There’s two constants in every day: it rains and after Oscar loses the car, wheels spinning uselessly on the wet tarmac, goes into the grass and gets back on track, he goes on a rampage through the backmarkers to save his championship lead and when he tries to overtake Carlos, he puts them both into the wall. Oh, and a third constant, after the race he comes to Carlos’s hotel room to yell at him about it.
Ten days into the time loop, Carlos starts yanking Oscar into his driver’s room before the race to tell him to stop fucking braking too late in turn three. Promptly, Oscar goes off track in turn six. Ten more days and Carlos is warning him about turn twelve.
“No one in the history of racing has ever crashed in turn twelve,” Oscar tells him snootily.
“Believe me,” Carlos grumbles. “I have it on pretty good authority that it is possible.”
“Alright, mate,” Oscar says soothingly. “Always a pleasure, really. You’re probably late for something, right?”
“Not really,” Carlos says and Oscar puts a gentle hand on his shoulder.
“Yeah, you are,” he says and then pushes Carlos out of his driver’s room. Rude.
Time loop iteration twenty-one: Oscar puts one wheel outside the driving line and goes off. Crashes Carlos out in turn four. Gets all blotchy in the face while accusing Carlos of trying to throw the championship for Lando. When Carlos wakes up, it’s Sunday again.
Time loop iteration twenty-two: Oscar gets nudged into the grass while overtaking Charles, puts himself and Carlos in the wall on the straight. Says Carlos is obviously hiding some debilitating brain injury from the FIA if he’s driving like that. When Carlos wakes up, it’s Sunday again.
Time loop iteration twenty-three: Carlos goes into town and orders the greasiest burger he can find. Then he goes bowling, because he’s never been. A push notification from the F1 app informs him Oscar’s engine exploded and he’s still in critical condition. After that, Carlos doesn’t skip races anymore. When Carlos wakes up, it’s Sunday again.
Time loop iteration twenty-four: In the middle of Oscar’s rant, Carlos says “I feel like you are carrying a lot of stress about the championship.”
“Don’t make this about me,” Oscar snarls. “You’re the one that—”
“No, really,” Carlos says. “I have been reading about this, I think you don’t have an outlet and somehow I am a safe outlet for you to channel this stress. In a way, this is very flattering.”
Oscar’s mouth snaps shut and he goes bright pink in an instant.
“Fuck you,” Oscar spits, and storms out of Carlos’s hotel room. Huh. Interesting.
Time loop iteration twenty-five: “We should try some breathing exercises,” Carlos says. Oscar goes so red Carlos makes a mental note to ask him about his blood pressure in a coming loop.
Time loop iteration twenty-six: “I am kind of starting to enjoy this, is that weird?” Carlos asks. “I mean, I am not having a good season, but somehow I still seem to be your preferred rival, if that makes sense? It makes me feel—good, I guess? Like I still matter.”
“Are you having a stroke?” Oscar asks. “Fuck, let me—I’m googling the symptoms. Can you lift your arm?”
Time loop iteration twenty-seven: “Yoga?” Carlos asks. Oscar shouts at him, but Carlos gets distracted thinking about Oscar in downward dog position and when he shakes himself out of it, Oscar’s gone.
Time loop iteration twenty-eight: Fuck it, whatever. Carlos is a grown man, he can admit he’s been thinking about it. One fumbling make-out session with Teto when they were fifteen, that’s all the exploring he’s ever done, and every other time he’s thought about it, it seemed too risky. Something better saved for after retirement. But sometimes, Carlos wants. So much it seems like he can feel it moving under his skin like a living thing. And Oscar, his coarse surface grating against all of Carlos’s bumpy irregularities, wears Carlos down so fast it feels like it might burst out of him. He doesn’t even let Oscar open his mouth to start screaming before Carlos walks him back against the wall, seals their mouth together. He’s avoided thinking of how Oscar will react, just wanting to do one thing in this swirl of forgotten time that’s just for himself, but instead of pushing Carlos off, Oscar goes soft and pliant. His mouth opens for Carlos, easy, and his hands come up to grasp Carlos’s shirt and pull him closer.
It’s kind of a messy, undignified affair, from there on out. If either of them came up for breath for even a second, they might have figured out a way to have actual sex, but by the time they’ve rid themselves of most of their clothes, they can’t do anything else but grind together, panting into each other’s mouths.
“Carlos,” Oscar gasps out, fucking down so his cock slots in the sweat-slick crease of Carlos’s thigh and Carlos whines, pulling Oscar’s hips tighter against himself so he can rub off against the soft plain of Oscar’s stomach. Oscar’s desperate for it, flushed red and open-mouthed, and when he comes, he shudders all over. When he gets his bearings, he gets a hand around Carlos’s cock and sucks a mark into Carlos’s throat, high enough that there’s no collar in the world that can hide it, but it doesn’t fucking matter anyway, so Carlos lets it happen, arches up against Oscar and comes in the tight space between their bodies.
“You should stay,” Carlos tells him after they’ve showered and Oscar is searching around the floor for his shorts. It’s just his luck that specifically this weekend, none of Carlos’s friends or family are here and the Williams garage is full of touch-averse Brits, so Carlos has been missing casual intimacy, hugging someone, having another body close against his own. Oscar doesn’t argue, just curls into the curve of Carlos’s body and conks out, the tension Carlos has seen him carry for twenty-eight days and most of the season bled away.
Carlos falls asleep with his nose buried in Oscar’s hair, thinking about how tomorrow, Oscar will crash him out again. In turn ten, or four, or sixteen even, and then come to Carlos’s hotel room again to yell at him, all wound tight again.
When Carlos wakes up, sunlight is already streaming through the gaps between the curtains, which means he’s probably slept through his alarm, because he’s been waking up in the dark for twenty-eight days now. He turns around to check the time, but something halts his motion, a heavy weight trapping his arm against the mattress. Oscar’s face is smoothed out with sleep, his serene expression at odds with the rising panic Carlos feels gathering in the pit of his stomach and winding around his ribs. As gently as possible, without awakening Oscar, he twists his arm behind himself to get his phone off the night stand so he can check the screen. It’s Monday.
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