happy winter olympics! here's some olympic pair skaters carcar 2 celebrate :)
Carlos seems to know everyone in the Olympic village.
Everywhere they go, someone’s trying to strike up a conversation with her, or pulling her to the side for a selfie, or asking her if she wants to trade pins. And Oscar’s not jealous, per se—the more attention on Carlos, the less attention on him, and that’s the way he likes it—but it is sort of shocking to see Carlos so in her element like this. Every time Oscar looks at her, she’s running off in a new direction like an excitable puppy, barraging every athlete she meets with so many questions about their respective sport that Oscar almost wonders if she’s considering changing disciplines next Olympic cycle.
It would be annoying, maybe, if Oscar weren’t so far gone for her. The admission that he is—gone for Carlos, that is—would have killed him mere months ago, but now the fact just settles calmly into his chest, an old ache, an immutable fact. The sky is blue, grass is green, and Oscar is secretly in love with his ice dance partner.
A bit cliche, he knows. But anyone else would, too, he thinks, if they got to spend as much time with Carlos as he does.
The biggest downside of the fact that everyone in the Olympic village seems to share Oscar’s fondness for Carlos, really, is that it puts Oscar in the position of Carlos’ de facto personal assistant, carrying an extra jacket for Carlos when she inevitably gets too cold—because she does, somehow, always get too cold, even though she spends dozens of hours every week in an ice rink—or being handed Carlos’ phone whenever she wants a picture with some athlete he’s never even heard of. Which, to be fair, he did grow up the oldest brother to three sisters, so it’s not like he isn’t used to that sort of treatment.
“Oscar!” Carlos says from a few yards away, as if on cue, arm slug casually around the shoulders of some hulking blond guy in a blue-and-yellow parka. “Oscar, this is the ice hockey captain for Sweden. Could you take a photo of us together, please?”
“Yep,” Oscar nods. When he goes to snap the photo, the Swedish guy puts his hand on the small of Carlos’ back, the exact same place Oscar puts his hand on her when they’re doing the rotational lift in their rhythm dance. It’s a friendly touch, nothing untoward, but Oscar is still surprised when Carlos leans into it instead of shaking it off. Whenever she and Oscar are practicing lifts together and Oscar has to touch her back or her thighs or her waist, he always checks if it’s okay with her first. Usually, she just rolls her eyes at him and says, Oscar, come on, we have been skating together now for ages. I trust you.
Oscar gives his head a mental shake and snaps the photo, like a dog shedding water after getting out of a lake. It’s none of his business how Carlos decides to pose with some guy for a photo. None of his business at all.
-
Spain doesn’t have enough athletes to qualify for the team figure skating event, so Carlos spends their first few days just dragging Oscar along to event after event. At first, Oscar thinks it’s kind of strange—they spend nearly every waking moment together when they’re training in Toronto, and it’s not like Carlos is low on people who’d be willing to accompany her wherever she wants to go. Still, whenever Carlos bats her eyelashes and asks him, will you come watch curling with me? Oscar can’t find it in him to tell her no. Which, that should be enough evidence that he’s screwed, probably. That he likes Carlos so much he’s willing to watch fucking curling.
They’re spectating a hockey game now, which is great both because it’s far more exciting than curling and also because neither of the teams involved is Sweden. Carlos has apparently decided she’s rooting for Latvia—what can I say, Oscar, I like an underdog—and when they score, Carlos starts shouting and pounding Oscar excitedly on the shoulder, singing along to a goal song in a language she doesn't speak.
“Did you see?!” she asks, pointing to the ice as though Oscar is completely unfamiliar with the concept of ice hockey. “Oscar. Oscar! Did you see?” She’s grinning like a madwoman, her hands warm where they’re gripping Oscar by the wrist. Her dark eyes sparkle with excitement, and Oscar feels a pang of longing so deep in his chest it manifests as a physical ache.
“Yeah,” Oscar replies, allowing himself a soft smile in return. “Yeah, I saw.”
-
The night before the rhythm dance, Carlos summons Oscar to her room for a last-minute debrief. When Oscar opens her door, she’s spread out on her flimsy cardboard bed, her laptop open on the bedspread to a video of herself and Oscar. Her garment bag is hung up in the closet; Oscar can just see a hint of the shiny silver fabric of her dress out of the corner of his eye. This is, at least, a familiar sight, a tradition they’ve upheld ever since they started skating together, one Carlos tells him was something she used to do ever since she was little: one last chance to talk everything through before they had to go out and put on a show.
“I kicked my roommate out,” she says sheepishly, gesturing to the empty bed on the opposite side of the room—if Oscar recalls correctly, it belongs to a Spanish pair skater. “She probably thinks I’m trying to have sex.”
Oscar feels his face heat. “Funny,” he says, taking a seat when Carlos pats the empty space next to her, careful to leave a few inches of room between them.
Carlos takes one of the earbuds she has in and moves it from her ear to Oscar’s. She’s already dressed for bed, wearing a soft-looking shirt and a worn pair of pyjama pants. Her face is bare, her dark hair falling in loose curls down her shoulders. She leans across him to press play on the video. It’s a full program run-through with music; Oscar listens as the first beats of it echo tinnily across the rink.
It’s a flamenco, Carlos had explained, when they were first tossing around music ideas at the start of the season with their choreographer. It is an Olympic year, you know? It will be good to have some national pride.
Carlos taps the space bar first, freezing the mini versions of herself and Oscar mid-crossover. “I like this moment here, this eye contact,” she says, pensive. “I think we should hold it a bit longer to build up the tension.”
Oscar nods. This is their ritual, half review and half Catholic-style confession: full amnesty for any last notes or critiques before they step on the ice to do it for real, no judgement or shame. The first time they had done this, Carlos had quietly informed him that she got a wedgie half the time he picked her up for the combination lift, and Oscar admitted likewise that he was always afraid she was about to knee him in the balls during their spin. It had been cathartic, weirdly, to just say it without having to worry about the other person making a big deal out of it, knowing that Carlos would just nod and make sure to keep her knee out of the way the next day.
I do not like to be hiding anything when I skate, she’d explained, when Oscar asked her how the ritual came about. I don’t think there should be any secrets between us and the audience. It is how we connect with each other, no?
Of course, Carlos didn’t know about Oscar’s biggest secret, the feelings he’s been harboring for her for ages. But Oscar supposed that didn't hinder her ability to connect with the audience, anyhow.
“I can do that,” he nods, leaning over to press play once again. They spend the next few minutes going back and forth like that, pausing the video every ten seconds or so with a note, something to remember for tomorrow. Your extension could be a little cleaner there. You hopped your turn on that counter.
The Carlos and Oscar on screen are just coming out of a spin, Oscar’s hand placed on the exact spot on the small of Carlos’ back where the Swedish hockey player touched her, when Carlos pauses the video. Oscar waits for her to speak, but instead, silence falls over the room. When Oscar turns to look at her, Carlos' gaze is faraway, her body tense.
Oscar feels his brows furrow. “Everything okay?” he asks. Carlos' hands are clenching and relaxing rhythmically on the bedspread, something Oscar’s learned she does when stressed.
“Yeah, I’m just trying to…” she trails off, and Oscar can hear the gears in her head turning. “I— how do I say…”
Oscar frowns. Carlos usually has no trouble saying what’s on her mind. “Take your time,” he says, willing his voice to remain steady. Is Carlos having a breakdown, or something? Did she suddenly decide the wants to fire Oscar as a partner, or go switch to hockey to play with that Swedish guy instead?
It takes a few more starts and stops, but eventually, Carlos says, so uncharacteristically quiet that Oscar has to strain his ears even in the empty room to hear her properly, “Sometimes. Sometimes I think you do not like me.”
Oscar blinks, trying to interpret Carlos’ sentence in a way that makes sense. Because it doesn't, what she said. Make sense. Not in the slightest.
“What?” he says, “Sorry, Carlos, you— what?”
“I know it is stupid, probably.” Carlos says, curling in on herself slightly. “It is just— this is a flamenco, right? There should be— passion and heat and— I am just. Sometimes, when you touch me, it is like I am your— I don’t know, like I am your sister, or something.”
“I only ever skated with my sister before you,” Oscar replies on instinct, which is definitely not the part of what Carlos just said that Oscar should be fixating on; the slightly stricken expression Carlos gives him just reinforces that fact. The worst part is, Oscar knows she’s right, that ever since he recognized his feelings for what they were, he’s been over-correcting, keeping his touches just this side of clinical, lest he reveal too much in the way he hugged her or patted her on the shoulder.
“Sorry,” Oscar tries again, “I just mean—” every explanation he has seems too damning. He knows he needs to say something to fix this, to explain himself, but his tongue sits dead in his mouth, useless.
“At first I thought it was just the way you are, you know?” Carlos continues, her voice small in a way that Oscar isn’t used to. “I just thought that maybe it did not come naturally to you. But you are a much better actor than people give you credit for, Oscar. You pretend like you are so unbothered all the time, but you want to win just as much as I do. You pretend like you do not care what the media says about you, but I see you blocking people on our Instagram account when they say something stupid about us, about me. You are good at pretending, but it’s like you can’t even pretend to—” she pauses, swallows, starts again.
“It’s okay, really, if you do not like me as a person. I know I am— a lot, sometimes. I know I am loud, and I talk a lot, and that it can be annoying how much my family is involved in my training, and— and you do not have to like me off the ice the way that I like you, I know that, but. But it is like you can’t even pretend to want me on the ice, and Lando told me you are not gay, so. What else am I supposed to think, no?”
Oscar stays silent, his head just replaying the words the way that I like you the way that I like you the way that I like you over and over again. After a few seconds, Carlos leans over to start the video again.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I should not have— forget I said anything, I should not have brought it up. We can talk about it after the rhythm dance, or after the Games are over, or even not at all if you don’t want t—”
When Oscar kisses her, Carlos freezes, and for one brief moment, he wonders if he’s somehow managed to misinterpret the situation entirely. But then, after a moment’s hesitation, she opens her mouth against his, kissing him back soft and sweet and warm, looping her arms around the back of his neck.
When Oscar pulls away, Carlos blinks at him with half-lidded eyes, her insane eyelashes casting shadows over the sharp planes of her face. Her bottom lip with wet with spit—Oscar’s spit—her body bending perfectly against his like muscle memory.
“I like you,” Oscar says, simple and not nearly enough. “Carlos, Christ. I like you so, so much.”
Slowly, Carlos starts grinning, wider and wider until she’s full-out laughing, bright and loud and perfect. "Fuck, Oscar,” she says, barely able to even get the words out beyond her laughing. “You have a funny way of showing it, oh my god.”
Heat rises in Oscar’s cheeks. His chest feels impossibly full and light at the same time, like taking the top step of a podium, like getting a gold medal hung around his neck. “I was trying to be— respectful,” he stammers, “Professional. We’re coworkers. And I wasn’t lying, to be fair. You’re the first ice dance partner I’ve had who I wasn’t related to. I didn’t know how to— touch, I guess.”
Carlos laughs again, drawing him in for another kiss. She tastes like wintergreen toothpaste. Cold and fresh, like a pristine sheet of ice. She takes Oscar's hand in hers and guides it to her waist. She holds it there as she noses at the juncture of Oscar's jaw and neck, leaving a light trail of kisses there that make him go light-headed.
“Oh, Oscar,” she murmurs against his ear, sending shivers down his spine. Oscar can feel her smile against his skin. “You should have told me sooner. I’d be happy to teach you.”
