fish are friends
oscar piastri x reader
summary: Oscar takes you home to his apartment for observation, and you keeps insisting you're fine even though everything hurts. He can't stop hovering, you can't stop deflecting, and somewhere between the pain meds and Finding Nemo playing on repeat, you tell him what you really think.
warnings: descriptions of a car accident and it's aftermath (whiplash, shock, pain medication, etc.)
word count: 5.5k
part one | part two | part three
You woke up to someone touching your shoulder.
"Hey," someone whispered. You didn’t even need to open your eyes to know that it was Oscar's voice, as soft as it was quiet. "Doctor's here."
Considering you were still groggy, it took a few attempts for you to be able to blink away the bleariness enough to be able to see the screen still playing in front of you. The jellyfish you last remembered seeing were gone. Instead, it was already the turtle scene now—Crush and Squirt riding along on the EAC.
"You didn't wake me up," you frowned, looking up at where Oscar was still sat loyally by your side. You almost felt a little bad considering there was no way that could have been comfortable, but you felt a lot less bad when you remembered that he broke his promise to wake you up in time to see the turtles. “How come?”
"What?"
"For the turtles, Osc. You said you'd wake me up for the turtles."
His mouth twitched, almost looking genuinely remorseful. "Sorry. The doctor took priority."
You wanted to argue, but it was then that you noticed that there was, in fact, a woman in a white coat standing at the foot of your bed. She appeared to be holding a tablet and looking at you with that particular expression doctors got when they were about to tell you things you were supposed to remember. Not that you planned to, but still.
Rolling his eyes at you, Oscar reached his arm across and paused the movie. You mourned the loss with a visible pout.
"How are you feeling?" the doctor asked, turning your attention toward her.
"Tired," you answered honestly. The word still felt like an understatement considering the way your skull throbbed, but it was the best you could manage for now.
"That's normal," the doctor commented as she glanced down at her tablet. "Your CT came back clean. No bleeding, no fractures. That's the good news."
You grimaced, waiting for the bad news. At least according to the TV shows, there was always bad news.
"However, you do have a concussion— though it is moderate, based on your symptoms. You are also experiencing some whiplash. Our scans also revealed internal bruising to your ribs on your right side. And while there are, of course, some lacerations and contusions, it’s nothing that will need stitches." She looked up from the tablet, smiling in what you assumed was supposed to be kindness. "You're lucky. It could have been much worse."
Lucky.
You didn't feel lucky. You felt like you'd gotten hit by a car – which, well, you had.
"So… I can leave?" you tried hopefully.
"Yes, but you'll need someone with you for the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours. Standard concussion protocol. Someone needs to monitor you, make sure your symptoms don't get worse." She rapidly started listing things, even more information you were expected to absorb — warning signs to watch for, instructions about rest and screen time and not driving. You tried to focus, but your head was still fuzzy and the words kept slipping away from you.
Oscar, ever the level-headed one (ha!), seemed to actually be paying attention and leaned forward. "And, uh, what counts as symptoms getting worse?"
The doctor looked at him, then back at you. Ultimately, she appeared to resign herself to directing the rest of the instructions at Oscar, considering he was the one paying enough attention to ask follow up questions.
"Symptoms getting worse cold look a variety of different way,” she explained, counting them off on her fingers. “Could be severe headache that doesn't respond to medication, repeated vomiting, confusion, slurred speech, weakness in the limbs, seizures. Any of those, you come back immediately."
"Okay, yeah," Oscar agreed, nodding.
What a nerd, you thought distantly. It was kinda cute in a good best friend sort of way. You could tell he was actually retaining this.
"What about sleep? Should I– Like, how often should I check on her?"
Judging by the way the doctor was now nodding along, Oscar seemed to be asking all the right questions.
How dare he be so thoughtful and considerate.
"Every few hours tonight. You want to make sure she's responsive."
"Got it."
The doctor finally turned back to you. "Here, I'm prescribing some pain medication and an anti-inflammatory. Take it easy for the next week. No work, no strenuous activity. Your brain needs time to heal."
No work. No work also meant no money, which meant no rent. You should probably worry about that, but you were too tired.
"Any questions?" she asked. You shook your head in answer, but you ended up regretting it immediately when the room tilted before your eyes.
Don’t throw up. Do not throw up on Oscar. Don’t throw up in front of Oscar.
Giving you a look of concern at the sudden pallor of your face, she decided to put you out of your misery and let you go.
“Alright. A nurse will be in with your discharge papers and prescriptions. Take care of yourself, alright?" She gave Oscar a meaningful look, and you a kind smile. And with that, she was gone.
Oscar sat back in his chair, scrubbed a hand over his face. He looked exhausted.
"You don't have to do the twenty-four hour thing," you turned to tell him. "I can call—"
"What? No. I'm doing it."
"Oscar—"
"We are not having this argument again." He stood up, pocketing his phone. "M’ gonna find out how long the prescriptions’ll take, yeah? Don't move."
"Where would I even go?" you laughed, but it even that still made your head hurt a little, so you just gave him a mock salute instead. An expression crossed his face, but before you could pinpoint what it meant, he gave you a look and left.
Once his familiar head of hair was out of your line of sight, you sank back into the pillow and stared at the frozen frame of Finding Nemo on his phone. Crush was mid-sentence, mouth open, eyes half-closed.
You wished you were a turtle. Turtles didn't drive cars. Turtles didn't crash.
Your chest went tight again.
After glancing to the now-empty spot beside you, you closed your eyes and breathed.
The nurse finally came in twenty minutes later with a wheelchair.
"Hospital policy," she said before you could protest. While that was probably true, you wanted to argue that you were perfectly capable of walking. However, when you swung your legs over the side of the bed, the room tilted once again and your ribs screamed and you had to sit there for a minute just shakily breathing through it until the overwhelm passed.
As if summoned, it was exactly then that Oscar appeared in the doorway. "Good news! Prescriptions are ready. We can pick them up on the way out."
"Great," you muttered, rolling your eyes out of what was clearly pure joy.
Smiling at that little exchange, the very nice nurse began patiently helping you into the wheelchair. Still, it was humiliating. You weren't an old lady, you were just a bit banged up. But your legs were shaky and everything hurt and what you didn’t want to admit was that you didn't actually trust yourself to walk right now.
As the nurse double-checked that you were secure in the wheelchair, Oscar grabbed the bag bag of your salvaged belongings and followed just behind as the nurse wheeled you out. The fluorescent lights out in the hallway were even worse than the ones in the room. Each light glowed and streaked and shimmered until it felt like it was pressing itself into your retinas. You closed your eyes.
"Doing okay?" Oscar asked quietly, his words only audible to the two of you.
"Fantastic." The smile you gave him was certainly not your brightest, but it seemed to be enough to get him not to pry more.
He must’ve still had a way of knowing, because a moment later, a warm, careful hand landed on your shoulder, just for a second, squeezing it reassuringly. "Almost out. Promise."
The neverending hallways stopped looping before your eyes as, at last, the nurse wheeled you through the lobby and out the front doors. The night air hit you and it was cool and smelled like rain, and you took the first real breath you'd had in hours.
"Wait here," the nurse told you. "Your ride will pull around, that way it’s easier."
By the time you turned to look for him beside you, Oscar was already jogging toward the parking lot. Meanwhile, the nurse (Ellen? Or perhaps Ella her name was) stayed with you, which felt unnecessary, but you were too tired to say so. You watched Oscar's figure disappear between the rows of cars and then reappear a minute later behind the wheel of his car. He pulled up to the curb and was out of the driver's seat before you could even process it, coming around to help you up.
"I've got her," he told the nurse, nodding at her to assure her that he had you know. While you didn’t feel too enthused about being passed from one person to the next like some small toddler, you could at least appreciate the fact that just knowing Oscar was the one guiding your wheelchair helped you feel a bit more at ease. Maybe it was some kind of psychological thing. Or maybe he was just the better driver.
The thought made your inner monologue laugh.
Your wheelchair pulled up right beside his car and yet your legs still wobbled a bit when you stood. Instantly, Oscar's hand was solid on your elbow, and he didn't let go as he guided you to the passenger side. Carefully so as not to nudge you with it by accident, he opened the door and you eased yourself in, moving like you were made of glass.
As much as you hated to admit it, everything hurt.
He reached across you to buckle your seatbelt—you could've done it yourself, probably, but you let him—and then closed the door gently. Finally settled in, you leaned your head back against the seat and closed your eyes while he talked to the nurse for another minute. The sound of their conversation melded and overlapped with all the other sounds – the hum of the car’s engine, the distant traffic, the faint whoosh of the emergency room doors as they slid open for someone else. In fact, you only registered that he had returned when you felt the way the car dipped slightly when he got in.
"Alright, pharmacy first," he reminded you, voice low. "Then home, yeah?"
You nodded without opening your eyes.
The car started moving. In your head, you counted the turns: left out of the hospital, right at the first light, straight for a while. Then another right. The pharmacy must've been close by because the ignition switched off and he was parking within five minutes.
"Be right back," he told you. With your eyes still closed, you let your silence be your answer.
You listened to him get out, the door closing after, the sound of his footsteps fading. The car was quiet. Maybe you should check your phone, you thought, see if anyone had called.
Huh. You couldn't remember where your phone was.
Oscar probably knew.
You were drifting when the door opened again. Oscar slid back in, and there was the rustle of a paper bag.
"Got them," he announced, more to himself than to you. The car started moving again and you let yourself drift off with it.
Left turn. Straight. Another left. You knew this route. He was heading toward your apartment.
Except, the straight continued. He passed your exit.
You opened your eyes. "Oscar."
"Hm?"
"Missed– The turn–?"
"No I didn't."
You squinted, watching as the sign for your exit disappeared in the blur of lights in the side mirror. "Where are we going?"
"My place."
"What? No. Take me home."
"Doctor said twenty-four hour observation." Though he spoke, he didn't look at you, just kept his eyes on the road. "You're staying with me."
"No, Osc– C’mon, I'll be fine at my place. I’ve got ice cream, and– and–"
"Not by yourself," he chided gently.
"I can just call someone—"
"Who?" He glanced at you now. "Who're you gonna call at midnight who's gonna stay with you and wake up every few hours to make sure you're not dying?"
You opened your mouth, then closed it. He had a point, but you didn't want to admit it.
"Oscar, you don't have to—"
"I know I don't have to." His voice was steady. Final. "I want to. Let me."
Your throat went tight. You looked out the window instead of at him.
"Okay," you whispered.
When you turned to look at him, he was already looking at you, smiling at you with something softer than care. You couldn’t quite put your finger on it.
He didn't say anything else, and just drove.
His apartment was on the third floor and to your luck, tonight was the night his building had decided to take the elevator offline for maintenance.
Well fuck me, I guess.
You stared at the stairs like they'd personally wronged you. Oscar, on the other hand, was physically fighting himself not to laugh, yet failing miserably to convincingly look concerned.
"I can make it," you insisted, indignant. The bead of sweat at your temple must’ve just been a figment of your imagination – you weren’t that out of shape.
Oscar was already out of the car, still doing a horrible job of not snickering as he came around to your side. “F’ course, yeah, I know you can."
He opened your door and helped you out, and his hand was warm where it wrapped around your elbow. You noticed that, the warmth, the way his thumb pressed gently against the inside of your arm.
Probably the concussion.
"Slow," he reminded you, yet again, staying close as you tackled the first step.
Just in case you needed him.
It took forever.
Your ribs protested every movement by burning like hot coals and your head was pounding like the inside of a drum. By the time you reached the landing, you were gasping hard for any sliver of oxygen into your lungs as gracefully as you could. You were surprisingly grateful for the way Oscar's hand hadn't left your elbow the entire time.
"One more flight," he encouraged.
You shot him a glare. "I hate you."
"Sure you do." There was something in his voice—exasperation, maybe, but it didn't sound annoyed. It sounded… softer than that. Warmer.
You were definitely concussed.
The second flight was somehow even worse. Halfway up you had to stop, and Oscar stopped with you, still annoyingly patient. His other hand came up to your shoulder, steadying you.
"Take your time."
You breathed. His hand was so warm through your shirt.
Since when had you become so aware of his hands?
"Okay," you panted after a minute. "Okay, I'm good."
Eventually, you pulled through long enough to make it to the top, catching your breath and clutching your side as you watched Oscar unlock his door, guiding you inside. You'd been here before plenty of times—but everything felt different now, quieter. The lights were dim and the space smelled like him, clean and a little like whatever laundry detergent he used.
"Couch or bed?" he asked.
Now that was easy.
"Couch."
Taking small, slow steps, he led you to it, and his hand slid from your elbow to the small of your back as you lowered yourself down. The touch was careful, deliberate. Maybe you were imagining it, but you swore you felt it even after he pulled away.
It’s because of that concussion. Has to be.
"Stay put," he told you, endearingly seriously as he pointed to where it was you were supposed to stay before he disappeared down the hall. You couldn’t exactly make a run for it at the moment anyway.
Not that you wanted to.
Deciding to make yourself at home instead, you sank into the cushions and closed your eyes. The couch was infinitely better than the hospital bed, softer. It smelled like Oscar too, faintly, and that was—that was nice. Comforting.
A couple minutes later, Oscar returned his arms firmly holding onto as many blankets and pillows as he possibly could, definitely more than you could possibly need. He dutifully got to work and started arranging them around you like he was building a nest.
"Osc, This is excessive!" you couldn’t help but laugh. He was acting like you were some baby bird with a broken wing, rather than a grown woman with a little whiplash. It was kinda sweet, but only just a little, of course.
"You're injured."
"I'm not dying, Piastri. I am not on my deathbed. Which is funny, see, because with this many–"
"You could barely make it up the stairs," he interrupted, but his voice didn't have any bite to it. If anything he sounded almost... fond. There it was, that weird softness again – like he wasn't actually annoyed with you at all.
Huh. Your hearing must still be off.
With all the care in the world, you watched as Oscar tucked a blanket over your legs and his knuckles brushed against your thigh. You felt that too – the brief contact, warm even through the fabric.
Weird.
Satisfied enough with his creation and entirely oblivious to your staring, he leaned back with a grin, clearly proud of his work.
"Need anything else?" he asked, crouching down so he was eye-level with you. This close you could see how tired he looked, the worry lines around his eyes. You never liked it when Oscar worried. He was too nice to ever have to worry, in your humble opinion.
"I'm fine, Osc. Really," you assured him, the words practically automatic at this point.
His mouth did something complicated. His frown only deepened. "You keep saying that, but–"
"Because it's true!!"
"Right." He reached out, his fingers so gentle when they brushed your hair back from your face, tucking it behind your ear. Your breath caught. "You are totally fine. That's why you can't walk up stairs without stopping."
Some days Oscar made you roll your eyes so hard you were beginning to be afraid they’d get stuck that way. "Oscar—"
"Just… let me take care of you." His hand lingered near your temple, thumb ghosting over the angle of your cheekbone. ...“…Please??"
The way he said it—soft and a little bit desperate—made your chest ache. You always did have a hard time saying no to him. He was your best friend, after all.
"Okay," you whispered. You were aiming for a more resigned expression, but you somehow ended up smiling instead.
Genuinely relieved, Oscar exhaled, and some of the tension left his shoulders. "Good." His hand dropped but you could still feel the warmth of it on your skin. "Let’s, uh— Actually, m’gonna make you eat something, and then you're sleeping."
"Not hungry."
"Don't care." He stood up, and yeah, that was definitely fondness in his voice. "You're eating anyway."
You watched him head to the kitchen and touched your cheek where his thumb had been, just for a second.
Definitely the concussion.
He came back with toast and water and your medication.
"This is sad," you said, looking at the plain toast. “Why am I being subjected to prison food? What have I ever done to you? I thought we were friends, I thought you loved—
"It's bland because you might be nauseous."
He set everything on the coffee table and sat on the edge of the couch by your feet. "Doctor's orders."
"The doctor did not say toast. Even she didn’t hate me that much."
Oscar shot you his signature deadpan looks. It made you smile.
"I'm using context clues."
Sighing dramatically, you picked up a piece of toast. It tasted like nothing, but your stomach didn't immediately revolt, so that was something. Oscar watched you eat like he was monitoring a science experiment.
"Stop staring at me."
"I'm making sure you eat."
"Of course I'm eating. See?" You took another bite to prove it.
"Good." He handed you the water and the pill bottle. "Now take these."
You did, because arguing took energy you didn't have. The pills were huge and hard to swallow and you made a bleghy face.
Oscar's mouth twitched. "Dramatic."
"They're horse pills!"
"They're normal pills."
"For horses."
He shook his head, but he was almost smiling, and there was that tone again—like he wanted to be annoyed with you but couldn't quite manage it. It did something strange to your chest.
You finished the toast because he was still watching, and when you were done he took the plate without comment. A minute later, he was back and doing something with his phone.
"What're you doing?" you asked.
"Setting alarms."
"For what?"
"To check on you." He didn't look up. "Every three hours, remember?"
"Oscar, no. You need to sleep!"
"I will sleep."
"Not if you're waking up every three hours!"
"I'll be fine." He finished whatever he was doing and set his phone down, finally looking at you. "Look, you're not arguing your way out of this."
You were too tired to argue anyway. Your head was pounding despite the medication and everything hurt and the couch was so soft.
"Come here," Oscar said quietly.
You blinked at him. "What?"
"You're sitting all wrong. You're gonna hurt— here— your neck." He shifted, adjusting the pillows behind you. "Now you can lie down properly."
You started to move and then he was already there, hands careful on your shoulders, helping you ease down until your head was on the pillow. His fingers brushed the side of your neck and you shivered.
"Cold?" he asked.
"No." Your voice came out quieter than you meant.
He pulled the blanket up higher anyway, tucking it around your shoulders. His hand lingered there for a second, thumb brushing against your collarbone through the fabric.
You were very aware of him. The warmth of his hand. How close he was. The way he was looking at you like he was cataloging every bruise, every scrape.
"Stop it," you mumbled.
"Stop what?"
"Looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
Like you're worried. Like you care. Like this matters.
"Like I'm about to die or somethin’," you grumbled instead.
His expression did something complicated. "Well you almost did."
Your throat went tight. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you could hear the ghostly echo of the screech of your tires against the asphalt. Your voice was softer when you answered. Maybe it was the meds beginning to fake affect.
"But I didn't."
"No,” he hummed in agreement, his hand moving from your shoulder to your hair, fingers threading through it gently. "You didn't."
You should tell him to stop. That he didn't need to do this. But his fingers in your hair felt so nice and you were so tired, and you let your eyes close instead.
When you looked over at him just before you did, just to make sure he was still there, you found that he was already looking at you.
"I'm putting on the movie," he said softly.
"You don't have to."
"I know." There was rustling as he reached for his phone. "But you didn't get to finish it, right?”
The dialogue started playing once again, tinny through his phone speaker. You heard him adjust his own position, settling into the other end of the couch, and then something warm settled over your feet.
You opened your eyes just enough to see. His hand was resting on your ankle over the blanket, casual, grounding.
"Sleep," he smiled, not looking away from the screen. "I've got you."
You believed him.
Your eyes drifted closed again and the last thing you registered was Marlin's voice worrying about Nemo, and Oscar's thumb moving in small circles against your ankle, and the feeling that maybe, for once, you didn't have to hold everything together by yourself.
The movie played on.
Oscar wasn't really watching at first—he was too busy monitoring you. The rise and fall of your chest. The way your face had finally relaxed, tension draining out of you for the first time since he'd gotten to the hospital.
But then Dory was on screen asking what would Nemo do, and Marlin was having his realization, and Oscar found himself actually paying attention.
He got it now, why you loved this. It wasn't just the ocean or the colors or the stupid turtle that you looked forward to so much that he was supposed to wake you up for it. It was the whole thing — the way it was about being scared and doing it anyway, about not giving up even when everything felt impossible.
Oscar was beginning to feel a little attached to those stupid clownfish himself.
He wasn’t sure exactly how much time had passed as he continued to watch, actively paying attention as the fish were all swimming down to break the net and he remembered this part—you always held your breath during this part, like you could help them somehow. Out of habit, he glanced over to see your reaction.
Your eyes were closed.
His stomach dropped.
"Hey." He sat up straighter, his hand tightening where it had been resting on your ankle. "Hey."
You didn't move.
The movie kept playing but he wasn't hearing it anymore. He leaned forward, heart suddenly loud in his ears.
"Can you hear me?" His hand moved from your ankle to your shoulder, gentle at first. You didn't respond. He shook you a little harder then. "Come on, c’mon. Open your eyes."
Nothing.
His brain was already cataloging the list of symptoms—confusion, loss of consciousness, the doctor's voice saying if symptoms get worse come back immediately.
"No, no, no." He was moving without thinking, phone abandoned, both hands on you now. One on your shoulder, one coming up to your face. "Wake up. Please wake up."
Your head lolled slightly when he shook you and that was wrong, that was so wrong.
"Fuck." His hand was shaking when he pressed his fingers to your neck, feeling around for your pulse. It was there, steady, and he should have been relived by that but you weren't waking up and you should be waking up and—
The medication.
Had he given you too much? Had the doctor said something about dosage that he'd missed? He couldn't remember. He couldn't think fucking think.
"Please." His voice cracked. He cupped your face with both hands now, thumbs on your cheekbones. "Please wake up. Come on."
He was about to grab his phone —call 999, call the hospital, call someone— when your face scrunched in discomfort.
"Stop," you mumbled, eyes still closed. "M'sleepin’."
He froze. "What?"
"You're bein’… loud." You tried to turn your face away from his hands, only to smush it further into the pillow. "Go away."
Relief hit him so hard he couldn't breathe for a second. "You—Jesus Christ."
"Huh?" You cracked one eye open, squinting at him. "Why're you yelling?"
"I'm not—" He sat back, dragged both hands through his hair. His heart was still racing. "You weren't waking up."
"Because I was sleeping,” you mumbled in the same tone people say duh. Both of your eyes were halfway open now, confused and a little annoyed. "What's wrong with you?"
"You weren't responding. I thought—" He couldn't finish the sentence. His hands were still shaking.
Understanding dawned slowly on your face. "Oh. Oscar—"
"Don't." He closed his eyes, trying to get his breathing under control. "Just—don't."
"I'm okay, Os. Hey, I was just sleeping, yeah? The pain meds jus’ made me—"
"I know." He did know — now. But for at least one whole minute there he'd thought—
Even in the dark, your hand found his. Your fingers were warm when they wrapped around his wrist, right beside where his pulse was still hammering away.
"Hey," you called softly. "I'm okay."
He dared to open his eyes, instantly meeting yours. You were looking at him with that expression—concerned, guilty, like you were the one who needed to comfort him when you were the one who was injured.
"You scared me," he was all he managed to croak out.
"I know. I'm sorry."
"Don't— Don’t be sorry. Just—" He turned his hand over so he was holding yours properly. "Stay awake for a bit. Please."
"Yeah, okay." You squeezed his hand. "Okay, I'm awake."
He didn't let go.
The movie kept playing.
You were trying to stay awake like you'd promised, but it was hard. The pain meds had made everything soft around the edges, and Oscar was still holding your hand, thumb moving in these slow circles over your knuckles that might've been deliberate or might've been unconscious. Either way, it was making your chest feel warm.
On screen, Marlin and Nemo were reunited. Dory was telling them about how she remembered them, and your eyes were burning.
"You're crying," Oscar noted quietly, not whispering but speaking lowly so as not to disturb the bubble of the moment.
"No, m’not." Your voice was thick.
You were absolutely crying.
His thumb stilled on your hand. "But it's a happy ending."
"I know it's a happy ending. That's why I'm crying." You wiped at your eyes with your free hand. "He gets his son back. And Dory finds her family. And—" Your throat closed up.
Oscar squeezed your hand. "And?"
"And everyone's okay," you finished quietly. "They're all okay."
He didn't say anything for a minute. On screen, Nemo was going back to school. Marlin was letting him go. The music swelled.
"You're okay too," Oscar spoke finally.
You turned to look over at him. He was already watching you, and there was something in his face that made your chest ache. In the dark of the room, the light of screen made his eyes glimmer as if there were stars in his eyes.
"Yeah," you whispered back.
The movie ended, and the credits rolled. Oscar didn't move to turn it off, just let it play, and you lay there holding his hand and feeling too much.
"Thank you," you told him. "For… all of this. For— For coming to the hospital and staying and—" You gestured vaguely with your other hand at the blankets, the pillows, everything. "You didn't have to."
"I wanted to."
"Still." You were so drowsy. Despite your best efforts, your words were starting to blur together again. "You're really good at this stuff."
"At what?"
"Y’know… taking care of people. Being there. The whole sharing blankets and making toast n’… yeah.”
“Why thank you.”
A beat of comfortable silence passed.
“You'd make such a good boyfriend."
The words were out before you could stop them, and you felt Oscar go very still beside you.
"What?" His voice sounded strange.
"Like, objectively." You were too tired to be embarrassed. The thought floated through your head all soft and hazy. "Whoever dates you is gonna be really lucky. You do all this and you don't even—" You yawned. "You're just good."
He was quiet for so long you thought maybe you'd fallen asleep and missed his response. But then:
"Do you mean that?"
You blinked at him, confused. "Mean what?"
"That I'd—" He stopped, then started again. "You think someone would be lucky to date me?"
"Obviously." It seemed so obvious right now. "You're the best person I know."
His hand tightened around yours, searching for the strength there as he planned his next words. "I'm not— this isn't, like, special. I'm not doing anything I wouldn't normally do."
"That's what I mean." You were fading again, eyes drifting closed. "You're always like this. With me."
"Yeah," he breathed. "I am."
There was something in his voice you couldn't quite parse through the fog in your head. Something important, maybe. You tried to hold onto it, but it slipped away.
"Oscar?"
"I'm here."
"Don't leave."
"I'm not going anywhere." His free hand came up to brush your hair back from your face, and you leaned into the touch without thinking. He was warm and his hands were softer than you thought and the touch was so tender that you just couldn’t help but melt into it. "Get some sleep."
"You'll wake me up in three hours?"
"Yeah," He nodded, and his thumb traced along your hairline. "I'll wake you up."
"Even though I yelled at you last time?" The words were nothing more than one long string of jumbled sounds, but of course, Oscar still understood you somehow.
"Even though." There was that fond tone again, soft and warm. "You can yell at me every three hours if you want."
You hummed, already drifting, but still managing a smile – the smallest uptick of the corner of your mouth. "Might take you up on that."
"Yeah. I'm counting on it."
His hand stayed in your hair, gentle, and you fell asleep to the feeling of him there — solid and warm and safe — and the quiet sound of his breathing in the dark.
a/n: was surprised to see how many people apparently like part one?? hope you guys liked this part two, bc i have one more part planned for these guys!
don't forget to lmk what you think - comments, asks, and reblogs power me to write more fics like this one :)