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Oscar almost chokes on his own spit when Lando sinks down onto his knees in the space between his legs.
“Hi, Osc,” Lando grins sweetly, peering up at him through stupidly long lashes—too sweet to be in such a suggestive position. And if he notices Oscar actively refraining from squirming on the black leather couch, he doesn’t show it.
Oscar isn’t the best at hiding his discomfort whenever he is, well, uncomfortable. It wasn’t hard to figure out why, either. Lando’s eyes looking up at him, full red lips inches away from his crotch—Oscar doesn’t doubt that straighter men would’ve given in to temptation for less.
Oscar exhales shakily, wide-eyed, trying and failing to focus on anything else (the show playing on the television in front of him; the senseless paintings hung on the stark walls) else. “Hi, Lando, you're, uh, you’re on your—”
“Knees? Yeah, I know.”
And okay, fair. It wasn’t an astute observation by any means, but it was one that made the blond hairs on the nape of Oscar’s neck rise. He thinks if he stays silent for long enough, Lando will explain something, anything. But he just keeps looking up at Oscar with those big, dumb eyes that Oscar can’t determine the hue of for the life of him.
Those same eyes slide past Oscar’s body. Suddenly, the shorts adorning his thighs felt too short, too revealing; the television blaring loud—enough that it drowned out Oscar’s thumping heart, he hopes; his tanktop much too tight—which might have actually been true. He had been working out, sue him.
“Okay,” Oscar nods like he understands, leaning back till his back pressed against the cushions and spreading his legs a bit wider in a way that he prayed exuded a calm, stoic exterior. “So…why that?”
Lando jumps to answer, seemingly waiting for Oscar to ask.
“You like boys, right?”
Oscar squints his eyes, still blushing furiously at the sight of just, well, Lando. “Uh huh.”
“And you’ve, like, had sex with ‘em?”
An embarrassing squeak slips past his lips.
Oscar wouldn't consider himself a prude, but he and Lando have never really, well, discussed the people they bring to bed as a means to pass the time; honestly, Oscar didn’t want to start now. It would be too much. Too soon, all at once.
It would make the ache in his heart too prominent.
And remembering the times people called Oscar the most nonchalant person in any room felt like a joke. He can barely look Lando in the eyes. It’s embarrassing. But Oscar answers anyway, because he does (not) have a reputation to uphold.
He lets out a noncommittal noise that he hopes sounds like confirmation, more hesitant at what Lando’s getting at.
Lando nods, satisfied; Oscar’s clueless at what. And it’s weird because, it’s not like Oscar hasn’t told him this already. They share a flat, for fuck’s sake, they both have earplugs for whenever each of them brings a man (Oscar) or woman (Lando. And Oscar, too, sometimes) home. They’ve seen flushed faces with tainted necks usher out the front door in what could only be described as a walk of shame.
So, yeah, while Lando has been weird the moment they've begun sharing a ninety square meter unit, Oscar considers this weird for Lando.
“Right, well—uh, good.” Lando clears his throat, all of a sudden looking all too aware of the proximity his face is to his flatmate's crotch. Like the boy he’s liked since they’d met, who’s (as far as Oscar’s aware) completely straight, is on his knees, gazing up at him with wet lips.
Oscar bites his cheek. The blood rushing downward doesn’t make the guilt eat at him like he thought it would. He doesn’t really know what to do with that.
He wants to reach into Lando’s frame and search for where his confidence has fled. “Good?”
“Uh huh,” Lando bites his bottom lip—Oscar wants to die—, craning his head down to his folded knees and dutifully picking at his fingernails, and Oscar doesn’t know if Lando’s mocking him or just plain shy.
He takes pity on him anyway. Oscar’s known Lando long enough to know that he isn’t very flustered around those he’s close with. And well, after enduring happy and sad and drunk and hungover Lando (all at once sometimes) these past couple months, Oscar isn’t too hesitant to say he’s one of those close to Lando.
Oscar huffs exasperatedly, clutching the fabric at Lando’s shoulder and hauling him off the V of Oscar's legs. “Come,” he grunts, harshly tugging and rolling his eyes at the way Lando loudly yelps. “up here, you weirdo.”
“Ow, ow, ow, hands off, mate! The shirt’s expensive!” Lando laments, like he couldn’t ask and receive a dozen packs of the exact same t-shirt with a phone call.
This time, Oscar’s sure his eyes roll to the back of his head. Lando’s sitting beside him now, perching himself to face Oscar directly and dangling a leg off the side of the couch. The Brit occupies the awkward silence by tucking his hands snugly in the sleeves of his horribly oversized hoodie.
Oscar does not have to hold himself back from cooing.
Lando’s biting the inside of his cheek, not uttering a word; Oscar still feels like Lando has the upper hand in this. He almost wishes Lando was still at his feet. At least, then, he could grasp onto a false sense of control.
Now, with Lando so close, Oscar could count each freckle on his nose, he feels as timid as the boy beside him.
A few seconds of Lando just looking at him turned into a minute. Oscar’s eyes dart away before he takes it for something it isn’t. Something it couldn’t be. He can’t stop gnawing at his bottom lip or bouncing his legs, and he can’t take it anymore. “Lando, please, mate, I’m dying over here.”
And then Lando sighs like he deserved the audacity before relenting. Fina-fucking-ly.
“I saw—I saw a guy yesterday.”
Oscar snorts. “Wow.”
Lando glares at him, false bitterness and all. “At the club. And he offered to buy me a drink—”
“You don’t drink,” Oscar feels the need to interject. And you’re straight, Oscar doesn’t say. Because it’s true and so painfully obvious and apparent. Or maybe he just didn’t want to speak those words into existence. He’s a bit ashamed to say he’s hopeless like that.
The Brit sighs and then shrugs helplessly. “Yeah, well.”
Oh?
What, well?
It had solely been a drink, is what Oscar reminded himself before his mind wandered to…whatever. It just—it was the most logical conclusion. Lando could sip on a drink every once in a while; Oscar’s witnessed it. He was capable. Oscar thinks.
But Lando doesn’t like boys, and Oscar hadn’t heard the clumsy shuffles of four feet stumbling into Lando’s bedroom last night either. Only a whiny, mildly tipsy curly head begging for a hoodie, shivering at the foot of Oscar’s bed. The same one he’s playing the drawstrings of now.
“Anyway,” he continues, as if he hasn’t left Oscar’s mind to quietly short circuit. “I let him. And we talk, and he’s nice, and he asks me if I wanna go to the bathroom, and I say—”
“No,” Oscar finishes for him. Lando reaches up to flick him on the forehead as if to say, stop interrupting. It works. And it’s useless because the next thing Lando says reduces Oscar’s vocabulary to that of a three month old.
“I said yes.”
Hm.
Okay.
So, like. Everything Oscar’s assumed about every aspect of Lando’s sexuality comes crumbling down. Because a guy was nice to him. What, has Oscar not been nice enough? Dealing with Lando’s ramblings and idiocracy for months? With only a few snides and limited sarcasm?
But Oscar meets Lando’s eyes, and the boy looks so worried. Observing Oscar with a weary glint, patiently waiting for his reaction. Oscar wants to eat him. Wrap him in a blanket and hold his hand under the covers. And then some.
“Okay,” Oscar breathes, satisfied that it doesn’t sound as shaky as his mental health feels. “You go to the bathroom,” He has to refrain from screaming when Lando nods. “How is this relevant?”
Maybe it was a bit harsh. A bit blunt. But it’s alright; nothing Lando isn’t used to from Oscar by now. Oscar hasn’t quite been described as indirect in the past.
“I, fuck! HeaskedmetoblowhimandIsaidyes! And like, Icanbarelygodownonagirlproperly, the fuck?! So whatmademethinkIcoulddeepthroatthisguyscock?!”
Lando’s visibly out of breath by the end of his rant, chest heaving and eyes frantic and helpless, and Oscar might’ve attempted sympathizing with him if he knew at least half of what the fuck Lando just said.
“Lando.”
Lando lets out a whine (Oscar tries his best to not let it shoot down to his dick), ashamedly flopping his head down to his flatmates’ shoulder. “Oscuhh!”
“English. Please.”
Lando begrudgingly pulls away from the heat of Oscar’s red skin, looking up. “He asked me to blow him.”
(Oscar tries his best to not show the loss of air in his lungs.)
“So, well, I tried.”
(What the fuck. What the fuck. What the fuck.)
“And I just—I couldn’t, Osc. I dunno, it was harder than I thought.”
(Oscar would point out the irony, maybe make a dirty joke if only he wasn’t currently undergoing cardiac arrest.)
It’s only after Lando’s brows raise provokingly, almost desperately, does Oscar blink out of his daze. He clears his throat, subtly placing his arm over his crotch. “Uh huh…right, but, uh, doesn’t really explain why you almost broke your knees just now.”
Lando, at least, has the decency to blush. Oscar feels slightly better at that. That maybe he wasn’t the only one flushed from head to toe at what Lando’s confessing. That maybe they’re blushing for the same reason, and—right.
Oscar’s let his imagination run a little too wild and free.
“Yeah, that was... sorry ‘bout that, mate, probably should’ve asked before I tried to blow you.”
Oscar Piastri, aged twenty two, found dead on the couch of his shared flat. So young, had a full, long life ahead of him. Too bad.
He gapes, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. “What?”
“Oh, fuck,” Lando curses, and Oscar’s relieved for only one second, because maybe Lando’s realized his mistake and is taking everything back, and they’ll both pretend this all never happened, but then. “That wasn’t how I was supposed to ask. Well, fuck it, it’s out, I guess.”
Well. Found dead with a raging boner, no less. From a heart attack, he ascertains. Oscar’s heart is thumping too hard for his passing to be anything else.
“You wanna b-blow me?” Oscar asks, surprised that the words weren’t choked down along the way.
“Yeah, basically.”
It’s like Lando’s speaking English, but none that Oscar understands. A different dialect, a different accent. An unfinished sentence. Slipping into Oscar’s ear and out the other before his mind has the time to comprehend a letter.
“Basically?”
“Listen, it’s nothing personal—”
“Way to make a guy feel special,” Oscar manages to quip, and honestly, he’s just happy he can formulate coherent thoughts.
“Shut up,” Lando grumbles, but doesn’t hide the smile threatening to crack at his lips. “It’s for, like, y’know, future hookups. Relationships, maybe.”
Oscar’s heart tugs at maybe.
“So, you wanna practise? On me?” Oscar gulps. For a hypothetical hookup slash relationship that might not even happen, floats in the air and is another thing Oscar thinks is best left unsaid. Lando looks flustered enough.
Lando nods, doesn't say much else. And Oscar’s glad. He doesn’t know how he’d have coped had Lando continued.
Oscar can barely breathe when he meets Lando’s gaze, but he holds it like his life depends on it anyway because it brings him some comfort, too. Lando’s eyes glinted with something.
Pleading, hopeful.
Like Oscar can even attempt to deny Lando anything.
Like Lando doesn’t know this already.
Like Oscar’s never carried Lando from the couch to his bed because he was too tired to get up; or ran to the nearest pharmacy to buy him spiderman bandaids for a stupid papercut because ‘the cartoon ones always work best’; or made sure Lando took his medicine when flu season rolled around.
God, Oscar’s a mess, isn’t he? He rubs his damp hands on his half-naked thighs. Waits for a second. Maybe a crew of cameras, blaring lights, and criticizing hosts would magically appear at the door, shove a microphone into his face, and scream April Fools. It’s April fourth, but it still feels more realistic than whatever this is.
“O-okay.”
He thinks he gave Lando the something because Lando’s face promptly breaks out in a grin impossible to not emulate.
“Okay, great,” he bites his lips with a smile that makes it seem like they’ve just discussed where they’d be ordering from for dinner, eyeing Oscar’s crotch (which is still covered by his hands, thankfully) for a second too long and then.
Then he stands up and leaves.
He just—fuck, he’s insane. He isn’t straight, and he asked if he could practice sucking dick on Oscar’s dick like it was the most normal thing in the world, like giving your friends blowjobs was a common way to spend leisure time, and he just left Oscar.
Left him all sweaty and hot and bothered. Oscar wants to feel ashamed about it. Truly, he does. But he can’t muster up the dignity in him for it.
Not when Oscar’s tucked into his cold bed once the sun has dipped below the horizon.
Not when he’s fucking helplessly into his own fist and wishing it was the wet heat of a throat.
Not when the name that won’t stop tumbling from his lips is LandoLandoLando.
━━━━━━━
They don’t talk about it until they’re both sitting down for dinner three days later.
It didn't happen often, but on the rare nights Oscar and Lando were home together, the former would loosely follow a recipe for a meal for two and pray it was edible. This time, Oscar’s proud to say the pasta isn’t as crunchy as the last.
Lando doesn't seem too impressed sitting in the chair further down the dinner table across from him, though, idly twirling and sliding the noodles with his fork like some crimson mosaic painting. He looks about a second away from combusting.
And silence isn't unfamiliar in their flat, but Lando doesn't usually entertain it. Oscar half expects Lando to be bouncing off the walls and ranting unnecessarily to fill the hollow-sounding living room by now.
Oscar shifts in his slightly scratchy seat. “We need t’go grocery shopping soon.”
The Brit raises his head from where he had been sulking, blinking back into reality. “Oh yeah?”
He hums. Oscar burns when he realizes he doesn’t really have anything to say.
He’s much better at listening, he concludes, to Lando.
It’s only now that Oscar thinks he might miss the pointless thoughts Lando would spew, miss nodding along to show Lando he’s listening, miss Lando following him into the kitchen as Oscar cleans up because somehow his words are endless and he can’t help but subject anyone near him to listen.
God, anything but this.
Thankfully, Lando seems to sense his desperation because his lips part again, dropping his fork onto the plate with a deafening clunk and murmuring, “I was actually thinking we could stay in tonight.”
“Sure,” Oscar’s nodding, listening with a polite smile, and letting out a breath he wasn’t aware he had been holding. “And do what?”
Lando looks at him, exasperation painting his face.
Oh.
Oh.
━━━━━━━
Everything after happens like clockwork.
Oscar quickly shoves the rest of his pasta down his throat (not because he wants his dick down Lando’s); Lando blasts some music as he washes the plates and plops them into their dishwasher; Oscar leans on the kitchen door frame, tries his absolute best to not let his eyes linger on the sway of Lando’s hips.
“Okay!” Lando turns and claps his hands together, padding toward Oscar to intertwine their fingers—Oscar wonders if the tingles on his fingertips are one-sided—and drags him into the hallway. “Lesson numero uno!”
Huffing out an embarrassed laugh feels like the only safe response.
Lando’s room is as messy and unkempt as the other times Oscar’s stumbled into it for a late night game on his console. This, at least, is the one thing that stays constant.
But then Lando places two massive hands on Oscar’s shoulders, burning through the thin fabric, pushes him until his knees hit the edge of the bed, and lets Oscar fall onto the mattress with an oomph.
Breathless, Oscar cranes his neck, and Lando, looking so eager to get Oscar between his lips (for practice or not), still has Oscar’s hand twitching, yearning for an inch of relief on his dick.
Still has the tense room suffocating Oscar and flushing his skin with a deep red and running beads of sweat down his neck.
He can’t help but notice how pretty Lando looks like this—contoured cheekbones against the harsh light of his room and dilated pupils as big as ever. Fuck, a selfish part of Oscar wants him like this forever.
He can barely choke down a whimper when Lando’s knees hit the ground, his slim shoulders pushing Oscar’s thighs farther apart; the sound of fragile bones hitting the floor forces a wince out of Oscar’s lips.
Tan fingers land on the hem of Oscar’s orange shorts before he can worry too much, and Oscar’s fully convinced he’s having heart palpitations. His body’s filled with pure want from head to toe, and he doesn’t know how he even manages to—
Lando looks up at him with furrowed brows when Oscar’s fingers latch onto his wrist. “Come on! There’s no way I’ve already messed up.”
Shaking his head dismissively and a bit fondly, Oscar reaches back to grab a pillow. “Here,” he plops it onto Lando’s hands, who looks oddly shocked by the gesture. “For y’knees.”
“Cute,” Lando hums appreciatively, shifting to shove the cushion underneath him.
Oscar takes the time to hook his fingers on the band of his shorts, lifting his hips and tugging the cloth down over his feet. He hisses when the cold air wraps around his half-hard dick, flopping against his stomach with an angry red tip.
Lando inhales sharply when he lifts his head up and is met with a face full of Oscar’s cock, and the Australian would be lying if he said it didn't feed his ego a little bit.
“Still cute?” Oscar grins down at him, shrugging his shirt off his shoulder because being half-naked somehow felt weirder.
Lando splutters, his fingers twitching where they’re hot on Oscar’s thighs, like he wants to touch. Oscar wants it, too. “Fuck off, mate, you’re—you’re fuckin’, shit, Osc, will it even fit?”
He sounds so fucking sincere, gazing at his length like it’s the eighth wonder of the world, and it makes Oscar’s dick uncontrollably twitch, blood rushing straight down.
Previous hesitancy forgotten, he cups Lando’s cheek in his hand. “I’ll teach you.”
The Brit leans into his touch for a second longer before his eyes land on Oscar’s dick with newfound determination. His movements are slow, hesitant. Oscar’s hands flail on either side of his thighs when Lando brings a hand up to wrap around the base of Oscar’s dick.
His hot touch is so light it’s barely there, grazing past the sensitive skin and fingers too small to cover it fully, but Oscar’s fingernails still cut deep crescents into the white sheets.
“Y’already so hard,” Lando gasps, tightening his grip and forcing a quiet moan out of Oscar's throat.
And he is—has been since Lando dropped his fork a few minutes prior at the dinner table. Yeah, Oscar’s ruined with forks now. And pasta, too. But most prominently, Lando.
“Shut up,” Oscar grumbles, his cheeks blushing impossibly more. “Just, uh, lick from the base to the tip, yeah—ah, fuck!”
Lando does before Oscar can get all the words out, his bright red tongue following the veins of Oscar’s cock. Green eyes flit onto the precum spurting out of his tip, and Oscar’s thankful for the hand at his base because he might’ve come on the spot when the wet muscle drags along the slit.
A hum slips past Lando’s lips, smacking his lips obnoxiously to savor it. “Y’taste good. Bit salty, but better than the guy at the club.”
Oscar doesn’t want to hear about that git—not with Lando’s hands on his cock, not ever.
“Lando,” Oscar all but whines, bringing a hand to thread the boy’s curls; he doesn’t miss the way Lando’s eyes roll back. “The tip, Lando. Suck the tip, please—ah, no, not too fast or hard. Like, I guess like a lolly.”
Soon enough, the plush lips wrapping around his tip cause Oscar to throw his head back, spikes of pleasure shooting down to his spine.
Lando’s tongue swirls around the head, and a low whine invertebrates against the skin. Look at me, Lando pleads with a stroke of his tongue; it wretches a long moan out of Oscar’s throat.
He almost doubles over in pleasure, has to fill his mind with pure thoughts when he’s met with Lando gazing up at him, his mouth stretching obscenely around Oscar’s cock—otherwise, it’ll all be over before it even begins.
“Good, Lan, fuck, s’ good for me,” Oscar pants, the hand on Lando’s hair a bit more forceful. Not enough to shove his cock down Lando’s throat, just a gentle nudge.
Lando lets out an eager whine, taking Oscar’s words as encouragement to sink his lips deeper down his cock. A string of moans slips past Oscar’s lips like a broken radio, a never-ending slipstream. But the thing that absolutely ruins Oscar is how much Lando seems to be enjoying it.
How his spit mixes with the slick of Oscar’s cock, foams at the edges of his puffy lips. How Oscar can’t even differentiate Lando’s muffled groans from his. How he keeps trying to take more and more of Oscar even when the tip hits the back of his throat, even when tears prickle at his eyelids.
Lando keeps gagging, borderline slobbering on his cock and.
And Oscar’s so close, so fucking close he’s forgotten the entire point of this. He’s supposed to teach Lando, and all he’s trying to do is reach his high and he just needs.
“Lan, just—oh, fuck—use your hand where you can’t reach. Yes, oh, just like that, and—fuck, good boy, you’re doin’ so well—suck your cheeks in f’me.” Oscar’s pathetic sounds fill the otherwise noiseless room, and Lando’s desperation is apparent in his movements: sloppy and fast, and fuck, Oscar loves it.
Oscar involuntarily bucks his hips up to Lando’s wet heat, immediately glancing down at him with worried eyes when he chokes but. Lando takes him deeper and deeper, sucking incessantly and mindlessly—he barely puts any thought in it, all cockdrunk for Oscar.
He feels his balls tighten, the familiar knot in his stomach ready to burst. The hand buried in Lando’s hair tugs him back, Oscar’s breath stuttering as he groans, “Lan, off. I-I’m so close, gonna come—” Lando whines around his length, pulling against Oscar’s hold, stubbornly keeping it deep in his throat. “Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck.”
Oscar comes with his eyes on Lando’s teary ones, his mouth parted around a long groan, and his vision blurred with white sparks. Bliss overtakes his body, unfurls the tension with a prolonged snap, until he hears Lando coughing profusely, having pulled away from Oscar’s length.
“Oh, shit, Lan.” Oscar furrows his brows fondly, glancing at Lando’s bedside table and bringing the water bottle to Lando’s lips. “Y’did so good, I promise.”
Lando places his sticky hands over Oscar’s, like he’s incapable of holding it on his own, and Oscar can’t find it in his clean-freak self to care as he watches the Brit chug the rest of the water.
“Fuck,” Lando curses when he pulls the glass from his lips, voice raspy from abuse and a hazy smile plastered on his face.
Oscar doesn’t know why until he looks further down Lando’s criminally small waist, still on his knees, but with a damp circle on his grey sweatpants where the tip of his cock was strained.
Wide, brown eyes meet Lando’s smug ones. “When did you—”
Lando shrugs, picking himself off the floor, the both of them wincing when his knees straighten with a loud pop. His curls loosened from Oscar’s fingers, now sweaty and splayed out against his forehead, and his lips quirked up in a smirk. “‘Bout five minutes into it, mate.”
And fuck, that’s about the hottest thing Oscar’s ever heard.
━━━━━━━
The second time Lando’s on his knees for Oscar, he doesn’t announce it.
Oscar can barely blink twice, standing at their apartment doorway with mountains of grocery bags in hand, before Lando grows smaller and smaller by his feet, fumbling with Oscar’s zipper.
“Uh, Lando, what’re you—?”
Then Lando takes him in his mouth. It’s still sloppy, a bit too hard where his hand strokes the base, but Oscar knows he’ll come all the same. He knows it defeats the purpose of this entire thing, and he knows he should give Lando advice.
He drops the bags carelessly by his feet, head thrown back, and pants senselessly into the heat of the hallway instead.
Lando pulls off momentarily, and Oscar does not whine. “Is it—D’you want me to play with your balls? I saw something, and..." he trails off, biting his lips shyly. Oscar wants to paint his face with his come.
And he also wants to laugh because, honestly, right now it seems as though Lando’s teaching himself. Oscar replies with frantic nods anyway, not trusting himself enough to speak coherently.
Seconds before he feels the familiar bursts of pleasure encompass his body, he grips the back of Lando’s head, tilting it upward to ask, “Where d’you want it?”
Lando’s mouth is full of cock, so Oscar doesn’t really know what to expect, but Lando just continues to bob his head up and down the length. He looks up at Oscar after seeing tear stains on his cheeks and swollen lips wet with cum, and Oscar thinks he should take a picture and hang it in the Louvre.
“Cheers, mate,” Lando smiles, clapping Oscar on the back, painfully red knees swerving away.
The Brit’s already halfway through the hall, wiping the wetness from his lips with his sleeve, when Oscar’s timid voice echoes along the thin walls.
“'Mate'? That’s what this is?”
And the words leave Oscar’s lips like an avalanche, like someone wretched them out of his mind. He almost regrets it. He’s ruined it.
It was fine, Oscar had Lando’s lips around him, but now he’s asked another version of the generic ‘what are we?’ question, and Lando’s frozen in place, and Oscar hates what this has come to and—
“Forget I said anything.” Oscar’s voice feels too small for his body. He shakes his head, buttoning his jeans and picking the nylon bags off the floor (the eggs are probably cracked, but he can’t bring himself to dwell on them) with a heavy heart.
And then Lando turns, his face splitting in two with the sheer size of his grin. He doesn’t leave Oscar much time for his confusion to set in before he’s running, jumping into his arms.
His legs wrap around Oscar’s waist, cackling that high-pitched shriek when the Australian lets out a loud oomph, dropping the bags again (now, Oscar’s sure the eggs have spilled out of their shells).
“Oh,” is all that slips past Oscar’s lips, because he thinks thinking before speaking is a bit overrated anyway.
Oscar’s heart feels like it's pounding out of his chest, but all he can process is how good Lando feels in his arms. How he’d have taken this out of a thousand more orgasms. And maybe it feels so good because it leaves a flicker of hope in his idiotic mind.
“You’re—you're such an idiot, my god.” Lando laughs, but it feels less depressing than when Oscar thought it. He buries his head in Oscar’s sweaty neck, rubbing on it like a cat for a second before pulling away.
He’s looking straight at Oscar. Through him, almost. Oscar must have every emotion, feeling, expression plastered on his face. All for Lando to see. It all feels too vulnerable, but he tightens his hold on the back of Lando's thighs despite it.
“Uh…What.”
Lando all but giggles. Right in front of his face, and Oscar’s lips morph into a cautious smile against their will.
“I mean, I thought you liked me a loooonggggg time ago, but then, I mean, then you asked that and—oh god,” Lando stops, clambering out of Oscar’s hold. Oscar can’t hold back a protest. “Don’t—don’t tell me I’ve gotten this all wrong, ‘cause I will kill my—”
“Lando.”
“—self, I just. I just thought like, y’know, you didn’t want to be just mates and—”
“Lando.”
“—I know I haven’t been super clear, like I’m not winning the best communication award but I feel like giving you head a few times showed—”
Oscar kisses him, and it's to shut Lando up and make him save some breath.
It’s only for a second, hasty enough to barely feel the tingles that shoot up Oscar’s spine. He can feel his flush burning right through his skin when he pulls away and is met with Lando’s slack jaw and wide eyes.
Their lips meet a second time, and it’s because they want it.
Lando cups his hot cheeks, tilting his head to the side and deepening the kiss. Oscar’s hands find solace in Lando’s tiny waist, wanting him closer and closer.
He pulls their heated bodies flush together, and he can taste himself on Lando, and he doesn’t care because Lando also tastes like the peaches Oscar had cut up for him this morning; he tastes like mint and months of yearning.
Oscar wants to burn Lando’s fingerprints on his cheeks, he wants to mold their bodies together like this.
This deserves to be in the Louvre.
Oscar only detaches their lips when he’s on the brink of passing out. He keeps Lando close enough to feel his breath tickling his cheeks, inhaling deeply like he wants to swallow Oscar whole. Oscar would let him.
“I…I don’t wanna be just mates.”
And Oscar’s momentary embarrassment is all worth it to see Lando grinning again.
“No,” Lando shakes his head fondly, their noses rubbing against each other. “No, me neither.”
Scratch that; his embarrassment is all worth it for this.
“What ‘bout the guy in the club?” Oscar jokes because he feels the tension too deeply in the dimly lit hallway. There's an underlying insecurity to it that he hopes Lando doesn't pick up on.
Lando’s brows furrow. “What gu—ohh, that guy,” and then Lando’s laughing again, the one that goes on for minutes and sounds more like a scream. “Yeah, nah, that never happened.”
A beat.
Silence.
And then, “But. You. What about. Practice?!”
Oscar looks at him incredulously when Lando merely pinches his cheek with a smile. “I told you I’m not great at communicating.”
The third time they kiss, it’s to attempt to wash the shock off Oscar’s face.
It works.