This Is So Endearing...

spaniard and aussie, which one?

angst is the best

Your dog ~ carcar, angst

Piñon still bites him when he sees him. He's a distrustful dog, Oscar has learned.

He doesn't like it when Oscar sits on the left side of the couch, pushes his nose against his calf until he's shuffling to the right. He doesn't sit on that side either, though, and curls up under his feet.

He doesn't like it when Oscar looks at the coats hanging nearby the entrance, he doesn't like it when Oscar puts his hand in the biscuits jar, he doesn't like it when Oscar uses the body-wash in the shower and smells of musky pinecones.

He doesn't like a whole lot of things that Oscar does, truthfully, and even though he does try to not show it, sometimes it really hits close to home, where it already hurts the most.

And yet, he still gets up at eight sharp in the morning to take him out for a walk.

They stroll on the sidewalk for ten minutes, already with the easiness of a routine that doesn't feel like it belongs to him fully yet, and Oscar can almost say with certainty that it doesn't feel that gross to grab his poop from the ground.

Every morning they walk past a local bakery, just on the right side of the parallel road, and every single morning Piñon starts barking, perhaps out of familiarity, perhaps just out of curiosity, his vision zeroing on the bright yellow of the signs.

Oscar... he would rather not walk in, honestly. It's not even about avoiding falling into temptation, the smell of fresh baked goods always seeming to make his empty stomach grumble like a full engine.

It's more about the way the people around him seem to advert their gaze for a short second before actually meeting his eyes, it's about the way the woman behind the counter sharpens her grimace into a somewhat welcoming smile, as if all of a sudden she's not angry anymore at Oscar for only knowing how to utter a bunch of words in broken Spanish.

Even worse, though, it's the way they always sit on their calves and pat Piñon's head with a familiarity that Oscar is almost jealous of.

He may not understand a lot of the language, but still it's easy to make out the grand scheme of it all, how they sneak treats under the dog's mouth, how they whisper close to his ear.

"Has he been treating you good? How are you doing? How is him?"

Piñon never answers, and maybe that's exactly the reason why Oscar decided to take care of him.

When it came to deciding what should go to whom, he had almost fought tooth and nails to insist he would be the one getting the dog, in ways that he would probably be immensely embarrassed of if he thought about it now, lucid and the wound of it all less open and fresh.

But when Piñon tilts his head there's always the memory of something that tickles the back of Oscar's head, something that he's not exactly ready to let go of completely.

And when Oscar just needs to talk without the feeling of judgment and guilt clouding over him, Piñon just nudges his nose against his calf and sits at his feet and leaves him the benefit of self criticism that sometimes Oscar forgets he still has.

And other times, even, he looks up at Oscar with big brown eyes that hold a distant sentiment that Oscar can't face just yet.

He has read, somewhere in the middle of a late night binge search on how to get rid of it all as fast possible, that dogs are able to talk to spirits.

Oscar doesn't exactly believe it. Though it is true that Oscar doesn't believe in a lot of things that don't lie in the same Venn's diagram of a throttle and a brake.

He still doesn't know if he should believe in God or if it's God who should believe more in them, give them a bit more credit for all the things some people have to go through without even asking for them.

And Oscar also sincerely hopes Carlos has not gone and become a spirit, because that would imply that even the last shred of hope has to quietly die like a burnt candle.

Because that would mean Oscar would have to live the rest of his life looking for a metaphysical appearance that he knows will never come, that he would have to feel haunted, even.

And it's ridiculous to even think about believing in something like that, and yet at two in the morning on a Thursday night Oscar thinks that there can't be any damage to do if he just lets himself be ridiculous for a little while.

The corridor is bathed in moonlight when he walks through it, but Oscar still finds some difficulty in making his way through the rooms, leaning against the wall with a hand as he feels the quiet thrum of an empty house surrounding him.

He is careful with his steps as he reaches Piñon, sleeping soundly at the entrance where he had dragged his own bed a few days ago.

He thinks about it for a second, then two, watches little puff of air heaving Pinon's chest, his head resting on crossed paws, turned towards the door as if it could open from a second to another. Waiting.

He doesn't think about it more than three seconds, because Oscar has never had the privilege to make decisions in longer than that, so he kneels on the ground, passing a gentle hand through the longer fur on Piñon's back before ducking his head and pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

Piñon doesn't wake up, just scrunches his nose for a second before his breaths even out again, same rhythm as before, as if trying to fall back into a routine that doesn't quite fit right.

The sofa is soft under his legs when he sits on it, careful to not disrupt the untold equilibrium as he presses his feet to the left armrest and leans his chin over his bent knees. He is not going to sleep anytime soon, either way.

"I gave a kiss to your dog." Oscar chuckles, lets himself feel ridiculous for just a second before relaxing against the back of the couch. "I did it when he was asleep. He would've killed him if I had tried to do it when he was awake."

The only answer he gets is the eerily quiet and the muffled sounds of Piñon's breathing.

For the first time since he can remember, Oscar wishes there could be another voice coming from the right side of the couch.

"I think he doesn't like me a lot, you know? Sometimes it's like he wants to blame me and I- I get it, I want to blame myself, too." A knot rises in the middle of his throat, tight and uncomfortable. Oscar still talks past it. "But he is the closest thing to you that I could get, the closest thing that is alive and well. And when he glares at me he- he almost reminds me of you which is ridiculous because I can't even remember the last time you were actually angry at me but I think it's better for me to remember you that way than..."

He rubs a hand under his eyes, pretends like he can't feel the sudden wetness on the sleeves of his hoodie. He doesn't even think it's his own.

He doesn't even remember when the division line started to blur.

"I think that's what you would want me to do, if you could say it."

Lando hadn't been of the same opinion, looking at Oscar warily when he had suggested he would be the one taking Piñon for the first time. Now, he just looks at Oscar with his downturned eyes and tells him he wishes he could do more to help him.

Oscar doesn't think there's more to do, anyway.

"I read somewhere that dogs talk to spirits. I think it's the kind of shit you would yell at Lando for believing in it. You always d- do that." He caresses his own knees, seeking the comfort of a warm touch in his own coldness. "And trust me, I hope you are not a fucking spirit and that you won’t become one anytime soon. But if there is even a small- small possibility, I-" he closes his eyes for a second, lets the knot in his throat dissolve like salt in water, stinging on an open wound, where pulsing blood is still rushing to trail on his skin.

"If there is even a single possibility of it being true I- I gave him a kiss and I hope he can bring it to you. And then he can come back home if- I hope he thinks this is still home, even without-“

The light blue colour of the sleeves has tuned into a darker patch under his eyes, blurry from a lucidity that he can't make himself feel ashamed of.

As if on cue, the silence is broken by the ticking sound of Piñon's paws on the hardened wood floor. When Oscar manages to open his eyes again without wishing to disappear into the dark blue void outside the window, Piñon is looking up at him, curled under his feet with his head close to Oscar's shin.

The dog sighs, a shaky thing that sounds almost like a rumble and Oscar can only answer with a choked sob of his own that doesn't feel like it belongs to him at all, to his vocal cords that always found no use in crying.

Many things can change in the span of a few weeks: Oscar's beliefs and a dog's routine.

"But I- I think," he swallows around nothing, bending down to press a hand to the top of Piñon's head, caressing lightly. "We are not so different, me and Piñon."

The dog sighs again, almost sad. Oscar wonders if he is listening to what he is saying, if he can actually understand it all. Will he bring a kiss from him, then?

"We both miss you the most when the night comes."

—

This little story is heavily inspired by the song “your dog” by Pinguini Tattici Nucleari

mark: what do i feed it….?

THE UPDATE IS SO GOOD I CAN'T

if the swelter lingers (8/?) 47.9k

oscar/carlos, omegaverse, rated e

chapter 8: delirium

“Fuck, Carlos, you’re burning up.” Charles then recoils, and puts an entire hand over his face. His other hand comes to grip the couch, indenting it until the cheap leather snaps. “Holy fuck.” He says, his face red and his eyes suddenly clouded by intensity. “Carlos, are you wearing scent blockers ?”

WE ARE HERE BECAUSE OF THE INCIDENTS.

Pretty hilarious that carcar haters on Twitter think we don't consider the beef and the incidents as true parts of what the carcar dynamic is 😆😆😆😆 Carcar is both the radio messages and the burger products, both the 6-hour flights and the post-race interviews & tweets, both the magnets and the couch

Carcar tradition is the fluff and the friction, so yeah

my take:

"ollie is lestappen son" "ollie is charlos son" wrong. he is charles' son and trying to find out who his other dad is mamma mia (2008) style

we got carcar on the drive to survive poster before GTA 6

'i wish you'd talk'

a carcar short au✨️ written hastily😓 (inspired by 'talk talk' by charlie xcx)

“Your Hungarian Grand Prix Winner, Oscar Piastri! Give a big applause and raise your glass for him, everyone!” the DJ from the booth speaks his name, and Oscar just smiles at the crowd who cheered.

The club is crowded, and Lando is gone probably searching for something (or someone). George and Alex are probably talking about Fernando, who was throwing a tantrum because the FIA guessed him as Brad Pitt, while Charles and Pierre are talking about the Olympics (they are curious to swim at the Seine).

And then there is this guy, who looks so good. Wearing his baby blue linen shirt, hair flipped like it came out from the salon, and face sculpted like Greek Gods. Ferrari does have the best-looking driver line-up.

“Enjoying your view, Oscar?” he said and rolled his ‘R’.

Well, of course. “Nope, you covered my view.”

The man chuckled and took a sip from his glass, “Sorry for that,” and he leaned back to the sofa.

“I was just kidding, Carlos. Just sit like you were,” the younger turned to him.

Oscar instantly regretted that he turned to Carlos because now he looked right into Carlos’ eyes. Beautiful eyes.

For the past few months, both of them have been spending some time together. After the Miami Grand Prix (where all collided), it’s either Carlos going to the McLaren accommodation or meeting at a local restaurant where nobody recognized them while eating delicacies and talking. It’s only both of them, and they found some similarities between them (both have the same race engineer at McLaren, little white dogs, used to drive for Arden) and then so many differences (too much, but they agreed on some discussions).

Carlos is not complicated, he thought. But Carlos has so many layers like cakes. And Oscar finds it very comforting because Carlos has nothing to hide other than his burger restaurant in Madrid.

“Okay, campeón,” Carlos moves closer to Oscar. It felt so right.

When the night gets much darker and slowly turns to dawn, Oscar gets drunker and drunker because Pierre has secretly bought so many kinds of alcohol.

“Carlos,” he nudges Carlos’ shoulder.

“Yes, Oscar?”

“Can we go home?” his eyes begged because Oscar was knackered.

Carlos nodded, “Let’s go,” he helped Oscar to get up and held his waist to stabilize the younger.

Charles looks confused at his teammate, and Carlos just looks at him. “Gotta give him a lift, I’m not drunk.”

The man nodded, “Yes, please. We don’t even know where’s Lando or George. I’ll be with Pierre.”

“Okay, I’ll get going,” said Carlos while Oscar was deep in his sleep on Carlos’ neck.

“Be safe, and don’t–

“I’ll be on the speed limit, Charles,” he smiles at his teammate and walks to the exit.

While waiting for the car, Oscar is sniffing Carlos like he is trying to know what is the smell. “Kid, you’re not a dog,” Carlos chuckled.

“You smelled like rich people, Carlos,” he mumbled. Oscar is rich from his Formula 1 paycheck, but he doesn't smell like Carlos.

“Thanks,” the car arrived and Carlos helped Oscar to get into the passenger seat of his red Ferrari, and he even made Oscar wear the seatbelt.

Throughout the journey, Oscar is only mumbling, and Carlos blames it on Pierre and his choice of alcohol.

“Carlos?”

“Yes, Oscar?”

“I wish you’d talk,”

“Talk about what?”

“Talk to me,”

“About what?”

“Wish you’d just talk to me,”

“Oscar, you’re drunk–

“Talk to me in Spanish, talk to me, just talk, Carlos.”

If Carlos doesn’t remember that they’re on the road somewhere, he probably instantly breaks.

“Just talk to me, Carlos,” Oscar keeps mumbling from his sleep, but somehow he finds Carlos’ thigh and rests his hand there.

Carlos is trying to focus on the road, but he replies nervously, “Sí, sí. ¿De qué quieres hablar, mi pequeño koala?”

He only sighed and fell deep in his sleep, looking like a kid.

And yes, Carlos held Oscar's hand that was still on his thigh. Tightly.

carcar podium. carcar lovers this race was for you. nothing could stop them, not even their teammates

carcar podium when?