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Carlos isn’t sure if Oscar will even come. Of course, his stuff is here, but knowing him, he could just go to the empty hotel room that is actually formally assigned to him. Carlos unlocks his phone. It is the only source of light in the room with the blackout curtains drawn and all lamps ignored. He clicks on the video again. “One of the dumbest things I’ve ever seen,” Oscar says. “You don’t plan the strategy for getting taken away by a… backmarker.” It’s not the first time they clash on track. Carlos feels bad. For both of them, obviously. He just can't admit fault. He can’t.
It feels wrong to sit on the sofa or on the bed. The carpet somehow feels more natural. His legs are covered in carpet marks by now. Now his cheek has them too, because he lay down. Saying Oscar is right would feel like saying Carlos can retire at this point, to be honest. If racing Alonso in Aston Martin is not important enough to be respected, why does he even show up every race week? He’s almost asleep on the floor when the door opens.
“Hey,” he says as Oscar’s figure steps into the room.
“Don’t fucking hey me,” he cuts. “I’ll leave in a minute, just go back to whatever you were doing.”
“I was waiting for you.”
It’s true. He isn’t naive to think Oscar will come back into his embrace and they’ll be alright right away after what had happened today, but it was kind of their thing - fucking about what happens on track. Maybe now they should, too. Maybe Carlos is like a goddamn Pavlovian dog, waiting for it every time. Today it’s different though. Today Oscar is actually angry and their stage of the relationship is not just ‘fuck’n’bicker.’ He’d call it official, but no one around seems to pay attention. They might kiss in front of everyone by now, but people just don’t care because it’s not Lando and Carlos or Lando and Oscar. Or Charles and Carlos. Literally anyone else. Maybe it’s for the better.
“I can’t believe you think I want to see you. You’re such an idiot what were you fucking thinking?”
Carlos is thinking Oscar doesn’t even understand how lucky he is. Despite DNFing, he has a decent car that’s able to fight for podiums almost every weekend, he never actually faced what Carlos has been facing his whole career – being passed over and overlooked. He doesn’t say it. Oscar wouldn’t agree anyway. It would only make things worse.
“Why can’t you just admit you were fucking wrong? Just say I’m sorry I was wrong, why do you need to defend yourself so obnoxiously?” Oscar hisses, rummaging through the wardrobe shelves using the flashlight on his phone.
“Stay,” Carlos asks.
“So you’re not only blind but also deaf? I don’t want to be near you now. It’s not safe for both of us.”
Carlos sighs, reaching for Oscar’s shin with his fingers. Oscar’s not so far away. He can shift a bit and hug Oscar’s legs. He does. He must look pathetic. Lucky for him, there's almost no light.
“Last chance, Carlos. Admit you were wrong.”
There’s no way he’s admitting anything. There’s no way Oscar’s admitting anything either. They are different but they are the same. Two sides of the coin. Two magnetic poles. They will never put each other over their career ambitions. It’s probably a terminal diagnosis for any relationship, but it’s just the way they are.
“It was racing,” Carlos grits through his teeth, not letting Oscar go. “You've seen the evidence – blue flags were fucked. For everyone.”
“Don’t care about your excuses, Carlos.”
His fingers are slowly climbing up inside the leg of Oscar’s shorts.
“Fuck you.”
“Uh-huh?”
“No, mate, really, fuck you.”
“Fuck me.”
He tugs at Oscar’s shorts. Not to drag them down, just to support his own words with some action.
“Please, fuck me.”
“Stand up for fuck’s sake.”
Oscar is pressing him against the bed and now it all almost feels like the whole fight was just foreplay. It’s easy to lull himself with it. The nightlight clicks on.
“So that you could see me this time,” Oscar explains.
That is also why Carlos stays on his back. Despite his anger, Oscar is gentle. He just doesn’t kiss him like he always does, and this fact hurts more than it probably should. Carlos tries to catch Oscar’s lips as he bottoms out, but unsuccessfully.
“Next time we’ll do it in front of a mirror to teach you how to use it.”
The promise of next time is comforting. Means they are not over yet. There is something ahead. Carlos holds his own knees so that they touch his shoulders, and Oscar is really deep. The angle already feels insane, but he wants him closer. Wants to kiss this crease from between Oscar’s eyebrows, but he’s not allowed to.
“Here? Like this?” Oscar asks though Carlos knows for sure he’s well aware where and how – has learnt his body well enough by now to hit the right spot with every thrust. “Bother to answer once in a while.”
Carlos moans a yes. He’d been holding his mouth shut to prevent adding anything bitter about the race – that’s the most he can do and Oscar doesn’t even appreciate it, but if being silent is just as bad, well, he’s not holding it anymore.
“Bother to kiss something other than my rear wheel.”
“I can’t. Believe. You’re this. Damn. Stupid,” Oscar matches his own rhythm.
Carlos uses his legs to hug Oscar’s waist and drag him closer. Closer. Closer.
“You’ll have plenty of time to regret your words and actions while you sleep here alone,” Oscar promises, putting his palm over Carlos’ mouth. Carlos kisses it.
The thought of Oscar leaving the room is unbearable. He squeezes his legs harder, drawing Oscar deeper inside him. His arms are clutching Oscar’s bare shoulders, holding the man on him. Carlos sobs. Oscar doesn’t go anywhere. Yet.
Carlos is painfully hard, but Oscar deliberately avoids touching his dick. Doesn’t even let Carlos rub against his stomach. The wave hits him anyway. He sees stars in Oscar's eyes even if it’s just a reflection of the lamp, then the world goes dark as he spills all over both of their torsos.
Oscar’s damn kissable lips are parted but he doesn’t say anything. He’s trying to pull out, but Carlos’ legs hug him tighter.
“Please, stay.”
“I told you I’m leaving once we’re done,” Oscar says, but it’s not even what Carlos meant this time.
“Stay inside,” Carlos pleads. “Go on.”
“You’re a crazy man,” Oscar whispers but slowly resumes moving. “Batshit crazy.”
“Mhm,” Carlos manages.
He’s oversensitive after his orgasm, but the stimulation tickles his nerves just right. Besides, he wants Oscar to cum inside. Needs him to. It must mean something.
Oscar’s face looks concentrated like he’s operating a racing car right now, pressing all the right buttons and going straight to the finish line, speeding up to finish and leave. There’s sweat on his forehead and above his upper lip. Carlos’ body is squirming under him by itself, almost in trance. Carlos is barely even in control of his own body, to be honest.
Then Oscar thrusts for the last time, and Carlos feels like he is a mobile phone and Oscar just did a screenshot, because he can’t go fully hard now, no – it’s too soon, but it feels so good, his barely chubbed-up dick makes a pathetic kick and paints his stomach white again as Carlos’ back lifts up from the bed. He’s still holding on to Oscar with his legs and desperately keeps him inside.
“Stay,” Carlos whispers, and it’s not that easy because his throat now hurts.
His eyes are wet and he barely sees the face in front of him.
“Stay,” he begs again.
“Shh, okay,” Oscar responds. “It’s alright, shhh.”
He sounds scared. Hot lips are kissing the tears from Carlos’ eyes, but Carlos just can’t stop crying.
“I’m staying, shhh. Sh.”
Oscar’s lips travel all over Carlos’ face until they find his lips and they finally kiss properly – gently and salty.
Carlos can’t sleep. He is not sure Oscar is not leaving in the morning. Not sure Oscar would want to keep what they have without Carlos admitting he’s wrong. Carlos is not going to admit anything. He can’t. It hurts, but at least he’s in Oscar’s arms for now and there are still a few hours before the morning comes.