Work Text:
Carlos had watched football in all kinds of places. In the cab to the airport, at the boarding gate, through a pub window while standing in the middle of a street, in hotels on a foreign channel, clutching at his phone while walking through the paddock, squished in the back corner of the garage. Such was the life when one’s profession required constant travel.
This was a new one, however: lying on the floor of some empty hallway at Scuderia Ferrari HQ. He was slouching against the wall, shoulders barely propped up so he could see his laptop resting against his knees. He hadn’t even changed out of his team gear.
It had been three days since the final race of the season, and the F1 world seemed to have dissolved. Except not really, there was plenty going at Ferrari still. They’d finished the season and even done the post-season tyre test. And Carlos was still at work.
Normally, he wouldn’t mind. He, like all other F1 drivers, was a professional athlete, a workaholic to some extent, and it’s not as if they just dropped everything and went into hibernation for a few months after the last race. This year, however, was different.
It was the World Cup, and for the first time, it was actually happening outside the racing season. He’d be damned if he missed Spain’s first match.
When the World Cup was moved to winter, he had been so excited. He imagined having large watch parties with his extended family. And when the tournament dates came out – with the opening match taking place right after the final race of the season, it felt like it was meant to be. Qatar was not far from Abu Dhabi. Perhaps he could even watch a game in person.
But Ferrari was Formula 1’s oldest team, and such a historic and big team came with more duties. Namely, attending a Ferrari brand event Tuesday night. Which meant come Wednesday they were still doing prep work for 2023. Back in Maranello, no less.
He knew some other drivers were on break already. Pierre and Checo had flown to Qatar right after testing, and Carlos was massively envious of them, getting to support their national teams in person.
On the bright side, Charles said he would watch the match with him. He had admitted that Carlos would probably have to talk him through the game, not that Carlos would mind. He was happy for the company. Besides, Charles had a unique and amusing energy when it came to football.
Contrary to general fan belief, Charles was not bad at playing football. He’d had a few mishaps on the big stage (aka charity matches), but his ball control was decent. He was good at keepy-ups and footy tennis, with those activities staples in his race day routines.
His football knowledge was another matter. Charles might kick a ball often, but he didn’t really follow the sport. He had failed to recognise when some footballers visited the paddock, and called AS Monaco the wrong name once in an interview. He was getting better, though. He had gone to a few games in Italy (and one Barcelona game that coincided with a Spanish GP race week, though Carlos pretended not to know about that), making connections with footballers who played in Serie A, and slowly learning more names of players and clubs in European leagues.
Charles was also the reason they ended up lying on the floor. They had been filming that morning, followed by technical meetings after lunch, and then a lab visit to speak to the R&D department. Before their final debrief, Carlos had heard Charles mumbling to himself about needing to lie down. Frankly, his back had been starting to ache a little too. It had been almost a straight week of daily activity, stringing them on when they were looking to decompress after the season ended.
Thus how they had disregarded the chairs and found themselves on the floor, slouching against the wall. Charles had grabbed a spare Ferrari coat, which was now rolled up under his neck as a cushion.
"Oh yes, vamos," Carlos commented as the third goal went in. He hadn't yelled loudly like he would have if watching with his family, his odd reclined position and exhaustion hindering his enthusiasm. Inwardly, he was truly excited for Spain. This was the best they looked since the World Cup-winning 2010 side.
Charles remained quiet. The younger man had ooh-ed softly at the first two goals, and Carlos suddenly realised that he had gotten a bit too engrossed in the game and stopped paying attention to his teammate about what, ten minutes ago?
He looked to his left, only to see Charles' head angled away, eyes closed, body oddly still. Had he...he had indeed. Charles had fallen asleep.
Carlos mentally shook his head (doing so physically was a bit difficult with this posture). He could not blame Charles. It had been a busy few days, especially for a non-race week. And the game was pretty much one-way traffic, not that Carlos was complaining.
He turned back to the game, but soon found himself looking back at Charles. His teammate’s face looked a little awkward because of their sleeping arrangements, chin tucked at a weird angle. The tag of the makeshift Ferrari jacket-pillow stuck out under his neck.
Carlos’ thoughts quickly turned sly. Sure, he could emphathise with Charles’ need to nap. In a slower game, he might doze off too. But it wasn’t. Spain was putting on a footballing master class. Maybe he should be more offended that Charles was sleeping on it. And it was kind of funny - world championship contender falls asleep on the floor while watching the World Cup.
His hand was already reaching for his phone.
By half time, he had a text from the social media team asking to repost the video on Ferrari's accounts. Carlos chuckled and immediately agreed. He knew the fans would have a good laugh.
The goals kept coming for Spain, which made Carlos giddy with excitement. He was reining it in, whispering his vamos'es and trying not to make sounds otherwise. The last thing he wanted to do was startle Charles, who hadn't moved at all. He did deserve a rest after the season he'd had.
The game was almost over when Carlos finally heard Charles shift beside him. Looking over, he saw his teammate blinking his eyes open. Charles turned his head to meet Carlos' eyes, looking dazed and confused.
"What i..." he mumbled, blinking groggily again. Then his sleepy eyes drifted to the screen and squinted. "Is it still - is that seven?"
"Aye, yes," Carlos replied gently. He felt the grin in his voice, and realised that he had been smiling to himself for most of the second half.
"Mamma mia...oh, my neck," Charles muttered softly as he began pushing himself up.
Carlos turned back to the screen - when were they blowing the whistle? It was +9 minutes already. He sensed Charles scooting over, and soon heard his teammate's voice again, closer to his ear.
"Oh, I missed all of that," Charles remarked, sounding like he'd just lost a game on Twitch - a bit self-depreciating and a little bit disappointed, as if he'd really wanted to sit through the whole 90 minutes and cheer with Carlos. It was oddly adorable.
The referee finally ended the game, and Carlos' grin grew as he watched the players congratulate each other. It had nothing to do with Charles being so close, almost leaning on Carlos’ shoulder.
"Did you have a good sleep?" Carlos teased.
"Mm, yes, I think, but I didn't have a better pillow and I missed the goals."
He was right, their scrunched up jackets weren't really the best of supports, and Carlos too felt the stiffness in his neck as he pushed himself up. He slid his laptop off his lap and onto the floor between their legs, angling it towards Charles. The stream had cut to the pundits.
"They will show the highlights, after the talking," he said. Charles might have missed the game, but he should at least see all the goals. Carlos would make sure of it. Maybe he might convince Charles that Spain were going to win the World Cup again.
For now, he kept his eyes on the other man, awaiting his live reactions.