Chapter Text
The Monaco nightclub raged with chaotic energy, bass rattling the floor, lights flashing like heat lightning in a storm. It was the kind of night built for legends, and Charles Leclerc had just become one. Monaco’s prince, triumphant on home soil, floated through the crowd like a live wire, his shirt plastered to his chest, eyes glassy with champagne and pride. He danced with his close circle of childhood friends, that group of people who knew him best, a bottle of Dom Pérignon swinging from his fingers, laughter bubbling from him like he’d never known pressure or pain. Heck, he just won the fabled Monaco Grand Prix.
Carlos Sainz watched from the VIP booth, slouched deep into the leather, his fingers curled tightly around a half-empty glass of Lagavulin. The smoky burn of the whisky did nothing to dull the heat in his chest. Lando was there, talking to some guy next to him, leaving Carlos drowning in thoughts of the race, still fresh. P3. A good result on paper. He told himself he wasn’t jealous. He was proud of Charles, truly happy for him to finally win his home race. But watching him laugh and enjoy himself like that with them, Carlos felt he would never know this side of the Monegasque—the side he only showed to his closest friends. Radiant and untouchable, speaking a language he does not understand, something sharp curled beneath Carlos’ ribs.
He looked again, couldn’t help it. Charles, soaked in sweat and starlight, moved like gravity had never touched him. He was magnetic. Everyone wanted to be near him. And Carlos, despite everything—despite the rivalry, the team, the careful lines they avoid crossing—was no different.
They lived on that edge. That impossibly fine line.
Teammates. Friends. Sometimes closer. Never too close.
His mind flicked, unbidden, to the end of the race. The second Charles stepped out of the car and saw him—how his face had cracked open in something wild, like a huge boulder lifted off him, how he’d thrown himself into Carlos’ arms like it was the only place he could go. The hug had lasted only seconds, too tight, Charles trembling with adrenaline and victory, Carlos holding him like he meant it. Like he’d never wanted to let go. Yet it felt like time had stopped in that moment.
That moment should’ve meant nothing. No one had said anything. They never did. It was over just like that. But it had felt like something. And Carlos hadn’t stopped thinking about it since.
His phone buzzed on the table. A message from Bryan, Charles' race engineer.
Where’s Charles? Need to see him before I leave.
Carlos stared at the screen, pulse ticking faster. An excuse. An excuse to get near Charles.
He stood, straightening his light blue shirt, downed the rest of his whisky, and pushed into the blur of bodies. Heat, music, and the scent of sweat and perfume swallowed him whole.
Charles was the axis around which the whole room spun. His curls stuck to his forehead, his laughter cutting clean through the music. Carlos hesitated at the edge of the crowd, watching him—unguarded, joy incarnate. So young, oozing his boyish charm. So free.
And so not his. Ahhh, fuck. He cursed himself in his head.
He gulped and stepped closer, weaving through people until he was behind him. The scent hit first—Charles’ cologne, sharp cedar and citrus, and sweat. Dangerous and familiar.
Carlos reached out, grabbing his shoulder, and leaned in. “Charles!”
Charles turned around, eyes half-lidded and shining with intoxication. “Carlos!”
The way he said it—like seeing him was a gift made Carlos go soft in his gut. Then suddenly he grabbed his shoulders and surged forward. It happened too fast.
At first, Carlos didn’t realize what was happening. Warm, champagne-slick lips brushed skin. Carlos froze, stunned. Charles was going for the cheek, attempting la bise . The corner of his mouth grazed Carlos’ lips, soft and lingering, dangerously close. Clumsily missing his cheek entirely under the influence. The Spaniard barely had time to register the heat of it before Charles leaned in, swaying with drunken ease, clearly going for the other cheek to complete the gesture. Just a greeting. That French thing.
Except he’d never done that with him before. It never felt casual to do it with him before.
Charles missed again; he lost balance in the motion, his foot slipping on something slick.
Carlos caught him on instinct, his right hand snaking around his waist to keep him steady. Charles stumbled into him fully, one hand splayed against Carlos’ chest, the other still lingering on his shoulder.
Their bodies pressed together, breath mingling. Carlos felt everything. The warmth, the lean muscle, the flush of Charles’ cheek against his. The electricity shot through his spine. The surrounding sound seemed to go silent and blur, his eyes focusing only on Charles in his arms.
“You’re good at that,” Charles murmured, chuckling under his breath. “Catching me.” He pushed himself away and patted him on the chest.
Carlos couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. His thoughts didn’t just scatter—they shattered and scattered all over the place. All the restraints he’d been clinging to for months crumbled under his feet. He realized he wanted this closeness. No denying it now.
But he said nothing. Did nothing. He held him close a second too long, fingers curling slightly at Charles’ small waist before forcing himself to let go.
Just a greeting. That’s all it was. Something friendly. Careless. Habitual and not special. It wasn’t supposed to feel like this.
“Bryan’s looking for you,” Carlos managed, voice too rough, like he’d just done a 100-meter dash. “Said he needs to see you before he leaves.”
“Oh—shit,” Charles blinked, still off-balance. “Bryan, of course, I’ll talk to him, Carlos.” Then he was gone. One of his friends grabbed him back into the circle. Leaving Carlos with the throbbing heat on the corner of his lips.
He watched as Charles grinned again in their arms, like he had forgotten everything that had just happened, forgotten about him completely.
The heat turned bitter in his chest. He made his way back to his seat, slumped down. Lando turned to him and started chatting about something; he smiled and pretended to listen, while his whole mind went insane trying to forget.
But when he closed his eyes, he replayed Charles over and over again. Craving that touch more and more.
The Spanish sun beat down on the Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya, the air already thick with anticipation and heat by the time Carlos walked into the paddock on Friday morning. Sunglasses on, shoulders squared, he moved through the garage like a man made of stone—sharp, composed, unreadable.
But then Charles entered, charming with youthful spirit as always.
His hair was still a mess from travel, sunglasses perched lazily on his collar, and the entire Ferrari garage lit up around him.
“Ciao, Principessa!” one of the Italian engineers greeted, grinning. Yes, they treated him like a princess, of course.
“È principe, non principessa,” Charles fired back with a smirk, rolling his eyes but clearly basking in the attention.
Carlos walked past him, offering just a glance and a nod to acknowledge him, pretending it didn’t bother him. Pretending it didn’t touch that bitter part of him that still hadn’t settled after Monaco. Denying the fact that images of Charles were still fresh and vivid whenever he closed his eyes.
Carlos hadn’t spoken about it. He didn’t know if he could. Not during the long debriefs, not in hotel elevators, not in the blur of planes and sponsor events. And Charles—Charles was just being Charles. Smiling. Teasing. Acting like none of it had happened. Maybe it didn’t mean anything to him. It was, in fact, just a French thing. Carlos was sure he wasn’t drunk enough to wipe it from his memory. He just wanted an explanation as to why they hadn’t greeted like that before. Why then? Why now, when he was moving to a different team next year? He wanted clarity, not to suffer and hang there while going insane. He needed to focus; it was his home Grand Prix, after all.
FP1 came and went without incident. Carlos did well, better than Charles. The garage pulsed with the usual buzz—updates, tire switches, telemetry chatter—but underneath it all, Carlos felt a gnawing tension building in his chest. He saw the way Charles talked with their mechanics and Bryan, the casual way he leaned into people’s space, like he had no idea how much it affected others. Maybe he never really cared.
FP2 was better. Carlos pushed all thoughts aside and used that aggression as fuel to drive his car forward. Every time they passed each other on the track, Carlos’ grip on the wheel tightened. He could feel Charles in his mirrors, sense his rhythm. It wasn’t just racing anymore. It felt like chasing something he couldn’t name—or rather, trying to push it out of his mind. He was extra focused on keeping Charles out of his thoughts. He did well in the practice sessions, unlike Charles, who ended the session out of the top 10.
When they returned to the garage after the session, Charles followed a few steps behind.
“Fuck, Lando’s quick today, no? You weren’t so bad either.” Carlos didn’t say anything as he watched Charles match his pace while fixing his hair, as always. Normal. Casual. Come to think of it, he never really cared that much about practice sessions, which somehow irritated Carlos. How could he be so fine while Carlos was going insane over his every move?
He clenched his jaw and sat on a chair in the Ferrari motorhome.
Charles sat beside him, unzipping his race suit, making a passing comment about balance in Turn 9, and Carlos just said it.
“Lando always has a good pace. He’s honest and doesn’t fake shit. He’s simply better than you.”
Charles blinked, caught off guard. “What’s that supposed to mean?” He scoffed, staring at Carlos like he’d eaten something expired. “It’s clearly the car, mate. He made a lot of mistakes but still put up a great lap.”
“If he made a mistake, he would’ve admitted to it.” Carlos turned his head and stared right into his teammate’s eyes. Charles felt like this wasn’t about the race pace anymore. “And apologized or fixed it. He wouldn’t just forget and leave people hanging behind.”
The silence was instant. Tense.
Charles held his stare, his face going still, lips now tightened into a fine line. “Are you comparing me to Lando now?” His voice was flat, brittle around the edges.
Carlos shrugged, jaw clenched. “Just saying, he deserved to be at the top.” He saw Charles’ eyebrows knit together, lips slightly parted as if he wanted to say something, but then closed. His eyes turned icy dark green, as they always did whenever he was getting riled up. Instead, Charles stood, said nothing more, and walked away.
Carlos stared at his ice-cold back, retreating. Fuck.
And Carlos felt it—that twist in his gut. That regret. That stupid, stubborn ache. He shouldn’t have said it. That’s the problem with letting someone know you. You know which buttons to push to make them mad and piss them off. That’s exactly what he did, knowing full well it would hurt Charles, but he wanted to make him feel even a fraction of what Carlos was feeling.
He’d gone too far—and still not far enough.