Chapter Text
The sun flooded the backyard of the enormous house, reflecting off the silver sides of a huge decorative rocket and hundreds of blue balloons floating over the perfectly manicured lawn. The thick aroma of barbecue and expensive champagne hung in the air. Oscar turned seven, and this day was supposed to be a triumph. Classmates ran around, screaming excitedly and waving toy laser swords, while mountains of snacks rose on the tables, prepared by a whole catering team.
Oscar sat inside a cardboard cockpit model that Charles had spent the last three evenings building with him. The little alpha pressed a helmet to his chest and peered through the porthole, trying to find the most important faces among the crowd of adults. Oliver, who had barely turned three, was fussing nearby in the sandbox, intently trying to feed a plastic astronaut some imaginary porridge. Ollie was happy, basking in all the noise and glitter.
Oscar shifted his gaze to the terrace. There, in the shade of the canopy, Charles sat at the grand piano. He wore a light linen shirt. The guests had asked him to play something for the atmosphere, and Charles did not refuse. His slender fingers fluttered over the keys, coaxing out a melody that seemed light at first. But Oscar, who often listened to his papa rehearse in the evenings, felt something tug inside him. There was no celebration in the music. It held a lingering, almost tangible loneliness, like the sound of thin glass breaking. Charles looked neither at the keys nor the guests, his gaze was fixed somewhere through the garden, into the void.
A bit further away, by the pool, stood Max. Oscar could see his father, a tall, confident alpha in a flawless polo. Max was laughing loudly, holding a glass in his hand. He was surrounded by several omegas, family friends or someone's partners, Oscar did not know their names. One of the women in a light dress kept touching Max’s shoulder, whispering something in his ear, and his father would tilt his head, smiling with that special, predatory smile that Oscar had always considered a sign of strength. But now, looking from his laughing father to his papa frozen at the piano, the seven-year-old boy felt a strange chill in his stomach.
"Oscar! Come here, it is time to blow out the candles!" one of the adults shouted.
The catering staff brought out a huge three-tier cake decorated with sugar planets and the rings of Saturn. The crowd began to draw toward the main table. Oscar climbed out of his rocket, straightening his party hat. Ollie immediately ran up to him, grabbing his hand.
"Osc, look at all the lights!" the younger brother babbled, beaming with delight.
Oscar stood before the cake. Dozens of smartphone cameras stared at him, and his friends froze in anticipation. By tradition, his parents were supposed to stand behind his back. Oscar turned around, expecting to feel his father's hand on one shoulder and his papa's soft palm on the other. But only Oliver was behind him, happily clapping his hands.
Oscar looked around. Charles was no longer sitting at the piano, he stood by the gift table, several meters away from the general crowd. Max was next to him. They were not shouting, but Oscar could see how tense his papa’s back was, how his knuckles had turned white as they gripped the edge of the tablecloth. Max stood too close, looming over him, and was saying something quickly, his face hard and devoid of the cheerfulness he had just shown by the pool.
"Come on, Oscar, make a wish!" one of the guests urged.
Oscar looked at his parents again. Charles snapped something back at Max and, without looking back, walked quickly toward the glass doors of the house. Max remained standing at the table. He adjusted the watch on his wrist, took a deep breath and, noticing people were watching him, immediately put on a mask of well-being. He headed toward Oscar, smiling widely.
"Well, champion? What are we waiting for? Come on, all eyes are on you!"
Oscar looked at the burning candles. The lights flickered, reflecting in his eyes. He felt something snap inside him. The boy made a wish, but it was not a wish for a new computer or a flight to the Moon. He just wanted his papa to come back out of the house and stop looking like it hurt to breathe.
Oscar took a deep breath and blew. The candles went out, smoke drifted over the sugar cosmos, and the guests erupted in applause. Max placed a heavy palm on the back of his son’s head, lightly ruffling his hair.
"Well done, Oscar. Just like your father."
Oscar forced a smile, looking at Ollie who was jumping for joy. But his gaze kept returning to the dark glass door where Charles had disappeared. He felt as if he had done something wrong. What if papa left because Oscar had asked for a party that was too expensive? Or because he had not hugged him tightly enough this morning? A sadness, heavy and not at all childlike, settled on his shoulders while his father cut the first piece of cake under the flashes of cameras. Oscar looked at the closed door of the house and realized the celebration had ended much earlier than the candles went out.
In the evening, the party finally came to a close. The guests dispersed, leaving behind only mountains of trash, popped balloons, and sticky spots on the expensive parquet. Max went to his office to finish a couple of work tasks, and Oliver, exhausted by the excitement, fell asleep right in the living room on the sofa, clutching his new plush rocket. Oscar felt he could not just go to his room. The heaviness in his chest had not gone anywhere, it was swelling, making it hard to breathe. He gathered a stack of plastic plates from the table, the remains of the cake had already dried and looked unappetizing, and slowly wandered into the kitchen. It was quiet there, with only the low hum of the exhaust fan running. Charles stood by the granite island, methodically packing the leftover snacks into plastic containers. His movements were mechanical and precise, as if he were afraid to stop and be left alone with his thoughts. Hearing footsteps, he did not turn around, only his shoulders tensed imperceptibly.
Oscar carefully placed the plates on the edge of the table and froze, looking at his socks. He felt a lump forming in his throat.
"I am sorry, papa," he said softly, and his voice wavered treacherously.
Charles froze. The lid of the container remained in his hand. He turned slowly, and Oscar saw that his papa’s eyes were red, and his face looked unusually haggard in the harsh light of the kitchen lamps.
"What are you apologizing for, Osc?" Charles set the container aside and approached his son, crouching down so their eyes were at the same level.
"For making you upset," Oscar sniffed, still not daring to look up. "I must have asked for too big of a party. I did not want to make you angry."
Charles made a strange sound, like a suppressed sob, and immediately pressed his palm to his lips. In the next second, he already had his arms around Oscar’s shoulders, pulling him close.
"Oh, little one... No, no, look at me."
He gently took his son’s face in his palms. Charles’s fingers were cold, but the touch was infinitely tender.
"You are not to blame for anything. Do you hear me? For nothing. This was your day, your wonderful celebration. I am just... I am very tired from the preparations. I felt a bit unwell and decided to go inside to catch my breath. I am the one who should apologize to you for making you think that. Forgive me, sweetheart. Happy birthday."
Oscar could not hold it in and buried his face in his papa’s neck, hugging him tightly. Charles smelled of something familiar, lavender and pastries, but through that scent, a bitterness broke through that Oscar did not yet know how to name, but already felt with his whole being. Charles held him so tightly, as if Oscar were the only anchor keeping him in this world. He buried his face in his son’s soft hair, closing his eyes. His breathing became ragged.
"Pardonne-moi, mon petit trésor," Charles whispered so softly that the sound was almost lost in the hum of the fan. "Je t'aime plus que tout au monde. Ne laisse jamais personne briser ton cœur comme ça..."
Oscar froze. He did not understand a word. These sounds were soft and melodic, but they held so much unbearable pain that the boy’s heart tightened. He did not know that his papa was asking for his forgiveness for not being able to give him a truly happy family, and was begging him to never let anyone break his heart the same way.
Oscar just gripped the fabric of Charles’s shirt even tighter. In that moment, in the kitchen flooded with cold light, he made a silent promise to himself: he would learn these words. He would understand everything his papa was afraid to say out loud. And he would never let his papa cry alone again.
Two years passed. Oscar turned nine, and the world around him began to take on a frightening clarity. The fairy tales about distant galaxies and fearless pilots that his papa used to read to him before bed began to give way to more serious books, but one thing remained unchanged, a quiet, lingering sadness that seemed to permeate the very walls of their luxurious home.
Max stayed late at work more and more often, and when he returned, the house was filled with the atmosphere of a taut string. Oliver at five years old was a little whirlwind of energy who brightened Charles’s days, making him laugh and play children’s songs on the piano. But Oscar saw what his brother did not notice: how his papa’s hands shook when he poured himself wine after Max went to another room to answer an urgent call, and how his smile faded as soon as Ollie turned away.
On one such evening, while cold rain poured outside, Oscar found Charles in the library. He was sitting in a deep armchair with a book that he apparently had not been reading for a good half hour, simply staring at a single spot on the rug. Oscar approached quietly and sat on the rug at his father's feet, leaning his shoulder against his knee. Charles startled but immediately smiled softly, running his fingers through his son’s hair.
"Can't sleep?" he asked quietly.
Oscar shook his head. He had been choosing his words for a long time, looking at the spines of the books. In his head, those incomprehensible, melodic words that Charles had whispered to him two years ago in the kitchen still echoed.
"Papa," Oscar raised his head, "teach me French."
Charles’s hand in his hair froze for a moment. He raised his eyebrows in surprise, and something flashed in his eyes that Oscar had not seen for a long time, a sincere, lively interest.
"French?" Charles asked. "But why do you need that now? You already have so many classes at school, robotics club, extras... It is a difficult language, Oscar."
Oscar straightened his back, looking his papa straight in the eyes. His gaze was uncharacteristically serious and firm.
"I want to know your language. I want to understand what you are saying when you think I am not listening. And... I want us to have something of our own. So that we can talk about anything and it would be only ours."
Charles slowly closed the book and set it on the small table. He looked intently into his son’s face as if trying to find confirmation of his guess there. He felt that Oscar was asking for more than just a foreign language lesson. The boy was asking for a key to his inner world, which Charles let no one into, so as not to infect them with his pain.
"Only ours?" Charles’s voice became slightly raspy.
"Yes," Oscar nodded. "Even if there are many people around, even if Dad is nearby. I want to understand you without translators."
Charles swallowed the lump in his throat. This request from his nine-year-old son moved him deeply. Oscar was choosing his side, his culture, his memory.
"Alright," Charles smiled faintly, and this time his eyes truly warmed. "We will start right now, if you want."
He moved Oscar into the armchair with him, putting his arm around his shoulders. The library was warm, smelling of old paper and rain, while somewhere deep in the house, Max’s muffled voice could be heard discussing another deal on the phone. But here, in this chair, they were suddenly safe.
"Repeat after me," Charles whispered. "C'est notre secret."
Oscar repeated it diligently, tasting the unfamiliar sounds.
"It means 'It is our secret'," Charles translated, pressing his cheek to the top of his son’s head. "Mon petit protecteur. My little protector."
Oscar closed his eyes, memorizing the intonation. He did not need a translation of the second phrase to feel its meaning. From that day on, an invisible wall began to be built between them, behind which they could be themselves. Charles had found a companion to whom he did not need to explain anything, and Oscar had found a way to be closer to his papa, protecting him in the only way available to him: through understanding.
Half an hour later, when Charles was already explaining the basics of pronunciation to him, Max appeared in the library doorway. He looked tired, his tie loosened.
"What are you two whispering about here?" he asked, leaning against the doorframe. There was no anger in his voice, rather a light, good-natured curiosity.
Oscar looked at his father and then shifted his gaze to Charles. A spark of a shared conspiracy passed between them. Charles smiled tenderly and answered in perfect English:
"Just discussing Oscar’s plans for the future. He is very goal-oriented today."
Max chuckled and nodded, pleased with the answer.
"That is good. Just like me."
He left, never noticing how Oscar gripped Charles’s hand tighter under the book, or how a bitter, triumphant spark flashed for a moment in his papa’s eyes. This was their first shared secret. The first brick in their own fortress, inaccessible to others.
A day at the Redline Group office was supposed to be a dream come true for nine-year-old Oscar. The school had announced Career Day, and while other children chose their parents' bakeries or veterinary clinics, Oscar unhesitatingly chose the skyscraper of glass and concrete where his father decided the fates of hundreds of people.
Max looked flattered. He led his son through the wide corridors, and Oscar watched in fascination at the endless rows of monitors where lines of code and graphs were running. But his heart truly skipped a beat in the development department. The smell of overheated plastic, the steady hum of servers, and people creating entire worlds out of ones and zeros, in that moment Oscar realized who he wanted to be. He did not want to just manage people like his father; he wanted to understand how this world worked from the inside.
However, the perfect picture began to crack when they returned to Max’s spacious office on the top floor.
"Oscar, meet my personal assistant," Max said carelessly, nodding toward a young omega who was just then arranging folders on the desk.
The omega was flawless: perfectly styled hair, a soft, subtle scent of sweet citrus, and a smile that seemed too bright for a business setting.
"Hi, Oscar. Your father has told me a lot about you," the omega leaned slightly toward the boy.
Oscar remained silent, only giving a barely perceptible nod. He instinctively moved closer to his father. Something about the way this person stood next to Max made his small fists clench.
While Max was checking his email, the assistant approached him from behind to show him something in the documents. He leaned very low, almost touching shoulder to shoulder with Max, and Oscar saw his father turn toward him, smirking at some quiet joke. It was not that dutiful, tired smile that Max brought home to Charles. It was a spark of lightness that Oscar had only seen in old photographs of his parents.
Inside Oscar, a pure, white-hot flame erupted. He wanted to scream for this person to move away, to stop smelling like his perfume in his father’s office. Why was his father laughing with him? Why was he listening to him so intently when at home he often ignored papa’s words?
"Dad," Oscar stepped forward abruptly and grabbed Max’s hand, yanking it toward himself. "You promised to show me the server room on the basement floor. Let's go."
Max looked at his son in surprise, whose fingers were gripping his palm in a death grip.
"Oscar, wait a minute, we are finishing a report..."
"No, now!" the boy’s voice sounded unusually sharp, almost commanding. "I am bored standing here, let's go somewhere else."
The omega secretary tried to diffuse the situation, offering Oscar a bar of expensive chocolate.
"Don't be angry, Oscar. Do you want a treat? We will finish quickly, and..."
"I don't want your chocolate," Oscar replied, without even looking at the treat. His voice was cold and prickly. "And don't call me by my name. You just work here."
An awkward silence hung in the office. The secretary blinked in confusion, his smile fading, and Max frowned, clearly not expecting such rudeness from his usually calm son.
"Oscar, that is impolite," Max said sternly, but the boy did not back down. He continued to pull his father toward the door, glaring at the omega with the heavy, warning look of a true alpha protecting what is his.
"I don't care," Oscar snapped, already dragging his father into the corridor.
For the rest of the day, Max tried to get his son to talk, showing him the latest developments and explaining coding principles, but inside Oscar, something had changed irrevocably. The dream of becoming an engineer was now inextricably linked with this bitter discovery.
In the evening, when they returned home, Oscar ran to the kitchen first. Charles was standing by the window, his silhouette looking thin and fragile in the twilight. Oscar ran up to him and hugged him around the waist with all his might, burying his face in his stomach.
"What is it, little one?" Charles asked in surprise, stroking his head. "How was your day? Did your Dad upset you?"
Oscar squeezed his eyes shut, breathing in his papa’s familiar scent.
"No," he answered muffledly. "I just... I have decided that I will become a software engineer. And I will build all the best things for you."
Charles smiled sadly. Max entered the hallway behind Oscar. Oliver, who until then had been intently building something out of blocks in the living room, rushed to meet his father with a joyful squeal.
"Dad is home!" Ollie crashed into Max’s legs, and Max, laughing, picked up his younger son, tossing him into the air.
"Hey there, hero. How was your day? You didn't tear the place down with papa, did you?" Max looked relaxed.
"No, papa and I practiced a new song on the piano. I can already play with my right hand almost without any mistakes, honestly!" Oliver beamed, wrapping his small arms around Max’s neck. "Papa said I learn very fast. Will you take me to work with you next time? Oscar was already there, what about me?"
Max set Oliver on the floor and ruffled his dark curly hair, a flash of genuine warmth in his eyes.
"Of course I will take you, Ollie. Just a bit later, when you grow up. I will show you how big money works and teach you everything I know myself. You'll be my main assistant, deal?"
Oliver nodded enthusiastically, already imagining himself in a huge chair. Oscar, watching this scene from the back of the hallway, only pressed his lips tighter.
Charles began setting plates for dinner.
"Let me help," Oscar said quietly, taking a stack of napkins from Charles’s hands.
Charles gave him a grateful smile, that special smile intended only for his sons. There was no tension in it, only a deep, tired tenderness.
"Thank you, sweetheart. Sit down at the table, everything is ready."
During dinner, Oscar was unusually talkative. He described the server rooms in detail, talked about how complex algorithms can control entire systems, and why programming seemed like the magic of the modern world to him. He spoke quickly, trying to fill the space with words.
"That sounds amazing, Oscar," Charles said, not taking his eyes off him. "To create something from scratch using only logic and imagination... I am sure you will succeed. You have a very precise mind."
"Engineering is a serious choice," Max added, cutting his steak. "It is the foundation. If you understand how systems are built, you can manage anything. It is a good goal."
Oliver, who understood little of their conversation, still nodded actively, agreeing with his brother and adding his own remarks about how he would build the biggest robot in the world. In that moment, under the warm light of the chandelier, they looked like the perfect family from a commercial.
When dinner ended, Oliver hopped off his chair and hugged Charles tightly.
"Thanks, papa! It was very yummy! Let's go finish the garage for my cars?"
"Later, Ollie," Charles replied softly. "Wash your hands first."
Max also rose from the table. He approached Charles from behind and, placing a hand on his shoulder, gave him a short kiss on the temple.
"The dinner really was excellent, Charles. Thank you."
Oscar froze with a dirty plate in his hands. Papa did not smile and did not turn toward his husband. Charles only nodded mechanically, continuing to look at his empty plate.
"I am glad you liked it," his voice sounded flat and absolutely lifeless, like a rehearsed phrase from an answering machine.
Max did not seem to notice this coldness, or perhaps he was just used to ignoring it. He went into the living room after Oliver, but Oscar remained in the kitchen. He went to the sink and began silently loading dishes into the dishwasher, trying not to clatter the glass. Charles stood nearby, leaning his hands on the edge of the countertop. He took a deep breath, and there was so much accumulated pain in that breath that Oscar wanted to drop everything and hug him again.
"You don't have to do that, Osc," Charles said quietly, nodding at the dishes. "Go rest, you've had a long day."
"It is no trouble, papa," Oscar carefully placed the last glass. "It is faster together. And then... can we go to the library? You promised me another French lesson this week."
Charles finally looked at him, and in the depths of his pupils, Oscar saw a spark of gratitude.
"Of course, my little protector," Charles whispered. "Let's go."
The air was thick with the scent of chlorine, sunscreen, and grass warmed by the sun. Oliver, who had recently turned seven, was jumping into the water with an excited squeal, kicking up clouds of spray. He was at that age when the world seems like an endless playground and an older brother seems like the strongest and smartest person in the universe.
"Oscar, look! I can swim to that side without air!" Oliver surfaced, huffing and adjusting the goggles sliding down his nose. "I just need my weights, those blue rings. They are in the playroom, I forgot to pick them up this morning. Will you get them? Please!"
Oscar, who was sitting on the edge of the pool lazily dangling his feet in the water, sighed. He was eleven, and he felt like a grown man with the responsibility for the safety of this loud little creature resting on his shoulders.
"Fine, stay in the water and don't even think about jumping from the edge while I am gone," he said strictly, standing up.
Drops of water ran off his skin, leaving dark marks on the light stone. Oscar walked toward the house, feeling the pleasant chill of the air conditioning embrace him as soon as he crossed the threshold of the glass doors. Silence reigned inside, but it was not a peaceful silence. It was heavy, like a fishing line stretched to the point of snapping.
He had already walked through the hall when sharp sounds reached his ears from the far living room. Oscar froze. It was not laughter or a regular conversation. These were his parents' voices, but they did not sound as calm as they usually did.
The boy moved down the hallway slowly, almost instinctively crouching. He did not know why he was hiding, something inside just told him he should not be a witness to this moment. He stopped at the massive doorway, hiding behind the shadow of a tall floor vase, and peered into the half-open door. Charles stood by the window, hugging his shoulders with his arms as if he were unbearably cold on this hot day. Max paced in front of him, his steps quick and jagged.
"You are doing it again, Charles," Max’s voice was low, simmering with irritation. "That look of yours. That eternal expression of a martyr on your face. I come home after a ten-hour day, and what do I see? You won't even look at me."
"And what am I supposed to look at, Max?" Charles turned around, and Oscar flinched at how broken his papa’s voice was. "At your new watch? Or at the way you hide your phone when you walk into a room? You are only here physically. You aren't with us. You haven't been with me for a very long time."
"I provide for this life!" Max gestured sharply, indicating the luxurious surroundings. "You have everything. The children have everything. Oscar and Oliver live in a paradise that neither you nor I could have dreamed of at their age. What else are you missing?"
"I am missing a husband. I am missing the person who promised me we would be together when I was seventeen and trembling with fear after finding out about my pregnancy."
Charles took a step toward him, and tears glistened in his eyes, which he was desperately trying to hold back.
"Do you think I don't feel it?" Charles whispered. "Do you think I don't smell the scents you bring home on your clothes? Someone else's perfume, someone else's omega pheromones... You don't even try to hide them lately. Do you care that little about my dignity?"
Max froze. For a moment, a shadow of guilt flickered across his face, but it was immediately replaced by his habitual hardness. He was not used to making excuses.
"Family is about obligations, and I fulfill them. I am here, I am not going anywhere. But don't demand from me what I cannot give. You are constantly home, you are all about the children, you... you've become different. You've become boring. I need a release so I don't go crazy from this perfect picture you try so hard to build."
Charles recoiled as if Max had struck him in the face.
"Boring?" he let out a short, painful chuckle. "I became this way because I carry everything. I guard your peace, I raise your sons, I smile at your partners at dinners while knowing you might have slept with one of their assistants a week ago. I do this for Oscar and Oliver. So they never find out what their father is really like."
"Stop it," Max snapped, turning away. "Enough drama. You just need to have some wine and go to sleep. We have an important dinner tomorrow, you need to look flawless. See to it."
Max headed for the exit, and Oscar quickly pulled back into the hallway, pressing himself against the wall. The heart in his chest was pounding so hard it felt like it would jump out. He heard his father's heavy footsteps receding toward the office. Oscar looked into the living room again. Charles was still standing by the window, but now his shoulders were shaking slightly. He pressed his palm to his face, and a muffled sob reached the boy.
Oscar did not know all those adult words they had spoken, he did not understand the nuances of cheating, but he felt this enormous, black lie that their beautiful home stood upon. He saw that his papa was not just a sweet and kind person, but someone who was slowly dying of pain inside while everyone else enjoyed the sun.
"Oscar! Where are you? Did you find the rings?" Oliver's bright voice rang out from outside.
Oscar startled. He had to go back. He had to bring those damn blue rings, smile at his brother and say that everything was fine. He turned slowly and walked toward the playroom, feeling his childhood crumble away behind him like dry plaster. From this day on, he could no longer just play games. Now he had a more important task: to make sure Oliver never heard what he had heard today.
Oscar found the rings, wiped his face with the edge of a towel, and stepped out into the sun.
"Here you go, squirt," he said, tossing the toys into the water and trying to make his voice sound normal. "Let's race. First one to the other side."
Oliver shouted joyfully and threw himself into the water, while Oscar looked sadly at the living room windows.
The next day, the parents went out together for the dinner they had been discussing. Oscar and Oliver stayed with a beta girl who looked after them every time the children were left alone.
The evening dragged on endlessly. The nanny tried to keep the boys busy with board games, but Oscar sat over the game board as if in a trance. In his head, like a stuck film, yesterday's argument between his parents was replaying. Oliver, on the contrary, was full of energy. He anticipated his parents' return, hoping that his father would bring some dessert from the restaurant.
Oscar looked at his brother and felt a strange mixture of tenderness and stinging envy. Oliver lived in a world where the parents had simply gone out for dinner. Oscar, however, now lived in a world where a sewer of lies flowed beneath the foundation of their house. He wondered: how many such arguments had there been before this? Ten? A hundred? Were they there when he was very small?
Around ten in the evening, the key turned in the lock. Oliver bolted from his spot before the door could even open.
"You're back!" his ringing voice echoed through the hall.
Oscar rose more slowly. He stood in the shadow of the living room doorway, watching. Max entered first. He looked flawless in his dark blue suit, but his face was a mask of cold indifference. He briefly ruffled Oliver's hair, muttering something about it being late and why they were not yet asleep. Charles followed. He wore an elegant black coat, but he seemed almost transparent in it. When Oliver rushed to hug him around the waist, Charles swayed as if from a strong shove, but he immediately pulled his younger son close.
"Hi, Ollie..." he whispered. His voice sounded hoarse, as if after long crying or screaming.
Oscar studied their faces closely. Such a thick, tangible silence hung between the parents that it seemed to vibrate. They did not look at each other. Max walked past Charles toward the bar in the living room, not even brushing him with his sleeve, as if the omega did not exist in this space at all.
"They were fighting in the car," Oscar suddenly realized. It was visible in the way Max clenched his jaw and in the way Charles convulsively gripped his clutch bag. The enclosed space of the car must have turned into a torture chamber for them.
"Oscar, why are you standing there?" Max noticed his eldest son while pouring himself a whiskey. "Come here, say hello to your parents."
Oscar stepped into the light, and his gaze met Charles's gaze. Papa blinked quickly and pulled his usual, soft smile onto his face, but Oscar saw the corner of his lips tremble. This smile was like poorly applied makeup.
"Hi, papa. Hi, dad," Oscar said evenly.
"How did you spend your time?" Charles asked while taking off his coat. His movements were slowed, uncertain. "Did you have dinner?"
"Yes, the nanny made pasta," Oscar answered without taking his eyes off Charles. "Papa, does your head hurt? You look very pale."
Charles froze while hanging his coat on a hanger. His back tensed for a moment.
"Yes, dear, my head started hurting a bit toward the end of the evening. Too much loud music and bright light. I think I'll go take something and lie down."
At that moment, Max loudly set his glass on the table, and the sound of ice against glass made Charles flinch. Oscar noticed this fleeting movement—fear. Not a physical fear of a blow, but a fear of another cycle of emotional aggression.
"Oliver, march to bed," Max threw out without turning around. "Oscar, make sure he brushes his teeth."
Charles quickly approached Oscar and kissed him on the forehead. He smelled of expensive wine and cold, detached perfume that he always wore for social outings. But beneath this layer, Oscar caught a faint, acrid scent of stress—the smell of bitter salt and despondency.
When Charles went upstairs, Oscar stood in the hall for a long time, listening to his father downstairs steadily drinking his whiskey in total darkness, and only then took his brother by the hand, leading him upstairs.
Oscar sat on the edge of Oliver's bed, clutching a heavy illustrated encyclopedia. In the room, only a crescent-shaped nightlight glowed, casting long shadows. Ollie, wrapped in a blanket up to his very chin, listened intently as his older brother steadily read about dinosaurs, but the idyll did not last long. From below, through thick floors and closed doors, a dull thud came—as if someone had set a glass down with force or slapped their palm on the table. And then voices were heard. They were muffled, the words could not be made out, but the intonations cut through the silence of the house like a blade. Max's sharp, assertive tone and Charles's high, breaking voice.
Oliver flinched. His small fingers convulsively gripped the edge of the blanket, and his eyes rounded in fear.
"Oscar..." he whispered, and tears could be heard in his voice. "Why are they screaming like that?"
Oscar felt everything inside him tighten with rage at his father and unbearable pity for his papa, but he did not allow a single emotion to reflect on his face. He knew: right now, he was the only wall separating Oliver from the chaos happening downstairs.
"Hey, look at me," Oscar set the book aside and gently took his brother's hands, loosening his convulsive grip. "The parents are just discussing important work matters. You know father had a difficult week, and papa always worries a lot when something goes wrong."
"But they're screaming," Oliver listened to another loud voice from Max. "I hear how angry Dad is."
"They aren't angry at each other," Oscar lied, and this lie tasted like ash. "Sometimes adults need to let off steam. It's like when you're angry because you can't put together a construction set. You don't stop loving your toys, right? So they don't stop loving each other either. Everyone just has moments when they need to speak loudly to be heard. But it's temporary. Tomorrow everything will be as usual."
Oscar moved closer and hugged his brother, pressing his head to his shoulder. He felt how fast Ollie's heart was beating.
"Shall we continue? We left off at the triceratops. You know, they had such strong shields on their heads that they weren't afraid of any noise or any predators. They were under full protection. Just like you are now."
Oscar began to read louder, trying to drown out the echoes of the argument drifting from downstairs with his calm, confident voice. He read about ancient lizards, about millions of years of tranquility, about the stars that shone then and shine now. Gradually, Oliver's breathing evened out, his eyelids grew heavy, and the fear in his eyes turned into sleepiness.
When Ollie finally fell asleep, Oscar sat in the darkness for a long time, not removing his hand from his brother's shoulder. The voices downstairs went silent, replaced by a ringing, painful silence that was even more frightening than the screams.
At fourteen, Oscar had grown taller, broader in the shoulders, and much more silent. His face had finally lost its childish roundness, replaced by sharp, focused features. He was used to carrying his briefcase like armor and his thoughts like a state secret. School was a respite for him between his papa's quiet despair and his father's cold pressure.
The way home lay past the old municipal stadium. Usually it was noisy there: players' shouts, the thud of the ball against the net, whistles. But today the sounds were different—dull, sharp, accompanied by a wicked, triumphant laughter.
Oscar stopped by the mesh fence. On the dusty grass, right by the football goals, a scene was unfolding that made everything inside him turn cold. Three guys from his school—two senior alphas and one beta—surrounded a fourth. A boy with a mass of dark curls lay on the ground, pressing his palm to his face. Blood seeped between his fingers, staining his light T-shirt.
"Did you seriously think we'd just leave it like that, Norris?" hissed one of the alphas, kicking the ball right toward the boy lying down. "You cheated. An omega can't win against an alpha, it's against nature. You're just a little upstart."
"I just scored a goal," a hoarse but surprisingly firm voice rang out. The boy tried to sit up, wiping his nose with his sleeve. "Admit it, you're just a hack, Reed."
The alpha turned red with anger. He swung his leg for a kick, and at that moment, without thinking, Oscar vaulted over the low fence.
"Hey!" Oscar's voice sounded unexpectedly low and authoritative. "Three against one? Isn't that ridiculous even to you?"
The bullies turned around. Reed, the instigator, narrowed his eyes upon recognizing Oscar.
"Ah, Verstappen, it's you. What do you want, honors student? Keep going, we're just explaining the rules of the game to this misunderstanding."
"The rules of the game don't include beating someone who's already on the ground," Oscar approached closer, stepping between them and the curly-haired boy. His pulse quickened, but outwardly he remained frighteningly calm. This was a trait he had unconsciously inherited from Max during the moments when his father was in a rage. "Let him go. This looks pathetic."
"Pathetic?" Reed smirked, exchanging glances with his friends. "Pathetic is when an omega fancies himself our equal. Get out of the way, Verstappen. You're an alpha, you should be on our side. Or are you just as defective as your old man, who only knows how to jingle on a piano?"
Oscar felt blood thumping in his temples. The insult toward Charles became the very spark that ignited the powder keg.
"Repeat that," Oscar said quietly.
Instead of words, Reed shoved Oscar in the chest, hoping to knock him down, but Oscar stood firm. His father had been taking him to the gym since he was nine, forcing him to practice strikes on a punching bag, repeating: "An alpha must be able to protect what belongs to him." Oscar hated violence, but right now his body acted on instinct. When the second alpha swung, Oscar intercepted his arm, twisted it sharply, and delivered a short, precise blow to the jaw, as Max had taught—no extra wind-up, maximum efficiency. The guy staggered back, clutching his face.
But that was not the most striking thing. The curly-haired boy, whom Oscar had considered a victim, suddenly leaped to his feet. Despite the broken nose and clearly lighter weight, he did not run. Letting out a fierce, almost growling sound, he lunged at the beta who was trying to get behind Oscar's back. The omega acted aggressively, quickly, and completely fearlessly, delivering blows with elbows and knees with such speed that the beta simply faltered.
"Take that, you freak!" the boy shouted, knocking the beta off his feet.
Together, they quickly forced the trio to retreat. Reed, spitting out blood, looked at Oscar, then at the heavily breathing omega, and waved to his crew.
"Let's go. Better not mess with these psychos."
When the bullies disappeared around the corner of the school, silence fell over the field. Oscar stood, breathing heavily, his knuckles on his right hand stinging. He turned to the boy. He stood with his hands on his knees, blood still dripping from his nose onto the dry grass, but there was not a hint of fear in his eyes. Only pure, unfiltered defiance.
"Are you okay?" Oscar asked, taking a step toward him.
The boy straightened up, wiping his face with the back of his hand, smearing blood across his cheeks.
"I've seen worse," he sniffed and suddenly gave a wide, almost sunny smile. "Nice right hook. I didn't think golden boy Verstappen knew how to fight like that."
"You know me?" Oscar was surprised.
"Everyone knows you. You're one of those who always sits in the front row and looks like he has a plan for world domination in his pocket," the boy held out a dirty hand. "I'm Lando. And thanks for stepping in for me. Though I would have taken them down myself... eventually."
Oscar shook his hand. Lando's palm was hot and rough. For an omega, he was incredibly strong and... different. Not like Charles. There was none of the fragile sadness Oscar was used to seeing at home. Lando was like an open fire—dangerous, bright, and completely free.
"Oscar," he introduced himself, although Lando already knew. "Why did they say you cheated?"
Lando snorted, picking up his backpack.
"Because I beat them at football. Three-nil. Reed can't handle that his alpha ego folds before my serves. Idiots."
He looked at Oscar more closely, and his smile softened a little.
"You're not like your father, are you? I've seen him on TV. He looks like he could kill with a look."
Oscar looked away, staring at his dust-stained sneakers.
"I don't know," he answered honestly. "Probably."
"Alright, protector," Lando slapped his shoulder, making Oscar flinch in surprise. "I gotta go, or my mom will think I decided to run away to the circus. See you at school?"
"Yes. See you."
Oscar watched Lando walk away with a skip in his step, as if there had been no fight at all. For the first time in a long while, Oscar felt something other than anxiety for his papa and brother. It was a strange, new feeling of interest in someone who did not fit into his usual, broken world.
When he returned home, Charles was sitting in the living room. Oscar quickly hid his hand in his pocket, but papa still noticed his ruffled appearance.
"Oscar? What happened?" Charles rose, his voice full of concern.
"Nothing, papa," Oscar walked past, heading for the stairs. "Just fell during PE. Don't worry."
He locked himself in his room and leaned his back against the door. His hand ached, but only Lando's smile spun in his head—the omega who did not cry when they broke his nose, but hit back.
The next few weeks at school became a strange, disorienting time for Oscar. Previously, his days resembled a clearly calibrated algorithm: lessons, library, lunch in silence, extra classes. Peers treated him with caution and hidden respect. To them, he was the ice prince—the son of the very Verstappen whose name flashed in business headlines. Many tried to gain his trust, hoping that friendship with Oscar would open doors to a world of exclusive parties and great opportunities, but Oscar saw right through them. He was sickened by the fake smiles that so closely resembled those he saw at his parents' social dinners.
But now everything had changed. A bug named Lando Norris had appeared in his algorithm.
Oscar sat in the far corner of the school cafeteria, picking at a salad with a fork. Suddenly, a tray landed across from him with a crash, making a glass of juice jump dangerously.
"Hey, robot! Move over, give me some space," Lando sat down unceremoniously.
Oscar looked up. A yellowish trace of the bruise under Lando's eye was still visible, but it did not prevent him from shining. He fished a bag of chips out of his pocket and began to destroy them with a loud crunch, while simultaneously telling some enthusiastic story about a new computer game.
"I almost broke the monitor yesterday. This boss is just unbearable! Oscar, do you even play anything besides advanced mathematics simulators?"
Oscar involuntarily twitched the corner of his lips.
"I don't do advanced mathematics in my free time."
"Liar! It's written all over your face: 'I'm integrating in my head while waiting for the bus'," Lando laughed, and this sound—ringing, sincere, and absolutely reckless—made several students turn around.
Oscar watched him with quiet amazement. Before meeting Lando, he was certain that omegas were quiet and fragile creatures. His papa was the ideal: graceful, gentle, speaking in an insinuating voice, and eternally shrouded in a cloud of light melancholy. Charles was like a precious violin that must be played very carefully so as not to break the strings.
Lando was a drum kit in the middle of a rock concert. He gestured so actively that he nearly knocked over the glass, his hair had a life of its own, and the topics of conversation changed every thirty seconds. There was not a drop of that exquisite submission in him that Oscar's father valued in omegas. And yet, Oscar caught himself thinking that he insanely liked this chaotic energy.
"Why did you sit with me?" Oscar asked when Lando finally paused to take a sip of juice. "You know they might start bothering you again for this."
Lando snorted dismissively, wiping his lips with the back of his hand.
"Let them try. After you flattened Reed into the lawn, they walk in an arc around us. Besides, it's peaceful with you. You don't try to out-shout everyone around you, and you don't smell like you poured a bucket of cologne on yourself to seem cooler. You're just... normal. Well, for a bore."
Oscar felt a warmth spread inside him.
"Are you going to practice again today?" Oscar asked.
"Yep. Football is sacred. Will you come watch? I promise to score a goal and dedicate it to your stone face."
Oscar laughed. Truly, out loud, so that it even stung in his side. It was a rare moment when the heavy burden of home secrets and the eternal expectation of another argument between his parents simply vanished or dissolved into the noise of the cafeteria.
Lando froze for a second, looking at him with a triumphant smirk.
"Whoa! Look at that, he's alive! And I thought you had an Intel processor instead of a heart."
Oscar shook his head, continuing to smile. He knew he would never tell Lando about why he laughed so rarely at home. He would never admit that yesterday evening papa did not come out for dinner again, citing a migraine, and father left for the office late at night. These problems were his personal black hole, and he was not going to drag Lando into it. Oscar was ready to protect this island of normalcy and laughter at any cost.
"Alright," Oscar said, closing his container. "I'll come. But if you miss the goal, I'll pretend we're not acquainted."
"Hey! That's how it is, then?" Lando jumped up, throwing his backpack over his shoulder as he moved. "You'll regret those words, Verstappen! Get ready to give me a standing ovation!"
They left the cafeteria together. Oscar felt gazes full of bewilderment on him, but he did not care. For the first time in a long while, he felt like just a teenager who had a friend. And even if that friend was a loud omega with a broken nose who completely failed to meet his father's standards, for Oscar, it was the most precious thing he had outside the walls of his home.
When Lando found himself in the yard of the Verstappen house, he did not even whistle. For most of Oscar's classmates, this house was the embodiment of an unreachable dream, but the Norrises were also a fairly well-off family, so Lando merely adjusted the strap of his backpack, in which a math textbook dangled lonely, and walked confidently toward the massive doors along with Oscar.
"If I fail this test, I solemnly swear that I will come to live in your tent in the garden," Lando grumbled as they crossed the hall. "Mom is serious. She said my computer will go to charity if I don't get at least a 'satisfactory'. Do you understand the scale of the tragedy?"
Oscar chuckled, tossing his keys onto the table in the hallway.
"The tragedy is how you confuse sines with cosines."
They went into the small living room, where Charles sat at the table, reviewing some documents. In the soft light of day, he looked flawless—elegant, in a sand-colored cashmere jumper, with neatly styled hair. But Oscar immediately noticed the thin line between his eyebrows and how tightly papa was clutching the pen. The argument from two days ago was still vibrating in the air, even though Max had left for a meeting in the morning.
Seeing them, Charles set aside his work and rose to meet them. Lando was suddenly transformed. His usual looseness vanished, he straightened his back and, taking a step forward, extended his hand with the most serious expression he was capable of.
"Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Verstappen," he said in a surprisingly clear and polite tone. "Thank you for letting me come over. Oscar says that without him, I am doomed to intellectual ruin."
Charles froze for a second, looking at the curly-haired boy, and then his quiet, melodic laughter rang out in the room. This was not a polite chuckle for guests, but sincere amusement.
"Mr. Verstappen?" Charles gently shook Lando's palm. "Oscar, you didn't warn me that your friend was such a diplomat. Please, Lando, call me just Charles. 'Mr.' makes me feel like it's time for me to retire."
"As you say, Charles," Lando immediately relaxed and became himself again, winking mischievously at Oscar. "You have a great house. It's just too quiet here. Oscar is always so silent, I thought you all communicated by telepathy."
"We just value peace," Charles smiled, and Oscar noticed how warmth flashed in his eyes for a moment. "Oscar, there are cookies and juice in the kitchen. I'll bring them for you as a snack in an hour."
At that moment, Oliver flew into the living room. He had just returned from his tennis lessons and was full of energy.
"Oscar! Oscar, look at my new ball!" Ollie was already about to jump on his brother, but Oscar held out his hand in time, stopping him.
"Olli, meet Lando. And no, we won't be playing. We have serious business upstairs. Papa," Oscar shifted his gaze to Charles, "please make sure Olli doesn't storm my room. Lando already finds it hard to concentrate, and if a tennis ball hits him, we'll only finish by morning."
Charles nodded understandingly and pulled Oliver to him by the shoulders.
"Don't worry, Oscar, Olli and I will go to the garden, he needs to burn off some energy. We won't disturb you. Good luck with math, Lando. You'll need it if you're friends with my son. He is a very strict teacher."
"I'm already feeling it," Lando sighed, obediently following Oscar toward the wide staircase.
When they entered Oscar's room and closed the door, Lando immediately dropped his backpack on the floor and flopped into a chair.
"Your papa is cool," Lando said, looking at the ceiling. "Very beautiful and kind. But for some reason, it seemed to me that he is very sad. His eyes are like... as if he wants to sleep but can't."
Oscar's heart skipped a beat. He froze at his desk, laying out his notebooks. He had hoped that Lando, with his constant bustle, would not notice what Oscar saw every day.
"He just works a lot on charity projects," Oscar answered dryly, without turning around. "He gets tired. Come on, open page forty-eight. We need to go over the trigonometric circle before you forget what a circle even looks like."
"Hey! I know what a circle looks like! It's what should be in my grade book instead of a failing mark," Lando reached for the textbook, changing the subject.
Oscar sat down next to him, and for the next two hours, the room was immersed in the world of formulas. He patiently explained every detail to Lando, and although Lando was constantly distracted by jokes, Oscar saw that Lando was truly trying. At some point, Oscar caught himself thinking that Lando's presence in this house was like a breath of pure oxygen in a stuffy room. With him, the walls did not press so hard, and the silence of the house did not seem so ominous.
When they took a break, Lando walked over to the window that overlooked the garden. There, Charles sat on a bench, watching Oliver run with the ball.
"They look happy," Lando said quietly.
Oscar approached and stood beside him. From this height, papa seemed small and very fragile against the backdrop of the huge, perfectly manicured park.
"Yes," Oscar replied. "They are."
It was another lie, one he spoke so easily that he almost believed it himself. But when he looked at his hands, he saw that they were trembling slightly. He knew that in a couple of hours his father would return, and this idyll would end.
"Alright, enough lyricism," Lando slapped Oscar's shoulder. "Back to your cosines. If I pass this, I'll buy you the biggest burger in town."
"Deal," Oscar smiled.
When Lando left a little later and the door closed behind him, an uncharacteristic, almost cozy silence fell over the house. Charles sent Oliver upstairs to do his homework and gestured for Oscar to come into the large living room. The evening sun colored the room in honey tones, and a soft cashmere throw lay on the wide sofa.
Charles settled into a corner of the sofa and patted the spot next to him. When Oscar sat down, papa draped the edge of the throw over his shoulders, pulling his son closer. They sat shoulder to shoulder. Papa looked at him differently—there was no usual fatigue in his gaze, only a lively shimmer that made him look surprisingly young.
"Well, tell me," Charles said softly, adjusting the edge of the throw. "How is the math progressing? Or were you discussing more than just sines?"
Oscar felt heat rush to his cheeks. He stared at his hands resting on his knees.
"We were just studying. Lando has a test soon, and if he fails it, they'll take his computer away."
Charles laughed quietly, and the sound was so pure that Oscar involuntarily smiled back.
"Oscar, I'm not blind. You've never brought friends home before. And you've never looked at someone the way you looked at that boy today. You like him, don't you?"
Oscar immediately shook his head, feeling himself blush even more.
"No, not at all. We're just friends. He's... he's very loud and strange, and he's not at all like the omegas I'm supposed to like."
Charles gently took his hand and gave it a slight squeeze.
"You're fourteen, Oscar. This is exactly the time for someone to start seeming special to you. There's nothing shameful or wrong about that. Lando is wonderful. There's so much life in him, so much light... I haven't seen you smile so sincerely around someone in a long time."
Oscar went silent, reflecting on his papa's words. With Charles, it was always easy for him to be honest—papa was the only person who never judged him for weakness.
"I don't know what to call it," he finally confessed, lowering his voice to a whisper. "I'm just... at ease with him. When he's around, I don't have to think about anything else. The world seems simpler with him. With others, I always feel like I have to play a role, but with him, that doesn't happen. Is this love, papa?"
Charles froze for a moment, and his gaze became deep and a bit sad, although the smile did not leave his lips. He pulled Oscar even closer, kissing the top of his head.
"Yes, sweetheart. When it's easier to breathe with someone than alone, that is love. Cherish this feeling. It is the most precious thing that can happen to a person."
They sat in silence, sharing the warmth of the throw and this fragile moment of revelation. It seemed to Oscar that right now they were in a little cocoon, protected from all the rest of the world. But the silence was interrupted by the sound of the front door opening and heavy, confident footsteps in the hall. Oscar instinctively straightened up, but Charles did not pull away, continuing to hold his son's shoulders. Max appeared in the living room doorway. He was in a formal coat, with a briefcase in hand, looking like a man who had just returned from a battlefield in the corporate world. He stopped, looking at them—pressed against each other, whispering, and clearly interrupted in something very personal.
A strange expression appeared on Max's face—a mixture of slight jealousy and soft curiosity. He slowly took off his watch without taking his eyes off them, and a barely noticeable, almost kind smile played on his lips.
"Secret-sharing again?" he asked, walking further into the room. "What is it this time? Discussing how to take over the world, or is papa teaching you French swear words again?"
Charles calmly raised his head, and Oscar was struck by how quickly papa changed. Now he looked simply like a loving, slightly exhausted husband.
"Just discussing school matters," Charles replied evenly. "Oscar was helping a friend with lessons today."
Max nodded, casting a glance at his son. It seemed to Oscar that his father wanted to come over and sit down next to them too, to enter this circle of warmth, but an invisible barrier seemed to stand between them. Max remained standing by the chair across from them.
"That's good. Friends are important," Max said, and an unexpected seriousness slipped into his voice. "The main thing is to choose those who are worth your time."
Oscar remained silent, feeling the magic of the moment finally dissipate. He looked at papa, who was still holding his hand, and realized that their secrets were the only thing truly connecting them in this house.