The Last Lap

by alistairRy

Summary:

“I want to win, but I’d rather race because I love it, not because I want to win it,”

Almost halfway in the 2024 season; Charles and Carlos navigates through heightened tensions as teammates to have a chance at being a World Champion. And it's either race to win or race to race.

It's Sainz' last season in Ferrari. A fact that either breaks the tension or worsen it.

Chapter 1: Canada

“ Fuck! ” Charles punches the edge of the sink in the bathroom, his heart beating in his ears.

 

He knew it was coming, he knew this race was going wrong from the free practice alone, then came the atrocious qualifying where both him and Carlos were dropped. The last straw is a DNF right after a win in Monaco. He didn't even make it halfway through the race.

 

He could blame it on the Montreal weather, the car, the absolute trash of a strategy that his team worked with. But of course, Charles blames himself most.

 

A better driver could’ve handled the weather, the car and even make a shite strategy work somehow. He believed he just wasn't good enough. 

 

“ Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! ” He kept on with the sink, his hands absolutely numbing in pain.

 

“Charles,” Comes a voice muffled from outside the bathroom door. 

 

Charles smooths his hands on the edges of the sink like he was apologizing to it. He moves to splash his face with some cold water to calm himself before going out the door. Carlos stood there, arms crossed with a cautious but concerned squint in his eyes, lips forming a slight pout.

 

“You okay?” he asked and Charles merely sighed heavily and shrugged, “I'm the same as you are,” Charles responded with a slight shake of his head, completely resigned and slowly detaching. 

 

In a swift motion, Carlos reached for his hand, examining the reddened skin that was bruising up. Charles' brows frowned at the uninvited touch but didn't pull away.

 

“You know you can't drive with a broken hand,” Carlos said, letting his hand go and looking into his eyes to get his point across.

 

“I do not remember asking your opinion,” Charles remarked bitterly, his eyes locked with the other. Carlos put his hands up, barely touching the other on his arms “I don’t want you hurting yourself…” Carlos shut his eyes and took a breath in to compose himself. “Just calm yourself, Charles,” He said, 

 

“Oh, Calm myself? I got fucked over by literally every person in this team while you’re out there having a better run yet seemingly you just fuck it up over nothing and now you want to act like everything’s fine?” Charles couldn’t stop. 

 

“What.. You think Ferrari favors me? I’ve been the second driver my whole life Charles,” Carlos says, hurt audible in his voice.

 

“Well I can see why that is,” 

 

The moment Charles said it, he regretted it instantly. Carlos' jaw slackened in disbelief, He looked away from Charles and somewhat nodded in understanding. 

 

He sighed and walked away, leaving Charles to soak in regret. 

 

Charles rolled his eyes, disappointed in himself for losing his temper like that. But he was still on the verge of his emotions so there was nothing he could do once the words spilled out from his mouth.

 

~~~

 

On the plane back to Monaco, Charles eyes Carlos’ figure on a reclined seat with his back facing him. Carlos’ temple was resting on his knuckles, elbow propped up on the arm rest. Charles doesn’t know if he was asleep or not.

 

He considers if he should go over to him, apologize for their earlier interaction, but then he doesn’t want to disturb him. This weekend had been crushing to them both and to ferrari in itself as well. 

 

“Go..” Charles’ head snapped to the side, looking at Fred who’s on the seat across beside him, eyeing him knowingly.  Charles only frowned in confusion, also suspicious if Fred could somehow read his mind, overthinking then if he looked so obvious wanting to go over to where Carlos is.

 

“You two need each other… Especially in moments like this,” Fred encouraged and Charles looked down at his shoes, contemplating again before looking back to where Carlos is.

 

He spared Fred a nod before getting up from his seat, hesitating midway but managing to walk over to the empty seat directly facing Carlos. 

 

Carlos was in fact, not asleep. His eyes trailing Charles’ movements to sit down from the moment he appeared in his peripheral vision. He moved to sit properly, legs stretching and hands moving to his knees. He looked at Charles expectantly, lips pursed in anticipation.

 

Charles didn’t know how to proceed, he could barely look at Carlos directly.

 

“I want to… Apologize for what I said earlier.. In the bathroom,” He said, words not flowing as smoothly as he wanted. “I was upset, and I’m sure you are as well… But, as you know it, I do not handle it as well as you,” He confessed, managing to look into Carlos’ eyes as he said to, making sure the other knew that he was being serious.

 

Carlos breathed in, nodding way before Charles even finished his sentence, “It’s alright, I understand,” There’s a pause between them but they don’t seem to mind. Charles was thinking if Carlos really was willing to let it go this easily, or he was just too tired to accept more from Charles. 

 

“I don’t mean it, Carlos… What I said there I— I truly am sorry,”

 

Carlos gulped, nodding but not being able to look at the other.

 

“I don’t want us to part on our last season with something heavy like this…” Charles murmured, looking down on his hands as he picked at his nails.

 

Carlos frowned as he was reminded yet again of his soon departure from Ferrari. From Fred. From Charles. Opposite to what Charles seemed to want to achieve in this conversation, it all just made Carlos feel heavier inside.

 

“Me too,” Is all he could respond, managing to hold eye contact with the other. 

 

The rest of the flight was silent between them. Charles drifts off to sleep first, giving an opportunity for Carlos to look at him freely, Carlos thinks of other ways their conversation could’ve gone but all arriving at the same hopeless conclusion as this one. They finally land, Carlos getting just enough of a 3 hour sleep.

 

The two didn’t speak to each other the entire time they settled to land, Carlos only sparing Charles a nod as he got into his car to drive home.

 

Charles didn’t know what to expect. Of course one apology wouldn’t ease everything. He wasn’t gonna delude himself that he cannot feel Carlos’ personal detachment to him now. But boy, does it sting. 

 

He couldn’t believe he said those things. He already knew that Carlos believed it, everyone believed it. Carlos is the second driver. But it doesn’t mean he’s worse than Charles. He regarded him as the smartest man on the grid and even the pit, he comes up with strategies of his own rather than relying fully on the team given that Ferrari’s strategies are usually trash. He rebels most times because he can’t fully depend on the team. Charles is faster. But that’s just it. And being the fastest alone does not mean you’re a good driver. To him, Carlos is the better driver.

 

And maybe— God , maybe if he said these things on the plane they’d be on much better terms by now. 

 

Charles was knocked off from his train of thought when he sees his car being driven to him by a valet, he thanks the man and loads his things up and drives off. 

 

He didn’t have music on, punishing himself this way, so he could be alone with his thoughts that torments him. That, along with the Monaco scenery that he’s missed over the weekend.

 

Then he gets back with his thoughts once again.

 

He thinks about Carlos; this is the last season of them being teammates. He thinks back to the earlier grand prix here in Monaco, how he thought that there was no way Carlos was going to sit out the next season. But after what happened in Montreal, he might have changed his mind. He never really got to discuss this with Carlos because, well… Why would he? It’s not like they get on that deeply to talk about Carlos’ future. Their friendship was talks about formula 1 and the mutual disdain for Ferrari from time to time. It never really got too deep.

 

The farthest Carlos might’ve seen through Charles would be when they both got very drunk after a double podium in Singapore back in 2022. They were both too drunk to drive back to their hotel that they needed to be taken care of by Diego, their chief mechanic. They giggled at the back of his car, mocking him and even letting out a few jokes aimed at the management of the team. Diego didn’t take it to heart, the mature 48 year old that he is, dropping them off by the hotel and even going as far as walking them to their rooms.

 

Although, Charles was too drunk that Diego couldn’t even walk him to his respective room and just dropped him off at Sainz’. 

 

Intoxicated and tired, the two only managed to tumble to the bed, both staring at the ceiling.

 

At that time, they were comfortable, P2 and P3, their run had been decent. The ceiling spun in their eyes, the ceiling light looking bright despite it not being lit. 

 

“I do not like being drunk… Not at all,” Charles says, breaking the comfortable silence.

 

Carlos chuckled at that, “We all say that.. But, when we’re happy, we end up drinking anyway,” 

 

“I think that is like me, with racing,” Charles said it with admission. Carlos could feel that it came from somewhere deep, and he rarely gets to see Charles pulling things from within him.

 

Carlos turned to his side to get a better look at Charles, and he sort of regretted the movement because if talked to him like this it would all feel too personal, but it’s too late, “You’re saying there are times you do not like racing?”

 

Charles mimicked Carlos’ position and turned to his side as well, now they’re facing each other, “Sometimes, I hate racing,” 

 

There’s a frown that formed on Carlos’ brow, “Why is that?”

 

Charles’ looked to the side, forming his answer, a fond and seemingly shy smile formed on his lips as he looks at Carlos, “I love racing, it’s been my entire life,” he says, then slowly his smile drops, “But racing doesn’t seem to love me back, not as much as I love it,” 

 

Carlos felt like he was sobering up the more Charles talks.

 

“It’s frustrating, no? The one thing you’re good at, the one thing you love doing, and you just never seem to be good enough for it,” Charles adds, not being able to look at Carlos as he does so.

 

Carlos frowned, “Is it because you didn’t win it?” 

 

Charles didn’t answer, and still didn’t look at Carlos.

 

After a while, Charles rolls back on his back, looking at the ceiling. “I always get so close to winning, it’s torture seeing it dangle in front and I cannot even reach high enough for it… Or maybe I’m not fast enough to chase it,”

 

There was a brief silence then, until Carlos speaks up.

 

“Then I think It’s winning that you love… Not racing” 

 

Charles looks at Carlos. “Don’t you love winning?”

 

“I want to win, but I’d rather race because I love it, not because I want to win it,” 

 

~~~

 

Carlos makes a half-assed jamon sandwich that he throws in the oven to crisp up. On the television mounted to the wall was the replay of the Montreal grand prix. The commentating was in Spanish. He makes himself coffee despite it being 9 PM.

 

The oven dings.

 

And so does his doorbell.

Chapter 2: Post-Canada

Summary:

“Got no room in your multi million apartment to walk in, cabron?”

“Charles,” Carlos is dumbfounded, staring at the man at his door. He doesn’t know what to say, it was late and obviously did not expect guests at this hour. He seemed to overthink what he was wearing at the moment but he was fine

 

Charles was wearing a cap, the same clothes he had on the plane and car keys in his hand. He looked about just as confused as Carlos was. It was like he was just realizing that he was actually there at Carlos' doorstep.

 

“I—” Charles started but he didn’t know how to continue.

 

Awkwardly, he gently shoulders his way inside, passing Carlos who was starting to have a credulous look by the second. It took Carlos a few seconds to realize that Charles actually made his way inside. He shook his head confused as he closed the door.

 

When Carlos looked back, Charles was pacing in the hallway. 

 

“Got no room in your multi million apartment to walk in, cabron?” Carlos asked, humor in his tone, masking how worried he’s actually getting. 

 

Charles spared him a look then stopped in his steps. He took a breath in and out before making his way towards Carlos who took half a step back in caution.

 

“Charles-”

 

“I do love racing,” Charles states like he was defending himself. Carlos only looked even more confused and more worried. “I love racing more than anything, you have no right to tell me otherwise,” Charles was spouting words that wouldn’t connect to anything, at this point he was trying to start a fight. Why? He doesn’t even fucking know. But then, Carlos realizes what he was referencing.

 

“So?” Carlos retorts, matching Charles’ tone. “You love racing,” He states like he was expecting more from it, this is when Carlos gets a hint of what was happening. Charles wants to fight. “You love racing until you start losing at it,” He added. 

 

Carlos knew Charles more than anyone else. He couldn’t take the hurt of being dismissed by Carlos, he needed Carlos to hurt him so he wouldn’t feel as shitty about himself and what he’s done. He wanted Carlos to be deserving of what he said in the bathroom. 

 

The question was, why was Carlos playing along with it despite knowing all these?

 

It is simply because Carlos is strong. He couldn’t care less about what Charles worries about. Carlos brushes off the comments because he’s heard them a hundred times. He’s numb to it at this point. If Charles can’t stand Carlos being cross with him, it means he’s sensitive, he’s weak. He needs Carlos and he’ll never admit it.

 

“Well, nobody likes losing,” Charles states matter-of-factly. Carlos stands his ground, pushing forward slightly but Charles does not move which leads their proximity closer.

 

“Why are you here, Charles?” Carlos asked, voice low as a whisper. Eyes intending to pull the answer out of him. “What do you want from me?”

 

“Want from you?” Charles asked with his voice barely above a whisper, now falling in a daze.

 

Charles' eyes wander on Carlos’ face. Eyes briefly dipping to gaze at his lips before meeting his eyes once again. Carlos’ brow twitched upwards when he noticed this, licking his lips which prompted Charles' eyes to glance at them once again, a second longer this time.

 

Charles blinked, pushing Carlos away which led the man to hit his back against the wall. Carlos found it amusing, it seems like he won whatever exchange they had. 

 

“Oh, Charles,” Both men snapped their heads to look at the end of the hallway. Rebecca stood there, clothes comfortable, and hair messy but in a way that it still sat neatly on her shoulders. She looked unsure if she should approach them, partly because she's not quite close with Charles, also because she wasn’t really looking presentable for a guest, but more so because she could feel the tension and it’s not clear if it’s aggressive or just awkward.

 

“Ah… Hello,” Charles said with a nod, composing himself discreetly, sneaking a glance at Carlos who was still looking at Rebecca, seemingly relaxed now as his shoulders dropped slightly.

 

“Yeah, Charles was just… Erm,” Carlos tried, motioning with his hand but not coming up with anything.

 

“Leaving…” Charles finished for him, looking at him knowingly, then he nodded to himself, “I was just leaving,” He emphasized, taking a step back, hands entering his pockets.

 

“Oh… Alright then,” Rebecca nodded, smiling politely. 

 

But Charles lingers, steps hesitant.

 

“I’ll see him out,” Carlos announces, Charles didn’t look back but he felt the other’s figure right behind him, he slowed his steps purposely to let the man catch up.

 

Once they arrive outside the door, Carlos lingers behind, so Charles turns around but not able to meet his eyes.

 

“Charles,” Sainz’ calls out to remind him he’s still there. Charles only shook his head, like he’s denying his presence. “ Charles ,” he calls again and this time Charles looks at him.

 

Carlos is looking at him like he knows him. Charles felt so seen, he felt witnessed . “It was just a bad race,” Charles says, like he’s owning up to something. “It was,” Carlos responded, tone low like he didn’t want anyone to hear him but Charles.

 

“I will do better,” Charles swore, he was determined. Eyes bore into Carlos’, wanting him to know he means it. And Carlos knows, he always does. “You will,” Carlos agreed.

 

It wasn’t enough, Charles still lingers there like he was expecting something more. But when Carlos didn't say anything further, he forcefully closed his eyes realizing how much of an idiot he felt at the moment. He had to force himself to walk away back to his car.

 

All while Carlos forces himself to stay right where he was.

 

~~~

 

The moment Charles walks right into his apartment, he is greeted by Leo, jumping up and about, trying to claw his way up Charles’ leg. He picked him up and coddled him to his chest, trying to avoid Leo licking his face. He’s giggling as he does so, cooing at the pup how much he missed him.

 

“You’re back,” Alex says leaning her side on the wall, looking at him ever so fondly.

 

“Happy birthday, my love,” he greets in a sweet tone, coming up to kiss her on the cheek, “Or should I just say, belated happy birthday?” He teases and Alex playfully hits him on the shoulder, prompting Leo to lick at her face as she gets close which made her giggle.

 

“I assume you’re tired from the travel, go wash up and get some rest,” She says, taking Leo from his arms and was about to walk away. Charles, however, places his hands on her waist to keep her there, hugging her from behind. 

 

She stays put then, indulging in his presence.

 

“I’m home,” Charles whispers and she reaches back to pet his hair, “Welcome home, Charles,” She says in the same tone.

 

Charles didn’t allow himself to think of Carlos then.

 

~~~

 

When Charles left, Carlos acted as if he was never there. He retrieved his jamon sandwich from the oven and headed for the couch to continue watching the race replay. 

 

That is when Rebecca came to sit beside him. He leaned his left arm to welcome her presence as she snuggled up to his side.

 

“What did Charles come here for?” She asked first and foremost. Carlos frowned at the television like he was recalling if Charles ever went there in the first place when it was only a few minutes since he left. 

 

“We got into a bit of an argument before and… Well, he came to apologize,” He lied. Well, half of it was true anyway.

 

Rebecca lifted her head to look at him and smiled, “How sweet of him,” she said before laying her head on his chest once again.

 

They continued to talk more about the race that happened, Rebecca expressing her sympathy for how the weekend went. Carlos vowing for it to get better soon. 

 

Carlos thought of Charles the entire time.

Notes:

Did I say this was a slow burn? Because this is a slow burn.

Next chapter will probably be until the next race or after something significant event that will happen within this week. (You'll never know, maybe I'll strike up a background story filler chapter which I'm actually very tempted to do.)

Chapter 3: Legacy and Prodigy

Charles Leclerc was not born a winner. But the moment he decided he was— was when he was 5 years old.

 

His father once told him of his life in racing. The one true love he let get away. He could claim it’s in his blood to breathe the air in a track, to hold a steering wheel like it was an extension of himself. He could be what his father never was. 

 

He started dominating in karting, one of the best in Monaco, in the world. He felt the bubbling rage within himself when he would lose or fail at achieving his self established expectation before he even learned addition and subtraction. 

 

Him and his father would try not to smile when they notice a grand prix team scout eyeing him after a successful race. He was a goddamn prodigy, his name was a mournful sigh to the other kids on track, a giddy whisper to the spectators, and music to his ears whenever the announcer said it along with the word “ winner ”. 

 

The trophies felt like prophecies on his hands, the podium a rightful place under his feet. 

 

And he kept chasing after it. Feeling more parched after every win that he thirsts for more. The spectacle of victory was his home and he won’t recognize himself without it. 

 

When he was 15, he was sent in for media training, they asked him, “You’re starting on pole but your teammate is fighting for the title, what would you do?” He tilted his head.

 

“I race to win,” he answered with no hesitation. His brows were slightly raised, like he just did not have any other answer for it. Wasn’t it the only answer? How else would any other driver respond to that? A few people in the room looked at each other like he said something terrifying. Frowns and wide eye expressions that itched through Charles’ neck that he felt bothered. Was that the wrong answer?

 

After the session, Charles couldn’t keep it in his system. He raced after the man who asked him, they ended up on a hallway, Charles looking slightly agitated. What was wrong with his answer?

 

“Oh no, I quite liked your answer, to be honest,” The journalist, Carlos Vanzini, told him, a satisfied smile on his face. 

 

Charles frowned deeper, “Then why did everyone act like I just threatened to kill somebody?” This made Vanzini chuckle a bit and patted him gently on the back. “Not everyone appreciates a prodigy who knows he’s a prodigy,” Charles immediately eased up at that. Shoulders dropping in understanding.

 

Then before Vanzini was about to walk away, Charles established one of the foundations of his growing image in his entire racing career. “By the way… Your question was wrong,” Vanzini’s brows raised at this. “Why’s that?”

 

 “There is no way that my teammate would be the one fighting for the title and not me,”

 

7 years after that interaction, Carlos Vanzini never forgot the look on 15 year old Charles. Small, lanky, Charles Leclerc whose eyes meant promises he intended to keep. Charles Leclerc whose ambitions weighed larger than he could ever be. 

 

Because 7 years after that, Charles Leclerc had his first win in his Rosso Corsa seat.

 

“ Il Predestinato ” he called him. The Predestined. 22 years old and a Prancing horse embedded on his chest. Vanzini could almost hear the angels singing among the prophets. Leclerc’s own foretelling was fulfilled.

 

“I signed with Ferrari, papa, ” Charles could recall whispering. 

 

 “There is no way that my teammate would be the one fighting for the title and not me,” 

 

And that teammate just so happens to be four time World Championship winner, Sebastian Vettel. It made everyone watching get chills down their back at the complete marvel of it all.

 

Charles remained as he was. Never satisfied, always hungry, always wanting more. The restless prodigy.

 

Charles, who broke up with his 4 year long girlfriend because he wanted to devote himself to Ferrari.

 

He just didn’t know when to stop bearing his teeth. He didn’t know the weight of his sacrifices. 

 

But it didn’t matter. The crowd didn’t look terrified when he stepped on the podium. This was not 7 years earlier when people feared how well he grasps his talent like a knife. The people celebrated him here, taking pride in him, charmed by him. Talent is feared before it is celebrated and Charles rose the trophy to the air because damn it, the people adored him now. 

 

Everyone had to raise their heads to look at him high up on the podium. 

 

Everyone including Carlos Sainz Jr. who suffered a DNF that race. 

 

It wasn't his first time seeing Charles on the podium. But this was the only time where something else seemed different that apparently he was the only one to take notice of. 

 

Charles seemed more restless than ever having his first win. It was odd to see how he looked like he was still chasing after something when standing on the podium. It’s different when he clinches a 3rd or a 2nd where he just seemed to be resigned or disappointed. You would think he’d look satisfied or relieved when finally getting a win. But he looks impatient. 

 

Carlos observed the man carefully. Arriving at 2 terrifying conclusions.

 

First was that Charles Leclerc was a young driver who was promised with the world at his feet. And it wouldn’t take very long until he makes it happen.

 

Second was that Carlos Sainz wanted to witness it all.

 

~~~

 

Carlos Sainz Jr. was born to race, and everyone knew of it. His father’s bedtime stories were of his moments on track in rallying. Staring at his trophies on the shelves in their homes like he was in a museum. 

 

The first time he got a kart, he cried. It was his father’s gift for his 7th birthday, that and a racing suit and a helmet. He drove around an empty parking lot for hours while wearing the entire set, he didn’t want to get out of it. 

 

In his first karting competition, his father made time just to watch. Carlos was smiling the entire time, his cheeks hurt from inside the helmet. He started from P19 to P14 and his father couldn’t be any more proud. His family celebrated that night while he stared at the shelves filled with his father’s awards. Someday, he’ll have his own.

 

It took 4 more karting competitions until Carlos finally got a hold of how he wanted to race. Developed from his habit of watching races, he began thinking from a broader perspective when he’s on track rather than focusing on overtaking whoever’s in front of him.

 

He took note of other driver’s habits and kept them in mind, he studied the map longer than anybody else, he visualized racing on the track before going to sleep. And from then on, he started consistently placing higher and higher and people slowly started to notice. 

 

“Mature beyond his years,” they would comment on his style. But at the same time, they understood. Because he’s Carlos Sainz Jr. the son of 2 time World Rally Champion, Carlos Sainz Cenamor. The son of a winner.

 

To Carlos, racing felt like getting to know a person. Upon every race, he falls deeper in love with the sport. It’s stimulating how he sees the track. How he uncovers more about it just when he thought he knew everything. How he gets to put into action the things he has taken note on. 

 

Racing was so unpredictable that it’s never not interesting. 

 

At 15, things started changing for him. Everything was moving too fast.

 

He finally got into single-seater racing. People started to give him more attention. He rose through the ranks swiftly through Formula 3 with Renault. His father told him to not lose his head out there. Carlos carried his father’s name, his father’s legacy. 

 

Born to overcome him, born to own his father’s name. In years time, people will hear “Carlos Sainz” and not think of the 2 time World rally champion. They’ll be thinking of Carlos Sainz Jr.

 

Then began being involved with the media for the first time. Carlos disliked being put on the spot with all the cameras, there were times where he would put off going into the track because of them.

 

He remembers that one time where a gorgeous journalist came up to him on the paddock and Carlos was completely enamored. She was 25 and he was 16 and was promised love and pleasure. She called him the greatest talent of his generation, he was willing to do anything for her. 

 

He opened up about being his father’s legacy, about being deemed too friendly in his karting days. About how he’d rather race to feel the track rather than to win. He was stripped down to his core while she took off her shirt. Carlos was given praise for his tenderness and she was praised for her amazing article on the rising stars in motorsport that was released the next day.

 

It turns out she was married.

 

Carlos never saw her again. But he’d prefer it like that. He wanted to hide himself from all the exposure the article gave him. He was peeled down to vulnerability and now everyone knew of his weaknesses, insecurities, and secrets. 

 

However, he soon realized that the more he wanted to be involved with racing, the more he would face those lenses that probed and poked at his existence. A development driver who’s potential was yet to be set , he hated how they described him like they knew him. 

 

At the age of 20, he finally made his debut into formula 1 in Toro Rosso. Him along with his teammate, Max Verstappen who was only 17 years old. 

 

Carlos was well aware of Max’s pure talent. He was also well aware of the significant gap between them in terms of their capability. 

 

Max was aggressive and dominant on the track, Carlos reeled in studying him. How could such a young driver overflow with this much talent? He was shamelessly flying down the map. A monster, a reckless, beautiful monster. 

 

They shared the same hatred for probing journalists. Carlos liked Max because of that.

 

And in two and a half years, Carlos tried all he could to keep up. To see the monster up close. To witness how he fought in their races. Max almost seemed like a machine, and Carlos knew he’d someday ram his way up to a championship. He almost felt blessed getting to witness Max way before it happened.

 

When he was replaced in Toro Rosso, he cared not for the seat. He was more disappointed that he could no longer be as close to Max who was then promoted to Red Bull. Carlos could not deny the envy he felt, but admiration overshadowed it. 

 

When he was 22, he met Isa, a journalist yet again. Beautiful and witty at times. She told him a lot about herself and he loved to listen. He knew that she would do anything for him and he thought he might just marry her. 

 

Carlos was 23 when he moved to Renault. It was the first time he met Charles Leclerc. 

 

The prodigy.

 

The closest he got to him was when he scored his peak ranking in 5th place. Leclerc was right behind him placing 6th. Carlos had been studying him the entire time. 

 

He was no Max Verstappen but there was just something about him that felt overwhelming. Something invisible leaking out from his eyes alone. He had that certain look in his eyes that made Carlos feel like prey whenever he saw him. It was worse when Charles would somewhat score higher in a race. It was odd and Carlos didn’t know if he should take note of it or not.

 

“Is there something wrong with you and Leclerc?” Nico Hulkenberg, who was his teammate at that time, asked him, hands busy taking off his race suit.

 

Carlos paused on also taking off the top part of his race suit, “What do you mean?” 

 

“I don't know… He’s looking at you like…” Nico tried, motioning his hands hopelessly. “Like you killed his dog or something,” Carlos frowned at this, he didn’t expect someone to take notice of it other than him.

 

Then he played it off with a chuckle then a gentle shake of his head, “Eh, who wouldn’t be mad when someone outraces you,” To this, Hulkenberg just shrugs. 

 

Carlos managed to outrank him in the official standings, he was 10th and Charles was 13th. 

 

The first time he ever had a conversation with Charles Leclerc was at the Abu Dhabi afterparty. He saw the monegasque by the balcony overlooking the scenery. His shoulders were slacked in resignation, he was clearly detached at the moment. 

 

“You had a good run,” Carlos attempted as a conversation starter. And then felt absolutely stupid when the other did not respond. “It’s your first season, no?” He tried again, coming closer and mirroring Charles as he also leaned his arms on the railings.

 

Then Charles snapped his head like he was just noticing him there. 

 

“Oh, hello…” He greeted, something sort of shy, barely being able to look at Carlos directly, instead, he raised the glass of Champagne to his lips in an attempt to hide his face.

 

Trying to get to know someone was Carlos’ forte. But he does it in a way that requires no conversation at all. He was quite the observer after all with an intuition meant for prophecies. 

 

That season alone was the telling for Carlos that Charles Leclerc hated nothing more than losing. It was mad to think he probably expected to win at his own debut to formula one. 

 

“You did great for a first season,” Carlos tried yet again at a conversation, but this time Charles was able to look at him and respond.

 

“I could have done better,” he said with a slight shrug. 

 

“Everybody else could have done better,” Carlos stated matter-of-factly. Then he turned around to lean his back on the railing instead, trying to see what the party from inside the building had become through the glass walls. 

 

He managed to see Max Verstapped being drowned in champagne by Daniel Ricciardo.

 

“I heard you’re moving to Ferrari,” He then added, glancing at the man. “Quite impressive,” he said with a smile.

 

Charles said nothing back but he was now smiling as well. Carlos wanted to say ‘ You’ll do better there,’ but he was certain Charles didn’t need to hear it. He knew, and he was going to make it happen either way. 

 

Carlos patted him on the back before he made his way back inside.

 

~~~

Lando Norris was the brother that Carlos made in Formula 1. Of course he had teammates that he got along with before. They come short as friends and acquaintances. Lando was different. 

 

Lando called him at random times in the middle of the night to ask a Spanish word for something so obscure, he was certain google could’ve done the job anyway but Lando called him .

 

Lando laughs at anything and everything, it was a laugh so contagious he doesn’t even know half the context of whatever it would be that he was giggling about. Carlos liked him for that.

 

Lando told him he misses him during the pandemic. None of the other drivers ever really told him that or anything close to the premise. 

 

Lando came to his hotel room at 2am when he was leaving Mclaren. He slept at Carlos’ bed and Carlos just had to let him.

 

Lando is a brother to him, no doubt. But Lando wasn’t enough for him to decline a contract from Ferrari. 

 

“You’re gonna be all posh and snobbish, you’ll pretend to not know me in the paddock, I’m tellin’ ya,” Lando told him with his rambled English accent. Carlos was expecting him to come and raid his hotel again that night and he was right.

 

Lando was the first person to message him when he finally signed the contract branding himself to the color rosso corsa. “Finally sold your soul to the devil” Lando’s message read and Carlos chuckled at it.

 

Ferrari was never what Carlos expected, and he liked that about it.

 

It has got to be every driver’s dream to be in Ferrari, Carlos was replacing Sebastian Vettel for crying out loud. He tried not to cry about that fact.

 

And in entering Ferrari, Carlos knew he was the second driver. And he was okay with that. 

 

Because being in Ferrari means he has a better car, and he gets to study Charles up close, something he used to do with Max. 

 

And Carlos loved this place, loved Rosso Corsa taking over his wardrobe. He loved being able to be in Maranello. He loved taking his seat at every race like it was his birthright.

 

He loved Ferrari so much that he forgot everything else.

 

After 7 years of being together, Carlos broke up with Isa. 

 

Because if Carlos was fine being the second driver, Isa could never settle to be the second choice. Not when it was Ferrari she was to compete with. Carlos understood it very well, but of course came the daunting realization of him being able to settle for things that fall short under his grasp. Isa knew her self worth than Carlos would ever realize his own.

 

But this is Ferrari. And Carlos could not bring himself to ask for more. 

~~~

Carlos rolls his shoulder backwards to get a feel of the comfortable backrest. Charles certainly had good taste in coffee shops. But he knows they weren’t here to dilly dally on the interior masterpiece of this cafe. 

 

It's been a week after the bathroom incident, Charles called Carlos up to meet. 

 

“Is it true?” Charles broke the silence then, Carlos’ brows furrowed in question. “Williams offered you a contract?” He continued and Carlos sighed, not expecting this conversation. 

 

“Charles, I do not want to talk about—”

 

“So it is true then?” Charles concluded by himself, making Carlos slightly agitated. Charles fell back to his backrest like he just heard the most outlandish news in his life. “Fucking Williams, Carlos?”

 

“Oy,” Carlos uttered in annoyance, sitting up straight, “You don’t talk about what’s going on in my life, in my career,” Carlos asserted, humor not evident in his tone. Then he deflated, disappointed, “So, you just called me out here to poke fun at me, I expected better from you,” 

 

“ I expect better from you, ” Charles says, and he didn’t seem like he was poking fun at all. Carlos was confused why he seemed so serious all of a sudden.

 

Carlos sighed and shook his head, hand coming up to pinch at his nose bridge, an act in an attempt to hide his face. “This is not a discussion you get to hold with me,” He spat, looking straight at Charles. 

 

Suddenly, he doesn’t feel like drinking coffee anymore.

 

“If this is honestly all what you called me up for, I’m leaving,” He said, already gathering his jacket, phone and wallet.

 

Charles looks like he was agitated by this, a mixture of looking angry and regretful. “Carlos,” He called out but he didn’t stop and left the cafe. 

Carlos Sainz was 29 years old when Ferrari told him to pack up. He felt like every season was a piece of his belonging being kicked out the door whether or not he got good results or not. It was an inevitable occurrence and it made him sick to his stomach to internalize it. He couldn’t do anything to stop it, not when Lewis Hamilton was already publicated to take his spot at the end of the season. 

 

The rumors were true, he was presented a contract with Williams to replace Logan Seargeant. It drives him insane how he feels desperate enough to take it already. How he was ready to settle yet again for such a short straw. His father advised him to make decisions after the season and that is exactly what he was doing. 

 

Because, damn it. Ferrari was throwing him out. His dream, his love, his fucking seat that he made for himself. 

 

But this was Ferrari.

 

The same Ferrari that threw out Fernando Alonso and goddamn Schumacher for fucks sake. 

 

And Carlos was just Carlos Sainz. Not even a World title holder. 

Notes:

Happy Race week!

Chapter 4: Pre-Barcelona

Charles was alone in the gym when Carlos and his fitness team arrived there. It’s 3 days before they need to pack up for Barcelona and of course, the mandatory training starts now.

 

He’s seated quite far from the entrance where he saw Carlos struts in, gym bag in hand and 3 people trailing behind him. “Let’s start with cardio,” he heard from who he assumes as Carlos’ trainor. He tried not to look as much and focused on his weights. 

 

They haven’t talked ever since that incident in the cafe. Charles couldn’t let his pride down, the man cannot apologize to save his life. 

 

“Charles, focus…” His trainor said and his head snapped back to pulling his weights. He mumbled a quick sorry before continuing his reps.

 

He tried to think of Barcelona, but he couldn’t really just do that without acknowledging that it is  Carlos’ home race. Carlos. 

 

Then it felt like he was back in that cafe, chest welling with guilt. 

 

If only he could convey his worries in a better way, something that speaks of genuinity to Carlos. If only he could just outright say “I’m worried about your future,” But then again, even that sounds condescending. Especially after the entire ‘You’re the second driver’ case that may probably never stop haunting him.

 

“Charles, stop,” His trainors’ stern voice suddenly brought him back and at the same time he’s letting go of the weight and it falls down on the rubber mat. His arm started to hurt.

 

“You went over the rep,” his trainor informed him, worry starting to taint his voice, then sighed, “What’s going on, Charles?” 

 

Charles clutched and massaged his arm, trying to fully come into the present. He shook his head, confused, “I spaced out, I’m sorry,”

 

His trainor wordlessly swatted his hand away and took his arm, pressing here and there until Charles visibly flinched with a hiss. 

 

“You strained yourself, let’s stop with arms,” his trainor said, stretching Charles arm to rid it from possible cramping. 

 

“Let’s do neck and we’ll be done,” 

~~~

When Charles let out a pained groan at a pressure on his arm, his trainor immediately took action.

 

Charles didn’t know how to say ‘no’ when his trainor called out Carlos’ physical therapist to check on his arm. But they were just a few meters away and all it took was a wave and there goes Carlos looking over at him now. 

 

It was just a strain for crying out loud, but he guesses the team wasn’t gonna let any possible injury go untreated when they’re this close to race week.

 

“What’s going on?” He knows that voice too well, and Charles didn’t want to look, prompting his trainor to answer for him.

 

“Just a sprain, but we’re not taking any chances,” his trainor responded, Charles risked a glance at Carlos who towered over him as he’s laid down on one of the benches, arm being stretched in multiple ways. 

 

“Go back to your sets, Carlos,” His physical therapist said, patting him on the back and Carlos spared Charles one last glance before turning away.

 

Charles watched his retreating figure go back to the man’s fitness team.

 

“What were you even thinking about?” His trainor asked and Charles chuckled breathily, forcefully closing his eyes before trying to relax.

 

“Just the upcoming race,” he mumbled, using his free hand to rub at his eyes.

 

Once he was finally let go, he went straight to the showers, bidding his trainor a thank you and goodbye.

 

Charles has half of his mind and the rest is elsewhere, a sore arm and eyes wandering to a certain person on a treadmill as he passes through to get to the showers.

 

He convinces himself that he doesn’t feel at all quite stupid at the fact that he’s implying to himself he owes Carlos one for somewhat ‘borrowing’ his physical therapist. It may not even matter to Carlos at all, honestly it probably doesn’t. But Charles is still stuck in the Montreal bathrooms, tongue tied as it has spoken too much. He doesn’t know how to untie the knot in his stomach of always walking on eggshells around his teammate. 

 

Even his intentions of worrying for Carlos have somehow twisted into him unintentionally flaunting his non-expiring contract and bringing up shitty rumors about Carlos’ future. Now, isn’t Charles the greatest teammate ever?

 

He lazily strips off in the cubicle and turns on the shower, hoping it may physically wash away these tormenting thoughts.

 

It doesn’t.

 

The thoughts run deep as it’s somehow amplified by the white noise of running water. He could almost hear Carlos’ voice calling him out on his careless behavior.

 

“You know you can’t drive with a broken hand,” And Charles visibly stiffened at the shoulders, breath caught in his throat at how coincidentally unfunny this whole thing is.

 

He reaches for his arm again and feels it where it’s sore. 

 

Then he takes a deep breath, soaps up and rinses down. He wanted to go home already.

 

As he gets dried and dressed, he checks once again for his arm, like the action worsened it’s state but it felt better after the shower. 

 

He went out and allowed just a passing glance at Carlos who was now pulling weights before the glass walls of the gym were then replaced by the hallway leading to the exit.

~~~

When Charles arrives at his apartment, he sees Alex preparing something in the kitchen. “I’m home,” he announces and Alex greets him with a smile.

 

“What are you making?” He asked, hanging his jacket and dropping his gym bag on the living room floor. 

 

He heard Alex reply with a faint mention of whatever combination of smoothie that he failed to take note of as he settled down on the sofa.

 

Alex comes into view with a glass of the supposed smoothie in hand, sitting down next to Charles. “Have a taste,” she offered and Charles took a sip as Alex gently pushed the glass to his lips.

 

It tasted like avocados and something else.

 

He nodded in approval and she smiled, moving to open her phone using her other hand and taking a sip herself.

 

Charles relaxed and stared at the ceiling, eyes barely staying open. He felt Alex lean on his shoulder. “What would you plan to do in Barcelona?” She asked, scrolling on her phone.

 

Charles swallowed and cleared his throat, unsure of what to answer.

 

“I’d like to win,” he said and that made Alex chuckle softly, “Oh, I know you do,” she remarked, then moved to look at him directly, “But something outside of racing,” she specified and Charles smiled as he looked back at her.

 

“I don’t know,” he said honestly, “I’ve been there quite a few times already,” he murmured, unperturbed.

 

Alex brows rose briefly, then she pulled away to look at her phone again. Charles looked back at the ceiling, soon falling asleep.

~~~

When Carlos arrived at the airport, Charles was also there in the private lounge, Alex who was holding Leo not far from his side. The sight of her made Carlos hold Rebecca closer to him as they sat right in front of them, Charles looking up from his phone as he noticed their arrival.

 

Rebecca and Alex got up to chat, leaving the two men alone in the lounge.

 

Carlos was looking at Charles intently who was looking at his phone. Carlos sat up, arms leaning on his thighs.

 

“How’s your arm?” He asked, gaze still locked on Charles who then looked back at him. 

 

Charles, unaware, checked his own arm that was no longer sore. “It’s fine, it got better over the weekend,” 

 

“That’s good,” Carlos murmured, looking down at the ground now, fingers fiddling restless.

 

Then Charles straightened up, catching Carlos’ eye. “I…” He started, unsure if he wanted to continue whatever he was about to say.

 

“I hope we’re alright now,” He said like he’s genuinely worried they might not be. Carlos' gaze softened and he fights a chuckle that might erupt. 

 

“We’re good, Charles,” He says momentarily with a nod. 

 

Charles only nodded back, soaking in the confirmation.

 

At the plane, they both settled on opposite sides of the lounge with their respective persons accompanying them. 

 

Their eyes found each other, stare holding longer than necessary.

Notes:

They're good now :)

Chapter 5: Media Day - Spain

The first thing Charles noticed when they arrived in the hospitality was Carlos and his new haircut. He must’ve gotten it after just landing because Charles was certain his hair was much longer when they were still on the plane. 

 

He approached him with a bewildered look on his face. “When the hell did you get a haircut?”

 

Carlos chuckled before putting on backwards his new special edition cap for his home race, hiding his hair underneath. “Got someone to cut it earlier… New look for the home race,” he responded with a shrug, then turning to his side to continue the conversation he was having with one of their PR managers.

 

Charles stared, almost in a daze, then he walked over to him from behind, snatching the cap swiftfully to inspect it, “The cap is cool,” he comments. Carlos brings a hand up to fix his slightly disheveled hair.

 

He eyes Charles casually but warily, “Do you like it,” he asked and Charles smiled serenely, “Yeah, it’s cool,” he repeated. 

 

Carlos smirked, “Try it,” he motioned with his hand. “Try it on,”

 

Charles took off his own cap, fixing his hair, “I like it… I like the—” he then gets another glance at Carlos’ hair, now accompanied with his inspecting eyes. Charles pauses, eyes stuck on Carlos who then quirks a brow at him.

 

Charles licked his lips and swallowed, nervous all of a sudden, “I like the uh… White ferrari on it,” He finishes, quickly looking away, the cap not even on him for 5 seconds when he’s immediately taking it off, “The white ferrari is cool,” He says hurriedly, handing it back, not even attempting to be in Carlos’ peripheral like he’d  be set on fire.

 

“It’s chili,” Carlos comments with a smile, taking the cap back.

 

“It’s nice, it’s nice,” Charles says, already stumbling away. 

 

Carlos looks back to their PR manager, “Is he alright?” he asked, puzzled and their PR manager only looked at a member of the media team who was apparently filming the entire thing who only answered with a shrug.

 

Carlos shook his head with a breathy chuckle, “I’ll go get him,” he announced before getting up to find his teammate. 

 

Charles was in the bathroom, it was quiet aside from the sound of running water. He splashed his face, once, then twice when he heard a knock.

 

“Charles,” he could hear it from the other side of the door, and then it seemed as if Charles was reliving a fleeting dream.

 

He turns off the faucet and swings the door open, already knowing who was on the other side.

 

Carlos and his new haircut, hiding under his cap.

 

“We’re going on the paddock soon,” Carlos informed and Charles nodded before he even finished his sentence, “Yep, I know,”

 

Carlos frowned then, “Is there something wrong? Or—” he says, taking a step closer to which Charles took half a step back.

 

“You can go on ahead,” He says and Carlos’ frown only deepened. 

 

“I thought we were good,” Carlos reminded him and Charles couldn’t look him in the eye.

 

“We are… We are still good, I’m alright,” Charles insisted with a nod.

 

To this, Carlos gives up, taking a step back, “I’ll see you there,” he says before turning around, hesitating for a moment before walking away.

 

Charles let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, taking off his cap to run his fingers through his hair in frustration.

 

~~~

 

The rest of the day concluded with Charles mostly being all strung up and tense, Carlos trying not to meddle again given the reaction he got from his teammate.

 

They meet once again in the parking lot in which they only exchanged glances, Carlos pointedly letting his gaze linger to which Charles tried to avoid looking back at and failing.

 

Their cars were trailing each other since they were staying at the same hotel. 

 

Walking through the lounge area, Charles tried to stay far away, pretending like he didn’t know the man he was trailing behind was his teammate for the last 4 years, looking everywhere else but ahead.

 

But Charles’ act couldn’t go any further when they both arrive in front of the elevator which revealed to be empty and no one else getting on besides them.

 

Carlos got on and raised his brows towards Charles expectantly who only sighed and got on as well.

 

Charles pressed on the 6th floor and was relieved when Carlos pressed 10th. 

 

Carlos turned his head slightly to glance at Charles who could feel eyes on him but is pointedly ignoring it.

 

Carlos silently made a bewildered face. He couldn’t believe how far Charles was willing to take this act on.

 

When the bell rang and the doors opened, Charles immediately made a move to exit, when suddenly he was being pulled by the arm, his back hitting the elevator wall and he made a surprised groan.

 

“Carlos—!” He started, entirely perplexed, his hand reaching backwards to rub at his back that hit the wall. “Are you insane?”

 

“Are you insane?” Carlos spat back, cornering Charles against the wall. “All this talk about being good, being fine, yet you never seem to look like it,” He blurted, Charles tried not to roll his eyes in frustration when the elevator door closed.

 

“Well what do you want me to do?” Charles retorted, building up his defenses.

 

“I want you to be honest with me, It’s all I ask,” Carlos said hopelessly, slowly peeling himself to vulnerability, something he always does to get Charles to open up. 

 

“It seems like every time we build up a progress to getting better with each other, you’re always the one to pull away,” Carlos sounded like he’s complaining. 

 

Charles watched as the elevator door opened again at Carlos’ floor, then his eyes fell back at Carlos. His cap wasn’t on, probably left it in his car.

 

“Charles,” Carlos reminds him that they’re both still there and Charles takes a deep breath that he lets out shakily.

 

He looks away, “I don’t know,” he answered, barely audible.

 

Carlos’ shoulder drops, visibly disappointed at that answer. Then he’s shaking his head, taking a step closer and Charles didn’t want to breathe all of a sudden.

 

“Why do you hate me, Charles?” Carlos asked, looking pained. 

 

Charles' face contorted to mirror his expression, “I hate you…?” and Carlos wasn’t sure if it was a statement or a question.

 

“You hate me,” Carlos whispered back, his tone also in between a statement and a question.

 

Then Charles' eyes drop down to his lips briefly. Then a spark of realization painted Carlos’ eyes before Charles blinked and pushed Carlos away, sending him stumbling out of the elevator.

 

Carlos barely caught his footing before he recovered and looked back just in time to see Charles’ panicked face before the elevator door closed.

Chapter 6: Free Practice 1 & 2

Charles knows fully well that Free Practice doesn’t have bearings on points. That qualifying standings matters more than anything in this case. It’s an empty competition and he is not about to lose his head worrying about his statistics on free practice.

 

Although, he feels uneasy watching Carlos climb the ranks on Free Practice. Knowing fully well it might just be the pace he’d be determined to set on qualifyings or even the actual race itself. He sees Carlos exerting more effort on this specific track, he hasn’t even had the chance to speak to him after their entanglement in the elevator last night. Not that he wants to try anyway.

 

There is something that changed when Carlos was finally in his proper race suit like a second skin. He seemed less approachable when he’s actually focused on the race, it didn’t matter if it was only free practice.

 

It was Carlos’ home race.

 

Charles understood every bit of that, of course having been able to flaunt his Monaco win. Taking pride in it until now, because Charles had always been racing to win.

 

But it was obvious that Carlos wanted this win more than anything.

 

His last home race with Ferrari.

 

And to Charles, it was like everything has suddenly changed since last night. Almost like Carlos' behavior in that elevator had been his last attempts at making things right before he had to declare he is also racing to win now, taking a step to put him and Charles on equal grounds.

 

Free Practice 1

Sainz P3

Leclerc P11

 

Charles is growing anxious now. This was Carlos’ race. Everyone was basically cheering for his teammate’s home race. He felt as if maybe if Carlos asked, he’d totally give in and let him pass if ever given the chance. Because Charles could see that Carlos looked hungry.

 

After that P3, Carlos was practically buzzing, confidence growing with the pace he’s setting with himself. Maybe if he could keep this pace, he could bring this up to the qualifyings.

 

He got pulled into hugs, handshakes and fist bumps by his team. Maybe they also saw his sudden tenacity in this race. It is expected after all, everyone is looking forward to the same outcome as Charles in Monaco, and of course, Carlos felt that pressure.

 

He changed out of his race suit to cool down in wait for the next Free Practice that was in a couple hours. 

 

Carlos found himself casually dressed and splashing water onto his face in the hospitality, waiting to be called for some media content to film that he was informed earlier.

 

“Quite the pace you have… Impressive,” Carlos didn’t need to look to know it was Charles but he spared a glance anyway, eyes finding the reflection on the mirror of Charles leaning on the doorway, stance loose and arms crossed, a soft smile at his face, he was also out of his racing suit, now wearing a long sleeve ferrari zip up.

 

Carlos shook his head, “It’s only free practice,” and he could almost laugh at himself at the attempt of being humble that he was certain Charles saw through. He pulled up the collar of his own shirt to dry his face.

 

Once he finally turned to face Charles, it felt easy to forget about whatever happened between them last night. 

 

“You should keep up,” he banters and Charles rolled his eyes, moving his hands to fit into his pockets. “Eh… It’s only free practice,” he says feigning indifference, a smirk in his face. There was a brief pause when he’s suddenly failing to defend himself when Carlos quickly nudged him on the stomach, tickling him before making an escape. He let out a surprised yelp and ran after Carlos.

 

Like they somehow traveled through an alternate universe where everything is alright. That the track was a whole different world from the motorhomes. Maybe it was a habit they caught from always being told by their PR to appear friendly out of the track. But it was relieving that they get to have this space where their personalities somewhat adapt in a carefree manner.

 

For Carlos, it reminded him of his time with Lando. Although, with Lando, he never really had to pretend. He always fell naturally into this mold that made him feel very easy to let loose when he’s with him. 

 

With Charles, however. Carlos feels like he was somehow forcefully molded to bond with him outside of the track. They were both told to do all the publicity stunts, all the media content, all the orders of sticking together outside on the paddock or anywhere they might be seen. Until it somewhat feels wrong not having Charles by his side when he takes a walk around the hospitalities. 

 

That’s what ferrari is always good at.

 

They give you a role, paint your image anew, put you into habitual routines until you forget how you got there and you’re never allowed to question it.

 

It’s how they keep up this narrative of being a picture perfect team. How their drivers always develop a chemistry. And no one ever pays attention when a driver is set free from Ferrari with lifeless eyes and recovering their identity.

 

How they are always keen on settling for whatever team that may take them because all they ever knew from then was Ferrari.

 

Neither Carlos nor Charles are aware of this.

 

All they know is that the other is there by their side and it looks right because it’s where they’ve always been.

 

And when the time comes where they need to step back into the paddock, back in their race suits and their cars. It was like the spell was broken.

 

Because Carlos won’t look into Charles' direction anymore. 

 

From then on, it will all be about improving his time, picking up the pace and climbing ranks.

 

Free Practice 2

Sainz P2

Leclerc P6

 

Charles watched as Carlos greets his team with clasps on the back and happy eyes shining through his helmet. He gained four spots higher from the last run and he tries to be satisfied about that. It’s just Free Practice . There are no goddamn points involved here and Charles was feeling resentful seeing Carlos prance around like there was.

 

He takes a breath and tries to clear his head from the negativity. It doesn’t do well to wallow in pathetic envy when it was only Free practice. 

 

He was more so looking forward to tomorrow for qualifying. That is where things will start to matter for him, where he cannot afford to start losing.

 

Charles didn’t see Carlos on his way to the garage and when he was driving home.

 

He gets to his hotel room to find Alex, all dressed up, feeding Leo.

 

He pointedly looks at her up and down with a tired smile. “Do you have plans today?” He asked, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

 

Alex nodded, walking over to him, “Rebecca invited me to go out,” she says while taking off Charles’ cap and fixing his hair.

 

Charles inwardly leaned into her touch, “I’ll stay in to get some rest,” he says and she nods, leaning down to peck his cheek before turning away to put on her shoes.

 

After hearing the door click as Alex leaves, Charles falls back on the bed to stare at the ceiling. He suddenly feels like he was brought back to last night after the incident on the elevator. 

 

“Why do you hate me, Charles?”

 

And Charles forcibly shut his eyes like doing it would somehow hide him away from these thoughts.

 

He almost feels like they were cursed to never settle whatever their problem is. Whatever his problem is with Carlos. It’s now a cycle where one goes off their hinges and would rather die than face confrontation, then falls back into the camaraderie narrative in the public eye. 

 

It would be a lot easier if Carlos just didn’t let things go so easily. It would be a lot easier if Charles would somehow figure out what’s wrong with him and fess up.

 

“Fuck,” He quietly curses, the side of his fist landing harshly on the soft mattress. Another hand coming up to rub at his eyes.

 

He really needs to sleep this off.

 

~~~

“Come on now, I need to meet with Alexa,” Rebecca whines as Carlos lightly grazes his teeth at the side of her neck, kissing over it. 

 

Carlos loosens his hold on her waist, breathing out a blissful sigh. “You’re gonna ruin my clothes,” Rebecca complains further, taking the opportunity to escape his hold.

 

She then steps toward the mirror, carefully putting her earrings on. Carlos watches lazily, leaning back on his palms pressed to the mattress. 

 

Carlos then lets out a wistful sigh, “You and Miss Alexandra have grown quite close, no?” He comments with a listless tone, eyes darting to the ground.

 

Rebecca chuckled at that, “Oh, wouldn’t you like me being good friends with your teammate’s partner?” she teases and Carlos rolls his eyes.

 

“Oh, I wouldn’t like that at all… Considering what he does to his partner’s friends,” He bitterly comments and then takes a moment to realize how he regrets saying it. He closes his eyes, bracing himself for what Rebecca might say.

 

“What are you trying to say?” Rebecca confronts, genuinely puzzled.

 

Carlos shakes his head, backtracking, “Nothing, it was a bad joke, I’m sorry,” he says and Rebecca spared him a look that was half a step from feeling indignant. Then she takes a step back from the mirror, making minor adjustments to how her clothes sit then turns back towards Carlos.

 

“I don’t like what you’re trying to imply,” She says bitterly before leaving and Carlos watches her trail away.

 

Carlos pinches the bridge of his nose, disappointed with himself.

Notes:

Still working on qualifs chapter and I'm cooking up something real good for the race day chapter. I love reading your comments, it gets me motivated lots! <3

Chapter 7: Qualiying - Spain

Free Practice 3

Sainz P1

Leclerc P3

 

There was no doubt that Carlos was feeling hopeful as ever after the free practice. The team are now as focused and on their toes as they wait for the qualifying. Carlos catches his teammate’s eyes from his side on the paddock and they knew they were back in their own spaces. That meant Charles felt free to approach him, taking off his helmet and balaclava.

 

“Nice run, think we can bring this to qualifs?” Charles asked, unclasping his race suit and lowering it down to his hips.

 

Carlos, who was already a bit more settled, takes a sip from the long straw of his tumbler, taking a deep breath before patting Charles on the back. A wordless response that even Charles understood.

 

Carlos was anxious.

 

The pressure was getting to him. His home race, another race that stacks on the inevitable last ones of his time in Ferrari. He wants to do great, and so far he is but he has to admit, it doesn’t matter yet how well he does here. As long as it’s not in the qualifying just yet.

 

Carlos wants to win more than ever. 

 

He nods at Charles to politely leave, going to cool off before the qualifyings. Charles watches him go, feeling somewhat isolated in his teammate’s side of the paddock. 

 

Carlos gets a massage from his physical therapist in his holding room in the paddock, he tries to reduce his nerves as much as possible. But he couldn’t help how his brain seemed to echo his desire to win over and over. 

 

There was something undeniable there that Carlos tries not to acknowledge. This specific race is something hinging on what may define his career on this specific season. As much as he would like to deny it, he wants something to rub into Ferrari’s face on what they’ll be missing out on. This race, he needs to be spectacular. He can win a home race. He needs to win a home race.

 

Rebecca sends him a photo of her with his family in the VIP stands. He shuts his phone off and throws it inside his bag.

 

He was then called to get ready.

 

~~~

“P3 still, Charles on P2, we’re still waiting on Norris and the two Mercedes,” Carlos couldn’t process what he was hearing, or maybe he didn’t want to. Charles was in front of him yet again.

 

He managed not to just crash into a wall when he was then informed that Lando and two of the Mercedes managed to push both him and Charles down the grid. 

 

“It’s official, P6, P6, it’s alright, you did well,” Carlos wanted to shake his head.

 

No. He in fact, did not do well at all. He couldn’t even begin to realize that Lando got pole, too focused on the fact that he didn’t manage to get a higher placement on the grid. 

 

Then Charles. Carlos' breathing felt short at the realization that Charles managed to outplace him, just slotting right in front on P5.

 

As he slows into the pit and his car is being pushed back into the garage, he takes a moment to wallow inside the car. His grip on the steering wheel is hard and he doesn’t know what he’ll do if he lets go.

 

He finally gets a tap from one of his team members and he takes off his gloves in a daze. He felt like he was sinking back into the car when he was trying to get out.

 

When he managed to separate himself from the car, his peripheral locked on the other side of the garage.

 

Charles was looking at him, helmet still on and Carlos felt sick to his stomach as they continued on gazing at each other through the cracks on their headwear.

 

Carlos felt like he was being looked down upon. Suddenly, Charles felt very far away now, like he was on a podium and Carlos was back on the pits of the stage. 

 

And without a single word, Carlos looked away and started taking off his gear.

 

At the end of the day, it never really mattered at all. He felt embarrassed having soaked up praise from the free practice then ultimately fails to land a proper spot in the grid. God, it was his home race but he didn’t want to show his face to the people anymore. 

 

And as much as he tries not to think about it, he thinks back to how Charles managed to best his time. He tries to prevent a bitter chuckle from erupting because he just thought back to what everyone always says. Charles is faster. Charles will always be faster. 

 

After the post qualifying interviews, he wastes no time in changing his clothes and packing up.

 

When he saw Charles try to approach him, he walked past easily.

 

~~~

 

Charles tries not to wallow in too much disappointment at his placement. It wasn’t too bad but he’ll never really try to easily accept something that isn’t pole.

 

He was well aware of Carlos being visibly upset at his fallout from his consistent decent runs on Free Practice. When Carlos walked past him like he didn’t know him, Charles tried not to feel at all offended, but it was difficult.

 

His ego was crushed and Charles could relate to that any day. He may be unintentionally taking it out on Charles and he gets that too. 

 

Because those are the things Charles usually does. 

 

And as much as he understands. It feels uneasy seeing Carlos slowly act the same way as him. He tries not to think too much about it but the outcome wouldn’t be pretty if Carlos gets as moody as him. 

 

Since Carlos had more experience and more exposure to the sport, Charles hoped he’d be well adjusted to these kinds of things by now. But that was selfish thinking. 

 

He almost felt bad for him but that would be too patronizing on his end.

 

Charles needed to know that Carlos was only human.

Notes:

There's so much drama cooking up for the race chapter, I'm so excited to finish it up.

Chapter 8: Spain

Round 10 - Spain

CIRCUIT DE BARCELONA-CATALUNYA

 

Leclerc P5

Sainz P6

 

It was quite a dramatic race for Ferrari despite how low they’ve actually scored in this round. Even the team sensed the sudden tension that arose after the qualifyings. It was difficult when both drivers were locked in this sense of hunger to place higher in the ranks. 

 

The starting laps already made it complicated, typically in lap 3 where both Ferrari cars made tyre contact with each other. Carlos pushed hard early on and overtook Charles who lost quite a bit of pace. Both drivers audibly spoke up through the radio about the incident, which of course sent it to the stewards but only ending the investigation without appointing a penalty.

 

From then, it was a fight to move from their places. 

 

Carlos felt like kicking on his throttle when he just seemed to not gain enough speed through straights and he was losing his mind. Then suffers a contact from Hamilton, pushing him off track in which he complains to the radio yet again. 

 

“They reported no further investigation… I know it’s harsh but—” Carlos held back from punching the steering wheel, “Copy,” He interjected bitterly, “I don’t understand why there’s a rulebook but we don’t follow it,” he adds and continues on.

 

Charles, who was confused at Carlos’ active aggression throughout the start of the race, radioed again about the strategy in which he was only told to stick with it. 

 

But as it prolongs, knowing the tyre change was the wrong move, Carlos had to take a deep breath to prevent himself from actually being sick. It was over and he knew it. 

 

“11 laps more, Carlos… Let’s go for points, Swap the cars… Swap the cars in turn 1,” they radioed to him. Carlos’ stomach dropped, it was over and he didn’t even have the energy to fight back. He obeyed, slowing through a turn and letting Charles through.

 

But it wasn’t enough for Charles to at least get a podium. 

 

“Missed it by one lap… Unlucky,” Charles rolled his eyes, radioing back, “One lap too short. I know where we lost it, anyway,” He snarks, and it was no mistake what he’s implying.

 

The moment the two Ferrari drivers got down from their car, Charles immediately went over to Carlos, expression unhappy in a slight contrast to Carlos’ completely dejected look.

 

“You passed me in that turn one,” He said, no greeting whatsoever and Carlos had to brace himself.

 

“What,” is the only thing Carlos said back, expression only puzzled and encouraged Charles to go on. He carefully eyes Bottas who was nearby, he tries to move away to not let anyone else hear them.

 

“You made contact when you knew we were supposed to manage tyres,” Charles emphasized his words with his hand, struggling with his other which was carrying his helmet. And he wasn’t done, “I took damage to my front wing and lost time in that specific turn— Almost costed me my race, man,” 

 

“No, no, no, we were on new softs and Mercedes were on used ones… You don’t expect me to just sit back when it was the perfect opportunity to push, and you weren’t doing anything,” Carlos rebutted, which made Charles raise his shoulders, ready to pounce back.

 

“I was managing my tyres as we were told in the briefings… You’re the one who doesn’t stick to it,” Charles' voice was frustrated and insisting.

 

“Ah— when has those plans ever worked out for me?” Carlos retorted sarcastically and Charles scowled.

 

“Because you never seem to follow them, mate,” Charles said with his whole hand pointing towards Carlos, asserting his frustration further.

 

“Oh, so now we finally love the Ferrari strategy,” Carlos exclaimed with a humorless chuckle. 

 

Charles dropped his shoulders with a disappointed sigh, not being able to mask his look of disdain before he started walking away, heading to the holding rooms. Carlos frowned and went after him.

 

“I don’t know what you wanted me to do, Charles!” He objected, “I had plenty of space until you pushed outward, I don’t understand why you’re specifically focused on that turn 1,”

 

“ No ,” Charles glared as they kept walking, “You overtook me there like I didn’t exist, you damaged my car,” he insisted and Carlos frowned only deepened, catching someone filming them, he hesitated as they walk further to the back, where more cameras and the post interviews from multiple media awaits them.

 

“It seems you just didn’t want to let me pass,” Carlos spat and Charles paused in his tracks to glare at him pointedly.

 

“It doesn’t take away from the fact that you almost cost me my race,” Charles repeated and Carlos scoffed.

 

“Your race? As if you actually thought you could overtake Hamilton?” Carlos taunted with bitter humor. Charles looked at him bewildered, as if he’s hearing nonsense. “You couldn’t even take your place back yourself,” he added and that wiped Charles’ mocking expression.

 

“I let you pass,” Carlos reminded him, getting up close to Charles’ space, “And even that was an order that I had to obey,” he continued.

 

“I gave you that spot… At my fucking home race,” Carlos sneered.

 

And Charles didn’t say anything back. He was later called for an interview in which he was clearly not in the right state to take as he felt like punching a wall at that moment.

 

When asked about his contact with Carlos, he said the very same thing he said earlier, ‘We were told to save tyres, he didn’t, got damage on my front wing, lost time, ’

 

“I understand it was his home race and a very important moment in his career and I guess he wanted to do something spectacular,” Charles remarked bitterly, looking all detached, “But I probably wasn’t the right person to do that with,” he ended with pure indignation in his eyes, dead serious and pissed.

 

After the interview, he had a fleeting glance at Carlos who was next to take up on the interview and Charles made sure he saw the cold look in his eyes.

 

As expected, Carlos was immediately asked about Charles, informed how upset he was and Carlos could almost roll his eyes, as if he didn’t already know .

 

And like Charles, Carlos only asserted and crystallized what he has told Charles earlier, ‘ We were on on softs and a perfect opportunity to push, Charles was managing his tyres too much ,’

 

“I think it’s too many times that he complains after a race,” He said with a shrug, tired of having to defend himself when he knew what he did was reasonable. “I tried everything that I had to try as a driver, what is required from me as a driver,” he reasoned. "I can't stay behind him my entire life,"

 

After the interview, Carlos was forced to deal with the thoughts that plagued his mind ever since Charles rocked him up. He was almost thankful for Charles for giving him other things to worry about because that meant he wouldn’t be faced with the sickening reality of what this race just did to him entirely.

 

He lost his last home race under Ferrari. It almost felt like the worst goodbye from the best moment he could’ve gotten in his life.

 

Carlos stumbled to a bathroom where he emptied his stomach in a toilet bowl, the corner of his eyes shedding tears at the pressure and probably the welling frustration in his chest.

 

After getting changed, Carlos informs his family and Rebecca that he won’t be able to attend whatever celebratory meal they will be having and drives straight back to the hotel, turning his phone on silent mode.

 

His face felt numb like the feeling when he got pissed drunk for the first time, but, at the moment, Carlos was entirely sober. He was restless as he walked across the lounge towards the elevator.

 

He didn’t even hesitate to press number 6 as he waited for the elevator to descend.

 

Once the bell dings, he steps out and hunts down the door with Charles’ room number.

 

Once he’s facing it, he stands there in contemplation, where somehow he’s regained back all his self preservation as he freezes just as he was about to knock. He lets out a deep shaky breath and drops his hand. Head dropping to gaze at the floor.

 

Pathetic, Carlos.

 

He heard echo in his head.

 

Then he stepped back from the door and started to walk away. Back to the elevator he goes, pressing number 10 and he wants to punch the wall or kick at something to let out this bubbling frustration. Then he questions himself if that’s why he went to Charles’ room. 

 

His fist clenches that his nails dig into his palm painfully, eyes forcefully closed as he tries his best to breathe normally, to calm himself.

 

The bell dings and he walks out, body aching to just let himself sleep it off in his room. His one hand presses down on his other palm to soothe the pain he inflicted on himself earlier as he kept walking, trying to think of nothing at all.

 

But as he nears to where his door was, Carlos slows his steps as he stares bewildered right ahead.

 

Because Charles was right there in front of his door.

 

And when Charles took notice of him, he turned to face him directly as he came closer.

 

And like countless times, they were face to face, up in each other’s proximity yet again. 

 

“What are you doing here, Charles?” Carlos asked, voice low and somewhat cautious. His hand itched to grab at Charles, to slam him towards the wall, to hurt him in some way.

 

Charles' head tilted ever so slightly, eyes not knowing where to land on Carlos’ face, he licked his own lips; an action caught by Carlos’ eyes.

 

Somewhere in a restaurant in Barcelona was Rebecca, Alex and Carlos’ family. They chatted happily, bearing no weight on their shoulders.

 

“It’s funny how the reason why we’re all here aren’t even here,” Rebecca comments to which everyone laughed because of the complete irony.

 

Carlos grabs Charles by the collar and pins him to the wall, faces centimeters apart and Charles mouth opens to let out a gasp, which turns into a mocking grin, “Is something the matter, Matador ?” He taunts and Carlos harshly knocks their foreheads together, making Charles groan.

 

“Ah, with how the race turned out, I’d understand if they wanted to hide away, Dios mio, like children they are,” Carlos Sainz Cenamor comments in response to what Rebecca said and she smiles and nods.

 

“Mh, Indeed… But I didn’t expect Charles to be just as upset,” Rebecca adds, looking at Alex expectantly.

 

Alex smiles shyly then shrugs, “Charles has always been too hard on himself, very hard to be satisfied even when he does well,”

 

“You’re greedy…” Carlos goaded, “Very greedy,” And as he talks, their lips nearly touch at it’s movement.

 

Charles arches his neck, chasing after that contact. Their breaths becoming intermingled.

 

“That’s exactly what I saw from Charles… Impatient, that boy,” Carlos Sainz Cenamor says before taking a sip from his drink, “But my boy seemed just as greedy today,” he joked and they laughed heartily at it.

Carlos presses his fist harder to Charles' chest, making the man hit the wall again. Charles laughs just to mock him.

 

Then Carlos was leaning in with no warning.

 

Their lips met in a clash of teeth and it was painful. Charles’ hands come up just to pull harder at Carlos’ shirt, the fabric wrinkling under his fingers.

 

“He finally matched his pace, bared his teeth and all,”

Notes:

I suck at slow burn, but I know how to unburn it, don't worry

Chapter 9: Spain Part 2

Charles saw it coming.

 

Maybe he knew it was bound to happen either way ever since Montreal. Or maybe there has always been a looming tension since the start of the season knowing it was Carlos’ last one with him.

 

He was never as close to Carlos as people thought.

 

In comparison to him with Pierre, or Carlos with Lando— Carlos doesn’t necessarily appear to him as a close friend. More of an acquaintance, a colleague. Sure, he’s someone he gets to see more than his own family, but even that fact also applies to the entire team in Ferrari.

 

But that is only talking about relationships in terms of his personal life.

 

In racing, Carlos is nearly embedded in every aspect of it. He was part of Ferrari, 4 years with a prancing horse branded on him. Charles wonders if he cuts him open, will he bleed Rosso Corsa. Does it rush through his veins the same way it does to Charles?

 

And Carlos was a marvel in Ferrari.

 

Unlike Charles who had Ferrari bowing at his feet, catering to him in every way like he was a messiah— Carlos grabbed Ferrari by the neck and demanded his way.

 

The rogue one. Disobeys orders and doesn’t stick to the strategy placed on him if it serves him the short end of the stick. It was funny because people talked about Carlos Sainz like he was a pushover, too friendly ever since his karting days, happy to take any seat given to him. A perfect puppet for Ferrari to utilize.

 

It was strange when Carlos didn’t quite act as they expected him to. 

 

Carlos seemed to have changed ever since he stepped foot into Maranello. 

 

El Matador .

 

The bullfighter.

 

And it was just so meant to be that he would grab Ferrari by it’s handles to wave around like his own muleta . Going head to head in the arena with the Redbulls. 

 

The imagery made Charles’ breath stutter.

 

Ferrari is a fool to let him go. 

 

A strategic driver who’s finally starting to get hungry.

 

Charles wonders if he had any influence in that shift within him. He’ll never know because he’ll never ask.

 

Because Charles is with Ferrari. But for some reason, he is thrilled as much as he hates it when Carlos goes out of his way to get what he wants, even at the cost of Charles’ advantage. 

 

Carlos bites down at his bottom lip, eliciting a groan from him. Carlos had one hand tight on his jaw and the other on the back of his neck, tilting his head and taking control of the entire moment.

 

Charles was getting kissed like he was getting devoured, as much as he tries to match his tenacity- Carlos only pushes further, a knee pushing up in between Charles thighs that his knees suddenly felt like they were gonna give up. He tries to reach back at the wall in desperate attempts to hold on to something other than Carlos.

 

He sucked in a sharp breath when Carlos’ hand on his jaw trailed down to circle around his neck, maneuvering his head to whatever angle he desired.

 

Charles panicked, pushing forwards and gripping at Carlos’ collar to turn them over, so that Carlos was now pinned against the door.

 

They pause for a moment, lips hovering dangerously against each other, Charles almost pulling on Carlos’ shirt purposely as leverage because he seemed like he couldn’t stand properly anymore. Carlos had his hands holding firmly on Charles’ elbows to support him up.

 

Then with a hazy glint in his eye, he leaned his head back to the door as he rummaged for something in his pockets.

 

Charles was in a daze, panting heavily and then he almost fell forward if it wasn’t for Carlos’ hold on him when the door suddenly clicked open and they were both stumbling inside.

 

Carlos used this as an opportunity to take back control and pushed Charles against the door, slamming it shut with him.

 

Hastily, they found each other's lips again like they couldn’t breathe.

 

Carlos’ head felt so clear and empty. All he could think about was how Charles felt so warm under his touch, how he still tried to push back at Carlos but at the same time was pulling him closer.

 

Charles blindly tugged on Carlos’ belt loops, and he gasped when Carlos eagerly grinded on him, he settled his hands on Carlos’ hips, keeping him there.

 

“Hm, I wonder what Ferrari would think having their golden boy like this,” Carlos whispered against his lips, gently nudging their foreheads together.

 

“Not a word about Ferrari,” Charles murmured, annoyed but eyes half-lidded. His hands roam up, sliding underneath Carlos’ shirt to the skin on his waist.

 

“ Il Predestinato , so pathetic ,” Carlos teased, feigning a whine then chuckled.

 

Then Charles was pushing forward again but Carlos fought back, both struggling to assert dominance over the other, their teeth grazing over each other’s lips. Charles’ hands came up in between them to which Carlos took hold of his wrist as they stumbled further into the room, knocking into the wall, then a metal decoration that was then pushed off of its place.

 

Carlos' feet hit the edge of the bed and before he knew it, he was falling on his back, dragging Charles along with him and they both let out a groan, then Charles chuckled, moving to straddle Carlos’ hips and he pants against Charles’ mouth at the sudden pressure on his groin.

 

Then Charles felt a vibration on his thigh and Carlos froze, hands reaching in his pockets to which Charles beat him to it and retrieved Carlos’ phone himself.

 

He sat up, looking at the caller ID and gave Carlos a smug look, “It’s Brian,” he says, mischief tainting his tone and Carlos tried to get up but was stopped by Charles putting a hand to his chest.

 

“Charles,” he warns, hands gripping on Charles’ thigh.

 

Charles then leans down and accepts the call, holding the phone to Carlos' ear.

 

“Carlos? Hey, where’d you gone off to?” Brian asks and Carlos clears his throat when Charles moves to kiss his jaw. 

 

“I went back to the hotel,” He answered, keeping his tone steady when Charles trails down to his neck, he lets his hands glide up from Charles’ thighs then to his waist under his shirt where he presses gently that makes Charles buck his hips slightly making him suck in a sharp breath.

 

“Well, we need you back in the motorhomes, Fred is calling for a short meeting before everyone starts to pack up,” Brian says as Carlos brings a hand up to tug at Charles’ hair when he feels him sucking up a mark on his neck.

 

“Right… Alright,” Carlos managed to respond and pulled Charles off of him who only gave him a taunting glare. He sits up, face to face with Charles as he takes the phone from his hand.

 

Carlos was about to hang up when Brian spoke up again hurriedly, “Right, Carlos… Have you seen Charles? He hasn’t been picking up his phone and apparently he’s also in the hotel,” and Carlos could almost laugh and he had to cover Charles’ mouth because his shoulders were shaking with repressed laughter.

 

“Can you run by him as well? I know you two are probably in bad terms at the moment,” Brian asks and Carlos quirked a brow.

 

“Oh, we’re really not the best of friends right now,” Carlos smirked.

Chapter 10: Post-Spain

On two opposite sides in the lounge area in the motorhomes sat Charles and Carlos. Divided in between, team mechanics on the side of their designated driver. Fred stands up front, in the middle in his respected authority.

 

It is no secret when the team mechanics and other workers look between the two drivers in anticipation, like somehow they’ll soon pounce on each other, be at each other’s throats. 

 

Charles has his head down, on his phone, trying to feign unaware at the looks they’re getting. Carlos, however, wanted to make things a bit more interesting— or probably complicated. He is sat, manspreading and laid back, exposing a very obvious mark on his collar and he stares directly at the man who put it there. Gaze unbreaking like he really does want to pounce on Charles, just- not in the way the people here might expect.

 

“Decent work this weekend, everybody,” Fred starts and Charles turns off his phone repressing a sigh and Carlos tries not to roll his eyes. The team echoes in genuine soft claps and patting each other’s backs, the two drivers tries to soak in whatever this kind of positivity that broke through the awkward tension.

 

“It is quite obvious that the only thing we should focus on moving forward is Austria,” Fred continues once the cheering died down, “If we are to improve more, we need to let go whatever it is that held us back here, and we leave that here,” Fred said pointedly, not bothering to hide how he directly looks between Charles and Carlos. “Whatever incidents, whatever negativity… You leave them here,”

 

“I don’t care who you think you are, I want humble drivers,” He added sternly, and suddenly, the awkward tension is back. It felt like the drivers were being scolded, and the team didn’t know how to act so they just stood there, eyeing at those unspokenly mentioned. “P5 and P6 is plenty, but we all know that is not where a Ferrari stands,” He crosses his arms, “I want everyone to not dwell on something that has already happened, the only thing we have in control here is what could happen… So please, let us focus on the future,” Fred ends.

 

“That’s all I want to say, everyone can get to packing…” And at his word, everyone was starting to scatter around to start packing up, “Except for the drivers, please see me in my office,” 

 

The rest of the team tried not to make it obvious how their eyes linger on the two drivers as they suddenly slowed in their steps in leaving the room. Carlos could almost laugh at the comical way it all unfolded.

 

The two wordlessly followed Fred to his office.

 

Charles tried not to think when he felt the warm brush of Carlos’ shoulder on his as they walked, now side by side. He sucked a sharp breath in when he felt their knuckles graze every time their hands swing. It took everything in him not to just grab the other’s hand and entwine their fingers.

 

Once they get to Fred’s office, Carlos started thinking of what to say, how to act, thinking of what Fred could say—

 

“Carlos,” and there, Carlos’ shoulders immediately tensed up, “Would you understand if I told you not to come to the first few briefings once we make it back to Monaco?” 

 

Charles frowns and looks between Fred and Carlos, “Why?” he interjected and Fred raised a hand to shush him. 

 

“This question was for Carlos,” Charles could almost lunge towards the small man, “But why?” he asked, more agitated.

 

“Charles,” Carlos began and held an arm to hold him back.

 

“No— Is it because of today? Because if so, we are okay, you don’t have to exclude him—”

 

“ Charles ,” Carlos repeated, more sternly, his hand now gripping the front of Charles’ shirt to hold him back. Charles looked back at him with confusion as to why Carlos was not as upset as he is.

 

He looks back at Fred who was somewhat giving him a knowing look, tangles his fingers as he looks at both the drivers before continuing.

 

“The first few briefings will be about the mechanics for 2025,” He said, and looked pointedly at Charles to finally bring him the context.

 

And Charles stills.

 

He could almost feel himself falling on Carlos’ hand, but steadies himself, shoulders unwinding.

 

“Of course, thank you for telling me,” Carlos interjects and nods, expression unreadable to Charles.

 

Fred clicks his tongue then brings his hands together in a gentle clap, “Well… That’s all, You can both pack up as well,”

 

And when Fred starts to stand, Charles takes a step forward, “Are we not going to talk about today?” He asked and Fred looked at him with a satisfied smirk.

 

“Ah… I wouldn’t really worry about today,” he shrugs, “This,” he motions between the three of them, “Tells me all I need to know,” He says then waves them off, “Now go, hassle on,”

 

Charles was then dumbfounded and only moved to leave the office when he realized that Carlos was not by his side anymore.

~~~

 

At the plane, when Rebecca was asleep beside Carlos on the lounge seats, he got up with the intent to get some water near the bar.

 

He passes by a Charles Leclerc who was trying his hardest not to look at his passing figure. Beside the man was his lover, sleeping on his shoulder. He didn’t know if it was on purpose but his shoulder felt the gentle brush of Carlos’ knuckles as he walked by. Charles let his head fall a bit to the side, his hair rubbing on Carlos’ arm.

 

It was a split second, but the two felt as if they were stuck in time, in that single moment, they touched, and it was barely there, it barely happened. But Carlos brushed his knuckles to his cheek as he drank a glass of water. Charles forces his eyes shut because he feels like if he doesn’t he’ll look behind him.

 

~~~

 

“You should’ve been there…” Alex says with a smile, towel wrapped around her hair and a bathrobe hangs above her knees.

 

“I didn’t feel like celebrating,” Charles mutters, laying down on his back, staring up at the ceiling. Alex rubs him on the shoulder and he almost flinches away. He didn’t say anything when Alex laid her head on his chest, not even when he felt gentle trickles of water seeping through the towel and onto his shirt.

 

“Charles… I believe you did well,” Alex told him and he sighed, bringing a hand up to rub her shoulder.

 

“Thank you,” He whispered, and Alex turned her head to look at him and leaned in to press their foreheads together, the towel falling to the side as Charles leaned forward and let their lips meet.

 

Charles closes his eyes and tries his darndest not to think of anything else. 

 

Of anyone else.

 

He kisses her and takes in the smell of fruit and flowers coming from her skin. He hears her soft sighs, feels her slender fingers go through his hair, and her hair… Her hair is long, it reaches the middle of her back and it’s wet. 

 

And Charles is in Monaco.

 

Charles is tired and jetlagged. 

 

He kisses Alex all over, touches her all over, and she’s shaking and calling out his name.

 

And before she could offer to help him out, she lays him back down and kisses her to sleep.

 

Charles takes a cold shower afterwards. 

 

~~~

 

“Unbelievable!” Carlos Sainz Cenamor exclaims when his son tells him that he has been excluded from the first few briefings about Ferrari for 2025. 

 

Carlos looks at him confused, “Papa, you don’t expect them to tell me all about it,”

 

His father gently puts his hands on his shoulder, “I don’t understand why they need these briefings in the middle of a season,” he says and Carlos nodded, “Alpine, Williams, Sauber…” He mutters like a chant and his father pats him on the back.

 

“ Mijo… I do not want you to keep worrying about this… I feel it’s best to make your decision as early as possible, so you can focus on this season,” He says and Carlos looks at him.

 

“I thought I had time until the end of the season,” Carlos whispers, eyes closed and all he felt was a squeeze to the shoulder.

 

“This will eat you alive…” His father whispers back and Carlos tries not to feel emotional.

 

All he could think about was the creeping goosebumps when Fred mentioned to him about being excluded from briefings. He’s not an idiot, of course it's common sense. But that being said with Charles in the same room made him want to bang his head on a wall.

 

When he gets to his home where Rebecca lies fast asleep, he makes the decision to sleep on the couch.

 

When his phone rings, he answers immediately to not wake Rebecca from the bedroom.

 

“Hello?” He lays back, closing his eyes and rubbing at it, frustrated at getting a call this late at night.

 

“Carlos,” And Carlos stills, eyes snapping open.

 

“Charles,” He says, not knowing how to proceed. He hopes that saying his name back would prompt the other to continue talking.

 

“What are you doing at the moment?”

 

Carlos sighs out a chuckle, not expecting this attempt at small talk, “I was about to sleep,” he says, then hesitates to add, “What about you?”

 

He could hear Charles take a deep breath, “I couldn’t sleep,” Carlos looks at the phone before he realizes that he couldn’t see Charles through it. “I keep thinking…” his voice trails off and Carlos cranes his neck to somehow hear more of Charles, the mark on his collarbone peeking where the collar of his shirt falls lower.

 

“If you never went to Ferrari in the first place, I feel I’d never have to think about these things,” Carlos frowned, unsure what Charles meant. 

 

“Think what things?”

 

“About you… About you being better,” Carlos sighs, finding the direction of this conversation unworthy to dwell on. “I can’t stop thinking about you leaving and just… everything being a big mistake,” 

 

Carlos chuckles at this, not expecting the sudden turn, “Well, feel free to try and change Ferrari’s mind,” he jokes and Charles sighs.

 

“ You are Ferrari ,”

 

Carlos' smile falls into a soft look of grief.

 

“Goodnight Charles,” He says and drops the call.

 

He uses his arm to drape over his eyes, drowning away the soft glow of the moon peeking through the windows of the living room.

 

A tear falls down from his eye to the side of his face and no one will ever know.

Notes:

Lots of things for the Austrian GP coming within this week... Thanks for the lovely comments.

Chapter 11: Pre-Austria

Carlos scrolls through his phone, the other arm spread on the sofa, in front of him is a half drank coffee. He didn’t hear it when Rebecca lightly scolded him about not using a coaster, sparing half a glance when she placed one under his cup before his eyes returned to the screen.

 

On his phone, he reads the articles about him being excluded from Ferrari briefings. He represses the urge to roll his eyes every time he’s painted as pitiful under the media. He’s the hottest driver on the market at the moment, he has nothing too big to worry about, and all the articles describe him as some abandoned puppy, left with his career to die off. The idea makes him want to throw up his morning coffee.

 

“What’s got you so tense?” Rebecca asks, and Carlos was surprised to see her right beside him then, her own coffee mug in her hands. He shook his head to dismiss it.

 

“Just some dumb article,” he says, putting his phone down and then reaching for his own coffee, bringing it up to his lips. He tries to focus on the dishwashing liquid commercial on the television.

 

“How are you and Charles?” Rebecca asks, tone soft and cautious.

 

Carlos takes a moment to ponder the question. And it led to his mind replaying the events that happened in his hotel room. At the very same bed that he and Rebecca slept in. Charles on top of him, sucking a bruise on his neck, his hips grinding down— and now Carlos brought a hand to cover his mouth as he recalled it all.

 

“We’re fine,” He rasps out, placing his mug back down on the coffee table.

 

“Are you really? I haven’t seen you in touch with him lately,” Rebecca presses and Carlos exhales audibly. “It’s not like we keep in touch normally…” He says, eyes finding her probing expression. He raises his eyebrows.

 

“What do you know? Did Miss Alexandra say something?” He asks and Rebecca looks away immediately, visibly repressing a smile. Carlos catches this and scoots closer to her, hands wrapping around her waist.

 

“Oh— Careful, my coffee…” She exclaims, cupping the mug away from her chest, then Carlos looks at her expectantly. 

 

She sighs, “Alex told me that Charles has been quite distant lately,” she explains, a hand going on top of Carlos’, “And she asked if you were acting the same way,” She gives him a somber look.

 

Carlos didn’t let it show when his breath hitched.

 

He tries to hide it by kissing Rebecca on the cheek, “He’ll come around,” he says, and he doesn’t know if he meant it.

 

~~~

Charles sits by the balcony in his apartment, arms leaning on the railing and in his hand is his phone set to landscape, screen showing Ferrari’s youtube channel. He was watching the guide to Austria video of him and Carlos.

 

Maybe if what happened in Barcelona never happened, he wouldn’t give the video a second glance at all, but Barcelona happened. And Charles is suddenly fixated on how Carlos maneuvered him in the video, fixated on his hands, his arms, his voice and how he said certain things.

 

He catches himself thinking about Carlos more often lately, something he wouldn’t really find odd before, but now it drives him insane.

 

He does this thing where he thinks about what happened in Carlos’ hotel room, seeing if it still made him feel something in his stomach. He tries to stop thinking about it for a moment, then visualizes it again just to test it— And it makes his stomach turn, makes his knees weak and his throat dry.

 

He can’t remember when was the last time he ever felt this way.

 

The closest thing he could think of was when he was offered a seat in Scuderia Ferrari back in 2019. He felt like throwing up, or punching something. It’s this burst of uncontrollable energy that you can repress, but repressing it makes you nauseous. 

 

He doesn’t understand why Carlos makes him feel this way. 

 

He thinks of Alex, and how beautiful she is, how lucky he is to have her, how just a few months ago he was telling her he’d do anything for her.

 

It lies heavy on his chest the contrast of what he feels now.

 

He knows it’s wrong. Charles is a cheat. Carlos is a cheat. And how the gravity of it all just doesn’t seem to settle in his shoulders is what keeps him on his toes. The fact that nobody really suspects it doesn’t really help. It plays into his delusion that nothing ever happened, but then again Charles doesn’t want to pretend. He wouldn’t know what to do if Carlos acted like nothing ever happened.

 

Charles pushes the thought to the back of his head.

 

Nobody will ever know.

 

Even if they do it again, nobody will ever suspect it .

 

And God — Charles is reeling.

 

It’s so wrong, everything is so wrong, this makes him the worst person ever. This is the scandal of the century. Alex doesn’t deserve this- Rebecca doesn’t deserve this…

 

But Charles' breath hitches at the thought of Carlos’ hands on him.

 

He holds his phone to his chest for a few moments before tapping at something. 

 

His phone rings 3 times before the other line picks up.

 

“Charles,” Carlos utters casually, like he’s pleased to have Charles calling him.

 

“Hey,” Charles greets and turns around so that his back is leaning on the railing. “Have you… Seen the video?”

 

Carlos takes a moment, he chuckles audibly, “Yes… Yes I have. Why?” 

 

“Nothing, I just…” And Charles suddenly runs out of words. “Well, What do you think about it?” Charles cringes at himself for that question, he brings a hand up to bite his thumbnail.

 

Carlos actually laughs, and Charles tries not to hit his own head, “Come on now, mate… You did not call me to ask about a video,”

 

“Shut up,” Charles snaps playfully. He covers his eyes like Carlos could actually see him being embarrassed.

 

“Charles,” Carlos calls out, dragging the tone. One could say he whined.

 

Charles takes a breath like all the air was knocked out of his lungs, “ Carlos ,” he sighs.

 

After a moment, Carlos speaks, and Charles wished he hadn’t.

 

“I’ve heard you’ve been distant from Miss Alex,” 

 

Charles felt a slight tension creeping into his shoulders, “I’ve been pretty busy… With all the briefings and all,” he wanted to bang his head on the wall at his choice of excuse.

 

“Ah right… The 2025 briefings,” Charles could feel how cold their tone has gotten.

 

“There’s this new simulation in Mara—”

 

“Don’t speak to me about it, Charles,” Carlos cuts through. It was a plea. 

 

Don’t speak to me about it. Don’t hang this over me. Don’t talk about Ferrari .

 

Charles understands when enough is enough, “I’ll see you soon,” He says, eyes now fixated on the ground. He frowns at it because it felt like the ground was mocking him.

 

He drops the call, not waiting for Carlos’ response. It was for the better.

~~~

When Carlos boards the private jet to Austria, Charles was already there. And as usual, the lounge was fairly empty. Charles eyes him down, there was an unmistakable tension.

 

Carlos chose to sit right in front of Charles just because he can. The other took note of this cautiously. When Carlos spreads his legs wider than normal, Charles doesn’t bother to hide his gaze. Eyes shameless trailing down the man’s body then right back up his eyes.

 

When Carlos felt Charles’ foot bump with his, he tries not to notice it. That- until he felt it run up his leg and Carlos looked down at how it slowly rubs up and down his leg. He gives him a warning look, Charles took it as an invitation.

 

Higher it went, rubbing behind Carlos knee, and Charles licked his lips at the fact that the other wasn’t stopping him yet. 

 

He tries higher, reaching the man’s thighs and Carlos sits up, grabbing his foot and pushing it away. Charles leans forward and their foreheads touch, knees in between each other’s legs.

 

Their lips hover at each other, not one of them caving.

 

Carlos feels Charles hot breath on his mouth. He grips at the armrests to try and resist.

 

“Sit back down, Charles,” He whispers in a warning, although his eyes could have stripped Charles if they could, lips faintly touching the other’s.

 

“I will if you will,” Charles challenges and Carlos only smirked, and Charles leans in just as Carlos backs up, a hand pushing gently on to Charles’ chest, pushing him against the backrest.

“Behave, won’t you?” Carlos says with a playful smile and Charles rolls his eyes.

“You’re teasing,” he says with a chuckle, shaking his head, “You’re teasing me,” his hands sitting comfortably on the armrest.

 

Carlos closes his eyes, a satisfied smile on his face.

 

Austria couldn’t get any closer.

Notes:

Austria chapters are cooking.

Chapter 12: Austria

When they landed in Spielberg, it was 3am, both were jet lagged and eyes not being able to open as they were driven to their hotel. They shared a car, Carlos’ head falling on Charles’ shoulder, which none of them noticed. They couldn’t even spare each other a proper farewell when they parted ways since their rooms were not on the same floor once again, probably for the better.

 

They weren’t given much time to adjust since in a couple hours they needed to head to the track for media day, and it wasn’t a joke how loaded their schedules were.

 

When they finally saw each other, it was brief. A short walk to the media hall, Charles had to attend an early interview while Carlos chose to start on signing merch to get ahead and do his own photoshoots.

 

It wasn’t too long before both of them finally had free time to rest.

 

In the newly settled Ferrari hospitality, Charles is pushed against the wall of his very own room. His eyes are shut, shoulders unbelievably relaxed and his hands run softly through Carlos’ hair as the man kisses a trail from his chin, to his jaw then up until Charles feels a soft nip at the shell of his ear.

 

“It was a matter of seeing each other, huh?” Carlos whispers against his ear. Referring to Charles’ response to the status of their relationship being questioned from what happened in Spain.

 

“Don’t let it get to your head, I still haven’t forgiven you,” Charles teases, which earns a press to his waist, he could feel nails dig carefully. Charles brings his hands to the other’s shoulders. He cranes his neck to look at Carlos’ hands under his clothes. Eyes appreciating how his arms look even bigger with the shirt he is wearing.

 

He brings his head back to Carlos’ level, smirking as he whispers, “You look really good in that,” 

 

Carlos bites his bottom lip before leaning in to capture the other’s lips in his once more and Charles breathes a wistful sigh.

 

Charles’ phone chose to ring at that moment, making him freeze up, scrambling to push Carlos to pull his phone from his pocket.

 

He abruptly brings a hand to Carlos’ chest to keep his distance when he sees the caller ID. 

 

He answers and brings the phone to his ear, eyes lingering on the ground. “ Mon amour …” He says and Carlos takes a step back which causes Charles’ hand to drop. His eyes closed- trying to process the realization. It was Alex.

 

Carlos turned around, not being able to keep his eyes on the other. Yet he stayed in the room, choosing to sit at the edge of a massage table, a conversation in french playing out in a muffled sound on the back of his mind.

 

When Charles ended the call, he let a moment pass with both of them in silence. Carlos still had his back to him and now he doesn’t know how to approach the situation.

 

“Carlos—”

 

“I think we should stop,”

 

Charles blinks. 

 

Stop?

 

Another moment of silence. Charles wanted to face Carlos, so he did, walking over to be able to see him. Carlos looked sure and void of anything else.

 

Suddenly, his room felt small, the white walls looked horrendous and Charles felt suffocated. Carlos was there but he felt so alone. Carlos wouldn’t look at him.

 

“Right, Okay…” Charles said and it was barely audible. 

 

Charles didn’t know how to breathe anymore. When Carlos moved to leave, Charles wanted to stop him, hold him back from leaving that door. But Charles was frozen in place. Carlos wouldn’t look at him.

 

It’s for the better. It is what it is. This was a mistake anyway.

 

All the unsaid thoughts that Charles tries to convince himself.

 

It ended just like that? It was somewhat anticlimactic— It’s not like Charles expected more. He sat down in the same place Carlos was just in. He rubbed his hands on his legs because his hands felt cold, and that is when he realized that his hands were trembling. He tries to pinch them in between his thighs to keep it from shaking. Charles' eyes felt out of focus.

 

One thing he could do now was focus on the race. Like how it should’ve been in the first place.

 

And when Carlos acted like everything was alright when they saw each other again on the paddock, Charles played along because that is what will always be expected of them. He smiles at him, nods, pats him on the shoulder and Carlos is reciprocating.

 

However, it was unbearable when Charles felt this feeling of an unseen barrier between them. He can touch Carlos but he can never reach for him in such a way again. And he can never speak to anyone about it. 

 

It’s easy to get detached from these heavy things. That’s what being under the media spotlight does to a person. Nothing is ever too serious anymore.

 

But even this is something the media doesn’t know. 

 

Charles knows better than to push it.

 

For the rest of the day, Charles tries to sleep it off. And if his phone starts ringing in the middle of the night, he doesn’t pick up but not because he was asleep.

 

He thinks of Alex more and feels absolutely nothing.

 

He stares at the ceiling, numb and unmoving.

 

~~~

 

When Carlos heard Alex’s voice lowly through Charles’ phone, it felt like a punch in the stomach.  A bad one where you can’t breathe and you feel like vomiting. It’s a late and quite a stupid smack of reality but Carlos was definitely hit with it at full blown speed. The guilt of the act. Like a fucking post nut clarity.

 

He was brought back to years when he was 16 where he was being told by the woman he’d do anything and absolutely everything for was leaving him and that he should not be taking things seriously from women like her ever— because she was 25 and bloody married. 

 

She was also a cheat. And Carlos made a promise that he will never turn out like her.

 

Well Carlos turned out like her. 

 

He can kid himself and say at least he wasn’t doing it to boost his own career like she did. But that led him to only think about what exactly he gets from this. And it scared him that he couldn’t even think of anything. What exactly does he get from screwing around with Charles?

 

He doesn’t even get to have Charles. Hell- he doesn’t even want Charles.

 

He has Rebecca. The thought of absolutely defiling her trust for absolutely nothing at all brings so much shame to him that once a gentleman used to have. 

 

He sneaks a glance at Charles who was still speaking with Alex on the phone. And he wonders what does Charles get to have out of all this? 

 

When Carlos makes a decision to end things. He feels something ominous looming over him. 

 

It makes tears prick the corner of his eyes and he doesn’t understand why because- wasn’t he doing the right thing? Not even just for himself, but for everyone.

 

He switches everything off and goes on about the day professionally. He poses for photos, sign autographs for fans, films content- even with Charles if needed but there was an understanding then that there was nothing to be done between them anymore.

 

When the day was over and he gets to be alone with himself in his hotel room, the first thing he wanted to do was to turn his mind off and sleep until the next bundle of responsibilities turns to wake him up. And as much as it disgusts him, he ignores any notification from his phone.

 

And maybe he deserves it when he woke up from a handful of texts and missed calls from Rebecca. All were in inquiry about his well being and generally being worried. And it was so fucking wrong but Carlos was annoyed. He doesn’t respond and the looming feeling gets so much worse.

 

It was fine - he says to himself. It’s race week and he’s very busy.

 

~~~

 

When Charles bursts into Carlos’ room after the Sprint race, Carlos somewhat expected it- anticipated it even. Somehow he knew.

 

Charles was doing well in the free practice, til came the qualifying where he placed 10th and had to see Carlos get 5th. Ferrari isn’t typically doing well for the week at all and Charles feels it deep within.

 

He thought he could place higher, he felt it. He made up three spots by the end of the race. That should be grand enough given their situation. But for Charles it will never be enough. Not when he gets to see Carlos stuck in the very same place and not even managing to hold off Russel. Carlos stayed in the 5th spot and it made Charles furious.

 

So when he was all heated up catching Carlos in the man’s own hotel room Charles felt righteous to say something.

 

“5th…” he began, pronouncing the world like an insult. Well- for Ferrari, it might be an insult. “Are you getting comfortable?” Charles asked condescendingly. Carlos shook his head slowly, a smile of disbelief slowly painting his face.

 

“Get out of my room,” Carlos retorts, he was smiling but his tone was humorless, anger seeping through the edges. He was taking offense because of course he was.

 

Charles doesn't obey, but steps further into the room closer to where Carlos is and the man prepares, feet planting steadily but holding back the urge to swing a fist right into the monegasque’s face.

 

“If you are getting comfortable, I’ll advise you not to… Just because you’re leaving by the end of the season—”

 

“ Oh you’re one to talk, you placed 7th,” Carlos snaps and Charles scoffs. “I gained three spots, what did you do?” and that successfully shuts Carlos up.

 

“Don’t ever talk about me leaving Ferrari,” Carlos spats. Charles tilts his head at this.

 

“Why? Does it scare you? Are you scared?” Charles immediately taunts and Carlos takes a step back and sighed, he almost bled of disappointment.

 

“Why do you do this, Charles?” He asks, he sounded like he was begging, he sounded so defeated. “Does it feel good to think about me gone?” He adds to get under his teammate’s skin. If Carlos was good at many things, one of them was guilt tripping. 

 

Charles remains silent so Carlos continues. “I’ve given everything to this team, I’ve given everything to you ,” He says hurriedly. He steps forward pointing a finger to Charles’ chest. “I played the goddamn puppet much more than you ever will because let’s face it… You’re Ferrari’s golden boy, the spoiled brat, Everything must be given to you,” Charles remains silent. 

 

Carlos lets his hand fall to his sides, “You can brag about being better all you want but just know that you’re better because everyone works on your side and nobody’s on mine… Not even you,” There was a moment lingering where everything was silent. Maybe Carlos was that cruel to offer Charles a pause to soak everything up.

 

Carlos brings a hand to his own chest, “So I apologize if I am losing my spirits in ever racing for Ferrari because it really is difficult to race for a team who’s deep up their own asses in favoring you,” He says and points back at Charles who slaps his hand away.

 

“You know what,” Carlos begins again, taking a step back, he spreads his arms.

 

“I can’t wait to leave,” he says with a bitter smile. 

 

Charles leaves after that, not sparing a retort.

 

~~~

 

When Carlos stands on the podium as the British national anthem plays, he looks down at the pit in front of the stage and spots the crowd of Rosso corsa staring back at him. After 2 bad races for Ferrari, they finally got a goddamn podium— even if it was handed to them by Norris and Verstappen’s awful contact.

 

And it was Carlos who was standing there.

 

Charles, who faced multiple technical difficulties from the Free Practice to the Qualifying, settled at 11th place, and he’s down at the pits, not looking at the podium. Not looking at Carlos.

 

And when the champagne starts to pop and his face is being sprayed, he turns to the red colored crowd and shakes his champagne to try and reach his team, but when he looks back, Charles is no longer there.

 

His smile drops in the slightest but he celebrates either way. He claps George on the back and nods at Oscar, then they finally leave the stage.

 

Carlos meets his team again and is met by congratulations and hugs and everything nice. It is times like these where he’s grateful for Ferrari, where his statements saying they favor Charles seem to ultimately die and get buried. But of course, Carlos knows they like him this time around only because Charles’ car suffered massive setbacks and was nowhere near a podium. This time they can celebrate this podium with him because he was careful enough to keep at his seat.

 

He looks for Charles around the hospitality without himself noticing. And when he does notice, he snaps himself out of it and heads for his room to change.

 

Carlos jumps a little when he sees Charles in his own driver room, still in his race suit. He enters cautiously and closes the door behind him. He then let a moment of silence pass before attempting to speak up. 

 

But before he could utter a word out, Charles was walking over and grabbing him by the collar of his race suit and smashing their lips together. Carlos smelled of expensive Champagne but Charles doesn’t seem to mind. His fingers are slipping from the soaked race suit so Charles frustratedly opens it up to push it off Carlos’ shoulder and the man lets him, even helps out of his race suit until the upper half hangs from his waist, revealing his fireproof.

 

Carlos lets Charles devour him, hands settling on Charles’ waist, rubbing up and down painfully slowly. His mind shuts down and focuses on Charles. 

 

Charles hands that move from his chest, to grabbing at the back of his neck, to pulling at the hair on the back of his head, pulling them unbelievably closer and Carlos struggles to breathe when Charles sucks at the side of his neck. 

 

He pushes forward, the back of Charles’ leg colliding with the sides of the couch on the corner of the room to which he falls back on, and Carlos immediately pounces on him, hands working to undo the upper half of the man’s race suit.

 

He hears buzzing somewhere in the room and he was sure it was his phone ringing, maybe Charles hears it too but Carlos bites his bottom lip because at the moment, he doesn’t want to care about anything at all. All he cares about is that at this moment, he frees Charles’ torso off of his fireproof and Carlos is biting at his neck, teeth dragging down to his collarbone and Charles gasps, stomach knotting up and hips bucking and grinding with the other. 

 

Carlos goes back up to Charles lips and Charles arms encircle around the other’s neck. Their crotch seeking friction from each other helplessly. “Fuck,” Charles’ voice broke as he whined against Carlos’ lips. Their eyes are half lidded but all they want to see is each other. 

 

Carlos sighs heavily, catching his own breath as he pulls back to take in the view of Charles. Topless and his race suit crumpled and hanging off his waist. Beads of sweat glistened on his torso, chest heaving for air and Charles' expression was open to him. Elbows keeping him upright on the couch, he looks at Carlos with half lidded eyes like he was about to pass out.

 

And Carlos has an epiphany.

 

He can’t stop this. None of them can. And Carlos already tried.

 

It’s somewhat unspoken. Charles didn’t need to say anything to pull him in. It’s a mutual desire to be this way, to have each other like this. Charles can have Carlos and Carlos can have Charles.

 

But it has to be this way and this way only. Through the heights of emotion, in between the worst moments of their careers.

 

Maybe it was a package deal from the beginning. When Sainz got into Ferrari, he signed his body and soul to it. That he can race to his heart’s desire, he can go rogue whenever, he can make Ferrari itself bite the curb. But if Ferrari gets to have him, he gets to have Ferrari. 

 

And to him, Ferrari is Charles.

 

Charles Leclerc himself.

 

And Carlos pulls on the race suit on Charles' waist to completely rid him off of it, leaving him in his undergarments. And there, it was just Charles on a black couch, breathing heavily. This is how Carlos wants him.

 

Without the Rosso corsa hugging his body, without the honor, without the glory.

 

Carlos wants to strip Charles off of everything Ferrari.

 

~~~

 

On the plane back to Monaco, Charles and Carlos settle in front of each other once again. They seem awfully content, not even uttering much of a word to each other, waiting to just sleep the journey off until they land. 

 

Sitting in front of each other means they’re keen to have each other there, at arm's length. Not too close and not too far. 

 

When they land, they spare each other a knowing glance and a nod before they part.

 

Carlos thinks of Britain and how they won’t catch much of a break this time.

 

When he arrived at his place, Rebecca was there waiting for him. And he pales because he totally forgot he was ignoring his phone the entire time.

 

Rebecca eyes him up and down, steps closer in front of him before slapping him right across the face then walking past him to leave the place.

 

Carlos thought he deserved that as he watched her fleeting figure disappear out the door. But then his eyes catch his own reflection at a mirror hanging on a wall.

 

And he spots a very obvious mark on the side of his neck.

Chapter 13: Romance, Rumors, Racing, Rebecca

In May of 2023, Isa broke up with Carlos. 

 

They’ve been together for 6 long years and Carlos was happy and he could almost settle and give her a ring. That was the plan, until Carlos signed with Ferrari and everything changed.

 

Maybe he didn’t notice it when he’d ultimately forget of her existence because his schedule was too packed with everything racing related. Now, that has never happened before, not to an extent. Even with McLaren, Carlos always had time with Isa, always found time with her.

 

Ferrari drained him out of his blood and soul and spirit. 

 

So when Carlos struts into the apartment seeing Isa’s belongings missing, he realizes that he hasn’t spoken to her in weeks. And apparently he also forgot it was their anniversary 2 days ago.

 

Now that has never happened before.

 

But maybe it was the forgetting being stacked again and again that made Isa finally drop everything. It was too much to bear and Isa knew where the line was drawn.

 

Carlos couldn’t marry Isa because by then he was married to Ferrari.

 

And Ferrari had to meddle further.

 

It was about 2 weeks after his split with Isa. Any man would be upset and wallow about a 6 year relationship ending. But apparently, Carlos isn’t like any man at all. 

 

He buried himself in racing, engineering meetings, and frequented in Maranello more often that he absolutely had no time to wallow in heartbreak. His heart wasn’t broken, he thinks.

 

It was quite easy to detach oneself from the heavy reality that he must’ve lost the love of his life when he could delude himself that the love of his life is sitting in a red car going over 200 miles per hour.

 

So Carlos thought he was fine. That there was nothing wrong and he can go on with his life. All good things to Isa, she deserves someone who has all their time for her, and Carlos cannot be that person.

 

Then one day, Carlos was called into a Media and PR meeting; He dreaded that it may be about his split with Isa and he really did not want to do a public stunt about it like posting a picture with hints of the breakup in the caption. His relationship with Isa was strictly private and he loved it that way because nothing and no one could make a spectacle out of it. 

 

But then, they told him a name that really changed his perspective of how driving for Ferrari or even just being an F1 driver really is in the business.

 

Mia Brown.

 

They want him to be involved with her, be near her, charm her, hell— anything to spark up a rumor with her.

 

“It is only a suggestion,” they told him and he sits there looking bewildered.

 

“Aye- why don’t you take that suggestion and shove it up your—”

 

“We’re merely saying it would be good to branch into this side of the media… I mean, you are single now, aren’t you?” Then Carlos' expression drops in realization. These people he sits among have completely detached themselves of empathy. They know nothing of compassion because they’ve been in the industry for so long. 

 

“It’s only been weeks since I…” he takes a deep breath before continuing, “Don’t you see how disrespectful this is? I’ve been in a 6 year relationship and you want me to seem as if I’ve moved on in weeks?” He reasons, feeling hopeless when they seem to look at him as if he’s talking nonsense.

 

“Well, Carlos… I don’t know how to tell you this but you sure seem absolutely unfazed by it,” That made Carlos frown.

 

“Oh, don’t pretend as if you care about me,” he snaps, “I know you don’t, but please… Please- at least take into account what Isa may feel about this,” he says, more of begged because he feels demoralized just having this conversation in the first place.

 

Then, one of them sighed, “I told you you should have talked to him about it first,” one of the PR managers told the other who snapped back, “I didn’t know he was going to be so opposed to it,” and it really irked Carlos how they spoke as if he was not in the room right in front of them.

 

“What? Opposed to what?” Carlos asked, frown deepening.

 

Then the main PR manager sighed again and looked at him. Fixing her posture and crossing her legs. 

 

“Carlos, we already agreed that you’d be able to shoot some stunts this week,” And at that, Carlos harshly stands up, his chair falling backwards making a loud noise as he stares at the people in front of him like he could just murder somebody.

 

“Who do you think you are?” He seethes, then shakes his head, chuckling sarcastically, “No, no… Who do you think I am?” he clarifies then takes a step back. “Do you think I’m some puppet that you can make do everything you want? I’m my own person and I’m supposed to make these decisions for myself!” He runs his hand through his hair, frustrated.

 

“This is just disrespectful! No- This is beyond disrespectful! This is fucking insulting!” He rants, beginning to walk around.

 

He then halts in his tracks, “You know what, I won’t do it. End of discussion and don’t ever speak to me about this ever again,” he says in finality and darts out the room, not stopping even when they called out for him.

 

That night, Carlos drives to a private bar he frequents, thinking of drinking the dreadful night away. Of course, he could do this in his own apartment, but the imagery of his entire home reminds him all about Isa. So, the bar it is.

 

He orders something Ramazzotti, something to get away from the sponsored beverages he’s signed to always drink and have in public. He wanted to get away from the systematics of it all from the media industry that plagues but is unfortunately a part of racing in itself.

 

He swirls the liquor around in his glass, staring at nothing really.

 

“Mind if I join you?” a sweet voice he hears from his left says and he looks briefly to a woman smiling at him and Carlos knows so well what that smile means. 

 

Admittedly, she is gorgeous. Blue eyes, brunette, sharp features. She must be a model- An elite one at that. She must work for the big names that Carlos has no care for whatsoever. She’s clearly targeting him tonight as well. 

 

Carlos sneaks a quick glance at her slender fingers. No ring. This means it’s safe to have an exchange with her. 

 

Carlos looks into her eyes briefly before bringing the glass back up to hover it’s edge on his lips, maybe to hide his face away from recognition. “Suit yourself,” he responds and she smiles meekly, sitting next to him and ordering some cocktail that Carlos didn’t pay no mind to.

 

A silent moment passes them and maybe she expects Carlos to make a move but he is certainly not in the mood at the moment, so she takes matters into her hands.

 

“You seem like you’re having a rough night,” she has an accent - Carlos notices and this makes his brows raise; It’s something northern English, maybe scottish .

 

He scoffs a chuckle, “You could say that,” he says, not committing to the conversation as he takes another sip.

 

 “I hear you. Bad days can feel relentless. Want to talk about it?” Carlos is shocked at her being very forward, but he deems it as her pretending to seem interested or pretending to care, which really puts him back in that room with the PR managers and it is not a great feeling.

 

He sighs and tries not to look at her, “Not really. It’s more than just a bad day… And I don’t talk about bad days with strangers,” 

 

“Who do you talk to about it then?” Carlos felt the probe, he assumes she wants him to tell her if he has someone. Which, truthfully, he doesn’t.

 

“No one really…” He says in an attempt to be nonchalant about it.

 

She takes a sip from her cocktail then smiles, “Sometimes talking helps. Or at least it makes the burden a bit lighter.” Her offer is certainly open and Carlos rolls his eyes.

 

“And what makes you think you’re any good at this? You just walked in,” He says bluntly.

 

She took this as a challenge apparently, “Maybe I’m not. But maybe I’m the distraction you need tonight. Ever think of that?” She leans closer as she says this and Carlos takes a bit of a pause because she just gets bolder and bolder it seems.

 

His eyes narrow slightly, a mix of skepticism and curiosity, “I don’t know if a distraction is what I need,”

 

She leans in, voice soft but earnest, “Sometimes a distraction is exactly what we need to put things in perspective,” then she leans back to see how Carlos handles it.

 

Carlos fidgets with his drink, clearly torn. “And what’s your plan, then?” And he just can’t believe he’s playing into this.

 

She smiles, feeling slightly victorious, “Why don’t you come up with one?”

 

Carlos scoffs, then lets the moment wait for a bit. He faces her, “You know who I am, don’t you?” Carlos drops the question as a test.

 

Her brows raise, then her eyes look to the side in wonder, “What if I do?” she nudges cautiously.

 

Interesting , Carlos wanted to say. 

 

“What’s your name?” He asks.

 

She holds up a hand limply, “Rebecca,”

~~~

Carlos does nothing but slump in his house contemplating if he should go out and find Rebecca, explain to her. But he cannot for the life of him find any reasonable reason for the mark on his neck. Of course he can’t tell her apparently it’s Charles Leclerc, his teammate, the outstanding monegasque driver, the one and beloved Charles Leclerc. But he cannot think of anything else. 

 

He thinks she’s probably out there thinking he was out and about with another woman when it was just not the case at all. But how the hell do you say “Oh yeah, I’ve been fooling around with  Charles,” in a way that makes absolutely all the sense in the world. She probably wouldn’t even believe him.

 

And Goddamn it, Carlos doesn’t need this when he’ll be flying to the UK later in the week. 

 

When he hears the door click, he jumps up from the couch and meets Rebecca in the hallway.

 

She looks at him and doesn’t hide her disdain.

 

“Rebecca—”

 

“Don’t even…” She cut him off, her hands up as if wanting to keep him away, “Don’t even start, because frankly, I’ve heard it all; all the ‘oh It didn’t mean anythin ’ or the ‘ oh it was a one time thing I won’t do it again ’ So spare yourself the air I don’t care, I’m moving out as soon as possible,” She walks past him to their shared bedroom.

 

“Rebecca no, that is not it, please let’s sit down for a bit,” Carlos begs, his mind buzzing as he frantically trails her.

 

She groans and stops throwing her clothes on the bed, “Just stop! I don’t wanna hear absolutely anything! I trusted you, I trusted you and you knew that,” She kept on ranting then moved to get a bag for her clothes.

 

Carlos' breath hitches, “Rebecca please, please hear me out,” he says but she doesn’t take any of it and doesn’t stop putting her clothes in the bag, as messy as they get.

 

He tries to physically stop her hands and she freaks out immediately and throws the bag at him and she falls to her knees, he takes a few steps back to regain his balance.

 

That is when Carlos finally realized she was crying, sobbing even.

 

“You… You selfish fucking prick,” she sobs, wiping her nose. Carlos didn’t expect her to cry at all.

 

“You F1 drivers really… No… It’s just so fucking fitting, you know you’re rich, you’re attractive, you’re in the heights of your career and you just get to have everything,” she cries, not even having the strength to look at Carlos, “And you don’t even need to but you just had to get every girl too,” she remarked, bitter even through her tears.

 

He stayed silent then.

 

“Who is she?” she asked and Carlos sighed heavily, shaking his head. But Rebecca wasn’t having this.

 

“Who. Is. She?!” 

 

And Carlos doesn’t budge which made Rebecca laugh bitterly, she gasps, “Fuck a girl and forget her, huh? Or is it that you don’t want me to know?” she spat and Carlos felt something in him feel heavy.

 

“Is it one of my friends?” she guesses and Carlos frowns but Rebecca continues, “You speak so against Charles about fucking his partner’s friends, but what about you?” Carlos' breath hitches at the mention of Charles' name and he almost cracks.

 

 Then Rebecca laughs, hysterical then she wipes her nose again, “Y’know what? Fuck you,” she says, then stands back up, “Let me tell you something then,” she begins, and takes a deep breath. 

 

“I only got with you because my PR team told me to,” she says unapologetically, says it like it felt heavy on her tongue, but she doesn’t hold back, “They actually told me to go for Kvyat, said he was available at the time but… I didn’t like his past bullshit,” Rebecca sounded like she was drunk as she continued. 

 

“But you… You were just fresh on the market,” her words felt like insults and Carlos braces himself. “So I did exactly that… Got with you, it was only to start up rumors, get traction and all but fuck- You were just good… You were too good to me,” Carlos felt himself tearing up.

 

Rebecca looks at her then, “I really liked you… I told my friends I was in love for fucksake,” She says then sighs, “Well, I guess you can be good to other women,” She says in finality and grabs her halfly packed duffle bag and shoulders Carlos on her way out the door.

 

And Carlos tried. But as he soaks the words in, he couldn’t help it.

 

He ran after her and just as she was about to slam the door he called for her to stop. She halted and looked back, eyes still just as anguished.

 

Carlos needs to stop. He needs to let her go. He needs to not fuck this up.

“It was Charles,”

Chapter 14: Pre-Silverstone

There was a human-length gap in between Carlos and Rebecca on the couch. Carlos had his hands on his lap, slouched and picking at the skin around his nails anxiously as he tells the story. When he does this at times, Rebecca would swat his hands to stop him because sometimes he picks at it too hard and they bleed- but Rebecca doesn’t do anything this time.

 

He doesn’t know how many times he has restarted telling the story because of how many questions Rebecca has asked and of course he indulges her in the details when she asks for it. It’s the least he could do, and he could do more. 

 

Rebecca listens and doesn’t try to hide her disdain when Carlos mentions details that she asked for. And he pretends he doesn’t notice how there was lesser distance between them when he started talking. 

 

Rebecca has never heard of something like this before. Of course she wasn’t into motorsports before he knew Carlos- she knows nothing of how the sport drives two teammates to do… things together like that. She can acknowledge the bond he has with Charles but again— she knows from her own damn eyes that they’re not even that close.

 

Rebecca was no stranger to infidelity. She has been betrayed, and she has been unfaithful in her past. 

 

But she’s still a woman. She’s still a person. Going through it again makes it no less painful. She still has feelings and all it takes to be human.

 

As cliche as it may be; she has heard of the usual husbands cheating on their wives with men. Or obviously gay men marrying women. She looks at Carlos and tries to determine any signs now that she has him right in front of her. But she sees nothing. It doesn’t make any sense. But of course, she doesn’t ask him at all about it. It’s like a denial of some sort. ‘You don’t look like the type of guy to be… Well… Gay’ . She tries not to think about it.

 

“So… What I’m getting here is that… You don’t even know when it started between you two?” she interrogated to deflect her thoughts, because of course, she didn't want to believe it. But who in the world makes this up as an explanation to the implication that one is unfaithful. 

 

Carlos sighs and straightens up, facing her more directly as he tries to explain, which was quite hard when this was the only time he could ever get to think about this in the first place. He absolutely has no idea how to tell her at all because even he doesn’t know himself.

 

“Yes… Like I said, it happened when the tensions were unbearably high… In Barcelona… I believe that was the first time anything happened at all,” He says and tries to forget his PR training because he wants to be transparent at this very moment. He was ducking his head out of shame because he could feel Rebecca’s glare at the mention of Spain.

 

“When you didn’t come to the afterparty meal with your family…” Rebecca chuckles when she adds, “That explains why Charles wasn’t there as well,” It was a bitter sound, heart wrenching and cold.

 

“I didn’t think it would go that way… Um…” He sniffs instinctively, “Even to Charles I… I didn’t know how to stop it and I tried to cut it all off,” Carlos tried and even to his own ears he sounded so pathetic coming up with these kinds of excuses.

 

Rebecca puts her head in her hands and lets out a muffled sob she’d been holding in. “Fuck, Carlos— Your father was there… Alex was there,” she whimpers.

 

She looks back up at Carlos with tears welling up in her eyes, Carlos opens his mouth to say something but she cuts him off, “Save it… It hurts just hearing you try,” she says and looks away, Carlos looks at her in anguish but of course, as a grown man he must take this as it is. He cannot water it down to anything.

 

“Honestly, I think this is expected… It was foolish of me to think it’d be any different,” Rebecca starts and Carlos only looked at her confused. She looks back at him and smiles knowingly. “You were willing to get with me weeks after a 6 year long relationship… I think I know just what else you’re willing to do,” Carlos frowned and looked away. “It doesn’t matter who the fuck you did it with,”

 

Then Rebecca continues, “Of all people tho… Charles…” Carlos couldn’t look back, he doesn’t want to think about it, he doesn’t want the guilt to devour him whole. “Well… I never thought he’d be willing to… Do that to Alex…” Carlos sighs again, balling his hands into fists to suppress the urge to bang his head into a wall.

 

“Honestly… I also didn’t think you were…”

 

“I’m what?” Carlos snaps, looking at her. 

 

She only shakes her head to dismiss it.

 

Carlos scoffs, hurt.

 

Here it was, the inevitable question on his identity. Because everything needed to make sense, nothing can just happen because it just happened. It was the flow of everything, the tension, the looks they kept giving each other, the denial, the frustration, and every-fucking-thing kept stacking on top of them both until they finally broke. They did whatever made sense at that time. Carlos didn’t want to admit it but— it felt so right. Having Charles like that, it felt as if it was always meant to happen. There was no room for an identity crisis, to question his masculinity, his sexuality- it happened and it just did.

 

“I don’t even know… Again, I keep fucking saying, It just happened I didn’t even…” he takes a deep breath, getting overwhelmed, he put his head into his hands.

 

“Are you gonna tell anyone?” Carlos dared to ask. He held his breath waiting for her answer.

 

He heard Rebecca take a breath, then a movement in the couch and Carlos looked up to see that she had stood up already.

 

“Carlos… I’m not a bad person, I don’t want to be the bad person, but you really put me in a situation where it’s so hard to know which decision doesn’t make me one,” She says then picks her properly packed bag up and slings it onto her shoulder. “I want you to fix this as soon as possible, I am not covering for you and that means if Alex were to ever ask me I am not going to lie to her…” Carlos stands up as well, hands twitching forwards ever so slightly as if to reach for her.

 

“She’s a good person, Carlos… And maybe you didn’t see that with me, but I hope you realize that I am not the only one you’ve hurt and will hurt…” Her eyes start to water and Carlos holds himself back from touching her, even if it was to comfort her. His hands weren’t deserving of her, maybe not ever again.

 

 “I hope you know what you’re doing,” She says and walks away and out of Carlos’ home… Their home.

 

Carlos sucks in a deep breath and tries not to cry as he releases it. 

 

~~~

 

Charles gets to his apartment and finds it empty. He thinks about it and remembers that Leo is at his family home and Alex is… Somewhere. 

 

His shoulders drop in relief to have a few moments to himself, dropping his light luggage and jacket on the floor as he drops down on the couch. He groans in satisfaction, rubbing his face on the cushion. He might pass out again just like this, shoulders loose and on top of his unbelievably expensive couch that is now feeling very much worth it’s price.

 

And he does fall asleep for a good few hours.

 

He wakes up, lethargic and blinking as if he had gained his sight for the first time. There were insistent knocking on the door and he shivers to think it might be a fan who somehow got his address. He carefully makes his way to it, stumbling like he was drunk. Before opening the door he took a peak at the peephole and he paused entirely for a moment before he was swinging the door open.

 

“Carlos..?” He asked, feeling much more awake now as he stared at the man.

 

Carlos was wearing sweats and a gray hoodie. A face mask hangs low on his chin and under his hood was his white chili ferrari cap. His hands are stuffed in his pockets and a ferrari keychain slightly peeks out from it.

 

But when Charles looks at his face, he seemed like he needed sleep, or a pat on the back, or fuck it- a goddamn hug.

 

“What’s wro-”

 

“Rebecca knows,” Carlos’ voice cracked when he hurriedly said it out loud. 

 

It successfully shuts Charles back up as he thinks of the implication of what Carlos just said.  His face breaks into a grimace, then he shakes his head before stepping back and motioning for Carlos, “Come inside,” he muttered quietly.

 

When Carlos makes his way in, Charles carefully shuts the door, then he holds a hand to rub at his eyes harshly, a bit frustrated but also delirious.

 

“What is the time?” he asked, fingers still on his eyes.

 

“It’s 9 PM,” Carlos answers and Charles drops his hand to walk towards Carlos who now sits on the couch where Charles was just snoozing on earlier.

 

He falls on the couch to sit right next to Carlos and he lets out a sigh, then sniffles. 

 

“What happened?” He asked to start the conversation. Maybe he was not in the right state to have it right now but Carlos had already taken it upon himself to drive all the way here.

 

Carlos stares right back at Charles before putting his hood down then pulling at the collar of his hoodie to stretch it down, revealing his neck where a reddish purple mark sits nicely on the side of his nape. Charles feels a bit of shame pool in the bottom of his stomach as he sees it because he remembers the exact same moment when he placed it there.

 

“Walked right in front of her with this on my neck… I didn’t even notice,” Carlos explains and then shrugs, letting go of his collar.

 

Charles starts to chuckle that dies into an uncertain snort. He puts his hands up in a surrender, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” He says, then frowns half heartedly. “So… You told her? Just how much did you tell her?”

 

Carlos pursed his lips before answering, “Everything… Just as it is… Mate, she even asked for details,” he says like he was out of breath and Charles closes his eyes to try and not laugh and Carlos caught it, “Wh- Could you take this seriously? She might tell Alex and that’s just…” Carlos tries to motion with his hand but fails to think of something.

 

“That’s just what?” Charles urges and Carlos sighs. “Mate, Are you not bothered by this?” To which Charles chuckles out and shakes his head a ‘no’.

 

Carlos stares, baffled and speechless at how calm his teammate is when Carlos had literally gone through the most emotion rattling confrontation in his life, all the while, Charles was knocked out and most probably snoring.

 

“Well, why the hell not?” Carlos outright asked, getting a bit pissed at the nonchalance he’s receiving.

 

Charles looks at Carlos like he thought the man was joking until he was late to realize he was in fact, not.

 

 “Carlos… There’s nothing Rebecca should even worry about,” Charles says vaguely but is to hint that Carlos must know something that Charles doesn’t want to say out loud. 

 

But Carlos catches a feeling that’s now weighing on his chest. 

 

“Why don’t you just tell her we were just messing around, banter went overboard, no hard feelings, no- no feelings at all,” Charles lets the words fall out like they weighed nothing at all, while Carlos is letting it all pile up on him and he could barely stand.

 

Carlos is now losing focus, his eyes stare into nothing and his mannerism shows where his jaw grinds to the side.

 

Then he promptly snaps back to reality and nods, “Right… I should have just,” he says in finality and Charles couldn’t hide his relief when he was onboard with it.

 

Of course it was nothing. Just some friendly banter that went overboard.

 

Charles giggles at this and shakes his head, “Oh, the story I’m going to tell Alex,” he says fondly, staring at the ceiling as he leans back on the couch. “Mate, you had me feeling worried there,” he says and the small laughter was easy.

 

Carlos was disassociating but he was a master at putting up a front. It was easy to smile and laugh along. Even if there was an unresolved knot in his stomach, it was fine. 

 

Maybe hearing it from Charles was all it took to beat any vile emotion down his throat and into the depths of his body. 

 

It was easier to say it’s nothing, because it would be better if it was nothing. 

 

Maybe that’s how it worked in the world of motorsports, where every corner is tied to the media and you’re now conditioned to take everything with a grain of salt and treat every haphazardly twisting event into something you can get over just as easily as it had occurred.

 

Carlos can work with that.

 

Charles certainly seems as if he’s been through it before. It’s easy work for him.

 

Carlos who has been in this world far longer than Charles has, it’s strange to see him handling it better than him.

 

But he guesses that’s just how the way things are.

The next day, Carlos buys flowers and finds Rebecca in the airport through their mutual friends. He lets her cry on his shoulder and he apologizes. 

 

He holds her hand the whole way back to his home.

 

The fading mark on his neck itches.

 

And he tells himself this is how the way things are.

Notes:

Knee deep in the passenger seat~

Chapter 15: Media Day - Silverstone

Charles hugs Leo to his chest in the plane. Earlier he was surrounded by different people trying to pet Leo. But now that the plane has taken off, Leo is fast asleep from tiring himself out being coddled.

 

Three rows away from Charles is Carlos who was also fast asleep. The two haven’t spared each other the time to chat or even just share a look. 

 

But, Charles supposes that it was for the best, especially when the tension just went still.

 

It is quiet from them and Charles can’t help but anticipate when would be the next time when they’re all shaken and messy all over again.

 

He shakes his head softly as if to physically remove those thoughts from his brain.

 

For the week, Charles has accomplished the hard task of telling Alex about whatever the hell happened with Carlos.

 

“I almost caused a breakup because I went overboard in play fighting,” 

 

Charles doesn’t want to relive how awkward it was to explain the whole thing. Thankfully, unlike Rebecca, Alex did not ask for details and just expressed how odd it was to know that Charles gets that physical with his teammate, but wrote it off as ‘boys being boys’.

 

It wasn’t that odd given how that kind of kinship is not quite a taboo in Monaco.

 

Although, Charles feels absolutely dumbfounded when Carlos indirectly expressed how he wants to keep Charles at an arms-length or two. 

 

He hasn’t even attempted to pet Leo the entire time they were in the airport or even at the plane. 

 

It wasn’t like Charles really initiated any contact or invited Carlos to any interaction at all, but it was really unsettling how much they haven’t had an exchange the entire time they were here- and they’re going to be here for about 2 hours more until they land.

 

Charles, apparently, didn’t notice how much he’s been staring until he heard someone speak out softly.

 

“You… You’re going to miss him, aren’t you?” Charles looked to his side and saw Fred who was looking at him knowingly. He had that smug look that makes Charles want to hold Leo up and cover his face.

 

Instead, he smiles, sheepish that he was caught staring and tries to hide how fond he’s feeling all of a sudden.

 

“Of course I will… Won’t you?” Charles flipped the question right back and he was met with a chuckle.

 

“Ah… Yes, of course,” Then Fred looks over to Carlos, “Talented one, Full of it,” He comments and Charles nods, looking at him as well.

 

“You should keep him, Call off Hamilton,” Charles jokes and he felt a slight knot in his stomach because he wasn’t exactly sure how Fred would react but he was relieved when he kindly laughed.

 

“Ah, you know it’s not a good idea to keep both of you,” Fred says and looks at Charles like whatever he said was somewhat common sense. However, this catches Charles' attention immediately, “What do you mean?” he asks and he tries to keep the humor in his tone to not let this conversation rot.

 

Fred looks directly at Charles when he answers, “If you were teamed together for any longer, you’ll end up destroying one another,” he says with finality, then shrugs, preparing to doze off as well.

 

Charles frowns at that, he thinks about Spain and assumes that was Fred was talking about, he refuses to be left hanging with that statement, “So, why were we teammates in the first place?” 

 

Fred looks at him again, then looks back to Carlos sighing, “Ferrari had always been a scout for the most talented,” he begins, then motions to Carlos, “Sainz has that talent,”

 

Charles scoffed, “And he still has it now, so what is the matter exactly?”

 

Fred shakes his head to dismiss it, “Talent is good, takes a lot to have the talent as impeccable as you two,” then he pauses, like he was mauling over his next words, “But talent burns- it burns down character and it burns down identity, it burns out reason,” Charles quiets down at this, being pulled to a deep thought.

 

“Carlos burns here in Ferrari,” Fred said and Charles didn’t want to listen anymore. He remained silent and tried not to think of such imagery of Carlos actually being engulfed in flames.

 

He shut his eyes and tried to sleep it off.

 

~~~

 

When they landed in Great Britain, Charles dreaded the 2 hours to settle their jetlag before being ushered to the circuit already for media activities.

 

Signing of merchandise, taking pictures for the press and for the fans, and of course some content filming that needed to be done together with Carlos.

 

It was football.

 

Charles tries to look for any hints from Carlos being avoidant again but it seems as if there was a switch that suddenly turned him very approachable.

 

It was odd that he kept count but it’s exactly 7 times that they have touched and Carlos doesn’t seem to mind at all, he’s the one initiating some of those interactions and Charles feels as if he’s slowly being pulled back to their previous camaraderie. 

 

It was practically gift wrapped for Charles. It was an out he was aiming for. It's a shameless surrender to his preference. Everything he could ever hope for.

 

This way, he could have a peace of mind about any matter surrounding him and Carlos. And he’s absolutely okay with that.

 

Then they had to film another C2 content with Ferrari.

 

It was probably the closest they’ve been to each other ever since. Whenever Charles looks at Carlos, he frequently forgets that he shouldn’t be too close or staring for far too long. But it was difficult when Charles looks at him and he notices how much his hair had grown when he had just had a haircut not that long ago. Or how his beard is slowly beginning to creep down his neck, or how from certain lightings; Carlos’ eyes looks like a fountain of chocolate.

 

He feels his cheeks hurt from smiling too much, his stomach from laughing too much. 

 

He missed the lightheartedness of Carlos’ company from their weeks of pent up tension and racing related arguments. He genuinely missed Carlos as his friend.

 

And deep inside, that got him thinking that way before they were ever all over each other, or ever fighting on track— they really just got along well. Maybe not as close as some may think, but it felt nice how easy it was for them to work in the media scene when they naturally got along together.

 

~~~

 

Charles went back to his hotel room to get some rest. It was free practice tomorrow and the weather had been indecisive the entire time he spent walking the track today. He was already anticipating that it will probably rain tomorrow.

 

His friend who he left Leo with dropped by with him and Charles immediately coddled his dog and fed him for the night. 

After watching Leo eat thoroughly, he facetimes Alex to let him know Leo was well and has eaten. He brings Leo up to the phone so she could see and he scolds him for not picking the pup right after a meal because apparently it might upset his stomach, and Charles immediately sat Leo down gently and let him walk around the room as he talked to Alex more.

 

“How are you doing there?” Alex asked, on the screen she’s seen laying on her stomach, a pillow propping up her chin and strands of her hair framing her face messily but she still looks just as elegant.

 

Charles is sat on the floor, back leaning on the bed and phone held low on his stomach. He gives her a lazy smile then reflects upon the day’s events. He blinks hard when all his thoughts were consumed of Carlos; how Carlos looked, how he acted, how he laughed, how he looks at Charles like they were best friends. 

 

Charles breathed out a sigh then smiled fondly. “It’s been great… Although the weather seems like it will be quite a problem, but other than that today had been alright,” He recounts, looking off to the side to see Leo playing with a toy he brought out earlier.

 

“How’s Carlos?” Charles stills for a moment when he hears exactly what Alex said and he tries to hold on to his perfectly constructed neutral smile that he shines serenely at her. 

 

“He’s alright… We filmed a lot for content today,” he remarks, feigning casual.

 

He looks off to Leo once again who was now out of sight but he pretended he was looking right where he was earlier.

 

“I’m glad you’re on good terms… I was a bit worried about what you said back then… I didn’t really want to bother Reb about it,” she explains and Charles looks back at her at the mention of Rebecca.

 

He didn’t want to pursue a conversation where her name arises so he diverted and asked Alex about her day instead. Although he didn’t pay much attention after, his mind suddenly drowned in senses of Rebecca knowing about them, in detail. He doesn’t know how good of a job Carlos did to woo her back but even the idea of someone else knowing about what he had with Carlos brings him immense unease.

 

Then Charles has to snap himself back.

 

He told Carlos himself that it was nothing. It was banter.

 

Yes, that moment in Barcelona was nothing but a slip in behavior.

 

Yes, his impulsive hasty move in Carlos’ room in Austria was nothing but a result of heightened tensions.

 

Charles doesn’t like thinking through the complexities of his’ and Carlos’ relationship. Maybe that’s why he pushed Carlos off the edge because that was the easiest way out for both of them.

 

“Charles… Are you listening?” Alex then says louder that snaps Charles out of his trance.

 

“Yeah, sorry… I spaced out a bit, I’m sorry I’m just really tired,” he rasps out, and indeed he felt the heaviness on his shoulder and eyelids.

 

Alex masked her disappointment but Charles still saw through it, instead of looking into her sad eyes he looks for Leo again when Alex begins to talk once more.

 

“You should get some rest then, go wash up… Goodluck for tomorrow,” Charles was relieved when he heard her words. He smiled softly at her.

 

“Alright, mon amour… Goodnight,” He says and she says it back.

 

Once he ended the call, he let his hand holding his phone drop down to the floor right beside him. He let out a big sigh and tried to gather his thoughts and set them properly.

 

He wanted to block out thoughts of Carlos at this moment, he needed to focus.

 

~~~

 

Carlos falls face first onto his bed. 

 

He just got off a long phone call with James Vowles, following up if he had made any decision for his career in 2025 already. 

 

It went from assuring James that he hasn’t made a move yet, to discussing possibilities of his contract, then went to a deep dive to Williams’ 2025 project. 

 

The call ends with James asking if they could talk more in person, probably some place to Carlos’ liking and to Carlos’ surprise, he agreed with no additional convincing. He hasn’t told his father yet, and he totally should be telling him soon.

 

Williams offered him a generous contract, they wanted him badly. It makes Carlos’ skin crawl at the contrast to Ferrari.

 

When Ferrari offered him a contract, he didn’t second guess anything, he just wanted to be there, he’d pay to be there if he wasn’t any better. His father understood his enthusiasm and didn’t question his move when McLaren seemed to be growing on him and he was comfortable there. 

 

Now, Carlos is actually considering Williams as his next move.

 

It baffles him how much of a daring move it was. A ‘ career suicide ’ as Charles would call it.

 

So far, none of the other motorsport teams have been as forward as Williams at getting Sainz to drive their car. It felt really odd to him. It was humbling, really.

 

He tries not to think about it, instead he should really be focusing on this weekend’s race. His father turned out to be right. All these thoughts about his career in 2025 really are getting in the way of his concentration for this season. He’s bound to make a decision soon.

 

But first, he needs to wash up and rest for tomorrow’s free practice.

 

He strips and gets in the bathroom, being met with a clear mirror above the sink. Carlos looks at himself and he brings a hand to rub at a spot in his neck where Charles’ mark used to reside.

 

He could still see the faint red and orange on his skin.

 

He thinks about Charles and how he acted today.

 

Just as what he told Carlos, he acted really tame— like he somewhat traveled back in time back to when nothing has ever happened between them.

 

The banter came naturally, the kinship, the staring-

 

Well, maybe not the staring.

 

Carlos had been used to people staring, especially since he is a public figure, and he concedes humbly that he is quite easy on the eyes.

 

But it was different how Charles stares.

 

It feels like a spotlight being under his gaze. Carlos could sometimes decode what his expression would mean when he stares.

 

Charles often stares at Carlos with this kind of fondness that etches deep into his skull. 

 

It looks about the same way Charles would stare at his P1 trophies. 

 

Carlos doesn’t know what to think about that.

Chapter 16: Practice - Silverstone

Carlos didn’t expect Charles to be the first one to break the ice. 

 

It’s not like Carlos wasn’t too obvious with his intent to keep away from his teammate as much as he can in their predicament. It was for their own good anyway. But the way his eyebrows rose when Charles entered his driver’s room without knocking was almost theatrical.

 

“Hello, Charles,” He greeted casually… carefully. Threading the tension because he did not want a repeat of what happened in Austria, nor Barcelona.

 

He was sitting in the comfort of the couch in his room while Charles carefully shuts the door behind him and leans his back on it and crosses his arms, eyes finding Carlos with purpose.

 

“I had a chat with Pierre,” Were Charles’ first words to him for this day. The mundane sentence didn’t help Carlos read into whatever Charles wanted to discuss with him so he kept silent until Charles continued. “Alpine might want you on their seat,” And there, Carlos shuts his eyes in realization.

 

“No, no… We are not talking about this,” he quickly interjects.

 

“It could be better than Williams is all I’m saying,” Carlos let out a sigh at that.

 

“You know nothing about what Williams has to offer,” he explains and he sort of wanted to backtrack now because that felt as if he had revealed too much and the look on Charles' face confirmed it.

 

“You’re actually considering—” Charles stops himself, apparently having learned from their past altercation that his input on Carlos’ decisions are not taken with ease.

 

He puts his hands up and nods, one hand searching for the knob behind him, “I just wanted to let you know,” he says before getting out of the room.

 

Carlos hangs in the odd tension left in the room with him. It brings a sour expression on his face, but he was more confused as to why Charles keeps trying to have these conversations with him when he knows for a fact that Carlos hates it.

 

He brings his phone up lazily to look at the recent notification. Funnily enough, it was from James Vowles yet again, asking Carlos if he was free to discuss some things over brunch, or dinner- whatever he prefers. Carlos hesitates to respond, thinking over the ridiculous fact that he’s been more in touch with James compared to his own family, and even Rebecca.

 

Rebecca.

 

The instant thought of her brought Carlos to swipe away James’ message to instead send a message to his girlfriend. 

 

Carlos didn’t think it was going to be that easy to get Rebecca back. He was fully prepared to lose her entirely. It seems like she was willing to turn a blind eye, forgive and forget all that crap and Carlos wasn’t going to make it more complicated by not accepting what is easily given to him. 

 

Maybe that was why Carlos still somewhat fought the odds and stomped on his own pride to get her back. It was easy with her. It was easy to love her. It was easy to tell her he loves her. It was so easy because everyone knew of it, everyone expected it from him. It was grounding and comfortable to just settle with whatever is expected out of you. Carlos never liked to make things complicated anyway.

 

Once he gets a fast response back from Rebecca, he smiles in satisfaction and finally turns off his phone to get ready for Practice.

~~~

 

“You know, don’t you?” Charles angrily barges into Fred’s office where he was wearing glasses and reading over some files that Charles could care less about. Fred, nonetheless, gives him an uninterested look.

 

“Carlos… To Williams?” Charles frustratingly points out, expecting Fred to be just as expressive about it, however he was only met with a short chuckle as Fred places the files back down on his desk then points at the chair in front for Charles to sit on.

 

Once Charles settles on his seat, he looks at Fred like he wants to scream.

 

“Why on Earth are you angry, Charles?” Fred asks, his tone genuinely confused and concerned. 

 

Charles looks bewildered by that question and it riles him up even more, “It’s Williams !” He emphasized, like the world was ending and it seems like Fred is only being entertained by his expressions and it pisses Charles off even more.

 

“You need to calm yourself… I don’t want you touching your car with that on your shoulders. FIA may count it as extra weight,” Fred jokes but it did make Charles reconsider his feelings for a moment, taking a deep breath.

 

“Redbull is closed off… Mercedes is definitely taking Antonelli… Audi is… Nowhere, very unlikely for Carlos to sit out a season, don’t you think?” Fred lists out and Charles deflates.

 

“There’s Haas and Alpine,” He reasons and Fred looks at him like he is losing his patience.

 

“You are fooling yourself if you think any of those teams are any better than Williams,” Fred comments a bit harshly. Then he placed his hands on his desk, “It is not always about a Team, Charles… You’re talking like you’re an outsider of this sport,” Charles looks away, “You know better than to rank these teams from the current season… To be honest, this attitude of yours is affecting Sainz as well and I will not stand for it,” Charles had the decency to actually look ashamed of himself.

 

Then finally, Fred sighs and crosses his arms, “You’re just not taking his soon departure well, aren’t you?” Charles closes his eyes and his head tilts down like he nodded, but he just didn’t want to meet Fred’s confronting glare.

 

“I’m not… I’m just not ready,” Charles says in a hushed voice, like he didn’t want anyone to hear it, but it was clear as day for Fred.

 

“Is this on a personal level, Charles?” He heard Fred say, and Charles looked up to meet his gaze. He nods.

 

On Charles lap, he didn’t notice how his fingertips were starting to bleed as he was picking on it. He tries to steady his shaking hands on top of his thighs.

 

~~~

 

Free Practice 1

 

Leclerc P8

Sainz P9

 

After getting out of the car, Carlos immediately headed to a secluded part in the garage and laid down on the floor. The long straw of his tumbler is still on his lips and he manages to take sips of his sports drink in between taking deep breaths. His hands lay entwined on his stomach and his eyes are closed.

 

He didn’t need to open them to know whoever was walking up to him. Then he felt a body just beside his head, having settled to sit on the floor.

 

His breath stuttered when he felt a hand softly push back his hair from his forehead. The hand was cold, but soft. He instinctively reached for it, keeping the hand on top of his forehead, covering his eyes. 

 

This is a different world. In between the tensions of the track. Tangled in ragged exhausted breaths. A small bubble of stillness, warmth and life. Carlos didn’t think he’d be back here again.

 

His grip on the hand on his forehead tightened, and he moved it to place around his neck where it’s warmer and left it there, thumb softly stroking the underside of his jaw.

 

Charles brings a knee up to lean his cheek on it, soft eyes glued to Carlos’ face. He wonders how the hell could he ever let himself be apart from him. He wonders how he will ever recover. He wonders if he’ll survive it. 

 

Getting caught up in his thoughts, Charles moved cautiously, getting on his knees to straddle Carlos’ chest, feeling how he physically breathes. His hand on Carlos' neck moved slightly to take the straw away from the man’s lips and replaced it with his thumb. He felt like he couldn’t breathe when Carlos purposely whirled his tongue around it.

 

His other hand came up to cup Carlos’ cheek, this makes the man finally open his eyes, half lidded, looking up at Charles.

 

Charles swallowed, he hated how Carlos’ eyes looked at him like he knew him. He hated how seen he felt under his gaze. It makes him nauseous, something stirring in his guts whenever he’s subjected to Carlos' pair of hazel irises.

 

All of a sudden, Carlos moves to sit up, making Charles slide down to his lap. 

 

Carlos just lays his head on the crook of his neck. Charles lets him, cheeks rubbing softly against Carlos’ hair and hands on his sides, placed right on the cold floor. Carlos’ hands hesitates but latches softly onto the fabric of Charles’ race suit on his waist.

 

Both of them tried not to think of the inevitable death of this moment. 

 

~~~

 

Free Practice 2

 

Leclerc P5

Sainz P8

 

It was time to head back to the hotel for Charles. It was odd when he didn’t catch where Carlos had gone afterwards after practice. He tries not to think about it. Driving back to the hotel felt quiet. Too quiet. Maybe Leo wasn’t making much noise than usual in the passenger seat. Instead, he was tucked on himself, snoozing peacefully.

 

Arriving back in his room, Charles was feeling as if something had changed, or something was missing. It itches somewhere in his mind about whatever habit he probably broke or something he forgot to do.

 

He feeds Leo and orders himself food.

 

He sends Alexandra a message and a picture of Leo. 

 

Then it hits him.

 

He wasn’t thinking about the Practice results as much. 

 

When he realizes this, he blinks a few times and tries to actually think about it now. It was strange as to how in contrast he is at the moment. He usually stresses over results, nothing was ever enough, P5 in free practice, the car felt slow. No—

 

Charles was…

 

Fine.

 

He sits still, eyebrows knitted together in confusion, trying to decode his own emotions. He feels foreign in his own body. In his own mind. 

 

He chuckles, in disbelief with himself. His shoulders felt light. He feels as if he will have a good night’s rest. He lets his head fall back.

 

It feels euphoric. He was breathing fine. It brings tears to prickle in his eyes and he wants to laugh. 

 

He basks in the moment a bit more before he drags himself to the bathroom to clean up. In the shower, he brings up his phone and dials a number he knows so well.

 

It rings 3 times before the other line picks up.

 

“Carlos…” He breathes, turning the shower on, the warm water hits his chest, he was mindful to not let his phone get wet.

 

“Charles,” he hears from the other line. He says it like he was confused, or concerned. “What’s wrong?”

 

Charles chuckles, he presses the phone to his forehead, “What did you do to me?” The statement was accusatory, but Charles sounded like he was high.

 

“Charles—”

 

“I don’t want you to leave,”

 

Then silence, the admission was whispered but it was deafening, even to Charles’ own ears.

 

“ I want you to stay, ” It was a cry, a whimper, a plea. Charles' voice broke.

 

“I… Need to go,” 

 

And with that, the line cuts. Charles doesn’t know if Carlos meant he needed to end the call, or he needed to leave Ferrari.

 

It floods his senses either way.

 

~~~

 

Carlos has never felt so conflicted in his life. He stares at his phone for a few more moments before pocketing it. He runs his hands through his hair, takes a grip before letting go and lets out a heavy sigh.

 

With a few hesitant steps, he goes back to the table where he excused himself from.

 

He sits down, and tries to present a smile to the man sitting across from him. His jaw felt tense all of a sudden. There was a sudden instinct to run, but Carlos held it back, swallowing hard and settling down.

 

“I’m back,” he announces, his phone feeling heavy in his pocket. The man nods then places his hands on the table.

“So… Let’s talk contracts, shall we?” James Vowles says with a grin.

Chapter 17: FP3 - Silverstone

Carlos wakes up, his phone blaring and he immediately jumps up when he realizes that he slept through 2 of his alarms. Cursing in Spanish, he shuffled out of the covers, kicking the blankets away, clumsily falling off the side of the bed before managing to answer his phone.

 

“Carlos? Where are you? You have a scheduled fan forum today,” He assumes a PR manager was the one on the other end and he lets out a deflated sigh. 

 

“Right, sorry… Overslept,” he hurriedly comments, digging through his luggage for the planned outfit for today. He observed that it was raining so he took the time to find the Ferrari branded rain jackets assigned to them and made a run for the bathroom.

 

He had disregarded his phone on the nightstand where the call was still ongoing. It had ended the moment he came back out of the bathroom to dress up.

 

He grabs his phone, keys and a gym bag with his necessities. 

 

Although, the moment he got in the lobby of the hotel, he found Charles, wearing the same rain jacket, carrying his own gym bag and Leo nowhere in sight.

 

Carlos’ steps faltered but he easily regained it back and walked over towards his teammate.

 

He remembers vividly the conversation he just had with Charles last night that left him stricken and feeling sick. It was supposed to be the night of him finally making a decision on his career. The night where he puts an end to the uncertainty of having a seat in 2025. He was supposed to be cheered up and relieved. However, Charles ultimately tainted that experience. A forever reminder of his inevitable parting with a dream he’d always wanted. He felt utterly bitter but he wouldn’t show it.

 

He greets Charles with a fake smile he had grown to perfect over the years of PR training.

 

“ Buongiorno ,” He says as he arrives beside him. He doesn’t look to the side. He looks on forward, setting his bag down and waits for the car that was supposedly going to pick them both up.

 

“Carlos…” Charles says, a realization… hesitation with the way his voice faded softly at the end.

 

When Charles doesn’t attempt to speak to him further, Carlos finally looks to the side to see Charles looking down on the ground, the handle of his bag still in hand and the man is fiddling with the velcro that closes the two straps together. Carlos frowns at the sight of slight scarring on Charles fingertips, but he doesn’t say anything about it.

 

But when Charles begins to pick around his nails again, Carlos brings a hand to envelop over Charles’ fingers. 

 

Charles looks at him only to see that he was looking ahead yet again. Charles’ frown doesn’t quite reach his forehead and it melts into a more mellow expression and lets Carlos’ hand stay on his’.

 

Carlos’ hand is much bigger in comparison to Charles’. It looked more masculine, peppered with hair and tanner than the monegasque’s that it looked even more delicate and small in Carlos’ grasp.

 

Their hands part when their service car arrives and a valet opens the door and greets them politely to which they smiled and nodded in gratitude.

 

In the car, they sat next to each other, up front on the passenger side was one of their PR manager who then informs them he was about to film what should be a candid content for their social media.

 

On instinct, Charles shuffled closer to Carlos in the backseat, prompting to sit in the middle seat instead of leaving some space in between them. Their thighs and shoulders are touching and there was an obvious empty space on Charles’ left side which no one bothers to point out.

 

“I remember,” Carlos utters out and Charles looks up at him, “That one time where the fan… Was like… ‘P3 yeah’ ” Charles, as he recalls, smiles softly at the memory.

 

“I think that was my first pole,” Carlos chuckles as he goes on, Charles was quick to hop on.

 

“I loved it because you were so happy when he said he came to cheer for you…” He giggles genuinely then, “Then he ends the sentence with ‘Go for P3’ and you’re like…” he makes a face that was somewhat confused and numbly bewildered and both of the drivers cackled.

 

“You did end up winning, proved him wrong didn’t you?” Charles comments with a grin towards Carlos who only tried not to smile but failed nonetheless. Then Charles' expression softened, “You were glorious that day… It was amazing,” He continues, more of a murmur. Carlos looks at him and he looks straight back.

 

Charles' eyes briefly travel down. It gives Carlos a chance to gaze at his eyelashes before he looks away.

~~~

 

The fan forum was fun, they could not take the activity given to them seriously with all the blindfolds and all. It was raining but the crowd was surprisingly active, It gave Carlos an excuse to look elsewhere for the majority of the forum.

 

Charles however was none the wiser. Eyes unashamedly raking on Carlos even as he tried to pull his eyes away. It was hard when the space under the umbrella forced them within close proximity.

 

Behind the scenes, where a space in schedule provided them a break before Practice 3, Carlos seeks the solace of his driver’s room where he lays on the couch.

 

He needed more sleep, he got home quite late last night after all due to a long discussion with James Vowles. He has already informed his father of his likeness to Williams and it has gone great so far.

 

He cracked his knuckles, having nothing else to do and the feeling of unproductivity was slowly creeping to him, but he needed sleep more than anything. And he must have realized it when he didn’t even notice that he was already dreaming.

 

Carlos dreams vividly, always. He’s one of the few people who get to remember almost everything from their dreams. To some, it may be a blessing. But the more Carlos dreamed of dark blonde hair, long enough to sway in the middle of their waist, conversations that he wished could have been longer— the more it stirred his emotions. He considers it a curse.

 

He’s on a yacht, the sky is dark, there were no clouds, yet there were also no stars, nor a moon. The only light was the one on the yacht illuminating most of the deck. He was wearing beach shorts and an unbuttoned shirt. In front of him was tanned skin, long dark blonde hair, a thin flowy dress that gave the illusion that it was dripping down on the sides of a folding chair. Carlos somehow felt like his eyes were warm, maybe his entire face. 

 

“Isa,” He called out. The woman’s figure was facing away from him, she took a deep breath, her shoulders rising and falling along with it.

 

“Carlos…” She breathes, finally looking at him. She looked just the same, looking like the best version of her. Carlos chose this moment to be the last memory he had of her. The same image of her that would appear behind his eyelids. 

 

She pats the space next to her on the chair. It wasn’t much of a space, he had to be very close so they could fit.

 

“Why haven’t you gone to bed?” The same words she had uttered years ago. Carlos smiles softly.

 

“You weren’t there,” The same answer.

 

Carlos felt something in his throat, he was holding something back. A sob, a sigh, a laugh. He knew what was coming.

 

“I won’t be there forever,” God- he knows for fucks sake. She is no longer there, she will never go back there, she will never be the same again. Carlos reaches for her hand.

 

“You’re here now,” he says, a whisper. 

 

This was the only memory of her he wanted to keep. 

 

Then he felt an urge to say something. That was different, he always let this dream play out the way it was. He has never changed anything.

 

But before he could say anything, Isa did.

 

“It’s funny that you’re here,” This has never happened before. “I thought you’ve moved on, yet you’re back here,” Carlos was speechless.

 

“Why didn’t you marry me, Carlos?” He looked away, feeling like he needed to throw up. This wasn’t right, this wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

 

But it really hit him. Carlos doesn’t know why he didn’t marry Isa. He kept complacent and content just having her as she is. Sure he thought about buying her a ring. He thought about it. She’s been there with him through the early years of his career. When he was just nothing. When he was just the son of Carlos Sainz Cenamor. 

 

Carlos didn’t marry Isa. He couldn’t. 

 

He was never certain if he really wanted that. 

 

Everyone expected it out of him though. They were teased about it. Even his sisters were urging him to man up already and it was just short to 3 years of being together. By the time they reached 4 years, everyone had grown tired of it. He never heard it anymore. 

 

And it always choked him up to think about what Isa must’ve felt through all of that.

 

His father didn’t speak a word about it. He probably knew exactly what Carlos felt. And he couldn’t miss the knowing look he gave Carlos when he introduced Rebecca to the family.

 

He doesn’t know what his father knows but maybe he just doesn’t want to know. He’s not ready for it.

 

Carlos was capable of a lot of things. Those didn’t include being true to himself.

 

“I wasted 7 years with you… 7 years of my life, Carlos…” He stood up, he didn’t want to listen to this. He started to walk away to the edge of the deck, but Isa followed, her voice becoming more enraged. “Why wasn’t I enough, Carlos? How could you replace me so easily?!” She screamed.

 

Carlos was now cornered, he turned back to see Isa approaching, tears falling down her cheeks, “I’m… I’m sorry I-” He choked on a sob and he felt like his chest was going to explode. Isa finally caught up to him and she pushed him off the yacht.

 

He would blame racing as a distraction, but he’d never really been truer to himself than when he is sat in a car. Maybe the reality he never acknowledged was that nothing could ever come in between him and his love for racing. 

 

Carlos wakes up before he even hits the water.

 

He was gasping, looking around frantically.

 

Then his eyes landed on a digital clock in the room and he jumped up in a hurry. “Shit,” he cursed, running to the garage to fetch his race suit. He couldn’t bother wiping the tears staining his cheeks.

 

It was time for the final practice.

 

~~~

 

Free Practice 3

 

Sainz - P4

Leclerc - P6

 

“That was fast,” A mechanic told Carlos as he was struggling to get out of the car. “It was okay,” he said before someone assisted him in getting out of the car. He felt detached the entire time, like he was floating, like he wasn’t really aware of what was happening. He was on autopilot, his eyes didn't even know where to look.

 

This was Silverstone for crying out loud. Where his very first F1 win was. It was out of character for him to be completely distracted. He takes his helmet off, arranging his hair whilst taking a long sip from his sports drink. 

 

His mechanics surround him then, asking all sorts of questions. How did the car feel? What happened at turn 4? Was the track fine?— Carlos held himself back from yelling at them to get the fuck away, he needed to breathe.

 

In trying not to get confronted by the small crowd surrounding them, Carlos looks to the side where coincidentally, Charles was looking at him while surrounded by his own crowd of mechanics.

 

He looks away, preferring to indulge his mechanics’ questions instead.

 

Charles felt something in him crack for a moment. He swallows and tries to answer his mechanics as well. His car felt fine, nothing out of the ordinary. He was decent enough for a Practice session. Admittedly, he wasn’t going all out. He was actually in his mind, taking measures to preserve his car. He’s never felt so calm before. Never felt so normal about any results. It didn’t bother him that he wasn’t the fastest in the session, but goddamn it it’s so odd that his competitive side is surprisingly calm.

 

He’s always pushing and pushing. He always wants to be ahead. But he’s keeping a clear head for now. 

 

It’s taking everything in him to make sense of it, but also he felt as if he didn’t need to.

 

He looks at Carlos once again who apparently is now taking off his race suit in a silent signal to his mechanics that he was done with the questions. 

 

Carlos doesn’t seem to be feeling great. Nor looking great.

 

Once his mechanics are through with their questions, Charles immediately tries to run after wherever Carlos has gone to.

 

It brought him to the comfort room.

 

He flattens a hand to the door, hesitant to knock.

 

“Come in, Charles,” And well… He didn’t think Carlos was expecting him. He slowly opens the door to the single use comfort room and hears the sound of a running faucet.

 

Carlos was facing the sink, hair wet from either water or sweat, he’s looking at Charles through the mirror.

 

Charles thought that it was a reasonable thing to do to enter and close the door behind him. He wasn’t ready for a wave of deja vu to hit him instantly.

 

“We’ve been here before, haven’t we?” Carlos mutters, there was no humor, he just sounded tired.

 

Charles sniffles, eyes still feeling warm like it usually feels when he just recently pulled his helmet off. “Are you alright?” He leans his back against the door.

 

Carlos took his time to splash more water on his face before answering, “I don’t know,” The admission felt easy, he didn’t need to lie. “I’m having trouble trying to process a lot of things,” he surprised himself when he kept going.

 

Charles’ eyebrows rose at this, “What do you mean?”

 

Carlos shuts the faucet off then turns around, leaning his back on the sink to face Charles, “You’re making it really hard for me to have a peaceful last season here,” He says, eyes boring into Charles’. “I’ve tried everything to be civil, to be reasonable, to be the best I can be before I leave but you’re making it very difficult,” 

 

Charles frowns at that, “Don’t you wash your hands now, it’s not like I’m the only one playing a part in it,” He defends himself.

 

Carlos looks more impatient now, “No,” he says before taking a deep breath, “I’m usually an easy person to talk to, I’ll do anything to make things easier for the both of us, but it’s really taking a toll on me to keep pretending like everything's okay because Charles—”

 

“Stop it,” Charles interrupts in a sudden breath, “Stop it, right now,”

 

“No!” Carlos says, abruptly taking a step closer, he’s now standing right in front of Charles who’s cornered against the door.

 

“We need to talk about this and we need to do it now,” He says hurriedly and tries to look Charles in the eyes to which the other keeps trying to avoid. 

 

“I don’t want to do this,” Charles says in a soft whisper. “We don’t have to do this,”

 

“We need to,” Carlos insists.

 

“I’ve tried putting an end to it, but it didn't go well at all. And now, Rebecca’s involved, Alex is involved, my entire future is involved, and I just can’t have that,” He reasons and Charles finally looks him in the eyes.

 

Charles didn’t say anything. So Carlos finally says what he’s been wanting to say.

 

“I’m signing with Williams,” He says, now in a whisper. It feels real now that he can hear himself say it.

 

“I want you to tell me that it’s alright,” He says, voice fragile, “I need you to tell me, Charles,” Charles closes his eyes. “Charles, I need to hear it,”

 

Through gritted teeth, Charles tries to answer, “Why does it matter what I say?”

 

“Don’t give me that… You know why… Out of everyone- You know fucking why,” Carlos’ voice breaks.

 

In a frantic move, Charles harshly tugs on the front of Carlos’ race suit smashing their lips together. He feels Carlos try to pull away so he brings a hand behind his head to keep him there. The kiss was a mess, he was biting, he was furious, he tasted blood and he knew it wasn’t his’— But Carlos’ hands soon latched onto his waist, a tight grip on the fabric of his race suit.

 

He pushes forward until Carlos’ back hits the other end of the wall of the comfort room, “Don’t leave,” He says in a whisper in between the brutal kiss. Carlos’ hands settled on his jaw and the other on the back of his head taking a grip on his hair. He doesn’t say anything back.

 

But in the midst of it all. Carlos knew exactly what he felt.

 

He wanted Charles to tell him exactly that. To stay.

 

A hopeless, delusional reality of it all.

 

Funny… Why don’t Carlos just stay?

 

He knew that wasn’t what Charles meant.

 

Stay in this dream with me. Don’t pop the damn bubble. 

 

Don’t bring the world into this.

 

Don’t leave me.

But Carlos was already one foot out the door.

Chapter 18: Qualifying & Race - Silverstone

Qualifying Silverstone

 

Sainz P7

Leclerc P11

 

Carlos had a clearer head from just hours ago. He felt as if all the puzzles had fallen into place and the path in front of him was clear. He phones his father about signing with Williams and his response was rather enthusiastic than what he was expecting. Of course, from Ferrari to Williams is not quite the news to be as enthusiastic about, but his father did have faith in the 2025 project Williams has in store for their drivers. 

 

It is confirmed that the driver he’ll be taking his seat from is Logan Seargant, although, no surprise in that as well. Carlos thinks about reaching out to him to maybe discuss the matter, but he wouldn’t want to seem like he was putting salt in any wounds. 

 

He was thinking maybe it would be the same thing as when he and Lewis did have a chat about him moving to Ferrari. It was civil, the bitterness was addressed, there was sympathy, well-wishes, it was overall decent enough that it left Carlos feeling content about it. Or at least he thinks he’s content about it. If there was anyone else to replace him in Ferrari, he would be honored for it to be the 7-time World Champion. 

 

That’s what he wants to think.

 

That’s what he wants to feel.

 

He leaves the garage after thanking everyone for the successful session. His manager drives him to the hotel, they engage in meaningful small talk before his manager felt that he was carrying the conversation and let Carlos rest it out for the rest of the day.

 

He arrived in his hotel room and headed straight to the bathroom. He sees his reflection in the mirror and opens his mouth to inspect the damage done.

 

His tongue had a reddened bruise on the side from where it bled when Charles bit it. He tongues around his mouth to feel if it still hurts and it does. He ducks his head to turn the faucet on to wash his mouth. Rinsing it from the taste of metallic liquid. He tries not to indulge the thought that maybe he was rinsing it free from anything that had to do with Charles.

 

He spits on the sink and takes a deep breath.

 

He doesn’t think about the look on Charles’ face when he was roughly pushed back by him. He doesn’t try to think about what Charles could have looked when he shouldered passed him out of the comfort room.

 

He didn’t talk to Charles after the encounter.

 

He thinks if that would be the last memory he’d take of Charles being in his life as a teammate. Would that be the last image of him? Face full of anguish and tears prickling his eyes.

 

He looked glorious.

 

He looked glorious because he wanted Carlos. It brought him satisfaction to know how much Charles actually wants him. He concluded that it was probably the same feeling as being wanted by a racing team. He thinks back to when Ferrari offered him a contract and it did feel just as good, if not, better. Ferrari actually wanted him. They saw him and they wanted him.

 

He tries to relate it to how Williams wants him now, how enthusiastic James Vowles was to get his talent driving the damn car that averages P18 on most races. Carlos doesn’t feel as honored. Carlos felt as if he was just settling for whatever team would let him race the next season. Because Ferrari doesn’t want him anymore. 

 

But Charles still wants him, and for Carlos, maybe that’s all that matters.

 

It all just leveled down to what Carlos wants. 

 

Carlos wants a seat for the 2025 season and he got it. Carlos wants to get the best results he could give to Ferrari for his last season. Carlos wants to win.

 

Carlos wants to win so much that he feels as if he is being blinded by anything that involves not racing. Maybe that’s why he was so head on cutting Charles off in that cruel way that he did.

 

His phone rings then.

 

It was Rebecca. 

 

Carlos spends the next few hours talking to her. Telling her all about what happened. He doesn’t tell her about his move to sign with Williams. She doesn’t need to know. To him, it wasn’t relevant at the moment. Like manifesting this barrier between his race life and his life out of it. A tangible difference to how he divides his life. 

 

Rebecca, however, the sweet darling that she is, tries her hardest to relate to whatever Carlos is into. She tries to involve herself in his races as much as she can. She actively asks about his career. She asks about how it works because Rebecca loves the entirety of him, even him with his race suit on.

 

She doesn’t catch the subtlety of how he tries to change the subject and asks about her instead even if he doesn’t really care much about what modeling is as a career. You just look ethereal and promote brands. Probably similarly to how he gets sponsors. Just with the criticism to ones look put on overdrive and with the most care to. It takes strength to model. Rebecca is strong enough and that’s all he needs to know.

 

He goes to sleep after a while and thinks about the race for tomorrow.

 

~~~

 

Charles is devastated.

 

It was as if a switch was flipped and he was shattered the moment Carlos pushed him back. He stayed in that comfort room for a few minutes to actually process what happened. What Carlos told him. What it could mean for them both.

 

Of course, Charles wasn’t an idiot. He knows a full blown rejection when he sees one. But he didn’t expect it to be that brutal. He had grown to engrave in his mind that Carlos was fooling himself if he ever claims that Charles was the only one feeling such things that they could never talk about. 

 

But Carlos was actually going to Williams. And that shouldn’t upset him as much as it does now. But the sudden urge to clutch to his figure, denying the inevitability of his parting was something that he needed. And Carlos pushed him back.

 

It was a wordless statement.

 

Carlos doesn’t want Charles to cling to him. It was the slow pace he needed to detach from Ferrari. Charles should understand.

 

But it does hurt quite a bit.

 

He’s distracted now, P11 with a shit car that was doing well earlier and he doesn’t even have the energy to complain about it. 

 

He gets to his hotel, clutching Leo to his chest. 

 

Then the routine comes easy. Feed Leo, call Alex, tell her about his day, ask about her’s, then off to bed he goes.

 

And Charles still couldn’t get over it. 

 

The complexity of their relationship never got this bad before. It has gone too far that not even Charles could make sense of it- Well, it’s not like he ever really made sense of it before.

 

This season is where things got out of hand. But it wasn’t like nothing ever lead up to it falling into the mess it is now.

 

Charles thinks of the first time he ever really interacted with Carlos. Most people would think it was in his debut year where they had an apparent conversation that lasted an hour. But Charles wouldn’t count that. 

 

The beginning of his F1 career was his head floating around and stressing over every single race. The media wasn’t much help since they haven’t really given him much space to breathe. Charles coped with it all by dissociating at most times. Some would say he felt like a floating head with lifeless eyes. 

 

He still bore his impressive talent and he only really comes alive when he’s inside a race car. But aside from that, he’s a corpse who really needs a break from cameras and interviews that always seem to have ulterior motives. Twisting his words and making him seem like someone he’s not. 

 

Sebastian Vettel told him that in order to survive it, he must know how to use the cameras to his advantage. That if he doesn’t want them talking about his life in a way that wouldn’t cross his boundaries, then he needs to give them something else to talk about. Something that’s  a part of him that he can detach when necessary. 

 

And Charles, as young and desperate as he was to get the press off of him, he gave them what they wanted. He played into drama, he got into relationships, something the press could obsess over and talk about and to not bother him when he wants to be at peace with his helmet on. He doesn’t want anything to distract him from winning the damn races.

 

Charles first saw Carlos when he was ahead of him in just his 2nd race in his F1 debut.

 

In his Sauber car, he stares ahead at a Renault and he was quite frustrated when that was all he could see. The back of a fucking Renault car.

 

He later finds out that it was not Nico Hulkenberg who was ahead of him, but a certain Carlos Sainz Jr, son of the Rally World Champion Carlos Sainz. 

 

Then again, the same back of a Renault car in Baku. Then again in France, then again in Singapore, and then in fucking Abu Dhabi. Charles couldn’t hide it back then; the hungry eyes of a prodigy. 

 

He has seen Carlos and what he was. A step in between mediocre and a fucking genius. 

 

He races like he doesn’t care about winning. While here is Charles holding himself back from throwing a tantrum because damn it, he knows he’s good, he just doesn’t have a great car at the moment. That’s what the press says about him too. 

 

When Carlos talked to him in Abu Dhabi, he was ashamed to even face the man. How can someone not race to their full potential? He saw it in Sainz, in his eyes, and how he watched the track, he’s capable of more, yet he sits in a car like he was just content to sit on it.

 

He keeps the conversation short. Maybe it was immature of him, but damn it Charles has standards. 

 

When he found out that Seb was retiring and that Carlos was going to be his new teammate, he wanted a time to be alone because he knew Carlos had changed by then. Having the opportunity to race in McLaren and actually doing a decent fucking job, something had changed or at least something was changing.

 

He wasn’t sure what version of Carlos would be his teammate.

 

Apparently, a fucking monster.

 

He was better in Ferrari. So much better. He was so much better than Charles that it physically pained him to race knowing he was getting bested by his teammate. As much as he never really commented on that fact, Charles always held an internal rivalry with his teammates no matter where he was, even back in F2. 

 

He was threatened that in the next season, he worked himself to death to get as high as 2nd place in the championship. There is when it started for him, the huge amounts of pressure to do his best, it got so bad that by the next season he was physically isolating himself from others outside Ferrari’s reach. 

 

That’s when he got to see more and more of Carlos out of just the PR contents and stunts. 

 

He frequented Maranello and funnily enough, he would see Carlos there chatting up with the engineers. He’s heard before that in his time in McLaren, in the pandemic that Carlos took up on studying Engineering to better understand how his F1 car worked and he took that in a way that maybe Carlos was competitive in nature. 

 

Although, as he sees how Carlos in Maranello, admiring and talking about the car like he knew it like the back of his hand- Charles realized that Carlos just really, really loved the sport as it is. He loved the technicalities, how the car is made, how it works in not just the racing elements, but in maintenance and in adjustments. 

 

Charles have grown extremely observant of Carlos from then on. Often letting his eyes gaze upon him at times where he shouldn’t even be the subject of attention. 

 

And in the midst of Charles’ competitive streak and his false facade for the media’ he found that the middle ground was him just looking at Carlos.

 

Just looking. 

 

Carlos always looked as if he was the personification of Ferrari. He carried that sense of antiquity, mellow and nostalgic. Even his figure was somehow built like a person that should totally be driving a Ferrari. He also looked really good in red, that was something Charles always took note of. He was beautiful in the Rosso Corsa. 

 

Charles often had images of Carlos running through his mind from time to time. He was sometimes dumbfounded with the thought that he could totally come up to Carlos and they would act as if they’re friends for a long time. The kinship came easy and natural. But it only made him realize how much he actually liked being near Carlos to the point where they touch. Even just a brush in the knee or shoulders, it sends Charles into a waking point that yes, he had just touched Carlos Sainz.

 

He has seen Carlos with minimal clothing as they get. Charles knew he would be staring. But even that fact didn’t stop him from staring and looking and gazing. 

 

It was normal, they were both men, there was no malice in that sense.

 

But Charles soon realized how much he actually wanted Carlos.

 

In a sense that he wanted to touch Carlos, he wanted to drag his lips across his body. He wanted to see how Carlos would look if he was being pleasured. And it wouldn’t even matter if it was Charles pleasuring him or not. He wanted to see Carlos’ eyes roll back. Wanted to know how he would sound.

 

There were nights where Charles thought about these way too much and it ends up with him panting with shame as he cleans up after himself, closing his phone where a photo of Carlos was once was. The next day, he would see Carlos in the flesh and think, ‘I just pleasured myself to you’ and it itched something in his mind having thought that. 

 

He knew that one day, it would happen eventually. Where the lines would blur enough that Charles would be able to tempt him. 

 

He knew it would be tense enough, in the midst of their racing career where they are against each other.

 

Charles knew it was gonna happen either way.

 

With the announcement that Carlos was soon departing with Ferrari, Charles told himself that it was for the best. That it was one less distraction for him. He never thought about how attached he was going to get that it made him want to hit his head on the wall at the thought of Carlos actually leaving.

 

For Carlos to blatantly reject him like that, Charles couldn’t think straight. 

 

Charles’ last thought in his mind before he succumbed to slumber was once again… Him. 

 

~~~

 

British Grand Prix Race Results

Sainz P5

Leclerc P14

 

Throughout Carlos' career, he never thought that a hurdle as high as Lewis Hamilton would ever come in between him and greatness. But Lewis Hamilton is in fact, greatness as he is. 

 

He’s said it more than once, He was more than understanding about being replaced by him. He looked up to Lewis in many points of his life. Sure he was not like Fernando Alonso who really was Carlos’ influence in many ways, maybe because Alonso is a Spaniard like himself. He can’t emphasize enough how surreal it is to be racing and doing so much better than him now. 

 

But Lewis Hamilton was a different story.

 

While Fernando was on the edge of his retirement, Lewis is just as tenacious and it would probably be another decade before he actually retires. This makes Carlos get this idea that maybe Lewis will stay in Ferrari as his last team before retiring. And how long would that be then.

 

It’s a private admission that Carlos still yearns to come back to Ferrari if the chance ever presents itself. If Ferrari would ever want him again. Would Ferrari ever want him back again? 

 

Then…

 

Would Charles still be at Ferrari by then?

 

He buries the thought down as he watches Lewis Hamilton take the center podium. He did not stay for the champagne celebration and headed back to their hospitalities to shower. 

 

Three thoughts came to mind by then.

 

First is he thinks about doing better the next race, then the race after that, then the rest before summer break. He thinks that probably he’s been distracted these past few weeks that he really needed to get his head back in the game. No more distractions. He’s made that statement pretty clear.

 

Second, he thinks about McLaren. How they’re doing exceptionally well this season. Thinks about how accepted he was before and fantasizes of an alternate universe where he stayed at McLaren, with Lando, and could they have been at the pace that they’re at now. Then he laughs at himself for it because damn it, Carlos was losing his head at this point.

 

Then finally, Carlos thinks of Williams. His future there, how likely he would perform great in their car. Would he be just as loved as he was in Ferrari? Carlos knows of Williams’ potential and how their performance this season doesn’t cement what they truly have to offer. Maybe Carlos would struggle in the beginning to actually put up a fight with whoever is dominating the current season in transition to the next. 

 

It was an odd feeling, but Carlos fears losing the momentum he has in Ferrari. He suddenly wants to cling to the assurance of a podium because hey- he’s in a goddamn Ferrari. It makes him feel sick to the stomach that he would probably say goodbye to the moments of feeling on top of the world. Goodbye to this wonderful dream come true. Goodbye to his Legacy. 

 

Carlos Sainz… Jr…

 

Would he be back in his Father’s shadow?

 

Then he dreads a more horrifying possibility.

 

What if he becomes a shadow of what he once was.

 

~~~

 

Charles didn’t watch the entirety of the podium celebration. With his eyes cold and solid, stuck on the ground, maybe out of shame, maybe out of fatigue, he was absolutely done with this weekend and doesn’t want to wallow in the fact that he just did really fucking bad in this race.

 

Sure, it wasn’t entirely his fault. The car chose this time around to present new sets of problems that weren't there in the first few practices. They didn’t have the awareness to make adjustments for it. 

 

Now he’s in P14 with a damn Scuderia Ferrari car. How on Earth exactly.

 

And like the usual, Charles wallows and basks and soaks in the devastation.

 

He blames himself, yet again, maybe he was too distracted.

 

Admittedly, he really was. He was distracted to the point that he couldn’t think of anything else but that one distraction. He needs to pull himself together.

 

He showers down and changes quickly. He helps with the rest of the team packing up, hugging and clapping hands with them as they move on. In his head, he criticizes every move he made on the race. The post race routine came back to him as if it never left. 

 

Then he sees Carlos in the hospitality, seemingly unaware of his presence. He’s now freshly showered and helping the team pack as well. He walks towards him before stopping midway and turning around, helping on the other end of the hospitality instead.

 

He wants to say something. Something civil, something casual. Maybe to congratulate Carlos for the P5 that is in comparison, a well driven race from P7 to P5. He wants to break the cold barrier between them that Carlos had well established by that stint in the comfort room. 

 

Fucking Comfort rooms . They seemed as if they are a cursed place for the two of them. Nothing ever goes right in them.

 

He looks behind him to see Carlos carrying boxes to the back. 

 

No distractions.

 

No Carlos.

 

-

 

A soft knock was heard in Fred Vasseur’s office. “Come in,” he says in French.

 

Charles peeks his head through before coming in and shutting the door behind him gently. He didn’t wait to be invited to sit down and settled on the chair in front of the desk.

 

“So… You’ve heard,” Fred says, unprompted, but he would be a fool to expect anything else from Charles’ sudden visit to his office.

 

“He is going to Williams,” Charles says slowly, pronouncing every word like he himself was taking it in.

 

“I know,” Fred says like it was common sense, like he took a bit of humor on how Charles was somehow a bit late to the news. “It’s not like you’re the only one who barges into my office talking about Carlos’ career,” he adds, humor more apparent in his voice.

 

Charles' eyebrows rose in realization, then he deflated in a sigh, “Of course, he talked to you beforehand…” He brings his head into his hands.

 

Fred clears his throat, “I am really confused, Charles…” he says, smoothing his palm down on the desk, “I have never seen a driver taking a departure of a teammate so badly… It’s a normal thing, it happens,” he says like he was talking to a child, and that fact rubbed Charles in the wrong way.

 

“I don’t know… In the beginning I really felt fine about it,” Charles says, then his voice falters.

 

“Something happened then,” Fred concludes and Charles wanted to hit himself for giving away too much without realizing.

 

Charles looks away, not wanting to be subjected to Fred's probing glare. But he could still feel it burning against his skin, how Fred senses the uncertainty and unease emanating from Charles.

 

“Charles… What I'm going to ask is purely something that I think is necessarily answered in my judgment as Team Principal,” Fred begins and Charles' palms sweats, and he hurriedly wipes them on his lap.

 

“What is going on between you and—”

 

“Stop,” Charles interrupts, bringing his hands up in some sort of surrender. “I do not want to talk about it,” he says, his voice came out in a struggle.

 

Fred sighs, hand coming up to pinch at the bridge of his nose. 

 

“I'm sorry, I think… I think I wouldn't feel good talking about it at all,” it was a lazy excuse, not even Charles would believe it. He doesn't look at Fred, in fear that the look of disappointment would make him feel worse than he's already feeling. He picks at the tips of his fingers again.

 

“Charles… Look at me,” Fred begins, an approach that feels safe enough to face. Charles raises his head slightly to obey. “Whatever is going on between you, I think it's important to have a line in between being colleagues and whatever else is personal,” Charles wanted to roll his eyes. He wasn't an idiot, he knows that so well.

 

“I'm saying this as head of this team… You both take your careers very seriously, your jobs very seriously, even your standings. I wouldn't want anything coming in between any of that,” Charles glares at him. Hasn't Charles proven enough that he is as serious as he says? 

 

“No- I am serious,” he defends, “Carlos is as serious as he gets, we are giving everything we have to this team,” he couldn't hide how worked up he is now.

 

“Then why haven't you been acting right lately?” Fred deadpans and Charles ultimately shuts up. “You've been either highly aggressive or full on distracted and look how that's working out for you,”

 

“I am only human,” Charles spats and Fred's brows knit together in frustration.

 

“No…” Fred says with a shake of his head, “What you are is a great bundle of pent up emotions that you refuse to talk about, nor acknowledge and you know it's affecting your performance yet you're too stubborn to deal with it yourself,” Fred says in one go that Charles feels like he is being scolded and well- he kinda is.

 

“I want you to walk out that door and don't come right back unless you've sorted that issue… I can no longer help you, Charles,” there is an evident defeat in Fred's voice. He was giving up on him. 

 

No.

 

Damn it, Charles is feeling way shittier than before.

 

He stands up abruptly then immediately moves to leave the room, mood even worse than when he came in.

 

He's suddenly looking forward to a week off of racing. Maybe it's what he needs to sort it out as Fred would say. 

 

But Charles knew there was no sorting out that would happen. Just his usual way to cope by burying the matter and distracting himself until he forgets of it's existence.

 

~~~

The flight back to Monaco, Charles didn't see Carlos the entire time. He could never get used to not seeing him.

 

But instead of dwelling on these thoughts, Charles brings out his phone to type a message to Alex, informing her that he's boarding a plane back home.

 

She sent back a heart emoji.

 

Charles stares at it for a while before he pockets his phone.

 

Then as natural it felt like it was breathing;

 

Charles wonders if he'll ever get to see Carlos over the weekend.

Chapter 19: Week-off: Pre-Hungary

Carlos loves cycling.

 

It was one of the things Carlos had grown to love over the years. It had always been part of his routine, and overall lifestyle. He got into it because of his friends back at home who would always invite him out. He has all the money in the world to buy a classy mountain bike and a few of the basic essentials like a helmet and cycling shorts.

 

Soon enough, Carlos was buying more cycling essentials, he’d learned what worked for him best, he knew which shorts to put on, or which jersey fits the current weather, he’d invested in spare tubes and tire levers. He’d keep in mind to buy nutrition bars and water bottles that match the bottle holder in his bike. He’d bought more bikes, different ones for different environments. 

 

He realized how easy it was for him to adjust in a newfound interest. Almost like a sport in itself. How invested he had become. And that was the same for many other sports he’d grown to be decent and even unbelievably skilled in.

 

Even a blind person could recognize his ability to be competitive in anything. It stems from this inherent hatred for being bad at something. It’s either he doesn’t do it, or he does and he’s really good at it. 

 

He has his own community just for cycling for crying out loud.

 

Not only that. He has his own damn restaurant too just because he’s learned that he makes real good burgers.

 

It almost seems like he’s a clean cut-out of a rich man being able to do many things because hey- he’s rich.

 

He had the same conversation with his sister before. Something about him buying so many things for this one specific interest he had. The fact that he can do it so easily. Because he has the money for it. It wasn’t like the Sainz family weren’t all living more than comfortably. Carlos just had the public eye that somewhat emphasizes how rich he actually is (like being an F1 driver wasn’t enough of a clue).

 

“What do you even need that many bikes for?” His sister had asked. He was thinking of a witty remark about how his sponsor just sent it to him, but of course, he was perceptive enough to catch the undertones of that question which is…

 

‘You don’t need that many bikes do you, Carlos?,’

 

“It’s for different kinds of track or trails,” he answers, finishing up on wiping the new bicycle that a cycling company sent him. His sister was always this person that brings a big grounding moment for him through all the comfort that they have with money. That just because you have so much, doesn’t mean you should have that much.

 

“You don’t even get to use some of your bikes anymore… Maybe you should donate them,” She said.

 

Carlos stood up, eyes still on the brand new bike. Then he turns around, a smile growing on his face. 

 

“That’s a great idea,” he says softly. It makes her smile back, genuinely. She’d never failed to remind Carlos to stay humble. 

 

Blanca was someone the subconscious part of Carlos wished to be. With a loving partner, a son, a loving family of her own. But most of all. Blanca is content. Satisfied. 

 

Blanca had something that Carlos couldn’t afford, not even with all the money he has.

 

Blanca was free.

 

She could afford to be happy, to be loved and love freely. She just gave birth this year, she made Carlos an uncle. She had a healthy and beautiful son.

 

Carlos cried when he held him the first time.

 

Such a small being that could evoke such big emotions in him. It made him think if he wanted to be a father. If he would be a good father. If he could ever be a father. In his mind, he was telling the universe how much he’s going to love his nephew. 

 

He opened the idea to Rebecca one day, about the possibility of having a child of their own. He was surprised when she opposed the idea strongly.

 

“With my job- It just… I don’t think I’ll ever be a mother— I don’t know,” She said.

 

It was fair. Carlos wasn’t sure if he’d ever be a father.

God damn it. Carlos wants to be a father. He wants a family. 

 

But Rebecca was right. Even he himself knew that with his own job, it would be difficult to start a family now. 

 

A door to a conversation about marriage slightly turned ajar. But none of them dared to breach the topic.

 

~~~

 

Charles fucking hates golf.

 

He was incredibly bad at it, he doesn’t know how some drivers could do it so well. There must be something wrong with him with how terrible he is. 

 

It doesn’t stop Charles from playing it.

 

With the Weekend off, he’d been invited to play golf with his friends. He tells Alex this fleetingly as he makes his way out, with his golfing attire and all. 

 

As expected, he doesn’t get any better in the sport as much as he hoped. It wasn’t like he had any practice anyway. His friends surely enjoyed the not-so-free entertainment of watching Charles be bad at something. But by the 12th time Charles tries to sink the damn putt, they’ve lost their breaths hollering at him.

 

It was still a great day and Charles did enjoy himself a lot.

 

When he got home, Leo greets him, jumping and clawing at his ankles to get his attention. Charles smiles and coos at him, placing his things on the living room table, where Alex was sat on the ground, using the coffee table where she was writing on a notebook with an IPad on and the television as background noise. Charles concludes she was studying as he makes his way to the bedroom to get changed.

 

When he comes back out, he goes to the couch near Alex and pulls his phone out to scroll through social media. 

 

Leo comes in and goes to Alex, her writing ultimately interrupted and she whines, carrying him away from the table. “Please take him,” she says to Charles and he immediately obliges, carrying him onto the couch with him and Leo has no problem changing his target and licks Charles’ face all over.

 

He giggles and tries to keep his face free of dog saliva and keeps an arm on Leo to settle on his lap. It doesn’t take a while until Leo is done playing and lays his head down on the edge of Charles’ thigh as he’s laid across the man’s lap.

 

Charles smiles at him fondly and gently caresses his back.

 

“This makes me think of having a child,” he comments. Then his hand freezes mid-petting Leo. 

 

Alexandra visibly tenses as well when she hears what he said. She stops writing and drops her pen on the table before turning her head back to give Charles a look. Charles didn’t know what that look meant. She looked a bit angry, or… Offended. Or even just… Sad. Then she turns back to her notebook and continues writing like nothing happened. Charles didn’t miss the way she slightly moved away from him.

 

Now what the hell was that? 

 

Charles felt the slightest bit of offense, but he was more confused than anything. Sure, they’ve been dating for almost a whole year, you would think it won’t be much of a shocker to bring up the idea of having a child or being a family. She’s already an honorary Leclerc at this point, being invited to almost all of his family events and gatherings. His other half. His partner. His soulmate.

 

Even the idea of Leo was a step closer to the idea of them being a family. 

 

What’s wrong now?

 

Charles keeps quiet instead, choosing to scroll through his phone rather than discuss that obviously concerning matter about an untouched subject in their relationship.

 

After a while, Alex stops writing again and looks back at him. He pretends not to notice and keeps his eyes on his phone. Hand on his lap, petting Leo who has now dozed off on his lap. 

 

“Would you like to come with me to a concert?” Charles looks up from his phone at that. She’s looking at him with a shy smile, twiddling with her pen on the table. Charles raises his eyebrows.

 

“Who’s performing?” there’s now a lower volume in his speaking, like the moment is now private, somber.

 

The moment was forgotten. Charles lets it be.

 

“Taylor Swift… In Milan… Kika is going too,”

 

“With Pierre?”

 

She hums in confirmation then shifts closer. In the back of Charles’ mind, he felt as if he could breathe better, his hand settling down on the couch. “Of course I’ll come with you,” He says, but he does not look at her. Maybe a second lasting glance before he brings his phone up again to give his eyes something to look at.

~~~

 

“Carlos,” Rebecca gasps, hands gripping the sheets as her legs shake. 

 

She frantically moves to put her arms around Carlos, urgently having the need to hold onto something. However, Carlos takes her hands off of him and pins them to both sides of her head and keeps them there.

 

His eyes were closed tight as he groaned, his hips moved with purpose. Rebecca whined, overwhelmed and overstimulated, she has given up on freeing her wrists free from Carlos’ grip. Her jaw felt like it was gonna tremble from how hard she was biting back the sounds that die in her throat. 

 

“Kiss me, please,” she whimpers. 

 

Carlos slowly opens his eyes and ducks down to give her what she asked for. His eyes stay open, though half lidded.

 

Then he pulls away, gasping. His face pressed up against her cheek as he breathed down her neck. 

 

His movement stutters and slows to a halt. He lets himself fall onto his back beside Rebecca, both are panting in the afterglow. 

 

Then Carlos moves to stand and walk towards the bathroom. Rebecca, who was left alone, brings her arm up to inspect her wrists. Red bruising were starting to form. 

 

Rebecca kisses her wrists. She was basking in the afterglow of sex, maybe she was apologizing to her wrists for getting them marked up again. Or maybe she still had some tenderness left in her from the earlier act. 

 

She always bruised so easily. Her skin is sensitive to marks. She keeps her nails short so she wouldn’t mark herself up when she itches. Maybe it’s because her skin is fair. Not pale. Fair.

 

Carlos on the other hand, not so much. Of course, because of his darker complexion that comes with being hispanic. But his skin had always had quite the tolerance for markings. You really had to try in order to get a mark popping on to his skin, and they usually last only a day.

 

Carlos looks himself in the mirror, his cheeks are flushed, something his complexion forgave in consolation for his resistance to marks. He turns the faucet open and splashes his face with the cool water before throwing a spent condom in the trash.

 

He cleans up and sprays deodorant on himself to rid any lingering smell of sex.

 

He exits the bathroom and heads for the closet to put on an unintentional tight fitting shirt and gym shorts. Inside the closet was a pre-packed gym bag that he readied the night before. He carries this out and heads to Rebecca who has now snuggled up inside the covers.

 

“I’ll be heading out now,” he says, sitting in the space next to her, leaning down to peck her cheek. She just hummed in acknowledgement. “I’ll pick up breakfast on the way back,” He says as he exits the bedroom.

 

He wears his shoes by the door then leaves, taking his keys with him.

 

Rebecca curls up and hides her face under the covers. She sobs silently.

 

Carlos meets with his team in the gym and they clap his back, asking him how his week has been. He laughs along with them, tells stories then talks about the upcoming Euros. Then comes the moment where they awkwardly try to start the workout session. 

 

Carlos doesn’t really listen to music all that much. The white noise of gym equipment and sometimes the provided playlist in the gym was enough of ‘music’ to have while working out. His team tells him how odd he is, because apparently, most people prefer to workout while listening to their favorite music. 

 

Carlos thinks the only music he’d ever listen to are the ones playing wherever he is, be it top 10 hits on the radio when he’s in the mall, or smooth jazz in a restaurant. Rebecca tried to get him into music more and even showed him how to make his own spotify account, but all it does is feed off his bank account every month with 2 or 3 tracks ever playing and it’s usually when he’s traveling that he listens to them.

 

He then gets to pull ups, his trainor gets behind him to latch some weight onto his waist. “You know, you’re one of the few drivers I know that actually gets so much training in the gym during week breaks,” His trainor comments and he felt obliged to ask for him to expand.

 

“Usually they’d be out on the seas, on their yachts and family… You spend more time here or back in Maranello,” his trainor had explained and Carlos had to bite back the comment that might just inflate his own ego. He’d always taken pride in working harder than some. 

 

“It’s just routine, you know… If you break the routine everything feels out of place,” He settles as a response, then starts his pull ups.

 

After his whole workout, he bids goodbye to his fitness team and makes his way to pick up breakfast as he promised to Rebecca. 

 

He gets home and sees her in the living room, attention on her phone. He quickly announces his arrival along with the breakfast he puts down on the kitchen counter. 

 

He gets in the shower, washes up and thinks of his schedule for the rest of the week. He thinks about what his trainor told him about the drivers spending the week with family. Maybe he should take Rebecca out to some restaurant this week. They haven’t been on a proper date in a while.

 

He then gets out the shower and dries himself, he breathes into the towel as he wipes his face then rubs it through his hair.

 

He sees his reflection in the mirror, his cheeks flushing from the heat of the shower.

 

Then it hits him how much he fucking hates living like this. 

 

Like he’s stuck in some predetermined system. Like maybe his life was happening right out of his body, somewhere far away.

 

He takes a deep breath before getting out of the bathroom to eat breakfast with his girlfriend.

~~~

“Are you ready yet?” Charles called out from the living room, looking at his watch to check the time. They weren’t late but they were about to be.

 

He invited Alex with him to go to dinner with some of his friends at some Hotel Restaurant that he was being paid to advertise. Afterwards they had plans to go to a club, which would explain why he only wore a simple t-shirt with a blazer to keep it formal in the restaurant, and easily be breezy enough when it gets warm in the bar.

 

When Alex comes out wearing a gorgeous black dress that showed just enough skin to keep Charles looking for longer, she gives him a look that says she doesn’t approve of his outfit.

 

“Couldn’t you have tried a little more,” she asked, though humor dripped in her tone. Charles shook his head, “I only try to dress for proper events,” He says and Alex sighs.

 

“We girls always try, why don’t you?”

 

“It’s not my job to look good,” he shrugs with a non committing pout. Then he offers his arm for her to take and she does as they strut out the apartment.

 

Arriving at the restaurant, Charles greets all of his friends, clapping them on the back, kissing their cheek in greeting and heading to his seat, letting Alex sit down first.

 

They catch up on each other’s lives, Charles tuning into the conversation and asking all the right questions and answering in the right ways. He mindlessly takes Alex’s hand under the table to caress it, he stares at her when she talks, they tease him about how fond he looks and he shies away- holding Alex’s hand tighter. She likes this- he notices. She likes when he shows how enamored he is with her. 

 

She doesn’t have a goddamn clue . Charles thought.

 

He asks for a picture to be taken, she’s right there on the front, she’d be the first thing everyone would look at when he posts the picture. That’s one of the reasons why Charles likes her so much. He likes how easily she can catch people’s attention, it does a good job of dragging eyes away from him.

 

After the dinner, they all become a bit more giddy to go to the club, the conversations edging the line of something they should talk about when not sober. 

 

They take more pictures, it was somewhat a grand event, the club that Charles frequents; Jimmy Z was celebrating it’s 50th anniversary. They get a decent seat at one of the circular couches and order drinks. Charles was borrowed for a bit to sign some plaque for the Club to show off. 

 

He gets back to the group and rejoins whatever conversation they were having. Apparently, a potential yacht trip to Cannes tomorrow. He recalls in his head if he had anything scheduled. 

 

“Of course we’ll be there,” Alex says and Charles looks at her for a moment before nodding along. 

 

It was about 1am when they decided to head home, there was an hour drive to Cannes the next day after all. In the car Charles feels for a moment if he was sober enough to drive before starting the car. 

 

“Got the whole week planned,” he comments fleetingly and Alex hums. Charles lets out a sigh, hesitating before not being able to keep the words in his mouth.

 

“I would’ve just loved staying in you know,” 

 

Alex frowns and looks at him, “You couldn’t have told me that in the club?” 

 

“Hard to do it when you are making decisions for me,” Not even his years of PR training could hide the passive-aggression from his voice.

 

Alex’s shoulder drops, “You could have told me,” she repeats and Charles doesn't respond back, eyes focused on the road.

 

“I have Chiara’s Christening tomorrow, then your concert thing, then I head to Maranello on Monday—”

 

“Then don’t come,” Alex interrupts to which Charles sighs.

 

“What I’m saying is that you don’t make plans without my say,” He tries to which Alex doesn’t respond.

 

“Alex…” 

 

“I just want to be included, with your friends and all… And I don’t get to spend much time with you and now you finally have a week-off—”

 

“I get it… It’s alright, we’ll just get through the weekend,” Charles dismisses.

 

Alex looks out the window. She wipes under her eyes before the tears ever get down her cheeks.

~~~

Carlos sees Charles in Maranello on Monday. It’s their usual pre-race weekend briefings before they head to Hungary tomorrow. 

 

He nods at him when their eyes meet. They go through the briefings and he could feel eyes lingering. He knows exactly who was staring.

 

After the meeting, Carlos heads to the comfort room, footsteps trailing behind him. When he got inside, he turned around to see Charles following him in.

 

There was a click as the door was locked.

Chapter 20: Media Day & FP 1n2 - Hungary

Carlos wanted to laugh in the situation. It wasn’t funny, It shouldn’t be funny.

 

But the thought of how predictable this is just tickles him in a way. It was like ‘I knew you’d fucking crack’ kind of way. What wasn’t funny was how Carlos knew that since he was expecting it, it meant he’d been thinking about it for far too long in their week-off. It would pop up in his mind while watching the Euros. 

 

He thought about Charles being the one to give in first. He thought about whether he should let himself indulge in his attention again. And it was easy to think those thoughts because he was slowly letting himself feel the emptiness in his days without it. He wasn’t sure if it was the thrill of doing something wrong, or if there’s just something about Charles that excites him.

 

In the bathroom, Carlos leans back on one of the doors of the cubicle, he puts his hands in his pockets to show that he has no intention of making the first move. His eyes hesitate to look at Charles again, trying to restrain himself from looking like he was expecting something out of this.

 

Charles walks lazily and stops right in front of him. He lingers there for a moment, looking to the side like he was stalling, slightly rocking back and forth on his heels. Then Carlos raises his eyebrows when Charles brings his hands up to tug at the sides of his shirt.

 

He breathes out, probably a warning, or just something to let out. He didn't know how Charles being so close would feel after being apart for a while. Being apart per Carlos' insistence, that is. “Charles,” He whispers.

 

He craned his neck when Charles put his hands under his shirt. His hands felt cold on Carlos' skin that he was fighting the urge to shiver. He wanted to slam his head back on the cubicle because his back wanted to fucking arch forward as Charles' hands go higher on his bare waist.

 

He gets enough of willpower to hold onto Charles' wrists to stop his hands from traversing upwards where Carlos wouldn't possibly be able to take any more.

 

It was humiliating to realize how deprived he felt of Charles.

 

Charles leans forward to bury his face on the crook of his neck and breathing in like he was out of breath. His grip on Carlos' waist tightening, thumbs pressing hard on his ribs.

 

“Please… Let me,” His tone hitched in a whine as he mumbled against Carlos' skin.

 

And when Carlos was humming his disapproval, Charles sucked in a breath of protest before moving to gently bite on Carlos' neck which made the man dig his nails on Charles' wrists, holding in any vocal reaction.

 

“No…” He breathes, pulling Charles' head back by his hair, forcing them to lock eyes with each other. He contemplates on pushing him back or if he wants to let them be within that proximity. Who was he kidding, of course Carlos was going to let him stay that close.

 

Although he keeps a hand on Charles' chest, keeping him at that length. "Don't…" He stops, not wanting to actually say it, not wanting to put an end to it.

 

"What's wrong? You didn't miss me?" Charles whispers, feigning heartbreak in his tone. It makes Carlos' breath stutter in the slightest. Hearing Charles' voice go that high is something different from the usual male bravado of Charles Leclerc, the golden boy of Ferrari, the ladies' man. It ticks something in Carlos how he can make Charles undone like this. Someone pathetically yearning for him. Like Carlos wasn't spending more hours in the bath with the thought of Charles on a certain day in Austria, laid and waiting for him, open and stripped off- all while his own girlfriend was just outside.

 

The thought of it alone is what snipped the threads that were holding him back.

 

It's a carnal desire to want to hurt Charles, to take anything glorious about him and stomp on it. It's almost a tangible form of his feelings working outside the confines of Ferrari favoritism, to  dehumanize Charles, like payback for being the goddamn second driver. Second to him. Always second to him.

 

He lunges forward, hands enveloping beautifully around Charles' neck. It would surely leave some bruises, he thought. Then he thought; that's exactly what he wanted. It pulls a strangled sound from Charles, and Carlos didn’t want to think too much on what that sound was.

 

Charles’ back hits a wall, along with the back of his head. Carlos loosens his grip and rests his forehead on the space next to Charles' head on the cold tile wall. He screws his eyes shut when he feels Charles’ hands lay atop his own. 

 

“Carlos,” it was a breathy whisper, and it tickled the shell of Carlos’ ear. He didn’t want to look. He feared that if he let himself look again, he’d actually lose it.

 

“Haven’t we been over this, Charles,” Carlos says, feeling the coolness of the wall against his skin, he tries to focus on that coolness instead of the warmth from Charles’ body. “I said it’s over, I said we’re done, we’re over this,”

 

“Then why are you here then, hm?” Carlos felt Charles’ knee press between his thighs and he let out a sigh, pulling away. His hands grow cold leaving Charles’ skin. He turns away from Charles, hands tugging on his own hair to somehow wake him up if this ever was a dream. 

 

“I don’t know why you even bother, Carlos… You know exactly how it’s going to play out,”

 

Carlos seethes, “No, no, no— Do not make it like I’m just like you because I’m not,” Charles frowns, not understanding. “You do this… Seducing and wanting and trying to get me to lose my mind and it’s like I’m the only one trying to be reasonable while you’re here playing mind games!” Charles’ frown deepens, taking a step closer.

 

“Don’t pin this on me,” He warns, raising a finger to point at Carlos, “I was fine without you, I strive without you, I didn’t need you coming in to my life and having to live knowing your hands have been all over me and knowing I wanted it— You don’t get to have me wanting you, Carlos, while you walk around with the last say in it… It’s not fair,” 

 

Carlos rolls his eyes, “That’s not my problem,” he was in dejection, walking backwards, towards the door, unlocking it. 

 

But apparently, those were entirely the wrong words to say as Charles was launching forwards, hands gripping on Carlos’ collar, before he was swinging a fist right into his cheek. “You’re so fucking unfair-” Carlos has him by the shoulders now, he’s being pushed back hard, the back of his head crashes with the wall, this time it takes him a moment to recover. A part of Charles knew he had no chance of ever winning a fight against Carlos who is evidently bigger and stronger than him. 

 

But after all that, Carlos’ lips were on his, hungry and aggressive. His mouth tasted of something metallic, Charles thinks maybe it was when he struck him that his mouth bled. But Carlos’ mouth was on him. Charles was groaning, from the pain in his head and from how Carlos held his jaw and neck to control the pace of their mouths.

 

Charles’ knuckles ached as he grips onto Carlos’ shirt to keep their bodies close. He felt tears spill through his tightly shut eyes and he doesn’t know why. “Carlos,” he gasped when their hips met in a symphony. 

 

It was unfair. It was unfair how Carlos knew exactly how to rile him up, how to push the right buttons. It frustrates Charles how Carlos always had a way of getting what he wanted from him. How Charles lets him every goddamn time. It’s sickening, the way he’s just so willing. So open for Carlos to do as he pleases. Charles would never admit it, but he reels being pushed around by him. Maybe it’s because Carlos is this embodiment of everything Charles is. 

 

“I want you to fuck me,” He whispers, strained and breathless. He had never said it out loud. But it didn’t matter because he couldn’t even count how many times he’s thought of it. Every single night spent with Alex, how he would think her skin looked just as tan as Carlos’, her hair just as dark. How he closes his eyes more often because it was easier to imagine that way. 

 

Carlos doesn’t respond, Charles almost thought he didn’t hear him, so he tried to say it again.

 

But then the door to the bathroom was opening, Charles was scrambling to push Carlos away but he wasn’t budging. His heart dropped in realization as he was trying to pull away. Carlos had a strong grip on him, mouth traveling down his neck when he was biting to get Carlos to pull away.

 

When Carlos' head went lower, Charles was able to see who was at the door. It was one of the mechanics in the factory, staring at them wide eyed, realizing who he was actually seeing.

 

Charles ducked his head like the damage wasn’t already dealt. He thinks of kicking Carlos, a knee to the ribs to get him off. But as the thought forms, Carlos was kissing back up to his lips and pulling away. His eyes bore into Charles’ purposefully. It was a statement.

 

Then he was walking away, passing the mechanic like a stranger who was merely in the way of the door. 

 

Charles was left there, his neck feeling cold and aching and he knew a mark bloomed there, red like the walls of this facility, then turning to a shameful blue. His cheeks felt sticky with tears and his mouth tasted of blood that wasn’t his.

~~~

When Carlos heard that Charles booked an earlier flight to Hungary, the first thought was obvious; ‘He probably didn't want to fly with me, ’ which was honestly understandable.

 

He knew exactly how much Charles probably hates him. Maybe it wasn't such a wise idea to hurt him like that after all. He didn't want anything to impede their dynamics in the sport. It's starting to bother Carlos how much he feels at peace despite all that has happened. All be damned at this point, it wasn't like he had anything to lose.

 

He lost it all the moment his seat at Ferrari was taken away.

 

He wanted Charles to lose just as much. Let it be his dignity or honor. 

 

When Thursday came and Charles was in the motorhomes signing merchandise, Carlos sank back to the indifference of their dynamics. Sat beside each other, elbows almost touching, all he needed to do was sign shirts, caps and posters. Usually, Carlos would propose another challenge on who gets to finish signing the merch first, but he hasn’t tested the waters just yet. 

 

It’s getting so repetitive, but that’s what Carlos liked about it. It’s routine, it’s daily, it’s easy. 

 

What he did to Charles in the bathroom back in Maranello, he reeled to think about what more he could do. In a race week, how much he could affect Charles before everyone in the garage sees through the both of them.

 

It's awkward to say the least. He tries not to look every now and then next to him. He doesn’t react when their elbows bump as they sign caps. He tries not to notice how Charles' breathing changes when they do so.

 

He momentarily thinks of what Charles had said in the bathroom and has to bite down a grin at the memory of it. 

 

~~~

 

Fred approaches him after one of their media events, the look in his eye was different and Carlos felt like he somehow knew what’s in store for him as he follows Fred to his office.

 

“Take a seat,” Fred offers and Carlos does, slumping down on the cushioned seat immediately, his hands grip the arm rests like his life depended on it. Something felt wrong, felt ominous. 

 

He didn’t even try to look into Fred’s eyes, scared he would know immediately what’s to come. It could be anything. Maybe it was about his contract. Maybe it was about his performance lately. Had he been performing badly? He hasn’t been spectacular, but he hasn’t been too bad at all.

 

“There are some… Talks… Circulating in the factory,”

 

Well…

 

That wasn’t what he expected at all. But of course. Carlos could almost smack himself silly. Of course it was about that. That… Incident. Which he didn’t care to cover up at all.

 

“It’s some pretty serious… gossip, Carlos,” Fred pushes, sitting upright looking like he didn’t know the right words.

 

Carlos’ picks his nails, his knee starting to bounce. “What did you hear?” He doesn’t want to know the answer at all. He wants to leave this office. He wants to find Charles. He wants to claw his way to his core. 

 

Fred moves his lips, uncertain… Uncomfortable.

 

“They are saying they saw you…” He trails off, taking a breather like the next things he was about to say could take the life from him. 

 

“They said they saw you assault him,” He says in one breath, then he raises his hands like he digresses, “People talk! But I need to hear from you this is not true,” 

 

Fred has this stern look, but if you look hard enough you’d realize he was afraid of what Carlos might say. How he somehow believes there is a possibility that Carlos might prove the word true.

 

Carlos thinks for a moment. He thinks of the taste of blood, the look on Charles’ face, the crack in his voice— he really did sound so full of yearning. 

 

“I’ve never heard of anything so ridiculous in my life,” he says with a mere shrug of his shoulders.

 

Fred deflates with relief.

 

~~~

 

Friday comes by easily. Carlos is almost suspicious at how smoothly everything is going. There were times where he completely forgets about everything that has happened. Charles certainly makes it look so easy going about the day like nothing ever happened. Had anything happened at all? Did Carlos just dream about his encounter with him in the bathroom? 

 

It itches him badly that sometimes he just wants to pull Charles aside and ask him himself.

 

The first two Free Practices, Carlos breezes through like he was having an out of body experience. And like the usual, he delivers good results, albeit it was still FP.

 

He gets out of his race suit while watching Charles get out of his car. P18 on his 2nd round, Carlos already recognized the slow walk of shame to the back of the garage. Before he could think about it, he was already following behind, and before he knew it, he was closing Charles’ driver’s room door behind him.

 

Carlos' mouth was moving against his will, “Fred knows,” he says it like it was a mundane fact. Like the sky is blue, McLaren is fast, and Fred fucking knows about us.

 

Then he hesitates when Charles doesn’t look back at him. “Although he thinks it was just gossip—” 

 

“Stop fucking talking,” Charles says in this breathless way, he sounds like he was crying- Is he crying?

 

When Carlos realizes the soft tremble in Charles’ shoulders, it was like his legs had grown a mind of it’s own. 

 

“Charles…” He really was crying.

 

It was strange. Charles’ face contorted no expression at all. He looked lifeless, while tears flowed down his cheeks like some inconvenience. His hands were pressed firmly to his sides like he was holding back his body from moving at all. 

 

Carlos takes a step back at the state of him, looking bewildered.

 

When Charles heard the door open and close again behind him, that was when he fell to his knees, he gripped his hair as he cried silently. Nothing was making any sense. It felt like he fell into another dimension where everything was foreign. Like his tongue wasn’t his, like he didn’t know anyone. Anyone…

 

“Carlos…” He breathed, his sobbing made him fall forward that he had to place his hands flat on the ground for support. This way, he could see the small pitiful puddle of tears that fell from his cheeks. “Carlos please,”

 

On the other side of the door, Carlos was sitting on the ground, back pressed against the door. On one hand he held his sports drink, sipping from the long straw, listening to how Charles begged for him there.

 

~~~

When Carlos woke up at 2am in his hotel room by a relentless knocking on his door, he felt the least bit polite when opening the door to yell at whoever it was, it doesn’t matter if it was one of the staff.

 

But then again, he didn’t feel the slightest bit of surprise when it was Charles at the door.

 

Charles, who had bed hair and eyes obviously deprived of sleep. Charles who gently pushed past him to get inside. Charles who simply made his way to Carlos’ own bed. Charles who didn’t react when Carlos got on the bed beside him.

 

And suddenly it was the night after Singapore 2022 again. 

 

“Charles, I’m so sorry,” 

 

It was barely uttered. You’d have missed it if you’re not paying attention but he said it. With every bone filled with cowardice in his body — “I’ll miss you. I’ll never be the same again,”

 

There was shuffling, then Charles was moving to his side to face away from Carlos. He thought that was it.

 

“I hate you,” 

 

Carlos could only stare back at the ceiling.

 

“I wish I never met you… I wish you never gone to Ferrari, I wish you didn’t have to fucking leave, I wish I could just forget you ever existed, I wish…”

 

“I wish I was good enough to stay,” Carlos finishes for him. “I wish I was good enough for you,”

 

Nothing further had to be said.

 

 Carlos wakes up cold and alone the next day.

 

Notes:

College happened. Woops.

Chapter 21: Qualifying & Race - Hungary

The pillow next to him smelled of Charles. It was left with the rumpled shape of him from last night. Carlos reached over to it, petting the vague outline of where Charles laid at night like he could somewhat still feel his body there, breathing and warm. He then stretched over to bury his head in the pillow, inhaling whatever was left of him.

 

He’s gripping the sheets, this shouldn’t be getting him worked up but it is, if the growing warmth in his abdomen says anything.

 

There was a long day ahead of him.

He meets Charles at the entryway of the track, they were scheduled to have a fan meeting and that means they had to appear together. Charles looked well rested. If only he knew the state he left Carlos in.

 

In the corner of his eye he can already see the media team getting ready to document the day ahead, so instinctively, Carlos boarded the back of the cart that would take them to the fan zone. It was no surprise when Charles followed him in.

 

Their elbows were touching, even when he purposely leaned his body away. When he looked at his hands all he could think about was whatever he did in that hotel room a few hours ago. When he looked at Charles, he had to look away because he was already looking right at him.

 

They do not speak about what happened last night. 

 

Charles was smiling, diving into the conversation so easily. Carlos wondered if he was ever put off at least once in the public eye, in front of a camera lens. Has he ever not performed so well like a person?

 

It gives Carlos a thought about challenging the boundaries of Charles’ limits in the media. 

 

To ruin this perfect teammate image, this prim and proper athlete. Carlos wonders if Charles has ever lived his life so freely before.

 

“Do you have plans for tonight?” Carlos managed to sneak into the conversation and Charles looked at him like he was expecting that question. 

 

Holding back a smile, Charles shrugged, “Just staying in to… rest… before the race, you know?” 

 

Carlos sees through it. Hears through it. He knows what this entails for them both and yet he doesn’t know why he feels breathless.

 

He suddenly feels very much aware of how they’re sitting closer.

~~~

Hungary Qualifying

 

Sainz P4

Leclerc P6

 

Carlos was about to head back to the hotel after washing up from the Qualifying when he got a notification from James Vowles. Apparently, the man wanted to meet up and talk about Carlos’ announcement and further details of it. Then after a moment, he also got a message from his father letting him know he also got a message from Vowles. Carlos pockets his phone without responding to either of them. 

 

He sprays himself with deodorant and steps out of his driver’s room to the hospitality. 

 

“Apparently, he got Lec pinned in the bathrooms and they were…” “They were what?” “You know… Swappin’ spit and all,”

 

Carlos froze in his steps at the quiet Italian exchange he overheard from a closed door. He retraced back a few steps to see that the door led to the equipment room. 

 

“That’s fucked up,” “I know, but we just don’t know for sure is the thing,”

 

When the footsteps neared the door, Carlos immediately walked away, hearing the faint opening and closing of the door the moment he turned a corner. People talk. He knows that, eventually the talk would have spread to the entire paddock. It’s easy to debunk it of course, it’s really easy to lie. But Carlos feels his heart race in some sort of thrill knowing they talk about it. Knowing people have this image in their heads of him and Charles. It was twisted how he knows it within himself that it gets him off just knowing they know. It was almost entertaining.

 

What was even more entertaining was imagining how Charles would handle the situation. How he might let out some PR magic response to it. It felt so stupid- Carlos almost laughed out loud in the middle of the hospitality.

 

Charles is near the small patio space, seemingly in the middle of a phone call, very stressed at that. He’s wearing his custom Ray Bans, rubbing his temples and making animated motions with his arms and hands. He does it whenever he gets into an argument or when he’s talking about something he’s passionate about. Carlos thinks of going over. He thinks a bit more, looks at the way Charles is beginning to pace on the space. His feet makes their way to the sliding door and makes his presence known by smoothing a hand on Charles’ shoulder who’s back is turned to him. He squeezes a bit like massaging him. Charles stops pacing immediately and brings a hand to cover Carlos’. He doesn’t need to look back. 

 

Carlos wanted to say something. He doesn’t.

 

He makes his way to his car, gets his phone from his pocket and responds to his father.

 

A dinner with James Vowles tonight.

 

~~~

 

Charles was called to Fred’s office to discuss a rumour going around the factory. He stares at the man behind the desk. And with the years of PR training, his face contorts into a bewildered confusion. “You are the last person I would ever consider to believe such things, Fred…” He says. 

 

Fred sinks further into his chair, shoulders visibly unwinding. “Right… I just had to check.. It is not like I do not notice a slight change in your… camaraderie with him..” Charles looks away.

 

“But Charles.. If the rumours aren’t true… Something did happen, didn’t it?” There was a moment of silence. Charles' nails were about to come off by how hard he was picking on them. 

 

“Nothing…” he says breathlessly, “Nothing happened,” he concludes. He doesn’t see the unconvinced look the other was giving him.

 

With no other words being said, he leaves.

 

~~~

 

Hungarian Grand Prix

 

Leclerc P4

Sainz P6

 

It was like whiplash.

 

Carlos pulled into the garage with that bitter taste of rubber and adrenaline stuck to the back of his throat. The visor came up, the helmet off, but the feeling stayed.

P6.

 

It was almost comedic in a way—how they’d just swapped places from yesterday. He had outqualified Charles. He had him. And yet today, Charles finishes two places ahead like it was effortless, like the universe just likes to remind him who the golden boy is. The silence in his radio as he stepped out of the car only made it worse. It felt like the kind of silence you get not when you've failed, but when people expected you to.

 

He stripped his gloves off slow, methodical, like he could delay the moment he’d have to face the media, or his engineer, or Charles. Like he could delay facing the scoreboard in his head.

 

He tried not to show anything when he passed Charles in parc fermé. Charles was drinking from his bottle, expression unreadable behind his sunglasses. He didn’t say anything. Carlos didn’t either.

 

His mind takes him to the dinner with Vowles last night that was held at some place that tried too hard with its plating—artificial elegance, glass walls, tiny spoons.

 

James was polite. Too polite. Everything about him was groomed and considerate, which made Carlos want to rip his hair out. The conversation started off formally—details, timing, projections. What kind of car they might have by next year. What leadership could look like. A new start, they said.

 

But Carlos felt like he was being drafted into a team that wasn’t sure it wanted to exist. A rebirth with no soul.

 

He smiled through the whole thing. Said things like, "That’s exciting," or "I think with the right structure, Williams could really build something," but his stomach was turning. The salmon on his plate sat as it took 3 merciful bites of.

 

And before things could get more serious, he steered the conversation sharply. Talked about tyre degradation and weather inconsistencies for tomorrow. Laughed about a meme the McLaren admin posted last week. Asked James if he’d ever considered growing a mustache, just to shake the brand image.

 

James laughed. Carlos laughed louder.

 

And then the check came, and he walked out with the fake aftertaste of hope.

 

Dragging his feet through the garage, everything felt like static. He was light-headed, drifting between the garage and the media pen and wherever else his body needed to be. Like his limbs were moving out of obligation, but his mind was floating ten feet above ground. He didn’t even register the sound of his own answers to the press. Something about learning opportunities. Something about focus on the next round.

 

He wanted to scream. But instead, he just nodded and walked back to his car to drive to the hotel.

 

~~~

 

Charles didn’t take off his shoes when he got into his room. He walked in, collapsed face-first onto the bed, and just stared at the wall for what felt like hours. He hadn’t even showered. The adrenaline had worn off, but the numbness hadn’t. Not from the race, not from the press, not from the conversation with Fred the day before. It all just… flattened into this singular heaviness that sat in his lungs.

 

There were no texts from Carlos. Not since the weird tension this morning.

 

Not since the elbow that lingered too long in the driver’s room. Not since the question, “Do you have plans tonight?”

 

Charles stared at the ceiling. Thought about how quiet Carlos had been post-race. Wondered if that silence was aimed at him.

 

He heard the knock before he could spiral too far. Three soft knocks, hesitant. Charles blinked. It was almost 12 AM. He forced himself to sit up, wiped his eyes without knowing why they stung, and walked over to the door.

 

When he opened it, it was Carlos.

 

Hair still damp from the shower. Hands in his pockets. He looked like something wanted to claw out of his eyes. The moment their eyes met, Charles didn’t say anything. Neither did Carlos. It felt like they were both waiting for the other to say something—to name what this was.

 

Carlos exhaled like he’d been holding his breath since the race.

 

The door clicks shut behind him. Charles doesn’t say anything at first, just stands there, one hand on the knob, back turned. The hum of the city outside bleeds faintly through the double-glazed windows. It's quiet. Still.

 

Carlos doesn’t move either. His eyes scan the room, but they keep returning to Charles. The set of his shoulders, the uneven rise of his breath.

 

Charles finally exhales, slow, as if letting something out he’s held in too long. He doesn’t look at him when he speaks. “You shouldn’t be here.”

 

Carlos steps further in. The sound of his footsteps on the carpet feels louder than it should. “You opened the door.”

 

That earns him a glance, over the shoulder, brief, but enough. Their eyes catch. Charles’ gaze flickers to Carlos’ mouth and back up.

 

He turns fully now, arms crossed like a shield. “That doesn’t mean I know what to do with you once you're in.”

 

Carlos’ lips twitch into something too sad to be called a smirk. “You never did.”

 

It lands somewhere tender. Charles lowers his gaze. “This is a bad idea,” he says, but he doesn’t move.

 

Carlos closes the distance between them— not close enough to touch, but close enough that Charles feels it. Feels him.

 

“This?” Carlos says, voice softer now. “This already happened the moment I knocked..”

 

A beat. Charles doesn’t deny it.

 

Carlos’ hand lifts halfway, like he’s reaching for something he’s not sure he’s allowed to touch. His fingers graze Charles’ forearm, featherlight and even that seems to short-circuit the air between them.

 

Charles lets him.

 

And then, like it burns, pulls away, stepping back. “Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, pacing toward the window.

 

Carlos watches him, jaw tight. “You keep doing that.”

 

“What?”

 

“Letting me in. Then pretending it didn’t mean anything.”

 

Charles whirls around, sharper now. “And what do you want me to do? Let it happen?”

 

Carlos’ expression changes. Less anger now. More ache.

 

Charles swallows. “Why are you here?”

 

“I don’t know.” Carlos takes a step forward. “I don’t know anything when I’m around you.”

 

The air changes again. Softer now. But heavier.

 

They’re close. Closer than they’ve ever been in the daylight. Charles doesn’t move when Carlos’ hand rises again, this time not just a graze.

 

Fingers slide up Charles’ throat. The pad of Carlos’ thumb presses into one cheek. His other fingers cradle the opposite side of Charles’ face, gripping his jaw, not hard, but firm. His eyes don’t leave his.

 

Charles’ lips part, breath trembling out of him. He doesn’t pull away.

 

“You hate me for it,” Carlos says quietly. “And still…”

 

Charles inhales sharply. His hands come up, resting against Carlos’ chest like an anchor but not pushing him away.

 

“You make it so hard to breathe,” Charles murmurs.

 

And that’s when Carlos kisses him.

 

It starts like something stolen, then deepens, pulling them under. Charles responds with a force that startles both of them, fingers gripping Carlos’ shirt, mouth opening against his. It’s a kiss that doesn’t ask permission. It takes. Gives back more. The kind of kiss that leaves bruises, not just on skin.

 

Carlos pulls him closer by the jaw, like he doesn’t trust Charles not to disappear again. His other hand fists in the back of Charles’ shirt.

 

They break for air, but barely. Their foreheads press together. Breath mixing.

 

And then—

 

“You’re going to Williams,” Charles says, a finality. Like a reminder.

 

Carlos' jaw tightens. “Don’t.”

 

“Aren’t you?” Charles hisses. “You're just.. walking away. Like you’re bowing down to what everyone says, like you’re a coward… You couldn’t even beat me in the race—”

 

Carlos laughs once, dry, defensive. “It’s not about you.”

 

“Bullshit,” Charles snaps, stepping back, but Carlos grabs his wrist — not letting him go far.

 

“You think this was easy?” Carlos says, voice rising. “You think I didn’t fight for this? For me staying? You think it was a smooth sail to accept being replaced?”

 

Charles swallows hard, voice quieter now. “I thought you’d stay.”

 

“You’re a fool if you thought I ever had a say in that,”

 

Carlos looks at him like his own words breaks something in him. He steps forward again, fingers brushing Charles’ face like a habit. 

 

“Fred told me.. It wasn’t good to keep us together,” Charles says, “Says you burn in Ferrari,”

 

“What a poet Fred is, then…” Carlos says like he wasn’t paying attention. He doesn’t move after he says it but something in the air collapses anyway.

 

Charles is still, like if he so much as breathes, the room might crack open and swallow them whole. But he doesn’t pull away this time. Doesn’t lash out again. The silence between them turns warm, electric in that stilled storm way.

 

Carlos’ hand is still on his jaw. Charles' eyes fall closed.

 

And then—

 

It’s like neither of them decides, but they both move at once. Lips crashing, breath tangling. It’s messier this time. More desperate. Less about caution, more about need. Clothes come off in uneven pulls, shirts tossed somewhere on the floor, mouths finding skin, fingertips stumbling like they’ve been waiting years to memorize the geography of each other’s bodies.

 

Carlos backs Charles into the wall near the bed, kissing down the curve of his neck, and Charles gasps—his hands sliding up Carlos’ back, dragging nails where they shouldn’t.

 

“You’re burning,” Charles whispers, and Carlos doesn’t know if he means his skin or referring to Fred's words to him. He doesn’t ask. He just kisses him harder.

 

They fall onto the bed like an argument unresolved, mouths and hands searching, fighting, apologizing all at once.

 

Charles rolls them over, straddling him. His hair falls forward, shadowing his face. “This doesn’t fix anything,” he says.

 

Carlos meets his eyes, chest rising and falling. “I’m not trying to fix it.”

 

Their hands link, fingers squeezing like a dare. Like a promise. Or maybe a goodbye in disguise.

 

The way Charles moves is controlled and careful, like he’s trying not to feel too much, and failing. Carlos arches, hands gripping his hips like he’s holding onto the last warm thing in his world. It’s slow. Painfully slow. Like they both know it’s the only time they’ll allow themselves this. Like the world outside doesn’t want them to have it.

 

Carlos gasps Charles’ name into the hollow of his throat. Charles chokes on a laugh that sounds more like a sob.

 

They come apart wrapped in each other’s arms, skin damp, breath heaving, bodies trembling like they’ve survived something.

 

After, Charles lays against his chest, quiet. Listening to the wild rhythm of Carlos’ heart trying to calm itself. Their legs are tangled. Their fingers still linked.

 

It’s too tender. Too close.

 

Carlos stares up at the ceiling, eyes wide open. His body is still warm, but something in his chest is turning cold.

 

Because he knows.

 

This might be the last time.

 

Charles falls asleep against him. Carlos listens to the rise and fall of his breath, counts the seconds between them, presses a kiss to the crown of his head like he’s memorizing the shape of it.

 

But even in this softness, his mind slips. It wanders. Back to Williams. To James’ offer. To the way Charles looked at him today like he was the one who lost.

 

Carlos closes his eyes. Tries to will away the ache that blooms in his throat. Because he knows what he has to do. What he’s always had to do.

 

Ferrari doesn’t want him. Charles can’t choose him.

 

And he’s tired of chasing things that were never his to begin with.

 

He pulls himself out from under Charles carefully, quietly. The mattress shifts. Charles stirs, but doesn’t wake. Carlos dresses in the dark. Watches him for a moment to see Charles’ figure breathing in the dim lighting. Like he wanted to remind himself he was alive. They were alive. 

 

Then he walks to the window. The city hums faintly below. Neon glows blue against his face.

 

Carlos pulls out his phone.

 

James Vowles – draft message:

 

Let’s move forward with the contract.

I’m ready.

 

He hovers over the send button. Breathes in.

And presses send.

 

The screen goes dark.

 

So does he.

Notes:

Boo!

Chapter 22: Belgian Grand Prix

Carlos is gone.

 

Charles knows this when he wakes up to the sound of soft traffic outside, distant and alive. The kind of sound that belongs to morning, but doesn’t feel like it belongs to him. The sheets are cold beside him — untouched.

 

There’s no text, no note, not even a scent left on the pillow anymore. Just the shape of him from last night still faintly marked in the mattress.

 

He stares at it too long.

 

Charles sits up slowly, pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes. His head aches, dull and mean. His mouth tastes like metal. He tries to breathe in deep, but the breath gets stuck halfway through his chest.

 

It’s not the first time he’s woken up like this. But it feels worse today. It feels like it meant something last night. And now it doesn’t.

 

He showers, gets dressed, packs with sluggish movements. Every motion feels like it’s echoing through a vacuum.

 

At the airport, he looks for him.

 

Subtle at first — a glance here, a turn of his head at check-in. Then he asks the girl at the desk if Sainz has already boarded. She says he took an earlier flight. Smiles like it’s nothing.

 

Charles forces a nod. Thanks her.

 

It’s not nothing.

 

He boards the plane like a man walking into a funeral he didn’t know was his.

 

Monaco is warm when he arrives. Too warm. The sunlight hits his eyes like it’s trying to burn the last 24 hours out of him.

 

He takes the car back home without saying much to the driver. Rolls the window down. Doesn’t know what he’s hoping to feel.

 

When he opens the front door, he smells the faint scent of her shampoo before he sees her.

 

Alex is in the bedroom, halfway through trying on a lilac dress, two others laid out on the bed like contestants. The suitcase he used in Hungary is still by the door. He doesn’t touch it.

 

She turns, smiles — a bit too brightly. “Hey, you’re home early. I thought your flight—”

 

“It got moved,” he says shortly.

 

She raises a brow, but doesn’t question it. “Okay. Well—tomorrow’s Marta and Ricardo’s thing. I’ve been trying to figure out what to wear. It’s outdoors, but it’s dressy. You should probably pick something later.”

 

He nods. Or maybe he doesn’t. He doesn’t remember.

 

She keeps talking — something about the color scheme, the catering, how everyone’s betting on whether it’s a boy or a girl — and Charles feels the noise press against his ears like static. Like she’s speaking a different language.

 

He sits on the edge of the bed, looking down at his hands.

 

“Charles?” she prompts. 

 

He blinks. “Yeah. I just—want to lie down.”

 

“You just got back after all…” she smiles gently. “But I’ll help you pick out something after—”

 

He clenches his jaw. “Can we talk about this tomorrow?”

 

“What’s your problem?” she asks, voice rising just a little. “You’ve been off for weeks. And you said you were looking forward to seeing everyone—”

 

“I changed my mind,” he says.

 

Silence stretches out between them. She crosses her arms, staring at him.

 

“You’ve been like this since Austria. I don’t know what’s going on with you anymore.”

 

He looks up, tired and worn. “I just need to sleep.”

 

There’s a second where he almost says it — Shut the fuck up and let me sleep.

But the words hang on the back of his tongue, caught by something rawer. Sadder.

 

He lies back without another word, arm thrown over his eyes.

 

She leaves the room. The sound of her bare feet against the tile fades, then disappears.

 

He exhales into the quiet, but it doesn’t feel like relief. It feels like drowning in a different kind of silence.

~~~

 

Carlos presses the phone tighter against his ear as he shuts the door behind him, duffel bag dropped lazily in the hall. The voice on the other end is loud and steady. His father always sounds like he knows what to say.

 

“You made the right decision, hijo. It’s a fresh start. They want you there. You’ll do good… You always do,”

 

Carlos stares at the floor, jaw clenched. He paces the living room slowly, the same loop around the coffee table he always walks when he’s trying not to think too hard.

 

“I know,” he says.

 

“You’re young. You’ll build something. And you won’t have to fight for a place that should already be yours.”

 

“I know,” he repeats, sharper this time.

 

There’s a pause. His father softens. “You believe in this.”

 

Carlos closes his eyes. Feels the words try to stick in his throat.

 

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I do.”

 

It sounds hollow even to him. But if he says it enough times, maybe it’ll stop feeling like a lie.

 

Rebecca comes home just as the sun dips low, pink light falling across the floor. He hears the jangle of her keys before the door opens, hears her little sigh as she kicks off her shoes.

 

He walks straight to her — arms wide — and pulls her into a tight bear hug, spinning her like they’re in a romantic comedy that doesn’t know how it ends. She squeals in surprise, laughing.

 

“Happy early birthday,” he says against her cheek, voice a little too loud, a little too cheerful.

 

She looks up at him, still grinning. “You’re insane.”

 

Carlos kisses her.

 

And doesn’t think about Charles.

 

Later, they’re tangled up in each other, skin on skin in the dim glow of the bedroom lamp. His hands trail down her back, his mouth finds her neck, and the words come out almost easily — “I love you.”

 

She stills beneath him.

 

He kisses her again, softer this time, hand sliding around her waist. But then he feels it — the shake in her breath. The quiet hitch. Her fingers digging into his arms like she’s holding onto something that’s already slipping.

 

“Rebecca?” he murmurs. “What’s wrong?”

 

She presses her face against his chest. Her voice is muffled. “Nothing… I just—”

She laughs, but it’s wet. “I almost believed you.”

 

Carlos freezes. His mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

 

So instead, he kisses her again. Slower. Lower. Like he can answer her that way. He touches her like he means it, like he can replace everything he doesn’t say with sensation. He makes her come quietly, her hand curled into the sheets. She doesn’t cry again.

 

They fall asleep like that. Her head on his chest. His hand on her back. His eyes wide open.

 

It’s almost 3 AM when he slips out of bed, silent on bare feet. He pours water, doesn’t drink it. Walks out onto the balcony and grips the railing like it might keep him from thinking too hard.

 

The air is cool against his skin. Monaco is hushed. Clean. Beautiful in a way that feels fake.

 

Charles lives thirty minutes away.

 

Carlos leans forward, resting his forearms on the edge of the balcony. He imagines driving. Imagines pulling up to Charles’ place, parking in that stupid stone driveway. Ringing the bell. Watching Charles open the door in that shirt he always wears when he’s not trying.

 

What would he even say?

 

I can't stop thinking about you.

I miss you.

Don’t let me leave without saying something real.

 

Carlos shakes his head, hard.

 

“Stupid,” he mutters under his breath.

 

He presses the heel of his palm to his eyes.

 

But then Charles floods his mind again anyway — the way he’d looked in the hotel bed, quiet and open, his mouth still parted from sleep. His skin. His breath against Carlos’ throat. That one fucking sound he made when Carlos kissed him the first time.

 

Carlos exhales slowly, like it might leave him for good if he breathes deep enough.

 

But it never does.

 

~~~

Spa-Francorchamps, Belgium

 

The clouds hang low over the circuit. The sky is overcast, but the air is still. There’s something calm about it — not heavy, not dark — just quiet. Like even the weather knows what kind of weekend this is.

 

Charles steps out of the paddock gates with his jacket slung loosely over one shoulder. The gravel crunches beneath his boots as he walks across to the small lot where Pierre is already waiting.

 

“Hey,” Pierre greets him, pulling him into a hug before Charles can even raise a hand. There’s a strange comfort in how familiar it feels.

 

Charles exhales against his friend’s shoulder. “Hey.”

 

They pull apart, and for a moment, they just stand there. No cameras. No radio calls. Just two friends at the track — the same kind of track they grew up on. Different now. But not entirely.

 

“We still on for tomorrow?” Charles asks, eyes trailing the far end of the circuit.

 

Pierre nods. “Yeah. FIA’s given us a quiet window before F3. Some of the boys from GP2 are flying in tonight.”

 

“Good,” Charles says softly. “He would’ve liked that.”

 

They walk slowly, aimless steps down the perimeter path. Neither of them in a rush. They talk about logistics — time slots, press obligations — but it bleeds into memory too easily.

 

“Do you remember that summer in Hungary?” Pierre says, half-laughing. “When we all shared that hostel and Anthoine kept setting off the smoke alarm because he couldn’t cook pasta properly?”

 

Charles snorts, shaking his head. “He said it gave it more flavor.”

 

Pierre smiles. It’s the kind that doesn’t reach all the way to the eyes — not from lack of trying, but because some smiles just carry weight.

 

“Feels like another life,” he murmurs.

 

“Sometimes I think we were different people back then,” Charles says.

 

Pierre glances at him. “We were.”

 

There’s a pause. The sound of distant tire tests echoes from the track, but here, it’s almost like they’re in a pocket of time. Untouched.

 

Charles breathes in deeply. The Belgian air smells like rain waiting to fall.

“I still see him sometimes,” he says. “Not really… but in dreams. Or in the corner of the paddock when I’m tired. Like he’s just—there. Waiting to be called to the grid.”

 

Pierre nods slowly, gaze fixed somewhere beyond the horizon.

 

“I think that’s how he stays,” he replies. “Not in the photos. Not in the FIA statements. Just in the way we remember. The way we keep talking about him like he’s still in the next room.”

 

Charles swallows. His throat feels tight.

 

They stop walking. Just stand still for a moment, the wind brushing their sleeves.

 

Five years.

 

Pierre speaks first. “Let’s give him something beautiful tomorrow.”

 

Charles nods, looking up at the sky. “We owe him that.”

~~~

The morning air is crisp, almost too clean. There’s no roar of engines yet, no adrenaline in the air. Just a stillness that feels sacred. The kind of quiet only the paddock can hold when it knows what day it is.

 

Carlos makes his way through the side gates, credentials clipped loosely to his jacket. He’s not here for the press or the cameras. Not for a grid walk or a team briefing. Just this.

 

A soft ceremony for someone who should’ve still been here.

 

He scans the lawn ahead — drivers already gathering in small groups. A table set up under a white canopy holds folded t-shirts. Racing for Anthoine. Simple. Stark. Clear.

 

Then he sees him.

 

Charles is there, distributing shirts one by one with a strange gentleness. There’s a crease in his brow, the kind he wears when he’s focusing too hard — like making sure everyone gets one is the most important task in the world.

 

Carlos moves forward, almost without thinking. Drawn.

 

But just before he reaches him, Pierre steps into his path.

 

“Carlos,” he says with a small smile — warm, but subdued. Grief softened by time, not erased.

 

Carlos stops. “Hey.”

 

“Thanks for coming,” Pierre says, tone steady but sincere. “He’d have liked that.”

 

Carlos nods. “I never knew him like you guys did, but… it felt right to be here.”

 

Pierre hands him a shirt. “It means something. More than you think.”

 

Carlos looks down at the fabric. The letters feel heavier than they should.

He slips the shirt on over what he’s wearing.

 

They fall into the motion of the event — a few more people arriving, some small words shared under the soft breeze, a photo set by the paddock fence where Anthoine’s name is stitched in tribute. There are flowers. Helmets. Silence.

 

But Carlos’ eyes drift.

 

Back to Charles.

 

He’s standing a few metres away now, arms folded across his chest, expression unreadable. He’s not talking to anyone. Just… still. Like his mind is somewhere else entirely.

 

Carlos wonders what it must feel like to lose someone who lived beside you in the trenches of the sport — in the karting caravans, in the empty paddocks at midnight, in the races that no one ever televised.

 

He remembers his own ghosts.

 

Maria de Villota.

 

She wasn’t just a mentor. She was the first person who ever told him he belonged in a Formula car. She died too young, too sudden. A test gone wrong. A fate that didn’t care how kind she was.

 

He remembers the silence after that news. The ache in his father’s voice. The first time he ever questioned if this sport might take more than it gives.

 

Now, looking at Charles — Carlos wonders if he’s thinking the same thing.

 

How many people do we leave behind on our way to the top?

How many names do we carry like invisible scars?

 

The wind picks up. Charles doesn’t flinch.

 

Carlos keeps looking at him. Not because he wants to — but because he can’t stop.

Not today. Not on a day that reminds them both how close the edge always is.

~~~

 

Qualifying

 

Leclerc P1

Sainz P8

The rain didn’t fall hard, but it fell consistently — that steady, cold drizzle that soaked through race suits and fogged up visors. Spa had always had a flair for the dramatic, and today was no different.

 

Charles breezed through Free Practice with mechanical precision. Carlos did the same. They didn’t speak. Not because there was animosity — but because neither of them knew what to say that hadn’t already been left unsaid.

 

By the time qualifying rolled around, the track was slick and the sky was bruised. One of those sessions where skill mattered, but luck mattered more.

 

And maybe for once, luck chose Charles.

 

He got pole. Technically inherited it — Max took a grid penalty — but it still counted. The media clapped, the engineers grinned. There was a camera flash to the left and a mic to the right and everyone said "You must be thrilled!"

 

He smiled. But it didn’t reach anything inside of him.

 

Carlos was P8. Out of reach. Out of rhythm.

 

And yet, Charles found himself walking toward the other side of the paddock, toward the scarlet red of Carlos’ side of the garage. The back of Carlos’ race suit was damp, his curls dark with rain and sweat.

 

He hesitated. Then stepped closer.

 

“P8,” Charles said, voice light, like maybe he was trying to make it sound like it didn’t mean anything.

 

Carlos glanced over, then looked back down at the data screen on the monitors. “Yeah.”

 

Charles shifted on his feet. “You were fast in Sector 1. You could’ve had P5 easy if not for the lock-up in Les Combes.”

 

Carlos nodded. “Could’ve.”

 

Silence again.

 

Charles’ fingers twitched at his side. He wanted to say more — something to close the growing distance between them. But Carlos was already halfway turned away, like he’d made up his mind not to stay long in this moment.

 

“Good luck tomorrow,” he said, already pulling off his gloves.

 

That should’ve been the end of it. Charles should’ve let him go. Should’ve let the words stand.

 

But instinct made the decision for him.

 

His hand shot out, fingers wrapping around Carlos’ wrist before he could walk away.

 

It was too fast. Too familiar.

 

Carlos froze.

 

Charles blinked, like he’d only just realized what he’d done. The warmth of Carlos’ skin beneath the damp fabric made his stomach twist.

 

“I—sorry,” he said quickly, letting go, stepping back like the moment might bite.

 

Carlos looked at him. Not with anger. Not even surprise.

 

Just that same quiet look he’d given him in Monaco. In Austria. In that hotel room in Hungary where nothing had been said the right way.

 

“It’s fine,” Carlos said after a pause, voice unreadable.

 

Charles nodded.

 

But neither of them moved for a moment.

 

And neither of them said what they actually meant.

 

Until Carlos was walking away.

 

~~~

Race Results

 

Leclerc P3

Sainz P6

The sun showed up when no one asked for it.

 

Not a cloud in sight. The kind of weather the photographers loved. Perfect lighting. Clear skies. A cruel joke, maybe, on a day that still managed to feel like failure.

 

He’d started P1. Lost places at the start. Gained one back after George’s disqualification. He hadn’t overtaken. He hadn’t fought. The strategy was clean, the pit stop fine — everything was technically right.

 

But inside, he was folding in on himself.

 

When the interviews started, he gave the usual lines.

 

“We did our best today.”

“Car felt good in parts, but we struggled on tyres.”

“Still points, and we look forward to the next race.”

 

His mouth moved. His body stood upright.

 

But none of it was him.

 

What gutted him wasn’t the missed win. It was how alone it all felt. How he kept looking to the side — down the line of photographers, past the crowds in the paddock — and not once saw the flash of red that meant him.

 

Carlos.

 

Not near parc fermé. Not beside the media pens. Not leaning against the garage wall with that bored, careful posture he always wore when waiting.

 

Charles moved through his obligations like a ghost, letting the handlers steer him through interviews, into the hospitality area, past the flash of camera crews asking about tyre deg and undercuts.

 

But all he was doing was looking.

 

Backstage. In the briefing room. Behind the motorhome.

 

Nowhere.

 

He asked one of the assistants where Carlos had gone. She blinked at him, confused. Said he’d left early. Quietly. Probably headed back to the hotel.

 

Maybe even the airport.

 

Charles tried not to react. Just nodded, like it didn’t matter.

 

But his fingers clenched into the open zipper of his race suit. His throat burned.

 

He was exhausted. He should’ve gone straight to the drivers’ room. Should’ve stripped out of the suit, taken the cold shower, gone numb like he always did when the race didn’t go to plan.

 

But he couldn’t stop thinking about how Carlos hadn’t waited.

 

Not even a glance. Not even a nod across the garage.

 

Like it meant nothing.

 

And for the first time since that hotel room, since the rain, since the silence between them cracked wide open — Charles felt like the only person still standing in it.

 

He flies to Monaco feeling empty.

The door closed behind him with a soft click. No words. No light left on. Just the quiet shuffle of Leo’s paws somewhere down the hall and the distant clink of a cup set down too gently.

 

Charles didn’t stop moving. He dropped his duffel by the door and walked straight to the bedroom. Stripped out of his polo, his jeans, the weight of the weekend. Crawled into bed like muscle memory — like habit.

 

He didn’t dream. He just disappeared.

 

When he wakes up, the sun has already begun to crawl through the blinds, painting the walls in strips of soft amber. The bed beside him is empty. Sheets already cold.

 

He hears the low rustle of flipping through pages, the sound of liquid being poured, a spoon against porcelain.

 

The kitchen.

 

Charles gets up slowly, bones heavy. He pads down the hall, barefoot, shoulders hunched slightly like he’s not fully convinced morning should be allowed to exist yet.

 

Alex is sitting at the small table by the window, a thin robe tied loosely around her waist, sipping from a mug. Leo is curled at her feet, snoring gently, blissfully unaware of anything human.

 

She looks up when he walks in.

 

“Good morning,” she says, voice light. Neutral.

 

Charles hums back something that passes as a reply.

 

“You didn’t tell me you were home. I got here and you were already asleep.”

 

“I was tired,” he mumbles, moving toward the counter.

 

She watches him for a moment longer, then sips her coffee again. Doesn’t press.

 

Charles goes through the motions — mug from the cabinet, machine turned on, water filled. He leans on the counter while it brews, rubbing his thumb into the edge of the marble, just to have something to focus on.

 

His phone lights up on the counter.

 

He picks it up out of instinct. Checks the screen.

 

Everything stops.

 

There, plastered across the homepage of nearly every motorsport account he follows, is the headline in bold font.

 

CARLOS SAINZ JR. TO JOIN WILLIAMS FOR 2025 SEASON

 

Official. Confirmed. Retweets. Team statements. Press photos. That blue and white logo behind Carlos' smile — a smile Charles knows down to the twitch of the corner lip.

 

The same smile he wore the morning after Hungary. The morning he left without a word.

 

His stomach turns.

 

Behind him, Alex is saying something. Her voice sounds distant, like it's underwater. Maybe it’s about another party tomorrow. Maybe it’s about him.

 

He doesn’t answer.

 

He can’t.

 

He just stares at the screen. At the words. At the future being carved out in clean, digital font.

 

It was real. So real and tangible.

 

Not just out of reach. Not just hiding behind a hotel room door. But gone, in ink and contract and press releases. To another team. Another life.

 

Charles swipes the phone off and sets it facedown.

 

His coffee is done, but he doesn’t move.

 

Alex says something again — his name, maybe — but it falls flat between them.

 

He grips the edge of the counter. Focuses on the sound of Leo snoring. Focuses on the weight in his chest.

 

He doesn’t want to talk. Doesn’t want to feel it.

 

But he does.

 

Carlos is gone.

Chapter 23: Ambition, Attraction, Art, Alex

Notes:

Disclaimer:
This story is a work of fiction. The background and portrayal of real-life individuals, including Carlos, Charles and even Rebecca and Alexandra, are entirely fictional and created for storytelling purposes only. I do not claim that any of these events or character traits are true, nor do I believe them to be. This is purely for entertainment, and no harm or disrespect is intended toward the real people mentioned.

Alex came from a humble family. Not poor, just plain. The kind that kept plastic over the couch cushions and thought Paris was a perfume, not a place. Her mother worked with her hands. Her father folded his newspapers like they were secrets. They didn’t dream in color — not like she did.

 

But Alex was the exception. She wanted more.

 

She wanted silk gowns and champagne that didn’t need a reason. She wanted parties that didn’t end until the sun came back up, and handbags that cost more than her father’s annual pay. She wanted Monaco — not the map, but the myth of it. The curated life of golden hours and penthouses with sea views and names that sounded like money.

 

So she built it.

 

Piece by piece, she found her way into the parties. Befriended girls with last names that had weight. She learned how to speak softly, smile wider, sip slower. There were men, older ones — ones who liked the way she looked at art galleries and didn't ask what she was thinking. Ones who gave her what she asked for, and never enough of what she really needed.

 

She had a past. A curated, powdered, softly hidden past.

 

But not all of it was fake.

 

Because the one thing about Alex that never needed rewriting was her love for art.

 

She loved Monet. The way he painted light like it was alive. The softness in every stroke. The way the world blurred under his brush but still made sense. Still felt true. Like maybe the world was supposed to be beautiful — even when it wasn’t clear.

 

That was the only thing about her that wasn’t learned.

 

Art. And maybe, sometimes, the way she looked at Charles when he wasn’t watching.

 

She met Charlotte at a gallery opening in Milan. One of those events where people wore sunglasses indoors and called every painting “interesting” because they didn’t know what else to say.

 

Charlotte had the kind of laugh people turned toward — effortless, sun-drenched, loud in the right way. Alex admired that. Envied it. She was drawn to her easily. Like girls like her always are to girls like Charlotte.

 

It wasn’t hard to become her friend. Charlotte liked company. Especially someone who knew when to listen and when to agree.

 

And Charles was always there, somewhere in the background. Sometimes in photos on Charlotte’s phone. Sometimes on a call she’d roll her eyes at. Sometimes at parties, sitting quietly in corners he didn’t belong in, nursing a drink and looking too tightly wound for the world around him.

 

Alex noticed him before he ever noticed her.

 

But that was okay.

 

She had time.

 

At first, she played the part well. Quiet friend. Soft-spoken. Pretty in ways that didn’t threaten. She stood beside Charlotte like she belonged there — and when Charles would come near, she wouldn’t speak first. She’d just be near. Close enough that he’d remember the shape of her, even if he couldn’t place the name.

 

It became a pattern.

At parties, she’d drift.

Never obvious. Never rude.

Just… positioned. Like art on the wall behind him.

 

Sometimes, she’d ask him something simple. About a race. About the music. About if he ever really liked champagne, or if it just looked good in his hand.

 

And he’d answer. Briefly. Then longer.

 

She was careful. Never too much.

 

But she knew how to make herself linger in someone’s mind.

 

Even Charlotte began to notice, in the quiet, subtle way that girls know.

 

“You always find a way to talk to him,” Charlotte had said once, not unkindly. But it sat sharp between them.

 

Alex smiled. Soft. Harmless. “He’s easy to talk to.”

 

That was enough.

 

And then one day, it happened. A text. A call. A moment.

 

Two weeks after Charles and Charlotte ended, Alex was already in his apartment, her fingers tracing the spines of books she would never read, her perfume in the hallway like she’d always been there.

 

It didn’t feel like stealing.

It felt like collecting something that had always been within reach.

 

She didn’t force it. She didn’t chase him.

 

She just made sure he noticed.

 

And when he finally did —

 

She smiled like it surprised her.

In the beginning, Charles was everything she had ever dreamed of.

 

He wasn’t just rich — he was tasteful. The kind of man who didn’t flaunt his wealth but wore it like a second skin. He didn’t need to tell people who he was. He just was .

 

To Alex, he felt like the endgame. The reward. The crown. The thing all those evenings in backless dresses and rooms full of men who called her darling without ever asking her name had somehow been leading to.

 

Charles was different.

 

He asked questions. Not just where she was from or what she studied, but things like — What’s your favorite painting? Do you believe in fate? What did you want to be when you were ten?

 

He bought her flowers.

But not roses — he said girls got tired of roses.

He asked what her favorite flower was, and then learned the season they bloomed in.

He showed up with a bouquet of white tulips in March, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

 

He planned dates like someone who believed in effort.

Picnics by the seaside, where he laid out the blanket himself.

Handwritten menus. A little speaker for music. A bottle of wine chilled just enough.

Sometimes she caught him watching her instead of the ocean, and it made her heart race.

 

He drove her through the winding roads of the Riviera in a car she didn’t know the name of but knew cost more than most people’s apartments. And when the night felt too quiet, too still — he’d tug her by the hand toward his motorcycle instead, wind and headlights and her arms wrapped around him, laughter echoing into the night.

 

It felt cinematic.

It felt earned.

 

She had dated men before. Ones who treated her like decoration. Like something shiny to show off in restaurants and rooftop lounges. They bragged about having her like she was a painting they bought on impulse, because the lighting hit her well.

 

They put her face on the table. Her body.

 

But never anything else.

 

Charles?

 

Charles put everything on the table.

Charles bought the table.

 

And she remembers thinking — This is what it means to arrive.

Everything was perfect.

Until it wasn’t.

 

There was no big fight. No betrayal. No crash.

 

Just a slow, quiet unraveling.

Like something sacred had been placed too close to the window, and the sun had bleached it bare.

 

Alex couldn’t tell you when it started.

Maybe it was around the time Charles started coming home quieter. Or when he stopped double-checking her coffee order because he already knew it. Maybe it was when their dates became schedules. When “let’s go somewhere tonight” turned into “I’m exhausted, let’s just stay in.”

 

Maybe the honeymoon phase had ended.

They said it always does, after all.

But this… this didn’t feel like that.

 

It felt colder.

Lonelier.

Like he was somewhere else — and she didn’t know where, or who with.

 

Her life, meanwhile, had only gotten louder.

 

The paddock had become her second skin — a place where lenses followed her, where someone always had a question or a compliment or a brand deal to whisper into her inbox. Her once-private Instagram was now a curated dreamscape: soft lighting, tagged locations, designer sunglasses, front row invites. Products she once window-shopped now showed up in boxes at her door. People asked her for beauty secrets like she hadn’t cried herself to sleep in hotel rooms in the middle of nowhere.

 

It was exhilarating. Addictive. Almost enough to make her forget what she was missing.

 

Almost.

 

But never completely.

 

And what hurt the most — what twisted quietly inside her chest — was the fear that Charles might think this was why she was here. That she was just another girl who wanted the name, the lifestyle, the illusion of intimacy with a man who lived behind tinted glass and trophy shelves.

 

But he was never just that to her.

 

She tried to show him, in the ways she could.

 

She memorized his schedules.

She ironed his travel shirts when the housekeeper forgot.

She left notes in his luggage when he left for double-headers.

She packed his favorite snacks. Bought a tiny fridge just for them.

She framed a photo of them he didn’t know she loved. Hung it near the door.

 

She listened when he couldn’t talk.

Held him when he didn’t know he needed holding.

Let him rest his head in her lap and said nothing when his silence lasted hours.

 

She reciprocated. Maybe not with race wins or grand gestures — but with the kind of quiet, deliberate care that people forget to count.

 

Because she didn’t want him to think she was there for the lights.

 

She was there for him.

 

But lately, she wasn’t sure he still saw the difference.

Maybe it started in Austria.

 

Alex couldn’t quite explain it — the shift. It wasn’t dramatic. Charles didn’t say anything cruel. He didn’t storm out or stay out too late or disappear completely.

 

He just… felt further away.

 

He smiled when he was supposed to. Answered when she asked how quali went. Touched her waist absentmindedly while passing through the hotel room. But there was something about the way he looked through her sometimes, like he was replaying something else behind his eyes. Like she wasn’t in the scene. Like he wasn’t all there.

 

And maybe she could’ve let it go — told herself it was just stress, just the season, just a bad week.

 

But she knew how these things started.

 

Because she had been the other girl once.

Because this was the part of the story where the man starts to drift.

Where he doesn’t cheat, but he thinks about it. Where he finds himself smiling at someone else without knowing he’s smiling.

 

Where his heart tilts, just a little.

 

And she couldn’t take that. Not again. Not from him.

 

Was there someone else?

 

Someone younger? Prettier? Or worse — someone just like her?

Someone who knew how to wait in the right corners of the paddock, to smile at just the right pitch, to ask questions that sounded like listening?

 

Someone who could do to her what she did to Charlotte?

 

The thought made her stomach twist.

 

So she acted. Quietly. Deliberately.

 

She inserted herself deeper into his life.

 

She got to know his family.

Took notes on who preferred wine over whisky. Learned which gifts made his mother laugh. She didn’t ask to be invited — she just showed up, with flowers and thank-you cards and a sweetness so effortless it was disarming.

 

She befriended his friends.

Not with flattery, but with interest. She asked about their work. Their dogs. Their favorite childhood memories of Charles. She tagged them in posts. Replied to their stories. Showed up at birthdays and made herself impossible to leave off the guest list.

 

She became part of the wallpaper.

Not loud, not demanding — just there, everywhere.

 

There was no way Charles was going to leave her behind.

 

Not without thinking about it.

Not without guilt.

Not without it being messy.

 

If he was being lured away — she’d make sure it wasn’t easy.

She’d make sure it wasn’t quiet.

She’d make sure he’d have to remember exactly what he was walking away from.

 

Because if he thought for a second he could do to her what he did to Charlotte —

 

He was wrong.

~~~

The coffee machine was still running, its quiet humming long faded into an idle silence. The mug he meant to fill sat empty under the spout.

 

Charles hadn’t moved in minutes.

 

Alex stood by the kitchen table, one hand still wrapped around her lukewarm cup. Leo had padded off into the hallway, like even the dog knew not to be near when something was cracking.

 

Charles’ eyes were fixed on his phone, the screen now dark. But whatever it showed him — it hadn’t left.

 

“Charles,” she tried gently. “Hey. What happened?”

 

He didn’t respond. Just pressed a hand to his mouth, dragging it down his face. His jaw was tight, too tight, like he was holding something back. Something that didn’t belong in the room.

 

“I—” he started, voice lower than usual. “It’s nothing. It’s fine.”

 

It wasn’t fine. Not even close.

 

“You look like you just got punched in the gut,” Alex said, her tone still careful, but not soft. “Don’t tell me it’s fine.”

 

“I’m tired,” he said quickly, moving past her, opening the fridge just to close it again. “Don’t start.”

 

“I’m not starting,” she replied, following after him. “But something’s clearly wrong, and you’re walking around like—like the world ended.”

 

He gave a short laugh under his breath. It didn’t sound like a laugh at all.

 

“Alex. Please. Don’t do this right now.”

 

“Do what? Ask you if you’re okay? You clearly aren’t!”

 

He turned sharply, eyes darker now. “Just leave it alone.”

 

She recoiled. Only slightly. But it stung.

 

She set her mug down. Her voice faltered, but she pushed through, taking a hold of his phone and opening it. Her eyebrows raise in realization. “Is this about Carlos?”

 

Charles stilled.

 

“Because if it is— I understand, okay?” she continued. “I know you two were close. I know this must be—hard. Him leaving, it’s—”

 

“Stop,” he said.

 

She blinked. “I’m just trying to say—”

 

“No,” Charles said again, louder now. “You don’t understand. You don’t understand.”

 

“I’m trying to—”

 

“You can’t,” he snapped, voice sharp. His hands clenched at his sides. “Not a single bit of you has any clue what this is, Alex.”

 

And with that, he grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair, storming past her without another glance. The door closed behind him harder than it needed to.

 

Alex stood frozen in the middle of the kitchen.

 

The door had closed hard behind him, but the silence that followed was worse than the slam.

 

Her eyes were still fixed on the coffee machine. The untouched mug. The fact that Charles had looked at her like she was prying when all she had wanted to do was help.

 

You don’t understand.

Not a single bit of you has any clue what this is.

 

The words stung more than they should have. But it wasn’t the sharpness of his tone that hurt.

 

It was the distance in it.

 

She sat down slowly, as if her body had to process the weight her mind couldn’t.

 

Carlos.

 

Of course it was Carlos. She knew they were close — teammates, friends, maybe even like brothers in the way F1 drivers became when they survived this sport side by side. She'd seen how they could read each other without speaking. She’d seen the photos, the interviews, the quiet camaraderie. But she never thought it ran this deep.

 

Not deep enough to break Charles like this.

 

Not deep enough to make him shut her out.

 

She tried to make sense of it.

 

Was it guilt? Was it grief? Was it something they fought about?

 

She didn’t know. And that scared her more than anything.

 

Because Alex had built her life around knowing . Around seeing the angles, reading the room, fitting herself in like a puzzle piece to the lives of others.

 

But this? This was a part of Charles she’d never seen. Couldn’t touch. Couldn’t soothe.

 

And it terrified her — not because she thought he was slipping away from her.

 

But because she didn’t even know where he’d gone.

 

She rubbed her arms, suddenly cold. Her mind spun, searching for something solid to land on.

 

She thought about all the ways she’d tried to show him she was here. All the quiet efforts. The family dinners, the careful integration into his world, the way she always tried to be where he needed her before he asked.

 

She thought about how she got here.

 

About Charlotte.

 

About the way she’d once plotted her way into Charles’ orbit with a soft smile and Monet references and a slow-burning proximity that eventually paid off.

 

She thought about how Charles made her feel at the start. Like she’d won.

 

And now—

Now he looked through her like a mirror.

 

And the worst part?

 

She didn’t think it was about her at all.

 

Not another woman. Not another love.

Just… something else. Something deeper.

 

A part of Charles she hadn’t earned, hadn’t touched, hadn’t even seen until it shut her out completely.

 

Alex didn’t cry.

She just sat with it.

 

Not knowing if she’d lost something —

Or if it was never hers in the first place.

Chapter 24: Break

He didn’t even grab his phone charger.

 

Didn’t tell Alex where he was going. Didn’t know where he was going.

 

Monaco was small — too small for the kind of silence he needed. He’d lived here all his life and suddenly it felt foreign. Like every street was watching him. Like every coastal turn had something to say.

 

Charles got in the car without thinking. The door slammed harder than it should have. His hands were shaking when he started the engine.

 

The windows down, wind in his face. The ocean beside him, too blue for how fucking angry he felt. He hit the accelerator like it might drown out his thoughts. It didn’t.

 

Carlos.

 

Carlos in Williams blue.

 

Carlos with that press photo smile like the move didn’t gut him, like they hadn’t sat side by side in scarlet for four years and pretended it didn’t mean more than it did.

 

Charles didn’t know where he was going — but fuck, he wanted to go to him. He wanted to stand in his doorway, shove him against the wall, shake him, scream at him, ask him why now? Why like this?

 

But he didn’t even know what the question was, let alone the answer.

 

He took the bend near Larvotto too fast. The tires screeched. He didn’t care.

 

His hands gripped the wheel tighter.

 

Why are you mad?

 

Because he’s leaving.

Because he didn’t say anything.

Because he didn’t look back.

 

Because Carlos had made it real. Made the finality official.

 

Charles didn’t even realize he’d been waiting for a loophole — some miracle, some last-minute turn of fate. Something that meant this wasn’t the end.

 

But it was.

 

It was.

 

And god, it wasn’t just about Carlos.

 

It was everything .

 

Ferrari.

 

The team he had loved since he was five. The team he would have died for. The team that gave him nothing but heartbreak and apologies dressed in white and red.

 

He cursed them out loud.

 

“ Putain de merde! ”

 

He slammed his fist on the wheel, screamed. Just screamed. His throat tore from it. His chest tightened.

 

He felt like he was splintering from the inside out.

 

He hated that Carlos was leaving. He hated that it mattered this much. He hated that Alex was waiting at home, worried, and he couldn’t explain a goddamn thing to her.

 

He hated that he didn’t understand what this was — this ache, this rage, this unbearable sense that something precious was slipping through his hands, and he didn’t even know how to name it.

 

Not love.

Not exactly.

 

Not grief.

Not quite.

 

Just… the death of something that never got the chance to live.

 

He pulled over on a stretch of road overlooking the ocean. Killed the engine. Rested his forehead against the wheel.

 

He cried. Not quietly. Not stoically. Not like the camera-friendly kind. It was ugly. Messy. From the pit of his stomach.

 

Because what was he supposed to do now?

 

Drive home to a girl who knew everything about his favorite painters and nothing about the part of him that just cracked?

 

He wiped his face roughly. Took a breath that didn’t go anywhere.

 

He pressed his fists to his eyes, like he could squeeze out the truth:

 

It wasn’t about Ferrari.

It wasn’t about the contract.

It wasn’t even about what Carlos did.

 

It was about what Charles never said.

What he never dared to want.

And how now, it was too fucking late.

 

The thing that haunted him most wasn’t that Carlos was leaving. It was that something between them had just begun.

 

Something had finally shifted this season — after all those years of biting their tongues, of pretending the tension wasn’t there. It had always been there, humming beneath the surface, lurking in glances too long to be innocent. But this year, it started to show. In the way they sat too close in hotel rooms. In the silence that stretched too far when they were alone. In the way Carlos looked at him sometimes, like he knew something Charles didn’t dare name.

 

And Charles had let it happen. Bit by bit, he stopped running from it. He didn’t say it out loud — of course not — but he gave into it. Let it linger in the spaces between press duties and long flights and moments that never made it to camera. Something had finally cracked open. And Charles had felt alive. Scared, yes. Reckless, maybe. But alive.

 

And now — now it was already being taken from him.

 

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. How something could finally begin only to be cut short like it never had a chance.

 

He was just starting to feel it. Just starting to let himself want it.

 

He hit the steering wheel again, let his head fall back against the seat. His throat still burned. His fingers were trembling. There was nothing to say, nothing to do, and yet his body still ached with the need to fix it. To go back in time. To say something sooner. To touch him differently. To keep him.

 

But it was too late.

 

And what haunted Charles wasn’t losing Carlos.

It was the fact that he never really had him to begin with.

Not truly.

Not out loud.

 

And still — it hurt like hell to lose something that had barely even begun.

 

Charles stayed parked on that road for what felt like hours, the sea sprawling endlessly before him, cruel in how steady it looked. The wind kept moving, the world kept spinning, but he felt stuck. Like time had passed him by, and now it was too late to do anything about it.

 

He kept thinking about the time they wasted.

 

All the moments he could’ve said something and didn’t. The days they spent toeing the line, pretending they weren’t circling each other. The nights he’d lie awake, wondering if Carlos felt it too, and still choosing silence. All that time — gone. Wasted.

 

He should’ve done something. Should’ve been braver. Should’ve asked. Should’ve said it when he felt it — when Carlos would glance at him across the garage and something in Charles’ chest would clench, hard and real.

 

But he didn’t.

 

He thought there was time. He thought whatever they were building could wait. He thought they had races ahead of them — months, maybe years. He thought whatever this thing between them was could unfold slowly, safely, under the surface.

 

But time doesn’t wait.

 

Not for teammates.

Not for men too afraid to speak.

Not for two drivers raised on discipline and denial.

 

Carlos was leaving.

 

And Charles was left behind with all the things he never said. All the touches he never reached for. All the stolen moments that didn’t mean anything to anyone but him.

 

He was angry. At Carlos. At himself. At the fucking sport. At the goddamn pressure to always keep it together. To smile. To perform. To win.

 

He’d been playing it safe his whole life.

 

And what did it leave him with?

 

A half-finished thing.

A quiet almost.

And a seat next to him that would never feel the same again.

 

His phone rang sometime in the late afternoon. He didn’t even realize how long he’d been sitting there, parked by the sea with the engine off and the windows cracked. He didn’t check the caller ID — he just answered, too tired to pretend he didn’t exist.

 

“Charles,” the voice came, smooth, chipper, PR-trained. “Sorry to bother you, but we just wanted to let you know the team’s scheduling some posts for Carlos’ departure. Would be great if we could get your tribute post sorted sometime today. A few photos, maybe a caption — just something nice to honor the partnership.”

 

Honor the partnership.

 

He nearly laughed.

 

The call ended quickly. He agreed, numbly. Told them he’d send the photos over. Said he’d write something.

 

He sat there with the phone in his lap, staring out at the water like it might tell him what the fuck to do. Then, slowly, like dragging a body, he opened his camera roll.

 

Thousands of photos. Some team-shot. Some personal. A few selfies — rare ones. Glimpses of laughter from hotel lobbies, post-race debriefs, podium celebrations that felt like decades ago. He stopped on one: Carlos laughing, head thrown back, Charles just off-frame, his hand barely in the shot like he’d been reaching out.

 

He hated how much he loved that one.

 

He didn’t pick it.

He chose another.

Then a another.

 

Each one hurt worse than the last. It felt like choosing stills from a dream — one that had barely begun before it ended. He kept scrolling. Stopped. Scrolled again. Every image felt like a lie. Because none of them showed what it really was. None of them held the weight of it. They were clean. Safe. Easy to consume.

 

He sent them off anyway.

 

Twenty minutes later, a draft post came in from the team: a carousel of six photos, a neatly written caption beneath it, polished and professional. Something about wishing him the best. About having the half of the season to spend.

 

It’s... composed. Casual. Too casual. Like every word was put through a filter, a sieve, rinsed of anything that might reveal how much he didn’t want to write it. There’s a chili emoji — playful, inside-joke-ish — like everything’s fine. Like he isn’t screaming into the void in the privacy of his own silence.

 

It doesn’t say:

“I’m not ready to let you go.”

It doesn’t say:

“Why now, when we were just figuring this out?”

It doesn’t say:

“I think I waited too long.”

 

It just says “ teammates .”

 

And that’s the worst part. The truth reduced to PR-safe nostalgia. Like they’ll end the season, shake hands, maybe exchange helmets — and that’ll be that. The end of an era that no one else knew was everything to him.

 

It didn’t say anything real.

 

They asked if he wanted to change the wording.

He stared at it for a long time.

 

And typed out no .

 

He just hit send.

And watched the post go live a few minutes later.

 

Within minutes, the likes poured in.

The comments. The quote tweets. The speculation.

Fans calling it emotional. Beautiful. Perfect closure.

 

Charles set his phone down face-down on the passenger seat.

Then rested his head on the steering wheel again.

 

Because nothing about this felt like closure.

 

And it wasn’t over.

 

Not for him.

~~~

Carlos sinks deeper into the couch, one arm slung over Rebecca as she plays with his fingers absentmindedly. There’s soft jazz humming from the speaker, something she picked — something he now secretly adds to his playlists. The calm should be enough, really. Her head on his chest, the lavender scent of her hair, the safe weight of routine and shared space.

 

They’re talking about vacation. Somewhere quiet. He says, “Maybe a yacht,” with a lazy smile.

 

She lifts her head. “Just us?”

 

He pauses. “You and my family.”

 

She smiles — kisses his cheek. “You’re family too,” he adds.

 

He reaches for her hand, lets his thumb rest where a ring might go. There’s nothing there. Not yet. He wonders: In two seasons, maybe. If we're still like this. If I don't mess it up. Again.

 

Would she leave like Isa did? Slowly? Quietly? After giving him one too many second chances?

 

But before the thought settles, Rebecca’s phone buzzes. She excuses herself, stepping into the hallway, her voice fading into the distance.

 

Carlos is left alone with the dim light, the creaking silence of expensive furniture, and his own thoughts. Then

 

—

 

Ping .

 

A notification.

 

He picks up his phone.

 

@charles_leclerc tagged you in a post.

 

He taps it open. The photo carousel loads slowly. One of them on the podium in Monza — him grinning, Charles clapping behind him. Another of them mid-laugh in the garage. One where Charles has his arm slung around him, both of them sweaty and smiling, taken after some forgotten quali session that had felt like everything then.

 

He reads the caption.

“Wishing you the best for your new adventure next year Chili 🌶️ Still got half a season together to have some more special moments as teammates 💨🐎”

 

A simple post. Too simple.

Carlos knows what it means to say “teammates” when what you really mean is “I’m not ready.”

 

He flips through the photos again. Feels it settle in his stomach — a punch and a pull.

 

Longing. An apology that never made it to words. A goodbye dressed in PR-friendly formatting.

 

Carlos puts his phone down slowly. Stares ahead.

 

Why did it feel like the season just got shorter?

 

Rebecca walks back in, phone gripped tighter than usual, a look on her face that makes Carlos sit up straighter before she even says a word.

 

“Alex called,” she says simply, standing there—like she’s choosing her next move carefully. He blinks. Doesn’t say anything.

 

Her voice is soft, but there’s steel buried in it, “Something happened between you and Charles again, didn’t it?”

 

Carlos’s breath hitches. Not because it’s true—well, not exactly. Not because she asked—he’s had this confrontation in his head a thousand times. But because she knows .

 

He opens his mouth, then closes it. Rubs the back of his neck. Tries to find the thread of logic to grab onto in this unraveling moment. So many thoughts at once.

 

Did Charles tell Alex? Is that why she called Rebecca? Did she piece it together? Did she guess? Did she just know?

 

“Sit down,” he says quietly, patting the space beside him on the couch. “We’ll talk.”

 

Rebecca doesn’t move at first. Just looks at him, a cocktail of emotions running through her eyes—hurt, yes, but also fear. Anger maybe, though she hasn’t decided what kind yet.

 

She sits. Slowly.

 

And Carlos exhales like it’s the first real breath he’s taken in hours.

 

The silence stretches for a second too long. Carlos rubs his palms against his jeans, like he’s trying to warm up the words.

 

“Have you ever felt something,” he starts, voice low, eyes fixed on the floor, “something so real you couldn’t believe it was happening?”

 

Rebecca doesn’t answer, not yet. Just watches him, blinking slower than usual. “I mean…” Carlos shifts in his seat, fingers laced together, resting on his knee. “We live under lights, yeah? You—you know that. You get it more than anyone. Flashbulbs, interviews, pretending to smile when you’re tired or sad or just… not in it.” He glances at her, briefly. “But this… it wasn’t like that. It wasn’t staged.”

 

Rebecca swallows. Her hands clench in her lap.

 

“It wasn’t you I was pretending with,” he adds quickly. “I never pretended with you.”

 

“But you felt something real,” she says. Her voice is composed. Dangerous. “With Charles.”

 

Carlos winces.

 

There’s a pause—too long, again—and she fills it because she can’t stand it. “You’re asking me if I know what something real feels like? I loved you. I love you. That’s as real as it gets.”

 

Carlos shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I know. I know. And I love you too, I—”

“Not like that.”

 

Her words cut in, sharp. “Not the way you look at him. Not the way you felt for him.”

 

The air gets heavier. Neither of them moves. Rebecca’s knees are tucked in, her nails digging into her own arms, like she’s holding herself together physically because mentally—emotionally—she’s already unraveling.

 

She forces herself to sit still.

 

“I don’t want to lose you,” she whispers. “Even if I hate this. Even if I feel like I’ve been made a fool of. I love you, Carlos. I’ve stood by you. I’ve done everything to make this work. And you—” she stops herself, voice cracking.

 

Carlos looks at her now. Really looks. Her brows furrowed, lips trembling slightly, eyes not letting tears fall because crying now would make it too real.

 

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” he whispers. “I didn’t go looking for it. I didn’t plan to feel anything, not for him.”

 

“Then why did you?”

The question sits in the air like smoke, curling around their limbs, thick and stifling.

 

“I don’t know,” he says, defeated. “I really don’t know.”

 

The room feels too warm. Claustrophobic. And yet neither of them moves. There’s a tension in the silence, in the way Rebecca won’t look away and Carlos won’t run from it.

 

“I just want the truth,” she finally says. “Did anything happen between you and him?”

 

Another pause.

 

“If you lie to me one more time…” her breath stutters when she hears her own words in her mind before speaking it, “then I’m gone… And you’ll never see me again,”

 

Carlos breathes in.

 

And she braces herself for whatever comes next.

 

“Yes,” Carlos says, barely above a whisper.

 

He doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until he sees the way Rebecca stares at him — like she didn’t hear him at first. Like her brain won’t allow it to register. Then her lips part, barely, and her eyes shift, and that’s when it lands.

 

Something in her breaks.

 

She stumbles backward, her hands behind her on the couch to support her frame like the words had weight, like they knocked the air out of her lungs, and her hand flies to her mouth. For a second, Carlos thinks she’s about to scream—but then it’s worse. It’s quiet. Choked.

 

An uncontrollable sob rips out of her.

 

Her knees nearly give out as she clutches at her chest, like something physically shattered inside her. Like she could reach in and pull the hurt out if only she could get deep enough.

 

“Rebecca—”

 

“No,” she gasps, shaking her head, tears already falling. “No. Don’t.”

 

He takes a step forward and she takes two back.

 

“You don’t get to say my name,” she sobs, pointing at him, voice raw and crumbling. “You don’t get to say my name right now.”

 

Carlos stops. His mouth opens, but nothing comes out. There’s nothing he can say that wouldn’t make this worse.

 

“Do you even—do you even know what it takes for a woman to trust someone like you?” Her voice is shaking, unsteady, but she keeps going because if she doesn’t, she’ll fall apart completely. “I moved my life for you. I stopped taking jobs just to be near you. I was there in the garages, in the hotels, waiting up at night while you were being adored by the entire fucking world.”

 

Her hands shake as she wipes at her face, but the tears don’t stop.

 

“I defended you when people said you were cold. I stayed when you shut down after races. I told myself, he’s worth it. He’s worth it, because he’s good. Because he’s mine.”

 

Carlos feels his lungs close in. He can barely breathe.

 

“And I loved you—so fucking much I didn’t leave when I should’ve. I stayed through everything. And you—you…” She breaks again, doubling over, a fresh sob punching out of her like she’s being gutted.

 

“I can’t—” she gasps, “I can’t believe you did this to me.”

 

Carlos moves to speak, but his voice cracks before it can form.

 

She steadies herself with the back of a chair, and it’s clear she’s using every ounce of strength not to collapse.

 

“I could’ve understood if it was someone random. Some stranger at a bar. But Charles?”

 

Her voice is hoarse now. Whispering.

 

“Why him, Carlos? Why him?”

 

And he—he can’t answer.

 

Because the truth is cruel. The truth is complicated and twisted and real. The truth is, he doesn’t know either. Or maybe he does, and it’s just too much to say out loud.

 

So he says nothing.

 

And that silence—

 

That’s what breaks her.

 

It wasn’t meaningless. It meant something that even he couldn’t understand, he couldn’t grant her the explanation she needed, the explanation she deserved. He didn’t even try to deny it. He’s not sorry that it happened — he’s sorry that she found out.

 

Rebecca nods once. Tight. Final.

 

Then she turns, walking away trying not to stumble with how weak her knees felt, like her spirit left her.

 

Carlos steps forward, panicked. “Wait—please—”

 

She doesn’t even look back. “Don’t follow me.”

 

And just like that—

 

She’s gone.

 

The door slams.

 

Carlos is alone.

Chapter 25: Break Pt. 2

Charles doesn’t want to go home.

 

The thought alone makes his stomach turn. The apartment feels too loud, even when it’s silent. The space where Alex waits, pacing probably, checking her phone between sips of coffee she won’t finish.

 

He hasn't answered a single text.

Not one call.

 

She’s been blowing up his phone since this morning — twenty-three notifications from Alex 💐 , and one from Arthur. Probably asking if he’s still alive. He doesn’t want to know.

 

The sun is lower now, the Mediterranean bleeding gold over the coastline. His car still parked on the side of the road, engine cold. He hasn’t moved since the post went live.

 

He stares straight ahead, fists clenched on his lap, jaw aching from how hard he’s holding everything in.

 

His mind drifts — where it always drifts now — back to Carlos. Back to Maranello. Back to everything unsaid. Everything he ruined. Everything Carlos took with him.

 

He thinks about going to him. Like a madman. Like a lovesick idiot. Like someone who should really be committed.

 

Maybe I should go, he thinks. Maybe I should just show up at his place and—what? Stare? Cry? Let him close the door in my face?

 

He squeezes his eyes shut. Breathes through it. He’s going insane. Actually insane.

 

And when he opens his eyes again—

 

Carlos is there.

 

Just… standing. Across the road. Hands in his pockets. Wearing that same hoodie from winter testing like it means something.

 

Charles stares. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move.

 

He thinks, Oh. I’ve finally lost it.

 

Carlos doesn’t speak. Doesn’t wave. Just looks at him. Like he’s real. Like this is real.

 

Charles blinks again. Harder.

“No fucking way,” he mutters to himself. “No. This is not happening. I’ve snapped. That’s it. I’ve actually—” He lets out a sharp, breathy laugh. “God, my mother was right. This is what happens when you don’t sleep. This is how you lose it.”

 

He rubs his hands over his face. Checks his phone screen. Still cracked from two weeks ago, still displaying the time like everything is normal. The texts from Alex are still unread.

 

“I’m seeing him,” Charles says out loud. To no one. “I’m actually hallucinating on the side of the road. Christ.”

 

He stares again. Carlos is still there.

 

Charles laughs. Broken, quiet, wild.

 

“A fucking disgrace. That’s what I am. A Leclerc boy gone batshit. Ferrari’s golden boy? More like Monaco’s latest delusional idiot.”

 

He opens the car door slowly, stepping out onto the road, the sea breeze slapping him in the face like punctuation.

 

He walks forward, unsure if the figure will vanish.

 

Carlos doesn’t vanish.

 

Charles stops a few steps away. Chest heaving, heart in his throat. “Are you—?”

 

Carlos still hasn’t said anything.

 

He’s just standing there, arms crossed now, wind brushing his hair, eyes soft and steady — too steady.

 

Charles steps closer. He feels his legs shake.

He doesn’t know what to do with his hands. His voice is already cracking before he speaks.

 

“I don’t understand why it had to be you,” he says, like he’s whispering it into the air between them. “It could’ve been anyone. I’ve had women fall at my feet, Carlos. Girls who’d kill to be seen with me. And I’ve played the part. I’ve said the lines. I’ve smiled for the photos. I’ve… done it all.”

 

His hands are clenched now. He can’t stop them from trembling.

 

“But it’s never been like that. I never felt it—whatever the fuck it is. That ache in my chest. That… thing that grabs at your ribs when someone looks at you too long.”

 

He steps forward again. Close now. So close he swears he can hear Carlos breathing.

 

“You looked at me like you saw me. Not the poster boy. Not the Leclerc. Just—me. And I didn’t even know I wanted that until it happened. Until you started showing up in the quiet. Until your name started living in the back of my throat.”

 

Carlos doesn’t blink. He doesn’t move. He just watches.

 

“And I hated it,” Charles breathes, “because it scared the shit out of me. You scare the shit out of me, Carlos. You’ve always been a good driver, I know that. But there were races where I saw you in my mirrors and thought, he’s going to take this from me. He’s going to take everything. And it felt like drowning—like losing—and God, it felt so fucking good.”

 

Charles lets out a broken laugh. His hands fly to his face. “Because someone finally could. Someone could outbest me in the car I’ve loved since I was four years old. And I shouldn’t like that. But I did. I do.”

 

He paces. He’s talking too fast. He can’t stop now.

 

“You’re not a challenge, you’re a fucking force. And it’s not about competition. It’s just—you. It’s something so you that I can’t even explain it. Something that makes my chest tight and my hands restless and my skin burn just from thinking of you.”

 

He turns to face him fully now, eyes wide, voice breaking.

 

“I didn’t mean to feel you like that. I didn’t plan it. I didn’t know I could. But when we were together there, where I could feel you—it felt like I’d lived every version of my life just to get to that moment. Just to experience you . Like I’d spent lifetimes orbiting around you and I didn’t even know.”

 

He chokes on the words. His knees nearly give. And then the silence swallows him whole.

 

Carlos doesn’t move. Doesn’t react. And Charles — Charles breaks.

 

“Oh my god,” he says, breathless, staggering back. “You’re not real, are you?”

 

He covers his face with both hands, lets out a guttural noise — something between a sob and a scream.

 

“I’m fucking hallucinating you. Of course I am. Of course I’d snap like this. I’m talking to a hallucination of you like a goddamn lunatic.”

 

He laughs again — short, bitter, exhausted.

 

He drops to his knees on the pavement. Gravel biting through denim. Hands in his hair. Tears falling freely now.

 

“I’ve lost it,” he whispers. “I’ve really lost it.”

 

And the figure in front of him — Carlos — finally moves.

 

Charles is still on the ground, breathless and unraveling when he hears it — the sound of shoes crunching on gravel. A shadow steps closer. Then:

 

“You think you’re going crazy,” Carlos says, voice low, like he’s afraid of waking something they can’t put back to sleep. “But you’re not. I’m here.”

 

Charles looks up, eyes glassy, red-rimmed. “You’re real?”

 

Carlos kneels in front of him slowly, carefully — like approaching a wounded animal. “As real as I’ve ever been.”

 

Charles stares. “I don’t think I could’ve imagined this. I’m not this creative.”

 

Carlos lets out a breath. He’s not smiling.

 

“Racing runs in my blood,” he starts, voice more solid now, like something rehearsed in his head for years. “From my father. From everything I’ve ever known. I’m Carlos Sainz Jr. — even my name has legacy in it. Racing was never just a choice. It was something I inherited. And I love it. I fucking love it.”

 

He pauses. His eyes darken.

 

“It’s not just driving to me. It’s romancing the car. It’s touching the track in ways no one else understands. It’s intimate. It always has been.”

 

He leans in closer.

 

“And you…” he whispers. “You’re what racing looks like when it stops being safe.”

 

Charles flinches. Carlos doesn’t stop.

 

“You treat racing like a drug. Like it’s not just in your blood — it’s under your skin, in your breath. You need it like it’s oxygen. You need it in a way that terrifies me. Like you’d die for it. And it’s the most beautiful, horrifying thing I’ve ever seen.”

 

Carlos swallows hard. His voice trembles slightly now.

 

“It makes me want to throw up. It makes me want to pull you away from it just to see what would happen. To see if you’d break without it. Or if you’d break because of me.”

 

Charles is silent. Breath caught in his throat.

 

“I want you,” Carlos says, harsher now. “I want to ruin you. I want to take you away from all this and make you look at me like you look at your car. Like I’m the thing that keeps you alive. It’s fucked up. I know it is. But I can’t stop it.”

 

He inhales, eyes flicking over every inch of Charles’ face.

 

“You’re like a fire on the edge of a cliff. Beautiful. Untouchable. But I keep walking closer like it won’t burn me.”

 

Charles sways forward — just a little. Like gravity’s changing around him.

 

Carlos cups his face gently, thumb brushing the tear-stained edge of his cheek.

 

“I don’t love you the way I’m supposed to love someone,” he breathes. “I love you like a collision. Like something I want to survive even as I cause it.”

 

He leans in, forehead resting against Charles’.

 

Charles lets his eyes fall shut.

 

He doesn’t know what this is anymore.

 

But he knows it’s real.

 

Carlos doesn’t say anything. Neither does Charles.

 

Because the moment their lips part, the truth settles in like a shadow. They both feel it. Heavy. Inescapable. Final. The kind of knowing that sits behind your ribs and makes it hard to breathe. 

 

They don't say, This won't last. They don't say, We're going to lose this. They don’t dare. But they know. God, they know.

 

Charles’ hands fist into the back of Carlos’ hoodie. His face buried into the side of his neck, breathing like something’s pressing on his chest. Carlos holds him tighter — tighter than he ever has. Like he thinks if he lets go, the world will take Charles from him piece by piece.

 

They don’t say a word. But it hurts. It hurts so fucking much to know that this is everything…

And it won’t be enough. Carlos squeezes his eyes shut. His jaw clenched, breath shaky. His arms curl around Charles like armor. And Charles — Charles is trying not to cry again. Because if he starts, he doesn’t think he’ll stop.

 

Their bodies know what their mouths won’t say: This ends. It has to. Not because they don’t want it. But because the world they’re in was never built to keep something like this alive.

 

And so they clutch each other harder. Like maybe if they don’t speak it, it won’t come true. Like maybe silence is the only way to delay the inevitable.

 

But even in silence—

It breaks them.

~~~

 

The Yacht

 

The water is perfect. Shimmering like glass, the Côte d'Azur stretching into horizonless blue. There’s champagne, music, laughter from his friends echoing across the deck. Pierre is sunbathing face-down on a towel, arms dangling lazily off the side. Charlotte and Marta are talking about some wedding Pinterest board. Someone’s playing Cigarettes After Sex from a speaker — like heartbreak is ambiance.

 

Charles is shirtless, sunglasses perched on his head, ankles crossed as he lies back on one of the deck chairs. He’s sipping slowly on something citrusy he didn’t even order.

 

He looks good. He knows that. Tanned, lean, relaxed. His friends would say he’s glowing.

 

But every once in a while, he zones out. Someone says his name, and it takes half a second too long to respond.

 

“Earth to Leclerc?” one of his friend says at one point, tossing a grape at him. It hits his chest and rolls down into the crook of his elbow.

 

Charles forces a smile, flicks it back. “Sorry. Got lost.”

 

“In what?” Marta asks. “You haven’t said ten words since we docked.”

 

“Just tired,” he replies, easy. And it’s half true.

 

He lets the world carry on. Keeps his sunglasses on. No one asks again.

 

~~~

 

The Beach

They take a boat to a private cove on the fourth day. White sand. Cold drinks. Umbrellas stabbed into the shoreline like flags of retreat.

Charles walks ahead of the group, feet in the surf. The saltwater bites at his calves. He closes his eyes. Breathes in. The sun warms his shoulders. He thinks for a second that he could stay here forever.

Then he hears her voice.

“Charles,” Alex says behind him, carefully.

He turns. She’s in one of those flowing cover-ups that flutter too much in the wind, sunglasses too big for her face. She looks like a postcard. She always does.

“I know this is a break,” she says, stepping closer, “but we can’t pretend forever.”

He looks at her. That familiar pull of guilt rising like a tide.

“I’m not pretending,” he says.

“Yes, you are,” she replies, but gently. She doesn’t want a fight. She wants honesty.

And he owes her that. Or something like it.

So he nods, just once. Doesn’t say more. She doesn’t press. She just walks beside him for a while, their footprints filling with water behind them.

 

~~~

 

The Pool.

 

It’s late. The sun has dipped below the horizon. The villa is quiet — friends asleep or out. Just him and the water.

 

Charles floats. Arms spread, eyes to the stars.

 

He thinks about what Carlos said — about what he said — and how those words haven’t left his body. They live under his skin, in the shape of his ribs, in the back of his throat.

 

He sinks for a moment, just beneath the surface. Holds his breath. Opens his eyes. Blurry sky above him.

 

It feels peaceful. It feels like drowning. He doesn’t know which one he wants more.

~~~

 

His mother.

 

His hair’s grown out a little — curling at the ends. His mother offers to trim it while he sits on a stool in the kitchen garden, a towel draped around his shoulders. She’s always cut his hair. Since he was five. Even now, it feels like something sacred.

 

The scissors glide softly, the blades clicking like punctuation.

 

He’s quiet. She knows better than to fill the silence.

 

“Can I ask you something?” he says finally.

 

“Always,” she replies, focused on his fringe.

 

“If someone did something… not wrong, but complicated… and didn’t know what to do next… what would you tell them?”

 

She doesn’t answer right away. She finishes a section near his ear, smooths it down with her palm.

 

“I’d tell them to ask themselves who they’re trying to protect by staying silent. And who they’re hurting.”

 

Charles swallows.

 

She adds, gently, “And then I’d ask if they’re really ready to live with either choice.”

 

He’s lying in bed that night, ceiling fan spinning above him, half-drunk glass of rosé on the bedside table.

 

Her words echo in his head.

 

Who are you trying to protect? Who are you hurting?

 

He thinks about Alex. About the way she still looks at him like he’s whole.

 

He thinks about Carlos. About that night on the road. About what they almost said but never dared.

 

He thinks about himself. And how he doesn’t even know which version of him is left to protect anymore.

~~~

 

Carlos spends the first three days trying to feel like himself again.

 

He wakes up in his apartment in Madrid, windows cracked open, the breeze warm, the city alive outside. He walks barefoot into the kitchen, scratches his jaw, pours a glass of water. Simple things. Things that are supposed to ground him.

 

He listens to old records his mother left in the house — Spanish guitar that plays like memory. He waters the plants, even the ones already dying.

 

Sometimes he closes his eyes and pretends everything is fine.

 

It never lasts.

–The Water–

He takes the boat out with some childhood friends. They anchor somewhere just off the coast, everyone peeling off shirts and diving into the Mediterranean like it’s home.

 

Carlos doesn’t dive. He lowers himself in slow, the way he always does. The cold rushes up his spine, settles in his ribs.

 

He floats on his back, eyes closed. The water cradles him. It’s quiet under the chatter. The sky feels too wide.

 

And for a moment—He imagines Charles in this same sun. On another boat. Floating too. They’re both in the water. But miles apart. And still—he feels it. That pull.

 

–The Grill–

 

His father stands by the grill, wearing an apron that says El Jefe. There’s beer, sweat, the smell of salt and meat. His cousins are yelling about La Liga again. It’s normal. Familiar. Comforting.

 

Carlos stands beside his father, arms crossed.

 

“Williams is going to be a good step,” his father says, flipping over a steak. “Good team. They’ll let you lead. They’ll let you breathe.”

 

Carlos nods, but doesn’t speak.

 

His father glances over. “You’re quiet.”

 

Carlos shrugs. “Just tired.”

 

A pause. The sizzle of oil. Laughter in the background.

 

“You know, your face is mine,” his father says, out of nowhere. “But your silence? That’s your mother’s.”

 

Carlos huffs a laugh. “Guess I got the worst of both.”

 

His father looks at him then — not stern, but sharp, like he’s seeing something beneath the skin.

 

“You’re carrying something. Whatever it is… if it’s going to follow you onto the track, you need to face it now.”

 

Carlos doesn’t answer. Just watches the flames.

–The Walk–

Later that night, Carlos walks through the orchard on the edge of the property. His hands in his pockets. The cicadas humming. The moon low and lazy above the trees. He thinks about Charles. About the look on his face that night — like he’d finally said something too late.

 

He thinks about Rebecca. About how silence was supposed to protect her but ended up cutting deeper than the truth ever could.

 

He thinks about himself.

 

Carlos Sainz Jr. Son of a champion. Man of control. Man of legacy.

 

He kicks a stone. Watches it roll into the dark.

 

He lies in bed, one arm flung across his eyes.

 

He thinks if Charles is thinking about him. Then thinks about inviting Rebecca out to the shore with his friends. 

The room is still. Monaco is still. Madrid is still. Somewhere, far from each other, Charles and Carlos are lying in different beds, on different sheets, under different skies, but breathing like they’re tethered to the same invisible cord.

 

Charles stares at the ceiling, one leg kicked out from under the blanket, chest bare, hair still slightly wet from the shower. His fan turns slow, casting shadows across the ceiling. He hasn't moved in hours. His hand rests where someone else's should be. His jaw aches from being clenched for so long.

 

Carlos lies on his back, arm across his forehead, the other loosely resting against the space between him and Rebecca. She’s curled toward him, the gentle rise and fall of her chest brushing his side. He doesn’t look at her. He doesn’t move. The fan above him spins too. Different motor. Same sound.

 

Charles inhales sharp, like he’s trying to remember something he wasn’t supposed to forget. The saltwater. The road. The goddamn way Carlos looked at him like he wasn’t scared anymore. He remembers wanting to reach out and not knowing how. He thinks about that feeling — that weightless, sick thing in his stomach that felt like wanting something he couldn’t survive.

 

Carlos stares into nothing. Thinks of that road too. Of the wind, and the look in Charles’ eyes, and the way he didn’t know if he wanted to kiss him or hit him or beg him to say nothing at all. He thinks about how it felt to walk away. How it still feels now, like he’s trying to prove something that doesn’t even make sense. Like he’s running from something that never even chased him.

 

Charles swallows. He wonders if Carlos is thinking of him. Wonders if he feels the same pressure in his ribs, the same tightness in his throat. Wonders if Carlos is asleep. Wonders if he’s pretending.

 

Carlos thinks about the promise. I’m choosing you. He said it out loud. He said it to Rebecca with both hands on her face like a man trying to convince himself. He said it like he wanted it to be true. But even now, in the dark, it rings false in the hollows of his chest. Like an echo of something someone else wanted him to say.

 

Charles thinks he’s cursed. To feel things this deeply. To let something bloom and then rip it out before it can root. He thinks about what it means to be loved by someone who can’t stay. Who chooses something else. Who chooses someone else.

 

Carlos thinks he meant it. He really did. He loves Rebecca. He wants peace. He wants to build something stable. But something about Charles made him feel like he was alive in a way that was unsafe. Like a lit match. And now he’s lying next to safety, dreaming about fire.

 

Charles wonders if they’ll ever speak again. Really speak. Without teams or cameras or the weight of the future bearing down on them. He wonders if their moment already passed. If it was just that — a moment. And he missed it.

 

Carlos blinks up at the ceiling. The fan creaks. The night hums.

 

Neither of them sleeps. Not really. They just lie there, waiting for something to change. Knowing it won’t. It doesn’t hurt anymore, or maybe it does and they’re just so used to it at this point. 

Chapter 26: Dutch Grand Prix

The corridors of Maranello feel colder than Charles remembers.

 

Maybe it’s the return to routine. Maybe it’s the stark lighting, or the way the AC hums through the vents too loud for comfort. Maybe it’s just him — off balance since the break, body back in the Ferrari facility, soul still floating somewhere off the coast of Corsica.

 

He straightens his collar. His shirt feels stiff. Starched. Too white. A PR meeting. That's what the calendar said. Mandatory. Serious tone. No agenda attached.

 

He hasn’t been in a PR meeting this heavy since he was a teenager in F2 — back when "image" was still something he had to learn how to wear like a uniform. Now it feels like the uniform’s tightening around his throat.

 

He enters the meeting room. A long glass table. Notebooks laid out. Bottles of still water. No sign of anyone yet. He’s early.

 

Good. He needs a second.

 

The room begins to fill. One by one, familiar faces take their places. Someone from legal. A press coordinator. Two Ferrari comms directors. 

 

Charles sits straighter. “Morning,” he says. No one answers right away. Just nods. Small smiles.

 

Then the door opens again. And Carlos walks in.

 

Charles forgets how to breathe.

 

It’s subtle. Just a shift in his ribcage. A quiet, involuntary reaction like the way a body tenses when it hears thunder in the distance.

 

Carlos is in navy. Clean-cut. His expression is flat but not cold. He nods at the table, not really at anyone. He sits two seats away. Not beside Charles. Good. No — bad. No. Necessary.

 

Charles doesn’t know how to feel.

 

He hasn’t seen him since… Since everything.

 

And now they’re sitting in a PR meeting like none of it happened. Like they didn’t collapse into each other on a quiet road weeks ago. Like Charles didn’t lie awake every night since then thinking about the shape of Carlos’ hands. His voice. His silence.

 

The meeting begins.

 

“The reality is,” says Matteo from PR, fingers steepled on the table like he’s delivering a weather report, “Lewis’ signing is massive. For Ferrari. For Formula 1. For global reach. This is a cultural moment, not just a driver transfer.”

 

Charles feels Carlos even from where he was. Barely. A twitch of posture. He doesn't look over.

 

He continues, tone businesslike. “We need to begin soft integration. That means visibility. Photos. Shared press. Charles, that’ll start with you.”

 

Charles blinks. “Me?”

 

Matteo nods. “Hamilton’s team has been informed. He’s open to it. We’re calling it a ‘soft launch’ for now — casual joint appearances, paddock interactions, subtle cues. Nothing formal yet, but something for the fans to begin getting used to… Something for the tabloids to talk about,”

 

Charles wants to laugh. Or throw something. He does neither.

 

Carlos hasn’t said a word.

 

Charles’ jaw tightens. The words form and sit bitter behind his teeth. Are we seriously talking about this? Here? In front of him?

 

It’s so clinical. So staged. Like Carlos is already out the door, just another body being swapped out for a better one. Like he wasn’t sitting right there — the man who bled for this team, who fought tooth and nail beside him.

 

He glances sideways.

 

Carlos is still. Too still.

 

Charles wants to say something. Wants to stand up, flip the table, say You’re out of your fucking minds, he’s still here. But he doesn’t. His PR brain kicks in. That cold, polished part of him that knows how to keep face even while everything inside him is burning.

 

“I see,” Charles says instead, voice perfectly neutral.

 

Someone breathes in like it’s a relief.

 

“Good,” Matteo continues. “We’ll set up a joint shoot in Monza during the next weekend. Nothing scripted. Natural. Candid if possible. Charles, we’re relying on your chemistry.”

 

His chemistry. With Hamilton. The words feel like bile.

 

Everything feels like performance. Like choreography. Like Charles’ entire life is a stage and no one ever told him when the show would end. He’s so used to pretending. But this time — this time, something in him cracks.

 

He nods again. Silent. Empty.

 

And across the table, Carlos finally lifts his gaze.

 

They don’t speak. But Charles thinks: You heard that too, didn’t you? That was them erasing you. And Carlos, silent as ever, looks back like: I’ve been erasing myself since I signed the contract.

 

The meeting ends in polite murmurs.

 

Chairs shift. Water bottles are gathered. Matteo says something about scheduling and Fred enters the room. 

 

One by one, the room begins to clear — PR reps, legal advisors, comms. No one lingers. Not today.

 

Carlos is staring at the table. Charles still hasn’t unclenched his fists.

 

Fred doesn’t move.

 

He watches the last person leave and then, quietly, reaches for the door handle.

 

He shuts it. Click. Locks it.

 

Charles looks up. Carlos lifts his head.

 

Fred turns back toward them, slow, measured. Walks to the head of the table and pulls out a chair. Sits.

 

Silence.

 

“Stay,” he says, voice low. “Both of you.” Like it wasn’t apparent enough that they were going nowhere.

 

Charles and Carlos exchange a glance — brief, unsure — but neither moves.

 

Fred exhales. “I’m going to ask you both to be adults…” he says, voice low. “Just for the next five minutes. Can we do that?”

 

Charles nods. Slowly. Carlos doesn’t move, but his jaw twitches. That’s enough of an answer.

 

Fred leans forward slightly. “You know I’ve been in this sport for a long time. And I’ve seen… situations.”

 

Neither of them says anything. But their silence is louder now. Charles’s fingers curl on the table. Carlos’s eyes stay on a spot just beyond Fred’s shoulder.

 

“There was a garage once,” Fred continues, “where two drivers pushed each other to the brink. Fast. Brilliant. But there was… something else. Something they never said. Not out loud. I don’t know if it was admiration or hate or something more intimate than either. But it bled into everything.”

 

He pauses. Then: “It destroyed them. Not all at once. But enough.”

 

Carlos shifts. Looks up, finally. “Why are you telling us this?”

 

Fred doesn’t answer right away.

 

Then he says, “Because I see it again.”

 

The words land like a slap. Charles’s eyes flicker. He knows. Of course he knows.

 

“I don’t need to know the details,” Fred adds. “I don’t want to. But I know there’s… a companionship here. Something personal. Something you two are trying very hard not to show. And it’s bleeding through anyway.”

 

Charles feels his throat tighten. Carlos says nothing.

 

Fred sighs again. Softer now. “Look. I don’t think you’re careless. I think you’re human. But this—whatever it is—it’s eating you alive. And this sport doesn’t care. It will feed on it.”

 

His eyes move between them. “If you want to pursue this — whatever this is — you’ll need to leave the sport. Eventually. Because F1 will not let you have it quietly. The press, the paddock, the people who pretend to love you — they’ll dissect it until it’s unrecognizable.”

 

He doesn’t say relationship. He doesn’t say love.

 

Just: “This personal thing.”

 

Then, gently: “Or you stay. And let go.”

 

The silence that follows is different now. Not charged. Not angry. Just… hollow.

 

Fred straightens. “You don’t need to decide now. But don’t fool yourselves thinking you can keep driving like this. It’s already affecting you. It’s already hurting both of you.”

 

He stands.

 

“You have talent, both of you. More than most men dream of. But talent doesn’t protect you from your heart.”

 

And with that, he leaves.

 

The door closes behind him.

 

And the silence they’re left in is not professional. Not awkward.

 

It’s grief.

 

Because they both know he’s right.

~~~

Carlos folds a navy shirt into thirds, smoothing the collar with his palms. The suitcase is open on the bed, half-packed, one wheel hanging off the mattress. Rebecca sits across from him on the floor, cross-legged, sorting socks and setting aside his essentials.

 

It’s quiet. The kind of quiet that hums in your ears.

 

“Do you want the black hoodie?” she asks, holding it up. The one with the small stitched Spanish flag near the wrist.

 

Carlos looks up. Nods. “Yeah. That one.”

 

She folds it neatly, places it next to his race shoes. He zips up the pouch of chargers and adapters, tucks it near the edges of the frame. They’re working in sync. Like always. Like nothing happened.

 

And that’s what makes it worse.

 

Rebecca reaches for the cologne he usually forgets. Hands it to him. Their fingers brush.

 

“I hope,” she says quietly, “you don’t look back on this and think I was just a mistake you had to clean up.”

 

Carlos freezes, halfway through slipping the bottle into the side compartment.

 

“Don’t say that,” he says, voice suddenly rough.

 

“You know what I mean.” She smiles a little, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “I just… I don’t want to be the person who reminds you of what you lost.”

 

“You’re not,” he whispers, like that can make it true.

 

She nods. Picks up a bundle of socks. Doesn’t speak for a while. Then:

 

“It feels like you’re packing for another world. One I can’t go with you to. Not fully. Not the way you want to be gone.”

 

Carlos sits back on his heels. Looks at her.

 

“It’s not like that,” he says.

 

“But it is.” Her voice doesn’t crack. She’s past the cracking point. “It’s like… I only get to follow you so far. And then there’s a line. A line between who you are here, and who you are when you leave.”

 

He looks down. At the zipper. At the things he’s folded. He doesn’t know what to say. Everything feels useless.

 

She presses her palm flat against the folded hoodie like she’s trying to iron her words into the fabric.

 

“I hope one day,” she says, quietly, “I’ll understand.”

 

Carlos looks up. His chest hurts.

 

“So do I,” he murmurs.

 

They sit like that for a while.

 

A half-packed suitcase between them. A half-lived life behind them. And everything else waiting on the other side of the door.

~~~

Charles’s suitcase is half-packed. The clothes aren’t folded right. His hands are moving but his mind is far away — already at Zandvoort, already in the garage, already anywhere but here.

 

Alex is standing by the dresser, arms folded, voice tight.

 

“You’re lying to me.”

 

Charles sighs, sharp and guttural. “Alex, I’m not.”

 

She steps forward. “Something happened. I know it did. Just say it.”

 

“Say what, exactly?” He zips up a pouch too hard. It snags. “What is it you think you know?”

 

“I think,” she says, her voice trembling now, “that you’re not being honest. That you left something out. I’m not stupid, Charles,”

 

Charles turns to her, slow, like he’s trying to keep his voice level. “Wow. That’s what you think of me? You think so lowly of me?”

 

“I think,” she bites out, “that I’ve bent myself into a thousand versions of who I thought you needed. And I still feel like I’m on the outside of your life.”

 

“That’s not true,” Charles snaps. “You’re the one who made yourself public. You’re the one who said you wanted this.”

 

“I wanted you,” she says, now crying. “Not this. Not the media. Not the fake smiles. Not the brand deals. I just wanted you.”

 

He looks at her, stunned silent.

 

“You have no idea how hard it is to be someone for you,” she says, voice breaking. “To stand next to Charles Leclerc and pretend it doesn’t eat at me when they compare me to every other girl you’ve ever been seen with. When they ask why you don’t post me more. When they treat me like an accessory to your image. You don’t see any of it, do you?”

 

“I do,” he fires back. “But I don’t get to complain, right? Because I’m the face. I’m the one who’s supposed to smile and make it all look effortless. You think I don’t bleed too?”

 

She wipes her face with the sleeve of her hoodie. “Then talk to me. Let me in. For once.”

 

He shakes his head, zipping the suitcase too hard. “I don’t want to fight right now. Please.”

 

But she keeps going. She needs this out.

 

“God, sometimes I think you need to be miserable. Like you’re addicted to guilt. To grief. You’re so wrapped up in whatever this is—” she gestures around the room, around his life— “that you can’t even see the people who are trying to love you.”

 

Something in that sentence cuts too deep.

 

Charles zips the bag too fast. The teeth catch. His hands are shaking. The tension is everywhere — the way he folds his shirt is now messed up, the way he avoids her eyes.

 

Alex is behind him, arms crossed, red-rimmed eyes. “You know what I realized?” she says, voice breaking. “I’m only ever allowed to be loved by the version of you that doesn’t exist in front of people.”

 

He pauses. 

 

She keeps going. “Behind doors, you kiss me like you mean it. You tell me things no one else knows. You hold me like I’m real. And then the doors open, and it’s like I disappear.”

 

His chest tightens. “That’s not fair.”

 

“No, Charles. What’s not fair is that I fought for you. I stuck around through things no woman should have to read about. I smiled. I showed up. I watched you put everything into racing, into being loved by everyone — everyone but me.”

 

He turns, voice rising. “That’s not true!”

 

“Isn’t it?” she says, tears spilling now. “Because when you look at me, sometimes I wonder if you’re wishing I were someone else. Someone who understands. Someone who drives. Someone like—”

 

“Don’t,” he says immediately.

 

She does anyway. “Someone like Carlos?”

 

Charles grabs the nearest thing — his cologne bottle — and throws it against the wall.

 

It shatters.

The sound is violent in the silence that follows.

 

Alex gasps. Charles stares at the shards. His hands are shaking.

 

He sinks onto the bed, burying his face in his palms. “I can’t do this. I can’t. I’ll die like this.”

 

Alex doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

 

The silence is scary.

 

He breathes in like he’s choking. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I don’t know what’s happening to me. I don’t know how to fix it.” She grabs her coat. Quiet. Her shoes. Her phone.

 

And then she’s at the door.

 

“I love you, Charles,” she says. But she doesn’t wait for him to say it back.

 

She leaves.

 

And he stays on the bed, knees apart, face in his hands, the smell of spilled cologne stinging the air like a wound left open.

~~~

Media Day at Zandvoort.

 

The sun is out. The sky is that flat, endless blue. The air smells like rubber and heat and PR obligation. The paddock is buzzing — cameras, microphones, journalists with too much caffeine and too little time.

 

Carlos walks into the hospitality with his sunglasses still on, shoulders squared, jaw set. There’s an unmistakable stiffness in the way he moves, like every gesture is calculated. Like he’s conserving energy for something worse.

 

Charles is already inside, seated at the far end of the table in the media pen. He’s in the middle of an answer, talking about tire degradation and grip levels like he slept well last night. Like he didn’t break a glass in his room. Like he didn’t cry into his hands in the dark.

 

Their eyes don’t meet. They don’t speak. They don’t even nod.

 

Not a glance. Not a flicker. Not a breath of acknowledgment.

 

Someone asks a question about teamwork. About development. About communication between teammates.

 

Charles gives a perfectly neutral answer, eyes fixed on the fan, not even a glance in Carlos’s direction. “We work well together. We’re focused on the rest of the season. That’s the priority.”

 

Carlos nods at the same question like he’s agreeing. Says, “We’re both professionals. That’s what matters.”

 

Professionals .

 

The word sounds like a cage.

 

There’s a photoshoot by the Ferrari motorhome. The media team directs them to stand side by side.

 

Charles puts his hands in his pockets. Carlos folds his arms. Their shoulders don’t touch. Their bodies lean almost imperceptibly away from each other.

 

The camera clicks. The flashes pop.

 

No one notices the silence between them.

Except them.

 

Pierre comes over during a break, makes a joke about how dead the vibes are.

 

Charles gives a tight smile. Carlos mutters something about media day being media day. No one probes further.

 

But underneath the professionalism, it’s boiling. Every answer rehearsed. Every movement guarded. Every accidental brush of proximity avoided like it burns.

 

Because it does.

 

It’s not tension you can see. It’s tension you feel.

 

And the worst part?

 

They’ve gotten so good at pretending nothing happened.

 

Even though everything did.

~~~

Free Practice

 

Carlos leans against the garage wall, arms crossed, fireproofs tied at his waist, chest rising and falling in steady irritation. He’s out by FP2, some gearbox problem.

 

The mechanics are all busy now. Whispers. Headsets. A bustle of movement around a car that refuses to behave. It’s the kind of mechanical issue that doesn’t get fixed in time. He knows it. They know it. Everyone’s just going through the motions now.

 

He peels off his gloves, tosses them onto the workbench. Watches the monitor.

 

Charles is still out there.

 

Sector one: purple.

Sector two: green.

Consistent, fast, clean.

 

Carlos clenches his jaw.

 

He hears Charles' voice crackle over the team radio. Calm. Controlled. Debrief-worthy. That Charles Leclerc poise everyone eats up. The kind that looks godlike on camera but makes Carlos want to throw something when he’s sitting here with a dead gearbox and no track time.

 

He tries not to let it get to him. But it gets to him.

 

Because he knows how this will go. Charles will headline. Charles will give the interviews. Charles will get the edits. The world loves a clean weekend. And Carlos—Carlos will be the guy with a technical issue and a strained smile.

 

The screen flickers. Charles’ onboard camera now. The tight, surgical lines. The steering corrections so minimal it looks effortless.

 

Carlos exhales through his nose. He tells himself it's not jealousy. It’s just frustration.

 

But that’s a lie.

 

He watches Charles shift gears through the final corner, wrist so fluid it’s like muscle memory. Like he was born for it.

 

Carlos hates how badly he still wants to beat him.

And he hates even more how badly he still wants to touch him.

 

The session ends.

 

Charles pulls into the garage and steps out of the car. Their eyes don’t meet.

 

He walks right past Carlos. Helmet still on. Doesn’t say a word.

 

Carlos stares at the ground for a second.

Then mutters, under his breath, “Fucking brilliant.”

~~~

Qualifying

Carlos sits in his car, motionless, visor still down.

 

P11.

 

He hears the radio call, the confirmation. “Yeah, mate… we’re out.” No inflection. No room for comfort. Just cold fact.

 

He doesn’t reply. Just breathes. One hand tight around the wheel, the other twitching in his lap like it doesn’t know what to do. He wants to scream. He wants to throw something. He wants to vanish.

 

He peels his gloves off too fast, tosses them hard into the cockpit. His heart is pounding. His helmet feels too tight. His fireproofs feel like they’re choking him. He climbs out. Doesn't look at anyone. He moves to the monitors until the end of qualifying. Charles’ car comes hauling to the garage.

 

The cameras are already turning toward Charles.

 

P4.

 

Of course.

 

Carlos doesn’t even need to watch the screen to know what kind of lap it was. Clean. Controlled. Typical Charles. Just enough to impress, just shy of pole — the kind of position where he can still play hero tomorrow.

 

He swallows.

 

God, he hates this.

 

He hates standing here in the shadow. Hates the feeling of having everything to give and still falling short. Hates the stiffness in his limbs. Hates that every ache in his body doesn’t come from the car — it comes from Charles.

 

Because he’s up there. Helmet under his arm. Smile polite, answers rehearsed. He’s talking to the press, and Carlos can almost imagine the cadence of it. He can hear it. That calm voice. The practiced tone. The little smirk at the end of a sentence.

 

And the worst part?

 

He yearns.

 

Oh, God.

 

It burns like shame — how much he wants to walk over there and just… be near him. To press his forehead against Charles’ and not say a word. Just exist beside him, like they did in another life. Like they did on that road. In that room. In that silence they filled with everything they never said.

 

But he doesn’t move.

 

He watches.

 

And it hurts.

 

Because Charles is so far away now. And Carlos is just here. P11. Too slow. Too late. Too full of want.

~~~

The hotel room is quiet.

 

Charles sits at the edge of the bed, towel still around his shoulders, hair damp from the shower. His phone is on the nightstand, screen glowing with a dozen unread notifications. He doesn’t check them. He can’t. Not now.

 

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together like he’s praying — for what, he doesn’t know.

 

He thinks about alex. About what she said. About the crying. About everything she gave up just to be next to him — and how little he gave in return. He doesn’t know how to fix this. He doesn’t even know if he can.

 

It’s bad enough he’s trying to erase Carlos from every muscle in his body. Now this, too.

 

He wants to be a good man. He wants to be the version of himself that people think he is — golden, composed, worthy of the red. But right now?

 

Right now he feels like he’s living someone else’s life, and failing at it. 

Down the hall, Carlos lies on his back, phone to his ear, staring up at the ceiling.

 

Rebecca’s voice crackles through the speaker — soft, tired, but steady.

 

“I just don’t know,” Carlos murmurs, hand on his chest. “Sometimes it feels like… like I’m not worthy of this car. Like it’s too much for me. Or I’m not enough for it.”

 

There’s a beat of silence. Then:

 

“You are,” Rebecca says.

 

He closes his eyes.

 

“You may not feel it now,” she continues, “but I know you. And if there’s one thing I know more than anything, it’s that the only thing stopping you is you.”

 

Carlos breathes in slow.

 

And for a second… he believes her. It clicks. The words don’t fix everything, but they hold him up just long enough to remember who he is. That stubborn, ferocious part of him that’s survived worse weekends than this.

 

“…also,” he adds, voice lighter now, “Ferrari’s shit car might stop me too.”

 

Rebecca laughs through the phone. “There he is.”

 

Carlos smiles for the first time all day. Small. Private.

 

“Thanks,” he says. Quietly. And he means it.

 

They stay on the line a little longer. Not talking much. Just being there.

 

Two rooms. Two stories. One trying to forget. The other trying to remember.

 

And neither of them knows how they’ll face tomorrow. But for now, the world is still. Just for a while.

~~~

Race Results

 

Leclerc P3

Sainz P5

 

The track still smells like rain from the early hours, but it’s dry now. Clean. Fast. The Dutch crowd is a wall of orange and thunder, but Ferrari’s red bleeds through.

 

Lights out.

 

Carlos launches like hell. From P11 to P8 before Turn 3. By Lap 15, he’s P6. And then it becomes a war. Every overtake is surgical. Every lap is a masterclass in balance, aggression, refusal. His radio is nearly silent, because there’s nothing to say. The car is finally working. And Carlos — Carlos is on fire.

 

Leclerc is running strong in the top 4. Consistent. Smart. Holding position. The strategy plays into his hands and when the checkered flag waves, Charles crosses in P3.

 

Another podium. Another bottle of champagne. Another satisfied smile for the press.

 

But this race?

 

This race belongs to Carlos.

 

From P11 to P5. On merit. On grit. On pure, undiluted talent.

 

The paddock knows it. The media knows it. The headlines are already forming before he’s unstrapped himself from the seat.

 

"Astonishing drive from Sainz."

"Ferrari’s not-so-silent exit wound."

"He’s leaving… but he’s not leaving quietly."

 

Carlos walks into the garage and gets claps. Slaps on the back. His engineer gives him a tight, proud look. Carlos just smiles, subdued — but his chest is rising higher. His jaw unclenched for the first time all weekend.

 

This is what he came to do.

 

He didn’t win. He didn’t make the podium.

But he made them feel it.

 

And somewhere above him, Charles is stepping onto the third step. The virtual Monegasque flag behind him flapping. Cameras flashing. The Ferrari badge gleaming.

 

He’s smiling. He has to. But it’s tight. Controlled.

 

Because he knows.

 

He watched the boards. He listened to the updates. He felt Carlos coming alive again — not as a teammate, but as something bigger. A presence. A warning. A memory already turning into legend.

 

He raises his champagne bottle and lets the spray fly, laughing with the others.

 

But in his chest?

 

A quiet, aching certainty.

 

They’ll regret letting him go. I already do .

 

And far below the podium, Carlos stands with his helmet in his hands. Eyes tilted up.

 

He doesn’t need the trophy.

 

He already won.

The garage is chaos after the race — cameras, champagne-soaked uniforms, engineers hugging mechanics, press managers talking too fast.

 

But in the corridor behind the podium, past the press gauntlet and the team hospitality doors, it’s quiet.

 

That’s where it happens.

 

They round the same corner at the same time.

 

Charles, fresh off the podium, hair damp from the celebratory spray, his suit half unzipped, clutching his fireproofs in one hand.

 

Carlos, walking back from the cool-down room, suit tied at his waist, gloves stuffed into his belt, looking like he’s still riding the high of proving something.

 

They stop. They’re alone. And they have no choice.

 

Charles offers a small nod first. “Hey.”

 

Carlos nods back, slower. “Hey.”

 

A beat.

 

Charles clears his throat, awkward. “That was… a really good drive.”

 

Carlos gives a crooked smile — just the polite kind. “I should be the one congratulating you. You’re the one on the podium.”

 

Charles shakes his head, breath catching. “No, really. P11 to P5? You made the rest of us look lazy.”

 

Carlos huffs a laugh. Rubs the back of his neck. “Just… had something to prove, I guess.” Their eyes meet. It’s brief. But too much.

 

Charles offers a hand, like instinct. And Carlos takes it.

 

The handshake lasts a second too long. And then — burns.

 

Charles pulls back like it scorched him. His fingers twitch at his side.

 

Carlos notices. Of course he does.

 

“Great drive,” Charles says again, softer this time. And it sounds like more than that.

 

Carlos nods. “Yeah.”

 

Then silence.

 

They don’t know what else to say. Or maybe they do — but not here. Not now.

 

So Carlos steps past him. Shoulders brushing for half a breath. And Charles stays behind, hand still stinging from the touch.

 

Neither of them turns back.

 

But they feel it — every inch of what they’re trying to pretend didn’t just happen.

 

And somewhere behind them, the champagne dries. The cameras shut off.

Notes:

Fred was referring to Brocedes btw.

Chapter 27: Italian Grand Prix

The light in the room is golden — the kind of soft, late summer haze that makes everything feel more fragile than it really is. Carlos is sitting on the edge of the hotel bed, half-zipped in Ferrari red, his foot nervously tapping against the carpet. The TV hums quietly in the background, some local channel playing highlights of last year’s Italian GP.

 

Rebecca folds his shirt with quiet care, pressing her palm across the cotton before sliding it into his suitcase. Her touch is precise, almost reverent, like she’s trying to give his nerves a home to settle in.

 

“You always get like this before Monza,” she says, not looking at him, but smiling slightly.

 

Carlos exhales, glancing up at her. “Yeah. Can’t help it. It’s different.”

 

She sits beside him, folding her legs beneath her. “I know.”

 

He looks down at his hands. “Everyone will be there. Family. Friends. The whole country. I’ve been here for years, and still… this one always feels like I have to prove I belong.”

 

She touches his knee gently. “You do. You do belong.”

 

He doesn’t answer right away.

 

Rebecca continues, “I know you probably don’t want to hear it from me right now. But I’m proud of you. Always.”

 

That cracks something in him.

 

He nods slowly. “Thanks.”

 

She leans her head on his shoulder. “I’ll be there. For all of it. The screaming fans, the chaos, the pressure. You just look for me. I’ll be there.”

 

His throat tightens.

 

He turns and kisses the top of her head. “I know.”

 

For a moment, it’s quiet. No paddock chaos, no press calls, no contracts or ghosts of anything else. Just a man and the person who still believes in him, in this quiet before the storm.

 

He closes his eyes.

—

The Monza heat clings to everything — to skin, to nerves, to the fabric of the newly-designed carbon fiber-themed kit they’re all sweating into. It’s supposed to look slick, aggressive, futuristic — a nod to performance, to Ferrari’s legacy. But to Charles, it just feels heavy. Too sharp. Too much.

 

He’s been awake since dawn.

 

Another press call. Another forced smile. Another sharp-tongued journalist asking about Lewis next year, about pressure, about expectations. The air in the paddock is metallic, charged, and cruel.

 

His jaw aches from smiling.

 

The media center is ruthless. Lights, cameras, mics shoved close. He’s asked how it feels to carry Ferrari’s hopes. He’s asked about Carlos’ strong drive in Zandvoort. He’s asked about Hamilton. Always Hamilton.

 

And then, he’s pushed into the bubble again.

 

The teammate dynamic. The PR goldmine. Him and Carlos. Together.

 

They’re ushered to pose together in their new team kit. The photographers bark directions. “Closer.”

 

And somehow… somehow it still works. Because they work.

 

Charles doesn’t know how, but their bodies move in tandem like they’re made for this dance. A hand on Carlos’ shoulder. A laugh as they brush past each other. When one speaks, the other listens, always looking — always listening. Their eyes find each other, again and again, like magnets too polite to admit they still pull.

 

It’s second nature now. The soft banter. The casual shoulder bumps. The way Carlos leans ever so slightly when Charles talks — just enough to make it feel like they’re the only two people in the room.

 

They’re so good at this. Too good.

 

And Charles can’t understand it. Doesn’t understand how it can still feel so comfortable — like the air is breathable again when they’re like this. Just… them.

 

But beneath it all — the flash of cameras, the coordinated PR moves, the signature — there’s something else. Something quieter, humming beneath the surface.

 

How long can we keep going like this?

 

He doesn’t have an answer. Only the pressure of Carlos’ hand on his shoulder as they walk off-set. The warmth that lingers after it’s gone. The glance. The silence. The ache.

 

But they keep going.

 

It was late morning when they arrived in Milan — just after the team livery shoot, uniforms still fresh, pressed flat against their bodies, the new carbon fiber detailing catching light like some badge of futuristic promise. There was no grandeur here, not yet. Just the strange casual air of high-performance athletes trying to blend into a crowd that watched them like moving statues.

 

Carlos walked ahead with Charles, both of them nodding and smiling, giving small waves and shoulder touches when instructed. They did it so naturally it was hard to believe anything wasn’t fine.

 

But then there they were. Alex. Leo. Rebecca.

 

Charles saw her first — Alex, her figure half-lit by the Milanese sun peeking through the slats of the venue. Leo nestled in her arms like some unwilling mascot. And just a little behind her, Rebecca stood still, gentle as ever, hand on her own bag, waiting.

 

Charles’ pulse flicked once. Then again.

 

Before anything could form or settle or burn, Carlos moved — easy, quick, like a reflex trained over years of PR and self-protection.

 

He approached Alex with a softness that felt rehearsed but wasn’t. His voice pitched light, warm.

 

“Eyyyy, Leo! Still the fluffiest tifoso around, eh?”

 

Alex broke into a laugh, surprised by him. “Carlos!”

 

Even Leo squirmed, tail wagging. Carlos scratched behind his ears like he’d done it every day of his life. Charles couldn’t move. He watched it all from a few feet away. It wasn’t jealousy. Not this time. It was... clarity. Something undeniable. Carlos could do this. Smile, talk, perform the shape of peace.

 

Alex responded, thrilled. She handed Leo over, and Carlos held the dog up like some furry offering to the gods.

 

“You’ve grown,” he whispered to Leo, though maybe not just to Leo.

 

Alex was radiant. Laughing, glowing, nodding. And Charles — God — Charles couldn’t tell if it was real or if she was playing it safe. But she was doing it well. This picture of ease. Of acceptance. It was either truce or testimony.

 

Was this it?

This is what we are now? This is how you want to handle it?

 

Carlos didn’t say anything to Charles. He didn’t need to. Everything was right there in the silence between them — even when surrounded by noise. The message was carved deep:

 

I don’t want to hurt her. I don’t want to hurt anyone. I won’t.

 

Rebecca finally stepped closer, joining the cluster. She didn’t make a sound, just reached for Carlos’ hand when he lowered Leo back into Alex’s arms. And it was tender — not claiming, not possessive. Just grounding.

 

Charles watched it all. Alex smiling. Rebecca understanding. Carlos floating somewhere in the middle of it all, trying to keep everyone intact.

 

He wanted to say something. He didn’t.

 

He smiled when the cameras turned back to them.

 

And somehow, Carlos smiled back.

~~~

The next morning broke clean and bright over Monza, but Carlos felt it before he saw it — that dry pull in his chest, the one that told him today would be about faith more than speed.

 

Free Practice 1. He walked into the paddock with his headphones on, focus narrowed to a single hope: please let the car work with me today. This wasn’t just another weekend. This was the Italian Grand Prix. Ferrari’s home. The sea of red outside the gates, the banners, the children in little scarlet caps—everything screamed legacy.

 

And pressure.

 

He slipped into the cockpit, went through the motions, felt the car under him like a mood just out of reach. And when the session ended, Charles was sitting on P2. Sharp. Confident. The crowd roared.

 

Carlos was P6. Not bad, not great. Just... there.

 

FP2 came and the sun had climbed higher, stretching shadows across the asphalt. Carlos gritted his jaw before stepping out again. The run was smoother this time—less fight, more flow. When the times came in, he saw his name on P3.

 

Not Charles ahead of him, not yet. That helped. A little.

 

He climbed out of the car, helmet off, sweat already drying into his hairline. He leaned back against the wall of the garage, half-listening to the data being read back to him.

 

Okay... maybe tomorrow would be better.

 

But then—almost instinctively—his eyes drifted to the other side of the garage.

 

Charles was there, half in conversation with a mechanic, half peeling off his gloves. When he glanced up and met Carlos’ eyes, he smiled—just a quick, easy curl of his lips. Casual. Familiar.

 

And devastating.

 

Carlos looked away, jaw tightening. He thought he could do this. He chose this.

 

But the ache curled in his chest anyway.

 

Tomorrow will be fine, he told himself.

~~~

FP3 was cruel.

 

Charles climbed out of the car with the tightness still in his chest. P3. It wasn’t bad—it was strong, it was promising. But it wasn’t enough. Not for Monza. Not for this.

 

The Tifosi were already screaming his name before the sun even hit its peak. They were always here—always loyal. The banners flew like church flags, and the chants sounded like hymns. He grew up with this.

 

In Italy, there are two religions, they always say. Catholicism, and Ferrari.

 

And right now, Charles felt like a man trying to be holy.

 

He sat down, stripped off his balaclava slowly. His hands wouldn’t stop moving. A twitch in the fingers, a flex of the jaw. He wanted this. Needed this.

 

He glanced across the garage—Carlos was leaning forward, squinting at something on a data screen. His jaw tight, mouth unreadable. Was he nervous too? Was he wound up just as tight?

 

It didn’t matter. Or—it shouldn’t matter.

 

But Charles looked anyway.

 

—

 

Qualifying came too fast.

 

The helmet went on, and everything else fell away. It was instinct now. Turn in, power on, brake late, hit the line. Don’t overthink. Don’t blink.

 

When it ended, the timing board glared back at him: P4.

 

Fuck.

 

He stared for a second too long. P4. And just beneath him—P5. Carlos.

 

No, no, no. This was supposed to be different. This was supposed to be his. Like Monaco. Like destiny owed him.

 

He stepped out of the car, forced the expression into place. The cameras were already here.

 

They walked to the post-quali debrief with leaden legs. The room was cool, lit with overhead whites and the buzz of muted tension.

 

Fred stood in front of them, fingers on the back of a chair. He kept it neutral, professional.

 

Then, almost offhand, too casually, he said: “We’ll be optimizing for Charles tomorrow. Track position is key.”

 

A flicker of a glance at Carlos.

 

Just that.

 

Charles didn’t have time to feel sorry. He looked down at the telemetry sheet and nodded. He couldn’t afford to carry more guilt. Not here. Not now.

 

He just had to win.

~~~

Monza. Red as far as the eye could see.

 

Race results:

Leclerc P1

Sainz P4

 

The final laps bled through Charles' body like hot metal—front tires screaming, every warning light on his wheel blinking in defiance of his will to win. He’d dragged that car through the circuits of hell, dared every corner to try and stop him. It wasn’t just strategy. It wasn’t just setup. It was everything. It was the ache behind his eyes, the weight of years of "almosts," and the haunting silence of Monaco. Today, he made Italy sing.

 

He crossed the line first.

 

Il predestinato. The Chosen One. The crowd chanted it like a hymn.

 

The radio crackled to life—his race engineer halfway through a tearful scream of congratulations—but Charles had already unlatched his belts, already halfway to climbing out, leaping into the arms of the team like a man reborn.

 

Hugs everywhere. Shoulders gripped. Hair tousled. Jumps and spins and roars.

 

Alex was there. She found him before the press did, Leo pressed tightly in her arms. She was beaming, truly. Talking—probably saying she was proud, that he did it, that this was everything. And Charles, smiling, nodded and held her and kissed the top of Leo’s head. He kissed her, soft and thankful and right on the mouth.

 

But his eyes…

 

His eyes searched beyond the crowd, over the sea of team kits and flags and camera lenses.

 

Carlos wasn’t there.

 

The podium was a blur of red and champagne. The flag was unfurled, massive, proud, like it could wrap the entire country in it. Charles stood in the center, dripping with victory. National anthem playing. The crowd unhinged in reverence.

 

For one brief second—amid the glittering gold of the trophy and the clamor of celebration—Charles closed his eyes.

 

Just to listen.

 

To feel it.

 

This… was what he always wanted.

 

The garage was still warm with the aftermath. Red shirts stained with sweat and champagne, laughter echoing against the walls. Charles barely got his breath back before they found each other again.

 

Carlos wasn’t in his race suit anymore. The fireproofs and tension had been replaced with the familiar red team kit, sleeves pushed up, hair damp from the earlier shower, or maybe just the heat of the day. He looked… softer, somehow. Less guarded.

 

And then—suddenly—he was right there.

 

No words.

 

Carlos reached, one arm pulling Charles in, the other curling around the back of his head—fingers slipping into the soaked curls at the base of his neck. It wasn’t a pat on the back, wasn’t some generic congratulations. It was close. Their bodies pressed, the smell of champagne clinging to Charles’ skin, the weight of Carlos’ hand grounding him for just a second longer than it should have.

 

Charles didn’t realize he was holding his breath until Carlos let go.

 

He blinked. Floating.

 

But it was already over.

 

Someone was tapping his shoulder. A PR rep dragging him toward the cameras. A crew member wanting a photo. Someone thrusting another bottle into his hands. People—so many people—pulling him in all directions with bright smiles and sticky congratulations. He could barely register the noise.

 

He turned back.

 

Carlos wasn’t there anymore.

 

Just red everywhere. And the distant chant of the tifosi outside.

 

Il predestinato.

 

Charles smiled. He waved. He thanked them.

 

But his eyes kept scanning the room. Just once more. Just in case.

~~~

It was a rooftop in Milan—soft lights draped across poles, a gentle hum of celebratory chatter from Ferrari personnel scattered across tables. The air was warm, but not hot. Just humid enough to remind them they were in Italy in early September, and Ferrari had won.

 

Alex had her hand in his, her thumb gently brushing over his knuckles. She hadn’t stopped smiling all evening. Not the kind of smile she wore in front of cameras—this one was smaller, steadier. A bit tired, maybe, but real.

 

“You were amazing today,” she said, her voice barely rising above the quiet background music. “You did it.”

 

Charles looked down at their intertwined hands. He swallowed. “Merci.”

 

He didn’t know what to say. Not really. He had said thank you to a hundred people today. But she meant it. There was something in her tone that dug beneath the surface. That reached him.

 

“I’m really proud of you, Charles,” she said again. “Not just because you won. But because you carried it. The pressure. The expectation. Everything. And you still showed up like you always do.”

 

He looked at her then. Really looked.

 

She wasn’t perfect. She was stubborn. She broke things when she was angry. She made demands he didn’t always know how to meet. But she stood by him. Even now. Even when it wasn’t easy.

 

And he felt it—something that felt like warmth and guilt all at once swelling inside him. It wasn’t the fireworks or the race or the applause that got to him.

 

It was this.

 

Her, holding his hand like it mattered.

 

“I want this to work,” he said. Quietly. Not as a declaration. More like a plea.

 

Alex blinked. Her smile faltered just slightly, like she wasn’t expecting that—but her grip tightened around his fingers.

 

“I do too,” she whispered. “I really do.”

 

And for the first time that day—no lights, no cameras, no tifosi screaming his name—Charles let himself exhale.

 

They sat across from each other, but their bodies tilted inward, like instinct—like gravity. The chatter around them faded into a soft blur, the kind you only notice when the person in front of you matters more than the room.

 

Charles still smelled like champagne. Not the kind you'd sip to enjoy, but the kind that dried sticky on skin and hair after a celebration. His curls were slightly crisp from it. His eyes were a little tired. But there was still something behind them—something bright, something that hadn’t dimmed from the weight of the day.

 

Alex ran her hand up his arm, resting it gently on his shoulder. “You haven’t sat still all day,” she said with a soft smile. “You can breathe now, you know.”

 

He gave her a look, faintly amused. “Have I not been breathing?”

 

“Barely.” She took a sip of her wine, then set it down. “I’ve seen you after races before, Charles. You light up. Today… it’s like you couldn’t let yourself.”

 

He leaned back slightly in his chair. She wasn’t wrong.

 

“There was too much to carry today,” he said. “The pressure. The tifosi. The car. The team. Everything had to go perfectly. And it almost didn’t.” His voice dropped. “I didn’t think I’d make it, Alex. I thought… I don’t know. That it would slip. That I’d lose it.”

 

“But you didn’t,” she said gently.

 

“No. I didn’t.” He looked down at the table, then back at her. “And you were there.”

 

She smiled again, but this time it was smaller. Almost bittersweet. “Of course I was.”

 

He reached across the table and took her hand again—this time more firmly. His fingers were warm, still calloused in all the places the steering wheel knew. “I know I make it hard sometimes,” he said. “I know I close off. I know I’ve made you wonder whether you’re even wanted here.”

 

Her eyes shimmered, just a little. But she didn’t interrupt.

 

“I do want you here,” Charles continued. “More than I know how to say. And I don’t always know how to do this—us, I mean. I’m learning. But I want to learn. For you. For us.”

 

Alex looked at him. Not through him. Not around him. At him. All of him. The boy raised in the shadow of expectation. The man trying to outrun ghosts. The racer with his heart taped together with podium finishes and quiet regrets.

 

“I see how hard you try, Charles,” she said, voice breaking just slightly. “Even when it doesn’t come out the way you want. Even when you think you’re failing. I see it. And I’m still here.”

 

He felt his throat tighten. He reached up, brushed his thumb along the back of her hand.

 

“I’m not perfect,” he said, voice a bit raw. “And I’m scared that I’ll never be what you need.”

 

She squeezed his hand. “You don’t have to be perfect,” she said. “You just have to be honest. And keep trying.”

 

Charles let the silence stretch there. Let it wrap around them like a fragile kind of peace. His gaze dipped down to where their hands stayed folded on the table—hers soft and firm, his trembling just a little.

 

“I want to try,” he whispered.

 

And for tonight, that was enough.

~~~

Carlos wasn’t talking much.

 

He sat in the low-lit corner of the restaurant, the hum of celebration around him feeling like background noise in a language he didn’t speak tonight. The wine in his glass was untouched. His plate was barely half-eaten. He had peeled the paper from the breadstick in front of him, folded it, then folded it again. Anything to keep his hands busy.

 

Rebecca watched him in silence for a while before she finally spoke.

 

“You know, you finished P4 today.”

 

He huffed. “I know.”

 

“Most people would be happy with that.”

 

“I know.”

 

She paused again. “But you’re not.”

 

He looked up at her, eyes dark under the heavy brow of someone who had been carrying more than just the weight of the race. “It’s not about the number, Bec,” he said, voice low. “It’s about what it means.”

 

“And what does it mean?”

 

Carlos leaned back, ran a hand through his hair. “It means I’m on my way out. And they know it. And even if I drag that car by its neck to where it doesn’t belong—nobody looks at me like I belong anymore.”

 

Rebecca said nothing at first. She just looked at him—really looked. And when she spoke, her voice was soft. “Carlos... they don’t get to decide where you belong.”

 

He let out a tired laugh. “Sure they do. That’s the game, isn’t it? You do your job, you smile in the photos, and then they trade you out for someone new. Someone shinier. Someone younger. Doesn’t matter if you bled for that badge.”

 

Rebecca reached for his hand. He let her take it, though his fingers were stiff at first.

 

“I may not know much about racing,” she said. “But I know people. And I know you.” Her thumb brushed over the back of his knuckles. “You gave everything you had. You still are. That’s what makes you dangerous. You’re not racing for a seat anymore—you’re racing to remind the world what they’re letting go of.”

 

Carlos swallowed. He wanted to believe that. Maybe he did, somewhere deep under the exhaustion and the sting of everything he wasn’t saying.

 

“And besides,” she added, tilting her head. “You were the only one who overtook anyone today without DRS. The crowd noticed. The media noticed. Even Charles noticed.”

 

That made him blink. Just briefly.

 

“Yeah?” he said, not daring to look too hopeful.

 

“Yeah.” Her smile was quiet. Knowing. “You may be on your way out, cariño. But you’re going out swinging.”

 

He gave a weak chuckle, then sighed. His shoulders dropped a little as he leaned forward, elbows on the table, face buried briefly in his hands.

 

“God, I’m tired.”

 

“I know.” She let him sit in that. “But you’re still here.”

 

Carlos stayed hunched over, rubbing a hand over his face, when Rebecca finally broke the silence again.

 

"You know what's funny?" she said, voice warm with something that felt like nostalgia. "When I was little, I wanted to be a pilot. Not because of the planes—but because I thought maybe flying would make everything feel small. Manageable. Less loud."

 

Carlos looked up slowly, the tension in his brow softened by curiosity.

 

"And did it?" he asked.

 

She shrugged. "I never became one. But it turns out, it’s not the altitude that makes things quieter. It’s knowing someone’s next to you when the engines fail."

 

He blinked.

 

Rebecca smiled—wry, but kind. “That’s not some metaphor about us, by the way. I just mean... I know what it's like to feel like you're falling out of the sky with everyone watching.”

 

Carlos leaned back, taking her in. She wasn’t saying it to be poetic. She meant it.

 

“And you’re still here,” he said softly.

 

“Yeah,” she nodded. “Still here. Not because I don’t have places to be. But because I choose to be.”

 

She said it plainly, without drama. No pressure, no strings.

 

Carlos looked down at their hands again, hers curled calmly around his. There was a steadiness in her he couldn’t name—like she had built herself brick by brick and knew exactly what she was made of.

 

And maybe that’s what he needed right now. Not someone to drag him out of the fog, but someone who would sit beside him in it and not flinch.

 

“Thank you,” he murmured.

 

Rebecca reached for her glass this time, taking a slow sip before she added, “You don’t owe me anything for it. Just... don’t forget who you are when things go quiet. Not even then.”

 

The din of the restaurant faded in and out around them—cutlery clinking, laughter rippling from nearby tables, champagne still being poured in celebration of a Ferrari win.

 

But in their little bubble, it was quiet. And somehow, Carlos didn’t feel like he was falling anymore.

Chapter 28: Azerbaijan Grand Prix

Charles jogged down the last flight of steps, towel slung around his neck, shirt still clinging to his back from the gym. The sun was high above Monaco, throwing heat against the asphalt and blinding off car windows. His own car sat just where he left it — matte black, quietly expensive, waiting.

 

He unlocked it, tossed the towel into the passenger seat, and reached for his phone. His thumb hovered over the screen, ready to call the restaurant Alex had mentioned last week — something casual, close, by the water. A nice way to say look, I’m trying .

 

The phone rang once.

 

Twice.

 

And then he saw her.

 

Across the street, standing just outside a boutique he vaguely remembered from before life blurred into constant travel, was her .

 

Charlotte.

 

She was standing in the shade, sunglasses on, tote bag slung over her shoulder, hair caught in the wind. Casual. Effortless. And she hadn’t changed much — except she looked more grounded now. Still beautiful, but sharper somehow. Like she had learned how to walk through fire and not come out asking for water.

 

He stared for a second too long.

 

The call kept ringing in his hand.

 

Then he ended it.

 

Before he could think, he crossed the street.

 

“Hey,” he called out. And when she turned, her sunglasses pushed up into her hair, her eyes widening just slightly in surprise—he smiled. A little breathless. “Wow. Hey.”

 

“Charles,” she said, blinking. “Wow, I didn’t think—” She laughed once, gently. “You’re already in Monaco?”

 

He rubbed the back of his neck, still winded. “Just got back from the gym. You look… good.”

 

“Thanks. You too.”

 

It was awkward, but not ugly. Familiar, but aged.

 

“I watched the race… Last week,” she said. “Congrats. Looked like a dream.”

 

“Felt like one.” He smiled, lips pressed tight, still flushed from the run. “You still follow the races?”

 

“When I remember to,” she replied. “The last one I really watched was…” she tilted her head, then laughed. “God, I don’t know. Spa?”

 

He smiled. “You always liked Spa.”

 

They stood in that moment for a beat too long. Then Charlotte glanced sideways, her expression shifting slightly.

 

“I saw Lottie’s christening photos,” she said, voice calm. “Didn’t realize she was that far along. I thought about congratulating her.”

 

Charles’ stomach turned—just a flicker.

 

“She didn’t invite you?” he asked, trying not to wince.

 

Charlotte shrugged. “No. I mean, I didn’t expect to be. Not really. I guess once you’re out of the circle, you’re out.”

 

That made something in Charles freeze. He didn’t know what to say to that.

 

“I was at the baby shower, though,” she added. “Back when things were still... fuzzy.”

 

Charles ran his fingers through his damp hair, searching for words. “Yeah… um. It’s been a complicated year.”

 

“I can imagine.”

 

He shifted his weight, exhaled. “I’m actually planning a dinner. With... Alex.”

 

Charlotte didn’t flinch.

 

“Oh,” she said. “You’re still with her?”

 

He nodded. “Yeah. It’s… it’s good.”

 

Another beat.

 

“I know all about her, you know,” she said, her voice still perfectly level. “We were friends. Remember?”

 

That hit like a slap—not because she said it with malice, but because she didn’t.

 

He looked away.

 

“You okay?” she asked, quiet now. “You looked like that surprised you.”

 

“No, I—” he stopped, swallowed. “I guess I just forget sometimes.”

 

“Forget what?”

 

“That people remember me. What I was like before.”

 

Charlotte tilted her head. “Charles,” she said, kindly but firmly. “Do you even remember what you were like before?”

 

And there it was.

 

He laughed, but it wasn’t amused. “Sometimes I think I do. But lately... I don’t know. It’s like I’m just trying to be what everyone needs me to be. And I don’t even know who that is anymore.”

 

Charlotte looked at him for a long, long moment.

 

Then she nodded.

 

“Well... whoever you are now,” she said, “I hope you’re kind to him. Because the version of you I knew? He needed a lot of grace, but he never asked for it.”

 

He didn’t know what to say. So he just stood there, stunned.

 

She smiled again—this time genuinely. “Take care of yourself, Charles.”

 

Then she walked past him, the scent of her perfume brushing by him like the last page of a chapter he forgot to finish reading.

 

And Charles just stood there, the sun hot on his back, the weight of his own reflection growing heavier in his hands.

~~~

The night had gone fine for Carlos.

 

He caught up with some old friends—laughs over beers, Boogie burgers, small talk that didn’t dig too deep. They teased him about Williams, about life after red. And Carlos laughed along, made jokes about rebranding his future with a side of fries.

 

By the time he got home, it was late. The apartment hummed with soft ambient light, smelling faintly of rosemary and lemon from whatever Rebecca had cooked for herself earlier.

 

She was already in the bedroom when he stepped into the shower, letting the water beat down against his skin. He leaned into the tile, watching droplets streak down his forearms. Letting silence settle where noise had been all day.

 

Then he felt the air shift.

 

The curtain slid back and Rebecca was there—already undressed, eyes glinting with something teasing. Soft. Familiar.

 

“You’re home late,” she said, stepping into the steam.

 

Carlos smirked, brushing water from his face. “Caught up with the burger mafia.”

 

She rolled her eyes and pressed into him, palms flat against his chest, kissing the spot just beneath his collarbone. “You smell like onions.”

 

“Good. That’s success.”

 

She laughed softly. Her hands were already sliding lower, water beading between their bodies. He leaned down to kiss her, slow at first, then faster.

 

They moved like they knew each other. Because they did. The rhythm was old but not worn, practiced but still delicate. The water masked everything else — their breathing, the gasps, the quiet stammer of something slipping.

 

Her brown hair was wet, shorter than he remembered, curling slightly around her ears. For half a second, in the steam and the pace and the blur of it all— “Carlos…” She gasped.

 

He heard a different moan.

 

He froze.

 

He blinked.

 

It was like something cut through him—a sound—a memory not from Rebecca, but from a night not long ago, and a name not hers.

 

And the worst part?

 

He liked it.

 

Oh god , he liked it.

 

A moan from Charles — breathy, desperate — looped behind his ears like muscle memory. Carlos pressed his forehead to Rebecca’s shoulder, let his hands grip her tighter, trying to shake it off. But the more he tried, the clearer it got.

 

The sound. The heat. The ache. The pull.

 

He didn’t say the name.

 

But he almost did.

 

It hovered behind his teeth. Charles .

 

His hips stuttered once. His fingers dug into Rebecca’s waist. And when he finally came, it felt like a confession he couldn’t take back.

 

Afterward, he pressed kisses to her shoulder, forehead against her neck. It’s an apology and she doesn’t even know.

 

She was smiling, eyes closed, unaware. Or maybe not.

 

And Carlos just stood there, arms around her, letting the water hit the back of his neck like punishment.

 

He didn’t say a word.

 

But god, he wanted to scream.

~~~

Media day.

 

Carlos pulled on the classic red polo and stared at himself in the mirror of the hospitality suite. The old kit. No carbon fiber accents this time — just the bold, unmistakable Ferrari red, the way it had always been.

 

It used to make him feel something.

 

Now, it felt like a borrowed shirt.

 

He adjusted the collar with a flat palm, smoothed down a wrinkle near his shoulder. He could hear the low hum of voices outside — press, photographers, PR staff tapping against phones. Same every Thursday. Same rotation of questions. Same well-meaning faces.

 

He stepped out into the hall, his lanyard swinging gently against his chest. A photographer called his name, and he turned instinctively, smiled. It wasn’t forced. But it wasn’t real either.

 

Just another media day.

 

The media room in Baku was cooled to a crisp, artificial chill — a sharp contrast to the thick, dusty air just outside the paddock. Inside, it was all soft lighting and the low hum of camera shutters, the red of their kits vibrant under the LED panels. Carlos sat with his arms loosely folded, leg bouncing once under the table. Charles sat beside him, spine straight, face carved into that familiar mask of calm charm.

 

Another line of interviews in front of sponsor boards. Another parade of good posture and neutrality. Another hour spent pretending the politics didn’t touch him. That the rumors didn’t touch him. That Charles didn’t touch him.

 

Back in the red kit, he felt like a ghost of himself — still branded, still performing, still somehow both present and already gone.

 

He took a seat next to Charles at the press panel. It happened without any drama, just familiarity. They didn’t speak, didn’t even glance. But their elbows almost touched.

 

They always did.

 

A journalist leaned forward. “Carlos, how does it feel to be back in Baku? You’ve had some strong performances here in the past.”

 

He nodded once, leaned into the mic. “It’s a good track for me. One of those that teaches you patience… and when to throw that out the window.”

 

A few chuckles. Not from Charles.

 

Another question. “Carlos, you and Charles seem to still be working closely despite your exit next season. What’s that like behind the scenes?”

 

Carlos let out a light breath through his nose. His smile was smooth, easy. He leaned forward, voice playful.

 

“Well, I mean… of course I’ll miss him.” He glanced to the side, not directly at Charles — just near enough to make the audience believe in proximity. “It’s been what, four seasons together? That’s like twenty in F1 years.”

 

Laughter. The kind that floats.

 

He shrugged. “We’ve got a few more races left. We’re still having fun. That’s what matters, right?”

 

And then — the mic shifted.

 

Charles reached for it, his fingers brushing the plastic with a soft click. He adjusted it slightly, like it needed to be perfectly centered.

 

“As I said to Fred,” Charles started, his accent curling around each syllable, “Carlos is not my girlfriend.”

 

More laughter now, louder this time.

 

“I’m not going to miss him like crazy,” he added with a slight smirk, looking at the crowd instead of Carlos. “He’ll be in the paddock. Twenty meters away. Maybe thirty if he gets dramatic.”

 

The room laughed again — charmed, delighted.

 

But Carlos…

 

Carlos didn’t laugh.

 

He smiled, sure. Tilted his head in agreement. Bit the inside of his cheek, just for something to feel.

 

Because that line. That fucking line. It was just PR, just humor, just Charles being Charles — but it sank into the quiet space between them like a stone dropped into still water.

 

And maybe no one else noticed the way Carlos’ shoulders shifted afterward. Maybe no one noticed the way Charles stopped smiling the moment the question moved on.

 

But they noticed each other.

 

Always.

 

The conference rolled on. The cameras clicked. And the red on their chests gleamed like armor.

 

Because in this sport, that’s what it was.

~~~

Free Practice 1

 

The city wrapped around the track like a trap disguised in old stone and sharp turns. Baku always demanded more than just grip — it asked for faith. And Carlos gave it, lap after lap, with hands firm on the wheel and jaw clenched tight under his visor.

 

P5. Not spectacular, not terrible. But fine.

 

He climbed out of the car, cheeks flushed from the heat pulsing through the tarmac, and gave the engineers the usual rundown. Brakes felt stable. Rear traction was better than expected. There was still time to find.

 

From the other side of the garage, Charles said nothing.

 

He stood by his car, helmet off, curls damp and slightly flattened, eyes flicking through the telemetry like he wanted to burn through it. P9. The mechanics weren’t worried — it was only Friday — but Charles didn’t take not worried well.

 

He saw Carlos for a brief second as they passed each other on the way back to the driver’s room. Their shoulders didn’t touch, but it felt like they almost did.

 

Carlos glanced back.

 

Charles didn’t.

 

Later in the day, the sun leaned lower, casting gold across the buildings as they dipped into FP2. The track was slicker now — cleaner, more inviting — and Charles attacked it like he had something to prove.

 

Because he did.

 

He carved corners like a scalpel. He let the engine scream down the long straights, trusting the downforce, the brakes, the voice in his ear. He drove with the kind of focus that bordered on religious.

 

By the time he boxed and stepped out of the car, the screen above the garage said P1 beside his name.

 

Carlos was already there — helmet in hand, cheeks pink, P4. He was looking at the screen too, and when Charles stepped beside him, he let out a breathless, “Nice one.”

 

Charles blinked. “Yeah?”

 

Carlos nodded once, the edge of his mouth curling. “You know what they say — sandbagging in FP1. Classic Leclerc move.”

 

Charles cracked a grin, then shook his head and turned away, towel to his neck.

 

But as he walked back toward the garage, his fingers curled tightly into the cloth.

 

Because this wasn’t just about topping the timesheets. Not really.

 

It was about proving — to himself, to Fred, to Ferrari, to the world — that he could. That he still had it. That this was his car. His track. His moment.

 

Even if Carlos was only four-tenths behind.

 

Even if the paddock still whispered his name like a question.

 

For today, Charles answered.

The air in the briefing room was cool, a deliberate contrast to the track heat still lingering on their skin. The blinds were drawn, the only light a dull buzz from the LEDs above and the glow of data streams projected on the wall. The room smelled faintly of rubber, espresso, and something mechanical.

 

Charles sat with a water bottle balanced loosely in his hands, elbow resting against the table. He still hadn’t changed out of his race suit, the top half peeled down and sleeves tied around his waist. Sweat clung to the base of his neck.

 

Carlos sat two chairs away, clean and dry in his team polo already. Calm. Polished. Controlled.

 

Fred was leaning over the front table, arms folded, listening to one of the engineers run through the sector breakdowns. Charles’ name flashed green on screen — fastest overall. Carlos’ data sat neatly below, consistent, tidy.

 

“You pushed hard through 13 and 14,” the engineer said to Charles. “Margin’s tight there. We’d like to see a bit more caution on tire load.”

 

Charles nodded once, eyes flicking to the corner of the screen. “Understood. It held well in the long runs, though.”

 

“Yes,” the engineer agreed. “But the wind will shift tomorrow. Keep that in mind.”

 

Carlos tapped his fingers against his knee. “Front left was a bit stubborn in the second run,” he said. “Temperature stayed a little high through sector two. Might need to trim brake balance back a touch.”

 

Fred nodded, watching them both.

 

“I’d like to see both of you go strong into Quali tomorrow,” he said, tone light but clipped. “Baku is unpredictable. Clean execution, sharp judgment. Charles, you’ve got strong pace — just stay within the lines. Carlos, your long-run data is excellent. Keep that consistency. It might matter more than anything come Sunday.”

 

Charles didn’t look at Carlos. Carlos didn’t look at Charles.

 

But something tightened in the space between them anyway.

 

There was a pause.

 

Then Fred added, almost too neutrally, “I want both drivers operating independently tomorrow. We’re not playing team strategy yet. Go out, push your own lap. Let the track decide.”

 

It wasn’t aimed at either of them directly. But it was.

 

And both of them heard it.

 

The room shifted.

 

They nodded, gave the standard answers, and one by one, the engineers began filing out. Notes were folded. Laptops closed. Water bottles capped.

 

Carlos stood first.

 

Charles stood second.

 

And for the briefest second, they were side by side.

 

Carlos offered a small, civil nod.

 

Charles returned it.

 

And they both walked out of the room like men about to go to war in matching red.

~~~

 

It was loud. The kind of loud that gets under your suit — crowd noise bleeding in through the walls, radio calls half-yelled, engineers clapping like someone just landed a jet.

 

Charles had done it again.

 

Pole.

 

He sat in the waiting area just before the post-quali interviews, helmet still on, chest rising and falling as if the car hadn’t let go of him yet. The adrenaline still burned through his limbs. His fingers twitched over the steering wheel ghost in his palms.

 

He did it. Again. In Baku.

 

And Carlos… Carlos had done brilliantly too. P3. The lap was strong, committed — not enough for pole, but enough to prove something. Enough to make the garage buzz.

 

He stepped into the cool zone a few seconds after Charles, helmet tucked under his arm, cheeks flushed. And when he saw Charles sitting there, still soaked in the high of it, he smiled.

 

It was the kind of smile you only give someone you know — the kind meant just for them.

 

He walked over and without thinking—without considering the cameras or the crowd or the performance—Carlos reached out.

 

Just a hand. To touch Charles’ shoulder. Not hard. Just… real.

 

And Charles flinched like he’d been struck.

 

His eyes snapped to Carlos’, expression unreadable for a second too long. Then he stood. Not slowly. Not carefully. Suddenly.

 

He stepped away. A full pace.

 

Carlos’ hand hung awkwardly midair before falling to his side.

 

Charles looked down at the ground, jaw clenched. “Don’t,” he muttered, barely above a whisper. It wasn’t loud. But it felt like a gunshot.

 

Carlos blinked, stunned. “Charles—”

 

But then a PR rep was already at Charles’ side, ushering him toward the cameras, congratulating him, telling him about the timing, the headlines. He nodded numbly, letting himself be moved like a statue, like a man suddenly made of something brittle and breakable.

 

Carlos stood frozen, sweat drying cold along the curve of his neck.

 

What the fuck just happened?

 

The moment evaporated, swallowed by microphones and flashing lights. The post-quali interviews began. Charles said all the right things. Talked about balance, about the team, about tire temps. He smiled just enough.

 

But not once did he look Carlos’ way again.

~~~

Race Results

Leclerc P3

Carlos DNF

 

Carlos didn’t even make it past lap 18.

 

A brake failure. Sudden. Violent. He skidded, the car refused him, and before he could swear fully into the radio, it was over. Yellow flags. Slow motion. Rage that didn’t know where to go.

 

He sat in the garage for the rest of it, hands clenched so tight his gloves split at the seams. He didn’t talk. Barely blinked. The mechanics moved around him like he was made of glass and blood.

 

Charles took P3.

 

By the time the podium celebrations ended and the confetti drifted to the floor like ash, Carlos had already made the walk.

 

He didn’t knock.

 

He opened the door to Charles’ driver room and stepped in like a man drowning who mistook fire for water.

 

Charles was toweling off his hair, race suit unzipped and hanging around his waist. Still damp with sweat and champagne. He froze when he saw him.

 

Carlos didn’t speak.

 

Charles narrowed his eyes. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

 

Carlos opened his mouth. Closed it. Swallowed hard. “I needed to—”

 

“No. No, you don’t get to need anything from me right now,” Charles cut him off, stepping forward. “You don’t get to come in here, now, when I can’t even think straight, and act like you’re owed anything.”

 

“I’m not—”

 

“You’re not even supposed to be here,” Charles hissed. “Why are you always in places you shouldn’t be?”

 

“Why are you always in places you shouldn’t be?” Carlos spat back, voice raw. He leans in so close he can taste Charles’s sweat. “Like my head, when I’m trying to focus. Like in my goddamn lungs, when I’m trying to breathe. Like when I’m fucking my girlfriend and I hear your voice in my head.”

 

He blinked once—something in him shattering and hardening at the same time, he didn’t want to say this out loud at all. “Charles—”

 

“No! No.” Charles slammed him back. Hard. One hand gripping the collar of Carlos’ fireproofs, the other fisted at his side.

 

He shoved him against the wall. The dull thud echoed.

 

“Leave me alone,” Charles growled, voice cracking. “Stop this. You’re fucking disgusting.”

 

Carlos flinched—physically—but didn’t push him off.

 

“You’re the one who said we should stop. You , Carlos. You’re the one who left. Who made the choice. And now you’re here and you’re back and I—” Charles was shaking. His grip faltered.

 

“I can’t—” his voice dropped to a whisper. “I can’t do this again.”

 

Carlos looked at him—right into him. “I never meant to hurt you.”

 

Charles laughed, bitter and breathless. “But you did.”

 

He shoved him again, less forceful now. More like pushing him away than trying to break him.

 

“I always felt like I was chasing you,” Charles choked out. “Like I was the one hanging on. Trying to keep up. Trying to understand what the fuck we were.”

 

Carlos’ eyes burned.

 

“And now—now you show up in my room, like I’m supposed to what? Forgive you? Take you back? Fall apart again for you?”

 

Charles stepped back suddenly, like he’d realized he was screaming.

 

“I’m tired,” he muttered. “I’m so fucking tired of being the one who feels everything.”

 

His hands dropped to his sides. He turned away, pressing both palms to the lockers like he needed to hold something up.

 

“I’m selfish,” he said. “I know. But I can’t do this if you’re going to keep playing with me. I can’t keep falling apart every time you look at me like I matter.”

 

“Charles…”

 

“Get out.”

 

Carlos didn’t move.

 

“I said—get. Out.”

 

He didn’t have a choice. Not anymore. He turned, slowly, and walked out.

 

Behind the door, Charles sank to the floor. 

~~~

The heat had settled into the concrete like regret.

 

Charles didn’t speak when they boarded the private jet — the one Ferrari chartered when the calendar didn’t align cleanly. There were only six passengers on board, including the two drivers, Fred, and a couple of logistics crew. It was quiet. The kind of quiet that felt loaded.

 

Charles entered first and immediately veered left, sinking into the window seat in the furthest back corner. He could feel Carlos somewhere ahead, breathing in the same stale air. Not looking. Not talking.

 

He didn’t care. He kept telling himself that. He pulled out his phone. Call Alex.

 

It rang once, then twice. Then—

 

“Hey, baby!” Her voice was warm, sweet. Familiar.

 

“Hi,” he replied, pulling his seatbelt across his chest, staring out at the fading tarmac light.

 

“How did it go? I saw the highlights. P3!”

 

He smiled faintly. “Yeah. It was a long race.”

 

“I’m proud of you,” she said. “You looked amazing on the podium. I kept pausing the TV so I could screenshot your face.”

 

Charles huffed a small laugh. “Don’t do that.”

 

“You looked happy,” she said gently.

 

He hesitated. “Yeah, well…”

 

There was a moment of silence between them — not strained, but not soft either.

 

“Was Carlos okay?” she asked, cautious. “I saw he didn’t finish.”

 

He didn’t answer right away.

 

He looked forward, between the seats, down the narrow aisle of the plane. Carlos was there — near the front, slouched against the window, his jaw propped against his hand, staring straight ahead. Just for a second, Carlos turned his head.

 

Their eyes met. It was only a second. But it sliced something open. Charles looked away. Fast. As if the eye contact burned.

 

“Charles?” Alex’s voice was soft in his ear.

 

“Yeah, sorry, I—uh.” He pressed the heel of his hand to his temple. “I’m just tired.”

 

She sighed. “You’ve barely been home lately. I’ve been thinking maybe when you land, we can go to the coast. Just us. Disconnect for a bit.”

 

He didn’t answer. Not right away.

 

Because in that moment, her voice felt like pressure. The concern in it, the care — it made something in his stomach twist, made his chest feel tight.

 

Why did I call her?

Why now?

Why does this feel wrong?

 

Suddenly, he wanted silence. He didn’t want to talk. Didn’t want to explain the way his thoughts folded in on themselves. He didn’t want a girlfriend. He didn’t want anyone asking how he felt.

 

He wanted a blacked-out room, a shower, and his own fucking headspace. But he didn’t say any of that.

 

Instead, he murmured, “We’ll talk when I land, okay?”

 

Alex paused, sensing it — the shift. “Okay.”

 

He ended the call. Set the phone face-down on the tray table. Closed his eyes. Carlos was still there. Quiet. Distant. 

 

Still taking up too much space.

Notes:

Guys, I was fighting for my like in college finals okay. And my my partner broke up with me so I was in a messed up headspace, but now I have plot fuel since I actually know what heartbreak feels like first hand. Expect more angst. And for those asking if it's a happy ending, why should I tell you? >:)

Anyway, I'm thinking of making a Yuki/Pierre oneshot...