Summary: Arthur finally makes the move he’s been meaning to at Charles’ birthday party.
Note: This was meant to be 800 fluffy words and it was originally an OP81 fic but Arthur felt so right for it after a chat with 🐰
Charles had already warbled a crappy rendition or four of some old Taylor Swift. It was apt for him, really, you thought to yourself as you observed from the sidelines.
You’d only met him a couple of years ago when he first linked up with one of your friends, it hadn’t worked out but the two of you remained friends when he got with Alex, who anyone could see was perfect for him as she sat in front of the mini stage, eyes shining bright as she sipped champagne and smiled up at Charles as if he’d hung the stars in the sky, his voice wobbly and slurred as he got down onto his knees dramatically, clutching her free hand to his chest as he made his way through another pop tune to the audience, mainly for her benefit.
You can’t help but smile to yourself but inside you’re gagging, they’re too sweet, you can almost feel the decay in your teeth because of how sickly they are together while you sit here, so painfully single.
Charles’ birthday hadn’t been something you’d expected an invite to, you hadn’t even known it was happening until Alex asked you to send the RSVP which you’d not received. Long story short, there’d been a mix up with the address on the envelopes.
“I mean, are you sure Alex? I hardly know any of yours and Charles’ friends, I’ll be there like a loner all night.” You sighed in frustration, considering it, bottom lip finding a home between your teeth as you think about the way you’d only be sat awkwardly not knowing how to talk to the people so unlike yourself, a thought you’d doubled down on since Alex relayed the guest list full of models and millionaires and a handful of music artists.
“Don’t be stupid, you’ll meet a bunch of new people. I think there’s a few people you’d really get along with and you’ve met Pierre and Kika, they’ll be there too! Other than that, everyone will be too busy drinking and doing karaoke to really care about how weird and sad you look if you’re sitting alone.” Alex teased her friend with a smile over FaceTime as she pulled out various outfits for the day, neither of you paying much attention to the camera, using it to body-double as you went about your separate lives and co-existed in similar but altogether different worlds.
“Besides, you won’t be the only one not singing, I’m pretty sure Oscar Piastri would rather die than do that and his plus one, his girlfriend Lily, she seems quiet. I’ve not spoken to her much, we could meet her together.” Alex suggested encouragingly, you hum and consider it before nodding. “Fine.” Deep down you knew you wouldn’t miss the party for something as trivial as the discomfort of standing alone.
Alex continued, worried you hadn’t been quite convinced based on your nod and the halfhearted ‘fine’ that you’d thrown her way. “Anyway… Arthur’s gonna be there.”
Arthur Leclerc. Your stomach does that ridiculous little flip it always does when someone says his name. You look back at Alex through the screen, pausing what you’re doing - she’s definitely holding back a smirk.
“I knew that would get your attention.” She huffs indignantly, entirely too smug considering she’d only said a handful of words. “Come on. I’ve seen the way you look at him when you think no one’s watching.”
You scoff, more out of self-defense than denial. “I absolutely do not.”
Alex laughs, tossing a dress over her shoulder onto the bed, another option for the party. “Please. I’ve known you for years. You turn into some needy Emily Brontë character every time he’s in the same room. Blushing and fidgeting and… sighing.”
You roll your eyes but there’s no point in pretending. Arthur had been a problem since the first moment you met him - all floppy hair and easy charm and that light, gentle voice that somehow made everything you said to him seem important. The fact that he was so nice on top of his good looks made it that much worse. You’d tried to brush it off, tried to remind yourself he was Charles’ little brother and practically racing royalty - and that you were, well, very much not any of those things, just his brothers friend.
“I’m not saying you need to throw yourself at him,” Alex adds more gently, “but it’s clear he likes talking to you, as a handsome friend if nothing else, no? He always asks Cha about you. And don’t think I didn’t see the way he looked at you at the watch party we had - like he was trying to work up the nerve to say something but chickened out last minute.”
That makes your chest tighten. You’d noticed it too - the way Arthur lingered nearby during the lights out, opting for a seat further from you than the one next to you, hands shoved in his pockets, looking at you like he wanted to close the distance but didn’t know if he could.
You glance away from the screen, chewing the inside of your cheek. “Maybe I’ll go.” You say, softer this time, finally relenting, both of you knowing that the maybe was only said aloud as an escape route.
Alex grins triumphantly and clacks the gum in her mouth with a small happy dance. “Wear something sexy that’ll make him regret every second he hesitated.”
You laugh despite yourself, but your heart’s already started racing. Not just because of the thought of Arthur seeing you - but because, deep down, some part of you wants to be brave this time. Wants to meet his gaze and not look away. Wants to say the thing neither of you has had the courage to say yet.
So here you are, Charles’ half drunk words slur down on the breeze, through the crowd as he sings to Alex with a gusto that’s impressive.
You’re tucked into a corner near the drinks table, nursing a half-empty flute of prosecco, legs crossed, trying to look like you belong. You’d worn the outfit Alex helped you choose - something slinky, darker than you usually go for, but flattering. You’d hoped it might give you the confidence your nerves had refused to offer.
You spot Arthur before he sees you.
He’s standing by the far wall, talking to someone you don’t recognize, maybe one of Charles’ old school friends or someone from one of their teams. His hair is tousled just right like it always is and he’s in a dark t-shirt and jeans, looking effortlessly good, one hand holding a beer, the other gesturing lightly as he speaks. He laughs at something the guy says, head tipping back.
You look away, quickly, cheeks warming at the idea of being so innocently voyeuristic.
The music shifts in the background - something upbeat fading into something slower, quieter. A voice over the mic calls out drunkenly for someone named Theo, and the crowd lets out a chorus of cheers and groans as another karaoke attempt begins. You don’t pay it much attention until you hear the unmistakable opening chords of some jaunty 90s song.
Your breath catches. You’re not sure why. Maybe because it’s such a strange pick for a party full of beautiful, shiny people - a little moody, a little raw. Or maybe because there’s something about the opening notes that always makes your heart stir - some memory you can’t quite place. You glance toward the stage but whoever requested it is already lost in the crowd and their voice is too slurred to make out.
Then a voice speaks just beside you.
“Not exactly a party anthem, huh?”
“I like this one.” You look up as you offer an answer, he’s closer now - leaning beside you on the table, fingers peeling at the label of his beer bottle as his eyes flicker from the stage to your face, studying you with the soft, deliberate way. Like he’s not in a rush to look away.
Arthur nods. “Yeah. Me too.”
You smile - he’s still looking at you. You feel it again. In your throat, your ribs. That little ache that yearns for him more and more the closer he gets.
“You look nice, by the way.” He adds quickly. And it’s not some casual toss-away. He says it like he means it. Like he’s thought it since the second he saw you and just didn’t know when or how to say it, saying it so fast that it seems as if he was spitting the words out before they fell back down his throat, never to be found again.
A beat passes. The song carries on.
He nudges your elbow with his, giving a shy smile. “Would it be insane if I asked you to dance?”
You glance around - no one else is dancing, it would definitely be weird and awkward. There’s just Charles attempting an off-key backup chorus with a mic he hasn’t relinquished from the person you don’t recognise. While you’re looking about you catch Alex across the room, now waving with a little too much enthusiasm. Of course she’s watching.
You look back to Arthur, his hopeful expression soft but earnest, like he’s bracing himself for the answer to be no.
You raise an eyebrow but don’t decline yet. “There’s no one else dancing.”
“Means we’d have no competition, I like to win.” He offers with a playful shrug and a cheeky smirk, offering his hand to you earnestly.
Your laugh is warm and nervous as it bubbles out, glancing down at his hand where it rests on the table, given to you. “I don’t really… dance.” You admit, brushing your thumb along the stem of your glass, cheeks warming with the idea of embarrassing yourself before anything else can even happen between the two of you.
Arthur leans a little closer, his voice dipping, coaxing. “It’s not a waltz. Just… swaying to the beat and pretending we know what we’re doing.”
You glance up at him, and his eyes are still on you, steady and kind and a little bit amused like he knows you’re about to give in. “I’m not ready to look like an idiot in front of you Arturo. Maybe another time, yeah?” It’s a gentle rejection, not of him, but the idea of dancing.
He looks dejected for a moment before pursing his lips and nodding his head, hand withdrawing as he stands a little straighter. “You know what my father used to tell me?”
Your heart stops when he seems to recoil so physically when you decline to dance, palms warming with worry at the idea of him being annoyed or fed up and you look up to him expectantly. “What’s that?”
Arthur clears his throat, his thumb running nervously over the neck of his beer bottle as he speaks. “He told me once that the first time he tried to impress my mother, he made a complete fool of himself. Said he danced like a drunk flamingo and sang some terrible French love song off-key just to get her to laugh.”
You raise your eyebrows, lips tugging up in a surprised smile. “And that worked?” He gives a conspiratorial grin and a hums slightly in consideration. “Must’ve done.”
He shrugs, and the movement feels a little too casual, like he’s trying to act like this doesn’t matter as much as it does.
“I guess sometimes you’ve gotta look like an idiot,” he adds, his voice softer now, “to be seen as something more than that, non, chéri?”
Before you can say anything - before you can even think about what to say - he tips his head back and finishes the last half of his beer, he sets the empty bottle down on the table, hard, and steps back.
There’s a murmur through the crowd as Arthur presses his brother and their friend off of the stage with an apologetic laugh. People turn towards them, curious. A few who recognize him let out cheers - mostly friends of Charles. The mic squeals for a second as Arthur adjusts it.
“I, uh - hello.” He chuckles awkwardly into the mic, scratching at the back of his neck, cheeks flushing slightly as he looks over the faces momentarily before zeroing in on yours, his words said to a crowd but spoken to you. “This is going to be horrible, just warning you. But it’s Charles’ birthday, so… I feel like public humiliation is a requirement.”
That gets a raucous laugh from the crowd as some hold their drinks up to him, someone whistling loudly near the back. You sink deeper into your chair, half cringing, face burning. Alex’s hand squeezes your thigh and she squeals as the low thrum of music begins.
Your heart stutters. Your lips part as the recognition settles, and your eyes lock on him, the most handsome Monegasque in the room.
He’s not even trying to sing it well - his tone is completely off, pitchy, slightly behind the music in places. But the expression on his face is open and earnest. His eyes, when they flicker to you across the room, are warm and unwavering.
“I ain’t nothing but tired, man I’m just tired and bored with myself…”
You want to hide under the drinks table. He’s butchering Bruce Springsteen’s greatest piece.
But still, your chest is aching and your hands are clutching the edge of the table, your smile caught somewhere between mortification and something else entirely. He looks ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.
But then you think of what he said - about his father, about looking like an idiot just to make someone smile.
And it does make you smile.
He stumbles on a lyric, glances up, sees your face and suddenly there’s a grin that he can’t hold back, the song becoming even more warbled by his smile, mid-line. Like he’s just won something.
The applause is warm, scattered at first, then growing. A few whoops and whistles rise above the crowd as Arthur gives an awkward half-bow, his smile still lingering, breathless from nerves and effort. He looks out over the room, not for praise but for you. And when he finds you - still sitting at the edge of the party, fingers tight around your glass - his expression softens like ice cream in the sun.
You don’t move. Not yet. You don’t trust your legs to work properly. Alex is whisper-squealing beside you, something this is actually happening, but it’s muffled, distant as she kisses your forehead and makes herself scarce. The room could be spinning or silent, you wouldn’t notice either. All that matters is that Arthur is stepping off the stage and he’s walking straight toward you.
He weaves through the crowd, someone clapping him on the back as he passes, another handing him a fresh beer that he waves off with a polite smile. His eyes don’t leave you.
He stops in front of you.
“Hi.” He says, slightly breathless, cheeks still pink. His voice is low, uncertain again now that the stage is behind him, his confidence wearing off at the closeness of your body to his in the dim karaoke club.
You look up at him, blinking, still caught in the gravity of it all. “Hey Leclerc.” You say back, because it’s all you can manage.
He lingers for a second, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, before he gestures toward you with a sheepish shrug.
“So… was it really that bad?”
You shake your head, your voice barely audible. “It was terrible.” He winces theatrically and clutches at his heart over his black tee. “Ouch.”
“But also kind of… perfect.” You add, more to yourself than to him, and then you’re both just looking at each other again, the air heavy between you.
Arthur exhales, rubbing the back of his neck, and then takes a careful step forward. “Would it be too much if I said I did it for you?” You can’t help but grin and shake your head a little, his eyes glittering as a smile spreads across his face in relation to the way he’d made you react. “That much was obvious, you were serenading me.” You point out teasingly as you take a small step forward like he does.
It’s not that he’s drunk but his breath smells like beer and tequila and somehow it works, you nod, your heart thudding in your chest. There’s a pause, tight with anticipation.
And then Arthur leans in.
It’s not sudden - not a rush or a crash but a moment suspended, as if the whole world is holding its breath for the kiss that seems to have been so overdue. His hand lifts gently to your face, thumb brushing your cheek like he’s asking permission, like he’s still not entirely convinced this is real. And when you don’t pull back, when you tilt your face toward his just slightly, he closes the last inch between you.
The kiss is soft. Hesitant at first. Like he’s still afraid he’s misunderstood something.
But then you sigh into it, practically melting into the hand on your waist and his lips on yours. Something in him shifts with the kiss, he becomes more confident and sure.
His other hand finds your waist, pulling you a little closer, and suddenly you’re aware of every single point where your body meets his. His lips move against yours like he’s wanted this for a long time, like he’s memorized the idea of it in his mind and now he’s finally getting to make it real.
It’s not perfect. A little clumsy. A little breathless. After a moment, you part ways, not for long enough to say anything before your lips meet again.
Arthur exhales shakily against your mouth, as if he hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breathand when he kisses you again, it’s deeper, still as careful but more carefree too. It’s like he’s no longer asking for permission but responding to a need. His hand slides up, fingers brushing behind your ear to cradle the back of your head, anchoring you to him as his mouth parts slightly, tongue brushing gently against yours in a silent, searching question.
You answer by tilting your head and leaning into it fully.
Everything else slips away - the music, the party, the stray bursts of laughter around you. It becomes white noise to the sensation of his fingers curling into your waist, the way his thumb strokes along your cheek, and the soft, needy sound that escapes him when your fingers slide up the front of his shirt to rest against his chest, grounding him there, against you.
The moment can be kept forever in a photograph taken by Alexandra at the other side of the bar, smiling like a proud parent.
kaledo-art
stormborns
yousharknotpass
dededos
jacobvanloon
izzy806
gummygunk
