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Everyone knew they were close, but no one really knows how close that 'being close' really is.
No one gets the 'Pierre and Charles' experience like Pierre and Charles.
Everyone was just a spectator.
It's their world and everyone else is just living in it.
Ever since they were kids, it was the Charles and Pierre show.
When they were around each other it was like nobody else existed.
Of course there was a time when it was four of them.
Pierre, Charles, Esteban and Antoine. But nothing could come in between them.
When Esteban ran off with Pierre's girlfriend, crudely said, Charles was there to pick him up.
When Charles lost his father, when he lost Jules, Pierre was there to pick up the pieces.
When Antoine died, they were there for each other.
When each of them won their races, they were celebrating with each other.
They really did share all of the bad and all of the good times together.
Always together, seeing each other's joys and each other's pains.
Yet one thing they were too blind to see.
~~~~~~~***********~~~~~~~~~~~
He did it. He finally won another race.
He barely even remembers what he screamed in the car, radio picking up all of his rambled words.
He thinks he screamed a "Let's go!" then something about Antoine, but everything is just one big blur.
He's caught up in the whole adrenaline rush as he's getting out of his car that he barely registers people patting his back, congratulating him.
He hasn't even pulled off his helmet yet. Nor pulled up his visor.
He sees a flash of red and then he has his arms full with his best friend.
He can feel his hands everywhere. Touching, grabbing, barely audible words being screamed at him.
He fumbles with his visor to get it open and then he's staring into beautiful green eyes.
He can still feel his hands on him, pulling him closer and all he can do is go along with it because he barely even knows what's going on anymore.
The hands are shaking him and now he can actually make out words.
"You did it! You did it, Pierre!"
His friend takes off his helmet and Pierre tries to take off his own but his hands are shaking too much.
He feels his hands being batted away, the strap under his chin being opened and his helmet being pulled off.
His balaclava is still on, but he manages to pull that one off himself.
He shakes his head, brushes his fingers through his messed up hair until he feels hands gripping his shoulders and he's looking up into a pool of fond green eyes.
And fuck. He loves him.
It doesn't matter anymore that he won the race. All that matters is Charles, Charles, Charles.
He laughs. He laughs because otherwise he'd be crying.
He wraps himself around Charles and buries his nose into his neck.
Camera's are flashing all around them but he doesn't care.
He's right where he belongs and it has nothing to do with the race.
~~~~~~~~*********~~~~~~~~
After team celebrations, Pierre steals a bottle of champagne and takes a ride back to the hotel.
Not the Alpine drivers hotel. No..... It's the hotel where the Ferrari drivers are staying.
He didn't have to ask anyone for Charles' room number because he always gives it to him himself. They both do it. It's a habit.
He knocks on the door, then almost loses his breath when Charles opens it in only his boxers.
"Pierre?" Charles yawns and stretches a little, Pierre thinks it's adorable. "What are you doing here?"
Pierre grins and suddenly holds up the bottle of champagne.
"Thought I could continue celebrating with you."
Charles' surprised look changes into a soft smile. "How thoughtful of you." Pierre chuckles and brushes past his friend to get inside the room.
Pierre pops the bottle and drinks straight from it, not caring at all that it's dripping down the sides of his mouth.
Charles is watching him, of course he is, but just raises his eyebrow. "Classy."
"I'm all sticky with champagne anyway. It doesn't matter."
Pierre watches how Charles' adam's apple bobs as he swallows as he hands him the bottle.
"Yeah. I bet you are." Charles murmurs, taking a big swig of the alcoholic liquid himself.
Pierre smiles. That smile that makes his eyes squint and all crinkly. Charles can't stand it.
"Stop that."
"I'm not doing anything."
"You're smiling."
"I'm not allowed to smile anymore?"
"That's not----I..."
Pierre laughs and Charles swats at him, squeaking when Pierre takes the moment to grab his wrist and pulls him up against him.
"Pierre!"
"I missed you."
"You see me all the time on the paddock."
"That's not the same."
"You're all sticky..."
Why is he even still trying to protest when all it does is make Pierre snort, prying the bottle out of Charles' hand and placing it on the bedside table.
"Admit it. You missed me too."
Pierre is staring into his eyes, but to Charles it feels like he's staring into his soul.
"I always miss you, Pierrot."
There's that smile again. The one that makes Charles want to hold Pierre's face and kiss the corner of his eyes over and over again.
"That why you can't keep your hands off me when I get out of my car?"
"No." Charles looks up through his lashes, knowing full well what it does to Pierre. "I can't keep myself together when you are near me."
That makes Pierre fall silent. The hand that was holding Charles' wrist now sliding down to the monegasque's waist, settling there.
"I think I have the same problem." Pierre dips his head a little to whisper against Charles' ear. "Come take a shower with me."
Charles already took one. He's sure Pierre knows that.
But Pierre's also aware that Charles simply can't say no to him.
Not to this.
So he nods and watches the smirk on Pierre's face as he pulls him into the bathroom.
He makes sure that smirk turns into a face of pleasure, back pressed against the shower door.