oooh for prompts, what about carcar in a different sport (or competitive activity of your choosing)? - @brushedbymelancholy :)
submit a ship + trope, get a snippet game
(bless you for giving me an excuse to write about one of my sport niches as a former competitive swimmer and also i'm sorry if this became partly just. me missing swimming. enjoy~!)
Oscar scowls as he watches Carlos stretch on the other side of the warm-up room. Their event is up soon, so they're bundled into their parkas, caps on tight and goggles pushed up to their foreheads. George and Alex are nearby, chatting and doing their own prep, Alex bouncing on his heels to stay warm.
"If you keep glaring like that, you'll set him on fire," George says eventually, sidling up to Oscar.
"Maybe that's what I want," Oscar says.
"I thought you'd be happy to see him," George says. "You seemed even grumpier than usual when he was gone. I thought Ollie was gonna cry."
"I never made Ollie cry," Oscar says, indignant. "He's a great swimmer. He just needs to work on his exchanges."
"And his stroke."
"No, his stroke is fine, he's just not—" Oscar breaks off, his cheeks heating as he realizes what he was going to say.
He's just not Carlos.
George grins, cheekily triumphant.
"See?" he says. "You missed him. It's okay to be happy he's recovered, mate. We all are. Means we're gonna win."
Oscar nods, and George claps him on the shoulder before he moves away, back to where Alex is lazily swinging his arms to loosen his shoulders.
George is right. Oscar is happy that Carlos is recovered after his injury. It felt weird having Ollie cover the fly leg of their medal-winning medley relay while Carlos was going through rehab. As quick and eager as Ollie is, Oscar found himself missing the steady strength of Carlos standing beside him at the poolside, that familiar echoing HUP as Oscar's head broke the surface every time he took a stroke. As much as Carlos baffles and sometimes annoys him, Oscar knows his value on their team. Their relay is poised for first place yet again now that Carlos is back and healthy, and the idea of standing on that top step has Oscar buzzing.
Oscar walks over to Carlos, his hands shoved into the pockets of his parka.
"How're you feeling?" he asks. "Warmed up okay? You shaved, right?"
Carlos blinks at him, big brown eyes shining. His lips curve into a small smile.
"Do you want me to unzip and un-warm to show you, Oscar?" he says, spreading his arms, and Oscar's spine definitely doesn't do a pleased little shiver at the familiar curl of Carlos's accent around the vowels of his name.
"No," he says. "Just making sure. And we can't afford you getting hurt again."
Carlos's expression softens. "I will be fine, I promise. All healed up and warm. And yes, I shaved. I have not forgotten everything in the last few weeks."
Oscar nods, gives Carlos's bicep a friendly little punch, and heads back to finish up his own warm-ups, trying to ignore the warm brown gaze he can feel on his retreating back.
Minutes tick by, the event before theirs finishes, and soon enough, they're marching out of the warm-up room into the brightly lit natatorium. Cheers erupt as they appear, and Oscar gives a small smile, knowing that the camera is likely focusing on their faces as their names are announced.
The four of them gather by lane 4, the top seed by a few tenths even after they qualified with Ollie. (Oscar wonders if he should buy the kid a beer or something. He hopes he didn't actually make him cry.) George slips off his parka first, slapping his bare arms and chest to keep some warmth in them. He settles his goggles onto his face, lets out a deep breath, and steps up beside the starting block as the rest of the teams are announced.
Eventually, the noise dies down, and the buzzer sounds once. George drops into the pool, along with all of the other backstrokers in the competing relays. He sinks to the bottom, then surges back up to take hold of the starting bar, feet poised on the side of the pool, arms relaxed.
Oscar's heart races, his skin prickling. The natatorium is silent.
Over the P.A.: "Take your mark."
George curls upwards, head tucked and muscles tensed.
The buzzer sounds, and George explodes backwards in a graceful arc, head thrown back and arms locked by his ears. He is lost beneath the water for nearly one third of the pool length, and then he's up, long arms stroking steady and strong, and they're already ahead.
Oscar feels like he can breathe again.
He shucks his own parka next, tossing it onto the chairs behind the lane, and bounces on his toes, trying to ignore how cold the air feels against his skin. He slides his goggles on, pressing them tight around his eyes, and swings his arms across his body, slapping his skin, sharp and stinging.
"Oscar." Carlos's voice is low, calm. Oscar turns to him and finds him holding out a closed fist, smiling. Oscar swallows hard, his pulse quickening. "You've got this," Carlos says.
Oscar nods and bumps his knuckles against Carlos's, lingering for just a moment longer than he usually might.
"Thanks," he says, and then he grins. "Don't fuck up the exchange."
He turns away to step onto the starting block before he can see Carlos's expression, but the miffed little scoff of disbelief from behind him keeps the grin on his face as George approaches down the lane, head and shoulders ahead of their closest competitors, still holding steady.
Oscar lets out a long, slow breath. He crouches in preparation, toes curled against the block. He frames George between his outstretched hands, following him in, measuring his strokes. Three, two—
Oscar dives.
They've practiced their exchanges hundreds, thousands of times. Oscar knows the exact moment his feet can leave the block, milliseconds after George's fingers touch the board. It's perfect. They're perfect.
They have to be.
It's part of why Oscar is so damn relieved Carlos is back.
The water hits him with an icy shock, strangely comforting, as always. Oscar completes his pullout, his body rippling beneath the water, and then he kicks himself up into his first stroke and settles into rhythm. He focuses on the pattern of his breath, on the strength of his kick, the smoothness of his stroke. Every time his head breaks the surface, he hears the cheers of the crowd and the shouts from the other teams, encouraging their own swimmers.
And there, back again after long lonely weeks, is Carlos's distinctive, steady HUP, urging Oscar on.
The far wall approaches. Oscar completes a neat turn, and it's only when he's underwater again, sideways for a moment before completing his second pullout, that he confirms they're still in the lead.
He speeds back towards his team, focusing on remaining smooth but quick. His face feels warm, as it always does by the time he gets to about the 75 yard mark. He's made for mid-distance more than sprints, but he's their best breaststroker, so they need him on the medley.
Every breath suddenly feels quieter than before, and Oscar knows that means Carlos is ready on the block, following Oscar in with his long arms, graceful fingers framing Oscar's head. Oscar pushes forward with a bit more power, finishing strong, and as soon as his hands slam into the timing board, he whips his head up with a gasp to watch Carlos dive into the lane behind him, perfect form as always and the first flyer into the water.
Oscar clambers out of the pool, only accepting George's hand clasp once he's back on his own two feet. He snaps his goggles back onto his forehead and turns to watch Carlos and—
Okay, yeah, he missed this.
Carlos swims like a dream. His broad shoulders seem to float above the surface of the water, his arms carrying him along with barely any effort. His stroke is graceful, longer than most other flyers Oscar has seen. Even Ollie, for all his lanky height, couldn't quite match the smooth grace of Carlos's stroke.
Oscar feels breathless watching him.
"Didn't miss him, my ass," George mutters, leaning close to Oscar with a cheeky grin, his eyes also on Carlos. Oscar elbows him in the ribs and starts clapping as George doubles over with a muffled oof.
"Come on, Alex!" Oscar yells. "Bring us home."
Alex is already on the block, bent over, letting his long arms swing loose and easy. His jaw is set, focused. He watches Carlos like a hawk. Oscar feels jittery with adrenaline and nerves, but one glance out over the pool has him calm again. Carlos is now a full body length ahead of their nearest competitor as he surges down the lane back towards them.
They've got this. If Alex hangs on, that medal is theirs.
"Let's go!" George hollers, and Oscar watches with bated breath as Carlos completes his final stroke into the wall and Alex bursts like a cannon from the block. He completes a few strong dolphin kicks beneath the water, and then he's up and sprinting, leaving a wake behind him as he starts their final 100m.
Carlos climbs out of the pool, his shoulders flushed and heaving, his head ducked low. Oscar's heart sinks for a few stomach-dropping seconds—has Carlos strained himself? Has he re-torn something in his shoulder?—but then Carlos whips off his goggles and lets out a loud huff.
"That felt good," he says, grinning as he uses the block to get to his feet. "Did you catch my split?"
Maybe Oscar will punch him instead.
George slings an arm around Carlos's shoulders, shaking him.
"Good to have you back, mate," he says, and then drags both Carlos and Oscar to the side of the pool, where all three of them start yelling nonsense encouragement to Alex, knowing full well that he can't hear them.
Alex's flip turn is quick, and he's on his way back. The swimmer in lane 6 is right on his heels, gaining by centimeters, but Alex puts on a burst of speed for the back half and the other guy only manages to get to his calves before Alex slams into the wall and Oscar finds himself screaming, arms thrown up in victory, because they fucking won.
The natatorium is deafening. Oscar finds himself hugging George, and then Carlos, and then a sopping wet Alex wraps his arms around all of them and they're still yelling, Oscar laughing into the damp skin of Carlos's shoulder, George bouncing like a kid. Oscar feels elated, somehow torn between wanting to flop down onto his back, never to move again, and run laps around the entire pool. At some point, their group hug becomes two hugs, and Oscar finds himself clinging to Carlos as George and Alex hold each other tightly, George whispering something Oscar can't catch into Alex's ear as Alex grins, big and bright.
Oscar's cheeks are flushed. He knows it's probably time to pull away from Carlos, to start collecting himself and getting everybody rallied for a cool down and press and the eventual medal ceremony, but Carlos's arms are warm around him, and Oscar… okay, fine. Oscar did miss him. And Carlos gives good hugs.
"Glad you're back," Oscar mutters, half-muffled against Carlos's skin.
Oscar feels Carlos chuckle. Feels a big hand pat his back, and then what feels an awful lot like a kiss pressed to Oscar's cheekbone.
"Glad to be back, Oscar," Carlos says, while Oscar's mind whirls with he kissed me did he kiss me I think he just kissed me. "I missed you too."
Oscar hides his red face as Carlos sways them lightly, cozily. Surely there's some European explanation for Carlos kissing his cheek—he's always been the touchiest of their quartet, always pinching and patting and gently shoving as he teases—but he's not French, and he's not Charles, and Oscar doesn't think he's seen Carlos do cheek kisses before to anyone who isn't Charles, so—
"Oy! Quick group photo!" George's voice jolts Oscar back to the poolside, and he finds himself wrangled into a pose, Carlos's arm still warm around his shoulders, Alex's arm slipped around his ribs. Oscar beams into the camera, his thoughts still whirling at a mile a minute, but despite his confusion, he still feels elated.
Carlos is back. They just won gold.
Life is good.
The camera flashes, and they start gathering their parkas and slides, ready to swim a quick cool down and then face the press.
Before they get too far, though, just beyond the view of the crowds and cameras, Oscar tugs Carlos to a halt.
Carlos blinks at him. "Oscar?"
Oscar hesitates, heart racing, and then he thinks fuck it and kisses Carlos on the cheek.
"Thanks," he says, and hurries off after George and Alex, his cheeks blazing.
Okay, so maybe he lost his mind a little bit.
But at least Carlos is back.
And they won gold.
He can deal with his stupid fluttering heart later.
