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The order comes down from corporate: no more conflict. The Great Ferrari Mythos is of one perfect, unified, red machine. Any internal splintering looks just as bad as shattered bits of carbon-fiber on the tarmac.
Charles always thought he would do whatever it took to drive for Ferrari, but what he really meant was that he would drive himself to exhaustion, date Italian girls, and never, ever criticize the team. “Whatever it took” never included walking into the last race of the year hand-in-hand with his teammate and trying not to look like he would rather be anywhere else. He would go to Indycar, NASCAR even, if it meant he could avoid the gathering swarm of photographers and fans.
Seb looks as cheerful and unbothered by this as he does with every other headache involving the team, grinning just like the PRs told them to. There’s a bounce to his step as he waves to the crowd. Either scarlet red absolves all sins or Seb’s gotten good at pretending it does. He even squeezes Charles’s hand in a way that’s probably meant to be friendly and reassuring. Damn him. Damn him and his natural ease and the way he seeks out touch like it doesn’t make him want to crawl out of his skin.
“Are you nervous?” Seb asks, patronizing enough that Charles knows it must be written on his face like a light-up sign.
“No,” Charles says, and walks a little faster. The sooner they can reach the relative safety of the Ferrari motorhome, the better.
The press eat it up:
Flirtation at Ferrari? Rivalry turns to romance in the paddock.
Leclerc and Vettel get cozy following Friday practice - Images
Top Ten Romantic Formula 1 Moments. Plus: What Does This Mean for Vettel’s Future?
If the strategy was to prevent tabloid stories speculating about how much he wanted to knife Seb in his sleep and take his position as the number one driver, then it's certainly working. It just also means that now they have to do things like go to the Ferrari Museum together and act like it’s totally normal and casual, even though they’ve closed it to the public for the occasion and it’s quiet enough to hear their footsteps echoing off the polished floors.
Seb stops in front of one of the older models. “It’s a work of art, isn’t it?” he says lightly, crouching down to get a closer look at the grille.
Charles inspects the car as well, because if he’s admiring the depth of the paint then he doesn’t have to think as much about what they’re doing here. “It’s very beautiful,” he agrees, but even he can hear that his heart isn’t in it.
It’s not that he’s not interested, of course he is, his first visit to the museum was one of the highlights of his young life. There’s just something about being here with Seb, with the memory of the unsubtle reminder—be sure to take some nice photos for the team—still fresh. It’s like being at the track all the time. Watched, judged, carefully evaluated. He can't seem to turn it off the way that Seb can. Part of it’s the way Seb watches him warily, like he’s a skittish dog that’ll bite if he’s not handled carefully, with minimal teasing and plenty of personal space. Part of it is the blank dead stare of his phone camera as he snaps a selfie with Seb in the background.
He imagines they could be good friends if they didn’t have to play them on TV.
Being in a relationship, even though it’s a fake one, presupposes that they actually enjoy spending time together, which why the team sends them out to Milan Fashion Week and books them a hotel room together. Technically, it’s a two-bedroom suite, and a big one at that, big enough that they could probably go the whole weekend without being in the same room if they wanted to. The hotel has a bouquet of roses waiting on the table when they arrive.
They spend the weekend crowded side-by-side on uncomfortable benches, deafened by pounding club music, puzzling over the clothes that come down the runway. Charles lets his knees rest conspicuously on Seb’s. Let no one say he isn’t a team player. Seb leans in conspiratorially to whisper how much the designs look like uncomfortable racesuits. It probably makes for a good, juicy photo. Charles just hopes the paparazzi miss the flicker of surprise on his face when Seb takes a second to rest his head on Charles's shoulder.
They finally make it back to the hotel after the afterparties and the after-afterparties, which were less the high-fashion bacchanalias he was expecting and more long, glammed-up business meetings. Charles takes the tightest line from the door to his bedroom, and he’s just about grazing the apex when Seb stops him. “Nightcap?” he says, already paging through the room-service menu. Charles’s stomach rumbles, a protest against too few canapés and too many glasses of free champagne.
His trainer will kill him if he fucks up his sleep schedule, but it’s so late that he’s already turned the corner on feeling tired. At this rate, he’ll just be up until three doing laps of Catalunya with his eyes closed. And Seb, he’s old, he probably wants to be here doing these inane events even less than Charles does, probably just wants to put in his duties for the team and pass the fuck out. The offer isn’t really an offer of a drink. It’s a peace offering.
Seb is so doggedly determined to be friends, it makes Charles feel like a right bastard. “I’m not sure about another drink. How about some food?”
“They’ve only got the late-night menu, so it’s basically whatever you want, fried.”
His trainer will revive his corpse so he can kill him again. “Yeah, you order whatever sounds good.”
They sit on opposite couches and quietly nibble on onion rings. “At least it is a vegetable,” Charles says, displaying the observational acuteness the team is always lauding him for. Seb smiles a little at that. Charles opens up Instagram to distract from the fact that he doesn’t know what else to say. He could take a picture of this. PR would be ecstatic. But it would just feel like a violation of the unspoken entente they’ve entered into, half-drunk and exhausted, unwatched for once.
“Does it bother you?” Seb asks.
Charles looks up from his phone. “Does what bother me?”
“Having to do this.” Seb gestures broadly around the suite. “Pretending.”
Charles considers going with his go-to self-justification, anything for the team, but he’s done more than enough bullshitting for the night. It’s late enough that everything feels vaguely unreal and consequence-free. It’s a time for honesty if there ever was one. “Yeah, it bothers me.”
“Me too.”
“You never look like it bothers you.”
“I have had a lot of practice.”
Charles takes another bite of onion ring to buy himself a few seconds to think. “We could always revolt.”
Seb rubs a hand over his face, slouching down further in his seat, sighing. It makes him look impeccably human, vulnerable in a way Charles envies. “You think we can take on the army of publicists?”
“But we are much faster than they are. And they are all Italian. We have a good chance.” He doesn’t even know what he’s saying. He’s just saying words at this point, happy that they’re flowing instead of coming in awkward starts and stops.
Seb takes a second to consider the wisdom of Charles’s points. “Alright, once the season starts we'll stage our revolution. You’ll be free of me and you can go back to doing shots in Ibiza like you’re meant to when you’re young.”
Charles could argue, say it’s not about getting rid of him exactly, but they both know it’s all fantasy anyway. They wake up in the morning and do it all again. Charles snaps a photo of Seb drinking a cappuccino, captions it Buongiorno Milano, signs it off with heart emojis in the pattern of the Tricolore.
It’s all been coy suggestion so far, but having Seb stay over at his house verges on a public confirmation. Ferrari seems to have no qualms about it, but Charles does. Still, that doesn’t mean they ask his opinion before they tell him to do it. Something about it being his space makes it feel like the first time all over again. He imagines sitting on the opposite side of the dining table from Seb, awkwardly offering him a glass of water, showing him the spare bedroom. Charles considers slipping out and getting a hotel room, or maybe just breaking his lease and having all his things out by the time Seb arrives. As long as he shows up to testing on time the team can’t be too mad, right?
Charles’s plans for a grand escape are put on hold when Seb shows up early, like a model employee. He comes to the door holding a six-pack and a bakery box, which softens the blow. Charles endures the moment of unspoken judgment that always comes with inviting someone over for the first time. He has someone come by to clean, of course, but there’s still an underlying clutter that he’s suddenly hyperaware of. Seb nods and walks over to the windows. “It’s a shame about the poor view,” he says, looking out over the glittering blue marina.
“Well, when the team has you move in full-time I’m sure you will get used to it.” There’s something pleasing about being able to joke about their shared predicament. For once there’s a sense that they’re on equal footing. Charles rolls Seb’s bag down to the spare bedroom, and when he comes back Seb has a stack of DVDs in his hands.
“I thought you millenials killed these things,” Seb says, turning one of the boxes over in his hands. “Die Hard? This is like ancient history for you.”
“Oh come on, it is a classic!” He’d actually forgotten that he had it. It’s not like he has a lot of spare time to be rewatching old movies. Still, there’s a kneejerk defensiveness that comes with Seb assuming he doesn’t know things about the fine cinema of the 1980s.
Seb’s on now, doing his best Bruce Willis: “Come out to the coast, we’ll get together, have a few laughs.”
“If anyone asks, that’s how I invited you here,” Charles says, and grabs the box. At least Seb’s nosiness will buy them a few hours of comfortable silence in the living room. As long as Charles remembers how to work the absurdly nice entertainment system. He really isn’t home enough.
They put on the movie and slowly, slowly nurse the beers that Seb brought. Charles can feel himself starting to relax into the couch, lulled out of his anxiety by Seb’s running commentary. Seb groans when Hans Gruber is introduced. “This still has to be the worst German accent I’ve ever heard. It’s like he wasn’t even trying!”
“What do you mean? That’s exactly what you sound like,” Charles says with practiced wide-eyed innocence.
Seb’s scoffs in mock offense. He bats Charles’s knee with his hand. “Wrong!”
Charles twists away, tucking himself against the far arm of the couch and laughing in a way that feels way too easy for how weird this situation is. If he didn’t know better, he could believe that they had been friends this whole time, not just long-suffering co-workers pretending to be in a relationship.
On the screen, John McClane razes another cadre of anonymous baddies. Seb nods approvingly, then throws a sideways glance back at Charles, because, oh, Charles has been staring.
Charles looks at Seb one more time, then leans over and kisses him, quick and innocent. Just to see make sure this isn't why Seb leaves him feeling so weird, just a little out of step. And well, Seb does smell nice, but his lips are a little rough and chapped, and he pulls away almost immediately. Charles isn’t offended; the whole experience feels mechanical, a simple fact of skin on skin with no heat to animate it.
Charles scans Seb’s face, the slight quizzical look. Now he really feels stupid, and he can’t blame it on Seb at all. “I think,” he says, “we should be friends.”
Seb frowns for a terrible moment, but then he snorts and Charles thinks he might drown under the wave of pure relief that washes over him. Seb shakes his head in disbelief. “Yeah, that was the idea all along. I admire your commitment to the act but no, I do not think we should actually date either.”
The room rattles with the sound of an explosion from the TV. If his teammate were anyone else, Charles images their relationship would be in a million messy pieces by now. He sends a silent thanks out to whatever God gave Seb years of prior experience dealing with weird teammates. “Well. It is good that we figured that out then,” he croaks.
“Would have been easier to ask,” Seb says, teasing. He settles back into the couch, but not before giving Charles’s shoulder a quick squeeze.
There are three photographers on the sidewalk when they emerge from the building in the morning. They must have all gotten the same anonymous, Italian-accented tip. “Charles! Sebastian! When’s the wedding?”
Charles groans internally but still puts on his best mild, PR-approved smile. He grabs Seb’s hand before they pass the huddle. For the first time it actually feels like a comfort rather than a duty, reassurance given and taken at the same time. They find the closest thing to an out-of-the-way café that Monaco has to offer. Seb tries to read the newspaper, asks for translations on the terms too obscure or local for his grade-school french, and Charles obliges graciously. It’s not until they’re on the way back that Charles even notices he’s left his phone at home.
2020 is much the same as 2019, disappointments and errors and not enough sleep. Except now, instead of heading straight to his driver’s room after the race, Charles actually finds himself wanting to stop by Seb’s. Sometimes it’s enough to share the silent misery, sometimes they can actually find something to laugh about. Seb doesn’t push it, doesn’t search him out when the result is too bad to bond over.
One weekend miraculously ends in champagne. They play it up for the cameras, share meaningful looks on the podium, then laugh about it later, woozy on a mix of endorphins and overexertion.
“How’s this meant to end? I mean, what’s our out here?” Seb asks, waving his bottle of champagne around for emphasis.
Pretending to date his teammate is as ridiculous as it’s always been, but now he doesn’t always face it uncompromising dread. “Seb, are you saying you want to break up with me? I’m hurt.”
“Oh, come on, surely you have your sights for a mate set higher than an aging German with a dodgy sense of humor.”
Charles rolls his eyes. “Well, the team practically owns my soul until 2024, so maybe I’ll break your heart then.”
Maybe Seb thinks he’s a fool, but at least when he smiles it’s fond. “Whatever happens, I need something from you. It’s very serious.” He doesn’t sound serious at all. Months of close proximity have meant that Charles knows every mischievous look Seb can pull.
Still, he’s pretty sure that half of his value in Seb’s eyes is as a captive audience to his jokes. “Yes?”
“If anyone asks, I want you to tell them that I was a very generous, tender lover—”
“Hell no—”
“—and that I have a very large—”
“You are such a bastard,” Charles says, but he’s laughing. He jostles Seb a little with his shoulder, but he’s weak with laughter too, and they both go down before they know it. It’s cathartic, laying on the ground and laughing until it hurts, as though this one stupid joke was all they needed to let out months of suppressed levity. Once they start they can’t stop.
Charles thinks he spots someone from the social media team surreptitiously recording from the doorway. He lets them. They can’t see the look he shares with Seb, the one that says maybe we’ll survive this together.