The sleeves of his McLaren hoodie are too long on him, which means they are too long on Carlos. Oscar tries not to dwell on the fact, because eventually he’ll start thinking about how they match each other length for length (hah), palm to shoulder an almost perfect fit, which then gets Oscar all gooey and atrociously warm, and he can’t have that. Especially not in this moment, with Carlos attempting to hold Oscar’s hand discreetly using the too-long sleeves. At least one person has to keep their head screwed properly on their shoulders.
“Not subtle,” Oscar informs him.
“What,” Carlos says, but it’s Carlos, so it’s more like a whaaaaaat? “You’re shy, Oscar? Don’t tell me you’re shy.”
“You’re no fun if you don’t protest,” Carlos says, still flapping his orange paw around the vicinity of Oscar’s hip.
Feeling a little too indulgent, Oscar lets Carlos chase his fingers while he half-heartedly tries to escape. Halfway through play-fighting in the middle of a street like children, Carlos’s palm slips out of his sleeve like a nervous squirrel and envelops the whole of Oscar’s. Victory! the grin on Carlos’s face says, and yep, that, among a million other things concerning Carlos, Oscar’s barriers have no hope against. The joy exuding out of Carlos’s pores when he stands on a podium, dragging Oscar right out of the doom symphony playing in his head on fortissimo in Qatar. The delight when he steals the last pancake out from under Oscar’s nose. And the apparent pleasure Carlos gets from simply holding Oscar’s hand.
Oscar allows his hand to be held, very much a conscious decision. Even to be swung around merrily.
“This okay?” Carlos asks.
“Uh huh,” Oscar says immediately, even though he means Obviously Not.
The Obviously Not comes in the form of a couple of blurry photos, and suspiciously nonchalant questions thrown around at testing. The ill-fitting length of Oscar’s sleeves remains a lifesaver. Held up in court, no one can definitively claim if Carlos’s hand was actually curled around Oscar’s (it was) or not.
“I was cold,” Carlos says, just as nonchalantly, except it’s Carlos, so it’s more like a cooooooooold. “Oscar was very kind, eh? Lending me his hoodie.”
“Didn’t really have a choice mate,” Oscar says. “You were moaning a lot.”
“Don’t,” Oscar quickly interrupts, “offer a demonstration.”
“Hm,” the journalist says, fascinated. “Hm,” Lando says. “Hm,” the rest of the paddock with two eyes says.
Even in promo snippets and the videos they film for Grill the Grid, they’re getting a little careless with it. Who would you go to a desert island with? Who has the best hair? Who’s the best cook? Have you ever been to the house of another driver on the grid? Who?
Carlos. Carlos, I feel like that’s going to be a very popular answer, because, duh. Carlos. Yes. Carlos.
Years of PR training kick in, and Oscar begrudgingly remembers to throw in other drivers for pepper and spice. Having a singular answer to all these questions should be worrying. It’s putting all his eggs into one basket. It’s poor planning, Mark would say. But as myopic as it may be, Oscar can’t stop his teeth from forming around the vowels in Carlos’s name each time.
At least it doesn’t seem to be a game he’s playing alone. When they’re apart, when Oscar’s feeling a particular kind of way, lonely and dressed down, he pulls up the video where they’d sectioned the drivers’ faces into three, and you had to make guesses. It was clear Carlos wasn’t trying to be obvious, but he had taken one look at Oscar’s lips, and knew.
Maybe it had been obvious only to Oscar. Maybe.
Eventually, the unwanted attention grates and chips away at them, and the third time he’s asked Oscar wants to take the journo’s head off. His skin itches with agitation. He starts to wonder if they’ve finally gone too far. He starts to wonder if there’re clearer photos. Unwittingly, the edges of his body turn sharp. Sensitive even to the most minute of fractures in Oscar’s expressions, Carlos withdraws. And continuing the cycle of misery, Oscar will resign himself to three weeks of distance before Carlos feels comfortable enough to take Oscar’s hand in public again.
Carlos meets him after testing’s done, orange hoodie carefully folded up and hidden under one arm.
“Thank you for letting me borrow,” Carlos says.
“I don’t need you to return it,” Oscar says, failing spectacularly at disguising his hurt. “Since when do we return each others’ clothing?”
“Ah.” Carlos scratches the back of his neck. “Maybe it’s better. Less questions.”
“Coward,” Oscar mutters, and Carlos flushes red. Between the both of them, it’s Carlos who is the most honest. His arm is still tight around the hoodie; he hasn’t handed it back to Oscar. As reluctant to part with it as Oscar is to receive it. Back of neck scratcher, face flusher, heart on sleeve wearer.
“I meant less questions for you,” Carlos says angrily. “You want me to wear it to the next press conference? Then they’ll ask you, hey, and what will you say?”
A couple of things become clear at once. First, that they can’t be protecting each other in circles. Second, that there are exceedingly few things in a racing career and even less things in a racing career mixed up with another racing career that Oscar can stand absolute on. Only that Carlos swung their hands between them, fingers interlaced, that night. And the world isn’t ending yet.
“That I gave it to you,” Oscar says. “What else? I gave it to you.”
“Fine,” Carlos says, jerking his arm back almost violently. “It’s mine. I’ll wear it when I want. Maybe now, even.”
Oscar wants to kiss the stupid man, cameras be damned. “Good.”
“Well.” Carlos tugs the hoodie back on, too-long sleeves and all, and the soft part in Oscar packed with yearning cheers. “I said it better.”
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