Chapter Text
I wasn’t planning on going.
Let’s start there.
My plan for Saturday was beautiful. Sleep after football practice. Rot in bed for a couple hours. Maybe play FIFA with Alex. Maybe eat an amount of chips that would concern a medical professional. Mostly, though, I was planning to stay far away from Charles before my brain got any more stupid ideas about him.
Because I was still recovering from him calling me “Cah-los” in that stupid rich-boy accent like he was in a period drama.
I needed distance. I needed space. Emotional quarantine.
But then Pierre caught me after training, sweaty and way too energetic for a human being who’d just survived two hours of drills.
“Yo, let’s go cheer Charles at his polo match.”
I blinked at him.
"The horse thing?”
“Yes. Polo. “Horse thing”? What the hell is wrong with you?” He gave me this look like I emerged from the slums. I rolled my eyes so hard I almost saw my ancestors.
Like I cared. I mean, I did care a bit when he said Charles, but he didn’t have to know that.
I tried to say no. I actually did say no. Twice. Cause, as I said, I was trying to get as far away from Lord Parcival as possible. This was not exactly would be something I wanted to be thrilled about at the moment.
But then he added, “There’s free pastries and refreshments,” and- well.
I have weaknesses. Sue me.
We reached the fields after about an hour. There were folding chairs set up near the sidelines. Parents in sunglasses. Students pretending they understood the rules. Horses everywhere.
And not normal horses either. These horses looked expensive. Like if a regular horse costs ten dollars, these ones cost entire countries. They were all shiny and muscular and weirdly intimidating. One of them looked at me for half a second and I immediately felt judged.
Then I saw him.
At first I didn’t fully register it. Just another guy in uniform walking toward the field with his helmet under one arm.
Then the sunlight hit his face.
Charles.
I’d never seen him dressed for polo before. White trousers. Navy shirt. Tall boots. Gloves. Hair all windswept from the breeze in that unfair way where it somehow made him look even better.
Like actually what was the need.
No smirk. Just… calm. Present. In control.
He mounts the horse in one fluid motion, like it’s a natural extension of his body.
Pierre, beside me, leans in and mutters, “He’s the attacker.”
“uh- huh” Like I knew any of the rules of this luxury sport.
“We gotta win, man.”
He thinks he’s on the team. I rolled my eyes. Again.
The match started, and immediately I realized polo was insane.
The horses were flying across the field. The players leaned sideways while swinging those giant stick things like they had death wishes. Everyone moved so fast it barely made sense.
And somehow Charles looked completely in control.
Which was annoying.
Because now I had to deal with the fact that he was apparently good at this too. Everything he did looked sharp and effortless. He moved like he already knew where the ball was going before everyone else did.
And the worst part was it looked cool.
And I hate how impressed I was.
I glanced at Pierre, who was casually drinking from a paper cup like we weren’t watching rich-kid gladiator games.
“How long has he been doing this?” I asked.
Pierre shrugged. “Since he was little, I think. They train all the time out at the Avendor fields.”
I nodded slowly.
Trying to connect this version of Charles with the one I knew at school. Because this wasn’t the same guy who slept through half of PE. This wasn’t the guy who quietly roasted Lando during philosophy class. This was someone completely different.
And maybe that’s the part that got me.
It’s not that he’s good. It’s that he’s this good at something so absurdly competitive and physical, and no one talks about it. He never brags. Never even brings it up unless you ask. It’s like he’s a completely different person.
Meanwhile if I did literally anything impressive, I’d bring it up for the next six months minimum.
But Charles just… kept this whole side of himself hidden.
And now I couldn’t stop staring at him.
At one point, he rounds a tight corner, horse turning on a dime, and I catch sight of his face, eyes narrowed, jaw set, completely absorbed.
And something twists in my chest.
Not in the oh no he’s hot way (although, well he was). It’s deeper. Quieter.
Like I’ve just witnessed a secret I wasn’t supposed to see.
I crossed my arms and forced myself to look away before my brain embarrassed me any further. Try to focus on literally anything else. Like a French canolli.
But in the back of my mind, one thought stays loud:
I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to know more about someone this badly.
The match ended.
There’s a smattering of applause, the kind that says we’re all too rich to yell loud properly.
Meanwhile these guys had just spent an hour charging around on horses swinging mallets like medieval knights with sponsorship deals. The players started dismounting, all casual, like they hadn’t almost died twelve separate times out there.
And there he was.
Not even looking at the crowd. Just standing beside his horse, gently patting its neck like they’d just gone through war together and now needed a private debrief.
Pierre nudges me with his elbow. “He didn’t fall off this time. Progress.”
“You say it like he always falls?.”
Pierre shrugs. “Well, it was just one time. But that’s what matters, right?” And he started ugly laughing.
We headed down toward the side paddock where the horses were being led away and the players were taking off helmets, fixing straps, shaking out sweaty hair dramatically like they’d just returned from battle.
Charles spotted us.
Or maybe he spotted Pierre first, because that’s who he walked toward.
His cheeks were still a little flushed from the game, and he wiped his forehead with his forearm in a way that somehow still looked annoyingly attractive.
Ugh.
“Good game,” Pierre says, already smirking. “Didn’t even maim anyone.”
“Didn’t get the chance,” Charles replied.
And then he smiled a little.
Which, unfortunately, caused my brain to blue screen for half a second.
Then his eyes shifted to me.
And stayed there.
“Hey, Cah-los. You came.”
There it was. The sound that ruined my life. Actual poison to my ears.
He extended his hand for a quick dap.
He held his hand out for a quick dap, and for some reason my body reacted like he’d just proposed marriage.
Relax. It’s a hand shake. People do this every day. You are being dramatic.
“More like Pierre dragged me here,” I said, because sarcasm is safer than honesty.
I grabbed his hand anyway and squeezed once before letting go.
Pierre scoffs. “He only came for the refreshments.”
I pointed at him. “There were no pastries, by the way. I was scammed.”
He scoffed.
Charles raised an eyebrow slightly. “Well, I hope the game was at least entertaining.”
“It was…” I tried to think of a word that didn’t sound too impressed. “Violent.”
Pierre snorted.
“And fast,” I added. “The horses were cool though.”
Charles tilted his head a little, amused. “Glad the horses earned your approval.”
He was still looking at me. Not intensely or anything. Like he found me interesting. Which was honestly worse.
I looked away before my brain started acting up again and pretended to fix my sleeves for absolutely no reason.
“You weren’t bad either,” I muttered. “I mean… I’ve never actually seen you do anything sporty before, so.”
Smooth, Carlos. Really elegant sentence there.
His mouth twitched.
“You thought I’d suck?”
“No,” I lied instantly. “I just thought polo was rich people aggressively horseback riding in circles.”
“It is,” Pierre mutters.
Charles ignored him, still staring at me.
“When you’re out there,” he said, quieter now, “it kind of feels like flying.”
I blinked. Okay. That was unexpectedly sincere.
“Like everything slows down for a second.”
Huh.
That actually made sense.
Because Charles always seemed restless at school, somehow. Even when he looked relaxed, it felt fake like his brain was always moving faster than everyone else’s.
But out there? He looked focused. Completely locked in. Like that was the only place his head finally shut up for a while.
Interesting. Slightly concerning.
Maybe a little psychotic.
I made a mental note for later.
“Well, I didn’t take you for a horse guy,” I say, trying to sound neutral.
He shrugs. “I didn’t take you for a football guy.”
“Touché, Lord Perceval.”
The words slipped out before I could stop them.
Charles froze.
Pierre immediately lost it.
Charles narrowed his green eyes. “What did you just call me?”
“Lord. Perceval.” I repeated it extra clearly just to annoy him.
His eye twitched.
Okay wow.
He really hated the middle name.
Pierre jumped in before it turned into a fist fight. I don’t know, Charles actually looked like he’d swing one. “Ok ok time out guys.” He was trying to talk mid wheezing.
“This,” Charles said, pointing at Pierre, “is your fault.”
Pierre held his hands up. “You can’t blame me for your deeply aristocratic name.”
Charles grabbed the back of Pierre’s collar and yanked him sideways.
“Shut up.”
“C’mon, it’s funny.”
“Ha. Ha.”
Then Charles looked back at me.
I was smirking a little. I couldn’t help it.
“You’re never going to stop using that now, are you?”
I shrugged innocently. “Nope.”
He stared at me for another second before shaking his head, trying and failing to hide a smile.
“I’m going to get changed.”
“Take your time, Lord Perceval,” Pierre called after him.
Without even turning around, Charles launched one of his gloves directly at Pierre’s face.
Actually perfect aim too. Pierre yelped. I laughed before I could stop myself.
Once he’s out of earshot, Pierre nudges me again. “That was a good one dude”
“He really does not like that middle name does he?”
“Nah, he likes it. He just doesn’t wanna admit it.”
“Are you gonna wait for him?”
“Yeah, we live close by.”
“Alright, thanks for the invite. See you at school then.” I didn’t wanna stuck there for longer and have a heart stroke trying to avoid Charles. It’s better to head home to rot in bed.
But in my head, his horseback riding image is already stuck.
Lord Perceval.
And maybe I’m already looking forward to seeing him riding again.
Just a little.