☀️

The man looks up, eyes wide as he takes in his surroundings. “Sorry,” he says, wiping wet hands down his soaking t-shirt, white cotton gone translucent from the rain. He looks back over his shoulder, peering out the window. “I didn’t mean to – do you mind if I wait here for a moment?”

“If you’re planning to wait out the rain, it’ll be a long moment,” Oscar says. Destruction of property aside, the man can stay as long as he likes. His wet shirt clings to his frankly outrageous figure, and as if that wasn’t bad enough, his dark hair hangs over his forehead, dripping down the dramatic slope of his nose. Oscar won’t remember a single word he reads for as long as this man is in his shop.

The man ducks away from the door as a few shadowy figures rush past outside, hurrying closer to the counter. “It’s not the rain,” he says. “It’s, um…”

Oscar closes his book, frowning. “It’s what?” he asks suspiciously. The man’s jeans are as soaked as the rest of him, hanging low on his hips. If he’s stolen anything, it would have to be quite small to fit in any of his pockets. 

The man grimaces, a “what can you do?” sort of expression. “Fans,” he says, brushing his hair off of his face only for it to swing back down a second later. 

Oscar takes another look at him. He’s handsome, but not in a way that’s immediately familiar. “Are you in movies or something?”

“Ah, no.” A little smile appears on his face, too crooked to be a movie star’s. “You don’t follow football at all, do you?”

“More of a cricket man,” Oscar says, unable to keep himself from glancing at the man’s body again. An athlete – with all those abs, he should’ve guessed. “Are you any good, then?”

He ducks his head. “The team are doing well this season,” he says. It’s such a canned answer, as though Oscar’s a reporter at the side of the practice pitch. The man folds his arms over his stomach, pinching the fabric of his t-shirt between his fingers. A small puddle has started growing at his feet.

Oscar slides off the stool, abruptly coming to his senses. There’s a tiny break room in back with a kettle for tea and a spare jumper for days when the shop is particularly drafty. “Let me get you a towel,” he says, almost certain there are no actual towels in his shop. At best there might be a tea towel, but even that is better than nothing. “D’you want some tea?”

The man wrinkles his nose. “No. Thank you,” he tacks on, trailing after Oscar towards the back of the shop.

Oscar was right about the tea towel. “Best I can do, I’m afraid,” he says, offering a faded floral tea towel and a knitted jumper left behind by the previous owner of this shop to the professional footballer dripping rainwater perilously close to the travel guide section. 

He takes the towel first, wiping it over his face and then his hair, leaving it standing up in a dozen dark spikes. The disorder somehow suits him. Still Oscar’s fingers itch to brush the strands back into place, until the guy grasps the bottom of his shirt and whips it over his head with the casual disinterest of a man who knows exactly how good his body looks. 

He holds his empty hand out, and it takes Oscar an embarrassingly long moment to realize he’s waiting for the sweater.

Oscar passes it over and turns away in an attempt to salvage what’s left of his dignity. He doesn’t know what’s come over him. Up until ten minutes ago, Oscar would have said jocks aren’t his type. His ex was smaller than him, lanky and lazy and prone to playing video games ten hours a day. Oscar had been attracted to him, but they’d also toppled over in a laughing heap whenever Lando tried to lift him. This guy could throw Oscar over his shoulder and take off down the street without breaking a sweat.

The man clears his throat. “Thank you,” he says. 

“Not a problem,” Oscar says, turning back around. It’s no surprise that he should look so good in a lumpy sweater of indeterminate color and origin. “Wish I could offer you a pair of glasses, no one would recognize you.”

The crooked smile makes a triumphant return. Oscar considers strangling himself with the tea towel, just to save himself any further embarrassment. “The dry clothes are more than enough,” he says. “I had to leave in a hurry.”

He must be quite famous, Oscar thinks, to be chased through the rain by a mass of fans. “Well,” Oscar says, gesturing at the empty shop. “Feel free to stay as long as you’d like. As you can see, we’re not very busy.” Oscar turns away and hurries towards the front of the shop, keen to hide his face behind his book. “Let me know if I can help you with anything,” he calls over his shoulder, the same as he does with all his customers. Few people ever take him up on it. Customers in a bookshop are mostly content to wander in silence.

“Is this your shop?”

Oscar looks up, surprised to find the man has followed him. “Yes,” Oscar says.

He shifts his jaw, giving Oscar a considering look. “You are Bertram?”

“God, no,” Oscar laughs. Oscar had started off working in Bertram's Books part-time in uni, and when Bertram retired a few years ago, he’d signed the shop over to Oscar. “He was the original owner of this place. I’m Oscar.”

“Oscar,” the man repeats slowly, holding his hand out over the counter. It’s warm when Oscar takes it, a pleasant strength in his grip. “I’m Carlos. It’s nice to meet you.”

“You too,” Oscar says, quickly pulling his hand back when he realizes he’s gone on shaking Carlos’s hand for far longer than is normal.

At first it stung, the way every pair of eyes would turn immediately to Carlos, skipping right over Teto half-buried beneath Carlos's bags and his bicycle and whatever else he was carrying that day. But it's been years, and Teto has gotten used to it. He didn't care, because most of the time, when everyone was looking at Carlos, Carlos was already talking to him.

Today, Carlos is quiet, focused on the day ahead. Qualifying will be difficult, but Carlos has been so involved with the development of the car that Teto knows he will do well. Carlos has always been impressive, but this season, he will blow everyone away.

"This is your year, eh?" Teto says, reaching for Carlos's arm.

His fingers slip right through him, as though he skimmed them across a pool of water. Carlos frowns in confusion.

"Did you hear me?" Teto asks.

Carlos looks up at a group of photographers and waves his hand in a polite wave. Teto refuses to believe Carlos would ignore him like this. Not even after –

Teto hurries in front of Carlos, jogging backwards. "I am trusting you not to let me fall," he says, but Carlos does not even look at him. "Carlos. You cannot ignore me, please. This is stupid."

Stupid, like kissing him had been, apparently. They had been up late last night, reviewing data from testing in the hotel well into the night. There had been a smile, small and hopeful, stuck at the corner of Carlos's lips like chewing gum on the bottom of a shoe.

"What is this about, hm?" Teto asked, flicking his thumb at Carlos's lips.

The smile grew, teeth and dimples and a dancing, joyful warmth in Carlos's eyes. Teto could not tease him for this. He could not do anything but stare, the very air frozen in his lungs.

"I have a good feeling about this year," Carlos said, quiet, almost shy.

Carlos's hope was the most beautiful thing Teto had ever seen.

Teto lunged over and kissed Carlos, clutching him tight. Carlos gasped against his lips, completely still for a second. Before Teto could regret his actions, Carlos curled a warm hand under Teto's jaw and kissed him back.

They had reviewed all that they could. Teto's laptop was abandoned in favor of the bed, eager hands and tender kisses and the warmth of their bodies pressed close. They fell asleep with their limbs still entwined.

In the morning, they had woken late. It was a scramble to get to the paddock on time, and Teto thought Carlos was simply focused on the day ahead. They would have plenty of time to talk about it later.

Apparently, Carlos does not want to talk about it at all.

"How long are we going to do this?" Teto asks. Carlos swerves to avoid someone that Teto didn't see, walking backwards and all. Teto stumbles and reaches out to Carlos, but Carlos does not even lift a hand to help him.

He does not stop when Teto lands on the ground.

Teto stares after him for a moment, mute with fury. He pushes himself to his feet and sprints after Carlos, catching up with him as he makes his way into Williams' hospitality.

"Why did you kiss me last night, if this is how you really feel?" Teto yells. Carlos does not look at him. It isn't just Carlos. Not one single person looks at him. Even Gigi, emerging from the kitchen area with two cups of coffee, does not greet him. Instead, he frowns.

"Where is Teto?" Gigi asks.

Carlos frowns. "You have not seen him, either?" he says.

"I'm right here," Teto shouts. He grabs Carlos's face, his fingers slipping as though he's reaching for purchase on a sheet of glass. "I am right in front of you, look."

He leans in and kisses Carlos, and there is a sudden splintering sound, like the breaking of ice. Carlos gasps sharply, his lips soft beneath Teto's.

"There you are," Carlos says when they break apart. His eyes widen and he looks around. "Teto, what have you done?"

“You say that like there’s a curfew.” Alex edges around casebooks, points at the mug. “Tea’s cold?”

“Merely tepid.”

“I like that word. Tepid.” Alex drops into the visitor chair, one knee over the arm, and produces a packet of Haribo from his bag. “Doctor’s orders.”

“You are not a doctor...yet.”

“I'm a doctor for vibes. Board certified.” He grins and and puts the sweets on the desk. “What are you grading?” he asks.

“First-year essays. Introduction to Contract Law.” George sounds faintly apologetic, as if the subject might bore Alex out of the room.

Alex shrugs. “Sounds sexy.”

George exhales a laugh he didn’t authorize. It gets Alex right in the chest.

Alex leans on his forearms, closer to the source of that sound. That’s when he sees it half-tucked beneath a rubric: a regiment of glossy, sparkly gold stars in a neat grid. The primary-school kind. The peel-and-pop kind.

He blinks. Looks up at George. Back down. Up again.

“George,” he says very solemnly, “is that a star chart.”

George follows the gaze, freezes, does the full English crisis: pupils widen, ears pink, posture tries to leave his body. “It’s—” he begins, and stops, because nowhere from here is dignified.

“Oh my God,” Alex says, delighted and reverent. “You’re giving grown adults gold stars.”

“In rare circumstances,” George says, straightening, which is what he does instead of dying. “It’s a supplemental feedback mechanism.”

“For the six-year-olds?”

“For the first-years,” George says, prim because prim is a bunker. “Some have never had a teacher tell them they’ve done well. It helps.”

Something sharp lodges under Alex’s ribs. He knows those kids: bright and wary, waiting for praise like a trap. He knows what a star on paper can do when paper usually means bills.

“Right,” he says, recovered. “Do you stride into the stationer’s and demand the sparkliest ones?”

George’s mouth does a doomed line (Russell for “no comment.”). The blush climbs. “Occasionally a gold seal is clearer than a margin note.”

“So you…plonk them on?”

“Strategically place them,” George corrects, wounded by the verb.

Alex peels one carefully, holds it to the light. It winks back. “You legend,” he says, and sticks it to the back of his hand. “Look at me. Accomplished.”

“You are an impossible man,” George says, but his mouth is losing the fight against smiling.

“And you,” Alex says, “are my favorite secret.” He means it. “This is—God, it’s so you.”

“Is it,” George asks dryly, but his ears confess.

“Yeah. Terrifying law professor with a fountain pen and real opinions about ‘whom,’ who also carries a little constellation. A stern night sky that secretly glitters.”

George stares one beat too long. Maybe Alex did too much. English-professor-metaphor-too-much, but something in him unhooks. Ggeorge looks down at his hands. They are good hands. Alex has cataloged them by accident and on purpose.

“You’re being kind,” George says, small.

“Because I like you,” Alex says, simple as gravity and before confessing more: “Do they know?” he asks when his voice is his again. “Your students.”

“That I—” George gestures at the shimmering sheet. “—engage in positive reinforcement? Yes. They pretend to mind. They do not mind.”

“Of course they don’t. Imagine handing in a monster essay and getting glitter. I’d frame it.” Alex chews his cheek. “Do you…keep the best ones?”

“The essays?”

“The stars,” he says, joking but not.

“I don’t collect my own praise,” George murmurs.

“You should,” Alex says, too fast. He peels another star. “Hold still.”

“Absolutely not,” George says, already holding still.

Alex reaches across the desk. The air thins like weather before a storm. He smooths the star onto his collarbone dent just above the open collar, where George’s pulse opens and shuts like a secret door. He leaves his fingers there half a second too long. Warmth through skin. The part of him that behaves and the part that doesn’t square up for a fistfight.

“For what infraction,” George asks a bit breathless, “am I being awarded.”

“For services to academia,” Alex says. “For buying the sparkly ones. For feedback that makes them feel seen instead of caught.”

George swallows. Alex watches his throat do it and thinks impolite thoughts about sweat and skin and the soft sound a man makes when he lets himself go. He looks away.

“Alex,” George says, and there is something in it that isn’t professor. “You shouldn’t—”

“Tease you?” Alex tries for flippant, misses. “Impossible. Public good.”

“I am trying very hard to be sensible,” George says, counting invisible numbers.

“Do you want me to go?” Alex asks, hating how it sounds.

George really looks at him. The lamplight makes his care visible: tidy hair, open collar, tired eyes. “No,” he says. “I want you to stop making jokes I am tempted to laugh at.”

“That seems unlikely.”

“It does,” George agrees.

They breathe together. Alex presses another star onto the back of George’s hand where the veins map and the skin is thin. George’s fingers twitch. The gold looks indecent on him, like jewelry he didn’t know he owned.

“It suits you,” Alex says.

“I lecture on consideration and duress,” George despairs. “I cannot be susceptible to stickers.”

“You can be both,” Alex says. “Complexity’s legal.”

“Give me that,” George says, reaching.

Alex holds the sheet just out of reach. George leans anyway. For a second they’re silly teenage proximity: sleeve against sleeve, knee into desk. George gets a hand on the sheet; Alex gets a hand on George’s wrist. Electricity zips down Alex’s spine and settles urgently in places not fit for office hours.

They stop. The air tightens like a violin string.

His hand could slide into George’s palm; his mouth could ask the question at George’s jaw, at the star, at the first undone button. He does not. He inventories them like a thief casing a museum.

Slowly, George extracts the stickers, dignity rethreaded by will. “This is counterproductive to pedagogy,” he says, which is insane, and also the hottest sentence Alex has heard.

“To be clear,” Alex says, low because it won’t go high, “you started the star regime. I’m just doing what you started.”

Alex thinks about being nineteen and desperate for a teacher to notice his name next to the analyses of a line in a poem. He thinks about George deciding softness is rigor. His chest hurts pleasantly.

“It’s stupid how much that makes me want to—” He stops. Not fit for office hours.

“To what?” George asks, looking up.

“No,” Alex says, awful and honest. “I can't say. Not appropriate.”

George’s laugh is immediate and hazardous, then tips toward warning. “No,” he says, not disagreeing. He picks up his pen like it might save him. “Alex.”

“Mhm.”

“You have to let me finish marking.”

“Do I,” Alex says, and knows he will.

George writes with the care of a man disarming a mine. Scratch-scratch. Alex watches his mouth make careful shapes, catalogs the notch in his lower lip. Thinks about that mouth going soft, going open, saying his name like it costs something. How they would look pleading, how they would look bitten red...how they would look around his cock...

He should leave. He does not. He tears the Haribo and sets a gummy bear on the blotter like a ward.

George pretends not to see it and then eats it too quickly, like a man unaccustomed to choosing silly sweets.

“Good boy,” Alex says lightly, and immediately wants to jump out the window. What is wrong with him.

George’s pen stills. He looks up, blush immediate. The air evacuates. “Do not,” he says, low and very serious, “say that.”

“Understood,” Alex says, voice not quite steady.

“Help me,” George says, offering a dare and a lifeline. He flicks the next essay toward Alex. “Is this promissory estoppel nonsense?”

Alex takes it. Words try to arrange themselves; his eyes keep tripping over open collar, gold star, pulse. He clears his throat and says something true about consideration being a sword not a shield. George’s mouth does that grateful curve he keeps for clean ideas. It undoes Alex more efficiently than any star.

They work like that for a while. Alex says, “Flag this paragraph.” George says, “You’re right,” like confession. Alex slides a Haribo near George’s hand now and then; now and then George eats one. Each time Alex looks at the ceiling and remembers oxygen.

The heating clicks off. The room cools a degree that invites a shiver. George rubs his forearm briskly, as if warmth were an instruction.

Alex fetches the blanket from the corner, because apparently George is insane and keeps one for this exact reason, and drapes it over George’s shoulders. “There,” he mutters. “My good deed for the term.”

George goes still, then relaxes one centimeter. “Thank you,” he says, formal.

“Take another star for not arguing,” Alex says, because the alternative is saying I want to lick the sticker off your throat.

He presses one onto the corner of the finished page with ceremony. George watches his hand like it’s threat or sacrament. When Alex looks up, George is already watching him. The moment stretches; it could be a bridge; tonight it’s a cliff.

“Alex,” George says, voice low and tired and true. “What are we doing.”

“Ruining ourselves,” Alex says, before sense can tackle him. “Slowly. With stickers.”

George’s laugh bursts out helpless and bright, then dissolves into something that isn’t humor. He closes his eyes like he’s memorizing restraint. When he opens them, he is wrecked and entirely himself. “I cannot—” he begins, and doesn’t finish.

Alex nods, knuckles white on the chair. He can be good. He can be so good if the reward is this: George blushing, sugar worms, a room that smells like paper and want.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll behave.”

“That would be a first,” George says, automatic, affectionate—the closest he dares to yes.

They do another essay. Alex keeps his eyes on the page. George keeps his hands visible, as if they might otherwise take their own initiative. The star on his collarbone glints whenever he moves, a small unruly sun in a universe that wants order. Alex thinks, helplessly, about pressing his mouth to it, about adhesive and skin and the noise George would make. He thinks about grammar instead.

The hall outside quiets even more.

George caps his pen—basically undressing in this context. “That’s enough,” he says, thinned. “If I read one more attempt to distinguish Williams v Roffey, I shall take to my bed for a week.”

Alex huffs. He stands, because if he stays he will say something he cannot put back. “Come on,” he says, binning the empty Haribo. “I’ll walk you out. Guard you from rogue doctrines.”

George stands too, blanket sliding. Alex catches and folds it badly; George folds it properly, which is them in one movement. They both reach for the lamp and both stop. The room holds its breath.

“Leave the stars out,” Alex says, like a promise he isn’t sure he’s allowed to make.

George looks at the sheet—the tiny stars that started a small holy disaster. “I will.”

He steps aside, polite to the last. Their shoulders brush. It feels like a first word said into a waiting mouth.

At the doorway Alex pauses. He chooses helpful bravery. He looks back: tie loosened, hair still neat, a star bright above the open collar like a joke and a vow.

“Hey,” Alex says, soft and a little wrecked. “You’re doing well.”

George’s mouth trembles like he might laugh, like he might not. “Outstanding effort?” he offers, dry and self-mocking.

Alex swallows. “Yeah,” he says. “That.”

“I- I'll see you tomorrow, Alex..”

They stand and look at each other like a study in necessary suffering. Then Alex turns left into the hall and George flicks off the lamp, and the law building becomes a dark river. He turns right and it's a curse that they parked on the opposite ends of campus.

Halfway to the stairs, Alex presses a palm to his hand and finds the ghost of adhesive where a star used to be. He thinks about the blanket, Earl Grey, and the way George said don’t say that like he meant please say it again. He stops at the stairwell and breathes like a man surfacing.

He texts without properly looking: — left you the rest of the haribo. eat them or i’m calling the dean — gold star for surviving tuesday — another one for not throwing me out

Bubbles appear. Disappear. Appear.

George: — Thank you for the sweets. — Please do not call the Dean. — And…good night, Alex.

Alex stares at the last message until the screen dims. He can picture George—his stupid wool coat in the wind, fishing for his car keys while texting him. He also imagines leaning across the desk tomorrow, not to tease, not to award, but to test the heat of that blush with his mouth. He imagines George looking at him the way he did tonight—wrecked, restrained, already halfway gone.

“Yes, doing it. You did not want the world to know you are doing it with him.”

Alex stares.

Carlos chews his lip. “Are you doing it with him or are you not doing it with him?”

“Okay. To be…quite clear. You saw all that and your takeaway was that I’m…fucking…Oscar Piastri.”

“No, no, no. Alex, no. No. No. I am asking if you are fucking Piastri. I am not sure.”

“Oh my god. I didn’t know it was his! Obviously I didn’t know it was his. Mate, what is wrong with you?”

“I don’t understand. You just tackled a strange GPDA meeting goose not knowing whose it was?”

“It”—Alex gestures wildly in his best imitation of a plumaceous explosion—“appeared in the empty seat between me and Oscar. I thought it was mine! And it was”—he gestures again to the lectern at the front of the room George and Carlos were standing at when the climacteric occurred, calling them to imminently-obliterated order—“going to charge!”

The goose had bowed its head and spread its wings, throat maliciously clicking, serrated tongue wagging, locked onto—surely it had been locked onto—unless it—

Carlos places a warm hand over Alex’s shoulder that may have become dislocated in the goosian tussle, something he can only imagine from the outside looked like a spinning dust cloud with limbs and wings sticking out, @#$% swearing symbols floating above. “Alex…do you…do you want to do it with me?”

𓅬

George finds Alex in the paddock before practice. He’s pale, sweating and swallowing too much, long throat constantly dipping down and up like the Eiffel Tower lift. “They, er, got a containment box for it. So you don’t need to worry about Oscar’s goose seeking revenge or anything.”

Soulmate geese are supposed to be insuperable, unstoppable and uncontainable. “How did they—”

George leans closer. “Rumour is the box is made of other soulmate geese.”

Alex laughs. “That’s vile. That’s heinous.”

“Yeah, dreadful. Really appalling.” But George is smiling, finally looking a little more like himself. “Why did—did you—did—”

“I’ve got to go, yeah?” Alex pats George’s shoulder like he’s cosplaying Carlos Sainz thinking everyone wants to fuck him. “Stay groovy.”

By the end of FP2, Alex, George, Carlos, and Oscar will have all crashed out. No one’s groovy.

𓅬

Before FP3, Alex catches Carlos using an engineer’s computer to visit what looks like a Paleolithic Geocities page called WILD GOOSE CHASE. When Alex sneaks the URL into his own phone, it fails to load. He has to request the desktop version, something Carlos clearly failed to do. Not unexpected—he keeps trying to tap the screen of the engineer’s computer like an iPad.

The website provides advice for 13 year olds in 2008 on how to attract someone else’s soulmate goose. One of the tips is to imitate a goose call when nearby. They recommend buying a wooden birdcall, but as their team walks by the McLaren garage, Carlos makes a startling ululating sound from his own mouth that causes a passing Ollie Bearman to leap out of his skin. Carlos explains it away as, “Spanish for good luck.”

𓅬

The next day, Carlos asks to borrow Alex's phone right before they head out for the anthem. He googles ‘what do geese eat’ and ‘granola bar ok for goose to eat.’ Reading the search history immediately after getting his phone back, Alex says, “They’re keeping it in a cage of dead geese. Do you think a granola bar would—”

“What! They—why would they!” Carlos looks utterly appalled.

“Mate, it’s McLaren. They’d keep you in a dead goose cage.”

“I will fix this,” Carlos assures with the misplaced confidence of someone who can use incognito mode. “Alex, I will fix.”

“I know you will,” Alex simpers back.

Carlos rubs his own neck. “I am flattered, Alex, but you must know that object of my affection is—”

“Oh my god, I’m fucking with you!” Alex raises his palms, shoulders at his earlobes. “Literally, why are you like this?”

Carlos grins. “I will fix.”

𓅬

Carlos doesn’t show up to the anthem.

It’s—brave. Alex will give him that. It’s stupid, but it’s brave.

Beside Alex, George is getting sunburned, giraffe throat turning pink. Alex should have brought an umbrella or something. A parasol. He should be George’s parasol bitch. If Carlos can free an evil soulmate goose from a trap of goose corpses, Alex can carry some fucking sunscreen. And he can tell the truth of the GPDA meeting anserine attack. He can say it.

George says, “Reckon Carlos’s got diarrhea again.”

The goose, freed from its morbid confinement,  flaps to the paddock squawking like a beast from hell.

Oscar says, “Oh fuck.”

Alex cheers, fist pumping.

Its jagged bill clamps around Oscar’s ear. It drags him away, wings flapping.

“Did those look like granola bar crumbs on its claws?” Alex wonders.

George blinks in the direction of the goose’s snarls and Oscar’s Oh god, please don’ts. “I think it’s a carnivore.”

Alex says, “I want to protect you from the sun.”

George turns to blink at him. He laughs, “Thanks, mate.”

“No…until the sun burns out or something.”

“Like…photostable sunscreen,” George offers. “Good from dawn till dusk.”

“That’s in no way what I mean. You’re incredibly wrong.”

George smiles, bemused.

A goose honks happily somewhere in the distance.

“Mm.” Carlos pads closer, leaving small damp circles in his wake. “Our floor.”

“That’s not a defence,” Oscar says. He keeps his eyes on the laptop, but his peripheral vision is traitorous. Carlos is golden and ridiculous and far too close.

Carlos leans over him. A drop falls on Oscar’s forearm, sliding toward his wrist.

“Carlos.”

“Yes?”

“Stop that.”

Carlos smiles, slow and pleased, as though that’s exactly the point. He picks up the tea towel from the armrest of the couch, where Oscar had abandoned it while drying the dishes standing up watching TV, and does nothing useful with it. Just rubs his hair in a way that sends more water flying. One drop lands on the corner of the trackpad. Oscar closes the laptop before it can drown.

“I am drying,” Carlos announces.

“You’re making it worse.”

Carlos tilts his head. His hair sends another drip straight down the back of Oscar’s T-shirt collar. The sound Oscar makes isn’t dignified.

“Better?” Carlos asks, dead serious.

Oscar shoves him weakly in the ribs. His hand comes away damp. “You’re an idiot.”

Carlos hums, which is his victory noise. He drops onto the couch beside Oscar, towel holding on by sheer optimism. The cushion sighs under the extra weight.

“Don’t sit on the couch like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like—” Oscar gestures vaguely at all of him. “Wet. Naked adjacent.”

Carlos considers this. “It is clean wet.”

“There’s not categories of wet.”

“There are,” Carlos says, already leaning back, already spreading out as though towels are perfectly respectable attire. “Rain wet. Mud wet. Clean wet. I am clean wet.”

Oscar stares at him for a moment, then looks back at the laptop he hasn’t actually reopened. “You’re unbearable.”

Carlos makes himself comfortable, which in practice means making Oscar less comfortable. His knee presses against Oscar’s. His arm brushes the back of the sofa and nearly lands around Oscar’s shoulders before he decides it’s too much effort to lift it all the way.

The room goes quiet again. Not heavy quiet, just the kind that slots in easily, like it belongs there. The fridge ticks. A car passes outside with a lazy whoosh.

Oscar lets himself glance sideways. Carlos’s eyes are half-closed, his hair sticking to his forehead in damp strands. The towel is still defying gravity, somehow. His chest rises and falls like he hasn’t thought about it once in his life.

It’s ridiculous, Oscar thinks. All of it. How something this ordinary can feel like standing at the centre of the universe.

Carlos opens one eye, catching him looking. “What?”

“Nothing,” Oscar says too quickly.

Carlos hums again, the victory noise but softer. He shifts, turning until his head drops onto Oscar’s shoulder. Wer hair presses against his T-shirt. Oscar makes another noise of protest, quieter this time.

“You’re wet,” he says again, because it’s the only thing left to say.

“Clean wet,” Carlos repeats, smug and already half-asleep against him.

Oscar doesn’t push him off. He doesn’t open the laptop again either. He just sits there with damp spreading across his shoulder, thinking, This is it. This is everything.

After a while, Carlos mutters, “You are smiling.”

“I’m not,” Oscar says automatically.

“You are,” Carlos says into his shoulder, words muffled but certain. “It is good.”

Carlos doesn’t stay put. He never does.

One second his head is heavy on Oscar’s shoulder. The next, he shifts— and suddenly he’s half on top of him, towel clinging to his hips by sheer luck.

Oscar exhales like someone who knew this was inevitable. “You’re—heavy.”

“Strong,” Carlos corrects, settling in.

“You’re getting me all wet.”

“Clean wet,” Carlos says for the third time just to annoy him, grinning.

Oscar glares, but it doesn’t have much force. Carlos braces a palm against Oscar’s chest, leaning closer, his weight pressing Oscar into the cushions.

“You’re soaking me like laundry,” Oscar mutters.

“Then I must wring you out,” Carlos says, deliberately shaking his hair again so cold droplets scatter across Oscar’s throat.

Oscar shudders. “That’s vile.”

“Romantic,” Carlos insists. His mouth is far too close now, his grin dangerous.

Oscar tries for another dry comment, but Carlos is already pinning his wrists lightly above his head, leaning in until the towel threatens to give up completely.

“This isn’t—” Oscar starts, then falters when Carlos’s nose brushes his jaw. His pulse betrays him.

Carlos hums, pleased. “Yes, it is.”

They wrestle, half-hearted but relentless. Oscar twists, trying to get leverage, but Carlos uses his weight shamelessly, pressing him deeper into the cushions. The towel loosens another inch.

Oscar groans. “You’re not winning, gravity is winning, by the way.”

“I am winning,” Carlos says.

“You’re seconds away from indecent exposure.”

Carlos smirks. “Exposure is indecent only if you are in public and not handsome. I am home and you would have ripped that towel off anyway!”

Oscar stares flatly. “I’m calling the landlord.”

“For what?”

“Water damage. And harassment.”

Carlos grins wider. “They will be jealous.”

Oscar tries not to laugh. He fails.

The laughter breaks into something else when Carlos finally leans down, sealing his mouth against Oscar’s.

The kiss is slow but deep, damp hair brushing his cheek, water dripping down his neck. Carlos kisses like it’s inevitable, like the whole evening has been leading here. Oscar goes still for half a second, then opens up, answering back with equal weight. His wrists slip free of Carlos’s loose hold, but instead of pushing him away, his hands slide up, finding damp skin and warm muscle.

Carlos makes a pleased sound, kissing him harder, pressing closer. The towel is fighting a losing battle.

When they break apart, both are breathing unevenly. Carlos’s grin is crooked, bright.

Oscar eyes him, steady. “Your towel’s gone.”

Carlos doesn’t look down, knowing it’s true. “Perfect,” he says, voice low and amused. “Now nothing is between us.”

Oscar sighs, tilting his head back against the sofa. “I hate you.”

Carlos dips to kiss him again, wetter this time, laughing into his mouth.

Sure, he'd been annoyed when Carlos apparently couldn't stop crashing into him his rookie season, but that was on the track. Off the track, Carlos was loud and touchy and always trying way too hard to make Lando laugh and – okay, still annoying. Maybe even more annoying than he was on the track, because at least when they were driving, Oscar couldn't hear Carlos's bad jokes.

Then one night at a club towards the end of last season, Carlos had looked at Oscar, and Oscar had looked at him, and the next thing Oscar remembered they were in the back of a cab, they were tripping through the door to Oscar's apartment, Carlos's breath hot on his face. Carlos's hand was clenched tight in the front of Oscar's shirt as he said, "You can push me a bit. I like it."

Oscar, ears still ringing from the club, had said, "What?"

Carlos had yanked Oscar's shirt harder, making Oscar stumble right into him, one final collision that set Oscar's life careening wildly off course.

It wasn't like Oscar had planned on falling for another driver. Not that there were any feelings involved in what they were doing. None that they talked about, anyway.

Still holding Carlos's wrist behind his back, Oscar straddled him, grinding slowly against the curve of his ass. Carlos let out a wet, choked gasp, writhing beneath him. He went still when Oscar put a hand on the back of his neck, fingers curved up around his skull. For a few seconds Carlos was entirely limp beneath him, the room quiet but for the sound of his open-mouthed breathing.

Then Carlos shifted beneath him, trying to twist his arm out of Oscar's grip. Oscar pressed down on the side of his head, grinding his face into the carpet. The whine Carlos let out at that was long, high-pitched, glorious. His blood sang a thundering chorus in his ears.

Carlos always brought out the worst in him.

It was addictive, the way he always had to fight for it. The way that Carlos fought back – that he never held back, either, pushing Oscar just as hard as Oscar pushed him. Carlos left him bruised and sore, made him earn it every time. It was the thrill of the chase, distilled into a few hours, sprinkled over the course of the season.

They never really planned it, which only made Oscar crave it more. One weekend over the winter they'd run into each other at a padel court in Monaco. Oscar had lost his match because he couldn't stop looking over at Carlos on the other side of the court, grinning, pushing his sweaty hair out of his face. That evening Oscar had tracked down Carlos's apartment – not hard when everyone knew everyone else in the country – and bent Carlos over the back of his sofa.

And after, Carlos hadn't spoken to him until they ran into each other a month later at pre-season testing.

So, no feelings, no fuss. It was better that way.

Oscar cupped his palm over Carlos's ass and squeezed, appreciating the soft give of muscle before he hooked his fingers in Carlos's pants and pulled them down just enough to expose him. Carlos shivered, his hips twitching, shoulders shifting like he still hasn't given up on getting Oscar off him.

Probably, Oscar wouldn't push so hard if Carlos wasn't so obviously torn up about it. He kept glancing up at him with those wide, dark eyes, mouth open and panting, dropping open wider when Oscar reaches for his own trousers.

Carlos kept his hand right where it was against the small of his back. Right where Oscar put him.

As Oscar drew his cock out and stroked himself, Carlos whined, working his hips shamelessly against the floor. Oscar hadn't been particularly careful when he'd pulled Carlos's pants down, and he could only imagine the way his cock must be trapped.

Oscar grabbed him by the hips and pulled him back, holding him still with his ass in the air. His legs twitched, shifting restlessly, uselessly. "Oscar, please," Carlos moaned.

When he asked like that, who was Oscar to refuse him?

With both hands on Carlos's ass, Oscar spread him open and leaned in just enough for Carlos to feel the tip of his cock pressing against him. Carlos let out a panicky gasp and pulled away, only to press back a moment later. Carlos was always so bad at hiding what he really wanted.

"Oscar, you can't," Carlos said, his hand curled in a tight fist against his back.

"Mm, can't I?" Oscar slowly rubbed the head of his cock over Carlos's hole, staring at the way he twitched and shuddered.

"We have... tomorrow, it is –" Carlos yelped as Oscar pressed his thumb to his hole, right below his cock, slowly leaking but not nearly enough to actually fuck Carlos.

Oscar hummed like he was really thinking about it. If they didn't have qualifying tomorrow, he wondered if Carlos really would let him do it – work Carlos open with his cock, the incredible heat of him even tighter as his body gave way for Oscar.

The thought alone made Oscar moan, biting his lip uselessly to try and keep quiet.

He ducked his head and let a fat glob of spit fall from his lips onto Carlos, sliding down between his cheeks, over his hole. Then Oscar shifted his grip on Carlos's hips and rubbed his cock over the same trail, fucking the tight channel between his cheeks.

Nothing felt as good as being inside Carlos, but this was close.

Carlos certainly reacted like Oscar was actually inside him. He never stayed still or quiet, grinding back against Oscar. Every few strokes, Oscar's cock would catch on the rim of Carlos's hole, and Carlos would groan, loud and wanton. The rooms on either side of his must know exactly what he's up to.

Oscar clutched at him tighter, hips working faster, pressing him harder against the carpet as though that would shut him up. If anything, it had the opposite effect. Carlos went rigid beneath him, his face twisted in pleasure as he came, grinding against the floor.

Carlos may never have gone out of his way for this, but he could never hide how completely desperate it made him. And that desperation never failed to make Oscar lose his goddamn mind.

He shoved Carlos's shirt up as much as he could with Carlos boneless on the floor, so that when Oscar came a moment later, it splattered up his spine, gleaming against his tan skin.

"I have carpet burn on my face," Carlos said, his cheek still pressed against the floor.

"You're the one who shoved me," Oscar said. His knees were aching, shins gone numb from being bent under him for so long. None of that mattered.

"You pulled me down with you," Carlos said.

That, Oscar couldn't dispute. "What, next time you want to do this in a bed? Is that what you're asking?"

They never talked about feelings. They never planned their hookups. And they certainly never mentioned doing it again, though Oscar certainly didn't want this to end, and he was fairly certain Carlos didn't, either.

Carlos was uncharacteristically quiet. "A blanket, at least," he said eventually.

Everyone knows they’re the most competitive; the camp would list without their daily tug-of-war. Junior counselors take bets and call it “tracking morale.” The kids trade legends: Carlos once swam across the lake at midnight to steal 81’s flag; Oscar trained a squirrel as a courier. Dubious.

Today’s capture the flag has the bright, metallic charge of weather even though the sky is clear. A chalked field unfurls between cabins and woods. Far end: 55’s base, guarded by hulking fourteen-year-olds rumored to be licensed to drive farm machinery. Near end: 81’s base, a nest of milk crates and a lifeguard chair that makes an excellent throne.

Oscar climbs the chair with a megaphone and a whistle. The head counselor raises a red flag. “No tackling, no tripping, no weapons that aren’t foam,” she drones, while both cabins nod emphatically and palm fistfuls of grass.

When she lowers the flag, the world tilts.

Eighty-one fan out. Rhea and Vic tear down the left boundary; Zeke, small and fast, becomes a blur. Carlos whistles, low, and 55 rearranges mid-charge like sliding gears. They’re good. Oscar knew they’d be good. It still stings to see them intercept Rhea’s feint that cleanly.

He hits the grass running. He shouldn’t be this invested in a game for 13 year olds. It’s not about the score. (It’s absolutely about the score.)

“Eyes up, 81!” he calls, cutting toward the tangle around 55’s flag. “Zeke, now.”

Zeke erupts from a shrub like a goblin from a log. He snatches the flag in a grubby fist. Carlos moves—chooses the angle, the step, the swoop of his arm to tag—surgical. Oscar’s mouth outruns his feet.

“Ah-ah—no shoulder contact, Counselor Sainz,” he sing-songs, sliding between Carlos and Zeke like a half-shut door. Carlos’s palm grazes Oscar’s hip instead of Zeke’s shoulder. Zeke squirts past like a bar of soap.

Carlos huffs, amused. “Flimsy call, Counselor Piastri.”

Oscar grins despite himself. “Take it up with the ref. Oh wait, that’s me.”

“Already stained with corruption.” Carlos’s eyes are hot and bright. Sweat darkens his back; the tee clings and shows winged shoulder blades. Oscar has never once considered biting a name off a shirt before today.

Zeke becomes a streak going home. A 55 defender misses by inches. Zeke lifts the flag like a torch; 81 erupts as if they won the World Cup. Oscar lets the scrum swallow him, shins knotted with friendship bracelets, hair mauled by sticky hands. When he surfaces, dazed and victorious, Carlos lounges on the boundary rope, sighing like 55 scored for 81 out of boredom.

“Congratulations,” Carlos calls, voice smooth, carrying. “First to five?”

“Ten,” Oscar shoots back.

“An optimist.”

“A winner,” Oscar says, and winks, petty and triumphant.

The game becomes a bright loop—feints, rescues, wrists caught and released before tags land. Rhea outmaneuvers a taller guard by pretending to tie her shoe, then bolts; Oscar’s thighs ache; the sun leans like a watchful eye. Points trade like shards of glass. The kids shine with focus that melts headaches. Even the head counselor yells herself hoarse for 81 when Zeke pulls a truly outrageous back-door move possibly inspired by Oscar telling him. Possibly. Oscar says nothing.

They end at nine-nine, the only civilized score, everyone raw-throated and grass-stained. Dinner is a roar. The mess hall thrums with victory and defeat stories. 81 and 55 intermix over spaghetti, swapping garlic bread and drawing arrows on napkins for the next match even though tomorrow is hiking and then archery. These kids hold grudges like relics. Jasper from 55 balances a fork on his nose and declares 55 played with honor, unlike 81 who colluded with squirrels. Oscar flicks a crumb at him and reminds him to hydrate.

Carlos appears by the industrial lemonade jug and pushes a plastic cup into Oscar’s hand. “You looked good out there,” he says lightly, like complimenting a rental car. “Interesting interpretation of the rules.”

“Thank you,” Oscar says, mouth cotton-dry despite endless lemonade. “You looked like you considered tackling a child.”

Carlos puts a hand to his chest. “I would never. My lawyers would never allow it.”

Oscar decides not to ask. There’s a green smudge on Carlos’s cheek—grass or face paint—and Oscar has the physical sensation of his hand moving before he hears himself.

“You’ve got—” He lifts two fingers to wipe the smudge, stops just short. Hovers. Carlos goes very still, then tips his face that fraction closer so Oscar’s fingers could find skin on an exhale.

“Do I?” Carlos asks, soft.

“Never mind.” Oscar withdraws with a hand that shakes. “It’s your natural glow.”

Carlos’s smile curves slow. “Maybe I should see the referee after all. I feel robbed, no?”

Oscar flees to the dish return with grave dignity.

-

Night drops fast. Camp hushes in the particular way it only does after flashlight checks: fire pit a scatter of embers, the lake licking shore like an animal asleep. Counselors meet, murmur schedules and sunscreen, then split to patrol shadows. Oscar does his rounds, counts heads, untangles a sleepover pile where three boys fell asleep mid-UNO with cards glued to their cheeks. He’s writing a note to teach actual knots tomorrow when the knock comes.

Maya from 55—tiny, fire-eyed, hoodie zipped to her nose. “Counselor Piastri—sorry.” She bounces on her toes with panic that spills into the hall. “We can’t find Jasper.”

Every nerve in Oscar draws tight. He stands so fast the chair creaks. “What do you mean? Where was he last seen?”

“Bathrooms. He said he forgot his water bottle after campfire and—” She swallows. “We looked, but—”

“Who’s ‘we’?”

“Me and Noah and Sofia—Carlos sent me to get you because you know the east trail and—” Fear tumbles her sentences.

Easiest decision in the world. “Stay with 55,” Oscar says, already grabbing his flashlight, hauling on his hoodie. “Make sure everyone’s accounted for. Tell Counselor Sainz I’m on my way.”

Outside: damp air, pine, moon a scrim behind cloud. 55’s cabin is a hush of silhouettes. Carlos on the steps, speaking low into his walkie like service might be conjured. Relief flashes across his face when he sees Oscar, then steadies into something that steadies Oscar.

“I checked the bathhouse and path,” Carlos says. “He is not answering. Batteries on those radios are—” He spreads his hands. The green smudge is gone. Humidity curls his hair at the temples. “Mierda…You know the east loop.”

“I do,” Oscar says. “We’ll sweep it. How long?”

“Twenty minutes.”

“Then we catch him.” Oscar swings his beam like a sword. “Bathrooms to east trail makes sense if he wanted a shortcut and got spooked.”

They move fast. Protocol says wake the head counselor and file an incident report before stepping past lantern light. Oscar knows. He also knows the window between scare and problem is slim. Fence, rule—he knows when to step over.

“Left,” Carlos says at the fork just as Oscar says, “Right.”

They stop. Look at each other. He has the map in his pocket as a joke of competence. He hates the thought of a kid frightened in the dark; he hates how every shadow sharpens.

“Right is shorter,” Oscar says. “Hooks to the creek. They hide there sometimes. He could be sitting on a rock feeling extremely sorry for himself.”

“Left is wider,” Carlos says, calm. “If he twisted an ankle, he’d choose it. And the creek is noisy—he would answer.”

“Not if he’s embarrassed. He’d pretend to be a tree.”

Carlos’s mouth twitches. “Your campers do that often.”

“They’re committed to the bit.”

“Fine. Right first.” He yields, and Oscar is absurdly grateful for the small win.

The woods eat the camp in three steps. Light gets swallowed. The path is damp; sneakers skid on old needles. “Jasper!” Oscar calls. The trees give the name back wrong.

They walk. They call. Every minute presses at Oscar’s ribs. He inventories moods and memorizes allergies and plans games in his sleep—he is good at this—he does not lose kids. That phrase tolls inside his head: I don’t lose my kids.

“Maybe he went left,” Carlos says quietly after ten useless minutes.

“Maybe.” The path dips toward the gossiping creek. Moon drags a rag of cloud over its face. Oscar steadies himself on a trunk; moss is cool under his palm. Part of him could dissolve into this night—the held silence, damp earth rising. Another part is wire.

“You okay?” Carlos asks. Not pitying; present.

“I’m fine,” Oscar says, and hears the falseness. “Kids pull pranks. It’s part of it. He’s twelve. He—he cried at flying ants.”

“He did,” Carlos agrees softly.

They reach the creek. A log bridges it. Earlier in the week five campers named it King Crunch and swore fealty by handfuls. It glistens dark. Oscar shines into the water. “Jasper?” he calls. “Buddy, we’re not mad.”

The creek continues being a creek.

They turn. The trail forks, then forks again. When Oscar looks up, the space between trees is wrong—not daytime-wrong with bark scabs and a tilted pine, but wrong like the world has slid half a foot sideways.

Carlos stops. “That tree was there before, no?”

“That’s not comforting.”

“You are right.” He smiles, dry. “We’re lost.”

“No,” Oscar says reflexively. His chest cinches. “We’re not—”

Carlos lifts his hands. “We are temporarily uncertain about our position relative to camp.”

“Better,” Oscar grinds.

“Oscar.”

The way Carlos says his name in his accent is like a hand on the inside of a wrist. Oscar exhales and hears the high whistle of his own adrenaline.

“I don’t lose them,” he says. Low. “That’s my one thing, all right? They can steal my whistle and paint a face on a melon and call it Counselor Oscar and make him a little hat. I can coach the entire planet through the existential despair of learning fireflies are just bugs. But I don’t—” The flashlight’s circle trembles. “I don’t lose my kids.”

“Hey.” Carlos steps into the soft edge of light, his daytime performance stripped away, leaving earnest bone and intent. “We have not lost anyone. If this is a prank, they will clean every canoe with a toothbrush. If it is not, we keep walking and shouting until he answers and then carry him home. Okay?”

A reckless laugh catches in Oscar’s throat. “A toothbrush.”

“And the canoes will shine,” Carlos says solemnly.

“You’re annoying.”

“Thank you.” He glances left-right. Oscar’s shoulder bumps his as he gestures, and the bump becomes something else because Carlos’s hand catches his sleeve. Not pulling. Anchoring. Contact as compass.

Oscar startles like he’s been caught stealing. Which he has, all summer—glances, moments, the warm chew of envy when Carlos high-fives his cabin and their faces turn like sunflowers, the buzz under Oscar’s ribs when both of them end a day grinning. He thinks of the almost-touch by the lemonade and feels like a coward.

“You don’t have to—” he starts.

“I want to,” Carlos says, and before Oscar can do anything, Carlos steps closer and the dark folds around them like breath held. He smells like grass and cheap soap. His eyes look almost black. His hand on Oscar’s sleeve tightens in a question.

Oscar answers with his mouth.

They grin into it first—misjudge angles in the dark, collide lightly with their noses—then Carlos’s palm finds Oscar’s jaw and Oscar’s fingers slide into Carlos’s hair and the kiss deepens, lemonade and summer bright on his tongue. A small laugh vibrates in Carlos’s throat; Oscar swallows it greedily. The woods hush, attentive. The creek slows to listen.

Gentle and greedy at once. Exactly the thing Oscar has loudly pretended not to want.

Carlos breaks first, resting his forehead to Oscar’s. “I might,” he says, voice rough, “have wanted to do that since week one.”

“Week one?” Oscar manages. “Coward.”

“Hypocrite,” Carlos murmurs, smiling. “Obviously terrified of you.”

Oscar snorts—and the world snaps rudely back into the frame. “Jasper.” Responsibility is a cold fist. “No. We have to—this is the worst thing that has ever happened to me because I don’t lose my kids, and I’m not—God—I refuse to be kissing people in the woods while one of mine is—”

“Hey,” Carlos says again, warm as a palm to the nape. “You are right. We find him. Then you can kiss me again while we make him clean a canoe.”

“Two canoes,” Oscar says, trying to gather his dignity off the forest floor. He squeezes Carlos’s arm, quick, secret, then steps back. “Right path to the bend, then loop. If not, we double back left and—what?”

Carlos is aiming his flashlight at a low branch. Tied to the twig with a care that makes Oscar’s heart do an ugly leap: a white friendship-bracelet string. Placed at kids height. Behind it, fresh scrape in the dirt.

“Oh,” Carlos says, mouth twitching.

“Subtle,” Oscar says, fury and relief crashing through him. He wants to strangle and kiss half the camp. “They breadcrumbed us?”

Twenty paces later: a fluorescent orange string. Then pink. The trail curves; camp lights begin to seep through trees like a warm spill.

“Those little—” Oscar starts, then clamps down. He is the adult; his job is to shepherd chaos, not be devoured by it. “They’re grounded.”

“It’s camp,” Carlos says cheerfully. “We can assign…enriching chores.”

“Enriching,” Oscar repeats faintly.

The final marker is a rainbow scrunchie with a note pinned in a dozen chaotic handwritings: SORRY OSCAR DON’T BE MAD WE LOVE YOU <3 and, in aggressive block letters, IT WAS A SOCIAL EXPERIMENT.

They step out of the trees to a semicircle of campers under the porch light, all attempting chastened and failing. Jasper stands front and center with a towel around his shoulders like a TV trauma victim. Maya vibrates at his side. Zeke has his guilty squirrel face on. Behind them: a poster board that reads 81 + 55 and a truly awful stick-figure drawing of two counselors holding hands in front of the canoe rack.

Oscar stops dead. His mouth opens.

Jasper steps forward, then flinches at Oscar’s face. “We didn’t really go into the woods,” he blurts. “I was behind the woodpile the whole time and Maya told you so you would—um—because—” He rubs his neck. “Because you two needed to talk.”

“Talk?” Oscar says, hollow.

“Or have a movie moment,” Maya whispers. “You know.”

“We watched that romcom night,” someone adds helpfully. “With the rain and the yelling.”

“And the kissing,” Zeke says, very quietly, like offering evidence.

Oscar presses his hands to his eyes and counts to ten in three languages. When he lowers them, he is still the counselor with a flashlight and a jittering heart and a job.

“You gave me a fright,” he says, and the word lands truer than anything else inside him. “A real, bad fright. You do not fake emergencies. Ever. If something had gone wrong while we were—if we were elsewhere because of a prank—” He shakes his head to disperse the leftover adrenaline. “Never again. Do you understand me? Never.”

A ragged chorus of yes, Counselor Piastri rolls through the group. A few kick at the dirt. Jasper’s eyes shine. Maya looks close to truly crying. Oscar feels mean for exactly a second; then he reminds himself firmness and kindness are not opposites.

“The bracelet string was a nice touch,” Carlos says mildly into the silence. “You will still get chores.”

Heads lift with cautious hope. The edge of Oscar’s anger eases; of course Carlos is already diffusing, redirecting, putting things back in boxes. He leans against the porch post, hands stuffed in pockets, half-grin in place like none of this rocked him. Oscar wants to shove him. Oscar wants to kiss him again. Both simultaneously, perhaps.

“It was a trap for your own good,” Zeke offers, footnote-style. “But it worked, right?”

“The goal of camp is not to trap your counselors,” Oscar says with the dignity of a man who will lie awake later replaying the soft give of Carlos’s mouth and cannot hang that on a bulletin board. “It’s to trap memories. Or something. I don’t know. Go to bed.”

“It did work, though,” Maya breathes to the air, like a wish.

Carlos laughs, low and warm, and the sound ripples through the kids like wind. “Maybe,” he allows, and all heads swivel like owls. “But you are still cleaning canoes. And the mess hall floor. And you are apologizing to the head counselor in the morning.”

Groans. Biblical in scope.

“And,” Oscar adds, because he is himself, “you’ll come to a talk about safety and accountability and ‘movie moments’ that will be, I promise, extremely boring.”

They drag feet, but they go. One by one the porch empties. Maya lingers to blur a tearful sorry into Oscar’s shoulder, then scuttles off. Zeke, last, pauses at the top step, glances between them, and says, very conspiratorially, “We also have a collage,” before bolting when Oscar makes a strangled noise.

Silence folds back over the cabins. The porch light hums. The lake breathes. Oscar stares at a knot in the railing until his vision blurs, then exhales everything he’s been holding.

“Are you going to write me up for protocol violation?” he asks, not turning.

“Absolutely,” Carlos says gravely, stepping close so their shoulders touch. “Under the section about kissing on duty.”

“Oh my God.” Oscar lets his head tip to thump lightly against Carlos’s. “We’re going to hear about this for the rest of the summer.”

“For the rest of our lives,” Carlos corrects, like that would be fine.

“Don’t,” Oscar says, because his smile is coming and it will be humiliating. It comes anyway. He is—unavoidably, finally—happy. He’s not trading it for pride.

Carlos’s hand finds his, quiet and unperformed. Warm. “Next time,” he says, promise-soft, “we choose the left path.”

Oscar considers left and right and the fact that every path, miraculously, has led here. He squeezes Carlos’s fingers once, a small oath.

Oscar can’t help but laugh at that and Carlos sinks back in his little couch, obviously pleased with himself. 

“You okay?” Oscar asks. When he sits down, Carlos hooks his ankle under Oscar’s legs, lifts until he can pull Oscar’s feet into his lap, Oscar dutifully twisting until his back is against the arm rest.

“It is better, no?” Carlos says. “When it is my own fault. Gambled on the rain set-up and lost, it is what it is.”

“Yeah, not to mention you gave yourself that six second pit stop,” Oscar says, pushing his heel into the meat of Carlos’s inner thigh. Carlos squeezes Oscar’s ankle and rolls his eyes. For a second, Oscar thinks it’s not theatrical, just annoyed, but Carlos sighs dramatically, grinning lopsidedly afterwards. 

“I have to make it interesting for myself one way or another,” he says and Oscar feels a wild rush of desperate affection for him and his shit, rotten luck. It’d been good, seeing Carlos preen over his P6 in the sprint yesterday, made Oscar embarrassingly feel less embarrassed about being pipped in the first turn. He’d even gone over to Carlos’s driver’s room before the race, unable to stop himself like a lovesick puppy and getting caught too, to make matters worse. Not your smoothest operation 😂 Carlos had texted him, with a link to Williams’ Twitter account. But somehow Carlos’s endless well of misfortune hasn’t shown signs of running dry and it makes Oscar feel like he’s a sheet of paper getting crumpled into a ball, watching Carlos approve Instagram caption after Instagram caption with different configurations of we go again next week! 

“Are you going to change your flight?” Carlos asks, cupping Oscar’s calf and digging his thumb into a sore knot. “Party with the team?”

“Nah,” Oscar says. “They have me in the sim on Tuesday and then Hungary Wednesday, so if I don’t fly back now I won’t even have 24 hours at home.”

“We will celebrate in Monaco,” Carlos wiggles his eyebrows and Oscar smiles, trying to not make it too soft. Throughout the flight, Carlos is relaxed, watching the Euros final on his phone with Teto and Oscar tells himself to stop scanning the aisle next to him as if Carlos is going to break down mid-air on a KLM flight. Carlos comes home with Oscar without asking and they eat a quick dinner of pan con tomate (made by Carlos; perfect) and fried egg (made by Oscar; the less said about it, the better). Just when Carlos starts scrolling Netflix, Oscar’s mum calls. He excuses himself to go to the balcony, listens to her excited rambling as he distractedly tracks boats drifting into the Monaco harbour. After a few minutes, Oscar turns around trying to see whether Carlos is still scrolling or he has to wrap up this phone call, but Carlos isn’t fiddling with the remote. Oscar can’t see his face, but he can see Carlos’s fingers pinching the bridge of his nose and the tired slump of his shoulders, enough to make Oscar’s chest go tight so quickly his next breath feels raspy. 

Oscar makes himself turn away so he can tell his mum he needs to go and to tell his sisters he’ll call them tomorrow. When he slides the balcony doors open to return back inside, Carlos has his legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankle, some dumb action movie on the screen. He’s all loose again, gesturing at the TV with the remote and a questioning look on his face. Carlos has barely opened his mouth when Oscar drops down in his lap and Carlos’s hands come up around his hips. 

“You promised me a celebration,” Oscar says, doing the only thing he can think to do. “Didn’t you?”

“Hmm, I did,” Carlos murmurs, running his hands up Oscar’s sides. “Winner’s choice, eh?”

Oscar kisses him, slow and messy. “Fuck me,” he says against Carlos’s mouth. “C’mon, I want it.”

“Yes,” Carlos gasps out, wrapping an arm around Oscar’s waist and grabbing his ass with the other so he can haul him up and carry him to the bedroom, a feat that Oscar always likes more than he thinks he should. Oscar forces himself through the deeply-instilled instinct to swallow his sounds when Carlos opens him up, lets himself gasp and moan and whimper. When Carlos pushes into him, Oscar groans open-mouthed, curling his legs around Carlos to pull him flush against Oscar.

“Yeah, fuck,” Oscar sighs as Carlos bottoms out. “Been thinking about this since I crossed the finish line.”

Carlos shudders and mouths at Oscar’s throat, rolling his hips slowly.

“You’re so fucking good,” Oscar says against the crown of Carlos’s head. “That’s it, baby.” 

“Oscar,” Carlos whines, but his thrusts go jagged, working himself deeper and deeper inside Oscar.

“You’re doing so well,” Oscar says, kissing the side of Carlos’s head. He’s horrible at dirty talk, always has been, but he makes do with what he has. “So good for me.” 

A raw sound wrenches out of Carlos’s throat, half-laugh, half-sob. He buries his face in Oscar’s neck, starts fucking him in earnest now. The rhythm is horrible, stuttering and clumsy, but Oscar feels out of his mind with every stupid thing he feels for Carlos and doesn’t have the words to say. So instead, he says what he can: tells Carlos how much Oscar likes the feeling of his dick splitting Oscar open, how much Oscar loves the sight of Carlos’s mouth around Oscar’s fingers, how much Oscar wants him, all the time, helplessly.

Carlos comes with a choked out gasp, perched over Oscar as he pants and Oscar kisses the desperate sounds out of his mouth as he gets a hand around his own cock, working himself off in the tight space between their bodies. He’s barely come when Carlos’s shivering arms give out and he collapses onto Oscar, heavy and warm. Oscar strokes a hand down Carlos’s sweat-slick back, lets him push his face into Oscar’s neck.

“I know what you are doing,” Carlos murmurs against Oscar’s throat.

“Hmm?” Oscar says and Carlos nips him, a sharp little spark of teeth. “Ow, fuck, I’m sorry, I just—I don’t know. You never let me, otherwise.”

“I just—” Carlos sighs, forehead bumping up against Oscar’s jaw. “I don’t want you to—like you pity me.”

“I never pity you,” Oscar says quietly. Before he can continue with saying something he's only ever thought of saying in the dead of night, when Carlos is snoring against the back of Oscar's neck, he digs a thumb in Carlos's side, making him wriggle. “Not until I forget about what you did to me at Spa in 2023, mate.”

“That was all you,” Carlos says immediately, biting Oscar's neck again when Oscar scoffs. They go through the motions of wrestling for a few seconds, but they're tired and sticky and it mellows out before it properly begins. Soon enough, Carlos's face is back in Oscar's neck and Oscar's hand is back tracing patterns down Carlos's spine.