#except this

Without looking, he fumbles for his drink. Ends up pouring ice cubes into his lap, because he’s a fucking idiot who finished it ten minutes ago when he first saw Oscar grinding on some random woman and consequently forgot everything else. Charles is so far past caring; he scoops the ice cubes up and shoves them into his mouth.

Desperate for something to focus on that isn’t—whatever ill-timed awakening is happening in his nuclear reactor of a brain, Charles clasps his condensation-slick empty glass and asks Lando, a little thinly, over the dizzying thump of music, "How long will this hex last, do you know?"

Hexes are far from a foreign concept. Charles has had his fair share of experiences, some better than others, as have most drivers on the grid. This, however…

Max got hit with a jinx that only allowed him to speak in meows, and even that was easier for Charles to wrap his head around then Oscar under the effect of a personality curse.

“Do I look like his mother?” Lando snipes distractedly, craning his neck to peer into the writhing mass of bodies, where Oscar—and his latest partner—have been swallowed entirely.

Charles tugs at his collar. It’s already unbuttoned halfway down his chest. Still, he’s overheating, almost feverish. Sweating like he does when he’s ill and fighting off an infection. Not too dissimilar of a comparison, Charles thinks, faintly. Except this time, he’s fighting off ill-timed attraction to his colleague in the middle of a sweltering Miami club, and his only moral support comes in the form of Lando, who is too busy having a different sort of breakdown to be of any use at all.

“The witch at McLaren said—” Lando says, leaning towards Charles without turning. Unable to lip-read, Charles has no hope of understanding him. He pokes Lando’s shoulder, gestures to his ear when Lando glances over, and Lando obligingly shouts, “The witch said it’s only 24 hours! So he’s got, like—seven left!”

Oh, thank god.  

“Ayy, cabrón!”

Charles swivels around. Carlos is leaning over the back of their booth, a wild, wide glint in his eyes. He looks, quite frankly, like he’s been rolling in the hay with a rabid tiger. Sweaty and rumpled in the skewed sapphire lighting, perspiration gathering in the hollow of his throat. Charles empathetically relates; he, too, is sweating enough to fill a swimming pool.

Whatever Carlos says is lost beneath a swelling cheer as the music changes, and it’s rather cinematic, how the crowd opens up again, and Charles’ gaze wanders without him really meaning for it to. A big mistake. A dire, unreversible mistake.

His breath leaves him, in a pathetic, croaky rush, all at once.

“Oh, what the fuck,” Lando whimpers, aghast, and—yeah. Yes. That.

Neon lights pouring everywhere, splintering against martini glasses washed up on the frays of the crowd, and cradled within it all, haloed, Oscar’s head is tipped back, alcohol dripping down his throat as some girl licks her shot straight off him.

“Er,” Carlos says, after a stunned moment. Lando rubs the side of his eye with his palm. He looks like a traffic light. Charles can’t tell if he’s about to explode, throw up, or faint. “Something has happened to Oscar, I think.”

“Do you,” Lando says dully. “What on Earth could’ve given you that idea, I wonder."

Charles is one stiff breeze away from making things very awkward.

He seizes his glass in a fit of desperation, and just barely manages to garble, “Drink. Going. Now.”

Carlos calls after him, confused, but Charles is already long gone.

--

It’s cooler away from the pit of body heat and the awful stickiness of leather seating. Charles pushes his hair off his forehead, tugging repeatedly at his collar, tries to fan himself. The bartender, a harried, young-looking woman, is serving a cluster of gentlemen at the far-left end. Charles collapses, elbow-first, onto the bar, and blows out a long, long breath.

He isn’t quite sure what it is. Never in his life has Charles thought twice about Oscar beyond the narrow lens of competition. They had their adoption joke, a year back in Monaco, they’ve played padel together a few times—Oscar has even met Leo, during one of his excursions to the paddock—but it’s this that has thrown the doors wide open. Made the floodgates burst. The dam break. Whatever metaphor: the result is the same.

A behavioural hex, focused on flipping personality traits, the doctor at the medical centre patiently explained to Charles. So Oscar’s usual calm temperament would be overtaken by recklessness, maybe even brashness. His quiet confidence would steadily become louder. He may be quicker to anger. It’s nothing to worry about, the doctor clarified. The hex has such a short duration, and the root of it is so harmless, there’s no point wasting hours crafting the cure. Oscar will be back to normal in no time. It’s a matter of waiting it out.

It's a matter of waiting it out, Charles thinks, repeats. This is all it is. Harmless. So harmless. The most harmless. Oscar acting like the star performer at a Magic Mike show won’t kill him, or Charles. Hopefully.

“Sorry for making you wait so long, sir,” the bartender hastily grabs a glass. “What can I get for you?”

Charles drags up a warm smile. He asks for another of what he had earlier, though, privately, he wonders if it’ll be strong enough to get him through the night. Officially, Lando, as Oscar’s teammate, is on chaperone duty, but because Charles is the one that noticed the hex in the first place, Lando insisted he stuck around. Charles doesn’t quite get the logic, but Lando promised to lend him his Porsche Carrera for the month, and needless to say, Charles immediately cancelled dinner with Lewis. Guiltily, he thinks again, sorry, Lewis.

As his drink is slid over to him, Charles wraps a hand around the stem and reaches into his back pocket for his wallet.

But somebody else gets there first; a card is pressed to the reader, and Charles jerks to protest, mouth opening—

“This one’s on me,” Oscar says.

He is—very close. Charles can feel the heat radiating from him. Can smell the layered amalgamation of bitter perfume and sharp cologne and sterile vodka, and beneath it all, euphoria. Lit up technicolour, the straight line of his nose, slash of his cheekbone, and Oscar’s eyes, wide open.

Charles had never noticed before; always, Oscar has this tired, half-lidded look about him. Calm, maybe. Brief bursts of animation before he droops back to baseline.

Oscar slips his card back into his pocket. He glances over Charles, mouth tugging upwards, before he easily pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, eyes sliding back to the bartender. He looks, Charles thinks, with an odd squirm in his throat, devastatingly alive. He looks unreal.

“Do you mind if I try some?” Oscar asks, head ducking down. His breath is hot on the cartilage of Charles’ ear.

Charles bites around a shiver. Makes a pitched, agreeable noise. Maybe another drink wasn’t a good idea.

Definitely not a good idea, he corrects, as—helpless to stop himself—his eyes drift to watch as Oscar leans a hip against the stool and takes a swig. His lashes flutter over his rosy cheekbones. Charles feels insane with it. Feels like he might be going crazy, because the valley of Oscar’s throat is smooth and long and thick, and it’s still glimmering sticky, and so badly, Charles wants to sway forward and taste. Restless, wants to know if Oscar’s pulse would throb against his lips, if it would be hummingbird fast. If he would be steady, even in this, or unravelled.

Maybe his first drink was spiked, Charles reasons hysterically. Maybe he’s not actually drooling over his nice, polite coworker. Maybe he just really needs to get laid. It has been a while since he and Alex broke up, after all. This is merely—a spell. A phase. He has this all under control.

“It’s good,” Oscar decides, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I thought it might be.” Oscar’s eyes are blown and black. He licks along his lip, scrapes the crystal remnants of sugar off with his teeth. “You’ve always had good taste.”

Charles does not have this all under control.

“Yes,” he says, strangled. Abort, abort. “I like, um. Sweet things.”

Oscar blinks. His damp hair flops over his forehead when he tilts it, and it looks casual, when he idly slumps to rest his chin on his palm, but it certainly doesn’t feel it. Charles can’t shake this idea that he’s locked in a cage with a—a panther, or a jaguar, or just—some sort of beast, and it’s finally deigned to notice him, even though this whole time, Charles has made no secret of himself.

This is Oscar, Charles furiously reminds himself. He’s a giant teddy bear. He doesn’t flirt and unbutton the top four buttons on his shirt, and he certainly doesn’t let strangers spill their shots over him.

Usually, Charles realises, with dread. Usually, Oscar doesn’t do that. Oscar under a hex—Charles doesn’t know who he is.

“That’s funny,” Oscar comments. There is this drag in his voice, like he’s playing with his food. His eyelashes are long as he looks up at Charles. “I also like sweet things.”

Charles squeaks, “Um?”

Maybe he’s having a stroke. Miami is hot, of course, and Charles’ vision is undulating, and his tongue feels useless and stupid, and he can barely feel his limbs, and that’s a stroke, isn’t it? Does he need a defibrillator? CPR? A lobotomy?

Lando. He needs Lando to call him an ambulance. Right now.

“Booth,” Charles blurts, taking a hasty step back. “I need to get back to. The booth. With Carlos. And Lando.”

He doesn’t catch Oscar’s response. There’s so many people surrounding the bar, idling, chatting, bopping their heads to the bass. It’s beyond a mild inconvenience. Charles is bathed in unbearable heat, so many conflicting scents, but superimposed over them all is Oscar. An exhilarated, non-insignificant part of him feels like prey. Or—not exactly. A carnivore staring into the looming void of a bigger predator and learning, for the first time, what it is to fear.

The worst part about it, Charles thinks, is that he fucking loves it. He’s never felt so frightened, nor so alive.

He finds a gap and goes for it, is almost into the thick of the crowd, halfway to the booth, when someone catches him by the waist. Charles knows who it is before he even turns—sharp-sweet-ecstasy. A very bad idea. Maybe the best he’s had in a long time.

“Charles,” Oscar says warmly. His touch is blazing. “Are you forgetting something?”

Is it really so wrong to bear attraction for someone who wears a familiar face, but acts in unfamiliar ways? If you think about it, can he truly be Oscar, if what’s inside is flipped and wrong?

And even if it is wrong, Charles thinks, even if it is wrong—