Chapter Text
And, when Lando says it, it’s not biting. Really, it’s a bit melancholy. His eyes are soft, only a glimmer of teasing left. It’s frustratingly earnest, Oscar thinks, as if somewhere between everything that has happened between them, and this moment, Lando has come to understand something Oscar has yet to realize. It pisses him off.
“Too sweet?” Oscar says with a quaver of anger in his tone. Lando smiles, easy. Oscar traces his teeth with his eyes and swallows.
The four walls of the hotel room feel suffocating. Oscar is no stranger to tight places, really, he prefers them. And now the distance between him and Lando is growing, with every second of silence that sits between them, and his breath threatens to stop still in his throat. He has to bring him back in, has to stop this before they drift entirely apart.
“Say something.” Oscar pushes, knee bouncing like that will move Lando- famously unmovable Lando.
Lando watches him. He has the upper hand, he’s on the bed, back against the headboard, legs splayed like he’s alone. He’s always sitting, moving, behaving, like he’s alone; like Oscar isn’t right there, watching, waiting, wishing even. Oscar watches the steady movement of Lando’s eyes, starting at his jumping knee, tracing up to his face, lingering on his mouth before meeting his eyes.
“You’re the sweetest.” Lando says, he’s gleaming with something flippant again, like he hopes that will deter Oscar, turn him easy and playful. Oscar knows Lando wants to appease him, distract him enough.
Oscar is known for his impeccable focus.
“I’m getting a little frustrated, here, Lando.” Oscar says back honestly, eyes hard where they meet Landos.
Lando, the bastard, laughs. Oscar’s leg stills for a second in surprise. Oscar levels his gaze and huffs out a breath.
“See,” Lando says, as if yet again to prove that he is noticing something Oscar is blind to, “You’re pissed at me and still you’re speaking soft and kind. Sweet.”
Oscar bristles, sucking his teeth and grunting, “So because I’m not swearing up a storm or trying to tear your limbs off I’m, what, too sweet? That’s what you said.”
Lando gives him a look, as if to say ‘Down boy’. How is Oscar meant to be not sweet when Lando treats him like his fucking puppy?
“Don’t look at me like that,” Oscar says, “I thought you wanted me worked up?”
Lando laughs again. Oscar wants to wrap his hands around his throat, feel the laugh under his fingers, press down to quiet it.
“There are a number of ways I want you,” Lando grins, mouth tight and sharp. Oscar wants to trace it with his knuckles, “None which you are ready for.”
Oscar pushes his frozen breath out, through his nose. His head drops.
“You,” Oscar starts, “You think you know me better than I do.”
Lando quirks an eyebrow at him, there’s something akin to recognition in his eyes and Oscar feels something hot flare in his chest, “Don’t I?”
Oscar does not respond. The question was rhetorical anyway. Between the fuzz in his mind and the sharp desire to spit on his tongue, Oscar understands suddenly. His chest constricts in a way that it only really does when Lando pushes each and every one of his buttons and he sighs. He can’t say anything because disagreeing would be a lie, and agreeing would be confession.
So instead Oscar stands, putting the nervous energy in his legs to work, and takes two easy strides to the bed. His jaw quivers when he opens his mouth again, unprepared. Lando looks up at him, facile smile on his face which makes Oscar swallow any thought that creeped to the front of his mouth. He’s desperate, frustratingly so, to do something. To prove Lando wrong. Put him in his goddamn place and show him that he doesn’t have the full picture, that he’s not wrong but that there’s more. He wants to show Lando everything he is capable of.
Instead he turns on his heel and walks out the room, the slamming of the door as the best goodbye he could muster.