Chapter Text
Lights flashed and camera shutters filled the entire room. Oscar Piastri was no stranger to the constant lens aimed at him, however, this time, no one paid him heed. Rather, this time, no one knew he was there, carefully hidden by the darkness of the studio behind the thick canopy of cameras and crew.
Carlos Sainz stood at the center of all eyes. The Chief Photographer yelled a command in, what Oscar would guess as, Italian. The man arched his neck to look up, his Adam’s apple exposed. He lowered his eyes, and this added his own personal touch to the new pose. Oscar caught the middle-aged photographer whispering a ‘Perfetto’ under his breath as the camera shutters chirped like rustling leaves. He turned his gaze towards the man being dissected.
Carlos Sainz was a lean man with full lips and irrefutable grace; virtue of being one of the most well-known models of the country. His combed hair stuck out in places to maintain its fluffy appearance. His most distracting features, Oscar concluded, were his big, dark brown eyes hooded by his almost seductively long eyelashes. A thin white shirt, buttoned up halfway, exposing a glimpse of his collarbones, hugged his body. The button-up technique, which would’ve obviously looked ludicrous on any other person, highlighted the man’s tan impressively. Oscar may not know much about modelling, but he appreciated expertise when he saw it.
He glanced at his watch. An hour drive and fifteen minutes in a studio spent on a PR decision his team made which had no certain trajectory, but had the potential to go more horrible than a car breaking down every last lap. Tom had reinstated that it was more of a financial decision, which could “boost team morale, social media success, luring in fans by providing them with Oscar Piastri’s personal life without providing them with Oscar Piastri’s personal life”. The last part was all bullshit, he knew. But the decision had more visible pros than cons, so he had no choice but to agree.
Oscar Piastri looked up again. However, this time his eyes directly met the Spaniard. His head was tilted and his lips housed an almost-pout that made his softer features come out. Yet, his eyes were sharp, with a teasing edge to it. He looked objectively pretty.
Oscar, who realized his prolonged staring was getting awkward, tore away his gaze.
“And, that’s a wrap! Thank you, everyone.”
The crew scattered. The lights of the studio turned on. Oscar saw a few people crowding the Spaniard. The Chief photographer laughed out obnoxiously at something he said. And soon, before Oscar realized that he had not rehearsed what he would say to the man upon confronting him, Carlos made his way towards the Aussie.
“Oscar!” his accent was strong, his brown eyes large and animated, almost disconnected to the professional coldness he exuded mere minutes ago. “You’re Oscar, right?” A few heads turned. Oscar could make out a few people clicking photos from the corner of his eyes.
“Yes,” Oscar cleared his throat, “Tom told to take you to dinner.”
Carlos giggled, much like a child on helium. “I already had dinner. You’re late, handsome.”
The nickname caught him so off-guard that he shoved down the question of ‘When did you have time, it’s only six’ and almost scoffed.
“Well, Tom did contact me. We need to talk about the contract, no? Wanna come over to my place? I can cook.”
Carlos Sainz was one of the household names for modelling. Discovered as a child, supported by his father who was a two-time Oscar winning actor, in Oscar’s eyes, he was the son of a millionaire, born with a silver spoon. Oscar did have several pre-conceived notions about the Spaniard's personality. He had done his research since Tom told him about the proposal. Celebrated as the poster boy of many Spanish Fashion Magazines as a kid; did several model gigs as a teenager, and scored big with Ford Models. His instagram screamed of old money, lavish yachts and hotel rooms that could never be acquired from a Model’s salary. The media called him a ‘Nepo baby’ and directly confronted him in an interview. Oscar had almost choked on his spit at the blatantly rude question. Carlos Sainz, only sixteen, however, had laughed arrogantly and said he didn’t know what that meant but he was still the best in the country.
The elephant still lingered in the room. Sitting at Carlos’s table. He stabbed the pancake, suspiciously. Carlos sat opposite to him rested his chin over his fist. His hair held the same volume as it did in the studio, draping artfully over his forehead. His eyes drooped for a few minutes. He rested his head on his table for five minutes as Oscar chewed on the dough awkwardly. He couldn't see his face, but the way he crouched, arms around his stomach almost made him concerned. But just as Oscar was reaching to shake the man's shoulders, Carlos straightened his posture confidently. Like a flip of switch.
“So,” Carlos started, “Ask away, Mr. Piastri.”
Oscar picked up his fork again and chewed on the dough. Carlos had given him honey separately. They tasted delightfully bland. “Why me?”
Carlos’s steady gaze faltered for a second. It was the most obvious question. “Ah, I think you know Mr. Handsome.”
Oscar raised his eyebrows, as if saying ‘Really?’ with an unamused face.
Carlos laughed and then straightened his back. “Well, I needed to be out of Spain and McLaren needed my money. So, it’s a mutual decision, isn’t it?”
‘My money’ Oscar echoed in his mind. More like his Dad’s money. Oscar ignored the blatant vagueness of his answer, as he wasn’t interested in his reasons anymore. Tom had said it pretty simply, though: His dad was sick of him leeching off and wanted Carlos to be independent. McLaren was to practically babysit him during his contract.
“Moreover, you wouldn’t believe me if I said I was a huge fan of your driving now, would you?”
Right? He didn’t insult him with a reply.
“So, if we’re done with reasons. Let’s discuss the rules.”
They talked for hours. And Oscar realized that his initial assessment about Carlos Sainz being a brat was most certainly true. The Spaniard whined every the scheduling wasn’t his ideal or involved travelling to anywhere outside a one-hour drive from his apartment in London, but surprisingly didn’t push for a change. Tom had said that Carlos would be heavily involved in the content McLaren would post out. Occasionally, Carlos would ask him a deep question about F1 which would slightly catch him off-guard, but he shrugged it off.
Checking out the entire spreadsheet Tom had sent him, a notorious number of days included golfing, cycling and such stuff. His mind went back to the pictures of Carlos in a full cycling outfit on a bike with other people. Traversing through Madrid or Barcelona or wherever. He didn’t really care as long as it didn’t interfere with his training and driving.
The clock struck nine and Oscar made his way out of the apartment. Carlos stood at the door, with the same cheeky smile he threw in the studio. He rested one arm at the door frame, while the other at the knob. And when, with a sickly sweet smile said, “Thank you, Oscar” and “See you tomorrow”.
Oscar could only pray his decision of agreeing to this absurd proposition would not land him anywhere he’d regret.