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Charles had always thought his heart should beat Ferrari red.
Red had been his colour for as long as he could remember. Even back when it had symbolised his dreams and everything he reached for that he couldn’t quite put a name to, but made the vague sound “Ferrari”. He knew what he wanted, it burned inside him. Red was bright and bold and passionate, unwavering in the way it encompassed him.
It had briefly been the colour of first crushes, roses delivered and shy kisses shared.
That hadn’t lasted long. It had quickly become the shattering of his life in front of his eyes, the helpless shade of his rage and pain and despair at the unfairness of his loss. It had been the bane of his existence for an unimaginably long time, bringing back memories that burned with the fierceness of a legacy that was now his to bear. He couldn’t even hold a cap without it overwhelming him.
But he’d fought his way up,desperately, up out of the pit he’d fallen into. He’d fought for his red, fought and bled and cried and worked to make it his.
It was his, undoubtedly. But there was always a part of him that he couldn't give up completely to his career.
So while his uniform and his smile and his soul were the colour of his team, his heart wasn't.
Because his heart - his treacherous heart beat in shades of blue eyes and tanned skin, of a gold cross and white t-shirt.
Charles Leclerc was in love with Pierre Gasly.
He was in love with every colour of him, even the parts that Pierre banished into the darkness and swore to never let anybody see.
The first colour he automatically associated with Pierre was blue. Had been, ever since they'd been in karting together and Pierre's eyes had landed on him, bright and intelligent, with just the hint of a challenge. He'd picked Charles then and never left him, not even when it felt like the entire world had abandoned a lonely boy with too-big dreams and a legacy to protect.
Pierre's blue was different to anyone else's, more vibrant and intense and lovely. Maybe that was just Charles projecting, but he swore he could look at Pierre's eyes for an eternity and never get bored. They were sky blue, the entirety of a vast universe hidden behind the clouds that occasionally passed over them.
Then there was the navy blue of his team, the team that loved him as he loved them but couldn't offer him everything. He deserved the best in every aspect of his life, and racing was no different. Sometimes, when it was just him and his thoughts, Charles would swear that he'd give up his own seat for Pierre to get the chance he so needed, to get back up to the front.
But their lives were racing, and racing was never fair. Racing was harsh white, beating down blue and red and orange alike with no thought to the consequences.
Despite that Pierre was also golden, the one colour that no amount of hardship he'd endured would ever be able to dim. He glowed in every room, in every setting, with a light that Charles was helplessly drawn to. Like a moth to a flame he couldn't stay away, even if it meant him getting burned.
Charles Leclerc was in love with Pierre Gasly.
He knew it wasn’t right, knew there wasn’t any point in trying to change his relationship with his best friend. They were best friends, and Pierre cared for him, and he couldn’t bear to lose that, even if it meant sacrificing the only thing he truly wanted. (No, that wasn’t true. He wanted a championship, wanted it so desperately he felt his bones would break with the weight of it. But he wanted Pierre more.)
So he gave himself fully to the red, letting it overwhelm him. He took part in all the videos, the challenges, the interviews, with the vague hope that it would drown out that stupidly hopeful part that whispered that maybe he wasn’t the only one feeling this way.
And it worked. Pierre hadn’t figured him out yet, even after weeks had turned into months and years.
It worked until it didn’t.
To be exact: Monza, 2020. Charles had known that the race would go well for one of them, felt it in the thrumming energy of the track on Sunday. The sky had been clouded over, but it seemed that the clouds themselves were holding their breaths, just waiting for the tension to snap.
He had been right. The race had gone shit for him, yes, but he couldn't bring himself to care. (He'd had enough shit races with Ferrari that it wasn't a novelty any more, that he'd learned to shove down the parts of him that wanted to scream at the unfairness of it all, the knowledge that he could do better if only he was given the chance. It wasn't important now.) What was important was Pierre. His first race win. He'd won a race in Formula 1, his childhood dream. Their dream. And now they'd both achieved it.
Charles didn't have the words inside him to describe what he felt when Pierre stepped up onto the top step of the podium. He looked - radiant, and so, so gorgeous, the gold of the champagne refracting the light to cast rainbows on his face. His eyes were closed in pure joy as he reached for his cross necklace, clasping it tightly.
Charles knew he was thanking his God for the win today, thanking somebody else so he didn’t have to acknowledge that this had been all him, his skill, his win. A selfish part of him wished that Pierre would drop the necklace and see that he was the one who had made this happen, him and nobody else.
Charles had to clench his own hands to keep them from reaching for Pierre, pulling him away from Lance and Carlos and never letting go of him.
Pierre wasn't his to hold close.
***
Monza had been…well, for Pierre it had been a dream.
It had only sunken in once he’d stood on the podium, confetti falling around him, that he’d actually done it. The joy had been overwhelming, bubbling over into his smile and making the world around him glow golden. Even as he sat there, though, somewhere inside him had been the ever-present thought of Charles. He’d reached for his necklace, praying selfishly that somehow his luck of today wouldn’t end here.
He could still hardly believe it, even when he made his way back from the podium, everyone around him congratulating him. He’d won. He’d won.
Everything around him was a blur of colour, white and blue and green and gold leaning towards him and pressing in close. A whirlwind; all overjoyed for him and what he’d achieved. He was soaked in champagne, grinning wider than he thought he’d ever smiled before, and his eyes were hurting from the brightness.
But even though he loved his team, wanted nothing more than to celebrate the win they so deserved with them, there was only one colour he wanted to see.
And suddenly, there he was.
Charles bounded up to him, still in his Ferrari uniform, and the world stopped as he smiled.
Frozen in perfection for a moment, Charles looked like a painting. The energy and life poured off him despite his result, his hair was messy and his eyes were vibrant green, filled with pride. The red uniform looked so good on him, it always did, but it seemed to hug his frame better than usual today. He was smiling wider even than Pierre, somehow, and for a moment Pierre thought he cannot look at me like that if he does not love me too.
The spell was broken as Charles all but hurled himself into Pierre’s arms, clinging tightly and whispering, “You did it, Calamar, you won. You won!”
It didn’t matter that Pierre had heard those same words from a hundred different people today. Coming from Charles they were so much more real, and his heart ached at the pure joy and pride he could hear in his best friend’s voice.
Sometimes when he hugged Charles like this, he thought it would be so easy. To tell him, to finally tell him that he had been stupidly, hopelessly in love with him for the past five years.
But Charles was Charles, he was everything that was good in the world despite his pain and his flaws that he thought defined him. He was red, the colour of love and passion and joy and pain all mixed into the most beautiful man Pierre had ever seen. He’d been through so much but came out winning on the other side, despite the impossible loss he’d seen that would have dragged Pierre under.
He wasn’t only red, either, no matter what he believed.
Charles was the warm brown of coming home after a long day, comforting and familiar and there. Strong, unbreakable and loyal to a fault. He never seemed to believe it, though, always thinking of himself as a burden to others.
His green was that of never giving up, pushing and pushing until he broke free and amazed everyone around him.
But his colours dimmed at all the pressure already on his shoulders, the expectations heaped on him. He had so much to live up to, that he believed he needed to achieve to prove himself.
So Pierre couldn't tell him, couldn't bear the thought of adding to that weight.
Charles pulled back after a minute. (Had it been a minute or eternity?) He rested his forehead against Pierre's, eyes slipping shut.
Pierre could feel warm breath ghost over his lips as Charles whispered, "I am so proud of you, Pierrot."
Pierre shivered at the nickname, the aching familiarity of Charles’s voice.
"Thank you, Charlito. I couldn't have done it without you," he whispered.
The admission felt like a truth torn out of him, a fact that he hadn't admitted to himself but was the truth anyway. Oh, and it was true, wasn't it? Charles had been there since day one, through everything, when the black waves had pushed in and threatened to drown Pierre.
Charles frowned, as if he didn't believe it, and - and how didn't he know that he was everything to Pierre?
Charles was Pierre's person, the only one that saw into him, past his walls and through to the dark corners. He never left, and he never demanded Pierre to change, instead respecting all his quirks without ever having to be asked. Pierre couldn't begin to put all that Charles was to him in words, because words didn't exist in any language that he knew to describe the feeling. And maybe that was dramatic and French of him, but he was French and that didn't make it any less true.
The fact that Charles couldn't understand made Pierre want to shout.
"Charles. You know that, don't you? That you are the reason I can stand here today." Oh, this was dangerous territory, but Pierre suddenly couldn't stop. His hands came up to rest on Charles's cheeks, right where his dimples lay hidden. "You make me able to do things like this, Calamar. You are - you are my heart, and you mean so much to me. More than anybody else."
Pierre froze, realising what he'd said. He'd definitely crossed a line, several, pushed too far over the track limits. Would Charles push him away now? Fuck, Pierre was an idiot, such an idiot for letting his words out before he could process them.
But Charles didn't pull away.
"Pierre," he said in a slightly strangled voice, before surging forwards and kissing him.
Pierre stood stunned, not comprehending what was happening, because it was Charles. Charles, kissing him, his hands burning hot on Pierre's waist through the thin fabric of his shirt.
But just as suddenly as he'd kissed him he was pulling away, and he looked terrified. "Pierre, I am so sorry, I didn't think. It’s just that you won, I needed to congratulate you - I don’t know what I was doing. Please don’t hate me? I know you don’t want me in that way, but I can’t have you not be my friend.”
It was Pierre's turn to choke on his words, his mind stuck on a loop of I know you don’t want me in that way. "I do, Charles. How can you not know? I want you, I've wanted you for years."
And then they were kissing again, in front of Pierre's motorhome with the smell of champagne still hanging in the air. Fiery red met ocean blue and came together in a beautiful clash of sparks and want and finally. This, this was what Pierre had been waiting for, the fireworks setting off wherever they touched. They ignited on his skin, sending tingling trails up his spine where Charles moved his hands up under Pierre's shirt.
He could live in this moment forever, contrasting colours blending together perfectly, blocking out the rest of the world.
Pierre eventually dragged his mouth away from Charles, breathing ragged as he stared at him. Charles's hair was sticking up, pupils blown wide so that the black eclipsed the green. His mouth was pink and his suit was red and he was the most beautiful thing Pierre had ever seen.
Somehow everything that had happened today paled in comparison to this, to the brightness that was Charles.
Pierre kissed him again, softly and then insistently, helpless to do anything else. No colour was more lovely, no moment more important than this. He was still half in shock, it seemed unbelievable that everything he'd wanted for the past five years was suddenly within his grasp. But it was, Charles was, and he wasn't going anywhere.
Pierre closed his eyes, letting everything slip away as he lost himself in Charles.