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underscoredinnisg · 2 months ago

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“I got the worst secret Santa gift on the grid,” Lando announces, slapping the table as he throws himself into the chair beside him.

Oscar glances at him. “No designer watch this year? Shame,” he says.

Lando groans. “I got a certificate for padel lessons,” he says. “It wasn’t even fun to unwrap. And it was from George. Unbelievable stuff coming from him, consider I beat him last week.”

“Funny,” Oscar says. “Alex got me this year, and he gave me padel lessons, too.” Several ideas slowly click into place. “I wonder which one of them thought of it first.”

Lando turns to him. “Alex got you padel lessons?”

When they’d first met, Oscar thought Lando didn’t listen to him, but over their time as teammates Oscar has come to understand this is just how Lando is: thinking through everything out loud, including what he’s just been told.

“Yeah,” Oscar says. “A whole set of them.”

“Well that’s a good gift for you, you’re terrible,” Lando says.

“I am not,” Oscar argues. Sure he’s not great, but he’s decent enough that he doesn’t need lessons. “I’m just as good as Alex is, or you.”

Lando makes a face at him, clearly skeptical.

“You’re gonna take those padel lessons,” Oscar says. Lando’s face is one of pure disgust. He opens his mouth to protest, but Oscar holds up his hand. “And so am I,” he says. “And then we’re going to beat the shit out of George and Alex at padel.”

Lando’s pout slowly melts into a smile. “Oscar,” he says, in a tone that drips like honey. “You’re an evil genius.”

Oscar smiles. He could get used to hearing that.

Lando cocks his head, tapping his finger against his chin. Oscar watches him, braced for all manner of nonsense, and somehow he’s still not ready for it when Lando says, “D’you think they’d let us take our lessons together?”

—

It takes some cajoling. “I don’t really need lessons,” Lando says to the person behind the desk at the club. “I just got them as a joke gift. But I’d be happy to help give some tips to Osc over here.”

“I also got them as a joke gift,” Oscar says hurriedly. “Our coworkers think they’re funny.”

“Right,” the guy says, looking at their vouchers. “We don’t usually recommend combined lessons for people of different skill levels, but if you and your partner want to do them together, that’s fine.”

Oscar feels a bit as if he’s just been thwacked over the head with a racquet. “We’re not, um, together,” he mumbles just as Lando grins and says, “That’d be mint, thanks.”

Oscar casts a panicked glance at Lando, but he’s already following the guy from the desk through the glass doors and out to the court. If it gets out that he and Lando took a couple’s padel lesson, they will literally never hear the end of it. As it is, they’ll probably get some good ribbing for going through with the lessons in the first place.

At first, it’s fine. They meet their instructor, go over the basics of grip and stance with a surprising lack of Lando complaining that he already knows all this. Once they’ve established that he and Lando really aren’t beginners and sort of know what they’re doing on a padel court, they switch off playing against the instructor for a bit.

That’s fine too – while Oscar’s playing. When Lando comes over to take his place, he brushes his hand across Oscar’s back, low, where Oscar can feel sweat collecting at the curve of his spine. Oscar jumps, startled by the touch, and turns to look at Lando.

“Nice moves out there,” Lando says, entirely genuine. “You’re not bad at this.”

“Thanks, I think,” Oscar says, still a bit out of breath as he heads over to the bench at the side of the court and takes a seat. He grabs a water bottle and takes a swig, splashing some water on his overheated face.

The thing is, that bloke hadn’t really been that far off the mark when he’d guessed Oscar and Lando were a couple. Sure, it’s entirely wishful thinking on Oscar’s part, but the evidence is there, if someone went looking for it. Oscar’s seen clips of his own face when he’s watching Lando talk enough times to get why people would think that. And if Lando ever asked, it’s not like Oscar would say no. He’d quite like it, actually.

Oscar watches the stretch of Lando’s taut muscles as he lunges for the ball, and tips some water down the back of his own neck. It doesn’t distract him as much as he’d hoped. Not when Lando is out there, springing back and forth across the court, miles of tan skin on display from his ankles up to the indecently short hem of his shorts.

Someone has cut the sleeves off the top Lando’s wearing – it’s much too neat for Lando to have done it himself – and every time Lando twists to hit the ball, Oscar can see a flash of his chest, catches a nipple once or twice. Oscar wants to hook his fingers in the fabric beneath Lando’s underarm, where it joins again halfway down his ribs. He doesn’t think it would take much force to rip the top right off him.

A ball whizzes past, barely a hand’s width from Oscar’s face. He flinches away, blinking hard. Lando grins at him from across the court. “Thought you’d fallen asleep,” he calls. “We’re playing doubles, come on.” Any response Oscar could’ve come up gets wiped clean from his mind as Lando lifts the hem of his shirt to dab the sweat from his face.

Oscar gets to his feet and onto the court, taking his place nearer to the net as Lando tosses a ball with one hand, waiting to serve.

It’s fine – fun, even – playing doubles with Lando. They do decently well, and when they don’t, they’re too busy laughing to really get angry with each other. At one point Oscar stumbles over his own feet trying to make a return, collapsing to the ground in a graceless heap.

“Now is not the time, Osc,” Lando shouts at him. “We need you, mate.”

Oscar laughs, his shoulders shaking with it. He presses his smile against his arm where it’s pulled across his face, hiding him from view, and when he straightens up again, Lando is right there standing over him. “Everything okay?” he asks cautiously.

“Me?” Lando says. “You’re the one who swan-dived onto the court here.”

Oscar frowns. “It wasn’t a dive, I tripped.”

“Alright,” Lando says, thick with sarcasm. “Top marks for commitment, but your form could use some work.”

Oscar rolls his eyes, his gaze landing on Lando’s hand as he holds it out to Oscar. His palm nearly engulfs Oscar’s own, Oscar’s breath catching as Lando hauls him to his feet. Lando’s hand is warm and a little sweaty, his grip strong and sure. He holds on for a moment after Oscar’s gotten to his feet again. “All good?”

“Yeah,” Oscar says, still breathless. They’d been playing hard. “Thanks.”

“Of course.” Lando’s fingers brush across the inside of his wrist as he lets go. “Let’s win this.”

They do manage to win, though Oscar’s fairly certain the instructors let them. Lando smashes the last pass over the net and deep into the back corner in a move Oscar would have to call impressive even without his massive crush.

Lando lets the momentum carry him forward, falling to his hands and knees and then rolling over to lie on the ground. He raises his arms in victory, looking so ridiculous Oscar contemplates running back to the bench to grab his phone and take a picture.

“Get over here, Osc,” Lando calls, beckoning him with a twist of his wrist.

Oscar goes, obviously. He stops a few steps away, for his own sanity, but Lando waves his hands again and Oscar understands what he’s asking. He takes both of Lando’s hands in his own – warm, massive, strong – braces his feet and bends his knees, and pulls Lando upright.

Lando sways forward, closer and closer until they’re chest to chest, and then Lando’s wrapping his arms around Oscar in a sweaty hug. Oscar’s too stunned to do much of anything, belatedly slapping his palm against Lando’s back as he’s already pulling away. Lando jogs across the court, shakes hands with their instructors. The scent of his deodorant lingers in Oscar’s nose.

Oscar follows Lando over to the net, thanks their instructor, poses for a quick picture. As they’re collecting their things and making for the door, Lando glances at him. “D’you know what I could go for right now?”

“A shower?” Oscar guesses. It’s true, but it’s also got Oscar picturing Lando under one of those fuck-off fancy showerheads, water dripping from his curls down over his chest, running in streams through the ridges of his abs, down further to – oh fuck, stop thinking –

“Ice cream,” Lando announces.

Oscar blinks. “Yeah, okay.”

—

They end up at a gelateria a few blocks from the padel court, bags dumped under the tiny table, elbows knocking as they eat. Oscar studies the shop across the street, the cars driving by – literally anything to keep himself from watching Lando methodically licking his stracciatella. It’s a decently foolproof plan until Lando makes a startled little noise. Oscar glances over just as Lando’s licking at a streak of gelato dripped down the side of his hand.

Oscar wonders if he didn’t concuss himself at padel somehow, and this is all a very vivid dream.

Lando widens his eyes at him, his tongue darting out to lick the edge of his wrist. Oscar leaps to his feet. “Napkins,” he says, his voice strangled. “I’ll get some.”

Oscar trips his way through the metal chairs, the tables crammed entirely too closely on this tiny strip of sidewalk. Inside the shop, he takes a deep breath of sugary air and tells himself to calm the fuck down. The only thing either of them are guilty of here is breaking their diet plans. It’s not like Lando’s doing this on purpose. He isn’t really flirting with him – this is just what Lando’s like. Loud, messy, wide-eyed and giggly when he’s in a good mood. None of this is weird at all, except in Oscar’s over-analytical mind.

He yanks a handful of napkins from the dispenser and fights his way back through the tables. By the time he sits down again, Lando’s crunching on the last of his cone. He plucks the napkins from Oscar’s grasp and wipes his hands, and Oscar’s so relieved it takes him a moment to notice the smear of chocolate at the corner of Lando’s lips.

“You’ve got, um…”

Lando turns to him. “Huh?”

“Just here,” Oscar says, thumbing at the corner of his own lips.

“What?” Lando asks. The entire bunch of napkins that Oscar had just brought over are all sticky, balled up in Lando’s hand. Useless.

Lando licks his upper lip, completely missing the streak of chocolate. If Oscar were a better – or maybe a worse – person, he would just let Lando walk around the streets of Monaco with chocolate on his face. What’s the harm, he thinks, if he lets himself indulge just this once.

“Here,” Oscar says, reaching over and wiping the chocolate from Lando’s mouth with his thumb.

Lando’s lips part immediately, his tongue sweeping over the pad of Oscar’s thumb to lick the chocolate away. And then Lando closes his lips around Oscar’s thumb, Oscar’s fingernail tucked behind his teeth. Lando hums like he’s just eaten something delicious.

Oscar stares, for what feels like hours but is surely only a second or two, at Lando’s lips wrapped around his finger. When Oscar pulls his hand away, his thumb is shiny, wet with Lando’s spit.

Oscar does the only thing that makes any sense: he leans across the table and kisses Lando. HIs lips are sticky-sweet, his long fingers curling warmly around the back of Oscar’s neck.

“Finally,” Lando sighs. “You’re so dense, mate.”

“Excuse me?” Oscar’s feeling a bit dazed, but that’s hardly fair.

“Can’t believe I had to make George and Alex give us a padel date for Secret Santa –”

“You what?”

“– because you never noticed I’ve been flirting with you for ages.”

“I noticed,” Oscar says. “I just wasn’t sure that’s really what you were doing.”

Lando’s fingers brush up the back of his neck, sweeping into his hair. He looks at Oscar from beneath his eyelashes, the beginnings of a smile curling his lips. “And now?” he asks.

It’s staggeringly obvious what Lando is doing. Oscar doesn’t know how he ever convinced himself otherwise. Still, he tilts his head to the side and screws up his face like he’s really thinking about it. “Uh…”

“Unbelievable,” Lando mutters, his fingers tightening in Oscar’s hair as he pulls him in for a kiss.

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