Teto’s on the phone with Reyes for the fourth time in as many hours—yes, he’s still awake, yes, he’s still talking, yes, he’s still doped up to the gills—when he spots, he blinks to make sure he’s seeing it right, Oscar Piastri. He’s wearing an unbranded hoodie, shoulders so tightly pulled up it makes him look smaller, weaving around the nurses and visitors in the hallway unnoticed.
“I will call you back in a second,” Teto says, hanging up the phone and narrowing his eyes as Oscar counts down the room numbers until—
“Hey!” Teto barks and Oscar nearly hits the ceiling, hand yanking away from the door handle to Carlos’s hospital room. “No visitors. And what the fuck are you doing here anyway?”
“I’m just—” Oscar says, shoulders creeping up even further past his ears. “Is he—how is he doing?”
“None of your business,” Teto says, which is unnecessary and mean but he’s angry, been angry for hours at things he can’t take it out on, wet kerbs and concrete barriers. Oscar-fucking-Piastri, as he was referred to in the team 55 groupchat for most of 2023, will have to receive what Teto has been itching to deliver to the Williams strategist okaying Carlos’s request to go on the slicks.
Oscar’s face goes tight all over, jaw bobbing as he swallows. He stares at Teto for a long moment and then his eyes flick to something just behind Teto. The second Teto turns around to look, Oscar, sneaky little fucker, moves like a cat, quick-quiet, slipping into Carlos’s hospital room before Teto can do anything. He follows hot on Oscar’s heels, fully intent on throwing him out of the window, but Oscar has already made it to Carlos and—
“Heeeey,” Carlos says, sounding pleased and tired and completely blitzed. “You’re here.”
“Yeah,” Oscar says, voice tight as he sits on the edge of the bed, nervous eyes scouring the beeping monitors Carlos is attached to. “How are you feeling?”
“Great,” Carlos says emphatically and Oscar lets out a watery chuckle.
“You can’t be here,” Teto says and Carlos’s eyes flick from Oscar to Teto, dopey smile getting even bigger.
“You’re here too,” Carlos says. “Oscar is here and you are here. Teto and Oscar.”
“They got you on the good stuff, huh?” Oscar says and Carlos laughs. When he tries to reach out, the sound turns into a groan and before Teto can even tackle Oscar off the bed for the crime of making Carlos want to move his injured arm, Oscar has already leaned in, gently pushing Carlos back against his pillows.
“Careful there,” Oscar says. “Your arm, is it—”
“Broken,” Teto says, narrowing his eyes.
“It looked,” Oscar swallows. His hand drops from Carlos’s shoulder to his blanket-covered knee, thumb sweeping before he looks over his shoulder at Teto and he stuffs it in his hoodie pocket. “On the broadcast. It looked pretty bad.”
“Hey, Oscar,” Carlos says, head lolling to the side. “Have you ever been to Madrid?”
“Yeah,” Oscar says. “For an event.”
“It’s nice,” Carlos says. “In the summer. Madrid. Warm and—”
He makes a vague gesture with his good arm. “I am there. In the summer. You should be there.”
“Oh my god,” Teto mutters, realisation setting in, and Oscar gives him a hunted look over his shoulder.
“We’ll talk about it later, huh,” Oscar says, so quietly Teto almost can’t hear him and Carlos’s eyebrows knot together.
“It’s nice,” he says again and Oscar makes a soothing noise, hand rising and stuttering on the way to Carlos’s face before it reroutes to his good shoulder.
“Okay, yeah,” Oscar says. “Yeah, that’s—okay.”
“Okay,” Carlos sighs, mollified already, blinking slowly and Oscar’s thumb touches the side of his neck before quickly retreating down.
“You should sleep,” Oscar says. “We’ll talk tomorrow, yeah? You can tell me what the doctors said.”
“Teto can tell you,” Carlos says drowsily, head drooping to the side. It’s serious, Teto realises with stunning clarity. Whatever this—whatever’s happening here. Carlos unguarded and soft, Oscar strung tight with worry and fear. It’s serious.
“Sure, yeah,” Teto says and Oscar gives him a look that’s so full of aching gratitude Teto wants to throw a blanket over it and remain happily convinced that Oscar Piastri is a pain in Carlos’s ass and nothing else.
“I’ll call you,” Oscar says, standing up and lingering. Because Teto’s a good friend, he turns his back to them and fiddles with the curtains to draw them closed, long enough to hear the springs in the mattress squeak and the quiet murmur of Oscar’s voice followed by Carlos’s content hmm. When Teto turns back, he catches the end of Oscar guiltily wiping his mouth with his sleeve. Not slick.
Oscar gets out of the hospital room in phases, steps stuttering as he keeps looking back at Carlos, already mostly knocked out again. Teto follows him, the same urge continuously tugging his chin over his shoulder to see Carlos sink back into his pillows.
“We’re friends,” Oscar says defensively, even though Teto hasn’t said anything, turning to the coffee machine, the bit of his neck visible above his collar a tightly coiled line. “We’re—it’s not—we’re friends.”
“How long has this been going on?” Teto asks and Oscar stabs a finger against the keypad of the hospital coffee machine until it starts humming.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Oscar says and Teto rolls his eyes.
“How long?” He asks and Oscar sighs. He unknots all at once, shoulders drooping.
“A while,” he says. Then he turns to Teto, his stern glare mostly ineffective when combined with trembling fingers clutching a paper cup with hot chocolate. “You can’t tell anyone.”
“No shit,” Teto says. “But why didn’t he—Carlos tells me everything.”
“He wanted to,” Oscar says. “But I asked him not to tell anyone.”
He maintains unflinching eye contact with Teto as he takes a swig from the cup, face scrunching against what Teto already knows has the consistency of granulated sugar floating in lukewarm water. Teto’s been here for half a day already, he knows the only drinkable thing in the machine is the espresso, provided you slam it back quick enough for it to not make contact with your tastebuds. Teto’s known Carlos for most of his life, so he doesn’t know why Oscar thinks he can pull off a lie about Carlos in Teto’s face. Still, it’s kind of nice that he tries.
“No, you didn’t,” Teto says.
“No, I didn’t,” Oscar admits. “But it wasn’t like—it’s not personal. You know how he is.”
Yeah, Teto knows how Carlos is. Of course Teto knows. What’s surprising is that Oscar does.
“I can’t believe—” Teto says, shaking his head. “I thought he was seeing someone, you know? He was grinning at his phone all stupid constantly and I thought—hey, don’t look so fucking smug.”
Oscar, unbearable smugness finally putting some colour back into his pale face, shrugs.
“It’s not really—” Oscar says. “I mean, I thought. Casual. I thought.”
“Very casual,” Teto says. “Showing up here.”
“And Madrid,” Oscar says, looking pleased for a brief moment before reality etches worry back into his expression. “So I guess we both suck at casual.”
“Visiting hours start at ten tomorrow,” Teto says. “When’s your flight?”
“Two hours ago,” Oscar says. “I’ll be there. Will you let me know if there’s—if there’s anything?”
Teto promises he’ll let Oscar know, not remembering he doesn’t even have Oscar’s number until Oscar’s already gone. He’ll have to go through Carlos’s phone to get it, and be very careful while doing it so he doesn’t see anything that’ll scar him for life. When he goes back into the hospital room, Carlos is not yet entirely asleep, blinking at Teto sleepily.
“Carlos, really. Him?” Teto asks, trying not to sound too despairing and Carlos sighs happily.
“Yeah,” he slurs and Teto rolls his eyes to the ceiling, mutters dios mio under his breath.
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