Chapter Text
You heard it here first, folks. Carlos Sainz Jr. hates London. So gray and lifeless. The memory of the sweet sunshine of his childhood summers on Mallorca runs through his body like a nerve shock as soon as he steps off the jet, then fades just as fast.
With the cold nipping at his chin, Carlos pulls his scarf further up his face and braces, dragging his luggage across the tarmac. His assistant, Lucía, follows behind, the only person transferring with him, but he just offers a half-hearted sí to every itinerary item she lists off.
"Well," she finally stops the both of them. "Adios, Carlos. ¿Hasta mañana, si?"
"Aye, sí. Thank you for always figuring everything out."
She just smiles, red lipstick quirked perfectly, and turns away.
He hops into the car waiting for him and lets himself decompress as the London skyline slowly comes into view. He had the perfect plan. Check in, go upstairs and sleep for 12 hours, wake up and order room service, and pretend to get sick so he didn't have to go to that dinner tomorrow.
Basically, he was going to hide all day. It was perfect.
The car pulls into the driveway of his new building, and the door is opened for him. The concierge help with the massive amounts of luggage while Carlos confirms with his driver his pickup time for tomorrow.
The place is deserted, save a lonely drunk businessman and his agreeable mistress, her laughing ringing in the air of the lobby. A building like this is a lot like a hotel, Carlos had been told. In fact, this one, according to his assistant, is a hotel that takes long-term residents as renters.
Considering it's 1:30 in the morning, all Carlos wants to do is collapse into his bed, so he spends a very short time checking in with a very helpful woman at the front desk and allows the concierge to bring his luggage up with him to his room.
He doesn't even brush his teeth, and is asleep before his head hits the pillow.
Carlos' next day goes exactly according to plan. He holes up in his new flat, ordered room service every few hours, and pretends to be deep in preparation for his start next week when his father calls.
Of course, he has that stupid dinner thing at 6:00 (Damn these English and their early dinners), so he does eventually have to shower and slink out of the room in a nice linen shirt and some slacks.
The lift is a glass compartment on the outer side of the building, revealing the damp streets below which have already dissolved into darkness. The warm light of the lift reflects strongly against the deep blue of the approaching night.
He has a few minutes before his car comes, so he goes to the front desk to ask about dry cleaning turnaround, but there's a different person sitting there, a young-looking, pale, brunette man in a crisp, white button up with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
He's bent over the computer, one arm propped up on his desk, seemingly puzzling over something on the screen. Carlos clears his throat, and the man looks up, slightly startled, but quickly recovers.
"Ah, sorry, good evening," Brilliant bright brown eyes stare into Carlos' own. "How can I assist you?"
Carlos is, inexplicably, caught completely off guard. He catalogs the soft waves surrounding the man's face, the moles dotting his skin, then finally clears his throat as the man raises a brow.
"Ah, dry cleaning."
The man tilts his head. "Do you have something needing to be dry cleaned?"
Carlos just stares at him. His accent isn't English. The man waits a few moments, then clears his own throat and pushes on. "Well, I can schedule collection for tomorrow morning. They will usually come before ten, and the clothes will be back by the afternoon."
Carlos forces himself to focus through whatever sudden mind-fog he's experiencing at the hands of the universe's terrible timing. "Great."
"Right, well, I will send up an instructional card for the dry cleaning, but you're just to put everything into one of the provided garment bags.
"Great."
The man types something into his computer, smiling to himself, before glancing back up at a lingering Carlos.
"You're new here, aren't you?"
Carlos feels heat creeping up his neck, but he leans onto the counter with a sheepish smile. "Is it obvious?"
"Just a bit. I'm Oscar, by the way. I work from one to eleven."
"Carlos."
"I know," comes the quick reply.
Carlos' eyes widen. "How?"
"That is my job, Mr. Sainz. To make your move and time with us as smooth as possible."
Oscar smiled again, and Carlos' own grin falls, which he covers for by checking his watch rather than admitting he's getting this weird feeling in his stomach from seeing Oscar's bunny teeth on display.
"Business?"
"Ah, yes, unfortunately."
"Well, I won't keep you. Oh, pero, una cosa más."
Carlos completely stops in his tracks.
"Si quieres, te dejo las instrucciones en español."
Oscar looks up at him, face blank and expectant.
Carlos coughs. "¿Perdón?"
"En Español."
Carlos keeps staring. The thing is, it's a high-end enough building for it to be not all too surprising, but Oscar has a fucking perfect accent, like a natural speaker. "Hablas español."
Oscar nods politely. "Sí."
There's a long pause. Then Oscar's expression shift, doubtful for a moment before he speaks once more. "Parecía que echabas de menos Madrid."
And, okay, wow. It looked like you missed Madrid.
God, Carlos himself hasn't even confronted the homesickness yet. No one in the entire company, including his father, has asked him about what he thinks of leaving. Yet, here this Australian stranger is, completely taking his guard down with one sentence. He forces himself to respond, mind still reeling. "Sí. Bueno. I- I have to go."
"Of course, have a good evening."
"Right, yeah."
Carlos turns away quickly, almost running to the car, away from the warmth and unfamiliarity of the building's lobby. Away from the strange Australian man and his unbearably magnetic voice. Back to the safety of business meetings and bureaucracy.
Yet as the car pulls away with him in the back seat, he can't help but look back, eyes tracking the building until it's out of sight.
What just happened?