Work Text:
Carlos had thought he had it all under control.
When he first agreed to date Max, Charles, Lando, and Oscar, he had braced himself for potential disaster.
Four boyfriends, four egos, four wildly different personalities ....all orbiting around him like miniature storms. And yet, beneath that, there was comfort: these were his longtime friends, teammates, and, admittedly, crushes he had been harboring for years. Surely, he could handle this. Surely, the poly life wouldn’t be too complicated.
He had even allowed himself a small, victorious sigh the first week. Everyone was polite. Calm. Functioning. No fights, no dramatic interruptions, no storms of jealousy. It felt… easy. Blissful, even. The sort of rare, precious calm that came before a tornado.
And then came week two.
Carlos was sitting in his motorhome, sipping his morning coffee, when it hit him like a freight train: each of his boyfriends came with a… kid. Not a literal child, of course, but in the F1 paddock world, rookies were basically miniature disasters in motion full of energy, curiosity, and a strange attachment to Carlos.
That was when Carlos realized each boyfriend came with… a kid.
Not literally their kids, but close enough.
Max had Kimi.
Charles had Ollie.
Lando had Isack.
Oscar had Gabe.
And all four of them, for some inexplicable reason, decided Carlos was their designated paddock parent.
…..
Carlos had signed up for a polycule.
He hadn’t signed up for this.
Max had Kimi, Charles had Ollie, Lando had Isack, and Oscar had Gabe. They were all rookies now...technically adults, but apparently their emotional growth had stopped somewhere around the moment they decided Carlos was the one person who actually listened.
It started innocently enough. Kimi complained about setups and strategy. Ollie needed advice about overtaking lines. Isack and Gabe...well, they just needed someone to tell them when they were being idiots, which was basically 90% of the time. And in all four cases, Carlos had become the default ear, the default guide, the default emotional punching bag.
By midweek, Carlos had a spreadsheet.
- 6:00 a.m.: Kimi breakfast patrol
- 7:30 a.m.: Ollie snack delivery
- 9:00 a.m.: Track walk with Isack
- 10:00 a.m.: Gabe motivational speech
- 11:00 a.m.: Band-aid replacement and morale boost for all
- 1:00 p.m.: Lunch break chaos control
- 3:00 p.m.: Debrief each kid individually
- 6:00 p.m.: Coordinate dinner for four hungry rookies plus the boyfriends
- 8:00 p.m.: “Quiet time,” which never happened
He had boyfriends. Four of them. Four who could help, in theory. But in practice, Max, Charles, Lando, and Oscar were already refusing to “pay their child support”...emotional labor, that is.
Max’s excuse: “Kimi listens to you better anyway, babe. Let me focus on racing.”
Charles’ excuse: “Ollie seems happier when it’s you, honestly. You’re… calmer.”
Lando: shrugs “You handle Isack better. Don’t overthink it.”
Oscar: “Gabe’s fine. I just… watch from a distance.”
Carlos didn’t even bother replying.
It wasn’t just listening. It was logistics. Strategy chats. Diets. Practice schedules. Mental checks. Confidence boosts. Injuries. Accidents. Public scrutiny. And somehow, miraculously, all four of these gremlins had decided that Carlos was their Paddock Papa, a title he had never consented to officially but couldn’t escape.
“Carlos,” Kimi said during a morning briefing, “I need to go over my telemetry with you before FP2.”
“Sure,” Carlos said, already reaching for his laptop, “but...”
“Also, can we run through the overtaking scenarios? And I need advice on tire management, and Max refuses to answer any questions, so…”
Carlos blinked. He blinked again. He felt the weight of four adults, each standing on the paddock floor, looking at him like he was the axis of their universe.
“Right. Of course,” he muttered, sliding his laptop closer. He knew it wasn’t going to stop today...or any day.
Later, when he tried to eat, Ollie cornered him in the motorhome. “Can we run through FP3 debrief now?”
“Now?” Carlos groaned, spoon halfway to his mouth.
“Yes. Please.”
And somewhere in the background, Max, Charles, Lando, and Oscar were “busy.” Busy doing their jobs, racing, social media, interviews...but not helping their own rookies with emotional support, because apparently that was “Carlos’s department.”
By the end of the day, Carlos was exhausted. He had worked overtime on every track, every session, every gremlin-level emotional meltdown. He had overpaid...hours of unpaid emotional labor that no contract had ever anticipated.
Yet… in the quiet moments, when Kimi actually nodded after understanding something, or Ollie laughed at a joke he made, or Gabe high-fived him for a line he’d drawn in the simulator, Carlos felt a strange satisfaction.
He was the unpaid, overworked, underappreciated Paddock Papa.
And somehow, despite everything, he would do it all over again.
Because even if his boyfriends refused to contribute, even if the rookies drained him dry emotionally, he couldn’t help but love the chaos.
After all… someone had to hold the team together.
….
Carlos had already reached his breaking point...or so he thought. Four boyfriends, four paddock “kids,” a bag full of snacks, band-aids, and motivational speeches, and he was already working overtime and overpaying himself in patience.
And now… apparently, the entire paddock had caught on.
Rumor had spread that Carlos Sainz was running a daycare for rookies
….
The pinnacle of this madness happened one Tuesday morning. Carlos was in the motorhome, juggling Kimi’s notes while Ollie and Isack argued over steering wheel, when a knock came at the door.
Two rookies...Jack Doohan and Franco Colapinto...stood there, wide-eyed, hesitant, and clearly hopeful.
Jack shifted nervously. “Uh… hi, Carlos. The team principals… um… they said we should come to you?”
Franco nodded, holding his helmet like it was a lifeline. “They said you… help rookies.”
Carlos blinked. He dropped the tray onto the counter and froze. He hadn’t signed up for this.
And yet… when he saw their hopeful faces, something in him melted.
“Oh… uh…” Carlos swallowed. He scratched the back of his head. “Well… come in. Of course you can. Snacks are over there, band-aids in the bag, and… uh… I’ll show you where to sit.”
The boys’ faces lit up immediately.
….
Carlos had accepted his fate. Four boyfriends, six rookies as bodyguards guarding him like a fortress...it was exhausting, but also… weirdly fulfilling.
Then came the next logical step.
A monthly paycheck.
Because let’s be honest: he wasn’t just babysitting these rookies for fun.
He was working overtime. Emotional support? ✔️
Snacks? ✔️
Track guidance? ✔️
Band-aid replacement? ✔️
Insult delivery (via rookies)? ✔️
All of this required compensation.
So Carlos drafted a simple, polite e-mail to the F1 teams of the rookies he was “babysitting”:
Subject: Monthly Paddock Babysitting Fee
Dear Team Principals,
As you are aware, I am currently providing full-time paddock parental services to your rookie drivers (Kimi, Ollie, Isack, Gabe, Jack, and Franco). My responsibilities include...but are not limited to...snack management, emotional guidance, track mentorship, band-aid replacement, and general life advice.
Given the scope of my work, I am requesting a monthly stipend per rookie. Please ensure the payment is processed promptly, as my services are non-negotiable and highly in-demand.
Thank you for your cooperation,
Carlos Sainz – Paddock Papa Extraordinaire
....
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