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 heāll 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 canāt have that.Ā Especially not in this moment, with Carlos attempting to hold Oscarās hand discreetly using the too-long sleeves. At least one person has to keep their head screwed properly on their shoulders.
āNot subtle,ā Oscar informs him.
āWhat,ā Carlos says, but itās Carlos, so itās more like a whaaaaaat? āYouāre shy, Oscar? Donāt tell me youāre shy.ā
āYouāre no fun if you donāt protest,ā Carlos says, still flapping his orange paw around the vicinity of Oscarās 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, Carlosās palm slips out of his sleeve like a nervous squirrel and envelops the whole of Oscarās. Victory! the grin on Carlosās face says, and yep, that, among a million other things concerning Carlos, Oscarās barriers have no hope against. The joy exuding out of Carlosās 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 Oscarās nose. And the apparent pleasure Carlos gets from simply holding Oscarās hand.
Oscar allows his hand to be held, very much a conscious decision. Even to be swung around merrily.
āThis okay?ā Carlos asks.
āUh huh,ā 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 Oscarās sleeves remains a lifesaver. Held up in court, no one can definitively claim if Carlosās hand was actually curled around Oscarās (it was) or not.
āI was cold,ā Carlos says, just as nonchalantly, except itās Carlos, so itās more like a cooooooooold. āOscar was very kind, eh? Lending me his hoodie.ā
āDidnāt really have a choice mate,ā Oscar says. āYou were moaning a lot.ā
āDonāt,ā Oscar quickly interrupts, āoffer a demonstration.ā
āHm,ā the journalist says, fascinated. āHm,ā Lando says. āHm,ā the rest of the paddock with two eyes says.
Even in promo snippets and the videos they film for Grill the Grid, theyāre getting a little careless with it. Who would you go to a desert island with? Who has the best hair? Whoās the best cook? Have you ever been to the house of another driver on the grid? Who?
Carlos. Carlos, I feel like thatās 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. Itās putting all his eggs into one basket. Itās poor planning, Mark would say. But as myopic as it may be, Oscar canāt stop his teeth from forming around the vowels in Carlosās name each time.
At least it doesnāt seem to be a game heās playing alone. When theyāre apart, when Oscarās feeling a particular kind of way, lonely and dressed down, he pulls up the video where theyād sectioned the driversā faces into three, and you had to make guesses. It was clear Carlos wasnāt trying to be obvious, but he had taken one look at Oscarās 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 heās asked Oscar wants to take the journoās head off. His skin itches with agitation. He starts to wonder if theyāve finally gone too far. He starts to wonder if thereāre clearer photos. Unwittingly, the edges of his body turn sharp. Sensitive even to the most minute of fractures in Oscarās 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 Oscarās hand in public again.
Carlos meets him after testingās done, orange hoodie carefully folded up and hidden under one arm.
āThank you for letting me borrow,ā Carlos says.
āI donāt need you to return it,ā Oscar says, failing spectacularly at disguising his hurt. āSince when do we return each othersā clothing?ā
āAh.ā Carlos scratches the back of his neck. āMaybe itās better. Less questions.ā
āCoward,ā Oscar mutters, and Carlos flushes red. Between the both of them, itās Carlos who is the most honest. His arm is still tight around the hoodie; he hasnāt handed it back to Oscar. As reluctant to part with it as Oscar is to receive it. Ā Back of neck scratcher, face flusher, heart on sleeve wearer.
āI meant less questions for you,ā Carlos says angrily. āYou want me to wear it to the next press conference? Then theyāll ask you, hey, and what will you say?ā
A couple of things become clear at once. First, that they canāt 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 isnāt ending yet.
āThat I gave it to you,ā Oscar says. āWhat else? I gave it to you.ā
āFine,ā Carlos says, jerking his arm back almost violently. āItās mine. Iāll wear it when I want. Maybe now, even.ā
Oscar wants to kiss the stupid man, cameras be damned. āGood.ā
āWell.ā Carlos tugs the hoodie back on, too-long sleeves and all, and the soft part in Oscar packed with yearning cheers. āI said it better.ā
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