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Fucking hell.
He knew it had all gone wrong when his strategists fucked up the pit stop timing.
“And, box now, box! Box, now, box! For hard.”
Then, a few seconds later, once Charles is already in the pit lane:
“Stay out! Stay out! Stay out!!”
Well, shit. It had already been too late for that.
Usually he would do his best to contain his anger, but this time he was just too furious to even try.
“FUCK!! FUCK!!! WHY- WHAT- WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?!”
From there, he had dropped three spots to P4.
Merde.
And then there had been a race restart.
Charles was hoping that it would give him a chance to at least finish on the podium. But nope. Nothing changed.
He ended the race in fucking fourth position because of that stupid fucking pit decision. And to think at the start of the race he had a shot at winning in Monaco, on home soil for the first time. The first time ever.
Putain.
Two shitty races in a row, and they weren’t even his own fucking fault. He was not having a very good time. At all.
Getting out of his car was painful. He was trying his absolute hardest not to yell at anyone even though it was his team who screwed over his entire race, or to punch the wall even though he was fucking furious.
Looking at the ground to avoid eye contact, Charles walked to his driver’s room to calm down a little. He really needed to get a handle over his emotions before he talked to anyone or he might say something he doesn’t mean. The last thing he wanted was to create more tension in the team than there already was.
He angrily took a sip from his water bottle. Today’s race would take a bit of time to get over, and to be honest, he would probably still be mad about it in a few days.
The only thing he could be glad about now was that, just like last race, it hadn’t been driver error. It hadn’t been him that made the mistake that cost him a win. He was also sort of glad that he actually finished his home race for once. But it wasn’t like the so-called Monaco curse was broken, it wasn’t like it was over. No, it was still there, looming. It obviously still existed. And if anyone asked for proof, all they needed to do was look at the race. It obviously still existed because his pit strategy had fucked up his chance at winning the Monaco Grand Prix. It obviously still existed because he had started on pole and ended up with P4 on a track that’s difficult to overtake on. It obviously still existed because his weekend had been going perfectly until some genius made the decision to pit for hards when Carlos was already there.
Fuck.
Why did his life hate him this much?
He took a deep breath through his nose, attempting to cool his nerves a little, then went back out. All the team members clapped him on the back, muttering apologies and how sorry they were. It didn’t help with Charles' mood. Actually, it almost made it worse.
He was so fucking mad. An all-consuming anger took over, and he had never wanted to punch something as much as he did in that moment. That moment where everything got screwed up. But he didn’t let that affect him. He couldn’t. He was a professional, okay? No one could see him like this. No one. Especially not the media. So when he was asked about that fucked up pit stop, all he could do was smile and say it wasn’t anyone’s fault, that they would come back stronger next time.
Was he going to cry about this later? Maybe… actually, yes. But no one had to know. No one was going to find out. He could deal with it himself. It was fine. He was fine.
A few hours passed and he was back at his apartment. And he was not fine. He had cried–yes, adult men cry too, you know–ever since he closed the door, when the anger had worn off and left the agony and despair. All he wanted was to get a podium at his home race for the first time. Maybe even a win. And he had been close, so fucking close, but of course someone had to go and throw his chances of winning out the door. He didn’t blame his team, because he knew that nobody was perfect. They were human beings, and human beings made mistakes. It was normal. But he still couldn’t help but feel that little bit of anger that flared up inside of him.
Looking for a distraction from the shitshow that had been his day, Charles picked up his phone.
There was a message from Pierre.
pear💖(4:56pm): can i come over?
And Charles tried to stop the smile that was forming, because, well, he was supposed to be sad, devastated, even, after the shittiest race ever.
But how could he not smile when Pierre Gasly, his Pierre Gasly, wanted to come over?
sharles lechair💖❤️😘💕😍💞🔥(5:06pm): please
And then ten minutes later there was a certain Frenchman standing outside his door.
As usual, they hugged, and then Charles pulled him in, closing the door behind him.
“Charles, I-” Pierre started, but his boyfriend interrupted him.
“No, I- I don’t want to talk about it. I’m- I’m sorry.” Charles looked at the ground.
“Hey, no, don’t be sorry. I understand.” He paused. “Do you want to watch a movie? I can order takeout if you want, or?”
“Yeah, that would be great.”
Pierre pulled him into another hug. It was more personal than the one at the door, it contained more emotion. It was warm, comforting, and it almost tore Charles apart because that was precisely what he needed. Somehow, Pierre knew exactly how to heal him. He hugged him back fiercely, burying his face in the crook of Pierre’s neck.
“Oh, I almost forgot! I brought something for you.”
Charles tilted his head, questioning, and Pierre handed him one of his AlphaTauri hoodies.
Oh God. Charles was definitely going to break now. Pierre had brought him a fucking hoodie to wear?? Oh my God. He was in love. He was so fucking in love with this man.
And then Charles couldn’t resist the urge to pull Pierre in for a soft kiss. It said everything about how much Charles fucking loved him, how much he wanted him. Sometimes, you don’t need words to say anything. But he still said something anyway.
"Thank you," Charles said, and he was on the edge of tears again.
Slipping into the hoodie, Charles hugged the AlphaTauri driver again.
"You know I love you, right?" Pierre asked as he gently took the younger's face in his hands.
"Yeah, I know," he mumbled in return, letting a soft smile tug at the corners of his mouth. He buried his nose into the hoodie, taking a deep breath, inhaling that familiar scent. It smelled like Pierre’s cologne, and his laundry detergent, like summer, and peaches. It smelled like home.
They both settled onto his fancy couch, with Pierre sitting against the backrest and Charles laying his head along his lap.
Pierre reached down to run a hand through his boyfriend's hair as he called a pizza place to put in an order.
Once he was done ordering, Charles spoke up.
"I'm sorry."
"For what?" Pierre stared at him sympathetically.
"For not congratulating you. You had a good race. Didn't you go up, like, 5 places?"
"Yeah, I would've gotten into the points if I finished higher in qualifying. But you don't have to be sorry, chéri. You didn't do anything wrong."
"Sorry-"
"Oh my god." He said exasperatedly, and they both laughed. "But seriously, I understand your race was ruined so you're probably focused on that and it's fine. It's not a bad thing, okay?"
"Yeah, I know."
Pierre turned on the tv, looking for a movie to watch as he continued to stroke Charles' hair absentmindedly.
"What do you feel like watching, calamar?" Pierre asked, his voice gentle.
"You can pick if you want."
Pierre smiled, thought for a second, and then clicked on Titanic.
"Oh my God, no." Charles whined jokingly. "Anything but that."
"Ah, ah, ah. You said I could pick. So I picked."
"No, please. It's so bad." Charles complained, trying to hold in his laughter.
"We can make fun of it or something."
"Okay, fine. But I get to pick next time."
"If there is a next time."
Charles opened his mouth to say something, then closed it, thinking better of it. Hopefully, there wouldn't be a next time with the same conditions, hopefully he could come over without Charles having a shitty race.
Just as Pierre was going to start the movie, the doorbell rang, indicating that the pizza had arrived.
"I'll get it." The Frenchman muttered as Charles got up to let him walk to the door.
After thanking the delivery guy, he brought it over back to the couch and curled up with Charles under one of the blankets that was on the coffee table. They sat through half the movie, Pierre’s arm wrapped protectively around Charles’ shoulder, the two of them sitting as close as humanly possible, before the Monégasque fell asleep.
Pierre took that as a sign to go to bed, knowing that it had been a long day for the both of them. Just like last time, he gently picked up Charles into his arms to carry to his bedroom, which accidentally woke him up. Still half-asleep, Charles buried himself into Pierre’s chest.
He tenderly placed him on top of the blankets, then turned back towards the door. But before he could leave, he felt Charles’ eyes on him.
He turned back around, and was met with a hopeful look.
This time Pierre doesn't ask if Charles wants him to stay over.
It was in the air, he could feel it. And maybe he also wanted to stay himself. So he stayed.
Quickly turning off all the lights, Pierre crawls back under the duvet with Charles, wrapping his body around the Monegasque.
“Pierre?” Charles asked, and his voice was delicate, like it was about to break.
“Oui, calamar?”
“I- I don’t-” He paused. “Why- why here?”
Pierre instantly understood. At this point, they didn’t even need to say anything to understand what the other was feeling, or what the other was thinking about. It was just like second nature.
“Sometimes things happen. Things that you don’t want to happen, or didn’t even think could happen. I know that the pit stop was really annoying and stupid, and it’s okay to be mad about it. I would be mad if I were you.”
“Pierre, I- why would they do that to me? It’s my fucking home race, it’s like it’s cursed or something. It’s- why? Why here? Why Monaco, of all places?” Charles was on the brink of tears again, holding them in with everything he could.
“Charles. You know it’s okay to cry, alright? I want you to know you don’t have to feel like you can’t cry around me. I cry too, you know?”
And Charles wanted to stay strong in front of Pierre, he didn’t want to be even more vulnerable than he already was, but in the end, he knew he could trust him, so he let go.
Violent sobs shook his body as he turned to hug Pierre tightly. Tears soaked Pierre’s t-shirt, and God, Pierre was doing everything he could to keep it together. Seeing Charles like this broke him to the point that he wanted to cry too. Instead of crying, he just hugged Charles closer, as close as possible.
“It’s going to be okay. I promise.”