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1. CATS DON’T CARE ABOUT YOUR SUFFERING. THEY ONLY CARE ABOUT FOOD.
Oscar is there when Carlos trudges back to his hotel, rightfully fuming, sulking, feeling as exhausted as he could be after running three marathons straight.
He doesn’t notice him at first, but then the tiniest movement catches his eyes and there he is, his fucking cross, perched atop of a low garden wall like a lazy housecat, his eyes tiny and gleaming in the dim white glow of the lamps lighting up the gravel path to the hall.
Carlos groans under his breath. He doesn’t want to see anybody tonight, let alone the disgraceful wretch that’s making his work life look more and more like a clownery show, and he’s determined to march right past him, he really is, but - as he has jokingly said in an interview - a slight pull prevents him from walking straight to his room – it feels like the Earth itself has conspired to change their natural magnetism so they could gravitate around each other despite not being always in good terms on track. It’s more like a curse than proper magic, but Carlos is sure there’s a rational explanation for it, there must fucking be.
Suppose you’re, like, super scared of bugs. You’ll always be the one minding bugs in the room, of course, and it would feel as if all the bugs in the world are all drawn to your fear. That must be it, Carlos finds himself thinking from time to time. Oscar is to him what a locust is to someone who’s very afraid of bugs.
Except that he’s not afraid of him, of course, but… well. It’s a whole lot to unpack, considering they had sex twice already.
He doesn’t really want to think about it, now. He merely scrunches his face in a somewhat displeased look and rolls his eyes, exaggerating his annoyance at the unwelcome sight.
“Piss off, niñato. I’m not in the mood,” he grumbles but, for some reason, Oscar doesn’t react, tilting his head and blinking oh so slowly, as he always does when he’s feeling relaxed.
(of course Carlos shouldn’t know it. Of course it bugs him to no end to know it, to be able to discern how Oscar is feeling only by catching a whiff of him while they pass each other by during busy free practice days)
“You should have been on that podium,” Oscar replies, unfaltering, as deadpan as if he’s enunciating some kind of well-known truth.
Water boils at 100°C. If you touch fire, you get burnt. You should have been on that podium.
He’s not, as Carlos has reluctantly learnt, very versed in the art of beating around the bush. He’s direct without being rude, succinct without coming off as too harsh or too blunt, straight to the point like a perfectly aimed arrow.
Carlos likes it about him.
By God, he hates that he likes it about him.
“Don’t-” he starts arguing, but a knot ties tightly around his windpipe, strangling all the words out of him in a vicious snare. His stomach drops to his knees – fuck, I should have been on that goddamn podium.
He must look so stupidly devastated, right now, because he can’t really keep his emotions in check. The welcome blankness of his resting face, cuando su cabeza es en Babia, would be lovely today, but he sadly cannot conjure that look up to save his fucking life. Oscar taps his foot against his hip, his stare attentive, as if he’s studying him, and it sort of creeps Carlos out, though in a kind of affectionate way. He notices his sneakers. Squeaky clean, of course, the cabrito is always as spotless as a serial killer, while he, on the other hand, looks like someone who has lost a boxing match against a combine harvester.
“Next time,” Oscar says then, after having carefully picked out his words. “We could join forces to sabotage Max’s car and, bam, we’re on the podium.”
He sounds so serious it’s almost comical. Carlos’ lips curl up in a smile as he grunts, the smallest hint of a laugh dancing on the brink of his lips. Fuck, he hasn’t actually laughed in, what, twenty-four hours? And just like this Oscar Piastri, who isn’t by far his favorite person on Earth, makes him crack a laugh.
Unbe-fucking-lievable.
“Just me and you? Racing for first and second position?”
Oscar nods. His aura of solemnity makes him look even younger, childish, and it does things to Carlos’ soul he doesn’t even wanna start examining, right now.
(or ever. Better not to open the accursed Pandora’s Box)
“Of course. Just me and you. Tire to tire until the finish line.”
Now Carlos allows himself to chuckle.
“Impossible. You’d take me out in turn one, niñato. You’re a menace in that monster car of yours.”
“And you’re stubborn in your red…tin can. No offense, I like it when you push.”
Now, Carlos could take a little offense. Despite the long negotiations that ended up with him not signing again with Ferrari, his dreams are still etched in Rosso Corsa, his thoughts are, sometimes, in italian, and he knows, he knows that whatever happens until the end of the season he won’t just walk away with a big smile on his face. And yet. Oscar isn’t shoving it into his face. He isn’t asking useless questions or taking upon himself the taxing toll of giving him unwanted advice, and he isn’t even joking around, nor contemplating the possibility that he, the son of the Spanish Racing Royalty™ will end up unemployed after Abu Dhabi and it’s honestly the kindest, sweetest thing someone has told him all week. It speaks for itself, to some extent. Carlos sighs, shrugging.
“What are you doing here, niñato? ” He asks, trying to dissuade him from being around too much. Bitterness, he has learnt, it’s like the flu, you just spread it around and, frankly, he doesn’t want Oscar to get infected by his ever growing sense of failure, the lack of meaning simmering quietly under his skin.
Oscar, however, doesn’t dignify him with a reply, asking instead “will you tear me apart if I jump off?”
Carlos frowns, before picking up his cue.
“Nah, I’m full, I had dinner already.”
“Good.”
Oscar’s leap is graceful, his feet touching the grass soundlessly, his thin t-shirt lifting up to his stomach for the tiniest second, showing off a portion of white, smooth skin. Oscar watches, transfixed, as he stirs with a small, tired yawn, trudging towards him and then, unprompted, resting his chin on his shoulder, his breath warm against Carlos’ ear.
“I don’t particularly feel like attending Lando’s celebratory party. Do you think you’re going?”
Carlos feels like there’s something more to his question, something along the lines of “I’m going if you’re going”, but acknowledging it now would break him apart, so he just wraps his arm around Oscar - how could he not? The fucking niñato has literally shoved his chin on his shoulder like a cat looking for cuddles, what’s a man supposed to do in this predicament? - and places his splayed palm over the small of his back, his fingertips stroking him through the flimsy fabric of his t-shirt. When he feels him relax imperceptibly against his chest, Carlos contemplates the idea of screaming atop of his lungs and letting himself be admitted into a mental ward or whatever.
“No,” he ends up saying, dropping his voice not to deafen him. “But I could use some booze anyway.”
“Okay. Booze is on me, though.”
2. CATS DON’T PACK-BOND. THEY’RE HIGHLY INDEPENDENT CREATURES AND THEY DON’T FOLLOW YOU AROUND
It’s weird to feel Oscar’s presence on his tail while he’s still sober. Not that he intends to be in this miserable state for too long, but yeah, it comes off as odd to have someone like Oscar following him around the hall, past the elevators, to the practical, elegant luxury of the ground floor bar, where Carlos spots a couple of faces he really, really wouldn’t like to see while he’s sulking for his busted race.
“Stay here, I’ll order. Room service, I presume?”
Carlos nods, silently thanking Oscar for being so fucking good at reading him – a double-edged sword indeed. People are going to ask questions, anyway. He won’t give a straight answer, of course, because he’s got his skills at dodging elegantly, but he knows someone will ask. He waits in the hall, scrolling his Instagram feed with bored disinterest, until he spots Oscar trotting towards him, looking bulkier, heavier, under the artificial light inside. He swallows compulsively, trying to shake off the thought of his meringue white skin, and he offers him a puzzled look before nodding and strutting to the elevators.
Yes, he’s an athlete, he should take the stairs. No, he’s fuming, he’s pissed, he will allow himself the luxury of being lazy for once, thank you.
Once they’re comfortably tucked into the elevator, it occurs to Carlos that Oscar wouldn’t really have any reason to be there, like, no fucking one. They’re not friends, after all. They barely fucked twice while under the influence of massive amounts of alcohol and, on track, they cannot stand each other. They’re not proper rivals, either. They’re just – something.
Stuck in a liminal space that Carlos, despite the best of intentions, can’t actually understand yet. So, again, he frowns, casting a side glance to his unlikely partner in crime from the huge mirror, their eyes meeting halfway.
“So…have you come to gloat, niñato? ”
Oscar doesn’t look particularly outraged at the hint but… well. It’s not always easy to say what grates on his nerves and what he actually likes, he’s always so obnoxiously zen.
“I'd be doing that if I felt like it. I'm not doing that. It's just...it didn't feel right. It's not really a race if you aren't insulting me.”
Somehow, the tight knot choking the air at the base of Carlos’ sternum eases a little. He didn’t even know it was there in the first place, but he could feel it, sitting like a stone squishing his diaphragm.
“Ah. You could have said that earlier, you little shit,” he retorts playfully, another timid smile curling his mouth upwards.
“Fuck you,” Oscar teases, and – it feels nice. It does really feel nice, comfortable, devoid of all the pressure of a ruined race. Carlos snorts, making funny eyes at him, and he leads Oscar down the hallway to his suite, where most of his things are already packed for leaving, the place tidy and neat, ready to welcome its next guest.
“What did you order?”
Oscar finds his spot at the foot of the bed. He looks so awkward when he’s sitting down, not focusing on a task in particular, because he doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands. Unlike him, Oscar doesn’t use them very much for talking and, at the cost of sounding sappy, Carlos must admit he finds it absolutely cute, especially now that he’s trying to settle with keeping his palms splayed on his thighs, rubbing ever so often.
“Not Champagne. We’re not celebrating. But since I don’t know what you like, I asked for a…uhm. Diverse spread.”
Carlos lets out a brief, throaty laugh.
“A diverse spread of booze. Fuck, you’re resourceful, niñato.”
“To each their talent.”
“Let’s see. Racing, grating on my nerves and ordering good booze?”
Carlos is sure he sees a warm, pink blush spread all over Oscar’s cheeks, but it only lasts enough for him to think he has imagined it. What reason would he have to blush, anyway? He drums his fingers on his knee and tries not to look too tense. It’s…odd to be in the same room as Oscar while he’s not drunk to an inch of his life yet.
“You don’t even know if the booze will be worth the company,” Oscar points out, a sheepish smile plastered on his lips. Carlos relaxes in the armchair, his long legs stretched out in full, until the sole of his Nike shoes is touching Oscar’s feet.
“I trust your guts,” he replies.
“You trust the guts of someone who rarely drinks? My, you’re as stupid as you look.”
Banter has never felt so fucking liberating, before. He kicks Oscar in the shin and calls him ugly while smirking and they end up kissing right before their bottles come up.
It’s not a big, dreamy kind of kiss, like those things Carlos has always seen in the movies. It’s like falling into an easy sync, a familiarity that draws them closer as they roast each other for fun, and when their noses touch… well. Why not indulge? It’s been a terrible, awful, no fucking good day for Carlos, he deserves to cut himself some slack. It’s only by chance that it happens to be with Oscar, of course. A blind turn of fate. Happenstance.
The point is, it’s not a bad kiss either, nor an unremarkable one. It’s gentle, for one, which is surprising considering how aggressive and violent their fucks have been, overall. It’s slow, heartfelt, bordering on the line between the unknown and the domestic. Thrilling, he would even say. Something to treasure and cherish in the blank, dull landscape of his dating life.
When they part, they’re not starving for oxygen but they both feel appeased, satisfied. Carlos tips the room service with a generous amount of cash, counting on their discretion, and brings in the loot, whistling at the impressive selection.
“Now I’m not sure whether you want me to get drunk or you’re planning my assassination,” he chuckles, a bottle of Gray Goose vodka in one hand and a bottle of Scottish whiskey in the other.
“Told you. I didn’t know what you liked, so I asked for a little bit of everything, I guess. Look, there’s wine also. We can start with it if you want?”
Carlos is not sure that a bottle of 2021 Chianti is the answer he was looking for, but to hell with it, he might trust Oscar’s guts some more for tonight.
He pours the drinks in two tall, bulbous wine glasses, and as if by silent agreement they sit across each other on the soft carpet of the small living space facing the bedroom, kicking their shoes away and sipping their wine quietly, like old pals on a night out. Carlos can finally give into the bone-weary exhaustion weighing down his shoulders, finally calm enough to acknowledge how fucking tired he’s feeling, without needing to put on a mask of fake composure and toughen up for the sake of a bunch of assholes that will call him a loser anyway. This, too, feels unbearably liberating.
“You know what, niñato? ”
Oscar winces at the bitter tang of the wine.
“What?” He asks, and Carlos would like to snap a picture of his grimace, his pretense of unfazed quietness replaced by a scrunched nose and squinted eyes, a look worth getting into his camera roll.
“You should have been on that podium too. Cheers.”
Their glasses clink in mid-air. Carlos is sure that the warm, nice sensation blooming in his stomach isn’t entirely down to the Chianti, but Oscar doesn’t need to know it, right?
3. CATS WAKE YOU UP IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT TO PURPOSELY MESS WITH YOUR SLEEPING SCHEDULE
In the end, they don’t even drink that much. Carlos is only pleasantly tipsy when he crawls over Oscar ad pins him to the floor, kissing him with the blessing of an empty bottle of Chianti and two sips of exceedingly overpriced scotch whiskey each, his breath quivering over Oscar’s parted lips, so pink and wet and so inviting, as he tastes the powerful edge of alcohol on his flickering tongue.
His teeth sink into soft, pliable flesh.
“I want to fuck you properly,” he says, and Oscar’s consent comes in the form of a barely audible moan.
Time stretches endlessly in front of them as they take their time undressing each other, their clothes peeling away easily, neatly, as hands roam over familiar ridges and lips indulge – the crook of Oscar’s neck, sensitive and warm. Oscar finding a sweet, sweet spot behind his ear and kissing there, nibbling at his earlobe. Carlos sighs, baring his throat to him, and he only marginally acknowledges the voice telling him that this is going to backfire so fucking bad.
What will your excuse be, this time?
He’s not drunk, so he won’t get away with it by placing the blame on alcohol. Same goes for finding a suitable partner for a night of casual sex: he would be more than able to find some willing chick or dude to spend a lovely night with, but he told Teto he wasn’t in the mood, not even for a boys’ night out, and so he can’t place the blame on loneliness either.
No one’s to blame except himself and his all too soft heart, but that’s something he’ll deal with tomorrow – getting distracted while Oscar is naked and splayed in front of him like a fucking gourmet dish could surely account as a criminal offense.
He buries his face into the firmness of his thighs, inhaling his scent, and Oscar fists his hair insistently, forcing him to look up, frowning.
“What?”
Oscar licks his lips.
“That thing you did the first time we fucked. That’s rimming, right?”
“Did you have to google it?”
Carlos chuckles when Oscar winces, looking away, embarrassed.
“Yeah.”
There’s something subtly erotic in witnessing his true sexual awakening, or whatever this might be. His virginal mannerisms and eagerness are enticing, and Carlos is just so, so, so weak. He understands now why many men have this weird obsession with virginity: this aura of new, inexperienced, is something else entirely, especially when you’re a known control freak.
“Ass up, legs spread,” he instructs. Oscar seems a little skeptical of the weird position, but he chooses to give Carlos the benefit of the doubt, gasping a little when Carlos lets him rest his legs on his shoulders and positions himself between his spread cheeks, teasing the entrance with the wet tip of his finger. Oscar blooms open for him almost instantly, as if he’s craving this as much as Carlos himself, whose licks start slow and tentative but soon become voracious, animalistic, his saliva dribbling on the floor in thick rivulets as Oscar squirms and whines, his painfully hard cock leaking like a faulty faucet.
Carlos is, in fact, a stubborn bastard. He would chop his dominant arm off long before admitting he has started yearning for Oscar’s silent, discreet company, looking out for his permanent pillowhead in the crowd and letting out a sigh of relief when he finds him there, often rocking his displeased cat look, that unimpressed stare that has made him a fan favorite.
Carlos can taste his throbbing pulse on the tip of his tongue, the sweetest contractions of his muscles around the finger he pushes inside just for the sake of hearing him moan shamelessly, and, fuck, he feels great despite the horrible weekend, just fucking great.
It’s not the sex per se, he knows it, just as much as he knows he’s in big fucking trouble now: it’s him, the obnoxious niñato, bewitching him and making him want, want, want, even against his will. It’s dangerous and Carlos can’t help but get addicted to the spice of it.
What’s the point of playing, after all, when you can’t play with fire?
“Come for me,” he says, his voice raspy with pleasure. At some point he has started stroking himself almost absentmindedly, but now he feels the pinch at the base of his balls, heat pooling in his lower belly, making his vision swim. And Oscar comes, of course, almost untouched, with a strangled cry and scrunching his face - his not beautiful, not ugly face - and in the heat of the moment, Carlos dips his fingers into the white, hot mess sprayed all over his torso, licking them clean eagerly.
“If you expect me to do the same to you…ugh…”
He laughs. Oscar is so different from his usual self when he’s worked up and breathless, his cheeks hot pink and his hair an unruly mass falling freakily over his sweaty forehead.
“Don’t move. I’m gonna get the lube.”
Oscar nods and doesn’t ask why he’s always carrying lube around. Some of his casual partners have asked, of course, and Carlos has always played though, stating that he likes to be always prepared for a quickie. The truth is that he hoped to use it with Oscar – been hoping for it all along. A fact that’s almost too harsh to stomach, even if he’s not saying it out loud.
Walking with a hard on is impractical and a little painful. He retrieves the lube from his beautycase and comes back to Oscar with a big grin plastered on his face, pleased to see that the brat hasn’t picked up his clothes to leave.
(he’s relieved, actually, but there’s a limit to the conflicting facts he can process before snapping for good)
Prepping him up is almost as nice as slipping into him. They're taking the slowest route, not rushing things unnecessarily, allowing themselves to feel it, for once. Feel the thin, translucent hair on Oscar's forearms stand at attention as Carlos glides effortlessly in, his mouth agape with blissful shock, eyes closed as to savor the moment in full before starting grinding his hips, rocking them both to ecstasy, almost forgetting how to breathe between each thrust. Oscar groans, latching his toned legs around him, squeezing tight, forcing him to bury even deeper.
He's fever-hot inside, a little furnace that drives Carlos mad, luring him like a fucking siren song towards one of the best orgasms he has ever experienced.
What happens next is a blur. He knows for sure that he needed it, he needed this to decompress, to re-center and balance, and he also knows that picking up someone from a club wouldn't have had this miraculous effect on his nerves – it's Oscar, it's only Oscar, it has to be him…much to his chagrin.
He drifts off almost immediately; usually, it doesn't happen, and he frankly finds it boorish to fall asleep on his hookup without a little cuddling or a chitchat, but he is so, so exhausted and he can't keep his eyes open any longer.
Through his sleepy haze, he feels Oscar's presence, ebbing and flowing like the tide, and the cool sensation of a wet washcloth gently cleaning him up, Oscar's work silent and efficient.
At some point during the night, he is awake, the room filled with the muted blue light of a screen. He's in his bed - though he couldn't say how he got there - and, by his side, Oscar is watching something on his iPhone, their feet entangled under the covers and their bodies hurled together, the intimacy of it all almost alarming.
“Hey, niñato, ” he says, if only to escape the feeling of utter panic gripping at his throat. Oscar blinks a couple of times, as if he has somehow forgotten he’s sharing the bed with someone or who said someone is, then he gives him a soft, sleepy look, his features made impossibly chiseled by the light coming from his phone. He’s watching a game of cricket. Carlos finds it boring enough to yawn instantly, as if for a Pavlovian response.
“It’s late. You should sleep.”
Carlos hums. When he tries to disentangle his legs from Oscar’s, the brat twists his knee stubbornly, trying to act casual about it when Carlos lets out a halfhearted complaint. He doesn’t ask Oscar if he’s done it on purpose, of course; it’s the middle of the night and something tells him he wouldn’t like the answer. He doesn’t ask how and when they got to the bed or whether it’s been Oscar to help him into a pair of black briefs, he just grunts and bids him a muttered goodnight. He’s back to sleep long before he gets a chance to hear Oscar whisper him goodnight in return.
+1 CATS LOVE WARMTH AND THEY OFTEN SNUGGLE UP TO THEIR OWNER OUT OF AFFECTION
Carlos is used to wake up to natural light, but the weather is shit and the milky, uniform gray coming from the windows makes him huff and writhe, turning to bury his face in the pillow and groan in disappointment when he acknowledges the fact that his inner clock won’t grant him any more sleep. He must have rolled around during the night, presumably when Oscar has left, because the pillow smells like Oscar’s hair and the warm impression of his body is still lingering over the sheets, making him crave just a little, little more sleep time.
He stirs with a throaty groan. Having a nice fuck has rebalanced him like nothing else. Better than yoga or whatever mindfulness bullshit he was talked into trying sometime ago.
It’s quite early still and his flight won’t leave before three p.m, so he’s got a little time for a quick shower and some breakfast. Mindlessly, he walks over the living and his heart leaps in his chest when he finds Oscar still there, peacefully sitting on the windowsill, his eyes scanning the gray horizon, waiting for the sun to come up.
His chest seizes at the sight. It’s so uncommon for him to feel so moved over such mundane things, but it’s truly something to cherish. Silently, he retreats into the bedroom; the air is crisp at this latitude, and Oscar isn’t wearing anything besides a pair of borrowed shorts, his pale back bare, smooth and broad, a fucking piece of art carved out of the finest marble.
Oscar might not be conventionally beautiful but he is handsome in his own right, Carlos is forced to admit to himself. He’s not so magazine-perfect, but the harmony of his imperfections creates something unique, something that’s worth admiring from time to time – magazine-perfect gets boring after a while. Oscar’s girl-next-door looks are refreshing, when you’ve spent all of your adult life surrounded by the rizz and the glam of F1.
He fishes a sweater out of his mostly made trolley and pads barefoot to the window, gently wrapping it around Oscar’s naked shoulders, watching him snuggle up to it while trying to keep his heart from pouring out of his ribcage.
“You’re going to get a cold, chiquitito. The air is chilly here.”
Oscar scrunches his nose at him - Carlos can’t really say what this look might mean - and when he’s put the sweater on he shudders, his honey eyes puffy and sleepy, giving him an aura of rescued cat that truly does things to Carlos’ big ol’ soft soul. Puppy eyes never fail to bring him to his knees. Never.
“What does chiquitito mean?”
Carlos chuckles slightly. Oh, he’s not gonna like it.
“Little one,” he admits, if only for the sake of pissing him off. Oscar, however, doesn’t seem bothered. He outstretches his arms instead and buries his face into Carlos’ chest, sighing contentedly, his cold cheek heating up rapidly as he snatches Carlos’ warmth, his eyelids fluttering closed.
“It’s nice,” he hears him mumble, as he tentatively runs his fingers through his messy hair, earning a throaty sound that resembles a purr in return.
“You stayed. I thought you would…go.”
Oscar gazes at him, one eye open and one closed, his expression unreadable, blank, like a white page on a notebook.
“Your bed is more comfortable than mine,” he replies, ever the unfazed one. Carlos can’t help but let out a small, quiet laugh.
“Yeah, tell it to yourself. The truth is that you like sleeping with me.”
Oscar seems puzzled for a moment, his fingertips drumming against the small of Carlos’ back, a little rhythm that Carlos is sure he should recognize but…well, it’s morning, he isn’t his most brilliant in the morning, especially before his coffee.
“Who wouldn’t? You’re warm!” Oscar says then, matter-of-factly, and Carlos feels that peculiar pull in his chest once again, his face going all mushy and soft against his will – oh, he hates it. He hates it with burning passion and, at the same time, he’s completely helpless against it.
“What do you say about breakfast, niñato? ” He asks then, succumbing to his own, unforgiving fate. Sometimes you just got to go with the flow, even if the flow drags you towards your not-quite-friend, not-quite-rival and it doesn’t seem willing to steer you away.
Well, shit.
Oscar shrugs, yawning.
“Might be better than in my own hotel,” it’s his eloquent, playful reply.
Carlos nods. For a long while, though, they just chill there, waiting for the sky to clear up, holding each other in the cool canadian breeze.
Arms around Oscar, his scent in his nostrils, Carlos knows one thing for sure: he’s screwed up, and royally so. But, for the moment, he decides not to take action against it.
Sometimes, after all, you really need to just go with the flow.