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The first time Charles had really noticed Oscar Piastri—not in passing, not as just another name on the rise, but really noticed him—it had been sometime during Oscar’s 2021 Formula 2 season.
At first, it was just noise. Commentators, journalists, race engineers all throwing around Oscar’s name like it was already written into the F1 history books. Rookie champion in F3, dominating in F2, barely breaking a sweat while doing it. Calm, clinical, composed. One of those drivers who made fast look effortless—almost annoyingly so.
Charles had been mildly intrigued. Maybe watched a couple of race replays during downtime. Nothing obsessive. Just professional awareness. Totally normal behavior for a Ferrari driver and former Prema kid to be keeping an eye on the new Prema boy. That was all.
Totally normal.
Then Oscar didn’t get a seat right away, and Charles had almost forgotten about him—until the 2022 McLaren seat announcement, and suddenly Oscar was everywhere again—this time in orange.
Charles remembered smiling at the headline. He didn’t even know why. It wasn’t personal. He hadn’t even spoken to Oscar at that point. But it felt… right. Like some puzzle piece slotting quietly into place.
Still, just curiosity.
Right?
Except then came Silverstone.
Charles had been in a less-than-ideal mood that weekend—something about strategy and tire calls, as usual—but Oscar had caught his eye on the timing screens. He was fast. Really fast and somehow this supposedly reserved rookie was fourth, elbows out, driving with the kind of poise he had only seen in seasoned veterans and Charles found himself squinting at the onboard footage in the Ferrari briefing room after the session, watching the rookie dance that car through Copse like he was born to do it.
Arthur had walked in, glanced at the screen, and raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t that the same clip from earlier?”
“Just analyzing the race,” he’d said when Arthur had caught him rewatching Oscar’s battle with Max for the third time.
But it wasn’t just analysis. Not anymore.
Hungary came next. Then Spa. Each time, Oscar seemed to glide through the chaos with that same quiet calm, like the world could be on fire and he’d still be politely without missing an apex.
Admiration crept in, slow and sneaky. Charles didn’t even notice when it shifted. One day he was just impressed, and the next, he was watching Oscar, not even deliberately. It just happened. His eyes found him in the paddock crowd without fail, as if some part of his brain was quietly keeping tabs on his location at all times like a very niche GPS.
And it didn’t help that Oscar was a walking contradiction. Fierce on track, sharp as hell, fast in a way that made Charles feel the competition in his chest. But off-track?
A disaster. An adorable, lowkey disaster. Every time he was around Oscar he noticed he’d bump into tables. Drop his water bottle, at least twice during a pre-race media session. Charles had snorted so hard he’d had to fake a cough to cover it.
But Oscar just laughed at himself, cheeks pink, brushing it off like it was nothing. Like being unintentionally charming wasn’t a criminal offense.
It was deeply unfair. Yet he told himself it was just rookie admiration.
By Monza, Charles had officially given up pretending he was normal about it. Not that he told anyone—God forbid. But his brain was a traitor, running entire highlight reels of Oscar while he tried to focus on things like strategy briefings.
That afternoon, he was standing in the driver holding area, half-listening to Pierre, nodding along to whatever he was saying about skincare or brunch or something equally ridiculous, when Oscar walked in with Liam.
And Charles had looked.
He couldn’t help it. Oscar was laughing, sunlight catching in his hair, eyes bright and open. He looked relaxed, happy, real. And beautiful in a way that wasn’t about lighting or camera angles or social media polish just effortless presence. His big brown eyes scanned the crowd, calm as ever, and Charles was struck—genuinely struck—by the fact that he looked good.
Their eyes met, briefly, and Oscar gave him a polite smile.
Charles smiled back, and then turned quickly toward Pierre—who was now looking at him with thinly veiled amusement.
“What?” Charles said, too fast.
Pierre’s smirk widened. “Nothing.”
“I was just looking,” Charles added, unprompted.
“Uh-huh. You looked like you were about to write him poetry.”
Charles glared. “I was not.”
Pierre hummed. “Might want to wipe your chin.”
“I hate you.”
Charles considered throwing his water bottle at him. Instead, he just stared forward, very deliberately not looking back at Oscar, who was now making his way over with Liam.
God. When had this become a thing?
Had it been Spa? Hungary? Was it the overtake attempt at Silverstone?
But it was too late. The damage was done. Not just because Pierre was now annoyingly perceptive about it but because Charles had finally admitted the truth to himself:
That it wasn’t just admiration anymore.
It was the way Oscar’s hands flailed when he talked. The way he knocked over cones in the pit lane sometimes because he was too busy checking his notes. The way his eyes widened when someone startled him, like a startled baby deer in fireproofs.
It was everything.
🏎️
Japan 2023.
Charles wasn’t bitter.
Really, he wasn’t.
P4 was fine. He’d driven well, the car had felt decent, the upgrades had finally started to make sense, and for once the strategy team hadn’t made him want to yeet his radio into the ocean. There were worse outcomes in a season like this.
But it was hard to focus on anything else when the screens were flashing Oscar’s name in third. When the entire paddock buzzed with the energy of a rookie’s first Formula 1 podium. When the camera cut, again and again, to Oscar standing under the confetti, champagne bottle in hand, wide-eyed and beaming like someone who hadn’t quite processed what had just happened.
Charles felt it again, the warmth blooming in his chest like a ridiculous, uninvited flower. That twist of something fond and fluttery in his gut, like a low-level emotional hijack he couldn’t quite shake.
It was fine. It was normal to feel proud of a fellow driver. It was healthy, even, to appreciate good performance. Charles kept telling himself that.
But then Oscar smiled—really smiled—eyes crinkling at the corners, cheeks flushed from adrenaline and champagne, and Charles was gone. Just… completely emotionally disarmed.
“You have to stop this,” he muttered under his breath, watching the podium replay on the monitor like a lovesick teenager. “This is not normal.”
Because this wasn’t just pride in a colleague’s success.
It was something stupidly tender. He remembered watching Oscar’s F2 races. How precise he’d always been. But here, now, with joy etched all over his face and champagne dripping down his fireproofs, Oscar looked alive.
God, he’s beautiful when he’s happy.
That thought should’ve sent him spiraling. Instead, it settled quietly in his chest like a fact he’d already known for a while.
By the time he stepped out into the paddock again, the sun had started to dip low behind the grandstands. There was a strange kind of calm after a race, the buzz still there, but softened.
He spotted Oscar before Oscar spotted him. Of course he did.
Oscar was halfway through some conversation with a McLaren staff memeber, animated in a way he rarely was in press conferences. His hands flailed just a bit when he got excited—adorable—and at one point, their eyes met and Oscar nearly knocked over someone’s clipboard mid-gesture. Classic.
Charles couldn’t help but grin, and before he could talk himself out of it, before he could weigh the consequences of acting even slightly on his feelings, he crossed the paddock and walked right up to him.
Oscar turned mid-laugh. His face lit up in that gentle, genuine way Charles was starting to crave seeing more often.
“Hey mate!” he said brightly.
“You were amazing today,” Charles said, voice softer than he’d intended, like the words came wrapped in velvet.
Oscar blinked like he hadn’t expected it. “Oh—thank you! I’m still kind of in shock, honestly. It doesn’t feel real yet.”
Charles laughed, too quietly, too tenderly. “It is real. Very real. You deserved it.”
Oscar’s smile flickered into something bashful, his hand rubbing the back of his neck like it always did when he got flustered. Charles watched the motion with far too much interest. Was that a new tell? God, it was cute.
“It still feels like a blur,” Oscar admitted. “I thought I was going to mess it all up on Lap 15. Almost missed a braking point at Turn 11. Completely blanked for a second.”
“You didn’t,” Charles said with a small shake of his head. “You kept your head. That’s what matters. That’s what makes a podium.”
Oscar looked at him then, really looked, and Charles felt his breath catch in his throat for no good reason. There were people everywhere, cameras lurking around corners, but somehow it felt quiet between them. Soft, like a bubble of shared understanding.
“Thanks,” Oscar said, voice low now. “That… means a lot coming from you.”
Charles’ heart did a weird fluttery thing. Charles stop being stupid. Too obvious.
“You’re going to get used to this,” he said, trying to sound breezy even as his insides did backflips. “This won’t be your last podium.”
Oscar laughed, head tilting, eyes bright. “I hope so. Although I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to the champagne in my eyes.”
Charles smiled, because of course Oscar would say something like that.
“You’ll learn. Maybe I’ll give you some podium etiquette tips next time.”
Oscar raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And what qualifies you to teach that?”
Charles smirked. “I’ve had my fair share.”
“You’ve also sprayed champagne directly into your own face before.”
“That was one time.”
Oscar grinned, and Charles found himself laughing along with him, more openly this time. And when the conversation wound down, and Oscar turned to rejoin his team, Charles lingered for a second longer than he should’ve, eyes trailing after him like muscle memory.
God help him. He was in so much trouble.
🏎️
Qatar 2023.
Qatar just made things worse. Not in a bad way. Just in a ‘my heart is not a functioning organ anymore’ kind of way.
Oscar won the sprint on Saturday and even though the attention was on Max and him winning his third world championship. Charles couldn’t help but admire Oscar’s drive and him managing to keep Max behind for as long as he did.
Then came Sunday.
The race was brutal. The kind of physical hell Charles wouldn’t forget anytime soon—heat suffocating, humidity unbearable, sweat soaking through layers— drivers were collapsing, puking, barely able to drag themselves out of their cars.
And yet Oscar had somehow pulled himself into the P2 podium spot.
Charles had seen him on the screens while he was in the medical tent. He looked just as destroyed as the rest of them, sitting on the floor post-race with his race suit half-unzipped, gulping down water like it was air, but devastatingly radiant.
Charles wanted to wrap him in a towel and a hug and probably twelve electrolyte drinks. He didn’t. Obviously. But the urge was getting harder to ignore.
Even worse, Oscar had started acting… weird around him.
Well. Weirder.
Clumsier, somehow. He bumped into Charles’s arm every time they stood next to each other in the driver pen. Once, he’d tripped on a step while trying to walk. He’d notice him spill his protein shake on Lando’s shoes in the paddock and there was that time he nearly dropped his mic mid-interview just because Charles had looked at him.
And Charles, the traitor that he was, had found all of it charming, endearing and painfully cute.
It was like Oscar short-circuited every time he was within a meter of him and Charles had never smiled more in his life.
🏎️
Abu Dhabi 2023.
It wasn’t until Abu Dhabi that everything finally—truly—clicked.
Final race weekend. Final qualifying.
Charles had been in a weirdly good mood all day. The car had felt sharp, the sun was setting in that hazy golden way that made everything glow like a movie set, and he’d managed a near-perfect lap. P2. Not pole, because of course Max had taken pole, like some kind of smug oracle of speed but still, it felt good.
And then there was Oscar, who had somehow slotted into third with a lap so clean it made Charles borderline giddy.
They stood together post-qualifying, all three of them crowded talking before they would have to go to their post quali press conference. Oscar was giving his trackside interview while Max and Charles were talking. Or more like Charles had been pretending to listen to Max say something about tire degradation until he noticed the Red Bull driver smirking at him in that very specific, knowing way.
“What?” Charles asked, suspicious.
Max’s eyes flickered toward Oscar. “Nothing. Just wondering how long you’re going to pretend this is about studying his driving style and not about your little crush.”
Charles blinked. “Pardon?”
“Oh, come on,” Max said, laughing under his breath. “You look at him like he’s made of stardust.”
“I do not.”
“You do. It’s nauseating.”
Charles scowled. “I am simply being supportive of a talented young driver.”
“Uh-huh. Supportive. Sure.” Max grinned. “Just try not to propose mid-press conference, alright?”
Charles rolled his eyes so hard it nearly gave him whiplash, but the warmth creeping up his neck betrayed him.
He didn’t even get a chance to defend himself further, because just then, Oscar turned from his trackside interview and bounded over to them with that excited, slightly awkward energy he always carried after a good result. His eyes were wide, cheeks still flushed with adrenaline. And when Charles was done his own trackside interview and Max was giving his, Oscar turned to Charles, eyes wide words tumbling out of him like a waterfall.
“I swear, Sector 2 just— clicked. I hit that chicane so smooth I thought I’d gone too wide, but I didn’t, and the delta just...”
Charles stopped listening to the words.
Not because they weren’t interesting. They were. He always loved the way Oscar talked about racing. But mostly, Charles just watched him.
The way his hands moved when he talked. The way his smile tugged crooked when he got too excited. The little way he kept shifting his weight from foot to foot, like his joy didn’t quite fit inside his body. His hair, slightly damp under the McLaren cap. The soft glint of sweat at the nape of his neck.
God.
It hit him like a brick to the chest.
He was in love.
With Oscar freaking Piastri.
The clumsy, brilliant rookie who always blushed too easily, knocked things over when nervous, and looked at Charles like he was something worth admiring.
Charles didn’t mean to interrupt. The words just slipped out in a quiet and earnest way before he could stop them.
“You were incredible,” he said.
Oscar blinked, mid-sentence, startled. “What?”
“I mean it,” Charles said again, voice warmer now, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’ve been incredible. All season.”
And oh, there it was—that look. That exact expression Charles had grown stupidly fond of. Wide eyes, like a little cat. The beginnings of a flustered smile. A faint pink dusting across Oscar’s ears, creeping toward his cheeks.
“Oh. Uh. Thanks,” Oscar mumbled, scratching at the side of his neck. “You’ve been—uh—also great. Really great. Yeah. So…uh… You know.”
Charles chuckled softly. Adorable. Absolutely hopeless. He took a small step closer, just enough to make Oscar look up at him through his lashes.
“Careful, Oscar,” Charles teased, voice dropping into something smoother, a little flirtier. “You keep saying nice things like that, and people might start thinking you like me.”
Oscar looked completely blindsided by that, mouth opening in slow-motion confusion, right before his water bottle slipped out of his hand and dropped to the ground with a loud thud, bouncing off the floor and landing perfectly at Charles’s feet.
Oscar made a startled noise. “Oh my god—”
Charles laughed, delighted. “Smooth.”
“I—I didn’t—”
“Very graceful,” Charles added, bending to pick it up and hand it back to him, fingers brushing just barely against Oscar’s.
“I—shut up,” Oscar muttered, going pinker by the second. “That was your fault.”
“Mon plaisir,” Charles said, smile utterly shameless now.
Max was watching them with an expression of pure I told you so.
And as Oscar flailed to compose himself, muttering something about pre-press-conference hydration and totally avoiding Charles’s gaze, Charles just stood there, basking in the chaos.
Yes, okay. Max was right.
He was gone. Absolutely, irrevocably gone. And if Oscar kept looking at him like that—like Charles was something bright and impossible—he was pretty sure there was no coming back.
🏎️
Monaco 2024.
Charles first saw the tweet while lying in bed, phone balanced on his chest, eyes half-lidded against the late afternoon light filtering through the curtains.
He was supposed to be resting — mentally preparing, as everyone kept reminding him — but that was laughable. Resting in Monaco before the race weekend was like trying to meditate on a rollercoaster. Everything buzzed under his skin. The nerves. The pressure. The weight of expectation, both old and new, threading into his veins like electricity.
His home race. Again.
The one that mattered the most and hurt the most — a contradiction he couldn’t ever seem to escape.
So, yeah. He was trying to rest. But mostly he was just lying there, scrolling Twitter and trying not to spiral.
And that was when he saw it.
Oscar had tweeted: "Searching my family tree to find any trace of Monégasque roots"
Charles stared at the tweet for a second, brain slowly catching up.
And then — God help him — he laughed. Out loud. Right there in his room, palm coming up to cover his face because of course Oscar would say something like that. So dry. So casually funny in that understated way of his. The kind of humor that didn’t try hard but stuck with you anyway.
It was stupid how fast his fingers moved to reply. And for some reason he had responded with a "i can adopt you if needed"
He hit send before he could think better of it, already grinning to himself — and then froze as the realization hit him a fraction of a second too late.
Wait.
Wait wait wait wait wait—
What the fuck had he just typed?
Adopt you?
Adopt you?
What in God’s name was wrong with him?
He sat bolt upright in bed, phone clutched in his hand like it had personally betrayed him.
He had just offered to adopt the man he was very actively and very hopelessly in love with.
His crush. His entire emotional downfall. The guy who’d just barely stopped haunting his daydreams long enough for Charles to breathe again. He’d offered to adopt him.
He groaned. “What the fuck, Charles,” he muttered to himself.
And then the notifications started rolling in.
Fast. Really fast.
Likes. Retweets. Replies. Quote tweets. Fan accounts posting memes at lightning speed. Screenshots spreading like wildfire.
“CHARLES WHAT DOES THIS MEAN?”
“Piastri and Leclerc family canon?”
“so you’re saying oscar’s your son?? got it.”
“charles you need to explain RIGHT NOW.”
Even Ferrari’s admin liked it.
And worst of all — the text from Arthur popped up less than a minute later.
ARTHUR: bro. you adopted him?? are you okay???
Charles buried his face in the pillow and screamed into it. Quietly. He still had neighbors.
His phone buzzed again.
ARTHUR: do u want me to get you a lawyer or a therapist. or both.
CHARLES: leave me alone.
ARTHUR: you’re in love with him and you offered to be his dad. this is the worst romance novel plot ever.
CHARLES: I PANICKED
ARTHUR: you panicked INTO PARENTAL CUSTODY???
Charles groaned again and threw his phone to the side, letting it thump harmlessly onto the mattress.
He didn’t know what was worse — the fact that the tweet was now a trending topic, or the fact that it was so pathetically on brand for him. His entire brain short-circuited the second Oscar’s name appeared in front of him, and apparently now it was doing legal paperwork for hypothetical adoption proceedings.
The thing was — God, the thing was — he’d meant it in a cute way. A funny way. The kind of way that would get a little laugh out of Oscar. Maybe even make him smile, if he ever checked his replies.
But now all he could think about was how this would look from Oscar’s perspective.
“Hi, I like you very much, and also I’m offering to become your legal guardian.”
Brilliant.
Incredible.
Romance 101.
What a great way to confess unrequited love. He grabbed his phone again and reopened Twitter, the damage was already done, might as well watch the ship sink. People were spiraling. A few brave souls were genuinely trying to calculate the legality of an adult adoption across international boundaries.
And then — a new reply popped up.
From Oscar. Charles very nearly did drop his phone.
His fingers clutched it so tight his knuckles turned white, screen still glowing with Oscar’s reply.
“ Call me Oscar Jack Piastri-Leclerc 👍 Want to meet my new brother Leo on Thursday if he can pop to McLaren ”
He stared at it like it might rearrange itself. Like maybe if he looked long enough, the letters would shift into something less devastating. Something less unreasonably perfect.
Piastri-Leclerc.
God. God.
It wasn’t the thumbs-up emoji that got him. Or the joke about Leo.
No, it wasn’t that.
It was the hyphenation.
That stupid, tiny, two-character hyphen.
Piastri-Leclerc.
Charles read it again. And again. He could feel his pulse in his throat, a slow, growing thud like a bassline in his chest. His surname—his name—next to Oscar’s. Together. Connected like it meant something. Like they belonged in the same breath, the same sentence, the same—
No. No. No, stop thinking like that.
He flopped back onto the bed with a soft, strangled noise, one hand over his face. His heart was thudding so loudly it drowned out everything else—his breathing, the hum of traffic outside, even the soft clink of his trophy shelf vibrating faintly as the breeze shifted the windows.
Piastri-Leclerc.
It sounded real. Like it could be real. Like it was real in some alternate universe where Charles hadn’t just metaphorically proposed a lifelong familial bond to the man he was trying desperately not to fall in love with.
Except he already was in love with him.
Hopelessly, quietly, stupidly in love with him.
And now Oscar had just—just thrown his name back like it was a game, like it didn’t mean anything, and Charles didn’t know how to process that. Didn’t know how to breathe through it.
Because it did mean something. It meant everything to him.
🏎️
Charles spotted Oscar before Oscar spotted him.
Not that he was looking. Not really.
Okay, fine—he was looking.
Oscar had managed to qualify P2. It should’ve been intimidating. It should’ve made Charles nervous, maybe even a little on edge. But instead, it just made something soft bloom in his chest. He was proud. Ridiculously proud, actually.
Charles made his way over, trying not to look too pleased, even though he was already smiling.
“P2, huh?” he said, casual, light, watching the way Oscar startled slightly at his voice and then quickly looked anywhere but at him.
That made Charles smile wider. Oh?
Oscar’s eyes darted down, up, over—anywhere but directly at him. Cute. So cute.
“Yeah,” Oscar said, voice a little hoarse. “Uh. You didn’t have to go that fast, you know. Little rude, actually.”
Charles laughed, warmth curling through him at the sound of Oscar’s dry, fumbled humor. It was always like this with him, this quietly endearing blend of sarcasm and sincerity.
“You almost had me,” Charles said, honest without really meaning to be. “Sector two was perfect.”
He watched it land, watched the way Oscar blinked, a little too fast, like the compliment had hit harder than he expected. A flush crept up his neck, and Charles knew he was right.
Oscar stumbled through a response, something about keeping it tidy, about the swimming pool section, but his voice cracked halfway through and Charles had to fight back a grin.
God. Was he nervous? Was that really because of him?
The thought made Charles’ heart stutter.
He leaned in, just slightly, enjoying the way Oscar’s breath caught again.
“You can try to get me at the start tomorrow,” he said softly. “If you want P1 so badly. But I’m not going to make it easy.”
He watched Oscar’s brain visibly short-circuit.
“I don’t—want it that bad,” Oscar blurted, eyes wide in horror a second later. “I mean. I do. Obviously. Like, for the team. But not if you’re—uh—letting me win. That’s not—um—sportsmanlike?”
Charles couldn’t help it—he was grinning now. The kind that tugged at the corners of his mouth and made his cheeks ache. Oscar was flailing, and it was maybe the most endearing thing Charles had ever seen.
“You’d rather earn it properly, then?”
“Yes! No. I mean—yes.”
Oscar was gesturing wildly now, like maybe his hands could untangle the mess coming out of his mouth. “I’d rather… fight for it. Not—gifted win by adoption dad or something.”
Charles stared at him for a long beat of silence before laughter burst out of him, sudden and warm and helpless. His stomach hurt from how hard he laughed.
“Still thinking about the tweet, huh?”
Oscar looked like he wanted to melt into the floor. “I wasn’t, until now.”
“You started it,” Charles teased, biting back another smile. “Oscar Jack Piastri-Leclerc.”
And there. Right there—Oscar froze. His eyes widened, lips parted slightly, like Charles had physically touched him just by saying it aloud.
It knocked the air out of Charles.
Oh, he thought. Oh, it really gets to him too.
He hadn’t been sure before. Hadn’t let himself believe before. But this—this look, this reaction—it was undeniable. Oscar was flushed, blinking rapidly, trying and failing to hide behind his water bottle like it could shield him from how exposed he suddenly felt.
“I didn’t think you’d remember that,” he muttered.
Like I could ever forget.
🏎️
Later after his win, Charles was high on the spirit of his win when he had spotted Oscar from across the floor earlier, standing a little awkwardly near the edge of the crowd, drinkless and unsure. And, well. He couldn’t just leave him there, could he?
So, he’d gone over. Grabbed his wrist without much thought and pulled him in.
Now here they were, pressed shoulder-to-shoulder on the leather bench, Charles acutely aware of every time their knees brushed. Every time he leaned over Oscar to grab a glass or a bottle—sure, maybe he didn’t need to reach across quite that much, but Oscar hadn’t moved away either.
And Charles really started to notice, the way Oscar would freeze whenever he touched him. The way his eyes would flicker anywhere but Charles’ face when their knees bumped. The way his fingers twitched slightly whenever Charles leaned in to say something over the music, like he didn’t know what to do with his hands.
He was nervous, because of him. And suddenly, everything Arthur had teased him about made sense.
The staring. The awkward silences. The way Oscar went suspiciously pink every time Charles complimented him, even jokingly.
So he decided to test it.
Subtly at first. His arm draped behind Oscar on the booth—not quite around him, but close enough to see if he’d shift away (he didn’t). A lazy elbow to his side. Fingertips grazing his thigh when he leaned too far over. Still nothing. Just Oscar slowly unraveling, blinking too fast and pretending his untouched drink was the most fascinating thing in the world.
Charles fought a smirk.
God, he was cute when he was flustered.
Maybe it was cruel, but he liked watching Oscar scramble. Liked watching that polished composure crack.
But then Oscar was standing. So fast he nearly toppled his drink, mumbling something about the bathroom as he bolted.
Charles watched him go, heart flipping strangely in his chest.
He hadn’t meant to push too far. He just… couldn’t help himself. And now, he couldn’t sit still. The booth felt too hot, too loud. He waited a minute—maybe two—before slipping out, weaving through the crowd until he spotted Oscar past the terrace doors and slipped outside.
Oscar was leaning against the railing, wind tugging at his hair, shoulders curled in like he was trying to breathe the panic out of his lungs.
Charles softened immediately. He hadn’t realized how tightly Oscar had been wound.
“Hey,” he said gently. “You okay?”
Oscar didn’t look at him. “Yeah. Just needed a minute.”
Charles moved closer, but not too close. He gave him space. “You sure? You disappeared like I’d offended you.”
“You didn’t.”
“Then what’s wrong?”
Oscar hesitated. His voice was quiet. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m just… I’m just not good at this.”
“At parties?”
“At…” Oscar swallowed hard. “At pretending I’m not in love with you.”
The words landed like a thunderclap. Charles blinked. His breath caught in his throat. His heart just about exploded.
Oscar had said it. Not stammered it. Not implied it. Said it.
Charles could barely speak for a second. Then he smiled, slow and wide and full of disbelief while Oscar was stumbling his way through backpedalling his confession but Charles just touched his hand.
“I was wondering when you’d say it,” he said softly.
Oscar turned toward him, face pale. “What?”
“I’ve been trying to figure out if I should make a move or if I was imagining everything.”
“You—what?”
“You’re not the only one who’s been losing their mind quietly.”
Oscar’s expression was somewhere between stunned and totally short-circuited, and it made Charles want to laugh and kiss him all at once.
“You’re not subtle, Oscar,” he added, stepping just a little closer. “Not when you’re staring at me like I hung the moon every time I speak.”
Oscar opened his mouth, then closed it again, and blurted, “You’re the one who called me Piastri-Leclerc!”
“Because I wanted to,” Charles said, chuckling. “I like the way it sounds.”
Oscar looked like he might collapse. Charles wanted to wrap his arms around him, hold him up, kiss him senseless.
So he reached out instead, brushed a strand of hair off Oscar’s forehead with the softest touch he could manage.
And then, voice low, he said, “So… can I kiss you now, or do I have to wait until you short-circuit again?”
Oscar laughed, giddy and breathless and surged forward to kiss him. And Charles kissed him back, full of everything he’d been holding in for months. He kissed him like the crashing of waves below them, like the echo of laughter from the club behind, like every soft, tentative hope that maybe—just maybe—Oscar felt too.
When they finally pulled apart, Charles rested his forehead against Oscar’s, grinning like an idiot.
“Still think you’re not a clubbing type?” he whispered.
Oscar smiled, eyes still closed, heart in his voice. “I think I’m a you type.”
Charles laughed, warm and happy, and kissed him again under the fairy lights, the whole world spinning just a little more perfectly than before.