(1.7K carcar ficlet)
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.
