Hey I asked for 40 it can u be any ship u like ( if u want anything specific charlos)
1.9k words / Charlos. Exes that haven't seen each other in a while + Industry/Investment Bankers AU.
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The music, light, and bodies swirl around Charles, an intoxicating melange that everyone in the room is attuned to. Waitresses dressed in skimpy but classy outfits strut around with Moët Chandon bottles held high atop their heads, firework sparklers completing the enticing offer to anyone looking to buy more alcohol. He closes his eyes, downs the rest of his drink, licks his lips to get the very last of it, and heads to the VIP section.
It's still disorienting to be allowed in because of himself, instead of as the guest—escort, practically—of someone else. Now people come here to meet him; however much that is just in representation of Elkann. Tonight he's supposed to meet someone from—
"Charles?"
No fucking way. Fuck, Charles desperately needs more alcohol in his system to deal with this.
"Sainz." He squints at the man, the expression in his face probably curled in transparent displeasure. Charles has never been good at hiding his emotions when it comes to Carlos.
Carlos rolls his big brown doe eyes with a full circling motion instead of a quick up movement. "Cut the theatrics, aye, Charles, we haven't seen each other in so long. How have you been?"
This time, instead of the English pronunciation, his ex makes sure to enunciate it like sharl. It makes Charles shudder at the thought of playing along with a little cahlos. He'd left that stupidity—thinking they had something special, names so similar sounding, the dumb inside jokes—in his early twenties.
"Fine, great, actually," he concedes, quickly looking off behind Carlos's shoulders to see if he can flag a waiter. Maybe he can even get one of the sparkly champagnes.
Carlos hums, and Charles focuses back on him. "You?"
"Meglio ora che ti ho trovato." Carlos's mouth curves into a grin Charles had once spent an embarrassing amount of time fantasizing about. But his Italian comes out weird, the syllables more Spanish than anything, and too stretched out. Unpracticed, Charles realizes.
"That's…sure," he says without bothering to switching languages. "I'm working tonight, I'm supposed to meet someone."
The dismissal borders on rude, so he makes sure to smile openly and charmingly to polish off the rough edges. Maybe too charmingly, because instead of nodding and retreating, Carlos decides to take the seat in front of him.
"Someone from Williams Capital?" Carlos asks knowingly, then does a small flourish of fingers towards himself, "That would be me."
"Stop fucking around," Charles says with a small, almost derisive, laugh.
"I'm afraid I'm not."
He doesn't reply immediately, instead watches as Carlos flags a waiter to order both of them a Cosmopolitan—too light and too sugary a drink for this, Charles spares a second to think, but it was indeed his favorite cocktail. Carlos, of course, had remembered. The waiter leaves, and he regains Carlos's full attention.
Finally, Charles scoffs. "So you left Ferrari for—"
"You know it wasn't my choice." Carlos cuts him off, voice surprisingly devoid of any bitterness.
It makes Charles finally care to analyze the person before him; the boy turned man of over thirty-two years, in a way, more mature and purposeful-looking than before, but still carrying that rich kid ease that he'd always had. The same my-name-is-Carlos-Sainz-JUNIOR looseness that Charles had found irritating when they were interning together, then hot, then irritating again, and now just…something that was fundamentally Carlos.
Soon, a presentatiom card is produced.
Carlos sets it on the low table between them rather than handing it over. CARLOS SAINZ JR., it reads. MANAGING DIRECTOR, SE. WILLIAMS CAPITAL.
"I'm happy where I am, Charles," he says, "though I know you might struggle to understand with how fanboyish you always were over Ferrari."
Charles flushes pink and protests for a bit, after all, they both were Ferrari fanboys together back in the day. The great Cavallino, a bank rumored to have been around as one of the first merchant institutions to offer trading in 15th century Italian city-states, a firm that had withstood the worst of financial crises and came out—mostly—unscathed. Home to some big scandals but bigger clients and acquisitions, a history of tradition that still had its claws deep in Charles's heart. Bleeding red, an honour.
Him and Carlos had met there as ambitious recent graduates assigned to FX and CPS respectively. 'And the rest was history', as they said.
"So." Carlos leans forward, elbows on knees. The unwanted proximity to his cologne—different from back then, spicier and more expensive—pulls Charles back into the conversation they are supposed to have.
The guy continues, "I'm going to be honest, I'm very excited about this product we've put together, you will like it, I'm certain. I thought of you immedea…" he trails off and coughs, "—it will fit your portfolio perfectly."
"Elkann's. Elkann's portafolio, you mean."
"Williams sent me to you directly, so same difference. You surely know his book better than himself by now."
Charles shrugs, true enough, and professional array of files gets placed on the table, over the presentation card.
"Automotive IP royalties?" Charles asks after reading the title.
"Yep, think your legacy manufacturers—Honda, Ford, Mercedes, etcetera—they're sitting on a lot of knowledge, a lot of patents, an enormous quantity, really," Carlos says. "Transmission systems, combustion engines, all that car stuff that they've developed over decades and that suddenly is no longer worth much with the rise in EVs."
"But it is still worth…" Charles mumbles, a small mischevious smile forming as he starts getting the thought pattern.
"Exactly. All the new entrant manufactures still need a lot of this IP, they can't avoid it."
They continue talking over the idea, the licensing contracts from OEMs that Williams has pooled into a bankruptcy-remote SPV, the idea that the hybrid and EV transition has been messier and will still take longer than it's being superficially sold to the masses. There definitely is money to be made.
Under the low light of the club, Charles looks over the term sheets, projections, the numbers and let's Carlos explanation wash over him—until a headache starts forming.
"My head hurts," he says, unabashedly. He knows he has complete control of this meeting; he can decide as he pleases. "Why don't we drink instead?"
Carlos blinks. "Charles."
"The deal's not going anywhere. I'll look at it tomorrow." He stands and lifts his hand for a waitress, wanting that long-awaited champagne bottle. "Properly look at it, which I cannot do right now. So."
He looks back at Carlos, and because he is in a generous and possibly self-destructive mood, he allows the corners of his mouth to lift and bats his eyelashes as much as he can. "You're buying."
/ / /
The Moët goes down easily, and soon they have an empty bottle, prompting Carlos to order a cheaper Gin bottle with lots of cans of carbonated water and ice. By the second round, they migrate from the low table to the railing of the VIP section. They're watching the floor below and leaning closer to make mindless small talk.
"I think Williams is hungrier, compared to Ferrari," Carlos says, suddenly and apropos of nothing, shaking the ice around his glass and looking down. "I like it, the hunger, their drive."
Unthinkingly, Charles hums and proceeds to blurt out: "Makes sense, you did like me."
The response he gets is a half-mangled, incredulous laugh and a change of topic, "Elkann's never easy, you're certainly under a lot of pressure. The job you've got now, you know, it's very…a lot would kill for it."
"Yeah."
"I've always admired how you just, walk into a room, into a company and just—"
"Okay, stop doing that."
"What?"
"Complimenting me so weirdly…the praise won't get me to sign on the deal quicker, you should know that."
Carlos laughs.
It's his real laughter, slightly too loud and showing too much of his teeth, not the fake client one from earlier. "Can't I just think you're good at your job?"
"You can, I definitely am. Just stop being weird about it."
They go back to watching the people on the open floor downstairs, making some small comments here and there between drinks. It's until the tipsiness becomes properly drunk that Charles gets the idea:
"I'm so bored right now, Carlos," he leans into his ear to whisper the words. Too loud in the room otherwise. "Let's go dance."
/ / /
They end up pressed against each other, which Charles will later blame on the vodka shots that a cute blonde had offered—they were the flaming type, and the fire plus who was offering had been enough to get six to share.
Nevermind that, it still results on making bad decisions.
"You used to be able to go all night," Carlos says at some point, also directly into his ear, and Charles's skin breaks out in goosebumps. The flush of the alcohol and sugar tastes so good in Charles's mouth, in his belly, and he's feeling very happy; it's easy to disagree.
"I can still go all night."
"Prove it."
So Charles does.
He turns his back to Carlos, and then Carlos's hand finds his hip, and they let loose. They dance the way they used to, which is to say badly and without caring, shouting the parts of the lyrics they know. It takes Charles back to the parties of their earlier career, and also makes him nostalgic over their coworkers at the time. Lando, Max, they'd also left the company. But it's only a passing thought, one that gets quickly replaced by the present moment.
The group next to them is passing around one of those fun sized Bacardi bottles, between them and also to passersbys, which is how they also end up drinking from it. Carlos takes a 6 seconds pour of it. Afterwards, he wipes his mouth and Charles is just slightly distracted by the sight of—
Fuck. The competitive streak in Charles pushes him to take seven seconds himself, it surprisingly goes through like water, and they continue parting.
The music changes to reggaeton, which has Carlos whooping—even if his Madrilean elitist ass doesn't know most of the songs—and both of them shuffling even closer in a shit attempt at shaking their ass, Charles backing into Carlos.
Four songs in, while Carlos is pressing his large hands all over him, he pulls Charles closer and says something into his hair that Charles doesn't catch.
"What?"
The hand on his hip thightens, and Carlos's hot breath is all over his left ear, "I missed you."
Charles laughs, "You're very drunk."
Carlos turns him around, and they're facing each other again but just as close as before, so close in fact that their sweaty cheeks are pressed against each other.
"I'm aware, but it's still true."
"The deal's good," Charles says, blinking through his drunken haze. He doesn't want to admit he also misses him, them.
He feels Carlos smile against his face. "I know."
"I'll recommend it—accept it for Elkann."
"I know that too."
Charles pulls back slightly to look at him. Up close like this Carlos is very cute, his eyes gone soft and unfocused, and his hair has started sticking out. The thrum of electricity between them is not unfamiliar.
"Ah, well," Charles stumbles his words, just slightly caught off guard. "We must celebrate then, a sell well made for you."
Carlos's thumb traces a small arc on Charles's hip.
"Let's celebrate indeed, love."
They find their coats and settle their tab, and, in the blink of an eye, they're outside and heading towards Charles's hotel. The cold is biting against their cheeks, but Charles smiles.
He had missed this.
[Authors Note: This is my first time writing Charlos, sorry for the OOC-ness. I also feel this club experience is very localized lmfaoo, but I tried <3
Also not sure if its clear enough but the "escort" part is that when they were younger, and needed to climb the ladder, Charles used to sleep with clients to secure them. Also a reason for tension in their relationship at the time.
I know little to nothing about investment banking i hope its not ruining the excerpt 🤧]
