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Chapter Text

It was the first race of the season, and as always, Bahrain looked insufferably hot, but this time the red of the Il Cavallino was shining brighter than the sun itself. He peered at the TV, something inside of him was twisted with a desire to be there and be one of the 20 drivers in the world to drive an F1 car, but his time had already come to an end, and he believed that he had moved on.

Maybe not so much, his heart still felt the same way as it did when he was inside the cockpit: helmet on, visor closed, gloves clutching the steering wheel, blood running hot and adrenaline consuming every part of him.

The race was about to start, and he couldn't blink, everything was still very fresh in his head—all the steps, feelings and orders. He would never say it out loud, but he could still hear the voice of his engineer in his ears, asking if everything was okay, how the car was feeling, and to get ready for the lights to go out.

All cars were already lined up in the brackets, two red cars in the first row. The expectation was exactly between those two. Ferrari finally looked like they had put their shit together, but Sebastian knew very well it was too soon to have hope in them, to believe, but he did it anyway, always would. There was no other team that generated as much devotion and adoration as Ferrari did.

As the race started, he looked at the bright car in the front, the gigantic number on the nose, and the dark red helmet. It seemed like a pretty easy victory, but with Ferrari, nothing could ever be simple; everything was always so extravagant and exaggerated, it didn't matter if it was in a bad or good time. He missed those days, unfortunately he missed those moments like a soul missing the body buried in the deepest of the soil.

At lap 40, everything changed and what seemed like an easy victory for the car sixteen became a grueling fight for the lead. It would be fine, Charles was skilled enough to overcome that, but maybe his teammate's misconception and bad judgment didn't help so much.

He saw as the two cars almost crashed at lap 48—the way they touched the wheels and how Charles's front wing was damaged, he heard the radios and how pissed Charles sounded. It was difficult not to remember the old days—not his glory days, but the ones that left a bitter taste. He knew those reactions all too well.

When the red car crossed the finish line first, he let out a breath that he didn't know he was holding. Messy hair, balaclava marks and a pretty dimpled smile—this is what all the spectators saw when Charles jumped at the team, celebrating his success and the amazing start of the season. He couldn't hold back a proud smile, maybe the other truly was the predestined and their red prince.

Everything looked perfect—the most perfect start a team could wish for, yet somehow it looked sour. Charles didn't look at Carlos, nor did they acknowledge the presence of each other. The glances Lewis gave at the two teammates made Sebastian laugh and throw his head back. He would definitely send a text to his friend asking how it feels now that he is not being the one involved.

Jenson would be the one doing the race interview, Lewis would be the first to be interviewed, followed by Carlos and Charles. The two teammates couldn't bring themselves to look each other in the eyes, and Sebastian knew that Charles could be petty when he wanted.

Lewis, as always, thanked the factory and the fans. Without much to add, the car wasn't complete dog shit but was far from W11 and an unstoppable beast. As Carlos appeared on the screen, he could feel the tension—the way his eyes wouldn't meet Jenson's and his angry expression when he looked up to adjust the cap—but he definitely was expecting the Ferrari pr to kick in and not a straight and sharp answer to: “What happened between you and Charles at the lap 48? Who do you think is at fault? Was Charles too severe, or were you too optimistic?”

Carlos glanced at the camera for a few seconds, then looked back at Jenson and delivered. “Obviously, the red prince will not take the blame, but he was the one who didn't leave any space, and he was the one who braked too late.”

Jenson coughed before continuing. “How will you guys solve this topic so it will not repeat in the next race?”

Carlos laughs, shaking his head. “We will not solve anything; he won't agree that was wrong, and I won't accept that. Maybe next race I can show him the same exact move he pulled on me, let's see his answer to that.”

After that, Carlos leaves with his bottle of water in hand and makes his way through hard passes. Charles appears on the screen; his face doesn't show the happiness it held earlier; he looked on the edge to lose his composure. Sebastian could count on one hand how many times it happened. He straightened himself on the sofa.

“Congratulations on the victory,” says Jenson, still trying to ease the tension. “How are you feeling?” There is an unsure undertone, and Seb can picture Jenson grimacing at the question. Charles doesn't react, he waves at the crowd and thanks the fans, the team and his teammate for the wonderful race. Sebastian laughs at his audacity.

The cooldown room felt hostile, no one was talking, Lewis was sitting in silence looking at the screen, Charles was playing the perfect and most trained boy Ferrari has ever created, but Carlos, he was pissed, looking at the screen as if, on the first chance, he would shove Charles away and leave before the podium.

Sebastian watched with piercing eyes, not wanting to lose a second of it. When the TV showed the exact moment of the almost-crash, Carlos turned to Charles, his face red, matching his overall. “That was your fault” he said, his accent strong as ever.

Lewis looked at both, waiting for Charles, but the Monégasque just shrugged with a smirk playing in his beautiful lips, before looking into Carlos' eyes. “Wanna cry about it?” And before Sebastian could gasp in surprise at the Monégasque mocking question, the other went on. “You can't handle a fight, Carlos?” And his voice had so much poison that Sebastian couldn't bring himself to believe that that was Charles.

Carlos cornered Charles with a single step against the wall. Lewis was in between them in less than that, asking Carlos to let go. To say that the podium was hideous was an understatement, but the press was worse—a lot worse.

After the race, the podium and everything else, he sent a text to Charles congratulating him on the win. It was good that he was putting his elbows out and fighting hard for what he wanted, after all, championships are not won for being a nice and good guy.

He wouldn't speak out loud, but he was proud. Maybe the next race would be more interesting.

It was late when Charles answered to his text, nothing more than a “thank you, see u soon 😘” to which he replied, “can't wait, enjoy your victory.”

Chapter Text

The room was unpleasantly hot, his sweat was dripping down his neck, and his vision was scarlet red, maybe because of the anger of having to sit and listen to Fred complain about what had happened on the race or the post-race, but he just couldn't stay in that place for a second longer.

He looked up; Fred and the engineers were talking; he didn't mind comprehending what they're implying with all that chatter, searching for Carlos with his peripheral vision. The man in question had his head down, his body tense, and was breathing sharply as if trying to calm himself.

The meeting took a lot longer than usual, but he and Carlos didn't say a thing. After everyone pointed out their issues, Fred declared that everyone could leave to celebrate the double podium, but he blocked both from leaving the room with a hand on his chest.

“What happened today, I'll not tolerate if it happens again,” said Fred, and Charles didn't remember the man being so firm before.

Carlos puffed and crossed his arms in front of his chest, as if to challenge the team principal. “It wasn't my fault!” Says the Spaniard, uncrossing his arms and walking towards the older man.

“What happened today was shameful, a total disgrace, no matter who's to blame,” the Frenchman says with a thick accent. “And what happened in the cooldown room was unacceptable, you guys fight like two kids who are trying to prove something. Do I really have to remember that you're not in F3 anymore and that the first race of the season doesn't need all that?”

Neither he nor Carlos answered, and that was more than enough for the man in front of them, who nodded approvingly in the deafening silence. “Good, because if it happens one more time, I'll not be so considerate, kids have no place in Formula One and much less in Ferrari.” Fred turned his back to both of them and left.

Charles could tell that Carlos was ready to start a fight. His eyebrows were scrunched up, and his lips were in a thin line. He glanced at the man and smiled slyly. What a stupid scene that was.

Nobody moved, both in complete stillness. Charles knew that the fight on the track wasn't the reason Carlos was so angry at him, or the team, for that matter. He knew for a long time that the Spaniard had resentment towards him, but what could he do? He would never reciprocate that feeling.

The deep brown eyes pierced him in place, but he wasn't scared; he was never when it was Carlos; it didn't matter how much the other tried, he would still look like a puppy who was left in the rain. The thought made him laugh, leaving the other man in complete raw rage, gazing at him.

He shook his head and started to walk away. Carlos grabbed his arm and made him stop in his tracks. “I'll not go easy on you,” said the Spaniard through greeted teeth.

“Did I ask you to?” He replied in a mocking tone, shoving his arm away.

Going back to the hotel, he felt his body giving out to exhaustion. He couldn't care less about Carlos, Ferrari and all of that shitshow; all that he cared about was to lay on the bed and let the mattress engulf him.

His phone hadn't stopped ringing since he got it back after the race, and he hadn't responded to any of the messages sent to him. A part of him knew that people on social media would blame him even more after everything Carlos said, but he wanted everyone to fuck off, their opinion wouldn't change anything.

Opening the door, the first thing he did was to drop into the bed face down and let his body relax. The amount of time he spent lying in the same position was enough to declare him dead.

The following day, he woke up with a sore body and the phone alarm singing loudly in his ears. There were a lot of missed calls from his brothers and mom. They're probably seeing all the things people were saying about him on the internet and just wanted to check if he was okay. He messaged them, saying that he was fine, that they didn't need to worry, and that he was accustomed to that.

Sebastian had sent him a good morning text and a photo of his beautiful garden with the caption “waiting for you”. The smile that creeped into his face was instantaneous. He only replied with a quick “miss you <3”.

To say that he had forgotten that he and Carlos would share the same plan would be an understatement. The Spaniard was dressed casually, wearing dark blue jeans and a white shirt—nothing that he hadn't worn before—but his brown eyes were sunken as if he hadn't slept at night  They didn't look at each other's faces, nor did they say anything, the travel was in a complete awkward silence.

“Are you going to—” Andrea started, and Charles only nodded. His trainer knew about his relationship with Sebastian, it wasn't something that he hid from his family and friends, but something that he tried to protect from the outside world, for his sake and Sebastian's privacy.

They stopped in Nice—nothing out of the ordinary. Joris and Andrea accompanied him to the car that was waiting for them, without anyone seeing them they said goodbye, and he went another way.

“Take care.” Andrea said this before entering the car to leave. “Ask him to show up in one of the races.” His trainer winked and waved goodbye.

He smiled, knowing full well that Sebastian wouldn't show his beautiful face any time soon.

From then on, he continued with a normal rented car, very different from his Ferrari. With the bags already in the trunk and the radio turned on, he continued his journey.

Since the end of the race, he had not checked his social media and was unaware of what people were saying about him. He could, of course, imagine that it was not anything good. When he stopped at a gas station, he took the opportunity to look at the phone and find out what was being said.

As expected, people were blaming him for the “almost crash”, but he didn't care, after all, the trophy was in his hands and his name was first in the standing drivers' championship.

Before turning his phone down, he sent Sebastian a text saying, “will be there in 30 minutes”.

Stopping in front of Sebastian's house was like coming home, even though he didn't live there. The man with blond hair and dark rose cheeks was standing in front of the door, his huge smile matching his bright blue eyes, he felt his smiling growing and an exasperated sensation crept in his nerves, he needed to get close to the other man, show how much he missed him.

He got out of the car in a hurry, his heart beating frantically, and with long and quick steps, he shortened the distance between them. When his arms finally found the other's waist, and he inhaled his woody scent, any pressure that was on his shoulders disappeared. 

“You did so good,” the other said, half of the words muffled by his hair. He laughed light and sincerely, stepping away to take a look at Sebastian. 

His hair had grown longer, and his curls were messy and wild just like the way he always liked, his beard hadn't been trimmed for a time now. He wanted to joke that his looks reminded him of a hermit, but when his eyes glazed down to the lips, he couldn't give a single fuck.

Pink rose lips, asking him for a kiss, how could he say no?

There wasn't much thought for that, he just needed to dive in that sensation, in the sweetness, and the rhythm of their mouths moving in sync. The mess they made with each other was a work of art, their loud breaths made the most beautiful sound.

“I wish you were there,” he said when he pulled apart. Seb blinks a few times before putting both hands on his cheeks and bringing their faces together.

“I was watching you,” he replied with a mischievous glance, his tone too knowing. 

He let out a giggle as Sebastian dragged him inside. His bags and belongings were forgotten in the car truck, he wouldn't need it anyway.

“So you saw that?” He drops himself on the sofa, looking at the ceiling and taking a deep breath. In some ways, he could imagine Sebastian watching the race, probably nervous and wanting to participate, even though he says he doesn't miss being behind the steering wheel, Charles still can see the glint in his eyes when he sees a F1 car.

Sebastian hums and sits beside him, his hands carefully caressing his face, and hair.

“I did, yeah.” Sebastian's voice is low and smooth, soothing all the worries he didn't know were eating him alive.

“Do you think it was my fault?” He didn't think it was, not in the slightest; he had the preference, his car was ahead, and Carlos was too optimistic and paid for that.

He looked up to capture the other man's gaze, only love was showing in his crystalline eyes. “No, I think it was a race incident,” he smiled, the smirk never leaving his lips. “But I like to see my menace back.”

He knew that, Sebastian always had something for him being a menace, even when they're teammates or when he was being a menace to the man himself.

“Sebby!” He shouted, faking an annoyance that he didn't have.

“You didn't see Lewis' face did you?” The blonde asked and he shook his head. “He was for sure thinking about Nico” Seb was laughing as if taking pleasure in his friend's suffering. 

“You're evil,” he said, not looking away from the gold curls falling in Sebastian's eyes. He had watched the videos on YouTube and knew Sebastian used to be a troublemaker, such a menace that Nico used to pray for his downfall, or so was what Lewis told him.

“Oh babe, I had to survive them, it is funny seeing Lewis pass for the same thing.” 

“Is not the same thing,” he protested outraged.

The other shrugged. “If you say so.” He wanted to contest, say that he and Carlos were never friends, that they would never come close to what happened with Lewis and Nico, that they were writing their own story, but Sebastian already knew all of that, so he stayed quiet.

“I'm tired,” he said, his eyes heavy from the race, plane and the drive to Seb's place.

“You should take a shower and try to sleep a little.”

“I want to stay with you,” he says mellow, making the other laugh.

“I'll not disappear Charles, you can take a shower and sleep, when you wake up I'll still be here.” 

“Are you going to make me pancakes in the morning?” Seb shook his head, amused.

“I'll do everything you want, love.” And before Charles gets up to go to take a bath Sebastian steals a quick kiss. “Everything,” he emphasizes in a very suggestive voice.

He kissed the other man one more time. “We will see that,” he winks or tries, before leaving.

Chapter Text

If he were alone, he would have already opened the curtain to let the sun's rays light up the room, but Charles was still sleeping—face buried in the pillow and mouth slightly open, hair sticking to every place, and a faint blush that covered his cheeks. 

Sebastian was certain that that scene could only be the fruit of his imagination, because for a long time he didn't believe he could pull someone like Charles, or that Charles himself would be in his bed, looking like a God, but there was the young man, sleeping peacefully, like that was the place he was born to belong.

He left the room, ready to start breakfast and feed the chickens. Charles wouldn't wake up anytime soon. The other was tired to the bone, and Sebastian knew it. He had seen the drowsy eyes, and his usually bright smile became hollow. 

It was a hard task to be the one receiving the hate and the negative comments. He had been there before, and he knew that at that moment he couldn't do much.

When he was at Red Bull, people used to do the same to him, blaming him for his want and need to win, but what was the purpose if not being first?

Charles had the same kind of idea. Of course, he was a champion in the making. But it was still unfair to be judged like that, for wanting to win and do better.

There wasn't much to do after feeding the chickens and preparing breakfast. He hadn't done anything extraordinary—just scrambled eggs and fresh orange juice for Charles. The man sleeping upstairs didn't eat in the mornings, and he was habituated to that, but he still made sure that he did drink something to give him a little bit of energy until lunch.

After eating, he sat in the living room and turned on the TV. The commentators were going through some of the highlights of the race, including Lewis's phenomenal start and George's mistake that cost him a DNF in the early laps. It was foolish of him to think that they wouldn't talk about what had happened to the Ferrari drivers, the infamous interview with Jenson and the ridiculous scene in the cooldown room.

Lawrence Barretto was talking, nothing useful as always. The man pointed at the screen that was showing the exact moment that the Ferrari drivers almost crashed into each other. 

His voice dripped with poison. “This is a shame!” He said looking back at another presenter. “Charles squeezed Carlos, you see, he had nowhere to go.” Then they show Charles' broken front wing.

He shakes his head, not believing in what he is hearing, there is no way that Lawrence truly believes in that, but he continues watching. “This is reckless behavior, a Formula Two driver wouldn't do such a move, they know that they have to always leave one car gap.”

One of the commentators laughs and imitates an old quote from Fernando Alonso. Sebastian remembered doing the same thing years ago, but this time he didn't agree at all, and felt that there was an agenda against Charles.

He didn't like that feeling nor to listen to what they're talking about.

“He could have let Carlos pass and regained the position shortly after, just like he did against Verstappen in 2022. But I think because it was against his own teammate he was more rigid," said another commentator. 

"He could have sacrificed both cars if Carlos hadn't slowed down."

Sebastian was already turning red with anger. There was no way these people were really commentators or that they had watched the same race. He heard footsteps coming down the stairs, and he took the opportunity to turn off the TV. Charles didn't deserve to hear any of that.

When he saw Charles, the man looked soft, ruffled hair and pillow marks on his face. He smiled at the sign of the other, wearing a short white shirt that left some of his skin exposed. He laughed tenderly, knowing that the shirt was too small to be Charles', the other was wearing gray sweatpants that looked comfortable and made him completely huggable.

Charles said nothing; he just closed the distance between them, falling onto him on the sofa. He left a puff of air in surprise but cradled Charles in the waist nonetheless, kissing his neck and making him whimper and giggle until he was breathless.

“Sebby!” The other said it between loud squeals of laughter. He liked the way his name sounded in Charles' mouth, the peculiar way he said these little words, and how distinct they would become.

“Did you sleep well?” He asked after stopping kissing Charles neck.

Charles didn't answer right away, staying at the junction of his neck and for a while.

“I did, yes.” His voice was low and without emotion, contrary to what Sebastian was used to hearing.

“What do you want to do today?” He inquired, trying to change the scenario, so Charles could rest a bit more. His hands found the other's hair, and he could feel it when Charles loosened his shoulders and relaxed his body.

The boy shrugged and raised his head. “Can we just stay like this all day?” He laughed, throwing his head back to gaze at Charles.

If it was for him, of course they could. Who wouldn't want to cuddle all day with Charles Leclerc? But they had some things to do, and Charles still needed to eat.

“You have to train, Andrea will kill me if you don't.” Charles makes a disappointing noise. “And you haven't eaten yet,” he said, trying to look at the time on the watch on his wrist. “It is already one in the afternoon.”

“Not hungry, and too tired,” he says, catching Sebastian's torso more firmly.

“I can go training with you,” he says persuasively. “We can go for a run, it is very good cardio, and we can see beautiful landscapes.”

Charles murmurs something, but he can't figure out what the other just said. “What did you say, my love?”

“You'll not let me stay here, will you?” He asks, lifting his head to get a close look.

He smiles, shaking his head. They both know that there is no way he is letting Charles escape a training day.

Even though they're only running, Sebastian can note how stiff Charles is, the way his shoulders are up, and how rigid his body is. The young man has been like this since the first moment they saw each other, and he is not quite sure if it is because of what happened during the race or something else.

Charles has a tendency to stay in his head for too long, but what happened wasn't his fault. It didn't matter what other people were saying. They're wrong.

He didn't pay attention to the fact that he was staying behind, or that Charles was running way faster than his normal pace. When he noticed, the younger man was a few meters ahead from him, breathing raggedly and with a flushed face.

They stopped not long after, Charles needed to drink water, and he needed to make sure Charles was okay.

The landscape was truly breathtaking, but as he stared at Charles, he knew that something was wrong, his eyes weren't focused, and he didn't seem to be there.

“Is it because of the race?” He asked; after trying not to; he didn't want to be that kind of person, but how could he not when the younger seemed so lost?

Charles shakes his head, but doesn't glare at him.

“They're wrong,” he stated, feeling the need to clarify and defend. “What happened wasn't your fault, things like that are normal.” He knew that more than anyone else.

Charles was still silent, as if the words didn’t get to him. The barrier that he had set up was too thick for that.

He sighed. “It isn't because of the race, then?” With that, the younger man looked at him, his eyes distant, the always-shining green, dull.

“I didn't want to lose him as a teammate,” and Sebastian didn't understand. Lose who as a teammate? Carlos? Was he leaving? He didn't know.

“Carlos is leaving Ferrari?” He asked in shock.

But Charles shook his head. “Not in that way,” he started. “We used to have a good relationship, but that won't exist anymore.” Charles lowered his gaze, looking at his shoes.

“He was hot-headed and said those things, but I'm sure things will go back to normal.” He tried to sound confident, but he himself didn't believe in that very much.

If he could, he would protect Charles so he didn't go through what he did. The way the media talked about him, the atmosphere within the team, the cold looks, the anger, all of that he didn't want Charles to go through.

Not the Ferrari Prince, not the boy who had always been loved—he didn't want to see Charles endure that pain, but he knew all too well that if things continue as they are, there is no way out.

“I don't think it will.” Charles' voice was so cold that it made him shiver.

“You can always talk to him.”

Charles laughed, but it sounded strange in his ears. “He doesn't want to hear me or even look at me; that's okay, we can live like that.”

Charles was not someone who gave up easily, he didn't understand why he gave up his friendship with Carlos like that.

“It isn't just because of the race, is it?” Again, it couldn't be. What was happening in the Ferrari household?

“He thinks Ferrari will favor me, and because we have chances to fight for the championship, he is a little frustrated.” Charles didn't look at him once and was acting oddly, but he let it go, he would understand what was happening sooner or later.

“I'll not say anything more than this,” he started, looking at Charles and waiting for him to look up. When the younger one did it for the first time, he saw that his eyes were a little swollen. “Whatever happens inside Ferrari, don't show it to the media; don't let them portray you like a villain. If things get rough with Carlos, let him fight in the media alone, don't you ever let the Ferrari Prince tarnish its name.”

Charles laughed, probably thinking he was joking.

“I don’t like the Ferrari Prince thing,” he admitted.

“You don't, but they do. Carlos does too,” he said slowly, so the words could get into Charles' head. “What did he say in that interview?” The younger man looked at him blankly. “The Red Prince will not take the blame.” He states, hoping for a reaction. “You think they'll not use it against you? Of course, they'll.” He breathed out, regaining his calm. “When I was at Red Bull, I was the hot-headed one, and I paid for it. Having the media against you is way worse than having your teammate against you.”

“Mark was not calm either.” He laughed at that. Yeah, yeah, Charles was right, they gave the media everything they could ask for.

“He had his moments, but you can do different things; you try to talk to Carlos; he looks like a good guy, someone who would listen to you.”

“I won't apologize!” Charles answered angrily.

“I'm not asking you to apologize, I also don't agree with that,” and before he could finish, the wolfish smile on Charles' lips made him stop.

“I never apologize for winning, wasn't that?” the other quoted, grinning.

He rolled his eyes but laughed too, what could he say? He still believes in that.

“I tried to talk to him even after that.”

“It is not the same thing, Seb.” The defeat in Charles' voice was uncharacteristic. “You and Mark were never friends, me and Carlos—” he said, looking at the side, trying to gain time. “He is not my best mate, but he is very important to me, and I know I'll not have that Carlos back.”

“Why not?” He asked, confused. “You guys had some moments like this before.” He remembers a few races in the past, how the two fought, and how the media portrayed them, but in some way, they always got back together as if nothing had happened.

Charles was uncomfortable, moving from one foot to another. “He wants something from me that I'm not capable of affording.” That was a strange answer, but he wouldn't make Charles say more than that. He knew he wouldn't.

Chapter Text

He was walking into the hotel lobby, happily with the results of the first and second free practices, p3 and p1. Nonetheless, his body was tired and aching for a cold shower, his feet carrying him on automatic.

He was already entering the lift when a voice asked him to hold open the door. For a second, he forgot that other teams were also staying in the same hotel as Ferrari. He waited for Pierre to catch up, the Frenchman carrying a backpack and two phones.

“Calamar,” the other greeted, getting closer. “The pace looks good, uhm,” he said, but Charles knew him well enough to figure out that he wanted to say something else.

“What do you want, Pierre?” He asked, pressing the button, not even looking at his friend's face.

Pierre faked being hurt, putting a hand in his chest. “Just a chat with my friend.” Charles would have cracked a laugh if he wasn't so exhausted, instead he settled down with just rolling his eyes.

“How's Yuki?” He knew Pierre could pass hours talking about his ex-teammate, and how much he missed him, their inside jokes and all the silly things they used to do. He had heard countless times about the time Yuki said that he wanted to sleep with Pierre in front of the cameras, and honestly, he couldn't care less, but he listened for his friend's sake.

“Good.” Pierre simply answered; as much as Charles knew him, he knew Charles too, the consequences of knowing each other for their whole lives.

“And Ocon?” Pierre arched an eyebrow, making a face that he could read all too well.

“Good.” Pierre managed to say before starting to laugh sterically, holding on to his shoulder to not fall face down.

“You two are a lost cause,” he claims, helping the Frenchman up.

“Oh,” the other starts. “This is what I wanted to talk about with you.”

Yeah, that was something that he should expect. How can the gossip king not ask him about the latest gossip in the paddock?

He hummed and waited for the older one to talk. “How are things between you and Carlos?”

Normal is what he should answer, but that was a lie, things were everything but normal. Far from that, they're acting weird around each other, like if they look at one another, something terrible will happen. He hated that, the closeness was gone, the touches, the looks and all the little things that made them who they were.

“It is okay,” he settled for. Not at all convincing as Pierre grimace appeared on his face.

“Come on, calamar, you know I can see when you're lying.” And yeah that was true, but what could he say?

“Serious, Pierre, I can't say more; you know that.” It was a futile attempt, there were never hidden secrets between them and there won't be.

“How's Seb?” He allowed himself to breathe slowly again, leaning against the wall.

“You know him, he is happy in his mountains.” Talking about Sebastian was easy; it was like driving, breathing, and dreaming; it was natural.

“You think he misses racing?”

He shrugged, as the lift door opened. Pierre followed him, and he wouldn't argue, already aware of what his friend wanted.

“He says he doesn't.” He puts his hand in the pocket of his jeans, trying to find the card as they walk through the corridor. “But of course it is a lie, that's his life—well, was his life for more than a decade. I don't think he regrets retiring; he made the right call on that one.” Pierre was right behind him, waiting for him to go on and open the hotel room door.

“But?” His friend speaks for him.

“He doesn't know how life feels without racing, adrenaline, fast cars and all that, he tells me that everything is fine but is not.” He enters the room and gives Pierre space to do the same. The Frenchman throws himself on the couch, feeling at home. “We don't talk about it, he says that everything is under his control, and I try to believe in that.” He pops down next to his friend.

“Must be hard for him to see you driving in the team he loves? Loved?” The other looks confused.

Charles laughs, shaking his head. “I thought the same, but he says he never truly hated them, at least not Ferrari or what it represents, not the dream,” he sighs. “I kind of understand him, the image—” he says, turning to face Pierre. “The prancing horse and the red dream are so much bigger when we are inside that even when we hate them, we don't,” he said, looking at his hand. He didn't need to gaze up to feel the scrutiny of Pierre's stare.

“Why are you hating them? Wasn't it supposed to be the best part of your life? They—” Pierre rolled his eyes. “Well, at least on the outside, everything looks put together, they finally gave you a good car, one that can win the championship, and even tho—”

He couldn't let Pierre finish. “Yeah, I'm happy, I was talking about past years.”

The elder hums not believing in him, he doesn't judge Pierre, he knows he is a shit liar. They stayed in that silence for some time, just looking at the ceiling and resting their tired bones, as the time passed he morphed more into the couch, already becoming part of the room furniture.

All he wanted was a cold shower and some time to sleep before going down to eat dinner with Andrea and Joris, but as he shifted to his side, he knew Pierre wouldn't leave without taking all the information he needed with him. He breathed, closing his eyes.

Pierre was the one who broke the silence, as always, not knowing how to keep quiet.

“What happened?” His voice was cautious—not too loud so as not to startle Charles. “I know that you and Carlos sometimes fight, that's quite normal between teammates,” he laughs, and Charles can sense that he is thinking of Esteban. “But this time it feels weird and abnormal. Carlos doesn't act like that, and neither do you, so tell me what truly happened, please.”

Pierre wasn't like Seb, he wouldn't give him space, and he would insist until there was nothing more than the ugly truth.

With the Frenchman, there was no later, no tomorrow, and no lie. He liked that most of the time, but not this one.

He sighed deeply. “In Abu Dhabi last year, he said he loved me, and I was kind of a dickhead with him. I thought that by now he would—” He covered his face with his hand.

“You thought he would move on, but he didn't and now the atmosphere in the team is shit and your friendship with him is broken.” Pierre deduces.

“Yes,” he says, ashamed.

“Tell me from the beginning, please.” He looked over at Pierre, pleading with his eyes so as not to relive that moment. “I want to understand better, so I can help.”

They had just finished filming the content for the YouTube media, some dumb shit that Ferrari obligated them to do, and in all honesty, he didn't mind that much. Not that he liked it, but he was already used to Carlos making him laugh, his awful jokes and how everything was easy and smooth.

Both of them were dead on the famous red sofa, Carlos was practically on top of him, his head almost on Charles' shoulder while he typed on his phone. He took advantage of the quietness to see if anyone had sent a text.

Seb had sent him a picture of his garden with new blue flowers to attract more bees, it looked serene and peaceful. He wished he could spend more time with the German and help him in his garden, but he had a few more racing years ahead of him, hopefully.

Carlos was humming to some song that he knew but just couldn't grasp the name of. He looked over to the Spaniard, seeing that he was checking his account on Twitter to see what people were saying about them. It wasn't new for Charles, he knew well enough that people thought that he and Carlos hated each other, but that was never the case.

One of the posts was talking about the way Carlos tended to look at him—the loving eyes. He honestly didn't see that; the Spaniard was like that to everyone; that was just his way of being, so he didn't mind.

The man looked back at him, his big and mesmerizing brown eyes reflecting something that he didn't want to look too closely at.

“Do you want to grab dinner?” Carlos asked, and he didn't know it was so late, but with a glance outside, he could see how dark it already was.

“Yeah, do you still wanna go to that restaurant? I don't remember the name,” he said, looking at Carlos for help. The Spaniard had said about some restaurant that served amazing hamburgers or something like that; he didn't pay much attention when Carlos was talking about food; he could go for hours explaining about what he likes and why he makes the best hamburgers.

“I was thinking about room service, and if you want some game after,” his voice was different, Charles noticed, but again he didn't want to assume anything.

He shrugged and got up, offering the other man a hand to help him up too.

“Yeah, it looks like a plan. I'm fucking exhausted.” He said this as they made their way to the exit.

“Me too,” agreed Carlos, following him. “Every challenge is getting worse.” And yeah, the idea for the new one wasn't so bad, but the duration of it was pretty whacked.

And about the last challenge, he had just noted something that Carlos said.

“Why did you ask if the person had pretty eyes?” It was a 'who am I' game; it was not new to him; he had done the same game years before with Sebastian; the man had made him laugh awkwardly with his questions, and now Carlos had done the same.

“I wanted to know who I should discard,” he answered normally as they walked toward their car. Ferrari had made their share, but none of them minded.

“And who did you discard?” He asked hesitantly.

Carlos leaned to him, smirking and with a mischievous glint in his brown eyes. “Not you, if that's what you want to know.” The Spaniard winked at him, and it was so unfair that he could wink properly.

“One day, you have to teach me how to properly wink, so people stop making fun of me.” He said he was entering the passenger seat.

“No,” the man said in a thick accent. “I would never do that.” Charles looked puzzled at him, tilting his head like a kitten, as Carlos got in.

“Why not? Do you like to see people on the internet make fun of me?” He asked, crossing his arms.

Carlos rolled his eyes and started the car. “I like to see your adorable, cute wink.” He answered straight-up.

Charles couldn't fathom how the other man could be so open with his feelings, saying everything that came to his mind before thinking about it previously.

“My wink is not adorable, it's weird.” He grumbled.

“Everything about you is adorable, Charles.” He didn't know how to respond to that, so he stayed quiet until they arrived at the hotel.

“My room or your room?” He asked, looking at Carlos, who was pressing the bottom of the floor they're staying on.

“Does it matter? They're close.”

“Mine is closer,” he said triumphantly, even though it didn't mean anything.

"Yeah, you're closer." Carlos answered as he always did, patiently and agreeing with everything that came out of his mouth.

They stayed in their own heads as the lift went up.

"Can you order me an ice cream?" He only made the request because he was well aware that Carlos would be the one doing the call, after all, he was the foodie between the two of them.

Carlos laughed and pushed him outside the lift.

He opened the door to his room and asked Carlos to put something on the TV so they could watch, while he took a quick shower. The man popped on the sofa, lifting his feet to rest on the coffee table, while Charles walked through the room searching for his clothes.

"I'll not waste too much time." He said this before entering the bathroom.

Carlos smirked, but didn't give him the pleasure of a remark.

When he returned, Carlos was sitting on the sofa with the phone in his hand, ordering a quantity of food that could easily be shared with a battalion. He didn't even ask why he was ordering that much, he knew Carlos well enough to not ask him that.

Carlos puts the phone away as he sits close.

“We’ll have to wait a little,” he says in a tender, small voice. Charles laughs at that, the way the Spaniard is always so dorky.

He shakes his head and crosses his arms, faking an annoyance that he doesn't have.

“Just a tiny bit.” Carlos says this again, making a cosplay of the pussy in boots big eyes.

“I wouldn't discard you either,” he says out of the blue.

First Carlos looks confused, then he opens a big and wide smile and starts to scoop closer, and before Charles knows it, the Spaniard's big-haired hand is in his cheek, stroking lightly as if he would break.

“Carlos,” he whispers, almost out of breath with the closeness of their faces. “What are you doing?”

It was a phrase that he used quite a lot with Carlos, but this time it sounded different to his own ears.

The other man didn't answer his question, only looking straight into his eyes as if there was an answer he was looking for.

“You're pretty.” Carlos said, truly fascinated.

He gulped, thinking of all the times fans had said it to him. He wouldn't say it doesn't mean anything, but the fans said it mostly because of appearance, while Seb said it because of who he was—not Charles Leclerc, the Ferrari driver, just Charles, the guy who likes to sleep until late and doesn't like to eat breakfast, the guy who doesn't like to have his hands dirty but will help the German gardening if he asks.

But with Carlos, he didn't know in what way he was saying it, what he meant by it. 

Was he talking about his looks? Something else?

“Thanks, mate,” he said, putting his hands on Carlos' hands to gently take them away from his face.

“No, Charles, you're not understanding.” Carlos mused, and this time he seemed more himself, more sure.

“Yeah, I'm not.” He agreed.

“I love you.” Simple words, short words, but so powerful.

He felt himself drown, the blood in his body ran cold, the ringing in his ears increased, and the feeling that it was wrong boiled over his body.

He stood up abruptly, pacing around the room, his head and thoughts stuck there in that second, in those words.

“You cannot love me,” he said, no, practically shouting at Carlos.

The Spaniard looked at him, taking a back. “Why can't I love you?”

“Because that's wrong.” His voice was pleading, hoping that what was happening wasn't the truth and that Carlos was just playing a very bad prank on him. But as the seconds passed, Carlos only looked more and more hurt.

“Me loving a man is wrong?” The older man asked, getting up and walking towards him in sharp steps.

“You loving me is wrong, Carlos,” he was desperate.

“Why?”

Because I love another man!

It was what he wanted to shout in the older face, but he hadn't asked Sebastian if they could talk about their relationship with other drivers.

“Because,” he took a shaky breath. “I don't love you and I never will.” He watched Carlos' face break into something he had never seen before, something that he wished he would never witness again.

Carlos walked a few steps back, falling onto the sofa with his hand covering his face.

The silence screamed loudly in his ears.

“But you—” Carlos starts, but doesn't gaze up. “You were never against me touching you, getting close or calling you pet names.”

“Yeah, because that's who you are.”

Carlos lets out a tired, hollow squeal. “That's who I'm around you—”

“No,” he dismissed, that couldn't be. “You're like that around Lando, you call him names too, and, and,” he was stuttering.

“I call him Muppet.” Carlos' eyes were red, like the car they drove. “Did you ever see me calling anyone besides you love? Honey? Darling?”

And fair question, he didn't.

“I thought you're doing it only for the fans or because Silvia asked you to.”

“I just wanted to show that I love you.”

He sighs and looks at Carlos. “I appreciate that, but I don't love you, not in the way you want me to love you.”

“There's someone else?” Carlos asked in defeat.

“There isn't, I just don't want you.” He hadn't planned to say that or for his voice to be so cold, but that happened, and he had to witness Carlos cry silently in front of him. “Please, Carlos, understand me, I had never thought about us that way. For me, you're always just a friend.”

“Go fuck you, Charles!” the other screamed, getting up and walking towards the door. “How can you not? How could you allow me to get close to you, touch you, and give you these fucking pet names and then think that it was, what? Friendship?” He knew Carlos was trying to sound cruel, but he was only hurt.

“Because I like the attention you give me,” he replied, not really looking at Carlos. “I like to feel cared for, and you did that, but I never thought it was more—”

Carlos attempted to laugh but couldn't, so he only left.

After he finished telling Pierre, the Frenchman looked at him as if he were hallucinating all that.

“What were you thinking?” Pierre asks in disbelief.

“I wasn't thinking.”

“That's more than obvious,” he starts. “I get why he is mad, you were an insensitive douchebag with him.”

“And what should I have said to him?” He asks, upset. “I love you too, Carlos? No, because I don't, and that would be worse.” He looked at his friend, who didn't answer. “Or should I have said that I'm in love with another man?”

“No, of course not, but you also didn't need to say that you only liked his attention, that was fucked up, Charles.”

He had regretted saying that, but he hadn't lied.

“I miss him as a friend.” He admitted it to Pierre. "I miss him glued to my side," he laughed at that, because he never imagined that little things could hurt this much.

“I don't think you'll have him back.” He thought the same; he had lost Carlos.

Chapter Text

He was holding a cold beer in one hand and the remote in the other while sitting on the couch. To be honest, he'd much rather go outside and finish his gardening than sit glued to the TV for two hours just to watch a race. However, Charles was racing, and he could not help but to watch it anyway.

Monza was always a hectic race, all the fans of the prancing horse cheering for their beloved team; he does remember how special they made him feel, being their personal saviour, but he can also see how much stronger they do it for Charles; he should feel envious; but instead, the feeling of pride takes over his body. Charles can finish what he couldn't, he thinks, smiling to himself.

Charles getting the pole on the day before has made him joyful for the entire day, even though he only got to congratulate him in a few rushed minutes, it was worth it. The Monégasque needs a clean and simple start and, of course, a strategy to help him maintain the lead.

He watched as the commentator said "Lights go out, and away they go". The clean start that he hoped for Charles was conquered immediately, the boy was leading from lap one. The weather seemed nice. Everything looked perfect, and the fans in the grandstands were cheering for their beloved prince.

The whole race was going well until Bryan called Charles to do the second pit stop on lap 46. He was stressed, almost pulling his hair in desperation. Charles had an enormous gap to Carlos, but the pit made it disappear.

On the way out of the pit, Sebastian let out a tiny groan of frustration.

Charles misses Carlos by a thin line, very precise line, almost invisible. At times, he is glad that he is not the one racing anymore and that he is the one watching it, but not now. He takes a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves, while he witnesses Charles struggle to stay on the lead.

The radio comes on, asking the Spaniard to hold position. He lets out a laugh, knowing all too well where that would lead them.

It was like going back to the past and watching something that he had done before but that, at that moment, he was completely against.

The Spaniard does not listen to the team's orders, and, in all honesty, what driver would?

Carlos attacked Charles on the inside, the Monégasque defends the place like his life is dependent on it, not letting him through.

He sits on the edge of the couch, beer long forgotten, eyes fixated on the television, heart racing faster than when he was inside the F1 car, mostly because right now he wasn't the one in control of the situation. If asked anyone, they would say that he is not a religious person, but at that very second he was praying to the racing gods for nothing serious to happen and that Charles could come out on top of all of this.

His prayers don't work; Carlos goes too close, and he feels it. He feels the crash coming, and soon enough, Carlos clipped the rear wing of Charles's car, making both of them spin and end up in the gravel. The disappointment of the tifosi can be seen even through the lenses of the cameras. The screaming radio of Charles is broadcasting all over the media. His frustration was loud and clear.

“WHAT THE FUCK WAS HE THINKING?!?!? CRASHING INTO ME, WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH HIM?” Charles screams at the top of his lungs. He closes his eyes and lets his head fall onto the couch. This will not end well, not for Carlos, not for Charles and for sure not for Ferrari.

And again, he feels like he is reliving a poor copy of his young nightmare. Charles gets out of the car, throws his gloves and kicks the gravel under his feet, not accepting any help from the marshals. He sighs at the sign of Charles walking in a different direction from Carlos.

His mind slips through to his crash with Mark in Turkey, years ago. When he couldn’t pass, and just went ahead nonetheless. Even though he would never admit that it was indeed his fault, that would go to the grave with him.

The team told him off so many times for such behavior that his relationship with Mark was torn apart at the end. He didn't want that for Charles, even though he saw that the young man was going down the same path.

Why would Carlos do that? He and Charles always had a good relationship with each other. They didn't look like him and Mark at all—the opposite, actually, people adore them together, but now Carlos cost Ferrari their win, and an angry Charles. 

Well, it was getting common; they're always bickering, and the reports were making the most of every opportunity they get; he just couldn't understand why.

Did something happen between the two, and he was unaware of it? It cannot be, because Charles wouldn't hide such a thing from him.

They were used to saying everything to one another; there were no secrets between them; that was their stance since the beginning, so what was Ferrari doing? He knew the team, and how toxic they were, he just wished that Charles wouldn't go down the same way he did.

When Charles called, it was eleven at night. His voice was hoarse, and he knew it was from screaming, maybe from crying his heart out in his driver room alone. He felt bad, after all, that race was in fact his, and he knew more than anyone how much Monza and the Tifosi meant to Charles. He was also familiar with situations like this.

"I don't know what to do," the younger man said on the other end of the line, his voice showing all the tiredness and exhaustion he was feeling.

And what could he say? That everything would be okay? That what had happened wasn't as bad as it seemed? It was bad, and in a season like that, he knew that it could cost a championship, the respect of fans, and the way the team treated them. He preferred to keep everything to himself because that wasn't what Charles needed to hear.

There was no right way to move forward; the wound was fresh, and Charles wasn't listening to anyone's attempts, too immersed in his own head, however he tried.

"Charles, I know that right now this seems like the end of the world, but it's not." He felt like punching himself in the face because he knew that a pain like that would never go away, that it would sting forever, but a part of him prayed that it wasn't for Charles, that for him, it was different, that for once in their life there were no similarities.

He briefly closed his eyes, his eyelids showing his own failure like a big theater screen. The pain of that day still gnaws at him, his eyes still burn with tears he had let fall years later, and even though so many years had passed, the pain of what had happened was still there, with him every day. Sometimes, when he looked himself in the mirror, that was the thing he saw—someone who failed.

The 2018 German GP wasn't exactly like Monza, but he imagined that their sorrow would be the same or at least akin, and if he was right, there's nothing he could say that would make the other man's misery any better.

"The tifosi will hate me," he mumbled in a tearful tone, and all Sebastian wanted was to hug him and comfort him, even though nothing would solve it.

"They'll not," he breathed out, and he fiercely believed in that, their love for Charles was something he hadn't seen before. He was their devotion and pride, their saviour, it didn't matter that right now he was down on his knees, asking for forgiveness. “They will never hate you. You are the il predestinato, and one race won't change that; a crash won't make them hate you; and none of this was your fault; Liebling, listen to me, what happened was a horrible event, nothing more than that, okay?”

Charles didn't answer, and the line stayed quiet for a few minutes. He expected that, the silence when something like that happened was inevitable, the voices inside their heads projecting at them all their failures and doubts.

Charles broke the deafening silence. “Tell me, how was your day?” He heard the pleading in his tone and how fragile it sounded.

He closed his eyes and turned off the light before starting to speak again, telling him about all the little things that had happened. Charles didn't interrupt him, only listening to what he had to say. The talking, or better, his monologue, didn't last long, after all, his days weren't so exciting anymore.

When he finished, the line stayed the same, but this time he could listen to Charles calmly and stayed breathing.

“Goodnight, love.”

Chapter Text

He wasn't pissed. No, he was fuming, trotting around the room with firm steps, waiting for someone to open the damn door. There was no sensible reason for him to be stuck in a fucking crappy room when he was supposed to be giving interviews at the media pen.

After the crash and the heated discussion between him and Carlos, Fred had left him in that room, and he couldn't believe in what was happening, much less when the man turned around and left. When he tried to follow the team principal, the man told him to step back in an angry growl. He tried to argue but found himself with a door being slammed in his face.

The time was passing, but no one had shown up. There was no noise coming from the outside; he could barely listen to anything. No cheering from the fans, no celebrations—just an eeriness.

He slumped against the wall and sat on the floor, not bothered by the dirt, he himself was in no better state.

Of all the places for this shit to happen, why Monza?

His mind couldn't help but think about it. 

The watch on his wrist showed a time that, under different circumstances, he would be celebrating his victory, hugging his family and listening to Fratelli d’Italia on top of the podium while admiring the passion of the Tifosi as they screamed at the top of their lungs, but instead he is stuck in a room alone, reliving a stupid crash that could and should have been avoided.

He ran his hands through his hair, gripping it tightly. "Fuck! Why am I so stupid?!" The frustration was making his skin itch, and his eyes burn with unshed tears.

The noises coming from the outside made him immediately get up and run to the door. He could listen to two very sharp male voices, one of them was saying for the other to shut up and act like his age.

When the door opened, he was already expecting the two figures in front of him. He left out a dry laugh.

Fred glared angrily at him and asked Carlos to enter the room. The Spaniard did what he was told, not showing any emotion. His expression was difficult to read, but his tense shoulders were enough. They didn't look each other in the eyes, preferring to look at the floor.

Fred cleaned his throat before closing the door again, both him and Carlos looking down at their feet. The stillness in the room was uncomfortable, to say the least.

Each one was in a corner, and for a tiny second, he felt like a kid again. Fred was looking down at them, disgust written all over his face.

“Unbelievable.” This was the first thing the team principal said, running his hands over and over his face. “That was reckless! Unnecessary, completely pointless! That could have been 1-2 in Monza for the Tifosi. But no, you two preferred to perform this disgrace!” The man was matching the Ferrari rosso corso.

He and Carlos didn't open their mouths, staying silent.

“Now you guys have nothing to say?” The man inquired.

He took a deep sigh before turning to gaze at Carlos. The Spaniard was looking at Fred, but his mind wasn't there, his eyes were distant and vacant. Charles knew Carlos was thinking about his actions and what he had done, what they had done.

“He made the scrupulous scene, he took me out! I was doing a perfect race until he came crashing into me.” He was hot-headed, saying whatever nonsense came to his tongue.

“That wasn't my fault at all! You didn't have any grip, and you were wobbling everywhere while trying to defend. That was your fault, not mine.

“My fault? You're told to hold position—”

“I was faster!” Carlos shouts at him.

“You weren't, but keep telling that to yourself.” He said it venomously. “Maybe one day it can be true.”

“Enough!” Fred was angrier than before, and Charles didn't know it was possible. “Do you know how many people were disappointed?” The man asked, but didn't wait for an answer. “Many fans left their homes to come here and watch the race in the hope of seeing Ferrari on the podium, cheering, but not only the fans are disappointed, the mechanics are too, many of them brought their families to show how great Ferrari is and to make their families proud. The factory worked day and night so that the upgrades would arrive here in time for the car to have a chance of winning the race. Everyone here worked their asses off to make this day possible, just for you two to act like two idiotic children. The championship is not won in one race but can be lost in one.”

They lowered their heads, there was nothing to be said.

“I don't know what is happening between you two, and I don't care, but this is affecting your performance and results.” His voice was harsh and cold. “From now on, you work together like two decent human beings. I don't want to hear complaints; if the engineer says something, you will put your heads down and do it. I don't want arguments; I want the team to work." The man took a calming breath. "You guys will leave now to the media pen, and if there are any issues, the conversation will be different. Understood?" They nodded.

When they were in the hallway, Fred called out to them once again.

"Tomorrow, I want both of you in the factory to apologise to everyone for the terrible and childish behaviour, we are not finished with this conversation yet.”

The media pen was an absurd hell, he couldn't understand how Sebastian put up with this for so long.

“So, Charles, how was the conversation with Fred? Did you and Carlos already talk?”

“In Bahrain, Carlos had said that he wouldn't play second driver, and today he did show that he was serious. How will things play out from now on?”

“Still talking about Bahrain in the cooldown room, you said, ‘You can't handle a fight, Carlos?’ Do you still think the same? Would you change what you said back then?”

“Was the pit stop really necessary?”

So many fucked questions. He inhaled deeply before starting to talk.

He did find Carlos walking through the corridor of the factory, neither of them talked to each other or addressed the presence of the other. But he didn't think about it, he was there to apologise, even though he wasn't the one to blame.

Everyone was reunited in a crowded room, waiting for him, Carlos and Fred to walk in. Fred hadn't said anything to them yet, his .

annoyed scowl was enough of a statement. As they walked through the room, he could see the tired faces of everyone, and a bit of regret pierced through him. They didn't deserve what happened.

He looked at his hands while Fred gave a speech about how things would change and behaviours like this one wouldn't be tolerated anymore.

Carlos had his eyes fixed on the wall, neither looking at the staff nor himself.

The applause brought him back in time to take the mic that Fred was offering him. He hadn't prepared a speech; there was no right way to say that what they had done was a stupid thing; everyone there already knew.

He held the microphone tightly in his hands and looked up. “I want to start by saying that I'm sorry for what happened. That was a shameful event that I expect to never again repeat,” he glanced at Carlos, who wasn't looking at him but rather anywhere else. “I know how much work was put in so we could receive the upgrades on time and how much that cost us, but now there's nothing we can do. I'm truly sorry for what happened, and I hope that it will not get in the way of winning the title. I will do everything to recover these lost points." He gave them a nervous smile. 

Carlos was the one to pick up the microphone after him. The Spaniard didn't talk immediately, collecting his thoughts.

“I make Charles' words mine,” he started. “The car was unbelievable for the full race and magnificent to drive, which gives us hope for a better future. I also want to say that I'm sorry for the horror show. Of course, we didn't want that to happen, but some things are inexplicable and hurtful. Better days will come, and mistakes like that will help us learn how to move on.”

He thought that part of what Carlos said was bullshit and that even the man didn't believe it, but he kept his head bowed down.

After the apology speech, Fred called the two of them to have a talk in his office. The man was serious and was not saying much.

The team principal offered them a seat before starting to talk.

“Elkann and I decided that after Monza, wherever you guys crash into each other, you will be fined.” Both opened their mouths, but Fred shushed them. “What happened cannot occur again, not now, not ever.”

“Yes, I understand that, but it was not my fault.” He repeated himself again.

“I don't care whose fault it is.” Fred was fed up. “Look, we as a team are trying to be fair with both, but nothing is working. I thought Bahrain would be an isolated case, but since then nothing has changed."

And he couldn't correct the man because Fred was right, he and Carlos were always bickering through the media.

“In Abu Dhabi last year, I had two great drivers glued to the hip, helping the team. Now that we have a car capable of winning the championship, we can't work together.”

“Fred.” Carlos started, his voice slow and calm. It was fake, of course, but condescending enough to fool the older man. “The team is not fair at all with me, we all know that. He is the first driver, and I have to prioritize myself because I know no one else will do it. I was faster than him, I could have passed easily if he hadn't—”

“You wanted me to do what? Open for you to pass me? Give you a free pass because you think no one likes you.”

“Charles.” Fred cooed.

“What happened to you two?” The older man didn't seem angry anymore; he was curious, for sure. “Everything was going well last year, and now you guys can't talk.”

“Nothing happened.” He answers.

Fred shook his head. “I see,” he said, looking at both of them. “I'll give it one week for this behavior to change.”

He and Carlos glanced at the older man, confused.

“I want my old drivers back, and I need you guys to work like you did in the past.” He assembled.

“And how do you want us to work in so little time?” Carlos asked, not looking at Charles, and to be completely honest, they didn't look at each other's faces in weeks.

“Charles,” Fred addressed the Monégasque. “Carlos will stay with you in Monaco this week, and I hope that for the next race, everything between you two will already be in the past.”

“I-” he started, but Fred didn't let him say anything.

“Either you fix this now or you will pay a fine for the crash in Monza, whatever you guys decide.” Both nodded.

“Wonderful.”

The journey from Maranello to Monaco was grueling and silent. Carlos was in the passenger seat, scrolling through his phone and avoiding peering at him. The air in the car was stiff, so he maintained his focus on driving safely.

The flat in which he lived wasn't so big, but there was a guest room for Carlos. They entered the flat, Charles leaving his bags close on the door and walking down the corridor to show Carlos where he would stay.

Carlos was following him with curious eyes, the man had never been in his home before.

“This is your room, the bathroom is over there,” he pointed out. “If you need anything, you can call me.” He said this before leaving the room.

He was exhausted, a bit hungry and just wanted to sleep for days before the next race. Furthermore, he dropped on the couch, relaxing at the feeling of familiarity.

His phone was buried in his pocket, so he didn't use it, only looking at the ceiling. He missed Sebastian and Switzerland, the mountains and the quiet life they had there. He loved Monaco like crazy, but right now he wanted to be snuggled in Sebastian's arms.