if oscar flops tomorrow, itâll be because he chose to do so out of respect for logan. if he wins tomorrow, itâll be because he chose to do so in loganâs honor. and if he decides to sacrifice himself and dive-bomb both williams cars, he will have done so in loganâs name. no matter what, i think we should respect his decision đ
carcar nation is so funny because iâll look through the tag and itâs literally a video of like oscar and carlos is in exactly .1 pixel in the background and everyone is saying âcarcar crumbs!!â
lost the battle with my demons and wrote the carcar stormpilots au.
https://archiveofourown.org/works/64823827
When Oscar comes running off the Millenium Falcon, following BB-8, wearing Carlosâs jacket, Carlos cannot believe his eyes; a wave of tension releases from his body, a weight he didnât even know he was carrying being lifted. Carlos thinks he can see that relief reflected on Oscarâs face, a small but blinding adorable smile stretching across it.Â
They meet in a hug, and for some reason this feels right. Oscarâs arms around Carlos, Carlosâs head tucked into Oscarâs shoulder.Â
They pull apart, still with loose grips on each other's arms. Oscar jerks back suddenly, âYour jacket!â heâs beginning to shrug his shoulders out of the leather, but Carlos stops him.Â
âDonât. It suits you better than me.â And it does. Stretches across Oscarâs shoulders in a truly satisfying way, and if Carlos especially appreciates the orange stripe that signifies it as Carlosâs jacket across those same shoulders as well, well thatâs something he can keep to himself.Â
Oscar pauses in his movements, surprised. Carlos watches as Oscar ducks his head down, that pretty blush reappearing across his cheeks. He shrugs the jacket back on, says, âThanks.âÂ
It makes it all the much worse later, after the battle, when Carlos sees Chewie carrying Oscarâs limp body off the Millenium Falcon.
short carcar drabble inspired by Carlos wanting to be invited to the padel game that Alex had with Oscar
Itâs embarrassing, Oscar thinks, the way he chases after Carlos. The way he always finds a way to bring him up in the media. Itâs embarrassing, the way people have noticed. He knows about Carlosâs cycling, knows about his Loreal partnership before others, the way he picks Carlos for his fake F1 fantasy team.
Itâs embarrassing because Carlos does not do the same. He talks and never asks, and then later pretends to be upset for not knowing.Â
Carlos tells him about Loreal but Oscar does not tell him about his burger deal. Oscar picks Carlos for his fake fantasy team and Carlos doesnât pick him. Carlos calls him âThe McLarenâ, Oscar calls him Carlos or Sainz.Â
They are friends now, Oscar thinks. Shared plane rides and conversations in the paddock. They even text sometimes, about tennis, about Lando, about anything really. As long as Carlos texts Oscar responds.Â
Oscar tries really hard to keep all this normal. He thinks he's doing a great job, with the way people believe him expressionless and all. Oscar would disagree, say he has plenty of expressions, plenty of reactions. Maybe he tampers it down around Carlos, but so often that embarrassing fascination peaks through.Â
The biting words when they collide on track. The âheart-eyesâ Piastri face he made when Carlos photobombed the McLaren picture. The small smile he gave Carlos when they were both lying on that press-couch in Monaco before tapping Carlosâs feet with his own.Â
The point is it's embarrassing how much Oscar cares. How he canât seem to keep Carlosâs name out of his mouth, almost begging for attention.Â
So it surprises him after. After the Bahrain GP, Oscar finished first, a whole 15 seconds ahead of George, even more ahead of Lando. Heâs ecstatic, now second in the WDC standings. He knows this wasnât a good race for Carlos, a DNF, the ending to a trying race.Â
So, it surprises Oscar, when Carlos shows up in front of Oscarâs hotel door, the number he had given him sometime earlier in the weekend. He opens the door to an annoyed Carlos, eyes creased and lips pouting. Oscar tenses, on guard. Usually when Carlos looks at him like that Carlos believes Oscar fucked up his race, but that was impossible, how far there cars were, never a change to meet. Not a magnetic pull but instead a negative charge repelling them.Â
Oscar opens his mouth, about to ask Carlos why heâs here, but before he can Carlos charges ahead.Â
âWhy did you not invite me to padel?â Carlos says, accusatory, frustration in his tone.Â
It throws Oscar off, both physically and mentally. He flinches, surprised. Nothing to do with his race, but instead the padel game he played with Lando, Alex, and Mark.
âWhatâŠ?âÂ
Carlos flushes, a blush over his cheeks. He ducks his head down as if embarrassed. As if realizing that maybe this couldâve been a text, or something Oscar saw clipped on twitter two days later, instead of an impromptu appearance at Oscarâs hotel room, demanding to know why he was not invited.Â
He looks up, eyes level equal to Oscarâs but not making eye-contact. Darting around the edges of Oscarâs face as if Oscar will be tricked into thinking Carlos is looking at him.Â
âYou went to padel with Lando and Alex. I like padel. You could have invited me. We could have been a team.â Carlos explains, voice tripping over his words, trying to explain himself. âI thought we were friends now, you know. And Iâm good at padel really, and Alex says your bad soââ
Oscar cuts Carlos off with a hand landing on Carlosâs arm, a soft grab, pulling Carlos out of his ramble. âCarlos, we are friends. I was invited by Alex, and I thought he invited you, until he asked me to invite someone the day before. I didnât know if you would want to go, and I knew Mark was free, thatâs all.âÂ
Itâs earnest, Oscarâs response. He wouldâve invited Carlos. Almost did in fact, stared at Carlosâs contact for a good fifteen minutes before asking Mark instead. Asking Carlos felt too much like begging for Oscar. To much like revealing his hand, that somehow a padel invitation from Oscar would reveal Oscarâs feelings for Carlos to the man.Â
âI shouldâve asked you.â Oscar says, forcing Carlos to make eye contact with him. âI wanted to ask you..really..I just didnât want to bother you.â Now Oscar joined Carlos in the blushing, his ears red with this minuscule confession. Oscar now is the one drawing his eyes away from Carlos, looking past Carlosâs right ear, at the cream wall of the hallway of the Hilton. â...I didnât know if you would want to go if I was the one asking.âÂ
That's the crux of it really. Oscar can be as confident and self-assured as any other driver within his car, in the engineering room. But here, navigating feelings, Oscar falls short. An ever-existing inability to make himself known or even to understand others.Â
âNo, no, noâ Itâs now Carlos who grabs Oscarâs arms, his head shaking, Oscarâs grip having fallen sometime during the conversation. âI want you to ask. I want to hang out with youâŠIâŠI want to know you Oscar.âÂ
Oscar suddenly, is eternally grateful there are no cameras around to film there conversation, because he is definitely giving Carlos heart-eyes at full force right now.Â
Okay everyone, got over some writers block so heres a pt. 2 to my last professional soccer player carcar fic. Not the Team Torque idea I had, but im still looking to write that in the future
https://archiveofourown.org/works/64348306
An athletes worst fear is not being traded, it is not a terrible coach or team, not the diminishing of skill. An athlete's worst fear is injury.
The agonizing existence of sitting out of practice. Of recovery. Of taking it easy. Needing help to walk down the hallway, to put on shoes. The twinge that exists forever after the injury, the fear of a reappearance. You go crazy, you lash out, you push yourself too hard too fast. Desperate to do something.
And thereâs Oscar. On the ground in the last agonizing minutes of overtime, with a sharp pain blazing through his ankle. Ankles are scary. Twisting your ankle is no big deal, back in the game pretty much immediately. A sprain? A torn ligament? Now thatâs worse. And Oscar knows this is not a simple twisting of the ankle.
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