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“No! No, no…”
Charles’ heart dropped. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. His car was losing power, and he couldn’t do anything about it.
“No, what happened, what happened? I lost power. I think the turbo exploded or…?”
“We’ll come back to you.” His race engineer told him calmly.
There was a pause.
“What do I do?” The Monegasque asked.
“We’ll come back to you.” He repeated.
Wow, thanks. That was really helpful. Definitely.
“Am I going in the pitlane or not?” Charles almost yelled, doing his best to keep his voice under control, making sure that he didn’t sound too annoyed, but not everything he did worked. Just like this race.
“Yes! Box, box, box.” His race engineer told him, finally saying something that was actually informative. “Stop in front of the garage.”
“Switch off the engine?”
“Yes, please.”
“I’ll get out of the car.” And he was on the brink of tears, barely holding it together anymore. But that could wait until later.
“Yeah, copy. Sorry about that.”
“It’s okay,” Charles said, and he doesn’t even try to sound happy, just letting his heartbreak take over. “We’ll come back stronger.”
“For sure.”
He pulled off his gloves, frustratedly – who can blame him? – and unlatched his steering wheel with a little more force than necessary. At least he was taking it out on his equipment and not a person.
Goddamn it.
He was absolutely heartbroken. Why did this have to happen to him, of all people? What did he do to deserve this? He had driven the perfect race. Amazing start. No mistakes whatsoever. Nothing had gone wrong. Well, nothing had gone wrong up until his car had just decided to die.
Running a hand through his hair, he walked to his driver’s room. God, he really wanted to scream. He had been doing so good, so well. It was super frustrating. At least he can be glad that it was his car’s fault, and he hadn’t done anything wrong. A DNF because of driver error is a hundred times worse than a DNF because of a problem with the car.
He took a long sip from his water bottle, he fiddled with the cap. Taking a deep breath, he made his best attempt to calm down and clear his mind before going back out to watch the rest of the race.
Of course, Max won. Was anyone surprised? Charles wasn’t. It was bound to happen, but he was still slightly salty over the fact that Max’s win was supposed to be his own, that Charles was supposed to be on that top stop of the podium, that the Monegasque anthem should’ve been playing instead of the Dutch one. Whatever, there was nothing he could do about it now. He was happy for George, the Brit had worked his ass off for it and was getting what he deserved after all those years at Williams. Checo had a great race as well, but Charles knew that the Mexican was probably a little disappointed, team orders to let your teammate pass you was never nice. Speaking of teammates, the Monegasque felt horrible for Carlos. The Spaniard had had a good chance for a podium, which would’ve been really nice considering it was his home Grand Prix, but instead he had lost the rear at turn 4 which, in the end, had left him with P5. He knew that feeling all too well, he had never had good luck with Monaco. Actually, it was the opposite. It was like the universe had specifically picked when Charles was at his home race to just absolutely fuck up his entire day. More like his entire week.
He eyed the time sheet for his boyfriend’s name, hoping that at least Pierre had a good race. It looks like he didn’t, finishing P13. Well, it could’ve been worse. Nothing either of them could do about it, of course. He sighed, turning back to the garage.
•••
Before he knew it, it was late, and he and Pierre were both back in their respective hotel rooms. Charles couldn’t bear being alone anymore, and to be fair all he wanted right now was a warm cuddly boyfriend with him.
sharles lechair 💖 ❤️😘💕😍💞🔥(5:10pm): can you come over?
pear 💖 (5:12pm): oui, anything for you
pear 💖 (5:12pm): ill cook dinner too, if you want
sharles lechair 💖 ❤️😘💕😍💞🔥(5:10pm): merci
And soon enough, Pierre was at his door half an hour later.
“Bonjour, mon petit calamar,” He said sweetly with a smile that melted Charles’ insides as he pulled him into a hug.
“Bonjour, mon amour. Thank you for coming over.” Charles spoke into the Frenchman’s shoulder.
“Of course. Sorry about your race, that really sucked.” He said with an apologetic look on his face as Charles grabbed his hand and pulled him into the hotel room.
“It’s okay, yours wasn’t much better,” And immediately after, he pulled Pierre into a kiss. It was soft, it was gentle, it was slow. It was just what Charles needed.
“Je t’aime,” He mumbled into Pierre’s neck, taking in his familiar scent.
“Moi aussi,” And Pierre pulled him closer.
They stay like that for a few moments, Charles basking in his boyfriend’s body heat, happy to have him in his arms. If he was honest, this was probably Charles' favourite spot in the world.
“What’s that?” He asked when he pulled back and saw the bag in Pierre’s hand.
“Oh, this?” He said, lifting it, “Ingredients.”
He gave Charles a sly smile before heading into the kitchen and dumping the bag’s content onto the counter. As soon as the Monegasque saw the box of spaghetti, it clicked.
“No, you didn’t have to do that,” Charles whined, trying to stop a grin from making its way onto his face.
“Yes, I did.” Pierre counters, “And plus, it’s too late. I already bought everything.”
It was the spaghetti meal that they used to eat together as kids, back in their karting days, and it had grown into a comfort meal for the two of them, for whenever things turned to shit, it was something to cheer him up, even if it was only slightly.
And then when they had gotten together–a little over a year ago, now–they had ordered it at the restaurant they went to for their first date.
This meal was more than just a meal. It was something that connected the two of them, something that bound them together, in a way. And Pierre knew that. He knew that it was Charles' favourite food, that he was fond of it, so before he came over to Charles', he went out and bought everything he needed to make it. Yes, he couldn't cook as good as their moms did, but that didn't mean he wasn't decent. He could cook fairly well, thank you very much.
Pierre took out a pot from one of the cupboards and filled it with water while setting the stove to high.
"What?" He asked cheekily when he caught Charles' admiring gaze from where he was sitting on one of the bar stools.
"Nothing," he said, and it was obvious that he was lying by the wide smile on his face. Because it wasn't nothing. It was as far as possible from nothing, actually. Of course, Charles' race hadn't gone well, and he had lost out on a lot of points as well as the championship lead, but now, none of it seemed to matter. Not when he had Pierre Gasly, The Most Amazing Person In The World. He was everything the Monégasque could ever wish for and more. God, this was all he wanted. Really. Everything else just seemed to dissolve, fade away into oblivion when he was with the Frenchman. And that smile. It wasn't the one that Pierre gave his friends in the paddock, it wasn't the one he gave the media. It was different. It was a flirtatious, yet fond, yet protective smile, and it was made for only Charles.
"Yeah, sure, nothing." Pierre teased.
"Shut up," Charles countered with a blush, unable to stop a grin from taking over his face.
God, he was so gone for this man. Every day he fell more and more in love with him. It didn't seem possible, because how could Charles love Pierre more than he already does? But then again, Pierre Gasly was Pierre Gasly. How could he not fall in love even more with his endless charm?
Charles tried to resist the urge of getting up and hugging Pierre from behind, but he lost control, so he got up and Pierre didn't notice until the Monégasque's arms were wrapped around his waist and Charles' face was pressed into his back.
They stayed like that for a while, Charles taking comfort in being this close to Pierre, sharing their body heat, and the Frenchman making their dinner. Charles loved moments like this, moments so casual and so domestic and just so cute that it made him want to scream. This was what he lived for.
Soon enough, the spaghetti was finished cooking, Pierre was done adding the finishing touches, and Charles was very hungry. Setting the table was the only contribution he had made to their dinner, but he probably couldn't even make Cup Noodle if he tried, so maybe it was a good thing that he didn't help more.
"Oh, that smells so good, mon cher," Charles praised as the scent from the kitchen wafted over into the dining room.
"I know, I'm such a great cook." Pierre sounded smug.
Wow, so much for humbleness.
The Frenchman walked to the table, balancing a plate in each hand before setting them down.
"Bon appétit," Pierre said and they dug in.
Half an hour and a delicious dinner later, they were settled on the couch together.
Pierre was laying with his back against the end of the couch, Charles between his legs with his back pressed into Pierre's chest. They were both cuddled up under a thin blanket, and Pierre had a possessive arm around Charles' waist. His other hand was tracing absent-minded patterns onto the top of Charles' hand.
They were watching a movie, it was a random comedy that Pierre had let Charles pick.
Somehow, the Ferrari driver still hadn't fallen asleep yet, and the movie was close to being over. Pierre knew for a fact that 95 percent of the time, Charles couldn't stay awake for a full movie.
The credits started playing and Pierre glanced at the time. It was late, they should get to bed.
"C'mon, calamar, it's time for bed." Pierre whispered softly into Charles' ear as he tried to get up.
"Mmm," the Monégasque hummed, burying himself deeper into Pierre's chest. "I wanna stay here."
"No, your neck will be sore in the morning, and I have to go back to my hotel room."
Charles groaned, annoyed, but got up anyway.
He pouted at Pierre, trying to make him feel guilty for committing such a crime, but Pierre just laughed as he ruffled his hair fondly.
"Let's go, chéri." And with that he picked up Charles without warning and carried him bridal style to the bedroom, gently placing him on the bed.
"Goodnight, mon amour." He gave Charles a soft peck on the lips before walking to the door.
"Wait!" Charles blurted out without thinking.
"Oui?"
"Stay." He had a sad, longing look in his eyes. "Please."
And in what universe could Pierre resist that?
"Of course, chéri." Pierre smiled before stripping down to a t-shirt and boxers, then joined Charles under the warm blanket.
And when Pierre curled up behind him, draping an arm over his torso and tangling their legs together, Charles can't help but think: fuck. Fuck. He was in love. One hundred and ten percent. He was totally gone for Pierre. He would do anything for him. Anything. Charles would give him the world if he asked for it. Because it was Pierre. And Charles couldn't ever resist him. Fuck, Pierre just spent his entire afternoon and evening making Charles happy, doing his best to keep him content. And Pierre's race hadn't even been good. Pierre hadn't had the greatest day either, but he still took care of Charles. He put Charles' needs before his.
And that was why Charles turned to face him and said-
"Thank you."
Pierre just smiled that perfect, charming, heartwarming smile.
"You're welcome."