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It is strange, being back in Maranello. It had almost felt like home once, if home meant spending hours upon hours at the simulator and poring over data until his eyes blurred. Somehow there’s a memory attached to every corner, an anecdote just waiting to be recalled, but Maranello isn’t exactly the same—there are things that weren’t there before, and there are things that are no longer here. A lot has changed in the past decade, but it’s not often that Charles is given such as a startling reminder.
It is even more odd, Charles thinks, to be back here with Carlos. No longer teammates, just old friends who have long since traded speed for what lies beyond the track. It had seemed absurd back then, a life where Sundays aren’t spent close to the ground, skirting barriers and pushing to the limit—but now Charles treats his Sundays just like every other day of the week, both of his feet planted firmly beneath him and only going as fast as they would allow.
They were called in for a project, special livery and merchandise for Monza or some other race, commemorating Ferrari’s accomplishments with his and Carlos’ titles thrown in—and Seb is supposed to be involved as well, Charles knows, but several scheduling conflicts have led to him postponing his flight until the day after. This leaves Charles and Carlos alone in a conference room as they wait for the design team to file in, trading small talk and filling in the gaps from the months they hadn’t seen each other. And Carlos—he looks good, but by now Charles knows that it’s pretty much standard fare.
Carlos wears his age well, appearing wise and dignified until he opens his mouth and the illusion shatters. For all the decades that have passed them by, Carlos is still Carlos and Charles is still Charles—different now, older, but at the very core of them lies the same two people who first spoke to each other in ’18, the same two people who first worked together in ’21. They spent a long time living in each other’s pockets, and Charles used to think that Carlos seems to know him better than he knows himself. He’s only mildly surprised that it rings true even now.
Arthur flies to Monaco a day early. Charles is still very much worn after the seven-hour drive from Port de Barcelona, but some of the exhaustion gets burned away once he’s at the dining room table, digging into his first meal of the day as his nieces and nephew run circles around Lorenzo. Arthur’s telling him about the slight modifications they’ve made to the city circuit this year, and Charles has heard of them, of course he has—but he likes being able to talk shop with Arthur this way, likes being able to offer useful advice even though he’s been out of the car for a while. It’s a small comfort, Charles thinks, that the sport he fell in love with hasn’t somehow turned into a complete stranger after just three years.
Lorenzo finally joins them at the table once the kids deem it fit to let their father breathe, and the discussion naturally drifts from racing to other matters. Charles pokes fun at how fatherhood seems like a full-time job, Arthur joins in pretty quickly, and Lorenzo decides that the best course of action is to turn the topic on its head as he often does.
“You shouldn’t be laughing so hard, my dear brother,” Lorenzo begins, overly conspiratorial, “you are engaged now, yeah? Are you going to have kids soon?”
“Not anytime soon, no.” Arthur replies, aiming for nonchalance, but Charles doesn’t miss the way his ears grow red—and it’s not long before Arthur starts laughing around his words, betraying the fact that he’s a lot more flustered than he chooses to let on. “We are both racing still. You know it would be hard to raise kids this way.”
“But are you planning on it?” Charles piles on, smiling as Arthur flushes deeper—and it’s fascinating, really, how they could still mess about like they did when they were kids, how just a few hours with his family could ground Charles in a way that not many other things can.
“It’s something to consider.” is what Arthur responds with, shrugging as he does. He looks at ease, content. Charles can’t remember the last time he felt the same way. “Ollie, he likes kids. Maybe we will start a family one day.”
Charles spends a lot of time talking to Seb on his first year away from Formula One, with text messages that turn to phone calls that turn to visits. He had always known that it would be difficult to adjust to life outside the sport, but he didn’t think that the itch would be ever-present, burrowing underneath his skin not even half a year in. He used to think that it would be a blessing, having this much free time, that he would finally be able to do all of the things he couldn’t within the confines of the race calendar—but never being able to stay in one city for too long has made a terrible tourist out of him, and within a few short months he’s traveled to most of the places he has always wanted to visit.
“You need to find a hobby,” Seb tells him one afternoon, refusing to look up from where he’s busy painting details onto his own canvas. Charles pretends not to notice that Seb’s been trying to help him do exactly that, but judging by the state of his art, there’s no question that he won’t be taking up painting anytime soon. “or put down roots. You could start a family if you want to.” Seb continues, tone careful—and he does look up this time, but Charles almost wishes he hadn’t.
Seb knows him well, too well, but that’s part of the reason Charles came to him for help. Putting down roots doesn’t seem half bad, he decides—all the work that goes into finding a house and making sure it looks lived in was bound to take up at least two months. His home has always been Monaco, and he had, for the most part, thought that it would always be Monaco; but he has seen all there is to see, and he wonders if a change of scenery is exactly what he needs.
He moves to Cala Vedella at the end of the year. The property’s too big for just one person, and it comes fully furnished—but that’s fine, Charles thinks. He’ll sort through every piece of furniture, decide which ones he wants to keep and which ones he doesn’t, replace them with pieces that would make this house look less like the cover of a magazine and more like something that belongs to him. There’s a lot to look through, four floors’ worth of rooms, but he’s grateful that he has something to keep him busy.
Cala Vedella is—nice. It’s more than just nice, but Charles doesn’t feel like he belongs to her just yet. That’s part of the beauty of it, really, and Charles spends his days trying to learn her the way he used to learn cars. Come summertime, his friends and family take turns playing guest, and the house feels like the perfect size when he isn’t all alone.
Seb doesn’t stay the night, but he does visit. Charles pretends not to know that Seb’s only checking in, but he’s proud of the house he’s found on this little island, of the work he’s been putting in to try and make it feel more like a home, and by the looks of it, Seb’s proud of him too.
“Why Ibiza? I would have thought—” here Seb tilts his head, fiddles with the handle of his mug. They’re having tea at Charles’ breakfast bar, because of course the house came with a breakfast bar, with the curtains pulled halfway across the nearby window to keep the worst of the sunlight out. “Florence, maybe. Somewhere in Italy. Or maybe Madrid.”
“It’s a bit close to Madrid.” Charles states, carefully casual. He keeps his eyes trained on his own drink, knowing full well what he’ll find if he meets Seb’s gaze.
“I wouldn’t say that. A lot of places are closer.” Seb insists, pushing just the slightest bit. He would push more, Charles knows, if he still refuses to look—and so he finally looks up, moving to close the door on that particular discussion.
“It’s close enough.”
For his last summer break in Formula One, Charles goes to Praslin. There are a lot of tourists, which doesn’t surprise him in the slightest—but he feels relatively anonymous here, a novelty now that he’s won several titles. He strikes up a conversation with a man at the bar on his third night there, someone who doesn’t recognize Charles from anywhere at all; and his hair is the color of copper and there are freckles dotted across his shoulders and he doesn’t remind Charles of anyone he knows. He smiles at Charles, playful and inviting. For a night, Charles allows himself to forget.
Charles takes pole in Austin, and he tells the media that it’s a bit of birthday magic even though the car has put them at the front of the pack all season. The mechanics are ecstatic, and this is by no means unusual after a good qualifying session, but something does feel strange—and when Charles walks into his driver’s room, he finds out why.
Carlos is there, wishing him a happy birthday with a smile that’s so unbelievably Carlos that it physically pains Charles to look—but he clasps Carlos’ outstretched hand anyway, a hug following shortly after. He holds on for much longer than he ever has back when they were still teammates, because Charles has felt Carlos’ absence in the paddock this season like a visceral ache, a wound that isn’t even close to scabbing over. He could manage to force it out of his mind, but only just; and now that he has Carlos here, back in his space, the gravity of the loss comes back full force.
They have dinner out in town, opting for a restaurant Daniel recommended, a small place with great food and barely any foot traffic. Carlos asks him about the car, about how the season’s going so far, and Charles tells him everything he wants to know even if Carlos is bound to have heard most of it from the media already. It almost feels like last year, and the year before that, and the year before that—it almost feels like every year they’ve spent together as teammates, trading notes and strategies over meals.
“Congratulations, by the way. I know I’ve already said it, but I wanted to tell you in person, too.” Charles states following a brief lull in their conversation, raising his glass in Carlos’ direction. “A boy, yeah? Do you think he will want to get into motorsport as well? Grandson of a two-time world rally champion, son of a three-time world drivers’ champion. He will be a born racer, mate.”
“For my sake and his, I hope he doesn’t get into MotoGP. His mother won’t like that.” Carlos responds with a laugh—and when he shakes his head, he looks wine-flushed and so, so happy. Something cracks right in the middle of Charles’ ribcage. “The doctor told us that babies start hearing sounds on the sixth month, so she has just been telling him over and over not to get into racing and not to give her a heart attack. If we’re lucky, the only sport he’ll want to do is golf.”
Charles manages a laugh, and he reminds himself that this is good, getting to spend time with Carlos like this. He reminds himself that it would be a waste to call it a night just to nurse the pain in his chest, that he doesn’t know when they’ll get another chance to sit across from each other and just talk. Parenting takes up a lot of time, and he knows that Carlos will pour his entire soul into becoming the best father he can possibly be—and given the fact that Charles is still racing, still chasing records, free days are few and far between.
“I really am happy for you, mate.” Charles repeats as the night begins to wind down, and they’re the only customers left now, with the two other tables having been cleared at some point in the past hour. “To be honest, I expected the marriage. Most drivers get married the year after they retire or if they don’t manage to get a seat, because they finally have time for things other than racing. But the baby, that was a bit of a surprise, I think.”
Carlos nods, toys with the label on the bottle of beer he’d ordered once he polished off the wine. “It’s hard, not racing. In the first two months, retirement felt like the worst idea I’ve ever had. I needed a life outside of racing, an anchor. I needed something to hold onto, because if I didn’t have anything, I knew I would go back to racing.”
The words “I knew I would go back to you” remain unspoken, but they’re both aware of what’s sitting in the back of Carlos’ throat. Carlos looks at him and Charles looks back. Neither of them mention it.
Charles lets himself fold in Singapore. It’s been a long day, a long two weeks, and he’s so, so tired; tired of fighting, tired from the race, tired of pretending that his heart doesn’t leap into his throat when he catches Carlos’ gaze. They’re both drunk, is the thing—Charles on whatever it was that room service had taken upstairs when he rang, Carlos on champagne and club liquor and the high of winning a race—and it doesn’t seem like such a terrible idea, knocking on Carlos’ door well past midnight just to plant a kiss onto his mouth. Carlos pulls Charles in by the waist, closes the door behind him only to press him against it in the next breath; and it might be the alcohol clouding Charles’ thoughts, but somehow this feels like coming home.
Five years, Charles thinks. It took him five years to allow himself this much, five years to admit that he wants, five years to say Carlos, Carlos, Carlos. He remembers when they first spoke, remembers how he’d felt, and he thinks that some part of him has always known that they would get here someday—skin on skin, not knowing where one ends and the other begins. He thinks he was foolish to be afraid of this, of Carlos. He thinks he was foolish to let himself get this far. He thinks he should have given in years ago. He thinks he’ll regret everything once he’s sober.
In the dim light, Carlos calls him cariño, tesoro, mi cielo. In the dim light, Charles stops himself from saying I have always been yours, but he thinks that his eyes might have given him away. In the morning, they don’t talk about it. Charles looks at Carlos and knows that he doesn’t want to pretend, but that he would never push—and Charles takes advantage of Carlos’ kindness as he often does when it comes to matters of the heart. He doesn’t know what to do with Carlos and his bright eyes and his devotion and his private smiles. Carlos’ love feels far too big for Charles’ hands.
Carlos visits him three months after Maranello. He looks like a proper tourist, Charles thinks, with his eyesore of a shirt and the pair of sunglasses that are resting atop his salt and pepper hair. They spend the day outside, seeing the sights, Carlos insisting that Charles give him a tour as if he hasn’t been to Ibiza enough times to know his way around. Charles humors him anyway, because that’s how things have always been with Carlos, and when night falls Carlos helps himself to a bottle of wine that Charles had been saving (“To make up for missing my birthday,” Carlos had said, never mind the fact that they’ve never really given each other birthday presents).
They trade sips of it on the terrace, not bothering with wine glasses; and Charles tells Carlos about the rafters that used to be above them, the ones he tore down and replaced with glass. He tells Carlos that he thinks it’s prettier this way. Carlos makes a show out of picturing the old rafters before he concedes. He tells Carlos about the horrid bean bags that used to be here, the ones he threw out and replaced with the rattan chairs they’re using now. He tells Carlos about how the Noguchi table came in the wrong color and how he had to wait two months for the right one to be delivered.
Charles talks about the most nonsensical things, because if he gives himself time to pause he might admit that he thinks about them sometimes, about how different things would have been if Carlos wasn’t just visiting, if this was a home that they shared. They open another bottle of wine and Charles ends up telling him anyway.
“We’ve had a good run, no?” is what Carlos says, looking up at the glass roof and seeing the stars that lie beyond. Charles follows his line of sight before he agrees.
In the dark, with the four walls of his bedroom shielding him from Carlos’ knowing eyes, Charles continues to wonder. He wonders what life would have been like if he had just allowed himself to love Carlos the way he wanted to, if he had let himself be loved the way Carlos wanted to love him. He wonders if breaking record after record after record and having his name permanently etched into the history of the sport is worth not waking up with the one person who matters most. He wonders if it’s worth seeing Carlos standing at the altar, if it’s worth watching Carlos build a home with someone that isn’t him. It had felt worth it at the time. Now he’s not so sure.
In the morning, Charles watches Carlos leave, and Charles—he’s a racing driver, is the thing. He goes for the gap when he sees one and he knows how to carve a space for himself where there isn’t, but he also recognizes this for what it is: the consequences of his own indecision, a missed window, a few tenths shy of a podium finish. A goodbye—from Carlos to Charles, from Charles to Carlos. He would never dream of tearing down the life that Carlos had made for himself.
Charles thinks about Arthur, and he thinks about Ollie, and he thinks about bravery. He thinks about all the ways that he and Arthur are similar, about all the ways that they’re not. In another life, Charles is brave enough. In this life, he lets go.