Work Text:
Charles guides his car along the narrow country roads, dutifully following the map displayed on the dashboard. The snow-covered valley below is dotted with chalets and cabins, twinkling lights cutting through the inky darkness of the late afternoon.
He turns right onto a private road, the navigation system informing him that he’s arrived at his destination. It quickly becomes apparent that the chalet-inspired hotel is easily the biggest building in the area, and by far the grandest. The gold lettering above the entrance reads GRANVARA.
Charles slips into the first vacant space he can find, his Stelvio joining a long line of other Alfa Romeos and Fiats parked outside the hotel. His eyes catch on the Ferrari parked two spaces down, the shape of it vaguely familiar, even in the darkness. Something complicated and unnamable stirs inside him.
They’re staying Friday through to Sunday. He can be normal about his new teammate for three days.
Charles steps out of the car, reflexively tugging up the collar of his jacket to avert his face from the cold rush of winter air. The Dolomites rise around him.
The first evening passes by without much fanfare. On arrival, Charles is greeted warmly by Silvia and Mattia. Silvia briefs him on the schedule for the weekend, maternal and intimidating in equal measure. It’s been weeks since she joined the team and the dichotomy still manages to catch him off guard. She’s always been kind and amiable towards him, but he can’t shake the feeling that he’s on the verge of being scolded whenever her lips mash into a thin line.
Mattia presses a keycard into his hand, holds him there for a moment. “This weekend is about team bonding. Spending time with the people you will be working with for the rest of the year. Don’t stress about it. Have fun.” He offers a smile Charles interprets as encouraging.
“Of course,” Charles nods his understanding. “I’m looking forward to it.”
Sebastian, he’s told, is already in his room. It looks like they’re staying on the same floor.
Charles tries to imagine Sebastian, alone, filling his free time with various pursuits. He supposes he could picture him reading, though he doesn’t know him well enough to hazard a guess as to what, exactly.
A strange feeling settles over him. There will be twenty-one weekends just like this one, where Sebastian is tantalizingly close—on the other side of the garage or in the drivers’ room across from his own. It’s a dizzying prospect.
Granvara’s interior design is a tasteful marriage of modernity and tradition. The room Charles has been given is open and spacious, the wood flooring and accents evoking a sense of warmth and homeliness.
He leaves his suitcase and ski gear in the corner of the room, takes a hot shower, and gets ready for bed.
Charles starts the morning early.
In broad daylight, the view from his room is even more breathtaking. Snow-capped mountains rise high above a sea of conifers, sunlight limning the edges of the Stevia range. From this distance, it almost looks like they’re scraping against the sky.
By half seven he’s down in the dining room. The wood-and-glass theme continues downstairs. It’s a bright, warm space, floor-to-ceiling windows letting in copious amounts of natural light; the warm color palette used throughout is instantly inviting while promoting an effortless sort of refinement. Delicate chandeliers hang overhead. The tables are all neatly set.
Already, it’s busier than it had been last night. Charles recognizes some of the team members from testing—there’s Bryan, Claudio, Alessandro and Riccardo, Sebastian’s race engineer. Mattia, Silvia and Laurent are all seated together at the far end of the room. Mia’s chatting with Britta over toast. Charles waves at Xavi when he notices him by the breakfast buffet.
“Ciao a tutti,” he says warmly. He receives an answering chorus of ciaos and buongiornos.
Charles smiles.
The team, he’s learned, is huge, with thousands of mechanics and engineers working back at the factory in Maranello. He has tried to personally meet as many of them as he could, but even so, he’s sure there’ll always be someone he doesn’t know or hasn’t had the opportunity to greet. Still, at its core, as trite as it might sound, the team feels a lot like an extended family. Everyone’s been incredibly welcoming. It makes it remarkably easy to get swept up in all of it—not just the enduring myth of Ferrari, but the sense of belonging and collective pride that comes with it.
The breakfast buffet is a decadent affair. A full spread of food packs the tray. Fruit, oatmeal, jams, cheese, pastries, yogurt. Steaming coffee and freshly-squeezed juices.
Charles fills his plate and takes a seat at the nearest vacant table. He pulls out his phone and starts scrolling through it, swiping away the notifications that don’t require his immediate attention. There’s some new emails sitting in his inbox, and a couple of text messages from friends and family. He snaps a quick photo of the view outside and texts Pascale back. He backreads the group chat he’s in with some of his fellow drivers, but doesn’t contribute anything new. In between spoonfuls of chia pudding, he makes a mental note to post some photos from the slopes on his Instagram later.
“Ciao,” he hears. “Good morning.”
Charles lifts his head to find Sebastian crossing the room. Colour is high in his cheeks, and he sounds a touch out of breath: the lingering evidence of a chilly morning run.
“Sorry,” it comes out almost sheepish. “I was, ah, exploring the area.”
It doesn’t take long for Sebastian to notice him.
“Charles.” He grins. “You made it.”
“Yes, I did. Morning, Seb.”
He stands to greet him, anticipating Sebastian’s move. Charles hesitates for a moment, trying to gauge what’s appropriate in this situation. A handshake seems too formal, but anything more intimate than that feels unnecessarily desperate somehow.
Sebastian reaches for him and Charles meets him halfway. They clasp hands, the touch fleeting but cordial. Charles’s pulse picks up.
They saw each other a week ago in Barcelona. There’s no reason for him to be this affected.
“How was the drive?” Sebastian’s giving Charles his full attention now, which makes it feel like he genuinely wants to know, even if he’s just asking to be polite.
“It was okay, yes.”
“That has to be, what, seven hours from Monte Carlo?” Sebastian shrugs out of his olive-brown jacket. He’s wearing a simple black zip-up underneath.
“A little over six,” Charles clarifies. The back of his neck feels hot.
“The weather is great,” Sebastian continues, evidently oblivious to Charles’s private turbulence. “Ideal conditions for skiing today.”
Their colleagues voice their agreement. The conversation then turns to discussing the best slopes in the area.
“Have you ever done this before?”
They’re sitting across from each other in the gondola; their knees almost knock together in the limited space. A frown blooms across Charles’s features, betraying his confusion. Amusement dances in Sebastian’s eyes now.
“Skiing, I mean,” he clarifies.
“Oh. Yes, I’ve been. We go in the wintertime, my brothers and maman.”
“France?”
“And Italy, sometimes.”
“Ah, then you’re an expert,” Sebastian says, breezily. Charles’s grip on his skis tightens involuntarily. He doesn’t know if he should feel insulted or not.
“Any favourite memories?” Sebastian doesn’t smile but his eyes soften. “I’m not trying to pry, it’s just—” He shrugs. “Well, we’re teammates now. We might as well get to know each other a little better. What do you think?”
The tips of Charles’s ears go hot. He hadn’t considered what this might look like from Sebastian’s perspective—did he mistake his shyness for indifference or, worse, hostility?
“Okay,” Charles allows, “this is a good idea.” He pauses. “I have one, but it’s a stupid thing.”
“I’m sure it’s not. Come on, try me.”
“When I was younger, still a kid karting in Brignoles, they took us on a skiing trip. I was one of the youngest there, but I wanted to prove that I could do everything the same as them. So when they asked me if I can ski, I said, ‘of course’.” Charles makes a face.
“And it was a lie?” Sebastian guesses. There’s a hint of genuine curiosity to his amusement.
“Exactly. I had no idea what I was doing. But I had said it already, so I committed. We started with the black run.” He shakes his head. “I was a complete disaster. Fell a thousand times, I think. Completely bruised the day after.”
“Was it worth it?” Sebastian asks, though he already knows the answer.
“Yeah. The rush was amazing. It’s why I keep coming back, I think. Nothing like racing, of course, but—”
“The adrenaline is hard to beat.”
“Exactly.” Charles goes quiet, after that. A sense of understanding passes between them.
The lift rocks slightly as it reaches its destination, depositing them at the top of the Piz Sella piste.
“That’s the Langkofel, there,” Sebastian points to a summit directly in front of them. The jagged mountain peak is much more visible here, its size and might even more imposing up close. The view is nothing short of spectacular. “Sassolungo, in Italian.”
“Long rock. This is not very creative,” Charles comments, adjusting the ski poles in his hands.
It earns him a laugh from Sebastian, who’s already off studying the nearest map. “No, I suppose not.”
Charles takes a moment to admire the serene sun-drenched panorama before sliding on his ski goggles.
“The Piz Sella slope goes along here,” Sebastian says, tracing the route with the tip of his finger, “and then connects with the Comici piste here. It’s an intermediate slope, so probably not very challenging for a seasoned skier like you,” he nudges Charles lightly, “but it could be fun.”
“Okay.”
“I propose a race, in the spirit of team bonding.” Sebastian tugs his own pair of goggles down over his eyes. Charles catches a blurry reflection of himself in the blue tint. “I’ll go easy on you.” He grins teasingly.
“If you ski like you race, Seb, then I am in big trouble.” Charles’s tone is light, but the admiration is genuine. It’s hard to imagine Sebastian being bad at anything.
*
The sun beats down, pleasantly warming his wind-chilled skin. Tall pines stretch up along either side of the trail. The piste is fast and winding—tight and steep in places, then suddenly opening up into vast stretches of hilly terrain. It’s demanding, even for an intermediate run. Good. Charles relishes the challenge.
He’s acutely aware of Sebastian as they both push hard down the piste, the flash of his black ski jacket always in his peripheral vision. His body is lithe and graceful in motion as he swiftly skis down the slope in practiced, crisscrossed movements.
A white square building with a sloped roof and distinctive blue shutters emerges on the horizon. Charles takes it as a cue to pick up the pace and starts pushing his aching muscles harder. He overtakes Sebastian—not without effort—as they take the final turn, kicking up a spray of snow as he comes to a stop just outside the restaurant’s outdoor seating area.
“This was fun,” Charles declares, pulling his goggles up to rest on his helmet. He pauses to breathe in the clean mountain air.
Sebastian snorts. “Would you still be saying that if you hadn’t won?”
It’s a valid question. He’s competitive down to his core, an unshakable instinct in an athlete. Once you’ve tasted victory, the losses inexorably taste sour.
“Yes,” he says, eventually. “I like competing with you. And you were so good, Seb. Really.”
Sebastian seems to accept that, reaching out to squeeze Charles’s shoulder. “Until that final turn, maybe. I’ll improve for next time, just you wait.” He’s grinning again. Charles swears he can feel the warmth of his touch, even through all of the thermal layers.
“Lunch?”
Charles nods.
He clicks out of his skis, shaking off the excess snow before setting them aside along with the poles and helmet; Sebastian does the same. They eat lunch at Rifugio Emilio Comici, right at the foot of Sassolungo. The outdoor area is nice and relatively private, tucked away from the rest of the skiers on the slope.
Sebastian pulls off his gloves first, then his hat. His hair is an unkempt, floppy mess of curls. He sets his backpack down between his feet and pulls out a flask. Charles tugs off his ski gloves, flexing his chilled fingers. He fishes his phone out of the pocket of his tri-colour jacket, tilting it horizontally and snapping a couple of photos of the view.
“For your Instagram?”
“Yes. Well, and for maman. She has been asking about the trip.”
Sebastian unscrews the top of the thermos. “Tea?”
“It’s yours,” Charles points out.
“Honestly. Don’t be difficult.” Sebastian sounds mildly exasperated, but not in an unkind way. “I don’t mind sharing.”
He pours piping hot tea into two cups, then proffers one to Charles. “Here. It’ll warm you right up.”
“Thank you,” Charles murmurs, trying to ignore the leap in his pulse when his thumb touches the soft skin at the inside of Sebastian’s wrist. A comfortable silence descends as they sit together. On a whim, Charles says, “And for the letter, too.”
Sebastian’s brows knit together. “What?”
“Two years ago, before Sauber. I was doing simulator work for Ferrari between Formula 2 rounds. It was really tiring and in a way I thought it was pointless. And then I received your letter, handwritten, thanking me.”
“Of course. I remember.”
“After that letter I understood how important it was to you.” Charles’s throat works; he lets out a breath. “You saw me. That meant a lot to me.”
“You deserve the credit.” Sebastian touches a hand to Charles’s knee. He smiles, kind and patient. “I meant every word I wrote, you know.”
Charles smiles back, feeling his cheeks grow warm. He tips his head up to the sky, letting the winter sunshine slide over his face.
Later that evening they all gather around in the lounge for game night.
Sebastian shows up wearing some uninspired flannel shirt and a simple pair of jeans. Charles isn’t sure he’s ever seen him quite like this. He mentally tries to reconcile this casual look with all the other known versions of Sebastian. Over the years he’s grown accustomed to Sebastian’s trackside appearance, the combination of his cherry race suit and team polos. He’s even seen him in black tie, at previous FIA prize-giving galas—and, more recently, at the launch of this season’s car in Maranello. But he’s rarely seen him like this. It suits him. He looks good.
Sebastian, predictably, wins all three rounds of Guess Who?, but Charles has the edge over him in driver/race engineer charades, mostly due to Xavi’s saintly patience.
Their colleagues bow out after about twenty minutes of darts, opting instead to watch Sebastian and Charles’s two-man duel as the competition grows increasingly feverish. Here, too, Sebastian emerges victorious.
They both lose to Silvia when they play Cluedo.
The next day passes by in a blur. They don’t see much of each other on the slopes, Charles ending up in a ski group with Mia, Xavi, and Alessandro. He pushes himself just as hard as he had yesterday, taking on a black run to challenge himself. By the early afternoon his muscles are aching, cold air scraping against his throat as he pauses to catch his breath, but somehow it’s not the same.
Saturday culminates with a soirée in the Ferrari lounge at Granvara. The place looks exactly how it sounds, filled to the brim with memorabilia and mementos. The entire space is illuminated by delicate chandeliers and a large rectangular light fixture integrated into the wooden panel overhead. There’s a full-size race suit on display as a sort of centerpiece, encased in glass. A real wood fireplace crackles in the corner.
It’s a pleasant affair. They’re treated to complimentary champagne and hors d’oeuvres. Conversation flows easily as they cycle through topics, recounting how they’d spent the winter break and discussing their expectations for the season.
Spirits are high. Winter testing was, by all accounts, very promising. On his good days, Charles tentatively allows himself to think of the championship as a vaguely attainable possibility rather than a half-formed dream.
He drinks and chats and tries to endear himself to his new colleagues. They orbit each other all evening, he and Sebastian.
He’s a natural conversationalist, open and effusive. Engaged and thoughtful, asking after family members and recounting anecdotes. He draws a laugh out of everyone he talks to, Charles notes, humorous quips spilling out of him with enviable ease. More than that, he seems to genuinely enjoy it, face splitting into a satisfied grin whenever the punch line lands. He talks with his hands a lot.
Mattia stands, tapping his glass to call for attention. Gradually the room falls silent, focus shifting to the man in charge.
“First of all, I hope everyone is having a good time,” he starts. “This time next week we will be in Melbourne. The race that marks the start of the season is always significant, and this year even more so because Scuderia Ferrari is celebrating its 90th birthday.”
“It will be a demanding season. It is important to start well, aware that we have twenty-one rounds of equal importance ahead of us. The championship ends in December so every point can be valuable,” Mattia continues.
Despite his best intentions, Charles’s attention soon begins to wander. Mostly, he finds himself watching Sebastian with rapt fascination. There’s something arresting about even the simplest motions—the way he absentmindedly scratches his beard and how his Adam’s apple bobs in the long line of his throat. Charles’s eyes train on his face a little while longer, finally surpassing the mark where it’s socially acceptable to keep staring.
Not for the first time, he can’t help but wonder if he’s mistaking attraction for infatuation. If he’d even know the difference.
“The philosophy for this season certainly is to enjoy it. That’s something we were maybe missing in the past. And, of course, this year we are very happy to have a couple of extraordinary drivers in Sebastian and Charles,” he hears Mattia say. He raises his flute of champagne in a call to toast. “Here’s to new beginnings.”
“To more wins!” Sebastian interjects. It earns him a laugh from the crowd. Charles glances over and their eyes meet in a shared look of acknowledgement. A smile plays across Sebastian’s lips. He steps closer, effortlessly closing the distance between himself and Charles.
“And to first wins,” he adds pointedly. “Salute.”
“Salute,” Charles answers, more softly than he plans.
They clink glasses. Stupidly, he feels his cheeks heat. There’s a round of applause, punctuated by the sound of celebratory toasting. The champagne burns his throat pleasantly as it goes down.
*
Charles becomes more of a spectator as the evening tips into the night. He’s done more than his fair share of mingling, so after an hour of drinks and multilingual conversations, no one really minds when he slips out of the lounge.
After some aimless wandering he finds himself out on the empty terrace. The temperature has dropped noticeably after the sun went down. He crosses his arms, hugging them closer to his body as the cold air stings his cheeks. The cashmere sweater is a statement piece, but it provides far less warmth than he would like.
It’s snowing again. Just a few gentle flurries for now, but enough to stick wetly in his hair. The night sky is high above him, hemmed in by the mountains; the stars are scattered like spilled salt.
“There you are.”
Charles turns to find Sebastian standing by the grand French door leading out onto the terrace.
“Did Mattia send you to look for me?” Maybe they’ve noticed his absence and decided it’s not a good look for him to skip a team event. Even if everyone’s well on the way to being inebriated by now. “I will go back soon. I only wanted some air.”
Sebastian laughs lightly, “No, you’re not in trouble, don’t worry. It’s just me.”
After a moment, he comes to stand beside Charles. A snowflake falls on his cheek, remaining solid only a second before melting against the heat of his skin. He touches a hand to Charles’s forearm.
“It’s cold,” Sebastian says conversationally. “Why don’t you come inside?”
*
The layout of Sebastian’s suite is exactly the same as Charles’s own, but flipped. He’s sitting on the edge of Sebastian’s bed, hands folded in his lap. Outside the snow is falling harder.
“You’ve been quiet all evening. Is everything okay?”
They’re a week out from their first race as teammates, but there already seems to be a clear consensus on how their partnership will unfold. He’s seen the headlines splashed across websites and newspapers: Let the games begin at Ferrari; Leclerc could create a mess with Vettel. The interview he gave in November went live last month with the incendiary title: Will Charles Leclerc be Vettel’s worst nightmare?
He wonders what Sebastian makes of this, if he even cares that the media sees them as convenient tabloid fodder. He’d probably be level-headed and reasonable about it, like he is so many other things; roll his eyes and say that’s how just the media is. Logically, Charles knows this, but the idea that they’re a breath away from imploding bothers him more than he would like to admit.
Worse, he’s consumed by the thought of proving them right.
“I’m fine. Just tired, I think.” He glances up at Sebastian, standing by the balcony. “What did you want to speak about?”
Sebastian lets out a sigh, scratching contemplatively at his stubble. “I know we’re at different points in our careers. We probably have different expectations for this season. But I would be disappointed if there was the wrong sort of energy going around.”
He’s looking at Charles like he’s a particularly challenging puzzle. After a moment, he adds, a little more bluntly, “If there are problems we should probably try to work through them before Australia.”
Charles blinks at him. Sebastian, with his four-championships-by-26. Sebastian, who’s earned the adoration of the Tifosi. Sebastian, with his encouraging, you-can-talk-to-me smile. Seb.
He flushes so hard he feels light-headed.
“No, Seb,” he blurts out immediately, mortified at the idea of his intentions—his feelings—being misconstrued. “Nothing like this.”
Charles gets to his feet and moves until he’s almost pressed flush against Sebastian. He takes a shuddery breath. “I like you, Seb. Very much.”
Charles leans in. He can’t help it. A warmth entirely unrelated to his buzz sweeps through him. Sebastian’s mouth catches on a sound, half-surprise, half-pleasure, that lingers on Charles’s lips like a bruise, a sweet sort of ache. They don’t kiss, but it’s a near thing.
Sebastian pulls back after a moment, just a touch reluctantly. He makes a fond, almost pained noise. His thumbs linger over the creases of Charles’s dimples. “Honestly. You’re not making this any easier, are you?”
“No.”
He wants to beat him and he wants it to mean something. He wants the indulgence of being important to him. He wants.
It snowed all night, in the end. The blanket of snow covering the valley seems almost endless now.
Mattia had left earlier that morning, heading straight back to Maranello to attend to some last-minute business before they leave for Australia later in the week. There’s no one else between Charles and Sebastian now.
And there he is, leaning against the side of his car with hands in his pockets, grinning lopsidedly.
“Good morning.”
“Hello, Seb.”
Sebastian laughs softly. He must’ve caught Charles eyeing his Ferrari. “I’m sure they’ll give you one soon enough, if you do a good job. I won’t go easy on you,” he says, one corner of his mouth lifting.
It’s going to be a long season. Sebastian can’t promise him that everything will turn out alright—he told him as much last night—but he can give him a challenge; a promise to make it interesting. The first person you want to beat is your teammate. Charles gets that.
“Good. I wouldn’t want you to.” He smiles, wide enough that Sebastian’s treated to a flash of his dimples.
“I’ll see you in Melbourne.”