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Okay. So maybe Oscar didn’t plan for this to happen, but. You know. Sometimes life just hands you a box of chocolates, and you peer in, and it’s your crush (and best friend) of 4 years falling asleep on your shoulder, head full of fluffy curls and lolling slightly. On. Your. Shoulder. Has he mentioned that before?
He spares a glance at the Google Maps on the phone screen of the Uber driver, and internally screams. Destination time 8:46, current time 8:36. 10 more minutes of hope and a lack of it playing tug of war in his stomach with his feelings. Beside him, Lando shifts slightly in his sleep and snuffles deeper into his shoulder. He feels his face warm a bit and wonders what the Uber driver is thinking. That he’s a sad muppet, pathetically in love with his best friend but resigned to only ever experiencing an 100% completely platonic relationship with him?
Fellas, is it gay to let your homie sleep and drool on your shoulder, very cutely, and be, like, all the more in love with him for it?
Okay, well yes, it obviously is. But sue him for falling for Lando, who’s so snarky and chaotic and hilarious but also so cheerful and warm and, well, cute. No other apt word for it. And pretty, and gorgeous, and have you seen those curls – okay someone shut him up before he starts waxing poetic about those eyes too, or something. But, to be fair, they are the most heart-melting shade of —
Oh, wait, someone is actually saying something. Oscar looks up and sees the mouth of his Uber driver, a woman who looks like she’s in her late 20s, moving, and then finally his ears tune in. “... Honestly, I wish my boyfriend would let me sleep on him like that,” she says, briefly meeting his eyes in the rearview mirror. “You guys are so cute. I’m sorry, is that like, unprofessional of me to say or weird? But, man, my guy’s such a clean freak. Loves me and all but would do the macarena in front of his co-workers before letting me drool on his shoulder.”
“Oh, uh, thanks, I guess?” Oscar says awkwardly. She thinks they’re cute ? And then he clears his throat and glances over at Lando, who’s making the most peaceful, blissed out expression as he dreams on about, like, probably croissants or going to the park and feeding the ducks or a lover who is not Oscar or something. He wonders if he’s being quiet enough to not wake Lando up and lowers his voice a little. “And nah, I’m not, uh, super weirded out. By your words. You don’t seem old and creepily interested in me, thankfully.”
“That’s relieving to hear,” she laughs. Beside him, Lando sways slightly forwards, slouching, and Oscar makes the split-second decision to gently push him back into a more comfortable, laid-back position. God knows how many times Lando has complained about his back aching and “I’m only 25, Oscaaaaaah, it's a sign that I’m going to get white hairs and die of old age and then you’ll have to bring croissants every day to my grave and I’ll haunt you forever.”
He fondly brushes a couple curls out of Lando’s face and then immediately snaps his head straight ahead and then tries to assume a stiff, normal expression, which inevitably ends up like a faintly lovesick grimace because he sucks at hiding anything when it comes to Lando. Oh my god, why did he just do that. Well, if Lando woke up right now and demanded an explanation, he would just claim temporary insanity. And then move back to Melbourne and hide forever with the kangaroos, or something. Honestly, Oscar should have just saved himself the suffering of pining after Lando and just, like, taken the 45 minutes to walk back to their apartment from their shared drawing class. Unfortunately, he knows for a fact that Lando would find a way to tag along with him, though.
“So, how long have you guys been together for?” The driver asks. The Uber lurches forward as the traffic light turned green.
… What . “Uh, wait, he’s, like, not my boyfriend,” Oscar rushes to say with slightly alarming undertones of panic, nervously eyeing Lando for any sign of being awake. She throws him an incredulous look in the rearview mirror.
“Oh, sorry for assuming. But come on, you couldn’t fool a kitten with those lovesick eyes of yours, Romeo,” she accuses. Oscar pleads the 5th. “But, are you…” She gestures. “Well I guess that’s obvious, actually. Is he?”
Oscar chooses to ignore the first part of that sentence. “Keep your voice down, will you? And, uh, I,” he pauses, staring out the window. Buildings rush by against the backdrop of the dark sky and stars.
It’s true that Lando isn’t afraid to be touchy, and that he always makes a beeline for Oscar when they’re in the same room, and that he laughs at all of Oscar’s (admittedly) unfunny jokes, and that he makes it a habit to smack Oscar’s ass every time he dresses up nicely for when they go out, but then again, maybe that’s just the kind of person he is with everyone?
A voice echoes in his head that suspiciously sounds like Logan. Denial is not only a river in Egypt, but also apparently your middle name.
Shut up, imaginary Logan.
I’m just a voice in your subconscious. I’m telling you the truth right now and I’ll be telling you ‘I told you so’ at your wedding. I expect to be the best man.
… I swear to god, shut up.
“Yeah?” The Uber driver prompts, a bit impatiently. She sounds invested. Oscar waves away 'imaginary Logan' and stuffs him in a mental file cabinet, deep in the corners of his brain. May he never be harassed again.
“Um, I don't. Know,” he admits. She makes a sympathetic noise as the street with Oscar's apartment building comes into Oscar's view. Wow, 11 minutes pass fast when you're pining away and have a conversation with your Uber driver about your massive crush on your best friend slash roommate and who is also, conveniently, sitting in the same car and sleeping on your shoulder.
“Best of luck, loverboy. I have a feeling that you two are a good match. Remember to send me a wedding invite, okay?” The car pulls into an empty parking stop beside the curb and stops. Oscar reaches over to unbuckle his seatbelt, jostling Lando a little in the process. He unbuckles Lando’s too and nudges him.
“Wake up, Lando,” he says. “We’re here.”
Lando stirs slightly at his side, eyelashes fluttering, and Oscar screams internally. Again. He’s pretty sure that his heart is madly on fire, and like, Lando literally didn’t even do anything? Hello?! The pressure eases off of his shoulder as Lando moves his head, stretches in the slightest, and opens his eyes. Oscar hysterically wonders for a moment if Lando was able to hear how loudly his heart was beating out a serenade the entire ride. Then Lando catches sight of the little drool patch on the left sleeve of Oscar's shirt and connects the dots.
“Oh my god, mate, how long was I out on your shoulder for?” Lando yelps. Is it just Oscar’s imagination or are his cheeks tinted pink? “I am so sorry, that was like, completely unintentional.” He runs a hand through his curls.
“Nah, you’re good,” Oscar says. They get out of the Uber and watch as it pulls away again into the distance. “It wasn’t bad. Let’s go in now, though, before you get cold and steal one of my hoodies again.”
Are you kidding me, I almost got a heart attack from how much I’m in love with you and had to fight my inner demon, it was so bad.
But then Lando grins at him and, oh my god , the dimples are so cute, the tiny gap between his wisdom teeth is so endearing, how is this man not already taken?! He feels the tips of his ears grow hot and hopes that Lando won’t notice them in the darkness.
“If you say so,” Lando shrugs. And then, looking excited, “I’m starving, can we get takeout from our favorite Korean place for dinner and then watch Mean Girls again? Oh my god, it’s literally been forever since we’ve watched Mean Girls together, Osc.”
“Yeah,” Oscar says, smiling. “Sounds like a plan, mate.”
“Mint.” Lando grabs his hand and they take the building stairs ("the elevator’s still broken, ugh, it’s been two months, when are they going to fix it?” “Lando, you complain about this every day.” “we live on the 4th floor, I think I have the right to complain!” ) to their apartment, two steps at a time. His hand’s warm and tan and a bit smaller than Oscar's, the way it’s always been. Oscar roots around in his pocket for his door key as they reach the door and knows, somewhere deep and secure in the back of his mind, that there’s no one else for him, and that there's, perhaps, really nobody else for Lando, either.