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Lewis isn’t the first to come. Far from it. He doesn’t show up until a lot later, a good five hours since Charles managed to escape the media and trap himself back alone in his motorhome. The place is still a state from earlier, the smashed mirror in the bathroom, cushions thrown around the floor, tear stains just a bit too prominent on the pillows. It makes Charles feel worse, so much worse, because fuck, he’s too old to be throwing tantrums, been at this long enough to learn how to swallow it down and promise himself he’ll come back better, but he can’t. All he can do is add to the mess around him, because he doesn’t deserve to be here anyway and maybe now someone will finally see it.
Pierre was the first to come. Maybe if it was someone else Charles would have been able to calm down, settle himself just enough to have a short but reasonably polite conversation with any one of the other drivers kind enough to waste their time checking on him - Este, Daniel, George, Carlos, any of them.
But Pierre is wonderful, so kind, so caring, and he comes first, so early that Charles figured he must have came straight to him after the race finished, not even taking a second for himself, because he’s just lovely like that.
Pierre’s knock is a tentative sound, not even enough to echo through the room as Charles stands frozen, staring at himself in the cracks of the mirror with dry, bloodshot eyes. His hand tugs through his hair when Pierre knocks again, a tooth sinking deep into his lip until it bleeds.
“Charles,” comes Pierre’s voice, soft as always, familiar in the way that usually makes Charles feel as though he’s sinking to sleep in his old childhood bedroom, but now it just stings.
Pierre, god. Charles doesn’t know where he finished, but he knows it wasn’t going well. Pierre, who was so excited for his home race only for it to be a bitter disappointment, a searing heartbreak that Charles knows a fair bit about, standing outside Charles’ locked door, undeterred by the stubborn silence, prioritising his friend over himself because that has always been the kind of person Pierre is.
Charles is a sick, festering infection. He doesn’t deserve to race alongside someone as wonderful as Pierre. He’s certainly not worthy of being called Pierre’s friend.
But the call of Pierre’s voice keeps coming, indifferent and unaware. “Charles,” he repeats, too many times. “Will you let me in?” is how it starts, faint doubt in his voice overcome by the confidence Pierre has in the importance of their bond, but after five minutes of dead silence from Charles it shifts to a, “Please let me in, Charles. I know that you’re there,” desperate and pleading, getting nowhere.
Charles can’t take any more of the pity, can’t spend another second listening to Pierre beg him like he hasn’t realised what a complete waste of time it is yet. He tries to ask Pierre to give him some space, but the words get caught in a throat still raw and dry from screaming, and Charles ends up snapping, letting out a lot more venom than he intends. “Fuck off, Pierre,” he says, louder than he wants it to be, harsher than anyone would ever need to be with Pierre. “You have your own race to worry about, do you not?” he adds, because he can’t stop himself, and the words are so sharp that they sting as they leave his mouth.
It’s Pierre’s turn to be silent. “Ok,” is all he says, eventually, after the air has turned heavy and thick around them. “I will speak to you later. You should get some rest, Charles.”
Charles listens as Pierre’s footsteps fade into the distance, feeling horrendously and pathetically sorry for himself. He forces himself to stay quiet when the other drivers come to knock on his door no matter how hard they try to get a response, because if he’ll say that to his oldest friend, his best friend, then God knows what he might say to them if he dares open his mouth.
It’s later when Lewis comes, late enough that Charles has remained undisturbed for a record breaking fifty seven minutes. Charles is more than a little stunned, because Lewis walks among them all like there’s no difference, but he’s always been just a cut above them, and everyone knows it. He’s a legend everywhere he goes. He’s royalty, a king, and here he is, standing outside Charles’ trashed motorhome, probably on his way back from celebrating his fourth consecutive podium, and he’s taking the time to talk to Charles.
Lewis doesn’t knock, not like the others did, he just starts talking. Charles doubts he is the kind of person who has to announce his presence very often. He doesn’t plead with Charles to open the door, doesn’t beg for Charles to respond to him, just keeps his voice level as he says, “Hey, Charles, let me in. I’d like to talk to you, if you don’t mind.”
Charles hasn’t exactly kept it a secret that he’s not interested in speaking to anyone right now, but it’s Lewis. Lewis Hamilton. No one says no to Lewis Hamilton. And, secretly, Charles had told himself that if Lewis showed up here he would answer, that Lewis is the only one who he would open the door for. Mostly because Charles had believed Lewis was the least likely to show up here, but it’s hardly the first time Charles has been wrong today.
The embarrassment hits as soon as the door is open. The mess around the room is Charles’ soul laid bare, the dark red marks around his eyes a private piece of his heart. It makes Charles think of his scream over the radio, that moment of despair that he never wanted anyone else to witness, now broadcast to the whole world. He wonders when he will stop feeling so disgusted by himself.
Lewis doesn’t even blink. He’s pretending he hasn’t noticed, which doesn’t do much for Charles’ pride, but it’s a nice gesture.
“I think you owe Pierre an apology,” is the first thing Lewis says, once he’s taken a seat on Charles’ sofa, now bare after Charles took the neatly placed cushions and threw each one around the room in an uncharacteristic fit of rage.
It hits Charles dully that this means Pierre has gone to Lewis about him. Pierre has gone to Lewis and complained about Charles being a spiteful brat, and Charles deserves anything Pierre has to say, but it hurts all the same. It hits even harder because it’s just so Lewis, to have a podium to celebrate but spend all of his time sweeping the paddock for other people’s issues he can solve instead.
Charles rolls his eyes. His patience is wearing all too thin. “I am not a child,” he snaps. Lewis Hamilton and condescending do not belong together in the same sentence, but Charles’ tolerance is long passed frayed; he doesn’t appreciate the unsolicited advice, and he knows damn well Lewis didn’t come here to talk about Pierre, of all things. “And I know that already,” Charles adds, with a little less bite, because Lewis is right and it hurts. He was awful to Pierre, who had done nothing at all to deserve it. He is making his own best friend hate him and it is foolish because Charles knows he cannot go on without Pierre.
Lewis raises his eyebrows, but Charles is relieved when he doesn’t say anything. His silence stretches on. He’s the one who came over here, but he’s quiet like he’s waiting for Charles to start the conversation. Charles finds it oddly comforting, a welcome break from the non-stop rushes of words from the other drivers, but he doesn’t know what Lewis wants him to say and he is unwilling to try figuring it out. He’s already said everything he can about the race to the media. He isn’t interested in elaborating. He doesn’t have the energy for it. He doesn’t have anything left inside of him.
Eventually, Lewis gets bored of waiting, or maybe he realises that Charles is just as good at playing this game as he is. He opens his mouth a few times, then closes it again, like he’s unsure how to start. That’s not like Lewis Hamilton.
“Has anyone offered you a hug yet?” is what Lewis goes with in the end, simple and genuine. Charles finds himself unbelievably thankful that he refrains from mentioning the race, or the car, or the crash. Or Pierre.
“No,” Charles answers. Pierre would have, he thinks. Pierre would have, if Charles hadn’t been so horrible to him.
“Do you want one?”
Charles thinks about it for a second, but before he knows it he’s letting Lewis pull him down by his side, tucking his face into Lewis’s neck as his arms wrap around his shoulders, his grip soft but his arms strong enough to hold Charles together. Charles feels the returning prick of tears in his eyes, but he refuses to let them fall. Not in front of Lewis.
“I like this better than talking,” Charles mumbles, words muffled against Lewis’s skin. He likes that Lewis can’t see his face in this position. He doesn’t feel like being looked at.
“I thought you might,” Lewis says. “Hey, we don’t have to talk about it, ok? But if you’re going to listen to anything anyone says to you today, listen to me right now. You are one of the greatest talents I’ve ever shared a track with. You’ve got it all, kid. Your season isn’t over just because of this. Your career certainly isn’t anywhere near over. You’re championship quality, Charles. One mistake doesn’t change that.”
It takes just a little too long for Charles to properly take in what Lewis is saying, but it aches tremendously when it hits, when Charles comes to the realisation that the Lewis Hamilton is telling him he’s got it all even after he made a basic mistake that even the kids in F3 should be able to avoid. He can’t work out what it is that Lewis sees in him, but it means more than Lewis could ever know.
Charles can’t hide the insecurity, though. He pulls down on his sleeves anxiously, tries to avoid Lewis’s gaze, and says, “You watched my interview?” It’s an accusation, but the deprecation is directed towards himself, not Lewis. He wishes that Lewis had never heard him say any of that. He wishes that no one had, really, but he should know better than to expect private moments to stay private by now.
Charles suddenly finds himself wondering whether Pierre has seen any of that, if he watched Charles struggle to hold back tears on camera with Lewis and half of the paddock, if he heard Charles pant and yell and scream because he thought that for once, just once, he could let it all out without anyone else being around to hear. The thought of Pierre listening to that makes Charles feel nauseous. He doesn’t want that to be the kind of person Pierre sees him as. He doesn’t want Pierre to realise how broken he has become, doesn’t want him to know that this game has taken everything out of him, piece by piece, that there is nothing left of him after today. He has strayed so far from the young boy who Pierre called his best friend.
Lewis at least has the grace to look appropriately apologetic. “Your radio, too. I’m sorry, Charles. I needed to know what was going on. I had other drivers coming to me, saying they were concerned.”
“Were they coming to you because they are concerned,” Charles asks bitterly, “or were they coming to you to complain about my attitude, like Pierre did?”
Lewis looks at him blankly, nose scrunched up in confusion. “No. Pierre told me what you said to him, but he wasn’t complaining about you. He came to me because he was worried. He didn’t like the idea of you being on your own in here. That’s all, Charles.”
And that’s it. Charles has tried so, so hard not to cry in front of Lewis Hamilton, a powerful desperation to save himself from such immense humiliation, and he had almost managed it. Almost. But the tears are falling now, fresh and free, his heart sinking with guilt. He upset Pierre. He made Pierre worry. He was rude to Pierre but Pierre still wanted to make sure he was ok. What has Charles ever done to deserve such kindness?
Lewis doesn’t seem fazed. All he does is wrap Charles back up in his tight embrace, and that’s enough. It’s exactly what Charles needs.
They stay like that for a long time, until the sky outside is pitch black and Lewis and Charles are yawning against each other. It takes that long for Charles to gather the strength to let go, but when he does, he finds that the ache inside him has settled significantly. Not completely, and it probably won’t for a very long time, but this right now is enough. Charles is ok.
“Lewis?” he asks, the words choking out from his scratched throat to pierce the static silence around them. Lewis hums sleepily, encouraging Charles to continue. “I think I am ready to apologise to Pierre now.”
“Now?” Lewis blinks. “You don’t think you should get some sleep first?”
Charles shakes his head. He has no chance of being able to sleep with the knowledge that Pierre is upset with him. Especially not after everything else today. There is no point in even trying.
“Ok, then,” Lewis says. “I’ll get out your hair. I’m too old for staying up this late these days.”
Charles laughs for the first time in hours, but it feels more like the first time in months. His heart has been so heavy for so long. He thanks Lewis before he leaves, and he’s surprised by just how deep his sincerity runs.
•
Pierre must already be standing by the door when Charles shows up, because he answers the second Charles works up the courage to knock. He’s dressed only in a pair of grey pyjama shorts, and Charles tries very hard to focus on meeting his eyes, or at the very least looking at the mess of his hair sticking up in odd directions on his head, instead of his bare torso.
Pierre wordlessly steps aside to let Charles in and closes the door behind them. When he turns back around, Charles looks at him, properly looks, takes it all in like he hasn’t really had the time to recently. Pierre looks almost as tired as Charles feels; his shoulders tense, dark patches beneath his eyes, a drawn look to his face. Charles imagines he’s not looking much better, most likely significantly worse, but the effect is completely wrong on Pierre. He is not meant to suffer like this.
“I’m sorry,” is the first thing Charles says, the first words exchanged between them since Charles told Pierre to fuck off. He doesn’t have the time or the patience for beating around the bush. “I was upset, but I still should not have talked to you like that. I am sorry, Pierre.”
Pierre brushes this off with a quick hand gesture. “It is already forgotten about,” he says, because of course he does. Pierre is so kind, so forgiving. Charles doesn’t know how he does it. “Are you feeling better now?”
“A little,” Charles answers honestly. There is a hollowness in his chest that he knows won’t leave him anytime soon, but he is calm now. He’s past the outbursts, the screams and destruction and swearing at people who are only trying to help. Pierre knows exactly what he means. He always does, reads Charles like an open book, not that it’s difficult, because Charles can never hide what he’s feeling and he’s even worse at it when he’s around Pierre.
Pierre doesn’t say anything else, and Charles is endlessly thankful. He just pulls Charles into a tight hug, warm with the red hot burning of Pierre’s protection. Charles nestles his head below Pierre’s shoulder, wraps his arms around Pierre’s back, feeling the smoothness of his skin, and the sharpness of the bones underneath.
“You did your best, mon couer,” Pierre mumbles quietly. “There is no point in dwelling on it.”
“I know,” Charles whispers. His voice is dangerously close to breaking, but he holds it together. He doesn’t have the energy for any more crying. He doubts his body can possibly have any tears left to expel. “You too, Pierre. I am sorry. You deserved to win some points at your home race. It is not fair.”
Pierre sighs, long and heavy. Charles feels it just as much as he hears it. “It is over now. There is nothing I can do,” Pierre says. The resignation aches like a kick to the stomach, pushing the air out of Charles’ lungs. Pierre is right. It is over now, for both of them. Pierre’s season will go down as an anticlimax, a waste of time that yielded him nothing in terms of achievement, and Charles handed Max a championship with one slip of the wheel. There is nothing for him to fight for anymore, no point in being here. They have both lost everything. Charles feels the bitter taste of acid begin to rise in his throat.
But Pierre is getting used to this. “It is not the end of the world,” he continues. “There will be other races, other seasons. Better ones, for both of us. I promise.”
And deep down, Charles knows he’s right. It’s hard to really feel it right now, hard not to feel as though his entire career is over, but Pierre is right. “It is late,” Charles says. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I just want to sleep.”
Pierre nods, understanding as always. “You’re staying here, yes?” he asks, but they both know it’s not really a question. They’re more than used to sharing a bed by now. It would be far from the first time one of them has crawled into the other’s bed after a race went wrong. It won’t be the last, either. Charles nods, and Pierre takes his hand to drag him towards the bed, which is rumpled with the sheets thrown to the sides, an indication that Pierre had only got up to let Charles in.
Charles is still in his clothes from the race. It didn’t occur to him to change, so Pierre picks out some joggers for him to sleep in. Wearing Pierre’s clothes is always nice; a perfect fit, but they smell like him, and it is a small but effective comfort.
Charles slides under the covers, straight into Pierre’s arms, where he finally, finally lets his eyes slip closed, lets his breath come out without it feeling ragged and strained. Pierre brushes the hair out of Charles’ face, presses a kiss to the crown of his hairline, and Charles feels the tension melt out of him everywhere that Pierre touches.
“Go to sleep, mon chéri,” Pierre whispers, the words tickling Charles’ ear. Pierre speaks so softly, just as he always has, and it is easy enough now for Charles to imagine that they are on one of their holidays together, or passing out from exhaustion after an exceptional sleepover in one of their old childhood bedrooms. It’s what Pierre’s voice is supposed to remind Charles of. It feels better, like things are slipping back into place again.
He’s back where he’s supposed to be.
Charles goes to sleep.