#effervescentdragonwrites
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Not one of the prompts you reblogged but one I’ve had in my notes for months that I think you could do something amazing and awful with!
“We’re never going to have a happy ending, remember that.” - whatever pairing sparks joy angst.
i love you. how about,, uh, all of them?
1994
"Ayrton, I don't know what you want from me," he says, head in his hand, the one that isn't holding the receiver. "I'm not coming back, I'm not your punching back, there is nothing -"
Ayrton interrupts him. He's never learned not to take what he wants. He's never learned not to stomp over everything he feels may be in the way.
'Do you think you can be happy, not racing me? I don't think you can.' He laughs, and Alain despises that laugh. It's derisive and it grates on his ears through the phone. He should hang up. 'I can't be happy racing without you. You can't be happy without me either, Alain, I am right about this.'
He says it like a declaration; there is no question to be found anywhere. Ayrton doesn't ask. He states, and he takes, and Alain shouldn't pick up the phone anymore.
"There will never be a happy ending for us, Ayrton." He presses the palm of his hand into his eye until he sees stars. "We made sure of it."
Ayrton says nothing. Alain tries to breathe.
Neither of them hang up for a long, long time after.
2001
"I won't stay," Mika says.
Michael scoffs. "I don't want you to stay."
There is nothing to do after such a blatant, shitty, petulant lie except to laugh. So Mika laughs and doesn't let himself hear the anger underneath it.
"You're full of shit, Michael," he says.
"And you're a coward who's leaving, Mika," Michael replies, his smile as sharp as a knife. "Can't take serious competition?"
Mika could say so many things then. He could say I hate you and Fuck you, you bastard and You were never competition to me and I don't care about this anymore and You were never important to me.
He's too tired to lie. His body hurts, and his head is pounding, and his heart... his heart is doing something too. Something he doesn't want to think about too much.
"This isn't a movie, Michael," he says in the end. "There is no 'happily ever after' in racing." He chuckles, rubs his fist over his sternum. "We either lose or die in the end." Sometimes both, he doesn't say. There's no need. He sees in Michael's face that he knows.
"Well," he says with that big, boyish smile Mika has loved since he first saw it a decade ago, and which he still loves as much as he loves being in the car on track, "I am going to live forever."
Mika shakes his head. "You will." He smiles; not a lie. "Of course you will."
Michael grins, and pushes at Mika's knee with his own, and they stay silent. There's no need to speak anymore.
There was rarely need for them to speak anyway. Some things, they just understood.
2016
Nico pushes Lewis away. "Just - fucking move," he says, because he feels like he could either kiss Lewis or break his fucking nose if he stays too close. "I decided, and it's over, Lewis, it's done." He swallows. "I'm done."
Lewis is furious. He's not even trying to hide it and that pissess Nico off majorly. He's been hiding his fucking heartbreak for ages. He's been smiling for the cameras and holding his hands in his pockets or in his lap so nobody wohld see them shake, and he's been meditating on what he would say so he doesn't come.off too broken and too tired and too defeated - and he won, he fucking won - and Lewis can't even do him the courtesy of pretending for a little bit? He can't even allow Nico the common cordiality after - after everything; no, of course not. He has to come in here with all his usually tightly hidden emotions on display and put them all on Nico, throw them all into Nico's face, like a reprimand, like a punishment. You won, now deal with this.
Fuck you, Lewis, he thinks, and says "Did you think I was going to stay?" He scoffs. "Did you think I'll come back to have you try and take away this from me through another year like this one has been?"
He watches Lewis' eyes widen in guilt. I know you, Nico thinks viciously. I know you better than anyone. Fuck you. Fuck you for fucking all of this up for me and for both of us.
"There will be no happy ending, victorious narrative where you 'regain your crown' or whatever the fuck next year." He smiles, and Lewis' nosteils flare. "You lose."
Lewis says nothing for a moment. When he laughs, it's the most awful sound Nico has ever heard in his life; metal scraping into a wall and head hitting concrete and suffocation of a too-tight cockpit when you can't get out because your belt is stuck, all together screaming in cacophony.
"You lose too," he says finally. "You lose. Coward."
Nico tries to smile but everything is too distorted and he doesn't know if he manages. "Yes, but I lose by default, and not to you. And you won't win against me."
Lewis breathes in sharply. Nico watches him tap his fingers on his thigh. One, two, three, he counts, like he knows Lewis does in his head, a long-ago learned technique that they both use.
"Fuck you, Nico," Lewis grits through his teeth, and when he moves, Nico is there to meet him halfway and shut him up with a kiss.
#this is... yeah#sorry#pure angst#f1 rpf#prosenna#makkinen#brocedes#i may add a coda at some point but uh yeah#effervescentdragonwrites#my writing
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As Time Goes By for @milflewis 💖
Roy doesn't get it.
Happy Birthday Niamh. Mo ghrá thú.
#carraville#football rpf#enjoy around 10k of roy's pov as he tries to figure out whats wrong w these two#the answer is. a lot#ANYWAYS#my writing#effervescentdragonwrites#i wrote this sad in 2 days. i hope it doesnt show.#one! braincell bestie
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because this was the first thing i saw when i woke up, and i can't not 🙈
"Bye-bye Honda," Pecco says and Mark's heart speeds up.
"No, why?" he says with a laugh that wants to stop in his throat, but he's had training, he's been doing this for too long to react in any meaningful way. Jorge is laughing, but he's keeping quiet, thankfully. Pecco is a fucking bastard, but Marc can take a joke, even when it's not a joke at all.
Pecco doesn't stop there. Of course he doesn't, the fucking asshole.
"Look, it's the -" Marc sees him wave his hands around, a grin on his face that doesn't bode well. "It's the kiss of Valentino."
Marc's heart stops.
Everybody laughs, including Marc. It doesn't matter that he feels like he's shaking, the pressure in his chest pressing like a bike when it falls on you fully. Everybody laughs, because they're supposed to laugh. It's all for fun. It's all teasing. It's all good sport. Marc wants to wring Pecco's fucking head off but he smiles, the media smile, the half-confused smile, the wide one. The one that says I don't know what this is about but I'm being a good sport about it.
The journalist asks them another question and they push ahead with the interview. There is one downside to the fact that Marc has been doing this for years, and that's that he doesn't need to focus on being interviewed. It's background noise for him, and he follows the talk with no problem.
The whole time, his mind is turning and his heart, shocked into a stop like it always is when he heards that fucking name, has decided to go into opposite direction. The thump of his heart makes it difficult to breathe, but he does. It's what he does. He is Marc Marquez, and he perseveres.
The kiss from Valentino. He'd scoff if he could. Pecco has always been a bastard, but now that he's won, he's even worse. Then again, he's learned from the best, didn't he.
Kiss from Valentino. Marc knows what Pecco is talking about. It's what Vale - he was Vale back then, Vale to Marc, but not anymore, not for a long time now - what Valentino did before he signed with Ducatti. Marc remembers watching Vale going down on his knees and kissing his Yamaha. He remembers the shock of Valentino going to Ducatti. He remembers Vale's frustration with Ducatti for those two years after.
He remembers other things, too.
Marc doesn't know how much Pecco knows. The VR46 Academy boys are a tight knit group, and they all adore Valentino. Of course they do. They're not special in that. Marc adores him too, whenever he doesn't despise him.
He doesn't know how much Pecco knows, but he hopes he doesn't know everything.
"A kiss from Valentino Rossi," Vale had said, "how does it feel?" he had asked, and Marc had laughed, high-pitched and nervous, and leaned in to kiss Vale again. Vale's palm fit perfectly on his face, and his kisses made Marc feel more drunk than any alcohol he consumed.
"Pretty good," he'd said as Vale kissed his way down Marc's neck, "but I need to test it some more to give my final opinion."
Vale had chuckled and pulled back. "You always want more, huh?" Marc had shrugged, and smiled, and pulled Vale closer. "Always," he'd said between the kisses, "what's the point otherwise?"
Vale had said nothing to that, but his eyes were amused and fond. It's been a long time since he looked at Marc like that, but in his memory, Vale only shakes his head and lowers himself down to his knees.
Marc doesn't know how much Pecco knows. He forces himself out of the memory and catches Jorge looking at him. He's not sure what Jorge knows. These days, it seems he is unsure of everything.
He turns his head back to the cameras, and fixes his smile, and ignores his heart, and answers the journalist's question.
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Carra whump is so underrated like I so desperately need a beat up Carra being tended to by Gnev. Bonus points if he was brawling defending Gnev’s honour.
i had a certain au in mind but that one isn't really ripe for picking in my mind, however i saw this art of yours this morning in between my slumbers and, well. i really hope you like this <3
"Gaz, lay off - lay off, shit - ow, ow, c'mon -"
"Carra, I swear to fuckin' God, shut the fuck up you baby, you brought this on ya self -"
"Youse could be a bit gentler -"
"Then move your head, I can't get to the cut and it's still fuckin' bleedin', 's not stoppin -"
"Ah, it's nothin'. Might leave a scar, though, how cool would that be, just -"
"Shut the fuck up, James!"
Jamie shuts up, because Gary actually yells at him, loud and proper. The breath he sucks in after is shaky, his lips pinched and his eyebrows furled, but when Jamie looks into his eyes, they're... they're huge, and Jamie doesn't know what that means.
"Gary?" Jamie says quietly, his burst lip opening up again. He feels it start to bleed again and he licks the iron, not wanting Gary to get even more upset. "Gary, lad, I'm -"
"Don't call me lad, I'm older than you." Gary scowls. The paper towel in his hand makes a reappearance, and Gary's touch is surprisingly gentle when he dabs against Jamie's lip.
"Not taller, though," Jamie says on reflex. He's had a growth spurt from one summer to the other in his teens, and now, at nineteen, he towers over Gary for the third year in a row.
Well, usually he towers over Gary. Not right this moment, though.
Now, he's sat on the edge of the tub in Gary's upstairs bathroom as Gary tries to deal with the mess that's Jamie's face after the fight. Gary himself hasn't been hurt; Gary hadn't even been there. He'd got to the alley just as that piece of shit John threw the final kick, and seeing Gary, him and his two friends gunned it out of there like there was no tomorrow. Gary'd screamed at them, fiery as always and fully prepared to beat up high school kids, if the furious way he was swearing was any indication, but Jamie'd tried to move and groaned in pain. That distracted Gary thoroughly and completely.
"They aren't aren't in," he explained as he half-dragged, half-carried Jamie to his Aunt's house. "They're with the kids, some camp this whole week and I came in earlier than I was supposed to. Aunt Linda left the key for me, thought I could use some alone time away from my folks on my break," he'd said. "I already hate this town and it hates me, how the fuck am I supposed to rest when the first thing I see is your arse being kicked by some kids?"
"There was three of them," Jamie had tried to protest, but Gary scowled at him and told him to shut up and sit hii ass down so he could see how badly he was hurt.
That brought them to this; Jamie sitting on the edge of the bathtub and Gary looking down at him after cleaning his face with some alcohol and gauze. Jamie's head hurts, and he's pretty sure there's something wrong with his ribs, but Gary is fretting and he is mad - maybe at Jamie, probably, he's always mad at Jamie these days - and he is so, so cute when he's all commanding and taking charge. Jamie understands why he's the captain of the Under 21s.
"Where else are you hurt?" Gary asks, his hand tracing Jamie's busted brow, as if unthinking of the action, and Jamie suddenly also understands that his adolescent crush might not have been as far away in the past as it used to be. "Tell me."
Jamie's left hand is on Gary's waist. He's acutely aware of that fact, because he grabbed onto Gary for support when Gary started cleaning his face. He wants to hold on, but he makes himself let go.
"I'm fine, leave it. You fixed me up as well as possible, and I'll be -"
"Jamie." Jamie stops, again, because Gary doesn't call him Jamie anymore, not like before, when Jamie was fourteen and Gary was seventeen and the best football player Jamie knew and a friend and larger than life. These days it's all wrong, or it feels like it's all wrong. It's Carra when he's in a good mood and James when he's mad, and Jamie doesn't know what to do with this, or with the soft little, "Please."
He looks up at Gary. He's still larger than life, somehow. His eyes are still huge and a beautiful brown colour.
"My ribs," he says, equally quietly. "That cunt got a kick in at the end, and I don't think they're broken -"
"Take off your shirt."
Jamie tries not to react, but the tone Gary uses and the words, put together... Jamie's acutely aware he's not looking at Gary and that his face feels hot as he obeys. He's slow in taking of his dirty shirt. It's red, so at least the blood doesn't show. He drops it on the floor and closes his eyes as Gary bends over, then goes on his knees in front of Jamie to better look at his ribs.
Jamie takes one look down and shuts his eyes tightly enough he sees spots playing in the darkness behind his lids.
Cold fingers press against his skin. "Does this hurt?" Jamie shakes his head, and Gary continues pressing until he finds the place that makes Jamie wince. "That's what I thought. I don't think they're broken, but ya gotta take it easy for a while."
Jamie nods. Gary's fingers are warming up on Jamie's skin. "Aye, captain," he tries to put some scorn in his tone, but he knows it all comes out wrong. He still hasn't opened his eyes.
He hears Gary shuffling and huffing. His breathing is erratic and he leans on Jamie's thigh in support as he gets up. Jamie forces himself to open his eyes.
Mistake. Gary is staring at him like he wants to see inside Jamie's mind. "Why were you fighting?" he asks. His shirt is white. There's dirt on one side, in the shape of Jamie's fingertips. Jamie knows how soft the material is, and how soft Gary's waist is under it.
"They were talkin' shit," Jamie says. It's cold in the bathroom, but he's running hot. "I couldn't let them get away with it."
Gary rolls his eyes. "You talk shit, Carra, you should know how it goes. The fuck did they say to you to make ya think it's a good idea to fight three of them?"
"There were only two when I threw the first punch," Jamie corrects, and Gary lets out a giggle.
"You're an idiot," he says, and there is a little smile in the corner of his mouth that he can't hide. "You could've got seriously hurt, and then what? You'd lose the place in the squad, you just wrote me they're letting you debut for the first team, you idiot! Nothing they said is worth missing that shot, James, I told you to keep your temper, I told you it'll get ya into trouble, and I was right, look at your face now, all busted up -"
"What, am I not handsome anymore?" Jamie grins, his lip hurting like hell but worth it to see Gary scowl again. "I'm still the handsomest bastard youse've seen -"
"Bastard is right, ya' idiot, to miss a chance because of fightin' -"
"But hadsome? Rugged, wouldn't ye say -"
"I'd said it a million times and I'mma say it again, only an idiot would risk the first team for fightin' -"
"Well I was fighting for ye honour, so catch me doing that again when all it gets me is bein' called an idiot!"
Jamie doesn't think when he says it. Him and Gary had always bantered, quick as whips both of them, and Jamie had always enjoyed it a bit too much to truly think about all the shit he's saying when he's winding Gary up.
"My - what?" Gary looks like someone's struck him. "My honour? What the fuck're you talkin' 'bout?"
Jamie says nothing. He's got nothing to say, or at least nothing that won't break something between him and Gary. It's all wrong these days, with Gary staring for United and Jamie on his way to be starting for Liverpool. There's a difference, a distance there ever since he switched from blue to red. It's not something they've ever talked about but... Jamie remembers. He remembers kids in red jerseys surrounding Gary, big kids, bigger than Gary was back then and much bigger than Jamie. He remembers the taunts and the words that his Ma told him never to repeat if he doesn't want her to wash his mouth out with soap. He remembers Gary's look when Jamie kicked the ball back to him on the playground, and how his frown disappeared when he saw his blue jersey when Jamie was eleven. He remembers the frown deepening when Jamie came to their playground in a red jersey for the first time.
"James," Gary says, and both his voice and his eyes are serious. "What did they say?"
Jamie clenches his fists. "Nothing, Gaz. Leave it alone, I didn't mean to say it, just ignore me."
Gary is still looking at him, and Jamie hates how fucking beautiful Gary's eyes are. Hates how much he likes when Gary smiles, lines appearing around them when he laughs at Jamie's stupid jokes. Hates how fragile Gary looks in the bad bathroom lights, like Jamie could break him with one word. Hates how much he wants to feel how that stupid barely-there moustache would feel against his skin. Hates how he knows they don't have that much time anymore, to fuck around with the ball every summer like they've been doing so far. Hates that he knows a darby is inevitable. Hates how he can recognize Gary's smell, even over the alcohol and the blood. Hates how much he just - wants.
Gary furrows his brows, then seems to decide on something. He lets the dirty towel fall on the floor as he steps closer between Jamie's legs, and the movement startles Jamie so much he grabs for Gary's waist with both hands this time. He swallows, grasping onto the white shirt, his breathing a lot heavier.
Gary's hand is shaking when he brings it down to trace the bruise on Jamie's cheek he can feel forming. "Jamie," Gary says, and it isn't fair, how much that one word affects him. "Jamie, were you defending me? Is that why you got hurt?"
Jamie swallows around his dry throat again. His whole body is hurting. His whole body feels like he's on fire. He can feel Gary's heat over the material of the shirt, where his fingers press down.
"I'm no prince charming," he says, stupidly, nonsensically. Gary smiles, and Jamie's startled to realise he hasn't seen that kind of smile on Gary in a while.
"No, you aren't," Gary says. His other hand rests on Jamie's shoulder. "But you're pretty charming, all ruggedly handsome, you."
Jamie tears his eyes away from Gary's lips to look into his eyes. It feels too hot in the little bathroom. Gary's fingers splay across Jamie's neck. It feels like the whole world is pausing. Jamie feels like he can't breathe. He tightens his hold on Gary's waist, maybe pulls him closer. He doesn't really know. None of this makes sense.
Turns out, he can breathe.
He takes the next breath right from Gary's lips, soft and hesitant and hotter than anything he's ever felt before. The angle is awkward but he realises he can hug Gary close and -
"- for fuck's sake Jamie, I can taste blood, I busted your lip, sorry -"
"Nah," Jamie grins, opening his eyes. "Fuck it. Bust it again," he says, and pulls Gary in.
#sooooooo#no idea what this is. i hope you enjoy it#carraville#football rpf#my writing#effervescentdragonwrites#i just think theyre both dumbasses#and should kiss abt it. so they do#this is all i did today#tell me what you think pls? 🥺
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10. "I miss you every day." Sebchal 💖
"- yeah I think he's in Chile now," Lewis says, leaning on the fence, his face turned up to the sun. "Kayaking or something."
Lando laughs and so do Valtteri and Pierre. "Good life, eh?" Valtteri says.
"If I had four championships I'd go kayaking too," Lando adds.
Charles smiles, because that's expected of him. Pierre says nothing, but he does move closer to Charles.
"Retirement suits him, I think," Lewis says. Charles can't see his eyes behind his sunglasses. "Or so it seems."
"You think he'll be back?" Lando asks. Valtteri shakes his head. Lewis shrugs. Lando turns to Charles, obviously wanting an answer from him.
"I - I don't think so," he says, keeping the smile on. There's nothing for him here, nothing he wants and can get, he doesn't say.
"He would hate Vegas," Pierre laughs. "All the show, he would hate it."
They all start talking then, reminiscing, or maybe conjecture, but Charles can't hear them anymore.
He'd love the casinos, he thinks. He loved the ones in Monaco. He almost lost his car that one night. He'd love all the gold everywhere. May even wear golden shoes, or a silly hat. A fedora. He'd love the music, the classics that I never heard of. He'd love the party, would probably drink either that vile Jäger or a Red Bull vodka. He'd taste like Red Bull when I kiss him. He'd leave sparkles all over the bed and my skin. He'd hate everything else, though. He'd hate the racing. He hates it already. He's hated it for too long.
He smiles at the crowd, his eyes tearing up in the sun under his RayBans.
-
One (1) unsent message.
To: Seb
i miss you everyday
-
One (1) unsent message.
To: Charles Leclerc
Want to go hiking in December?
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Any pairing+ Soulmate AU where you feel your soulmate’s heart beating alongside your own?
"It's not a congenital anomaly," the doctor days, and Charles sees maman stumble and fall into papa's embrace. "There is nothing wrong with his heart, I assure you of that." The doctor chances a look at him, and Charles is pretty sure the smile she gives him isn't completely sincere. "I would like to speak with you in private, though, just so you know what you can expect."
Maman kisses his forehead and papa hugs him, and then they're following the doctor out. Lolo stays with him, sitting on Charles' hospital bed and tugging on his hair when Charles keeps looking at his palms.
"It will be okay, bebè," Lolo says, and his hand in Charles' is warm. "You'll be back to karting in no time."
"You promise?" Charles raises his head, meeting his brother's eyes. "I - I was winning, and then my heart started doing that weird thing, and then I saw that Pear crashed, and I couldn't - I didn't know -"
"Hey, it's okay," Lolo says and pulls Charles closer into an embrace. Charles wouldn't let Lolo hug him if someone could see them, but nobody is here, and his brother is calm and steady when he says "It will all be okay. I promise."
--
"It's a myth," Pierre says, and Charles wants to punch him for maybe the third time in their lives. "That's like - that would be like believing in magic. And there is no magic." He snorts. "Or Ferrari would have won a championship already." He nudges Charles with his elbow. "Right, calamar?"
Fuck you, Charles thinks. Fuck you, Pear, my soulmate's heart is beating as hard as mine is now, like they are lying to someone about something, like they are scared, I know what they feel like when they are scared, I feel them almost all the time except when we're in sync, except just before we fall asleep, fuck you, Ferrari will win, I will win for Ferrari, fuck you, they are my soulmate, they are the other half of my soul and you're my best friend and you don't even believe in this, and fuck you.
"We should go back, boys," Lolo says like nothing is wrong. "Your parents will have my head if I don't bring you back from the beach in time for lunch."
"Food!" Arthur yells and barrels into Charles, effectively cutting off his stare-off with Pierre. "Come on, Charlo, maybe we get madeleines!"
Arthur grabs his hand and pulls him towards where theor parents are, and Charles goes without another word. He doesn't think about the confusion in Pierre's eyes, or how Pierre reached to rub his chest as Charles stayed silent, masking the movement by grabbing his cross. He especially doesn't think about how, even when his own heart calms down, his soulmate's beat stays irregular, and fast, and fluttery.
--
Charles is excited, more excited than he thinks he will be when he himself finally makes it to F1 next year, if all goes well. Or maybe not, not really, but Pierre is in Malaysia, and he's in his Toro Rosso, and he's about to race in Formula One for the first time, and Charles - Charles is watching, and waiting, and praying for it all to go well.
Lolo is sitting on his right and Arthur is on his left, and they will both come with him to Spain next week, but right now they are both pressing into Charles' sides as he watches the screen. The formation lap is done, and Charles takes a deep breath.
In. Out. In. Lights out.
The constant heartbeat next to his is steady right up until it isn't; right up until the lights on the circuit go out.
Away we go.
He doesn't know when it is that he grabs Lolo's hand, but Lolo lets him. One look at his brother confirms to Charles what he didn't ever dare think of, much less admit.
"It's okay," Lolo whispers to him when Arthur starts yelling at the screen and maman laughs at him. "It will be okay."
My soulmate doesn't believe in our bond, he said so himself, Charles wants to say, how can it be okay? How can you even say that?
"Charles, it will be okay. I promise."
Charles wants to believe his brother. He holds his hand and watches Pierre on the screen instead.
--
"I knew you could do it," Pierre whispers in the darkness. Both their eyes are filled with tears, and they shouldn't be together, but Charles begged and pleaded and threatened until he got what he wanted and what Pierre needed. Two of them in bed in Belgium, as rain is falling down like God's punishment from a story Charles only vaguely remembers from church and as both their hearts are breaking over and over again.
"I did it for him," Charles whispers back, and Pierre's hand in his tightens.
"He'd be proud," is all Pierre has strength left to say, and then he cries, and Charles cries with him, and the nights stretches in front of them like a neverending track.
Charles does not fall asleep until he is certain that the other heartbeat in his chest is finally as calm as his. Only then does he close his eyes, and begs for dawn to come.
--
"I knew it wasn't you," Pierre whispers wildly into Charles' ear. "I knew it couldn't have been you, I knew it, they wouldn't tell me but I knew, Charles, Charles," he keeps repeating, and Charles holds him tighter, grateful that - just grateful.
"I'm okay," he replies, and holds on, and listens to the frantic beat of the other heartbeat in his chest. "I'm okay, I promise, I'm okay, it's okay, we're all okay."
"I don't care - you - you're okay, it wasn't you," Pierre keeps saying, and Charles' own panic subsides alongside Pierre's. "You're okay."
"You can't get rid of me that easily, Pierrot," he tries to joke, but it's awkward, and stupid, and innapropriate. Pierre snorts nonetheless.
"I don't want to be rid of you," he says softly, and Charles' heart speeds up. Pierre chuckles into Charles' neck, and his beard tickles Charles. "Calm down, calamar," he says, "Grosjean is okay, we're all okay, and you have one final chance to outdrive Seb. Breathe, Charles," Pierre says, and Charles, somehow, magically, does.
--
"That's how I found him," Este's girlfriend says. "My heart would do weird things at weird times, but it was usually on Saturdays and Sundays. It just so happened I stumbled upon him on a racetrack my friends dragged me to, and when he crashed, well..." she trails off, and Este pulls her closer and kisses her hair. "I knew it had to be him. They made me look at all the drivers on the grid and asked me who the most handsome one was, and I picked him even after I saw Lewis!"
Everybody laughs at that, and Charles laughs along with them. His whole heart aches, and he can barely take it, but he won't make a scene. All the PR training he received from Ferrari is good for one thing, it seems, and that's pretending he is alright while his soul tears itself apart.
"And you feel hers, too?" Pierre asks Este. There is no animosity in his voice, no snideness, just genuine curiosity. Este's eyes meet Charles', but Charles doesn't know why. He's never told Este about his - thing.
"Sometimes," Esteban says slowly. "Usually when she is upset, or very happy. When there's extreme emotion involved."
"That's weird," Charles says before he can stop himself. When he looks over at Pierre, he blushes, he knows he does, but he decides to prwtend nothing is amiss. "I just meant, isn't it supposed to feel the same - equal for both of you?"
Esteban looks down at his girlfr - soulmate, who is giving Charles a look that borders on pity. Charles decides to pretend he doesn't see it.
"I think - and this is just my theory, so I'm not sure if it's right, but," she hesitates, and Charles doesn't miss how Esteban's hand on her hip tightens. "I have lost - my parents are gone, have been for a while, and the accident that took them took my brother too. I don't - I have lost many people I've loved," she says, and there is a smile on her face despite her obviously teary eyes. "I think that the universe - or God, or whatever, I think it gave me - reassurance. Because I need it more than Este," she says, and Charles almost stops breathing. "I need to know he is here, and this way, I can."
Esteban lowers his head and kisses her hair again, and Charles sees it in her eyes, how she must know, how she must understand, at least some things if not all, and he murmurs something and thanks her and pretends he has to leave before Pierre can say anything, before Charles starts to scream, before he is forced to admit how weak he is in front of his oldest friends, how pathetic, in front of Esteban who was there for most of it, and the wonderful girl who was the other half of his soul, and in front of his oldest, best friend, his soulmate, who doesn't even believe in the concept. So before Pierre even manages to get the first syllable of his name out, Charles is already gone.
--
"Take a picture of us," Pierre says to Joris, and puts his arm around Charles. He smells so good, and Singapore is warm and wet, and Pierre is close and radiating contentment and heat, and Charles knows his heart skips a beat, and another. Before he knows, the picture is taken, and Pierre is looking at him strangely. Charles forces himself not to blush, and ducks his head, and wills his stupid heart to calm down.
"Good food and good friends, as a caption, what do you think, calamar?" Pierre asks suddenly, and Charles startles feom his thoughts. He searches for the second heartbeat in his chest, but it's - it's calm, and steady, ony a flutter here and there, and he swallows around the lump in his throat and makes himself smile and look straight into Pierre's eyes as he nods.
"Whatever you want, Pear, just make sure I look good."
"You always look beautiful," Pierre says matter-of-factly, and his mouth widens into a grin just as Charles finally loses the battle with his blush and just as his own heart starts an irregular, abberant rhythm.
--
"We can't," Charles moans and pulls Pierre closer.
"We can, and we will," Pierre replies and his mouth is on Charles', and his cross is pressed against Charles' skin where his shirt is torn and unbottoned, and his hips press into Charles', and one of his palms is raising Charles' leg to his hip and the other is locked on Charles' cheekbone, caressing it gently as he plunders Charles' mouth, and it's heaven and it's hell and Charles has wanted him for so long, but it's -
"You - you don't - I have to tell you, ah," Charles' protests get cut off when Pierre lowers his face to Charles' neck and bites down, and Charles whimpers and throws his head back and holds on, and it's so good, of course it is, but Pierre doesn't know -
"Pear, you, listen, fuck, ah, yes, more, no - no, listen," Charles tries again, and something in his voice must come through to Piwrre because he kisses Charles' collarbone and then stops.
"Charles," Pierre says, and his eyes are dark, and his lips are swollen, and he is beautiful, and Charles doesn't know how to tell him, doesn't want to ruin it, doesn't - "Close your eyes."
Charles blinks in confusion. Pierre smiles, and kisses Charles quickly, and chuckles when Charles tries to follow his lips. "Close your eyes, Charlo, and trust me, yes?"
Charles closes his eyes without hesitation this time. Pierre takes Charles' right hand in his and moves it to his chest, right above where his heart is. "Listen, Charles," he whispers. "Listen."
Charles can hear Pierre's breathing, shallow and fast, and the way Pierre tries to control it. He can hear the voices from the street below, but they fade away very quickly.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump-thump. Thump. Thump. Thump-thump.
Charles listens, and listens, and listens, until his hands starts shaking and his lips part in a quiet gasp, because the heart he feels underneath his fingers and the heartbeat he has felt in his chest for his whole life are both beating in the same rhythm.
Thump-thump-thump. Thump. Thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump-thump.
"You know," Charles whispers. He keeps his eyes closed, because he doesn't want to open them. Doesn't want to see. Doesn't want this to end.
"I know." He can feel Pierre's breath on his lips. "Do you know?"
Charles knows many things. He knows he will be Ferrari driver until the end. He knows he will be a world champion one day. He knows he has been in love with his best friend since he knew what love was. He knows he only ever felt this way when he was racing. Most of all, he knows he is not a coward, no matter how fast his heart is racing, no matter how scared he is that the second heartbeat in his chest and the one under his palm are the same one. Charles is not a coward. He is a racing driver, and he always, always, goes for the gap.
"Oh, I know."
Charles opens his eyes, and smiles.
#piarles#f1 rpf#effervescentdragonwrites#my writing#everyone blame katie actually. she started the competition#soulmate au#idk what this is i have travel anxiety and cant sleep#pardon the mistakes#actually no fuck it i just wrote this in like an hour. i own up to my mistakes xD
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brocedes + 6:39 am
It's 6.39 AM and Lewis can't sleep.
That's not accurate. He hasn't been able to sleep throughout the whole night. He dozed off last night, a little nap around 10 PM. He was supposed to go out to some club, but when he woke up it was already past one and he didn't feel like moving. His phone showed him too many missed calls and messages, but he didn't feel like dealing with them, so he just - didn't. He got up, went to the bathroom to brush his teeth, and he went back to bed to go back sleep.
It didn't happen.
Nothing was bothering him and everythibg was bothering him. The contract extension, the car, the season. His team, his teammate, his boss. Everything was fine and it was all shit and Lewis couldn't sleep because all was fine and all was absolute shit. He tossed and turned. He played music. He lay in silence. He meditated.
None of it helped even a lick.
So it's 6.39 and Lewis is in the elevator in his running gear, because maybe if he goes for a run and sees the sun rising over Monaco he'll feel better and he may finally sleep. Perhaps. He has obligations today, too many messages to answer, and an agreement to go get lunch with Seb, who was also in Monaco for some reason he hasn't yet shared with Lewis.
It's 6.39 and the elevator door opens and before Lewis can take a step forward, Nico is there.
There is a smile on his face and Lewis' stomach does that twisting thing it always does when they stumble upon each other, given that they still live in the same building, no matter that Lewis usually isn't in Monaco.
(He should move. It's somehow never a priority.)
Nico's hair is mussed up and his collar is crooked. It's obvious that he was just coming home from partying. His eyes widen a little when he sees Lewis.
"Oh," he breathes more than says, and Lewis knows he's taken aback. "Lewis. Good morning."
Nico's voice is flat. He rolls his shoulders but doesn't move. Lewis blinks. There is a hickey on the side of Nico's neck, barely visible and half covered by Nico's shirt. It's a nice shirt. Lewis thinks it's Armani.
"Good morning," Lewis says. "Good party last night?"
He doesn't know why he asks. He hadn't slept and he isn't thinking.
There are lines on Nico's face when he smiles now. "Yes," he chuckles. "Very... productive."
That can mean anything. Lewis is too tired to try and figure it out. He's been to tired to try and figure Nico out for a long while.
Nico's eyes fly over Lewis' form. "Sleepless night?" he asks in return, and Lewis wants to punch him.
"Nah, just, you know," Lewis replies with a smile. "Making the most of the day."
He can't be here anymore. The door starts closing and they both reach for it at the same time from opposite sides. Their eyes briefly meet as they exchange places. Lewis can smell the alcohol and the club and sex and pine and cigarettes on Nico as he exits the elevator as Nico takes his place.
"Good night," he says.
"Good day," Nico replies, pushing the button for his floor.
Lewis doesn't look back. He starts running the moment he exits the building and doesn't stop until he's all the way above on the hill. The sun sgines down on him as he pants and teies to catch his breath. He checks his watch.
It's stuck on 6.39 AM. He must have forgotten to charge it last night.
He takes the long way home.
-
"It's good to see you, Lewis," Seb says, smile wide and uneven in the Monte Carlo twilight, his arms open for a hug.
"It's good to see you too," Lewis says sincerely and steps into the hug. "What are you doing here?" he asks, but before he can finish the queation fully, his stomach turns.
Seb smells of pine. He's always smelled of pine, like that deodorant he's been using his whole life.
Seb pulls back from the hug first. "Oh, you know," he says with eyes and smile full of mirth. "Checking up on some investments."
Lewis forces himself to smile.
"Come on, we'll be late for the reservation," he says, checking his watch.
It's still stuck on 6.39 AM.
He forgot to charge it.
#i dont know what this is but it sure is something#effervescentdragonwrites#my writing#f1 rpf#brocedes#but also#sico#the german twincest#c tag <3#love youuuuu
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Vampire AU - whatever pairing you want I just want biting and some rancid vibes 😹
not quite rancid, except for your hate towards certain people. but maybe funny? im still in a certain headspace, as you can see. i call this "the one in which carlos is bella swan" in my head
Carlos remembers the story Fernando once told him, about his grandfather and the way he worked in a factory. He was pretty sure the story was bullshit, but Fernando was hillariously drunk, and that's when he usually let things slip. Carlos has learned more about the incestuous fuckfest that was the grid in 2010s than he ever wanted to know that way.
He also learned more about Sebastian Vettel than he ever could imagine wanting to know, but that's another story.
The point of this story was - quality control. Nando's grandfather apparently worked in a factory furing the war (and Carlos isn't asking which one, because Fernando is old), and he complained about there not being enough quality control about - shelling? Or shelving. Carlos isn't sure, and he definitely isn't going to ask because he doesn't really care and it's not even that relevant for the story of now, except it's all he can think about when he watches Lando hiss in pain and struggle to get the new watch Carlos had brought him off his wrist.
"It's got fucking silver in it!" Lando yelps, and throws the watch on the floor.
"No it doesn't," Carlos says, more confused than he ever has been in Lando's company (and those couple of times when he fell asleep beside Lando in the hotel rooms all over the world before and after the races and Carlos woke up dizzy and disoriented and hard don't count). "It's pure gold. I know you don't like silver, so I bought you gold."
Lando scoffs. "The fuck it is," he says, pain evident in his voice as he rubs his reddened wrist. "I don't know what bullshit your sponsors are feeding you guys, but there's definitely silver in this."
Carlos frowns, coming closer and taking Lando's hand in his. His wrist is swollen and a very unhealthy shade of red. "I didn't know you were alergic."
Lando's eyes shift to the side. "Yeah, I - I'm alergic," he says. "A pretty bad allergy." He chuckles. "Life-threatening."
Carlos feels like he's missing the joke. He feels like that a lot with Lando, except it never feels like the joke is on him, more like Lando is being hard on himself.
"I'm sorry," he says sincerely, trailing his fingers over Lando's skin. "I didn't know. I'll have a word with Richard Mille representative."
Lando's eyes are huge in the dim light of the room when he looks up at Carlos. It takes everything in him not to tighten his hold on Lando's wounded wrist.
"No problem, mate. It's the thought that counts anyway." Lando shifts a bit, and Carlos lets go. "I'll be fine. Wanna play FIFA?" He shakes the sleeves of his hoodie until they are covering half of his hands.
Carlos feels like he's missing something. He feels bad about the watch, though, so he only nods. "Sure."
Lando grins at him, and it's alright.
-
Except.
Except, when Carlos says goodbye that night, he catches a glimpse of Lando's wrist.
It's pale pink, and not swollen anymore.
-
Carlos watches Lando during the post race interview. His cheeks are a bit flushed, but he's still very pale. They've just spent a whole week on the beach and Carlos has an even darker tan than usual, but Lando is still extremely pale.
Carlos can't remember Lando using sunscreen once on their vacation.
He watches Lando until Caco elbows him in the ribs, muttering "Obvious and oblivious, my fucking God."
-
"He never sleeps," Oscar says offhandedly. "He texts me the weirdest shit at like, four in the morning, and then he's right as rain in the sim at seven." He turns to Carlos. "Was he always like that?"
Carlos ignores the gnawing in his stomach at the fact that Lando texts Oscar randomly. Before he can answer, Alex does.
"Oh my God, yes! He used to be the same when we were kids, never fucking sleeping. George, do you remember that one time..." he continues, but Carlos isn't listening.
Carlos can't remember a time when they were together and Lando fell asleep first.
-
"Aren't you hungry?" Max asks Lando on the plane taking them all back to Monaco.
"Nah," Lando replies, eyeing Max's burger with a mix of apprehension and disgust. "I ate before, plus, that just looks like an extra hour in the gym, and I don't wanna do that."
Max shrugs. "Suit yourself, weirdo."
Lando kicks him under the table and then leans back in his seat, fishing his earphones out. He catches Carlos' eye as he does so, and smiles.
Carlos smiles back instinctively, as he always does. Lando's lips look very red in his pale face. When he ducks his head, Carlos thinks he sees a flash of something sharp.
It must be the light, he thinks. Or the exhaustion.
It's probably both.
-
"Do you have an oral fixation, mate," George laughs, leaning on the fence. "You're always sucking on that straw, what are you even drinking?"
Lando shrugs, flipping George off for good measure. "You have an oral fixation," he replies, pulling his lips away from the straw. "And it's a protein smoothie, you dickhead."
Carlos watches him lick the remnants of his drink away. His lips are still stained red with it.
"Does it taste good?" he hears himself ask.
Both Lando and George turn to him, but Carlos is focused on the way Lando's eyes shift to the side for just a second before he scrunches his nose. "Not the best I've ever had, but good enough." He shrugs. "New recipe. Strawberries."
Carlos has a mild allergy to strawberries, so he can't ask to try it, at least not just before the race.
Lando knows Carlos is alergic to strawberries.
-
The race was a disaster, as are most of them lately. Carlos lies in his bed, finally free after the debrief. He can't sleep. His mind turns and turns around, and for once, he isn't thinking about the race data.
His phone is opened on the Google start page. Before he knows what he's doing, he types.
allergy to silver aversion to food paleness doesnt sleep symptoms disease
-
He knocks on the door too loudly for the early hour of the morning. There is shuffling, and then Lando opens the door.
"Carlos? What the fuck, mate, it's like, three in -"
"I thought silver was for werewolves."
Lando stops speaking. Carlos thinks he might have stopped breathing, too. That wasn't what he was going to say, but fuck it, it's what came out.
"What?" Lando says slowly. "What are you talking about?"
Carlos would've thought he was crazy, except. Except Lando's eyes flicker to the side, and Carlos knows how Lando looks when he is lying.
"I thought silver hurt werewolves. That's the myth," he repeats. "But you're not a werewolf. I don't think." He takes a breath. "You're a vampire."
He isn't looking away from Lando. He can't. He stares right into Lando's eyes and sees the emotions and the calculations in them as they happen, and he isn't going away until he knows, because he isn't crazy, he knows what he knows, he knows he isn't imagining things and -
"Fuck," Lando breathes out, his shoulders sagging. "Fuck, I'm so screwed," he says, and then pulls Carlos inside his room and shuts the door, but not before Carlos sees his fangs elongate and protrude, biting into his bottom lip.
Fuck, he thinks, and then, hot.
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Galex + possessiveness ? Or is that too specific or vague
Nothing in this world is Alex's, in as much everything can be taken away with a smile and a shrug and a "You're just not a good fit", with or without a performative I'm sorry, or with a knock at 11 PM which precedes people in suits coming into his house and ransacking his parents' office and his mother being taken away with not even an I'm sorry, only an "Alex, take care of them" which infuriates as much as it hurts.
So nothing in this world is Alex's permanently, and he knows it, feels it like that tingle in the back of your throat when you're about to get sick, knows it with every fibre of his being even when he pretends he doesn't, even when he pushes it away, and so every thing that is Alex's right now, in this moment, Alex keeps a tight hold on.
Alex presses his fingers into George's jaw when they kiss and presses his palms into the curve of George's hips and presses his lips into the meat of George's thighs and presses himself inside George and whispers "Mine" and "Good" and "Yes", and he leaves traces of himself on George's skin - fleeting, temporary, about to heal - and never ever says I'm sorry.
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Three sentence fic prompt:
Charlos and eye contact across a crowded room.
Sometimes Charles pretends to know exactly what they're talking about in a meeting when in actuality he has no idea, mind gone away a long time ago into fantasies where he has a car that actually drives well instead of the series of barely driveable red machines that bleed gasoline just like he does every single weekend on track and off. Sometimes he pretends he doesn't know what they're talking about in a meeting, smiles as if he's confused and plays stupid, as stuoid as some of them think he is while inside his head the cogs are turning like the cogs turn in his car, fast and then yet again faster, piecing everything together in a way that he's going to turn into a win, even if it's a lesser one, not really the one he ultimately wants.
Sometimes, though; sometimes he raises his head and Carlos is right across from him, sometimes staring straight at Charles and sometimes looking through him, his eyes either warm or cold, depending on many thing, only some of which are in Charles' control, and those times - some of those times - Charles forgets what he was supposed to do and smiles; and Carlos always smiles back.
#im in the airport w no info abt my gate so here have this#three sentence fic#f1 rpf#effervescentdragonwrites#charlos#ferrari boys <3
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hello lovey! trick or treat🎃🎃
helloooo darling! 🍬🍭🩷 pic from here
Charles thinks looking at Lewis shouldn't affect him this much anymore. They've been on the grid together for years, they've talked a million times, they've even gone for a run together a couple of times when Lewis was in Monaco, and yet.
And yet. It's Lewis Hamilton. He is beautiful, and he's nice, and he's always kind to Charles, and when he says "Well done Charles, you drove magnificently, you got this, kid," in his ear as they hug after the race, Charles feels his cheeks heat up and hopes everyone ascribes it to the exertion of the race.
He goes up to the podium, waves at the crowd. It's not a win, but a podium is a podium. He'll do better. Then, Lewis comes out, waving. Charles smiles as he watches him pass, at ease in his skin and beaming like he'd just won. Charles has no doubt he will win again. His body itches to race Lewis properly again.
Lewis climbs on the podium and Charles didn't even notice he hasn't looked away until Lewis' eyes meet his.
Charles has noticed the gap in Lewis' smile a long time ago. He thinks it's adorable. He thinks he wants to lick it with his tongue.
Lewis winks at him and Charles drops his gaze. When he gets the champagne, he goes straight for Lewis, who giggles and gives as hard as he gets.
I think some things are inevitable, Charles thinks and raises his head up to the sky. It's a lovely day.
There will be more lovely days. He knows it in every cell of his body. There will be more days like this.
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Trick or treat!! 🎃👻🔮🫶🏻
this has been on my mind a while and i blame the c2 server completely 🙈 also, this.
"I will marry him," Charles had said to his brother, "I will marry him for your sake, and for Arthur's, but don't expect me to be joyful about it."
Charles thinks on these words as he gets ready for bed. He thinks about the way Lorenzo's face fell, and about how tightly he had hugged Charles.
He takes off his clothes until he is left in an undershirt. He thinks about removing that too, but he still does not believe that Señor Sainz - Carlos, they agreed on using their given names, but it's difficult, and it breeds familiarity, and Charles is afraid of what that might mean - that Carlos will not try something. Men who hold all the power always do. They arw used to taking, and Charles does not want to be put in the position where he has to give - himself - unwillingly.
His breath trembles as he approaches the bed. Señ - Carlos is in it already, in his own undershirt. Charles barely meets his eyes as he climbs in. Looking into them in the church during the ceremomy has already been too much. His gaze is very intense amd Charles does not know how to feel about the emotions he thinks he may find there.
He lays down under the covers, heart racing, and pulls the covers closer. His back is turned to Carlos and he cannot close his eyes. He does not dare.
He feels the bed move behind him and his heart skips a beat. Carlos' breath tickles his cheek as he moves closer, almost close enough to touch, but does not.
"Do not worry," Carlos says, and his voice is too close and too low and too intimate in their bed. "I will not come closer. We have an agreement." He chuckles. "Some other day... well. Good night."
Carlos' breath is warm on his skin, even through Charles' shirt. His cheeks heat up, reddening as he says "Good night" back, barely stopping his voice from trembling.
He keeps looking straight ahead. Carlos' body feels close enough to touch, if only he were to move a bit further back. There is a feeling of anticipation in the air, and Charles realises he trusts Carlos to keep his word. Trusts him not to touch unless Charles invites him to.
What a peculiar thought, he thinks.
Charles cannot help the smile that appears on his face. He falls asleep still smiling, confident in being safe for the first time in a long, long while.
#charlos#ferrari boys <3#trick or treat asks#akira answers asks#f1 rpf#amor real au#effervescentdragonwrites
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Following the Sun, a Carlando F1 fic by moi.
Part of the singing out your name like a chorus series by the amazing @wolfiemcwolferson and @duquesademiel who let me play in their sandbox. I couldn't have done this without you. Thank you. <3
Some things, no matter what one does to avoid them, are inevitable.
OR: Logan wrote amazing Galex. Sol is writing amazing Piarles. I saw "Blink-and-you-miss-it-Carlando" and said "But what if we DIDN'T miss it?"
Yes, it's another wip. Yes, it's Carlando. Yes, I am insane, I know. Leave me be. Or alternatively, come talk to me about it? :)
#effervescentdragonwrites#my writing#carlando#f1 rpf#managers au#bigeest thanks to misa and dee for providing invaluable info#also go read the series first!! its amazing !!!
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For the prompt game:
'Dont i have the right to know? + pairing of your choice 👀
this is, subjectively, the worst thing i've ever written. <3
The news breaks in the paddock first.
Maybe it doesn't, though. Maybe it breaks in gossip magazines, or trash tabloids, or whatever else people read. Charles doesn't know because it's not for him to know. He has people to deal with those things. People to tell him what's being said, what's happening, what he needs to know and what he needs to pretend not to know.
"Did you see the news about Seb?" Carlos says, and Charles' heart speeds up because the Mercedes seat is open still, and - "- didn't think he was the type," Carlos continues, and Charles didn't hear what - "was gonna be Rosberg, or Jenson."
"What?" Charles says, because he didn't hear, but then Silvia storms into the room and goes straight for Charles.
"Did you know about this?" she asks, and he doesn't like the gleam in her eye.
"About what?" Charles repeats, pissed off now because nobody is telling him anything, except it's something about Seb, and he doesn't -
"The divorce," Silvia says, finally, with a little cruel twist to her mouth and Charles doesn't remember anything except stammering a weak and truthful "No" and then being pulled into a meeting on how to deal with the press and the questions and many things that Charles can't remember, because his brain is on a loop of divorce-divorce-Seb is getting a divorce.
-
Everybody is talking about it and Charles isn't thinking about it.
"Had no idea," he says to Alex. "We don't talk that much," he repeats to both Max and Lando. "I don't know why," he rolls his eyes at Carlos and George. "I'd tell you if I knew," he lies to Piere, and then goes to stand by himself on the truck before the race.
He waves at the fans and ignores everything until there's a bump at his hip. He looks down and it's Lewis, waving the same way Charles is, his eyes on the crowd.
"You didn't know," he says with a fake smile, and Charles forces himself not to react.
"No," is all Charles can say, shaking his head a little. "Haven't heard from him in a while."
Lewis hums. "Makes sense," he says, chuckling a little, and then Valtteri comes over an Charles wants to shake Lewis because, how the fuck does it make sense? It fucking doesn't, none of this makes sense and it's not - Charles doens't - how could -
The race, Charles thinks. The race first, everything else second. Racing first. Always.
Charles is a racing driver first. Always.
-
He misses the podium for a breath.
He doese everything right, answers the questions, gives feedback, it's all fine, it's all alright, he's handling it all well, another missed podium, another shit race, another question, another thing to deal with, it's fine, it's all good -
-he slams the door in Andrea's face.
"I'm fine!" he yells, and he'll apologize, he just needs a fucking moment alone.
The floor is hard under his thighs but he can't drag himself to the couch yet. It's fine. He taps on the phone screen next to him. Andrea must have given it to him. Charles doesn't remember.
He scrolls for too long and sends the message before he can calm down.
didnt i have the right to know??
He's not expecting a response. He isn't. He's trained himself out of that a long while ago.
The phone lights up.
I didn't know how to tell you.
No apology. No nothing. Charles scoffs, his hands shaking.
oh i dont know, maybe when u were fucking me in sicily last
or fucking me in monaco
or when i was fucking you in switserland
at any point then would be ok
There's sweat running down his face. His overalls are too heavy. He also needs to pee.
He leans back onto the door, staring at the screen. There's a lot of notifications, but it can all wait.
This can't.
I'm sorry about your race. You deserved a podium.
He stares at the screen incredulously.
fuck you seb
i deserved to know
He mutters a curse in Italian as he grabs for the water bottle and drinks some more. He doesn't have much more time.
He isn't expecting an answer. He isn't. There is no point expecting anything from Seb. Never was.
I know.
There's nothing left to say. Charles should get up and change and open the door for Andrea and Joris and whoever else is waiting for him. There's nothing else Seb will say.
Charles should get up and leave his phone.
Charles should block Sebastian Vettel's number and never talk to him again.
The phone lights up.
I can tell you in England? That's where I'm moving, for a while.
Charles should do a lot of things that he doesn't.
-
"-and get my phone," Charles shouts, halfway through the door.
Andrea sighs fondly and leans down, picking up Charles' phone from the floor.
It's unlocked. Andrea doesn't want to look, but his eyes are faster than his fingers and he catches the last two messages before the screen goes black.
i'll come between two headers
I am counting on it ;-)
#i havent written anything in too long and this is awful all around but whatever#effervescentdragonwrites#my writing#sebchal#f1 rpf#i guess tags would be cheating and idk rich guys being dicks
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Charlos + falling sleep together
The post-race debrief is one of the worst ones in a long time.
Carlos yells a bit. He knows he does, and it's not the first time. He yells when he's upset, but he always catches himself on time, or just on the line, not daring to cross it too much and be labeled as too problematic. There is also the whole "hotheaded Latino" stereotype he has had to contend himself with throughout his whole life, so he usually stops before it's to late. It is a horrible briefing, and he does raise his voice a couple of times.
He has nothing on Charles.
Charles is seething. Charles is furious. Charles is magnificent and beautiful in his fury, and Carlos finds himself keeping his mouth shut and his palms under his thighs, because this isn't an every-race week occurence. Charles gets upset, but he rarely loses his composure.
By the time the briefing is over, Charles is shaking.
Carlos takes one look at Charles, leaning against the wall as he waits for Andrea to finish his phone call, and turns to Caco. Before he can even make a sound, Caco rolls his eyes and says "I'm going home, don't be completely stupid," then leaves.
When Carlos approaches Charles, he doesn't even register it. He's staring down on his phone but Carlos can see he isn't really seeing it. He looks as exhausted as Carlos feels.
"Hey. Want to go for a walk?" he asks, because straightforward approach is always the best one with Charles when he's like this. His guess is confirmed when Charles raises his head and there is nothing in his face. He stares at Carlos for too long. Then, he takes a look at Andrea, and nods. "Do you need to-" Carlos tries ro ask, but Charles shakes his head.
"I'll text Lolo," he says, then does. When a message comes in, he nods distractedly and puts the phone in his back pocket and looks uo at Carlos. "Where to?"
Carlos leads him out into the Catalan night. They don't speak as Carlos leads them away from the track, which is now almost completely deserted. "We can walk to where I parked my car in the private garage," he says just to say something.
"How far?" Charles asks.
"Around three or four kilometres. Caco drove me to the track from there."
Charles only nods, exoressionless, and Carlos has nothing left to do except lead the way.
They don't talk as they walk. Too many times, Carlos thinks kf a possible thing to day, a topic to open, but it all feels like too much. The night isn't too cold but there is a slight wind, and the longer they walk, the closer they are, until the back kf Carlos' hand brushes Charles' with every step they make.
It doesn't take them long to walk to Carlos' car. It's not his Competizione, thank God. It's too distinctive to be driven around in Barcelona.
"Are you hungry?" he asks, turning on the AC. Charles shakes his head. His cheeks are flushed, and he looks somewhat more present than he did before.
"Sleepy," he says. "Take me to that stupid hotel so I can break my back some more." Carlos thinks his voice should be full of some sort of emotion but there's nothing there. He nods, and guns the engine.
Charles leans his head on the window three minutes into the drive. By minute five, his eyes are closed. By minute ten, Carlos is pretty sure he's in a light sleep.
Carlos drives carefully, slower than he would otherwise, and thinks on whether it's a good idea to go with his gut, or no.
-
When Charles wakes up, it's sudden. One moment, he's dreaming of gravel and fire and the next his eyes are wide open.
He's in an unfamiliar bed. Unfamiliar comfortable bed, though, which rules out his hotel room. Arthur and Lolo's, too. The sheets are dark blue, and there is a smell he recognizes all around him.
There is also a heavy, hairy arm wrapped around his waist.
He shuffles. He has a shirt and his boxers on, still. That's good.
"Lolo knows," a sleep-heavy voice says into his neck and makes him erupt in goosebumps. "Andrea approved of you sleeping on a real bed before you have to travel tonight. My apartment is small."
Carlos' voice always sounds heavier when he's just awoken, but it somehow feels much more intimate here than it does when they're on the plains and in cars and in Maranello. His arm around Charles' waist is warm. His breath kn Charles' neck is even warmer.
"Time?" he rasps, then coughs.
"Early," Carlos says. "Sleep now."
Charles contemplates getting up and leaving that moment. He doesn't knkw how long he's slept, but it should be enough to get him back to the hotel withiht passing out. He glances at the bedside table, where his phone is charging. Charles doesn't remember anything from last night, except being cold, then warm, then hot. He thinks about getting up and going back tk the real world, and the obligations, and the problems he has to start dealing with.
Charles closes his eyes and relaxes into the bed. Carlos' hand on his waist squeezes once, slowly, and then they're both already on their way back to sleep.
#okay im done for now#i dont have anything left in me#charlos#f1 rpf#effervescentdragonwrites#my writing#ferrari boys <3
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ferwis + orange
"It's the truck this time," George tells him and Lewis nods. "No car parade."
"Are you mad you won't be able to drive yourself?" Lewis asks and George laughs. There's flush on his cheeks and he is so young and so self assured when he says "I'm pretty sure I could drive the truck, if they'd let me." Lewis laughs and feels his full age bear down on him, but he won't let it bother him. He can't. That's the way madness lies.
He doesn't mind the truck. He usually finds Val, or Val finds him, or one of the kids dares to come talk to him if he isn't giving off extreme Stay Away vibes. Seb usually ignores them and comes over to bother Lewis, but he's too busy reassuring Mick and ignoring Charles like an idiot these days to come talk to Lewis often. He'll be retiring at the end of the season and Lewis absolutely isn't thinking about that. He'll be back. He loves racing too much to leave it all behind, but Lewis doesn't think he can take not winning anymore.
A lot of them can't, not really. Lewis doesn't think about those who won enough to satiate the hunger. He doesn't think it will ever be satiated. He doesn't allow himself to believe it. Madness madness madness.
He's in a weird mood today. George notices and gives him a small smile. He looks around, looking for someone, and his shoulders tighten as they always do when he realises the one he's looking for isn't here. Lewis knows how it feels. Lewis doesn't think about how it will feel again.
He climbs on the truck and fist-bumps whoever puts their hand up without looking. Val gives him a small smile and doesn't approach, and Lewis pushes through and goes to sit at the back. Someone will call him over when it's his turn for the interview.
He watches the crowds cheer as they pass, the main attraction. One two three. He taps his fingers on the railing. He smiles and he waves and all the while he doesn't register anything around him. Not truly, not properly. Four five. Six.
Not until someone leans on the fence right beside him. Strong perfume. Flash of blue and pink. Arm pressed too close to his. One. Two. Three.
Fernando.
There is no way for him to move without it becoming a thing. They're right behind Daniel, who's giving an interview to Sky just then. Four five six.
He smiles and turns to Fernando. "Blue isn't your colour," he says, then giggles without knowing why. Fernando looks at him and raises an eyebrow. One two three. He came to Lewis. He should've known better.
"All colours are my colours," he says. Lewis remembers many nights and many different clothes and many times they disappeared in the dark. Four five.
He inclines his head towards Daniel. "Think we could pull off the new McLaren orange?" Six. Some ghosts never disappear.
Fernando's face does that thing that Lewis remembers from another life he's lead, when he wants to say something awful but he knows he can't. They didn't use to care so much about cameras before. They used to be more genuine before. They used to be more awful. He thinks it's the exact same thing.
"Didn't you know? It's called papaya now," Fernando says in his thick Spanish accent. Lewis giggles again, because that is the most pretentious shit he's heard in a while and it's ridiculous.
"You think Ron would make us do it?" he asks, not even knowing why.
Fernando almost scowls. "He made us do many other things." He waves a hand. His hair falls into his eyes. "We were young back then. We are smarter now."
One two three. Lewis hums. Four five.
"Are we?" He asks, half serious, half not. He never knows, with Nando.
Fernando cocks his head. His grin is cocky. Six.
"Less stupid at least," he says. "Or one of us is."
Seven.
Lewis throws his head back and laughs.
#i. dont know what this is#but i love you#ferwis#one! braincell bestie#effervescentdragonwrites#my writing#f1 rpf
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