"I just think it is silly, that's all," Charles says, arms crossed and definitely not pouting, no matter how exasperatedly fond Carlos looks.
"Maybe," Carlos says. "But it's not our decision. We don't make the schedule."
"But it would be so simple to put us on the same day!" Charles says, throwing his hands up. "Fans would love it. Alex and Rebecca would love it! We would be the stars of the red carpet."
"Ferrari would not love it," Carlos says quietly. "You know that."
Charles barely refrains from flinching. He watches Carlos carefully across the table, across two cappuccinos and the crumbs of a croissant they split down the middle. Carlos's smile is soft, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes as he gazes out over the busy Monaco street, toward the sparkling harbor. Charles feels a sudden urge to reach across the table, smush Carlos's strong jaw between his hands, and mold joy back into his face with his thumbs.
He takes a sip of his lukewarm cappuccino instead.
"It is stupid that they pretend you do not exist," Charles mutters into his cup. "I know they still love you. It is just… pride, or something." He glares at the milk foam clinging to the ceramic rim of his cup. "Stupid."
"Well, they can't entirely pretend I don't exist," Carlos says. "Not when you refuse to leave me alone." His lips curve into a teasing smile, and Charles's ears feel warm.
"Of course I will not leave you alone," Charles says defiantly. "You will not be rid of me so easily. What if I just show up to Cannes a day early? What will they do, throw me out?"
"No. But you'd probably stress out every stylist L'Oréal have while they scrambled to schedule you into the day." Carlos arches a brow. "Maybe not the best thing to do on your first appearance as an ambassador."
Charles huffs.
Carlos shakes his head with a grin and lifts his own cappuccino to his lips. Charles can't help but follow the motion, his gaze caught by Carlos's unfairly elegant fingers. His mind helpfully reminds him of the goosebumps left in the wake of those fingers in the dark hours of the night before, gentle touches pressed to his back, his throat, his thighs. He wonders what Carlos will look like in his tuxedo tomorrow, hair perfectly coiffed and Rebecca sleek and stylish on his arm, camera flashes sparkling in his dark eyes.
He wonders how much better Carlos would look with Charles and Alexandra on his other side, how stunning the four of them would be together, stunning and untouchable.
"Stop moping." Carlos pinches Charles's waist beneath the table. "I will see you this weekend. The girls are already looking forward to it."
"Yes," Charles says, his cheeks growing warm at the idea of the four of them alone again in the apartment Charles shares with Alex, flush with wine and laughter and easy kisses that lead to soft touches and rapturous sighs. "I—I'm also looking forward to it."
Carlos smiles at him, soft and familiar, and Charles smiles back. They sit in comfortable silence, looking out over the harbor, until Carlos's phone lights up with a reminder of his next appointment, some training session or another. They stand, and Charles leans in for la bise before he remembers that they don't always do that with each other, but Carlos catches him by the arm before he can lean away. Their cheeks brush, and Charles tries and fails to hold back a pleased shiver at the gentle scruff of Carlos's afternoon stubble.
"Have a good time at Cannes, Charles," Carlos says as he pulls away. "I'll see you this weekend."
"Yes," Charles says eloquently. "You too. This weekend."
Carlos smiles as he leaves, and Charles watches him go, his heart in his throat.
(And if he spends the next day refreshing his social media feeds, drinking in every glimpse of Carlos at Cannes, no one knows about it except Alex, who saves a few select photos of Rebecca and Carlos in between kisses pressed to Charles's cheeks.
