I wanted comic sans but this'll have to do

It’s Monaco, so none of that is surprising or unusual; but Oscar doesn’t usually accept the invitations to these events, despite having countless of them thrown at them. They aren’t his scene, typically — he doesn’t tend to drink much, he never knows what to say when he’s around people with money and influence (despite being one of those people now), and he’d honestly much rather stay at home. Watch a movie. Drink a few beers maybe, if he’s feeling particularly risqué.

But there’s nothing waiting for him back at his apartment these days, not since his ex moved out and took their short haired chihuahua with her. Oscar has never even wanted the dog in the first place, but he reckons he should’ve at least had a say in the custody arrangements post break-up. Apparently, Olivia hadn’t agreed.

He’s contemplating leaving already — he’s only just climbed aboard the yacht, but one glance around has told him all he feels he needs to know — when someone sidles up to him, a beer bottle tilted towards him in offering.

Quizzically, Oscar looks up, mind suddenly cleared of any thought when he locks eyes with the hottest guy he’s ever seen in his life. Tanned skin accentuated with the glimmer of a gold chain, dipping into the absurdly low neckline of his linen shirt; eyes that Oscar can’t determine the colour of just yet, blue or green or somewhere in between, and lit up like there’s an energy source directly behind them; curls, carefully arranged and oh-so soft looking atop his head.

Even the facial hair — something Oscar isn’t usually into — suits him, somehow doesn’t ruin the image.

Oscar swallows, throat dry and rough.

“You looked lonely,” the guy says, pressing the cold beer bottle into Oscar’s hand with a grin, showing off imperfect teeth, a gap that Oscar suddenly wants to stick his tongue between.

“Oh, uh — thanks? For the —,” he raises the hand with the beer, feeling heat rise to his cheeks. “— not for calling me lonely.”

“I didn’t say you were,” the guy points out. “Just that you looked it.”

Oscar shrugs. “You’re not wrong.”

Laughing, the man offers his hand to shake, and Oscar gets stuck on the sheer size of it for a moment; out of proportion somehow to the small stature of him, completely engulfing Oscar’s hand in his own.

“Lando,” the man says.

“Oscar,” Oscar manages once he realises they’re exchanging names, offering him a smile. “So, um. What do you do?”

“This and that,” Lando says vaguely, shoulders shrugging. He gets a hand on the small of Oscar’s back suddenly, leading him away from the railing. “Let me introduce you to some friends.”

—————

Oscar doesn’t know how he’s ended up here — too many beers leaving a stale taste in his mouth, his vision blurred and mind slowed at the edges. The yacht party is winding down but there are still people milling about and Lando — Lando’s on his knees, tugging at Oscar’s belt, and Oscar may be a little drunk but he knows that’s not a good idea.

“Hey, hey,” he catches Lando’s much bigger hands in his own, momentarily distracted by the stark difference again; enough so that Lando manages to take his hands back, straight to Oscar’s waistband again. “Lando, there are people here.”

Not as many as before, but they’re still there. Oscar can see them; two people are having a conversation five steps from them, for gods sake!

“It’s fine,” Lando’s frowning up at him. He looks adorable, except he’s on his knees and there’s nothing adorable about that. “Everyone’s signed NDA’s.”

Oscar’s mind blanks. “What?”

“NDA’s,” Lando repeats, slower even though he emits an impatient sigh. “Honestly, nobody cares anyway, let me,” his tone has a whine to it, frustration bleeding through. “Come on…”

It’s a terrible idea. Oscar knows this. And yet — nobody is really paying them attention and he’s seen things tonight that he’d never thought he’d see, so maybe — maybe it’s okay?

As though sending his weakening resolve, Lando gets his button popped through the loop and expertly, sliding them down Oscar’s thighs and, well — Oscar can’t really think of anything else, then, not when Lando’s mouthing wetly at him through his boxers.

“Christ,” Oscar moans, one hand gripping the curls at the base of Lando’s neck.

“I’ll make you feel good,” Lando murmurs into the soft, sensitive skin of Oscar’s thigh, causing the muscle there to twitch. Then he’s pulling Oscar’s briefs down, sucking him into his mouth.

Oscar allows himself one last look down at Lando’s face — his wide, huge eyes gazing up at Oscar, dark and glassy, lips stretched around him and drool collecting at the corners — before he lets his head fall back against the wall with a thud, squeezing his eyes shut.