Work Text:
Carlos could feel the water running down his back as the words repeated over and over in his head. Was it six or seven in the evening? He wasn’t sure, but it had to be around that time. It had been hours since the race had ended and he’d left the paddock, after giving a general farewell to his mechanics following yet another mediocre weekend.
This time he had finished the race, which was a relief, but his season wasn’t off to the start he had hoped for. It was frustrating. Deeply frustrating. Still, he had tried to stay positive. He had always been someone who worked hard.
He enjoyed the challenge of joining a new team. He liked that feeling of starting from the bottom, of building things up step by step until things began to click and the results started coming in. He had been through it before, at McLaren and at Ferrari. Of course, Carlos knew he hadn’t been the key piece in either team’s progress, but he liked to think he had been an important part of it. And he was sure both teams knew that. Maybe McLaren understood and appreciated it more than Ferrari ever did, he thought. But this wasn’t the time to dwell on that or dissect it in a hotel shower.
Finding out —through a damn press release— that Ferrari had chosen Hamilton had been devastating. He wouldn’t deny that. It hurt. But he also knew that it wouldn’t be the end of his career. So he set out to find a team that would give him a real shot. If it wasn’t going to happen with Ferrari, then it would happen with someone else. Period.
Caco and his father started moving, having talks with Red Bull, with Mercedes. But nothing came of it. Either they weren’t really interested, or they didn’t offer enough.
Signing with Williams had been a tough decision. Carlos was fully aware that the team was struggling. He knew a championship there was a distant —maybe even remote— possibility. But as he’d said many times: he liked a challenge. His father wasn’t entirely convinced. He wanted Carlos to sign with Sauber, where he had a great relationship with the people in the team, which could’ve guaranteed him more years in Formula 1 — a longer, more stable career. But that wasn’t enough for Carlos.
Carlos wanted to compete. To feel like he was part of something. To fight. To fight and keep fighting to move up in Formula 1. So he signed with Williams.
He liked James. He had heard his comments to the press about how convincing Carlos to join Williams had been like asking someone out on a date, and he found it funny. He seemed like a good guy. You could tell he wanted to bring glory back to the team, and that kind of energy was contagious. So, after a really positive post-season test and a well-deserved vacation in Mallorca with his family, Carlos threw himself into the team completely.
He visited the factory, tried out the simulators — which definitely needed a lot of work — and met Alex, his brand-new teammate.
Carlos already knew him, of course, but having him as a teammate was definitely exciting. They spent the first days of January at the factory, getting to know each other better. Alex was kind from the start; he explained so many things about the team, the way they operated, the people, the history. He told him that sometimes even scoring a single point was cause for celebration, but that everyone gave their all, and that at the end of the day, they were like a family.
Carlos had a good feeling. Deep down, something told him they were going to make it work. With that conviction, they headed into pre-season testing. He racked up plenty of laps, plenty of kilometers in the car. He even topped the timesheets on the second day, which gave him a small confidence boost. He returned to his home in Monaco with a calm heart and realistic expectations — but he was hopeful. He told Oscar, who was just as excited for him. He said he felt like they were heading toward something good this season. Oscar had smiled at the energy Carlos radiated and told him he hoped everything would go well for him and for Williams.
So Carlos found himself eagerly waiting for the season to start. To see how far they could go. But fate had other plans.
His first weekend of the season in Australia had been devastating. He had to retire from the race during the damn formation lap because of a brake issue. It hurt. It hurt so much—especially because just a year ago, he’d won at that circuit. But he kept telling himself it was only the beginning, just the first race. He’d bounce back. Besides, even if he didn’t get to finish, he helped Alex score some points. He contributed to the strategy. Made good decisions. He’d always been a team player. Always.
He talked it over with his dad and Caco. Analyzed his mistakes. And moved on.
But little by little, the comments started getting to him. The criticism. The comparisons. He read the posts on social media calling him mediocre. He saw his fans defending him tooth and nail, but it didn’t make him feel any better. It only made him feel more disappointed. More alone. Like he was letting everyone down.
He forced himself to focus on the second race. He would do better. He had to.
He repeated that all week long. In Zoom meetings with the team, in conversations with his race engineer, even while eating breakfast alone in the hotel’s tiny dining area. He had to do better. There was no other option.
When they arrived in China, he was ready. He felt more focused. Steadier. And he delivered. It was, almost, a very good weekend considering his new situation. He finished tenth. Oscar won. Alex came in seventh. Almost perfect. Plus, it was his first point of the season with the team. Sure, he knew he’d only gotten it because of the double Ferrari disqualification. But still… still, it felt like a small victory.
He thought fans would be happier. That maybe he’d finally get a bit of breathing room. But instead, all he read online was how he should thank Ferrari for the point. That he hadn’t earned it. That it wasn’t because he was a great driver.
That he wasn’t enough.
Carlos knew. He knew he wasn’t the best driver in the world, or the most naturally talented on the grid. But he also knew he worked hard, gave everything, never stopped trying. And sometimes, despite all that effort, it still wasn’t enough. That’s what hurt the most.
Even so, that weekend he celebrated Oscar’s win. They met up with a few other drivers, went out, and for a few hours, Carlos was able to disconnect from the noise.
Then, they headed to Suzuka.
Another tough weekend.
He struggled again in qualifying. Alex, once more, made it to Q3. He didn’t. He didn’t get it. How was it possible that he still couldn’t adapt to the car? Why did it keep slipping away from him? It shouldn’t be this complicated. He knew how to drive a car. He’d studied this. Worked on it.
He told himself to focus on the race again. He was starting from P12, and with a bit of luck, maybe he could score some points. And in the first few laps, it seemed possible. He made some good overtakes, felt strong. But then the graining hit. The tires started falling off, the strategy didn’t play out well, the pit stop was slower than expected… and he finished P14.
Better than the DNF in Australia, yes. But it still wasn’t enough. He wanted more.
He gave his media interviews with his usual calm, analytical face. Met with the team, listened, took notes. And while doing so, he read how social media was once again praising Alex’s performance, and all Carlos wanted was to leave. Go back to the hotel. Sleep. Switch off. And then, later that night, celebrate Oscar’s birthday.
He had left the Suzuka paddock hours ago. Walked to the hotel almost on autopilot, barely paying attention to anything. He didn’t clearly remember how he got there—just that at some point, he had texted Oscar: “I’m in the room, if you need anything.” That was all he’d been able to write.
When he got in, he didn’t think about anything. Took off his clothes, let them fall to the floor, stepped into the shower. He wanted the water to wash the day off his body—the shame, the anger, the sadness. Everything.
But instead of relief, the tears came.
First one, then another. Unexpected. Hot. They mixed with the water, but they burned. He tried to ignore them, pretend they weren’t there, but he couldn’t. And then, his body gave in. He sat on the floor, back hunched, elbows resting on his knees. Water falling on his back and head. He couldn’t breathe properly. He felt like if he stood up, he’d collapse.
So he stayed there. In silence.
The tears had stopped a while ago. But the words… the words were still there. Relentless. Hitting his mind with the cruel precision of someone who already knows exactly where it hurts. Over and over again.
“What happened to the post-season testing results?”
“The reasons behind Sainz’s issues and Williams’ slow start.”
“Albon is far more capable than Sainz, and he’s proving it.”
“Will Sainz beat Albon? Yeah, right.”
“He’ll never admit it’s his fault; at this point, it’s embarrassing.”
Carlos closed his eyes. He didn’t know how long he’d been there, curled up in the shower. Minutes? Hours? Time had stopped making sense. The only real thing was that constant murmur, looping over and over in his head. No matter how hard he tried to shut it out, to ignore it, it wouldn’t go away.
He only came back to the present when knocking started at the door. Persistent.
He didn’t move.
He figured it was room service, maybe something PierLuigi had sent without telling him. But the knocking didn’t stop. It grew more impatient. Carlos thought about getting up. But his body didn’t respond. He couldn’t. He didn’t have the energy or the will.
And then he heard the door open. Footsteps coming closer. Closer to where he was.
A voice spoke from the other side of the bathroom door, but to Carlos it was only a distant echo—like someone speaking underwater. He didn’t even bother to make out the words.
The door opened slowly.
Carlos looked up, barely.
And there was Oscar.
Standing in the doorway in jeans and a shirt that fit him perfectly, like always. Carlos looked at him through half-closed eyes and, suddenly, the memory returned: they had plans to go out for dinner that night. They were supposed to start celebrating Oscar’s birthday. Carlos had promised him.
And there was Oscar, looking at him like his heart was breaking. While Carlos… Carlos was shattered on the floor, naked, not knowing how to feel like someone worth admiring again.
He felt so stupid in that moment.
So, so, so small.
He watched as Oscar slowly approached, moving through the steam still rising from the shower. Carlos stayed there, curled up on the floor, water pounding against his back, like he deserved to punish himself a little more.
Oscar crouched down beside him, with that kind of gentleness that made it hurt even more.
“Carlos?” Oscar said, softly, barely a whisper.
Carlos didn’t answer. He couldn’t. The tears filled his eyes again without permission, mixing with the hot water still falling. He didn’t want to cry—not like this. Not in front of him.
And when he looked up and saw that expression on Oscar’s face—sadness, compassion—he hated it.
He hated it so much. Because he shouldn’t see him like this. No one should have to carry his problems. Especially not Oscar. Not when what they had was so new, so fragile. Barely just over three months. He didn’t want to scare him away. He didn’t want to push him away so soon.
God, he felt so stupidly vulnerable.
He brought his hands to his eyes, trying to stop the tears, to hold himself together, to rebuild himself right there… but a sob escaped his throat—broken, shaky. And in that instant, he felt the water stop hitting his back.
Oscar had turned off the shower.
Carlos stayed still, trembling.
And then he felt it: Oscar’s warm hand on his back, steady and soft at the same time. That touch was like a key that unlocked everything he’d been holding in. Another sob, louder. The tears flowed freely now. He couldn’t pretend he was okay anymore.
And Oscar hugged him.
Held him. Wrapped his arms around him, saying nothing at first, just running his hands down his back and through his soaked hair, like he didn’t care about getting wet, like nothing else mattered but him.
Carlos felt Oscar’s wet shirt sticking to his skin, and he hated himself even more.
“S-Sorry… your clothes,” he mumbled between gasps, trying to get up, to stop shaking. “They’re getting ruin—”
“Shhh,” Oscar cut him off gently. “It’s okay. It’s okay, Carlos. I’m going to help you get out of here.”
Oscar stood up carefully.
When he came back, he had a white bathrobe in his hands. He knelt in front of Carlos again, and gently—like he was afraid Carlos would break even more—he helped him sit up. Carlos was shaking; his legs numb from having been on the wet floor for so long. He could barely hold himself up, but Oscar held him firmly by the waist, pulling him close
He tied the robe gently, then slid his hands along Carlos’s waist until he pulled him into his chest. He hugged him. Carlos buried his face in his neck, breathing in that scent that was so his, so comforting. He felt the tears come back even stronger, silent, staining Oscar’s shirt again—but he didn’t move.
He just stroked the back of his neck, soft and unhurried.
“Shhh… it’s okay,” Oscar whispered. “I promise. I promise, babe.”
They stayed like that for a while longer. Then, Oscar took his hand and led him to the room. He pulled out a pair of comfortable pants and a hoodie from his suitcase and handed them to him without saying a word. Carlos changed slowly, silently. He watched as Oscar removed his soaked shirt and slipped into one of Carlos’ hoodies. It was strange to see him like that—so natural in his space.
Oscar ordered room service with a calm voice, and then threw himself onto the bed as if nothing in the world was more urgent than being there. As if they didn’t have a dinner reservation waiting somewhere in the city. Carlos, on the other hand, remained standing at the side of the bed, not knowing what to do. His arms hung loosely at his sides, eyes lost.
He felt so, so stupid again.
But Oscar looked at him, reached out his hand, and pulled him in without effort. Carlos fell onto him, offering no resistance. He settled against his chest like it was the only safe place he had left. He buried his face in Oscar’s neck again, and tangled their legs together. Oscar wrapped his arms around him, stroking his hair, his back, leaving slow kisses on his forehead.
“How about we wait for the food to arrive… and then you rest a little?” Oscar murmured.
Carlos lifted his face, eyes still damp. He looked at him.
And in that moment, he knew his heart no longer belonged to him. That Oscar could do whatever he wanted with it. That he already had it.
So he kissed him.
A kiss that was gratitude. That was relief. That was a silent apology for everything Oscar had witnessed.
For not running away. For staying.
When they pulled apart, Oscar gave him a soft smile.
“Come on,” he whispered. “Get some sleep. I’ll wake you when the food’s here.”
Carlos sighed and hid in his neck again. Slowly, a new thought settled inside him. Timid, almost wrapping around his heart and mind with care.
He could do it, He could get better, He could be strong again, He could help Williams.
And he would.
The pain would still be there. The doubts, the criticism. Maybe tomorrow the questions would return. Maybe the headlines would still hurt. But for now, he felt like he could make it through—because he didn’t have to do it alone. It might take the whole season to get there, but he would. He’d make it.
Because Oscar would be there. Because Oscar believed in him. Because his fans and his family supported him. Because the team stood behind him.