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2026, British Grand Prix, Media Day, Ferrari Motorhome
The July weather in Britain could hardly be called pleasant, but at least there was no scorching sun driving people to dehydration. Charles reclined in the ergonomic chair inside the Ferrari motorhome, squinting his eyes like a cat napping lazily after a satisfying meal. The surrounding voices reached him as if filtered through a thick sheet of fabric. Having slept for over ten hours the night before, the Monegasque driver wasn't sleepy now, yet he had no desire to open his eyes and join the lively banter around him.
A group of engineers huddled together, discussing the modifications made to the car over the past week. A male voice with a distinct Italian accent muttered something complainingly—Charles didn't catch the exact words, but it was likely another concern regarding a technical bottleneck on Car 16. Meanwhile, his teammate—Lewis Hamilton, a legend of Formula 1—was leaning against the sofa on the other side, discussing the details of the fan meet-and-greet with his press officer. Silverstone was Lewis's home race, Charles thought hazily. This afternoon, Lewis would take the stage alongside the other British drivers to interact with his home crowd.
A "home race." Every driver dreamed of standing on the podium at home. Charles couldn't help but recall his disappointing Monaco Grand Prix, and then the nightmare of Austria just days ago. The highest step of the podium, the champagne, and the confetti all felt as distant as a fading dream. At that thought, Charles broke out in goosebumps like a cat catching a whiff of citrus peel, sinking his body deeper into the soft backrest.
Perhaps it was the comforting British sunlight streaming in, but thoughts of racing, standings, and competition suddenly felt far away. Charles found his mind wandering to an ice sphere melting in a cocktail.
An ice sphere... and then what was it?
A pair of ice-blue eyes, filled with intoxication and indescribable emotions, framed by long, slender brown eyelashes.
Charles snapped awake, opening his eyes to the bright blue Silverstone sky outside the window. For a moment, he thought he was still dreaming.
"Hey! Charles, are you alright? We're heading over to the stage now. Why don't you visit the stylist to fix your hair?" The press officer's voice snapped him out of his daze. A few staff members glanced over, offering their commentary on the Monegasque Serval's new hairstyle, prompting a burst of chuckles.
Charles pouted, trying to smooth his hair, only to realize it made no difference before resignedly walking into the dressing room. Facing the mirror, he repeated the expression he had just made: pulling the corners of his mouth outward into a slight pout.
Just like a blue-eyed Englishman. Charles wasn't sure when he had picked up this habit.
On the way to the main stage, Charles spotted George. He was leaning casually against the door of the Mercedes motorhome, chatting with his engineer, his eyebrows knitted tightly. The mischievous Silverstone wind blew his blue team kit tight against his body, outlining a slender silhouette underneath.
"His waist is really thin," was Charles's initial thought. But having seen what lay beneath that blue fabric in far more intimate detail, Charles let out a subtle curl of his lips as he kept walking.
Light blue really suits him better, though. In the final second before George's figure vanished from his line of sight, that was the only thought left in Charles's mind.
George quietly glanced sideways without letting anyone notice; he knew Charles was looking at him. Silently, he touched the back of his neck. A reddish-purple mark had been there a few months ago. It had completely faded by now, yet George still felt a sudden flush of heat there.
As for what had happened a few months ago... to put it simply, two drivers who had suffered terrible luck at the start of the season ended up drinking together during the spring break. After downing a mess of custom cocktails, George—who hadn't drunk much—found himself dealing with a tipsy Charles. The Monegasque was slurring about a newly collected bottle of Dom Pérignon, mumbling that using it for a year-end celebration was clearly off the table, and grabbing George's sleeve to drag him to his apartment to finish it right then. The Englishman rolled his eyes dramatically, swallowed the phrase "I feel like vomiting the moment I smell champagne right now" that was on the tip of his tongue, and unceremoniously shoved Charles into the back seat of his AMG. He then tipped the valet a stack of Euros to help him get Charles up to the apartment.
George Russell: an Englishman who refused to drink and drive, even if he had only consumed half a cocktail and Charles's apartment was barely a kilometer away.
What followed was the classic scenario everyone saw coming. The moment George shut the apartment door and tossed Charles onto the sofa, he was met with a pair of glowing green eyes staring straight at him—looking not the least bit drunk.
What ensued was a chaotic tussle between the two on the sofa. However, two tall men could hardly maneuver on a sofa, so Charles hauled George up and shoved him toward the main bedroom. Along the way, the waistband of George's underwear got caught on a door handle once, and they knocked over a crystal floor lamp in the hallway.
Men's words can never be trusted, especially men with downturned eyes, George thought as he was tossed onto the king-sized bed in the master bedroom, feeling like a wronged husband who had been tricked out of his virtue.
Then again, what else did he expect? Over their years together in the paddock, every time they embraced after a race, their hands would rest on each other's waists for an unnaturally long time. Whenever they bumped into each other in the media pen, they would tenderly squeeze the other's hip. Or on the drivers' parade truck, they would lean shoulder-to-shoulder, looking just like the magnetic plush toy pair a fan had gifted them at the Shanghai Grand Prix. My dear George, did you really think Charles extended an invitation with a face that could make women weep and men faint just to play Goat Simulator at his place?
2026, British Grand Prix, Race Day
Silverstone treated the drivers with utmost generosity that year: clear skies, bright sunshine, and agreeable temperatures. Charles stood in the garage adjusting his race suit. Less than 24 hours prior, he had secured P2 in the Silverstone qualifying session, which virtually guaranteed him a podium finish and a strong shot at victory.
What worried him slightly now was something else—George, in the neighboring garage, had struggled with poor car performance throughout both the sprint and qualifying, and his straight-line speed was painfully slow. When George took off his helmet yesterday, Charles had caught sight of his clenched jaw, protruding slightly under beads of sweat trapped by the helmet.
But this was the racetrack, and they were drivers competing for rival top-tier teams. What Charles ought to worry about was whether Ferrari had a shot at a 2-3 finish, or even aiming higher. If George were to threaten his position on track, he wouldn't show a shred of mercy.
Charles firmly snapped his visor shut. He said nothing; he could say nothing.
During the final few laps under the safety car, George steadily appeared in the rear-view mirror of Car 16. The British Grand Prix had turned almost absurdly dramatic. Charles was happy for George, though a wave of bitterness washed over him when he thought of his teammate, who possessed four brand-new tires yet had no room to put them to use.
When he finally pulled into the P1 parking spot, Charles felt his heart pounding heavily against his chest. Not far off, a striking splash of bright blue walked purposefully toward him. George paused for half a second in front of Charles, likely debating what posture would make a hug look more natural. But the new champion gave him no time to ponder; he reached out directly and wrapped his arms around George's waist with an unyielding firmness. By the time George reacted, his own hands were already resting on Charles's shoulders. Despite being half a head taller, George looked as if he were being held tightly in an embrace, resembling a pair of synchronized dance partners from afar.
They stood close together, their helmets lightly tapping against each other with a soft, muted thud. Through the clear visors, they could see into each other's eyes. Charles suddenly felt as though he were kissing George right in front of countless cameras, a tingling sensation spreading across the back of his neck.
"Congratulations," George murmured at a volume meant only for the two of them. Charles didn't speak; he simply curved his eyes, gazing into those ice-blue eyes until George cleared his throat awkwardly and turned back toward his team, pretending as if nothing had happened.
On the podium, Charles tilted his head back to soak in the rare Silverstone sunshine, feeling pleasantly lightheaded. In that moment, he felt like a king being crowned on this land, and usually, seated to the king's right side—
He stole a sideways glance. George looked somewhat unenthusiastic, perhaps weighed down by concerns over the car's future trajectory or something else entirely. But right now, Charles could only think that he was absurdly beautiful.
The champagne in George's hand was sprayed first toward his left. The golden liquid sliced through the air, drenching the champion's wet shoulders and back, with droplets splashing into his mouth and onto his ears. Charles felt bubbles dancing on his tastebuds, and in his ears as well, as if hearing things through a distant, hazy mist of water. He stared blankly at the pair of blue eyes before him until an engineer walked over to remind him it was time for the group photo.
Charles snapped back to reality—yet the sensation of those bubbles remained beneath the tip of his tongue, and his ears still felt wet to the touch.
After the race, George Russell received a very brief WhatsApp message from Charles Leclerc. It consisted merely of a hotel name, a room number, and a winking emoji.
George didn't reply immediately—he didn't want to seem overly eager. But actions speak louder than words. He picked up the razor resting in his water glass, placed it by the sink, and hummed a few upbeat notes while lathering the shaving cream, looking like a wealthy lady meticulously dressing up for a banquet.
When the race ended, George hadn't quite understood why he had instinctively placed his hands on Charles's shoulders. But now, he knew. The well-built Monegasque man before him, after softly coaxing him a couple of times not to move, had long lost his patience. Switching to a more direct approach, he pinned George firmly onto the crisp white bedsheets with his calloused hands. Any slight disadvantage Charles had in height was completely erased by his muscular frame. Under the dim, warm light, George felt as though a mountain were pressing down upon him, leaving him with no choice but to rest his hands on Charles's shoulders to anchor himself amidst the surging tide.
Memories burst one by one in George's mind like champagne bubbles. He finally realized that his subtle gesture in the parc fermé earlier that day was merely the lingering sweet aftertaste of that wild, uninhibited night.