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“I've moved on.”
The words come naturally to Logan, and they’re not necessarily a lie. He has moved on from Oscar, in his own, unique, Logan way as Alex said. Whatever that was supposed to mean.
It’s not as though they were in love with each other, Logan knew that much was clear, but there was something more than ‘like.’ The phrase sounds awfully juvenile whenever it rolls around in his head, but it’s true. They weren’t in love, but they weren’t just boyfriends, partners, lovers, slightly homoerotic friends—all the labels they tried and disregarded because Oscar said it made his head hurt thinking about it too hard. Logan always cracked a joke, and Oscar almost always laughed.
So, yes, Logan has moved on from Oscar.
He doesn’t look back when he passes Oscar in the club, despite the black muscle tee, despite the lighting making his hair look even better than normal. He wills his legs to walk straight to the pretty brown haired guy Logan caught eyeing him at least twice, knowing he’s got the win, scored the points, sees the checkered flag in the distance when the guy straightens and smiles like the cat who got the cream.
Well, Logan doesn’t mind being one for the taking. Especially when the person taking him, his hand, is smiling lazily and curling his tongue around Logan’s name as if he just casually won the lottery, as if Logan is human gold, and Logan lets himself be taken. With the confidence of four vodka red bulls and his favorite jeans, he lets himself prance around with the man, down more drinks, allows the guy to swipe away a stray drop from his lips, and ignore the eyes burning into him.
“You’re prettier up close,” the guy says. Logan forgot his name and he can barely make out his face, looking up at the man and squinting slightly as his eyes are half-blinded by the lights. The guy laughs as if Logan told him a joke he should laugh at and holds a hand over Logan’s brows, just barely shielding his eyes from the hot lights and Logan’s breath hitches.
“Fuck,” Logan vaguely hears come out of his own mouth. The guy has hazel-green eyes, a touch too emerald and not nearly as dark as he thought they were from far away. Logan tries to not scrunch his face when the guy laughs again, tequila breath blowing in his face.
A hand lands on his forearm and Logan doesn’t look down. He knows this is his brain’s cue to make his feet move towards the exit, to lick his lips to make sure they aren’t too dry, to get the tension out of his neck and let it roll like a lamb to the slaughter.
He does move, his feet do too, but the guy doesn’t. Logan belatedly wonders why the tall man suddenly looks so small before a tug on his arm makes him turn his head in the direction his body is almost facing.
Brown hair, lighter than the guy’s, skin paler, height a little smaller than the other man’s, and he weakly tugs his arm back in protest. The man dragging him grunts.
“Who the fuck are you?” Logan only knows he asks a question because he feels his brows furrow like they always do when he’s confused. And Logan is very confused. Even more so when Oscar Piastri is the one to turn around and glare at him.
“Don’t tell me you forgot about me already,” Oscar snipes back, and oh.
Oh.
Logan’s supposed to be moving on. He's supposed to be moved on. Done with Oscar. Over whatever Oscar was doing when he kissed Logan like he was something precious and let his wandering hands leave little sparks on Logan’s skin. His head hurts thinking about it. Or maybe it’s the alcohol, or the lights, or the other guy’s bright eyes boring into his. Keeping eye contact with that guy was such a drag.
Logan lets himself be unceremoniously dropped onto a chair too comfortable for a dark club like the one they’re in. Moving, fixing his posture so his back isn’t digging into the arm of the chair anymore, he lets out a little noise at the shine of a silver platter twinkling straight into his eyes. Logan would ask where the fuck they were, but he knew.
“Don’t kiss me.” The words are breathless as they tumble out of Logan's mouth. He wishes he had a drink to keep them flushed in his throat when he glances up and sees Oscar grimace. Logan watches him drag a hand down his face. “Sorry.” He doesn't know what he’s apologizing for, but he hoped it would have dissipated the uncomfortable twist in his stomach. Logan swallows thickly.
“No, don’t be. I mean, I did bring you—here, and uh, yeah. Um, I’m sorry." The fragile, weak words seem like they scratch and bounce out of Oscar’s chest and Logan winces. Oscar was never one to stumble over his words, always so sure, so righteous in what he believed was true. Logan licks his lips, his blurry vision clears for a split second to allow him to see Oscar watch the action.
“Don’t think we can put that to use,” Logan nods towards the silver platter; a half empty bottle of lube and copious amounts of condoms. He sighs, wistfully. “Think I'll be blacked out by the time you’re done prepping me.”
Oscar’s face turns maroon, a pretty shade, almost enticing enough to make him want to reach out and feel the heat of Oscar’s cheeks under his fingertips. He intertwines his hands together, binding them until he’s allowed to break them. He mumbles another useless apology under his breath, unanswered.
“That’s not—I wouldn’t—“ Oscar takes a breath, frustrated, brows furrowed and hands twitching to clench, like they were when Oscar broke the news. When Logan finally figured out what they were, which label they suited. I don’t think this is a good idea anymore, Logan, and it’s not you, I just need to figure out this girl-boy-boy-girl thing and I never meant for you to be collateral, all one phrase, one word, one breath. Experiment, the chill that makes its way through the VIP room whispers, taunting.
“I get it,” Logan drawls back, in a way Oscar would have teased a year ago, the way his American accent pushes every word like it means something. He didn’t catch the ending to Oscar’s sentence, didn’t need to, he knows. He gets it, he understands. “You’re such a good—friend.”
His umpteenth mistake, choking on something so simple, that should be so clean cut and easy. Oscar’s deathly quiet, and at least one thing makes sense, falls into place as it should, even when Logan wants to tear his throat out and offer it up to Oscar on the silver platter, lube and condoms and cum and kisses, everything. He doesn't know if he wants Oscar to take the platter, two hands, ten fingers holding it secure, or smack it to the ground, stomp it out so Logan doesn’t have to look at it anymore, doesn’t need to worry about one more what-if.
“Logan,” Oscar says, and he thinks something must be wrong with him, because his chin tilts up before Oscar’s fingers brush his skin. Oscar’s mouth twists ever so slightly, and he rests his fingers on Logan’s chin, not guiding, simply holding, and it’s as if a knife worms its way into his gut.
“Don’t think you should kiss me.” Oscar raises an eyebrow. Logan hates how he doesn’t refute him. “I might taste like that guy I was dancing with.”
The fingers tighten on his chin and Logan sighs, a small thing, but Oscar reacts immediately. He’s backed into the chair until they share the same breath, Oscar’s free hand leaning on one of the arm rests, leaning in close enough for Logan to want to do something stupid, and irrational, and completely un-bro-like. Logan might kiss him if Oscar isn’t careful.
“You wouldn’t, though.” Oscar sounds so sure it pisses Logan off.
“I could, you don’t know.” Oscar narrows his eyes like he’s inspecting a fucking wheel, or some god-awful data Logan couldn’t decipher the importance of.
“But you wouldn’t.”
“But I might,” Logan shrugs, in lieu of anything better to do. He could’ve done something batshit, like kick Oscar in the nuts, or grab the lube and eat it, or kiss Oscar just to know if the girls Oscar’s been fooling around with have taught him anything. “I might taste like his shitty go-to drink, or his strawberry chapstick, or his—his—“
“His what?” Oscar raises a brow at Logan. Or his morning coffee with two pumps of vanilla and a sugar cube, but that isn’t right. Because it isn’t that guy and Logan doesn’t give a shit about his coffee or his morning routines or what his tongue piercing could have felt like against his tongue, his skin.
“His dick,” Logan blurts out. Lights out, record scratch, curtain call, because Oscar is frowning at him now, looking over Logan as if he’s reconsidering all of this because he knows Logan isn’t worth it and it was better to leave him as an ex not-quite-straight-not-really-gay relationship. Logan feels his eyes burn and he closes his eyes too late to not miss the way Oscar’s eyes soften.
“Well,” Oscar starts quietly, and Logan can’t do it. This is where Oscar calls him a loser, a slut, and Logan runs back to that other guy with hair too dark and eyes too light, he could be Oscar’s third cousin. “Even if you did, I bet I could still find the taste of you somewhere in there.”
A finger taps at the side of his mouth and Logan’s mouth drops open instinctually. When he opens his eyes, Oscar is inches away, looking awfully constipated and Logan can’t stop the giggle that tumbles past his lips. Oscar doesn’t laugh back, instead opting to dart his gaze all over Logan’s face and maybe it’s better that way. Logan doesn’t know if he would’ve been able to convince himself Oscar wasn’t laughing at him, in his face, blunt as a knife’s edge. He swallows and tastes the ghost of metal. It makes him vaguely register the door behind Oscar, to his right, but Logan can barely unscramble his head enough to take in anything but Oscar’s wild eyes looking at him, through him, if Logan allows it. He wishes he was strong enough to wrench his head away, tear his way to the door, back out to the guy with a nervous laugh and a That was pretty crazy, right? Right.
Logan wants, craves more than he should, probably more than he deserves. He knows that’s why he probably lost Oscar, that his desperation was bleeding a little too much into his kisses, leaving a tangy, face-scrunching aftertaste in Oscar’s mouth instead of cherry chapstick and minty toothpaste. What Oscar was used to, the delicate line between pressing his lips to a girl, and kissing a boy, careful touches turning rougher because Logan was already tough enough, already ready for whatever Oscar would offer. Logan thinks the chapstick was sweet enough to wash away the bitter feeling of kissing a boy, of doing something he shouldn’t have. He licks his lips now, barren and just barely hydrated from the alcohol that didn’t quite make it past his lips.
Logan tilts his head, brushes his lips against Oscar’s thumb and feels satisfaction bloom in his chest when Oscar’s eyes dart down to his lips, breath catching. It’s a bruise, Oscar’s little reactions to him, Logan’s crushing anticipation; dark, hurting, wanting more. At least it would show that Logan’s somebody’s, anyone’s at all. It would’ve been better if he was anybody else’s, someone who wasn’t too good for him, someone Logan knew was too good to be good to a person like him. But Logan pushes further into the touch still, always wanting more than he can bite.
“Logan, are you with me?” Oscar stops his lips millimeters away from Logan’s, brushing his with every other word and Logan wishes he would shut up already, keep his stupid, self-assured mouth closed so that Oscar wouldn’t say something that pushes Logan off the rails, send him flying to the barriers again. He knows he can’t survive getting his heart broken again, not by the man hovering over him.
Logan blinks up at Oscar slowly and nods. He has always been horrible at denying him. Logan has plenty of weaknesses, but at least he doesn’t regret them like he wishes he could undo Oscar’s touches, his lips, his white lies, and dark gaze.
“You should come home.”
Logan’s nose scrunches and it’s then he smells the alcohol lingering on Oscar’s breath. He wishes he minded it more than he does. “With you?”
“No, I—sorry, I meant you should, um, go home, or to your apartment, or hotel.” Logan suddenly feels a pang of guilt when Oscar winces, and he misses the weight of Oscar’s fingertips on his lips, unknowing of when they left in the first place. He misses the press of Oscar’s fingers on his tongue, too, but Logan knows that’s too much, that Oscar will run away again, but what if.
He could do that extra push, get Oscar far away from him, make Oscar run in the opposite direction, far enough to not be tainted by Logan’s wasted potential and all his worst fears because if Oscar asked, Logan would give all of it over and he knows he would never survive that. Once was enough for him.
“And what if I don't want to?”
It’s not questioning, the challenge rings clear when Logan lifts an eyebrow, daring Oscar to offer up something he knows he won’t get. Oscar isn’t the type to push back, not to Logan anymore at least, and he doesn’t push. He pulls Logan up.
Logan stumbles, almost careening straight into Oscar’s shoulder, but a tight grip around his torso keeps him upright just enough. If Logan thinks about it too hard, his mind whispers that he would let Oscar yank him to and fro, wherever Oscar wanted as long as he kept Logan with him, and he shakes away the thought.
“Then you should come home with me.” The annoyed lilt in Oscar’s voice makes Logan shrink back into himself, confidence bursting into flames immediately like a feather to a match. The words are—they’re unexpected, and Logan can’t decode what Oscar’s trying to say, can’t figure out what universe he’s in, that Oscar would talk to Logan like that. In Logan’s confusion, Oscar’s brows furrow like Logan disagreed with him, as if he would ever. “You shouldn’t go home with that other guy. If you want a warm bed and something to cuddle with, I still have that stuffed animal you never came back to get.”
And that’s—that wasn’t a part of the plan. Oscar wasn’t supposed to push back. He wasn’t supposed to want Logan back and he knows he looks stupid, staring at Oscar like he just told him he’s quitting racing, blinking slowly and jaw unticked. Oscar lets out an exasperated sigh.
“Seriously, he looked like he didn’t even care that you were half passed out at some point, total asshole—“
“Why do you care?”
The words are softer than Logan intended, but he was never looking for a fight. Oscar stares at him this time, he’s the one unable to form words, surprised by the simplicity of the question. He looks like he doesn’t know the answer, and Logan hopes he doesn’t. Logan couldn’t handle any response, wherever the question led them. He doesn’t know why he asked, and yet—
“I've always cared. When have I not cared about you?” Oscar sounds a little desperate, clinging onto Logan a bit tighter, as if Logan would ever not believe him. The response doesn’t calm anything in his head, in fact, it makes his brain a wildfire, sparks of hope flinging around and dusty resentment clinging to the back of his mind. Logan curses his blind devotion and forces it to a halt, god forbid he crash and explode again.
“Really?” Logan winces. He must sound so stupid, but Oscar nods fervently.
“Really, yes.”
“Then… okay.” The way Oscar’s eyes brighten wipes almost all of his regret away, all of his intuition. Almost. Logan sighs quietly, but it resonates in the space between them.
“Okay,” Oscar parrots, breathless. It surprises Logan, the glint of faith in those brown eyes, something he had never seen from Oscar sober, he mentally crosses his fingers and hopes all the drinks shoved down his throat wouldn’t treat him this badly. “I'll get us home, get you into something comfortable and then you can take the bed.”
“And where will you sleep?” Logan asks, because he can’t help it.
“On the couch,” Oscar replies quickly. “Not because I—well, we’re still…”
Brand-new? Fresh? Delicate? Only one of those is everlasting and Logan nods slowly.
“I don't want to make you uncomfortable.”
And damn Oscar and his gentlemanly mannerisms. Logan would curse his parents, too, for raising someone so inexplicably good, but Oscar’s parents have always been kind to him. He would never do that to Oscar’s mother.
“Alright.” Logan whisks past Oscar, a nasty feeling stirring in his stomach when Oscar lets him go. He makes it a couple steps to the door before stopping, and Logan looks back to Oscar’s wide eyes, scared, hand deep in the cookie jar, caught wanting what he shouldn’t. It looks all too familiar and Logan’s brows scrunch. He thinks that he’s beginning to understand, grasping onto the ledge, finding his way back on track.
“Are you coming?”
Oscar lets out a breath and Logan takes in the sight slowly, scanning Oscar’s face, detailing the curve of his lips, the framing of his eyelashes, the thickness of his eyebrows—he lets himself take, allows his mind to want. Because when Oscar steps forward, and grasps his hand tentatively, Logan believes that Oscar is allowing himself to want as well. It’s frightening, kicking his heart into a thousand miles per hour.
“‘Course. Let’s get us home.”
He doesn’t resist. Logan lets himself be led home, and tightens his hand over Oscar’s, who clamps his hand immediately, as if waiting for the moment to take his chance.