One of the most important things I’ve learned as a Real Adult™ is the importance of a job half done.
Today I did a load of dishes, wiped off my stove, and swept the kitchen floor. Did I do the best job, or finish every dish? No! My stove still has that caked on caramel that I need to bust out an SOS pad to take care of, one of our big pots is still sitting in the sink, and somehow a kitty kibble unearthed itself while I was wiping down the stove (?? how??).. but the kitchen looks a LOT better. It’s once again an inhabitable, usable space.
Parents, bosses, teachers, even my own self, harp upon absolute perfect completion of a task as the be all and end all of a job well done, but god damn, my kitchen isn’t terrible because I took the time to improve it. Little steps, especially when you’re struggling, are important. They mean a LOT. They are a sign that you won, if only in that brief moment, and they make getting all the other stuff done so much easier later on down the road.
Part Two to Always Walk Me Home (would recommend reading AWMH first)
Summary: You and Max have a shared love for strawberry wine. The rest of your friends think you’ve got bad taste. Or: @vetteltea read Always Walk Me Home and asked for more about the strawberry wine, and then I ran with it. So this is also a bit of a prequel, really 🍓
Warnings: alcohol/intoxication
You walk through the front door of the apartment, shucking off your coat and slipping off your shoes. Max Verstappen’s apartment is a shoes off household. You’ve learned that in the two and a half months you’ve known him. You can hear your friends in the kitchen, laughing loudly about something. One of Max’s cats- Jimmy or Sassy, you can’t tell them apart- is sitting in the hall, watching you curiously.
You’re the last one to arrive. You’d had to work late, had told them to get started without you. You bend to pat the cat on the head on your way past. Everyone is gathered in the kitchen, standing around the island. Someone yells your name enthusiastically when you walk in. Your friend Louise, the one who’d introduced you to this friend group, shoves a wine glass in front of you. It’s not full, just a half glass of something pink.
“Try it,” she says.
Her eyes are wide. Everyone is staring at you. This feels like some sort of initiation. You smell the cup- you’d have assumed it was a rosé, but there’s a hint of something else there. Trusting your friends to not have spiked it with something, you take a cautious sip. Strawberries. It’s strawberry wine. Sweet and sugary. Next to you, Louise laughs. You furrow your brows and stare at her.
“What?” You ask.
“The wine,” she says through a giggle. “It’s awful, isn’t it?”
You take another sip. She raises her brows.
“No?” You say, before you down the rest of the glass. “No, that’s good. I love strawberries.”
Her jaw drops open. The rest of the group erupts into chaos. Someone calls you batshit insane. You look around in bewilderment.
“Thank god,” Max says, taking your glass from your hand. “Someone sane is finally here.”
He’s holding the bottle of wine in his hand. You don’t know Max very well- he’d been a friend of a friend up until a few months ago, when Louise invited you to a party and then kept inviting you to events. You’re… friendly. He intimidates you a bit. He’s smiling at you now, though, as he pours you a full glass of the wine.
“They all think it’s awful,” he says, shaking his head in disappointment. “I was going to drink the whole thing by myself. It would’ve been sad.”
You blink and laugh, taking the glass back from him. “Cheers, then, I guess?”
He picks his glass up from the counter and clinks it against yours.
…..
“Does anyone want wine?” You call out from your kitchen into the living room.
It’s a quiet night. Not everyone was able to make it, so you’re at your apartment. There’s a football match playing on the TV that nobody’s really paying attention to. There’s a few people playing some sort of game of cards that you didn’t even try to understand. Everyone else is just sitting around and chatting.
“What kind?” Louise calls back.
You open the fridge and laugh. “Never mind.”
“S’that fucking strawberry shit, isn’t it?”
“Maybe,” you say in a singsongy tone.
You turn around, reaching for your corkscrew. At the very least, it means you won’t have to share with everyone. Just-
Max calls out. “Bring me a glass? And maybe just bring the bottle in here?”
Someone is making fun of him for it, you can hear it from the other room. You do as he said, though. You hand him the glass, having already poured the wine into it. Then you turn to head back to your original seat. Max reaches up with his free hand and tugs on your wrist.
He pats the open spot on the couch next to him. “Sit here? So we can share the wine.”
Your face grows hot, but you nod and come around to sit next to him. He’s potentially the only one watching the football match- you think his favorite team is one of the ones playing. You feel a bit out of alignment for a moment. You’re in your own apartment, on your own couch, but something about him asking you to sit next to him has thrown you off kilter. You take a breath and try to relax. He doesn’t mean anything by it. You’re overthinking it.
You settle back into the couch by your second glass. By Max’s second, he throws his arm over the back of the sofa, his fingers just barely brushing your neck in the process. It’s nothing, but it makes you shiver anyways.
…..
Max is out of the country on your birthday. He’s in Spain for the Grand Prix. He’ll be back soon after, though, and then the next race is in Monaco. You’re already buzzing with excitement, chatting with your friends about outfits and plans and events throughout the weekend.
The night of your birthday your friends take you out to dinner. It’s a Monday night, so it won’t be anything too crazy, but it’s nice to know they’re thinking about you. You have good food, better wine, and then Louise invites everyone back to her apartment to hang out for the rest of the night. You’re in her kitchen when you hear the front door open. It strikes you as odd- you’d all walked here together. Though you suppose someone could be leaving, or popping out to get some air. You’re reaching into the fridge when someone clears their throat. You turn over your shoulder and find Max.
“Hi, birthday girl,” he says, voice soft and scratchy. He holds up a bag. “Brought you a present.”
You stare at him for a few seconds, because you swear his plane didn’t land until 8:00, and it’s only 8:30. You sort of want to hug him, but he’s not a very touchy person, and you’re not sure you know him well enough yet. You cross the kitchen anyway.
“What are you doing here?” You ask. “You were in Spain.”
He laughs. “It’s not that long of a flight.”
“Yeah, but…” you blink up at him. “You had a busy weekend. I didn’t expect you to come over.”
He tilts his head at you. “It’s your birthday.”
He says it like that’s enough explanation. To him, maybe it is. He may not be a touchy person, but he is the type to show up for his friends. You’ve seen examples of it everywhere- he’s the first to respond in a group chat, the first to show up to every party. It’s a side of him that you don’t think the rest of the world gets to see very often. You’re honored to somehow be a part of it.
He holds the gift bag out to you. “I don’t think I’m going to stay long,” he admits, scrubbing at his scruff with his free hand. “I’m exhausted. But I wanted to at least stop by.”
You take the bag. “You didn’t have to get me anything, you know.”
He shrugs. “I wanted to.”
Inside the bag you find a soft, light scarf, similar to the one Louise wore the last time you saw Max. You’d complimented it, asked where she got it- she’d answered a boutique in Spain. You gasp, running the fabric through your fingers. It’s cream colored, and you wrap it around your neck happily. Then you realize the bag still feels heavy. You reach inside again and your fingers wrap around the neck of a wine bottle. You know what it’s going to be before you even pull it out.
You hold the bottle to your chest and smile up at him. “My favorite.”
He’s smiling a bright smile, has been since you took the bag from him. It makes his cheeks squish and his eyes crinkle. The look he’s giving you is warm and soft. Your heart thuds wildly in your chest. It’s just him being friendly. That’s enough, really, isn’t it? Max picks his friends carefully. The fact that he’s here, that he made such an effort to be here with you for your birthday, is enough.
You uncork the bottle and pour two glasses- one for you and one for him.
It’s not until the next morning that you notice the embroidery on the end of the scarf- a tiny pink strawberry, hidden in the corner.
…..
Your apartment is packed to the brim with people. Your friends are here, your friend’s friends are here, people’s siblings and cousins. What started as a small Grand Prix afterparty has turned into a bit of an overwhelming event. The guest of honor isn’t even here, and likely won’t be. He may have showed, had told you he was planning on it, but then he went and won the race, and now you’re sure he’s busy. You’re sure Red Bull has roped him into some sort of sponsored event.
You’d texted him to tell him congratulations, but so far he hasn’t answered. You can’t say you blame him. You’d seen the celebrations at the podium ceremony- there’s no way he’s had a moment alone.
You and your friends had opted to go back to your apartment since it was closest. However, with this many friends all in town to watch him race, your home has become a bit of a landing pad. You can barely make it through your own kitchen without stepping on somebody’s toes. You’re running dangerously low on alcohol, though you wonder if that may be a good thing. Maybe it’s time to move this party to a club or a restaurant or anywhere other than your tiny apartment.
You squeeze your way through to the front hallway, trying to find anywhere that has any sort of space. You can see from here that your balcony is nearly dangerously packed with people. You reach into the hall cupboard, where you know you keep a couple bottles of wine-
The front door swings open. You groan at the idea of another person in your apartment, resting your head on the edge of a shelf in the cupboard. You don’t even bother looking to see who it is, because everyone you know is already here.
“Holy shit,” you hear. “I didn’t know you could fit this many people in here.”
You peer around the cupboard door. Max is standing there, a wide grin on his face. He smells like champagne and Red Bull. Someone makes their way through the hallway, and he steps back to stay hidden behind the open door.
“We figured you were out with the team,” you say, eyes wide.
“I’m going,” he says, jerking his head towards the hallway. “I came to get you guys. Who are all of these people?”
“Friends of friends, people’s families, I don’t know,” you say, still peering around the door at him. “I think someone’s grandma is here. We’re almost out of alcohol. I’m grabbing wine.”
You pull the bottle from the cupboard and hold it up to him. He grins impossibly wider at the label. Strawberry wine.
“Nobody else will drink that,” he says. “You’re going to have a mutiny on your hands.”
“Yeah, well, I got it as a gift for you, to celebrate the race, but now I’m thinking about chugging it and then locking myself in the bedroom.”
Max raises his brows. You stare back at him. Then it hits you. You step around the cupboard door and without thinking, you throw your arms around him.
“Congrats, by the way. On the race.”
You remember mid hug that this is Max, and that Max doesn’t really like hugs. Before you can pull away, though, he’s wrapping his arms around you. He squeezes you tight to his chest for a moment. You feel him rest his chin on top of your head.
“Thank you,” he says, quietly. “I’m glad you were there to see it. And thank you for the wine.”
You know he’s talking generally, about your friend group. But for a moment, you let yourself think he’s talking just about you.
“I have a better plan,” he says, keeping you held against his chest. “You and I take that bottle. We sneak it into the club with us.”
“And all the people in my apartment?” You ask, flinching as you hear something that sounds an awful lot like broken glass.
He sighs. “We bring them with us. It’s better than them destroying your place.”
“Even the grandma?”
“Grandmas love nightclubs.”
You laugh into his chest. “You should go. If someone sees you they’ll go crazy.”
He pulls away and grabs your shoulders. “We should go. We’ll call Louise on the way, tell her where to meet us.”
Really, who are you to say no? He’s Max Verstappen, he’s just won the Monaco Grand Prix. So you slip on a pair of shoes and follow him out the front door before anyone can catch sight of him. Then you’re walking down the streets of Monaco, side by side with him. He takes the bottle of wine from your hands and stops at a crowd of people partying in someone’s front lawn.
“Has anyone got a corkscrew?” He calls out. Someone throws one to him. He opens the bottle, then calls, “and maybe a couple cups?”
Two plastic cups are handed through the crowd to him. They ask him to sign the corkscrew. He hands it back afterwards and shoves the cork in his pocket. Then he pours two glasses and hands one to you. Strawberry wine on a sidewalk in Monaco, in step with the man who won the Grand Prix. You’ve never had a stranger or better day.
He calls Louise when the club is in sight. “Yeah, just down the road. Uh-huh. No, bring everyone.” You hear Louise say something. “Well I don’t know, does the grandma want to come to the party?” He asks, quirking a brow at you. “Then bring her. Okay. See you soon, then. Oh- no, wait, Louise- she’s with me.” He reaches out and squeezes your upper arm lightly. The touch sends sparks shivering up your spine. “Yeah. Long story. Just meet us there, yeah?”
…..
It’s nearly Christmas, and you’re stressed. That might be an understatement, actually. The holidays are always stressful, plus a project at work that’s gone haywire, leaving you picking up the pieces. You wouldn’t even be at the party, too exhausted and so tired of people, if it wasn’t your last chance to see most of your friends before the holidays kick off. You’re leaving to spend time with your family soon. It’s one of the few things you’re looking forward to.
You wander through the party feeling a bit like a zombie. It’s Max’s apartment, with more people in attendance than your usual group. You bounce from friend to friend, always clinging to someone’s side, trying to avoid talking to anyone you don’t know, or anyone at all, really. You’re just socially exhausted.
Max finds you in the kitchen. He sweeps you under his arm into a quick side hug, and you force a smile when you look up at him. He sees right through it, frowning down at you.
“What’s wrong?” He asks, poking your cheek lightly.
You try harder to make the smile genuine. “Nothing! Why?”
He stares at you, tilts his head. “You’re lying.”
You shrug. “M’just tired.”
You can tell he doesn’t believe you. But someone asks him a question, and the friend you’ve glued yourself to is leaving the room, so you follow. You don’t see Max for a while. In fact, it’s been a suspiciously long amount of time. Somebody else has noticed and brings it up, asking where he’s gone off to.
“Oh, he ran to the store, I think. Didn’t say why.”
Someone suggests a drinking game. You make a break for the balcony. Jimmy is standing in front of the door, staring up at you.
“Jim,” you mutter, bending to pet him. “I know you’re gonna make a run for it the second I open the door.”
He meows at you, like he understands. You try to usher him towards Max’s bedroom, but he stays put. You sigh in frustration. In the living room, the noise kicks up another notch. When Max steps into the hallway, there are tears in your eyes.
“Did he scratch you?” Max asks.
You pinch the bridge of your nose and squeeze your eyes shut. “No. M’fine.”
Max clicks his tongue at you. You sigh, again. There’s a shuffling noise, and then you hear the sliding door open. Cool air hits your face. Max’s hands land on your shoulders and he leads you outside. You’re in socks, and the concrete is cold on your feet. You open your eyes and sit down on the patio couch. Max closes the door behind him and sits down next to you. It’s then that you notice the bottle of wine in his hand. Strawberry wine. You’d checked the fridge earlier- that bottle wasn’t there. So either he’s been hiding it, or… he ran to the store. Didn’t say why. Your throat feels tight.
He hands you the bottle carefully. He’s already opened it, but he neglected to bring any glasses. You shrug and tip the bottle to your lips. Sweet, sugary, room temperature wine washes over your tongue and you sigh.
“What’s going on?” He asks, gesturing for the bottle. He waits patiently as he takes a sip, too.
You huff and rub your cheeks with your empty hands. “Nothing, Max. I’m fine. There’s a whole party inside, I’m sure they’d love to play drinking games with you, so-“
“But I’m here with you,” he says patiently, voice soft. Your heart is cracking wide open in your chest. “Because I want to be. So tell me what’s going on.”
There’s so much to tell him that you don’t know where to start. It’s your family, it’s the traveling you’re about to do. It’s work, so stressful you wish you could just quit. It’s this awful feeling you can’t shake that maybe none of your friends really want you here. It’s Max, and the way your heart skips a beat when he looks at you. The way your stomach fills with butterflies when he touches you. The way he could have any girl in the whole world, and you’re just his friend. You curl your knees close to your chest and wrap your arms around them.
“I’m just stressed,” you admit, figuring that’s the easiest answer. “Work, and the holidays, and… just , everything. You know?”
He nods, passes the bottle of wine back to you. You take another drink. You study the label of it to try and keep yourself from crying in front of him. That would be embarrassing. That would scare him off. You rest your chin on your knee. Then you feel it.
Max’s arm, draping over your shoulders. The weight of him is heavy and steady and warm. He’s going to throw you into a tailspin with just that one motion. Then- like he doesn’t know how much he’s already affecting you- he presses his hand to your shoulder and pulls you against his side. Fuck. You’re not going to cry in front of him. You won’t do it. But Max doesn’t do hugs and cuddling, he’s not a touchy person, and yet he’s wrapping himself around you to hold you close.
You rest your head against his shoulder and take another drink of wine. He takes the bottle back and does the same. His hand sweeps up and down your upper back in a soothing motion, over and over again.
You’re not going to cry. You won’t. You close your eyes instead. You feel Max’s cheek against the top of your head. You won’t cry.
“Maybe after the holidays we should all go somewhere warm and relaxing,” he says. You let out a noise somewhere between a sob and a laugh. “I think we could all use a bit of a break, no?”
You nod against his chest. He squeezes your shoulder. If you keep your eyes squeezed shut, he won’t see the tears. You can’t cry in front of him. So you sit, blind to the world around you, your head pressed to his chest.
Later, you blink your eyes open to the sound of voices, feeling disoriented. Someone is saying something to Max, saying your name. And Max, his voice rumbling beneath your chest-
“-walk her home, or she can stay here,” he says. “I’ve got her, mate.”
The sliding door closes. You realize you’d fallen asleep. Your face heats up, unsure of if you should pretend you’re not awake or if you should pull away immediately. You’re still trying to decide when Max’s hand starts brushing up and down your back again. Your eyes slip closed. You can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest with each breath. No wonder you fell asleep.
Max shifts, squeezing your shoulder. “Schatje, time to wake up,” he whispers, close to your ear.
You sigh and pull away, sitting up to look at him. He keeps an arm wrapped around your shoulders. You rub your eyes, trying to clear the sleep from them. You’re too exhausted to find it in yourself to be embarrassed about falling asleep on him. Besides, he could’ve woken you up if he wanted to. He’s being a good friend.
“It’s late,” he says. You swear you’re imagining it when his hand comes up and his fingers brush against your cheek. “Do you want to sleep in the guest room?”
You nod.
In the morning, when you drag yourself out of bed, Max is gone. There’s a note on the counter. He had early morning training, and then a padel game. Didn’t want to wake you. Next to the note, there’s a bowl of strawberries. Sassy winds herself around your ankles. You smile and try to slow the beating of your heart.
…..
Max is standing in your empty apartment one night, the last of your friends to leave. You’re wandering through the living room, picking up cups and trying to pretend he isn’t watching you. When you try to walk by him and head for the kitchen, he grabs your hip.
You stop and stare. His eyes are boring into yours, wide and blue and soft. There’s a smile on his lips. You haven’t asked him yet why he’s still here, mostly because you don’t really want him to go. His hand is burning a hole in the fabric of your shirt where he’s holding onto you. You think if you look down, you’ll find flames licking up your side. But you can’t tear your eyes away from him.
His other hand sneaks up, and his fingers brush against the side of your face. It reminds you of the moment on his balcony, weeks ago now. You’re caught between wanting to let your eyes slip closed and never wanting to break his gaze.
You realize moment’s later he’s looking for some sort of confirmation from you. He’s waiting, though you’re not sure exactly what he’s for. In an act of blind, foolish courage, you take a step towards him and wind one of your arms around the back of his neck. Max sighs. You twist your fingers into the hair on the nape of his neck.
Max is your friend. This could ruin everything. If this goes badly…
You take another step closer. You can hear his soft breaths. His fingers brush against your cheek- you swear you feel him tremble, just slightly, just enough for you to know. He wants this, but he’s scared, too. His heart is beating just as fast. His mind is racing just as fast.
When he kisses you, his lips taste like strawberry wine.
…..
Max is holding your hand on the sidewalk. He’s walking you home from a club you’d been at with your friends. You love him, but you haven’t told him yet. You’ve only just realized it that night, seeing yourself laugh in the bathroom mirror and then seeing the smile on his face when he looked at you.
Next to you, though you don’t know it, Max is having the exact same realization.
…..
“Can you grab my watch?” Max calls out from the kitchen. “In the bedside table, top drawer?”
You’re trying to resist the urge to tell him to find it himself. You’re horribly late to a dinner, this stupidly fancy dinner that has you second guessing every piece of clothing you put on. Max was no help, telling you that everything you tried on was perfect and beautiful and would look even better on his floor. You love him, but today, he’s driving you insane.
You stomp over to the bedside table and open the drawer. The box with his watch is sitting there, nestled in with other odds and ends. You pick up the box and almost close the drawer without even noticing. But something makes you pause and stare.
In the drawer there’s a little plastic tray, and it’s full of wine corks. You recognize the logo. Max is calling your name in the other room, something about hurrying up, but suddenly you don’t care about the stupid dinner. You’re thinking of that sidewalk stroll you took so long ago, the corkscrew he borrowed, the way he put the cork in his pocket. You’d thought it was to throw it away later.
He calls your name again, from the doorway. You reach into the drawer without turning around, running your fingers over the corks. He makes a noise and walks across the room to you, wraps his arms around your waist and tucks his chin over your shoulder.
“Did you save the all corks?” You ask, voice breathy.
Max nods, presses his lips to your bare shoulder. “All except the very first one. By the time I… when I went to grab it, it was gone.”
You laugh. You can’t help it. You turn around and press yourself into his arms and laugh. He’s staring down at you in bewilderment. He’s been driving you crazy all afternoon, he must think you’ve finally snapped.
“The first cork is in my jewelry box,” you tell him, and a laugh bubbles up between his lips, too. “I took it off the counter. I didn’t know why, at the time. Just felt like I should.”
You’re late to the dinner. Max makes an excuse. Nobody believes it, but you can’t bring yourself to care.
…..
Some time later, there will be a moment. It won’t matter where you are, or what you’re doing. It will be you and Max, and you will look at him and the whole world will melt away. And the strangest thought will pop into your head.
Our friends are going to send us strawberry wine when we get engaged, you’ll think. And they will bring it to the wedding.
He’ll turn to you, like he’s heard your thoughts. He’ll smile, cheeks pink as the strawberry wine. At that same moment, he’ll be wondering if strawberry shortcake is an acceptable wedding dessert. Every time you taste strawberries, you’ll think back to the kitchen in his apartment. The wine you were supposed to hate. And Max, a smile on his face, glad to not be alone.
Someone sane is finally here, he’d said.
And then everything had changed.
p.s.: am I way too invested in this pairing? Probably. Have I already decided what their wedding song would be? Definitely.
p.s. again: ironically, it turns out both @vetteltea and I hate strawberry wine 🍓
summary: charles goes track by track as he deals with the sadness of losing you.
pairing: charles leclerc x fem!reader (affectionately nicknamed dove)
word count: 14k (i'm so sorry)
warnings: not proofread, poorly translated french -- translation in small font next to french text, cussing, charles being whiney and kind of pathetic sorry, mentions of alcohol, alludes to sexual themes, descriptions of anxiety and poor mental health. probably inaccurate descriptions of the car and its functions. absolutely no interaction between charles and reader until around the 5th/6th song so fair warning.
note: here is my first ever f1 fic and of course, it had to be about charles. i have been working on this for about a month now and i am finally done. this is super long, i nearly split it but it didn't feel right. im also a 1000% sure this makes no sense but im posting it anyways. i hope you like it and if not thats okay too! tagging @stressfc and @sidcrosbyspuck bc they've listened to me try to muscle through the end of this. feedback is always appreciated.
Dinner was quiet, just the soft hum of classical instrumental playing in the background with the compliments of silverware clanging against porcelain plates. Charles stares at the pasta sitting idly on his plate, his fork twirling the noodles but never lifting it to his mouth. The girl across from him seems to dwindle on and on about her work, something about a new projects and exciting opportunities. He couldn’t seem to listen tonight, there was something eerie in the air tonight and it made him feel uneasy. She doesn’t take notice though, too busy enjoying his presence and the fine dining restaurant Charles is treating her to.
She wasn’t a gold digger by any means, and she was satisfied with the more simpler things life had to offer. It was one of Charles’ favorite things about her, and that’s why when he had the chance he’d treat her to a little bit of luxury that he can afford. She was sweet, bubbly, with a little bite when it comes to things she’s passionate about. Her eyes were warm and bright with life, and on most nights it was enough to set fire in his heart. But tonight, it simply wasn’t the case.
Dinner was over as quickly as it started, Charles chucking the quick end to the night to being tired and having a long day ahead of him. She was understanding as usual, and it dug a pit in his heart. She bid him goodnight, a quick kiss to his lips, and he watches as she walks away. Charles waited until she was in her building before he driving back to his apartment, the car ride silent. He slows to a stop at a red and idly scrolls through his Spotify account to find a playlist to fill the space. And then he scrolls past one he hadn’t listened to in months. He taps the one titled ‘when you’re missing me’ quick to press shuffle as the light flicks green. His foot is steady on the gas, as the first out of ten songs play.
Nothing - Bruno Major
Bruno’s soft voice plays over the car speaker, the first verse taking him back to nights spent on the couch with a glass of red wine, a good movie, and his favorite person. He remembers the soft voices, chaste kisses, and gentle fingers tousling his brown hair. He hums along, merging right and off the busy roads to take the side streets. Taking the long way home seemed like the best option for tonight, the twists and turns reminding him of being on the track— his safest place in the world.
But there’s nothing, like doing nothing, with you. The lyric makes his heart plummet into his stomach before trying to climb up his throat. There’s a sense of nostalgia that washes over him as the song plays on, remembering the feeling of listening to it as he passes the time miles and miles away from you. He smiles at your thoughtfulness, how you carefully picked ten simple songs to fill the time you both spent apart. Ten songs, nearly forty minutes to keep him afloat for maybe days at a time. Forty minutes to make missing you a little less painful.
Or in this case, a little more.
The first time he heard this song, it was played live in concert and you found a video circulating online of the performance. You gushed on and on about how cute the lyrics were, the sentiment behind the song, and the evident tears glossing over your eyes when you listened to it the first time. You were both just friends at the time, and he could remember the butterflies fluttering in his stomach as you pined for affections that the artist described in his song, his thought taking him to possibilities of him being able to fulfill those needs. But of course, he simply wiped the lone tear that rolled down your cheek and smiled.
“It’s okay, mon cherie.”
The first time he ever kissed you was to the very same song, a month later. He was just a little tipsy off of his celebratory P1 champagne, footsteps stumbling from the motorhome into your car as you readied to drive him home. He was all smiles, dimples deep and eyes bright despite being slightly hooded with alcohol.
“Ah, mon amour, it was the best race I think I’ve ever driven. Did you see?”
“I did. I saw the whole thing bug.”
Charles smiles at the memory of the affectionate nickname, rubbing his index finger against his bottom lip as he remembers the excitement he felt bursting through his skin when he had leaned over the middle counsel to kiss you. He remember your soft, plump lips, surprised but quick to mold into his. It was short, fiery, blurring the lines of friendship the two of you desperately tried to define. The song came up on shuffle, following one Charles’ hazy mind at the time could not seem to place.
… nothing like doing nothing with you…
Together — Us the Duo
Charles didn’t like too many English songs, and when he did they were ones that play on the radio every thirty minutes. This song, he found deep in her liked songs. One Saturday morning, free from distractions, no responsibilities on either end of the relationship except to be in each other’s company. He likes to think you put this song in the playlist because of the day he found it and played it.
He can hear you singing softly, feel the ghost of your fingers caressing his cheek as the song goes no matter what you’re going through, I’ll be right next to you. Goosebumps rise on his skin at the memory of your touch and the lump in his throat grows larger. This is when he should change the song, change the playlist, switch over to some house music playlist Lando shared with him months ago that he has yet to listen to. But he couldn’t. He eases up on the gas, making another right turn to drive down another straight.
“You are doing just fine, just take it one turn at a time baby.”
Charles hung on to every word that you ever said, but these words especially. It was words that he held near to him, at the forefront of his mind whether he was on the track staring down the rear of a Red Bull, or just simply trying to get through a tough mental day. One turn at a time, your version of “just keep swimming.” It was a take from an old movie, and one of your favorite books, but personal to the both of you.
This song was long forgotten in the last three months. He wishes that he remembered it for all the terrible days he spent up in his own head, without you to bring him down. Maybe, for just 3 minutes and 36 seconds, he could pretend that you were singing it to him. He could hear your sweet voice singing ‘if you ever need a hand to hold, reach out and I’ll grab yours.’
The skin of his right hand burned at the memory of yours, and his heart nearly sunk into his stomach. He hated this. He hated being alone, hated that you aren’t in the seat next to him. But most of all, he hated that seeing you was not an option at the end of this playlist.
Hesitate — Jonas Brothers
The first concert you both ever attended together was a Jonas Brothers concert in Las Vegas. It wasn’t intentional, you fully planned on bringing your best friend with you but her flight was delayed. And although it was between back to back race weekends, Charles didn’t have many obligations before the next one and you were fairly great at convincing him to join you. Of course he knew who the Jonas Brothers are, and of course he knew at least two of their songs. But if he were being completely honest with himself and the universe listening, he only went because you asked him.
On any normal weekend before back to back races, Charles would be scribbling in his little blue notebook and reading through his self-critical notes from the last several months of the season. He would jot down his ideas and feelings about the previous race, and his hopes and ambitions for the one yet to come. And it was Las Vegas. Notorious for the gambling and glamorous night life. A glamour he could afford for the both of you. And yet, that Thursday night he found himself in the furthest section to the left, the three brothers only about three inches tall from his view, with you screaming every lyric back with such enthusiasm. He wouldn’t trade that moment for the world.
The night slowed down considerably, Joe’s (your favorite, at least that’s what you yelled to him about fifty times leading up to this very moment) voice booming over the speaker and filling the arena. Your hand was quick to find his own, fingers slotting between his own as you laid your head on his shoulder. You would never know, but he spent the entirety of the song looking down at you. He savored every second your lips moved to the song, the twinkle in your eyes as you stared down at the three piece.
I thank the ocean for giving me you, you saved me once and now I’ll save you too. Charles always thanked the sea and the waves for washing him to shore, right at your mercy. He’d never tell you, but the song brought tears to his eyes. He would never, ever, admit that he shed a tear listening to that very song and the thought of you. It seemed premature to admit to you just several months in that he might be falling in love with you. That maybe, just maybe, you were it for him.
He pressed a soft kiss on your head, “Je suis en train de tomber amoureux de toi. Et vous ne le savez même pas. Pas encore.” I’m falling in love with you. And you don’t even know it. Not yet.
His whisper was drowned out in a sea of screams as the song comes to a close, and he knows you didn’t hear him. His heart screams at the memory of your glossy eyes as you looked up at him and moved up to the tip of your toes to press a kiss to his cheek. Sometimes he wishes that he would’ve just said it to you, screamed it for all of fifteen-something thousand people to hear and witness. Fuck the idea, the social constructs of timing and whether it was appropriate. He shouldn’t have hesitated to tell you how much his heart swells when you’re near him, how he desires nothing more to keep you close to him for the rest of his days.
Maybe if he opened his god damn mouth then he couldn’t lived in your affections for longer than he got.
Charles couldn’t bear to waste gas much longer, so he made a final left turn and back to his apartment complex. He pulls his car into the numbered slot, and takes quick steps to his empty home. Charles tries to ignore the dull feeling of his home, the mess he had yet to clean since returning from the last race, and instead dives into replying to texts he had missed since he decided to take an extra twenty minutes to get home.
Pierre’s name lights up the screen as Charles rolls into bed.
I can come up with beer if you need it. I saw you drive in a circle before getting home. Maybe you need beer.
Charles curses softly, forgetting that his best friend has his location and is more often than not keeping tabs on his habits. He rolls his eyes, replying to Pierre that he can in fact make his way up as long as he has a six pack in hand. The Monegasque does his best to tidy up, tossing laundry in its place and putting dishes in the dish washer. By the time Pierre’s soft knocks are heard, Charles is just about satisfied with the way his home looks. He unlocks the door without opening it, but the Frenchman has no problem letting himself in, greeting his friend cheerfully as he shuts the door behind him.
“I was thinking of inviting Carlos, or maybe Max over with me too. But I figured my company was enough, no?”
Charles lets out a chuckle, sitting at the table and nodding for Pierre to do the same. “Sure, mate.”
Pierre grins, handing Charles a bottle before sitting across from him. “Knew it.” He pops the bottle open, taking a quick drink before looking at his best friend. “So what now? Why the extra twenty minutes out on the road?”
“You know, it’s really creepy that you keep tabs on my location like that.”
“I just care. And stop deflecting. What’s wrong?”
Charles nibbles his lip, spinning the amber bottle on the table to watch the liquid slosh against the light. He debated if he should bring up his thoughts of you for the n-th time. Pierre must be tired of it, Charles thinks to himself. He looks up, his friend’s baby blues waiting patiently for him to speak up. He sighs softly, popping open his bottle and holding it up to his lips.
“Things don’t feel right with Hannah.” That’s how Charles chooses to start the conversation. It isn’t a lie, but it also isn’t the reason for his extra 20 minutes.
“The American girl?” Pierre asks, leaning back into his chair.
Charles nods, “Yeah. I dunno man… I like her I do but”—
“But she’s not your Dove.”
There it is. Charles didn’t have to say it. His heart seems to crack at the use of your. You weren’t his, no longer his little Dove.
Pierre watches as his best friend nods, finally taking a drink from his beer. There is a blanket of comfortable silence that falls between the two racers. This isn’t unfamiliar territory for Pierre. He is very much aware of the torment in Charles’ head since the break up. He was there for all the drunk nights and silent tears. Pierre has never seen his best friend so torn up over a girl, and truth be told he was worried when Charles jumped into a new connection with the American girl.
“I don’t know anymore mate… this fucking sucks.” Charles rests his head in his hands, rubbing his tired eyes. “This isn’t normal, to constantly compare her to… to you know. That isn’t fair to Hannah, or really anyone for that matter.”
“No… but it takes time to move past that.” Pierre responds. “It still hurts now, it hasn’t been that long since the two of you parted ways.”
“Three months mate.”
“Yeah, out of a fourteen month relationship.”
Charles shakes his head, taking another drink. “Still seems too long.”
“Well… do you really want to stop feeling this way?”
Charles looks at his best friend incredulously, “What the fuck kind of question is that?!”
“Well Charles, you seem to be the only one holding onto this relationship between the two of you. You just have this… this grip on something that’s over even though it’ll probably never come back to you.”
Pierre’s nonchalant tone catches him off guard, and even more so that the man in front of him still manages to drink his beer without cowering under his angry gaze. The Frenchman’s word feels like a match is lit in his chest. Charles suddenly couldn’t breathe.
“Switching up your opinions?”
Pierre raises his brow. “What? No. I still think it’s normal to be strung up on a relationship three months out. But at the same time, Charles you don’t make an actual effort to move forward. I mean even Hannah isn’t much of a move in the right direction considering that they even look similar. Being in a relationship just to be in one, right after one you actually valued isn’t actually a great tactic to moving on. And you’re still listening to her playlist”
“How do you know that?”
“Okay I didn’t check on purpose, don’t look at me like that. I just happened to be making a new race playlist and saw your activity.”
Charles groans softly, cheeks turning pink. He was a little embarrassed and made a mental note to change his Spotify settings. “Fuck.”
“Listen, I’m not going to knock you for how you choose to heal and move on. I’m your best friend, and I’m here for you. But I’m just saying… your way isn’t a very good way.”
—
Race weekends are his favorite. There isn’t anywhere he would rather be than on a race track in any given city in the world. The smell of rubber against the hot asphalt was always something that made him feel most at home. If there was something Charles knew for sure in the world, it’s that he was meant to be behind the wheel of an F1 car racing speeds up to 200 miles per hour. The adrenaline pumps through him simply at the thought of it.
Silverstone is a track he’s fairly comfortable with and has yet to win. But for the first time, Charles didn’t crave to win. Of course, standing on the tallest podium would be a plus, but truth be told he just wanted to get behind the wheel. The two week break was more than enough, much more than he needed. He just couldn’t wait to just sit in the car, uninterrupted for two hours with nothing but the road in front of him and his team in his ears. Charles was more than ready to hop in the car right now, if it weren’t for media appearances and fan obligations.
Carlos isn’t blind, and he knows his teammate quite well. When the camera shuts off after their hour of filming another C-squared episode, Carlos can’t help but to point out the unusual jitters emitting from Charles. “You good?”
Charles looks up at his teammate. “Huh? Yeah, why?”
“You just seem ready to leave, more than usual.”
“Just ready to get in the car, mate.” Charles hopes his voice is convincing. Hopes that the fake excitement he placed in his eye is enough to stop Carlos’s inquiries. He was worried that the Spaniard would ask about you, and truly Charles can’t handle another conversation about you and how he’s handling life without you.
“Aren’t you always?” Carlos rolls his eyes playfully, patting Charles’ back. “See you later. Gonna go workout.”
The two split ways and Charles heads back to his hotel room. The rest of Charles’ day is scheduled to be fairly quiet. There were no other social obligations left for the day, just an hour of uninterrupted rest before an event with sponsors that his PR team emphasized the importance of only ten times in one meeting. But for the next hour, Charles retreats to his room with his little blue notebook and sits at the tiny desk. He begins to jot down notes from the track walk, taking notes of turns that might be of concern to him, and what kind of tires he is likely to start with. He flips between his strategy notes and his idea list, seeing if there are tweaks he can make that he can bring up for discussion before free practice the next day.
Charles writes until his hand begins to ache. All of twenty minutes fly by before he has to drop the pen between the pages to try and shake the pain away. In the same instance, his phone lights up with texts from his friends who were trying to meet him before their schedules get too busy. He swipes through a few, not bothering to reply and instead opting to lay in bed to relax a little bit. He pops in his AirPods without question, scrolling through his song library in search of a song he could fall asleep to. His bottom lip moves between his teeth as he ponders over your playlist, and finds his finger swiping through his library til he spots that playlist.
Charles triple checks that he changed his listening activity to private before playing the next song.
If I Could Fly — One Direction
This is by far the cheesiest song that you put on the playlist. But those were your words, not his. He remembers you told him how you even hesitated to add it in but ultimately decided that it was the only song that made sense to you and your reasoning.
Charles thinks back to Silverstone a year ago. He was in a room much similar to the one he is sat in, but you were there. Granted, you were on a screen on his little iPhone but you were there. It was rather frustrating to be a driver for a struggling team like Ferrari was at the time. He had you propped up against the lamp, the warm light illuminating his dull features. You watched him attentively, laying on your hands as you wait for him to speak up. You both knew that the race didn’t go as he had hoped, and there weren’t many things that you could say to him that he hasn’t heard from everyone that day. So you sit in silence, waiting for him to say just about anything so that you could pick up on him.
“Just not the result I wanted.” Charles finally mumbled. He hears you hum, sitting up and pulling your phone closer to your face about to begin your “boost morale” speech, but he cuts you off. “Wish you were here, Dove.”
You smile, a tinge of sadness in your eyes. “I know. I know and I’m sorry. You know if I could, I would.”
He nods. “I know. I don’t want to talk about today anymore. I want to talk about your day, I want to talk about you.”
So you indulged. You told him about your day, of all the people you had come across at your job and how you looked forward to your next day off. He hung on to every single word that slipped past your lips. He let you ramble on and on, all the way til he made it to bed and snuggled with you, still on the phone in the same state.
“Are you feeling better, Bub?” You asked, yawning softly as you snuggled deeper into the covers.
“Yes. Much better. And I see you in two days, so I’ll be even better then.” He smiled, and you smile even wider.
He could never forget your smile, even if he tried to scrub it out physically. He groans softly, turning on his back and letting the voices soak into the back of his mind, drowning every memory of you.
Right now I’m completely defenseless. Tears spring up and sting his soft green eyes as the song continues to play. He hasn’t cried in a while, at least not while thinking of you. He’s cried in anger, in frustration, but never in sadness and loneliness like he feels right now. He didn’t think a One Direction song would bring him to tears, but yet here he is curled up on the white duvet as tears roll down his pale skin. Fuck he hates this so much. And fuck did he feel pathetic.
“Baise-moi.” Fuck me. He sits up, rubbing the heel of his hand against his cheeks to wipe the wet away.
He sniffles, swiping through his phone to reply to a few texts that sprung up on his phone. He replies to Pierre, the nosy fucker, and Carlos who lets him know that they will meet in the lobby before leaving to the event. Charles makes a silly mistake to scroll even further, past the blue dots of unread texts all the way down to your name. Well, your affectionate nickname. It’s one coined by Daniel ironically, and the only one that followed you around the paddock. Even Mattia referred to you as dove. Your dove, as Mattia would say to Charles.
The last text you ever sent to him was I’m sorry. He didn’t have the guts to reply, to say that it was okay because truly, he was not. He scrolls up, past all the pining in blue and curt responses in grey. He scrolls past the hearts and the smiling emojis all the way until he finds the long paragraph with your explanation for the song.
There isn’t a day when you’re off in some country while I’m stuck at home, wishing that I could just fly over to you. And I didn’t want to add a One Direction song, it almost feels silly. But it makes sense. And I hope you feel the same way otherwise I’m just some psycho on the other side of this. I know these last couple of races haven’t been what you wanted them to be, and I know that you are frustrated more than anything else. But please know that me and thousands still believe in you. If I could fly all those thousands of miles to see you, then I would. But I will see you in two days time. Then I will make up for all the shit times. See you soon bub, very very soon. Bonne nuit, fais de beaux rêves chérie. Good night, sweet dreams honey
Charles nibbles on his bottom lip, finally pressing skip on the repetitive chorus. He couldn’t take it anymore
At My Worst — Pink Sweat$ (ft. Kehlani)
Charles forces himself off the bed and into the bathroom. His hair is disheveled, the skin around his eyes purple and puffy. He truly has never looked worse. He does his regular skin care, and then attempts to get ahold of his messy hair with some pomade Pierre swears by. It doesn’t work.
As Charles slips on the black blazer over his shoulders, he nearly wants to throw up. He’d do anything to get out of this dinner, pay anything to just sit in solitude. But alas, his phone vibrates and Carlos is already waiting in the lobby for him. Charles pops his AirPods in, clicking play on the next song on the playlist. It’s more upbeat than the last couple of songs, and if it weren’t for the mere fact it was on a playlist you made for him, he would be bopping along.
“Finally mate,” Carlos greets, standing from the lounge chair he was sitting in. “C’mon, I’ll drive.”
Charles smiles at the few fans who were waiting, leaning into some photos and politely turning away autographs due to lack fo time. His teammate doesn’t make any conversation, which Charles is thankful for. He knew it was a bit rude to keep his earphones in but he just needs this. And he thinks that Carlos knows.
When you first showed him this song, you were in the driver’s seat and singing to him. You wanted to show him your favorite spot to get away, a little bite of paradise that you had never shown anyone. He thinks back to your hair whipping in the wind, sunglasses framing your face nicely as you grinned over at him. The memory of kisses at red lights and giggles along the way burn his lips. He has to rub them again, to remind himself that it was no longer real.
Can you see what I'm not saying from my eyes?. All I know is love, for you it's real. You pulled your sunglasses to the edge of your nose, shooting him a wink. He laughed, leaning in to kiss you. He never ever wanted to stop kissing you. Never.
“Here.”
Charles nods and pulls his AirPods out, placing them back in the case and tossing them into the glove box of the loaned Ferrari. The event goes as every event goes, with forced conversations as Charles tries to wow sponsors about the potential Ferrari has yet to tap with their help. He does his best, but after the fourth conversation he’s spent and wishes that he ended up bringing his AirPods down. But Mattia would have his neck, so he settles for the only beer he is allowed for the night. He watches as Carlos speaks to another aged man, a wide smile on his lips as he shakes the man’s hand and walks away. The Spaniard raises is brows with an exasperated expression.
“Eso fue demasiado.” That was too much. Carlos mumbles, plopping next to Charles. “You doing okay?”
“Yeah. Just tired. Didn’t get to nap.” Carlos clicks his tongue and Charles chuckles.
“What song were you listening to in the car?” The man leans back into the chair, drinking his water.
“Ah… just an old one a friend showed me a while ago.”
“Who? Dove?”
Charles is quick to shake his head, “Pfft, no.”
The look on his friend’s face shows that he is unconvinced, but he chooses not to comment. “Have you spoken to her?”
“No. Of course not.”
Carlos nods, “Just asking. She still talks to Lando every now and again. Saw them on FaceTime in-.”
“Carlos, please.” Charles chokes on air, shaking his head and effectively shutting his teammate up. “Sorry… I just can’t.”
There is a pang of jealousy that runs through Charles’ blood. Why wouldn’t you talk to Lando? He was one of your closest friends, long before the two of you were anything. He tries to coax himself off a cliff of insecurity he built himself in the short span of time. Nothing works, and if he didn’t know any better he would think that Carlos could see the smoke fuming from his ears.
“Sorry. Listen, if it means anything at all… she’s not seeing anyone.”
Charles nods, not sparing another word on the matter. The night dwindles to a close in a bout twenty minutes time, and Carlos drives the both of them home. One AirPod returns to his ear, the song from earlier picking up from where it left off.
And for you, girl, I swear I'd do the worst. He would. He would do anything for you. If you called him right this second and asked him to fly to you, he would. Hell or high water he’d find a way. His phone vibrates, and he looks down in hope. But it dies as quickly as it comes, Hannah’s name illuminating his screen in the form of a FaceTime call. He leaves it to ring, looking out the window and patiently waiting for the song to resume.
-
Silverstone was an absolute shit show. From the red flag to the shit strategy that costed him a podium, he was not doing well. He did his best to keep up with appearances, answered questions with the list of generic answers he had memorized in the back of his head from years of media training. But he knew, there was no hiding the disappointment in his features. You always said his eyes gave him away.
Charles barely kept it together through the team photo, his hand gripping the energy drink in his hand as he bites down in the back of his mouth to smile at the camera. He has never left the track faster in his life. The ride back to the hotel was accompanied by dull British radio and his phone going off with calls and texts from people checking up on him. He didn’t want to hear it, didn’t want to discuss the day further. When he finally rolls into his bed, his fingers move ahead of his mind, and he calls a name before even reading it.
It rings once. twice. thrice. It rings until your voicemail plays. Sweet, soft melodic voice reminding him of the beep. He wished you picked up, even if it was to say never to call you again. But he settled for the recording before speaking.
“Hi… sorry. I just needed to talk to someone but you must be busy. Or…. tu ne veux pas me parler. You don't want to talk to me. That’s fine.” Charles pauses, wondering if this was worth it. But he sighs and continues anyways, “Today wasn’t a good day. Je suis vraiment bouleversé en ce moment. I’m really upset right now. You always knew what to say, so I thought I’d call. Sorry. I lo— Bye.”
Charles hangs up before he can make himself an even bigger fool of himself. He shakes his head, dropping his phone next to him on the bed. A groan rumbles from his throat, frustration growing within him. He fucking hated his situation. He hated not winning, of slipping through the cracks, of feeling alone while being surrounded by people who want to help him. He hated that in his mind, you the only thing that could cure the sick feeling in his stomach.
He flies back to Monaco the same night, opting out of a celebratory trip for Carlos. He apologized, promising his teammate a treat of sorts when they see each other again. Hannah was so kind to pick him up, even if he insisted he could’ve just taken a cab. Nonsense, she said on the phone. She was so excited to see him, and Charles felt bad for ignoring her for the last couple of days. Charles held her hand, kissed her sweetly, invited her up, buried himself in her in all attempts to forget about the weekend behind him, to forget that he had made a fool of himself. He wanted to forget that he tried to call you. But as he lays in his bed, watching her chest rise and fall with every breath, he finds himself wishing you had answered. He wished that you were there instead.
Charles finally gets around to answering some texts, opting to go sit in his living room since the jet lag refused to let him sleep. He sent many ‘thank yous’ to friends and family, curt responses to fool one into thinking that he was fine. He types and types until his eyes are raw and there wasn’t a single text left unread. By the time Charles put’s his phone down, it’s nearly three in the morning. His mind is a jumble of thoughts, of the hopes of the future and troubles of the past. He grabs his little blue journal on the table and begins to write furiously. He writes every hazy thought, laying the words out on the page before him until his hand burns and eyes are blurred with tears. His breathing turns heavy, heart racing, the anger finally getting the best of him. He has to drop the pen on the table. Every part of his body is burning with exhaustion, but his mind continues to race and effectively keep him awake.
Life moves in waves, and Charles feels as though his dip is deeper than most times he can recall in his brief 24 year stint on earth. There were many lows, but he always knew that he’d find a way up and out of it. But now, with his career, wounded ego, and more so his injured heart, it seems that the riptide continues to drag him under. It’s began to get harder and harder to breath in life, and he was worried that it would continue to feel that way. He was worried that he wouldn’t be able to swim up, and that scared him.
“Charles?”
The Monegasque jumps in his seat, turning to see Hannah watching him from the door frame of his room.
“Y’scared me.” He mumbles, standing up and walking over to her and planting a soft kiss on her forehead. “Go to back to bed Han, I’ll be there in a second.”
Her hand rests on his chest whilst his rest comfortably on her hip. He squeezes gently, smiling tiredly at her. Her large brown eyes dart left and right, searching his face for a clue as to what he might be feeling but found nothing. She couldn’t read him, not matter how hard she tried. “Why don’t you talk to me?”
Charles tilts his head, “Comment cela?” What do you mean?
“There’s something going on in your head, like a storm. And I try to read you, and to understand, but I feel like every time I try you move further from me.”
Charles’ hand drops from her as he takes a step back, “There isn’t anything to talk about Hannah.”
“I think that there is. Why won’t you-“
“Ça suffit! That’s enough! Leave it. Please.”
The man doesn’t notice the way she jumped when he raised his voice, or the sadness brewing in her eyes as they gloss over in tears. He simply walks away to his kitchen, leaving her standing in the doorway, confused and hurt. He can’t feel bad, he can’t feel anything other than exhaustion. Charles pours himself a glass of water, gulping it down before smacking it back on the counter. Any harder and the glass would’ve broken. Hannah walks into the kitchen, and he fights the urge to groan.
“Do you not want me here? Because I can leave Charles. I’ll go and let you sulk here. By yourself.”
He doesn’t answer, just sinks his head into his hands and shutting his eyes. His calloused fingers grip the ends of his hair, tugging in attempts to pull him out of the tiredness he is feeling.
“Charles-“
“Hannah. Please, please, please.” The worlds come out in mumbles. Soft, but very grim. “Not now.”
“I don’t know what else I can do for you Charles.” Her voice is soft, but it was missing something. “How can I help you? Help me understand. Help me help you Charles.”
Guilt eats him up at the sound of her voice, the willingness, the want to be there with him even when he is unmistakably pushing her away. Tears spring to his eyes, seeping through his closed lids and onto the heel of his hands. Fuck, he thinks. He knows his answer, he knows the words he wants to say. It sits in the back of his throat, burning and bubbling past his lips. Charles forces himself to look up from his hands, the light in the kitchen burning his eyes. Hannah’s are soft, worried at the sight of Charles’ red and sad eyes as he looks up at her.
“You can’t.” His voice comes out broken, and she doesn’t fully register what he means. “You can’t help me Hannah. I can’t even help myself.”
She doesn’t respond, just looks at him with sad eyes. Her hand comes up to push his brown locks off his forehead before cupping his cheek. Hannah just presses a kiss to his forehead, lips lingering longer than he’d anticipated. There is a bit of a weight in the silence between them, and it allows the guilt in the Monegasque to fester even more. He coughs out a sob, shaking his head and pulling away from the soft embrace, one he knows he does not deserve.
“I’ll go.” Hannah says softly, “I’ll leave you. And when you’re ready-“
“Hannah, no,” Charles shakes his head, “You don’t get it it. You can’t help me, because I don’t want you to. You aren’t who I need, who I want.”
The girl stood before him, his harsh words causing her jaw to fall slack and tears to gloss over her eyes. There were a string of regrets and hateful words that fall from her lips, accusations of time wasted and the promise of never being able to forgive him. He watched her as she gathered herself and sauntered out of his life. With the slam of the door, Charles released a breath and groaned as he plops onto his couch. And finally, exhaustion takes its toll and pulls him into a deep slumber.
—
His family boat had finally gotten out of the shop during his little break, and he decides to take it out onto the water. He spent many summer as a child, out in the deep blue. He enjoyed the peace, the feeling of being far away from such a busy world. His father taught him how to drive the boat, and where the best places to dock was. Charles didn’t drive out too far, just enough for his city to be covered by his thumb if he held it out. He strips himself of the blue button up and sits out on the deck. He is quick to open Spotify, playing the next song on the playlist on the boat speaker.
Keep Driving — Harry Styles
Charles lays back, the sun hitting his pale skin and warming him up. He tries to enjoy the sound of the waves against the side of the boat and the poppy beat of the song playing. He tries to enjoy the world around him for what it is, enjoy his solitude for what it is. But even in the peace he’s found himself in, his mind races. He thinks about Monaco and Canada, even the race just a week before. The universe hasn’t been too kind with him, both on and off the track.
Harry Styles is a world renowned artist, and he would be lying if he said that he didn’t like a lot of his songs. His most recent album was his— and your— favorite. The poppy beat playing over the speaker brings a smile to his lips, the memory of drive out of to the port and this very song playing in his car. He remembers the way the wind whips through your hair, your hand moving up and down in the quick moving air. His sunglasses adorned your face, as did his Monza hoodie. From head to toe, you were dripping in him.
You turned to face him, a smile on your lips as you leaned over to press a kiss to his jaw. Maple syrup, coffee. Pancakes for two. He would never forger the way your lips felt against him as you peppered kisses up his jaw. Hash brown, egg yolk. I will always love you.
You moved onto your knees, turning in your seat to look at him. As the song sped up, so did you. You sung along with Harry, your voice all the more appealing to him. It was easy to tune the man out and listen to you. He pulled up to his space, putting his car in park and allowing you to finish out the song. A smile curves onto his lips at the memory of you popping off your seatbelt, leaning over the middle console to get closer to him. He couldn’t help himself in that moment, his hand grabbing the back of your neck to kiss you feverishly. Choke her, with a sea view.
Goosebumps prickle his skin, and his shorts begin to tighten at the thought of the cramped backseat and your warmth.
He sits on the bow of Monza, blue notebook in hand as he flips through the pages he had crammed with his thoughts. He stops at one dated two months ago, a letter addressed to you.
Dove,
One month without you seems too long. I miss you, but I know you’re doing well and that is the only thing keeping me away. Not having you here with me, at my home race no less, feels wrong. It feels empty. Everything feels empty without you.
One month of being without you has been my personal torture, and I can’t seem to get anything right anymore. I wish that I could call, to just hear your voice and sound advice. But that would be selfish of me, would it not. So instead I write. I write letters to you, ones you will never read. It’s the only thing that makes sense to do.
I’m sorry I was no longer good for you, and I’m sorry that it took you walking away from me to realize that I needed to do more. Your happiness, though away from me, is the only thing I find comfort in throughout this fucked up situation I find myself. At least you’re happy. Even if I’m not.
I love you.
Charles
His handwriting was slanted, sloppy, the words quickly strung out on the page. It was one he wrote two minutes before qualifying, where he earned pole position. He’d imagine you would be happy for him, that if you were there you would greet him with kisses and a tight hug. You would say how proud you are of him, shower him in kind words. He flips the page, the letter he wrote after the race.
Dove. It hurts more than it should. Come home, I need you.
Hollywood Forever — Finneas
The music slowed down considerably, the soft notes of the piano vibrating through the speaker. D major, then G major, in sequence until Finneas’ voice serenades him softly. Bury me in Hollywood, forever… underneath the starry sky. Charles maneuvers his way from the bow of the yacht to the wheel, turning the engine on and turning back around to cruise home. The sun has moved down considerably, nearly kissing the ocean. The sky turns from blue to pink before his eyes, the lights of Monaco flickering on. Home has never looked more beautiful. For the briefest of moments he is able to relish in his city and appreciate. With the accompaniment of the soft music, he felt like he was falling in love all over again.
Monaco was always his city, but never yours. Maybe that was the disconnect. He always expressed his desire to live in Monaco at the end of his career, to raise his family on the same streets he did. And in all the times he shared those dreams with you, you’d smile and nod, never really saying much. He assumed then that it was because you simply agreed, but maybe you didn’t.
I don't ever wanna find out how it ends…
This song played at your best friend’s wedding. The couple having their first dance, and in turn invited couples to join them as the song changes. He offered you his hand, which you gracefully took and allowed him to lead you to the dance floor. And though it was crowded with people in love, to him it was just the two of you. His hands rested comfortably on your hips while your fingers played with the hair at the nape of his neck. There were no words, just longing looks that read with so much love and hope. Hope for the future you both dreamed of. Love for one another, one you both believed would never end. Ignorance truly was bliss.
Missed you harder than I thought I'd get to, we just never had the time. Maybe it was his inconsistent schedule, the fluctuation of time spent together and apart no longer suited your needs. This season had shown Charles his ability to reach new heights, it made reaching for the stars a little less scary. For a moment in time, he had everything in his grasp. And then one by one, they all seemed to trickle through his fingers like sand. Perhaps, he was just no longer enough for you.
And I don't wanna change the station, because you're the only one I like at 2AM. You would always be enough for him, Charles thought. Even miles away, apart from him, happier without him, it was enough for him. He can live in satisfaction that at least you got it right.
He ties off his boat onto the pier, pausing the song so that he can continue listening on his drive home. A bag of his belongings slung over his shoulder, and his phone in one hand as he mindlessly taps your name to call you again. Just as it was in Silverstone, your sweet voicemail rings through the speaker.
“Hi. Drove out to our spot today, and was thinking about everything. Thinking about you. I’m sorry I called you last week, it was kind of selfish… well really selfish actually. I’m sorry. I hope you’re well… I hope you’re happy. I really do. I lo—“ He hesitates, throat closing up as the words try to roll off his tongue as effortlessly as it once did. Tears prickle his eyes but he shakes his head. “I won’t call you again. I’m sorry.”
He ends the call and stuffs his phone in his pocket.
—
Charles seems to fuck up everything in his path. He can’t hold onto a piece of good very long. The World Drivers Championship was beyond him now, and summer break now marked the halfway point of the season. He was meant to take a break, forget about spinning out and questionable strategy. But he can only spend so many days under the scorching Monaco sun, or nights out at clubs with his friends. His mind was not on break mode, and no matter how much he drank, slept, or swam, he was still thinking of work.
“Charles honey, get off your phone.” His mom scolds, patting his head as she passes him.
He lets his phone slide from his fingers, dropping onto his lap. Charles smiles over at his mom, standing from his seat and walking over to the kitchen. He attempts to steal a bite of food, but his mother slaps his hand away and he giggles.
“‘M hungry.”
“I know. But we need to wait for your brothers.” She mumbles, “Go eat a banana or something.” She waves him off and he chuckles. Charles settles on the stool by the kitchen island, taking his mom’s advice and grabbing a banana.
Staying with mom has always been Charles’ great escape. No matter what happens to him, how far he is, Pascale will always be waiting for him with open arms. Whenever life wasn’t treating him so kindly, she was always ready with a remedy. She loved her sons more than anything, and they are her life line as she is to them. Charles watches as his mom effortlessly maneuvers her way through the kitchen. There is a faint smell of garlic in the air, and it makes the boy’s mouth water.
“It’s really good that you came to visit, mon doux garçon. My sweet boy. I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you too Mama.” He affirms, taking a bite of his fruit.
“Missed your cooking as well.”
She laughs, “Of course you did.”
There a few moments of silence as she finishes what she is doing in the pan, and then sticking a dish in the oven. Then she finally turns, the beige towel in her hands as she dries off her hands. “What’s on your mind?”
Charles smiles knowingly, looking down at his fingers as he shrugs. “What isn’t?”
“Ay, mon doux.” She shakes her head, “You don’t have to carry the weight all by yourself, you know?”
He looks up at his mom, “Yeah… but sometimes I feel like I have to.”
She nods. Pascale knows her son all too well, how gentle hearted he is and his need to carry the burden if it means making life easier for those around him. She loves her son, and it nearly breaks her to see how defeated he is. But she also knows that he is more than his results, more than the trials and tribulations he is going through in life.
“You are strong Charles, thick skin, like your Papa. He’d be proud.” She says softly, walking around the counter to press a kiss to the back of his head, “But he would also remind you that it’s okay to not be so strong sometimes. That it is okay to show that you are vulnerable, not okay.”
She gives his shoulder one last squeeze before leaving him to his thoughts. He sighs, pulling his phone out and scrolling through multiple notifications until his eyes land on your name. You posted on instagram, and he is quick to open the app and see. It is a photo of you, sitting by the water, skin glistening in the sun. And your smile, oh your beautiful smile. It made his heart beat a little quicker. But then he really looks at the photo, the background. The blue water, and the fact that you weren’t sitting on sand, but on a pier. He knew exactly where you are.
You’re in Monaco.
He feels his heart come up his throat. You were in Monaco, his city. He felt psychotic, fighting the urge to jump in his car and look for you. He wanted to drive around, pretend to accidentally bump into you and it would be a fairytale reconciliation. But then he hears his brother’s voice, announcing his arrival, and he is grounded. He promised in a silly voicemail you probably never listened to that he would leave you alone. And he will. He’ll do the right thing and leave you alone.
Charles was quiet for most of dinner, Arthur talking the most throughout the entire meal. So much so that Lorenzo begged him to shut up. Pascale observes the middle child, who sits to her right, idly pushing a piece of pasta around on his plate.
“Mon doux,” His mom whispers, “please eat.”
“Désolé maman.” Sorry mom. He nods and continues to eat.
“Oh, I saw Dove today. She says hi to everyone.” Arthur’s voice is so nonchalant, Charles nearly misses your nickname. His eyes grow wide at the realization and he looks up from his plate to his little brother. Arthur doesn’t spare him a glance, just munching along on his dinner.
Lorenzo kicks the youngest Leclerc under the table, and it is then when Arthur realizes his mistake. “Sorry. Yeah uh… sorry.”
“Is she well?” Charles asks, ignoring the awkward air between them.
“Yeah, I think. We didn’t get to talk much, since we were just passing by.” Arthur answers. “Sorry.”
“No. Don’t be. Good that she’s good.”
And that was that. Dinner is quiet for the rest of the evening, and isn’t long until the boys are quietly cleaning up the mess while their mother gets ready for bed. Charles and Arthur wash the dishes, while Lorenzo takes out the trash. The brothers are quiet in their chore, Arthur washing and rinsing as Charles wipes down and puts them away.
“Is she happy?” Charles asks softly, breaking the silence.
Arthur pauses, confused for a brief moment before realizing what he meant by his question. “Maybe you should ask her.”
Charles shakes his head, “I can’t. I could try, but I can’t. And I shouldn’t.”
Arthur nods. “I never understood what went wrong between the two of you Charles. Everything was so good, no?”
“I thought so… but I guess I was wrong.” Charles dries his hands as he places the last of the dishes away.
The day you broke up was not a memory Charles liked to look back on. It was a memory he kept stored away in the furthest corner of his mind. But he knew no matter how much he tried to bury it, there was no erasing the fact it happened. He’d never forget the look in your eyes, the tears on your cheeks as you watched him pace before you. You apologized and apologized, but for what?
“Why do you think this can’t work out anymore, dove?”
“Charles, I already said why. We’re not in the same place in life. You’re moving a thousand miles a minute, moving so fast uphill and I’m not able to keep up. I can’t keep being your arm candy, the smiling supportive girlfriend while I’m literally drowning in my misery.”
“Chérie, please.”
“Charles, I’ve made up my mind. I need this. Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”
He can remember the rage seething beneath his skin. He didn’t understand why you wanted to push him away, why you felt so miserable. He didn’t get it then. He still doesn’t understand. Maybe he should’ve fought harder, but you were already so defeated he didn’t think it was the right thing to do then.
“Do you not love me anymore?”
“Will saying I don’t make it easier for you to let me go?”
Your words sent a shiver up his spine.
Arthur leans against the counter, looking at his older brother who is deep in thought. “She said she’s moving back to Monaco… she found a job in the city.” Charles looks up, and he feels a spark of hope light up in the pit of his stomach. You were here to stay. “She didn’t say where, or what… but you know… you never know.”
With that, Arthur pushes himself up and pats his brother on the back, retreating to his room to go to sleep and effectively leaving Charles to ponder over you.
Maybe in time, the Monegasque thought to himself, the universe will let our paths cross once more.
—
The last three days of the summer break, Charles spent getting back into his normal routines. Not that Andrea would let him stray from it, but he was granted a couple of cheat days so that he could really enjoy his break. And of course, with the break coming to a close, it wouldn’t be complete if the other nineteen drivers attempted one last hoorah before returning to the track and vying for a win. But of course, twenty men trying to plan to come together required a miracle. And that was something none of them had. At the end of it, the only ones able to attend the “last hoorah” was Charles, Lando, Max, Pierre, and surprisingly George. The rest of the grid was either still in the middle of traveling back, or staying one more day in their little piece of paradise.
The club was packed for a Wednesday. By the time the boys had pulled up to check in, the general admissions line was a mile long, and the music was already starting to blend into the immense chatter. Charles is thankful that Max had secured a table for the group, and that they didn’t have to wait long. They were sat in the far back, just two tables to the left of the DJ booth. Bottle service was quick, and in no time Charles had a glass of Black Label whiskey between his hands. The music is typical house music, the DJ another one of Lando’s friends.
From where he is sitting, he can see the entire dance floor, and the second bar which happens to be right by his table. There is a huge crowd of people who had occupied the space in front of the DJ, multitudes of people rubbing backs to fronts and wandering hands. He was almost jealous, wishing that he could stomach the idea of being one of those people. But you couldn’t pump the man with enough alcohol to get him there. He was far too comfortable being a wallflower, quietly observing those around him as he sips on his drink.
“I bought us a round!”
Max grins as the lady brings a tray of shot glasses, each of them filled to the brim with a clear liquid. One would assume it’s vodka, but knowing Max it was likely—
“Tequila!"
Charles grimaces, but he isn’t easily defeated. And one cheesy toast later, he is throwing the foul tasting liquid down his throat. French curse words are muttered beneath his breath as he attempts to shake away the taste. Charles opts to pass on the next two rounds, to which Pierre calls him out for.
“Party pooper!”
Charles smirks, sipping his whiskey as he watches his normally composed friends turn into giggly drunks. He looks around the club, eyes scanning the crowd until a sparkly blue dress catches his eyes. He does a double take, but the shiny thing disappears into the crowd. His heart picks up, and he swears he knows who it was. But then his friends are yelling at him and he has to turn away. The time flies by, and soon he is calling every single girlfriend to pick up their respective drive until it is just him and Pierre. He throws his best friend into the back seat of his car with a bottle of water, a plastic bag, and threats if the Frenchman threw up anywhere in his car. As he strolls to the driver side, the sparkle of blue catches his eye and his head snaps in that direction.
The girl is slumped on the bench, head in her hands as her elbows rest on her thighs. Charles notices the way the girl’s body sways ever so slightly. She was far too drunk to be sitting alone, waiting for God only know who. He walks up to her, and the closer he gets the more familiar she becomes. It isn’t until the girl finally looks up with puffy eyes and mascara stained cheeks does he realize who it is.
“Dove?”
Your face contorts into one of sadness, mumbling ‘oh nos’ over and over as you try to hide behind your hands.
“Dove, what’s wrong?” He reaches out to you, but you flinch.
“No please.”
Charles’ heart stings, but he listens to you. “Who are you here with?” You shrug and he can’t help but let disappointment take over his features. “Dove, who?”
“Don’t say it like that, like you’re mad at me.” You slur.
Charles sighs, “I’m not mad. Just worried.”
You nod, but still don’t answer. Instead, he watches as you turn into a shaking mess of sobs. He doesn’t know if he should hold you, or if there was anything he could say. Suddenly, he was unsure of what to do when it came to you. So he stood there, heart aching as you cry before him.
“Dove—“
“Charles, please.”
His mouth clamps shut for a moment before he opens again, “Do you want me to take you home?”
You look up at him, eyes red and puffy, but wide in shock. “You don’t have too.”
“Yeah, but I want to.” You don’t answer, so he extends his hand, “C’mon. I’ll take you home.”
You nod, reaching out and using his hand to pull yourself up from the bench. Your hold leaves as quickly as it comes, and Charles wishes that your hand stayed in his for a moment longer. He watches as you stumble to his Ferrari, yanking the passenger door and falling into the seat. He inhales deeply, attempting to subdue his nerves before climbing into the drivers seat. Charles thanks the heavens Pierre is snoring softly in the back, and not mumbling any nonsense like he normally would.
“Where do you stay?”
The drive to you apartment is only 5 minutes further up the road from Charles’ place, and it nearly made him choke. The car ride is silent, only Pierre’s soft snores and mumbles filling the space. When he pulls up to the front, he looks over at you. Your eyes are cast downwards at your fingers, thumbs twiddling in your lap.
“Will you come back and spend the night?”
Charles chokes. He finally fucking chokes. “Dove, I don’t think…”
“I’m not that drunk Charles. Please?”
This was it, this was his chance. But as he stared at you and your sad eyes, the moment felt wrong. “I’ll walk you up. Okay?”
Your shoulders drop, and you’re quick to shake your head. “No. It’s fine, I can do it myself. Thanks for the ride.”
The boy is frozen in his seat for a second as you hastily climb out. It takes you slamming the door shut before he scrambles out after you. “Dove!”
“Goodnight Charles!” You yell, not turning back. You can hear Charles’ shoes smacking on the concrete as he jogs up to you. He grabs your arm, skin burning at the contact, pulling you so that are facing him.
“Text me in the morning, then I’ll know you mean it.”
Your lips fall agape, an argument ready to bubble past your lips. But instead you nod, too tired to argue. So you nod harder, avoiding his gaze. “Yeah. Okay.”
“Do you still want me to walk you up?”
“No. No I’m okay. Thank you again.”
Charles stands on the stoop, waiting until you make it past the front doors of your building. It isn’t until he sees you walk into the elevator through the glass doors does he finally retreat to his car and cruise back to his apartment.
Off My Face — Justin Bieber
Charles finally rolls into bed at nearly three in the morning. His body is exhausted, and it doesn’t take too long for him to fall asleep. But that wasn’t before he turned on his music, specifically your playlist, to lull him to sleep.
His dreams are influenced by the Justin Bieber song, the boy not completely unconscious as the songs plays. The images his mind displays are of you, playing real memories that you shared together. It’s like a movie, he can hear the echos of your laugh and butchered French. He sees flashes of your smile, feels the ghost of your touch.
Your touch blurred my vision, it’s your world and I'm just in it. Even sober I'm not thinkin' straight.
He turns over in his bed, staring at the empty space that you used to occupy. The pillowcase lays unwrinkled, the sheets pressed and untouched. His fingers graze over the material, imagining for a second that you are laying next to him. He can see the way your chest rises and falls, head turned towards the moon while your fingers grasp onto his. Charles nearly caves at the idea of driving back to you, knocking on every door until you answer. And I don't know how you do it, but I'm forever ruined by you.
Sleep finally wins, taking him to a place where all he sees is you. You consume his every thought, every imagination, that night. For the first time, Charles sleeps with a little bit of hope. There are some things dreams can’t truly emulate, and that’s the feeling of your warmth. The sun forces him out of the dirty dream, and he groans softly. His head was swirling, trying to piece together the bits and pieces of you from his dreams.
He grabs his phone, bitterly disappointed.
8:36 am, and not one text from you.
—
Paris in the Rain — Lauv
Charles finds himself sitting at his favorite coffee shop in Monaco, in the furthest booth in the back of cafe. He sips on his coffee, scrolling through his computer as he tries to answer emails and prepare himself for the second half of the season. He slips his headphones on, mindlessly pressing play and allowing the song to play.
It was the next song on the playlist, and the angry part of him wants to change it. You never texted him. It’s been thirty-six hours since he dropped you home, and it’s been radio silence. He was frustrated, ultimately let down by your lack of communication. He almost wishes that he had taken you up on your offer, almost wishes he had chosen to be selfish.
The only thing stopping him from changing the song is the fact that it’s the one song attached to the perfect memory. Paris in the rain is his favorite memory with you.
It was one of the first trips you had taken together outside of race weekends. Charles wanted the trip to be perfect, but the weather had different plans. He planned a whole day, only for the overcast and rain to ruin it completely.
“I’m so sorry Dove, this isn’t what I had planned for us.” Charles mumbled, kissing your temple.
You were more than understanding, and somehow you manage to convince him to go out in the middle of the night, when the streets were quiet and the city half asleep. You were clad in a blue dress, Charles’ linen button top matching you. You both sit on the picnic blanket, eating all the snacks you bought in the hotel gift shop. Then it’s one drop, then another, then another until the drizzle grows heavier and heavier. 'Cause anywhere with you feels right.
He can never erase the memory of your laughter as he chases you around the park, clothes drenched from the rain. He hears you squeals as he picks you up and throwing you over his shoulder, and your complaints that he wasn’t playing fair. It truly was a scene from a book, like a writer describing the perfect moment in which two character will fully admit they are in love with each other. But neither of you had to say anything. Words couldn’t justify the way your hearts wanted to thump out of your chests as you stare into each other’s eyes.
Don't know how I ever did it all without you.
Charles answers the last of his emails, finally shutting his computer and transferring his attention to his phone. He scrolls through Instagram, sipping idly on his coffee. He double taps nearly every photo on his feed until someone slides into the seat front of him. He looks up from his phone, eyes wide as he meets your gaze.
“Knew you’d be here.” You say softly.
Charles takes one more sip before setting his cup down, “Yeah, guess you did.”
The air between the both of you is thick, tense, awkward. Neither of you speak, instead sitting uncomfortably while you wait for the other to say just about anything.
“I know I didn’t text and I—“
“Dove, it’s fine.”
“Charles, shut up and let me talk.” Your eyes grow wide, brows furrowed in an attempt to look stern. The Monegasque nods, leaning back in his seat and waiting for you to speak. “I’m sorry. Moving back has been a lot, adjusting has been a lot… seeing you has been a lot. I was getting used to the idea of my independence and then you try to call me and leave voicemails…”
“I’m sorry.” Charles’ voice is genuine. All the anger that was inside of him dissipates as he looks up at you. “I wasn’t thinking.”
“Don’t say sorry. It was nice to hear from you… and I’m sorry about everything going on.”
The boy smiles, nodding. “Yeah. Me too.”
There it is again, that awkward air settling between the two of you. Three, nearly four, months of time apart doesn’t make the conversation flow as easily as either of you wished. There used to be a million things that Charles wanted to tell you, the pages in his little blue notebook proving it. But it didn’t feel right, didn’t feel fair to pour out his heartache from the last four months onto your lap.
So instead Charles scrambles for his book, flipping through the pages and carefully tearing out two pages. He folds them nicely and sliding them over to you.
“I… I have to go. But I thought that maybe you should read it. I wrote it to you when I got back home from Silverstone.” Charles gathers his things, mindlessly leaning down to press a kiss to the top of your head. “You look good, Dove. It makes me happy.”
You watch as the man walks away from you, shoulders high and steps calm. The paper sits beneath your fingers, holding whatever tormented Charles the night he wrote it. Truth be told, you weren’t sure what you were expecting when you came to the cafe. You half expected Charles to be here, that things would roll out on the table as easily as it did in your head and that maybe you could both come to some sort of agreement on your relationship.
Yes, it’s been done. Long over, time separating the two of you. But you would be lying if you said you didn’t miss him in the time spent apart. Even if you knew that what you decided what was right for the both of you, it didn’t mean that it didn’t hurt. Four months ago, you were in no headspace to be with Charles. You could no longer be what he needed, or wanted, even if he claimed that you would always be enough. How could you be, when you weren’t even enough for yourself? You remember the anxiety induced thoughts, nightmare of Charles’ resentful stare as you plummeted further and further into your hole of poor mental health.
Solitude was what you needed, being your own individual person away from Charles is what you needed. And although you live with the pain of breaking his and your own heart, it wasn’t a decision you regret making.
You carefully slide the paper into your purse, standing and walking out of the coffee shop. Monaco was gloomier than most days, the grey clouds threatening to pour rain on the beautiful city. Tiny droplets tap on your windshield, pit pat, reminding you fondly of Paris in the rain, some months ago.
—
The moment summer break ended, Charles was back to traveling city to city, sitting in his bright red car to race in loops. Laps and laps, the days blurring into the next, but not without thinking of you. You never texted him about the pieces of his journal that he handed off, but you did wish him luck every now and again. You were both in this weird limbo, unsure of where the line is, and just how close either of you can get to crossing it.
Charles was worried you had thrown the note away, or maybe it was lost. There were no talks about it, not questions, and it makes him queasy. Desperation grows inside of him, festering with the stress and anxiety that had been brewing in the pit of his gut. Andrea looks at him, the way his leg bounces as he fiddles with the sleeve of his fireproofs.
“You’re gonna do fine mate, don’t worry so much. Just practice.”
The Monegasque looks up at his friend, smiling curtly before grabbing his baclava from the seat next to him. “Right. Just practice.”
He goes through the motions, hopping into his car, testing his gears, patiently waiting until he is allowed to drive on the track. There is constant back and forth between him and the pit wall, Charles making several comments about the feel, and the engineers reporting data back. They comment his poor speed in the first two sectors, pushing him to speed up in the last one. Charles does his best, but is still nine hundredths of second slower than Max. He goes again, desperately trying to push the car to its limit. But it doesn’t perform how he had hoped. He didn’t perform how he had hoped.
Charles groans, a bit of aggression in his movements as he takes apart his gear so that he can climb out. No one tries to speak to him as he rushes straight to the screen, ready to read and listen to the data gathered from the first free practice. But that only did so much, Charles finishing P3 in the second practice, two places behind his teammate.
Sunflower — Rex Orange County
When Charles returns to the hotel, your playlist was already playing on shuffle. The music had become his white noise, comforting but no longer something he noticed so much. He really did miss you now, and he finally gives in to the urge to text you. He asks if he could call you before he gets ready for bed. But even once he’s in his boxers, pulling the covers back, there is no response. Charles decides to call you anyways, but the ringing stops almost immediately.
You declined his call.
His heart speeds up, attempting to go through every form of social media to see if you were okay. He looked for any signs of life, even texting you to ask if you’re alright. A moment of relief comes in the form of the grey bubble popping up, the three dots showing that you were typing. But your text makes his throat run dry.
Read your note.
That was it. No reaction, no explanation. Just three words and then silence. Charles tries to call you again, but you are quick to decline. He tries two more times, and each time you deny speaking to him. He texts you, asking what’s wrong. But there is no response.
I want to know/ where I can go / when you're not around. Panic ensues. Charles is sweating as he throws the covers off his body and clambers into sweats and a shirt that were already sprawled out on the couch. He attempts to call Lando, see if you had told him anything. But the phone rings til the call fails. He calls you again, and you decline.
Dove, answer please.
Talk to me.
Say something.
Anything.
No response. The boy rummages through his notebook, ensuring that he handed you the right pages. He did. He racks his brain, scouring through his brain as he tries to remember every single word he wrote on that page. He still can’t fathom what could’ve made you mad. Charles spends the night on his bedroom floor, back pressed against his bedside as he waits for his phone to ring with your name. Tryna keep my mind at bay, Sunflower still grows at night.
He thinks of the song playing, tracing the first memory he has of the song. It was a while ago, when you had just started coming to more races in the red garage. It wasn’t a particularly strong weekend for Charles, everyday growing more and more frustrating as he feels his failures in the red car adding up. He was on his way up to you after the debriefing, completely tired and defeated after a terrible 3rd practice and average qualifying. It was late, way beyond a reasonable bedtime, so he was surprised to see you still awake. You were half read for bed, rubbing your face clean of make up and dirt with just a Ferrari hoodie and leggings on. He remembers the song bumping in the background through your phone, they way you bounced from hip to hip as you hum along.
You didn’t register his sullen face, or maybe you just didn’t want to acknowledge it. You saunter over to him pressing a soft kiss on his lips without stopping your dance. You know you need to get yourself to sleep and dream a dream of you and I, you sing, lifting his arm and twirling in front of him. He found it hard to fight the smile forming on his face, the hard weekend suddenly the least of his worries.
There's no need to keep an open eye, I promise I'm the one for you just let me hold you in these arms tonight. You wrapped his arms around your torso, forcing his body to move with yours. You watched as his brows relaxed, and a shy smile curves on his lips as he leans in to kiss you one more time.
His phone chimes, your name lighting up the screen.
We’ll talk when you get back. Get some sleep.
Good luck tomorrow.
—
More of You — MAGIC!
Charles sits at the top of the Sedici, fingers moving up and down the silver wheel as he waits for you to arrive. His heart is in his stomach, but the feeling was no longer foreign to him. He looks at at the coast, the way the golden sun slowly sinks to kiss the ocean.
“Hey.”
He turns to face you, standing up with a smile. “Hi Dove.” He gestures to the seat across from him, and you take it.
“It’s nice… different from the Monza for sure. Do you still have her?”
Charles swivels in his chair, pointing the smaller boat next to him, “Yep.”
You nod, smiling fondly. You shared many moments with him on that little thing, private moments that you keep secure in your heart. There is a brief moment of silence, certainly not a terrible one, but the both of you have seen better moments. You look at Charles, really look at him this time. You count the moles on his face, the lines beneath his eyes. They were still as bright as they were in your dreams.
There was no way to start, so you pull out the cream pieces of lined paper. You flip it open, and the crinkle of the paper causes Charles to look in your direction. “My dearest Dove…”
I stare you, sometimes at night, wishing I could just press rewind… ’cause I just want more. Charles watches you, the way your bottom lips is caught between your teeth as you stare at the words from in front of you. Your face is stoic, eyes darting from left to right as you read the words in your head.
“It is two in the morning. My body is tired, sore, but my mind doesn’t want to stop moving…” Your voice is sweet, contrasting the sad words of the boy from that early July morning. “I wish- I wish that you were here.”
You finally look up at him, and that’s when Charles sees the tears glossing over your eyes. He reaches out, your fingers quickly finding it’s place in the palms of his hands. He squeezes softly, encouraging you to continue.
You look up from the paper, folding it shut as you exhale. “You still listened to the playlist?”
He nods, “Yeah. It helped some… but it’s not the same.”
You smile sadly, looking back down at the paper to continue. “Every song is hand picked, a piece of us and our story. It is an endless cycle of love, of pining, of wishing that we were right next to each other. Do you still listen to these songs, do you still think of me when you do?”
“Do you?” Charles asks.
You hum, nodding. “Always.”
Charles can’t help but smile, nodding softly and encouraging you to continue reading the letter.
“I always find myself wishing that you were here with me, here to celebrate every win, but also to forget about the failures. I’m always wishing that I had more of you.” Drops of tears spill onto your cheek, and Charles releases your hand to cup your face. The pad of his thumb swipes it away.
What is this hold you got on me? Stronger force than gravity…
“But you were right. This time apart was necessary. It was needed, and-“
Charles’ hand drops from your face, resting on your thigh as his thumb rubs soothing circles on on your skin. “I think I needed it more than I thought I did.” He finishes
“I’m happy that the world turns in your favor, I think mine is upside down. I’m still trying to find my way, find my independence in the world, find my identity other than the predestined. I’m finding who I am beyond rubber on the track and all the podiums. And if there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that I was always meant to love you. Whether it’s in your presence, or from thousands of miles away, loving you has been and will always be part of my story.”
In my next life, I'll be looking for you. “In this life and the next, mon cherie.”
You fold the paper once more, slipping it into your purse. Your fingers find his, looping between them. The silence is light, comfortable, as his green eyes bore into yours. There weren’t any words either of you can say, the note saying just enough for the both of you.
The sun finally kisses the sea, the sky turning from blue to pink. The world around you dims.
i don't usually post here but NO ROD 2 🤡 i'm so upset, they really had to abandon other books with ACTUAL GOOD PLOT as well. i've played choices since the very beginning where they literally only had the freshman, most wanted, the crown and the flame, and i think rules of engagement.
presently, out of all books, endless summer still remains superior and its just sht to see they decided not to push through on sequels for other books. i get that their endings might already make sense (for specific books) but shit i just don't understand how they get to create a book 2 for other stories with storylines that are personally lackluster over stories that had so much potential. ik money, time, skill, and such are big factors but PLS WHY. i could go on but fck it.
@playchoices // pixelberry you're going to regret this 😭 🧍 jk but pLEASE. despite the 'great deal of consideration and discussion' yall better make up for it with the upcoming stories :--) though i'm frustrated, i'll remain patient and respect your decision.
