Thereâs two constants in every day: it rains and after Oscar loses the car, wheels spinning uselessly on the wet tarmac, goes into the grass and gets back on track, he goes on a rampage through the backmarkers to save his championship lead and when he tries to overtake Carlos, he puts them both into the wall. Oh, and a third constant, after the race he comes to Carlosâs hotel room to yell at him about it.Â
Ten days into the time loop, Carlos starts yanking Oscar into his driverâs room before the race to tell him to stop fucking braking too late in turn three. Promptly, Oscar goes off track in turn six. Ten more days and Carlos is warning him about turn twelve.
âNo one in the history of racing has ever crashed in turn twelve,â Oscar tells him snootily.
âBelieve me,â Carlos grumbles. âI have it on pretty good authority that it is possible.â
âAlright, mate,â Oscar says soothingly. âAlways a pleasure, really. Youâre probably late for something, right?â
âNot really,â Carlos says and Oscar puts a gentle hand on his shoulder.
âYeah, you are,â he says and then pushes Carlos out of his driverâs room. Rude.Â
Time loop iteration twenty-one: Oscar puts one wheel outside the driving line and goes off. Crashes Carlos out in turn four. Gets all blotchy in the face while accusing Carlos of trying to throw the championship for Lando. When Carlos wakes up, itâs Sunday again.
Time loop iteration twenty-two: Oscar gets nudged into the grass while overtaking Charles, puts himself and Carlos in the wall on the straight. Says Carlos is obviously hiding some debilitating brain injury from the FIA if heâs driving like that. When Carlos wakes up, itâs Sunday again.Â
Time loop iteration twenty-three: Carlos goes into town and orders the greasiest burger he can find. Then he goes bowling, because heâs never been. A push notification from the F1 app informs him Oscarâs engine exploded and heâs still in critical condition. After that, Carlos doesnât skip races anymore. When Carlos wakes up, itâs Sunday again.Â
Time loop iteration twenty-four: In the middle of Oscarâs rant, Carlos says âI feel like you are carrying a lot of stress about the championship.â
âDonât make this about me,â Oscar snarls. âYouâre the one thatââ
âNo, really,â Carlos says. âI have been reading about this, I think you donât have an outlet and somehow I am a safe outlet for you to channel this stress. In a way, this is very flattering.â
Oscarâs mouth snaps shut and he goes bright pink in an instant.
âFuck you,â Oscar spits, and storms out of Carlosâs hotel room. Huh. Interesting.Â
Time loop iteration twenty-five: âWe should try some breathing exercises,â Carlos says. Oscar goes so red Carlos makes a mental note to ask him about his blood pressure in a coming loop.Â
Time loop iteration twenty-six: âI am kind of starting to enjoy this, is that weird?â Carlos asks. âI mean, I am not having a good season, but somehow I still seem to be your preferred rival, if that makes sense? It makes me feelâgood, I guess? Like I still matter.â
âAre you having a stroke?â Oscar asks. âFuck, let meâIâm googling the symptoms. Can you lift your arm?â
Time loop iteration twenty-seven: âYoga?â Carlos asks. Oscar shouts at him, but Carlos gets distracted thinking about Oscar in downward dog position and when he shakes himself out of it, Oscarâs gone.Â
Time loop iteration twenty-eight: Fuck it, whatever. Carlos is a grown man, he can admit heâs been thinking about it. One fumbling make-out session with Teto when they were fifteen, thatâs all the exploring heâs ever done, and every other time heâs thought about it, it seemed too risky. Something better saved for after retirement. But sometimes, Carlos wants. So much it seems like he can feel it moving under his skin like a living thing. And Oscar, his coarse surface grating against all of Carlosâs bumpy irregularities, wears Carlos down so fast it feels like it might burst out of him. He doesnât even let Oscar open his mouth to start screaming before Carlos walks him back against the wall, seals their mouth together. Heâs avoided thinking of how Oscar will react, just wanting to do one thing in this swirl of forgotten time thatâs just for himself, but instead of pushing Carlos off, Oscar goes soft and pliant. His mouth opens for Carlos, easy, and his hands come up to grasp Carlosâs shirt and pull him closer.Â
Itâs kind of a messy, undignified affair, from there on out. If either of them came up for breath for even a second, they might have figured out a way to have actual sex, but by the time theyâve rid themselves of most of their clothes, they canât do anything else but grind together, panting into each otherâs mouths.
âCarlos,â Oscar gasps out, fucking down so his cock slots in the sweat-slick crease of Carlosâs thigh and Carlos whines, pulling Oscarâs hips tighter against himself so he can rub off against the soft plain of Oscarâs stomach. Oscarâs desperate for it, flushed red and open-mouthed, and when he comes, he shudders all over. When he gets his bearings, he gets a hand around Carlosâs cock and sucks a mark into Carlosâs throat, high enough that thereâs no collar in the world that can hide it, but it doesnât fucking matter anyway, so Carlos lets it happen, arches up against Oscar and comes in the tight space between their bodies.Â
âYou should stay,â Carlos tells him after theyâve showered and Oscar is searching around the floor for his shorts. Itâs just his luck that specifically this weekend, none of Carlosâs friends or family are here and the Williams garage is full of touch-averse Brits, so Carlos has been missing casual intimacy, hugging someone, having another body close against his own. Oscar doesnât argue, just curls into the curve of Carlosâs body and conks out, the tension Carlos has seen him carry for twenty-eight days and most of the season bled away.
Carlos falls asleep with his nose buried in Oscarâs hair, thinking about how tomorrow, Oscar will crash him out again. In turn ten, or four, or sixteen even, and then come to Carlosâs hotel room again to yell at him, all wound tight again.Â
When Carlos wakes up, sunlight is already streaming through the gaps between the curtains, which means heâs probably slept through his alarm, because heâs been waking up in the dark for twenty-eight days now. He turns around to check the time, but something halts his motion, a heavy weight trapping his arm against the mattress. Oscarâs face is smoothed out with sleep, his serene expression at odds with the rising panic Carlos feels gathering in the pit of his stomach and winding around his ribs. As gently as possible, without awakening Oscar, he twists his arm behind himself to get his phone off the night stand so he can check the screen. Itâs Monday.Â
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