#((yikes!))

The driver's parade had been nice. The weather was beautiful, the sun and the wind on his face. He waved at all the fans and they cheered back.

"Mate, you can't just tune me out." Now someone is blocking his way back into the paddock. It's Oscar, and he looks upset.

"Hi Oscar," Carlos says politely. He stands there, because Oscar is still blocking his way. The crowd parts and moves around them, shifting blobs of color.

"You're impossible," Oscar says. It doesn't make sense, the words or the way Oscar is looking at him.

"I have to go now," Carlos says. He doesn't want to be late again. He's been late to a lot of things already this weekend. "Will you let me?"

Oscar blinks. His face has a different expression now. His lips have parted. His cheeks are pink. "I don't care," he says, and turns away so quickly he stumbles a little.

Carlos is late anyway, because he gets lost going back to Ferrari's motorhome. But everyone is very nice about it.

⌇⌇⌇

They send him to medical after his crash. He gets a lot of scans and the doctor talks a lot, and Carlos nods to show he's paying attention, or he's trying to. The doctor tells him to rest.

But as soon as he's alone, the privacy curtain is ripped back again. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" Oscar asks. "Were you trying to drive me off the road, or are you literally blind?"

"I'm..." Carlos doesn't remember how the crash happened. It must have been his fault, if Oscar is saying it is. "I'm sorry," he says. He should make it better, if he did something wrong.

Oscar is quiet, staring down at him. "You're really fucked up, then?" he asks.

Carlos shakes his head, then nods, because he doesn't know the answer.

"Okay, come on," Oscar says, and helps Carlos pack up his things.

⌇⌇⌇

Oscar helps Carlos find his key card so they know what hotel he's staying at, and then he walks Carlos up to the front desk to ask them what his room number is. The woman at the front desk says something; Carlos knows it's a number as she's saying it, but then as soon as she stops speaking, it's gone. Like water from his cupped palm.

"D'you need me to walk you up there?" Oscar asks. Carlos pinches his own lip, trying to parse the question. He's supposed to go up somewhere. That's what they had been asking the nice woman.

Oscar holds Carlos's elbow on the way to the lift. He lets go once they're inside, and Carlos misses it. Oscar's hand was warm and soft, and Carlos's chest hurts for some reason. He steps forward once, and then again when Oscar backs up, until he's close enough to rest his forehead against Oscar's shoulder.

"You're worrying me, mate," Oscar says, and laughs quietly. His hand comes back to the nape of Carlos's neck. It doesn't seem like Carlos needs to reply.

⌇⌇⌇

Oscar and Carlos are in a hotel room. Carlos looks around. He sees his suitcase, and his sleep mask on the bedside table. "Alright, well. Here you go. Good night," Oscar says, but he's still standing next to Carlos.

It must be Carlos's bed, so Carlos sits and then lies down on top of it. The pillow is soft. He closes his eyes.

"Okay, well." There's a tugging at his feet; when Carlos opens his eyes, he sees Oscar holding Carlos's shoes. "It's just bad manners, mate," he says. He's pink again, in his cheeks and his throat now.

"Okay," Carlos agrees. He arches his feet; they feel better now. "Thank you."

"Okay, like. Do you want me to. Um." Oscar steps again. He's standing right over Carlos. "Need help with the rest?"

Carlos nods, and Oscar nods back. Oscar's hands move over Carlos's body: his waist, his chest, his arms. Carlos is cold before he realizes his shirt is off. Oscar is sliding his jeans down his thighs. It feels good, to be touched. Oscar folds Carlos's clothes and leaves them on the ground.

"Keep going," Carlos manages to say, because Oscar's hands went away, and he misses them.

"Yeah?" Oscar asks. His knee settles on the bed beside Carlos's hip; he toys with the waistband of Carlos's briefs. "You want that?"

Carlos wants anything. He likes that Oscar is here, and touching him, and isn't angry anymore. Oscar's other hand cradles his face, and Carlos opens his mouth for his thumb.

"Is this okay?" Oscar asks, and "Can I?" and "Is that good?" and Carlos just nods and nods and nods, because it's all good, Oscar's fingers around him, in him, Oscar's cock in his mouth. He doesn't know what to want until Oscar suggests it, and then it's all he wants. Oscar inside him, kissing his collarbone. Oscar sucking his lower lip into his mouth. Oscar's come pooling in his belly button.

Oscar tells him he's good, and he is.

⌇⌇⌇

"The initial dose was too high," the Ferrari doctor explains. She has another syringe, another alcohol swab she's rubbing in circles on Carlos's arm. "This should fix that, alright? You'll feel much better in another day or two."

Carlos nods. He's felt fine, but whatever the doctor does is okay.

⌇⌇⌇

Three days later, he gets a text from Oscar in the middle of a briefing. And he realizes he knows what they're talking about right now—it's all familiar to him, of course. His notebook is filled out neatly in front of him. And the text on his phone—

Carlos goes cold, his throat like iron. It can't be right, what he remembers. It doesn't make sense. How that would happen. How he would have done those things. Let Oscar—