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1.
Charles finds Carlos in his driver’s room, forlornly staring down at his phone.
He tries to close the door behind him gently, but it’s no use, slipping from his fingers and banging loudly against the frame. Carlos doesn’t even look up, just sighs.
“Do not tell me Mattia needs me. I’m busy.”
“Yes, I can see that, mate.” Charles jumps up on the table, swings his feet some. “Are you texting Lando?”
“No.” Carlos taps the screen a few times, then lets himself fall back against the back of his couch. “I try. But I cannot think of anything.”
“Why are you even texting him.” Charles makes grabby hands at the phone, but Carlos just clutches it tighter, glaring at Charles. He drops it quickly.
“Because I want to. Are you going to help or be a bitch?”
“I am not a bitch!” Charles splutters in protest. “Maybe I will not help now.”
Carlos lets the silence drag out, until Charles can feel the curiosity buzz underneath his skin. He relents.
“Okay, I will help. Is there anything you want to talk to Lando about?”
“I just want to talk,” Carlos mutters darkly. “I don’t know about what I want to talk. This is the problem.”
“Is there anything you can invite Lando with? A game? A movie?”
“Maybe a game of golf?” Carlos considers it, swears under his breath. “No, of course not. He has Max for that.”
“You could try still,” Charles insists. “There is nothing to lose.”
“Except for getting turned down,” Carlos grumbles. “Fine. I will. How do I type.”
“Lovely Lando, I have been missing you so. I wanted to ask you out myself...”
Charles ducks to avoid the dirty shirt Carlos throws at him.
“Funny.”
“I thought so!” Charles is too proud of himself. “Maybe this instead. Hey Lando, I hope you are able to play golf with me. No one wants to help me on Saturday and beating myself is not fun.”
“I cannot even beat myself, it is impossible,” Carlos says, already typing. “Maybe I add something about wanting a good competition.”
“Yes, that should help.” Charles gnaws at the nail of his thumb while watching Carlos finish the message, finger hesitating over the send button before tapping it and locking the phone.
“Now. Why did you come into my room, Charles.”
“Mattia needs you,” Charles says. “But you said you were busy. I thought this could wait.”
Carlos sighs, mumbles something in Spanish. “I will go see what he needs.”
Charles jumps off the table, gets bodily pushed out of the room when he doesn’t move fast enough for Carlos’s liking. Carlos locks the door behind the both of them.
“No trust in me,” Charles pouts.
“Of course not.” Carlos bumps a fist against Charles’s shoulder. “See you later.”
2.
“Can you stop making these puppy eyes at Seb,” Carlos says, trying to find space next to Charles on the railing. The drivers’s parade is almost done, the bus turning onto the final straight, and they’d done their interviews by now. It’s Aston Martin’s turn now, Sebastian talking animatedly at the camera, Charles trying not to look at him. Apparently, he’s unsuccessful.
“I am not,” Charles still protests, just for show.
“Yes you are,” Pierre says, adding to the betrayal. Charles glares at him and Pierre puts his hands up in mock surrender.
“We need a plan,” Carlos tells Pierre, leaning back slightly so Charles isn’t directly in between them. Charles pretends like he doesn’t hear it. He’s fine.
“Mick is always right there to talk to Seb,” Pierre replies. “We need some way to distract him. Then Charles can make his move.”
Charles’s current move is biting his lips so hard he tastes a little blood. Sebastian’s his own person with his own life who can make his own decisions, and if those decisions do not include Charles, that was his own choice.
“Aw, look at him, he is pouting,” Carlos teases. Pierre bumps shoulders with Charles, who very maturely doesn’t acknowledge it.
Sebastian and Lance brush past their little group, then, finally released from the cameras. Mick makes a beeline back to Sebastian, leading him to the corner they’d been occupying for the entire parade, and Charles sighs. Imperceptibly, of course.
“We have to do something,” Carlos says. “You distract Mick, I will keep talking to Seb until Charles sees this is the right way.”
“Deal,” Pierre replies, grabbing the railing for some stability when the bus stutters to a halt. He disappears into the crowd, quickly followed by Carlos.
Charles tries to wait it out, but he’s ushered off the bus before long, the track needing to be cleared as soon as possible for the race. In the distance, he can see Pierre and Mick walking off, busily talking. He can’t see Carlos, though, which could be a relief, if…
A hand grips his shoulder then and he’s quickly turned around, face to face with a slightly confused Sebastian.
“Aha, here he is, I thought he had sneaked away. Charles, did you not have things to ask Seb?”
“Uh, for sure, I think?” Charles rubs the back of his neck, licks his suddenly dry lips. He can’t even think of anything right now.
“We had the worst Panettone at Christmas this year,” Carlos says, shooting Charles a look. “And he said you knew where to find a good one in Maranello.”
“You know this too, Charles,” Sebastian says, eyes crinkling from his sudden smile. “It is that bakery down the street from the factory. Maybe a little further. Did we not go there together?”
“We did, but it is so hard to remember what their best things are,” Charles says, trying to remain smooth. “We tested so many of their bakes.”
“I do miss that bakery sometimes,” Sebastian reminisces. “Their cannoli are the best. And the amaretti too. Do you know that in England they make them all weirdly sweet?”
“I will bring some for you next time I have gone in Maranello,” Charles promises him. A brief glance to his left tells him Carlos has left them alone, and Charles feels like maybe he can do this. “But how sweet is it to be weird? Maybe I should compare.”
“Don’t make me buy those,” Sebastian groans, nudging Charles’s shoulder. “You owe me more if you will make me buy them.”
There’s not enough time to finish their conversation. There’s just never enough time before a race. At least Sebastian texts Charles a wishlist later that day, when the smell of rubber is the only thing remaining from the events of the day.
Carlos texts him, too, a warning that he will buy Sebastian what he asked for if Charles doesn’t.
Charles rolls his eyes fondly and makes his own list for Sebastian.
3.
“Can you sit a little bit closer… Yes, perfect!”
Charles leans back against the couch, hoping it won’t incur the wrath of the social media director. To make up for the additional space between him and Carlos, he puts a hand on Carlos’s knee, ignoring the slight twitch he feels. They’re both not the biggest fans of being forced into occupying the same space this close after a race, adrenaline still coursing through their veins, making every touch feel too intense now that the exhaustion is settling in.
“We can get started soon, guys, just relax and wait for my sign.” The social media guy – Charles thinks his name is Harold, and if it’s not he doesn’t care right now – starts fiddling with the camera, shouting instructions to the people behind him to fix the lighting, and Charles wishes he drove for Red Bull so he could at least have some caffeine right now.
“Did you see Lando after the race?” Carlos asks suddenly, snapping out of the nervous fidgeting.
“Only with the press,” Charles admits. “He did not look happy. Why?”
“I told him a joke, that I would let him win at chess so he can win at something this year, but Lando walked away.” Carlos isn’t even pouting. That’s when Charles knows it’s bad.
“It is a little kick when he’s on the ground,” Charles says carefully. “Why do you not cheer him up another way.”
“He always has that Max near him,” Carlos complains. “Never more time for me when we’re not racing.”
“Do you ask him for time?” Charles is starting to wonder where things went wrong. Does Carlos really not see?
“Sometimes. And then we do the things. We did the golfing like you suggested.”
“Mate...” Charles has his face in his hands now, groaning audibly. Harold tuts loudly behind the camera.
“You guys are not looking friendly enough!”
Carlos slings his arm over the back of the couch. Harold nods, content for now.
“Do not ‘mate’ me, Charles.”
“I will ‘mate’ you when you are being stupid. Like now. Do you not see that Lando likes you, too?”
“Lando has forgotten me since I joined the Ferrari Friends.” The airquotes are visible even with Carlos’s hands hidden, hanging thickly in the air between them.
“Lando does not forget something like you two had,” Charles argues. “You both are...”
“We never had anything,” Carlos shoots back. “It never was anything.”
“You are actually joking.”
“I wanted to take it slow,” Carlos explains hurriedly, as Harold’s assistants are looking increasingly more done with the adjustments. “I thought we could maybe… but the closest we got was doing those puppets. And now we’re not close enough.”
“I do not know how you can’t see Lando likes you.” Charles shakes his head. “Does he not go to you when he can in the paddock. Do you not see him stare when he can not go.”
“It is nothing,” Carlos waves it off. Charles huffs.
“You can’t tell me Lando does not like you when he looks at you the same way Seb looks at me. And you claim that is with the hearts!”
“That is...” Carlos trails off, staring blindly in the distance. Charles can hear his brain start working at last. He won’t make fun of Carlos for it this time. He can be nice.
“Okay, we are done preparing!” Harold exclaims, pointing the camera directly at them, the red light blinking on. “I know we said no sitting on the lap, but we can still have that spirit!”
Charles shuffles a bit closer still.
“Maybe I need to talk to Lando,” Carlos murmurs.
“Yes you do,” Charles mutters back.
“Guys! Focus! Friends! Bromance!” Harold peers through the camera lens, gives them a thumbs up. “And… action!”
4.
Charles fiddles with his shirt, tries to smooth some of the creases out of it. He thought he’d packed his golf clothes neatly enough, but somehow they’d gotten crumpled anyway. It’s entirely possible his suitcase was searched while he was getting on the private jet and thrown back together haphazardly.
That’s the story he’s sticking with, anyway.
Most of the other participants have already arrived by now, the drivers breaking up in their usual groups and talking among each other. Charles wonders how they’re going to do the competition. Divide by teams again, as they did last time? How many people were in a group, anyway?
God, he really should have paid attention when Carlos invited him, huh.
Where is Carlos, anyway?
Charles is just about to send him a text when he hears a familiar voice cutting through the chatter of conversation around him. It’s easy enough to locate him, the full mop of black hair unmistakable, just like the rather more sparse blonde curls next to him…
Wait, what?
Since when does Sebastian join them in these activities?
He doesn’t get more time to think about it, anyway, Carlos marching straight to him.
“You have no partner for the golf yet, no? Seb wanted to join so I thought you two could be a team.” Carlos winks exaggeratedly at Charles. And really, why is the golf field so well maintained, Charles wishes it would just sink away under his feet.
“Yeah, okay,” Charles forces out, trying to keep his cool.
“I promise I’m better than you think,” Sebastian says, flashing a smile. “I have been practicing!”
“No match for me and Lando,” Carlos concludes, before leaving them to it, walking back over to Lando and shouting loudly to get everyone’s attention.
“So you hit the ball with the pointy end, yes?” Sebastian asks Charles, a mischievous glint in his eyes.
“I would like to see you try,” Charles replies, barely hiding his own smile.
“It’s only getting the ball in the hole,” Sebastian continues, trying hard to remain serious. “How hard can it be.”
“I thought you were better than what I think?” Charles teases.
They bicker until the field grows silent and Charles finally notices they’re alone.
“Ah. I think we missed the instruction.” Sebastian seems surprised, grabs his golf clubs. “Where do we go?”
“I… am not sure,” Charles confesses. “I think we just start at the first one. You need to do the easy ones first, probably.”
He grabs his own bag and heads towards the first hole, ignoring Sebastian spluttering a few protests behind him.
As it turns out, Sebastian really isn’t bad. Charles hadn’t expected that, anyway. His grip is fine, his swings better than average. He’d be lying if he wasn’t secretly pleased that he still needed less strikes than Sebastian for most of the holes, though.
It’s still inevitable that Sebastian hits the ball into a sand bank at one point. Hell, even Charles has already done so, he’s actually quite impressed it took Sebastian this long. What he’s less impressed by, however, is Sebastian’s attempts to get the ball back out of the sand.
He tries to hold back his laughter as Sebastian merely manages to sweep more sand on top of the ball, making it disappear entirely. Sebastian pouts, leans on his golf club in defeat.
“You show me how to do it, then!” he says, a petulant tone creeping into his voice. Charles sighs fondly.
“No, I know something better. I will teach you myself.”
He grabs the golf club from Sebastian, helps him position his hands just right, wraps their fingers around the warm metal to show Sebastian what kind of grip he needs for this.
“Try like this,” Charles says, taking a step back.
Sebastian does manage to hit the ball then, but doesn’t get enough speed in it, the ball rolling only a few centimetres before it stops again.
And. Well. He has to show his teammate for the contest how to do this properly, right?
It’s as good an excuse as any.
So Charles steps up behind Sebastian, adjusts Sebastian’s posture with gentle touches until he’s flush against Charles, mimicking how he’s standing. Then, Charles brings his arms around Sebastian’s, holding the golf club, showing him the proper technique with some carefully phrased pointers. He doesn’t want to give Sebastian any ideas, after all.
After that, it’s only a matter of helping Sebastian guide the weight of the club through the weight of his body to finally hit the ball back onto the green.
They both cheer like the ball actually went into the hole instead of just onto the grass, Sebastian almost elbowing Charles in the stomach in his happiness, but that’s all forgotten when Sebastian tosses the golf club to the side, turns around and kisses Charles.
It’s only a brief kiss, barely more than a brush of their lips. Charles wraps his arms around Sebastian’s waist, hauls him closer and leans back in, laughs into the kiss when Sebastian almost stumbles over his own feet in his haste to press closer still.
It feels like hours later when they break apart, but the sun above them has barely moved, still throwing stark shadows onto the ground below.
“Maybe we need to finish the course first,” Sebastian murmurs, resting his forehead against Charles’s. “I think we still have a chance of winning this.”
“I can show you more proper technique,” Charles offers innocently.
Sebastian’s grin tells him enough.
They end up third in the end. At further glance, Carlos and Lando finished dead last. Charles thinks he knows what that means.
5.
“Go spend some time together,” Carlos says, mimicking Mattia’s accent. “Make some pictures for the social media.”
“I know,” Charles tries to soothe him before he works himself up too much again.
“I had plans already! But does Mattia ask? Of course not.” Well, that crisis has been averted, at least. Now Carlos is merely sulking.
“Yes, I know.” Charles rubs his eyes, runs a hand through his hair. “But if we do not do this, next time Mattia will come with. You know how that went last time.”
Carlos audibly groans.
“I say we just do some padel,” he suggests. “We can borrow some stuff at the court. Play a few games. Go back to Lan-… our free afternoons, after that.”
“Are you and Lando finally getting somewhere?” Charles pokes Carlos in the ribs, earning himself a glare.
“We are going faster somewhere than you and the old man.”
“He’s not old!” Now it’s Charles’s turn to glare.
They walk on in silence for a bit, heading towards the familiar padel court, until Carlos grabs Charles’s upper arm tightly, ignoring his pained hiss.
“We do not have to play.”
“Is this you playing?” Charles pulls his arm out of Carlos’s grip, rubs at the sore spots where his fingers dug in.
“No, no. I mean the padel. We can just take a few pictures of us modeling padel, if you know what I mean. Then we agree on a score and we can go enjoy our free time.”
“Right.” Charles is listening. He’s planning to take Sebastian to the golf court later that day, to help him practice. He’s not sure what kind of practice yet, but it’ll be practice nonetheless. This would easily give him an hour more, maybe even two. “Okay, let’s do this.”
It’s surprisingly easy to model for the pictures, both of them just hitting some balls over the net to get the action shots. Charles even dabs some water onto his forehead, drips some into his hair, to mimic sweating. Carlos absolutely refuses.
“I have done my hair,” he explains, then backs away quickly when Charles still tips a water bottle in his general direction. “I said no, Charles!”
“We need some together, now,” Charles decides.
“I will fix that,” Carlos says, walking off to the bar. A few words are exchanged, it almost looks like there’s some money being exchanged, but before long Carlos is heading back outside, an employee in his wake.
“Grab the balls and we can get going,” Carlos tells Charles, already getting into position himself. Charles grumbles some, but does as he says.
They hit some balls over the net, pretend like they’re in the grand finale of some tournament, until the employee sticks up a thumb and hands the phone back to Carlos.
He checks them while Charles clears up the place, leaves it neatly for the next people. Sometimes, he’s not sure what hanging out with Sebastian actually did to him.
“They look good,” Carlos says when Charles is back. “I sent some to you so you can pretend you made those.”
“And the score?” Charles asks.
“I beat you bad,” Carlos grins. “20-0.”
“We are not doing that,” Charles groans. “16 to 5 for me.”
“We are not using your number. And you are not winning.”
They grumble for a bit, going back and forth with increasingly unlikely scores, until Charles is fed up with it.
“What if we take the score from the videos. What is that now, 5 to 2? You can have the win. I’m going to see Seb.”
“Okay, we can do that. See you tomorrow?” Carlos holds out a hand, Charles quickly returning the handshake, pulling Carlos close and clapping him on the back once.
“Yes, tomorrow. Tell Lando I said hi.”
Carlos grumbles, but wisely decides to leave it at that.
+1.
Charles is trying to make his way through the paddock when there’s a familiar touch to his upper arm.
“Hey,” Sebastian says. “Do you have a minute? I need to talk to you about something.”
“Very casual,” Charles tells him. “But yes, I think I have some time. I know the perfect place, too.”
Sebastian follows him as Charles tries to remember the hidden corner he and Carlos had discovered on Thursday, while trying to hide from the latest dinner invitation Mattia had made for them. Slip through the back door of the Ferrari hospitality, duck underneath the window in the kitchen door… Yes, there, to the right, there’s the door he’s looking for. He motions for Sebastian to come closer, checks if the door is locked, and quietly opens it.
Sebastian’s already plastered against his back, pressing kisses into the sweaty skin just above the collar of his shirt, and Charles gives up all attempts to be sneaky. He pulls Sebastian inside, kicks the door shut behind him and pushes Sebastian against it, fumbling to lock the door and turn on the lights while Sebastian’s impatiently biting at his lips to deepen the kiss.
The lights go on and Sebastian freezes.
Charles hears muffled Spanish swearing, a different yet familiar voice giggling, and he’s going to kill Carlos so fucking dead after this.
“What are you doing here,” Carlos demands once he’s finally extracted himself from Lando’s arms.
“Why did you not lock the door?” Charles is just baffled. They’d picked this as a hiding spot precisely because there was a lock.
“Yeah, that’s my bad, I distracted him,” Lando says sheepishly. “I said no one would look for us anyway.”
“And I thought you were still nowhere with your old man,” Carlos adds. “When did this happen.”
“None of your business!” Charles splutters.
“At the golf competition,” Sebastian says at the same time, defeating the purpose.
“That’s where we… Ouch!” Lando rubs the spot where Carlos elbowed him in the ribs.
“You didn’t even tell me!” Charles is lowkey offended about this. Didn’t he help Carlos out? He deserved to know his efforts hadn’t been in vain. He was a good wingman, okay, he deserved the recognition.
“I think we are even, since you no tell me either.” Carlos glares at him, ignoring Lando’s attempts to get him back to their earlier activities. “Can you go now. We can talk later. I’m busy.”
“I know a place in the Aston Martin building,” Sebastian murmurs. “We could just go there.”
Charles barely needs convincing, but the hint of teeth he feels on his earlobe does the trick quite effectively anyway.
“Please lock the door next time, guys,” Charles still says. God, maybe he needs to bleach his eyes so these images don’t burn into them.
“Yes, yes. Go now, please.” Carlos waves him off, Lando sliding his hands back into Carlos’s hair to continue where they left off.
Charles unlocks the door, lets Sebastian lead the way to the next secret spot.
“Are you positive Lance will not be there?” he still has to ask. Sebastian visibly shudders.
“Not likely. And if he is, I smuggle you to my driver’s room.”
They make it to the dark green building in record time, Sebastian tugging Charles into a well-hidden office. Charles checks whether they’re fully alone while Sebastian locks the door, then lets Sebastian lift him onto a table so they can continue where they left off.
“I do wonder...” Sebastian says, Charles nipping down his throat, trying to leave only the tiniest marks. “Did I notice correctly that Carlos tried to help us...”
“We are not talking about that,” Charles says, muffled where his mouth is still pressed against Sebastian’s skin. He feels the chuckle reverberate under his lips, Sebastian’s fingers digging into his waist when Charles bites down in protest.
“No bruises,” Sebastian gently reminds him, pushing Charles away slightly. “I just think it’s cute, you know. He was very insistent about the golfing competition, after all.”
“We can get him a thank you card later,” Charles sighs. “Can we stop talking about Carlos before I lose the will to do this.”
Sebastian’s never shut up quite so fast in his life.