He’s seen it happen to other people, of course. Nearly everyone goes through it as a teenager, their heart leaping out of their chest with the intensity of their first crush, shyly returned, often with a kiss. Not Oscar. Never Oscar, sensible and stubborn and so focused on making it to Formula 1 that he’d hardly allowed himself any time for feelings.
In retrospect, that may have been a mistake.
“I don’t, um,” Oscar stutters, his face feeling like the surface of the sun. “I have no idea how that happened.”
“It’s okay,” Carlos says, Oscar’s heart cradled in his palm. It’s sort of glowing just a little, which is even more embarrassing. How is Oscar supposed to tell his own heart to keep it together?
“Lando’s did the same, when we were teammates,” Carlos continues.
Oscar’s heart abruptly stops its glowing.
“Oh,” Oscar says stupidly. “Right. That makes sense.”
“Don’t worry, I took good care of him for you,” Carlos says. He smiles, something gentle in it that makes Oscar feel a bit queasy. He’s got no idea what he’s supposed to say in response. He hadn’t asked Carlos to look after his heart, hadn’t even know it was happening until he’d gotten out of the car after FP2 and felt something amiss.
“Thanks,” Oscar says, awkwardly scooping his heart up from Carlos’s palm and trying not to notice the way his fingertips feel dragging over Carlos’s skin. He closes his fingers over his heart, feeling its warmth beating against his hand, almost like it’s trying to escape. “Won’t happen again.”
“It’s okay,” Carlos says, his fingers curling in on themselves almost a mirror of Oscar’s. “I did not mind it.”
“That’s – thanks,” Oscar says again. Of course Carlos doesn’t mind. With his perfect hair and his big, warm eyes, people’s hearts have probably been throwing themselves at Carlos his entire life. Oscar’s not special. “See you around.”
“Bye,” Carlos calls loudly after him.
Oscar stuffs his heart in his pocket, keeping his fingers curled around it until they’re well away from Carlos.
—
The next time it happens, Oscar’s woken up from a dead sleep to the sound of someone knocking on his door. It takes him a long moment to remember where he is: a hotel room in Bahrain, after the race. He fumbles for his phone and squints at the time: just after four thirty in the morning. Ninety minutes before he has to wake up to get to the airport.
The knocking continues, so Oscar drags himself out of bed and opens the door, blinking against the hallway light.
“I’m sorry,” Carlos says. “I know it is early, but we are leaving soon for the airport, and I did not want to get on a plane with this.”
Oscar stares at Carlos’s outstretched hand, at the red object nestled cozily in his palm. “How the fuck did you even get that?” he mutters, not yet awake enough to censor his thoughts.
“It was on my pillow,” Carlos says sheepishly. “When I woke up.”
Oscar feels as though he’s just been plunged into an icy lake. He snatches his heart back, barely remembering to thank Carlos before he slams the door in his face.
“You had better knock that shit off,” Oscar hisses, holding his heart at eye level as though he can stare it into submission. “He’s going to fine us for harassment or something, and then we’ll really look like an idiot.”
It’s hard to tell in the near-total darkness of his hotel room, but Oscar thinks his heart might droop a bit. Oscar himself sits down on the mess of his bed and lets his shoulders slump, his heart beating warmly against his fingers. “He’s just being nice,” Oscar says. “Carlos Sainz is too nice to tell us to fuck off, who’d have thought.”
Oscar gets back in bed, pulling the blankets up to his chin and closing his eyes. Seconds later he decides he’s too warm and kicks at the covers, searching for cooler air. It’s pointless to try and go back to sleep, he knows, but Oscar stubbornly remains in bed with his eyes closed, tossing and turning until his alarm goes off at six.
When he sits up, his heart is right where he left it, beside him on the bed. Oscar breathes out a sigh of relief and gets up to gather his things for the flight home.
—
Oscar didn’t really think it was possible for the situation to get any more embarrassing, and then his heart goes and leaps away right in front of his eyes. “What the – hey, get back here,” Oscar says, staring as his heart flits across the room and out the open window, hovering at the edge of his balcony. “For fuck’s sake.”
Oscar hadn’t even been thinking about Carlos. Not really. He’d glanced out the window and thought it looked like a nice day, and maybe he could go for a bike ride later in the evening once it cools down a bit. His thoughts had drifted from there to Carlos, naturally, since the guy has seemingly done nothing but bike around Monaco this season. But that had been it, nothing tender or romantic about it. Certainly Oscar wouldn’t call it a daydream.
His heart either didn’t care or couldn’t tell the difference.
Oscar leaps across the room, outstretched hands grabbing for his heart just as it lifts in the air. “No no no,” Oscar groans, watching his heart take to the sky like a bird.
Oscar doesn’t have much choice about that bike ride now. He’s built an entire career out of being fast, surely he can be quick enough to catch his heart before it embarrasses him any further. Oscar hauls his bike down to the street, just catching a glimpse of his heart down the block before it swoops around the corner. He sets off, hoping Carlos is in Monaco and that Oscar isn’t about to attempt a bike ride to Spain or the UK or something. He has no idea if there’s a limit to the distance his heart will travel on its own.
Fortunately, Oscar doesn’t have to travel very far at all. He’s just swerved onto a new street at the top of a long hill, pedalling so hard he nearly passes his destination and has to skid to a stop when he realizes his heart has stopped its mad dash across the city.
Unfortunately, he’s still too late to stop his heart from doing anything stupid. Oscar watches from a few meters away as Carlos looks up in surprise, reaching out to give Oscar’s heart a nice place to land. The smile on his face is brutally soft.
The person sitting next to Carlos elbows him and points across the street, right at Oscar.
Oscar, who has just biked up the steep streets of Monaco in the hoodie and shorts he’d been wearing on his couch. He’s positive his face was already red from the bike ride, and now he’s blushing besides, as sweat drips from his temples and his hair hangs messily in his face. Carlos and his friends all stare at him from their café table.
Carlos raises his hand and waves at him, his smile brightening.
Oscar reacts on pure instinct. Crossing the street and retrieving his heart, in front of Carlos’s friends, is unthinkable. He knows it makes him an asshole, but that doesn’t stop Oscar from turning his bike right around and racing home, ignoring Carlos’s shouts behind him.
Half an hour later, Oscar’s phone rings as he steps out of the shower. He’s pretty sure it’s been ringing ever since he ditched Carlos with his heart, but Oscar cannot bring himself to answer. He feels a bit sick just thinking about it. If his heart wants to be with Carlos so badly, well, Carlos can keep it. Let him do what he wants with it. Oscar doesn’t need a heart.
Oscar drags a towel over his head, the most effort he ever puts into drying his hair. His phone starts up buzzing again. He reaches for his phone to turn it off, but before he’s even touched it, he hears Carlos calling his name. Oscar drops his arm and looks around in confusion.
“Oscar, let me in,” Carlos yells, from, Oscar slowly realizes with dawning horror, the street below his open window.
Oscar opens the window as wide as it will go and leans out, hoping Carlos can see him glaring from the sidewalk. “What?” he says, barely daring to raise his voice.
“What do you mean, what?” Carlos asks. “You show up out of nowhere with –”
“Don’t,” Oscar really shouts now, all too aware of everyone overhearing this conversation. “You can come up, just stop talking.”
Carlos juts his jaw out to the side, and after a moment, nods.
Oscar goes down to let him in, holding the door open. “Wait til we’re upstairs,” he says, voice low. If Carlos is too nice to tell him to fuck off, he’s probably too nice to shove Oscar’s heart back in his ungrateful hands on the street for anyone to see. It’s better than Oscar deserves, and unfair of Oscar to keep testing the limits of Carlos’s patience, but Carlos is quiet as he follows Oscar upstairs and into his apartment.
The door closes solidly behind them, and still Carlos waits a long moment before he asks, “Why did you leave?”
Another kindness, letting Oscar cling to his remaining dignity rather than very accurately accuse him of running away. “I didn’t want to bother you,” Oscar says. “Any more than I already had.”
Carlos frowns, his brows pulling together, puzzled. “You are not bothering me,” he says. “I told you, I do not mind taking care of you.”
Oscar feels a lurching in his chest, even though he knows his heart is elsewhere. In Carlos’s pocket, probably. “That’s great,” he says, his voice rough. He clears his throat and continues, “You can just give it back and get on with your day, I’ll try to keep a better –”
“I can’t,” Carlos says.
Oscar turns to him, his jaw hanging open. “What do you mean you can’t?” he asks slowly.
Carlos shrugs. “He followed you home,” Carlos says. “And, erm…”
Oscar pats himself down, wondering how his heart managed to sneak back without his notice. He spots it over by the window – the same one it had flown out of earlier – and goes over to take it back, freezing a few steps away. There’s a second heart tucked beside Oscar’s, the pair of them glowing brightly.
“Is that…” Oscar slowly turns to Carlos, who’s followed him over to the window and is staring at the hearts with a faintly stunned expression. “Are you…?” A pleasant feeling warms Oscar’s chest, spreading out through his limbs all the way to his fingertips.
Carlos tilts his head. “You did not ask a question,” he says. “But I think my answer is yes.”
Instead of his heart, this time Oscar throws himself across the room. Lucky for him, Carlos’s arms are already open, waiting.
sentence prompt if you’re still taking them :): “oscar swore this would be the last time” - @brushedbymelancholy
[give me a first sentence and i'll write a little fic]
Oscar swore this would be the last time.
"Oh. Um, hi," he stuttered, his fingers clenching around the heavy wooden door for support. Some sense of fucking timing, that he'd gone to leave just as one of Carlos's entourage was about to knock.
Gigi was holding a cup of coffee in both hands, a smoothie cradled against his chest, and his face was a blank, impenetrable mask.
Oscar was quite certain Gigi hated his guts for what he was doing with Carlos. There was no point in pretending Oscar was here for anything else, considering Gigi had barged in on him and Carlos still in bed back in Texas. Fortunately Oscar had been dead asleep at the time, but he had also been naked. The damage was done.
He should have gone out the window, climbed over the balcony, anything to avoid this horrendously awkward confrontation.
"Carlos is in the shower," Oscar said. "I was just leaving."
Gigi's face creased with a frown. Even his mustache twitched with disapproval. "Does Carlos know you are leaving?"
"What? I..." The smell of coffee wafting from the cups in Gigi's hands was so strong it was giving Oscar a headache. He was never at his best first thing in the morning, and now he was being interrogated by the enemy. "Are you telling me off for sneaking out?"
Gigi stepped forward. The doorway was not wide enough for both of them; Oscar took a step back to avoid getting body-slammed. Carlos might be into that sort of thing, but Oscar definitely was not.
The door slipped out of Oscar's hand and swung softly closed.
"Carlos likes you," Gigi said.
Oscar cast a panicked glance at bathroom, hoping the sound of running water would drown out this conversation. "He likes me," Oscar repeated.
"Yes."
Oscar was still standing just inside the door, and Gigi had not gone any further into the room. He was standing close enough to be classified as "looming," and it was, Oscar had to admit, marginally intimidating.
Gigi was still frowning at him. It might even be a glare. "He deserves to be treated with respect," he said.
"I – oh my god." Oscar groped behind him for the door handle. This was a nightmare. What was he supposed to do, assure Gigi he and Carlos wouldn't have sex until marriage? It was a bit late for that one. He and Carlos were both adults. They knew what they were getting into. More or less.
They were also both racing drivers. It wasn't like they could walk hand-in-hand through the paddock. The only ones who even knew about them were him, Carlos, and Gigi, and they certainly hadn't told Gigi on purpose. That didn't mean Oscar didn't respect Carlos, though. Christ.
"I told him I was leaving," Oscar said, leaving out the part where he had kissed Carlos rather thoroughly first. So thoroughly, in fact, that he'd lost all track of time and had to scramble to get dressed. Carlos had just stepped into the shower as Oscar had gone for the door, so it seemed both of them were running late. "This isn't – we're not..."
Gigi blinked calmly, apparently all too content to stand here and watch Oscar dig himself into a deeper and deeper hole.
Oscar closed his eyes, dropped the clutch. Might as well go for it. "I like him too," he said. "What we're... it's good right now. I'm trying not to screw that up."
Gigi looked him over slowly. Oscar could only imagine the picture he made, last night's clothes thrown on and uneven stubble growing in on his chin, a panicky look to his eyes usually seen in small furry animals in cages. A real winner.
Gigi nodded once. "Good," he said. "Don't."
Oscar nodded hurriedly, his fingers closing on the door handle just as the shower shut off. He flung the door open and scrambled out into the hallway, leaning back against the wall just outside Carlos's room and covering his face with both hands.
if it's possible? because imagine one of them having to fuck but they just can't come
the council has spoken @existentialcrisistime @powerful-owl @always-waxing-crescent (from this prompt list)
Apparently it’s a magnetic storm on the surface of the sun that’s to blame for the sudden explosion of magic. Nothing’s happened to Oscar, as far as he can tell, which is very fortunate for him but does also mean everyone’s been running to him with their problems all day.
His first clue that anything at all is amiss is when Lando comes up to him, all frantic hand gestures, refusing to speak. Oscar would think it's a game for some video, only no one's filming them, and then Lando opens his mouth and sings – in a surprisingly decent, if clearly embarrassed, tenor – that he can’t actually talk to anyone unless it’s to the melody of a pop song.
Oscar laughs. He can’t help it. “Nice one, mate,” he says, clapping Lando on the shoulder and heading out towards the media building.
And that’s when he sees snow piling up on the ground in a pristine square around the exact perimeter of Alpine’s motorhome.
Things only get weirder from there. The paddock is in shambles – Bottas has turned into a snow leopard, Albon is flying around Superman-style, and the entire Aston-Martin motorhome is hovering a meter off the ground. Oscar struggles through media with Charles, whose hair under his Ferrari hat phases through colors like a night club dance floor, green and pink and orange based on his moods. George was slated to be with them, but he’s unavailable, is all Mercedes will say. Oscar’s desperately curious to know what’s happened to him.
FP2 is postponed until further notice, due to the fact half the grid are unable to drive, and another third of them are in possession of the sort of powers that would give them an unfair advantage. Oscar would hate to see the state of the FIA office this weekend.
On his way back through the paddock, he’s nearly taken out by a jet of fire, a harried Red Bull mechanic shouting apologies as he hurries by. Maybe it would be safer to stay off the main path.
Oscar ducks between the buildings, picking his way over cables and around aircon units. The air hums back here, but whether it’s magic or just the ordinary electricity keeping the paddock running, Oscar can’t say. It’s as close to peace and quiet as Oscar thinks he’s going to get today. He closes his eyes and leans back against a building, enjoying the momentary calm.
Someone makes a started noise off to his right. Oscar opens his eyes and spots Carlos, wide-eyed, his hat dangling from one hand as he combs his fingers distractedly through his hair.
Harps thrum and heavenly choirs sing. The clouds part so the sun itself can smile down on Carlos Sainz, the light sparkling in his hair. This, Oscar thinks, must be his curse. If he doesn’t touch Carlos in the next five seconds he’s pretty sure he’ll die.
“Oscar,” Carlos says, the only person to say Oscar’s name like that. Oscar wonders if he’d been running away from something, or if there’s some other reason Carlos sounds a bit out of breath. Carlos’s lips are parted, chapped and pink. Oscar can’t stop staring.
“What has happened to you?” Carlos asks.
“Nothing,” Oscar says quickly.
“Nothing?” Carlos repeats, settling his hat back on his head. He wipes a hand across the back of his neck, and his fingers come away shiny with sweat. Oscar lied just now, because surely he must be going insane, to be considering grabbing Carlos by the wrist and sucking his sweaty fingers into his mouth.
Christ alive.
“That is good,” Carlos pants. He braces himself on the wall Oscar’s leaning up against, swaying slightly. He looks lost and unsteady on his feet, and it’s for that reason and none other that Oscar reaches out for him.
“What’s happened to you?” Oscar asks. “Are you alright?”
When Oscar’s hands land on Carlos’s body, his palms prickle. Carlos is searingly hot. Carlos groans and stumbles forward, and before Oscar can do anything more than register how close he’s gotten, Carlos is kissing him.
Oscar doesn’t bother trying to make sense of it. He kisses Carlos back, desperate and greedy, turning them about so that Carlos is the one with his back pressed to the wall, Oscar’s hands on him the only thing keeping him upright. He slips his tongue past Carlos’s lips, clutches at his hip, grinds in close enough to know Carlos is hard. He brings the flat of his palm down to the front of Carlos’s trousers, and Carlos whimpers.
Some part of Oscar’s brain is aware that this is not normal race weekend behavior, but that voice has been thoroughly silenced by Carlos’s little groans and sighs, buried by Carlos’s fingers digging into his shoulder. Oscar manages to work open Carlos’s trousers, and they both groan when Oscar wraps his fingers around Carlos’s cock. It’s too dry, surely, but Carlos doesn’t seem to care. His head falls back against the wall with an audible thunk, his eyes fluttering, jaw working soundlessly. Oscar works him slowly, leaning in to plant a messy kiss on Carlos’s thick neck.
“Wasn’t Oscar with you?” Lando warbles from somewhere not far off.
“Yes, but he left right away,” Charles replies, his voice even louder.
Carlos gasps like he’s just woken up, and Oscar instinctively slaps his hand over his mouth to keep him quiet. He moans, only barely muffled by Oscar’s fingers.
“Shit, sorry, I – sorry.” As much as Oscar doesn’t want to let go, the very last thing he wants to do is explain any part of this to Lando. He withdraws his hand and fixes Carlos’s trousers, lets Carlos’s lips smear across his fingers as he drops his other hand. “I’m sorry,” he says again. “I’ll find you later?”
“Later?” Carlos repeats hazily.
“Sorry,” Oscar says a third time. Then, because Carlos looks lost and beautiful and is still swaying towards Oscar like they’re tied together by an invisible string, Oscar leans in and kisses him softly. “Later,” he promises. “I’ll find you.”
&&&
Oscar hustles across the paddock, barely making it back to McLaren ahead of Lando. He spends the entirety of the afternoon strategy meeting thinking about Carlos, wondering if he got back to Williams alright, if anyone else found him along the way. Oscar burns at the thought of anyone else touching Carlos the way he had. He knows he’s being ridiculous, that he has absolutely no right to be jealous, and then he hears Carlos’s voice in his head saying his name, and all Oscar can think about is getting his hands on Carlos again. He’s more than a little hard about it, fidgeting uncomfortably in his seat.
When the meeting finally ends, it’s under the rocky assumption that everything will be back to normal tomorrow. Oscar waits for everyone else to leave, fucking around on his phone until the room is empty and no one can catch him tugging awkwardly at his shorts as he stands. He makes his way out of the building as quickly as possible, feeling like a man possessed, and when he makes it to Williams, he sneaks in like a thief, peeking around corners and dashing across rooms.
The door to Carlos’s room is shut. Oscar knocks a knuckle on it. “It’s me,” he says quietly. He lets himself in without waiting for a response, body sagging with relief when he sees Carlos is alone. Heat blitzes through him when he takes in the fact that Carlos is shirtless, covered in a faint sheen of sweat, and stretched out over the tiny couch.
There must still be magic coursing through the paddock. Oscar’s across the room in an instant, dropping to his knees beside the couch.
Carlos blinks dazedly. “Oscar,” he sighs, his fingers slipping through Oscar’s hair. Oscar shivers, has to catch himself on the couch to stay upright.
“Told you I’d find you,” Oscar says. He wastes no time, going right for Carlos’s trousers. Carlos is hard – still, again, Oscar doesn’t know – hot in his hand, leaking enough that there’s a damp patch on his briefs. Oscar leans in and takes him in his mouth, the way he’s been imagining all afternoon, and it’s every bit as good as he thought. Better, with Carlos’s fingers in his hair and his moans muffled against his wrist, the weight on his tongue and Oscar’s lips stretched around him, the sweaty, musky smell Oscar can taste at the back of his throat. It’s so good Oscar’s rubbing himself off against the couch and he doesn’t even care, not when –
“Carlos? How are you feeling?” The door rattles, and Oscar chokes, pulling back so suddenly Carlos whimpers. “Carlos?” the voice calls again, and Carlos’s hazy eyes widen, finally realizing what’s going on.
Oscar should have thought to lock the door. He should have thought, full stop, but all he can do now is hide and pray. Oscar throws himself flat to the wall behind the hinge of the door as Carlos hurriedly fixes his trousers and stumbles to his feet. He opens the door a few inches, his fingers right in Oscar’s face.
“I am okay,” Carlos says. “Just warm, a bit. Can you bring me some ice, please?”
“Of course,” the voice on the other side of the door replies. “Just ice?”
Carlos isn’t looking at him, but Oscar makes a stalling motion anyway. He wants Carlos to ask for something absurd, like a bowl of only green Skittles or a live unicorn, something that will guarantee them some alone time.
Carlos coughs, glancing nervously at Oscar. “Just ice, thank you.”
Footsteps retreat, and Carlos closes the door. Oscar groans. “What did you –” Carlos shoves him back against the wall and kisses him, greedy hands roaming up underneath Oscar’s shirt. He can’t be that annoyed, Oscar supposes, letting his own hands land low on Carlos’s back, pulling their hips together.
And that’s when an alarm starts up, screeching and insistent, the faintest smell of smoke in the air.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Oscar mutters.
As Oscar tries his best to blend in with the stream of Williams personnel leaving their motorhome, Carlos plants his hand on his back and leans in close. “Meet me at my hotel tonight,” he says, voice low in Oscar’s ear. Oscar nods, but doesn’t dare look back at Carlos, for fear he’ll drag him right back into his room and let the building burn down around them.
&&&
Oscar’s heart pounds as he rides the lift up to the tenth floor of Carlos’s hotel. He tries not to think of the unlimited potential for disaster he’s walking into. The sun has set hours ago, and taken its magnetic storm with it. Charles’s hair faded back to its usual brown, the Aston-Martin motorhome settled on the ground, and all signs of magical fuckery disappeared as the stars glittered into view.
Carlos opens the door when Oscar knocks. He eyes Oscar nervously, running his hand through his hair. Several strands stick up through his fingers, and there’s a patch of red skin on his neck that looks like razorburn. There’s no magical sunlight and no heavenly choirs, but there’s still a heat tingling in Oscar’s belly, nervous and anticipatory.
“Hey,” Oscar says.
“Hello,” Carlos says, his fingers plucking at the hem of his shirt. He glances down and away, pressing his lips together in a not-quite frown. “Did you still want to…”
“God yeah,” Oscar says, and before he can move, Carlos is grabbing him by the front of his shirt and yanking him into his room.
The sleeves of his McLaren hoodie are too long on him, which means they are too long on Carlos. Oscar tries not to dwell on the fact, because eventually he’ll start thinking about how they match each other length for length (hah), palm to shoulder an almost perfect fit, which then gets Oscar all gooey and atrociously warm, and he can’t have that. Especially not in this moment, with Carlos attempting to hold Oscar’s hand discreetly using the too-long sleeves. At least one person has to keep their head screwed properly on their shoulders.
“Not subtle,” Oscar informs him.
“What,” Carlos says, but it’s Carlos, so it’s more like a whaaaaaat? “You’re shy, Oscar? Don’t tell me you’re shy.”
“I’m shy.”
“You’re no fun if you don’t protest,” Carlos says, still flapping his orange paw around the vicinity of Oscar’s hip.
Feeling a little too indulgent, Oscar lets Carlos chase his fingers while he half-heartedly tries to escape. Halfway through play-fighting in the middle of a street like children, Carlos’s palm slips out of his sleeve like a nervous squirrel and envelops the whole of Oscar’s. Victory! the grin on Carlos’s face says, and yep, that, among a million other things concerning Carlos, Oscar’s barriers have no hope against. The joy exuding out of Carlos’s pores when he stands on a podium, dragging Oscar right out of the doom symphony playing in his head on fortissimo in Qatar. The delight when he steals the last pancake out from under Oscar’s nose. And the apparent pleasure Carlos gets from simply holding Oscar’s hand.
Oscar allows his hand to be held, very much a conscious decision. Even to be swung around merrily.
“This okay?” Carlos asks.
“Uh huh,” Oscar says immediately, even though he means Obviously Not.
The Obviously Not comes in the form of a couple of blurry photos, and suspiciously nonchalant questions thrown around at testing. The ill-fitting length of Oscar’s sleeves remains a lifesaver. Held up in court, no one can definitively claim if Carlos’s hand was actually curled around Oscar’s (it was) or not.
“I was cold,” Carlos says, just as nonchalantly, except it’s Carlos, so it’s more like a cooooooooold. “Oscar was very kind, eh? Lending me his hoodie.”
“Didn’t really have a choice mate,” Oscar says. “You were moaning a lot.”
Carlos opens his mouth.
“Don’t,” Oscar quickly interrupts, “offer a demonstration.”
“Hm,” the journalist says, fascinated. “Hm,” Lando says. “Hm,” the rest of the paddock with two eyes says.
Even in promo snippets and the videos they film for Grill the Grid, they’re getting a little careless with it. Who would you go to a desert island with? Who has the best hair? Who’s the best cook? Have you ever been to the house of another driver on the grid? Who?
Carlos. Carlos, I feel like that’s going to be a very popular answer, because, duh. Carlos. Yes. Carlos.
Years of PR training kick in, and Oscar begrudgingly remembers to throw in other drivers for pepper and spice. Having a singular answer to all these questions should be worrying. It’s putting all his eggs into one basket. It’s poor planning, Mark would say. But as myopic as it may be, Oscar can’t stop his teeth from forming around the vowels in Carlos’s name each time.
At least it doesn’t seem to be a game he’s playing alone. When they’re apart, when Oscar’s feeling a particular kind of way, lonely and dressed down, he pulls up the video where they’d sectioned the drivers’ faces into three, and you had to make guesses. It was clear Carlos wasn’t trying to be obvious, but he had taken one look at Oscar’s lips, and knew.
Maybe it had been obvious only to Oscar. Maybe.
Eventually, the unwanted attention grates and chips away at them, and the third time he’s asked Oscar wants to take the journo’s head off. His skin itches with agitation. He starts to wonder if they’ve finally gone too far. He starts to wonder if there’re clearer photos. Unwittingly, the edges of his body turn sharp. Sensitive even to the most minute of fractures in Oscar’s expressions, Carlos withdraws. And continuing the cycle of misery, Oscar will resign himself to three weeks of distance before Carlos feels comfortable enough to take Oscar’s hand in public again.
Carlos meets him after testing’s done, orange hoodie carefully folded up and hidden under one arm.
“Thank you for letting me borrow,” Carlos says.
“I don’t need you to return it,” Oscar says, failing spectacularly at disguising his hurt. “Since when do we return each others’ clothing?”
“Ah.” Carlos scratches the back of his neck. “Maybe it’s better. Less questions.”
“Coward,” Oscar mutters, and Carlos flushes red. Between the both of them, it’s Carlos who is the most honest. His arm is still tight around the hoodie; he hasn’t handed it back to Oscar. As reluctant to part with it as Oscar is to receive it. Back of neck scratcher, face flusher, heart on sleeve wearer.
“I meant less questions for you,” Carlos says angrily. “You want me to wear it to the next press conference? Then they’ll ask you, hey, and what will you say?”
A couple of things become clear at once. First, that they can’t be protecting each other in circles. Second, that there are exceedingly few things in a racing career and even less things in a racing career mixed up with another racing career that Oscar can stand absolute on. Only that Carlos swung their hands between them, fingers interlaced, that night. And the world isn’t ending yet.
“That I gave it to you,” Oscar says. “What else? I gave it to you.”
“Fine,” Carlos says, jerking his arm back almost violently. “It’s mine. I’ll wear it when I want. Maybe now, even.”
Oscar wants to kiss the stupid man, cameras be damned. “Good.”
“Good.”
“I said it first.”
“Well.” Carlos tugs the hoodie back on, too-long sleeves and all, and the soft part in Oscar packed with yearning cheers. “I said it better.”
talking about anchors, i do believe in possibility of anchors being platonic (which is also one of the reasons i hate what they did to scott and alison but that's another story), but there's no way these two bitches aren't fucking
how to paint pitch blue in dark red
— vampire oscar. (landoscar)
Lando doesn’t look behind when he hears the noise of an opening door. He mostly doesn’t care; it’s a public pool, could be anyone. But then he remembers it’s rather late, and he’s specifically in the indoor area, where it's more lonely and moody. Some nice place to be mourning.
His head tilts back, noticing a woman walking away, as a male enters. The big windows that should be facing some sort of garden are closed, and even though it’s dark outside, Lando wished they were open. The view might be debatable, but it helps the feeling of claustrophobia, being stuck somewhere he can’t escape.
Takes him more than minutes to realise it’s Oscar. The walking gives it away. How he comes close to the border before jumping, childish-like of him, in Lando’s opinion—although if he got himself in the water, he‘d probably do the same. He emerges again in the middle of the large blue extension of tiles. Somehow, the sickly white tone of his skin seems to match with the surroundings. Lando looks away. There’s still the winning glow on Oscar.
He chose to not get wet, sat there and swung his feet only, feeling the hot water enveloping his sore ankles. Oscar stares at him. Lando knows, even though he doesn’t have the powers of genetics on his side. Not like Oscar does. However, Lando became quite a professional at feeling when Oscar is ogling him, never giving it too much thought and just assuming it's something vampires do. Stare.
Oscar swims closer, making waves as his body cuts through the pool, closer to Lando, who sighs in defeat.
“Why are you here?” He sounds more annoyed than he should. But then Lando’s still depressed over the weekend, couldn’t manage a better tone when Oscar was disturbing his peace.
“Didn’t know you bought the place, mate.”
Lando holds back the urge to fight back. No, but I could.
“Forgot my sunblock, in simpler terms,” Oscar completes before Lando can say anything further. “Sucks to be around here without suppositories.”
Lando knows that too. Mainly because he heard Jon commenting on how it could go bad for Oscar and all his lab rats modified genes. Not as bad as Lando would like because it’s still a night race, but it should’ve been uncomfortable for him anyway.
They don’t usually burn in the sun, like the obscure stories he heard as a kid; nevertheless, light and vampires don’t usually go well together. Seems rather unfair looking from outside; people like Oscar get to be the summit of human civilisation and still have to give things away. No long walks on the beach, unless you’re filled with proper medicine for that. No common diet, blood at least two times a day to stay healthy. And still.
There he is—race winner. The type of champion that attaches to your neck and—takes.
“Why are you here, though?” Oscar’s voice travels across the area, echoing through the walls, shattering his skull. “Reckon you could go somewhere nicer, the beach maybe.”
Lando side-eyes him, “No, thanks. Maybe when it’s not pitch black outside.”
“Suit yourself.”
Oscar dips his head, trying to get the water to fix the messy situation on his head. His hair smells like champagne, a reminder of a podium, also a note of Lando’s horrendous, dismaying performance. It weighs. The win, the gap, the pole, the champagne, and his fangs out and grinning for a crowd. The win.
“Thought you guys didn’t get along well with water.” Lando bursts out before he can get his mind around it.
Oscar frowns, “That’s holy water, it’s different.”
Lando hums in agreement, trying to wrap his head around why people made in laboratories, with the finest equipment ever, get hurt when some blessed liquid is thrown at them.
Silence stays for a moment. It’s unfair. Oscar won; it’s done, nothing else matters, time’s not going back, and there’s nothing Lando can do about that besides sitting around and collecting his mistakes. He’s being selfish, a bit of a cunt too. Sharp tongue wanting to hurt Oscar, share the pain of being two steps under.
“I can hear your heart.”
Oscar turns to him, pupils wide, shaking. Rabbit caught hopping too high.
“Did you eat?” Lando asks, unsure, holding back the grin; it’s nice to see him suffer for a while.
“No, had a problem with my pills too.”
Oscar tries to play casually about it. Lando knows he has to cover up the earlier loss, either by drinking blood or getting himself some pills to enable the hunger until he gets a chance to kill it. He can’t have either of those.
“C’mere.”
Lando wonders if at least part of what his mother told him as a kid is true. That vampires are, indeed, creatures with the purpose of hunting only. Their ruby-coloured eyes, white skin—never seen the sun—and the endless boredom—no long walks on the beach—are part of their gifted traits.
Oscar hesitates, as if he’s not sure whether it’s safe to approach. Lando wants to scream.
“C’mon, mate,” he whines, “I don’t have all night.”
Oscar swims carefully, like any disturbance in the water would break down the moment. Lando is not used to this. He’d only ever seen the version of Oscar that does not feel the unhinged hunger. His eyes were never dark, and his canines never begged for skin like they seem to do.
Lando’s insides bubble in fear. Suddenly he’s aware of how uncontrolled Oscar looks, almost losing it as he gets closer. Lando would like to break him down and eat the crumbles.
Oscar places himself in the middle of Lando’s legs. Suggestive and bold. Kind of careless too, trusting too much that Lando won’t try to drown him.
“Open your mouth.”
Lando can’t tell why he asks so or explain the painful beating against his chest. Adrenaline crawls in his veins, and mania begins showing itself inside his brain. Caged behind his skull, he’s becoming deranged, obsessing over the slow pace that Oscar obeys. His pointy fangs lay protuberant on his tongue.
He rubs his thumb against them. Counting, marking, feeling the hard pressure on the tip of his finger. Lando goes further. Circles his molars, premolars, brushing his tongue on the way. Oscar stares, passive and silent, breathing heavily, salivating around Lando’s knuckles.
“Do it.”
Lando moves, shoving his wrist against Oscar’s lips. He hesitates again. Could be a trap.
Oscar’s falling for it.
“It’ll hurt.”
“I know.”
“Are you sure about—”
“No, Oscar, to be very honest.”
Lando has that trembling voice in him, like he’s begging for it. Imploring for a bit of pain as a punishment, perhaps wanting to be hurt, gushing organs and sorrows.
Oscar bites him.
Lando can’t tell, but at some point the world spiralled into chaos blue. Oscar licks on his wrist, tongue darting out, blood flowing down his throat. Red cells, leukocytes, all dripping down his chin. He looks good like that. Some scarlet feverish dream, starving for every single part of flesh.
He sucks the teeth mark, and then Lando notices he’s hard because it makes his dick ache.
“Oscar.”
The name rolls out without his wanting. Lando’s body feels limp, controlled not by him but by someone else. By Oscar.
He turns to Lando. Messy cheeks, all red and shiny, almost like he’s been deprived of eating for days. He looks good. Wild, feral, ready to rip off Lando’s viscera. He licks his lips before getting them back to work, ignoring the tent on Lando’s trousers.
“Oscar”, Lando pushes himself to the stained pool, blue meeting ruby; some barriers are being broken.
Oscar holds his waist, pinning Lando against the border, too focused on getting dirty with his blood. Lando’s head lolls, embraced by the hot water and drunkenly reaching for Oscar. His hips moving forward, reaching and reaching.
Oscar shoves his thigh between his legs. Lando doesn’t catch the exact moment he starts humping, but it happens. His senses are numb, cock throbbing in his pants, hurting. He wants to get off so bad. Just a bit more. Oscar should take more. Bite again and suck him dry. His hips move faster.
Lando drops his forehead on Oscar’s shoulders, whining shyly. He’s offering. Showing neck and whimpering whenever Oscar rubs his tongue against the swelling wound on his wrist. Oscar grabs his hair, forcing his scalp with savage fingers. He’s still dirty with blood, and Lando wants it so much.
On his lips. Maybe above. Maybe under. Bite. Take more, drink him up and absorb all he ever had to give, swallow up the sadness and anger, raging over stupidity. Drink him.
Lando comes with a cry, drooping over Oscar. His muscles are gone; so is his right mind. Nothing echoes inside. There’s silence and murky water. Still weights, the sun, the podium. The bite.
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.”
“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.
to some extent I understand Patrick hating peterick but also if he wanted that to stop then he should've told pete 22 years ago to stop doing all of that. Like idk man your husband was posting on livejournal about how you're soulmates and you expect me to think you're NOT gay? Like I have eyes.
and on a side note, because i’ve just rewatched this grill the grid episode, he dug his grave deeper by saying he doesn’t look at a man’s chin or lips… were you lost in his eyes bro like what’s up with that
This stunning fanart has compelled me to write a little vampire Carlos snippet. Maybe once I finish my one million wips I will also finish this one
“He is not scary,” Charles is insisting, “he is tame. He was just getting hungry.”
There’s spit running down Carlos’s chin, tinged pink by whatever he’s been doing. Alex doesn’t want to know. His eyes are glassy, reflective, won’t focus right. Under the nails, too, thick lines of dirt, dark and ambiguous. Could be anything under there. He’s trying to look at Alex and smile, can’t seem to find him. His gaze keeps slipping back to the cat. Alex doesn’t like that. Charles has him by the wrist, fingers white and bloodless around the dainty bones there, gripping on like they don’t both know that Carlos could break that hold, if he thought of it. Charles is asking Alex to believe that he won’t think of it.
They’re in the entryway, still. Alex wishes they weren’t in his house, wishes Charles would deal with this himself.
Carlos is fine, during the day. He’s fine at the track. His trainer manages it all for him, obviously has some sort of schedule that works to bring Carlos down to almost human. Ferrari used to make him get rid of the teeth, but James decided that was unfair. Apart from that he practically is human.
Alex asked Charles about that, last summer. Yes, Charles had answered, eyes glowing, he cuts them. It is like the clippers I use for Leo. Alex was sure he wasn’t aware of it, the awe in his own voice, they always grow back very quickly.
Charles had never watched it happen because Carlos wouldn’t let him. He said Carlos was too sensitive, and Alex didn’t say what he was thinking, you should be more sensitive.
But now no one clips them. When he gets too into the games for the videos he bares them, runs his tongue over the points, a tic that never ever makes it into the final cut. Even then, it’s all ok. Carlos really isn’t scary.
The lamp isn’t enough, and Alex flicks on the big light. There are spots dried into Carlos’s collar, crunchy and dark.
“He doesn’t look super tame right now,” it’s hard to tell if Carlos can hear them. He jerks his arm half heartedly and Charles readjusts his grip.
“He is, he is very good. He just needs to calm down.”
“Does he have to do it here?”
Carlos swipes the back of his hand across his face, licks up the mess he finds there. Starts to chew on the tips of his fingers. Catches Alex’s eye for a sharp minute. Like looking at something big through the wire netting at the zoo. You’re not sure what it can really see.
“He is locked out of his house.”
“Bring him to yours,” even if Charles doesn’t mind it, Alex does.
“That is too far. Please. I take responsibility. He will behave.”
Carlos, right then, figures out a new trick. He brings the wrist Charles is holding up until he can fit his jaw around the meat of Charles’s forearm, bites down without ceremony. Alex gasps, can’t help himself, theatrical and stupid against their silence.
“Putain,” Charles mumbles, makes no move to stop it at all.
the bathroom scene freaks me out bc i have contamination ocd and if someone leaned on a public hand-dryer then grabbed my face i'd genuinely have to k*ll myself
i wish i could imprint on people's brains that the US was never a democracy in the first place. you don't have a fair and equal society or government when you've built it on genocide and slavery but what do i know i guess. no one ever cares until the rights of white people are infringed upon, the rest of us that were pillaged and tormented and killed can just go fuck ourselves i guess
The legend of zelda truly is all about being trapped in cycle of anguish, violence and despair and still playing music with friends and helping a yeti make soup for his sick wife and playing with the village kids and rounding up cuccoos and delivering milk and giving fish to cats and helping a couple get married and being alone
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