Happy Carcar 1st Podium Together And Them Lying On The Couch 1st Month Anniversary For Those Who Celebrate

renault carlos was a twink.

owh... im happy. im not crying while reading this...

I wrote a little bonus epilogue for You'll Just Have to Remind Me :-) (1K, probably doesn’t make sense if you haven’t read the fic.)

...

Carlos wakes up smiling. He was dreaming of something good—something warm, something right. He tries to hold onto the details, but nothing sticks, everything slipping away like water through his fingertips. All he’s left with is the feeling of sunshine spreading through his body. He wants to bask in it.

But as he rolls over to stretch, that sunny feeling swiftly fades into confusion. Something’s off. The curtains are a deep blue instead of his classic red ones. There’s a leatherbound journal on the bedside table where his copy of Cold Mountain usually sits. The covers are tossed back on the other side of the bed, revealing a well-worn dip in the mattress.

This isn’t his bed. This isn’t his room.

Carlos groans, sitting up. He doesn’t do one-night stands—not anymore. That was something he firmly left in his twenties. And he definitely doesn’t do one-night stands he can’t remember at all. He couldn’t have been blackout drunk last night- there’s not even a wisp of a hangover.

He’s got to be missing something. Closing his eyes, Carlos retraces his steps from the day before. 

He had brunch with Charles at the cafe across from their flat— he had the blueberry pancakes while Charles ordered an omelet. 

He went for a run in the park— his pace was better than usual, but had to end his route prematurely because it started raining. 

He stopped by the video store to pick up a rental in advance for roommate movie night. This week, they’ll be watching Alien 3. Impulsively, he also threw in a pack of Mike & Ikes that he ate on the way home.

When he got back to his flat, he found Charles face-down on the couch, moping that he was about to do a load of laundry but realized they were out of dryer sheets. Carlos had promised him that tomorrow he’d pick some up.

Carlos remembers tucking himself into bed, reading a chapter of Cold Mountain, and turning in at around 11:00 p.m. 

And that’s it. No going out, no meeting anyone, no late-night tryst. He’s thirty- his memory can’t be fading like this yet. There’s got to be something he’s missing here. A crucial piece to the puzzle he’s just… overlooking for some reason.

Before he can spiral too hard, he’s jolted from his thoughts by… is that singing? Yes, it’s barely audible at first, but when Carlos focuses, he can clearly hear muffled, off-key singing from the other side of his door. Lovely, his hookup wants to make him breakfast and Carlos can’t even remember his name.

Creeping out of bed, Carlos spots his old grey sweatshirt draped over the dresser. He pulls it on carefully. It’s definitely his, but it feels more worn than it was the last time he put it on. He’s not sure how it got here either. He wasn’t wearing it when he went to bed last night.

He just needs to get out of here. He’ll slip out, call Charles to come pick him up, and then book an appointment to make sure he hasn’t developed some insane sleepwalking disorder. 

He creeps out of the room, tiptoeing through the space and desperately trying to find the door to get out of here. The flat—no, the house—was beautiful, with high ceilings and effortless room design. It felt lived-in, loved-in.

The mantlepiece in the living room was crowded with keepsakes and trinkets. A golden statue, scented candles, and tons of photos in frames. He’s too far away to clearly see, but some of those photos… looked like they could be of-

The terrible singing starts again and Carlos almost jumps out of his skin. His head snaps towards the source. There’s a man in the kitchen, his head buried in a thick cookbook. Carlos can't see his face, but something in his chest tightens anyway. The front door is straight ahead, away from the kitchen. He could leave. He should leave. Instead, he turns back and moves toward the singing.

The guy’s back is turned to Carlos and he’s now hunching over the stove, grumbling to himself as he tries to light the stovetop burner. Carlos’s heart has launched itself into overdrive, he’s sure it’s beating so loud this guy can hear it.

Because the guy turns around, giving him a warm smile and a soft, “Hey, love.” 

That’s Oscar

And the world goes blurry. Carlos’s breathing shallows. He’s never seen this guy before; he's sure would remember a face like that. But all his mind can think is that’s Oscar, over and over again- more and more insistent. Like this is the most important singular fact that Carlos will ever know.

He’s got pancake batter on his nose. Carlos can’t imagine how he managed to do that. But he’s smiling, at him, warm and genuine and beautiful. “Already done reading your…” he trails off, probably noticing that Carlos is barely holding it together. “Carlos?”

Oscar drinks his hot chocolate with an insane number of marshmallows. 

Oscar hates waking up early but gets up before you every day, just in case.

Oscar can name every player on the Australian national cricket team.

Oscar loves you.

“Oscar” is all he can get out. It feels well-worn on his tongue. His own voice surprises him. It’s raspy, filled with more emotions than he can parse out. He’s overwhelmed by so much new information. No, not new information- but information that has laid dormant, bubbling to the surface like freshly popped champagne. 

“Hey,” Oscar is at his side in an instant—close, but Carlos can tell he’s holding himself back from reaching out. “What do you remember, today?” He says it so softly, so patiently. It makes Carlos feel like he’s still wrapped in his duvet.

“I-I don’t…” He desperately tries to remember. Something happened. Obviously. Flashes of visions whip by in his brain like they’re passing in high speed: Lying on his back on wet pavement, harsh red and blue ambulance lights, Charles crying by his bedside. A small, red box on a countertop, singing along to Mariah Carey songs, kisses that taste like strawberries and sea salt. Any attempt to recollect further makes his head pound. 

“It’s okay,” Oscar says gently. Carlos swears Oscar deflates a bit, but covers it quickly with another soft smile. “It’s been a while since you’ve been back to October fifteenth, is all.”

Oscar moves to turn back toward the stovetop. “Pancakes are almost finished, then we can-”

Carlos doesn’t realize he’s hugging Oscar until his face is buried in his neck, breathing him in. Oscar doesn’t miss a beat, just wraps his arms around him like he’s done it a thousand times. He probably has. Oscar’s touch feels like home. Oscar’s touch is home.

As Carlos clings to him, more champagne bubbles float to the top, revealing sweet and simple truths he’s always known.

You watch Oscar’s video he made for you every morning. When he’s away on a shoot, you watch it to fall asleep, too.

You asked Charles to help you go ring shopping next week. Oscar doesn’t know- it’s a secret.

You love Oscar.

The sunshine is back, wrapping around his skin and flowing through his veins. He’s glowing, he’s sure he is. He wonders if Oscar can see it.

He’ll have pancakes today while he watches his video. He’ll read his journal, he’ll call Charles. Maybe he’ll go for a run in the park. But for now, he holds Oscar a little tighter, just a little while longer.

You love Oscar so much.

magnets❌️

married✅️

MAGNETS IS CARCAR'S SONG

trying to collect some pop songs that match carcar, do you have any recs?

boy do i ever

gorgeous by taylor swift

you should think about the consequence of your magnetic field being a little too strong

red wine supernova by chappell roan

fell in love with the thought of you. now i'm choked up, face down, burnt out

greek god by conan gray

i don't mind when you play with my head. i flip it around, play with yours instead

boyfriend by dove cameron

up all night, i won't quit. i'm gonna steal you from him

magnets by niki

either way, you have me at my wit's end. guess what i'm trying to say is - i'd rather die than be friends

it's still friday, do not chase each other just yet😭 sticking together for WHAT?!?!

most people are still not getting that most of us enjoy carcar because of the wretched vibes, the snarky call outs, the back and forth of whatever beef/not beef they have going on

THANK YOU

Congratulations to all the carcar writers, you did the +300 fics possible.

For the prompt meme, sorry I really want to send you "all of them" for carcar, but containing myself as much as possible: 11, 37, 38, 40 - whichever sparks joy 😌

omg thank you anon, i am going for #11: hiding from pursuers [1.2k; notting hill au] put that guy in a situation prompts

It’s teeming down rain. The perfect kind of weather for curling up with a good book, but not so much for strolling down high street popping in and out of shops, which means Oscar hasn't seen a single customer all afternoon. He doesn’t mind the quiet, but hopes and dreams can’t pay the bills. It would be nice to actually sell a few books before Oscar has to resort to desperate measures, like selling novelty socks or adding whatever’s trending on booktok to his inventory.

Oscar shudders and flips the page in his book.

He’s only read a few pages when the door bangs open, the bell above it jangling as someone stumbles inside, bringing buckets of water with them. It’s to be expected with the weather, but what’s not expected is the way they shake their arms off, flinging water everywhere like a dog running from the bath.

“Do you mind?” Oscar says loudly. “Those aren’t waterproof, you know.”

The man looks up, eyes wide as he takes in his surroundings. “Sorry,” he says, wiping wet hands down his soaking t-shirt, white cotton gone translucent from the rain. He looks back over his shoulder, peering out the window. “I didn’t mean to – do you mind if I wait here for a moment?”

“If you’re planning to wait out the rain, it’ll be a long moment,” Oscar says. Destruction of property aside, the man can stay as long as he likes. His wet shirt clings to his frankly outrageous figure, and as if that wasn’t bad enough, his dark hair hangs over his forehead, dripping down the dramatic slope of his nose. Oscar won’t remember a single word he reads for as long as this man is in his shop.

The man ducks away from the door as a few shadowy figures rush past outside, hurrying closer to the counter. “It’s not the rain,” he says. “It’s, um…”

Oscar closes his book, frowning. “It’s what?” he asks suspiciously. The man’s jeans are as soaked as the rest of him, hanging low on his hips. If he’s stolen anything, it would have to be quite small to fit in any of his pockets. 

The man grimaces, a “what can you do?” sort of expression. “Fans,” he says, brushing his hair off of his face only for it to swing back down a second later. 

Oscar takes another look at him. He’s handsome, but not in a way that’s immediately familiar. “Are you in movies or something?”

“Ah, no.” A little smile appears on his face, too crooked to be a movie star’s. “You don’t follow football at all, do you?”

“More of a cricket man,” Oscar says, unable to keep himself from glancing at the man’s body again. An athlete – with all those abs, he should’ve guessed. “Are you any good, then?”

He ducks his head. “The team are doing well this season,” he says. It’s such a canned answer, as though Oscar’s a reporter at the side of the practice pitch. The man folds his arms over his stomach, pinching the fabric of his t-shirt between his fingers. A small puddle has started growing at his feet.

Oscar slides off the stool, abruptly coming to his senses. There’s a tiny break room in back with a kettle for tea and a spare jumper for days when the shop is particularly drafty. “Let me get you a towel,” he says, almost certain there are no actual towels in his shop. At best there might be a tea towel, but even that is better than nothing. “D’you want some tea?”

The man wrinkles his nose. “No. Thank you,” he tacks on, trailing after Oscar towards the back of the shop.

Oscar was right about the tea towel. “Best I can do, I’m afraid,” he says, offering a faded floral tea towel and a knitted jumper left behind by the previous owner of this shop to the professional footballer dripping rainwater perilously close to the travel guide section. 

He takes the towel first, wiping it over his face and then his hair, leaving it standing up in a dozen dark spikes. The disorder somehow suits him. Still Oscar’s fingers itch to brush the strands back into place, until the guy grasps the bottom of his shirt and whips it over his head with the casual disinterest of a man who knows exactly how good his body looks. 

He holds his empty hand out, and it takes Oscar an embarrassingly long moment to realize he’s waiting for the sweater.

Oscar passes it over and turns away in an attempt to salvage what’s left of his dignity. He doesn’t know what’s come over him. Up until ten minutes ago, Oscar would have said jocks aren’t his type. His ex was smaller than him, lanky and lazy and prone to playing video games ten hours a day. Oscar had been attracted to him, but they’d also toppled over in a laughing heap whenever Lando tried to lift him. This guy could throw Oscar over his shoulder and take off down the street without breaking a sweat.

The man clears his throat. “Thank you,” he says. 

“Not a problem,” Oscar says, turning back around. It’s no surprise that he should look so good in a lumpy sweater of indeterminate color and origin. “Wish I could offer you a pair of glasses, no one would recognize you.”

The crooked smile makes a triumphant return. Oscar considers strangling himself with the tea towel, just to save himself any further embarrassment. “The dry clothes are more than enough,” he says. “I had to leave in a hurry.”

He must be quite famous, Oscar thinks, to be chased through the rain by a mass of fans. “Well,” Oscar says, gesturing at the empty shop. “Feel free to stay as long as you’d like. As you can see, we’re not very busy.” Oscar turns away and hurries towards the front of the shop, keen to hide his face behind his book. “Let me know if I can help you with anything,” he calls over his shoulder, the same as he does with all his customers. Few people ever take him up on it. Customers in a bookshop are mostly content to wander in silence.

“Is this your shop?”

Oscar looks up, surprised to find the man has followed him. “Yes,” Oscar says.

He shifts his jaw, giving Oscar a considering look. “You are Bertram?”

“God, no,” Oscar laughs. Oscar had started off working in Bertram's Books part-time in uni, and when Bertram retired a few years ago, he’d signed the shop over to Oscar. “He was the original owner of this place. I’m Oscar.”

“Oscar,” the man repeats slowly, holding his hand out over the counter. It’s warm when Oscar takes it, a pleasant strength in his grip. “I’m Carlos. It’s nice to meet you.”

“You too,” Oscar says, quickly pulling his hand back when he realizes he’s gone on shaking Carlos’s hand for far longer than is normal.

Carlos looks around the shop again, then turns back to Oscar with a smile. “It’s been quite a while since I’ve read anything for fun,” he says. “What would you recommend?”

i drafted a sebson/webbonso/brocedes au, and the background is the Winter Olympics. seb/fer/nico are figure skaters, while jenson+lewis are ice hockey athlete, and mark is a snowboarder. i haven't finished it yet because writers block mehe🤧

carcar is so 'espresso' coded. like wdym "we have some kind of magnet"??? carlos is thinking about oscar, and he cannot make that little aussie wombat out from his spanish brain.