Carlos didn’t see him after the race. Even waited around in the paddock, dodging all the ecstatic Mclaren staff rushing past him to the garage as he waited for Oscar to show. Carlos wasn’t brave enough to venture into a celebrating sea of papaya to find him, so he tugged his phone out of his pocket and pulled up Oscar’s messages thread as he slinked away, unnoticed, rain-damp jacket blending in against the dark blue pavement.
Carlos hesitates with the words for too long, wondering what to say, what Oscar might want to hear. He dodges more people making their way past him and accidently hits the send button too soon, realises he doesn’t know how to fix it, so he just leaves it as is anyway.
Still at the same hotel tonight. If you need
Oscar doesn’t reply.
Carlos is half expecting an immediate response. A few simple words at the least, a cryptic sentence at the most. He’s also half expecting to not hear from Oscar again until next week, once he’s cooled off and pushed everything back down into the bottle of his seemingly endless emotional storage. Could swing either way. Carlos has spent long enough trying to decode Oscar’s silences that he would like to think he’s getting better at it, but all he has right now to gauge Oscar’s mood by is his race, the movements of his car reading like an extension of Oscar’s own physical tells.
There was anger, a firm set to his mouth, wheels spinning in the grass. Frustration, the cold set of his eyes, water spraying off the edges of the racing line. Determination, the furrow between his brows, getting too close to barriers and breaking late into every corner.
Carlos doesn’t hang around the paddock any longer than he has to. He briefly entertains the idea of storming into the gaudy orange motorhome as he walks past it, eyes downcast to watch the puddles ripple under his shoes. But he doesn’t know what he would even do if he did find Oscar hiding in his driver's room, rightfully licking his wounds. Besides, he’s got family around this weekend to help him. He’s got support if he wants it. He doesn’t need Carlos.
But the traitorous, longing part in the back of Carlos’s mind likes to think that maybe Oscar does need him. Maybe he needs someone that isn’t disappointed in him. Someone who understands what it’s like to make one mistake and get stuck in a mental loop of reliving that moment, wondering how to fix it, how to restart the race and make sure that never happens. Someone who can feel the steering wheel snapping too hard. The helpless, uncontrollable slide of the car going sideways.
Carlos’s phone stays silent on the way back to the hotel. He gets a text from Alex when he’s in the lobby, which he replies to by re-congratulating and politely declining the invitation out in favour of sitting on the floor of his room with back against the bed, waiting.
He sends Lando a congratulating message too, knowing he’ll be too busy to reply anyway.
Carlos has almost managed to convince himself that he won’t get to see Oscar in this hotel room again and that he’s perfectly fine with that, right when there’s a short knock on the door. Carlos stops tapping his fingers against his ribcage and pushes himself to his knees at the end of the bed. He looks over the neatly made sheets and lets the memory of Oscar’s hands push him against them. He thinks of the incessant rain, wearing a headset instead of a helmet.
Another quiet knock on the door. Carlos scrambles to his feet and yanks it open.
Oscar stares at him, unmoving. He’s wearing a black cap, orange symbol front and centre, and a plain black hoodie. Carlos can’t even see any sign of the rain on his shoulders. The material is too dark.
Oscar opens his mouth and struggles to fill it with words, instead just gesturing vaguely to the room behind Carlos. He clears his throat.
“Can I…?”
“Of course, sorry. Come in.” Carlos steps back, leaving plenty of room for Oscar to go past him, but he brushes close as he walks into the room. The sensation of his shoulder brushing against Carlos’s chest sends shivers running out his limbs, down to the tips of his fingers and toes. He wonders if the sharp feeling that being around Oscar brings out in him will ever dull. He isn’t sure if it would be a relief for it to lose its edge, or if it would just be yet another thing to miss. Crave.
Oscar stands in the middle of the room with his hands in his hoodie pocket. There’s a dejected slope to his shoulders that has Carlos’s chest aching. He steps closer, hands already reaching out, and Oscar. Oscar folds.
Carlos has always loved the fact that they’re pretty much the same height. It has always made hugging Oscar feel so right, like they just fit. When Oscar steps into his arms this time, it’s different. He crumples. Wraps his arms around Carlos’s waist and rests his head on his shoulder, curling over to rest his weight against him.
Carlos holds him as tightly as he dares, wary of making Oscar feel too trapped, overwhelmed.
Carlos counts four heartbeats in the silence before Oscar murmurs something into his shoulder.
“Huh? I cannot hear you.”
Oscar shifts so his face isn’t stuffed into the material of Carlos’s hoodie. He leans back, hiding his face under the brim of his cap as he says, “Sorry ‘bout your race.”
Carlos feels the urge to cry and laugh at the same time. The abrupt end to his race feels like a lifetime ago already. He lets his hands slip to Oscar’s shoulders, digs his fingers in for a moment like a mini massage.
“Thank you. And I am sorry about yours.”
Oscar pulls back from Carlos’s touch, eyes downcast, and steps over towards the window. The sun has already set, but there’s patches of murky purple sky beyond the city skyline. The orange glow of lights reflecting off the clouds creates a halo around Oscar's silhouette.
Oscar hums noncommittally. Carlos pulls the drawstring of his hoodie between his fingers and rolls it back and forth.
“Are you going to…” Carlos starts to ask, then realises he doesn’t know quite what he’s trying to ask. He quickly swerves around the idea of celebrating a home race being lost. “Your family, they are expecting you, no?”
Oscar shakes his head and finally turns around so Carlos can see his face, his nose scrunched up briefly.
“Nah. Told them I just needed… time.”
Oscar shrugs like it means nothing and glances over at the abstract art hanging on the walls. A splatter of what looks like black ink on white background, nestled in a sleek frame. Carlos can’t make heads or tails of it. It looks like a mistake, a mess to be cleaned up, yet it sits behind sparkling clean glass.
Carlos nods absently and sits on the edge of the bed. His fingers continue fiddling with the drawstring of his jumper, wanting to feed it between his teeth so he has something to focus on, other than imagining walking across the room and physically picking Oscar up and squeezing him. He’s got all kinds of strange energy coiling up in his stomach and shapeless thoughts flitting through his mind, unable to pin any of it down.
He feels a bit like the splatter of ink at the moment. He can't make anything he feels make sense. Can't wipe the slate clean either, forced to see it all behind a cold shield of glass.
The mattress shifts, sinking slightly to Carlos’s side. Oscar mirrors Carlos’s position, sitting on the edge of bed an arm’s length away, then Carlos watches as he folds himself in half so he can lay on the creased sheets, perfectly aligned so his head comes to rest in Carlos lap.
Carlos blinks. “Oh.”
His fingers stop pulling at the loose thread poking out from his hoodie string. Another heartbeat and Oscar shifts, knocking his own hat off his head with a flick of his hand so it falls to the floor and he settles in properly, letting all his weight rest on Carlos’s thighs.
It feels like Carlos can’t breathe around the swell of emotion that rises in the back of his throat, but he takes the obvious invitation and settles his fingers over the nape of Oscar’s neck, gently scratching through his hair, from the base of his skull to the crown of his head.
Oscar sighs, and Carlos can feel the warmth of it through the material of his sweatpants. He tries to think of something to say, anything that would sit well with them in the quiet of the room, but his mind is coming up blank. Instead, he focuses instead on the unwinding coils of his stomach as they relax, breathing in time with the rhythmic rise and fall of Oscar’s chest.
He doesn’t know how long they stay there. Carlos cards his hand through Oscar's hair in soothing, repetitive motions. It's soft against his skin. Clean from a shower after the race. Then it slips through his fingers entirely and out of reach when Oscar sits up again and looks at Carlos.
His hair is flopping down in his eyes now without a hat or Carlos’s hand to hold it. Carlos doesn't dare move. He feels a bit like he’s trying to not to scare Oscar off, like he is a stray cat who’s trust needs to be earned with stillness and patience. Carlos is more than willing to wait.
He watches Carlos with heavy eyes for a moment before he moves, digging his knees into the mattress and crawling closer so he can hitch a leg over and settle in Carlos’s lap.
Carlos’s hands hover uncertainly for a moment, fiddling with the edge of Oscar’s hoodie as he smiles up at him. “Hey.”
Oscar offers a half smile, eyes going soft and crinkly around the edges. One of Carlos’s favourite looks. “Hi.”
He doesn’t give Carlos a chance to say any more before he dips his head and captures his lips in a slow kiss. Oscar cradles Carlos’s jaw, threads his fingers through the back of Carlos’s hair as he presses close, mouth moving with a kind of calm reverence that feels more like he’s reciting prayers, whispering secrets against the sharp edge of Carlos’s teeth where he knows they will be kept safe.
Carlos holds Oscar’s hips firmly now, trying to ground himself more than anything, and he can feel his mind going floaty, body going lax under the comforting weight of Oscar on top of him. He flexes his hands and grips the edges of Oscar’s hoodie to bring himself back into focus and reluctantly breaks off. Brain buzzing with distant questions, Carlos rests a hand on the small of Oscar’s back as he pulls away so he knows he doesn’t want him going anywhere.
“Oscar.”
The soft light from the window casts Oscar’s face into gentle shadows. He nudges forward, bumping their noses together. Carlos stares at the flutter of Oscar’s eyelashes, knowing he’s looking at Carlos’s lips and feeling like a messy splatter of ink about it.
“Hmm?”
I just needed… time.
Oscar could have gone anywhere tonight. Been with anyone. There’s a whole city out there, a place that cradled a younger Oscar, a place that now cheers for him. He could be anywhere he wants to be. But he’s here.
“What do you want?” Carlos murmurs the question quietly. He runs a hand up along Oscar’s spine as he speaks, marveling at the way he arches under his touch. His breathing is uneven, choppy. Carlos isn’t doing much better.
“Uhm.” Oscar gently pulls Carlos’s hair, twisting it between his fingers. “A fuckin’ time machine, maybe.”
Carlos snorts. His hand reaches the back of Oscar’s neck where he holds him firm. Oscar somehow presses his body even closer.
“Yeah? Like the one from- what is it? Back To The Future?”
“Exactly like that. Just drive right on back into the past. That'd be perfect.”
He’s smiling, a gentle thing. Carlos mirrors that smile without thinking. He’s just happy to have got a reaction out of Oscar at all.
“And how far back would you go?” Carlos asks, a bit selfishly. Always wanting to know what is going on in Oscar’s mind is a kind of hunger that Carlos has become accustomed to by now. He lets it sit in his gut like a stomach ache, feeds it whenever he can.
Carlos tries to guess his reply before he says it. He thinks of the race, the rain, sitting at the pitwall in jeans and a jacket. Watching the screens. Watching Oscar.
Oscar hums and squints one eye closed, then smiles, mischievous, before he answers. “Reckon I’d go back to… Wednesday. Tuesday, even.”
Carlos sighs and closes his eyes, knowing exactly what Oscar means. The last time Oscar was in this room. In this very bed.
Carlos makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat, going for indignant and failing miserably. He didn’t expect Oscar to pick the best moments to relive, instead of the worst moments to fix.
“Well, then you must take me with you, Oscar.”
“Well, of course,” Oscar says through another achingly soft smile.
Carlos leans forward to hide his grin against the line of Oscar’s jaw, pressing kisses against the moles dotting his skin.
“And what else do you want?”
Carlos feels like he is fishing for a specific answer, but even as he asks the same question again, he still doesn’t know what it is he wants to hear. His stomach growls with hunger for more of Oscar and scraping his teeth against the taunt muscle of his neck does little to sedate it.
“Ah, um…” Oscar shifts in his lap, a tremor running through his body. “Been craving churros lately.”
Carlos can’t help but laugh a bit wetly into the collar of his hoodie.
Oscar’s hand still cradles his head, holding him gently, running a thumb over the shell of Carlos’s ear. The delicate touch opens a pit of a yearning somewhere deep inside Carlos, and for an embarrassing moment he feels the urge to cry until he bites down on the inside of his cheek, hard, and the tidal wave subsides, roiling around his ribcage instead.
“Churros, eh? We could have room service if you want.”
Oscar’s eyes are shining when he tugs Carlos’ head back, searching his face.
“Not yet. I also want-” Oscar cuts himself off, worrying his teeth against his bottom lip. Carlos is so close, he can see the shudder of Oscar’s jaw as he forces the words out.
“I want you.” The words land like a shove to the chest. Carlos tries not to gape but he cannot keep his mouth closed, apparently. “I always want you, actually.”
And there it is. Carlos realises this is what he wanted to hear. Why Oscar chose to find safety in Carlos’s room instead of anywhere else tonight.
Carlos’s voice is tellingly thick when he speaks but he doesn’t care. The unexpected moment of vulnerability, Oscar showing him his soft underbelly without flinching has Carlos’s heart clenching in his chest. He cracks a smile anyway and jokes, “Say it one more time? I do not think I heard you.”
Oscar rolls his eyes. He’s still smiling. “Oh, fuck off. You heard me alright.”
Oscar’s hands land square on Carlos’s chest and he pushes him back against the mattress, holding himself up with hands on either side of his head. Carlos stares up at him, slack jaw and wanting eyes. The yearning in his chest twists violently.
“Say it again,” Carlos whispers. Greedy to hear it. Selfish, to make Oscar repeat himself.
Oscar cradles Carlos’s jaw and brushes his thumb over his bottom lip. The gentleness, overwhelming, is what slices Carlos open.
“I want you, Carlos."
