Temporal Collision

by HmmmBibimbap

Summary:

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Oscar Piastri inexplicably wakes up in 2016 —no phone, no money, no identity. In a world eight years younger, his only hope is Carlos Sainz, the man who, in the future, will become his fiercest rival in Formula 1.

Desperate and out of options, Oscar seizes an opportunity born of misunderstanding: Carlos believes they’re a couple in the future. It’s a convenient lie that buys him shelter —until real feelings start to get in the way.

Torn between the desire to stay and the fear of what returning might mean, Oscar must confront the most painful question of all: How do you love someone, knowing that when it’s over, you’ll be the only one who remembers it ever happened

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Chapter 1: Displacement

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Pain comes first. A sharp throb starting at his right temple, expanding in concentric waves until it fills every inch of his skull. Oscar keeps his eyes closed, trying to cling to the last fragments of consciousness that slip away like sand through his fingers. A moment ago he was... where was he?

Miami. The Miami paddock. Walking alone, moving away from the commotion, anger still boiling in his veins.

He doesn't remember passing out. There was only a light, blinding and sudden, and then this sensation of absolute vertigo. As if his body had disintegrated molecule by molecule, only to reassemble itself imperfectly. For one terrifying second, Oscar thinks he might be dead. That the clash on track with Sainz was more serious than he believed, that perhaps he suffered some internal bleeding that went unnoticed until it was too late.

But the dead don't feel pain, right? And this pulsing ache is too real, too physical.

When he finally opens his eyes, the Mediterranean light hits him hard, forcing him to blink several times. The ground beneath him is polished cement. A paddock, but not Miami's. The quality of light is different, more intense, drier. And the air has that unmistakable scent of pine and sea that he's only breathed at European circuits.

Oscar pulls himself up slowly, leaning against what appears to be a temporary barrier. His body feels strangely light, as if he'd suddenly lost several pounds. He looks at his hands, recognizing them but feeling them as foreign at the same time. He's wearing a dark gray hoodie, without logos or brands, the same one he put on after his post-race shower. He now remembers with growing clarity: he finished his obligations with the team, showered, dressed in deliberately neutral casual clothes—this hoodie—to avoid photos after the disastrous weekend.

And then, while walking to the parking lot, Sainz appeared out of nowhere, still furious about their exchange in front of the cameras.

The words of that idiot echo in his memory, his face twisted with rage, so close to his own that Oscar could feel his breath. He remembers responding with something biting, adrenaline still pumping through his system. He remembers turning around, continuing on his way, and then...

What happened next?

Was there a light?

Yes, he remembers it. A light that seemed to emanate from everywhere and nowhere at once, followed by a sensation of free fall, of absolute loss of control over his own body.

And now he's here, wherever here is...

Around him, the paddock buzzes with activity. Technical staff, journalists, sponsors. Everything seems normal, except nothing is. The uniforms are different. The logos look slightly off, incorrect. The sound of conversations in multiple languages—predominantly Spanish, with Italian and Catalan mixing in the air—confirms his growing suspicions.

"Excuse me, are you alright?"

The voice belongs to a security staff member with a logo that Oscar immediately recognizes: Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya. Spain. He's been here before, but this isn't the same setup he remembers.

"Yes, thanks. Just a bit dizzy."

The man nods and continues his rounds, but not before giving him a suspicious look. Oscar realizes he needs to move. Standing still draws attention, and something tells him that's the last thing he should do right now.

He instinctively pats his pockets looking for his phone. It's not there. Neither is his credential, nor his wallet. Nothing.

He walks with apparent purpose, as if he knew exactly where he was heading. It's a technique he's perfected over the years in the paddock: if you walk with enough determination, nobody questions you. His eyes scan the details around him, searching for anchors of information. On a nearby screen, a graphic shows: 2016 Spanish Grand Prix: Race 5 of 21 in the 2016 Formula One World Championship. 

Oscar stops so abruptly that a woman bumps into his back, mumbling a hasty apology before continuing on her way. 

2016.

The number repeats in his mind, bouncing against the walls of his skull like a deranged ping-pong ball. It's impossible. It's absurd. It's 2024, not 2016. He was in Miami, arguing with Carlos Sainz after the Spaniard ruined his race and had the nerve to come complain to Oscar for being penalized. That was minutes ago, not eight years in the future.

He forces himself to breathe deeply. Once. Twice. The smell of burnt rubber and fuel mixes with the aroma of pine and dry earth that characterizes Barcelona. Too specific, too real to be a hallucination. Sweat begins to form on his forehead, not just from the Spanish heat but from the growing anxiety threatening to overwhelm him.

He needs to sit down. He needs to think. He needs to find a foothold in this reality that's sliding beneath his feet like quicksand. He heads to a less crowded area, near the hospitality units, and sits on a bench. His hands tremble slightly, and he interlaces them to hide it.

That's when he sees him.

A young man in a Toro Rosso uniform walks a few meters away, laughing with someone who appears to be an engineer. The ridiculous blue race suit with that hideous yellow contrasts with his tanned skin. His hair is longer than Oscar remembers, more youthful, with that slightly carefree style that years and maturity have gradually tamed. His eyes look bigger, more alive... But it's him, without a doubt. Carlos Sainz Jr. Not the 29-year-old Carlos he clashed with in Miami, but a noticeably younger version. Almost a child in comparison, though this Carlos must be around 21 or 22.

The reality of the situation begins to settle on him like a physical weight. If this is 2016 and that's Carlos, then Oscar is experiencing something that defies everything he believed possible. It's not a hallucination. The pain still throbbing at his temples is real. The heat of the Spanish sun on his skin is real. The knot in his stomach as he watches Carlos joke with his team, completely unaware of the enmity that will define them eight years later, is painfully real.

Oscar finds himself at an impossible crossroads. If this is real—and every passing second makes it harder to deny—then he's trapped in 2016, without resources, without identity, without a plan. And the only remotely familiar person in this environment is precisely the man who, in his time, he considers his bitterest rival.

"Shit," he mutters, the syllable barely audible but loaded with a desperation that compresses his chest.

He closes his eyes for a moment, trying to order his thoughts. The sound of the paddock filters through his consciousness: fragmented conversations in different languages, the occasional roar of an engine in the distance, the metallic tapping of tools. He opens his eyes and observes his own hands, noticing a slight scrape on the back of his right hand that he doesn't remember having this morning. Or perhaps he did have it, and simply didn't notice it in the post-race chaos. How much of his own reality does he remember precisely, and how much is he reinterpreting in light of this impossible situation?

Of all the moments in time, of all possible places, he's landed on the weekend where Max Verstappen will debut with Red Bull and win against all odds. He remembers it because it's F1 history, a moment that all drivers of his generation have studied. And of all the people who could help him, his only option is Carlos Sainz, the man whose name he had been cursing just minutes or perhaps hours ago in a future that now seems as distant as it is impossible.

Oscar watches Carlos walk away, probably heading to some technical meeting or media commitment. In his 2024 reality, he knows Carlos's habits almost as well as his own. More than a year sharing the grid creates that kind of familiarity, even between rivals. Especially between rivals.

A particularly disturbing thought crosses his mind: somewhere, at this very moment, exists a 15-year-old Oscar Piastri who dreams of F1 without knowing that someday he will not only achieve it but will mysteriously travel to the past to meet his future competitors.

The paradox is so absurd that it almost tears a hysterical laugh from him. Almost.

Instead, Oscar finally stands up. If this is real, he needs a plan. If it's a dream or a hallucination, he has nothing to lose. Either way, staying paralyzed is not an option.

He begins walking toward the area where he saw Carlos disappear, aware that what he's about to do will probably change the course of this strange reality in which he finds himself. But as he advances through the bustle of the paddock, one certainty settles within him with crystal clarity: if anyone can help him navigate this impossible temporal labyrinth, that someone is Carlos Sainz.

The irony, again, doesn't escape him.

The path to the Toro Rosso hospitality is more familiar than it should be. Oscar has walked these paddocks, though in his memory these journeys haven't happened yet. Time has become a Möbius strip, and he walks on its impossible surface with steps that try to project a confidence he's far from feeling.

The gray hoodie suddenly feels inadequate under the Spanish sun, but he's grateful not to be wearing clothes with team logos or sponsors that might raise suspicions. He stops at a prudent distance, watching the entrance to the hospitality. Carlos will come out at some point, and he needs to approach him in a relatively private place. Going up directly would be too risky; he has no accreditation, he shouldn't be here.

The May sun warms his neck as he waits. The wait gives him time to think, to develop a plan. What exactly will he say? "Hi, I'm from the future where we're bitter rivals because you're constantly a jerk to me on track, could you help me, please?" It sounds ridiculous even in his head.

Oscar mentally reviews what he knows about this weekend. Everyone remembers Spain 2016. After countless races won by one of the Mercedes, the youngest driver on the grid will win in his first weekend as a Red Bull driver, making Max Verstappen the youngest driver to ever win an F1 race. But before that, people will rise from the stands with great excitement, some with hands on their heads and others nearly jumping for joy because Hamilton and Rosberg's Mercedes will collide on the first lap. Carlos... what happened to Carlos this weekend? Oscar doesn't remember. He was too young when it happened, and subsequent history has focused on Max, not on the Toro Rosso driver who was his teammate before Verstappen was promoted to the senior team.

Uncertainty eats away at him from within. Each passing minute makes him feel more vulnerable, more exposed. The occasional glances he receives from personnel passing by don't help. Without accreditation, he's an intruder, and eventually someone will question him.

And then, as if the universe were responding to his growing anxiety, Carlos emerges from the hospitality. Alone. No engineers, no press officers. An opportunity he can't waste.

Oscar takes a deep breath, trying to calm his pounding heart. He pushes off from the wall where he's been leaning and begins to walk, calculating his trajectory to intercept Carlos in the most casual way possible.

What he's about to do defies all logic. But when you've inexplicably traveled eight years into the past, logic no longer seems like a particularly relevant concept.

Their paths cross next to a technical container, away from curious eyes. Oscar stops, gently blocking Carlos's path.

"Carlos," he says, his voice steadier than he expected. "I need to talk to you."

Carlos looks at him with the politely confused expression of someone approached by a stranger. His eyes, younger but with the same intensity that Oscar remembers, examine him quickly.

"Do we know each other?" he asks with that accent that time will soften but never completely eliminate.

And it's here, at this precise moment, where Oscar must decide what story to tell. The impossible truth or a plausible lie. His future—if he has any in this reality—depends on this decision.

Oscar opts for the truth. Not because it's the most sensible option, but because it's the only one that might work when he inevitably needs to prove his story.

"No," he answers, holding Carlos's gaze. "But we will. In the future. My name is Oscar Piastri, and I need your help."

 

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Chapter 2: Reluctant Alliance

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There's a strange silence. Not absolute silence—the paddock still buzzes with activity around them—but that intimate silence that forms between two people when one of them has just said something completely unexpected.

Carlos blinks, his expression wavering between confusion and amusement. On his face, softer and less defined than the one Oscar knows from 2024, a tentative smile appears. He probably thinks this is some kind of elaborate joke, perhaps from another driver or from one of his friends present at his home Grand Prix.

"Oscar... Piastri," he repeats, testing the name like someone trying a word in a foreign language. "I'm sorry, but I don't know you."

Oscar feels a shiver run down his spine. Carlos's voice is the same, but without that edge it will develop over the years. It's disconcerting, like hearing a familiar song performed in a slightly different key.

"I know," he responds, aware of how absurd the situation is. "I'm from the future. From 2024, to be exact."

Instead of the laughter or mockery he expected, Carlos simply studies him, an indecipherable expression in his eyes. Oscar can't help thinking that the Carlos he knows from his time would have already made some sardonic comment, would have already turned away with that irritating smirk of superiority. This Carlos, however, seems genuinely... intrigued.

"From the future," Carlos repeats, not as a question but as if he were considering the idea. "And we know each other in this future?"

"Yes," Oscar responds, opting for simplicity. "I'm a driver. Or I will be. In 2022 I'll be a reserve and in 2023 I'll debut with McLaren. And in 2024, you and I..." The words tumble out, each more implausible than the last. "We have history."

Carlos's smile gradually fades, replaced by a cautious expression. His eyes scan the paddock, probably looking for signs that this is a joke. Oscar can see the exact moment when Carlos decides he's talking to someone unhinged.

Great, now he thinks I'm crazy, Oscar thinks. Not that I can blame him. I'd think the same thing.

"Max Verstappen will win this Sunday," he adds quickly, playing his only card. "It will be his first F1 victory."

Carlos pauses, studying him now with more attention. It's not exactly a very realistic prediction—Max is making his debut with Red Bull and the Mercedes have won almost every race since 2014—but there's something about the certainty with which Oscar says it that's intriguing.

"That's a pretty bold prediction," Carlos finally responds, with that accent that time will soften but never completely eliminate. "Max is good, but..."

"Trust me," Oscar interrupts. "I have my reasons for knowing."

There's something in the way he says it, an absolute certainty, that makes Carlos hesitate. He's not the typical fan with wild theories. This strange man has a conviction that's hard to ignore.

"Look, I don't know what's going on here," Carlos finally says, his voice low but firm, "but you clearly need help. Do you have someone who can come for you? Do you want me to call someone from Medical Services?"

Oscar lets out a dry laugh, devoid of humor. "And tell them what exactly? That I come from the future? They'd lock me up in a psychiatric ward before I finished the sentence."

A Toro Rosso technician passes by, greeting Carlos with a gesture. Carlos responds automatically, his professional smile appearing and disappearing with the efficiency of someone who has been trained for public relations from a young age.

"I have to go," he says, visibly uncomfortable. "I have commitments and—"

"Please," Oscar interrupts, and there's something in his voice, a contained desperation, that makes Carlos stop. "I just need you to listen. I can prove it to you."

Why am I begging Carlos Sainz? Oscar wonders with a twinge of wounded pride. Why, of all the people in this paddock, did I go to him?

There's no logical answer. Just this strange internal certainty, almost instinctive, that Carlos is the one who should help him. As if some invisible thread had guided him directly to him in the midst of this temporal chaos. It's absurd, considering their relationship in 2024, but here he is, practically begging for his help.

Carlos hesitates, visibly torn. His natural kindness battles against his justified caution. Finally, he sighs.

"I have fifteen minutes free," he says, giving in. "Let's go somewhere more private."

Oscar nods, relief temporarily flooding him. It's barely a small respite, but it's something. As he follows Carlos, he can't help but study his figure, looking for differences from the man he knows. This Carlos is thinner, his body still developing. His walk has the confidence of someone who has managed to reach F1, but lacks that almost arrogant self-assurance he'll develop over the years. It's like seeing a draft version of a painting that Oscar knows in its final form.

Carlos leads him to a less trafficked area, behind the temporary garages. It's a corner of the paddock that few know about.

"Alright," says Carlos, crossing his arms. "You've got five minutes. Convince me."

The challenge in his voice is familiar, but there's something else that Oscar didn't expect: a genuine openness, a willingness to listen that the Carlos of 2024 rarely shows. When did you lose that? Oscar wonders. When did you become so closed off, so defensive?

"Like I told you, I come from 2024," Oscar begins. "I don't know how it happened, but suddenly I was here, in Barcelona, eight years in the past."

Carlos looks at him skeptically. "And you expect me to believe you just because you say so? I need something more than a crazy prediction about Max to take something like this seriously."

Oscar feels frustration building. He needs Carlos, but it's not like he can give facts about the future that are easy to verify in the short term, and without his help, he's completely lost in this time.

"Look, I know it sounds crazy," he admits. "But I know you. Or I will know you. I know things about you."

"What kind of things?" asks Carlos, clearly unimpressed.

Oscar hesitates for a moment. Then, playing his only card, he says: "I know you like surfing. That it's one of your passions when you're not racing."

Carlos's face changes subtly. It's not public information, not in 2016, when he's barely at the beginning of his second season in F1 and drivers still keep their personal lives relatively private.

"That could be luck," says Carlos, but his tone has lost firmness.

"I also know you practice boxing," continues Oscar, seeing the crack in his skepticism. "And that golf will become one of your favorite pastimes. Not now, but soon."

Carlos observes him with growing unease. "How could you know that?"

"I told you. In the future, you know me," responds Oscar, deliberately maintaining the ambiguity.

What Oscar conveniently omits is that he knows these details not from a close friendship, but because in 2024, the personal lives of F1 drivers are practically public domain. Since Liberty Media had acquired F1 in 2017, replacing Bernie Ecclestone's old guard—who despised social media and considered all content should be paid for—the sport had undergone a radical media transformation. Drivers had become celebrities whose daily routines, hobbies, and personal tastes were shared, documented, and extensively discussed by millions of followers.

But in 2016, these intimate details were precisely that: intimate. And seeing Carlos's expression, that bewilderment at the idea that a stranger could know such personal aspects of his life, causes an unexpected pang of guilt in Oscar.

Carlos looks at him with a mixture of fascination and alarm. "How well do we know each other in this future of yours?"

Oscar considers his response. He could clarify everything, explain that they don't even like each other, but that would hardly incentivize Carlos to help him.

"Well enough that I know on Sundays, when you're not competing, you like to go running early, eat burgers and watch movies."

Carlos's eyes open slightly. These aren't details he would share with the press, with fans, or even with many of his colleagues.

"This is..." Carlos shakes his head, clearly disconcerted.

"Look, I don't pretend to know all the secrets of your life," says Oscar, taking advantage of his edge. "I'm just saying that in 2024, you and I know each other. And I need your help now, because I'm trapped here with nothing: no documents, no money, no identity."

Carlos studies him in silence. Oscar can see the conflict on his face, the struggle between rational disbelief and the disconcerting evidence in front of him. There's something else too, a calculation that Oscar can't fully decipher.

"Let's say, just for a moment, that I believe you," Carlos finally says. "What exactly do you want from me?"

It's a good question. Oscar hasn't thought beyond this moment, beyond making Carlos listen to him.

"I need help," he admits, and the humiliation of having to ask for it precisely from Carlos burns in his throat like bile. "I have nowhere to go, no way to get back to my time. I have no identity here. I shouldn't even exist in 2016, not as an adult."

Carlos stares at him, as if trying to solve a particularly complicated puzzle. "And why me? Surely there are more... suitable people."

Because for some reason I can't explain, I felt it had to be you. Because, despite everything that will happen between us, there's something about you that feels inexplicably familiar.

Oscar feels an ironic smile pull at the corners of his lips. "Because you're the only person I feel I can trust. Because in my time, I know you. I really know you. And because, frankly, if you don't help me, I have no one else to turn to."

There's a naked vulnerability in this last confession that surprises even Oscar. He's not the type of person who easily admits weaknesses, especially in front of Carlos Sainz.

Carlos seems to weigh his options. He looks at his watch and sighs.

"I have to go, I'll be busy the rest of the day."

Oscar nods, preparing for the farewell, to be abandoned to his fate in this time that isn't his. Of course he wouldn't help me, he thinks bitterly. Carlos Sainz will always be Carlos Sainz, a jerk in any timeline.

Carlos looks at him a moment longer, as if making an internal decision.

"Come back here at eight," he finally says, surprising Oscar. "The team dinner will be over by then. I'll see what I can do."

It's more than Oscar expected. An opportunity, tenuous as it may be.

"Thank you," he says, with an uncharacteristic sincerity. "I'll be here."

Carlos nods once, still clearly unsure about the entire situation. "At eight. Don't keep me waiting."

With that, he walks away, leaving Oscar alone with the enormity of his situation and the small light of hope that has just been lit.

What just happened? Oscar wonders, watching Carlos's figure walking away. Why is he helping me? Part of him wants to believe it's simple human decency, but another part, the cynical part he's cultivated through years of ruthless competition, suspects hidden motives. What does Carlos gain from this? Perhaps he believes he can get information from the future, competitive advantages?

And yet, there's something in the way Carlos looked at him... a genuine curiosity, an openness that the Carlos of 2024 rarely shows. Is it possible that this young Carlos is simply... kind?

The next hours are an exercise in patience and discretion. Oscar moves through the paddock like a ghost, avoiding security personnel and curious glances. The Barcelona-Catalunya circuit, so familiar and yet so different in this 2016 version, becomes a labyrinth where he must remain invisible.

He finds a public bathroom where he can refresh himself and reflect. The mirror returns an image he recognizes yet at the same time finds slightly foreign. His face is the same—the dark eyes, the subtle freckles that are only visible when he gets close to the mirror, the defined jaw—but there's something in his gaze that has changed. A vulnerability he had never before allowed to surface.

It's ridiculous, he thinks as he studies his reflection. Of all the people in this paddock, why did I go to Carlos?

The question lacks a logical answer. There's only this strange certainty, this almost magnetic impulse that led him directly to Carlos. And the most disturbing thing is that, despite their future rivalry, he feels it was the right decision. As if some part of him knew that Carlos was his only option.

The reality of his situation hits him in waves: he's trapped in 2016, depending on the goodwill of a man who in his time he considers his bitterest rival. It's such an absurd scenario that it's almost comical.

Hunger begins to make its presence known by mid-afternoon. He hasn't eaten anything since... a few hours ago or eight years ago? The temporal paradox makes his head ache again. Fortunately, he finds an open buffet in one of the common areas. He blends in with the technical staff and gets a sandwich and a bottle of water without anyone questioning him. The art of looking like you belong somewhere, another skill he's perfected over the years.

As he eats, sitting in a discreet corner, he observes the paddock with new eyes. It's like watching a familiar movie but filmed from a different angle. The technical teams of 2016, with their slightly outdated uniforms. The journalists with cameras that now seem huge and obsolete. The younger drivers, some like Verstappen barely out of their teens.

And among the crowd, he occasionally glimpses Carlos. He's talking with his father, whose constant presence is something Oscar has always noticed. Carlos senior, with his characteristic cap and attentive gaze, always vigilant, always protective.

There's something in the dynamic between father and son that captures Oscar's attention. A mutual respect, an evident pride, but also a tacit expectation that seems to weigh on young Carlos's shoulders. Oscar remembers the casual comments in the paddock, the constant comparisons, the long shadow of being "the son of."

Perhaps that explains some things, Oscar thinks, recalling Carlos's almost obsessive determination, his constant need to prove his worth. That attitude which he has so often interpreted as arrogance could be, in reality, the result of a life trying to forge his own path.

As the sun begins to descend, Oscar observes how the paddock gradually empties. Commitments end, teams return to their hotels to rest. He remains, looking for quiet corners where he can go unnoticed, calculating the time until his meeting with Carlos.

At 7:45, he returns to the agreed place. The night air of May in Barcelona is surprisingly cool after the heat of the day. He rubs his arms, the gray hoodie he's been wearing since Miami proving insufficient for the decreasing temperature.

The wait stretches out, each minute passing with painful slowness. What if Carlos doesn't come? What if he decided that this whole situation is too strange and preferred to ignore it? Oscar wouldn't blame him. In his place, he probably would have done the same. Empathy has never been my strong suit, he thinks with a flash of self-criticism that surprises him.

At 8:12, when hope begins to fade, he distinguishes Carlos's figure approaching. He's wearing casual clothes now, jeans and a t-shirt under a light jacket, so different from the team uniform he was wearing earlier.

"You came," says Carlos as he approaches, as if it were he who was surprised.

"I said I would," Oscar responds simply.

Carlos nods, studying him with that characteristic intensity that neither years nor youth alter. "I've been thinking about all this during the day," he admits. "It's completely crazy, you know that, right?"

"I know," says Oscar. "Believe me, it's just as baffling for me."

Carlos observes him a moment longer, then makes a gesture with his head. "Come on. I've stopped by my room and picked up some things. I'll take you to a place where you can spend the night."

Oscar follows him, genuinely perplexed by this development. He didn't expect Carlos to make a decision so quickly, much less in his favor. "So you believe me, then?"

Carlos lets out a soft laugh as they walk toward the parking lot. "I didn't say that. But I also don't think you're exactly lying. There's something about you..." He stops, as if he couldn't exactly articulate what he perceives. "Let's say I'm willing to give you the benefit of the doubt until proven otherwise."

Until proven otherwise. The phrase resonates in Oscar's mind. This Carlos is more cautious than he appears, and he wonders how much of that wariness comes from a natural intuition and how much from lessons learned in the ruthless world of F1, even at his young age.

They arrive at a dark Audi parked in a reserved area. Carlos deactivates the alarm and opens the passenger door.

"Get in," he says simply.

Oscar obeys, sliding into the passenger seat. The interior of the car is warm and smells of new leather and Carlos's cologne, a scent that Oscar vaguely recognizes from shared press conferences in his time or from when his Carlos has come to yell at him, invading his personal space. It's disconcerting, this familiarity in the midst of the strange.

Carlos looks at him directly for the first time since they got in the car. His eyes, in this younger face, have the same intensity that Oscar remembers, but there's an openness, a lack of cynicism that the years haven't yet carved away.

Oscar is surprised to notice details that differ from the Carlos of 2024. The softer, less defined jaw. The longer hair, falling with studied carelessness over his forehead. The ridiculously long eyelashes framing those dark eyes that now look at him without hostility. He's objectively attractive, in that typical Mediterranean way, something he had never allowed himself to recognize in his rival.

It's the same face, Oscar thinks with some unease, but without all that tension, without those lines of permanent irritation when he sees me. It's almost... pleasant to look at.

"Where are we going?" he asks as Carlos maneuvers the car out of the circuit.

Carlos keeps his eyes on the road. "To my hotel. I've arranged an extra room. It's in my name, so you won't need identification."

Oscar looks at him, genuinely surprised by this gesture of generosity. An uncomfortable thought crosses his mind: I would never have done this for him. It's a painful admission, but an honest one.

"Thank you. I don't have any way to pay you right now, but—"

Carlos makes a dismissive gesture with his hand. "If you really come from the future, we'll find a way. And if not..." He leaves the sentence incomplete, but the message is clear: if Oscar is lying or delusional, Carlos will be helping someone who obviously needs assistance anyway.

It's irritatingly noble, Oscar thinks. Was he always like this and I didn't notice, or did something change in him over the years?

"Maybe I'm doing it because if you're telling the truth, it's the most incredible story I've ever heard," he says with a small smile. "Or maybe because there's something about you that... I don't know, feels familiar somehow. As if we should know each other."

If you knew how much you'll know me, Oscar thinks with a mixture of irony and something more complex that he can't name. And how little you'll like it.

Although thinking about it, he reflects as he observes Carlos's profile, it must be incredibly stupid to help a complete stranger like this. What if I'm a psychopath? What if I'm planning to rob you? God, Carlos, you're too trusting. No wonder you're so easily manipulated in the paddock.

But alongside that cynical thought, there's another that makes him much more uncomfortable: the idea that Carlos is being genuinely kind to him, without expecting anything in return. Something that he, Oscar, probably wouldn't do for anyone, and certainly not for Carlos Sainz.

Silence settles between them, not exactly uncomfortable but charged with unasked questions. Barcelona passes like a blur of lights through the windows. Oscar recognizes some buildings, the same structures he's seen in his visits to the city, but everything seems slightly different. Or perhaps it's he who is different, observing this familiar world with new eyes.

"Can you tell me more about Sunday?" Carlos finally asks. "How exactly does Max win?"

Oscar carefully considers his response. Altering the past with too much information could have consequences that he doesn't even understand, or at least that's what they always say in fictional stories. On the other hand, he needs to convince Carlos.

"The Mercedes crash in the first lap," he finally responds. "Hamilton and Rosberg ruin each other's races. Max seizes the opportunity and drives perfectly, shares the podium with Kimi and Seb."

"And me?" asks Carlos, with a curiosity he doesn't try to hide. "How do I do?"

Oscar frowns, trying to remember. Spain 2016. He remembers the Mercedes collision. The Ferraris with Max on the podium. Alonso had an engine failure and retired... but Carlos, what happened to Carlos in that race? He really doesn't know, and he feels strangely guilty about it.

"Honestly, I don't know. I was 15 then and it's not like I have in mind the results of the entire grid in every race. I only clearly remember Max's win because it became F1 history. His first victory, the youngest driver to win a race..."

"I understand," says Carlos, and there's a note of disappointment in his voice that makes Oscar feel even more guilty.

"In the future, you said we have history," continues Carlos after a moment. "Are we... close?" There's something in his tone, a subtle insinuation that makes Oscar wonder exactly what Carlos is imagining.

We're bitter rivals who can barely be in the same room without sparks flying, Oscar thinks. I consider you an overrated, privileged driver and an arrogant jerk who's lucky to be charismatic, which is why no one seems to notice what an ass you are, and you probably think I'm a pretentious rookie.

"We're..." Oscar searches for the right words, "important to each other. Our relationship is... significant."

It's not a lie, exactly. Their rivalry is certainly significant in his professional life. But it's not the whole truth either, and Oscar finds himself uncomfortable with this ambiguity he's letting float between them. However, how can he explain to this young Carlos, who is already showing unexpected generosity, that in the future they barely tolerate each other?

"Significant," repeats Carlos, as if he were testing the taste of the word. "That doesn't exactly clarify things."

"I know," admits Oscar. "It's complicated."

Carlos looks at him briefly, taking his eyes off the road for a second. "I see."

I see? That's it? Oscar thinks, fighting against an unexpected urge to laugh. Seriously Carlos, that's all you have to say? Wow, Carlos Sainz, ladies and gentlemen. With that great depth of thought, I'm not surprised you end up crashing into me in 2024.

They arrive at the hotel, an elegant establishment in the center of Barcelona. Carlos parks in the underground garage and guides him through a side entrance, avoiding the main lobby.

"Better if they don't see you with me," he explains as they walk. "It would raise questions I'd prefer to avoid. Follow me at a distance."

Carlos's caution surprises Oscar. It's a level of consideration and foresight he wouldn't have associated with him. It seems there's a lot I don't know about Carlos Sainz, he thinks, and the idea is surprisingly unsettling.

When they find themselves in the elevator, Carlos presses the button for the sixth floor. "Your room is 612. It's already paid for in my name, so you won't need identification." He hands him a key card. "I've left you some clothes. They probably won't fit you very well, but it's better than nothing."

Oscar takes the card, aware that his fingers briefly brush against Carlos's. It's an insignificant contact, but in his current situation, any gesture of help feels magnificently significant.

"Thank you," he says for what seems like the tenth time today. "You really didn't have to do this."

The elevator stops at the sixth floor. The doors open with a soft ding that sounds inappropriately cheerful given the circumstances.

"I'll come for you tomorrow at 6:30," says Carlos as Oscar exits the elevator. "Try to get some rest."

Oscar nods, suddenly exhausted. The adrenaline that has kept him functioning all day finally begins to dilute.

"See you tomorrow," he says.

Carlos holds the elevator door. "One last thing. This history you mention between us in the future... Is it good?"

The question takes Oscar by surprise. What can he tell him? That in 2024 they can barely maintain a civil conversation?

"It's... peculiar," he finally responds, opting for partial honesty. "But it's interesting and important to us."

It's not exactly a lie, he mentally justifies. Our mutual antipathy is definitely peculiar, interesting, and important for our respective careers. Rivalries sell tickets and generate headlines.

Carlos studies him a moment longer, as if trying to read between the lines. There's an expression on his face that Oscar can't fully decipher, something between curiosity and... expectation?

"Good night, Oscar from the future," he says, and there's a flash of humor in his eyes that makes Oscar wonder how this young man will become the obstinate rival he knows.

The elevator doors close, leaving Oscar alone in the hallway. Alone in 2016. Alone with the growing certainty that, somehow impossibly, this is really happening.

He finds room 612 and uses the card to enter. It's an elegant but not ostentatious space, with a double bed that seems to call him like a siren's song. On it, Carlos has left a bag with some items: a t-shirt, sweatpants, new underwear in its packaging, basic hygiene articles.

New underwear, Oscar notes with a mixture of gratitude and embarrassment. The jerk has thought of everything. What kind of person does this for a stranger who could perfectly well be delusional?

This gesture of practical consideration moves him more than any words of comfort. Oscar heads to the bathroom and washes his face, studying his reflection in the mirror.

The cold water against his skin is what finally makes everything collapse. The adrenaline that has kept him functioning during the day suddenly vanishes, leaving only a raw reality that he can no longer ignore. This isn't a dream. It's not a hallucination. Hallucinations don't last for hours. Dreams don't have this consistency, this relentless solidity.

He grips the edge of the sink, his knuckles white from the pressure. His breathing becomes rapid, shallow. An invisible weight seems to crush his chest.

"This is real," he murmurs to his reflection, as if saying it aloud could make it less terrifying. "This is really happening."

The implications hit him like a high-speed train. He's trapped eight years in the past. He has no identity, no resources, no way back. His career, his life, everything he's built... does it still exist? Or has it disappeared in some alternative reality to which he can never return?

Oscar backs up until his back hits the bathroom wall, and he slowly slides down until he's sitting on the floor. The panic, which he had kept at bay with pragmatic determination all day, finally claims him. His hands shake uncontrollably. He feels nauseous. Cold sweat covers his forehead as he struggles to breathe.

What if I can never go back? The thought stabs like a knife. What if I'm trapped here forever?

A hysterical laugh, bordering on a sob, escapes his throat. He has traveled through time. It's such an absurd concept, so impossible, that even now, after hours of evidence, his mind struggles to accept it. The alternative—that he has completely lost his mind—almost seems preferable.

"Get it together," he orders himself, his voice barely a broken whisper. "Get it together, damn it."

But control, that tool he has refined through years of competition, slips through his fingers. On the track, he has always known what to do, how to react, how to adapt the strategy. But here, in this 2016 hotel, there is no possible strategy for the impossible.

Tears, hot and humiliating, begin to run down his cheeks. He hasn't cried since... he doesn't even remember since when. F1 drivers don't cry. Oscar Piastri definitely doesn't cry. Except that now he does, sitting on the floor of a hotel bathroom, eight years away from his life.

Time passes—minutes, maybe an hour—while Oscar struggles to rebuild the fragments of his composure. Eventually, the panic subsides enough to allow him to stand up. His legs tremble, but they hold him. He washes his face again, erasing the traces of tears, as if he could also wash away the vulnerability he has just experienced.

He returns to the room, sits on the edge of the bed, and looks at the bag that Carlos has left. He opens it mechanically, taking out the items one by one. Normal clothes. Everyday objects. Anchors to a reality that feels increasingly solid.

Carlos, he thinks, and there's a new sensation associated with that name. It's no longer just irritation or rivalry. There's gratitude, confusion, and something more complicated that he doesn't want to examine. Carlos Sainz is all I have right now.

The irony is so absolute that it's almost cosmic. Of all the people in the universe, his only ally in this impossible chaos is the man with whom he has the most tense relationship on the grid.

Before succumbing to exhaustion, Oscar goes to the minibar and takes out a bottle of water. His throat is dry, his body dehydrated from the stress and the panic attack he has just experienced.

He sits on the edge of the bed, the water bottle in one hand, the key card in the other. Tangible symbols that this is real. That somehow he has traveled to the past. That Carlos Sainz, of all people, is now his only ally in a time that doesn't belong to him.

Something in the interaction with Carlos troubles him. The way he asked about their future relationship, that indefinable gleam in his eyes... Is it possible that Carlos interpreted his ambiguous words as a hint that in the future they are something more than rivals? The idea is so absurd that it finally extracts from him that hysterical laugh he has been containing since he left the bathroom.

Carlos Sainz thinking that in the future we're friends. The thought is so ridiculous that his stomach almost hurts from laughing. If he only knew... Maybe I should have been clearer about our relationship, but then he probably would have told me to go to hell.

In the end, exhausted to the bone, he lies down on the bed without even changing his clothes.

Emotional and physical exhaustion finally claims his consciousness. His last thought, blurry and fragmented as he slides into sleep, is that everything will depend on Max. If Verstappen wins as he predicted, Carlos will continue to help him. If not... he would be completely alone, trapped in a time that doesn't belong to him, with no one to turn to.

The irony that his entire existence now depends on Carlos Sainz is the last thing his mind registers before falling into a deep, dreamless sleep.

 

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

 

Chapter 3: Calculated Orbit

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

 

Oscar awakens with a start, his heart pounding hard against his ribcage. For an instant, the disorientation is absolute. The unfamiliar room, the light streaming through curtains that aren't his, the mattress with a different firmness than he's used to. Then, like a tsunami, the memories of the previous day flood through him.

2016. Barcelona. The time travel. Carlos.

A gasp escapes his throat as he covers his face with his hands. It wasn't a dream. He's still trapped eight years in the past, dependent on the goodwill of his future rival.

He sits up slowly, noticing he's slept in yesterday's clothes, the hoodie now wrinkled and slightly damp with sweat. The digital clock on the nightstand reads 5:43 AM. The room is bathed in that bluish twilight that precedes dawn.

His mind, clearer after rest, begins to methodically process the situation. Last night's panic has been replaced by cold pragmatism. If he's trapped here, he needs to adapt. He needs resources, identity, a long-term plan. And for all of that, he needs Carlos.

Carlos. The name resonates in his mind with new complexity. During the night, his subconscious has been working, connecting pieces his conscious mind hadn't related.

The way Carlos looked at him. The questions about their future relationship. The specific interest in knowing how "close" they are. The offer of help that goes far beyond what any stranger—even one with such an extraordinary story—would deserve.

"Oh," Oscar murmurs, understanding taking shape. "Oh my God."

Carlos thinks that in the future they're... more than acquaintances. More than colleagues. Maybe even more than friends.

A dry, almost incredulous laugh escapes his lips. Carlos Sainz thinks we're a couple in the future. The idea is so absurd it should be hilarious, but in his current situation, it's potentially valuable.

Oscar gets up and walks to the bathroom, turning on the light with a sharp movement. The mirror reflects a disheveled image: reddened eyes, incipient beard, hair flattened on one side. He washes his face with cold water, trying to clear his thoughts.

Would it be so terrible to let him believe that? he wonders, staring at his reflection. If Carlos thinks we'll eventually be together, he'll be much more willing to help me now.

The idea immediately makes him feel guilty. Manipulating someone's feelings—even Carlos Sainz's—is a level of nastiness he's never considered.

But, on the other hand, he reflects while drying his face with a towel, it's not like I have many options. I'm literally trapped in the past, without documents, without money, without legal identity.

He returns to the room and sits on the edge of the bed, weighing his options. He could be honest, tell Carlos they actually barely tolerate each other. That all that talk about a "significant relationship" referred to their on-track competition.

Yeah, right, and then I'd find myself on the street without help.

Or he could... allow the ambiguity to remain. Not lie directly, but not correct Carlos's assumptions either. Let him interpret things however he wants, at least until Oscar finds a way back to his time. Or, if that proves impossible, until he establishes a functional identity in 2016.

It's survival, he justifies, ignoring the pang of guilt. Under normal circumstances, I'd never do something like this, but these circumstances are far from normal.

Besides, who says it has to lead to anything physical? I just have to keep hope alive, let Carlos believe there's a future for us without necessarily acting on it in the present.

The great Carlos Sainz, he thinks with a mixture of irony and something more complex he doesn't want to examine. So arrogant he immediately assumes any "significant relationship" must be romantic. As if he can't conceive that someone in the world detests him.

But beneath the sarcasm, a frigid calculation begins to settle. If Carlos really is thinking that... it could be useful. Extremely useful. An interested Carlos would be a Carlos committed to helping him. And in his desperate situation, can he really afford the luxury of honesty?

It's surprising, he thinks while trying to remember. I've always seen him surrounded by spectacular models. I never thought he'd be interested in men.

The idea that Carlos might be bisexual had never crossed his mind. In the 2024 paddock, there's never been even the slightest rumor about it. The Carlos he knows has always had photogenic girlfriends and a typically masculine Mediterranean lifestyle.

Oscar removes the hoodie and t-shirt, feeling relief at freeing himself from clothes he's worn for more than 24 hours. The t-shirt Carlos left him is dark gray, clearly expensive judging by the fabric quality. It slides over his skin with a smoothness that evidences its price. The thought that it might be a shirt Carlos himself has worn briefly crosses his mind, producing a strange sensation he decides to ignore.

As he dresses in the borrowed clothes, he continues elaborating his strategy. He needs to be subtle. He can't seem too interested suddenly—that would be suspicious. Just small signals, gazes held a second longer than necessary, casual contact that might or might not be intentional. Enough to keep Carlos intrigued, to feed his idea that there's a romantic future waiting for them.

This is twisted, he admits to himself while putting on the sweatpants. But so is being trapped in bloody 2016.

A knock on the door interrupts his thoughts. He looks at the clock: 6:27 AM. Carlos is punctual.

"One moment," he calls, hurrying to put on his sneakers.

He runs a hand through his hair in a futile attempt to tame it and takes a deep breath. Time to put his plan into practice. Nothing too obvious, just enough to keep Carlos interested and committed.

I just need his help until I find a way back, he reminds himself. Or until I can establish myself here. It's not like anything's actually going to happen between us.

With this determination, he opens the door to find Carlos, impeccably dressed in a Toro Rosso polo and a cautiously friendly expression.

"Good morning," Carlos says, and there's something in his voice, a note of uncertainty, as if part of him still expected Oscar to have disappeared during the night, revealing this whole situation as an elaborate joke or hallucination.

"Good morning," Oscar responds, allowing himself a small smile. Not too warm, but enough to indicate he's grateful for the help. "Practice day, eh?"

Carlos nods, visibly relaxing at the normalcy of the conversation. "Yes, first practice day. I brought you coffee." He extends a paper cup Oscar hadn't noticed until now.

Oscar takes it, his fingers briefly brushing Carlos's in what could be interpreted as accidental contact. He notices how Carlos reacts almost imperceptibly to that touch: a slight change in his breathing, a brief flash in his eyes.

Interesting, Oscar thinks. Very interesting.

"Thanks," he says aloud, taking a sip of the coffee. It's perfectly prepared: strong, with a touch of milk, no sugar. Exactly how he likes it. A coincidence, probably, but still disconcerting.

Carlos hesitates a moment, as if considering something. "I was thinking... would you prefer to stay here at the hotel today, or do you want to come to the circuit?"

The question takes Oscar by surprise. "Can I go to the circuit? Wouldn't that be risky?"

"I can get you paddock access and into the Toro Rosso hospitality," Carlos explains. "I'd say you're a friend. Just that..." he pauses, "I couldn't spend much time with you. Fridays are intense with both practice sessions, engineer meetings, debriefs..."

"I know," Oscar interrupts with a small ironic smile. "Remember I'm also a driver. I know perfectly well how a Grand Prix weekend works."

Carlos blinks, as if he'd just remembered that detail. "Right. So, do you want to come?"

"Yes," Oscar responds without hesitation. Staying alone in this hotel room all day, with nothing but his thoughts and worries, would be torture. Besides, being in the paddock would give him the opportunity to observe, to gather information, to connect with this strange time in a more tangible way. "I definitely prefer to go."

"Good," Carlos nods. "I'll get you some more appropriate clothes for the paddock. What I left you last night is too casual."

While Carlos makes some calls and arrangements, Oscar finishes his coffee, watching him discreetly. This Carlos, so efficient and considerate, is almost unrecognizable compared to the arrogant idiot he knows in 2024. Or maybe he's always been this way, and Oscar has never bothered to see him beyond their rivalry.

The idea makes him more uncomfortable than he'd like to admit.

An hour later, Oscar walks alongside Carlos through the Barcelona paddock, dressed in dark jeans and a navy shirt under a casual jacket Carlos has provided. A cap and sunglasses complete his improvised disguise. It's not much, but in the Friday paddock bustle, it should be enough to go unnoticed.

The paddock buzzes with activity: mechanics transporting components, engineers studying data on tablets, press personnel preparing interviews, lucky fans with VIP passes observing everything with amazed eyes. Very little public, which contrasts with 2024, but before Liberty Media and with the change from open to pay transmission and with Mercedes's great dominance at the start of the hybrid era, many fans had jumped off this sport's bandwagon.

For Oscar, everything is simultaneously familiar and alien. The basic structure is the same, but the details are different: slightly outdated uniforms, teams that no longer exist in 2024, technology that seems primitive in comparison.

And the faces. Oscar can't help staring at them, fascinated by these younger versions of people he knows well. Max Verstappen passes nearby, and Oscar barely recognizes him. He's just a teenager, skinny with a boyish face, nothing like the multiple and dominant champion of his time. Lewis Hamilton, with a very different style, chatting animatedly with Sebastian Vettel. Fernando Alonso, in his McLaren-Honda years, frustration already visible in his gestures as he talks to a mechanic. Sergio Pérez, Valtteri Bottas, Esteban Ocon, Daniel Ricciardo with his characteristic broad smile...

All familiar faces, with a few he actually gets along with. And yet, as he observes them, Oscar reaffirms his decision. Approaching Carlos was the right choice. None of the others would have given him even the benefit of doubt that Carlos is offering. What would Daniel have done, for example, if a stranger had approached him with a story about time travel? Probably laugh, make a joke, and move on.

Though, Oscar thinks with a pang of irony while following Carlos toward the hospitality, the fact that Carlos believes me probably means he's not quite right in the head. Who in their right mind would accept this madness?

And yet, surprisingly, mocking Carlos no longer feels as natural as it did in 2024. It's hard to maintain contempt toward someone offering you help when you need it most, however twisted your own intentions might be.

"Here's where you can stay," Carlos says, showing him a small area on the second floor of the Toro Rosso hospitality. It's a discrete space with a sofa, small table, and partial view of the paddock. "Nobody will bother you here. You can order food or drinks if you want."

"Thanks," Oscar responds, genuinely grateful despite himself.

"I have to go for the first session," Carlos continues, checking his watch. "I'll come back during the break if I can."

Oscar nods. "Go. Don't worry about me. As I said, I understand how this works."

Carlos looks at him a moment longer, as if wanting to say something, but finally just nods and leaves, leaving Oscar alone in that small corner of the hospitality.

During the following hours, Oscar observes the paddock from his privileged position, mind constantly working. Watching Formula 1 in 2016 in action is fascinating from a technical perspective—the 11 teams instead of 10, the cars are so different, distinct strategies, unrecognizable team dynamics in some cases—but also deeply disconcerting. It's like watching a historical documentary, except he's living inside it.

On the screens he can follow the first practice session. He sees Carlos in the Toro Rosso, struggling with what appears to be a traction problem in slow corners. Understeer in the chicane, typical of this track with low morning temperatures, he automatically analyzes, before reminding himself that knowledge doesn't help him here.

During the break between sessions, as promised, Carlos returns briefly. He enters the small space reserved for Oscar, the race suit open to the waist, revealing the sweat-soaked technical shirt underneath. His hair is damp and stuck to his temples, his skin glistens with a fine layer of perspiration that catches the light in a particular way.

Oscar tries to ignore the sudden discomfort he feels. It's not the first time he's seen a driver fresh from the cockpit, but something about Carlos—maybe the intensity of his gaze, or the way sweat defines the musculature of his neck, or simply the distinctive aroma of adrenaline and physical effort—makes him momentarily look away.

It's just because I'm planning to manipulate him, Oscar tells himself, justifying his reaction. It's normal to be hypersensitive to his physical presence if I'm analyzing every detail for my benefit.

"How's everything going?" Carlos asks, dropping onto the sofa next to Oscar, so close their knees almost touch.

"Fine," he responds, trying to ignore the sudden awareness of the heat emanating from Carlos's body next to his. Then, unable to help himself, he adds: "You have understeer in the chicane. Probably from tire temperature. You need a more aggressive approach on entry to warm up the fronts."

Carlos looks at him with surprise, then with a slow smile that transforms his face, illuminating it in a way Oscar doesn't remember ever seeing in the 2024 Carlos. "That's exactly what I was discussing with my engineer before coming here." There's new appreciation in his gaze, professional respect mixed with something warmer, more personal. "You really are a driver."

"I told you," Oscar responds with a shrug, trying to downplay the moment but secretly pleased by the recognition.

There's a moment of silence between them, not exactly uncomfortable but charged with something indefinable. They're sitting so close that Oscar can feel Carlos's heat, can perceive his aroma—a mixture of sweat, adrenaline and something else—and finds himself inexplicably distracted by it.

Focus, he mentally chides himself. This is just part of the plan. Observing his physical reactions, evaluating his level of interest, calibrating your response to keep him committed. Nothing more.

Carlos clears his throat, as if gathering courage for something. "There's something I've been thinking about since yesterday. Our relationship in the future... are we... just friends, or...?"

And there it is. The question Oscar has been expecting and simultaneously dreading. The moment to decide how far he'll take this manipulation.

Oscar contemplates his response, aware that what he says now will set the tone for all their future interactions with Carlos. It's the perfect moment to employ a double-meaning phrase.

"We're not exactly friends..." he finally responds, deliberately evasive, letting Carlos fill in the blanks according to his own hopes. "It's an... intense relationship."

"Intense?" Carlos suggests, leaning imperceptibly forward.

"Yes, intense," he responds with a small enigmatic smile. "We generate a lot of... friction when we're together."

"Friction?" Carlos repeats, his eyes fixed on Oscar's.

Oscar nods, savoring how Carlos hangs on every word. "There are some pretty... heated moments between us."

Carlos blinks, processing the response, and Oscar can see the exact moment the ambiguity of his words registers. A slight blush appears on Carlos's cheeks, almost imperceptible under his bronzed skin.

"I imagine that must be complicated," Carlos says, his voice slightly lower. "That kind of... intensity."

"It is," Oscar confirms, allowing Carlos to interpret "intensity" however he wants. "Sometimes we can't help ourselves and get too close at inappropriate moments and it's... almost dangerous."

There's a moment of silence between them, now charged with palpable tension. Oscar can feel Carlos's heat, can perceive how his breathing has slightly altered.

"Dangerous..." Carlos nods slowly, as if absorbing every word, interpreting it through the filter of his own hopes. "It must be difficult, keeping up appearances."

"It is," Oscar confirms, thinking about how they can barely maintain a facade of civility in press conferences after they've had on-track incidents. "It's dangerous with all those eyes on us. We have to be... discreet."

"Of course," Carlos says, and there's understanding in his eyes that goes far beyond what Oscar is actually saying. "F1 isn't exactly the most open environment for that kind of... situation."

Oscar watches fascinated as Carlos fills in the blanks himself, constructing a narrative completely different from reality but that fits perfectly with the ambiguous clues Oscar is dropping.

"I... have to go... but, thanks," Carlos finally says, his voice lower, almost intimate in the reduced space. "For the comment about the understeer. I'll try to follow your advice in the second session."

"You're welcome," Oscar responds, and he's surprised to discover he genuinely wants the advice to help, for Carlos to improve. Not out of affection, he quickly assures himself, but because a successful Carlos is a Carlos who'll be in a better mood, more predisposed to help him.

Carlos gets up, needing to return to his team, but stops for a moment, looking at Oscar with an intensity that makes something stir inside him, something he prefers not to examine too closely. "You know? It's strange. I feel like I've known you for a long time, not just since yesterday."

The phrase hangs between them, loaded with meaning Oscar isn't sure how to interpret. Is Carlos simply expressing comfort with his presence, or is there something more implicit in those words?

"Maybe because in a way, you already know me," Oscar responds ambiguously, testing the ground, allowing himself to continue with his manipulation plan despite the strange discomfort he feels. "Or you will."

Carlos nods, a smile playing at the corners of his lips. There's a moment of suspension, as if he were waiting for something, or perhaps gathering courage for something. "Later, I'd like to... continue our earlier conversation. There's much more I want to ask you."

"Of course," Oscar responds, aware of the tension that has arisen between them, tension that's part of his plan but still feels strangely out of his control.

Carlos smiles, a smile that seems to contain secrets, and finally leaves, leaving Oscar with the feeling he's participated in a conversation with layers of meaning he hadn't completely planned.

When Carlos leaves, Oscar remains staring at the empty space, wondering what exactly he's doing. Guilt and pragmatism war inside him. Manipulating Carlos this way is morally questionable, to say the least. But it's also his best chance of surviving in this strange time.

If he's really interested in me that way, Oscar thinks, he'd be much more likely to help me long-term. To risk more for me.

And yet, as he watches Carlos on the screens during the second practice session (successfully applying Oscar's advice, he notes with satisfaction he tells himself is purely professional), he can't help wondering if he's playing with fire. Not just because of the lie itself, but because of the unexpected way his own body reacted to Carlos's closeness, because of that momentary but undeniable awareness of Carlos as a man, not just as a means to an end.

It's just the situation, he assures himself. The isolation. The dependence. The adrenaline of manipulating someone to survive. Nothing more.

But the doubt persists, whispering in the corners of his mind as the afternoon advances and the second practice session comes to an end. The doubt and, more disturbing still, the persistent memory of Carlos's scent, of the heat of his body, of the intensity of his gaze. Details Oscar shouldn't be noticing, and certainly shouldn't be remembering hours later.

This is ridiculous, he thinks with irritation. It's Carlos Sainz, for God's sake. The same arrogant idiot who crashed into me in Miami. The fact that he’s being nice now, and has an objectively attractive body, doesn’t mean anything

And with that emphatic statement, Oscar tries to file those disturbing thoughts in some distant corner of his mind, focusing instead on refining his strategy for future interactions with Carlos. Because this is just survival, he reminds himself. Just survival and nothing more.

 

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

Chapter 4: Event Horizon

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

 

The sun has already set when Carlos drops Oscar off at the hotel. "I have team meetings and some sponsor commitments," he explains as he walks him to the side entrance of the building. "But I'll be back later. There are some things we need to discuss."

There's something in his tone, a gravity that hasn't been present during the day, that leaves Oscar uneasy as he goes up alone to his room.

The hours pass slowly. Oscar showers, grateful for the sense of normalcy that hot water provides, and dresses in the clothes Carlos has provided. Then he orders room service, carefully avoiding any prolonged interaction with the staff.

Sitting by the window, watching the lights of Barcelona as the sky transitions from indigo to deep black, Oscar mentally reviews the day's events. It's been strangely comforting to be in the paddock, in that familiar yet alien environment. Seeing so many known faces in younger versions has been disconcerting, but also fascinating.

But by far the most disturbing thing has been observing Carlos. This 21-year-old Carlos is so different from the rival he knows in 2024. Or maybe he's not different at all, but Oscar has never bothered to really see him. The idea is unsettling, to say the least.

As the night advances, another reality begins to settle on Oscar with relentless clarity: he's trapped in a foreign country where he doesn't even speak the language, without documentation, without money, without resources. If he wants any chance of surviving here—or, better yet, finding a way back to his time—he needs help. Not just the temporary hospitality Carlos has offered so far, but a much deeper and riskier commitment.

The knock on the door startles him, pulling him from his reflections. He looks at his watch: 9:47 PM. Carlos has returned, as promised.

Oscar takes a deep breath, preparing for what he's sure will be a complicated conversation. The brief exchange in the hospitality about their "future relationship" has made it clear that Carlos is looking for more concrete answers. And Oscar will have to decide exactly how much he's willing to reveal—or fake.

He opens the door to find Carlos leaning against the frame, clearly tired after a long day, but with an intensity in his eyes that contrasts with his relaxed posture.

"Hi," Oscar says, stepping aside to let him in.

Carlos enters, closing the door behind him. He's wearing casual clothes—jeans and a simple t-shirt under a light jacket—and his hair is slightly damp, as if he's just showered. The scent of hotel soap and that cologne Oscar noticed before creates a strangely intimate combination in the closed space of the room.

It's in that moment, under the soft light of the room's lamp, that Oscar allows his mind to register something he's been trying to ignore all day: Carlos Sainz is objectively attractive. It's not that Oscar hadn't noticed before, but it had always been easy to dismiss that fact when all he saw was the arrogant rival, the obstacle to overcome on track. Besides, Oscar has always preferred not to get interested in men who are clearly straight—too many complications, too much potential for rejection.

But now, with the revelation that Carlos might not be as heterosexual as he's always assumed, Oscar allows himself to notice those details: the defined jaw, the dark and intense eyes, the way his t-shirt fits perfectly across his shoulders. It's disturbing, this recognition, but Oscar attributes it to his extreme situation. Any port in a storm, as they say.

"How were the meetings?" Oscar asks, opting to start with something neutral.

"Productive," Carlos responds, dropping into the room's only armchair. "The car improved in the second session thanks to your advice." There's a note of genuine appreciation in his voice that makes Oscar feel inexplicably pleased.

A silence settles between them, not entirely uncomfortable but charged with unresolved tension. Oscar can feel Carlos watching him, studying him with that characteristic intensity that, he now realizes, has always been part of him, even in 2024.

"I've been thinking," Carlos finally says, breaking the silence. "About your situation. About how to help you."

Oscar nods, sitting on the edge of the bed, maintaining a prudent distance. "I appreciate it. As I said, I'm completely lost here."

"If your prediction about Max comes true on Sunday," Carlos continues, "I could start making some arrangements. I have contacts who could provide you with basic documentation. It wouldn't be official, of course, but enough to move around with some freedom."

"That would be..." Oscar searches for the right word, "incredibly useful."

Carlos looks at him directly, and there's something in his eyes, a determination that makes Oscar instinctively tense. "But before doing all that, before risking myself..."

He stops, as if reconsidering his words, then leans forward, closing part of the distance between them.

"I need more than hints," Carlos continues, turning to face him directly. "If I'm going to help you—get you documents, resources, a way to follow the calendar—I need to understand exactly what we are to each other."

The intensity in his voice takes Oscar by surprise. The subtle manipulation he'd planned is crumbling in the face of Carlos's direct frankness.

"It's complicated," Oscar begins, falling back on his safe response.

"Everything in life is complicated," Carlos responds with an impatience he hasn't shown before. "But I'm risking a lot here, trusting someone who appeared out of nowhere with an impossible story. I deserve the truth."

Oscar feels control of the situation slipping through his fingers. He's planned to gradually feed the idea of a future relationship, maintain ambiguity long enough to secure the help he needs. But Carlos is forcing a clarity he hasn't anticipated.

For a moment, Oscar considers telling the truth. Explaining that in 2024 they're rivals, that they barely tolerate each other, that all that talk about a "significant relationship" referred to their professional competition. But the certainty that this would mean losing the only help he has in this strange time stops him.

"In the future," Oscar says, choosing each word with extreme care, "our relationship evolves in ways that neither you nor I could have foreseen."

The phrase clarifies nothing, but Carlos doesn't seem willing to accept more ambiguities. He leans even closer, his gaze fixed on Oscar with an intensity that feels almost physical.

"Are we a couple?" The question is direct, with no room for evasion.

Oscar looks at Carlos, seeing the raw vulnerability behind the determination in his eyes. This young Carlos is exposing a part of himself that the 2024 Carlos keeps carefully hidden. The guilt for what he's about to do hits Oscar with renewed force.

"Not publicly," he responds, and technically it's not a complete lie, since they're not "publicly" anything in 2024, not even friends. "As I said, F1 isn't the most understanding environment. We keep up appearances."

Carlos nods slowly, processing this. The relief on his face is so evident that Oscar feels another pang of guilt. He's not simply manipulating Carlos; he's playing with genuine emotions, with a vulnerability Carlos has probably never shared with anyone else.

"But in private? Are we...?" He doesn't finish the question, as if the exact words are too much to articulate.

Oscar finds himself at a decisive point. He can back down now, clarify that he's being misunderstood. Or he can continue with this charade, securing the help he desperately needs.

"In private," Oscar says, his voice lower now, deciding to completely cross the line, "things are different."

He can see the impact of his words in the way Carlos's breathing alters slightly, in how his pupils dilate. It's evident that Carlos isn't simply interested in him abstractly or intrigued by a hypothetical future. There's real, immediate attraction in the way he looks at him now.

"I've never..." Carlos stops, reformulates. "With men, I mean. I've always felt... curiosity, maybe. But I've never acted on it."

His voice becomes lower, more intimate. "It's too much risk, too much at stake. My career, my family, my public image... It's not something I could just experiment with."

There's raw honesty in these words that makes Oscar feel a disconcerting mixture of guilt and something else, something he doesn't want to examine too closely. Carlos is confiding something he's probably never shared with anyone else.

"I know," Oscar responds, and in an impulse he doesn't anticipate, he extends his hand to intertwine his fingers with Carlos's. The contact sends an unexpected current up his arm, a tingling that momentarily disconcerts him.

Their eyes meet, and Oscar sees the unformulated question in Carlos's, the desire mixed with uncertainty. With their fingers still intertwined, Oscar continues:

"You've told me all this," he says softly, as if sharing a precious secret between lovers. "In the future. Every detail of this internal struggle, every moment of doubt and fear. You've described exactly how you felt."

Oscar surprises himself with how easily these lies flow, how natural it feels to create this romantic narrative that will never exist. There's a part of him that almost enjoys this game, this creation of an alternative reality where he and Carlos share something deep and meaningful.

"You told me about your fears for your career," he continues, his voice low and intimate, "about your father's reaction, about how sponsors would see you. Every sleepless night wondering if it was worth risking everything."

Carlos's eyes widen slightly, as if Oscar were verbalizing exactly what's going through his mind. It's almost too easy, this manipulation game. Oscar only needs to imagine what the logical fears would be for a young driver discovering his sexuality in an environment as heteronormative as F1, and Carlos confirms with his reactions that he's hit the mark.

"And you told me," Oscar adds, gently squeezing Carlos's fingers, "that in the end you decided that for me it was worth the risk. That some people are worth any sacrifice."

The words are completely fabricated, but the way they impact Carlos is so visibly profound that Oscar can almost convince himself they're true. Carlos's expression transforms, a mixture of amazement, relief and something more intense, something that makes Oscar feel simultaneously powerful and terrible about this manipulation.

"Am I the one who makes the first move?" Carlos asks, his fingers slightly tightening on Oscar's.

Oscar hasn't anticipated this level of detail in the conversation. He's expected hints, suggestions, not direct questions that require specific lies. And yet, as he looks at Carlos, with his open and vulnerable expression, Oscar finds himself wanting to give him the answer he's looking for.

"Yes," he says, gently squeezing Carlos's fingers in response. "You're the one who makes the first move. In a moment of... sudden clarity."

Carlos nods, as if this confirms something he already suspected. His eyes never leave Oscar's, as if he were searching for something in them, some truth or tacit permission.

"And are we happy?" he finally asks, with a frankness that completely disarms Oscar. "Is it worth it?"

The question pierces Oscar's defenses. There's such raw sincerity in it that for a moment he considers confessing the whole truth: that they're rivals, that their relationship is defined by competition and occasional on-track incidents, that there's nothing remotely romantic between them.

But then he remembers his situation: trapped in the past, without resources, without identity, completely dependent on Carlos's goodwill.

"It's worth it," he finally says, his voice surprisingly firm as the lie slides naturally. "It has its challenges, like any relationship. The distance that comes with competing for different teams and having commitments in different countries. The secrecy. The looks we have to avoid in the paddock."

Oscar surprises himself again with how easily he invents these details, how each word seems to make Carlos lean imperceptibly closer to him, hungry for confirmation, for hope.

"But yes," he continues, looking directly into Carlos's eyes, "we're happy. We find moments, create spaces that are just ours. And when we're together, everything else—the pressure, the expectations, the competition—just... disappears."

It's almost poetic, Oscar thinks, this love story he's weaving from nothing. A story that will never exist, but that in this moment seems so tangible, so possible, that he can almost visualize it himself.

Carlos stares at him, as if evaluating the authenticity of his response. Then, in a movement Oscar doesn't anticipate, he takes a step forward, eliminating the scarce space remaining between them.

"I want to understand," Carlos says, his voice barely a murmur now, hoarse with want. "I need to understand what it is I see in you that makes me take that risk in the future."

And before Oscar can fully process what's happening, Carlos eliminates the final distance between them. The kiss hits Oscar like a sucker punch—raw, demanding, nothing gentle about it. It's not tentative exploration but pure hunger, as if Carlos had been holding himself back for hours and finally snapped.

Oscar's sharp intake of breath is lost against Carlos's mouth. The heat is immediate and overwhelming—Carlos's lips are firm, insistent, moving against his with an urgency that sends blood rushing south. The taste of him floods Oscar's senses: coffee, mint, and something darker that makes Oscar's pulse spike.

For an instant, he completely forgets that this is Carlos Sainz, his bitter rival from 2024. Right now he's just hard muscle and demanding hands and the press of his body that's making Oscar's brain short-circuit.

Carlos's hands grip Oscar's waist, fingers digging in as he pulls him closer, and Oscar can feel the solid heat of him through their clothes. His own hands move without permission to Carlos's shoulders, feeling the flex of muscle under his t-shirt, the warmth of skin underneath.

When Carlos's tongue traces his lower lip, Oscar opens for him instinctively, a low sound escaping his throat. The slide of Carlos's tongue against his is electric, sends heat coiling tight in his belly. Carlos tastes like temptation, like something Oscar shouldn't want but can't resist.

Carlos's hand slides up to grip the back of his neck, thumb pressing against the sensitive spot behind his ear, and Oscar actually shudders. His body responds before his mind can catch up—pressing closer, angling his head for better access, his own tongue meeting Carlos's in a way that's more fight than dance.

The scrape of Carlos's teeth against his lip draws a sharp breath from Oscar. He can feel Carlos everywhere—the solid weight of him, the heat radiating through thin cotton, the way his muscles shift as he moves. Oscar's hands have somehow found their way under Carlos's shirt, fingertips skating over warm skin, feeling the way Carlos's breath hitches at the contact.

Carlos kisses like he drives—aggressive, confident, taking what he wants. His other hand presses against Oscar's lower back, pulling him flush against him, and Oscar can feel exactly how much Carlos wants this, can feel the evidence of his arousal through their clothes.

It's this realization—that Carlos is hard against him, that his own body is responding in kind, that he's lost in pure physical want for someone he's supposed to be manipulating—that finally breaks through the haze.

What the hell is he doing? Getting turned on by Carlos Sainz? Grinding against him like some desperate teenager?

The idea makes him pull back abruptly, though his hands remain on Carlos's shoulders, as if he can't decide to completely break the contact.

"I'm sorry," Carlos says immediately, blush spreading across his cheeks. "I shouldn't have—"

"No," Oscar interrupts, surprised by the vehemence in his own voice. "It's not that. It's not that I didn't want to."

The confession surprises them both. Oscar hasn't planned to admit that, but the truth escapes before he can contain it. And it is true, he realizes with a mixture of horror and fascination. He enjoyed the kiss. He wanted the kiss. And that changes everything, turns what should be simple calculated manipulation into something much more complicated and dangerous.

"Then what is it?" Carlos asks, clearly confused but with a glimmer of hope in his eyes.

Oscar searches for words, navigating emotional territory he's not prepared for. 

"It's that... you're Carlos, but you're not my Carlos," he finally says, the words coming out as if they have their own will. "I know it sounds ridiculous because you're the same person, but the Carlos I know, who I share my life with... he's there, in 2024, waiting for me."

The explanation sounds melodramatic even to his own ears, but it's the kind of romantic loyalty he knows would impress this young Carlos, so vulnerable and eager for confirmation.

"And I... I don't know if this makes sense," Oscar continues, surprised by how this lie flows, "but kissing you now, when my heart belongs to you in another time... it feels like I'm betraying the man I love, even though you're the same person."

Oscar stops, amazed by how easily these false words spring from him. He's never been particularly sentimental or romantic in his real relationships, but here he is, creating this narrative of eternal love and unwavering loyalty that he knows is touching something deep in Carlos.

And as he speaks, guilt grows inside him like a dark stain. Carlos is showing him his naked soul, and he's responding with a web of lies designed to manipulate him. It's despicable, he thinks, but he reminds himself that he has no choice. It's this or remain trapped in a time that doesn't belong to him.

Carlos's eyes light up with understanding and, surprisingly, fill with contained emotion. "That's the most beautiful thing anyone has ever said to me," he says with a slightly broken voice. "Your loyalty to... to me, to what we become... I can't even imagine the kind of man I become to deserve something like that."

The irony is so twisted that Oscar almost lets out a hysterical laugh. But instead he nods, because Carlos's explanation is exactly what he wanted to convey with his lie. The guilt intensifies, seeing the effect of his words on Carlos, seeing how this young man, normally so contained, is visibly moved.

"That's... very beautiful," Carlos continues, and there's new respect in his voice that makes Oscar feel even worse. "It shows how deep what we have is in the future."

He moves closer to Oscar again, but this time to take his hands in his, a surprisingly tender gesture. "I'm sorry," he says, his voice rough with emotion. "I shouldn't have just... I didn't ask if I could kiss you."

There's genuine regret in his eyes, mixed with something rawer. "It's just that I've been thinking about this for so long, wondering what it would feel like, and when you confirmed that we... that in the future we're..." He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated with his own inability to articulate. "I've spent years pushing this part of myself down, telling myself it was impossible, and then you tell me it's not only possible but that I find the courage to act on it."

His grip on Oscar's hands tightens slightly. "All that curiosity, all that want I've been burying—it just... erupted when I realized this was real. That you're real." He looks directly into Oscar's eyes. "I couldn't hold back anymore, but I should have asked first. I should have been more careful with you."

The sincerity in his voice makes Oscar's stomach twist with guilt. "I just needed to know I wasn't imagining what I see in your eyes, the way you look at me. But that's no excuse for not respecting your boundaries."

Oscar gently squeezes Carlos's hands, unable to resist the impulse to offer some comfort. "You're not imagining anything," he says, and this time it's not completely a lie. The kiss has awakened something, though Oscar refuses to examine it too closely.

"One more thing," Carlos says, his gaze fixed on their intertwined hands. "In the future, how does it happen? Who kisses whom first?"

The question is so unexpected that Oscar responds with the first thing that comes to mind.

"It's you," he says, and for some reason this specific lie feels important. "Exactly like now."

Carlos smiles, a slow and satisfied smile that completely transforms his face. "So I haven't changed the future," he says, and there's relief in his voice. "I've just stayed on course."

Oscar nods, unable to form words. The realization that he enjoyed kissing Carlos is reorganizing something fundamental in his understanding of himself, but he refuses to acknowledge it as anything more than a simple physical reaction.

A silence charged with meaning settles between them, not uncomfortable but heavy with unexplored possibilities.

"I should really go," Carlos says softly, though he makes no immediate move toward the door. "Qualifying tomorrow..."

"Right," Oscar nods."Qualifying..."

"Just... one more minute?" His voice is softer now, almost vulnerable. "I know this sounds crazy, but I don't want to forget how this feels. In case..."

"In case what?"

"In case I wake up tomorrow and convince myself this was all some elaborate dream."

The simple honesty of it makes Oscar's chest tight. Finally, with evident reluctance, Carlos releases one of Oscar's hands, but surprisingly brings the other to his lips, depositing a soft kiss on his knuckles. The gesture is so unexpectedly intimate that Oscar catches his breath.

With the kiss still burning on his knuckles, Carlos slowly releases his hand. For a moment they just look at each other, the weight of what's passed between them hanging in the air.

Carlos finally steps back, running a hand through his hair. "About tomorrow..." he starts, then stops, seeming to gather his thoughts. "I promise I'll behave better. I won't put you in an uncomfortable position again."

There's something almost heartbreakingly earnest in his expression. "I understand what you meant. About me not being your Carlos yet. I don't want to make this harder for you than it already is."

He pauses at the door, hand on the handle. When he turns back, there's something radiant in his expression that makes Oscar's chest tighten.

"But I need you to know," Carlos says, his voice soft but intense, "that just knowing you exist, knowing what we're going to have together... it changes everything for me. For the first time in my life, I'm not afraid of who I am. Because I know that someday, I'll find the courage to be myself completely, and when I do, you'll be there."

His smile is so genuine, so full of hope, that Oscar feels like he might be sick with guilt.

"Thank you for giving me that," Carlos whispers. "For giving me a future worth fighting for."

The door closes softly behind him, leaving Oscar alone with the crushing weight of what he's done. The manipulation he'd planned has become something much more complicated, crueler. Because now he's not only lying to Carlos, but he's giving him hope for a future that will never exist, for a happiness he'll never find—at least not with Oscar.

He falls onto the bed, the weight of guilt crushing him almost physically. The Carlos Sainz he knows in 2024 is arrogant, competitive, sometimes antagonistic. The man who just left his room is vulnerable, open, surprisingly sweet. And he kissed him. And worse still, Oscar enjoyed that kiss.

It's not that I'm interested in Carlos, he tells himself firmly. It's a purely physical reaction. Anyone would enjoy being kissed by someone objectively attractive, especially in a situation as extreme as his. It's perfectly normal for his body to have responded that way.

In fact, if he thinks about it, it's almost like a rare kind of Stockholm syndrome, isn't it? He's completely at Carlos's mercy, dependent on him for everything—lodging, food, a future plan to survive in this strange time. Of course his brain would look for ways to generate connection with his "captor," even if that connection takes the form of a physical response to a kiss.

It's just survival, he repeats. Pure instinct. Nothing more.

And yet, as sleep begins to claim him, he can't help remembering the sensation of Carlos's lips against his, the heat of his hands on his waist, the surprising sweetness mixed with contained passion. He can't help wondering what it would be like to kiss the 2024 Carlos, if that intensity and fire would still be there under the arrogant facade Oscar has always detested.

It's just the shock of time travel, he tells himself one last time as consciousness fades. The vulnerability of my situation. The fear of being trapped here forever.

One thing is certain: the situation has just become exponentially more complicated, and Oscar has no idea how he's going to untangle this knot when the time comes to tell the truth.

If that time ever comes.

 

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

Chapter 5: Deep Space

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

 

Saturday dawns with the characteristic tension of a qualifying day. Oscar wakes before the alarm, his mind still processing the events of the previous night. The kiss. The unexpected reaction of his own body. The lies that flowed from his lips with an ease that disturbs him.

For years, Oscar has prided himself on his honesty. Not an idealistic or naive honesty—he's always been pragmatic, especially in the ruthless world of racing—but a basic integrity, a line he doesn't cross. Until now.

Last night, faced with Carlos's vulnerability, he didn't just lie but elaborated a complete romantic narrative. He told Carlos exactly what he wanted to hear: that in the future, he dares to explore his sexuality, that he finds someone who accepts him completely, that he builds something meaningful despite the risks.

And most disturbing: he did it with surprising ease, almost with pleasure.

He showers quickly, letting the hot water clear the last vestiges of sleep and guilt. As he dresses in yesterday’s clothes, an uncomfortable thought settles in: today, Carlos will want more. After the kiss—after that elaborate story about loyalty to 'future Carlos'—his curiosity about their supposed shared future will only have grown.

And it's not just that. There's another problem Oscar has been avoiding facing directly: Carlos is attractive. Objectively attractive, he quickly corrects himself. And while Oscar has always been able to recognize when a man is handsome without feeling attracted to him, last night's kiss complicated things. His body responded in a way that still disconcerts him.

It's just the situation, he reminds himself while running a hand through his still-damp hair. The vulnerability, the isolation, the adrenaline of being trapped in the past.

But another part of him, a part he normally keeps silenced, wonders if there's something more. If maybe, there's always been something about Carlos he's deliberately ignored, masked under layers of professional rivalry and antagonism.

The knock on the door interrupts his thoughts. He takes a deep breath, preparing mentally. More lies, he tells himself. More manipulation. It's necessary to survive.

And indeed, when he opens the door, Carlos is there, and there's a new light in his eyes, a newfound intimacy in the way he smiles.

"Good morning," he says, and there's a warmth in his voice that wasn't there yesterday morning.

"Good morning," Oscar responds, deliberately avoiding prolonged eye contact, fearing what it might reveal.

Carlos carries a small bag in his hand. "I brought you more clothes," he says, offering it. "And breakfast is served downstairs, in a private room. I thought it would be better than the main restaurant."

The thoughtfulness in this gesture is so natural, so lacking in pretense, that Oscar feels another pang of guilt. Carlos really is a good person, at least this version of him, and what Oscar is doing—

No, he interrupts himself. I can't afford to think that way. I need his help. Period.

"Thanks," he says, taking the bag. "Give me a minute to change."

Carlos nods and waits patiently while Oscar changes in the bathroom. The clothes are good quality: designer jeans, a soft cotton t-shirt, a light jacket. The idea of wearing Carlos's clothes, of having his scent so close, provokes a sensation he prefers not to analyze.

Breakfast passes with latent tension, superficial conversations about the approaching day, but both know there's much more floating between them. It's in the car, in the relative privacy of the journey to the circuit, where Carlos finally addresses what has clearly been occupying his thoughts.

"I've been thinking," he begins, his eyes fixed on the road but his attention clearly divided, "about everything you've told me. And there are so many questions I want to ask you."

Oscar nods, preparing himself. "I imagine so."

"You said you come from 2024, right? That means I'm still in F1 eight years later."

The question is simple, direct, but Oscar perceives the underlying importance. For a young driver like Carlos, longevity in F1 is a dream, a validation.

"That's right. You're still one of the most respected drivers on the grid."

Carlos smiles, a flash of pride illuminating his face. "Which team am I with? Red Bull? Ferrari? Mercedes?"

Oscar shakes his head. "I can't tell you that. I can't give you significant details about your career."

"Why not? You're already here, changing things just with your presence."

"It's different," Oscar explains. "It's one thing for you to be helping someone from the future, and quite another for you to make career decisions based on future knowledge. That could alter your trajectory in ways I can't even foresee."

Carlos considers this for a moment, nodding slowly. "I suppose that makes sense. You don't want to influence my decisions."

"Exactly."

A contemplative silence settles as Carlos processes this limitation. Then, with a smile Oscar can only describe as mischievous, he changes focus.

"Fine, then don't ask about my career. But you can talk to me about us, right? As a couple."

And there it is, the topic Oscar has been anticipating with a mixture of resignation and something that looks dangerously like anticipation. Because elaborating this fictional story has a strange liberating effect, as if he were exploring an alternative version of himself, one that could have existed in another life.

"What exactly do you want to know?" he asks, buying time while mentally organizing what truths he can weave with the necessary fictions.

"How did it start?"

Oscar looks out the window, finding it strangely easy to begin this story. "It was an incident on track."

"Did we crash?" The surprise is evident in Carlos's voice.

"Not exactly. I tried an overtake on the inside at turn one. You turned as if I didn't exist. Our tires touched."

Carlos frowns. "That doesn't sound like something I would do."

"Well, you did," Oscar responds, and he surprises himself with how easily the truth flows. "You called me inexperienced, I said it was your fault for not leaving space. Each of us had our version. The stewards declared it a racing incident, no penalties."

"And from that... something romantic emerged?" Carlos seems genuinely confused. "It doesn't sound like a very promising beginning."

Oscar smiles, an ironic smile that contains more truth than Carlos can understand. "It wasn't immediate. But that incident changed something. We started to... notice each other differently."

"What do you mean?"

Oscar carefully considers how to elaborate this part of the story. "You're very close to my teammate," he says, opting for a truth that can serve his narrative. "Always laughing together, sharing inside jokes, spending time off-circuit."

"And that bothered you?" There's a note of satisfaction in Carlos's voice that Oscar finds simultaneously irritating and endearing.

"I was jealous," Oscar admits, and the confession surprises him with how authentic it sounds. For a moment he wonders if there's really a grain of truth in this lie. Does Carlos's friendship with Lando in 2024 really bother him? Has he ever confused that annoyance with professional jealousy?

No, he tells himself firmly. This is just a story I'm making up. It doesn't mean anything.

"I didn't understand it then," he continues, "but it bothered me to see you have that complicity with him and not with me."

"Who's your teammate in 2024?" Carlos asks, clearly trying to obtain information indirectly.

"Nice try," Oscar responds with a smile. "I'm not going to tell you."

Carlos laughs, a warm sound that fills the space between them. "Worth a shot. Please continue."

"That friendship meant we often found ourselves in the same spaces. You know, promotional events, even some social outings." Oscar is inventing most of this—he and Carlos barely interact outside obligatory events—but finds it surprisingly easy to imagine this alternative universe where their lives intertwine more amicably.

"And did I feel something for you then too?"

"Back then we were both watching each other more than we admitted," Oscar responds, letting the lie flow naturally. "There was a tension neither of us openly acknowledged."

Carlos nods, absorbed in the story. "And then? What changed?"

Oscar looks out the window, momentarily lost in the narrative he's creating. There's something strangely cathartic about elaborating this fictional story, as if he were exploring a possibility he never knew he wanted.

"Singapore," he says, choosing a night race to add a romantic element. "After the race, we found ourselves alone in the hospitality. Everyone had gone, and for some reason, we started talking. Really talking, not just the usual formalities."

"About what?"

"About pressure. About expectations. About how lonely this sport can be sometimes, even surrounded by people." Oscar surprises himself with the sincerity that permeates these words. These are feelings he actually experiences, truths he's never shared with anyone, much less with Carlos Sainz.

"And then..." Carlos leaves the sentence incomplete, clearly waiting for the climax.

Oscar smiles. "And then you kissed me. Without warning, without preamble. Like last night."

Carlos inhales sharply, as if the connection between his action last night and this fictional story is too intense to fully process. "And what happened after?"

"It was complicated, of course. F1 isn't exactly the most welcoming environment for this type of relationship. We agreed to keep it private. In public, we remained simply drivers, sometimes rivals, sometimes cordial. But in private..."

"In private," Carlos repeats, his voice notably lower.

Oscar feels an involuntary shiver at Carlos's tone, a physical reaction that disconcerts him. Why is his body reacting this way? Is it just the situation, the forced intimacy of being trapped in this strange time with a man he considers his rival in his own time?

"In private," he continues, keeping his voice steady despite his internal confusion, "we discovered there was something between us that transcended competition. A connection neither of us expected but that turned out to be... meaningful."

The car stops in the circuit's reserved parking, but neither makes a move to get out immediately. There's an intimacy in the confined space that Oscar finds surprisingly comfortable.

"You know what I find strangest about all this?" Carlos finally says. "That it's not so hard for me to believe. The idea of us. It doesn't feel... impossible."

Oscar looks at him, really looks at him for the first time this morning, and what he sees disconcerts him. There's an openness in Carlos's eyes, a vulnerability that the 2024 Carlos would never show, at least not to him. And more disturbing still, there's a beauty in that young, open face that Oscar can't deny.

It's as if he's seeing Carlos for the first time, without the filter of rivalry, without the barriers of competition. And what he sees is a young man, attractive, complex, full of dreams and fears that haven't yet been tempered—or perhaps hardened—by the years.

"We have to go in," Oscar says, breaking the moment before it can deepen further, before these confusing thoughts can take more shape. "You have qualifying to prepare for."

Carlos nods, though he seems reluctant to leave the conversation. "We'll continue this later," he says, and it's not a question but a promise.

A promise that makes Oscar feel a disconcerting mixture of anticipation and fear.

The day passes in a haze of activity. Oscar watches qualifying from the Toro Rosso garage. Carlos finishes in a respectable P9, a decent result for Toro Rosso in 2016. The Mercedes dominate the front row, as expected, while Max Verstappen qualifies in a surprising P4 with his newly acquired Red Bull.

Everything follows the course Oscar remembers, which should be reassuring but somehow only increases his anxiety. Does this mean his presence here, his interactions with Carlos, were somehow always part of the timeline? Or is he creating a divergent reality with every word, every gesture, every half-truth he shares?

After qualifying, Carlos finds him in a quiet corner of the motorhome. There's satisfaction on his face despite not reaching the top positions.

"P9," he says. "Not bad for what we had."

"You did well," Oscar responds sincerely. "Considering the problems in turn 5."

Carlos nods, clearly pleased with the recognition. "About tomorrow... your prediction about Max. If he really wins, like you say will happen..."

"He will," Oscar affirms with the certainty of someone who knows the future.

"If he does," Carlos continues, "I want you to know I'll help you with whatever you need. Documentation, resources, whatever."

"Thanks," Oscar says, and he means it sincerely. Regardless of the emotional complexities that are developing, Carlos's practical help is his only anchor in this strange time.

"There's a team dinner tonight," Carlos says. "I can't avoid it. But afterward, maybe we could continue our conversation." There's an expectation in his voice that makes Oscar feel a mixture of anticipation and fear. "Maybe you could tell me more... about us."

The words are loaded with meaning that Oscar can't ignore. Carlos isn't simply interested in their supposed joint future; he's actively exploring the possibility that this future could begin now, in this displaced time.

"Sure," Oscar responds, ignoring the internal voice warning him that he's venturing into increasingly deep waters.

Night arrives faster than Oscar expected. Alone in his hotel room, he mentally reviews the narrative he's been constructing, adding details, context, moments that could have occurred in this fictional relationship. What's disturbing is how vivid these scenarios are in his mind, as if he were remembering real events instead of fabricating them.

And even more disturbing: how easy it is to imagine Carlos in these intimate scenarios. Not the 2024 Carlos, but this young Carlos, with his open smile and eyes full of possibilities.

This is getting out of control, Oscar thinks as he lies on the bed, waiting for Carlos to return from his dinner. I came looking for help, not... this.

But even as he thinks it, another part of him, a part that's becoming increasingly difficult to ignore, wonders if "this"—whatever it is—is really as unwanted as he pretends to believe.

The knock on the door comes shortly after eleven. Oscar gets up from the bed where he's been mentally reviewing all the lies he's told, trying to keep his fictional narrative coherent. He takes a deep breath before opening it.

Carlos is there, with a paper bag in his hand and a tired but genuine smile.

"I brought tea," he says as he enters. "And some sugar-free cookies. I can't afford anything heavier the night before a race."

Oscar nods, appreciating this detail that reflects Carlos's professionalism. 

Carlos moves through the room with a familiarity that should feel invasive but somehow isn't. He prepares the tea in the cups he ordered with the tray, his movements precise and efficient.

Oscar notices that Carlos has changed from his casual clothes into something more considered: dark jeans and a navy shirt that brings out the tone of his skin. He's made an effort, he realizes. He's dressed up for him.

The idea should alarm him, but instead, he feels an unexpected warmth spreading through his chest.

"How are you feeling about tomorrow?" Oscar asks, opting to start with something safe, professional.

Carlos hands Oscar a cup of tea before sitting beside him on the room's small sofa, noticeably closer than would be strictly necessary. There's a domesticity to the scene that's surprisingly comfortable.

"Honestly, we don't have the pace to be among the front-runners," Carlos responds, and there's a frankness in his assessment that Oscar finds refreshing. "But I think we can fight for points, especially if there's chaos ahead."

"There will be," Oscar says without thinking, then bites his tongue. He shouldn't be giving more details about tomorrow's race.

Carlos looks at him with curiosity. "You know exactly what's going to happen tomorrow, don't you? Not just Max's victory, but every detail of the race."

Oscar nods reluctantly. "I know the important points. It's F1 history. The youngest driver to win a Grand Prix."

"It must be strange," Carlos reflects, gently blowing on his tea. "Being here, knowing how it will all unfold."

"It is," Oscar admits. "Especially because I can't do anything to change it, even if I wanted to."

"Why not?"

Oscar considers how to explain it. "Because if I changed something significant, I could alter the entire timeline. I could create paradoxes, affect my own future, even prevent myself from reaching F1."

"So," Carlos says slowly, "do you think your presence here was always part of history? That this always happened?"

It's a surprisingly profound question, revealing a facet of Carlos that Oscar had never considered: a thinker, someone capable of contemplating the philosophical complexities of time travel.

"I don't know," he responds honestly. "I don't know if this is a closed loop where I was always here, or if I've created an alternative reality simply by appearing." He pauses. "But what I do know is that I have to tread carefully. I can't risk changing important events."

Carlos nods, absorbed in the response. Then, with a transition that seems casual but that Oscar suspects is calculated, he changes the subject: "So," he says, taking a sip of tea, "where did we leave off in our conversation?"

Oscar feels a shiver of anticipation. "We were talking about how our... relationship began."

"Ah, yes. Singapore. An unexpected kiss." Carlos smiles, a slow and considered smile that makes Oscar wonder how he never noticed before how expressive his face is. "Tell me more. What's it like... being together, in the future?"

Oscar knows he should be cautious, measured in his responses. But something about the intimacy of the moment, about Carlos's genuine curiosity, pushes him to elaborate the fiction with more detail than he'd planned. It's almost as if part of him wants to explore this alternative reality, this world where he and Carlos share something meaningful.

"It's complicated," he begins, falling back on his usual response. "But also surprisingly simple, sometimes. We have our codes, our signals. Ways of communicating in public that no one else understands."

"Like what?" Carlos's fascination is palpable.

Oscar smiles, making it up as he goes. "Like adjusting your watch during drivers' meetings when you want us to meet afterward. Or using a certain phrase in interviews that means you need to talk privately."

"What phrase?" Carlos leans forward, completely absorbed.

Oscar hadn't thought of that specific detail. "When you mention that 'conditions were challenging,' you're not talking about the track, but that you had a difficult day and need company."

"That's... clever," Carlos says, clearly delighted with these details. "And where do we meet? It can't be easy, with so many people always around."

"Hotel rooms, mainly," Oscar responds, staying on safe ground. "Sometimes in my apartment in Monaco, or yours. When schedules allow."

"Do I have an apartment in Monaco in 2024?"

Oscar laughs. "Nice try, again. I'm not going to give you details about your life that could influence your decisions."

Carlos sighs theatrically, but there's a smile in his eyes. "You can't blame me for trying." He pauses, taking a sip of tea. "How are we when we're alone? I mean, I know how I am with friends, with family, but I've never..."

He leaves the sentence unfinished, but Oscar understands. Carlos has never been in a relationship with a man, never explored this aspect of himself that perhaps has always existed beneath the surface.

Oscar looks away, unable to sustain that intensity. He finds himself elaborating a response he hadn't planned, words that emerge not from calculated manipulation but from some deeper, more honest place.

"You're softer," he says. "Less the calculating driver and more the kid who still gets excited about racing. More open about your insecurities, about the pressures of being 'the son of.' You speak more Spanish when we're alone, especially when..." He stops, aware he's entering dangerous territory.

"Especially when?" Carlos's voice is barely a murmur.

"When we're intimate," Oscar completes, and the words hang between them, loaded with implications.

Carlos inhales sharply, and when Oscar finally dares to look at him again, he sees that his pupils are dilated, his cheeks slightly flushed. "And you? How are you when we're alone?"

Oscar considers the question, surprised by how easy it is to imagine this version of himself that has never existed. "I'm less reserved. More willing to show vulnerability. Less the perfectly controlled driver and more... just Oscar."

"What's just Oscar like?" There's a tenderness in the question that completely disarms Oscar.

"Someone who doubts," he responds, and the honesty surprises him. "Someone who sometimes feels overwhelmed by expectations, by the pressure to always do the right thing, to be perfect. Someone who's afraid of not measuring up."

Carlos nods slowly, as if he really understands. "It sounds like... with me you could be yourself."

"Yes," Oscar says, and it's terrifying how true this response feels. "With you I don't have to pretend."

A meaningful silence stretches between them. Oscar knows he's on dangerous ground. Every word he says deepens a lie he'll eventually have to dismantle. But also, inexplicably, every word feels like a truth he's discovering about himself.

"What's it like... physically?" Carlos finally asks, his voice almost inaudible. "Between us."

Oscar feels his heart accelerate. This is a line he hadn't foreseen crossing. It's one thing to invent secret codes and clandestine meetings, quite another to elaborate intimate details.

"We don't have to talk about that," Carlos says quickly, interpreting his silence as discomfort. "I'm sorry, that was inappropriate."

"No, it's okay," Oscar responds, surprising himself. "I was just thinking about how to describe it."

Carlos waits, his gaze intense but patient.

"It's... different," Oscar begins. "Different from what I'd experienced before. There's an intensity that comes from sharing so much: the passion for the same sport, understanding the pressures, the sacrifices."

He stops, searching for the right words, aware that he's creating a fictional intimacy that could have very real consequences.

"At first you were... cautious," he continues. "Uncertain. It was new for you, being with a man. But then, when you found confidence..." Oscar leaves the sentence intentionally unfinished, allowing Carlos's imagination to complete the picture.

Carlos seems to absorb these words as if they were sacred revelations. "And for you? Was it new too, or...?"

"Not entirely," Oscar responds, opting for honesty in this aspect. "I'd been with men before. But with you it was different. More meaningful."

Carlos nods, processing this information. "And no one knows? At all?"

"Very few," Oscar says. "My physio. Your personal assistant. People we trust implicitly."

"My father doesn't know, does he?" There's tangible anxiety in the question.

Oscar shakes his head. "Not in 2024. But," he adds, inventing a detail he knows Carlos needs to hear, "you've talked about telling him. You've said you think he'd eventually understand."

The relief on Carlos's face is palpable. "I hope so," he says softly. "I couldn't bear to disappoint him."

There's such raw vulnerability in these words that Oscar feels an even more acute pang of guilt. He's playing with real emotions, real fears. Carlos is showing him parts of himself he's probably never shared with anyone else, and he's responding with elaborate fictions.

"You wouldn't disappoint him," he says, and this time the affirmation comes from the heart. "Your father loves you. He always has, he always will."

Carlos smiles, a tremulous but genuine smile. "Thank you for saying that."

There's a moment of silence, comfortable but charged with unexpressed emotions. Oscar takes a sip of his tea, now lukewarm, aware that the conversation has taken a deeper turn than he'd anticipated.

"Another question," Carlos says after a moment. "Does our relationship... affect our competition on track?"

Oscar smiles, grateful for the shift to a slightly less emotionally charged topic. "Not at all. On track, we're as competitive as ever. In fact," he adds with a mischievous smile, "sometimes you're especially aggressive with me just so no one suspects."

Carlos laughs, a light and genuine sound that Oscar finds surprisingly melodious. "That sounds like something I'd do. Strategically calculated."

"It is," Oscar confirms. "You're a master at keeping up appearances. Except for one detail."

"Which is?"

"Your eyes," Oscar says, surprising himself with the response. "The way you look at me when you think no one's watching. It's different. Softer. And if someone paid enough attention, they'd notice."

Carlos seems momentarily speechless, as if this specific observation had affected him more deeply than everything before. "Like how I'm looking at you now?" he finally asks, his voice barely a whisper.

Oscar finds himself caught in that gaze, in those dark eyes that suddenly seem to contain universes. "Yes," he responds softly. "Exactly like that."

The air between them seems to charge with static electricity. Oscar knows he's one step away from crossing a line he shouldn't cross, from allowing this fiction to become something real, tangible.

"Carlos," he says, trying to break the spell. "You should rest. Tomorrow is the race."

Carlos blinks, as if coming out of a trance. "Yes, you're right." But he doesn't immediately move to get up.

"One last question for tonight," he says instead. "In the future, in those moments when it's just us... who says 'I love you' first? Is it me, or is it you?"

The question takes Oscar completely off guard. It's so specific, so loaded with vulnerability, that for a moment he doesn't know how to respond. The truth, of course, is that neither has ever said it, because no such relationship exists. But looking at Carlos now, seeing the hope and fear intermingled in his eyes...

"It's you," he says softly. "You've always been braver than me in that regard. I was afraid to say it first, afraid of showing so much of myself, of being so vulnerable. But you... you just said it one night, as if it were the most natural thing in the world."

Carlos smiles, a smile that illuminates his entire face in a way Oscar has never seen in the 2024 Carlos. "I like that future," he says simply. "It sounds like the kind of person I'd like to be."

He finally gets up, collecting the empty cups and placing them on the tray. His movements are deliberate, as if he's trying to prolong their time together.

"Tomorrow will be an important day," he says as he heads to the door. "For the team, for Max... and for us."

Oscar nods, aware of the multiplicity of meanings in those words. "It will be."

At the door, Carlos stops, turning to look at Oscar one last time. There's so much in that look—hope, nervousness, determination—that Oscar feels like he could drown in its intensity.

"Good night, Oscar," he finally says.

"Good night, Carlos."

The door closes, and Oscar is left alone with the echo of a conversation that shouldn't have affected him as much as it has. He realizes, with disturbing clarity, that he's beginning to believe in his own fiction. Worse still, he's beginning to want it.

He goes to bed, aware that tomorrow is the decisive day. If his prediction about Max comes true, Carlos will commit completely to helping him. He'll get the documentation, the resources, everything he needs to survive in this strange time.

But as he drifts toward sleep, it's not these practical considerations that occupy his mind, but the image of Carlos smiling, saying "I like that future." And most disturbing of all: Oscar discovers that he likes it too. He likes it more than he dares to admit, even to himself.

 

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

Chapter 6: Solar Flare

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

 

Sunday dawns with the contained tension that only a race day can generate. Oscar wakes gradually, his mind reorganizing the events of the previous night: the shared confessions, the growing intimacy, the story he continues to elaborate that, alarmingly, is beginning to feel like an alternative reality rather than a calculated lie.

He remains motionless for a moment, watching how the early light filters through the curtains. Images from his conversation with Carlos remain vivid in his mind: the vulnerability in Carlos's eyes when he asked about his father's reaction, the way his face lit up when Oscar described their fictional relationship, the intensity of his gaze when he asked who had said "I love you" first.

What am I becoming? he wonders, feeling a mixture of disgust at his ease with lying and a disturbing fascination with how convincing his own fiction proves to be. He's no longer simply manipulating Carlos; he's creating an entire world, an alternative universe where they share something deep, meaningful. And most unsettling: part of him is beginning to inhabit that imaginary world with too much comfort.

He pushes those thoughts aside—there are more important matters. Today is the day. Max Verstappen will win his first Formula 1 race. The Mercedes will crash on the first lap. History will follow its course, validating Oscar's identity as a time traveler and securing Carlos's help.

He prepares methodically, as if getting ready for his own race. The routine provides an anchor amid the uncertainty that characterizes his current existence. As he dresses in Carlos's borrowed clothes, he notices a tension in his stomach he can't attribute solely to anticipation for the race.

Carlos's clothes are a constant reminder of the Spaniard's presence in his life, as if he were literally wrapped in him. Oscar finds himself pausing for a moment, unconsciously bringing the fabric of the shirt toward his face, perceiving the subtle scent of fabric softener mixed with something indefinable that must be Carlos's essence. The gesture surprises him, and he quickly lowers the shirt, disconcerted by his own behavior.

There's something else, an anxiety related to Carlos, to the web of half-truths and complete lies he's been weaving, to the way his own emotional response has taken him by surprise. He hadn't anticipated this when he began his deception, this confusion between what's real and what he's fabricated, this blurring of boundaries between strategic manipulation and genuine desire.

The knock on the door comes punctually at 7:30. Oscar takes a deep breath, composes his expression, and opens it.

Carlos is there, already dressed in his Toro Rosso uniform, his expression a mixture of pre-race concentration and something softer, something reserved exclusively for him. His eyes briefly linger on Oscar, taking him in from top to bottom with an appreciation that makes him feel unexpected warmth spreading through his chest.

"Good morning," Carlos says, and there's an intimacy in his voice that wasn't there two days ago, a lower, more personal tone. "Ready?"

Oscar nods, taking the Toro Rosso cap Carlos is offering him. "Ready."

In the car, Carlos is quieter than usual, absorbed in that mental zone all drivers know well before a race. Oscar respects this space, limiting himself to observing Carlos's profile as he drives.

It's fascinating to see the differences and similarities with the Carlos he knows in 2024: the same firm lines of his jaw, but without the hardness the years will add; the same intense eyes, but with an openness that time will gradually hide; the same focused concentration before a race, but without the tension that pressures from bigger teams, higher expectations, will eventually inscribe in his posture.

Oscar finds himself wondering what exactly turned this young, vulnerable, and surprisingly tender Carlos into the hard competitor and sometimes distant rival he knows in 2024. Was it professional disappointments? The constant pressure of being a champion's son? Or simply the natural hardening process that comes with years in such a ruthlessly competitive sport?

"You're nervous," Carlos suddenly observes, surprising Oscar with his perception.

"Why would I be? I already know how this race ends," Oscar responds, trying to sound lighter than he feels.

Carlos glances at him briefly before returning his attention to the road. "I don't mean the race. I mean us."

The simple clarity of the observation leaves Oscar momentarily speechless. It's disconcerting how this younger Carlos seems to read him so easily, when the Carlos of his time barely seems to register his existence off-track.

"It's complicated," he finally says, falling back on his usual response. "Being here, with you, who are Carlos but not exactly my Carlos... it's disorienting."

"I'm not yet," Carlos corrects softly. "But I will be."

There's a promise in those words that makes Oscar feel a pang of guilt. Carlos is building expectations based on a lie, and each passing hour makes the eventual truth harder to reveal.

"About that," Oscar begins, not sure exactly where he's heading. "I think we should be... cautious. The things I've told you about the future... I don't want you making decisions based on expectations of something that could change precisely because I told you about it."

Carlos considers this as they park at the circuit. "You mean us? Our relationship?"

"Everything," Oscar responds, choosing his words carefully. "Every detail I reveal could potentially alter the course of events."

"Last night you told me a lot," Carlos points out, turning off the engine but making no move to get out of the car. "About us. About how we are together."

Oscar nods, remembering the intimacy of that conversation, the lies that flowed so easily from his lips, mixed with truths about himself he'd never admitted to anyone. "I know. And maybe I shouldn't have."

"Do you regret it?" There's vulnerability in the question that makes Oscar feel another pang of guilt.

"It's not that," he responds, searching for balance between maintaining his lie and establishing some protective distance. "It's that the simple fact that you know in the future we develop feelings for each other could alter how you behave, the decisions you make."

"Or it could simply accelerate the inevitable," Carlos responds, with a confidence Oscar finds simultaneously irritating and endearing. "If we're meant to be together, maybe this is just a shortcut."

"Shortcut?"

"Yes," Carlos continues, apparently oblivious to Oscar's sudden tension. "Why wait years if we already know where we end up? I could start looking for you now. The Oscar of this time."

The idea sends a chill down Oscar's spine, a mixture of horror and guilt. This is exactly what he feared: that his lies would have real, tangible consequences, affecting not just Carlos but potentially his younger self.

"Carlos," he says, unable to completely hide the urgency in his voice, "the Oscar Piastri of this time is 15 years old."

Carlos blinks, clearly not having considered this aspect. "Oh," he says simply.

"Yes, 'oh,'" Oscar emphasizes. "You're almost seven years older than me. In 2024, that difference isn't ideal, but we can live with it. But now..." He lets the implication hang in the air, watching Carlos process this information.

"I wasn't suggesting..." Carlos begins, but stops, recognizing the impossibility. "You're right. I hadn't thought about that."

There's genuine mortification in his expression that makes Oscar feel a wave of compassion. Carlos really hadn't contemplated that aspect, so absorbed was he in the idea of a shared future.

"Besides," Oscar continues, taking advantage of the moment to establish more protective barriers, "any interference with my younger self could have catastrophic consequences. It could alter my trajectory, prevent me from reaching F1, fundamentally change who I am."

Carlos nods slowly, accepting the logic though clearly disappointed. "So we have to wait. Like the first time."

The phrase "like the first time" makes Oscar feel another pang of guilt. There is no "first time." Everything is an elaborate fiction. And yet, the disappointment in Carlos's eyes is completely real.

"What's important now," Oscar says, trying to redirect the conversation, "is finding a way back to my time. I have no idea how I got here in the first place, which makes finding the way back... complicated."

Carlos looks at him with an intensity that makes Oscar feel exposed, as if Carlos could see through all his layers of protection and lies. "But if you don't find a way back, if you're trapped here... would it be so bad?"

The question is loaded with a longing Oscar had never associated with Carlos Sainz, and makes him feel a disconcerting mixture of guilt and something else, something he's not ready to name.

"Carlos," he says softly, unable to sustain that gaze, "I don't belong here. My life, my career, everything I've built is in 2024."

And you're not really mine. Everything you think we share is an elaborate lie I've constructed to survive.

"I know," Carlos responds, and there's a resignation in his voice that makes Oscar feel unexpected pain in his chest. "But it's hard not to think about the possibilities."

Oscar nods, surprised by how much he understands that feeling. Because despite knowing it's all a lie, he too has started thinking about possibilities, about a world where he and Carlos, this Carlos, could be something more than coworkers who don't get along, something more than this strange pantomime they're performing.

"We have to go," he says, noticing the time. "You have a race to run."

Carlos nods, accepting the change of subject though his expression makes it clear the conversation isn't over, just postponed. "And you have a prediction to fulfill," he adds with a tentative smile. "Max Verstappen, winner of the 2016 Spanish Grand Prix. I still think that's a pretty wild and ambitious prediction."

"Wait and see," Oscar responds, grateful for the return to safer territory.

They get out of the car and head toward the paddock, each absorbed in their own thoughts. Oscar can't help noticing how Carlos walks slightly closer to him than necessary, how their shoulders occasionally brush, how his fingers seem to gravitate toward his before Carlos, consciously, pulls them away.

It's a subtle dance, this attraction Carlos no longer tries to completely hide, this gravity that seems to exist between them. And most disturbing of all is that Oscar finds himself responding to it, leaning imperceptibly toward Carlos when they walk, noticing the warmth of his body when they're close, experiencing an acceleration of his pulse when their eyes meet.

This is becoming dangerous, he thinks as they approach the Toro Rosso hospitality.

 

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

 

The race unfolds exactly as Oscar predicted. The Mercedes crash spectacularly on the first lap, eliminating each other from the competition. Max Verstappen, in his Red Bull debut, drives impeccably to secure his first Formula 1 victory, setting the record as the youngest winner in the sport's history.

Oscar watches it all from the Toro Rosso hospitality, a growing chill spreading through his chest with each completed lap. Until this moment, there had been a tiny possibility that everything was an elaborate hallucination, a dream from which he would eventually wake. But seeing Max cross the finish line, exactly as he knew it would happen, irrevocably confirms the truth: he's trapped in 2016, with no idea how to get back.

Carlos finishes in a respectable P6, having skillfully navigated the initial chaos. When he returns to the garage after post-race interviews, his gaze immediately seeks Oscar, cutting through the crowd of engineers and mechanics.

"You were right," he says without preamble when he finally reaches his side. "About everything."

Oscar nods mechanically. "I know."

"We need to talk," Carlos continues, his voice low but intense. "In private."

"Later," Oscar responds, struggling to maintain composure. "When you're finished here."

The rest of the afternoon passes with torturous slowness. Oscar waits, motionless in his corner of the hospitality, while Carlos fulfills his post-race obligations: technical debriefing, additional interviews, the inevitable comparison between former teammates now with Max's historic victory. But Oscar's mind is elsewhere, repeating a litany of realities that are now undeniable: I'm trapped in 2016. I'm trapped in 2016. I'm trapped in 2016.

With each repetition, the weight of what that means settles more deeply. His parents, his friends, his career, his entire life in 2024—everything is out of reach. And meanwhile, somewhere out there, a 15-year-old Oscar Piastri is living the life that belongs to him, following the path that will eventually lead him to F1.

Finally, when the sun begins to set over Barcelona, Carlos finds him to return to the hotel. The journey takes place in dense silence, interrupted only by traffic noise and the soft hum of air conditioning.

Oscar looks out the window without really seeing anything, his mind racing toward increasingly desperate conclusions. He hasn't just lost his life in 2024; he's completely adrift in 2016. Without legal identity, without resources, without a way to claim his own existence without potentially altering the course of 15-year-old Oscar's life. What options does he really have? Live like a ghost on the margins of society? Create a completely false identity? And for how long? The rest of his life?

By the time they reach the hotel, his breathing has become shallow, his hands slightly trembling. He needs to get to his room before the panic he's been containing since the race finally overwhelms him.

"Are you okay?" Carlos asks as they go up in the elevator, noticing his pallor.

"Yes," Oscar responds automatically, though his voice sounds strained even to his own ears.

Carlos looks at him with concern but doesn't press, respecting his space.

As soon as the hotel room door closes behind them, Oscar's facade begins to crumble. His legs, suddenly weak, fail him, forcing him to lean against the wall. His heart hammers against his ribcage as if trying to escape, and cold sweat covers his forehead.

"I wasn't dreaming," he murmurs, the words barely audible. "It's all real."

"Oscar," Carlos's voice sounds distant, as if through a tunnel. "What's happening?"

Oscar tries to respond, but his throat closes. The panic, which he's been keeping at bay with pure willpower, finally claims him completely. His vision narrows, darkening at the edges, and a high-pitched ringing fills his ears.

"I can't breathe," he manages to say, the words broken. "I can't..."

And then the complete implications of his situation hit him like a tsunami. He'll never see his parents again. Never hug his mum, never share another beer with his dad. All the moments they haven't lived together yet—his victories in F3 and F2, his F1 debut, all the small everyday instances that make up a family relationship—are lost to him.

"My family," he says, and this time it's a sob that escapes his throat. "I'll never see them again. They're going to... they're going to think I disappeared, that I was kidnapped, that I'm dead."

The idea of his parents suffering, desperately searching for him, maybe spending the rest of their lives not knowing what happened to him, is too much to bear. His knees finally give way, and he slides to the floor, his back still against the wall, his breathing now completely erratic.

Carlos is beside him in an instant, kneeling in front of him, his face a mask of concern. "Oscar, look at me," he says, his voice firm but gentle. "You're having a panic attack. I need you to breathe with me, okay? Slowly. In... out."

Oscar tries to focus his gaze on Carlos, on his dark, worried eyes, but the panic is like a living creature that has taken over his body. He can't control his breathing, can't stop the tremors shaking his body, can't contain the tears now running freely down his face.

"I have no idea how to get back," he says between desperate gasps. "I'll never return. My career, my life, everything... it's lost."

"Don't say that," Carlos responds with surprising firmness. He takes Oscar's face in his hands, gently forcing him to maintain eye contact. "Listen to me carefully. We're going to find a way to get you back to your time. I promise you."

Oscar shakes his head, unable to share that optimism. "How? I don't even know how I got here. It was an accident, an... an inexplicable phenomenon. What if it never happens again? What if I'm trapped here forever?"

"Then I'll help you build a new life," Carlos responds without hesitation. "But we're not giving up before we try. Look at me, Oscar. You're not alone in this. You have me."

There's so much conviction in his voice, so much determination in his eyes, that Oscar feels something inside him responding despite his desperation. A small spark of hope, fragile but present.

"Why?" he manages to ask, his voice broken. "Why are you helping me like this?"

Carlos looks at him for a long moment, as if carefully considering his response. "Because from the moment I saw you, I felt like I knew you," he finally says. "It was like a... recognition. Like finding someone you've been looking for without knowing you were looking for them."

The sincerity in his voice, the naked vulnerability in his gaze, makes something break inside Oscar. A sob escapes his throat, then another, and suddenly he's crying and can't do anything to stop it. He really is in 2016. He's trapped in 2016. And he's a damn liar who doesn't deserve Carlos's help.

Carlos says nothing more, simply wraps him in his arms, pulling him against his chest in a firm but gentle embrace. One hand slides to the nape of Oscar's neck, his fingers intertwining with the short hair there, while the other traces comforting circles on his back.

Oscar should feel ashamed of this complete emotional collapse, especially in front of Carlos—the man he's been deliberately manipulating, the rival he knows in another time. But in this moment, all those considerations seem distant, irrelevant. All that matters is the solidity of Carlos's body against his, the heat emanating from him, the steady rhythm of his heart against his cheek, the momentary safety his arms offer.

He doesn't know how long they remain like this, on the floor by the door, Carlos holding him while he releases all the fear and desperation he's been containing since appearing in this strange time. It could be minutes or hours; time loses meaning in the intimacy of this shared moment.

Gradually, the sobs diminish, his breathing normalizes, but Carlos doesn't loosen his embrace. Oscar should feel uncomfortable with this proximity, with showing so much weakness to someone he barely knows in this timeline, someone he's been deliberately manipulating. But instead, he finds unexpected comfort in the warmth of Carlos's body, in the firmness of his arms, in the steady rhythm of his heart against his chest.

"I'm sorry," he says when he finally finds the strength to pull back slightly, his eyes avoiding Carlos's out of shame. "I didn't want to break down like that."

"Look at me," Carlos says softly, waiting until Oscar raises his gaze. "You've been trapped in the past for days, completely alone with this impossible knowledge. Anyone would have broken down much sooner."

The understanding in his voice, the complete absence of judgment, makes Oscar feel a wave of gratitude so intense it's almost physical. He doesn't deserve this kindness, not after all the lies he's told, all the manipulations he's orchestrated.

"Why are you like this with me?" he asks before he can stop himself. "You barely know me. My story is completely crazy. Any reasonable person would have ignored me from the start."

Carlos considers him for a moment, his eyes scanning Oscar's face as if searching for something specific. "I already told you, because there's something about you. From the first moment I saw you. Something that... seems familiar to me, even though I know I'd never seen you before. Like I knew you from some other life."

The response is so unexpected, so free of artifice, that Oscar finds himself momentarily speechless.

"And then," Carlos continues, "when you told me that in the future we're... important to each other, something just... clicked. Like it was a truth I already knew on some level, even though my conscious mind didn't know it yet."

Oscar feels a new wave of guilt. This man is offering him such complete honesty, such genuine vulnerability, and he's responding with elaborate lies.

"Carlos," he begins, not sure what he's going to say, but feeling he needs to offer something true in return.

But Carlos shakes his head. "You don't have to say anything. I know this is complicated for you. That technically I'm not yet the person you know, that there's a whole shared future I haven't lived yet. I know you'd rather be going through this difficult moment having the support and company of your boyfriend, of the Carlos you love, instead of me."

The irony of this statement makes Oscar feel as if he's being pierced by a sword. Carlos believes the difficulty lies in that he's not yet the man Oscar knows and loves, when the truth is exactly the opposite: this young, kind, open Carlos is infinitely more attractive to Oscar than the conceited, distant idiot he knows in 2024.

"I want you to feel safe and comfortable with me," Carlos continues with a kind voice, but with a touch of seriousness. "After what happened Friday night, after kissing you without your permission... I said I wouldn't make you uncomfortable like that again. And I stand by that. But I want you to know I'm here, not just to help you find practical answers, but also... for whatever you need."

There's so much in those last words, so much barely contained promise, that Oscar feels unexpected warmth spreading through his chest. It's dangerous, this feeling growing inside him. Dangerous because it's being built on a lie, because eventually he'll have to face the truth, and when he does, everything will crumble.

But in this moment, with Carlos looking at him with those eyes full of something Oscar doesn't dare name, with the echo of their shared vulnerability still reverberating between them, he can't find the strength to keep his distance.

He's not sure who moves first. Maybe it's him, maybe it's Carlos, maybe it's a simultaneous, magnetic, inevitable movement. All he knows is that suddenly they're kissing, and it's completely different from the first time.

If Friday's kiss was an explosion of physical desire, almost desperate—with hands exploring, bodies pressing, Carlos's masculine arousal evident against his thigh—this is something entirely different. It's tender yet intense, charged with something Oscar doesn't dare name but instinctively recognizes.

Carlos's lips move against his with a sweetness that contradicts the underlying passion Oscar can feel in the subtle tremor of his hands. One cradles Oscar's face as if it were something precious, fragile, while the other rests lightly on his waist, an anchor point rather than a demand.

Oscar responds in kind, his own hands finding their way to Carlos's shoulders, feeling the comforting solidity of his presence. There's none of the adolescent frenzy of their first encounter, the impulse to rub against each other. Instead, there's an intimacy Oscar finds even more disarming.

Carlos kisses him as if he's trying to transmit wordlessly everything he just promised: support, understanding, an anchor in this strange time. And Oscar, to his own surprise, finds himself responding with an honesty he hasn't shown since arriving in 2016.

There's an intimacy in this moment that transcends the physical. It's not just the contact of their bodies, the friction of their lips, the shared heat. It's the raw vulnerability Oscar just showed, the way Carlos held him while he fell apart, the silent promise that he's not alone.

When they finally separate, both are breathing heavily, their foreheads resting against each other, their bodies still intertwined as if neither wants to be the first to break contact.

"I'm sorry," Oscar murmurs, though he's not sure what he's apologizing for. The kiss? The lie? The confusion of emotions he's experiencing?

"No," Carlos interrupts, his thumb gently tracing the outline of Oscar's lower lip, now slightly swollen from the kiss. "Don't apologize. Not unless you regret it."

Oscar considers the implicit question. Does he regret it? He should. This kiss complicates everything, deepens a lie that's already too elaborate, creates expectations he won't be able to fulfill. And yet...

"I don't regret it," he says, and it's a truth that surprises him with its certainty.

Carlos smiles, a slow and warm smile that makes something melt inside Oscar. "Good," he says simply.

"Carlos..." he murmurs almost in a whisper. "I don't know what I'm doing," he admits, and it's perhaps the most honest thing he's said since arriving in 2016.

Carlos looks at him with an intensity that makes his heart race. "Neither do I," he confesses. "But I know that being with you feels right."

It shouldn't, Oscar thinks. It shouldn't feel right when it's based on a lie. But he can't deny there's a connection between them, something that transcends the calculated manipulation he began with.

"Oscar, are you okay?" Carlos asks, pulling him from his thoughts, and the question goes far beyond the kiss, encompassing everything: the panic attack, the impossible situation, the physical comfort they're sharing.

"I don't know," he responds honestly. "But... I feel less alone now."

The simple declaration seems to mean more to Carlos than anything Oscar could have said. His face lights up with that smile that's beginning to affect Oscar in ways he hadn't anticipated.

"You'll never be alone while I'm here," Carlos says, and the promise resonates with a sincerity that makes Oscar feel a lump in his throat.

They remain like this for a moment, Carlos kneeling in front of Oscar who stays seated with his back against the wall, trapped in this bubble of intimacy that seems isolated from the rest of the world and its complexities. The closeness is comforting in a way Oscar hadn't anticipated needing.

With a fluid movement, Carlos abandons his kneeling position and sits on the floor facing Oscar, their knees brushing lightly. He takes Oscar's hands in his, his thumbs tracing soothing circles on his palms.

"I'm going to start organizing your documentation tomorrow," he says, returning to practicalities though without changing the intimate tone of his voice. "I know someone who can create an identity that will pass most basic checks. It won't be completely perfect, but it'll allow you to move around, travel, have a bank account."

"Thank you," Oscar responds, genuinely grateful despite the emotional complications developing. His fingers involuntarily intertwine with Carlos's, seeking anchor in this physical contact, in this tangible connection that assures him at least something in this strange time is real.

"And meanwhile," Carlos continues, his eyes never leaving Oscar's, "we'll research time travel, look for any similar phenomena that have been recorded, any clues about how you could have gotten here and how you might return."

"Do you think there's a way?" Oscar asks, hating the vulnerability in his voice but unable to hide it completely. In this moment, stripped of all his defenses by the panic attack, he feels raw, exposed, unable to maintain the facade of control he's been cultivating.

"There has to be," Carlos responds with a conviction Oscar wishes he could share. His free hand rises to gently caress Oscar's cheek, a gesture so tender it makes something contract painfully in his chest. "If you could come, there must be a way for you to go back. We just have to find it."

The hope in his voice is so genuine that Oscar can almost believe him, almost imagine there's a solution to his impossible situation. He leans slightly into Carlos's touch, allowing himself this small comfort.

"What if there isn't?" The question escapes before he can contain it, his deepest fear exposed. "What if I'm trapped here forever?"

Carlos looks directly at him, his eyes full of a determination Oscar finds inexplicably comforting. "Then we'll face that when the time comes. Together."

The implicit promise in that simple word—"together"—makes Oscar feel a disconcerting mixture of gratitude and guilt. Carlos is offering something precious, something based on a lie that grows in complexity with each passing moment.

Before Oscar can fully process what he's doing, he leans forward and presses his lips against Carlos's. It's not a calculated or planned kiss; it's pure need, pure instinct, the desperate search for something to anchor him to this reality, to assure him he exists, that this is real.

The first contact is soft, almost tentative, but quickly transforms into something more urgent. Oscar's lips move against Carlos's with an intensity born of desperation, fear, the need for connection. He feels the heat of Carlos's mouth, the slight roughness of his incipient beard against his skin, the mint taste of his breath. Every sensation registers with almost painful clarity, as if his senses were hyperacute, hungry for any proof this moment is real.

Carlos responds immediately, his lips moving against Oscar's with a tenderness that makes something break inside him. There's no demand in this kiss, only understanding, only comfort. Carlos's hands rise to cradle Oscar's face, his thumbs tracing soft circles on his cheeks, holding him as if he were something infinitely precious.

Oscar loses himself in the sensation, in the heat of Carlos's body so close to his, in the sound of his accelerated breathing, in the tangible, undeniable reality of this human contact. For a moment, nothing else exists: not displaced time, not lies, not the uncertain future. Only this moment, only the two of them.

When they finally separate, Oscar keeps his eyes closed for a moment, trying to capture this sensation, this momentary peace amid the chaos of his existence. He can feel Carlos's breath against his lips, still so close he could almost count his eyelashes if he opened his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs.

"Don't," Carlos responds, his voice soft but firm. "You have nothing to apologize for."

Oscar opens his eyes to find Carlos looking at him with an intensity that completely disarms him. There's something in that gaze, something so genuine, so free of artifice, that makes guilt twist in his stomach like a living snake.

"We should get up from the floor," Carlos says after a moment, offering a practical change that Oscar appreciates. "It's not the most comfortable place."

Oscar nods, allowing Carlos to help him stand. The contact of their hands, the way Carlos holds him firmly but without pressure, everything registers with almost painful clarity.

Once standing, they find themselves close again, too close for Oscar's comfort but not close enough to satisfy this new longing being born inside him. It's disconcerting, this attraction he can't—mustn't—allow himself to feel.

"Carlos," he says, trying to find words to express at least a fraction of what he's feeling. "I..."

But words elude him. How can he explain the complexity of his situation? The guilt he feels for the manipulation, mixed with gratitude for genuine comfort? The fear of being trapped in the past, along with confusion over these new feelings emerging?

Carlos waits, patient, his eyes never leaving Oscar's, giving him space to find his words. When it becomes evident Oscar can't articulate them, he simply nods, as if understanding the inexpressible.

They move toward the bed, sitting side by side on the edge. The silence between them isn't uncomfortable but contemplative, charged with possibilities and unformulated questions.

"I'm sorry for breaking down like that," Oscar finally says, needing to break the silence. "It's not like me."

"You're human," Carlos responds, his hand finding Oscar's again, their fingers intertwining as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "And you're facing something no one should have to face alone."

The simplicity of this observation, the complete absence of judgment, makes Oscar feel a wave of gratitude so intense it's almost physical. He turns to look at Carlos, really look at him, and finds himself captivated by what he sees: the strong line of his jaw, the soft curve of his lips, the intensity of his dark eyes watching him with a mixture of concern and something else, something Oscar doesn't dare name.

In this moment, the Carlos Sainz of 2024 doesn't exist, the stubborn rival, the arrogant competitor. Only this Carlos exists, here and now, with his open vulnerability and unshakeable kindness.

Oscar leans in again, driven by a need he can't fully explain, and captures Carlos's lips in another kiss. Their lips meet with deliberate slowness, savoring every sensation, every small movement.

Oscar feels the world fade around them as he loses himself in the softness of Carlos's lips, in the perfect way they fit against his. His hands move of their own accord, one sliding to the nape of Carlos's neck, tangling in his surprisingly soft hair, the other gripping his shoulder, feeling the firmness of muscles under the fabric of his t-shirt.

Carlos responds with an almost imperceptible sigh that Oscar feels more than hears, a warm exhalation against his lips that sends a shiver down his spine. There's something addictive about the way Carlos surrenders to the kiss, without reservations but without pressure, following the rhythm Oscar establishes.

Time stretches, distorts, until Oscar isn't sure if seconds or minutes have passed. He only knows that when they finally separate, both are breathing with difficulty, their foreheads resting against each other, sharing the same warm air.

Oscar opens his eyes to find Carlos looking at him with an intensity that completely disarms him. His pupils are dilated, almost completely darkening the brown of his irises, and there's a subtle blush spreading across his cheeks. It's such an intimate vision, so real, that Oscar feels something contract painfully in his chest.

"You have freckles," Carlos says softly, his thumb tracing an invisible pattern on Oscar's cheek. "They're barely noticeable unless you're really close."

Oscar feels unexpected warmth spreading across his face. No one has noticed his freckles in years, certainly no one in the F1 world. They're so subtle they're only visible under certain light, at certain distances. People always notice his moles, but almost never the freckles.

"There's one in particular," Carlos continues, his finger stopping just below Oscar's right eye. "Here. It's darker than the others."

The fact that Carlos has noticed this detail, that he's observed Oscar with such attention, makes him feel a vulnerability he hasn't experienced in a long time.

"I'd like to know each one of them," Carlos says, his voice a mixture of determination and wonder. His fingers trace Oscar's face with a delicacy that seems impossible for hands accustomed to the wheel of a Formula 1 car. "Trace them like constellations...  Pecoso," he murmurs, the Spanish word rolling off his tongue with a naturalness that makes Oscar shiver.

Oscar doesn't speak Spanish, but the meaning is unmistakable from the way Carlos traces his freckles with his gaze while pronouncing the word, from the tenderness with which he says it, like a sonic caress.

"That's what you call me, in the future, when we're alone," he says, the lie flowing with alarming ease. "You always refer to me with Spanish words."

Carlos smiles, his eyes lighting up. "Do I?"

"Yes," Oscar responds without thinking. "You say some things just don't sound the same in English."

Carlos nods slowly, as if this confirms something he already suspected about himself. "That makes sense," he says, his gaze never leaving Oscar's. "Spanish is my mother tongue. It comes more naturally, especially when I speak from... when emotions are strong."

He pauses, as if considering his next words carefully. "There are things that in English don't sound the same, that lose something in translation. And what I feel—" he stops, correcting himself, "what I will feel for you, would have to come from the heart. And the heart always speaks in the language we learned to name the world with. It's like... like Spanish were the language of my soul, you know?"

Oscar nods, surprised by the depth of this observation, by the vulnerability Carlos is showing in sharing it. The confession is so genuine, so free of artifice, that he feels as if he's being physically crushed by the weight of his own lie. Carlos is opening his heart, sharing something precious, and he's responding with elaborate fictions.

Before he can sink completely into guilt, Carlos eliminates the distance between them and kisses him again. This kiss is different from the previous ones, deeper, more significant. Carlos's lips move against his with deliberate slowness, savoring, exploring, memorizing.

Oscar loses himself in the sensation, in the heat, in the connection. His hands find their way to Carlos's back, feeling the solidity of his presence, the security he provides. For an instant, he forgets everything—the lies, the time travel, the guilt—and simply exists in this moment, with this man who has shown a kindness and understanding he never would have expected.

When they finally separate, both are slightly breathless. Carlos's eyes, dilated and full of a heat Oscar can feel almost physically, scan his face as if memorizing every detail, as if trying to reconcile this present moment with a future he believes inevitable.

Carlos is the one who breaks the silence, his voice slightly hoarse. "You should rest," he says, his tone soft but decided. "You've had a very difficult day. Tomorrow will be easier, I promise."

The consideration in these words, the way Carlos is prioritizing Oscar's wellbeing above his own evident desires, is another blow to Oscar's already fractured conscience. This man, who believes in a shared future that doesn't exist, is showing a kindness Oscar doesn't deserve at all.

"Carlos, I—" he begins, but the words to express the complexity of what he's feeling simply don't exist.

"It's okay," Carlos interrupts softly, as if understanding the inexpressible. "You don't need to say anything now. We'll have time. Lots of time."

The implicit promise in these words makes Oscar feel a new wave of guilt. Because there won't be "lots of time." Eventually, the truth will come to light, and when it does, everything they're building will crumble like a house of cards.

Carlos gets up from the bed, his movements fluid but somewhat reluctant, as if leaving Oscar requires physical effort. "Tomorrow we'll start with everything," he says, his voice warm despite the growing distance between them. "Documents, research, whatever's necessary."

"Sounds good," Oscar responds, grateful for the return to practicalities.

Carlos heads toward the door, each step increasing the distance between them in a way Oscar finds simultaneously relieving and painful. Before leaving, he turns one last time, his hand on the doorknob.

"Rest, Oscar," he says, his voice soft. "And don't worry. Trust me. We're going to figure this out together." A small smile touches his lips, almost shy. "After all, someday I'll be your boyfriend. You better than anyone should know I always keep my promises and I'm completely reliable. So believe me, we're going to find a solution."

The declaration, so full of certainty, so free of doubt, hits Oscar like a physical punch. The guilt he'd been keeping at bay returns with renewed force, threatening to drown him.

"Good night, Carlos," he manages to say, hoping his voice doesn't reveal the emotional storm he's experiencing.

"Good night, Oscar."

The door closes with a soft click, and Oscar is left alone with the echo of Carlos's words resonating in his mind. Someday I'll be your boyfriend. I always keep my promises. The irony is so cruel it almost draws a hysterical laugh from him.

He collapses onto the bed, physically exhausted but mentally hyperactive. Images from the day replay in his mind like a looping movie: Max winning his first race, Carlos returning radiant after his P6, the panic that consumed him when he finally accepted the reality of his situation, the shared kisses, the tenderness in Carlos's eyes when he traced his freckles.

Guilt settles in his stomach like a cold stone, heavy and relentless. He can no longer deceive himself. He's crossed a line he should never have crossed. What began as a pragmatic lie, a calculated manipulation to ensure his survival, has become something much more insidious, more harmful.

Carlos believes in him with unwavering faith. Carlos is building dreams and hopes about a future that doesn't exist. Carlos is opening his heart, revealing vulnerabilities he's probably never shared with anyone else. And every word Oscar says, every half-truth, every deliberate omission, only deepens the eventual betrayal.

He should confess. He should tell the truth now, before the situation becomes even more complicated, before Carlos's feelings deepen to a point of no return.

But Oscar knows, with painful clarity, that he's already passed that point. The truth now wouldn't just mean losing the practical help he desperately needs; it would mean devastating Carlos in a way he can't bear to contemplate. Seeing the trust in his eyes transform into betrayal, hope become pain, warmth turn to cold disappointment.

I can't tell him the truth. That would mean losing him, Oscar thinks, the realization hitting him with almost painful clarity. I can't lose him. Not now. Not when he's the only real thing I have in this strange time.

And so, Oscar makes a decision he knows will condemn him: he'll keep lying. He'll keep feeding Carlos's hopes. He'll keep pretending there's a future where they're happy together. And meanwhile, he'll try to find a way back to 2024, to escape the consequences of his actions, to avoid facing the damage he'll inevitably cause.

Guilt is a price he'll have to pay. A price that will increase with every smile from Carlos, with every caress, with every promise of a tomorrow that will never come. But for now, it's a price he's willing to assume.

 

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

 

Chapter 7: Meteor Shower

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

 

Through the poorly closed curtains, the first rays of sunlight filter in and draw geometric patterns on the opposite wall of the hotel room. Oscar wakes up slowly, without needing an alarm.

The memory of the kisses he shared with Carlos resurfaces with an intensity that unsettles him. These aren't vague or diffuse impressions; he can remember exactly the specific pressure of his lips, the particular taste of his mouth, the rough sensation of his incipient beard against his skin. The way his fingers became momentarily tangled in his hair, how the warmth of his body transmitted through the fabric of his shirt. Details he shouldn't remember so vividly, that he shouldn't replay mentally with such precision, that he certainly shouldn't yearn to repeat.

But he does. He craves them. And this realization is almost as disturbing as his temporal situation.

Oscar sighs, running a hand over his face as if he could physically erase these thoughts. He sits up slowly and looks around the hotel room that has become his temporary refuge.

How did he get to this? Just a few days ago—though chronologically speaking, eight years from now—he and Carlos Sainz were professional rivals with a tense relationship at best. Oscar had always considered him arrogant, privileged, too dependent on his natural charisma and surname to compensate for what, in his opinion, was talent barely above average. And now he's here, reliving their kisses like a teenager, craving contact that should repel him.

He gets up with a frustrated grunt and heads to the bathroom. The hot shower should help clear his thoughts. He lets the water hit his body while trying to focus on what really matters. With each drop that falls, he tries to wash away the confusion, the guilt, the inappropriate desires as well.

He needs to establish clear priorities. First: documentation, resources, an identity that allows him to move through this time that isn't his. Second: understand how he got here and, crucially, how he can return. And third...

Third is what worries him as the water falls on his tense shoulders. He needs to recalibrate his relationship with Carlos, establish clear boundaries, protect himself and—though it's painful to admit—also protect Carlos from the inevitable disappointment that will come when the truth comes to light or when Oscar finds a way to return to his time.

Last night's kisses were a mistake. A moment of weakness, of extreme vulnerability after accepting the reality of his situation. He can't allow it to happen again, not when he knows that for Carlos each physical contact reinforces an idea of a shared future that simply doesn't exist.

Oscar turns off the faucet and wraps himself in a towel, deliberately avoiding his reflection in the fogged mirror. He's not ready to face the image of an Oscar Piastri who emotionally manipulates someone, who builds hopes on foundations of lies. An Oscar Piastri he doesn't recognize, doesn't want to recognize.

As he dresses in Carlos's borrowed clothes, he forces himself to face the most uncomfortable truth: last night he kissed Carlos not only out of weakness or vulnerability, but because he wanted to. Because in the midst of the absolute chaos that is his current situation, Carlos represents the only tangible thing, the only real thing. An anchor in the middle of the storm. And clinging to that anchor, feeling its solidity, its warmth, provided him with a comfort he hadn't anticipated needing so desperately.

But using Carlos that way, taking advantage of his emerging feelings to obtain emotional comfort while lying to him about a shared future, is despicable even by the lowest standards. And Oscar, despite the impossible situation he finds himself in, has always prided himself on maintaining certain ethical principles.

The idea that he's betraying those principles, that he's doing something fundamentally immoral to someone who has only shown him kindness and understanding, is almost unbearable. Carlos deserves something better than this. He deserves honesty, or at least doesn't deserve such elaborate manipulation, so cruel in its inevitable consequences.

A soft knock on the door interrupts his ruminations. Oscar takes a deep breath before opening, surprised to find Carlos with a paper bag in one hand and a cup holder with two coffees in the other.

"Good morning," he says with that smile that Oscar is beginning to expect, even anticipate with a mixture of longing and guilt. "I thought we could have breakfast here."

Oscar finds himself inexplicably mesmerized for an instant. Carlos's smile lights up his face in a way he hadn't noticed before, creating small wrinkles around his eyes, a subtle asymmetry that somehow makes him more attractive, more human.

"Thanks," he responds, stepping aside to let him in. "You didn't have to go to the trouble."

"It's no trouble," Carlos replies, placing the food on the small table by the window. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee and warm bread fills the room. "I know a bakery nearby that makes the best croissants in Barcelona."

Oscar watches how Carlos organizes breakfast with practical efficiency, taking out croissants, a small jar of homemade jam, some fresh fruit. There's something surprisingly domestic about the scene, something that completely contradicts the image of the arrogant driver that Oscar has always associated with Carlos Sainz.

"Did you sleep well?" Carlos asks, sitting down and offering him one of the coffees.

"Better than expected," he responds, taking a seat across from him. "And you?"

"Honestly? I barely slept," he admits, breaking a croissant in half, the aroma of butter and baked dough intensifying. "Too many things on my mind."

Oscar nods, understanding perfectly. "It's a lot to process."

A silence settles between them as they begin to eat, but it's not uncomfortable. Oscar finds a certain comfort in this simple shared routine, in the rhythm of a normal meal in the midst of completely abnormal circumstances.

"About last night," Oscar begins after a few minutes, deciding he needs to address what happened before it becomes an elephant in the room. "I think I owe you an apology."

Carlos frowns, confusion evident on his face as he takes a sip of coffee. "An apology? Why?"

Oscar searches for the right words, needing to be sincere without revealing the whole truth. "For my behavior. For... kissing you."

Carlos sets his coffee down on the table. "You have nothing to apologize for," he responds with a gentleness that makes Oscar feel another stab of guilt. "You were vulnerable, having just accepted the reality of your situation. It was an emotionally intense moment."

Carlos pauses, sliding his finger along the edge of the cup in a thoughtful gesture. "You needed something to hold onto in the midst of all that chaos. And I understand that's what I was for you last night: proof that you're not completely alone in this."

The precision of this observation leaves Oscar momentarily speechless. It's exactly what he had been thinking, as if Carlos had read his thoughts, as if he had seen directly through the layers of confusion and self-deception.

"Still, Carlos," he insists, crumbling a piece of croissant between his fingers without taking it to his mouth, "it wasn't fair to you. I wasn't thinking clearly and I took something I had no right to take."

"So what if you weren't thinking clearly?" Carlos responds, leaning slightly forward over the small table. "Sometimes, Oscar, those moments when we're not overthinking every action, every word, are the most honest. Maybe kissing me was exactly what you needed in that moment, and there's nothing wrong with acknowledging that."

Carlos sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Look, I understand this is complicated. That for you there's a whole additional dimension of confusion because I'm not exactly the man you love. But that doesn't mean you should punish yourself for seeking comfort where you could find it."

Oscar looks at him with a mixture of surprise and something more complex. Carlos's emotional maturity completely baffles him, contradicts everything he thought he knew about him.

"You didn't take anything I wasn't willing to give," Carlos says finally, his voice lower, more intimate, as he pushes a piece of fruit toward Oscar as if wanting to make sure he's eating properly. "And I understand perfectly the difference between a kiss born from the need for comfort and one born from desire." He pauses, considering his next words. "I don't expect our relationship to change or evolve faster because of last night. I know it's complicated for you, that technically I'm not the man you know, that you love."

The sincerity in these words makes Oscar feel as if he's being physically crushed by the weight of his own lie. Carlos is interpreting his actions through the prism of the fictional story that Oscar has constructed, giving them meaning and context they don't have in reality. And the most painful part: he's being incredibly understanding and considerate based on that erroneous interpretation.

"Carlos," is all he can say, guilt closing his throat like an invisible hand.

"It's okay, really. No pressure, no expectations. I just want to help you find your way back to your time, to your version of me."

Oscar nods, swallowing the lump in his throat as he takes a sip of coffee to disguise his turmoil. "Do you have any... news about the documentation?"

Carlos accepts the change of subject naturally. "There's someone who can help."

"And you trust this person? They won't ask questions?"

Carlos shrugs, brushing a crumb off his pants. "He won't ask questions. Not of me."

There's something in his tone that makes Oscar stop halfway to bringing the coffee to his lips. "Because of your surname?"

Carlos's expression changes subtly, like a passing shadow that momentarily darkens his features. His jaw tenses imperceptibly, and Oscar notices how his fingers close more tightly around the coffee cup.

"Yes. Being a Sainz opens doors," he responds finally, and there's something in his voice, an underlying tension, that Oscar had never detected before. "My father has... contacts everywhere. People who owe him favors, people who want to be in his circle of influence. Plus money is never a problem. So yes, being a Sainz is convenient, I suppose... As for how you got here," Carlos continues, changing the subject with a naturalness that suggests he's not completely comfortable with the direction the conversation was taking, "I did some research last night. Time travel, theories, reported cases..."

"Did you find anything useful?"

"Mostly conspiracy nonsense and science fiction, to be honest," he responds, finishing his croissant. "But there are some interesting theories in theoretical physics. Wormholes, particles that can exist in two places at the same time... things that are way above my understanding, honestly."

"Mine too," Oscar admits with an ironic smile.

"But there's something that comes up repeatedly in various accounts," he adds, leaning slightly forward, his eyes shining with that particular enthusiasm that Oscar recognizes from technical meetings. "The idea that these... temporal displacements are sometimes linked to specific astronomical events. Planetary alignments, eclipses, that sort of thing."

Oscar considers this carefully. "There might be something there. Now that I think about it... The day I... came here, there was some kind of astronomical phenomenon. Some people mentioned it though I didn't pay much attention because honestly I had more important things to focus on. But... I think they talked about an unusual planetary conjunction, with some particular constellation? I don't remember it well."

"Really?" Carlos's eyes light up. "That could be important. If you were able to travel during a specific astronomical event, maybe you need a similar one to return."

"How could we investigate that?" Oscar feels a tingle of hope.

"We could look up astronomical calendars, see what events are scheduled for the coming months. I could even discreetly ask some contacts at the University of Valencia... We'll also need to get you clothes," Carlos continues. "You can't keep wearing mine indefinitely. Especially if you come to Monaco with us."

"Monaco?"

"Yes, the next race is there. In less than two weeks," Carlos confirms. "We need to make sure you can travel with us, at least until we find a way to send you back."

Oscar considers the implications. "And how will you explain my presence? I don't think I can go again as a friend who's visiting."

Carlos leans back in his chair, considering the question while chewing the last piece of croissant. "I've been thinking about that," he says finally, after finishing chewing. "The most logical thing would be for you to be my personal data engineer."

"Your what?"

"My personal data engineer," Carlos repeats with a confident smile. "Many drivers have them, especially those who come from families with resources. It's not that unusual."

"But wouldn't it raise suspicions? Suddenly showing up with an engineer nobody knows..."

Carlos shakes his head. "Not really. Small teams like Toro Rosso can't provide all the technical support that drivers would like. It's quite common for those who can afford it to hire additional analysts, specialized physical trainers, even sports psychologists, all paid out of their own pocket and independent from the team."

Oscar processes this information, beginning to see the logic. "And nobody would question my credentials?"

"Not because as I said, I would be your employer," Carlos responds with a confidence that Oscar finds simultaneously irritating and reassuring. "Besides, you have real knowledge about F1, right? You're a driver, you understand data, telemetry. You could play the role convincingly."

It's a good plan, Oscar thinks. Credible enough not to raise undue suspicion, but also flexible enough to allow him to stay close to Carlos without uncomfortable questions.

"So you wouldn't be part of Toro Rosso as such, but you'd be part of my personal team," Carlos continues, elaborating the plan. "Which means you'd travel with me, stay at my hotel, and have access to the paddock... All perfectly normal and explainable."

"And your father and your cousin?" Oscar asks. "Won't they wonder why you've suddenly hired an Australian data engineer nobody knows?"

Carlos's expression hardens slightly. "Let me handle them. I'll tell them you're an expert I've found, that I think you can help me improve my performance. I know how to handle Caco, and my father is so obsessed with results that he'll probably be delighted."

There's a subtle bitterness in these last words that Oscar can't ignore, but he decides not to press. The relationship between Carlos and his father seems to be more complicated terrain than he had imagined.

"So," Oscar summarizes, "I'll have false documentation, an identity as your personal engineer, and I'll be able to travel with you to Monaco."

"Exactly," Carlos nods. "And meanwhile, we'll investigate those astronomical phenomena, look for patterns, any clue that might help us understand how to get you back to your time."

The plan sounds solid, and Oscar feels momentary relief at having something concrete to hold onto, a structure in the midst of the chaos that is his current situation.

"By the way," Carlos adds, with a perceptible change in his voice, softer, almost shy, "I've been thinking about something you mentioned last night."

Oscar feels a slight shiver of anticipation. "What thing?"

"You said that in the future I speak to you in Spanish. So... do you know Spanish? Are you fluent?"

The question takes Oscar by surprise. He expected more questions about his supposed future relationship, not this specific detail.

"Not really," he responds honestly. "I know some basic words, but not enough to hold a conversation."

Carlos seems to process this, his expression a mixture of curiosity and something else.

"So, when I speak to you in Spanish in the future... you don't understand what I'm saying?"

"I don't understand all the words," he responds deliberately, maintaining eye contact, "but in those moments, I don't need to understand the exact words to comprehend what you're saying."

A blush now colors Carlos's cheeks. And Oscar realizes he likes seeing Carlos like this, vulnerable, slightly nervous, so different from the arrogant competitor he knows in 2024.

"The tone, the intention, the context of the moment..." Oscar continues, "are enough."

The blush on Carlos's cheeks intensifies visibly, spreading to the base of his neck, and Oscar feels unexpected satisfaction at provoking this reaction. There's something fascinating about seeing Carlos Sainz blush, knowing that he's the cause of that nervousness.

"And in what... in what kind of situations do I speak to you in Spanish?" Carlos's voice is barely a whisper now, his eyes momentarily avoiding Oscar's.

Oscar knows he should change the subject, that he's venturing into dangerous territory, but he can't resist the temptation to push a little further. He tells himself it's to maintain the credibility of his story, but deep down he knows there's something more: a desire to see how far he can take Carlos, how much he can make him blush.

"Mainly in intimate moments," he responds, his voice deliberately lower, leaning slightly forward, subtly invading Carlos's personal space. "When we're alone. When defenses come down and words flow more naturally."

Carlos swallows visibly. Oscar watches, fascinated, the effect his words have on him: the way his breathing has quickened slightly, how his Adam's apple moves up and down with each nervous swallow, the blush that has now conquered his ears as well.

"Do you... do you like it?" Carlos finally asks, with a voice that's barely audible. "Do you like it when I speak to you in Spanish?"

The question is so loaded with insecurity and hope that Oscar finds himself momentarily speechless. He should give a vague answer, change the subject, stop this line of conversation that will only deepen the lie. But instead, he finds himself responding with a sincerity that surprises even himself.

"I love it," he says, and there's a warmth in his voice that isn't feigned. "There's something about the way the words sound in your voice, deeper, more authentic somehow. I honestly find it very attractive."

And as he speaks these words, Oscar surprises himself with a disturbing realization: he's not simply inventing these details. He's expressing a fantasy he didn't know he had, an attraction to the sound of Spanish in Carlos's voice that has been present, perhaps, longer than he wants to admit.

The few times he's heard the Carlos from his time speak Spanish in the paddock, he's felt an inexplicable attraction that he's systematically dismissed as irrelevant, as inconsequential. The inherent masculinity in those sounds, the different cadence his voice adopts, the way the Rs vibrate in his throat, how the words seem to flow more naturally... all are details that Oscar has registered, has filed away, has relived in private moments without ever contextualizing them as what they really are: an attraction that completely contradicts the conscious apathy he feels toward Carlos Sainz.

He even vividly remembers an occasion after a Grand Prix, when Carlos was arguing heatedly with his cousin in Spanish, gesticulating with that Mediterranean passion he would normally ridicule as overly dramatic. In that moment, something about the intensity of his voice, the way words flowed like a powerful current, had captured Oscar's attention in a way that puzzled him. He had found himself stopped in the middle of the paddock, watching the scene from a distance, unable to look away, experiencing a physical reaction he had later refused to analyze.

"What kind of things do I say to you?" Carlos asks, interrupting his thoughts, and there's a vulnerability mixed with curiosity in his voice that makes Oscar feel an even sharper stab of guilt. He's playing with fire.

Oscar momentarily looks away, pretending to consider his response while really trying to control the heat he feels spreading through his own body. "Terms of endearment, mainly," he responds finally, deliberately choosing to maintain ambiguity. "Words whispered against my skin. Promises that sound more intense, more true in your mother tongue. Confessions that seem easier to pronounce in Spanish than in English."

He sees how these words impact Carlos, how his breathing catches, how his pupils dilate, and he feels an intoxicating power in provoking these reactions. It's cruel, he knows, feeding these fantasies with elaborate lies, but there's something addictive about seeing the always confident Carlos Sainz reduced to this state of vulnerability and barely contained desire.

"Like what?" he insists, his voice hoarse, almost unrecognizable. "What kind of... terms of endearment?"

"Cariño, mi vida, mi amor," he responds, pronouncing the words with a terrible accent that, nevertheless, makes Carlos's eyes darken even more. "There are other words you whisper when... when we're..."

He deliberately leaves the sentence unfinished, allowing Carlos's imagination to complete the scenario. He sees the immediate effect on his expression, in the way he unconsciously moistens his lips, in how his hands close into fists on the table, as if containing the impulse to reach for Oscar.

Carlos looks down, as if needing a moment to compose himself. When he raises his eyes again, there's something more than simple curiosity in them, something deeper, more personal.

"The... the first time I told you I loved you," he begins, his voice so low that Oscar has to lean closer to hear him, "was it in Spanish?"

The question takes him by surprise. It's not the turn he expected, and for a moment he's speechless, moved by the absolute vulnerability of the question. Carlos isn't asking about physical details or intimate situations, but about something much more significant, much more emotional.

"Yes," he responds finally, and the lie flows with a naturalness that disturbs him. "One night, we were at your apartment. It was very late, maybe two or three in the morning, and we had been talking for hours about everything and nothing. There was a moment of silence, and then, almost as if you couldn't contain it anymore, you said it. 'Te amo.' Just like that. No preamble, no warning. As if it were the most natural thing in the world."

Carlos's eyes shine with a contained emotion that makes Oscar feel a lump in his throat. There's something almost painful in the way Carlos absorbs every word, every detail of this fabricated story, as if he were witnessing a future he desperately longs for.

"And did I... did I seem scared?" Carlos asks, and there's so much real fear in that question, so much insecurity, that Oscar feels a stab of guilt.

"No," he responds, choosing to give Carlos the answer he clearly needs to hear. "You seemed... liberated. Like you had been holding those words back for too long, and could finally breathe by letting them out."

Carlos nods slowly, processing this, and Oscar can see he's imagining the scene, living it through his words. His eyes are slightly unfocused, as if he were looking at something in the distance, something that doesn't exist yet but that he can glimpse.

"And you?" he asks finally, returning his attention to Oscar. "What did you say?"

Oscar hadn't anticipated this question, and for a moment he's completely blank. What would he say in that situation? How would he respond to a love confession in a language he barely understands, from a man who supposedly has become so important in his life?

"I looked into your eyes," he responds finally, surprising himself with the emotional truth he finds in these invented words, "and since I didn't know how to say 'me too' in Spanish, I told you 'Te amo too'."

An instant smile lights up Carlos's face, followed by soft laughter, not mocking but full of genuine affection. "'Te amo too'?"

Oscar nods, letting himself be carried away by the story he's creating. "Yes. I wanted to respond in your language, but my Spanish was—is—terrible. So that weird mix came out. You laughed, but not cruelly. It was more like... happiness. As if my pathetic attempt to speak your language had moved you somehow."

The smile that spreads across Carlos's face is radiant, completely transforming his features. There's such pure, naked joy in that expression that Oscar feels physical pain in his chest thinking that he's building all this on lies.

"I love that," Carlos says softly. "It's... sweet. That you tried to respond in Spanish despite not knowing how."

"The funny thing," Oscar continues, improvising now, letting himself be carried away by the story that seems to develop with a life of its own, "is that afterward you told me it sounded like I had said 'Te amo tú' in Spanish, as if I were pointing at you specifically. 'I love YOU, not someone else'."

Carlos laughs, immediately catching the wordplay. "It's true. 'Too' sounds almost like 'tú' in Spanish."

"And since then," Oscar continues, surprised by how easily these stories flow from him, "it became our private joke. Whenever one of us says 'I love you' first, we say it like this: 'Te amo'. And the other always responds..."

"'Te amo too'," Carlos completes automatically, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and then blinks, surprised by his own instinctive response.

There's a moment of silence between them, a pause charged with something Oscar doesn't dare name. It's as if, for an instant, the fiction he's been creating had taken on a life of its own, transforming into something that feels dangerously real.

"Exactly," he says finally, his voice softer than he intended. "It's our thing. Our little ritual. And it has that perfect double meaning, because in Spanglish it means 'I love you too', but we're actually saying 'te amo a ti' in Spanish."

"As if each time we were reaffirming that it's us we love, specifically," Carlos adds, perfectly capturing the beauty of the wordplay. "Not just an 'I love you too', but an 'it's you, precisely you, whom I love'."

The depth of this interpretation, the way Carlos has captured and expanded this improvised little detail, makes Oscar feel a wave of something dangerously close to genuine tenderness.

"Exactly," he responds, surprised by how much he likes this idea, this little tradition they've just invented together. "It's perfect because it works in both languages, but means something slightly different in each one."

Carlos smiles, and there's something in that smile, a mixture of vulnerability and anticipation, that makes Oscar feel a knot in his stomach. "I love that," he says softly. "That we have... rituals. Things that are just ours. And that, somehow, unite our languages, our cultures."

Oscar nods, unable to find adequate words. The ease with which Carlos has slipped into this fictional narrative, the naturalness with which he completed the phrase as if it really were something they've shared for years, is as disarming as it is terrifying.

"And you never learned to say 'Yo también te amo' correctly?" Carlos asks, a mischievous glint appearing in his eyes.

"Oh, I tried," Oscar responds, finding it strangely easy to follow this shared fantasy. "But the 'Te amo too' became so special that we decided to keep it. It's like our little tradition, something that started by accident but became important to us."

"A mistake that became something meaningful," Carlos says, and there's something in his tone, a warmth, an intimacy, that makes Oscar feel unexpected heat spreading through his body. "I like that. How something that could be considered an error ended up being something special and unique between us."

Oscar nods, surprised by how much he likes that interpretation. "I guess sometimes imperfections are what make things more personal, more real."

"More human," Carlos adds softly, his eyes never leaving Oscar's. "Imperfections are what make us unique."

There's something in the way he says it, such absolute sincerity, so disarming, that Oscar feels a stab of guilt so sharp it almost cuts off his breath. Here he is, building an entire narrative of intimacy and connection on lies, and Carlos is responding with an honesty that makes his manipulation seem even more cruel.

And worst of all: Oscar is beginning to wish this story were real, that there were a future where Carlos Sainz would tell him "Te amo too" with that smile that seems to light up his entire face, in that perfect mixture of their two worlds.

Carlos remains silent for a few minutes, processing this, but Oscar finds no discomfort in this absence of sounds and words.

"There's... there's something else I'd like to ask," Carlos says after a moment, his voice hesitant. "But I don't know if it's inappropriate."

"Ask away," Oscar responds, because even though he knows he's inviting more complications, more elaborations of a lie that's already too complex, his curiosity is stronger.

Carlos seems to struggle with himself for a moment, as if gathering courage. "Doesn't... doesn't it seem strange to you that I'm older than you, but when we met—when we will meet, I suppose—I hadn't had experience with men and you had? Didn't you think there was something weird about me?"

The question is so specific, so loaded with personal insecurity.

"It didn't seem strange to me at all," he responds, choosing his words carefully. "Everyone has their own path, their own time to discover and accept who they are. Age has nothing to do with that."

"But... wasn't it awkward? My inexperience?" The vulnerability in his voice is almost painful to hear.

Oscar suddenly understands that this is something that's been tormenting Carlos: the idea of not measuring up, of being inadequate somehow. And despite the lies, despite the manipulation, he feels a genuine impulse to ease that insecurity.

"On the contrary," he responds, and there's a sincerity in his voice that surprises even himself. "It was... special. Knowing that you trusted me so much, that you felt safe enough with me to explore that part of yourself for the first time. It was a privilege, not a burden."

He pauses, seeing how these words impact Carlos, how some of the tension leaves his shoulders. And then, unable to resist, he adds: "Besides, what you lacked in experience you made up for with enthusiasm. And you learn very fast."

The blush that spreads across Carlos's face is immediate and intense, and Oscar feels an almost predatory satisfaction at provoking it. There's an intoxicating power in being able to affect Carlos Sainz like this, in reducing the always confident driver to this state of vulnerability and barely contained desire.

"So... am I a good lover?" Carlos asks, the words barely audible, his eyes avoiding Oscar's.

Oscar knows he should change the subject, but the temptation to keep seeing Carlos like this, blushing and vulnerable, is too strong.

"You're exceptional," he responds, his voice deliberately low, intimate. "Intuitive. Attentive. Passionate. But I think what makes it so special with you is that it's never just physical. There's always an emotional connection that makes it... different. Deeper."

Carlos inhales sharply, and Oscar can see how his pupils dilate even more, how his hands tense on the table. There's something almost hypnotic about seeing someone so affected by his words, by the images he's creating in Carlos's mind.

"And for me," he adds, knowing he's crossing another line but unable to stop himself, "it's always been incredibly exciting to think that I'm the first man in your life. That you'd never explored that side of yourself with anyone else. That I am... special, somehow."

Carlos stares at him now, all his attention focused on Oscar with an intensity that makes him feel a shiver run down his spine. "You are," he says finally, his voice surprisingly firm despite the blush still coloring his cheeks. "You are, Oscar. Even though I barely know you, I can already feel it. This connection between us... it's not normal. It's not something I've felt before."

The sincerity in his voice, the absolute conviction in his eyes, makes Oscar feel as if he's being physically crushed by the weight of his own lie.

"I wonder sometimes," Carlos continues, his gaze fixed on Oscar, "if that's why I never allowed myself to explore this part of me before. As if I was unconsciously waiting for someone specific. Waiting for you."

The words hang between them, charged with meaning that makes Oscar feel simultaneously flattered and terrified. Carlos is building an entire romantic narrative around them, a story of destiny and predestined connection that makes the eventual truth even more cruel.

"I know it sounds ridiculous," Carlos adds with a shy smile, seeing that Oscar doesn't respond immediately. "Like something out of a cheesy novel. But it's what I feel. It's as if, somehow, I'd been waiting for you my whole life without knowing it."

Oscar knows he should stop this now, put an end to this romantic elaboration before Carlos gets deeper into it. But the words refuse to come out, trapped by guilt and, more disturbingly, by the temptation to keep feeding this shared fantasy.

"It's not ridiculous," he says finally, choosing the path of least resistance. "I felt that way too."

And as he speaks these words, he realizes with horror that part of him really feels it. That despite his years of antagonism with Carlos, despite all the tensions and rivalries, there's something about this young Carlos—in his vulnerability, in his honesty, in the way he looks at Oscar as if he were something precious—that's awakening feelings he never imagined possible.

Carlos smiles, a radiant smile that completely transforms his face, that lights up his eyes in a way Oscar has never seen in the Carlos of 2024. "It's scary, isn't it?" he says softly. "Feeling something like this. So intense, so fast."

"Yes," Oscar responds, and it's perhaps the most honest thing he's said in this entire conversation. "It's scary."

Because it is. It's absolutely terrifying to be developing real feelings based on an elaborate lie. It's terrifying to feel attracted to a person who, in his own timeline, he considers an idiot. It's terrifying to realize that part of him really wishes this fantasy he's building were real.

"I'm sorry," Carlos says abruptly, shaking his head as if coming out of a trance. "I shouldn't be asking you these things, or talking like this. It's... too much."

"It's okay. It's natural for you to be curious."

"It's not just curiosity," Carlos admits, and there's a raw honesty in his voice that makes Oscar feel another stab of guilt. "It's... it's like you're describing something I already desire, something I didn't even know I wanted until you started talking about it."

The confession is so vulnerable, so disarming, that Oscar finds himself momentarily speechless.

Carlos then gets up, heading toward the window as if needing physical space, distance to reorganize his thoughts. His silhouette against the morning light has something almost poetic about it, Oscar thinks. The way the light plays with the contours of his profile, highlighting the defined line of his jaw, the curve of his nose, the outline of his lips... it's a sight that Oscar surprises himself by absorbing with too much attention.

"It's strange," Carlos says after a moment, looking out at the Barcelona cityscape. "Feeling this... attraction to you, knowing that it will eventually become something more. Like I'm following a pre-written script, a path already traced in time."

The conversation leaves Oscar with a sensation of vertigo, as if he were standing at the edge of an abyss he himself has created. As he watches Carlos looking out the window, the enormity of what he's just done hits him with the force of a physical impact.

He hasn't just lied. He hasn't just manipulated. He's potentially altered someone's life in a fundamental way.

The idea is terrifying. What if Carlos would never have explored this facet of himself? What if he would have remained in denial about his sexuality for years, maybe decades? Or worse yet... what if he's not even really bisexual?

This thought makes Oscar feel nauseous. He's known men before who experimented briefly with other men out of curiosity, experimentation, a passing feeling they confused with something deeper. Men who later realized that it wasn't really attraction they felt, but perhaps their lack of desire for women wasn't attraction to men but a certain degree of asexuality, or boredom, or simply the human desire for connection confused with sexual desire.

What if Carlos is one of those men? What if this "revelation" that Oscar is forcing on him is nothing more than temporary confusion, a mirage created by extraordinary circumstances and elaborate lies?

Oscar feels the air in the room suddenly become dense, almost unbreathable. He's playing with someone's life, with their identity, with their path of self-discovery. All for his survival, for his comfort, for not having to face the consequences of the truth.

It's disgusting. He is disgusting.

"Are you okay?" Carlos's voice pulls him out of his spiral of self-loathing. "You've gone very quiet suddenly."

Oscar blinks, trying to reorient himself. Carlos looks at him with genuine concern, another stab of guilt adding to the mountain growing inside him.

"Carlos," he begins, his voice firmer than expected. "I need to tell you something important."

Carlos returns to sit across from him, his expression open, expectant. Trusting. The guilt intensifies.

"Everything I've told you, about us, about the future..." Oscar pauses, gathering courage. Is he going to confess everything? Now? When he depends completely on Carlos to survive in this strange time?

No. He can't. At least not the whole truth. But he can offer something, some kind of partial redemption.

"I don't want you to feel pressured by it," he continues finally. "I don't want you to feel like you have to explore this part of yourself just because I've told you that you eventually will. You own your life, your decisions. You shouldn't let yourself be influenced by the things I'm telling you."

Carlos looks at him with an expression Oscar can't completely decipher. There's confusion there, but also something else, something deeper.

"Oscar," he responds after a moment, "of course what you tell me affects me. How could it not? You're talking to me about my future, about who I'll be, about what I'll feel." He pauses, as if carefully considering his next words. "But there's something I need you to understand," he continues, leaning slightly forward, his eyes fixed on Oscar with an intensity that makes him feel a shiver run down his spine. "When I tell you I feel something for you, when I ask you these questions, when I react to your words... it's not because I'm going to be your boyfriend in the future."

Oscar blinks, confused. "What do you mean?"

"I mean I like you for what I've gotten to know in the present," Carlos responds with disarming simplicity. "For who you are now, in front of me. For how you talk, how you think, how you look at me."

The sincerity in his voice makes Oscar feel as if he's being physically crushed by the weight of his own lie.

"Even if you had lied when you first approached me," Carlos continues, and Oscar feels a chill hearing these words, as if Carlos could read his thoughts, "You know, if you had preferred not to tell me that we're boyfriends and that's why you approached me, or if you hadn't mentioned time travel, or any of that... I think I would have felt interested in you anyway."

"Why?" The question escapes Oscar's lips before he can contain it.

Carlos smiles, that slow and considered smile that's beginning to affect Oscar in ways he doesn't want to examine too closely. "Because there's something about you, Oscar. Something... mesmerizing."

The word settles between them, charged with meaning, with possibilities. Oscar feels his pulse quicken, and he tells himself it's just anxiety, guilt, not the way Carlos is looking at him right now.

"Since I saw you in the paddock," Carlos continues, "there was something."

Oscar swallows, unable to respond.

"What I'm trying to say," Carlos adds, apparently interpreting Oscar's silence as confusion, "is that you're not forcing me to feel anything that isn't already inside me. If there's attraction, if there's curiosity, if there's... whatever is happening between us, it's not because you told me we'll eventually be together. It's because it's already there."

There's such absolute sincerity in these words that Oscar finds himself momentarily speechless. He hadn't considered this possibility: that maybe Carlos really feels something for him, regardless of the story he's invented. That maybe there's a genuine connection that transcends his lies.

"All my life," Carlos continues, his voice softer now, almost intimate, "I've felt like there was a part of me that was... asleep, I suppose. Not repressed, not denied, simply... waiting. As if I knew I would eventually understand that part of me, but it wasn't the right time."

Oscar listens, fascinated despite himself. He'd never imagined Carlos Sainz capable of this kind of introspection, this level of self-awareness.

"I've always known I'm attracted to women," Carlos says, maintaining eye contact despite the blush coloring his cheeks. "That's never been a question. But there have always been moments, brief flashes where I found myself looking at a man and feeling... something. Something I didn't completely understand, or wasn't ready to understand."

He pauses, as if considering whether he should continue. Oscar waits, holding his breath without realizing it.

"There was a guy, during my Formula Renault days," he continues finally. "An Italian driver. We were friends, teammates for a season. And there was a moment, one night after a race, where we almost... where I thought maybe..." He stops, shaking his head. "Nothing ever happened. In the end, he went to another team, I continued my path. But sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I'd been braver, if I'd explored that feeling instead of ignoring it."

Oscar absorbs this confession, this vulnerability that Carlos is offering so freely. It's a gift he doesn't deserve, based on trust he's manipulated to obtain.

"What I'm trying to say," Carlos concludes, "is that maybe you were right earlier. Maybe part of me has always been waiting for someone specific. Someone who would make me feel safe enough, brave enough, to explore this part of me."

The implication is clear, and it makes Oscar feel a contradictory mixture of warmth and guilt. Carlos is suggesting that he is that someone, that person who finally makes him feel safe to explore a facet of himself he's kept dormant for years.

And worst of all: part of Oscar wants to be that. He wants to be that person for Carlos, wants to deserve this trust, this vulnerability, this precious gift he's offering.

"I don't know if I'm bisexual, or pansexual, or how to label it exactly," Carlos continues, his honesty brutal and refreshing. "And honestly, I'm not sure it matters. What I know is that I feel something for you, Oscar. Something real, something present. Not because you're going to be my boyfriend in some distant future, but because you're you, here and now."

Oscar feels something break inside him. It's too much. Carlos's honesty, his vulnerability, his openness... everything contrasts painfully with his own manipulations, with the lies he's built to ensure his survival.

"Carlos, I..."

"You don't have to say anything," Carlos interrupts with an understanding smile. "I get that this is complicated for you. I'm not asking for anything, Oscar. I just wanted you to know that, regardless of what you've told me about the future, what I feel is real. It's mine."

There's such dignity in these words, such authenticity, that Oscar finds himself momentarily overwhelmed. Carlos Sainz, whom he's always considered arrogant, superficial, too dependent on his natural charm, is demonstrating an emotional depth, an integrity, that completely contradicts all his preconceptions.

"Thank you, Carlos," he says finally, the words completely inadequate to express what he really feels, but it's all he can offer right now. "For... for being so honest with me."

Carlos smiles, that radiant smile that completely transforms his face, that lights up his eyes in a way Oscar has never seen in the Carlos of 2024. "It's easy to be honest with you," he responds simply. "It feels... right."

And with those words, with that smile, Oscar feels something shift inside him. It's not a dramatic revelation, not a moment of cosmic epiphany. It's something more subtle, more gradual, like tectonic plates shifting imperceptibly beneath the surface.

The Carlos in front of him isn't the arrogant rival he knows in 2024. He's someone completely different. Or maybe, and this thought is even more disturbing, maybe he's the same person, but Oscar never took the time to really see him, to know him beyond the professional facade, beyond the track encounters, beyond prejudices and rivalries.

And if he's wrong about the Carlos from his time, what else might he be wrong about?

He's lied. He's manipulated. He's played with someone's feelings to ensure his own survival. And worst of all: he's beginning to feel something genuine for the person he's manipulating.

Who is this person he's becoming? And how can he reconcile his actions with the image he's always had of himself as someone fundamentally decent?

He has no answers. Only questions, guilt, and a growing attraction that threatens to complicate an already impossible situation even further.

 

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

Chapter 8: Parallax Effect

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

 

Through the window, the sun's rays intensify, indicating that morning is advancing inexorably. Barcelona spreads out beneath them, oblivious to the drama unfolding in this hotel room, to the truths and lies that interweave, creating something new, something Oscar can't name but feels growing between them with each word, each glance, each shared silence.

Oscar watches Carlos as he directs his attention to the nearly empty coffee cup, turning it slowly between his fingers. There's something hypnotic about that gesture, about the way his hands—strong, sure on the wheel of a Formula 1 car—now seem to be looking for something to do to disguise a nervousness that Oscar finds strangely endearing. He catches himself studying those hands with too much attention: the slightly prominent knuckles, a small scar on the back of the right one, the veins that mark subtly under the tanned skin.

"You always do that," Oscar says finally, the words escaping his lips before he can filter them, continuing with the elaborate lie that has become their shared reality.

Carlos looks up, confusion reflected in his eyes. "Do what?"

Oscar gestures softly toward Carlos's hands. "That. Spinning whatever you have in your hands when you're nervous or thoughtful. It's one of those little gestures of yours that I came to know so well."

A slow smile spreads across Carlos's face, the earlier tension visibly dissolving. "Really? I never noticed."

"There are many things you do without realizing it," Oscar continues, surprised by how easily the lies flow now, as if part of him really wishes they were true. "Like running your hand through your hair before making an important decision, or biting the inside of your cheek when you're trying not to smile in serious moments."

Carlos seems captivated, his eyes shining with a mixture of curiosity and something warmer, more intimate. "It's strange to think that you know me so well... that you've memorized all these little details about me that I don't even notice myself."

"That's what happens when you love someone," Oscar responds, and the words taste like ash in his mouth even as he speaks them with a smile. "You memorize every detail, every gesture, every expression."

Carlos nods slowly, absorbing it all. "Are there... are there other habits of mine that you know?"

The question is loaded with something more than simple curiosity; it's a desire to see himself through Oscar's eyes, to understand what kind of man he'll become, the man Oscar supposedly loves.

"Many," Oscar responds, letting himself be carried away. "You have this particular way of frowning when you read telemetry data you don't like. And how you always close your eyes for a second when you drink the first sip of coffee in the morning, like you're completely savoring it."

With each word, Oscar surprises himself. These aren't invented details; they're real observations he's unconsciously registered over the years. Small gestures from the Carlos of his time that he's noticed without realizing he was memorizing them.

"It's beautiful," Carlos says softly, "how you see me. Like every little detail about me is something worth remembering."

The comment hits Oscar like a physical punch. The admiration in Carlos's eyes, the gratitude for being seen that way, makes guilt twist more deeply inside him.

"We're not always perfect," Oscar adds, feeling the need to nuance this idealized image he's creating. "We have our difficult moments, like any couple. We argue, sometimes we hurt each other without meaning to."

"What do we argue about?" Carlos asks, and there's something in his tone that suggests he's looking for a more real, less idealized connection.

Oscar carefully considers his response, aware that every detail he adds to this elaborate fiction only makes the eventual truth more cruel.

"About time," he responds finally, finding a hidden truth within the lie. "About the difficulty of finding moments to be together with our impossible schedules. About how to handle public pressure, expectations, secrecy."

He pauses, elaborating details that would sound authentic, that would represent the real challenges of a relationship like the one he's pretending to have.

"The hardest part isn't what happens on track," he continues, staring at his cup. "Actually, competing against you, being wheel to wheel, is... exciting in a way. Even though sometimes we complain over the radio and create headlines, when we get out of the cars and the heat of the moment passes, we know how to separate the professional from the personal."

Carlos nods, his eyes shining with genuine interest. "So what is the hard part?"

"It's everything else," Oscar responds, letting the words flow, imagining the real challenges they would face. "It's when you have an incredible weekend and I have a terrible one, and I don't know how to balance being genuinely happy for you while feeling like shit about my own result."

Oscar sees how Carlos absorbs every word, as if he were visualizing these situations, these conflicts he hasn't lived yet but can now imagine with painful clarity.

"Sometimes I need you," Oscar continues, surprised by the emotional honesty he finds in these lies, "when I've had a particularly bad day, when I just want you to hold me and tell me everything will be okay. But you can't be there because you have commitments with the team, celebrations, interviews. And I understand it rationally, of course I do. But emotionally..."

"It hurts," Carlos completes, his voice barely a whisper.

"Yes," Oscar confirms. "And then there are the canceled plans. The few times we manage to coordinate our impossible schedules to be together, and something comes up at the last minute—a team meeting, a sponsor who can't wait—and we have to cancel."

"I imagine that causes fights," Carlos says with an insight that surprises Oscar.

"More than I'd like to admit," he responds with a sad smile. "We know it's part of the job, that neither of us is really to blame, but when you're vulnerable, when you've been waiting weeks for that moment together..." He stops, letting Carlos complete the thought.

"You say things you don't really mean," Carlos murmurs, a deep understanding reflecting in his eyes. "Out of anger, out of disappointment."

"Exactly," Oscar confirms, impressed by how Carlos has captured exactly what he was trying to express. "And then you regret it immediately, but the damage is already done. Words can't be taken back once they're said."

Carlos nods, thoughtful. "And how do we resolve it? How do we make it work despite all that?"

Oscar considers the question, building in his mind the image of a mature relationship that has overcome these obstacles. "Over time, we've learned to navigate all of that. We establish rules: no making decisions when we're angry, no going to sleep without resolving a conflict, being honest about our needs and expectations."

He pauses, searching for the right words. "But above all, I think what keeps us together is that we both perfectly understand each other's lives. I don't have to explain to you why a bad result affects me so much, or why sometimes I need space after a difficult race. You know, because you live it too."

"An understanding that would be impossible with someone outside this world," Carlos reflects.

"Exactly," Oscar confirms. "And over time, all those difficulties have only made us stronger as a couple. We've learned to value the moments we have, to not take anything for granted."

Carlos nods, absorbed. "It sounds... real. Not like a fairy tale, but like a true relationship, with its ups and downs."

"It is," Oscar confirms, and for a moment he can almost believe it himself, can imagine this alternative reality where he and Carlos share not only passion, but also the ordinary conflicts that define any authentic relationship.

"I like that," Carlos says with surprising sincerity. "I don't want a perfect story. I want something real, with all its complications."

Oscar looks toward the window, observing how the light creates changing patterns over the city. The guilt returns, more intense than before. With each lie he adds, with each detail he elaborates, he's building a house of cards that will inevitably collapse. And when it does, the pain it will cause will be proportional to the hopes he's creating now.

Carlos looks at his watch, a gesture that breaks the intimacy of the moment, returning Oscar to the practical reality of his situation. The bubble that had formed between them gradually fades, like mist under the morning sun.

"By the way, we're leaving the hotel today," Carlos says without preamble as he finishes his coffee. "I no longer have reasons to stay in Barcelona now that the race is over and we need to get moving."

Oscar looks up, surprised by the direct statement. "Leave? Where to?"

"To Madrid," he responds, collecting the crumbs from his croissant with his fingertip. "My contact is there. The one who can make your documentation. Plus, I have some business to take care of in the city."

"About your contact," Oscar begins, immediately alert. "Exactly what are you going to tell him about... my situation?"

Carlos shakes his head. "I won't tell him anything about time travel, if that's what worries you. I'll just tell him you need a new identity. He's discreet, he's worked for my father before in... delicate situations. He won't ask questions."

Oscar nods slowly, processing the information.

"He needs to see you in person," Carlos continues, taking out his phone to check something. "Take photos, fingerprints, that sort of thing. I've thought of everything: you'll be Oscar Palmer, an Australian data analyst I've hired personally to improve my performance."

"Oscar Palmer?" Oscar repeats with incredulity. "Seriously? You couldn't come up with something more original?"

Carlos raises an eyebrow, surprised by the reaction. "What's wrong with it? It keeps your first name, so you won't get confused when someone calls you, and Palmer is common enough not to raise suspicions."

"It's too obvious, it's even the same initials," Oscar protests. "It's practically my real name with a barely different surname."

"Then make up your own fake name," Carlos responds with a shrug. "But I suggest you keep something similar to your real name. The more similar it is, the less you'll get confused when they call you and your reaction will seem more credible. Trust me, I've seen enough spy movies to know that's the first mistake rookies make: forgetting to respond to their fake name."

Oscar looks at him with feigned indignation, an incredulous smile forming on his lips. "Spy movies? Seriously? Am I putting my life in the hands of someone whose experience with fake identities comes from watching James Bond?"

Carlos laughs, a warm and genuine sound that lights up his entire face. "Well, I also watched all the seasons of 'Alias' and both 'Bourne' movies. I'm practically qualified to work for the CIA."

"Oh my God," Oscar murmurs, running a hand over his face in an exaggerated gesture of desperation, though he can't help a smile creeping into the corners of his lips. "I'm trapped eight years in the past and my only hope is a racing driver who thinks Hollywood offers courses in espionage."

"Hey, don't underestimate the educational value of cinema," Carlos protests. "Did you know Daniel Craig received real training from retired MI6 agents to prepare for Bond? There's verisimilitude in those movies."

"Verisimilitude?" Oscar repeats, genuinely surprised by the word choice. "Wow, that's a big word for someone who thinks 'Mission Impossible' is a documentary."

Carlos throws a napkin at Oscar, who easily dodges it. "Are you going to keep mocking my research methods or would you prefer to hear the rest of the plan, Mr. Know-It-All?"

There's something about this exchange, about the ease with which they've fallen into this rhythm of jokes and mutual provocations, that surprises Oscar. It's comfortable, natural, as if they'd been doing this for years instead of just days. There's no tension, only a kind of familiarity that completely contradicts the antagonistic relationship they will have—or had—in the future.

"Alright, alright," Oscar concedes, raising his hands in surrender, but maintaining the smile. "Enlighten me with your cinematic wisdom, Agent Sainz."

Carlos makes a small seated bow, clearly enjoying the game. "Thank you, Mr. Palmer. As I was saying before being so rudely interrupted..."

"Oscar Palmer," he interrupts, shaking his head but accepting defeat. "I can't believe I'm going to go down in history as Oscar Palmer."

"You could be Oscar Smith if you prefer something even more generic," Carlos offers with a mischievous smile.

Oscar rolls his eyes dramatically. "Seriously? Oscar Smith? Why not just John Doe? Or better yet, 'Australian Man Number 3'."

Carlos tries to maintain an offended expression, but a treacherous smile begins to form at the corners of his lips. "Very funny. But I don't see you having a better plan, Mr. Time Traveler."

"My plan was to trust you," Oscar admits with an ironic smile. "So I guess your cinematic knowledge is my own fault."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," Carlos responds, now smiling openly. "Want me to look up a YouTube tutorial on 'How to create a fake identity for your boyfriend from the future'?"

Oscar lets out a surprisingly genuine laugh. "Yeah, sure. I bet the comments are pure gold."

"'I followed all the steps and now my boyfriend from the future has disappeared,'" Carlos improvises, imitating a YouTube comment. "'I think I just created a paradox. Does anyone know how to fix the timeline? It's urgent.'"

Oscar shakes his head, but the smile persists on his lips. "Or the classic: 'Don't listen to this video. I created an identity for my future self and now my present self can't open a bank account because apparently I already exist and I'm 94 years old.'"

Carlos laughs, and there's something about that sound that Oscar finds inexplicably comforting. "My favorite would be: 'Thanks for nothing. I followed this tutorial to the letter and now my time traveler has married my grandmother. If you see a guy slowly disappearing in a photo, that's me.'"

They both look at each other and burst into simultaneous laughter, the absurdity of the situation finally overwhelming them. For a moment, Oscar forgets the complications, the lies, the impossibility of his situation. There are just two people sharing a moment of genuine humor.

"This is ridiculous," he says finally, when the laughter calms down.

"Completely," Carlos agrees, with a smile that lights up his entire face.

Oscar nods, surprised by how easy this interaction feels, how natural it seems to joke with someone he's always considered an idiot.

"Fine," Oscar says with feigned resignation. "Oscar Palmer it is. So when do we leave?"

"In an hour," Carlos responds, checking his watch. "By the way, we're not going straight to Madrid, we need to make a stop on the way."

"What kind of stop?"

A mischievous smile appears on Carlos's face, lighting up his eyes in a way Oscar finds inexplicably captivating. "There's a shopping center in a town halfway there. We need to transform you."

Oscar frowns. "Transform me?"

"If you're going to be traveling with the F1 circus for a while, you need to blend in," Carlos explains. "Especially considering that 15-year-old Oscar Piastri is out there somewhere, competing in his own races. We can't risk someone noticing the similarity."

"Please tell me your master plan doesn't include sunglasses and a cap," Oscar responds, narrowing his eyes with feigned suspicion. "Or are you planning something more drastic? A fake mustache? Colored contact lenses? Do you want me to start wearing a trench coat? Let me guess, you saw this in another spy movie?"

"It's not just the physical appearance," Carlos responds, ignoring the provocation. "You'll also have to adjust the way you walk."

"The way I walk?" Oscar repeats, incredulous. "Are you going to teach me to walk like they do in spy movies? With that ridiculous arm swing and constantly looking over your shoulder?"

"Every person has a distinctive way of moving," Carlos explains with surprising seriousness, not letting himself be provoked by the mocking tone. "It's one of the first details people notice unconsciously, sometimes even before the face. Slightly changing your posture and rhythm can work wonders for going incognito."

Oscar stares at him for a moment, puzzled by Carlos's sudden expertise in such a specific topic. "You know what? That almost sounded like you knew what you were talking about. Almost."

"My father taught me some things about blending in," Carlos responds with a shrug, a shadow of something indecipherable briefly crossing his face. "When you're the son of someone famous, sometimes you just want to go to the supermarket without being recognized. Or be able to have a date without it appearing in magazines the next day."

There's something about the casual way he says it, as if it were a simple fact of life and not something extraordinary, that makes Oscar feel an unexpected pang. Not just sympathy, but guilt.

For years, in his own timeline, Oscar has seen Carlos Sainz Jr. as the perfect example of the privileged driver. The son of a champion who had all doors opened thanks to his surname. A path paved without effort.

It was easy to see only that: the privilege, the advantages, the connections. It was convenient to ignore the other side of the coin: the constant pressure, the impossible expectations, the public scrutiny from a ridiculously early age. The burden of a surname that is simultaneously a blessing and a curse.

And now, hearing Carlos talk about wanting to simply be anonymous sometimes, Oscar realizes with uncomfortable clarity that he has been part of the problem. One more among the many who have reduced Carlos to "Sainz's son," who have assumed that everything was handed to him on a silver platter, who have never considered the weight of growing up under that shadow.

The silence stretches as Oscar gets lost in these thoughts, in the sudden and painful awareness of his own prejudices, of how unfair he's been in his judgments.

Carlos looks at him, misinterpreting his thoughtful silence as skepticism. "You don't believe me, do you?" he says, a defensive edge now in his voice. "You think I'm exaggerating."

Oscar blinks, shaken from his reflections. "What? No, that's not it at all."

"Look, I know all this sounds like I pulled it from a movie," Carlos continues, his posture subtly changing, more upright, more defensive. "First the fake names, now changing the way you walk. You probably think I'm playing at being a spy or something."

"Carlos, no—"

"But this is real," Carlos interrupts him, leaning forward, the intensity in his eyes taking Oscar by surprise. "I've been thinking about this a lot. I've considered the angles, the possibilities, the risks. It's not just about disguising you superficially."

Oscar realizes that his reflective silence has been completely misinterpreted. Carlos thinks he's being judged, ridiculed for taking the situation so seriously. And that misinterpretation only deepens Oscar's guilt, because it reflects exactly the kind of attitude he's always had toward Carlos: the assumption that he's superficial, unserious, playing at being something he's not.

"No, listen," Carlos continues, his voice acquiring an urgency Oscar has never heard in the Carlos of 2024. "This is important. We're not playing around. If someone discovers who you really are, the consequences could be... I don't know, catastrophic? Paradoxical? I have no idea, because I've never dealt with a time traveler before, but I imagine it's not something we should take lightly."

There's a sincerity in his voice, a gravity that makes Oscar feel doubly ashamed: for his current jokes and for years of unjustified prejudices.

"I've thought about every detail," Carlos continues. "A new hairstyle that changes the shape of your face. Non-prescription glasses that modify the perception of your features. Clothes that are nothing like what you'd normally wear. I've even considered how to introduce you, what backstory you need, how you should behave in different situations."

Oscar looks at him, genuinely impressed. Not just by the depth of consideration Carlos has dedicated to his situation, but by the revelation that this Carlos—and probably the one from 2024 as well, though he never gave him the chance to prove it—is someone meticulous, careful, someone who takes his responsibilities seriously.

How many other qualities of Carlos has he overlooked due to his prejudices? How many times has he dismissed his opinions, his suggestions, his strategies, simply because they came from "Sainz's son"?

"I'm not making fun of your situation," Carlos says, his voice softer now. "And I'd appreciate it if you didn't make fun of me for this. I may have joked about spy movies, but this... this is real. You're real. And I want to help you properly."

Something stirs in Oscar's chest, an emotion he can't completely name. It's gratitude, yes, but also guilt, regret for years of unfair judgments, and something more, something warmer, more personal.

"I'm sorry," he says, and he says it with a sincerity that surprises even himself. It's not just an apology for his recent jokes, but for something deeper, older, that Carlos doesn't even know exists. "You're right. I shouldn't take this lightly."

Carlos studies him for a moment, as if evaluating his sincerity, before nodding slowly. "It's okay. I understand that using humor is a way of dealing with... all this. I do the same thing. But I want you to know that I'm taking your situation seriously."

"I know," Oscar responds, and it's surprisingly easy to be honest in this moment. "And I appreciate it. I really do."

Their gazes hold for a moment, something unspoken floating between them, something Oscar isn't ready to examine too closely. Because doing so would mean facing not only what he's beginning to feel for this young Carlos, but also the enormity of how wrong he's been about him for years.

"So," Carlos says finally, breaking the moment, "what do you think, Oscar Palmer? Ready for a complete transformation?"

Oscar smiles, feeling that something has subtly changed between them, as if they'd crossed some invisible barrier together. But he also feels that something has changed within him, as if a blindfold had fallen from his eyes, allowing him to see Carlos—and by extension, perhaps himself—with greater clarity.

"I guess I'm in your hands," he responds, and the phrase takes on a deeper meaning than he intended. "What exactly do you have in mind?"

"You'll see." A smile draws across Carlos's face. "Trust me."

There's something about that simple phrase, about the carefree confidence with which Carlos pronounces it, about the sincerity that shines in his eyes, that makes Oscar feel an unexpected warmth spreading through his chest. This young Carlos, not yet completely molded by the pressures and politics of F1, possesses an authenticity that is surprisingly attractive.

"Alright, I'll trust you," Oscar responds, trying to keep his voice light despite the thought that immediately follows his words: But you shouldn't trust me.

 

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

Chapter 9: Orbital Shift

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

 

The morning passes in a whirlwind of activity. Oscar packs the few belongings he's accumulated—mainly clothes borrowed from Carlos—while Carlos makes some phone calls, moving around the room with an efficiency that Oscar finds surprisingly attractive. There's something hypnotic about watching Carlos go about these everyday tasks.

Less than an hour later they're in the car, leaving the hotel behind. Oscar feels a strange mixture of relief and anxiety. On one hand, leaving Barcelona means getting away from the place where this temporal madness began; on the other, he's venturing into the unknown, depending more and more on Carlos.

"Mind if I put on some music?" Carlos asks as they navigate Barcelona's morning traffic.

"Go ahead," Oscar responds, genuinely curious about the musical tastes of a 21-year-old Carlos.

The notes of a Spanish song that Oscar doesn't recognize fill the car. The melody is soft, acoustic, with a male voice singing with evident feeling.

"Who is this?" Oscar asks, surprising himself by genuinely enjoying the rhythm and cadence, even though he doesn't understand the lyrics.

"Joaquín Sabina," Carlos responds with a smile. "He's a Spanish classic. My father always listened to him, I guess it rubbed off on me."

Oscar nods, absorbing this small detail about Carlos that he would never have known in his reality. In the time they shared the grid, he'd never had a conversation with Carlos about music, literature, or anything personal.

"Do you like it?" Carlos asks, throwing him a curious glance.

"It's different from what I normally listen to," he admits honestly. "But yes, there's something special about it."

"And what do you normally listen to?" Carlos's question is casual, but Oscar notices genuine interest.

"House music, mainly," he responds, and instantly realizes he's sharing a real personal preference, not a fabrication to maintain his elaborate lie.

Carlos raises his eyebrows, visibly surprised. "Really? I wouldn't have pegged you as an electronic music fan."

"Why not?" Oscar asks, genuinely curious about the impression he gives.

Carlos shrugs, maneuvering the car toward the exit that will take them to the highway. "I don't know. You have this very... contained air about you. House music is more visceral, more about feeling than thinking."

Oscar can't help a soft laugh. "Maybe that's exactly the reason. An escape from my own nature."

Carlos looks at him briefly before returning his attention to the road, a smile forming on his lips. "That makes sense. Any favorite artists?"

"Yeah, but I guess they're not well known in this era yet."

"It's strange," Carlos comments. "Knowing there's a whole music scene, books, movies that don't exist yet but that you already know."

Oscar nods. "I know. It's like having forbidden knowledge."

A new song begins, this time English pop rock with a catchy chorus. Carlos drums his fingers against the steering wheel, following the rhythm naturally.

"What about you?" Oscar asks. "What else do you listen to?"

"Everything, really," Carlos responds. "Spanish and English rock, some pop, Latin music when I want to dance..." He stops, throwing Oscar an amused look. "Though I guess you already know all that, right? Being my future boyfriend."

"You know," Oscar says, deciding to tread carefully, "there are always new things to discover about someone, even after years. And besides, your tastes could change over time."

Carlos considers this for a moment. "I don't think my basic musical tastes will change that much in eight years. It's not like going from adolescence to adulthood, where everything's constantly evolving."

Oscar feels an internal alarm. Carlos is more perceptive than he expected, and he's right: it doesn't make sense that Oscar, supposedly in a relationship with the Carlos of 2024, wouldn't know his fundamental musical tastes.

"You're right," Oscar concedes, quickly searching for an exit. "You know what I'd love? For you to tell me stories. You're amazing at telling stories and you know tons of people. Things are always happening to you."

"Haven't I already told you all my stories in the future?" Carlos asks with a smile, but there's a certain satisfaction in his voice at the compliment.

"I know the classics from your childhood and adolescence, obviously," he responds, the lie flowing with disturbing ease. "But most of the stories you tell me in my time are about things that happened to you in our recent years, events that for you haven't occurred yet."

Carlos looks at him with renewed interest. "So there are many stories that for your Carlos were no longer fresh and that I suppose he never told you."

"Exactly," Oscar confirms, relieved to have found a plausible explanation. "And you can ask me things too. Getting to know each other in this... unique context."

Carlos smiles, a genuine smile that lights up his entire face and makes Oscar feel something fluttering in his stomach. "I like that idea. A fair exchange."

And so, as the Spanish landscape unfolds before them, Carlos begins to narrate stories from his childhood and youth.

"Once, when I was about six," he begins, a nostalgic smile drawing across his face, "my father organized a small karting championship among friends. I'd been secretly training for weeks because I wanted to impress him. The day of the race, when everyone expected him to give me special advice—you know, being his son—he treated me exactly the same as the other kids."

Carlos pauses, his fingers drumming lightly on the steering wheel as he remembers.

"But just before the race, when no one was looking, he knelt down to my height and whispered: 'Don't forget to breathe in the corners. If you control your breathing, you control the kart.' It was advice he only gave to me." His voice takes on a softer tone. "I came in third, didn't win, but I remember the look of pride in his eyes like it was yesterday. It wasn't about the position, but because I kept my cool under pressure."

Oscar watches Carlos's profile as he speaks, noticing how his expression softens when mentioning his father. There's genuine devotion there.

"Another time," Carlos continues, animated now, "during my karting years, I had this ridiculous rivalry with an Italian boy, Lorenzo. We hated each other on track. One day, after a particularly tense race where we ended up crashing, our fathers made us apologize to each other."

Carlos laughs, the sound filling the car with a warmth that Oscar finds contagious.

"Neither of us wanted to give in, so we just stood there, looking at each other with crossed arms while our fathers waited for over an hour. It must have been so ridiculous to see two stubborn kids in that situation that we both started laughing at the same time. We ended up being good friends after that."

"What happened to Lorenzo?" Oscar asks, genuinely interested.

Carlos shrugs. "He eventually stopped competing. I think he's studying engineering in Milan now. Sometimes I wonder where I'd be if I'd taken a different path."

There's a vulnerability in that last sentence that Oscar would never have associated with Carlos Sainz, a doubt that contradicts the image of the confident and sometimes arrogant driver he knows in his time.

"Oh, and you'll love this," Carlos says, his face lighting up with a new memory. "My first time driving a real car. I was nine, we were at a friend of my father's private estate. He put me on his lap, let me take the wheel while he controlled the pedals. It was so exciting I think I stopped breathing for the first thirty seconds."

His eyes shine with the memory. "What no one knew is that that night, when everyone was asleep, I took the keys and went back out. I just did one lap around the dirt road, probably at less than 20 km/h, but it was terrifying and exciting at the same time. My father caught me coming back—I never knew how he figured it out—but instead of punishing me, he just looked at me and said: 'Next time, let me know. I'll teach you to do it properly.'"

Oscar finds himself genuinely captivated by these stories, by these glimpses of a Carlos he'd never imagined: the child anxious to impress his father, the teenager with typical rivalries for his age, the pre-teen daredevil with enough passion to break the rules.

"What about you?" Carlos asks eventually. "What was it like growing up in Australia wanting to be an F1 driver?"

The question is simple, genuine, and Oscar finds himself responding with an honesty he hadn't planned.

"The distance complicated everything," he begins. "While European drivers could compete every weekend in different countries, we had to settle for local competitions or make enormous trips that consumed all the family savings."

He finds himself sharing anecdotes he doesn't usually mention: the time his father drove sixteen hours to take him to a crucial race only for the engine to fail on the warm-up lap; the mixture of excitement and absolute terror when his parents sent him alone to Europe to pursue his career.

"There was a moment," Oscar says, surprised by his own vulnerability, "shortly after arriving in Europe, when everything was going wrong. I was living with a host family, had no friends, and in the first three races I had mechanical problems. I called my parents in the middle of the night and told them I wanted to come home."

He pauses, vividly remembering that feeling of absolute loneliness. "My father was quiet for a moment and then asked me: 'Do you want to come back because you miss home or because you don't want to be a driver anymore?' That question changed everything. I realized that missing my home was natural, but abandoning my dream because of that would be something I'd regret my whole life."

Carlos nods, understanding. "The hardest decisions are the ones that mean being away from home, right?"

"Exactly," Oscar confirms. "That night I decided to stay, even though it was difficult. The next race I came in second, and I felt like I'd somehow overcome an internal test, not just on track."

He shares another anecdote about his first important podium in Europe, how he had no one to celebrate with and ended up calling his parents from a pay phone because his mobile had run out of battery.

It's strangely liberating to talk about these things, to share parts of himself that he usually keeps private. With each story exchanged, each shared laugh, Oscar feels something changing between them. It's no longer just the elaborate lie of their future romance connecting them; there's something more genuine emerging, a natural compatibility that doesn't require fabrication.

When they pause in the conversation, Oscar realizes they've been talking for almost an hour without any mention of their supposed future relationship, without needing to elaborate more lies. Just two people getting to know each other, genuinely enjoying each other's company while being honest.

It's disturbing to realize that, in different circumstances, they really could have been friends. Or maybe something more.

The music has changed several times, going through various genres that reveal Carlos's eclectic musical taste.

"I like this song," Oscar comments, moving slightly to the rhythm.

Carlos smiles, adjusting the volume to turn it up slightly. "Me too. It has something hypnotic about it, don't you think?"

Oscar nods, surprised by this small point of connection. "That's exactly it. It draws you in."

Their gazes meet briefly before Carlos refocuses on the road, but that instant is enough for Oscar to feel something warm expanding in his chest. It's not the physical attraction he's already reluctantly acknowledged, but something deeper, more dangerous: a genuine appreciation for who Carlos is as a person.

As the music flows around them and the Spanish landscape passes swiftly by the windows, Oscar finds himself wishing the trip would last longer, that they'd have more time for these conversations that require no pretense, to discover more common ground, more reasons to genuinely smile at each other.

It's then that the reality of his situation hits him with renewed force: he's developing real feelings based on a lie. And when that lie inevitably comes to light, he'll lose not only the practical help Carlos offers him, but also this connection he's beginning to value more than he should.

 

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

 

The shopping center is quiet, with the moderate crowds typical of a weekday.

"Where do we start?" he asks, observing the various establishments spread out before them.

Carlos considers the question with a seriousness that Oscar finds surprisingly charming. "First the essentials. You need a complete wardrobe: underwear, socks, t-shirts, pants... everything." He pauses, evaluating Oscar with a critical look that makes him feel strangely exposed. "And definitely a new style."

"What's wrong with my style?" Oscar frowns, looking at the borrowed clothes he's wearing.

Carlos's smile is almost predatory. "Nothing, but remember you'll now be Oscar Palmer and he needs a different style. You have this... controlled and, at the same time, calm look. We need to mess you up a bit."

There's something about the way he says "mess you up" that makes Oscar feel a tingle at the base of his spine. The phrase itself seems loaded with meanings that go beyond clothing.

They go through the stores methodically, Carlos guiding the process with an enthusiastic energy that Oscar finds contagious despite his initial reservations. He's surprised to discover that Carlos has a genuinely good eye for fashion, a sensibility that combines practicality with a touch of daring that Oscar would never allow himself.

"What do you think of this?" Carlos holds up a shirt in a deep blue tone with a subtle geometric pattern, something Oscar would normally overlook.

"It's... different," he responds, uncertain.

"Exactly. Different is good." Carlos adds the shirt to the growing pile in his arm. "Different is what will keep you safe."

There's a logic to his reasoning that Oscar can't refute. He watches how Carlos moves through the store with confidence, selecting garments that Oscar would never consider but which, he must admit, aren't unpleasant. There's something hypnotic about the way his hands evaluate fabrics, how his eyes calculate color combinations, how he seems to visualize Oscar in each garment before deciding whether to include it or not.

"How do you know so much about fashion?" Oscar finally asks, genuinely curious.

Carlos smiles, and there's a flash of something almost shy in his expression. "My mother. She has impeccable taste, has always been very conscious of image and presentation. I guess something rubbed off on me." He pauses, adding a dark green t-shirt to the pile. "Plus, being Spanish has its advantages. It's in the blood, right?"

The comment, said with a playful wink, draws a smile from Oscar.

After accumulating a selection of garments—all slightly outside Oscar's stylistic comfort zone—Carlos pushes him toward the fitting rooms.

"Try everything on," he instructs, handing him the carefully selected pile. "I want to see every outfit."

"Is that necessary?" he asks, feeling strangely vulnerable at the idea of this improvised fashion show. There's something intimate about the idea of Carlos evaluating him, observing him, judging his appearance.

"Absolutely," he responds with a seriousness that admits no discussion, though there's a playful glint in his eyes. "This is an undercover operation, Palmer. We must be meticulous."

The use of the fake surname Carlos has assigned him, said with that tone of exaggerated conspiracy, draws a smile from Oscar despite himself. There's an element of play in all this that's surprisingly refreshing. For a few moments, he can forget the gravity of his situation and simply enjoy this strange adventure.

Oscar enters the fitting room, closing the curtain behind him. The space is small, intimate, with mirrors that multiply his reflection from different angles. He takes off Carlos's borrowed clothes and begins trying on the new pieces. The first combination—straight-cut jeans and the blue shirt—gives him the appearance of a casual academic.

He takes a breath and exits the fitting room.

Carlos is sitting on a small bench in front of the fitting rooms, scrolling distractedly on his phone. When he looks up, Oscar watches with fascination as his expression changes: his eyebrows rise slightly, his lips part, his eyes travel over his figure from top to bottom with a deliberate slowness that makes Oscar feel unexpected heat spreading across his skin.

"Much better," Carlos declares finally, putting away his phone to dedicate all his attention to the evaluation. "Turn around."

Oscar obeys, feeling strangely vulnerable under the scrutiny, but also... flattered? There's something about the intensity of Carlos's gaze, about the concentration with which he examines every detail, that makes Oscar feel seen in a way he hadn't experienced before.

"The shirt is perfect," Carlos decides. "The jeans too, although..." He gets up and approaches Oscar, slightly adjusting the shirt's collar, his fingers briefly brushing the skin of his neck. The contact is as fleeting as it is electric. "There. Better with one more button open. Less rigid."

Oscar nods, unable to formulate a coherent response. Carlos's proximity and the subtle scent of his cologne distract him in a way he finds disturbing.

What follows is a surprisingly pleasant experience. Oscar tries on different combinations, emerging from the fitting room each time for Carlos's critical but constructive evaluation. There's something intimate about this exchange, about the way Carlos's eyes travel over his figure, evaluating how each garment fits him, suggesting adjustments, celebrating particularly successful combinations.

And Oscar discovers it's not as uncomfortable as he would have thought initially. On the contrary, it's not only fun but the way Carlos smiles at him and observes him makes him feel like he's actually physically attractive, instead of the average he usually feels in that aspect.

"That color suits you," Carlos says at one point, referring to a midnight blue shirt that Oscar would normally never have considered. "It creates a fascinating contrast with your skin."

The compliment, so casual and sincere, makes Oscar feel unexpected warmth in his cheeks. He's not used to this type of personal observation. All his life the compliments he's received have always been about his performance, focus, technical ability. Not about how his skin looks against the blue of a fabric.

"It's... it's a good color," he concedes, trying to sound casual while looking at himself in the mirror. And it is, he must admit. He would never have dared with such an intense tone, but against his fair complexion and dark hair, it creates an effect that even he can appreciate.

"You have to trust my judgment more," Carlos says with a smile that's pure confidence. "I haven't been wrong so far, have I?"

Oscar must admit he hasn't. Every outfit Carlos has selected works surprisingly well, creating an image of him that's both different from his usual appearance but authentically pleasing. He doesn't feel disguised but... reinvented.

"You seem satisfied," Carlos observes as Oscar examines his reflection.

"I am," Oscar admits. "You have a good eye."

"I have a good eye for many things," Carlos responds, and there's something in his tone, a subtle insinuation, that makes Oscar feel a flutter in his stomach. Their gazes meet in the mirror for an instant that seems to extend indefinitely.

The moment breaks when another customer passes nearby, bursting the bubble of intimacy that had formed around them. Oscar clears his throat, stepping back toward the fitting room.

"I think we should take all of this," he says, trying to redirect the conversation toward the practical.

Carlos nods, but there's a knowing smile on his lips that suggests he's perfectly aware of the effect his comment has had. "A wise decision, Palmer. A very wise decision."

After the clothes, Carlos guides him toward an optician's. "Now, non-prescription glasses. It's amazing how they can completely change a face."

They spend the next half hour trying different frames, Carlos discarding some and approving others with the concentration he would normally reserve for adjustments to his car's setup. He takes each pair, examines them carefully, and then passes them to Oscar, his fingers occasionally brushing his in the exchange.

"Not these," he decides after seeing Oscar with thin metal frames. "They make you look too formal."

"Aren't I supposed to look serious? I'm a data analyst, after all."

Carlos shakes his head. "Serious, yes. Severe, no. There's a difference."

Oscar is surprised by how meticulous Carlos is in this process, how he seems to have a clear vision of what he's looking for. There's something endearing about this attention to detail, about how seriously he takes this transformation.

Finally he settles on a pair of thick frames, intellectual style, that effectively transform Oscar's appearance.

"Perfect," Carlos declares, observing Oscar with the glasses on. His eyes narrow slightly, evaluating the final effect, and a smile of satisfaction slowly spreads across his face. "No one who knows you in the future would recognize you like this."

Oscar looks at himself in the mirror, surprised by the effectiveness of this simple accessory. The glasses frame his eyes differently, change the perception of his facial features. They soften something in his expression, add an intellectual element to his appearance that contradicts the image of the calculating driver he's cultivated for years.

"I look... different," he concedes, turning his head to examine his profile.

"You look good," Carlos responds, and there's a quality in his voice, a softness, that makes Oscar look back at him. Their eyes meet through the mirror, and for a moment, Oscar has the impression that Carlos is seeing something more than an effective disguise. "Really good."

There's a weight to those words that makes Oscar feel warmth expanding from his chest. He wants to say something, but the words escape him, trapped somewhere between confusion and desire.

"Just one more thing," Carlos says as they leave the optician's, bags in hand, breaking the moment of tension.

Before Oscar can ask what he means, Carlos raises a hand and, without warning, runs it through Oscar's hair, completely messing up his hairstyle.

The contact is brief but electrifying. Carlos's fingers against his scalp send a wave of sensation down Oscar's spine. It's so unexpected, so intimate in its casualness, that for a moment Oscar remains completely still, barely breathing. He can feel the residual heat where Carlos's fingers have been, as if they'd left an invisible mark.

"Much better," Carlos declares, apparently unconscious of the effect his gesture has had, though the glint in his eyes suggests otherwise. "You should let it grow a bit, wear it more tousled. It would complete the transformation."

Oscar runs a hand through his hair, trying to compose himself both physically and emotionally. His heart beats with an irregular cadence that he finds alarming. "You think so?"

"Definitely," Carlos affirms, and there's something in the way he looks at him, an intensity that makes Oscar feel simultaneously exposed and protected. "In the future, do you always wear your hair this short?"

"More or less," Oscar confirms, grateful for the change to a more neutral topic. "It's practical for the helmet, for the heat."

"All the more reason to change it now," Carlos concludes, and his logic is so clear, so pragmatic, that it contrasts with the emotional confusion Oscar is experiencing. "No one would connect Oscar Piastri with Oscar Palmer, the data analyst with messy hair and glasses."

The logic is impeccable, and Oscar nods, accepting this new element of his undercover identity. But as they walk toward the shopping center's exit, he's aware that something else has changed during this seemingly mundane shopping session. A barrier has fallen, a line has blurred.

And the most disturbing thing isn't that Carlos has crossed that line, but that Oscar discovers he doesn't want to redraw it.

 

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

Chapter 10: Quantum Entanglement

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

 

The car veers off the main road, taking a secondary path lined with pine trees. Oscar watches the landscape, trying to hide his nervousness. After the shopping session, he feels like he's crossed another invisible line with Carlos, as if each shared minute brings them closer to territory that shouldn't exist.

"I'm hungry," Carlos announces, breaking the silence. "I know a place nearby. Nothing fancy, but the food is incredible."

"Let's go, I'm hungry too."

The restaurant appears after a curve: a stone and wood structure that seems to have been there for centuries. There's no flashy sign, just a small carved plaque. The parking lot is barely a dirt field with a few scattered cars.

"I've been coming here since I was a kid. My father loves this place. It's one of those spots only locals know about."

The interior is warm and welcoming, with wooden beams on the ceiling and stone walls decorated with old farming tools. An older man greets Carlos with familiarity, exchanging a few phrases in Catalan before guiding them to a discreet table in a corner, beneath a window that frames the distant mountains.

Oscar feels strangely exposed under the natural light bathing the table, as if his lies might be visible in broad daylight. Carlos, on the other hand, seems completely relaxed as he silently reviews the menu.

They sit, order their drinks, and when the waiter retreats, Carlos props his elbows on the table, leaning slightly forward. His eyes fix on Oscar with an intensity that makes him feel like he's under a microscope.

"So?" Carlos asks without preamble.

Oscar blinks, confused. "What?"

"This place," Carlos gestures, encompassing the restaurant. "Does it look the same as in 2024 or has it changed much?"

"This is my first time here," he says without thinking.

Carlos looks at him with genuine surprise, as if Oscar had just told him the sky is green.

"I've never brought you here?" The disbelief in his voice is palpable. "This is one of my favorite restaurants of all time."

The words fall like a weight on Oscar. He feels his pulse racing as he desperately searches for a justification.

"This is going to sound weird," Oscar begins, looking for an escape, "but the popularity you think you have or that you've even noticed in drivers you consider very media-savvy is nothing compared to what it'll be in the future."

He leans forward, instinctively lowering his voice even though no one could hear them.

"In 2024, being an F1 driver is like being a celebrity or an idol. Everyone knows us. Everyone has a phone with a camera. We have to be very discreet and it's impossible to do what we did today, like go shopping or be in such a... personal restaurant."

Carlos processes this information slowly. His expression gradually transforms, the initial disappointment giving way to a more somber understanding.

"So," he says after a long moment, "how do we spend time together?"

Oscar notices the vulnerability in his question. It's not accusatory or challenging; it's genuinely curious, almost fearful of the answer.

"In private spaces, mainly," Oscar responds, choosing his words carefully. "Yes, we could pretend to be just work colleagues or friends eating together, but remember I told you that to avoid suspicion we sometimes even pretend we don't get along well. So we really never go to public places alone. It's safer that way."

"So we've never had a normal date," Carlos concludes, his voice dropping to almost a whisper. "We're like a dirty secret that only exists in clandestine rooms."

The disappointment in his voice is so evident that Oscar feels like something is breaking inside him. The phrase "dirty secret" resonates with a bitterness he didn't expect from this young Carlos, normally so optimistic.

"No," Oscar responds, and the vehemence in his voice surprises even him. "We're not a dirty secret."

Carlos looks up, surprised by the intensity of his response.

"How can you say that? If we can never simply... exist together in public." There's genuine pain in his voice. "If we have to pretend we barely tolerate each other."

"Maybe almost no one knows and we can't have conventional dates," Oscar continues, the words emerging from some deep place he didn't know he had, "but we do have dates and precious moments. We're not a dirty secret," he insists, indignation growing in his voice. "I have things at your apartment and you have things at mine. We don't need to be together in public places when we've shared our most private spaces."

It's a lie, of course, but as he speaks, Oscar finds himself imagining what it would be like: waking up in Carlos's apartment, sharing coffee in silence while dawn light bathes the kitchen, the intimacy of those moments stolen from the world.

Carlos stares at him, something shifting in his expression. The initial pain slowly transforms into something warmer, more hopeful.

"What kind of moments?" he finally asks, and there's a vulnerability in the question that hits Oscar right in the chest.

Oscar takes a deep breath. This answer is crucial. It needs to be specific enough to sound real, but not so detailed that it tangles him in future contradictions.

"Your terrace," he says, and suddenly finds himself imagining the place with a vividness that surprises him. "Your terrace at night."

The image forms in his mind as he speaks, so clear he can almost feel the night breeze on his skin.

"You have this apartment with an incredible terrace," he continues, letting himself be carried away by the fantasy he's building. "It's high enough that no one can see us from below, and you set it up perfectly. You installed these little lights—I don't know what they're called, like tiny stars—that hang all around the perimeter."

Oscar sees how Carlos's eyes light up, absorbing every detail, visualizing this space that doesn't yet exist.

"There's this kind of outdoor sofa, too comfortable for its own good. Sometimes we fall asleep there. You have these plants too, I don't know their names because I'm terrible with that, but you created this little urban oasis."

The image becomes more vivid as he speaks, as if he's describing a real memory instead of a complete invention.

"The sunsets there are... perfect," he continues, surprised by how the words flow. "The way the light changes, how it reflects off the distant buildings. Sometimes we just sit there, with a glass of wine, not talking. Just existing together."

Carlos listens, completely absorbed, and Oscar can see he's building this space in his mind, that he's living in this fantasy alongside him.

"Other times we bring blankets when it's cold," he continues, unable to stop now that he's begun. "We curl up under them and talk for hours. About what we did on the days we were apart, about our families, about books we've read, about everything and nothing."

Oscar surprises himself with how easily these details emerge from him, how natural it feels to talk about this invented intimacy.

"And it's there, on that terrace, where we can really be ourselves," he says, his voice softening. "Where we don't have to pretend, where we don't have to worry about who sees us or what they'll think. Where I can kiss you without looking over my shoulder first, where we can be as affectionate or as passionate as we want."

He stops, noticing the intensity with which Carlos observes him, the slight blush that has appeared on his cheeks. Oscar feels a similar warmth spreading across his own face, surprised by the direction his words have taken.

"There was one night, a few weeks ago," he continues, his voice slightly lower now, like sharing a precious secret. "It was raining, but the terrace has this little roof over one section. We sat there, listening to the rain fall, occasionally feeling the humid breeze on our faces. We had a bottle of wine, and you were telling me stories about a trip you took with your cousins."

The image is so clear, so detailed, that for a moment Oscar can almost believe it really happened, that he has this memory etched in his mind.

"There was something about that night... the way the light reflected in the raindrops, how your voice sounded against the noise of the water, how close we were, sharing that small dry space. It was one of those moments that aren't extraordinary in themselves, but that for some reason stay with you forever."

Carlos seems momentarily speechless, his eyes bright with an emotion Oscar can't fully name. When he finally speaks, his voice is barely a whisper.

"It sounds beautiful."

Oscar nods, suddenly conscious of how much he's let himself be carried away by this fantasy, of how much he's elaborated a lie that now almost feels like truth.

"It is," he confirms, surprised by the emotion he feels describing this life that will never exist. "That terrace is... our refuge. Our little private universe."

Carlos smiles, and there's something in that smile that makes Oscar feel a knot in his throat.

"I like that," he says softly. "The idea of having a place that's just ours, no matter what happens outside."

Oscar nods, unable to find words. Guilt and something else, something warm and confusing, mix in his chest.

"I've always liked terraces. I guess someday I'll have that amazing one you just described," Carlos continues, his gaze momentarily lost in the horizon visible through the window. Then he looks back at Oscar, and there's something new in his eyes, a determination mixed with hope. "I'll decorate it exactly as you said so that when you return to your time, it'll be just as you remember it."

The implicit promise in these words makes Oscar feel like something is physically crushing him. Carlos's unwavering faith in a future he knows will never come, the way he's absorbing every detail of this lie like a blueprint for his future life, intensifies his guilt until it becomes almost unbearable.

"I'd like that," he manages to say, the words barely audible.

But then, seeing the determination in Carlos's eyes, something changes in him. A new wave of guilt, different from before, hits him hard. It's not just about lying, but about how he's potentially altering Carlos's future decisions, chaining him to specific expectations.

"Carlos," he says, his voice firmer now. "You don't have to recreate exactly what I'm telling you."

Carlos blinks, surprised by the change in his tone.

"What do you mean?"

Oscar searches for the words, trying to be honest without revealing the central lie.

"What I mean is that... the future isn't written in stone. Or rather, even if it is, you shouldn't feel obligated to follow a script just because I'm describing how things are in my time."

Carlos looks at him curiously, tilting his head slightly.

"But if it's our future, why wouldn't I want to recreate it exactly as it is?"

Oscar sighs, touching the edge of his glass with his fingers.

"Because... that's the thing about time. I don't know if I'm changing things just by being here, talking to you. I don't know if by telling you about that terrace, I'm altering how you'll build it."

He pauses, noticing that Carlos is listening attentively.

"Maybe you always had that terrace with lights, even without me telling you. Maybe you created it because you liked it, not because you felt you had to do it to fulfill some predetermined version of the future."

Carlos considers this, his expression becoming more contemplative.

"You're talking about free will," he finally says. "About whether my decisions are really mine or if I'm just following a path already laid out. About whether I'm creating a self-fulfilling prophecy."

Oscar nods, surprised by the depth of his understanding.

"Exactly. And I don't want you to feel like you have to build that specific terrace, or have that specific apartment, just because I told you that's how it will be. I want you to do it because you want to, if you want to."

Carlos smiles, and there's a maturity in that smile that contradicts his youth.

"It's interesting," he says. "Because if time is a closed loop, as it seems to be, then maybe the reason I'll build that terrace exactly as you described is precisely because you described it to me that way. Maybe it was always part of the cycle."

Oscar feels a chill run down his spine. The idea of the closed temporal loop, of all this having already happened and continuing to happen, produces an existential vertigo in him.

Carlos leans forward, his expression shifting to something more reflective.

"But it could also be completely different," he continues. "Maybe I never would have decorated a terrace that way if you hadn't described it to me. Maybe I'll do it not because I was destined to, but because of your direct influence in this moment."

Oscar nods slowly, intrigued by this perspective.

"That makes sense."

"And maybe you're not changing your future at all," Carlos adds, his eyes gleaming with what seems almost like intellectual excitement. "Maybe you're changing the future of the Oscar from this time."

"What do you mean?"

"The fifteen-year-old Oscar who exists right now somewhere out there," Carlos explains. "Maybe by time traveling you've created a parallel line. Nothing that happens while you're here affects your future, because in your future this past already happened. The only thing you're doing is changing the future of the Oscar from this timeline."

Oscar looks at him, genuinely impressed by the reasoning.

"That's... a really interesting theory."

Carlos shrugs with a shy smile.

"I've seen some movies."

Oscar laughs, surprised by the lightness of the moment despite the depth of the conversation.

"Honestly, Carlos," he admits, "I have no idea how any of this works. Whether I've created a parallel timeline, whether I'm in a closed loop, whether I'm changing my own past... it's a complete mystery to me."

"For me too," Carlos responds with an understanding smile. "But somehow, that makes it less scary, don't you think? Not having to worry about whether every little action is breaking the universe or something."

Oscar nods, grateful for this perspective that relieves some of the pressure he's been feeling.

"You're right. If neither of us understands how it works, we can just... live in the moment, I guess."

"Exactly," Carlos confirms. "And speaking of living in the moment..." He stops, a slight blush spreading across his cheeks. "Our first time together... was it on the terrace?"

The question comes out so abruptly that Oscar almost chokes on the wine he was drinking. Carlos immediately seems to regret it.

"Sorry," he says quickly, the blush intensifying. "You don't have to answer if you don't want to. That was an inappropriate question."

Oscar takes a moment to regain his composure, surprised not only by the question but by his own physical reaction to it. For an instant, his mind presents him with such a vivid image of the two of them on that imaginary terrace, under the stars, that he can almost feel the heat of Carlos's skin against his.

"It wasn't exactly inappropriate," he manages to say finally. "Just unexpected."

Carlos seems relieved, but still embarrassed.

"Still, I shouldn't have asked something so personal. Especially after everything we just talked about regarding not following predetermined scripts."

Oscar observes Carlos, the blush coloring his cheeks, the way his fingers nervously play with the edge of the napkin. There's something magnetic about seeing him like this, vulnerable and expectant.

"It wasn't on the terrace," Oscar says finally. "But it was in your apartment."

He stops, surprised by the image forming in his mind: bodies intertwined against a door, labored breathing, desperate hands. He's not simply fabricating a lie; he's visualizing something that a part of him desires with an intensity that disconcerts him.

"We barely made it to the bedroom," he continues, his voice slightly hoarser. "It was... intense."

Carlos's eyes visibly darken, his breathing changes rhythm. Oscar feels a wave of heat realizing that his words are having a tangible effect on him.

"And the terrace?" Carlos asks, leaning slightly forward.

Oscar smiles, allowing himself to explore this fantasy that's coming to life in his mind.

"The terrace has its own story," he says, deliberately maintaining eye contact. "Especially on stormy days. There's something about the rain that always makes you... less inhibited."

Carlos swallows, and Oscar can see how his breathing has quickened slightly. For a moment, both are caught in a silence charged with electricity.

"When we're together," Carlos begins, his voice lower, more intimate, "is there anything that makes you... not like it?"

The question surprises Oscar. It's not what he expected, not the typical curiosity about specific acts but something deeper, more considerate.

"Sometimes," he responds after a moment of reflection, "you try too hard to please me. Like you have to prove something." The words leave his mouth before he can analyze them, as if they're accessing some hidden desire. "I like it better when you just... let yourself go. When you don't think so much."

Carlos nods slowly, absorbing every word. "And when I let myself go... what's it like?"

Oscar feels a shiver run down his spine. The conversation has taken an unexpected turn, more intimate than explicitly sexual.

"You're different," Oscar says, surprising himself with how easily these words flow, as if he's describing something real and not a complete fabrication. "More... instinctive. Less the calculating Carlos everyone knows and more... just you."

He sees how these words affect Carlos, how something changes in his gaze.

"Do you like it when I take control?" Carlos asks, and although the words could sound artificial, there's a naturalness in his tone, a genuine curiosity that makes the question seem organic, born of the moment.

Oscar feels an unexpected heat spreading through his body. "Yes," he admits, and is surprised to discover he's not lying. The idea of Carlos taking control, deciding, directing, awakens something in him he didn't know existed. "I like it a lot."

"Why?" Carlos insists, his gaze intense, as if he really needs to understand.

Oscar considers the question, searching within himself for an answer that sounds authentic. And then he understands he doesn't need to invent; he can tell the truth, at least partially.

"Because I spend so much time controlling every aspect of my life," he finally says. "On the track, off it. Always calculating, always planning. With you I can... let go of that control. I can just feel."

The confession surprises both of them. It's too sincere, too revealing to be a simple lie. Oscar realizes, with a mixture of fascination and horror, that he's exposing parts of himself he rarely acknowledges even in private.

Carlos looks at him as if seeing him for the first time. "Is there anything specific that you... that you especially like?"

Oscar feels his pulse racing. He's on dangerous ground now, revealing desires he didn't even know he had, fantasies he's never allowed himself to fully explore.

"When you make me wait," he says, the words coming out in a lower, more intimate tone. "When you take me to the edge and then stop, delaying the moment."

"Fuck," Carlos murmurs, the word escaping like a sigh.

"And your hands," Oscar adds, surprised by how vivid these images are in his mind, as if they were memories and not fantasies. "The way they hold my hips, how they leave marks I can feel the next day."

Carlos stares at him, a visible hunger in his eyes that makes Oscar feel a pull in his lower belly. He's not just exciting Carlos with these words; he's exciting himself, creating a scenario that part of him desperately wants to be real.

"Is there a specific place where you like me to touch you?" Carlos asks, his voice barely audible.

Oscar considers how far he wants to take this. Each word deepens a lie, but also reveals a truth about himself he's never directly confronted.

"The inside of my thighs," he finally says, feeling a wave of heat at admitting it. "When you press there with your teeth, not too hard but enough to... mark territory."

"Mark territory," Carlos whispers as if hypnotized.

"And I like when you talk," Oscar continues, allowing himself to elaborate on something they'd already discussed but from a different angle. "Not just in Spanish, but... when you tell me exactly what you're going to do. Or what you want me to do."

Carlos nods, absorbing this information as if it were vital.

"And there's something else," Oscar adds, his voice dropping to almost a whisper. "Something that turned out to be... my weak spot."

Carlos is completely focused on him now, as if the rest of the restaurant had ceased to exist.

"I like when you have me against the wall," he says, the words coming out in a lower, more intimate tone. "When you use your weight to keep me still. Not roughly, but... decisively."

He sees the immediate effect of his words. Carlos inhales sharply, his pupils visibly dilate.

"What else?" Carlos insists, leaning slightly forward, the edge of the table pressing against his abdomen.

"When you bite my neck," he admits, feeling a wave of heat saying it. "Right where it meets the shoulder. Hard enough that I feel it the next day, so it reminds me who I belong to."

Carlos's eyes darken even more, and Oscar can see how he unconsciously moistens his lips.

"Who do you belong to?" he murmurs, the question escaping as if he couldn't contain it. And there's something almost predatory in the way his eyes travel over Oscar's neck, as if he's imagining exactly where he'd leave that mark.

"To you," Oscar responds, surprising himself with the immediacy and sincerity of his answer. "Completely to you."

Oscar feels a chill that has nothing to do with the restaurant's temperature. For an instant, he vividly imagines Carlos leaning over him, his lips on his neck, his teeth pressing against his skin. The image is so intense he has to discreetly shift position.

"I like when you lose control," Oscar continues, unable to stop now that he's begun. "When you start touching me slowly, carefully, but end up gripping me so hard you leave marks. When your hands, always so sure on the steering wheel, tremble against my skin because you can't contain yourself anymore."

Carlos exhales heavily, and there's something almost predatory in the way his eyes travel over Oscar's face, stopping at his lips.

"I want to do that to you right now," Carlos says abruptly, his voice so low Oscar can barely hear it. "I want to take you somewhere no one can see us and discover exactly where you like to be touched, where you like to be bitten."

The heat that invades Oscar is so intense that for a moment he thinks he might faint. He's never heard Carlos speak like this—neither the Carlos of 2024 nor this young Carlos—and there's something indescribably exciting about hearing those words in his voice.

"I want to see you completely undone," Carlos continues, apparently unable to stop now that he's begun. "I want to be the reason you can't form a coherent sentence. I want to hear you say my name like it's the only thing you remember."

The silence that follows is charged with electricity. Oscar watches how Carlos's chest rises and falls with visibly accelerated breathing, how the blush has descended down his neck, how his pupils are so dilated he can barely distinguish the color of his eyes.

The tension between them is almost palpable, so dense it seems to make breathing difficult. For an instant, Oscar wonders what would happen if he leaned forward, if he eliminated the distance between them, if he tasted again those lips that kissed him in the hotel. The idea sends an electric current through his body.

But they're in a restaurant, surrounded by other people, even though their corner is discreet and secluded. And there's something in Carlos's gaze, a mixture of desire and shock, that tells him even he's surprised by the intensity of what he's just confessed.

Carlos looks away for the first time, as if he needs a moment to compose himself. He takes a sip of water, a gesture that seems more intended to buy time than to quench his thirst. When he looks back at Oscar, his expression has changed. The desire is still there, but now mixed with something that seems like shame.

"Fuck, I'm sorry," he finally says, running a hand through his hair in that nervous gesture Oscar has begun to find adorable. "I can't believe I just said that. I've never talked like that with anyone."

The apology is so sincere, so loaded with genuine mortification, that Oscar feels a wave of tenderness toward him. This isn't the Carlos he hates in 2024; this is a young man discovering parts of himself he probably didn't even know existed.

"Don't apologize," Oscar responds, surprised by the softness in his own voice. "I like seeing you like this. No filters, no pretenses. Just you."

Carlos looks at him, a mixture of relief and surprise in his eyes. "Really, I didn't make you uncomfortable? I practically told you I wanted to..."

"I know," Oscar interrupts with a small smile. "But I think it was partly my own fault."

Carlos exhales, as if he'd been holding his breath. "It's just that with you I feel... different. Like I could say anything, show parts of myself I've always kept hidden, without fear of being judged."

Oscar nods, understanding exactly what he means because, surprisingly, he feels the same way.

"I'm not usually that direct about what I want," Carlos continues, clearly still processing his own behavior. "Especially when it comes to... well, this."

"That's what makes it special," Oscar responds. "That with me you can be."

Carlos nods slowly, considering this. "It's true. I'm not usually this bold with my questions, with my... desires. It's just that with you I feel so much... trust. Like I've known you forever. It's hard to put up filters."

There's a pause, a shift in the atmosphere. The sexual tension doesn't disappear, but it transforms into something deeper, more complex.

"That makes everything less scary," Carlos continues, his expression becoming more serious. "This impossible situation we find ourselves in. Knowing that I can ask you anything, no matter how ridiculous or personal, that I can show you any part of myself without fear."

He pauses, as if deciding whether to continue or not. Finally, he takes a sip of water and continues:

"I appreciate your honesty, Oscar. My whole life I've been surrounded by people who approach me out of self-interest, looking for some benefit from my last name."

The change of topic surprises Oscar, but there's something in Carlos's expression, a different vulnerability, that makes him lean forward, paying full attention.

"Even now, when some woman seems to like me or show interest, I'm never certain what attracts them, whether it's real interest in me as a person or just in what I represent, in the doors I can open."

Oscar feels a stab of guilt so sharp it's almost physical. Because he approached Carlos precisely out of convenience, out of necessity, without any genuine interest in him as a person.

"But with you it's so easy to be myself," Carlos continues, oblivious to Oscar's internal turmoil. "Maybe because I know you're my boyfriend in the future, because I know I don't have to pretend with you. Because you already know me in every possible way, you know my flaws, my vulnerabilities."

Each word is like a knife digging deeper into Oscar's chest. Carlos is opening his heart, sharing insecurities he probably rarely acknowledges even to himself, and he's doing it based on lies.

"It's so refreshing to talk to someone and know they're not lying to me because they're looking to benefit from me," Carlos says, looking directly at Oscar with a confidence that makes him want to look away. "If there's one thing I can't forgive, that I could never forgive, it's being lied to."

Oscar feels like the ground is opening up beneath his feet. His entire plan, his whole survival strategy, is based precisely on what Carlos has just identified as unforgivable to him. And the worst part isn't just that: it's that while listening to Carlos, while observing the sincerity in his eyes, he realizes he doesn't want to keep lying. That he desires, with an intensity that scares him, for everything he's been saying to be real.

"I know it sounds extreme," Carlos continues, unconscious of the devastating effect of his words on Oscar. "But I've grown up with so many hidden agendas around me, so many half-truths, that honesty has become something sacred to me."

Oscar tries to maintain his neutral expression, but feels how panic begins to grow inside him.

Moreover, the fantasies he's been describing to Carlos aren't simple inventions created to manipulate him; they're authentic desires that Oscar had never allowed himself to recognize, not even to himself. They're deeply personal longings he'd buried under layers of professional ambition, of absolute focus on his career, of carefully cultivated rivalries that kept everyone at a safe distance.

What's most disturbing is discovering that these fantasies had always been there, waiting to be acknowledged, and that now they've found a perfect recipient: not the arrogant and distant Carlos Sainz he knows in 2024, but this young man with intense gaze and genuine smile, with a vulnerability and honesty that disarms all his defenses. This Carlos who listens to him with absolute attention, who absorbs every word as if it were gold, who offers him exactly what he never knew he wanted.

And that's precisely what makes the situation so devastating. Oscar isn't simply describing a fictional future; he's revealing parts of himself he's always kept hidden, giving them to the only person who should never have them, but who paradoxically is the only one who seems to deserve them.

"And that's why I feel so... free with you," Carlos concludes with a smile that lights up his entire face. "Because I know that between us there's that fundamental honesty. That transparency that makes everything else possible."

Oscar nods mechanically, unable to find words that aren't more lies. The situation has gone from being complicated to being potentially devastating. He's not simply manipulating Carlos to get help; he's playing with something that, he now understands, is the most precious value to him.

"Are you okay?" Carlos asks, noticing his sudden silence. "You've gone pale."

Oscar blinks, trying to find an answer that isn't completely false.

"I'm still processing all this about time travel," he finally says, and there's at least some truth in those words. "Sometimes it hits me suddenly, you know? The fact that I'm in 2016, talking to you, when days ago I was in 2024."

Carlos nods, his expression softening with genuine understanding. "I can't even imagine what it must be like for you. Being completely displaced from your time, from your life."

"It's... disorienting," Oscar admits, and that's perhaps the understatement of the century. "Like I'm living in a strangely vivid dream."

"It's a lot to process, I know," Carlos says with an understanding smile. "For me too, and I'm not even the one who time traveled."

The waiter approaches to ask if they want anything else, giving Oscar a moment to reorganize his thoughts, to try to contain the whirlwind of guilt, fear, and newly discovered desire that threatens to overwhelm him.

"We're fine, thanks," Carlos responds, taking the initiative in the face of Oscar's silence.

When the waiter retreats, Carlos looks at Oscar with a more serious expression.

"Don't worry," he says softly. "With me by your side you won't lack anything and I'll do everything possible to help you. Soon you'll return to your time and everything will be fine. Trust me."

Oscar nods, grateful for this misinterpretation of his disturbance.

"There's something else I want you to know," Carlos continues, his voice taking on a more intimate tone. "I know you didn't ask to be here and that it can be scary for you and maybe this is very selfish of me but I'm glad this happened and that I've been able to meet you ahead of time because there's something about you that makes me feel like I've never felt with anyone else."

The sincerity in these words, the absolute vulnerability Carlos is showing, makes Oscar feel like something is breaking inside him.

"Thank you," he manages to say, the words barely audible. "It means a lot."

Carlos smiles, that open and genuine smile Oscar has never seen on the Carlos of 2024.

"Come on," he says, gesturing toward the exit after leaving money on the table. "We still have a long way to go today."

In the car, Oscar remains silent, watching through the window as the Catalan landscape slides by. His mind can't stop circling around what Carlos had said earlier about parallel timelines. The idea that maybe he's not changing his own future, but that of this alternate reality, of this timeline that has now branched because of his presence.

"What are you thinking about?" Carlos asks after several minutes of silence.

Oscar continues looking out the window, not quite ready to face those dark eyes that seem to see too much.

"About what you said before," he finally responds. "About how maybe I'm not changing my own future because my past already happened, but that I'm altering this timeline."

Carlos nods, visibly interested in the direction of Oscar's thoughts. "And what do you think about that?"

"I can't stop thinking about him," Oscar says, and the words come out before he can completely filter them. "About the fifteen-year-old Oscar who exists somewhere in Australia right now."

"What about him?" Carlos asks, shooting him a quick glance before refocusing on the road.

Oscar carefully considers his response. There's something liberating about being able to talk about this topic, which technically isn't another lie.

"I wonder if his life will be different now," he finally says. "If because of me being here, he'll have a different future than mine. If he'll make it to Formula 1, if he'll meet the same people, if he'll make the same decisions."

Carlos seems to reflect on this for a few moments, his fingers drumming lightly on the steering wheel.

"It's fascinating," he finally says. "To think that there are two Oscar Piastris right now with completely different lives."

Oscar nods, but his mind is following a much more disturbing path. The image forms with painful clarity: if he returns to his time without Carlos discovering all his lies, Carlos will move forward in this timeline, keeping all the secrets, all the fantasies Oscar has described. And eventually he'll meet the Oscar of this reality.

And then comes the realization that hits him like a punch in the stomach: if Carlos tried to win over the Oscar of this timeline, he would undoubtedly succeed. How could he not? This Carlos is everything Oscar never knew he wanted: attentive, vulnerable, passionate, genuine. A Carlos who would fall in love with the Oscar of this timeline thinking that's his destiny and knowing exactly what he likes, what makes him feel good, what fantasies he has, even before Oscar himself discovers them.

A Carlos who would create a terrace exactly like the one Oscar has described, who would learn to do all the things he supposedly likes, who would prepare the perfect stage for that first kiss in Singapore that never happened but is now destined to occur.

And the Oscar of this timeline would fall at his feet. How could he not, faced with someone who seems to know him better than he knows himself?

The idea provokes such an intense wave of jealousy in Oscar that it surprises him. Irrational, absurd, completely inappropriate jealousy. He's jealous of a younger version of himself, of an Oscar who could have everything he himself invented but now discovers he desperately desires.

What kind of person is he becoming? What does it say about him that he's jealous of a teenager who doesn't even know of his existence, that he resents an alternate version of himself for a hypothetical future he's fabricated with lies?

He was supposed to just be manipulating Carlos to survive, to get documents, resources, a way to return to his time. This was supposed to be a means to an end, a calculated strategy. When did he start caring? When did the lies begin transforming into desires?

And most disturbing: why does he feel this pang of longing when he thinks about what he could have had with Carlos if circumstances had been different? If they had met another way, at another time?

It's ridiculous. He has other priorities. A career. Ambitions. A future in 2024 he needs to reclaim. He shouldn't be feeling jealous of people in tentative alternate universes. He shouldn't be fantasizing about a life that will never exist, with a man who in his time barely tolerates him.

"You know what's strangest?" Carlos says, interrupting his thoughts. "That even though all this time travel stuff is confusing and scary, somehow it feels... right. Like this is how things were supposed to be. Like we were destined to meet each other precisely this way, exactly as it's happened."

Oscar doesn't respond. He doesn't trust his voice right now. Because what's really terrifying is that, despite everything, he understands exactly what Carlos means. There's something about being here, with him, that feels inexplicably right.

And as he watches Carlos's profile silhouetted against the landscape rushing past the window, Oscar realizes with devastating clarity that he's completely fucked. Not just because he's manipulating someone who values honesty above all else, not just because he's playing with the feelings of a man who's offering him genuine help.

He's fucked because he's falling in love with Carlos Sainz. Not with the arrogant driver he knows in 2024, but with this young man with warm eyes and sincere smile who's driving beside him. And the worst part is that he's giving a younger version of himself the possibility of living what he now wants but knows he can never have.

The irony is so cruel it almost physically hurts. He came to the past by accident, lied out of necessity, and now he's paying the highest price: discovering what he really wants just when it's completely impossible to obtain.

 

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

Chapter 11: Temporal Anchor

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

 

They arrive in Madrid with the sun setting, the city golden beneath the evening light. Carlos navigates the streets with the confidence of someone who knows the capital well, heading toward a relatively quiet residential neighborhood. The journey from Barcelona has been strangely comfortable. The conversation has flowed with a naturalness that Oscar finds as unsettling as it is pleasant.

"Where exactly are we going?" Oscar asks, noticing they don't seem to be heading toward a hotel.

"To my apartment," Carlos responds, as if it were obvious.

Oscar nods, though he feels immediate tension at the idea of being in Carlos's personal space. There's an intimacy to visiting someone's home that he hadn't anticipated, especially after the conversations they've had today. After everything he's confessed, all the fantasies he's revealed under the guise of memories.

The apartment is in an elegant but not ostentatious building, the kind of place that suggests comfort without flaunting wealth. Carlos parks in an underground garage and guides Oscar toward a private elevator that takes them directly to the right floor.

"It's not very big," Carlos warns as he opens the door, "but it's comfortable. I don't really spend much time here, so I don't need anything bigger or flashier."

Oscar enters the apartment, immediately struck by the view of Madrid offered by the living room's floor-to-ceiling windows. The space is modern, minimalist but warm, with personal touches—racing photographs, some youth trophies, books in Spanish and English—that speak of the man who occasionally inhabits it.

"It's nice," he says sincerely, observing the details that reveal aspects of Carlos he'd never considered before. A guitar in one corner, a collection of vinyl records next to a vintage turntable, history books mixed with the expected volumes on motorsport. Each object tells a different story from the one Oscar had assumed about Carlos Sainz.

His eyes settle on a small balcony that opens from the living room. It's not exactly a terrace, but there's something about that outdoor space that makes his heart race. It's almost as if the universe is mocking him, showing him the seed of what could become that terrace he's described in such detail, that imaginary place that now feels as real as if he'd spent countless nights there.

Carlos watches him explore the space, an unreadable expression on his face. "Is it very different from the apartment I have in 2024?" he finally asks.

The question catches Oscar off guard. He's never been to Carlos's apartment in 2024, wouldn't know what it's like.

"It's... smaller," he responds vaguely, hoping this is probably true given Carlos's career advancement. "And you don't live in Madrid anymore in 2024."

This last part is an educated guess, but it seems to satisfy Carlos. "Where do I live? No, wait, don't tell me."

Oscar nods, relieved by this sudden respect for temporal complexities. "That's probably for the best."

Carlos shows Oscar the rest of the apartment: the compact but well-equipped kitchen, the main bathroom, and finally the two bedrooms.

"You can stay here," he says, pointing to the guest room. "I'll be in the master, right next door. The person who's going to help us with your documentation will see us tomorrow morning, so we have time to rest."

Oscar nods, grateful for the consideration and private space. "Thank you. For all of this. I really appreciate—"

"If you say 'thank you' one more time, I'm going to have to take drastic measures," Carlos interrupts with a smile that softens his words. "It's not necessary. Like I said before, we're together in the future, so this is the least I would do."

The reference to their supposed relationship makes Oscar feel that familiar pang of guilt. Carlos is offering help based on a lie, on false expectations that Oscar has deliberately cultivated. And the worst part is that now, after today's conversations, after realizing his own feelings, the guilt is even sharper.

"Still, thank you," Oscar insists, "I really appreciate everything you're doing for me."

Carlos looks at him for a moment, something warm and familiar shining in his dark eyes. A soft smile curves his lips as he shakes his head slightly.

"Always insisting on thanking me," he says, his tone somewhere between amused and touched. "You really don't need to."

There's a moment of pause, where they simply look at each other, a silent communication that seems to have developed between them in these few days. Oscar is about to respond when Carlos takes a small step forward, closing the distance between them.

It happens with surprising naturalness: Carlos raises his right hand and places it gently on Oscar's cheek, his thumb barely grazing the line of his jaw. His eyes, so expressive, so open, never leave Oscar's as he slowly leans toward him.

When their lips meet, it's not simply a superficial brush. Carlos presses his lips against Oscar's with soft but decisive firmness. It's a kiss that begins closed, but after a second softens, his parted lips gently capturing Oscar's lower lip. There's no tongue, no desperate urgency, but there's clear intention, a subtle movement that conveys more than simple casual affection.

Oscar feels the warmth of Carlos's hand on his cheek, the gentle pressure of his lips, the light scent of his cologne, and for an instant finds himself responding instinctively, leaning slightly into the contact.

The kiss lasts barely three seconds, but contains an intimacy that none of their previous exchanges had achieved. When Carlos pulls away, he does so slowly, his lips leaving Oscar's with one last soft pressure.

His eyes open, meeting Oscar's, who looks at him with a mixture of surprise and something deeper, more complex.

"Then I'm going to thank you too," Carlos says softly. "Thank you for trusting me. Thank you for being here."

His hand abandons Oscar's cheek with one last light caress. There's a moment of stillness between them, a pause charged with possibilities, before Carlos takes a step back, maintaining that calm smile on his lips.

"I'm going to take a shower," he adds, his voice normal but with a softer undertone. "Make yourself comfortable. You're at home."

And with that, he turns and disappears down the hall toward the bathroom, leaving Oscar in the middle of the room, processing what just happened.

This wasn't a stolen kiss in a moment of confusion, nor a kiss born of vulnerability or the need for comfort. It was a conscious, deliberate kiss, the kind of kiss that happens when someone really wants to kiss another person, simply because they can, because they want to, because it feels right.

Oscar unconsciously raises a hand, his fingers lightly brushing his own lips, still warm from the contact. He can feel the ghost of the pressure, the gentle capture of his lower lip between Carlos's, the warmth of his palm against his cheek.

It's then that he understands the true difference of this kiss: it needed no justification. It wasn't motivated by curiosity, physical desire, or emotional comfort. It was a kiss that arose naturally, as if it were part of a routine between them, as if Carlos had simply followed an impulse born of the comfort they've developed together.

And that realization, more than the kiss itself, is what makes his heart beat a little faster, what sends a wave of warmth through his chest.

Once in the guest room, Oscar sits on the edge of the bed, the weight of everything that's happened in the last few hours falling on him like an avalanche.

He runs his hands through his hair, trying to understand how he's reached this point. He's never been someone particularly given to lying. Sure, from time to time he's resorted to small omissions, to half-truths when the situation required it. Who hasn't. But since arriving in 2016, it's as if he's become another person. A scriptwriter, a creator of elaborate fictions that flow from him with a naturalness that disconcerts him.

The story he's woven about his relationship with Carlos, the anecdotes, the intimate moments, the small shared traditions... everything has emerged with a spontaneity that now disturbs him. Where does all of this come from? How is it possible that he can elaborate in such detail a life that has never existed?

And then, like a ray of clarity in the confusion, comes understanding: he's not inventing everything out of thin air. He's giving voice to desires that have always been there, deep longings that he's never allowed himself to consciously recognize.

The nights on the terrace, the moments of shared vulnerability, the security of being completely understood by someone who knows the same pressures, the same sacrifices... all of that are things he's desired for years without daring to admit it.

In those rare moments when he allows himself to fantasize, when loneliness becomes too heavy after a particularly difficult race, when the isolation that comes with success becomes too evident, he's always imagined someone. A figure without a defined face, without a name, but with very specific qualities: someone who understands his world, who doesn't need explanations, who sees the man behind the driver.

Someone like Carlos.

And now he understands why the lies flow so naturally. They're not really lies, not completely. They're truths he's kept buried, authentic desires dressed as memories of a future that will never exist.

The sound of the shower stopping pulls him from his thoughts. Somewhere in the apartment, Carlos is getting out of the bathroom, probably thinking about him, about the fictional future that Oscar has described with such conviction. A future that, Oscar now knows with terrifying clarity, he desires with an intensity that scares him.

He gets up, moving toward the window to look at the lights of Madrid that are beginning to turn on in the twilight. The city seems a reflection of his internal state: a mixture of shadows and clarity, of illuminated areas and dark alleys where secrets can hide.

There's something liberating in finally admitting it: he's falling in love with Carlos. And there's something devastating in knowing that this feeling is completely impossible. Not only because eventually he'll have to return to 2024 (if he finds how), but because the relationship is based on lies. Lies that Carlos, who values honesty above all things, could never forgive.

Oscar rests his forehead against the cold glass, closing his eyes. The next time he allows himself to fantasize, to imagine that ideal companion on lonely nights, it will no longer be an anonymous figure. It will have a concrete face, a specific smile, a particular voice. It will be Carlos, this Carlos from 2016, the one he can never have.

The man whose apartment he shares tonight. The man whose kiss he can still feel on his lips. The man who believes in a future together that will never exist, but that Oscar has begun to desire more than anything in the world.

The soft knock on the door startles him.

"Oscar," Carlos's voice sounds muffled through the wood. "Do you want to have dinner? I can order food, or if you prefer, there are some things in the fridge."

Oscar breathes deeply, trying to compose his voice so it won't reveal the emotional turmoil he's just gone through.

"Takeout sounds good," he responds, surprised by how normal he sounds.

"Perfect. I'll let you choose, I know an excellent Italian place near here."

"I trust your choice," Oscar says, and is surprised to realize it's true. He trusts Carlos in a way he hasn't trusted anyone in a long time.

"All right. I'll be in the living room when you want to join me."

Carlos's footsteps fade away, and Oscar is alone again with his thoughts. With the certainty that when he returns to his time, if he manages to, he won't be the same person who appeared in that Barcelona paddock. He can't be. Not after having discovered truths about himself that he can never bury again.

He moves away from the window, preparing to go out and face Carlos, to continue this strange dance between truth and lies, between desire and duty. But as he heads to the door, one thing is clear in his mind: when he returns to 2024, he'll look at the Carlos Sainz of his time with completely new eyes, searching in that distant rival for traces of the young man who's waiting for him on the other side of this door. The young man who, without meaning to, has unearthed longings that Oscar never knew he had until he turned them into lies.

And perhaps, he thinks as he opens the door, that's the greatest irony of all: that he's had to lie to finally find his most authentic truth.

When Oscar comes out of the room, he finds Carlos in the kitchen, talking on the phone in Spanish. His voice flows with a different cadence in his mother tongue, more musical, more free. Oscar stops for a moment, simply listening, appreciating the way the words link together in a rhythm he finds strangely captivating.

Carlos sees him and smiles, gesturing toward the living room while continuing his conversation. Oscar nods and heads to the sofa, giving Carlos privacy to finish his call. From there, he observes the apartment with more attention, noticing small details that escaped him in his initial inspection: family photographs on a discreet shelf, a half-read book on the coffee table, a jacket carelessly hung over a chair.

Signs of life. Of humanity. Details that make this Carlos—the real man, not the abstract rival he's built in his mind over the years—even more tangible.

"It'll be here in about twenty minutes," Carlos says, entering the living room. "I ordered from my favorite Italian restaurant. I hope you like pasta."

"I love it," Oscar responds sincerely. "Good thing it's coming soon, I don't know why I'm so hungry."

Carlos laughs, the sound unexpectedly warm in the cozy space of the apartment. "Time travel must work up an appetite."

There's an ease in their interaction that Oscar finds unsettling but pleasant. It's as if they've gone from being complete strangers to something close to friendship in a matter of days. Though, Oscar reflects, sharing intimate secrets—even if some are fabricated—tends to accelerate that process.

Carlos pours two glasses of red wine, offering one to Oscar. "It's from a friend of my father's vineyard. I hope you like it."

"Thank you," Oscar says, accepting the glass and taking a small sip. The wine is rich and complex, with notes of ripe fruit and a slightly spiced finish. "It's excellent."

"You know? Somehow I expected you to say something like 'in the future you stop drinking this wine and prefer another,'" Carlos jokes, sitting on the sofa at a respectful but not distant distance.

Oscar smiles, appreciating the humor. "If it helps, your taste in wine is still excellent in 2024."

"That's a relief," Carlos responds, raising his glass in a small toast. "To constants in the midst of change."

Oscar touches his glass to Carlos's, the soft chiming of crystal resonating in the quiet air of the apartment.

The food arrives shortly after, and Carlos arranges it on the coffee table: pasta with black truffle, arugula salad with parmesan, and homemade bread still warm. It's a simple but evidently quality feast, the kind of food that speaks of local knowledge and genuine appreciation.

The conversation flows naturally as they eat, jumping from light topics to more substantial ones with an ease Oscar never would have anticipated. Carlos talks about his early years in the junior categories, about the pressures of being "the son of" in a sport where that surname carries so much weight. Oscar shares anecdotes from his own beginnings, carefully edited to not reveal too much about his future, but genuine in their essence.

It's during a comfortable pause, when both have finished eating and are enjoying the wine, that Carlos shifts direction.

"Can I ask you something personal?" he says, his voice noticeably softer.

Oscar nods, though he feels a slight knot of apprehension. Every personal question is a potential minefield for more lies.

"Have you ever felt that... no matter what you achieve, it's never enough?" Carlos asks, looking at his glass instead of at Oscar. "Like there's always another expectation to meet, another bar to clear."

The question catches Oscar off guard. It's not what he expected, not about their supposed future relationship, but something much more intimate, much more real.

"Constantly," he responds with a honesty that surprises him. "Every achievement seems to have such a short shelf life. One day you're celebrating a victory, and the next you're already thinking about the next race, the next goal."

Carlos nods, a silent understanding passing between them. "My father," he begins, and there's a weight in those two words that Oscar can feel almost physically, "is my hero. He always has been. But he's also... an enormous shadow."

Oscar remains silent, giving Carlos space to continue.

"People always expect me to be like him. To have his instinct, his determination, his... legendary ability to overcome any obstacle." Carlos pauses, taking a sip of wine. "And I try. God knows I try. But sometimes I wonder if I'll ever be seen for who I am, not for who my father is."

There's such raw vulnerability in this confession that Oscar feels a lump in his throat. This isn't the arrogant and self-assured Carlos Sainz he's built in his mind; this is a young man dealing with impossible expectations, with a legacy that's both a privilege and a burden.

"They see you," Oscar finally says, and though it's a conversation they've never had in his reality, he feels the truth in his words. "Maybe not now, not completely. But in time, people see who you really are. Your own driver, with your own style, your own way of approaching races and life."

Carlos looks at him, cautious hope in his eyes. "Really?"

"Really," Oscar confirms, and for the first time in a long while, he doesn't feel like he's lying. "You're not your father. You're you. And that's more than enough."

Something changes in Carlos's expression, a tension that seems to release. He shifts slightly on the sofa, moving almost imperceptibly closer.

"You know," he says with a small smile, "I've never talked about this with anyone, especially not with someone in the paddock. It's strange how easy it is to talk to you."

Oscar nods, understanding exactly what he means. "The paddock isn't always the best place for vulnerabilities."

"No," Carlos agrees. "It's a place where we all pretend to be invincible, even when we're falling apart inside."

There's a moment of silence, not uncomfortable but contemplative. Oscar feels he should match Carlos's honesty with something genuine from his side.

"Sometimes," he begins, carefully choosing his words, "I feel like my whole life has been preparation for something, always looking toward the next goal, the next target. And I wonder if I'll ever be present, truly present, in my own life. If I'll ever enjoy the moment instead of constantly planning for the future."

It's a confession he's never made out loud, a fear he's kept buried under layers of ambition and determination. But in this space, with this Carlos who seems to see through his defenses, he feels safe exposing this part of himself.

Carlos looks at him with an understanding that goes beyond words. "The irony is that now you're literally displaced from your time, forced to be in a present that isn't yours."

"I know," Oscar smiles ironically. "The universe has a twisted sense of humor."

Carlos laughs softly, and then, in a movement that seems both deliberate and instinctive, he moves on the sofa until he's sitting next to Oscar, their shoulders almost touching.

"Does this bother you?" he asks, a vulnerability in his voice that makes Oscar's heart race.

"No," Oscar responds, surprised by his own sincerity. "It doesn't bother me at all."

With a sigh that seems to contain both relief and anticipation, Carlos leans back slightly, until his head is resting on Oscar's shoulder. The contact is light, tentative, as if he's testing boundaries, expecting to be rejected.

Oscar remains still for a moment, conscious of every point where their bodies touch, of the warmth emanating from Carlos, of the light but significant weight of his head against his shoulder. Then, slowly, he allows himself to relax into the contact.

The warmth of Carlos's body next to his has something strangely comforting about it, as if it were an anchor in the middle of the temporal storm that his existence has been these past few days. Oscar can perceive his scent, a subtle mixture of aftershave, wine and something more personal. Without thinking, he tilts his head slightly, until his cheek gently brushes Carlos's hair.

"Is this weird?" Carlos asks quietly, the sound vibrating against Oscar's shoulder.

"What?" Oscar responds, his voice equally quiet, as if speaking louder might break the fragile intimacy of the moment.

"This. Us." Carlos pauses, searching for words. "For you it must be familiar, but for me it's... new. Completely new."

Oscar considers his response, navigating the delicate balance between truth and lies that has defined their interactions so far.

"Every moment with you is unique," he finally says, finding refuge in ambiguity.

And this, at least, is completely true.

Carlos seems satisfied with this answer. Oscar feels his smile against his shoulder, the slight movement of his facial muscles conveying an emotion that needs no words.

They remain like this for several minutes, in a silence that says more than any conversation. The only sound in the apartment is the distant ticking of a clock and the soft rhythm of their breathing, which has gradually synchronized without either of them noticing.

Then, in a movement that seems as natural as it is unexpected, Carlos lifts his head slightly from his shoulder, turning it enough to look at Oscar.

Their faces are suddenly very close, so close that Oscar can distinguish the different shades of brown in Carlos's eyes, the subtle golden flecks he'd never noticed before. He can feel his breath, warm and with a light wine scent, caressing his cheek. He can see every detail of his face with a clarity that's almost overwhelming: the light shadow of beard beginning to appear at this hour of night, a small almost imperceptible scar, the exact way his ridiculously long eyelashes frame his eyes.

Time seems to stop. It's as if the entire world has slowed down, focusing solely on this moment, on these few centimeters separating their faces.

Oscar feels he should pull away, that every second spent in this dangerous proximity will only deepen the lie, only make the eventual truth more painful. But there's something hypnotic about Carlos's gaze, something that keeps him motionless, trapped in this suspension of time and space.

Carlos says nothing, but his eyes speak volumes. There's a silent question there, a vulnerability, a barely contained desire. And, beyond all that, there's such absolute, pure trust that Oscar feels a pang of guilt so sharp it almost makes him pull back.

But he doesn't. Instead, he finds himself returning that gaze with equal intensity, allowing himself, for a brief and precious moment, the luxury of honesty. Not with words, which could be lies, but with his eyes, which in this instant cannot hide anything.

The air between them seems charged with electricity, an invisible magnetic field that simultaneously draws them closer and maintains them in this perfect tension, this delicate balance between what could be and what shouldn't be.

Carlos raises a hand, slowly, as if moving underwater. His fingers stop millimeters from Oscar's cheek, not quite touching it but close enough for Oscar to feel their warmth.

There's nothing sexual about this gesture, nothing explicitly romantic even. It's something deeper, more fundamental: a recognition, a connection that transcends conventional labels and definitions.

"Your eyes," Carlos murmurs, his voice barely audible, "have something I can't describe. Like... like they've seen more than they should."

Oscar can't help a small smile at the involuntary precision of that observation. His eyes have seen more than they should, have witnessed a future that this young Carlos has yet to live.

"And yours," he responds softly, "have something I'd forgotten."

"What?" Carlos asks, genuinely curious.

"Hope," he says in a murmur. "Openness."

Carlos blinks, processing this. There's a moment of understanding in his eyes.

"Do I lose it?" he asks, and there's a vulnerability in that simple question that makes Oscar feel as if something breaks inside him.

"You don't lose it," he responds, carefully choosing his words. "It just changes. Everything changes with time."

Carlos nods slowly, his eyes never leaving Oscar's. There's an intimacy in this sustained eye contact that Oscar finds more intense, more revealing than any physical contact they've shared.

Then, with a shyness that Oscar never would have associated with Carlos Sainz, he extends his hand, letting it rest on the sofa between them, fingers slightly spread in what seems like a silent invitation.

Oscar looks at the hand, so close to his own. He knows he should maintain distance, that every new point of contact will only deepen the lie, only make the eventual separation more painful. But in this moment, after having shared that look, that connection that seemed to transcend words, he can't find the strength to deny himself this small comfort.

Slowly, as if performing an action of monumental consequences, he covers Carlos's hand with his own. He feels the slight tension in Carlos's fingers, the momentary hesitation, and then, like a flower opening to the sun, those fingers move, intertwine with his, creating a connection that's as comforting as it is terrifying.

Carlos rests his head on Oscar's shoulder again, but there's something different now, a new quality to his closeness. It's not just the physical comfort of having support; it's the emotional trust of having shared something that words cannot fully express.

Their intertwined fingers rest between them, a tangible bridge between two people who, against all logic, against all expectation, have found a connection in the middle of the temporal chaos that has brought their lives together.

"You know what I was thinking about today, during the trip?" Carlos says after a moment, his voice a soft murmur in the quiet room.

"What?"

"About what would happen if you ran into the Oscar from this time," Carlos responds, and there's a slightly playful tone in his voice that relieves the tension of the moment. "Do you think the universe would explode or something like that?"

Oscar laughs softly, grateful for the shift toward a lighter topic. "I don't know. Quantum physics and all that stuff has never been my strong suit."

"I've seen enough science fiction movies to have some theories," Carlos continues, and Oscar can feel his smile against his shoulder. "Maybe if you touch teenage Oscar, you'd both disintegrate in a flash of light."

"That would be inconvenient."

"Or maybe you'd merge with him, and suddenly you'd have all his memories and yours, like a super-consciousness Oscar Piastri."

Oscar laughs more openly now. "In theory I already have all his memories."

"Or maybe," Carlos continues, ignoring the interruption, "it would be like 'Back to the Future,' and you'd slowly start to disappear if something threatens young Oscar's existence."

"Have you been staying up late watching science fiction marathons, Sainz?" Oscar asks, genuinely amused by Carlos's increasingly absurd theories.

"Only during rest weeks," Carlos admits, and Oscar can feel his laughter vibrate against his shoulder. "Oh wait, I have a better one. What if when you meet young Oscar, all your memories of the future suddenly get erased and you start acting like a fifteen-year-old again?"

The image is so ridiculous that Oscar can't contain a laugh. "That would be a disaster. I barely survived my adolescence the first time."

"Imagine, the great Oscar Piastri suddenly obsessed with... I don't know, what do teenagers like?"

"I have no idea, I was too busy racing karts when I was a teenager to notice."

"Same here," Carlos says, and there's a warmth in his voice that makes Oscar feel something stir in his chest.

They fall silent for a moment, but it's a comfortable, complicit silence, the kind of silence that only exists between people who have found a shared rhythm.

"But seriously," Carlos finally says, his voice returning to a more contemplative tone, "it's fascinating to think that somewhere in Australia there's a fifteen-year-old Oscar Piastri who has no idea he'll one day travel through time."

Oscar nods, aware of the irony. "And who has no idea he'll make it, that one day he'll race in Formula 1."

"If you could talk to him, would you tell him something? Would you give him any warning or advice?"

It's an interesting question, one Oscar had never considered. What would he tell his fifteen-year-old self? Would he warn him about the mistakes he'd make, the opportunities he'd miss, the relationships he'd damage on his way to the top?

"I don't know," he responds honestly. "There are things I might want him to do differently, but at the same time, all those decisions, even the wrong ones, have led me to where I am."

"To being stuck in 2016 with me," Carlos points out with a small laugh.

"Exactly," Oscar agrees, surprised by how easy it is to joke about his impossible situation. "Maybe I'd tell him to be more open, not to build so many walls."

Carlos lifts his head slightly, enough to look at Oscar. "Do you build a lot of walls?"

The question is simple but penetrating, and Oscar feels as if Carlos is seeing right through him, to the defenses he's spent years perfecting.

"Too many," he finally admits. "It's easier to stay focused that way, I guess. Without distractions."

Carlos nods, resting his head back on Oscar's shoulder. "Distractions can be dangerous."

"But they can also be... necessary," Oscar adds, surprised by his own admission. "Sometimes I wonder how much I've missed by always being so focused on the next goal."

Carlos's fingers tighten slightly around his, a gesture of understanding that says more than any words.

"It's never too late to change that," he says softly. "Not even for someone who's temporally displaced."

Oscar smiles. "I suppose you're right."

"Of course I'm right," Carlos responds with exaggerated confidence that makes Oscar laugh. "I'm Carlos Sainz Jr. I'm always right."

"And modest too."

"Modesty is for those who have nothing to brag about," Carlos jokes, and Oscar can feel his smile against his shoulder.

They stay like this, joking lightly, their hands intertwined, Carlos's head resting comfortably on Oscar's shoulder, until the conversation naturally fades into comfortable silence.

Oscar finds himself in a state of peace he hasn't experienced in a long time. Despite the impossibility of his situation, despite the lies he's told, there's something genuine about this moment, about this connection they've formed. Something that transcends time and circumstances, something that feels, against all logic, right.

Eventually, Carlos yawns, a reminder that the day has been long and exhausting for both of them.

"We should sleep," Oscar says softly. "Tomorrow we have to see your contact about my documents."

Carlos nods, though he makes no movement to get up or release Oscar's hand. "I suppose we should."

There's something in his voice, a reluctance that Oscar finds inexplicably moving. As if Carlos doesn't want this moment to end either.

Finally, with a sigh of apparent resignation, Carlos sits up, slowly separating from contact with Oscar, though their fingers remain intertwined for one more moment.

"Thank you," he says, looking directly at Oscar with a sincerity that almost hurts.

"For what?"

"For listening. For understanding." Carlos pauses, as if searching for the exact words. "For being you."

The irony of that gratitude isn't lost on Oscar. Carlos is thanking a version of him that's part lie, part truth, a confusing mixture of what he is and what he pretends to be.

"Thank you too," he responds, because despite everything, he feels genuine gratitude toward Carlos for this moment of connection. "For everything."

Carlos smiles, that warm and open smile that Oscar has never seen on the Carlos of 2024, and finally releases his hand.

"Good night, Oscar," he says, getting up from the sofa. "Sleep well."

"Good night, Carlos," Oscar responds, watching as Carlos collects the dinner plates and takes them to the kitchen before heading to his room.

Alone in the living room, Oscar remains seated for one more moment, the phantom sensation of Carlos's hand still present in his own, the weight of his head still perceptible on his shoulder. And he knows, with a certainty that's as terrifying as it is inevitable, that tonight marks a point of no return.

He's no longer simply lying to Carlos about a fictional future. He's building something real in the present, something that makes the eventual truth even more impossible to reveal. Something that, when it finally breaks, will leave him as devastated as Carlos.

But as he gets up to head to his own room, he discovers he can't regret this night, this connection they've shared. Despite the lies, despite the inevitable pain that will come, these moments of genuine intimacy are something he'll treasure, even when everything else crumbles.

And perhaps that's the saddest part of all: that he's had to travel eight years into the past and lie about his future to finally find an authentic connection in the present.

 

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

Chapter 12: Stellar Collision

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

 

Oscar wakes with the now-familiar disorientation of finding himself somewhere foreign. Morning light filters through half-drawn curtains, illuminating a room that isn't his in a time that doesn't belong to him. It takes him a moment to remember exactly where he is: Carlos's apartment in Madrid, 2016.

He sits up slowly, rubbing his eyes as the previous day's events come flooding back. The shopping, the shared lunch, the trip to Madrid, the kiss, and that night on the sofa: Carlos's head resting on his shoulder, their fingers intertwined, that moment of shared intimacy where their faces were so close he could make out every shade in Carlos's eyes. The memory brings with it a wave of sensations that this morning he doesn't try to suppress.

The apartment is filled with soft sounds: the clink of utensils, the bubbling of something cooking, and a hummed melody he doesn't recognize. The aroma of fresh coffee and something more substantial—eggs, perhaps, and the unmistakable scent of jamón ibérico—drifts through the air, drawing him like a silent invitation.

He gets up, dresses in some of the new clothes they bought yesterday, and heads toward the kitchen, following the promising aromas and the voice now singing softly in Spanish.

The scene he finds stops Oscar dead in his tracks, creating an image he knows he'll remember long after this temporal adventure has ended. Carlos has his back to him, moving rhythmically in front of the stove, completely unaware of his presence. He's wearing ridiculously baggy plaid pajama pants that hang dangerously low on his hips, a worn t-shirt from some old concert that's seen better days, and—this almost makes Oscar laugh—racing car slippers that look like they belong to a twelve-year-old.

His hair is an absolute disaster, sticking up at impossible angles that suggest he rolled out of bed and went straight to the kitchen without bothering to look in a mirror. In his right hand he holds a spatula that he occasionally uses as an impromptu microphone while singing, his body moving to the music playing in his head.

It's the least glamorous, least "Formula 1 driver" vision Oscar could imagine. And yet, there's something about this completely carefree and authentic version of Carlos that he finds irresistible. Something in the comfort with which he moves through his space, in the naturalness with which he exists without pretense, that makes Oscar feel a longing so intense it almost physically hurts.

For a moment, he lets himself imagine that this is his life. That this morning scene is something ordinary, something he could experience not just today but tomorrow, next week, next year. He pictures himself moving quietly across the kitchen, wrapping Carlos in an embrace from behind, resting his chin on that shoulder, whispering "good morning" against his neck. He imagines how Carlos would lean back against him, how he'd continue cooking while Oscar simply held him there, enjoying the perfect domesticity of the moment.

The thought is so vivid, so tangible, that for a second he almost moves to make it real. But then the reality of his situation returns, and he stays where he is, allowing himself at least the pleasure of observing this moment not meant for his eyes.

"Good morning," he finally says, announcing his presence.

Carlos gives a little jump, spinning around quickly with the spatula raised like an improvised weapon. Seeing Oscar, his expression moves from surprise to slight embarrassment, and finally to a smile that lights up his entire face.

"Good morning!" he exclaims, lowering the spatula and running a hand through his hair in a futile attempt to tame it. "I didn't hear you get up. I was... um..."

"Giving a private concert?" Oscar suggests, unable to contain a smile.

Carlos laughs, a carefree and genuine sound that makes something stir in Oscar's chest. "Guilty. How long have you been standing there?"

"Long enough to appreciate your culinary and musical skills," Oscar replies, moving closer to the kitchen. "And your slippers."

Carlos looks down at his feet and then back at Oscar, a shy smile playing on his lips. "They're a gift from my little cousin. He says this way I can practice even while walking around the house."

The explanation is so unexpectedly sweet that Oscar feels that longing again, that desire for a life where he would know these little stories, these personal details that make up the real person behind the Formula 1 driver.

"They're great," he says, and surprisingly, he means it.

Carlos looks momentarily surprised, as if he expected teasing instead of approval. Then a different smile, softer, more private, appears on his face.

"Thanks," he says simply, before turning his attention back to the stove. "Breakfast is almost ready. I hope you're hungry."

"Starving," he confirms, taking another step closer, watching what Carlos is preparing. "Spanish tortilla?"

"Obviously," he responds with mock indignation. "What kind of Spaniard would I be if I couldn't make a decent tortilla?"

"It looks more than decent," Oscar observes, genuinely impressed by the perfect appearance of the tortilla Carlos is finishing cooking.

"My grandmother taught me," he explains, his tone mixing pride and nostalgia. "She says no man is complete if he can't feed himself and those he loves."

The casual mention of love makes Oscar feel a slight warmth in his cheeks. It's strange how such a simple word can carry so much weight, especially in their complicated situation.

"Well, your grandmother is a very wise woman," he says, opting for lightness.

"The wisest," Carlos agrees with absolute conviction. "Sit down, it's ready."

Oscar obeys, watching as Carlos serves the tortilla, placing two plates on the table along with toasted bread, jamón ibérico sliced impossibly thin, and coffee. The presentation is surprisingly elegant for someone who looks like he's just been dragged through a hedge backwards.

Carlos sits across from Oscar, and only then seems to notice his appearance. He looks at his worn t-shirt, his wrinkled pajama pants, and then at Oscar, perfectly dressed.

"I should have changed," he says, slight discomfort in his voice. "I don't usually have breakfast guests."

"I like it," Oscar responds with more sincerity than he intended. "I love it when you're the real you."

Carlos looks at him, an expression difficult to decipher in his eyes. "Really?"

"Really," Oscar confirms.

There's a pause while Carlos processes this, a small furrow of concentration forming between his brows. "Am I still like this in the future? With you?"

Oscar considers the question, carefully navigating between truth and fiction. "With me you're always yourself," he finally says. "Ridiculous slippers and all."

The smile he receives in return makes the lie feel almost justified. Almost.

They begin eating, and the tortilla is as delicious as its appearance promised. For a few minutes, they enjoy a comfortable silence, the kind that only exists between people who have found some harmony in each other's presence.

"I was thinking about something curious," Carlos finally says, breaking the silence with a contemplative expression.

Oscar feels that familiar knot of apprehension. Every new reflection from Carlos is potentially dangerous to the web of lies he's woven.

"What about?" he asks, keeping his tone casual while taking another bite of tortilla.

Carlos plays with his fork, suddenly interested in a specific spot on his plate. "About how all this affects the timeline. If when you return to 2024, whether the past will have changed or if this will create some kind of... I don't know, alternate reality?"

Oscar breathes a silent sigh of relief. Philosophizing about time travel is much safer than direct questions about their supposed relationship.

"I've been thinking about that too."

"And what theory do you have?" Carlos looks up, genuinely interested. "Do you think when you go back, I'll remember having met you now? That suddenly you'll return and bam, all these memories will flood into my 2024 self? Or will it be like this never happened?"

"I think it might be a separate timeline. That when I return, my 2024 will remain the same, with the same memories of how we originally met. And this timeline will continue on its own path."

Carlos nods slowly, processing this information. "So in this timeline, fifteen-year-old Oscar will keep growing up, make it to F1, and eventually... we'll meet. But maybe in a completely different way than it happened in your timeline."

There's something in the way Carlos says this, a note of curiosity mixed with what sounds almost like expectation, that makes Oscar feel a strange discomfort forming in his stomach.

"I suppose so," he responds, trying to keep his tone neutral despite the inexplicable irritation he's beginning to feel.

Carlos seems lost in thought for a moment, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. "It's fascinating, isn't it? To think there could be two versions of our story. The one you already know, and a completely new one that hasn't happened yet."

The discomfort in Oscar's stomach intensifies. He doesn't like the direction Carlos's thoughts are taking, though he can't explain exactly why.

"I guess," he says dryly, taking a sip of coffee.

Carlos looks at him, noticing his sudden change in tone. "Did I say something wrong?"

Oscar realizes he's being irrationally defensive and makes an effort to soften his expression. "No, not at all. It's just... complicated thinking about all the implications."

Carlos nods, but there's a new intensity in his gaze, as if he's trying to decipher something.

"You know what's most interesting?" he continues, keeping his eyes fixed on Oscar. "That I'd have the chance to do things differently. Maybe even better."

Oscar feels a sharp stab of something that looks suspiciously like jealousy. "What do you mean by 'better'?" he asks, unable to keep a defensive tone out of his voice.

"Well, based on what you've told me," he says with studied casualness, "it seems like it took us quite a while to admit what we felt for each other. There was a lot of tension, a lot of misunderstandings."

Oscar nods cautiously.

"But now," Carlos continues, "knowing what I know... maybe I could speed things up. Be alert to the signs. Not waste so much time."

The idea of Carlos actively pursuing a relationship with this timeline's Oscar, even if it's based on a lie, provokes a visceral reaction in Oscar that takes him completely by surprise. A wave of possessiveness, of irrational jealousy that he has no right to feel.

"I don't think it works that way," Oscar says, his voice sharper than intended. "Changing the past isn't that simple."

Carlos doesn't seem to notice the defensive tone, too absorbed in his own reflections. "Why not? If I remember everything you've told me about our future, why couldn't I act differently? Why would I mess things up with you if I could try to win you over from the start?"

Oscar takes a deep breath, trying to control the inexplicable irritation growing inside him. He needs to maintain composure, stick to the script of the elaborate lie he's constructed where he supposedly loves the Carlos of 2024, and therefore cannot reciprocate this young man's feelings.

"Because people are products of their experiences," he explains, struggling to maintain a neutral and reasonable tone. "This timeline's Oscar will have different experiences, form a different personality."

Carlos considers this for a moment, but then shakes his head, a small persistent smile on his lips. "I don't think you're that different, essentially. I doubt that being here in 2016 is really changing the life of fifteen-year-old Oscar Piastri who's karting right now in Australia."

Oscar feels that stab of jealousy intensify, but keeps his expression carefully neutral. "Small decisions can have big repercussions. Chaos theory, you know. The butterfly effect and all that."

"Maybe," Carlos concedes, though he's clearly not convinced. "But even if there are some changes, I doubt the essence of who you are could be that different." He leans slightly forward, a gleam of enthusiasm in his eyes that Oscar finds simultaneously endearing and disturbing. "Think about it. If in your timeline, in 2024, we have the relationship you've described to me, why couldn't this timeline's Oscar and I form something similar? Especially when I already know the potential that exists between us."

Oscar feels as if something cold and heavy has settled in his stomach. The idea of Carlos patiently waiting for young Oscar to grow up, actively seeking to recreate a relationship based on lies, gives him such a visceral sense of rejection that he almost feels physically sick.

But he can't show it. He can't give the slightest indication of what he really feels, or his entire elaborate construction of lies would crumble.

"I suppose it's possible," he finally says, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. "Though it would be strange, wouldn't it? Waiting years to approach someone based on an experience you had with their... temporal double."

"It wouldn't be the strangest thing that's happened to me. After all, I'm having breakfast with a time traveler." Carlos takes a sip of coffee, his gaze never leaving Oscar's. "Besides, it wouldn't be exactly the same. It would be... a new version of our story. With its own beginning."

"Right," Oscar responds, feeling like each word is an effort. "Completely new."

Carlos seems lost in thought for a moment, and Oscar can almost see ideas forming behind those dark eyes. Plans, possibilities, an alternative future he's considering with evident interest.

"You know," he finally says, "I've always believed there are people destined to find each other. No matter what circumstances, they always find their way to one another."

Oscar forces himself to smile, though what he really wants is to scream how unfair all this is. That he's here, now, developing real feelings for this young Carlos, while the Carlos of his time can barely tolerate him. And that this timeline's Oscar could have everything he's discovering he desperately wants.

"It's a romantic idea," Oscar says, keeping his tone light despite the turmoil inside.

"I'm a romantic," Carlos responds with a small smile. "I always have been, though I try not to show it too much."

Oscar nods, remembering with a pang how the 2024 Carlos has the same hidden quality, that romanticism he keeps carefully tucked away under layers of professionalism and reserve. It's one of those small details he's noticed over the years, casual observations he never thought would matter.

"I know," he says softly, and this time his smile is genuine. "It's one of the things I've... that I've always liked about you."

Carlos seems pleased with this response, his eyes lighting up in a way that makes Oscar's heart do a traitorous flip.

"You know what's strangest about all this?" Carlos continues, returning to the previous topic like a dog with a bone, apparently unable to let it go. "That I'll have to pretend I don't know anything when I meet this timeline's Oscar for the first time. I'll have to act like he's a complete stranger."

Oscar feels that familiar stab of irrational jealousy, but forces himself to maintain an interested and slightly amused expression. "And how will you handle that?"

Carlos's smile becomes slightly mischievous. "I suppose I'll have to be patient. Watch from afar. Wait for the right moment to approach."

There's something in the way he says it, a barely contained anticipation, that makes Oscar feel a wave of possessiveness so intense he has to grip his fork tightly to avoid showing it physically.

"You seem to have it all planned out," he comments, somehow managing to keep his voice steady.

"I'm just starting to think about it," Carlos responds, completely oblivious to the emotional turmoil he's provoking in Oscar. "But yes, I suppose it's fascinating to consider the possibilities."

Fascinating isn't the word Oscar would use. Torturous comes closer. The idea of Carlos patiently waiting for teenage Oscar, planning how to recreate a relationship based on lies, is almost unbearable. Not because he doesn't want Carlos to be happy, but because he desperately wishes he could be the one to give him that happiness. Him, not this timeline's fifteen-year-old Oscar. With this Carlos, not the Carlos of 2024. But them, exactly them, as they are now, in this impossible moment outside of time.

"Though I suppose I understand why you'd want to meet your timeline's Oscar, even though you're having breakfast with me," Oscar says, unable to completely contain the bitterness in his voice. "After all, I'd want to be having breakfast with my Carlos."

The words come out sharper than intended, an edge of pain disguised as casualness. He knows it's a cruel comment toward Carlos... But Oscar is hurt by the enthusiasm with which Carlos talks about the other Oscar, as if he weren't there, as if he were already planning to replace him.

Jealousy is consuming him, an emotion as irrational as it is powerful that clouds his usual control. And deep down, part of him wants to provoke, wants someone to feel jealous in this moment, wants it to be Carlos, not him. He wants to see some reaction, some indication that this young man feels something equally intense, equally irrational.

To his surprise, Carlos doesn't seem offended or bothered by the comment. Instead, something changes in his expression, a shadow passing through his eyes, replacing the previous animation with something that looks like sadness mixed with a nostalgia that shouldn't exist in someone so young.

He slowly lowers his coffee cup, his eyes never leaving Oscar's. When he finally speaks, his voice is soft, almost a whisper, loaded with an emotion Oscar didn't expect.

"You know? Sometimes I hope this is a closed loop," he says, his eyes reflecting an unexpected melancholy. "That all this, us here, you traveling through time, is part of a cycle that happens over and over again."

Oscar blinks, bewildered by this response. It's not at all the reaction he anticipated.

"Why would you hope for that?" he asks, genuinely confused.

Carlos looks briefly out the window, as if contemplating something far beyond Madrid's urban landscape, something only he can see. When he looks back at Oscar, there's an intensity in his eyes that leaves him momentarily breathless.

"Because if we live eternally in the same timeline," Carlos continues, each word carefully chosen, "if this isn't an alternate universe to your reality, it means that Carlos from 2024 whom you long for and love so much, who you want so badly to return to... is me."

The words fall between them like stones in still water, creating ripples that extend far beyond their immediate meaning. Oscar remains completely still, caught in Carlos's gaze, unable to fully process what he's just heard.

"It means that someday," Carlos continues, his voice taking on an almost hypnotic quality, "I'll become the man waiting for you in the future. That I'll experience everything you've told me about, every moment, every conversation, every... intimacy."

There's such raw vulnerability in these words that Oscar feels a knot forming in his throat. Because Carlos is expressing something he himself hadn't fully considered: that in a closed temporal loop, this young man before him would eventually transform into the 2024 Carlos he's been inventing in his stories.

"And maybe," Carlos continues, a small sad smile forming on his lips, "that means your journey here, our meeting, has been part of our story all along. That when you look at me in 2024, somewhere inside me will be the memory of these days, of this breakfast, of all our conversations."

Oscar feels as if the air has become too thick to breathe. The irony of the situation hits him with almost physical force. He's been lying to Carlos about a future relationship that doesn't exist, but if Carlos is right, if this really is a closed loop, then his lies could become a kind of self-fulfilling prophecy. A story that this young Carlos would internalize, carry with him through the years, until becoming the man Oscar has described.

It's a possibility he'd never considered, and one that makes his entire elaborate construction of lies seem suddenly much more complicated, much more consequential.

"So when you say you wish you were having breakfast with 'your Carlos,'" he continues, making small air quotes with his fingers, "maybe you already are. Just at a different point in his life. A point where I can still be... open. Vulnerable. Where I haven't yet built all the barriers that, according to what you've told me, characterize my future self."

There's so much sincerity in these words, so much hope mixed with resignation, that Oscar feels a new wave of guilt. Because he's playing with something much deeper than he'd anticipated, something that could have real consequences in Carlos's life, in his understanding of himself and his future.

"I hadn't thought of it that way," he finally admits, the words barely audible.

Carlos opens his mouth to respond, but at that precise moment, a melody interrupts. His phone, buzzing insistently on the kitchen counter.

"Sorry," he says, getting up to reach it. He looks at the screen and then at Oscar. "It's Miguel, the person who's going to help us with your documents. Give me a minute."

Oscar nods, and Carlos moves away toward the living room, speaking in rapid Spanish.

Alone in the kitchen, with the murmur of Carlos's conversation as the only sound, Oscar allows himself to process what he's just heard. The idea of Carlos, this temporal loop, the possibility that this young man with his easy smile and open heart will eventually become the man he knows in 2024.

"That Carlos from 2024 whom you long for and love so much, who you want so badly to return to... is me."

The words echo in his mind, provoking a longing so intense it almost physically hurts. How comforting it would be to believe that, to think that this incredible young man who has welcomed him, who has treated him with such consideration and warmth, is the same man he'll encounter if he manages to return to 2024.

But as he contemplates this possibility, a more rational part of his mind begins to stir. If he thinks about his past—his real past, not the fiction he's been constructing for Carlos—the idea simply doesn't fit.

Oscar closes his eyes, trying to clearly remember his first real encounter with Carlos Sainz. It was a brief exchange in the paddock, before Oscar made it to F1, where Carlos barely looked at him, responding to his greeting with a distant gesture that bordered on rudeness.

And after that... years of a tense relationship, sometimes openly hostile. Carlos behaving differently with him than with everyone else, as if Oscar had done something to offend him, as if he had something personal against him for no apparent reason.

Oscar opens his eyes, reality settling with weight in his stomach. If this really were a closed loop, as Carlos suggested, if this young man would eventually become the Carlos he knows in 2024, carrying with him memories of these days... how would he explain his behavior?

If this Carlos seems to appreciate him, even like him, if they're forming this connection that feels so authentic despite the lies, why does the 2024 Carlos treat him with such wariness? Even if he couldn't openly say "you know what? In 2016 I met your 2024 version and fell in love with him," he shouldn't be so openly antagonistic toward Oscar as he has been since they met.

Those memories, which don't seem to be changing when Oscar reviews them, are proof that this can't be an eternally repeating timeline. It can't be a closed loop where past and future are fixed, immutable.

Which means there's another explanation. Maybe they're in parallel timelines, as he initially suggested. Maybe this Carlos will never become the man Oscar knows in his time. Maybe this moment, this connection, this version of them, only exists in this divergent branch of reality.

Or perhaps all of this is an elaborate hallucination. Maybe Oscar is in a coma after the accident with Carlos in Miami, and his mind has constructed this fantasy as a way to process the trauma.

From the living room, Carlos's voice approaches again, his phone conversation apparently concluded.

"Good news," he says as he returns to the kitchen, completely oblivious to the whirlwind of thoughts that have been occupying Oscar's mind. "Miguel can see us at eleven. He says he has everything we need to start on your documentation."

Oscar nods, forcing a smile he hopes looks genuine. "That's... great."

Carlos studies him for a moment, clearly noticing the change in his mood. "Are you okay? You look worried."

"Just thinking about what you said," Oscar responds, deciding to be at least partially honest. "About being the same person I know in 2024."

Carlos sits down again, his expression becoming more serious. "And what do you think?"

Oscar carefully considers his response, searching for words that won't reveal too much without being complete lies.

"I think time, timelines, how all this works... is more complex than we can understand."

Carlos nods slowly, accepting this vague answer. "I suppose you're right. We're trying to apply human logic to something that probably transcends our understanding."

"Exactly," Oscar says, grateful for this interpretation that requires no further elaboration.

"But you know what isn't complicated?" Carlos continues, a small smile forming on his lips. "The fact that we now need to get ready to go see Miguel. And that before that, I need to shower and change these ridiculous slippers for something more presentable."

Oscar can't help but smile at this change of subject, grateful for the relief from the tension. "But they're such adorable slippers," he jokes, allowing himself to fall into this lighter dynamic.

"Aha!" Carlos exclaims triumphantly. "I knew you thought they were adorable! I saw it in your eyes this morning."

Oscar laughs, surprised by how natural this playful exchange feels despite the complicated reflections he's just had.

"Well, 'adorable' is a generous word," he responds, keeping the tone light. "Let's say they're... distinctively Carlos."

Carlos laughs, that carefree sound Oscar is beginning to associate with a warmth in his chest that he prefers not to examine too closely.

"I'll take that as a compliment," he says, getting up to start clearing the plates. "And now, if you don't mind, I'm going to get ready. Feel free to use the bathroom when I'm done."

Oscar nods, watching as Carlos leaves the kitchen, the absurd racing slippers whispering against the floor. He gets up from the table, carrying his cup to the sink. From the bathroom comes the sound of the shower and Carlos's voice singing carelessly, completely unaware of the whirlwind of thoughts assaulting Oscar.

He heads to the living room, thinking about how to occupy his time while Carlos finishes showering. His eyes scan the space, stopping at a tablet resting on the coffee table. Maybe he could check the news, stay current with what's happening in this 2016 that still feels foreign despite having lived through it once.

He sits on the sofa and picks up the tablet. He's barely unlocked it—Carlos doesn't have a password—when a notification appears on the screen. A headline that makes his blood freeze.

"TRAGIC ACCIDENT IN AUSTRALIA: YOUNG KARTING PROSPECT DIES DURING TRAINING"

His fingers tremble as he taps on the notification, part of him already knowing what he's going to read, another part refusing to believe it.

The photo is blurry, taken from a distance. An overturned kart, medical personnel running. The accident appears to have occurred in Melbourne, at the same track where he trained at age 15.

The tablet nearly slips from his hands. His heart pounds in his chest so hard he can feel each beat resonating in his ears. It can't be a coincidence. It can't be.

And then he understands with a clarity that leaves him breathless: his presence here is altering reality itself. Somehow, the universe is correcting the anomaly. Two Oscar Piastris can't exist in the same timeline.

The fifteen-year-old Oscar, the real Oscar of this timeline, is dead. And he, who just minutes ago felt irrational jealousy toward that younger version of himself, is responsible.

Guilt hits him with a physical force that momentarily leaves him without air. How could he have wished ill on his own younger self? How could he have felt jealous of a teenager who was just living his life, chasing a dream? And now, that teenager is dead, because he's here, occupying a space in time that doesn't belong to him.

The sound of the shower stops. Soon Carlos will come out of the bathroom, and Oscar has no idea how to face this, how to explain the inexplicable.

What does this mean for his attempt to return to 2024? If young Oscar has died, is there even a 2024 to return to? Or is he now permanently trapped in this time, in this 2016 he was never meant to know?

 

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

Chapter 13: Quantum causality

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

 

Time travel paradoxes have rules, or at least that's what the movies Oscar has watched his entire life claim. You can't kill your grandfather, you mustn't meet yourself, you shouldn't alter significant events. The universe has mechanisms to correct these anomalies, to restore balance when someone challenges its fundamental laws.

Oscar had seen those time travel movies. How comforting it was then, the idea that clear rules existed, predictable consequences, ingenious solutions. But it turns out Hollywood forgot to mention some important things. For instance, there's no five-minute tutorial where an eccentric scientist explains exactly how everything works. There's no dramatic soundtrack alerting you when you're about to make an irreparable mistake. And there's definitely no manual titled "So You Accidentally Time Traveled: Tips and Tricks for Not Screwing Up the Universe."

No movie mentions what it feels like when you realize your mere presence in the past has caused someone's death. When you understand that you've broken something fundamental in the fabric of reality, and that the universe has collected its price in the cruelest way imaginable. There's no Doc Brown conveniently showing up to explain, with a scale model and colorful drawings, exactly how you've altered the timeline and how you can fix it before the end of the second act.

No. In real life when you alter time, you simply sit on your professional rival's couch, holding a tablet and feeling guilt devour every cell in your body while you listen to the echo of a shower in the adjoining room.

The guilt is a physical weight on Oscar's chest, a pressure that makes every breath difficult. There's no possible rationalization, no explanation that could mitigate the horror of what he's caused. A young life, full of potential and dreams, extinguished because he shouldn't be here.

The steam escaping from under the bathroom door seems to mock him, a reminder of the everyday life continuing around him while he faces this terrible revelation. The sound of the shower and Carlos's occasional humming form a cruel counterpoint to the storm of thoughts assaulting him.

What else has he altered without knowing? How many other lives has he changed, how many other destinies has he rewritten simply by existing in a time that doesn't belong to him? The idea is too overwhelming to contemplate fully.

The water stops running in the bathroom. Oscar tenses, his fingers gripping the tablet in his lap more tightly. He's not ready to share this guilt with Carlos, to see the understanding in his eyes when he realizes what Oscar has done. How his interference has destroyed a life.

The bathroom door opens. Oscar remains completely still, as if the slightest movement might trigger another catastrophe. The news is still there, implacable on the screen, evidence of his transgression.

"All yours," says Carlos, appearing in the hallway. He's wearing worn jeans and a simple gray t-shirt. His hair is still damp, and a small towel rests on his shoulders to catch the drops still falling. His carefree expression transforms instantly when he sees Oscar, the easy smile disappearing, replaced by sharp concern.

"What's wrong?" he asks, approaching quickly. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

Oscar can't speak. The guilt is a gag, a weight closing his throat. He simply turns the tablet toward Carlos, showing him the headline.

Carlos takes the device, frowning as he reads. For a moment, his expression reflects confusion, then understanding, and finally, a look of relief that puzzles Oscar.

"It's not you," he says finally, sitting down next to Oscar on the couch.

"What?"

"It's not you," Carlos repeats, pointing at the screen. "The pilot who died. Look, here's the full name."

Oscar looks where Carlos is pointing, and indeed, reading the complete article, the name of the deceased pilot is Jack Friddle, not Oscar Piastri. A young 15-year-old Australian pilot who competed in the same category as Oscar at that age.

The wave of relief he feels is so intense it almost makes him dizzy. And immediately, that feeling is replaced by crushing shame. Someone has died. A young man with the same dreams, the same ambitions he had at that age. And here he is, feeling relief because it's not him, because it's not his younger version.

"I... don't remember this," Oscar says finally, his voice barely audible. "I don't remember this happening."

Carlos looks at him, concern evident in his eyes. "What do you mean?"

"In my timeline, in my memory, I don't remember this accident happening," Oscar explains, the words tumbling out. "Which means something has changed. That my presence here is altering things."

The guilt hits him again, this time harder. "What if it's my fault? What if somehow, by being here, I changed something that caused this?"

Carlos places a hand over Oscar's, a simple but surprisingly comforting gesture.

"Oscar, listen to me," he says with a firmness that contradicts his youth. "I don't see how your presence here with me, in Spain, could have caused an accident in Australia."

"But I don't remember it," Oscar insists, clinging to this detail as if it were irrefutable proof. "If this had happened when I was 15, I would remember it, wouldn't I?"

Carlos considers this for a moment, his expression thoughtful. "Not necessarily," he says finally. "Maybe you don't remember because you were focused on your own life. Or perhaps, as a defense mechanism, you blocked out the news. It's quite traumatic for a young pilot to find out that someone his age, someone he knows, dies in circumstances similar to what he faces every day."

Oscar had never considered this possibility, and there's a logic in Carlos's words that's strangely comforting. Oscar nods slowly, wanting to believe this, needing to believe it. But...

"What I do know," Carlos says with conviction, "is that it's not your fault. There's no way this is your fault."

Oscar wants to believe him. He really wants to believe him. But guilt isn't something that dissipates with simple words, however comforting they may be.

"You can't be sure of that," he responds, pulling his hand away from Carlos's. "No one can. The temporal physics of time travel isn't exactly an established science."

He gets up from the couch, unable to stay still, nervous energy pulsing through his body like poorly contained electricity. He takes a few steps around the room, running a hand through his hair, messing it up.

"Think about it," he continues, the words rushing out. "I'm here, altering space-time simply by existing in a moment when I shouldn't be. Who knows what kind of... of waves or disturbances I'm causing?"

Carlos watches him from the couch in contemplative silence.

"In movies they always talk about the butterfly effect, right?" Oscar gestures widely, his movements almost frantic. "A small change here causes a huge effect there. What if... what if my presence in Spain somehow triggered a chain of events that led to... to this?"

He stops in front of the window, looking without really seeing the Madrid cityscape.

"Look, think about it this way," Oscar says, his hands moving as he articulates his theory. "I appeared in that Barcelona paddock. So I talk to you, you help me, you take me to your hotel. All that time you spent with me was time that, in the original timeline, you would have spent doing something else. Maybe, in that original version, you would have stayed longer in the paddock and talked to, I don't know, a Pirelli engineer."

Carlos raises an eyebrow, but Oscar continues, unstoppable.

"And maybe that engineer, in the conversation they never had because you were busy with me, would have mentioned something about a new tire compound they're developing. Information that, in the original timeline, you... would have casually shared that night on the phone with your father."

Oscar's fingers move as if he were connecting invisible threads on a criminal investigation board.

"And your father, hearing about that compound, would have remembered something similar they used in rally years ago. That would have led him to call an old Australian friend who worked in developing those tires, someone who's now retired and living in Perth."

Carlos tries to interrupt, but Oscar raises a hand, asking for silence while he delves deeper into his elaborate theory.

"This Australian friend, after talking to your father, would have decided to send an email to an old colleague who now works as a consultant for youth karting teams in Australia. An email containing information about how that specific compound behaves under certain temperature conditions."

Oscar stops abruptly in the middle of the room, looking at Carlos with feverish intensity.

"And that consultant, receiving that email that never arrived because your father never made that call because you never had that conversation with that engineer because you were with me, would have decided to visit the track where Jack Friddle was testing that day."

His voice drops, becoming almost a whisper.

"And maybe, just maybe, that consultant would have noticed something about Jack's tires. An irregularity, unusual wear. Something that would have made him tell him to stop, to change the tires. Something that would have prevented him from being in that specific corner at that specific moment with that specific compound."

Oscar extends his arms, as if presenting his final case.

"All because of an email that was never sent, derived from a call that was never made, resulting from a conversation that never happened, because I appeared in that paddock and altered your day."

He collapses back onto the couch, the weight of his elaborate conspiracy theory apparently exhausting him physically.

"See what I mean? The butterfly effect. Quantum causality. Like we threw a stone in the middle of the ocean and the waves reached Australia."

"Oscar," Carlos says, his voice calm but firm. "I understand what you're doing. I know what it feels like, looking for any possible connection, however remote, to try to understand a tragedy."

Oscar looks at him, surprised by the insight in these words.

"When my uncle died in a car accident," Carlos continues, a vulnerability in his voice that Oscar had never heard before, "I spent weeks tormenting myself. What if I had called him that day? What if I had invited him to dinner? He would have been somewhere else, at another time. He wouldn't have been on that road at that exact moment."

He pauses, his eyes never leaving Oscar's.

"But eventually I had to accept that some things just... happen. And looking for culprits—especially blaming ourselves—doesn't change anything. It only adds unnecessary suffering to an already painful situation."

Oscar nods slowly, really listening, but still not completely convinced.

"I understand that," he says, "but this is different. We're not talking about normal coincidences. We're talking about time travel, about altering the very fabric of reality."

Carlos considers this for a moment, clearly searching for the right way to respond.

"I may not know much about time travel," he admits, "but I do know something about guilt. And I recognize when someone is looking for reasons to punish themselves."

The observation is so accurate that Oscar feels momentarily exposed, as if Carlos had seen directly through his defenses to the core of his being.

"It's not fair," Oscar finally says, his voice barely a whisper. "That he's dead and I'm here. That he'll never have the chance to live his dreams, to get where I've gotten."

The words leave his mouth, but they only scratch the surface of what he really feels. The truth, the one he can't say aloud, is much darker, much more complex.

Because what's really consuming him isn't simply survivor's guilt. It's the sharp, stabbing awareness that he's here, alive and whole, in a time that doesn't belong to him, building a web of lies around a young man who has only shown him kindness and trust. Lying to Carlos. Taking advantage of his good faith. Accepting his help, his home, his affection, all based on an elaborate fiction.

And while he plays this dangerous game of deception, while he secretly enjoys the shared moments, the glances, the kisses he's received under false pretenses... a real boy, a pilot with dreams as legitimate as his own, has lost his life.

The juxtaposition is too cruel, too poetic in its injustice: he, Oscar, living a borrowed life, stolen through lies, while Jack, who only lived the life that belonged to him, honestly, pursuing his dreams without deceiving anyone, is now dead.

What does that say about the universe? About cosmic justice? About what he deserves?

Carlos doesn't respond with words. Instead, he closes the distance between them and wraps Oscar in a firm but gentle embrace. His arms encircle Oscar's shoulders, one hand rising to rest on the back of his head, in a gesture so intimately comforting that Oscar feels something break inside him, and then, almost by instinct, his own arms rise to encircle Carlos's waist, and he finds himself clinging to him as if he were an anchor in the middle of a storm.

It's different from the moments they've shared before. There's nothing sexual in this embrace, nothing tentative or exploratory. It's pure comfort, pure compassion, the kind of human contact that transcends romantic or temporal complications and simply offers presence when it's most needed.

"You're right, it's not fair," Carlos murmurs against his hair, his voice a soft whisper that Oscar feels as much as he hears. "Life rarely is. But his death isn't your fault, Oscar. No matter how hard you try to find a connection, no matter how many theories you elaborate about timelines and butterfly effects. At the end of the day, you don't have the power to control destiny that way."

Oscar closes his eyes, allowing the words to settle, allowing the warmth of Carlos's body, the solidity of his presence, to gradually dissolve the tension he's been holding since he saw the news.

"Look," Carlos continues, without breaking the embrace, "I can't prove to you that it's not your fault. No one could. But think about it this way: if you've really altered the timeline, if your presence here is really causing changes in Australia, don't you think you would have noticed other effects? Wouldn't your own memory have changed too, your own recollections of that time?"

Oscar considers this, clinging to the logic like a lifeline in the middle of the emotional storm.

"I don't know," he admits, his voice muffled against Carlos's shoulder. "I don't know how this works."

"Exactly," Carlos says, and Oscar can feel the vibration of his voice through his chest. "None of us know. So, doesn't it make more sense to assume this is simply something you didn't remember, for the reasons I mentioned before, instead of elaborating a complex theory where somehow you're responsible for an accident on the other side of the world?"

There's a logic to this that Oscar can't deny, no matter how much part of him wants to cling to guilt as a kind of penance.

"And let's be honest," Carlos adds, a touch of his usual humor returning to his voice, "if you were really so powerful as to alter global destiny with your mere presence, I think I would have noticed some sign before. A special aura. Laser beams coming out of your eyes. Something."

Oscar can't help but let out a small laugh at this, the sound surprising both him and Carlos.

"Laser beams?" he repeats, shaking his head in disbelief. "Seriously, Sainz?"

"Hey, don't judge my expectations about all-powerful time travelers," Carlos responds, raising his hands in a defensive gesture but with an evident smile in his eyes. "My references are limited, mostly 80s movies."

The tension in Oscar's shoulders begins to gradually loosen. It's not that the guilt has completely disappeared, but the combination of logic and absurdity that Carlos has presented has managed to create cracks in the armor of his self-recrimination.

"What I feel for Jack is genuine," he says after a moment, needing Carlos to understand this. "It's not just about me. It's... it's a real tragedy. A life lost too soon."

"I know," Carlos responds with a simplicity that makes it seem obvious. "I never thought it was just about you. You're a good person, Oscar. Good people feel pain for the loss of other lives, even strangers'."

The words "you're a good person" cut through Oscar like a knife. If Carlos knew the truth, if he knew about the lies, about how Oscar has been manipulating his feelings, playing with his emotions to ensure his own survival... would he still think he's a good person?

The answer is almost certainly no, and that knowledge is like acid corroding his insides.

"Thank you," he says finally, the words inadequate but sincere.

Carlos gently squeezes his shoulder before withdrawing his hand. "There's nothing to thank me for," he responds with a simplicity that makes it seem obvious, as if anyone would have reacted the same way.

There's a moment of silence between them, not uncomfortable but contemplative, while Oscar struggles with the various levels of guilt consuming him: for Jack's death, yes, but more fundamentally, for the lies he's living, for the deception he's perpetrating against this young man who has only shown him kindness.

"We should get ready," Carlos says finally, pointing at the clock. "Miguel is expecting us in an hour."

Oscar nods, grateful for this return to the practical, to the immediate. But when Carlos turns to head to his room, Oscar stops him with a hand on his arm.

"Carlos," he says, the words coming out before he can fully filter them. "Thank you. For... understanding."

For understanding the part I can show you, he adds silently in his mind. For being kind to a man who has only given you lies in return.

Carlos smiles, that open and genuine smile that the Carlos of 2024 would never give Oscar. "There's nothing to thank me for," he repeats, as if the idea of not offering comfort to someone who's suffering were unthinkable.

And as Carlos disappears into his room to finish getting ready, Oscar remains motionless in the middle of the room, his gaze fixed on the turned-off tablet where minutes ago he was reading about Jack Friddle's death. The guilt settles in his chest like a physical weight, but it's no longer just for Jack. It's for everything.

For every lie he's told since he appeared in this time. For every moment he's manipulated Carlos's feelings for his own benefit. For building day by day a life on foundations of sand, on stories that never happened and never will happen.

His thoughts stop abruptly on an idea that appears with crystal clarity: he could confess everything. Right now. Simply wait for Carlos to return and tell him the complete truth.

There's no future relationship between us.

I've been lying from the beginning.

There's no shared future, no moments on terraces lit by small lights, no breakfasts together.

Everything has been an elaborate fiction to ensure your help.

The words form with perfect clarity in his mind, ordering themselves as if he were rehearsing a speech. It would be difficult, of course. He would see the confusion in Carlos's eyes, then understanding, and finally—this is what he fears most—betrayal. He would see how that warmth, that openness he so appreciates in this young Carlos, would transform into something cold and distant, more like the man he knows in 2024.

But it would also be liberating. An act of honesty that, though late, could begin to atone for the growing mountain of deceptions under which he's burying himself. A step toward integrity, toward being again the person he believed he was before all this began.

Oscar can almost visualize it: him, standing in this same room, looking directly at Carlos while the words come out, naked and unadorned. I'm sorry. I've lied to you. There's no us in the future.

And then, with the same clarity with which he visualizes the confession, he sees what would follow. Carlos's devastated expression. Trust breaking like glass crashing against the floor. All those small vulnerabilities that Carlos has shared with him—about his father, about his insecurities, about his admiration for Oscar—suddenly exposed as errors in judgment, as trust placed in the wrong person.

No. He can't do it.

Because a confession now wouldn't be for Carlos. It would be for himself. To relieve his own guilt, to feel better, to be able to look at himself in the mirror without that stab of self-recrimination. It would be, at its core, a profoundly selfish act.

What would Carlos gain from knowing he's been helping someone who has only deceived him? What benefit would it have for him to discover that the shared moments, the exchanged confidences, the glances and touches and kisses, have been based on an elaborate fiction?

Oscar runs a hand over his face, feeling the weight of this realization. No, he won't confess. Not for now. Not when the damage of the truth would outweigh any benefit. Not when honesty would serve primarily to relieve his own conscience at the expense of hurting someone who has only shown him kindness.

The real punishment isn't living the lie, he now understands with painful clarity. It's that every shared smile, every glance, every moment of genuine connection he feels toward Carlos will be irremediably contaminated. It's waking up every morning knowing that the person he's learning to love only sees in him a mirage, a false version that never existed and never will exist.

It's condemning himself to a love that cannot be reciprocated in its truth, because the person Carlos believes he loves isn't real. And yet, even knowing this impossibility, even knowing that every step sinks him deeper into this swamp of falsehoods, he can't help but continue forward, victim and executioner of his own tragedy.

 

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

Chapter 14: Interferometric Signal

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

 

Carlos's Audi glides smoothly through Madrid's streets, the mid-morning traffic flowing just enough to maintain a steady pace. Oscar, sitting in the passenger seat, can't help but repeatedly flipping down the visor to check his reflection in the small mirror.

The thick-framed glasses they bought yesterday—non-prescription, just part of his disguise—give him a completely different look from what he's used to. His hair falls in soft, slightly tousled waves across his forehead. This is the image of "Oscar Palmer," the Australian data analyst, not the Formula 1 driver he's accustomed to seeing in the mirror.

He adjusts the glasses for the third time in five minutes, tilting his head slightly to see how his appearance changes from different angles. The black frames highlight his features in a way he finds both strange and fascinating. It's not that he looks bad, he thinks. Just... unrecognizable. As if he's left behind not only his time, but something fundamental about himself.

"Want me to stop at the next town to buy you a hand mirror?" Carlos's voice breaks through his self-absorption, loaded with barely contained amusement. "That way you can admire yourself the whole trip without having to rely on the visor."

Oscar quickly snaps the sun visor up, feeling heat rise in his cheeks not just from the embarrassment of being caught, but from the way Carlos looks at him through the rearview mirror: a mixture of amusement and something more intense that he'd rather not analyze.

"I wasn't admiring myself," he protests, his Australian accent becoming slightly more pronounced with indignation. "I feel like a fraud with these glasses. Like I'm playing a role in a particularly bad play."

"Welcome to the world of false identities, Oscar Palmer." Carlos pronounces the fake surname with obvious pleasure, rolling it on his tongue as if savoring every syllable. "Though I have to admit the role suits you. There's something almost poetic about turning a Formula 1 driver into a data analyst."

"Poetic?" Oscar raises an eyebrow above the frame of his glasses, a gesture that feels strangely amplified with them on.

"Of course," Carlos makes a vague gesture with one hand while keeping the other firmly on the wheel. "The man of action transformed into a man of thought. The warrior turned strategist. It's literarily satisfying."

"I didn't know you had literary inclinations, Sainz."

Carlos shoots him a sideways glance, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "No? I guess there are conversations we haven't had yet. Even for a couple from the future."

The observation is playful, but it makes Oscar feel a pang of guilt. He really knows very little about the man beside him, beyond his track reputation and the fragments of personality he's been able to observe in the 2024 paddock.

"I suppose we never talked much about literature," he responds, adjusting his glasses again in a gesture that's already becoming habitual. "We're too busy with... other things."

Carlos slows slightly as they take a curve, his profile silhouetted against the Spanish landscape flowing beyond the windows.

"You know what?" he says suddenly, his voice taking on a softer tone. "The truth is, they suit you. The glasses, I mean."

Oscar feels a wave of heat spreading from his neck, grateful that Carlos is focused on the road and can't see the reaction he's provoked.

"Really?" he asks, hating how vulnerable his voice sounds.

"Absolutely." Carlos nods with conviction. "You have that effortless intellectual air. Like you're too brilliant to bother with aesthetic conventions, but still manage to look incredibly good without trying."

The compliment is so specific, so unexpectedly elaborate, that Oscar is momentarily speechless.

"Effortless intellectual," he finally repeats, testing how the phrase feels in his mouth. "I don't know if 'effortless' is an adjective anyone's used to describe me before."

"It's the hair," Carlos explains, giving him an evaluative look that lasts a second longer than strictly necessary. "So tousled like that. It gives you a different air. Now..." He pauses, searching for the right word. "Now you look more real. More... accessible."

There's something in the way he pronounces "accessible" that sends a shiver down Oscar's spine, an electric current that settles at the base of his stomach.

"And that's good?" he asks, his voice involuntarily dropping to a lower register.

Carlos keeps his eyes fixed on the road, but a slow smile spreads across his face, transforming it. "Depends. Do you want to be accessible, Oscar Palmer?"

The question hangs between them, vibrating with unspoken possibilities. Oscar feels the weight of every second that passes without answering, how the silence charges with a tension that makes the air in the car's cabin seem denser.

"I suppose it depends on who wants access," he finally responds, surprised by his own boldness.

Carlos's eyes briefly drift from the road to meet his, an intensity in his gaze that makes Oscar glad he's sitting down.

"Very diplomatic," Carlos murmurs, his voice mixing appreciation with something darker, more primitive. "Very data analyst."

Oscar settles into his seat, suddenly too aware of every inch of his body, of Carlos's proximity in the confined space of the car.

"It's part of my character," he responds, adjusting his glasses in a gesture that's already beginning to feel natural. "I have to maintain narrative consistency."

"Of course," Carlos nods with mock seriousness. "Commitment to the role is crucial. Though I have to say that for a data analyst, you have amazing knowledge about future race results."

"It's a gift," Oscar responds, adopting an expression of exaggerated solemnity. "And a curse."

Carlos laughs, that warm, genuine sound that Oscar is beginning to crave provoking. "Right. The heavy burden of knowing who'll win every Grand Prix for the next eight years."

"Not just that," Oscar continues, bringing a hand to his chest dramatically. "Imagine what it's like knowing that Max Verstappen will be a multiple world champion. It's an overwhelming responsibility."

The words escape his mouth before he can think better of it, a specific revelation about the future that he's generally tried to avoid.

Carlos brakes so abruptly that if it weren't for the seatbelt, Oscar would have been thrown forward.

"What did you just say?" The question comes out almost as a whisper, Carlos's eyes huge and fixed on him.

Oscar feels a wave of panic. He's made an elementary mistake.

"I... shouldn't have said that," he murmurs, running a hand through his hair in a nervous gesture that messes up his new disheveled look even more.

"Max wins multiple championships?" Carlos insists, completely oblivious to the vehicles now honking at them as they pass. "How many exactly? When does he win the first one?"

"Carlos, the road," Oscar points out, genuinely alarmed by the intensity of his reaction.

Carlos blinks, as if coming out of a trance, and gets the car moving again. "Sorry," he says, though his voice is still tense. "It's just that... that's something big, you know? Max just got to Red Bull."

Oscar nods, aware that in 2016, the idea of someone as young as Max winning multiple championships must sound almost impossible.

"I shouldn't have mentioned that," Oscar says more calmly. "It's not good to know too much about the future."

"Why?" Carlos challenges, his profile tense as he accelerates. "Because I might try to change it?"

"Because some things just have to happen as they're meant to," Oscar responds carefully. "Even the ones we don't like."

Carlos looks at him briefly, something shifting in his expression. "What if I wanted to change it? What if I wanted to win those championships myself?"

"I think some things will happen as they're supposed to," Oscar responds, choosing his words carefully. "No matter how much we try to alter them."

A silence stretches between them, not uncomfortable but contemplative. Oscar watches Carlos's profile silhouetted against the changing landscape, the strong line of his jaw, the way his hands hold the wheel with a confidence that contrasts with the uncertainty of their situation.

"Anyway," Carlos says finally, deliberately changing the subject, "back to the glasses. You should definitely consider them as a permanent accessory when you return to your time."

Oscar adjusts his glasses once more, but this time it's a deliberate gesture, almost flirtatious. "You like them that much?"

"Let's say I'm discovering a new fetish," Carlos responds with a mischievous smile that makes Oscar's stomach flip. "Australian data analysts with glasses and messy hair."

Their gazes meet briefly, and something passes between them, a silent communication that neither is prepared to articulate. Oscar looks away first, feigning interest in the landscape while trying to control his breathing.

"How many championships?" Carlos asks suddenly, returning to the topic of Max. "At least tell me that."

Oscar lets out a surprised laugh. "Not a chance, Sainz. I have to keep some secrets. Otherwise, what incentive would you have to keep me around?"

The look Carlos gives him is loaded with unspoken promises. "Oh, I can think of a few incentives that have nothing to do with your knowledge of the future."

Oscar feels his face heat up to the roots of his hair, grateful for the glasses that at least give him an illusion of a barrier.

"We're almost there," Carlos announces a moment later. "Miguel has his office in this neighborhood. It's not the most elegant place, but it's discreet and, most importantly, doesn't ask too many questions."

Oscar nods, returning his attention to the practical purpose of their trip. "Do you trust him?"

"Enough for this," Carlos responds. "He's an old family friend. He's helped my father with similar things in the past."

"Similar things," Oscar repeats skeptically. "Does your father also know time travelers?"

Carlos smiles, appreciating the humor. "Not exactly. But in the rally world, sometimes you need quick documents for team members in countries with a lot of bureaucracy. Miguel is good at... streamlining processes."

"So we're talking about fake documents," Oscar clarifies.

"I prefer the term 'documents issued through alternative channels,'" Carlos corrects with a mischievous smile. "Sounds more sophisticated."

"Of course," Oscar nods seriously. "Very intellectually effortless of you."

"Exactly. Now, remember your story: you're Oscar Palmer, Australian data analyst. I hired you personally because I saw your work in Melbourne and was impressed. You've lost your passport and need temporary documentation while your embassy processes a new one."

Carlos stops in front of a modest establishment on a side street in Madrid. The sign, slightly faded by the sun, announces "Fotos Rápidas" in simple letters, and below, in smaller typography: "Pasaporte • DNI • Título • Infantil". In the window display are several samples of framed passport photos and some pictures that seem to have been taken a decade ago, judging by the clothing style of the children portrayed.

"Here?" Oscar asks, unable to hide a tone of skepticism in his voice.

Carlos nods, turning off the engine. "Don't let appearances fool you. Miguel is the best at what he does."

"Are you sure he can help us with what we need?" Oscar insists, mentally reviewing everything they've discussed. "Remember I'll need to be able to move through Italy too, not just Spain, and all over the world to follow the F1 calendar with you."

"I know," Carlos responds calmly. "Miguel can get you everything you need: passport, Schengen visa, residence permit... whatever. Trust me."

As they get out of the car, Oscar adjusts his glasses, a gesture that's becoming habitual. The "Oscar Palmer" disguise no longer feels as foreign as it did this morning; he's starting to get used to his new appearance.

A little bell rings when Carlos pushes the glass door. The interior is exactly what you'd expect from a budget photo studio: a simple counter, some plastic chairs for waiting, a white background for document photos in one corner, and more samples of framed photographs on the walls. The place smells vaguely of photographic chemicals, though Oscar suspects that in the digital age this smell must be artificially maintained, like a relic of the past.

A man emerges from a back door upon hearing the bell. He's about fifty, graying hair neatly trimmed, thin-framed glasses, and wearing an impeccably pressed shirt. His appearance is so ordinary, so perfectly bland, that it would be impossible to describe him memorably.

His neutral expression transforms into a warm smile upon recognizing Carlos.

"Carlitos!" he exclaims, extending his hand. "It's been so long! How's the family?"

"Everyone's well, Miguel," Carlos responds, shaking his hand familiarly. "Let me introduce my friend Oscar."

Miguel turns his attention to Oscar, studying him briefly with eyes that seem to notice and catalog every detail. His handshake is firm but not excessive, professional.

"A pleasure," he says, his Spanish accent soft but perceptible. "Passport photos, I assume?"

"Something like that," Carlos responds, glancing quickly around the empty establishment. "Can we talk privately?"

Miguel's expression doesn't change, but something in his posture adjusts subtly. "Of course."

He goes to the front door, turns the sign to "Cerrado" and partially lowers the metal shutter. Then, he returns to the counter and presses something underneath that Oscar can't see. A barely audible mechanical click precedes the opening of a door camouflaged in what appeared to be a solid wall next to the photography area.

"This way, gentlemen," Miguel says, guiding them toward the opening. "Let's discuss what you really need."

Oscar exchanges a quick glance with Carlos, who nods reassuringly before following Miguel. The door leads to a short hallway that opens into a room that contrasts brutally with the modesty of the front establishment.

The space is surprisingly spacious, illuminated with full-spectrum LED lighting. On one side are several workstations with state-of-the-art computers, professional scanners, and printers that seem more appropriate for an official printing office than a private business. The other side of the room contains a professional photography area with multiple lighting sources, a chroma background, and what appears to be advanced biometric equipment.

In glass display cases along one wall are samples of various official documents: passports from different countries, identification cards, driver's licenses, all without names or photos, merely displaying the quality of the work.

"Impressive," Oscar murmurs involuntarily.

Miguel smiles slightly, accepting the tacit compliment. "Technology advances, and with it, verification methods. In my business, falling behind is not an option."

He sits in front of one of the computers and indicates for Carlos and Oscar to take seats in two chairs facing him.

"So," he says, addressing mainly Carlos, "what exactly can I do for you?"

Carlos looks at Oscar, as if yielding the floor. Oscar understands it's better if he personally explains his situation, or at least, the modified version they've agreed upon.

"I need temporary Australian documentation," Oscar begins, adopting a professional tone. "Passport, Schengen visa, and especially permits that allow me to move between Spain and Italy without problems. I'll be following the F1 calendar with Carlos."

Miguel nods, his fingers already typing on the computer. "What's the story? I need to know to create coherent documentation."

Oscar glances at Carlos, who nods imperceptibly, and proceeds with the agreed narrative.

"My name is Oscar Palmer. I'm Australian, a data analyst. I lost my documentation and can't officially contact my embassy due to... complications."

"Complications," Miguel repeats, a knowing smile briefly appearing on his lips. "I understand perfectly. Now, I'll need to take some biometric data to—"

"About that," Oscar interrupts, feeling sudden nervousness. A sudden thought crosses his mind: if new biometric data is taken in his name, it could interfere with that of the teenage Oscar who exists in this timeline. While their faces are different—one is 15 and the other 23—fingerprints and other biometric markers could create conflicts in the system for young Oscar. "I'd prefer not to have new biometric data taken."

Miguel stops, looking up from his computer.

"We need to keep his original biometric data intact," Carlos intervenes naturally. "No alterations."

Miguel studies Oscar with renewed intensity, as if evaluating the situation from another perspective.

"I think we're talking about something different from what I initially thought," Miguel says finally. "You don't want a new identity. You want to maintain your current identity but have an extra identity with new documentation, without altering existing biometric records."

"Exactly," Oscar confirms, relieved that Miguel understands the distinction. He can't afford to interfere with teenage Oscar's life.

"This is... unusual," Miguel comments, leaning back in his chair. "Usually people come looking for precisely the opposite: to escape their biometric identity."

"My situation is complicated," Oscar responds, deliberately maintaining vagueness.

Miguel observes him for a few more seconds, as if trying to solve a puzzle. Finally, he seems to reach a conclusion.

"Let me see if I understand," he says, leaning forward. "You have biometric data that's already in the system under another identity, and you don't want conflicts between that identity and the new one we're creating."

"That sums up the problem pretty well."

"But you need to be able to use the new identity without the real information coming up when you're scanned, but on other occasions you're going to need the information returned by the system to actually be the real information," Miguel adds, now thinking aloud rather than asking.

"Exactly."

Miguel falls silent for a moment, his fingers drumming lightly on the desk. Suddenly, his eyes light up.

"I have something that might work," he says, opening a drawer and rummaging through various devices. "It's an unconventional solution, but given your situation, it could be perfect."

He extracts a small object, barely visible. It's flat and metallic.

"What is that?" Oscar asks, leaning closer to get a better look.

"This," Miguel holds the device between his fingers, "is what I like to call a 'diverter.' I originally developed it for clients with... let's say, specific legal problems related to biometrics."

"How does it work?" Carlos also leans in, genuinely interested.

"Modern biometric systems are incredibly accurate," Miguel explains. "But not infallible. This device emits a very low-intensity interference signal, calibrated specifically to alter how scanners read your biometric data."

"Wouldn't they detect the interference?" Oscar asks, skeptical.

"It's not the type of interference they're looking for," Miguel responds. "It doesn't block or invalidate the reading. It just modifies it subtly." He pauses, considering how to explain it. "Imagine your fingerprints are like a password. This device adds an extra invisible character to the end of that password, but only when the system is reading it."

Oscar frowns, trying to follow the explanation. "And that's enough to solve my problem?"

"By itself, no," Miguel admits. "Here comes the second part of the plan. I'm going to create complete records for Oscar Palmer in the relevant databases. Passport, ID, basic history... everything you'd need to officially exist."

"And that will prevent conflict with my... with the other biometric data?" Oscar asks, carefully avoiding mentioning his teenage self.

"That's the key," Miguel smiles, clearly proud of his solution. "The records I'll create will be designed to respond specifically to your biometric data when it's modified by the diverter. Without the device, a normal scan would find... whoever is already in the system with that data. With the device, the system will search for and find Oscar Palmer."

Carlos whistles, impressed. "You're basically creating a switch between two identities."

"Precisely," Miguel nods. "Imagine your fingerprints are like a unique key. This device temporarily modifies that key, adding an invisible notch that makes it open a different lock. The key is still essentially the same, but now it can open two different doors, depending on whether you're carrying the device or not."

Oscar nods, finding this explanation clearer. "Like a master key with a selector."

"Exactly," Miguel confirms, pleased with Oscar's understanding.

Oscar takes the small device, examining it curiously. "How do I use it?"

"You keep it close to the hand or eye they're going to scan," Miguel explains. "It works at a maximum distance of about ten centimeters, so you'll have to be discreet. I can mount it in a ring, a bracelet, even embed it in a phone case. Whatever feels most natural to you. If they're going to scan your eye, you casually bring your hand close, pretending to have an itch on your ear."

"What if I lose it?" The concern in Oscar's voice is evident.

Miguel adopts a more serious expression. "I could make you a backup, but you need to understand something: each of these devices costs thousands of euros in materials and programming time. It's not something you should lose lightly."

"How many do you think I'd need?" Oscar asks.

"Depends on your situation," Miguel responds, calculating mentally. "If you're traveling constantly, maybe three would be ideal. One to use, one as immediate backup, and another stored in a safe place as a last resort. But we're talking about a considerable investment."

"Don't worry about the money," Carlos intervenes naturally. "These expenses are on me. Make the three devices."

Miguel looks at Carlos with an expression of understanding, as if suddenly calibrating the importance of this job. "Very well. Three devices, then."

Oscar shoots Carlos a grateful look, surprised once again by his willingness to help.

"How long will all this take?" Carlos asks, always practical.

"The records, a few hours. Calibrating the devices, maybe a day, two at most," Miguel responds, already turning toward his computer. "I'll need your fingerprints and a retina scan to start."

"I thought we said no new biometric data," Oscar intervenes, tensing up.

"Not to replace them in the central system records," Miguel clarifies patiently. "Just so I can properly calibrate the diverter. This data won't leave my computer, which isn't connected to any external network."

Oscar relaxes slightly, though the idea of leaving his biometric data anywhere still makes him nervous.

"One more thing," Miguel adds, turning to look directly at Oscar. "I don't know who you really are, and I don't need to know. But this request to have two identities with the same biometric data... it's not usual." He pauses, studying Oscar with renewed curiosity. "But I want you to know that, whatever you're doing with my devices, you'll be covered. No one has ever managed to detect my systems and I don't think you're going to be the first."

The confidence in his voice is absolute, almost bordering on arrogance, but Oscar senses it's justified.

"You're in good hands, Oscar," Carlos assures with a small smile.

"The best," Miguel confirms without a trace of modesty. "Now, let's officially turn you into Oscar Palmer."

As Miguel prepares the equipment, Oscar exchanges a glance with Carlos. There's concern in both their eyes, but also determination. One more step in this strange journey, one more piece in the puzzle of his survival in 2016.

"I told you he was good," Carlos murmurs, with a small confident smile.

"Let's hope he's good enough."

 

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

 

Once outside, with the shop door closed behind them and the sign turned back to "Abierto," Oscar feels like he can breathe again. The experience has been more intense than he expected, and the apparent ease with which Miguel can manipulate government records is unsettling.

"Well," Carlos says as they walk toward the car, "that went well, didn't it?"

Oscar hesitates a moment before responding. "Are you sure Miguel is... trustworthy?"

Carlos smiles, unlocking the car with the remote. "Completely. My family has known him for years. He's discreet and professional."

"Yeah, that's what worries me," Oscar murmurs, too quietly for Carlos to hear clearly.

"Did you say something?"

Oscar sighs as they both get into the car. Once seated, with the doors closed creating a more private space, he works up the courage to voice his concerns.

"It's just that... all this seems very... elaborate. Miguel has a high-tech laboratory hidden behind a photography shop. He knows how to manipulate government databases and create devices that alter readings from sophisticated equipment. And he knows you and your family well enough to do this without asking questions."

Carlos starts the engine but doesn't put the car in drive immediately. Instead, he turns toward Oscar with an amused expression.

"What exactly are you worried about?"

"I'm worried about... the kind of people who can have that level of resources and connections."

Carlos lets out a small laugh. "Miguel is completely trustworthy, I promise you. He has a strict code: he never remembers anything he sees or hears once the job is finished."

"That..." Oscar swallows hard. "That sounds exactly like something someone involved in not exactly legal activities would say and... and I don't understand how you have such a close relationship with people like that."

Carlos's smile becomes slightly enigmatic, as if he's carefully considering his response.

"Come on, Oscar," he says finally, his smile widening. "You're my boyfriend, you should know, shouldn't you? You really don't know?"

"We haven't even been together a year," he improvises quickly while his heart skips a beat. Here it is, another test of the lie he's been maintaining. He and Carlos are supposed to be a couple in the future, supposed to know all aspects of each other's lives. If they were really boyfriends, Oscar would know exactly what the Sainz family does beyond motorsport. The pieces begin to fit together in his mind like a sinister puzzle: Carlos knows a high-level professional forger, talks about codes of silence, handles large amounts of money without blinking, and has connections that can make official documents appear out of nowhere. There's only one type of family that would have that kind of resources and contacts outside the law. "Oh God, am I... am I dating a mobster?"

Carlos's expression suddenly becomes more serious, his eyes darkening in a way Oscar had never seen before. Slowly, he turns off the car's engine.

"We don't use that term," he says, his voice significantly lower, almost a whisper. "It's vulgar and imprecise."

Oscar feels a chill run down his spine. "What... what term do you use then?"

Carlos glances briefly through the windows, as if making sure no one can hear them, before leaning slightly toward Oscar.

"In Spain, those of us in the business prefer more discreet terms. 'La Familia' or 'Los asociados' is usually sufficient."

"Los asociados," Oscar repeats mechanically, feeling like he's fallen into a completely unexpected dimension. Never, during all his years sharing the paddock with Carlos Sainz, had he even suspected he might have connections to organized crime.

"Look," Carlos continues, his voice surprisingly calm, "I thought you knew. It's not something I discuss openly, for obvious reasons, but I thought in the future I would have told you. Especially considering how serious our relationship is."

Oscar stares at him, trying to process this new information.

"I... I had no idea," he finally admits. "That's why you have so many connections and your family has so much money," Oscar murmurs, pieces of a puzzle he never knew existed slowly falling into place.

Carlos nods solemnly. "The family's resources are always available when needed."

Oscar looks at him, really looks at him, trying to reconcile this new information with the young man with the easy smile and open heart he's been getting to know these past days. How could it be the same person? How could someone involved in criminal activities maintain that innocence, that genuine warmth that Oscar had come to value so much?

"I never would have imagined it," he says finally. "You don't seem... you know..."

"Like a criminal?" Carlos completes, a shadow of something indecipherable crossing his face. "What is a criminal supposed to look like, Oscar? We don't all walk around with scars on our faces and guns in the open."

Oscar swallows hard. "No, I didn't mean to say..."

"Most sophisticated operations are run by people who look absolutely normal," Carlos continues, his voice taking on an almost educational tone. "In fact, looking harmless is a considerable advantage in certain businesses."

There's something hypnotic about the way he speaks now, a controlled calm that Oscar had never seen in him. It's as if a mask has fallen, revealing something more calculated, colder beneath the surface.

"Do you know why my father was so good at rally?" Carlos asks abruptly, turning slightly to look directly at Oscar.

Oscar shakes his head, suddenly speechless.

"Because a great rally driver needs two essential qualities," Carlos explains, raising two fingers. "First, a supernatural ability to make split-second decisions. And second, nerves of steel."

He lowers one finger, leaving only his index finger raised.

"Do you know what other type of... professional needs exactly those same qualities?"

Oscar swallows hard, unable to respond.

"Someone who transports valuable merchandise through compromised routes," Carlos continues, his voice dropping to an almost conspiratorial tone. "Someone who must react instantly to an unexpected roadblock. Someone who can't afford the luxury of panic, not even when there are unidentified cars following him through mountain roads."

Oscar feels a chill run down his spine. The way Carlos describes it, with such specific details, makes it sound disturbingly plausible.

"Spain in the 80s was an... interesting place," Carlos continues, now looking out the window as if he could see the past reflected in the glass. "Border with France, border with Portugal, thousands of kilometers of unguarded coastline. And a country just emerging from dictatorship, with institutions still developing."

He turns back toward Oscar, a small smile playing on his lips.

"My father had extraordinary talent, international connections thanks to competitions, and knowledge of rural and mountain routes that no map could match."

"You're saying that your father..." Oscar can't even finish the sentence, the implication too shocking to articulate.

"I'm saying that my father saw opportunities where others saw only roads," Carlos responds, his smile widening slightly. "And that he knew how to capitalize on them."

"But he's a public figure," Oscar argues weakly. "People know him. How could he...?"

Carlos lets out a brief, almost condescending laugh. "What better cover than fame? No one suspects the man whose face appears on sports magazine covers. No one questions why a rally driver knows the secondary roads of three different countries so well."

There's a disturbing logic in his words, a sense that makes Oscar feel like the ground beneath his feet is crumbling.

"And you?" he asks, almost fearing the answer. "Are you involved too?"

Carlos looks at him for a long time, as if evaluating how much to reveal. Finally, he sighs.

"I'm the heir, though things have evolved since my father's days," he says in a tone that suggests he's carefully choosing each word. "The methods are more... sophisticated now. Less hands on the merchandise, more digital movements."

Oscar remains silent, trying to assimilate what he's hearing. "You're joking, right?" he finally asks, a last hope that it's all an elaborate joke.

Carlos tilts his head, his expression indecipherable. "Why do you think I have an apartment in Madrid that I barely use? Why do you think I can get false documents with a single phone call? Why do you think I know people like Miguel?"

"But... your F1 career..."

"Is perfect," Carlos completes with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "I travel internationally every few weeks. I have access to private areas in airports around the world. I move large amounts of equipment across borders with barely a superficial inspection."

Oscar feels breathless. Everything Carlos says makes terrible sense, a logic that makes his story painfully plausible.

"But the risk..."

"Is calculated," Carlos interrupts. "Like everything in life. You evaluate the odds, take precautions, and then... accelerate."

There's something in the way he says that last word, a gleam in his eyes, that makes Oscar feel a chill. It's as if he's seeing a completely new facet of Carlos, one he never would have imagined existed.

"I never would have thought..." Oscar begins, his voice barely a whisper.

"That's precisely the point," Carlos responds with a broader smile. "No one thinks it. No one looks at Carlos Sainz's son and sees anything other than a driver following in his father's footsteps. What people don't know is that I'm really being prepared to eventually take on the big responsibilities of the true family business."

Oscar observes him, really observes him, trying to reconcile this new information with the young man he's been getting to know these days. The Carlos who prepares breakfast singing off-key, who wears ridiculous slippers, who looks at him with that warmth that makes his heart race... could he be the same person who speaks so casually about criminal operations?

"You don't seem... scared," Carlos observes after a moment. "Most people would be terrified to discover they're sharing a car with someone like me."

Oscar realizes he's right. Despite the shock, despite how stunning the revelation is, he doesn't feel afraid. Maybe because, on some level, he knows Carlos would never hurt him.

"I suppose I should be," he finally responds. "But I'm not."

Carlos smiles, and there's something in that smile, a flash of something warmer, more familiar, that makes Oscar wonder if he's seeing cracks in this new personality Carlos is presenting.

"That speaks well of you," Carlos says, starting the engine again. "The ability to stay calm in the face of the unexpected is a valuable quality."

Oscar nods mechanically, still processing everything he's heard. As Carlos puts the car in drive.

"I'm going to tell you something that very few people know," he says, his voice taking on a more intimate tone. "My grandfather was actually a smuggler during Franco's time. Coffee, mainly. And some tobacco."

Oscar blinks, surprised by this new revelation. "Really?"

"Completely serious," Carlos confirms. "That's where the family instinct for... alternative businesses comes from."

"So it's a family tradition," Oscar murmurs, more to himself than to Carlos.

"Three generations," Carlos confirms with what seems to be genuine pride. "My grandfather laid the foundation, my father expanded operations, and I'm... diversifying."

The light turns green, and Carlos returns his attention to the road. Oscar watches him in profile, the defined line of his jaw, the concentration in his eyes, and wonders how much of what he's seeing is real and how much is an elaborate performance.

"You know? I still can't quite process it," he says finally. "You seem so... normal."

Carlos lets out a brief but genuine laugh. "That's precisely the point, Oscar. The best predator is the one who camouflages perfectly in his environment... So...?" Carlos leaves the question hanging in the air, his expression a mixture of hope and resignation. "Does this change things between us?"

It's a loaded question, one that requires Oscar to maintain his elaborate lie while navigating this new and bewildering dimension of Carlos Sainz. If they were really a couple, would this revelation be enough to drive him away? Or would their connection be strong enough to overcome even this?

"No," he says finally, surprised by the certainty in his voice. "It doesn't change anything."

And the most disturbing thing is that he's not sure he's lying.

Carlos exhales slowly, as if he'd been holding his breath. "I'm glad to hear that. Because... you mean a lot to me, Oscar. More than I probably should, considering how complicated our situation is."

There's a disarming sincerity in these words, a vulnerability that contrasts brutally with the image of the criminal heir he just described. And it's this duality, this fundamental contradiction, that makes the whole story simultaneously so incredible and so convincing.

"You mean a lot to me too," Oscar responds, and to his surprise, these words don't feel like a lie.

Carlos looks at him for another moment, an indecipherable expression in his eyes. And then, slowly, something begins to change in his face. The seriousness gives way to an almost imperceptible tremor at the corner of his lips.

"Wow," he says finally, his voice containing a barely controlled tremor. "You really believed all of it, didn't you?"

Oscar blinks, momentarily disoriented by this change. "What?"

Carlos tries to maintain his serious expression, but fails spectacularly when a snort of laughter escapes from his nose.

"I'm sorry," he says, the laughter now openly visible on his face. "I'm so sorry, but your face..."

"What...?"

And then Carlos can't contain himself anymore. He bursts into laughter, so loud that he has to grip the steering wheel to stay upright.

"Your expression!" he manages to say between laughs. "You've gone through so many emotions in the last five minutes I thought you were going to explode!"

Understanding hits Oscar like a bucket of cold water. "You were... were you pulling my leg? This whole time?"

Carlos nods, unable to speak while trying to catch his breath, tears of laughter forming in the corners of his eyes.

"You absolute...!" Oscar hits him lightly on the shoulder, indignant but also relieved. "I thought you were being serious! You sounded completely convincing!"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Carlos says, wiping away the tears with the back of his hand. "But it was too tempting. You started acting all nervous and paranoid, and I just couldn't resist."

"That wasn't funny," Oscar protests, though a reluctant smile begins to form on his own lips. The relief is too great to maintain his indignation.

"It was a little funny," Carlos insists, imitating Oscar's horrified expression. "'Oh God, am I dating a mobster?'" His Australian accent is terrible, which only makes the situation more absurd.

Oscar shakes his head, but the smile is now complete. "You're impossible, Sainz."

"So you really believed my family was some kind of criminal organization?" Carlos asks, his laughter diminishing but the amusement still evident in his eyes.

"I don't know," Oscar admits, slightly embarrassed now. "Miguel seems so... professional at something that's clearly not legal. And you were so calm about the whole thing..."

"Miguel is indeed professional," Carlos confirms, starting the engine again. "And yes, what he does isn't strictly legal. But there's a big leap from that to my family being part of the Spanish mafia."

"So how do you really know him?" Oscar asks, genuinely curious.

Carlos shrugs as he puts the car in drive. "My father met him during his rally days. Miguel used to work for the government, in some department related to identity documentation. When he took early retirement, he found more... lucrative ways to use his skills."

"And your father turns to him for...?"

"I already told you, for occasional emergencies," Carlos explains casually. "Urgent visa for a mechanic when bureaucracy is too slow, that kind of thing. Nothing sinister, I promise."

Oscar looks at him, trying to determine if this time he's telling the truth. "Really?"

"Really," Carlos confirms, his expression becoming slightly more serious. "My family is in motorsport, Oscar, not organized crime."

Oscar leans back in his seat, feeling a mixture of relief and embarrassment. "I hate you a little right now, you know that?"

Carlos laughs again, a light and genuine sound that makes something loosen in Oscar's chest. "No, you don't hate me. You like me too much for that."

And the worst part is that he's right. Despite the heavy joke, despite making him momentarily believe he was involved with the mafia, Oscar can't deny the warm feeling spreading through his chest at seeing Carlos's laughter, at witnessing this playful facet he'd never associated with him.

"Carlos, seriously now and just to confirm, your family really isn't involved in anything illegal?"

"Of course not."

"You swear?"

Carlos momentarily lifts his right hand from the steering wheel. "I swear by my future F1 world championship."

"That's tempting fate," Oscar comments, though he can't help but smile.

"Then I swear by something more important," Carlos says, his tone becoming surprisingly serious. "I swear by us. I swear by our relationship."

And there's something in the way he says it, something so genuine and direct, that Oscar feels a knot forming in his throat. Because Carlos is swearing by a relationship he believes is real, that for him is meaningful and valuable, while for Oscar it's a convenient fiction that's becoming increasingly inconvenient for his peace of mind.

"Well, that's enough for me," he manages to say, hoping his voice sounds normal.

"Though I have to admit I'm impressed by how quickly you accepted the idea of dating a mafia heir."

Oscar feels heat rise to his cheeks. "I didn't... I mean..."

Carlos laughs again, that light and genuine sound that makes something loosen in Oscar's chest. "I'm kidding. Though it's flattering to know that not even my supposed criminal connections would drive you away."

And the worst part is that he's right. Even when he believed Carlos might be involved in illicit activities, a part of Oscar had been willing to accept it, to find a way to reconcile it with the man he's come to value these days.

"Just drive," he says, feigning irritation though a traitorous smile keeps tugging at his lips.

Carlos obeys, steering the car toward the main street. Madrid's traffic flows around them, a river of lights and sounds that contrasts with the contemplative silence inside the vehicle. Oscar watches Carlos's profile, silhouetted against the city's changing lights, and wonders how many other facets of this man he doesn't know.

"For the record," Carlos says after a moment, his voice softer than before, "if I really had a dark family secret, you'd be the first person I'd tell." He pauses, his eyes fixed on the road but his attention clearly divided. "I don't like lies between people who care about each other. The foundation of a true relationship is trust."

There's a sincerity in these words that contrasts with the earlier joke, a vulnerability that makes Oscar feel that now-familiar pang of guilt. Because Carlos is being honest with him, sharing a truth about his values, while Oscar continues perpetuating an elaborate lie.

"I know," he responds softly, the words almost sticking in his throat. "I trust you."

The confession weighs in the air between them, loaded with meaning that Carlos can't fully understand. For him, it's a simple affirmation of their relationship. For Oscar, it's another layer of complexity in his deception, but also, surprisingly, a truth. Because despite everything, against all logic, he really has come to trust Carlos.

The silence stretches a few more seconds, until Carlos turns at an intersection and glances sideways at Oscar, a renewed spark of amusement in his eyes.

"You know?" he adds with a small mischievous smile, "For a moment I felt quite intimidating pretending to be part of a criminal organization. Do you think I could play it convincingly in a movie?"

The abrupt transition to humor breaks the tension like a ray of sunlight breaking through storm clouds. Oscar finds himself smiling automatically, grateful for the exit from the vulnerable moment.

"Too convincing, I'd say," he responds, relief tinting his voice with warmth. "You gave me chills."

"I knew it!" Carlos exclaims triumphantly, lightly hitting the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. "I have a future in Hollywood if this racing thing doesn't work out." He runs a hand through his hair with an exaggeratedly vain gesture. "Besides, I have the perfect face to be a leading man."

"Whatever you say, Don Corleone," Oscar responds, surprising himself with the ease of this shared joke, with how natural this dynamic between them feels.

Carlos laughs again, that sound Oscar is beginning to associate with a warmth that spreads throughout his body, a heat that begins somewhere near his heart and radiates outward like ripples in a pond.

"You know what's the best thing about being a fictional mobster?" Carlos asks, stopping at a red light and turning to look directly at Oscar.

"What?"

"I can order you to tell me how many championships Max wins in the future, and you can't refuse," he declares with comic seriousness, imitating a gangster movie accent. "It's an offer you can't refuse because otherwise I'd have to kill you."

Oscar lets out a laugh that springs from deep within, genuine and carefree. "Not even as a fictional mobster will you get that information from me, Sainz."

"You're a tough nut to crack, Palmer," Carlos responds, returning to his normal voice as the light turns green. "I like that about you."

The conversation drifts to lighter topics as they enter the heart of Madrid. They talk about movies, about food, about places Carlos wants to show him. Plans for tomorrow, for next week, small promises of shared moments that stretch out like an illuminated path before them.

And through it all, Oscar allows himself, just for this moment, to enjoy this connection they've formed. He lets the guilt and fear fade temporarily, pushed to the margins of his consciousness by the pure simplicity of the present. By the way Carlos gesticulates when talking about his favorite restaurant, by how his face lights up when he describes the plaza where he played as a child, by the way his gaze occasionally drifts to Oscar with a warmth that makes time seem to stop.

 

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

Notes:

So… while rereading the draft of this chapter, I had a very specific, very vivid vision: Carlos as a man with a double life. Formula 1 driver by day… heir to a powerful criminal empire by night.

And listen —I couldn’t help myself. Suddenly I was deep in worldbuilding and narrative development for an entire AU where the Sainz family runs a “legitimate” import/export company that’s secretly a front for international cocaine trafficking, money laundering, and other high-level organized crime. Carlos uses his F1 career as the perfect cover —even rigging race results to wash millions through coordinated betting rings.

And then one day, poor Oscar Piastri accidentally witnesses the execution of a traitor by Carlos and his family’s organization. Carlos doesn’t eliminate him right away (a missing F1 driver would raise so many questions). Instead, he has to figure out how much Oscar really knows.

What follows is a deadly game of cat and mouse… until Oscar realizes that pretending he saw nothing is too dangerous. His best chance at survival? Convince Carlos he’s useful.

Oh and Carlos isn’t some reluctant heir pressured by his family. No. He takes his legacy very seriously. If blood needs to be spilled, he’ll do it without hesitation.

So yeah. Now I have a 50k-word draft with full character arcs, plot twists, and emotional damage. All because this Carlos made a joke to our time-traveling Oscar… and my brain took that personally 😅

Chapter 15: The Celestial Hunter

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

 

The Audi's engine purrs softly as Carlos navigates through Madrid's streets, his fingers drumming an absent rhythm against the leather steering wheel. Golden afternoon light filters through the windshield, creating shifting patterns that dance across Oscar's face as he adjusts the glasses that are beginning to feel less foreign against the bridge of his nose.

"So," Oscar says, breaking the contemplative silence that has settled between them, "where are we headed now?"

Carlos tilts his head slightly, just enough for Oscar to catch the profile of his smile before his attention returns to the traffic flowing lazily ahead of them. "Home," he answers, and there's something in the casual way he says that word that makes something tighten gently in Oscar's chest. "My apartment, I mean. I thought we could..."

He stops, his brow furrowing slightly as he searches for the right words, as if he's organizing a strategy in his mind.

"Could what?" Oscar presses, genuinely curious about the direction Carlos's thoughts are taking.

"Well," Carlos continues, his fingers pausing their drumming to grip the steering wheel a bit more firmly, "we've been so busy with the whole documentation situation that we haven't really... looked into your actual situation, you know?"

Oscar blinks, processing this. It's true. Since he showed up in Barcelona, everything has been immediate survival: finding accommodation, creating a false identity, staying afloat in this displaced reality. They haven't dedicated real time to understanding the mechanics of his time travel.

"You're right," he admits, straightening slightly in his seat. "I've been so focused on adapting that I haven't really thought about... well, how I got here in the first place."

Carlos nods, stopping at a red light. He takes advantage of the pause to turn completely toward Oscar, his dark eyes bright with a mixture of determination and something that looks almost like contained excitement.

"Exactly. And if we understand how you got here, maybe we can figure out how to send you back." His voice is practical, but Oscar detects an underlying note he can't quite identify. "I have a laptop at home, the tablet you used this morning, and decent internet connection. We could start with basic searches: time travel, physics theories, that sort of thing."

The light turns green, and Carlos returns his attention to the road, but continues talking as he accelerates smoothly.

"And if the Internet doesn't give us enough useful information," he adds, his tone becoming more animated, "we could arrange a visit to la Ciudad de las Artes y las Ciencias tomorrow. They have a big science museum with physics exhibits and an astronomy dome. My father knows people there."

Oscar watches Carlos's profile as he speaks, noticing how his hands move expressively even while driving, how his voice takes on that particular quality when he's solving a problem. It's fascinating to see this analytical side of him, this methodical approach to the impossible.

"Sounds like a solid plan," Oscar says, and he's surprised by how much it means to him that Carlos is willing to dedicate time and energy to this. "Though I should warn you that my knowledge of theoretical physics is... limited."

Carlos laughs, a warm sound that fills the car's enclosed space. "Mine is nonexistent. But two limited brains are better than one, right?"

"That's debatable," Oscar responds with a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, "but I want your help, so I'm not going to question your logic."

Carlos maneuvers the car onto a residential street, and Oscar can see the apartment building approaching.

"You know what's the strangest thing about all this?" Carlos asks as he parks in the underground garage, the Audi's engine gradually diminishing to silence.

"What?" Oscar asks, unbuckling his seatbelt but making no move to get out of the car yet.

Carlos stays still for a moment, his hands still on the steering wheel, looking ahead rather than at Oscar. A mischievous smile begins to form at the corners of his mouth.

"Sometimes I wonder if I'm not dreaming," he says, turning to look at Oscar with that expression that's half serious, half playful that Oscar is beginning to recognize. "Haven't you ever thought that maybe you're dreaming? Maybe you had an accident and now you're in a coma or something."

Oscar considers this for a moment, adjusting his glasses as he processes the question. "Yeah, I did think about that," he admits. "Especially the first few days. But this is too realistic to be a dream. Too... consistent. Dreams don't have this continuity, these specific details."

"True," Carlos concedes, but his smile grows wider, more self-reflective. "Though, to be honest, I have thought that maybe the one who's dreaming is me."

"You?" Oscar blinks, surprised by this confession.

Carlos shrugs, but there's something vulnerable in the gesture. "Maybe I crashed at the Spanish GP and I'm in a coma. My mind went back to Thursday, before everything started, before I got in the car that weekend." His voice takes on a softer, more intimate tone. "And maybe my brain invented this... boyfriend from the future who's everything I've always imagined but better."

The words fall between them like stones in still water, creating ripples that extend far beyond their immediate meaning. Oscar feels as if the air in the car has become denser, charged with an honesty Carlos probably didn't intend to reveal.

"Everything you've always imagined," Oscar repeats softly, unable to avoid the question even though he knows the answer will only make his guilt worse.

Carlos blushes slightly, as if realizing what he's just confessed. "Well," he says, trying to sound casual but failing completely, "you're smart even though your theoretical physics knowledge is limited. You have a very particular sense of humor, kind of dry and ironic, but I love it. You understand my world, and you say that in our relationship in the future you challenge me but support me. You're bloody attractive, especially with the glasses. And you have those eyes that seem to see more than should be possible, and when you smile..." He stops, running a hand through his hair. "Joder, this sounds pathetic."

"It doesn't sound pathetic," Oscar says, his voice barely a whisper. The weight of guilt settles in his stomach like lead.

"But I guess it's not a dream," Carlos continues, clearly trying to lighten the moment, "it would be the most elaborate dream in history having to get you false documentation considering all the hassles with biometric data and all that."

Oscar manages a smile, though it feels forced. "It would be a very specific dream in terms of bureaucratic details."

"Exactly," Carlos laughs, and the moment of tension gradually dissolves. "So, do we investigate your time travel or my possible coma that's put me in this dream?"

"I'd rather stick with the original plan and investigate my time travel," Oscar says, opening his door.

As he follows Carlos toward the elevator, Oscar allows himself a moment of brutal honesty: every word Carlos just said about what he likes about Oscar has made his lie feel exponentially heavier. Because now he knows, without a doubt, that Carlos has genuine feelings for him. Feelings that grow every day...

And the most terrifying part is that Oscar is beginning to wish Carlos's coma theory were true. That all of this was just an elaborate dream, because at least then he wouldn't really be breaking someone's heart.

 

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

 

Carlos's apartment feels different in the early afternoon hours. The natural light filtering through the high windows creates an informal study atmosphere as Carlos disappears momentarily into his room, returning with a silver laptop under his arm.

"You can use the tablet if you want," he says, pointing toward the coffee table where they'd left it that morning when they read about the karting accident in Australia. "And I'll use the laptop, or would you prefer it the other way around?"

Oscar heads to the coffee table for the device, immediately feeling its familiar weight in his hands. The screen lights up with a touch. "This is fine, thanks."

Carlos settles on the couch, placing the laptop on his thighs. The keyboard makes a soft sound as he types his password. Oscar, on the other hand, sits cross-legged on the rug, resting the tablet against his bent knees.

"Where do we start?" Carlos asks, his fingers already hovering over the trackpad as he opens a web browser.

Oscar adjusts his glasses, considering the question. "I suppose we should look for whether there's any real scientific basis for what happened to me. See if serious theories about time travel exist, not just science fiction."

Carlos nods, already typing in the search bar. "Good idea. At least then we'll know if we're dealing with something that has theoretical precedent or not."

The next few minutes pass in concentrated searching, with occasional exchanges of confusing information and fragments of theories that neither fully understands.

"Okay, this is weird," Oscar says after a few minutes, frowning at his screen. "It says here that Einstein actually wrote about time travel. Something about... closed timelike curves?"

"What's that?" Carlos asks without looking up from his laptop.

"I have no idea," Oscar admits. "But apparently it has to do with gravity bending time. Like... imagine time is a sheet of paper and gravity can fold it until two points touch."

Carlos pauses in his typing. "That sounds... possible, I guess. Though I don't understand how it would work in practice."

"Me neither," Oscar says, scrolling through more information. "But it says you'd need massive amounts of energy. Like... black holes or collapsing stars."

"Well, that rules out that theory for your case," Carlos says with a light laugh. "Unless there's a black hole hidden in Miami that nobody's noticed."

Oscar laughs too, but keeps reading. "Wait, here's something else. It says there could also be 'minor temporal anomalies' caused by... specific astronomical events."

"What kind of events?" Carlos asks, now more interested. "I think I read about that a few days ago... but I'm not sure I remember exactly."

"Eclipses, intense solar storms... and complex planetary conjunctions," Oscar reads. "Especially ones involving multiple planets aligning with specific stellar patterns."

Carlos straightens slightly. "Stellar patterns like constellations?"

"I think that's what it means," Oscar says, feeling a tingle of recognition. "And now that you mention it... I think I remember something more specific about that last day in Miami."

"What?"

Oscar frowns, concentrating on retrieving the memory. "That conversation I overheard in the paddock. They didn't just mention planetary conjunctions. They said something specific about... about several planets aligning with Orion. Before I wasn't very sure about what constellation they'd talked about, but I think it was Orion."

"Orion?" Carlos repeats. "The hunter constellation?"

"Yes," Oscar says, the memory becoming clearer. "I remember someone saying it was rare to see so many planets visible near Orion at the same time."

Carlos stops typing completely. "And that happened exactly the day you time traveled?"

"Yes, the same day," Oscar confirms.

"If what you're reading about temporal anomalies is real, and if there really was a complex planetary conjunction that day..."

"It could have been the trigger," Oscar completes. "The event that somehow sent me here."

Carlos turns completely toward him. "We need to verify if that really happened. Look for concrete data about the predicted planetary positions in 2024."

"Yes, but," Oscar pauses, "we should also look for information about Orion specifically. If that constellation was involved, maybe there's something special about it we don't know."

"Good idea," Carlos says, already returning to his search. "Though I warn you that my astronomy knowledge doesn't go much beyond being able to find the Big Dipper in the sky."

"Mine doesn't either," Oscar admits. "But if that constellation really brought me here, we need to understand everything we can about it."

The next few minutes pass in concentrated silence, interrupted only by soft typing on the laptop keyboard and Oscar's light touches on the touchscreen. The almost imperceptible hum of the laptop's fan creates a constant background sound as both immerse themselves in their respective searches.

"This is more complicated than I thought," Carlos murmurs after a few minutes, his voice tinged with the first note of frustration. "Astronomy sites talk about 'oppositions' and 'superior and inferior conjunctions' as if we all had PhDs in astrophysics."

Oscar looks up from his tablet, where he's been browsing a page about orbital mechanics that explains planetary movements in terms that require three readings to begin understanding. "It's not better over here. Apparently planets have 'synodic periods' and 'maximum elongations,' but nobody explains what that means in practical terms."

Carlos leans forward, reading something on his screen with a furrowed brow. "I found an astronomical calendar, but it's full of abbreviations I don't understand. 'Mars in conjunction with Jupiter, fifteen degrees north'... what's that supposed to mean?"

"Probably that they look very close in the sky from Earth," Oscar says, frowning as he reads another page. "But I don't understand if that's relevant to our case or if it's just normal astronomical information."

They return to their searches, but Oscar can feel the frustration growing. Every website seems to assume prior knowledge that neither of them possesses, and the technical information accumulates without creating a coherent picture.

"Wait," Carlos says suddenly, his voice taking on a more hopeful tone. "Here's something that might be useful. A site about 'Rare Astronomical Phenomena' that lists specific events."

"What kind of events?" Oscar asks, looking up from his search.

"Just what we need. Multiple conjunctions," Carlos reads. "When three or more planets align with a specific constellation. It says they happen very infrequently and that historically they've been considered... significant."

Oscar straightens, feeling a tingle of hope. "Significant how?"

"It doesn't specify exactly, but it mentions that different ancient cultures attributed... special properties to them." Carlos pauses, clearly struggling with the terminology. "Events that 'transcend conventional astronomical understanding.'"

"That sounds promising," Oscar says, though part of him wonders if they're entering pseudoscientific territory. "Does it mention specific dates?"

Carlos keeps reading, scrolling through the page. "Some historical ones... 1682, 1758, 1835... but for future events it only says they require complex calculations to predict."

Oscar returns to his tablet, this time searching for specific information about the constellation Orion. The first results are basic: general information about the main stars, associated mythology, seasonal visibility. But when he finds a website dedicated specifically to astronomical photographs, something changes.

The first image that appears is Orion's belt: Alnitak, Alnilam, and Mintaka aligned in perfect diagonal against the black velvet of space. Oscar knows this image, of course. Anyone with basic astronomy knowledge would recognize it.

But there's something more.

The moment the image loads completely on the screen, a strange warmth spreads through Oscar's chest, as if something inside him is responding to those three aligned stars. It's not visual recognition—it's something deeper, more visceral. As if every cell in his body knows something his mind had forgotten.

His fingers involuntarily tighten around the tablet, and for a moment, the world feels quieter. Not that sounds disappear—Carlos's typing continues, the laptop fan keeps humming—but it's as if everything has become less important than this image of three points of light against infinite darkness.

He swipes to the next image: a wider view of the entire constellation, with the main stars marked and connected by faint lines. Betelgeuse shines with a reddish tint on the hunter's shoulder, while Rigel flashes blue-white at his foot.

Oscar stares at the image, and that strange sensation intensifies. It's nostalgia for something he can't remember, a sweet melancholy that has no logical explanation. As if these stars had been watching over him his entire life, patiently waiting for the right moment for him to really notice them.

"By the way," Carlos says without looking up from his screen, "I found something curious. Apparently Orion plays an important role in many different mythologies. The Egyptians, Greeks, Mayans... they all had stories about that constellation."

"What kind of stories?" Oscar asks, though his attention remains divided between the conversation and the images on his screen. There's something hypnotic about the arrangement of the stars, something that goes beyond the obvious beauty of celestial patterns.

"It varies by culture, but there's a common theme: Orion as guardian, as hunter, as... reunifier." Carlos pauses. "It's strange that cultures so geographically separated would have such similar ideas about the same stars."

The word "guardian" resonates somewhere deep in Oscar's mind, sending a shiver down his spine that he can't explain. He swipes to the next photo: a telescopic image showing the Orion Nebula in vivid colors, spirals of gas and dust that seem to dance around the central stars.

This image hits him with an intensity that almost takes his breath away. The colors—gold and red swirled against the deep blue of space—awaken in him a longing so deep it hurts. It's like being thirsty for something you didn't know you needed, like searching for a word that's on the tip of your tongue but never quite forms completely.

"Oscar," Carlos says, and his voice sounds closer now. "You got very quiet."

Oscar blinks, as if emerging from a trance, and realizes he's been looking at the Orion images for... how long? The tablet feels warm in his hands, and there's a slight tension in his neck that suggests he's been staring at the screen much longer than he intended.

"Sorry," he says, straightening slightly. "I got... caught up in these photographs."

Carlos is looking at him with a curious expression, the laptop still balanced on his thighs but his attention completely focused on Oscar. "Caught up how?"

Oscar looks at the tablet again, where the image of the Orion Nebula still fills the screen with its swirling colors and impossible beauty. "It's strange," he admits, and there's genuine confusion in his voice. "I feel like... like these stars mean something to me. Like there's something I should remember but can't." He stops, aware of how ridiculous he must sound. "Sorry, that doesn't make sense."

"Don't apologize," Carlos says softly, and there's something in his voice that suggests he too feels something inexplicable in this moment. "It doesn't sound ridiculous at all."

Carlos gets up from the couch and moves toward Oscar, settling on the floor next to him on the rug. The movement is casual, natural, but suddenly Oscar is very aware of Carlos's proximity, of the heat radiating from his body and the subtle scent of his cologne mixing with the faint coffee aroma that still lingers in the apartment.

"Let me see," Carlos says, moving closer to look at the tablet screen. His shoulder brushes Oscar's, and when it does, something aligns. Not just physical proximity—something more fundamental. As if the constellation on the screen and Carlos's presence beside him were pieces of a puzzle his soul had been trying to solve without him realizing it.

"Wow," Carlos murmurs, genuinely impressed by the image. "I've seen space photos before, but never so detailed. It's... beautiful."

Without consciously thinking about what he's doing, Oscar touches the screen with the tip of his index finger, slowly tracing the constellation's pattern. His finger moves from Betelgeuse to Bellatrix, down through the three belt stars, and ends at Rigel. It's an unconscious, natural movement, as if he'd made this same gesture thousands of times before.

The moment he completes the pattern, Carlos shivers. It's subtle—barely a tremor that runs through his body—but Oscar feels it because they're sitting so close their shoulders are touching.

"Are you okay?" Oscar asks, turning slightly to look at Carlos.

"Yes," Carlos says quickly, but there's a puzzled expression on his face. "Just... when you did that, traced the stars, it was like... I don't know. Like I felt something."

They look at each other for a moment, both clearly confused by the intensity of what they've just experienced. Oscar can feel his own pulse accelerating, not just from Carlos's proximity but from the inexplicable certainty that this moment—sitting on the floor, looking at Orion images together, feeling connected in a way that transcends the rational—is exactly where they're supposed to be.

"Look at this," Carlos finally says, pointing at the screen to break the tension of the moment. "It says here that Orion is visible from both hemispheres of Earth. It's one of the few constellations that can be seen from both Australia and Spain."

"Interesting," Oscar says, though his voice sounds slightly distant even to his own ears. There's something about this constellation that awakens in him a disconcerting familiarity, like recognizing a song he'd never heard but somehow already knew.

And for some reason, sitting next to Carlos on his apartment floor, all the coincidences of the past few days finally start to seem less random and more like pieces of something he can't yet understand but that his instinct recognizes as inevitable.

Oscar looks at the screen for another moment, scrolling through other images of the constellation. Each photograph has similar titles: "Orion, the Great Hunter," "The Celestial Hunter," "Constellation of the Eternal Hunter." But what Oscar feels when looking at those stars has nothing to do with hunting or pursuit. It's completely the opposite—an inexplicable sensation of being cared for, protected by something that's been up there his entire life, patiently waiting for him to look up.

 

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

Chapter 16: Escape Velocity

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

 

The research consumes them like a silent current, pulling them toward depths neither had anticipated when Carlos first suggested they try to understand the mechanics of Oscar's time travel. What began as a practical search—finding a way to send him back to 2024—has transformed into something more like cosmic archaeology, excavating theories that seem closer to magic than science.

They've been at it for hours, and Oscar can feel the cumulative weight of information: theories about planetary conjunctions that might alter the fabric of space-time, references to Orion appearing again and again like a thread he can't ignore. Every image of the constellation he finds awakens in him a familiarity that transcends visual recognition, something that settles in his chest like nostalgia for a place he's never been but his soul seems to remember.

The carpet beneath his body gradually becomes uncomfortable, a stiffness that begins at the base of his spine and spreads to his hips. Beside him, Carlos makes a soft sound of discomfort, momentarily abandoning his keyboard to massage his neck with circular movements that suggest similar tension.

Without words—as if they've silently reached the same conclusion—both move toward the couch. The transition is fluid, natural: Carlos sits at the left end and leans back against the cushions while Oscar settles against the armrest with his tablet, legs crossed.

From this new position, Oscar can see both his screen and Carlos's profile as he works, and he's surprised to notice details he'd previously overlooked: the way he furrows his brow slightly when reading something particularly complicated, how his fingers drum absently against the laptop's edge when he's processing information. There's something hypnotic about watching Carlos's mind in action, seeing how he systematically approaches each new piece of information as if it were a puzzle he could solve through pure determination.

"This is more frustrating than I thought," Carlos murmurs after a few minutes, his voice slightly hoarse from prolonged disuse. "All this information about time travel is purely theoretical. As if it were impossible for it to actually happen."

"But here I am," Oscar says, and when Carlos looks up, there's something in his expression that Oscar can't completely decipher—a mixture of fascination and something deeper, more personal.

"Yes," Carlos responds, his gaze lingering on Oscar's face longer than would be strictly casual. "Here you are."

There's something in the way he says it, an underlying intensity that makes Oscar feel a strange warmth spreading through his chest. They return to their respective searches, but Oscar finds himself dividing his attention between the screen and the occasional glances they exchange, as if both were magnets drawn to each other but maintaining respectful distance.

When Oscar's legs go numb from being folded in the same position too long, he extends them without thinking, seeking relief for his circulation. Carlos reacts immediately, closing his laptop and placing it on the coffee table before taking his ankles with firm but gentle hands, guiding them until they rest comfortably on his thighs.

The contact is electric in its simplicity. Carlos's hands linger a moment longer than strictly necessary before releasing him, and Oscar can feel the warmth of that touch radiating through his socks, spreading up his legs like ripples in still water.

"Thanks," he says, surprised by how rough his own voice sounds.

"Trade?" Carlos asks, indicating the tablet while offering Oscar the laptop.

Oscar accepts the laptop, still feeling the ghost of Carlos's touch on his ankles, aware of how their new position has brought them physically closer without either making an explicit move to do so. The tablet now rests against Carlos's stomach while one of his hands settles seemingly casually on Oscar's knee, a contact that might seem accidental if not for the deliberate softness with which his fingers arrange themselves there.

"You know what I think?" Carlos says after a few minutes. "That maybe this isn't accidental."

"What do you mean?" Oscar asks, though part of him already knows where this conversation is heading, can feel it in the way the air between them seems to have thickened.

"Your arrival here. Us meeting." His thumb continues that hypnotic movement, tracing small patterns that Oscar can feel through the fabric of his jeans. "As if the universe had decided we needed to meet at this moment."

"That's a pretty romantic way to look at it."

"Maybe I'm more romantic than I appear," Carlos says with a smile that does something strange and unexpected to Oscar's stomach, a smile that completely transforms his face, making him look even younger, more vulnerable.

The silence that follows isn't uncomfortable, but it's charged with something Oscar doesn't dare name directly. Carlos looks at him as if he were memorizing his face, as if he were something precious that might disappear at any moment, and there's such intensity in that observation that Oscar feels as if the air has grown denser around them.

"What do you think about when you look at me like that?" Oscar asks before he can stop himself, the words escaping with an honesty he hadn't intended to show.

"That you're real," Carlos responds without hesitation, without looking away, without reducing the intensity of that observation that makes something contract in Oscar's chest. "That you're here, with me, and it's not a dream."

Something in his chest contracts at the raw honesty of that confession, at the vulnerability Carlos is willing to show without shields, without pretense. "And if it were a dream?"

"Then I wouldn't want to wake up," Carlos says, and there's such certainty in his voice, such conviction, that Oscar feels as if the air has become significantly denser between them.

The intensity of the moment becomes almost overwhelming. Oscar can feel his own pulse accelerating, can feel the weight of Carlos's gaze as something physical, tangible. Without thinking completely about what he's doing, he bends his legs again to break the physical contact between them, pretending he's looking for a more comfortable position, but the truth is he feels overwhelmed by Carlos's words and, worse still, by the longing he feels growing in response.

Carlos takes advantage of the freed space to turn toward him, a fluid movement that leaves them sitting almost face to face, the distance between them reduced to centimeters. Oscar can feel the heat emanating from Carlos's body, can perceive the subtle change in his breathing, the way his eyes seem darker in the golden afternoon light.

"I found something earlier," Carlos says, his voice lower now, more intimate, as if they were sharing secrets instead of discussing scientific theories. "About connections that transcend time."

"What kind of connections?" Oscar asks, though his concentration is compromised by the proximity.

"Come here," Carlos says, and without waiting for an answer, Oscar sets the laptop on the table and slides across the couch until their shoulders touch, until he can feel every point of contact between their bodies like small electric shocks. Carlos's warmth radiates toward him immediately, and he finds himself suddenly conscious of everything: the solidity of his presence, the way his breathing has become slightly deeper, how the space between them seems charged with possibilities.

"Here," Carlos murmurs, tilting the tablet between them so both can see the screen, but Oscar can barely concentrate on the words appearing there. He's too distracted by the proximity, by the way he can feel every small movement of Carlos, every change in his breathing.

"Do you see this?" Carlos asks, pointing to something in the text, tilting his head to read better. The movement makes his hair brush Oscar's cheek, a contact so light it could be accidental, but which sends an electric current directly to the center of his chest.

"It talks about the theory that certain connections can alter the fabric of time," Carlos continues, apparently oblivious to the effect he's having on Oscar, or perhaps—and this possibility makes Oscar's pulse quicken—perfectly aware of it.

"Certain connections?" Oscar repeats, his voice coming out rougher than he'd intended, betraying the effect Carlos's proximity is having on him.

Carlos turns his head to look at him, probably to elaborate his explanation, but the movement leaves them with their faces centimeters apart. Oscar can see every detail with almost painful clarity: Carlos's precious brown eyes, he can count every individual eyelash, can feel his warm breath against his own skin.

The tablet slips until it's forgotten between them, irrelevant to the reality of this moment, to the certainty that something is about to change between them irreversibly.

"Oscar," Carlos says, and the way he pronounces his name is an invitation and a confession wrapped in warm breath, a question that needs no words to be understood.

When their lips meet, it's with the sweet familiarity of something they already know—that soft, reverent pressure Oscar has learned to associate with Carlos—but this time there's a new urgency vibrating beneath the surface, a tension neither had anticipated. Carlos initiates the kiss as always, with that almost religious delicacy that makes something contract painfully in Oscar's chest, but when Oscar responds, he does so with an intensity that surprises them both.

His hand slides toward Carlos's nape with a fluidity that speaks of instinct more than conscious thought, fingers sinking into the silkiness of his hair.

The sound that escapes Carlos's throat when Oscar deepens the contact—surprise transforming into something more primitive, more needy—resonates directly in the center of Oscar's body like a violin string plucked too hard. It's a small sound, muffled against his lips, but charged with an honesty that makes Oscar's blood move south with a determination he hadn't experienced in days.

Oscar tilts his head, changing the angle of the kiss to have better access, to be able to taste more completely the mixture of coffee and something slightly sweet that seems to be simply Carlos's natural flavor. His lips are as soft as Oscar remembered from previous kisses and now, having them beneath his own, he can explore every texture, every curve with a thoroughness that borders on worship.

When Carlos opens for him, the taste he finds is even more intense, more personal. He can perceive the way Carlos responds with a mixture of hunger and uncertainty that is simultaneously adorable and deeply exciting.

It's Oscar who takes control then, who allows his hands to guide Carlos until he's lying back against the couch cushions. The movement is fluid, deliberate, his palms firm against Carlos's hips as he directs him with a confidence that comes from experience, from knowing exactly what he wants and how to get it. Carlos lets himself be guided with an ease that speaks of absolute trust, his eyes never leaving Oscar's even as his back finds the cushions.

When Oscar settles over him—one leg sliding to each side of his thighs until he's sitting directly on his lap—both exhale at the same time at the sudden intensity of contact. The new position allows an intimacy that steals their breath: Oscar can feel the heat of Carlos's body radiating through the layers of fabric separating them, can perceive the solidity of his thighs beneath him, the way their breathing automatically synchronizes.

His own arousal is impossible to ignore now, a growing pressure that settles heavily between his legs, intensifying with each small movement. He can feel how his jeans have become uncomfortably restrictive, the way his body responds to Carlos's proximity with an urgency he'd been containing for days without even fully realizing it.

"Joder," Carlos murmurs against his lips, the word vibrating between them like an involuntary prayer, and Oscar can feel the genuine surprise in his voice, can perceive the way his breathing has become irregular, choppy, as if the air had grown denser around them.

It's Oscar who allows his hands to explore with new freedom, who traces deliberate lines along Carlos's torso through the fabric of his shirt. He can feel the definition of muscles that contract under each touch, the way Carlos's chest expands and contracts with increasingly deep breaths. There's something hypnotic about the way Carlos's body responds to him, how each caress draws small sounds that Carlos clearly can't control.

When his fingers find the edge of the shirt and slip underneath to touch bare skin, the world reduces to that point of contact. Carlos's skin under his hands is a revelation. He can feel the accelerated beating of his heart beneath his ribs, an irregular rhythm that quickens even more under his caresses.

The moan that tears from Carlos's throat when Oscar allows his hands to explore more boldly is so pure, so genuine, that Oscar feels as if someone had lit a fire directly in his center. It's a sound that comes from somewhere deep, involuntary, and goes straight to Oscar's groin like an electric shock.

Oscar kisses his neck then, finding the exact point where his pulse beats strongest under the thin skin. The taste is slightly salty, with that scent that intensifies with arousal. He can feel the vibration of every sound that escapes his throat directly against his lips, can perceive the way Carlos tilts his head to give him better access, offering himself with a confidence that makes something contract painfully in Oscar's chest.

His hips move almost involuntarily, pressing down, seeking friction. The contact he finds—solid, promising, undeniable—draws a guttural sound from both that mixes in the dense apartment air. Oscar can feel the evidence of Carlos's arousal through the layers of fabric separating them, can perceive the way his body responds instinctively to contact even while his mind clearly struggles to process it.

Carlos's response is immediate and intense: his hips rise slightly, seeking more contact, more pressure, and the movement sends waves of heat directly to Oscar's center. He can feel Carlos's hands moving with new boldness across his back, exploring the line of his muscles through his shirt fabric.

But it's when Oscar allows one hand to trace the path from Carlos's chest downward, fingers deliberately brushing the edge of his jeans, that he feels the change. Carlos's body tenses in a different way—not with pleasure but with something more like sudden anxiety. His breathing becomes more irregular, but not in the right way, not with desire's cadence but with something more like nervousness.

Oscar lifts his head, pulling back enough to search Carlos's eyes, and what he sees stops him cold. There's desire there, yes—the dilated pupils, the flush spreading across his cheeks, the way his lips are swollen and wet from their kisses—but there's also something else. A raw vulnerability that speaks of someone who clearly wants to continue but has no idea what to do next, how to navigate territory he's never explored.

"I don't know..." Carlos begins, his voice hoarse but trembling, his hands still on Oscar's back but with a new tension that hadn't been there moments before. He can feel the way his fingers contract slightly against his shirt fabric, as if he were clinging to something solid in the middle of an experience that's overwhelming him. "I've never... I don't know what I'm supposed to..."

The sentence hangs between them, incomplete but charged with an honesty that hits Oscar like a punch to the stomach. Because in those truncated words lies the whole truth of the situation: Carlos is trusting him to guide this experience, is offering him something incredibly precious—his first time with a man—based on lies Oscar has carefully constructed for days.

"Carlos," he says, his voice firmer now though it costs him superhuman effort. "We can't do this. Not like this."

But he doesn't move immediately. He stays where he is, watching how the words impact Carlos's face like ripples in still water. He can see confusion appear first—a slow blink, as if Carlos were processing information he hadn't expected to receive.

"Why?" Carlos asks, and there's a directness in his voice that Oscar hadn't anticipated. He's not retreating; he's seeking answers. "What changed between five minutes ago and now?"

His hands still rest on Oscar's back, not possessive but not completely withdrawn either, as if he doesn't want to lose contact until he understands what's happening.

"It's not that something changed, it's just that..." Oscar searches for words, aware that every second of silence is being interpreted by Carlos in ways that probably aren't correct. "It's complicated."

"That's not an answer," Carlos says, and there's a new firmness in his voice. "A moment ago we were... and now suddenly it's 'complicated.' Did I do something I shouldn't have? Did I touch you in a way you didn't like?"

"No, Carlos, it's not that—"

"Then what is it," Carlos insists. "Because it felt like we both were... like we both wanted..."

His voice fades, but his eyes remain fixed on Oscar's, searching for something that might explain this sudden change.

Oscar finally separates, moving to the other end of the couch, but he can feel Carlos's eyes following his every movement.

"It's your first time," he finally says, opting for a partial truth. "With a man, I mean. And I... I don't want it to be like this. I don't want you to regret it afterward."

Carlos looks at him for a long moment, and Oscar can see something changing in his expression, as if he were reevaluating the entire situation.

"Are you worried I'll regret it?" he asks slowly. "Or are you worried that you'll regret it?"

The question is more perceptive than Oscar had expected, and he feels a moment of panic at the possibility that Carlos might see through his justifications.

"I'm worried it would be for the wrong reasons," he says, which is technically true though not in the way Carlos is probably interpreting it.

Carlos remains silent for a moment, his fingers playing absently with the edge of a cushion. When he speaks again, his voice is softer, more vulnerable.

"Do you think I don't know what I want?" he asks. "That because I've never been with a man before, I can't make decisions about my own body?"

"It's not that," Oscar says quickly, but he can see his words aren't having the reassuring effect he intended.

"Then it's because I'm bad at this," Carlos says, and now Oscar can hear the change in his voice, the way doubt is beginning to seep in. "Because I don't know what I'm doing and it's... uncomfortable for you."

"Carlos, no—"

"No, it's okay," Carlos says, and now he is physically withdrawing, getting up from the couch and walking to the window. "I understand. It must be frustrating having to... teach someone everything from scratch."

His back is toward Oscar, but he can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands have closed into soft fists at his sides.

"That's not true," Oscar says, getting up too and approaching, but not getting too close. "Carlos, you're incredible. The way you respond, the way you..." He stops, realizing that anything he says will only complicate things further.

Carlos turns slowly, and when his eyes meet Oscar's, there's something there that makes his stomach contract. It's not just confusion or frustration; it's the beginning of something deeper, more painful.

"Then why do you stop," Carlos says, and now his voice carries a different quality, more vulnerable but also more determined. "If I'm so incredible, if I didn't do anything wrong, why do you suddenly need distance."

Oscar opens his mouth to respond, but realizes he doesn't have an answer that isn't either the complete truth or an elaborate lie. And while he stands there, silent, he can see how Carlos's interpretation of his silence is forming in real time.

"It's because I don't have experience," Carlos says, and it's no longer a question. "Because I don't know how to do the things you probably expect, that you're probably used to having—"

"No," Oscar says firmly. "Carlos, I swear it's not that."

"Then what is it," Carlos asks again, but now there's something different in his voice, something that sounds dangerously like resignation. "Because from here, it seems pretty clear that the problem is me."

And it's in that moment when Oscar fully realizes what he's done. He hasn't just rejected Carlos, but he's given him all the tools to construct a devastating narrative about his own inadequacy. A narrative that's logical, coherent, and completely false, but which Oscar can't correct without destroying the entire lie he's been building.

"Just tell me the truth," Carlos says softly. "Is it because I'm not good enough at this? Because I'm a burden?"

The pain in his voice is like a knife in Oscar's chest, because he can see exactly how Carlos is internalizing this rejection, how he's constructing a narrative about his own inadequacy that has nothing to do with reality.

"You're not a burden," Oscar says, and there's so much vehemence in his voice that Carlos blinks in surprise. "You're... you're perfect, Carlos. Completely perfect."

"Then why—"

"Because I care about you too much," Oscar says before he can stop himself, the words coming from somewhere deep and honest he hadn't intended to access. "Because this is important and I don't want to ruin it."

Carlos looks at him for a long moment, and Oscar can see how he's processing these words, trying to reconcile them with the rejection he just experienced.

"Ruin what?" he finally asks, and there's a softness in his voice that suggests maybe, maybe, he's beginning to understand this isn't about his inadequacy.

And Oscar realizes he's backed himself into a corner. He can't explain what exactly he fears ruining without revealing the complete truth, but he also can't let Carlos continue believing he's the problem.

"Us," he finally says, the word coming out like a confession. "I don't want to ruin what we're building here."

Carlos looks at him for a long moment, and Oscar can see how he's processing these words, but not in the way he expected. Instead of relief, he sees something more complicated cross his face.

"But you told me," Carlos says slowly, his voice taking on a different quality, smaller, "that in the future I also had never been with a man before you."

Oscar feels as if the ground were opening beneath his feet. Because Carlos is right—that had been part of his elaborate story, that shared vulnerability he'd invented to make his narrative more believable.

"Yes," he confirms, not knowing where this conversation is going but feeling it can't be anywhere good.

"And you told me that despite that, despite my inexperience, you wanted to be with me. That it wasn't an obstacle but something... special."

The words fall between them like stones in still water, creating ripples that extend far beyond their immediate meaning. Oscar can see exactly where Carlos's thinking is heading, can see the logical conclusion he's building, and it's devastating.

"Carlos—"

"So it's not inexperience in general that bothers you," Carlos continues, his voice now barely a murmur but charged with painful understanding. "It's my inexperience specifically." He steps back another pace, as if he needs physical distance to process what he's feeling. "There's something different about me," he says, and it's no longer a question but an affirmation, a conclusion he's reached through implacable logic. "Something that makes it so that even though the circumstances are the same, even though I'm technically the same person... you don't want the same thing with me."

Oscar can see how the wound is opening in real time, how Carlos is reaching the conclusion that there's something fundamentally defective about him, something that makes him less desirable than his future version.

"That's not true."

"What is it then?" Carlos asks, and now there's a note of something sharper in his voice, something that resembles real pain. "What does he have that I don't? What makes my future version worthy of you... and... I'm not?"

"It's not that," Oscar says, but even to his own ears it sounds weak, insufficient.

"Then explain it to me," Carlos says, and now there's a new firmness in his voice, a determination that suggests he won't accept evasions. "Because from here, the only explanation that makes sense is that there's something about me, about who I am now, that makes you not want what you clearly wanted with him. What you clearly wanted with me before I got a little nervous and admitted that I didn't... that I didn't know what to do."

He stands in front of the window, arms crossed over his chest, and Oscar can see the way he's trying to maintain composure while processing this wound.

"Is it because I'm younger? Less mature? Because I haven't lived the experiences he's already lived?" Carlos's voice becomes smaller with each question. "Or is it something more fundamental? Something about my personality, about the way I am, that simply isn't..."

He doesn't finish the sentence, but Oscar can see the word hanging between them: enough.

"Carlos, please—"

"No," Carlos says, turning to look at him directly. "Don't tell me it's not that, because it's the only logical explanation. You know my future. You know that eventually I become someone who deserves your love, your desire. But now, as I am..." His voice breaks slightly. "Clearly I'm not that person yet."

And it's in that moment when Oscar fully realizes what he's done. He hasn't just rejected Carlos, but he's given him all the tools to construct a devastating narrative about his own inadequacy. A narrative that's logical, coherent, and completely false, but which Oscar can't correct without destroying the entire lie he's been building.

"It's okay," Carlos finally says, his voice now carefully controlled. "I understand. I suppose... I suppose I still need to grow. Become someone who's actually worth it."

The resignation in his voice is what finally breaks something in Oscar's chest, because he can see that Carlos is internalizing this as a personal failure, as something he needs to fix in himself to be worthy of love.

"It's not that," Oscar says once more, but now his voice sounds hollow even to himself.

Carlos looks at him for a long moment, and Oscar can see something changing in his expression, as if he were reaching a different, more devastating conclusion.

"You're right," he finally says, his voice taking on a strangely calm quality. "It was good that you stopped." He runs a hand through his hair, avoiding Oscar's gaze. "I would have let you," he continues, the words coming out like a painful confession. "If you hadn't stopped, I would have let you do... whatever you wanted. Without knowing what to do, probably doing everything wrong."

Oscar feels as if something had broken in his chest hearing this.

"And afterward," Carlos continues, his voice becoming smaller, "when you would have realized how terrible it was, how disappointing... there would have been no way we could keep seeing each other after that humiliation."

Carlos walks slowly toward his bedroom, his steps measured as if he were navigating through something fragile.

"Sorry for misreading the situation," Carlos says when he reaches his doorway, finally turning to look at him. "For thinking that... well, it doesn't matter what I thought." He pauses, his hand on the door frame. "Thank you, for stopping before I made a complete fool of myself."

And with that, he disappears into his room, closing the door with a soft click that resonates in the apartment's silence like something final.

Oscar is left alone, surrounded by the echo of words that are simultaneously a thank you and a condemnation, aware that Carlos has just expressed gratitude for being saved from a humiliation that would never have existed. Because the truth—the truth Oscar can't reveal—is that Carlos would have been perfect, that every sound, every movement, every shy response would have been exactly what Oscar desired.

The irony is so brutal it cuts off his breath: Carlos is thanking Oscar for protecting him from an experience that would have been beautiful, based on a narrative of inadequacy that Oscar himself has constructed with his lies. He's being punished for a humiliation that only exists in his mind, created by the very words Oscar spoke to make him feel safe and loved in their fictional future relationship.

Oscar has turned Carlos's goodness—his vulnerability, his trust, his willingness to give himself—into a source of shame. He's taken what would have been a precious gift and poisoned it with doubts Carlos should never have had to carry.

 

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

Chapter 17: Aphelion

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

 

The silence in the apartment stretches like an open wound, heavy and dense, loaded with all the words that weren't said and all the ones that were said wrong. Oscar remains motionless on the couch, exactly where Carlos left him, as if moving might make the reality of what just happened feel even more final.

The afternoon shadows lengthen through the windows, creating shifting patterns on the walls that seem to mock the forced stillness of the moment. The echo of Carlos's footsteps toward his room still hangs in the air, along with the soft but definitive sound of the door closing. A click that feels like the end of something that had barely begun.

Oscar stares down the hallway leading to Carlos's bedroom, a distance of barely a few meters that now feels like an impossible chasm to cross. He can picture Carlos on the other side of that door: probably sitting on the edge of the bed, maybe with his head in his hands, processing what his mind has interpreted as devastating personal rejection.

The tablet still lies scattered among the couch cushions, forgotten in the exact moment when everything changed. The screen has gone dark, but Oscar vaguely remembers they were looking at images of Orion, those constellations that seemed to trigger something inexplicable in both of them. Now all of that seems to belong to another life, to a version of them that existed barely an hour ago but feels like a distant memory.

The minutes slip by with torturous slowness. Oscar counts each one, aware that every passing second allows the wound to Carlos's self-esteem to deepen, lets his wrong conclusions solidify like cement in his mind. He can imagine the internal dialogue that must be taking place on the other side of that door: all the ways Carlos must be finding fault with himself, all the reasons he's convincing himself that he's not enough.

Guilt settles in his stomach like molten lead, heavy and toxic. Because this isn't just the result of a misunderstanding, but the inevitable consequence of days of carefully constructed lies. He's created a situation where honesty has become impossible, where any truth he can offer now will sound like an excuse or another lie.

Finally, when the weight of silence becomes unbearable, Oscar gets up from the couch. His legs feel strangely unsteady, as if he's forgotten how to walk in the few minutes that have passed. He heads toward the hallway with deliberately silent steps, conscious that every sound could be interpreted as an intrusion.

He stops in front of Carlos's bedroom door, his hand raised inches from the wood, hesitating. What right does he have to interrupt Carlos's emotional processing? What can he say that won't make things worse?

But the image of Carlos sitting alone, constructing a narrative of personal inadequacy that's completely disconnected from reality, pushes him to act.

He knocks softly, three barely audible taps that echo in the hallway silence.

"Carlos," he says, his voice barely a whisper. "Can I... can we talk?"

The silence that follows is absolute. He can't even hear movement on the other side of the door, as if Carlos is holding his breath to avoid revealing his presence.

Oscar waits, counting the seconds, giving him time to respond. When it becomes clear that Carlos isn't going to open the door or invite him in, he feels something break in his chest. But he can't give up now, not when he knows Carlos is on the other side, probably torturing himself with thoughts that have no basis in reality.

Slowly, he slides down to the floor, his back finding the wall next to the door. It's cold against his shoulder when he leans against it, and he can feel Carlos's proximity on the other side, so close physically but emotionally miles away.

"Carlos," he tries again, his voice now directed toward the gap under the door, as if he could find a way for his words to filter through to him. "I know you don't want to talk to me right now, and I understand. You have every right to be upset."

The silence continues, but Oscar persists.

"I just... need you to know that everything you're thinking about yourself is wrong." The words come out with more urgency now, driven by desperation to correct at least this part of the damage he's caused. "What happened... what I did... it had nothing to do with you."

He pauses, searching for the exact words, trying to find a way to be honest without completely destroying the construction of lies that has brought them here.

"I want you to know," he continues, his voice taking on a more intimate, more vulnerable quality, "that I did want to. Since that first kiss, I haven't wanted to stop kissing you. Every time you've tried something, every time we've gotten close... it's been harder and harder to pull away."

The confession emerges from his chest like something physical, a truth he'd been holding without even fully realizing it.

"Today I was weak and let myself get carried away, and clearly I wasn't thinking because I crossed a line I shouldn't have." His voice cracks slightly. "I did something that hurt you, and that was the one thing I didn't want to do."

Oscar tilts his head back, resting it against the wall, eyes closed as he continues speaking toward that door that feels like an insurmountable barrier.

"I understand that you're upset with me. I understand that maybe you don't even want to help me anymore, that you don't want to see me." The words hurt as they come out, but he needs to say them. "But I hope it's clear to you that the problem wasn't you."

His voice becomes firmer, more urgent.

"You didn't do anything wrong. You were being incredible. You felt..." He stops, taking a shaky breath. "You felt and sounded delicious. The way you responded, the way you gave yourself over... it was perfect. And even though you don't want to open the door for me now, I don't regret stopping."

This part is the hardest, because it requires him to explain his reasons without being able to reveal the complete truth.

"You didn't deserve to do this with someone who could disappear at any moment." The words come out loaded with a honesty that surprises even him. "You didn't deserve to do this with someone who's terrified because he didn't expect to feel all of this."

He pauses, feeling like he's on the edge of an emotional precipice.

"I like you, Carlos." The confession comes out as a whisper, but loaded with such pure truth that it makes his whole body tense. "It terrifies me because I don't belong to this time, but... maybe it's that there are things that are always meant to happen."

His voice takes on a tone of wonder, as if he's discovering this truth as he articulates it.

"Apparently it doesn't matter if I travel to the past... I'm always going to fall in love with Carlos Sainz. Even if it's a younger Carlos, slightly different from the one I already..." He stops, aware that he's treading dangerous ground. "From the one I already love."

Oscar readjusts against the wall, looking for a more comfortable position for what he knows will be a long and painful conversation.

"But try to understand me a little," he continues, his voice taking on a pleading tone. "If you were the Carlos from 2024, how would you feel if you knew I slept with another version of you? Wouldn't you feel betrayed? Hurt?"

Even as he says these words, Oscar is aware of the cruel irony of his argument. He's using the very lie he's constructed to justify his moral righteousness, creating an ethical dilemma based on a relationship that doesn't exist.

"Or if it were completely the other way around," he persists, needing Carlos to understand the complexity of the situation as he's presented it. "If you were me, could you sleep with another version of your boyfriend knowing that your boyfriend is waiting for you in the future?"

The question hangs in the hallway air, loaded with all the emotional complexity of a situation Oscar has created but that now feels terribly real. Because although the premise is false, the feelings he's developed for this Carlos are genuine, and the moral dilemma of acting on them while maintaining such deceptions is real.

The silence stretches, and Oscar allows himself to imagine that maybe, on the other side of the door, Carlos is considering these words, reordering his understanding of what has happened. Maybe beginning to see that the rejection wasn't about his inadequacy, but about something much more complex and painful.

Oscar ends his confession with the most honest words he's spoken since arriving in this time.

"I don't expect you to forgive me," he says finally, his voice barely a whisper. "I just hope you understand that this wasn't about you. It was never about you."

He stays silent for a moment, feeling the weight of everything he's just revealed. Then, slowly, he gets up until he's sitting with his back against the wall.

"I'll be on the couch if..." The sentence catches in his throat. "If you want to talk. Or if not, I understand that too."

With that, he returns to the living room, but not to use the tablet or turn on the television. He sits on the couch, exactly in the same place where everything changed, and simply waits. His hands rest on his knees, his gaze fixed on some indefinite point on the opposite wall. Time becomes elastic, each minute stretching like hot caramel.

The golden light of sunset gradually transforms into the deep blue of nightfall. The shadows lengthen and then disappear when Carlos turns on some lights in the apartment from inside his room. Oscar hears these small sounds of life on the other side of the door—soft footsteps, the creaking of the mattress, the muffled murmur of what could be the television—but never the sound he's waiting for: that of the door opening.

Hours pass. Oscar doesn't move from the couch. He doesn't look for distractions. It's as if he's decided this will be his vigil, his silent penance. Maintaining the exact position, waiting, demonstrating without words that he has no intention of leaving, of giving up, of letting Carlos process alone the damage he's caused.

It's almost two in the morning when he finally hears the soft click of the lock.

The bedroom door opens so quietly that Oscar almost wonders if he's imagined it. But then he sees Carlos's figure in the hallway threshold, his silhouette outlined against the soft light filtering from his room. The living room's dimness makes the contours of his body seem blurred, almost ethereal, as if he were an apparition Oscar had conjured after hours of silent waiting.

Carlos stops there for a moment, his eyes gradually adjusting to the darkness of the living room. Oscar can feel the weight of his gaze even before their eyes meet, can perceive the way Carlos is evaluating the scene before him: Oscar in the same place, in the exact same position where he said he'd be, like a sentinel keeping vigil in the darkness.

The silence between them isn't empty but dense, loaded with all the emotions that have been fermenting in the separated space of the last few hours.

"Have you been there this whole time?" Carlos's voice emerges hoarse, rough from hours of silence, loaded with disbelief that mixes with something deeper, more vulnerable. It's not accusation but amazement, as if he can't fully process the image of Oscar maintaining himself exactly where he promised to be.

"Yes," Oscar responds simply, his own voice emerging softer than he expected after so long without using it. He doesn't move from his position, doesn't try to justify or explain. The simplicity of the confirmation contains all the truth he needs: that he stayed because he said he would, because Carlos deserved to know that someone would be there when he was ready.

Carlos approaches slowly, his bare feet making barely any sound against the apartment's cold floor. Each step is deliberate, measured, as if he's navigating emotional terrain that could crumble under too much weight. Oscar watches his approach with an intensity that borders on hypnotic: the way his shoulders remain slightly tense under the loose t-shirt he's put on for sleep, how his hands hang loose at his sides but with fingers slightly curved, as if he's preparing to grab something or let it go.

When Carlos reaches the edge of the couch, Oscar can see his face more clearly under the dim light filtering from the hallway. His eyes are slightly swollen, with that glassy quality that comes after crying, but there's also something else there: a new clarity, as if hours of emotional processing had polished something raw until it became understanding.

"You didn't have to do that," Carlos says, but there's something in his voice—an underlying warmth, a barely contained gratitude—that contradicts the words.

Oscar can feel the impact of his continued presence registering in Carlos like ripples in still water. He sees the exact moment when Carlos comprehends the magnitude of the gesture: not just that Oscar stayed, but that he stayed exactly as he said he would, without seeking distractions, without doing anything but waiting. It's a silent but unmistakable declaration of commitment, that Carlos is worth the discomfort, the boredom, the solitary vigil.

"Yes, I did," Oscar responds, and allows his head to turn completely toward Carlos, offering him direct eye contact. "You needed to know I was here. That I hadn't left."

Something softens in Carlos's expression, like a tension he'd been holding in his facial muscles finally finding permission to release. His shoulders drop slightly, and Oscar can see how understanding settles in him: that after hours of feeling rejected and inadequate, here is tangible evidence that he matters to someone, that his feelings have enough weight to keep someone waiting in the darkness.

Carlos finally sits, but not on the couch next to Oscar. Instead, he chooses the coffee table, positioning himself so they're face to face, their knees almost touching but maintaining that crucial distance that allows intimacy without pressure. The position is deliberate: close enough for the vulnerability of what's to come, but with enough space so neither feels cornered.

The silence stretches between them, but it's not uncomfortable. It's the kind of quiet that precedes important confessions, when both parties know that what's about to be said will fundamentally alter the landscape of their relationship.

"I was thinking," Carlos begins finally. "About everything you said."

The words float between them, and Oscar can feel the weight of the hours Carlos has dedicated to processing not just his words but all the complexity of the situation. There's something different in his posture now, a more centered quality that suggests he's reached some kind of internal resolution.

Oscar waits, aware that pressing now would be counterproductive. He gives Carlos all the space he needs, all the time, recognizing that what's coming has been extracted from emotional processing that can't and shouldn't be rushed.

"And I think..." Carlos pauses, not from lack of words but because he's carefully selecting each one. When he continues, his voice carries a different quality—more mature, more reflective, as if the last few hours had accelerated some kind of emotional growth that normally would have taken much longer. "I think I understand what you meant. What was really happening."

Oscar can see the lines of tension around Carlos's eyes, evidence of the emotional work it's required to reach this understanding.

"I got carried away by wanting," Carlos admits, his gaze avoiding Oscar's as if the words are easier to say without the weight of direct eye contact. "Completely. It's just that I really thought it was safe to do so."

He stops, and Oscar can see how the memory of the moment replays in his expression: not initial confusion but something more complex, a mixture of excitement, nerves, and confidence that turned out to be fragile.

"What do you mean you thought it was safe?" Oscar asks softly, needing to understand but fearing the answer.

Carlos looks up then, and there's something in his eyes that Oscar hadn't seen before: a vulnerability that goes beyond the physical, beyond the romantic. His eyes look glassy, as if he's fighting against emotions he would normally keep completely under control.

"My whole life I've known there's a part of me that... that I can't explore. Not in my world. Not in my family. Not in this sport." His voice takes on a confessional quality, as if he's revealing something he'd never fully articulated. "I've felt curious since I was a teenager, maybe before. But it was always something I had to keep completely separate from everything else."

Oscar feels something contract in his chest as he understands the magnitude of what Carlos is revealing.

"So for years," Carlos continues, his voice becoming firmer as he finds the words to express something that clearly has been buried deeply, "I became very good at not allowing myself to even consider those possibilities. If I felt attraction toward another man, I ignored it. If I had fantasies, I suppressed them."

He stops, and the blush that spreads across his cheeks betrays the emotional difficulty of what he's about to admit.

"When I allowed myself to fantasize, very rarely," he continues, his voice dropping to almost a whisper, "I always imagined myself... in control. It was always me directing things."

"And with me it was different?" Oscar asks, though part of him already knows the answer.

Carlos gets up then, needing movement to process the enormity of what he's articulating, and heads toward the window as if he needs physical space to contain his thoughts.

"You know what? If I had met you under normal circumstances," Carlos says, his profile outlined against the night light, "without knowing anything about our future, I would have behaved completely differently. I would have liked you, yes. But I would have built walls immediately. I would have found ways to maintain distance. I would have avoided being alone with you, would have suppressed any impulse to touch, to kiss, to be honest about what I wanted."

He turns toward Oscar, and his voice takes on an intensity that makes each word feel like a revelation torn from the deepest part of his being.

"I would have been polite, maybe even friendly. But I never would have allowed anything deeper to develop, because the consequences of someone in this world discovering that part of me could have been devastating."

"With me you didn't do that," Oscar observes.

"No. Because you told me that in the future, you and I have something beautiful. You told me that I not only survive being honest about this part of myself that I've always repressed, but that I find love. Real, deep, lasting love." Carlos returns to the couch, sitting on the edge as if he needs to be ready to move again. "The person I find all of that with is you. The person who's here, now, confirming that in the future being myself is safe, that it's possible, that it's beautiful."

Oscar can see the implacable logic of this reasoning.

"For the first time in my life," Carlos continues, his eyes now shining with that glassy quality that speaks of barely contained emotions, "all the barriers I had built, all the walls I had erected to protect myself from the consequences of being honest about my sexuality... suddenly they weren't just unnecessary but counterproductive."

"Because you realized I already knew you," Oscar whispers, understanding with painful clarity.

"Exactly. For the first time in my life I had permission to be completely myself. To explore, to feel, to act on impulses I'd been repressing for years. Not abstract permission from some stranger, but specific permission from the person who already knew me completely and loved me exactly as I am."

The devastation that's coming feels inevitable now, and Oscar can barely stand to hear it.

"And this afternoon..." Oscar begins, but his voice breaks.

"This afternoon was different from all our previous moments. I could feel we weren't going to stop at just kisses." Carlos's voice becomes more intimate, more specific, loaded with the sensory memory of the moment. "And when you took control, when you put me underneath you... I realized I didn't mind being on the bottom. On the contrary. I wanted to give myself to you that way because I trusted you completely. Because I knew you were going to make sure it was a good experience."

"But you got nervous," Oscar observes.

"When you started unbuttoning my pants," Carlos continues, a trembling breath escaping his lips, "and I felt that we were really going to do it, that you were going to be the first to touch me like that, to be inside me... I got nervous, yes. But not because I didn't want to."

"Then why?" Oscar asks, though part of him already knows.

"I got nervous because I knew I had no idea what to do, how to respond, what to expect. I had never been in that position before. I hadn't even contemplated or fantasized about being in it." The distinction is crucial, and Oscar can see how Carlos needs this difference to be understood. "So when I told you I didn't know what to do, it wasn't 'I don't want this.' It was 'help me. Teach me. Take care of me while I learn.'"

The silence that follows is devastating, because they both know what came next.

"I trusted you completely," Carlos admits in a thread of voice. "Because I thought that if you told me that in the future you take care of me during my first experience, then now you could take care of me too."

"And I..." Oscar begins, but can't finish the sentence.

"And you rejected me," Carlos completes, but not with anger but with painful understanding. "I gave you the most complete trust I've given in my life. I showed you a vulnerability I had never shown anyone, because I thought you already knew it, that you had already seen it and found it valuable. And when you rejected me in that moment, it wasn't just 'I don't want to do this with you.'"

He stops, and Oscar can see how he's organizing thoughts that clearly have cost him hours of emotional agony to process.

"It was betrayal," Carlos continues, and the word resonates in the air between them with devastating weight. "Betrayal of a trust that you yourself had created. You made me believe it was safe to be vulnerable with you. You made me believe my honesty would be welcome, that my inexperience would be guided with patience, that my trust would be honored."

Oscar feels each word like a knife in his chest.

"And then, in the most vulnerable moment, when I most needed that safety you had implicitly promised," Carlos continues, his eyes now shining with tears he refuses to let fall, "you punished me for that vulnerability. You rejected me for trusting you exactly in the way you had suggested was safe to do."

"Carlos..." Oscar begins, but finds no words.

"It wasn't just that you stopped," Carlos says, and now Oscar can see how each word is being extracted from a place of deep pain. "It was how you stopped. As if there was something fundamentally wrong with my nervousness, with my inexperience. As if my vulnerability was a problem that needed to be solved rather than something that needed to be cared for."

The silence that follows is dense, loaded with an understanding that completely transforms everything Oscar thought he knew about his impact on Carlos.

"But now I understand," Carlos continues after a moment, his voice taking on a note of painful resolution, "that your rejection had nothing to do with my nervousness or my inexperience. That it was about your own internal conflicts, not about my vulnerability."

"So you forgive me?" Oscar asks, hope and terror mixing in his voice.

Carlos looks at him for a long moment before responding.

"I understand you," he says finally. "But you need to understand that it's going to be very hard for me to feel that safe with you again. That vulnerable."

"What does that mean for us?" Oscar asks.

"It means I still like you," Carlos responds, his voice taking on a firmness that speaks of carefully considered boundaries. "I still feel attraction toward you. But I can't allow myself to act on that attraction in the same way I did before. I can't allow myself to be so open, so direct, so trusting."

"What kind of boundaries do you need?"

"No kissing," Carlos says directly. "No intimate touching. Nothing that makes me feel that same vulnerability until I'm sure you know how to take care of it." He pauses, organizing his thoughts. "Because the next time I'm vulnerable with you that way, I need to be sure you value what I'm offering."

Oscar nods slowly, processing what this means for them.

"And can we...?" he begins.

"We can be friends," Carlos completes. "We're going to keep spending time together. I'm going to keep helping you. But I need to do it in a way that lets me protect the parts of myself that were hurt, until they're healed enough to be shared again."

"I understand," Oscar says finally. "And I respect that. I respect the boundaries you need to establish."

Carlos nods, an expression that is part relief, part sadness, part something more complex that speaks of someone who has done the difficult work of finding a way to move forward without completely sacrificing his own emotional protection.

The silence that follows is different from all the ones they've shared before. Oscar can feel the weight of everything Carlos has just revealed, the magnitude of the pain he's caused without being able to explain the real reasons. Each of Carlos's confessions has been like a piece of a puzzle showing a devastating picture: an innocent man paying the price for circumstances that are completely beyond his control.

"Carlos," he says finally, his voice hoarse with emotions that have been building throughout the entire conversation. "I don't have words to express how sorry I am that you have to pay for something that isn't your fault."

Carlos looks at him, an expression of surprise briefly crossing his face, as if he hadn't expected Oscar to understand that specific part of the pain.

"Because you're right," Oscar continues, the words coming out with the urgency of someone who desperately needs something to be understood. "You're right about everything you've said. You offered me something incredibly valuable, something you'd been keeping your whole life, and I didn't know how to handle it. But I need you to understand that when I pulled away, it wasn't because I didn't want you. It wasn't because your nervousness was a problem, or because your inexperience was an obstacle." Oscar's voice becomes more intense, loaded with a desperation he can't fully explain. "It was because my situation... the circumstances I find myself in... make anything intimate between us unfair."

"Unfair how?" Carlos asks, genuine confusion in his voice.

Oscar visibly struggles with how to explain without revealing the complete truth.

"Unfair to you, because you deserve someone who can give you all the attention, love, honesty, all the clarity you deserve. Someone who isn't... divided between different times, different versions of reality." He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture that betrays the frustration of not being able to be completely honest. "And unfair to... to the Carlos waiting for me in 2024. Because no matter how much you tell me you're the same person, it doesn't feel that way to me. It feels like I have feelings for two different people."

Carlos remains silent, processing this explanation.

"It's not that I don't want you," Oscar continues, and there's a brutal honesty in his voice that makes each word feel torn from his chest. "Fuck, Carlos, I want you so much it hurts. Every time you touch me, every time you look at me that way, I have to use all my willpower not to lose myself completely in you."

The confession seems to surprise Carlos, his eyes widening slightly.

"And that's exactly why I had to pull away," Oscar continues. "Because if I had let myself go this afternoon, if I had done what every fiber of my being wanted to do... it would have been for the wrong reasons. It would have been taking advantage of the trust you've given me, knowing that my situation is more complicated than you can fully understand."

He leans back slightly, as if the weight of this confession had required energy that's now dissipating.

"And you don't deserve to be the one paying for my complications," Oscar says, his voice now softer but no less intense. "You don't deserve for your first experience to be with someone who can't give you the emotional clarity you deserve. You don't deserve to be hurt because I'm trapped between times, between versions of the same person, between what I want and what's right."

Carlos looks at him for a long moment, and Oscar can see how he's processing this new perspective.

"You're... you're perfect, Carlos. The way you trust, the way you give yourself, the honesty with which you've shown me who you really are... it's everything anyone could want."

"But the circumstances..." Carlos begins.

"The circumstances suck," Oscar completes with a bitter laugh. "The circumstances make something that should be beautiful become complicated and unfair for everyone involved."

Carlos nods slowly, and Oscar can see that something is resolving in his mind, a recontextualization of the rejection that changes its fundamental meaning.

"What if the circumstances were different?" Carlos asks, his voice loaded with cautious vulnerability.

Oscar looks at him directly, allowing all the truth of his feelings to be reflected in his eyes.

"If the circumstances were different," he says, "I wouldn't have hesitated for a second. I would have taken care of you exactly as you needed to be taken care of. I would have shown you how precious you are, how incredible your trust is, how much it means to me that you chose to share that part of yourself with me."

The honesty in his voice is so pure that it makes something soften in Carlos's expression.

"But since the circumstances are what they are," Oscar continues, "all I can do is make sure you understand that the problem was never you. The problem is that I find myself in a situation where doing what I want to do would be unfair to everyone involved."

Carlos remains silent for a moment, and when he finally speaks, his voice carries a different quality, more understanding.

"I get it," he says finally. "Not completely, because there are aspects of your situation that I'll probably never be able to fully understand. But I understand that it wasn't about me. That it was about... about the impossibility of the situation."

"Exactly," Oscar responds, relieved that Carlos can see this crucial distinction.

"And I understand," Carlos continues, "that it was probably as frustrating for you as it was painful for me. Wanting something but knowing you can't have it for reasons that go beyond what either of us can control."

Oscar nods, feeling that Carlos is finally beginning to see the full picture, or at least the version of the picture he can show him without destroying everything.

"Thank you," Oscar says simply. "For understanding. For not hating me for putting you in this situation."

"I don't hate you," Carlos responds, and there's genuine warmth in his voice. "I'm sad about the situation. Frustrated by the circumstances. But I don't hate you."

He stays quiet for a moment, as if organizing final thoughts.

"I think we can make this friendship work," he says finally. "We can appreciate each other without the complications of... of everything else."

"I think so too," Oscar responds, and for the first time since everything got complicated, he feels like maybe they've found a way to navigate this impossible situation without destroying each other in the process.

The silence that follows is different again. It's not the silence loaded with pain or misunderstanding, but the kind of quiet that comes after two people have worked together to understand something difficult and have found, if not a complete solution, at least a path forward that doesn't require anyone to sacrifice their dignity or their understanding of themselves.

It's deep into the early morning when they finally separate, each heading toward their respective room with the understanding that something fundamental has changed between them. They've found a way to preserve what's genuine and valuable in their connection while navigating the impossibilities of their situation.

But as Oscar lies awake in the darkness, the stillness of dawn brings with it a brutal clarity he can no longer avoid.

Carlos just bared his soul to him. He showed him a vulnerability he'd never shared with anyone, explained years of repression, entrusted him with his deepest fears about his own sexuality. And Oscar had the perfect opportunity to be honest in return.

He could have told him the truth. He could have admitted that there's no Carlos waiting for him in 2024, that no romantic loyalty exists that's dividing him. He could have confessed that he stopped because he's really falling in love with him, because the idea of having intimacy based on lies felt morally repugnant.

He could have been honest about the fact that he likes Carlos so much it hurts, that every day in his company makes it harder to maintain the fiction, that the real reason he pulled away was because he couldn't stand the idea of taking something so precious based on deception.

But he didn't.

Instead, he let Carlos continue believing in a reality that doesn't exist. He let Carlos build his understanding of the rejection around complicated temporal circumstances instead of the simple and devastating truth: that Oscar has been lying to him since day one.

Because telling the truth would mean losing Carlos. And Oscar is too selfish, too cowardly, too dependent on the warmth Carlos offers him to do the right thing.

So the one who ends up paying the bill for all his lies is Carlos. Carlos, who doesn't deserve even a fraction of the pain Oscar has caused him. Carlos, who has been honest from the first moment while Oscar built an increasingly elaborate web of deception. Carlos, who just demonstrated extraordinary emotional maturity by finding a way to move forward without sacrificing his dignity, without knowing that his entire understanding is built on sand.

Oscar lies there, in the darkness, facing the truth of what he really is: not a time traveler trapped in impossible circumstances, but simply a liar who's allowing a good man to pay the price for his cowardice.

And the worst part of all is that tomorrow he'll wake up and keep lying, because the alternative is still something he's not willing to face.

Even now. Even after seeing exactly how much damage his lies have caused.

Even knowing that Carlos deserves infinitely better.

 

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

 

Chapter 18: Stellar Isolation

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

 

Oscar awakens gradually, his consciousness emerging from the depths of heavy, fragmented sleep where distorted versions of their early morning conversation repeated in endless loops. Sunlight filters through the curtains with an intensity that suggests he's slept far longer than usual, and for a moment, in that hazy space between sleep and waking, he can almost convince himself it was all a particularly vivid dream.

But then the memories settle with the weight of reality: Carlos baring his soul on the couch, the tears he refused to shed gleaming in his eyes, the carefully established boundaries, and the truth Oscar had the chance to confess but chose to keep buried beneath layers of cowardice and self-preservation.

The apartment's silence has a different quality this morning. It's not the peaceful quiet of a place where he feels welcome, but something more neutral, more distant. As if the space itself had registered the change in his status: from special guest to temporary lodger.

When he finally gets up and heads toward the kitchen, following the familiar aroma of fresh coffee and something sweeter and more tempting, he finds Carlos standing at the stove, completely absorbed in what appears to be the meticulous preparation of breakfast. He's dressed in dark jeans and a sky-blue button-down that fits him perfectly, his hair still damp from his morning shower. He looks fresh, rested, as if the hours of emotional confession in the early morning had purified rather than exhausted him.

"Good morning," Carlos says upon noticing his presence, turning to offer him a smile that's genuinely warm but that, somehow, Oscar can't help analyzing for the layers of intimacy that used to exist there. "I hope you slept well."

The tone is kind, considerate, perfectly appropriate. It's exactly how Carlos would address any guest in his home. And that realization hits Oscar with unexpected force: this is Carlos being a good friend, an attentive host, someone who genuinely cares about his well-being but who no longer carries that underlying current of romantic tension that had characterized all their previous interactions.

"Yes, thanks," Oscar responds, surprised by how rough his voice sounds after hours of sleep. "And you?"

"Me too," Carlos confirms, returning his attention to what he's preparing. "I made French toast. I hope you like it."

Oscar moves close enough to see the process: thick slices of brioche bread soaked in a rich mixture of eggs, milk, and spices, browning perfectly in the pan as Carlos flips them. There's a plate of fresh fruit already prepared on the counter—strawberries, kiwi, mango cut into perfect cubes—and the coffee smells as perfect as always.

"It looks incredible," Oscar says, and he's completely sincere. "You didn't have to go to all this trouble."

"I like cooking," Carlos responds with a shrug that's casual but not careless. "Especially when I have company."

Company. The word settles between them with a neutrality that Oscar finds simultaneously devastating. Not "when you're here" or "for you" or "for people I care about," but the generic term: "company," appropriate, something any considerate host would use.

They sit at the table as they have other times, but everything feels subtly different. Carlos serves the portions with his usual care, makes sure Oscar has coffee, asks if he needs honey for the fruit. But his movements have a more formal quality, more conscious. There are no accidental brushes of fingers when he passes the plates, no lingering looks that used to charge with electricity, no constant subtext of unexplored possibilities.

Instead, there's conversation about the flavor of the French toast and Madrid's weather. Carlos is charming, attentive, exactly the kind of company anyone would be grateful to have. And Oscar realizes, with a clarity that hurts, that he hates this.

It's not that Carlos is being cold or distant. On the contrary, he's being warm and considerate in a way that's completely authentic. But it's the warmth he'd offer any friend, the consideration he'd show any guest. There's nothing special about it, nothing to suggest that Oscar occupies a unique place in his world.

"Do you have plans for today?" Oscar finally asks, trying to sound casual while cutting a piece of French toast that is, he reluctantly admits, absolutely perfect.

"Actually, yes," he says, his tone carefully neutral. "I have to go out this morning. A commitment I'd made before... well, before you showed up."

"Where are we going?"

The silence that follows is barely perceptible, but Oscar feels it like a cannon firing. Carlos doesn't respond immediately, and when he does, there's something in his expression that suggests this is the part of the conversation he'd been dreading.

"Actually," Carlos says softly, "it's something I need to do alone. It's... personal."

The word 'personal' settles between them with a weight that goes beyond its literal meaning. It's a line in the sand, a boundary established gently but with absolute firmness. It's Carlos exercising his right to have aspects of his life that don't include Oscar, something that until this moment had seemed inconceivable.

Oscar can feel something collapsing in his chest, a sudden understanding that for the first time since arriving in this time, he's not automatically included in Carlos's plans. It's not a cruel or deliberate exclusion, but simply... the new reality of their redefined relationship.

"Oh," Oscar says, and he hopes his voice sounds more normal than it feels. "Of course. I... could stay here, I suppose."

Carlos watches him for a moment, and Oscar can see he's evaluating his reaction, trying to gauge whether he's handling this well or if he needs more explanation, more reassurance.

"Or if you'd rather go out," Carlos says, his voice taking on a more practical quality, "I can give you money to explore Madrid on your own. There are interesting places you could visit, museums, parks..."

The offer is generous, considerate, exactly what a good host would do for a guest who's going to be alone for the day. But for Oscar, it's like receiving a slap wrapped in courtesy. Carlos is offering him money to entertain himself, as if he were a tourist who needs to be accommodated rather than... whatever he had been before.

"You don't need to give me money," Oscar says quickly, though as he finishes speaking he realizes he doesn't have a single euro. "I can manage."

"Seriously. Madrid can be expensive, and I don't want you to feel limited."

It's impossible to argue against such practical logic, such genuine kindness.

"All right," Oscar finally accepts. "Thank you."

Carlos nods, clearly relieved that this part of the conversation has been navigated without conflict.

"I need to leave in about half an hour," Carlos says, checking his watch. "So I'll go after breakfast."

And so, with the naturalness of someone discussing mundane Wednesday plans, Carlos establishes the first voluntary separation they've had since Oscar appeared in his life. There's no drama in it, no tension, just the simple reality that Carlos has a life that doesn't revolve completely around Oscar's needs and presence.

The rest of breakfast passes in pleasant but superficial conversation. Carlos is... friendly. He's everything Oscar could ask for from a considerate host.

And that makes him feel absolutely miserable.

When Carlos gets up to clear the plates, declining Oscar's offer to help with a casual gesture, Oscar remains seated at the table, doing nothing.

Minutes later, Carlos emerges from his room dressed for the day, with that casual but deliberate appearance that suggests whoever he's going to see deserves an effort. He smells faintly of that cologne Oscar has learned to associate with moments of closeness, but now it's just a pleasant scent in the air rather than something he feels inches away.

"I'll be back this afternoon," Carlos mentions, picking up his keys from the hall table. "There's food in the fridge if you get hungry, and you know, feel free to use anything. Mi casa es tu casa."

He pauses, as if he'd remembered that Oscar doesn't have a phone, no way to contact him if something goes wrong. For a moment, a shadow of the protective concern from previous days crosses his face.

"Will you be okay?" he asks, and Oscar can see the internal struggle: his new resolution to maintain boundaries against his natural instinct to care.

"I'll be fine," Oscar assures him, trying to project a confidence he doesn't entirely feel. "Enjoy your... whatever you're going to do."

Carlos smiles, an expression that's genuine but contains none of those underlying elements Oscar had learned to read as directed specifically at him.

"See you later," he says, and with that, he's gone.

The silence that follows Carlos's departure spreads through the apartment like a physical presence, dense and suffocating. Oscar remains motionless in the hall for several minutes, as if moving might make the reality of his new situation more irrevocable. The echo of the door closing still resonates in his ears, not like the casual sound of someone leaving home, but like the final punctuation of something that has ended forever.

When he finally forces himself to move, each step feels strangely amplified in the empty space. His bare feet against the cold floor create small sounds he'd never noticed when Carlos was present, when the apartment was full of life, conversation, the simple comfort of shared company.

He heads toward the kitchen. Carlos had declined his offer to help with the dishes, but now that he's alone, he feels obligated to clean up the mess in the sink. It's the least he can do as a guest, right? Because that's what he is now: a temporary guest in someone else's life.

While washing his plate and cup, Oscar can't help noticing how even this mundane activity feels different without Carlos present. There's no casual conversation about plans for the day, no jokes about who cooks better, no subtle dance of two people sharing a space with the familiarity of... whatever they had been before.

The water is too hot, then too cold. The detergent smells like artificial lemons in a way he suddenly finds overwhelming. Everything seems to require more concentration than necessary, as if his senses had been operating on autopilot when Carlos was around to fill the silences and make even the simplest tasks feel natural.

He finishes cleaning and finds himself standing in the center of the kitchen, without clear purpose. The apartment stretches before him like unexplored territory. Before, he had navigated this space as if it belonged to him, as if he had a natural right to be here. Now, every room feels like a potential intrusion.

He heads toward the living room, where just hours earlier the most honest and intense conversation of his life had taken place. The tablet lies forgotten on the coffee table, and for a moment he considers searching for more information about Orion, continuing the research they'd begun together.

But the idea of doing it alone feels empty, purposeless. Without Carlos to share discoveries, to make connections Oscar wouldn't have seen himself, to give that collaborative dimension that had made even the driest research feel like a shared adventure.

The minutes drag by with torturous slowness. Oscar tries to find a comfortable position, but every posture feels forced. He tries not to think about where Carlos is, what he's doing, who he might be with. But the absence of information only makes his mind fill the gaps with speculation ranging from mundane to devastating.

Is it really a personal commitment, or is Carlos seeking space to process everything that happened between them? Is he with friends or family? Or maybe he's with someone else, someone who doesn't come with the emotional baggage of temporal confusion and complicated boundaries?

The last possibility is the one that hurts most, not because Oscar has any right to Carlos's affections, but because he realizes he'd begun taking his place in Carlos's life for granted. For days, he'd been the only constant in Carlos's days, the only person Carlos had trusted enough to be completely vulnerable with. Now, confronted with his absence, he realizes how presumptuous he'd been to assume that position was somehow permanent or exclusive.

He gets up from the couch and begins walking through the apartment, not with the purpose of exploring but simply to move his body, to do something with the nervous energy building in his chest like steam pressure.

He heads to the living room window, where he can see Madrid stretching out under the morning sun. The city looks vibrant, full of life, with people moving purposefully through the streets. From this height, he can see fragments of stories: an elderly woman walking her dog, a man in a suit talking intensely on the phone, a group of tourists consulting a map.

All of them belong here. All have context, purpose, connections that go beyond the present moment. And he's here, suspended in time and space, depending completely on the kindness of someone whose life he's complicated in ways Carlos can't even fully understand.

The view of the city reminds him of something he'd been avoiding considering directly: without Carlos, it's not just that he's alone in this apartment. He's alone in 2016, alone in Spain, alone in a reality where he has no official documentation, money, or the ability to communicate effectively with most people he might encounter.

For days, he's been living in a bubble of comfort created entirely by Carlos's generosity and competence. He's been treating his temporal displacement as if it were an interesting adventure, a manageable complication, an almost touristic experience. But that's only been possible because Carlos had handled all the practical aspects of his survival.

What would have happened if he'd appeared in Barcelona and hadn't found Carlos? What would have happened if Carlos had decided his story was too absurd to believe? What would have happened if Carlos had been less kind, less willing to risk his own comfort and security for a stranger with an impossible story?

The answer is clear and terrifying: he would have been completely lost. He could have ended up on the streets, arrested for not having documentation, or simply disappeared into the cracks of a society that had no place for someone like him.

Everything he's had—the security, the comfort, the sense that this temporal experience was manageable—has depended completely on one person's continued kindness. A person he's been systematically lying to since day one.

Oscar moves away from the window, suddenly unable to bear the sight of a city where he doesn't belong, of people who have real lives while he exists in this artificial limbo maintained by deception.

He returns to the guest bedroom, but even that space now feels temporary, borrowed. The few belongings he's accumulated are scattered on surfaces that were never meant for him. The clothes Carlos has bought him, hanging in a closet that isn't his. The personal care products in a bathroom he's using by courtesy.

Everything is evidence of his dependence, of how little he actually possesses in this time. Without Carlos, it's not just that he'd be alone; he'd be completely helpless.

He sits on the edge of the bed, hands resting on his knees, trying to process the magnitude of his vulnerability. For days, he'd been so absorbed in the emotional complexity of his relationship with Carlos that he'd lost sight of the basic reality: he's completely at the mercy of circumstances, and those circumstances depend entirely on Carlos's continued generosity.

And what happens when Carlos gets tired of being responsible for him? What happens when the novelty of helping a time traveler fades and Carlos wants to get his normal life back? What happens when Carlos meets someone—someone who doesn't come with the baggage of complicated lies and impossible moral dilemmas—and no longer has space in his life for a temporal refugee?

These questions, which he'd been consciously avoiding for days, now swoop down on him with the force of inevitable truths. He can't stay with Carlos forever. This situation, however comfortable it's become, is fundamentally unsustainable.

And yet, he has no alternative. He has no way to support himself, no independent connections in this time, no skills that are transferable to 2016.

The thoughts spiral in his mind like a whirlpool, each one leading to another darker, more hopeless one. The apartment's solitude begins to feel not like peace but like isolation, not like privacy but like abandonment.

He gets up abruptly, needing to break the cycle of self-flagellation he's sunk into. He walks to the window again, then to the kitchen, then back to the living room. But no matter where he goes in the apartment, he can't escape the reality of his situation or the growing sense that the walls are closing in on him.

Oscar stops in the center of the living room, aware that his breathing has become shallower, that his hands are beginning to tremble slightly. The combination of guilt, dependency, isolation, and uncertainty is coalescing into something he recognizes as the beginning of a panic attack.

He needs to get out. He needs fresh air, open space, something that isn't saturated with reminders of everything he's lost and everything he never really had a right to have in the first place.

The idea of navigating Madrid alone, without Carlos as guide and interpreter, should be intimidating. And it is. But the alternative—staying in this apartment, surrounded by evidence of his own dependence and the remnants of an intimacy he can no longer claim—feels impossible.

Oscar takes the money Carlos had left on the hall table before leaving—a small wad of folded bills with a note that simply says "just in case"—and puts it in his jeans pocket. It's such a considerate gesture, so typically Carlos, that for a moment he feels a pang of something that could be nostalgia or regret. But he pushes that feeling down, focusing instead on the liberating sensation of having his own resources, of not being completely helpless in this foreign city.

Madrid's air hits him like a slap when he leaves the building, but it's a refreshing slap after the charged atmosphere of the apartment. The late morning sun already has strength, and he can feel the tension in his shoulders beginning to loosen as he walks aimlessly through the residential streets.

For the first few blocks, the sensation of freedom is intoxicating. There's no awareness of being the lost tourist who needs translation for the most basic interactions. Just him, his legs, and a city stretching before him like an unexplored map.

Madrid's streets have a personality he hadn't been able to fully appreciate when he'd traveled some of them in Carlos's car. The four and five-story apartment buildings line up in elegant rows, their wrought-iron balconies adorned with plants someone waters religiously every morning. He can hear fragments of daily life filtering from open windows: a woman singing while cleaning, the sound of a television broadcasting the news, a baby's cry gradually calming.

It's real, authentic life. And there's something deeply satisfying about simply observing, about being invisible amid all this ordinary humanity.

After about twenty minutes of walking, he notices an aroma that makes his stomach respond with interest: something sweet and warm spilling from a small bakery on a corner. Through the window he can see display cases full of pastries he doesn't recognize but that look tempting under the warm interior lights.

This is the moment of truth, he realizes.

He enters the bakery with more confidence than he actually feels. The elderly woman behind the counter greets him with a cheerful "¡Buenos días!" and he responds with his own carefully pronounced "Buenos días." So far, so good.

He points toward a tray of what appear to be churros covered in sugar and cinnamon, holds up two fingers, and smiles with the hope that the universal communication of gesturing will be enough. The woman smiles back, says something he doesn't understand but that's clearly confirmation, and begins wrapping two churros in paper.

When she says the price, Oscar has no idea what numbers he's hearing, but she repeats the amount while pointing to a calculator where she's written "2,50€". He hands over a five-euro bill, receives his change, and leaves the bakery feeling inexplicably triumphant.

The churros are delicious—crispy on the outside, tender inside, with the granulated sugar providing perfect contrast—and he eats them while walking, feeling disproportionate satisfaction from this small victory of independence. He can do this. He can navigate this world without needing a personal translator, without constantly depending on Carlos for the most basic interactions.

The thought fills him with renewed energy, and he begins walking with more purpose, exploring streets that branch off the main one like capillaries in an urban circulatory system. Madrid unfolds before him with a generosity he hadn't anticipated: small, intimate plazas with benches under the shade of trees beginning to show their spring foliage, cafes with outdoor tables where Madrileños drink cortados and read newspapers, shops with windows displaying everything from clothing to books to decorative objects that speak of lives lived entirely in Spanish.

Each block reveals new details: the specific pattern of the cobblestones, the way shadows move across balconies creating a constantly changing light show, the particular sound that Madrid women's heels make against the pavement. It's as if he's seeing Madrid for the first time...

But after an hour of walking, the initial euphoria begins to dissipate. The churros have settled in his stomach like heavy sweetness, and he can feel how Oscar Palmer's glasses—which he'd gotten used to wearing only indoors—begin sliding down the bridge of his nose as sweat accumulates behind the ear pieces.

He stops in a small plaza to adjust them, but the problem persists. The glasses weren't designed for prolonged use under the sun, and the combination of Madrid heat and his own nervousness is creating a film of moisture that makes him constantly have to push them up. Every few blocks he has to stop to clean them, to adjust them, to deal with the growing irritation on the bridge of his nose.

It's an annoying reminder that even his appearance in this time is artificial, constructed, dependent on accessories that don't quite fit his real life. Oscar Palmer might be capable of buying churros in Spanish, but apparently he can't walk through Madrid without his disguise literally falling apart on his face.

As he stops for the third time to clean the fogged glasses, Oscar realizes he doesn't recognize anything around him. The streets he's been walking through have gradually become less familiar, less residential, more commercial. The buildings are taller, the traffic denser, the sounds more urban than those of the neighborhood where Carlos's apartment is.

A cold sensation begins forming in his stomach as he turns in a slow circle, looking for some landmark he might recognize. But the streets extend in all directions with that disconcerting uniformity that characterizes big cities: every intersection looks vaguely familiar but not specifically recognizable.

How long has he been walking? In what direction? He'd been so absorbed in the experience of exploring independently that he hadn't paid attention to street names, landmarks, anything he could use to orient himself.

The realization hits him with the force of a humiliating epiphany: he doesn't know how to get back. Not only does he not know the way, he doesn't know the direction to Carlos's apartment. He'd never needed to memorize it because Carlos had always been his navigator, his human GPS. Oscar had simply been the passenger following blindly, not bothering to learn routes, not taking note of details that might be important in a situation like this.

Panic begins as a tingling sensation in his fingertips, gradually expanding up his arms as the magnitude of his error settles completely. He's lost in a city of several million people, where he doesn't speak the language well enough to ask for complex directions, where he has no way to contact Carlos, where his official identity is as false as his fogged glasses.

He forces himself to breathe deeply, trying to maintain composure. This is solvable. Madrid has a metro, has taxis, has ways for people to get around. He just needs to find a metro station, or a taxi stop, or... but how is he going to explain where he wants to go if he doesn't know the address?

He tries to remember some distinctive detail from Carlos's neighborhood. A specific supermarket, a pharmacy, a cafe with a memorable name. But all the memories blur into a generic mix of residential streets that could be any middle-upper class neighborhood in Madrid.

The glasses slide again, and this time when he pushes them up, he feels frustration so intense that for a moment he considers taking them off entirely. But without them, he'd simply be Oscar Piastri lost in Madrid, not Oscar Palmer lost in Madrid, and somehow that distinction feels important for his survival.

He's standing in the center of a plaza, tourists and Madrileños circulating around him with the purpose and confidence of people who know exactly where they are and where they're going, and for the first time since arriving in this time, he feels completely, truly alone.

Not just physically separated from Carlos, but existentially lost in a reality that was never his to navigate. All the triumph he'd felt from buying churros independently now feels pathetically small compared to the reality that he can't even find his way back to the only person in this time who cares about his well-being.

The irony is so cruel it almost makes him laugh: he'd left the apartment because he felt overwhelmed by his dependence on Carlos, and now he's lost in Madrid precisely because that dependence was much more fundamental than he'd been willing to admit.

The hours slip by with cruel slowness as Oscar wanders through Madrid, each passing minute adding another layer of desperation to his situation. What had begun as a sense of freedom has now transformed into something much darker: the gradual realization that he's completely lost in a city he doesn't know, in a time that doesn't belong to him, with no way to return to the only refuge he has.

The sun moves inexorably across the sky, shadows lengthen, and the temperature begins to drop with that characteristic precision of Madrid's spring weather. Oscar finds himself sitting on a bench in a plaza whose name he can't pronounce, watching city life continue around him with a normalcy that feels almost aggressive in its indifference to his situation.

Families walk home after a day in the park, their conversations in Spanish flowing like background music he can't decipher but that constantly reminds him of his isolation. Young couples stop at cafes to have something before they close, talking and laughing with the ease of people who belong exactly where they are.

And he's there, a temporal ghost dressed in glasses that don't belong to him, pretending to read a newspaper he found abandoned on the bench though the words blur into incomprehensible smears that only remind him how ill-equipped he is to survive here independently.

Thirst leads him to search for a public fountain, but when he tries to ask an elderly woman for directions, the exchange becomes a frustrating pantomime of misinterpreted gestures and uncomfortable smiles that ends with both walking away without having achieved real communication. It's a humiliating reminder of how fundamental Carlos is to his existence here: not just as company or guide, but as his basic interpreter of reality.

He buys a sandwich at a small shop using the same pointing-and-smiling system that had worked with the churros that morning, but now the interaction feels different. The shop owner is kind but clearly busy, and Oscar can feel his impatience when he takes too long counting money, when he asks too many questions he can't answer, when he generally acts like the lost tourist he obviously is.

The sandwich—ham and cheese on bread that's slightly hard—he eats sitting on the steps of a building that could be governmental or educational, watching people pass without looking at him twice. He's invisible in the loneliest possible way: not because he's special or mysterious, but because he's completely ordinary in his displacement, completely unremarkable in his lostness.

As the afternoon becomes early evening, the streets begin filling with a different kind of energy. Workers leave offices, Madrid's nightlife begins to awaken with that characteristic intensity he'd observed but never experienced alone.

Oscar tries to blend in, to follow the flow of people who obviously know where they're headed, but every attempt to navigate using logic takes him further from any area he might vaguely recognize. The metro stations he passes have names that mean nothing to him, and though he considers going down and taking random trains hoping one might take him near Carlos's neighborhood, the idea of getting even more lost in the underground system paralyzes him.

Because that's the terrible irony of his situation: every decision he makes to improve his situation has the potential to exponentially worsen it. Every step in any direction could take him further from Carlos, and he has no way of knowing which is the right direction.

Night arrives with that sudden brutality that characterizes urban transitions. The city lights turn on like artificial stars, restaurants begin filling with Spain's late dinner crowd, and Madrid transforms into that version of itself that's simultaneously more beautiful and more intimidating.

Oscar finds himself walking through streets that have become darker, emptier in some areas, noisier in others. His glasses constantly fog from the temperature difference between night air and the heat of his anxious body, and every few minutes he has to stop to clean them, a process that makes him feel even more conspicuous, more obviously out of place.

He passes bars where he can hear animated conversations and laughter spilling onto the street, but the idea of entering—of trying to communicate with strangers in an environment where alcohol flows and conversations are rapid—seems impossible. It's not just the language barrier; it's the barrier of belonging, the sense that his presence would be an intrusion in spaces that are fundamentally for people who have real lives here.

It's past midnight when he stops in a larger plaza, with benches under streetlights that provide circles of yellowish light in the darkness. He's exhausted from walking, exhausted from pretending he has purpose, exhausted from the constant vigilance required to appear normal when he's internally in complete panic.

He sits on one of the benches, finally allowing himself to admit the magnitude of his situation. He's not just lost; he's trapped. He has no way to contact Carlos, no way to return to the apartment, no way to explain his situation to authorities because he has no documentation and no one will believe he's friends with Carlos Sainz Jr.

And worse, he has no idea how long Carlos will wait before assuming something terrible has happened, or before deciding Oscar simply left without explanation. The new dynamic they'd established that morning—careful, distant—means Carlos might interpret his absence in ways Oscar can't predict.

What if Carlos thinks he returned to 2024?

What if he decides Oscar simply got tired of the tension of their new relationship and found another way to survive in 2016?

What if, after hours of absence, Carlos convinces himself that Oscar is no longer his responsibility?

It's while he's sitting there, processing these increasingly terrifying possibilities, that he looks up and sees the night sky.

Despite Madrid's light pollution, despite the streetlights and neon signs, he can clearly distinguish the constellation of Orion shining with that familiarity he'd shared with Carlos just the night before. The three stars of the belt are perfectly aligned, the stars forming the shoulders and feet visible as points of light that have been there for millennia, that will continue being there long after all his temporal concerns are irrelevant.

And it's seeing Orion that he realizes.

If Carlos is looking for him—and Oscar has to believe he's looking for him, because the alternative is too devastating to consider—where would he look? What places might occur to someone who knows the shared fascination they've developed for constellations, for astronomical phenomena that seem to have been at the center of everything that's happened between them?

Madrid has to have a planetarium. An observatory. Some place where people go specifically to see the stars, to connect with that same cosmos that had created such a perfect moment of intimacy between them.

The idea isn't logical in any traditional sense. It's pure desperation disguised as hope. But it's the first thing he's thought in hours that feels like action rather than reaction, like purpose rather than wandering.

He gets up from the bench with more energy than he's had since morning and begins looking for a taxi. It's not hard to find one—Madrid never sleeps completely—but when he gets into the back seat and faces a driver who clearly expects specific directions, the language barrier looms like a wall.

"Planetarium," he tries first, pronouncing the word hoping it's similar enough in Spanish.

The driver looks at him through the rearview mirror with a confused expression.

"Observatory," Oscar tries next, but only receives a shrug.

Frustration builds in his throat like something physical. He's so close to having a plan, to doing something that feels like progress, and the language barrier is stopping him again.

Finally, he points upward, toward the taxi's roof, then toward the window where the night sky is visible between buildings.

"Stars," he says, articulating clearly. "Estrellas."

The driver remains confused, so Oscar takes out all the money he has left—the bills Carlos had given him that morning, which now feel like the last resources connecting him to any kind of security—and offers them.

"Please," he says, his voice breaking slightly with the desperation he can no longer hide. "All of this. Stars. Estrellas."

There's something in his tone, in his desperate gesture toward the sky, in the way he offers all his money, that finally communicates something to the driver. Maybe it's compassion, maybe it's simple economic pragmatism, but he nods and puts the taxi in motion.

The journey feels endless and too short at the same time. Oscar watches Madrid pass by the windows without recognizing anything, aware that he's literally spending everything he has on a desperate bet that might lead to nothing. But the alternative—continuing to wander aimlessly until he collapses from exhaustion or is arrested for vagrancy—seems worse than risking everything on a possibility, however remote.

When the taxi finally stops, Oscar sees a building he immediately recognizes as the kind of place he was hoping for: modern, with clean lines, and most importantly, with signs that include images of planets and stars that confirm he's in the right place even without being able to read the text.

He gives all his money to the driver, who accepts with an expression that could be sympathy or could be satisfaction with a generous fare. It doesn't matter; Oscar can no longer think in terms of fair transactions or personal economy. Only being here matters, in this place that represents the only connection he can make between his desperate situation and the possibility that Carlos might think to look for him.

The Madrid Planetarium is, of course, closed. It's been closed for hours. The doors are sealed, the interior lights off, with no sign of human activity.

Oscar stands in front of the building, processing this reality that should have been obvious but that somehow he hadn't fully considered. It's almost two in the morning. Of course it's closed. Of course there's no one here who can help him, who can give him directions, who can call Carlos for him.

But he has no other plans. He has no more money for another taxi. He has no idea how to get back to the city center, much less to Carlos's apartment. All he has is this place, this desperate bet that Carlos, through some miracle of emotional connection, might think to look for him here.

He sits on the entrance steps, the stone cold even through his clothes, and looks up at Orion. The stars are clearer here, away from the city center, and he can distinguish details of the constellation he hadn't noticed before.

It's beautiful, he recognizes with a distant part of his mind. It's exactly the kind of view he and Carlos would have appreciated together, the kind of moment that would have led to those conversations about time and space and destiny that had characterized some of their most intimate moments.

But now he's here alone, with no prospect of Carlos appearing, no backup plan, nothing except the increasingly weak hope that his desperate bet will result in something more than a night spent on cold steps.

The hours slip by. Occasionally cars pass on the nearby street, but none stop, none show signs of being driven by someone looking for him. The early morning silence settles over him like a heavy blanket, interrupted only by distant sounds of the city that never sleeps completely.

His eyes begin filling with tears he refuses to let fall, not because he's too proud but because once he starts crying, he fears he won't be able to stop. All the weight of his situation—the dependence, the lies, the loss of the only stability he's had in this time—accumulates in his throat like something solid he can't swallow.

He's completely alone, in every possible sense of the word. Alone in this era, alone in this city, alone with the knowledge that everything he's lost is the direct result of his own decisions, his own lies, his own inability to be honest when it mattered most.

And while he remains sitting there, with Orion shining above him like a silent witness to his desperation, a strange sensation invades him. His eyes become glassy with tears he holds back through pure force of will, staring fixedly at the three stars of the belt that shine with a constancy that defies all the chaos of his life.

For a moment, almost absurd in its irrationality, he feels as if those stars know him. As if they'd been watching every decision that had led him here, every lie, every moment of cowardice. There's something about looking at Orion that awakens a nostalgia he can't explain, a sweet pain that has no identifiable origin but that mixes with his present desperation until it becomes almost unbearable.

All the events that have led him to this moment—the inexplicable journey through time, finding Carlos, falling in love with him, lying to him, losing himself—suddenly feel like pieces of something larger, but something that constantly escapes him, like a song he can almost remember but that never quite forms completely in his mind.

The sensation of being watched by those stars should comfort him, but instead it intensifies his loneliness in a way he doesn't understand. As if Orion were witness not just to his present crisis, but to a much older, much deeper loss that Oscar carries unknowingly.

 

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

Chapter 19: Stellar Formation

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

 

Carlos is eight years old when he first hears the words that will burn themselves into his memory like a death sentence.

It's Sunday afternoon at the Jerez circuit, and the air smells of burnt fuel and hot rubber mixed with the aroma of ham sandwiches someone is eating in the hospitality area. Carlos sits on the floor between the toolboxes, building an elaborate tower with nuts and bolts he's been collecting all season. It's his favorite spot in the paddock: hidden enough for adults to forget about him, close enough to hear conversations he finds fascinating in their adult complexity.

His father stands a few meters away, reviewing data with Miguel, his chief engineer, and two other mechanics whose names Carlos has never learned but whose faces he knows as well as his own family's. The conversation flows between technical analysis about suspension adjustments and casual comments about other drivers, the kind of post-race chat Carlos has heard all his life without paying much attention.

Until Raúl, the youngest mechanic on the team, mentions a name that makes the entire dynamic shift.

"Did you guys see what happened with Fernández?" he says, his voice loaded with something Carlos can't fully identify but immediately recognizes as dangerous. "Turns out it was true after all."

Carlos feels how the quality of the air changes, how the adults move slightly closer to each other, as if they're about to share a secret. His small hands pause in the process of balancing another nut on his tower, though he keeps his eyes fixed on his construction with the practiced concentration he's learned to use when he wants to become invisible.

"It was obvious," Miguel responds with a laugh that sounds different from normal laughter, harsher, crueler. "The way he acted, always so... delicate. And never with women at events."

"Disgusting," says the older mechanic, whose name Carlos thinks is Francisco. "There's no place for faggots in this sport. Thank God they finally got rid of him."

The word—faggot—hits Carlos like something physical, though he's not entirely sure what it means. But he can feel the weight of disgust, of absolute contempt, in the way Francisco pronounces it, as if it were something that dirties your mouth just by saying it.

"My brother worked on his team," Raúl continues, "and he says everyone there knew. That he'd stare at the other mechanics, that he'd get nervous when he had to change clothes in front of others."

"Jesus," says Miguel, "imagine having someone like that on your team. You couldn't trust him. You wouldn't know if he was there to work or to... you know."

Carlos can hear laughter, but it's the kind that makes him feel sick without understanding why. It's the type of laughter he's heard in the school playground when older kids pick on someone smaller, but there's something worse in this, something more final.

"What I don't understand," says Francisco, "is how someone like that can even be around race cars. It's unnatural. Real men compete, conquer, take risks. Those people... they're the opposite of everything it means to be a driver."

Carlos looks toward his father for the first time since the conversation began. His dad stands slightly apart from the group, arms crossed, his expression... uncomfortable. He's not laughing like the others. His eyes stare at some indefinite point in the distance, as if he wishes he could be anywhere else.

But he's not defending Fernández either, whoever he is. He's not saying anything at all.

"It's just that it contaminates the whole atmosphere," Miguel continues. "How do you focus on your work knowing there's someone like that watching you? It's repulsive."

"And dangerous," Raúl adds. "In a sport where trust between teammates can mean the difference between life and death, you can't have someone whose motivations aren't clear."

Carlos Sr. clears his throat softly, and for a moment Carlos thinks he's going to say something, that he's going to interrupt this conversation that's making something cold settle in his stomach like a stone. But instead of speaking, he just says:

"Well, we'd better focus on the adjustments for the next race."

It's a gentle redirection, practical, that changes the subject without confronting anything that's been said. The other men understand the signal and start talking about tire pressure. The conversation about Fernández ends as abruptly as it began, as if it had never happened.

But Carlos can't go back to concentrating on his tower of nuts. The words keep reverberating in his head: unnatural, repulsive, dangerous, faggot. And more devastating than the words themselves is the understanding, even at eight years old, that his father—the strongest and bravest man he knows, the man whose approval means everything to him—had been present through all of that and hadn't thought it was worth defending that person.

He hadn't said it was wrong to mock someone like that. He hadn't said the words were cruel or unfair. He'd simply changed the subject, as if Fernández's fate were something inevitable, something that didn't merit even a comment.

Carlos doesn't know what it means exactly to be a faggot, but he understands with the terrible clarity of childhood that it's something that makes even good men—men like his father—not defend you when others speak about you with disgust. He understands it's something so bad that your career can end because of it, that you can be thrown out of places where you were once welcome.

And though he can't fully articulate it, something in Carlos's stomach tightens with a familiarity he doesn't want to examine. Something about staring at others, something about getting nervous when changing clothes, resonates in a way that makes him feel like he's been exposed under too bright a light.

That night, Carlos lies awake staring at the ceiling and repeating the words in his mind: unnatural, repulsive, dangerous. And he makes himself a promise he doesn't fully understand but that feels vital to his survival: never, ever, will he be the kind of person others talk about with that disgust. Never will he be someone his father can't defend.

Never will he be someone his father simply ignores when he needs protection.

He doesn't know exactly what he must avoid to keep that promise, but the determination settles in him like cement: whatever it was that made Fernández lose everything, Carlos will make sure he never, ever, does it too.

 

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

 

At fourteen, Carlos understands with devastating clarity exactly what Fernández lost, and why.

It's July, and he's at a karting camp in Valencia with other boys his age who, like him, dream of someday becoming professional drivers. The Spanish summer heat makes even early mornings stifling, and the air inside the prefab changing rooms is thick and humid, heavy with the smell of teenage deodorant and the industrial detergent they use to wash the racing suits.

Carlos sits on the bench, slowly unzipping his suit after a particularly intense practice session, when Victor Ribas, a boy from Madrid who drives a kart sponsored by a tire company, pulls off his sweat-soaked shirt in one fluid motion.

And Carlos's body reacts.

It's instant, involuntary, completely beyond his control. His heart races, his breathing becomes shallower, and he can feel heat spreading from his chest downward, concentrating in a place that betrays him with an obviousness that fills him with immediate panic.

Victor isn't particularly special. He's medium build, with the kind of muscles that develop from hours of karting but without the dramatic definition of someone who exercises obsessively. His skin is unevenly tanned, with tan lines from his suit that create strange patterns on his shoulders. There's nothing objectively extraordinary about him.

But Carlos can't take his eyes off the line of hair that runs down from his navel and disappears under the waistband of his shorts. He can't stop noticing the way his abdominal muscles move when he leans over to look for a clean shirt in his bag. He can't help his body responding in a way he immediately recognizes as exactly the kind of reaction that destroyed Fernández's career.

He turns abruptly toward his locker, pretending to look for something important while desperately fighting to control his breathing and, more urgently, to make his body behave. The panic is so intense he can feel cold sweat forming on his neck despite the heat of the changing room.

"You okay, Sainz?" asks Rubén, another boy a few lockers away. "You look a bit red."

"I'm fine," Carlos answers quickly, his voice sounding strange even to himself. "Just... hot."

But he's not fine. As the other boys continue changing with the natural casualness of teenagers who've grown up playing sports, Carlos realizes that every movement they make, every moment of exposed skin, every unconscious gesture, is being registered by his body in ways he can't control.

When Dani Sordo—not the famous driver, but a boy from Santander who has the bad luck of sharing the name—completely removes his suit and stands in just underwear looking for clean shorts, Carlos has to fake a coughing fit to cover the involuntary sound that escapes his throat.

That's when he fully understands what Fernández had experienced. This hyperawareness of other male bodies, this inability to be in changing spaces without his body reacting in ways that mark him as different, as unnatural, as dangerous to other men's comfort.

Carlos manages to survive the rest of the clothing change by keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the inside of his locker, pretending an obsessive organization of his belongings. But that night, alone in his room at the youth hostel where the camp participants are staying, he lies awake late into the night processing the reality of what he's just discovered about himself.

It's not just attraction. It's the kind of attraction that ruins careers, that makes other men talk about you with disgust, that turns your presence in locker rooms into something "uncomfortable" and "dangerous." It's the kind of attraction that makes even your own father unable to defend you when others attack you, because there's no possible defense for something everyone agrees is repulsive.

Carlos makes himself another promise that night, more specific and more desperate than the one he'd made at eight: never, ever, will he allow his body to betray him in public again. He'll learn to control his reactions, to suppress his responses, to train his mind and body until they behave exactly as they're supposed to.

Whatever is broken in him, he'll fix it. Because the alternative—being like Fernández, being someone others talk about with disgust while your father remains silent—is unthinkable.

 

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

 

At sixteen, Carlos discovers he can become the perfect boyfriend precisely because he doesn't feel for girls what he's supposed to feel.

It's autumn in Madrid, and he's dating Marina, a girl from his literature class who has beautiful intelligent green eyes and an infectious laugh. Carlos genuinely likes Marina—not in the way he knows he should like her, but in a way that's both much simpler and much more complicated. He likes listening to her talk about the books she reads, he likes the way she wrinkles her nose when she's concentrating, he likes that she's smart enough to challenge his opinions on topics he's never considered deeply.

What he doesn't understand is why his friends talk about their girlfriends in ways that make him feel like he's listening to a foreign language.

"Dude, Carla has incredible tits," says Jorge while they're changing after training. "I can't think about anything else when I'm with her. It's like torture."

"At least you can touch them," Miguel responds, adjusting his suit in a way that suggests he's dealing with exactly the kind of physical problem Carlos never experiences with Marina. "Lucía won't let me get past kissing. I'm dying here."

Carlos nods as if he understands, but the truth is that when he kisses Marina, his body responds because kissing is a physical stimulus that produces predictable physiological responses, not because he's desperately excited by access to her body. It's pleasant in the same way a good massage is pleasant: nice, relaxing, but not urgent.

"What about you and Marina?" asks Jorge, and Carlos can feel the expectation in the question, the assumption that he has similar stories to share.

"Good," says Carlos, which is completely true without being specific. "Really good."

"But?" Miguel insists. "Come on, man, don't be shy. How far have you gotten?"

Carlos realizes this conversation requires details he doesn't know how to convincingly invent, because the truth is that when he's with Marina, he's not constantly fighting against physical urges that need to be satisfied. He's enjoying her company, talking, kissing her because it's pleasant and because it's what couples are supposed to do.

"I respect her pace," he says finally, which is a partial truth that sounds noble.

"Damn, you're a saint," says Jorge with a laugh that suggests he considers Carlos either extremely virtuous or extremely stupid. "I don't know how you do it. If I had a girlfriend like Marina, I'd be crazy by now."

Carlos smiles as if this were a compliment, but internally he wonders what it means exactly to be "crazy" about someone that way. Because when he looks at Marina—even when he sees her in a bikini during their family vacation in Mallorca—his body doesn't rebel against him like it does when he sees Victor Ribas changing in locker rooms. His breathing doesn't accelerate, his heart doesn't go wild, he doesn't have to fight against reactions that could give him away.

What he does feel is genuine appreciation for how beautiful she is, in the same way he can appreciate a gorgeous sunset or a well-executed piece of music. It's aesthetic, not urgent.

But he discovers something interesting when Marina finally, after three months of dating, decides she's ready for their relationship to progress physically.

It happens at her house, on a Sunday afternoon when her parents are visiting her grandparents. They've been kissing on her living room couch, and when Marina pulls back slightly to look at him with an intensity he recognizes as significant, Carlos knows they're about to cross new territory.

"Carlos," she says, her voice softer than usual, "do you want to... do you want to go to my room?"

Carlos nods, not because his body is screaming for relief but because Marina is important to him, because the moment feels right, because he wants her to feel desired and appreciated. And he discovers, to his surprise, that when he starts touching her—when he sees how her breathing changes, when he hears the small sounds she makes, when he feels how she reacts to his touch—his own body responds in ways he hadn't anticipated.

It's not the kind of desperate attraction his friends describe. It's something different: a response to being needed, to being the source of someone else's pleasure. When Marina arches her back under his hands, when she says his name in a way he's never heard before, Carlos feels an excitement that's fundamentally different from what he experiences in locker rooms full of other boys.

It's the excitement of being good at something, of being appreciated, of being desired for reasons that are completely under his control.

He discovers he's meticulously attentive in a way Marina clearly appreciates. While his friends talk about sex as something they take from their girlfriends, Carlos realizes he's focused on giving it. On studying what works, what doesn't, what makes Marina make those sounds that become confirmation he's doing something right.

And when they finally do it for the first time, Carlos understands he's found something he can do extremely well without his body betraying him in dangerous ways. He can be the perfect boyfriend because he's not being driven by urges he can't control. He's being driven by affection, by competence, by the pleasure of being competent.

Marina tells him afterward that he's incredible, that she's never felt so cared for, so attended to. And Carlos feels a satisfaction he recognizes as completely genuine: the pride of being excellent at something important.

When his friends eventually interrogate him about the details of his sex life, Carlos can talk about Marina's responses, about how she tells him he's amazing, about how satisfied she always seems, without lying. Because it's true. He is amazing at this, and she is satisfied.

What he doesn't mention is that his satisfaction comes from her satisfaction, not from his own desperate physical need being met. That his excitement is about being praised, being told he's good at this, being confirmed as someone who can please rather than someone who takes.

That when he masturbates later, alone in his room, he's thinking about the sounds Marina made, about the way she said his name, about the recognition in her voice when she told him he was perfect. He's thinking about being wanted and appreciated and skilled.

And that carefully, deliberately, he never allows himself to think about Victor Ribas or any of the other boys who make his body react in ways he can't control.

Because this—being Marina's perfect boyfriend, being praised for his attentiveness, being the guy other boys envy for having such a satisfied girlfriend—this is safe. This is something he can be excellent at without risking anything.

This is proof that whatever is broken in him, he's found a way to work around it that keeps everyone happy and keeps his secret secure.

 

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

 

At seventeen, Carlos witnesses something that confirms every one of his worst fears about what happens when you fail to stay hidden.

It's March, and he's in Barcelona for a competition that's attracted drivers from all over Europe. The circuit is full of teams, families, sponsors, and that specific energy that comes from young people competing for opportunities that could change their lives. Carlos is having a good season, and there are rumors that some GP2 team scouts are watching, taking notes, evaluating who might have a future in higher categories.

After the first qualifying session, Carlos is walking toward the hospitality area when he hears raised voices coming from behind one of the team transporters. They're not voices of technical discussion or normal sporting frustration. There's something darker in the tone, something that makes him stop instinctively, that makes every survival instinct he's developed over the years tell him to stay out of sight but within earshot.

He hides behind a stack of tires, aware he probably shouldn't be listening but unable to walk away, as if some part of him needs to confirm his worst fears about what happens when masks slip.

"Don't fuck with me, David," a voice Carlos recognizes as Marcos Herrera's is saying, a nineteen-year-old driver who's been dominating this category for two seasons. "Everyone knows what you are. The way you look at the others in the changing rooms, the way you get nervous when someone mentions girls."

"I don't know what you're talking about," another voice responds, younger, more scared. Carlos can't see David from his position, but he can hear the barely contained panic in his voice.

"Please," says Marcos with a laugh that has no humor in it. "My brother is on your same team. He's told me things. The way you stay longer than necessary in the showers, the way you make excuses not to go out with girls after races."

"That doesn't mean anything," David says, but his voice is breaking, and Carlos can hear he's crying or very close to it.

"You know what?" says a third voice Carlos recognizes as Antonio Ruiz's, another driver who's always been known for his casual cruelty. "I think we should confirm our suspicions."

Antonio's tone makes something cold settle in Carlos's stomach. This isn't cruel teenage teasing. It's something worse, something more calculated.

"What do you mean?" asks David, and now he's definitely crying.

"I mean," says Antonio, "that if you really are what we think you are, your body's going to react in specific ways. And if you're not what we think, then you won't have any problem proving it."

Carlos hears sounds of struggling, of clothes being moved, of someone being pushed against something metallic that sounds like a transporter wall.

"No," says David, his voice now completely broken. "Please, don't do this. Please."

"Shut up," says Marcos. "If you're not a faggot, this shouldn't affect you at all. We're just going to... verify."

Carlos can't see exactly what's happening, but he can hear enough to understand that David is being physically humiliated, that they're touching him in ways designed to provoke exactly the kind of reaction that would confirm their suspicions. He can hear heavy breathing, he can hear David begging them to stop, he can hear Marcos and Antonio's laughter growing crueler as they apparently get the confirmation they were looking for.

"Jesus," says Antonio with disgust. "Look at yourself. You're exactly what we thought."

"This is disgusting," adds Marcos. "You know what this means? It means you've been in changing rooms with us, spying on us, getting off on seeing us change. It means every time we've been around you, you've been using us for your sick fantasies."

"No," David sobs. "It's not like that. I would never... never do..."

"You're a liar on top of being a pervert," says Antonio. "And we're going to make sure everyone knows exactly what kind of person you are."

Carlos hears more sounds of struggle, and then something that sounds like photos being taken with a cell phone.

"Smile for the camera, faggot," says Marcos. "This is going to be very interesting to share."

"Please," David is begging now, his voice barely recognizable. "Please, don't do that. My family... my career..."

"You should have thought about that before deciding to be a pervert," Antonio responds. "This is what happens when people like you try to mix with real men."

Carlos remains frozen behind the tires, every instinct telling him he should intervene, that he should help, that he should do something. But he's paralyzed by absolute terror, because he can see with perfect clarity that if he reveals himself, if he tries to defend David, he'll automatically become a suspect too.

The others continue their humiliation for several more minutes that feel like hours. Carlos can hear David being forced to beg for them to stop, being made to admit things about himself he clearly doesn't want to admit, being photographed in positions designed to maximize his humiliation if the photos are ever shared.

When they finally finish and David is left alone, sobbing behind the transporter, Carlos still can't move. He's frozen with horror and with the absolute recognition that what just happened to David could happen to him in a heartbeat if anyone ever suspects the truth.

Eventually, David composes himself enough to straighten his clothes and walk away. When Carlos finally emerges from behind the tires, his hands are shaking and he feels like he might vomit.

That afternoon, David doesn't show up for the second qualifying session. Officials say he had a family emergency and had to leave suddenly. Carlos never sees him at another karting event again.

But two days later, Carlos finds out through the inevitable gossip network that exists at these competitions that photos of David in a compromising position have been circulated among certain groups of drivers. That his reputation is completely destroyed. That teams that might have been interested in him have apparently lost interest suddenly and permanently.

That David's karting career is over before it really began, and everyone "understands" why.

Carlos spends weeks afterward unable to sleep properly, replaying what he witnessed, understanding with perfect clarity that David's fate could be his own if he ever allows his guard to drop, if he ever trusts the wrong person, if he ever lets his body betray him at the wrong moment.

The experience confirms every strategy he's developed for hiding, every reason he's had for maintaining perfect control. Because now he knows exactly how cruel exposure can be, exactly how complete the destruction can be, exactly how much other men will enjoy tearing apart someone like him if they get the chance.

And it confirms too that no one—absolutely no one—will defend you when it happens. That even good people, even people who might feel sorry for you, will stay silent because defending someone like David means risking being associated with him, means risking suspicion falling on you too.

From that day forward, Carlos's vigilance becomes absolute. Because he's seen exactly what happens when you fail to maintain the façade perfectly.

And he never, ever wants to be David.

 

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

 

At nineteen, Carlos hears the conversation that confirms even the men who care about him have very specific limits to that affection.

It's August, and they're at his family's estate in Ávila. His father is hosting one of his traditional end-of-rally-season barbecues, where retired drivers, lifelong mechanics, and sports journalists who've covered Spanish motorsport for decades gather together. It's the kind of event where men drink beer, tell stories that have grown more dramatic with each retelling, and speak with the brutal frankness that only emerges when they're sure they're among "their own."

Carlos is in the kitchen, looking for more ice for the drinks, when he hears voices rising from the terrace where the men have congregated around the grill. The tone of the conversation has shifted from the usual jokes about lost races and destroyed cars toward something more serious, more loaded.

"I just don't understand how this happens," Manolo Vega is saying, a former rallycross driver who's known the Sainz family since Carlos was small. "You have a son, you raise him right, you teach him what it means to be a man, and suddenly it turns out he's... that."

Carlos stops with the bag of ice half-open, immediately recognizing the tone he'd heard years ago in Jerez. The same disgust, the same disbelief, as if they were discussing a contagious disease.

"Who are you talking about?" asks the voice of Tomás Ruiz, a veteran mechanic.

"Mendoza's son," Manolo responds. "Remember him? He was a rally driver in the eighties, then got into training young drivers. His son, Alberto, seemed normal. Good athlete, even raced in some minor competitions."

"And what happened?" asks another voice Carlos can't immediately identify.

"Well, turns out now he's living with another man in Barcelona. Like... like husband and wife. The father is devastated, obviously. Says he can't even mention it without people looking at him weird."

Carlos feels something cold settle in his stomach, but he can't move. He's glued to the kitchen floor, listening to a conversation he knows he shouldn't hear but can't stop listening to.

"Fuck," says Tomás with disgust. "How the hell does that happen? I mean, where did the father go wrong?"

"Exactly what I'm wondering," Manolo responds. "Because this doesn't come out of nowhere. There have to be signs. There have to be moments where, as a father, you realize something's not right and you correct course."

"My theory," says a third voice Carlos recognizes as Pablo Serrano's, a journalist who's been covering motorsport for thirty years, "is that fathers nowadays are too soft. Too understanding. In my day, if a kid showed... strange tendencies, they were corrected immediately."

"What kind of tendencies?" asks Tomás.

"Anything outside the norm," Pablo responds. "My brother-in-law told me a story about his son who once, when he was six or seven, said he wanted to be a nurse when he grew up. A nurse, can you believe it? My brother-in-law beat the hell out of him that same night."

Carlos can hear approving laughter, and his stomach contracts further.

"Good for him," says Manolo. "Because a real man would have wanted to be a doctor, not a nurse. Nurses are for women and for... well, you know what kind of men."

"Exactly," Pablo continues. "And he explained that real men aspire to lead, to command, not to... to care for and clean like women. The kid never mentioned anything like that again."

"You have to watch out for those details," adds Tomás. "If you don't correct those things when they're little, that's how sons go bad. They start wanting to play with dolls, or saying they want women's jobs, and if you don't stop them there, you end up with what happened to Mendoza."

Carlos realizes he's holding his breath, that his hands are shaking slightly where he holds the bag of ice that's already melting.

"What disgusts me most," says Manolo, "is imagining what those guys do together. It's unnatural. It's repulsive. And poor Mendoza now has to live knowing his son is doing... those things... with another man."

"And that everyone knows," adds Pablo. "He can't go to events anymore without people whispering behind his back. His reputation is ruined by something he didn't even do."

That's when Carlos hears his father's voice for the first time in this conversation.

"It's a tragedy," says Carlos Sr., and his son can hear the discomfort in his voice, but also something else. "For any father, having to face something like that..."

"But you don't have to worry about that, Carlos," says Manolo, and his tone changes, becoming lighter, almost congratulatory. "Your son will be in F1 someday and he's doing exactly what a young man should do. It's obvious you raised him right."

"Yes," adds Tomás. "Your Carlos is a man through and through. You can tell from a mile away. You'll never have to worry about him embarrassing you that way."

Carlos hears his father make a sound that could be relief or could be agreement, but he can't distinguish between the two.

"You can tell in how he competes," Pablo continues. "Aggressive, determined, always with beautiful girls in the paddock. That's the kind of son any father would want to have."

"Exactly," says Manolo. "No strange tendencies, no weird behavior. A driver like he should be."

"Thank you," his father says finally, and Carlos can hear genuine pride in his voice. "Carlos has always been... he's always been exactly what I expected him to be. Always exceeding my expectations."

The conversation continues, drifting to other topics, but Carlos can't hear anything else. He stands in the kitchen, ice melting in his hands, processing what he's just heard.

His father is proud of him specifically because he's "a man through and through." Because he doesn't show "strange tendencies." Because he's exactly where he's supposed to be, doing exactly what he's supposed to do, behaving exactly as he's supposed to behave.

And the implication is crystal clear: if he ever stops being those things, if he ever shows "strange tendencies," if he ever becomes the kind of son who embarrasses his father the way Alberto embarrassed his, that pride will disappear.

Worse still, his father will have to live the rest of his life facing whispers, stares, the destruction of his own reputation for something his son did. He'll have to carry the shame of having "failed" as a father, of not having been vigilant enough, strict enough, effective enough in "correcting" his son.

Carlos finally manages to move, manages to go out to the patio with the ice as if nothing had happened. He smiles at the men, accepts their congratulations about his season, answers their questions about his chances of making it to Formula 1. He acts exactly like the "man through and through" they believe him to be.

But that night, alone in his room, Carlos understands with absolute clarity that it's not just his own life that's at risk if the truth is ever discovered. It's his father's life too. His reputation, his place in the community that's been his world for decades, his pride in the son he's raised to be exactly what he's supposed to be.

And that makes maintaining the façade not just about self-preservation. It's about protecting the man he loves most in the world from the humiliation of having a son like Alberto Mendoza.

It's about ensuring his father never has to experience the shame of being the man who "failed" to raise his son correctly.

Carlos makes a promise that night that's even more binding than all the previous promises: never, ever, will he be the source of that kind of humiliation for his father.

Whatever it costs.

 

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

 

At twenty-one, Carlos meets Oscar Piastri in the Barcelona paddock and his world changes in ways he doesn't even fully understand in that moment.

It's not just that Oscar is attractive—though he is, with that combination of quiet intensity and dry humor that Carlos finds immediately magnetic. It's not just that there's something in his dark eyes that suggests depths Carlos wants to explore. It's that when Oscar tells him his impossible story, when he reveals he comes from the future, when he describes a reality where the two of them are together, Carlos doesn't feel disbelief.

He feels recognition.

As if finally, after years of living in a reality that's never completely fit with what he is, someone is describing a world where all the pieces he's kept carefully separate could finally come together.

Oscar tells him things that make something deep in Carlos's chest expand like air entering lungs that have been holding their breath for decades. He tells him that in the future, they're both in Formula 1. That Carlos didn't just survive keeping his secret, but thrived. That he got exactly where he always dreamed of being and stayed there without having to sacrifice who he really is.

He tells him they're together; a genuine and lasting and beautiful relationship.

But it's when Oscar tells him the most intimate details that Carlos feels like he's receiving divine permission to breathe properly for the first time in his life. Oscar tells him that the Carlos of the future—the Carlos of 2024—had never been with a man before. That he'd lived his entire life maintaining the façade, just like Carlos is doing now. That he'd had the same fears, the same careful survival strategies.

But that when he met Oscar, he decided he was worth the risk.

Oscar tells him that the future Carlos had confessed everything. Decades of repression, years of vigilance, all the careful construction of a person who had never been completely real. And that Oscar had had patience. That he'd understood why Carlos needed to go slow, why trust was something that had to be built gradually and carefully.

He tells him that Carlos had been an enthusiastic learner. That what he lacked in experience, he compensated for with genuine desire and careful attention. That their physical relationship had been something beautiful and intense, built on a foundation of mutual respect and growing trust.

Oscar describes nights when they made love under the stars on Carlos's apartment terrace with words whispered in Spanish against pale skin and freckles. Describes the way Carlos would look up at the sky afterward, pointing out constellations while his breathing slowly returned to normal, his body relaxed in ways he'd apparently never experienced with anyone else.

And every word Oscar says feels like confirmation of something Carlos had never dared to hope: that it's possible to be who he really is and still have everything he's worked toward. That it's possible to love someone and be loved back without destroying everything he's built. That it's possible to compete at the highest level of motorsport while living authentically in private.

When Oscar tells him they're happy—genuinely, profoundly happy together—Carlos feels like someone has turned on lights in rooms of his heart that had been dark his entire life.

Every time he touches Oscar, every time he kisses him, Carlos feels something he's never experienced before: freedom. Complete, unfiltered freedom to be exactly who he is with someone who not only accepts that person but loves him specifically because of who he is.

When he holds Oscar's hand, his hand doesn't tremble with fear that he's doing something immoral or disgusting. When he pulls Oscar closer during a kiss, his heart doesn't race because he feels danger but because it's full of ecstasy and anticipation. When he allows himself to feel the full intensity of his attraction, his affection, his growing love, he's not worried about maintaining control.

For the first time in his life, Carlos experiences what it feels like to want someone without having to hide that wanting. To touch someone because he wants to touch him, not because it's what's expected. To be vulnerable because he trusts completely, not because he's been caught off guard.

Oscar has given him permission to exist fully. And Carlos finds that once he allows himself that freedom, everything flows naturally. His responses to Oscar's touch, his eagerness to explore this connection, his willingness to be guided through experiences he's never had but that feel like coming home.

When they're together—talking, touching, simply existing in the same space—Carlos feels like he's finally met the person he was supposed to be all this time. Not the carefully constructed version he presents to the world, but the real Carlos who has been hidden underneath layers of protection and performance.

Oscar has shown him a future where love doesn't mean destruction. Where authenticity doesn't mean loss. Where being completely himself doesn't mean losing everything that matters to him.

And for the first time in his entire life, Carlos allows himself to believe that future is possible.

He stops monitoring every gesture, every word, every reaction. Stops calculating risks and consequences. Stops maintaining the exhausting vigilance that's been his constant companion since childhood.

Because Oscar is proof that he can have everything. That he can be exactly who he is and still be loved, still be successful, still make his father proud, still have the life he's always dreamed of.

Oscar is salvation and confirmation and permission all wrapped in one person who looks at him like he's exactly what he's been searching for his entire life.

Thanks to Oscar, Carlos can finally believe that he is enough, exactly as he is. That love is possible. That happiness is waiting.

That everything he's feared about himself is exactly what will make him worthy of being loved by someone extraordinary.

And then comes the afternoon when everything changes between them in a way Carlos had never imagined but that feels like the natural culmination of everything they've been building together.

They're on the couch in Carlos's apartment, the golden light of Madrid's sunset filtering through the windows, creating shifting patterns on the walls as they talk about constellations and anything that might give them a clue about Oscar's situation.

It's a moment that feels suspended in time, intimate in a way Carlos has learned to treasure because with Oscar he can allow himself these moments of complete relaxation.

When Oscar smiles at him that way, when Carlos can feel the warmth of his proximity and can see the way the light catches the brown nuances in his dark eyes, something in the quality of that look makes all the air in the room feel different, denser, charged with possibilities Carlos has been imagining but never believed he could actually experience.

The kiss that follows feels different from all the ones they've shared before. More urgent, more decided, as if they've both silently agreed that this time they're going to cross territories that until now have been carefully avoided. Carlos responds with an intensity that surprises even himself, letting go of the careful control he always maintains, allowing himself to feel everything without filtering it through years of trained caution.

When Oscar gradually moves until Carlos is lying back, when he feels the weight of Oscar's body settling over him, Carlos experiences something he'd never imagined: complete surrender without fear.

Everything he'd been taught for years—that this was wrong, immoral, disgusting, unnatural—simply doesn't exist in his mind. There's no voice telling him to stop, no panic about what this means, no carefully constructed walls rising to protect him from his own desires.

Instead, there's only overwhelming desire. Desire for this moment, for this person, for this experience that represents everything he'd never allowed himself to dream. When he can feel Oscar's arousal pressing against him, Carlos doesn't feel shock or disgust. He feels corresponding desire that surges in him like something that's been waiting his entire life to be recognized.

He'd never thought about being in this position—he'd always assumed, in the rare occasions when he allowed himself fantasies, that he'd be the one in control, the one directing. But lying here underneath Oscar, feeling surrounded and enveloped but not trapped, Carlos realizes he wants exactly this.

He wants to surrender control. He wants to be guided. He wants to allow Oscar to take the lead while he learns, while he discovers, while he allows himself to experience all the things he's kept carefully locked away.

When Oscar's hands move toward the waistband of his pants, when Carlos can feel they're really going to do this, that Oscar is going to be the first person to touch him this way, to see him completely, to be inside him, the excitement mixes with nervousness in ways he's never experienced.

Not nervousness about doing something wrong or immoral. Nervousness about not knowing what to do, how to respond, what to expect from his own body when it's finally allowed to experience everything he's been wanting.

"I don't know..." he hears himself saying, the words coming out more vulnerable than he'd intended, "I've never... I don't know what I'm supposed to..."

And then everything stops.

Oscar pulls away and Carlos feels physical cold where there had been warmth just seconds before. He sees confusion on Oscar's face, then something like horror, as if he'd just realized something terrible.

The rejection is immediate and devastating in ways Carlos isn't prepared for. Not just because his body is still vibrating with arousal that now has nowhere to go, but because this is Oscar. Oscar, who taught him it was safe to want these things. Oscar, who showed him that love between them was possible and beautiful. Oscar, who represents everything Carlos never dared to hope for.

And Oscar is pulling away from him at the exact moment when Carlos had offered him everything.

The humiliation burns through him like acid. Not just because he'd been vulnerable and been rejected, but because he'd been vulnerable with the only person he'd believed would never reject him for being exactly who he is. He'd offered his complete trust, his complete surrender, his complete honesty about his inexperience and his need for guidance.

And Oscar had looked at all those things and decided they weren't enough. Or worse, had decided they were problems that needed to be solved instead of gifts that needed to be treasured.

Carlos feels like every wall he'd so carefully dismantled during these days with Oscar suddenly rises back into place, but now they're not protecting him from the world. They're protecting him from the devastating realization that even when someone claims to love him exactly as he is, even when someone promises his truth is safe with them, even when someone shows him a future where everything is possible—apparently, when it comes to the most vulnerable moment, when it's about actually accepting everything Carlos is offering... Carlos is still too much.

He's still too much. His inexperience is still an obstacle. His nervousness is still a problem. His need for guidance and patience is still something that drives people away at the moment when it matters most.

And the person who taught him to believe otherwise, who gave him permission to hope, who showed him that love was possible—that person is the one who just confirmed all his worst fears about himself in the most brutal way possible.

Carlos locks himself in his room and refuses to come out even when Oscar gently knocks on his door, even when he hears that familiar voice asking them to talk, explaining in words that filter under the door that he'd never wanted to hurt him, that there were complicated reasons for stopping that had nothing to do with him.

But Carlos can't process explanations. He can't process anything except the reality that when he'd finally allowed himself to be completely vulnerable, completely honest, completely open about what he wanted and what he needed, he'd been too much for the only person he'd trusted enough to show that part of himself to.

And when he finally comes out of his room in the early hours of the morning, when he finds Oscar still waiting on the couch as he'd promised he would, when they have that painful conversation where they both extract truths from themselves that hurt to express, Carlos hears himself establishing boundaries he never thought he'd need with Oscar.

Because although he understands Oscar's explanations, although he can see the logic in his reasons, although he accepts that the circumstances are more complicated than either of them can completely control, something fundamental has changed in him.

He's learned that even with Oscar—even with the person who represents everything he never dared to hope for—complete vulnerability is dangerous. That even when someone promises it's safe, even when someone shows love and acceptance, there are limits to what they can handle when presented with the raw reality of what it actually means to love someone like Carlos.

And the next morning, when Carlos wakes after barely a few hours of fragmented sleep, something in him feels different. Not lighter or more relieved from having talked with Oscar, but heavier, as if he'd added another layer of protection he didn't know he needed.

He stays in bed for several minutes, staring at the ceiling, processing not just what happened the day before but what it means for everything he's been building with Oscar since he met him.

The boundaries Carlos established weren't punishment toward Oscar. They weren't revenge for being hurt. They were pure self-preservation, the recognition that even in the safest relationship he's had in his life, even with the person who showed him it was possible to be loved exactly as he is, there are levels of vulnerability he can't allow himself again.

Because the truth he's had to accept is that what happened between them wasn't malice on Oscar's part. It was the inevitable reality that the circumstances that brought them together are more complicated than love can simply resolve. That Oscar has his own internal struggles, his own moral dilemmas, his own reasons for maintaining distance that have nothing to do with finding Carlos inadequate.

But that rational understanding doesn't change the emotional damage. It doesn't change the fact that Carlos had finally allowed himself to believe it was safe to be completely himself with someone, and had discovered that even in the best circumstances, even with the most loving person, that complete safety is an illusion.

The boundaries aren't about punishing Oscar or about rejecting the connection they have. They're about protecting the parts of himself that were hurt when he allowed himself to believe he didn't need protection. They're about ensuring he never again finds himself in the position of offering everything of himself only to discover he's too complicated, too needy, too vulnerable to be completely accepted.

When he finally gets up and heads toward the kitchen to make breakfast—because Oscar is still his guest, still someone he cares about deeply, still the most important person in his life right now—Carlos carries with him a new understanding of himself.

He can love Oscar. He can appreciate him, he can enjoy his company, he can maintain the deep connection they've developed. But never again will he allow himself the illusion that it's safe to give himself completely, that it's safe to trust without reservation, that it's safe to offer all his vulnerability without keeping something in reserve to protect himself.

It's a painful but necessary lesson: that even the most genuine love, even the most sincere acceptance, has limits that can't be crossed without consequences. And that his emotional survival depends on recognizing and respecting those limits, even when it hurts to maintain them.

Especially when it hurts to maintain them.

 

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

Chapter 20: Conjunction

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

 

Carlos drives through the streets of Madrid with the windows slightly down, letting the cool late-morning air fill the car as he navigates toward Pozuelo. His hands grip the steering wheel tighter than necessary, aware that he's using the concentration required for driving as a distraction from the thoughts that have been spinning in his head since he left the apartment.

He had woken that morning with a cold clarity he recognizes immediately. It's the same feeling he'd experienced after witnessing David's humiliation years ago, after overhearing devastating conversations in the paddock with his father's mechanics, after every moment in his life when he'd been forced to recalibrate exactly how much truth he could afford to show without devastating consequences.

It's the feeling of defenses rebuilding themselves, stronger and more sophisticated than before.

For days, he'd been canceling family commitments to avoid leaving Oscar alone. Aunt Teresa's birthday had been the latest casualty of this reshuffling of priorities. But this morning, while making breakfast and feeling the weight of maintaining appropriate distance with Oscar after everything that had happened between them the night before, he'd realized he needed to be anywhere but that apartment.

Not because he didn't want to be with Oscar. Quite the opposite—because he wanted it too much, because the intensity of what he felt had become something he couldn't handle while pretending the boundaries they'd established were sustainable.

The irony doesn't escape him: he's running toward his family—the place where he has to keep the most secrets, where he has to be most careful about showing who he really is—because it feels safer than being with the one person in his life who knows him completely. But that's exactly why he needs this space. With Oscar, he can't hide behind family performance. With Oscar, every interaction is genuine, intense, loaded with meaning he can't ignore or minimize.

And after last night, after being so vulnerable and having to establish boundaries that feel simultaneously necessary and devastating, he can't handle more genuine intensity. He needs the comfort of relationships that don't require him to constantly examine what he's feeling, what he's revealing, what he's risking.

The light changes and Carlos continues driving, feeling how the familiarity of his childhood streets gradually replaces the tension he'd been carrying in his shoulders.

It's not that he regrets what he feels for Oscar. It's that he recognizes he needs to be more than just those feelings to be able to handle them without losing himself completely in them.

When he finally reaches the family house in Pozuelo, Carlos can hear voices and laughter spilling from the backyard before he even parks the car. That familiar cacophony of overlapping conversations, children running around, and the characteristic sound of large family gatherings that have defined his concept of "belonging" his entire life. It's exactly what he needed: predictable normalcy, familiar family roles, the chance to be a version of himself that doesn't require constant examination.

His cousin Lucía opens the door with a smile.

"Carlos! We didn't know if you were coming. Mi tía said you'd probably be too busy with training stuff."

He avoids elaborating on the excuse he'd originally given for not attending and simply smiles and hugs Lucía before heading toward the garden where he can see practically the entire family gathered around long tables.

His family is huge and loud in the way that only Spanish families can be. Aunts who criticize your weight regardless of whether you've gained or lost, uncles who insist on discussing politics until someone distracts them with soccer, cousins who tease and mock you exactly the same way they did when you were twelve regardless of the fact that you're now a Formula 1 driver.

Aunt Teresa, the birthday girl, sees him immediately and rises from her chair with outstretched arms.

"¡Mi campeón!" she shouts, loud enough for the entire table to turn and look at them. "I knew you'd come! Your mother told me you were too busy, but I knew you wouldn't miss your favorite aunt's birthday!"

Carlos laughs genuinely, because Aunt Teresa has always had the gift of making him feel like he's exactly where he should be, no matter how complicated everything else in his life feels. It's exactly the kind of emotional refuge he needed, and for the first time since he woke up that morning, Carlos feels like he can breathe completely.

"Happy birthday, tía," he says, hugging her with the strength he reserves for the women in his family who raised him as much as his own mother. "Sorry I'm late."

"It doesn't matter, it doesn't matter," Teresa says, waving her hand as if punctuality were a completely irrelevant concept. "What matters is that you're here. Come, sit down!"

His mother sees him approaching and her expression immediately softens in that specific way she reserves for her children when she knows something isn't quite right. It's that maternal intuition Carlos has never been able to fully understand but has always found both comforting and slightly terrifying.

"Carlos," she says, standing to hug him, and in that embrace Carlos can feel himself being evaluated, his mother registering tension in his shoulders, exhaustion in his posture, something in his energy that isn't completely familiar. "How are you, hijo mío?"

"Fine," he responds automatically, but he immediately sees in his mother's eyes that the answer isn't convincing.

Before she can dig deeper into the subject, however, he finds himself swept into the family dynamic he knows as well as his own breathing.

"Tell me the truth, Carlos," his cousin Leo says, leaning forward with that intensity that Sainz family men bring to any discussion about competition. "How screwed is the Toro Rosso car? Because from television it looks like you're driving a brick with wheels."

Carlos laughs, immediately falling into the familiar rhythm of these conversations where everything can be criticized without filter because they're among family.

"It's not as bad as it looks," he clarifies, "though it's not exactly a rocket either. But we're learning, and next year..."

"Next year they're going to move you up to Red Bull," his uncle Hugo interrupts with the confidence of someone who's been following Formula 1 since before Carlos was born. "It's obvious. Helmut Marko would be an idiot not to."

"It's not that simple..." Carlos begins, but he's interrupted by his uncle Mauricio, who's been waiting his turn to offer his expert analysis.

"The problem with these teams," Mauricio says, gesticulating with a beer that's clearly not his first, "is they don't understand what it means to have real balls."

"Carlos has balls," Leo immediately defends. "Did you see how he was overtaking in Russia? That was pure macho instinct."

Carlos accepts the compliment with a smile, but something about the phrase "macho instinct" makes him feel slightly uncomfortable in ways he can't fully articulate. It's the kind of language he's heard his entire life, that forms part of his family's natural vocabulary when they talk about competition, success, what it means to be a Sainz.

"It's just that Carlos has always had that natural aggressiveness," Mauricio continues. "Since he was little. He never liked losing, never backed down from anything. He's a natural warrior."

"Like all the men in this family," Hugo adds with pride. "Sainz men aren't born to be runners-up."

The conversation continues in this vein for several minutes, with different family members contributing anecdotes about Carlos's childhood, stories about his competitiveness, analysis of what makes him successful as a driver. And while Carlos appreciates the support, while he genuinely enjoys these family conversations, he can't help noticing how every compliment, every positive observation, is built around concepts of masculinity that feel increasingly like a straitjacket.

They're compliments, but they're compliments that define exactly what kind of man he's expected to be, exactly within what parameters he must operate to maintain family approval.

It's when the conversation shifts to other topics that Carlos really begins to feel the weight of being here, of being surrounded by this family dynamic he loves but that also constantly reminds him how careful he must be.

His cousin Roberto, who works as a materials engineer at an aerospace company, is telling a story about problems in his office involving a coworker who apparently isn't meeting the team's expectations.

"The thing is, the guy is weird," Roberto explains, lowering his voice slightly as if he were sharing confidential information. "He never goes out for beers with us after work, never talks about women, always finds excuses not to come to social events."

"Ah, one of those," Leo says with a laugh that suggests he understands exactly what Roberto is implying.

"Exactly. And it's uncomfortable when there's someone who clearly doesn't fit in with the rest. It affects the dynamic."

"You can't maintain a good work environment like that," Mauricio adds, "when someone is hiding parts of who they really are, you never know if you can trust them when things get tough."

Carlos feels something cold settling in his stomach as he listens to the conversation. It's not malice, exactly. There's no explicit hatred in their voices. But there's that casual assumption that being different, not fitting perfectly into expected molds, is problematic in ways that go beyond personal preferences.

"Plus," Roberto continues, "how do you relate to someone who can't talk about the normal things men talk about?"

"That's true," Leo says. "The office works better when everyone understands the same references, when they can joke about the same things. When someone is constantly excluded from those conversations because... well, because their tastes are different, it creates tension."

"They're not tastes, they're weird shit," Mauricio assures.

Carlos realizes he's nodding automatically, participating in this conversation as he's expected to, but feeling a growing distance between what his mouth is saying and what his mind is thinking.

"And what are you going to do?" Carlos asks, more to keep the conversation going than out of genuine curiosity.

"Probably nothing... direct," Roberto responds. "But you know how these things are. Eventually they resolve themselves. People who don't fit end up finding other places."

The implication is clear: the person will be marginalized until they decide to leave voluntarily. No explicit cruelty, no direct confrontation, just a gradual but systematic exclusion that makes maintaining the position unsustainable.

It's exactly what Carlos had seen happen in karting, in GP3, in GP2, at every level of motorsport where he'd competed. It's not always as dramatic as what happened to David years ago. More often it's subtle, gradual, but equally effective.

The conversation moves to other topics, but Carlos is left processing what he just heard. Not because it's new information—he's been navigating these dynamics his entire life—but because today, after last night with Oscar, after experiencing what it feels like to allow himself to be completely honest with someone only to discover that even that has limits, the implications feel heavier than before.

His family isn't cruel. They're good people who love him unconditionally within the parameters of who they believe he is. But those parameters are very specific, very clearly defined, and the conversation he just heard is a reminder of what happens when someone operates outside them.

It's his mother who eventually rescues him from his own thoughts.

"Carlos," Reyes says, appearing at his side with that silent grace she's always had for moving through large family gatherings, "will you help me bring more drinks from the kitchen?"

It's not a real request for help, but an excuse to get him out of the group conversation, to create space for the kind of conversation she's obviously been planning since she saw him arrive.

In the kitchen, Reyes closes the door behind them and leans against the counter, studying Carlos with that maternal intensity that has always made him feel simultaneously protected and completely exposed.

"What's wrong with you?" his mother asks directly, without preamble, without trying to disguise her concern with casual conversation.

"Nothing," he responds automatically, but he immediately sees in her expression that this answer won't be enough.

"I've been your mother for twenty-two years. I know when something isn't right."

They stare at each other for a moment, and Carlos can feel all the resistance he'd built around this topic beginning to crumble under the weight of genuine concern in his mother's eyes.

"I..."

"What's happening, Carlos? Is it work? Friends? Love?"

The last question makes something contract in Carlos's chest, because the answer is simultaneously yes and no in ways he can't explain.

"It's... there's a person," he says carefully. "Someone who... someone important to me."

Reyes nods, as if this answer had confirmed something she already suspected.

"And what's wrong with her?"

Carlos struggles to find words that are honest without being too revealing, that explain his situation without exposing truths that could fundamentally change how his mother sees him.

"I feel something for this person," he murmurs slowly, "and I think my feelings are reciprocated. But this person has... complications. Things in their life that make a real relationship very difficult."

"What kind of complications?"

"Emotional baggage," Carlos clarifies, using the phrase that feels safest. "Things this person is carrying from another relationship that make it hard to trust completely, to commit completely."

"And how do you feel about all this?"

"Frustrated," he admits. "Because I can see the potential of what we could have together, but at the same time I feel like I'm constantly running into walls I don't know how to tear down."

Reyes nods, considering this. "And is she working to resolve her complications, or does she expect you to just accept them?"

It's a question that goes straight to the heart of what Carlos has been avoiding examining too closely.

"I don't know," he says honestly. "I think this person is doing the best possible, but I also think some of the complications are... permanent."

"And can you live with that?"

Carlos falls silent, because it's exactly the question he's been avoiding asking himself.

"Look," his mother continues, "I don't know exactly what's happening, but I can see it's affecting you in ways that go beyond normal romantic frustration. I know you, Carlos. I've seen you fall in love before, I've seen you deal with rejections, with complicated relationships. But this is different. You're..." She stops, searching for the exact words. "You're processing something deeper than normal relationship problems."

Carlos feels something in his chest tighten, because his mother is approaching territories he doesn't know how to navigate.

"Sometimes," Carlos begins carefully, "I feel like the things that matter to me, the things I feel, aren't... aren't what's expected from someone like me."

It's as close as he can get to the truth without crossing lines he can't cross.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that sometimes I feel like other men my age have a way of relating to... to important people in their lives that's simpler than what I experience," Carlos mentions, feeling like he's walking through a minefield. "Like they can keep things casual, fun, without getting emotionally complicated in ways I get complicated."

Reyes looks at him for a long moment, and Carlos can see she's processing not just what he's saying but what he's not saying.

"Carlos," she says finally, "are you trying to tell me that you feel things more deeply than you think you should?"

"Yes... Sometimes I feel like I should be able to just... I don't know, enjoy things without feeling so much. Without wanting so much. Without needing so much."

"And who told you that was a bad thing?"

"No one specifically," Carlos admits. "But you listen to others talk about relationships, about what they expect, about how they handle things, and you realize your way of feeling is... different."

"Different doesn't mean wrong. And the ability to feel deeply isn't weakness, Carlos. It's a strength."

She moves closer, as if she wants to make sure her next words are heard completely.

"But that same ability to feel deeply can become a problem when you direct it toward someone who can't or won't receive it completely. Do you know what the problem is with loving someone who can't love you back completely?"

"What?"

"That eventually you forget you deserve to be loved completely too," Reyes assures, her voice taking on the firmness she's always used for statements she considers fundamental. "That you get used to receiving crumbs of affection and celebrate them as if they were feasts."

Carlos feels something in his chest tighten, because his mother's words are touching something he's been avoiding acknowledging.

"But if I really care..."

"If you really care," Reyes interrupts him, "then you want what's best for you too. Because loving someone doesn't mean sacrificing your own happiness. It means finding ways to be happy together."

She falls silent for a moment, allowing her words to settle.

"What you have to think about," his mother continues, "is whether she's working to find solutions to her complications, or if she's expecting you to permanently accept a situation that hurts you."

"And if the complications are permanent?"

"Then you have to decide if you can live with that," Reyes responds with an honesty that's both compassionate and brutal. "Not for a while, not hoping things will change, but permanently. Because people don't change unless they want to change."

"And if walking away means losing something that could be incredible?"

"Hijo mío, something that's really incredible finds a way to work. If it can't work, maybe it's not as incredible as you think."

Her words settle between them with the weight of maternal wisdom that Carlos recognizes as both painful and necessary.

"What do I do in the meantime?"

"In the meantime, you take care of yourself. You make sure you're making decisions that let you sleep well at night. You remind yourself that you deserve to be loved in ways that don't require you to make yourself small to fit into someone else's life."

They stay silent for a moment, both processing the conversation they just had. Carlos realizes that although he couldn't tell his mother the whole truth, what he was able to share has created a space for understanding he didn't know he needed.

"Do you feel better?" Reyes asks finally.

"A little," Carlos admits. "Though I still don't know what I'm going to do."

"You don't have to know today," his mother says. "But you have to promise me you won't let someone else, no matter how much you love her, make you believe you deserve less than what you really deserve."

"I promise," Carlos says, and realizes it's a promise he needed to make as much for her as for himself.

His mom returns to the garden and Carlos stays in the kitchen, absorbing the conversation. While he realizes he deserves to be loved completely and that if the situation with Oscar can't evolve toward that, then he needs to be willing to protect his own happiness—even if that means walking away from something that feels potentially incredible—there's something that feels wrong about that conclusion, as if he's oversimplifying a situation that has many more nuances and whose complexity can't be reduced so easily.

He's absorbed in those thoughts when he sees his cousin Jaime emerging from the small storage room that connects to the kitchen, holding two bottles of red wine. For a moment, he feels that familiar mixture of affection and respect he's always associated with Jaime—the oldest of his cousins who, in some way Carlos hadn't fully understood until a few years ago, had managed to transform himself from perfect son to accepted rebel without anyone in the family being completely sure how it had happened.

During Carlos's childhood, Jaime had been the golden example of what was expected from Sainz men. Successful in his studies, respectful to his elders, devout in his religious practice, enthusiastic about sports and family traditions. He'd never caused problems, never questioned expectations, never shown interest in anything that might worry his parents. He was the kind of son who made other parents say "why can't you be more like Jaime?" to their own children.

Carlos was twelve when he began hearing the first worried family conversations about changes in his cousin's behavior. Not dramatic changes, not obvious problems, but small deviations from the perfection that had characterized his first twenty-five years of life.

It had started with questions. Questions during family dinners about why certain traditions were done a certain way, questions about why men's and women's roles were so clearly divided. Not rebellious questions, exactly, but thoughtful questions that made everyone feel slightly uncomfortable because no one had completely satisfactory answers.

Then it was Mass. Jaime, who had never missed Sunday Mass in his entire life, began skipping services occasionally. Not with elaborate excuses about being sick or having work emergencies, but simply not showing up. When his mother asked, he responded honestly that he'd decided he didn't want to go that particular week.

After that was soccer. Jaime, who had shown enthusiasm for Real Madrid for decades, simply stopped pretending. When the family gathered to watch important matches, he brought a book. When asked about results, he honestly admitted he hadn't followed them because he really didn't care who won.

The family had begun to seriously worry when Jaime started practicing baking. Not cooking to help with simple preparations during family gatherings, not cooking for survival like any functional adult who doesn't have a wife to cook for him because he's single and no longer lives with his mother, but baking; experimenting with recipes, talking about baking techniques with the same enthusiasm he'd previously reserved for topics the family considered more appropriately masculine. His brothers had begun making jokes about how he was becoming "feminized," jokes that had an edge of real concern.

But what had really alarmed everyone was when Jaime began expressing emotions openly. The man who had always shown only appropriate emotions—pride, determination, occasional anger—suddenly was admitting when he felt sad, talking about his fears, asking others about their feelings.

Carlos had been too young at the time to fully understand what he was witnessing, but he'd been observant enough to notice that the family had begun treating Jaime differently. More cautiously, as if he were a relative who had developed an illness that might be contagious if they weren't careful.

And then Jaime had started talking about Akiko.

Carlos was thirteen when he'd heard the name for the first time, mentioned in family conversations that stopped abruptly when Jaime entered the room. "That Japanese woman" had become a phrase whispered with the kind of concern the family reserved for potential crises.

The problem hadn't been just that Akiko was foreign. The Sainz family had met people from all over the world through motorsport and family business, and Carlos had grown up hearing stories about fascinating international personalities. The problem had been that Jaime's relationship with Akiko seemed to represent the culmination of all the worrying changes he'd been showing for the past few years.

"How am I going to become a grandmother if my son has a girlfriend who doesn't even live here?" his aunt Marcela had literally cried during a family dinner, real tears running down her cheeks as she processed the reality that Jaime had been maintaining this long-distance relationship for over a year. "What kind of life is that? What kind of future?"

"And she's not even Catholic," his grandmother had added, as if this were the most serious problem of all. "How are they going to raise children? In what language? With what traditions?"

"Assuming they have children," his uncle Ramón had muttered grimly. "How are you going to have a real family with someone who lives on the other side of the world? It's ridiculous."

Carlos had begun to understand that the family objection wasn't just about geography or practicality, but about the perception that Jaime had chosen something unnecessarily complicated when simpler options—options the family could understand and approve of—were available.

But it had been months later when the real scandal occurred that defined Jaime's position in the family dynamic for the years that followed.

"What do you mean you're moving to Japan?" aunt Marcela had screamed, her voice rising to a pitch Carlos had never heard from her before. "You can't move to another country for this obsession with a woman we don't even know if she's good for you! How do we know if she really loves you or if she's just using you to get something?"

"Using me to get what?" Jaime had asked, and Carlos had been able to hear the real pain in his voice. "What could she want from me that she can't get for herself? She's more successful than me, makes more money than me, has more and better education than me..."

"Exactly," his uncle Antonio had interrupted. "So why does she want you? What makes sense about this situation?"

Carlos had come to understand, even at that age, that the family couldn't conceive of a woman wanting Jaime for reasons other than the traditional reasons they understood—financial security, social status, geographical convenience. The idea that someone could choose complication, choose difficulty, choose sacrifice for love was fundamentally alien to their worldview.

"And what about your career?" his grandfather had added. "What about your life here? What about your family?"

"My career is research," Jaime had responded. "I can do research from anywhere. And my family... I hoped my family would support me being happy."

"Happy," aunt Marcela had repeated with a bitter laugh. "Do you think this is what happiness looks like? Abandoning your country, your family, your culture for a woman you haven't even known for two years?"

"I've known her for almost four years," Jaime had corrected quietly. "And yes, I think following love is what happiness looks like."

The silence that had followed had been thick with disapproval, with incomprehension, with the weight of family expectations being openly defied.

"Well," his grandmother had said finally, "I suppose you'll learn. But don't expect us to pretend we understand or that we approve."

"I don't expect you to understand," Jaime had responded. "I just hoped you would trust me enough to support my decisions."

"Supporting you would mean helping you make better decisions," Jaime's father had said. "Not enabling you to make terrible ones."

That had been the conversation that defined Jaime's position in the family dynamic for the years that followed. Not complete exile, but definitely not complete acceptance either.

The first years after Jaime moved to Japan had been tense in ways Carlos had felt but not completely understood. Jaime returned for important family gatherings, sometimes with Akiko, sometimes alone. When he came with her, conversations were polite but loaded, full of carefully formulated questions and answers that tried not to offend but clearly didn't completely satisfy anyone.

Carlos had begun interacting directly with Akiko during those visits. Unlike other adults in his life, she never asked him the typical questions he constantly received. She never asked about girlfriends or romance, never made comments about how girls must be "crazy about him" now that he was competing seriously. Instead, she asked him about books he'd read, about what kind of music he liked, about places he'd visited that had nothing to do with racing circuits.

His conversations with Akiko felt different from conversations he had with other family members. They felt like she really wanted to know him as a person instead of satisfying curiosity about his personal life or confirming expectations about who he was supposed to be. It was refreshing in ways Carlos hadn't known he needed until he experienced it.

But what had most impressed Carlos during those years was observing how Akiko handled comments and expectations from other family members. Some uncles had made comments about how Asian women were "naturally more submissive" and "better wives" than Spanish women, clearly expecting Akiko to confirm those stereotypes by being particularly deferential or servile toward Jaime.

Instead, Akiko had responded to those comments with politeness but firmness, gently correcting assumptions while maintaining civil conversations. When someone made jokes about how Jaime had gotten a wife who "probably treats him like a king at home," she casually clarified that both she and Jaime worked, cooked, and made decisions together. When someone commented about how "it must be nice to have such an obedient wife," she mentioned her own strong opinions about topics they were discussing.

Carlos had observed these interactions with growing fascination, seeing how Akiko never lowered her head or apologized for being different from what others expected, but also never became confrontational or defensive. She simply continued being exactly who she was, with the quiet confidence of someone who didn't need others' approval to feel comfortable with herself. Carlos secretly envied her because he wished he could be that way, but he knew he never could, because it would mean giving up everything.

As the years passed, Carlos had witnessed a gradual transformation in how the family treated both Jaime and Akiko. Not complete acceptance, exactly, but something more complex: a kind of tacit agreement that although they didn't completely understand the choices Jaime had made, they could see he was genuinely happy in ways he never had been when he was living the life they'd expected for him.

When Emi was born four years ago, the dynamic had evolved again. Family comments about the child's religious and cultural "confusion" continued, but there was something undeniably charming about a four-year-old who could explain both Spanish Christmas traditions and Japanese Buddhist ceremonies with equal enthusiasm. Family members who had initially been worried about how the child would "fit in" had gradually begun to feel proud of her ability to navigate multiple cultures with ease.

Carlos had come to understand, though no one in the family had articulated it explicitly, that what had changed in Jaime hadn't been the result of some negative external influence. It had been the result of finally feeling safe enough to stop pretending to be someone he wasn't. Akiko hadn't changed him; but when he met her he finally allowed himself to be honest about who he'd always been underneath all the performance.

Even Jaime's religious evolution, which had initially caused so much family scandal, had turned out to be more nuanced than anyone had expected. After years of questioning and exploration, Jaime had returned to Catholicism, but in a way that was clearly the fruit of conscious choice rather than family obligation. He attended Mass with renewed sincerity, but also accompanied Akiko to Buddhist ceremonies. Emi learned about both traditions with the understanding that she could choose either of them, or neither, when she was older.

The family still made comments about this situation, still expressed concerns about "confusing" the child, but there was a different quality to these complaints now. They felt more like habit than genuine crisis.

Now, in the present, watching Jaime, Carlos can see the end result of years of gradual evolution. Jaime isn't completely an insider in the central family dynamic, but he's not an outsider either. He occupies a position that's uniquely his own.

And Carlos, processing his own impossible situation with Oscar, watching his cousin who managed to find a way to be authentic without completely losing his family, feels something that could be hope mixing with the desperation he'd been carrying since his conversation with his mother.

"Carlos," Jaime says, noticing his presence with a smile that's genuine but slightly cautious, as if he's evaluating Carlos's emotional state as much as Carlos is evaluating his. "I heard you weren't coming today."

"I managed to free up some time at the last minute," Carlos responds, and he can see that Jaime is evaluating something in his expression or posture.

"Your mother seemed worried when she came out of here," Jaime comments, placing the bottles on the counter but making no move to leave immediately.

Carlos feels heat in his cheeks. "I guess you heard..."

"Enough to know you're going through something difficult," Jaime responds. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Carlos considers this. Jaime is literally the only person who has successfully challenged family expectations. If there's anyone who could understand without judging...

"It's just that sometimes I feel like I don't fit," Carlos finally admits. "Like there's something about me that's different from what everyone expects."

Jaime leans against the counter, his posture suggesting he's prepared for a serious conversation.

"Different how?"

"I don't know how to explain it," Carlos says, struggling to find words that are honest without being too specific. "I listen to our cousins talk about girls, about their plans, about what they want from life, and it all sounds so... straightforward for them. Like they know exactly who they're supposed to be."

"And you don't feel that way?"

"I feel like I'm constantly acting," Carlos admits. "Like there's a script I'm supposed to follow, but no one gave me a copy."

Jaime nods slowly, and there's something in his expression that suggests deep recognition. "Is this about someone specific?"

Carlos feels his heart racing. "Yes."

"And this person is important to you?"

"Very important, but not in the way people would expect."

"Does this person make you feel like you can be yourself?"

"Yes," Carlos says, and the word comes out loaded with relief. "For the first time in my life, I don't have to pretend. I don't have to act like I feel things I don't feel or like I don't feel things I do feel."

"And that scares you?"

"It terrifies me," Carlos admits. "Because it's so... intense. So real. And I know that if this goes wrong, I don't know how I'm going to recover."

Jaime looks at him for a long moment, and Carlos can see something shifting in his expression. "You know what?" he says finally. "Before I met Akiko, I also felt like I was constantly acting."

"You did?"

"For years, I was very good at being exactly what the family expected me to be: polite, successful, appropriate. But I never felt completely comfortable in my own skin."

"What changed?"

"I met someone who made me realize I'd been living my life trying to avoid disapproval instead of seeking genuine happiness."

Carlos can feel something important in those words.

"But weren't you afraid of disappointing the family?"

"I was terrified," Jaime admits. "Especially of disappointing my parents. But I realized I was already disappointing them anyway, just in ways they couldn't see."

"What do you mean?"

"I was disappointing them by never giving them the chance to know who I really am," Jaime says. "By never trusting that they could love me for who I really am instead of who I was pretending to be."

Carlos feels something in his chest tighten.

"And what if they can't? What if who you really are is too different from what they can accept?"

"Then at least you know the truth," Jaime says. "And you can make decisions based on reality instead of fear."

"But the family..."

"The family adapted," Jaime says simply. "Not immediately, not perfectly, but they adapted. Because at the end of the day, they love me more than they love their own expectations."

Carlos thinks about this, about the way the family treats Akiko and Emi now versus what he remembers from the early years of his cousin's marriage.

"This person you have... feelings for," Jaime says carefully, "is this person also afraid?"

"Yes," Carlos says. "But for different reasons than mine."

"What kind of reasons?"

Carlos considers how to explain this without revealing too much about the specific situation with Oscar.

"I think he's been hurt before," he says finally. "In ways that make it hard for him to completely trust what he feels."

Jaime goes very still, and Carlos realizes what he just did. He used a pronoun. He revealed, without intending to, the gender of the person he's talking about.

The silence stretches between them, but it's not uncomfortable. It's the kind of silence that comes when someone is processing important information and deciding how to respond.

"Does he know how you feel?"

Carlos feels a mixture of terror and relief as he realizes Jaime isn't pulling away, isn't reacting with shock or disgust.

"I think so," he murmurs, still not believing that Jaime hasn't started looking at him with revulsion. "But he's cautious. He's established boundaries because he doesn't want to get hurt, or hurt me."

"And do you respect those boundaries?"

"I'm trying to," Carlos says. "But it's difficult because I can see what we could have together if he could completely trust what's between us."

Jaime nods as if this sounds completely familiar to him.

"You know what I learned about people who have been hurt?"

"What?"

"That the difference between protecting yourself and giving up is whether you're working toward something or just avoiding everything."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that if he's being careful with you because he wants to make sure he does things right, that's different from if he's being distant with you because he doesn't want to try at all."

Carlos thinks about Oscar, about all the conversations they've had, about the vulnerability Oscar has shown even when it's difficult for him.

"He's definitely working toward something. It's just that... it's slow. And sometimes I wonder if I'm being patient or if I'm being naive."

"Does he make you feel like you're important to him?"

"When we're together," Carlos says, "I feel like I'm the most important person in his world."

"And outside of those moments?"

Carlos considers this.

"Outside of those moments, I feel like he's protecting himself from me," he admits. "Like he wants to be close but won't allow himself to want that completely."

"And that frustrates you?"

"It frustrates me because I can see how much he's denying himself," Carlos says. "I can see that he wants the same thing I want, but he's too afraid to admit it completely."

Jaime remains silent for a moment, considering this.

"Carlos, have you been completely honest with him about what you feel?"

The question hits Carlos because it touches exactly the contradiction he's been avoiding facing.

"Not completely."

"Why?"

"Because I'm afraid of pressuring him. I'm afraid that if I'm too direct about what I want, he's going to pull away completely."

"So you're both protecting your hearts instead of risking them," Jaime observes.

"I guess so."

"And how's that working out?"

Carlos laughs bitterly. "Not very well."

"Carlos," Jaime says, his voice taking on a more serious quality, "do you know what the difference is between a relationship that's difficult because it's worth it and a relationship that's difficult because it's not working?"

"No."

"In the one that's worth it, both people are working toward the same goal. In the one that's not working, both people are working to protect themselves from the other person."

Carlos can feel the truth of this immediately.

"So what do I do?"

"You decide if you're willing to be the first one to take the risk," Jaime says. "If you're willing to be completely honest about what you want and let him decide what to do with that information."

"And if he says no?"

"Then at least you know the truth," Jaime says. "And you can stop spending energy on something that was never going to work."

"And if he says yes?"

"Then you'll get exactly what you've been wanting," Jaime says with a smile. "But you'll never know until you ask."

Carlos feels something like resolution beginning to form in his chest. "Do you think my father could ever understand?"

Jaime considers this carefully, and Carlos can see he's weighing his words with the seriousness the question deserves.

"Honestly? I don't know," Jaime admits. "But that's not really the important question."

"What's the important question?"

"The important question is whether you can live the rest of your life hiding to avoid a difficult conversation."

Carlos feels the weight of those words.

"Because Carlos," Jaime continues, "your father is going to have to deal with his own feelings about this. But you have to deal with yours every day. And pretending to be someone you're not is much more exhausting than letting others process the truth."

Carlos nods slowly, feeling something fundamental settling into his understanding.

"Should we go back?" he asks finally.

"In a minute," Jaime says. "But Carlos?"

"Yes?"

"Whatever you decide to do with your father, with the family, with whoever... do it because it's what you need to be happy. Not because it's easiest for others."

Carlos can feel something like courage beginning to take shape.

"And if you need to talk about this again," Jaime adds, "you can always call or come visit Tokyo for a few days. You don't have to carry this alone."

"It doesn't bother you that I'm... this?"

"That you're brave enough to seek real love? Honest enough to admit when something is important to you?" Jaime smiles. "The only thing that would bother me is if you chose to be miserable to make others comfortable."

They take the wine bottles and walk toward the garden, where Carlos can see Akiko patiently helping Emi teach the other family children how to use chopsticks to eat olives. It's an image that suddenly seems deeply hopeful to him: living evidence that love that doesn't fit perfect molds can not only survive in his family, but find its own place.

"Thank you," Carlos says as they walk.

"For what?"

"For letting me know I have options."

"You've always had them," Jaime says. "And if you ever feel like you don't, you can always create them."

In the garden, the celebration continues. Carlos realizes several hours have passed when Emi comes running over to show him how she can write her name in both Spanish and Japanese characters. The light has changed, transforming from the golden clarity of midday to the softer tone of early evening, and although Aunt Teresa's birthday celebration is in full swing—with conversations becoming more animated as wine bottles empty—Carlos suddenly feels as if he's been absent too long.

Several hours have passed since he left the apartment, and despite the fact that the family gathering is providing exactly the kind of distraction he'd needed that morning, it now feels like avoidance.

The dynamic he and Oscar had established that morning—polite, distant, like guest and host instead of what they really are—had been suffocating even in the moment. It had worked as a temporary solution for navigating the tension after the night before, but Carlos realizes now that it's not sustainable. They can't keep pretending there's nothing meaningful between them when the reality is that every conversation, every look, every shared moment is loaded with everything they're not allowing themselves to say.

And Oscar is alone in the apartment, probably processing exactly the same frustrations, the same questions about what they expect from each other, the same doubts about whether they can find a way to be together that doesn't require one of them to make himself small to fit into the other's comfort.

He gets up from the table with a quick excuse about early work the next day, hugging Aunt Teresa with the appropriate promises to visit her soon.

"Everything okay?" his mother asks when she sees him preparing to leave.

"Everything's fine," Carlos assures her. "I just need to talk to that person I told you about."

Reyes nods with understanding. "Remember what I told you about deserving to be loved completely."

"I remember," Carlos says. "But I think the conversation we need to have is about how we can get there together."

The drive back to Madrid feels different from the drive there. Instead of running from intensity, he's heading toward a conversation he knows will be difficult but necessary. They've both been avoiding saying what they really want for fear of pressuring the other, but that mutual caution is keeping them trapped in a dynamic that's not working for either of them.

They need to talk about what they can really handle, what they need from each other, and if there's a way to be together that doesn't require either of them to sacrifice fundamental parts of himself.

When he finally arrives at the apartment, Carlos can immediately sense that something is wrong.

It's not just the quiet but the quality of that quiet. It feels empty in a way he can't fully explain.

"Oscar?" he calls as he closes the door behind him, but his voice seems to absorb into the air without producing an echo, as if the apartment were truly empty.

He heads immediately toward the guest bedroom, expecting to find Oscar resting or reading. But the room is empty, the bed made with that precision Oscar always maintains, with no signs that it's been used recently.

The kitchen is also empty, clean, with no evidence that Oscar has eaten during the hours Carlos was away.

It's when he checks the living room and doesn't find Oscar there either that something cold begins to settle in Carlos's chest.

He forces himself to check the bathroom and even the small laundry room. But every space he checks confirms what he already knows: Oscar isn't here.

And then, while he's standing in the center of the living room, a terrifying understanding begins to take shape.

What if Oscar returned to 2024?

The idea hits him with a force that makes him feel physically sick. Oscar had appeared in 2016 through some phenomenon neither of them fully understands. What if that same phenomenon reclaimed him, sent him back to his own time without warning, without a chance to say goodbye?

The panic he feels at this possibility is so intense he has to sit down on the couch. Because if Oscar left like that, if he disappeared forever, then Carlos has lost the most important person in his life without having had the conversation they both needed to have.

He sits there, surrounded by the terrible silence of the empty apartment, facing the possibility that Oscar has disappeared forever.

The hours he'd spent with his family, all the clarity he'd gained about what he needed to do, all the honest conversations he'd planned to have with Oscar—all of that suddenly feels irrelevant.

You can't have a conversation with someone who's no longer there.

The apartment remains silent, offering no answers about where Oscar is or if he'll ever return.

 

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

Chapter 21: Stellar Navigation

~ ~ ~❋ ~  ~ ~

 

Carlos remains seated on the couch for several more minutes, the silence of the empty apartment pressing against him like something physical. The conversation with Jaime had been exactly what he needed—clarity about the fact that avoiding difficult conversations doesn't solve anything, understanding that both he and Oscar need to be honest about what they want from each other. But now, facing an apartment where Oscar simply isn't there, all that clarity feels useless.

He finally gets up, moving almost aimlessly toward the kitchen, then toward the window, as if movement might help him process the situation. It's when he passes by the hall table that his gaze falls on something he'd been too anxious to notice when he arrived.

The envelope with money he'd left for Oscar that morning isn't there.

The relief he feels is so intense he has to lean against the wall. If Oscar took the money, it means he didn't mysteriously disappear. It means he left of his own accord, that he's somewhere real in Madrid.

But that initial relief lasts only a few seconds before another realization begins to take shape, more slowly but just as clearly.

Oscar went out to explore Madrid. Alone.

Carlos stands motionless as his mind begins to process the implications of this. He'd been the one to suggest that Oscar go out if he wanted to, who offered him money to explore the city. At the time it had seemed like a thoughtful, practical suggestion. But now, trying to imagine Oscar navigating Madrid independently...

Does Oscar know how to get back to the apartment?

The question hits him with a force that makes him feel physically sick. He desperately tries to remember if he ever mentioned the exact address, the street name, something Oscar could use to orient himself. But he can't remember having done so. Why would he have needed to? They'd always gone out and returned together.

And if Oscar got lost, how is he going to ask for help? Carlos suddenly remembers all the interactions he's witnessed between Oscar and other people. Gestures, smiles, basic words in Spanish. Enough to make some purchases or express courtesy, but enough to explain an emergency? To ask for complex directions? To communicate that he's lost and needs help getting to an address he might not even know?

And Oscar doesn't have a cell phone. He has no way to contact him if something goes wrong.

The guilt he feels is like something physical settling in his chest. He'd been so absorbed in his own need for space, so focused on processing his own feelings, that he hadn't fully considered what it would mean for Oscar to navigate Madrid alone. He'd made it sound like a simple and pleasant adventure when the reality is that for someone in Oscar's situation—without language, without local context, without a safety net—it could be genuinely dangerous.

Carlos checks the time. It's six-thirty in the evening. If Oscar left after he left that morning, he's been out for hours.

He forces himself to breathe, to think rationally. Oscar is smart, adaptable. He's probably in some museum or café, losing track of time. He'll return soon with stories about his day of exploration.

But at seven, when Oscar still hasn't returned, that rationalization becomes harder to maintain.

At seven-thirty, Carlos can't sit still pretending he's not worried.

He leaves the apartment with steps that quicken as he walks. On the street, he begins to patrol the neighborhood, systematically checking every café, every park bench where someone might sit to rest, every bus stop where someone lost might wait hoping to recognize something familiar.

He walks in increasingly wider circles around the building, his mind constantly creating scenarios about how Oscar might have ended up in each place. Maybe he got tired of walking and sat on that bench. Maybe he went into that pharmacy asking for help. Maybe he's at that metro stop, trying to decipher the maps.

It's while checking a small plaza three blocks from the apartment that a realization hits him with the force of an unwanted epiphany.

What exactly is he doing?

He stops in the middle of the plaza, suddenly aware of the picture he must present: a twenty-two-year-old man walking in circles, looking everywhere, clearly searching for something or someone with an intensity that borders on desperate.

And the answer to his own question settles in him with a clarity that's as uncomfortable as it is revealing: he's searching for Oscar with the urgency of someone who's truly in love.

Not with the appropriate concern of a responsible host. Not with the reasonable consideration of a friend who worries about safety. But with the specific, visceral panic of someone who can't bear the idea of losing the person he loves.

Carlos sits on a bench, processing this understanding that has arrived uninvited but with undeniable clarity.

All the conversation he'd had with his mother, all the boundaries he'd established with Oscar, all the logic about protecting himself emotionally until he was sure the other person could fully reciprocate... all of that fades before a simpler and more fundamental truth: it's already too late to protect himself.

He's already in love. Completely, irrevocably in love.

And all those boundaries he'd established so carefully, all those self-protection measures that had seemed so rational and necessary... they hadn't protected anything. They'd only created an artificial distance between him and the person he already loves, without changing at all the reality of what he feels.

The thought that follows is even more unsettling: if he's already in love, if he's already vulnerable to the kind of pain he'd been trying to avoid, then what exactly is he gaining with all this caution?

Carlos gets up from the bench and continues walking, but now his mind is working in a completely different direction. He's not just searching for Oscar; he's questioning every one of the decisions he'd made about how to handle their relationship.

The boundaries he'd established that early morning had been born from fear; fear of being rejected again, of offering his vulnerability and discovering it wasn't enough.

But the conversation with Jaime had been clear: the difference between a relationship that's worthwhile and one that isn't is whether both people are working toward the same goal or whether both are trying to protect themselves from each other.

And he and Oscar had been doing exactly the latter. Both so busy protecting themselves from the other that neither had really been present for the relationship they were trying to build.

After an hour of searching on foot, Carlos has to admit that the area he can cover walking is ridiculously small compared to the size of Madrid. If Oscar ventured toward the city center, toward the main tourist attractions, toward anywhere he might have seen on maps or guides, then a walking search is completely useless.

He returns to the apartment to get his car, hoping that maybe Oscar has returned while he was out. But the apartment remains empty, remains silent.

Leaving again, now in the car, Carlos immediately realizes that driving presents its own problems. He has less specific visibility of the sidewalks, less ability to really examine the faces of people passing by. And the reality of what he's facing becomes clearer: Madrid is a city of more than three million people. Oscar could literally be anywhere.

Did he walk toward some specific destination? Did he take a taxi toward downtown? Did he try to use the metro and get lost in the underground system? Is he sitting in some station, increasingly disoriented, trying to decipher maps in Spanish?

While driving toward the Retiro, thinking that maybe Oscar headed toward Madrid's most famous park, Carlos finds himself reflecting on something he'd been avoiding considering directly.

Had he established boundaries because he really needed time to heal, or because he was terrified of discovering that even being completely honest, Oscar might reject him anyway?

The honesty of the answer is uncomfortable: it had been mainly the latter.

He'd used the legitimate pain from the night before as justification for something that was fundamentally cowardice. He'd taken the real fact that Oscar had hurt him and turned it into an excuse not to risk himself again.

But Jaime had been clear: if you want to know if something is real, you have to be willing to risk everything for it. You have to be willing to be the first to jump, without guarantees that the other person will jump with you.

And he'd never done that with Oscar. From the first moment, he'd had the certainty that Oscar loved him in the future, he'd had guarantees that it was worth the risk. He'd never really put his heart on the line without knowing how it would end.

It's the kind of realization that hurts even when it's true: that maybe he'd been acting brave only because he had a safety net.

Carlos parks near one of the main entrances to the Retiro and walks along the paths, checking every bench, every rest area.

"Oscar?" he calls, loud enough to be heard but not so much as to alarm other evening visitors.

But the Retiro is mostly empty at this hour, just some night runners and young couples, and there's no sign of Oscar anywhere.

It's when he returns to his car that Carlos realizes he needs to consider more serious possibilities. What if Oscar had some kind of accident? What if he collapsed somewhere and is in some hospital without proper identification? What if someone took advantage of his obvious vulnerability as a lost foreigner?

He sits in the driver's seat, his cell phone in his hands, dialing hospital numbers he finds in the information directory.

"Excuse me," he says when someone answers at Hospital Gregorio Marañón, his voice coming out more tense than he'd intended, "I'm looking for someone who might have been brought in this afternoon or tonight. His name is Oscar Palmer, he's Australian, twenty-three years old, dark brown hair, about six feet tall..."

"One moment, please," says the receptionist, and Carlos can hear the sound of keys being pressed, files being consulted.

"We don't have any record of that name," she responds after what feels like an eternity.

"What about unidentified people?" Carlos insists, aware that his voice is acquiring a note of desperation he can't control. "Someone who matches that description, maybe someone who doesn't speak Spanish well..."

"Let me check the unidentified admissions from the last twelve hours," says the receptionist, with the professional patience of someone accustomed to this type of call.

More sounds of consultation, more time that stretches like melted caramel.

"No, I'm sorry. No one matching that description."

Carlos repeats this conversation with Hospital La Paz, with Hospital Clínico San Carlos, with Hospital 12 de Octubre. Each call follows the same pattern: detailed description, anxious wait, confirmation that Oscar isn't registered anywhere as a patient.

It's during the fifth call that a realization hits him: if Oscar is okay, if he returns unharmed, Carlos doesn't want to waste another moment keeping him at a distance out of fear.

Because fear had turned out to be completely useless anyway. He's already in love, already vulnerable, already has everything to lose. Acting as if he could protect himself by being cautious is an illusion that's only wasting time they could spend being honest with each other.

After five hospitals, Carlos has confirmed that Oscar hasn't had an accident requiring medical attention, at least not at the main hospitals. It's a relief, but it also means Oscar is still lost somewhere in Madrid, and Carlos is no closer to finding him than when he started.

It's almost midnight when he returns to the apartment, desperately hoping that maybe Oscar has managed to find his way back while he was searching. He takes the elevator with his heart racing at the possibility of finding light under the door, sounds of human presence, any sign that his nightmare has ended.

But the apartment remains exactly as he left it. Empty, silent, with no signs that Oscar has been there.

Carlos stands in the entrance for several minutes, not just processing his options but confronting a truth he'd been avoiding all night.

If something happens to Oscar, if he doesn't find him, if the last meaningful conversation they had was him establishing boundaries and distance...

The idea is unbearable in a way that confirms everything he'd been realizing during the hours of searching.

He doesn't want to be cautious with Oscar. He doesn't want to protect himself. He doesn't want to waste time they could spend being honest about what they feel, exploring what they could be together, building something real instead of dancing around their fears.

He wants to risk everything. He wants to be the first to jump. He wants to offer his vulnerability without guarantees and trust that Oscar will receive it with the care it deserves.

And if Oscar can't do that, if it turns out that the temporal complications really make a real relationship between them impossible, then at least Carlos will know he tried something genuine instead of protecting himself from possibilities that maybe never existed.

He returns to his car and starts driving again, this time through the main streets of downtown Madrid. He drives deliberately slowly, checking every sidewalk, every bus stop, every small plaza, anywhere someone lost might end up waiting for dawn.

His speed is so frustrating to other drivers that several honk at him when he doesn't accelerate immediately at green lights, when he stops too long at intersections trying to examine groups of people on corners.

On Gran Vía, a taxi behind him honks for almost ten seconds when Carlos stops to check a group of young people near a metro stop.

Every horn he hears makes him feel more desperate, more aware that he's looking for a needle in a haystack the size of an entire city. But he can't speed up, can't overlook any place where Oscar might be. The possibility of passing by him without seeing him is more terrifying than the frustration of other drivers.

And while he searches, while he examines every face under Madrid's artificial lights, Carlos finds himself creating plans for the conversation he'll have with Oscar when he finds him.

He doesn't want more boundaries. He doesn't want more protection. He wants complete honesty about what he feels, about what he wants, about what he's willing to risk for the possibility of building something real with Oscar.

He wants to admit that he'd been hiding behind false guarantees, acting brave only because he believed he had promises that everything would work out. He wants to admit that he'd never really risked his heart with Oscar because he'd always had that safety net of the "predestined future."

And he wants to ask Oscar to risk together in the present. To really get to know each other, without expectations, without pressure to fulfill the future of 2024.

When he passes through Sol, he sees Madrid's typical nightlife: groups of young people moving between bars, tourists consulting maps under neon signs, street artists packing up their instruments. It's exactly the kind of area where someone lost might end up, drawn by the lights and activity, hoping to find help or just a safe place to wait.

Carlos parks and walks through the plaza, examining every face, every solitary figure sitting on benches or standing on corners. His heart races every time he sees someone about Oscar's height, every time he sees brown hair under the artificial lights, but each hope fades when he gets close enough to see it's not him.

It's two in the morning when he finally admits that his random searching isn't working. He's covered a minuscule fraction of Madrid, and Oscar could be in any of the thousands of places he hasn't checked.

He could be in the metro, lost in the underground system. He could be in some residential neighborhood, walking in circles trying to find something he recognizes. He could be at a police station, trying to explain that he's lost with the limited Spanish he has and without documentation.

Or he could be somewhere much worse, in a situation Carlos doesn't want to consider but that he can't stop his mind from imagining.

He returns to the car feeling more desperate than when he started the search. Because now he not only doesn't know where Oscar is, but he's confirmed how impossible it is to find someone in a city this size without a more specific plan.

And while driving back toward his apartment, Carlos realizes he's facing the real possibility that maybe he can't find Oscar on his own. Maybe he needs official help. Maybe he needs to report Oscar as a missing person.

But that option brings its own terrifying complications. How does he explain Oscar's situation without revealing things that could cause problems? How does he describe his relationship with Oscar without raising questions he can't answer?

And more fundamentally: how long should he wait before admitting this is more serious than someone who simply got lost and will eventually find their way back?

It's past three in the morning when Carlos returns to the apartment for the third time that night, physically and emotionally exhausted, but unable to stop searching. He sits on the couch where everything had begun to get complicated between him and Oscar, where they'd had their most honest conversation, where they'd established the boundaries that now feel not only irrelevant but actively harmful.

He'd established those boundaries out of fear, not wisdom. Out of terror of being vulnerable again, not out of genuine need for space to heal.

And now, facing the possibility that maybe he'll never have the chance to correct that error, to be honest about what he really wants...

Carlos sits on the couch, physical exhaustion competing with anxiety that won't let him even consider the possibility of rest. He's traveled Madrid for hours without a real plan, without a strategy beyond the desperate hope of recognizing Oscar among millions of people.

And now, facing the fact that this approach isn't working, he tries to think like Oscar, to imagine where he might have gone.

If they were in Barcelona, Carlos would have immediately thought of the circuit. But here in Madrid, what could have drawn Oscar's attention?

Carlos mentally reviews all the conversations they've had, looking for mentions of specific places, expressions of curiosity about Madrid attractions. But he can't remember Oscar mentioning anything.

It's when he looks toward the window that his gaze naturally falls on the stars that are still visible despite the city lights.

And there's Orion, shining with that familiarity that's now charged with completely different meaning.

The memory hits him with a clarity that's almost physical: the night before, before everything got complicated, they'd been looking at constellation photos on the tablet. Oscar had seemed particularly affected by the images of Orion. Carlos had felt a certain connection during that conversation that he couldn't explain, as if they were sharing something deeper than simple astronomical curiosity.

But Oscar had seemed genuinely fascinated with that constellation in a way that went beyond casual interest. There had been something in his eyes, something that seemed like recognition rather than discovery.

It's a desperate hunch, probably. It's the kind of hope that's born more from need than logic. But maybe Oscar is somewhere related to astronomy.

Carlos gets up from the couch with renewed energy, his mind already creating a list of possibilities. Madrid has a planetarium. It has observatories. It has places where people go specifically to see the stars, to connect with exactly the kind of things they'd been discussing.

Obviously they're closed at this hour, but if Oscar is lost, if he's looking for something familiar, something that reminds him of the connection they'd been developing...

And while driving toward the planetarium, Carlos realizes that this desperate search had clarified something he'd been avoiding admitting: he doesn't want to find Oscar just to make sure he's okay.

He wants to find him so they can start over. So he can be honest about what he feels without the layers of protection he'd been building. So he can risk genuinely, without guarantees, because in the end the only guarantee that matters is that he can no longer imagine a future without Oscar in it.

El Planetario de Madrid is his first stop. He drives there with a mixture of hope and terror, aware that if this hunch is wrong, he's out of ideas about where else to search.

When he arrives, he passes slowly in front of the building, examining every corner visible from the street. It looks completely deserted. No lights, no signs of activity, no solitary figures waiting on the steps or walking around the vicinity.

Carlos doesn't even need to get out of the car to confirm that Oscar isn't there.

El Observatorio Astronómico Nacional is his next destination. It's farther from the city center, harder to reach for someone who doesn't know Madrid intimately, but Carlos drives there anyway, hoping against hope that maybe Oscar managed to get there through some combination of determination and luck.

But it's equally empty, equally closed, with no signs that anyone has been there recently.

Carlos checks two smaller observatories, a science museum that has an astronomy section, even the gardens of El Observatorio Real where sometimes people go to see the stars away from the city lights.

Each place is empty, each search confirms that his hunch, however logical it might have seemed, was wrong.

It's almost six in the morning when Carlos realizes he's exhausted all the astronomy-related places he can remember in Madrid. He's physically exhausted, emotionally devastated, and the resolution he'd developed during the search—to be completely honest with Oscar when he finds him—feels increasingly like a possibility he might never have.

He can't stop thinking about all the things he didn't tell him.

Is he safe? Is he sleeping on some park bench, vulnerable to anyone who passes by? Is he trying to get help at some police station, struggling with language barriers that could be misinterpreted? Is he hurt somewhere, waiting for help that might not come because he can't communicate where he is or what he needs?

Is he... is he alive?

The thought hits him with a force that makes him have to pull over to the side of the road, his hands shaking on the steering wheel.

Because so much time has passed, and Madrid can be dangerous in ways Carlos normally doesn't consider because he knows how to navigate the city, knows which areas to avoid, knows how to ask for help if he needs it.

But Oscar doesn't have any of those advantages.

And if something terrible happened to him...

Carlos forces himself to breathe, to continue driving back toward his apartment. Maybe Oscar returned while he was searching. Maybe he's sleeping on the couch right now, waiting to apologize for causing so much worry.

But while driving, his gaze returns to the sky where Orion is still visible despite the growing light of dawn. And maybe he's crazy, maybe the lack of sleep and anxiety are affecting his perception, but he could swear the constellation is shining more intensely than before.

Though at this hour it should be the opposite, it should be fading with daylight.

It's as if it's telling him not to give up. As if the key is there, in that connection they'd shared, in that fascination Oscar had shown.

Maybe he checked the planetarium too quickly. Maybe Oscar is somewhere that's not directly visible from the street. Maybe...

Without thinking it through completely, Carlos turns at the next intersection and drives back toward the Madrid Planetarium. It's madness, probably. He's been there before and there were no signs of Oscar.

But something in the persistent intensity of Orion in the sky, something he can't explain rationally, pushes him to try once more.

When he arrives at the building, he parks even though he knows parking is prohibited in that area. He gets out of the car slowly, exhausted, preparing for another disappointment.

And then he sees him.

A figure sitting on the building's steps, head hidden between his arms and knees, in a posture of complete defeat that Carlos immediately recognizes.

It's Oscar.

Carlos feels as if his heart had stopped and then started again at double speed. After hours of desperate searching, after imagining the worst possible scenarios, there's Oscar, exactly where Carlos had originally thought he might be.

The sound of the car door closing makes Oscar lift his head, and when their eyes meet, Carlos can immediately see that he's been crying. His face is stained with tears, his eyes red and swollen, but the expression that crosses his features when he sees Carlos is like he's seen salvation personified.

Oscar gets up so fast he stumbles over his own feet, his body clearly exhausted after hours sitting on cold stone steps. He starts running toward Carlos, but his legs give out under him and he falls, his hands hitting the pavement.

"Oscar," Carlos says, running toward him and starting to crouch down to help him. But before he can help him up, Oscar launches himself against him, his arms surrounding Carlos with desperate force.

"You came," Oscar murmurs, his voice breaking with relief and exhaustion. "You still care about me."

The words break something fundamental in Carlos's chest. He helps Oscar to his feet, feeling how his body trembles against his, feeling the emotional weight of the hours Oscar has spent here alone, waiting, not knowing if anyone would come for him.

"Of course I care about you," Carlos assures, his voice coming out more intense than he'd intended. "I've been looking for you all night. I was..."

"Carlos," Oscar interrupts, and when Carlos looks into his eyes, Oscar presses his lips against his.

It's a kiss that's more recognition than romance, more gratitude than passion, more need than desire. But it lasts only a few seconds before Oscar pulls away abruptly, his hands releasing Carlos as if he'd just remembered something terrible.

"God, I'm sorry," he says, his hands rising in a gesture of apology. "I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have... you established boundaries and I just... I'm not respecting what you need and..."

And Carlos feels as if someone had stabbed a knife in his chest. Because there's Oscar, after hours lost and terrified, after finally being found, apologizing for showing relief, for expressing what he feels, for not maintaining appropriate distance even in a moment like this.

And Carlos realizes this is his fault. That the boundaries they established, however necessary they might have seemed, have made Oscar feel that even in crisis, even when he's devastated and relieved and desperate, he has to constantly monitor his responses so as not to make Carlos uncomfortable.

"No," Carlos clarifies, his voice coming out with a firmness that surprises him. "Don't apologize for that."

Carlos immediately embraces him, his arms closing around Oscar with a strength that speaks of his own desperate relief. Oscar not only reciprocates the embrace but clings to him as if his life depended on it, as if letting go of Carlos might make this entire reunion vanish like a dream.

"I'm sorry," Oscar whispers against Carlos's shoulder, the words coming out broken by emotion he can no longer contain. "I'm so sorry, Carlos. I'm so useless. I can't do anything without you. I don't know how to get home, I don't know how to be on my own, I don't know..."

"Oscar, no..." Carlos begins, but Oscar continues as if the words had been dammed up for hours and finally found escape.

"I know you left this morning because I make you uncomfortable now," Oscar continues, his voice breaking. "I know all this... everything I am, everything I need, is hurting you. And I hate that. I hate being so dependent. I hate that you had to search for me. I hate that you have to..."

"Stop," Carlos requests firmly, pulling back enough to be able to look Oscar directly in the eyes. "Stop right now. You're not useless. It's completely normal to get lost in a city like Madrid being on your own, without knowing Spanish, without a map, without a cell phone, without someone to guide you."

His hands move to frame Oscar's face, forcing him to maintain eye contact for these crucial words.

"It was my fault," Carlos continues, his voice loaded with the guilt he's been carrying for hours. "It was my fault for not remembering how vulnerable it would be for you to be alone here. For not giving you my phone number, for not making sure you knew the exact address where I live, for not thinking about all the things that could go wrong."

"But I should have..."

"No," Carlos interrupts him. "And don't you dare say you're a burden. Do you know how brave you are? Do you have any idea how incredible you've been handling a situation that would break most people?"

Oscar looks at him with eyes that have become very wide, as if he can't fully process what he's hearing. His lips open slightly, but no sound comes out, as if every word from Carlos is reorganizing something fundamental in his understanding of the situation.

"You're living an impossible situation," Carlos continues, his voice acquiring an intensity that comes from having spent hours imagining the worst. "Anyone else who was in your situation, who realized they'd traveled through time, who was completely dependent on someone who in this time doesn't know them yet, in an era that doesn't belong to them, would have completely lost their mind already."

"Carlos..."

"But not you," Carlos assures, needing Oscar to understand this completely. "You've adapted, you've learned, you've found ways to survive and to be... to be incredible. You've been doing really, really well."

They stand there, on the planetarium steps, neither saying anything more. Carlos can feel Oscar continue to cling to him, can feel how his breathing gradually becomes less agitated, less desperate.

It's after several minutes that he realizes Oscar is really crying. Not dramatic sobs, but silent tears that dampen Carlos's shirt where his face is pressed against his shoulder.

"Oscar?" he mentions softly.

When Oscar finally speaks, his voice is barely a thread, so low that Carlos has to strain to hear it.

"I was scared to death," Oscar admits, the words coming out like a confession that had taken him hours to form. "For hours, I thought I'd never see you again. I thought I was going to be lost forever in this city and that if I died, no one would know who I was or where I came from and you'd never know. I was terrified."

Carlos feels something contract in his chest hearing this, imagining the hours Oscar spent here alone, processing exactly those fears.

"But you came," Oscar adds, his voice now loaded with a relief that's so deep it hurts to hear. "I knew that if you were going to look for me, you'd look for me here. Because of Orion. Because you'd remember yesterday, before everything... you'd remember what we were looking at together."

Carlos then understands the logic that had led Oscar here, the same astronomical intuition that had finally guided Carlos to the right place. They'd been connected even when they were separated, even when both were lost and desperate.

"Of course I came. Of course I looked for you. I'm never going to leave you alone like that again. Never."

"Can we go home?" Oscar asks, his voice still trembling but loaded with a hope he hadn't had in hours.

The word 'home' hits Carlos with unexpected force. Not 'your apartment' or 'where you live', but home. As if Carlos's place were also Oscar's place, as if he belonged there in a way that goes beyond temporary hospitality.

Carlos feels enormous peace expand in his chest at that simple word, at the implication of belonging it carries.

"Of course," he responds, his arms reluctantly releasing Oscar but staying close enough to guide him toward the car.

When they start walking, Oscar immediately takes Carlos's hand. It's not a romantic or calculated gesture, but something instinctive, necessary, as if he needed constant physical confirmation that Carlos is really there.

Carlos can feel through that contact how scared Oscar had really been—his fingers tremble slightly, his grip is firm but desperate, as if letting go might make him disappear again.

Once in the car, Carlos adjusts the air conditioning and makes sure Oscar is comfortable before starting to drive. It's then that he realizes he needs to explain something that's been bothering him.

"About two hours ago I'd already come to the planetarium. I drove past the building, but I didn't see you. I thought my hunch was wrong."

Oscar looks at him with surprise. "I'd been sitting on the steps for hours, but at a certain point..." He stops, as if remembering something painful. "At a certain point I felt too much anxiety. I couldn't stand sitting still. I started walking around the building, pacing, trying to... I don't know, do something with the nervous energy."

"That explains why I didn't see you," Carlos concludes, feeling a mixture of relief at having found the explanation and frustration at having been so close before.

"You really spent hours looking for me?" Oscar asks, his voice loaded with an incredulity that suggests he can't fully process that someone would have done that for him.

Carlos stops at a red light and takes advantage of the pause to look at Oscar directly.

"Since I got home and saw you weren't there. I've been driving around Madrid all night, checking hospitals, walking through the neighborhood, calling places..." His voice becomes more intense as he remembers the desperation of the last hours. "I went to the Retiro, checked downtown, called five different hospitals asking if they'd admitted someone matching your description."

Oscar looks at him with an expression that's part amazement, part something deeper that Carlos can't completely identify.

"I don't understand," Oscar says finally, his voice barely a whisper.

"What don't you understand?"

"I don't understand why you'd do all that for me."

The devastating simplicity of the statement makes Carlos feel as if someone had punched him in the chest. He realizes suddenly that he needs to stop the car, that this conversation requires his complete attention.

He finds a place to park even though they haven't reached home yet, turns off the engine, and turns to look at Oscar completely.

Dawn is beginning to filter through the windows, creating a soft, golden light that makes everything feel suspended in time. And in that light, Carlos can clearly see the genuine confusion on Oscar's face, as if he really can't understand why someone would care enough about him to spend hours in desperate search.

But it's Oscar who speaks first. His voice comes out broken, loaded with a vulnerability that seems torn from the hours of terror he's just experienced.

"Carlos, before you say anything, I need... I need to confess something to you." His eyes become glassy again, but he continues speaking as if the words had been dammed up for too long.

"Maybe I'm a selfish bastard and I know it's probably wrong," he begins, his voice barely a choked whisper, "but I don't want you to keep treating me like this morning."

Carlos can see how much it costs him to admit this, how each word seems to cause him physical shame, but Oscar continues with a brutal honesty that hurts to hear.

"It felt horrible. Waking up and having you be kind but distant, like I was simply a guest. Like all the intimacy we'd built had evaporated."

Oscar wipes his nose with the back of his hand, a vulnerable gesture that makes Carlos want to embrace him, but something in Oscar's posture suggests he needs to finish saying this.

"And I know what's best for you is probably keeping your distance," Oscar continues, his voice breaking, "I know the boundaries you established are logical and necessary and probably protect you from complications you don't need."

He stops to breathe, as if gathering courage for the hardest part.

"But I didn't like it," he finally admits, the words coming out like a confession torn from the deepest part of his soul. "I hated every second of being treated like I wasn't special to you. I hated that there weren't those moments where our eyes meet and there's something there that doesn't exist with anyone else. And I hated that when you said you had personal plans, I wasn't automatically included," Oscar continues, his voice now barely audible. "Because for days I'd gotten used to being... to being yours, I guess. To being the person who goes places with you."

The word 'yours' comes out with a mixture of need and shame that makes something contract painfully in Carlos's chest.

"I know it sounds possessive and needy," Oscar says quickly, as if he needs to defend himself from accusations only he's making. "I know I have no right to feel that, especially considering... everything." His hands tremble where he has them intertwined in his lap. "But during these days with you, I never felt like a temporary refugee. I felt like I belonged somewhere, with someone."

Carlos can see the devastation on Oscar's face as he admits this, can see how much it costs him to reveal this emotional dependence.

"And when that disappeared this morning, when I went back to being simply someone who needs housing... it felt like losing the only real thing I have in this time..."

"So yes," he says finally, "I'm a complete selfish bastard for wanting something that maybe isn't best for you. But I can't pretend I don't miss you."

His eyes find Carlos's with desperate intensity.

"I don't want to be treated like just anyone in your life, Carlos," he admits, his voice breaking completely. "I know it's wrong, I know it's unfair, but after being lost all night thinking I might never see you again... I can't pretend to be okay with how you treated me during breakfast."

The silence that follows is dense, loaded with the weight of a confession Oscar clearly had been holding but that the hours of terror have forced out. Carlos can see how much it's cost him to admit these things, how much shame he feels for needing so much, for wanting to be special instead of simply being grateful for the help received.

And Carlos realizes this is exactly the moment Jaime had described—when someone risks everything, when they put all their truth on the table without knowing how it will be received.

"Oscar," Carlos begins, his voice loaded with an intensity that comes from having confronted the possibility of never being able to say these words. "I need you to know something. I need you to understand why I spent all night looking for you like a madman."

He turns completely in his seat to be able to look at Oscar directly, aware that what he's about to say could change everything between them, for better or worse.

"It wasn't just because I was worried about your safety, though that was true. It was because the idea of losing you, of you disappearing without me having had the chance to tell you this..."

He stops, breathing deeply, preparing to jump into the emotional void he's been avoiding for days.

"You're not someone who just attracts me or someone I like. I'm falling in love with you," he admits, the words coming out with a clarity that surprises even him. "With you, Oscar. With the man who's here with me now."

Oscar looks at him with eyes that have become very wide, as if he can't fully process what he's hearing. His lips open slightly, but no sound comes out, as if every word from Carlos is reorganizing something fundamental in his understanding of the situation.

"With the Oscar who adapts to impossible situations with a grace that leaves me breathless," Carlos continues, the words flowing now that he's broken the initial barrier. "With the Oscar who has a dry humor that I find incredibly funny. With the Oscar who made me feel like it was safe to be completely myself for the first time in my life."

The dawn light is becoming more intense, filtering through the car windows and creating a golden atmosphere that makes everything feel suspended in time, as if this moment exists outside all the complications surrounding them.

"When I thought maybe you'd returned to 2024," Carlos continues, his voice acquiring a rawer, more desperate quality, "when I thought maybe you'd disappeared forever, it wasn't just panic about your safety. It was absolute terror that the person I'm falling in love with had disappeared without me having had the courage to tell him."

The words seem to hit Oscar like something physical. He flinches slightly, as if struggling against something internal he can't fully articulate.

"Carlos, no..." Oscar begins, his voice broken.

"Why not?" Carlos asks, and there's something in his tone that's part challenge, part plea. "Why can't I tell you I'm falling in love with you when it's the most honest truth I've felt in my life?"

"Because..." Oscar begins, but stops, his hands moving nervously in his lap as if struggling against something he can't name.

"Let me guess," Carlos says, carefully observing Oscar's expression, seeing the guilt creeping into his eyes. "Because you feel it's wrong to reciprocate what I feel for you."

Oscar's expression changes immediately, as if Carlos had touched exactly the nerve he'd been trying to avoid.

"That's not..." Oscar begins weakly.

"Isn't it true?" Carlos asks softly. "Isn't there a part of you that feels it's wrong to develop feelings for me because you love the Carlos of 2024? Like you'd be betraying your real Carlos by feeling something for... the young version of him?"

The silence that follows is answer enough. Oscar lowers his gaze, and Carlos can see how his shoulders tense with guilt.

"Oscar, I think that's exactly the trap we've both been caught in. You feel guilty for developing feelings for me because I'm the past version of your boyfriend. I'm a younger version of the person you love and I understand that has more moral dilemmas than if I'd been a stranger from 2016. And I," Carlos continues, his voice becoming more reflective, "have allowed myself to be brave with you, vulnerable with you, because I knew it was safe to do so. Because you told me that in the future we work out, so all the times I've flirted or tried to advance there was never real risk because I knew that whatever happens in 2024 you're my boyfriend."

He stops, organizing thoughts that are taking shape even as he speaks. The thoughts that had crystallized during hours of desperate searching.

"But what if we've both been living based on versions of ourselves that we're not?" Carlos asks. "What if you've been denying yourself the possibility of really getting to know me because you're too busy feeling guilty about not being loyal to a future that maybe no longer exists and maybe never will exist?"

Oscar looks at him with an intensity that suggests he's following every word, processing not just what Carlos is saying but all the implications of what he's suggesting.

"And what if I've been being honest with you only because I had guarantees, instead of really risking myself for who you are now, here, without promises that we're going to end up together?"

"What are you saying?" Oscar asks, his voice barely audible but loaded with cautious hope.

"I'm saying maybe we should start over," Carlos explains, the words coming out with more conviction than he'd expected. "Not as young Carlos who's going to become your future boyfriend, nor as Oscar who in 2024 is my boyfriend. But as the people we are now, in this moment. As two people who clearly feel something for each other and who should give themselves the chance to really get to know each other, without taking anything for granted, without assuming they're destined to be together."

Oscar looks at him with eyes that have begun to shine with something that's definitely hope now.

"What would that mean exactly?" Oscar asks, and Carlos can hear in his voice that the idea intrigues him but also terrifies him.

"It would mean," Carlos says carefully, feeling as if he's offering something precious and fragile, "that we'd give ourselves permission to take things slowly. To get to know each other without the pressure of fulfilling future versions of ourselves, without the complication of feeling we have to be something specific because time tells us that's how we end up."

He stops, organizing the details of what he's imagining, aware that every word could determine whether Oscar is willing to try what he's proposing.

"I'm not saying we become a couple right now. Rather that you could continue being Oscar Palmer, accompany me for the rest of the season while I try to help you with your research about time travel. And we could explore what we feel for each other, without having to carry the weight of expectations based on a future. Get to know each other like normal people."

The silence that follows is dense, loaded with the weight of possibilities neither of them had considered before. Carlos can see that Oscar is struggling with something internal, some kind of decision that goes beyond simply agreeing or not with the proposal.

"Do you really want to know the real Oscar?" Oscar asks finally, and there's something in his tone that suggests this is a more complex question than it sounds. "The Oscar who maybe isn't as interesting as the one you've imagined? The Oscar who has problems and insecurities and ways of being that maybe you won't like?"

Carlos feels something expand in his chest at that question, because it's exactly what he's been wanting without knowing how to ask for it.

"Especially the real Oscar. Because the Oscar I've gotten to know these days, the one I've seen adapt and struggle and be incredibly brave while navigating a situation that would break most people... that Oscar is much more interesting than any idealized version of the future."

The smile that begins to form on Oscar's face is tentative but genuine, as if something he'd been holding back finally found permission to emerge.

"And if we discover that without all the pressure of the future, without all the intensity of the temporal situation, we don't really have as much in common as we think?"

"Then we'll find that out," Carlos responds simply, but his voice is loaded with an honesty that makes the answer feel fundamental.

He leans slightly forward, needing Oscar to fully understand the importance of what he's saying.

"But if we discover that what we have is real," Carlos continues, "that what we feel for each other can exist without all the temporal complication, without all the predetermined expectations... then we'll have something that's based on who we really are, not on who we're supposed to become."

Oscar looks at him for a moment that feels eternal, and Carlos can see he's struggling.

"And what about the fact that eventually I have to return to 2024?" Oscar asks finally, the question both had been avoiding but that's fundamental to any decision they make.

"I don't know," Carlos admits honestly, and there's something liberating in that admission. "Maybe we'll find a way to get you back tomorrow. Maybe we'll discover there's no way. Maybe it'll take years. Maybe it'll take days." He stops, looking directly into Oscar's eyes, seeing all the uncertainty and fear he's been carrying. "But even if we're destined to separate eventually, isn't it worth experiencing something real while we can? Isn't it worth really getting to know each other, without pretenses, without impossible expectations, just... being ourselves together?"

"Yes," Oscar admits and though his voice is barely a whisper, it's loaded with a determination he hadn't had before. "Yes, I want to try. I want to get to know you, you, Carlos. I want to see what happens when we set aside all the weight of the future and simply... are ourselves."

He pauses, and when he continues, there's a smile in his voice that Carlos can hear even before seeing it.

"I want to know the Carlos who doesn't act brave just because he has guarantees from the future. I want to know the Carlos who risks himself for me because he really wants to, not because he knows it's going to work out."

"And I want to know the Oscar who doesn't feel guilty for wanting me," Carlos responds. "The Oscar who allows himself to feel what he feels without having to justify it or apologize for it."

They stay there, in the parked car while Madrid wakes up around them, and Carlos feels as if they've found something he didn't know they were looking for: a way to be honest about what they feel without having to carry the impossible expectations they'd been bearing since the moment Oscar appeared in his life.

It's not a perfect solution. It doesn't solve the fundamental problem that Oscar doesn't belong to this time, or that eventually they'll have to find a way to deal with that reality.

But it's a real beginning, based on who they are now instead of who they're supposed to be. And above all: in honesty.

And for the first time in days, that feels not just like enough, but like something genuinely hopeful.

The silence that follows is different, full of possibilities instead of unresolved tension. Carlos can feel that something fundamental has changed between them, as if the weight both had been carrying has finally been set aside.

"You know what?" Carlos says suddenly, a smile forming on his lips. "I think we should do this right."

He extends his right hand with a gesture that's part joke, part something much more serious.

"Hi, I'm Carlos."

Oscar looks at the extended hand for a moment, and then his face lights up with understanding. It's as if he's seeing all the promise the gesture represents: the opportunity to really get to know each other, without pretenses.

"Hi, Carlos," he responds, taking his hand. "I'm Oscar."

The handshake lasts longer than normal, because both understand this is a new beginning they've consciously chosen.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Oscar."

"The pleasure is mine, Carlos."

Carlos starts the engine, and as they head home, he realizes that for the first time since Oscar appeared in his life, he's simply excited to get to know him. The real Oscar, without expectations, without pressure to be perfect. Without wanting to ask questions about the future, without caring how his life is supposed to be in 2024.

And that anticipation, simple and honest, feels like the most hopeful thing he's experienced in a long time.

 

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

Chapter 22: Dark Matter

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The light filtering through the poorly closed curtains has that golden, dense quality that only Madrid's midday sun possesses. Oscar opens his eyes slowly, his consciousness emerging from the depths of sleep that had finally come after hours of emotional and physical exhaustion. The digital clock on the nightstand reads 11:47 AM, confirming what his body already knew: he's slept for almost four consecutive hours, a luxury after the night he's just lived through.

He stays motionless for a moment, allowing the memories of the last few hours to reorganize in his mind like pieces of a puzzle that still doesn't quite form a complete picture. Madrid. Lost. The planetarium. Carlos arriving like salvation personified. The car. The conversation.

Starting over.

The words resonate in his mind with a clarity that contrasts brutally with the confusion he now feels processing them fully awake. Carlos had proposed something that in the moment had sounded like the perfect solution: getting to know each other without the pressure of a predetermined future, without expectations based on versions of themselves that might not be real.

Oscar sits up slowly, feeling how every muscle in his body protests from the hours he spent sitting on cold stone steps. His legs are stiff, his back aching, but it's the weight in his chest that really bothers him. A weight he immediately recognizes as guilt, dense and persistent like melted lead.

He brings his hands to his face, rubbing his eyes that still feel gritty from lack of sleep and the tears he shed during the early morning hours. Through his palms, he can hear the muffled sounds of the apartment: water running in the kitchen, the soft murmur of the television, Carlos's characteristic footsteps moving through his space with that familiarity Oscar has come to associate with safety.

Carlos is there. Carlos, who spent hours searching for him through Madrid like a madman. Carlos, who found him at the planetarium and held him like he was something precious he'd feared losing forever. Carlos, who opened his heart to him again with that devastating vulnerability that makes Oscar feel simultaneously like the luckiest man in the world and the most miserable.

"I'm falling in love with you."

The exact words Carlos had said resonate in his mind with a clarity that makes something contract painfully in his chest. It hadn't been a casual declaration or a confession extracted by the moment. It had been deliberate, honest, brave in a way Oscar recognizes he himself hasn't been able to match.

And Oscar had responded. He'd accepted the proposal to start over, he'd smiled, he'd felt genuine hope for the first time in days. He'd shaken Carlos's hand in that gesture that was part joke, part sacred ritual, and he'd felt like they finally had a chance to build something real.

But now, in the brutal clarity that comes after sleep, after the adrenaline of reunion has faded, reality settles into him like cold water.

He didn't tell him the truth.

Oscar gets up from the bed and walks to the window, pulling back the curtains to look out at the Madrid that had terrified him so much during the previous night. From here, from the safety of Carlos's apartment, the city looks benign, almost welcoming under the daylight. It's impossible to reconcile this peaceful view with the hostile labyrinth he'd been lost in just a few hours before.

He'd had the perfect opportunity to confess everything.

The realization hits him with a force that makes him lean against the window frame. In the car, when Carlos had proposed starting over, when he'd talked about getting to know each other without pretenses or false expectations, when he'd been so completely honest about his feelings... that had been the moment. The perfect moment to admit that there was no Carlos waiting for him in 2024, that the entire story of their future relationship had been an elaborate lie to ensure his survival.

But he hadn't done it.

Oscar closes his eyes, remembering the exact moment when he'd felt the words forming in his throat, when he'd been about to say: "Carlos, before we move forward, I need to confess something to you." He can vividly remember how his heart had raced, how he'd opened his mouth, preparing to jump into the void of complete honesty.

And then he'd imagined Carlos's expression changing. Trust transforming into confusion, then understanding, and finally into that kind of betrayal you feel when you discover that someone you'd placed your most complete vulnerability in has been systematically lying to you for days.

He'd imagined Carlos asking him: "Nothing you told me was true? The way we take care of each other? The 'te amo too'? The nights of love on the terrace? Was it all made up?"

And then he'd imagined having to answer yes, that it had all been invented. Every intimate detail, every moment of supposed tenderness, every small tradition they'd "shared" in the future... everything had come from his imagination, constructed specifically to maintain Carlos's interest, to secure his help, to manipulate his feelings in the most efficient way possible.

Oscar moves away from the window and sits on the edge of the bed, his hands trembling slightly as he processes the magnitude of what he'd really face if he decided to be honest now.

It wouldn't just be Carlos's emotional devastation. It would be everything else.

Carlos had been clear about his relationship with honesty: "If there's one thing I can't forgive, that I could never forgive, it's being lied to." He'd said it with a conviction that left no room for interpretation. For Carlos, lies were a fundamental, unforgivable betrayal.

And Oscar hadn't lied about something small or insignificant. He'd lied about everything. He'd built their entire interaction on a fiction so elaborate it would have required hours of confession to completely untangle.

And after that confession? After watching Carlos's trust turn to disgust, after seeing affection transform into revulsion... what then?

Carlos would throw him out of the apartment. Of course he would. How could he keep someone in his home who'd proven capable of such systematic, such cruel manipulation? How could he trust that Oscar wouldn't keep lying, wouldn't keep taking advantage of his natural kindness?

And then Oscar would be exactly where he'd been the night before: alone in Madrid, without resources, without shelter, without anyone to help him. Except this time it would be infinitely worse, because this time he'd know exactly what he'd lost. This time he'd have the fresh memory of what it feels like to be cared for by someone, to be important to someone, to be loved by someone... and he'd know he'd destroyed it all with his own choices.

The prospect of experiencing that loneliness again, that terror, that complete desperation he'd felt during the hours lost in the city... is literally unbearable. His hands begin to tremble more noticeably as his mind presents vividly detailed images: himself sitting on cold steps again, but this time without the hope that someone would come looking for him. This time with the certainty that he'd burned the only bridge he had to safety.

Oscar gets up abruptly, needing movement to interrupt this spiral of thoughts that threatens to become a panic attack. He walks to the closet mirror and observes himself: disheveled, with dark circles, with the pillow's imprint still pressed into his cheek. He looks exactly like what he is: someone who's just survived a traumatic experience.

But he also looks like someone who's safe. Someone who has a place to sleep, food secured, someone who cares about him. Someone who doesn't have to face the terror of being completely alone in a time that doesn't belong to him.

And all of that he's going to sacrifice for what exactly?

The question forms in his mind with cold, pragmatic logic that he immediately recognizes as his survival mechanism reorganizing itself to protect him from the temptation of self-destructive honesty.

To feel better about himself?

Because that's what it would be, wouldn't it? Selfish confession. Transferring the burden of his guilt to Carlos, making Carlos deal with the devastation of discovering he's been manipulated, all so Oscar can walk with a clear conscience... toward a life of complete misery.

And what exactly would be gained with that "honesty"?

Carlos would suffer. Immensely. Discovering that all the vulnerability he'd shared, all the trust he'd placed, all the hope he'd built about their future together... had been based on lies calculated to manipulate him. That would devastate him in ways Oscar can't even fully contemplate.

And for what. For nothing. Because there's no version of that confession that ends with Carlos saying: "It's okay, I understand why you lied, let's move forward."

Oscar walks to the small chair in the corner of the room and sits heavily, his thoughts organizing in a direction he recognizes as rationalization but that also feels inevitable.

The truth is there's no way for Carlos to find out about his lies unless he reveals them himself. It's not like the Carlos of 2024 is going to magically appear to confront his younger version about the lies he's been told. There's no mechanism by which the truth would naturally come to light.

And Carlos had said he wanted to start over. That he wanted to get to know him without the pressure of a predetermined future. That means they're no longer going to be constantly talking about their supposed relationship in 2024. He's no longer going to have to elaborate more details about their future life together.

If he simply... lets the lies of the past fade into the background, if he focuses on building something real with Carlos in the present, based on who they are now... wouldn't that be better for everyone?

The lies he's already told have served their purpose: they gave him the opportunity to get to know Carlos, to earn his trust, to develop a real connection. And that connection is real now, regardless of how it began. The feelings he has for Carlos are genuine. The feelings Carlos has for him also seem to be genuine.

Why destroy something real because of the method of how they got there?

Oscar leans back in the chair, feeling how this logic settles in his mind like a balm for the guilt that had been eating at his chest. He's not going to lie anymore. He's going to be completely honest from here on out. He's going to let Carlos really get to know him, he's going to be vulnerable, he's going to risk himself emotionally in genuine ways.

But the lies of the past... those can stay buried. They're not hurting anyone now that they've decided to start over. And revealing them would only cause unnecessary devastation for both of them.

It's the practical decision. It's the compassionate decision, even. He's protecting Carlos from the pain of knowing he was manipulated. He's protecting the opportunity they both have to build something beautiful together.

Any rational person in his position would do exactly the same.

He gets up from the chair, feeling as if he's resolved something fundamental. He's no longer going to torture himself with guilt over decisions he made under extreme circumstances to survive. He's no longer going to consider self-destructive confession as if it were some kind of moral obligation.

He's going to focus on the future. On getting to know Carlos. On building something real with him, based on honesty from here forward.

And as he heads toward the shower, he allows himself for the first time in days to feel genuine anticipation for the coming day. For the opportunity to spend time with Carlos without all the pressure they'd been carrying. For the possibility of discovering if what they feel for each other can flourish into something even more beautiful when they're not constantly navigating temporal complications and impossible expectations.

The hot water of the shower feels like a baptism, washing away not just the dust and exhaustion of the previous night, but also the weight of guilt he'd been carrying. Because he's made the right decision. The decision that protects them both. The decision that gives them the best chance at happiness.

In fact, as he lathers his hair, a new perspective begins to take shape in his mind, one that makes everything feel not just justified but almost... noble.

What if he's actually done Carlos a favor?

The idea arrives with a clarity that surprises him. Carlos himself had admitted that he'd only allowed himself to explore this part of himself because Oscar had given him "divine permission" by telling him that in the future they were a couple. He'd been explicit: his whole life he'd repressed these feelings, he'd built walls to protect himself from the social consequences of being honest about his sexuality.

Oscar closes his eyes under the stream of hot water, allowing this understanding to expand. Carlos had needed that security, that guarantee that it was safe to be vulnerable, to finally allow himself to feel what he'd been repressing for years. Without Oscar's lies, without the story of the future that gave him permission to explore, Carlos would have continued living a life of total repression. He would have continued building increasingly higher walls to protect himself from his own desires. He would have continued being miserable in ways he might not have even fully recognized.

And in 2024? God, he'd probably be exactly like the Carlos that Oscar had known in his time: the kind of man who's a complete asshole to Oscar because he surely lives bitter and frustrated and closed off, incapable of vulnerability because he'd spent decades burying fundamental parts of himself. Someone who'd sacrificed any possibility of authenticity on the altar of social approval.

The contrast is devastating when he considers it fully. The Carlos he knows now—open, vulnerable, capable of tenderness, willing to risk himself for love—exists precisely because Oscar lied to him. Because Oscar gave him the security he needed to finally be honest with himself.

Without those lies, this beautiful, authentic, brave Carlos... simply wouldn't exist.

It's a realization that completely reconfigures his understanding of what he's done. He hasn't manipulated Carlos. He's given him freedom. He hasn't deceived him. He's shown him possibilities he never would have allowed himself to contemplate.

Oscar leans against the shower wall, feeling the steam accumulate around him like a physical metaphor for the clarity emerging in his mind. Every conversation they've had, every moment of intimacy they've shared, every instant when Carlos has allowed himself to be completely himself... all of that exists because Oscar had the courage to create a safe space through a benevolent fiction.

And now that Carlos has had that experience, now that he knows how it feels to be completely authentic with someone, does he really need to know it started with a lie? Isn't it enough that he's learned he's capable of love, of vulnerability, of genuine connection?

The truth, Oscar realizes with almost dazzling clarity, would be destructive not just for him but for Carlos too. Knowing that all his transformation, all his emotional liberation, all his newly discovered capacity for intimacy... had been built on lies. That wouldn't just devastate him emotionally; it could make him question everything he's learned about himself.

It could make him think that his capacity for vulnerability, for love, for authenticity... had been artificial from the beginning. It could return him exactly to that life of repression that Oscar had saved him from.

It's almost as if Oscar had been sent to the past specifically for this purpose: to free Carlos from a life of denial and frustration. To give him the chance to discover who he really is before it's too late.

And he's going to destroy that work of salvation for a self-destructive impulse toward "honesty" that wouldn't benefit anyone?

Oscar finishes showering with a sense of resolution he hadn't had in days. He's not a coward. He's protective. He's not being selfish. He's being compassionate, considerate, even sacrificial. He's carrying the weight of a truth that would be toxic for both of them, protecting them both from the destructive consequences of misdirected honesty.

And if a small voice in the back of his mind whispers that he's being cowardly, that he's rationalizing, that he's building his future on rotten foundations... well, it's such a small voice that it's easy to drown it out under the sound of running water and the promise of a new beginning.

After all, some lies are acts of love. And some truths are too cruel to be told.

Aren't they?

 

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

Notes:

This has genuinely been one of the weirdest weeks I’ve had as a writer. I started it updating my story about freckles, scars, and telepathic bonds — and let me tell you, Oscar in that fic is at his personal peak. I adore him.

At the same time, I’ve been working on another WIP with mafia!Carlos who’s meant to be terrifying, and Oscar should be scared… but no, he’s trying to act all brave 😩

And then there’s this story, where I’m trying to show everything Carlos has lived through, why vulnerability is such a huge deal for him, and how opening up to Oscar means everything. Buuuut this particular Oscar… I’m just not vibing with him right now. I’m so frustrated with him 😂

And I’m stuck in the middle like a confused mom wondering how all these kids came out so different haha

Thank you for reading.

Chapter 23: Orbital Resonance

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The aroma of cinnamon and vanilla fills the apartment like a tangible promise of normalcy, filtering under the bedroom door. When Oscar finally opens the door and emerges into the hallway, the soft sound of music floating from the kitchen mingles with the familiar sizzle of butter melting in a hot pan.

The scene he finds when he enters stops him at the threshold as if he'd walked into a perfectly composed photograph. Carlos stands in front of the stove, still in pajamas—gray cotton pants hanging dangerously low on his hips and a white t-shirt that's become slightly translucent from the steam rising from the pan—with his hair disheveled in a way that suggests he woke up recently but didn't bother combing it before starting to cook.

There's something deeply domestic about the image, something that speaks of shared mornings and routines developed over time. The table is already set: plates matched perfectly, silverware aligned, napkins folded into triangles.

"Good morning," Oscar greets, his voice still slightly hoarse from sleep but loaded with a warmth that reflects his genuine relief at being here, safe, accompanied.

Carlos turns immediately at the sound of his voice, and the smile that lights up his face is like watching sunrise after a night that had seemed endless. It's the smile Oscar remembers from before—before the boundaries, before the cautious distance, before everything got complicated—but now it has a new quality, something freer, as if Carlos had dropped some barrier he'd been maintaining even during their most intimate moments.

"Good morning, sleepyhead," Carlos responds, and there's something in his tone that makes Oscar feel warmth expanding from his chest outward like ripples in still water.

When their eyes meet, Oscar immediately feels that electricity that had been absent during yesterday's tense breakfast. Carlos's eyes linger on his face with an intensity that's part assessment (checking that he's really okay after the previous night), part something darker, more loaded with unspoken promises.

"Smells incredible," Oscar assures, approaching the table but staying close enough to Carlos.

"Pancakes," he announces, flipping one with a wrist movement that reveals years of practice. "With cinnamon and a touch of vanilla. I thought after last night you deserved something special."

There's something about the casual way he says this—as if making special pancakes for him were the most natural response in the world to having found him lost and terrified—that makes Oscar feel a wave of tenderness so intense he has to look away momentarily.

"You look much better," Carlos adds, his eyes scanning Oscar's face with that attention Oscar has learned to recognize as specifically his. "More rested."

"I feel much better," he admits and it's completely true. The shower, the hours of sleep, and above all the resolution he's reached about how to handle his situation have left something in his posture more relaxed, something in his smile more genuine.

Carlos stacks the last pancake on the serving plate and turns off the stove, but instead of heading immediately toward the table, he stays where he is, studying Oscar with an expression that's part relief, part something more complicated.

"You know," he says, leaning against the kitchen counter, "last night, when I couldn't find you... it was terrifying in ways I hadn't anticipated."

Oscar can hear the raw vulnerability in his voice, and when Carlos continues, there's an honesty that makes the air between them feel denser.

"It wasn't just worry about your safety," Carlos admits, his eyes never leaving Oscar's face. "It was... terror of having lost the chance to really get to know you. Of having wasted the time we have together keeping you at a distance out of fear."

The words settle between them with a weight Oscar can feel physically, as if the air itself had changed density. It's exactly the kind of vulnerable honesty Carlos had shown in the car, but now, in the golden light of morning and the safety of his kitchen, it has a different quality, more intimate.

"That's why," Carlos continues, pushing off from the counter and walking toward Oscar with deliberate steps, "no more distance. No more boundaries that don't serve anyone. Just... us, discovering what we can be together. I know we talked about it in the car, but I want to confirm we're still on the same page."

When he stops in front of him, they're close enough for Oscar to see the small golden flecks in his brown eyes, to count each of his ridiculously long eyelashes, to feel the heat radiating from his skin despite the centimeters separating them.

"Is that okay with you?" Carlos asks, and though the question is simple, Oscar can hear all the layers of meaning: is it okay that he's close? Is it okay that he's not maintaining appropriate distance? Is it okay that his eyes linger on Oscar's lips for a second longer than would be strictly casual?

"More than okay," he responds, his voice coming out huskier than he'd intended, betraying the effect Carlos's proximity is having on him.

The smile that spreads across Carlos's face in response is slow and satisfied, as if he'd received exactly the confirmation he'd been hoping for. His eyes pause for a moment on Oscar's lips before returning to meet his gaze, and there's a promise in that look that makes Oscar's pulse quicken.

They move toward the table with a subtle dance, Carlos serving the pancakes while Oscar pours the coffee, their movements synchronizing naturally as if they'd been having breakfast together for years instead of days. When they finally sit, it's with Carlos choosing the chair closest to Oscar instead of the one directly across from him, creating an intimacy that makes even the simple act of passing the syrup feel loaded with meaning.

"So," Carlos says, cutting his first bite of pancakes but keeping his attention on Oscar, "we need to go see Miguel this afternoon to pick up your documents."

Oscar nods, taking a bite of his own breakfast and immediately feeling why Carlos had sounded so pleased with himself. The pancakes are perfect.

"These are incredible," he assures, and the pleased smile he receives from Carlos in response is so bright that Oscar feels warmth spreading through his chest.

"And," Carlos continues, clearly satisfied with Oscar's reaction to his cooking, "Miguel already took care of creating online information about Oscar Palmer. Educational background, previous work experience, even some references that will verify your story if anyone calls them."

Oscar pauses mid-bite, a new worry forming immediately. "Why would we need verifiable references? Is someone going to investigate my background?"

Carlos hesitates for a moment, his fork suspended halfway to his mouth, and Oscar can see how he's calibrating exactly how much to reveal.

"Caco."

"Your cousin."

"My cousin and my manager," Carlos corrects, and there's something in his tone that suggests the distinction is important. "And the most protective and paranoid person I know when it comes to new people in my circle."

Carlos puts his fork on his plate and turns slightly in his chair to be able to look at Oscar directly, his expression becoming more serious.

"Caco wasn't in Barcelona because he had to travel to handle some matters that couldn't wait. But tomorrow, when we get to Monaco, I'm going to have to meet with him and explain that I hired a personal data engineer without consulting him first."

"And he's going to want to know everything about me," Oscar deduces, feeling a knot forming in his stomach.

"He's going to want to investigate everything about you. It's his job to protect me from people who might take advantage, and someone appearing out of nowhere with close access to my personal life is going to trigger all his alarms."

Oscar can feel anxiety beginning to build in his chest as he processes the implications of this. Though he's never spoken directly with Caco in his timeline, he knows from observation that the man, while not particularly intimidating physically, is absolutely relentless when it comes to protecting Carlos's interests.

He's seen how he handles overly persistent journalists, how he disarms people who try to approach Carlos with hidden motives, how he can make someone feel completely exposed with just a few apparently casual questions. If Caco decides that Oscar Palmer is a threat or a fraud...

"How... thorough is his investigation going to be?" Oscar asks, trying to keep his voice casual but failing completely to hide his nervousness.

Carlos must have noticed the change in his tone because he immediately leans forward, his expression softening with understanding.

"Hey," he mentions, his voice taking on that gentle quality Oscar has learned to associate with moments when Carlos wants to reassure him. "I know how to handle my cousin. Besides, Miguel is an expert at these things. The information he created for you is going to pass any standard investigation. You have university background in engineering in Melbourne, previous work experience, and references who are real people who know exactly what to say if someone calls them."

"But what if Caco decides to go beyond a standard investigation?" Oscar insists, feeling the anxiety expand despite Carlos's reassuring words.

"Honestly, yes, that scenario is possible. Caco can be... thorough when something seems suspicious to him. But," he adds quickly, seeing how Oscar's expression tenses, "there's no reason for anything to seem suspicious if we handle this correctly. The key is making your presence seem completely normal and justifiable. A young, millionaire pilot hiring additional help to improve his performance isn't unusual. And the fact that you have technical and practical knowledge is going to help a lot in making your story believable."

Oscar nods, trying to convince himself that Carlos is right, but the image of Caco dissecting every aspect of Oscar Palmer's story continues to create a knot of anxiety in his stomach.

"Besides," Carlos adds, and there's something in his tone that becomes warmer, more personal, "you're not going to be facing this alone. I'm going to be there, backing up your story, making sure Caco understands that you're important to me and that I trust you completely."

The words important to me resonate in the air between them with a weight that makes Oscar feel simultaneously grateful and a pang of guilt. Carlos is willing to put his own credibility on the line to protect Oscar's fabricated story.

"And," Carlos continues, "we should buy you a cell phone. One that has my number. So if something like last night happens again, you can contact me immediately."

The practicality of the suggestion is immediately obvious, but there's something more in the way Carlos says it—an intensity that suggests the idea of Oscar being incommunicado again is genuinely unbearable to him.

"I don't want to spend hours again not knowing if you're okay," Carlos adds, and the vulnerability in his voice makes Oscar feel a wave of tenderness so intense he has to grip his coffee cup slightly tighter.

"Yes, definitely," Oscar agrees. "And..." He stops, feeling heat rising up his neck as he considers whether to admit the following. "We also need to buy new glasses."

Carlos blinks, confused. "New glasses? What happened to the ones you had?"

Oscar lowers his gaze to his plate, feeling shame spreading across his face like a physical mark of his incompetence.

"I broke them," he murmurs, his voice barely audible. "Last night, when I realized I was lost... I had a moment of total panic. My hands were shaking so much that when I took off my glasses to clean them because they were fogging up for the millionth time, I dropped them and they shattered against the pavement."

He forces himself to look up to meet Carlos's eyes, expecting to see disappointment or exasperation, but finds only understanding.

"I felt like the biggest idiot in the world," Oscar continues, the words pouring out now that he's started confessing. "I was already lost and terrified, and then I destroyed the one thing I had to... to maintain my appearance as Oscar Palmer. It was pathetic."

Without warning, Carlos reaches out and takes Oscar's hand, their fingers intertwining with a naturalness that makes the gesture feel inevitable rather than calculated.

"Oscar, it wasn't pathetic. Anyone in that situation would have panicked. The fact that you kept your composure as much as you did, that you found a way to get to the planetarium... that was incredibly smart."

The words settle into Oscar like balm on a wound he hadn't realized was hurting. He'd been carrying shame for what he'd perceived as his complete incompetence the night before, but the way Carlos reframes the experience—focusing on what he did right instead of his moments of panic—makes something relax in his chest.

"So we have a plan," Carlos states. "Glasses, phone, documents..."

"Sounds like a busy day," Oscar comments, feeling excitement at the prospect of spending the day with Carlos, doing normal things, without all the tension they'd been carrying.

Carlos shrugs, but there's a smile playing at the corners of his lips.

They finish breakfast with that ease they've rediscovered, conversations that flow naturally between the practical and the personal, interspersed with glances that linger a bit longer than necessary and smiles that hint at more than they say.

After breakfast, while Carlos disappears into his room to dress properly, Oscar stays in the kitchen finishing his coffee and processing the strange sensation of normalcy that has settled over them like a warm blanket. The dishes are washed and put away, the table clean, and yet he lingers in this space that smells of cinnamon and coffee, absorbing the domestic tranquility that contrasts so brutally with the emotional chaos of the last twenty-four hours.

When Carlos finally emerges, he's dressed in dark jeans and a button-down shirt that makes his eyes look more intense, his hair combed back but not too formal, as if he'd found the perfect balance between presentable and relaxed. Oscar finds himself studying the way the shirt fits his shoulders, how the jeans hug his hips, and has to look away when he realizes he's watching too intently.

"Ready?" Carlos asks, reaching for the keys from the hook near the door, and there's something in his posture—a contained energy, an anticipation—that suggests he's genuinely excited about this mundane shopping expedition.

"Ready," Oscar confirms, following him toward the door, though as they descend in the elevator he realizes he's nervous for reasons he can't fully articulate. It's not just the prospect of buying replacement glasses or meeting with Miguel to pick up false documents. It's something more subtle: the idea of being with Carlos, of navigating the new dynamic between them.

Madrid in full morning is a completely different city from the nightmare Oscar had experienced at night. The sun bathes the streets in golden light, cafés are full of people enjoying morning cortados, and there's a vital energy in the air that makes everything feel possible. As they walk from Carlos's building toward the first optician on their list, Oscar finds himself gradually relaxing, absorbing the normalcy of simply walking through the city with someone, without urgency or desperation.

"This way," Carlos points, guiding him toward a side street where he's located an optician chain that probably has a wide selection. "We need to find something that looks good on you."

Inside the optician, under the bright fluorescent lights and surrounded by endless displays of frames, Oscar finds himself studying the options with some bewilderment. "They don't have to be exactly the same, right?" he mentions, touching the bridge of his nose where they should be. "Just something similar."

"But we have to make sure they look good on you," Carlos clarifies, approaching one of the displays and picking up black-framed glasses. "Come here."

Before Oscar can protest, Carlos stands directly in front of him, so close that Oscar can smell his cologne and feel the heat emanating from his body. With deliberately careful movements, Carlos slides the glasses on, his fingers lightly brushing the skin behind Oscar's ears in the process.

"Mmm, no," Carlos concludes, studying the result with a concentration that seems disproportionate to the task. "The frame is too wide for your face."

He removes them with the same delicacy, but instead of simply giving them to Oscar to return to the display, Carlos allows his fingers to linger for a moment at Oscar's temples, as if evaluating something more than just the fit of the glasses.

Oscar stays motionless, aware of every point of contact, of how Carlos is standing excessively close.

"Try these," Carlos suggests, selecting another pair from the display, this time ones with a slightly thinner frame in dark navy blue.

Again, Carlos positions himself in front of him, but this time when he slides the glasses into place, he also gently adjusts Oscar's hair, moving some strands that had gotten caught under the arms of the glasses. It's a completely unnecessary gesture—Oscar could easily fix his own hair—but the way Carlos's fingers slide through his hair, combing it with an almost unconscious tenderness, makes something contract in his stomach.

"Better," Carlos murmurs, but his hands stay where they are, one resting lightly on Oscar's temple, the other still tangled in his hair. "But they're still not perfect."

They repeat this process four more times, with Carlos insisting on trying different styles, different colors, always with the same excuse that he wants to make sure Oscar looks "exactly right." And each time, there's the same ritual: Carlos positioning himself impossibly close, sliding the glasses into place with a delicacy that suggests he's handling something precious, adjusting Oscar's hair with touches that linger longer than strictly necessary.

By the fifth trial, Oscar has become fully aware of what's happening, and when Carlos approaches again with a new pair of glasses, there's something different in the way Oscar looks at him—an awareness, an anticipation that makes the air between them feel denser.

"These," Carlos mentions when he finally finds the right ones, black acetate frames with a slightly rectangular shape. And after placing them on Oscar's face, his hands stay there, framing his face, his thumbs lightly tracing the edge of the glasses where they rest on his cheeks. "Perfect," he murmurs, and there's something in his voice that suggests he's not talking only about the glasses.

Oscar looks at himself in the mirror, adjusting the glasses on his nose, and has to admit Carlos is right. The person looking back at him is clearly him, but different in a subtle way that makes him seem more approachable, softer somehow. It's the kind of minor transformation that might go unnoticed at first glance but changes the entire impression someone has of you.

"Do you like them?" asks the employee, an older woman with a professional but genuine smile.

"Yes," Oscar admits, surprising himself with the sincerity of his response. "These are perfect."

 

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

 

The shopping center is just a few minutes' walk away, a modern complex full of electronics stores, clothing, and the types of international chains that have homogenized shopping centers around the world. But it's when they enter the phone store that Oscar realizes Carlos has very specific ideas about what constitutes an appropriate phone.

As soon as they enter the store, Carlos heads directly toward the most expensive models on display.

"This one, with the most comprehensive data plan you have."

"Carlos," Oscar protests, "that's ridiculously expensive for something I only need for emergencies—"

"It's not just for emergencies," Carlos interrupts, already talking to the employee about specifications. "And don't argue with me about money."

There's something in his tone—not exactly authoritative, but definitely final—that makes Oscar realize this isn't a battle he's going to win. Carlos clearly has very specific ideas about what kind of phone Oscar should have, and those ideas don't include budget options.

The process of setting up the phone—choosing a plan, registering the number, programming contacts—becomes something surprisingly intimate. Carlos insists on being the first number saved.

"And your contact name?" Oscar asks, holding the phone while Carlos dictates his number.

Carlos considers this for a moment, a mischievous smile appearing on his lips. "Put 'Casa,'" he says finally.

The simplicity of the suggestion makes something contract in Oscar's chest. Not "Carlos" or "Carlos Sainz" or even "Carlos (friend)." Just "Casa." As if Carlos were not just a person but a place, a refuge, a point of orientation in a world that otherwise has no familiar reference points.

"Casa," Oscar repeats softly, writing the letters with more care than necessary.

"Now register Miguel," Carlos continues.

"Miguel?" Oscar asks, surprised.

Carlos looks up from the phone. "If there's an emergency and for some reason I'm not available, Miguel has instructions to help you with anything you need."

The casual way Carlos says this—as if he'd given specific instructions to Miguel about taking care of Oscar—makes something loosen in his chest. It's not just that Carlos wants to make sure Oscar is safe; he's taken concrete steps to ensure Oscar has resources even in situations where he himself isn't available.

"What kind of instructions?"

"Anything. Transportation, money, medical help, legal problems. Whatever."

When they finish with the phone, it's past noon and Carlos suggests lunch before going to see Miguel. They end up at a small family restaurant near the shopping center, the kind of place that's clearly frequented more by locals than tourists, with worn wooden tables and a bar where some older men are drinking beer and discussing football in animated voices.

"This place has the best ham croquettes in Madrid," Carlos assures as they sit at a table near the window. "My mom used to bring me here when I was a kid."

Lunch is relaxed. They talk about Madrid, about places Carlos remembers from his childhood, about the differences between the city Oscar is discovering and the Australian cities he knows. It's the kind of conversation people have when they're genuinely getting to know each other, with no hidden agenda beyond the pleasure of each other's company.

"Tell me about Melbourne," Carlos leans back slightly in his chair in a way that makes Oscar realize how the afternoon light highlights the line of his jaw. "What's it like living there?"

"It's a city obsessed with coffee," Oscar observes how Carlos's eyes focus completely on him as he speaks. "They have the best baristas in the world. People queue for hours for a perfect flat white."

Carlos raises an eyebrow with amusement. "And you? Do you queue for perfect coffee?"

"Actually," Oscar feels a smile tugging at his lips, "I prefer tea."

Carlos's laugh is genuine, disbelief crossing his face. "You're from one of the best coffee cities in the world and you prefer tea?"

"I'm a rebel."

"Clearly." Carlos's eyes linger on Oscar's lips for a moment before returning to his gaze. "I'm definitely on the coffee side of this beverage war."

Oscar tilts his head, curious. "Why?"

Carlos fidgets with the edge of his cup, his fingers tracing slow circles around the handle. "Coffee is inherently more romantic."

Oscar blinks, surprised by the turn. "Romantic?"

"Think about it." Carlos's eyes shine with something that's definitely not just enthusiasm for beverages. "The aroma that fills the entire room, the way you have to take it slowly, share the moment..." His voice drops to almost an intimate murmur. "Compared to tea, which is so... solitary. A tea bag, hot water, done."

"Tea can be very contemplative," Oscar protests, though he can feel heat rising up his neck.

"Really?" Carlos leans slightly closer. "Would you show me sometime? Your contemplative tea ritual?"

The apparently innocent question is loaded with innuendo that makes Oscar's pulse quicken.

"Maybe," Oscar murmurs, finding himself leaning forward too. "Though I might disappoint you after all your theory about coffee romance."

"I doubt that very much." Carlos's eyes focus on Oscar's lips for a second. "Something tells me you could make anything seem interesting."

It's exactly the kind of light, flirtatious exchange Oscar had missed without realizing it, and he finds himself smiling in response in a way that feels completely natural.

After lunch, heading to Miguel's office, Oscar realizes something fundamental has changed in how he feels existing in Madrid. The city no longer feels hostile or alien. With Carlos by his side, with a phone in his pocket that has "Casa" as his first contact, with glasses that convincingly transform him into Oscar Palmer, it feels almost as if he has a place here.

Miguel's office is exactly as he remembered it, but this time, when Miguel receives them, there's something different in his behavior toward Oscar. It's not exactly warmth, because Miguel clearly maintains professional distance, but there's a recognition, an acceptance that Oscar is now officially part of whatever circle of trust Miguel maintains.

"Mr. Palmer," Miguel greets with a smile that's cordial without being personal. "Your documents are ready."

The package Miguel hands him is surprisingly thick—not just a passport and identification cards, but banking documents, university records, references from previous employers, even what appears to be a medical history. It's a complete identity, built from scratch but with the attention to detail that makes it seem as if it had existed for years.

"Your online identity is also established," Miguel continues, handing Oscar a sheet of paper with account information. "LinkedIn, some mentions in industry publications, references who will confirm your experience if anyone contacts them. Everything you need to pass any standard investigation."

Oscar flips through the documents, impressed despite himself by the thoroughness of Miguel's work. The Australian passport looks and feels completely authentic, with entry stamps that tell the story of someone who travels regularly for work. The identification cards have the correct weight and texture. Even the photograph—taken during his previous visit—has been processed to have the slightly grainy quality of official government photos.

"It's incredible," Oscar admits with surprise. "It looks completely real."

"It is real," Miguel corrects with a slight smile. "It's just not... something that was issued through official channels."

When they leave Miguel's office, Oscar feels strangely different. It's not just that he now has official documents confirming his existence as Oscar Palmer; it's that holding those documents makes the entire situation feel more permanent, more real. He's no longer simply someone pretending to be someone else temporarily. On paper, officially, he is Oscar Palmer.

"How do you feel?" Carlos asks as they walk back toward where they parked the car.

Oscar considers the question, surprising himself with the answer. "More real... Like Oscar Palmer actually existed."

Carlos nods, as if he understands perfectly what Oscar means. His eyes linger on Oscar's face for a moment longer than strictly necessary, and when he speaks, there's something in his voice—a softer, more intimate quality—that makes the words feel like a caress.

"Speaking of Oscar Palmer feeling real," he murmurs, leaning against the side of the Audi with studied casualness, "I've been thinking about something."

There's something in his posture—the way his fingers drum lightly against the car's metal, how he avoids Oscar's direct gaze as if gathering courage—that immediately captures Oscar's complete attention.

"About what?" The question comes out with more curiosity than Oscar had intended to show, but something in Carlos's energy, in the way he's clearly containing an idea that excites him, makes it impossible to feign casual disinterest.

Carlos pushes off from the car with a fluid movement that makes Oscar suddenly aware of the natural grace with which he moves, even in these mundane gestures.

"We have to be in Monaco tomorrow night," he begins, but there's something in his tone that suggests this isn't going to be a simple logistical conversation. His eyes finally meet Oscar's, and there's a spark there—anticipation mixed with something warmer, more personal. "Normally I'd fly, but..."

He stops, and Oscar can see how he's calibrating exactly how to present what comes next. There's a vulnerability in his pause that makes Oscar immediately realize that what Carlos is about to suggest is important to him in ways that go beyond simple transportation logistics.

"But what?" Oscar finds himself leaning slightly forward, drawn by the barely contained energy radiating from Carlos.

A smile begins to form on Carlos's lips, slow but inevitable, as if he can't contain the excitement building behind his words.

"What if this time we don't fly?" The words come out with barely contained urgency that makes Oscar's entire body tense with anticipation. "What if we drive?"

"Drive to Monaco?" Oscar immediately feels something stirring in his chest—not just surprise but something warmer, more excited.

"It's ten hours," Carlos continues, and now the words flow as if they'd been dammed up and finally found escape. "We could leave this afternoon, stop halfway to spend the night..." His voice takes on a dreamy quality Oscar has never heard before. "I know this incredible place near Montpellier where they make a dessert with lavender that's... you have to try it. And there's a lookout in the Pyrenees where the stars..."

He stops abruptly, as if realizing he was getting carried away, and a slight blush appears on his cheeks. But his eyes shine with an excitement he can't completely hide.

"I want to show you the route," he finally admits, his voice softer now, more intimate. "Places that... that are special to me along the way."

The devastating simplicity of the confession makes something contract in Oscar's chest. Because he can hear everything Carlos isn't saying: that he's been thinking about this, planning it, specifically imagining what it would be like to share these places with Oscar. That this isn't a spontaneous decision but something he's been wanting without daring to ask until now.

"Carlos," Oscar begins, but his voice comes out huskier than he'd intended, betraying the effect Carlos's vulnerability is having on him.

"I know it's spontaneous," Carlos continues quickly, interpreting Oscar's pause as practical resistance. "And it's probably more sensible to fly, but..." His hands move expressively as he speaks, as if he could transmit with gestures what words fail to capture completely. "I don't want to waste time in airports and flights when we could be... discovering new places together."

There's something in the way his eyes seek Oscar's when he uses the word 'together'—an intensity, a barely contained promise—that makes Oscar's pulse quicken.

"We could stop wherever we want," Carlos adds, his voice taking on that dreamy quality again. "Try those almond sweets they make in Valencia, watch the sunrise from the Mediterranean coast..." His eyes pause on Oscar's lips for a fraction of a second before returning to his gaze. "We could make the journey part of the adventure."

The word 'adventure' resonates between them with a weight that goes far beyond a simple road trip, and Oscar can feel how every detail Carlos describes—the desserts, the sunrises, the impromptu stops—are loaded with promises of intimacy, of stolen moments, of suspended time where they can be completely themselves.

"This afternoon?" The question comes from Oscar with a mixture of disbelief and growing excitement. "Like, we pack now and leave?"

The smile that spreads across Carlos's face in response is radiant, completely transforming his features. "Why not? We don't have anything holding us back."

Oscar looks at him for a moment that feels suspended in time, aware that he can see exactly how much this means to Carlos—he can see it in the way his eyes shine with barely contained anticipation, in how his hands move restlessly as if he's already imagining the steering wheel under his fingers, in the vulnerability with which he awaits his response.

"Yes," the word comes from him with a certainty that surprises him. "Yes, absolutely yes."

The transformation that occurs on Carlos's face is instantaneous and devastating. It's like watching sunrise in fast-forward—pure joy radiating from him in a way that makes Oscar feel warmth spreading from his chest outward.

"Perfect," Carlos murmurs, immediately moving toward the driver's door with an energy that suggests he wants to put the plan into action before any practical considerations can interfere. "Let's go home to pack. We can be on the road in an hour."

As they get in the car, Oscar allows himself to fully absorb the anticipation building between them—the electricity of the imminent adventure, the implicit promise of entire days alone together, Carlos's pure excitement that's so contagious Oscar can feel it vibrating in the car's closed air.

And as Carlos starts the engine and they begin driving back toward the apartment, Oscar finds himself vividly imagining everything Carlos has described: winding roads through landscapes he's never seen, impromptu stops in small towns with their own unique flavors, a night under stars that shine without the interference of urban lights.

It's going to be perfect, he realizes with a certainty that fills him with warmth from the center outward.

And that perfection—that promise of an adventure together—feels like the most precious gift he could receive.

 

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

Chapter 24: Atmospheric Entry

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

 

The Audi glides through the outskirts of Madrid with an ease that makes everything feel inevitable, as if the city had been patiently waiting to release them toward something greater. The car's air conditioning creates a bubble of coolness against the Spanish heat that filters through the tinted windows. Oscar can feel the intensity of the sun even from inside, that particular quality of Iberian light that seems denser, more golden than anything he's ever experienced.

Carlos drives with a relaxation Oscar hasn't seen before. His hands rest naturally on the steering wheel, his posture casual but alert, and there's a persistent smile playing at the corners of his lips that suggests he's exactly where he wants to be right now.

"I have a playlist," Carlos announces after a few minutes, connecting his phone to the car's sound system with movements that betray barely contained anticipation. "Road trip music."

The opening chords of a Spanish song Oscar doesn't recognize fill the car, something with acoustic guitar and a voice that sounds like lazy Saturdays and unhurried afternoons. It's perfect for this moment, for this feeling of suspended time as Madrid disappears in the rearview mirror. The melody seems specifically designed to accompany landscapes unfolding at highway speed, for moments when the destination matters less than the journey itself.

"Have you always had road trip playlists?" Oscar asks, turning slightly in his seat to study Carlos's profile as he drives. There's something hypnotic about the way Carlos focuses on the road, how his fingers move unconsciously to the rhythm against the steering wheel.

"Only for the past hour," Carlos admits with a mischievous smile that completely transforms his face. "I made it while you were packing."

The image of Carlos in his room, carefully choosing songs while anticipating this trip, makes something contract warmly in Oscar's chest.

"What criteria did you use for selecting the songs?"

Carlos considers this for a moment, his fingers drumming lightly against the wheel to the rhythm of the guitar filling the space between them. "Songs that make me feel... free. Songs that feel like open windows and fresh air."

It's such a specific answer and so fundamentally Carlos that Oscar can't help but smile.

"Are they all in Spanish?"

"Most of them," Carlos confirms, accelerating slightly as they merge onto the main highway. "But there are some surprises." His eyes briefly leave the road to meet Oscar's, and there's a promise in that look that goes beyond simple musical selection. "I want you to hear music that means something to me."

The casual intensity with which he says this—as if sharing personal music were the most natural thing in the world—makes Oscar realize how intimate this gesture really is. Carlos is literally creating a soundtrack for their time together, curating not just sounds but the feelings he wants to accompany every kilometer of their journey.

"I like it," Oscar murmurs, allowing gratitude and something deeper to color his voice, "I really like it."

The smile he receives from Carlos in response is so bright that he has to look away momentarily, not because he doesn't want to see it but because the intensity of pleasure on Carlos's face is almost too intimate to process fully.

Gradually, the urban landscape gives way to something wilder, more authentically Spanish. The highways stretch through rolling hills covered with vegetation Oscar is learning to recognize as Mediterranean: silver olive trees gleaming under the light filtering through the windows, vineyards creating geometric patterns on the hillsides, small towns appearing on hilltops like crowns of white stone.

"Spain is incredible," Oscar murmurs, more to himself than to Carlos, but aware that every observation he makes about Carlos's country seems to illuminate something in him.

"Do you like it?" The question comes with an urgency that suggests the answer matters more than Carlos is willing to admit directly. There's vulnerability in the way he awaits Oscar's response, as if Oscar's approval of Spain were, somehow, approval of a fundamental part of Carlos himself.

"I love it," he responds honestly, turning to see how this confirmation affects Carlos. "It's so... intense, I guess. Everything here seems to have more history, more weight."

"Every stone has a story," Carlos agrees, his voice taking on that quality Oscar is learning to associate with moments when Carlos speaks about things that really matter to him. "Some of these towns have been there since before the Romans. Before Christ."

Oscar observes the landscape with new appreciation, imagining the layers of history lying invisible beneath the surface. It's fascinating to be here with Carlos, seeing Spain through the eyes of someone who genuinely loves it, whose pride in his country is evident in every gesture toward the passing scenery.

It's when they've been driving for almost an hour that Carlos slows down, directing the car toward an exit leading to what appears to be a service station lost in time.

"We need fuel," Carlos explains, though Oscar suspects there's more to this stop than Carlos is admitting. "And you need to try something."

The service station is exactly the kind of place Oscar is learning to expect in rural Spain: a small, practical structure that seems to have been there for decades without significant changes. The gas pumps are of a model Oscar doesn't recognize, and the small building housing the shop has that patina of unpretentious functionality suggesting it serves mainly locals rather than tourists.

The air that hits them when they get out of the car is significantly warmer than the air-conditioned interior, and Oscar can immediately feel how the intensity of the Spanish sun begins to work on his pale skin.

"While I fill the tank, could you go to the shop and get something to drink? And maybe some snacks for the road."

Oscar nods, heading toward the small building. The contrast between the outdoor heat and the relatively cool interior of the shop is immediate and welcome. It's a tiny space, with shelves reaching to the ceiling loaded with products Oscar doesn't immediately recognize: Spanish brands, local flavors, the kind of regional culinary treasures only found in places like this.

Behind the counter is a woman Oscar estimates must be in her sixties, with gray hair pulled back in a practical bun and an expression of casual kindness suggesting decades of cordial interactions with travelers. Her eyes light up when she sees Oscar, clearly registering that he's foreign but responding with the natural hospitality Oscar is learning to associate with Spaniards.

"¡Hola!" she says with a genuine smile, and Oscar responds with his own carefully pronounced "Hola," hoping his accent isn't too obvious.

He navigates the shelves, selecting water bottles and what he hopes are appropriate road trip snacks: cookies that seem artisanal, nuts in packages showing Spanish landscapes, dark chocolate with a cocoa percentage suggesting culinary seriousness.

It's when he's considering the chocolate options that the woman approaches him, clearly having noticed something she considers worth commenting on.

"Ay, niño," she says, her voice loaded with maternal concern, "¿no tienes gorra? Estás rojito como un tomate."

Oscar looks at her with partial understanding—he can catch the tone of concern but not the specific words—when Carlos enters the shop, having finished filling the tank. The transformation in the woman's expression is immediate and notable: she goes from casual concern to something approaching maternal approval.

"¡Ay, qué guapo!" she exclaims, clearly referring to Carlos, and then continues in rapid Spanish that Oscar can't follow but which includes gestures toward him and what seem to be urgent advice.

Carlos listens with the patience of someone accustomed to advice from Spanish grandmothers, nodding seriously at appropriate moments. When the woman finishes her speech and returns to the counter, Carlos turns to Oscar with an expression mixing barely contained mischief with genuine concern.

"She says you need a cap," Carlos informs him, but there's something in his eyes—a spark of amusement that wasn't there when he was talking to the woman—that makes Oscar suspect the translation is about to become more creative.

"Just that?" Oscar asks, noticing how Carlos is clearly containing a smile.

"Well," Carlos continues, moving close enough that Oscar can feel the heat radiating from his body after being in the sun, "she also says you have princess skin and that your boyfriend should take better care of you."

The blush that had been threatening Oscar's cheeks since he entered the shop intensifies immediately, spreading from his neck upward with a determination that makes him want to seek the cap the woman had suggested for completely different reasons.

"My boyfriend?" Oscar repeats, his voice coming out slightly higher than he'd intended.

"Yes," Carlos confirms, stepping closer, clearly enjoying the effect his words are having. "She says it's obvious from the way I look at you. And that I need to protect you from the Spanish sun because you're not used to it."

Carlos's proximity, combined with the casual implication that his interest is so obvious even strangers notice it, makes Oscar feel as if the shop's air conditioning had stopped working completely.

"And what else does she say?" Oscar asks, aware that he's participating in something that's part translation, part elaborate flirtation, but unable to resist the temptation to see how far Carlos will take this fiction.

"She says," Carlos moves even closer, his voice dropping to a murmur that requires Oscar to lean in slightly to hear, "that I'm very lucky to have such a handsome boyfriend, but that I need to feed you better because you're too skinny."

The laugh that escapes Oscar is genuine and spontaneous, born as much from the absurdity of the elaborate translation as from the pure pleasure of seeing Carlos so relaxed and playful.

"Is she scolding you for being an inadequate boyfriend?"

"Completely," Carlos confirms with feigned seriousness. "She says Australians must be very careless if they're sending me a boyfriend who doesn't know how to protect himself from the sun."

"I guess that means you have to buy me a cap," Oscar finally concludes, surrendering completely to the game Carlos has created.

"And something to eat," Carlos adds, heading toward a section of the shop Oscar hadn't fully explored. "I can't let my reputation as a boyfriend be ruined throughout the province of Toledo."

He selects a simple baseball cap with "España" embroidered in gold letters—basic but effective—and then heads toward a display case containing what appear to be artisanal sweets.

"And this," Carlos mentions, pointing toward a bag of what looks like caramel-covered almonds, "is mandatory for any self-respecting Spanish road trip."

While Carlos pays for everything—the gas, the cap, the sweets, the drinks Oscar had selected—Oscar observes the interaction between him and the woman. There's an ease in the way Carlos relates to her, a combination of genuine respect and affectionate humor that seems to make her immediately adopt him as a favorite grandson.

When they finally leave the shop, Oscar with his new capon and Carlos carrying a bag with their purchases, the woman bids them farewell with blessings.

"What did she really say?" Oscar asks once they're back in the car, the cap providing immediate relief against the sun's intensity.

Carlos laughs, starting the engine but in no hurry to leave the parking lot. "That my friend urgently needed a cap because these tourists never come prepared for the Spanish sun."

"And the boyfriend thing?"

"I made that up completely," Carlos admits with a mischievous smile. "But it worked, didn't it? You turned red for completely different reasons."

Oscar laughs. "You're an idiot. You had me there believing that a sixty-year-old Spanish lady had automatically catalogued us as a couple."

"My creative translation has its merits," Carlos defends himself with false dignity, adjusting the rearview mirror. "You got the cap you needed, didn't you?"

"And that was really your main concern? My dermatological well-being?"

Carlos glances at him as he puts the car in gear, a smile playing at the corners of his lips. "Well, that and the fact that I like seeing you blush."

"Ah," Oscar says, feeling exactly the kind of warmth in his cheeks that Carlos just admitted he enjoys provoking. "Is that your new strategy? Making up romantic translations to make me feel uncomfortable?"

"Uncomfortable?" Carlos raises an eyebrow, directing the car back to the main road. "Is that what I make you feel?"

The question hangs between them, charged with an intensity that goes far beyond playful flirtation, and Oscar realizes they've crossed into more honest, more dangerous territory.

"No," he finally admits, his voice softer. "Definitely not uncomfortable."

Carlos smiles, a different smile, more private, as if Oscar had just confirmed something he'd been hoping to hear.

Once back on the main road, Carlos extends the bag of sweets toward Oscar. "Garrapiñadas," he explains. "Caramelized almonds with cinnamon. You can't understand Spain without trying them."

Oscar takes one from the bag, immediately noticing the satisfying weight of the almond under the crystallized caramel layer. "Are these the ones you mentioned before?"

"These specifically," Carlos confirms with pride suggesting deep personal connection. "They're completely homemade, made by the family that owns the service station where we bought them. The family has had the recipe for generations."

When Oscar bites into the almond, the experience is immediately transformative. The caramel breaks with a satisfying crack that gives way to layers of flavor he hadn't anticipated: the obvious sweetness of caramelized sugar, but then notes of cinnamon and something else—vanilla? a touch of salt?—that combine with the rich depth of the toasted almond.

"God," he murmurs involuntarily, closing his eyes to focus completely on the sensory experience.

Carlos makes a sound of satisfaction that Oscar feels more than hears. "See? Impossible to explain, you have to experience it."

Oscar opens his eyes to find Carlos watching him with an intensity that makes him realize his reaction to the garrapiñadas is being catalogued as something significant, as confirmation of something Carlos had been hoping he would understand.

"It's like..." Oscar searches for the right words, "like each flavor is a story I didn't know I needed to hear."

The smile this observation produces in Carlos is so radiant that Oscar realizes he's passed some kind of cultural test he didn't know he was taking.

"When did you first try them?" Oscar asks, taking another almond and this time allowing the caramel to dissolve more slowly on his tongue.

"I was four or five," he responds immediately, as if the memory had been waiting for the opportunity to be shared. "My father and I stopped here during a trip to Toledo. I was cranky because I wanted to be home playing Nintendo instead of in the car, and he bought me these to calm me down."

His voice takes on that quality Oscar is learning to recognize when Carlos speaks about particularly treasured memories.

"It was the first time I understood that traveling could mean discovering things you didn't know existed. That Spain had secrets waiting to be found."

Oscar can vividly imagine the scene: a tiny Carlos discovering that the world was bigger and more interesting than he'd previously understood, all through the simple act of tasting a new flavor. There's something deeply intimate about the fact that Carlos is recreating that experience with him, sharing not just the sweets but the memory, the understanding of why this specific flavor represents something fundamental about his relationship with his own country.

"Thank you," Oscar mentions, and though he's technically referring to the garrapiñadas, he can hear in his own voice that he's thanking something much broader: Carlos's patience in sharing Spain with him, the way Carlos is creating a space where Oscar can understand not just where he is but why it matters.

"You're welcome," Carlos responds, but there's an understanding in his voice suggesting he too hears the additional layers of gratitude in Oscar's words.

They continue driving as the western sun begins to create those lighting conditions photographers call the golden hour, when everything is bathed in a warm glow that makes even ordinary landscapes seem extraordinary. The air inside the car has filled with a comfort Oscar recognizes as genuine intimacy—the ease that comes when two people discover they simply enjoy being together.

Carlos has begun narrating the passing landscape with the enthusiasm of someone who genuinely loves what he's sharing. He points toward rock formations that have specific names, explains why certain towns were built in specific locations, identifies different types of agriculture in terms that reveal knowledge going beyond basic tourist education.

"How do you know so much about all this?" Oscar asks during a pause in the flow of information, genuinely impressed by the depth of Carlos's knowledge about his own country.

"My father," Carlos responds immediately. "When I was a kid, we could never go from point A to point B without it being a lesson in history, geography, agriculture..." He laughs, but it's a laugh charged with genuine affection. "I used to think it was annoying. Now I realize he was teaching me to see Spain the way he sees it."

"And how is that?"

Carlos considers this for a moment, his hands slightly adjusting their grip on the steering wheel as if the question required the kind of honesty that needs physical stability.

"As something precious that I have the responsibility to understand. As something I'm lucky to be able to share." There's a pause, and when Carlos continues, his voice is softer, more personal. "Especially with people who... who matter so much."

The implication in those last words makes something contract warmly in Oscar's chest. Because it's clear he's being included in that category of people who matter, that this trip isn't just a logistical necessity but an opportunity for Carlos to share something fundamental about himself.

It's when they pass through a particularly picturesque town—whitewashed houses that seem to grow directly from the rocky hill they're built on—that Carlos slows down slightly, as if he wants Oscar to have full time to appreciate the view.

"Beautiful," Oscar murmurs, and when he turns to share his appreciation with Carlos, he finds Carlos already watching him, taking advantage of the straight road to study Oscar's reaction to the landscape.

"Yes," Carlos agrees, but it's clear he's not talking about the town.

His eyes linger on Oscar's face for a moment that extends beyond what's safe for someone who's driving, and when he finally returns his attention to the road, there's a new quality in the car's air—an awareness, a promise of things neither is prepared to name directly but both can feel developing between them.

The landscape continues unfolding outside the windows, but Oscar realizes his attention is increasingly divided between the external beauty and the more immediate, more personal beauty of Carlos sharing his country with him.

Carlos points toward a ruined castle on a distant hill, a medieval town that seems suspended in time, and then his hand naturally finds Oscar's.

It's not dramatic or deliberate. It's as if it were the most natural extension in the world that when Carlos wants to capture Oscar's attention toward something beautiful, he does it by touching him.

"Do you see that tower there?" Carlos asks, his fingers briefly intertwining with Oscar's as he points toward the horizon. "It's from the Moorish period. Twelfth century."

"It's incredible," Oscar responds, though he's more conscious of Carlos's thumb tracing small circles on the back of his hand than of the historical landscape.

"When I was a kid," Carlos continues, his voice taking on that dreamy quality Oscar is learning to associate with his most intimate moments, "I used to imagine I lived in castles like that. That I was a knight who..."

He stops abruptly, as if he'd realized he was about to reveal something too personal, too vulnerable.

"Who what?" Oscar presses gently, turning his hand to intertwine his fingers more completely with Carlos's.

Carlos briefly looks at their joined hands, and something softens in his expression. "Who rescued people and helped them," he finally admits, his voice barely audible above the music. "Who had adventures with..." He stops again, a slight blush appearing on his cheeks.

"With brave princesses who turned out to be more interesting than beautiful," Oscar completes, guessing the direction of the fantasy but deliberately misinterpreting the gender.

Carlos smiles, squeezing Oscar's fingers lightly. "Something like that," he murmurs, and there's gratitude in his voice suggesting Oscar has navigated the moment perfectly, giving him space for vulnerability without pressuring him toward specificities that might be too revealing.

The sun continues its descent as they pass through towns whose names Oscar can't even pronounce but which Carlos articulates with the familiarity of someone who knows this region intimately. Every few kilometers, there's something new Carlos wants to show him: a particularly beautiful view, a building with an interesting history, a restaurant where they stopped once during a family trip when he was a child.

"We're close," Carlos announces after almost three hours of driving, but there's something different in his voice now—a barely contained excitement vibrating just beneath the surface. His fingers drum against the steering wheel with a nervous energy Oscar hasn't seen before.

"Close to where exactly?" Oscar asks, noticing how Carlos straightens imperceptibly in his seat, how his eyes move more frequently from the road to the surrounding landscape, as if he were searching for something specific.

"Albarracín," Carlos responds, and the way he pronounces the name—with an almost religious reverence—makes Oscar immediately pay closer attention. "It's... it's hard to explain. You have to see it to understand it."

Carlos turns the car onto a secondary road that winds through hills covered with pine trees, and with each curve, his excitement becomes more palpable. His hands move restlessly when he's not shifting gears, and Oscar can see how he's fighting the impulse to drive faster, to arrive sooner.

"Have you been here before?" Oscar asks, though the answer is obvious from the familiarity with which Carlos navigates these winding roads.

"Many times," Carlos confirms, his voice taking on that dreamy quality Oscar is learning to associate with his most treasured memories. "The first time I was eight. My father had a competition nearby and we decided to sightsee before returning to Madrid."

He pauses at a particularly tight curve, and when he continues, there's something more vulnerable in his tone.

"I remember when I first saw it, I thought I'd arrived at a fairy tale place. Like we'd crossed some magical portal without realizing it. Every time we came through this region, I would beg that we stop here. Even when my dad was in a hurry, even when he protested that I'd already seen it before... there was something about this place that always made me feel..."

"What?"

Carlos considers the question for a moment, searching for the exact word. "Like anything was possible. Like magic really existed, just waiting for you to be brave enough to believe in it."

And then, as they take the last curve, Oscar sees it.

Albarracín emerges from the mountainous landscape like something that could have been sculpted directly from a dream. Medieval houses in shades of pink and ochre crowd impossibly on the edge of rocky cliffs, as if they'd grown organically from the stone itself. The Arab walls wind dramatically through the surrounding hills, and the Andador tower rises against the evening sky like a finger pointing toward the first stars.

"Fuck," Oscar exhales involuntarily, because he hadn't been prepared for something so visually stunning.

The smile that spreads across Carlos's face in response is radiant, as if Oscar's reaction had validated something deep and important to him.

"Right?" he says, and there's pure triumph in his voice, the satisfaction of someone who has just revealed his most precious treasure and seen it received with appropriate awe. "Wait until you see it from the viewpoint."

They find parking in a small cobblestone square surrounded by houses that seem to have been transported directly from the fourteenth century.

It's when Carlos turns off the engine and they both get out of the car that Oscar immediately feels the change.

In the confined space of the Audi, they had existed in a bubble of intimacy where casual contact, prolonged glances, constant proximity had felt not just natural but inevitable. But here, in this public space where other people walk with cameras and maps, where children run between medieval fountains and older couples sit on benches contemplating the architecture, Carlos subtly transforms.

It's not dramatic. It's not as if he'd put on a mask or begun acting like a completely different person. But there's a distance that hadn't existed before, a careful calibration of every gesture, every expression, every moment where their bodies might be too close.

Oscar feels it as a physical loss. In the car, Carlos had naturally reached for his hand when he wanted to point out something interesting. Here, when Carlos wants to direct his attention to a particularly beautiful architectural detail, he does it with words and hand gestures that carefully maintain appropriate space between them.

"This way," Carlos says, indicating a stone staircase leading to the upper parts of the town. His voice is warm, enthusiastic, but there's a formality in it that hadn't been present during the last hours of driving.

They walk side by side but without touching, maintaining the distance two male friends would maintain in a public place. But Oscar can feel the tension in every step, the constant awareness they both have of each other's proximity, the way their movements have become hypercontrolled to avoid the accidental contact that had been so natural before.

It's when they pass an older couple—a man and woman walking arm in arm, occasionally stopping so he can take photographs of her against the medieval backdrop—that Oscar feels the difference most acutely. He can see how Carlos's eyes briefly follow the couple, how something contracts almost imperceptibly in his expression as he observes the ease with which they touch, smile at each other, move together through this beautiful space.

It's envy. Oscar can see it clearly in Carlos's eyes, mixed with a resignation that speaks of years of practice in hiding exactly this kind of desire.

"The walls are from the eleventh century," Carlos mentions when they reach a point where they can see the fortifications extending dramatically through the hills. His tone is informative, that of an experienced guide, but Oscar can hear the underlying tension in his voice. "The Arabs built them to defend the valley."

"It's incredible," Oscar responds, and it genuinely is. But he's more conscious of the way Carlos stands next to him—close enough that they can talk without raising their voices, but not so close that their shoulders brush, not as close as they would be if they were a real couple exploring this place together.

They continue climbing toward the main viewpoint, passing through streets so narrow they could touch the opposite houses with outstretched arms. The pink adobe walls surround them like something from a fairy tale, exactly as Carlos had described, but Oscar is more conscious of the silent tension between them than of the architectural beauty.

It's when they reach the main viewpoint—a stone terrace offering panoramic views of the valley and surrounding mountains—that the situation becomes even more tense. There are more people here: families taking photographs, young couples sharing romantic moments against the dramatic backdrop, groups of tourists with guides explaining the history of the place.

Carlos stops at the edge of the terrace, his hands resting on the medieval stone railing, and Oscar can immediately see that he's struggling. He can see it in the tension of his shoulders, in the way his fingers contract against the stone, in how his eyes constantly move between the view and the people surrounding them.

"From here you can see the full extent of the walls," Carlos says, his voice carefully controlled. "And that tower in the distance is the Torre del Andador, where..."

But his explanation fades when he turns to look directly at Oscar, and for a moment, with the golden evening light illuminating his face, with the medieval magic of Albarracín creating the perfect backdrop, Oscar can see everything Carlos wants to do and can't.

He wants to be closer. He wants to take his hand. He wants to be able to point things out by touching him, wants to be able to stand behind him while they look at the view, wants to be able to experience this beautiful place the way the couples surrounding them are experiencing it.

Carlos's eyes linger on Oscar's lips for a fraction of a second before he forces himself to look at the view again, and Oscar can see the effort it costs him to maintain appropriate distance.

"It's the most beautiful place I've ever seen," Oscar murmurs, but when Carlos turns to look at him, they both know he's not talking only about the landscape.

"Yes," Carlos responds, his voice barely audible above the murmur of other tourists' conversations. "It is."

And for a moment, suspended between the breathtaking view and the impossibility of their situation, they look at each other with an intensity that's dangerously obvious. It's Carlos who pulls away first, once again adopting that safe distance, but Oscar can see what the self-control costs him.

"We should..." Carlos begins, his voice slightly hoarse.

"Go?" Oscar completes, though part of him wants to stay here forever, in this magical place that means so much to Carlos, even if they have to maintain this frustrating distance.

Carlos nods, but doesn't move immediately. Instead, he stays there for one more moment, absorbing the view, and Oscar realizes he's memorizing this moment: not just the place, but the fact of having shared it with him, even with all the limitations they face.

"My favorite place in the world," Carlos finally whispers, so low that only Oscar can hear it despite the proximity of other tourists.

And the way he says it—with a vulnerability suggesting he's sharing something precious, something he hasn't shared with anyone else—makes Oscar feel a wave of tenderness so intense he has to look away.

As they walk back toward the car, there's a new quality in the air between them. The frustration of not being able to touch, of not being able to be completely themselves in this beautiful place, has intensified the tension in ways both can feel but neither can express directly.

But there's also something else: a deeper intimacy born of having shared something important, of having navigated together this complex situation where feelings are real but expressions are limited.

"Thank you," Oscar says when they reach the car and Carlos simply smiles.

"Thank you for understanding," Carlos responds, and Oscar knows he's not talking only about appreciating the beauty of the place.

Once back in the Audi, with the doors closed creating that bubble of privacy again, the transformation is immediate. Carlos breathes deeply, as if he'd been holding his breath, and when he extends his hand toward Oscar, the relief in both is palpable.

"This is shit," Carlos complains as he intertwines his fingers with Oscar's.

"What is?"

"Not being able to share something I love with you the way I want to share it."

Oscar squeezes his fingers in response, feeling the truth of those words resonate in his own chest. Because he had wanted exactly the same things Carlos had wanted: to be closer, to touch, to experience that beauty together in a more intimate way.

"But you did share it with me," Oscar assures him. "Just in a different way."

Carlos looks at him for a moment, something softening in his expression. "Did I?"

"Completely. I could feel what it means to you. I could see why you fell in love with this place when you were a child."

The smile he receives from Carlos in response is radiant, as if he'd accomplished something important despite the limitations they faced.

"Next stop, Valencia. Where we're going to try the best almond sweets in Spain."

Oscar sees how Carlos's eyes briefly drift away, that flash of something more complex crossing his expression, and he understands immediately. Valencia will be another variation of the same constant care Carlos has to maintain.

Oscar simply gently squeezes the fingers of his hand intertwined with Carlos's—a silent gesture that says I understand and it's okay and this is enough for now.

The smile he receives from Carlos in response is soft, grateful, charged with a relief that confirms Oscar had read the situation correctly.

The road unfolds before them like a promise, the landscape gradually transforming with the passing hours from pines and rocky cliffs toward something softer, more Mediterranean.

The lights of Valencia appear on the horizon like a golden glow against the darkening sky, and Oscar can feel Carlos's anticipation building with each kilometer closer to the city.

"We're close," he announces after almost three hours of driving, but there's something different in his voice now—a softer, more intimate quality. "To the place I want to show you."

"The almond sweets?" Oscar asks, turning slightly to study Carlos's profile in the car's twilight.

"The best in Spain. There's a confectionery... my grandmother used to take me there when I was little. She said they were medicine for the soul."

"Does your grandmother live in Valencia?"

"Nearby. In a small town about an hour from here. But every time we went to visit her, she insisted we make this specific trip to Valencia, just to go to this confectionery."

Valencia gradually appears before them, but instead of heading toward the tourist center, Carlos takes exits that lead them through residential neighborhoods, through narrower streets that speak of history and family tradition.

"It's around here," Carlos mentions, maneuvering through streets he clearly knows well. "In the Barrio del Carmen."

The confectionery is small, almost easy to overlook: a narrow shop with a glass storefront displaying sweets arranged with the artisanal pride of someone who considers their work an art; it smells of toasted almonds and caramelized sugar. An older woman emerges from the back when she hears the door's bell, and her face immediately lights up upon seeing Carlos.

"¡Carlitos!" she exclaims, moving around the counter to embrace him with maternal familiarity. She speaks to him in affectionate Spanish, words Oscar can't understand but whose affection is universally recognizable.

Carlos responds in Spanish, his voice adopting a younger, softer quality. Oscar observes the interaction, fascinated by this version of Carlos who clearly has maintained deep emotional connections with people who knew him before he was an F1 driver.

The woman looks toward Oscar and smiles warmly, saying something in Spanish that makes Carlos blush slightly. Whatever she said, Carlos responds with what sounds like an introduction, mentioning Oscar's name and "Australia."

The next few minutes pass in a cloud of Spanish and gesticulations, with the woman carefully packing a selection of sweets while continuing to chat with Carlos. Oscar can feel the warmth of the exchange even without understanding the words.

When they finally leave the confectionery with a paper bag full of turrones, Carlos is quiet, processing something Oscar can't completely identify.

"Everything okay?"

"Perfect. It's just... María always asks if I'm happy. This time I told her yes."

The simplicity of the confession makes something contract in Oscar's chest, because he can hear everything Carlos isn't saying: that it's rare for him to be able to answer that question affirmatively, that there's something about this moment, about being here with Oscar, that feels like genuine happiness.

"Where to now?" Oscar asks softly.

Carlos smiles, a smile containing promises. "Somewhere we can taste these sweets properly."

They drive for a few more minutes before Carlos takes a road that winds toward the hills surrounding the city. Oscar can see the lights of Valencia spreading below them as they climb, and when Carlos finally stops at a small viewpoint, the view is spectacular: the entire city golden under the night lights, with the Mediterranean gleaming in the distance.

Carlos turns off the engine and the car's lights. When they get out, the night air is warm, charged with the aroma of pines and something salty coming from the sea. Carlos opens the trunk and takes out a blanket Oscar hadn't noticed they'd packed.

"Are you always this prepared?" Oscar asks, amused.

"Only when I'm planning something special. Come on."

They spread the blanket in a spot with the best view, Valencia glittering before them like an urban fairy tale. Carlos sits first with his legs crossed, the soft cotton of the blanket crinkling under his weight. He pats the space beside him with a smile, and Oscar settles next to him, close enough that he can feel the warmth radiating from Carlos's body in the night breeze.

Carlos opens the bag of sweets with a soft crackle and places the turrones between them on the blanket, the simple ritual charged with anticipation. The sweet aroma of almond and honey mingles with the fresh air rising from the city.

The first bite Oscar tries is revelatory—sweet without being cloying, with complex notes of almond and honey that speak of techniques perfected over generations. The texture melts perfectly on his tongue, leaving a flavor that lingers.

"Incredible," Oscar murmurs, licking a bit of sugar from his fingers before taking another piece. "I can understand why your grandmother brought you here just for these sweets."

"Well," Carlos says, letting himself fall back until he's resting on his elbows, his legs now extended and relaxed on the blanket. The position makes his shirt stretch slightly across his torso. "It started that way. But I think she liked having excuses to take trips with my father and me. She said the best family memories happen in cars, when everyone's trapped together and has no choice but to really talk."

"And was she right?"

Carlos smiles, his eyes shining with memory as he looks toward the twinkling lights of Valencia. "Completely. Some of my favorite memories are from those trips. My father driving while my grandmother told him he was taking the wrong route, me in the back seat eating too many sweets and asking questions about everything we saw."

"What kind of questions?" Oscar asks, reaching for another turrón. His fingers briefly brush Carlos's when they both move toward the same piece, the accidental contact sending a small electric shock up his arm.

"Everything. Why does that mountain have that shape? How many people live in that town? Can rally cars climb that hill?" Carlos laughs, the sound vibrating through his chest. "My father was incredibly patient. He could answer questions for hours."

Oscar can picture it perfectly: a tiny, curious Carlos bombarding his father with questions as they crossed the Spanish landscape. "Is he still like that? Answering all your questions?"

"More than ever," Carlos confirms, and there's so much affection in his voice that it makes something contract warmly in Oscar's chest. "Though now the questions are about car setups and race strategies. But yes, he can talk for hours about anything related to motorsport."

"He must be so proud to see you in F1."

"He's more excited than I am sometimes... What about you? Did you have that relationship with your dad when you were little?"

"Different, but yes," Oscar responds, sliding down until he's lying on his side, his head propped on his bent arm. From this position he can better see Carlos's profile against the starry sky. "My father is more the practical type. When I became obsessed with Cars, he didn't buy me more toys, he took me to the garage and taught me how real engines work."

"Really?"

"I was six and already knew how to change oil," Oscar says with pride, a crumb of turrón falling from his lips onto the blanket. "Well, not me directly, technically my father did all the work, but I held the tools and asked questions. Lots of questions."

Carlos laughs, turning completely onto his side to face Oscar, his arm bent under his head in a mirror position. Their faces are now less than half a meter apart. "About what?"

"Everything. Why pistons move like that, how gasoline becomes movement, why some cars sound different than others." Oscar can feel the warm nostalgia of those memories, and also the way Carlos's eyes fix on his lips when he speaks. "When did you know you wanted to compete seriously?"

"I think I always knew," Carlos responds, but then corrects himself, shaking his head slightly. "Well, not always. There was a moment when I changed my mind and wanted to be a cartographer instead."

"A cartographer?" Oscar laughs, the confession so unexpected that he partially sits up, leaning on his elbow. A night breeze moves his hair, and Carlos instinctively reaches out to brush a strand from his eyes.

"It was a completely legitimate profession!" Carlos protests, but he's smiling, his fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary near Oscar's cheek. "I had this giant atlas that had belonged to my grandfather, and I was fascinated by the idea that someone had to draw all those maps. I wanted to be the person who discovered new places and put them on the map so others could find them."

"That's really sweet," Oscar mentions, his voice softer now. He lies back down, but this time closer, until he can feel Carlos's breath brushing his cheek. "And I mean it."

"My grandfather bought me maps of different countries. I had a huge collection." Carlos is completely relaxed now, his body forming a comfortable line on the blanket, one arm still supporting his head while the other rests casually between them. "I used to plan elaborate routes for trips I knew we'd never take. Like, from Spain to Greece overland, or the most scenic route to cross Australia."

"Australia, really?"

"It was one of my favorite destinations to plan for. Something about all those enormous distances between cities fascinated me. And the roads crossing the Outback seemed so... infinite."

Oscar feels something warm and strange hearing this, the idea that Carlos had been fascinated with his country long before meeting him. "Have you ever been to that area?"

"Not yet, but it's on my list. Especially after..." Carlos stops, his free hand moving nervously over the blanket, his fingers tracing distracted patterns in the fabric.

"After what?"

Carlos looks directly at him, a shy smile appearing on his lips. His hand moves to find Oscar's, intertwining their fingers. "After meeting someone who makes me want to visit all the places I once planned on those maps."

The confession is so sincere, so unexpectedly romantic, that Oscar feels as if the air had changed density around them. He squeezes Carlos's fingers in response, the contact sending warmth up his entire arm.

"Do you still plan routes?" Oscar asks, his voice coming out softer than he'd intended.

"Sometimes. Especially when I can't sleep after frustrating races. It's relaxing, imagining being somewhere completely different, without pressure, without expectations. Just... exploring."

"Like where?"

Carlos considers this, his gaze momentarily lost in the lights of Valencia, his thumb tracing distracted circles on the back of Oscar's hand. "There's a road in Scotland I've always wanted to drive. It goes through the Highlands, and according to the map, you can see castles from the route. And in New Zealand there's a coastal road that apparently has views that look like they're from another planet."

"And what's stopping you?"

"Time, I guess. And..." Carlos pauses, as if considering how much to reveal. His eyes return to Oscar's. "I didn't want to take those trips alone. They seemed like the kind of things that are better when you share them with someone."

The casual honesty of the confession makes something contract in Oscar's chest. Because he can hear everything Carlos isn't saying: that he's been waiting for the right person to take those trips, that he wants to share those adventures but not with just anyone.

"I'd love to see those maps sometime," Oscar admits, his voice barely a murmur in the intimate space between them.

"Really?" Carlos's eyes light up, and Oscar can feel how his body tenses slightly with excitement.

"Absolutely. And..." Oscar takes a breath, deciding to risk a small confession of his own. "I'd love to help you plan those routes."

Carlos leans slightly forward, shortening the distance between them even more. "Would you do that?"

"I'd do that and more," Oscar responds, surprised by his own boldness. "Especially the trip through Australia. I can show you all the routes that don't appear on tourist maps."

"Like what?"

"The route from Melbourne to Sydney along the coast, but through the small towns instead of the highway. You can stop at places that make the best fish and chips in the country, and there's this lookout near Eden where you can see whales if you're lucky."

Carlos has moved closer during this conversation, turning his body until he's almost facing Oscar. Close enough that Oscar can see the golden flecks in his eyes under the starlight, can feel the warmth of his breath.

"Have you done that route?"

"With my family when I was twelve," Oscar confirms. "It was the best trip we've ever taken. Three weeks in a rental car, stopping wherever we wanted, eating at local places, sleeping in motels that had more personality than amenities."

"Sounds perfect," Carlos says, and there's something in his voice—a nostalgia for experiences he's never had—that makes Oscar want to plan that exact trip for them immediately.

"Does your family take trips like that?"

"We used to, when I was a kid," Carlos responds, his free hand moving to brush the hair from his forehead. "There were summers when we'd just take the car and explore. My father knows incredible roads all over Europe that never appear in tourist guides."

"Like this one?"

"Exactly like this one," Carlos confirms, and when he smiles, Oscar can see the genuine happiness in his expression illuminated by the distant city lights. "Actually, I think this was one of his favorite routes. He said Valencia from up here looks like a city from a fairy tale."

They fall silent for a moment, absorbing the view and the comfort of being together like this, without needing to fill every second with conversation. It's a comfortable silence, the kind that only exists between people who feel completely at ease in each other's space. A gentle breeze moves the blanket beneath them, bringing the aroma of pines and the distant sound of night traffic.

"You know what's the strangest thing about all this?" Carlos asks, moving a little closer on the blanket.

"About all what?"

"About this," Carlos vaguely gestures between them with his free hand, the movement making their intertwined fingers shift slightly. "About how easy it is to talk to you. I'm normally terrible at this."

"At what?"

"At... this. Sharing things. Relaxing with someone new. I mean talking about things that matter to me and not just small talk. I can be very social and even chatty, but..." Carlos laughs softly, the sound vibrating through the space between them. "It's different, talking just to talk and this, you know, sharing."

"And with me?"

"With you it feels like I've known you for much longer," Carlos admits, and there's a vulnerability in that confession that makes Oscar's pulse quicken.

"I feel the same way," Oscar responds honestly. "Like we could talk for hours and hours and never run out of things to say."

"Want to test it?" Carlos asks, a mischievous smile appearing on his lips, his eyes gleaming with amusement.

"Test what?"

"Talking for hours and hours. See if we really never run out of things to say."

Oscar finds himself smiling involuntarily, infected by Carlos's playful energy. "Do we have hours and hours?"

"We have all night," Carlos responds, and the way he says it—like a promise more than an observation—makes something stir in Oscar's stomach.

"In that case," Oscar mentions, reaching for another turrón and breaking off a piece that he extends toward Carlos, their fingers brushing as he accepts it, "tell me more about those Australia maps you planned."

The next thirty minutes pass in a cloud of easy conversation and shared laughter, their bodies gradually moving closer on the blanket without either noticing consciously. Carlos tells him about elaborate routes he'd planned through the Outback, gesticulating with his hands as he describes landscapes he's only seen in photographs. Oscar corrects him when he pronounces some Australian city name with emphasis on the wrong syllable, and Carlos practices until he gets it right, his Spanish accent giving an adorable tint to the familiar words.

They talk about food—Carlos describing Spanish dishes Oscar has never tried, his eyes shining as he details cooking techniques he learned from his grandmother. Oscar explains the concept of Vegemite in a way that makes Carlos make exaggerated faces of disgust, wrinkling his nose in ways that are so funny Oscar can't stop laughing.

It's during one of these conversations—Oscar explaining why rugby is more entertaining to watch and play than soccer while Carlos passionately argues the opposite, gesticulating so animatedly he almost knocks over the bag of sweets—that they realize they've gradually moved closer until their knees are touching, until every gesture requires being near each other.

"You know what," Carlos says softly, interrupting his own argument about the technical superiority of soccer, "I think this is the longest conversation I've had without getting bored even once."

Oscar finds himself smiling at the confession, adjusting his position to lie more comfortably on his side, facing Carlos. "Do you usually get bored easily?"

"With most people, yes," Carlos admits, mirroring Oscar's position until they're face to face, their breathing almost synchronizing. There's something in the way he looks at him—as if Oscar were a pleasant surprise he hadn't seen coming—that makes all the light conversation charge with something completely different.

Suddenly, Oscar is painfully aware of every point where their bodies touch: their knees, the occasional brush of their hands, the way Carlos's eyes linger on his face, how the air between them seems to have thickened.

"And with me?" Oscar asks, his voice coming out softer than he'd intended.

"With you," Carlos says, moving imperceptibly closer, "I could do this all night."

There's something in the way he says it—sincere, without artifice—that makes Oscar feel as if time had slowed down. He can see every detail of Carlos's face: the way his eyelashes cast small shadows on his cheeks, the subtle movement of his lips as he speaks.

"Oscar," Carlos whispers, and there's a question in the way he says his name, an invitation Oscar can feel in every fiber of his being.

"Yes," Oscar responds, though he's not completely sure what he's responding to, only that he wants to say yes to everything Carlos might be offering.

Instead of words, Carlos leans forward, closing the small distance between them. His hand moves to touch Oscar's cheek, warm fingers against his skin as their lips meet. The kiss that follows is inevitable, as if they'd been building toward this moment all night without realizing it.

Carlos's lips move against his with a familiarity that speaks of all the kisses they've shared before, but there's also something new—an ease, a lack of urgency that suggests both feel safe taking their time, exploring what they feel without external pressure.

Oscar can taste the almonds and honey on Carlos's lips, can feel the way he sighs softly against his mouth, as if this contact were exactly what he'd been waiting for all night. But he also notices how his glasses press slightly against the bridge of his nose when Carlos leans closer, how the frames create a small barrier between their faces that requires both to subtly adjust the angle of the kiss.

His hands move instinctively toward Carlos's hair, fingers tangling in the soft strands as he deepens the kiss, feeling how Carlos moves even closer, their bodies practically fusing on the blanket, the glasses pressing a bit more against his face with the movement.

When they finally separate, it's gradually, their foreheads remaining together as their breathing stabilizes. Oscar blinks, trying to focus on Carlos's face, but realizes his glasses have fogged completely with the heat of their mingled breaths, creating a vaporous barrier that makes Carlos look blurry and distant.

Carlos immediately notices the problem, an amused smile curving his lips as he carefully raises his hands. "Let me," he murmurs, and with delicate movements, he takes the glasses by the temples and gently slides them off Oscar's face, folding them carefully before placing them on the blanket beside them.

Without the glasses, Oscar can see Carlos with perfect clarity again, every detail of his face illuminated by the distant lights of Valencia. There's something vulnerable about being without them, as if Carlos had removed a barrier and could see him more completely.

"This is nice," Carlos murmurs, caressing Oscar's cheek.

"Just nice?"

"Better than nice."

"Perfect."

And then, as if that word had been an invitation he couldn't ignore, Carlos leans toward him again. This kiss is different from the previous one—deeper, more confident. Oscar feels how Carlos gradually moves, his torso sliding partially over him until Oscar is lying completely on the blanket, feeling the warm weight of Carlos's chest against his while Carlos props himself on his elbow to support his own weight.

It's a more intimate, more enveloping position. Oscar can feel Carlos's heartbeat against his chest, can sense how both their breathing synchronizes as the kiss deepens. Carlos's hands find their way to Oscar's hair, fingers tangling in the strands while Oscar slides his own hands down Carlos's back, feeling the warmth of his skin through the fabric of his shirt.

It's at that exact moment that Oscar's stomach makes an audible noise, a growl that's impossible to ignore in the night's stillness. Both freeze for a second, their eyes meeting in mutual surprise, before Carlos bursts into laughter.

"Someone's hungry and apparently not for me," Carlos jokes, his smile so bright Oscar can see it clearly even in the dark, his white teeth contrasting with the shadows.

"The sweets are incredible," Oscar mentions, feeling warmth in his cheeks as he sits up slightly, leaning on his elbow, "but apparently my stomach doesn't consider them a complete dinner."

Carlos rises fluidly, untangling his limbs from Oscar's and standing in one graceful movement. He extends his hand toward Oscar, palm up.

Oscar takes the offered hand, feeling Carlos's strength as he helps him up. Once standing, he automatically looks for his glasses, finding them carefully folded on the blanket where Carlos had left them. He puts them on quickly, adjusting them on the bridge of his nose—Oscar Palmer needs his glasses, after all.

"I know exactly where to take you."

"At this hour?"

"Spain," Carlos mentions with a smile, as if that explained everything, his hand still holding Oscar's even after he's completely upright. "Here we have dinner when the rest of the world is sleeping."

As they collect the blanket—Carlos shaking it with precise movements while Oscar gathers the remains of the sweets and cleans the crumbs—Oscar can feel how something has solidified between them during these hours under the stars. It's not just that they've shared stories or exchanged kisses, but that they've found a rhythm together—an ease of being in each other's space that feels both natural and exciting.

Carlos folds the blanket with efficient movements, and when they finish cleaning the area, he takes Oscar's hand naturally as they walk back to the parked car. Their steps synchronize effortlessly as they navigate the winding path, the lights of Valencia growing brighter as they descend.

As they drive back toward Valencia, with the city lights approaching and the promise of an intimate dinner waiting for them, Oscar allows himself to fully absorb the happiness he's experiencing. It's the kind of simple but profound contentment that comes from being exactly where you want to be, with exactly the person you want to be with, doing exactly what you want to do.

And when Carlos begins to softly hum a Spanish song Oscar doesn't recognize, his voice mixing with the sound of the engine and the distant murmur of the city, his fingers drumming gently against the steering wheel to the rhythm of the melody, Oscar knows with absolute certainty that this is the kind of moment he'd want to last forever.

 

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

Chapter 25: Inclination

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

 

The Audi glides through Valencia's streets as Carlos navigates toward the city center, but Oscar can see that something has shifted in him since they came down from the lookout. His shoulders are tense, his fingers gripping the steering wheel tighter than necessary, and there's a line of concentration etched between his brows that wasn't there just minutes ago.

"You okay?" Oscar asks when Carlos stops at a red light and automatically massages the back of his neck.

Carlos looks at him, and for a moment the mask slips enough to reveal something raw, exhausted.

"It's just..." he begins, but the light changes and he has to return his attention to traffic. Neon lights from restaurants and bars paint streaks of color across the windshield as they move forward. "After what happened at the hill lookout, it's frustrating having to act distant again."

The honesty in his voice makes something tighten in Oscar's chest.

"In Albarracín I wanted to be able to stay close to you like we were at the lookout," Carlos continues, navigating a roundabout with automatic precision. "I wanted to put my arm around you, show you the view from my perspective, and instead I had to maintain this stupid, appropriate distance." He stops at another red light, takes the opportunity to run a hand through his hair. "And I don't know if I can sit in a restaurant and pretend I don't want to do the things I clearly want to do with you. It's been hours of calculating every gesture, every distance, every glance..." His voice cracks slightly. "I'm exhausted from pretending."

"I don't care where we have dinner," Oscar says immediately, the sincerity in his voice so clear that he can see something relax in Carlos's shoulders. "What I want is for you to be comfortable."

Carlos looks at him with a mixture of relief and hope. "Really?"

"Really. How about we grab some takeout instead and find a quiet place where you can just be yourself?"

"I know a park," Carlos responds, his voice already sounding lighter. "Where people go when the weather's nice and..."

"Sounds perfect," Oscar interrupts with a smile.

Within minutes, they stop briefly at a small café where Carlos buys Iberian ham sandwiches, homemade croquettes, flan, and sparkling pomegranate juice. On the way to the park, Oscar can see how the tension gradually dissolves from Carlos's shoulders.

 

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

 

The Jardines del Turia stretch like green arteries through Valencia, filled with locals taking advantage of the perfect Mediterranean night temperature. Families with children, groups of students, couples of all ages occupy benches under streetlights, creating exactly the kind of atmosphere where two men having dinner together disappear into the normal urban landscape.

They find a bench under a pine tree whose branches create a natural canopy, far enough from the main streetlights to ensure privacy but with enough ambient light to make out their food.

Carlos sits down and immediately exhales—not a theatrical sigh but something deeper, like he'd been holding more tension than he'd admitted. When he unwraps his sandwich, his movements have recovered that naturalness Oscar had missed during the last few hours.

Without ceremony, Carlos lets his shoulder find Oscar's, leaning against him with the ease of someone who no longer has to calculate the appropriateness of every gesture.

"Better?" Oscar asks.

"Infinitely." And when Carlos smiles, it's with that complete openness that Oscar has learned to associate with moments where he feels genuinely safe.

It's while they're sharing the croquettes—Carlos automatically breaking them in half so they can both try each variety—that they start really noticing the other people populating the nighttime park.

"See that couple?" Carlos discreetly points toward two figures under a distant streetlight. "They've been sitting there since we arrived and haven't stopped talking."

Oscar follows his gaze to a pair who appear to be in their thirties—she gesticulating animatedly while he listens with completely absorbed attention. "Maybe it's their first date."

"Or maybe they've been together for years and still have things to say to each other," Carlos responds, his voice taking on a dreamy quality. There's something in the way Carlos observes the couple—not with casual curiosity but with an intensity that suggests he's seeing something he deeply yearns for. "Look how she straightens his tie without him asking," Carlos continues, his voice barely audible. "That kind of... naturalness. Not having to calculate whether it's appropriate to touch."

Oscar can see exactly what Carlos means: the way the woman automatically reaches toward her companion's neck, how he tilts his head slightly to give her better access, all without interrupting their conversation. It's the kind of unconscious intimacy that only develops when two people have been together long enough for their bodies to move in harmony.

An older couple passes in front of them, him carrying her jacket over his arm while she holds the remains of an ice cream they've clearly been sharing.

"See how they walk?" Carlos asks, his attention now completely captured by this new couple. "Totally synchronized without realizing it. I bet they've been together for decades."

"How can you tell?"

"The way they move. He automatically slows down when she stops to look at something. She wipes a spot of ice cream from his chin without interrupting what she's saying." Carlos takes a sip of his juice, his eyes following the couple. "Years of practice until caring for each other becomes automatic."

His voice is loaded with a nostalgia that isn't bitter but deeply longing.

Another couple captures their attention: two young people sharing a bench near a fountain, her head resting on his shoulder while they read something on a phone, laughing occasionally.

Carlos watches them with a different intensity, more personal.

"They can do that," he murmurs, more to himself. The envy in his voice is so pure, so devoid of bitterness, that Oscar feels a wave of tenderness. "I want that," Carlos suddenly admits, the words coming out as if they'd been torn from somewhere deep inside. "I want to be able to care for someone like that, without thinking, without calculating if it's safe or appropriate. I want it to be as natural as breathing."

They sit in silence for a moment, the weight of that confession settling between them.

"I want that too," Oscar admits, his voice barely a whisper. "That ease. That naturalness."

Carlos looks at him then, his eyes shining with something that's definitely hope. "Really?"

"Really."

A group of friends passes by laughing, several of them walking with arms over each other's shoulders, that casual physicality that only exists between people completely comfortable with one another.

"Even that," Carlos says, watching them. "Being able to touch someone you care about without it meaning something complicated. Just... affection."

"You can't even do that normally?" Oscar asks with surprise. After all, the Carlos of 2024 does tend to have physical contact with Lando, with Charles, with other drivers when they seem to be having a friendly chat.

"Of course not. If you touch another man affectionately, people assume things. And if they assume things..." He shrugs, but Oscar can see the tension in the gesture.

"That must be exhausting."

"It is. That's why this," Carlos makes a vague gesture toward the space between them, toward the way they're sitting with their shoulders touching, "feels so..."

"Comfortable?"

"Liberating."

They finish the croquettes and move on to the flan, which turns out to be exactly as perfect as Carlos had promised: creamy without being heavy, with that caramel layer that breaks perfectly under the spoon. Carlos automatically divides it into two unequal portions.

"You do that without thinking," Oscar observes, pointing toward the portions.

"Do what?"

"Give me the bigger portion. Make sure I have enough water. Adjust my glasses when they slip." Oscar lists the small acts of attention Carlos has been providing all day. "It's exactly what we were seeing in those other couples."

Carlos stops with the spoon halfway to his mouth, processing this observation. "Do I?"

"Constantly. Even when you have to be careful about everything else, you take care of me automatically."

A slow smile spreads across Carlos's face, as if Oscar had pointed out something he hadn't noticed himself but that brings him joy to recognize.

"I guess I do."

"And I like it," Oscar adds, his voice taking on a more intimate quality. "I like being taken care of by you."

The air between them charges with something denser, more significant. Carlos sets his spoon in the empty flan container and turns slightly to look directly at Oscar.

"Want to walk a bit?" he asks, his voice hoarse with something Oscar can't completely identify but recognizes as important.

They wander toward paths where the trees create more privacy, where the streetlight filters through in barely golden fragments between the leaves. Their hands brush occasionally, as if testing the tacit permission of closeness. At one point, their fingers intertwine naturally, but only for a few steps, before releasing again, with a delicacy that seems to say: I'm here.

They walk in silence for several minutes, simply enjoying the proximity, the occasional brush of their hands, those brief moments when they can touch without drawing attention.

When they pass another couple—this time two women walking hand in hand, talking quietly—Carlos watches them with that same nostalgic intensity.

"Someday," he says, his voice barely audible, "I want to be able to walk like that with you anywhere. Without having to let go if someone comes."

"Someday," Oscar repeats, bringing his hand close to Carlos's again, this time without needing to hide it.

They stop under a cluster of pines where the darkness is almost complete, where they can hear the distant murmur of voices but can't make out specific faces. Carlos simply intertwines both hands with Oscar's, holding them between them as if sealing a promise.

"Thank you. Thank you for understanding. For making everything easier."

"Always," Oscar responds, and in the quiet darkness of the Valencia park, with Carlos's hands warm in his, he lets himself believe that what they’ve found together is as real as it feels.

 

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

 

The hotel Carlos had chosen turns out to be exactly what he'd promised: small, intimate, and so discreet that Oscar almost doesn't see it until they're literally parking in front of it. It's a Mediterranean stone construction that seems to have grown organically from the rocky hillside.

"Hotel Rural Casa del Mar," Oscar reads aloud from the sun-weathered wooden sign. "Sounds perfect."

Carlos turns off the engine, but neither of them immediately moves to get out of the car. Oscar can hear his own breathing, slightly quickened, mixing with Carlos's in the shared air.

The reception is staffed by an older man who speaks in Spanish with Carlos, occasionally directing kind smiles toward Oscar that suggest he's accustomed to guests who value privacy.

"A room with two beds," Carlos says in English after completing the registration, and Oscar can detect how his voice tenses slightly, as if the words were harder to pronounce than they should normally be.

They reach the room after climbing stone stairs that creak under their steps. There are two single beds separated by a nightstand, but there's also a balcony that opens toward the Mediterranean, where the moon is creating a silver path over the water that extends to the horizon.

"The view is incredible," Oscar murmurs, moving immediately toward the balcony, but when he turns to invite Carlos to join him, he finds him standing by his luggage with an expression he hadn't seen all day.

Carlos's shoulders are tense, his restless hands playing with his backpack strap. There's something in the way he avoids direct eye contact, how his fingers drum against his thigh in a nervous rhythm that Oscar can hear in the room's silence.

"Carlos," he says softly, moving away from the balcony to approach him. "Are you okay?"

Carlos lets out a laugh that sounds like breaking glass, forced and fragile. "Yeah, it's just that..." He stops, running a hand through his hair in a gesture that makes the strands stick up in impossible directions. "I don't know why I'm suddenly so nervous."

He sits on the edge of one of the beds, the mattress creaking under his weight. His hands move restlessly, smoothing imaginary wrinkles in his jeans. The sound of his breathing is slightly irregular, as if he were fighting against something invisible in his chest.

"Maybe because when we were in the car it was easy to pretend this was just a trip," Carlos admits, his voice lower, the words coming out with a cadence that suggests he's been processing these thoughts for miles. "But now we're here, sharing a room, and it's... real."

Oscar sits on his own bed, facing him across the small space between them. He can see how the light filtering from the balcony creates soft shadows under Carlos's eyes, how it illuminates the tension lines around his mouth.

"Do you regret suggesting this?"

"No," Carlos responds immediately, but then his body contradicts him—his shoulders tense more, his hands close into soft fists on his knees. "Well, maybe a little. Not being here with you, but... having assumed that I'd be ready for what this might mean."

The honesty in his voice makes something contract in Oscar's chest. He can see exactly what's happening: throughout all the shared moments during the day, Carlos had imagined this night, but now that they're here, the weight of his own insecurities is catching up to him like a wave finally breaking against the shore.

"Carlos, you don't have to be ready for anything tonight."

"No?" Carlos looks at him with eyes that reveal more vulnerability than Oscar had expected. There's something almost childlike in the way his eyelashes flutter, how his breathing becomes slightly more shallow when he seeks confirmation. "Because during the whole trip I've been wondering what you expect from me. If you think that because I organized this, because I brought you here, I have some kind of plan or expectations about what's going to happen."

He stops, his fingers drumming nervously against his knees in a pattern that Oscar can feel resonating in the room's still air. The sound is soft but persistent, an anxious rhythm that speaks of nervous energy finding no outlet.

"And the truth is I don't know what I'm doing. All my experience with... with men... is with you. And after what happened the other night..."

He doesn't finish the sentence, but Oscar can fill in the blanks. Carlos is still carrying the weight of being rejected when he was most vulnerable, of having offered everything of himself only for Oscar to pull away when he needed him most.

"Hey," Oscar says, standing up and moving to sit on Carlos's bed, close enough to touch his knee. The contact is gentle but deliberate, his palm finding the solidity of the other's thigh through his jeans fabric. "Can you look at me?"

Carlos obeys, turning his head so their eyes meet. In the golden light filtering from the balcony, Oscar can see all the uncertainty that had been hidden under the day's confidence. His pupils are slightly dilated, his breathing creating small condensations in the room's cool air.

"This trip has been perfect," Oscar assures him, his voice loaded with sincerity he can feel resonating in his own throat. "Absolutely perfect. The places you showed me, the food, the music, just... being with you was perfect. I wasn't expecting us to get to anything more than that. Really."

He sees how something relaxes slightly in Carlos's shoulders, how the tension that had been keeping his back rigid gradually dissolves.

"But more importantly," Oscar continues, his hand moving to cover Carlos's, immediately feeling the warmth of his skin, the slightly rough texture of his knuckles, "I don't want you to feel pressured to be something you're not, or to do something you don't feel completely ready for. The other night, when things got complicated... it wasn't because you did something wrong, never forget that."

Carlos nods, but Oscar can see there's still residual tension in his posture—the way his muscles remain slightly contracted, as if he were preparing to flee or defend himself.

"You know what? How about for tonight we just... exist here together? No expectations. No pressure. Just the two of us, in this beautiful place you chose, enjoying the fact that we can be close without having to worry about who's watching us."

The smile that gradually spreads across Carlos's face is beautiful—it starts as a small curve at the corners of his lips, then expands until it completely transforms his features, creating small wrinkles around his eyes that Oscar had never noticed before.

"That sounds... really good, actually," Carlos confesses, and for the first time since they entered the room, his voice sounds completely relaxed.

"Come here," Oscar asks, opening his arms in invitation.

Carlos moves toward him without hesitation, allowing Oscar to wrap him in an embrace that begins as comforting rather than romantic. Oscar can immediately feel the warmth of Carlos's body against his, the solid weight of his torso, the way his breathing deepens when he allows himself to completely relax.

It's when Carlos settles against him, his head finding that perfect spot in the hollow between Oscar's neck and shoulder, that something changes in the quality of the embrace. It doesn't become sexual exactly, but it does become more aware, more charged with unexplored possibilities.

"Thank you," Carlos murmurs against his shoulder, and Oscar can feel the vibration of the words against his skin. "For understanding. For not making me feel like a coward for being nervous."

"You're not a coward," Oscar assures him, his hands tracing gentle circles on Carlos's back, feeling the warmth of his skin through his shirt fabric. "You're honest. And that's infinitely brave... Being honest, admitting the truth, that can be terrifying."

Oscar knows better than anyone...

They stay like this for several minutes, Carlos gradually relaxing completely in Oscar's arms. It's intimate in a different way from the sexual tension that has existed between them on other occasions—it's the intimacy of trust, of mutual comfort, of allowing masks to fall completely.

Oscar can feel how Carlos's breathing gradually synchronizes with his own, how the weight of his body becomes heavier as he relaxes, how his hands move from a defensive position to rest comfortably against Oscar's back.

Eventually they prepare for sleep, and when Oscar emerges from the bathroom in a t-shirt and boxers, he finds Carlos already in his bed, but awake, clearly waiting for him to return. The moonlight filters through the curtains, creating silver patterns on the white sheets.

"Oscar?" Carlos whispers as Oscar settles into his own bed.

"Mmm?"

"Can I... can I ask you a favor?"

There's something in his voice—not exactly nervousness, but a careful vulnerability—that immediately captures Oscar's complete attention.

"Of course."

Carlos sits on the edge of his bed, looking toward where Oscar is lying. In the twilight, Oscar can see how his fingers nervously play with the edge of the sheets.

"Could you... could you stay with me? Not to do anything, just... to be close."

The simplicity of the request, the pure honesty in it, makes something contract warmly in Oscar's chest.

"Are you sure?" he asks, but he's already moving, getting up from his bed.

"Very sure," he responds, moving to one side to make space.

Oscar slides under the sheets next to Carlos, immediately conscious of the warmth of his body, the familiar scent of his skin mixed with the clean detergent of the hotel sheets. Carlos immediately curls up against him, and there's something deeply comforting about the proximity.

It's when Carlos adjusts his position, when Oscar can feel every point where their bodies touch—the solidity of Carlos's chest against his side, the weight of his arm resting on Oscar's stomach, the way their legs naturally intertwine—that he realizes how truly intimate this moment is.

"Thank you," Carlos whispers, his warm breath against Oscar's neck, creating small shivers that spread from that point of contact.

"You don't have to thank me," Oscar clarifies, his arms automatically closing around Carlos.

They stay like this in silence for several minutes, but Oscar can feel that Carlos isn't fully relaxing. There's a tension in his body that suggests his mind is active, processing something that's keeping him awake. His breathing hasn't settled into the deep pattern of impending sleep; instead, it remains slightly irregular.

"What are you thinking about?" Oscar murmurs against his hair.

Carlos shifts slightly, adjusting his position to look at Oscar in the twilight. His eyes shine in the moonlight filtering through the curtains.

"That I've never done this before," he admits, and Oscar can feel the movement of his lips against his skin when he speaks. "Just... being like this with someone. Without it being about performing or making sure the other person is satisfied. Just... being me." He pauses, and when he continues, his voice is lower, more vulnerable, each word forming carefully as if he feared that saying them too quickly might shatter the intimacy of the moment. "Do you know what it's like to spend your whole life feeling like you have to hide who you really are?"

The question hangs in the air between them, loaded with so much emotional weight that Oscar can feel it physically, as if the atmospheric pressure in the room had changed.

"Do you want to tell me about it?" he suggests gently, his hands continuing those soft circles on Carlos's back, feeling how the tension in his muscles deepens with the anticipation of the confession that's coming.

Carlos takes a deep breath, and Oscar can feel how his chest expands and contracts against him, how his ribs move under his skin as he gathers courage for something he's clearly never said aloud.

"I was just a kid," he begins, his voice barely a whisper, "when I first heard the word that taught me to be afraid of myself."

Oscar can feel the tension increasing in Carlos's body as he speaks, as if each word were a physical burden he has to push from the depths of his chest.

"I was in my father's team tents, playing among the tools while the mechanics worked. They were talking about this guy... Fernández, I think his name was." Carlos's voice becomes more tense, and Oscar can feel how his fingers contract slightly against his skin. "They'd discovered something about him."

"What kind of something?"

"That... that he liked men," Carlos whispers, and Oscar can hear how the simple statement requires physical effort, as if the words were stones he has to push from his throat. "And the way they talked about him... like he was something... disgusting, repulsive. They said there was no place for 'people like him' in the sport. That it was 'unnatural.'"

His breathing becomes more shallow as he speaks, and Oscar can feel small tremors running through his body.

"And your father?"

"Dad didn't say anything," Carlos responds, and there's such deep sadness in his voice that Oscar can feel it as something physical, as if the words were drops of cold water falling on his chest. "He just changed the subject. He didn't defend him, didn't say it was wrong to talk about someone like that. He just... let it happen."

Carlos stops, and Oscar can see how his eyes are becoming bright in the twilight, as if they were filling with tears he refuses to shed. His breathing becomes slightly choppy.

"That night," he continues, and now his voice has a brittle quality that makes Oscar want to hold him tighter, "I lay awake wondering what exactly made someone 'unnatural.' I didn't know what faggot meant, but I knew it was something so bad that even my father, who was my hero, who I thought was the bravest man in the world, didn't dare defend it."

"Carlos," Oscar murmurs, holding him tighter, feeling how Carlos's body immediately responds to the comfort, how he presses closer as if seeking refuge.

"Years later, during a karting camp, I discovered exactly what made me unnatural."

His voice breaks completely on the last words, like glass fracturing, and Oscar can feel how Carlos fights against emotions he's been storing for years. His body trembles slightly against Oscar's.

"What happened?"

"We were changing after practice," Carlos explains, his breathing becoming slightly irregular, each inhalation sounding like a small contained sob. "And there was this boy, Victor. He took off his shirt and I... my body reacted in a way I couldn't control."

He stops, and when he continues, Oscar can hear the shame he still carries from that experience, how each word is tinged with self-loathing.

"I understood immediately that I was exactly the kind of person my dad's mechanics had talked about with such disgust. The kind of person who makes others feel 'uncomfortable' in locker rooms. The kind of person who's 'dangerous' to other men."

"But you were just a child," Oscar says, his voice loaded with pain for what Carlos had to carry alone, his hand moving to trace comforting patterns on his back. "You were just a kid discovering things about yourself."

"I was a freak who finally understood why I was supposed to be afraid. And from that moment on, every time I was in a locker room, every time I had to change in front of other boys, every time I felt something I wasn't supposed to feel... I knew that if anyone noticed, I'd end up exactly like Fernández."

Carlos's eyes are definitely crystallizing now, shining with unshed tears that reflect the moonlight. Oscar can see how his eyelashes clump slightly from the moisture.

"Did you ever find out what happened to Fernández?" Oscar asks softly, his thumb tracing gentle lines along Carlos's jaw.

"Not specifically, but I could imagine. They fired him, right? He probably ended up without money, without reputation, without any way to make a living doing what he loved."

Carlos wipes his eyes with the back of his hand, a gesture that's almost childlike in its simplicity but loaded with years of practice at hiding evidence of emotional vulnerability.

"So I learned to control myself. I learned not to react. I learned to be a normal man. I learned to be the perfect boyfriend to girls who were beautiful and sweet and... who didn't awaken anything dangerous in me."

"What was that like for you?"

"Lonely," Carlos admits immediately, the word coming out with brutal honesty. "Incredibly lonely. Because I could play the part perfectly, be attentive, be romantic, sometimes I could even enjoy the sex because I liked making them feel good. But it was never... real. It was never me."

In his eyes, Oscar can see a lifetime of careful performance, of maintaining emotional distance even in the most intimate moments.

"Do you know what actually excited me during sex with them?"

Oscar shakes his head.

"The sounds they made. The way they said my name when I did something right. The broken words. The knowledge that I had the power to make them feel incredible." Carlos pauses, processing his own words with an expression that suggests he'd never articulated this so clearly before. "It wasn't their bodies that excited me. It was... it was the feeling of being competent. Of being successful at something."

"Like an achievement," Oscar observes softly.

"Exactly. The satisfaction came from knowing I'd done a good job, not from... from genuine desire for the person's body."

Carlos falls quiet for a moment, and Oscar can see how he's struggling with something deeper, something that clearly costs him more to admit.

"But do you know what the most fucked up part was?" he finally asks, his voice taking on a more bitter quality.

"What?"

"That they thought I was the perfect boyfriend precisely because I didn't have that... desperate urgency that other guys had. Because I could focus completely on their pleasure without being distracted by my own need." His voice becomes more frustrated, more loaded with self-directed anger that Oscar can feel radiating from him like heat. "They praised me for being 'different,' for being more considerate, more attentive than other guys. And I smiled and accepted the compliments, knowing that the only reason I was so 'attentive' was because I was terrified they'd discover my secret."

"Carlos..."

"And meanwhile," Carlos continues, his voice now loaded with frustration he's clearly been storing for years, each word coming out with more force, "every time I saw a guy I was attracted to, every time I felt that pull in my stomach, that acceleration of pulse that I was supposed to feel for girls... I had to bury it immediately. I had to turn it into... nothing."

The tears he'd been holding back finally begin to fall down his cheeks, shining like small diamonds in the dim light filtering from the balcony. Oscar can see each one, can follow their path as they slowly slide down his skin.

"It was years, Oscar. Years of feeling like the most real part of me was also the most dangerous part. The part that had to stay buried forever."

Oscar can feel his own eyes filling with tears hearing the raw pain in Carlos's voice, seeing how years of repression have created these wounds that still bleed when touched.

"And your family never suspected?" he asks, his thumb creating gentle movements along Carlos's cheek, wiping away tears as they fall.

"Suspected what? I'm the perfect son. I've had beautiful girlfriends, I'm successful because I made it to F1, I never cause problems." Carlos wipes his eyes again, the gesture now more aggressive, as if he were angry at himself for crying. "And the more 'perfect' I seemed from the outside, the more miserable I became inside."

"How long did that continue?"

"Until I met you," Carlos responds simply, and the words fall between them with the weight of a confession that changes everything. "Until you showed up and told me that in the future, it wasn't just safe to be who I really am, but that I was loved for it."

He shifts completely to face Oscar, his eyes still shining with tears but now also with something that looks like hope, as if saying these words aloud had found something he'd been searching for for years.

"For the first time in my life, someone let me know that I didn't have to hide. That the part of me I'd spent years burying wasn't just acceptable, but desirable."

Oscar feels like something is breaking in his chest hearing this, because he can see exactly how his lies had given Carlos something he'd never had: permission to exist completely. And the irony is so brutal it hurts.

"And when I'm with you," Carlos continues, his voice becoming softer, more intimate, "when you touch me, when you kiss me... for the first time I can feel what it's supposed to feel like. That urgency, that need, that genuine desire I'd seen in others but had never allowed myself to experience."

He moves closer to Oscar, until they're practically breathing the same air, until Oscar can feel the heat radiating from Carlos's skin, until he can perceive every small change in his breathing.

"Do you know how incredible it is to finally understand why people go crazy to touch another person? Why they risk everything to be with someone?"

Oscar can feel the intensity radiating from Carlos like something physical, can see how a lifetime of repression is being processed in real time, how each word he says is loaded with a release that's almost palpable.

"Because I'd never felt it before," Carlos whispers, and now his voice has a hoarse quality that makes something contract in Oscar's stomach. "I'd never experienced real, genuine desire for someone. And with you... with you it's like my body finally woke up after a lifetime of being asleep."

"Carlos," he murmurs, not knowing what else to say faced with so much honesty, so much naked vulnerability.

"That's why I'm so nervous," Carlos admits, his hands moving to find Oscar's, intertwining their fingers with a need that's almost desperate. "Because with you, everything I feel is real. I'm not acting, I'm not trying to be the perfect lover to impress you so you won't discover my secret, but I'm feeling things that are completely new to me."

He pauses, wiping his eyes once more, but now the gesture is gentler, less aggressive.

"And it's terrifying. Because for years I learned to maintain absolute control over my body, over my reactions. But with you... with you I have no control. And I don't know how to navigate that."

"You don't have to have control," Oscar clarifies softly, his hands moving to frame Carlos's face, feeling the moisture of his tears under his palms, the warmth of his skin, the way he leans into the touch like water in the desert. "Not with me. Never with me."

Carlos leans into the touch, closing his eyes, as if his entire body were hungry for this kind of acceptance.

"Really?" he asks, his voice small, vulnerable, loaded with hope so fragile that Oscar can feel it trembling in the air between them.

"Really. Everything you are, everything you feel... it's perfect and it's beautiful and you shouldn't feel shame or fear about any of it."

And when Carlos leans toward him, pressing his lips against Oscar's in a kiss that's loaded with years of repressed desire and newly discovered release, Oscar can feel exactly what Carlos had described: the difference between performance and authenticity, between duty and desire.

The kiss begins soft, tentative, but there's something underneath the surface—an electricity, a need that Oscar can feel vibrating through the contact. Carlos's lips move against his with barely contained urgency, as if he'd been waiting years to be able to do exactly this.

It's when they separate, when Carlos looks at him with eyes that are no longer filled with tears but with something hotter, more needy, that Oscar makes a decision.

"Carlos?"

"Yeah?"

Oscar feels like something has irreversibly changed between them. His hands move almost of their own accord—one sliding over Carlos's shoulder, the other finding his waist—and with firm but careful pressure, he guides him until he's completely turned around. Carlos lets himself be molded under his hands, trusting, until he's perfectly settled with his back against Oscar's chest.

The adjustment is immediate and intimate. Oscar can feel every point where their bodies touch—the solid weight of Carlos's back against his chest, his shoulder blades pressing against his ribs, the curve of his hips fitting perfectly against him. Their legs intertwine naturally, and Oscar feels the heat of Carlos's skin through the thin fabric of their boxers.

"Do you trust me?" Oscar murmurs against Carlos's ear, his voice deeper than usual, loaded with a promise that makes Carlos's skin immediately prickle.

Carlos nods, but Oscar can feel how his entire body tenses with anticipation, how his breathing becomes more shallow, more aware of every point where their bodies touch.

"Just relax. Just feel."

Oscar's hand slides from where it was resting on Carlos's abdomen downward, his fingers tracing a deliberately slow line that makes Carlos involuntarily arch backward, pressing himself more firmly against him. When his knuckles brush the bare skin just above the waistband of his boxers, Carlos inhales as if he'd been burned.

The skin-to-skin contact provokes an immediate reaction in Carlos—a small shudder that Oscar can feel spreading from the point where his fingers touch his stomach. His breathing becomes more shallow, more irregular.

"Oscar," Carlos whispers, and his name comes from his lips like something sacred, loaded with vulnerability that makes Oscar's heart race.

"I'm here," Oscar responds, his hands continuing their exploration, feeling how Carlos's abdominal muscles contract under his touch, how his breathing becomes increasingly choppy.

Oscar slides his hand completely under the fabric of the boxers. His fingers immediately encounter the heat, the softness of skin contrasting with the firmness that's already responding to his touch. Carlos produces a sound—small, involuntary, completely different from any sound Oscar has heard from him before.

He begins by gently wrapping with his open palm, no movement yet, just contact. He can immediately feel how Carlos reacts—a small jerk in his hips, the way his muscles involuntarily contract, how he grows harder under his touch.

"Never," Carlos begins, his voice already hoarse with desire, "it never felt good when they..."

His sentence cuts off when Oscar allows his thumb to trace a slow line from base to tip. It's the simplest possible movement, but Carlos reacts as if he'd been touched by electricity, pressing closer against Oscar, a low moan escaping his throat.

Oscar can feel exactly how Carlos grows completely hard under his hand, can perceive the accelerated pulse, the way his skin becomes more sensitive with each second. His hips begin to move in small involuntary circles, seeking more contact.

Oscar lets his hand close around him with firm but not tight pressure. Carlos gasps as if the air had been knocked from his lungs, his whole body tensing before melting against him. His hands search for something to hold onto, finding Oscar's free arm and closing around it.

"Like this?" Oscar asks, adjusting his grip.

"Yes," Carlos pants, "God, yes."

Oscar begins to move, his hand sliding in slow, deliberate movements. He can immediately feel how moisture accumulates under his palm, how each movement becomes more fluid. The sounds Carlos produces are completely involuntary—small gasps and moans that reverberate against Oscar's chest.

"With them... I just waited for it to be over," Carlos continues, but his voice breaks when Oscar adjusts his grip more firmly. "But with you..."

His sentence is lost when Oscar changes his technique, using only his thumb and index finger to create a tight ring that slides upward with perfect pressure. Carlos produces a guttural, primitive sound that comes from deep in his chest.

"It had never felt," Carlos murmurs, his voice broken, "I'd never felt like my body could..."

His hips begin to move following the rhythm of Oscar's hand, in movements he clearly can't control. Oscar can feel how the muscles in his thighs tremble, how his breathing becomes more desperate with each second.

"Oscar," he sighs his name like a plea.

"Don't fight it," he whispers, varying the pressure of his touch, watching fascinated as each change provokes a different reaction. "Just feel."

Oscar notices how Carlos's breathing becomes erratic against his arm, how small shivers run through his body and pass directly into his own like seismic waves. When he presses his lips against that spot where Carlos's neck meets his shoulder, when he allows his teeth to graze the skin, Carlos's entire body shudders against him.

"Oscar," Carlos murmurs, and the word comes out like a desperate prayer.

Oscar's hand moves with more confidence now, alternating between long movements that draw deep moans and concentrated caresses that make Carlos arch involuntarily. He can feel how the skin under his palm becomes slick, how each pulse of Carlos's racing heart becomes spasms he can feel directly.

Carlos moves, seeking more friction, more contact, more of everything. "Please... Don't stop, please don't stop."

His hand moves faster now, responding to the urgency in Carlos's voice, to the way his body arches desperately against him. The skin is completely slick under his palm, and Oscar can feel every shudder, every pulse that precedes what's coming.

The sounds Carlos produces become more urgent, more desperate. His breathing is completely erratic now, small choppy gasps. Oscar can perceive how every muscle in Carlos's body prepares, how tension builds toward the breaking point.

"Let go," Oscar murmurs against his ear, "I want to feel you come in my hand."

The words make something break in Carlos. He presses completely against Oscar, as if he wanted to disappear inside him, as if the solid body behind him were the only thing keeping him whole while he falls apart. His hands clutch Oscar's arm with a desperation that leaves marks.

When Carlos finally breaks, Oscar can feel the exact moment he loses all control. He grows completely hard in his hand for a second that feels eternal, and then the waves begin, intense and rhythmic, while warm liquid spills between Oscar's fingers in pulses that seem to never end.

The sound Carlos produces cuts through the air—raw, vulnerable, the cry of someone experiencing authentic release for the first time in his life. His entire body shudders against Oscar, his back arching repeatedly while waves of pleasure course through him like electric shocks.

Oscar can feel every shudder spreading through the body in front of him, how his legs shake uncontrollably, how each wave makes him press more desperately against him as if he wanted to merge completely. The pulses continue and continue, each one accompanied by more wet heat, each one drawing small sobs from Carlos's throat.

"Fuck, Oscar," Carlos repeats like a mantra, his voice broken, "Oscar..."

But he can't form coherent words because his body is still processing waves of sensation he'd never experienced. 

When it finally ends, Carlos collapses completely against him, his breathing gradually calming from desperate gasps to deep sighs. Oscar can feel satisfaction radiating from every relaxed muscle, a relaxation so complete it's as if Carlos had found something he'd been searching for his whole life without knowing it.

Oscar can also feel the sticky moisture covering his hand, can perceive how it's spread across Carlos's abdomen, can smell the distinctive scent that now fills the air between them like incense. His own breathing is accelerated, his body responding instinctively to the intensity of what he's just witnessed.

Carefully, he withdraws his hand, and he can hear the small moan of protest that escapes Carlos at the loss of contact. He separates delicately to stand up, and the sound Carlos makes at the loss of that solidity against his back is almost mournful.

In the bathroom, Oscar looks at his hand covered with evidence of Carlos's pleasure, feeling something primitive and satisfying in the sight. He lets warm water run, watching how the opalescent liquid slides down his fingers and disappears down the drain. He wets a towel with warm water, his body still vibrating with the intensity of what he's just shared.

When he returns, Carlos lies exactly as he left him, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling, his skin gleaming slightly with sweat, and Oscar can see the wet stains extending from his navel to his ribs.

"Let me take care of you," Oscar murmurs, his voice hoarser than he expected.

The warm towel makes contact with Carlos's hypersensitive skin, and he arches involuntarily, small tremors running through his body as if he were still processing echoes of pleasure. Oscar cleans with deliberately gentle movements, removing every trace while watching how even this gentle touch makes Carlos shudder.

Once he finishes, Oscar leaves the towel on the nightstand and lies on his side, facing Carlos. Immediately, Carlos turns toward him, seeking contact, and they arrange themselves naturally—Carlos pressing his forehead against Oscar's chest, their legs intertwining under the sheets.

Oscar wraps an arm around him, his hand automatically finding Carlos's hair, fingers moving through strands that are slightly damp. Carlos sighs against his chest, a sound of deep satisfaction that makes something expand warmly in Oscar's chest.

They stay like this in silence for several minutes, but Oscar can feel that Carlos is processing something, that there are thoughts moving behind his closed eyes.

"How do you feel?" Oscar finally murmurs.

Carlos stays still for a moment, and Oscar can feel how he searches for words for something he's clearly never verbalized before.

"Like I've been living in black and white my whole life... and someone just turned on the color." He pauses, and when he continues, there's a vulnerability in his voice that makes something contract in Oscar's chest. "I never... I never knew my body could feel that. That I could feel that."

Oscar can hear something deeper in his voice—not exactly confusion, but a kind of amazement mixed with something that could be pain for all the lost time.

"Never?" he asks softly, his fingers continuing those automatic movements in his hair.

Carlos pauses, and when he speaks, there's a different quality in his voice, smaller, younger.

"It's not that I've never had..." he begins, then stops. Oscar can feel heat rising up Carlos's neck, how he presses closer against his chest as if wanting to hide. "I mean, of course I've had orgasms before." His voice becomes lower, almost a murmur. "But it was always like... like a reflex. Like sneezing. Something my body did to release tension, but I was never... never really present for it."

Oscar feels something tighten in his chest, but he says nothing, simply continues stroking his hair, giving him space to continue.

"Even when I was alone," Carlos continues, his words slightly muffled against Oscar's skin, "it was always something I had to do quickly, quietly. Like a task I had to complete to relieve pressure and move on."

Carlos moves slightly, adjusting his position to speak more clearly.

"Do you know how fucked up that is?" he asks, and now there's a bitter note in his voice. "Masturbating without allowing yourself to really fantasize. Just... mechanical. Efficient. Without imagining anything specific because it was too dangerous."

Oscar presses a soft kiss to the top of his head, an instinctive gesture that makes Carlos relax more against him.

"Because if I allowed myself to think about what I really wanted," Carlos continues, his voice becoming more tense, "if I let myself imagine specific things, I felt like I was betraying everything I was supposed to be."

Carlos lifts his head to look at him, and Oscar can see that his eyes are slightly bright, but there are no tears—just that glassy quality that comes with strong emotions that have been dammed up for years.

"Do you know how ridiculous it is to be 22 years old and discovering this now?" he says, trying to sound casual but failing completely. "That my first real orgasm is with you, here, after years of pretending that sex with women satisfied me when I was really just... acting."

Oscar strokes his cheek, thumb tracing a gentle line along his cheekbone. "There's no timeline for this, Carlos."

Carlos leans into the touch, his eyes closing briefly. "I could never allow myself," he confesses, his voice taking on a more distant quality, as if he were accessing memories he's kept carefully buried. "When I started to really understand what I wanted... I couldn't allow myself. Not even in private... I was afraid it would show. That somehow it would be visible on my face, in how I walked, in how I interacted with other guys." His voice becomes more tense, more loaded. "So I learned not to feel. To make everything mechanical, even with myself."

Carlos falls quiet for a moment, and Oscar can feel how he's struggling against something deeper.

"There was a boy, his name was David," he suddenly mentions, his voice barely a whisper. "He was an incredibly talented driver, but one day... they discovered he was... that he was gay." The word comes from his lips as if it burned. "It wasn't that he told someone. They caught him. Literally." Carlos shudders against Oscar. "Some assholes decided there was something 'suspicious' about him. The way he supposedly looked at other boys in the locker rooms."

Oscar can feel how Carlos's heart accelerates against his chest.

"So one day, they ambushed him. They forced him... they humiliated him in ways I don't even want to describe. And they also photographed him in compromising positions, forced him to admit things about himself." Carlos's voice breaks slightly. "And I was there, hidden, behind some tires, watching everything. Seeing how they destroyed him. Hearing him cry and..."

Oscar feels something icy settle in his stomach. "Carlos..."

"And do you know what I did?" Carlos pulls away enough to look at Oscar directly, and there's self-loathing in his eyes. "Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I stayed paralyzed, terrified that if I intervened, if I tried to help him, I'd automatically become suspicious too... David never competed again after that. The photos circulated, his reputation was destroyed, teams lost interest. His career ended before it really began. And I learned the lesson perfectly. I learned that's what happened to people like me if the truth was discovered. That they didn't just destroy you, but no one—absolutely no one—would come out to defend you. Not even other boys who knew what it felt like to feel different."

Oscar can feel his own tears threatening to appear. "It's not your fault. You were scared."

"That doesn't excuse me," Carlos responds bitterly. "I let them hurt someone when maybe I could have helped. And then I used his destruction as a lesson to make sure the same thing never happened to me. After that, I became obsessive about control. Every gesture, every look, every reaction had to be perfectly heterosexual. I developed techniques to redirect my attention when I saw an attractive guy. I practiced expressions in the mirror to make sure it never showed on my face."

Carlos pauses, his breathing becoming slightly irregular.

"And in the showers," he continues, his voice barely audible, "I developed complete routines. Where to look, how to position my body, how to get out as quickly as possible without seeming like I was fleeing. Because David had been specifically accused of 'looking' at other boys, and I was terrified that someone might notice if my eyes wandered even by accident."

Carlos presses his forehead against Oscar's, and when he speaks, his breath is warm against his lips.

"But with you, right now, for the first time in my life I could just... feel. Without fear, without shame, without that voice in my head monitoring every reaction to make sure it was the right one. Isn't that crazy? All those years of sex I was supposed to enjoy, and I never knew I could feel like this and you just jerked me off."

Oscar smiles, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his lips, and internally feels a complex mixture of emotions. There's guilt, yes—a guilt that settles in his stomach like cold stone. Because everything Carlos has just described, all that liberation, is based on that lie Oscar built for his own survival.

But there's also something else. Looking at Carlos now—the genuine satisfaction in his eyes, the smile that transforms his face—Oscar can't completely regret having been part of giving him this.

"Thank you," Carlos murmurs against his skin, the word vibrating slightly. "For making it safe. For giving me permission to be myself with you."

Oscar tightens his embrace, one hand continuing those automatic movements in his hair. He knows the lies are still there, like a shadow at the edge of this beautiful moment.

"Carlos," he says softly, his voice coming out gentler than he intended.

"Mmm?" Carlos curls closer, completely relaxed, completely trusting.

Oscar opens his mouth, but instead of the confession he knows should come, something different emerges: "You're incredible."

Carlos smiles against his chest, completely satisfied with the answer, and Oscar allows himself this moment of peace; Carlos is happy. For the first time in years, maybe in his life, Carlos feels completely safe being who he is. And Oscar, despite everything, has been part of giving him that.

As Carlos gradually drifts toward sleep, Oscar stays awake processing this duality that now defines his existence: guilt over the lies that no matter what Oscar tells himself to justify them always exist in the back of his mind, and satisfaction for having helped Carlos find this part of himself.

He can't resolve the contradiction, not tonight. But he can hold Carlos while he sleeps, can memorize the weight of his trust. Tomorrow will be another day. Tomorrow maybe he'll find courage for honesty. But tonight, he simply allows himself to exist in the complexity of loving someone while lying to them...

And as he watches Carlos's young, peaceful, and vulnerable face, another face involuntarily superimposes itself in his mind: the Carlos of 2024. The Carlos he knows—hard, distant, with those lines of tension that seem permanently etched around his eyes.

Oscar had always assumed that hardness was arrogance. He'd interpreted Carlos's coldness as pride, his distance as disdain. But now, after hearing about David, about the mechanics, about years of careful repression...

God.

If this 22-year-old Carlos has suffered so much, if he's carried all this fear and self-control for years... what must it have been like for the Carlos of 2024? Eight more years of this. Eight additional years of hiding who he really is, of maintaining those walls, of never allowing himself to feel genuinely.

The realization hits him like a cold wave: every hostile interaction they've had, every moment of tension in the paddock, every time Carlos had directed that cold, calculated look at him... maybe it wasn't contempt, maybe it wasn't particular hatred toward Oscar. Maybe it was self-protection. Maybe it was the result of more than a complete decade of practice in keeping everyone at a distance.

What if maybe the Carlos of his timeline has ever felt attraction toward him? What if maybe that's why almost from the moment he met him he's treated him badly? Could it be that that asshole behavior toward Oscar is the opposite: hypervigilance, control and feigned antipathy born from years of terror at being discovered?

It's not that Oscar is usually so vain and egocentric, he knows he's not particularly attractive or likeable, but if the Carlos of 2016 felt interest and attraction so quickly for him, couldn't the one from 2024 have felt something like that too?

When was the last time the Carlos of 2024 allowed himself to be vulnerable with someone? The question forms in his mind with painful clarity. Because if this 22-year-old Carlos, who has already suffered so much, can transform into someone as closed off and hard as the Carlos that Oscar knows... what must have happened in those eight intervening years?

Has he been alone all this time?

Oscar imagines the Carlos of 2024 in his apartment, after a difficult race, with no one to be really honest with. He imagines all the nights he must have spent maintaining that facade even when he's alone, because after so many years, the performance becomes automatic.

He thinks of all the times he's seen the Carlos of 2024 with women at events, always the perfect smile, always the attentive boyfriend. And now he wonders if each of those interactions was as empty for him as Carlos just described they were for him.

Eight more years of that.

The sorrow he feels is unexpected and intense. Because although the Carlos of 2024 hates him, although they've been bitter rivals, although Oscar has always considered him an arrogant asshole... if he was ever this Carlos now sleeping in his arms, if he was ever this vulnerable and scared and desperate for connection...

Then the last eight years have been a tragedy.

Oscar imagines all the lost opportunities, all the moments where the Carlos of 2024 probably wanted to be authentic but couldn't. All the times he probably yearned for exactly what he just experienced tonight: the safety of being completely himself with someone.

Shit, Oscar thinks, unconsciously tightening his embrace around the sleeping Carlos. If this is what he's been carrying all this time...

Suddenly, every hostile interaction they've had is recontextualized. The coldness wasn't arrogance; it was protection. The distance wasn't contempt; it was survival. And that hardness that had always irritated Oscar so much... was the result of years of not allowing himself to feel anything real.

He wonders if the Carlos of 2024 has ever experienced what they just experienced tonight. If he's ever had the chance to be vulnerable, to feel authentic pleasure, to be cared for for who he really is instead of for the image he projects.

The answer, Oscar suspects with a certainty that hurts, is no.

And for the first time since knowing the Carlos of his timeline, Oscar feels the urge to comfort him. To find some way to tell him he doesn't have to keep carrying everything alone, that it's possible to be loved for who he really is.

It's ironic and cruel: now that he finally understands the Carlos of 2024, now that he can see his pain, is when he's furthest from being able to do anything about it.

But as he watches the peace in the face of the Carlos sleeping in his arms, Oscar allows himself an impossible fantasy: that somehow, everything he's giving this Carlos can filter forward through time. That the liberation and joy and acceptance he's experiencing here can, magically, alleviate some of the years of pain that are yet to come.

It's impossible, of course. But while Carlos sleeps against him, Oscar allows himself to wish it were true.

 

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

Chapter 26: Through the Prism

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

 

Carlos awakens gradually, his consciousness emerging from the depths of sleep that had been deeper and more restorative than any rest he could remember having in years. Mediterranean light filters through the curtains, creating shifting patterns on the sheets that move gently with the morning breeze.

For a moment, he remains completely still, allowing his senses to gradually process the situation: the scent of sea salt drifting through the half-open window, the distant murmur of waves breaking against the rocks, the warmth of another human body sleeping beside him.

Oscar.

The name resonates in his mind with an intensity that surprises him, loaded with all the emotions he had experienced the night before. He turns his head carefully, moving with the delicacy of someone who doesn't want to disturb something precious, and lets his gaze rest on Oscar's face.

Asleep, he looks younger, more vulnerable. His features are completely relaxed, without those lines of tension that sometimes appear when he's awake and processing the complexity of their situation. His lips are slightly parted, his breathing deep and regular, and there's something about the way his hair falls across his forehead that makes Carlos feel a tenderness so intense it almost hurts.

The golden light illuminates the freckles scattered across Oscar's cheeks, those subtle marks that are only visible at a close distance; there's something hypnotic about the way the morning light makes them shine like small constellations on his skin.

Carlos feels an almost irresistible urge to touch him. His hand moves instinctively, stopping just centimeters from Oscar's face, fingers trembling slightly with the desire to trace those familiar lines, to confirm that all of this is real, that Oscar is really here, in his bed, after what they had shared the night before.

But he stops, uncertainty settling in his chest like a cold stone. Where exactly do they stand? The night before had been intense, incredible, transformative in ways Carlos is still processing. They had shared kisses that had taken his breath away, he had experienced things he had never felt before, he had confessed secrets he thought he could never say out loud.

But what does all of that mean exactly?

They hadn't verbalized anything specific about what they were to each other now. They hadn't made promises or established expectations. And Oscar's situation—his temporal displacement, the uncertainty about how long he could stay in 2016—makes any future plans feel impossibly complicated.

Carlos allows his hand to finally make contact, his fingers barely grazing Oscar's cheek with a delicacy that speaks to how precious he considers this moment. The skin beneath his fingers is warm, soft, and when Oscar unconsciously leans into the touch without waking, Carlos feels his heart accelerate with a mixture of tenderness and something deeper, more possessive.

He moves his hand to Oscar's hair, allowing his fingers to slide through the brown strands that are mussed in a way that makes them look incredibly tempting. It's as soft as he had imagined, with that texture that makes him want to bury his hands completely in it and never let go.

While observing Oscar's peaceful face, Carlos's mind begins replaying fragments of the night before with a clarity that surprises him. The way Oscar had listened to each of his confessions without judgment, how he had responded with exactly the kind of understanding Carlos didn't know he needed. The patience with which he had handled every moment of vulnerability, his hands when he had...

Heat spreads from Carlos's chest downward as he remembers exactly how it had felt to be touched by Oscar, to be cared for by him in such an intimate way. It was as if his body had awakened after years of being asleep, as if he had finally experienced what it was to feel genuine, authentic desire.

He wants to feel that again. He wants to explore more, discover what else he can feel with Oscar, what else they can share together. But he also knows he has no idea how to navigate these uncharted waters, how to communicate what he wants without sounding needy or desperate.

His fingers continue their automatic movements through Oscar's hair while he processes these thoughts, while he tries to organize the emotions crowding in his chest. Gratitude, yes, but also something deeper. Affection that's growing toward something he could call love, if he were brave enough to name it.

But more than anything, wonder. Wonder that someone like Oscar—intelligent, interesting, gorgeous, funny—had listened to all the terrible things Carlos had had to confess and hadn't run away. That he had heard about David, about years of repression and lies, about Carlos being too cowardly his whole life, and still Oscar had wanted to stay.

The David story especially. Carlos had carried that guilt for years, the certainty that he was a coward who had allowed someone to be hurt when maybe he could have helped. It was one of his most shameful memories, one of the reasons he sometimes woke up in the middle of the night feeling like a bad person.

But Oscar had heard all of that and hadn't changed the way he looked at him. There hadn't been disgust in his eyes, there hadn't been judgment. Only understanding and a tenderness that had made Carlos feel that maybe, maybe he wasn't the terrible person he had believed himself to be for so long.

While processing these memories, something strange begins to form in the back of his mind. A small inconsistency that at first he ignores, but that gradually becomes harder to dismiss.

Oscar had reacted to each confession as if it were the first time he was hearing it. He had asked the right questions, had shown appropriate surprise, had responded with exactly the kind of shock Carlos would have expected from someone discovering this information for the first time.

But... hadn't Oscar said that in the future, the Carlos of 2024 had told him all of this? Hadn't he specifically mentioned that future Carlos had shared his fears, his history, the reasons why he repressed himself? Hadn't he said it was because of Oscar that the Carlos of 2024 had decided it was worth taking the risk?

Carlos frowns slightly, trying to remember exactly the details... It had been during their first conversations, when Oscar had told him about their relationship in the future. Carlos vividly remembers the way Oscar had described how the Carlos of 2024 had trusted him, how he had shared his deepest secrets.

But then...

If that was true, if future Carlos had really told Oscar all of this, then why had Oscar acted as if it were completely new information? Why had he asked questions whose answers he should already know? Why had he shown surprise at revelations he technically should have already heard?

For a moment, a cold suspicion begins to form in Carlos's mind. A possibility that makes his stomach contract with something like panic. What if...?

What if Oscar had been lying all this time?

The thought appears with the force of an unwanted revelation, making Carlos feel sick. His breathing becomes more shallow, more irregular, as the implications of this possibility expand in his mind.

What if there was no future relationship? What if there was no Carlos of 2024 who had overcome his fears and found love? What if the whole story about time travel, about their shared destiny, about the promise that it was safe to be authentic... had been an elaborate lie?

But why?

Why would Oscar have done something like that?

The answer comes with brutal clarity that makes him feel like he's been punched in the stomach: because Carlos had been... convenient.

The story about their future relationship had been the perfect manipulation tool. It had given Carlos exactly what he most needed to hear: that it was safe to be honest about his sexuality, that there was a future where he was loved for being exactly who he was.

Carlos can vividly remember how he had felt when Oscar first told him about their supposed future together. The euphoria of knowing he would not only survive being authentic, but would find love. The immediate release of years of emotional burden.

He had been so easy to manipulate. So pathetically desperate to hear exactly those words that he had accepted an impossible story without really questioning it.

A stranger shows up in the paddock claiming to come from the future, and Carlos simply... believes him. Immediately. Without doubt. Because the story gives him exactly what he had been secretly yearning for for years.

The humiliation spreads through his body like poison. How had he been so naive? How had he fallen so completely for a lie that, viewed objectively, was absolutely ridiculous?

Time travel. Please.

Carlos imagines himself from Oscar's perspective: a young repressed driver, desperate for permission to be gay, so pathetic in his need that he would accept any story that told him it was okay to be who he was. The perfect target for a con.

And the con had worked perfectly. Carlos had provided everything Oscar needed: shelter, money, false documentation, complete protection. All in exchange for lies that had been designed specifically to exploit his deepest insecurities.

Worse yet: it had worked so well that Carlos had actually started falling in love. Not with the real Oscar, but apparently with the version of Oscar he had built in his mind based on lies. He had fallen in love with someone who didn't even exist.

The night before... God, the night before had been a complete farce. Every moment of intimacy, every vulnerable confession, every second of what he had thought was authentic connection... had been Oscar maintaining a performance designed to keep him hooked, to ensure he kept providing what Oscar needed.

And Carlos had fallen for it completely. He had been so pathetic, so desperate for attention and validation, that he had mistaken manipulation for love.

How had he gotten to this point? How had he become so needy, so vulnerable to this type of exploitation?

The answer is obvious and brutal: years of repression had left him starving for any crumb of acceptance. He had been so desperate to hear that it was possible to be loved while being gay that he had abandoned all critical judgment the moment someone had offered him exactly that fantasy.

Carlos feels nauseous, his stomach contracting with waves of humiliation and self-loathing. What kind of person had he become that he had turned so pathetically needy?

And worst of all: Oscar probably saw him exactly like that. As an easy mark. As someone so desperate for love that he would accept any lie that promised him that possibility.

All of Oscar's "understanding," all his "patience" with Carlos's insecurities... had been acting. Professional, calculated, designed to keep Carlos just hooked enough to continue providing what Oscar needed.

Had he been laughing at him all this time? Had he found amusing the ease with which Carlos had swallowed every lie?

The image is unbearable: Oscar mentally sharing the story with someone else, laughing about how pathetic Carlos was, how desperate, how easy it had been to manipulate someone so needy for validation.

If this is true, if their entire relationship has been built on lies... then what's left? Who is he really when all the false validation Oscar has provided is stripped away?

He's back to being exactly what he had always feared being: someone so fundamentally flawed that the only way to get affection is by being deceived or pretending to be someone he's not.

But then, almost as if his mind rebels against its own conclusion, another voice begins to speak in his head. A softer, more rational voice.

Wait.

Think about it properly.

Be objective...

Does it really make sense that Oscar would have crafted such an incredibly complex lie just to manipulate you?

Carlos pauses, his breathing still agitated but his mind beginning to function more analytically.

If Oscar had wanted to simply manipulate him for help, there would have been much simpler ways to do it. He didn't need to invent a story about time travel. He didn't need to create such an elaborate narrative about future relationships.

He could have simply said he was an Australian driver who had lost his documentation. He could have invented any emergency story that would generate sympathy without requiring this level of elaboration.

Why make things so complicated?

And then there's the level of detail. The specific predictions Oscar had made: there was no way he could have guessed by mere luck that Lewis and Nico were going to crash and retire and that Max would end up winning that race—not Seb or Daniel but Max who was debuting with Red Bull... that was impossible to predict.

Time travel must be real... Of course it's real.

Carlos tries to remember specific moments where something Oscar had said wouldn't have made sense from a 2024 perspective. Had there been inconsistencies in his story? Moments where he had said something that would have revealed he was making it up?

He can't think of any.

And then there's the way Oscar looks at him. Carlos had spent years becoming expert at reading people's expressions, at detecting when someone was acting or being genuine. It was a survival skill he had developed out of necessity.

When Oscar looks at him, especially in intimate moments, there's no calculation in his eyes. There's none of the acted quality Carlos recognizes from his own performances with his ex-girlfriends. There's something authentic there, something Carlos has come to recognize as genuine affection.

Could someone act that well? Maintain such complete falseness for so many days, in so many different moments?

And the night before... Carlos mentally reviews every moment of intimacy they had shared. The way Oscar had responded to each confession, the tenderness with which he had handled every vulnerable moment...

There had been nothing calculated about that. Nothing that had felt like manipulation. Oscar had been genuinely affected by Carlos's stories, genuinely disturbed by his pain, genuinely interested in comforting and caring for him. Oscar's eyes had welled up while Carlos opened his heart to him.

How do you fake that level of emotional response?

But more importantly: why would Oscar have been so patient if his only goal was to maintain the manipulation? He had had multiple opportunities to push for more physical intimacy. Carlos had been clearly willing. If Oscar were only trying to keep him hooked, wouldn't he have taken advantage of those opportunities?

Instead, he had been incredibly careful with Carlos's boundaries. He had prioritized Carlos's emotional comfort over his own physical gratification. He had been more considerate than Carlos would have dared expect even from someone who genuinely loved him.

Is that how a manipulator acts? With such consideration for his victim's needs that he sacrifices opportunities to deepen control?

No. That doesn't make sense.

A manipulator would have taken advantage of Carlos's vulnerability. Would have pushed when Carlos was most needy for validation. Would have used every confession as leverage to get more of what he wanted.

And... why was Carlos even questioning this? Wasn't there enough evidence that Oscar was exactly who he said he was? The predictions about the races had been correct. His knowledge about the future had been consistent. His story had never changed in important details.

Carlos realizes he might be doing this out of fear. Fear that something so good, so perfect, couldn't be real. Fear that finally finding someone who accepts him completely has to be some kind of cruel trick from the universe.

But that's not fair to Oscar. It's not fair to suspect him without real evidence, simply because Carlos can't believe he deserves the happiness he's found.

And then, like a ray of clarity cutting through the confusion, another explanation emerges in his mind. An explanation that is so thoughtful, so typically generous on Oscar's part, that Carlos immediately feels ashamed for having even considered the alternative.

Of course.

They had agreed to start fresh. They had consciously decided to get to know each other in the present, as the people they are now, without the pressure of living up to future versions of themselves. They had been very clear about wanting to know each other without predetermined expectations.

And last night, when Carlos had begun opening up, when he had begun revealing things he clearly needed to say, Oscar had realized that Carlos needed to be able to tell them to him. He needed the catharsis of confession, the release of finally being able to say these things out loud to someone who mattered to him.

If Oscar had interrupted and said he already knew these stories, Carlos would never have been able to experience that sense of release. He would never have been able to feel that peace he had found after finally putting all his burdens into words. He would never have experienced the relief of being completely known and still completely accepted.

Oscar had sacrificed the comfort of being able to say "I already know all this" to give Carlos the gift of being able to confide in him. He had pretended to hear it for the first time so that Carlos could have the complete experience of being vulnerable and being received with love.

It's so thoughtful, so typically generous on Oscar's part, that Carlos feels a new wave of affection expanding in his chest. Of course Oscar had done that. Of course he had put Carlos's emotional needs above his own comfort.

The shame he feels now is overwhelming. Shame for having doubted, for having allowed his own fear and insecurities to make him question someone who had only shown kindness and understanding.

Oscar deserves better than that. He deserves trust, not suspicion. He deserves gratitude, not paranoia.

Oscar has given him the most precious gift someone like Carlos could receive: the safety of being completely authentic. And the first thing Carlos does is turn that generosity into unfounded suspicions.

What kind of person does that?

The answer is obvious and painful: the kind of person who has spent years being dishonest. The kind of person who is so used to lying that he can't recognize truth when he sees it.

Because that's the real truth Carlos has been avoiding confronting completely: he is the liar in this relationship. He is the one who has built an entire life on falsehoods. He is the one who has hurt innocent people with years of elaborate performances.

Oscar has been nothing but honest with him from the first moment. He has shared his impossible story, has been vulnerable about his own fears, has offered genuine affection without asking for anything in return.

And Carlos has responded by doubting him, building paranoid theories about manipulation, projecting his own history of lies onto someone who clearly doesn't deserve them.

His fingers move more softly through Oscar's hair, now filled with renewed gratitude. He hadn't just listened without judging, but had had the emotional wisdom to recognize what Carlos needed and had been willing to give it to him, even if it meant pretending ignorance about things he already knew.

God, he's so in love with this man.

The thought appears in his mind with a clarity that surprises him, but that also feels inevitable. Of course he's in love with Oscar. How could he not be? With his patience, his understanding, his emotional generosity, the way he makes him feel safe being completely himself...

But it's exactly this growing feeling that makes anxiety begin to settle in his chest like a stone. Because what will happen when Oscar wakes up? How is he supposed to act? What will Oscar expect from him?

The night before had been incredible, but it had also been led primarily by Oscar. Carlos had followed his guidance, had allowed Oscar to take control, had simply responded to what Oscar offered him. But now, in the light of day, without the cover of darkness and the intimacy of shared confessions, what is he supposed to do?

He has no experience with this. He has no frame of reference for how he's supposed to behave the morning after something so intimate with another man. With women, he had had years of practice in how to fake appropriate satisfaction, how to act like the perfect boyfriend who had enjoyed every moment. But how does he act when the feelings are real? When the satisfaction is genuine? When he's not acting?

Anxiety begins building in his chest as he contemplates all the ways he could ruin this. What if he's too needy? What if Oscar expects him to act with more experience than he has? What if what had been perfect in darkness becomes awkward in daylight?

It's while these anxious thoughts circle in his mind that other memories begin to surface. Memories of mornings after with his ex-girlfriends, of how he had navigated those situations when feelings were complicated for completely different reasons.

He had been so careful then, so attentive to acting exactly like a satisfied and loving boyfriend should act. He had made all the right gestures, had said all the appropriate words, had faked the emotional intimacy that was expected after physical intimacy.

And they had never known he was acting. They had never known that every "I love you" was a carefully calibrated lie, that every moment of apparent post-sex vulnerability was a performance designed to maintain an illusion that protected his secret.

He had spent years being exactly the kind of person he claims to despise. A liar. An emotional manipulator. Someone who built entire relationships on false foundations.

He had gotten up on countless mornings after, had wrapped innocent women in his arms, had whispered sweet lies against their hair, had faked satisfaction he had never felt. He had allowed them to build hopes and dreams about a relationship he knew could never be real, because he could never be real in it.

How many times had he said "that was incredible" when it had been purely mechanical? How many times had he pretended that making love with them had meant something deep and transformative when for him it had been simply... acting?

And worst of all: he had been good at it. Incredibly good. So good that some of them probably still remember those mornings as some of the most intimate moments of their lives, never knowing that for him they had been just another performance in a life full of performances.

The guilt settles in his stomach like molten lead. He had spent years preaching about the importance of honesty, had declared a thousand times that lies were unforgivable, had built his entire ethical identity around the idea that truth was sacred.

And all that time, he had been living the most fundamental lie of all. He hadn't just lied about his sexuality; he had built entire relationships on those lies. He had allowed innocent women to fall in love with a version of him he knew wasn't real.

The irony is so cruel it's almost funny. Last night he had been so proud of finally being able to be honest with someone, so relieved to be able to take off all the masks and be authentic. But all that honesty had been built on years of systematic lies to people who didn't deserve to be deceived. And moments ago he had thought the worst of Oscar, when Oscar has only been honest and sleeps so peacefully without knowing that Carlos in a moment of stupidity and insecurity had invented a completely far-fetched and absurd story about Oscar being a manipulator.

What does that make him? A hypocrite of the worst kind?

The guilt threatens to drown the happiness he had been feeling, replacing it with a self-condemnation that feels deserved but devastating.

He needs air. He needs space to process these thoughts without the risk of waking Oscar, without having to explain why he suddenly feels like he doesn't deserve the tenderness Oscar had shown him the night before.

With extreme care, Carlos slips out of bed, moving with delicacy. Oscar moves slightly when Carlos's weight leaves the mattress, but doesn't wake, simply curls deeper into the warm sheets.

Carlos heads toward the small balcony that opens from his room, sliding the glass door with minimal noise. The Mediterranean morning air hits him immediately, fresh but not cold, loaded with the scent of sea salt and something sweeter that could be jasmine from the hotel gardens.

The view from the balcony is spectacular: the Mediterranean Sea stretches to the horizon, its undulating surface reflecting the golden dawn light like millions of small mirrors. The rocks and Mediterranean vegetation create a landscape that should be calming, beautiful, perfect for peaceful morning reflections.

But Carlos can't appreciate the beauty because he's too absorbed in the ugliness of his own moral self-awareness.

He leans against the balcony railing, his hands closing around the warm metal, and allows all the thoughts he had been avoiding to finally reach him completely.

He's a hypocrite. There's no way to avoid that conclusion. He had built his entire adult identity around valuing honesty, and all that time he had been living a fundamental lie that had hurt innocent people who didn't deserve to be deceived.

How can he deserve Oscar's honesty when he himself has been so dishonest? How can he feel good about finally finding love when he had faked love so many times?

The sea breeze moves his hair while these thoughts circle in his mind, each one more self-destructive than the last. Because the most painful truth is that part of him had enjoyed being good at acting. There had been satisfaction in knowing he could make his girlfriends feel loved, desired, special, even when he felt nothing genuine.

He had been addicted to being considered the perfect boyfriend, to hearing how their friends envied the way he treated them. He had found validation in being exactly what his ex-girlfriends needed, even when he knew it was all a lie.

Doesn't that make him something worse than just a hypocrite? Doesn't that make him some kind of emotional sociopath?

The sun continues rising, bathing the entire landscape in increasingly intense golden tones, but Carlos can't feel the warmth. He can only feel the cold of a self-awareness that threatens to poison the happiness he had found the night before.

"Carlos?"

Oscar's voice makes him turn immediately, his heart racing both from surprise and something deeper, warmer. Oscar is standing in the balcony doorway. His expression makes something contract in Carlos's chest. There's concern there and also something that looks dangerously like guilt.

"Are you okay?" Oscar approaches slowly, as if Carlos were something fragile that could break with movements too abrupt. "I woke up and you weren't there..."

"I'm fine," Carlos responds automatically, but he can hear how his own voice sounds tense, unconvincing.

Oscar reaches his side at the railing, but maintains a careful distance, as if he weren't sure whether his proximity would be welcome. His eyes scan Carlos's face with an intensity that makes Carlos feel exposed, as if Oscar could read every thought that has been torturing him for the last hour.

"Is it about last night?" Oscar asks, and there's something in his tone—a vulnerability Carlos hadn't expected—that takes him completely off guard. "Did I make you feel uncomfortable? Pressured?"

The question is so completely unexpected, so far from what Carlos had been thinking, that for a moment he can only look at him in surprise. Because the guilt in Oscar's voice is genuine, the concern in his eyes is real, and Carlos realizes that Oscar has been interpreting his distance as some kind of regret about the intimacy they had shared.

"What? No," Carlos rushes to clarify, moving instinctively closer, his hand automatically finding Oscar's arm. "No, Oscar, last night was... it was perfect."

He can see how something relaxes in Oscar's shoulders at those words, but the concern doesn't completely disappear from his eyes.

"But something's bothering you," Oscar observes, and there's a delicacy in the way he phrases it, as if he's giving Carlos space to decide how much he wants to reveal. "I can see it."

Carlos takes a deep breath, the sea air filling his lungs as he tries to organize thoughts that feel too complex, too shameful to fully articulate.

"It's not about last night," he begins slowly, his fingers drumming nervously against the railing. "It's about... about me."

Oscar doesn't respond, simply leans slightly closer, offering his complete attention in a way that makes Carlos feel that familiar surge of gratitude for this man's patience.

"Do you remember what I told you about lies? About how they're the one thing I really can't forgive."

"I remember."

"I've spent my entire adult life telling people that if there's one thing I hate, one thing I won't tolerate under any circumstances, it's lies," Carlos continues, his voice acquiring a tenser, more self-critical quality. "I've said a thousand times that honesty is the most important thing to me, that I prefer a painful truth over a comfortable lie. But last night... last night I told you my whole story. Everything I've hidden, everything I've pretended, all the ways I've lied about who I am for years."

"Carlos," Oscar begins, but Carlos interrupts him with a gesture of his hand.

"No, let me finish. I've spent years living a complete lie. Pretending to be someone I'm not, acting as if I felt things I don't feel, pretending my sexuality is something it isn't. I've had girlfriends I've lied to about my feelings. I've acted in public as if I were a completely heterosexual man. I've participated in conversations where other men talked about women in ways I knew I would never genuinely feel, and I've pretended to understand, I've pretended to share those feelings." Carlos's voice becomes harder, more unforgiving with himself. "I've lied to my family for years. Every time my mother asks if I'm happy with some girlfriend, every time my father makes comments about my relationships with women, every time I act like I'm exactly the kind of son they expect me to be... I'm lying. And worst of all, I've become incredibly good at it. So good that sometimes I don't even know where the acting ends and where I really begin."

He stops, bringing his hands to his face in a gesture that's part frustration, part complete shame.

"Carlos..."

"Do you know what that makes me?" he asks, lowering his hands to look directly at Oscar. "A hypocrite of the worst kind. Someone who preaches about the importance of honesty while living a fundamental lie every day of his life. I can't believe I go through life claiming that lies are unforgivable... When I myself am probably the biggest liar you know."

"That's not true. You're not a liar and you're not a hypocrite either."

Carlos looks at him with an expression that mixes disbelief with something that could be desperate hope.

"How can you say that? I literally just described years of systematic lies..."

"No," Oscar interrupts firmly, needing to stop this spiral of self-condemnation before it gets deeper. "What you just described aren't lies. It's survival."

He moves to get closer to Carlos, close enough to be able to take his hands in his.

"Carlos, listen to me. There's a fundamental difference between lying to deceive someone and hiding aspects of yourself to protect yourself from consequences that could be devastating."

"Are you telling me that when I had sex with my girlfriends and pretended to feel things I didn't feel, those weren't lies?" asks Carlos, his voice loaded with skepticism.

"I'm telling you," Oscar responds carefully, "that when someone lives in a world where being honest about who they are could result in the destruction of their career, the loss of their family, and possibly even physical violence... then 'pretending' isn't lying. It's self-preservation."

"But my girlfriends..."

"Your girlfriends were dating someone who treated them well, who cared about them, who made the effort to make them happy," Oscar interrupts. "The fact that you didn't feel sexual attraction to them doesn't mean you were cruel to them or that you were using them. It means you were doing the best you could in impossible circumstances."

"But I lied about my feelings..."

"You didn't lie about your feelings," Oscar corrects more firmly. "You lied about the origin of your feelings. You could feel affection for them, you could want to make them happy, you could enjoy their company. The fact that those feelings didn't include sexual attraction didn't make them false. Carlos, were you ever cruel to any of your girlfriends? Did you ever cheat on them? Did you ever manipulate them or hurt them intentionally?"

"No," Carlos responds immediately. "Never. I always tried to be the best boyfriend possible."

"Then you're not a liar," Oscar asserts with conviction. "You're someone who made enormous sacrifices to protect yourself while trying to be good to the people in your life."

"But the hypocrisy..."

"There's no hypocrisy in valuing honesty while recognizing that sometimes circumstances make complete honesty impossible. Hypocrisy would be preaching about honesty while deliberately deceiving people for personal benefit. That's not what you've done. Look," Oscar continues, adjusting his grip on Carlos's hands, "if you were really a hypocrite, if you were really a liar, you wouldn't be here torturing yourself about this. Real liars, real hypocrites, don't worry about ethical consistency. They don't wake up feeling guilty about having had to protect themselves."

"Do you really not think I'm a hypocrite?" asks Carlos, his voice small, vulnerable.

"I think you're someone incredibly brave who has done what he had to do to survive in a world that isn't safe for people like you," Oscar responds with complete sincerity. "I think you're someone who values honesty so much that you torture yourself when circumstances force you to be less than completely transparent. And I think that last night you were more honest with me than you've been with any other person in your life. That's not hypocrisy. That's courage."

The tears that had been threatening finally begin to fall down Carlos's cheeks, but these are tears of release, not anguish.

"Thank you," Carlos whispers, leaning forward until his forehead rests against Oscar's. "Thank you for... for helping me see this differently."

"Always."

They remain like this for several more minutes, absorbed in mutual proximity while the Mediterranean sun continues rising, bathing everything in golden light. Carlos can feel how the guilt he had been carrying gradually dissolves, replaced by gratitude so intense it's almost overwhelming.

How had he been so lucky to find someone like Oscar? Someone who could not only accept his imperfections but recontextualize them in ways that made him feel worthy of love instead of condemnation?

It's while processing this gratitude that another thought emerges—one more shameful, more specific to the events of the night before.

"Oscar," he begins, feeling heat rise up his neck, "about last night... was I too...?"

He stops, not sure how to articulate exactly what worries him.

"Too what?"

"Loud," Carlos finally admits, his voice dropping with embarrassment. "Desperate. Obvious about my lack of experience."

The smile that appears on Oscar's face is warm, intimate, loaded with something that makes Carlos's stomach flutter with butterflies.

"Carlos," Oscar murmurs, his hands finding Carlos's cheeks again, "you were perfect."

"But I acted like I had never..."

"You acted like someone who was finally allowing himself to feel something real," Oscar interrupts softly. "You acted like someone who trusted me enough to be completely vulnerable. Do you have any idea how incredible that was for me to be able to give you that?"

The words make something melt completely in Carlos's chest. Because he can hear the absolute sincerity in Oscar's voice, can see the truth of it in his eyes.

"Really?"

"Really," Oscar confirms, leaning in to press a soft kiss against Carlos's cheek. "And I don't want you to change anything about the way you are with me. I don't want you to hold back or act different because you think you should have more experience." Oscar pulls back enough to be able to look directly into Carlos's eyes. "I want to know the real Carlos, not an edited version you think is more appropriate. I want the honesty you shared with me last night. I want the vulnerability. I want all the sounds and reactions and moments of desperation because those are authentic."

Carlos feels like his heart is going to explode with the intensity of what he feels for this man.

"I don't know how to thank you," he finally manages to articulate.

"You don't have to thank me," Oscar responds, his fingers moving to trace soft lines along Carlos's jaw. "This is what it's supposed to be like. This is how real relationships are supposed to feel."

Real relationships. The words resonate in Carlos's mind with a promise that makes everything in him feel lighter, more full of hope.

"Should we get ready to leave? Aren't we running late?"

The question brings Carlos back to practical reality, reminding him of the responsibilities waiting for them. He reluctantly pulls away from the warmth of Oscar's hands.

"Yeah, we can grab breakfast on the way."

"Sounds perfect."

As they head back toward the room to get ready, Carlos finds himself processing not just the conversation they've just had but also the plans for the day. They're going to arrive in Monaco in the afternoon, and that means he'll be meeting with Caco, probably that same evening.

His cousin had mentioned in his last message that he wanted to meet the "Australian data analyst" Carlos had hired without prior consultation. It was a conversation Carlos had been avoiding thinking about completely, but that now approaches with the inevitability of the tide.

While he showers, his mind begins working on the details of what he'll have to say.

Miguel had done excellent work creating Oscar Palmer's identity. There were online records, a verifiable CV, even references that would withstand a superficial investigation. On paper, engineer Oscar Palmer exists as a respectable data analyst with experience in statistical modeling applied to motorsports.

But Carlos knows his cousin. Caco isn't going to settle for a superficial review of Oscar's resume. He's going to want to meet him personally, he's going to ask specific questions about his experience, he's going to evaluate whether this unauthorized "hire" is worth it.

And that means Carlos is going to have to lie. Extensively.

He's going to have to pretend that Oscar really is who he says he is. He's going to have to back up every detail of the story they've built, he's going to have to act as if he genuinely hired Oscar for his professional credentials rather than for... well, for the real reasons.

The irony doesn't escape him. Barely half an hour after Oscar consoled him about past lies, here's Carlos preparing to lie again. And this time it's not for self-preservation; it's to protect Oscar.

But it's also different, isn't it? This lie isn't hurting anyone. It's not building false hopes in someone's heart or allowing someone to build their life around a fiction. It's a practical lie, designed to protect someone vulnerable who needs help.

Still, while he gets dressed, Carlos feels a familiar unease in his stomach. No matter how he rationalizes the situation, lying to Caco is going to feel wrong. Especially because Caco is family, someone Carlos trusts and who trusts him in return.

But what's the alternative? Tell Caco the truth about Oscar? Explain that he's a time traveler from 2024 who needs false documentation and a cover story to survive in this era?

Carlos almost laughs at the absurdity of that possibility. Caco would think he'd lost his mind. And even if, by some miracle, Caco believed the story... what then? More people knowing Oscar's secret, more opportunities for something to go wrong?

No, the lie is the only practical option. And Carlos will execute it perfectly, because it's something he's doing for Oscar. Because Oscar would do anything for him, Carlos is sure of that. The generosity Oscar has shown, the way he's handled every aspect of their situation with grace and understanding... it's obvious that Oscar is the kind of person who would sacrifice himself for someone he loves.

And Carlos can do the same.

While he comes out of the bathroom, his mind is already working on the details of the story he'll have to tell. How he met Oscar, why he decided to hire him, what kind of specific work he'll be doing for the team. Every detail has to be consistent, believable, defensible under scrutiny from someone as smart as his cousin.

It's emotional work Carlos would prefer not to have to do, but he'll do it. For Oscar. Because after everything Oscar has done for him, after all the understanding and acceptance he's shown, it's the least Carlos can do in return.

He looks toward the dresser where Oscar is looking at himself in the mirror while adjusting his glasses. There's something about the natural way Oscar inhabits this temporal space—as if he were born to adapt, to find ways to belong wherever he is—that makes Carlos feel even more determined to protect him.

Oscar deserves all the help Carlos can give him. He deserves to have this opportunity to live without complications in 2016, and if that requires some strategic lies to well-meaning family members... well, Carlos can live with that burden of conscience.

Especially now, after Oscar has shown him that there are important differences between different types of lies. Lying to protect someone vulnerable isn't the same as lying for personal benefit. And Carlos clings to that distinction while he finishes packing, while he mentally prepares for the performances he'll have to give when they arrive in Monaco.

Oscar deserves to be protected. And Carlos will do everything in his power to ensure that he is.

 

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

Chapter 27: Turbulence

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

 

The Audi glides along the coastal roads approaching Monaco, and Oscar can feel how the atmosphere inside the car gradually shifts. It's subtle at first—a growing tension in Carlos's shoulders, the way his fingers drum against the steering wheel with a slightly accelerated rhythm, how his eyes constantly check the rearview mirror as if being followed by something invisible.

"Are you okay?" Oscar asks, turning slightly in his seat to study Carlos's profile in more detail.

Carlos exhales slowly, his lips forming a tense line that Oscar recognizes as the expression he adopts when processing something he'd rather not have to face.

"I need to ask you something," Carlos finally murmurs, his voice heavy with reluctance that immediately puts Oscar on alert. "Something that's going to sound... awful."

The way he pronounces that last word makes something cold settle in Oscar's stomach. "What?"

Carlos slows down as they approach an intersection, his eyes scanning the road signs with concentration that seems excessive for a simple navigation decision.

"We can't arrive at the hotel together," the words emerge from him as if they're physically painful to speak. "People from the paddock... many of them stay at the same hotel. If they see you getting out of my car..."

Oscar feels his chest contract with understanding that's immediate and devastating. "Ah."

"Officially, you're Oscar Palmer, the analyst I hired," Carlos continues, his voice now firmer but with an undertone of guilt that makes each word feel like an apology. "But no one has seen you in that work role yet, and if they see you appear for the first time in my personal car, arriving together at a hotel, as if you were..."

"As if I were your personal guest," Oscar completes, the reality of the situation settling over him.

"I'm sorry."

Carlos maneuvers the car toward an exit that leads them to a more commercial area, office buildings and shopping centers that contrast brutally with the coastal elegance they'd been following. It's here, among anonymous structures of concrete and glass, that he stops the Audi in the parking lot of a building that seems to house offices of companies Oscar has never heard of.

"Forgive me for this," Carlos murmurs, turning off the engine but making no move to get out of the car. His hands remain on the steering wheel. "I hate having to make you do this. I hate that you have to walk to the hotel from here. I hate that we have to act like you're just..."

His voice breaks slightly on that last word, and Oscar can see exactly how much this situation is costing him.

"Carlos," he interrupts softly, extending a hand to cover Carlos's tense fingers on the wheel. "I understand."

"Do you understand?" Carlos turns to look at him directly, and there's something in his eyes—raw vulnerability, desperate need for forgiveness—that makes something contract painfully in Oscar's chest. "Do you understand that I'm basically throwing you out of the car like you're an embarrassment? Like I don't want to be seen with you?"

"I understand that you're protecting us," he responds, surprised by the conviction in his own voice. "I understand that if people suspect there's something personal between us, it could ruin everything we've built."

Carlos looks at their intertwined hands for a moment that feels eternal, as if memorizing the sensation of contact before they have to let go.

"I don't want you to think," Carlos begins, his voice barely audible, "not for a second, that this represents what I really feel about you. About us."

"I don't think that," Oscar assures him, though there's a part of him—small but persistent—that aches with the practical humiliation of being literally left in a parking lot like some shameful secret.

"When we're in public," Carlos continues, apparently needing to articulate this completely, "I'm going to have to treat you like my employee. There's going to be distance. There's going to be formality. And it's going to feel horrible."

Oscar nods, the reality of what that means settling over him. After days of growing intimacy, honest conversations, allowing himself to feel like maybe he finally belongs somewhere with someone... now they're going to have to pretend they're practically strangers.

"For how long?" he asks, hating the vulnerability he can hear in his own voice.

"Only until we're alone again," Carlos promises, turning his hand to properly intertwine their fingers. "Only until we can get out of here and be ourselves."

They stay like this for another moment, hands clasped, conscious that once they separate physically, they won't be able to touch each other this way until they're completely alone again. It's a thought that makes both of them hold on a little tighter, that makes neither want to be the first to let go.

"The hotel is about six blocks south," Carlos eventually murmurs, his voice laden with reluctance. "The Hermitage. Your room is under the name Oscar Palmer, everything's arranged."

"And you?"

"I'll be staying there too." Carlos raises his free hand to gently trace the line of Oscar's cheek. "In two hours we meet at the hotel restaurant for the meeting with Caco. Okay?"

Oscar nods, leaning slightly into Carlos's touch, savoring the warmth of his palm against his skin because he knows it'll be the last time they can do this until all this performance is over.

Carlos withdraws his hand with visible reluctance, and immediately Oscar feels the loss.

"Oscar," Carlos murmurs as Oscar prepares to get out of the car, "I want you to know that when I look at you tonight, when I have to act like you're just my employee... none of that is real. The distance, the formality, the way I'm going to have to speak to you... none of that reflects what I really feel."

"I know," he responds, though the words feel inadequate for the intensity of what's passing between them.

"Do you really know?" Carlos insists, his eyes searching Oscar's with urgency that suggests he needs this confirmation more than he's willing to admit. "Because it's going to be convincing. It has to be."

Oscar leans across the space separating them and presses a soft kiss against Carlos's lips—quick, tender, loaded with all the words they don't have time to exchange.

"I know," he whispers against his mouth. "And you're going to know that when I act like the perfect employee, when I maintain appropriate distance, when I don't look at you the way I'm looking at you now... none of that is real either."

Carlos smiles for the first time since this conversation began, an expression that completely transforms his face and makes him look younger, more like the relaxed Carlos that Oscar loves so much.

"See you at the restaurant," Carlos murmurs.

"See you," Oscar confirms, finally forcing himself to open the car door.

As he walks through the parking lot toward the street, he can hear the Audi's engine remaining still behind him. When he turns briefly, he can see Carlos watching him through the windshield, an expression on his face that's part concern, part longing, part something Oscar can't completely identify but that makes his heart race.

Only when Oscar disappears around the corner of the building does he hear the sound of the engine starting again, driving away in the opposite direction.

His feet automatically know the way to the harbor, his eyes recognize the architecture that in eight years will be as familiar as breathing, but everything feels slightly displaced in time.

The phone Carlos had bought him weighs comfortably in his pocket, "Casa" programmed in his contacts like a safety anchor he hadn't had during his terrible night lost in Madrid. If something goes wrong, if he gets disoriented, if he needs help... Carlos will answer. That certainty makes walking alone through these streets feel not like abandonment but like temporary independence, a pause before reconnecting.

But as he passes through streets he recognizes—this corner where in 2024 there's a French bakery that makes the best macarons he's ever tasted, that plaza where he sometimes sits with coffee before morning workouts—nostalgia hits him with a force he hadn't anticipated.

In eight years, this place will be his home. He'll have an apartment overlooking the harbor, he'll know the shopkeepers by name, he'll have routines and favorite places and that daily sense of belonging that comes with living somewhere you love. But now, walking these same streets as a temporal stranger, that future life feels so distant it could be a dream he once had that fades more each day.

And thinking about his future apartment inevitably leads him to think about his parents.

Oscar stops at a traffic light, waiting for it to change, and allows the reality of what must be happening in 2024 to reach him completely. His parents. God, his parents must be going crazy. He's disappeared without a trace, without explanation, without a single clue about what might have happened to him or where he could be.

Time. That's the question that torments him every time he allows himself to think about it too deeply. Does time move the same way in both realities? Is every minute that passes here in 2016 another minute his parents spend not knowing if he's alive or dead?

The light changes and Oscar continues walking, but now his thoughts are completely absorbed by images of his mother calling the police, of his father checking hospitals, of both of them sitting in their family room answering questions from detectives who have probably already explained to them, with that brutal gentleness professionals use, that the odds of finding him alive after so many days without a trace are... minimal.

There's no ransom note. No demands. No witnesses from wherever he disappeared. For all practical purposes, Oscar Piastri simply evaporated from existence without leaving evidence of what happened to him.

And worst of all: without a body, his parents will never be able to have closure. They'll spend years, maybe decades, waiting for him to appear. Every phone that rings, every news story about unidentified bodies, every person they see from a distance who might have his height, his hair color... they'll live in a limbo of hope and despair that's probably worse than knowing for certain he's dead.

The guilt settles in his stomach. Because here he is, not only alive but actively enjoying aspects of his situation. Falling in love with Carlos, experiencing adventures, living moments of genuine happiness while his parents probably haven't slept a full night since he disappeared.

What kind of son does that? What kind of person can find joy while knowing the people he loves most in the world are suffering in unimaginable ways?

But even as he tortures himself with these thoughts, another layer of guilt is added: guilt toward Carlos. Because he knows, with a certainty that hurts, that Carlos feels terrible about having to let him walk alone from that anonymous parking lot. He can imagine Carlos driving to the hotel, constantly checking his phone to make sure Oscar hasn't called needing help, feeling like he's a bad person for not being able to simply arrive together like... like what they really are.

And that difference—between what they are in private and what they have to act in public—shows Oscar something about Carlos's life that he'd never completely understood.

Oscar has never had to live with that kind of fear.

It's a realization that hits him as he passes through a street full of outdoor cafés where couples of all ages sit comfortably, some of them obviously romantic, some clearly platonic, all existing in a space where their relational nature isn't questioned or analyzed.

His parents know he's bisexual. He'd told them when he was seventeen, during a casual family dinner, and the reaction had been so anticlimactically normal it had almost been disappointing. "Well, that explains a lot of things" had been his mother's response. "Is there someone special we should know about?" His father had simply nodded and asked if he could pass the salt.

His friends know too. Not because he'd made some dramatic announcement, but because he'd simply never bothered to hide it. He'd dated guys, brought some to social gatherings, been open about his dating when conversation naturally went in that direction.

He'd never had a formal boyfriend, true, but that had been more due to circumstance than design. Many years of his life had been completely consumed by his career, constantly traveling, building his path to F1. Serious relationships had required time and emotional stability he simply hadn't had available.

And yes, he'd had casual encounters he'd kept discreet. That thing with the Design engineer last year, for example. But that discretion had been for professionalism, not fear. It had been the same discretion he would have maintained if he'd been dating someone within the paddock of any gender—you don't mix work with pleasure, you don't create drama in the work environment, you keep your private life private.

The secrecy had been part of what made that relationship exciting, but not because Oscar was afraid of the consequences of being discovered. It had been the kind of secret two adults keep because it makes stolen encounters feel more intense, more special.

If the press found out about his sexuality... yes, he'd probably lose some sponsors. Some fans would criticize him, some social media comments would be unpleasant. But he also knew he'd gain support from other sectors, that there would be organizations and brands that would want to work with him specifically because representing diversity had become important to many companies.

What bothered him most about that prospect wasn't fear of rejection—it was fear of being reduced to his sexuality. Of becoming "the gay driver" instead of "the talented driver." Of every article about him mentioning his sexual orientation as if it were the most interesting thing about him instead of, say, his ability to read track conditions or his technique in slow corners.

But even that annoyance was a luxury compared to what Carlos lives with.

Carlos genuinely lives with fear. Not fear of reduction or simplification, but fear of complete destruction. Fear of losing everything he's worked to build. Fear of disappointing a family he loves. Fear of validating every cruel stereotype he's heard for years about men like him.

And that fear is based on real experiences. David, being humiliated and photographed and effectively expelled from the sport before his career really began. The conversations Carlos had heard for years in the paddock, where men he respected expressed genuine disgust toward people like him. The certainty, based on observed evidence, that being honest about who he is could result not just in rejection but in violence.

Oscar has never had to navigate that kind of hostile environment. He's never had to hide fundamental parts of himself for survival. He's never had to fake attraction he doesn't feel, or repress attraction he does feel.

As he finally reaches the Hermitage, seeing its elegant facade gleaming under the Monégasque afternoon sun, Oscar feels overwhelmed by a new understanding of exactly how much Carlos is risking for him. Not just practically—the false documentation, the money, the protection—but emotionally.

Carlos is allowing someone to get closer than he'd ever allowed before. He's being vulnerable in ways that go against all the self-protection instincts he's developed over years. He's building something real with Oscar while maintaining an elaborate performance for everyone else.

As he approaches the hotel doors, Oscar carries with him not just the nervous anticipation of what's to come with Caco, but also the renewed weight of exactly how much is at stake. Not just his own survival in 2016, but the heart of someone who's taking risks in ways Oscar is only beginning to fully understand.

 

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

 

The check-in proceeds with the silent efficiency that characterizes luxury hotels. The concierge accepts the identity card with nothing more than a courteous glance and hands over a key, as if Oscar Palmer had truly existed for years instead of having been created days ago in a secret office in Madrid.

His room on the seventh floor offers exactly the view the concierge had promised: Monaco's harbor stretching out like a perfect postcard, white yachts gently rocking against polished wooden docks, the afternoon sun turning the water into a surface of liquid copper. It's beautiful in a way that should be soothing, but Oscar finds it impossible to appreciate the beauty when his stomach clenches with knots of anticipatory anxiety.

Two hours. He has two hours to transform himself into Oscar Palmer, professional data analyst, respectable employee with verifiable references and documented experience in performance optimization for motorsport.

He showers quickly, the hot water doing little to relax the tension that has settled in his shoulders. While dressing, he mentally rehearses answers to questions he imagines Caco might ask him. His previous experience. His analytical methodology. How he'd come to know Carlos.

Each answer feels precarious, as if he were building a bridge of toothpicks over an abyss. One mistake, one inconsistency, one question for which he doesn't have a convincing answer, and everything could collapse.

When he finally goes down to the restaurant, the establishment is everything he would expect from a hotel like the Hermitage: Mediterranean elegance with high ceilings, large windows that capture the dark night, tables spaced with the precision that allows for private conversations without interference from neighboring voices.

He spots them immediately at a corner table with a partial view of the harbor. Carlos has his back to the entrance, but Oscar recognizes the familiar posture, the way he gestures with one hand while speaking, the specific cut of his hair.

Across from him sits a man Oscar recognizes immediately: the same strong bone structure, the same dark, intelligent eyes, but with a more analytical, more evaluative quality than Carlos's natural warmth. He's dressed with that casual elegance that requires more money than it appears to.

But it's when he gets close enough to see the expression on Caco's face that Oscar feels the first real stab of alarm. There's no hostility there, exactly, but there's an intensity of observation that makes Oscar feel like a specimen being examined under a microscope. Caco's eyes register every detail—the way Oscar walks, how he's dressed, the confidence or lack thereof in his posture—with the precision of someone accustomed to evaluating people professionally.

"Oscar," Carlos stands, and there's something in his smile that's genuine but also carefully calibrated. It's the smile of a satisfied boss greeting a competent employee, not the smile of the man who this morning had traced gentle lines along Oscar's jaw. The transformation is so complete that for a moment Oscar almost doubts whether the early morning events had actually happened.

"Carlos," he responds, modulating his own voice to sound professional, distant, appropriate for the charade they're about to perform. "I hope I'm not running late."

"We're just arriving too. Let me introduce you to my cousin Caco."

Caco rises with a fluid movement that speaks of years of sports and physical maintenance, and when he extends his hand, Oscar can immediately feel that he's being evaluated. It's not hostile, exactly, but there's an intensity in those dark eyes that makes Oscar conscious of every expression on his own face.

"A pleasure," Caco murmurs, and his handshake is firm but not excessive, evaluative but not aggressive. There's something in the way he maintains eye contact a second longer than strictly necessary that makes Oscar understand immediately that this won't be a casual social dinner. "Carlos has told me about your work."

"I hope good things," he jokes, trying to project exactly the right level of professional confidence. Not too aggressive—he doesn't want to seem like he's compensating for insecurity—nor too passive.

"Very good things," Caco confirms, and when they sit, Oscar can immediately feel how the table's dynamics reorganize. He and Carlos are no longer two people who share intimacy; they're boss and employee, with Caco as the familiar observer evaluating the wisdom of his cousin's professional decisions. "Though I admit I was surprised when Carlos told me he'd hired outside help without consulting me."

"Caco," Carlos intervenes, and there's a note of warning in his voice so subtle that only someone who knows him intimately could detect it. Oscar hears it clearly, and that familiarity both reassures and terrifies him.

"No, no," Caco raises a hand to stop the protest, but his smile is genuine, designed to reassure. It's the smile of someone who knows exactly how to keep people comfortable while interrogating them. "It's a smart decision. I'm just wondering about the urgency." His eyes fix on Oscar with renewed intensity. "What exactly was it that convinced my cousin you were indispensable immediately?"

The question hangs in the air between them like a carefully designed trap. Oscar can feel his pulse quickening, but the story he and Carlos had crafted during their journey is there, waiting to be used.

"I think it was the combination of my previous experience and my immediate availability," he responds carefully, weighing each word as if they were ingredients in a recipe that could explode if the proportions were wrong. "Carlos mentioned he needed someone who could start right away, and I happened to be between projects."

It's a solid, well-rehearsed answer, and Oscar feels a small spark of confidence when he sees Caco nod thoughtfully.

"Between projects in Australia?" Caco leans slightly forward, and the movement is so natural it almost seems casual. But Oscar can feel it's anything but casual. "What kind of projects?"

Here Oscar feels more secure. This part of the story is solid, verifiable in general terms without being specific in details that could be investigated.

"Primarily work with local racing teams. V8 Supercars, some open-wheel categories. Performance analysis, race strategy optimization."

"Interesting," Caco nods. "And how exactly did you come to know Carlos?"

Oscar's stomach clenches. This is exactly the question he'd been dreading. The story he and Carlos had constructed was necessarily vague in specific details—they'd had to be, because too many details would create opportunities for inconsistencies—and now he finds himself navigating dangerous waters without a detailed map.

"Through mutual contacts," he responds, hoping the vagueness will pass for professional discretion rather than ignorance. "The data analysis community in motorsport is surprisingly small, especially at the international level."

That's when Carlos intervenes, and Oscar feels a surge of gratitude so intense he has to struggle not to show it on his face.

"Oscar presented some insights on tire degradation patterns that I found innovative," Carlos explains, his voice taking exactly the tone a boss would use to justify a hiring decision. "Especially relevant to the specific characteristics of the Toro Rosso."

Oscar relaxes slightly. This part of the performance is working. Carlos knows exactly how to sell the story, and between the two of them they're creating a narrative that sounds convincing.

But then Caco smiles, and there's something in that smile that sets off alarms again in Oscar's mind.

"Insights based on what data? Did you have access to F1 telemetry previously?"

"Not directly, but the fundamental principles are transferable. Thermal degradation, compound management, working window optimization..."

He stops deliberately, hoping the technical jargon will be enough to demonstrate knowledge without having to explain exactly how he'd acquired that knowledge. It's a risky strategy—sounding competent without being specific—but it's the best option he has.

"Of course," Caco accepts this with a nod that could be approval or could be suspended skepticism.

What follows are ten minutes of technical interrogation that feel like an eternity. Questions about specific software that Oscar had heard mentioned at McLaren but never used. Analysis methodologies he improvises based on fragmentary knowledge. Details about Australian job markets that he hopes Caco has no way of verifying.

Oscar navigates each question as if he were walking through a minefield, conscious that one wrong answer could make everything explode. His shirt sticks to his back with sweat, and he has to make a conscious effort not to touch his neck nervously.

But gradually, he begins to find his rhythm. The questions about performance analysis touch on his real knowledge as a driver. He can talk about tire degradation, about braking points, about the subtleties of car setup because he's lived them from the cockpit for years.

"Tire strategy is obviously critical," he explains, feeling a surge of genuine confidence for the first time in the conversation, "but beyond the obvious, I think there are opportunities in sector-specific analysis. Most teams focus on general lap times, but if you can identify specific corners or sections where you're losing time relative to the theoretical optimum..."

He stops, realizing he's speaking with the passion of someone who truly understands these concepts, and sees something change in Caco's eyes. Genuine interest, for the first time in the entire conversation.

"Go on," Caco leans forward, and the movement is different now. Not evaluative but curious.

"That's where you find the performance that exists but isn't being extracted. It's not just about going faster; it's about understanding where specifically time is being lost and why."

"Based on what?" Caco's question comes with genuine urgency, as if he really wants to know the answer.

"Perfect racing line, optimal braking points, ideal throttle application." Oscar is improvising, but based on real knowledge, and he can feel the difference in his own voice. "You compare that against actual performance and identify specific areas for driver coaching or setup adjustments."

"Interesting approach," Caco murmurs, and for the first time since the conversation began, Oscar feels like maybe he's navigating the dangerous waters successfully. There's real approval in that voice, recognition that Oscar has said something worthwhile.

Carlos seizes the moment, jumping in with details about specific problems they've been having with the car's balance, and for a few precious minutes, the conversation feels like what it's supposed to be: a technical discussion between competent professionals.

Oscar allows himself to relax. His answers are working. Caco seems genuinely interested rather than purely suspicious. Maybe they're going to survive this after all.

That's when the waiter approaches to ask if they need anything else, providing a brief respite in what had started to feel like an interrogation but now feels more like a professional consultation.

Oscar orders mineral water—he doesn't trust his ability to maintain coherence if alcohol relaxes his vigilance too much—but he's starting to feel like maybe he doesn't need it. The conversation has stabilized in territory where he can be competent.

But when the waiter retreats, Caco doesn't immediately return to technical questions. Instead, he leans back in his chair and studies Oscar with a completely different expression. There's something calculating in his eyes that sets all of Oscar's alarms off again.

"I have to ask," Caco says, and there's a shift in his tone that immediately puts Oscar on maximum alert, "about the financial arrangement. Carlos mentioned you accepted this position without a formal contract, without a defined compensation structure." He leans forward, and all the professional warmth of the last few minutes disappears from his voice. "That's... unusual in professional consulting."

Oscar feels the floor moving under his feet. This is exactly the kind of practical question they hadn't adequately anticipated.

"The opportunity was intriguing enough," he responds slowly, each word carefully measured as if he were defusing a bomb, "that I felt it was worth exploring even with flexible terms. Sometimes the learning experience and potential for future work is more valuable than guaranteed immediate financial compensation."

"Future work?" Caco repeats, and there's something sharp in his voice that makes Oscar realize he's just created another thread that Caco is going to pull until it unravels.

"If this works out well," Oscar improvises, feeling cold sweat forming on his forehead, "presumably Carlos could recommend me to other drivers, other teams. The F1 world is small, but also lucrative for someone who can provide genuine value."

Carlos intervenes: "Oscar was frank about seeing this as an opportunity to establish credibility in European motorsport. It makes sense from his perspective."

But Oscar can see that Caco isn't completely convinced.

"And timeline?" Caco continues, and now his voice has that interrogation quality again. "How long do you expect to work with Carlos?"

This question hits Oscar like ice water, because the honest answer is that he has no idea how long he'll remain in 2016, when—or if—he'll find a way back to 2024. His mind goes completely blank for a moment that feels eternal.

"It depends on results," he finally manages to articulate, conscious that his voice sounds strained. "Initially through the end of the season, potentially extending if the collaboration proves mutually beneficial."

"And after? Will you return to Australia?"

"That's... flexible," Oscar struggles to find words that don't sound completely evasive. "I'm somewhat between permanent bases at the moment. Freelance consulting allows for geographical flexibility."

It's a terrible answer and he knows it. It sounds exactly like what it is: someone who doesn't have a long-term plan because he can't have one.

Caco studies Oscar for a moment that feels eternal, and Oscar can see he's reaching conclusions. Not necessarily the right conclusions, but definitely conclusions that are going to cause problems.

And then—when Oscar is beginning to think he might have navigated the most dangerous questions—Caco does something that makes Oscar's world stop completely.

He pulls out a thin folder that had been resting beside his chair.

"Perfect," Caco says, opening the folder to reveal several carefully organized documents, "because as it happens, I came prepared to formalize this arrangement."

"Formalize?" Carlos seems equally surprised.

"Of course," Caco flips through pages with the efficiency of someone accustomed to handling legal documentation, completely oblivious to the panic he's causing. "You can't have someone working for you without a proper contract, Carlos. Especially not someone who's going to have access to sensitive team information."

Oscar stares at the elegantly prepared documents, feeling a toxic mixture of gratitude and terror. Caco is treating him like a respected professional, offering him exactly what Oscar Palmer should want. But every line of those contracts represents a risk he can't calculate.

"I've prepared something basic," Caco continues, leafing through pages as he speaks, "independent consulting contract, initial three-month period with extension option. Five hundred euros per day rate, plus reasonable travel expenses."

Oscar should be euphoric. Any real Oscar Palmer would already be calculating how much money this means, feeling validated by the professional recognition. But all he can think about are the questions that will come: tax verifications, insurance documentation that he's not sure Miguel included.

"It's... very generous," he manages to articulate, his voice sounding strange and distant to his own ears.

"It's fair," Caco corrects, turning to another page, "but there are specific terms we need to establish. Confidentiality agreement, of course—everything you see, hear, or analyze related to Carlos's performance remains strictly confidential."

"Of course," Oscar nods, though his mind is completely focused on the growing panic.

"And deliverables," Caco points to another section, clearly enthusiastic about formalizing an arrangement he considers mutually beneficial. "Weekly progress reports, analysis summaries after each race weekend, specific recommendations for setup or strategy improvements."

Oscar's stomach clenches. Written reports. Detailed documented analysis. The kind of work that requires not just knowledge but the ability to present it in professional formats he's never had to produce.

"You'll also need professional liability insurance," Caco continues with the cheerful efficiency of someone being thoroughly helpful, "as an independent contractor working in the EU. I expect you have that sorted already, but if not, I can recommend providers."

Oscar has no idea whether Miguel included provisions for professional insurance in his fabricated identity, or whether Oscar Palmer can even qualify for them.

"And there's the matter of taxes," Caco adds helpfully, "as an Australian resident doing contract work for us, there are specific reporting obligations. Nothing complicated, but it needs to be handled properly from the start."

Each new word is like another weight added to the load Oscar is already struggling to carry. Tax obligations, legal documentation, professional deliverables—a bureaucratic labyrinth where any misstep could expose that Oscar Palmer is a careful construction that crumbles under real scrutiny.

"Actually," Oscar begins, his voice coming out more strained than he intended, "I think maybe we should—"

"Also," Caco interrupts him, clearly enthusiastic about the details of what he considers a win-win arrangement, "I'd like to establish a monthly review system. Meetings where you evaluate progress, identify areas for improvement, maybe develop recommendations for future optimizations."

The image of sitting monthly with Caco, producing professional reports, being evaluated on his competence as a data analyst by someone who actually understands the field is a nightmare.

"Caco," Carlos intervenes, and Oscar can hear a note of confusion in his voice, "maybe this is premature. Oscar just arrived."

"Exactly why it needs to be established now," Caco responds, looking between them with genuine puzzlement at their lack of enthusiasm, "while we're all aligned on expectations and terms."

That's when Oscar realizes his reluctance is starting to seem inexplicable. Any real consultant would be delighted with this level of recognition and compensation.

"It's just that," Oscar struggles to find an explanation that doesn't sound completely irrational, "I prefer to see how the collaboration develops before complicating everything with formal frameworks."

Caco stops, his pen suspended over the contract. "You prefer to keep it informal?" There's genuine incredulity in his voice. "Oscar, this contract guarantees you financial stability for the next three months. Why would you want to reject that security?"

The silence that follows is thick with Caco's confusion and Oscar's barely contained panic. Because Caco is right—anyone in Oscar Palmer's position would be signing those papers immediately.

"There are reasons," Oscar responds weakly, conscious of how inadequate that answer sounds.

"What reasons?" Caco leans forward, and for the first time since he started offering contracts, there's something sharp in his voice. "I don't understand what reasons would prevent you from wanting legal protection and guaranteed compensation."

"Flexibility," Oscar improvises. "Both sides maintain flexibility if things don't work out."

"Flexibility for what?" Caco insists, and now there's definitely suspicion in his tone. "If your work is as good as it seems to be, why would you need flexibility to exit quickly?"

It's a perfectly reasonable question that has no reasonable answer. Oscar finds himself opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water.

That's when Carlos intervenes, his voice taking on an authority that cuts through the growing tension.

"Caco, this is exactly why I wanted you to meet Oscar before we made any decisions about formalization."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," Carlos straightens in his chair, "Oscar and I have discussed this extensively, and we both prefer to keep the arrangement informal for now."

"Carlos," Caco replies, and now there's a note of warning in his voice, "this is bad business practice. Extremely bad practice."

"It's how I want to handle it," Carlos responds with a finality that permits no further discussion, and Oscar can see muscles tensing in his jaw. "This arrangement is deliberately informal for specific reasons that Oscar and I have discussed extensively."

Caco looks between them, and Oscar can see he's trying to understand what exactly is happening. A consultant who rejects lucrative contracts, a cousin who refuses to explain why that might be sensible—none of this follows normal patterns of professional behavior.

"Carlos," Caco says slowly, "is there something about this situation you're not telling me?"

"There's nothing—"

Caco studies both of them for a moment that feels eternal. When he speaks again, his voice is careful, measured.

"Fine. Let's keep things informal for now." He closes the folder with a snap that sounds like a suspended verdict. "But Carlos, I want you to understand that if this continues beyond the end of the month, I'm going to need real answers about why a competent professional would reject basic contractual protection."

"Understood," Carlos accepts.

"And Oscar," Caco turns to him, and there's something new in his eyes—not hostility, but continued evaluation, "I hope whatever reason you have for preferring informality is... compatible with my cousin's best interests."

It's a carefully phrased warning, but its meaning is clear. Caco knows something doesn't add up, and though he can't identify exactly what, he's not going to ignore his instincts about the situation.

"Of course."

The rest of the dinner passes in lighter conversation, but Oscar can feel Caco's eyes on him periodically, evaluating, cataloging inconsistencies for future analysis. When they finally say goodbye, the handshake Caco offers him is professionally correct but loaded with promises of continued scrutiny.

"It's been... illuminating," he tells Oscar, holding his hand a moment longer than strictly necessary. "I'm sure we'll have future opportunities to discuss your work in more detail."

"It's been a pleasure meeting you," Oscar responds, accepting the handshake that extends a second longer than comfortable.

Oscar starts walking away toward the exit, but before he can take more than two steps, Caco's voice stops him.

"Carlos," Caco says, his tone perfectly casual, "would you mind if we talk for another moment? There are some things about upcoming family commitments I wanted to discuss with you."

The way he says it is perfectly polite, perfectly reasonable. He's not rudely dismissing Oscar—after all, they'd already said goodbye and Oscar was clearly heading for the exit. But the message is crystal clear: this conversation will be between family, and Oscar is definitely not invited.

Oscar feels a chill run down his spine as he exchanges a quick glance with Carlos. In those dark eyes he can see the same understanding he has: that the next few minutes will determine whether their charade has survived Caco's scrutiny, or whether everything is about to fall apart.

"Of course," Carlos accepts, his voice carefully neutral.

"Have a good night, Oscar," Caco adds with a smile that definitely doesn't reach his eyes.

Oscar nods and heads for the elevators, but as the doors close behind him, a cold certainty settles in his stomach: Caco knows something isn't right. He might not know exactly what, but he definitely knows the story they've been telling has holes that don't add up.

And now Carlos is alone to defend it.

 

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

Chapter 28: Behind The Moon

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

 

Oscar walks through the streets of Monaco with a mixture of familiarity and strangeness that makes him dizzy. The elegant buildings, the luxury shops, the harbor full of yachts—everything exactly as he knows it in 2024, but with subtle differences that constantly remind him this isn't his time.

His footsteps echo against the pavement as he heads toward the circuit, conscious of the weight of the non-prescription glasses on his nose, of how his longer hair brushes his forehead in a way that still feels strange. Oscar Palmer, Australian data analyst, walks toward his first official day in the Formula 1 paddock.

The accreditation Carlos had secured for him works without a hitch. The security guard examines his identification—Oscar Palmer, Technical Consultant, Scuderia Toro Rosso—with the same bored expression he uses to examine all credentials. No recognition, no suspicion. Just another face in the constant flow of technical personnel that characterizes a race weekend.

The 2016 paddock is simultaneously familiar and alien. The basic geography is the same—space has always been limited on this street circuit—but there are differences that catch his attention: less elaborate hospitalities, sponsor logos that no longer exist in his time, faces he doesn't recognize mixed with younger versions of figures he knows well.

He moves with deliberate care, conscious of every gesture, every expression. He's been mentally preparing for this for days, but the reality of being here, of truly being a temporal intruder in this environment he knows so well, makes his stomach clench with nerves he hadn't anticipated.

He sees Carlos before Carlos sees him.

He's standing by the Toro Rosso garage, talking to his race engineer—Marco, Oscar remembers his name—with that total concentration that characterizes his technical discussions. He's wearing a team polo. Seeing Carlos in those colors is another reminder of how far back in time he's really traveled.

When Carlos spots him approaching, something subtly shifts in his expression. It's not obvious—any casual observer would simply see a driver politely greeting a new team member—but Oscar can distinguish the genuine warmth filtering through the professional mask. It's the smile of someone seeing a person who matters to them, carefully modulated to appear as nothing more than professional courtesy.

"Palmer," Carlos greets him, extending his hand in a shake that lasts exactly the appropriate time for a first professional encounter. "Glad you could make it on time."

"Of course," Oscar replies, modulating his own voice to project the proper deference of a consultant toward his client. "I'm eager to get started."

Marco watches them with the slightly skeptical expression of someone who's seen many "outside experts" arrive with big promises and few tangible results. It's a look Oscar recognizes—he'd seen it directed at himself on multiple occasions during his early days at McLaren.

"Marco," Carlos introduces, "this is Oscar Palmer, the analyst I told you about. Oscar, Marco Matassa, my race engineer."

The handshake that follows is evaluative without being hostile. Marco has that direct, no-nonsense quality that characterizes the best race engineers—men and women who've learned to measure people's worth by concrete results rather than impressive credentials.

"Carlos mentioned you have experience with tire degradation analysis," Marco observes, his Italian accent adding a musical tone to the technical words. "That could be valuable here. Monaco is unique in terms of thermal management."

"Absolutely," Oscar agrees, feeling the first spark of genuine confidence since entering the paddock. This territory—technical analysis of tire performance—is where he can speak with real authority, where his knowledge as a driver translates naturally into valuable analytical insights. "Managing the working window here is critical, especially considering most laps are run in relatively low-speed conditions."

Marco nods approvingly. It's not enthusiasm, but it is recognition that Oscar has said something technically sound. It's a start.

"Perfect," Carlos interjects. "Why don't we begin with a review of last year's data? Oscar, I can show you our current monitoring setup."

It's a perfectly reasonable suggestion that also gives them an excuse to spend time together reviewing information without arousing suspicion. Oscar nods, following Carlos toward a table covered with laptops, tablets, and stacks of printed papers that appear to be telemetry from previous years' sessions.

As Carlos opens a laptop and begins navigating through data files, Oscar allows himself a moment to observe his profile. There's a concentration in his expression that Oscar finds fascinating—the way his brows furrow slightly when he's processing technical information, how he almost imperceptibly bites his lower lip when considering something complex. These are small unconscious gestures that reveal the inner workings of his analytical mind, aspects of his personality that Oscar never would have had the chance to observe as a rival on track.

"Look at this," Carlos murmurs, turning the screen so Oscar can see. "Last year's degradation data on long stints. You'll notice we have a consistent problem in sector two after lap fifteen."

Oscar leans toward the screen, consciously maintaining appropriate professional distance but allowing his shoulder to brush lightly against Carlos's. It's minimal contact, barely perceptible, but he can feel the warmth radiating through the fabric of Carlos's shirt.

The data on the screen indeed shows a troubling pattern: rear tire degradation accelerates dramatically after a certain point in long stints, suggesting a car balance or thermal management problem that could be critical in race conditions.

"Interesting," Oscar observes, his mind automatically processing the implications. "Have you tried adjusting the initial pressure on the rears? It looks like they might be going into overheating."

"That was my intuition too," Carlos confirms, and there's a note of satisfaction in his voice at finding Oscar has reached the same conclusion. "But the team has been reluctant to make significant changes to the base setup."

"Understandable conservatism," Oscar acknowledges. "But perhaps we could model some alternative scenarios, at least to have options if the problem repeats this weekend."

It's a genuinely technical conversation, one where Oscar can contribute real value based on his experience as a driver. There's something deeply satisfying about this dynamic, about being able to apply his knowledge from a different perspective, about being useful to Carlos.

Marco approaches to join the discussion, bringing additional data from practice sessions at other circuits. The next thirty minutes unfold in a deep dive into telemetry, comparing degradation patterns across different compounds and track conditions. Oscar finds his rhythm quickly, offering observations that demonstrate understanding without trying to dominate the conversation, showing value without threatening the team's established hierarchies.

It's during this technical discussion that he notices a familiar figure watching them from a few meters away. Caco stays on the periphery of their group, apparently reviewing his own documents but clearly paying attention to the dynamic between Oscar and Carlos. His expression is carefully neutral, but Oscar can feel the intensity of his observation, the way he's cataloging every interaction, every gesture, every word.

Oscar deliberately maintains impeccably professional behavior, conscious of the scrutiny. His comments stay strictly technical, his body language appropriately deferential toward Carlos as his client, his questions formulated to demonstrate competence without presumption. It's a delicate balancing act, especially when every fiber of his being is conscious of Carlos's proximity, of the warmth he radiates when they lean together over the same screen, of the way their fingers occasionally brush when pointing out details in the graphs.

"Palmer, you've got a good eye," Marco comments after Oscar has pointed out a particular correlation between track temperature and degradation that had been missed in previous analyses.

"I suppose it's always helpful to have someone with a different perspective," Oscar responds modestly, aware that Caco is now clearly paying attention to the conversation.

 

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

 

The morning continues with more technical reviews, interspersed with the normal rhythms of a Grand Prix Thursday. Drivers come and go for media sessions, interviews, and photo shoots. Oscar observes this familiar dance from his new perspective as an analyst, noticing details that as a driver he never would have had the chance to see: the way engineers coordinate their activities around the drivers' media commitments, how mechanics use these quieter moments for detailed preparations, the strategic conversations that happen at the margins while drivers are busy with public relations obligations.

It's fascinating to see Carlos in this context too. As a rival, Oscar had mainly observed his behavior on track and in formal interviews. Here, he can see his more relaxed, more authentic side: the way he jokes with mechanics, his patience with repetitive technical questions, the genuine consideration he shows every team member regardless of their position in the hierarchy.

There are moments—fleeting but undeniable—where their eyes meet across the bustle of the garage and Oscar can see something more personal filtering through Carlos's professional mask. A specific warmth, a recognition that goes beyond workplace courtesy. But these moments last only seconds before both return to their appropriate roles, conscious that they're being watched not just by Caco but by the entire team.

Near midday, when the paddock's pace intensifies with preparations for the afternoon's activities, Carlos approaches where Oscar is reviewing data on a tablet.

"How about we grab lunch together?" he asks, his tone carefully casual. "There are some things about tomorrow's setup I'd like to discuss with you."

It's a perfectly reasonable invitation between driver and analyst, but Oscar can detect the underlying layers. Carlos is creating an opportunity for private time, an excuse to converse outside the garage's immediate environment and Caco's constant vigilance.

"Of course," Oscar accepts. "Do you know somewhere quiet where we can talk without interruptions?"

"I know the perfect place," Carlos replies, a barely perceptible smile touching the corners of his lips.

Twenty minutes later, they're seated on a small, intimate terrace overlooking the marina, far enough from the paddock to offer privacy but public enough that any casual observer would simply see two motorsport professionals discussing work over lunch. The menu is in French and pretentiously expensive, exactly the kind of place where F1 circus members would naturally gravitate during a Monaco weekend.

Carlos orders for both of them with the fluency of someone who's been in Monaco long enough to navigate its establishments with confidence. While they wait for food, they maintain a technical conversation about Monaco's unique challenges: the blind corners, the changing elevations, the critical importance of qualifying on a circuit where overtaking is virtually impossible.

But beneath this professional discussion, Oscar can feel undercurrents of something more personal. The way Carlos looks at him when he thinks no one else is watching. The small silences that extend a moment longer than would be strictly necessary to process technical information. The occasional brush of fingers when they pass documents or point out details on the tablets they've brought as props for their "work" meeting.

"How are you feeling about all this?" Carlos eventually asks, his voice low enough that only Oscar can hear. "About being here, in the paddock, maintaining the... performance?"

It's the first time they've been able to speak openly about the tension of maintaining their public roles since arriving in Monaco, and Oscar feels a surge of relief at finally being able to express some of what he's been processing internally.

"It's... intense. You know, constantly calculating every word, every gesture. Trying to find the balance between being helpful and not drawing too much attention."

"You're doing it perfectly," Carlos assures him. "Marco was genuinely impressed with your observations this morning. Even Caco seemed... well, less suspicious than usual."

"Less suspicious?" Oscar repeats with an ironic smile. "Because from my perspective, it feels like I'm being evaluated constantly."

"You are," he confirms with a direct honesty that Oscar appreciates. "But that's normal. Caco evaluates everyone who gets close to me, especially in a professional context. He's protective by nature." Carlos pauses as the waiter deposits their plates, waiting until they're alone again before continuing. "But I also think he's starting to see the genuine value you bring. Your technical insights are solid, your approach is respectful but not servile. Those are qualities he respects."

Oscar nods, feeling a small measure of relief. "It's strange," he reflects, "because there are aspects of this role I genuinely enjoy. The technical analysis, seeing the data from this perspective, contributing in a different way."

"You're good at this. Better than you probably expected to be."

There's something in the way he looks at him when he says these words—a mixture of professional admiration and something warmer, more personal—that makes Oscar feel an expansion of warmth in his chest.

"Thank you," he responds, aware that his voice comes out slightly softer than he'd intended.

The rest of lunch continues this way, oscillating between legitimate technical discussions and moments of more personal connection, all carefully modulated to maintain the appearance of a professional work meeting. When they finally return to the paddock, Oscar feels as if they've successfully navigated another challenge in this elaborate performance they're maintaining.

 

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

 

The rest of the afternoon unfolds in more structured activities: track walk with the engineers, where Oscar appropriately stays in the background while Carlos and Marco discuss racing lines and specific braking points; technical meetings where they discuss preliminary strategies for tomorrow's practice sessions; logistical planning sessions for the rest of the weekend.

In each of these activities, Oscar carefully maintains his role as the competent but deferential analyst, contributing when appropriate but never attempting to dominate conversations or impose his perspective.

Caco appears and disappears throughout the afternoon, his presence a constant reminder that they're being evaluated. His interactions with Oscar are courteous but reserved, neither hostile nor completely welcoming. It's clear he's waiting to see concrete results before forming definitive judgments, a professional stance Oscar can respect even while it makes him nervous.

When the day finally begins to open toward evening, and the paddock's official activities wind down, Carlos approaches Oscar with a suggestion that makes his pulse quicken involuntarily.

"How about we review the final data in my room?" he asks, his tone carefully casual but his gaze loaded with meaning.

"Of course," Oscar accepts, maintaining his own professional tone while feeling anticipation spread warmly through his chest. "It'll be useful to have space for a more detailed discussion."

Back to the hotel they travel in Carlos's Audi, maintaining appropriate technical conversation while navigating Monaco's winding streets, but Oscar is intensely aware of every detail of their proximity: the familiar scent of Carlos's cologne mixed with the leather smell from the driver's seat, the way his hands move over the steering wheel and gear shift, the small adjustments he makes in his position when they stop at traffic lights.

There's a growing tension in the air between them, a shared anticipation that becomes more tangible with each passing minute. Oscar can see how Carlos's fingers occasionally tense on the steering wheel, how his breathing becomes slightly more deliberate when he thinks Oscar isn't watching.

When they finally arrive at the Hermitage, they maintain the professional pantomime through the elegant lobby, exchanging casual comments about tomorrow's preparations while hotel staff observe them with the customary deference toward guests clearly connected to the Grand Prix. Oscar carries a tablet as a prop, Carlos has some papers in his hand—visual evidence that they're heading to a legitimate work meeting.

The elevator ride to the seventh floor feels both eternal and instantaneous. Oscar is hyperaware of the confined space, of how he can feel Carlos's body heat from centimeters away, of the slightly irregular sound of his breathing. When they finally reach Carlos's floor and walk down the hallway toward his room, each step seems charged with possibility and anticipatory tension.

Carlos slides the key card with hands that tremble almost imperceptibly, and the soft click of the lock opening sounds like a promise fulfilled.

The door closes behind them with a soft sound that seems amplified in the sudden silence of the room. Oscar remains motionless by the doorframe, the tablet still in his hands as evidence of the professional justification that brought them here, but his pulse accelerates immediately, an irregular rhythm he can feel all the way to his fingertips.

Carlos turns toward him, and something fundamental changes in the quality of his breathing. It's no longer the controlled, measured breathing he'd maintained all day in the paddock. It's shallower, more broken, with small pauses that suggest he's fighting against impulses he's been containing for hours.

"The data," Carlos murmurs, but his voice comes out hoarse, different, and his eyes don't seek the abandoned laptop on the sofa by the window but fix on Oscar's face with an intensity that makes the air between them feel denser.

Oscar sets the tablet on the nearby table with deliberately slow movements, conscious that Carlos is following every gesture. When he straightens and turns completely toward him, he can see how Carlos's pupils have dilated slightly, how there's a new tension in the line of his jaw.

"Carlos," he whispers, and the name comes out like a sonic caress that makes Carlos visibly shudder.

The space between them gradually reduces. Oscar takes a step toward him, then another, until he can feel the warmth radiating from Carlos's body through the layers of fabric separating them. The proximity allows him to detect the subtle change in his scent—the familiar cologne now mixed with something more fundamental, more human, that speaks of the tension he's been carrying beneath his professional composure.

Carlos's hands rise to find Oscar's face, and when his palms make contact with his cheeks, Oscar can feel the slight trembling in his fingers, the way his thumbs linger tracing deliberate lines along his cheekbones. His own breathing becomes heavier, and he can feel heat accumulating in his belly, spreading downward in waves that leave him slightly dizzy.

When they finally lean toward each other, the first contact of their lips is soft, almost tentative, but Oscar can immediately feel how Carlos's body reacts. There's a small strangled inhalation, the way he leans toward him as if he couldn't help it, as if he'd been gravitating toward this moment for hours and could finally surrender to the attraction.

His own hands find Carlos's waist, fingers pressing against the cotton of his shirt, and he can feel that the fabric is slightly damp with sweat, warm under his palms. Carlos presses closer, and Oscar feels every point where their bodies touch: the firm chest against his, the warmth radiating through clothing, the way Carlos's hips align with his with a precision that makes something tighten painfully in his groin.

The kiss gradually deepens, Carlos opening for him with a surrender that's simultaneously vulnerable and charged with desire. Oscar can feel the way Carlos's hands move from his face to his nape, fingers tangling in his hair with growing urgency. His own breathing becomes irregular, broken, and when Carlos makes a small sound against his lips—half moan, half sigh—Oscar feels a jolt of electricity.

"All afternoon," Carlos murmurs against his ear, his voice barely a thread of sound but loaded with intensity, "I've been thinking about this."

The confession sends waves of heat through Oscar's body. His hands move to find the edge of Carlos's shirt, sliding underneath to touch bare skin, and the direct contact makes Carlos arch his back slightly, pressing closer. His skin is warm, slightly damp, and Oscar can feel how the muscles of his abdomen contract under his palms.

Carlos seeks his mouth again, and this time the kiss is more urgent, more demanding. His hands clutch Oscar's shoulders, fingers pressing against the fabric of his shirt as if wanting to anchor every sensation, memorize it.

When Oscar slides his hands higher, tracing the familiar lines of Carlos's torso, he can feel how his breathing becomes more erratic, more shallow. Carlos breaks from the kiss to press his forehead against Oscar's, his eyes closed, lost in the sensations he's experiencing.

"Oscar," he whispers, his voice broken, loaded with need.

Carlos's hands move tentatively toward the edge of Oscar's shirt, but stop there. Oscar can see the conflict in his expression—he wants to explore, wants to touch, but there's a shyness, an uncertainty that speaks of his fundamental inexperience.

"I..." Carlos murmurs, his cheeks reddening even in the room's dim light. "I don't... I don't know how..."

The raw vulnerability in his voice makes Oscar feel a complex mixture of tenderness and desire. He can see exactly what Carlos is struggling with—the impulse to reciprocate, to give pleasure, faced against the reality that he has no idea how to do it.

"You don't have to do anything," Oscar murmurs, his hands continuing their slow and deliberate movements over Carlos's skin. "And however you touch me is going to feel good."

Carlos inhales sharply at these words, and Oscar can feel how his entire body relaxes slightly, as if he'd been released from a pressure he didn't even know he was carrying.

"Could you...?" Carlos begins, but stops, his voice choking with embarrassment.

"What?" Oscar asks softly, though he can already guess the answer from the way Carlos presses against him, from the growing tension in his body.

"Like the other time," Carlos finally whispers, the words barely audible. "Could you... like the other time?"

The request, formulated with such shyness but loaded with such need, sends a wave of heat through Oscar's body. He can see the emotional cost it takes Carlos to ask this—the way his cheeks darken, how he can't maintain eye contact. And Oscar understands, because now he knows better about Carlos's traumas and fears, why he verbalizes his needs with such shame and care.

"Of course," Oscar responds, his voice coming out hoarser than he intended.

They move toward the bed and Carlos lies back, his head sinking into the hotel's white pillows, but Oscar immediately notices the rigidity in his shoulders, how his fingers contract against the sheets as if anchoring himself to something solid.

"Could you... can you turn off the light?" Carlos asks, his voice barely audible but loaded with a shyness that makes Oscar feel a pang of tenderness in his chest.

The raw vulnerability of the request moves him more than he expected. He sits up to reach the switch by the headboard, plunging the room into golden twilight filtering through the curtains. The soft lighting transforms the space, creating shadows that dance gently over Carlos's skin.

"Is this better?" Oscar asks as he returns to sit on the edge of the bed.

Carlos nods, but Oscar can see how he tries to relax without completely succeeding. His muscles remain tense under his shirt, his breathing too controlled to be natural. When Oscar settles closer, he can see how those dark eyes follow his every movement with an intensity that speaks of anticipation mixed with nervousness.

His fingers find Carlos's belt buckle, and the cold metal contrasts sharply with the heat he can feel radiating from his body. When he begins to unbuckle it, with deliberately slow movements, he can feel how Carlos holds his breath completely, how his entire torso freezes in anticipation of what's coming.

The buckle releases with a small metallic click that seems to resonate in the room's silence. Oscar can see how Carlos's chest rises and falls with breathing that's becoming progressively more irregular.

The zipper descends slowly, each tooth separating with a minimal sound that seems amplified in the quietness surrounding them. Oscar is intensely aware of every detail—he can feel Carlos's heat even through the denim, the subtle but growing scent that speaks of masculine arousal.

He slides the jeans down Carlos's hips, his hands brushing skin that's noticeably warmer than the room's air. The response is immediate and visible—a shudder that runs through Carlos's entire body, small muscles contracting under the surface as if his nervous system were hyperaware of every point of contact.

The black boxers reveal obvious evidence of his arousal, the fabric straining over contours that make Oscar's throat tighten slightly. He can see the specific shape pressing against the cotton, the way it extends along his left hip, and the sight makes his own body begin to respond with an urgency he hadn't anticipated.

He can detect the scent intensifying as Carlos becomes more aroused—something specifically masculine, musky, that makes Oscar's mouth produce more saliva than necessary. His own groin begins to feel restricted inside his jeans, a growing pressure that makes him conscious of every fiber of fabric pressing against his skin.

He hooks his fingers in the elastic waistband of the boxers, and he can feel how Carlos tenses again, preparing for this moment of complete vulnerability. When the fabric finally slides away, completely freeing Carlos, Oscar feels as if the oxygen in the room had changed density.

Carlos's cock rises against his abdomen, completely erect, the skin visibly darker than the rest of his body. Oscar can see every detail in the golden light—the veins that mark under the surface, the head that's darkened to a reddish tone, the minimal drop of precum that already glistens at the tip.

He wants to suck him, wants to have him in his mouth, but Carlos asked him to jerk him off, not give him a blowjob, and Oscar isn't going to pressure him.

He positions himself between Carlos's open legs, a location that gives him complete visual access and the ability to observe every expression on his face. He can feel the heat radiating from Carlos's body, can see how small drops of sweat are beginning to form in the valley between his pectoral muscles, visible through the shirt he keeps on.

"We have to be quiet," Oscar whispers, bringing a finger to his lips in a gesture that makes Carlos nod quickly, his eyes never leaving Oscar's face.

He begins slowly, his fingers first tracing light lines along the inside of Carlos's thighs. The skin here is incredibly soft, with a texture that contrasts with the more familiar roughness of his own legs. He can immediately feel how the long muscles contract under his touch, how small shivers spread from the points of contact toward the rest of Carlos's body.

His own breathing becomes shallower when Carlos makes a small strangled sound—not exactly a moan, but something more primitive, more involuntary, as if his body were responding in ways his conscious mind is still processing.

He allows his fingers to gradually approach, tracing patterns increasingly closer to where Carlos clearly needs them. He can see how his breathing becomes more erratic with each caress that approaches but doesn't quite arrive, how his hips begin to move almost imperceptibly, seeking more contact.

When he finally allows his fingers to brush the base of Carlos's cock, the reaction is immediate and intense. Carlos arches his back as if he'd been touched by something electric, his mouth opening in what would have been an audible moan if he weren't fighting desperately to stay silent. Instead, he produces a strangled sound, like air escaping between clenched teeth.

Oscar can immediately feel the heat radiating, the way it pulses with each beat of Carlos's clearly accelerated heart. His own groin tightens in response, his cock hardening completely inside his jeans until the pressure becomes almost uncomfortable. He can feel moisture forming at the tip, creating a sticky sensation against the fabric of his boxers.

His fingers gradually wrap around Carlos, and the sensation is extraordinary—immediate heat, soft skin moving over solid hardness, the way he can feel every pulse of blood flowing through the erect tissue. Carlos produces another strangled sound, his hands moving to clutch the sheets with a force that makes the muscles of his forearms visibly define.

The rhythm he initially establishes is slow and deliberate, long movements that cover the entire length from base to tip. He can feel every specific texture under his palm—the smoothness of the mobile skin, the firmness of the erect tissue underneath, the way small amounts of natural moisture begin to accumulate, making his grip slide more easily.

Carlos tries to stay still initially, but then his hips begin to move involuntarily, following the rhythm Oscar is establishing. The movements are small, controlled, but Oscar can see how he struggles to contain himself, how every fiber of his being wants to surrender to the pleasure but his conscious mind keeps reminding him of the need for discretion.

The scent in the room intensifies progressively—masculine sweat mixed with arousal, something primitive that makes Oscar's most basic instincts respond in ways he can't completely control. His own breathing becomes more labored, and he can feel how drops of sweat begin to form on his forehead from the effort of staying focused on Carlos while his own body demands attention.

He varies his technique after a few minutes, alternating between long movements that draw strangled moans and concentrated attention on the head of Carlos's cock with precise circles that make his entire body tense.

"Do you like it like this?" Oscar whispers, though he can read the answer on Carlos's face—eyes squeezed shut, lower lip trapped between his teeth, small lines of concentration marking his forehead as he struggles to process sensations that are clearly overwhelming him.

"Yes," Carlos pants, his voice broken and barely audible, "but I need... I need more."

His request comes out like a torn confession, something that clearly cost him to admit but that his body is demanding with an urgency he can no longer ignore. Oscar can see how it costs him even to articulate what he needs, how years of repression fight against the desire consuming him.

Oscar responds by gradually increasing speed, maintaining constant pressure but creating a more urgent rhythm that he can immediately feel is taking Carlos exactly where he needs to go. The sounds he produces become more frequent—small strangled inhalations, exhalations that come out like truncated sighs, occasionally his name emerging like a desperate prayer.

He can feel how Carlos's entire body is preparing for what's coming. His testicles have visibly contracted. His cock becomes progressively more rigid in Oscar's hand, hotter, and the amount of precum increases noticeably, creating natural lubrication that makes each movement more fluid, more intense.

The muscles of Carlos's thighs begin to tremble visibly, small spasms that speak of a nervous system completely overloaded with sensation. Oscar can see how he struggles to stay silent, the way he bites his lip until it's marked by pressure.

"I'm close," Carlos whispers, and Oscar can feel the truth of this statement in the way his entire body is tensing, how every muscle prepares for the approaching release. His own arousal intensifies watching this, witnessing Carlos's complete vulnerability in this moment.

Oscar maintains the constant rhythm, resisting the impulse to accelerate or change technique.

The orgasm, when it finally arrives, is intense and completely visible. Carlos tenses as if every muscle in his body had been activated simultaneously, his back arching while his mouth opens in what would have been a scream if he weren't fighting desperately to stay silent.

Hot semen spills over Oscar's fingers in rhythmic and powerful pulses. The first shot is particularly strong, staining Carlos's rumpled shirt with thick white lines. The following spurts cover his abdomen, creating patterns that shine in the golden light filtering through the window.

Oscar can feel every contraction through Carlos's cock, every pulse that pushes more fluid, creating a specific and musky scent that mixes with the sweat and arousal that already filled the air between them.

Carlos collapses completely against the pillows, his breathing gradually stabilizing from desperate gasps to deep sighs that speak of satisfaction so complete it seems to have relaxed every fiber of his being. Oscar can see how sweat glistens on his forehead, how his chest rises and falls with the effort of regaining control of his breathing.

He carefully withdraws his hand, which is covered with sticky and warm evidence of Carlos's orgasm. He can feel how his own arousal, which had been growing throughout the entire encounter, demands urgent attention—his cock is completely hard inside his jeans, creating pressure that's almost painful but that for now he ignores to focus on caring for Carlos.

"Wait here," he whispers, carefully rising to head to the hotel bathroom.

In the elegant bathroom, he examines his hands feeling something primitive and satisfying in the physical evidence of what they've just shared. He lets warm water run from the faucet, watching how the opalescent liquid slides down his fingers and disappears down the drain in spirals that seem hypnotic under the bathroom's fluorescent light.

He dampens a small towel with warm water, making sure the temperature is comfortable but not too hot for Carlos's sensitized skin. His own body still vibrates with unresolved arousal, but there's something deeply satisfying about this act of care, about being the person who can provide this intimate attention.

When he returns to the room, Carlos lies exactly as he left him, his eyes closed but not asleep, his chest rising and falling with breathing that has stabilized but still carries traces of how intense his orgasm was. Oscar can see the wet stains, visual evidence of the power of his release.

"Let me take care of you," Oscar murmurs, his voice hoarser than expected.

The warm towel makes contact with Carlos's hypersensitive skin, and he arches involuntarily, small tremors running through his body as if he were still processing echoes of pleasure. Oscar cleans with deliberately gentle movements, removing every trace of semen while observing how even this soft touch makes Carlos occasionally shudder.

Once he finishes, he deposits the towel on the nightstand and lies on his side, looking toward Carlos. Immediately, Carlos turns toward him, seeking contact with a need that speaks of something deeper than simple physical satisfaction. They settle naturally—Carlos pressing his forehead against Oscar's chest, their legs intertwining under the hotel's cotton sheets.

Oscar wraps an arm around him, his hand automatically finding Carlos's hair, fingers moving through strands that are slightly damp with sweat. Carlos sighs against his chest, a sound of satisfaction so deep it makes something expand warmly in Oscar's chest, something that transcends physical arousal and touches more emotional, more significant territory.

"Every time is different," Carlos finally murmurs, his voice soft but loaded with amazement. "I thought it would be the same, but it was completely different."

"Different how?"

"More intense from the beginning," he explains, adjusting his position to speak more clearly. "The other time was like... like discovering I had a completely new sense. This time was like knowing I had that sense but still being surprised by what I could feel. And it lasted longer... I could feel how it built, how everything you did brought me closer. The first time was so overwhelming I could barely process it. This time... this time I could be present every second."

Oscar nods, understanding exactly what Carlos is describing.

"Did you like it more?" he asks, though he can guess the answer from the way Carlos curls closer against him.

"Don't be smug."

After several minutes in silence, Oscar realizes he needs to leave. His own unresolved arousal creates uncomfortable pressure, and staying longer would only increase the risk of being discovered. Carlos is clearly relaxing toward sleep, his breathing becoming deeper and more regular against his chest.

"I should go," Oscar whispers, though every fiber of his being wants to stay exactly where he is.

Carlos murmurs something incoherent, his eyes already closed, but nods slightly. He's clearly floating in that zone between waking and sleep.

"Do you mind if I use your bathroom before I leave?" Oscar asks, conscious that his own erection hasn't completely diminished and that the walk to his room is long.

"Mmm," Carlos responds, barely audible, "of course."

Oscar rises carefully, making sure not to fully wake Carlos, who is already sinking deeper into the pillows. Once in the bathroom, he closes the door silently and faces his own urgent physical need.

His reflection in the mirror shows evidence of what just occurred—disheveled hair, flushed cheeks, pupils still dilated. His erection presses insistently against his jeans, demanding attention he can no longer ignore.

He unfastens quickly, releasing the accumulated pressure. His movements are efficient, urgent—there's no time to prolong this. Images of Carlos responding to his touch, the sounds he'd produced, the way he'd arched while reaching orgasm, all replay in his mind while his hand moves with determined purpose.

It doesn't take long. He quickly finds his own release, silent but intense, his hand moving to capture the evidence and avoid making a mess in Carlos's bathroom. He cleans up quickly, eliminating any trace, and recomposes himself before leaving.

Carlos is practically asleep when he returns, but opens his eyes enough to receive the soft kiss Oscar presses against his lips.

"Sleep well."

"Until tomorrow," Carlos murmurs, already sinking back into sleep.

Oscar collects his tablet—the excuse they'd used to justify their meeting—and heads toward the door. In the hallway, the hotel's silence envelops him, only interrupted by the distant hum of air conditioning.

He presses the elevator button, his mind already processing what just happened. The intimacy had been intense, meaningful, but also incredibly risky. Anyone could have heard them, anyone could have come looking for Carlos.

The elevator doors open with a soft ping, and Oscar steps forward, only to find himself face to face with Caco.

The world stops for a moment. Caco is dressed casually, clearly returning from some dinner or evening meeting. His eyes immediately register Oscar's presence, the tablet in his hands, the fact that he's leaving the floor where Carlos is staying at eleven at night.

"Oscar," Caco greets him, his voice carefully neutral but his eyes clearly evaluative. "Working late."

"Caco," he responds, fighting to keep his voice steady as he enters the elevator. "Yes, we were reviewing data for tomorrow."

"Of course. Carlos is very meticulous with his preparation."

The elevator rises in silence, but Oscar can feel the intensity of Caco's observation. Every second feels like hours, every floor they pass a small eternity. Oscar maintains his neutral, professional expression, but internally he's calculating exactly what would have happened if Caco had arrived fifteen minutes earlier, if he'd decided to visit Carlos while they were...

"Good night," Caco murmurs when the doors open on the tenth floor.

"Good night," Oscar responds, watching how Caco exits the elevator with that natural grace that characterizes the Sainz family.

The doors close, leaving Oscar alone as the elevator continues to his floor. His heart beats faster than normal, adrenaline coursing through his system as he fully processes how close they came to being discovered.

If Caco had decided to visit Carlos tonight. If he'd been in the hallway when Carlos couldn't contain himself completely. If he'd heard sounds that couldn't be explained as "data review."

When he finally reaches his room, Oscar lies on his own bed, staring at the ceiling while processing everything that happened. The intimacy with Carlos had been extraordinary, but the encounter with Caco has been a brutal reminder of exactly how much risk they're taking.

Tomorrow he needs to talk to Carlos about this. They need to be more careful, because what's growing between them is too important to lose through carelessness.

 

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

 

Chapter 29: Satellite

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

 

Friday morning's paddock vibrates with energy. Mechanics move with renewed purpose between the garages, hauling tires and adjusting tools. Conversations are more intense, more focused, creating an atmosphere of concentration that contrasts sharply with Thursday's more relaxed activity.

Oscar arrives at the Toro Rosso garage feeling like an actor who has intensively studied his role but has never been on the real stage. The surface familiarity of the environment provides a false sense of comfort that immediately evaporates when he realizes he hasn't the slightest idea what he's supposed to do now.

As a driver, his role during free practice had been clear: get in the car, go out on track, feel how it responds, report specific feedback to the engineers. But as Carlos's personal consultant... does he sit and observe? Take notes? Is there some protocol he should be following?

He sees Marco coordinating with other team engineers, setting up monitoring stations, preparing dashboards that display dozens of parameters Oscar vaguely recognizes but whose specific real-time importance he doesn't know at all. There's a professional choreography in the way the team prepares that makes him feel like an intruder.

"Palmer," Marco greets him, approaching with an expression that suggests professional courtesy rather than specific expectation. "I suppose you'll be observing today."

It's a statement Oscar immediately interprets as Marco establishing appropriate professional boundaries. Oscar isn't part of the official team; he's Carlos's personal consultant whose presence is tolerated but whose participation isn't actively expected.

"Exactly," Oscar responds, feeling a mixture of relief and anxiety. Relief because he's not expected to master specific technical systems; anxiety because now he must justify his value as an external observer without direct operational knowledge. "Mainly interested in behavioral patterns that might not be obvious from the team's perspective."

Marco nods, apparently satisfied with this response that positions Oscar as someone who brings additional perspective without interfering.

Carlos arrives at that moment, dressed in his Toro Rosso uniform, and the visual contrast between him in his official role as team driver and Oscar in his fabricated role as external consultant creates a dissonance Oscar feels physically. Carlos belongs here obviously and unquestionably; Oscar is improvising his belonging moment by moment.

"Good morning," Carlos greets, directing his attention toward Oscar with the appropriate expression of a driver greeting his personal consultant. "Ready to observe how those patterns we discussed yesterday develop?"

It's a perfectly calibrated question that establishes Oscar has a legitimate role without specifying exactly what that role consists of. Oscar nods, grateful for the way Carlos is facilitating his integration without revealing his fundamental ignorance.

"Particularly interested in seeing how they develop in real track conditions," he responds, employing vague but technically appropriate language.

What follows are the most intense thirty minutes of observation Oscar has ever experienced. He positions himself where he can see the team's screens without interfering with their work, taking disorganized notes while trying to understand what exactly he's witnessing.

He watches Marco and other engineers work with an efficiency that speaks of years of experience. He sees data appear in real time—temperatures, pressures, speeds, fuel consumption—and notices how the engineers react to certain patterns, how they highlight specific information, when they seem concerned versus satisfied with what they're seeing.

Oscar finds himself completely lost about what he should be observing specifically. Numbers change constantly on the screens, engineers exchange technical comments he partially understands, and he's there taking notes he hopes might form some coherent pattern eventually.

"Tire temperatures rising faster than expected," one engineer comments, pointing to graphs showing thermal gradients.

Oscar notes this down, trying to correlate the observation with what he can see on the screens. As a driver, he knows tire temperatures are critical, but translating that general understanding into specific analysis from this external perspective is completely new territory.

"Palmer?" Marco turns to him during a pause in the session. "Any initial observations?"

Oscar feels immediate panic. He's been observing for twenty minutes and his notes are chaos of numbers without clear patterns. He can't admit he hasn't identified anything useful, but he also can't invent specific analysis that could be verifiably incorrect.

"The patterns are emerging as expected," he responds carefully, "but I need to see more data before making specific observations. The first stints always have too many variables."

It's a response that sounds professionally cautious without committing to specific analysis he can't back up. Marco nods, apparently satisfied with this conservative approach.

But it's at this moment that Caco appears at his side, and Oscar can immediately feel he's being evaluated more intensely than the day before.

"How are you finding our operation?"

"Professional and efficient," Oscar responds honestly. "Marco and his team clearly know what they're doing."

"And you?" Caco asks directly. "Are you seeing patterns we're not catching?"

It's a question that goes straight to the heart of whether Oscar is providing real value as a paid consultant. An answer too vague would suggest he's not contributing anything; one too specific could expose him if it turns out to be based on misunderstandings.

"I'm in the initial stages of analysis," Oscar clarifies, employing any competent consultant's strategy—setting appropriate expectations about timing. "Significant patterns emerge during long stints, not in the first exploratory laps."

Caco nods slowly, but Oscar can see the evaluation continues. It's not hostility, but there's definitely something there.

The first free practice session continues with Oscar taking increasingly desperate notes, trying to identify any pattern that can translate into useful observation. He sees occasional correlations—sector times that improve when temperatures are in certain ranges, small inconsistencies in specific corners—but he's not sure if they're significant or if he's seeing patterns where there aren't any.

When Carlos returns to the pits after completing his FP1 program, Oscar has filled three pages of notes he hopes contain something useful but that mainly look like chaotic transcription of numbers changing on screens.

"How did it feel?" Marco asks Carlos as they review the initial data.

"Baseline decent," Carlos responds. "Maybe a little understeer in the slow corners, but nothing dramatic. The overall balance is heading in the right direction."

Oscar studies his notes desperately, looking for something that correlates with what Carlos is reporting. He sees references to sector two, slightly inconsistent times in certain sections, temperatures that seemed to fluctuate more than normal. He's not sure if these observations are valid, but they're all he has.

"Palmer," Marco turns to him, "any observations on Carlos's stint?"

Oscar feels his stomach clench, but forces himself to consult his chaotic notes and offer the little he has.

"The time inconsistencies in sector two seem to correlate with thermal fluctuations," he observes tentatively, pointing to numbers in his notes that might support this conclusion. "Could indicate that the understeer Carlos is feeling has a thermal component beyond setup."

It's an observation that correlates Carlos's subjective feedback with objective data he'd noticed, presented as technical analysis though he's basically guessing at connections.

Marco leans in to examine the data Oscar is citing, and to Oscar's surprise, nods thoughtfully.

"Interesting perspective," Marco comments. "We hadn't considered the thermal aspect of the understeer. Worth monitoring in FP2."

Oscar feels a surge of relief mixed with genuine surprise. He's provided an observation that apparently has technical validity, even if he arrived at it primarily through intuition and luck rather than systematic analysis.

But it's precisely at this moment of growing confidence when he realizes he still has to survive FP2, and that expectations about his contribution have increased slightly based on his initial observation.

The two hours between FP1 and FP2 become the most intense study session of Oscar's life. He sits in a quiet corner of the Toro Rosso hospitality with his chaotic notes spread before him, desperately trying to convert random observations into something resembling coherent analytical methodology.

He reviews every notation he made during FP1, looking for patterns he'd overlooked in real time. Tire temperatures rising in specific sequences. Micro-sector times showing subtle variations. Correlations between what Carlos reported feeling and what the numbers suggested was happening.

Gradually, as he organizes the information, he begins to distinguish a logic he hadn't seen while data was constantly changing on screens. As a driver, he viscerally understands what certain car behaviors mean; the challenge is translating that understanding into observations that sound like professional external analysis.

He notes specific questions he should observe during FP2: Do thermal fluctuations occur in the same corners consistently? Do sector times improve when temperatures are in specific ranges? Are there patterns in how the car responds as the stint progresses?

When he returns to the garage for FP2, Oscar feels like he's completed an intensive course in F1 data analysis. Obviously he's not an expert, but at least he has a mental structure for what he should be observing.

Marco greets him with an expression suggesting cautious expectation based on his previous contribution.

"Ready for FP2, Palmer? Carlos is going to focus on long stints, so you'll have more consistent data to analyze."

"Perfect," Oscar responds, feeling a mixture of nervousness and anticipation. "Especially interested in seeing if those thermal patterns replicate under different conditions."

When Carlos goes out on track for FP2, Oscar is prepared in a way he hadn't been during FP1. He has specific questions he's looking to answer, particular patterns he's monitoring, correlations he's trying to confirm or rule out.

He watches the screens with intense concentration, but this time with a frame of reference that allows him to interpret what he's seeing more systematically. When tire temperatures begin rising during the fifth lap of Carlos's long stint, Oscar is prepared to track exactly how this affects performance in different sectors.

"Look at this," Oscar murmurs to Marco after ten minutes of concentrated observation, pointing to a specific correlation in the data. "Rear temperatures rise consistently in turns 8 and 9, and micro-sector times deteriorate proportionally. But in turn 15, where Carlos is feeling the most pronounced understeer, temperatures stay stable. Suggests the understeer there is purely setup-related, not thermal."

Marco studies the numbers Oscar is highlighting, and his expression gradually changes from professional courtesy to genuine interest.

"You're right," Marco confirms, leaning in to examine the data more closely. "That distinction could be important for identifying what adjustments to make for FP3."

Oscar feels genuine satisfaction that surprises him with its intensity. He's provided analysis that apparently has real value, that's contributing to the team's understanding of the car's performance.

During the next thirty minutes of FP2, Oscar finds a rhythm that works. He identifies patterns based on his understanding as a driver, but presents them from the perspective of someone analyzing data objectively. He points out correlations between Carlos's subjective feedback and the car's numerical behavior. He suggests areas where it's worth experimenting with adjustments based on inconsistencies he's detecting.

"Carlos, can you confirm something?" Marco asks over the radio after Oscar has pointed out another pattern. "Palmer is seeing data that suggests the rear of the car loosens slightly on entry to medium-speed corners. Is that something you're feeling?"

Carlos's voice comes through the radio: "Yes, especially in turns 3 and 11. Subtle, but it's there."

Marco turns to Oscar with an expression of genuine approval. "Well spotted. We hadn't correlated that feeling with the specific data."

When Carlos returns to the pits at the end of FP2, Oscar has filled additional pages of notes, but this time organized in a way that forms coherent analysis rather than random observations. He's identified three specific areas where the car is showing inconsistent behavior, all correlated with feedback Carlos is providing.

"Good work today, Palmer," Marco comments as they review the session's final data. "Your observations about the differences between thermal and setup understeer were helpful. Definitely something we're going to explore tomorrow."

Oscar nods, feeling a mixture of pride and relief. He's survived his first day as a professional data consultant not only without exposing himself, but contributing genuine value to the team's effort.

But when he exchanges a quick glance with Carlos, he can see they're both aware of the same reality: that Oscar is learning this role day by day, improvising competence moment by moment, and that each passing day increases both his ability to contribute and the opportunities for some error or knowledge gap to reveal he's not exactly who he claims to be.

And in his peripheral vision, he notices Caco observing the interaction between him and Marco with an expression suggesting his evaluation continues, that he's cataloging not only Oscar's contributions but also the specific ways he presents them, looking for consistencies or inconsistencies that might reveal more about who Oscar Palmer really is.

 

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

 

The hotel room feels smaller than Oscar remembered when he returns. He feels mentally and emotionally drained from the constant effort of maintaining his facade as Oscar Palmer.

He collapses in the chair by the window, spreading his handwritten notes across the small table that serves as a desk. The pages are filled with scribbles he'd hoped would form coherent patterns, but under the hotel lamp's light, they look more chaotic than he remembered. Numbers without clear context, fragmentary observations he made during moments of panic, desperate attempts to correlate information he wasn't sure he was interpreting correctly.

The tablet Carlos had provided rests beside his notes like a constant reminder of exactly how out of place he is in 2016. It's a model he vaguely recognizes—something that would have been considered advanced technology in its time—but the interface is clunky, slow, frustrating in ways he hadn't anticipated. Every action requires multiple taps, the software occasionally freezes, and the overall experience makes him feel like he's trying to work with primitive tools.

He opens an application that supposedly allows basic data analysis, but immediately finds himself struggling with limitations that simply wouldn't exist in 2024. The screen is too small to display multiple columns of information simultaneously. The processing is slow enough that he has to wait between actions. And most frustrating of all, the functions he needs to organize his observations professionally are hidden behind interfaces he doesn't intuitively understand.

After fifteen minutes of fighting with the tablet, Oscar leans back in his chair, running his hands through his hair while contemplating exactly how ill-equipped he is to maintain this charade long-term. He needs better tools, more sophisticated software, a computer that can handle the kind of analysis he's supposed to be providing professionally.

But asking Carlos to buy him a laptop feels strangely presumptuous. He already owes him so much—false documents, accommodation, his phone, his clothes, protection, an opportunity to survive in 2016—that adding expensive equipment to the list seems like taking advantage of his generosity. Maybe he could ask to borrow money, promise to pay him back when he starts receiving his consultant salary.

He's contemplating exactly how to phrase this request when someone knocks softly at his door.

He gets up, assuming it'll be some hotel staff member or maybe a guest with the wrong room. When he opens it, he finds Carlos leaning casually against the doorframe.

"Carlos," Oscar murmurs, immediately feeling his pulse quicken at the unexpected proximity.

Carlos glances quickly down the hallway, checking that it's empty, before taking a decisive step forward. With fluid but deliberate movements, he enters the room while simultaneously pushing the door until it closes with a soft but definitive click behind him. Only then, when he's sure they're completely private, do his hands find Oscar's face.

The kiss is immediate and intense. Carlos's lips are warm and demanding against his, moving with an urgency that speaks of hours of wanting exactly this.

Oscar's hands move instinctively to find the other's waist, fingers pressing against the fabric of his shirt while pulling him closer.

When they finally break apart, both are breathing slightly heavier than normal, their faces still close enough that Oscar can feel Carlos's warm breath against his skin.

"Someone missed me," he murmurs, an amused smile touching the corners of his lips as he studies the satisfaction in Carlos's expression.

"It's just that today you looked completely irresistible," he responds, his thumbs tracing soft lines along Oscar's cheekbones while his palms frame his face. "All concentrated and professional, playing your role as the smart, handsome guy. Especially when you were leaning over those screens, with that intense concentration expression... It was very hard to maintain appropriate distance."

Oscar laughs, feeling relieved for the first time all day. The tension he's been carrying in his shoulders begins to dissolve under the warmth of Carlos's obvious affection. "You're an idiot."

Carlos smiles before kissing him again, this time softer but no less loaded with intention. His lips move against Oscar's with growing familiarity, as if they were memorizing every texture, every response. Oscar can feel how his own body begins to relax completely, the safety of being in Carlos's arms providing refuge against the day's pressures.

"What were you working on?" Carlos asks when they separate, noticing the notes scattered across the table and the open tablet showing a partially processed data screen.

"Trying to organize my observations from FP1," Oscar admits, feeling slightly embarrassed about how chaotic his notes look under Carlos's scrutiny. "They were terrible. Basically I was lost during the entire session, taking random notes without really understanding what I was witnessing."

Carlos approaches to examine Oscar's work, and his expression softens with something that looks like genuine admiration. He studies the pages filled with scribbles and tentative correlations, the physical evidence of the effort Oscar had put into trying to convert confusion into understanding.

"But you managed to contribute useful observations in FP2. Marco was genuinely impressed with your analysis about the differences between thermal and setup understeer."

"Only because I spent two hours between sessions trying to convert chaos into something that resembled coherent analysis," Oscar confesses. "And this tablet is making everything ten times more frustrating than it should be."

Carlos looks momentarily confused, glancing toward the tablet he'd carefully selected as one of the best available. "The tablet? But it's an excellent model."

Oscar smiles ironically, remembering the technological differences that separate his normal experience from what's available in 2016. "Maybe in 2016 it is. But trust me, if you'd used one in 2024, you'd be just as stressed as I am. It's just... everything is more limited than I'm used to."

Carlos nods slowly, processing this perspective on technological progress he'd never considered. His expression becomes more understanding as he grasps the specific frustration Oscar is experiencing.

"What do you need? Something specific I can get you?"

Oscar feels a surge of gratitude mixed with discomfort about having to ask for financial help. "I was thinking... maybe you could lend me money to buy a laptop? Something with more processing power, a bigger screen. I promise when I start receiving my salary, I'll pay you back every cent. Which is a bit ironic because you're the one paying my salary."

Carlos looks at him with an expression that's between amused and genuinely surprised. "Oscar, you're not going to pay me anything."

"But—"

"I can be your rich boyfriend who spoils you," Carlos interrupts with a mischievous smile that completely transforms his face, "and you can be my beautiful boyfriend who just needs to look pretty and occasionally provide brilliant analysis that impresses Marco."

Oscar laughs, feeling simultaneously relieved and strangely moved by how casually Carlos refers to them as boyfriends. "You're such an idiot," he murmurs, but there's genuine affection in his voice.

"Your idiot," Carlos corrects, moving closer again until there's no space between their bodies.

This time when they kiss, there's less initial urgency but more depth, as if they were savoring finally having private time after an entire day of carefully controlled public performance. Carlos's hands move to find the edge of Oscar's shirt, his fingers sliding under the fabric to trace light lines against the warm skin of his abdomen.

The direct contact of skin against skin sends waves of heat through Oscar's body, making him immediately aware of how much he'd been craving exactly this intimacy during the hours of forced professional distance. He can feel how his breathing becomes slightly more irregular when Carlos's fingers explore the familiar territory of his torso with movements that are simultaneously gentle and possessive.

Oscar responds by pressing closer, allowing his own hands to find the familiar solidity of Carlos's body through the fabric of his shirt.

The intensity between them escalates gradually, each kiss becoming deeper, each caress more deliberate. Carlos guides him slowly toward the bed, his hands never stopping their exploration of Oscar's exposed skin as they walk the few necessary steps. Oscar can feel his own pulse accelerating with anticipation.

But it's precisely when Carlos begins to lift the edge of his shirt with obvious intention that Oscar forces himself to stop, his hands finding the other's wrists with gentleness but unmistakable firmness.

"Wait," he murmurs, breathing heavily while fighting against his own impulses. "We need to talk about something."

Carlos stops immediately, his eyes searching Oscar's with instant concern that completely replaces the desire that had been shining in them moments before. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No, it's not that. It's just that... something happened last night after I left your room, and you need to know about it."

Carlos sits on the edge of the bed, his expression becoming completely serious as he detects the gravity in Oscar's voice. "What happened?"

"When I left your room, I ran into Caco."

Carlos's reaction is immediate and visceral. All color drains from his face in seconds, his eyes widen with something that looks like genuine panic, and Oscar can see how his breathing becomes shallower as he processes the implications of what he's just heard.

"What?" The word comes out as a strangled whisper. "Do you think he heard us?"

"He was returning to the hotel when I was leaving your floor," Oscar explains carefully, watching how each detail he reveals makes the tension in Carlos's body visibly increase. "We crossed paths in the elevator. Obviously he noticed I'd been in your room at eleven at night."

Carlos runs his hands through his hair with agitated movements, his breathing becoming clearly erratic. "Jesus," he murmurs, and there's a note of real terror in his voice that makes Oscar immediately realize he's processing this as something potentially devastating. "What exactly did he ask you? How did he react?"

"He was courteous, professional," Oscar continues, trying to keep his voice calm to counteract Carlos's obvious panic. "But he definitely registered the situation. And today, all day, I could feel he was watching me more closely. Not in a hostile way, but definitely evaluating everything I did or didn't do."

Carlos gets up abruptly from the bed, beginning to pace back and forth in the room's small space with movements that speak of nervous energy he can't contain. Oscar can see how his hands tremble slightly, how his entire posture has transformed from the relaxation he'd shown moments before to something that looks almost like preparation to flee.

"This is terrible. If he suspects something, if he starts asking questions, if he tells my father..." He stops abruptly, turning toward Oscar with an expression that's pure raw vulnerability. "I'm sorry," he whispers, and there's something broken in his voice that makes Oscar's heart contract painfully. "You must think I'm a pathetic coward, reacting like this to something that might not even mean anything."

Oscar immediately gets up, closing the distance between them until he can take Carlos's face in his hands, forcing him to maintain eye contact. "Hey," he murmurs with gentle firmness, "he's not assuming or thinking anything about you, I promise."

"How can you be sure?" Carlos asks, and there's real desperation in his voice.

"Because I know exactly what kind of suspicions he's developing. He has doubts about me. He thinks maybe I want to scam you somehow, or that I'm not as competent as I pretend to be, or that I'm taking advantage of your generosity. But I promise you, I swear on everything that matters to me, that he's not questioning your preferences or your sexuality."

Carlos stares at him, searching his eyes for any sign that Oscar might be minimizing the situation to make him feel better. "Are you sure about that?"

"Completely sure. The way he watches me, the questions he asks, the constant evaluation... it's all directed toward determining if I am who I claim to be professionally. There's nothing in his behavior that suggests he's analyzing your personal behavior."

Carlos exhales shakily, some of the extreme tension leaving his shoulders as he processes this reassurance. But Oscar can see there's still residual fear in his eyes, a vulnerability that speaks of years of living with the constant terror of being discovered.

"I've never thought you were a coward," Oscar clarifies, pressing a tender kiss to Carlos's lips. "Not for a second. And trust me, you have nothing to prove to me."

Carlos leans into the contact, allowing Oscar's hands to hold him while he processes the reassurance he's receiving. "It's just that... I've been so careful for so long. My father, the paddock environment, the entire culture around motorsport... I've always known that even the smallest suspicion could ruin everything."

"I know you've always had to be extremely careful. I don't want you to let your guard down because of me and get yourself in trouble."

"I'm sorry for putting you in this position," Carlos murmurs, his voice loaded with genuine guilt. "For making you have to worry about these things on top of everything else you're already navigating."

"Hey," Oscar interrupts, "we're a team. We take care of each other. That means I protect you as much as you protect me."

They kiss again, but this time the contact is purely emotional, loaded with mutual reaffirmation rather than sexual desire. It's a kiss that speaks of unconditional support, of deep understanding, of silent promises that they're going to navigate these risks together no matter how careful they have to be.

When they separate, Carlos seems considerably calmer, though Oscar can see the conversation has left an emotional mark that will take time to process completely.

"You're right," Carlos finally admits. "We're going to have to be more careful, more strategic about when and where we can be together like this. Yesterday Caco or someone from the team could have heard us. Though, that doesn't mean we have to give this up completely."

Oscar nods, feeling relief at seeing Carlos thinking practically instead of letting himself be consumed by panic. "What do you have in mind?"

"Well," Carlos begins, guiding him back toward the bed but this time with clearly different intentions, "we can lie down for a while and just talk and kiss."

They settle on the bed next to each other, Carlos lying on his side facing Oscar, his fingers tracing distracted patterns along his forearm.

"I saw you looking very tense today," Carlos murmurs, his warm breath against Oscar's neck.

"Tense is an understatement. At first I thought they were going to expose me in the first five minutes."

"Why did you think that? You looked fine."

"Really?" Oscar turns to look at him. "Because inside I was shitting myself. I had no idea what I was supposed to be doing standing there."

Carlos slides his hand to Oscar's chest, where he can feel his heartbeat. "But something changed between FP1 and FP2."

"Two hours of productive panic," Oscar responds with an ironic smile. "I sat with my shitty notes and tried to make them make sense. Like studying for an exam you didn't know you were going to have. And when I managed to connect that temperature thing with what you were feeling in the car, and Marco was actually interested... It was weird."

"Weird how?"

"Good weird. Like... I don't know, I'd never used what I know to help someone else like that." Oscar shrugs. "Usually everything is about making me faster."

Carlos presses a soft kiss against his collarbone. "You liked it."

"I liked helping you," Oscar corrects, running his fingers through Carlos's hair. "It's different."

They stay in silence for a moment, the only sound their breathing gradually synchronizing. Carlos traces lazy circles on Oscar's chest, and Oscar can feel how the day's tension finally begins to dissolve.

"You should go, remember we have to be more careful." Oscar slides his hand down Carlos's back. "We can't be so reckless again."

"I know." Carlos lifts his head to look at him.

"I... don't want to screw up your life by being careless."

"You're not going to screw up anything." Carlos leans in to kiss him, soft but firm. "We're a team, aren't we?"

"We're a team," Oscar accepts against his lips.

They kiss again, savoring the intimacy they can allow themselves in the room's privacy. When they separate, Carlos settles closer, practically curling against Oscar's side.

"You know?" Oscar reflects, his fingers playing with the hair at Carlos's nape. "There were moments where I really enjoyed the challenge."

Carlos lifts his head. "You like pretending to be a data analyst?"

Oscar laughs. "I already told you, I like being useful to you. The rest... well, I'm learning."

"You're more than useful," Carlos murmurs, pressing another kiss against his neck. "You're brilliant."

"I'm a driver pretending to be something else, but thanks."

"You're my driver pretending to be something else," Carlos says with a smile Oscar can feel against his skin. "And tomorrow you're going to be even better at it."

"And soon I'm going to have a laptop that works. That's going to help enormously."

"Is the tablet really that bad?"

"It's like trying to cook in a toy kitchen when you're used to a real kitchen." Oscar pauses. "In 2024 tablets are... well, much better."

Carlos laughs softly. "I have trouble imagining technology could be much better than what we have now."

"Oh, it can." Oscar smiles in the darkness. "Trust me, it can."

They stay like this for a long time, Carlos tracing distracted patterns on Oscar's chest while he plays with his hair. It's a quiet intimacy, comforting after the intense day they've both had.

"Oscar."

"Mmm?"

"When we buy that laptop..."

"Yeah?"

"I just want you to know it's not because you have to pay me back for anything or because I want you to feel indebted to me, okay? It's because I want this to be easier for you."

Oscar feels something warm expand in his chest, a realization he needs to express even though it's vulnerable to do so. But as the words form in his mind, he realizes the impossibility of his situation. No one had ever taken care of him like this—with this genuine attention, this generosity without expectations, this way of anticipating his needs before he even recognizes them himself.

But he can't admit this without completely destroying the narrative he's built about his supposed future relationship with Carlos. If they were really boyfriends in 2024, Carlos would have already taken care of him in these ways. He would have already experienced this unconditional attention, this way of being seen and valued simply for existing.

The irony hits him with a force that almost leaves him breathless: he's experiencing something completely new and transformative, something that makes him understand for the first time what it means to be genuinely loved, but he's trapped in his own lie in such a way that he can't fully express his gratitude or amazement. He can't tell Carlos he's discovering a type of love he never knew existed, because supposedly he already knows it.

It's a particular cruelty of the deception he's created: it prevents him from fully celebrating the beauty of what they're building together because he must pretend he's already experienced it.

But maybe he can find a way to express the truth without destroying the lie. A way to honor what Carlos means to him without contradicting his own story.

"You know?" he murmurs against Carlos's hair. "You're the only person who takes care of me like this. In my time, it wasn't until you... when the Carlos from my time started taking care of me that for the first time in my life I felt special. And in this time you do it too. It's something about you, I guess, regardless of the year, regardless of the moment. You're genuinely a very good person and you take such good care of me."

Carlos stays still against him for a moment, processing the words. Oscar can feel how his breathing changes slightly, as if he were absorbing not only what has been expressed but also what remains unspoken. When he finally lifts his head to look at him, his eyes shine with something Oscar can't completely identify in the dim light.

"It's not that I'm a good person," Carlos finally murmurs, his voice hoarse with an honesty that makes Oscar's heart contract. "It's that it's you."

The simplicity of the response hits Oscar with unexpected force. Carlos isn't trying to be noble or generous; he's being honest about something fundamental he feels, something that apparently transcends time and circumstances. He's not taking care of Oscar because he's a good person in general—he's taking care of him because it's Oscar specifically, because there's something in him that inspires this particular devotion.

And in those words, Oscar finds both comfort and a new form of pain. Because Carlos is loving him for who he really is, not for the fabricated version he's presented. He's responding to something authentic in Oscar that transcends all the lies about future relationships. But that authenticity is buried under layers of deception that Oscar doesn't know how to untangle without losing everything they've built.

They kiss once more, slow and deep, a contact that speaks of promises neither can fully verbalize. For Carlos, maybe it's the promise of a future together he believes might be possible. For Oscar, it's the promise of something he knows he can't guarantee but desperately wants to protect. When they separate, Carlos settles against his side again, this time with a familiarity that suggests he plans to stay exactly there for hours.

"You should go back to your room, you need to sleep," Oscar whispers, though he makes no move to pull away.

"In a while," Carlos responds, his voice already drowsy. "I just want to stay like this a little longer."

Oscar smiles in the darkness, allowing his own eyes to close while processing everything that's changed in a single day. This morning he'd woken up as a terrified impostor; now he's falling asleep as someone who maybe, just maybe, has found exactly where he belongs.

 

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

 

 

Chapter 30: Falling Star

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

 

Saturday morning in Monaco has that particular quality that makes even the air seem more expensive. Oscar walks through the paddock with the tablet he so detests under his arm, but despite the technological relic he must use until they have the chance to buy the laptop, he feels something resembling professional confidence. Yesterday's data had been useful, Marco had treated him with genuine respect, and he has specific ideas about what to observe during FP3.

He's heading toward the Toro Rosso hospitality when he sees Daniel Ricciardo's unmistakable smile emerging from the Red Bull building. Even from this distance, Oscar can distinguish that particular energy Daniel carries with him, that way of moving that suggests he's genuinely happy to be exactly where he is.

Daniel walks in his direction—not toward him specifically, just following the natural flow of the paddock—and when their eyes meet, he does what Oscar has seen him do a thousand times in his own time: smile with that authentic warmth that characterizes every one of his public interactions.

"Morning," Daniel greets with that familiar voice, that Australian accent Oscar would recognize anywhere in the world, as he passes by.

"Morning," Oscar responds automatically, and something in his own inflection makes Daniel slow his pace slightly.

For a moment lasting barely seconds, Daniel seems to consider whether he recognizes something familiar in Oscar, but clearly decides he doesn't, because his expression returns to that general courtesy he employs with friendly strangers. He nods once more and continues on his way to wherever he's headed.

It's an encounter that lasts less than ten seconds. Completely inconsequential to any observer. But for Oscar it feels... confusing and partly like something that deserves his attention.

Because Daniel Ricciardo in 2016 isn't just the charismatic driver Oscar knows from historical race highlights. This is Daniel at his moment of greatest hope, Daniel who genuinely believes he's about to conquer the world, Daniel who makes professional decisions based on optimism and ambition because he doesn't yet know that some doors that close never open again.

Oscar remains standing in the middle of the paddock for several seconds after Daniel disappears into the crowd, processing a realization he'd been avoiding since arriving in 2016: that he's not just observing the past, but living in a moment where life-changing decisions are about to be made.

During FP3, while watching screens and taking notes that this time seem to form coherent patterns, part of his mind is completely obsessed with what just happened. He sees Daniel on the timing screens, sees his sectors, observes how the Red Bull behaves in Monaco's technical corners, and can't stop thinking about everything he knows about what comes next.

In 2016, Daniel Ricciardo is Australia's hope. Not just another hope, but the most legitimate hope the country has had since Alan Jones in 1980. He's young, he's at Red Bull, he's already proven he can beat four-time world champions, and he has that kind of natural talent that suggests he just needs the right car to fight for championships.

More importantly: in 2016, that hope isn't irrational. Daniel genuinely seems to be on the right path. Red Bull is developing the Renault engine, there are signs they might return to maximum competitiveness, and Daniel is at his professional peak. Everything suggests that if someone is going to break Australia's champion drought, it's going to be him.

But Oscar knows exactly what's going to happen.

He knows Daniel is going to make the decision to leave Red Bull in 2018, chasing an opportunity to be the absolute leader of a team that promises future competitiveness. He knows that decision, which will seem logical and ambitious at the time, is going to take him away from exactly what he's looking for. He knows Red Bull is going to recover competitiveness right after Daniel leaves, that Max is going to win multiple championships with the car Daniel helped develop.

He knows Daniel is going to spend years racing cars that can't win, that his confidence will gradually erode, that he'll become a slightly melancholic figure representing unfulfilled potential rather than historic achievements.

And worst of all: he knows that one conversation, one carefully formulated warning, one suggestion about patience versus immediate ambition, could change that entire future.

"Palmer, are you seeing the mid-sector data?" Marco asks, interrupting his thoughts.

Oscar blinks, returning abruptly to the present. "Yes, sorry. The temperatures are rising faster than expected."

It's an automatic response, but apparently correct, because Marco nods and continues with his analysis. Oscar forces himself to concentrate on the screens, on the changing numbers, on the correlations he must identify to justify his presence here.

But throughout the entire session, part of his mind is calculating probabilities, weighing consequences, trying to determine exactly what he could say and when he could say it to save Daniel Ricciardo's career without destroying his own timeline.

 

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

 

The air in the Toro Rosso garage vibrates with intensity. Oscar stands in his usual position next to the monitoring station, sweating through his shirt despite the temperature not having changed since this morning.

"Palmer," Marco says while adjusting three different screens simultaneously, "if you see anything unusual in the patterns, let me know. But please don't interrupt unless it's critical."

Oscar nods, understanding perfectly that he's there as an observer with occasionally valued opinions, not as a responsible engineer.

Carlos appears at that moment, already in his race suit, helmet under his arm, that expression of total concentration Oscar recognizes as the specific mental state drivers adopt when adrenaline begins to flow. He looks completely different from the person who had been hugging and kissing him last night.

"How do the conditions look?" he asks Marco, but Oscar notices his eyes automatically scan the screens while talking.

"Track temperature rising faster than expected," Marco responds, and Oscar can hear the tension in his voice. "We have to decide: go out early with the ultrasofts before they get too sensitive, or wait for the grip to improve and risk the temperature compromising them."

It's a decision that could determine whether Carlos advances to the second session or not. There's constant murmur from other engineers consulting weather data, tire temperature projections, comparisons with conditions other teams are reporting.

"Let's go now," Marco finally decides. "Before this gets worse."

When Carlos goes out for the first qualifying session, the garage is plunged into that specific tense silence. It's not complete silence—there are radio sounds, the constant murmur of data being processed, breathing that's become slightly shallower. But casual conversations have disappeared completely.

Oscar can see on the screens how Carlos leaves the pits, can follow his progress through the timing points around the circuit. There's something hypnotic about watching numbers change in real time, knowing each decimal represents decisions Carlos is making.

The first sector appears: within expected range, but clearly conservative. Oscar can see in the micro-sectors exactly where Carlos is being cautious, where he's feeling the car's limits before attacking completely.

"Very conservative in the early corners," Marco murmurs, more to himself than to anyone else.

The second sector arrives: slightly better, but Oscar can see patterns in the data that seem familiar to him. The braking points are happening earlier than optimal, the corner speeds are slightly below what the car should be capable of achieving.

"Looks like he's building confidence gradually," Oscar observes from his position. The numbers are telling him a story he recognizes: a driver feeling out the limits of a car that doesn't feel completely predictable.

The third sector finally shows where Carlos releases the reins completely. Oscar can see the improvement in corner speeds, can see where Carlos finally trusts the car enough to attack.

"One-fourteen-four-two," someone announces when the total time appears.

Marco exhales slowly. "Provisional fourteenth."

There's uncomfortable movement in the garage. It's not terrible, but it's definitely not safe for advancing to the second session. Oscar can see on the timing screen that the cutoff times are going to be incredibly tight.

Carlos returns to the pits, and Oscar can immediately see in his body language that he knows the first lap wasn't enough. There's tension in his shoulders, a hardness that suggests frustration with himself.

"The balance feels strange," Carlos reports to Marco. "Like the front isn't responding consistently. Sometimes I have understeer, sometimes the car turns too sharply. It's unpredictable."

Marco nods, consulting multiple data streams. "The numbers show you're losing time specifically in the medium-speed corners. Entry speeds are low, but exit speeds are too."

Oscar studies the data on his tablet, cross-referencing it with patterns he'd observed during practice sessions.

"Marco," Oscar mentions carefully, "looking at the micro-sectors, it seems like the problem isn't consistent understeer. It's more like... lack of confidence on corner entry. Braking points are earlier, but also corner entry speeds are lower than they should be for these tire temperatures."

Marco turns to him. "Are you suggesting it's psychological rather than mechanical?"

"I'm suggesting that when the car feels unpredictable, the natural response is to create more margin on every entry. Brake earlier, enter more gently, wait longer before applying throttle. But all of that costs time."

Oscar doesn't mention that he recognizes this pattern because he's experienced it himself countless times. He lets Marco assume he's reaching this conclusion through data analysis.

Marco considers this for several seconds. "We could try a small front wing adjustment. Two clicks less. Could give him more natural entry, more immediate response."

"And brake balance?" suggests one of the other engineers.

"Maybe a click forward too," Marco agrees. "Give him more confidence under braking."

Carlos goes out for his second attempt in the first session, and immediately Oscar can see the difference in his line through the first corners. There's more aggression in his approach, more commitment to each apex.

First sector: immediate improvement. Second sector: even more significant improvement.

Oscar can see in the data exactly what's happening. Carlos is now attacking corners with confidence, trusting the car to respond. Braking points are later, corner speeds are higher, throttle application is more aggressive.

The third sector begins, and the entire garage seems to hold its breath. This is where Carlos can secure his advance to the second session or find himself eliminated.

The seconds stretch like hours while everyone waits for the final sector time.

"One-thirteen-thirty-six," Marco shouts.

The garage explodes in controlled celebration. There are handshakes, brief smiles, some quiet "well done"s exchanged. Getting a solid time to advance to the second session in Monaco is genuinely significant.

"Tenth place," someone confirms checking the official timing. "Safe."

Carlos's voice crackles through the radio: "How does that look for the second session?"

"Very good, Carlos," Marco responds, and Oscar can hear genuine relief in his voice. "That wing adjustment gave you exactly what you needed."

But the second session brings pressure of a completely different magnitude. Now it's not just about advancing—it's about reaching the third session, securing a grid position that could determine whether Carlos has a realistic chance at points tomorrow or if he'll spend the race stuck in traffic.

Carlos prepares for his first lap, but Oscar can see in his body language that there's a different type of pressure now. In the first session, the goal had been simply to avoid embarrassment. In the second session, the goal is to achieve something genuinely excellent.

"Just focus on clean sectors," Marco advises over the radio. "Don't worry about the others. Focus on your own lap."

Carlos goes out, and immediately Oscar notices something concerning in the early sector splits. They're not terrible, but they're not showing the improvement that should be possible with track evolution.

"First sector looks good," Marco murmurs, "but not great."

Oscar studies the micro-sectors. "Braking points look inconsistent," he observes quietly. "Like he has to adjust for wind affecting the car differently in each corner."

The second sector arrives even more concerning. Carlos is losing time compared to his first session effort, despite track conditions that should theoretically be better.

"Something's not right," Marco says, frowning at his screens.

The third sector provides some recovery, but the total lap time is disappointing: 1:13.8, which puts Carlos provisional fourteenth—definitely not safe for the third session.

Carlos's voice comes through the radio, frustrated: "The rear is moving around too much under braking. I can't commit to braking late because I don't know how much grip I'm going to have."

Oscar can hear frustration but also genuine concern in Carlos's voice. This isn't driver error; it's car instability preventing him from extracting performance.

Marco consults several data streams, trying to diagnose the problem quickly. "Brake temperatures look normal. Tire pressures are where we expect. Aero balance should be stable."

"Marco," Oscar interrupts carefully, "looking at the longitudinal G-force traces during braking, it seems like the problem might be wind-related. The car is experiencing different aero loads depending on wind direction when it arrives at each braking zone."

Marco examines the data Oscar is referencing. "You're right. The variable wind is creating different downforce levels in each corner. So his braking reference points keep changing."

"Can we compensate for that?" asks one of the junior engineers.

"Not mechanically in such a short time," Marco responds. "But we can help Carlos adjust his approach."

When Carlos returns to the pits, Marco's advice is specific and applicable: "Carlos, the wind is affecting downforce inconsistently. Don't depend on having exactly the same braking point every time. Feel the maximum grip in each corner and adjust accordingly. Trust your instincts more than your reference marks."

It's not about mechanical changes but about helping Carlos adapt his driving approach to changing conditions. Oscar's observation about wind affecting aero loads has helped identify that the problem isn't car setup but environmental conditions requiring driver adaptation.

Carlos prepares with new understanding of what's happening. Oscar can see the difference immediately in his approach—he's more focused, more deliberate, but also more flexible in his inputs.

This time when he leaves the pits, Oscar can see the change in his driving line even watching the data. He's adapting to conditions in real time instead of fighting them.

First sector: significant improvement. Second sector: even greater improvement. The entire garage is holding its breath during the third sector. This lap will determine whether Carlos makes the third session or not.

"Ninth place!" someone shouts.

This time the celebration is more obvious. There are handshakes, brief smiles, even some quiet cheers. Reaching Q3 in Monaco is genuinely significant for Toro Rosso, and everyone knows it represents excellent work from the entire team.

The third session has a completely different atmosphere from the first two. There's still tension, but it's different—excitement mixed with pressure, awareness that whatever happens now will directly reflect in tomorrow's starting grid.

"Right everyone," Marco announces to the garage in general, "strategy for the third session is simple. One lap to get a reference time, then everything for the final lap. The track should continue improving, so the best times will be in the final minutes."

Oscar watches how even the mechanics are more focused now. Tools are organized more precisely. Radio communications become even sharper.

The final lap unfolds sector by sector, each split representing potential grid position gained or lost.

First sector: personal best. Second sector: also personal best. The third sector will determine the final position.

"One-twelve-eight-seven."

"Eighth place!" someone announces with genuine excitement. "Eighth place final!"

This time the celebration is unrestricted. Handshakes become brief hugs, smiles become enormous grins, there's a sense of genuine achievement that goes beyond just completing the session successfully.

Carlos returns to the pits absolutely radiant, and when he gets out of the car, the first thing he does is look toward Oscar. He can't say anything personal in the public environment, but there's recognition in his eyes.

"Excellent work today, Palmer," Marco says during the post-session evaluation. "Your observations about driver adaptation to changing conditions were really valuable. Sometimes we focus so much on mechanical data that we lose psychological factors."

Oscar nods, feeling satisfaction that's different from anything he's experienced as a driver. He hasn't been directing operations, but he's contributed useful knowledge based on understanding he genuinely possesses.

Maybe he's found something that works: not as a fake engineer, but as someone who can occasionally offer valuable perspective from an analytical viewpoint that incorporates understanding of driver psychology and adaptation.

But even while internally celebrating Carlos's success, Oscar can't stop thinking about Daniel. During the post-qualifying debrief session, Marco makes a comment that sticks like a knife in Oscar's conscience: "Ricciardo is having a solid year. If Red Bull can give him a competitive car next year, he could be fighting for the championship."

It's exactly the kind of observation that was constantly made about Daniel in 2016. Optimism based on real evidence, expectations that had solid foundation in his current performance. And Oscar knows that optimism is precisely what's going to lead Daniel down the wrong path.

That night, after official activities end and Oscar returns to the hotel, he finds himself unable to concentrate on anything else. He sits by his room's window, looking at the lights of Monaco's harbor, but mentally seeing the future Daniel can't anticipate.

Oscar uses his tablet to browse publicly available information about Daniel, trying to understand exactly what moment in his career he's at now.

What he finds only makes his dilemma worse.

The 2016 articles talk about Daniel with the kind of reverence reserved for future champions.

"The most impressive natural talent of his generation."

"A driver who could define the next decade of Formula 1."

"The natural heir to Australia's competitive legacy."

And they're not exaggerating. Daniel genuinely has all the necessary qualities: pure speed, race intelligence, charisma that attracts sponsors and fans, the ability to elevate a team's performance through his presence and leadership. In 2016, saying Daniel Ricciardo could be world champion isn't wishful thinking from Australian fans; it's solid professional evaluation.

What's missing is information. Context about future technological developments that will change the competitive balance. Knowledge about internal team decisions that haven't been made yet. Understanding about how small regulatory changes are going to dramatically affect different constructors' relative fortunes.

Oscar has all that information. And for the first time since arriving in 2016, he faces a question that goes beyond his own survival: what right does he have to keep that information to himself when it could save someone else's career?

 

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

 

Sunday morning, Oscar wakes after a night of fragmented sleep, his mind obsessively cycling through the same set of questions without satisfactory answers. He showers and dresses mechanically, but when he looks in the bathroom mirror, he sees someone carrying a weight that wasn't there two days ago.

During the pre-race warm-up, he finds himself distracted in ways that compromise his analytical ability. Marco has to repeat questions, Carlos notices he's not responding with his usual clarity, and Oscar realizes he's failing in the role he's worked so hard to establish.

"Palmer, everything alright?" Marco asks during a pause in activity.

"Yes, just... analyzing some complex patterns," Oscar responds, using professional vagueness as refuge.

But he's not analyzing data patterns. He's analyzing moral patterns, trying to determine if knowledge comes with responsibilities, if the ability to prevent future mistakes constitutes an obligation to do so.

The race unfolds with Carlos driving brilliantly from P8 to P7, taking advantage of a Grosjean error to gain a position and score valuable points for Toro Rosso. Oscar watches from the garage, providing technical observations when asked, but most of his attention is divided between the race unfolding before him and the race he knows Daniel is beginning toward life-changing decisions.

When Daniel crosses the finish line in P2, Oscar feels something complex and painful in his chest. It's a good result for Daniel, the kind of consistency that justifies optimism about his future. But Oscar knows that each result like this only reinforces the confidence that will eventually lead him to make the wrong decision.

After the race, during the usual post-race procedures, Oscar finds himself watching Daniel from a distance as he gives interviews. Even from far away he can see that characteristic energy, that way of talking with his hands that suggests genuine passion for what he's saying. He's probably talking about the future, about opportunities, about championship ambitions.

And Oscar knows exactly how those ambitions are going to unfold.

 

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

 

It's Carlos who finally confronts what Oscar has been trying to hide.

They're in Oscar's room that night—a technical violation of their new safety rules, but Carlos had insisted they needed to talk privately—and Carlos is sitting on the bed watching Oscar pace back and forth by the window.

"You're going to wear out the carpet," Carlos jokes after several minutes of watching this repetitive walking.

"Sorry," Oscar stops, sits in the chair by the desk, gets up again, returns to the window.

"Oscar." Carlos's voice has that firm quality he uses when he wants complete attention. "What's going on?"

"Nothing's going on."

"That's a lie. You've been... different since yesterday. Distracted. Your mind seems to be somewhere else completely."

Oscar stops by the window, pressing his forehead against the cool glass. He can see his own reflection superimposed over the harbor lights; he looks exactly how he feels: fragmented, divided between realities.

"It's something very complicated," he finally murmurs.

"We have time."

Oscar turns to look at him. Carlos is leaning against the pillows, but his posture is attentive, prepared for a serious conversation. His expression is patient but determined, the look of someone who will wait as long as necessary to get answers.

Oscar returns to the chair, sits down, runs his hands through his hair. "I saw someone yesterday," he begins slowly. "In the paddock. Someone I know in the future."

Carlos nods, waiting for him to continue.

"We're not friends exactly, but... he's someone I like. Someone I admired." Oscar pauses, searching for the right words. "In 2024, this person isn't in a good place. His career... things didn't turn out as expected. And I know that if I warned him about certain decisions he's going to make, he could have a completely different future. Certainly much better."

"And you don't know whether you should interfere," Carlos completes, his voice understanding.

"But also..." Oscar stops abruptly, realizing he's about to reveal exactly what he doesn't want Carlos to know about him. That his dilemma isn't noble, isn't about concerns over altering the timeline. It's about something much uglier.

Carlos notices the pause immediately. "But what?"

Oscar gets up again, unable to remain still while internally battling between honesty and self-image. He's been lying to Carlos since day one about fundamental aspects of his identity, about the nature of their relationship, about almost everything. And now he finds himself in the position of having to choose between adding another lie or revealing something that could make Carlos see him completely differently.

"It's normal that you don't know what to do," Carlos mentions softly, misinterpreting his silence. "Changing someone else's future is an enormous responsibility. It makes sense that you'd feel the weight of that decision, especially without knowing exactly what consequences it might have for the timeline in general."

But that's not what's tormenting Oscar, and hearing Carlos attribute noble motives to his conflict makes him feel worse.

"No," Oscar says abruptly, turning toward Carlos with an expression of determination mixed with something that looks like pain. "My real dilemma is more complicated than that."

Carlos frowns, detecting the change in Oscar's tone. "More complicated how?"

"Telling you implies that I tell you specifically who I'm talking about. And about that person's future. And I can't do that unless you promise me you won't do anything with that information. That you won't intervene in any way."

"Why would you need that promise?"

"Because," Oscar turns toward him, "once you know who I'm talking about and what I know about his future, you're going to understand why my dilemma isn't as noble as it seems."

Carlos studies his face for several seconds, and Oscar can see he's processing not just the words but also the emotions accompanying them. There's something vulnerable in Oscar's expression, something that suggests he's about to reveal something that deeply embarrasses him.

"I promise. I won't do anything with the information you give me."

Oscar nods, feeling simultaneously relieved and terrified. He's crossed the point of no return now; he can no longer back down without creating more questions.

"The person I'm talking about is Daniel Ricciardo."

"Daniel?"

"Yes."

"And what kind of decisions is he going to make that will change his career?"

Oscar sits again, this time on the edge of the bed near Carlos. He needs to be closer for this conversation, needs to be able to see every reaction, every change of expression.

"In about two years, Daniel is going to make the decision to leave Red Bull. He's going to receive an offer from... from another team that will promise him total leadership, a chance to be the absolute star of an ambitious project."

"That's good, isn't it?"

"On paper, it's going to sound perfect. Exactly what Daniel will want to hear at that moment." Oscar pauses. "By 2018, Red Bull is going to be showing increasingly obvious preference for Max. Daniel is going to be tired of being the second driver where officially no hierarchies exist, he's going to want the chance to build something of his own."

"And the offer won't turn out as promised?"

"It won't turn out anything like promised. Team B will never develop the competitiveness they promise. Daniel will spend years racing cars that can't win. His confidence will erode, his reputation will change from 'future champion' to 'wasted talent.'"

Carlos absorbs this information, his expression becoming increasingly serious as he understands the implications.

"After a while," Oscar continues, "Daniel will try to recover by joining Team C. But by then, the damage will already be done. He'll be fighting not just against inferior cars but against the perception that maybe he didn't have what it took to be champion after all."

"That's devastating," Carlos murmurs.

"It's worse than devastating. In 2016, Daniel genuinely seems to be on the path toward world championships. He has the talent, he's at the right team, he's at his professional peak. But he's going to make a decision based on incomplete information that will permanently take him away from that possibility."

Oscar stops, allowing Carlos to fully process the scope of what Daniel is going to lose.

"And what happens to Red Bull after he leaves?"

"Red Bull becomes dominant again. Max wins multiple championships with cars Daniel had helped develop. The irony is brutal: Daniel abandons the team just before they become exactly what he was looking for elsewhere."

"Jesus," Carlos murmurs. "And you could warn him about this?"

"I could tell him to be patient with Red Bull. I could warn him about the empty promises he's going to receive. I could give him specific information about future developments. One conversation could change his entire career. But," Oscar continues, his voice becoming quieter, more loaded with something that sounds like shame, "my dilemma isn't just about the consequences of changing the timeline."

"What else?"

"My dilemma is that... if Daniel makes better decisions, if he stays at Red Bull, if he wins at least one of the championships Max wins in my timeline..." Oscar forces himself to maintain eye contact with Carlos. "That would fundamentally change my own position when I return to 2024."

Carlos frowns, processing the implications of what he's hearing. "Your position how?"

Oscar feels heat rising up his neck, physical evidence of the shame he feels having to articulate this.

"Daniel and I are the only Australians in modern Formula 1. In my timeline, Daniel is seen as... as wasted talent, unfulfilled potential. That leaves me space to become the great Australian driver of the new generation."

Understanding hits Carlos immediately, and Oscar can see how his expression changes as he fully grasps the nature of Oscar's conflict. "But if Daniel wins championships..."

"If Daniel wins championships, he becomes the Australian legend he always should have been. He becomes the driver who broke decades of Australian champion drought. He becomes the name Australian children will know, the standard against which all future drivers from my country will be measured." Oscar runs his hands through his hair, unable to maintain eye contact while formulating the rest of his confession. "And I... I probably will never have the chance to be considered special in the same way. I'll be the second great Australian driver of this millennium, not the first. I'll be the one who followed Daniel's footsteps, not the one who broke new ground."

The silence that follows is dense, loaded with all the moral weight of what Oscar has just admitted. Carlos observes him carefully, and Oscar can feel he's being evaluated in ways he can't control.

"And does that matter to you?" Carlos finally asks. "Being first versus being second?"

"Yes," Oscar admits miserably. "Yes, it matters to me. And that makes me a terrible person."

"Why does it make you a terrible person?"

Oscar looks at him with surprise. "How doesn't it make me a terrible person? I'm considering protecting my own glory at the expense of someone's career who genuinely deserves better. I'm being selfish in the worst possible way."

Carlos sits up in bed, moving close enough to touch the other's arm.

"Oscar, tell me about what you want to achieve in your career. Not what you think you should want, but what you really want."

The question takes him by surprise. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, when you think about your future in Formula 1, when you imagine the best possible scenario for your career, what do you see?"

"I want to win championships," he murmurs slowly. "I want to be remembered as someone special, not just as another competent driver. I want when people talk about great Australian drivers, my name to be in that conversation."

"And why do you want that?"

"Because..." Oscar stops, struggling to find words for emotions he's kept largely subconscious. "Because I grew up watching Mark Webber come so close, be so close and never achieve it. Because Australia has been waiting decades for another champion after Alan Jones. Because I want to be the answer to that wait." He takes a deep breath, as if it weighs more to say the next part than any race. "And also because... because I've never been the natural favorite for anything. In karting, there was always someone with better equipment, with more resources. In junior formulas, there was always someone with more media or financial support: there was this driver who had an entire country behind him, there was this other who was under Ferrari's wing, there was one who carried a surname that filled headlines. I... I just had results, but that never seemed enough for them to see me the same way."

"Oscar..."

"Even the way I got to F1 wasn't straightforward. The team that had me as reserve driver had doubts, I wasn't their first choice. And my team didn't see me as a safe bet at first either, and I know I'm not their favorite driver and never will be. That's the truth. That's why I want to prove that, even though I was never the chosen one, I can be the one who goes furthest."

The realization hits Oscar as he speaks these words: that part of his resistance to helping Daniel comes not just from ambition but from a deep insecurity about his own place in the talent hierarchy.

"So you want to be recognized for the work you've put in?"

"I want to be recognized for having achieved something no one expected me to achieve," Oscar corrects.

Carlos looks at him with an expression Oscar can't completely interpret. "And do you think helping Daniel would take away that opportunity?"

"It wouldn't take it away," Oscar clarifies carefully. "But it would fundamentally change it. Instead of being the driver who broke Australia's drought, I'd be the driver who followed the example Daniel established. Instead of being a unique story, I'd be part of a larger narrative about Australian motorsport's resurgence."

"And that would be... less significant to you?"

Oscar nods, feeling the brutal honesty of the admission. "Yes. It would be less significant. Because part of what I want is the uniqueness, the feeling of having achieved something special. If Daniel had already broken that ground, my achievement would become validation of a pattern instead of establishment of a new one."

Carlos processes this in silence for several seconds. "You know what I hear when you describe all that?"

"What?"

"I hear someone who has worked incredibly hard for his achievements and wants that work to be recognized. I hear someone who has legitimate ambitions and doesn't want to see them compromised by circumstances outside his control."

Oscar blinks, surprised by the interpretation. "Don't you hear someone being a selfish asshole?"

"I hear someone being human. Oscar, of course you want to protect your own ambitions. Of course you want your hard work to be recognized in specific ways. That doesn't make you a bad person; it makes you a normal person with normal aspirations."

"But Daniel deserves to know about his future."

"Maybe. But he also deserves the freedom to live his own life and make his own decisions, even if they turn out to be wrong. And you deserve not to have to carry the responsibility of controlling another person's destiny."

Oscar feels something loosening in his chest, a tension he'd been carrying without fully realizing its weight.

"Besides," Carlos continues, "there are factors you're not considering."

"Like what?"

"Like the fact that even if you tell Daniel all this, there's no guarantee he'll believe you. Telling someone you travel through time isn't exactly an easy conversation to have, and people are naturally skeptical of extraordinary claims."

"You believed me."

"I believed you for specific reasons. Because you made predictions that came true. Because there was something about you that seemed familiar from the beginning, something that resonated with me in ways I couldn't completely explain at the time. Call it destiny if you want, but somehow I think I could sense you were someone I needed to know and you approached me because I'm your boyfriend, so I think even if I had doubted you more in that instant, eventually you would have convinced me." Carlos pauses. "Daniel doesn't have those reasons to believe you. To him, you'd be a stranger making extraordinary claims without immediately verifiable evidence. Or even if he found a way to believe you, who can guarantee that making different decisions would actually give him better results? Circumstances will change if he changes his decisions, and no one can predict exactly how those changes will interact with other factors."

Oscar nods slowly, feeling the moral paralysis that had been consuming him begin to recede.

"So you think I shouldn't tell him anything?"

"I think you should do what you can live with doing. But I also think you don't have the moral obligation to sacrifice your own ambitions to save someone who hasn't asked you to save him." Carlos moves closer, taking Oscar's hand in his. "And I think the fact that this is morally torturing you proves you're not the bad person you think you are. A truly selfish person wouldn't be struggling with this conflict at all."

Oscar feels tears forming in his eyes, an emotional response he hadn't anticipated. He's been carrying not just the weight of the decision about Daniel, but also the weight of self-judgment, the conviction that his motivations made him fundamentally flawed.

"Do you really not think I'm a bad person for wanting to protect my own ambitions?"

"Oscar," Carlos says with gentle firmness, "you've been trying to survive in a time that isn't yours while maintaining an identity that isn't real. And in the middle of all that, you're facing a choice between helping someone you admire and protecting your own dreams. The fact that you recognize the cost to Daniel, the fact that this is causing you moral agony, the fact that you're questioning your own motivations... all of that tells me you have a solid moral compass. A selfish person would have simply made the decision that benefited them without all this anguish."

Oscar nods, feeling something fundamental reordering itself in his understanding of himself.

Carlos observes him for several seconds, his expression thoughtful, as if he were processing not just this specific conversation but also all the broader implications of what he's just heard. "You know, this thing you just told me about Daniel... it makes me really aware of something I think I hadn't fully processed before."

"What?"

"The amount of information you have. About all of us. If you know exactly what decisions Daniel is going to make and why they're going to be wrong, obviously you have the same level of knowledge about every person in that paddock."

Oscar feels a chill running down his spine, realizing where this line of thinking is going.

"Lewis, Sebastian, Max, Fernando... everyone," Carlos continues. "You know who's going to win championships, who's going to change teams, who's going to make decisions that will define their careers for better or worse."

"Carlos..."

"You know about accidents before they happen. You know about retirements, about moments that are going to be devastating for some people. You know when someone is about to make the mistake of their life, when someone is missing an opportunity that will never come again."

The full realization hits Carlos as he speaks, and Oscar can see how his expression changes as he truly understands the weight of what Oscar is carrying.

"Oscar, that must be... overwhelming. No, that's not even the right word, is it? It must be worse than overwhelming. I can't even imagine how that feels."

They remain in silence for a moment, Carlos clearly processing the complete implications of the burden Oscar has been carrying.

"It is."

"I know you're not going to tell me about my own future," he finally says, his voice careful but curious. "And I'm not going to ask you for specific details. But... can I ask you something general?"

Oscar immediately feels his stomach contract with alarm. "Carlos..."

"Just one question. One simple question."

"Please don't ask me about your future," Oscar pleads with an urgency that surprises both of them with its intensity.

Carlos looks at him, immediately noticing the visceral reaction he's provoked. "It's just a general question—"

"I don't want to say anything that might affect your decisions," Oscar interrupts, his voice loaded with something that sounds almost like panic. "Please don't put me in that position."

Carlos studies his face, clearly seeing this isn't casual resistance but genuine terror at the consequences of sharing information about his specific future.

"It's okay, mi amor," he says softly, extending a hand to touch Oscar's cheek. "I don't want to make you feel more uncomfortable."

Oscar goes completely still upon hearing those words. "Mi amor." Carlos has called him "mi amor" as if it were the most natural thing in the world, as if it were an endearment they'd been using for months instead of words that had never passed between them before.

Carlos continues talking, apparently unaware of the seismic impact those two words have had. "I understand it's an impossible position for you. Having all that information but not being able to use it without potentially changing things in ways you can't predict."

But Oscar is barely processing the words that follow "mi amor." His mind is completely focused on those two words, on the casual way Carlos had pronounced them, on what they might mean about how Carlos sees him, about the depth of the feelings that have been developing between them.

"Do you really not think differently of me?" Oscar asks suddenly, his voice coming out much more vulnerable than he'd intended. "After everything I just told you?"

The question interrupts Carlos mid-reflection about the complexities of temporal knowledge. He can immediately see that Oscar needs reassurance about something fundamental, that there's a deep insecurity behind the question that goes beyond the specific conversation they've just had.

"Never," Carlos responds, moving closer until he can completely surround Oscar with his arms. "I will never think differently of you for being human, for having ambitions, for wanting to protect your own dreams."

Oscar allows himself to be enveloped in the embrace, feeling how the warmth and solidity of Carlos's body anchors him to something that feels more real than anything else he's experienced in weeks.

"Oscar, the fact that you struggle with these moral decisions, the fact that you torture yourself over potentially not helping someone, the fact that you can admit your own selfish motivations... all of that tells me exactly what kind of person you are." Carlos separates enough to be able to look directly into his eyes. "You're the person who feels guilty for wanting to protect your own dreams. You're the person who, even when struggling to survive in an impossible situation, worries about strangers' wellbeing." Carlos presses a soft kiss to Oscar's lips. "You're an extraordinary person."

Oscar feels tears forming in his eyes. "I didn't know if you could still see me the same way after knowing how selfish I can be."

"We're all selfish sometimes. The difference is whether we recognize that selfishness, whether we struggle with it, whether we try to balance it with consideration for others. You do all those things."

They kiss again, more deeply this time, a contact that seems to seal not only their mutual acceptance but also a new level of emotional intimacy between them.

When they separate, Oscar curls closer against Carlos's chest, allowing himself to feel completely safe for the first time in days.

"I'm going to let Daniel live his own life," he finally concludes. "I'm going to let him make his own decisions, even if I know they're going to be wrong. Because you're right: he deserves that freedom. And I deserve not to have to carry the responsibility of controlling another person's destiny."

Carlos smiles, that warm smile that always makes something loosen in Oscar's chest.

"I think that's the right decision."

"Even knowing it's partially selfish?"

"Completely altruistic decisions are rarely sustainable long-term. The best decisions are those that balance generosity toward others with honesty about our own needs."

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For listening without judging. For helping me see that I don't have to save everyone. For reminding me that I also deserve to protect my own future."

Carlos extends a hand toward him, and Oscar takes it, intertwining their fingers.

"We're a team," Carlos responds simply.

"We're a team," he repeats with a smile, realizing this is the team he wishes he'd never have to give up, even if that means never getting back in a race car and giving up everything he just told Carlos he dreams and aspires to in this sport.

 

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

Chapter 31: Falling Into Orbit

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

 

The Audi winds through French roads that gradually pull away from Monaco's artificial glitter, the landscape transforming bit by bit into gentle undulations where vineyards stretch beneath golden light slanting toward evening. Oscar watches this transition through the window.

Carlos drives with that relaxed focus Oscar has learned to associate with him, but there's something different about the tension in his shoulders today, a subtle stiffness that becomes more pronounced as they approach something more personal, more vulnerable. His fingers move over the steering wheel with unconscious familiarity, but Oscar notices how they occasionally contract slightly, as if Carlos is processing something that troubles him in ways he can't fully articulate.

When his free hand seeks Oscar's to intertwine their fingers, the contact carries a subtle urgency, as if he needs the reassurance as much as he offers it. It's a gesture that has become characteristic between them lately, but today it has a different quality, more necessary, as if Carlos is anchoring himself to something solid while navigating uncertain emotional waters.

The silence between them stretches comfortably for several kilometers, filled only with the constant hum of the engine and the occasional sound of other vehicles passing in the opposite direction. It's a silence that allows both to process the events of Monaco weekend. But Oscar can sense something larger forming in Carlos's mind, a restlessness that manifests in the way his fingers drum against the steering wheel when he's not shifting gears, in how his breathing has become slightly more deliberate.

"In the future, did I ever tell you about my apartment in Faenza?"

The question produces that familiar squeeze in Oscar's stomach, that physical sensation that accompanies any reference to their supposed future relationship. It's a constant reminder of the layers of lies upon which he's built this intimacy, of how precarious the foundation is for everything they're sharing. "No, it never came up," he responds, keeping his voice carefully neutral while internally fighting the urge to elaborate with a more convincing lie that might contradict something he's already established.

"Ah, I suppose by then I've been through several teams and my Toro Rosso days are well behind me, right?"

Oscar turns to look at him directly, an ironic smile touching the corners of his lips. "Clever, you're fishing for information about the future."

The accusation makes Carlos laugh, but it's laughter that carries a residual tension he can't entirely hide. His expression of feigned innocence is disarmed by Oscar's perceptiveness, but it doesn't eliminate the underlying anxiety Oscar can detect in the line of his jaw.

"Me? Never. I'm just making conversation with you," he clarifies with that characteristic mixture of humor and stubbornness Oscar has learned to associate with Carlos when he's been caught at something but doesn't want to admit it completely.

"Uh-huh," Oscar responds, but his tone is affectionate rather than accusatory. "And I suppose your next question is going to be completely innocent too."

"Of course. All my questions are innocent."

"Like when you 'casually' asked me about the 2017 technical regulations."

Carlos laughs more genuinely this time. "That was legitimate research."

"Research, sure."

The French countryside continues to unfold outside the windows, small towns appearing and disappearing like postcards of a simpler, more authentic life than the hypercompetitive and constantly performative atmosphere they've been navigating in Monaco. There's something comforting about this transition toward the rural, toward spaces that don't seem constantly aware of being observed and evaluated.

"The place where I live in Faenza is..." Carlos begins after several minutes, then stops abruptly, as if the words he'd prepared aren't adequate for what he really wants to communicate. He pauses again, longer this time, and Oscar can see how he's reconsidering not just the words but his entire approach to this conversation. "It's different from Madrid."

"Better different or worse different?"

"It's smaller. Much smaller," Carlos responds, his fingers contracting slightly against the steering wheel. "It's a little house, really. It has two floors, but it's a very compact little house."

The way he says "little house" carries a mixture of affection and something that could be shame, as if he's describing something he loves but fears others might judge as inadequate.

"Compact like 'cozy' or compact like 'claustrophobic'?" Oscar asks, keeping his tone light but offering Carlos the opportunity to be more specific about his concerns.

"It's just that I could have gotten something bigger," Carlos continues, his words coming faster now, as if he wants to complete this explanation before losing his nerve. "Something more... impressive. There are apartments in downtown Faenza that are considerably more elegant, more spacious. But I chose this house because it's literally a five-minute walk from the Toro Rosso factory," Carlos explains, and there's something in the way he defends his decision that suggests he's been mentally rehearsing this justification for kilometers. "I can wake up a little later, I can go home for lunch if I want, I can keep schedules that give me more time to train or rest."

"Sounds practical," Oscar observes. "Do you regret choosing practicality?"

"I don't regret it for me; since I live alone, it never seemed necessary to have more space." He pauses, and Oscar can see he's approaching the heart of what's really worrying him. "But now that you're going to be staying with me... I realize maybe I should have thought about getting something more appropriate for... for now that you'll be with me."

"Carlos, I know I depend on you financially and sometimes you joke about being my rich boyfriend and all that, but I'm really not a gold digger, you know? I don't care if your house has a marble elevator or whatever."

The reference to his usual joke about being the "rich boyfriend" makes something relax slightly in Carlos's expression, as if the familiar humor provides an anchor point amid his anxiety.

"It's just that I want to be able to give you nice things," Carlos responds, and there's a note of almost frustration in his voice. "I can get a bigger apartment, more comfortable. I can make sure you have your own space, your own room, an office where you can work."

"You already give me nice things."

"Like what?"

"Like your company. Like the fact that you care so much about my comfort that you're considering moving."

Carlos seems to process this perspective for the first time. "But after Madrid, after the elegant hotels in Monaco..."

"Carlos," Oscar interrupts with his characteristic dryness, "do you really think I'm impressed by Egyptian cotton thread counts in five-star hotels?"

"Aren't you impressed?"

"What impresses me is that you can make carbonara that could probably win international competitions, and that you know exactly how I like my tea without me having to explain it three times."

The response makes Carlos smile genuinely for the first time since they started this conversation. "My carbonara isn't that impressive."

"Your carbonara has me completely won over. Everything else is secondary."

"Even if the kitchen where I make it is basic?"

"I only care that you use a kitchen where you feel comfortable, because it means you're not acting when you cook for me."

Carlos processes this observation, and Oscar can see how something is reordering itself in his perspective about his house.

"The kitchen is basic," Carlos continues, but now with less defensive anxiety, "the living room is small, there's no office where you could work if you need privacy. If you stay with me, you'd have to stay in my room. With me. Every night. There wouldn't be an option for separate spaces."

"Do you think that's going to be a problem?" Oscar asks with a slightly mocking smile. "Because so far we haven't exactly had problems sharing a bed. Do you think I'm going to need to escape from you?"

"I don't know, Oscar. I've never lived with anyone this way. In Madrid you had your own room, there was more space overall. I don't know if it's normal to want your own space, or if sharing a room every night is... too much."

"In that house, do you feel like yourself?" Oscar asks, redirecting toward the fundamental.

"Completely," Carlos responds immediately, his voice becoming softer, more authentic. "It's where I can be myself without any kind of professional performance."

"Then perfect. Problem solved."

"That simple?"

"That simple," Oscar confirms. "Unless your secret plan is to impress me with the number of rooms we're not going to use. I'm only worried that it might be risky, that someone might question us living together."

"In Faenza, no one ever visits me," he explains, his voice taking on a different quality, more intimate. "Not even Caco sets foot there."

"Why not?"

"It's an industrial city without glamour. There's no reason for family or business contacts to show up by surprise." Carlos squeezes Oscar's hand. "My neighbors are mainly local families who have lived there for generations. They're courteous but mind their own business."

The description of complete privacy makes something settle in Oscar's chest, a sense of relief he hadn't expected to experience with such intensity.

"And what's your routine like there?"

"I get up at six in the morning. I make coffee that's probably too strong for any civilized person."

"How strong?"

"Remember the coffee I made in Madrid that you almost spat in my face?"

"The one that could wake the dead?"

"That's my normal daily coffee."

Oscar laughs. "Great. I'm going to develop caffeine superpowers."

"I walk to work saying hello to the same lady who's always watering her plants at six-fifteen," Carlos continues, smiling at Oscar's response. "Signora Benedetta. She always asks me if I'm eating enough vegetables."

"And are you eating enough vegetables?"

"According to her standards, never. According to any normal medical standard, probably yes."

"And after work?"

"I walk back, sometimes I stop at the local market if I need something to cook. The fishmonger knows me, the vegetable vendor always tries to convince me to buy things I didn't know existed."

Oscar can visualize this routine, and there's something deeply attractive about the domestic simplicity Carlos is describing, about the way he seems to be integrated into a small community without fanfare.

"And in the evenings?"

"I cook something simple. I play on the console. Sometimes I watch Italian television that's pretty terrible but entertaining in its own way. Italian variety shows are a phenomenon that has to be experienced to be believed. Completely surreal but addictive."

"Sounds perfect," Oscar observes, and he's surprised by how genuine it sounds.

"Perfect?" Carlos seems skeptical. "It sounds like the routine of someone who lives alone and has no social life."

"It sounds like the routine of someone who knows what he likes and doesn't feel the need to impress anyone," Oscar corrects. "And it sounds like something I'd like to share with you."

The honesty in Oscar's voice makes Carlos look at him briefly, genuinely surprised by the response.

"Really? Don't you think it's too... ordinary?"

"I think it's real. And I like the idea of meeting Signora Benedetta and having her scold me for not eating enough vegetables."

"You're going to love her. She's going to adopt you immediately and try to give you food constantly."

"And the fishmonger who knows you?"

"Marcello. He's going to test you with fish names in Italian until you can identify at least ten different species."

"Sounds like a challenge I could accept."

Carlos smiles, and Oscar can see how his perspective on his life in Faenza is gradually changing, from something potentially inadequate to something that could be perfect to share.

"I like the idea of walking to work with you, of meeting your neighbors, of having that life you describe."

Carlos processes this response, and Oscar can see how something is settling in his understanding about what Oscar really wants from this relationship.

"And sharing a room every night?" he asks, but with less anxiety than before. "Not having separate spaces if you need to process things?"

"You know what I like about that idea? It means we're not going to be able to hide from each other. If something bothers me, you're going to know it. If something worries you, I'm going to notice."

"Even if it means you're going to have to put up with my terrible domestic habits?"

"We shared an apartment in Madrid."

"But you had your own room and there really was more space. You didn't notice a ton of things."

"Like what?"

"I talk to myself when I'm cooking."

"Shocking," Oscar responds dryly. "Anything really scandalous?"

"Sometimes I stay up watching reruns of old races on the computer."

"Races from what years?"

"Mainly the nineties. Sometimes the eighties if I find something good."

"Can I watch them with you?"

"Would you really want to?"

"I really would. Especially if you make commentary while we watch them. But we're also going to have to watch Interlagos 2008 because it's the best season finale that's ever existed."

Carlos smiles, and it's the first completely relaxed smile Oscar has seen since they started this conversation. "You're going to regret asking. I have very strong opinions about 1994 overtaking techniques."

"I'm prepared for that risk."

"And for me to teach you everything I want to teach you about cooking, navigating the local market, surviving conversations with neighbors who are going to want to know absolutely everything about you?"

"I'd like to learn everything you want to teach me, amor."

The words emerge naturally, as part of the organic flow of the conversation, without prior conscious thought. It's only when he sees Carlos's reaction—how his eyes widen completely, how the car jerks slightly when his concentration is completely interrupted—that Oscar realizes the emotional weight of what he's just expressed.

"What did you just call me?" Carlos whispers, his voice coming out hoarse with shock that quickly transforms into something much deeper.

Oscar feels heat coloring his face, suddenly conscious that he's crossed emotional territory he's never explored with anyone in any language, in any previous relationship. It's not just that he's said it in Spanish—it's that he's never felt the need or impulse to use terms of endearment with someone, never had a relationship where expressing affection this way felt natural or necessary.

With Carlos, it had emerged without conscious filter, as if the word had been waiting for the right moment to be spoken. There's something strange and significant about having expressed it, as if he's crossed emotional territory he never knew existed.

But he can't admit the novelty of this without fundamentally contradicting the story he's built about his supposed future relationship with Carlos.

"Amor," he repeats, more conscious now of what he's doing but unable to regret the emotional honesty the words represent. "Did I pronounce it terribly?"

Carlos has to make a conscious effort to keep the car stable on the road, his hands trembling slightly against the steering wheel as he fully processes what he's just heard.

"No, it's just..." He stops, apparently struggling to find words for what he's experiencing. "Did you just call me amor? In Spanish?"

"With probably horrible accent, but yes."

"Oscar," Carlos looks for a safe place to pull over, slowing down as he scans the shoulder of the road. "I need... I need to stop for a moment."

He finds a suitable space and parks the car, putting on the hazard lights before turning completely toward Oscar. When their eyes meet, there's something in Carlos's expression that transcends simple happiness—it's an intensity that speaks of something fundamental that has just changed between them.

"No one had ever called me that," he murmurs, his voice loaded with an emotion that makes the air between them feel denser.

"Does it bother you?" Oscar asks, though he can see in Carlos's expression that the answer is exactly the opposite.

"Bother me?" Carlos extends his hands to frame Oscar's face, his fingers trembling slightly against his skin. "It's the most beautiful thing anyone has ever said to me."

They kiss then, there stopped on the side of the French road, and it's different from any contact they've shared before. There's a reverence in the way Carlos's lips move against his, as if he's memorizing not just the sensation but also the moment, the first time they've expressed love in such a fundamental and intimate way.

But even as he loses himself in the intensity of this moment, Oscar can't completely escape the reality that underlies all this happiness. He feels something expanding warmly in his chest—a deep satisfaction, a sense of belonging he's never experienced before—but at the same time there's something that contracts painfully, an acute awareness of the temporal implications of what they're building together.

Because although this moment feels perfect, although every word they exchange feels charged with authentic meaning and mutual promises, Oscar can't ignore the fundamental reality of his situation. All of this is built on temporal and emotional sand.

No matter how beautiful what they're creating is, no matter how much they try, he doesn't belong to this time. At any moment a temporal wave could come and destroy everything without a trace, ripping him from this reality and returning him to 2024 where he'll have to live with the knowledge of what he lost.

And when he finally returns to his own time, both of them are going to be left with completely broken hearts. Carlos will have to live with the unbearable ghost of someone he loved deeply who disappeared without explanation, without closure, without the possibility of understanding what happened or why. The Carlos of his time will never know that a younger version of himself lived something real and significant with Oscar, will never have access to these memories or to this understanding about what they could have been together under different circumstances.

And Oscar will have to exist knowing that he experienced a love he can never recover, that he had something perfect in his hands and lost it not through his own decisions but through cosmic forces he can't control or predict. He'll have to look at the Carlos of 2024 knowing exactly what it feels like to be loved by him this way, but being unable to explain or recreate that intimacy.

And in 2024 he has no one. He has no one who knows him with the growing depth that Carlos is getting to know him, no one who cares for him with this unconditional and intuitive attention, no one who worries about his comfort to the point of questioning their own housing decisions. He genuinely doubts, with a certainty that depresses him, that anyone will ever love him like this Carlos does, with this devotion that transcends professional competitiveness and all the complications of the Formula 1 world.

In his own time, relationships have been casual, convenient, limited by his singular focus on his career and by a personality that, he honestly recognizes, doesn't open easily to the emotional vulnerability that Carlos seems to inspire in him effortlessly.

He knows he's a selfish asshole. He shouldn't be encouraging Carlos more, but preparing him emotionally for a life without him instead of making this more difficult and more devastating when he inevitably has to leave him. Maybe he should be maintaining more emotional distance, protecting him from the devastation he's going to experience when Oscar disappears from his life as inexplicably as he appeared.

But he can't resist this. He can't resist being loved this way, can't resist the opportunity to experience what it means to build something real and significant with someone who sees in him not just the competitive pilot but the complete person with all his vulnerabilities, complexities and emotional needs that he normally keeps carefully hidden.

So he allows himself to enjoy. He allows himself to keep creating these memories that are going to sustain him when he returns to his own empty time, even knowing with painful clarity that every moment of happiness they build now is going to translate into multiplied pain afterward. Every caress, every intimate conversation about future domestic routines, every term of endearment pronounced with imperfect accent—everything is accumulating in an emotional account he'll have to pay with devastating interest when all this ends.

It's a conscious decision of selfishness, but it's one he makes every day, every moment, every time Carlos looks at him as if he were something precious and irreplaceable.

When they finally separate from the kiss, Carlos presses his forehead against Oscar's, his eyes closed as if he's processing something too intense to articulate immediately.

"I'm going to teach you to pronounce it perfectly," he finally murmurs, his voice soft but loaded with an intensity that speaks of promises extending far beyond pronunciation lessons.

"Are you going to be my Spanish teacher?" Oscar asks, allowing the light humor to ease some of the emotional intensity of the moment without eliminating its meaning.

"I'm going to be everything you need me to be, mi amor," Carlos responds, using the term back with a reverence that makes something loosen completely in Oscar's chest.

"Then let's go home," Oscar murmurs, feeling the full weight of what that word means now for both of them.

Carlos starts the engine, but before returning to the road, he takes Oscar's hand with an intensity that speaks of silent promises, of a future both can visualize with crystal clarity even if neither can guarantee its duration or permanence.

The rest of the trip passes in comfortable but deeply charged silence, both processing the emotional implications of what they've just shared. The French landscape gradually gives way to Italian territory, the signs changing language, the towns becoming slightly different in architecture and character.

With each kilometer that brings them closer to Faenza, Oscar feels something settling in his chest that he's never experienced before: the complete certainty that he's exactly where he wants to be, even if—especially if—he can't be there forever. It's a sensation that comes accompanied by an underlying melancholy, the awareness that he's living something that has an expiration date, but that this temporality makes every moment more precious, more significant.

They continue talking as the landscape becomes progressively more familiar to Carlos, who begins pointing out local references: towns where he occasionally stops, routes he takes to get to work when he wants to vary his morning walk, places where he's discovered the best products during his weekend explorations.

Oscar absorbs this information like someone learning about his new territory, but also like someone memorizing details he knows he'll want to remember with perfect precision when all this ends.

Everything is being stored in his mind with the intensity of someone who knows these memories are going to be all he has left eventually.

As they navigate through Faenza's streets, Oscar observes the city that's going to become his daily world. It's exactly as Carlos had described it: functional, hardworking, unpretentious but with a solid dignity that speaks of people who know the value of honest work and established routines. The streets aren't designed to impress visitors but to serve residents, and there's something comforting about that lack of constant performance.

"Is it different from what you expected?" Carlos asks, noticing how Oscar is studying his surroundings.

"It's exactly what I expected after your description," Oscar responds honestly. "It looks like a place where people live real life instead of performing it."

Carlos smiles, clearly pleased by this observation. "That's why I like living here. There's nothing artificial, nothing that's there just to look good."

"That's Signora Benedetta's house," Carlos points out as they pass a property where an older woman is, indeed, watering plants in her front garden. "You're going to see her tomorrow when we leave for work, and she's going to want to know absolutely everything about you."

"What am I going to tell her?"

"The truth, within reason. That you're Australian, that you work with me, that you're staying at my house temporarily. She's never been inside my house, it's not like she knows I don't have an extra room or bunk beds or something."

Oscar nods, aware that this is going to be another performance they'll have to maintain, but one that feels considerably more manageable than the high-risk performances of the F1 paddock.

"And Marcello, the fishmonger, lives there," Carlos continues, pointing toward another house. "His wife makes the best bread in the area, and he's going to try to teach you fish names in Italian from the first day you meet him."

"How many fish names do I need to learn to impress him?"

"At least fifteen to pass his basic test. Twenty if you want him to respect you completely."

"Challenge accepted."

Carlos laughs, and Oscar can see how the prospect of integrating Oscar into his local community is exciting him in ways he probably hadn't fully anticipated.

"And here we are," he finally announces, stopping in front of a house that's exactly as Oscar had imagined after Carlos's description: small but well-maintained, two stories with windows that suggest intimate rather than spacious rooms, a minimal but tended front garden, a front door that seems to invite comfort rather than impress with grandeur.

It's perfect, Oscar thinks. Not perfect in the sense of luxurious or impressive, but perfect in the sense of authentic, of honest. It's the house of someone who knows what he needs and doesn't apologize for not needing more.

"Bienvenido a mi hogar, mi amor, welcome to my home," Carlos murmurs as they turn off the engine, and these words seal something fundamental between them, a promise of mutual belonging that Oscar accepts completely even knowing he can't honor it indefinitely.

 

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

Chapter 32: Gravity Well

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~

 

The front door opens with a soft click, and Carlos pauses at the threshold, allowing Oscar to enter first with a gesture that combines courtesy with lingering anxiety about how this space he's been describing with such concern during the trip will be received.

Oscar takes two steps inside and stops immediately, not because the space surprises him negatively, but because the physical reality of being inside Carlos's house—his real house, not an elegant hotel or temporary apartment—makes something settle differently in his chest. This is where Carlos lives when he's not performing for anyone, where he exists without pretense, where every object and arrangement reflects his genuine preferences without consideration for impressing visitors.

The living room spreads before him with an economy of space that's immediately comforting. A brown leather sofa for two is positioned in front of a modestly sized television, surrounded by some functional furniture that suggests practical comfort rather than ambitious design. There's no wasted space, but there's also no sense of clutter—each element seems to have been chosen because it serves a specific function in Carlos's daily life.

The kitchen unfolds naturally from the living room, separated only by a wooden bar that creates a symbolic division without interrupting the visual flow between both spaces. Oscar can see immediately how this layout would facilitate conversations—someone cooking could perfectly maintain a chat with whoever's on the sofa without having to raise their voice or feel isolated from the rest of the house.

"It's perfect," Oscar murmurs, and he can hear in his own voice a sincerity he hadn't planned to express so directly.

Carlos closes the door behind them but remains near the entrance, watching Oscar's reactions with an intensity that suggests these first impressions will determine something important about how he feels about having brought Oscar here.

"Perfect perfect, or perfect like 'maybe it could work'?" he asks, and there's a vulnerability in the question that makes Oscar turn completely toward him.

"Perfect like 'this feels like a real home where a real person lives a real life,'" Oscar clarifies, moving toward the bar that separates the kitchen to run his palm over the wood surface. "And perfect like 'I can completely imagine myself making your wake-the-dead coffee here while we talk about what to watch on TV.'"

The tension in Carlos's shoulders visibly eases at this response. He moves closer to join Oscar by the bar, his fingers tracing distracted patterns on the wood while watching how Oscar continues to visually explore the space.

"The kitchen is basic," Carlos explains, pointing toward appliances that are functional without being particularly modern or impressive. "But it has everything I need to make the things I like to cook."

Oscar examines the layout—a four-burner stove, an oven that appears to have been used frequently, a refrigerator appropriately sized for someone who lives alone but cooks regularly at home. There's evidence in the details that this kitchen is genuinely used: spices organized practically rather than decoratively, utensils hanging where they're easily accessible, surfaces that have been cleaned but show the honest wear of regular use.

"Is this where you perfected the carbonara that has me completely conquered?" Oscar asks, approaching the stove with a smile that makes Carlos relax even more.

"Here and in Madrid, but mainly here. This stove and I have an understanding."

"An understanding?"

"The back left burner has a very specific personality. You have to treat it with respect or it burns everything."

Oscar laughs, finding this domestic familiarity that Carlos has developed with his own equipment charming. "You're going to have to introduce me properly to the temperamental burner."

"Of course. You can't live here without knowing its quirks."

The word 'live' hangs in the air between them with an emotional weight both register immediately. Carlos had said it casually, as a natural part of the conversation's flow, but the moment it leaves his lips, both realize the implications of what he's just expressed so naturally.

Oscar is going to live here. Not stay temporarily, not visit—live. Share this space daily, learn the appliances' quirks, develop joint domestic routines.

"The stairs are in the corner," Carlos continues, pointing toward where wooden steps indeed ascend to the second floor. "There's no great architectural drama, you just go up and you're already in my room."

Oscar moves closer to examine the stairs, noticing how they're functionally integrated into the kitchen space without creating obstacles or awkward divisions. The house really seems to have been designed by someone who valued practicality and natural flow over grandeur or impressiveness.

"Want to see upstairs?" Carlos asks, and there's a new layer of nervousness in his voice that Oscar hadn't detected while they explored the ground floor.

"Of course."

Carlos guides him up the stairs, which turn out to be more solid and comfortable than their simple appearance had suggested. As they ascend, Oscar is aware they're moving toward Carlos's most personal space, toward where he really lives when he's completely alone.

The bedroom reveals itself gradually as they reach the second floor, and Oscar immediately understands why Carlos had been more anxious about this part. It's not that it's inadequate—it's that it's intimate in ways the ground floor, however cozy it was, hadn't been completely.

There's no hallway, no door—the stairs simply end in Carlos's room, creating a sense of immediacy that means anyone who comes up will instantly be in his most private space, without gradual transitions or opportunities to prepare psychologically.

The room is appropriately sized for one person, but Carlos is right that sharing it will require coordination and mutual consideration. There's a bed that was clearly chosen for individual comfort rather than accommodating two people, a wardrobe that appears to be fully utilized by Carlos's clothes and belongings, and enough free space to move around comfortably alone or as a couple, but not to maintain completely independent activities simultaneously.

"There's no TV here," Carlos points out, confirming what Oscar had already observed, "so when I want to watch something, I use the laptop."

Oscar can visualize this immediately: Carlos leaning back against the pillows, the computer balanced on his legs, watching reruns of nineties races while the rest of the house remains silent. There's something deeply attractive about the intimacy of that image.

"Where do you put the laptop when you're watching something?"

"Usually here," Carlos sits on the bed's edge and simulates the position, "though sometimes I settle against the wall if I want to sit up more."

Oscar easily imagines joining Carlos in both positions, sharing the small screen, discussing 1994 overtaking techniques while their shoulders touch casually.

"The only other thing up here is the bathroom," Carlos continues, pointing toward a door that is indeed the only thing interrupting the room's simple lines. "That's where the shower is, and it also has a bathtub in case you ever want a longer bath."

Oscar nods, beginning to form a complete understanding of how this house works, how they'll navigate the shared space, where they'll develop routines that accommodate both without creating unnecessary friction.

"Tomorrow I'm going to make space for you in the wardrobe," Carlos continues, approaching to open the doors and show him the interior. "I can give you one of the drawers completely, and clear hanging space if you need it."

The wardrobe's interior reveals exactly what Oscar would have expected: clothes organized functionally rather than obsessively, with clear sections for different types of garments but without the military precision that might suggest compulsiveness. It's the wardrobe of someone who knows where everything is but doesn't torture himself with perfect systems.

"And we'll probably have to go shopping again," Carlos adds, his voice taking on a more practical tone, "because the clothes you left in Madrid should stay there for when we visit. You need to have specific clothes for living here, for daily life in Faenza."

"What kind of clothes do I need for daily life here?" he asks, moving closer to examine how Carlos organizes his own belongings.

"Casual, mainly. Clothes for walking to work, for going to the market, for evenings at home. Nothing very elegant, Faenza isn't a place where people dress to impress."

Oscar nods, but while processing this practical information, he's also absorbing the broader reality of what they're planning. They're going to create a complete domestic life together. They're going to learn each other's preferences about space organization, morning routines, nighttime habits. They're going to develop the intimate familiarity that comes from sharing a bathroom, coordinating kitchen use, negotiating when one wants solitude and when one wants company. It's something much more intimate than when they were in the apartment in Madrid.

"Do you really like the house? Doesn't everything seem too... cramped?"

"Everything seems perfect to me," Oscar responds honestly. "And living here seems like something I want to experience completely."

Carlos smiles, and it's that smile that completely transforms his face, then he moves closer until he can take Oscar's hands in his.

"Then let's create a life here that's ours," he murmurs, leaning in to press a soft kiss against Oscar's lips. "That reflects what we both want, that works for both of us."

They kiss, more deeply this time, and Oscar can feel in the contact not just affection but also a kind of mutual promise, a commitment to the authenticity of what they're building together regardless of the external forces they can't control.

When they finally separate, they remain close, foreheads touching while both process the magnitude of what they've just decided to create together.

It's precisely in this moment of perfect emotional intimacy that Oscar's stomach emits an audible growl that cuts through the romantic silence.

Oscar straightens, looking down with an expression of genuine betrayal. "Well, apparently my body wants to make sure we don't get too sentimental."

Carlos laughs. "Are you hungry?"

"Evidently my stomach thinks so."

"We can order pizza. It's basically the only thing that delivers out here at this hour, but it's pretty decent."

Oscar nods, feeling that the transition from emotional intensity toward the domestic is exactly what they both need.

They go down to get the suitcases. Oscar carries his luggage up the stairs, conscious that this time he's not going up as a visitor but as someone who's going to unpack, who's going to find places for his things in Carlos's space.

"I'll call for the pizza then," Carlos announces once they deposit the suitcases on the bed. "Is margherita okay?"

"It's perfect. Do you mind if I take a shower?"

"Go ahead, inside the bathroom there's a cabinet with clean towels."

Carlos disappears downstairs, and Oscar can hear the murmur of his voice while he makes the call to the pizzeria. He opens his suitcase and extracts his toiletry bag, observing how his belongings look different here—less temporary, more like they belong.

The bathroom is functional, clean, with a shower that's clearly used regularly and a bathtub that suggests Carlos occasionally allows himself longer baths. Oscar can imagine using both, depending on what kind of day he's had.

The shower is comforting after the day of travel, the hot water relieving tensions he hadn't realized he was carrying in his muscles. He takes his time, enjoying the first shower in what he officially considers his new home, using his own products but in a space he's going to share daily with Carlos.

It's only when he turns off the water that Oscar realizes his mistake: in the semi-conscious automation of his routine, he's forgotten to bring clean clothes with him. It's an oversight born of habit, of years of having his own room where he could move freely between the bathroom and his wardrobe. He's not used to the logistics of sleeping in a shared space.

He evaluates his options. He could put back on the clothes he'd worn before, but after the hot shower, the idea seems unappealing. He could wrap a towel around his waist and return to the bedroom to change since that's where his suitcase is. It's not ideal, but it's not a big problem either. After a lifetime in sports environments, Oscar has a fairly pragmatic relationship with functional nudity.

He decides on the second option, drying himself efficiently before securing a towel around his waist. He opens the bathroom door and proceeds confidently toward where his suitcase waits with clean clothes.

He's bent over his suitcase, selecting a t-shirt, when he hears footsteps on the stairs.

He straightens, turning casually to greet Carlos, but what he finds is an expression of something close to panic. Carlos has stopped completely at the top threshold of the stairs, his eyes deliberately fixed on any point that isn't where Oscar is standing.

"I... I was coming up for..." Carlos begins, but the words fade. His posture is rigid, uncomfortable, as if he'd walked directly into a situation that terrifies him.

"You were coming up for..?" he asks, genuinely curious about what he'd come to look for.

But Carlos is already backing away, going down the stairs with a haste he doesn't try to hide. "It doesn't matter. I'll look for it later."

Oscar remains motionless for a moment, processing what he's just witnessed. Carlos's reaction had been visceral, authentic, very different from polite courtesy or respect for privacy. There had been something deeper there, something that spoke of conditioned responses rather than social etiquette.

And then Oscar remembers.

The stories Carlos has shared about his adolescence, about years of terror in shared locker rooms, about learning to keep his eyes fixed on the floor to make sure no one could misinterpret a glance, an expression, a second of attention that might reveal what he felt.

Years of training to associate any visual recognition of naked masculinity with danger, with exposure, with the possibility that someone might detect something inappropriate in his reaction.

Oscar feels something complex expanding in his chest. There's sadness, for the years Carlos has spent denying himself even the normalcy of casual observation. But also tenderness, recognition of how deeply rooted these defenses are, how much patience it will take to help Carlos unlearn responses that have been survival for so long.

He dresses quickly, choosing comfortable clothes, but his mind is entirely focused on how to handle what just happened without making Carlos feel judged for completely understandable reactions.

When he goes downstairs, he finds Carlos in the kitchen, apparently absorbed in examining the refrigerator's contents. But he can see tension in his shoulders, the careful way he avoids direct eye contact.

"Twenty minutes for the pizza," Carlos announces without turning around.

Oscar settles on the sofa, where he can observe Carlos's profile while he continues pretending to inventory products. There's a silence that stretches between them, charged with mutual awareness about what just happened.

"Sorry about that," Oscar finally murmurs. "I didn't think about the logistics."

Carlos closes the refrigerator door, turning around but maintaining physical distance by staying on the kitchen side. There's something vulnerable in his expression, but also relief, as if he'd been waiting for exactly this acknowledgment without dramatization.

"You don't have to apologize. It's your house too." A pause. "I just need to get used to some things."

"I understand."

And he does. Completely.

Carlos remains by the refrigerator, his fingers drumming nervously against the metal surface. There's something in his posture that suggests he wants to explain but at the same time fears that the explanation will make him sound even more irrational.

"It's not that I can't see other men shirtless or with little clothing," he finally begins, his voice coming out faster than normal, as if he wants to complete the explanation before losing his nerve. "At the beach, at a pool, at the gym even... that's different. I suppose it's about context."

Oscar nods, aware that pushing or interrupting could make Carlos shut down completely.

"It was seeing you with the towel around your waist, your hair wet, your back... wet." Carlos pauses, running a hand through his hair with evident frustration. "It immediately reminded me of showers and shared locker rooms. Of all those years where every second in those spaces felt like walking through a minefield."

"I figured as much," Oscar admits softly.

The confirmation makes Carlos look even more mortified. He leans back against the refrigerator, looking toward the floor with an expression that mixes shame and self-disapproval.

"You must think I'm pathetic. Having these reactions at my age, and besides, it's about you. It makes no logical sense that I'd react this way with you."

Oscar gets up from the sofa, crossing the space between them until he can take Carlos's hands in his, intertwining their fingers with the growing familiarity they've developed.

"Would you prefer that I always get changed inside the bathroom?" he asks, his tone completely free of judgment. "Or do you want me to get changed in front of you?"

Carlos lifts his head abruptly, his eyes widening with something that seems like panic mixed with confusion. Color rises quickly up his neck, tinting his cheeks with a red that's visible even in the kitchen's soft light.

"I... I don't know," he stammers, clearly thrown by the direct question. "I don't want you to feel like you have to hide in your own house, though I don't understand why you'd have to get changed in front of me."

"Practical nudity doesn't affect me," Oscar explains, keeping his voice calm and matter-of-fact. "And it's not like I'm trying to seduce you or anything. But maybe if I start undressing and getting changed in front of you, you'll get used to it and it won't feel like a big deal anymore."

Carlos stares at him, processing this suggestion, but the anxiety in his expression only intensifies.

"And you wouldn't feel uncomfortable?" he asks, his voice coming out higher than normal. "What if I look at you the wrong way? What if my gaze really is lecherous?"

The question reveals exactly how deeply Carlos has internalized the idea that any visual awareness of other men is inherently inappropriate, inherently dangerous. Oscar feels something contract painfully in his chest hearing how Carlos articulates these fears that have been governing his behavior for years.

"Carlos," he murmurs, gently squeezing his hands, "look at me."

Carlos raises his eyes reluctantly, and Oscar can see all the raw vulnerability it's costing him to maintain this eye contact during such a charged conversation.

"Do you really think that if you look at me while I'm getting changed, that automatically makes you someone inappropriate?"

"I..." Carlos begins, then stops, clearly struggling with concepts that have been so ingrained in his mind that questioning their logic feels dangerous.

"Do you think that when you look at me now, when we're kissing, when you touch me, that's wrong because you're a man looking at another man?"

"No, that's different," Carlos responds immediately. "That's because we're... because you and I..."

"Because we're together and you have my consent? Is it different because I'm choosing to be with you that way?"

"Yes."

"Then the problem isn't that you're a man looking at other men. The problem is that you learned to feel that any glance, any awareness, any normal recognition that other men have bodies, makes you dangerous."

Carlos processes this slowly, and Oscar can see how something is reordering itself in his understanding.

"But what if I do feel something?" Carlos insists. "What if I see you getting dressed and it's not neutral? What if I like what I see?"

"And what would be wrong with that?" Oscar asks. "Are you going to start looking at me uncomfortably and force me to do something I don't want to?"

"Of course not."

"Then why would it be wrong for you to like how I look?"

The question clearly takes Carlos by surprise. He's been so focused on the fear of feeling something inappropriate that he hadn't considered the possibility that feeling attraction toward someone could be... normal.

"I... I never thought of it that way."

"You've spent so much time learning that any response you have toward other men is dangerous that you forgot there's a huge difference between looking at someone without their consent and physically appreciating someone and not letting that dominate you, or physically looking at someone who wants you to appreciate them."

Oscar can see how this perspective is beginning to clarify Carlos's outlook, but he can also see how much resistance there is, how many years of conditioning are fighting against this new logic.

"But I was trained for so long not to look, not to feel, not to even acknowledge that other men have bodies," Carlos explains, his voice loaded with frustration at himself. "I don't know how to turn that off. I don't know how to distinguish between what's okay and what isn't."

"You don't have to turn it off instantly. But maybe you can start questioning whether all those rules you taught yourself still apply now."

"How?"

"Well, what was the original purpose of not looking, not feeling?"

Carlos considers this. "Protecting myself. Not being discovered."

"And do you need to protect yourself from me?"

"No."

"Do you need to hide what you feel for me?"

"No."

"Then maybe the rules you developed to survive in locker rooms with your teammates don't apply when you're in your own house with someone who already knows exactly what you feel for him."

This logic seems to resonate in a way that abstract reassurances hadn't managed. Carlos nods slowly, as if he's testing this new framework mentally.

"But what if I feel weird at first? What if my reaction makes you feel uncomfortable?"

"Then you mention it to me and we adjust," Oscar responds simply. "It doesn't have to be perfect immediately. It just has to be a beginning."

Carlos exhales deeply, and for the first time since this conversation started, some of the extreme tension eases from his shoulders.

"Would you really be willing to do that? To change your routine to help me with something that's probably completely irrational?"

"It's not irrational," Oscar corrects firmly. "It's a completely logical response to years of having to protect yourself. And yes, I'd be willing, because I want you to feel comfortable in your own house. With me."

Carlos looks at him for a long moment, and Oscar can see how something fundamental is shifting in his expression, a gradual acceptance that maybe he doesn't have to carry these defenses forever.

"Okay," he finally accepts, his voice soft but more stable than it's been throughout the conversation. "Maybe... maybe we could try it."

"Only if you want to. There's no rush."

"I want to try it," he confirms, squeezing Oscar's hands.

At that moment, the doorbell interrupts the moment, announcing the pizza's arrival. Both laugh softly at the timing.

"How inconvenient," Oscar jokes, pressing a quick kiss against Carlos's lips.

They place the pizza box on the bar, the aroma of baked dough and melted cheese immediately filling the open space between kitchen and living room. Carlos opens the box, revealing a perfectly executed margherita—golden dough with small spots of charring that speak of an oven that knows what it's doing.

"Want to eat dinner on the sofa?" Carlos asks, his voice having recovered its natural warmth after the emotional intensity of their previous conversation. "It's more comfortable."

"Sounds good to me."

They settle on the small but cozy sofa, sitting sideways so they can look at each other while they eat, glasses of red wine positioned on the floor beside their feet. The pizza turns out to be exceptional—better than many Oscar has tried in considerably more pretentious places.

"This is really good," Oscar observes after several bites, genuinely impressed by the quality. "I didn't expect it to be so delicious."

Carlos smiles, clearly pleased by the approval. "I warned you it was decent. Italians don't tolerate mediocre pizza, even in small cities like this one."

They eat in comfortable silence for several minutes, the wine gradually relaxing them after the day of travel and emotionally charged conversations. Oscar can feel how something is settling between them, a domestic familiarity that feels natural despite being completely new.

It's Carlos who breaks the silence many minutes later, but his voice emerges more tentatively than before, loaded with something that seems like renewed vulnerability.

"Don't you think I'm super weird?"

Oscar looks at him with genuine curiosity. "Why?"

Carlos puts down his piece of pizza, his cheeks coloring slightly as he formulates his response. "Because we've kissed. Because I've touched you. You've..." He stops, the blush intensifying visibly. "You've jerked me off. And when we're kissing, I've often wanted to continue, I want to do it with you. But then things like what happened earlier occur and my reaction makes no sense."

The contradiction Carlos is articulating is real and understandable—the disconnection between being able to feel desire and intimacy in specific contexts but still having panic reactions in situations that should be neutral or even pleasurable.

"It's not weird," Oscar responds, leaving his own portion to focus completely his attention on Carlos. "It's completely logical that you'd have different responses in different contexts. The intimacy we choose is completely different from vulnerability we don't expect."

Carlos processes this, but Oscar can see the confusion persists.

"But shouldn't it be easier? If I can desire you when we're... when we're together and kissing, why do I freeze up when I simply see you coming out of the shower half-naked?"

"Because they're completely different emotional circuits. When we're being intimate, your mind is in a space where desire is appropriate, where your attraction to me has context and permission. But when you see me unexpectedly with a towel around my waist, your mind automatically returns to all those years where any visual response toward another man meant danger."

Carlos nods slowly, and Oscar can see how this explanation is beginning to make sense in ways his own self-criticism hadn't allowed.

"I think I know why all my trauma doesn't bother you and you have so much patience with me," Carlos murmurs after a moment, his voice soft but loaded with understanding.

"Is it because you're very important to me?"

The response makes Carlos smile, an expression that combines gratitude with something that seems deeply moved. But the smile gradually transforms, becoming more nostalgic, more melancholic.

"It's because he was even more fucked up than me, right?"

The question hits Oscar like ice. He immediately understands that Carlos is referring to the Carlos of 2024, to the man who supposedly spent even more years repressing all this until he finally gave himself the chance to be with Oscar. Carlos is inferring that Oscar's patience comes from previous experience with a version of himself who was even more damaged, even more conditioned by additional years of closeting.

Oscar feels the full weight of his lies settling in his chest. Every word of support he's offered, every moment of understanding, is being interpreted through the lens of a story that doesn't exist, of a relationship that never happened.

"Remember we agreed we weren't going to talk about the future, only when necessary," Oscar responds, trying to keep his voice stable while navigating this mined territory.

"It's just that this is necessary," Carlos insists, straightening slightly on the sofa. "I want to know how long it took him to feel comfortable and allow himself to enjoy without guilt. It should take me less time than it took him, right?"

The hope in Carlos's voice—the idea that maybe his process will be easier because he's starting younger, because he has Oscar's support earlier—makes Oscar hate himself for continuing to keep the truth from him.

"Carlos," Oscar takes his hands, searching for the right words that won't destroy the trust they've built but also won't feed false hopes based on lies. "There's no formula for this. There's no timeline you can follow or accelerate based on the experience of... another version of yourself."

"But there must be some indication. Was it years? Months? When could he finally relax completely with you?"

Oscar can see the genuine desperation in Carlos's eyes, the desire to have some map for this unknown territory. But he can't give him what he's asking for without admitting his entire story is fabricated.

"What I can guarantee you is that no matter how long it takes, I'm going to be here throughout the entire process. There's no rush, no expectations, no pressure for you to be different from what you are right now."

"But you already lived this," Carlos insists, his voice loading with frustration that isn't directed toward Oscar but toward his own situation. "You know how it ends, you know it eventually works. It must be easier to have patience when you know there's a happy ending."

The irony of Carlos's observation is devastating. He's right that it would be easier to have patience if Oscar knew there was a happy ending. But Oscar doesn't know that. He doesn't know if he'll return to 2024 tomorrow or in six months. He doesn't know if the Carlos of his time will ever develop the comfort and self-acceptance this young Carlos is desperately seeking. He has no more certainty about the future than Carlos does.

"I promise you there's no timeline," Oscar insists, feeling each word as a betrayal of Carlos's trust but unable to offer the truth he really needs. "The only thing that matters is what you feel now, in this moment. If something feels good, we explore it. If something feels like too much, we stop. It's that simple."

Carlos studies his face for several seconds, and Oscar can see he's processing not just the words but also something in his tone, something that maybe suggests the answer isn't as straightforward as Carlos had hoped.

"Can you at least promise me that if I start feeling like I'm not progressing fast enough, you'll remind me? That you'll remind me there's no rush and I shouldn't get frustrated?"

"I promise you that."

Carlos seems to accept this assurance, but the conversation's intensity has left an emotional density in the air that needs to be lightened. He takes another sip of wine, savoring it more consciously this time, and when he looks at Oscar again, there's something different in his expression—less urgency, more present.

The atmosphere gradually lightens as they finish eating, conversation flowing toward lighter territory—anecdotes about Carlos's neighbors, stories about his first weeks adapting to life in Italy, observations about cultural differences he'd noticed.

"Are you finished?" Carlos asks when he notices Oscar has left his last piece half-eaten.

"Yeah, I'm satisfied."

Carlos gets up to clear their plates, moving with that natural grace Oscar has learned to appreciate. When he returns from the kitchen area, he brings the wine bottle with him, filling both glasses before carefully placing it on the floor beside their feet.

When he sits back down, he settles slightly closer to Oscar, his body orienting more completely toward him on the small sofa. There's something in the way he moves that suggests a new comfort, a relaxation that the wine and conversation have gradually facilitated.

"You know what I like about having you here?" Carlos's voice takes on a softer quality.

"What?"

"That I can look at you without having to pretend I'm not doing it."

It's a simple confession, but loaded with meaning for someone who's spent years denying himself any visual acknowledgment of his attraction. Oscar can see how even articulating this requires courage for Carlos, but he can also see that he feels safe doing it.

"And what do you see when you look at me without pretending?" Oscar asks, allowing his own voice to take on a softer tone.

Carlos considers the question, his eyes moving deliberately over Oscar's face—from his eyes to his lips, then back, as if he's practicing this visual freedom he's never allowed himself.

"I see that you have freckles that are only visible from very close up and they always get overshadowed by your moles."

"Damn overshadowing moles."

"And I see that you have this way of smiling where one side goes up slightly before the other."

"Really?" Oscar unconsciously touches the corner of his mouth.

"Mainly when you're amused by something I've done. Like now."

Carlos is right—Oscar can feel exactly the asymmetrical smile he's describing, prompted by the meticulousness with which Carlos is cataloging these details.

"What else?"

"That when you're relaxed, like now, your shoulders soften in a completely different way than when you're in Oscar Palmer mode, professional analyst. And," Carlos continues, his voice dropping to almost a whisper, "I really like being able to look at you like this."

The comment hangs in the air between them, the simple pleasure of being able to visually appreciate someone you desire without shame, without fear, without the need to hide what you feel.

Oscar leans slightly forward, closing part of the distance between them on the sofa.

"I like it when you look at me like this."

"Yeah?"

"I like feeling that I'm something you like to see."

Carlos smiles, and it's that transformative smile that makes his eyes shine differently. He reaches to touch Oscar's hand, his fingers tracing light patterns on his skin.

"You're something I really like to see."

The wine is creating a soft warmth in the space between them, not intoxication but a relaxation that allows guards to gradually drop. Oscar can feel how the day's residual tension is dissolving, replaced by a more immediate awareness of Carlos's warmth beside him, of the way the living room's soft light makes his skin look golden.

Carlos settles even closer, his knee now definitely pressing against Oscar's. Their bodies are close enough that Oscar can feel the heat radiating from him, can notice every time Carlos changes his breathing.

"I like this," Carlos murmurs, vaguely indicating the space between them, the casual intimacy they've created in his living room.

"What specifically?"

"Eating dinner together. Drinking wine. Being able to talk about anything." Carlos pauses. "Being able to touch you when I want to."

As if to demonstrate his point, he extends his hand to find Oscar's, intertwining fingers with that growing familiarity that's become natural between them.

"And not having to pretend you're just my employee or my friend or anything other than what you really are."

"And what am I really?"

Carlos looks at him directly, his eyes moving over his face again but this time with a different intensity, more focused, more intimate.

"You're the person I want to do this with every night." His hand moves to find Oscar's knee, but instead of simply resting there, his fingers begin tracing slow, deliberate patterns through the fabric of his jeans.

The touch is light but intentional, creating small waves of awareness that spread from the point of contact. Oscar can feel how his own breathing changes subtly, becoming more conscious of the heat radiating between them.

"Do you realize what you do to me?" Carlos asks, his voice taking on that husky quality Oscar has learned to recognize.

"What do I do to you?"

"You make me want to touch you constantly." Carlos's fingers move higher, barely grazing the inside of Oscar's thigh through the fabric.

"Then do it," Oscar murmurs, his voice coming out huskier than he'd anticipated.

The invitation hangs in the air between them, charged with permission and anticipation. Carlos remains still for a moment, processing not just the words but also the freedom they represent—the safety of knowing he can explore without pressure, that he can take his time discovering what feels good for both of them.

Carlos's hands become more deliberate. There's a subtle but significant difference in his movements—less tentativeness, more purpose.

When his fingers finally slide completely under the edge of Oscar's t-shirt, the direct contact of skin against skin makes both react simultaneously. Carlos exhales softly, genuinely affected by the warmth and softness he finds under his palms.

He explores this newly accessible skin with growing fascination, his fingers moving with genuine curiosity over Oscar's abdomen. When he finds a particularly sensitive spot just below the ribs, Oscar leans involuntarily into the touch, a soft sound escaping his lips.

Carlos repeats the same movement, watching with satisfaction how Oscar responds similarly. There's something deeply satisfying about this newly discovered ability to provoke these reactions, to learn exactly how to touch to create pleasure.

His hands continue their exploration upward, more adventurous now, and when his fingers trace a line along Oscar's chest, he can feel how the heartbeat under his palms accelerates considerably. Oscar arches his back slightly, pressing more firmly against the touch, and this involuntary movement makes something contract warmly in Carlos's abdomen.

"I like how you react," he murmurs against Oscar's neck, his breath warm creating another layer of sensation. "I like being able to feel exactly what makes you feel good."

His hands continue exploring more broadly, his confidence growing in real time with each positive response from Oscar, with each involuntary sound that escapes his lips.

"I want to see you," Carlos finally admits, his fingers playing with the edge of the t-shirt. It's not a question—it's a statement charged with desire he's learning to articulate without apologizing for it.

Oscar nods, and when the fabric disappears completely, Carlos remains still for a moment. His eyes travel over the exposed torso with an intensity that's part admiration, part genuine fascination with this newly discovered freedom to look without restrictions.

"Fuck," he exhales, then laughs softly at his own reaction. "Sorry, it's just... I can look at you. Really look at you."

His hands follow his eyes, exploring the exposed torso with a combination of reverence and growing confidence. He begins tracing lines along the ribs, but when his fingers accidentally graze one of Oscar's nipples, the reaction is immediate—Oscar inhales sharply, arching involuntarily toward the contact.

Carlos stops, processing this intense response. "Did you like that?"

"Yes," Oscar responds, his voice coming out huskier than he'd anticipated.

The confirmation acts as invitation. Carlos repeats the touch, this time more deliberately, using his thumb pad to trace slow circles. Oscar closes his eyes, a soft sound escaping his lips—barely audible but unmistakably pleasurable.

"I like that sound you make," Carlos murmurs, genuinely fascinated by these responses he's provoking. He continues his exploration, alternating between light touches and firmer pressure, observing how each variation provokes slightly different reactions.

When he leans down to replace his fingers with his mouth, pressing a soft kiss against the same spot he'd been caressing, Oscar reacts more intensely—his hands automatically finding Carlos's hair, his fingers tangling while his body arches toward the contact.

"Carlos..." The way his name comes from Oscar's lips—slightly breathless, loaded with a need he's not trying to hide—makes Carlos feel warmth spreading through his own body.

Carlos continues using his mouth to explore, pressing kisses along Oscar's chest, pausing when he finds spots that provoke stronger reactions. When he uses his tongue to trace patterns around the other nipple before pressing more firmly, Oscar makes a sound that's definitely more audible, more affected.

"Mmm?" Carlos lifts his gaze without stopping what he's doing with his mouth, without interrupting the patterns he's creating. There's something deeply satisfying about being able to maintain this divided attention—observing the expressions crossing Oscar's face while simultaneously continuing to touch him in ways that are obviously affecting him.

"You're pretty good at this for someone who supposedly has no experience."

Carlos blushes, but there's pride in his expression. "Maybe it's that I pay attention."

"You definitely pay attention."

"Only with you. With you I want to notice everything."

They lean into another kiss, but this one is different—deeper, more urgent. Oscar can feel how Carlos is gaining confidence in real time, how each positive response is encouraging him to explore a little more.

"I love kissing you," Carlos murmurs against Oscar's lips. "That always feels completely right."

The way Carlos moves his lips against his has a new intensity, a determination that speaks of someone discovering exactly how well he can use his mouth to create pleasure.

When Carlos separates from the kiss and begins tracing a downward path with his lips—first along the jaw, then down the neck—Oscar feels his self-control becoming considerably harder to maintain. Each kiss is deliberate, each point where Carlos stops to use his tongue creates waves of sensation that extend beyond the immediate contact.

The hands in his hair contract involuntarily when Carlos finds that particularly sensitive spot where neck meets shoulder, and the involuntary sound that escapes Oscar's lips clearly encourages him to continue. His kisses become more adventurous, more exploratory, as he continues his path downward.

When Carlos's mouth finds his chest—specifically the same spot he'd been caressing moments before—Oscar arches involuntarily toward the contact, his fingers tightening even more in Carlos's hair.

"Carlos," he murmurs, his voice coming out more desperate than he'd anticipated.

"Mmm?" Carlos lifts his head to look at him, his lips slightly swollen, his eyes shining with an intensity Oscar hasn't seen before.

"You're driving me crazy."

Carlos smiles at the confession, clearly pleased by the effect he's having. "Good crazy or bad crazy?"

"Definitely good crazy."

"Good," Carlos responds, lowering his head again to continue what he'd been doing. "Because I don't want to stop yet."

And he doesn't stop. He continues exploring with that mixture of curiosity and desire that has characterized the entire encounter, learning the specific ways he can make Oscar respond, cataloging every sound, every movement, every point where he can provoke more intense reactions.

But Oscar can also feel how Carlos is navigating his own limits—moments where he pauses to process his own sensations, where he takes breathing breaks that speak more of managing overwhelm than simple lack of air.

After several minutes of this exploration—Carlos alternating between his hands and his mouth, finding new combinations that make Oscar react in increasingly evident ways—Oscar eventually manages to articulate a suggestion.

"Do you want me to do something for you?" Oscar asks, extending his hand toward the hem of Carlos's t-shirt.

Carlos stops, lifting his head to look at him directly. He considers the offer with visible internal conflict before gently shaking his head.

"I'm not ready for that yet," he admits without shame. "It's just that this already feels like a lot. In the best possible sense, but a lot. Really in the best sense. This... I really like this."

"Yeah?"

"I love touching you like this. Learning what you like. Feeling how you react." Carlos pauses, one of his hands tracing abstract patterns on Oscar's skin. "It's like I'm discovering something about myself too."

They continue like this for an indeterminate time—Carlos exploring with growing confidence, alternating between techniques he already knows work and experimenting with variations, Oscar surrendering to the sensations without pushing for more than Carlos is willing to give. There's something perfectly balanced about the dynamic, a reciprocity that doesn't require exact symmetry.

Eventually, the intensity stabilizes into something more sustainable. Carlos settles practically curled against Oscar's side, his head resting in the hollow between his shoulder and neck.

"You know, Oscar?" Carlos whispers, his voice slightly drowsy. "I could stay exactly here and feel completely happy."

Oscar smiles, his fingers playing distractedly with Carlos's hair. "I could stay exactly here too."

Carlos presses a soft kiss against Oscar's neck, then another, experimenting with the territory he'd been exploring before. Each contact is deliberate but unhurried, as if he's savoring both the sensations and his own ability to create and receive them without anxiety.

Eventually, the weight of the day catches up with them and the touches become slower, more rhythmic, until hands no longer move with hunger but with calm. The touches stretch out, gestures become lazy but no less attentive, and the initial intensity transforms into a kind of shared quietude, a soft contact that prolongs without hurry, closer to intimacy than exploration.

They stay like this until the practical reality of the evening's beginning starts to impose itself. Carlos sits up slowly, his movements loaded with the reluctance of someone who would prefer not to interrupt this perfect intimacy.

"I should shower, though I think I'll clean up this mess first."

Oscar sits up too, reaching for his t-shirt from the floor and putting it on. "Why don't you shower and I'll take care of the dishes and glasses?"

Carlos looks at him with genuine surprise. "You don't have to do that."

"I want to."

There's something in the simplicity of this declaration that seems to touch Carlos unexpectedly. The idea that Oscar wants to handle domestic tasks not because he's obligated but because he desires to contribute to their shared home.

"Are you sure?"

"Completely sure."

Carlos nods, and before heading toward the stairs, he leans in to press a soft kiss against Oscar's lips. "Thank you, amor ."

Oscar watches as Carlos disappears upstairs, and then turns toward the physical evidence of their night together—the plates with pizza remains, the glasses with traces of red wine, the empty bottle on the floor. There's something deeply satisfying about cleaning these objects, about restoring order to the space they've shared.

He carries the plates and glasses to the sink and begins washing them, allowing the hot water to run over his hands while he processes the night's events. He can hear the sound of running water upstairs, can visualize Carlos under the shower, and there's something domestically intimate about sharing these nightly rituals even when they're not in the same room.

While he dries the dishes and puts them away in cabinets—locations he infers rather than knows, but which turn out to be correct—Oscar feels something settling in him that he hadn't expected. This doesn't feel like the task of a guest helping politely. It feels like someone caring for his own space, maintaining the home he shares with the person he's in love with.

When Carlos comes downstairs, with wet hair and wearing comfortable clothes for sleeping, he finds the kitchen spotless and Oscar cleaning the bar with a cloth.

"You didn't have to do all that," Carlos repeats, but there's something moved in his voice.

"I already told you, I wanted to. Besides, now I know where things go in my own kitchen."

The phrase—my own kitchen—hangs in the air between them, loaded with implications about belonging, about home, about Oscar's transformation from temporary visitor to genuine resident.

Carlos smiles, that smile that completely transforms his face. "Your own kitchen."

"Our own kitchen," Oscar corrects.

"Our own kitchen," Carlos repeats, as if he's testing how the words sound.

When they go up to the bedroom, the practical reality of sharing a bed designed for one person becomes immediately evident. Oscar observes the available space with a mixture of amusement and genuine logistical concern.

"This bed was definitely chosen by someone who wasn't planning nocturnal company," he comments, visually measuring the dimensions.

Carlos laughs, but there's a touch of mortification in his expression. "When I bought it, living alone seemed like a pretty permanent situation."

"How often do you end up sleeping on the floor when you roll over too vigorously?"

"More often than I'd like to admit," Carlos confesses with a smile.

Oscar uses the bathroom for his nighttime routine while Carlos arranges the bed, and when he emerges, he finds that Carlos has managed an extra pillow, probably from the wardrobe.

They prepare for sleep with the shared consciousness that they'll have to coordinate in ways they hadn't completely anticipated. When they finally get under the covers, the logistics become immediately evident—there's no way to maintain physical distance without someone ending up balancing dangerously on the edge.

"You're going to have to hug me," Carlos announces with false seriousness, "or you're going to fall off the bed. It's pure survival."

"Don't be an idiot," Oscar responds fondly, but he's already settling closer to the center. "Though I acknowledge that physics is on your side."

"Exactly. It's basic science."

They settle experimentally in different positions—on their sides facing each other, Carlos partially on top of Oscar, both trying to find a configuration that's comfortable without being claustrophobic.

"If you snore directly in my ear," Oscar warns, "I'm going to push you to sleep on the floor."

"Do I snore?"

"I have no idea, but now I'm going to find out."

"And if you talk in your sleep, I'm going to record you for compromising evidence," Carlos counters.

"Do I talk in my sleep?"

"I have no idea either, but I'm also going to find out."

Eventually they find a position that works—lying face to face, close enough to see each other in the dim light but without the physical intensity of being completely intertwined. Carlos's arm rests casually over Oscar's waist, more from space necessity than deliberate romance, but the contact feels natural, comforting.

"If at any point during the night you feel like I'm taking over the entire bed," Carlos murmurs, "you have complete permission to reclaim territory."

"Noted."

"And if I start moving too much, just... push me back toward my side."

"Do you move around a lot while you sleep?"

"Sometimes. Especially if I've had a stressful day."

"Was today stressful?"

Carlos considers this. "Today was... intense. But good intense."

"Good intense," Oscar repeats with a smile. "I like that description."

"Good night, mi amor ," Carlos murmurs softly, the term of endearment coming out with growing naturalness.

"Good night."

Carlos remains still for a moment, then lifts his head slightly to look at him with an expression of exaggerated indignation.

"Really? Just 'good night'?"

Oscar looks at him with genuine confusion. "What am I supposed to say?"

"Say ' mi amor ' like you did before, with terrible accent and everything," Carlos responds with a smile he tries to hide but which is completely visible even in the dim light.

Oscar laughs at the direct insult to his pronunciation, and without thinking gives him an affectionate swat on the shoulder. "Asshole."

"Ow!" Carlos dramatically brings his hand to his struck shoulder. "How is it possible that you're the insensitive one depriving me of hearing that I'm your love, and I'm the one getting hit? Where's the justice?"

"Justice is that you have no right to make fun of an Australian's Spanish who's clearly doing his best with his pronunciation."

"I'm not making fun of your Spanish. I'm making fun of your refusal to use it with me."

Oscar looks at him with that mixture of exasperation and affection that's become characteristic between them. "You're very dramatic."

"I'm very romantic," Carlos corrects. "There's an important difference."

"What's the difference?"

"Dramatic people are irritating. Romantic people are irresistible."

"Ah, I see. And which one are you supposed to be?"

"Obviously irresistible."

Oscar laughs again, and Carlos can see he's considering giving in, that the resistance is more performative than genuine.

"Besides," Carlos continues, pressing his advantage, "technically it was your idea to call me amor first. I'm just asking for basic reciprocity with a word you used of your own free will before."

"It wasn't my idea, it slipped out without thinking."

"Exactly. Which means it's authentic. Which means it's real. Which means you should be able to repeat it when I ask you politely."

"Politely," Oscar repeats sarcastically. "You're basically throwing a tantrum. You're super dramatic."

"And you're super insensitive. You even hit my shoulder. I think I'm a victim of domestic violence."

"Domestic violence," Oscar shakes his head with evident amusement. "See? You really are dramatic."

"Irresistible," Carlos insists. "The word is irresistible."

Oscar looks at him for a moment, and Carlos can see the exact moment when he decides to give in. There's genuine tenderness in his expression when he leans slightly closer.

"Good night, mi amor ," he murmurs softly, his Spanish accent imperfect but clearly effortful.

The smile that spreads across Carlos's face is completely involuntary, transforming his expression in a way that Oscar can feel something loosen warmly in his chest.

"Much better," Carlos responds with obvious satisfaction.

Oscar leans in to kiss him, and it's a completely different kiss from the ones they shared during the evening—not charged with physical urgency but with something softer, more domestic. A good night kiss between two people who are going to wake up together, who have found this daily intimacy that is both comforting and precious.

When they separate, Carlos settles more comfortably against his side, clearly pleased by both the linguistic victory and the genuine affection behind it.

"Happy now?" Oscar asks, though he can feel the answer in the way Carlos completely relaxes against him.

"Completely happy."

The silence stretches comfortably between them after this. Oscar can hear Carlos's breathing gradually becoming deeper, more regular, the sound of someone approaching sleep. His own body is relaxed, satisfied, ready to rest after such an intense day.

He closes his eyes, feeling how his own muscles loosen, how his breathing gradually synchronizes with Carlos's. He's in that liminal state between waking and sleep when he hears Carlos's voice, barely a whisper in the darkness.

"Is it too selfish of me to wish that... whatever brought you here, it doesn't happen again, so you'll stay by my side forever?"

Oscar remains completely still. The question has been formulated with the softness of someone who believes he's speaking into the void, who assumes his companion is deeply asleep. There's a raw vulnerability in the words, an honesty that Carlos probably would never articulate if he thought Oscar could hear him.

Oscar doesn't dare open his eyes, doesn't dare move any muscle that might reveal he's completely awake and has heard every word. He keeps his breathing carefully regular, feigning deep sleep while internally processing the full weight of what Carlos has just confessed.

The question hurts in ways Oscar hadn't anticipated. It's not just the recognition of how much Carlos loves him—he already knew that, could feel it in every gesture, every conversation, every moment of shared intimacy. It's the acute consciousness that Carlos is articulating exactly the conflict Oscar carries in his own heart.

Because the terrible and beautiful truth is that Oscar doesn't want to leave either. Despite missing his family, despite the frustration of pretending to be a data analyst instead of driving for McLaren, despite all the complications of living in a time that isn't his own—the life he's built with Carlos feels more real, more meaningful, more like home than anything he's experienced in 2024.

In his own time, he'd had a promising but lonely career, casual relationships that never deepened, a functional but emotionally empty existence. Here, with Carlos, he's discovered what it means to be loved completely, cared for unconditionally, seen in his entirety and accepted without reservations.

Oscar remains motionless in the darkness, listening as Carlos's breathing gradually deepens into real sleep, while he himself struggles against the overwhelming desire to turn toward Carlos and admit that he too desperately wishes they could find a way to stay together forever.

 

~ ~ ~ ❋ ~ ~ ~