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An old voracity lives here, in the far reaches of the zee. The priests are long gone, but sacrifices are still made. Perhaps you have come here to make a sacrifice. Perhaps the sacrifice is you.
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Carlos calls, which must mean it’s even worse than Oscar thought.
Oscar lets it go to voicemail. The buzzing takes forever to stop, and the room isn’t even quiet afterwards: he can still hear the chatter of the TV from the living room, the rolling rise and fall of his mum’s voice intercut at irregular intervals by his dad’s.
The phone starts up again. Dutifully, Oscar rolls again to make sure it’s not Zak or Andrea. Carlos Sainz (jnr) it says across the display, the text scrolling over the dark screen. There’s no contact picture, which makes it easier to put the phone back down, go back to replaying the race on the chalky-white ceiling of his bedroom. Lando had gone off, too. Oscar had been following too closely maybe - complacent racing, running in Lando’s wake like a rookie. He can’t seem to stop feeling it: the car skidding across the track, foreign and unresponsive under him, his helmet cracking against the headrest as he hit the grass. The walled off panic, and then, a brand new kind of horror as the wheels spun in the grass, all that torque useless.
The embarrassment sits right next to him on the bed, disappointment dipping the mattress around him. In his head, Oscar starts the lap again for the thousandth time. He traces the circuit across the ceiling with his eyes, feet twitching involuntarily as he imagines hitting the breaking points. Each time he does, the starchy fabric of the doona underneath him makes a soft scraping sound, fabric strangely slippery beneath this heels. After he’d signed with McLaren, his mum had changed the room around - they still called it Oscar’s room but it wasn’t really anymore, just a guest space that was kind of Oscar-themed. The indistinctness of the space makes him itch, unsettled.
He’s off the track; in the grass. Oscar pinches his eyes closed, rubs both hands over his face in frustration.
He opens his eyes; restarts the lap.
The car feels good down the straight. He can win, still. Lando’s right there. The track is slippery, shining; he can win still. Lando doesn’t like pressure but Oscar can sit in it - he’ll force the overtake, if he has to. Turn six races up towards him in his mind’s eye; he hears his mother’s muffled voice; the bedsheets shift under him; he loses the car and the track is suddenly impossibly far away —
The fucking phone rings again.
“Are you dying or what?” Oscar snaps when he answers. “Fuck’s sake.”
On the other end of the line, Carlos’ laugh is rich and warm. Oscar’s skin prickles.
“They don’t say hello where you’re from?” Carlos asks. He’s outside somewhere - his voice is tinny, far away.
“I’m from here,” Oscar says stupidly, bristling all over.
“A beautiful city, Oscar,” Carlos placates. It’s ridiculous, the way Carlos says his name: Oz-car, the second syllable always boarding on comically over pronounced.
“Is there a bloody emergency? Do you need something? I’m, like. Busy.” Oscar can’t just be fielding calls all night. He’s got to focus, lock in. He has to lie here in the dark, in his old bedroom in his parents’ house, and hate himself. It’s practically a full time job.
“No emergency,” Carlos says. “I just wanted to—”
“Don’t,” Oscar snaps. His stomach squeezes, roils at the idea of Carlos trying to console him. “I’ve had it all day, I can’t.”
“No, no,” Carlos says - blasé, dismissive. Oscar licks his lips, tries to imagine what kind of tilt Carlos’ jaw is doing.
“You had a tough race, why would I call about this. If you’re lucky, you’ll have plenty of tough races. No, I called to tell you about my race,” Carlos says. “I had a very good race today, you will like it.” He sounds relaxed, which makes Oscar so annoyed that he has to sit up to deal with it.
“Mate, you didn’t even - have you been drinking? You crashed while we were still tooling around behind the safety car.”
Carlos hadn’t even had to do media until way after, because everyone had been so distracted with Hadjar crying all over the place. Oscar had cried too, obviously, but in private and only for like - two minutes. Like a professional.
“Only a little.”
“A little drunk or a little crash?”
Oscar can hear the shrug in Carlos’ voice. “Ay, maybe a bit of both. But listen, though, listen - I got to be an engineer today, it was very good. They have it so easy, carbón, all nice and warm there in the garage. I did a good job, everyone is very impressed, they say: Carlos, how are you so smart and so handsome and still so good at racing.”
Carlos’ British accent is terrible; Oscar doesn’t know he’s going to laugh until it’s already out of him. “You’re not that good at racing,” Oscar says, picking at the stupid doona cover.
He doesn’t really give the story permission to unfold, but it does anyway, Carlos launching off the line. The image in his mind shifts: the pit wall instead of the track, the strange new way Carlos looks surrounded by blue and white. Carlos goes on and on about people from Williams that Oscar’s never met, stretching out his description of the mid-race weather until Oscar wants to strangle him. The whole time he sounds half out of breath, like he’s walking somewhere. Oscar tries to picture him in Fed Square, or by the casino. He imagines Carlos down at the pontoons by the Yarra where all the bars are, his dark hair shiny under all the string lighting. Oscar starts to feel heavy all over, sore; the bed makes its dumb sliding noise again when he lies back down.
“So you’re gonna be head strategist now too, huh? Set the play and then run it yourself?”
Carlos laughs. “I did that already at Ferrari, no? I think maybe I’ll take a break this year.” He says and Oscar snorts, uses his heels to push the blanket down the bed so that he can wriggle under it.
“Yeah, true. What time are you flying out tonight?”
“Not tonight,” Carlos says, sounding distracted, “I change -” He stops, and Oscar can hear the ticker-tack noise of a pedestrian crossing call button. Oscar’s pulse does something funny, out of synch with the sound.
“My flight changed,” Carlos finishes easily. “I go Tuesday, now. Team logistics, you know.”
It’s quiet outside Oscar’s room finally, even though the light in the hallway is still on. He’s been in plenty of unfamiliar rooms with Carlos, which is frankly terrible, because it makes it very easy to imagine what Carlos might look like in this one. It’s even easier to remember what Carlos looked like under him in the last one, back in Vegas, what his knees felt like folded up against Oscar’s ribs.
“We can’t meet up,” Oscar says quickly, to remind himself.
“I don’t have time to meet up with you - I have engineering meetings to run,” Carlos says without missing a beat and Oscar snorts again. There’s a pause that’s just long enough for Oscar to imagine Carlos’ mouth hanging open, how his fat lower lip looks poised around a thought.
“Oh yeah, of course,” Oscar says. His voice sounds rough, as tired and worn out as he feels. “How could I forget.”
“Go to bed,” Carlos tells him. Oscar turns onto his side so that he can go handsfree, the phone wedged between the pillow and his head. It makes Carlos sound very close; Oscar wonders in the airy, exhausted part of his brain if Carlos might say his name again before they hang up. “Don’t stay up and marinate.”
“Bold, from you,” Oscar teases, and then immediately feels bad, but Carlos laughs before he can take it back.
“Exactly, I’m the expert,” Carlos tells him, faux-stern, “and I am saying to you: don’t do it.”
“Yeah righto, boss.”
Carlos goes quiet for a second. It’s not as noisy wherever Carlos is now. Back in his hotel room, maybe, in his own impersonal bed. Oscar can’t remember when he closed his eyes, but the darkness feels nice; obliterating.
“See you in China, no?”
“Yeah,” Oscar says. “See ya.”
There’s a pause again before Carlos hangs up. Oscar doesn’t bother to move the phone, falls asleep with the edge of it pressed so hard into the side of his cheek that it leaves a mark.
Just had an image of Beatrice telling Sherlock that he can't keep James on a leash forever and eventually he'll get tired of obeying Sherlock. Idk what this means but I think this is rich coming from Beatrice (because of Silas) and very understandable (because of Silas). Also something about Sherlock not even realizing how much he is imposing his will on James because Sherlock himself craves something grounding, like to him that is a relief and a failsafe. Whereas to James it Will inevitably chafe him
