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Oh, Carlos was pissed.
Oscar had acted like an idiot — a big, big idiot — and on top of that, he refused to admit he’d screwed up. He stomped up the stairs, feet heavy, muttering in Spanish things he hoped Oscar wouldn’t understand.
Idiot. Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.
Carlos used to be empathetic—too much, even. Sometimes he cursed himself for feeling so deeply and for showing it so easily, especially compared to Oscar. But he also knew when to draw the line, and tonight he felt like the idiot that was Oscar hadn’t done that. Deep down, if he was honest with himself, what he really felt wasn’t anger—it was sadness.
Ever since they’d started dating and decided to move in together in Monaco, Carlos had never met Oscar’s friends as Oscar’s boyfriend. He was always just Carlos, the famous friend, the F1 driver Oscar “just happened” to know. Since they lived in Monaco and only saw each other in Australia during race week—or if they were lucky, for the holidays—Carlos had never really had the chance to meet them in a real, intimate setting where his place in Oscar’s life was clear.
He sighed as he reached the top of the stairs, fumbling for the keys to the apartment they’d rented for the race weekend. His hands trembled slightly when he tried to unlock the door, and he cursed when the keys slipped from his grasp and clattered to the floor. Behind him, Oscar quickly bent down, picked them up, and nudged his hip aside so he could open the door himself.
Carlos leaned against the hallway wall, exhaling heavily, his mind flashing back to just a few minutes ago, when they were still in the car.
Oscar had been driving—because, oddly enough, Carlos trusted Oscar behind the wheel more than almost anyone else, as long as he wasn’t the one driving. Not even with his closest friends did he feel that way, something Teto loved to tease him about whenever he could.
But now, watching Oscar act like nothing had happened, like his behavior hadn’t been the least bit strange, Carlos felt the anger tighten in his chest again. Not because of what Oscar had done, but because of how he was brushing it off.
When Oscar opened the door with a quick click, he turned to Carlos immediately.
“Carlos, you’re—” he began.
Carlos didn’t let him finish. He brushed past him with a small shove and walked straight into the apartment. He just wanted a shower and some sleep. Media day was tomorrow, and he wasn’t wasting another drop of energy on this conversation.
In the living room, he shrugged off his jacket and let it fall over the back of the couch before collapsing onto it. He closed his eyes, breathing out, the ceiling spinning faintly above him, his body exhausted, his mind knotted. He didn’t need to look to feel Oscar’s eyes on him—to feel his tension, his need to make things right. But Carlos refused to be the first to speak. Not this time. Not when it hadn’t even been his fault.
And, most of all, not when what he felt wasn’t just anger—but hurt.
“Carlos, we need to talk. It’s not what you think,” Oscar said, his voice sounding more like an excuse than an explanation.
Carlos opened his eyes and stared at him, it was unbelievable.. Maybe Oscar had hit his head sometime that night and he hadn’t noticed, because if things had been the other way around, Oscar would’ve been furious—at the very least.
He snorted, a dry, bitter laugh escaping him.
“Yeah, sure, cariño. I’m going to take a shower,” he said, voice dripping with sarcasm.
He left Oscar standing there in the living room, the lights still on, silence heavy between them—the kind that falls when one of you knows damn well they’ve messed up, but aren’t ready to admit it yet.
Carlos rose from the couch, his body tense, and walked to the bedroom without looking back. Each step was a dull thud of frustration, a pulse of emotion clenched between his teeth.
Once inside, he began undressing in quiet fury; his fingers trembled as he unbuttoned his shirt, yanking the fabric off harder than he needed to. His eyes burned. But no. He wasn’t going to cry. Not this time.
He stripped the rest of his clothes off almost without thinking and stepped into the shower. Steam filled the room within seconds. He let the hot water pound his back, scalding his skin until it almost hurt, eyes closed, trying to release the knot in his chest—trying to remember why he loved Oscar so much in the first place.
The sound of running water wasn’t enough to drown out the noise from the bedroom. He heard footsteps approaching, the faint creak of the door. Oscar was there, moving awkwardly, rustling with something—maybe looking for his clothes, maybe pretending to, just to have an excuse to stay close.
Carlos clenched his eyes shut and ducked his head under the spray, letting the water run down his face. He didn’t know if he wanted Oscar to come in or to leave. He only knew that the silence between them was unbearable.
Almost comically, Carlos felt the exact moment Oscar stepped into the bathroom.
That presence.
The weight of his gaze.
The way those soft brown eyes roamed over his body as if he still had the right—as if he were still allowed to look after what he’d done that night.
Carlos’s eyes burned even more—if that was possible—and, against his will, he felt his heart pick up pace. Just slightly. Enough to make him hate himself for it.
No. Ignore him.
Ignore him, Carlos.
He finished rinsing off with brisk, sharp movements, determined not to give him anything. He turned to grab a towel from the cabinet, but before he could take a step, Oscar already had it in his hands.
“Could you—” Carlos started, his voice tired, wounded.
“No, please… just listen to me, babe,” Oscar said, stepping closer, the towel outstretched between his hands like a white flag.
Carlos clenched his jaw. His eyes burned again. He pushed Oscar away, wet and dripping, trying to get past him through the door.
“I don’t want to,” Carlos said, his voice trembling. “You’re an idiot.”
But Oscar, stubborn as ever, didn’t move. He stood there in the doorway—unmoving, not aggressive, just stubborn. Like always.
“Carlos, please…” Oscar murmured.
“No.” This time Carlos’s voice broke, barely held together by a thread of fury.
Oscar didn’t budge. For a second, Carlos thought about shoving him again, but Oscar took a step forward instead. He came in.
The shower wrapped them both in its humid heat, and for an instant, it was as if the steam tried to blur away the anger, the frustration, the sadness from Carlos’s body—as if it were trying to wash away the fact that Oscar had treated him like just a friend all night long.
Carlos looked at him, eyes blazing with rage and hurt. And without thinking, he lifted his hands to Oscar’s chest. He hit him. Once. Then again. And again.
“Idiot,” Carlos muttered through clenched teeth with every hit, every shaky breath. “Idiot… you’re an idiot.”
Each word, each breath, carried a memory.
When they’d arrived at the restaurant and Oscar hadn’t even waited for him to get out of the car.
When Oscar wouldn’t hold his hand on the way in.
When Carlos stopped to sign a few autographs and came back to find Oscar laughing with one of his friends, no seat saved for him.
When he’d had to sit far away, repeating to himself that it didn’t matter, that Oscar didn’t see his friends often.
Each blow echoed those hours when Oscar leaned a little too close to Oliver, as if his own boyfriend wasn’t just two meters away. Each ignored joke. Each forced smile.
Oscar didn’t say a word. He didn’t defend himself. He didn’t raise his hands. He just stood there, under the water, letting Carlos hit him, silent. His gaze never wavered, as if he truly understood that he deserved every single one.
When Carlos finally tired himself out, when all that was left was a tremor in his fingers and the hot water running down his back, he dropped his forehead against Oscar’s shoulder, exhausted.
Oscar lifted his hands slowly, hesitantly, placing them where he knew Carlos would allow it—on the curve of his lower back, barely brushing the edge of his hip, as if that touch could anchor them to the fragile calm of the moment. As if touching him were easier than speaking.
Carlos didn’t pull away. If anything, he leaned closer against his chest, unwillingly.
They stayed like that, wrapped in steam, breathing in sync, their heartbeats slowly matching. They didn’t know how long they stood there—just together, suspended in a silence that said everything.
Oscar was the first to notice Carlos shiver, a faint tremor running through his body, his skin prickling against his own. Without letting go completely, he reached out for the towel, carefully running it over Carlos’s body, wrapping him in a tenderness that felt like an apology.
Without a word, he guided him out of the shower and toward the bedroom. Carlos didn’t protest. He let himself be led, each step slow, as if every movement hurt.
When they reached the bed, he sank onto it, weak, eyes staring at some distant point on the wall.
Oscar went to the closet, grabbed one of Carlos’s pajamas, and came back to him.
With gentle hands, he dried his hair, his shoulders, his back. He dressed him slowly, patiently, as if every fold of fabric carried a wordless I’m sorry. Then he dressed himself too, quietly, not daring to look too long, afraid to break the fragile truce hanging between them.
When Oscar was done, he sat down beside Carlos and slowly took his hand.
Carlos looked up silently. Oscar stared down, thumb brushing over his fingers, and murmured:
“I know I’m an idiot.”
Carlos let out a bitter little laugh, almost a snort, ready to say something—but Oscar interrupted him.
“You really shouldn’t forgive me. I’m so sorry.”
“Mmm,” was all Carlos said.
Oscar took a deep breath.
“I’m not ashamed of what we have. I just… I think I wasn’t ready to share you with those idiots.”
Carlos cleared his throat, his voice flat.
“You should’ve told me. I’m sure it wasn’t the first time that thought crossed your mind this week.”
“I know,” Oscar admitted, lowering his head. “I swear I’m sorry, baby. I know what I did was stupid, and I understand if you can’t forgive me.”
Carlos didn’t answer right away. He stared at the ceiling, letting the silence stretch between them. The soft sound of rain tapping against the window filled the room. Finally, he spoke—his voice low but steady.
“It’s not that I don’t forgive you, Oscar. I love you. That’s not going to change because of one night. But… it hurt.”
Oscar looked up, eyes glistening, unable to speak.
“It hurt to see you pull away like that,” Carlos continued. “Not because of what others might think, but because you were the one who pushed me aside. If you’d told me you weren’t ready, I would’ve understood. I swear I would’ve waited. But you… you just erased me, like I meant nothing.”
Oscar swallowed hard, nodding faintly, his thumb trembling against Carlos’s skin.
“You’re right. There’s no excuse, I just…”
Carlos sighed and turned his face toward him, meeting his eyes.
“Just promise me that next time you’ll tell me. Even if you’re scared. Even if you don’t know how.”
Oscar nodded again, wordless. He leaned in slowly, their foreheads meeting, and Carlos didn’t pull away.
The kiss was brief, without urgency—just a soft, tired brush, filled with everything still left to mend.
When they pulled apart, Carlos shifted a little closer, seeking his warmth.
“I forgive you, idiot,” he whispered, barely audible. “I’ll always forgive you.”
Oscar held him tightly, a mix of relief and regret swelling inside him at the thought of what he’d almost lost.
For the first time that night, Carlos closed his eyes—without anger.