Carcar + iron
I had so much fun writing this one! And I was particulary inspired by these two photos:
“Oscar!”
The sound of Carlos’ voice bounces from wall to wall as Oscar finishes buttoning his shirt to the last hole. He looks at his own fingers reaching the base of his neck in the reflection of the bathroom mirror, realising that the collar might be too tight, again.
He had bought the shirt especially for this occasion, Hattie sighing in exasperation on the other side of their FaceTime as Oscar rummaged through way too many shelves of shirts for his liking.
He had not tried it on, though, just grabbed the first one that looked like it could fit him and rushed towards the cashier because he had completely forgotten about that meeting at the MTC in about half an hour – a meeting that he would’ve probably missed if Lando hadn’t started calling him twice every minute.
So, he guesses, he might’ve put himself in this situation.
“We’re going to be late!” Carlos cries out from somewhere deeper into his apartment that Oscar guesses might be the kitchen.
He doesn’t spend nearly enough time in his own apartment, anyway. When he is not on the road towards yet another race weekend, he much prefers to hide himself into a burrito of blankets on Carlos’ couch, watching him type on his laptop about stakes and stock markets and other shits Oscar doesn’t really care to understand.
“I know!” Oscar yells back, quickly surrendering himself to the idea that he will have to leave the top button open in order not to choke himself in front of Carlos’ parents.
He does look smart, though, or at leats he thinks. Black slacks and light pink shirt should be considered smart, or at least classy – hedoesn’t really know. Usually, there is always somebody else telling him how to dress up for the formal stuff.
Or it’s just Lando lending him one of his suits with a shake of his head and a scrunch of his nose, refusing to let himself be seen with his teammate looking like that at one of their promotion dinners.
But it’s- whatever.
“Then why aren’t you hurrying up?” Carlos asks, his voice sounding dangerously closer than before.
Oscar makes quick work of taking the deodorant out of the mirror cabinet, spraying it under his armpits and silently praying that it’s the stainless one Carlos bought last week.
Suddenly, the door opens with a creak, soon accompanied the familiar sound of Carlos’ loafers on the slick tiles.
“What. Is. That.” Carlos says, and even though it should sound like a question, Oscar knows from his voice that it does not.
“What?” He asks, alarmed.
He shuts the cabinet close, looking at the label on the deodorant bottle. As it turns out, it is indeed the stainless one, musk-somethting-vanilla scented, and as he checks himself in the mirror, he does not see any stain under his arms.
“What?” He asks again, turning around to loom at Carlos, frozen under the door jamb.
Oscar is not at all surprised that his boyfriend, much like always, looks effortlessly hot: hair slicked back and tight linen beige pants hugging his thighs, the muscles in his biceps bulge deliciously as he crosses his arms over his chest, his white polo shirt hugging his arms tightly as they move.
He looks smart, dressed like this, with that hair and that watch on his wrist.
But Oscar looks just as smart… right?
“That.” Carlos repeats, not very talkative of him, making a half-aborted gesture at Oscar’s shirt.
Oscar looks at his own chest, widening his arms to stare at the way the fabric of his shirt stretches over his pecs. “It’s the top button, isn’t it?” Oscar asks, groaning. “I swear I thought I could manage it but it’s way too tight and-“
“It’s not the fucking button, Oscar.” Carlos snaps, exasperated. “It’s the entire shirt!”
“What?” Oscar asks, taking each side of the shirt and raising it up to his face. He gives it a sniff, just in case, but all that he can smell is the Carlos’ antibacterial softener, that he only recognises for how many times he has woken up curled into Carlos’ sheets. “What is wrong with it?”
Carlos pinches the bridge of his nose, defeated, as if Oscar is the one being completely stupid and not Carlos speaking all cryptic as always.
“Did you even iron it?”
“Ah.” Oscar shrugs. “No?”
Carlos forces him to take his shirt off in the middle of the living room and then sternly instructs him to not move of a single centimetre as he goes to fetch his iron and a microfibre towel to lay Oscar’s shirt on the kitchen table.
He feels almost shy, standing next to the couch and watching as Carlos moves around his flat with incredible ease.
“This,” Carlos says, motioning for the iron he plugs next to the stove. “This is an iron.” He explains, like Oscar is five. “You use it to take off all the- twinkle-winkle things on your shirt.”
“Wrinkles.” Oscar supplies, immediately regretting it when Carlos shots him a deadly glare.
“Do not correct me, Oscar.” Carlos says, impossibly serious. He checks the little red light on the iron, nodding to himself when he notices the button go off and pressing another to let the vapour go off at the top. “You should thank me for not letting you go out for dinner with my parents in a ‘wrinkled’ shirt.”
“I’m sorry.” Oscar says, genuinely.
He hadn’t thought about ironing his shirt at all, and he is ashamed to admit that most of the times, it’s not even his business to care. Usually, there is a PR person walking around ready to drown him in team kits to wear for the weekend. Other times, his personal trainer takes a look at his disgruntled state in the morning and hereby decides that he should take care of his clothes, at the very least.
Carlos, instead, looks completely at ease as he swiftly passes the iron over the fabric, gently stretching the flaps out on the makeshift board. He never lets the iron linger on the shirt for too long, swiping it gently on each wrinkle, careful to not fold the collar.
Oscar takes a step closer, tentatively teasing the previous boundary Carlos had imposed, but he can’t really resist it when Carlos looks so- so homey, and domestic, ironing Oscar’s shirt because he’s a messy teenager who grew up in a boarding school and then became a too professional athlete to learn to care about his own clothes.
He smiles, plastering himself to Carlos’ back, careful to not interrupt his work as he wraps his arms around Carlos’ middle, hiding his face in the crook of his neck.
“You look really beautiful right now.” He admits, whispering the words into Carlos’ shoulder.
Even though he can’t see it, he can definitely feel Carlos’ smile.
“Yeah?” Carlos says, wiggling his arse against Oscar’s front because he’s a tease. “Your beautiful wife ironing your work shirts for you? Do you want me to wear a cute little dress next time?”
Oscar groans pained, images of Carlos wearing a little black and white servant’s dress flooding his mind, his delicious big thighs put on display, the small spaghetti’s braces hugging his beautiful pecs, cutting in the middle of his perky nipples.
Perhaps he could not wear his boxers under the skirt. Or, even better, those lacy red panties he bought last time in Monaco-
“Do not get hard now, Mr Piastri!” Carlos admonishes him, turning his face to the side to give him another glare.
Oscar smiles sheepishly at him, but he can’t really help it when his boyfriend looks so handsome all the time, can he?
“We are already running late, you know how much my mum hates it when we are late.”
“But your mother loves me too much that she would only blame you.” Oscar counters back with a shrug. He knows that it’s true.
Carlos rolls his eyes to the ceiling with an annoyed huff as he turns around in Oscar’s arms, though the smile still toying on the corners of his lips betrays him.
“Here, take this.” Carlos tells him, thrusting the ironed shirt into Oscar’s still naked chest.
It is softer than before, carrying a slight warm from the iron that Carlos had so carefully used only for him, and Oscar can’t help but hug the fabric closer to himself for a second more, enjoying the feeling of familiarity in being taken care of.
He’s liking that way too much, perhaps he could fake being sick next time and let Carlos baby him around like when he got that flu. That would be amazing.
“Come on,” Carlos urges, slapping his bum. He grins coyly at Oscar, full lips brushing against his mouth. “If we are not late, I will buy that dress.” He whispers right before he disappears from Oscar’s arms, already out of the door.
Oscar doesn’t think he has ever ran this fast in his life.
