For the first time in his life, Oscar has a friends with benefits situation going on and it’s fucking awesome. He doesn’t know why everybody doesn’t prefer it like this—sex on demand without any of the annoying parts. Or, well, Oscar corrects himself as Carlos’s alarm goes off at six thirty in the morning. Without some of the annoying parts.
Carlos slips out of his bed and rummages around his closet quietly. When Oscar cracks one of his eyes open he can just see Carlos leaving the bedroom in his running clothes, before sleep overtakes him once more. At seven, Oscar’s own alarm goes off and he ignores for thirty blissful minutes until he remembers he’s supposed to be at the gym with Artturi at eight.
“Fuck,” Oscar greets Carlos, who has just come back from his run and is operating his coffee machine while dripping with sweat. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
“And a good morning to you,” Carlos says, annoyingly chipper. “No coffee for you then?”
“Fuck you,” Oscar says, finally unearthing his shirt from the couch where Carlos tugged it off him last night. “Fuck, I’m so late.”
He has eleven minutes for the seven minute walk to his own apartment to get a change of clothes and then the eight minute walk to the gym, which means that if he doesn’t get breakfast and power walks he can probably avoid Artturi’s lecture on punctuality.
“Here,” Carlos says. “Catch.”
Oscar looks up just in time to avoid getting smacked in the face with a paper bag that, upon closer inspection, contains a croissant.
“Oh my god,” Oscar says, ripping it open and smelling fresh, French butter. “I love you.”
He bends down to put on his shoes and when he stands back up, Carlos is suddenly very close.
“Hey,” Carlos says, voice low. His big hand lands on Oscar’s face, curled around his cheek. In the back of Oscar’s mind, faint alarm bells are going off, but the sound gets muffled as Carlos kisses Oscar, his perfect mouth wet and eager against Oscar’s. When he leans back, Carlos's face is all creased up and content and the alarm bells start up again. “I love you too.”
“Uh,” Oscar says. The alarm bells fade and the PA system in his mind starts up. You fucking idiot. You fucking idiot. You fucking idiot.
“You’re late,” Carlos says and Oscar nods dumbly.
“I’m late,” Oscar says. Carlos is still smiling.
“Go,” Carlos says. “I will see you later.”
“Uh,” Oscar says again. And then he leaves. He arrives at the gym fourteen minutes late, the croissant still in the paper bag. Throughout Artturi’s lecture, only one word bounces around Oscar’s skull. Shit.
“Ive been, uh,” Oscar says and Logan makes an encouraging noise on the other side of the line. “Sleeping with someone. Lately.”
“Congratulations,” Logan says and Oscar groans.
“No, I mean, the person I’ve been sleeping with, they, uh—” Oscar pinches the bridge of his nose. “I said something that could be, uh, misconstrued. And they, uh. They said I love you? But it’s like—it’s not like that. So now, uh—”
“Carlos?” Logan near-shouts and Oscar grimaces, moving the phone a safe distance away from his ear. “Carlos said I love you? To you?”
“Mate,” Oscar complains. “How’d you even know it was Carlos?”
“I've known you for more than a decade,” Logan says ominously. “But Jesus, mate. That’s—phew.”
“Oh, god,” Oscar groans. He’s in trouble. He’s in serious trouble.
“Maybe he doesn’t mean it,” Logan says. “He’s like—Spanish men are like—maybe it doesn’t mean the same?”
“Huh,” Oscar says. “No, you’re right, maybe it’s like—in Spanish, it could be like. Huh.”
That said,” Logan says. “You guys have been sleeping together for like, months, right? So maybe it is really—”
“No, you had it the first time, thanks, great talk,” Oscar says. And hangs up the phone.
You don’t even want to know about IMSA? Logan texts him and Oscar sighs, redials Logan’s number.
“Right,” Logan says. “Okay, but what if he does mean it, you guys are—”
If Oscar were a better person, he’d stop sleeping with Carlos while all of this is going on, but Carlos is the hottest person he’s ever seen naked and Oscar doesn’t think he’s an especially good person anyway, so he doesn’t. Carlos is flying back with Charles this evening and then going to Grove for three days, so they only have like ten minutes in between media and debrief to get off. They could just not get off and see each other in four days, but every time Oscar thinks about Carlos flying with Charles he thinks about the impromptu post-Baku road trip and gets a rabid urge to send Carlos onto the private jet with the taste of Oscar’s come still on the back of his tongue. Currently, Oscar’s biting the side of Carlos’s neck a little too hard while jerking him off and Carlos shudders, whimpers and comes. His jizz covers Oscar’s hand and Oscar thinks to himself don’t lick it off don’t lick it off don’t lick it off before wiping his hand on a stray shirt.
“I have to go,” Carlos says, not making any effort to extricate himself from Oscar’s grip and Oscar hums, watching with a shameful satisfaction as the skin of Carlos’s neck starts to bloom purple.
“Okay, I really have to go,” Carlos murmurs and Oscar lets Carlos escape his clutches. “See you—Thursday? We can have dinner if you—”
“Yeah,” Oscar says, so fast that he instinctually tacks on a cough at the end. “Sure, yeah, I can probably make time. I’ll move some things around.”
“I’m honoured,” Carlos says, annoyingly amused as he shrugs back into his race suit. “Okay, I have to run, love you.”
“Hurgh,” Oscar says, but Carlos is already gone.
Teto knows Oscar’s sleeping with Carlos. He’s never said so, but he makes it clear with his eyes and his eyebrows and his mouth and his posture that not only does he know, he also disapproves. Therefore, as a rule, Oscar makes a point of not ever talking to Teto, but currently, Oscar’s reserve of Spanish people who can shine a light on Carlos’s behaviour consists of him and Fernando, so: Teto.
“Hi,” Oscar says. “How have you been?”
“Yes,” Teto says. “You should devote yourself to a life of celibacy. Good talk.”
“Not what I was going to ask,” Oscar says and Teto sighs.
“Then I am not interested,” he says.
“Look,” Oscar says. “I need your help. It’s about Carlos.”
Teto sighs again and finally turns to Oscar all the way. It’s kind of impressive, in how many ways he’s able to non-verbally express he wants Oscar to perish where he stands.
“It’s kind of—” Oscar says, wrinkling his nose. “This thing with Carlos is—I mean, it’s great, but—I think, maybe he’s—?”
“Right,” Teto says. “I really understand what he sees in you, now.”
“He told me he loved me,” Oscar blurts out. “And now it’s—”
“Oh,” Teto says. “Oh, I—oh.”
“Yeah,” Oscar says, wrinkling his nose. “So, like—I shouldn’t read into it, right? He’s just saying that because—”
“Oscar,” Teto says. His face does something Oscar has never seen before. It’s all soft and—oh god, it’s kindness. Teto is looking at Oscar with an expression of aching kindness. Something has gone deeply, irrevocably wrong. “Carlos is not someone who says things he does not mean.”
“Ah,” Oscar says, voice thin. “That’s—okay.”
“So don’t worry,” Teto says and Oscar says: “Wait, no—”
“If Carlos loves you, then, ah,” Teto sighs, shaking his head with a smile. “I must admit, I did think at first that, you two, not a good idea, yes? But now, maybe.”
“No,” Oscar says. “No, really, it’s—”
“We will play padel when we are back in Monaco,” Teto tells Oscar earnestly. “It is time we bond.”
“I’m not good at padel,” Oscar says weakly.
“I will teach you,” Teto pledges and if Oscar is anything, he’s a fucking coward, so he nods and watches Teto jog to Gigi and Caco with a sinking feeling in his stomach. His wallowing in self-pity gets interrupted by his phone vibrating and when he unlocks it, he sees it’s a calendar invite from Teto to play padel in the next off-week.
Carlos and Oscar get dinner in Monaco that week and before he leaves for the restaurant, Oscar sternly tells his reflection he’s going to break up with Carlos. He’s still thinking about whether it’s the proper way to do it before they order or after they’ve had their mains when Carlos clears his throat, fidgeting with his menu.
“What are you doing over winter break?” Carlos asks and Oscar makes a vague gesture. He hasn’t made plans yet and—oh, if Carlos is going to ask him to spend some time together, that might actually be a perfect way for Oscar to bring up that they’re on wildly different levels about this thing between them.
“Do you maybe,” Carlos doesn’t look at Oscar, but at a point somewhere behind his left ear. “You could come. To Madrid.”
“Madrid,” Oscar says. “Right, actually—”
“To meet my family,” Carlos finishes in a wild rush and whatever Oscar was going to say gets tangled up with his tongue.
“I—what?” Oscar says. “Your—your family?”
“It is a little soon,” Carlos says immediately and Oscar takes a desperate gulp of water to avoid saying anything because—what? What?
“It’s, uh—” Oscar finally manages. Dribbles of water run down his chin.
“It is too soon, sorry, I should not have—” Carlos’s shoulders rise, rise, rise and Oscar wants to reach out, stupid, push them down. “Forget it.”
“I, uh,” Oscar says. “Think, if I’m going to Australia, maybe? And then training camp. And sponsor things, so. Planning-wise, it might be, uh. Complex.”
“No, really,” Carlos says, molding his facial expression into something he obviously means to be reassuring, but comes across as watery. “It is too soon. I should not have asked.”
“It’s just—” Oscar says, even though he doesn’t know how to finish that sentence. “It’s not—”
“Let’s have dinner tomorrow,” Carlos says, decisively closing his menu. “I made you feel awkward and now I feel a little silly, so. Tomorrow, we try again, yes?”
Oscar can’t tell him now. Carlos is smiling bravely at Oscar, knocking their knees together under the table. He can’t tell Carlos now, not when Carlos is already—when Oscar has already—
“Tomorrow,” Oscar says. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
That night, Oscar stares at the ceiling and every time he closes his eyes, he can see Carlos’s fragile expression stamped into the back of his eyelids.
The next afternoon, just before he’s about to leave for dinner 2.0, Oscar does what he should have done ages ago. He calls Mark.
“I’ve been sleeping with another driver,” Oscar says, in lieu of greeting. “And he’s in love with me.”
The sound Mark makes is like a revving engine. Patiently, Oscar lets him work through several combustion cycles, until Mark finally takes a deep breath.
“Are you out of your fucking mind?” Mark shouts. “I’m genuinely, honestly asking. Are you?”
“I’ve been a little stupid,” Oscar acquiesces. “Can you tell me to break up with him?”
“You have to break up now,” Mark says. “Now. Yesterday. You need to go back in time and make sure you break up before you even get together. You can’t let anything distract you from your driving. Jesus Christ, Oscar.”
“Okay,” Oscar says and then scrunches up his nose. “Okay, but, we’ve been hooking up since the start of the season and I’ve been driving well all year, so, it’s not really been—”
“Oh no,” Mark says. “No, no, no. You’re not starting this shit with me.”
“And, like,” Oscar says. “It’s been nice, really. To have something that’s not, like—coming home and only thinking about driving.”
“Break up,” Mark shouts. “Break up now!”
“Max has a relationship, and kids,” Oscar says. “Seb too. So, really, is it a distraction, or—”
Oscar realises, all at once, he doesn’t want to break up with Carlos. In fact, he wants to do the opposite of breaking up with Carlos. He wants to spend time with hateful Teto and go to Madrid and meet scary Sainz Sr. and Carlos’s sisters and his mum’s crusty little dogs. He wants to go to Carlos’s apartment and sit on his couch and not talk to Carlos while they both scroll their phones, pausing periodically to show each other stupid emails and dumb memes. He wants to tell Carlos that—oh, God. Okay. Okay.
“Thank you,” Oscar says. “This was a good talk, really.”
“I’m booking a plane ticket,” Mark says. “Don’t fucking move, I’m coming to Monaco.”
“Bye,” Oscar says, and hangs up the phone. He arrives at the restaurant twenty minutes early and keeps craning his neck around to see if Carlos walks in. When he finally does and Oscar spots him in the doorway, he feels like a dog finally seeing his owner come home. If he had a tail, it’d be wagging so much it’d give him a hernia.
“Okay,” Carlos says. “Do-over, I am not going to ask you again to—”
“I love you,” Oscar says, too loud and too fast and Carlos raises an eyebrow.
“I know that,” he says and of course. It’s really fucking typical that Carlos knew before Oscar. Carlos folds up his jacket and sits down across from Oscar, opening his menu. “Do you already know what you want to order?”
“No,” Oscar says, deliriously happy. “What are today’s specials?”
inspired heavily by this perfect teen wolf fic
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