Archive of Our Own

More and more frequently the edges
of me dissolve and I become
a wish to assimilate the world, including
you, if possible through the skin
like a cool plant’s tricks with oxygen
and live by a harmless green burning.

I would not consume
you or ever
finish, you would still be there
surrounding me, complete
as the air.

Unfortunately I don’t have leaves.
Instead I have eyes
and teeth and other non-green
things which rule out osmosis.

So be careful, I mean it,
I give you fair warning:

This kind of hunger draws
everything into its own
space; nor can we
talk it all over, have a calm
rational discussion.

There is no reason for this, only
a starved dog’s logic about bones.

Margaret Atwood, “More and More”

The world ends on a Sunday night.

He and Charles are in Maranello, of course. They will be testing Pirelli rubber with the SF-23 tomorrow. Carlos was subletting a flat the past few years, but hasn’t figured out his accommodations for the year quite yet. However, Charles has an apartment by the factory, so Carlos is staying the weekend. Charles offered; he is nice like that.

They play chess. Carlos wins two games in a row. He is not nice enough to let Charles win like he used to.

By 10 PM, Carlos starts getting ready for bed. Testing starts bright and early tomorrow, and they will be picking Arthur up from the airport just before. Carlos says good night to Charles, retreats into the guest room, showers, brushes his teeth, and gets dressed in pajamas. Lastly, he walks to the kitchen to grab a glass of water, then notices that Charles is still on the sofa, lying back, tapping rapidly on his phone, cheeks flushed.

Nosily, Carlos puts his glass down on the counter, then walks into the living room, rounding the couch. He isn’t at all sneaky about it, makes sure that his footsteps can be heard, so as not to startle Charles. Charles is easily startled: loud noises, bright lights. He is nervous like that, like a deer, Carlos thinks.

He holds the thought in his mouth, carefully choosing his words: he always does that with Charles.

Charles, Carlos has learned after three long years of being his teammate, is very expressive. One wrong move, one slightly-off word choice, and he’s looking at you like you have just cursed his bloodline. Big, fawnish eyes. Confused and maybe hurt. Carlos hates that about Charles, having to accommodate all of the time, so as to not hurt his feelings. He also finds it rather endearing.

But to pick the right words, you have to pick a language. Carlos thinks they might be luckier than most, to have the option to speak in anything but English. Charles speaks French, Carlos speaks Spanish, but they have their choices of a common ground. It is odd, however. Both English and Italian are their work languages. When Carlos speaks Italian he thinks of blood-red and expectation. Charles has always been better at Italian. Practically native. Always one step ahead.

Carlos picks English.

“You are still awake?”

Charles, always exceeding expectations, startles. He’s dramatic about it too. He yelps, and his phone flies from his hand and clatters to the floor.

Snorting, Carlos reaches down to pick it up for him, only for Charles to start shouting, “Don’t—!”

Too late.

Carlos is already bent over to pick up the phone. His fingers twitch before he’s able to pick it up.

He sees three things, in quick succession: Damiano 🖤, a prancing horse tattoo, and a dick.

He sucks in a breath, then finishes the job. Charles snatches the phone from him almost immediately, holding it protectively to his chest.

Carlos swallows. Not enough time to pick his words, or even a language.

“Was that—?” he blurts, at the same time that Charles spits, “You didn’t—”

Silence.

“Charles,” Carlos says, voice hoarse. He feels hot.

He should be normal about this. Really, it’s no big deal. It is just—

Er.

“Uh,” Charles says, face rosso corsa red. It fits him, such a red blush. He is red all over—even his shirt is Ferrari red. Like blood.

Stupidly, so stupidly, Carlos hears himself say, “You are not serious.”

Fuck. He didn’t mean that. He just— He doesn’t know what he’s thinking.

Maybe he was mistaken. Maybe it is not like that. Not that it would matter if—

“Ah,” Charles says, licking his lips, avoiding eye contact, “well.”

“No,” Carlos says, stupider, infinitely stupider. Why did he say that?

Charles frowns. He looks hurt. He’s sitting straight up now. Tense.

Carlos bites his mouth. He has spent the past three years figuring Charles out: cataloguing each of his actions. Learning the peculiarities of his vocabulary, in English, in Italian, in his body—the non-spoken bits. Tense is not good. Tense is frightened. Tense is insecure, distrusting.

Carlos needs to fix this. “I don’t mean—” He stops, swallows, takes a deep breath. “I am just…” Carlos laughs nervously. He’s made a mess of everything. A joke, maybe, would fix this. Charles likes to laugh, likes when people make him laugh. Carlos knows how to fix this. He smiles, then gestures at the phone Charles is holding to his stomach like a newborn baby. “He is not very big, no?”

Charles glares for a second, hesitantly, then his face loosens with forced laughter. “He is big enough for me.”

Ah. So.

It is not a surprise, Charles being direct like that. At first glance, he is shy and reserved, but he doesn’t beat around the bush. Never. He is open when he wants to be. Always in control.

He is testing Carlos.

Carlos sees through him.

“I am glad,” he forces himself to say, not because he means it, but because he is pretty sure that that’s what Charles wants to hear.

Charles presses his lips together. Locks his phone. Puts it to the side. Looks up at Carlos, expectant.

“I’m sorry,” Carlos says, because he is. This one he means.

Charles purses his lips. He does that when he’s unhappy or embarrassed. He is still flushed pink. “I am… sorry too. I thought you were asleep.”

“Ah,” Carlos says, putting a hand to his nape, hot to the touch. “Water,” he explains, ineloquently. And he hurries to add, “This is your apartment, anyway.”

Charles chews on his bottom lip, assessing. Carlos holds his breath.

“Will you—”

Carlos finishes it for him. “I will not tell anyone.”

He won’t.

Charles, for the first time tonight, looks genuinely relieved. His body loosens, and he lets out a breath. “Thank you, Carlos.”

Yes. Alright. Good. That’s all sorted now.

Carlos nods stiffly. He licks his lips, considers what to do now, how to move forward. If they should talk about it.

No, he thinks. They are not close enough that they need to talk about it.

“Good night,” he says.

Charles nods back at him. His hand hovers over his phone. “Good night.”

And Carlos goes to bed.

“You are thinking about it,” Charles says, offhandedly the morning after, on the way to the airport.

They are driving to the airport. They raced to the car, and Carlos won—therefore, he is the one driving.

Carlos swallows. Keeps his eyes on the road.

Charles is weird like that: so often he pretends not to know something, not to understand, then he says something like this, you are thinking about it, that reminds Carlos he is good at reading people, at reading their minds. Maybe it’s about picking and choosing what to pay attention to, or what to let on. Maybe it’s a kind of perspective that only Charles has. Charles, oh so great. Charles Leclerc, the future Ferrari champion.

Well. Now that Carlos is caught. He might as well ask it.

“Don’t you have a girlfriend?”

Charles hums then reveals, “We are not serious.”

Does she know that? Carlos almost asks, but stops himself. He doesn’t think it’s any of his business, nor is he exactly the paragon of fidelity.

“Alright,” he says instead, not wanting to get caught in one of Charles’ traps. You always have to stay on your toes with him.

A beat. A long one. Many beats, actually. They get caught by three red lights before Charles blurts out, “Besides, I think I like men more.”

Ah. Carlos thought they were done with the conversation. Looks like he was mistaken.

“Mmh,” Carlos says first, because he doesn’t trust his voice. He clears his throat, then prods, “Er, what about them?”

Charles laughs, and out of the corner of his eye, Carlos sees him throw his head back, one dimple deep. “Oh, wouldn’t you like to know?”

Carlos’ hands stiffen over the steering wheel.

The rest of the ride is spent in silence.

No matter what anyone says, the Italian media, the Spanish media, fans on Twitter—Carlos doesn’t hate Charles, and he doesn’t think that Charles hates him either.

They get on well. They play chess, padel, and golf. They hang out even when they don’t need to. They make each other laugh. They have fun. They shoot silly marketing videos together and they make it fun for each other. They take the piss out of all the Shell videos they have to do, the little scripts they are given to memorize, the words they butcher. It’s a good time.

They’re friends—not best friends or good friends, but friends enough. And it counts. Charles is the best teammate that Carlos has ever had, both as a person, and as a racer. Of course, Carlos was teammates with Max, but Max back in 2015 wasn’t the Max he is now. Three-time world champion. The raging bull. Everyone forgets that they were teammates. Toro Rosso Max is not the same as Red Bull Max. Carlos is okay with being forgotten, in that respect. He and Max—they didn’t count.

But Charles—

Is different.

He and Charles count. And Charles is—

He’s fucking a rockstar. Being fucked by a rockstar. Alright.

Carlos doesn’t have a problem with gay men. Bi men. Whatever Charles is. Nor does he have a problem with non-straight people. Hell, back when he was teammates with Max, Max was an acne-prone teenager on Grindr.

But with Charles, it’s just—

Arthur is… Arthur.

If he didn’t look so much like Charles and sound so much like Charles, Carlos would not know that they are brothers. Arthur is social, super social. Extroverted to the max. Questions a plenty. The life of the little party they lead from the airport to Maranello. He has the same humor as Charles, the same verbal cadence as Charles—but he is so different.

Carlos cannot put his finger on it.

Arthur does well in testing. So does Charles. So does Carlos. But it is just testing. It does not matter, in the grand scheme of things.

So, that begs the question:

What the fuck is the grand scheme?

Later that night, in Maranello, in Charles’ apartment, Carlos locks himself in the guest room and stalks Damiano’s Instagram.

Of course he knows Damiano David. Lead vocals of Maneskin. 5.3 million followers on Instagram. He is hot, yes. Even Carlos can admit that. He has many shirtless photos. He’s provocative, sexual, tattooed, cocked hips and coked-up. He’s a show-off. He seems superficial. A typical fucking rockstar.

Is that Charles’ type?

Carlos doesn’t like him.

Testing goes alright. The SF-23 was mediocre; they all knew that. The F1-75 was fast—not as fast as the RB-18, but fast enough. Onto the SF-24, then.

Carlos leaves Maranello. Charles stays a few extra days. He bathes in the attention. The Tifosi love him more than they’ve loved anyone.

Nothing changes.

February is training. February is sponsorship obligations. February is media filming. February is seeing Charles every other day.

Truly, Carlos likes Charles.

He’s fun. He’s nice. He’s sincere. Maybe too sincere for his own good. Always trying to play a game that no one else is playing. Who taught him that? Carlos wonders. Who taught him that the world is out to get him?

No one is out to get Charles. But he is convinced that the whole world is conspiring against him, yet he approaches the world with a childlike simplicity—with wonder. It is like he is certain he will get what he wants in the end, but he is always afraid that someone will take it away from him.

Who did this to you? Who tricked you?

One thing about Charles Leclerc is that he’s a fucking paradox.

The fact that he’s fucking a rockstar—no, no, being fucked by one—the difference matters, somewhat. The fact—that fact—it doesn’t change a fucking thing.

But, okay.

Maybe it does.

Charles was straight. Not Charles, but the Charles inside Carlos’ mind. Straight until proven otherwise. Yes, that is what Carlos has learned. And sure, fuck him. Sure, that is the wrong way to think about the world. What the fuck ever. What matters: things have changed. Yes, they have.

There is no use pretending otherwise.

In February, Ferrari have him and Charles film more media, to be released throughout the year.

Obviously.

For that is half of the job—to appease the masses. Two young, attractive drivers. Desirable men in their twenties. Good chemistry. Good bones.

They are at a little table in a little room in the not-quite-little factory. Cue cards in hands. Asking one another silly questions and getting points for correct answers—what would this be if not a competition? What would they be, if not competitors?

Teammates, yes. But the concept of teammates in F1 is quite antithetical.

Alright.

So they do what they always do. Carlos makes Charles laugh, teases him, roughhouses him, and Charles takes it all like the good sport that he is. Leans into Carlos’ jokes, blushes at his jibes, and lets himself be pushed around. Takes it—like he always does.

It’s that easy.

Like clockwork.

Except:

Carlos doesn’t look at Charles.

That’s the difference, maybe. Carlos makes his same jokes, makes sure to tease Charles like he always does, the occasional brazen backhanded compliment here and there, just to hear Charles splutter and bumble to come up with an offended response. Sometimes, Charles will go without words and just push his side up against Carlos, a poor imitation of real roughhousing. Carlos isn’t sure what Charles means to communicate with that—the touches. If he is even communicating anything at all. Maybe at heart, it is just an approximation.

Charles is sincere. Too sincere for his own good. Oftentimes, he does things that no one in their right mind would think to do. Carlos has no idea where he gets those ideas from: to talk all the time about how handsome Carlos is, to giggle shyly and demurely at a mean joke, to stop on the street for every single fan wanting a picture, an autograph, or a hug, even if it means carving out hours of his day. At the same time, he doesn’t know how to do a lot of normal things: how to parallel park, how to dress himself, how to banter properly with the other boys.

He is like a robot, sometimes. A robot just gaining sentience, learning how to feel human emotions for the first time.

A very beautiful robot. Too beautiful to be human, but human-made.

Okay, no. That is a lie.

Carlos does look at Charles. Only when he’s not looking.

How can he not?

Charles is beautiful, even for a man. His curly brown hair is cut short on the bottom and sides, his nose is narrow and aristocratic, and his mouth is kitten-shaped, framed perfectly by his facial hair. There is a mole beside his nose, a perfect imperfection. His eyes are big and fawnish, yellow-green. It’s a very classic sort of beauty. Stereotypical and undeniable. Yes, Charles is pretty. He is a pretty man and it is not just physical. He giggles and carries himself smaller than Carlos even though he is bigger, draws his shoulders in when he’s shy and bats his lashes coyly. This is not to say he is a feminine man. No, Carlos thinks. He is a man shaped by a man: a Renaissance sculpture. Michelangelo. The pinnacle of art.

But in the end, this is nothing more than pleonasm.

Charles was beautiful to Carlos even before he found out he wasn’t straight.

Nothing changes.

The livery launch. Carlos is staying with Charles again. Maybe Charles has noticed that something is different. Yes, that would explain it. If he is a robot, he is hard-wired and fine-tuned to pick up the smallest discrepancies in Carlos’ behavior. Patterns, yes. Charles likes his patterns.

Like the silly blue-white striped cardigan he is wearing right now.

He is cooking Carlos dinner.

Why?

Carlos has no fucking clue.

Charles offered, and seemed very excited about it.

But he watches.

From the breakfast counter, he watches as Charles flies around the kitchen like a little bee, stir-frying the ground meat, salting the pasta water with a wooden spoon, seasoning the canned marinara sauce with minced garlic. He is making pasta, of course. They are in Italy. Charles likes Italian food. So does Carlos, but not as much as Charles.

He is uncoordinated—charming, in a way.

Carlos thinks, absurdly, of the last time his ex-girlfriend cooked for him. It had been pasta then too.

She was better at cooking than Charles is, a sort of practiced elegance to her movements. They would chat quietly as she cooked about their days, or maybe Carlos wouldn’t even be there—he would be in his room, resting, or he wouldn’t be in the apartment yet, speeding home from a long day at work—or taking his time. Taking the scenic route back. They would fight about it; by the end of it, they barely saw each other. Carlos hadn’t minded; he knew what sacrifices he made to get to Ferrari. You cannot have everything, you cannot have it all—unless you are special enough to make other people bend to your every want and every will.

But that’s the game! You chose to date me. I chose you. You know how this works. You know how this ends.

Ah, yes. Things end. That’s how it always goes.

Getting a girlfriend is easy. Keeping one is easy too. You just have to put in a little effort. You get into a routine. I send you flowers, you cook me dinner, we text a couple times a day, I fly to you when you can, you come to a race when you want, we have sex, you on your front, or on your side, or on top of me, I kiss you good night and good morning, and one of us leaves.

Girlfriends are easy, until they aren’t. Then, onto the next one.

Easy.

“How is it?”

Charles has the wooden spoon held up to Carlos’ jaw. Carlos dips down, opens his mouth, and tastes.

Charles is looking at him. Carlos keeps his eyes on the spoon.

“Salty.”

“Mmh!” Charles sounds offended. He waves his hand and pouts, heading back over to the pot. “You are just picky.” He makes no effort to change anything.

Dinner is ready soon. They sit at the breakfast counter, side by side. Charles watches Carlos’ face as he takes the first bite.

It is not good.

“It is good,” Carlos says.

Charles frowns at him; out of the corner of Carlos’ eye, he sees this. “You lie,” he accuses.

“I do not lie,” Carlos says, and takes another bite of the too-salty, too-hard pasta, trying not to wince at the overcooked meat.

It is the first time Charles has cooked for him.

They should have ordered takeout.

The thing is, they haven’t talked about it since. The nude, or as Lando would say, the dick pic.

Really, it hasn’t changed much.

They were never close to begin with. Their friendship is conditional, and has its lines. Rivers not to be crossed. Carlos is not Julius Caesar.

He has no army at beck and call.

The Tifosi are something of an army.

From the track, at the car launch, he and Charles look up at the Tifosi: a red sea of passion and love.

Physically, yes, they look up, and the Tifosi look down.

But it is more like this:

The Tifosi have their eyes set on them like one would look at gladiators, the SF-24 the beasts for them to tame.

There can only be one victor, yes. That is the nature of the game.

Carlos knows whom everyone is cheering for. Every chance they get, they fawn over Charles—and most importantly, he lets himself be fawned over. He loves it. Adores it. Loves how they love him. He makes no pretense otherwise.

He will be with them until 2028. A five-year promise. He will have spent half of his life with one team. Glory promised to him, ensured, secure.

Carlos has been thrown from team to team to team. Red Bull fell through, so he went to Renault. That fell through too, so he went to McLaren. Finally, he caught Ferrari’s eye.

Only took five fucking years.

But Carlos is not an idiot. He knows the Tifosi like Charles more. He knows that they want Charles to be their champion—the fated one to bring the championship back to them, the one who will have a street named after him in Maranello. He sees the signs: the physical ones, all of the many Monaco flags in the stands, the silly cutouts of Charles’ head littered through the seats. Religious imagery. Yes, you see him as a god, your god. Yes, you see him as your savior. However, to be predestined is just that: to not have achieved your destiny.

Carlos will do everything to make sure that never happens. It will be me, he thinks. I am the underdog. They want me to be second to you. They do not want me to win. It doesn’t matter if no one is rooting for me—that will only make my victory sweeter.

This is not the competition, he reminds himself, waving up at the Tifosi. This is not part of it.

Everything that counts will happen on the track. Nothing else matters.

He spots someone with his merch and smiles: like the sun peeking out through the clouds. Ah, yes. One will be enough.

As they chant Charles’ name, Carlos thinks, selfishly, reinvigorated, I won Singapore. That was me—not you.

Still. Charles is his teammate.

Carlos closes the gap. Steps closer to Charles. Then: he wraps his arm around Charles’ waist. From the corner of his eye, still not looking at him, never looking at him, Carlos sees the hollow of a dimple.

Charles returns the favor.

In the process, their fingers brush.

Electricity, but only if they make it that.

Carlos doesn’t.

They move on. They smile up at the crowd and wave.

So it goes.

One last night in Maranello before winter testing for the SF-24.

Charles does not cook dinner. Thank god.

They order takeout. At Carlos’ hesitance, Charles giggles and argues, “What Andrea and Rupert do not know, cannot hurt them.”

Carlos doesn’t correct him.

After they’ve finished eating, Charles conjures up a bottle of wine from nowhere, and they relocate to the small living room, sit on the couch.

Spanish red wine.

Charles hates wine. Red wine.

Carlos loves it.

Charles winces as he takes his first sip, and Carlos wonders: Why?

He expects Charles to turn on the TV, or something. They will play FIFA, or another video game. They will not watch a movie over wine, of course: that is what you do with a lover.

Instead, Charles does none of that. He turns toward Carlos with his whole body, as he is accustomed to do, his knees up on the couch facing Carlos—a mermaid on a rock, seducing a sailor. Carlos bites his lip at the analogy, curses himself. Charles says, “I want to talk about it, before the season.”

Carlos takes a sip of wine, rolls the liquid in his mouth, runs his tongue along the back of his teeth. It is nice. Quite nice. It tastes expensive. He wonders how much Charles paid for this bottle. Maybe, Carlos briefly considers, it was a gift. It does not matter in the end.

“About what?” Carlos asks. Plays ignorant. That is Charles’ game, but Carlos has learned a thing or two, after three years of being Charles’ teammate.

Charles rolls his eyes. “You are being weird.”

Carlos licks his lips, relaxes against the back of the sofa, thighs spreading. He must come off casual. “I am not.”

Charles doesn’t buy it. He pouts deeply. “Is it because—” He cuts off with a huff. Carlos stares at the lip print on the rim of his glass. “I did not think you were like that.”

“I—” Carlos says, eyes widening. He sits up straight. “I am not.”

Really, he is not.

“But you keep—” Charles starts, throat bobbing. Body language. Only that. Carlos looks everywhere but at Charles’ face. He looks upset. Insecure. “All this time, you have not looked me in the eye.”

Carlos sucks in a breath, ice-cold against the back of his teeth. His eyes travel to Charles, looking back at him. Finally, yes, for the first time in weeks, yes. He looks at Charles and Charles sees.

It is like being taken apart.

Charles’ eyes are big and furious, assessing.

“Do I make you uncomfortable?” he asks.

Yes, Carlos thinks, but does not say.

“Do you think I will make a move on you, or something, because I like men?” Charles questions, cocking his head to the side. “Because I like to get fucked?”

Ah. Charles is always direct where it matters.

Carlos swallows: it is like a knife. He pauses to choose his words, the right ones, the ones that Charles wants, is looking for, and it hits him:

All this time, they have been speaking Italian. Carlos hadn’t realized.

Charles was the one who initiated the conversation. Charles is the one in control here.

English then. “I do not care that you liked to get fucked, Charles,” Carlos says.

Charles startles at the English. It is no secret that English is Charles’ least favorite of his languages.

And it is true. Carlos does not care. In fact, Carlos has not thought about it once, since.

He has tried, purposefully, and successfully for the most part, to not think about it.

He is kind like that.

Charles hums. Looks at Carlos long and hard. Then says, “Okay.”

He does not ask the obvious question: Then why have you not been able to look at me?

A part of Carlos is grateful Charles didn’t ask. Another part of him worries.

Charles takes another sip of his wine, wincing at the taste once again. Ah, Carlos realizes, you wanted me tipsy for this—you did not want this to be a sober conversation. Ah—or did you want to be tipsy for this?

Carlos does not know.

“If you want to talk about it…” Carlos starts, needing to keep Charles on his toes. Needing to gain some semblance of control. Needing—to figure Charles out. He wants to pick what will embarrass Charles the most. To pick what Charles will want to talk about least. “How are you and your rockstar?”

“Ah,” Charles says, eyebrows flying up to his scalp. He waves his free hand around. Carlos takes a long, long drink. “We are not like that. It is very casual, when it is convenient for us.”

“Mmh,” Carlos says, not knowing what he was expecting to hear.

But then, Charles is pulling out his phone. “Now that you mention him, listen to this song.”

It is Maneskin of course. Damiano’s husky voice rings through the tinny speaker of Charles’ phone. They listen without comment. Charles is watching him. Carlos sips on his wine. It is quite a romantic song. In the second chorus, Carlos leans over to see the title: THE DRIVER.

“He wrote it for me,” Charles reveals, like it’s nothing.

He brings his glass to his lips. He finishes off the wine and runs his tongue along his top lip. Slowly.

Tempting.

Ah, of course. Of course he wrote this song for you. You are used to being wanted.

Charles brings his arm up to the top of the couch: near Carlos’ arm. Charles is pale where Carlos is not, soft brown hairs sparse compared to Carlos. Traitorously, he wonders, What would it feel like to touch you?

What would it feel like? Your mouth, your hands, your body.

Your mouth. Pink and plump. What would it be like to bite it? Like a soft peach, like fruit. Ripe.

You are with me all the time. Every second of every day. A parasite. I am being eaten up. There will be nothing left of me but bones—but maybe not even that.

And then, finally, Carlos realizes it: You wanted me to ask about Damiano all along. You wanted me to hear this song, you wanted me to know that he wrote this song for you, you wanted me to remember that you are wanted.

Why?

Though, Carlos supposes that doesn’t matter.

All this time, he has been playing Charles’ game.

Maybe the heart of the issue, the Damiano issue, is this, it is a reminder of this:

Charles can want, and he can have. He can want whatever he wants, and have whatever he wants.

Whomever. Men, women. A public girlfriend, a rockstar fuckbuddy who sends him dick pics on the side.

He always gets his way in the end—and he can get away with it.

Carlos wants too. Charles is not special in that. Carlos wants to rip his heart out and put it in his mouth and between his teeth and bite—but he will not get what he wants. Not like Charles will.

Carlos fucking hates him.

Yes, yes. That is the truth of the matter.

Carlos hates Charles.

And maybe this is the other issue:

Carlos does not like men.

Really. He knows this for sure. He has had threesomes with men before. No attraction, or even desire. It has never been a problem. Never something he has given more than an ounce of thought to.

Once again, nothing changes.

Or, well—

Carlos is lying again.

The first thing he does after returning to Madrid is try to watch gay porn. Try.

It does not work. Does not get the blood pumping. Yes, there is sensuality to it. A physicality to it that sets Carlos’ nerves alight, but that has less to do with the fact that there are two men.

Rather, it is that there are two bodies. Skin slapping, grunts, moans, muscles flexing—

No, no. This won’t do. Carlos feels nothing. His dick is hard, yes, but mostly because he’s been tugging at his dick for the better part of the past hour. Shades down, lights off, phone screen dimmed, his hand around his cock. It feels almost clinical. He started going down a bit of a rabbit hole: PornHub, because he couldn’t be arsed to use any other site. Then, to the point, he looked up “gay” in the search bar. He scrolled until he found something with a good amount of views, but nothing, where, like, there would be bad acting. Carlos does enough of that in his own job, so he doesn’t need to see other people do it, doesn’t need to empathize with them if he’s just going to get his rocks off.

Carlos doesn’t watch porn very often. He’d just get a girlfriend if he wanted to see a beautiful woman naked, and he can always jerk off in the shower if he wakes up hard. But he knows this: amateur porn is always better.

He found a few videos that he liked, could appreciate, if only for the aesthetics. But still—

It’s not doing anything for him.

He clicks on another video, then another video, both of his hands cramping. He feels rather pathetic, but if he’s going to do this, he might as well commit to figuring it out. See for sure if this is just some odd, momentary, temporary, sexuality crisis, or if it is something more.

He is pretty sure, at this point, it is the former.

Hm.

This one is a little different. Definitely the most amateur of all of them. It’s a man giving a blowjob. Nothing special. The camera is shaky, the lighting is dark, the man’s eyes are teary, face flushed bright red. From the man receiving, Carlos cannot see anything, other than dark, curly pubes and a shiny-wet dick, a vein running up the side. Little noises are leaving both their mouths, slick and obscene. Hm. Okay. Better, this one. But in truth, he cannot see what the difference is, really, whether it is a man giving, or a woman giving.

Green eyes, he thinks, catalogues. Brown, mousey hair. Very pretty.

The scene cuts.

The one who was giving the blowjob is on his back now. Carlos frowns a little. The ones before this: the bottom would usually be on his front, his hands and knees. Back arched, a lithe, gentle waist captured by strong hands. Carlos can appreciate a nice ass, whether it is from a man or a woman. This, however, this is:

Ah.

The bottom’s dick is bouncing against his stomach. Red, cute-sized. He isn’t touching himself. He is moaning, forearm thrown over his eyes as he’s rocked back and forth, a dick spearing into him, balls slapping against his ass. What a shame, Carlos thinks. He has such pretty eyes. His mouth, however, is wide-open. Pretty, shaped like God meant for someone to kiss him. His nipples are small and dusty, and light brown. Mmh.

He is—

Carlos imagines being inside him. Imagines making those noises come out of his throat. Imagines kissing him silly. Imagines playing with his cute dick.

He looks like—

Carlos comes.

Into his hand, over his stomach. Dazed and panting, he looks up at the ceiling.

Ah. That’s why.

Well. That changes nothing. Only proves Carlos’ hypothesis.

Just Charles then.

Yes. Carlos hates Charles. He also wants him in equal measure.

Nothing needs to change.

Or, maybe something does change after that. Not that, but his and Charles’ conversation in Maranello.

In winter testing. Bahrain:

Charles likes to be looked at; asked Carlos to continue looking at him he used to.

So Carlos will move past his own personal discomfort. He is always doing that, for Charles.

He looks and looks and looks. Charles looks happy.

It is awkward, maybe. Or maybe that is just Carlos being awkward. I jerked off to someone who looked like you, he thinks, and instead says, Hello, the first time they see each other again. I spent an hour on PornHub looking for a man in a video who looked like you, he thinks, and instead says, I am well, when Charles asks him how he is.

However: Charles invites him out to golf. Carlos says no. Charles invites him out to lunch. Carlos says no.

They have had their difficult moments before. Ones where they could not talk to each other. Struggled to be with one another.

Carlos looks back. Tries to look for their causes, locate them in time.

Last year, the worst of it was Silverstone. This year, it was Singapore.

Well.

Not much to investigate there.

How unfair, Carlos thinks. Every time you win, it is right, it is deserved, it is god-given; but every time I win, you see it as something that has been taken from you.

So does the world.

Testing goes alright. The SF-24 is not lightning fast, but it is not like the SF-23.

Charles flourishes.

Carlos does alright.

It is hard to tell whether Red Bull and McLaren are sandbagging. They don’t seem especially fast, but it is always hard to tell, in testing.

No major incidents in the top teams; well, there are some very minor incidents with Mercedes, which is a good sign, in a way. However, this is Carlos’ tenth year in F1. He knows that there’s no use theorizing about the other teams at this time. You must only focus on what you have.

You, the team. You, the car. You, and your teammate.

In testing, there is not much time or space to interact with drivers from other teams.

However, they get little breaks. Can roam around the paddock and chat. Most of the drivers are either chatting with other drivers, or their own teams. Carlos takes inventory.

George, Alex, and Logan are all chatting by the Williams garage. Lewis with Pierre by Alpine. Lando and Oscar by McLaren. Ah. There is—

Max talking at Charles. At Charles.

Er. Carlos doesn’t want to intrude. They get that way, once they’re out of the car, and Charles seems to enjoy it, for the most part.

Still.

Max, Carlos remembers, likes men.

Carlos intrudes.

Blah, blah, blah. Tyre deg. Racing lines. Corner entry. Max’s stupid hand motions. Batteries. Locking up. Power units. Charles nodding. Charles bringing the tube of his water bottle to his mouth. Charles biting his lip. Charles, giggling at one of Max’s jokes.

“Trying to steal my teammate, Verstappen?”

Both of them startle at Carlos’ entrance. Like they were in their own world.

Neither of them come up with anything witty to say. Carlos feels rather embarrassed, but they fold him into the conversation easily.

It is rather boring.

Carlos should’ve gone to Lando.

They go to the hotel.

Embarrassingly, once he is alone in his room, Carlos listens to the Maneskin song.

The one about Charles.

Give me eyes then twist the knife. Put me under your spell. Then hide the crime. Bare your soul till it’s naked. Bite my lip till you break it. Steal my heart, get it wasted.

It’s a love song, clearly.

Charles talks a lot about love. All the time it is about love for him. He loves the Tifosi, loves racing, loves his family. He loves Ferrari, unconditionally, more than he has loved anything.

Ferrari loves him back.

How unfair, Carlos thinks. I love Ferrari too. No, he does not love Ferrari like Charles does. He does not love it for its history or mythos; he loves it for what it truly is. Like a lover, it fights, it devours. It demands obedience. It values worth. You can worship and you can sacrifice, but it does not matter. It does not matter if you love them, how much you love them. In the end, it cuts away what it does not need, does not want.

Ferrari is like Charles.

What is love to you? Carlos wonders.

He did not love the SF-23. He did not love the SF-21. But he loved the F1-75. It bent to his will. It was obedient and predictable. Carlos is Charles’ teammate: he knows about his set-up preferences better than any other driver.

He does not love Damiano. He does not love his girlfriend. Carlos knows. If he loved either of them, he would not have both of them. Yes. Carlos knows how love works. He has been in it, he has fallen out of it.

Do you love anything? he wonders. Do you only love what will love you back? Do you love anything that will not serve you or submit to you? Do you only love what will be obedient to you? What will support you endlessly and unconditionally? Is that the condition for your love?

Is that what love is to you? Obedience?

That is not love at all, Carlos thinks. You know nothing about love. You don’t know a thing.

Days pass. Awkwardness accumulates. So does the longing.

And then it’s Bahrain.

Or—Bahrain continues.

The particularities don’t matter. The only thing that matter is this:

The rubber band snaps.

Carlos is not used to this. The weekend starting proper on a Thursday.

It is only Wednesday now. Media day. He catches himself messing up the days constantly in interviews: the race on Sunday, no, Saturday, he means. Yes, like that. All the time.

It gets worse when Damiano walks into the Ferrari garage.

He still has that horrible buzzcut. Worse: he is wearing a crop top, as if to show off his prancing horse tattoo.

And he is in love with Charles.

Obviously.

Carlos had a feeling, what with the song, and their involvement—but it isn’t until now that he sees it. The way Damiano looks at him. Like Charles is the sun, and Damiano is Venus. Not the closest planet orbiting the sun—but close enough. Closer than Earth. Closer than Carlos.

Ah.

They greet each other with a hug. Damiano greets him with a handshake.

Carlos listens in on their conversation. He does not leave; this is his team. He has a right to be here.

Carlos is reasonably fluent in Italian, but Charles and Damiano are—native, practically in one respect, and literally in the other.

The conversation is dull and drab. A different dull and drab than Charles’ conversation with Max during testing.

Charles has to explain to Damiano what ground effect is, what an apex is, what a chassis is, what DRS is, what a slipstream is, what the different colors of tyres mean. Damiano simply nods along, doesn’t contribute to the conversation at all.

Amateur.

Still. Charles giggles along, unaffected, uncaring. Lets Damiano guide him to the car with a hand on his waist. Smiles at him, empty-headed.

Charles Leclerc, Ferrari’s golden boy, Il Predestinato. He likes it up the ass and he likes getting fucked by rockstars who have more tattoos than thoughts in their brains.

What a fucking joke.

The rubber band snaps, yes.

Of course, it is Charles who makes the first move.

Let’s get to it.

Carlos has been frosty with Charles all day, yes. He can admit that.

So, when they exit the elevator and walk down the hallway to their adjacent rooms, Charles stops him with a hand on his wrist, and Carlos isn’t surprised.

“Can we talk?”

They enter Charles’ room.

Tick tock tick tock. Carlos hates these fucking clocks.

Charles has his arms crossed over his chest. They are both still in their Ferrari polos and khaki trousers. They are in the mini-living room.

A beat.

Three. Seven. Tinnitus in Carlos’ ears.

“He didn’t fuck me today, if that is what you were wondering,” Charles spits out.

Carlos chokes, flinches, grimaces. He does not want to think about Damiano fucking Charles.

Charles cocks his head to the side. “It is almost like you are jealous.”

Carlos grits his teeth. He is not subtle. Subtlety is a thing of the past.

“Oh,” Charles says, sounding surprised, but he is grinning in a way that makes Carlos think: This is not a revelation. This is something you were expecting. “Is that what it is?”

“Charles.”

Charles takes a step forward.

He is so close. His breath fans against Carlos’ mouth. He is taller than Carlos. He does not seem small right now, not by any means.

“I think,” Charles starts, eyes dark. “I think you want me. But you are too much of a coward to ask for it.”

Carlos swallows. A coward—is that what Charles thinks he is?

“You are always so stuck in your own head. Have you not considered that I want you too?”

That is. Well.

“I have been trying,” Charles says, voice breaking, face crumpling. He looks almost delicate. “All this time, you have made me feel like a fool.”

English, Carlos notices.

Charles is meeting him halfway.

Quietly, Charles says, “I am not without a heart, Carlos.”

Ah.

Absurdly, Carlos bursts into laughter, his head falling with it. He stares at his feet, then raises his head. Charles’ eyes are glassy. He is looking at Carlos, furious. A pout on his lips. Carlos knows how to make it go away.

Puta madre.

Maybe Carlos has had him all wrong from the start.

Maybe Carlos has been an idiot, all this time.

Translation can only go so far.

At last, Carlos takes the final step forward. Closes the gap. The dam breaks.

Carlos kisses him, with everything he has.

Everything. All of it.

Kissing a man is different.

Charles is taller than any of the women Carlos has been with even when they were wearing heels. That is the first difference. The second difference: the stubble on his jaw, above his lip, the side of his face. The third difference: the strength of him, his body, his hands, his mouth. Charles kisses him forcefully, crowds him up against the wall, runs his hands through his hair. Kisses him, hungrily. With passion.

Kissing Charles is wonderful.

Beyond words. English, Italian, Spanish. Carlos could not put it into words even if he tried.

Physical. It is physical, but more than physical.

He is lovely. The loveliest thing that Carlos has ever tasted.

They make it to the bed. They have lost their shirts, somewhere along the way. Good. Ferrari does not need to be in the room for what they will do.

Carlos has him on his back. Kisses him furiously. With so much fury. With everything he has been holding back ever since Carlos found out Charles liked men. Ever since three years ago, when they became teammates. Carlos will not deny the truth any longer. This, his hungry mouth on Charles, biting at his lips, his jaw, his neck; Charles making noises into his mouth, into the cold air, legs curling around Carlos’ stomach, Carlos clutching his waist like he will never let him go—this is not a new development. All this time, Carlos has wanted Charles. He just did not know he was allowed to want this. He does not hold back; he will never hold back again, he thinks.

Carlos is reasonably well-read for a driver. Some people say that sex is all about the power difference, dynamics that are inherently gendered. Dominance. Hierarchy, eroticized. What is sexual to us is what arouses a man. Yes, maybe, Carlos thinks. But where is the power now?

He does not know.

Charles is squirming under him. Carlos breaks the kiss. Lifts up onto his heels. Slips to the side.

Charles brings his hands down to his khakis. Fingers fumbling to undo the button, the zipper, then he is pulling his bottoms off with his pants.

He is hard. His dick is—

Well. It is not cute. Carlos can be sure of that. He is big. Quite big, actually. Probably the biggest dick that Carlos has seen outside of porn. One of the only dicks that Carlos has seen hard, in person.

He is trimmed down there. Neat.

Carlos licks his lips. He is filled with a want that he cannot describe. One that he has never felt before. He is so hard that it hurts.

“I have never—”

“You have fucked women before?” Charles questions, rhetorically, throwing all of the fabric to the side. He is unashamed about his body. Why wouldn’t he be? It is a beautiful body. Muscle, smooth skin, and confidence. “It is not so different.”

He crawls off the bed.

Ah. His dick was not very cute. But his ass is. Small and perky and pale. The sharp dip of his waist, his Venus dimples. Carlos watches as he waddles over to his own suitcase, squats down, searches through it—he retrieves a bottle of lube.

Yes, Carlos thinks.

Charles comes back to his spot in the bed, settles into the imprint of his hot body in the mattress. He spreads his legs, uncaps the bottle, and pours the gel onto his fingers, warming it up. He bends one of his legs back, a thigh to his chest.

When Carlos is with a woman, he will finger them, eat them out. Charles does not give him the option.

“Watch me,” he says, “I will prepare myself.”

Direct as always.

Slicked-up fingers brush at his rim, circling. He gasps, whimpers, Carlos adores him. He presses a finger into his hole, sucking in a soft breath, pulling the digit in and out then adding a second finger, grunting. Charles looks tight, seems tight. His stomach muscles contract. His eyes squeeze shut, his toes curl, and he has hair everywhere; more than Carlos imagined. Yes, Carlos has imagined.

He is beautiful. Too beautiful.

Carlos shoves his khakis off, his underwear too. Enamored.

Charles’ eyes zero in on his dick. He licks his lips—like he wants, like he wants, in his mouth. No, Carlos stops that train of thought. Later. Of course, they can always do that later. Thus, Charles pushes a third finger into himself, moaning. His head rolls. Carlos curls a hand around his erection, wonders how much of it is a show. But no, he should be charitable, should take Charles at face value.

Face value: Charles wants this. Wants him. Charles has wanted him. What was it he said?

I have been trying.

Trying to do what?

To give my heart to you, Carlos understands now.

All this time. You have made me feel like a fool.

No longer, Carlos thinks, straddling Charles, and kissing him. Yes, he wants to kiss Charles. Forever and ever. Always. Charles is hot under him, writhing, spreading his fingers little by little, thrusting gently, crooking his fingers, Carlos can tell, and he shudders against Carlos’ mouth, his dick twitching against Carlos’ stomach. His thighs are smooth with lube. He is full of want.

Yes, Carlos thinks. Enough of translation. We can speak the same language like this. I know your want, and you know mine. You know me, and I know you.

I have had you all wrong, all this time. But you are under me now. Your skin to my skin. I can hear you, feel you, understand you.

We don’t need a third language between us. We have this. We have each other. We understand.

“Carlos,” Charles whines, mouth slick against Carlos’, needy. Carlos is alight. Every part of him, every nerve is on fire. It is all Charles.

Never in Carlos’ life has he had something all to himself, something that he could keep—all to himself.

This will be the first. He will have Charles. All of him, and he will keep him.

Carlos kisses him. Again and again. Doesn’t let him go. He bites softly at Charles’ cheek, and murmurs, “You like to take it.”

“Mmh,” Charles says, hips jerking as Carlos licks the sweat off his neck, kissing him there too. “I like it a lot.”

“What about it?” Carlos’ voice is raspy and heavy. He sounds like a stranger. Sounds unfamiliar. He feels like an animal—incapable of words. No language could do this feeling justice.

“Ah,” Charles moans. “The—the feeling?”

Carlos rolls his hips down, dick brushing against Charles cock. He kisses Charles again. Charles’ mouth is so soft, so plump. But rough too—teeth and stubble. “Of being full?”

“Mmh,” Charles affirms, chasing Carlos’ mouth. Carlos gives him a kiss. Only one. Hard but sweet. Like Charles would want. “Yes, that. Pressed down. Made to take it.”

“Dirty,” Carlos laughs, a hand coming up to Charles’ jaw, his thumb pressing into his windpipe. Charles’ eyes go dark. His mouth parts.

The air between them is hot and electric.

“I guess,” Charles replies, his pink tongue running along his teeth. His brows come together; thick and gorgeous. Everything about Charles is gorgeous.

He pulls his fingers out with a shudder. Slick, they come to Carlos’ cock. Carlos hisses at the touch, surprised. Charles pumps his hand, slow, up and down, curiously, testing, assessing. Carlos wonders if he’s up to Charles’ impossible standards.

It is his first time being touched by a man. Yes, this is fitting. Of course it would be Charles. Everything now is Charles’.

But it is not Charles’ first time being touched by a man—touching a man. Carlos thinks, Who has fucked you before? Who has been inside of you? Who has seen you, like I am seeing you right now?

No. That should not matter. It is me, right now. This is all that matters.

“You can,” Charles murmurs, looking deep into Carlos’ eyes, his own green and glimmering. He bats his lashes, coy. His other hand comes to Carlos’ ass, squeezing. Carlos sucks in a sharp breath. “Please?”

Why would you ask? Carlos thinks.

I will give you everything you want.

Charles is pretty, but he is not pretty like a woman.

His moans are manly. His body is strong, muscled. His face is rough with stubble. Carlos is hyperaware that it is a man he has below him—his cock brushing against Carlos’ stomach as Carlos thrusts into him, grinds into the clench of him. He is tight, oh so tight—

Carlos understands, now.

Charles’ eyes wet, fluttering open and shut; his body, hot and wanting; his strong hands, everywhere, anywhere he can touch, Carlos’ shoulders, his back, his waist, his ass; his perfect little mouth, open with need. Begging.

Charles is pretty, not pretty like a woman, but Carlos fucks him like one anyway.

Carlos has fucked women before, yes, of course. Anal, yes. Carlos likes it all, is not so prudish that he would restrict himself to a number of poses—he can do what he wants, have—

No, he cannot. He cannot have whatever he wants—but when it is given to him, he will take.

So Carlos takes.

He flips him onto his stomach, watches the flutter of his wing muscles. One hand on the center of his spine, the other settling into a hollow of a Venus dimple. Pressing him down, making him take it—like he wants. Exactly like he wants it.

Charles rolls his head to the side, brows screwing together, lips parting with a moan. His Cupid’s bow is shiny-wet, pink and flushed. Ah, yes, Carlos thinks, lustfully. His Cupid’s bow. Charles is like Cupid. No, that’s not it. Cupid is Cupid. Carlos is the one struck with his arrow. The object of his desire is Charles. Of course it is Charles.

Charles has a mouth that was shaped to be worshipped and a body made to be loved.

Yes, this is like making love. This is love, Carlos thinks. Something close to it, at least, a going toward.

Now for the epilogue.

Or rather, the punchline:

“I am sorry,” Carlos pants, staring up at the ceiling.

Hazy-eyed, Charles rolls his head to the side and asks, “Why?”

Carlos chooses his words. Translation can only go so far. Honesty is the best policy. He is sorry for many things, but this is the most tangible truth, this is the most translatable. “You will be sore tomorrow.”

Charles laughs softly. He is soft all over. “It is fine. It is only practice.”

Yes, Charles finds free practices boring. He likes sprints. Carlos knows that. He has been spending years learning Charles. This is one of the basics.

Charles rolls onto his side. Props up his head onto his hand, elbow to the mattress, cheek cradled in his palm. Says, “You like to kiss, a lot. I like that.”

Not: I like kissing you. Instead: I like how you like to kiss me.

I like that you want me, Carlos hears.

He bites the inside of his cheek. A mistranslation, maybe.

That’s the hard part about translation. From one language to another, so much is lost.

“Did you like it?”

Carlos tries not to laugh.

Horribly, embarrassingly, humiliatingly, mortifyingly, Carlos thinks: It was the best sex I have ever had. You are the best lover I have ever had.

“Yes,” he says, honestly, heart pumping. Romance. This is romance, Carlos thinks. We have done it all wrong.

And Charles smiles, bright. “Would you. Want to— Again?”

Carlos’ heart flutters. Carefully, he rolls onto his side, faces Charles. “Yes,” he says again.

Charles’ smile widens. His eyes shine bright. “I am very happy,” he says, then rolls onto his back, looks at the ceiling. “It was just—always so hard with Damiano. He is always on tour. And he smells like cigarettes all the time.” He scrunches his nose. “This is so much more convenient for me.”

A beat.

“Ah.”

“It is a shame,” Charles says, breathless, “that after this year, you will leave.”

Carlos sucks in a breath.

Yes. That.

Finally he remembers:

It is always hard, with Charles. He will always get what he wants, and he will keep it.

They are always playing a game.

Maybe Carlos had the translation right to begin with.