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Summary
Pathetic?
“No.”
Charles finally manages to speak, his voice rougher than usual. There’s a sheen of sweat on his cheekbone from how much he heated up.
“You look…”
Delicate, like an angel.
Like a statue, one he could worship.
Absolutely divine, someone he revered.
“You look pretty,” he stammers out the weakest one. He scrambles to add, “Mon ange, you’re beautiful.”
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AKA where Charles can't cope with the fact he's into Carlos crying. And... Carlos can't cope with the fact that he didn't do great at his home Grand Prix. So, they fuck—with feelings. Sort of.