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Pierre picks him up from the airport in the same car Charles has been picked up in since he was 16 when Pierre had bought his first car. It’s old and inconspicuous, but it feels like childhood memories as much as the hug that he is greeted with feels like coming home.
Charles drops his carry-on bag to wrap his arms around his best friend, curling his hands into the fluffiness of his jumper as he feels Pierre tighten his hold on him.
Does he bury his nose into Pierre’s neck? Maybe.
Does he regret it? Absolutely not.
The scent is one he clings to far too often. The heady mix of woodsy yet floral cologne mixed with something musky that is just Pierre and home.
“You are dressed like you’re going to the Arctic,” Pierre laughs when he pulls back and playfully tugs on the scarf wrapped around Charles’ neck.
“What?” Charles huffs, looking down at his long woollen winter coat. There is a pair of brown leather gloves in his bag, and a hat that matches his black scarf. “No, this is what normal people wear in the winter.”
“It’s still double digits, calamar,” Pierre remarks, taking his bag and placing it into the boot.
“Barely,” Charles mutters whilst hurrying into the warmth of the car and settling in for a two hour ride back to Pierre’s family home. He pulls out his phone and hooks it up to the radio via the adapter - there’s no Bluetooth in Pierre’s ancient car - and puts on their shared playlist made up of every song they have ever liked, and some they hate.
When Pierre had asked, way back in October, what he would like to do to celebrate his birthday over winter break like they normally do, Charles didn’t hesitate in telling him that he wanted to go back to the Christmas market in Rouen as they did almost annually as kids. He knows Pierre had been surprised, perhaps expecting something a bit more adventurous or exotic, but Charles had held firm and Pierre had acquiesced.
They have been growing much closer recently, ever since their summer adventure at the Festyland theme park for Pierre’s birthday that had ended with an almost kiss in his car. Charles didn’t think it was possible to be any closer than he already was to Pierre, but he had been proven wrong time and time again over the past four months. Every touch lingers longer, every conversation carries a layer of flirting, and every glance is heated and wanting. Everything now means more, to him and he is sure to Pierre too.
So Charles has decided, by the end of the winter break, he will ensure to make something happen if Pierre doesn’t first.
“Ready to get this show on the road?” Pierre asks as he climbs into the driver’s seat and buckles himself in, patting Charles’ thigh and squeezing at his knee before removing his hand to place onto the handbrake.
“Cannot wait,” Charles says softly, smiling wide when Pierre glances over and offers a lopsided one of his own.
Charles knows he has always loved Pierre, but as his heart stutters and his stomach flips at the sight of his smile as it has been doing recently, he is certain he is in love with him too. It feels so easy, being in love with his best friend. It’s freeing, like he’s flying, and he can’t wait to share it with him.
---
Pierre’s parents are as welcoming as they have always been, inviting him in and hugging him as if he is one of their own, before Pierre’s mother chastises him for looking like he hasn’t been eating enough like he really is one of their own. Charles blushes under their attention, sparing Pierre a cheeky smirk at being left behind to bring in his bag as he is ushered straight into the kitchen. Pierre’s affectionate eye roll is predictable.
He’s given one of the guest rooms that used to belong to the eldest son of the family back when Charles was eight years old, only returning from university during the holidays. It’s beautifully decorated with warm winter colours and cosy pillows, the bed summoning him to lay down after the filling dinner they had just consumed.
But Charles doesn’t often sleep in the guest room when he stays with Pierre. Especially not lately, not since the summer where he’s been in Milan more often than not when travelling to and from Maranello for no other reason than he simply wanted to see his best friend. And if said best friend asks him to stay the night instead of staying in a hotel near the Ferrari headquarters, so be it. And if they end up sleeping in the same bed after staying up watching movies or playing games and gossiping, neither finds it awkward.
So he swaps his contacts for glasses, pushes a bandana up his forehead, and changes into his pyjamas, pulling on a hoodie on top to be on the safe side. Creeping down the hallway to knock gently on Pierre’s door, he’s surprised to find it unlocked and opens it when there’s a quiet “come in” in reply.
Pierre looks up from where he is lounging on his bed, dressed in a pair of fleece jogging bottoms and a t-shirt loose enough to sleep in but tight enough that Charles can see the outline of his muscles when he shifts. Muscles Charles has learnt to appreciate more and more over the recent months, with his eyes and the rogue touch. On his otherwise bare arm is a leather bracelet, wrapped around his forearm and secured with a silver clasp dotted with blue gems.
The bracelet Charles had gifted him for his birthday and Pierre wears reverently since, except for when in his race car, he has noticed.
The bed is the same bed they used to sleep in every race weekend they were racing in France, and the nostalgia hits Charles hard. Memories of curling up under the covers long after they were meant to be asleep, whispering and giggling about their hopes and dreams, about their karting races, about the F1 race they watched on the TV that day, about promises of always being the best of friends no matter where life took them. Charles always fell asleep to the sound of Pierre’s breathing, always the most talkative and excited, always the one eager to get the next day started but not waste a second with his best friend who understood him better than anyone else.
“Everything okay?” Pierre asks, ripping Charles out of his reminiscing. He puts on an easy smile and throws an arm out towards his right, the wall opposite the end of the bed.
“Want to watch a movie?” he asks in reply, earning himself a bemused look from Pierre.
“No TV,” Pierre tells him with a smirk and a nod towards the wall in question. Charles blinks, turning to see the empty wall which was once a source of their entertainment.
“Oh yeah!” Charles lets out in surprise, head swivelling back to Pierre. “What happened to it?”
“It wouldn’t turn on when I got back. I’ve ordered a new one,” Pierre informs him. There’s a shuffling sound as Pierre shifts on his duvet-covered bed, pushing himself up to sit against his pillows and leaving the other side of the bed - the side Charles usually sleeps on - free.
That’s when he notices the familiar looking small tuft of navy blue on the bedside table next to that side. “Hey, you brought Pierre with you!”
Pierre - human Pierre - shoots him a quizzical look before following his pointing finger to where the squid plushie Charles had won for him at the theme park in the summer sits. He rolls his eyes even as a wistful smile curves his lips when he turns back to him. “Well, I couldn’t leave him home alone. He’d get lonely.”
“Oh, of course,” Charles replies in mock seriousness, doing his best to keep the smile off his face and failing terribly.
“C’mon,” Pierre huffs, patting the space next to him. “Want to play a mobile game?”
“Sounds good,” Charles agrees, pulling his phone out of his hoodie pocket and collapsing onto the bed next to him. They move wordlessly until they’re pressed shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh, just to be next to one another.
They decide on Mario Kart, the Nintendo game being a favourite of theirs throughout the years, and manage to keep the cursing and bickering to a low, even if the laughs that break through are higher in pitch.
“It’s been so long since we were last here,” Pierre sighs after he wins their best of five battle and they lock their phones for the night. It’s past midnight and though they don’t have much planned for the following day except the Christmas market in the evening, they have just finished a very long racing calendar and sleep is a precious commodity to drivers.
“You were, what, 21? I was 19? The last Christmas before we were both lined up for Formula One,” Charles replies, reminiscing about the time when they were all lanky limbs sharing this very bed as opposed to the bodies they have worked on and filled out over the years.
Pierre more so than Charles, but he won’t fault him on that when he gets to appreciate it - along with everyone else on his Instagram.
“Why did you choose this for your birthday?” Pierre asks, turning his head to face him as Charles does the same.
His breath catches for a moment when he realises their closeness, the tips of their noses just brushing against each other. Neither pull back and Charles watches as Pierre’s bright blue eyes flicker momentarily downwards before meeting his own again. Charles is suddenly acutely aware of their situation, of feeling each of Pierre’s puffs of breath against his own lips, of seeing his eyes darken to an ocean of emotions instead.
Want is at the forefront, Charles can read it clear as day. Want and love and home. Pierre wants him, Pierre loves him. But sitting on his bed, in his home, with his parents at the end of the corridor, Charles realises it has to be Pierre’s move first tonight.
So when he simply inhales deeply instead, eyes fluttering shut in an elongated blink, and settles back deeper into his pillow to put distance between their faces, Charles allows a smile to curve at his mouth at the moment that has been broken and now passes them by.
No-one would call Pierre insecure or uncertain from the outside, but Charles knows him better. Behind the bravado he puts on and the playboy lifestyle he seems to live, Charles knows a Pierre who doubts his worth and guards his heart, and only lets himself love when he’s sure it won’t get broken. So he won’t ever push Pierre into something he’s still learning to trust, but knowing they had another near-kiss is enough for now.
“Because I missed how much fun we used to have at the market and the fair,” Charles finally answers his question, as if nothing had happened since it was asked. “And our sleepovers.”
Pierre smiles softly at him, stretching out an arm to pat him on the chest. “You know you don’t need an invite for a sleepover, calamar. My bed is always open for you.”
Charles grins and nods, ducking his head as he feels himself turn red with the insinuation and the double meaning he knows Pierre is teasing him with. Instead, he slips off the bed and tugs off his hoodie, leaving him in a t-shirt to sleep in. He takes a quick glance at plushie Pierre sitting on his bedside table, looking over his phone with a permanent frown on his face, and pats him on the head.
It’s warm under the duvet, and only part of that is because of the heat seeping into him from the arm Pierre’s casually tossed over his waist as he has recently taken up the habit of doing. Charles falls asleep with the comforting weight of it, and knowing tomorrow is another day just for the two of them.
---
Pierre’s mother ensures they sit down and have a meal of her homemade cassoulet, the same meal she would make for them before they headed out to the market as kids. It’s hot and filling but not too heavy, enough to keep them going and not make themselves sick on the rides, and still have space for the odd snack.
Charles greedily finishes his plate, the dish bringing back fond and eager memories of him and Pierre doing the same and then moaning when their parents would take their time. Only now, Pierre finishes soon after him and they leave the table soon after, being shooed away by Pierre’s parents. Apparently, they looked like they were about to bounce out of their seats.
They head back upstairs to change into something more appropriate for a winter’s night but before Charles can walk any further than the upstairs landing, Pierre takes a grip of his wrist and pulls him into his room. He stumbles slightly, almost tripping over his feet until he grapples for a hold onto Pierre’s arm - his strong, muscular arm - being the only thing to keep him from falling flat.
“I want to give you your birthday present before we go,” Pierre tells him as he closes the door behind them, and directs him to sit on the bed.
Charles would be lying if he said his mind didn’t wander to other birthday presents he’s received in the past; the pleasant, naked kind. Just not from Pierre.
Yet.
Perhaps next year.
Pierre fetches two wrapped items from the cupboard under where the TV used to be, takes a seat next to him perching on the end of the bed and hands Charles the thick, rectangular one first. “Here; happy birthday.”
“Thank you, Pierre,” he says sincerely, taking the gift. Pierre’s gifts are always heartfelt and personal, and as Charles rips off the perfectly done wrapping - he has never had the patience to do it politely - he isn’t disappointed to see this one is the same.
It’s a book, slightly larger than the size of a standard photograph back when they were printed out and an inch thick, with a simple white cover and the words ‘au cours des années’ written in calligraphy in the middle of it. Through the years.
Charles already knows what’s inside the photo book even as he opens it and is met with ‘part one’ printed on the first page. The second is of the first photo they ever took together, children with rosy red cheeks from their laughter and the racing, and messy hair from their helmets.
Flicking through quickly, he notices there is a date underneath each photo and a little comment to describe it. ‘2006 - Charles and Pierre at Festyland’, or ‘2007 - Charles and Pierre at Monaco Grand Prix’, or his favourite, an image of them asleep in the back of a car, heads knocking together and hands linked with the caption ‘2009 - Charles and Pierre, tired after a day of karting’.
“Pierre,” is all Charles can muster up as he reaches the end and vows to have a proper look with Pierre when they have time the following day. His eyes are misty from the trip down memory lane, and he hopes he was able to lace his utterance of the one word with all the love, gratitude, and adoration he has for Pierre and his gift.
The final picture is of them at Festyland that summer, a selfie of the two of them with their colourful tongues sticking out for the camera after downing their tasteless slushies. ‘2022 - Charles and Pierre, post-slushies at Festyland’ is the very fitting caption.
“I thought you’d like to have them all in one place, so you can have a look whenever you want,” Pierre explains. Charles closes the book and lays it safely on his lap, and when he gazes over to the boy next to him, he’s surprised to see him with an affectionate smile, looking as emotional as he feels.
“It’s amazing, I love it,” Charles tells him, finally finding his voice, though it sounds watery. He leans into Pierre’s space to wrap his arms around his shoulders for a hug, whispering into his collar, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Charles,” Pierre replies quietly, an arm around his waist before he pulls away to clear his throat and hand Charles the other item with him. He’s smirking as he does, his voice stronger than before and he all but thrusts it into his hands. “Also, a side gift.”
“What?” Charles asks suspiciously, placing the photo book aside on the bed behind them and taking the present. It's squashy and flexible; the wrapping paper scrunching as he kneads at it with his fingers. A grin breaks out on his face and he rips it away to reveal the dark blue, comfy and thick hoodie inside, with the words ‘liked by Pierre Gasly’ embroidered in white across the chest. Charles beams at the sight of it. “Hey! Is this an exclusive?”
“Well, I don’t give them out to many people, personally, so I suppose it is,” Pierre laughs, his whole face lighting up as he did, and Charles observes through his own laughter at the way Pierre’s joy travels up from his mouth to the small crinkle at the top of his nose, to the creases at the corner of his eyes, now slitted so he can barely make out the blue in them.
“Then thank you,” Charles says after he tears himself away from drinking in every aspect of Pierre’s features. He jumps to his feet instead and holds the hoodie up against his body to show it off. He has a couple of items of clothing from Pierre’s fashion line but he hadn’t worked up the courage to purchase - or even ask for - one with his infamous slogan on it. “It’s so soft.”
For the second time within 24 hours, Charles starts to strip in Pierre’s bedroom, pulling off his long sleeved top and pulling on the gifted hoodie over his undershirt. He takes a quick look in the mirror on Pierre’s wardrobe door and reckons he rocks it pretty well.
“You’re not actually wearing that, are you?” Pierre asks him incredulously, an undertone of laughter still in his words.
“Why not? Does Pierre Gasly not like me?” Charles counters, waving a hand at the words proudly displayed on his chest as he stands in front of the man in question.
“No, no. I more than like you, mon petit,” Pierre tells him, voice low and deep in his throat, the reply playful yet fierce with a salacious smirk playing on his lips and eyes taking him in. It hits Charles right in the stomach, heat pooling and threatening to travel lower if he kept looking at him like that.
There’s a Christmas market waiting for them but if Pierre makes his move now, Charles would be more than happy to proclaim this moment as the ride of the night.
Or whatever follows.
Instead, the tension lingers before Pierre softens and shrugs, getting to his feet too. “I just didn’t think you would want to wear it outside.”
“And not let the world know that Pierre Gasly likes me? Never,” Charles plays along, allowing a smirk of his own - though nowhere near as dirty as Pierre’s had been - to grace his features and lighten the mood.
“Please stop using my full name,” Pierre mutters as he locates and tugs on a plain light grey hoodie of his own.
“You shouldn’t have put it on your merchandise then,” Charles retorts cheerfully, waiting for the eye roll before adding, sassily, “Pierre Gasly.”
“I’m leaving you at home,” Pierre grumbles, shoving Charles in the shoulder half-heartedly as he comes to stand in front of him in the middle of his room.
“Okay, your parents will take me instead,” Charles replies brazenly, shrugging. They both know it's true; Pierre’s parents adore Charles and they adore traditions. Put both together, and the car would be ready to go before Pierre could even get out the house himself.
“Brat,” he gripes, the smile playing at his lips ruining his effect of trying to be serious.
Charles grins once again and tucks his hands into the pocket of the hoodie at his stomach, dimples cutting deep into his cheeks and seeing Pierre reluctantly mirror his action, just like he knew he would. “But you love me, no?” he prompts, swinging side to side childishly.
“Hmm. No idea why,” Pierre jokes, reaching out to pat at his cheek, the brief touch sending tingles across his skin. “C’mon, let’s go. Will you be warm enough in that?”
“I think so. We can have some hot chocolate and mulled wine to keep us warm,” Charles insists, following Pierre towards the door.
“I’m sure we can think of other ways to keep warm too, don’t worry,” Pierre throws over his shoulder with a wink that freezes Charles in his tracks.
There is no way they are making it through that evening, not with Charles wearing Pierre’s name like a character out of a trashy American teen drama, and not with their frequently increasing suggestive interactions, without one of them breaking. Charles knows it, and he knows to trust his instincts on these things. It’s only a matter of when now.
---
The air is sprinkled with the scent of cinnamon and chocolate as they make their way through the market stalls lining the centre of Rouen. Despite the late evening hour, it is teeming with more people Charles remembers there ever being. There’s an empty cup that had contained mulled wine in one hand, the other clutching onto Pierre’s sleeve as he trails behind him to make sure they don’t get separated.
Lights from the market and the fair at the far end twinkle like coloured fairy lights strung across the entirety of the area. There is a contagious merry mood, everyone sharing smiles and nods and the odd “joyeux Noël”, no matter who they are, and bitter bite of the weather - now in the single digits - is soothed by the heat radiating off the bustling crowds and the food stalls.
Spotting one selling churros to their far left, exactly where the Christmas market turns into a fair, Charles is about to suggest making a detour for a few when Pierre suddenly stops in front of him. His hand brushes against his wrist a few times, fingers wiggling impatiently until he manages to get a grip and tugs.
“Charles, this way,” Pierre says hurriedly, already taking him in the opposite direction to the churros stand.
“What-? Okay then,” Charles lets out as he allows himself to be dragged along. He tries to peer around Pierre to figure out where they are heading but he can’t see beyond his dark hair and the people around them. Clearly he has seen something important and Charles is happy to go along with it for now.
By the time they come to a stop, the crowds have thinned out and Charles has thrown his empty cup away into a recycling bin. Pierre uses his hold on him to swing him to his side, beaming at him with all his teeth on show as he nods to his right. “Look!”
Charles follows his direction and gasps when he finally notices it; a fairground game surrounded by tens of squid plushies of a multitude of colours. “Another group of Pierres!” he exclaims gleefully, matching Pierre’s grin with one of his own.
“Come, I will win you one too,” Pierre tells him and guides him towards the game stall by the hand still wrapped around Charles’ wrist.
“No, Pierre. You don’t have you,” Charles laughs faintly, pulling against Pierre’s hand in protest. If he is being honest, he isn’t trying too hard.
“I want to, mon petit calamar,” Pierre insists, and with the bright smile still curving his lips, Charles wasn’t going to argue against it again.
They wait until the teenage couple finish their turn without winning anything before Pierre steps up. He has already explained to Charles how he’s going to aim the bean bags towards each of the coconuts resting on the posts at various heights as they waited. Charles had simply nodded along, throwing in the odd “hmm”, not thinking the game required such foreplanning. It was a fairground game, after all, and they have played many in their years.
The first turn doesn’t go as planned, and Pierre explains that he is only getting a feel of the weight of the bean bags, which are apparently throwing him off. Charles, once again, nods along, and pulls out his phone to video Pierre’s next turn. There is an intense look of concentration on his face, the corner of his bottom lip between his lips, and eyes narrowed as he takes aim and hurls the bean bag with all of his might towards the coconut.
Charles follows it with his eyes and the camera, inhaling expectantly as it shakes but fails to fall. Pierre repeats the action, and so does Charles, over and over until he’s on his sixth and final bean bag though three of the five coconuts are still standing.
By the end of the fourth go, Charles has tucked his phone away and is leaning against the stall. He’s actually surprised they haven’t gathered a crowd but it's a blessing because he knows they would end up on the internet in no time, and Pierre wouldn’t be happy for his fans having to witness his physical prowess failing him.
A little giggle leaves him when the last bean bag misses the last coconut despite having dislodged the other four on the first go. Pierre growls under his breath and pulls out another €5 bill, which is when Charles decides to intervene.
“What are you doing?” he hisses as he grabs at the other boy’s wrist to stop him from handing the money over. “Pierre!”
“I am winning you that toy,” Pierre tells him through gritted teeth, trying to shake his arm free to no avail. He might be stronger but Charles knows how to have a pretty good grip on him.
“Pierre, you are being ridiculous!” Charles chastises lightly, but it is ignored in favour of an eye roll.
“I will win,” Pierre says adamantly. “I am close now.”
“I am sure you will, but for the money you are spending on all of these turns, you might as well have simply bought it for me,” Charles explains, bringing up his other hand to pat comfortingly at Pierre’s well-formed bicep. Unfortunately, his sweet words only earn himself another eye roll, though his features have relaxed from the mask of complete determination and frustration he had on previously.
“It’s not about the money, Charlito. It’s about you and the toy and what it represents,” Pierre tells him earnestly.
Charles raises his eyebrows at him. The athlete in them meant they were naturally competitive, even against themselves, and making their way into F1 meant they never knew how to quit. “Oh? And what’s that?”
“Us,” Pierre says matter-of-factly, and Charles melts at the implication. That the stupid little stuffed toy that Charles had won for him on the whim in Festyland, the same toy he had seen - albeit a bit fuzzily without his glasses on - the moment he had woken up is now a part of their story, forming another thread that binds them even closer.
“Fine, but only because you’re being so pig-headed and sweet,” Charles sighs dramatically and makes a show of pulling his hand away by splaying out his fingers in the air after he does so.
“Thanks, cher,” Pierre replies dryly, slapping the money onto the counter and accepting the bean bags the stand owner has already gathered for him.
Pierre pushes the sleeves of his hoodie up his forearms and shakes out his arms in preparation for another go. The fairground lights catch his bracelet as he takes his position, and Charles smiles tenderly to himself at the devotion Pierre shows to everything he does and cares for.
It takes him one more turn before the coconuts all fall with one bean bag to go, and Charles cheers as Pierre whoops and tosses the spare bag onto the counter with far more bravado than someone who took six turns should.
“Well done, calamar! I knew you’d do it,” Charles praises, clapping enthusiastically.
“No, you didn’t,” Pierre scoffs but Charles pointedly ignores him and turns away to speak to the owner instead.
“I want the red one, please,” he says with a charming smile, showing the gentleman the red cuddly squid that had caught his eye since they had settled in to play the game almost 20 minutes earlier.
“No, no, I won so I get to choose,” Pierre quickly interrupts, taking Charles’ hand in his own to lower it and stopping the man in his tracks as he stretches up for the toy Charles had asked for.
“But it’s red,” Charles pouts, looking forlornly at the red plushie even as Pierre continues to hold onto his hand.
“And red is Charles, I know. But I want you to have the pink one,” Pierre tells him in pure delight. When the stall owner turns to the pastel pink squid hanging behind him, Pierre quickly adds, “The other pink one, please,” whilst nodding to the far corner.
It’s bright pink - almost fluorescent in the fairground lights - and alone, like it was purposely hidden in the corner due to its colour meaning no-one would want to take it home. But of course, as Pierre accepts his prize and they move to the side, Charles realises that it's the exact sort of thing he would do. Not only to tease him, but to spot the odd one out and take it in without another thought.
The same way Pierre had done all those years ago at the karting ring, sidling up to Charles where he had stood alone at his first race whilst his father and older brother had turned away for two minutes.
“Here; happy birthday,” Pierre repeats the same phrase from earlier that evening as he hands over another gift. The plushie looks much tinier, cradled in both of his hands and offered out to him, but Charles takes it with a gentle grasp around the main body.
“I love it, thank you,” Charles says with a smile. Up close, the bright pink squid is as just downy as squid-Pierre and rather cute, the colour not at all off-putting now it is in his hands. He lifts his head after examining it closely to see Pierre gazing at him with what could only be called love. It puts the same look in his own eyes. “You see how mine smiles but yours is frowny? It fits, no?”
The adoration drops from Pierre’s face in an instant, and an exaggerated look of annoyance takes its place. “Do you want me to take it back?”
“No, it’s mine now!” Charles protectively cuddles the toy up to this chest before wagging a finger at him in a similar manner they had both experienced from their mothers at the same fair many, many years ago. “It’s rude to take back a gift, Pierrot. Have you no manners?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Pierre brushes off, smiles tugging at the corner of both of their mouths. He nods to the squid pressed against the ‘liked by Pierre Gasly’ slogan and tells him, “Make sure you name him Charlito.”
Charles frowns in confusion. “‘Charlito’? Not just ‘Charles’? We named yours ‘Pierre’ and not ‘Pierrot’.”
“Nope, that kinda smile, with the closed eyes and everything? That’s my Charlito smile,” Pierre says with a crooked smile of his own, the words and action almost shyly, and Charles feels like his heart is going to burst with the sentiment, the proud familiarity, and the hint of possessiveness.
“Okay, Charlito it is,” Charles says definitively. He brings the toy up to his face so they are eye level with each other to speak to it. “Hi Charlito. You can live in my pocket for today.”
“Cute,” Pierre quips as Charles carefully slides Charlito the squid into his hoodie pocket, making sure all the tentacles were safely inside.
“I know I am,” Charles replies haughtily, a dimpled and angelic smile on his face that earns him yet another Pierre-patent affectionate eye roll.
“Let’s see how cute you feel after we ride the wheel,” Pierre retorts with a laugh, slinging a casual arm around Charles’ shoulder - as he has done many times before yet has never felt so intimate - and guiding them both towards the big ferris wheel at the end of the grounds.
---
They settle into the ferris wheel cart swiftly, Charles first and Pierre right behind him, pulling down the safety bar across their laps and allowing the teen who had ushered them on to secure it. It’s a ride they have gone on every time they have visited the Christmas market, and Charles knows Pierre hates it as much as he does. Neither one is good with heights or the movement of the cart in the open air, yet somehow they always end up in a fit of giggles by the time they’re off, vowing to never get on again, and repeating it each and every time.
It’s a smooth start, Charles peering over the edge and ooh-ing at the twinkling lights as the market and fair got smaller and smaller, and the noise of the crowds got quieter and quieter. When they reach a quarter of the way up, the cold winter wind starts to pick up and Charles pulls the sleeves of his new hoodie over his hands just as the cart starts to sway with the force of it. It pulls a gasp out of him, and he hears Pierre react the same.
Pierre’s hands are clasped tightly at the safety bar on their laps, despite the fact it is made of metal and Charles refuses to touch such a cold item even with covered hands. Instead, he pats at the lump now pushed against his abdomen with the force of the bar, peering down and digging his other hand into the pocket to free the tentacles that are trapped.
“Charlito okay?” Pierre asks playfully, elbow digging into his side as he jabs at him for attention at his joke, the way Charles is used to him doing so throughout the years.
Charles shakes his head with a smile and tilts it sideways to look at him with an arched brow. “Think he might be scared.”
“Oh no,” Pierre deadpans, and Charles is jolted back into his seat with a startled cry when the cart sways suddenly. The deep chortle from next to him tells him it is due to Pierre’s actions, especially when he feels him throw his weight back and forth between his body and legs to cause it to swing even more. “How about now?”
“Pierre!” Charles whines as they swing precariously in the air near the top. “Stop it!”
“What? I’m not doing anything…” Pierre retorts in a tone of pure innocence, grinning maniacally as he stares at him dead in the eyes and repeats the motion.
Charles’ stomach drops in a very unpleasant manner when Pierre intentionally shakes them again, hands automatically reaching out to clutch the rail securing them in and emitting a short shriek at the freezing touch on the tips of his fingers. He lets out a particularly long string of curses, in a mix of French, Italian, and English, and if the way the occupants of the cart in front of them turn to scowl at them, he’s being very loud about it too.
“You’re getting us in trouble, calamar,” Pierre scolds lightheartedly through his giggles, legs still swinging with force. “You need to behave.”
“I need to behave?! Me?!” Charles cries incredulously, his voice raising an octave as Pierre continues on his conquest to scare him to death. “Pierre, I swear- You are scared of heights too! Why are you doing this-?”
Before he can finish his rant, Charles feels a hand curl into the front of his hoodie and is jerked sideways towards the boy sitting next to him. The rough touch of Pierre’s hand on his neck is burning, a sharp contradiction to the weather, but the feeling only lasts for a second as all coherent thought is halted when he is pulled into a kiss. A kiss with Pierre.
Pierre is kissing him.
And in his shocked state, he is yet to kiss him back.
It’s only when Charles feels Pierre start to stiffen and pull away that he reacts urgently. He finally has Pierre making the move and he cannot let him go without knowing how much he wants this, without knowing exactly what kissing Pierre is like. Something tells him it’ll be better than he’s ever been able to conjure up in his mind.
Reaching up to grip onto the wrist of the hand holding onto him to keep him in place, Charles returns the kiss. Pierre relaxes almost instantly, and when he lets out a small sigh, Charles takes the opportunity to deepen it.
Pierre, Charles realises slowly, tastes like chocolate. Which is odd as they haven’t had their hot chocolates yet that evening, but that’s the flavour he settles on. Sweet and smooth and moreish. So very moreish.
His mouth is soft and pliant but also fierce and hot against his own, moulding perfectly with his as if they were made for one another but also fighting him for control at every breath. Pierre’s lips are pillowy and his stubble is rough, and the mix of the two are so thrilling and uniquely Pierre that Charles can’t remember how he’s ever kissed anyone without the same features and thought he had enjoyed it.
Only parting when air becomes a necessity, Charles sighs contently when Pierre presses his lips to his once more in a chaste kiss and then rests his forehead against his. It’s an extremely intimate action for two people easily recognisable in such an open place, but Charles supposes being over 150 feet in the air lends them some sort of privacy.
“What was that for?” Charles whispers, afraid that speaking any louder would burst the bubble they’re currently in.
“I wanted to kiss you,” Pierre confesses in a matching whisper, his kiss-reddened lips curving and Charles fights the urge of wanting to watch them as he speaks and peers back into his eyes, sparkling in the fairground lights. The hand on his neck is warm and comforting, protecting him from the bitter chill of the wind, the thumb strumming along his jawline in a soft, endless caress. “I’ve wanted to kiss you for a while now. Since the summer, and I know you’ve been waiting for me to make the move.”
“I didn’t want to push you,” Charles replies, squeezing at his wrist when Pierre sits back slightly and breaks their connection.
“You didn’t, it felt… right,” Pierre settles on with a small shrug, and Charles can see the tenderness in his eyes change to a darkened glint as he adds, “It was also to shut you up. I was going deaf.”
Charles huffs at his whirlwind change from sweet to cheeky, and uses his own weight to swing the cart without giving Pierre a chance to prepare for it, just like he had done to him. He yelps at the movement, scrambling to get his hand back onto the safety railing whilst swearing him out in pure French, similar to the way he normally does when they’re playing video games.
Chuckling to himself, Charles presses into his side and reaches around with his hand to rest on Pierre’s far cheek to make him face him. The cold has turned him rosy-cheeked and red-nosed against his otherwise tanned skin, the facial hair making up his beard ticklish against Charles’ palm. He looks handsome, and fresh, and like home, and when he presses his own cold nose to the edge of Pierre’s, he is hit with the overwhelming musky, woodsy, floral scent that is Pierre.
“Come here, I’ll distract you,” he murmurs, trying to be teasing but he knows from Pierre’s snort of laughter that it comes out flat instead, having already diverted all of his attention onto the object of his desires instead. “Shut up and kiss me.”
Pierre doesn’t need telling twice, and Charles has a feeling he is going to love being kissed by Pierre. The gentle start and forceful climb, the sweet brushes and heated presses, the dreamy sighs and wonderful lightheadedness. Time seems to stop and somehow speed up when kissing his best friend. Being in love with Pierre still feels like flying - more so now than ever - but kissing him is grounding, and Charles thinks he can live with that contrast for the rest of his life.
---
“Can you see the wheel?” Charles asks, perched on the picnic bench a distance away from the market and fair. The area is quiet now it's later in the night, so they snag an entire one to themselves with their backs towards the ferris wheel and cuddle up together as Pierre angles his phone just right to take the perfect selfie.
They have taken many pictures in the same place, their mothers having insisted on remembering the occasion. Each photo was the same; Charles on the left, Pierre on the right, huddled up against the cold of the open space with massive smiles on their faces. Sometimes they’d be hugging, or have an arm around the other, or simply one of them - usually Charles - clinging on tightly to the other out of tiredness.
“Yes, Charles, you can see the wheel. We are not that big, don’t worry,” Pierre jokes even as he nudges Charles with his hip to move across the bench slightly. He shuffles slowly, hands preoccupied with holding Charlito the squid plushie resting on the table in front of them.
“I was just checking,” Charles mutters petulantly once he’s told to stop, a pout threatening to form when Pierre presses a kiss to his lips instead. Charles smiles into it, clutching onto Charlito harder as he feels his toes curl in his shoes now that they’re on solid ground. There is no way he’s getting used to Pierre kissing him - of him being kissed by Pierre - anytime soon.
Pierre trails feather-light kisses away from his mouth when they part, along his jaw and up until he reaches his temple, where he presses a hard kiss and lets his lips remain there for a heartbeat longer. Charles ducks his head as the butterflies flutter amass in his stomach and his heart swells at the tender gesture, a light blush rising to his cheeks that helps ward off the cold.
Unfortunately, the moment is broken when Pierre drops his phone onto the table and hits the wooden surface with a thwack, Charles laughing at his sidetracked attempts at taking their selfie. Breaking away to pick it up, Pierre doesn’t get the chance to try again when an older gentleman, passing by after leaving the market with a lady who seemed like his wife, and having clearly heard their commotion, asked if they would like him to take a photo for them.
“Please, only if you don’t mind, sir,” Pierre replies, as polite as ever, his adorable toothy smile shining bright in the dark.
They settle back into the position, Pierre wrapping an arm around him to pull him closer, and Charles leaning into him until their heads meet. They hold it for a few seconds, unsure whether the photo is taken or not, before Pierre twists in his seat and drags himself across until he’s pressed against Charles’ side and half of his back, his body heat burning fiercely even through their two thick hoodies. He traps Charles into the table as his other hand comes to rest on his own, the ones holding onto Charlito.
Charles smiles and blushes at the bold action, and he almost asks him what he’s playing at when he feels Pierre kiss him high on the cheek and linger for a few seconds for another photo. Eyes sliding shut at the open display of affection, Charles lifts a hand to cup Pierre’s head, fingers instead finding the ends of his hair instead as the sharp cut of his angular jaw digs into his palm.
“Okay, done,” the kind gentleman announces and Charles startles at the interruption of their moment, having been too caught in Pierre and forgotten about his presence.
“Thank you, sir, ma’am. Have a lovely evening,” Pierre says as he takes back his phone, and Charles comes to himself in enough time to smile at the elder couple and wish them a goodnight as they wandered away.
Pierre doesn’t move away so Charles lets his hand remain, stroking Pierre’s silky hair and the rim of his ear on occasion. They flick through the photos together, exchanging little comments about which version of each pose is the best until they both quieten on the same one.
Charlito, the fluffy, smiley, bright pink toy that’s now earned a decent second place in the story of memorable events of their night, takes centre stage of their photo, but it’s not hard to miss the loving couple it sits with and the story it tells.
Pierre kissing Charles’ cheek, Charles caressing Pierre’s head, the ferris wheel where they’d finally acted upon months of tension sparkling brightly in a multitude of colours in the background, Charlito the only one smiling at the camera as if it knew the significance of the moment that was being captured.
Their first photo as a couple.
Or at least, Charles hopes they’re a couple now.
They’ll have to have that talk soon, but it can wait until the sun rises at least.
“How am I going to fit this picture into the photo book you gave me?” Charles asks. He already knows he will have the photo printed and framed in his home back in Monaco, but he wants it with the rest of their photos that tells their story.
“This one is for a new book, a new chapter. Our new chapter,” Pierre tells him passionately yet carefully. Charles drops his hand so he can turn to face him. There’s a hint of apprehension playing on his features and Charles smiles, bittersweet, at the sight of it. Despite the kisses and the touches and the words of assurance, Charles knows Pierre is still worrying about testing the waters before he finds his footing with them being them.
“Our new chapter,” Charles repeats fondly, punctuating it with a swift kiss. “Perfect.”
Pierre grins back, showing off his endearingly characteristic gap-tooth. He nods once before taking Charlito into his hand and dropping a kiss to the top of his head; the same way Charles had done to squid-Pierre all those months back in the summer. His mood has done a 180 at Charles’ reassurance and he is proud to have been able to help.
Tucking Charlito back into Charles’ hoodie pocket, Charles inhales sharply at the feel of Pierre’s hand so close to his stomach and other certain regions that tend to get excited around him these days. If Pierre notices, he doesn’t say anything, and instead grabs Charles by the hand.
“C’mon, let’s go get les pommes d'amour before we leave,” he says enthusiastically, pulling Charles to his feet and guiding them back towards the market.
Charles swings their hands as they approach the edge of the fairground that’ll lead them back to the market. “Can we share like we used to?” he pleads.
A whole toffee apple had always been too much for him, but Pierre’s sweet tooth meant he could finish off a dozen if allowed. Their compromise was to share one on the way back to the car, both to keep them satisfied and to keep them quiet.
“Yeah, calamar, we can share,” Pierre replies, bringing their joint hands to his lips and pressing them against Charles’ knuckles.
If Charles thought he had felt butterflies earlier, he isn’t sure what to call the feeling that action stirs within him. Balloons popping, possibly, or fireworks exploding. All he knows is that he hopes it never fades.
---
They’re bursting with giggles and hormones by the time they make it back to the house. The toffee apple may have been a bad idea, getting them high on sugar when they’re already high on the emotions of the night, the cumulation leaving Charles feeling rather handsy in the car. He had only laid a hand onto Pierre’s jean covered thigh when they pulled out of the parking lot and had felt the leg jerk under his palm at the unexpected touch. Charles had smirked when Pierre blushed, squeezing his leg and simply enjoying the feel of his strong muscles alternating between pulling taut and going lax for the duration of the ride home.
And if he slid his hand up an inch or two when making certain turns or at a red light just to hear Pierre let out a shuddering breath, who can really blame him. Being able to make Pierre lose some of his well-structured control was far too enticing to stop.
The house is quiet as they enter, Pierre’s parents having already gone to bed, and they have to bite back their laughter as they repeatedly shush each other and steal kisses throughout the entire process of kicking off their shoes, lining them up by the door, and creeping upstairs towards Pierre’s bedroom.
Charles holds onto Pierre’s hips and lets him guide them into the room. Once the door is closed and locked behind them, Pierre turns to reach out for him too, taking his face into his hands and pulling him into a kiss. It’s the first kiss they’ve shared in privacy and there’s no preamble as Pierre nips gently at his bottom lip before soothing it with the tip of his tongue and then dipping it into his mouth.
Letting his hands wander, Charles sneaks them under Pierre’s hoodie to rest on his waist for a moment when Pierre breaks their kiss to release a shaky breath at the feel of his cool touch against the smooth skin. When Pierre eventually smiles at him, eyes hooded and cheeks pink, and captures his lips once again, Charles slides them inwards towards his abdomen and god they felt even better than they looked.
And Charles has looked. Every ridge, every dip and rise, every outline of every defined muscle currently flexing right under his fingers due to his simple touch, he has studied in each and every thirst trap Pierre has posted on Instagram recently. There have been many, and they were not limited to just his abdomen.
Charles can’t wait to discover what the rest of them feel like under his touch too.
One of Pierre’s hands skims down his spine until it rests on the naked skin of the small of his back, pushing their bodies together from head to toe, and everywhere in between. It arouses Charles to feel the reaction he has on Pierre, to know that he wants him just as much.
He feels himself being moved forward as Pierre takes steps back towards his bed without breaking apart, clumsily bumping into one another and laughing through their kisses as they try. There’s an odd sensation at Charles’ stomach, one he’s noticed since Pierre had pressed them together, but he had chosen to ignore it in favour of other sensations.
Except now, when he slips a hand out from under Pierre’s hoodie to discreetly palpate at his stomach to figure out what is going on, he lets out a gasp when realisation hits.
“Wait, wait-” Charles murmurs in between kisses, both of them reluctant to stop. He lays his hand against Pierre’s chest and pulls out the other to stall him for a moment. “Pierre, one second.”
Pierre recoils almost immediately, hands dropping away from him. “What’s wrong? Did I do-?”
“No, no. It’s not you. Just-” Charles hurriedly assures him with a soft smile, kissing him quickly for emphasis when Pierre continued to look unsure. “One second, okay? Don’t move.”
Pulling out Charlito from his hoodie pocket, Charles rounds the bed and places him next to his similar-looking plushie friend. Whereas squid-Pierre is dark blue and frowning, squid-Charlito is bright pink and smiling, and together they look positively adorable. They’re so different in every sense except for the fact that they’re both stuffed toy squids, and belong to the two of them. And it’s the latter which makes it all make sense.
Because that is just like Pierre and Charles themselves. Different in many aspects yet so alike in the ones that count.
Heading back to Pierre, he flushes when he sees the furrowed look that had been on his face is now completely gone and replaced by one of complete awe. Charles can see love shining in his blue eyes when he gets close enough to be pulled back into his strong arms, and feels the proud grin when it presses against his own smile.
“You’re the sweetest person I know, do you know that?” Pierre tells him, words spoken against his lips. Charles blushes at the sentiment, ducking his head until he feels Pierre nudge at his temple with his nose and press a kiss to his forehead.
“And you are the most loving one I know,” Charles replies earnestly, because there is no-one else he has ever met who loves as much as Pierre does, despite everything life has thrown at him. Loves his family and friends, loves racing, loves him.
Pierre dips his head to tuck it into Charles’ shoulder at his words, but not before he catches his similar reaction. Neither one of them can take a compliment, it seems, and Charles makes a note to work on that because Pierre deserves to be reminded about every one of his amazing traits repeatedly until he is as sure of it as Charles’ never-ending love.
Wrapping his arms tightly around Pierre, he presses his lips to the crown of his head and takes in the coconutty scent of the hair conditioner Charles always steals when he’s staying over in Milan. It’s nice to know he doesn’t give it up and takes it with him wherever he goes.
A thrill of excitement runs through Charles when he realises that as well as he likes to think he knows Pierre, there are still so many things he simply would not have noticed nor been privy to in his previous designation as the best friend. Now, however, there’s a whole new world, layers upon layers of Pierre that he is going to get the chance to experience and learn about, and he cannot wait.
Charles smiles, unbelieving at how the night has transpired into one of his best, and it has yet to even end. If anything, the rest of his life - the next chapter they’ll share that he hopes will go right until the end - is just about to begin.