well known f1 podcaster supports carcar delusions i never thought i’d see the day
(i don’t actually want carlos back in red bull unless they are back to their 2023 dominance but boy is my brain ticking at the concept of carcar teammates 👁️👁️)
George: well it’s plain to see that my boyfriend wins and in fact wipes the floor with your sad little boyfriend
Charles: you are such a laughable idiot it actually astounds me. My boyfriend is infinitely more swag than yours and I’ve spiked your coffee
Carbono, smirking at each other over podcast mics: so this next question says would you still love your teammate if he was a worm. Hehe worm;) if you know what I mean;) Carlos I’ll let you take this one. What a crazy question eh? Alex is a good guy and i think if he was a worm he would still be a gentleman. Haha yeah you could put me in a little um container or whatever you wanna call it
Someone is leaving notes in Oscar’s driver's room.
They’re awful.
He gets one every Saturday before quali. A quick scrawl of some dorky compliment on a wrinkled notebook page placed ever-so carefully on his pillow.
They always start with a letter of his name.
O- Opals remind me of your skin. Iridescent. It is a good word to describe you. It means every time I look at you, I see something new. Every time I think I have finally found the end, you surprise me again.
S- So soft is your hair. My fingers ache to run through it. To push it back and twirl it around. It’s effortless; you are effortless.
C- Cool is your exterior, but I can see the fire that burns within. I am drawn to it, like a moth. I dream of flames on your skin flaring up and encapsulating us both.
And, the one he got today:
A- Always, I think about you. About your smile— the way your front teeth stick out from the rest. About your eyes— the way they crinkle when you laugh. About your hands and the way they’d feel so soft in mine.
They’re… Oscar’s going to go with amateur. Not many people write “name poems” past grade three. Hell, nobody’s written a poem for Oscar ever. It was a part of growing up that he was fine with skipping. And he’s not thrilled that it’s coming up now.
All the compliments are so overwrought, and the language is so flowery. It’s not the way he’s usually complimented, and it’s not the things he’s usually complimented on. He’s used to a “nice drive, Osco,” and a hearty slap on the back, not… stanzas about his soft hands.
Sometimes, Oscar has to squint his eyes to read them, like when he’s watching something particularly gruesome on TV. It’s more palatable when he can only see a little bit of it at a time. Otherwise he feels like he’s drowning.
This is the fourth poem over four race weekends. Whoever this mystery poet is, they work in the paddock. Which probably explains the quality. Not a lot of classics majors in this line of work.
He tries not to think about it too much. There’s got to be a reason these are left before quali. It’s probably nothing more than a prank to get him to lose focus before he gets in the car. It’s not going to work.
So he shoves the note in his pocket and pushes it out of his mind.
He’s still not thinking about it the next day, at the driver’s parade. Not reciting the terrible prose in his mind. Not looking at all the engineers and pundits and media people and thinking what if. Not.
"Heyyy mate!" Lando singsongs, sliding up to him and half hanging off the railing. "Any new updates on the notes?"
Oscar closes his eyes. He knew telling Lando was a bad idea. That’s on him. Very bad lapse in judgment, that one.
To make matters worse, Lando says it loud enough to catch Carlos’ interest a few meters away. He ambles over to them and Oscar tries to keep his face neutral.
"Notes? What are- what’s that?" Carlos asks.
Oscar shrinks. He was kind of hoping Carlos, of all people, wouldn’t find this interesting. They had been building up a friendship recently. It turns out that being in wildly different parts of the field means fewer collisions. Which, in turn, means fewer fights and more actual conversations. Carlos can be quite funny when he wants to be. And kind. And a good listener.
So the last thing Oscar wants is for Carlos to think he’s obsessed with some childish love poem prank. Not great for the image that he tries to present.
Oscar leans against the railing and plays it off as flippantly as possible.
"Ah, some creep is leaving me weird love notes in my driver’s room every weekend.”
Lando bursts into laughter, making Oscar laugh a little as well. Carlos, however, isn’t joining in. Which is strange, because it seems like he’s always the first one to take joy in Oscar’s discomfort. Always poking and prodding and teasing.
"Oh man! Tell him about what kind of things they say!” Lando says, around giggles. “Chili, you’re going to love this.”
Oscar snorts. “Just like, real hokey shit. Talking about wanting to touch my hair and how my small hands, like, get them off or whatever.”
Carlos looks pale. Oscar has to strain to hear his voice over Lando’s screech-laugh.
“Oh. That does sound… really silly.”
Lando laughs about it some more, but Carlos very quickly excuses himself to join Charles near the back of the float. Oscar tries to catch his eye a few times during the parade and even after the race, to no avail. He’s left feeling a bit… strange about it all.
…
When he gets to his driver's room next weekend, Oscar can’t help but speculate on his next note. There’s only one letter of his name left. Is his mystery writer going to finally reveal themself? Is that what this is leading up to? Is he finally going to put a face to the terrible, terrible prose?
But. There’s no note on his bed. He checks under his pillow. He even gets down on all fours and checks the space below his frame. Nothing.
Nothing?
Mystery Poet can’t have spent all this time coming up with contrived compliments just to leave him with OSCA. Where’s his R? Where’s his “Really love your eyes,” or “Reaching out to touch the space between your shoulder blades,” or "Ridiculous is how I would describe your head to neck ratio”?
He shrugs it off, but the absence rankles at him, into next weekend and the weekend after. Poemless.
Did his admirer get bored with him? Move on to someone else before Oscar could even make his case? He still had the four previous notes tucked safely in his “important things” binder, in a clean plastic sleeve. Yeah, they were hokey, but they were his.
He had thought about it for a while, about what it would be like after his admirer revealed themselves. Maybe they’d go out for coffee. Oscar would be able to talk to them about their heinous use of the English language. Maybe ask them if they’ve ever even read a poem outside of Dr. Seuss. Just pick their brain a little bit.
Okay, and maybe he was sort of curious about who could be thinking all of those nice things about him. There was someone out there who liked him so much that they actually took the time to write about it. Well. Not anymore, apparently.
So, he’s in a pretty shit mood.
What’s worse, it’s like Carlos is avoiding him now. Every time Oscar enters a room, it’s Carlos’ cue to exit. Oscar deflates a little more every time it happens. He thought they were moving towards something. It’s like everyone is losing interest in him.
It must be outwardly affecting Oscar more than he means for it to, because Lando appraises him after qualifying.
“Come on, mate, you’re not allowed to be sooking,” Lando says, shoving him. “You literally got pole.”
“I’m not…” Oscar trails off, searching the crowd. Carlos is speeding off in the opposite direction. “Uh, have you talked to Carlos recently?” Oscar asks smoothly. “Is he…”
“Hm?” Lando follows his gaze unsubtly before turning back to Oscar. “Eh, I’m not really sure either, honestly. He’s kind of been brooding recently, too.”
“Yeah?”
Lando shrugs. “Yeah, I dunno. He told me it was some personal thing. He used to write in his notebook all the time, too, but he won’t even do that anymore.”
Oscar blinks. Writing in his notebook.
Lando continues, oblivious. “Yeah. It’s like a switch flipped after Zandvoort. Weird, huh?”
A switch flipped. Zandvoort.
It hits him like a cricket ball to the temple. His vision goes hazy. His head swims.
There’s never been a bigger jackass than Oscar Piastri.
He’s got to fix this.
…
Next weekend, Alex does him a solid and sneaks him into Williams' hospitality. Oscar turns the piece of cardstock in his hands and knocks on Carlos’ driver’s room door.
Carlos opens the door and stiffens immediately. “Oscar.”
“Hey,” Oscar says, taking a deep breath in. It does nothing to settle his nerves. “Uh. So you know how I said someone was writing me love notes?”
“The ones that were creepy and lame?” Carlos says, crossing his arms.
Oscar swallows. “Right. I didn’t really, uh… Well… Actually, they inspired me. I, uh… this is for you.” He jutts the cardstock forward, offering it. It shakes in his hand.
Carlos stares at it before gingerly taking it from him. As Carlos’ eyes scan the words, Oscar recites them in his mind.
C is for carlos, because that’s your name.
A is for asshole. that’s what you can call me.
R is for racecar. it’s what you drive.
L is for lovely. it’s what I think of your notes and your ideas and… you.
O is for olive skin. and deep brown eyes and great hair and how can you have all of this and want to write things about me?
S is for sorry. because i’m really, really sorry.
Carlos’ eyes haven’t left the note. “…You wrote me a poem?”
“I mean… kinda,” Oscar shrugs. It’s a poem in the way that anything can be a poem. He didn’t break out the thesaurus or anything. It doesn’t even rhyme. He couldn’t think of anything that rhymed with Carlos.
“...You knew it was me?” Carlos whispers, looking up. Oscar’s caught in his eyes. They’re like tractor beams.
“I… figured it out a few days ago,” Oscar says. “But I didn’t know in Zandvoort,” he adds quickly. “I kept all your notes, even before I knew it was you. They’re… I didn’t mean… I liked them.”
It’s hard to articulate. He probably looks like an idiot babbling like this. He needs to cut his losses and get out of there, but Carlos places a hand on his elbow.
“I never wrote your last poem,” Carlos says.
“Oh.”
Makes sense, honestly. It’s not like Oscar did anything to deserve it.
But Carlos continues, running his thumb across the edge of Oscar’s shitty piece of cardstock. “You could help me. I think if we put our heads together, we could make something great.”
Oscar blinks. After a moment, Carlos opens the door a little wider. Grinning like an idiot, Oscar follows him inside.
oscar would 100% be the hockey player and carlos the figure skater. oscar as the calm, ruthless player who navigates the rink with ease and is always willing to check someone into the boards. him being australian makes him a novelty, and he's always willing to use it to get what he wants.
carlos as the figure skater, more emotional, more dramatic. the son of a spanish skating legend, his routines are fast and technical with big jumps and quick step sequences. fans throw little bull plushies or chili pepper plushies onto the ice whenever he wins
Oh plss him just so cool calm and collected and ruthless, not scared to get in there at all and a good shot too👀
Carlos would have that showman factor for sureeee!! And he just yeets himself into the air like its easy and pls him getting bull and chili plushiessss!! Snr having been a skating legend but maybr in a whole other discipline like speedskating? But still so proud!
Oscar and Carlos meeting at a party and bitching so much to the other about how silly the other's sport is skks. But then they end up going to see the other's competituon👀👀👀
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.”
Alex blows out a steady stream of air through his pursed lips. “And… Carlos?”
He still hasn’t checked his messages. The last thing Oscar sent him was that stupid thumbs-up emoji.
“He doesn’t know. He’s in Mallorca on vacation and…” Oscar takes a deep breath. “He can’t know this baby exists. He would… get the wrong idea.”
“What’s the wrong idea, again?” Alex asks. “That you actually want—”
“Yes. That would be the wrong idea,” Oscar says through gritted teeth.
..
Or: Babies come from storks. Oscar gets an unexpected delivery.
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