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Wait, they don't love you like I love you
Wait, they don't love you like I love you
Oscar’s never really thought of himself as a jealous person.
His mom jokes that he’d been a pretty chill baby, and that even when his younger sisters came along, he never really fought for his parents’ attention, which at first worried his parents, afraid that he’d simply been building on his rage and would throw a fit eventually. But no, not really, Oscar had just been content with being there, watching the world around him with wide, observant eyes. So long as they let him read his car magazines and zoom around his house pretending to be a Ferrari, he was fine with having his younger sisters around.
As a child, he remembers he’d simply shrugged his shoulders when his playground buddy, Sam, announced he no longer wanted to play with him and ran off to play with some other kid instead. Didn’t bat an eyelash when a young Logan Sargeant qualified in front of him, time after time. He went home and analyzed his race stats, watched countless videos of the race, and focused all his energy on becoming the best driver on the grid. Even at 17, when his first girlfriend accused him of not being invested enough in their relationship because he hadn’t reacted appropriately to another guy hitting on her (Oscar had simply stared in confusion, which was not the right thing to do, apparently he was expected to yell and throw a punch, obviously) he’d apologized, licked his wounds for approximately half a day, and went back to playing cricket with his friends, business as usual.
So, it’s not an understatement to say that lately Oscar has questioned his entire existence, his entire understanding of his personality, because he’s been fighting these recurring urges to just snap whenever someone places an overly friendly hand on Lando’s shoulder, whenever one of the hospitality people laughs a little too hard at one of Lando’s jokes, whenever another driver sits next to Lando at FIA briefings, inching their chair closer to Lando’s so they cat mutter and snicker during the meeting.
Oscar can’t blame them, really. He knows Lando’s a magnet for attention; how easily he charms people by just existing. He’s been there, too. Only he gets to call Lando his now, and the feeling that comes with that is sometimes overwhelmingly powerful, almost animalistic in nature. Lando thrives under it, of course, finding it incredibly … stimulating. He makes a point of dragging Oscar into the nearest private corner every time he catches him on the verge of snapping, snarling, or hissing at someone, face flushed with arousal before he drops to his knees or snakes a hand down Oscar’s pants.
Oscar’s not complaining about that part, obviously.
It’s just so out of character for him, and he’s such a self-aware person that it’s impossible to just go with it, to accept that this is who he is now, a jealous bastard.
Other people start noticing, too. Oscar wants to gouge his eyes out after Charles makes an off-hand joke about asking Oscar’s permission before leaning in to hug Lando. He splutters and reddens as Charles and Lando crack up, and he joins them, a beat too late, the angry beast inside of him taking a step back, huffing in resignation.
There’s another side to it, too. When Lando stands on the podium and beams at the rest of the world, and the world beams back at him, cheering and yelling and hollering, Oscar thinks, “they don’t love you like I love you,” and then blanches at himself, because where is that coming from?
He thrives on knowing that later, after everyone has had a piece of Lando, which he so willingly gives, he’s the one that gets to see Lando as he truly is: his sleepy whimpers in the morning as he snuggles closer to Oscar’s body, adamant on not leaving the bed anytime soon; his wild, unfocused eyes as he comes, head thrown back in pleasure; the sadness that invades him every once in a while which leaves him so vulnerable.
He tells Lando as much one night, and his eyes twinkle in the darkness of their room. "Aw, Osc, you big softie."
Oscar rolls his eyes. "I literally just told you I think of punching people when they touch you, and that's what you got from it?" he deadpans, but his fingers reach for Lando, anyway.
"LIsten," Lando starts, a teasing tilt in his voice. It's late, and they're tired, and that's when they have silly, sleepy conversations. "I'm dating a guy with three documented facial expressions," at this, Oscar starts to protest, but Lando shushes him. "Nah, don't you dare contradict the TikTok girlies, they're onto something."
Oscar guffaws a laugh, pressing his chin to the top of Lando's hair. "Right, no, I wouldn't dare. Go on."
"As I was saying," Lando drawls, fingers splayed teasingly on Oscar's back. "Given your historical lack of, uh, emotion, this is like, basically your way of telling me you're in love with me."
Oscar stills. Considers. Breathes out. "Right." Smiles. "Because I am."
Lando squeaks below him. "You – I can't believe this is how you tell me. Me, Oscar, you, Lando," he starts, impersonating his idea of an Australian Tarzan. "No touch Lando, I punch people, I love Lando. -10 points in romance, mate."
The bed shakes with their combined laughter, which subsides eventually as they both yawn sleepily as the last of Lando's giggles make their way out of his mouth.
"I love you too, if that wasn't clear enough," Lando whispers in the dark, and Oscar thinks, yeah, you love me like I love you.