Archive of Our Own ^beta

Carlos had a mark.

A gray spiral on his right shoulder blade, as much a part of him as his last name or his helmet. He couldn’t remember life without it. According to family lore, it had appeared when he was three years old. According to legend, those marks only disappeared when you met your soulmate.

Carlos never took it seriously.

He had other priorities: winning races, reaching the top, keeping his place in Formula 1. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe in love… he just didn’t have room for it. Let alone for supernatural fairy tales.

But that was before Ferrari.
Before he met Charles Leclerc.

**Timeline: 2021**

At first, it was just professional respect. Charles was fast, focused, a bit reserved... but charismatic. Carlos watched him the way you watch a rival, until he realized it wasn’t that.

It was something else.

One afternoon in Maranello, sharing espresso after a sim session, Charles accidentally touched his arm. Nothing special. Just a light brush.

And Carlos’s mark burned.

It wasn’t pain. It was heat. A pull.

Carlos didn’t say a word. He just looked at him… and Charles, for a split second, seemed to understand.

But neither of them spoke.

Not that afternoon.
Not in the three years that followed.

Seasons passed, along with a thousand excuses not to face what they felt. Too much to lose. Too much at stake.

But there were moments.

Lingering looks after a bad pit stop. Hugs that lasted half a second too long. Congratulations with a smile full of something else.

Carlos started living for those moments.

Until Suzuka night came. And changed everything.

**Timeline: Suzuka, 2025**

Carlos was frustrated. A disastrous qualifying. P11. Constant rain. The hotel felt like a prison.

Then, a knock on the door.
It was Charles, soaked, his heartbeat on his lips.

"Can I come in?"

Carlos just nodded.

No words. Just charged silence. A closeness that burned. Charles sat beside him. Took his hand.

And then… the mark disappeared.

Carlos ran to the bathroom. Took off his shirt. Looked in the mirror.

Nothing. The spiral was gone.

Charles stepped in behind him, lifted his shirt.

His was gone too.

"Since when did you know?" Carlos murmured.

"For a long time. But I didn’t want to pressure you. I didn’t want you to feel it out of obligation."

Carlos looked into his eyes.
"And if I say I feel it now… would you believe me?"

Charles didn’t answer.

He kissed him.

The kiss was brutal. Restrained. Elastic. Like a spring held tight for years.

Carlos gave in. Let go. Charles undressed him with hunger but tenderness, kissing every inch of skin like it was sacred.

Carlos laid back on the bed. Vulnerable. Trembling. Wanting.

“Touch me,” he asked.
“I’m not letting go,” Charles promised.

It was slow, intimate, perfect. Charles prepared him with care. Carlos moaned under his touch, broken and soft whispers. When he finally took him, when he filled him completely, Carlos held on like the world was crumbling.

They were one.
They were soul.

And in the end, between sighs and fingers intertwined, Carlos cried. Not from sadness. From something deeper.

Truth. Love. Destiny.

**Timeline: The race**

Carlos started from P11. Charles, from the front row.
It was an intense, chaotic, emotional race. Carlos climbed to fourth. Charles stood on the podium, second.

When Charles came down, Carlos was waiting at the garage entrance. He hugged him without hesitation.

"Can you feel it?" Carlos whispered.
"Like never before," Charles replied, with a smile that stole his breath.

A week later, at a gala in Paris, the inevitable happened.
Charles was chatting animatedly with Max Verstappen, too close, laughing in a way Carlos knew too well. The way he looked at him. The way Max touched his arm when speaking.

Carlos said nothing.

Until Charles came back to his side, smiling.

“Did you miss me?”

Carlos took a sip from his glass, serious.

“Do you and Max always laugh like that, or only when you're flirting?”

Charles blinked.
“Excuse me?”

“Nothing. Just looked like you wanted to eat him alive.”

Charles stared at him, surprised… then smiled.

“Are you jealous, Sainz?”

“No.”

“Yes, you are,” Charles whispered, leaning in. “And I love it.”

Carlos turned away.
“It’s not funny. You don’t know what it was like seeing you with him.”

“I don’t need Max. I just need you.”

Charles grabbed his arm, pulled him to the car, and kissed him before Carlos could say another word.

“And tonight, I’m going to make you remember. Very well.”

Carlos didn’t say another word.

That night, Charles had him against the wall, the bed, the hotel desk. Tore moans from him that no one else had ever heard. Made him his with the passion of someone determined to erase every doubt.

Carlos screamed his name. Clung to him. Cried again. But this time, out of desire and surrender.

“You’re mine,” Charles whispered.
“Only yours.”

In the early morning, with trembling legs and a broken voice, Carlos kissed his chest.

“Sorry for the jealousy.”

“I’ve never liked you more,” Charles said with a victorious smile. “I’ve never felt more yours than I did tonight.”

**Timeline: One year later**

Carlos moved to Monaco. Not just anywhere. Into Charles’s home.

They lived between whispers and races, between laughter and passion. In public, they were teammates. In private, they were everything.

Sometimes, Carlos would touch his right shoulder blade, looking for the mark. It wasn’t there. He didn’t need it anymore.

“Do you realize?” he asked one night, holding Charles under the sheets.

“Realize what?”

“That even if the mark had never disappeared… I still would’ve chosen you.”

Charles smiled against his neck.

“And I would’ve chosen you. Always.”