The Choscar Dynamic Is So Interesting To Me.

ROSQUEZ - happiness // last kiss

I miss one race and Lando crashes into Oscar

“i was gonna lose my shit if that last corner had cost me pole”

I think it's funny that when Lando was up by 0.017 s during the first runs of Q3, the reason was the little slipstream that he received from Oscar. The cars were pretty evenly matched. Then how did Oscar pull two whole tenths from his ass during the second runs in quali?

The duality of Mr Piastri

Hey, wanted to see if you would write carcar shifter au? One of them is like a cat shifter (or dog) and the other one figures it out? Cute fluff maybe? And possessiveness is always welcome!

this request hit me square in the chest with ideas... Even though I'd never have written a shifter AU of my own volition! This is why I love writing request fills! :D

not sure if the level of fluff is what you meant, anon – I'm an enemies carcar truther at the core, but I still think it's extremely fluffy.

carcar, 5k, squabbling neighbors with shared garden wall AU, cat shifter AU, ao3

****

Carlos Sainz Jr. loves his life – he has a job he likes, a close-knit group of friends, and a cute little house with the most beautiful garden anyone’s ever laid eyes on. All in all, it’s almost perfect, with one notable exception: the neighbor’s cat is trying to ruin it.

“He did it again,” he tells Oscar, leaning across the small stone wall that separates their gardens.

Oscar is currently elbows-deep in a pot full of soil, digging for potatoes and barely glancing up as Carlos complains to him. Even after a full minute of waiting for a response, a bored “Hm?” is all the reaction Carlos can draw from him.

“Your cat!” Carlos clarifies, gesturing toward a knocked-over flowerpot on his side of the wall, where scraps of red blossoms sway pitifully in the weak breeze. “Destroyed my beautiful geraniums!”

“I don’t have a cat,” Oscar says automatically, even though Carlos has seen the orange menace stroll right through Oscar’s terrace door multiple times. Carlos has no idea why Oscar keeps denying it. Specifically to piss him off, is his best guess.

“Besides,” Oscar adds, for once giving him more than the bare minimum of attention, though he still doesn’t bother to look up, “good on the cat. Those geraniums stink.”

Oscar’s own garden looks like a survivalist’s wet dream – neat rows of salad greens, vegetables, berry bushes, and fruit trees. Squash and pumpkins in containers to keep them from spreading too much. Little pots of herbs lining the terrace. Capital B boring. He wouldn’t know how to appreciate Carlos’s flower paradise to save his life.

‘Geraniums stink.’ What an asshole.

“You know what stinks worse?” Carlos fires back. “Cat poop! So just make sure the damn thing stays on your side of the wall!”

Oscar finally looks up, holding a couple of baby potatoes like he just delivered them from the pot’s womb. He has tiny hands. He’s struggling to hold like two potatoes in one.

“Not sure you know how cats work, mate,” he says, that awful Australian twang coating every word. “Anyway, I don’t know why you’re so sure the cat’s mine. I told you, it’s not. One day you’ll just have to accept that.”

“I know it’s yours because I’ve seen it walk into your house! And because it only started showing up after you moved in! And because it looks exactly like you!”

He probably shouldn’t have said that last part out loud, because now Oscar has an excuse to look at him like he’s lost his marbles. And sure, Carlos knows it sounds crazy, but it’s a well-known fact that many pets resemble their owners in disturbing ways.

“Sure, mate,” Oscar says after a long pause, leaving the statement unacknowledged for maximum psychological impact. “I’ll tell my imaginary cat to stay out of your garden next time I see it. Can’t promise it’ll listen, though. It’s a cat.”

Then he walks off, carrying his four potatoes in his dirt-smeared arms, back into his stupid house.

****

The next day, Carlos finds cat poop sitting squarely on the grave of his shredded geranium pot. The bastard hadn’t even tried to bury it. Carlos picks up the dried poop with his garden gloves and, in a blaze of rage, hurls it over the wall into Oscar’s garden.

A moment later, a pointed cough grabs his attention. He turns to see an unimpressed Oscar peeking over the too-low wall.

“Really?” Oscar says. “I know you’re not my biggest fan, but throwing poop at me is a bit much, don’t you think?”

Carlos feels a flicker of shame for half a second before anger swells again. He storms up to the wall, barely restraining himself from jabbing Oscar in the chest.

“I told you to watch the cat!” he scolds, Spanish blood taking control of his hands, which slice through the air in sharp, furious angles. “And what happens? He poops on my flowers! Poops!”

Oscar watches the animated hand gestures, entirely unimpressed. When Carlos finally stops, he has the audacity to just shrug.

“Still not my cat,” he says. “So I don’t know what you expect me to do about it.”

Carlos lets out a frustrated sound that he hopes comes off as firm and not whiny. “Why do you insist on lying?”

“I don’t lie,” Oscar lies effortlessly. “That’s like a big thing about me. Remember, the whole reason you don’t like me is because when I first moved in and you asked how I liked your garden, I told you the truth and you couldn’t take it.”

“You said my garden is an eyesore!” Carlos squawks. “Which is clearly not the truth!”

“It is to me,” Oscar shrugs again. “We just have different tastes.”

“It’s not about taste! Some things are inherently true! You can’t say my flower paradise is an eyesore – just like you can’t say I’m an eyesore!”

“You’re an eyesore,” Oscar shoots back without hesitation.

Carlos is momentarily stunned. Then, a horrific possibility dawns on him. “Oh my God!” he breathes. “You’re… are you blind? Are you blind and just never told me?”

“Carlos…” Oscar sounds more exasperated than Carlos has ever heard him. “You’re wearing the biggest straw hat known to man and freaking overalls. You look like you just escaped from a game of Stardew Valley. If I only saw you out of the corner of my eye, I’d think you were impaled in the middle of a cornfield asking if anyone’s seen your brain.”

“You are blind,” Carlos mutters, more to himself than to Oscar, who clearly isn’t listening. “And a liar. Blind and a liar.”

“Sure, if it makes you feel better…”

“No!” Carlos says firmly. “This isn’t about me feeling good. This is about you being a compulsive liar, which is a problem because you’re my neighbor, and I am suffering directly because of your untreated condition!”

“Oh my God,” Oscar sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Look me in the eyes and tell me I’m ugly!” Carlos demands, yanking off his straw hat so Oscar can properly admire his gleaming hair.

“Mate!” Oscar groans. “I never even said you’re ugly. Just that you’re an eyesore in that demented outfit!”

“So you do think I’m hot, then?”

Oscar glances at his wrist and widens his eyes slightly. “You know what?” he says. “I actually don’t have time for this. So – see you around, Carlos. And please try not to throw any more poop in my garden, that’d be ace. Bye.”

And just like that, he turns around and walks off, leaving Carlos fuming at the wall.

It takes until the very last second before he disappears behind the terrace door for Carlos to notice that he doesn’t even wear a watch on his wrist.

****

So, Carlos can’t get Oscar to admit he owns the cat. Fine.

He will, however, get him to admit that Carlos is hot, because that one’s about personal pride – plus, it would annoy Oscar so much more.

So the next time he sees Oscar out in the garden, Carlos sprints to throw on his overalls and straw hat – and just his overalls and straw hat! No shirt underneath. Just miles of sun-kissed skin and bare, defined arms. Carlos knows how to use what he’s got. He’s not like Oscar – three hunchbacks and two widow’s peaks in a trench coat. Well, beige shorts and a white T-shirt.

Okay, that was mean. Actually, Oscar isn’t ugly, even though most of his individual features should come together to make a weird and awkward whole. Somehow, it works. Maybe it’s his dry, quietly confident personality. Carlos doesn’t know and doesn’t care to think about it right now. He has something to prove.

“Mate,” Oscar calls from the other side of the wall as soon as Carlos steps out into the garden. That’s a new record for getting noticed. Carlos can’t help but feel a little smug. Then Oscar ruins it by adding, “You’re gonna get the most ridiculous tan lines!”

“At least I actually tan!” Carlos shouts back, heading straight for the garden hose. He briefly considers putting on a little show – dousing himself with water for that irresistible wet look – when Oscar announces, “Well, have fun with that. I actually have somewhere to be, so unfortunately I can’t stick around to laugh at the aftermath.”

And then he just packs up and leaves!

Carlos stares after him, limp hose in hand, denim overalls chafing against his freshly shaved chest.

What a let-down. Maybe Oscar really does think he’s ugly. That stings a little. Actually, it stings a lot.

To make matters worse, five minutes later, the damn cat is back. It sits perched on the wall between their gardens, staring unblinking as Carlos tries to soothe the rash on his chest by letting water run directly into his overalls.

For a moment, Carlos considers spraying the cat with the hose, but then decides against it.

For once, the cat isn’t doing anything. Just sitting and staring.

At least now Carlos can pretend he’s putting on the show for an audience.

****

When Carlos goes into the garden the next day – fully clothed this time to hide the angry rash across his chest – he turns on the hose only to discover it’s turned into a sprinkler overnight. The damn cat’s been chewing on it.

That’s when he decides enough is enough.

If the cat really doesn’t belong to Oscar, then Oscar shouldn’t mind Carlos catching it and dropping it off at the nearest animal shelter.

So Carlos devises a plan.

You catch more flies with honey, and you catch more cats with milk, he thinks, as he places a little dish of cream out on the terrace. Rich, full-fat cream – probably the finest thing the cat’s ever tasted.

Trap set, he retreats into a shady corner behind his morning glories, net at the ready, and waits.

The cat… is nowhere to be seen. Not in the first hour. Not in the second. Not in the third. After three hours of crouching, Carlos’s back is sore on top of his chest, and he gives up. He sets the net down and slips through the open terrace door into the kitchen.

That’s when he sees the orange monster sitting on the counter, teeth sunk into his $200 leg of jamón ibérico.

“Ayayayayay!” he shouts, clapping his hands in frustration, but the cat just gives him the same unimpressed look its alleged owner would. Only when Carlos circles the kitchen island, getting close, does the damn thing leap out of reach.

Carlos decides not to play his little games right now, and instead goes to inspect the damage done to his jamón.

“You really are a pest,” he mutters, grabbing the sharp knife on the counter to cut away the gnawed-on parts. “Did you not see the cream I put out for you?”

He turns, finding the cat sitting on his kitchen island – out of reach, but otherwise unafraid, even though Carlos is holding a big knife in his hand. There’s a vase full of fresh flowers from Carlos’s garden right next to the orange monster, so he hopes the cat isn’t clumsy.

He sighs and tosses the contaminated pieces of jamón onto the island. He’s not going to eat that, but just throwing it away feels wrong too.

“I see you’ve got expensive taste,” Carlos says, watching the cat dive into the scraps. “At least you have taste, unlike your owner…”

The cat glances up, licking his lips, and Carlos can’t help but snort.

“Seriously. You look exactly like him.”

“Meow,” says the cat, and Carlos swears it has an Australian twang. Another snort escapes him.

“Don’t know why he denies any and all connection to you,” Carlos rambles, like an idiot chatting with his nemesis in feline form as he cuts another piece from his $200 pig leg. “You’re kinda cute. For a cat, I mean. When you’re not actively ruining my life.”

The cat responds with another twangy “Meow,” and Carlos tosses it the fresh slice.

“Look at you!” he says. “You’re almost more talkative than your owner!”

“Meow.”

“Or maybe not. Can you say more than one meow in a row?”

“Meow.”

“Hm.” Carlos slices another bit of jamón, holding it up. “How about now?”

The cat falls completely silent, fixing Carlos with a dangerous look.

“Come on! Meow-meow. Not that hard, see? Then you get this.” He waves the jamón and mouths, “Me-ow, me-ow!”

Very, very slowly, the cat lifts a paw and touches the vase of flowers.

“Don’t you dare!”

The vase scoots an inch closer to the edge.

“I’m serious!” Carlos warns, but apparently, so is the cat, because the vase keeps inching.

Before it can end in disaster, Carlos throws the piece of jamón onto the counter, sighing in relief as the cat leaves the vase alone and devours its prize with a smug look on his face.

“You drive a hard bargain,” Carlos mutters. “Honestly, I didn’t think cats were this intelligent.”

“Meow,” says the cat smugly.

“Too bad you use your intelligence for evil.” Carlos grabs the plastic wrap on the counter and seals up the exposed side of the jamón. “That’s enough for now. Your owner will be very cross with me if I upset your little tummy.”

The cat scoffs, but doesn’t beg for more. He simply turns, jumps off the island, and deliberately hits the vase with a back paw mid-jump, sending it crashing to the floor. The cat is out of the open terrace door before Carlos can decide to throw his big knife at him.

Mission Animal Shelter: failed. But at least Carlos is sure of one thing – he still really, really hates that cat. For a moment there, he had almost started to warm up to it.

****

Carlos makes the mistake of leaving the window open while making pancakes the next morning.

Just as he’s sliding the last one onto the plate, he looks up, and there’s the cat, perched on the windowsill like Carlos hadn’t spent the night dreaming about skinning it alive.

“Ay!” he barks, quickly scanning the room for anything breakable. Unfortunately, there are a lot of flower-filled vases. “Did you come to break more of my things?”

“Meow,” the cat replies. Not a clear confirmation or denial. Carlos hopes it is the latter and sits at the kitchen island.

The cat hops down from the windowsill, onto the counter, then to the floor, and finally onto the empty stool beside Carlos, staring up at him expectantly.

“I’m not feeding you any more of my jamón after you broke my vase yesterday,” Carlos informs him, still bitter.

The cat simply blinks at him – or, more accurately, at the rolled-up pancake in Carlos’s hand.

“This?” Carlos asks, unrolling the pancake for the cat to get a better look. “You want some pancake?” He tears off a small piece and offers it to the cat, who eats it from his hand without hesitation. The whiskers tickle his palm, and the nose is cold and wet.

Carlos stands up and grabs a plate for his guest. Because. Well. He’s already talking to the damn thing, isn’t he? Doesn’t get much more idiotic than that. Besides, it’s kind of nice to have company.

The cat looks down at the pancake on the plate Carlos sets in front of him, then back up at Carlos, as if waiting for something.

“What?” Carlos asks. “Surely you don’t eat with a fork and knife!”

“Meow,” the cat says sarcastically.

“What then – toppings? Are you seriously demanding toppings?”

“Meow,” the cat confirms, and for a moment Carlos wonders if he should talk to someone about his delusions.

“I usually just eat them plain,” Carlos says, turning to rummage through his cabinets, looking for something a person without taste might like on their pancakes. “So I’m not sure I have any – oh! How about this?”

He pulls an unopened jar of Nutella from the depths of the cabinet and presents it to the cat like a waiter offering a fine bottle of wine.

“Meow meow!” the cat says enthusiastically, which shocks Carlos so much he nearly drops the jar.

“Okay, but – wait a minute! Let me google something first,” Carlos says, fishing his phone from his pocket and quickly searching whether cats can have Nutella.

“Oh,” he mutters, disappointed, when the answer is a very clear no. “Sorry, buddy, but I can’t give you this. It’s actually toxic for you.”

The cat, who just moments ago had been acting like his best friend, now hisses at him.

“Look, I’m not going to poison you!” Carlos insists. “Not just because I wouldn’t put it past your owner to take revenge, but also because I don’t want to find your diarrhea all over my precious flowers!”

Clearly, that mature reasoning and responsible decision-making displeases the cat, because it hisses again, grabs the pancake in his mouth like a dead mouse, and knocks the plate off the counter for good measure. Then he bolts, disappearing out the open window while Carlos just sighs and grabs the broom to sweep the shattered pieces off the floor.

****

“Oscar.”

“Carlos,” Oscar replies from half inside a blueberry bush.

“Can I give your cat a little bit of chocolate?”

Oscar goes still for a moment, then pokes his head out of the bush, eyebrows raised high.

“Still not my cat, mate,” he says. Carlos waits, just stares back, until Oscar returns to his berry-picking, half-disappearing into the bush again. Carlos waits some more until finally, from deep within the leaves, comes, “I’m sure it’s fine.”

“Uh-huh,” Carlos says.

“I read somewhere cats are smart enough not to poison themselves with food they can’t tolerate,” Oscar elaborates, voice muffled by foliage. “So if it eats your chocolate, it’ll probably survive. Not that I care, because it’s not my cat.”

“Sure, Oscar. Thank you, Oscar,” Carlos says, feeling bold enough to decorate his words with a big smile, knowing Oscar’s too deep in the bush to see it. He turns to leave but stops. On a sudden whim, he picks one of the blue cornflowers growing in a small flowerbed bordering the wall and leaves it on top for Oscar to find.

****

The cat returns the next morning. Eats three pancakes with Nutella and doesn’t die.

When Carlos heads out to water his plants later, Oscar isn’t around – but a small basket full of blueberries waits for him on the little wall between their houses.

Carlos eats them wrapped in the rest of his pancakes and admits that some toppings actually taste good.

****

A week passes, and the cat becomes a regular guest in Carlos’s house.

It’s a problem. Kind of. Even though the more Carlos does what the cat wants, the less likely it is to break anything.

What’s a problem is the damn hair! Carlos finds it everywhere – he’s even spotted some stuck to his precious jamón iberico, and he doesn’t even want to know how much fur he’s accidentally eaten. Sometimes he starts imagining a hairball forming in his throat and gets all nauseous.

So when he spots Oscar’s ass sticking up over the little wall, bent over his lettuce patch, Carlos quickly jogs over to bombard him with more cat-related questions.

“What, Carlos?” Oscar asks before Carlos can even say a word. He seems busy putting up snail collars and doesn’t straighten up.

“There are cat hairs everywhere in my house!” Carlos complains to Oscar’s ass, which, now that he’s so directly faced with it, is a pretty nice ass, he must admit.

“And why is that?”

“Because your cat keeps visiting me and doesn’t understand the concept of cat-free zones!”

“Not my cat,” Oscar says, predictably.

“You should see my couch!” Carlos continues, hopping up onto the little wall and letting his legs dangle from Oscar’s side. “He napped on it the other day, and now my brown couch is orange!”

Oscar leaves the snail collars and finally straightens, crossing his arms as he faces Carlos. “Really?” he says. “You feed the cat, and now you let it sleep in your house? Are you sure it’s not your cat?”

Carlos hesitates.

“I don’t even know his name,” he mutters, brow furrowing.

“Uh-huh.” Oscar doesn’t look like he’s about to volunteer that information.

“Do I just give him one?”

“That’s usually how it works when you get a cat, mate.”

“Hm…” Carlos strains his brain trying to come up with a suitable name, but comes up empty. So he just sits and watches as Oscar goes back to work, legs still swinging off the wall.

“You’re still here,” Oscar points out once he’s done with the snail collars and sees Carlos still sitting there, staring at his… garden.

Carlos might have gotten a little distracted from brainstorming cat names.

“Yes,” he says, scratching his chin like he’s been in deep thought all along. “Hey, can I name the cat Oscar? He looks exactly like you. I don’t think any other name would suit him.”

“You can name it whatever you want, mate,” Oscar replies, completely unbothered. “It’s your cat.”

“Okay.” Carlos nods, satisfied. “And what do I do about the hair?”

Oscar gives a sigh so long, Carlos is surprised he hasn’t consulted his invisible watch and ran away yet.

“I don’t know, mate,” he says. “Brush it?”

“Brush it!” Carlos repeats, lighting up. Then he jumps off the low wall, jogging back toward his house with a quick, “Thank you, Oscar!” tossed over his shoulder. As he passes his bed of impressive gladiolus flowers, he pauses. Thinks. Swerves to detour into his garden shed and retrieve a pair of pruning shears, clips three of the most beautiful blooms, and puts them in a tall vase the cat hasn’t managed to knock over yet.

Oscar has moved on to his radishes by the time Carlos returns with the impromptu bouquet.

“Here,” Carlos says, placing the vase on the little stone wall between their gardens. “For sharing your cat with me.”

Oscar, for once, doesn’t manage to get out one of his signature sarcastic comments before Carlos turns and heads back inside.

****

He orders a special cat brush online. It looks strange – square, with little wiry hooks that don’t exactly look comfortable, but the website claims it has a massaging effect, so Carlos hopes the cat won’t hold it against him.

Carlos doesn’t end up naming the cat ‘Oscar’. Well, he does for one evening. But when he tells Lando on the phone that he can’t move because Oscar is asleep in his lap, the teasing is so relentless he decides the risk of confusion just isn’t worth it.

He lands on ‘Oscat’ instead. Still fitting, but clearer.

Oscat loves the brush.

Carlos hears him purr for the first time and is so startled, he nearly drops the damn thing. He knows cats purr, obviously, but he’s never had one do it in his lap – the vibrations are crazy, and it’s way louder than expected. Like the cat has his own little engine.

Carlos likes engines.

He sends a selfie of himself with Oscat in his lap to Lando, just to prove that the cat is real and that he is not cozying up with the terrible neighbor he used to complain about daily.

Though honestly, Oscar hasn’t been that terrible lately. He even smiles now when he sees Carlos step into the garden. Most days, there’s a little container of berries, herbs, or veggies left by Carlos’s door or on the wall between their gardens.

Sometimes, the cat sits next to the container, as if he brought it himself, and walks right into Carlos’s house as soon as the door opens, like he owns the place.

Carlos’s phone pings. Lando has responded to his selfie with a flood of “My dad with the cat he didn’t want” memes. Carlos rolls his eyes, puts the phone down, and refocuses on brushing the purring cat in his lap.

****

“So, Oscar…” Carlos begins, the moment Oscar steps through his terrace doors, carrying a large bag of fertilizer. Carlos is already waiting, seated on the stone wall.

“Carlos,” Oscar replies evenly, though he’s smiling again. Carlos still isn’t used to that. He momentarily forgets what he meant to say.

It’s not until Oscar is right in front of him that Carlos remembers his question.

“Are you really serious when you say Oscat doesn’t belong to you?”

Oscar rolls his eyes dramatically. “Wow. And here I thought it had finally sunk into that thick skull of yours.”

“It’s just…” Carlos cuts in before Oscar can continue mocking him. “I don’t really think he belongs to me either, you know? I have no idea where he sleeps at night. He doesn’t eat the cat food I buy or use the litter box. He just comes over whenever he pleases, makes me fawn over him for an hour or two, then disappears again. Is that normal for cats?”

“Pretty much.” Oscar shrugs. “They’re independent. Maybe it has like four other people wrapped around its paws and just wanders from one house to the next. Maybe the other houses have better litter.”

Carlos is deeply displeased by that thought. He can live with sharing the cat with Oscar – but random strangers with superior litter boxes? No way!

“Well, how do I know he’s treated alright? Is he healthy? Is he getting all his shots? Can I just take him to the vet for a check-up, or will they discover some microchip inside him saying he belongs to some family with kids and take him away from me?”

Oscar must notice how serious Carlos is, because instead of making another joke, he just watches him quietly for a moment.

Then he puts the bag down and hops onto the stone wall beside Carlos, so close their shoulders are almost touching.

“I don’t think you need to worry about that cat, mate,” he says, staring straight ahead into his blueberry bush. “That thing eats, like, a jar of Nutella a day. You’d probably need a lab-made virus to take it down.”

“You really think so?”

“Yeah,” Oscar says, still not looking at him. For someone so nonchalant, he’s terrible at pretending to be nonchalant. “It’s probably just some stray who adopted you. Would likely scratch your eyes out if you tried to take it to the vet.”

Carlos thinks it over. Long enough that Oscar eventually turns and meets his eyes.

“Look – you said the cat’s smart, right? I’m sure it’d let you know if it needed help.”

Carlos just nods. He doesn’t really have any words right now. He’s never seen Oscar’s eyes from up close like this. Though he’s very familiar with another set of eyes, which have different shaped pupils, but are otherwise an exact replica.

When he returns to his side of the garden, he stops by the rose bushes, clips a single white bloom with pink edges, and places it on the stone wall between them.

****

Carlos Sainz Jr. loves his life – he has a job he likes, a close-knit group of friends, a cute little house with the most beautiful garden anyone’s ever laid eyes on, and a very opinionated pet who likes to spend the evenings sprawled across his lap, purring like a helicopter about to lift off.

All in all, it’s almost perfect.

With one notable exception.

He’s pretty sure he’s developed feelings for his terrible, tasteless, snarky nightmare of a neighbor, and he has no idea what to do about it.

“Oscat…” Carlos murmurs, his voice barely audible over the purring. He’s lounging in a garden chair, one hand around a glass of wine, the other sunk into the cat’s fur. The cat still hears him, lifting his head and blinking his narrow, golden-brown eyes.

“Do you… do you think Oscar still hates me?”

The cat slow-blinks, then leans forward to gently bite Carlos’s finger.

“So… you think there’s a chance he might like me?”

“Meow meow meow!”

Carlos’s eyebrows shoot up. That is by far the most elaborate opinion Oscat has ever voiced about anything. He watches the cat try to act nonchalant by aggressively licking his paw.

“I’m pretty sure he thinks I’m ugly and annoying,” Carlos adds, almost to himself.

The cat scoffs. Scoffs!

And sure, Carlos is no expert on cats, but he’s been reading up a lot lately, and from all the knowledge he’s gathered, he’s pretty sure cats aren’t supposed to be this intelligent. Or able to hold up an entire conversation with a human being. Or eat jarsful of Nutella.

“So… if I walked over there right now, rang his doorbell, and asked him to join me for a glass of wine on my terrace… do you think he’d say yes?”

“Meow meow!” Oscat agrees enthusiastically.

Yeah. At the very least, cats shouldn’t be this sure about the answer some random human with their exact eyes, and exact looks, and exact accent would give about being asked out.

And maybe Carlos would not feel confident sharing his theory with another human soul, not even his closest friends, but… It just makes sense. It would explain why Oscar was always so adamant about how the cat doesn’t belong to him, and why he knew about the Nutella thing, and why he told Carlos not to take the cat to the vet. And why Carlos has never seen Oscar and Oscat at the same time. It would just… explain everything.

“Shit, I hope I’m not wrong about this,” Carlos mutters, setting down his wine.

Then, without warning, he grabs Oscat by the scruff and starts tickling the cat’s soft, white belly with his other hand.

Oscat wails. He curls into a croissant around Carlos’s hands – a sharp croissant with claws and fangs, but Carlos is determined, and Oscat’s hissing and wailing suddenly turns into squeaking and from there into high-pitched, breathless giggling.

It doesn’t happen gradually. There’s a big poof, and suddenly, Oscar the human is sitting in Carlos’s lap, face flushed right to the tips of his widow’s peaks, grabbing both of Carlos’s hands with his own, to stop the tickling.

For a long moment, they just stare at each other.

Then Oscar schools his expression into that trademark blank mask.

“Alright,” he says in the most flat, casual voice imaginable. “Congratulations. You got me.”

Carlos can feel a grin spreading so wide it makes his cheeks ache. “Hello, Oscar,” he says, as if Oscar has just walked out his terrace doors with a watering can instead of shape-shifted from a cat in his lap. “Would you like a glass of wine?”

“No,” Oscar says. “And for the record, I think you’re ugly and annoying.”

“And you,” Carlos laughs, “are a compulsive liar.”

Oscar shrugs. “Cats aren’t exactly known for their moral integrity.”

“So… is that a yes to the wine?”

Oscar glances down at where he’s straddling Carlos in the garden chair, still holding his wrists. “Are you going to offer me a chair first?”

“Hm…” Carlos says, still smiling. “No. I don’t think I will.”

“Want me to turn back into a cat?”

“Absolutely not!” Carlos laughs, freeing his wrists so he can wrap his arms around Oscar’s waist, making it abundantly clear how he’d prefer Oscar to stay.

Oscar’s face, which had begun to lose its flush, turns red all over again.

“Oh. Okay.”

“Okay?” Carlos asks, leaning in just enough to make his intentions clear.

Oscar doesn’t need more than that. He meets him halfway, all that fake nonchalance flying right out the window. He kisses like a guy who’d take any excuse to not have to explain why he was just being a cat purring in Carlos’s lap a minute ago, and he has obviously never heard of the concept of chapstick in his life. Despite all that, Carlos can’t get enough of him. The sharp edges have always been the most intriguing thing about Oscar anyway.

They don’t take a break until ten minutes later, when Carlos pulls back, breathless, to inform him, “If you ever shit on my flowers again, I’m taking you straight to the vet!”

Oscar just giggles, high and embarrassed, and kisses him again without even trying to come up with a snarky answer.

Except two seconds later Carlos hears the wine glass shattering on his terrace tiles.

Ah, well.

They’ll just have to drink from plastic cups from now on.

su bebida……..

Can we take a moment to appreciate the F1 RPF fandom is up to 50k works on ao3 (including archive locked works)? Like that takes dedication as a fandom.

Hooray for all the writers and artists 🎉