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pinkandgoldensoul · 4 months

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CL#16 || Mine First || tape b

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: ̗̀➛ tape b of the 𝒻𝓇𝑒𝑒𝒽𝒶𝓃𝒹 series If this is your first time here on this blog, please check the Disclaimers here.

pairing: charles leclerc x female!reader x pierre gasly!bestfriend genre: childhood exes (?) to lovers, (fake) love triangle, fluff, a bit of angst tw: swearing, tiny suggestive scrumble word count: 10.2k plot: going back to Monaco, you meet him again. Both being Pierre's friends, you're often trapped in the same room: it's inevitable for the past to resurface, through glances, dances, pages filled of ink.

Your walk inside the paddock was followed by gusts of wind throwing strands of hair in every direction, preys of the unpredictable, forcing you to move them out of your face repeatedly. The forecast couldn’t have been clearer: 90% chances of rain. A storm was approaching the track, and so were you.

Looking around, you stared attentively at the frenetic movement pulsating in every corner: mechanics, engineers, journalists and cameras ready to capture any detail, VIPs begging for selfies with bewildered eyes and staring at the screens in awe and confusion. It was all so foreign to you. Despite growing up in Monaco, you had always shied away from the spotlight and tried to live a simple life, therefore moving out in your youth to an unknown town in South France, near the coast, but far enough from the contradiction of luxury. Still, Pierre being a dear old friend of yours, after pleading insistence, you had given up to his invitation to a Grand Prix. You had first agreed to be hosted at his home race, Paul Ricard, then obliged to choose another circuit since the track had disappeared from the 2023 calendar: and so there you were, crossing the streets you had walked countless times, the ones you had run away from.

«Do you think it’s going to rain hard?» «How do you expect me to know?» You snorted, arms crossed. Pierre simply shrugged, zipping up his suit. «I don’t know, you’ve lived here enough to recognize Monaco’s clouds.» he half-joked. «Maybe you’re the Monegasque Mazepin.» «Who’s that?» you asked, frowning. «No one, forget it. I just thought you, standing there doing nothing, had more time than I do to check the forecast.» «Uhm, if you want, I can take a look.» you offered, searching for your phone. Pierre quickly made it over to you, crossing the garage, and put his hands on your shoulders with a smile. «Y/n, I’m just messing around. Why are you taking everything so seriously? You always get my jokes, what’s up with you today?» «Uhm… maybe… It’s Monaco’s clouds.» Pierre couldn’t help but grin bigger and shake his head, leaving you standing on your own while he got near his helmet to clean it. «If you’re worried about tonight’s dinner, there’s no need to.» You sighed. To your annoyance, Pierre had stricken home yet another time. He was too good at reading you like an open book, your expressions and reactions too plain for him to interpret after years of sincere friendship. «I just don’t understand why you want to introduce me to this one friend… It’s a bit intimidating, like, the three of us…» «Oh, but we won’t be completely alone!» Pierre said, amending his partial explanation. «We’ll be hanging out in group, it’s going to be fun! I just wanted to introduce you to my best mate, that’s all.» «Fine, but… why can’t I even know his name? Why are you acting like I’m going to be surprised about who he is?» «Because I think you will.» «You’re such a drama queen.» He laughed at your arms-crossed and roll-eye as he finished cleaning the helmet, placing back on a counter. «Of course I am.»

To Pierre’s amusement, you hadn’t followed free practices with a lot of attention, which is a euphemism to say that you basically didn’t watch the screens installed for the guests inside the garage at all: instead, you had nestled in a small empty spot right next to his engineer and you had silently followed Pierre’s action and data, without really understanding much, more so as the second sessions had been red flagged before being half-way through it.

Pierre was dying of laughter onto the small, leathered couch of the club you had chosen for the beginning of the night, waiting for all his friends to show up, as he listened to your unforgettably miserable experience in the Alpine box. «So you didn’t see any other driver?» he asked, still chuckling. «No, I mean… I was also getting a bit car sick, with all those walls left and right. You drive way too fast, you guys are crazy…» Loud as a freight train crashing the rails with its speed, a group of youngsters entered the club with a thunderous burst of laughter, which made you flinch in your seat. «Oh, here they are!» Pierre immediately flailed around and whistled in order to be heard by les gars, who soon walked towards your table. Without you noticing, he stood up and waited them to hug and give friendly back pats. Composed in your awkward silence, you felt even more uneasy as one of the newcomers stopped and looked down at you sitting, staring with an uncomfortable persistence, a smile fading from his lips. «Who are you?» he asked, curiosity and perplexity mixed in his tone. Reciprocating with the same depth his stare, you realized you had just fallen inside a dangerous and unexpected sand trap, wishing the dark-lit room would suddenly turn the lights on so that you could make out his features clearer, or completely drown them out together with the anxiety in the pit of your stomach. «Finally I can introduce you both!» Pierre clapped his hands, breaking the moment and inviting you to get up. «Y/n, this is my best friend: Charles.» «Charles…» you muttered under your breath, trying to make sense of it. «Yes, Charles Leclerc.» he repeated in confirmation, smiling, shaking and holding your cold and still hand. «And this is y/n, one of my dearest friends.» «Nice to meet you.» The flickering sparkle in his eyes, the dimples making their painful appearance and his sweet, fond smile struck you all at once, the freight train now hitting you as you simply stood by the platform of time, uncapable of anything but playing reruns of distant and long forgotten memories in the back of your mind. He let go of your hand and you slowly slipped down in your seat, heart beating uncontrollably. But everyone was just too absorbed into the conversation to notice, too playful and happy to be in joined company. Drinking from your glass full of insecurities, your gaze was always searching for his, carefully studying his heavenly face, then immediately straying away, consumed by indecision and inner turmoil.

You all got up a couple of hours after to have a nice walk through the harbor; the cool breeze sweeping the dump asphalt made your skin shiver, and you felt forced to bring your hands upon your forearms to soothe the coldness. Pierre had noticed for a while the way you hadn’t engaged in the conversations a lot, had seen you full of thoughts back in the club and, of course, immediately read your body language; in a few strides, he was next to you, placing his jacket onto your shoulders, matching your steps. «Thank you.» you smiled. You both slowly walked alongside, letting silence fill the gaps, until the Frenchman couldn’t bear it anymore, as he gazed at the stars. «I’m sorry you didn’t enjoy yourself that much tonight… I thought you would get along just fine, since you’re all friends of mine.» «They’re nice, in fact!» you tried to reply. Pierre gave you a knowing look. «Y/n, there’s no need to cover it up, I’ve got two eyes to see you have been running away from everyone tonight… Especially from Charles.» «What?» You stood still, watching him stop as you did. Had he noticed? Did he… know? «Are you… are you, like, jealous of him?» Pierre asked, reticent. «What?! N-no, of course not, why would I-» «Sorry, I was just wondering why you gave him strange looks all night, that’s it.» «No, it’s just… I think I’ve seen him somewhere else, before.» you swallowed hard, hoping he’d buy into your lie. Pierre first looked at you, then started laughing contagiously, to the point you had to giggle as well with a frown. «Why are you laughing?» you asked. «Are you kidding me? Of course you’ve seen him before!» «And… where?» you hesitated, now even scarier than earlier. «On track, y/n! He races for Ferrari, putain!» His laugh didn’t complement your heart drop. «You didn’t watch any race for real, uh? I thought you were joking. Now, that hurts!» The attempt at matching his laugh was almost miserable; the clench grinding your poor heart felt unbearable, feelings gushing and bleeding out beneath your skin.

Nothing had prepared you to see him once again face to face, nor you had anticipated talking to him, spending time together. For sure, no one had warned you about the way he would’ve changed so much growing up. A childish mischief still lingered in his expression, but you could clearly see he had matured, his perfectly crafted jawline and his beard giving it away; his athletic body resembled nothing of the young, agile and slim figure you remembered. You recalled witnessing Pierre’s transformation. Looking at them now, they didn’t seem like guys in their mid-twenties and, compared to them, you felt like a child, whereas they had already achieved a lifestyle you would never even dream of. Despite the obvious differences in the physique, something about Charles’ demeanor had unexpectedly softened: you were so accustomed to his impulsive, black-or-white younger self that you almost couldn’t recognize him under the charming and elegant masquerade. It can’t be him, you thought.

An awkward tension made every gesture clumsy, intrinsically wrong: throughout the weekend, anytime you’d cross each other’s way, you both moved cautiously around each other, studying the new person you had in front, as if you were trying to read a book you once knew by heart, word by word, now translated into an unknown language. And even though you struggled recognizing the Charles you used to know, he could clearly tell it was the same old you beneath the embarrassment: he always found you lightheartedly making jokes and having fun, smiling kindly, or thinking deep in silence. When you were with Pierre. Because as soon as Charles entered your vision, he would see you stiffening, stuttering, fighting insecurities in every sentence and gesture. And as much as he felt discomfort in making you all flustered, a thorn of pride stung his heart. He still had an effect on you. He wouldn’t makeyou laugh uncontrollably as Pierre did, but he was still able to stir some deep feelings inside of you, and it fueled him like gasoline on fire, for some reason. # Charles genuinely thought seeing you in Monaco was a karmic debt’s payment, enduring the comfort and the palpable chemistry between you and his best friend: apart from the small talk he had tried to initiate with you, Charles had kept away from you, purposely avoiding your presence. Undeniably, you still had an effect on him too.

When he entered the paddock on Wednesday, welcomed by the Spanish heat, crossing the lane with the hospitalities already brimming of life, he definitely didn’t expect to see you again, let alone to find you sat on a white wicker couch next to Pierre. Right as he witnessed the scene, the Frenchman swiftly placing your bare legs on his lap, his fingers drawing circles upon your skin, both spread out and chilling, enjoying the nice weather, Charles couldn’t help himself from chewing his inner cheek and pacing quickly towards Ferrari’s hospitality. What made him even more furious was knowing that Pierre was well aware of the cameras pointing towards you and taking pictures with no disturb, implicitly giving them permission, being so physical with you in public. Pierre wasn’t stupid. He knew what he was doing. And Charles didn’t like it. Because you seemed so innocent, always caring, smiley, kind and considerate of others, hanging off Pierre’s lips; and Charles hated, oh, he hated it as much as immediately spotting the flash of fear and tension crossing your irises as soon as he tried to approach you. Charles would’ve gladly done without hovering around you, or stop caring about you and Pierre’s affair, but he simply couldn’t: after seeing you amidst the crowd, he was drawn to you, by far the quickest in reaching you swiftly dodging everybody else, ready to find stupid excuses to chat with you and get your attention away from Pierre at least for a couple of minutes. The painful truth was that Charles desperately wanted to catch up with you, spend an entire night just the two of you and be your listener, hearing your enchanting voice narrate the life you had led so far and staring into your mesmerizing eyes full of dreams. He wanted to amend for the past. He felt guilty for what he had said, yet he acknowledged he wouldn’t know any better back at the time.

Instead, he was attending yet another night out with Pierre and mutual friends, throwing deadly glances over your dancing silhouettes, painfully reminded of what it could’ve been. Charles had so many apologetic words stuck in his throat, but an overwhelming wave of unlabeled feelings impeded him to talk the matter out with you. Only a question, the same one, all over again. Why Pierre? He unfortunately knew why you two had broken up, he couldn’t blame you in any way: but Charles couldn’t accept being discarded in place of Pierre. He loved him like a brother, he was one of his best buddies, and exactly because he knew him that well and had met you before, he was sure you two, as a couple, could never work out. Or, at least, that’s what he believed. There was also another annoyance cutting Charles’ skin: the fact that Pierre hadn’t been honest while introducing you. A friend? Sharing jackets and hoodies, letting each other be touchy and clingy, always hanging out together? Yeah, of course. Charles was having none of it. His drink tasted bitter, with you two in his vision; he couldn’t bear it any longer. So he simply decided to get the work done by himself.

Pierre had been talking and cracking jokes non-stop since the beginning of the night, getting his mouth dry quite rapidly; right as he left you dancing by yourself to grab another drink, Charles took the chance and crossed the dance floor fueled by liquid bravery, stopping right behind you, placing his hands on your waist carefully, so that you’d acknowledge his presence too late to run away from him. «Having fun with Pierre? Hasn’t he run out of words yet?» Charles teased you. «When he’s drunk, he gets quite talkative.» you explained. «And so do you.» At your raised brow, Charles took a sip of his drink with a smirk. «Just checking up on someone who seemed to be getting bored.» he leaned in a bit closer upon your shoulder. «Oh, and when did you start being concerned about me?» When I realized I was still in love with you, he thought. Charles wetted his lips. «Y/n, I’d really like to talk about everything that happened between us, if you just gave me the chance to-» «Charles, I suffered enough, trust me.» «And I’m suffering because of it now.» «Not my business. It’s your time to get over it.» «If you got over it, then why do you keep avoiding me like you’re still affected?» Charles knew he had hit home once he saw your eyes dart towards his, defenseless, uncapable of putting up shields of indifference. «Woah, Charles, stop bothering my girl!» Pierre loudly approached the two of you, drunkenly placing his arm around you, which Charles clearly interpreted as a “private property” sign. You were his girl, after all. Of course you wouldn’t give him a chance. Everything was already settled, nothing else left to be discussed. Still, if there was something Charles couldn’t do, it was losing without trying with all his might to grab the win. «Can I borrow her? Just wanted to dance with her.» Pierre chuckled and nodded. «Bien sur, go ahead!» You hated being treated like a parcel without thoughts and feelings, as if you not being willing to dance with Charles wasn’t even an option; indeed, you definitely didn’t refuse his gentle hand guiding you towards a quieter space on the dance floor, and didn’t sway the times Charles would place his face near yours, leaning against your ear, almost about to whisper something but never giving you the satisfaction to drop a single word.

There was no way you could deny the effect he still had on you, after all those years spent apart from each other: any moment your eyes flicked to glance at him, his bright eyes were still glistening with youthful innocence, his dimples still dazed you, his enigmatic smile still made you question his and your own feelings. For a moment, standing that close to him without sharing useless words, you imagined Charles had stayed. In fact, that you had stayed. With a little effort, you could almost imagine you two had never broken up: you were dancing, comfortably enjoying his hands on your waist, placing yours around his neck lightweight, scared of lengthening physical touch. He stared down at you with a pleased and peaceful gaze, so sweet it could almost stich up all the scars he had left over your heart, splitting them apart and filling them with love before sealing them forever. But he had made a choice back then, clear-cut. Formula One was his only lover, no room for others. No room for you. The music died around your ears. But it still pumped quick inside your heart. «Are you good?» Charles’ voice caught your attention, as his hands firmly kept you up and yours had fallen back onto his shoulders for support. You simply tripped, you said to yourself; something normal which would happen while dancing drunk, a usual slip of thoughts diving back into the hurt of the past. «Yeah, all good.» you breathed out, looking behind your back. Pierre’s silhouette had completely disappeared from the radar, leaving your clenching stomach lonely in the search of a ride home. «Where’s Pierre?» you slurred. «I don’t know…» Charles’ green eyes scanned the room and trailed off yours, joining them in the search. «Can you bring me back to the hotel?» Charles opened his eyes wide at those words. «What?» Maybe he hadn’t heard right. Maybe it was the voice of someone dancing next to him. «I’m tired, can you give me a ride?» The tip of his tongue slipping out to wet his lips got you stuck on his mouth, a lost soft look into your eyes that Charles had to avoid watching, before his drunk system would act bypassing rationality. «Of course.»

«Where are the keys?» Charles waited for your lazy hands to rummage inside your purse, quickly taking the shining, jingling metal out of your fingers. Right as the door cracked open, you aimed towards the king-sized bed, taking your heels off and slowly picking up the sheets in order to slip underneath them. «Don’t you want to change into something comfier?» he asked, dumbfounded. You whined in response, head already resting onto the pearl white pillow. «Y/n?» «Mmh?» «Do you want to sleep with your jeans on?» he almost chuckled. «Jeez, Cha’, I’m tired…» He walked next to the bed, kneeling down in front of you. «Yeah, I know, you said that quite a few times already.» With your eyes shut, you couldn’t see Charles’ enchanted stare; yet, you could feel the warmth of it even through the closed eyelids. «There’s a pair of shorts inside the wardrobe.» you mumbled. Pretty easy to spot, since it was the only piece of furniture Charles felt comfortable enough to name “wardrobe”, he slid the door of wood and sifted through. «They’re not hung… Are they inside a drawer?» «No, they’re on top of the first drawer. Under the hung clothes.» Following your instructions, Charles found the shorts, but pulling them out something fell down to the floor. «What was that?» you asked at the thud. «N-nothing, there you go with your shorts.» he quickly reached over. «Okay, don’t peek.» «Yep!» Charles turned back towards the wardrobe, gulping both at the guilt of dropping something off and at the shuffling denim behind him. He closed his eyes, covered in shame. Then, tugged by curiosity, he looked down before his shoes. A diary, spread open. Charles picked it up, a picture immediately threatening to escape the pages, but his fingers were fast enough to catch it. It was you and him, awkwardly posing for your mom, both wearing matching bracelets. «Cha’, the bed is cold.» «Uh?» he held his breath, caught by surprise. «Can you like… rub me from above the duvet?» Your drunken request didn’t sound weird to his equally drunken mind. He hopped onto the bed, with the back leaning onto the headrest, his right hand brushing you back and forth to soothe the cold, while he held the diary and the picture with the left. «Thank you, Cha’…» He couldn’t restrain himself from smiling, engraving in his mind the tender and natural rolling off of the nickname you had chosen. It was the same sweet tone you would use with him back then, when you still held hands, when your cheeks were tinted rose in his presence, when the only bracelet he would wear were the ones you made yourself. With love.

The shop windows were brimming with lights and Christmasy decorations: the whole city was lit alive by the thrilled atmosphere, and everyone seemed to be strolling by the pavement, making it difficult to catch up with your mother’s steps. «Come on, y/n, we’ll be late!» Winter holidays had started, and you couldn’t help but staring mesmerized at the streets, couples walking hand in hand, the grey sea roaring in the distance. Christmas was only a few days away and your mom had booked an appointment to the hairdresser to adjust your hair a little bit before the new year; you knew, though, that she had insisted also because she enjoyed Pascale’s company and gossiping quite a lot, especially since his son was only a year older than you and had the same middle school teachers you had.

«Ah, y/n, I wish I had a daughter like you. My sons are three devils.» Your mother chuckled at Pascale’s defeated comment, sitting on a couch behind you, holding a magazine. «But they’re talented, at least.» You pouted at your mom’s words, frowning. «Especially Charles. By the way, how is he doing?» your mother added. Pascale sighed, blow-drying your hair. «Very good… But I’m worried he’ll never finish school.» «But he’s in third grade now, how can’t he not?» you asked, with lively eyes. «Middle school isn’t the problem, y/n. I’m afraid he’ll never graduate from high school. I mean, he’s clearly on a league of his own, but… there are no certainties he’ll make it to Formula One, and in case things might not go as planned I don’t want him to struggle finding a job due to a lack of diploma.» «I don’t think you need to worry, Pascale. If Charles can’t succeed, then nobody else will!» Pascale sadly smiled at your mother’s answer, brushing your hair. Still staring at yourself inside the mirror, you caught eye of something quickly storming into the saloon from the backdoor. «Mom, can I go out now?» You had never met him, but it was immediately clear to you that the boy tugging at his mother’s apron was Charles. A lock of hair partly covered his eyes and you were amazed at how large and luminous they were, full of hopes and dreams. «Did you finish your homework?» she asked, still patiently brushing your hair. Hesitating, you saw his eyes trailing off towards Pascale’s movements, pointing towards your hair and ultimately fixed his green pearls onto you. Charles’ lips parted to let out an inaudible gasp, caught by surprise by your gracious and lightful beauty: your hair, perfectly combed, seemed like a crown of silk upon your face, and your blushing cheeks hit an unknow spot of his young, tender, unexperienced heart. «So?» Pascale prompted. «No, I haven’t finished yet.» Charles felt stupid, but he couldn’t stop staring at you, nor could you. He was so scared you would never see each other again he was trying to extend the moment as long as he possibly could. «But I’ll finish them.» he added. Pascale, surprised at the answer, never heard beforehand, watched him pacing fast out the backdoor and reemerging with the notebook in his hand, sitting on the couch nearest to you. Unbeknownst to both of you, your moms had exchanged a knowing look through the mirror; but how could you notice, when all your attention was undividedly offered to each other? He took furtive peeks, as you darted him side-eyed glances, enchanted with his haphazard pose. Needless to say, Charles didn’t get much homework done… But he studied, oh boy, he did: he studied all your features, your behavior, your shy answers to your mother, your graceful red dress as you stood up in order to leave the saloon.

«M-merry Christmas!» he hastily blurted out, before you exited the door. Melting like a candle under a flame, Charles’ chest tightened at your small smile. «Merry Christmas.»

First it was doing homework together, then it was hanging out to eat some ice-cream as a treat, then it was strolling by the sea, and then riding the bike chuckling and giggling, until it was walking to the school gate hand in hand and wearing the matching bracelets you’d gifted him – not making it on purpose – for Valentine’s Day. It had happened so fast you couldn’t give a name to it: you spent all the free time you had in his company – whenever he wasn’t down karting tracks training – and you let yourself be swamped by Charles’ explosiveness, dragging you alongside him down all Monaco, willing to show you anything beautiful he had seen in his life, making memories together.

You had seen other classmates of yours having boyfriends, but they all seemed too morbidly physical to you. Charles would only grab your hand occasionally or give shy and awkward hugs, and that was more than enough for you, more than you would ask him to do: you didn’t feel the need for more; everything was as perfect as he could be. Some of your classmates also mocked you for being his girlfriend, since everybody noticed he often skipped lessons and wasn’t known as an easy character. In fact, Charles, at times, especially at school, treated you a bit coldly, annoyed by all the guys watching him and judging the both of you spending the breaks together. It had never been a problem to you, though, because you had soon realized his heart was full of love and care for you.

«Did they do anything to you?» he asked you, accompanying you back home after school, referring to your classmates. «No, they just talked crap as always.» you shrugged. «Did they touch you?» he asked once again, grabbing your hand a little tighter. «Uh?» «I saw they patted your shoulder, in front of the gate, when you were coming out. Did they do anything before that?» «No, they didn’t.» Charles’ frown was still on display, and you could tell he had been upset by the scene. It was normal, after all: he had witnessed his girlfriend being bullied, liked none of it and wished he would’ve got the chance to intervene. But somehow, seeing him deep in thought and keeping you closer to him made you realize for the first time he genuinely cared about you, more than two good friends, and as your chest filled with an unexplainable excitement, you slowly leaned your head against his shoulder. You waited for him to sway and withdraw from the touch, but he didn’t. You walked back home, fingers intertwined, moving slow steps, both wishing the path was endless.

«Are you done?» «Almost.» Charles huffed in impatience, as your fingers knotted the thread tighter. «Done! Give me your wrist.» you said. After attentively securing the bracelet, Charles took the other one you had already completed. «Give me yours.» You pressed your lips together to suppress a smile as he tied the matching bracelet to your wrist. «I like it a lot. Thank you, y/n.» His few words of appreciation warmed your heart, which fluttered and flipped in joy. You had thought it through for weeks, months; you had shyly confided with your mother, who tried to push you in being a little braver; still, you couldn’t bring yourself to admit your love to Charles. Because it was love. As you stared at each other in silence, your heart was about to explode, but he seemed to be unfazed by your flushed cheeks and nervous giggles. “Charles really likes you, y/n. You don’t have to doubt it.”, Pascale had told you. So, without thinking, prompted by the reassurances you had gathered from external feedback, you quickly leaned towards him and gave him the fastest peck on the lips. Pulling back, you kept your eyes shut, too scared to face his reaction; completely still, terrified, heart flinging out of your chest, you were caught by surprise feeling Charles’ lips back onto yours. It wasn’t as rushed as yours; he probably wasn’t as scared as you were. Under the careful touch of his hand upon your arm, you felt all your tension melt like snow under the sun, giving in to the moment, happy you had broken the ice so that you could both enjoy this second kiss without hesitation. As his face moved away, you saw him opening his mouth in order to say something. «I… I love you, y/n.» he gulped. «And thanks for the gift, they’re so well-made.» The way he had immediately changed topic didn’t help making his first words going unnoticed; Charles couldn’t put his heart on the line that openly, after all. But it seemed like you had only heard those three words, getting stuck at them, flinging yourself towards to hug him. «I love you too, Cha’!»

Charles looked over at you, peacefully drifted away, sleeping your hangover off. He had never told you, but you had been his first love too. Charles didn’t stop tenderly rubbing you from above the sheet, shamelessly enamored with that delicate, indirect touch. Caught once again by the diary, he frowned at a wrinkled page.

As soon as he closed the door behind him, you knew bad news were coming. You had never seen him as silent, as closed off and distant before: instead of immediately reaching out to your hand, walking alongside, he had fastened his steps, marching ahead of you, without sparing you a glance. He stopped on the promenade quite abruptly, forcing you to halt to avoid tripping over him. He stared at the raging sea, tinted of green and grey waves, foaming onto the harbor. «Where do you want to go?» you asked, trying to be as quiet as possible. «It doesn’t matter.» His voice was categorical. «We can’t be together.» He didn’t glance over to you nor blinked, as he threw you on the abyss of the sea, in the freezing coldness of his heart. «What?» you said, above a whisper. «I need to win the karting championship, so I must exclusively focus on training. Spending time with you will make me waste time.» A waste of time. That’s what you were to him. «But… We can still see each other, once you’re done with training! There’s no need to-» «I want to be a Formula One driver, y/n. I can’t have distractions.» «I’m not a distraction, Cha’! We… We love each other!» you pleaded. He finally turned around and threw a pity and almost annoyed look at you. «My only love is racing.» Too young and vulnerable to know how to hide the hurt of rejection, weeping like a baby you bumped past him, running back home, completely distraught. Charles’ words had cut you open like a knife, and what made it worse was that he had given no warning sign: those months together had flown by like a fever dream, sweet and carefree, even when he was telling you about his races and training. It made no sense, to you. He had given you up without thinking twice, whenever the choice was presented to him: racing had been and would always be his answer. Your feelings, whatever you two had shared meant nothing to him. Slamming the door of your bedroom, you looked down at your wrist: with a violent grab, you tore your matching bracelet apart, sobbing loudly, desperate at the thought he would soon throw the one you had made for him too.

Charles’ chest clenched. He had forgotten about the words he had used with you back at the time, but he hadn’t been able to rub off his memory the tears you shed before him. He was sure to be making the right choice, despite not knowing the cost of blindly pursuing his dream without taking others into consideration. He heard you heaving peaceful under his hand, still placed upon the duvet, and he felt a deep regret assaulting him: how could he ask you to stay near him, to bear his presence after what he had done to you? But most importantly: why did he have to lose you only to discover, years later, that if he had kept you by his side, you would’ve been the most supporting and understanding person, given the honey-laced words Pierre always had rolling off his tongue whenever he talked about your presence during race weekends?

Charles sighed and flipped the pages over and got stuck onto another entry, enchanted by a matured handwriting.

Pierre has always been a friend. Every time he would invite you down karting tracks, he would do anything to make you laugh with his stupid jokes, telling you about all the places he had been able to see throughout his first racing weekends around France, dreaming together of his future and reassuring you he would bring you along with him once he would reach F1. No matter how convincing he could sound, his talks always managed to trigger a deep fear in you: you thought you would soon lose him as well, the only real friend you had made since moving out. But Pierre didn’t reject you as Charles had done. Instead of excluding you, he tried to involve you in his world made of races and revving engines, sharing every bit of energy and passion with you. So you grew up together, as close as time and space allowed. The ease and comfort you felt around him and that developed over time was a novelty, more so as you got to know each other since you were fourteen; if you really had to carefully think your relationship through, being there for each other during teenage ha certainly cemented your connection. Because Pierre has always been a good friend; but there had been times, occasions, small moments in which raveled feelings coursed beneath the seemingly smooth surface.

It was no mystery Pierre enjoyed partying, more so if he could drag you with him down the hell of heat, sweat, shots and loud blasting music pumping his blood stronger than ever. That night, though, he had overdone it a bit. Embarrassingly enough, for the first time in his nineteen-years-old existence, he was locked in a bathroom, hands on his stomach, nausea all over his head. And, most importantly, you all over his thoughts. He had downed drinks all night with the intent of celebrating his F1 debut, but completely forgetting about your intoxicating presence, your breathtaking smiles, the little temptations that had begun tormenting him subtly after you had both abandoned innocence and had inevitably grown older. Pierre had completely underestimated the power you had on him, and losing control with drinking loosened his nerves: throughout the night, his hands had unexpectedly lingered on your waist longer, betraying the intentions of removing them in a painstaking delay; his glance had flickered down to your lips too many times, despite him checking in with himself and correct it; the crowded club being accomplice, he had danced way closer to you than he should’ve had, closer than friends would do, and he had mischievously invited you to throw your arms behind his neck. Pierre had never felt so next to completely letting go of any restraint and kissing you then and there, freeing years of pent-up desires. And at that exact moment, nausea had hit him, throwing water upon his fire: he had excused himself to you with incoherent mumbles and ran, scattered, in search of the first restroom he could see. Of course, he should’ve imagined you would follow him and enter the bathroom with him, locking the door behind you.

«Do you… do you need help?» you asked, moving an unsure step towards him. Pierre’s thoughts were running wild: he closed his eyes, fighting the sickness and avoiding engraving in his memory your sweet, worried eyes. «No, I just need to calm down, I think.» You got closer to him after seeing him frustratedly passing a hand through his hair, and affectionately cupped his cheek, pained to see his skin pale under the yellowish light of the bathroom. «Do you want me to bring you some water? I’ll come back in a second.» But Pierre, who was melting into your palm pressed against his face, enjoying the touch with eyes still shut, opened them wide with a frown the second the contact was lost: he grabbed your wrist, which was willing to flee from him, and brought it close so that your fingers would linger back upon his cheek, not ready at all to let you go now that he had you so tantalizingly near. «Please, stay here.» he breathed out. The swift hand pulling your waist closer to him almost went unnoticed, since dizziness was beginning to get you as well; however, not a single hint thrown at you that night, and not even the ones he had left in the last three years or so, had ever led you to believe Pierre yearned for something more. After all, he was a highly popular guy, always hanging out with different girls every night, never trying to hide it from you, in fact. Chicks came and went, but you always stayed. And you also stayed as Pierre spitted a strained and husky putain before rapidly closing the gap between you and trapping your parted lips in a kiss. He didn’t leave much room for you to think nor react: Pierre’s tongue had already met yours in a sloppy and fast-paced dance, and your hand, previously brushing the lightest veil of his beard, had already made his way up to his hair, tugging at it, before you could realize what was happening. Pierre’s stare was completely drowned in dark lust and he couldn’t think straight anymore, taken over by the fog of alcohol and your addictive presence. He kept your lips glued to yours, too scared your words would break what Pierre reckoned to be a fantasy, too good to be true; still, even when he was quickly interrupting the kiss to catch breaths or change side and tilt his head the other way round, no protests were raised. Thirsty and urged by drought, he drank his fill from your lips with such an avidity he would take away any resistance hovering in your mind: Pierre’s desire to see your face under the poorly lit restroom won against the feral need of tasting you, failing to take into consideration how the trail of glistening saliva connecting your swollen lips would turn him on even more, combined with your drunk, dazed eyes and your flushed cheeks. His hands couldn’t stop roaming all over your back, gripping your neck to keep you close, then finally finding rest onto your hips. It didn’t take long before they became daring: still placed upon your waist, they slowly slid up, meeting the cotton of your top and slightly rolling it up-

Charles closed the diary with an abrupt thud. Breathing heavily, eyes filled with rage and fear, he stared straight into the void. He had no intention to keep reading that entry. He wouldn’t read other two pages of you and Pierre’s first hookup. First of how many? He had introduced you as one of his dearest friends… But Charles knew Pierre better than anybody else, and it was a fact he had never befriend that deeply any girl. Unless she was his girlfriend. The idea Charles had had you before and lost you, then found you again and now lost you once more, and to his best friend, stirred unknown feelings inside of him he’d rather bury deep.

A buzz broke his trail of thoughts. Caught by surprise, Charles realized you had dropped your phone onto the bed before slipping under the covers and it had sat near his thigh all along without him noticing. Until it started buzzing, of course. Unconsciously, he took the phone in his hand and saw the notifications pop-ups coming from Pierre. “where aare youuu? I can’t find you And Charles is gone as well ? Please text me back” Charles rested his head again the wall, just above the headrest, and sighed. He should answer Pierre’s texts in order for him not to panic about you two disappearing without warning… or ignore him and pretend he had never read anything? In that moment, Charles realized he had overstepped plenty of the boundaries of your privacy, reading through both your diary and your phone. So… why not going all the way in and earn full damnation? Once he was asked to put a passcode, he stared at the number pad waiting for his drunk brain gears to move; digiting his attempt, he hoped you still kept the same passcode you had back in middle school. It’ll never work, he thought. But to Charles’ amazement, it did. Pressing his lips together mentally mocking your laziness and lack of clever choices (overlooking the fact that he was the only one to possibly know your code from middle school times), he quickly tapped the notification and got ready to type an answer. “I brought her back to the hotel and we’ve just fucked, so that’s why she didn’t answer back :) " No, Charles, for freak’s sake. No resentment. No jealousy. No throwing it back in his face. He’s your best mate, after all. “Charles brought me back to the hotel cause I didn’t feel good We wanted to warn you but couldn’t find you” Quite satisfied, Charles reckoned that would be something you’d say. He didn’t even bother checking for Pierre’s replay, definitely willing to miss out on him being love-sickly worried about you, eye rolling at the mere thought. You were still there sleeping quietly, unaware of the emotional mess you had stirred in Charles’ poor heart. He glanced over at you for the last time, then slowly got up, put the diary back in the wardrobe and sneaked out, closing the door as delicate and silent as he could, not to wake the love he had put to sleep.

Charles sat to the small table, his lower calf resting on his other knee, the pointer finger brushing against his lower lip, in wait. He had been asked by the waiter to order a couple of times already, but Charles, as politely as his upset heart could allow him to, had dismissed him and sent him away. Pierre’s lean silhouette casually strolled towards him with that usual, smug smirk adorning his face with an aura that Charles, for the first time after years of hanging out together, behind his Ray Bans, found terribly unsufferable. He tried to study his best friend in search of whatever detail could’ve ever caught you trapped into his arms, and how the man now taking a seat right in front of him could’ve lied to him straight to the face keeping his new relationship away from him.

«So… I’m all ears.» Pierre stated, smiling. «Alright.» Charles didn’t move, watching his every movement. «Can I ask you something first?» the Frenchman interrupted him as he was about to speak up. «Sure.» Charles sighed, tilting his head in a slow, controlled back and forth motion. «You didn’t tell me anything about y/n since you met her. What do you think of her?» The Monegasque couldn’t restrain a snort, looking away and removing his glasses only to fidget them close, before enigmatically staring at Pierre. It wouldn’t take as long as Charles had predicted to get to the main point of the conversation. «Why does my opinion on her matter so much to you?» «Because you’re my best bro?» Pierre nervously chuckled, scratching his nape. He can’t be lying straight to my face so openly, Charles thought. «You know, you could’ve told me right away you wanted me to meet your new girlfriend. You didn’t have to put all this shit up and call her “one of my dearest friends”.»

Charles, still glancing at him, expected to savor Pierre’s astonished reaction, ready to catch him red-handed: so it was only natural for him to be left confused as the Frenchman frankly laughed, hand on his belly. «Mate, I don’t know how you made it up, but this is the most stupid crap I’ve heard in a while.» «Well, the way you two look at each other and are so comfortable with touching and being close gives it off. You aren’t subtle at all.» Pierre frowned, squinting his eyes to read into Charles’ expression. «Well, that’s a pity, because there’s nothing between me and her. And if you really want to know, she also rejected me long time ago.» «If she rejected you, something must’ve happened.» he stated, raising a brow. «We just made out once. I was celebrating for my F1 debut, I drank way too much and I kissed her. But she refused me quite badly.» he smiled at the thought. «What?» Charles stared at him conflicted, not knowing whether to trust Pierre’s version of the story. «She almost pushed me against the wall. I don’t even think she remembers, we were both completely hangover next day and we never talked about it anymore… Because there was no need to.» Charles would’ve liked to say that, in fact, you clearly remembered it, since he had found it in your diary; but knowing that he had skipped the pages which probably contained the rejection made him feel somewhat relieved. Yet, the undeniable closeness he had witnessed with his own eyes still put him in guard. «Still, you’re always PDA… and you also called her your girl.» «Did I? When?» «Literally last time we went out.» «Oh, I don’t remember. Too drunk to know.» Pierre smiled again. «But at this point, I guess there’s something you really would like to tell me about her.» Charles frowned, waiting for him to speak up again. «You act sus the entire night I introduced you both and dodge every conversation I try to have about her, but you still search for her any hour of the day just to give me second-hand embarrassment with you two’s awkward tension…» Pierre smirked to himself, shaking his head in the smallest movements and scrolling through his phone. «Then you use y/n’s phone to send me a drunk text she questions me about, stating it certainly isn’t hers, which kind of hints at the fact you stayed over to her room until…» he paused, then snorted loudly, «3 a.m. Wow.» Pierre put his phone on the table, screen facing downward. «Lastly, you invite me here, act all classy and cold with your Ray Bans, ready to confront me and make me confess my undying love for y/n with this pissed off face,» he pointed at his friend’s expression, «‘cause you’re jealous as fuck and you’re the one in love with her, uh? Good move, Charles. You’re the one who’s not being subtle at all, here.»

The waiter jumped right in at the worst possible moment, but this time Charles thanked his presence and let him interrupt the conversation: he felt spent, let down, somehow sorry for acting childishly. But, most of all, for being put in front of the harsh true: he still loved you. «Do you know all the story already?» Charles asked him, looking down, dejected. «Which story?» Pierre stared at him bamboozled, as Charles did in return. «But- you said I’m in love with her, so you know, right?» «Know what? What are you talking about?» Charles gulped. «That me and y/n have been together.» Charles saw Pierre’s eyes flick wide open, then him covering his mouth, in disbelief; once again staring back at him, completely sucked in by the news, willing to get at the bottom of it. «When she lived in Monaco…» «Yep.»

A short pause was offered by the drinks opportunely served, just in time for processing the information. «Now I understand why she acts weird when you’re around.» the Frenchman hummed, taking a sip. «Why did you breakup though?» «Guess I was too young to be in a serious relationship while also competing in karting.» Pierre glanced at his best friend, almost uncapable of recognizing him: he’d rarely seen him heartbroken and let down as he was, brushing his fingertip against the edge of his glass. «You should’ve invited y/n here instead of me.» Charles sadly smiled. «To say what?» «Exactly what you told me. You should’ve shown her you’re jealous of me and her, so that she knew you still love her. She should’ve seen you care for her as you probably did back then.» «So that she could rip my heart in two saying she doesn’t feel the same anymore?» «So that she could realize she never dated anybody else after you because she still feels something for you.» Charles bore his helpless eyes into Pierre’s, hope and surprise dancing in his irises. «C’mon, Charles, she even rejected me. Nobody has ever turned me down!» «Oh, please, I know that already.» Charles waited a couple of seconds to let the playful comment set before speaking up again. «Anyway, I tried to talk to her. But of course, she doesn’t want to listen, rightfully, and I can’t force her to.» Pierre loudly put down on the table his glass, spitting out a “tsk” of disapproval and disgust. «Where’s the Charles I know? The one who fights his battles until the end without giving up?»

In love, Charles had never had many problems. After you, that is. Loving came easy to him, as much as being loved: Pierre was popular due to his damned-cool boy reputation, but Charles wasn’t less of a dream for girls. He’d see the astonished stares, cheeks burning bright for him only, the small gasps and whispers shared between friends, the trembling voices and shaking fingers handing him the phone, a picture, a felted tip. A power he never used, let alone overused, to his own advantage. Still, he wished he would work with you. He always searched for any positive sign or reaction to his presence, but he never had the chance to spot them clearly. Every time some fans would hand him a bracelet, an instant stab of sorrow and regret seeped through his heart, overlaying memories of your delicate, small hands offering your handmade sign of love. Pierre was right. He couldn’t let you slip away, once again. «You must hurry up, though.» Pierre stood up, one hand stuffed in his jeans’ pocket. «Why?» «She leaves tomorrow. She… she goes back home.» he trailed off his stare. «What?! Why didn’t you tell me?» Charles abruptly stood up to face him, screeching his chair on the floor. «’Cause I didn’t know you cared?» Charles ran a hand through his hair, sighing in frustration. «Oh, fuck me…» Pierre took his phone out of the pocket and sent a text, under the desperate stare of his best friend. «Okay, she’s in her room now. Go to her.» «W-where?» «She’s staying at my same hotel, room 214. But you know that already from last night.» Charles gaped, uncapable of letting words out. Pierre smiled, patting his shoulder. «You’re welcome. But get to work, okay?»

You knew since the beginning that Pierre’s newly gifted sweatshirts wouldn’t fit your suitcase, so you had warned him not to shower you with merch as he always did: in vain, of course. Hence, you were completely bent over the suitcase, desperately trying to squeeze it with your body weight, in order to close the zip. Huffing and grumbling, about to break the zip due to the excessive might, you halted every movement as a confident knocking on your door startled you. You weren’t expecting anyone; so typical of Pierre to forget stuff in your room and casually pass by… But his knocks would be usually followed by a string of embarrassing pet names, forcing you to open the door immediately. It was unusual for silence to drop right after the knocks.

You got closer to the door, only to jump back hearing insistent thuds against it. Okay, this is more like Pierre. You didn’t wonder further and simply got ready to welcome the sight of your best friend. Apart from the fact that the guy swiftly sneaking inside your room wasn’t him. «W-what are you doing?!» First rage, then fluster hit you: but Charles’ stormy eyes made you weak and helplessly condescending to anything he’d come by to say, as they had always done. «Why are you here?» you asked, your tone softened. Wetted his lips, irises scattered around, purposely avoiding yours, then a firm, determined yet resigned stare. «I read your diary.» «W-wha-» «When I brought you back here from the party, you were drunk. I made it drop by mistake and… and it was right open. I read it. And I also used your phone to answer Pierre’s texts, but you already know this.»

You couldn’t even get mad. As much as you tried to gather fury within you, something about him being vulnerable and fragile before you, frankly confessing the wrongdoings, seemingly heartbroken, couldn’t stir up blame on him. The only thing which made your ears ring and blurred your eyes was black fear. «What… what did you read?» Charles swallowed hard; you followed the movement with your eyes, you almost heard it loud and clear. «Everything.» With a single word, your pride tore apart. You could feel the void it left right beneath your sternum, and you could perceive the prickling tears stinging your eyes. Charles’ brows trembled in sorrow as he watched shame flash through your body, enhancing the shaking of your fingers, the twitching of your lips. «Why did you come here to embarrass me?» Not bearing being that far away from you while simultaneously being the reason you were crying, Charles closed the gap with a step, cupping your cheek with unknown tenderness. «Can you forgive me?» he whispered. You deeply wished he didn’t sound that fragile and loving; you couldn’t bear the pity look he was giving you, not after the brutal ways he had used with you in the past. He was being unnecessarily unfair. Because he probably knew, as you did deep down, that there was no way on earth you could avoid forgiving him.

Charles waited for your answer with his heart on the line, ready to crash in the abyss of despair or hopefully swim in relief, his fingers brushing the dust of time off your precious self, like a rediscovered chest of memories. He shouldn’t have never let you go. «You’re so stupid…» you shook your head and drop it low. «Charles, reading a diary isn’t as bad as-» «No, y/n, that’s not what I meant.» You raised your head up at his words. «Can you forgive me for… leaving you?» Beyond your inner walls, water fell and crashed the dam with its violent flow. He let you hide your face in the crook of his neck, hugging you closer, placing a kiss on your hair, tightening the embrace as your sobs tightened his chest. «Would you trust my love?» he spoke again. A loud sigh erupted from your lips. «I hate you so much…» Charles affectionately leaned his cheek upon your head, rubbing your back in hope to soothe your cries. «I was so naïve and stupid, y/n. I’m so sorry.» he whispered. «You don’t even know how much pain you put me through… I fucking left my hometown, Charles! I moved out…» «I know.» Charles acknowledged, resigned. «No, you don’t! You don’t…» «I never forgave myself for this. You know that?» His honesty showed through the hoarse tone of his voice, which obliged you to look at him, fast enough to see the veils of tears adorning his mesmerizing green, now saddened, eyes. «When my mom told me you had moved out, I thought it couldn’t be real. I waited for you out of school, to bring you back home as we always did, but you were never there.»

You cried harder against his skin, devastated by his shaking voice, and you encircled his neck with your arms to nestle closer. «I kept wearing your bracelet, I couldn’t take it off. It was the only thing I still had of you.» Charles trailed off his gaze and strayed away from the fixed spot he had been staring at, willing to interrupt the unraveling of his raw, way too powerful feelings; then he gently pushed you away the bit he needed to look inside your eyes. «Even if you don’t believe me, I won’t be able to forgive myself until you do. And I might not be able to forgive myself anyway,» he wiped off one of your tears with his thumb, «but I couldn’t add another regret, letting you go without telling you that I still love you.»

Charles felt a weight lifting off his shoulder, relaxing his tensed muscles all at once: he had said the words he had kept stuck in his heart for way too long. He let the hug loosen and moved backwards, now ready to see you leave. «But… if you’re in love with Pierre… I mean, I won’t interfere with you guys. You’re free to love whoever and I honestly can’t blame you, after all I’ve done.» You sadly smiled at his antics, diverging gaze as soon as he had broken the embrace and distancing from you. He had just told you he loved you, but had thrown another topic onto the table so that it would go unnoticed, so that he wouldn’t be hurt in case you didn’t reciprocate. He hadn’t changed, not even a bit. Under the cool and elegant demeanor, you could still see the shy, impulsive and passionate boy you had fallen in love with. «Cha’… You know I can’t choose who to love, right?» Charles’ eyes widened as soon as he saw you stepping towards him, closing the gap once again, lacing your hands around his neck while he held your waist in disbelief, scared you would fade away leaving him with splinters of a dream. «And the proof is that… I can’t help loving you.» «I’d like to say that I’m sorry for you, but…» You both inched over each other’s head, hearts twisting with the renewed novelty of what love felt like. «But there’s no need to be.» you breathed on his lips. The tension pent up through your muscles released all at once, right as you both fell caught inside a kiss: the lock which had sealed you heart for years cracked open at Charles’ key, unleashing the old, affectionate and immature feelings so that you could dress them with the newer and shinier clothes of reconciliation.

Charles couldn’t help a soft moan of frustration while deepening the kiss, his hands failing to keep you as close as he needed, touch-starved. You let him take control, overwhelmed by bliss to the point you simply gave in and relied completely on him; as he worshipped every corner of your beauty, your heart overflowed of unexperienced joy and love. You weren’t in a rush for taking the flight anymore: time was a senseless number uncapable of measuring the moment. Charles delicately laid you on the newly made bed, leaving a trail of feather-like kisses on your collarbones and down to your stomach, lips brushing against your summer dress and eyes desperately sticking onto yours all along. «Tell me you want this as much as I do.» His eyelids shut and his hopeful, breathless voice invited your fingers to pass through his hair, pulling his lips back above yours. «I promise I do.» Scared of opening his eyes and discovering he was having a feverish, heart-rending yet delightful dream, Charles helplessly smiled after resting his forehead upon yours. «Let me love you, then.»

I'm dead sure it's full of mistaked but I'm too tired and happy to be posting that I don't care! Thanks for bearing through everything! And thanks a ton to who leaves notes of feedback, they're so precious and dear to me! ♥ ✧ ˚ · . Wish you a wonderful day . · ˚✧

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