Chapter Text
Oscar has never thought of Carlos Sainz as someone who could look lonely, but there he is, hunched over a glass at the end of a Vegas hotel bar like the world has finally caught up to him. The lights reflect off the whiskey, glinting in a way that makes Oscar’s chest tighten.
It makes a quiet, strange kind of sense. After all, the season is ending, and with it the Ferrari driver is losing what each of them has only ever dreamed of. The sea of red, the betrayals, the weight of the last six months— all of it shows in the slump of his shoulders, the blank stare at the amber liquid.
There is a small voice in Oscar’s head that urges him to go there, to take up the vacant seat and ask Carlos all the questions swirling around in his mind. He shakes it off, even as a memory flickers of the usual Carlos, the one who drives recklessly and runs his mouth even more recklessly. Oscar still remembers the thrill in his stomach when Carlos had called them magnets to the entire world, back when he hadn’t realized why he kept looking at him, why those words had felt like a blessing and curse all at once. Now he does, or at least he thinks he’s starting to.
He’s vaguely aware of the beat of the music, the floor vibrating with it. The lights flash, and occasionally he catches a glimpse of Lando up on the DJ stage, a blur of neon and motion in the corner of his vision. Max leans heavily against Charles, already a couple drinks deep and loudly celebrating another world title, and Oscar is pretty sure he’s trying to tell him something.
He shifts slightly in his chair, telling himself he’s just making room, though his eyes never leave Carlos. The way his fingers drum nervously against the glass makes something tighten in his chest, a quiet insistence he can’t ignore.
He clears his throat, mutters something trivial about the bar, and suddenly his legs are moving before his mind catches up. He’s beside him now, shoulder brushing Carlos’s, hand lightly grazing the back of the chair as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Hey,” he says, and his voice is loud in his ears, shaking the fragile air between Carlos and the rest of the club. Carlos flinches, just barely, and Oscar freezes, heart tightening at the reaction.
“Hey,” he says again, quieter this time, softer than he intended. The word seems to hang in the warm, loud room, vibrating between them.
Carlos turns to him slightly, just enough of an acknowledgment for Oscar to slide out the chair next to him, the sound of the legs screeching through the room.
“Congrats on P3,” he starts. “Not the result you wanted?”
Carlos hums under his breath, his big, round eyes flicking over to Oscar and then away. Oscar would ask if he does something to his lashes for how pretty they look, if that didn’t sound absolutely insane.
“Depends who you ask.”
Oscar swallows, heart tightening.
“…What about you?”
Carlos stares into his glass like the answer might be hiding there. His throat works once, a small swallow.
”I don’t know yet. Just… thinking.”
Oscar glances at Carlos’s half-finished drink.
“Do you want another?” he asks gently, already raising a hand to catch the bartender’s attention. Carlos’s fingers tighten around his glass for a moment. Then he exhales, shoulders loosening a fraction.
“Sí,” he says. “Another won’t hurt.”
Oscar orders it before Carlos can change his mind.
When the new whiskey arrives, Carlos stares at it for a long moment before speaking, barely louder than the music thrumming through the floor.
“It’s—” He lifts a shoulder, helpless.“Stranger than I thought it would be.”
The lights flicker across his face, catching on the exhaustion there, on the vulnerability he’s clearly been holding together with string. Oscar feels something shift low in his stomach— protective and curious and aching all at once.
“…It’s allowed to be strange,” Oscar murmurs. “Big changes usually are.”
Carlos gives the faintest laugh, something cracked and disbelieving.
“Sí,” he murmurs. “Maybe.”
If Oscar were not staring at him so intently, he might have missed it. But he was, and so he sees the exact moment Carlos’ eyes shutter, a mask smoothing over all the rough lines on his face.
When he looks up, Oscar sees the usual Carlos he’s used to— loud, annoying and one step too fast to catch up to. He knows before Carlos opens his mouth that he’s about to say something dumb.
“So… what’s a guy like you doing in a place like this,” He says, eyes fluttering from beneath his lashes and Oscar knows, he knows that Carlos is messing with him but he can’t explain the way that it makes his heart beat faster, the sudden urge to touch Carlos’ face making his hands itch.
Oscar can’t help it. His hand twitches, and before he realizes what he’s doing, he lightly shoves at Carlos’s shoulder.
Carlos flinches, eyes widening, then narrows them. “What—?”
“I… I don’t know,” Oscar stammers, trying to hide a laugh. “Reflex.”
Carlos laughs, shaking his head. “You’re ridiculous.”
The tension breaks just enough for Oscar to grin. It’s been like this the last few months, ever since Austin. They had inexplicably fallen into a weird orbit, Carlos slipping into Lando’s driver room more and more as the second half of the season progressed. Sometimes Oscar missed the way they used to fight, because at least then he had something to channel this energy into. He didn’t know exactly do with this version of Carlos, all shades of softness and quick glances, who switched between flirting and saying something devastating faster than Oscar could blink.
They lapsed into a quieter rhythm, talking about nothing much at first: the absurdity of Vegas, teammates’ antics at the after-parties, the chaos of the season. The drinks stack up quietly in front of them, and Oscar notices the subtle signs of Carlos starting to tense— the fingers tapping, the shoulder flexing, the way his jaw tightens. Without really thinking, he stands, the movement almost automatic.
“Upstairs..?” he asks, voice low, more of a question than a suggestion.
Carlos blinks, startled, scanning the bar, then glances back at Oscar. After a beat, he nods. They move toward the elevators, the conversation continuing in quieter, clipped tones.
Only when the elevator shuts them off from the rest of the world does Oscar realize what he’s done. The sudden silence is loud in his ears, as Carlos leans back against the wall opposite him and closes his eyes.
He gets the chance to look at him, really look at him, the curve of his eyes, the slant of his nose, the line of his throat. There’s a strange energy in this interaction that hasn’t been there before, one that Carlos seems entirely unaware of.
Maybe Oscar’s going crazy.
It’s been too long since he’s gotten laid, too many stolen glances at his teammate and his teammate’s old teammate, too much stress and adrenaline and the rush of realization. How else did he get here, across from a tipsy Carlos Sainz? Why would he tempt fate like this when there’s nothing to be done about any of it?
The elevator dings, and Carlos’ eyes open, snapping him out of his thoughts. Oscar steps out first, letting Carlos follow. The hallway is quieter, the pulse of the party left behind like a distant memory. Oscar unlocks his room, gestures vaguely for Carlos to enter, and then leans against the doorframe, hands in his pockets.
Carlos drops onto the arm of the sofa without a word, the familiar hum of Vegas replaced by the low, steady buzz of the air conditioning and the faint click of the minibar light. He doesn’t look at Oscar— not yet.
Oscar drifts toward the small shelf stacked with his console and controllers, pretending to check if everything is working. “You play?” he asks, picking up the Switch controller.
Carlos’s mouth twitches. “Mario Kart? Sometimes.”
“Alright,” Oscar says, sliding onto the sofa beside him, “then you can’t complain if I kick your ass.” He holds up a controller, an unspoken challenge lingering between them.
Carlos glances at it, then down at himself, adjusting the hem of his cropped sweatshirt with a nervous flick of his wrist. He takes the other controller, and with a quiet laugh, mutters, “We’ll see about that.”
The screen lights up. The first few rounds are quiet, punctuated only by the soft clicking of buttons and the occasional grumble or laugh. It’s easy to slip into it, their combined competitive streak coming out to play. Oscar can’t help it, not when he has three sisters who used every trick in the book to win. It’s easy to forget the championship, Ferrari, the world outside the hotel room as they keep playing and playing and playing.
Oscar notices the subtle shifts in Carlos: the way he leans forward when he’s focused, the slight exhale when he wins a round, the small, unguarded movements he makes that Oscar can’t help but watch. Its becoming a catalogue in his mind as the night goes on, each shift in Carlos’ expression meticulously noted even as his confusion at himself grows.
The rounds continue, controllers clicking, screens flashing. Laughter punctuates the quiet room, little grunts and playful groans filling the space. Carlos leans forward, tongue peeking from the corner of his mouth in concentration.
They play fast, competitive, teasing each other under their breath. Elbows brush occasionally, shoulders nearly touch, and each laugh or groan between them makes the room feel smaller, warmer, more electric. Oscar is aware of every flick of Carlos’s wrist, every bite of his lip, every moment of focus— and yet nothing prepares him for what happens next.
Carlos lets out a triumphant yell, raising his arms high above his head. That’s when it happens. The hem of his cropped sweatshirt rides up, and for the briefest, impossible instant, Oscar sees the delicate, delicate black lace of his underwear at his waist. The world seems to pause: the clicking of buttons, the flash of the screen, even Carlos’s laughter, it all stops.
Oscar freezes, chest tightening, mind scrambling.
Carlos finally notices the abrupt silence, glances at him, and blinks. “What?” he asks, breathless, amused and oblivious all at once.
He knows, he knows he should look up, brush it off, pretend he saw nothing but he cannot lift his gaze from that spot, the curve of his hip, the smooth skin he now knows hides beneath his cream sweatshirt, the black lace he now knows covers it.
He hears a breath hitch, Carlos’ body curling in on itself, which is what finally makes him look up. But what he finds is so intense he needs to look away instantly.
Carlos eyes’. His big, brown eyes, hold so much that Oscar feels the urge to shake him. He sees the dawning realization of what Oscar has seen, the absolute mortification and the trembling fear. So much fear.
The controller slips from their hands almost at the same time, the air between them at a standstill. Oscar feels the energy thrumming through him, the tips of his fingers vibrating with the need to reach out, but he holds back, lets his gaze soften, lets the shock fade.
Sees the moment Carlos relaxes just a fraction, something in Oscar’s eyes proving that maybe he doesn’t need to run.
He’s fidgeting, fingers picking at the thread of the couch, eyes flickering from the tv to the controller to his hands and back, but never at Oscar. The bravado from earlier is gone, replaced by something softer, unsure, like a boy who accidentally stepped outside of himself and doesn’t know how to crawl back in.
“Hey,” Oscar says, voice suddenly too loud, “Carlos.”
He lifts his hands from his own knees— slowly, gently, like he’s approaching a startled animal he doesn’t want to scare. His fingers hover in the space between them, not touching, just waiting.
“Hey,” he murmurs, softer. “Look at me?”
His eyes snap up to Oscar’s so fast it’s like whiplash. He stays frozen, almost like he was compelled by Oscar’s words, a world of questions in his eyes.
If Oscar were a better man, he would give him space, tell him it’s ok and excuse himself from the situation lest he does something stupid. Alas, he is not a better man. His mind, since he saw that flash of black is stuck in a loop of lacelacelace and carloscarloscarloscarlos.
The fact that he had been wearing them the whole time.
Oscar breathes in.
“This isn’t—” he starts, then stops, the words failing him. He searches again. “You didn’t— I don’t think anything bad. I don’t… I’m not—”
God. He’s terrible at this.
Carlos’s lip trembles, just barely. He is trying so hard not to misread, not to hope, not to run.
Fuck.
Oscar can’t stand it.
“Can I—” Oscar whispers, voice cracking faintly. “Touch you?”
Carlos goes still. Completely still.
Then, after a long moment, he gives the smallest nod Oscar has ever seen.
Oscar moves slowly, the relief in his fingertips palpable. He touches his cheekbone first, and registers that it’s softer than he was imagining.
Then his eyes, feeling them flutter shut as he moves his finger over the eyelid.
His nose, the smallest mark of an old nose piercing.
His ear, which pulls a shudder from Carlos that Oscar will never be able to forget.
Finally finally finally finally.
His lips.
His fingers graze them just slightly, scared and reverent in their touch. Carlos’ mouth parts on instinct, making space for Oscar’s fingers even as his breath stutters.
He circles his lips, wide movements becoming smaller and smaller as Carlos starts chase his fingers. He pulls away, only to witness the sight of Carlos leaning in, his tongue flicking out almost unconsciously.
The feeling is so shocking it rips a moan from Oscar’s mouth, the slightest texture of Carlos tounge against his fingers sending sparks flighing.
Before he knows it, he’s up on his knees on the couch, leaning over Carlos, two fingers shoved inside his mouth, pumping in and out. In and out. In and out.
Carlos looks divine, face tilted up, taking everything he’s been given, his mouth a furnace around his fingers. His body moves in small bursts, rubbing against the couch like he cannot even tell he’s doing it When he feels Oscar looking at him, his eyes open, and Oscar is shocked at the way the black entirely takes over the brown. His gaze is hazy, like he is seeing beyond what’s in front of him.
He looks beautiful. He looks breakable.
Oscar eases the fingers out of his mouth as the alcohol swirls strangely in his head. The whimper Carlos lets out at that is so unexpected and so hot that Oscar has to physically stop himself from biting Carlos.
“Is this okay?” He whispers.
Carlos whimpers, not stopping his movements, looking away from Oscar like he didn’t comprehend what was asked of him.
Oscar tries again.
“Carlos.” His eyes snap to Oscar again and he feels a strange sense of power in his sternum.
“Carlos, I need words,” He says. “Is this okay?”
“Sí, sí, it’s okay,” It’s a breath of an answer but it’s enough.
Oscar kisses him.