Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The garage was unusually silent for Maranello. The words from the official statement still echoed, like distant thunder, reverberating through the air. The mechanics spoke in hushed tones, the engineers kept their eyes low, and there was something thick lingering around them all—a dense mix of nostalgia, uncertainty, and a quiet, persistent ache, like a freshly opened wound that had yet to bleed.

Charles Leclerc had stayed behind. Everyone else had already left—some to the simulator, others home. But not him. He remained in the empty box, sitting on one of the metal benches tucked away at the back. His posture was slumped, elbows on knees, hands clasped together, eyes locked on the ground as if searching for answers in the oil-stained floor that no one had offered him yet.

He looked pale, worn out—not from fatigue, but from holding back too much for too long. His hair was slightly disheveled, his face tight with tension. Beneath his usually calm and elegant exterior, emotion simmered just below the surface. The storm was there. You could see it in the trembling of his jaw, in the way his foot tapped without rhythm, in the redness of his eyes that hadn’t yet spilled over into tears—but would, soon.

When Carlos entered the garage, he didn’t speak. He stood a few meters away from Charles, watching him in silence. He wasn’t wearing the red suit anymore—just a plain black t-shirt and a pair of jeans. Stripped of the uniform, he looked more human. More exposed. Maybe even more distant.

Charles looked up when he felt him arrive. His eyes, though tired, locked onto Carlos with quiet intensity.

“You’re here,” Carlos murmured.

Charles stood up slowly, like every movement cost him more than it should.

“Yes, I’m here,” he replied, voice low but steady. “Where else would I be?”

Carlos looked away, down at the floor.

“I thought you’d left with the others.”

“I didn’t.”

Silence.

The kind that weighs down on your chest, that demands to be broken.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Charles finally asked. His voice cracked—laced with something between anger and grief. “Why didn’t you tell me yourself?”

Carlos swallowed hard, eyes fixed on a dark stain on the floor.

“I couldn’t.”

“Not even me?” Charles’s voice rose in pitch, trembling with disbelief. “Not even... me?”

Carlos met his eyes at last—not coldly, but with a sort of tired resignation carved into his features. His brown eyes, always so expressive, now looked dim, like something inside had shut down.

“It wasn’t about you, Charles.”

“It *was* about me!” Charles snapped, stepping forward, frustration bubbling over. “We were teammates. We were a team. I found out through the fucking press release—just like everyone else. Not a word before. Not a hint. And you… you just kept your mouth shut.”

Carlos clenched his jaw. The tension was heavy now, sharp as a blade. Everything they hadn’t said over the last few months clung to the walls like smoke. He had imagined this moment differently, but deep down, he knew it had to come.

“What did you expect me to do?” he whispered. “Tell you something I couldn’t even admit to myself?”

“Yes,” Charles said, voice cracking again. “Yes, Carlos. I wanted you to trust me. To give me something. Time, at least… to process.”

Carlos ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. He took a few steps toward the wall and leaned against it, as if he needed something to hold him up.

“You don’t know how hard it’s been for me, Charles,” he said. “Carrying it all. Looking at you every day, knowing it was ending. Knowing I’d have to leave this... leave *you* behind.”

Charles bit down on his lower lip, anger melting into sorrow. His shoulders tensed, and the tears he had kept hidden through the official goodbye now threatened to fall.

“Then why?” he asked, barely above a whisper. “Why not be honest? Not once—not one single night when we talked about the future. You spoke about races, about strategy like nothing was happening. How could you?”

Carlos turned around slowly to face him. There was pain in his gaze, and something older, heavier—guilt rooted in choices not truly made, but accepted nonetheless.

“Because if I told you, Charles… if I saw that look in your eyes—” he gestured toward Charles’s face, contorted with rage and grief, the beginnings of tears glistening in the corners “—I wouldn’t have been able to leave.”

Charles stared at him, stunned.

“What…?”

Carlos inhaled deeply.

“I knew that if I told you—if I saw you like this—I’d want to stay. I’d cling to something I couldn’t hold onto anymore. And that… that wouldn’t have been fair. Not to you. Not to me.”

Silence returned—harsher this time. Charles let the tears fall at last, quietly, lips pressed into a line, his whole chest heaving under the weight of it all.

“So it’s done,” he murmured. “You decided to go… and to say nothing. You decided I wasn’t worth a proper goodbye.”

“No,” Carlos said, stepping closer. “I decided not to break in front of you. I decided that if I clung to you, to Ferrari, I’d never leave. I’d never move forward. And I *needed* to. Even if it hurts.”

Charles dropped his gaze. His breath was shallow, shoulders drawn tight as months of unspoken truths crushed down on him.

“I hate you a little right now,” he confessed, voice shattered.

Carlos nodded, gently, as though he deserved it. He took one more step forward.

“I understand.”

“But I’m going to miss you,” Charles added, almost through clenched teeth, like the truth itself wounded him.

Carlos lifted a hand—wanting to touch his face, to comfort him—but stopped halfway, fingers trembling in the air.

“And I’ll miss you.”

There was a beat of time—tiny, suspended—where neither of them moved. They just looked at each other, as if trying to memorize every detail of the other for the last time. As if the image of the red suit, of what they were together, needed to be sealed forever in the mind.

Then Charles stepped back.

“Leave before I regret not yelling more,” he said. “Before someone sees us and starts asking questions.”

Carlos gave a faint smile—sad, aching. He nodded, looked down, and walked away.

Charles was left alone in the garage, surrounded by the remnants of a season that would never return. And for the first time, he felt that Ferrari would never be the same again.

Not without him.

"We're at a crossroad
And we don't know which way to go
Part of me lost hope
And part of me just can't let go"

Chapter Text

Melbourne, Australia.

The air in Melbourne buzzed with the energy of a new beginning. In room 1407 of a luxurious hotel in the heart of the city, the outside world didn't exist. The curtains were drawn, the dim light from a bedside lamp cast soft shadows on the walls, and the only sound was the ragged panting of two bodies moving in unison.

Charles Leclerc was lost in the moment. His body, tense and sweaty, arched against the white hotel sheets. His hands clutched Carlos Sainz's shoulders, fingers digging into the brown skin as if he feared that if he let go, it would all vanish. Carlos, above him, stared down at him with an intensity that always disarmed him: those dark, deep eyes, filled with something Charles had never quite been able to name. It wasn't just desire. It was more. It had always been more.

"Carlos..." Charles gasped, his voice cracking, almost a plea. His legs trembled, tangled in the sheets, as Carlos's rhythm grew faster, more urgent. The heat between them was suffocating, a mix of need and desperation that had consumed them since they locked themselves in the room hours before.

"Shh, cariño," Carlos murmured, his voice deep and slightly husky, leaning down to brush Charles's lips with his own. It wasn't a tender kiss, but a possessive one, as if he wanted to claim every piece of him before the world separated them again. "We're close."

Charles closed his eyes, letting the sensations sweep him away. The pressure on his chest, the heat on his skin, the touch of Carlos's fingers on his waist: it was all too much and, at the same time, never enough. They had been here before, in hotels in different cities, on nights stolen between races, always hidden, always on the verge of something neither of them dared to define. But this time, in the first race of the season, with Carlos already at Williams and Charles still in Ferrari, there was a different urgency.

As if they both knew time was slipping away.

A moan escaped Charles's lips as the climax hit him, his body tensing under Carlos's weight. Seconds later, Carlos followed, his breath ragged as he collapsed on top of him, resting his forehead on Charles's shoulder. For a moment, there were no words, only the sound of their synchronized breaths, trying to regain control. The world, for a moment, stopped.

Carlos was the first to move, rolling onto his side with a contented sigh. He lay on his back, one hand resting on his chest as he stared up at the ceiling. Charles, still panting, stayed still, staring at the lamp flickering softly in the corner. The room smelled of them, of sweat and something more intimate, something that always haunted them after these nights.

"Joder, Charles," Carlos said with a low laugh, breaking the silence. "You always make crossing half the world worth it."

Charles turned his head to look at him, a tired smile on his lips. But there was something in his eyes, a shadow that wouldn't go away, even in this moment of vulnerability. He got up slowly, sitting on the edge of the bed, and began searching for his clothes scattered on the floor. His boxers, his black T-shirt, the jeans he'd carelessly discarded hours before. Every movement was deliberate, as if putting on clothes was a way to rebuild the barriers they'd just torn down.

Carlos watched him from the bed, still naked, leaning on an elbow. His gaze followed Charles's every gesture, as if trying to decipher something left unsaid. Finally, he stood up too, walking toward his own clothes with that relaxed confidence that always characterized him. He put on boxers and a gray T-shirt, but he didn't rush. He never did.

"How long are we going to keep this up, Carlos?" Charles asked suddenly, his voice low but firm. He was facing away, buttoning his jeans, but his tone was unmistakable: heavy with something he'd been holding in for too long.

Carlos stopped, one eyebrow raised. He walked over to the room's minibar, pulled out a bottle of water, and took a sip before answering. There was a lightness in his posture, but his eyes were serious.

"Like what?" he asked, though he clearly knew what Charles meant.

Charles turned around, facing him. His green eyes shone with a mixture of frustration and exhaustion. He was barefoot, his hair disheveled, and his cheeks still flushed from what they had just done, but his expression was anything but relaxed.

“Hiding. Escaping to hotels. Lying.” He paused, his voice trembling slightly. “Cheating on our girlfriends.”

Carlos gave a short, almost incredulous laugh and shook his head. He walked over to Charles, resting a hand on the wall beside him, enclosing him without touching. His smile was amused, but there was an edge to it, as if he were about to reveal something Charles hadn't expected.

“Do you think Rebecca and I are for real?” he said, his voice low and thick with irony. “Come on, Charles. It's a bluff. A public-image compromise. She knows it, I know it. Pretty pictures, events, smiles for sponsors. Nothing more. We agreed to it because we're both from a wealthy family, and remaining single raised a lot of eyebrows.”

Charles blinked, processing his words. For a moment, he didn't know what to say. There was something about the ease with which Carlos spoke about his relationship with Rebecca that unsettled him. It wasn't jealousy, not exactly, but a pang of something he couldn't quite place. Relief? Insecurity? Or maybe the weight of knowing that, for him, things with Alexandra weren't so simple? That it was real.

Alexandra wasn't just a facade. There were real feelings, shared moments, a life he'd built with her off the track. But there was also this: Carlos, the intensity, the connection that made him feel like he was traveling at 300 kilometers per hour, even when he was standing still.

Carlos watched him, still leaning against the wall, his gaze fixed on him as if he could read every thought that crossed his mind. He tilted his head slightly, and the smile on his lips faded, replaced by a more serious, more inquisitive expression.

"And you, Charles?" he asked with a cutting edge. "Alex and you? Is that a bluff too, isn't it, like me and Rebecca?"

Charles felt a knot in his stomach. The question caught him off guard, like a sudden change of direction on the track. His eyes met Carlos's, and for a moment, he wanted to tell the truth. He wanted to confess that Alexandra was more than a facade, that there was love there, though perhaps not as visceral as what he felt right now, with Carlos so close he could feel the heat of his body. But the words wouldn't come. Instead, something inside him—fear, perhaps, or the desire to keep this space with Carlos intact—made him lie.

"Of course," he said, his voice firmer than he expected, though he felt a slight tremor inside. "It's not real. I just... feel sorry for her, she's a good girl."

Carlos looked at him for a moment longer, as if evaluating the answer. His dark eyes seemed to search for something, a crack in Charles's facade, but he finally nodded, accepting the words without question. The tension in the air relaxed, though not entirely. Charles felt a pang of guilt, but quickly buried it.

This wasn't the time for that.

Not here, not now.

"So what?" Charles asked, breaking the silence. He pushed away from the wall, putting some distance between them, as if he needed space to breathe. "Do we keep going like this? Hiding? Doing this in hotels, pretending nothing's happening?"

Carlos straightened, crossing his arms over his chest. There was a calmness about him, a certainty that contrasted with Charles's inner turmoil. He walked over to the minibar again, but this time he just played with the water bottle in his hands, turning it over in thought.

"Yes, Charles," she finally said, her voice calm but determined. "We're continuing like this. It's for the best. We agreed, remember? Months ago, when we stop being teammates. No complications, no fuss. Just us, when we can. Without the world finding out."

Charles pressed his lips together, feeling the weight of those words. He remembered perfectly that night, in a hotel in Monaco, after a party, when they had first crossed the line. They had talked then, between whispers and half-promises, about keeping it a secret. About protecting what they had from the cameras, the rumors, the equipment. But what had seemed like a practical agreement then now felt like a chain. One he wasn't sure he wanted to break, but also didn't know how long it could endure.

"What if I don't want to hide anymore?" he asked, almost without realizing the words had left his mouth. His voice was low, vulnerable, and for a moment he regretted having said it.

Carlos looked at him, surprised, but didn't respond immediately. He took a step toward him, closing the distance Charles had tried to create. His expression was serious, but there was a softness in his eyes that disarmed Charles.

"Charles, look at me," he said, his voice low but firm. "This is what we have." And it's fucking good, isn't it? What we feel here, now, we won't find anywhere else. But if we go out there and make it public, everything goes to hell. The media, the sponsors, the teams... they would destroy us. And not just us. Everyone around us.

Charles lowered his gaze, feeling the weight of truth in those words. He knew Carlos was right. Formula 1 wasn't just about speed and adrenaline; it was a world of appearances, contracts, and expectations. A world that didn't forgive those who broke the unwritten rules. But still, a part of him wanted to defy it all. He wanted to scream, to take a risk, to stop living half-heartedly.

"Just…" he began, but his voice cracked. He swallowed and tried again. "I just don't want to feel like this is all we'll ever have. Stolen nights. Lies. I don't want it to be just this."

Carlos sighed, and for a moment, it seemed he was going to say something deeper, something to change the course of the conversation. But instead, he leaned even closer, until their foreheads were almost touching. His hand found the back of Charles's neck, a warm, familiar touch that made Charles's heart race again.

“It’s not just this,” Carlos murmured, his voice soft but heavy with conviction. “It’s more. It’s always been more. But we have to play the cards we’ve been dealt, cariño. At least for now.”

Charles closed his eyes, letting Carlos’s words wash over him. He wanted to believe him. He wanted to cling to the idea that this, what they had, was enough. But the lie he’d just told him about Alexandra weighed on his chest, and the certainty that they were walking a tightrope made him feel that, sooner or later, one of them would fall.

“Okay,” he said finally, though he wasn’t sure if he was saying it to convince Carlos or himself. “We’ll keep going.”

Carlos smiled, a small but genuine smile, and gave the back of his neck a gentle squeeze before letting go. He turned to finish dressing, slipping on his jeans with that infuriating calm he always had. Charles watched him, memorizing every movement, every detail: the way his T-shirt hung on his shoulders, the lock of hair that fell across his forehead, the curve of his smile when he turned to face him.

"Tomorrow on the track, Leclerc," Carlos said, his tone returning to that playful lightness he used to ease tension. "Don't let a Williams run you over, eh?"

Charles gave a weak laugh, more out of habit than desire. "Don't dream about it, Sainz."

Carlos winked and opened the bedroom door. Before leaving, he turned one last time, his gaze meeting Charles's.

"See you after the podium," he said, and then disappeared, leaving the door closed behind him. "In my driving room."

Charles was left alone, the silence of the room enveloping him like a heavy blanket. He walked to the window, parted the curtains, and looked out at the lights of Melbourne twinkling in the night. The season had just begun, but he already felt like he was running a race he wasn't sure he could win. Not on the track, but in his own life.

High infidelity
Put on your records and regret me
I bent the truth too far tonight
I was dancing around, dancing around it”