Work Text:
The motionless and silent car in which he was waiting outside the Ferrari HQ in the Red Bull Ring and which would take him in a few minutes to the private airport to come back to Italy was one of the few things that managed to keep afloat Carlos’ funeral mood.
It had been a horrible Sunday for him and his race, there was no other way to put things. Austria had been a bad and cruel stepmother towards him, he thought bitterly, fully dressed in his formal blue Ferrari suit.
In his hand, Carlos had his phone. He was writing to his mother and his sisters for the umpteenth time to reassure them about his health conditions.
Things hadn't gone very well for his family in recent days either: after his dad’s accident at the rally in Sardinia, the fire that had destroyed his car during the Grand Prix a few hours earlier was literally the icing on the cake.
The thought of how his first competition after his first F1 victory had ended made him feel terrible. He had been so close to overtaking Max to battle with Charles, but his car had betrayed him, like a capricious lover to whom he had given everything and who had decided to abandon him when he least expected it.
Those flames, which had spread at an obscene speed in just thirty seconds, had not only endangered his life for many, many moments, and terrified him - his distressed string of No, no, no, no! had been quite clear about it -, but they had also ruined his chance of being on equal footing with Charles and being considered his perfect match in talent and performance.
Charles had been his primary target to chase during the Austrian Grand Prix, the real yardstick he wanted to measure himself against... and he had lost in front of him.
Again.
The way things had turned around in just seven days had almost caused Carlos whiplash: last Sunday he felt like the king of the world at Silverstone, while Charles had an unfortunately unsatisfactory race. Now, Carlos DNF, with a sense of failure and sorrow so heavy on his back.
It hadn't been his fault, he knew it well. He just had to put all this behind him, return to Maranello, and work on the French Grand Prix with the team; this was his only actual responsibility. Reacting with the utmost concentration to the negative moments that were part of his career.
However, Carlos felt so many conflicting feelings, as always: under the thick layer of discouragement that had taken possession of his usually radiant nature, joy shone for Charles.
He was extraordinarily happy for him and for his victory, he knew how much Charles needed it to face the last two races left before the summer break. Carlos's mind lingered on Charles's contagious smile on the top step of the podium and then in the midst of Ferrari engineers and technicians for souvenir photos; a smile so blinding that it could rival the sun and all the other stars in the universe.
A deep sigh escaped from Carlos's mouth, almost unwittingly. There was no need to think about such cheesy things towards Charles – he was his teammate, his rival, his biggest obstacle to the final victory, and also the only person in the whole world who could fully understand what it meant wearing a Ferrari red racing suit, with all the crushing weight of expectations that it inevitably brought with it.
But why me? Why him? were the questions that echoed in Carlos's mind as he ended the chat conversation with his sisters - they would talk again once he landed within a couple of hours.
Constantly being close to Charles was like walking blindfolded on the edge of a precipice. Something crazy and senseless that would sooner or later lead Carlos into a free fall that would break all his bones, turning them to dust.
He couldn't afford it, period. Mattia counted on him, the entire Scuderia counted on him, the tifosi counted on him... Charles counted on him. And he couldn't get carried away by his feelings, as if he were a sixth-grade kid.
Carlos hadn't been an impulsive twenty-year-old kid like Lando for a long time now. He was a skilled and rational grown man, and as such he should always act. Except that it was easier said than done to keep certain emotions forcefully under control in his mind.
He didn’t even have time to finish his promise that the car door opened and the very object of his thoughts sat next to him.
Surprise painted itself on Carlos's features, leaving him speechless. He didn’t expect to share the car with anyone, least of all with Charles, on the way to the airport.
It was unfair the way the official Ferrari elegant suit looked on him. Charles Leclerc was literally handsome as a model, he should be found on the glossy covers of the fashion magazines his sisters greedily leafed through.
He was so stunning that every time Carlos set his eyes on him, he felt short of breath.
Carlos took a few seconds to secretly admire him, succumbing to his weakness for his teammate. Then he put back the mask he always wore when they were alone, because he was just his platonic friend and supportive teammate.
The only two things that he could ever have been for him.
So he approached him and put his closed fist in greeting, while Charles gave him a smile so bright it almost blinded his heart. Meanwhile, their car had started moving towards the private airport, not far from Red Bull Ring; a thick black glass separated their passenger area from the driver, obscuring images and muffling sounds... it was like being in a small private bubble, just the two of them.
And the whole world was closed out, far far away.
"Oh, that's why I wasn’t in the same car with Caco and Silvia! Congratulations again on your victory, mate, you have led a spectacular race," he told him sincerely, while in turn Charles silently handed him his fist too. "I've seen all your overtaking against Max... the second one was truly exceptional!"
He was complimenting Charles with pure bluntness; that’s why his natural Spanish accent rose from every single word with an indomitable strength.
Carlos wasn’t capable of lying to him at all. At that moment, Charles deserved the best part of himself, the one that was really happy for his success, so Carlos couldn't think about how everything went down the drain for himself once more.
"Thank you, mate," was Charles's response, so contented that it flooded him with his joy. "It was a very complicated race, but I managed to bring home P1. After five races off the podium, I needed this confidence boost!" he giggled.
Carlos shook his head listening to him. He knew that kind of frustration so well: it was like being very hungry and not being able to eat anything from a delicious feast set before your eyes. This was the spring that pushed both (and all their friends and drivers in F1) to want to destroy any obstacles that stood in the way of the first place on the podium.
Sometimes Carlos and Charles had managed to make it together - Charles seemed really obsessed with repeating the 1-2 they had done in Bahrain, he always mentioned it in every interview as his primary goal during every race -, sometimes neither of them could.
Sometimes, however, their preparation and talent were not enough: fate intervened directly, giving everything to one and nothing to the other. It had happened the week before at Silverstone, and now the situation between them had turned upside down again.
But it was written in the rules of the game that they had agreed to play. This was Formula 1, and Carlos loved it for this kind of unpredictability he constantly fought against, just like Don Quixote against windmills.
"You've been very good. That’s why they call you il predestinato," Carlos joked, sliding back into his seat.
Charles Leclerc was so many things for him, things extremely contradictory to each other: the Chosen one, teammate, rival, friend, first enemy to beat on the track, the only person who could fully understand what was going through his head a lot of times.
And the source of very strong feelings, too much strong feelings, that went beyond friendship.
Carlos had never told anyone about what he felt about Charles; not even his cousin, who had always been the keeper of his secrets since childhood. He just kept everything inside, as he always did.
Also because verbalizing the impulses he felt for him would have made him definitively aware of them, and Carlos didn’t want such a thing.
Carlos Sainz Jr. just wanted to pretend that he was totally fine, that everything in his life was flowing normally.
That having his heart that threatened to come out of his chest when they were near was a typical thing between friends. That looking for any kind of excuse to touch or talk to him was normal for two young drivers who were very close to each other. That shooting social videos with him and laughing out loud together wasn't an immense pleasure every time. That staring at the pics he posted on Instagram for minutes, those damn photos in which he was so beautiful he looked sculpted by angels, was something ordinary. That all their moments spent alone in Maranello or Fiorano weren't so special to be indelibly fixed in his memory.
That he could suffocate all of this, at any cost. Although such an attitude had become increasingly difficult and self-destructive for Carlos, since it was an exercise in strict discipline to fight every second of every day against his own unspeakable desires.
It was really hard to do that when Charles was staring at him like that in the car. In an indecipherable way, almost as if he had an enigma in front of him, while Carlos thought that he had clearly written on his face everything he felt for him in a transparent way, and tried to erase it painfully.
"Well, il predestinato explicitly asked Silvia to let us go to the airport together in the same car," Charles said, clearing his throat. "I wanted to be alone with you for a while and talk to you."
At that moment, a gargantuan-sized red alert went off in Carlos's head. He swallowed his words with difficulty, his mind trying not to desperately think about the intimacy of their current situation, with no escape route.
"How come?" he asked in an uncertain voice. Panic was running down his back, making him shiver.
Charles's gaze clouded before answering him. The lively green of his eyes was veiled with something indefinite that seemed to be weighing infinitely on his shoulders.
He was no longer as happy about his victory as before, and it created a crack in Carlos's heart. It was as if grey clouds, which he knew were always threateningly thickened on the edge of Charles's life horizon, had peeped out of nowhere to wrap him in their dark and heavy cloak.
"You know, you can tell me everything. What do you want to talk about? What's happening?" Carlos asked in a tone so full of tact that it was almost unrecognizable to his own ears. Charles was able to bring out sides of his character that almost no one else had unlocked in his private or professional life.
"When we were in the race and the muretto told me about your problems, they didn't fully explain what happened to you to not make me lose focus," he began. "As soon as they told me you were out, I started having the accelerator problem and my car started to become unmanageable in the very last few laps. My concentration was all on one goal: to finish the race and keep Max behind me."
Then Charles took a small deep breath and looked him straight in the eye with such intensity that Carlos distinctly felt something collapse inside him. He didn't know what, maybe it was his willpower.
"After the celebrations and the post-race briefing, I finally calmly watched the images and videos of what happened to you... mon Dieu, Carlos, it could have ended very badly for you today," was all Charles could tell him.
His words were like a blanket of vulnerability thrown on him, his gaze was so different from usual. Charles made him feel exposed when they were together because sometimes it seemed that he wanted to grab all the secrets Carlos kept in his soul and pour them into his own to keep them safe with him.
But Carlos saw in Charles's gaze something that he had never seen before: paura, fear.
Being the cause of Charles's apprehension destabilized and electrified Carlos's heart. For a long, interminable moment of madness, he thought that Charles could have feel the same things for him, that all this wasn’t just a one-sided illusion that would sooner or later break everything inside him.
But, deep down, Carlos knew that his mental ruminations weren't based on anything real. His was just wishful thinking, because nothing could ever lead to anything between him and Charles in the future.
He buried the disappointment that was enveloping every fiber of his body and spoke to Charles with all the sincerity he could grant him.
"Hey, man, don't think about it. Luckily, I kept panic from taking hold of me completely and got out of the car as soon as the marshals arrived. Their slowness was unforgivable, but I'm alive and well in front of you!" he tried to joke to raise the mood.
Then he grabbed the blue jacket he was wearing by the edges and showed his torso wrapped in a white shirt to Charles to soothe him. "Look, I don't even have a scratch," he mumbled, smiling at him.
Please smile at me. If you don't smile, you kill my heart.
But Charles was already far from him, elsewhere, in a place where no one could reach him.
Not even Carlos.
"I-I..." Charles tried to talk to him, but without success. His breathing became heavy, the palms of his hands were pressed into the sockets of his eyes so deeply that it seemed to Carlos that he wanted to erase all his current thoughts from his mind like that. "I can't watch people getting hurt on the track. Carlos, I can't do this anymore. If something bad happened to you today, I- "
Seeing Charles like this was torture for Carlos. It was as if someone was tearing bits from his skin and sprinkling his living flesh with acid; a horrible feeling, which was making him want to scream.
He couldn't lose his temper, though. It had to be Charles's rock, a solid rock he could hold on to, and reassure him as much as possible while he was crumbling in front of him.
Then Charles removed his hands from his face, looked him straight in the eye, and continued to converse with him.
"I have never stopped suffering for Jules and Tonio, they are scars that will never heal. Death is a perennial shadow that accompanies me, I live constantly in fear that Formula 1 will take away another person I love from me. Seeing you in that burning car really messed with my brain, I swear to you on Arthur and Lollo," he confessed with a trembling voice and hands shaking as if he were in the middle of an earthquake.
At that point, a heavy silence took possession of the car they were traveling on. And for several minutes, Carlos took time to weigh the meaning of what Charles had confided in him so crudely and honestly.
Every single word of his teammate was tearing through his chest as if they were a thousand sharp blades that were cutting everything.
Carlos was sure of just one thing: he could never fully understand the pains that had always studded Charles's life. He had built a very high wall because of the misfortunes that had happened to him, culminated in his dad’s premature death; witnessing little cracks in this wall made Carlos feel incredibly honored.
He took a deep breath, and felt in his heart a stupid, feeble startle, since Charles had placed him in the same category as two of his most adored friends and he had used the verb love for him.
However, he knew very well that he was not referring to the same kind of love that Carlos felt for him and that a tiny part of him still hoped desperately to get from him, despite everything.
He was a friend, just a friend, to Charles.
The knowledge that he would never be able to turn that stupid word, friend, into a Mon Cher, or Amore mio, a kiss on the lips or a romantic caress on the cheek, had long been destroying him. But now it was even stronger in him the determination to be able to be anything the young man who had at his side could ever need to be close to him and don’t lose him.
No, Carlos couldn't give Charles back any of the people who had tragically left him. But he could at least give him the certainty that he was still there, next to him.
And so he did something that he never expected or dreamed of doing in his entire life for another person.
Carlos had always described himself as a person not very inclined to fuss, who struggled to show affection to those around him. His character was rigid and rational, not inclined to romantic or passionate outbursts in love.
Carlos Sainz Jr. was a down-to-earth, reliable, loyal man. And he always would be like that.
Yet, immersed in that silence that seemed to suffocate him and with Charles's gaze lost in the void in front of him, he decided to undo that mask of reserve and modesty behind which he had hidden every single desire for love and tenderness for his teammate. And he let this desire soar freely in the air like a butterfly that finally came out of its cocoon for the first flight ever, before forcing it back inside.
He grabbed Charles's right hand, the one closest to him, squeezed it and, with unprecedented slowness, placed it on his own white shirt, above his heart.
Carlos proceeded with great caution, because he wanted to make Charles understand what he was about to do and give him time to free himself from his grip if his intentions were not to his liking.
Then he placed his own fingers over him, their skin contrast was dazzling. The pallor of Charles's phalanges, tapered like those of a pianist, blended so well with Carlos's Mediterranean olive, creating a magnificent overlap.
And so they stood there, looking at each other, hands in hands, as if they had all the time in the world at their disposal and were not living that particular moment borrowing precious seconds from a crazy day.
There was nothing more authentic that Carlos could give to Charles as tangible proof of himself and of his own existence than the constant beating of his heart.
A heart that, unfortunately, Charles could never even remotely imagine or know how much loved him.
Oh.
Charles felt his mouth open and form a perfect oval at how shocked he was by Carlos's gesture.
His teammate was an incredibly physical person, he had known this from the first moments they spent together; he had grown accustomed to being touched by him at every possible opportunity almost everywhere. Hands, wrists, shoulders, knees, thighs... even tickling his belly had become a now allowed contact between the two of them.
But the intimacy of such a situation was astonishing - so much that Charles, someone who had never had a problem filling the silence with him, couldn't open his jaw to make any sound.
"Here, can you feel it? This is my beating heart. Don't worry, I'm here. Nothing bad happened to me," were his words, in a tone so warm and low that it made his rationality melt like liquid metal.
Carlos had caught him off guard by putting his hand on his heart, but Charles let him do it. He understood where he wanted to put it and granted it to him, like he had granted him so many things without realizing it in the course of their relationship.
In all honesty, he would never give up the possibility of such contact with him, something so rare and precious and glorious, for anything in the world.
Charles took a deep breath, focusing on what Carlos had just told him and all the sensations he was experiencing within himself to block what it seemed like a new wave of terrible anxiety in the bud. Something that would envelop him very soon, take him to a very dark part of his own mind, and drown him there with no chance of salvation.
To prevent this, he anchored himself to the concrete reality he literally had at hand. He felt Carlos’s soft fabric of his white shirt under his fingertips, the warmth of Carlos's skin - God, he was always as hot as a radiator in the middle of winter -, and then that incredible fluttering sound.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
A solid, concrete, incredibly close hammering.
Hearing that sound, it was as if an umbilical cord had formed between his heart and Carlos's. Charles took another deep breath and heard their beats fit together before sliding together towards total synchrony.
And that magical union, that consonance of hearts, finally allowed him to relax and throw behind his shoulders those videos with the fire enveloping Carlos's car with him still inside it.
He is fine, you are feeling his heartbeat under your palm. Carlos is with you, nothing has happened to him. He is breathing. He is alive. Those words became his mantra to cling to to emerge from the tide that was closing in upon him.
The whole world disappeared for Charles: his tongue knotted in his palate, his fingers continued to cling tightly to Carlos's as if they never wanted to separate again. Everything else ceased to exist for him, like they were just the two of them alone in a car somewhere in Austria.
His worst nightmare had almost come true: Carlos could have died, and this realization had literally thrown him into panic. In his head, he had only the flashbacks of those flames that were becoming bigger around him and no one running to help him.
Charles’s throat was tightened in such a tight knot that it was hard for him to breathe after watching what had happened to him and only now, with his hand gripping Carlos's, he had begun to feel his lungs returning to full capacity.
Think about it, Charles. Carlos could lose control of the car for any reason and crash somewhere, fainting, unable to get out of the flames. And by now you would have been crying for his death.
A tragic thought crossed Charles's mind as he continued to crush Carlos's hand, as if he were the only thing keeping him afloat right now amidst his own emotional storm. If the worst happened, he could never have a chance to confess to him what he had felt for him for a long time.
Charles had a secret within him, he hid it with care and dedication from everyone: he had strong feelings for Carlos, he didn't know how long he had been in love with him. He had found himself in the middle before even realizing it.
Even in the impossible possibility Carlos reciprocated him, there was so much at stake for both of them that it would have been so difficult to go beyond their friendship.
Charles knew that he and Carlos were drivers, rivals, teammates. Taking such a relationship to a higher and more intimate level was incredibly risky... the likelihood of forever ruining their unique and special bond was very, very high.
But all this would never happen anyway. All of this was just nonsense Charles used to console himself: Carlos saw him as a friend, just like Lando, he was sure of it. And for this reason he would always keep his mouth shut on the subject, even at the cost of exploding inside as if he had a bomb in his ribcage.
A rejection of his declared feelings would have led to an imbalance that would have disrupted not only their personal, but also their working dynamics. And Ferrari was his entire life, it was the fundamental basis of the dream he was living.
2022 was the first year in which both of them were really in the running for the WDC as main protagonists, and such a thing came first. Even before his own fulfillment in love.
After that disastrous 2020 with Seb, Carlos represented for Charles a real breath of fresh air.
The atmosphere in the Scuderia had relaxed a lot since he arrived. They laughed and joked so much, they looked after each other. Their chats, dinners out, chess games and hours in the simulators had all been things that had made him understand who Carlos Sainz Jr. really was and put him in the right position to appreciate him first as a teammate, then as a friend, and finally, in the long run, as the object of his love.
Charles knew how unmatched and special he was, like a precious diamond. It was no coincidence that Carlos got along with everyone and everyone in F1 had a good relationship with him, regardless of the team he was a part of.
Carlos kept him in check when everything seemed to be rowing against him. The press had called him il predestinato, but they had forgotten to add a little detail: even the children of the prophecies needed help and a shoulder to support them in the best and worst times.
Once, Pierre had sent him a TikTok in which he and Carlos were compared to Harry Potter and Hermione Granger, and the comparison was fitting. Their relationship really was like that.
Charles was pure energy, incandescent lava that overwhelmed everything blindly and melted everything in his path. Carlos, on the other hand, was solid ground, roots that kept him anchored to his own goals and reasonableness.
In the worst moments of disappointment, like even last week after finishing P4 at Silverstone, Carlos had been there for him. As Charles was there for him even at that exact moment, still squeezing his hand with all the strength he had.
Without even saying a word to him, because they didn't need it. The comfort Carlos was providing him was purely physical, it didn’t need to be expressed in language. And it was such a primitive and profound experience between the two of them. It lasted entire minutes without Charles almost realizing it.
It was a shared event, so intense that it made space elbowing in Charles’s mind and placed itself alongside other incisive memories accumulated over the years such as his signing of contract with Ferrari, his first F1 victory, the last hug with dad.
For a brief moment, Charles imagined himself giving up his own fears and having the strength to do what he really wanted to do.
He would use his hand trapped on Carlos's chest as a lever to push him towards him, while gripping the fabric of his shirt. Close, closer until any kind of distance between them were canceled.
Charles would use his other free hand to caress his neck and face, with the same devotion he used when he approached his revered piano. Carlos’s skin always seemed to him smooth as glass, it would be so soft under his touch.
Then he would rise his fingers to his cheeks, they were covered in a light stubble that weekend. It would have been wonderful to feel it, under his fingertips, scratching his phalanges.
After that, Charles would begin to bring his face closer to Carlos's, drawing him to him as if gravity were conspiring to make them stick to each other.
He could finally admire his dark eyes from very close; those two deep pools were able to suck up any negative thoughts and empty his mind of all worries. Nosing closer and closer, he would eventually feel Carlos's long lashes across his skin to flap, like delicate feathers. He would have touched his eyelids, his browbone, his temples with his lips; then he would dig his fingers into Carlos’silky black hair.
Finally, he would put his mouth on him, full and sensual, ready to taste him with his tongue.
However, Charles's elaborate fantasy became smoke in the air when Carlos spoke to him after what had seemed like a century-long eternity.
"Are you feeling any better now? Is everything fine?" he asked him in the most caring voice in the world, stroking the back of his hand engulfed by his own.
At that moment, Charles's dream ended, so he returned to the stark reality of his own life. A life where he had finally won again and where Carlos managed to escape from a charred car just in time. A life where the only words he could ever hear him utter from those expressive and full-bodied lips would be Mate, amico mio, partner.
Because not even the awareness of having almost lost him gave him the final courage to talk to him and confess all his love to him.
Charles Leclerc was a driver who risked on track and gave his all for the win, but he was much more cowardly than he could ever have imagined with Carlos. His motivations were always the same: he had to protect himself, his teammate, Ferrari, and the balance they had painstakingly built up, little by little, over the past year and a half.
There was no individuality when their future in the best F1 team was at stake. His desires had no outlet, especially if they were as potentially destructive as those he harbored for him.
Charles shook his head affirmatively at Carlos's question.
"Yes, I feel so much better now. Thank you," he miraculously managed to spit out of his throat as statements. He had zero saliva and dry lips, as if he had just done the Dakar rally.
God, he just wanted to shrink himself and creep into Carlos's chest to listen to the wonderful sound of his heartbeat forever. It was a perfect melody, like a Chopin Nocturne, the Italian anthem, or the P1! that was communicated to him every time he won.
Then they looked into their eyes again and Carlos smiled at him so sweetly that Charles distinctly felt various internal organs melt away.
"Anytime, mate," was all Carlos said before loosening his grip on Charles's hand and definitely freeing him.
No, don’t do it. I still want your hand for a while. Or forever. Don't leave me, please. I need you.
At that exact moment, their car stopped. They had certainly reached their final destination anyway, the private airport where the whole team was surely waiting for them.
Charles's mind didn’t even want to calculate how many minutes they had both been like this, with their hands intertwined, listening to Carlos’s racing heartbeat and looking into each other's eyes in silence.
The magic was over, he thought. Charles thus returned to his usual way of relating with Carlos, one made of joy and pain mixed together in a sublime way.
No matter how much this situation hurt him, he was now doomed to an unrequited love that would remain unspoken.
Charles got out of the car, stretched out the fingers of the hand that Carlos had held as he did everytime before playing his piano, and then slipped it into his pocket to stifle the instinct that told him to take that hand again and get lost in the serenity of his heartbeat.
He retrieved from the hood his bag, containing his most important personal effects, and took a last moment to admire Carlos, who was talking to Mattia not far from him.
He contemplated him in silence, with his soul swollen with love and melancholy. A smile was painted on Charles’s lips; he hoped it was as honest as possible, so it could act as an external shield to all his inner conflict, before going towards Carlos and then climbing together on the flight ladder to safely return to Italy.