Archive of Our Own

Charles stumbles over the threshold of his door at the same time as the first few rays of sunlight break through the windows of his flat. He tries to manoeuvre his way around the place with no regard whatsoever for the still humming life of Monte Carlo at dawn, hungover and tired as he is. Just like him, the city hasn’t gone to sleep yet, the oncoming morning just the after-life of the party.

It’s the start of the summer break of the 2021 season. Nothing and no one is holding him back from overindulging himself right now, at least for the moment. They’re supposed to rest and recharge, and Charles will take anything he can get at this point. 

With Pierre of all people as the only voice of reason drowned out somewhere in the back of his mind, the possibilities for bad decisions are limitless. His self-discipline has given up, and the bitter taste at the back of his throat is easy to wash away with an array of colourful shot glasses filled with all kinds of expensive liquor. 

Whatever he had tonight as a chaser for four tumblers of top-shelf, prime selection whiskey burned most of the shame out of his mind when it set his throat on fire, and most memories of the past few hours return to him as mere snapshots freshly developed in a darkroom.

He’s barely aware of his surroundings as he drags himself into the kitchen and downs two glasses of crystal-clear tap water. There, now future Charles will only hate him half as much. 

When he passes out in the unmade red sheets of his luxurious bed, it’s with both socks still on, the belt pulled half out of the loops of his pants and the top two buttons of his shirt undone. The blinds are drawn, and a mostly empty box of painkillers is lying on the mattress next to him, the valiant last stand of his fading consciousness. 

His phone rests on the nightstand, battery at 33%, but just as it lights up with a new notification, Charles finally drifts off to sleep, and he is out like a light for the next eleven hours.

*

He comes to with what initially seems like a semi-bearable headache, the uncomfortable sensation of his clothes from the previous day sticking to his body, and the urge to drink up an entire mountain reserve. 

Charles groans and presses his face into his pillow, somehow not quite ready to face the world at large. Whatever happened last night is not his problem yet, and he’d like to continue to exist in that state for a while.

Even in the relative dimness of his room, he squints instead of fully opening his eyes, and they fall on the box of painkillers he’s currently squishing with his right shoulder. 

Seems past Charles was feeling a bit more considerate than he usually does. 

He closes his eyes again in a desperate bid to fall back asleep, but his bladder complains, and his current condition makes him long for a nice, hot shower. Seems like there’s no way around it; he’ll have to get up. 

Although his bathroom is right next to his bedroom, the trip there feels like it’s taking aeons. The transition from lying on the bed to sitting upright to actually standing on his own two feet has to be the most astounding feat he’s pulled off within the last twenty-four hours, and the pounding in his head amplifies with every move he makes. 

When he turns on the bathroom light, pain shoots through him, and he presses his sensitive eyes shut, resting his head against the wall for a second. Light dizziness is tugging at him.

His body moves on autopilot, going through the motions until he’s finally inside the shower, his clothes left carelessly in a pile in front of the bathroom. Charles isn’t wholly sure how high he dosed the painkillers, but he does know that they take a while to kick in, and he dreads it, knowing that waiting for it will drag the suffering out needlessly.

The running water is a welcome sensation on his skin, and he leans back against the cold tiles and just relaxes for a couple of minutes, eyes closed, breathing as light and as even as possible, only focussing inward. Awareness creeps back into him slowly but surely, warring with the pounding pain in his head. Definitely a migraine.   

He raises his hands to his chest and stares down at his palms as the water continues to pour. It splashes off of them onto the walls, the pressure turned up as high as it will go. Although it hurts like fuck, his head is empty—or perhaps it’s stuffed so full of cotton that there’s no room for thoughts anymore. Either way, he cannot really focus on anything, the train of thought gone as soon as he feels like he could grasp onto it. 

If he wants to actually wash his hair, he’ll have to pick up the shampoo bottle that he seems to have knocked to the floor at some point, but even considering bowing down that far has bile rising up in his throat. 

There are bruises on his hips, he realises as he keeps staring downwards. Dark, ugly, finger-shaped bruises, nicely spread out. Whoever left them had bigger hands than Charles, probably pushed him around—he probably let himself get pushed around. Well then. 

At least he isn’t sore, so whatever happened last night can’t possibly have gotten too far out of control, although the bruises are a bad sign. Charles swallows around the rising unease crawling up his throat, but it’s too much, and panic constricts his airways for a second. He chokes and spits and swallows a mouthful of water instead. 

With the routine of someone who is far too used to regretting his past decisions, Charles forces the anxiety down, stares unseeing at white square tiles until everything begins to swim in front of his eyes, and he has to blink. The shower is still going. 

When he closes his eyes again, bits and pieces from the night before start to manifest in his consciousness, short and fragmented. 

Loud, vaguely familiar music he can’t completely nail down, the fleeting taste of alcohol on his tongue, the burning in his throat. Hot, rough touches from a firm grip that tries, again and again, to pin him down. Short, bitten-off English words in his ears as he laughs and laughs and lets himself be backed into a corner. 

God, but he’d needed it badly. 

Shame floods him retroactively and paints his cheeks red at the memories, recognises the bruises as marks left by a complete stranger, some rowdy American tourist with overeager hands who'd been enamoured by Charles' accent. They’d made out in one of the bathroom stalls at the party venue, the guy had given him a pretty sloppy blowjob, and Charles had let him fuck his bare thighs in return, can still hear his own voice in his head as he moans and pleads and presses back into the hands holding him down. 

It makes other memories resurface, ones that he’s tried to drown over and over again because with them comes an entirely different kind of ache. They replay in his mind like they’re just as fresh as the impressions from the night before. 

Seb kissing intimate French syllables off his lips like he is starving for them, licking into Charles’ mouth until Charles loses the ability to verbalise entirely, reduced to nothing but raw, animalistic noises filled with undisguised want.

Charles sinks to the floor, hands falling uselessly to his sides, and continues to let the shower soak him. He’s pretty damn sure he called the guy Seb when he came, and that’s. That’s…

Stupid, you are so fucking stupid. 

Luckily, he manages to suppress the urge to bury his hands in his hair and pull until it hurts, seeing as he’s already in so much pain that he’s barely functioning. His face is so very wet, and his heart is so very empty. 

One thing the pain could be good for, at least (look at the bride side, Charles!), is keeping unwanted thoughts out. There really is no need to think about Seb now—Sebastian, he corrects himself—or ever again for that matter. Sebastian is gone and has been for a while now. Took his helmet off one last time and walked out of Charles’ life into the sunset, or into the mountains, or whatever. 

Only Charles’ idiotic, naive, clingy tendencies struggle to acknowledge that, his big dumb squishy heart refusing to give up when there so obviously never was anything to give up on because he somehow committed the cardinal mistake of falling in love with Seb—Sebastian. 

Apparently, it remains intent on torturing him even now, but then there is the unbearable throbbing pain in his head, and suddenly he has to scramble out of the shower to make it to the toilet in time. 

There is water all over the floor, the shower still on, but Charles doesn’t care. He’s kneeling, hugging the porcelain bowl with the desperation of a long-lost lover and heaves, emptying his stomach of whatever contents there might have been inside it. More pain shoots through him, causing him to throw up again even more violently.

It continues on until there is nothing left but bile, leaving Charles a naked, whimpering mess on the floor, writhing in agony. But, at last, the pain is beginning to subside, softening out around the edges. 

He crawls back into the shower, and through sheer determination, he manages to get back on his feet, shampoo bottle in hand.

For a tiny moment, he feels both spitefully victorious and endlessly pathetic, the notions balancing each other out perfectly, before he finally gets a grip on whatever the fuck is going on in his brain and returns his focus to the arduous task of cleaning himself up. 

*

Freshly showered and with his teeth clean from brushing them twice, Charles rummages through his wardrobe until he comes up with a pair of shorts and an old tank top—soft-worn and infinitely comfortable. 

He’s not going out again tonight, though his headache has been reduced to a low hum at the top of his spine. For better or worse, Charles does know his limits. 

After he finishes dressing himself, he refills his glass with more water and retreats to the living room, only to collapse onto his couch. It’s big—certainly the centrepiece of the whole room, not that Charles knows much at all about interior design—with a plush, bright red velvet upholstery. 

The thing had cost him a fortune, but Charles hadn’t minded; he’d fallen in love with it instantly. His friends, however, are still very divided on it. Pierre, for example, fucking hates it and feels the need to restate this every time he sinks into it, while Lando dropped onto it face-first and refused to get up again the last time he came by to visit. Seb had never said where he stood on it, but the fact that he hadn’t complained when a half-naked Charles had pushed him down onto the couch and crawled into his lap—yeah. 

Charles fishes for the remote and turns on the TV. It doesn’t take him long to pull up the Netflix menu, and he settles on a random French drama, just to have the language drone on comfortingly in the background. Then he closes his eyes again and tries to relax, tries to focus inward and listen to his body, intent on following Alex’s tips on meditation. 

He doesn’t last long. His phone buzzes, low on battery, and he pulls the offending device from his shorts’ back pocket, all attempts at inner peace shattered. 

According to his screen, he has a total of eighty-seven unread notifications from a variety of apps, and at least sixty-three of them are WhatsApp messages. Thankfully, most of them turn out to be from group chats, and he skims through them quickly, relieved that they don’t really require him to respond. 

Pierre has sent him links to some obscure Italian metal band he’d no doubt “uncovered” during one of his energy drink-fuelled YouTube deep-dives. George wants to know whether Charles is down for some COD in the next couple of days, and Lando has sent him no less than six deep-fried, ironic Cars 2 memes. Nothing out of the ordinary. 

He ignores Lando, asks George about the following afternoon (maybe around 4?), and inquires as to the state of Pierre’s ears, which earns him an instant eye roll emoji.  

When he navigates back to the overview, seven unread messages from Daniel catch his eye. They’re on good terms but not that close—more than coworkers but less than friends—so it’s not like they text very often. Curiosity piqued, Charles opens the message thread.

Hi mate

I saw u at the dock party last night

U looked pretty smashed 

Just wanted to check in + see if things are fine

Did u make it home okay

Charles?????

Heyyy

He stares down at his phone, momentarily stumped. 

What the fuck?

What the fuck???

Neither his head nor his stomach are big fans of this unexpected development, and he feels a sudden urge to retreat back to the bathroom. Only his extensive experience in dealing with hangovers keeps him from doing so, keeps him rooted to the spot, frozen in shock. 

So, Daniel was present at the party last night. Charles hadn't seen him there, but if Daniel had seen him, there is an equally high chance he'd seen Charles hang out with his handsy American stranger. And Daniel is friends with Seb—Sebastian, good mates, even, so he might tell him about it. Maybe. If Charles’ luck doesn’t hold up. If Daniel somehow thinks that Sebastian still cares. Mick and Lewis sure seem to think so.

Of course, he should have been more careful. Some part in the back of his brain is dimly aware of the fact that he’s not the only F1 driver who lives in Monaco, far from it. And the location had been exclusive, sure, but—

No, there are no good arguments to be made in his case. Just another stupid mistake. They’ve been getting more and more common. 

Almost like there’s a pattern. 

Really, he should be glad that it was Daniel who saw him. There are quite a few people in the paddock who Charles knows would unquestionably back others up without anybody needing to ask for it, and Daniel is definitely one of them. Seb was, too, before he left.

Charles’ heart is beating so hard it’s almost painful. He doesn’t remember the last time he’s been this aware of its physical existence. Even though the room temperature has to be in the middle twenties, his fingers are icicles as he drags them over the small, black letters on the screen. 

Eventually, he settles for a quick reply, a simple 

i am ok thanks for looking out for me 

his finger hovering over the ‘send’ button for a small eternity before he presses it. Then he opens up his message thread with Sebastian and stares at it. Nothing. 

Nothing yet, anyway.

They barely text. Sebastian did for a while after he’d gone, had texted him with some degree of frequency, even, but bar for one notable exception, Charles' replies had always been sparse and clinical, the words he’d deleted saying far more than the ones he’d ended up sending. 

Their exchanges had become rarer and rarer, and Charles almost enjoys torturing himself whenever Seb does text, thinks about the most meaningless replies possible, so maybe Seb will finally stop caring, and Charles can get over him.

i miss you 

i want to see you 

i want to be with you 

there shouldn't be any space between us 

i've never felt like this about anyone

He hadn't sent any of those texts.

seb i want to hold on so much that it scares me

none of this is right without you 

i want you to touch me 

make me feel it 

let me be yours

He hadn’t sent those either.

What he messages instead—if he replies at all—are short phrases and cheap, formulaic platitudes. 

Thanks for asking. I am fine. I hope things are going well for you.

Best wishes. 

It's like he's thanking a distant great-uncle for an impersonal birthday gift, not trying to keep his distance from the man he's miserably in love with. 

*

By the time he calms down somewhat, Lando has sent him another four memes, all Spongebob this time.

***

Charles had liked Sebastian, the person before he ever met Sebastian, the driver (Sebastian, the competitor, the rival), and became intimidated by the concept of him as a teammate. He was friendly and fair towards the younger drivers off-track, offered advice and helped out when he could, a good-natured older brother type. It had felt a little overprotective at times, but Charles had never particularly minded that (maybe enjoyed it, even).

There were a few years of casual acquaintanceship that preceded what they would develop into, later on, a few years of innocent admiration on Charles’ side and what he supposed must have been amused indulgence on Sebastian’s. 

He’d crushed on Sebastian then, too, had tried to fight awkward blushes and bright smiles whenever Sebastian would pay attention to him, had greedily devoured every tiny crumb of interaction. A younger, far more naive version of him had thought that the full extent of his attraction, had thought this far and no further, had thought this is fine, I can toe this line. 

Oh, how wrong he had been. There would always be more space in the hollows of his chest cavity for Sebastian, for the way his touches, looks, and words made Charles feel. But he hadn’t known that then.

*

“Charles Leclerc,” Sebastian smirks at him, this being far from their first encounter, so he is very well aware of who Charles is—but this is new ground, they are teammates now—and then he has the audacity to add a cheeky “bonjour.” 

It's unfair how good Charles' name sounds falling from Sebastian's lips; the French pronunciation barely lets his German accent shine through, almost like he’s practised this, but it’s still there, still noticeable. Charles wants to hear it again and again, wants to record it so he can listen to it whenever he likes. 

“Sebastian Vettel,” Charles acknowledges, answering smile tugging on his lips in a challenge.

“Seb,” Sebastian corrects him, gentle yet insistent, blue eyes filled with poorly-hidden curiosity.

“No nicknames for me, please,” Charles tells him, and Sebastian—no, Seb shrugs gamely and doesn’t complain.

*

In the beginning, Charles tries so hard to get over his dumb crush and dislike Seb instead. 

Not out of any particularly scandalous reason, he just figures it'll be easier with a cold and reserved teammate, thinks it could help keep their relationship on- and off-track separate. 

Also, Seb is rather open about missing Kimi, and Charles hates to admit it to himself, but that hurts. It stings like a bitch, actually. 

So he tries to become distant and aloof, making a genuine attempt at shoving all of his preconceived notions about Seb aside. A losing battle and part of a war he dearly wishes now they could have both come out victorious. 

Hindsight and Charles are mortal enemies.

*

Trouble is, Seb makes it borderline impossible to hate him. He's so effortlessly charming and likeable, so genuine and kind and attentive, so smart with both his words and his actions. Charles feels drawn in almost immediately, just like roughly 80% of the remaining paddock population. 

Seb's charm is utterly different to his own; Charles realises that pretty early on. Charles is liked because he is young and successful and handsome and destined to be here, the promise of a fated hero. 

Many of the things people see in him are what they project onto him, a mere idea, while Seb is recognised precisely for who he is, nothing more and nothing less. Above everything else, people respect his deep passion for the sport, something so palpable and contagious it has them listen to his stories and ideas with rapt attention whenever he feels like sharing them, which is often.

Charles remembers fiercely wanting all of that for himself and hoping to hell that it won't take multiple WDCs for him to reach that point. And then Seb had gone and offered it to him on a silver platter. 

Almost right from the start of their tenure as teammates, Seb sees and accepts Charles as exactly what he is, a fellow racer, a teammate and colleague off-track, a competitor on it. He has zero expectations or demands where Charles is concerned beyond him acting like a decent person; he’s supportive and caring, blunt and honest, fair in his advice, but never mean.

Charles feels stupid around Sebastian constantly, helplessly out of his depth, but Seb never does that intentionally. Seb doesn't make him feel stupid.

They're two people in each other's orbit, slowly gravitating towards each other.

Their relationship on-track is turbulent, contentious, mercurial. Off-track, they are fine, civil, maybe even cordial.

Until.

*

The door to Sebastian’s motorhome is open, so Charles doesn’t bother knocking. He’s just got a quick question about a comment one of the engineers had made during debriefing; he’s not going to bother Seb for long. Except. 

Charles walks in on Seb changing, and he just stops and stares. His racing suit hangs over one of the seats, lovingly arranged instead of carelessly thrown, and he’s down to the white fireproofs, working on getting his legs out of them. Oh.

Seb's lean and toned, not as sculpted as some of the other drivers, but he looks good, he looks healthy, and Charles feels himself blush. He traces the lines of his back muscles with his eyes and gulps, trying to will down the surge of heat crawling up his spine.

When Seb turns around and catches him staring, meets his eyes and doesn't look away, even continues to undress, Charles takes it as implicit permission to look, so he stays, and doesn't move an inch.

“I’m not going to say it,” Seb begins, laughter in his voice, “because I refuse to make a clichée come to life, but I want you to know that I’m very much thinking it.”

Charles can feel his blush spread, can feel it creep down his neck to his chest, thankfully covered up by the Ferrari shirt he’s wearing. Now there’s a red that will draw both looks and attention.

“I do like what I see,” he says, a little daring. His excellent mood instils confidence where there was none before. 

Sebastian’s full-belly laughing, eyes filled with mirth, and by all rights, it should be goofy—it’s not. He’s completely naked now, and Charles rakes his eyes over the pale expanse of skin, the dark smattering of chest hair, the way Sebastian is clearly not unaffected by the proceedings and licks his lips. His dick is half-hard in his jeans. 

“Can I—” fuck, “may I touch you?” Suddenly, he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, shoves them into his pockets to keep them still, digs his thumbnails into the rough fabric.

“So polite. Yeah, sure, come on.” 

It’s with startling clarity that Charles realises: Seb has done this before. Everything about him seems comfortable and relaxed; from his stance to the way he’s utterly unashamed about his body, there is no trace of uneasiness. The realisation is as exciting as it is unexpected. 

Charles walks towards Seb with carefully measured steps. What can’t be more than a two-metre gap feels like a chasm as he breaches it. When he reaches out with his right hand, he’s consciously aware that it’s trembling slightly. And it’s no—he’s not inexperienced, okay, not with men and definitely not with sex, but this is Seb, and he’s had fantasies—

This, reality—it’s better. 

Seb’s skin is so warm, and when he leans into the touch, Charles lets out a breath he didn’t realise he had been holding. His right hand trails along Seb’s jaw, mapping its contour, and travels down his throat to his neck, the pressure never more than light and fleeting, while his left is splayed on Seb’s chest, thumb playing with the hair, softly rubbing up and down. 

Charles will steal this moment of tenderness and jealously guard it, lock it away to re-examine later, over and over. 

He knows Seb is watching him and tries to give nothing away, but his face is still hot, and the bulge in his jeans is a dead giveaway if there ever was one. God, he’s so thirsty for this, his mouth is dry, and he has to wet his lips again. 

Then Sebastian is pulling him in and kissing him, no trace of hesitation whatsoever as he chases Charles’ tongue with his own, not overly careful and not too rough. The kiss is perfect, so Charles melts into it, lets Seb fit their lips together however he likes, leaves him to set the pace. 

One of them moans, and Charles is so out of it that he doesn’t know whether it was him or Seb, but then Seb shoves him up against the wall of his motorhome and steps between his legs, and Charles just goes along with it. This time it’s definitely Sebastian who moans, and the sound chases through him like an electrical current, has him moaning in answer. 

“I want you,” Seb says, voice low, pressing himself along Charles’ front and making it abundantly clear just how much. 

Charles can feel the hardness of his dick and decides that he needs to see for himself, so he looks down. The sight of Seb’s erection combined with the sensation of his breath on Charles’ lips and his clever hands under Charles’ shirt, along with the thought that’s all for me, has Charles’ knees weak. Seb looks so good like this; it’s undoing things in Charles’ brain. 

“You can have me,” Charles whispers and buries his face in Sebastian’s neck. He smells like sweat and motor oil still, like he’s part of the track’s asphalt, and it is part of him. It’s a good mix that makes Charles feel alive, like he’s out there racing, his car under him, engine roaring loud and powerful. You can take me.

“Are you sure?” He’s not teasing as he’s trying to get Charles to meet his eyes, all sweet earnestness, so Charles grants him that, looks up even though he wants to hide how hard he’s aching for this. 

“Yes, please. I want—just touch me. Please.”

After that, removing the barrier of Charles’ clothing is a matter of efficiency, and Sebastian is highly efficient. In mere seconds, his belt is hanging open, and his jeans and boxer briefs have been shoved down enough to let Seb get a good grip on his dick. Just a little light teasing, nothing tight, nothing concrete, and yet.  

“Oh God, yes, that’s—” good, perfect, amazing, his brain supplies, but he’s biting down hard to hold back a groan as he watches Seb lick his palm, shiny and wet, and then close his hand around both of their dicks so he can get them off together. 

Charles closes his eyes, content to enjoy the sensation, holding onto Seb with both hands like he cannot bear to let go, one more point of connection between them, like it’s still not enough. 

“Kiss me,” Seb pants against his lips, and so Charles does because who is he to deny Seb anything right now? There’s so much friction that Charles thinks he will go insane with it. Sebastian is jerking them both off and fucking his mouth with his tongue at the same time, and Charles has never wanted to come simultaneously more and less in his entire life. 

This moment isn’t allowed to stop; it needs to go on forever, the two of them in their small corner of privacy and absolute, intense intimacy. 

But Seb is too good at this, his grip just right, the speed and rhythm immaculate, and the need for release is building way too fast for Charles’ taste. Soon enough, he spills all over both of them, orgasm wrenched from him like Sebastian’s name from his lips, and Seb follows soon after, making a desperate noise in the back of his throat that Charles is eager to taste. He presses their mouths together again, greedily helping himself to another kiss. 

Seb’s stubble feels rough where it rubs against his skin, and a manic sort of energy overcomes him at the realisation that a small part of him hopes he'll get visible spots of beard burn from this. 

They’re looking at each other in the warm shine of the ceiling light, both panting and flushed, and then Seb smiles, broad and genuine, with his entire face. Charles’ answering smile feels shy and private in comparison. 

“I would like,” Charles starts as Seb goes about getting them cleaned up, shocking himself with his sudden bravado, “to do this again sometime.”

This could be a beginning—the start of something, anything. 

Sebastian furrows his expressive brows, expression contemplative. “You mean like a no–strings–attached, teammates–with–benefits situation, or—”

“Yes, yes, like that,” Charles agrees and makes an affirmative hand gesture, too scared that he’s going to misspeak and push something on Seb that neither of them is prepared to deal with. Whatever room Seb occupies in his heart is too big for words spoken in this tiny a space, and it’s too early anyway. 

No shot Sebastian reciprocates his feelings, no fucking way in hell.  

And clearly, he still has concerns about all of this because— 

“Are you sure,” he says, nervous tongue wetting his lips but meeting Charles' gaze head-on, steadfast, as always, “that this is worth it for you? It could all turn ugly really easily, really quickly. I mean, we're very public figures, we're colleagues, I'm so much older than you and—”

Charles silences him by gently touching his index finger to Sebastian's lips and cocking his head, giving him his very best bedroom eyes. 

“You don't understand. I'm easy,” he says, grinning wide and confident, a lot more than he feels, ignoring the first part of Sebastian's questions entirely. Jesus Christ, he wants it bad.

Sebastian chuckles and shakes his head in wonder. “There is absolutely nothing easy about you, Charles Leclerc,” he counters without accusation, voice impossibly fond and almost too soft for a stubborn, confident man like him. 

And Charles basks in it, wants to kiss the correct French pronunciation of his name out of Sebastian's mouth. So he does.

*

Charles is the one who starts it, an irony in itself because he is also the one who ultimately ends it. 

Sebastian had gone along like he was looking for clues, always game to be part of whatever inane disaster Charles would come up with. 

He'd been so ready and willing that just remembering it makes Charles' head spin.

*

They continue on with it for a while with no fundamental changes to the status quo. Both of them are racers first, people second, they live and breathe Ferrari and the competition and all that comes with it. 

The season’s highs and lows are taking them on a wild roller coaster, although, in Charles’ eyes, the constant up and down is still preferable to the slow death and irrelevance of fruitless mediocrity. 

He has his fair share of altercations, those with Seb on the forefront of his mind, but all in all, Charles is head–over–heels for his job, his heart beating faster every race week, almost like it craves the speed and adrenaline of the chase just as much as Charles does. 

The media makes them out to be mortal enemies, always at each other’s throats over every minor issue, and blows up small things people say in passing into bloated front-page stories. 

If all of it were true, Charles thinks privately in his own head, still laughing hysterically at the concept of him and Seb just ‘holding hands’—a comment he knows was made specifically for his benefit—he and Sebastian would probably have a lot more hate-sex than they currently do—which is none, at least on the hate front. 

Ferrari has them do small things off-track, publicity events, PR videos, sponsor stuff, and Charles is glad for every second he gets to spend in Seb’s company, even if the content feels forced and awkward at times. 

This is due mainly to Seb’s incredible gift of finding good ways around the stilted parts and his open affection where Charles is concerned. And if Charles has to lose another few stupid challenges that turn ridiculously competitive simply because they just can’t stop themselves from making them so, he’s not going to have many complaints. 

There is a mature aspect to Sebastian, something that lives between his wildly competitive nature, his terrible jokes, and his bold flirting—and Charles revels in unravelling it, enjoys it when Sebastian shows him that side of himself, just as natural and earnest as the louder parts of him, but so much more captivating. 

Maybe he thinks that people will like him more, tolerate him more when he makes them laugh and grumble and shake their heads in good-natured annoyance, but Charles doesn’t care about that. He wants to be the focus of all parts of Sebastian, always, wants him whole, with every human flaw. 

Show me, he begs, silently, unspoken. Show me all of it.

*

There are hotel bars and hotel rooms, parties and after-parties, short moments in the garage and around the track, and there’s Sebastian’s motorhome. When they need a place, they can always find one. 

It becomes second nature to look for stolen spaces, the lived convenience of a shared existence. 

During their first summer break, Sebastian invites Charles over to his place in Maranello, and they play chess, drink over-expensive whiskey, and fuck in the kitchen, licking the alcohol out of each other’s mouths. 

He remembers being dizzy with joy, high on the immediacy of it, on Sebastian’s presence and the skin–on–skin contact. 

*

Fleetwood Mac’s Seven Wonders starts playing on the radio while they're sitting in Seb's road car, driving through Maranello, warm wind coming in through the half-open windows and blowing through their hair. 

Seb is singing along quietly, as though he doesn't want to bother Charles. Like there's even a remote chance left that Charles could find any aspect of him bothersome. Like Charles isn't beating himself up on the inside trying to get over this pathetic crush he still harbours. Not that it’s just a crush anymore, oh no, he is so far past that it’s not even funny. 

Instead of looking for appropriate words to wrap his feelings into, all neat and tied-up with a bow on top, Charles asks him to turn the music up. Sebastian smiles around his sunglasses, wide and genuine—Charles can see it in the lines of his face—and grants the request.

Both of them hum along in simple harmony, and Charles wishes the road would open up and stretch on forever as the Italian countryside rushes by in splashes of vivid colour.

It remains one of his favourite memories. 

*

Usually, German isn't a language Charles enjoys listening to (and attempting to speak it is even worse), but somehow, it's different when it's Seb. 

Waking up to Sebastian on the phone in his hotel room, a blanket securely wrapped around Charles, who is feeling lazy and well-rested, there is an air of comfort to it, to this strange tongue with its long words and sudden stops. 

It always sounds a little harsh to him, but he learns to differentiate Seb's mood by his tone, learns to tell apart when he's talking to Britta (Alles klar, danke und bis später) and when he's talking to family (Bis bald, hab' euch lieb). 

Charles asks him about words sometimes (the obvious ones like “danke” and “bitte” are easy to pick up), learns about familial ways to say “I love you”, the versatility of ’ach’, ‘tja’, and ‘doch’, and the nuances of goodbyes.

He loves listening to Seb swear, imitates him when the words are simple (Scheiße) and snickers quietly to himself when he knows Seb uses colourful expletives he can only recognise by tone alone (Hast du den Arsch offen, oder was?).

Sebastian's French is a lot better than Charles’ German—which, to be fair, isn't saying much, but—he tries. The pronunciation is the biggest hurdle. Charles tries to be helpful, but it's not really working out because he spends a lot of the time thinking about kissing him instead. 

Since Sebastian isn't much of a reader, he has to get more creative when it comes to honing his skills, and Charles feels a surge of warm affection every time he catches him watching French thrillers with subtitles on Netflix.

Curled up with Seb, arms wrapped around his chest and his face buried in the crook of his neck at night, he whispers sweet nothings into his ear. They’re small, inconsequential bites, no grand confessions that Seb could feasibly read his true emotions out of, but he enjoys how Seb reacts to his voice all the same. 

*

Neither of them ever addresses this, but nothing about what they are doing feels casual. 

Not the falling asleep and waking up together, not the kisses (long and short, light and heavy, sweet and passionate), or the cuddling. 

Definitely not how Sebastian is always there to catch Charles when he’s in a downward spiral, how he seems to know instinctively what he needs; words of support, encouragement, commiseration, alone time, or to be taken out of his head entirely with a few strategic touches. 

They do not talk about it, and retroactively speaking, they really should have. It would have been good to talk about limits, boundaries. Would have been good to care about ramifications other than the effect a lack of discretion might have. Probably. 

Charles will kick hindsight’s ass into next week at some point. 

If there is one thing he truly excels at, both on- and off-track, it’s blaming himself. 

Even though Sebastian carries some of the guilt here, Charles is the one who walked into all this with a pre-existing emotional attachment when he ought to have known better. 

But he’d been starved for touch and affection, for Seb’s explicit approval, and Sebastian had been all too ready to provide him with those. 

He thinks about it a lot, thinks about indulging a little too much in Sebastian's lack of personal space, his uncomplicated warmth, his willingness to be the more experienced teammate to lean on. 

It’s not Sebastian’s fault that by that point, Charles had already been more than a little overinvested and had then gone on to entirely lose himself in the process of learning Sebastian's body and exploring his own pleasures.

In his opinion, he carries most of the blame here. At least if anyone’s assigning it. 

*

“Something about you is off today,” Pierre remarks as he carefully steers his virtual F1 car over the finish line to secure second place in Albert Park.

They’re playing the latest iteration of F1. 

Charles prefers sports games over shooters, loves his racing games and his FIFA over whatever the current craze is, be it COD or Battlefield or your flavour–of–the–moment battle royale. 

He's better at them, too, can't compare in skill to die-hard shooter fans like Pierre or George, who have it in them to top the occasional scoreboard.

“Yeah, Charles, you’re awfully chipper.” Lando is still battling it out with George over third place, but if there is one thing that Charles has learnt about him, it is that Lando will always find time and opportunity to make his comments. Lando really does love talking. 

“Mate, what does that even mean?” He asks, leaning back. Winning their last three races has given him a short high of feeling untouchable, even if the victories have no bearing on anything besides bragging rights in the group chat. 

“It means,” George says, edging out Lando just so to take P3, “that you are way too goddamn happy. Happier than usual, anyway.”

Charles snorts into his headset and watches the screen announce Alex’s DNF. “Well, I am winning.”

“It’s not that. Yeah, you are being smug, but this is different. You got laid recently?”

The memory of waking up in Seb’s flat earlier this morning makes him flush, and he’s glad they can’t see his face right now. Seb had made breakfast for both of them, fried egg and toast with some fresh produce. He’d kissed Charles goodbye. 

“I’m—uh, I. What does that have to do with anything?” Smooth, Leclerc. His friends don’t know anything about his arrangement with Seb, not even Pierre. 

“Bingo,” Alex says. “So, is it like a one-time thing or are you in it for the long haul?”

“And, more importantly,” George says, as he’s setting up the next lobby, seemingly torn between Nürburgring, Silverstone, and Spa-Francorchamps, and then ultimately settling on Spa, “is she hot?”

“I’m sorry, have you seen my man Charles? Of course, she’s hot,” Lando throws in, fake-offended on Charles’ behalf. 

He doesn’t want to have this talk because he has no clue how to go about it. Lying to his friends is an unattractive option, but so is telling the truth when he doesn’t know how to talk about Seb and him, doesn’t technically have the right to mention private things about Seb in the first place. 

Pierre remains silent, and it strikes Charles that he might be taking this the wrong way. 

Usually, they share almost anything, no matter how stupid and insignificant, and now Charles has clearly locked him out of something that looks like it could play a relatively significant part in his life. Hurting Pierre was never his intention; it’s just—

Secrets. Keeping them tends to have undesired consequences. And this isn’t solely Charles’ secret to tell. 

“You see, I met this cute Italian girl at my favourite local gelateria.” He tries it on for size, the words struggling to fit together in his brain, hoping, praying that they’ll give him a pass for being as vague as possible. His story is so awfully bland; they just have to buy it. The flash of shame is hot and sick in his gut. 

Except for Pierre, none of them even know that he’s bi. 

“So you’re still in Maranello?” Pierre finally asks, “I thought you’d gone home already?” 

That had been the plan. Originally. Then Seb had invited him over for dinner, and just like that, Charles had forgotten everything about packing, had managed to cancel his flight just in time. 

“Yeah. My flight is tomorrow morning. I was going to leave, but, uhh. Something came up.” 

“Clearly.” Lando and George giggle, very much caught up in the spirit of teasing a good friend over what sounds like a promising night. 

“So, was it your French accent that drew her in? The toned physique? Or was it the stubble?” Alex asks, listing what he seems to think of as Charles’ most attractive attributes. 

“No, it must have been the soulful eyes. Or maybe she wanted the street cred that comes with banging Ferrari’s hot new prince. If she knew who you were, that is.”

“She knew,” Charles offers, and it’s the only truth he’s told so far. Half-truth. Whatever. 

He thinks about Sebastian smiling at him over an excellent plate of home-cooked risotto. About the softness of the bedsheets and how good Seb had felt, moving inside of him. How everything had smelled like summer as they slept with the windows wide open, sweat drying on their skin. 

“Was she worth missing your flight over?” Pierre sounds…frustratingly neutral. 

If he says yes, they won’t shut up about this. If he says no, they won’t believe him. Terrific. 

“The sex definitely was,” is what he settles on, and it earns him the laughs he’d banked on. Charles laughs along, remembers being desperately, achingly hard and begging to get fucked. 

“Congrats, man,” Alex says, appreciatively, like Charles just scored a championship-defining victory. 

When they finally go back to racing and lose interest in Charles’ fictional fuck with his nameless Italian belle, he sighs in relief and opens his phone. 

i need to talk to you 

alone

He texts Pierre. And Sebastian might not be okay with this (it’s not like they set any rules), but his dishonesty makes him feel unwell; he wants to spit up every single lie and then maybe drown the rest of them in alcohol. 

He’s so fucking overwhelmed by all of this, by this fragile, unbalanced happiness he’s found with Sebastian, is so fucking afraid of ruining it somehow. And he doesn’t want to be alone with it anymore. 

You sounded fine earlier

Is everything alright?

Typical Pierre—the second he realises that something is up with Charles, he brushes past any and all fights or disagreements between them to be by his side. 

Charles is aware that Pierre forgives too fast and too easily where he is concerned and has no idea what he ever did to deserve that, but he’s so, so grateful for it. Especially right now.

can you call?

Sure, right after this

*

It takes them another half hour to leave the lobby and ditch the other three, during which Charles’ in-game results see a visible decline. His heart’s not in it anymore, and in his head, he’s off somewhere completely different. 

When Pierre calls him, the wave of relief coursing through his body is so visceral it almost causes a physical reaction. Charles exhales and picks up.

“Charles? What’s going on? You have me worried.” The comfort he takes in the certainty that Pierre loves him is immense. 

“I just wanted you to know that…there was no girl in Maranello.” Coming clean about lying is topping his priority list at the moment, so it’s as good a place to start as any. 

Pierre goes silent, and the connection fills with slight static. Then he hums, thoughtful. 

“No girl, but there was someone else, non? Your reaction did give that much away.”

Charles stares down at his hands. He’s glad Pierre can’t see him, can’t hear his anxious heart beating. There’s no looking where you leap with them, and there never has been. 

It’s all or nothing. He owes Pierre that much. 

“Yeah, there was…I’ve been seeing—no, I’ve been sleeping with another driver.” Now it’s out there, no take-backs. 

Charles’ hands are shaking. He walks to the kitchen and pours himself a mug of vintage red, a gift from his mother for making the Ferrari line-up. A fine glass would be more befitting, but he doesn’t have the patience for that. Time for some liquid courage. 

Although Charles brought the phone along with him, Pierre hasn’t said a single word since Charles’ confession. Upon Charles’ return to his room, he drops the device onto the bed and takes a large gulp of wine. It’ll do. 

“Are you drinking?” Pierre finally asks, exasperated. 

“Like I’m supposed to believe you didn’t just mute me to take a smoke break?” Coping is all about vices and virtues. They picked up on that rather quickly. Between the two of them, there is enough stress and grief to fuel a whole boatload of bad habits.

“Fair.” Then: “It’s Seb, isn’t it.” More of a statement than a question. 

“Yes.” While it’s only one word, a simple confirmation, it feels like an entire soliloquy, exposing his soul. Months of emotional repression in a lone syllable. He’s exhausted. 

But Pierre will understand—he always does. 

A sigh, still exasperated, but fondly this time. “Are you two dating?”

Charles laughs, short and sharp. “I wish.”

“So, just fucking?” Concise and to the point. 

“Yes, he’s—it’s nice. Great way to decompress and work off tension.”

“And you’re in love with him.” Oh. Oh no. 

“I’m not, okay, Pierre? I’m not in love with him! The sex is casual, okay, we hang out—”

“You ‘hang out’?” 

Charles can hear the disdainful quotation marks around it. Pierre sounds agitated, annoyed. Not angry, though; he’s not quite there yet.  

“I have no idea whether you’re trying to convince yourself or me with that shitty attempt at a lie, and to be honest, it doesn’t even matter. You’ve only been crushing on Seb for like, what, years now? And I was there, remember? I watched it get worse. ‘Hang out’? Give me a fucking break.”

The wine really is decent. Pity, it won’t get him drunk fast enough. He gives up. Whatever argument his best friend would doubtlessly drag him into over this won’t be worth it. Pierre can and will talk for hours. 

“What if I was? In love with Seb, I mean,” Charles asks, tightens his grip on the mug at the hypothetical, the speculative nature of it all. There’s no question about what’s in his heart. He just doesn’t want to look there. 

“Well, have you tried talking to him about it? Maybe he’d be down for something more serious too. I never caught any player vibes from him, but you’d know better than me.”

Charles flashes back to that first night, the realisation that Seb had definitely fucked someone in the circuit before. How easy he’d made it seem. 

“I don’t think he’s looking for a serious commitment in all this,” he sighs, biting his lip. The mug is empty, and he didn’t bring the bottle. Time to track back to the kitchen. 

A rush of hopelessness overcomes him. “Just…I don’t know, Pierre…be there for me when I inevitably end up overthinking and self-sabotaging myself into a huge, stupid mess.” 

“Make a backup plan that involves more than a shopping trip to your local liquor store, and you have yourself a deal,” Pierre’s voice has gone all gentle now, “and who knows? Maybe it’ll all work out. Your tenacity tends to get you where you want to be, in the end, Mr Ferrari driver.”

*

Later, past midnight, when he’s alone with his thoughts and drunk enough that it seems like a good idea, Charles unlocks his phone again, taps the screen until it brings up his message thread with Seb. 

The previous texts are little more than a day old, confirming their dinner plans. 

He swallows all caution (and it goes down easy with another sip of wine), then begins typing. 

hi sebs

you should com

come visit me in monaco 

next weeek

if you ar e free that is

we can fuck on my couch

it’s red

Since it’s so deep into the night, he doesn’t expect an immediate reply. Actually, he’s not sure he expects one at all. His sense of judgement is all shot to shit. 

Charles, hey. You’re still up? What about your beauty sleep? Aren’t you flying home today?

Charles drops his phone in shock, but even in his drunken state, his reaction time is still solid, so he manages to save it at the last second. Then he stares at it for two minutes straight, only noticing that he stopped breathing when his body insists that he do. 

i dont want to sleep 

yet 

my fly is in 7 hours

*flight

fuck 

It takes all of his remaining self-control to ignore the beauty sleep comment and not go fishing for compliments. Seb finds him attractive, that much he knows.  

Did you drink? You should sleep it off.

Travelling only gets worse when you’re tired. 

A sigh escapes him. Worry. Care. God, he wants all of that and more. 

will you come see me?

seb

please 

He hits send before he can think twice about it. Desperate is not a good look, but he’s feeling at least seven shades of pathetic right now, and he knows that Seb has a weak point for Charles’ begging. If he were any less drunk, he’d probably get hard just thinking about that. 

I’m going to spend some time at my place in Switzerland first, but there’s always room for you in my schedule.

Text me your address when you wake up. Gute Nacht Charles :)

bonne nuit seb

Although he doesn’t press his phone to his chest like a lovesick moron, it’s a close thing. Always—he cannot stop reading it, over and over again. Always.

He passes out a couple of minutes later with a smile on his face.

*

When Seb visits Charles in Monaco, he stays at his flat for three days. They fuck on the couch twice, and Charles doesn’t even have to beg for it. 

*

It’s the little things that truly get to him—the small, intimate aspects of their dynamic that undo him. 

There’s the way Seb’s so casually tactile with him, will cradle his face, touch his arm, knock their legs together. 

Charles learns that Seb loves his bandanas, loves tugging on them, and enjoys messing with Charles’ hair while he’s wearing them. 

In return, he steals Seb’s baseball caps, fucks with the adjustments, and since they’re functionally identical to his own, wears them himself. Seb’s annoyed at first, especially when he has to readjust them for his own head size after Charles gives them back, but he grows accustomed to it soon enough, trades hats with Charles of his own volition. 

Seb has his number saved under ‘Karl’ in his phone, so Charles changes his contact name to Sebastién, out of principle.

They know each other’s drink orders by heart, be it coffee, alcohol, or energy drinks, and they share meals so regularly it becomes a normal occurrence for Charles to skip breakfast so he can get food with Seb instead. 

Charles doesn’t think twice about it the first time he hands Seb the keys to his car, and Seb seems to feel similarly about letting Charles behind the wheel of his personal vehicle. Sometimes, he even lets Charles pick the music.

None of this is necessarily Romantic Relationship stuff (capital R)—he’s very aware of that, but sharing these moments of familiarity with Seb, seeing some of them turn into rituals, fills him with a deep sense of comfort. 

*

Seb’s hotel room in Singapore offers a welcoming sense of peace and quiet when they finally make their way there, drained from the race, the celebration, and the after-party. 

Of course, they don’t have long, only a few hours before they need to wake up to catch their flight. And Charles can’t even consider going to sleep yet, not when he’s got Seb right there with him, somewhere between elation and exhaustion, practically vibrating out of his skin and letting Charles kiss him within an inch of his life. 

Both of them smell like sweat and expensive aftershave, the only thing reminiscent of the post-race impressions is the taste of sparkling wine he licks out of Seb’s mouth, and it drives Charles insane with how much it turns him on.

Seb's lips look bruised and glossy, and Charles shakes with the knowledge that he did that. 

“You look so pretty like this,” he breathes into their next kiss, unable to stop himself, and Seb moans at the words. Charles feels powerful, untouchable. 

“If I pushed you to your knees right now and told you to suck my dick, would you do that for me?”

Seb pulls him closer, kisses him back more aggressively, and then nods, almost imperceptibly. “Yeah, yes,” he confirms, voice rough, eager. 

Charles glances at him, and Seb stares back evenly, unguarded, eyes bright and blue, pupils dilated, something about him looking absolutely wrecked, dazed with lust. When he gets down on his knees and unbuckles Charles' belt, Charles doesn't have to push him at all. 

And when he lets Charles finish in his mouth, he looks even more ruined, hair unruly where Charles pulled at it, flushed from his face down, eyes dark and needy. Seb’s lips are puffy and glistening with Charles’ come.

He's beautiful, and Charles tells him so, then lets Sebastian bend him over the armrest of the hotel couch. 

Afterwards, they shed the rest of their clothes and lie down on the large bed. Seb has his eyes closed, his body relaxed and pliable as he lets Charles figure out how best to slot the two of them together, looking entirely at ease. 

The sting of his second-place finish is soothed by the picture in front of him—it’s like they’re glowing, sated and content. He didn’t get to stand on the top step today, but he feels like he won something else instead. 

His hands trace along Seb’s side, a slow, lazy motion, not teasing or with intent. Charles wants to dive deep into this moment, wants to remember what it’s like to have Seb like this, how easy it is for him now to pretend he gets to keep him. 

“Time to sleep, Charles, c’mon,” Seb mumbles and shifts them around, so Charles is lying half on top of him, head on his chest, legs entwined, bare skin to bare skin. 

It's kind of perfect.

*

When all is said and done, and the last race has run its course, Charles finishes his first season as an official driver for Scuderia Ferrari as fourth in the overall championship. Ten podiums in total and two victories are a decent result, but Charles isn’t satisfied with decent. 

The bottomless maw of ambition within him hungers for far more than that. 

Racing was his first love, and it’ll be his last. His passion for the sport pumps through his veins with every beat of his heart, a brightly burning flame in Rosso Corsa. Charles has dreams and aspirations, and even though he knows that success is a ladder, the young and wild part of him wants to jump past the lower rungs straight to the top. 

Sebastian finishes in fifth place, right on his heels, and reminds Charles with all the fervour and goodwill of a direct competitor who has just been beaten by his young upstart teammate that patience is a virtue and hard work pays off. 

“Don’t burn yourself out, Charles. I’d like to see how far you can go.”

Charles wants to kiss his stupid handbook advice out of his wine-red mouth, but they’re at the goddamn FIA Gala, and it doesn’t look like they’ll have any opportunities to sneak off somewhere together, not with how desired their attention is by some of the other people in attendance. 

So he settles for an ironic toast from across the table, meets Seb’s eyes, and grins. 

“Oh, I’ll show you.”

*

Winter break starts, and Charles spends a large part of it with his family in Monaco. 

Both his mother and his brothers are proud of him. They praise his success and his skill and throw in some light-hearted, affectionate jabs at his ambition—which is something he wouldn’t take from any other person on the planet, except for maybe Pierre. 

What they also really want to know is whether he’s happy, whether Ferrari is all that he thought it’d be, now that he’s gotten his first year with the Scuderia under his belt. 

“How could they not be?” He asks, swallowing comments about conflicts and team orders, refusing to think about Seb. “Ferrari, they are—it’s everything to me.”

“And your teammate? Do you get on okay? Some of the reports made it seem like there’s tension.”

Charles laughs. Yeah, there’s tension, alright. 

“Seb helps me a lot. We do have our disputes, but off-track we get along great, and he’s someone I really look up to—don’t tell him I said that if you ever happen to meet!”

He doesn’t talk about all Seb has already taught him and how there’s still so much left to learn, so much experience to catch up on. How involved Seb likes to get with things, down to the nitty-gritty details, how animated he talks with the engineers and the mechanics, how he bleeds love for this crazy fucking sport the same way Charles does. Or how good victory looks on him.

Instead, he regales them with tales of Seb’s stubbornness, his stupid jokes, how competitive they get about the tiniest things. 

“I’m glad,” his mother says. “We were worried, you know. That things would be more difficult. It’s good to hear that someone’s looking out for you.”

Charles sighs, runs his hands through his hair. “Yeah, me too.”

                      

  *

He misses Seb. 

They texted on Christmas and New Year’s Eve, exchanged the usual pleasantries, and Seb extended greetings twice, once from Kimi, with whom he’s apparently been hanging out in Switzerland, and once from Jenson, with whom he went on a skiing trip. To say that Charles is a tad jealous would be underselling it somewhat. 

He misses Seb something fierce, but he refuses to be too clingy about it. Instead, he pretends to be happy with what little interaction he’s gotten so far over the last two weeks. 

Charles has another day to kill before he’s flying off to the Antilles with Pierre, which will doubtlessly provide him with ample distractions, and time simply refuses to pass. 

None of his friends are currently available to chat, so he’s stuck with himself and his own head for company, and lately, he’s been getting pretty sick of that combination. 

Late hours and lousy sleeping patterns don’t mix, he’s been staying up longer and longer, and his hand itches every time he walks past the alcohol cabinet. They’ve talked about it, he and Pierre, and he’s trying to moderate his alcohol intake better. 

“At least stop drinking by yourself all the time. That’s some Alcoholism 101 shit,” Pierre had said, and Charles had taken a good, hard look at his inner mirror and agreed. 

So now he’s hunting for something to do, restless and bored. 

On the list of things he’s tried so far is the obvious Netflix binge (he didn’t have the necessary focus), playing a video game (he’d gotten overwhelmed by his library, then picked some random triple-A single-player game on a whim, attempted to install it, realised he needed to download over 50 gigabytes, lost patience and quit out of the program), and a short work-out (this had kept him busy for all of 50 minutes).  

Eventually, he ends up on YouTube, as one does. His suggestions are filled with F1-related content for the most part, and he can’t really fault the algorithm for it. 

Annoyed, he starts to click himself through some funny press conference compilations, mostly the older ones. After a couple clips, he notices that Seb features prominently in these, and this gives him an idea. A stupid idea, maybe, but he’s never claimed to be wise. 

He decides to go hunting for more videos of Seb, and it doesn’t take him long to find a whole bunch of clips and interviews. Good enough. 

What he’s doing makes him feel creepy on some level, like he’s stalking, crossing a line. Then again, he’s desperate, bored, horny—all alone in his flat. Indeed, a volatile cocktail, if there ever was one. 

So he waves all concerns aside, hits play on one of the longer interviews, slides down in his gaming chair, turns up the volume on his headset, and shoves his right hand into his sweatpants. 

It doesn’t take much to get his dick interested in the proceedings; the anticipation of getting off to Seb’s voice has him growing harder by the second. Still, he starts off slow, with a couple easy strokes. 

The Interview he picked happens to be in German, and he has no real idea what Seb’s saying, but he sounds relaxed and confident, clearly comfortable with the press people he’s talking to. 

Charles closes his eyes, imagines Seb’s talking to him instead, and speeds up his strokes. Spreading some of the precome around to make things smoother, he pictures Seb kneeling over him, hand wrapped around Charles’ dick and jacking him off exactly the way he likes it.

He drags it out for a while, edging until it’s almost painful, makes it too punishing in a way Seb never does, maybe in part as penance.

When he decides it’s been long enough now, he lets the sensation of his impending climax crawl up his spine and finally comes to a rough twist on the upstroke, Seb’s voice loud in his ears, brain caught in a memory of getting his come on Seb’s sweaty Ferrari shirt. It really does feel like a release, and in the aftermath, his body relaxes at the sudden lack of tension. 

Charles picks up his phone and opens his messenger app. 

do you know 

he starts typing feverishly, blissed out from his orgasm, fingers flying across the screen, 

that i touch myself to the sound of your voice? 

His right index finger hovers over the send button, then shame and sanity return to him, and he deletes the text. Instead, he writes 

had a slow day today

how’s you wb going

still having fun?

Seb replies some twenty-odd minutes later (yes, okay, it was twenty-three, Charles checked) after Charles returns from his quick shower and crawls into bed, determined to get some good rest in.  

Yes, I’m staying with my family in Heppenheim right now. 

Probably drank a little too much Glühwein today, I think. 

But, in my defence, it’s freezing outside. ;)

Images of drunk Seb flash before his eyes, cheeks reddened, eyes shining, grin slightly manic. The intensity of his longing startles him.

you’re getting drunk without me? no way

just kidding mate

nice to hear you’re having a good time

i’m leaving for antigua tomorrow

with pierre

With my parents, yes. Dad had more than me, though!

Say hi to Pierre for me. 

And have a safe flight. 

Charles laughs at the indignant reply, strokes a finger over the text on his screen before he can stop himself. His thoughts are all warm and mushy.

thank you seb

i miss you

I miss you too. Dinner in Maranello the day before? My treat. 

of course

i’ll bring the alcohol 😉

It’s a date. 

Charles stares. Rereads the text. Then stares some more. Calm down, idiot. It’s just a figure of speech. 

Not that his heart cares about that, the stupid thing is beating way too goddamn hard over the promise of this nebulous future dinner. It’s so dumb; Charles hates it. He can’t stop smiling. 

*

Seb made a fancy vegetarian lasagna with Mediterranean vegetables, and it’s really, really good—second only to the one Charles’ mother makes, but that’s practically a given. Charles brought a bottle of ripe, fruity red, and it’s three-quarters empty by the time they’re done eating. 

They have to be at a meeting early the next day, and Charles is already pondering if the implications of showing up at the factory together are damning enough for Seb to deny him if he asks to spend the night. It doesn’t come to that. 

“Do you want to sleep here tonight? Driving back would be asking for trouble with how much wine you’ve had.” Seb looks at him from where he stood up to gather their plates. 

“I didn’t bring any clothes,” Charles says and instantly wants to kick himself. Shut the fuck up, oh my God. 

Seb shakes his head and grins. “Wear some of mine then. It’s not like you haven’t stolen my shirts before.” 

This is true enough. 

“Well, I…if you’re really offering. Not your fault if I was being irresponsible.” Charles isn’t sure whether he wants to read anything into this, not when it sounds like Sebastian considers his hospitality some sort of moral obligation. That’s the absolute last thing he wants to be. 

“I would drive you home, but I’ve had just as much wine as you, so,” Seb absently rubs his stubbly beard, then opens the dishwasher. For a moment, Charles’ brain entertains the fantasy of Seb driving him home and kissing him goodbye on his doorstep, then he hastily discards it. The alcohol, the atmosphere, Seb—it is all making him silly. 

There’s still the option to call a cab, but this time, he keeps his mouth shut, 

“Thank you, Seb. I appreciate it. Truly.” 

This earns him a wink.

“Any time. You already know I enjoy your company. It’s no trouble at all.”

Charles doesn’t know why that makes him blush, but he can feel his face heating up. To distract himself, he gets up, fully intent on helping Seb with clean-up, but Seb waves him off. “No need, I’ve got it. You can pick something to watch or…if you want to go shower and get ready for bed, I’ll find you some clothes to wear.”

He nods and walks over to the living room area, claims one end of the couch and arranges the throw pillows in a way he can live with. It’s not as comfortable as his beloved couch back in Monaco, though he supposes he can endure for the time being.

Thankfully, the remote isn’t hard to find, and after a few minutes of channel-surfing, he settles for a documentary on famous Italian classical pianists. The music catches his attention almost immediately, and he listens with his eyes closed, relaxing, head resting on his stack of pillows. 

When Seb comes to join him, he sits down quietly, clearly in an effort not to startle Charles. 

“It’s fine, I’m not sleeping. Just, uh, enjoying the music,” he gestures lamely towards the television. 

Sebastian hums agreeably and leans back, apparently content with Charles’ choice of entertainment. 

“That’s right, I keep forgetting that you know how to play the piano,” he rests a hand on Charles’ left lower thigh, gently rubbing his thumb over the fabric of his jeans. His touch is warm and familiar. 

“One day, I’m going to play for you,” Charles promises, internally reviewing the list of songs he’s able to perform flawlessly for something Seb might enjoy.

When it turns out that the documentary is a two-parter, they stay to watch the second part, Charles with both of his legs stretched out over Seb’s lap while Seb’s fingers paint invisible patterns onto them and trace along the seams of his jeans.

Afterwards, Seb lets Charles have first dibs on the shower, and when he steps out of it, he finds a small stack of clothes, including one of Seb’s favourite pairs of pyjamas. They may be a little tight on him, but they’re soft and smell like Seb’s fabric softener, and the check pattern’s predominant colour is red.

Instead of awkwardly asking Charles whether he’d prefer the couch, Seb’s placed a folded up second blanket on his bed, and Charles is caught somewhere between pleased and offended because this is absolutely Seb’s way of calling him out for his blanket-hog tendencies. 

Curling up together is nice, especially when the cold winter temperatures stay precisely where they’re supposed to—outside. 

Neither of them initiates anything sexual. All touches between them stay fairly innocent, and there is something incredibly intimate to the simple act of sharing body heat. 

Everything feels clean and warm and infinitely comfortable. For good measure, Charles leans down and presses a kiss to Seb’s hair, blond curls tickling his face. A sleepy Sebastian mumbles something in incomprehensible German and cuddles closer. 

*

Charles wakes up to the delicious smell of a freshly filled coffee cup that's been placed on the nightstand. He rolls over, buries his face in the big, fluffy pillow and smiles a small, secret smile, just for himself. 

According to his watch, they still have over an hour until they need to be at the factory for the first meeting of the new season, so he takes his time getting ready, sipping coffee while he freshens up and gets dressed in more of Sebastian’s clothes. To his absolute joy, this includes Seb’s Ferrari hoodie. 

Seb is listening to his favourite radio station, humming along to Cheap Trick’s I Want You to Want Me, and leafing through a printed regional newspaper when Charles enters the kitchen carrying the empty coffee cup and ambles over for a refill. 

“Help yourself,” he says and gestures towards the kitchen table. Turns out Seb ventured into the crisp winter morning air and brought back croissants for breakfast. "They're still warm." 

"You're a terrible influence."

Charles doesn’t remember the last time he started off a day in a better mood. 

*

The 2020 season is a wash; this much becomes clear from the very beginning. Not only is the car shit, no, they keep having terrible luck as well, and the tension starts building and building without a chance for release. 

Mattia still has expectations, the Tifosi still have expectations, and the name that feels like it’s been branded on his chest suddenly brings with it an entirely different weight. The heavy burden of disappointment, both his own and that of others. 

They are Ferrari—they are its pulse, its living, beating heart, but it’s grown weak and sickly, and their hands are tied, powerless in the face of this awful situation. There is no medicine that will solve this fast enough to matter.

For some reason, Sebastian’s having an even worse time than Charles. So far, he has two DNFs to his name, one in Melbourne and one in Shanghai, and the rest of his middling results have amassed him a grand total of thirteen points in four races. 

Things have cooled down considerably between him and the team. Charles grows uncomfortable just watching it all happen, witnessing the slow decay of trust and confidence, how Seb will sometimes hurry by with his shoulders drawn and his head down where he used to walk, self-assured and upright. It’s not right. None of this is.

The only thing he can cling to is that his own relationship with Seb has stayed more or less the same. As in, they’re still not in a relationship and hook up occasionally, only those hook-ups aren’t necessarily of a sexual nature and sometimes include home-cooked meals, quiet evenings spent in front of the television, and cuddling in bed with the two of them isolated in their own little bubble. 

On the one hand, this makes Charles extremely happy, but on the other, it makes him uneasy and pretty fucking miserable. 

Additionally, Seb refuses to talk about whatever seems to trouble him most; he deflects a lot more now and sounds cagey when he talks to Britta in front of anyone other than Charles, who doesn’t mind when they exclude him and fall back on rapid-fire German instead of English. Something is clearly going on, but Charles has no idea what, and it eats at him.

Pierre switches between comforting him and making fun of him, but Charles is under the impression that his best friend is growing exceedingly tired of hearing about his love troubles, which is fair, Charles supposes. He’s tired, too. 

*

Post-Barcelona, things finally start to clear up for him. He’s back home at his place in Maranello, still drained from travelling (even though it was only an inter-European flight and not some horrendous cross-continent endeavour with two stop-overs and a delay) when his phone chimes with a notification. A text from Sebastian. 

Hi Charles, I know it’s pretty late, and you’re probably tired already, but can I call you?
There’s something important I need to talk to you about, and I’d rather you hear it from me directly.

The anxious feeling that has been accompanying him since his harrowing fourth-place finish in Spain the day before starts to bubble and spread like an oily film. Charles sinks down onto his favourite kitchen chair and types out a quick reply with cold, shaky fingers. 

yes

of course

you can call me whenever

Although he expects it, his loud ringtone still startles him in the otherwise quiet kitchen, and he takes a deep breath before answering the phone. 

“Hello Charles,” Seb says, and Charles already dislikes how he sounds—his tone is all wrong, seemingly devoid of anything resembling human emotion and so tightly controlled it sends shivers of unease down Charles’ spine.

“Hi Seb,” he starts out and then follows it up with a breathless “is everything okay?” that almost makes him bite his tongue. Obviously not, idiot.

He can hear Seb sigh, long and weary. “Listen, I—things are complicated, and I don’t know how to…” Seb sighs again. Charles has never seen him this lost for words. The unease within him grows.

“Can I—is there anything I can do?” He asks, nervously playing with the hem of his shirt. There’s a coffee stain right next to the lowest button that he hasn’t noticed before. 

Seb laughs, but it’s a bitter and entirely joyless sound Charles has never heard him make before. “No, there’s nothing.”

“You’re making me worry,” he admits, meekly, and the words make him feel very, very small. 

So far, it was always Seb who had helped out Charles, comforted him, talked him down. Whatever he’d needed, Seb had been there. And now Sebastian is clearly in need of support himself, and Charles is stumped, no, completely overwhelmed by the situation. Since he still doesn’t know what’s actually going on, he has no idea where to even begin, how to—

“They’re not extending my contract beyond 2020. I’ll be out of Ferrari after the end of the season.”

“What?” Shock doesn’t even begin to cover what’s going on inside him. “No, they can’t, what? No, no, no.” Charles is shaking his head in denial even though no one can see him, how he’s sitting alone in his kitchen, frozen to the chair in utter disbelief. His head and his mouth both seem to have stopped working. 

He can’t bring himself to say anything else, to speak more words into the silence between them, as though Charles acknowledging all of this, accepting it even, would somehow have a bearing on its factuality. All he can hear is their breathing—his own fast and panicked, Seb’s measured like he’s forcing himself to be calm. 

“I guess the writing’s been on the wall for a while now. Mattia will make it official tomorrow.” 

There is a disconnect between the weight behind Seb’s words and the hollowness of his voice—to Charles, it feels like something is getting lost in translation. Because this, right here, is Sebastian Vettel, four-time World Driver’s Champion title holder and once Ferrari’s number one driver, watching his dream burn to the ground. And he’s just taking it lying down, no anger, no passion, no fight left in him. Charles wants to be angry for him—all rage, no grace.

“Seb,” Charles starts, gently, carefully, not knowing where to go from here. What can he even say that doesn’t sound empty and fake? I’m sorry? He would hate himself. They’re direct competitors, he reminds himself, teammates. Charles is the one who keeps his seat while Seb will be politely asked to close the door on his way out. And, oh, the media will eat this up. 

“This is—I didn’t want you to hear it from anyone else. They’ll say it was mutual, that we came to an agreement.” Bullshit, of course. Charles thinks about Sebastian winning races for Ferrari, about the way he would outshine everyone else on the podium, clad in his bright red racing suit, radiant and happy and drenched in champagne. He knows what it’s like to love something that much because he feels the exact same way. No shot Sebastian would have left on his own. 

Seb’s breathing rhythm has changed. It’s short now, short and harsh and irregular. 

Fuck, Seb’s crying. 

Charles is already halfway out the door by the time he realises what he is doing. But he can't let Seb be alone with himself right now. Not after hearing—that. God, the thought of him breaking down over this, by himself—Charles can't bear it. 

“I’m coming over,” he announces, shoving the phone into his front pocket as he locks his door, the line still connected. His shoelaces are undone, he’s wearing sweatpants, and his hair is a mess.

“You don’t—it’s—” By now, it’s painfully apparent that Seb’s trying really hard to hold it together. 

Well, he shouldn’t have to. 

“You’re at home, right?” Charles asks, starting his car and backing out of the shared garage. According to his fuel gauge, he should probably look for a gas station sometime soon, but it’s not a long drive to Sebastian’s place, and he really doesn’t have the time to care about that. He’s thrown the phone onto the front passenger seat. 

“Yeah.” It doesn’t seem like Seb has the energy for more than a simple confirmation. 

*

Fifteen minutes later, he arrives at the door to the building Seb lives in. It could have been ten, but he had to find an available parking space. 

Sebastian had hung up on him at some point, and Charles had needed to focus on driving, so there had been no time to call him back. No point, either, now that he’s here. As long as Seb actually lets him in, things will be fine. Maybe, possibly. Whatever ‘fine’ is going to mean, both now and in the future.

Charles rings the doorbell and waits, impatiently staring at the metal obstacle in front of him. It’s cold out for a May night, and he forgot to bring a jacket. 

After what feels like ages, but his watch will have him believe was merely two minutes, the buzzer sounds, and Charles shoves the door open and sprints up the stairs to the third floor.  

His heart is hammering in his chest, but it’s not from physical exhaustion; he doesn’t even break a sweat. 

Sebastian is waiting for him at the entrance to his flat. He looks absolutely beat. Like Charles, he’s still wearing most of his travel clothes from earlier; his shirt and pants are creased, his hair looks wild like it’s been suffering right along with him, his face is red and blotchy from crying. But his eyes are the worst part by far—there are no sparks of humour left, no signs of warmth. They’re still the same blue colour as before, but it seems flatter now, hard.

Charles takes two steps towards him, watches his body language for clues on how to act, whether his advances will be welcomed, and when Seb doesn’t react in any visible way, he shuts the door behind himself, closes the remaining gap between them and wraps his arms around Seb, holding on to him in a tight embrace. I’m here. You can lean on me. 

It’s possible he said the words out loud—he’s unsure, but Seb just kind of sags against him, and his back is shaking with silent sobs. All Charles can really do to comfort him is to be there, firm and sturdy, to provide some kind of anchor. 

Somehow, they both end up right in the entrance hallway, sitting on the cool hardwood floor all curled up in each other, Charles using everything he’s learnt about how their bodies fit together to bridge any distance between them, signalling Seb that he’s there for him. When he mumbles soothing words into Seb’s ears, he defaults to his native French. Something about it seems more honest, more sincere, as though it'd be more difficult to hide the fact that it all comes straight from the heart. It’s alright, I’m here, I’ve got you. 

He finds himself stroking his hands across Seb’s back in a calm, repetitive motion, up and down, up and down, up and down, until he can feel the shaking let up, and even then, he doesn’t let go of him. 

“Thank you,” Seb whispers into the companionable silence between them. Charles can feel the wet spots Seb’s tears have left on his shirt, and he hears the unsteadiness still present in his voice. 

This won’t be over any time soon; it’s the new reality Seb has to live in now, face every day at Ferrari, secure in the knowledge that they don’t want him anymore—but Charles does. Charles wants him in every little niche of his life with an intensity he cannot find the words for in either of the three languages he speaks. 

“Sorry, I don’t have any tissues,” Charles offers, and Seb chokes out a laugh. “No, I am sorry about your shirt.” 

“That’s fine. It needs a wash anyway.” 

When Seb scoots back a little to inspect the state of Charles’ shirt, he misses the touch instantly.

“You can lend one of mine then. I’ll wash it for you.” The smile is fragile. Charles will take it. 

He gets to his feet, then offers Seb a hand to pull him up, and they stumble into each other. 

“Suggestion: I’ll go get you a new shirt, and you make us some tea?” It’s probably partly because Seb wants a moment alone to clean himself up, and Charles has no interest in making things difficult for him right now, so he goes along with it. 

Seb’s kitchen isn’t exactly strange terrain to him, so it doesn’t take him long to get some water boiling. In one of the drawers, he finds a variety of tea blends, and he picks one with chamomile on instinct—his mother’s favourite way to de-stress is a nice, hot cup of chamomile tea. 

By the time Seb joins him, the tea is steeping, and Charles has turned on the radio to something inoffensive, some Italian easy-listening channel. 

The first thing he notices about the t-shirt Sebastian hands him is that it’s not Ferrari-branded. Instead, it’s a black shirt with a visual representation of light refracting in a glass prism. The fabric is soft and well-worn. 

“Oh, I’ve seen this before! That’s an album cover, right?” Charles exclaims, excited that he’s getting whatever reference this is. He unbuttons his own shirt and lets it drop to the floor right in the middle of the kitchen, utterly unselfconscious around Seb, then slips the t-shirt on—it’s a little tight, but he likes how it smells, how it feels on his skin. 

“Yeah, it’s the cover of Pink Floyd’s The Dark Side of the Moon album, one of the best records ever produced,” Seb grins, and it’s almost like things are back to normal, like this is any other night in Maranello, with Charles over for a quick visit and a good time. 

Only that it’s really, really not. Charles swallows his indignation and hands Seb his teacup. “Chamomile,” he says, by way of explanation, and Seb nods gratefully. 

They just sit there for a while, sipping tea and letting the music wash over them as Charles thinks about where they go from here, sneaking glances at Seb from behind the rim of his cup. The atmosphere is strangely charged, but Charles cannot read the mood at all. 

“I’m trying really hard not to be bitter about your role in all of this,” is what Sebastian eventually opens with, carefully avoiding even looking in Charles’ direction, “since I understand perfectly well that you acted the way you did out of a desire to prove yourself, out of a hunger for victory, and because you’re a fiercely competitive soul who’s very aware of his own talent, but hasn’t fully tested out his own limits yet. You didn’t think about any of the implications or the consequences, or maybe you did, then discarded them as irrelevant, I don’t presume to know.” 

He takes a sip of his tea, maybe to give Charles a chance to interrupt him, but Charles can’t do anything besides sit right there—on a chair in Seb’s kitchen, in Seb’s flat, drinking Seb’s tea and wearing Seb’s shirt—stock-still, and stare straight ahead.

“As you well know, I was in your place once, and I see a lot of my younger self in you. It’s funny, you know. When you joined, I considered the chance that this might happen, but I thought I’d have a couple more years before they replace me with a newer, flashier model. Turns out that’s not the case.”

“I’m sorry,” Charles scratches together, robotic. 

It tastes metallic on his tongue, too, an empty peace offering for a war he’d forgotten they’d been fighting all this time. And now, he walks away victorious, the same words in his mouth he’d promised himself he wouldn’t say because Seb deserved better. 

“You’re not.” 

He’s not. Sebastian doesn’t seem angry about it, though. 

“For what it’s worth, Seb, I never saw you as someone with a usefulness to outlive. I wanted us to be equals. I wanted to beat you, and I wanted it to mean something.” His hands are clasped together tightly to prevent them from shaking.

“Charles, I understand. You wouldn’t be sitting here otherwise.” Finally, Seb looks up to meet his eyes. 

“I also don’t agree with—” Charles takes a deep breath, exhales, “any of this. I hate this two-faced shit.”

“Well, as someone who’s been here for years, let me tell you that it is in part what this sport thrives on. Tragedy. Drama. Adrenaline. Cash,” he shrugs, what–can–you–do. “You either learn to live with it, learn to play their game by your own rules, or you throw yourself to the wolves and see how much will be left of you after. Or you walk away.” 

The way he talks about that last option…Charles doesn’t like it. 

“So, what are we going to do about it?” 

“We?” The smile on Seb’s face is brilliant and genuine for the one second it exists before it disappears entirely to be replaced by a grim frown. 

“There’s no ‘we’ here, Charles, not where this is concerned. You don’t want to be involved in this, and, honestly, I don’t want you involved in it, either.”

“Seb—” Charles wants to protest, desperately wants to show Seb that he’s not all empty words and futile gestures, that he does care, despite everything. Because of it. But Seb cuts him off with a familiar, determined look on his face. It’s the one that means he won’t accept any arguments, no ifs or buts—my way or the highway. 

“Charles, you definitely shouldn't look like you're picking sides in this. That will only make things more difficult for you in the long run, which you should want to prevent. Don’t get dragged into this mess. It's my fight, my burden to bear. Go on and focus on being a better racer than me. My headstart is considerable." 

Charles swallows his immediate protest, his brain thankfully catching up with his mouth just in time. What, you don't want me as your ally? 

None of this should even be happening. They shouldn't have to have this talk. Even now, Sebastian's thinking about protecting Charles, not that he’s outright saying it. I cost you the fucking seat. And I love you so goddamn much that it hurts.

“Then what are you going to do?” What Charles wants to hear is that Seb’s making plans. Seb’s always scheming, planning, strategising. It’s one of his best qualities as a driver, and it has taught Charles never to underestimate him. 

“Same thing I always do. Race. I’m still in Ferrari, and I will try my hardest to make them remember it for every single damn day that fucking contract is still valid for.”

Not good enough. Not good enough. Not good enough. 

“And after that?” Charles has been afraid before. This fear tastes different.

“We’ll see.” Sebastian’s eyes are wide and blue and open as he looks at Charles; he’s not hiding, not holding anything back. And it’s then that Charles realises— 

Sebastian doesn’t have an answer because he doesn’t know. 

*

Despite the late hour, Seb doesn't offer him to stay the night, and Charles knows that he couldn't anyway, he hasn't even unpacked his luggage yet, and they have an early meeting tomorrow—but it still stings.

*

Ferrari announces the news early the next day. 

Charles reads the entire press release, and the only thing he feels is a dull ache in his chest at the thought of Seb. He wonders whether Seb even bothered reading it and knows that if it was him, he wouldn’t. The fact that he’s aware they’re blatantly lying makes him absurdly glad that Seb trusted him enough to tell Charles himself. 

Pierre texts him around noon, and Charles is thankful for the distraction because if he’s forced to spend another minute of this day caught in the same room with Seb and Mattia, he will crawl out of his own skin. Tense and uncomfortable don’t even begin to describe it. 

Add to that Seb’s request for Charles to stay out of it, and it results in what was probably four of the worst hours of his life. Separated from Seb by the conference table between them and the decision not to seem overly invested, to honour that request for his own and for Seb’s sake, he’d felt trapped. Every time his input was required for anything, he’d wanted to bolt, get in his car and drive away very far, very fast. 

On a list of the top ten worst meetings of his life, this one takes rank one uncontested.

Hi C I just heard about seb 

Did you know?

So much for a good distraction. 

he told me last night

He shoves his phone aside disdainfully, but it chimes with a new notification almost immediately. 

I cannot believe they’re doing him like this 

Genuinely 

This is low

How are you holding up?

The sigh that escapes him catches Silvia’s attention, and she throws him a questioning look. Instead of a reply, Charles simply shrugs. What else is he supposed to do?

save me from this meeting 

pls 

Is it that bad? Also I meant the seb thing 

Charles rolls his eyes, even though Pierre obviously can’t see him doing it. Of course, that’s what Pierre had meant; Charles just doesn’t really want to talk about it. It’s not like he’s the one who lost his seat and needs comfort. He’s just the not–so–innocent bystander watching on helplessly while Seb’s stuck in contract purgatory along with the zombified remains of his dream.

Honestly, I don’t want you involved in this either. 

Charles presses his lips together. It’s anger, he realises, frustration at this shitshow of a situation they’re in.

yes

i’m dying in real-time

it’s torture

also 

on the seb thing

i’m okay but he’s not

pear i hate all of this so fucking much

we’re racers 

we’re here to drive fast

This time, it takes Pierre longer to text back, so Charles takes a sip from his glass filled with room temperature water. When he checks WhatsApp, he almost spits it right back out.

Drive fast eat ass

I HATE YOU SO FUCKING MUCH

FUCK YOU

See this is the energy you need 

Call me back later okay?

So you can rant if you need to 

Love you calamar ❤️

The break is approaching its end, and everyone else shuffles back into the conference room, Seb in dead last. Charles doesn’t think he’s ever seen him look quite that tired, wishing he could just go over there and crack a dumb joke to cheer him up, but he doesn’t give off the impression that jokes would be very appreciated right now. 

With a quick glance at his watch, he confirms that there are still two minutes left until the meeting will resume, so he unlocks his phone again and types a few quick messages to Seb. 

i think i’m going insane

i’m going to need at least five drinks after this

you look like you could use one too

Seb doesn’t even look up after he reads Charles’ texts. He’s good. 

Are you offering? 

Charles swallows thickly, knows what he wants. The only question is whether Sebastian’s thinking the same thing, whether what he wants and what Charles wants align. 

my place around five? 

bring lube and condoms

i forgot to buy new ones

It’s a white lie, he’s probably good on supplies for another two weeks at the rate they’ve been going through them, but he needs to know where they stand. 

He watches Seb, sees him pluck at the front of his shirt, lick his lips, the tip of his tongue still visible between them. A smile steals itself onto Charles’ face. This is as good as a written affirmation. Then his phone, now muted, lights up with another notification.

Skip the alcohol. I want to be sober when I fuck you. 

Charles stares at his phone until he’s sure the furious blush on his face has ebbed off somewhat. And even then, it takes Mattia clearing his throat for Charles to pay any attention to his surroundings again. 

His dick is half-hard in his jeans just from thinking about Seb’s text, but when he chances a look in Seb’s direction, his teammate seems utterly immersed in whatever their team principal has been talking about for the last five minutes. 

*

Sebastian’s different in bed tonight.

Usually, Charles loves being under him, rolling over for him, letting him press Charles into the mattress or any other available horizontal surface with the full weight of his body. 

It's got something to do with letting himself be taken care of, he's dimly aware of that, and it's about being the sole object of Seb's focus, feeling the intensity of his eyes, his touch everywhere, no place to hide. With Sebastian, Charles doesn't have to pretend (except, he thinks guiltily of his feelings when he does). 

But Seb is clearly distracted today, his attention all over the place, getting lost in minute details, like the mole by Charles' clavicle or an old scar on his thigh. Slow can be good, they’ve done that before, but this feels different. Seb just seems spaced out.

So Charles decides he's had enough, flips them over and grabs the lube, fingering himself open with practised ease, and Seb doesn't fight him on any of it, making no attempt to take back control. 

Something must be seriously off because there’s nothing Seb enjoys more when they’re in bed than prepping Charles—he’d whispered that in his ear once, a filthy confession as he’d teased Charles with his fingers deep inside of him until Charles had cried from overstimulation.

“You wanted to be sober for this,” Charles pants, adding another finger, “and now you're not even fucking present.” He kind of wants to cry for an entirely different reason. Maybe Seb is losing interest in this, too, in him.   

When Sebastian looks at him, there’s pain in his eyes. “Sorry Charles, I’m—I thought I wanted,” he stutters, face shame-filled, “I thought I wanted this to be…something different than what it turned into. My body isn’t being too clear on what it actually needs right now.” 

God, Seb isn’t even hard anymore. Charles might actually cry. He wipes his hands on the bedspread and stares down at the grey fabric, unseeing. Why is this happening to him?

“Did I do anything wrong?” he asks, trying to keep his voice even, but it comes out a lot frailer than intended. 

Seb sighs and shakes his head, then he pulls Charles flush on top of him and runs a hand through his hair. “Can I just…hold you like this? Would that be okay?” The way his voice has gone all tentative as he asks for permission catches Charles off-guard. None of this feels like normal Seb behaviour. 

His first instinct is to say no; he’s angry, disappointed, hurt—and profoundly unsettled. Mostly though, he’s horny and miserable, wonders what Seb must think of him, considering how Charles is still hard even now.

“Seb, I—” He breaks off there, trails a finger along Seb’s biceps, follows the muscle all the way up to his shoulder. “I need—” What? To get fucked? To come? He can feel Seb’s heartbeat, his pulse, and it’s too fast, too nervous. What about what Seb needs?  

Charles’ selfish side, fueled by the copious amounts of sexual frustration he’s currently experiencing, tells him that he shouldn’t care; it’s not like they’re dating. This isn’t his responsibility. The thoughts alone are enough to make him sneer at himself, so he ends up brushing everything aside. 

Does it truly matter that much if Seb can’t fuck him today? Not really. After everything that happened, should it surprise him that Seb’s body is showing adverse reactions to high levels of emotional stress? Also no.   

“It’s fine if you want me to leave,” Seb’s saying, and Charles’ head snaps up from where he’d rested it on Seb’s shoulder, “I understand.” 

He makes as if to get up, tone and face carefully empty, but Charles can see that this is affecting him poorly, both Charles’ reaction, the implicit rejection in it and the manner in which his body has let him down. 

Charles pushes him back onto the mattress with a firm hand on his chest. “No. Stay,” he demands and presses his head into the crook of Seb’s neck, inhaling the comfort of his scent. A few hesitant seconds later, Seb wraps his arms back around Charles, and he can feel Seb physically relax under him as he sinks deeper into the mattress, tension visibly draining from his body. 

“I’m sorry, too,” Charles mumbles into Seb’s neck, enjoying the feeling of his stubble catching on Seb’s skin. 

“For what? You didn’t do anything wrong.” Seb says, confused and blissfully unaware of the—quite frankly—stupid inner arguments Charles is living through. 

He smiles. Seb’s hands are warm on his skin—they’re so close to each other like this. 

“For being an idiot,” he replies but doesn’t elaborate.

Maybe Charles is simply too greedy. How could this ever not be enough?   

*

Monaco is the next race on the calendar, and under any other circumstances, Charles would have been ecstatic for a new chance at the podium in his hometown of Monte Carlo. Under literally any other circumstances. 

As it stands, the car still drives like dogshit. If he has to endure one more tractor joke, he might actually just combust on the spot. It takes all of his media training not to make snarky comments to the journalists. 

Speaking of the press—

The worst thing by far are the media vultures. They follow Seb around, begging for scraps, vying for some innocuous soundbite they can twist until it turns into a scandalous, controversial story. 

Even Charles is confronted about it, over and over, asked for his opinions on Seb, on Ferrari, on the cannibalistic nature of business on the race track. It makes him want to laugh in their faces. Are they blind to the irony? 

They try to lure him in with harmless hooks on Monaco, but what they really want becomes apparent soon enough. How does it feel to be Ferrari’s future? The favourite son? What was it like to be told he beat out four-time WDC Sebastian Vettel as Ferrari’s number one driver? Does he think Seb is getting too old to compete, that he’s lost his game?

Charles wants to tell them to shut the fuck up, wants to tell them that they won’t get a single negative statement on Seb out of him, no matter how hard they try.

But he’s staying out of it, adjusts his exclusive pair of sponsored sunglasses, and moves on, feeding them nothing but the bare minimum. “Lovely to be here, always a great atmosphere. I cannot wait to get out on the track.”

In the end, the race is what it is. He qualifies P9 and spends the entirety of the 260.286 kilometres defending it against Kimi like his life depends on it—which it certainly feels like it does. Obviously, he isn't happy with the result, isn’t satisfied (and neither are Ferrari or his home crowd), however: two points are two points, and two points are also more than zero. At least, he thinks bitterly to himself, I made it past the chequered flag this time.

Seb finishes P6, higher than Charles for the first time all season. There is an air of defiance to the way he holds himself in the garage after the debrief, and Charles finds himself inexorably drawn to it. 

“Good race, yeah?” Seb says to Mattia, a ghost of his old confidence in his words, from back before Charles ever knew him personally, the one people often mistook for arrogance, but along with it, there’s something cold and sharp in his gaze.

Mattia acknowledges him with a nod, eyes serious behind his round glasses. “You drove well today.” 

Then he turns to Charles, a small, complicated smile on his lips. “Charles, that was a great defence, a definite improvement compared to Barcelona and Zandvoort. There are easier drivers to keep behind you than Raikönnen.” 

Charles sighs. Something about the praise makes him apprehensive. “I could have done better, I think.” Seb did better. “That one stupid mistake I made in lap thirty-three cost me too much time. It was poor judgement. It was stupid.” 

Mattia claps him on the shoulder in what seems like a genuine display of affection and walks off, presumably to go over more data.

Sebastian shakes his head and puts his cap on. “Guess I’m gonna get changed and head out.”

“Oh, are you going somewhere?” Curiosity is warring with disappointment in his head. Charles had planned to ask him to come back to his flat for a few drinks. 

“Lewis invited me over to his place to catch up,” Seb answers and shrugs. “We don’t get that chance very often, and dinner with a friend sounds excellent right now. Plus, I get to pet Roscoe.” 

Seeing his eyes light up at the simple prospect of getting to pet a dog squeezes painfully at something inside Charles, and he tries to mask his jealousy. A friend. 

He decides to accompany Seb over to his motorhome and leans against it as Seb opens the door, which earns him a questioning look. 

“Aren’t you going to go see your family?” 

“Already did that, but we also have plans for lunch tomorrow,” Charles replies easily.

Seb sighs, enters, and holds the door open for him.

“You know, it would be nice to get rid of the excess adrenaline.” 

It’s an innocent enough suggestion that earns Charles a snort. “I did say I have plans, didn’t I?”

Okay, what the hell?  

“So what, you’re gonna fuck Lewis?” Charles stares at him, hands at his hips, eyes wide with shock and accusation. And Seb? Seb just starts laughing, loud and hearty, until he tears up and holds a hand to his stomach. He hasn’t seen Seb laugh this unrestrained in…yeah, in months. 

The thing is, Charles doesn’t understand what is so funny—the question was simple enough. Lewis and Seb are close; he’s definitely noticed as much, and it’s not like what Sebastian has with Charles is exclusive, so he feels justified in asking. Not that it has anything to do with the dread that started rising in his chest the moment it became a possibility. 

What does Charles have that could feasibly compete with over a decade’s worth of shared history and companionship?

Sebastian wipes away a tear and attempts to regain control of his breathing, though he visibly fails and collapses on a chair, still giggling. “God, sorry Charles—” he’s interrupted by another fit of laughter, and Charles probably would have walked out already if the sight of a jovial, light-hearted Seb wasn’t so captivating. 

“Okay, no,” he starts again, having calmed down somewhat, “I’m not going to ‘fuck Lewis’, Charles, I just meant that I don’t have time to mess around with you because I don’t want to be late for my dinner plans. We’re having vegan chilli, and Lewis is a great cook.”

“Hm.”

Mess around, huh? Although he feels somewhat reassured by Sebastian’s words, it still stings to have the terms of their arrangement thrown so carelessly in his face. To him, it has never been more clear that all he is to Seb is an attractive, convenient, warm body.

“Are you jealous?” That startles him right out of his morose thoughts. Charles flushes bright red, and there is nothing he can do about it. He covers his eyes with his hands, hiding. Seb hadn’t even sounded upset, his tone more on the playful, teasing side. 

“No, it’s…I’m being dumb, please ignore it,” he groans into his palms. Firm yet gentle hands pull them away, and he suddenly finds himself pressed up against the very same wall where they’d started all of this last year, with a grinning Sebastian looking up at him. 

The intensity in his eyes makes up for the subtle height difference, and Charles’ throat has turned so dry he can’t speak. His eyes are on Seb’s lips, and they’re standing close enough together that he can feel Seb’s breath on his face. 

“Good, because there’s nothing to be jealous of,” Seb says, closing the last bit of distance between them. His lips are full and soft as they move against Charles’, his beard feels scratchy in the best way, and all of this is so chaste that it unravels something in Charles. But just when he wants to pull Seb closer, his teammate steps away and wipes his lips on his sleeve, his expression unreadable. 

“I’m afraid I really need to get changed now, so I’d be quite thankful if you left. Too distracting,” he adds, and Charles thinks he can see a trace of red on Seb’s cheeks.

“Is that so?” Charles breathes, giving Seb his best half-lidded bedroom-eyes and makes a show of adjusting himself in his pants. Maybe he’d feel ridiculous about it if he couldn’t see the effect it has on Seb, who blinks, licks his lips and breaks eye contact first. He swallows audibly, and Charles tracks the bob of his Adam’s apple with a hunger that feels almost predatory to him. 

“So you’re telling me to go fuck myself, Seb? Because that is exactly what I’m going to do.” His voice has gone all husky, and he knows he’s playing it up, but he’s watching Seb closely, and he can see him shiver at the words, can see how his hands flex, like he’s trying to keep himself from reaching for Charles. 

Then Seb’s phone rings, and the moment shatters. He pulls it out of his back pocket and shows the display to Charles; the caller ID clearly states that it’s ‘Lew’ who’s calling. Fucking Lew.

“See you later, Charles,” Seb says, shoving him gently in the direction of the door. 

The mood change is giving him whiplash, so he doesn’t resist, just steps outside, wondering how the fuck Lewis just won that without even being in the same room. Then again, Lewis is a beautiful man; he’s also older, more experienced, and Seb seems to trust him implicitly. 

So Seb may have said that there’s no reason for jealousy, but Charles just had his perfectly good evening plans ruined, and he finds himself disagreeing full-heartedly.

*

He’s still keyed up when he finally arrives home. As he goes to close the door, he uses a bit too much force, and it slams shut with a loud bang. 

“Fuck!”

Charles gives it a disgruntled look and mumbles more quiet curses as he toes off his shoes and stalks over to his room to throw himself down onto his mattress. The bed is still unmade, and he burrows his face into the scarlet blanket heap. “Fuck me.”

Before this evening, he’d never given Seb’s friendship with Lewis a second thought—it’s not like you can go through more than a decade of sharing podiums with someone without them becoming somewhat of a fixture in your life. But now, he’s going through past interactions with Seb and can think of at least three separate occasions where he complimented Lewis, one of them being that goddamn press conference where he’d called him ‘handsome’ by accident. Sure.

He finds it easy to picture the two of them together in his head, and the thought, as depressing as that is, isn’t even an unattractive one. Charles lets out an annoyed huff and rolls over, staring up at his ceiling with a mixture of emotional and sexual frustration. 

Eventually, he decides that accepting defeat is not in his nature and pulls his phone out of his back pocket. 

If he scrolls up far enough in their message thread, he can find the picture of his dick that he had sent Sebastian once when he'd been both desperately horny and acutely aware of the fact that Sebastian had an important meeting with some people at Ferrari scheduled after his sim training. 

It had been a decent shot - Charles is fully hard in it, sprawling lazily in his Ferrari sponsored bedsheets, his hand wrapped loosely around his dick, and there's some precome gathered at the tip. 

The lighting is pretty good, too, and his legs are just visible enough to show his muscled upper thighs as well as the waistband of his tight black boxer briefs he'd shoved down in a hurry. The accompanying text had simply read: 

thinking of how you feel inside of me 😉 

When Sebastian had shown up at his place in Maranello after, he'd closed the door behind himself and had Charles shoved up against the nearest wall within seconds. He'd devoured Charles' mouth until they were both breathless, and Charles had closed his eyes and surrendered everything to Seb. That night they'd shared what was easily the best fuck of Charles' life. 

Rehashing strategies is fair if they worked the first time around, right?

He gets up and strips completely, dropping his clothing right where he stands. There are two bottles of lube in the drawer, but one is almost empty, so Charles settles on the unopened one. Then he switches the light on and gets back onto the bed, arranges some pillows, and finds a position he’s comfortable in. 

The memory he picks as he presses a generous amount of lube on his palm and starts touching himself is one of his favourite intimate moments with Seb, based on the fact that Sebastian had been the one who had initiated it, entirely unprompted. 

Charles had woken up to Seb's head between his legs, tongue tracing the vein on the underside of Charles' dick all the way from root to tip, teasing the slit before swallowing him down. 

He can recall exactly how it felt, how the pleasure slowly spread throughout his body, all the way up his spine, made him gasp and cry out and buck his hips violently, and how Seb had just taken it all in stride, hadn't let up until Charles' dick was soft and spent and sensitive in the heat of Seb's mouth.

It’s the implication that Seb had slept with Charles in his bed and had been unable to resist the urge to do something about his attraction, that he’d found Charles enticing enough to want to touch him just for the act of it, not because he’d been horny and needed Charles to get him off in return. 

His dick is hard and leaking as he loses himself in recollections of how deep Seb had taken him, how ‘as much as he could fit’ had turned out to be all of him, cheeks hollowed and sucking Charles off with abandon, like he’d loved doing it, showing no sign of caring about how lewd the noises he’d made had been or how sinful his roughed up, spit-shiny lips had looked, after. 

Charles speeds up his strokes, trails the lubed finger that is currently playing with his nipples down to fondle his balls, then even further, over his perineum, until he’s teasing his hole, pushing the digit inside. He lets himself moan, loud and unashamed, can taste Seb’s name as he cries out, and comes all over his chest. 

He watches it rise and fall with his breaths for a couple seconds, entranced and blissed out, then he reaches for his phone and takes a quick picture. 

It turns out slightly blurry because he’s a little sluggish from his post-orgasm high, but that’s almost better, really, that’s perfect— the picture absolutely captures the mess he’s made of himself, all sticky and wet from sweat and lube and his own come. 

Sending it to Seb should be easy enough, but he agonises over the caption for a while. When he finally hits ‘send’, it’s with the words

looks like you missed out on some fun 

He adds an emoji, then deletes it.

Although Charles knows that Sebastian definitely received his message, he doesn’t reply, and Charles isn’t sure whether being left on read constitutes a success or not in this case.

*

Montreal has doom written all over it before FP1 even starts. 

Temperatures range from the high teens to the low twenties, and it’s been raining since before they got here. On the day of the main event, the weather is lukewarm yet clammy, with humidity above 70%, because of course it fucking is. 

Sunday morning, on the way from his hotel room to the lobby, Charles stumbles over a hidden crease in the rough blue carpet and scrapes open the heel of his right hand, trying to catch himself. It goes downhill from there. 

*

As the more cynical among them had predicted, the poor weather conditions combined with the challenge of the Hairpin Curve ensure that the Circuit Gilles Villeneuve claims its victims. 

Both Romain and Lance spin out, ending up in walls opposite each other, and Max runs Carlos off the track with an overly aggressive manoeuvre that gets him penalised after the fact. Daniel has an issue with his brakes and needs to retire early. 

Valtteri and Nicholas have a bit of an altercation, resulting in the loss of Nicholas’ front wing and a puncture in Valtteri’s tyres. Valtteri is out almost instantly, and although Nicholas makes it all the way to the box, the length of his pit stop puts him in dead last. 

Charles spends most of the race in P8 behind Seb, who has somehow managed to overtake seven other drivers and Charles with his uncanny ability to control his car in the wet. 

He’d have taken it too, would have accepted this result happily enough with what a shitshow both the race and his car’s performance have been so far, but his luck doesn’t hold. In the penultimate lap, he brakes a split-second too late in turn six and crashes both of them out of the race. 

His hands shake with barely suppressed rage as he climbs out of the cockpit, teeth clenched, fighting back tears. Both of them come out of it in one piece, outwardly unharmed, but on the inside, Charles is struggling to hold it together. 

Seb is angry too; it’s so easy to read in the hard lines of his shoulders, the way he’s all strung up as he walks, pace brisk, though he’s clearly determined not to show any of it. Charles wishes he would, wishes he’d turn around, grab Charles’ arm, and get all up in his space, with that angry sneer on his face, eyes blazing. 

Seb is mad at him, and Charles is mad at himself, so—no conflict on that point. 

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, into the ever-growing gap of silence between them. Charles wants to catch up, to close it, but as soon as he’s said it, he knows that he chose the wrong approach. 

“You say that a lot, you know. Half the time, I know you don’t mean it, and the other half, I’m left guessing.”

“That’s not—”

“Not what? Not fair? I’m sorry, but if you’re going to lecture me on fairness, save it.”

Charles can feel the rage inside him claw itself all the way up his throat, hot and sharp. Leashing it is probably one of the hardest things he’s ever done. 

“Seb, it was my fucking mistake, okay? I’m sorry, it was stupid, I’m such an idiot, but I really mean it, Seb, I really fucking do.” 

Sebastian exhales, then shakes his head. Charles can see him tighten the grip on his helmet. They’re not completely alone in the garage. If we were, Charles thinks, the thought clearer in his head than anything else, I don’t know what I’d do right now. The images in his mind make it hard to breathe for a second, then he has himself back under control. 

There’s no anger left in the look Seb sends him, only pity. And that is so much worse. 

“Why are you always so hard on yourself, Charles? I hope you know there are more constructive ways, both to apologise and to self-reflect.” 

“Because no one else dares to be,” he spits, words suddenly filled with so much venom that he’s almost numb with it, “I do not want to be coddled and then wake up to a knife in my back.”

The ‘like you’ hangs in the air between them, even though there had been no coddling between Sebastian and Ferrari, no love lost in these last few months. Maybe Charles just wants to hurt him. Maybe he just wants the pity gone. 

Sebastian doesn't look angry, though. A little sad, a little melancholic, but not angry. 

“No matter where the knife comes from, if you are defenceless, it will always strike you,” he says and shrugs. “I wasn't enough, but for all it's worth, I hope that you will be. That you'll measure up to whatever astronomical standards Mattia has set for you— No, I know you will.” And he laughs, short and wistful. 

It's not fair. Charles wants to wrap them up in each other and steal the finality from Sebastian's breath, longs to be part of whatever this is for just a little longer, to indulge himself a little more. Sebastian is so good and so sweet and so strong. Charles wants him all to himself. 

His next words fall out of his mouth before he can stop them, pushed by a terrible sense of certainty. 

“Tell me you're staying in F1. That you’ll join another team to compete for the title. And that I’ll still get to challenge you out on the track next season.” He’s aware of how needy, how entitled he sounds and doesn’t care. 

Seb’s not allowed to leave yet. Not before Charles wins it all. Somehow, in all his most cherished fantasies of success and grandeur, Sebastian is always there, smiling. His physical need for Seb’s approval, for his pride and acknowledgement, is like a constant itch in his veins.

 “I don't know yet.”

Charles stares, and Sebastian meets his gaze steadily. 

“After the summer break, I’ll have an answer for you. Probably.”

*

Charles has heard of the concept of a ‘pyrrhic victory’ before. He wonders dimly if it’s applicable here.

Things continue to deteriorate between Sebastian and the team ahead of summer break, and Charles can see clearly how much they favour him now. There is nothing fair about it, but in the end, he reasons that Seb not only wanted Charles to stay out of this—he is leaving anyway.

So Charles doesn’t address it, just watches on silently as Seb keeps bringing up important matters, tries to talk strategy, and desperately fights to make himself heard during meetings. 

Out of all his victories, this one has the most bitter aftertaste. Witnessing Seb’s frustration grow doesn’t give him any satisfaction at all, at least not in any way he’ll admit to himself. What’ll all of it be worth anyway, after this joke of a season?

*

Charles imagines it sometimes, plays with scenarios in his head where someone from the team walks in on them while Seb has him bent over a table or shoved up against a wall in some unspecified place, writhing, whimpering, gagging for it. 

Seb’s hands curled around Charles possessively, jacking him off in time to Seb’s powerful thrusts that bury his dick in Charles’ ass all the way to the hilt, the slap of his balls against Charles’ naked skin wet and obscene.

He wouldn’t ask Seb to stop if they were discovered, he decides and comes to the thought of other people watching him be a shameless, horny mess for Seb. 

They’d be shocked to see him in that position at first, sure, but he knows he looks good like that (hair mussed, eyes glassy, helplessly caught in the throes of passion). He’s been told so many times over by multiple different people throughout the years. 

And no one would be able to deny it, then, his attraction to Seb, how he feels about him and about all of this. And perhaps Charles wouldn’t ever have to spell it out for him. Wouldn’t have to eat the rejection that is sure to follow.

Of course, he keeps all of it to himself and doesn’t share a word of it with Sebastian. It’s just a little innocent fun for him to get off to, another way to cope with the mental stress of it all. No need to analyse it any further.

*

Over summer break, they don’t see each other at all. Seb basically disappears off the face of the earth, and the F1 gossip mill comes up with more and more abstruse theories of where he could have gone—which is primarily Daniel’s fault. 

Kimi and Lewis are staying out of it, so they probably know where he is and what he’s doing, not that it should matter. 

Charles is pretty sure that he’s just hanging out in Switzerland. They text a couple times, and nothing Seb says suggests anything about outlandish trips to exotic places, but Seb isn’t the type for that, anyway. He doesn’t ask, and Seb doesn’t tell him, which is really a giant, dumb allegory for how this whole thing between them has been going. 

Then again, what Charles wants to ask for would most likely be too much. It’s not like that, between them, regardless of how hard Charles aches for it to be. 

He himself spends ten hot days and long nights with good friends on sandy beaches, gets way too drunk a couple of times and regrets it after, though not enough to stop. 

At some point, he gets tired of that and calls up Andrea to develop a gruelling workout routine, and from then on, he obsesses over fitness and explores the southern part of the Italian alps with his mountain bike. It feels good to breathe in the clean mountain air, and the stunning face of mother nature around him has a grounding effect. 

Rest finally starts to feel like rest again. 

On the day he packs up his bags in Monaco and prepares for his return to Maranello, Detective Daniel cracks the case and figures out what Seb has been up to, and it’s all thanks to Antonio, who ran into him at some central European airport lounge. 

Seb looks tan and lean in Antonio’s selfie, eyes tired, but a little more himself than he did before the break. His golden, sun-bleached hair is clearly messy from travelling, and his posture speaks of long hours spent sitting still on a cross-continental flight. 

Everything about him is so tangible to Charles, and he yearns with a strange intensity he should be used to by now, but that still scares him. 

Apparently, Seb spent three weeks on the Schumacher farm in Texas. Go fucking figure. 

*

Back in Maranello, they still can’t stay away from each other. This thing has gotten too easy for them, the reliable physicality of it all, the odd sense of comfort that exists only in the space between them, the familiar pull of their gravity. 

Seb might hold a grudge against Charles, or he might not, and Charles might be projecting things onto Seb that aren’t entirely congruent with who Seb actually is, but ultimately, it’s never spoken about. 

The demands Charles makes are answered in little pieces of himself that Sebastian gives away and that Charles guards jealously, and Sebastian’s touches are firm yet forgiving. He’s never actually touched Charles with anything but soft intent, even though Charles doesn’t always feel like he deserves that—or maybe because of it.

*

“It’s too much for me, I think. My head is so full, it’s too hot, all of this is.” Charles makes some all-encompassing hand gestures as he airs out his grievances to Seb, knowing full-well that he is being unfair, considering. “I want things to start making sense again. I want people to shut up and us to start winning. This is so fucking stupid.”   

They are back at Seb’s Maranello flat, have just left a stifling three-hour meeting, and everything is boiling and vexing and suffocating. His head is spinning from it all; the situation around the cars and Ferrari and Sebastian makes him want to crawl out of his skin from how uncomfortable it is. 

The air in here is somewhat cooler than the sweltering heat outside, but Charles is still sweaty and pissed off and confused. 

Sebastian hands him a glass of cold water, already emptying his in big gulps. “I want,” Charles finishes, sweet and succinct, “to stop thinking.”

The look Sebastian gives him is contemplative, but in a way that does exciting things to Charles’ insides. “I could,” he says, draining the last bit of water from his glass, “help you with that, I think.” 

His voice sounds rough and used; he’d talked a lot during the meeting—in vain, of course. Charles doesn’t understand how Seb still has any power left to fight, what with all the pain of watching his dream slipping away. Clearly, his summer vacation has given him at least some of his old energy back, some of that fierce, bare-bones determination.  

It fills Charles with a desperate kind of admiration, the sort you’d feel towards people who risk everything and still stand more to lose than to gain. He is terrifyingly, paralysingly afraid that Seb will burn himself out, that it will end with Seb leaving everything (leaving him) behind—and that just isn’t a world Charles wants to live in. 

The fact that he can see his passion for racing die faster with each passing day, has front row seats and a VIP pass to all of it, even, lets a weight grow heavy in his chest.

Charles stares him down like he is a riddle waiting to be solved. Sebastian’s eyes are brilliant and bright and blue, unwavering in the way they are fixated on Charles’ face, and when he licks his lips, Charles lets out a tiny moan and closes his eyes. 

Being the sole focus of Sebastian’s attention feels devastating. It is a revelation that always has him drunk on power and arousal. God, make it mean something. 

Then Sebastian is on him, but where Charles had expected him to be forceful and overwhelming, he is gentle and methodical instead. He claims Charles’ lips in a deep, slow kiss that melts Charles’ insides and remoulds them into something else entirely, the sheer need in his veins yielding to a rush of wild adoration. 

When Seb is kissing him like this, holding him like this, Charles finds it so deceitfully easy to lie to himself. He pulls Sebastian flush against his body, and the room is hot, and their breath is hot, and their skin is hot, sweat-slick and still covered in too many layers. 

“Is this okay?” Sebastian asks, tone husky, mouth centimetres from Charles' pulse point, waiting for Charles' reply before he continues, and the genuine need for reassurance in his words shouldn't be that sexy, but it is. 

There is no bullshit with Seb, he's blunt and direct most of the time, and it's refreshing and unnerving in equal measure. 

“Ahh...yeah...yes, please, Seb, please...” Charles gasps, wanting those lips back on his skin. He can feel Seb's smirk in the kisses his teammate is trailing up his neck, relishing the way his grip tightens on Charles' wrist.

“I want you, oh God, I—” His brain is so fried from all of this that it almost slips out, a breathless, needy confession, caught somewhere between begging to be used and begging to be held, craving to be wanted. 

Thankfully, he manages to cut himself off at the last second, and between Seb’s teeth nibbling at the most sensitive part of his earlobe and Seb’s hands wandering to the front of his jeans, his attention is otherwise occupied so he doesn’t appear to notice it. 

When Seb palms Charles’ erection through the fabric, Charles growls and presses himself forward against Seb, chasing for more. Seb hums appreciatively and grants Charles’ wish. Even through two layers of clothes, he can feel how hard Seb is for him, how much he’s into this. 

Charles feels feverish with want; his whole being is thrumming with it. All he can do is shove his hips forward with no finesse, grinding their clothed dicks against each other, desperate for the hard lines of Seb's body and the promise of delicious friction.

“Look at you, just— Fuck, Charles,” Seb moans, “I want to make you come like this, can I?” Like teenagers, Charles thinks hazily, clumsy, frantic, horny. 

“Yeah, yeah, c’mon.”

They rut shamelessly against each other—still fully clothed, jeans not even undone—and it takes an embarrassingly short time for both of them to come. 

Charles’ sweaty back is pressed against Seb’s cool, white kitchen wall, his pants are sticky and disgusting, and Seb’s body burns against his. He can hear their panting, loud and harsh in the otherwise silent flat. 

“Shower?” Seb suggests, stroking a hand through Charles’ hair, cupping his cheek and licking a drop of sweat from his face. It should be gross, but it really isn’t, and Charles is way too far gone to get hysterical over this, but his head is stuck on one thing only as he stares at Seb’s sex-flushed face. I love you. 

*

In a hotel in Austin, on the morning after the race, Charles wakes up to Seb’s low mumbling. He’s on the phone with someone—someone German—and he’s talking so softly that Charles is pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to understand him even if he spoke the language. 

The sun is sneaking inside through the curtains, and only part of Seb’s face and his lower body are illuminated by a couple of errant rays where he’s sitting on a grey loveseat, clad only in boxers, and curled in on himself.

Charles has no idea what to do with the look on his face. In the mental catalogue he keeps of expressions Seb has made in his presence, this one falls somewhere between relief and regret. He shifts, and Charles sees that there are tear tracks on his cheeks. His first instinct is to get up and over to him, to investigate what could possibly have Seb this upset so early in the morning, but Seb’s phone conversation is still going, and Charles doesn’t want to intrude. 

Thankfully, Charles’ own phone is close enough for him to grab without drawing any attention. 

According to the time display, it’s barely eight, still hours from when they need to head out to catch their afternoon flight. 

He checks Twitter and then Instagram, likes a couple posts from Ferrari fans cheering for them. Someone has tweeted a photoshopped picture that’s apparently a meme based on some popular American sitcom Charles has never watched. Judging from the tweet, the poster seems to think Sebastian losing his Ferrari seat is some vast, interwoven conspiracy with Charles and Mattia at its heart. It has almost a thousand retweets. 

The tweet makes his stomach turn, so he blocks the account and moves on. 

Across the room, Sebastian seems to be saying his goodbyes to whoever is on the other end of the call. Charles thinks he catches a quiet “Danke, Mick,” and is confused for a second. As far as he knows, Seb doesn’t have any relatives with that name. Then it clicks. Oh.   

When he looks up again, Sebastian is watching him nervously. 

“Come back to bed,” Charles demands, tone insistent. 

Whatever has disturbed Seb so much, he wants him close, to touch and to offer comfort. The current distance between them unnerves him, especially since he can still feel a slight ache in his ass from last night whenever he moves. Physical intimacy without the emotional intimacy to match unbalances him. 

If Seb can fuck him within an inch of his life, he can damn well talk to him. 

Seb walks over slowly, very clearly hesitating before he drops down on his side of the mattress. 

“Was that Schumacher on the phone?” Charles asks. He keeps his tone light and curious. It earns him a curt nod. 

“How long have you been awake for?” Seb wants to know in return, and this is a game Charles can play—a question for a question. Simple enough.

“Only a little while. I saw you were on the phone and didn’t want to disturb you.” He reaches out with his right hand, traces a line along Seb’s cheek where he’d seen the tear tracks before. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really. But I guess I should.” Seb sighs with his whole body, and he looks up, asking for divine intervention, maybe. “I had to break a long-standing promise today,” he begins, burying his hands in the blanket Charles is still wrapped up in, “I promised Mick I’d race him in F1, you know. Like his dad did with me. Years ago, when he was still small, and karting was his whole world.”

Something like fear begins to creep up Charles’ spine, he doesn’t like where this is going at all, but he decides not to interrupt, to let Sebastian say his piece. 

“When I called him today, it was to tell him that won’t be possible anymore. And that is because—” Seb rubs his face, hides behind his hands, then tears them away again, folds them together. They’re shaking. “Because I’m going to retire after this season.”

“You…you what?” Charles feels like he’s frozen in place, completely unable to move. All he can do is stare at Seb in wide-eyed disbelief. 

“Sorry that I didn’t tell you before, I just. Mick had to be the first. I owe him that much. I haven’t even told Britta yet. Or mum and dad. Or—” 

“You’re retiring?” 

He’d refused to think about Seb leaving, had discarded the possibility every time his mind brought it up, had shoved it aside with a desperate ferocity. And now—

Seb looks up to meet Charles’ gaze, and he can’t see any lies, detect any attempts at humour, no matter how horrible a joke this would be. Sebastian is serious. Charles knows that expression very well—Seb’s done with F1, his decision is made, everything else from now on will be one long string of formalities. 

But Charles is stubborn too, and he refuses to just accept this and live in Sebastian’s awful new reality.

“Yes. I want to stop racing before I start hating it; I—I don’t think I could live with that version of myself. Racing is such a big part of who I was, who I still am.” 

He seems numb, but he doesn’t start crying again. Charles thinks he looks like he’s done mourning. Sitting there, hunched over and mostly naked, in a hotel bed that could be anywhere in the world, with messed up hair, beard stubble, wide blue eyes that are still slightly red, and lips chewed bloody, he looks both agonisingly real and tragically beautiful, like a contemporary realist painting. 

Charles wants to reach out and touch, to bridge that tiny gap, but he cannot bring himself to.  

Seb’s going to leave. I won’t get to race him next year or ever again. He’s going to fucking leave. 

“Did you not get any other team offers? Is that why?” Charles sounds desperate now; he can’t imagine that no one would want Seb in their starting line-up, but, to him, it’s the only explanation that makes actual sense. There’s just no way someone who’s as married to the sport, as entrenched in its history as Seb is, would just leave like that.

Never mind that it’s precisely what he’s been dreading in the back of his head since Seb lost his seat.

“No, Charles, I…The offers were there. You don’t get it, do you?” At that moment, it feels like something breaks between them because—

“You’re right. I don’t. I think it’s stupid. You still want to win, Seb, I can see it in your eyes every fucking time you look at your car or fight so fiercely over the most minuscule decisions. The team is doing its damndest to drive you insane, and yet you still come out to race on the track, and you give it your all because that is who you are! And the man I f— My teammate Sebastian doesn’t just throw in the towel like this! Don’t be a coward, Seb, please. Please stay.” 

Charles can see the distance between them grow with each word he utters. It’s truly pointless; he’s losing Seb, no, has already lost him. 

“Even Mick said he understands and that he will forgive me. Why can’t you?” His voice is so quiet it’s almost a toneless whisper. 

Charles doesn’t reply, he just shakes his head. Because I’m in love with you and I can’t let you go. Maybe, if Charles thinks it hard enough, Seb will eventually pick up on it.

They pack and dress in silence. He has no idea where Seb heads off to after they leave the room and Charles turns in his keycard and he doesn’t see him again until it’s time to leave for the airport.

Sebastian looks pale despite his tan, but his eyes burn with determination. 

*

In the days between their departure from Austin and their arrival in Mexico City, they don’t talk at all. No text messages, no short greetings in passing, nothing. 

Seb hasn’t told the team yet, and despite the cold anger in Charles’ chest, betraying his trust by revealing Seb’s plan to anyone is the last thing on his mind. 

The painfully obvious disillusionment, the way Seb distances himself, pulls away from all of them, even Charles—he has the sneaking suspicion that their little arrangement has a set expiration date.

Regardless of how this ends, it will hurt.

*

Mexico City is another low point in a long, long list of low points this season. 

The Autódromo Hermanos Rodríguez, as it turns out, isn’t kind to Ferrari. After what feels in that moment like the most gruelling ninety-three minutes of his life, Charles finishes P11, exactly one second in front of Daniel and the better part of another behind Carlos. 

Sebastian doesn’t finish at all, he had to retire with an engine problem around lap twenty-three, and by the time Charles parks his car in parc fermé, he is long gone. 

Words of commiseration taste bitter in his mouth as Daniel claps him on the back before he waves goodbye and walks over to Esteban, both of them exchanging grim nods.

Charles stands alone and stares up into the clear, open sky. He’s made up his mind.

*

Seb makes for a soft picture in his old flannel, already changed out of his racing gear, ready to be done with the day. The tired, resigned smile he’s directing at Charles is just for him, beard scruffy and hair a mess of dark blonde strands Charles wants to dig his hands into. 

Everything about Seb is so touchable, so real in this stolen moment. It hurts to even look at him. 

He’s here to end things when everything about Sebastian makes him want to begin again, to start over anew, differently. They could be…no, they can’t be anything. 

“Hey, I…there’s something I need to talk to you about.” 

Awkward and overused, perhaps, but Charles isn’t looking to win any prizes with this, he just needs a few seconds to make his point. That’s how long it’s going to take to end one of the best things he’s ever started. 

“All of this? Hanging out, sleeping together…I don’t think we should be doing that anymore; it doesn’t do either of us any good. You’re going to retire, and I’ll still be here, and I need to focus…” 

Once he starts speaking, the words seem to flow on autopilot, cherry-picked from the script Charles has been agonising over, like he’s making some official PR statement for one of their sponsors. Meeting Seb’s gaze is an impossibility. Their eyes are magnets repelling each other. 

The hair on Charles’ arms stands up, he feels empty and sticky and wrong as he finds some flimsy excuse, a mumbled, “I need to focus on the championship, the team needs me to. I can’t have this,” and here he motions between them, indicating whatever they have, dismissing it along with his traitorous heart, “distract me from my goals. It was fine while we were working together, but I don’t think,” Charles swallows, bites his lip bloody, burrows his fingernails in the fabric of his racing suit, “that it would do either of us well to continue this. Since you want your closure, your distance.”

He almost spits the last word. It’s nowhere near the truth, but it is good enough that it should throw Seb off the trail. Seb, who seems genuinely shocked when Charles can finally bring himself to look at him again. The blood tastes sour on Charles' tongue. 

There’s no smile in Seb's eyes anymore, there’s no defiant optimism, no spiteful joy left in them, only the weight of the last two years and the toll they took on him.

Nothing about his body language indicates anything positive, really. His shoulders are lowered, his arms at his sides, his lips paint a flat line—he looks defenceless, exposed, abandoned maybe. Charles hates it. Seb deserves so much better than this—and isn’t that the kicker? Oh sweet, sweet irony. 

He knows exactly when he last had that thought, can still smell the strong herbal scent of the chamomile tea if he focuses hard enough. First, Seb had lost Ferrari, and now he’s losing Charles. 

Well, he’s the one walking away. Charles is just the one making it official.

Charles will lose Sebastian to circumstance, and he'd like to draw the line himself. He wants the clean cut books and movies are always talking about. Except this is a French tragedy, no Hollywood blockbuster with a cheesy happy ending. 

“And I don’t get any say in this? You’ll just, what, draw a neat little line, tie a bow around it? What’s next, you’ll make me sign a non-compete clause?” Sebastian is actually upset, Charles realises. You said you were done. You said you were over all of this. Over racing. I’m doing you—us—a favour. It was just sex for you, anyway. Convenience. Stress relief.

"What we had was good; I know I had fun,” Charles says, stilted, inwardly cringing at his word choice, “but there’s no point in keeping this up if you’re leaving.”

“Fun,” Seb mutters to himself, tone oddly hollow, “yeah, I guess you’re right. Then I hope you got what you wanted out of this.” 

Charles recoils like he’s been punched, a mean right hook straight to the chin. Not fair. 

It’s easily the cruellest, most vindictive thing Sebastian has ever said to him, even though he can’t have any idea just how hard the careless comment lands. 

“You should be happy,” Charles mumbles, clumsily, like his brain has suddenly forgotten where words come from. 

A snort, short and bitter. His expression is closed-off, resigned. Seb is backing off, letting Charles have it his way. Again, without a fight. 

“Thanks, Charles, I’ll try my best.” It sounds like goodbye. 

Two races are left in the season, but Charles doesn’t want a drawn-out, tearful farewell. He needs this to be on his own terms, to survive. It can be bitter-sweet when he’s angry. Can burn the back of his throat like potent alcohol. This isn’t a break-up. It’s a return to normal. And it’s not like we were friends, or partners, or lovers. We were just teammates. Whatever we destroy now, let it burn to the ground.

He wishes he could believe himself.

“Good luck Seb, with whatever you're going to do next.” Hollow, trite, pointless.

“Good luck with the championship next year. Bring it home, Charles. Make it all count. Make it mean something. Let it be worth it,” Seb says, then turns away and walks off. The I’ll miss you dies on Charles' tongue, and the painful hooks pulling at his heart as he watches Seb leave him behind anchor him to the spot. 

It’s better this way, he reasons. No pathetic attempts to cling to something they never built to last, loose as its foundation ever was. Perhaps now, his heart will be able to heal, and his love can go towards something less volatile, less likely to absolutely ruin him.

*

There’s a whole month left of this season—Charles really just wants it to end. The word exhaustion has taken on a brand new definition for him. All he needs is for this whole thing to be over and done with. Then he can move on with his life. 

Or try to, anyway.

*

“Question for Lewis—obviously, he's not here right now, but since you've known him for such a long time, what are your thoughts on Sebastian Vettel's retirement? Do you think it was the right call to make?”

“Honestly?” Lewis laughs, eyes glinting with what Charles knows is the world’s worst public inside joke. 

“We've been racing each other for the better part of two decades, and—I've already told Seb this in private—our rivalry will always be my favourite in F1. So I will definitely miss him out on the track. He's one of the big names, the living legends of this sport. People tend to undersell that. But, and it feels good to be able to say this, you know, Seb and I are quite close, and I trust him to make the decisions that are best for him. I'm excited to see what he's going to do in the future, ‘cause Seb is a pretty active guy. He likes his pet projects.”

This is another joke, Charles can tell. Lewis is too good at this. His answer was pretty much textbook, not a single word of it a lie. Just like Seb, he’s elevated press wrangling into an art form. Much of it comes down to experience, of course, but the easy charm and charisma both of them exude in spades? That is all-natural, only parts of it can be taught, and some of it has to be won, to be claimed. 

“Question for Charles—now that Ferrari has signed a very reliable driver in Carlos Sainz, do you think that your chances at a Constructor's Championship will improve, given the new car is sufficiently competitive?”

A sigh is stuck in his throat, deep and world-weary, but he can’t let it out now. There are too many eyes on him. Charles slumps forward a little, glad for the sunglasses covering his face, offering him at least a meagre amount of protection. He doesn’t want to answer that question. Below the table, Lewis lightly taps Charles’ leg with his foot. If only this charade wasn’t so laughably predictable. 

“You’re right that Carlos is a competent driver, no one here can dispute that, and I’m glad that the team has managed to find a suitable replacement for Sebastian. I don’t want to speculate about next season when this one isn’t even over yet, and that is what you’re asking me to do, I think. All I can tell you is that I trust the team to build the best car they can and that we—the drivers—will do what is in our power to win. It would be, well, stupid to count out Ferrari based solely on our performance this season.” 

The guy who asked the question doesn’t look too happy with the answer he got. Tough break, Charles didn’t like the question much either. Mentally, he adds another tally mark to the long, long column of things people have said to get him to disparage Seb. At this point, he’s given up hope that they’ll ever stop.

“Another question for Charles—in your first two seasons with Ferrari, you’ve clearly demonstrated your talent, easily outdriving former World Driver’s Champion Sebastian Vettel in both 2019 and 2020. Do you think Carlos Sainz will pose a bigger challenge, and would a more competitive team environment help foster your killer instinct on track?” 

This time, he does sigh, but it’s quiet. A more competitive team environment, ha. 

“Really, Seb has given me a lot as a teammate. What I learned from him cannot be measured against my past experiences, and as for future ones, who can say? Not many people get to watch a four-time champion work from up close. I was lucky to be granted the chance. And when you say ‘more competitive’, it tells me that people haven’t been paying attention.” 

There’s more he wants to say, though he fears it would get him in trouble with Mattia. It has to be enough, somehow. 

Out of the corner of his eyes, he thinks he can see Lewis give him a sharp nod of approval. On Lewis’ other side, Valtteri gets ready to answer a question for some Finnish radio host, and Charles relaxes momentarily.

*

“How are things between you and Seb now?” Alex asks, innocently curious, the week after São Paulo—after Sebastian pushed himself to a miraculous, spite-fuelled P3 finish, passed nine people in the process, and finally made his plans public while Charles had tyre issues and ended up with P7 despite starting from third. “Long-distance is a big commitment.”

They’re hanging out in Discord, idly talking, shooting the shit. The F1 server has just crashed for the fourth time in a row, and they’re all sick of trying to set up yet another lobby. 

Lando had suggested Fortnite as a possible alternative, but Charles managed to successfully veto him. At the moment, he doesn’t think he has the necessary mental capacity left.

“What Seb and I have is—” he starts, then bites his lip, looks for words and stares at his blinking cursor. Nothing. We don’t have anything anymore.

“Well, what do you have?" George interrupts him, “because from where I am standing—”

“Sitting,” Lando corrects, ever helpful. 

“Sitting, thank you, Mr Norris, from where I'm sitting, it looks like you have jack shit. You’re just kind of pining, you know. All the time.”

He’s glad they can’t see him right now, as he blindly grabs for his water bottle and takes a couple long gulps just to buy himself time. His hands are cold and sweaty on the plastic material.

“It's complicated. You wouldn't understand it.” Not that it’s a story worth telling, except as a cautionary tale. Something something burning your fingers, flying too close to the sun. And what a bright sun it had been.

“You've never even tried to explain.” Backstabber. Lando is officially off the Christmas list.

“Ugh, mate.” Charles groans into his mic and buries his face in his oversized comfort hoodie, attempting to smother himself. The white bandana he picked out today sits slightly askew, and his hair is a mess—he'd neglected to style it this morning since he'd planned on staying home anyway. 

He doesn't want to tell them that he broke up with—no, ended his arrangement with Seb. There is too much background knowledge missing, so much context he’s unwilling to provide. 

Things are messy and ugly enough without his friends' input, however well-intentioned. After all, he’d never wanted to clue all of them in in the first place, but he'd been drunk and lonely one night, and they’d been easy company. 

A bad recipe for Charles Leclerc if there ever was one. 

“You reckon he knows that Charles is passionately in love with him? It's kind of obvious, no?” George asks, sounding awfully contemplative. 

“Please stop.”

Charles knows this isn’t about him, it’s just George being George, but that doesn’t make the churning in his gut any easier to bear. Some friendly ribbing is fine from time to time, but right now, it feels like he’s poking at an exposed nerve, ignorant in his careless callousness. It really fucking hurts.

“I doubt Seb is the kind of person to speculate on that, to be honest. And since Charles is too much of a wuss to confess, we'll probably never find out his opinion on the subject.”

Alex is correct, as usual, but that doesn't make it any less painful. His chances are gone anyway, so it's not like it matters much, but his feelings are still there, burrowed deep into his chest like vicious tiny harpoons, refusing to be dislodged and discarded. 

“We can't bully Charles into confessing, Albono; he's too stubborn for that.” George has apparently put a lot of thought into this. Okay, then, he supposes that he can appreciate the gesture on some abstract level. Potentially.

“It worked for Lando,” Alex counters—which, fine, fair point, although—

“Yeah, for Lando.”

“Hey, what is that supposed to mean?” Lando instantly shoots back, affronted. 

“Means that you're not a chronic overthinker, like our dear friend Charlie here,” George explains patiently, “who doesn't believe that Seb could ever be seriously interested in him when it's evident to the rest of us people with working eyes that Seb would probably kill a man if Charles asked him to.”

False, Charles thinks bitterly. He wouldn't even stay in the sport he supposedly loves.  

“Now you're just being cruel,” Pierre says, stepping in at last. Charles is grateful, in the way a beaten man is grateful when his attackers let off and lose interest. Small mercies and all that. Crows are going to start picking at his intestines any moment now. 

“I don't want to talk about this anymore,” he states, quiet but firm. Final, definite, brokering no argument. “There's nothing left to discuss, in any case.”

They all fall silent at that. Perhaps it's malicious of him, with them being some of his closest friends and all, but he can't help thinking that they got what they wanted in the end.

Later, they each text him individually to apologise. Alex also sends some pet pictures along.

Charles feels numb reading the messages. He's somewhere between desolate and angry, but all of that pales in comparison to the grief he feels over a relationship that never existed outside his wishful thinking. 

Forgiving his friends is easy, forgiving himself is not, and forgiving Seb feels impossible (not, his brain reminds him cheerfully, that there is anything to forgive because Seb has nothing to atone for).

I love you calamar 

Pierre texts, 

You know that right? I've got your back

yes

Charles texts back, 

i know that

things are just difficult right now

*

There’s a whole month left of this season—enough time for him to realise that he doesn’t want things between Seb and him to end with scorched earth. 

He’s adult enough to admit to himself that what Seb still means to him eclipses what they were to each other, but that doesn’t mean that Sebastian deserves the same send-off from Charles that he gets from the rest of the team—a cold shoulder, empty gestures, polished indifference. 

Sebastian had loved Ferrari once, the same way Charles loves them now, all-consuming and with his whole heart. He’d given everything for the team, then they ended up pushing him away and holding him at arm’s length before dropping him entirely.

Chew me up and spit me out—there is a twisted kind of beauty in the planned obsolescence of a F1 driver, especially a scarlet-clad one. This has long since been Charles’ certainty, and he walks his path secure in that knowledge.

However, this doesn’t mean he ceases to be his own person.

Charles isn’t going to stand there and laugh along with them, isn’t going to pretend that his time with Sebastian meant nothing to him.

It takes him a while to come up with an idea, but then inspiration strikes him, and he gets to work.

*

The moon stands high in the sky over Abu Dhabi. 

Yas Marina has put them all through the wringer one final time this season, and Charles is walking away from it with a metaphorical black eye in his P13 finish, Seb right behind him, sharing a measly sixth place in the Constructors’ Championship for Ferrari. 

Lights and sounds leave their impressions as he passes, shaking hands, embracing, nodding politely in acknowledgement. Although he has a set goal in mind, he is in no hurry to get there, gripped as he is by a sense of unshakeable inevitability. 

*

They’re not alone when they do the helmet swap, and Charles doesn’t know whether he should be glad or upset about it. He’s been half-dreading and half-longing for this moment since he came up with the idea for the helmet design.

Seb hasn’t commented on it so far, even though he’s doubtlessly seen it already, given that Charles has been wearing it all weekend, and a bunch of other people have brought it up in conversation with Charles—the paddock population definitely took notice.

His hands don’t tremble when he offers it to Sebastian. 

Behind them, there are people taking photos, but Charles blocks it all out, the whole calculated irrelevancy of it. Whatever Ferrari will do with this on their social media, they don’t get to decide what it means to Charles. 

Seb’s eyes are unreadable as he offers Charles his helmet in return. 

There are words written on Seb’s helmet, in his barely legible scribble, with what Charles assumes is a black permanent marker. As his eyes wander over them, first slowly, then faster, again and again, their meaning becoming undeniable to him as they nestle their way into his mind, disbelief swallows him up. 

Everything inside of him constricts with a heretofore unknown degree of tension, and he shudders in the perfectly climatised room, the hairs on his neck standing up. When he looks up, Seb is there to meet his gaze, holding Charles’ helmet gently to his chest, and nods, imperceivable to anyone but Charles. The tension snaps like an overstretched rubber band.

It’s the silent communication that breaks him. Even after weeks of carefully kept distance, that deep, shared understanding is still there, and Seb using it to confirm that he meant every single word he wrote on the white carbon fibre of his final Ferrari helmet is… 

Charles tries to blink the tears away, focuses on his breathing and gives Seb a tentative smile. “Thank you,” he mouths, not trusting himself to speak. Seb smiles back.

Innocent and above–the–waist, every single touch they share burns, even through the layers of clothing that separate them. Seb’s arm is a hot, heavy weight at his back. His fingers must leave some sort of imprint on Charles with how deliberate their pressure feels on him. 

Or maybe it’s merely Charles’ wishful thinking again, his desire for Seb to leave lasting, visible marks on him, to claim him in any shape or form that will make it obvious to other people; Sebastian Vettel was here. Proof that justifies the amount of space he has hollowed out for himself in Charles’ heart with his smiles and his touches and his radiant personality. 

Charles’ hand lies flat against Seb’s left shoulder, his thumb so close to the collar of his shirt that he could conceivably let it slip under the fabric and rub the warm, tanned skin there. But they’re not doing that anymore, no matter how strong the temptation in Charles urges him to do exactly that. 

Photos are still being taken, and quiet voices mutter in Italian, sotto voce in what amounts to a meaningless effort not to disturb, to hinder. 

Anger spikes within him then, a short, vicious stab. Surely they deserve one final moment of privacy? Two years, they took Seb from him, and now they are taking this, too? Must everything be a spectacle, intruded on by strangers’ eyes and ears and then paraded out into the world to be dragged before and summarily judged in the court of public opinion? 

Then he deflates. After all, this is the other side of the coin, is it not? A small sacrifice to make, in the grand scheme of things, when compared to everything else weighing down the scales. And Charles has forgotten how to ask for things where Seb is concerned. He doesn’t really have a right to, anymore—if he ever did. 

On their way out of the room, they’re alone for a few precious seconds, and Charles doesn’t hesitate to pull Seb into a hug. 

Although he expects resistance, Seb goes easily, wraps them up in each other the way they’ve been countless times before, in spaces that were both more and less private than this. The hold he has on Charles’ body is tight and reassuring. Despite his slighter figure, he is still the same old solid Seb who is so willing to comfort and support with his entire being, too tactile and free with his affection for his own good. 

He knows what Seb tastes like in defeat and in victory, knows that he kisses differently, but that his embraces always stay the same—warm and secure. Seb hugs with his entire body.

His heated breath strokes Charles’ cheek when he whispers in his ear; a quick, insistent don’t waste it, Charles, please, and Charles presses a last, secret kiss to the fabric of Seb’s Ferrari t-shirt where his head rests on Seb’s shoulder, much too emotionally overwhelmed to say anything. I promise, I promise, I promise.

Seb’s scent is that of sweat and motor oil again, he smells like home, and Charles figures that no matter where his path will take him, racing will always stay a part of him, even if he wants to leave it behind. 

Like everything else between them, this moment, too, feels stolen. 

*

They part, and Charles watches Seb go—watches him walk away from Ferrari, F1, and, presumably, out of Charles’ life. 

The farewells they exchange—Seb’s quiet ‘Auf Wiedersehen’ and Charles’ similarly soft ‘Au revoir’ let him cling to the faint hope of a reunion, knowing full well that words hold power, and both of them decided to forego a customary ‘goodbye’ in favour of expressions with a far less severe degree of finality.

*

It's not until he's gone that Charles realises something of considerable importance: Sebastian was very much part of his support network.

*

His winter break is relatively uneventful, focussed on training and family for the most part. 

Pierre comes to stay over for a week and does a great job distracting him with all kinds of inane activities and conversation topics. They’re always there for each other in times like these, can count on each other’s support and solidarity, and he is so, so grateful for their friendship.

Charles doesn’t have any interest in cryptocurrency, never mind the headspace to get invested in it and work up the required level of understanding, but he’s happy enough just listening to Pierre ramble on and on about whatever the fuck a blockchain is.

When the topics of F1 and its next season do come up, they talk mainly about things they look forward to, and Pierre tells funny stories about Yuki, with whom he is constantly messaging. 

Charles thinks they are adorable and tells Pierre as much, making his friend laugh and say that he hopes Charles will find a good teammate in Carlos. 

Honestly, Charles doesn’t want to think about Carlos at all. After Sebastian, all he cares about in a teammate is whether they’ll stay out of his way when he’s got his eyes on the podium.

They don’t talk about Seb, not unless Charles is very drunk, and even then, he doesn’t go too much into detail. Pierre doesn’t call him out on it, and he’s thankful, both for that and for the fact that in all this time after finding out about Charles’ involvement with Seb, Pierre hadn’t ever been tasteless about it. 

Exactly once, he had asked Charles about how good the sex was, in true nosy–best–friend–school–boy–fashion, and Charles had thought about being diplomatic for all of five seconds before he'd grinned and said, ‘No one else has ever managed to make me come that fast without even touching my dick before, so I'd say that speaks for itself,’ then laughed at Pierre’s loud complaining. Be careful what you ask for.

It’s a funny memory now, but all recalling it really does is make him wistful.

*

On his return to Maranello, he drives past the building Seb used to live in, looks up to the windows on the right floor, and wonders who will move into the once familiar rooms, cook elaborate meals on the stove, and spend hours arguing about UEFA games in front of the TV.

He’s brought Seb’s helmet with him so he can take it out and look at it when he needs to remind himself that—if nothing else—Seb believes in him, believes that Charles has the drive and the guts and the talent to become a true champion. 

*

The 2021 season comes with an entire long laundry list of things Charles will have to get used to now. A new car, a new teammate, new responsibilities, new dynamics, new faces on the track.

Seb’s absence is palpable to him. Every time there is something he wants to comment on, no matter how minuscule, his first instinct is to look for Seb, to ask for his insight, but he’s never there. 

People expect Charles to lead, they want to take cues from him, and of course, he does his best. Whether that is good enough is an entirely different matter altogether. 

It’s difficult without Sebastian as a steady presence to fall back on in Charles’ more headless moments. It’s still not suppressed, that selfish desire to lean into him, to maybe take more than Sebastian is willing to offer, even if he is no longer around and probably never will be again. 

It makes him reconsider, then. Why doesn’t Seb hate him? Why doesn’t he hate me when all I did was take and take and take and never give anything in return?

A couple of times, media personnel have approached Charles with questions about Seb. They keep asking him to draw comparisons to Carlos. He goes for the easy answers—the interests, the age difference, the sense of humour, the dynamic. 

Where Seb was a kind of mentor to Charles as much as a teammate, he’s not interested in learning anything from Carlos, who likewise doesn’t care for taking any lessons from him. They’re competitive that way, too; there is an understanding there.

What Carlos also seems to implicitly understand is that there is no competing for the team’s affections. Ferrari loves Charles, and he loves them. 

When they look at him, they see Monza 2019, they see glory, they see fame, they see a future. When they look at Carlos, they see an insurance policy.

When Charles looks at Seb, he sees everything he’s ever wanted and never thought he deserved, someone who is larger than life and with a shadow so broad most drivers struggle to ever step out of it, someone he can strive to catch, but will likely never measure up to. 

When he looks at Carlos, he sees another driver, someone just like him, but not at all. Someone he can beat.

*

Carlos is a decent teammate—he's funny and easy to get along with and doesn't take himself too seriously. But there's something in his eyes that tells Charles exactly how ambitious he is, a ruthless desire to excel, tempered by the warm nature of his public persona. 

It comes out occasionally, both on- and off-track in team environments, and Charles knows instinctively that this is what Mattia signed Carlos for. He wants Charles' head in the game at all times, wants his edges to stay sharp and his competitive drive to develop even further. 

On social media, they're C², the lovable Ferrari duo with a companionable relationship and decent enough chemistry, no matter how fabricated. 

Charles wants to know whether Sebastian has seen any of the videos and, if so, what he thinks of them. Wants to know whether Sebastian thinks he's fucking Carlos, as a huge part of their fanbase both on Twitter and YouTube seemingly never gets tired of implying. 

Charles would like to set that right with him, reassure Sebastian that he's not involved with Carlos in any way beyond the obvious, that he doesn't just jump into bed with his teammate the first chance he gets just because they're attractive—that he and Seb were special. Not that Sebastian would have a reason to care. Also, what the fuck would it look like if he just sent that kind of text?

oh just for the record

i'm not banging carlos

in case you were wondering

So he doesn't. And anyway, he's not exactly staying celibate now, is he? Meaningless, anonymous sex is still an excellent way to work off tension, and he doesn't get to do it as much as he'd like, considering he has to be overly careful, but it's nice when it does happen. 

He gets off on being desired, and people certainly do that, regardless of gender. If people want to see him as a pretty, slutty, shameless whore, they can. As long as he gets a satisfying orgasm out of it. 

So he is fucking people and getting fucked, just not by Carlos or anyone else in the paddock—which is the crucial difference for him. 

*

Realistically speaking, he’d expected not to hear anything about Sebastian for a while, now that he gets to live out his life goals of becoming a recluse in the Swiss Alps. 

As it turns out, he was very wrong about that, and he doesn’t know how it makes him feel.

*

Charles is so focused on racing he doesn't find out until after the fact that Seb was at Imola.

He walks out of the Ferrari briefing, still high on the euphoric feeling of having finished P4 and beaten Carlos, head filled with strategy talk and stomach growling with hunger. 

What he doesn’t expect when he takes his phone off silent mode is the veritable barrage of notifications from the gamer group chat, now aptly named the f in f1 stands for friendship, courtesy of a very tipsy Lando.

Hesitantly, he opens the WhatsApp group and is immediately assaulted by a bunch of links and screenshots talking about an interview with Sky that Seb apparently gave earlier today right by the fucking track.

The way they’re talking about him, it might as well have been a cryptid sighting.

Frustratingly enough, he’s not alone right now, and he already agreed to grab a bite to eat with Carlos and Silvia, so, no matter how much it itches in his fingers to follow up on all this, he can’t.

When they keep asking him whether he’s seen it yet and what he thinks about it, Charles just sighs and slips the phone into his jacket pocket. 

“Are you coming?” Carlos asks, and he nods and speeds up a little, climbs into the back of the company car. 

Somehow, food is now the last thing on his mind. 

*

He watches the Sky Sports feature with Sebastian as soon as he gets home, safe in the knowledge that he’ll be undisturbed for the remainder of the night. The restaurant they went to had served decent food, but Charles had been way too distracted to keep a conversation going.

Charles isn’t sure what he expected, but it’s not this.

Ten minutes of amiable chatting between Sebastian and Jenson Button, interspersed with the occasional more profound question. It's like watching friends at a table, the atmosphere a lot more intimate than one would expect. But then again, they've always seemed close. 

Button never lets up on the teasing, makes Sebastian laugh out loud five times throughout the whole interview, all of them genuine, and Sebastian gives back as good as he gets. They talk about high points in their career, bring up funny stories they both remember fondly and deem fit for public consumption, and when they speak of retirement, Button commiserates with Seb instead of making invasive comments. 

There is a short segment where they discuss Mick and his future, which Sebastian seems only too content to talk about, and other season predictions. Not once is Ferrari ever mentioned. 

The feature ends with Button inviting Sebastian back, saying you know you'll always be welcome here, and a heartfelt hug. Whoever green-lit this had given them a lot of leeway; it feels very fluffy and unscripted for an exclusive F1 media piece. 

Of course, there's also the chance that Sebastian would have refused anything else, which—on second thought—seems a lot more likely now that he gets to pick and choose. 

On his first rewatch, Charles pays more attention to how Seb looks than what he says. 

Outwardly, he seems completely fine. No dark shadows around his eyes, only a tiny spot of sunburn on his nose. He's wearing a pine-green 'Save the Bees' t-shirt and a pair of beige cargo shorts, the whole get-up clashing hilariously with Button's tailored interpretation of business casual, his even tan.

There's simply no trace of any fakeness in the entire interview, it's a genuine celebration of their easy dynamic, and Charles finds it hard to look away. He ends up watching it three times, eyes caught on Sebastian's laughter lines, the way his eyes crinkle, the brightness of his smiles. Retirement looks good on him, and isn’t that a thought? 

Charles watches the panel after as well, listens to a smiling Nico Rosberg say, “It's good to hear from him, isn't it? I wasn't sure we'd ever see him again,” while he’s sitting there perched on his chair, legs crossed. 

Button's quick rebuttal of “Actually, we talk quite often,” causes Rosberg’s eyebrows to twitch in an odd way that makes him look highly doubtful, then he goes on to say, “Either way, it doesn't seem to have slowed him down any, he seems quite happy with the new path he's taken.”

This has Button agreeing, though he adds, “I must echo something Lewis has said about Seb's retirement, and that is that his leaving is a great loss for F1. Not just because of his skill and experience but also because of his passion for racing. He was one of those people who really lived and breathed the sport.”

Rosberg can’t seem to find a way to fight him on that, so they move on to other topics, and Charles loses interest.

*

He thinks that might be it, but surprisingly, it’s not—Seb keeps making media appearances, some of them related to F1, but most of them, well, not. 

When asked about his sudden enthusiasm for the limelight, he says that it’s important to him that he uses the platform he has gained over the years responsibly, that he wants to use the privilege he has to help others, to amplify the voices that are more often drowned out and spoken over. 

Charles' friends, dirty enablers that they are, link him to videos whenever Seb shows up anywhere. They're primarily in German, and he may not understand the words, but he does recognise the passion in Sebastian's face and the conviction in his voice. Privately, he thinks that Seb is perfect for this—both his eagerness to learn and willingness to teach make him uniquely suited for it.

While he’d shown previous engagement, Sebastian speaks out more on social issues and environmentalism now, shows a lot of public support for Lewis' efforts, even though he remains tongue-in-cheek when asked about Lewis' championship chances and who he's rooting for. 

Lewis says he’s glad that Seb is ‘finding his voice’, and, when asked to elaborate, he says that they ‘speak often’ and that it has ‘brought them even closer’. 

Jealousy doesn’t need to look ugly on him when Charles already feels awful for thinking that way in the first place, even more so since it’s very much misplaced here, but he wishes for a fraction of what they have. 

Falling back into old habits, he slides his hands into his boxers and jerks off with his eyes closed, just listening, making himself come to the sound of Sebastian's unmistakable tones, his name on Charles’ lips as he moans over the unintelligible German in his ears, all context lost on him, but not the voice. Never the voice.

*

Charles is conflicted when Seb makes no secret of his backing of LGBT rights groups, wonders if Seb would dare to come out now, and worries about what kind of backlash he'd face for it. 

Would Charles contractually be allowed to back Sebastian, he wonders, or would Ferrari fight him on it, so his image doesn't become “controversial” in the fans' eyes? The thought has him sick to his stomach.

A hypothetical queer person in the sport is a lot more palatable, after all, than a real, breathing human being, especially one so prominent and so hard to silence and ignore. 

He wonders dimly about how progressive a sport that takes big fuck-off checks from and holds races in countries with openly anti-LGBT stances and legislations can genuinely be and draws his own conclusions. 

They don’t look particularly favourable. 

*

Seb also stays present in F1 in other ways. 

He doesn’t even have to be around for people to bring him up constantly. There are plenty of mentions of him on Lewis’ social media, in Mick’s stories, as a tag-on sentence in interviews involving people like Toto Wolff, Jenson Button, and Ted Kravitz. “Yeah, I spoke to Seb about this recently.” “Seb said to me that…” “And you know Seb, he made this silly joke about it—”

It’s like everybody and their fucking grandmother still gets to have him, except for Charles, and yes, okay, he only has himself to blame, but it still isn’t fair.  

Because Seb—Seb left him. 

And he knows that he couldn't have done anything about it, but the thought won’t let him go. 

Charles feels betrayed by Seb for leaving.

Racing is his entire life, his true religion; praying at the altar of speed, finding meaning and perfection in the violent grace of a race car, its barely tamed power. The exhilaration in the fragility of their mortal shells, the beauty of the apex of a curve. 

He’d thought it was Seb’s, too, that they were the same. That Seb would stick around until racing became a physical impossibility for him. 

Always there, always in reach, or just out of it. The thrill of the chase and the high of the overtake, heart beating faster and faster as the car eats up the laps on the track between the start and the finish line, eyes only on the chequered flag.

Turns out he was wrong about that.

*

i still remember the way you taste 

He deletes it, erases the following lines too. 

i want your mouth on me 

i want to kiss you 

i want to beg you to make me feel good again

i’m not whole without you 

*

Seb shows up to watch Mick race in Portimão. 

According to Charles’ most reliable gossip sources (Carlos and Lando), he declines every single interview but finally shows up in Ted’s Notebook, explaining that he bought a fucking Eurail Pass and took the goddamn train to get here. 

“Long train rides through strange countrysides at night are an entirely new and exciting experience,” he says, blue eyes twinkling with glee.

It’s all so quintessentially Sebastian that it hurts to watch. His heart is doing the weird contraction thing it does whenever Charles gets to see someone else laugh with this happier, more carefree version of Seb. 

Seb tells Ted that he talks to Mick regularly and tries to help out, give advice, and have an open ear. Of course, Mick’s season hasn’t been the greatest so far, what with the Haas car being suboptimal and the team going all-in on next year, but it’s Mick’s very first season, and he still deserves all the support he’s getting. 

When asked about Charles—for once, it’s like everybody has washed the past two years out of their mouth with soap whenever they talk to Seb—he says, “I don't think any of us have to worry about Charles. He doesn't need my advice anymore if he ever did. At some point, a lot of you will realise that, and then I will be there to say ‘I told you so’.”

Even if the season has started out in the better half of unremarkable for Charles, even if they barely interact anymore and Charles keeps his distance, Seb is still proud of him—Charles can hear it in his voice. 

The spiderwebbed crack inside of him opens up and swallows him whole, and he shakes, filled with a deep-seated, aching sense of longing.

Seb still thinks about him, cares about him enough to follow his performance in races, even tries to analyse and give people insight into the way Charles’ mind works on track.

Hearing that makes Charles want to cry, maybe throw something while he’s at it. Get a little wild with it. 

Instead, he sits down, pulls out his phone and wakes it from its slumber, scrolling through his private Spotify playlists until he finds the one that’s innocently titled Car Songs. It's mostly filled with oldies and evergreens he's discovered he loves, songs Seb had put on when it was his turn to pick the music. 

They comfort him now, carrying with them memories of simpler times, of driving through the Italian countryside in the summer, windows down, wearing matching pairs of aviator shades, belting out lyrics without a care, as the world outside the car passes by in a blur of green and grey.

Quiet reminiscing is fair game, especially after what he just confirmed for himself.

Charles Leclerc is someone to Sebastian Vettel, someone beyond the talented upstart teammate who stole his Ferrari seat or the warm body keeping him company while working off excess stress in a high-stakes environment.

Now, if only he could bring himself to open up the lines of communication.

i want everything with you 

he types and deletes, watching the cursor blink until the screen turns black. 

Denying himself is both the easiest and hardest thing he’s ever done. No matter that he’s head over heels in love, Seb left him, and Charles will not open himself up to that kind of rejection. 

This is foolish. I am a fool, he thinks, futilely, while Toto sing about blessing the rains down in Africa.

*

Monaco…happens.

That is genuinely how he tries to think about it, after, as something that happened to him. 

If he starts blaming himself again, he’s not going to make it through this without a severe hangover. It’s a disaster, a debacle, a disappointment. It’s stupid, it’s so fucking stupid, he’s stupid, he’s awful, he’s— 

This could have been it, but now it’s not, it’s nothing. Just another DNF in his stupidly long list of DNFs. Why it had to be this race of all races, he doesn’t know. 

Charles isn’t overly religious beyond the fact that he believes in the existence of God as a nebulous, omnipresent cosmic entity, but this does feel like some sort of karmic retribution. 

He’s sitting on the floor of his flat, TV volume on low in the background, and contemplates breaking his promise to Pierre as he stares lovingly at a bottle of fine Cuban rum he’s kept around for special occasions. IN CASE OF EMERGENCY BREAK GLASS. 

Then his phone buzzes with a notification. 

Not for the first time tonight, he considers chucking the damn thing into the sea. His team, his friends, his family…their constant concern vexes him. It pours salt into the raw wound that is his most recent failure. Add it to the list. 

Unlocking the screen to turn on aeroplane mode—silence and solitude once and for all—his eyes fall onto the name of his latest tormentor. It’s Seb. 

You know, I never won the Hockenheim GP. Not a single time. 

Charles bites his lips. 

The sheer audacity to…to message him like they still talk every day, like he’s someone Charles normally texts back on a regular basis. Not even a word in greeting, just straight into the meat of it. And what a fucking message to send to someone who…had something like that happen to them. 

i couldn’t even start 

what the FUCK why would you even

????

this is stupid

Ah, see, you’re angry. Anger and frustration are easier to channel into something productive than depression.
Just do better next time. 

He does a double-take, stares at his phone like it went and bit him. 

is that what you would have told me if you’d been there

He types furiously, thinking of Baku 2019, of Seb cupping his face, touching him, anchoring him in the most reassuring way he’d been capable of. A gesture filled with grace and reverence. Charles has seen the photos.

No, but it’s what I’m telling you now because I know what you’re like. 

Be mad at me if you need to. Call me names in your head like I know you want to. 

Tell me I’m a coward and a hypocrite, then get up tomorrow and keep trying. 

And stop ignoring your friends. They worry.   

did pierre message you

is that why

nevermind 

And then—because while he’s unspeakably pissed, he’s also very lonely and weak and desperate for Seb’s company, for his experience and his steadfastness and his firm grip and familiar weight holding Charles’ hips down while he pounds him into the mattress, chasing away every last thought of— 

are you here

like 

are you in MC

He waits with bated breath for the reply, blunt fingernails digging little half-moon indents into the skin of his palms. 

No, I’m sorry, I couldn’t make it. 

Had to take Bruno to the vet. Watched it on live television instead. 

Let’s just say Sky Sports Germany is not usually my first choice. 

Charles exhales. Reads the words again and again and again. Combs through them carefully. Then he curses, a very loud and very angry German expletive that he’s heard Seb use more than once in moments of helpless rage, and chucks his phone across the room. 

“Scheiße!”

It feels surprisingly satisfying.

*

He doesn’t text Sebastian back after that. Instead, Charles returns to pretending that he barely acknowledges Seb’s existence—but he does send Pierre a strongly worded voice message and empties a can of beer he unearths from somewhere deep within the confines of his fridge. 

Not touching the rum feels like a win somehow, no matter how pathetic that sounds. He’ll take a small success in the face of a crushing failure. 

*

Lewis pulls him aside once, after Baku. 

Charles is amicable; a P3 finish, a podium with Pierre, miles ahead of Carlos. 

His team has retreated to bed already, and so have his friends. This is as neutral a space as he will find in the odd hours of the night, sequestered off by himself on a little table across from the hotel bar, nursing the same drink until he can finally feel something inside him shifting, like maybe now he could sleep.

He clocks the approach but lets it happen anyway. The lights are low, and his glass of gin and tonic is almost empty, the zesty taste washing the remaining traces of sparkling wine out of his mouth. 

"So, Seb keeps asking about you,” Lewis leaps right in, skipping intro and pleasantries and looking a mix between mildly annoyed and patiently amused. 

And Charles? Charles is instantly torn between fight or flight. This particular topic hadn’t come up at all in the options for possible conversations he could feasibly imagine himself having with seven times WDC Lewis Hamilton at two in the fucking morning in some hotel bar in Azerbaijan. It was booted off the list, right along with vegan chilli recipes. 

This is a fucking fringe experience. Is he lucid dreaming? What next? Will Carlos propose to him on the private jet? Is Mattia going to astral project himself into the Mercedes garage? 

It’s been a while since he’s mistrusted his own perception this much, and he finds that he didn’t miss it.

“And I decided to talk to you since, you know, you don't seem to be able to give him a straight answer.”

Charles raises his eyebrows, his sense of coordination still good enough for that. “I don't see how this is any of your business?”

Lewis acquiesces with a slight nod. “You’re right. Well, it's technically not, but I like Seb a lot, enough to want to see him happy, and getting stonewalled by you is kind of having the opposite effect.”

"He's the one who left,” Charles replies hotly, suddenly flushed all over, “if he wants to be a coward—”

Sighing, Lewis interrupts him with a wave of his hand. “I don't see what you're getting out of this, but I assure you, his retirement had nothing to do with you as a person, so I have no idea why you’re making it about yourself. And he didn't ask me to do this either. He’s a good friend whom I am doing a friendly favour, so he can go back to being ‘friendly’ with his other ‘friend', even though I think the guy is acting like a standoffish asshole.”

The air quotes, although purely vocal, are very audible.

Charles snorts. Friends. “Fine, you can tell him that the car is a—actually, you know,” he starts, then hesitates for a while, knowing Lewis is the competition, but he’s here as Sebastian’s friend, not with malicious intent, “actually, tell him, he would have hated how it handles, especially around corners.” 

In his head, he can still hear Sebastian’s voice going over every minute detail during team briefings. The thought has him trail off distractedly for a moment, then he blinks, refocuses on the present, and carries on. 

“Also, you can say that I'm fairly certain my teammate would stab me in the back without blinking if given the chance, that Mattia talks too much now that no one dares to interrupt him, and that I—” Miss him terribly, still have one of his shirts, wish it was him and I back in Maranello. “I hope he's happy with whatever he's doing now.”

(Be happy and smile). 

This earns him a half-smile from Lewis. “It's not much, but it's something, I guess. He's fairly alright, I think. Better than before.”

Before, when he was still with me, Charles thinks. 

“Back when he was with Ferrari,” Lewis amends like he’s responding to Charles’ thoughts. Weirdly enough, it does make Charles feel better. 

Yawning hugely, Lewis shrugs and turns to leave. 

“I expected him to step away completely,” Charles confides in a rush, apparently surprising both himself and Lewis—if the quirked eyebrow is anything to go by. 

“I thought Sebastian would just,” he makes a ridiculous gesture with his hands, “retreat, that he’d disappear for like five years until people stop talking about him and he can finally have his privacy.” 

I think I would have preferred that. It would have made it easier, he doesn’t say but thinks that Lewis hears it anyway.

Then, in a quieter voice, he soldiers on. “By the end of last season, he hated all of this so much. It was painful to look at him sitting in his car, trying so hard, knowing he was suffering and being unable to really help him. For someone who used to love racing as much as he did, slowly watching all of that love turn into something ugly must have felt…I don’t know. It must have been unbearable. I still wanted him to stay. To try again with another team. But instead, he just…left. The Seb I knew wasn’t big on giving up.” 

Charles gulps and stares down at his hands. That felt like a confession. No, it was a confession. He closes his eyes and prays for the twilight hours to devour him. 

Something changes in Lewis’ eyes, there–and–gone–again, so fast that Charles isn’t even sure if it wasn't a figment of his imagination. He swallows around the dry lump of useless, stupid grief in his throat, for a man he hadn’t been prepared to lose. A teammate, a mentor, a rival, an ally. 

“Just talk to him, Charles,” Lewis says, and his tone is almost beseeching as he reaches out and puts a hand on Charles’ shoulder. It’s not the touch that startles him; it’s the words. 

Charles shakes him off. “I can’t.” His reply is instant, final. Lewis watches him with his dark, expressive eyes, and Charles watches impassively back. 

*

Charles doesn't want to be friends. He's very set on that. Friends don't get to curl up in bed together, tired and sated, exchanging sweet little kisses while they drift off to sleep. 

Charles wants confessions and commitment, lazy vacations and home-cooked dinner dates and long, slow evenings filled with adoring words and filthy touches. Charles wants to love Seb, knowing he's loved in return. So no, Charles doesn't want to be friends.

*

I don’t know if he still wants me when it’s just me. I don’t know if he resents me for any of what happened. I’m too scared to find out. It can’t be a half-thing. It’s got to be all or nothing. 

*

He’s too weak for nothing, though, can’t seem to stay away.

*

The text he sends Seb on his birthday is a simple congratulation. No fancy words, no deeply personalised message, no big confessions. Just a quick

happy birthday 

because he cannot take the thought of Sebastian assuming Charles would forget about it, now that there are no social media posts or team events to remind him. 

Seb replies some thirty-odd minutes later, probably after making his way through hundreds of other birthday messages from all of the people who love him. 

It’s not like Charles’ text particularly deserves a reply either, considering it literally consists of two words and nothing else. A fake Facebook aunt could have done better. He still receives one anyway.

Thanks, Charles, good luck in Spielberg tomorrow! 

His stupid heart beats faster when he reads it, but he still leaves Seb on read and wonders whether it hurts Seb just as much as it does him. 

*

Mick corners him after FP3 in Silverstone. 

Height-wise, he’s technically four centimetres shorter than Charles, but his nonchalant body language and the cold distance in his icy blue eyes as he walks over more than make up for it. There’s something quietly intimidating about him that Charles doesn’t think he ever noticed before. 

“Honestly, I don't understand what he sees in you.”

“Who?”

It earns him an eye roll. “Seb, obviously.”

Mick has never been anything but cordial to him, so this entire conversation is throwing Charles off-balance badly. Wrong-footed, it takes him a while to collect his thoughts and arrange them in a way that makes sense. 

“Did—what did Seb tell you?”

The look Mick gives him is scathing. “He didn't tell me anything. I know him well enough to make an educated guess, and he trusted me enough not to lie about it." 

It feels like a dig, and it scores a direct hit to his solar plexus. Breathing is extremely difficult all of a sudden.

“You don't know me at all,” Charles protests, raising his arms defensively in front of his chest. 

Across from him, Mick presents the epitome of calm, his shoulders are relaxed, open, and the way he casually half-leans against a wall is entirely non-threatening—only his eyes give him away. “Point, but I see that whatever you're doing is making him miserable, and I don't like it.”

“You have no idea—”

“What I'm talking about? What he means to you? Great, but neither does he. You’re old enough to know how to open your fucking mouth, so do it.”

He’s left standing with said mouth hanging open, watching as Mick takes his exit, makes his way over to the Haas garage, greeting a couple people along the way and getting an affectionate clap on the back from a passing Esteban. 

It makes him wonder whether Mick partly blames him for Seb’s retirement, or whether he is jealous that Charles got to duel Seb on the track in a Ferrari of all cars when Mick never did, or if it’s a mix of both, or neither, and what else could have Mick in such a snit. 

Whatever it is—whether Mick was being protective or territorial, Charles has no fucking idea what to do with it.

And anyway, Charles finds it hard to imagine that Seb’s as hung up on him as he is on Seb, so he’s more than a little lost here. 

Then again, Mick is the second person to accuse him of upsetting Seb in a relatively short amount of time, and both people are fairly close with Sebastian and could hence be expected to know him well enough to draw conclusions. 

But Seb had never said anything. He’d never asked for more than what Charles had been willing to give him. He hadn’t asked to call, or meet up, or even inquired why Charles constantly ignored him, never demanded any explanations. 

*

The next time they interact, on Sunday, after Charles ends up on the podium again—still not P1, but he’ll take P2, he’ll fucking take it, thank you very much—Mick is back to being his perfectly charming self, so Charles is seriously starting to doubt his own mental state.

*

Hungary is another fucking DNF, and Charles is so fiercely glad for summer break. 

He fantasises about strangling first Lance and then himself, but it only makes him feel better for a few short seconds. What he truly needs is to get really, really drunk. Completely inebriated. Lights out, alright.

Carlos’ podium finish makes the whole thing worse. There he is, glowing, smiling, celebrating with Lewis and Esteban. P3, Carlos Sainz. Come to think of it, he’d finished P2 in Monaco. Forget Lance fucking Stroll; Charles wants to strangle Carlos right where he stands, wants to wrap his hands around his pretty neck and press until he— 

Charles shakes his head, breathes in and out, bans the jealous thoughts back to the dark corner they had crawled out of. A drink, he really does need one, as soon as possible. Not champagne, though. 

He puts on a brave front, smiles through the rage and frustration, summons all of his PR training and gives Carlos a quick hug to congratulate him on scoring fifteen critical points for the team. 

They’re good. Carlos is nice, he is talented, but he isn’t Ferrari’s #1. Charles has no reason to be this resentful. 

(Be happy and smile.)

The expensive liquor at the team celebration event tastes of empty promises and sweet salvation once it flows past his lips, and he takes big gulps, thinks about choking and then almost does. And still, something is itching in his brain, like a compulsion.

*

Once in his room, after he’d ditched the party early, somewhat buzzed—though not as much as he’d like to be—Charles checks his phone. But there are no comforting texts from Seb this time. No teasing, no comments on how his season is going, no wishing him a good summer break.

As far as Charles knows, he hadn’t shown up to the race either, even though his stupid train ticket could probably have gotten him here quite comfortably. After all, Switzerland is located far closer to Budapest than it is to Portimão. 

Then again, it is Hungary, a country whose government has made it more than clear where it stands on LGBT rights, so Charles cannot really fault him for it. 

He still would have loved a text, would have loved anything, really.

It’s possible that Seb has finally stopped caring. And if he did, then so can Charles. 

Maybe. 

*

Summer break starts, and Charles decides to get a little crazy with it. Which brings him back to the present. 

***

To help himself deal with the current situation, Charles decides to order sushi online (healthy) and park himself on the couch for the rest of the day to binge-watch shows on Netflix (unhealthy). 

He gets three episodes into some new Italian drama that Silvia recommended before he loses track of the plot entirely, his focus scattered into little glass pieces, all over the place. His phone is never out of reach, and he unlocks it every so often to check for new notifications. Nothing. Well, nothing relevant, anyway. 

The hangover and its accompanying migraine have left his body exhausted, and although the food and water he’s consumed since then have replenished his energy reserves, at least in parts, he’s still drained. Eventually, he falls into a fitful sleep, face buried in one of the big, fluffy throw pillows. 

None of his dreams make any sense; he’s running through the streets of Monte Carlo, ducking and weaving, while Nico Rosberg is targeting him with various colourful orbs that—on second glance—appear to be citrus fruits. 

He’s writing an essay by hand, ink flowing from his beautiful, intricately designed fountain pen, but it stubbornly refuses to form words, filling the page with all kinds of numbers and equations, and as he smashes the pen in frustration, Charles finds the blue on the page turning scarlet. 

He’s floating far above a race track, watching the cars whiz by below him at breakneck speed, helpless to intervene as two of them collide with a wall head-on, and when he reaches out for the smouldering heap of carbon fibre and rubber, his hands are suddenly gigantic and the cars nothing more than toys. 

Charles wakes up covered in sweat for the second time that day. Or maybe it’s past midnight already; he doesn’t know. All he’s aware of is his thundering heartbeat and the dry, broken sobs that shook him from his nightmares. 

Upon closer inspection, he finds that he’s the one making the noises, small and pathetic things that they are. His breathing is wild, erratic, and he can feel panic close up his throat as it climbs into his mouth, taste vile and familiar. 

This hasn’t happened in a while—years, it’s been years.  

Charles’ entire body tenses up. He balls his hands into fists and presses his eyes shut. He inhales deeply, holds his breath, and slowly counts backwards from forty-nine, a number he picks at random. 

When Charles releases his muscles, his awareness returns with a sharp snap that recenters everything in and around him. The living room is thrown into darkness, with the city outside as the only real source of light. 

With shaking hands, he gropes around for his phone until he finds it half-buried under his pillow. Its clock reads 01:39, with the weather outside apparently a breezy, overcast 15 degrees centigrade. There are 26 new notifications, and he has 73% battery left. 

WhatsApp claims that he has one new message from Seb. It reads

Whatever you need, I’m here, Charles. Always. Please know that. 

Whatever you need. Charles snorts. You’re such a liar. 

you

i need you

here with me

He almost sends it in a moment of weakness but manages to stop himself just in time. 

Instead, he presses the phone to his chest like it’s a missing piece of himself he’s trying to reabsorb and attempts to ignore the pain. Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t work.

*

Charles and Pierre spend eleven days in LA, doing the whole tourist experience, no expenses spared. 

It’s funny when people don’t recognise them—they both get a kick out of doing completely normal people activities, blending in with the local population, at least until they open their mouths. At that point, they become the attractive European globetrotters, the hot, new commodity. Their thick accents place both of them firmly in the French camp, despite Charles’ vehement protests. 

Many people approach them with an air of patronising flirtation. After what must be about the fourth time someone hits on him in a club using some variation of “I can see that you’re new around here, let me show you the ropes,” the novelty of the starry-eyed, curious, and somewhat naive tourist role-play has completely worn off. 

Charles still lets the woman—Patricia, 24, a quirky, red-headed TA at UCLA—blow him in a bathroom stall, mostly because he’s horny and she’s pretty and looks like her lips would feel nice wrapped around his dick. 

He’s right; they do. As a reward, he spends the entirety of the blowjob dirty-talking in intentionally poor Italian after he realises that she totally gets off on the language thing.  

All in all, he’s having a grand old time. This vacation is exactly the sort of distraction he needed, a small reprieve from his world where he gets to pretend that Sebastian isn’t constantly on his mind. 

Most of the people here have probably never heard of Sebastian Vettel, and even if they have, they are unlikely to have wasted a second thought on him, what with all the glitz and glamour that holds LA firmly in its grasp. 

And now, for a few precious days, Charles gets to act like he’s one of them. 

*

Back home, he makes a serious effort to improve his physical shape. It’s reasonably decent—they hadn’t completely neglected their fitness plans in LA, with how fiercely dedicated both he and Pierre are to the sport, that was never an option, really—but it could always be better.  

There are roughly two weeks left before the next race, and he’s not going to give Carlos an edge over him if he can prevent it. It’ll also give him something productive to channel his redundant emotions into. 

Sebastian, the reoccurrence of his nightmare-induced anxiety, his tendency to turn to questionable methods in order to help him cope…Charles needs a change. 

So he calls up Andrea, and they talk training regimens and nutrition for two hours, with Andrea promising to make the time for a personal visit sometime next week, sounding mildly, if pleasantly surprised by Charles’ proactivity and his interest in trying some new stuff, adding some variation to his usual menu. 

“Not that I don’t welcome the professional challenge, but would you mind terribly if I asked what brought this about?” Andrea asks, and Charles can hear him already typing away on a mechanical keyboard in the background, doubtlessly pulling up his notes. 

“My extremely competitive mindset,” Charles says, staring at nothing in particular. Andrea knows him well enough to understand how Charles ticks but not well enough to call him out on his bullshit. And it’s mostly true, anyway. 

*

Things are relatively fine now that he can keep himself busy. 

He’s messing around with his piano again after not touching it for a couple of months, letting the sound of a simple melody soothe him, makes time to play some low-stakes online games with the usual suspects, gets used to his new training regimen, and hangs out with his brothers a couple of times.

Whenever he gets too bored or restless, he grabs his bike, running clothes, or scuba diving gear and turns his brain off for however long it takes him to complete his activity of choice. 

Andrea has also talked him into buying his own ingredients himself so he can assemble his own meals, just so he knows exactly what’s going into them, to give him a heightened awareness of his nutrition. 

The cooking may be the biggest challenge of all because Charles finds it very boring, the simple tasks don’t manage to hold his attention for long and switching his brain off while he’s operating a stove or an oven turns out to be an extremely bad idea. 

Although he doesn’t quite manage to set the kitchen on fire, it’s close. The resulting charred remains of his ‘baked salmon’ shouldn’t even be allowed to exist in the same universe as the word ‘edible’. 

Sharing his traumatising experience with the group chat turns out to be an awful idea—his friends mock him for it nonstop. Not even Alex wants to pretend that he can find any sympathy for his cause. Now, all they do is send him Gordon Ramsey memes as soon as he so much as mentions food, and even though he hasn’t seen a single episode of Kitchen Nightmares or Hell’s Kitchen in his life, he still feels deeply wronged. 

It’s the kind of story he wishes he could share with Seb. Of course, he’d get teased by him as well, but he’s never been as relentless about it, and he’d probably try to offer some helpful advice or let Charles commiserate. 

Seb always knew when Charles needed him to let a joke go; it’s the kind of thing he misses in his friends sometimes, no matter how much he genuinely loves them. 

So really, everything is mostly fine—apart from maybe the cooking mishap and the fact that the nouveau riche son of a vaguely famous venture capitalist that recently acquired and moved into one of the flats close by seems to be a mid-90’s European techno aficionado who’s apparently never been taught that music can be enjoyed on volume settings that aren’t the maximum. 

It’s okay. Charles can handle it.

What he very much cannot handle, however, is the hot blaze of jealousy that rages through him and razes any semblance of mental balance and composure when he checks social media and ends up on Lewis’ Instagram. 

At first glance, it’s not too different from what he’d usually expect among the collection of assorted travel pictures, party snapshots, and selfies people post on there—he’s one of those people as well. The power to have complete control over your self-presentation on social media is one hell of a drug. 

Lewis has posted a couple of selfies with backdrops of beautiful stretches of land, green meadows, thick forests, a sprawling mountain range. None of those are all that unusual by themselves, really, but as Charles keeps scrolling, his eyes fall onto a different photo. 

This one is of Roscoe sitting next to a painfully familiar chocolate Labrador, both of them wearing their respective owners’ designer sunglasses, and the caption reads Bruno Vettel and Roscoe Hamilton 😎

Apparently, Lewis is staying with Seb at his place in Switzerland—the one Charles has never been invited to. 

Realistically, he knows he should stop now, put his phone away, and ignore all of this until he calms down. Realistically, he also knows that he is not going to do that. Where Seb is concerned, he’s truly turned into a glutton for punishment. Perhaps, some part of the suffering is reaffirming for him, or he’s just terminally brain-damaged. Either way, he keeps looking. 

The next picture catching his eye is one of Lewis with a fluffy, brown chicken in his lap that somehow manages to look less disgruntled than any other chicken Charles has ever laid eyes on in his life. Judging from the caption, its name is Hildegard. 

It’s followed by a very short video of Lewis stroking that very same chicken until it suddenly jumps off in a flurry of feathers, startling Lewis and making the cameraman—undisputedly Seb—laugh out loud.

In one of the hiking selfies, Charles can clearly make out Seb’s back. He’s gone on ahead a few metres, obviously not interested in stopping for a photo op. Seb’s wearing beige cargo shorts and a baby blue t-shirt, and Charles catches himself staring at his exposed thighs. Lewis clearly took this picture with the intent to have Seb be visible in it—even the caption (my tour guide) confirms this.

None of these posts are in any way odd or incriminating; it’s just—

The sheer domesticity of it all takes his breath away. 

He closes Instagram and opens WhatsApp in the same breath, typing and sending the text without giving himself time to think twice. 

i thought you and lewis were just friends

When Seb leaves him on read this time, it hurts too much for Charles to appreciate the bittersweet irony of it all. 

*

He’s saved a stolen snapshot of Sebastian that he pulls out every now and again, buried deep in one of the image folders of his phone as it is, as far away from the cloud as possible. 

All candid, no filter, just a sleepy, comfortable morning in a hotel room in Suzuka in 2019, forever immortalised on his mobile phone. In it, a naked Sebastian is wrapped around his blanket like it's a giant plushie, face open and relaxed, smiling in his sleep. 

But what makes it special is that when Charles had woken up next to him, he'd been the one Sebastian had been cuddled up with. He'd only snuggled into the blanket unconsciously after Charles had gotten up like he still wanted to hold him in his arms. 

The photo makes something in Charles ache, the same part of him that scoffs at the term 'pining'.

Lewis’ images are not even close to being in the same league, but there’s one huge difference, a pretty big distinction that matters to Charles in this context—Sebastian had most likely given Lewis his consent for posting them in the first place, while he has no clue that the photo Charles took even exists.

While it’s hard to draw comparisons, Charles does have to wonder whether Sebastian would have been okay with Charles making similar posts about all the time they spent together off-track. Not the private, intimate moments, but the simple, domestic ones that imply they did more than drive for the same team, that they might have been close, that they might have been comfortable sharing the same space.

He finds it hard to imagine, even more so when considering how the 2020 season went.

*

Only later does it occur to him how unfair he’s being—Sebastian never promised him anything, Charles has no claim to him or his affections, he doesn’t owe Charles anything, not love, nor accountability or justification.

It’s shame, then, that eats him up, gnaws at his gut and keeps him awake after he spent two hours working out to put his body in a proper state of exhaustion. 

i’m sorry

He sends the text way past midnight, his room engulfed in total darkness with the curtains drawn, the screen of his phone the sole source of light. 

Contrary to his expectations, it doesn’t instantly make him feel better, and the jealousy is also still there, nestled neatly next to all of his unspoken desires, feeding off Charles’ insecurities like some kind of toxic parasite.

Sebastian doesn’t reply to that text either. 

*

“That is kind of pathetic, mate,” Pierre says, as Charles' character gets blasted in the face with a shotgun by some guy with the gamertag feetpix69 while he's trying to loot a drop pod. He gets downed again, for the third time this round alone. The asshole’s t-bagging him, too.

They're playing the newest season of Apex Legends, and Charles is definitely dragging the team down. 

“Harsh,” Alex says, “but fair. Sorry, Charlie.”

Charles sighs audibly into his headset. “Albono...Can you rez me please?”

“Maybe,” comes the prompt reply. He looks at the killfeed and sees his squadmates wipe another trio, Alex killing it on comms and Pierre making good use of his sniper skills. Looks like it’s GG for feetpix69, bluntsmok3r, and MLGstepsis.  

“I'm sorry,” Charles mumbles and adjusts his bright red bandana, wiping some of the sweat from his forehead. He's warm, he's tired, and he's miserable. It’s been two days since he texted Sebastian, and he’s heard nothing back. What he’d really like to know is whether this is fixable. Well, as much as there’s anything to break or fix between them, these days.

“Is this about Sebastian?” Alex asks, clearly attempting to be casual about it, but Charles can hear the caution in his friend’s tone. They've all started walking on eggshells around him when it comes to this particular topic, and he knows he only has himself to blame. 

So Charles decides to just bite the bullet for once and be honest. Mostly, anyway. “I texted him recently, but he never replied. It's just—I still miss him so much,” he admits.

“Can you really blame him? I'm pretty certain you told me that you tried to keep all your texts as impersonal as possible. Seb doesn't strike me as the kind of guy who sees a need to entertain empty small talk."  

Pierre is right, though that does nothing to make it better. By God, Charles wishes it had been empty small talk. “Yeah, but having him ignore me is...I don't want that; it doesn't feel good at all.” Even though he does have excellent reasons to.

“Well, you could always call him or apologise. Or both.” Alex finally revives Charles' character while Pierre is on guard duty, dropping a couple items so Charles won't be completely defenceless afterwards. 

“Thank you, I'll try to be more useful from now on,” Charles says, entirely ignoring Alex's comment. Both of them laugh at him, and the moment seems forgotten. When George joins their Discord call a little later on so they can squad up for some COD zombies, it's not brought up again.

Charles has no idea how to feel about any of this, doesn’t even know whether he’s thankful that they’re leaving him alone with it. He’s already said that he’s sorry—for the Lewis comment, at least. There’s always the chance that Seb—Sebastian wants something else from him entirely.

That night, he curls up with the Pink Floyd shirt from Sebastian he’d never returned. As far as comfort goes, it’s a lacklustre replacement for the real thing, but at least he manages to fall asleep at a reasonable time.

*

Daniel messages him again some time later, as the free and easy days of summer break draw to a close. 

I'm throwing a party

Maybe a tad more lowkey than your usual ;) 

It's f1 ppl only, so lmk if you're down

A quick inquiry to the group chat confirms that his friends have received similar texts, even those who don’t live in Monaco, and most of them plan to attend. 

Apparently, Daniel has offered Lando to stay with him (unsurprising), and George is going to room with Alex. Pierre sadly cannot make it, as he’s promised his current girlfriend a few quiet days on a romantic getaway. 

They’ve also heard from some of the other drivers who’ve already agreed to come, namely Lance, Mick, Carlos, and Esteban.

To Charles, it sounds like a good mix of people, and all in all, he’s earned one last evening to really let loose this break, especially considering how well he’s sticking with Andrea’s new program. One cheat day should be in it for him. 

okay sure dan

i’m game 

send me the details

Oh, I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist 😊

It’ll be fun, mate

Trust me 

*

Rather than yet another yacht party or a fancy hotel suite get-together, Daniel is throwing an actual, honest–to–God house party because of course he is. Guests have been instructed not to worry about anything, or as Daniel had put it, “Charlie, it’s a Bring Your Own Ass party. No, seriously, everything is taken care of. I’m a gifted host, a party connoisseur!”

Charles believes him. 

*

When he arrives at Daniel’s place, freshly showered and with his sunglasses perched precariously on top of his head, the sun has just set. 

Lando is the one to buzz him in, and Charles can tell from the background noise on the intercom that things are already well underway. Party connoisseur indeed. 

The flat is huge; the living room alone could easily fit a lot more people than the fifteen or so that Charles counts at first glance. Daniel had said the event would be exclusively for them to chill a little before summer break officially ends, and despite the number of people present, it has a strangely intimate atmosphere to it. 

After he’s been enthusiastically welcomed by Lando, he greets a very cheerful Daniel with one of those one-armed hugs the other driver seems so fond of. 

“Hey, Charles! Really good to see you, I’m glad you made it!”

“I was in the neighbourhood,” he says, and it earns him the easy laugh he’d calculated on. 

“Get yourself a drink and feel right at home! The bar is stocked, mate, I’m pretty sure we’ve got everybody’s favourites on hand, so knock yourself out.” 

So off Charles goes to acquire himself a nice, chilled bottle of Licorne 1845, and then he sets about mingling. It’s only when he approaches the seating arrangements that he notices him. 

Sebastian is lounging on one of the black leather couches, sitting pretty between Mick and Esteban. 

He looks good, shoulders relaxed, golden hair longer and curlier and beard scruffy, wearing a faded red Eintracht Frankfurt kit and a pair of grey cargo shorts, an easy smile on his face as he listens to Esteban ramble on about something–or–other loud enough that he can understand him over the bass-heavy music coming from Daniel’s high-tech speaker set-up. 

All three of them are nursing beers, and Charles recognises the bottles as Sebastian's regional Hessian favourite—something he's been told Germans get very intense about. 

Charles' stomach flips, and he suddenly feels ridiculous in his soft white Polo shirt and washed blue skinny jeans, fingers nervously playing with the watch around his wrist. 

Then again, he's been feeling silly for a while where Sebastian's concerned.

His mouth also happens to be very, very dry, and the swig he takes from his bottle in reaction is too big, so he almost ends up choking. Suave, Charles. 

Nevertheless, he makes his way over and drops into an empty loveseat opposite the trio, entirely unable to resist the pull of Sebastian’s gravity now that he is this close by. 

Charles puts on his best poker face and gives himself carefully indifferent. Calculated coolness will protect him. He's assured of this.

Sebastian doesn't look angry when he lays eyes on Charles for the first time that evening, although that's not really super surprising. Holding grudges has never been in his nature. He's too warm for that, too forgiving, always willing to clear up conflicts, find compromises, solve problems. And Charles is thankful for that. If things were different, they would probably have imploded spectacularly during their two years as teammates.

“Hey guys,” Charles says, and all three nod at him in unison. It’s kind of creepy. 

“Charles!” Esteban welcomes him and lifts his beer bottle as though in a toast. “Hope you’ve had a good summer break so far.”

“I can’t really complain,” he begins, eyes on Esteban only, to make it easier on himself, “there was time to relax, and Pierre and I took a really fun trip to LA. But I’ve already started to prepare for the rest of the season, so you better watch out.”

“I saw the pictures you posted. Was Disneyland as cool as it looked? I’ve never been, myself,” Esteban says with an air of wistfulness, “not even to the French one.”

“Oh, you should definitely go! We really enjoyed ourselves. Playing tourist has its upsides.”

“Speaking of Pierre, where is he?” Mick asks. “I gotta say, I expected you two to show up together, you know? The dynamic duo.” He finds it hard to tell whether Mick is teasing—his voice would indicate it, but he’s gotten harder to read around Charles. 

“Ah, he’s with his girlfriend on a romantic vacation in Tuscany. I wonder about the romance part, though, according to Pierre, she’s really into art and architecture. Like, she’s crazy about it.” He gestures with his bottle to underline just how crazy. 

Mick grins, and Esteban laughs. So he was teasing. 

“It’s good to have passions,” Sebastian says, and Charles…Charles can’t not look at him. His eyes are still just as arresting as they’ve ever been, clear, calm pools of blue. Although he’s an open book to Charles most of the time— used to be, anyway— his expression is hard to classify now.

There’s a slight commotion in one of the other corners of the room, and when Charles turns around, his eyes fall onto the accursed karaoke machine. Damn you, Max. 

Still, he’ll take the distraction.

Charming as ever, Daniel somehow talks Valtteri into doing a duet of We Are the Champions, and Charles watches Sebastian silently mouth along to the lyrics, fingers playing with the cap of Mick’s beer bottle. 

Then Lando and Carlos follow it up with a hilariously terrible rendition of Money, Money, Money, and Charles watches an indulgent smile form on his face. The atmosphere shifts.

“This is one of the things I’ve missed the most,” he says, eyes aware but distant. 

“What, bad karaoke?” Esteban asks, a giggle on his lips like he knows he’s off but isn’t sure if he can deal with Sebastian’s sincerity. Charles can relate.

“No,” Sebastian answers, somewhat more serious, “the easy camaraderie off-track, the way folks just accept each other, like there’s this sudden ceasefire, and they’re all completely different people, but there’s still this—” he gestures vaguely “understanding.”

“Well, we are different,” Charles says, “there are no stakes here, no one has anything to lose.” 

“Cheers to that,” Mick agrees and takes a large gulp of his beer. 

Sebastian looks at Charles, gaze gone all thoughtful as though he’s trying to figure something out. 

“I think,” he begins too softly, lowering his eyes to his hands, stilling their movement, “there are always things to lose. We just weigh them differently. They might not be the entire focus of our world the way racing is—was, for me. When it comes to the championship, everything else falls short. Sometimes people forget that there are other things worth fighting for.” 

Charles swallows. 

“That’s deep, man,” Esteban says, raising his mostly empty bottle in acknowledgement, “I’ll drink to that.” A passing Lando toasts him with his half-empty glass of what appears to be vodka. 

In the end, Charles drinks too, just to fill the silence between him and Sebastian. The beer tastes stale on his tongue. 

George starts in on Stayin’ Alive, but he doesn’t get very far before Alex attempts to hold his mouth shut on the high notes, and they both wrangle for control of the microphone. Finally, they collapse in a cackling heap on the floor.

Things quiet down a little after that. 

“Shame about that,” Mick sighs, half-serious, “I like the Bee Gees.”

“Oh yeah, Seb, you were telling us about your bees earlier, right? Charles, he’s got bees now. A lot of them.” Esteban sounds incredibly impressed.

“Five colonies,” Sebastian explains, taking a quick sip of his beer, and Charles leans forward, already entranced, “four of those I bought, and one wild colony that I caught. A colony consists of a population of somewhere between forty and eighty thousand bees, so yeah, I guess you could say that’s a lot. Not, like, professional beekeeper level, but still.” 

Charles can see him coming alive as he talks about it, and it’s—fuck, he’s missed this. Just listening to him talk about whatever in that enthusiastic voice of his, getting lost in the most minor details, careful not to leave anything out.  

“My garden is kind of a mess now. I’ve set aside a big part of it so it can just grow, you know, let nature do its own thing, and I’ve been looking into bee- and generally insect-friendly plants. Mostly native species, lavender and cornflowers, lots of clovers. Built a big bee hotel, too.”

“It wouldn’t be a Sebastian Vettel project if you did it by halves, right?” Charles smiles, and Sebastian smiles back, and— 

Charles wants, palpably, undeniably. 

In that second, he realises just how badly he miscalculated. Now that Sebastian is this close for the first time in months, now that all Charles has to do to bridge the gap between them is to simply reach out, something becomes crystal clear to him: it doesn't matter that Sebastian left him behind when he retired, doesn't matter if Charles forgives him for that or not, all that does matter is that Seb is here, in front of him, and that Charles wants him to stay a part of his life in whatever capacity he can have him. 

The swell of emotions inside him is euphoric, almost jubilant. 

“What else have you been up to?” He asks and immediately knows that it was the correct thing to say by the way that Sebastian lights up. Mick looks from Sebastian to Charles and back to Sebastian with raised eyebrows. Charles deliberately ignores him.

“Oh, a bunch of stuff. Mostly garden-related. I’ve been experimenting with different seasonal vegetables and planted some fruit trees after watching way too many gardening videos on YouTube. If I get into the apple varieties now, I won’t be able to shut up, so I’ll stop myself there, sorry,” he laughs softly and with a touch of self-deprecation, runs a hand through his hair. 

Charles thinks quietly to himself that he wouldn’t mind hearing about the apple varieties. Mick, who seems to be studying Charles intently like he’s his very own biology project, gives him a knowing smirk. Keeping the blush off his face is a massive effort, but he manages well enough.

Seb picks up a different thread and continues on, unperturbed. “I’ve been visiting friends and family, travelling by train a lot. It’s a fun adventure, but I’ve now spent more time stuck on tiny train stations in places that no one’s ever heard of than I care to admit, and the architecture, it’s…well…only good for so much. What else—Oh, my parents renovated parts of their house, so I lent a hand. It’s always good to know how to fix things, build things, you know, handy stuff. Luckily, dad’s a pretty patient teacher, so I learnt a lot.” 

He seems to think about how to go on for a while, but neither of his three rapt listeners show any apparent interest in interrupting him. “There’s this small, local dairy farm relatively close to my house, and I’ve been helping the owners out in return for some fresh milk. Did you know that cows have best friends? Well, they do. Anyway, then there are the chickens…I have five now. They’re very lively—”

This is where Mick cuts him off, pointing an accusing finger at Seb. “He’s given them awful names. Like, old people's names? I’m relatively certain not a single other living being that was born this century was cursed with the name Walburga.”

Before Sebastian has a chance to justify himself, Lewis shows up and hands Seb a new bottle of beer, the cap already undone. He looks as casual as Charles has ever seen him in a public environment. Even his braids are down. 

Really, he shouldn’t be surprised to see Lewis here. After all, he does live in Monaco.

“Thanks, Lew,” Sebastian accepts it gratefully. Their fingers touch and Charles fights the urge to react. Not doing much to beat the allegations, are they? 

“What brought this on?”

“You looked thirsty,” Lewis says, grinning. “Also, Dan said he didn’t pay way too much for all these imported drinks just so we can sit here nursing one bottle all evening.” He holds up his own fresh bottle of Guinness as proof. 

“Mick’s bullying me about the chicken names again.” Sebastian pouts, but his eyes are crinkling, and Mick elbows him in the side, hard. “Ey, ouch!”

“Sorry, man, he’s right. They’re terrible,” Lewis shrugs, matter-of-fact. “Have you guys eaten anything yet? The buffet is actually so good, it’s disgusting.” 

“No, but that sounds like a terrific idea, Este. Let’s go!” Mick gets up and pulls Esteban along with him, earning them an eye roll from Lewis. 

The music is still playing, but someone must have turned the volume down a bit. Charles doesn’t know the song, but it’s pleasant enough with its melodious synth beats.

Lewis gives Sebastian a light clap on the shoulder. “I’m gonna go dance, Seb. Let me know when you’re drunk enough to consider joining.” 

Sebastian snorts, then indicates his beer. “That’ll take a while, with these.”

“Suit yourself. You too, Charles, you look like you could do with some loosening up.” 

If that was a fucking wink, Charles will— 

He exhales slowly, shakes his head. Loosening up.

And suddenly, he’s alone with Seb. Or as alone as they’re ever going to be, in a sea of familiar faces, on an evening that feels and looks like it’s been taken straight out of a travel guide. 

“It’s good that—I’m glad we get to catch up,” Charles manages, tightening his grip around the neck of his bottle like it’s a goddamn lifeline. 

“Me too, Charles. I’m still not dating Lewis, by the way,” he clarifies, gaze open and serious, voice low enough for only Charles to hear over the background noise.

“Good. I mean…That’s not—fuck, okay. Please forget about that stupid message. I know I apologised already, but I feel like I should do it in person, so. I’m sorry.” He’s nowhere near drunk yet, and his words still fail him. Awesome. Magnificent.

Sebastian looks like he wants to say something but thinks better of it; he nods, then licks his lips and takes another sip of beer instead. Charles can see him fidget with his hands like he’s looking for something for them to do. He wants to reach out and take one of Seb’s smaller hands in his and hold on. The thought makes him light-headed. 

“Can—could we still be friends? After everything?” Charles tries, on the edge of his seat with nervous energy. It’s so far removed from what he really wants, yet—he’d even take that, now. Scraps, crumbs…he’d take it. Anything.

“I don’t think we were ever friends,” Sebastian states, not unkindly. “I think we were more than that. We were teammates.” 

Charles hums in assent, stares down at his half-empty beer bottle, confirms with a voice far more steady than he feels, “You are right, Sebastian. We were teammates.” 

The word feels heavier when he thinks about it in relation to Sebastian than when he uses it in a Carlos context. It tastes different, too. Like a mix of sweet, red wine, home-cooked ravioli, and the saltiness of clean sweat on his tongue. 

“Why the sudden formality?” Sebastian asks with a sense of genuine curiosity only he is capable of. 

Charles blushes this time, unable to fight it any longer, and stutters. “I don’t—I…wasn’t…do I still get to call you Seb?” Even now? 

Sebastian’s laughter feels warm instead of dismissive. “You didn’t lose Seb privileges, don’t worry. I’ll always be Seb to you. If you want that.” Charles can hear the implied if you don’t mind the lack of distance. It makes his heart beat faster. Makes him wonder if he’s forgiven. 

“You should come to my place, after. I mean—if you want to, that is,” Charles blunders on ahead, stumbling over words left and right, barely aware of what he’s going to say before he does, fighting to get the intent across. Really, really desperate. 

Sebastian blinks and shakes his head. “Ah, thank you for the offer, Charles, but I can’t. I’m staying at Lew’s for another night before I head back home. All my stuff is still at his place, too.” 

And he gestures towards Lewis, who is leaning against a wall on the other side of the room by the music set-up, smiling, listening intently to whatever George is rambling on about, probably suggesting a new playlist with better dance music.

Lew, Charles thinks, trying not to be bitter and failing entirely.

“No, that’s…it’s fine, Sebastian—Seb. I didn’t know if you were—if you needed to, I mean.” Stupid, stupid, stupid. Finish a fucking sentence, at least. For fuck’s sake. Charles swallows another dozen or so of half-formed syllables and sighs deeply. 

Sebastian’s gaze changes then, a look of dawning realisation, like Charles just cleared something up for him. It’s followed by a frown of contemplation, though, not disgust or outright rejection. 

Fuck it. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. He didn’t end up where he’s at now by giving up on what he wants. 

And so, Charles takes another leap. 

“Then maybe you should stop by my flat before you go back to Switzerland.” I want to see you. Talk to you. Be close to you with no one else around. I still want us to be a thing, even if it's painful to look at you sometimes. I don't think I can go on like this, lying to myself that it'll get better without you. 

“Are you sure that's a good idea?” Sebastian asks, raising his beer bottle to take another swig, and Charles spots it for the tell that it is. 

“No," he replies truthfully, “but I don't care. I—” Want you. Miss you. Love you. “Just. Please, Seb.”

Sebastian empties the rest of the bottle and places it on a nearby table next to the first one. “Alright, I'll be there tomorrow, after brunch with Lewis. Text me the address.”

“It's still the same place,” Charles says, confused, “I didn't move.”

“The last time I was there, we drove together," Sebastian reminds him, grinning slightly. 

It could be the Alsatian lager starting to go to his head, or it could be that Seb’s finally giving in to Charles’ wish, but his blush is back in full force. 

Maybe, Charles thinks, he'll like me better once I've turned into a tomato. 

He pulls out his phone and sends Sebastian the address, unable to stop smiling, giddy with it. 

*

Mick returns at some point, reclaims his place on Seb’s left side with new drinks for all of them, and brings along an excitedly chatting Lance. 

They’re talking about horse riding, or at least Charles thinks they are, but it doesn’t really matter to him because they bust right into his and Seb’s animated conversation about ideal ski vacation resorts and the beauty of tearing up the slopes, and how that feeling of speed is emphatically different from the one experienced while sitting in a race car cockpit. 

Charles wants to comment on the rude interruption, but then he looks over at Seb, who motions towards where Charles assumes the kitchen is located. “I’m feeling hungry. Do you want anything?” 

He’d completely forgotten about food, though his stomach remembers now that Sebastian brings it up. “I could eat, sure,” he says, getting to his feet. 

And so, they make their way to the cold buffet, navigating slowly but carefully through a crowd of comfortably buzzed race car drivers moving their bodies—in what vaguely resembles dancing—to a remix of some Daft Punk song. 

Both of them decide to eat in the kitchen. It’s a little quieter in here, and since they’re the only two people at the buffet right now, they can take as much time as they like to decide on the options. There are a lot, including plenty of vegan and vegetarian food. Whatever catering service Daniel had hired, he certainly hadn’t spared any expenses. 

“I guess today really is my cheat day,” Charles jokes as he loads up his plate with all kinds of different finger foods, gazing longingly at the cheese puff pastries. 

Seb shrugs and adds yet another deviled egg to the assortment on his own plate. “How do the kids say? ‘You only live once’?” 

Charles nudges his shin with the tip of his shoe, gently enough not to unbalance him but still with enough vehemence behind it to make his disdain clear. 

“Don’t think anyone’s been saying that in years, actually. Your slang is woefully outdated.” He steals a slice of vegan bruschetta off Seb’s plate for good measure. 

Seb retaliates by snagging one of Charles’ mini quiches, and they grin at each other. 

“You guys know that the buffet table is right there, right?” Alex asks from where he’s leaning against the door frame, watching them amusedly.

“Food always tastes better when you steal it, Albono. That’s just common knowledge, really,” Charles chides, eyes wide, giving Alex his best innocent lamb expression, which earns him a wink. Then he steals one of Seb’s deviled eggs just to drive the point home. 

Lewis was right—the food is disgustingly good. 

“Anyway, we’re doing more karaoke, and you’re not getting out of it, Charles.”

“I’m not singing Robbie Williams with you!” 

“Suit yourself. But you better believe that you’re going to be singing before this night is over.” 

And with that, he exits, leaving behind one slightly bewildered Charles and a thoughtfully chewing Sebastian.

“You told your friends about us, right?” Seb asks like he’s only looking for confirmation, surreptitiously glancing around to ensure they’re actually alone. It makes Charles feel caught out. And really, it’s not like he meant to— 

“You told people, too!” He thinks about Lewis and Mick, about unsubtle hints and awkward confrontations, and about how his thing with Seb had apparently been important enough for numerous other people to decide that they just had to get involved.

“Yeah, Lewis and Jenson, but Jense has known I like men since 2012, and I outed myself to Lewis as bisexual in 2017. Mick figured it out from context clues, and Mark called me, laughed at me for five minutes straight, and then hung up.” 

Seb interrupts himself by shoving a tortilla pinwheel into his mouth and washing it down with the dregs of his beer before he adds, “Also, don’t worry, I'm not mad, it would simply explain how they've been acting around me,” in a much gentler tone.

Even though this does smooth his ruffled feathers somewhat, Charles' brain is still stuck on that first sentence. “Button? I mean, I know you're close, but—”

Seb actually blushes. “We may have...hooked up a couple of times. That was years ago, though, and we agreed we were better friends than lovers.” 

This certainly explains a couple things; first and foremost, the way Jenson has been weirdly cold and polite in Charles’ presence the couple of times they met around the track during the first half of the season. 

“What about Lewis?” He still has a feeling that there’s a story there, something that Seb’s not telling him between all the layers of Lew and I’m not dating him. 

Sebastian looks longingly at his empty bottle. Ah, so I was right after all.

“For reasons I’m not at liberty to disclose, he doesn’t date inside the paddock. No exceptions. I had a massive, awful crush on him for a couple of years, and I ended up confessing to him. So we talked it out, and I got over him eventually. We’re probably closer for it now than we ever were before.” 

Crushes are a concept Charles more than understands, only that he never got over his. Instead, it just got worse, more intense. Morphed into something else entirely. 

He gulps and wonders what might have happened if he had owned up to his feelings instead of getting into his own head about it and making a huge mess of—

Well, everything. 

Would they still be standing here, in the warm light of Daniel’s kitchen lamp, about a metre of space between them, talking about things that feel like they matter more than they should? Would he have received the same friendly rejection Seb once did? Or would Sebastian have accepted Charles’ feelings, would he have welcomed them, even? 

It’s been more than half a year, but Charles hopes that the answer to that question lies yet ahead in his future.

“Thank you for telling me,” he says. When he looks up and meets Seb’s eyes, he finds himself smiling—a shy, tender thing of a smile. His palms are sweaty, and his heart is in his throat. Seb looks away first. 

Charles follows his gaze down to Seb’s hands, letting his own travel over Seb’s exposed arms; the sunkissed skin that probably tanned during all the gardening, the hairs that Charles knows from experience are softer than they appear, his defined bicep.

God, but he looks good in red. 

He wants to reach out so badly, wants to close the distance more than anything, wants— 

“Ah, there you are. Come on, Seb, you owe me a song!”

Mick enters, all impish grin and boyish charm, mischief written clear into every line of his face, shattering the moment. 

Sebastian snorts, then relents and puts down his plate and his bottle and makes to follow Mick back to the main event. 

“Fine, but I get to pick. You coming?” He asks Charles, cocking his head into the direction of the party. 

“Yeah, I,” his mouth is dry, and so are his lips. Charles blinks. “I’m coming.”

*

As it turns out, Sebastian does not get to pick; no, he actually lets Mick talk him into performing Wind Of Change. 

They stand there, arm in arm, swaying to the music, and they absolutely nail it, including the whistling part—to the point that Charles gets the impression they've done this before. Not that either of them is a particularly gifted singer, but…the energy is certainly there. 

Maybe Seb has been introducing Mick to old music while they talk about his dad. It strikes Charles as the sort of thing Seb would do, all warm, thoughtful affection. 

Then everyone joins in on the second chorus, and the overarching tone-deafness, as well as the varying degrees of sobriety, result in something that sounds atrocious enough to send both Seb and Mick into hysterics, so they laugh and cough themselves through the remainder of the song. 

Charles can see tears of laughter stream down Seb's cheeks—he looks happy, absolutely radiant and devastatingly beautiful. Charles wants to walk over, take the mic out of his hands and kiss him stupid right there in front of everybody.

After the song is over, Seb comes to stand next to Charles, and they watch on as a very drunk Lando and an even more intoxicated Daniel present an entirely new take on Bon Jovi’s timeless classic Livin’ On A Prayer. Lando’s unsteady performance almost has Charles in tears, and Daniel’s resulting overcompensation seems to be too much for Seb, who collapses against Charles’ shoulder and shakes with silent laughter.

Lance and Esteban follow it up with a slightly more decent attempt at I Want It That Way which also ends up ruined since more than half of the people present in the room seem to be unable to listen to the song without joining in on it, Lewis and Carlos chief among them.

By this point of the night, no one has any shame left. 

Charles finishes off his third bottle of lager for the additional liquid courage. It's more of a placebo, really, but he takes comfort in the symbolism of it, maybe more than he should. 

Seb watches him intently. Charles doesn't think he even realises, and the shiver running down Charles' spine does more for his determination than the alcohol did because—and this feels strangely empowering—Seb still wants him like that. 

“You think you've got one more song in you?” 

“Depends on what you're thinking.” 

“I was going to suggest Let It Be.” The smile on Charles’ face is recklessly genuine. 

“Yeah, fuck it, let's do it.” Seb grabs his wrist and pulls him over to the karaoke machine like Charles wouldn’t follow him anywhere anyway.

*

When he wakes up the following day, Charles is not hungover. Quite the opposite, actually—around ten, he’s roused from his slumber by the unmistakable call of nature, but he feels completely fine, well-rested, even. 

He can also recall the entirety of the previous night with picture-perfect clarity, and it’s precisely that which makes him question his sanity. Are he and Seb okay now? Are they really? Did all of that happen? Is Seb really going to come by—  

Fuck.

Charles rubs the sleep out of his eyes and grabs his phone from the nightstand to check his messages. It’s been only a few weeks since the last time he’s had brunch, and yet, he has no idea around what time one would typically have it. At some point between breakfast and lunch presumably, but that doesn’t help him attempt to figure out when Seb will be done and ready to come over. 

Fortunately, he doesn’t have to because Sebastian texted him. Of course, he did. Charles fakes complete zen as he opens the message.

Good morning Charles, I hope you slept well! 

I’ll probably come by around one, still need to pack and say goodbye to Roscoe. 

The time-stamp reads 09:12.

sounds good

i just woke up

good morning 😊

It genuinely takes him a few seconds to get over how good it feels just to text Seb back, and he basks in the simple contentment for a while before he checks out his other messages. 

The group chat is filled with impressions from the party; there’s a snapshot of Alex and George wrestling on the floor, a short video George took of Daniel holding Lando’s drink out of reach to piss him off, a video of Lewis and Valtteri’s dance-off, a photo of Max stuffing his face with cheese puff pastries, a cute shot of Lance and Esteban napping together on the couch, and a lovely picture of Charles serenading a grinning Sebastian from their karaoke bit. 

This last one is captured reunited, and it feels so good, courtesy of what must have been an extremely drunk Alex who apparently posted it past three in the fucking morning. 

That explains why Pierre sent him a total of seventeen messages, most of which are just long strings of question marks, although there’s some caps lock in there, too. Charles appreciates the variation, even though ‘Motherfucker’ is decidedly not one of his middle names. He debates calling but isn't sure where exactly Pierre is right now, so he settles for texts.

to be fair 

i had no idea he’d be there mate

like

none

The reply comes in almost instantaneously. 

Okay so you two really did talk it out? 

Fuck man i’m happy for you 

Charles smiles.

he’s coming over to my place in like 

uhh two and a half-ish hours

i’ll know more after

Pierre is typing for quite some time before he seems to decide on what to text.

Sure calamar

You two have fun! 

😏

Although it’s not like this isn’t something Charles has considered himself from the second Seb said that he’ll come by, the implications still make him blush.

he’s visiting me to talk pierre

not to have sex 

that is NOT what this is about

anyway

i have to get ready

He puts the phone down and moves to get up and go to the bathroom when he catches Pierre’s last text out of the corner of his eye:

Too much information!!!

🍆

Charles exhales forcefully.

*

All in all, it takes him about an hour to get ready. There is, he thinks, an art to reaching the precarious balance of looking like you’re trying, but not too hard. 

At least he knows what Sebastian prefers when it comes to Charles’s assorted care products (everything that’s not coconut-scented), his wardrobe (whatever Charles is comfortable in, but especially simple t-shirts and tank tops in red or black, whatever is fast and easy to remove, really) and his looks (Seb never once asked him to shave any of his body hair).

So, he figures, if he goes for two out of three, he’s not being too obvious and slips on a soft, grey, short-sleeve henley.

There’s still enough fresh produce left in the fridge to make a green smoothie, and he finds two protein bars in one of his cupboards. Good enough.

Once he’s done eating, he still has over an hour left until Seb’s due to show up. 

He spends it nervously cleaning the flat and agonising over whether or not to change his bedsheets but ultimately decides against it. Maybe a tad too desperate. 

*

It’s five past one when the doorbell rings, and Charles gives it a couple of seconds before he puts aside his tablet and gets off the couch. 

His nervosity increases with every step, and from the moment he buzzes Seb in until he finally arrives at Charles’ door, the murmuring of his anxious thoughts grows louder. 

Then he lays eyes on Seb in his plain white t-shirt and plaid shorts, hair windswept, eyes crinkled at the corners in one of his trademark smiles, and his mind is just wiped blissfully blank. 

“Hey, Seb,” Charles welcomes him and waves Sebastian inside, closing the door behind him. 

“Hi. It’s really fucking windy outside today, but the sun’s nice, so I decided to walk here. Wasn’t that far, anyway,” Seb says in greeting as he toes off his trainers and places his backpack near the door. 

Of course, Seb walked here. Of course, he did. 

“Can I offer you anything?”

“A drink would be good, thank you.”

*

They don't drink any alcohol—Seb doesn't ask for it, and Charles doesn't offer. No matter how nervous he is, this is too important.

But Charles remembers that he has some oranges left, and after he unearths his juicer from one of the cabinets, they start cutting and squeezing the fruits, while Charles gushes about his mum’s homemade lemonades and Seb tells Charles that he actually didn’t get to drink a lot of fresh orange juice growing up because his mother is allergic to citrus fruits.

They end up with a glass each, and the kitchen stays relatively clean.

*

Charles leads them over to the couch, drops onto it and motions for Seb to sit down.

“Did you get all the sleep you wanted?” 

“For the most part, yes. Roughly six hours, Lew’s dogs didn’t even manage to wake me up this time; I was that out of it. Must have been pretty restful, too. I had enough energy for a morning run.”

Despite the fact that it’s a five-seater couch, Seb’s chosen to sit rather close to him. There’s little space left between the two of them, their knees aren’t quite touching, but they could be. Charles tries not to get distracted by the nice view of Seb’s thighs. 

“And brunch? Was it good?”

“Fine, really. Lew knows some decent local spots. The food was excellent. I don’t think it’s for me, though, I like my early breakfast. Eating that late felt almost too decadent.” He makes a face, and Charles laughs. 

“Yeah, you don’t strike me as the brunch type. Not if your morning habits haven’t changed, anyway.” A strange urge inside him longs to confirm that the person he knew and the Seb sitting next to him now still overlap, that he won’t have to relearn him completely.

“Not much, no. What about you?”

“Pierre and I have brunch a lot when he’s around because he sleeps in even later than I do. We usually just order in, though.” He leans back against the backrest of the couch and lets himself sink into the upholstery, thinking of sunny mid-mornings in LA. 

This isn’t the conversation they should have, but it feels like a prelude to something. They’re both comfortable, relaxed, and the words flow easily. 

He mentally sifts through the basket filled with things he’d wished he could talk to Seb about when they weren’t speaking and lands on his great cooking misadventure. 

Just like he’d predicted, the teasing remains light, and Sebastian actually seems happy that Charles is attempting to develop his culinary skills, even offers to help him. And at that moment, Charles can’t imagine anything better than the domestic allure of preparing baked salmon with Seb, a fantasy that comes accompanied by the familiar sense of yearning he can’t evade when he considers a future with Seb. 

Seb regales him with the trials and tribulations of raising chickens, talks about discovering his love of Swiss apple cider and how it reminds him of home, and explains that the neighbours that look after his place and his pets when he’s away run a sanctuary for old farm animals. 

Charles listens silently, letting the familiar cadences of Seb’s voice comfort him as he takes in the stories, charmed as ever by the way Seb can effortlessly hold his attention while he talks. 

“I want to meet the sheep that love you,” Charles says, utterly enchanted by the pictures that have formed in his head, watching Seb intently as he describes his new life in vivid, colourful impressions and animated hand gestures. 

“Honestly, it might just be Bruno that they really adore. I’m not so sure. He’s definitely been adopted into the flock. The donkeys like me, but they’re super easy to befriend. A carrot or two will usually do the trick.” 

Seb pulls out his phone to show him some photos, and as Charles swipes through them, he gives him the name of every single animal. Charles has always liked looking at the photographs other people take, and these are no different—it’s interesting to learn about Seb’s home from his perspective, about what he deems essential or meaningful enough to capture on his phone camera. 

“Would it be alright if—you know, I’d really like to come visit you. Would that be okay?” He asks. To go on hikes and meet your new friends and drink apple cider while we watch the sunset over the garden. 

“Sure, if you don’t think you’ll be too bored,” Seb says like that’s a foregone conclusion. And, really— 

“How could I ever be bored with you around, Seb? You’re probably the least boring person I’ve ever met.” Charles blushes as he says it, but he doesn’t look away. 

Seb blinks, and Charles can see the moment it dawns on him that Charles is serious. The smile on his face is so quintessentially Seb, so broad and genuine and contagious—Charles smiles back. 

There is something else he wants to ask, something that’s been burning on his tongue for a while, but he doesn’t know how to go about it without making sure that Seb will be alright with having the topic brought up. 

He seems so happy with his new life that it makes Charles wonder whether he’s made peace with his old one. Then again, Seb himself had brought it up at the party, so…it might be fair game. 

“Do you ever think about coming back? To racing? Do you miss it?” 

Seb doesn’t look mad—in fact, he doesn’t even look surprised. His voice is low when he replies, almost soft, and he’s absentmindedly playing with the zipper on one of the throw pillows. 

“You know, I get those questions a lot, from all sorts of people. Some understand, and some don’t. With you, I expected you to ask, and I’m still not quite sure what to say. Because I know what you want to hear, and it’s—well, it’s not that.” 

He empties his glass of orange juice, rubs his chin, and stares at some undefined point somewhere in the middle distance. Charles wants to apologise already, but before he manages to open his mouth, Seb continues. 

“I miss the racing, the fans, the competition, the atmosphere on track. There’s nothing quite like the adrenaline high of winning a race and then getting to stand up there, on the top step, drenched in champagne, and raising the trophy, knowing that at that very moment, every single person there wants to be you,” he smiles crookedly, looking a little forlorn.

“On my worst days, I want to come crawling back—I know people, I know there are teams that would take me in a heartbeat. But the truth is, and I’m being frank here—I don’t regret leaving. Sometimes you have to walk away from the things that fuck you up, no matter how much love you still have for them, and mentally, I was in a horrible place last year. I know you thought I was giving up then, that my retirement was me throwing in the towel. Honestly, though, it cost me so much more to admit that I needed to get out than it would have to just—keep going.” Seb shakes his head sadly. 

“Maybe it would have gotten better, but it also had the potential to get so much worse, and it was already destroying me. So I pulled the plug. I don’t think I’ll ever return to F1. Not as a driver, anyway.” 

The weight of his questions and the answers he received for them settle like lead in his chest, making it very hard to breathe for a second. Seb’s open vulnerability is overwhelming. Charles is under the distinct impression that he’s just been handed something very precious. 

He worries at his lips, fidgets with the hem of his shirt. Thinks about his next question, thinks about whether he’s going to push too far too fast. 

“What about the other categories? I just can’t see you giving it up forever, Seb. You love racing too much.”

Seb’s gaze becomes thoughtful, and when he turns to look at Charles, there is something infinitely patient about it. Okay, yeah, Charles may have forgotten just how well Seb knows him and isn’t that thought a little too pleasing?

“I’m enjoying my break right now, actually, and I don’t think I’m quite ready to get back out there yet, but…people keep bringing this up to me. Jense, Lewis, Pascal, Hulk—both Nicos actually, if you can believe it—Kimi...I haven't agreed to anything so far, but it's always nice to have options.” 

“People love you, Seb,” Charles states before he can fully consider the words, fiercely glad for the support Seb's been given and that he rightfully deserves. And then he goes back over what he just said in his head and blushes. Oh, man…

Seb’s still looking directly at him, so he can’t have missed the way Charles’ skin has just gained a few lovely shades of red, but mercifully, he doesn’t comment on it.

“It’s certainly been nice to have all of them on my side. Especially right after. December was…difficult.”

There’s no accusation whatsoever in his tone, but Charles feels every single word in the form of a short stab to his heart. And then it all comes pouring out of his mouth, everything he’s been wanting to say to Seb since he realised what a monumental idiot he’s been. 

“It was painful, thinking about F1 without you in it and thinking maybe I was part of the reason you left,” Charles presses his right hand flat against his chest, right above where he's pretty sure his heart is located. 

“And I didn't want to be reminded of that. Then, at some point, I realised that I was making it about myself and for a while, I couldn't look myself in the eyes anymore. I wasn't there for you; I shut you out because I couldn't deal with any of it. My time as your teammate—all of it—means so much to me. I should have been there for you, supported you, at least fucking replied to your messages normally, but I couldn’t because I was hurt and angry and unable to get over myself. You were leaving me behind, and I thought that maybe if I couldn’t have you with me anymore, it would be easier not to have you at all.” 

He needs Sebastian to understand his thought process, needs him to know that he wasn’t being intentionally cruel for the pure sake of it, but more than that, he needs him to see how sorry Charles is, what a fool he's made of himself. 

“You don't have to forgive me for it, but I still wanted to apologise. I'm sorry, Seb, for all of it and—I never stopped wanting you in my life. You were such an important part of it. I still feel that way.” 

“Charles,” Sebastian starts, Sharl, and fuck, but Charles wants to kiss him, “I'm not going to lie and say it's okay now because it hurt when you cut me off, but. I don't think I have it in me to hold a grudge against you, of all people, and a part of me forgave you for it months ago. Thanks for being honest with me.” 

They look at each other in silence, not moving until Sebastian reaches out, breaching the gap between them to grab the hand that's still pressed to Charles' chest and hold it between his own. Hope blooms within Charles, sudden and bright and unrelenting. He can’t get the way Sebastian said ‘you, of all people’ to stop repeating itself in his head.

Seb’s hands are warm and dry and more calloused than they were before. They’re smaller than Charles’, but there’s strength there, stability, steadiness. Charles swallows. To him, they’ve always looked good together.

“There’s…there’s more,” Charles feels emboldened now. Time to get every piece out there, put it on the table, expose all the secret parts of himself he wanted to share with Seb before. Something about the way Seb is looking at him tells him there’s a good chance they’ll be accepted. 

“Back then, I wanted you, you know that. But—it wasn’t just physical. I wanted…I wanted us to be real, like a—an actual relationship. Romantic, you know? How we were with each other in Maranello? I wanted it to be like that all the time. But I messed that up as well.”

Sebastian closes his eyes for a second, and Charles watches how something grows tense in his shoulders all of a sudden, can feel it in the grip he still has on Charles’ hand. When he opens them again, there’s a cautious spark shining amidst the warm blue depths that Charles wants to feed until it turns to roaring flames. If Charles can throw caution to the wind, then so should Sebastian.

His words come out carefully, too; he sounds mature, deliberate, in a manner Charles himself never quite seems to capture. 

“Honestly, that's just as much my fault as yours. I could have been…well, blunter about what I wanted. But you're so young—were even younger then, at the start of your career, and I thought to myself that it would be unfair to push that on you. When I was your age, many of the things I did were very…let’s say I fucked around to find out. I was happy to be that for you, you know. One of the safer options.” His gaze becomes unfocused like he’s trying to remember something, fishing for a specific memory. 

“When we started to do more than just f—hook up, it made me hopeful that you might want something different, too. And again, I didn't say anything, and by that point, I was good to keep doing what we were doing; I didn't want to scare you off with talks about serious relationships and commitment and monogamy. I still didn't want to tie you down with something you'd resent me for. It would have to be worth the risk.” 

Charles blinks. Thinks about cuddling on the couch and breakfast in bed. To him, they symbolise scenes of simple happiness in a time of change and turbulence. The mere concept of truly resenting Seb for anything is alien to him, but it seems even more absurd in that context. 

“Perhaps it was cowardly of me not to say anything. Was I making excuses, lying to myself? Sometimes it felt like I was using you to live out some fucked-up little fantasy, like I was taking whatever I wanted, still pretending that there were no strings attached in any way when I knew damn well I was all tangled up in them.” One of Seb's hands is buried in the fabric of his own t-shirt now, clinging to the material like he needs to hold on. Charles instantly wants to reach for it.

“After I retired, I figured out that I had fundamentally misunderstood the entire dynamic between us, but by then you'd ended things, and I thought we'd both get over it, that maybe, in the future, you'd at least move on enough to let me be your friend. Except I never did get over it, and apparently, neither did you, so. That brings us here.” 

He smiles. It can't possibly be that easy, right?

“I don't want us to get over it,” Charles makes sure to meet his eyes as he says it, enunciating every word carefully. 

“And it was already yours, anyway,” he continues, almost whispering, not trusting his voice to hold, and stares straight at Seb, trying to make him understand, “whatever you were taking. I wanted to give it to you. All of it. Because I was already yours. I loved you then. I love you now.” 

As confessions go, it seems a little underwhelming, but he put it out there. It deserves to be said with his whole chest, reflecting back just how much it's filling him up, how much he fights to keep it from bubbling over, but—

Fragile, the unopened box around his heart says, handle with care.

“Love,” Sebastian repeats, slowly, tentatively, like he's pulling the word apart, examining it from all sides, inspecting it for inflexion and purpose. Charles nods, almost shyly, finally reaching out to grab Seb's other hand, gently prying it away from his t-shirt, and Seb lets him. Charles entwines their fingers and holds on. Seb smiles.

“Yeah, I—me too. I love you.” 

And suddenly, Charles finds himself pulled forward into a close embrace, their arms wrapping tightly around each other, fitting like puzzle pieces. They've been in this position so many times before, but something is different today. 

Charles hums contentedly from where his head rests on Seb's shoulder. Everything feels warm and calm inside of him, illuminated by a bright and shiny certainty, so simple, yet so momentous—Sebastian returns his feelings. 

It feels nice just to sit here like this, slotted against each other, with no hurry to go anywhere or do anything or be anyone. 

Charles takes slow, even breaths, and his nose fills with the clean scent of Seb’s shampoo, his antiperspirant, his fabric softener. They’re still the exact same, and that’s…it makes a deeply primal part of Charles purr in bliss. 

Some aspects of Seb’s life may have changed, but he is fundamentally the same. 

“Your shirt is very soft,” Seb mumbles as he rubs his hands up and down Charles’ back, clearly unable to keep them still, but Charles isn’t going to complain. Instead, he turns his head so he can press his face into Seb’s neck and noses along the exposed skin, enjoying the little shiver he can feel when he exhales and his breath ghosts over it. 

Seb being so very tactile is one of the things Charles loves most about him. 

“I want to fuck you later. Can I?” The question sends a jolt of lust through Charles that nearly fries his brain. 

“Why—why wait?” He asks, licking his lips, his tongue dangerously close to Seb’s throat. There’s a greedy, insatiable voice within him that urges him to taste.

Seb chuckles and runs his fingers through Charles’ hair, and Charles instinctively closes his eyes, his whole body melting into the sensation. A low, needy sound escapes him, and when Seb repeats the motion, he pushes his head into the touch. 

He can feel it when Sebastian takes a deep, steadying breath and pushes Charles back a bit. “Because I think we should probably find a bite to eat first.”

“Huh?” Just like that, the tension snaps. 

“We’ve been talking for a while.” 

Charles checks his watch. Oh shit. Seb is right. 

“Oh God, sorry, I’ve been a terrible host!” His mother would despair over this poor display of hospitality. She raised him better than this. 

“Don’t worry, Charles. It’s fine. I would have said something.” Seb waves him off, clearly amused at Charles’ flustered state.

“Should I—do you want—” Mentally, Charles reviews what he knows is left in his kitchen and comes up with…not a lot. Some leftovers from the day before maybe, he’d planned to leave for Maranello the following evening. 

“We could order some food?" Is what he finally lands on, feeling awkward and inadequate at the suggestion. If this were a date, he’d rate awfully.

But Seb just nods gamely. “Sure. What do you recommend?”

Charles thinks it over for a moment, tries to recall what he usually gets delivered and what’s been recommended by friends or family, considers their options.

“There’s this place nearby that makes delicious shrimp pasta. A couple solid sushi and pizza joints. Of course, we have a lot of Mediterranean cuisine places and one French bistro my brothers swear by. Sadly, my favourite Monégasque place doesn’t do deliveries anymore, but I’d like to take you there one day. It’s nothing too fancy, not like fine dining or anything, but the food is amazing.” 

There’s a whole list of experiences he wants to share with Seb—some clichée, some romantic, some mundane—and the look on Seb’s face right now shows that maybe letting his guard down to reveal those parts of himself can pay off. 

“Shrimp pasta sounds fantastic, actually,” Seb says and leans in again to watch Charles pull up the delivery app on his phone. Charles’ body responds instinctively, and he sways into Seb to close the small amount of distance between them. 

Then his stomach growls. Both of them laugh.

*

The pasta is delicious. 

They’re sitting across from each other at Charles’ kitchen table, food neatly arranged on actual plates, takeout boxes already discarded. Below the table, their lower legs are casually touching, resting against each other, and he’s acutely aware of that single point of contact, can feel Seb’s leg hair rub against his skin every time he moves. 

It’s—nice. Yeah. 

And he’s not actively doing anything about it quite yet, but he files it away for later. 

Seb’s listening to Charles ramble on while he sips on his glass of ginger ale. There’d been some beer left in the fridge and a few bottles of various contents in his liquor cabinet, but Seb hadn’t called him out on it. 

When they’d set the table, Sebastian had asked Charles whether he wanted to talk about how things were going for him, and Charles, grateful for the opportunity, had started talking and only stopped a few times since to shovel pasta in his mouth. 

The words had been burning inside of him for months, acrid smoke in his lungs, then they had turned to smouldering coals he had not known how to extinguish, and now here he is, finally getting to talk to Seb about Ferrari, about the team, about Silvia and Mattia and Carlos, about the car, about anything and everything. 

Speaking his truth to one of the only people who may actually understand him is so very freeing. He knows he can trust Sebastian not to share any of this with anyone.

“What if I’m just cursed to be unlucky forever?” Charles asks, only half-jokingly, after he finishes recounting the entire miserable disaster that was his 2021 Monaco Grand Prix, just as Seb steals the last shrimp off his plate.  

Seb tilts his head and watches him from behind his long eyelashes, frowning. 

“That’s nonsense, Charles. It also stands a decent chance of turning into a self-fulfilling prophecy if you start looking out for it, and you need that focus elsewhere. Better to stop that train of thought right there.”

Charles sighs and nods. “I know it’s stupid. I just can’t help feeling that fortune doesn’t exactly favour me? Is that the expression? Maybe I’m trying too hard.” 

The look on Seb’s face is pensive for a moment, forehead creased in thought before it suddenly clears up. “Oh, I know!” He exclaims, shoves back his chair and gets to his feet. 

All in all, he’s gone for about thirty seconds, barely enough time for Charles to go from confused to curious.

When he returns, he places a small, round object on the table between them that Charles instantly recognises—Sebastian’s lucky coin. 

“You know, it might not help, but…I meant to give this to you back in December and then forgot about it. Anyway, it’s yours if you want it.”

Charles stares, then he reaches out and picks up the coin. It feels cool and smooth in the palm of his hand, and he touches it almost reverently with his fingertips. 

“Seb, are you…you really want to give this to me?” The words come out a lot more hesitantly than they have any right to. He presses his lips together and goes back to mustering the coin in his hand. Although it’s not heavy, it does have the firm weight of a metal object. 

“Well, yeah. You should have it.” And then, softer: “I like the thought of you holding on to it. Feels right, somehow.”

This is significant. There’s a realness attached to the very solid, very material coin he’s holding in his hand like it’s some kind of relic. Then again, considering who gave it to him and what this tiny thing meant to Seb, who carried it with him for years…maybe it is.

He thinks about the helmet and Seb’s words in this context, and his heart does a funny flip. Charles closes his hand around the coin, makes a fist and presses it to his chest.

“Thank you,” he whispers, “I’ll treasure it.”

*

Despite the overwhelming need that overcomes him every time Seb touches him, there’s a strange unhurriedness in the air when they finally do make it to Charles’ bedroom. 

Seb’s hand is wrapped loosely around his wrist as he tugs Charles towards him, thumb stroking along the sensitive skin over the radial artery. 

The first real kiss they exchange after months is just a short, sweet peck, the barest hint of Seb’s lips on his there–and–gone–again in the blink of an eye. 

Charles watches Seb watch him in return and shivers under the intensity of his gaze—it’s more black than blue at this point and absolutely filled with intent.  

Fuck, what are we doing? The bed is right there.

He breaks eye contact with Seb and glances down at it.

Although he’d discarded the idea of changing them earlier for being too desperate, Charles is suddenly worried about his old bedsheets. What if they are too dirty? What if Seb thinks he's a slob? 

Is he overthinking this? Highly likely.

This never used to be a problem between them, but then again, there’s nothing casual about them anymore (if there ever was). Charles cannot stop thinking about it, the simple fact that they both want more out of this, that he gets to have all of Seb now. It’s throwing him off, making him second-guess himself; he’s hesitating where he would have pushed ahead before. 

“Should I put on new sheets?” He wonders if it’s even about the sheets anymore. Runs a nervous hand over his face. 

Seb lets himself flop backwards onto the mattress. 

“Don't be ridiculous,” he says and turns his face to the side, taking a whiff of the blanket, “they smell like you. I like it.” 

And he gives Charles one of those looks that let him know that Sebastian knows exactly what those words just did to his insides. 

This doesn’t have to be complicated. Not with Seb. 

A smile is slowly pulling at the corners of Charles’ mouth, and he lets it spread across the rest of his face. 

Then he crawls on top of Seb and pushes him into the mattress with every last kilogram of his body weight, enjoying the way Sebastian doesn’t resist at all and lowers his head to rub his stubble against Seb’s cheek. 

“I’m so glad you didn’t shave,” he murmurs in Sebastian’s ear. Then he claims his lips in an earnest kiss, something that makes Seb hum in pleasure and wrap his arms around Charles’ back to keep him close. 

Charles cradles Seb’s face with both hands to gain better leverage, deepening the kiss, intensifying it. 

There’s a trace of acidity from the ginger ale left in Seb’s taste, and Charles remembers with sudden clarity what it had been like to lick champagne out of Seb’s mouth. The surge of visceral desire that courses through him makes him eager and rough, and Sebastian responds by opening up further, giving in. 

*

“I think I'm just going to die if you don't fuck me,” Charles sighs dramatically, after they've spent the last half an hour making out like horny adolescents, though with far more confidence. Seb flipped them over at some point, and now his hands are re-exploring their favourite spots on Charles' body while Charles writhes beneath him, making all sorts of embarrassing noises, entirely unashamed and so, so turned on just thinking about how well Sebastian knows to handle him.  

Most of their clothes are strewn across the room and the bed, neither man paying them any mind after having taken them out of the equation.

He's leaning into every little touch, so sensitive to Seb and his affectionate teasing. His dick has been fully hard for a while now, still trapped in his black boxers. 

Seb grins down at him, all teeth and wide exuberance. “I'm enjoying myself,” he says, self-satisfied, licking a stripe up Charles' throat and cupping his erection through the silken fabric, coaxing a wanton moan from Charles' lips. 

“You're lucky I love you so much,” Charles mumbles, content with the little bit of friction Seb is providing him now. Seb stills for long enough that Charles opens his eyes, slightly irritated, and wraps a hand around Seb's neck, pulling him in. 

“Did I say something wrong?” He asks, pressing his mouth to Seb's, nibbling at his lower lip until Seb unfreezes and kisses him back. “We can say that now, right? I want to say it all the time. I love you, I love you, I lo—Mmff!” 

His last confession gets muffled and swallowed up when Seb shoves his tongue into Charles' mouth, hot and greedy. Charles makes a keening sound in the back of his throat and opens up further, letting Seb take whatever he wants from this. 

It's a ravishing kiss that steals his breath away and makes him flush all over, all words lost or incoherent. Sebastian's eyes are bright and vast and so awfully blue. He feels like he'll get lost in them if he looks for too long. But he can't resist. 

“I love you,” he repeats, grinning into the kiss, and Seb shakes his head, smile dangerously fond. 

“I love you too, Charles.” The words are spoken very softly, with so much care, like Sebastian is afraid he'll break them if he's too loud.

And, okay, Charles loves tender, careful Seb as much as any version of him, but it’s not exactly what he needs from him right now. He runs his hands down Seb’s back and grabs his ass with both of them, really digging his fingers into the muscle and dragging Seb flush on top of him. He can tell Seb is surprised; his moan sounds like it was punched out of him.

“You can be nice to me later,” Charles pants, short, demanding. Then he shoves Seb onto his back and climbs over him, reversing their positions again. 

It would be a good picture to jerk off to, the way Sebastian is spread out naked under him, with his plains of pale, unblemished skin, arching into every touch as if on reflex, beautifully responsive, hard-on leaking precome onto his stomach, with his mouth half open and his tongue poking out. 

Charles admires the view, lets his hands travel across Seb’s torso, rubs the chest hair and enjoys how rough it feels against his skin. Seb’s looking up at him with an expression that Charles would describe as open adoration if he was forced to put a name to it. He thinks it might be his new favourite.

It’s as he lavishes some attention on Seb’s extremely sensitive nipples that Charles realises—he can leave traces now, can leave marks on Seb in visible places. He replaces his tongue with his thumb, making Seb whine, and lets his mouth wander upwards until he reaches the spot where Seb's neck meets his shoulder.

Almost innocently, he kisses, licks and tastes the skin there, nibbles at it lightly with his teeth. Without any warning, he bites down, tearing a throaty groan from Seb. 

“What—Charles, fuck...ahh…” But rather than pushing Charles away, he pulls him closer, presses an encouraging hand to the back of Charles' head, so he bites down harder and harder still until he can feel his teeth almost break skin. Then he sucks on it, just to be safe. 

After he soothes the spot with his tongue, Charles leans back to inspect his handiwork. Finding it to his satisfaction, he rubs his thumb over the mark that’s already forming and hums happily. 

“Possessive, aren’t you?” Sebastian asks him, voice oddly shaken. 

“Yeah,” Charles replies, feeling hot all over. Fuck, Sebastian just allowed him to do that. God, it’s— 

“I thought you wanted me to fuck you?” Seb asks, interrupting his thoughts and smirking up at Charles. The flush of arousal weakens his attempt at playfulness, but it makes him look all the more desirable. 

“Yeah, I—” His brain does a funny little hiccup when Seb snakes a hand between them, slips it into Charles’ boxers and goes straight for his dick. The touch is a little dry and a little rough, even as Seb spreads some of the precome around, but it’s clearly not intended to be more than a tease. Or so Charles expects.

“Make up your mind, will you?” Seb’s hand grows mean, squeezes him, and Charles shakes his head to clear it. “If you would rather fuck me, you’ll have to say so.” 

“No, I want—ahh, fuck—” Articulation has become a challenging hurdle to overcome. He wants to be unguarded and disarmed for Seb, entirely at his mercy. Nothing else has ever quite made him feel more real, more grounded in his life. 

“Then roll back over,” Seb commands and pulls his hand out of Charles’ boxers, watching him expectantly. Ah, fuck indeed. 

But he follows quickly enough, and Seb is back on top of him almost instantly, one of his knees between Charles’ legs, the pressure close to perfect. 

Charles is dimly aware that he must look like a wanton little slut, spreading his legs for Sebastian like this, grinding against him so eagerly and enthusiastically, but he cannot find it within himself to care. 

Seb can have him like this, can take anything he wants, and Charles needs him to know how much he wants this, how starved he is for Seb's touch. 

“You can,” he whimpers, barely able to string words together to form a coherent sentence, never mind English ones, “anything, whatever...Christ, Seb—I want...oh, fuck, I’m yours.”

The look Seb gives him then is full of wonder. Even through the haze of lust and the blown pupils, Charles can see it, and it makes his heart soar. Seb reaches out a hand and cups Charles' cheek, still stupidly tender.

Charles grabs it and sucks two fingers into his mouth, teasingly swirling his tongue around them. When it lures a loud groan from Seb, Charles starts to suck hungrier and lowers his eyelids. Seb is staring at him, transfixed, breathing heavily, seemingly entirely caught in this moment. Then he pushes another finger into Charles' mouth, and. Oh yeah. Charles moans louder, bucks his hips, chasing for friction. 

“You're so fucking pretty. Everything about you is.” Seb pulls his fingers free and traces the spit-slick digits from Charles' lips all the way down to his hips, to the waistband of his boxers. 

“Take those off for me?” He asks, obvious desire making his accent shine through stronger on the dental fricative, and Charles wants to kiss him silly, wants to see smart, verbose, well-spoken Sebastian Vettel reduced to a stuttering, moaning mess unable to vocalise any of the myriads of complex thoughts in his head beyond the most primal of noises, all traces of his self-control erased. 

Charles divests himself of the boxers without hesitation. There is no shame left here now, no shyness, no insecurity. Both of them want this bad; that much is evident. 

“Fuck me,” he swallows around the roughness in his throat, tight as it is with need. “C’mon, fuck me, make me feel it. Seb, please.” 

Seb claims his mouth and eats up all of the little sounds escaping Charles as Seb rubs one of his nipples, almost like an afterthought. “Anything you want,” he kisses into Charles' mouth, showing that he'd very much understood Charles earlier, despite the incoherence—it's Seb after all. It's Seb and him. It’s them.

He retrieves lube and a condom from the nightstand and returns to kneel between Charles' legs. Charles instantly misses the warmth and familiar weight of Seb's body and pulls him in again as soon as possible. 

“How do you want me?” Charles asks, biting at his lips, gazing at Seb in a way that he knows will rile him up even more. 

“Just like this. I want to see you,” Seb says, leaning into Charles, nuzzling his neck. 

“Yeah,” Charles nods, bringing his arms up to hold Seb close. "Yeah, good, fuck yeah."

They've done this quite a few times before, but with fewer words and feelings in play, or at least not acknowledged. This feels charged, blood running hot through Charles' veins, skin showing the goosebumps of anticipation. 

“When I,” Charles licks his lips, watches Seb methodically warm up the lube between his palms, feeling hungry and untethered, “when I did it to myself, I was thinking about you. Always. Remembering how good it felt to have your dick inside me, filling me up.”

He gives his own dick a few lazy strokes, no real pressure or intent, merely to take the edge off. Seb watches him back, a quirk to his lips. 

“There's no one else I want. I might have, with others—they didn’t matter. None of them. Just you. Only you, Seb.” Voicing it like this makes him feel raw, overexposed, but he knows he can be vulnerable here. 

“I was already yours,” Seb says, like it's simple. And maybe it is. Maybe it always was.

His body is in a weird state of too relaxed and too keyed-up, and when Seb carefully rubs a lube-slick finger over his entrance before he slips it inside, it takes Charles a few moments to get reacquainted with the feeling. But when he does, it’s good, so very good.

“You can be rough with me, if you like,” Charles groans, revelling in the sensation of being stretched open by Seb's clever finger, “I've missed this so much. Ah—please!” 

Seb hums thoughtfully and crooks it in just the right way, making Charles feel like all the air has been pushed out of his lungs. He gasps and shudders with pleasure when Seb pours out more lube and carefully adds another finger. 

“I don't think I want to be rough. I think I want to be slow and thorough. There was that one time, I don’t know if you remember, but—back in Maranello. I made you come with just my fingers.”

Charles whines as Seb finds his prostate and then changes the angle again, a stupid little smirk on his face. 

“You were so hard and desperate then, begging me to touch you. And you didn’t think it would be enough, but it was. And you were so messy, after. Wet and sticky and so fucking out of it. I think about that memory a lot, actually.” His tone is almost conversational. If it wasn’t for the way Seb’s taking deep breaths between his sentences, he would seem entirely unaffected.

Seb adds a third finger, and it feels fucking fantastic, so much better than he ever managed on his own, but he needs more, needs to either touch himself or Seb to finally get inside him already. But he knows Seb’s loving this, taking him apart methodically. 

And so he fists his hands in the bedspread and closes his eyes, bites his lips until he tastes the metallic tang of blood in his mouth. 

“You’re being so good for me, Charles,” Sebastian says and scissors his fingers again, one more time, just barely brushing against Charles’ prostate, before he pulls them out completely. Charles instantly misses the stretch and the warmth.

And then Seb’s mouth is on Charles’ dick, sweetly suckling at the tip, lapping up the precome that’s gathered there, and he’s humming.

Charles swears loudly in what may or may not have been garbled Italian, and Seb laughs, low and throaty.

He hears the tearing of the condom wrapper and forces himself to open his eyes so he can watch Seb roll it on and line himself up. 

“At last,” he quips weakly. It earns him a snort and a light slap on the thigh. 

And then he loses his remaining mental capacity to the urge to give in to the overwhelming feeling of Seb finally pushing his dick inside of him in one smooth thrust of his hips, enjoying the odd sensation of his body adjusting to Seb’s girth as he bottoms out, while both of them just breathe for a moment. 

Seb looks to him for the go-ahead, and Charles blinks some sweat out of his eyes and nods. That’s all he’s really good for, anymore. Seb kisses him, quick and dirty.

Strong hands fold and rearrange his legs, and then Seb actually moves, and it’s such a relief that Charles could cry. His mouth makes these half-bitten, feral little whimpers he has zero control over, and he reaches out for Seb, for any part of him he can grab, and Sebastian takes his hand and holds it to the mattress with one of his own. 

His senses are absolutely overloaded by all of this; the welcome stretch of Seb’s dick inside Charles, the familiar scent of sex, the bitter taste of Charles’ own come on his tongue, the little controlled noises Seb's making and the filthy, wet sounds of skin–on–skin as he thrusts into Charles again and again, how intense Seb looks, flushed and sweaty and focused behind his long eyelashes.

Seb fucks him good and slow and deep, and Charles loves and hates the way he’s so skilled at pacing himself in equal measure. The angle is great, but it’s not enough, and Charles knows that Seb knows that it isn’t enough. 

“Please, please—I, God, please!” Charles begs, and he’s not even sure what language he’s speaking, if any. But then Seb pulls out almost completely and shoves back in, and this time it’s aimed precisely right; he hits the spot and Charles wails, unable to fully vocalise just how grateful he is. 

Like this, it takes no time at all to get him close. There are things he still wants to ask—for Seb to touch him, to fuck him harder—but neither his mouth nor his vocal cords wish to cooperate. Fortunately, there’s always non-verbal communication, and Seb’s an expert in reading him, even now. 

Charles almost sobs when Seb speeds up his tempo and then lets go of Charles’ hand to wrap his own around Charles' dick instead. A few rough tugs are all that’s needed to get Charles to lose it; he comes all over himself and Seb’s fingers, moaning something that might be Seb’s name as the pleasure spikes and the wave breaks, leaving him floating, adrift in its wake. 

Sebastian’s perfect rhythm is slipping as he's getting closer to his own orgasm. The way he looks at Charles like he's the only thing in the world right now, pupils blown wide with wild ecstasy, is a little hard for Charles’ temporarily limited brain capacity to handle. 

Listening to Sebastian moan his name helplessly, like a plea and a prayer, is intoxicating. His eyes are open like a book, nothing hidden, all his wants and desires laid bare for Charles to see, and it's impossible to miss the blatant need there. 

He’s overly sensitive, and Seb’s not being careful anymore—it borders on being too much, but Charles is willing to indulge Seb, knows that he’s getting off on this, on making Charles come first and then wearing him out, body all loose and pliable, fucking him until he’s completely spent.  

Seb curses when he comes, and it’s something very harsh in German, too unintelligible for Charles to make out, but he shudders at the sound of his voice. 

After, Seb collapses on top of Charles and tries to catch his breath, and Charles finds the last tiny shred of energy in his body and turns his head, so their faces are pressed together. 

If they could just stay like this, messy and exhausted, a tangle of limbs, with Seb still inside him…Charles would take it. This is as much as he could ever conceivably want. 

*

At some indeterminable point later—Charles is still too drowsy and comfortable to move—Seb presses a kiss to his forehead, pulls out and disappears from the room. 

Time is too fickle a concept for Charles to grasp in his current state, so he has no idea how much of it has passed when Seb returns with a warm washcloth and two glasses of water. 

Charles accepts and gulps the cool liquid down greedily. Some of it spills on him, some on the sheets, and he couldn’t care less. 

Seb works silently as he cleans the mess off Charles’ body with deft hands. How he can find the energy to focus, Charles has no idea. He’s tired and ready to go to sleep. Holding on to any kind of thought, no matter how minuscule, feels like a herculean effort.  

“You can go to sleep, you know,” Seb says, voice quiet in the heavy atmosphere of the room, “I’m not going anywhere.” He runs one of his hands through Charles’ hair, and Charles leans into it on instinct. 

His eyes fall closed, and he can’t bother to open them again. The last thing he feels before he passes out is Seb’s familiar weight on top of him, his head resting on Charles’ chest. 

*

The morning after is a quiet affair. They sleep in, and for once, Seb doesn’t get up before Charles does, even though he’s clearly been awake for some time when Charles finally wakes up, yawning and stretching.

There’s the usual, slightly uncomfortable soreness in his ass that makes him feel pleasantly used, and there’s definitely some beard burn on his neck. Charles smiles, and he thinks it might be smug. 

Something Pierre had said ages ago rises to the front of his mind: ‘Your tenacity tends to get you where you want to be, in the end, Mr Ferrari driver.’ Seems like he’d been right.

Because what, no, who he wants is still here, lying in bed with him, curled into Charles, currently running two fingers over Charles’ abs like he’s simply content with the touch.

It’s a bit overwhelming, and he has no idea what to say, so he stays silent, happy to just lie still for a few more moments—or for however long Seb wants to indulge himself.

“Good morning,” Seb mumbles into his chest, dragging his lips over the skin in a lazy imitation of a kiss.

“Morning,” Charles echos.

He sounds just as used as he feels, voice cracking on the first syllable. When he eventually can get himself to move, it’s just to place a hand on Seb’s neck, stroking at first, then pressing his fingers in, and finding no tension at all. Seb’s all soft, relaxed lines, looking endlessly comfortable.

His eyes fall onto the mark he left last night. It stands out just as strongly as he’d envisioned, and the sight of the branded skin makes heat race through him, a sharp, vicious flash. That is his claim.

Seb must have noticed the change in Charles’ breathing rhythm because he looks up to meet his eyes, gaze intimately curious.

“You good?” 

“More than,” Charles says and pulls him into a searing kiss, morning breath be damned.
He’s way too fucking smitten for that to matter.

*

They share the shower, and Seb lets Charles blow him, so it ends up taking a lot longer than intended, with Seb half-seriously muttering about efficiency afterwards. But he seems reluctant to stop touching Charles, and they still come out clean, so it’s fine in Charles’ book.

When they’re getting dressed, it’s Seb’s fresh t-shirt that Charles pulls over his head—another band shirt, blue this time, with the Queen logo on it. The look on Seb’s face tells him that he knows that he probably won’t see this one again, either. Then he shakes his head and sighs, shrugs, and grabs Charles’ simple black crew neck. It puts the bruise Charles gave him clear on display, and he does nothing to attempt to hide it.

They grin at each other, and the kiss Seb presses to Charles’s lips tastes minty and sweet. 

*

Despite Charles repeatedly stating that he has absolutely no useful, edible ingredients left in the house, Seb insists on making them breakfast. And, really, who is Charles to deny him?

So they go out to pick up everything on Seb’s list, and once they return, Sebastian gets to cooking. Nothing big and extravagant, just some omelette with fresh bread and vegetables, but it’s delicious nonetheless.

Charles is in charge of the orange juice, and he intentionally makes a bit of a mess, so Seb has a reason to lick some of the drops that squirted onto him off his cheek. This earns him an incredibly fond eye roll.

He’s happy—a quiet, bone-deep, resonating sense of happiness that he does nothing to contain, so it spills over into his words, his expressions, his touches. Sure, Charles had hoped once upon a time, had fantasised about what it would be like to have this again, but.

God, Seb is here, with him, in his kitchen, laughing at some joke as he cleans the table, and Charles gets to reach out, to pull him in close and embrace him and hold him and press their foreheads together so they share the same air. 

He gets to do things now and have them mean exactly what they are supposed to, no pretending whatsoever, no lying to himself or others.

All of his actions are filled with confessions (some big, some small), and he’s never felt lighter than this, like some part of him that was folded up and hidden away is finally allowed to breathe.

Not everything is going to be easy, of course. Charles' half-packed luggage in his room and Seb’s backpack by the door are testament to that.

Still, the first steps are the hardest, and they’re taking them together. 

*

Saying goodbye was always going to be difficult, but Charles takes comfort in the knowledge that it’s an entirely different goodbye than their last one.

That was the end of an old chapter; this is the beginning of a new one.

“Call me when you get back to Maranello,” Seb says after he’s put on his shoes and checked that he’s got everything stowed away.

Seb’s hands are playing with the hem of Charles’ t-shirt—his t-shirt—before he pulls him in for a hug, arms wrapped tightly all the way around Charles, face burrowed in the crook of his neck.

“You, too. When you get home, I mean.” Charles swallows. He misses him already.

Charles can feel him nod.

“Will I see you at Spa?” Charles asks. Even a day ago, he would have blushed at the desperate hope in his words. Now, not so much. 

Sebastian pulls away to kiss him, short yet insistent. “I’ll be there.”

It’s good enough. Has to be. No, it’s—

“Bis bald,” Seb smiles, clearly trusting Charles to remember. And he does.

“Bis bald, Seb,” Charles returns, the sentiment as well as the smile.

*

i love you seb
so much

I love you too. Drive safe.