome interloper in the audience altogether. But then the crowd thins out, the bar staff get ready to close the venue for the night, and Oscar appears in front of him once more — a fluffy-haired nightmare emerging from the pub’s gloomy atmosphere.

“Lando!” His name sounds foreign on the other man’s tongue; so unrecognisable that he wishes he would say it again, just so he can better get used to the sound of it. “Congrats, man. That was an amazing set. I’d heard a lot about you, but tonight completely blew me away. I never really knew comedy could be like this before.”

It takes all of Lando’s willpower not to let out an exultant scream directly into the Australian’s smug little face. He barely hears Oscar’s continued babbling over the imaginary crescendo of a million variations of his triumphal speech, all meticulously laid out in his vengeful fantasies. Now is his chance to put Oscarin his place. Now is the time to live out his dreams.

Oscar has stopped talking now, and just looks at him expectantly, as if Lando would care about anything he has to say. He reaches within himself; searches for the words that he’s rehearsed for so long.

And all he can say is a lame, muted, “Thanks.”

Lando can’t tell if it is disappointment or satisfaction that makes Oscar turn away. “Okay,” he says, in that same semi-ironic deadpan cadence he uses incessantly onstage — or is that just his voice? “I’ll leave you to it. Don’t want to take you away from your other fans. See you on Tuesday, mate.”

And then he turns away, waving over his shoulder as he disappears out the pub doors and into the night. Lando immediately turns to the next fan waiting to speak with him, but something about the night has inexplicably changed for the worse. His smile feels plastic, his enthusiasm more strained than genuine.

After leaving the bar, he finds himself looking around the doors, half-expecting Oscar to emerge from the darkness again and shoot him that infuriating smile of his. But of course, the other man is long gone.

And Lando walks home alone, burning with shame.

///

The third and final week of the Fringe dawns, and Lando senses that a reckoning is near.

Festival fatigue has set in for most Fringe performers now, taking root so deeply in their bones that most of them barely have the energy to go out for drinks after their sets.

Lando himself is no exception. He has been curling up beneath the covers of his hotel duvet earlier and earlier each night, unable to keep up with Carlos and Charles’s constant, fervoured partying. Lando’s especially unable to face the possibility of running into Oscar; to see that smile directed at him under the warm fairy lights of some outdoor beer garden.

All he wants is for the festival to be over, so he can go back home to London, sleep for a week, and forget that he’d ever been upstaged by an amateur comedian from fucking Australia. Who he still can’t stop thinking about.

Performing the same material for two weeks straight grows stale for even the most seasoned comedians. So, in this third and final Fringe week, Lando decides to try something different.

Ensemble showcases at comedy clubs are more often than not used to test new material on unsuspecting audiences — so what better time to switch up his set than in front of one of the most distinguished festival audiences in the world?

At worst, he doesn’t get a laugh after one punchline and immediately switches back to his tried and tested material. And at best? He proves himself to be the best improviser in the comedy arena and gives the usurper of his rightfully-deserved final billing slot a run for his money.

“So, what is it with so many people these days thinking I’m Australian?” he starts one night, in place of his old set closer about papayas. “I was actually down under for a short tour recently, and no matter what I did, all the MCs just kept introducing me as a local comedian. But I’d never been to Australia before that. Don’t have the accent. Have never even tried imitating the accent — I know, right? Aren’t I a saint?

“So, after a couple of nights of letting it slide, I decided to bring it up. I was like, ‘Hey, man, you’ve got to stop telling the crowds I’m Australian. Why do you even think I’m from here, anyway? Is it my hot surfer bod? Is it the fact that I’m kinda sun-kissed and incredibly fuckable? Cause, uh… thank you, but you’re still wrong. About me being Australian, I mean. All the rest of it, you’re toootally right about.”

This gets a fair few laughs from the crowd — Lando’s anecdote is building nicely. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Oscar watching his set from the bar, an inexplicable smile forming on his lips. He forces himself to pivot to the opposite end of the crowd, to ignore his urge to storm offstage and grab the other man by the throat, and scream, This is not about you! This is my set!

This is about me!

Every comedian always envisions their jokes being met with at least a modicum of enthusiasm when they’re delivered for the first time. But never in his wildest dreams had Lando expected this strong of a reaction from the audience tonight — certainly not for a joke fresh out of the oven with no feedback in sight. It is a twisty, turny anecdote, one about scandal and mistaken identity with a second punchline that leaves a few audience members braying hysterically.

By the time he walks off that stage, Lando is convinced that tonight has confirmed which one of them is better, once and for all. He’s done it, now. He’s out-written, out-performed, even out-Australian-ed Oscar.

The reckoning has come, and Lando has come out on top.

Or, at least, that’s what he thinks until Oscar saunters onstage a few minutes later. He stops. Squints at the crowd. Pulls a sheepish expression and says, “Well, uh… g’day, everyone. It’s me again. Lando Norris.”

And of course, the crowd absolutely. Fucking. Loses it.

So this is what all of Lando’s efforts have come to. Hours spent crafting new jokes, weighing up the risks of debuting untested material in front of a discerning crowd… all for Oscar to ride in on his high horse and deliver his first joke of the night, entirely at Lando’s expense.

The rest of his set passes in a blur, as Lando seethes and fumes and curses Oscar for taking a comedic opportunity that he knows, deep down, is perfectly fair game. But that taste of victory, the way it felt in his hands before slipping out of his grasp again — Lando’s ego won’t allow him to let go of it just yet.

And so, he launches himself out of his chair before Oscar has even fully left the stage, leaving a bewildered Carlos calling out questions in vain. His footsteps thud angrily on the bare concrete backstage as he makes his way to the green room, shoving its flimsy wooden door open so hard that it bangs against the opposite wall.

Oscar is in there, gratefully chugging down an entire bottle of water only to choke with surprise at Lando’s frenzied entry. When he turns to see who it is, that shit-eating little smile returns — and Lando can’t wait to wipe it off his face once and for all.

“Oh, hey, man!” Oscar caps his bottle, feigning nonchalance — or maybe he really does respect Lando that little; maybe he really just doesn’t give a fuck. “I don’t usually see you back here. What’s up—”

“You little shit!” yells Lando, not caring who can hear him even as he slams the door behind them. “You fucking amateur. You think you can come here with your unfunny little set, and your shitty jokes that say please, please, please laugh at me, and take my fucking top spot on the billing? You think you can do all that and then piggyback off the joke I spent half of this festival writing?!”

Oscar’s eyes widen with genuine shock. Whatever sort of blowback he’d been expecting from Lando had certainly not been this loud or intense in his mind.

The Australian holds up his hands as if to placate him, and Lando can’t tell if the mocking edge to his movements is actually there, or if it’s entirely his imagination. “Dude, hey, no need for that. I would never have built off your joke if I knew you’d object to it. I’m really sorry, okay? If you’re gonna run that bit at the end of your set again, I promise I won’t repeat what I did tonight.”

“It’s not about whether I’m objecting to it now,” Lando replies through gritted teeth. “It’s about the fact that you don’t get to make jokes of your fellow comedians like that! What, did you want to fucking rub it in a little harder? An amateur, taking last billing over the guy with the real solo hour and the real Netflix special? Well, fuck you too, dude!”

Oscar flinches slightly at Lando’s grotesque imitation of him. “Lando, I genuinely have no clue what you’re talking about, okay? I respect you a lot; I think you’re one of the coolest comedians at the fest. But… isn’t that what we’re all here for? To make jokes out of ourselves?”

Lando chuckles bitterly. “Of course you would say that. You haven’t worked for this for a day in your life, have you?”

He pivots to leave, but is overcome by a fresh wave of self-hatred as Oscar’s voice stops him in his tracks. “Hey, come on. Can’t we talk this out?”

“Oscar! Oscar.” Lando lets out a hysterical laugh. “You don’t need to pretend you want to be my friend any more, alright? There is nothing to talk out! In fact, I would rather not be talking to you at all, because everything you do gets on my last fucking nerve. So let’s just do our last show on Thursday, and not step on each other’s toes, and then we can both go back to never seeing each other again. Okay?”

Oscar blinks. And then, to Lando’s continued frustration, he smiles. Again.

“Nah, hold up. There’s definitely stuff to talk about here. Just… let me get this straight. You think I’m unfunny. You think I don’t deserve a spot on that stage. You hate me.”

“Yes. Exactly. Glad it’s finally gotten through that thick skull of yours.”

Oscar just fixes his big, impassive brown eyes on Lando; brought to life for once by a wry spark that flickers into being for just a split second.

“You hate me… and yet you can’t seem to get enough of me.”

Lando lets out the most patronising scoff he can muster. “Untalented and delusional. Just when I thought you couldn’t—”

“You hate me, and yet you’re always in that same little corner seat in the back of the pub when I’m onstage.” Oscar’s eyes remain locked directly onto his, his tone mirroring the half-dead neutrality of someone reading boring facts off a piece of paper. “You could just go home and call it a night, but you’re always there anyway. Watching a set you hate.”

Lando opens his mouth to speak, and nothing but a shaky, slow exhale hisses out of him. He is spent; a deflated balloon. When he inhales, the air feels stale and used — Oscar is so close now; breaths mingling in the shared air.

“You hate me, so you keep looking for me every night in the audience of your solo hour… and when you do find me, you don’t even look away again, so it’s like you’re delivering your entire set to me alone.”

“You’re insane.” Lando means to spit the line in his face, heroically aggrieved, but it comes out as a plaintive, airy whine instead. He swears he sees the corner of Oscar’s permanently impassive mouth twitch — the ghost of a smug, triumphant smile passing over and through him.

“You hate me,” Oscar continues, as if Lando hasn’t even said anything. “Which is why you think about me all the time, right? You hate me.”

Lando feels his expression spasm involuntarily. Control over his facial muscles appears to be rapidly slipping out of his grasp. “Yes,” he manages to growl; his voice a ferocious whisper rising from the back of his throat. “I hate you.”

“Okay,” says Oscar — that fucking stupid, guileless, deadpan okay again. Something about the way Oscar says it — the detached sheen that descends over his eyes, the nasal twang of his Australian accent — makes Lando want to punch something.

But he can’t even feel his fingers; couldn’t clench a fist if he tried. Oscar’s shoulder knocks against his provocatively, daring him to say something. To do something.

Surely Oscar knows, then, that the proximity of his body to Lando’s is the thing that has neutralised his opponent. He is a cat, toying with the prey he holds immobilised beneath one paw.

He’s enjoying this.

“You hate me,” says Oscar, his face now unfathomably close to Lando’s, “and you definitely don’t want me to kiss you.”

“No.” Lando’s voice is barely louder than a breath on the wind. “I don’t want you to kiss me.”

Oscar blinks ever so slowly, those impassive brown eyes like a vortex threatening to swallow Lando whole. His lips part, revealing a flash of teeth — a snarl, a smile; an indecipherable, predatory, in-between thing.

“Then stop me,” he says.

Lando hates the way his voice shakes when he speaks next. “What?”

“Stop me,” Oscar repeats. “You don’t want me to kiss you. So stop me.”

There it is — a real smile now. Tentative. Shy, almost. Oscar may have the upper hand, but he doesn’t know that he’s won.

So Lando does the only thing he knows will catch him off guard. He pushes out with the flats of both palms, shoving Oscar so that he stumbles slightly, balance transferring to his back foot.

And then, while the surprise is still fresh on his face, Lando grabs the collar of Oscar’s hoodie in both his fists, pulls him back in, and kisses him first.

Time freezes, turning a single moment into eternity. Lando can taste the surprise on Oscar’s lips — and oh, does his little reward taste sweet.

But neither does it last long. Oscar returns the kiss slowly, tantalisingly… only to shove Lando away just as he eases into the tempo of their shared movements.

“Look at you,” teases Oscar, his smirk more self-satisfied than ever. “All red in the face for the world’s most boring comedian.”

One of Oscar’s hands pushes him back up against the green room wall. The other begins tugging at Lando’s belt buckle slowly, drawing his attention to the fact that he is undeniably, achingly hard. All he can think about still is Oscar’s lips; the burning need he has to shut him up again; to kiss him so long and deep that they both forget how to breathe.

Yet he can’t move; can’t brandish another witty retort against Oscar’s verbal onslaught. His open palms brace himself against the cool brick walls of the dressing room. The only sound that escapes him, right as Oscar’s hand roughly curls around his cock, is a small, plaintive moan.

“Stop me,” says Oscar, looking him right in the eye; a request for consent disguised as more vicious banter.

Lando sees his opportunity, takes it. “Don’t tell me what to do. Shut the fuck up and finish what you started.”

Oscar’s eyes brighten with a new, mischievous twinkle. His smile grows even more insidious. Contrary to Lando’s expectations, he seems positively delighted that Lando has finally found some bite.

“Ah.” His brown eyes grow coy. “So you do want this. Maybe I should just go, then. Or maybe I should make you beg for it.”

“Like you beg your audience for laughs?”

Oscar draws closer to Lando once more, his lips hovering just out of reach from where he has Lando pressed against the green room’s walls. Down below, his spit-slicked hand begins working Lando’s dick slowly, to a rhythm that is as delicious as it is infuriating.

“Sure, I may beg,” he says, as Lando’s breath begins to hitch in his throat. “But I also get what I want. Every. Single. Time. And now, you’re going to give me what I want too.”

Lando’s palms, still braced against cold, hard brick, clench inconsequentially into fists as he fights back another moan. “Fat fucking chance.” He barely manages to get the words out from between gritted teeth as Oscar’s thumb tantalisingly circles the head of his cock, right as he begins to speak.

Oscar’s eyes widen with mock surprise. His hand all but stops moving, his grip loosens… and to Lando’s embarrassment, the shock of it is so jarring that he lets out a pathetically loud whimper.

“Okay.” There it is, that hatefully deadpan delivery sending a fresh rush of blood to his erection even as Oscar withdraws. “That’s cool. Let’s call it a night, then.”

For a moment, Lando actually falls for Oscar’s feint. The sudden void left by Oscar’s hands, no longer on Lando’s chest or cock, is wholly unbearable. A wave of embarrassment courses through him, as he struggles to pull his briefs back up with trembling fingers. “Fucking arsehole.”

Oscar lashes out almost faster than Lando can process, both hands snatching up his own and pinning them to the wall. “I’ll ask again,” he says teasingly. “Are you going to give me what I want?”

“What the fuck do you want?!” Lando’s growl is equal parts anger and desperation.

“Tell me I’m not boring.”

“No way.”

Oscar’s right hand loosens on Lando’s left, returning to caress Lando’s cock slowly — too slowly.

“Tell me. I’m not. Boring.”

“No fucking way.”

In response to this, Oscar tightens his grip, moving slightly faster again… and Lando understands the rules of the game now. He has to grudgingly respect Oscar’s ruthlessness when it comes to flipping the rules whenever he wants — especially if this is the effect it’s having on him offstage.

“Say it, Lando. Give me what I want.”

“You’re a hack,” he retorts, as forcefully as he can in between shaking breaths, while Oscar’s hand moves faster with every vitriolic syllable that falls from his lips. “You being in this show was a total fluke. You are painfully. Fucking. Unentertaining.”

“Am I, now?”

Lando presumes the question is rhetorical, but his lack of a response earns him another sudden stop that makes him choke with surprise.

“Am I?” Oscar repeats.

“Yes,” whines Lando, even as he senses a new trap being set. The return of Oscar’s smug grin confirms his instincts barely a second later.

“Aw,” he coos, voice dripping with toxic endearment. “You’re a good comedian… but a veeeery bad liar.”

Lando can barely speak through the pressure building in his chest. Through the frustration of his imminent orgasm being withheld yet again, Oscar diabolically slows his pace. “I’m… not… lying.”

“Are you sure?”

Faster once more, to Lando’s relief.

“Cause if I’m so unentertaining…”

Faster, and faster, and faster—

“…then why was it so easy to make you come?”

And Oscar steps away deftly, just in time, as Lando makes an absolute mess of himself.

A strange, potent cocktail of shame, embarrassment, and elation bubbles through the haze of Lando’s post-orgasm brain fog. A hand on his shoulder brings him out of his reverie — Oscar has brought over a towel from the green room rack.

The Australian’s brown eyes search his again. No trace of mischief or malice remains in them. Now, they are just curious… and, dare he say it, kind.

“You okay?” he asks.

Lando just nods as he wipes himself off, still too buzzed to speak.

“Okay. Good. Phew!” Oscar smiles, and it is a real one this time; a cheek-to-cheek beam with a hundred megawatts of charm. “I don’t usually do that without dinner and drinks first, by the way. But you can buy me a beer tomorrow before the show to make up for it. Sounds good?”

Lando’s head jerks back up to look at Oscar. The earnest expression on his face catches him completely off guard. There are clearly no more games left to play now — all that’s left is to decide where they go from here. And Oscar has clearly already decided for the both of them.

But the change in tone is still as absurd as it is welcome, bringing with it relief… and amusement.

Lando cracks a smile — small, at first, but it grows and grows.

“Sounds great,” he says.

And then for the first time, as Oscar looks on, he laughs, and laughs, and laughs.

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