Chapter Text
There’s a clear beauty in the crashing force of the waves. The idyllic blue of sea, in a fit of rage in the early morning light. The side of the beaches that the visitors never get to sea, or perhaps more simply choose to ignore. It doubles as a distraction for Carlos, a gust of sea-breeze to cover the burning smell of hot tarmac and champagne after-taste. Though if he tries hard enough, he knows he could taste the remnants of victory on his tongue. A victory that had seen his name scattered across countless news articles crowding him in his own mind, his own world. Until he’d had enough, and had to escape.
How different could Monaco be really?
The answer was: very. Tiny. That was the word he’d use to describe it if he had to. How an entire country survived whilst being so genuinely miniscule astonished him. Hailing from the ever-colourful city of Madríd, he’d been used to a crowded place. But the close nature of Monaco? It brought along a silence he hadn’t known before.
Perhaps that was where the beach trips came from, that desperate urge to race to the ocean. No competition riding on his back, just a journey to find peace in his new silence.
He’d never been too good at quiet.
Soon he’d met his neighbours, a rather round man named Philippe with an incredibly bald head and his wife, Isabella who bore a slim figure and teeth so white they could blind you. The two were newly weds, having moved here slightly before he had. Isabella had quickly fallen pregnant, as proven by the now screaming baby boy in the carrier on his doorstep.
“Ouais, ouais c’est tout bon! Non, non, non Philippe ta gueule maintenant ou l’homme sera pas assez content. Désolé, Carlos, il peut être vraiment stupid quand il veut. Comme vous le savez, je suis très occupé en ce moment avec mon travail et Philippe a un nouveau voyage d'environ deux heures et nous avons besoin d'aide. Pouvez-vous nous aider, s’il vous plaît? Ah, merci!”
Oh, and they were also French and not the nice kind. Regardless, due to his past attempts at a duolingo streak he’d gained a rough gist of their hurried conversation. Plus the way they sped off leaving him with a bougie looking nappy bag and a wailing baby with an unpleasant facial expression helped fill in the blanks.
Carlos Sainz, the self-proclaimed hater of babies was now stuck babysitting a french baby in the middle of a city he barely knew his way around. One thing he did know, was that this was going to take some reinforcements.