Archive of Our Own

There’s a list of people they still plan on telling—

After they’ve been going strong for a while and sat down their families and Charles’ mother cried and hugged both of them, after Seb’s brother got to feign shock and surprise before he revealed that he’d magically guessed it all along, and after they’ve all come together to have a huge Christmas dinner at Seb’s place in Switzerland.

It’s a topic worth discussing since neither of them feels particularly comfortable hiding this, no matter how much they’re both painfully aware that it continues to be necessary, both within the confines of the current sociopolitical climate inherent to the motorsport scene and the inhumane laws limiting the lives of LGBT people in multiple countries Formula 1 drivers compete in.

So, yes, there’s a list of people they’re going to let in on their little secret because Charles likes his lists and Seb likes to humour him.

1.

Daniel is an easy choice.

Both of them trust him, and Charles is fairly sure that Dan saw him make out with a guy before and didn’t tell a single soul about it, so he already knows that Charles isn’t straight.

Plus, as Seb says, Daniel is always a good ally to have.

*

It’s day two of pre-season testing in Barcelona.

Charles is exhausted and elated in equal measure. He loves the new car, loves the look, the way it manoeuvres, how aggressive it feels under him. All of it has him brimming with excitement for 2022, but he refuses to allow himself anything beyond cautious optimism—he’s been burned before.

Still, he spent his time out on track today doing more laps than anyone, and when he looks at the results, it’s satisfaction that fills him, even though none of this really means anything. Yet.

Stepping out of the shower, he wraps himself in the fluffiest towel he can find, and checks his phone for notifications.

Nothing from Seb so far, just some extremely tame trash talk in the gamer Discord. Seems like George has banned Lando from the server again (incident number three), and Charles missed most of the resulting fallout. Alex has already dutifully taken up his mediator mantle, and Pierre and Yuki are staying out of it. So will Charles.

In hindsight, letting George have the admin position was definitely a questionable decision, or as the quote Lando has artfully photoshopped over an inverted topless photo of George proclaims: absolute power corrupts absolutely.

Charles puts the phone down and goes hunting for clothes instead. Seb’s probably busy catching up with people, being inconspicuous. He’s going to text when he’s good and ready to meet up.

Anyway, it’s only been a week since they last saw each other, since Seb kissed him goodbye in Charles’ Maranello flat and returned to Switzerland.

Originally, he hadn’t even planned on coming here, but Charles had asked because he’d wanted to share this with Seb—had wanted to fill in the fresh, unwritten pages of a new season together.

And Seb’s not going to fly to Australia for the first race, they’ve talked about that already, hence Charles had suggested this as an alternative. Seb agreed to it easily, charmed by the idea, and told Charles to let him know when would be most convenient for him.

Which brings him to today. Charles has the rest of the evening off, and they’ve made plans to meet up. Nothing concrete yet as he’s left the planning to Seb, but he’s confident that Seb will have found something fitting that’s secluded enough to shield them from potential spectators.

He doesn’t have to wait much longer. Just as he checks himself over in the mirror and runs his hand through his hair one final time for it to reach the perfect degree of messy, his phone chimes with the piano key tone he’s set for Seb.

It’s a hotel address.

Charles smiles quietly to himself, opens Uber, and texts Seb a quick

i’ll be there soon x

*

The hotel restaurant teeters just on the edge between tastefully upscale and too fancy, which confuses Charles a little because it’s certainly not what he expected.

When the maître d’ leads him over to a private area, things are starting to make sense, and the rest clears up as soon as he lays eyes on Seb and the two other people seated at the table—Jenson Button and Daniel Ricciardo, both watching him approach with matching wolfish grins.

Charles ignores both of them in favour of Seb, who gets up when he sees Charles approach, a sweet smile on his face that is entirely for him. They hug, and Charles pulls him close, humming quietly and contentedly at the familiar strength of Seb’s arms around him. It’s fleeting, barely a breath of a second, but he can feel Seb press his lips to his neck.

He’d very much like a real kiss, but he’s not deluding himself into thinking that that’s realistic. Not when they’re in a public space, no matter how isolated.

After they separate, Charles acknowledges both Jenson and Daniel with quick nods and a short greeting. His face isn’t even a little red—he’s gotten better at that, at being around Seb without acting too obvious, especially with other people present. Even if the way they keep glancing from him to Seb spells out that they’re both very aware of what’s going on, which means that Seb must have told Dan already. That makes things easier, he supposes. Less awkward.

“So, how did the car feel today?” Seb asks with barely restrained curiosity once they’ve both sat down.

“Good. I had fun,” Charles answers confidently, and then looks over at Daniel with raised eyebrows, “I don’t think I can tell you any more right now, but I will later.”

“Wait, that’s it?" Daniel looks incredulously back and forth between the two of them, and at first, Charles thinks he’s talking about his reply, but then Daniel adds “No ‘how are you, honey, I missed you’? No tearful reunion?”

“No nicknames,” Seb says fondly at the exact same time as Charles says “He already knows I missed him.” They shake their heads at each other, both grinning like idiots.

Jenson snorts. “You two are down so bad, it’s not even funny.”

Seb shrugs. “Guilty as charged. Now, can we get food? I’m actually starving.”

*

Turns out the other three waited for him to arrive, so no one has ordered yet.

Daniel, who is staying at this hotel with the rest of McLaren and has already eaten here the day before, recommends the seafood paella, which Charles is only too happy to try, while Seb decides on paella valenciana.

As they wait, Jenson explains that he and Daniel ran into Seb by chance in the hotel lobby, and since they already had plans to eat together, they’d decided to invite him along. Then Seb had told them about meeting up with Charles, and here they all are.

It’s not the dinner date Charles had envisioned in his daydreams, but Dan and Jenson are good company; all their teasing banter is light-hearted and affectionate.

Although not having to pretend around them feels great, so maybe this is actually better? He’s not entirely sure, since it does come at the high price of needing to share Seb’s attention with other people.

At least he gets to press his foot against Seb’s below the table, unnoticed by anyone but the two of them.

*

“So, no nicknames?” Dan asks Charles, wiping at a stain of sauce on his pants with his napkin and then finally resigning, declaring defeat in the face of the unyielding tomato red.

“No nicknames,” Charles confirms, and smiles secretively, thinking about the way Seb will randomly pronounce his name the Monégasque way from time to time, just for Charles’ reaction. In his book, that doesn’t count.

“I don’t think I believe you, Charlie,” Dan says and narrows his eyes like he’ll be able to figure it out if he tries hard enough.

“That’s okay, you don’t have to, mate. But I am telling the truth.”

“He is,” Seb assures, “that rule was established before we ever even started anything.”

“What’s wrong with the classics? Babe, honey, sweetheart…they’re evergreens for a reason,” Jenson seems genuinely confused, “and I’m sure German and French have some lovely alternatives to offer. Maybe Italian, since both of you speak it?”

Charles makes a face. There is a very good reason he’s not into the whole nickname concept when it comes to his relationship with Seb, but he’s not sure he wants to get into his insecurities over dinner.

Thankfully, Seb is there to dissolve the tension before it has a chance to solidify itself. He leans into Charles’ space and steals some cuttlefish from his plate, knocking their hands together in the process.

Charles huffs indignantly and immediately helps himself to a piece of chicken from Seb’s paella.

They keep stealing food from each other as the other two watch on, evidently fascinated. Daniel has a broad smile on his face while Jenson just shakes his head and rolls his eyes before he attempts to spear some chicken from Seb’s plate himself.

Seb bats his fork away without hesitation.

“You have your own food, Jense,” he states drily, and Jenson feigns hurt for all of two seconds before he snorts and takes a sip from his beer.

“Awful, mate,” he says, “absolutely terrible,” clearly meaning something else entirely.

*

The beer is decent, but both Charles and Daniel have to be mindful of the amount of alcohol they actually consume. Jenson and Seb not so much, and Charles realises rather quickly that they’ve started getting competitive about it, maybe without even noticing.

It doesn’t come as a surprise then, when Seb has to excuse himself to the bathroom, leaving Charles behind with the other two who have somehow started to resemble hyenas more than humans.

“So you and Seb, huh?” Daniel leans forward on his elbows, shamelessly seizing him up while Jenson watches on, expectantly.

They’re still mostly alone in the private area, only one other table is occupied and the three women who share it are involved in a rather animated conversation, wildly gesticulating and waving their wine glasses around for emphasis.

“Me and Seb.” Charles smiles, and Daniel grins again in return, almost like it’s a reflex, though the grin is much less feral this time.

This is easy for him. Easier than he thought, even. And it’s good practice, too—there are people on his list he’s far more hesitant to bring this up around. Not because he’s ashamed of his relationship with Seb, but because he is afraid. Right here, right now, he doesn’t have to be. Dan and Jenson might give him grief, but it’s borne of genuine affection.

“I’m happy for you both. Don’t even know who to give the speech to,” Daniel says, and Charles’ chest fills with a strange sort of lightness.

“I do,” Jenson butts in, and Daniel elbows him in the side. It looks painful.

“Oww, bloody hell!”

“Don’t be such a cunt.” The words have no edge behind them, and Jenson doesn’t seem offended, even as he makes a show of thoroughly inspecting the spot where Daniel’s elbow struck him.

“I think this is going to bruise.”

“No, it’s not, mate. You’ve had far worse.”

"Mate, it is absolutely going to bruise. Buy me another beer to make up for it?"

Charles shakes his head amusedly and casts a longing look at the half-empty glass of pale ale he’s trying to make last. Jenson has good taste, he decides. Even Seb likes it, and he’s much pickier than Charles—at least where beer is concerned.

“So, what’s it like?” Daniel’s question startles him.

“What’s what like?” There are far too many branching possibilities here, and Charles would really like to narrow down the options.

Jenson waves an ominous hand in his direction. “With you and Seb, obviously. He’s not being very forthcoming with the dirty details.”

Charles successfully fights down another blush. “There are no—what are you even saying?”

Daniel laughs hard enough to rouse the women on the other table. They give him nasty looks and continue to chatter among themselves in fast, agitated Spanish.

“God, Charles, I meant normal couple things. ‘Dirty’ as in ‘dirty laundry’.” Jenson’s smirk gives away the game, though, he’d obviously been only too aware of the verbal pitfalls that particular wording offered.

“Yeah, mate, I’m months behind on the gossip, someone’s gotta catch me up, so spill. Is there drama? What do you guys argue about? Football and Seb’s terrible fashion sense?”

Charles sighs and smiles. “Something like that.”

They don’t argue much, but they do discuss a lot—vacation plans, schedules, who to visit, whose place to stay at, how to make long-distance work, which races Seb will travel to.

The only serious fight they’ve had so far was about Seb’s worries regarding Charles’ fear of missing out. He’d been concerned that Charles might end up limiting himself too much and in response, Charles had gotten pretty angry and said that it felt like maybe Seb didn’t respect his decisions enough, that it felt rather patronising, and really, Seb, I know what I want, okay? I’m not just going to randomly decide that this isn’t good enough for me anymore and that I should find something better. I won’t walk out on you. I won’t.

Even then, they’d made up over dinner, after Seb had taken a long walk and Charles had spent roughly ninety minutes yelling at the TV, venting his frustration while he watched AS Monaco lose to Paris Saint-Germain.

“Too vague,” Daniel judges and Jenson agrees, “You aren’t even trying, Charlie.”

“Both of you know how much Seb values his privacy. I’m just honouring that.” It’s not the whole truth, merely a small part of the bigger picture, so saying it feels like an excuse, a cop-out. While Charles does want to share the fact that he’s dating Seb, he doesn’t actually want to share any intimate details about their relationship. He wants to hoard them like a dragon would gold, keep them to himself only, precious as they are. How could he share something he still can’t believe he gets to have?

“Fine, be like that. I’ll just have to ask again when there’s more alcohol involved,” Daniel doesn’t seem too fazed by Charles’ refusal to divulge personal information. Jenson, however, he can’t get a read on at all, and it throws him off.

“You can certainly try,” he replies, and demonstratively goes for his glass.

Then—

“Does he still get like that in bed?” Jenson asks, giving him his best Cheshire cat grin.

He is so, so glad he didn’t take that sip yet. Across from him, Daniel wasn’t quite so lucky and is now awkwardly attempting to dab the table cloth dry with his napkin.

Charles stares at Jenson, trying to figure the question out. And he knows asking for clarification is a bad idea, that it was designed to rile him up and he’s falling for obvious bait, but he can’t not. Moments like this one make him wish he was older so he could have seen Jenson’s dynamic with Seb play out in real-time while they were both still competing.

He briefly closes his eyes, gathers some inner strength, and goes for it.

“What do you mean?”

“Intense, I guess. You know, the focus thing.”

Charles bites his lip. It’s somehow both more intimate and less crass than he expected, and he doesn’t know how to feel. On the one hand, Jenson just managed to summarise the way Charles’s body comes alive under Sebastian’s undivided attention as ‘the focus thing’, on the other, when it comes down to it, he really only asked a simple yes or no question. One Charles can answer.

“Oh, that. Yeah.” He plays it off like it’s no big deal, flippantly, finally takes that sip of beer to wash it down, and Jenson seems like he might buy it. All the while, Daniel appears to have been struggling with a different matter entirely.

“Wait…so you’re telling me I’m the only one here who hasn’t—” Dan looks from Jenson to Charles and back. Both nod.

“Okay, now I’m kind of offended, I think.”

“Offended by what?” Seb asks, dropping back down into his chair. Neither of them had noticed him walking over.

Suddenly, Daniel looks a little red around the nose. Charles can feel the corners of his eyes crinkle and he hides his grin in his hands. Jenson winks at him and he breaks, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

“No, it’s nothing,” Dan says, definitely avoiding Seb’s gaze, and Charles watches the blush spread.

Jenson punches Dan in the shoulder. “We were just pulling his leg a little, right Charles?”

Seb throws Charles a curious glance but doesn’t comment. Perhaps he’ll ask later.

“Yeah, we were—how do you say it? Taking the piss?”

All three nod in confirmation, even Daniel, although he doesn’t look happy about it.

*

They finish up their dinners and say their goodbyes. Hugs are exchanged, and Jenson and Seb make plans to hang out again over the coming days. Then Daniel and Jenson are on their way, already engaged in yet another verbal sparring match as they exit the room, and Seb and Charles are alone.

“I want to ask you to come upstairs, but someone might see us and recognise you,” Seb whispers in his ear as they leave the hotel restaurant.

“It’s okay, I don’t think I’d be able to do that anyway, knowing I wouldn’t be able fall asleep with you.”

Charles can’t really stay the night, he has to be up bright and early for team business, Mattia had demanded as much.

“Come outside and wait for my Uber with me?”

Seb smiles and touches his shoulder, just a short tap, a reassurance that wouldn’t be obvious to anybody else.

*

The night sky is overcast, so it’s not too difficult to find a spot outside that shrouds them in enough darkness to grant them anonymity.

Charles can barely make out Seb’s face in the shadows, only the barest glint of his eyes whenever the moon becomes visible for a few seconds. It’s just cold enough to justify wrapping his hands around Seb’s, to hold on, at least for a little while.

Although it may not be much, he’s glad that they have found the time for a short chat and some of that highly sought-after privacy.

Never one to waste a good opportunity, Seb leans up slightly to press a gentle yet insistent kiss to his lips, stealing all of Charles’ air. “I’ve wanted to do that all evening.”

Charles finally blushes—it’s the simple warmth contained within the words that gets to him.

“Yeah, me...me too. Will you stay here until testing is done? Will I see you tomorrow?”

“Of course.” He pulls his hands away so they can settle in their favourite place around Charles’ waist, hold firm, steady, with just a tinge of possessiveness. Anywhere is home, like this.

Charles leans back in for another stolen peck on the lips. “Good.”

He’s never once worried about Seb’s commitment, not after that one time Seb called him right after Qualifying in Austin went poorly, saying ‘If you need me there, at the race, I will be,’ even though there had been half a planet, an entire ocean between them at the time.

When he pulls out his phone to check on his Uber, he’s immediately assaulted by another barrage of notifications from at least three different apps.

Apparently, Lando was unblocked in the meantime—and then swiftly blocked again following his changing the WhatsApp group icon to a picture of George’s face with the words ‘ABUSE OF POWER COMES AS NO SURPRISE’ pasted over it in impact font.

Charles shakes his head in exasperation and shoves the device back into his pocket.

“We have nine minutes. It seems there’s some heavy traffic.”

“Are you cold? Your jacket doesn’t look very seasonally appropriate.” Seb’s hand runs up his sleeve, pinches the material of Charles’ black Armani nylon blouson between his fingers. He’s not wrong, Charles had picked it on a whim, not considering that he might have to stand outside for a prolonged period of time.

“Is that your way of asking whether I want to swap?” There’s no way Seb can’t hear the smile in his voice.

“Well. Do you?”

“Always.”

The leather jacket he gets in return is a little too big for Seb anyway, not unlike most of the clothes he has in his wardrobe, but fits Charles perfectly. It’s still warm from residual body heat, and—more importantly—smells like Seb. Charles immediately presses his nose into the woollen collar.

“There’s also…was it okay that I told Dan before you arrived?” While Charles appreciates the question, it’s not particularly necessary. Because—

“You told Britta and Kimi on your own, and I was fine with that, too. Seb, I trust your judgement. Don’t worry about it. Dan was nice, nothing felt awkward. I had fun at dinner.”

“I’m glad.”

They kiss again, longer this time, and afterwards, Seb lingers in his space, the clouds of their breath mingling in the cool winter air.

“You know…you still haven’t told me about the car.”

Charles laughs; a quiet, joyful sound that surprise lures out of him. Then he starts talking, and Seb listens attentively, not interrupting and never moving away—a steady, constant presence, staying as close as their situation will allow them for now.

2.

It’s a spontaneous decision when he resolves to have his next talk, made over a bowl of vanilla and hazelnut ice cream in the Ferrari hospitality in Miami, a late evening snack that was Silvia’s idea, her treat.

She’s on the list, of course, was one of the first names he put on it, along with Mia, but so far, he hadn’t been able to muster up the courage to speak to either of them.

Mia, at least, knows of the existence of a relationship, had figured that much out on her own and confronted Charles about it, but she’s unaware of his partner’s gender or identity. And she had tried to guess, attempts somewhere between serious and playful, had felt out the topic with careful curiosity until Charles had told her to stop, to give him time. And she had agreed, though the trace of hurt in her reaction had been obvious.

“It’s not that I doubt your ability to keep a secret, okay? I just don’t want to talk about it yet,” is what he’d said. He thinks he might want to talk about it now.

They’re sitting at a cosy table for four, Silvia and Mia on one side, Charles on the other. If the set-up makes him a little uneasy, he chalks it up to his underlying nervosity. Both of them are watching him with growing concern, and he knows that he’s never been particularly skilled at masking his emotions—but the opportunity is too good to pass up on it.

Charles takes a deep breath, imagines leaping and tries to envision the landing. He hopes that he’ll stick it, that it’ll be safe.

“There is something I think you two need to know,” he says, the words spilling from his mouth like they’re running for their lives, hurried and with a distinct undertone of fear he can’t seem to squash, “something I haven’t spoken to anyone else in the team about. But it’s important to me, and I trust you.”

Their expressions immediately turn serious, the mood sliding from companionable right into tense.

As if on cue, both women pull out their phones and put them on silent, neither breathing a word. Then they turn back towards him—Charles has their undivided attention.

“I’m seeing someone.”

Silvia raises her eyebrows expectantly and Mia perks up, the beginnings of a smile tugging on her lips.

“Am I finally going to learn who your secret person is?”

Charles nods, already a bit overwhelmed.

“I thought there was something about you that changed. You’ve gotten...calmer, somehow, more grounded. It could have just been you growing with your tasks, of course, coming into your own…A relationship also makes sense in that context,” Silvia muses.

He exhales deeply and shovels a big spoonful of ice cream into his mouth, thankfully already acclimatised to the temperature. They’re both looking at him, clearly waiting for the part that has him so jumpy and hesitant.

You can do this. You’ve grown more comfortable around them, around the team. You trust them. C’mon, just say it.

“It’s…I’m seeing a man. I’m—I like men. And women too, you know, but. I’m—bisexual.”

A bit shaky, but he put it out there. That’s the most difficult part over and done with.

Looking up from his bowl of ice cream to the two women sitting opposite him takes more out of him than his normal race preparation routine and Andrea's toughest workout menu combined. His fist is clenched around the spoon.

Neither of them says a word. Silvia is watching him with her forehead creased in thought, looking like she usually does when she’s in damage control mode and Mia is twirling a strand of her long blond hair around her finger, the way she occasionally will when she’s contemplating something hard enough to forget to suppress the tic.

True to form, Silvia is the first to catch herself, to find the words she had apparently lost before. Her reaction is entirely predictable.

“Have you spoken to Mattia yet?”

This one is very easy to answer. “No. Not yet.”

“Good.”

“Silvia!” Mia hisses, suddenly looking horrified. Then she turns to Charles with an apologetic smile on her face.

“I’m sorry, Charles,” she starts, reaching out and hesitantly touching his hand with one of hers, gauging his reaction. When he doesn’t pull it away, she slowly interlinks their fingers.

It’s nice, as far as gestures go. Charles is glad she’s stuck with him for long enough to know exactly how to stand by him in difficult moments, to figure out exactly where the line is without crossing it. She doesn’t appear too surprised by his confession either.

“Silvia didn’t mean it like that. What she meant to say is that we’re happy for you, and thankful for the level of trust you’ve decided to show us and that we’re proud of you for having the courage to come out. But, most importantly, that we’re here for you and we support you.”

To her credit, Silvia actually looks somewhat ashamed. Nothing that would be easy to spot for an outsider, but Charles has grown rather adept at interpreting the minute shifts in her facial expressions and body language.

“You’re right, Mia, that was—Charles, I apologise. It’s just—”

Charles doesn’t let her finish. “No, I get it. Ferrari first, right?”

He’d never really expected a different response from her. The team’s needs outweigh everything else in her mind. If she senses trouble for Ferrari, other things cease to matter.

She smiles at him, bright and fierce, the way only Silvia can.

“Then you probably also know what my next question is going to be.”

Charles nods slowly, then swallows. In his mind, discussing this had been a lot simpler. Once again, theory and praxis prove miles apart.

Silvia continues anyway, and he lets her. Better to talk things out. He wishes Seb was here with him— he’s always been the better speaker between the two of them.

“Is this just a small announcement or do you have plans to out yourself publically? Is that why you’re talking to us about it now?” Even in this situation, he has to admit that her ability to switch her business mode on and off just like that is nothing short of impressive. Silvia really is formidable.

He takes a deep breath and formulates his answer.

“No, it was a matter of trust. I just wanted to…I don’t know, let you in on it, I guess? It’s less stressful when I don’t have to pretend around people I spend a lot of time with.”

Here, he stops and looks to them for cues, nervously playing with his bracelet. Both women nod encouragingly at him, so he continues. “I still want to race for a long time, so coming out isn’t really in the cards yet. Not with—you know?”

They nod again, this time in understanding, and he’s glad that they don’t make him spell it out. He gets angry just thinking about it, the precarious situation of LGBT rights in some of the countries they race in, the hateful reactions from people claiming to be fans, the prejudice; it’s like an itch in his throat, the reminder of it, and there is a sense of fear, too, alive and under his skin, something he actively has to suppress every second he’s there and not distracted by racing.

Talking about it with people who understand this intimately helps, and thankfully he’s got not only Seb but also Lewis to fall back on.

Mia squeezes his hand lightly and Charles acknowledges it with a tentative little thing of a smile.

“What does your partner think about it? Does he not take issue with playing second fiddle to your career?” Silvia asks, ever the pragmatist, and it earns her an indignant look from Mia.

“Oh, that’s not a problem, really. He wants to see me win trophies, and he knows exactly what the sport and Ferrari mean to me, maybe more so than anyone else. He has absolutely no interest in making me choose.”

“Are you sure about that? He may say that now, but you signed a five-year contract. With your talent, passion and drive, I don’t see you retiring from this sport in the foreseeable future. Things like that can put quite a strain on a committed relationship, I’ve been told.”

By whom? He wonders faintly. And then thinks, might as well.

“Seb knew what he was agreeing to when we decided to get serious about our relationship.”

“Seb?!”

His statement has the desired effect, and he actually finds it hard to suppress a grin as he watches Silvia’s eyebrows climb higher and higher, while Mia nods to herself as if in confirmation.

“I had his name on my list, you know. Not very high, certainly not at the top, but I did consider the possibility. And it does make sense, in a way.”

That startles a genuine laugh out of Charles. “You had a list?”

“Well, yes. You know I’m curious, and while I respected your wish not to be nosy about it, I still wondered.”

“Ah, fair enough.” He shrugs, and Mia squeezes his hand again.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but—you’re talking about Sebastian Vettel?” Silvia’s eyebrows are still raised, as high as Charles has ever seen them go, and he’s got no idea how to interpret it.

“Seb, yes,” he says, and it sounds almost defensive to his own ears.

“The man who basically lost his seat to you? Who took it so hard that he decided to retire from Formula 1 entirely? Please, Charles, I’m just trying to understand.” She raises her hands in a placatory manner, no doubt trying to smooth his ruffled feathers preemptively.

Fighting to keep a cool head, Charles presses his lips together tightly and carefully rearranges sentences in his mind before he opens his mouth to reply.

“You don’t have the whole picture, you don’t know what he means to me, what he always meant to me. None of that has an impact on our relationship. When he was still driving for Ferrari and we were fighting it out on track? That’s where it stayed. We’ve been keeping these things separate for a long time now, and it’s the same with this. It’s a non-issue. Besides, Seb is in a good place. He makes me—we make each other happy.”

He doesn’t tell her that, where their relationship is concerned, Seb’s retirement presented a bigger hurdle for him than it ever did for Seb. It really isn’t any of her business.

Her eyebrows haven’t moved an inch, and now she’s crossed her arms in front of her chest.

“Charles, I’m not looking to discredit your relationship, I’m just trying to gain a little perspective. You two were so—I don’t know, peculiar? Around each other. Sometimes I felt like he was humouring you, what with the age difference. If you say that it’s serious, that your career isn’t a problem for him, I have to believe you. It’s just difficult for me to grasp that Sebastian doesn’t—” And here, she stops abruptly, the word string torn, frazzling out.

“Doesn’t what?” Charles asks, more than a little on edge by this point.

”I don’t know,” Silvia admits quietly, in a moment of uncharacteristic loss of composure, “begrudge you this? Resent us?”

“No,” Charles answers honestly, but it tastes bitter in his mouth, like unsweetened chamomile tea.

He finds it hard to believe sometimes, but Seb’s just like that; he forgives too easily and doesn’t hold grudges, not even where appropriate (it’s been years and he flat-out refuses to bad-mouth Red Bull, no matter how much they disparage him and his successes). Even Charles, whose heart pumps Ferrari-red blood through his body with every beat, who adores this team and everyone in it with every part of himself, doesn’t think he could have gotten over it quite that quickly, if at all. Not the loss of his dream, certainly not the way that it happened, and definitely not how the people involved treated him. Maybe not even over his own involvement in all of it.

In his innermost heart, he knows Ferrari doesn’t deserve Seb and what he gave to them, and perhaps they never did, not after how they repaid him for it.

“Sebastian supports me in everything I do. Well, most things anyway,” he recants, “sometimes I make stupid decisions and those are entirely my own.”

“And this isn’t one of them?”

She’s not trying to be offensive, Charles realises, watching Silvia compulsively tuck stray hairs behind her ear, she’s genuinely out of her depth, here, trying to make sense of this.

Mia still throws her a warning look, and Charles appreciates her so much.

“It’s not. We talked all of this through. This is a long-term project,” he jokes, trying to lighten the mood, and thinking about Seb’s hands as he swiftly tightens some screws on one of his bikes, Charles watching from where he’s perched on the workbench.

Charles does have plans for the future, goals both short- and long-term. He wants to keep driving for Ferrari, and wants to keep winning. He wants the championship trophy, maybe more than one (definitely more than one). He still wants to work more on his own outfit designs, ideally negotiate to get to a point where he’s able to actually release a fashion line to the public, perhaps as a sort of collab if there’s no other way. And finally, he wants Seb to be there for all of it, by his side. Truly, he stopped envisioning futures where that wasn’t the case quite some time ago.

Silvia nods then, as though confirming something for herself.

“Very well. I hope you know that I—we, the team—care about you and your wellbeing. And it seems this relationship has quite a positive effect on you. If there is anything at all we can do to make you feel more comfortable, please talk to us.”

It’s as much of an acknowledgement as he’s ever going to get from her. But a quick look she exchanges with Mia makes him think that, maybe, somewhere under all the layers of fierce, professional devotion to the brand and her sharp, business-minded pragmatism, she might be happy for him, at least a tiny bit.

Looking down at the molten remains of his ice cream, he sighs, suddenly feeling drained.

His phone tells him that he has three texts from Seb. One of them turns out to be a cute picture of Bruno playing with the sheep flock that instantly makes him feel better. It’s followed by a slightly off-centre selfie of Seb with Bruno sitting next to him on the bathroom floor, obviously freshly bathed and now wrapped in a towel.

Its caption reads We miss you.

The third text is a short message.

Can’t wait to see you race on Sunday.

Bruno doesn’t think Dan will let you steal the win from him, so prove him wrong and bring the trophy home.

Charles smiles and strokes his fingers over the screen as though his touch could reach through the glass. He forgets himself for a second and his negative feelings fade into the background at the rush of affection that overcomes him.

bruno has no idea what he is talking about 🐶 he is a dog

i will try my best to win it for us

chances are pretty good 🏎️ 🏆

oh also

i told mia and silvia about our relationship

it went okay i think

Seb’s reply is almost instant.

Do you want me to call you?

i would love that but

not now

i dont have that long 🙁 there is a team meeting coming up

call me later? i love you ❤️

I love you too. You’re amazing.

❤️

The emoji makes him grin. Although Seb doesn’t use them a lot, he’s never misapplied one and they are fairly effective when he does decide to send one—the small red heart fills his own with tender longing, something deceptively fragile that feels like it could consume him if he let it.

Sometimes, Charles thinks he feels too much, too intense where Sebastian is concerned, but he’s powerless to hold any of it back. When he is allowed to, Charles cannot love quietly, it is simply not in his nature. He loves wholeheartedly, ardently, with every fibre of his being. He devotes himself, wears his heart on his sleeve. Charles’ love is a loud love, a vibrant love, a testament to his devotion.

Thankfully, Sebastian doesn’t seem to mind at all, he welcomes it, even. Seb’s love might seem more tempered, more steadfast and balanced, but Charles knows better, knows that there is something wild about it that Seb has learnt to control and that he trusts Charles with every time his emotional needs and desires leave him vulnerable. It’s a give and take, both of them play with open cards.

“Are you texting with Seb?”

His head snaps up and he flushes with embarrassment, having momentarily forgotten about Mia and Silvia who are still sitting at the table with him. Mia is giving him a very indulgent look, and there is something kind and unfamiliar about it.

“Yes. I told him to call me later since the meeting is coming up.”

Silvia nods approvingly. “Good. We should probably get moving.” She quickly and efficiently gathers up her things and lets them disappear within the sheer endless depths of her small, elegant leather handbag. “And Charles? Please be careful.”

It’s only a fleeting touch when she brushes his shoulder with her fingers like she’s wiping away a piece of lint, but to Charles, it might as well be an embrace for all the warmth it offers.

3.

It’s Thursday afternoon in Silverstone, so the British Grand Prix weekend hasn’t gotten into the full swing of things yet.

Between an avalanche of appointments and obligations, Charles is mercifully granted an hour’s reprieve, which he intends to make good use of.

The weather is nice, the mood is upbeat, and the outlook is very optimistic. Three podiums in the last three races, one of which was an extremely hard-fought and well-deserved P1, will have that effect on a man. Plus, he and Seb are actually staying at the same hotel this time around, so there’s hope that he’ll get to see him a little more often for a little longer.

Speaking of Seb, he finds him outside in the paddock, up in the stands above the team garages, talking to Ted. He’d spotted him earlier, too, during a short break in the morning, but Seb had been busy talking to Mick and Esteban, and Charles hadn’t wanted to intrude then, so he is a bit miffed that, once again, he doesn’t get to have Seb to himself.

Both of them are involved in what will surely turn out to be another one of their animated discussions. Charles has personally witnessed this particular phenomenon on multiple previous occasions—Seb will make a point, then Ted will argue it and Seb will be too stubborn and Ted too entertained to let it go.

Ted’s camera crew isn’t around; it’s just him and Seb, standing close together, with Seb gesticulating wildly and Ted nodding from time to time. Not an argument, then.

As it just so happens, Ted is on the list. Or, to be clear: Seb had put him on the list, but he’d asked Charles for his input first, since Ted does work for Sky Sports in an official fashion and his connection to Seb is different than say, Jenson’s.

But all friendship and ethics and journalistic integrity aside, Charles thinks Ted is a good guy. People who are close with Sebastian tend to be, in one way or another. And if Seb thinks it’s safe to come out to him, that it might even possibly benefit them in the long run to have someone like Ted in the know, then Charles can see no reason to deny him the request.

With every new person Seb wants to tell, Charles’ optimism, his hope and confidence in the future of their relationship grows. It was just as real when it was only the two of them, but the more people they clue in, the less fragile it becomes to Charles. Seb makes room for Charles in his life and in turn will ask Charles to make room for him in his, and it feels like a small victory every time.

Charles slowly ambles over to join them. He runs a nervous hand through his hair and almost knocks his sunglasses off his head in the process, so he folds them up and tucks them into the breast pocket of his Ferrari polo shirt.

Turns out they’re talking about breakfast food. British breakfast food, to be specific, (ah, so Ted is humouring him) which isn’t something Charles has a lot of experience with, and, to be honest, he isn’t all that interested in rectifying that, either.

“See, Ted, I like everything else, honestly, it’s just the toast—”

“Is where it all falls apart, yes, you’ve said that already. And I am very grateful for the bread recipes you sent me, don’t get me wrong, but I—it has to be toast for me, sorry. Oh, hi Charles!”

Ted smiles at him, open and friendly, and Charles returns it easily. Then he comes to stand next to Seb, and they exchange a short look. Charles rolls his eyes fondly and Seb narrows his, and then they both laugh.

Seb’s still growing his hair out and Charles’ fingers itch with the urge to mess it up, to get tangled in the curls, to tug on them. He’d never had a thing for hair before Seb.

“Seb is trying to convert everyone with his bread obsession. I think he’s starting a cult, Ted, don’t listen to him.”

“Says the guy who refused to leave without a fresh loaf the last time he came to visit!”

Charles lightly yet insistently taps his right foot against Seb’s left.

“I didn’t say don’t eat it, it is very good! I said not to listen! And now you’ve made me hungry.”

Seb takes a very calculated step to his left so their arms are pressed against each other. They don’t say anything, not here, not now, but when Charles doesn’t immediately move out of his space or playfully shove at him and instead leans into the touch, he can see Ted taking note.

A shoulder brush, knocking their arms together, fist bumps, pats on the back—when they’re around each other Seb likes to casually touch him all the time and Charles revels in it. There are other things he wants to do, too, like holding Seb’s hand or kissing him in public, and the fact that it’s impossible for him as things stand fills him with a deep melancholy. So, instead, he leans into Seb a little more, stretches the limits of what is considered acceptable when it comes to plausible deniability.

Ted raises his eyebrows at Seb questioningly, his gaze moving from him to Charles and back, and Seb shrugs and tilts his head just so. It’s as Seb had said: Ted is very observant.

“Hungry, huh? How long are they letting you off the leash for? An hour? Half?” Seb teases.

The questions earn him a disgruntled snort, and Charles checks his watch—his birthday gift from Seb; the watch itself is tastefully simple and the fine red leather band custom-made.

“Only fifty-one minutes now. Do you guys know any good cafés around here?”

“The usual place, Ted? In Towcester, by the plantation?” Seb asks, and then, to Charles, “They do have croissants there, you know?” So he feels suitably mollified.

Ted watches them with obvious interest, a curious glint in his eyes, visibly taming his inquisitive nature and holding back whatever knowledge it is he’s probably itching to acquire.

At Seb’s suggestion, however, he starts rummaging through his pockets until he finds what he’s looking for—a set of keys.

“A coffee run? Sounds great. Let’s take my car.”

*

Once at the car, a Kia hybrid—clearly a company vehicle—Ted yields the keys to Seb without so much as a word.

“He’ll just complain if I don’t let him drive,” Ted explains without Charles even needing to ask, but he’s laughing as he says it so Charles doesn’t think he minds too much.

Charles climbs into the backseat and makes himself comfortable. It’s spacey enough back here anyway.

“Can’t you find a better radio station?” Seb asks as soon as he starts the car and the sweet, sweet tunes of a modern pop song Charles doesn’t recognize come floating out of the speakers.

“It’s barely a ten-minute ride, Seb, and they have the best traffic updates.” Ted puts up a token protest, but he’s already switching frequencies.

“Music is the most important part of any ride. It sets the mood,” Seb says distractedly, skillfully manoeuvring the car out of its designated parking spot.

“Sometimes he listens to the same terrible oldie five times in a row,” Charles chimes in.

The new station starts playing the opening notes of Yesterday, and he resists the urge to hum along. Some three months ago, Charles had finally made good on his promise to play something for Seb on his piano—this is the song he’d chosen.

“Quiet in the cheap seats,” Seb meets his eyes in the rearview mirror, grinning from ear to ear, probably caught in the exact same memory, “you know you love it.”

“Only when it’s a good song.” He thinks about carpool karaoke and about Seb automatically turning up the volume on songs he knows Charles likes, even if they’re ones he doesn’t particularly enjoy.

“They’re all good songs.”

Ted shakes his head in wonder.

“You know—you two? I would never have guessed that. I mean, I knew that Seb cared about you a great deal, Charles, and that you were closer than you let on. But dating? I wasn’t even aware either of you was seeing anybody. And you’re so…how do I put this? Different?”

“Different can be good,” Seb pushes the car past an old Honda that’s chugging along way below the speed limit, “and I believe that if you truly love the person, if you’re in love with them, a lot of it hinges on how much of yourself you want to invest into the relationship, what you’re willing to work on, to do to make it work. And the differences aren’t big enough to overshadow the similarities, anyway. We’re both passionate, driven people, and there’s some rather obvious overlap where our interests are concerned—you may have noticed.”

“You’ve given this a lot of thought, haven’t you? Not that that should surprise me.”

Charles watches Ted watch Seb. It’s strange, to listen to him talk about their relationship like this, but not a bad kind of strange. Objectively, Charles has always known that Seb doesn’t do things by halves, that he commits, and that it’s unlikely he would have gotten serious with Charles if he hadn’t seen a chance at a future for them. But to have it spelt out like this…it makes him a little light-headed, a little tingly (it makes him wish that it was just him and Seb in the car).

“We’ve been dating for almost a year now. Honestly, it’d be irresponsible not to.”

“That’s—wait, what? That long?”

Seb nods, and the grin is back. Ted just looks stunned.

“I cannot believe that you managed to keep this a secret all this time. Well, no, with you, I can, but Charles? Sorry, no offence, just—who else knows?”

“Very few people. Our immediate families, and close friends. Silvia and Mia. That’s pretty much it,” Charles says, voice quiet and serious.

Ted’s comment bothers him a little, but not because he’s wrong. After all, a drunk Charles had once spilt his guts to his friends when he and Seb were still doing their teammates with benefits thing. Sometimes, he worries about messing up by accident even now, about speaking up and ruining everything. Sometimes he’s afraid.

“Thank you, then, for trusting me enough to tell me.” Ted’s so obviously genuine that it’s impossible for Charles not to smile at him, even if it is a bit brittle.

“We’ve been friends for years,” Seb says, effortlessly navigating the left-hand traffic as they approach Towcester, “sorry for not telling you sooner.”

*

“Won’t you get in trouble if we leave crumbs in the car?” Charles asks, staring longingly down at his newly acquired croissant.

“Don’t worry about it, the crew has spilt a bag of crisps in here before, among other things.” Ted waves him off and hands Seb his customary mocha, as well as a chocolate brownie.

Charles takes a bite and chews, then washes it down with a sip of his latte. “Hey, this stuff is really good.”

“Yeah, we usually make it a point to come here at least once during British Grand Prix weekends. It’s a tradition of sorts. This place is Ted’s insider tip, don’t burn it.”

A comfortable silence sets in as all three of them dig into their baked goods and enjoy their hot, caffeinated drinks.

He pulls out his phone to check his messages.

Nothing from Ferrari, but there are a couple texts from Carlos about the track walk, Pierre has sent him a collection of shots of Yuki with his cap on backwards, wearing Pierre’s sunglasses and doing funny poses, and Alex has forwarded him an Instagram post from @albon_pets that shows Horsey with one of his paws on a picture of Charles and the caption "Petting cousin Charles 😸" that he wishes he could like more than once.

Seb and Ted are arguing the merits of pubs in the area and making plans to play pool, of all things.

“Don’t let him lure you into a false sense of security,” Charles warns Ted, “Seb may act innocent now, but he’s actually a menace.”

Both of them laugh, and Charles gets the distinct impression that he’s missing something.

“Don’t worry about me, I can hold my own against him. Who do you think taught Seb how to properly play pool?” Ted finishes off his slice of carrot cake and balls up the napkin and paper bag that came with it.

“Wait, you did?” Charles is always on the hunt for Seb trivia. Thankfully, most of Seb’s friends and acquaintances are only too happy to provide him with it.

“Well, I can’t claim all the credit. Between me and the two biggest pool sharks the paddock has ever seen, we did alright, I think.”

Seb snorts. “Jense’s washed now, he hasn’t beaten me or Mark in years. I think Charles could take him, he’s gotten pretty decent.”

“You’re teaching Charles?” Ted sounds like the prospect genuinely excites him.

“Something like that. Would be a shame if there was no one left on the grid with the potential to hustle an unsuspecting team principal or two for some cash.”

“I beat Seb once,” Charles says smugly. He’d gotten lucky, and Seb hadn’t exactly been at his best, but he never goes easy on Charles which means that Charles doesn’t feel bad in the slightest about claiming that win for himself.

“Yeah, when I was drunk.”

“Still counts.” When he smiles at Seb, it has teeth.

“Fine, fine. Whatever. You could be better if you didn’t, you know, keep sabotaging yourself.”

Charles can feel the blush creep up his neck. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Perhaps he’d gotten distracted watching Seb lean over the pool table on multiple occasions and asked him to correct his own form on others, had quietly rejoiced every time Seb indulged him and crowded his space to demonstrate the proper way to hold and aim the billiard cue, and maybe, just maybe, Seb displaying ruthless competence is really doing it for him—but that’s neither here nor there.

He takes a huge swig of his latte without thinking, and thankfully it’s cooled enough that he doesn’t end up burning his mouth, but it’s close.

Seb doesn’t press it, doesn’t keep teasing the way he’d doubtlessly have done if they were by themselves in a more discrete location, and Charles redirects his attention to the last remaining part of his croissant in order to force himself to stop fantasising about Seb bending him over a pool table.

*

“So Charles, how do you get along with the chickens?”

They’re on their way back to the track now, and a look at his watch tells Charles that he has more than enough time to spare to make it to his next appointment. The mood is relaxed and his hunger is stilled for now.

He beams. This one he’s only too happy to answer. “Fantastic, actually. They like me better than Seb.”

Seb sighs, exactly as Charles knew he would, considering this isn’t the first time this has been brought up. “It’s just Adélaïde, and I am pretty sure she imprinted on you.”

As Charles is about to correct Sebastian both on his pronunciation and his claim—in part only to be contrarian about it because Seb isn’t wrong, but he isn’t entirely right, either, Charles’ lack of scars can attest to that—Ted turns to Seb with a question.

“You got him a chicken?” From his seat, Charles can only barely see more than half of Ted’s face, but the shock in his voice is evident, and he tries not to feel too offended by that.

“He wanted one, and there was still room in the coop, so…” Sebastian shrugs—he doesn’t seem the slightest bit ruffled by the way Ted keeps staring at him, simply keeps his eyes fixed on the road ahead, and Charles can read him well enough to know that he’s absolutely comfortable with the situation.

“You got him a chicken,” Ted repeats, not a question this time. “Fuck, it’s that serious.”

Charles laughs at how incredulous he sounds, but Seb doesn’t. This time, he holds eye contact with Ted for a second before he returns his focus to driving.

“Yes, it is.”

Ted whistles through his teeth. “I’m very happy for you both. Sorry if that came across differently, I’m just—wow.”

“You’re good,” Seb says firmly, “I’m happy, too. Happier than I’ve been in a long time.”

Their eyes meet in the rearview mirror, and Seb’s giving him one of those looks, the ones that knock all the air out of his lungs and leave him dazed, that always make Charles feel like he and Seb are the only two people around.

When Ted absentmindedly starts humming along to the intro of Californication on the radio, the moment dissolves, and Seb joins in like he’s wont to do. Charles stays silent, closes his eyes, and listens to the almost harmonious sounds, completely and entirely at ease with himself and the world.

*

They’re not staying on the same floor, but they decided that it would be safer for Charles to come up to Seb than it would be for Seb to take his chances and brave the Ferrari floor. So, using the second keycard that Seb slipped him, Charles enters Seb’s hotel room and quietly closes the door behind himself as soon as he hears that Seb is still in the shower.

He hasn’t changed into his pyjamas yet; after all, it would be even more difficult to explain why he’s sneaking around the place when he should be in bed, resting. Instead, he’s opted for his favourite pair of sweatpants and Seb’s oldest, most well-worn Ferrari t-shirt.

It had been a gift he never needed to ask for—Seb had seen Charles hold on to it once, when he’d been cleaning out his wardrobe, and had made a joke about it being a shirt he really wouldn’t mind missing, and couldn’t Charles trade him one of his other t-shirts back for it?

The second part obviously never ended up happening, Charles simply added the shirt to his ever-growing collection, but he’d hidden one of his own Ferrari t-shirts among Seb’s clothes.

Charles drops onto the couch and lets himself sink into the upholstery. Of course, he could also surprise Sebastian in the bathroom, but he knows it wouldn’t be fair to start something he can’t finish, and he’s much too exhausted to think it a good idea.

Seb’s room is very tidy. Apparently, he has barely unpacked and lives out of his suitcase, exactly like he used to back when he was still an F1 driver and they travelled together. The view makes Charles grin to himself. Old habits certainly die hard.

Thankfully, he doesn’t have to wait long. Seb exits the bathroom with his hair still slightly wet, wearing nothing but a pair of black boxers, and Charles swallows as he lets his gaze travel over Seb’s exposed skin, eyes fixated on the dark blond trail of hair disappearing into his underwear.

For a moment, he reconsiders his earlier assessment, but then he lets out a yawn so big, it forces him to close his eyes. When he opens them again, Seb is leaning over him, and Charles automatically lets himself fall forward into Seb’s space until his head is resting against Seb’s stomach.

“You smell good,” he mumbles tiredly and presses a poor imitation of a kiss to Seb’s skin.

“That’s just the hotel body wash. And you should be sleeping,” Seb observes, running a hand through Charles’ hair, softly caressing him.

“I wanted to see you, to say good night.” It’s stupid, he knows, he could have sent a text instead, could even have called, but Seb is here and he is here and he doesn’t want to waste that opportunity, not when it’s so valuable.

Seb sits down next to him, pulls Charles into his side—he goes easily—and wraps an arm around him. Charles covers his smaller hand with one of his own, bigger ones.

“I’m glad you’re here, anyhow. I wanted to thank you, you know. For today. For letting me tell Ted. It meant a lot to him, and it meant a lot to me, too.”

Charles smiles. His body is so warm where Seb is pressed against him and he feels safe and loved and endlessly comfortable. The knowledge that he could fall asleep like this (even though he definitely shouldn’t) satisfies a primal part of his brain.

“I like it when you ask me about telling people. It’s very—” Charles yawns again, so wide that his jaw makes a clicking noise, “very affirming? Is that the right way to say it? I’m happy you want to share me with other people.”

Only when Seb starts shaking with laughter does Charles think over his words. And when realisation finally hits him, he can feel his entire face turn red, so he hides it in Seb’s side.

“I—I didn’t mean, I—God, my brain is...I’m so tired.”

“I definitely don’t want to share you with other people, Charles (Sharl). But yeah, I get it. And I do want that. Talking to more people we trust about our relationship.”

He’s still laughing, Charles can hear it in the slight tremors in his voice, and when Seb pushes him back far enough to be able to kiss him on the lips, he can taste it there, too.

“Do you want me to give you a massage?” Seb offers as he strokes Charles’ cheek with his thumb, a touch filled with so much gentle reverence it makes Charles shake.

“Hm, no, I just want to sit here with you for a moment.” And to reinforce his statement, he cuddles closer, desperate for the connection, starved for it. Seb cards his hand through Charles’ hair, slow and soothing.

“You know, you could stay here tonight.” Seb says it almost hesitantly like he’s not sure he should. It’s not phrased as a question either, no ‘do you want to stay the night?’, so there’s no way for Charles to see it as a demand, there’s no pressure on him at all. But Seb wants him to, he can tell—what he really means is ‘please stay’. He’s being overly guarded again when there’s no need for it.

And it’s true, he could. He probably shouldn’t, but he definitely could. Charles gives the risk of running into someone on his way down the next morning some thought for all of five seconds. Manageable. Not dire enough to warrant concern. Compared to the strong allure that the concept of falling asleep with Seb in his arms holds for him, everything else pales.

“Okay,” he hums sleepily, and smiles into their next kiss, “I’ll stay.”

4.

On the day Charles has the scheduled appointment with Mattia at the factory, Seb makes them breakfast, very German with cold cuts, a variety of fruits and vegetables, and his own freshly-baked bread rolls.

Summer break is almost over, and while Charles is ecstatic at the thought of more racing—especially with how Ferrari’s (his) season has been going so far—he’s going to miss mornings like this. Mornings where they get to just be, get to wake up next to each other, all slow smiles and warm, lazy touches, where Seb will let Charles massage shampoo into his hair in the shower and Charles will make faces at Seb in the bathroom mirror while they’re brushing their teeth.

Charles instantly reaches for the jar of fresh honey Seb brought along. He hasn’t named it yet, so the jars he fills with it just have little white stickers with hand-drawn bees on them. Some of those are Charles’ creations too, easily identifiable by the little cartoon faces he’d doodled in a fit of artistic inspiration.

Sebastian is watching him thoughtfully over the rim of Charles’ favourite Ferrari mug, and Charles notices that there’s a tiny smudge of chocolate spread left in the corner of his mouth. The impulse to reach over and gently wipe it away with his thumb is strong, and he sees no reason not to, so he indulges himself.

Shaking his head in affectionate amusement, Seb gestures towards his plate, where he still has half a bread roll left, and it, too, is covered in chocolate spread and has been generously adorned with thin banana slices. “Maybe you should have waited with that.”

Charles shrugs in return. “Or maybe I don’t mind an excuse to touch you.”

Seb blushes and Charles smirks. Score.

Getting Seb to blush is a rare occurrence because he’s utterly confident and shameless most of the time, so it’s notable whenever Charles actually manages it—he treasures each and every one of those moments and locks them away in his heart, priceless pieces of his collection that they are. Blunt declarations of love and undisguised want have the highest success rate, but even then his chances are low unless he catches Seb off-guard.

“How are you feeling?” Seb asks, and on any other day, Charles would call it out as deflection. Not today, though, not when neither of them can be completely sure of what its future holds.

“Alright, I think. A little nervous, a little hesitant, but mostly alright. I still want to do this, you know? It’s going to go fine. Probably.”

After Budapest, after yet another victory bathed in spotlights and champagne (he will never tire of this) and Charles being lifted up onto the shoulders of his euphoric team, every bit the promised hero, he finally resolved to tell Mattia.

So they talked it over and Charles conferred with Silvia and Mia, just in case, and then, at some point, Charles called Mattia and scheduled an official appointment with him.

They decided it would be better for Charles to speak to Mattia alone because they have a far better rapport than Mattia and Seb ever did, and Seb brought up how he thought it unlikely that he’d be welcomed on the premises, as suspicious a display as that would be anyway.

But the plan is for him to stay at Charles’ flat in Maranello, home (or one of their homes, anyway), only a phone call away.

Under the table, Seb knocks their knees together, and then leaves his knees pressed to Charles’.

“Do you want me to drive you?”

“Yes, actually. I’d love that.” Charles smiles, and can’t resist the temptation of reaching out to smooth a crease between Seb’s eyebrows with his fingers.

“Pick me up later, too?”

Seb catches his hand with one of his own, holds it for a moment and tenderly presses his lips to Charles’ fingertips, filling Charles with an incomprehensible, ineffable lightness.

“Sure thing.”

*

Mattia’s Maranello office is always tidy, always neat.

It’s a big room with wide windows, allowing for a lot of natural light, reminiscent of an artist’s workshop. The walls are filled with photos, but almost none of them show people. They’re mostly photos of Ferrari models both old and new, some of them in black and white and some of them in colour, and there are many technical drawings of cars as well as specific car parts that Charles is reasonably sure Mattia drew himself. The one notable exception is a huge portrait of the entire 2004 Ferrari team, taken at the factory in Maranello sometime after Michael won his seventh WDC title.

Charles admires the wall decorations for a while as Mattia studies him from behind his broad oak desk, over the rims of his glasses, definitely aware that Charles is stalling but not pressuring him about it. There is something patient about him that he only ever shows around Charles. It’s that kind of special treatment that gave Charles the confidence to come here today in the first place. That, along with the fact that he’s currently leading the championship standings by more than fifty points going into the second half of the season. After his last win, Mattia had picked him up and spun him around while the rest of the garage looked on with fervent hope in their eyes—the memory alone is enough to give him goosebumps.

He wipes his sweaty palms on the soft-washed denim of his jeans and comes to stand across from Mattia, who gestures towards a very cushy-looking chair on the opposite side of the desk. There will be enough distance between them to give Charles room to breathe. Nodding gratefully, he sits down and attempts to make himself comfortable.

“I’ve got to admit, Charles, you’ve got me highly interested in the reason for this appointment. You weren’t very forthcoming over the phone. Are there any pressing issues I should be aware of?” The glint in his eyes tells Charles that he’s got his team principal’s full attention.

Charles tries to force his body to relax but isn’t really successful. Tension keeps his back ramrod-straight. There’s also the not inconsiderable urge to rest his hand over the front pocket of his jeans that holds his phone for the illusion of comfort and moral support, which he manages to combat by folding his hands together to keep them still.

“There’s something I wanted to talk to you about. I’ve already spoken to Mia and Silvia, but I thought it important to bring it up with you as well. And you—you might think that it doesn’t warrant a meeting like this, but I…this is serious to me, so—” Charles bites his lip before he starts to lose himself in a run-on sentence. The harsh truth of it is that talking around the topic doesn’t make actually addressing it any easier.

“It’s not regarding your contract, then? Or any problems with us or Carlos?” Mattia looks relieved.

Moments like this always have Charles believing that, maybe, Mattia cares for him and his career beyond Ferrari, that he genuinely likes Charles. They’re the reason he’s going to tell him about Sebastian—not just because he should, but also because he wants to.

“No, no, it’s not—it’s nothing that drastic. There is. Uhm. I’m seeing someone. We’ve been together for a while and it’ll probably…we’re pretty committed to each other.”

Judging from the way his team principal is furrowing his brows, Charles should probably elaborate. Easier said than done, so he lets Mattia ask instead.

“Is it someone from the team?”

“No, no, you don’t have to worry about that.” They’re over a year late for that conversation (thank God for small mercies), not that Charles wouldn’t have taken it over months of pining and emotional anguish, wouldn’t have weathered that particular storm if it meant he and Seb could have gotten together sooner.

“Then I’m happy for you, but also a little confused. Why did you want to see me in my office to tell me?”

“Well, it’s a bit more complicated than just—you see, this person I’m dating...is a man." Charles squeezes his folded hands together and holds his breath for all of a second while he studies Mattia’s body language closely.

Mattia seems...surprised, in a way that does imply mild shock, but he recovers quickly, and beyond that, Charles cannot read him at all—he has no idea what reaction he can expect from his team principal. The look Mattia gives him is completely inscrutable, the perfect poker face—Charles could have probably told him he started dealing black tar heroin and would have gotten the same response. Not a single muscle out of place, no raised eyebrows, no wrinkled forehead.

“I can’t figure out whether you are being serious,” he finally says, crossing his arms over his chest and staring at Charles from across the imposing desk.

Charles narrows his eyes. “Why would I be joking about this? It’s very serious. I’m telling you that I have a boyfriend.” Not just any boyfriend, either, but they’ll cross that bridge when they get to it.

Mattia sighs, but the expression he wears is neither anger nor disgust, so Charles is cautiously optimistic.

“Why are you bringing this up now? Is it new? Are you—have you always...?” And then, quieter: “I don’t quite know how to talk about this,” he confesses, stapling his fingers together, watching Charles with something bordering on curiosity.

“As I said, I talked to Mia and Silvia a while ago, and this seemed like something you should know since it’s a somewhat delicate matter—”

This earns him a sharp laugh.

“I am sorry, Charles, but ‘somewhat delicate’? With the political stances and laws of some of the countries we’re racing in, that’s a clear understatement.” He sighs, readjusts his glasses and shakes his head, visibly overwhelmed and all the more human for it. “Thank you for telling me, I should have probably opened with that.”

Charles shrugs. He’s two for two on bridge-related idioms.

“Please don’t worry about that. And we’re…we’re being careful, he and I. The thing between us—it’s private, very much so. Only a few people know about it, the necessary ones. And we’d like it to stay that way for the foreseeable future.” It’s a bit like he’s back in Miami, still stuck in that conversation, but he should have expected that. There are, after all, overlapping priorities. It’s obvious Mattia doesn’t like the possible attacks this opens Charles up to, doesn’t appreciate this kind of vulnerability.

“I’m glad he’s sensitive to the risk he, no, your relationship with him poses to your career. That’s certainly reassuring to hear.”

“Yes, he’s completely aware of everything, Mattia. He’d never do anything to purposely damage my career or my reputation.” The words taste so bitter on his tongue that he almost spits them out and shakes himself like a wet dog.

The happiness that he’s found with Seb is simultaneously his biggest weakness, the biggest threat to the life he’s built and it’s just not fucking fair. Charles is tired of reiterating; it feels like a part of him dies with every time.

“Not to overstep, but am I allowed to ask for a name, then?” Whether Mattia notices how uncomfortable Charles got or whether he’s just following the flow of the conversation and considers Charles’ answers sufficient ultimately doesn’t matter, Charles is glad for it either way.

“I was always going to tell you. It’s Sebastian. Seb.”

This time he’s looking for direct eye contact, not shying away from confrontation. Considering how Mattia and Seb left things, he’s not expecting this one to go down easy.

“Who?”

Mattia is willfully misunderstanding, Charles can see it in the sudden twitch of his eyebrows, barely noticeable unless you were looking for it. His face is quickly schooled back into the same mask of professionalism as before—but Charles caught it. He presses his lips together, mouth a flat line.

“You—” he interrupts himself, bites back something sharp he might regret, something with teeth, “I’m talking about Sebastian Vettel. We’re dating. He’s my partner.”

Partner, boyfriend, lover—it’s been almost a year, and he still gets a kick out of the simple act of even saying it, of being able to put a name to it, for himself and for other people. It’s a claim, too, not just the possessive pronoun, but the titles themselves. What exactly that means to Charles stays between him and Sebastian, of course.

There you go.

Mattia closes his eyes, visibly warring with whatever impulse he’s attempting to suppress. When he opens them again, he nails Charles with an inquisitive stare. The rest of his expression is difficult to interpret.

“This attraction between you and Sebastian—it isn’t a recent development, is it?” Hidden beneath the precisely worded question is an observation, a reminder: Mattia isn’t stupid.

“We’ve only been dating for about a year, but yeah, it’s older than that,” Charles confirms, proud that his voice doesn’t waver, and Mattia nods.

“You’re putting quite a lot of things in context for me today, Charles,” Mattia says, pouring himself a glass of water and emptying it almost immediately, probably wishing the liquid was something stronger.

He offers a similar glass to Charles, who declines, and then he goes on to add “As Ferrari’s team principal, I can’t say that this is news I’m thrilled to receive, not with the danger it poses to your future as a Formula 1 driver and your brand as a whole. You’re risking a lot for this. However, I am glad to hear that Mia and Silvia have already been informed since it means they’ll be prepared should we require some form of damage control.”

Charles wants to interrupt him, but even if he could get a word in edgewise, he can’t seem to remember how to open his mouth, never mind form actual words. And Mattia is clearly very intent on laying out all of his thoughts on the table—or the desk, anyway, so would it even be a good idea? After all, he’s basically speaking to his boss at the company office. If only this aspect of his private fucking life wasn’t such a big deal, he wouldn’t have to deal with the headache that is the lines between personal and professional relationships.

Wishful thinking, that.

“As a person who knows both you and Sebastian fairly well, I also have my reservations. Please don’t misunderstand me, Charles, I don’t begrudge you the happiness you’ve found, but I can’t help but wonder: isn’t it going to foster resentment if he’s forced to watch from the sidelines while we make you a champion?” He pours himself another glass, shakes it lightly and watches the way the sunlight breaks on the swirling water within.

“When you can’t even acknowledge him the same way the other drivers do with their significant others, publicly and openly, isn’t that going to put a strain on the relationship? What about speculations regarding you being romantically involved with other people? You stated that you aren’t planning on making your relationship public anytime soon; I know he’s always been very private, but this seems like something he’d be more outspoken about, considering his vocal support of LGBT rights. Does that not bother him?”

Charles clenches his hands together tightly enough to impede the blood flow. Then he swallows his initial reaction and sorts through his racing thoughts for something suitably coherent.

We’re both coming at this from different angles, I need to keep that in mind.

“Mattia, I…it does bother him. Both of us, really, but that’s a topic between me and him and we’ve made our peace with it. We’re talking to people close to us, and for now, that’s good enough. About the rumours—Seb trusts me and he doesn’t care about gossip-focused media, so that isn’t an issue.”

The absurd mental image of Sebastian leafing through an Italian gossip mag, digging for morsels on Charles’ alleged dating adventures between ads for skincare, perfume and articles on spicy celebrity scandals is almost enough to make him laugh.

“What about Ferrari? Your future lies with us, and I know how committed you are to turning your dreams—our dreams—into a reality, how hungry you are for that title. What will that do to your relationship?”

He starts fidgeting with the band of his watch, pressing his thumb into the soft leather.

“Seb will be with me every step of the way, even if he can’t be physically there. He still—” Charles’ voice cracks, and he takes a deep breath, forcing himself to stay calm. “No matter how he left, how all of that ended, he still loves Ferrari. Part of my heart hurts for him, but he doesn’t hold any of it against me, Mattia. Sebastian loves me. And I think he understands me better than anyone else I’ve ever met.”

Charles is not going to explain the intricacies to Mattia, the nuances contained in Seb’s specific words of praise and reassuring touches; he refuses to elaborate on the way it feels to be so fully perceived by another person. It’s too intimate, for one, and it belongs to him alone.

“Is it worth all this, then, for you?” There’s an air of hesitation about him as he asks, and it’s at that moment that Charles realises something about Mattia: his team principal is genuinely worried about insulting him; he doesn’t want to hurt Charles’ feelings.

Charles thinks about exchanging concert tickets for Christmas, the exact same gift idea, yet so very different—classic rock and classical music, even though Seb hates dressing up. He thinks about sunny afternoons on Seb’s terrace, Bruno’s head in his lap, drinking young wine and eating freshly baked Zwiebelkuchen. Thinks about making out on the couch while old James Bond movies play in the background and Seb whispers cheesy lines of dialogue into Charles’ ears until he’s shaking with laughter, face buried in Seb’s chest. Thinks about Seb asking the exact same question, way back when, and smiles, simple and content.

(He thinks the answer to the question has always been ‘yes’, even when he didn’t want to admit it to anyone but himself. How could it not be?)

“Seb will always be worth it for me.”

*

When Seb picks him up later, it’s in Charles’ company car, wearing aviator shades, an AC/DC t-shirt, and the old Marlboro Ferrari cap Kimi gifted him, looking like the world’s worst-disguised blockbuster movie superhero. Live and Let Die is playing over the speakers—the original version by Paul McCartney and Wings, not the Guns N’ Roses cover.

As Charles climbs in, Seb gives him his most business-like “Where to, boss?” and Charles knocks their elbows together so hard that it’s almost painful.

“Home,” he says simply, then closes his eyes and leans back in his seat. He can feel Seb pull out of the parking space, revelling in the way the engine sounds fill whatever gaps the music leaves.

“Good talk?”

“Yeah, it was fine. Better than I expected. Mattia wasn’t crazy about the idea of us, but…maybe he’ll come around in the end.”

“I’m glad.”

Charles strokes his fingertips along Seb’s right arm from elbow to wrist, just to touch, just because he can and is explicitly allowed to. Seb takes his right hand off the wheel and holds onto Charles’, intertwining their fingers.

“Do you have plans with the guys this evening, or do you want to go for a drive somewhere? There’s this pizza place in the area that features live acts, and I was thinking that the music might just be good enough to balance out the taste of overpriced Margherita.”

“Is it Neapolitan style pizza?” Charles asks, holding back a smile.

“Their website claims it is,” Seb replies, grinning, and rubs his thumb over the back of Charles’ hand.

“What kind of music?”

“Probably not disco.”

Charles pokes him in the side and steals his cap, re-adjusting the size before he puts it on.

Seb’s grin broadens.

He pretends to think about it. Pierre is going to be busy playing COD with George, Yuki, and Lewis, and Lando and Alex are planning to watch a professional golf tournament. No matter how much he loves his friends, gaming, or golf, none of those options sound quite as appealing.

“You know what? Maybe I do feel like pizza.”

“Great. I’ll call ahead to book us a table. God bless hands-free telephoning.”

“Think they’ll let us in? Changing first would probably be a good idea. We’re not exactly dressed for the occasion.” With his jeans and Ferrari shirt, Charles isn’t much better off than Seb.

Sebastian snorts. “When was the last time you got kicked out of a restaurant?”

Fair point.

So he goes back to relaxing in his seat, eyes half-open, watching the road ahead, and as he listens to Seb chat with the restaurant staff in slightly rusty Italian, he thinks to himself that he always would have said yes anyway.

5.

Carlos had just been a tentative addition to the list.

He and Charles have grown a little closer over the past couple of months, with Charles admitting to himself that he’d maybe been a bit unfair to him initially. Now that he’s stabler, more emotionally settled, smoothing out around the edges, Charles is open to having his perspective changed.

So he’d added Carlos’ name, cautiously optimistic (and in brackets). Still, this isn’t the place he would have picked to start that particular conversation, not if it had been up to him.

*

It’s Friday evening and they’re at the Ferrari hospitality in Singapore. The first two sessions of Free Practice went well, but Charles could definitely use a break now, what with the tight schedule and the merch photoshoot that had taken place right after the debrief following FP2.

He’s in the bathroom, technically only to freshen up a bit before dinner with Carlos, Yuki, and Pierre, but then he’d gotten distracted while taking selfies.

His hair is a little messy from the wind outside, and the bathroom lighting combined with the thin, form-fitting, red sweater he’s wearing makes his features look softer. Although he knows logically that it won’t make much of a difference to Seb—that it’s maybe a little dumb to worry about this—he’s been messing with the flash function and the filters, trying to create the perfect picture. Really, it comes down to this: Charles wants to look good for him.

Between himself and Seb, he’s definitely the vainer one; he spends more on clothes and body products, likes to pose for the camera and maintains social media accounts, and while Seb does tease Charles about it from time to time, it doesn’t seem to bother him at all. Charles certainly doesn’t mind the teasing—in fact, he loves to lean into it, loves the playful mood it evokes.

He idly wonders what Seb’s going to reply once he sends him the finished product. Probably something along the lines of ‘how long did that take you?’ or ‘entering any beauty contests today?’. The thought makes him smile slightly—

And just then, he finally manages to find an option that makes his lips look a tad glossier than they are, that makes his eyes appear just a shade greener.

Success.

Caught up in putting the finishing touches to his masterpiece, Charles doesn’t notice Carlos sneaking up on him until it’s almost too late.

“What are you doing in here, huh? It’s been ten minutes, alr—are you taking selfies?”

Carlos snags the phone from his hand right as Charles is about to hit ‘send’. Charles’ quick reflexes allow him to lock it at the last second, so all Carlos gets to see is his lock-screen—just a quick snapshot of Bruno curled up in their empty bed with the sheets unmade—even though he’s not technically allowed to be in there. Fairly innocent, all things considered. Yet—

"That your dog? He’s cute. I didn’t know you had one,” Carlos says, raising his eyebrows.

“Bruno’s not my—give me that back.” He makes an attempt to retrieve his phone, but Carlos is just as fast, and he was expecting the reaction, so he manages to keep the device safely away from Charles, a wide smirk on his face.

“Who are you taking selfies for?” The question sounds extremely leading like Carlos thinks he’s figured it all out already, connected the dots.

“Instagram,” Charles replies evasively, praying for whoever is willing to listen that Carlos will give in quickly, so they can move past this nonsense and Charles can get on with his day. God, he’d really like to talk to Seb, the overwhelming need to hear his voice or at least read his words is so strong he can almost taste it.

“Instagram? In the bathroom? Really? I saw the look on your face, you know? Sure you don’t have a girlfriend hidden away somewhere?” If Carlos’ eyebrows climb any higher, they will disappear in his hairline. The mental image is almost enough to make Charles laugh, despite the situation.

“No, I don’t. Come on, mate, please give it back to me?” His voice is teetering on the brink of annoyance, perilously close to the edge, but Carlos is terrible at reading the mood. Charles rolls his eyes.

“That’s why you have a picture of someone else’s dog on your phone! Now we’re getting somewhere. See, the clues are all adding up.”

Smugness begins to tinge the smirk. It makes something in Charles’ throat feel constricted, the collar of his shirt suddenly too tight. He tries for the phone again, to no avail. When he’s not sitting behind the wheel, Charles’ movement is a lot more predictable.

“I don’t—Carlos, I don’t have a girlfriend, okay. Let me have my phone, I’d like to—”

But Carlos doesn’t even let him finish that sentence before he makes his next guess.

“Boyfriend, then?”

Charles freezes, hand still outstretched, desperately reaching for his phone. The words go down like ice, and a cold shiver runs down his spine. Something in Carlos’ tone indicates that he’s still fishing, that he doesn’t quite believe Charles when he denies the existence of a secret girlfriend, and yet. Years of caution and fear leave him shocked, panicked, and frozen in place.

Boyfriend.

Then the moment passes, and he melts into action, hand grabbing Carlos’ arm instead of trying for the phone again, his grip tight and definitely on the wrong side of painful judging by Carlos’ expression.

“Not here, Carlos,” Charles hisses through his teeth.

After carefully checking whether the coast is clear, he drags Carlos out of the bathroom and into a room two doors down that turns out to be an empty office, then closes the door behind them and leans against it.

His teammate is staring at him with big eyes, mouth agape.

“You—I—I was right, then? There is a boyfriend?” Carlos doesn’t sound disgusted, and he doesn’t appear to be joking about it either. It’s a start. Maybe.

Charles closes his eyes and lets his head fall back against the door with an audible bang. The pain barely registers.

He sighs. “Please keep your voice low.”

It’s as good as a confirmation.

One, two, three deep breaths, and Charles blinks his eyes open again, facing Carlos with nothing but tired determination, thinking about Seb, thousands of kilometres away, in Germany. Whatever expression he’s wearing makes Carlos take a step back, his smirk wiped clean off his face.

“There is a boyfriend, yes.” Charles says it anyway, mainly because it always feels affirming, even in moments like this. Especially in moments like this. And it gives him the strength to push away from the door, to hold himself steady.

Carlos tilts his head, curious. “Who is it? Pierre? You two seem very close, but don’t worry, I think it still passes for friendship well enough. Plausible deniability and all.”

Pierre? Charles blinks and then shakes his head violently. “Pierre is, like—my third brother, mate. There’s nothing romantic between us.”

“Is it Alex, then? Is Bruno part of Albon pets?” Charles distinctly feels like he’s a game show host and Carlos is trying to bait him for hints. Perhaps he will ask to call a friend next since there is no audience to consult. Although this is absolutely preferable to some of the other possible reactions Charles had imagined.

“No, it isn’t Alex, either. Are you just going to go through all of my friends until you luck out and guess correctly, or will you let me—”

“No, wait. It’s Sebastian, right? Seb Vettel?” Something about the way he asks tells Charles that it’s not as much of a shot in the dark as it would seem.

Charles stares. “How do you figure?”

“Lando and I were watching that one Sky Sports interview together, the one where Webber and Button are desperately trying to get him to make predictions? Lando said something when they were asking about Ferrari, something like ‘they should both know better’. I don’t fully remember, but I didn’t think anything of it then.”

Carlos smiles, and Charles suspects it’s at the memory. Of course, Lando said something. Charles is happy to count him as a friend, sure, but sometimes, he really does talk too much. At least it was only to Carlos, whom Lando evidently trusts a fair amount—he shouldn’t discount that.

“It’s Seb, yes.” His voice is low yet emphatic when he confirms it. This is his most precious secret, his most vulnerable spot and he needs Carlos to understand that.

Don’t ruin me. Please let Lando be right just this once or I will never trust his judgement again.

“Hmm,” Carlos hums and nods, “how long have you two been together? And how did it happen, anyway? Was it a spontaneous thing?”

Really, he should have expected Carlos to be just as nosy as Lando. That just makes sense. But Charles has arrived at a point now where he’s only too happy to talk about his relationship—he doesn’t get to do that enough—so it’s no bother. He can already feel his enthusiasm pull at the corners of his mouth.

“Over a year now. We got together at the end of summer break, you know, after the party at Dan’s place? And, well—it was kind of spontaneous. We both had feelings for each other and decided to talk it out like adults instead of…what we were doing before that. Then we went from there.”

Every time he looks back on the memory, it fills him with confidence. All those months ago, they took the first step together, and they continue to make their way forward into a shared future, building on a foundation that proves itself stronger and more resilient with every challenge it weathers. Everything they share only makes him more determined to make this last.

It’s something worth celebrating, too. They had gone on a wild camping trip in the Swiss alps during the week of their anniversary, completely off the grid, watching the sun rise and set together, with no one else around but Bruno, counting stars under an endless sky entirely untouched by light pollution. He had never felt so intimately connected to another person before as he did sitting quietly next to Seb in the opening of their little tent, leaning into each other under the waxing moon.

“And Bruno is Seb’s dog?”

His teammate’s question pulls him from his thoughts back into the present.

“Yes. You know, I picked that photo because I thought it’d be inconspicuous enough. But apparently, it’s not.”

Carlos shakes his head and immediately runs a hand through it to fix the dishevelment. “The picture alone is fine. The selfie thing was just a bit much.” Then, in an almost cautious tone, like he suddenly isn’t sure anymore whether it’s his place to comment on it, he adds, “you look very content, so I assume it’s going well. I’m glad.”

Charles snorts. “Thanks, it is going well. There are days when the distance weighs heavier on me than others, but then I remember that I can always call or text him. Of course, I wish he came to more races, although I do understand why he doesn’t.”

“Did you two ever…? While he was still a driver, I mean. You two did seem rather close.” No trace of shame on his face whatsoever. Truly just like Lando—who is definitely due for a strongly worded Discord message at this point. Or he could get George to ban him from the server again…now there’s a thought.

“Yeah. Multiple times, actually. And I don’t suspect you want me to elaborate on that,” Charles says, raising his eyebrows. They’re not that close.

To his credit, Carlos looks at least somewhat sheepish. “What? Oh, no, I—” Then he seems to remember that he still has Charles’ phone and offers it up with a sheepish grin.

Grateful, Charles snatches it up immediately and cradles the device to his chest protectively.

“Do you have any photos on there?”

“Of—are you—?” Surely he is misunderstanding. His cheeks are suddenly so hot that they’d probably blend in with his car just fine.

Carlos’ eyes widen in shock, and then he starts laughing. “Fuck, Charles, no, I just meant normal couple pictures. Like the ones people post on social media.”

“Oh, I…thank God. I do have quite a lot of photos saved. I guess I could show you some.” The furious blush is already receding as he motions for Carlos to follow him over to the small seating arrangement in one corner of the room.

As soon as they sit down, Charles unlocks his phone. WhatsApp is still open, the selfie unsent, but there are three new messages from Seb in the thread.

You looked good out there today 😊

Singapore’s always fun, lots of good memories.

Think you’ve got great chances at pole tomorrow!

He can feel the rush of affection that overcomes him manifest in the form of a smile that is way too tender for present company. It makes him wish he was alone instead, just him and his phone and his hotel room, so he wouldn’t have to feel so raw and exposed by his very private emotions. Somehow, talking about it is easier when he doesn’t constantly have to watch himself and his body in public.

Then Carlos punches him in the shoulder. “Hey, are you going to send him that selfie or not?”

Charles punches him back—maybe with a little more force than Carlos used—and begins to type.

thank you ❤️

we also had a photoshoot for new merch today

what do you think?

Seb replies almost instantly.

I think that no one looks better in that shade of red than you.

He doesn’t need Carlos’ triumphant “Ha!” to know that he’s bright red again.

“Seb’s a lot smoother than I would have thought,” Carlos muses, while Charles is still staring at the words, unable to stop whatever it is his face is currently doing.

“I—it’s…you’re right, but it’s not even like that.” Seb’s not doing it to flatter him, he genuinely thinks that. Charles knows that’s the critical aspect, here, and he’s certain it will never cease to make his heart beat faster because it’s just so goddamn charming.

“Anyway, photos,” Charles continues, anything but smooth, and opens a gallery folder that contains only safe images he saves specifically for when his mum asks him for pictures.

“You’re not going to reply?”

“Not yet, mate,” Charles shrugs the question off, along with all the unsubtle insinuations Carlos’ tone implied.

Then his eyes light up as they land on one of his favourite pictures. Mia took it in Le Castellet and sent it to him later. In the shot, they’re both leaning on the fence separating the track from the pitlane, eyes only for each other. Charles is wearing Seb’s rainbow sweatband, not that anyone would be able to tell, and Seb’s wearing Charles’ favourite watch because they’d traded during lunch break. On the day the photo was taken, it had been windy, and Seb’s hair had been an absolute mess. Charles recalls having to suppress the strong urge to reach out and touch it, to comb some of the curly blond strands behind Seb’s ear, and just looking at the photo makes him wish he could do so right now.

He holds the phone out to Carlos so he can get a better look at it.

“That one’s nothing special,” Carlos judges, seasoned photography critic that he apparently is, “I was there, too. I meant, like, vacation pictures.”

Oh, right; the French Grand Prix hadn’t exactly been a good time for Carlos, Charles remembers; he’d collided with Max in turn one and DNF’d while Charles got to duel Lewis and Daniel for a very satisfying P1.

So he keeps scrolling until he finds a picture from winter break that Seb’s brother took. In this one, they’re playing with Bruno, up to their knees in snow, faces red with the cold and from exertion. (There’s a picture of the moment immediately after this one, too, where both of them are laying in the snow, collapsed right next to each other, and Bruno is curled up on Charles’ chest like the triumphant victor of their endurance match. He’s not going to show that to Carlos, though. The way Seb looks at him in it is too close to his heart.)

“Okay, now that’s a good picture. You should tell Seb he’s got a pretty cute dog.”

“Thank you, I will.”

And he is thankful, truly, for more than the comment Carlos just made, although he has no idea how to put that into words—he never does. But he gathers that showing Carlos a couple more photos and answering questions, sharing his happiness, might convey it just the same.

*

After dinner and a couple quick rounds of poker with Pierre and Yuki (who is still learning, but Pierre is turning out to be a great teacher and Yuki an equally adept student), Charles is finally alone in his hotel room, head still buzzing from the eventful day he’s had.

He showers, changes into his sleepwear, and brushes his teeth like he’s on autopilot, head full of strategy and weather predictions and tire degradation statistics, safe and secure in the here and now—heart thousands of kilometres away.

Charles isn’t entirely sure what it is about today that makes him miss Seb’s company so fiercely, with truly staggering intensity, but he’d love nothing more than to fall asleep curled around him, breathing in his familiar scent and feeling his heartbeat under the palm of his hand when he throws an arm over his chest to pull Seb in closer.

Maybe it’s the place. Singapore, after all, is brimming with memories. Good memories. Difficult memories. Heavy memories. Sweat-slick, champagne-drenched, lust-drunken memories.

But Seb isn’t here, he’s visiting his parents in Heppenheim to spend some quality family time. According to the weather forecast, it’s said to be the last truly warm weekend in Germany for a while, real golden autumn weather has been announced, and the whole family is invited for a traditional barbecue. They’re going to watch the race together, too, Seb’s already extended the good luck wishes from the entire Vettel clan. Remembering that they’re all thinking about him warms up Charles’ insides at least a little. He knows they would have wanted him there with them, would have welcomed him with open arms.

Switching off the light, Charles carefully navigates his way back to the bed and drops down on top of the mattress with a quiet oof. It takes him a couple of seconds to find the strength to roll over onto his back and get comfortable under the covers.

He grabs his phone from the nightstand to check his messages again, and his face lights up as he sees the notification that Seb’s sent him another text. Only, it’s not a text at all, it’s a voice message, which is so much better. This means he gets to fall asleep to Seb’s voice, even if Seb’s not physically in the room with him.

In addition to the usual texts and photos, Seb sends him voice messages and videos occasionally; the audio files are filled with updates on stuff he finds interesting, like new things he’s learnt in the online courses he’s taking for fun, while the video files are records of mundane tasks that fill Charles with a familiar sense of comfort as he watches Seb go about his baking, gardening, and tending to the animals.

Excited, he hits play.

“Listen, I meant what I said earlier. I need you to understand that there’s—there’s something about you and that shade of red…Honestly, it always makes me think about you, standing on that top step, all regal, like you’re goddamn royalty, some benevolent prince, as the team stares up at you with worshipful adoration in their eyes...And I—how you—you get this glow, drunk and dazed on victory—” Charles can hear him breathe as he pauses for a second like he has to catch himself before he goes on, heavy and with an air of hesitance, clearly thinking about his words, “and I get jealous sometimes because it’s that same look you get after I make you come, and a part of me thinks it’s unfair that they get to see you like that. I want—God, Charles, I want that look all to myself.”

Oh. Oh, Seb.

Out of the two possible reactions his body could have had to that message, it chooses the softer option, it makes his heart swell and sing and has him bury his face in his pillow, overwhelmed by the rush of emotions that floods him. It’s a simple reassurance; it’s ‘I only want to be yours and I want you to be only mine’, it’s ‘I love you in the exact way I know you want to be loved’.

He stares at the screen of his phone, contemplating, the message blurbs blurring with the bright red Ferrari wallpaper he selected for his WhatsApp background. Should he call? Seb’s probably busy with his family at the moment, there is a six-hour time difference between Singapore and Germany, making it late afternoon. Of course, he could always text, but he’s too tired to be confident in his ability to type out everything he wants to say and have it come out semi-comprehensive.

In the end, he decides to reply with a voice message of his own, presses his thumb on the record button, and starts speaking.

“Hi Seb,” he startles a bit at how hoarse he sounds from talking all day, “I’ve been missing you a lot. That’s not to say I don’t normally miss you when you’re not around, but—” Charles stifles a yawn, “it’s somehow worse today. Hearing your voice helped, and…I—that message was…” His voice cracks, he swallows thickly, and almost lets go of the record button. That soft feeling still hasn’t faded, a steady, warm sensation in his chest.

“Look, I love you, too. So much. I’ve been thinking about us here, in Singapore, when—you know, in 2019. And now, I can’t stop thinking about it, about how fucking glad I am that I’m allowed to want more, with you, that what I felt for you back then, what I needed…that I’m allowed to nurture and grow those feelings like—like one of your sunflowers.” Charles laughs at himself, but it doesn’t make the words any less true.

“Anyway, I didn’t want to interrupt anything because I know how hard it is for all of you to find time to meet up, so I decided not to call, but…I told Carlos earlier. About us. He kind of caught me out and started snooping, and I—he’s on the list anyway, so I said ‘fuck it’ and just came out to him. It went very well, actually. Lando was probably right about him, I’m not too worried. But it was still exhausting. Will it ever get easier, you think? Being stuck between wanting to tell people and fearing their reactions? Even when—” The words feel like they’re stumbling a little as they fall off his tongue too fast, so he cuts himself off and takes a few calming breaths.

“Even when it’s someone you trust, at least to a point? Because I still want people to know, and not talking about us is hard, but talking about it to people is difficult, too. Sorry, I’m rambling, I guess. But I’m exhausted and all I want is to fall asleep with you…Good night, Seb. Can’t wait to get home. Give everyone my love, okay?”

And with that, he lifts his finger off the button and hits ‘send’, then follows it up with ‘😴’ and ‘💕’.

Charles lets himself listen to Seb’s message one more time before sleep takes him, and he falls into a deep, dreamless slumber.

*

The incessant ringing of his alarm clock is what wakes him the next morning. He gropes around for his phone that’s somehow slid under his pillow and swipes at it in irritation to make the noise go away.

Despite his sleep-addled brain, he manages eventually. It’s too bright to fully open his eyes because he forgot to close the curtains the night before, and the sun that has just begun its ascent over the horizon shines directly into his face, so he blinks them shut and then narrows them slightly in an attempt to get a look at his phone screen.

According to his notifications, Seb has sent him more messages.

Good morning, Charles! (I’ll just assume you’ll see these in the morning) 🌻

I want you to know that you can call me whenever.

Just ring me if you want to talk, no one here will mind if I take some time to talk to you.

They understand. Everybody says ‘hi’, by the way! The whole family is rooting for you!

Attached is a big group shot of all of Seb’s family members sitting on folding benches around an arrangement of wooden garden tables laden with fresh food. Everybody is smiling and some are waving or making peace signs, chief among them Seb whose hair looks like a bird’s nest and who is dressed in one of Charles’ name-branded Ferrari jerseys from last season.

I miss you too. Terribly.

Send me your flight details for Monday and I will come to pick you up from the airport.

Any airport. Whichever home you want to go to.

Crossing my fingers for pole! You’ve got this!

Between the words, the photo, and the sunflower emoji, Charles’ heart feels incredibly light. He closes his eyes again and luxuriates in the knowledge that he’s loved.

*

Charles, the son, the brother, feels most at home in Monte Carlo, a city that has everything to offer he could possibly ask for and that gives him back more than he needs, a city that is intrinsically tied to his identity down to the very marrow in his bones. He’s Monégasque, not French, and he will never let anyone forget that

Charles, the race car driver, feels most at home in Maranello, is still filled with the same excitement and enthusiasm every time he enters the Ferrari factory, his heart pumping the same blood through his veins that he’s more than willing to bleed for the Tifosi. It hasn’t stopped feeling like a dream, his life with Ferrari, even with all its ups and downs.

Charles, stripped bare to the very essentials of his person, with or without everything else that makes him who he is, feels the most at home in Seb’s presence. And, really, that could be anywhere—he loves the place in Switzerland, it’s beautiful and peaceful and private, it offers him a sense of freedom, in a way—if he’s honest with himself, he knows that he’d be willing to follow Seb’s lead and he’d still feel like he belongs in any other place, as long as they’re together.

*

If it takes him a little longer to get out of bed than usual today, if he gets distracted humming Truly, Madly, Deeply in the shower, and if Pierre semi-seriously bitches him out for almost missing their standing breakfast appointment until Yuki takes pity on Charles and distracts Pierre with an absolutely asinine question about decentralised finance, then that’s fine with him.

He snatches pole position anyway. He wins the race, extends his championship lead, and basks in the journalists’ comparisons to Seb’s previous wins on the track.

And then he returns home, into Seb’s arms. It’s really that simple.

+ 1

Some residual adrenaline from the race refuses to let him sleep, so Charles finds himself on the phone at the hotel bar, at the table furthest away from the counter. This hasn’t happened in a while, but he figures that once every few months won’t do too much damage.

Every time he closes his eyes, he’s back on that podium, holding his trophy high up in the air, surrounded by cheers and flashing cameras. It’s the kind of celebration that feels only real when shared, and the only person he truly wants to share it with is at home right now, with over 4000 kilometres between them (he’d checked on Google Maps and felt stupid doing it).

Azerbaijan and Switzerland are not exactly next-door neighbours.

It’s the late kind of early for him (three in the morning) and the late kind of late for Seb (midnight), yet Seb had answered almost immediately. He had probably woken up just for this call, considering they already spoke earlier, as soon as Charles had gotten a moment to himself after the race.

Three time zones between them, and Charles feels as close to him the moment Seb starts talking and his familiar tones reach his ears as he would if Seb was sitting right next to him.

“I hope you don’t mind the late hour too much,” Charles says apologetically, “sorry, I couldn’t sleep and I wanted—I wanted to hear your voice, I guess.”

“No, it’s alright. I know how it is, with everything.” Of course, he does.

“And I never turn my phone on silent when we’re apart, you know. To be safe, sure, but for moments like this, too. I told you to call me whenever,” Seb adds, and Charles smiles, wide and happy. “Also, you look good in that shirt.”

He’s wearing Sebastian’s Pink Floyd shirt. It’s a constant travel companion, just like the lucky coin, and he’d sent Seb a selfie before going to bed.

“Let me guess: but I would look better out of it?” Charles teases, sipping on his cocktail.

“I’m not that corny,” Seb laughs, rough with sleep. “And no, I just meant—” (Charles can see him gesticulating before his inner eye) “—that you wear it well. Genuinely.”

“Oh.” Caught off-guard, Charles blushes, elated and somewhat loopy.

“You look good in all of my clothes,” Seb says like it’s an afterthought. But Charles can hear the smirk and when he feels hot all over, he doesn’t think the alcohol is at fault.

He licks his lips.

“Thank you. Though, to be honest, Seb, I’d really rather have you here to take it off for me.” He swallows, mouth inexplicably dry, and takes another sip of his Long Island iced tea to remedy that. It doesn’t really work.

“Are you in your room right now?” Seb asks, his voice suddenly a few notes deeper, doing interesting things to Charles’ insides.

“No, I’m alone at the hotel bar. It’s just me and the barkeeper,” he replies, casting a furtive glance around the room, confirming that it’s still true, “but I can’t touch myself. There are cameras.” Barely more than a hiss.

“Are you encouraging me?” Seb sounds curious in a way that suggests he finds that idea insanely fascinating.

“Yeah,” Charles breathes, “I am.”

Charles is more than a little tipsy, high off his victory, the adrenaline, lack of sleep, and lastly, somewhat drunk on the cocktail in front of him. He’s feeling bold, daring—stupid, maybe.

“Fuck, that’s so hot—” that was most definitely a moan “—just thinking about it makes me hard,” Sebastian confesses.

“I want you to touch yourself,” Charles says under his breath, thinks I want to touch you.

He’s pretty sure he can tell when Seb puts him on speaker because he can hear the telltale sound of blankets rustling, then—

“I’m going to get off to the thought of you in that hotel bar, sipping your cocktail, desperately horny and absolutely unable to do anything about it.” Sebastian’s always had the better words.

“Please,” Charles says, and closes his eyes. A whimper almost escapes him but he manages to hold it in.

Seb keeps talking, and Charles can tell the exact moment he gets his hand on his dick from the way his breath hitches.

“That’s so perfect, actually. I know how much you love it when I make you ask for it…and when I drag it out until you pretend to get annoyed with me,” Seb chuckles lowly and then gasps, presumably from his own touches, “and now you’re literally forced to wait, to stay still. Fuck, that image, it’s—” Another moan, delectably shameless.

“What—what are you doing?” Charles’ mouth is a fucking desert, but it’s not water he thinks about swallowing.

“Just stroking myself, mostly. Maybe playing with my hole a little, the way you do it sometimes, so very carefully, only using your fingertips. God, Charles, I wish you were here.”

“I wish you were here,” he whispers back. “Keep talking, please.”

Charles stares at the table in front of him like it holds all the answers to life, but he’s too focused on what’s going on in his head to really even see it.

Seb laughs again, all surprised warmth. "Charles, you’re so..."

He doesn’t finish the sentence but complies with Charles’ wish easily enough.

“You looked so enticing in that picture, Charles, it made me want to run my hands through your hair, made me want to pull on it until you make that little sound in the back of your throat, the one that means you want me to take you apart but you don’t know how to ask for it.”

His left hand is gripping his thigh, fingers digging into the thick fabric of his grey sweatpants, and Charles is trying his best to keep his breathing calm.

“Would you like that?” Seb asks, almost husky now.

There’s no way Charles can keep his voice under control if he opens his mouth, so he hums instead.

“Since you’re letting me do the work anyway, what if I were to tie you up after I undress you? Use one of your fancy Armani ties, you know, the red one—my favourite, by the way. Not too tight, of course, we wouldn’t want it to chafe, but just tight enough to—ahhh, just tight enough to give you the illusion of powerlessness.”

The description is so evocative, it’s like he can feel it, the drag of the smooth, silken fabric on his skin. Charles balls the hand that’s not holding his phone into a fist and tries to concentrate only on the way his muscles work. Most of his blood seems to have already headed south, and his dick strains against the confines of his sweatpants.

It’s like Seb’s staring at a fruit platter, methodically picking and choosing all his favourites. A delicious shiver runs down Charles’ spine at the thought of offering himself up to Seb, of letting him indulge.

“Would you let me tie you up, Charles? Would you like to do that when we—ah, fuck—see each other again?” Sebastian lets himself be extremely vocal, he holds nothing back, and Charles loves it, savours every tiny sound, every drawn-out groan.

He wants to say yes, emphatically so, but his vocal chords are not to be trusted under any circumstance right now. Still—

“Se—Seb, Jesus Christ, I…fuck—yes.”

His face must be bright red and he looks up to check whether anybody heard him moan. It doesn’t appear so. There’s still only him and the bartender who is staring intently down at his phone. The dulcet melody of an instrumental rendition of Mad World is playing over the speakers.

“I want to—ohh, hell—spread those cheeks and lick you open, Charles, want to fuck your tight little hole with my tongue until you beg me to stop because you don’t want to come yet. It would be hot, making you come like that, to see you writhe in the sheets from the overstimulation.”

This time, Charles does whimper. Seb sounds like he’s close already, and it’s easy to imagine him laid out in their bed, boxers shoved down haphazardly, jacking himself off with abandon.

The urge to touch himself is so strong—but he can’t. Not here.

Where—?

Driven by a deep urge of lust-fueled desperation, he downs the rest of his drink and looks around. His eyes light up when they land on the bathroom signs.

“Charles, are you still with me?”

“Give me a minute, Seb, the men’s bathroom is just—”

“No. Stay right where you are. God, please, I—I can’t stop thinking about it, about you, so riled up and desperate for it, unable to do anything. It would be so easy to just slip your hand under the table, to relieve some of that pressure, right? But you wouldn’t. You won’t.”

“Seb, I—” he chokes back another moan, hot all over, burning with arousal, shivering with need. He doesn’t get to see this side of Sebastian very often, but it’s become more common as Seb grows used to letting himself ask Charles for things. And Charles will gladly let him have this because he knows Seb won’t leave him high and dry, after.

Decision made, he lets himself slide down in his chair a little, lets his legs fall open. Inhales and exhales audibly.

“Okay.”

“Yeah?” He asks the question very softly. Charles loves him so much.

“I want to hear the rest of this story. It’s very, hm, how do you say? Engaging.”

Seb snorts, and Charles loves this too, making Seb laugh during sexually charged situations because Seb likes to laugh.

“Well, then.” And it’s like a switch has been flipped—

“I want you on your stomach, Charles, so I can hold you down when I fuck you. And you need the friction so bad that you grind your dick into the pillow, but I tell you to hold still because I want to make this last, and you’d listen like you always do. You’re so good for me, aren’t you? So fucking—willing and pliant and obedient—”

“I want to be good for you, Seb,” Charles whispers hoarsely, “you know I’d do anything for the praise. If you were here right now, I would—”

He chokes back another moan at the way Seb utters Charles’ name then, rife with unsuppressed desire.

“What do you want?” Seb asks, and Charles can tell he’s right there, on the edge, all he has to do is push him over.

“You—your dick, your fingers, whichever you’re willing to give me, God, Seb...I can’t—”

Charles shuts his eyes as he listens to Seb groan in pleasure through what sounds like a thoroughly satisfying orgasm, focuses solely on the noises he makes, and longs for the same kind of release.

Decision made, he ditches the hotel bar in favour of the bathroom, drink already paid for. His obvious hard-on makes walking a rather uncomfortable affair, and there’s a wet spot at the front of his pants where the precome has leaked through the fabric.

Thankful for the low lights and empty spaces of the early twilight hours, and, last but certainly not least, for the baggy fabric of his pants, he gingerly shuts the door behind him.

“Are you good?” Seb’s breathing seems to have calmed down some, and at first, Charles fears that he’s simply passed out, not that it’d be surprising, considering, but then—

“Yes, it’s—wow. I’m here.”

“I made it to the bathroom,” Charles says, enters one of the stalls, locks the door behind himself and leans against the wall.

It smells overwhelmingly like hotel soap—strong, yet unobtrusive—and the ceiling lights are a little too bright for Charles’ taste, but he’s not going to complain about some foolish romantic notion when he’s still this hard and wants nothing more than to come his brains out while Seb talks him through it. Since he doesn’t have him physically here, this is the next best thing.

“Great,” Seb comments, then—“touch yourself for me. Shove your pants down and get your hand on your dick. C’mon.”

Charles doesn’t have to be told twice. The fierce sense of relief he experiences when he finally frees his dick, wraps his spit-slick fingers around it and gives himself an experimental tug is indescribable.

“Are you sure you don’t want my mouth instead?” Seb inquires with a levity that belies the intensity of what they’re doing here, “Don’t want me to suck you off as a reward for how good you’ve been?”

With his eyes pressed shut and his mind half-mad, caught between burning need and the promise of pleasure, he can almost see it, as if Seb were here with him. And it’s tempting, the thought of Seb spoiling him like that, but it’s not—

“No,” he bites out, voice laced with desperation, “I need more than that, I need you to fuck me and not hold back, I, I need—”

It’s not going to take much more with how keyed-up he is, with how vivid the images are to him. All of his touches are deliberate and the speed is rough, grip maybe a little too tight with how eager he is. This doesn’t matter, though, the only thing that matters is his orgasm, and that Seb’s in his ear.

Charles’ body feels like a taut bowstring, goosebumps all over. A sharp pull makes him wail, and he bites down hard on his bottom lip, his breathing turning ragged.

“Don’t be so rough on yourself,” Seb says lightly, and Charles moans louder in response.

“I—Seb, I…please, I need—”

“Come on, Charles, let me hear you say it,” Seb urges, and Charles whines.

“Beautiful,” Seb continues, encouraging, coaxing, “I love how raw you sound when you’re close. Tell me what it is you need, Charles. You know I’ll do anything. Let me make you feel good, c’mon.”

It could be enough, like this, he thinks. Flushes at the possibility of stumbling over the words.

He’s already so far gone, brain foggy with desire.

Still, Seb wants to hear him say it. Like Charles could deny him.

“I want to feel you come inside me, Seb. Oh…fuck…fuck.”

Seb hums like he’s entertaining the thought. “You can do better than that,” he teases, but there’s a clear edge to it, something Charles doesn’t think anybody else would be able to pick up on, and it makes him shake with unbridled desire.

“Please, Seb, I need you to fill me with your come, please, just—” That’s when he loses it, takes his orgasm like a punch that has him reeling, knocks every single coherent thought from his mind and leaves him dazed.

“That’s it, Charles, you deserve this,” Seb whispers intimately like he would if he was here.

He’d hold Charles and stroke his face, spent dick still inside him as he guides him through the aftershocks. Charles moans again, still entirely out of it as he loses himself in a powerful sense memory.

His legs are wobbly, but to his relief, the wall is holding his weight well enough. His trembling hand is still clinging to the phone.

Focusing is hard, his mind is a blur, awash with feelings and impressions, remnants from the pure high of pleasure he just lived through. His breath and his heartbeat are equally loud in his ears; everything else recedes into the background.

There’s a gap in his perception where Seb should be, right here, pressed against him as Charles’ awareness slowly returns to him. It’s a physical need for his presence, the realness of his firm warmth. I wish you were here.

He can’t tell whether he said it out loud or kept it confined to his thoughts.

“Everything okay, love?” Seb asks gently after Charles has come down a little and his breathing rhythm has evened out somewhat. Charles’ head snaps up so hard he almost bangs it against the wall of the bathroom stall.

Seb clearly noticed his mistake because he immediately goes on to apologise. “I’m sorry Charles, I didn’t mean to—”

“No, it’s fine.” And, surprisingly, he finds that it really is. The sound of the nickname wraps itself securely around his heart; it doesn’t make him feel small or young or insufficient at all. It just makes him feel—cherished.

“You can call me that. If—if you don’t overuse it.” His voice sounds hesitant, more uncertain than he feels, perhaps.

When Seb replies, his tone is filled with nothing but warmth. “Promise.” Then: "Charles? Ich liebe dich.”

“Ich dich auch, Seb.”

A yawn tears itself from Charles’ throat and seconds later, Seb follows suit. Both of them snicker.

“I’ll get cleaned up and head to my room. You should sleep, too.”

“Oh, trust me, I’m about to pass out over here. Good night! And congrats again. I’ll definitely come to the next race, wouldn’t want to miss out on you winning that cha—”

Charles cuts him off before he can finish that sentence, no matter how giddy the thought of Seb’s absolute confidence makes him. After all, there are three races left in the season.

“Good night,” and then, right before he hangs up, just to try it out, to see how the words feel in his mouth, he adds, “cara mia.” They taste sweet, like honey.

*

Charles cleans himself up with the help of toilet paper before he exits the stall to meticulously wash his hands in the sink, a bit more stable on his feet now. There are some stains on his sweatpants, but the damage is fairly manageable, nothing too egregious.

He checks his reflection in the mirror, and his face is still flushed, a sated smile tugging at his lips and making his eyes gleam. But as he looks up and turns around to dry his hands, his eyes meet with those of none other than Toto Wolff. The Mercedes team principal is watching him curiously, gazing down at Charles from where he looms over him with his full height, somehow seeming even taller in this moment.

Toto must have come in when Charles was coming down from his post-orgasmic haze, too out of it to notice anything other than Seb’s voice in his ear.

How is it always Mercedes people he runs into in these situations?

Panic surges up within him, cold and sharp like he impaled his guts on an icicle, and all air seems to have dissipated from his lungs. He can feel himself start to shake as his body attempts to dredge up some leftover adrenaline from who knows where to activate his fight or flight response.

“Uhm, I can... It’s—I don’t,” he stutters and gestures, helplessly. The distance between him and the door appears unbreachable.

Toto waves him off. Charles wonders how much he heard, if he heard anything at all.

“Sorry to be this blunt about it, but are you and Seb...?”

Okay, that answers that question. It just had to be someone fluent in German. With anyone else, Charles probably would have been fine, could have talked himself out of it. ‘Ich dich auch, Seb’ doesn’t leave a lot of room for doubt and false assumptions.

“Yeah,” he sighs, fighting the urge to avert his eyes. This isn’t about that kind of shame. Charles squares his shoulders instead.

Surprise does something funny to Toto’s eyebrows. He clearly didn’t expect Charles to admit it quite so quickly. Or at all, for that matter.

“Oh, I thought he was seeing—never mind, then. Anyway, you’re not the only driver with this kind of secret, and this isn’t the first time I’ve walked in on. Something. Far from it, actually.”

“So, you’re not going to, uhm—” Charles skips straight past the last part, he’s not touching that with a ten-foot pole.

“Ruin your career with this? God, no. I’d never stoop that low. For Christ’s sake, I’m friends with Seb. Don’t worry, Charles, I can keep my mouth shut, especially about private matters like this. And even if you do choose to believe me to be that cutthroat—not that I’d hold it against you, mind,” he says with a slight smile, “please know that the respect I’d stand to lose from people who matter a great deal to me outweighs any potential gain.”

“Is this about...?” He doesn’t say it outright, but glances upward, to where the hotel rooms are. “We do talk, you know?”

It’s not a lie, they do talk, even though Charles feels awkward around Lewis sometimes, a sentiment he suspects might be rooted in a deeper layer of underlying insecurity. Still, it’s nice to have someone to talk to in the paddock who truly understands, who gets it, all of it.

Toto actually smiles at that, small and clandestine, but shrugs noncommittally, neither confirming nor denying. It makes Charles appreciate him more, and he’s suddenly glad that it was Toto that happened to walk in on him when there were worse options. Lewis evidently trusts him with his secrets. At least some of them.

Part of Charles wonders if Toto already knew about Seb’s sexuality, but he successfully manages to suppress the urge to ask for clarification on who exactly Toto had thought Seb was dating. There’s a good chance he already knows the answer to that and he doesn’t particularly want to hear it, even though he’s gotten a lot better at working through his jealousy.

“What were you doing down here, anyway?” Toto asks. “Still celebrating?”

“Having a nightcap. I couldn’t sleep.” But he suspects that will no longer be the case. The adrenaline’s all gone now and his body has calmed down from the initial shock, too. He’s likely to pass out the second his head hits the pillow.

“Likewise. Then this is all this was, should anyone ever ask. Nothing else happened.” Toto actually winks at him.

“I can live with that. What were we drinking?” Charles winks back. Or attempts to, anyway. The easy out is more than appreciated.

Toto seems to give this some consideration. “Something strong, definitely.”

“Black Manhattans?”

“Cheers.”

*

In the morning, he will call Seb again and they will talk about it and Seb will calm him down and tell him it’s fine, that he’s going to talk to Toto.

He’ll laugh warmly and promise Charles that they’ll see each other soon, that he’ll head down to Maranello, and he will talk about how much he wishes that it wasn’t this far into autumn already so he could make a motorcycle trip out of it.

Charles will ask whether that’s something they could do together over the next summer break because the idea excites him and they will brainstorm possible routes for a few minutes before Charles has to hang up and get ready so he can catch his flight.

They’ll say ‘see you soon’ and mean ‘I love you’.

*

Needless to say, Toto was never on the list.