Chapter Text
My race had been completely ruined and the most frustrating part of it all was that, for once, I couldn't even blame myself.
There had been a time when every bad result felt personal, when every disappointing Sunday ended with me replaying each lap in my head, searching obsessively for the exact moment where I had made a mistake. Maybe I had braked too late. Maybe I had been too aggressive with the tyres. Maybe I had simply not been good enough. At least those situations gave me something tangible to hold onto, because if the mistake was mine, then I could fix it. I could work harder, improve, come back stronger.
This was different.
The problems weren't mine anymore. They belonged to the car, to strategy decisions, to circumstances completely outside my control. No matter how much I pushed, no matter how many risks I took, no matter how desperately I tried to drag performance out of the Ferrari, there came a point where talent simply wasn't enough to compensate for everything else going wrong around me. That feeling of helplessness was what truly irritated me. Not the result itself, but knowing there had been nothing more I could have done to prevent it.
By the time I climbed out of the car, I could already feel the tension building behind my eyes.
"Charles, one last interview?"
The voice belonged to a member of the DAZN crew who had somehow managed to find me before I could disappear. Under normal circumstances I would have smiled, answered the questions, delivered the usual media-trained responses and moved on with my day. Years in Formula One had taught me how to perform even when I felt exhausted.
Today, however, was not one of those days.
I wasn't in the mood to explain the race. I wasn't in the mood to hear someone ask what had gone wrong. Most importantly, I wasn't in the mood to pretend I wasn't furious.
So I simply asked someone from Ferrari to tell them we had an important meeting to attend.
Technically, it wasn't even a complete lie.
The meeting just happened to be between me and whichever unfortunate table I decided to break first.
"Mate." The familiar voice made me look up.
Max was walking toward me with a bottle of Red Bull in his hand, looking annoyingly relaxed. To anyone else he probably appeared completely fine, as if he had already moved on from whatever disaster his own race had become.
The thing about knowing someone for years, however, was that eventually you learned to recognize the difference between genuine calm and the version people showed the world.
I knew Max.
I knew exactly how he looked when he was irritated.
And right now he was every bit as frustrated as I was.
"What a cursed weekend," he said, taking a sip from the bottle before shaking his head. "Lando texted me earlier. Apparently everyone's going out tonight. Yacht party. Just the drivers, no sponsors, no media, no nonsense."
A dry laugh escaped me.
The idea of partying after a race like this sounded ridiculous.
At that particular moment there wasn't enough alcohol, music or good company in the world to convince me that leaving my house was a good idea.
"Yeah, sure. I'll think about it."
I said it mostly to end the conversation, but Max immediately narrowed his eyes as if he had just witnessed something deeply suspicious.
"You'll think about it?"
I shrugged. "Maybe."
The expression he gave me made me laugh despite myself.
"Who are you," he asked dramatically, "and what have you done with Charles Leclerc?"
"Maybe I'm finally learning how to survive Ferrari-induced Stockholm Syndrome." I lightly shoved his shoulder and was rewarded with an actual smile from him. It wasn't much, but after the day we'd both had, it was enough.
"Good to know you've accepted your fate," Max replied. "I'll be taking Lando on my boat, so I assume you'll be taking yours."
That earned another laugh from me.
The strange thing happening between Max and Lando had stopped being subtle weeks ago. Nobody said anything directly, but everyone noticed it. Whatever had started between them had only intensified after Abu Dhabi, after Lando became world champion and somehow managed to clear year of tension and hate with a single conversation.
Interesting.
Not my problem.
And definitely not my business.
"Yeah, yeah," I replied. "Just tell me which yacht I'm supposed to end up on."
After giving him one final pat on the shoulder, I headed toward Ferrari's motorhome in search of something that had become increasingly rare throughout the day.
Silence.
Unfortunately, the universe clearly had other plans.
"There he is!"
And fate, as it always seemed determined to do whenever I was already having a terrible day, apparently decided that allowing me even five minutes of peace would be far too generous.
I had barely stepped inside Ferrari's motorhome hoping to find a quiet corner where I could sit down, change and maybe spend a few minutes feeling sorry for myself when two familiar voices exploded somewhere ahead of me.
They weren't even looking in my direction yet, but somehow they already knew I was there, which was honestly impressive and deeply annoying at the same time.
"I was looking for you, you know that?"
"We were looking for you to find out which party you're going to tonight."
Those were literally the first things they shouted before either of them properly saw me, making me close my eyes for a second as if that alone could somehow make them disappear. It didn't.
Unfortunately, Joris and Andrea were very real and very committed to making my life difficult.
"Mmm, yes, obviously I'm in the perfect mood for a party," I answered with enough sarcasm to fill the entire room as I practically threw myself onto the sofa. The race suit suddenly felt twice as uncomfortable as before, so I opened it slightly and stretched out, spreading my legs and leaning my head back against the cushions. "Seriously, what is wrong with everyone today? Since the race ended, all anyone has talked about is this stupid party."
"We already know you're attractive and sexy, Charles. You don't need to constantly remind the population."
A clean shirt hit me directly in the chest before falling into my lap and I immediately recognized Joris' attempt at being helpful while simultaneously insulting me.
A true best friend.
"Don't be so bitter. None of this was your fault. Besides, this race was such a complete disaster that-"
"It'll eventually become a blessing," Andrei interrupted dramatically before Joris could finish. "Trust me. One day you'll look back at this race and laugh."
I stared at him.
"No."
"You will."
"I won't."
"You absolutely will."
"I genuinely hate both of you."
That only made them grin.
The worst part was that they were actually helping
As I pulled the top half of my race suit down and started changing, a loud whistle echoed through the room.
Of course.
I didn't even need to look up to know it had come from Andrei.
"You know," he began thoughtfully, sounding like a man making a serious scientific observation, "you're at least a thousand times more attractive when you're angry. It's actually concerning. You activate a hidden side of me."
That earned an actual smile.
Not because what he said made any sense, but because hearing such nonsense after the day I'd had was strangely refreshing.
"You're sick."
"No."
"Yes."
"No."
"Very much yes."
Andrea pressed a hand dramatically against his chest as if I had deeply offended him. "Ti amo, Charleeeee."
Before I could respond, he had somehow managed to throw himself onto the floor in one of the most ridiculous positions imaginable.
"Paint me like one of your French muses."
I laughed despite myself.
"He is completely losing his mind and summer break is still weeks away," Joris informed me while handing over the vitamin Ferrari's nutritionist constantly forced me to take.
"See? But it worked."
Unfortunately, he wasn't wrong.
I swallowed the vitamin and pointed vaguely toward the human disaster currently spread across the floor.
"Let him dream. He desperately wants to become another name on the list."
The offended gasp that followed was immediate.
"I knew it!" Andrei pointed at me dramatically. "I knew there was love in your heart."
"There isn't.'
"There is."
"There really isn't."
The conversation continued in the same ridiculous direction for another few minutes until Joris casually mentioned the podium and, somehow, that ended up becoming the beginning of an entirely different problem.
"Lewis still managed a podium."
"Good for him," I answered dryly, to be honest I don't care.
"And Isaac too, although that might change. If they decide to investigate him properly, Piastri could end up moving to P3."
Piastri.
It was amazing how one surname could completely derail my train of thought.
Simply because over the last year Oscar had become one of those people who lingered in your head longer than they probably should.
We had spent enough time together throughout the previous season for me to realize that most people didn't actually know him.
Fans called him boring. The media called him reserved. Half the grid joked that getting an emotional reaction out of Oscar was harder than winning Monaco from pole position.
They weren't entirely wrong.
But they also weren't entirely right.
Because the version most people saw wasn't the version I knew.
The Oscar I knew smiled more than people realized. He was sarcastic when he felt comfortable. Sometimes he'd say something so unexpectedly funny that it took several seconds to process the fact he'd actually made the joke.
There was a strange calmness about him that shouldn't have been attractive and yet somehow was. A quiet confidence that never needed attention and somehow attracted it anyway.
And maybe that was why hearing his name always seemed to pull my attention toward him before I could stop it.
Apparently I had been staring into space longer than I realized because a pillow suddenly hit me directly in the shoulder.
"There it is."
I immediately knew what Andrei was talking about. "There what is?"
"That look."
I groaned.
"What look?"
"The one that says you're thinking about Oscar."
Traitor.
Absolute traitor.
The worst part was that Joris immediately started laughing. "Oh, he's definitely thinking about him."
"I'm not."
"You are."
"I'm literally not."
"You absolutely are."
I reached for my phone mostly because arguing with them was pointless.
"You two are impossible."
"No," Andrei corrected immediately. "What's impossible is how obvious you become whenever someone mentions Piastri."
"You're exaggerating."
"Charles."
Even Joris was smiling now. "You're really bad at hiding it."
That earned both of them a middle finger.
"Many people think he's boring," I admitted after a moment, trying and completely failing to sound casual, "but he acts differently when he's around me."
The second the words left my mouth I regretted them.
The expressions on their faces became unbearable.
"Oh my God," Andrei whispered dramatically.
"What?"
"You're defending him."
"I'm not."
"You literally are."
"I'm just saying people don't know him."
"Which somehow sounds worse."
Unfortunately, he was right.
To make things even worse, he suddenly shoved his phone directly in front of my face.
A picture.
Oscar.
Probably taken after the race.
His smile was small but genuine, the kind that always seemed more dangerous than the big ones because it felt real. His hair was slightly messy, his race suit hanging lower than usual around his waist, and before I could stop myself my eyes noticed far more than they should have.
Fuck.
That was a problem.
A very serious problem.
Because once my attention moved there, it became impossible not to notice.
His waist.
His smile.
The shape of his as-
No
Absolutely not.
Get a grip, Charles.
"He looks good," I managed casually, which was probably the least convincing sentence I had ever spoken.
Both of them immediately burst out laughing.
Ignoring them entirely, I opened the drivers' group chat.
A place that should honestly have been renamed Clowns Anonymous.
Pierre: SO PARTY TODAY???
Lewis: Of fucking course. We're all going, right?
Carlos: I doubt a certain Monegasque will show up.
I rolled my eyes.
Carlos thought he was hilarious.
Me: haha funny one
Me: I'm going. Max told me about it.
Messages immediately started appearing.
Then I noticed Oscar typing.
For some reason, that immediately got my attention.
Oscar: Could someone give me a ride? I told the team I wasn't going but I changed my mind.
Lando: I LITERALLY TOLD YOU NOT TO SAY YES
A dangerous idea crossed my mind.
The kind of idea that appears before common sense has time to intervene.
And unfortunately for me, common sense was very slow.
Me: I can take you.
Me: I need to stop by my yacht anyway to take some sponsor photos.
A complete lie.
A ridiculous lie.
But a useful one.
Max: PR golden boy at his finest.
Max: Interesting that you're going.
Me: Shut up.
Ollie: WAIT WE'RE ALL ACTUALLY GOING????
I barely paid attention because another notification appeared almost immediately underneath.
Oscar had replied directly to me.
Oscar: Thank you so much Charles 😊
And somehow, despite everything that had happened throughout the day, despite the disaster of the race, despite Ferrari testing my patience once again, despite Carlos being annoying and Max refusing to mind his own business, it was that simple message that finally made the frustration loosen its grip on my chest.
Because for reasons I wasn't ready to examine too closely, seeing Oscar thank me with that stupid smiling emoji made me feel strangely feel nice.
What a long night.
Oscar
I was totally nervous.
Which was honestly embarrassing because I wasn't usually the type of person who got nervous over things like this. Put me in a Formula One car with millions of people watching, throw me into a championship fight, make me answer awkward media questions or sit through endless sponsor events and I'd be perfectly fine.
Yet somehow the idea of being alone with Charles on a small boat for twenty minutes had managed to completely destroy whatever reputation I had built for being calm and collected.
Because sitting with Charles was one thing. Seeing him around the paddock was normal even talking to him after races wasn't unusual.
Being completely alone with him while we headed toward some incredibly stupid billionaire yacht where we'd all be celebrating the Grand Prix felt entirely different, especially when my brain kept reminding me that there would be no distractions, no teammates interrupting us, no engineers calling one of us away and absolutely no excuse for me to spend the entire journey pretending he wasn't sitting right there.
"Didn't you say you weren't going?"
Of course Lando Norris was in my housr.
At this point I wasn't even surprised anymore. The man treated my room like public property and mine seemed to be one of his favourites. He was currently digging through his suitcase while simultaneously getting dressed, throwing shirts across my bed and somehow creating enough mess for three people despite only being there for a few minutes.
"I did," I admitted while staring at my wardrobe as if the perfect outfit was magically going to appear. "Then I changed my mind."
Lando immediately looked suspicious.
Which was fair.
I wasn't exactly known for loving parties.
"I'm surprised. You usually avoid these things."
Oh mate.
The reasons behind my sudden change of heart were very different from what he was imagining.
"I thought it might be good to be there," I replied, trying my best to sound casual while internally having a complete meltdown. "And being alone with you isn't so bad either."
The excuse sounded terrible even to me.
Meanwhile my attention had already returned to the much bigger problem.
What the hell was I supposed to wear?
"Osc, I'm literally watching a breakdown happen in real time."
I groaned dramatically and let myself fall backwards onto the bed.
"What can I say? I don't know what to wear and the fact that I'm going with Charles is going to make the whole thing horribly awkward."
The second his name left my mouth, Lando stopped moving.
Not subtly either.
He completely froze before slowly turning his head toward me with the expression of a man who had just discovered a very interesting piece of information.
And that immediately made me regret everything.
"Oscar Piastri."
No.
"Oscar Piastri."
Definitely no.
"Are you nervous because you're trying to impress Charles?"
I grabbed the nearest pillow and dropped it over my face.
The idiot immediately burst out laughing. "Mate, you could've mentioned this hours ago. I would've let you borrow my best outfit."
"It's not like that." The fact that my voice sounded unconvincing did not help my case.
"Oh, it absolutely is."
"It's really not."
Lando threw himself onto the bed beside me, looking far too entertained by my suffering.
"I always knew there was a little crush there."
A little crush.
As if that somehow sounded better.
"But not this much."
The pillow flew directly at his face.
Unfortunately, his laughter only got louder.
"Stop it," I complained. "I don't even know how I'm supposed to act tonight."
That was probably the most honest thing I'd said all day.
Because lately things around Charles felt different and I couldn't even explain why. Nothing major had happened. No life-changing conversation. No dramatic moment. It had simply become increasingly difficult to ignore the fact that I enjoyed being around him more than I probably should.
A smile lasted longer than normal.
A conversation stayed in my head for hours.
A simple text message somehow improved my mood.
None of that seemed particularly healthy.
"Look at these."
Lando finally decided to stop making fun of me and started laying clothes across the bed. "Tell me which one you like."
One thing I genuinely appreciated about him was that no matter how annoying he became, he always helped when things actually mattered.
I sat up and looked through the options.
Everything felt completely outside my comfort zone.
Then again, almost everything involving Charles recently existed outside my comfort zone.
"Those trousers are really tight."
I picked them up suspiciously.
The grin on Lando's face immediately made me nervous.
"Exactly."
Of course.
Of course that was his answer.
"They make your ass look incredible."
I stared at him.
The truly concerning thing was that he looked completely serious.
"Oh yeah," I muttered. "Because Charles is obviously paying attention to me and not the thousands of models and celebrities he's been linked to."
That was the part nobody seemed to understand.
Charles Leclerc could genuinely have anyone he wanted.
Everyone knew it.
The paddock knew it.
Social media knew it.
Half the world probably knew it.
I wasn't exactly competing in the same category.
"I'm not his type."
The expression Lando gave me suggested he strongly disagreed, but fortunately he chose not to start that argument.
Instead, he handed me a black Louis Vuitton shirt with a slightly open collar.
"This." I narrowed my eyes.
"This what?"
"This beauty."
Of course he called it a beauty.
"All black you know simple but expensive just perfect."
Then he reached into his bag and pulled out a small bottle.
"What is that?"
"A miracle."
"Lan it's a hair spray."
"A miracle in spray form."
I laughed despite myself.
The man was impossible.
"Put some in your hair. Trust me."
"I don't trust you."
"You should."
"I really shouldn't."
"It gives you that sweet golden boy look."
I immediately regretted asking any questions. "My what?"
"The look."
"There isn't a look."
"There absolutely is."
Then he casually added something that immediately caught my attention.
"I know Charles. He has a soft spot for it."
That made me pause.
Only for a second.
Unfortunately it was long enough.
"And how exactly do you know that?" I tried to sound casual but I failed spectacularly.
Lando looked at me for roughly two seconds before bursting into laughter.
The kind that made it painfully obvious he'd understood exactly what I was really asking. "Oh my God."
"What?"
"Oh my God."
"What Lando?"
The idiot was practically crying now.
"Don't tell me you've somehow convinced yourself that Charles and I have had something."
The fact that I didn't immediately answer was apparently answer enough.
That only made him laugh harder.
"Relax. Nothing has ever happened."
For some reason, hearing that made me feel significantly better.
Which was probably something I shouldn't analyse too deeply.
"He's not my type anyway," Lando continued. "But I know someone very close to him and trust me, he likes sweet boys."
I already knew I was going to regret this.
"What kind of sweet boys?"
The smile that appeared on his face should've been enough warning. "You know."
No.
I didn't like where this was going.
"The kind that look innocent."
Lando.
"The kind that sit on his lap-"
My shirt hit him before he could finish.
His laughter immediately filled the room while I tried and completely failed to stop myself from laughing too.
Maybe tonight would be a complete disaster.
Or maybe, for the first time in a while, it would become something worth remembering.