the love we left â carlos sainz jr
carlos sainz jr x fem!reader [8.8k]
summary: you werenât aware that your familyâs worry had extended so far that theyâd brought in the heavy artillery, it being carlos sainz of all people. the very same person whoâd turned you into someone you didnât recognise in the mirror anymore.
warnings: 18+ explicit smut & language, very angsty, mentions of alcohol abuse and drug use, heartbreak, childhood friends, brother's best friend, public sex
a/n: this has been sitting in my drafts, unfinished for a whole month so I went back and thought that it deserved a second chance. and voilĂ , here you have it! my very first carlos fic!! i'd love to hear your thoughts on this, because I love how this turned out. happy reading my lovelies!! x
The music was pounding, borderline rupturing your eardrum with good music that had you bobbing your head gently to the intimate beat. Everywhere you looked were bodies, moving in unison and hands roaming sweaty skin.
The bartender poured drinks like his life depended on it, and you watched him pour you another shot of tequila without a verbal request from you, shooting you a friendly grin and side stepping to help the next customer. You downed your shot, pulling a small face at the rancid taste as you made your way to the dance floor.
You didnât know when youâd become this type of person. The person whoâd spend their weekends in clubs, dancing the nights away until they got blisters on their feet and most likely woke up with their head in a toilet bowl. It had started out as something you and your girlfriends did, sneaking into clubs when youâd just turned legal, but then youâd started going alone because you found out that sitting in your apartment alone with your thoughts was way too much for you to handle.
You werenât strong enough to deal with your emotions, preferring to find people and alcohol to distract you. It had worked out quite well for you and the multiple shots youâd taken over the span of two hours were starting to settle in your bones, buzzing right beneath your skin and giving you enough courage to seek out the dance floor.
Your body moved like it was an entity of its own, face tilted up to the ceiling and eyes closed as you felt the music. It rattled your bones and settled in your hips, the bottom of your heels sticking to the floor with every step you took.
Iâve never seen someone look so at home on a dance floor, heâd once said. The words came sneaking into your mind, unbidden. You could still remember the party, how your brother had bought the whole gang shots and youâd taken to the floor with laughter and happiness in your bellies. The DJ hadnât been very happy when your brother and the man of the hour stepped up to the booth and completely took over with their non-existent experience of manning a DJ booth, but heâd relented when your brother had drunkenly explained that this man right here? Heâs gonna be racing cars professionally, cabrĂłn.
You were so far gone in your head, not even flinching at the pair of hands sliding over your waist and pulling you into a body. The person smelled of cigarette smoke and cheap cologne, and it made something roll in your stomach at the mix of it in your nostrils but you couldnât pull away. He was yet another distraction from your messed up life, and you welcomed it in all forms.
If you let yourself take a step back and think of exactly why you allowed a complete stranger to touch you the way they were, youâd come to the conclusion that the reason was because the feeling of hands on your hips reminded you of him. That one damned night that changed you, that made you into this.
Heâd cornered you against the wall, claimed your lips in a bruising kiss that left you panting and his hands. Fuck. His hands had gripped your hips so tight that youâd had bruises for a whole week after that encounter.
Youâd thought that finally, finally the both of you would be together after years of pining; Spending your awkward teenage years wishing that your brotherâs best friend would look at you as a girl he could imagine kissing, and not as his best friendâs sister and a family friend. But then heâd acted like nothing happened, leaving you in the dust with little to no explanation as he went to kickstart his career.
Bile rose in your throat as your brain entered dangerous territory, and you blinked your eyes open against the lights. It was blurry, and it took a few moments for you to realise that there were tears welling up in your eyes. Youâd stopped crying long ago, but sometimes the tears managed to sneak up on you when you were vulnerable and drunk.
The hands on your body were suddenly too much, and just as you were about to run, someone grabbed you and yanked a little harder than you had been prepared for. You stumbled, a wordless shout leaving your lips when you were pulled to the side of the dance floor, legs struggling to keep up. It took a second for you to realise that someone had grabbed you and was in the process of dragging you off the dance floor, away from the sweaty and dancing bodies, away from the man who youâd danced with. Your eyes were scanning your surroundings, feeling too drunk to think of a good plan to escape so you settled for the only thing that would hopefully get someoneâs attention.
Before you could open your mouth and scream, a hand settled right on your lips and muffled the sound, your eyes flickering up to the man in front of you in the hopes that you could shoot him the most pleading look through your eyes.
You found yourself looking into round and dark eyes, so eerily familiar that it made your stomach violently turn and you took a stumbling step back like shock itself had shoved you, turning around to promptly retch into a nearby trash can. You heaved and clutched at the edge of the bin with your hands, moaning miserably until it finally stopped.
âCome on, letâs get you outside.â His voice sounded somewhere behind you, somehow overpowering the pulsing music.
His hands grabbed at you, helping you steady yourself and you didnât bother to spare him another glance as you weakly shoved his hands away. He didnât fight you, nor say anything when you walked straight out of the club, legs feeling incredibly weak and hands shaking; like you were two seconds away from breaking down.
And you were. What the fuck was he doing here? Why would he come back?
The chilly air was welcomed when you pushed the back door open, stumbling out into the alley and breathing in, in an effort to sober up. You ignored your trembling hands as you dug around in your purse for gum, anything to get rid of the sour taste in your mouth but you doubted it would do much to settle the nausea roiling in your stomach.
You heard a scuffle behind you, causing you to freeze because youâd been hoping that it was all just your drunken mind playing tricks on you; Because it happened sometimes. It had happened in your dreams, and once when youâd smoked a dodgy rolled up joint and hallucinated him being there. But no, he was standing there when you turned around, eyebrows pulled together in that annoying frown he always wore whenever he disapproved of something. His face was passive though, eyes not giving away anything and it was so infuriating.
Heâd always played the older brother, acting like he had some kind of right to decide over you just because he was your brotherâs friend. But his feelings had been anything but fraternal, heâd made that very clear when he decided to fuck you and leave.
You swallowed, feeling nauseous as you stood staring at him.
âWhat are you doing here?â You asked, cursing yourself quietly when your voice shook. But you sounded stern, even in your drunken state and something about your tone made the man grit his teeth.
âI was worriedââ
No. You didnât need to hear the same old spiel again. He didnât get to be worried about you, not anymore.
âWhat are you doing here, Carlos?â You cut him off, making him cringe at the way you said his name, sharply and angry - so differently from how you used to say it.
âYour family is worried about you.â He replied slowly.
The way he talked reminded you of someone who spoke carefully as to not scare away a skittish animal. It was very bizarre, the feeling so unreal that you had a hard time believing that your fucked up mind hadnât decided to conjure him up on a random Sunday night. A few moments passed as you stared, and stared. He was truly there in the flesh.
You were aware that your mother had been worried, calling you every day to check up on you and you gave her the same old answer because what else was there to say?
You just werenât aware that your familyâs worry had extended so far that theyâd brought in the heavy artillery, it being Carlos fucking Sainz of all people. The very same person whoâd turned you into someone you didnât recognise in the mirror anymore.
âI wanted to check up on you, see how you are doing.â He broke the drawn out silence, stuffing both of his hands into the pockets of his jacket like he didnât know what else to do with them.
You remembered the odd habit he used to have, where heâd wring his hands whenever he felt out of place. It was such a minuscule detail that barely anyone took notice of, but you did. You always did.
Your eyes dropped to follow the movement, noting the casual jeans and the red hoodie under his black jacket. You quickly looked away, refusing to think about how good he looked.
âWell, now you have. So you can go.â You shot him a smile with no real joy behind it, turning around and walking down the alleyway in the direction of your apartment.
You knew that he wouldnât leave you alone, and a big part of you wanted him to. But you couldnât deny that one percent that wanted, needed him to stay.
The sounds of his footsteps let you know that he wasnât far behind and you jumped like heâd burned you when you felt his fingertips touch your arm. Just a quick touch that lit your body on fire. Your eyes found his and you took a big step back, feeling your chest go tight at the slight downwards tilt of his lips, like he hadnât expected you to react negatively.
âNena, please. Let me walk you home, at least.â He said and your throat tightened up at the familiar pet name heâd called you since you were children and so incredibly naive.
âDonât call me that.â You sniffled, bringing a hand up to rub at your nose. âYou donât get to show up here after two years and play the hero. I donât need one, and I certainly donât need you.â
âLo sĂ©.â He said, but he really didnât know, did he?
You didnât say a word, taking two steps before glaring down at your shoes. They had been a pain the whole night and now that the alcohol wasnât doing its job of numbing the pain, your feet were starting to hurt from being pinched for the past few hours. You balanced yourself with a hand on the wall, slipping your heels off with a quiet grumble and shoving the offending footwear into the manâs chest. Carlos grunted at the unexpected force, hands coming up to catch the heels before they dropped and raising both eyebrows at you.
You werenât looking at his face, but you could tell that he was baffled by your actions and it made you feel just a tad bit smug. If he was going to show up and insist on pestering you, he might as well make himself useful.
The concrete was uncomfortable to walk barefoot on, but it felt freeing and you took comfort in that feeling. Anything to not think about exactly who was walking a few steps behind you, feeling his eyes on you like hot coal on your skin.
âDo you live far from here?â He asked, tone cautious like he didnât want to say the wrong things or set you off.
âNo, why?â You turned your head to look over your shoulder and found him walking way closer to you than you thought. âIs the neighbourhood not up to your standards?â
You knew you were being petty now, playing unfair and it clearly annoyed Carlos as he looked away to avoid your cold gaze. It wasnât his fault that heâd gone and got himself an even more lavish lifestyle where he raced cars for a living and got millions out of it. Youâd always been proud of him, one of his biggest supporters before everything transpired and although you didnât want to admit it out loud, youâd always keep tabs on him.
There werenât enough fingers on your hands to count the amount of times youâd struggled to not pick up your phone and text him after heâd won a race, or if he did badly. The urge to comfort him and to be happy for him was still there, even years later.
âI live down the road.â You said, desperate to break the tension. âYou can go.â
Carlos fell into step beside you, not sparing you a glance as he nodded.
âI know.â He said, but made no effort to leave you alone.
The two of you walked in relative silence, interjecting with small talk every now and then to fill the unbearable quiet that had blanketed over you. It took a few minutes for Carlos to relax, shoulders dropping like the tension was slowly seeping out of his body when he realised that you were beyond your anger now, speaking softly rather than the tone youâd carried a few minutes earlier. He didnât like how you sounded though, mellow and short, like youâd given up on caring. It made something ugly swirl in his stomach to the point where he started to feel nauseous.
He was starting to spiral in his thoughts, trapped inside his head and just as he opened his mouth to speak, you beat him to it.
âHowâs Ferrari treating you?â You asked and his head snapped to you. You werenât looking at him, staring straight ahead with your mouth in a thin line. âYouâve been doing well lately.â
Carlos didnât know if you were trying to act nonchalant and if you were, you were doing a piss poor job because he could see how you struggled to maintain a neutral expression on your face. He didnât want to point it out though because his mind had finally caught up to your question, teetering along the edge of sheâs keeping tabs on me.
âYeah.â His voice was hoarse and he hurriedly cleared his throat. âItâs been good, felt like a dream when I signed the contract.â
You could still remember when he started karting, how heâd plead with his parents to buy him merchandise with the Ferrari logo poorly pressed onto the material. It had always been a dream of his, and something about him achieving it made you smile.
âI bet it was.â You said softly, glancing at Carlos to find him staring at you; eyes wide and searching, like he was taking in your smile. You hurried to look away, suddenly uncomfortable with the rush of old emotions storming back and taking residence in your entire being.
âHow have you been?â He asked, genuine and curious.
You considered ignoring his question, not knowing how to answer him without making yourself out to be the most pathetic person to grace the earth. How could you tell him how youâd been in a downwards spiral for the past years? Could you even admit to the things youâd done, how youâd drank yourself to oblivion in hopes to numb yourself and worked dead end jobs to keep yourself afloat?
âIâve been fine.â Your tone was flat, letting him know that you werenât in the mood to delve deeper and thankfully he respected your wishes, keeping silent. âWell, here we are.â
You nodded up at the apartment complex youâd stopped in front of, suddenly feeling awkward as you found yourselves staring at each other with no idea how to proceed.
Carlos fidgeted as you stared at him, looking as anxious as you felt and it made you a little sad because youâd been better than this, once upon a time. Youâd never known awkward silences or odd looks, but youâd somehow managed to go from close to whatever the fuck this was. Strangers. Ex-lovers. But could you even dub him as an ex-lover when youâd only slept with him once?
You took in the sharpness of his jaw, the stubble growing on it fitting him as well as you remembered but there was a certain edge to him that hadnât existed last time you saw him. He looked fully grown up, like an adult who didnât have time for childrenâs games and torrid love affairs.
Homesickness bloomed in your chest the further your mind delved into the past, suddenly wishing that things were different. Wishing that youâd swallowed your pride and picked up your phone.
Would he have answered? Did he change his number?
You swallowed excessive saliva in your mouth, trying not to grimace when it felt like swallowing gravel as your eyes traveled down his arm that heâd successfully managed to free from his pocket, hanging by his side. Your eyes latched onto the space between his thumb and pointer finger, where the tan skin was white and raised in a small bump. A healed scar that brought such a rush of memories that the words tumbled out of your mouth before you overthought them.
âDo you wanna come in?â You asked and Carlos couldnât manage to hold his surprise in, eyebrows shooting up and jaw going a little slack. âJust⊠for a while.â
It probably sounded wrong, like you were inviting him with ulterior motives and you werenât. Really. Just the thought of him touching you made bile rise in your throat and you realised that you werenât ready. For any of this. But then again, would you ever be ready?
Whatever inner monologue you were running through in your head was halted when Carlos exhaled, glancing at the apartment building before nodding twice.
âMe encantarĂa.â He said, voice gentle.
You hurried to get your keys out of your purse, hands shaking a little and you didnât know whether it was from your nerves being shot or the unhealthy amount of alcohol youâd consumed not even an hour ago. The door gave way when you turned the key and pushed it forcefully with your shoulder, stepping inside and flicking the light on.
It wasnât much. A one bedroom apartment in a safe enough neighbourhood. Your brother had scowled and made his displeasure known when heâd helped you move in, even offering to find you a better place to rent out but you refused. Mostly because this was further away from your family and because it was yours. It had its defects and flaws, but you loved it from the moment you stepped foot inside.
Your brother and Carlos were like one person in two bodies, so you almost expected him to get his two cents in when he stepped in behind you and closed the door; Eyes roaming around and taking in the place. His face gave nothing away, as always, but then his brown eyes landed on you and his lips twitched.
âI like it.â He said, like youâd asked.
You gave a nod, secretly pleased but then you scolded yourself because why the fuck did you even care what he thought? Mierda.
âGlad to know you approve.â You muttered, annoyance pricking your heart and you didnât know why. âMake yourself comfortable, Iâll just be a minute.â
You left him to his own devices, standing in the middle of the living area looking a little lost while you sought out the comfort of your bedroom. The door closed with a click and you hurriedly changed your clothes to something more comfortable, snatching your makeup wipes where theyâd fallen on the floor to wipe at your face. Your makeup was smudged, embarrassingly so but you couldnât bring yourself to care when your heart was racing a mile a minute, thinking of the man on the other side of the door.
There was a moment of panic where you felt that shit, you shouldnât have invited him in because this apartment was the only place he hadnât touched, soiled with his fake promises and lies.
The memories of you in his bed came back with full force, thinking of how youâd woken up in the middle of the night with a smile on your face that got wiped as soon as you touched the cold side of his bed. Heâd been nowhere to be found, and youâd contemplated staying and hoping that heâd come back in the morning but then youâd found his contract on the kitchen counter and the packed suitcases youâd somehow skimmed over when you were wrapped up in him.
It had felt like a gut punch and it still did as you stared at yourself in the mirror, swallowing against the nausea swirling up from your stomach to your throat. Your eyes welled with tears, and you gave yourself a moment to silently cry before you wiped angrily at your eyes, reaching for your toothbrush.
You thought back on your younger self, how sheâd been so happy to have finally caught the eyes of her brotherâs best friend. After years of pining and hoping that heâd see her as something more than his sister. How heâd once wiped a thumb under her eye when sheâd first started experiencing with makeup in her teenage years, and heâd softly said that you donât need so much of it. Youâre beautiful, nena.
You deserved better, but you didnât know what better was. Was it in the arms of a man or the bottom of a shot glass? It was a terrifying revelation, to realise how fucked up your life had become and it was all your fault.
Closure. That was what you needed, wasnât it? But you didnât want to move on from him, because despite it all, you still loved him.
Carlos had his back to you when you came out of your room, staring hard at the frames on the wall and you briefly wondered if he noticed how youâd deliberately left out the pictures with him.
âI remember this day.â He said quietly without looking at you. His finger pointed at a framed picture of you and your best friend, at an animal sanctuary with your hands stretched out, feeding a giraffe. âYou were so happy to finally see giraffes, no one could pull you away from them.â
You wanted to smile at the memory, but it was hard when emotion was still clogging up your throat. You embraced yourself and sat down on your sofa, making a small hum of acknowledgement instead. Carlos turned around at that, sweeping his eyes across the small area before settling on you.
âThings change.â You said, because they really did.
âSĂ.â He sighed, taking a seat in the ottoman. The seat furthest away from you, you noted. âI have that picture in my driverâs room. Not that one, but a similar one where youâre by yourself.â
You knew what picture he was referring to and it made you frown. Why would he confess to that?
âWhy?â You asked, because that was the question, wasnât it? Why, why, why?
Carlos inhaled through his nose, biting the inside of his cheek.
âReminds me of how simple life used to be.â He said, like it answered the million questions in your head.
You didnât ask him to elaborate, because you didnât want to hear it. It mustâve been difficult to lead such a fast paced life, hopping from one country to the other and spending hours on driving cars. Youâd imagine that it got a little too much at some point, rendering you homesick and yearning for a simpler life. But it didnât work like that. Life rarely went the way you wanted it to.
âWhy are you really here, Carlos?â You asked, the question so sudden that it cut through the false sense of security the both of you had managed to build.
He stared at you, eyes unmoving and it was so unnerving that you looked down in your lap, pulling the sleeves of your sweater over your hands.
âI miss you.â He said, and you barely managed to hold in the scoff. Barely. âI miss us.â
âThere was no us.â You interjected, spitting the word out like it was venom.
It might as well have been because Carlos hands curled into fists where they stayed in his lap, something he always did to reel his frustration in. Somehow, that angered you. You werenât the one who walked out. You werenât the one who left him behind.
âI knoââ
âNo, you donât!â You hissed, fury finally unfurling in your chest. âEl problema es usted no sabe mi dolor o mi vacĂo. You just walk back into my life like Iâm supposed to welcome you with open arms.â
Your breathing was picking up, chest heaving with the lack of air you were heaving in and it did nothing to stop the pricks of tears in your eyes as you raised your head to glare at him. Carlos looked taken aback, hands slack from the previous fists and his eyes looked⊠Sad. Regretful. It was so pitiful that you couldnât help but laugh wetly and humourlessly, bringing a sleeved hand to wipe at your nose.
âI donât know what to say.â He admitted after a painful silence.
You looked away, sniffling as tears started falling traitorously, tracking your cheeks and you hated yourself for it. The last thing you wanted to do in front of Carlos was cry, but it seemed like your heart disagreed.
âI donât know what you want from me.â You said, quietly. âYouâve already had me and it wasnât enough.â
âIt was enough.â His voice was more forceful than you expected, making your stomach drop. âIt is enough. The fault was never with you, it was me.â
âCĂĄllate.â You shook your head. âDonât do the itâs not you, itâs me bullshit.â
Carlos sucked his teeth in exasperation.
âYou know Iâve always loved you, nena.â He said and it made you look up.
Love? For a moment, your heart stopped beating in your chest as hope flared in every crevice of your body. But you reeled it in just as quick, because if he called fucking and dumping love, then you were better off. You mightâve been damaged but you still recognised that you deserved better.
âI donât know.â You set your jaw. âYou have a funny way of showing it, if you do.â
He sat up in the ottoman, ignoring the groan of protest it gave under his weight. The both of you stared at each other for a second and it felt like the longest hour of your life.
âThat nightâŠâ He began, trailing off like he wasnât sure how to put his thoughts into words. âNena, I didnât do anything that I regretted, and I still donât. The only thing I regret is leaving you the way I did because you deserve so much better.â
Something wet touched your throat and you hurried to wipe at it, realising that tears were still rolling down your face. It irked you.
Carlos sighed heavily, like the conversation was too much to bear and you agreed with that sentiment, for once.
âThen why did you? Leave?â Your voice was quiet, broken and you hated the sound of it.
Carlos pulled a small face like it pained him to hear you so broken down, and it sent a small zip of satisfaction through you. You wanted him to hurt like youâd hurt.
âBecause I was scared.â He confessed. âI was scared about everything. Your brother, this new life that I got pushed into. It was too much and I was panicking that night. I just wanted to feel normal again.â
âSo⊠you slept with me and left?â You laughed bitterly.
Carlos cut you a stern look that still, to this day, shut you right up. Heâd always had the face for it, the round and wide dark eyes and the bushy eyebrows. He could look intimidating when he wanted to, not that he ever scared you but you knew when to shut up.
âNo. I sought you out because you were the only person who feels safe, who feels like home.â
He said feels. Not felt. So did that mean you still felt like home to him? You werenât sure what to think or believe, feeling nauseous and lost all of a sudden.
âI realise that I went about it completely wrong.â He continued when you still hadnât spoken. âI have a lot of regrets in my life, nena. But leaving you in my bed is the biggest of them all.â
The confession felt heavy, riddled with underlying emotions and confessions that you werenât really ready to confront nor unpack. It was exhausting, all this new information invading your every sense and Carlos mustâve sensed how overwhelmed youâd suddenly become, because he palmed the tops of his thighs and sucked his teeth.
âDo you wanna get out for a bit?â He asked and you raised your eyebrows in slight bewilderment.
âItâs two in the morning.â You replied slowly and that prompted a smile from Carlos.
The sight of it was so unexpected and beautiful that it felt like a sucker punch, making you look away before you started staring.
âThat never stopped you before.â
Before. Before when youâd sneak out of the house with your girlfriends to meet up with other friends and go to the most obscure parties. And Carlos would always be the one to catch you in the act, whenever he stayed over the house. Heâd never berate or rat you out, just smirk and tell you to stay safe. To call if you ever needed him.
âFine.â You relented, standing up and making your way over to the hallway. âDo you have a car?â
âYeah, I parked it not too far from here.â He regarded you silently when you reached for your shoes, slipping them on. âAre you going to go out like that?â
It didnât sound judgemental, only curious and thatâs why you shot him an amused stare instead of picking up a fight out of annoyance.
âYes.â You said, short and sweet.
He gave you a long stare before nodding, and that was that.
Fifteen minutes later and you were sitting in the passenger seat of a Ferrari, speeding down the deserted highway. There was no clear destination in either of your minds, but you cracked open the window and let the wind whip your hair, closing your eyes for a moment.
The radio was playing quietly in the background, almost drowned out by the roar of the engine, but it was comforting all the same.
Carlos hadnât said a word since he started the car, only hitting you with a do you want seat warmers on? to which youâd shook your head. But he was good company, silent and comforting, just like he used to be.
âI love this song.â You said softly when the voices on the radio drifted off, the familiar tunes of Lovers Rock filling the relative silence.
Carlos didnât say anything, just reached a hand out to turn the sound up a few bars, shooting you a glance that you felt in your core. It was amazing how he still made you feel like that, like someone had reached down your throat and fisted your heart violently. It was a sickening feeling, one that was so addicting and dangerous but you still yearned for it.
You were still mad at him, but you could also see a clearer picture now that heâd given you his side of the story and apologised. It wasnât that you forgave him - that would take time - but you werenât holding a grudge as strong like before.
It was hard though, to not acknowledge how he still made you feel like the wide eyed teenage girl whoâd once saw the stars and moon in his dark eyes, whoâd feel sick with love and admiration for him.
Because love can burn like a cigarette,
and leave you alone with nothing.
There was an irony to the lyrics, one that seemed to fit your current life like a glove. Carlos cleared his throat.
âAre you hungry?â He asked, breaking the silence.
Your stomach still felt unsettled from the drinks youâd had and from him showing up and upending your life, so you shook your head in the negative and turned your head to look at him.
âNo, thank you.â You whispered.
Carlos didnât take his eyes off the road and you took the chance to look at him, taking in the sharpness of his jaw and his strong nose. His hair was longer than last time you saw him, floppy and soft without any product in it and it shouldâve annoyed you how beautiful he looked. Like something straight out of a romance movie.
There were a slight shadow under his eyes though, looking a lot like a person who carried the weight of the world on their shoulders and you fisted your hands in your lap to avoid reaching out to swipe a thumb over the bags of his eyes. Youâd been so swept up in your anger that youâd failed to realise that Carlos was probably hurting just as much, he just couldnât show it or self-destruct.
âEstĂĄs mirando, nena.â His voice, paired with the pull of his mouth made you look away.
Warmth spread all over your body when you realised that youâd been caught staring, for far too long to play it off.
âWhere are we going?â You asked, in desperate need to change the subject and Carlos noticed it, because his nose flared as he tugged his bottom lip between his teeth; Like he was trying to hold his smile off.
âLa playa.â He said.
The air had chilled considerably when you stepped out of the car, the wind whipping your bare legs and you pulled your sweater over your hands to find some comforting warmth as you gazed out over the beach.
It was dark, completely deserted even by the boardwalk and it was perfect for you, not in the mood to run into anyone who might know the man who was currently walking a few steps behind you.
The sand found its way into your shoes but you paid it little to no mind as you hurried your steps to the shoreline, far enough that the water wouldn't reach you, but close enough to hear the ominuous sounds of crashing waves.
"It's cold." Carlos said and you turned around, taking in the scrunch of his nose as he glanced around.
"Es perfecto." You said, waiting until Carlos looked over at you to give him a tentative smile. There was something in his face that changed at the sight of your open and vulnerable expression, but you didn't stop to think too hard on it.
Instead, you reached for your oversized sweater and pulled it clean off your head, ignoring Carlos' sounds of mortified and confused protest. His voice climbed in octaves when you kicked your shorts off, toeing your shoes away before you began walking backwards toward the ocean.
"Ay, what are you doing?" He asked, taking a step forward like he wanted to stop you. "You're gonna get sick!"
You ignored him, only breaking eye contact when the current carried up the shore, frothy water licking your calves and it was so cold that you felt it in your entire being. A sharp gasp left your lips, but you were determined to get a dip in just to clear your head.
It had been a long night, and getting sick was the last thing on your mind as water enveloped you.
Carlos watched silently, though his heart was pounding against his ribcage whenever he lost sight of you for a mere second. You'd always emerge from the water, smiling like you were in your own world and that's probably what stopped him from stalking right over and yank you out of the bed of water.
You looked so free, the complete opposite of how you'd looked the entire night and he selfishly didn't want that look on your face to diminish. Granted, you weren't smiling out of joy nor were you directing it at him, but the burden on your shoulders looked a little lighter when you finally started walking out of the water.
He tried hard not to stare at your body, the skimpy lingerie doing absolutely nothing to hide the most private parts of you. Carlos didn't know if he was just imagining things, but you'd truly grown into yourself since he last saw you.
You were shivering when you reached him, arms embracing your upper body like they were going to provide the warmth you needed to not send yourself into shock. He shrugged his jacket off without thinking when you hurriedly redressed in your sweater, water still dripping down your hair and body.
Carlos was ever the worrier, sitting you down on the sand and draping his jacket around your shoulder. You didn't protest, happily accepting it with a stuttered thank you that had his chest squeezing.
"You've always been good at surprising me." Carlos said when a few minutes had passed. He smiled when you gazed at him, trying not to react when you shifted and accidentally bumped your thigh against his.
You pulled away slightly, looking out into the darkness.
"How long are you staying?" You asked, quietly and slowly like you weren't sure if you wanted to hear the answer.
You knew realistically that he couldn't stay, he wouldn't. Carlos had a whole other life to live and a job to tend to, but you'd foolishly believed that maybe he'd stick around.
Carlos had a crease between his eyebrows that told you otherwise though, and you knew what was coming out of his mouth before he even said the words.
"Two days." He replied quietly, the sound almost getting swallowed up by the rushing waves in the distance. "I'm supposed to be in Italy by now but I wanted to see you."
You smiled despite yourself, a small graze of the lips that had Carlos inhale through his nose.
"I'm glad you came." You confessed out loud, the very same words you'd been scared to utter for the past hour.
Now they were out in the open, and Carlos was staring at the side of your head like he'd maybe heard wrong.
"Me too." He said softly, watching you shift as a breeze blew by.
Your thigh grazed his and this time, you didn't move away, letting the warmth of your flesh seep through his jeans.
"I'm sorry for everything." Carlos pulled a leg up to rest his cheek on the knee, head turned towards you. "I wish I could take it all back."
"I know." You said quietly.
You looked at each other in silence and you took in the slope of his nose and the tanned skin. The apples of his cheeks were a little sunburnt, lips dry but oh so full and inviting. You stared at them, thinking back to how they'd tasted that one fateful night.
Carlos cheeks went a little pink at your scrutiny and you quickly looked away, feeling yourself flush warmth all over at being caught staring so obviously.
"Come with me." He said and you blinked, confusion marring your face when you turned back to look at him. "To Italy. Just to get away for a bit. You can meet my friends and watch me race."
You hesitated, feeling lost all of a sudden because you weren't sure if you were ready for it yet. But a small part of you wanted to go with him, to let go of this life of destruction you'd managed to envelop yourself in.
Carlos hesitantly touched your hand that you had in your lap, fingertips against the palm of your hand and that one small touch was so electrifying that you filled your belly with air, holding your breath until it hurt your chest before exhaling.
"Charles has a girlfriend who I think you'd get along with well. Sheâs very much like you." He continued, sounding an awful lot like a salesman and it made you smile. âYouâd love her, I think.â
You didn't know who Charles was, but the name rang a bell and you took a shot in the dark that it was his teammate.
"I probably would." You replied slowly and Carlos pinched eyebrows relaxed a tad bit when you finally broke your silence, like your silence had built some anxiety. "Can I think on it? I just â"
"Yes." He interrupted you, like he completely understood. "You don't have to explain yourself. I'll be around for two more days so you can take your time."
You thought about your brother, wondering if he knew what had spiralled that night before Carlos left to start his career. Did he have a hunch or did Carlos tell him? All you really knew was that your brother had flown out plenty of times to attend races, so you knew that they were still in contact, and by the looks of it, good friends. Heâd invited you along the first few times, only stopping when your polite noâs had turned into snapping.
âWhat are you thinking about?â Carlos voice brought you out of your thoughts and you realised heâd been looking at your face the entire time, trying to read your thoughts when your eyebrows furrowed.
âDoes he know?â You asked and Carlos looked confused for exactly two seconds before his eyebrows smoothed out, a humourless smile twitching his lip as he gazed out at the ocean in front of you.
He pulled up both legs, resting his forearms on his knees and clutching his hands together.
âYes.â He said and your stomach dropped a little. âHe came to a race in Miami a year ago and I felt⊠guilty. He was talking about how you should come to a race sometime and how concerned he was for you.â
Your eyebrows jumped. Your brother knew. How much did he know? He hadnât even brought it up with you, not once.
âI told him.â He let out a laugh with no real joy behind it. âHe punched me, called me a motherfucker and left.â
Your mouth gaped open as you took in the new information, eyebrows raised so high that you were scared theyâd get stuck in your hairline but you couldnât bring yourself to relax.
You had never really been that close to your brother, close enough to spend some time in the same circle of friends whenever it was called for but you werenât sit down and talk about your feelings close. It shouldnât have surprised you that he hadnât reached out to you and spoke to you about how youâd fucked his best friend, but he hadnât treated you any different the past year. He still called and texted to check on you, expressing his worry whenever you gave him the old Iâm fine reply. Now you knew why heâd been so gentle with you.
âI deserved it.â Carlos said after a stretch of silence, looking at you.
It made you sad for him then, and a little ashamed of yourself that youâd never stopped to consider how Carlos had felt in all of this. Youâd always thought that he ran because he couldnât deal with turning you down gently, but looking at him now? He was clearly struggling as well.
âYou didnât.â You said and Carlos pulled a face like he didnât believe you. âIâm just a little horrified that my brother knows I slept with his best friend.â
The both of you smiled at each other.
âItâs not his business, anyway.â Carlos said, leaning his weight to one side so he could bump his shoulder against yours. âJust you and me, Âżverdad?â
âSĂ.â You smiled like the words he was saying didnât turn your stomach inside out.
Carlos looked straight ahead, and you scooted closer to him with a shiver, still cold and wet. He didnât even hesitate to put his arm around you when your sides pressed together, leaning your head against his shoulder and basking in his warmth when a breeze blew by.
Your stomach was doing somersaults, twisting with nerves and a sense of giddiness and you really hoped that he couldnât hear the harsh pound of your heart against your rib cage when he turned his head to press a kiss to the crown of your head.
âTe amo, nena.â He whispered, faint and intimate but it still felt like heâd reached into your bones and rattled them with a violent shake.
Hearing the quiet love confession come from his mouth stunned you, hope blooming in your chest as you picked your head up to take a look at his face. He was close, so close, and the inviting pout of his lips made it all the more difficult to resist pressing your lips against them.
Carlos inhaled sharply through his nose when you grazed your lips against his, a whisper of a touch that electrified you to the core. The arm around you tightened, pressing you closer as your noses brushed.
âKiss me.â You whispered and Carlos did exactly that.
The press of his lips made you warm all over, hands coming up to clutch his hoodie when he pried your lips open; the touch of tongues making you push harder. It felt a lot like coming home, like universe had aligned itself, and you basked in the feeling of it all.
âNena.â Carlos murmured when the kiss reached its end, lips touching yours as he spoke. He pushed his forehead to yours, eyelashes laying so pretty on the tops of his cheeks as he closed his eyelids. âI want you, Iâve wanted you for years. But maybe we should take things slow.â
You nodded, though you couldnât resist stealing another kiss that he was all too eager to respond to. A groan rumbled in his chest when you placed both hands on his wide shoulders, letting him guide you to lay down on the sand.
It wasnât as dark as it had been when you first arrived, but the faint light cast an almost beautiful shadow to his face as he hovered above you. His eyes were dark pools, staring into yours while his hand brushed wet strands of hair from your face. He crooked them behind your ear, cupping your cheek to bring you up for another kiss that had you whimpering for more.
Take things slow. Wasnât two years enough? How much longer were you supposed to wait?
Carlos mustâve shared that sentiment, trailing his lips down your jaw to your throat in sucking kisses. He licked your skin, tongue warm against your flesh as he tasted the saltwater and you squirmed at the touch.
âNeed you, Carlos.â You murmured when he pulled away.
He laughed breathlessly like he couldnât believe the words you were saying, a hand travelling down your body with his eyes fastened on yours. You didnât even dare to blink, staring at him until his hand found its way into your shorts and underwear, brushing his finger against your clit. Your eyelids fluttered shut, mouth going slack when he swiped his fingers through the mess of wet, bringing them back to circle your clit.
You grabbed him with terse hands, gasping and moaning while he brought you to a quick climax. It was sudden and fast, absolutely earth shattering when you climbed up to the edge and toppled right over. Carlos silenced your moans with his mouth, not kissing, just slotted over yours as he stole your breath and sounds.
âYou sound beautiful, nena.â He murmured, fingertip nudging your sensitive clit just to see the way your mouth dropped open in a shivered gasp. âMissed that look on your face.â
âCarlos.â Your voice sounded pleading, hand sliding to the back of his head to bury your fingers in his hair. âWant you right now. Please.â
He let out a shuddered breath, pulling his hand out of your shorts to unbutton his jeans and zip them down far enough to fish himself out. You struggled to not stare down between the two of you as you kicked your shorts and panties off, marvelling in the sounds he made as he spit in his hand and jacked himself off; slicking himself up generously.
There was a moment where you looked at each other, unblinking and silent. His cock slid against you, slicking himself up further before his head caught where you were clenching in anticipation. It was stupid and reckless, to not use protection and to even do it so publicly but you needed him.
You couldnât wait for another hour, and neither could he, judging by the way he slid inside with a gasped breath. Your eyes clenched shut as the intrusion locked your body up, finding comfort in his hands as he brushed your face and pressed kisses to it. You relaxed, feeling the girth of him stretching you out the further he pushed inside.
It had been a while since someone had stretched you to your limits like he currently was, but you were eager to feel every inch of him and you made it clear by wrapping your arms around him, spreading your legs further like an invitation.
Carlos let out a breathless laugh, pushing his lips against yours in a loving kiss and you lost yourself in it as he began thrusting. He hit you deep, kissed your spot with the head of his cock and the coarse hair of his groin rubbed deliciously against your clit.
It wasnât romantic, not something youâd see in movies, but it was intimate and perfect for you. He conveyed so much in the movement of his hips, eyes stuck on you like he didnât dare to look away in fear of missing every twitch and movement of your face.
You got a hand between the two of you, moaning and gasping when your second orgasm crept up on you. It made your head spin, how fast youâd been brought to the edge yet again and you clenched around him, screaming out your climax. Carlos wasnât far behind, all kinds of curses streaming from his lips as he pulled out and came on your lower abdomen.
The stark contrast of his warmth against your cool skin made you shiver, still struggling to come down from your high. Carlos let out a drawn out groan that screamed of sudden exhaustion, grabbing the sleeve of his jacket to wipe the come off your skin before he dropped down; Half on top of you and half on the sand.
âWhere are you staying?â You asked, voice a little raspy from how dry your throat was.
âMy parents house.â He replied, eyes taking in the slope of your nose and the pout of your bitten raw lips.
You turned your head to smile at him, eyes fluttering as he pushed forward to kiss your mouth.
âYou can stay with me.â Your voice was timid, a little shy and it made Carlos smile.
âBueno.â
Carlosâ hand found your collarbone, stroking the pads of his fingers against the raised bone. His eyes caught on the glimmering necklace around your throat, heart stopping for a split second when the pendant caught the light and he realised what he was looking at.
The number 55 was staring up at him, so small but so glaringly obvious that he wondered how heâd failed to notice it.
You mustâve sensed his body language shift, eyes flicking over his face where it remained unmoving.
âI wanted to keep you close to my heart.â You whispered and it was like gospel to Carlosâ ears. âI never stopped loving you.â
His eyes flicked up to yours, face softening even more.
âNeither did I.â
He thought of the years heâd lived through without you, thinking of the missed time and opportunity he couldâve had with you if he had just picked up the phone. But it didnât matter now.
Carlos gazed at your face, at the stars reflected in your eyes, and made a vow to himself to never let you slip away again.
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said something stupid, instead of 'i love you.'- c.leclerc
can't we just act like we never broke each other's hearts?
pairing: charles leclerc x female reader
word count: 26.9k (my bad fr fr)
warnings: 18+ minors dni, protected sex, oral sex, google translated french. tw: charles' 2022 season (including france)
a/n: this is something, that's for certain. good or bad is yet to be decided.
Youâd texted him two weeks before the season opener. It was short, simple, and a huge overstep, one you promised yourself years ago youâd never make. Do you have any extra paddock passes? Heâd said yes, and you begrudgingly asked if you could have an extra, if you could bring a guest, a boyfriend, Michael. Heâs a big fan, of Charles and of Formula One. I really want to impress him.
Michaelâs been impatiently itching to meet Charles since he spotted a photo of the two of you in your living room. You thought youâd taken them all down before he came over, but, you missed one. Heâs sort of a Ferrari fan-boy, an Italian whose transplanted himself to Monte Carlo. Youâd been putting off the meeting as long as possible, forced to consider if Michael actually liked you, or if he just wanted to know Charles. It wasnât easy, to keep them apart. It was winter break, and Charles was in Monaco too much to be easily avoided. Thereâs a lot of verbiage that is used to describe home, vast is not one of them.Â
You feel strangely out of place with someone else to look after in the paddock. Ferrari hospitality had been your home away from home for years now, the way you followed him around the globe like a helicopter parent that first year he wore red. The paddock was always different, but maintained a comfortable familiarity, recognizable faces, names, buildings and colors. Michael was wide-eyed and curious and you smiled at the way the sun bounced off his hair, the excitement he couldnât contain when amongst the chaos youâd become accustomed to. His presence, though, felt intrusive on something that had, for so long, been just yours.Â
Arthurâs familiar voice calls your name, over the bustling hum of different important and wealthy figures. You grin when your eyes meet his, stand up from the leather sofa youâre seated on, give him, and Pascale, big hugs. Charles told me you brought someone? She asked, voice sweet and curious.Â
Her tone was contrasted by Arthurâs quip asking where your arm-candy had run off to, wiggling his brows and searching the room for a man heâd never seen. Heâs oblivious to the glare Pascale shoots into the side of his head.Â
You explain that heâs in the bathroom, check your watch. âHave you seen Charles today?â Itâs not like him to not stop by and say hello, to check in and make sure youâre still enjoying yourselfâor that youâre still capable of pretending you are. You wonder if heâs avoiding you, annoyed by the presence of your guest, a guest he doesnât know. Itâs unheard of, you asking for passes. Itâs literally never happened. Youâd asked about the possibility of one for yourself, back when he was with Sauber, and heâs maintained that you have an open invite since.Â
âWe were just with him.â Arthur says.
âHow is he?â You ask, because he might be mad at you, but also because you know him. His brain works like clockwork. Two hours before a race, right now, heâll be doubting himself, doubting the car, doubting himself again. In his moments of downtime, before heâs swept up into the chaos of it all, his brain will pick itself apart with nervousness. You think itâs endearing, his nerves. They remind you that heâs still Charles at times where he feels so grand and invincible.Â
âHeâs good.â Arthur says, because between crucifying jokes and mockings of his big brother, Arthur idolizes him. Heâs none the wiser to Charlesâ anxieties and insecurities because heâs never looking for him, blind confidence in the man heâll never admit is his biggest role model. You look to Pascale, who understands the depth of your question, and get a reaffirming nod.Â
Arthur diggs two sticker tags from his pocket, full grid access. âFor you.â He says, fastening one onto your lanyard. âAnd for the boy.â He holds out the other, presents it like a crown jewel. You sigh, snatch it from his hand and shove it into your pocket. You hate watching races in the garage, with all the hyper-wealthy motherfuckers who buy their way in. You always feel like you donât belong. Like, no matter where you move, youâre always in someone more importantâs way. Your limbs donât feel like your own, unable to settle, so close to the comfort of your best friend yet miles away from his occupied mind.Â
âWhatâs going on?â Michael asks, airy tone in direct conflict to his hand on the small of your back, tense with envy. Heâs silently laying claim to you, reminding you who you belong to, and you almost laugh at the thought of someone being threatened by Arthur. Charles, you could see. Charles, youâve had that argument about before. Arthur, though? Arthur, who slept with his ratty blanket until he was sixteen, who lost not one, but two pet goldfish in the span of a year. Arthur, who is very happily in love with the sweetest girl to ever grace this Earth.Â
âCâest lui?â Arthur asks, tone bored. âIl est vieux.â
âThis is him.â You say, through gritted teeth, introduce them all formally and sit by as an observer in their conversation. The lowlight was Arthurâs mention of grid access, and Michaelâs giddiness at watching the race in the garage. You knew then that youâd be uncomfortable well into the night.Â
You end up in the garage during the driverâs parade. âDonât touch anything.â You told Michael, the same warning Charles had given you the first time he brought you through a garage. The warning you give was less for your boyfriend, and more for you, who is desperate to run a hand over the red chassis, to memorize every detail of it. If you do, you might feel more comfortable when heâs inside, might be able to pretend you understand the concepts he casually mentions over dinner.Â
You squeal like a child when you see Isa, hugging her tight and spilling all the details of your lives since Abu Dhabi last year. You introduce her to Michael, who says heâs a big fan of Carlos. Joris tugs on your ponytail, appearing with Andrea, who kisses your cheek, tells you Charles is going to be so happy to see you in the garage. You roll your eyes.Â
Charles is heard before he is seen, a loud laugh, a familiar voice calling out your name as soon as he turned the corner. Heâs probably just as surprised to see you in here as you are uncomfortable about it. When you hug him, the knotted waist of his overalls digs into you awkwardly. âYouâre warm.â You say, peeling your body from his sweaty form.Â
âItâs hot.â He says, runs a hand through his salty hair.
âThey shouldnât make you wear all this during the parade.â You said, and he shrugged it off, asked where your guy was. You look around, search the garage for him. He canât be far, and surely heâs gawking from one corner or another. If not at the sight of Charles Leclerc, Formula One driver, than at Charles, a man, whose hand hovers just behind the small of your back.Â
Two hands, two separate distinctions. One, possessive and impossible to ignore. The other, protective, almost goes unnoticed. For a few breaths, your shoulders are relaxed, but then his hand is gone, shaking Michaelâs. âGood to meet you, Mate.â Charles says, and the whole place feels like a straightjacket again.
â âÂ
You stand next to Isa, your hands wrapped nervously around each otherâs the entire race, watching monitors and listening in on the headsets. âCarlos says the cars have it this year.â She says, while the guys are lining up in their starting spots. It feels like everyone at Ferrari has been chasing it, whatever it is, for a decade. Every year is the year, and every year, youâre begging Charles not to base his self-worth on a bad race or a bad season. Youâll believe in him until your last breath, but your glass of Ferrari is never going to be half-full.
Charles and Max, Max and Charles, Charles and Max. They flip flop positions lap after lap. When it seems like heâs settled in, you allow yourself to breathe. The universe has never allowed him comfort, though. Enter, safety car. The replay is on the screen, and your heart pangs for Pierre, watching his dash go black in system failure. Your heart aches for Charles, though, and the forty-six laps of hard work that was erased just like that.Â
Max races like Max, inching closer and closer to Charles, practically lining up next to him. Youâre rearing up for a dogfight, but Max fucks up. You donât know what he did, why he did it, and it doesnât seem like anyone else does either. It doesnât matter, though, because Charles is gone. Something in you settles, sure and confident, even if itâs not over yet. You hear murmurs, celebrations, Max is retiring. Charles is going to win.
A Ferrari one-two to start the season. Your smile is so big your cheeks ache. Under the lights, watching him up on the top step, listening to your national anthem, you allow yourself to hope, to buy into the hype everyone else is swearing by.Â
His skin shines brighter than his smile, sparkling with whatever lemon-lime soda theyâd filled the champagne bottles with this year. You have a momentary lapse, consider what his skin would taste like, sweaty and sticky and sweet. Michaelâs presence, his arms caging you in between him and the barricade, assures that the thought is nothing more than a passing one.Â
He hugs you when he makes the rounds, being whisked away to whatever media responsibilities he had to fulfill before he heads to the debrief. Sweat and seven-up soaked, heâs running on pure adrenaline, squeezing you so tight you struggle to breathe.Â
â â
You shower back at the hotel, wash his hug down the drain with the rest of the race anxiety. He takes everyone out to dinner late that night; Arthur, Lorenzo, Pascale, Andrea, Joris, Michael, and you. Itâs a tradition. No matter how late or early in the day it happened. A podium, a celebratory dinner. Like always.Â
The air is light, happy conversations flow from smiling faces, filling the room with laughter and excitement and hope. Youâre sandwiched between your boyfriend and your best friend. Charlesâ arm throws itself around your shoulder when Lorenzo retells a story meant to embarrass you. Michael reacts accordingly, hand on your thigh, fingers digging into your skin. Theyâre fighting over you and only one of them knows it.Â
Charles is engaged in conversation, and youâre pretty sure youâre going to have bruises in your leg by the time you go to sleep tonight. You nudge Charlesâ foot with yours, his head turns before his eyes, lingering on Andrea and the conversation youâre pulling him from before he's searching your eyes curiously. You shrug your shoulder, and as if noticing itâs there for the very first time, he drops his arm onto the table and returns to the conversation.Â
He mustâve showered, changed, and hurried here. His hair is still damp, and you want to play with it. Curl the long pieces around your finger and play with the short pieces at the nape of his neck. You soak up his presence as much as you can, knowing itâs going to be several weeks and several races before you see each other again. Crazy lives and crazy schedules that wonât feel normal again until break. You both take care to cherish the times you do get to spend together these days. Youâre not twenty-one following him around the world anymore.
âMerci.â You say, at the end of the night. âFor everything.â
He shakes his head, shoos your words away like theyâre unnecessary, like you shouldnât be thanking him for pulling strings. âTon jouet garçon parle-t'il français?â He asks quietly, just for the two of you to hear. You roll your eyes, shake your head. âIl aest assez fan de moi.âÂ
âTu lâaime bien alors?â
âNon.â He chuckles. âJe ne lâaime pas. Pas pour toi.â He says it matter-of-factly, annoyingly so and without any elaboration.Â
âHeureusement, que tu nâes pas ma mĂšre.â
âHeureusement.â
Itâs Miami when you see him next. Hot and humid and sunny, once more. Windy, too. Big gusts move the palms, gluing your hair haphazardly across your face before you tie it back, blowing his shirt tight across his chest. âHowâs grandpa?â He asks at lunch. Youâre sat across from him on the expansive patio of a waterfront restaurant, waves crashing against the cement beams below you, a seagull running around on the wooden planks in search of fresh crumbs.Â
After Bahrain, Arthur wouldnât drop the salt and pepper allegations, pushing until he found out Michael was seven years older than you. None of the boys have referred to him as anything but a grandfather since.Â
âOh, that?â You say, nonchalant, like you canât be bothered when you very much were. âHe liked me too much.â Translation, he wanted me on a leash.Â
âHe liked you too much.â He repeated, smile tugging on his lips. âPlease,â He gestured to you, âĂlaborer.â
âYou never liked him, anyway.â You say into the rim of your water glass, taking a long, cold drink. The condensation from the glass drips down your wrist, forearm, off your bent elbow and onto your bare thighs, just past the hem of your sundress. The glass makes a heavy clunk when you set it back on the tabletop.Â
âOh, I loved him.â He laughed. âHe was just wrong for you, chou.â
âYou barely knew him.â
âAfter he left you alone in the garage?â He leans back in his seat, gestures harshly across his throat and clicks his tongue. âThere was nothing to know.â
âYou leave me alone in the garage.â You remind him and heâs quick to jump in.Â
âI do not.â He leans forward, elbows on the table, animated. You smile, he smiles. âI leave you with Arthur.â
âYou do not!â You laugh, protest without thinking, without needing to. The memory of each and every race youâve spent in the garage is burnt into your memory. Every second feels like a second and a half. There are no distractions, itâs just you, in the way, and him, flying around in a death trap at a million kilometers an hour.Â
He tries to argue, insist he would never leave you alone if he thought you were uncomfortable. You donât want to hear it, though. If he does leave you under the watchful eye of someone, they have always done a pretty shitty job at looking out for you. âWhatever.â He finally concedes. âWhoâs on the radar now?â Nobody, you tell him. Going to be single for a while.Â
âWhat are your plans tonight?â He asked over the phone. It was the middle of the decade, the start of your first year at University. The longest youâve been away from home and the only time heâd been there without you.Â
Jules had died that summer, and the sun had felt dimmed since. You spoke to Charles almost every day, but you were in no rush to get back home. It was ironic, Monaco reminding you of Jules, you finding an escape from the memories in France. It should be the other way around, but, logic has never had much hold over grief.Â
âI have a presentation, remember?â He listened to you revise for it, mindlessly picking apart your notes, adjusting even the most minute details, for hours last week. You cried when the ancient printer in the library wouldnât fulfill itâs only earthly purpose, and he patiently calmed you down, stayed with you on the phone until you fell asleep that night. He never acknowledged it, and you were grateful for it.Â
âThatâs tonight?â He asked, sounded defeated.
âYes. Why?â
âI miss you.â He said, and you nearly crumbled into a little ball on the street. âI was going to come see you.â
You hesitated for a moment, tried to remember just how messy your apartment was, sized up your outfit. You didnât want him to go telling stories to your parents of a disheveled daughter drowning somewhere just below the surface in France. You wanted to be put together when you saw him again, be the rock you were before you left.Â
Generously, you would say you fell somewhere in the grey. âCome, then.â You told him. âYou can pick me up.â
â â
Nearly three hours later, after the conclusion of your presentation and his mind-numbing drive, heâs parked a short walk from your university building, waiting for you. âSulut.â He said.Â
âHey.â You replied, climbing into the passenger seat. âHow was Portugal?â Heâd just gotten home and youâd been too busy with school to check any race results. Plus, you always liked hearing his recounts of races more than Google results.Â
âHow was your presentation?â He asks, doesnât answer your question.Â
âGood.â You smiled, buckled your seatbelt.Â
Last season, before last summer and before Jules, you couldnât get him to shut up about racing. It was all he ever wanted to talk about. He could be winning races or embarrassing himself on track, it didnât matter, heâd talk your ear off. Now, heâs a lockbox with a combination that changes every day. You talk and you talk but nothing is really said, not anymore. You use each otherâs voices to drown out the ones in your heads, to dull the pain, if even briefly.Â
Growing up, it had always been your three families. Your fathers were best friends, had known each other before they knew their wives. You vacationed together, spent holidays together, had monthly family dinners and walked to the bus stop together. All of you kids were the same ages. Not planned, completely coincidental, theyâd always say. You didnât buy it, Arthur was the only one without a match, poor kid, the permanent brunt of jokes and the forever baby brother.Â
âI donât know my way around here.â He says, hand on the back of your headrest, backing the car out onto the road.Â
âI do.â He smiles. Oh, how you missed his smile. All perfect and pretty, just like the rest of him, only happier.
You arrive in Spain early, with him. Thereâs optimism after Miami, Charles is back on track, back to believing he deserves the title and then some. You all spend the entirety of Monday in La Barceloneta, soaking up as much tranquility and Spanish sun as you can.
Someone is knockingâpoundingâon the door of your hotel room. The sun has barely risen, pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting hard golden shadows on the entire room. âFuck.â You groan, rubbing sleep from your eyes, dragging your feet the entire way to the door. When Charles had said, weâre going to spend all day at the beach, you thought he meant midday, at the earliest. âWhat?â You say, met with Arthurâs annoyed face.Â
âYou could sleep through a freight train.â He says, and you flip him off.Â
âYou could have called me.â You say, yawn, stretch your arms out above your head. He rolls his eyes, and it gets under your skin in a way only a little brother can manage. You wish you had a shoe to throw at his stupid face.Â
âCharles did. Three times.â He holds up a matching amount of fingers and you nod, that sounds like something youâd sleep through. âAre you ready?âÂ
Deep breaths, deep breaths, donât lunge at him. âDo I look ready?â He looks you up and down and you can actually see the gears turning in his head, all three of his brain cells working overtime trying to convince him to keep his mouth shut. âDonât answer that.â You say, stop him before your eye starts to twitch. âGive me half an hour.â
You knock on the door to Charlesâ suite forty-five minutes later. Messy ponytail that you barely brushed, swimsuit, shorts, cotton button-up, entirely too large tote bag slung over your shoulder. Lorenzo answers, âGood morning, sunshine.â He says, all sing-songy and stupid. âSleep well?â
You walk straight past him into the suite. You think your entire room could fit in his living area. You walk through it, past Joris and Arthur, engaged in a heated conversation, and Carla, who looks about as sleepy as you do. Charles is leaning against the kitchen counter, eating a bowl of something colorful. âNo coffee?â You say.
Mouth full, he answers around his spoon, âI donât drink coffee.â
âBut, I do.â You say, grab a sliced strawberry from his bowl, eat it in one bite.Â
âFeel free to make some.â Lorenzo chimes in. You flip him off, too, pouring coffee grinds into a paper filter and starting a pot. Lorenzo grabs a strawberry from Charlesâ bowl too, and the metal spoon promptly collides with his arm. âAy!â He yelps, tries, and fails, to jump away from the cutlery. âYou let her have one!â
âShe scares me when sheâs tired.â He says, and you take another one because you know youâll get away with it. He points the spoon at you, warningly. You wink, pop it in your mouth and he smiles, chuckles into the breakfast.Â
â â
You fall asleep on the cabana bed in your shorts and bikini top, cotton shirt unbuttoned and laid over your face like itâs going to block the light out. You wake up when youâre hit with a bottle of sunscreen. Thereâs a possibility whoever threw it didnât realize you were asleep, but the seam lines on your legs lead you to believe youâve been relatively stationary since laying down here.Â
You pull the shirt off your face, sit up, disoriented from the nap. âYouâre going to burn,â Charles says, rubbing the lotion into his face. âYou have pink cheeks.â
âNo, I donât.â You say, but lather up anyway, ask Carla to reach the places you canât.Â
The first drinks of the day come with lunch, a round of beers. Corona with lime. You keep yourself paced for the first couple hours, a 1:1 ratio between liquor and water. You maintain the slightest of buzzes, one that you really only feel when you catch yourself giggling too hard at one of their stupid jokes. Itâs not the beer that takes you out, youâve spent your entire life trying to keep up with Charles and his professional-drinker friends. Itâs not the Sangria, either, however fun that is to sip. Itâs the shots. Itâs always the cheap tequila shots that do you in. You feel them too late, donât realize youâre tipsy until youâre shitfaced. Youâll learn one day. One day, but not today.Â
You and Charles are sent to find tequila, and you walk down the beach until you find a bar that looks like itâs got decent shit. âI like you like this,â You say, toes sinking into the wet sand, cool water washing over your feet with each crashing wave.Â
âLike what?â He asks, squinting through the sun to see you. You left your sunglasses at the cabana and he gave you his to wear. They were big on your face and you thought if you moved too quickly theyâd fall off into the sand. His linen shirt whips in the wind, his hair is sticking up in all directions, greasy with sunscreen. He glistened with sweat and coconut lotion, beautifully sunkissed.
âJust.â You shrug. âHappy.â
âAwww,â He teases, throws an arm around you, makes you miss a step and trip into him. He smells like summer and sandalwood and fresh, warm towels. âSo sweet.â
At the bar, you order and he pays. Licking the salt off the back of your hand, you down the shot, pucker your lips around the lime, and set off back toward the rest of the group with a handful of shot glasses. Itâs harder to carry them than you thought it would be, both of you fighting laughter when a bit of alcohol spills out of the tiny glasses, moving quickly over the burning sand. Back with everyone, you take another shot, no salt this time.Â
The next round is broken up by something sweet and fruity. Joris takes a picture of you and Charles drinking them, arms intertwined like newlyweds at their wedding reception. You hope it doesnât end up on social media, uninterested in a weekend full of online death threats.Â
Another round of shots follows soon after, and then another. Not a single water has been sipped in hours. âWe should go swimming.â You declared, unbuttoning your shorts and wiggling out of them. âBefore weâre too drunk.â
âWeâre not getting drunk.â Lorenzo says. Carla laughs from Arthurâs lap.Â
You shrug. âI am.â
âYou already are.â Charles laughs into a beer bottle. âNo deeper than your ankles.â Fuck you, you mouthed, walked backwards towards the sea. You wade out until the waves splash against your chest. On the beach, Charles is unbuttoning his shirt and tossing it on the cabana, taking off his sunglasses. You feel hot in the chilly water.Â
âMy babysitter!â You laugh when heâs within earshot, slowly cutting through the water to you.Â
âI told you ankles.âÂ
You shrug, form first with your hands and push them against his palms. âIâm not drunk.â He pushes back, laughing, you are. You shake your head, move your hands from his and run them over your hair, gather it to one side, twist the water from the ends. âThe water is sobering me.â You lower yourself, sinking down until the salt water tickles your chin.Â
âYeah?â
âYeah.â You look up at him, probably with blown, tipsy pupils.Â
âI donât believe you.âÂ
You hum, dipping your head back into the water. âYou never do.â
âI always do.â He says, and you laugh at the immediate contradiction like itâs the funniest thing youâve ever heard. You might be drunk.Â
You cut yourself off after that, until you can eat something and drink a non-alchoholic beverage. You wonât let yourself get sober, because then youâll be passed out on someoneâs shoulder by sunset. You wonât get trashy, though. Itâs a race week, anyone could see him, take a picture with him, a video with you in the background. When youâre together, whether you like it or not, youâre a reflection of him, a public display of the type of people he wants to associate himself with. Tipsy and fun is cute and carefree. Trashed and blacked is messy and irresponsible.Â
Youâre trying to hold your composure in the taxi, resting your head, and eyes, on the window. The guys picked a restaurant while you and Carla were using the bathroom, and now youâre making Charles read you the menu. Heâs doing it in butchered Spanish, trying to pick out the words and meals he recognizes.Â
âIs there tapas?â You ask, smacking his chest with the back of your hand.Â
âThere is tapas.â He confirms.
You almost cry, laugh instead. âMy god, I could kiss you right now.â
âYou are so drunk.â He chuckles, and you bite your fist, sink into your seat, wish you could fake it better. Have fun and let loose without embarrassing him.Â
âJe suis dĂ©solĂ©.â You whisper, drop your head the other way, onto his bicep. He adjusts, moves his arm so itâs around you, runs a hand over your hair. He doesnât ask you what youâre apologizing for, knows that youâll tell him anyway. âPour ĂȘtre embarrassant.â
âChĂ©rie,â He says into the crown of your head, a soft kiss before continuing. âYou could never embarrass me.â
â â
The sobriety returns during dinner, bringing a pulsating headache with it. You drown your sorrows in delicious, cheap food, and drink an entire pitcher of water by yourself. When you leave, on the street outside, a band is playing in front of a fountain. You all stop, gather around and listen, sway to the lyrics you can barely understand. Joris is taking pictures of the band, Arthur is spinning a giggly Carla around. Charles grabs your hand, twirls you around and dances with you under the orange street lights. You rest your head on his chest.Â
âYou should sing along.â The vibrations from his laugh soother your aching head.Â
It feels like a scene from a movie, like every other person in the city fades away into obscurity and itâs just you and he swaying on the cobblestone street. Youâre so close to him, canât be much closer, wish you could be. If you could, youâd crawl inside him, inspect his brain and the beautiful way it thinks, admire the way he sees the world. You know itâs special. Everything about him is magnificent, from the tallest hair on his head to the soles of his feet, every birthmark and fallen eyelash in between.Â
Slowly, your sway has come to a stand still, and heâs staring at you with dopey, tired eyes. It should be illegal, the way he;s looking at you. His sightline jumps all over your face. Your right eye to your left, your nose to your lips. They linger there, on your lips, and then heâs staring into your soul, searching for something. Can I kiss you right now. Give me a reason not to. You donât know what he wants you to silently speak. If you knew, youâd tell him.Â
A cat-call whistle snaps both of your heads to Lorenzo. âGet a room!â Arthur yells, pretends to gag. Carla smacks his chest a little too hard to be playful.Â
The gap between you and Charles is only a few inches larger, but he feels unreachable, eyes glossy and avoiding you. âFuck off, mate.: He says, drop a bill into the bandâs opened guitar case.Â
â âÂ
Sunday is a nightmare. Thereâs no way to sugar coat it or make it sound prettier than it is. Andrea grabs you from hospitality, throws his pass around your neck because nobody is going to stop him from getting into the garage. He keeps you at an arms length for the entirety of the short walk.Â
The car is already stopped in front of the garage, heâs climbing out. His posture is defeated, depressing. You wonder if youâll be able to say the right words or if heâs just going to want to yell. A few people give him encouraging words, pats on the back, a hug. Theyâre already asking him to go to the media pen, to feed him to the sharks like a bucket of chum. He moves past them all, gets his weight taken and bee lines it to his drivers room.Â
Andrea nudges you in his direction. You stay in play, your feet frozen. You donât know what to say. Go on, he says.Â
Fuck.Â
You knock on the door softly, nothing. Opening the door just wide enough to squeeze through it, you find him sat on the floor. Knees bent, arms locked and resting on them, fingers intertwined. His back is against the edge of the couch and his head is hung low. He doesnât look like himself.Â
âWhat?â He says, rigid, doesnât even bother to look in your direction.Â
âDo you want me here?â You ask, and his eyes shoot over to you. He looks exhaustingly sad and sorrowfully tired. You wish you could make it better, rub Neosporin on his cutes and stick a race car bandaid over them. Promis the wound would get better and know you were telling the truth.Â
âStay.â He says, so you close the door behind you.Â
You sit on the couch, awkwardly scooch yourself over and around him, a leg on either side of his body. His head rests on your knee and your fingers toy with his hair, soaked with sweat. You donât know how long you sit like that, just that itâs long enough for someone to knock on the door twice. You stay seated.Â
âYou should change.â You finally say, after the third set of knocks noticeably lacks the patience of the previous two.Â
âYeah.â He says, and you both stand. âDonât go home?â He asks when youâre already halfway out the door, when youâre already looking at Mia in the stairwell. You look over your shoulder, nod, smile, and leave the door open for her to slide in and get to work.Â
You wait on the stairs, take a deep breath before re-emerging into the chaos. Carlos is still fighting for the podium and you donât want to drag the mood to the Marianas Trench. Itâs just so, so hard to see him hate himself.Â
Energy is low, morale is lower, but you stay seated in the back of the garage. When the race is over, you head back to hospitality, linger in his room there. Your phone is dead, abandoned on the floor and you lay on his massage table, staring aimlessly at the ceiling. Everything replays on the blank canvas. The perfect lap the day before, his pole position. The sparkle in his eyes and the lightness to his voice. A great start and a commanding lead and a quick pit stop and then heâs slowing down, Andrea is grabbing you and hurrying you across the paddock strip.Â
Your presence scares him, makes him jump when he opens the door. âFuck.â He says. âI thought you went home.â
You donât bother to look up at him, to sit up. âYou asked me to stay.â You listen while he shuffles around the room. His presence means the presence of others, and itâs not long before Andrea is there, picking up your phone and placing it on your stomach. His brothers are gone, Carla too. Joris lingers, the silent, unrelenting support of a friend.Â
âAre you hungry?â Charles askes, and you turn your head to face him. His expression is as tired as his voice.Â
âAre you?â You arenât, but you can be if he is.
âNo.â
âMe neither.â His eyes narrow, trying to decipher if youâre telling him the truth or if youâre being agreeable. He hates it when you do that, when you tell people what they want to hear instead of what they need to, instead of the truth. âSerious.â You reaffirm, and he returns to packing up his things.Â
You just watch him. Thereâs nothing else to do, but, you want to live in his head, know what heâs thinking and feeling and fighting. You relish in any hint towards those emotions, from the way his shoulders hand to the way he zips up his backpack.Â
âCome,â He says, extending a hand, pulling you to your feet. He grabs his sunglasses from their comfortable position on the collar of his shirt. Itâs dark out. He just wants to hide the disappointment. There are still people lingering on the track, after all these hours. On your way out, he stops and talks to Pierre and Esteban. About what, you donât listen. You donât ever want to talk about this race again, want to leave it in the past. Head down, focused on the things yet to come. When Charles is ready to move on, Pierre gives him a heavy pat on the shoulder and a hug, one of the largest displays of encouragement any of these guys are capable of giving to each other.Â
It must be so strange, you think, hoping for someoneâs success and failure simultaneously.Â
Fans are still here, too. He holds his head high and takes pictures and signs everything, makes them all feel loved and appreciated. Nobody is any the wiser to his inner turmoil, to the way he wil pick apart every single aspect of the race and internalize it, use it as fucked up motivation. Heâs silent when heâs not interacting with the stragglers. You, Andrea, and Joris all trail behind him, engaged in quiet conversation about Monaco; the race, sleeping at home, the always surprising strangeness of a race you could watch from your bedroom window. Ahead, he holds out a hand to you, and you take a hurried couple of steps to match his pace.Â
âYou okay?â You ask. He nods. âAnything but?â
Anything but, a term youâd coined after Julesâ accident, when all anyone ever wanted to talk to you guys about was how you were doing, what you were feeling. The constant retelling, reliving, reassuring everyone you were doing okay when you were far from, it was almost as painful as losing him. Anything but is invoked, and the other has to change the subject, ignore the elephant in the room, no matter how big it is.Â
A soft, sad smile tugs on his lips, silent gratitude, and he squeezes your hand tighter, barely so. âYeah.â He says, and you go on about the haircut youâre thinking about getting once youâre back home in Monaco, asking if he thinks bangs are an option on a face shaped like yours.Â
â â
Youâre flying to Monaco with Charles, and the rest of Ferrari, early tomorrow morning, so your small group deciding in the hotel lobby that the night will be made better by liquor, probably isnât the wisest of decisions. You do it anyway.
You all behave, careful not to get tipsy. Andrea reminds Charles he still has to train tomorrow, and that keeps him from going too far. The rest of you are just following his lead.Â
He insists on walking you back to your room at the end of the night, even though Andrea and Joris both swore theyâd get you there safe. Sheâs a runner when sheâs drunk, heâd said, and you scowled. âNot since I was sixteen!â You defended, insistent that you didnât need anyone; Joris, Andrea, or Charles, to walk you to your room. Itâs not like youâre lost and drunk somewhere in an unfamiliar city. Itâs a five-star hotel and you had all of one floor to travel between.Â
He doesnât even say anything on the walk heâd insisted on being present for. Your footsteps echo off the carpeted floors, bouncing between the thin walls and reflecting off the sleek, minimalist artwork. He has a beer in his hand, something from the hotel bar, priced entirely too high for the quality, youâre sure. Each time he brings it to his lips, the glass clinks against the ring on his pinky finger.Â
Heâs flushed, beautiful as ever, and you wished you were an overpriced bottle of beer; your sweat on his skin, the cold ring contrasting his warm, calloused hands. Those soft, pink lips on you, the way they almost were this week. They almost were, you keep telling yourself, you werenât imagining it. âCharles.â He raises his brows, silently tells you to continue. âIt,â You hesitate. You falter, because itâs not too late to say nothing, to bask in the silence a little longer. You can still stop yourself, shove the thoughts deep down and abandon them somewhere in the back of your mind. Curiosity, desperation, something sparked by the green in his eyes and the red on his shirt and the condensation on the bottle, it all gets the best of you. âThe other night, it felt like you were going to kiss me.â
âHmm.â He hums against the lip of the bottle, finishing off the last of the drink. Thereâs a long pause. You, waiting for him to say something, memorizing the strange pattern on the carpet. Him, saying nothing. You reach your room, hold the key card up to the lock. The silence is amplified by the shifting electronic gears and youâre pushing the door open. âAre you going to ask me?â You blink. âIf I was going to kiss you?â
You exhale. Long and slow, do you want to know? âI havenât decided yet.â You finally say. Iâm not ready for this to get flipped on its head, you couldâve said. I love you too much to like you, you could have said. You didnât. âNuit, Charles.â You say instead, disappearing into the darkness of your room.Â
âBonne nuit.â
âIâve decided against the bangs.â You tell him in the grocery store around the corner from his apartment, leant against one of the doors in the refrigerator aisle. Heâs waiting for a text back from his nutritionist, trying to figure out what heâs going to cook on the boat tonight. Itâs family dinner night, and heâd volunteered to host, which meant he volunteered you to host on his yacht
âGood.â He says.
âYou told me they would look good.â You laugh, wonder if he even remembers the conversation or if your words were just the backing track to his overthinking.Â
He shrugs. âYouâre supposed to stop me from looking like a fool.â He laughs at his phone screen, turns it off and slides it into his pocket.Â
âMy favorite thing about you is that youâre a fool.â He says, pulling open the door youâre leaning against, moving you with it. Thatâs not very nice, you said as he piled two packages of chicken breasts onto the groceries already in your hands.
âChicken. Brave.â You add, reminiscent of the last time he tried cooking chicken on the water. Itâs a good thing there was a fire extinguisher on board, and saying anything else would break the oath of secrecy you were sworn to.Â
âHa, ha.â He mocks. âNot funny.â
âYou know what isnât funny?â You grab another pack of chicken, just in case. âTelling me bangs would be good.â
Good luck this weekend, the cashier tells him when youâre checking out. Break the curse, yes? Charles laughs, because heâs a good sport, and agrees. You hate all the curse talk, it pisses you off, more than it does him. The conversation around it gets worse every year, every time he doesnât win at home.Â
They love him so much here, heâs their poster-boy during their poster-week, they donât mean any harm by it, but it still gets under your skin. Curse this, curse that. Fuck off, shut up about it already. Everyone knows his Monaco track record, can everyone please find anything else to talk about?
â â
He finishes fourth, and it feels somehow worse than last yearâs DNF. SO close, only to be screwed by the same shit as last week. You drink your weight at the club that night because maybe a lack of sobriety will make it sting a little less.Â
âYou are not wearing that.â Lorenzo says when you walk out of your building. You groaned, looked down at your outfit. It was slinky, but slinky is what everyone wears to the club, especially during the grand prix.
You settle for a blazer, tell him to suck your dick, and fill the pockets so you can abandon your purse. You start off at a smaller club, one that transitions from a restaurant after dark and has intimate, smaller tables. Youâre there for a couple hours, eat something and get buzzed. Predictably, you meet up with half of the grid at Formula Oneâs favorite club, where you have a bigger section and a bigger group and get a bigger buzz.
âI canât wear these anymore,â You whined, stopping to lean against the wall of a building to take off your heels. Your feet were blistering, and the thought of having to continue the walk with them on was dreadful. Charles carries them because you keep dropping one without realizing it. Itâs not your finest moment, but, you only threaten to jump into one bush on the nearly fifteen minute walk. Overall, a strong showing on your part.Â
You lose Charles at Jimmy*z, dancing with friends and strangers and other drivers and their parties. Youâre drinking Negroniâs, and you arenât sipping, occasionally splitting it up with a shot whenever someone suggests it. Thatâs when you see him again, when heâs putting a double shot of something expensive in your hand. I shouldnât, you say, because you're teetering close to the line of embarrassment. He rolls his eyes, fully inebriated. Shiftfaced, if you will. âShut up and take a shot with me.â
You do, it goes down smoother than water.Â
âThatâs good!â You say, examininging the glass.Â
âI know.â He deadpans, and you both laugh. Sober Charles is one of the funniest people you know. Drunk Charles is the funniest person you know. Heâs so unserious in everything he doesâthe way he talks, dances, expresses emotions, thereâs nothing not funny about it.Â
The club comped the table and a few bottles of champagne for the publicity that comes with having half of Formula One partying under their roof. In exchange, a manager is trying to wrangle Charlesâ section into a group photo. You were standing back, laughing at them all failing to maintain any semblance of sobriety, all logic and composure out the window three drinks ago. Charles and Arthur are yelling your name, yelling at each other, looking for you in the strobe lights. You move, hope he doesnât see you. He does, locks eyes with you, dopey smile, summoning you with this come-hither motion, his middle and ring finger calling you to him. Even drunk, you notice the gesture, the subtle curl, twitch of his long fingers.Â
Fucking, hell. Flushed cheeks burn bright and youâre grateful your hair is down, covering your undoubtedly matching ears. He almost kissed you. He did. Youâre not crazy, he knows exactly what heâs doing. Heâs too smart not to.Â
You smile, lips pursed, and shake your head. It makes him pout, and then heâs yelling your name, gesturing you over with the rapid movement of his entire arm. His other hand is smacking Arthurâs face, trying to rile he and Carla up. It works, and now half the group is yelling your name, so, you give in. Celebratory cheers leave their mouths and the boys share a near-miss high five. Charles grabs the back of your head, pulls you under his arm in one fail swoop. You hone in on his cologne. Tom Ford Tuscan Leather, no doubt. His signature night-out fragrance, the one you and Lorenzo nearly peed your pants laughing at when Pascale bought it for him a few years ago. The hints of raspberry and amber wood, the ones nobody can smell unless theyâre this close to him, make you dizzy.
âYou smell nice.â You say, and he just looks at you, lowers his head to talk directly into your ear. You look beautiful, he says, and you might be sober. âDonât say that to me.â You laugh, smooth down your hair.
Thereâs a real possibility at least one of the twenty people in the photo were actually looking at the camera.Â
At some point in the night, you end up in the bathroom with Carla for an evening debrief. You donât realize how drunk you actually are until youâre staring into your hazy soul in the bathroom mirror. Itâs an out of body experience, truly, youâre watching this conversation from the astral plane.Â
âFuck.â You say, looking to Carla, who appears to be having the same experience as you. You both burst into a fit of laughter, the hunched over, sore abs, red faces, threat to the integrity of your bladder-type laughter that doesn't require anything to actually be funny. âI have to work tomorrow.â You say, trying to catch your breath. You work from home, she reminds you, and youâre both laughing again. âJe tâaime.â You slur, overwhelmed by the alcohol and emotion. âBeaucoup.â
âNon,â She giggles. âJe tâaime le olus.âÂ
âYou look.â You hiccup. âSo pretty, I hate you for being so pretty.â Carla shakes her head at her own reflection, adjusts her top, checks herself out. You pat the sweat off your forehead and wipe under your arms with toilet paper from a stall. âArthur is so, super lucky.â Another hiccup. âYou are so pretty. So nice and pretty.â
âNo, you are so pretty.â She laughs. âCharles is lucky, and he doesnât know it.â Charles, Charles, Charles. You donât want to talk about Charles and his stupid face and stupid smile and stupid fingers and stupid skin. âI should call Michael.â You say, digging your phone out of your jacket pocket.Â
âYou should not.â She laughs, but youâre already searching your contacts for his name. âNope.â SHe says, snatches your phone from your hands and holds it out of your reach.Â
âCarla.â You hiccup, pleading and pouting.
âNope.â She says, putting the device in the bag that hands around her body.Â
â âÂ
âThis is my song!â You yell, quickly downing the shot in your hand, entire body vibrating with the bass pouring from the speakers.Â
âWe should start a band.â Someone says, and Charles laughs.Â
âWe should!â
âYouâre my best friend.â You tell him, stumbling over your own feet without even taking a step. His arm reaches out as a stabilizer, just in case you need one.Â
âNo,â He laughs. âYouâre my best friend. More-er.â Thatâs not a word. You shake your head.Â
âI could play the drums.âÂ
âI know weâre drunk, but, like. I love you.â You slur, test the waters of shifting your weight from one foot to the other. Another stumble, another hiccup. âIâd do, like, anything for you.â
âI know.â He says, but you canât hear his voice over the music. âI love you.â He adds, smacking Lorenzo on the arm to get his attention, to draw him out of band practice planning. âSheâs my best friend!â He says.Â
âI know!â
âI love her.â
Lorenzo laughs. âWe all know.âÂ
âWe should take a picture!â You suggest to Charles, and he agrees. âI donât have my phone. Someone stole it.â He gives you a puzzled look, concerned, grabs your elbow like youâre going to float away in the crowd and asks you to clarify. You just shrug. I have it, dumbass. Carla laughs, takes a picture of the two of you, doesnât give you your phone back.Â
The next time you see him, youâre sat at the table having one of those drunken moments of emotional, existential crises. Your fingers twiddle with the fake eyelashes you peeled from your lids minutes earlier. âIâve been looking for you.â He says, heavily drops into the space to your right, slings an arm around you.Â
Youâre always under his damn arm, you never realized before just how often youâre here. Not that you donât like it, itâs just an observation, confusing and emotionally charged, but an observation nonetheless. Heâs so relaxed, completely slouched into the rich leather, legs spread wider than they need to be, the arm thatâs not around you resting on the back of the booth. Heâs watching everyone else, observing the different people with sleepy eyes and heavy lids. When he talks to you, he turns his head all the way, cranes his neck so heâs speaking into your ear again. You donât turn your head, youâd be too close. âI have a secret to tell you.â He doesnât whisper.
âWhat?â You laugh, settle into his side, into the laxity of it all.Â
He opens his mouth to speak, pauses, rests his forehead on your temple. âI forgot.â He chuckles. You hiccup. You both laugh.Â
Your eyes are closed, tired and so, so comfortable. You might fall asleep here, despite the loud noises and loud music and loud heartbeat. âYou were going to kiss me in Barcelona.â You say, liquid courage forcing the words from your mouth like vomit. It isnât a question. It doesnât need to be.Â
âI kiss you often.â He says, a weak defense, and kisses the crown of your head. âSee?â
Youâre not crazy. He was going to kiss you. He was. âCharles.â Your voice is quiet, strained and scratchy and serious. You donât open your eyes, canât look at him when you demand an answer, a confirmation.Â
âI was.â The admission is suffocatingly delicate, like he might go for it, right then. His hand might grab your face and guide you to him. Youâre ready for it, you think, as ready as youâre ever going to be for everything to change.
You donât have to worry about it, to think about it and dwell on if heâs going to do it. He doesnât. He just rests his head on yours. Your thoughts race faster than your heartbeat, and you wonder if he can feel your temples pulsing.
2013, family dinner. Youâre in your room, hiding out for as long as possible, uninterested in the family events. Very teenaged girl of you, in all regards. Charles burst through your door, no knock, no warning. You didnât even know they were there yet. Luckily for you, nothing incriminating was happening. He was quite the snitch back then, a real tattletale, especially if you were the one getting in trouble.Â
âI have something to tell you.â
âUnless itâs that youâre going to turn around and leave my room, I donât care.â Youâd said, annoyed by his presence. At sixteen, your relationship could best be described as friendly enemies. He was always around, especially when you didnât want him to be, and he was always the golden child. Perfect in school, perfect on the track, perfect son, perfect friend. His existence was infuriating and because you were so close in age, everyone always wanted you to be the best of friends.Â
As a teenage girl, it was evolutionarily impossible for you to go alone with what everyone else wanted. You had to rebel, to run against the grain. Charles and you were not friends, and you did not care about what was going on in his life.Â
âSingle-seaters.â He said with a dumb smile, leaning on his hand against your dresser. You take maybe one step between your bed and his arms, hugging him tighter than you had since you were children. Okay, maybe you did care about his life. There are some things even evolution canât change.Â
âWith who?â
âI thought you didnât care?â
âI donâtâ
His smile grew. âFortec.â
You half-screamed, half-laughed, hugging him again, somehow tighter. âIâm so happy for you, Cha.â You said, with a level of sincerity you hadnât used in years, especially with him. You thought for a moment you might cry, that he would make fun of you for it, that youâd do it anyways because you were so happy for him.Â
âDonât tell anyone, Iâm not supposed to say anything.â
âWho knows?â
âLike, nobody.â Heâs giddy, itâs almost cute. Almost.Â
âJules?â You ask, even though you think you already know the answer. Jules is God to Charles, this untouchable, invincible figure that represents the culmination of all his own dreams. He was the first person, you expect him to say.Â
âNot yet.â He told you before Jules.Â
Youâre traveling in the weeks after Monaco, jet-setting around the world for your own career. Itâs not until France that you see him again. You beat him there, actually, opting to spend some time visiting friends from University nearby, taking a bit of time to enjoy yourself and relax. Despite what everyone in your Instagram comments thinks, race weekends are not a holiday. The nerves and anxiety and heightened emotions you feel during one is so stress-inducing that the work week feels like a week in the Maldives.Â
Love you, always proud. You texted him moments after he won in Austria, along with a picture of you and the drink you were having in celebration in your hotel room.Â
You were a little bummed you couldnât be there, celebrating with him. He really needed that win, and you could only imagine the weight it lifted off his shoulders. Itâs been a while since you saw him genuinely happy on a Sunday night.
Love you, too. You suck. He texted back seven hours later, reiterating the sentiment the entire time he was home in Monaco and you werenât. When you jokingly suggested he come to France early, you were met with the threat of being blocked.Â
â â
You spent the weekend with Pascale, spending every day at the track trying to out-anxious each other. You donât know how she sleeps, Charles and Arthur both doing this shit. Youâre a nervous wreck and she barely flinches.Â
âYou remind me of myself a lot.â She tells you. Your knee is bouncing anxiously under the table youâre eating at. âYour mother, of course, but. Selfishly, I see the good parts of me in you.â
Youâd always wished Pascale was your Mom, growing up. You have a great mother, you love her to death, but she was your mom. She had to discipline you, she had to put her foot down. Pascale didnât have to do those things, not with you. She could be cool and carefree and spoil you because she was a bonus parent, not an actual one. If you grew up to be all kinds of fucked-up, she could wash her hands of you. Your mom couldnât do that.Â
Youâre so lucky to have her as your Mom, you would say to the boys. Theyâd say the same thing to you.Â
âYouâre going to make me cry.â You say, picking at your cuticles.Â
âChĂ©rie.â She says, grabs your hand, stills your anxious fingers. âJe suis nerveux rien qu'Ă te regarder.â
âI donât like Monaco.â You say. âNo room for error.â
âYou donât like any track.â She chuckles, releases your hands. You put them in your lap and go back to picking at the skin. âNot when the boys are out there.â
Sheâs right, youâre squeamish when you watch Arthur and Charles, donât think youâll ever get used to it. Charles loves to make fun of you for it, has videos saved on his phone of you, caught on the television cameras, captured by friends, that one time you were in the background of a Drive to Survive episode. He laughs and laughs at them, but when he watches Arthur, heâs just as bad as you are.Â
Itâs different, when you love the driver. When you love them more than the sport, more than the team, more than nearly any other person in the entire world, every corner feels tighter, every straight feels faster, the whole thing feels like a narrowly avoided death sentence.Â
âI donât know how you do it.â After Jules, how you do it after Jules. After Anthoine, after hugging a grieving mother and watching your son drive on the same track.Â
âI love watching them race.â She says. âI hate it, but I love it. All a mother can hope for her children is that they are brave enough to achieve their dreams.â Theyâre brave because of her, because of HervĂ© and because of her. They raised all three of their boys to be strong and brave and kind, and when HervĂ© passed, she picked up the pieces of her boys and glued them together again, built them up stronger, braver, kinder than before.Â
â â
You donât see him for a while after the race, donât know if you want to. Heâs been eerily calm all when things have gone wrong all season, at least when youâve been around. Itâs only a matter of time until he loses his cool, until he snaps. That radio call? Snapped like a glowstick. Heâs angry, at himself, at the car, at the team, at the world. Thereâs nothing anyone is going to be able to say or do that would make him happy, neutral even. Itâs going to be all pity-party and hushed curses until he gets some rest and resets.Â
Behind the garage, when youâre finally leaving, he hugs Pascale tight. Her hand runs comforting circles on his back, and then itâs your turn to be suffocated. He squeezes you like itâs the last time youâre ever going to see each other, hangs on like gravity is pulling him in the other direction. âAnything but.â He said. âAll night.âÂ
You nod. âMy mom sent me a video of Gi playing with the dog today.â You spoke of your niece, of Charlesâ goddaughter. If anyone could hit his soft spot, it was her. âDo you want to see it?â
âYeah.â He said, and when he watched her stumbling around the park, when her innocent belly laugh and giddy screams spilled out of the speakers, he actually smiled, might have even let a little laugh slip. Itâs impossible not to, really, with that little girl.Â
He walks in relative silence back to the driver's lot, just listened to you go on and on. You feel nauseous, watching him put on a smile and interact with fans, laugh and take pictures and make childrenâs days by just existing. It must be such a strange life, a miracle his head hasnât gotten ridiculously big.Â
â â
At the hotel, you can tell heâs still pissed. Rest, reset. Heâll be himself in the morning. You exchange goodbyes in the elevator, youâre on a different floor than him. You expect itâs the last youâll see of him until summer break. He leaves for Hungary early in the morning and youâre driving back to Monte Carlo with Pascale tomorrow afternoon. You expect, because heâs knocking on your door an hour later while you watch LâAtalante on your laptop.Â
The light from the hallway is almost blinding in contrast to your dark room. âHi.â He says, in running shorts and a t-shirt, bare feet. âLâAtalante?â
âHow do you-â
He smiles. âYouâre predictable.â
âWhat do you want?â You say through a yawn, shocked he makes out the words at all.Â
âCan I watch it with you?â
You sigh. âCharles.â You were minutes away from falling asleep, from putting this day behind you. Now, your feet are so cold on the floor it hurts and youâre becoming increasingly conscious and awake with each passing moment.Â
âPlease?â He asks, voice small and broken. Fuck. You hold open the door, because youâre weak when it comes to him. Youâd let him treat you badly if it meant heâd treat you. âYou know thereâs a giant TV right here, no?â
âI like my computer.â You say, crawl back into the bed, sit up against the million pillows. He flops down next to you, on top of the comforter because he runs hotter than a fireplace. When heâs finally done moving around, shifting until heâs nice and comfortableâsorry, he saidâyou press play on the movie.Â
âI love this part.â He says.Â
âYou hate this movie.â
âI do not.â He does. He complains every time you watch it, says you need to find a favorite movie thatâs in color, that doesnât have random cat montages, that the main love interest has too many glaring red flags. Watch it with rose-tinted glasses, you told him once, threw a piece of popcorn at his head. âThis is my favorite part.â
âNo, itâs not.â You laugh. âYou hate this part.â
He laughs, too, sweetly and softly, into his own shoulder. âI love it.â You shush him, shove his shoulder because he canât even say it with a straight face. He doesnât stay quiet for long, and itâs clear he came here to talk, not to watch the movie, but he tries to pretend. âYou need to come to more races.â He says, his head resting on your arm. âI donât like it when youâre not here.â
âOkay.â You say, only half-listening. Itâs your favorite movie.
âToday sucked.â You paused the movie. Blinked twice, hard, frustrated because it;s your favorite movie, but heâs your favorite person.Â
You look at him. âDo you want to talk about it?â
âNo.â He reaches over and unpauses it, adjusts so heâs sitting up, too.
You pause it again. âI think you do.â
âI donât.â
You close the laptop, set it on the bedside table and flip on the lamp. âI donât know how to make you feel better right now.â You say, and it sounds like youâre admitting your defeat, expressing disappointment in yourself with a half-hearted apology.Â
Thereâs something unfamiliar painted across his face. Exhaustion, anger, desperationâyou canât pinpoint it. Urgency. You realize its urgency when his hands are on your face, thumbs dancing on your jaw, eyes darting between yours. Urgency.Â
He was going to kiss you. He is going to kiss you, you think, and youâre going to let him. He can use you as a distraction, if he needs to. You can kiss it better, youâre sure you can. His forehead rests on yours, the tips of your noses bumping against each other, shuddered, broken breaths. Your lips are so close, jaws slack, sharing the air. Youâre dizzy. Dizzy and hot and then heâs kissing you. The taste of his tongue, the scrape of his teeth, the softness of his lips, itâs all so new, so butterfly-inducing. He smells like himself, whatever soap he always uses when heâs traveling. Itâs crisp and clean and you want to lick it off his skin.Â
Heâs the one to pull away, but you open your eyes first. âSorry.â He says. You smile, kiss him again because youâre not sorry, wishing you could crawl inside his mouth and build a home there behind his beautiful, sharp, white teeth. Â
Your name sounds like a symphony when he says it, all dopey and sing-songy, hands firmly on your waist. âDonât look at me like that.â He says, laughs into your mouth.Â
âLike what?â You ask, innocently.Â
âJust. Fuck.â He shakes his head, one of his hands slipping under the hem of your shirt, open and flat, exploring the vast bareness of your back. âYou.âÂ
âMe?â You giggle at his words, the stumble of them, cheeks hot and flustered. You shouldnât be nervous. Itâs Charles. You know him like you know your own hand, but, heâs never been yours, not like this. Your hands have never searched him like this, fingers never tugged on his hair with lust and longing, never felt the scratch of his stubble on your skin.
âYeah,â He says into the crook of your neck, leaving a flurry of open mouth kisses in the space between your jaw and your collarbone. âYou.â
âWe shouldnât.â You say, even though youâre helping him out of his shirt. âWe should stop.â
âDo you want to stop?â He asks, his fingers stalling on the buttons of your pajama top.Â
âWe can do this, right?â You ask, because you need his reassurance. You donât need honesty. You know the truth. You need to hear what you want to hear, for him to tell you if itâs safe to jump, to fall aimlessly into the unknown. You need him to lie to you. âCan we go back to normal after this?â
âOuais.â He says, and even though you donât believe him, you think he believes himself. âRetour Ă la normale.â
âOkay.â You say, and heâs unbuttoning your shirt again. If his mouth didnât feel so good on you, if his big hands didnât send shivers up your spine when he ran them up the sides of your body, you might have thought a bit harder about what normal is for the two of you.
His hands do make you shiver, though, and heâs looking at your body with these sweet, drunk eyes, sliding the shirt off your arms and letting it pool on the ground with his.Â
Youâre dropping to your knees on the cold floor next to the bed, pulling his shorts, his underwear, down with you. While he steps out of them, kicks them to the side, you admire him, toned and tanned and so, so pretty. You want to memorize it in case itâs the last time you see him like this, take notes on every freckle and muscle and defining feature under the harsh light. You need to feel him everywhere, to taste him, to make him feel as good as he looks.Â
Heâs already hard, cock twitching with lust and adrenaline and arousal, all for you. Your work is cut out for you. You tease him, whisper profanities and place soft kisses against the skin of his upper thighs. âYou make me crazy.â He says, you take him in your mouth, and he goes momentarily stiff before he relaxes, lets your fingers and your lips work in tandem to pull your name from him.Â
âFuck.â He says, tastes like sex, sweet and salty and manly. His hands knot into your hair, pull it back into a haphazard ponytail that only loses shape as you continue. âFuck, fuck, fuck.â He repeats, rutting into your mouth, fucking into your throat. You swallow around him, hollow your cheeks and he lets out this whimpered, wounded sound, forces your mouth off him. âDonât do that.â
âYou donât like it?â You ask, take him in your hand, stroke over the slick of your spit, kissing the base of his cock and looking up at him with these big, saucer eyes.Â
âNo,â He shakes his head, drags a hand over his stubble. âYouâll make me come.â
You swipe your tongue in one long stripe, swirl it around the head of him, smile. âThatâs the point.â You say, filling your mouth with him again, sinking until heâs hitting the back of your throat, gagging you, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes.Â
He says your name like heâs battling to reason with himself, his grip on your hair tightening, pulling you off him again. You pout, and he rolls his eyes, shakes his head. âTu es mauvais.â
âĂâest vrai.â You roll your thumb over the tip, mindlessly, really, looking at him and waiting for him to speak. Youâre an addict, already. Itâs just so pretty.Â
âWant to last for you.â Youâre not even standing and your knees are unsteady underneath you. You look at the floor, your forehead on his thigh, and laugh. You laugh harder than you should, just out of shock and disbelief. âWhat?â He laughs, too.
Youâre standing, heâs helping you stand. âWho wouldâa thought?â You canât stop giggling, cock your head to the side and try not to smile. âYou and me?â
His tongue is in his cheek, eyes rolling in such a bratty way. You wonder if he can see how swollen your lips are, all because of him. Your mouth feels empty without him there. âI hate you,â He says with a smile, and kisses you.
Your knees buckle at the edge of the bed, and itâs too easy, the way youâre both on it without ever parting lips for more than a hasty breath. He moves you around like a doll, gentle and effortless in his removing of your shorts, of your underwear, in the manipulation of your positioning on the soft mattress.Â
Heâs kissing you, sucking bruises into your collar, marking you like thereâs any possibility youâre not already his. Itâs hazy and intoxicating, him exploring your body, taking his time as he trails down your collar bone, through the valley of your breasts, hot, sloppy breath on your stomach, on your legs. Youâre almost disoriented by it all, the natural comfort, the familiarity of him in a place so unfamiliar to his touch. He kisses your clit, you watch him, feel his hot breath on you, jaw slack and eyes glazed over. It makes you hot, makes your whole body flush and shiver.Â
âPutain, t'es chaud.â He curses, smiles at you from between your legs. His fingers splay over your hip, his thumb dragging itself over you, parting your lips with the slick of you, amused smile tugging on his face. âYouâre so wet.â He says, moves up to kiss you.
âSorry.â You whisper into his open mouth.Â
He shakes his head, mumbles something incoherent, kisses you again. âItâs hot, chĂ©rie. That you want it.â
âWant you.â You say, and he slides a long finger inside you, surprised whimper escaping from your lips into his open mouth. He curls it into you, crooks it at just the right angle and you writhe against the sheets. You canât believe heâs got you like this, that youâre a mess for him over a single finger.Â
He moves back down your body, another trail of nibbles and kisses before he laps at you, swirling his tongue around your clit in a way thatâs almost painfully good, curling his finger into that same spot. When he slides in another, youâre a goner, moaning out his name like itâs the only word you know.Â
âLet go.â He says. Your eyes are pinched shut in an attempt to keep yourself at bay for just a while longer. His eyes are glued to yours when you can finally open them.Â
You shake your head. âIâm not.â You start, stopping short to compose yourself when your leg twitches, shakes in applause of his work. âNo ego boosts.â You sputter. He laughs against you, the vibrations of it blinding, a whole new sensation that spreads fire over your skin, sends you over the edge with little warning.Â
He doesnât stop, not for a second, when you come. His fingers maintain their rapid pace even as you tense around him, his tongue, his lips, suctioned to you as your body tries to wiggle away. âCharles.â His name leaves your lips in a shudder, your thighs trying to close in on his head, the hand that isnât inside you holding you open for him.Â
He works you over, skilled fingers and skilled mouth, coaxing you through another, louder this time. He leaves you catching your breath, restless, incoherent, shaky on the crisp white sheets and two orgasms ahead.Â
Heâs so satisfied with himself, licks his fingers clean and grins and kisses you some more, just because he can. Because, itâs all gone to shit and the unspoken, unwritten rules of your friendship have gone so far out the window, theyâre in another country. Maybe theyâre in Hungary already, or waiting for the two of you on summer break, in Monza, hell, they might even be Abu Dhabi, thereâs no telling.Â
âDo you have a condom?â You ask.
He freezes, strong arm holding him over you, caging you in. His eyes shut hard. âNo.â
âYou didnât bring one?â
âWhen I came to your room, I didnât.â He sighs.Â
âHow gentlemanly.â You quip, wiggle out from underneath him. He flops back onto the bed, apologizing. You grab his t-shirt from the floor and hold it up to cover your body, he chuckles at that. âApologize if I donât have one.â You say, rifle through your backpack. Your leg shakes under you while you try to balance, squatting in front of the bag. You hope he notices, sees what heâs done to you without even filling you up all the way.
âWhy would you have one?â He asks, just as you find the little package at the bottom of your bag. You turn on your heels, still bent over, condom wrapper in your teeth and look at him with narrowed eyes.Â
âDo you really want me to tell you?â You ask around the wrapper.Â
He thinks about it for way longer than should be required. âNo.â
âYeah.â You nod, dumbfounded, and stand back up.Â
âReally, with the shirt?â He asks, laughing about it again. Â
âSalope!â You say, drop the shirt, throw the condom at him. âPut this on yourself.â
âI donât even like you.â He says, rips open the wrapper with his teeth and slides it over his cock. It hurts, almost, how badly you want him inside you, how empty youâve felt since he took his fingers out.Â
âDonât do that, youâre going to make me come.â You mock his earlier words, puff out your lips, raise your brows, a knowing glance.Â
âI was.â He defends, and you straddle him, wrap your arms around his neck.Â
âNo, you werenât,â You kiss him, his hands explore the curve of your ass, fingers dig into your hips, push you down so you grind against him, spread your wetness over him.Â
âOkay.â He says with a smirk, lust riddled and completely enthralled by you, one hand moving to thumb at your clit, start chasing another release for you.Â
âOkay.â You repeat, barely a whisper, lift yourself up enough for him to line himself up with you. You sink down slow, savor the burn of the stretch, wish it was the first time anyone had ever done this to you, that you could belong to him and only him.Â
âFuck.â He says into your shoulder, kissing and sucking a purple spot into the flesh there, his hands splayed across your back, warm and strong and dragging across the hot skin. âSi bon.â Every inch of your body can feel him, hungry for more, the insatiable urge to hear his moans, to make him whimper, make him feel how you feel.
You grind your hips against his, chasing an unachievable leverage, a static inducing friction. Your foreheads rest on each other and your noses collide roughly in the sweaty, steamed, hitched breaths.Â
Youâre obsessed with the way he watches your bodies, eyes glued where he disappears into you. You never want to hear anyone else say your name, not after hearing the way he says it while heâs inside you. âThat.â He says. âLove that.â You do as youâre told, eager to please, hungry for him to finish. âEs-tu proche?â You shake your head, because you are, but heâs closer.Â
In a swift movement, he flips you over, switches your positions, slides back inside you. Even when heâs manhandling you, using you as a device for his pleasure, strong and without thought, thereâs something gentle about it, something that anchors you to him.Â
He fucks into you with deep, measured thrusts. The new position, the new angle, it drives you fucking crazy, your back arching off the bed, grinding onto his fingers in the selfish chase of your own high. âCharles. Fuck.â I know, he tells you, shaky, pace reduced to an erratic grind. I know, baby, and youâre coming again, biting into the muscles of his strong shoulders, wet and warm and so fucking full of him.
âIâm.â He whispers into your neck, nibbles on your ear. He pulls out and you whimper at the loss. âWhere?â He asks, pulls the condom off, jerks himself with those long, veiny fingers. You smiled, devilish. You wanted, needed, his cum in your mouth.Â
Heâs too close to be gentle, now, to take care and take time. Heâs desperate, itâs so fucking hot. His hands are on your head, knotted into your hair, holding you steady so he can fuck your throat. You gag around him, dizzy, hazy, eyes forced shut because everything is white and on fire. âLook at me.â He says. You do, and he has a fucking smile on his face, lewd and practically pornographic.
You hum, pleased with the state youâve got him in and then heâs bottomed out, still and stiff, coming down the back of your throat, chanting your name like a prayer.Â
â â
âWhat am I supposed to do with these?â You laugh into the bathroom mirror, after a shared shower, delicate fingers examining the fresh bruises he burned into your skin. âIâm spending the day with your Mother.â
Heâs drying his hair with a towel, laughs. âNobody thinks youâre La Sainte Vierge.â
You move through the bathroom, back into the bedroom to retrieve your pajamas from the floor. âAnd what is that supposed to mean?â You tease, returning, tossing his clothes on the counter.Â
âIt means,â He hums, wraps his arms around you, hugs you from behind. Your knees are weak and wobbly, his chin resting on your shoulder, looking at each other in the mirror. âTu es belle, jeune et amusante.â
âJe suis amusante?â You ask, try to bite back a smile, fail.
âTrĂšs.â He says, nuzzles into your neck.
He sleeps in your room that night, wakes up early, shuffles around the bathroom, the light pouring out. His movement stirs you, his heavy feet roaming around the silent room. âGo back to sleep,â He says, kisses your hair, and the heavy door locks behind him.
Tired, from the weekend, from him, you let yourself go back to sleep. You shouldâve got up and kissed him, you think. Really, truly kissed him, while the rules still didnât apply and things werenât back to normal. Whatever normal is for the two of you.Â
âWhat?â You said, spit, when Charles called you for the third time within five minutes. The first Monday of summer break, heâs in Monaco and youâre in France, a thousand kilometers, an hour and a half flight, away. More specifically, youâre standing in the corridor of your office building, meters away from the door youâd just stepped out of, the meeting you had to excuse yourself from leading because your phone wonât stop ringing and surely, something must be wrong.Â
âHello to you, too.â He says, and you can hear the smile on the other end of the line. âWhere are you?â
âWork.â You say, inspiringly calm. Fuck, sheâs at work, you hear him say to someone. âCan I call you back in a bit?â
âOui, dĂ©solĂ©e.â
âNe sois pas.â You force a smile, like he can see it, and hang up, shut your phone off completely before returning to the meeting with an apologetic grimace claiming family emergency.Â
You call him back an hour later, after the conclusion of your meeting and then some, pushing past the heavy glass doors to your office building and out onto the street, the breeze blowing your hair into your mouth as you step between two buildings. He answers, but itâs just shuffling on the other end, hushed, muffled voices. âAre you there?âÂ
âOui, oui. Une seconde.â He says, far from the speaker. More shuffling before a proper greeting. âYouâre on speaker.â
âWhat are you doing?â Shopping, he says, moves the phone, howâs work? You have to put a finger in your other ear to hear him, between the sounds of the city and the chatter on his side. âItâs fine.â You say, drag out the vowels because youâre bored, because you wish you were with him. Heâs always so relaxed on summer break, so content and breezy and fascinating. You havenât seen him since he was kissing your hair goodbye in France. You need to know if you can actually return to something normal.
âItâs fiiineee.â He mocks, laughs with whoever else is with him. You smile, all toothy and stupid. âComing home today?â You can hear the hope in his voice. Youâve been here for less than twenty-four hours, itâs an unusually short trip. Most times, youâre here for a minimum of a weekend, almost always more. He shouldnât be expecting you.Â
âYeah.â You check the time on your watch. âIn a few hours.â
âYou want to come on the water tonight?â He asks.Â
âLa Mala?â Of course, he says, like it shouldnât even be a question. âWith?â He speaks to someone else in Italian, you think you hear Andrea say something, and then Charlesâ voice is louder, off speaker, you assume.Â
âLorenzo and some camera guys. Weâre doing some⊠comment dire, day with my life?â
âI donât know.â You hesitate, because the last thing you want to do is be one of three people, to be on display somewhere on Instagram or Youtube or wherever the video theyâre making is going. You love him, but the attention is overwhelming and you like to stay as far from it as possible, especially when youâre nervously sorting out the normalcy of your relationship.Â
You took a photo of him once, with a fan, just walking around the city. You werenât even in the photo, didnât say more than two sentences to the guy he was posing with. And yet, when he posted it on Twitter, said Charles was with some girl, posted a screenshot from your Instagram and said her, he was with her, you had a full inbox begging to know if you were dating Charles, calling you obscene vulgarities, threatening you. You werenât even in the fucking picture.Â
âIt will be fun.â He says. âI havenât seen you since france.â Exactly, you havenât seen each other since France. Just over a week. Itâs chump change for the two of you, at least it was, before his spit dripped down your thigh and he came in the back of your throat. Now, a week is the opportunity for an awkward plant to take root, grab onto you and make everything weird and uncomfortable and wrong/ âWeâre having pasta.â He says, can sense your uncertainty, knows it sweetens the deal.Â
âNo chicken?â
âNever again.â He laughs. âYouâre coming?â
âI guess.â
âYou guess.â God, he is a child, truly. âCall me when you land, yes?â
âYeah.â
â â
You canât remember the last time you felt so nervous to see him. Sitting on the edge of the concrete landing, watching him cruise in on a little boat full of strangers, itâs almost worse than watching him race. Do you have to say something? Is he going to say something? Do you ignore it? Thatâs the agreement, right? Everything goes back to normal. Normal, normal, normal.
He looks like heâs been in the sun all day, cheeks pink and rosy, the blue of his shirt mellowing him out, making him glow. A God, Heaven shining down on him, presenting him to you like a gift. You hate that you have to share him with anyone when heâs like this, especially with strangers, with people who donât know how lucky they are to see him like this.Â
âDid you miss me?â He calls out when heâs within earshot. You stand up, take your shoes off because there is no way that boat is making it all the way to you.Â
âWho called who?â You say, and he laughs.Â
You hopped off the landing into the shallow water, walked out to the boat on your tip-toes, trying to keep the bottom of your pants as dry as possible. You had a change of clothes in your bag, but, even a minute in wet pants is too long. He helps you into the boat and you introduce yourself to the strangers pointing cameras at you.Â
This was a mistake. It doesnât even take the distance from the landing to the yacht for you to realize that. So fucking uncomfortable, cameras in your face, recording your conversations, watching the way you look at him. You can already see the comments calling you pathetic, calling you a whore, calling you a bitch. Â
It is pathetic, you remind yourself when your hand is on his, stepping around him, moving from one boat to another. They will think itâs pathetic and theyâll be right.Â
Thereâs more production people waiting for your arrival, waiting to take your place next to Charles and capitalize on the fleeting light and beautiful scenery. Itâs unusual, thereâs nobody here. You introduce yourself to them, too, because it feels strange not to.Â
Once youâre onboard, you change in the guest suite. Sweats and a hoodie because the sun is setting, dusk settling on the horizon, bringing in wind with the tide. Bowl of pasta in your lap, mindless television playing, you lounge on the couch, watch Charles do an interview on that stupid little boat, rocking back and forth like a buoy on the open water.Â
You want to reach out and grab his hand, hold it still, stop him from pulling his fingers and twisting his rings because then nobody will know heâs nervous, that heâs off balance. âWhat do you think theyâre talking about?â You ask, pulling Lorenzoâs attention from the television. âHe looks nervous.â
Lorenzo laughs, quiet, under his breath. âYou.âÂ
You donât turn back, know your face is going to give it away, can feel the blood rushing, the skin of your cheeks boiling. Thereâs no way he knows, right? Charles didnât tell him. He wouldnât. Lorenzo has no idea how close his joke hits, how deep the knife cuts. Heâs just an older brother, living with the sole purpose of embarrassing you. âWhat?â You say, force out a laugh and almost choke on it.
âKidding.â He says, and goes back to whatever is on TV. Your eyes stay on Charles, though, infatuated with the way the wind runs its fingers through his hair, the way it tugs on his shirt and inches the boat closer and closer to the yacht, to you. You stare so hard he can feel it, catches your eyes mid-sentence, smile pulling on his words. Youâre convinced the upturned corners of his lips can lift even the lowest of spirits. He winks, and then heâs back in the conversation like he never missed a beat.Â
Charles has made fast friends with the crew long before you got there. You wonder if they know each other, if theyâve met before. Light words flow with the waves, your body relaxing at the loss of the cameras, put aside to enjoy the experience, to breathe in the moment. His pull is gravitational, even through the strange tension and the awkwardness of the unknown. In your uncertainty, you linger just out of his reach, now comfortable enough to participate in their conversations. He catches you staring off into space, into the vast, starry sky, silently identifying the constellations above you. He pulls your mind back to your body with the tap of his foot on your outstretched leg. With what has to be the softest smile to ever grace this beautiful Earth, he calls you to his side with careful eyes and a subtle nod.Â
You scooch closer to him, half-expect his arm to lazily drape itself around you because thatâs what always happens. It doesnât, and a pit of something grief-like settles in your chest. Instead, your arms hang at your sides, upper arms gracing each other every time one of you even thinks about breathing. Your hands are knotted in your lap, thumb examining the texture of your palm, fingers tugging on each other with agonizing anxiousness.
You were so naive to think, even for a split second, that you would go back to normal. THe tension you thought would settle has only become increasingly taught.Â
âYou okay?â He asks. You nod with a weary smile. A lie, and he knows it. âYou worked all weekend?â He continues to prod, ignores the conversation happening around you like itâs just the two of you in a bubble.Â
âNo, just today.â You said. âMeetings all day.â You donât look at him, eyes focused on your hands, popping knuckles and digging nails into your palm. You canât remember the last time you were so unsettled in his presence. âI got a huge logo redesign deal.âÂ
âOf course you did.â He bumps your shoulder, jolts you. âYouâre the best theyâve got and they know it.â
âIâm not the best one there.â
"Maybe not the most confident.â He laughs, reaches into your lap and grabs your hands, stilling them like a patient partner would do. âBut definitely the most talented.â He squeezes your hand tighter, and you slide your fingers between his, envelope his hand in both of yours like youâre the one doing the comforting, squeeze back, thank you.Â
Your head falls to his shoulder, sigh like youâre carrying the weight of the world, like youâre moments away from breaking down into a pile of ash, blown away with the breeze. A new normal. Maybe thatâs what youâll have to do, create a new normal thatâs just as sweet as the old one. When the only options are a life of awkward anxieties or one without him in it entirely, a new normal doesnât seem so sad.Â
â â
He gets stopped seven times on the walk from the berth to the parking garage, takes careful time to be kind, especially to the kids. Heâll never not stop for a child, making their grabby hands, freckle faced days time and time again. Youâre a good guy, you say after the fifth, know itâs the last thing he wants to do after his long day. I donât know how you do it.
He shakes his head, sighs. âLe strict minimum ne fait pas de moi un bon gars.â
âYou go beyond the bare minimum.â
He shrugs. âThe bar is in Hell, I suppose.â
You take the train to Monza, hunkered over your laptop for the entirety of the ride, working. You werenât planning on coming in until late Friday night,but Charles asked you if youâd get on the next train, if youâd come with him to sponsorship dinners and obligatory events in the leadup to the weekend. Please, heâd texted. Sayingno, doing anything but getting on the 6 am departure this morning, didnât feel like an option.Â
You texted Isa for three hours trying to figure out what the dress code was for these events, planning out your outfit. All you could get from Charles was, I donât know, Iâm wearing a blazer, probably. The last thing you wanted to do was stick out like a sore thumb, draw anymore attention to yourself or embarrass him. Underdressed, overdressed, you donât know which is worse.Â
You check your phone, scroll through social media and pick at a meal from the dining cart. Youâre met with the same stuff youâve been seeing since that stupid Monaco Vlog on Charlesâ YouTube channel. The general consensus amongst all the strangers who know you so well, is that you and Charles are dating. I want this. They way they look at each other. Couples who are best friends make me melt. A friend told you those should make you smile, they donât, because you arenât dating. You arenât dating and heâs going to see them and everyone wants to know everything about you and someone asked on a bikini picture how good Charles was in bed. None of them made you smile.Â
Does she know sheâs the third choice? Not smiling. Charles, serial monogamist or serial cheater? Not smiling. Youâre a whore. Youâre a slut. I hope you die, bitch. No smiles.Â
They stung, they made you cry at your reflection in the mirror, private your accounts, limit your comments. They were everywhere, in your Instagram DMs, your Twitter mentions, your TikTok ForYou page. It was suffocating.Â
Charles was trying his best to check up on you, which only made it all worse. You wanted to believe he wasnât seeing them. He was just making sure your head was above water, and it was those best intentions that got you invited here, you assumed. Itâs easier to keep an eye on you when youâre with him.Â
It was a good idea, a good effort, for sure. It was a miscalculation, though, Charles seemingly forgetting just how much attention he has to give to strangers at these events. In a room full of people, dressed in your best cocktail attire, sipping a martini and watching people fight for his attention, you canât remember feeling so alone, so on display.Â
Everyone knows, or thinks they know, youâre Charlesâ girlfriend. Youâre a bigger extension of him than ever. Side-stepping cameras wonât cut it anymore, theyâre hungry to judge you. Look who Charles brought, what do we think of her? Look what sheâs wearing, how she speaks, how she stands. They hate you, youâre sure of it. You arenât classy enough for this scene, not sweet enough, not pretty enough. You arenât important enough.Â
âHow are you doing?â Isa finds you leaning on a tall table, poking your olives around your drink with the toothpick they were originally skewered on.Â
âAre these things always this weird?â You ask, voice laced with hope that there is a learning curve, that there is some top-secret strategy she can give you so you donât feel so shitty and deflated again tomorrow night.Â
She laughs. âYouâll get used to it. But, yeah.â
âAny advice?â
âThreaten a sex strike if he leaves you alone for too long.â Your eyes go wide, shocked by her words. She just shrugs, downs the remainder of her drink. âWorks every time.â
âCharles and I. Weâre not. Weââ You stumble over your words, and she looks at you with raised brows and a grin that makes you think Charles might be blabbing to the whole grid. âWeâre not sleeping together.â
âArenât you, though?â
âDid Charles say something?â
She smacks her hand over her mouth, muffling her laugh. âNo, but you just did!â
You nod, jaw clenched, tongue running over the front of your teeth. Youâve been so paranoid that Charles was going to tell someone and youâre the one who canât keep their mouth shut. âIt was once, and you canât tell anybody.â You whisper, sharp. âNot even Carlos.â
âIâm going to tell Carlos.â
âYou canât.â It comes out as more of a plea than an argument. âHeâll say something to Charles, and then Charles will know I told someone.â
She says your name so sweet and patient, like youâre a preschooler about to get a passive-aggressive scolding. âIâve never seen two people look like they want to fuck more than the two of you. If Carlos says something, it wonât be the first time someone has vocalized it to him.â Itâs a horrifying thought that burrows all the way to your bone marrow. Youâve always thought you were so good at hiding it.Â
Youâre drowning at this party, under the waves of lingering and prying eyes. Itâs been an hour since youâve spoken to Charles, forty-five minutes since youâve seen him. You pull out your phone and delete all your social media. This is so much worse than wallowing about death threats in the comfort of your own bedroom with the familiarity of your favorite ice cream.Â
â â
Youâre doing your hair when he knocks on the door. Impatient, impatient, impatient. You donât answer, he keeps knocking, over and over again. âWhat?â You say, sharper than warranted, opening the heavy door with as much force as it will allow.Â
âThis is what youâre wearing?â He says, walks right past you and into your room. Youâre not in the mood for his humor today.
âThatâs really funny, coming from you.â You say, go back to the bathroom, hairspray your hair, pull a few face framing pieces out from the low ponytail.Â
âI look great.â Says the man who hate-crimed an entire country with his jeans in Monaco, who is cosplaying as a banana this weekend.Â
âDid you dress yourself?â
He appears in the doorway of the bathroom, leaning on it, looking annoyingly handsome in his suit jacket and white button up. âI did.â
âOh,â You lock eyes with him in the mirror, put on a phony smile, fingers digging through your makeup bag on the counter searching for eyelash glue. âHow nice for you.â
You watch him check his wrist in your peripheral, opening the cardboard lash box and pulling them out, carefully applying glue to one. âWhat arenât you ready?â He asks.
âIâll be ready at five.â You said, setting the falsies on your lash line, trying not to make your concentration face because you know heâs watching.Â
You put glue on the other lash. âWeâre leaving at four-thirty.â Your head snaps up from the task at hand.Â
âYou told me five.â
âI did not.â
âYou did.â You say, continue putting the lash on before the glue dries because you donât have another set with you. Quicker, this time, because apparently youâre running a half hour behind.Â
âI told you it starts at five.â He says.
Oh. He did tell you that. âWe have to be there when it starts.â You say in unison, your foggy recollection becoming clear.Â
âWonderful.â You laugh, to nobody at all.Â
âAre you okay?â He asks, and it feels earnest, makes you laugh harder while you hove all your makeup back into the tiny cosmetics bag. Thereâs no way heâs that clueless, you think, blink hard in the mirror a few times, size up your hair and makeup.Â
âNo, Iâm not okay!â You say, toss the bag onto the counter with a heavy noise. âI donât want to be here, I donât want to do this.â You push past him in the doorway, stop in the little hall between the bathroom and the bedroom, next to the mini fridge and Keuring-clad kitchenette, sigh at the ceiling so you donât cry, donât ruin your makeup. Youâre already running late, no time for tear streaks. âI feel like a fucking idiot.âÂ
âYouâre not an idiot.âÂ
You scoff, donât even know why youâre angry, so emotional, why every nerve in your body feels supercharged. âYou do a great job of letting me feel like one.â You donât mean it, not really. You say it anyway. You know it will hurt him, and youâre tired of hurting alone.Â
âWhat did I do?â
âNothing.â You say, hoist the ironing board out of the wardrobe. âYou did nothing.â You donât bother setting the legs up, just lay it across the bed.Â
âWhat was I supposed to do?â He asks, grabs the iron from your hands and fills it with water in the kitchenette sink, sets it on the iron board, plugs it in and turns it on. You did through your suitcase for your dress and blazer, shaking them out like theyâre dusty old relics rather than something youâd bought just for this.Â
You donât know what to tell him. You canât summarize all of your emotions into something succinct and comprehensible, especially not while youâre in the middle of feeling them. Everyone wants me dead, everyone is staring at me, I know Iâm not good enough for this. I want to be good enough for this, to make you proud, but itâs so hard. âYou left me alone last night.â You say, roll your eyes and take the tears with it. Elaboration feels like a giant, insurmountable, unachievable challenge. âYou left me alone last night.â All you can do is repeat yourself, stare at the dress in your hands, examine the stitching like your life depends on viewing the heather grey fabric at a microscopic level.Â
You canât look at him, know heâs going to be staring at you with soft, sad eyes. You see him look at you like that and itâs game over. Youâre not leaving the hotel tonight, not making it to that event. Youâre going to cry yourself a bath, melt into a puddle of your own tears.Â
âIâm sorry.â He says.Â
âDonât be.â You flatter out the dress on the ironing board. âYouâre doing your job.â You move the iron in hard, quick lines over the fabric.Â
âIâm still sorry.â Heâs behind you, wrapping his arm over the front of your chest, pulling you back against his chest in some kind of strangely affectionate reverse-hug. It feels to right, so you squirm from his grip, keep at the hasty ironing.Â
âDonât feel bad for me.â Flip the dress, iron the other side. âI can hold my own in a room full of strangers.â
âI know you can.â You hate the tone in his voice; proud, almost. Youâre not his to be proud of, even if everyone else seems to think you are.Â
âCan we just?â You look at him for the first time since he dropped the time bomb on you. âAnything but?â He nods. You nod, switch the dress out for the blazer.
 âI like this jacket.â He says. You look at the outfit, grey dress, green blazer, white accessories. You thought it was too Christmas-y, the red accents on the bottoms of your heels and the red of your lip. Itâs Ferrari red, Isa convinced you, very subtle. âYou look good in green.â
âGreen is my favorite color.âÂ
âI know.â He laughs.
âYou know.â You yank the iron cord from the wall and pull your top over your head without thinking. You meet his eyes, and they donât dare to waiver from yours. You nod, an I really just flashed you nod, sigh, pick up the dress and walk past him into the bathroom. âYou can stare, Charles. I have good boobs.â A laugh from the other room while you step into the dress, pull the straps over your shoulder and leave the back unzipped. âAnd, youâve literally been inside me.â You add for good measure. He coughs, chokes on his own laughter.Â
Leave it to anything but to abandon one elephant and pick up a new one. âWeâre talking about that now?â
You smile at your reflection in the bathroom mirror, wonder if he can hear it in your voice, if he knows you that well, listened to you speak so intently for so long that he can pick out minor fluctuations like that. âTalking about what?â
âYou are.â He pauses, you tug on the hem of your dress and it doesnât give any. You thought there was more fabric than there is. âAre you on something?â You can hear the smile.
âI havenât been not talking.â You say, coming out of the bathroom, ball of pajamas wadded up tight in your hand. He tracks you across the room, back exposed, while you put the clothes in your bag. You walk back to him, pull your ponytail to one side, gesture for him to zip up the back of your dress. You suck in before he does it, even though the dress fits.Â
âYouâve been telling people?â He says, his warm fingers gracing your skin, sending goosebumps up your spine. This never would have happened before, you lie to yourself. Youâve been blushing everytime he looked at you since you were in high school.Â
âMaybe.â You say quietly, bit the smile off your bottom lip when his fingers linger at the top of the zipper. âHave you?â
âNo.â He says, and when you turn around his eyes trail up your body slowly, taking your permission to stare as gospel, soaking up every inch of you with unabashed eyes.Â
âI told Isa.â You say, shove an earring through your lobe.
âYou.â Your words pull him back from the glossy eyed size-up with a chuckle. âYou told Isa.â The other earring, and then you clasp a necklace, wish you had the nerve to make him do that, too.
âAccidentally.â You add, pull the blazer on, tug on the dress again. Still not budging.Â
âDoes that mean I can tell someone?â He pretends to mess with the settings on his watch. Pretends, you know, because his watch is never wrong. He changes it as soon as heâs in a new location. That watch has been right since his plane landed.
You sit on the edge of the bed, put your heels on and wonder if the red bottoms are really with the pain and suffering. âNo.â
âAre we going to talk about it?â He asks, follows you to the bathroom where youâre already twisting your tube of lipstick, painting them a dark, lustful red. Ferrari red, a dark, ferrari red.Â
âWeâre running late.â You close the lipstick, put it into your handbag and clasp that shut.
âWe are.â He says, and youâre already tugging the door open and gesturing him out. âIâm sorry for not looking out for you last night.â He says in the middle of the elevator ride. âReally.â
âDonât.â You say. âWe agreed, anything but.â
â â
Anything but, you agreed, but heâs silently apologizing all night. Youâre not out of armâs reach for more than a few minutes the entire night, and when you are, heâs got eyes on you, eyes on the bathroom door, eyes on the back of the head of whoever blocks his sightline. He finds you in the crowd every time. The green, he says, I just look for the pretty girl in green. âDonât say things like that to me.â You told him, even though it makes you warm and fuzzy and grateful when he says it, when heâs there every time you look for him.
âQuesta Ăš la tua ragazza, no?â Mattia says to Charles when he introduces you. Youâve met him before, always in passing, though, so itâs a safe assumption to think he wonât know you.Â
âQualcosa del genere.â Charles says, thinks you donât catch it, pulls you closer to his side.Â
âChe cazzo significa?â Mattia asks, and all three of you laugh with varying levels of awkwardness, too much to say for anything to be whispered in the unsaid.Â
By the end of the night, you've spoken to more people than you can count and done so in three languages, four, if you count the butchered Spanish class Carlos held with you. Youâve been confused for his girlfriend a dozen times, and somewhere along the line his corrections progressed from just a friend, through no correction at all, to yes.Â
âWhy did you say that?â You asked the first time he did it.Â
âTheyâre going to think what they want to think.â He said. It felt like a cop-out answer.Â
You donât know if youâre more affected by his presence or if the hoards of strangers are, but it seems like everyone is more interested in what you have to say instead of just staring you down. Calling yourself comfortable would be quite a stretch, but, the room tonight feels a little less like a fishbowl and a little more like a cocktail party.Â
You love watching him on stage, really love it, him addressing the audience. You almost burst into laughter, the customer service voice that transcends industries and languages and is something you never get to hear from him. He oozes confidence, talking and laughing with the MC and Carlos and Mattia. Heâs so pretty under the hard lighting, it makes all his features look sharper, more defined, somehow. Heaven-sent.
When he comes back he says heâs hot, takes off his blazer and hangs it from the back of his chair, rolls up his shirt sleeves. Itâs very grassroots political, very, mind-numbingly attractive. âHow are you doing?â He asks, takes a sip of your drink because his is empty, maintains insightful, careful eyes and contrasts them by wriggling his brows over the lip of your glass.Â
âIâm good.â You say, nod and smile so he knows you mean it.Â
âReally? He sets the glass back down on the tablecloth.Â
âReally.âÂ
â â
Youâre at the track early Friday morning, watching Arthurâs practice session with Carla. You havenât seen him race nearly as much as youâd like to this year. In Bahrain, you didnât come to anything except Charlesâ race, so scared about bringing Michael along. No Imola. You wish you could have been in Silverstone, watched it on your phone at work with the volume on level one. The only time youâve actually seen him race in person was in Barcelona, and you were basically hungover that entire weekend. Hungover, and trying to convince yourself Charles was going to kiss you.Â
You were going to watch him as much as you could this time around, make up for all the ones you missed. That was one excuse for staying away from Charles. The other, everything the two of you did felt emotionally charged. Youâre either wishing you could wring his neck, or wishing you could nuzzle into it. Sometimes both. A lot of times, both.Â
You grab lunch with Carla in general hospitality and then sneak your way into the Paddock Clubâs pit lane walk to blow some time. Charles is doing his warm up, probably playing football or doing neck exercises that could be in the directorâs cut of a Fifty Shades of Grey film. Carlos, though, Carlos is talking to some engineer about something or another, and you catch each otherâs eye. He smiles, looks away, and does a double take, furrowing his brows. You just shrug, make him laugh and shake his head.Â
âHeard you were being sneaky today?â Charles asks when youâre leaving the track. Someone ahead is taking pictures of him, one of the regulars, one you recognize but donât know. Heâs the one that always asks Charles for a smile and is responsible for half the pictures in his living room.Â
You step several feet to the side, remove yourself from the frame, out of the shot. Arthur laughs. No free food for anyone, not even the ones he likes. Itâs going to be a long time before you volunteer yourself to be tormented online.Â
He says your name, the photographer, and it startles you because you donât know him. He shouldnât know your name, youâve never introduced yourself to him. Charles looks in your direction, holds out his hand and even though you donât want to take it, donât want any pictures of you two walking hand-in-hand, you also donât want to leave him hanging like that in front of a camera. So, you take his hand and let yourself get pulled back into the shot. Maybe theyâll never see the light of day, you can only hope. Surely, a million other things will be more interesting than this.Â
Mr. Photographer, Kym, Charles calls him. Kym asks your opinion on the yellow, and Charles laughs because you havenât been shy with him about your distaste for them. You know Ferrari is really pushing it, though. âI think theyâre great. Very avant garde.â You lie.
Yellow not a favorite color? He asks, says your name again.Â
âShe thinks yellow is a cowardâs color.â Charles says, laughs with Kym the photographer. You cringe, even though heâs right. âShe likes green.â
â â
You wake up miserable on Saturday, spend the day in your hotel room with the shades drawn and the do not disturb sign hanging from the door handle. Flu symptoms, someone from Ferrari, someone worried about Charlesâ possible exposure, delivers a rapid test to your door. Negative.Â
You have your phone playing on the lowest possible volume, still too loud, if youâre being honest, and listen to Arthurâs Sprint Race, to FP3, to Quali.Â
I thought you didnât have it in the straights, you mustered up the nerve to text him. Pole, right? You werenât positive where anyone was starting tomorrow, too many penalties. If you had to bet on being right about one, though, itâs that Charles is on pole. Youâd bet on that blind, though.Â
We donât, he replies an hour later. Extremely timely for him, especially on a race weekend. How are you feeling?
Like shit. Even with the brightness all the way down, your eyes still yearn to be clawed out when met with the LCD screen.Â
Sorry.
You wallow, pick at the entirely too expensive meal from room service, take a few too many Advils because youâre pretty sure this bug will kill you before the liver damage gets a chance. You nap, you shower, shiver and shake, and nap some more. COnsider scoping your brain out and squeezing it until it pops, your pulse making your temples bulge.Â
Your phone lights up the dark room. You donât know how long youâve been staring at the ceiling, forcing your eyes closed until galaxies and oil spills of color paint themselves across your eyelids. It could be eleven in the morning. It could be eight at night. Will you answer if I knock?
You say yes, figure heâs still at the track. Heâs not.Â
A single, quiet knock on the door, he couldnât have used the force of more than a single knuckle. Your eyes are squinted shut when you open it, hand shielding your eyes. He laughs, just as quiet as his knock, slides into the room and pulls the door closed as fast as the slow-closing hinges allow.Â
He puts the back of his hand on your forehead. You search to make out his features in the pitch-black darkness. âIâm dying.â You say, pitiful.
âYouâre not dying.â You think heâs smiling, can hear it, even with congested sinuses and clogged ears.Â
âI promise I am.â Your voice is so nasally and muffled and sick.Â
âPoor thing.â His voice is half an octave higher when he mocks you.Â
âDid you just come here to be mean?â
âNo. I came to check on you.â
âConsider me checked.â You said, crawling back into bed. Even with your hands moving wildly in front of you in the dark room, you still run into the side of the bed with a thud. âDonât laugh.â You warn, and he tried his hardest not to. You read once that orgasms can cure headaches. Briefly, you consider the logistics of it.Â
Not worth it, you decide. Youâd rather have your brain explode all over the walls of this dark room than make things any weirder, leave more feelings and emotions to linger in the shadows of the unknown. âSommes-nous bons?â He asks, and your face controls into a twisted mess. No way is he doing this now. No way.Â
âPourquoi ne serions-nous pas bons?â You mutter, after much hesitation.Â
âJe ne sais pas.â He says. âVous vous sentez loin.â
âJe suis lĂ .â You lie, and reach your hand out. He finds you in the darkness, or you find him. You find each other, thatâs all that matters, really. You move in the bed messily, tangling the sheets and comforter with your legs, pulling him with little force onto the bed. âIâm here.â You repeat with your head on his chest, rising and falling with each breath. You donât say it because you mean it, you say it because you know when his thoughts are on the verge of becoming all consuming. You say it because the last thing he needs to be thinking about this weekend is if youâre distancing yourself from him. You might know him better than he knows himself, you think sometimes.Â
When you wake up in the middle of the night, youâre feeling alive, less corpse-like. Heâs not in the room anymore.Â
You wonder if itâs possible to distance yourself from Charles, or if your lives are so completely and utterly intertwined that itâs too late for that. A life lived together too long to make distinctions, you think. Nothing is yours, not really.Â
Fight or flight, you will freeze every time. You canât take the leap, have the hard conversations. If you do it, and it goes terribly wrong, crashes and burns brighter than the sun, thereâs no walking away, no picking up the pieces and putting yourself back together again.Â
When you were young, your Mother once told you she thought you and Charles were each one half of a puzzleâincomplete without the other. Youâre lucky to have him, she told you, people spend their whole lives looking for the other half of their puzzle.Â
You always found comfort in it. Now, you think maybe you and Charles are two separate puzzles that have been combined into the same box. Sure, they could be sorted, but pieces are probably missing, stolen by time or never there to begin with. The only way to sort each other apart would be to dump it all out on the table, slowly rebuild from the corners in, constantly checking the box to make sure that piece is a piece of you, not him. Nobody has time for that task, not even the people who love the puzzles, not even the puzzles themselves, so you sit on a shelf all mixed up until the end of time.Â
He came to see you on your nineteenth birthday. Drove in from Monaco to the apartment you were renting with University friends. Four bedrooms, six people, two emotional support cats, low ceilings, broken fire escape, one bathroom, and a pantry full of cheap alcohol.Â
When he arrived, there were significantly more than six people, the pantry full of liquor was a kitchen full of liquor, and you were dancing on a table, drunk in a way only a nineteen year old is on her birthday. Even sloppy and shitfaced, you could make out the distinctive tone of his holler over the hoots of the rest of your cheer squad.Â
Youâd laughed, giddy and loud, jumped off the table and threw yourself into his arms. âVous ĂȘtes ici?!â You yelled into his ear, adjusting the strap of your top.Â
âJe suis lĂ .â He said, at a sober volume. âBon anniversaire.â
âMerci!â You laughed, hiccuped. âBuvons!â
He should have been playing catch-up, but youâd never let a friend take a shot alone. A gruesome mistake you learned when you were curled over the porcelain toilet bowl two hours later.Â
He had your hair knotted into a shitty ponytail, too loose, the part of your haircut meant to frame your face falling victim to the contents of your stomach. He rubbed his hand on your back, like a parent would, and told you it was going to be okay. You spit, laughed into the toilet because he was always so annoyingly sweet to you. You looked over your shoulder and told him so. Youâre too sweet to me, you said, he looked at you all sober and earnest and chillingly, and then you threw up again.Â
You rallied, though. The birthday girl always rallies. You smoked a cigarette from the perch of your bedroom window and listened to Charles talk about some girl and lecture you, going on and on about how you really shouldnât be smoking. Itâs quite bad for you. You wondered what would happen if you threw yourself out the window, if it would hurt more than his bashful words about her. Itâs only the third floor. It wonât kill you. Hearing him say her name and blush one more time might, though.
Jealousy is ugly on you. You realize that in the weeks that follow, and decide that until you have the balls to say something to him, to take charge, you donât get to be jealous of who he spends his time crushing on. Jealousy is for women who lose, and youâre not even playing, not even on the team.Â
Itâs a good thing you do, put it behind you, because he brings her to the family cabin you spend Christmas at every year. He warms her hands in his and kisses her under the mistletoe hung in the entryway. At the end of the week, he thanks you for being so kind and warm and welcoming to her. You smile, hug him. Anytime, you told him, cry yourself to sleep for three days thinking about how happy he is.
Sheâs too good for you was the nicest thing you ever said about her. It was a lie. Nobody is too good for someone as sweet as him.Â
You see him next in Austin, a late birthday celebration in the land of unfamiliar accents and oversized portions. The losing battle for the championship is over, Max won in Japan and sat in some stupidly oversized armchair in the cool-down room. Itâs ridiculous, honestly, Iâm glad I didnât win, he told you. You went along with it even though you know heâd give an arm and a leg to look like a fool in an oversized armchair in a cool-down room in Japan.Â
Despite that, because of that, whatever, the pressure is off his shoulders a bit, the need to perform at superhuman level lowered. He seems lighter when you hug him.Â
âI did a hot lap with Brad PItt.â He tells you.
You laugh at the absurdity of his life, follow him on his walk up the paddock. âAnd?â
He shrugs. âTires were shit.â His typical day at the office might be batshit insane, but heâs always going to be Charlesâlittle boy who loves cars-Leclerc.Â
âTires were shit.â You repeat. âThat's all you got for me?â
âHe didnât speak much.â Make him speak, Charles. Itâs Brad fucking Pitt, you wouldâve said if it was a few months earlier and things were normal and deadpan and sarcastic between the two of you. You roll your eyes instead.Â
â â
âYou guys should not let them do this.â You tell the girl working the counter at Austinâsâan amusement park in, you guessed it, Austin, Texas. Americans are incredibly creative, youâve come to learn. âTheyâre going to kill each other.âÂ
She canât be making more than minimum wageâseven U.S dollars and twenty-five cents an hourâbut there isnât any amount that is enough to deal with this crowd in karts. Two of the most competitive men on the planet, egged on by each other and by the group of guys in line behind you trying to pay for your groupâs tickets.Â
Do not let them pay for you, you told Charles and he nodded, told you he knew, paid for everyoneâs tickets. At any moment it feels like a little red dot is going to appear on your head and Ferrari is going to take you out. They wonât be thrilled to discover both their poster-boy and Disney prince were out late the night before a race, even less thrilled when they find out Charles and Carlos were risking injury in search of cheap thrills with strangers.Â
You and Isa share a laugh, feel like mothers chasing toddlers around at Disneyland. We should do that, we should do this. Oh! Look at that, we canât leave without doing that.Â
You watch them ignore the teenager telling them the rules about the karts, telling everyone not to run into one another. Itâs just the four of you; Charles, Carlos, Isa, and you. You know theyâll be crashing into each other before you get through the first turn.Â
They argue about if theyâre fighting for first or fastest lap, flip a coin and throw a fit about the results, play rock-paper-scissors to come to a decision. They lap you and Isaâthe rule followers who donât exceed the speed limitâfly around the track at a speed you didnât expect anyone to be able to pull from the cheap karts.Â
Carlos wins, Charles contests, says heâs going to formally protest it. Then, they want to switch to two-seater carts, so you and Isa are passengers to their reckless driving. Charles wins that round. Carlos and Isa leave after that, claim theyâre tired. You and Charles stay for a meal.Â
âItâs a pre-podium celebratory meal.â You said.Â
âYouâre going to curse me.â He groaned.Â
For the first time in what feels like a lifetime, a meal shared with Charles is awkward, stiff. Before today, youâd barely spoken since Monza. Your social media was still full of death threats, or so youâd been told. The apps have yet to be redownloaded, itâs not healthy for anyone to see that kind of stuff.Â
This is how it happens, you think. How lifelong friendships fall apart. There isnât a separation spot that you can pinpoint and say yes, this is where it all went to shit. Itâs a gradual separation, a day without a call, a week without a text, a month without speaking. Slow, steady, and sure, until eventually, you live separate, untangled lives.Â
âSo,â He says, eats a fry. âThat big work deal?â
âYeah.â You nod, cross one leg over the other on the cold metal chair. âItâs good. Almost done, I think.â
âIâm sure you killed it.â
âYeah.â Uncross the legs. âThanks.â Cross them again. The positioning of your legs isnât the problem, the cold metal chair that doesnât sit evenly on the floor and rocks when you shift your weight isnât whatâs making you uncomfortable. The food is good and the drinks are cold and your waitress is a sweetheart with a southern accent and long blonde hair.Â
Yâall came from the race? She asked. We were busier than ants at a picnic all weekend. You told her yes. I like yâallâs accents, and that was the end of it. He couldnât get away with that interaction anywhere else in the world.Â
Everything is perfect, but youâre still uncomfortable. The problem is him. The problem is you. Everything breaks under enough pressure, even unbreakable things.Â
âI miss you.â He said, because the closer your bodies are, the further away your minds wander.Â
âIâm here.â You lie.Â
He sees right through it. âNo, youâre not.â Any possible defense would be weaker than the lie, so you donât bother, sit in suffocating silence and pick at your fries. âThings have been weird since we slept together.â It was a mistake, you brace for the impact of it. Sleeping with him wasnât a mistake, not for you. It was everything that has followed that was the issue. It should have been the end of a chapter, a closing book, one way or another. Instead, youâre writing an epilogue and flying by the seat of your pants, stumbling over your words and forgetting characterizations and just trying to make it to the next page. You should be in a new book entirelyâa book without him or a book with him on every page.Â
It was a mistake, you brace and brace but it never comes. He doesnât say it. The other shoe doesnât drop. He just looks at his hands, twists his rings on his fingers, pops his knuckles. âI donât know how to fix this.â He speaks, finally, and it reminds you of when he kissed you, when you didnât know how to make everything better.Â
More silence, until youâve both cleaned your plates, until Mary-Grace, the sweet talking southern-belle, sets the check down on Charlesâ side of the table, until you watch him google how much gratuity heâs supposed to leave because heâs always scared heâs going to mess up tipping when youâre in the U.S.Â
Distance is good, you think. Distance. People need distance. âAbu Dhabi is going to be my last race.â You whisper.Â
He laughs almost, sliding his card into the leather folder and setting it back on the edge of the table. âItâs going to be everyoneâs last race.â
âMy last race for a while, Charles.â My last race, ever, you think, if distance goes the way you think it will. âIâm going toâI think we.â You sigh. âWe need some space, I think.â
âNo. Donât be stupid.â He shoos your words, brushes them under the rug.Â
âWe canât fix it. We both know we canâtââ
â--I donât know.â You speak over each other, building a Jenga tower of lies and one-ups until you finally snap into a different language.Â
ââ--Doit-on vraiment continuer Ă prĂ©tendre que tout va bien?â
âI love you.â He blurts, cuts you off like itâs some grand admission, like you havenât been saying it to each other since before the word love had any sort of connotation to it, back when it was just something people said to each other. The distance, it doesnât mean you donât love him. Youâll always love him, heâs Charles. You just. You need to breathe, and you canât catch your breath when heâs around.Â
âI love you, too.â You say, like you have a million times before, like youâre almost offended he thought any of this meant you didnât love him.Â
âNo, no.â His voice is desperate, pleading with you to understand something youâre clearly missing. Surely, he doesnât mean. âHow do you⊠je suis amoureux de toi.â You clench your jaw and blink, and youâre pretty sure one eye closes before the other.
âDonât say that to me.â You say. Not, Iâm in love with you, too, even though you are. Youâre trying to put yourself first here, trying to objectively look at your life, at the things in it that are hurting you. Mixed signals, hurting you. Death threats, hurting you. Unwanted attention, hurting you. The common thread is him, you need to separate yourself from him and heâs saying the only thing that could make you waiver.Â
âPourquoi pas?â
âBecause.â You dig your shaky fingers into your leg, burrow them into the denim. Itâs going to bruise, you donât care, so will this conversation, so will walking away. âYou donât mean it.â Shake your head, lip quivering like a little girl who got hurt on the playground. He does mean it.You know him well enough to know he does, which only makes it that much fucking harder. âAnd Iâm not going to say it back.âÂ
You love him so much, more than oxygen, maybe. Youâd throw it all away for him, your heart would let you lose yourself if it meant making him happy, if it meant being with him. Youâd stay off social media and pretend nobody was wishing for your death. Youâd sit at awkward dinner parties and watch races with limbs that didnât feel like your own. Youâd do it all, if your heart was in charge, because you love him, and canât fathom losing him.Â
Space. Space will make it better, ease the sting of unspoken feelings and heavy words and stupid little games. Space will wash the salt from the wound.Â
He says your name like a plea, a desperate prayer, bloody knees and lit candles. You say nothing, too much internal conflict to sort out to verbalize anything.Â
The drive to the hotel is deafeningly silent. You can hear the tires of the rental car on the road below, can hear his feet on the pedals, the grind of his teeth because heâs angry at you. Heâs angry and he doesnât want to be. In love with you and he doesnât want to be. You understand it well, recognize your own emotions being reflected back at you. If you listen hard enough, you convince yourself you can hear the traffic lights changing colors.Â
You fly home commercial the next morning, skip the race, hear about his podium three days later from a friend.Â
You donât go to Abu Dhabi.
--
You donât go to November, or Decemberâs family dinner. He doesnât text you, doesnât call, makes no attempt at playing phone tag.Â
--
You skip Christmas at the cabin, find out after the fact that heâd done the same thing.Â
âĂa devient ridicule, chĂ©rie.â Your mother tells you over the phone. âVous agissez comme un enfant. Vous lâĂȘtes tous les deux.â Youâd just told her you were skipping your dadâs birthday party. I have to work, you lied. Iâll bring his gift by the house next week. It was the straw that snapped her back, it would seem. âVous serez ici demain. Pour papa. Il ne t'a rien fait.â She said it sternly, and if you were sixteen you might have been intimidated by it, might have listened.Â
You told your sister after you got off the phone with Mom that you wouldnât be there, told her as a heads up, so she knew the shit-show of slamming cupboards and passive aggressive comments she was walking into tomorrow.Â
Go to your dadâs birthday. He texted you for the first time in months. I wonât go.
Iâm an adult. Thereâs no way to send a message like that without sounding like a child.Â
I wish I could see my dad on his birthday. Nobody does the guilt-trip like he does. Go. I promise I wonât be there.
Charles is scarily close to your Dad. Growing up, Charlesâhell, all of the boysâthey were the sons your dad never had, the ones he didnât realize he wanted. It was infuriating, sharing him. And then HervĂ© got sick, and then he was gone, and your dad became a father figure for the boys. It was slow, and subtle, but it happened nonetheless.
You were the one who blew things up, who demanded space and time and distance. If anyone should suffer because of it, itâs you, not him. You should be there.
Not more than you. You disagree, but heâs impossible to argue with without being face-to-face.Â
I can be an adult. You say, even though you arenât so sure you can be. We can both go.
â â
You lingered in your apartment, wondered if he was really going to show up, if you were actually going to get in the car and drive over there, if it was too late to say youâd caught Covid or something.Â
You change clothes seven times. Seven, because you want to look good, but not like you tried to look good. Effortlessly glamorous and classy and sophisticated. You donât know why, itâs not like heâs the one who wronged you. If anyone should be spending extra time in the bathroom today it should be him, he should be trying to prove you wrong, to show you your mistake in walking away.Â
It wasnât a mistake. It was the biggest mistake. There were two very distinct sides to the coin. Youâre back on social media, back to living your life without death threats and constant judgment. You havenât spoken to your best friend in months, have no idea what heâs up to, donât know anything more than his millions of followers. You miss him, but you donât miss being Charles Leclercâs friend, Charles Leclercâs girlfriend. You like having your own name, being a person with traits that go beyond knowing him. You hate not seeing him, not being with him, worrying that youâre going to run into him around any corner. Itâs a small, congested city. He could be any of the faces in the crowd.Â
You get to your parents house after your sister and your brother-in-law and your niece. The house smells like pasta sauce and your momâs flowery candleâthe one that is teetering awfully close to potpourri and death and elderly woman. The Bianchiâs arenât comingâthey thought the party was next weekend, called and apologized three different times in the past forty-eight hours, according to your dad. The Lecelercâs are yet to arrive.Â
You slip into comfortable conversation with your family, Mom is right, you arenât avoiding any of them. You help her out in the kitchen, get yelled at for tasting the sauce, chase your niece around the house, fulfill your duties as the fun aunt, sneak her candy from the jar in Dadâs office and swear just enough that she might call the dog a bitch.Â
Arthur and Pascale get there first, before Lorenzo and Charles. Theyâll be here late, Pascale says to someone, not you. âMy brother is an idiot.â Arthur says when you greet him with a tight hug. You havenât seen him since Monza, either.Â
âYou donât know what youâre talking about.â You say. You havenât seen him, but youâve spoken to him, congratulated him on moving to F2, offered to take him out to dinner the next time your schedules lined up. Drama with Charles wasnât going to stop you from celebrating the closest thing youâll have to a baby brother.Â
You almost forget heâs coming. Almost, and then heâs knocking and walking through the door with a small, gift-wrapped box and an expensive bottle of wine, charming smiles onto everyoneâs face with just his easy presence. He looks good. He always looks good, but damn, he looks good in that sweater and those jeans and his glassesâhe should wear his glasses more, youâve always thought. He doesnât hug anyone, and you wonder if itâs so he doesnât have to hug you. Instead, he hoists Gigi up into the air and steals her seat on the sofa. Itâs his seat, unassigned, but assigned by years of occupying it at every family function. Gi wants to lay claim to it, but sheâs just as happy on Charlesâ lap as she is curled up in the corner seat of the sectional.Â
You keep meeting his eyes, snapping them back to the ground every time. Itâs sad, if you think about it too long. You were right,the two of you are too entangled. Thereâs no separating you, not with ties that run so deep, not when you and Charles are just pieces of a giant web of people. There are a million invisible strings and unseen connections that intertwine every member of your family and every last one of your friends.Â
Youâre painfully cordial. He helps your mom serve dessert, hands you a plate with a corner piece of cake and your favorite ice cream, doesnât have to ask you like he does everyone else. You donât even know how he knows your favorite flavor of ice cream, why he remembers that you love the corner piece of cake.Â
You thank him, tell him the wine he brought is good and overpriced. Iâve missed being judged for every purchase I made He said, and you told him he couldnât get rid of you that easily. Itâs weird, the weirdest, because he did get rid of you pretty easily.Â
âIâm going to F1. Sauber.â He told you in his kitchen while the two of you were washing dishes. You dropped the forks into the dishwasher with a spattering of clangs.
âReally?â You asked, a glaring absence of excitement in your voice. You knew it was coming, everyone knew it was only a matter of time, a talent like his is destined to get to the top. You knew it was coming, but, still, you selfishly and silently hoped it wouldnât work out. He was yours, and you wanted to keep him to yourself, hated how much you already had to share him with the rest of the world. Gone for nine months of the year, away from home and away from you, it will be so lonely.Â
Heâs happy to leave you behind, overjoyed, even, and you struggle to come to grips with it, struggle to separate the emotions heâs feeling about achieving the dream versus the ones he feels about leaving you. It feels like the end of the world to your young and naive heart, like nothing is ever going to be the same, like youâre losing another person you love more than life.Â
â â
It was the beginning of the season, he hadnât been home in almost two months, was in the middle of a double header, China and Azerbaijan, you think. You were just trying to survive to Monaco. Heâd never been so busy, youâve never missed him so much.Â
Your roommates were having a party, and you were working late. When you got home, his favorite song was playing through the apartment. You donât know the name, arenât even sure about the artist, but you know every word, learned them all against your will. Listened to him sing it under his breath while he cooked and scream it during long car rides and blast from his headphones so loud you were worried heâd have hearing damage. He was always, always, singing this song, and you were always, always, asking him to turn it off.Â
You wished he was here right now, singing it out of tune and thinking heâs a popstar. You wish you could begrudgingly sing it with him. Instead, you grab a snack from the pantry and lock your bedroom door and put in your headphones, play your music so loud you canât hear the party on the other side of the door. Tune it out, turn off your longing for him with it.Â
You canât wait until you graduate, until you can pack everything up into a little suitcase and spend all of your money and follow him around the world, canât wait until you never have to miss him again.Â
Come see me. He texted, a month after your Dadâs birthday, right before pre-season testing in Bahrain. Heâs already there, or so you can piece together from the text, from the attachment in the subjectless email heâd sent you. Plane ticket, two, actually. Nice to Dubai, Dubai to Muharraq. Both first class.Â
No. You replied. Get a refund.
See you tomorrow night. You hated the cockiness of the reply, hated more that you were already packing a suitcase. He didnât even ask if you were working, didnât check to see if your schedule was clear or if it was even something you wanted to do.Â
Iâm not your booty call.
Trust me, I know. He said. Ma vie serait tellement plus simple si tu l'Ă©tais. Well, heâs not wrong about that one.Â
Your sister drives you to the airport. âI think Iâm in too deep.â You told her. You two have never done shallow, she said. You promised to protect yourself, to prioritize yourself, and to text her updates whenever you had them.Â
You wished your life was as simple as hers, a good job and a husband and a perfect baby girl. Big family parties and plenty of babysitters for date night and a village that loved and supported everything they did. She had the perfect family, had all her ducks in a row and her shit situated. âI love living vicariously through your insane life.â She said, and you kissed her cheek goodbye.Â
â â
You follow his instructions, feel like youâre on a delusional scavenger hunt. Board the plane, land in Dubai, board another plane, land in Muharraq, get on the bus, talk to Azim at the front desk of the hotel, he knows youâre coming. Azim isnât there. He works the night shift, apparently.Â
Azim is not here. You texted your sister.Â
Who is Azim?
They call Azim, he answers, and itâs all sorted out when the day-shift manager hands you a key. You wonder what Charles had told Azim. Thereâs a girl coming, be discreet. It doesnât seem like him, none of it seems like him. Azim, Iâm drunk and tired and invited my best friend, who claims to need space from me, to my room. Please let her in. That felt like more of a possibility, felt like it would confirm your suspicions, that he doesnât want you here. He wants you, of last year, here. You, of France, likely.Â
Youâre not having sex with him. Not happening, you wonât fold, not even if he asks nicely. It would solve nothing, and has already fucked up enough of your relationship. If you suck his dick again, you wonât be able to be cordial at birthday parties, heâll forget what kind of ice cream you like, and neither of you will ever be seen at the christmas cabin again.Â
When you get to the room, the suite, you find thereâs two bedrooms. Maybe he wasnât looking for France, maybe he got into the room and saw there was another room and had a momentary lapse where he thought, you know who would enjoy being here? He bought the tickets, sent the text, and by the time he realized what heâd done, it was too late to back out.Â
Youâre replying to emails on the couch when he walks through the door. That redesign deal, after months and months of back and forth about something as small as the shade of one pixel versus another, is finally launching this weekend. Youâre trying to make sure everything is in order, putting the final bows on the project and making sure no ends are left loose.Â
âHi.â You call out, in case he forgot he invited you.Â
âHi.â He says, appears in the lamp-lit room all comfy in that one sweatshirt youâve always loved on him. âAre you watching LâAtalante?â He asks, moving past you and into the kitchen. Itâs too normal. Eerily so, the plane might have passed through the z-axis or something and now youâre in an alternate timeline where none of it ever went sour.Â
âNo.â Everytime you watch it you think of him. Not in the cheesy, God, I love him and he is such the main character in this love story, way. In the God, I love him and wish he was here to make fun of me for loving this movie, way. âHavenât watched it in a while.â
âShame.â He says. âI liked that movie.â
You donât feel like humoring him about this again, vividly remembering exactly where it got you the last time. Really, you could blame all of this on that fucking movie. If you never watch it, he never asks to come in, you never have sex, and everything is happy-go-lucky between the two of you. âHowâs the car this year?â
âDonât know yet.â He says, pulls a bottle of water from the fridge, the seal snapping when he turns the cap. âWhy arenât you watching LâAtalante?â He takes a drink.
âI told you.â You say quietly, unfocused on your words, fingers rapidly moving across your keyboard.Â
âNo, you told me you havenât watched it.â He says, flops down onto the couch. âI want to know why.â
âI donât know, because I havenât felt like it.â You tell him, a little more annoyed this time. You havenât watched the movie. A lot of people donât watch their favorite movie all of the time. âWhy do you care so much? Did you call me out here to play anything but?â
âI called you out here because I miss my best friend.â
âYou donât know me, anymore.â
âItâs been a few months, not a few lifetimes.â Even then, heâd probably still remember the corner piece of cake and his hand would probably still hover behind you protectively and find you in the dark rooms and the crowded rooms. You know no amount of time could make you forget his favorite song, or at what point in his day he gets nervous, what he needs when everything is going wrong, and the way he can sober you up with one look. âI still know you. I still love you.â You sympathize with it, relate to it, because nothing is as hard as trying to unlove another person, youâve come to learn. âI miss my best friend.â
Donât break. I still love you, Charles. Donât break. I miss my best friend, too. Donât break. Donât break. âWe can pretend for a weekend.â He says. âJust, be normal again. Be us again.â Us. There is no us. Donât break.Â
Itâs not like itâs an argument you can just apologize and move on from. He canât apologize for loving you, for needing to vocalize it. You canât apologize for loving him, for not being able to take the leap. Normal, normal sounds so good.Â
Can we go back to normal after this?Â
Yeah. Back to normal.Â
You never should have let yourself believe him. You wonder if he loved you, then. If he knew when he said it that it was a lie. You canât remember when you knew you loved him, like really, really loved him. It was gradual, you suppose, a combination of time and sweetness and jealousy, of grief and joy and innocence. At some point, you were forced to face the sobering reality, but, you donât know how long youâve loved him like this. Does he remember a moment, or was it gradual for him, too?Â
âBack to normal.â You said. The ultimate game of anything but, the final boss of your friendship. âJust for the weekend?â
âWhatever you want.â He says. âWe can do whatever you want.âÂ
Donât break. Do not break. âOkay,â you crack, and then, with the force of your entire heart, âyeah.â You break.Â
A long time ago, before the gradual realization, you thought Charles and you were platonic soulmates. Today, can you go back to that? To the platonic love. Was there ever a fork in the road, a wrong turn, a path where you end up somewhere else, or have you always been destined to end up like this, in a hotel room, in a foreign country hiding from the rest of the world and pretending everything is light and breezy and comfortable when itâs far from.Â
â â
Itâs Monday morning, and your weekend together is over. It was a shorter adjustment period than you could have predicted, like relatives who donât see eachother but once a year. Itâs awkward hellos and bombed small talk until suddenly one of you makes a joke and itâs like you were apart for minutes instead of months.Â
You go to this tourist attraction together, the Tree of Life. Itâs a four-hundred-year-old tree thatâs like, ten meters tall or something. It sits alone in the middle of the desert and nobody knows how itâs still alive. Itâs a spectacle, according to Google, and was nominated to be another wonder of the world. Someone says its roots run fifty meters deep, and it sticks with you, the idea that thereâs so much beneath the surface. You wonder if the tree had a companion four hundred and some odd years ago, if it always imagined spending every day with the companion tree, if their roots were tangled fifty meters below the surface. The tree is gone, now, but maybe its roots are still there, fifty meters down, all tangled up in the roots of this tree.Â
Itâs probably not from the Garden of Eden like they claim, and thereâs surely a scientifically sound explanation for where the tree is getting its water from in the middle of the desert in a rain-less country. Itâs just a big tree, destined to dry up and fall over and burn with the rest of the planet. Itâs just a big tree, unless it isnât.Â
Does the tree know if itâs special or if itâs just that? You donât know if what you and Charles have is something special or if youâre just something, but, then again, you arenât a tree. Maybe the tree knows. Maybe you know. How does a person know that they know?
Charles seems to know, to think youâre worth his unrelenting patience, deserving of the corner slice and the color green, of the stars and the sand and everything in between. He understands you, and he still seems to know, to declare with confidence in the rush of a sports bar in the middle of Texas that he loves you. Heâs sure enough that he skips Christmas because you thought space would make everything better, doesnât tell you that youâre wrong even when you so obviously are, doesnât stop loving you when you push him in the opposite direction.Â
Youâve never been that sure about anything, you think.Â
âLooks a bit lonely, doesnât it?â He offers into the dry air, taking a picture with his phone. You hadnât thought of it as lonely until he said something, viewed it as possessing an other-worldly strength and unmatched level of determination. The tree never told its companion it loved it, the tree kept to itself and eventually, learned to live alone in the sand.Â
You shook your head. âItâs strong.â
âYou can be both.â The tree can be both, heâd meant to say, because the Tree of Life is not a metaphor. Itâs just a tree.Â
â â
The weekend, the game of anything but, the avoidance of the Worldâs biggest elephant, is over. Itâs Tuesday, now, breakfast from room service in the suite, awkward tension filling all the available space, compromising each molecule at an atomic level. Heâs wearing a red t-shirt, because he always is, and it sits on him so nicely, looks so comfortable on his skin. Youâre wearing a yellow pajama top and the silky material is charged with static and clings to you in all the spots you wish it wouldnât.Â
How do you know when itâs real? You had texted your sister in the middle of the night prior, two-twenty-three if you remember correctly. You couldnât sleep, had a bad dreamâcouldnât decide what was worse, the nightmare while you sleep or the nightmare when you wake. Â
You donât. She replied at a normal hour, when normal people wake up after going to sleep at a normal time. You never know for sure.
Thatâs fucked.
âI booked a flight home last night.â You told him, picking at the plate of eggs in front of you, the fork scraping on the ceramic plate like nails on a chalkboard, your teeth clinking against the metal everytime it was in your mouth. Just, wrong. In every possible way.Â
âWhy?â He asks, takes a drink of orange juice, a new quirk, you think. He always used to complain about the pulp getting stuck in his teeth. Donât be such a princess, youâd tell him and he would roll his eyes, drink the remainder of the glass just to prove he could do it without complaining.Â
âThe deal was a weekend.â You say, pretend youâre not conflicted, regretting buying the ticket, admit youâre running away again. âThe weekend is over.â
âYouâre just going to leave again?â He nods, reassures himself through the sentence, wipes his mouth with a cloth napkin. âNot even going to talk about it?â You stay quiet, teeth clicking against the fork. âIâyou are. God, you are soââ
ââAnything but.â You invoke it like a constitutional amendment, like a prophecy, like an unbreakable law.Â
âââOh, va te faire foutre.â Your head rears back, but you donât let it sting, know you deserve it. âWeâre not doing Anything-fucking-but.â Itâs been a long time since he was angry with you, openly like this, cussing you out. Heâs scary when heâs angry at you, because heâs always calm about it. Raises his voice, maybe, but never yells at you. You wished heâd scream sometimes, it would be easier to read.Â
âThis weekend was really great, Charles. I donât want to ruin it.âÂ
âI just. I donât understand.â He runs his hand over his stubble, deep in contemplation, trying to analyze you, make sense of you. Good luck, you want to tell him. âI love you. I really, really fucking love you. Je sais que je ne suis pas fou. Vous le sentez aussi.â
A single, heavy tear falls from the corner of your eye. You wipe it with the rough cuff of your jacket before it can trail down your face. The inside of your cheek is bleeding, you think, because you canât feel the pressure from your teeth but you can taste copper. âIâm scared.â There, you said it. You admitted it, exhaled it with the weight of the world, vomited it into his lap.Â
His lips are tight in their frown, eyes red and glossy like heâs going to cry, too. He laughs, though, a sad and defeated chuckle. âYou think Iâm not scared?â He asks, voice fighting against itself not to crack. âIâm scared as hell to want you.â
Heâs scared? But, nothing scares him. Heâs fearless, youâre frightened. Unflinching and hesitant. Gutsy and cowardly. Nothing scares him, not even his own mortality. Youâre supposed to believe that you, of all people, you, scare him? Impossible, you think.
âI didnât tell you for fun.â He continues. âI told you, because it was eating me alive. I was so scared to tell you, thought I would ruin us. Mais tu partais, et je ne pouvais pas te perdre. Je ne pouvais pas.âÂ
Why, why, why is this so fucking hard for you. Sixteen-year-old you, twenty-year-old you, twenty-five-year-old you. Every version of you is screaming at you, weâve loved him forever, this is all youâve ever wanted from him. They kick your shins and gut-punch the breath from your lungs and scrape their nails behind your eyes. They are furious, because for longer than you can remember every wishâshooting stars, birthday candles, fountain pennies, fallen eyelashes, dandelions, and ladybugsâtheyâve all been for the same thing. The very thing being served to you on a desert platter, all you have to do is pick up the fork.Â
âTu as peur?âÂ
âPĂ©trifiĂ©.â
Pick up the fork. Eat the corner piece of cake and savor every bite. Be scared. Be terrified that the world is going to take something pure and wreck it. Be scared, but do it together. Pick up the fork.
âI love you, too.â
You feel strangely out of place with someone else to look after in the paddock. Ferrari hospitality had been your home away from home for years now. The paddock was always different, but maintained a comfortable familiarity, recognizable faces, names, buildings and colors. He was wide-eyed and curious and you smiled at the way the sun bounced off his hair, the excitement he couldnât contain when amongst the chaos youâd become accustomed to.Â
âAsk before you touch, please.â You told him, his hand in yours, the same warning Charles had given you the first time he brought you through a garage.Â
He is heard before he is seen, a loud laugh, a familiar voice calling out your name as soon as he turned the corner. âHi.â You beam.
âHiâ He says, kisses you, runs his hand through the boyâs hair. âQuoi de neuf, Crevette?â
âIl fait chaud, papa.â He says, with poor enunciation and the dramatic waving of a little hand, fanning himself. Charles nods, hoists the little man onto his hip, whispers something in his ear. A private conversation between the two of them, you donât dare intrude. âDis-sa.â Charles says, repeats it when heâs met with a giggly belly laugh.Â
âWe go.â He says, in little, butchered english with a thick french accent. Itâs easier to decipher a babble.Â
Charles laughs, quirks his brows at you, shrugs. âWe go.â He backs away from you slowly.Â
âWe go, where?â You say, laughing, too, because you canât not laugh at your little boyâs giggle. Itâs too pure, cracks even the toughest exteriors. Charles looks to his mini-me. âOĂč allons-nous mon amour?â
âLa crĂšme glacĂ©e.â He says, beams at his father.Â
âYou coming for ice cream, Maman?â Charles asks, holds out his free hand because itâs a rhetorical question. Heâs looking at you with the eyes that make you sober and find you in any crowd, but he doesnât have to have eyes on you to know youâre coming. âDo you think they have Mamanâs favorite flavor?â He asked.Â
âOuais. Ils l'ont eu."
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