You're in My World Now, You Belong To Me. - Chapter 4

Chapter Text

— ⅰ

WHAT TO EXPECT: The Canadian Grand Prix and Fast Facts.

FORMULA1.COM: Preparing for Montreal! Everything You Need To Know About the Canadian Grand Prix.

MOTORSPORTS WORLD: Leclerc and His Integral Part in Scuderia Ferrari.

The first thing you’d notice, walking into the hotel room, was that it was damn nice. It was definitely a luxury hotel room, with the way the towels were positioned out on the bathroom countertops, folded into swans. Speaking of the bathroom, the bathroom was also huge. Topped off with a jacuzzi tub, endless space on the countertops, and a huge shower, it wasn’t somewhere people would normally stay. If you stepped in further, you’d even see the crisp, white linens on the king-sized bed, which was framed a rich, dark wood with intricate details. It was nicer than any hotel room Carlos had ever been in. There were two nightstands, one on each side. The pillows looked like damn clouds with how fluffy they were. You could spot the immaculate living room and kitchenette of the suite, a handwritten note on the countertop of the kitchenette near the entrance, and a champagne bottle on ice. If you stepped in even further, you’d notice the once crisp, white sheets were now crumpled and the mattress was sunken under a man’s figure.

There was Carlos, with his cheek pressed against the duvet and his head barely gracing the pillow. His hands were curled into fists with the blankets between his fingers, the blankets he couldn’t even bother to drape over himself in his tired fit of sleep. And there he was, wearing his thick jeans and a sweater, not even coherent enough to change into pajamas. The small, thoughtful details done by the hotel staff had gone completely unnoticed by his tired mind and he was just curled into the bed.

He drifts in and out of sleep over a few hours. It was probably late in Madrid with how tired he was. He lifted his head from the duvet and rubbed his face, noticing the harsh lines indented onto his face from the creases of the bed and the pillows that he barely made it onto. What had even woken him up? There’s a certain heaviness between his brain and actions, fogging up his mind as he thought about what to do. He doesn’t end up remembering and eventually settles on the bed again, closing his heavy eyes, eyelids reluctant to even stay up. His vision blurred and he fell back to a restless sleep. Instead of passing out cold like before, he thrashed around on the bed. The sweater was pulled back, the sweater was choking him. Those involuntary tears from being tired pricked at his eyes and he hesitantly got up, pulling his sweater over his head. But then his arms erupted with goosebumps.

f*ck it. Carlos can’t win. He’s too tired to bother to do anything else, but he’s also way too cold to even sleep. He places his hand on his cheek and feels how hot he is. It’s not a fever, he lazily thinks. It couldn’t be. He was just tired. Carlos lifted himself off of the bed and reached to place the blanket over him and he closed his eyes, a heavy yawn escaping him. This time, his head was placed against the pillow. It was a little different from how he was splayed against the bed before, but this was more comfortable. (And he wasn’t curled up like a lost puppy anymore).

Knock.

Carlos raises his head. How did Lando figure out his room number?

Knock.

Another sharp knock. Carlos rubs his eyes and shuffles off of the bed. He wraps the lighter blanket around himself as he goes to answer the door, vision bleary. Maybe it was Lando. They normally stayed at the same team hotels. Carlos can’t help but think this is oddly big for a standard team hotel room. When he stumbled to the door, he opened it and noticed his phone ringing on the console table right next to the door. Someone was calling him, too? His head spins and he presses it against the wall next to the door.

“Oh, mon dieu, you look out of it.”

That wasn’t Lando’s voice. Lando also didn’t speak French. Carlos makes a sound of confusion, but he doesn’t really protest it. He can feel the warmth radiating off of the other man’s body, desperate for the warmth and itching to fall back asleep. He slumps against the man’s arms and closes his eyes, nuzzling into the crook of his neck. The man stiffened under him, but the warmth was a great contrast against his cold hands. The man’s hands made their way to Carlos’ arms and he held him up.

Huh. He and Lando often held each other up by the arms. Maybe it was Lando. The guy’s helping him balance, he thinks to himself absently. Carlos felt heavy again, limbs dragging him down and he slumped into the man further. This guy doesn’t have Lando’s voice, he thinks with a bile-like aftertaste rising in his mouth, sour and frustrating. Who was this damn man?

Carlos can barely feel the man moving him across the room by holding one of his arms and resting his other hand on his waist. It was an awkward game of balancing himself and letting himself be manhandled across the room. He doesn’t really like it. It makes him feel pathetic. Maybe he looks pathetic, too, from the other guy’s perspective. He’s so weak, trying to chase the sleep. He’s slept too much to go back to sleep, but he needs it. He’s desperate for sleep.

Fingers ghost along the side of his body and he lets out a soft sound of acknowledgment, barely thanking him for his help. He curls up against the bed, hearing his heart hammer against his chest as he tries to sleep. He can feel the awkward combing of his hair from the man's fingers. Lando doesn't touch his hair like that. Lando wasn't awkward with him. It wasn't Lando . Carlos wants to figure out who it is, but he also wants to sleep. He lifts his head up again, but the man presses his head down by gently placing his hand on his cheek.

Carlos murmured in protest, but the hand against his cheek felt better than before. His face was heating up, maybe from being tired or the fact that he was accompanied by this stranger(?) in his hotel room, but the cool hand against his cheek felt like…

His head snaps out of its thoughts when he barely registers the man moving away from the bed. There was no extra weight on the bed and he could hear the shuffling of the sheets and the click of the man’s shoes against the hotel room’s floors. He hears the annoying ringtone of his phone, ears picking up on every note. It’s an awfully horrible noise when he’s trying to go back to sleep. Carlos rubs his eyes and attempts to sit back up, before he slumps against the pillow, curling up like a pathetic animal as he wrinkles the blankets further.

The man returns to the bed and Carlos feels the familiar warmth and weight on the bed he was yearning for. He curls closer into the blankets and the sheets when he hears the clicking of a keyboard. It was the system sounds of a phone. He hated not putting his phone on do-not-disturb. Did this man just never put his phone on do-not-disturb?

He opens his eyes, gaze still blurry as he tries to make out who he is. He can hear the faint sound of a phone call happening. The ringing of the call, the furious voice from the other end. Furious voice? Why was someone furious? Thank God that wasn’t his phone. He can make out more colors in the dimmed room. The phone’s black, but the plastic sheen reveals a clear phone case on the phone. Huh. That wasn’t his phone, he doesn’t think. His phone would’ve been on do-not-disturb. His phone would have no one calling him, especially not with a furious voice. Maybe the man also had a black phone, those were common.

It would be a damn good time for Charles to admit that he was the one in Carlos’ room. And, like many situations before, he was the one constantly sneaking around behind the Spaniard and following him. (Example being in Monaco… except, Charles doesn’t think Carlos has found out about that just yet). Before he entered Carlos’ room, he was a little worried. Fred had told him that all texts sent to him were left unread and that he seemed out of it when they last saw each other. Charles offered to check up on Carlos on Fred’s behalf. When he did enter the room, though, Carlos immediately clung to him like a desperate, pathetic animal. Not that he wasn’t enjoying it. This just wasn’t the exact circ*mstance he wanted it. He held Carlos in his arms for a good moment, leading him over to the bed and running his fingers through that hair. That damn hair that was so f*cking soft. (He knew it was soft—it had always just looked soft). But, Carlos’ phone kept ringing with that horrendous ringtone that Charles doesn’t think Carlos has ever changed. Once. That’s when Charles hesitantly picked himself off of the bed and brought Carlos’ phone over to where they were and picked it up.

On the line was Lando f*cking Norris—

“Carlos! Mate, I’ve been calling you for the past hours. Why haven’t you picked up, muppet? I was scared your teammate actually talked your head off or that Charles guy murdered you. Jesus, don’t do that to me again—”

Charles winced at how loud Lando was over the phone. He adjusted the volume buttons, making sure the British driver’s voice over the phone didn’t sound through the room. Carlos was still drifting in and out of sleep, and considering his appearance right now , he looked like he needed it. He ignored half of Lando’s rant, knowing it didn’t even bother him, but he couldn’t help but laugh when Lando mentioned him being a murderer. A murderer? That was not true. Not one bit. He almost wants to tease Lando about this, but he can’t bring himself to be teasing Lando. Not yet, at least.

“—Anyway, where were you? I didn’t see you check into the hotel you said you were going to check into. The rest of the Ferrari team is downstairs, I even saw your damn teammate. Everyone but you. Did you go to your room early? I think your teammate said… hey, wait, why aren’t you talking? Carlos, come on, buddy, respond to me. Share your wise words, won’t you?”

Charles sighs. It’s better to speak sooner than later. He can’t keep postponing it, or the British driver will go on a f*cking rant (and he might just call the police—which would warrant a not needed search, no?). He clears his throat, keeping his voice soft so Carlos doesn't wake up from his much-needed sleep. “A little quiet, Norris, it isn’t a yelling competition through the phone, non?”

Charles can hear Lando swallow, the audible gulp over the line. Lando’s nervous. Charles likes it that way. He smirks. Lando’s words are shakier than normal, “What? You’re not Carlos. Mate, who are you? Why do you have Carlos’ phone?”

“Is it a crime to have his phone, Norris?”

“Just answer the damn question,” Lando snaps back.

Charles can’t help but feel annoyed. He answers the question anyway. “Carlos is a little out of it. I think the jet lag got to him. He’ll feel better when he wakes up. You can hang up now, Norris.”

“What? No. Leclerc, is that you? Why do you have his phone?”

“He’s just tired, he can’t answer the phone. Be a little considerate, won’t you? Or, is that not in your vocabulary, Norris?” Charles replied, co*cking a brow, even if the motion wasn’t visible through the phone. His smug tone pissed Lando off, he could just hear it in Lando’s scoff. “Mate, I knew you Formula One drivers didn’t fully complete your education, but—”

“Just answer my question!”

“Hang up the call, Carlos is trying to sleep,” Charles grits out.

“No, answer my—”

Charles hangs up instead of giving Lando the chance to even talk. He glances down at Carlos who is curled into the sheets. He looked so small from this angle. Maybe it was the fact that his cheek was pressed against the mattress mostly and not even the pillow, or that his hair fell in front of his eyes and his knees were hitting his chest with the way his legs were folded. Or maybe it was the fact that Charles had never seen Carlos this vulnerable and this soft. Carlos’ eyebrow twitched as he slept and Charles sighed, feeling awfully content. He didn’t want to take this any further, but he did want to go back to stroking the man’s hair. It’s as soft as he’d imagined. He can absently remember the interview where Carlos admitted to only shampooing once. It wasn’t the shampoo, damn it, it was just Carlos being crafted perfectly by God.

His hands feel heavy and he hopes to himself Carlos is just enjoying this, basking in the warmth of it all. If only Carlos was awake and knew that Charles was the one doing this. That’d make him so happy. Just seeing him subconsciously lean into the touch made Charles yearn for the day when they could be casually cuddled on the bed. But, with the way he was screwing up his interactions with Carlos, he doesn’t think it’ll be anytime soon. Charles lets his hand drift away and then drop into his lap. He got up. Maybe he could inspect the hotel, and see if it was perfect for his favorite driver. He doesn’t think Carlos will notice the sudden emptiness on the bed, the Spaniard’s too tired to.

Did they leave the bottle of champagne on ice? Good. They did. Charles went to look further. There’s his note, handwritten and placed neatly in a red envelope with a stamp of the Ferrari logo. Carlos didn’t even open it. He doesn’t know if he should feel frustrated or if he should feel bad. Carlos couldn’t even open his eyes, let alone open his note when he opened the door. Maybe it did make sense. He looks around in more detail. There are little intricate things that Charles had informed the hotel staff about, to make Carlos’ stay more enjoyable. He hoped the Spanish driver would enjoy them.

After a while of looking around, which was just a few short minutes, Charles could hear shuffling on the bed. He pokes his head out from one of the doorways and looks at Carlos on the bed, who was trying to get up. Carlos couldn’t even open his eyes, why was he trying to get up? Charles scowled and approached the bed, but quickly fixed his expression, knowing his harshness wouldn’t help Carlos’ tired state. Damn. He’s never seen Carlos this vulnerable before.

But, it’s short-lived, because Carlos freezes up and stiffens in front of Charles. His eyes immediately narrow and Charles can faintly understand that Carlos is trying to think about what happened. To assume the worst. Charles immediately feels horrible. Carlos was supposed to stay vulnerable with him. To not feel closed off. He hated this feeling, he hated yearning for Carlos and his genuineness. (But he loved it oh so much at the same time, it was horrible, really).

Charles immediately shushed him, looking down at Carlos. “Shhh, calm down. Slowly, get up slowly.”

“What? How did you get in here?” Carlos snaps. Charles wrinkles his nose when he hears the Spaniard’s harsh tone. And after everything he did. He doesn’t want to hold Carlos in a negative light, though. He’s just doing it because he’s tired and jet-lagged. He’s just doing it because he’s scared of this random person in his room. Not random, actually, it was Charles Leclerc. “Where’s Lando?”

“You let me in, mon chéri. You seemed pretty desperate with how you were clinging onto me,” Charles teased, but he cleared his throat, his jaw clenching in frustration with the mention of Lando. Could nothing happen without the mention of that little—

“No… I didn’t let you in, did…” Carlos trailed off, rubbing his throat before moving his hand to rub the side of his nose. He was too tired for this. He groans. In exasperation, Charles thinks. “Whatever. What are you doing? How long was I out?”

“At least give me a chance to answer the question before you ask even more, bébé, ” Charles murmured, sitting next to Carlos on the edge of the bed. He notices the obvious flush on Carlos’ cheeks but he doesn’t tease him. Yet. “Fred was worried because you weren’t answering your texts,” he gestures to the phone that was now on the bed. Carlos’ phone. Then, he adds, “So, he asked me to check up on you,” more like Charles volunteered himself, “and… I think you were out… not more than five hours, non?”

Carlos looks over at the clock on the nightstand and visibly cringes when he notices the time. “It’s midnight. Why aren’t you tired?”

“We came from the same time zone, mon chéri. Don’t tell me you forgot after sleeping for that long. Did you sleep the moment you got in the hotel room?” Now, Charles was teasing Carlos. A smirk played on his features and he could Carlos roll his eyes at the mention of passing out the moment he entered the hotel room. But he didn’t deny it. That left Charles with a curious expression. Charles watched Carlos’ mouth open as if the man was going to say something before he closed it again.

The awkward shuffling on the bed as Carlos tried to get up was a little painful for Charles to listen to. When he tried to lift himself off the bed, Charles pushed him down by his shoulders. Eventually, they do break the silence. With Carlos first, obviously. “Let me up. What the hell are you doing?” Ouch. He could be a little grateful. However, Charles remembers what it’s like. Being jet-lagged and not being able to sleep was never fun for anyone. He’ll be sympathetic towards Carlos, (it was never hard to be, anyway).

“I’m taking care of you, mon chéri. Don’t be difficult. Don’t be disappointed that your little boyfriend isn’t here to help.” f*ck. Charles can’t keep the jealousy out of his tone. He tries to swallow his snark, but the words already come out. Carlos just stares at him with a look of disbelief, mouth open and gaze discerning. The Spaniard even tilted his head. He looked like a damn lost puppy.

“I’m not disa…” the words die on Carlos’ tongue before he registers what Charles had actually said. “Lando’s not my boyfriend. Just… shut up. Let me get up. I have to talk to Fred—”

“You haven’t eaten all day. I didn’t see you eat on the plane either, Carlos,” Charles frowned, pushing Carlos back down onto the bed. Each attempt to get up was so desperate yet so futile for the man. Charles doesn’t understand why he keeps trying to get up. He’s so obviously tired. “You can’t have painkillers without eating first, so, let me order room service for you.”

“You’re not a doctor,” Carlos protests. “They’re not even going to have room service now, either. It’s… midnight.”

“Does that change anything? It’s a luxury hotel. I’m sure someone’s on shift now,” Charles offers, gesturing with his hand as if it was entirely obvious. Carlos’ bottom lip sticks out stubbornly in a pout. Charles thinks it’s the cutest thing ever.

“I don’t think we should call them. They might be busy,” Carlos protests.

“Why?” Charles tilts his head to the side. “I paid this much for a hotel room,” he gestures loosely, “ You deserve the service. Someone’s on shift and they’ll make you whatever you want. You said you liked burgers, non?”

“In an interview, maybe,” Carlos murmurs, still indignant against the idea of Charles taking care of him. Charles frowns in frustration.

“So, you do. You’re not denying it.”

Carlos is about to deny it again but then he sees Charles get up from the bed. Charles fiddles with the phone and picks up the card that tells him the reception number. He dials the number and it’s answered immediately. Carlos absently listens to Charles’ call for room service. This was so frustrating, it really was. Charles just randomly showed up in his hotel room and started taking care of him. He can’t help but feel humiliated. He must’ve looked pathetic while he was sleeping. There was a reason he didn’t sleep in front of others that often. He just didn’t like feeling that vulnerable in front of people. He was a Formula One driver after all. Vulnerability and the harshness of the sport didn’t exactly go hand-in-hand. He rubs his eyes and shuffles back closer to the middle of the bed, resting his head on the headboard of the bed.

He can catch the faint smile sent in his direction from Charles as Charles is still over the phone. He could hear Charles order a burger and faintly make out other parts of the order. Not that Carlos didn’t want one. He wanted one. He didn’t eat the entire day, after all. But, he hates getting help for things he could easily accomplish himself. He doesn’t need to be taken care of. He can look after himself. (But, he can’t deny the fact he likes this a bit too much). Carlos looks up at the Monegasque after he concludes with a thanks and comes back down to the bed, seating himself right next to Carlos and making himself a little too comfortable.

“What are you doing?” Carlos asks, wary yet not quite on the edge of snapping.

Charles settled next to Carlos, on the left side of him. His back was to the headboard and he glanced down at Carlos and co*cked a brow, “You didn’t protest when I was sitting on the bed before.”

“You weren’t this close to me before,” the words are quieter than before.

“I was close enough,” Charles reaches for the remote. Carlos doesn’t know how to respond to that, any protest dying at the thought of having to sound them. Was Charles close before? Or was Charles just being a sh*t and teasing him for being so vulnerable? Another reason added to the list of not being vulnerable in front of people he didn’t exactly trust. Carlos watches as Charles turns on the TV. It was a fairly new TV, he thought to himself. Some part of him thought that it didn’t fit in with the old-timey architecture of everything, but it was a luxury hotel. And the rooms didn’t really match the exterior. The rooms were much more modern. Carlos liked that about them.

Charles is shifting through the channels aimlessly. “What are you looking for?” Carlos asks.

“Trying to change the input. Have you set up FIFA yet?”

Carlos scoffs. He doesn’t mean to, but he does, mostly at the stupidity of Charles’ question. He looks over at the man, craning his neck to look at him in disbelief any further. His jaw juts out, like the way it did when he was a kid—a habit he’s carried over the years—and he just laughs. He doesn’t miss Charles’ open mouth and the way the man’s face twisted in offense. (That just added to his amusem*nt).

“What? Chéri, I’m asking an honest question!”

“Charles, I fell asleep the moment I entered the room. I don’t think I bothered to set up FIFA any time before that.”

Charles looks up at Carlos. It’s almost a silent truce. They’ll stay on a first-name basis as long as Charles doesn’t tease Carlos for using anything other than his surname. Charles holds his tongue and doesn’t say anything further, except for the small smile playing on his features when he sees the look of amusem*nt and disbelief on Carlos’ face. Carlos loves this smile from Charles. It’s so genuine.

f*ck.

He wants more. He wants to see the smile again.

“I can set it up for you, chéri,” Charles says, reaching over the bed to get up. Carlos grabs his arm, stopping him from moving.

“It’s okay. Let’s just watch a movie,” the words feel too big in his mouth. Is he suggesting a movie? To Charles? If he’s being honest, he doesn’t really want to do anything. Playing FIFA until room service came meant pausing the game when they knocked on the door, being polite, and providing service. That meant he’d have to get his controllers out for no reason, and with the way Charles wasn’t even letting him get up, he sure as hell wasn’t going to be given a chance to look through his luggage. And, if Charles insisted on looking for the controllers for him, he sure as hell didn’t want Charles to sort through his bags. That’d just be another way for the man to coddle him.

Carlos is strong. He doesn’t need… coddling.

“What movie do you want to watch?” Carlos asks, repeating the idea that he wanted to watch a movie with Charles . The concept seems foreign to Charles because he looks surprised. At least from the way he gawked at Carlos and tilted his head to the side before swallowing with a smile. Carlos thinks that Charles looks like a puppy doing that, almost. Not exactly. It sounded better in his head when he watched him.

“It’s your choice, bébé,” Charles replies. The pet names don’t get too tiring. Carlos grows fond of them, even if he doesn’t like admitting it. Carlos takes the remote from Charles, their fingers brushing over one another’s. (He’s trying not to blush, he really is). He can catch the smirk on Charles’ face for a moment before it drops when he looks up and changes the channel. It’s some random regional movie, something about cops. Carlos wrinkles his nose when he hears French, but maybe that’s what he should expect from the cable in Quebec. He glances back at Charles, curious if the Monegasque understands the French on the screen. Was Canadian French different? It sounded a little different.

They watch the movie for a little while until they hear knocks on the door. Charles gets up from the bed and Carlos misses the heat radiating from the other man’s body against his. It had started to feel comfortable. His hand jutted out to feel the place Charles sat before, letting his fingers feel the warmth of the man’s body on the bedsheets and partially on the pillow. The weight on the bed also decreased and he didn’t know how to feel about it. It felt empty… it felt…

“Look, food, Carlos, why do you look so sad?” Charles asks, coming over with the tray of food. Carlos didn’t even hear him speak to the room service person. He was too tangled in his thoughts for it. Carlos shrugs, forcing a smile as his mouth starts to water when he catches the rich, savory scent of the burger. (He didn’t have to force it much longer, Carlos just smiled naturally at the sight of gourmet burgers).

“I’m not sad,” Carlos replies easily, taking the tray in his hands eagerly. He flattens his legs—or tries his best to—and places the tray on his thighs that were hastily covered by the blanket. He looks up at Charles, confused. “There’s two .”

“One for me. Is this our first date, chéri?”

Carlos sputters out a protest, not even able to form a coherent sentence. He narrows his eyes, trying to compose himself, before shaking his head. Charles took his plate off of the tray and cupped the bottom of his burger with one hand and held it with another so nothing spilled. Carlos looked over and teased, “Afraid to get messy?”

“Not scared, I just don’t want to mess up your bed, Carlos,” Charles grins back, taking a bite of his burger.

Carlos snorts. “You didn’t even bother to wait for me?”

“Ah, well, what were we going to do? Inaugurate the first bite? Just eat it, mon ami, and be quiet. The French here is so odd, they pronounce things…” Charles wrinkles his nose, setting his burger that boasts a proud bite down on the plate. He gestures loosely with one hand. “Just… so long. It’s weird.”

See Also

look alive, sunshine! - silver_990

Pierluigi helps him settle in the car and hands him his gloves before patting his car and his helmet. Carlos looked up and reached to pat his trainer’s forearm back and tugged his gloves on. He knows he should focus on the free practice at hand. It’s the first one. The team could get a lot of data from this and improve their free practices further. But, if he was going to be honest, all that was going through his head was Lando, Lando, Lando. To make matters worse, Lando didn’t even respond to him when he was trying to text him before the free practice. In fact, the last time Carlos spoke to Lando was a few days ago during their media obligations. And that was only over text.

He was still damn tired after being jet lagged for almost the entire week, but with the gentle buzz of the engine under him, he couldn’t really feel much. Carlos tightened his grip on the wheel in front of him and inhaled sharply, closing his eyes. It’s not even the actual race, he thinks to himself. He shouldn’t even be that worried. This was just to go out and observe how the track was. This was just for him to figure out how to perfect the grudgingly slow corners he was presented with. Or the long straights. Or the damn race itself.

He moves on auto-pilot, doing what he’s done for every race before this. He’s raced this circuit before, right now he’s just trying to get data for his team. These things were sometimes similar to the simulations, and other times not at all. This time, it felt similar. The engine buzzed under him and he completed his first lap, watching the back of a McLaren that Adami identified to be Lando. f*ck. He keeps thinking of Lando, especially when he shouldn’t be.

“Steady, stay steady on the straight,” Adami tells him through the radio, but Carlos’ car is barely on the optimal racing line. It’s barely where he wants it, too. His mind is hazy and his vision suddenly feels blurry. Blurred with tears, maybe, his traitorous mind justifies. Carlos tightened his grip on the wheel and started to slowly adjust to a corner, turning. He needed to find the damn apex. He might as well find it, now. His car takes the inside and he forces Lando’s car to take the outside, which he knows will impact the British driver’s timings, even if they didn’t matter in the context of this race. He doesn’t know if he should be happy, honestly. Adami seemed pleasantly happy with how the tires were holding up. Carlos was doing pretty well. They were nearing the end of the hour when he heard Adami over the radio say something frantic.

“Speak up,” Carlos gritted out.

“Red flag. Albon spun out and hit a curb after his car got stuck in third gear. The free practice session ends fourteen minutes earlier than intended. Good job out there,” Adami tells him.

“How fast were the lap times?”

He knows he wasn’t the fastest. He knows he didn’t push hard enough this practice.

He just wants to hear it from Adami’s mouth.

“Norris with the fastest lap time of, uh, around 1:24.435 seconds. You were narrowly behind, just a matter of three-thousandths of a second, Carlos,” Adami replied. Carlos tightens his grip on the wheel as he slowly eases his car to a stop. It stops where his team tells him to. He’s not disappointed. He’ll sound like a brat if he says he’s disappointed. But being three-thousandths of a second behind from having the fastest lap? He should’ve pushed harder. He should’ve tried much harder. He shouldn’t have let himself falter—

Carlos’ trainer helps him out of his car. He scoffs through his nose and debates throwing his helmet off in a fit of desperation for not being able to control his emotions before he settles on just taking it off like a calm, normal person. (Even if he didn’t feel like a calm, normal person right now). He sets the helmet down and just feels his hands shake. From the buzz of the adrenaline. From the buzz of his anxiety. It’s a bitter mix. He swallows thickly, finding a seat to sit in as his engineers inspect the car. He just watched. He watched when his teammate also came in, offering him a bottle of water. He took it. No media pen today. They had to go to the second free practice right after. He peels off his balaclava, feeling his forehead sticky with sweat. The back of his hand wipes his forehead and then his cheeks and he closes his eyes. He takes a swig of the water, letting the cold liquid slide down his throat. Like he has many times before.

He watched the screen, observing what the cameras decided was important for live footage. Right now, they were zoomed in on some Ferrari engineers and… Charles? Charles had a headset pushed around his neck, chewing on his nails as his blue-green eyes observed the footage of the race. Carlos scoffed through his nose, his laughter a mix of a huff and something breathless. What was Charles doing with the engineers? Guess him being an official part of the Scuderia Ferrari team was actually true and not just a sick joke Carlos started believing. He doesn’t know if he should be happy, though. He watches the camera zoom back out and track Charles’ movement, which eventually leads up to him. He tears his gaze away from the screens and sees Charles there, in front of him, clad in a branded, red-collared shirt and black pants.

He can barely make out what the commentators are saying from the blood rushing in his ears. He’s just focused on Charles approaching him, looking like a damn wanna-be race engineer. Carlos’ lips lift in a gentle smile and in the back of his mind, he hopes that the cameras aren’t zoomed in enough to pick up his small smile at the sigh of Charles. Carlos sets the plastic water bottle aside and gets up to greet Charles properly. They had grown a little closer. Maybe because he thought Charles wasn’t as bad of a guy as he initially made him out to be. Or maybe because Charles went out of his way to look after Carlos when he was jet-lagged. (Or, it was mostly because he still doesn’t understand his emotions from the night in the hotel, and why he didn’t want Charles to leave him all alone).

“Look at them, sharing a proper embrace before the second free practice as [the Scuderia] studies the data from the first free practice,” a commentator says. Carlos can barely hear it, just recognizing that he was enveloped in a small hug by Charles. It felt too sudden. Bile clawed up his throat. But it felt so right. He felt right. This felt okay. The commentary fades in and out of his ears and he can only catch some strings coherently. He melts into the hug. He needs this. His nerves needed this. Carlos lets Charles hold his waist and lets the man’s fingers gently graze the back of his neck. His heart flutters for a moment and he closes his eyes, grateful that the cameras couldn’t zoom in on this with much detail. “Like real lovers. Makes you wonder if the rumors and speculations are true.”

They weren’t true. Charles was just teasing him by being a good person, Carlos thought to himself bitterly. He peels himself away from the hug, sniffing the air, and shaking his head. The cameras don’t care. The cameras don’t bother to pick that up. He’s not doing this for the cameras. Carlos just wants to be left alone. He just wants to get the second practice over with so the team has more data to analyze. Some part of him didn’t want to believe that Charles was being genuine. Another part of him begged to finally trust someone else.

It was a f*cking war.

Carlos got in his car with the help of his trainer again, moving on auto-pilot as usual. The engine buzzes under him. It feels alive. He tightens his grip on the wheel with his gloved hands, taking each turn slowly. He tries to push every lap because he didn’t push enough before. He just wants to see the track limits, and how it would work. How his car felt on the track. This time, free practice didn't go to plan. Each time he turns a corner, he sees a McLaren in the corner of his eye. Every time he asks his engineer, he’s assured with, “Just Norris. He’s trying to find track limits as well.” That didn’t reassure him one bit.

As they turned a corner, Carlos tried to take the inside, though Lando overtook quickly, and their cars made contact. Carlos tightens his grip on the wheel, before yelling to Adami, “Did you see that? Damn it, he just turned into me. It’s like I don’t even exist!”

And of course, there’s no damn penalty. Why would there be? The FIA loved its British drivers.

If this was about what happened before, then Lando was being a damn immature little bastard for not even caring about Carlos’ safety. Or the car. Or the safety of everyone on track in general. Adami tells him to calm down and race like normal. No, he couldn’t just race like normal, his lap was ruined. And the second free practice was just about to end. He gritted his teeth at the idea of Lando. The British driver was starting to get on his nerves right now. He stops where his car is supposed to stop, tearing his gloves off and throwing them at the base of his car. He rips his helmet off, holding it in his hands, debating whether or not to throw it. Adami didn’t even bother to tell him where his lap placed. He already knew it was horrible . Thirteenth. At least Lando’s lap was the slowest. He wrinkles his nose, heading back to the rest of his team.

He watches the replay of the footage with the rest of his engineers. He’s not mad that his teammate did better than him. Not at all, actually. No, he’s mad that Lando just attempted to turn as if he didn't even exist. He’s so f*cking petty. Carlos didn’t even do anything that night. At least, he doesn’t think it’s his fault. It wasn’t… Carlos slams his helmet down onto an empty table and rips his balaclava off. He can see the rest of his team staring at him before he storms off into his driver’s room. He lies down against the bench in his room and stares at the ceiling. He doesn’t remember if he heard the click of the lock behind him. It doesn’t matter if he locked it. No one would bother coming after him, anyway. Carlos turns to the side, resting his cheek against the cool bench. The worn-out, raggedy fan overexerts itself in the corner, trying to cool down the room. It doesn’t matter. It’s raining. Petrichor doesn’t even seem to calm him down anymore. His sweat cools against his face.

Carlos sits up after a little while, holding his head in his hands. He looks outside at the raindrops, and how they hit the window. He was so tired… it wouldn’t matter if he slept now, would it? Just a little nap, maybe. He presses his back against the wall of the room, fiddling with his sleeve. There were no more practices today, so he could just change out of his race suit. Not like the media was going to bombard him with questions today, anyway. He undoes his race suit and looks for his clothes. They’re branded with Ferrari, of course. He might as well just live in team merchandise because he has more of that than actual clothes. He finally finishes changing and sits, slumped by the wall and on the bench. He’s looking through his phone with clumsy hands, feeling it buzz in his hands. He should answer his messages. He really should.

He wonders who’s messaging him. It’s not Lando, he thinks to himself bitterly. Was there any point in responding if it wasn’t? Was it bad that he just wanted an apology? He doesn’t even know if he actually deserves an apology. Carlos lets his jaw jut out to the side in thought, bringing his phone close to himself to read the countless messages. There were some from his dad, some from Charles too, weirdly enough.

Papi: Estás bien?

Papi: We saw what happened on the turn.

Carlos: I’m fine

Carlos: Just a little tired

Papi: Was it a McLaren car? Lando? Isn’t he a nice boy?

Carlos: It’s racing, papi. We all have to hold our ground

Papi: He turned in like your car didn’t exist

Carlos: Sí I guess

Carlos: It’s OK, don’t worry

Papi: OK. We’ll watch the race on Sunday. Good luck, hijo.

Carlos: 👍

He can only see the preview of Charles’ message. Some part of him regretted giving the Monegasque his number, but another part of him was happy? Damn it. Charles was messing with his head. So was Lando. They weren’t dating! They could have each others’ numbers without being interested in each other, right? f*ck Lando. What did that muppet even know? He sinks further into the cushioned bench, opening up Charles’ text. At least he asked how he was. Even if he was wishing for Lando to text him as well, to ask him if he was all right after what happened. Or after how many times Lando blocked his number. Whatever. It’s fine. He doesn’t care, not at all. He’ll respond to Charles.

Charles: Are you okay, Carlos?

Charles: I saw you head out

Carlos: I’m fine

Carlos: Don’t worry

Charles: Well

Carlos: ?

Charles: I’m outside of your room right now.

Charles: Open the door?

Carlos grins to himself, letting his gaze linger on the door. He gets up and opens the door, raising his brow at Charles. He’s shivering. Most importantly, he’s soaked. Carlos looks out at the window. Oh, yeah, it was raining. He ushers Charles inside and looks at the small TV in his room. Maybe they could play FIFA, and get his mind off of everything. And Charles already had wanted to play FIFA a few nights ago, so it would be fun. But, he should probably ask Charles if he wants a new shirt first. He looks back. There’s a spare shirt, somewhere.

“You’re soaking wet,” Carlos murmured, ignoring the way his heart started to race at the sight of Charles. See? If Lando wasn’t going to spend time with him, he could find someone else. He could be friends with Charles because that’s what they were. Just friends. (Even if every time he thought about Charles, there was that guilty feeling gnawing at him with a subsequent thought of Lando).

“I’m fine, mon chéri,” Charles says back, his voice as quiet as Carlos’. It’s as if they didn’t want to disrupt this delicate environment they set up, the casual intimacy. Not intimacy, they were just friends. Just friends. Carlos shakes his head, curling his fingers around Charles’ forearm and leading him into the room further before he rifled through his things for a spare shirt. He feels Charles’ forearm with his other hand. It doesn’t tense up at the touch. It just loosens, relaxing, as if he trusted Carlos.

“A shirt,” Carlos starts, holding the shirt in front of Charles. “For you.”

“Mmm, thanks,” Charles smiled.

“Yeah, sure,” the Spaniard shrugs.

Carlos averts his gaze from Charles, letting the man tug on a fresh shirt in peace. While he does so, he also sets up FIFA, turning the console on and getting his controllers. When Charles sits back down on the bench, he tosses one towards him.

“FIFA?”

“Of course,” Charles grins back.

They play a few rounds before pausing the game right before the next round. Carlos’ phone is buzzing relentlessly, but he doesn’t even bother to look at it. It’d be rude to check his phone in front of a guest, after all. Actually, Carlos is curious about one thing though. He lets a small grin tug at his lips and glances back at Charles, setting his controller on the spot beside him. “What are you even doing with the rest of the engineers? Are you an engineer now?”

“Maybe,” Charles replied. He sets his controller down as well, exasperated at having been beaten so many times. “Not really an engineer. I’ve just been watching the race and the footage. It’s interesting how you adapt to the track. Norris was a real ass on the track today, though.”

Carlos bites his tongue. Some part of him doesn’t feel right talking bad about Lando. Some part of him honestly doesn’t care. Lando deserved some of it. He shrugs. “He was just racing. Like we’re supposed to.”

“He didn’t have to turn like that, though,” Charles protests.

No. Talking bad about Lando didn’t feel right, at all. He grits out, “What do you know about racing, Leclerc?”

Charles stiffens. Carlos feels bad for being harsh and the way Charles stiffened just made him feel way worse. He sucks in air through his gritted teeth and he opens his mouth to apologize before Charles beats him to it, “You’re right. I don’t know anything about racing.”

But, Carlos knows Charles does. He read about it. He read the countless articles that one night before Monaco. He knows Charles used to kart, used to have that passion for racing, used to have that competitive edge before he became a businessman and a damn billionaire in Monaco. Carlos was just screwing everything up at this point. First with Lando, and now with Charles.

(f*ck Lando!— stupid, stupid mind!—stop thinking about Lando—)

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I know… I…” Carlos paused before he could trail off, and before he could humiliate himself further. He looked away from Charles and cleared his throat. He doesn’t have the heart to screw this up further. He doesn’t have the patience to explain himself further. So what’s the best thing? Asking Charles to leave. Making up a random excuse because he doesn’t want to interact with him anymore. He shakes his head, looking at the door. “I’m about to leave. About to go back to my room, actually. You should probably leave, as well. I have to lock up my room, so.”

“Get some rest. Tomorrow’s important. Qualifications, okay?”

Carlos nods at Charles’ words. Charles moved away from him, getting up from the bench, and closed the door behind him. He’s so tired of pushing everyone away. f*ck. He should have let Charles stay. He shouldn’t have pushed him away. Why did he—

His phone buzzes again. Carlos looked down, holding it shakily, and sighed.

Lando: sorry for everything i was js mad

Carlos doesn’t respond. He’ll see him during qualifications tomorrow, anyway. He curls his hand in a fist and stops the urge to throw something to the floor. He grips the edge of the bench before he just gets up to leave. He has to get back to his hotel anyway. He doesn’t want to go out for dinner. He’ll just order room service. He’s done.

—

The third free practice goes sh*t, and the news is starting to pick up about him ‘falling off.’ It’s so damn annoying. It’s just a bad race weekend, nothing more. He didn’t peak at Monaco. He had more wins coming, hopefully. His teammate was in tenth and he was in twelfth. He wasn’t mad that his teammate was doing better, really, he wasn’t. He was just frustrated. He wasn’t pushing hard enough. And he hated driving in the rain. (But Lando seemed so f*cking—)

That’s enough. Enough about Lando. Really. The British driver could f*ck off after blocking him so many times. The British driver could f*ck off after assuming about his relationship with Charles. The British driver could f*ck off, telling Carlos that he was just looking out for him. That he had his best interests at heart. He doesn’t care. No, he doesn’t. His grip on the wheel tightens and he turns. This time, Lando’s not right at him. This time, a Haas is in front of him. It’s almost humiliating, knowing that a Haas was outperforming him. Whatever. He comes back so the car can get ready before qualifications. And so he can get ready before qualifications, as well.

He sits with the rest of the team before getting ready to get back in his car, watching the live footage of the cars coming back from the third free practice and all the fans that had come with a Friday day pass to see the drivers try to clock in the fastest lap times. Charles shoots him a smile from across the room and Carlos can’t help but smile back. The camera pans over to where the Ferrari team was and zoomed in on Charles. This time, he does hear what the commentators say.

“Look, Charles Leclerc. Seems as if he’s become a familiar face around the paddock, no?” one of the commentators said. Carlos just watches Charles approach him. This feels familiar. The same thing happened yesterday, too. Except, this time, Charles pauses before he hugs Carlos. He just wishes him good luck and Carlos just accepts it. “Perhaps Leclerc is wishing good luck to Sainz. This new dynamic is definitely interesting for the fans. Have you seen the curious things in the media?”

“I can’t say I have,” another commentator mused.

Carlos focuses on Charles again. Charles shrugs. “Good luck. You’re doing well, keep up the good work.”

Well? This was doing well? Carlos bites his tongue, nodding, but the words feel fake. He wasn’t doing well, he was doing the opposite. Especially after outperforming everyone in Monaco and winning. He was doing anything but well in Canada. He was doing horrible in the free practices, consistently behind his teammate after he managed to get second place Friday morning when he didn’t even try. Carlos inhales sharply and eventually sighs, letting Charles’ words sink in. He replies, “Okay. I’ll try my best.”

Charles places his headset back on correctly and offers a thumbs-up, grinning at him. (And looking at him with those blue-green eyes that he was so damn weak for, not that he’d ever admit it). Carlos watches him leave, noticing how the cameras panned away the moment Charles left. Maybe they were only interested in him because of Charles. Maybe he didn’t mind that as much.

—

Qualifications are also sh*t, but what did Carlos expect after this entire weekend? For him to pull a miracle out of his own ass? Yeah, no, of course, that won’t happen. It’s finally race day and the driver’s parade. Carlos finally wears his cap the right way, but it doesn’t even matter, because Lando won’t even look at him or even give him the time of day. He grits his teeth together, fiddling with the sleeve of his Ferrari-branded raincoat, and glances back at his teammate who is wearing the same one. He might as well talk to his teammate and congratulate him on the qualifying, even if it felt just the slightest bit insensitive since they both qualified horribly. His teammate was eleventh, and he was in twelfth. His teammate did do better than him, though.

He looks back at the rest of the grid and then at the driver getting interviewed right now. He doesn’t even want to participate in those sh*t interviews. He doesn’t even know what he’d say. What would he say? That he screwed up? Maybe. Maybe he should say that. His teammate squeezes his shoulder and it feels like silent reassurance. They talked about something for a short while, waving at the Tifosi whenever the opportunity presented itself. Carlos rubbed his eyes. It wasn’t long until they all filed off of the truck dragging them around the track, and he could feel the gentle drops of rain patter onto the umbrella his teammate was holding out. They made their way back to get ready for the race that was about to start in roughly two hours or so.

Once Carlos comes back to the paddock, donned in his race suit and holding his balaclava and helmet in hand, he notices his teammate with his girlfriend. He scowls, wishing that he also had someone special in the paddock. Maybe it was for the best. His ex wasn’t even interested in racing as much as he thought she was. Carlos watches the screen and the live coverage of the track, panning to the fans in the stands, and then over to the paddock. There it was, the camera lingering on his teammate and his girlfriend. Then the camera pans over to him and he looks up, raising his brows curiously at the camera. Carlos puts his balaclava on and then his helmet, making his way over to the car without even waiting for his trainer.

He stands by the car and his trainer eventually helps him into the car and hands him his gloves. Everything’s how it’s supposed to be. Maybe it’ll just be a mediocre race. Carlos doesn’t think it can be that bad. He slowly eased his car onto the track, following his teammate’s car ahead of him, before they settled right before the lights went off. He doesn’t even bother to pay mind to the commentators. There’s this anxiety buzzing inside of him, even if the hum of the engine is all that sounds in his ear right now. He tightens his grip on the wheel, trying to regain any sense. It’s futile. He fumbles. He falls behind multiple cars with a sh*t start.

“Carlos! What was that? Keep a steady head,” Adami tells him.

I know what I’m doing, is what Carlos wants to say. But he honestly doesn’t know. He’s so f*cking bad right now. He pushes ahead, trying to overtake at the slowest corner, but it f*cking fails and he’s still in the same position, if not wheel-to-wheel with this damn Alpine. He keeps pushing and keeps trying harder, but it’s obviously not enough because Adami keeps yelling at him through the radio about what he’s doing right and what he’s doing wrong. Like it wasn’t obvious.

For a while, they follow steadily. The Haas cars do damn well with wet tires on the wet track and practically glide in front of everyone, securing fourth and fifth for a while before battling those on the podium. Hulkenberg gets a time penalty and so does Magnussen. They slow down after a while when the rain begins to die down. His teammate is pitting now, so he can’t get a change of tires. Which is a damn shame, because his tires are a little worn out. Whatever, he’ll keep pushing anyway.

Eventually, he pits as well. It’s slow, and honestly, he doesn’t have any hope for the race. The buzz of anxiety and adrenaline fades away into a dull hum he doesn’t have to focus on. He pulls out of the pit lane, catching up, and gaining two positions. At least now he was in twelfth again, where he had qualified. Another slow corner approaches and Carlos overtakes another car. His teammate is battling it out in the front, and the commentators focus on the conflict in the front mostly. It’s not like there was anything interesting happening in the back unless you count Albon’s little trip on the grass. Sargeant retires his car first, then Perez. It’s like a domino effect. Then Albon retires.

Another car retires, as well, but it’s the last lap. f*ck, this entire race was sh*t.

Carlos steers on autopilot, and it’s grudgingly boring before his car spins out. f*ck! His car rams into the wall, the tire coming loose and getting stuck under his car before it eventually flips and he hangs from his seat. His car was in the middle of the track. No, no, no, no—

“Carlos, are you okay?” Adami tries.

The radio’s too loud. Everything’s too loud. His heart thuds in his chest and his words feel too big, too heavy. He can barely force them out, he can barely think of them. He lets go of the wheel, curling around himself. Nothing hurt. He wasn’t hurt. He was just…

“Carlos, try to answer. Are you okay?”

“Sorry,” he knows he shouldn’t shut down like this. He knows he can’t freak out like this. But the guilt hits him. What is he even guilty about? Maybe he deserves this for being a damn asshole this entire weekend. Maybe he deserves this for being an ass to Lando. Maybe he deserves this for being an ass to Charles. Maybe he deserves this, because everything’s his fault, and he shouldn’t have—

“You’re in a blind spot, correct? Carlos, please respond. Are you fine? Does anything hurt?”

“I’m okay.”

But the crash says something else. Even as he tries to keep a brave face, with his heart hammering in his chest as he curled into himself further in the car. With him stuck in a blind spot and in the middle of the track with his car flipped over on its side, he’s freaking out. He’s trying to keep it bottled, but it spills. He catches a glimpse of another car in his peripheral vision, heading towards him, and he starts panicking over the radio with incoherent strings of words. The debris surely called for a red flag, right? The crash was too severe, right?

When the car comes closer to him without providing any hint that it would be slowing down, Carlos screams into the radio, “Red flag, red flag, red, red, red —” he begs for it. Begs for the red flag because he’s freaking out. “I’m in the middle of the track, please. Red flag, red flag, please, there’s a car—”

They don’t call a red flag, and he freaks out, shutting down entirely.

Carlos doesn’t even register when the people come to help him out of his car. When they ask him if he’s okay. He’s so out of it he even forgot to put a thumbs-up, signaling that he’s conscious. He closes his eyes, letting them handle him out of the car. But they don’t even do that, they keep asking him more things. Carlos doesn’t trust his voice to answer. It’s too hoarse, too shaky, but he still listens to them ask. And he tries to answer. Barely.

A member of the medical team holds a hand to his throat, a gentle one, and tilts his helmet-donned head up. He meets their gaze through the helmet and just… shakes. Another member helps him undo the straps keeping him to the seat. Carlos breathes heavily, each breath obvious with how his chest rises and falls. The member holding his head up then asks, “Do you think you’d be able to help us by taking off your own helmet and your own hand devices?”

Carlos wants to reply yes. That he’d be able to. He feels so damn guilty for this entire mess, for this entire crash. Now the safety team was out, trying to get him help, on the last lap of the f*cking race. It was a damn mess. He feels so guilty. He tries to reach for his helmet with shaky hands, to pry it off, but someone tries to help him do it anyway. It gets caught on his chin and he lets out a pained wince. f*ck, he thinks to himself, before prying off the helmet himself. He doesn’t want to reject the help, he wants it. He just feels horrible for all of this.

They remove his balaclava, or he does, and he runs a shaky hand through his hair, staring up at the people who are helping him with wide eyes. He takes his gloves off and hands them to another person who places them wherever they placed his helmet and his balaclava before. Carlos nods when they speak to him more. He can’t will himself to speak or even bring himself to even hum in acknowledgment.

“We’re going to take you out, okay? Any pain at any point, and we’ll stop what we’re doing. Just tell us if anything hurts, understand?”

Carlos manages to nod weakly, closing his eyes. He can’t watch. He’s too freaked out to. He knows that some of the people are removing the head protection from behind him and around him in the co*ckpit. He’s scared. The last time a crash was this bad was in Russia, and that was a long time ago. He’s vaguely familiar with being removed from his own seat, with the entire extraction process, but not having any control whatsoever freaked him out. They tried to reassure him, tried to get him to sit still. It didn’t work. He’s shaking like a hare.

They begin to fasten straps around his chest loosely at first. Then his hips, the top of his legs, and his arms and his knees together so they didn’t get caught on the way out. The medical team reassured him every step of the way that he was going to be all right. Carlos doesn’t know if he should believe them, even if it would be stupid not to. He nods shakily, eyes open once again. He crosses his arms at the wrist so they can actually strap his arms and knees together with no hassle.

They prepare to lift him out of the seat—with the seat included, because the FIA mandated that the car seats were only fastened to the tubs with a series of seatbelts and the driver’s weight—and Carlos has never felt so weightless with anxiety his entire life. This is a different feeling from floating. His legs feel immobile, his body feels too big for his skin. Four people position themselves around the car and lift from the points assigned to them. As he’s lifted to the level of the halo in the car, a small board is put across by another person to place his seat on it. They unstrap him quickly, and they don’t place him on a stretcher. He’s grateful, almost. He doesn’t want to be placed on the stretcher and rushed into a hospital. It wasn’t even that serious, he thinks to himself, rubbing his eyes. He was just freaking out and immobile because he was scared. He was in a stationary car in the middle of the track. It was f*cking horrifying.

His palms feel clammy and his jaw clenches when he thinks of what could have happened. Any impact to his car in that vulnerable position would’ve… his head swims. He doesn’t want to think about it. Someone holds the small of his back as he moves away from the track and he hears that they’ve only called a yellow flag. f*ck. It’s okay. He was safe. It didn’t matter. But he can’t help but feel angry at how his vulnerability only warranted a yellow flag. His hands shake and he’s courted into the media pen, but he honestly can’t say anything. He can’t react. He doesn’t know how to speak without a hoarse voice, sounding broken with every word. He doesn’t know how he’s going to face the media without knowing that he’s disappointed all of his fans and engineers with that stupid crash that could’ve been avoided. He could’ve avoided it. He should’ve been better. He should’ve tried harder. Carlos blinks back tears as he walks, feeling the weight of all of this on his shoulders. There are cameras on him, because why wouldn’t there be cameras on him?

Breathe.

He can’t breathe, f*ck.

Carlos can feel gazes on him, can see him getting ushered out of the media pen without him even saying anything because for some reason they understand. They know that he’s not composed enough to speak. The dull hum of anxiety becomes a brief spike, adrenaline making his hands shake as he settles into the paddock. He watched his teammate’s race from the live coverage, but he couldn’t help but stare up at the ceiling, trying to breathe. He sits down on a bench, pressing his back against the wall, keeping his gaze focused on the ceiling. He glances at the dot of every tile, the shade of the red paint, anything.

Hot tears splotch his cheeks and it feels shameful. He hides his face in his hands, trying to stop his shoulders from shaking. Trying to stop everything that was happening. It all felt too slow and too fast. What was this? He thought to himself, his heart racing. He felt out of his mind right now. You’re having a panic attack, he can barely remember. He wishes the hands on him were his dad’s hands, rubbing his back and telling him not to freak out. He frantically wipes away his tears and notices a bottle of water handed in his direction.

Breathe.

He breathes now. Barely. He holds the bottle of water in his own hands, the cool plastic suddenly grounding him. He’s okay. He’s safe. He’s not in that sh*t car anymore. He’s not in that sh*t race anymore. He’s in the paddock, next to his room, and with the rest of his team. And he’s with Charles, because Charles is the one telling him to sip the water slowly, to breathe slowly, and to calm down. And Charles is also the one rubbing his back, because Charles cares. And Charles is a good friend. Nothing more, (even if Lando would beg to differ).

He lets Charles hold the nape of his neck with one hand and rub his upper arm. Carlos presses his head against Charles’ stomach, and it’s a bit of an awkward position because Carlos is hugging Charles’ waist as he lets the man hold the back of his head and right below his shoulder. It doesn’t mean it’s any less comforting though. Carlos closes his eyes before his breathing finally settles. The tears dry on his face and he finally feels… okay. The race was sh*t, that was true. He was freaking out because everything was his fault. But he’s calmed down. He finally feels okay. And it’s because Charles is there with him, and Charles is the one who’s helping him. The concept would seem so foreign to him only a week prior. But now? It feels… right. It feels a little funny, but it feels okay.

“Shh, are you okay, mon ami?” Charles murmurs, dipping his head slightly.

The Monegasque’s voice amplified in his ears and he raised his head forward to look him in the eye. He catches the blue-green gaze and shrugs before forcing a smile, “I’m fine. Just shaken up.”

Charles moves his hand from cupping Carlos’ shoulder to pat his cheek. It would feel condescending if it wasn’t in the context of the situation and if Carlos didn’t see the sweetness in the man’s eyes. Carlos’ forced smile melts into a real one and he’s silently thankful that this interaction wasn’t being broadcasted to the world, right now.

“Thank you,” he murmurs against Charles’ shirt, moving his head to press back into the man’s stomach.

Carlos watches as Charles pushes himself away for a moment before settling beside him on the bench. He holds Carlos’ hand in his own, squeezing the hand to provide some unspoken comfort. Maybe if Charles wasn’t mad at him after how much he screwed up, Lando wouldn’t be mad either. He hates the fact that he’s thinking about Lando right now. It makes him feel guilty, but he can’t stop. It’s an air of quiet for a while. Not exactly silence, because the air is filled with the sound of Carlos trying to match his breath with Charles’, and Carlos can hear his heartbeat thudding in his ears. Charles looks at him with a curious glint in his eye, “What are you thinking about?”

“The crash,” Carlos admits. It’s not a lie, but it’s not entirely true. “I messed up.”

“It wasn’t your fault. It was rainy and the car spun out, mon ange. You couldn’t have controlled it.”

“If I was a better driver, maybe I could have,” Carlos protests, voice shaky.

“Don’t, Carlos. You tried your best this weekend.”

And it wasn’t enough, he thought bitterly. Carlos doesn’t say anything else, but he can feel Charles’ fingers brush over his knuckles gently, going back and forth in a comforting motion. Maybe it’s okay, he thinks. Maybe he’ll be fine. Tifosi wasn’t going to be mad at him. They’d understand. Carlos stares at the screen broadcasting the podium, now. Has it already been that long since the race ended? Tears prick in his eyes when he notices Max, Lando, and George on the podium. Lando? f*ck. His hand shakes and he brings his gaze away from the screen, keeping it set on the way Charles’ hand covers his own.

“Everything is going to be okay.”

“Okay.”

— ⅲ

ESPN.COM: Footage of Sainz’s Crash on the Last Lap—Canadian Grand Prix 2024.

FORMULA1.COM: Sainz Begs for Red on the Last Lap in Montreal

MOTORSPORTS WORLD: Misery in Montreal After Miracle in Monaco—Scuderia Ferrari Driver Crashes Out on the Last Lap.

FERRARI.COM/FORMULA1: Leclerc’s Opinions on Montreal—His First Official Race.

Before the media does anything, they ask for Leclerc’s opinions as if he were a professional or if he was an actual race engineer. Not that he didn’t feel flattered, he just didn’t think he had that much expertise on the topic. With the live footage of the race being released along with the radio and the instance of Sainz’s crash, the media was actually sh*t towards everything. Leclerc was honestly shocked when he heard one of the questions asked by a journalist, and it was evident on his face. Fans even clipped the interview, zooming in on his gaze and his face, analyzing his body language and how angered he was at the question. Leclerc forced a smile.

“Do you think Sainz asked for the red flag so he could still be in the points after his crash?”

Leclerc’s mind went blank. He just hoped Sainz wasn’t watching the news right now, and that was obvious in his expression. He shakes his head in disbelief, answering with a scoff, “No. Our [Scuderia Ferrari’s] drivers are not selfish to even think that. He was horrified, stationary in the middle of the track in a blind spot as cars approached him. Any sane man would beg for a red flag in that situation. We’re just glad he’s safe. We can’t cope with another loss, not after the recent fatalities.”

The journalist shut up pretty quickly after that. Some of the media admired Leclerc’s fast answers, mostly social media. Twitter found his concern endearing. It even led to another heavy wave of the ‘Charlos’ tag going viral again. Another journalist caught Leclerc and asked him about the crash, about Ferrari’s reaction, and about the performance Sainz’s teammate had shown.

“This weekend was [definitely] overwhelming. Leclerc, how did you feel about Sainz crashing out, the lack of a red flag, and his teammate’s performance this weekend with P4? Do you know any of [the Scuderia] Ferrari’s [and Vasseur’s] reaction?”

Finally. A decent question that didn’t disrespect Sainz or invalidate his crash. It was just about the team’s opinion on how the weekend in Montreal had gone. Charles cleared his throat, gesturing loosely with his hands as he spoke about it, “Our team was disappointed with the crash. We know it is not Sainz’s fault. He didn’t mean for it to happen. Should there have been a red flag? In my opinion, with the fact a car was in the middle of the track, it should have warranted a red flag. But, it was the last lap of the race and a yellow flag along with the delta speed was practically the same as a red flag in the circ*mstances given.”

The journalist hummed in agreement, before allowing Leclerc to continue.

“His teammate’s performance this weekend was a beacon of hope in the midst of the misery. I know Vasseur was disappointed in the race and the team is slightly disappointed with the damage to Sainz’s car, but it is not something to worry about too deeply. We’ll be better before Spain, and the post-race debrief revealed a lot,” Leclerc concludes. He doesn’t dwell on Sainz’s teammate for much longer. He knows that the media is mostly concerned about Sainz crashing out.

There were countless interviews after that, each asking the same question as if Sainz couldn’t catch a break. Maybe they—the media—were mostly trying to get their own information because Sainz couldn’t even speak in the media pen without looking like he was on the verge of a breakdown. Or, maybe the media was just doing what it did best, exploiting the tiniest bit of vulnerability they found to craft a story or a new article for the sake of more clicks on their website. Leclerc wrinkled his nose, thinking that it was absolutely disgusting and horrible. The day after that was a nightmare with him deflecting topics or reluctantly answering questions on behalf of the team. Maybe that’s what he got for being an official part of the team, now. Maybe that’s what he got for attending this sh*t race as a ‘member’ of the team officially.

He just couldn’t help but hope that Sainz was okay. And the media picked up on that.

—

Carlos still feels like sh*t after the race. He’s been playing FIFA in his hotel room before his flight back to Spain to meet with his family and just general preparations for his home Grand Prix, even if it was two weeks from now. But, playing FIFA has never felt more lonely. He doesn’t even have Lando to talk to, and Charles is busy with the media. Carlos only knows this because his teammate told him about all the interviews that Charles was participating in, with countless journalists. He’s too scared to flick on the cable in his hotel room and watch the news. He knows for a damn fact it’s all going to be about his crash. It’s like the media’s never seen a crash before. It’s almost stupid, he thinks to himself.

Carlos turns his game off and pushes himself off the edge of the hotel bed and walks to the kitchenette in the hotel room. He pours himself a glass of water and sips. Slowly. Carlos closes his eyes and notices his phone buzzing on the countertop. Maybe he can finally find the courage to check. Maybe he can finally respond to the messages he’s been meaning to respond to.

After the crash, he had already spoken to his mom and dad. Along with his cousin and trainer. Now, he just looked over the messages from his friends. Fernando wished for him to feel better, and so did Checo. He typed out a ‘thanks’ and looked through the rest of the messages. There was also Max. He had responded to Charles earlier after Charles helped him back to his hotel room. The Monegasque was actually not that bad. He honestly didn’t mind him that much anymore. Even if it sounded stupid.

Then, there’s the message he still hasn’t responded to. The one from Lando.

Lando: sorry for everything i was js mad

Maybe he could finally will himself to actually respond to it. He doesn’t really know how he would go about it, though. Maybe he should start with forgiveness. And an apology of his own. After all, they needed to work this out like mature adults. They were both in the wrong.

Carlos: It’s OK, muppet.

Carlos: It was also my fault.

Carlos doesn’t even have to wait for Lando’s response because the British driver responds almost immediately.

Lando: no i was the ass mate

Lando: ik u wouldn’t make a stupid decision without being paranoid and talking to abt it first

Carlos: Is that meant to be an insult?

Lando: no

Lando: ily u know i js want you to be safe yh?

Carlos: I know

Lando: good

Lando: wanna call?

Carlos: Sí

Carlos picked up the call, holding his phone to his ear as he heard Lando’s voice. Was it obvious how much he missed the damn muppet? This entire week felt like sh*t without being able to talk to Lando about anything. He’s so happy they’ve finally made up. Lando was just looking out for him, after all. They were both grown adults, they were both in the wrong, and Carlos is just relieved that they can finally figure it out. He listens to him over the line, his voice a relief, “Mate, I’ve missed you. Are you all right? I’m so sorry for treating you like sh*t.”

Carlos smiles to himself, walking back to his bed and sitting on the edge. You could hear the shuffling of the sheets over the line. He shakes his head, even if Lando can’t see the motion, and sighs. “It’s okay, cabròn. It was both our fault. I also should have checked with you. I shouldn’t have kept texting you while you were mad.”

“Don’t apologize for that, I was just being sh*tty.”

“Maybe, but we’re both adults. Let’s just move on,” Carlos adds with a gentle voice.

He can hear a content hum from Lando over the line. A weight lifts off of his shoulder.

“Do you want to come over to my hotel room? I’m in another hotel, but we can play FIFA. I set it up,” Carlos asks.

“Yeah, okay, mate. Just text me the address. I’ll bring some more game discs, too.”

“Okay… let me hang up first. See you soon.”

Carlos hangs up the call and as he goes to text Lando the address of his hotel accompanied by his hotel room, he notices a newer message. And… it’s from Charles. He co*cks a brow, pausing for a moment before he eventually chooses to view the message. He inhales sharply, eyes widening for just a moment at the text.

Charles: Want to go for dinner after we land in Spain?

Charles: I know a pretty nice restaurant ;)

Now, how the hell was he supposed to respond to that?

You're in My World Now, You Belong To Me. - Chapter 4 - papayya (2024)

Chapter Text