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Pierre Gasly is a grudge. Spite taking on the vague shape of a man.
Charles Leclerc fools him into thinking that he's anything more than that.
It’s so easy to forget here when he’s close to Charles. The crushing weight of his failures, his disaster of a season, the uncertainty of his future. The media and fans mocking his desperate attempts to save his career. Charles smothers all of them with his warmth long before they can sink their claws into Pierre, his smile clearing away the dark clouds that seem to hang over the Frenchman all year long.
Here, when he’s alone with Charles, it almost makes him feel like a person again. Like that bright eyed kid who dreams of podiums and champagne, of shiny trophies and the crowd chanting your name, of having your best friend by your side as you climb to the top of your shared dream. Whenever he’s alone with Charles, he can feel the shattered fragments of his hope reassemble itself.
It’s in the easy laughter in the air whenever they’re together, the endless chatter they have about nonsense, the quick glances that says everything and nothing all at once. It’s all the little things, all at the same time, that soothes Pierre’s soul and cleanses it of the grime and filth that has built up over the years. It makes his eyes twinkle again like the days of old and makes him look forward to a brighter tomorrow.
But this here? Spending most of his weekend with Charles, being cradled in his arms after the race as they lounge around in the Monegasque’s hotel room, this is the farthest thing from Pierre Gasly’s truth.
Pierre knows what he is: a mangy mutt scavenging for scraps. Clawing and biting at anything he can get his hands on in a vain attempt at getting back to the top. To grasp the opportunity he had once let slip through his fingers. He’s not here because he believes in the day that he’ll become world champion. He’s here to prove them all wrong. Helmut Marko. Christian Horner. All the news media and critics that preyed on his fall. All the fans that laughed at his demotion. He didn’t ignore a single one of their words. He takes them all onto himself, using them to fuel his campaign back to the top.
Everyone is trying to take his dream away from him, the goal he’s given so much for, and he won’t let them. His disdain for them all is the only thing keeping him standing. He doesn’t have much use for hope anymore, not when it sends him hurtling down to the earth on the very same wings that took him to the sky in the first place. No, he hardens his heart and takes the punches head on, absorbing the pain and throwing it back at them.
He doesn’t believe in the day that he’ll become world champion, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t go down fighting.
He just doesn’t know how long he has left.
But it’s easy to forget that here, when he’s with Charles, and that’s dangerous. He knows that once the morning comes and they go their separate ways again, all the dirt and grime and filth that Charles had taken care to wash away will consume him once more. Because that is what Pierre Gasly is, a collection of grudges shambling from one race to the next.
It’s dangerous because Pierre likes this. Him and Charles, sequestered away in a hotel room, in a space where everything about racing is present and calling and yet none of it matters at all. Just them. Pierre likes not worrying about his future, to laugh as hard as he pleases, to look to tomorrow with more than just dread. It’s dangerous because he can’t bring Charles down like this when he inevitably self-destructs.
Charles is beautiful, beloved by all with a working pair of eyes and at least half a brain. Talented beyond all measure as well. It’s not a question of if he will one day become a champion in this sport, it’s a question of when. Il Predestinato. It is his destiny, and Pierre has no doubt that Charles will one day fulfill it.
By contrast, Pierre is an ugly, pitiful thing. A vulture picking at open wounds and festering blood like he’s doing with Daniel right now. He’s the prospect that cracked under pressure. Someone with talent and skill, but not enough of it to make the difference. Even his most ardent of supporters doubts he deserves the second Red Bull seat, let alone win world champion. Pierre has made his peace with that, to some extent, but the grudges he carries with him won’t allow him to go quietly into the night. He’ll drag them all down with him. Marko, Horner, Max, Checo, Alex, Esteban. His true nature is that of a beast, one that bares his fangs at even his friends if it means being able to dig into a scrap of meat.
But not Charles. Never Charles.
“I don’t deserve you.”
It slips out of him without much thought, coaxed by a strange cocktail of drowsiness, intoxication, and pure bliss. The hand running through his hair stills.
“Calamar,” Charles starts slow, like he’s approaching a wounded animal. “What are you saying. Is something wrong?”
“I don’t deserve you,” Pierre repeats, a little firmer. He nuzzles deeper into Charles’ hoodie and breaths in his scent. He’ll be selfish about this, just one last time. “You deserve someone who can support you and keep up with you. Someone who can make you a better you. You don’t – You don’t need me dragging you down.”
This weekend had been the weekend of his dreams, spending practically his entire time outside of racing and media obligations with Charles. It takes him back to the days when they were little kids, just two boys who shared the same passion and goal. And then the race happened. Charles soared from last to fifth, while Pierre faltered like he had done so many times before. He’ll never take this weekend for granted, it’s the most time they’ve spent together in months, but Charles doesn’t need Pierre clinging onto him like a parasite just to feel good. Not when he has enough problems fighting for the championship.
“You’re not dragging me down,” Charles says, lips set into a thin line.
Pierre lets out a chuckle, light and airy. “Charles, please, I’m a glorified backmarker. We both know my career isn’t going to go anywhere with another year in AlphaTauri. And you – you’re you. You’re brilliant and bright and somewhere out there is someone who can truly make you happy, who can share with you in your victories. Someone who can bolster you as you become a champion. That someone – it can’t be me.”
He wants to be. Pierre would give anything to be that someone. It’s not a matter of if he wants to be that person, it’s a question of if he can, and he most certainly can’t. Not when he’s barely a person himself.
Charles’ thumb brushes against his chin. “Pierre, look at me.”
Pierre tries to resist at first. He doesn’t want Charles to see how pathetic he looks right now. He’ll hold on to what little dignity he has left. But Pierre was never one who can say no to Charles for long. All it takes is a hand cupping his chin and Charles bumping their foreheads together for Pierre to become putty in his friend’s grasp.
“Look at me, please.”
This time Pierre doesn’t resist. He looks up, eyes glassy and wide, and meets Charles’ gaze. A gaze so full of affection and warmth that it makes Pierre want to cry. He doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve any of this. Before he can even think about saying that though, Charles closes the distance between them and presses their lips together. It’s chaste, absolutely innocent by their standards, and melts Pierre into a puddle.
The tears fall. Pierre tastes salt on his lips. Charles must taste them too, but he makes no attempt to pull away. He takes it all in. Pierre’s sadness, worries, anger, love. Charles takes it all in. All Pierre can think of is how lucky he is to have met Charles and to be able to call him a friend even after all this years.
It’s only once Charles has had his fill that he pulls away, their foreheads still touching. Charles reaches up and uses his thumb to wipe away the tears. “It’s you,” he says, his warm breath kissing Pierre’s lips. “That someone is you. It has always been you.”
Pierre shakes his head. “It can’t be me.”
“It can only ever be you.” He caresses Pierre’s cheek, tracing the leftover balaclava lines. “You’re the one who this sport has chewed up and spit out more than most. You’re the one who’s been knocked down so many times. And each time, each and every time, you stand back up with your held high. You make me better by just being you.”
“I don’t know how much of me is left,” he confesses. “This life… I keep going and going and I’m afraid of what I’ll become at the end of it all. I fight because I want to fight but that will is eating me from the inside out.”
“Then let me help you. Whatever you need, I’ll provide.”
“I can’t do that to you Charles. I’ll ruin you. The championship battle—”
“This is how you can help me. You’re an inspiration to me, mon coeur. Me and so many others. Every day you come to the track to show them what you’re made of, every day you try to prove them wrong. You may not always succeed, but the fact that you try and try and try again no matter what drives me to do the same. You’ve helped me so much, Pierrot, so let me help you. Let me help you so you can help me.”
Pierre trembles. “Whatever I need?”
“Anything.”
“…You,” he says, breathy and yearning. “I need you, but—”
Charles silences him with another kiss to his lips. “You have me.”
Charles lays a dozen kisses on Pierre’s face, enough to make the Frenchman giggle through his tears. He pulls Pierre closer like there’s still space between them, ignoring the fact that their bodies are pressed so tightly together that not even air could separate them.
“You’ll always have me.”
Pierre Gasly is a grudge. Spite taking on the vague shape of a man.
Charles Leclerc reminds him that there is a person underneath it all.