Summary: Neither you or Charles wanted to break up, not truly. Life hasn't been the same since, no matter how much work or fun you both tried. Will Charles drop everything on the one day you need him? Part of the 'Vices and Virtues' collection.
Word Count: 4.1k
Warnings: Mentions of alcohol, stress, Charles Leclerc is written by women
Exhausted did not begin to describe the feeling seeping into your bones.
Silently, you fumble for the key in your back pocket; you’d strategically placed it there before leaving the restaurant, knowing by the time you’d be back, you’d be in no mood to root around your bag for it. The key rattles for a moment, the ornate door opening into your apartment, dipped in the orange glow of a Monaco sunset.
You’d been in this new place for a little under seven months; at first you couldn’t bring yourself to even sleep in your new bed, knowing all too well that his body wouldn’t be beside you. No warm arms to circle you when tumbling in from an event, no hot breath to tickle the back of your neck when you awoke each morning. It had taken a lot of willpower (that, and your best friend buying you bedsheets so comfortable, you had to use them.)
It had taken that time, but your life was finally beginning to feel like yours again. You decorated your apartment with plants and photographs of friends. The days were spent inviting over your loved ones to try food for the menu you’d thrown yourself into developing. Evenings were spent pairing wines to desserts and watching the sunset dip over the city you never wanted to leave. On the rare weekend off, when the city was placed into darkness, clubs and bar evenings beckoned your friendship group.
Not you, not anymore.
The vision of one evening was still painted in your mind. Five days. Five days after the breakup. The idea of going out had repulsed you, wanting nothing more than to curl up on your parent’s couch and wallow in self-pity around the belongings you had taken there and then. Unfortunately, she had other ideas, demanding you get dressed up and come out for an evening of drinks, to kiss a stranger or to at least take so many tequila shots you’d wake up with one in the morning.
The epitome of ‘wet blanket,’ thoroughly described you that evening. No conversation had drawn you in, simply starting down into your untouched drink, waiting for one of your friends to be so wasted, you could offer to drive them home and escape this evening, no questions asked. When that had happened, a friend’s arm slung around your shoulder as you tried to lead her away from the pulsing music and fumbling hands on the dancefloor. You were almost at the exit, when your peripheral vision caught sight of a crisp shirt on a man, identical to the one you had bought your boyfriend- ex-boyfriend, less than two weeks ago.
Ironic, because it was your ex-boyfriend sitting there. No, lounging back in a seat, a girl with the exact same hair colour as yours under his arm, her lipstick clearly smudged, the tint on his lips an identical colour. You didn’t think he would be sober enough to clock you, instead diverting straight for the exit, resting your friend in the back of your car as she sung to every song on the radio which seemed to remind you of him.
You’d sworn off all partying after that evening, instead throwing yourself into work. Being the head chef at Monaco’s prime bay restaurant played handsomely, but their work demanded the highest calabar. If you weren’t at work, you’d be at home, cooking, researching; Sunday afternoon trips into the market in search of new flavours and seasonings seemed to be the closest you got to relaxation.
After the day you had, your bed was practically singing to you. There had been no end of deliveries, one group particularly enraged that their food had taken longer than expected to arrive. With no manager in that afternoon, you had to step out of your domain, apologising for your appearance and giving the table an apology dish, cooked by yourself. It must have paid off, seeing their smiling faces and ‘thank you’s,’ as you’d left the place yourself, finishing at a reasonable time for once in your life.
The extra time you were not usually blessed with had given you the opportunity to look after yourself; scrubbing your face clean of the day, applying moisturisers and serums, a hair mask massaged into your hair. On instinct, you’d reached for a flannel to wipe your face dry, completely forgetting you’d thrown it into the washing basket earlier that day. Sleepily, your feet dragged you towards the cupboard, just in need of a new face cloth for that evening.
You didn’t expect a lump to form in your throat. With a small gasp, you see the shirt crumpled at the bottom of your neatly stored cupboard. It’s red – that shade of red. A number sixteen was engraved across the back, his name spelt out across the shoulders. That goddamn shirt. You can still remember the day he had given it to you; you’d been sat up in bed, watching with teary eyes as he packed his suitcase, ready to jet away for race weekend. However, this was the one you couldn’t join. An important critic was coming into the restaurant, his review would make or break the kitchen in Monaco.
Instead of tears and pleads not to depart, he’d carefully slipped his red shirt over your torso, the scent of him instantly wafting around your senses. You’d worn that shirt for practice, for qualifying, even under your chef darks that weekend. In your mind, that was what got you the stellar review, and him the first-place position he’d been working hard for. The moment he got home, your lips were on his and celebrations were held.
Now? The shirt served as a memory, a painful one at that. Despite moving on, despite this sanctuary that you had built for yourself, he was still missing. Part of you didn’t think you’d be able to get over that. Not when every few nights, you’d come back to this cupboard, retrieve the shirt and pull the fabric to your chest under your duvet, almost like a dirty secret. Tonight, was no different; you kept the shirt close to you when trailing back to bed, tucking yourself into the soft cupboards, letting sleep overtake you in a matter of moments, the day draining you and the warm scent of him clasped to your body.
Charles had always been a light sleeper; he’d found it especially hard since the presence of you in his bed had disappeared. He was a man of habit, he liked his pillow, the feeling of his favourite joggers wrapped around his legs. He craved your scent when he slept, whether it was feeling your body next to him, the hoodie he had snuck into his travelling case, smothered in your perfume. Nobody else he knew wore that same perfume; it was like a drug to him.
He’d tried everything in the past seven months; no dating, rebounds, nobody could come close to you. That was why he laid in a stranger’s bed, eyes wide open and blinking up at the ceiling. The girl – Christ, he couldn’t even remember her name, was sound asleep, her head resting on Charles’ chest; something he usually despised. You’d never done that; you knew it kept him awake. Instead, you’d let him curl into you, hide your head in his neck, even go as far as to rest his head on your chest, running your nails through his soft hair.
He wanted you. God, he needed you. Even if it was merely being in the same room, sitting opposite him on a couch. Charles had never gotten over the split; his background of the two of you resting on the nose of his car said that all too well.
His deep thoughts were pulled aside when he heard a slight buzzing coming from the floor. The buzzing continued for a few moments, signalling a telephone call; who on earth would be calling? He had no sense of time currently and tried his hardest to relax as the buzzing came to a stop. And then…it started again. Constantly.
Huffing gently, Charles removed himself from the figure, making sure to rest her head gently on one of the pillows. His body ached, he’d rested in such an awkward position, not able to get comfortable. Crouching, his hand fumbled to find his phone in his trouser pocket, the screen giving a dull glow, phone still vibrating. It must have been Arthur; maybe had one-too many drinks and needed a lift home. Pierre, possibly? With the time difference the two were currently in, he could have forgotten.
The last thing he expected to see was your caller ID, flashing on his screen. What on earth was happening right now? You hadn’t called, not since…since you had asked to come and pick up some belongings remaining at his home. He’d cried after you’d left that day, seeing the pieces of the life you’d built together disappearing around him. Then and there, he should have clung to you, begged you to stay, confessed the way he felt like there was no tomorrow.
Nothing in this world or the next could have stopped him from pressing the green button, holding the phone up to his ear, stepping out of the stranger’s bedroom and into their living room, still dipped in darkness.
“Hey.” Is the first word out of his mouth, voice still coated with exhaustion. “Are you okay?”
“Charles?” Your voice catches on itself; it’s been so long since you’ve heard his voice. The sweet accent sprinkled upon his English, taking you back to a time when he would mumble sweet nothings whilst you curled up together. “Oh my god, Charles- “
“Hey, hey. What’s happening?” His voice is already a comfort. The one comfort that you needed right now.
“Eloise- the manager-“ Your words keep cutting off in your throat, a visible shiver running down your spine. “She’s walked out. They want me to go in and run the breakfast cooperate event- I can’t, I’m in the kitchen-“ You can feel your chest tighten, palms sweaty at the idea. “I need to do kitchen prep; nobody is answering their phones- “
How could you be surprised? It was almost four in the morning.
“Okay.” Charles’ voice is firm, instantly stopping your ramblings. “Here’s what we’re going to do. Go and get everything you need. I’ll pick you up in 20 minutes. We can go in together; I’ll help you until your team arrive.”
The thoughts finally catch up with you – your ex-boyfriend, was up at four in the morning, ready to get up and go, probably sacrifice a night of sleep, probably an evening with a woman he was getting to know, for the sake of you. How on earth was this happening?
“Thank you.” Your voice was barely a whisper, laced with tears as you hold the mobile to your ear, eyes darting around the room in search of your work bag. You barely hear his response before Charles hangs up the phone, wiggling into his t-shirt, searching for his car keys.
“Always.”
The sun was beginning to peak into the streets of Monaco; time had passed since the initial phone call between Charles and yourself. In nineteen minutes, he had gotten out of the apartment of the woman, slipped into his car, the drive to your new apartment almost memorised. It wasn’t disturbing; he drove past them to get to his own home. Every time he did, his heart longed to run to your front door and take you with him.
Silently, he sends you a text to confirm he’s outside. You’re quick to respond, locking up your apartment. His eyes transfix on your body making its way towards his car; work bag resting on one shoulder, a slick black dress on a hanger resting on the other. You look so small, so tired, but undoubtedly beautiful. Charles wants nothing more than to scoop you up in his arms.
A tumble of apologies falls through your lips as you climb into the passenger seat, placing your bag and dress onto the car floor. This time, Charles can’t help himself, leaning over the console awkwardly and wrapping his arms around you. Instantly, you…relax. It takes everything in your power not to melt into his touch, to proclaim your love to him once again. Instead, you feel his lips press to your cheek, before stretching back, nodding towards the seatbelt on your left-hand side.
“Strap in.” He presses. “Let’s go.”
Part of you knew that this would always happen. Eloise never liked the transfer to Monaco, her heart wasn’t truly into the place, not like yours was. Nobody was as committed as you; that was said all too well as you unlocked the door to the kitchen, Charles closes behind you. On instinct, your hands find the lightswitch and power buttons, kitchen springing to life.
The Monegasque can’t help but be in awe of the kitchen, sparkly floors, industrial cookers, giant fridges. He’d eaten here so many times before, from lunch dates with his friends and family to breakfast whilst he is waiting for you to finish your morning shift. He’d always sit by the window when alone; the views of Monaco were beautiful, and he could sometimes catch a glimpse of you running outside to the herb garden.
“Okay.” You start, walking towards the fridge. You’d silently thanked yourself for preparation you had done last night; staying for a little longer to prepare whilst the rest of your team ran their dinner service had paid off. Charles followed your pace, standing next to the fridge you had opened, eyes being met with neat labels and containers.
“We don’t need to start cooking yet. But when we do, this is where everything will be. Eggs, salmon, pancake batter…it’s all labelled.” You explain, the man nodding in confirmation. Your fingers slide out a large container of fruit, placing it down on a counter directly across from the fridge. He also notices a neat list tacked to the side of the fridge, your neat writing labelling that it was the opening list you had left yourself of remaining preparation.
“What I do need, is this fruit cut up. Can you…” You trail off, motioning towards the fruit.
“Of course, I can. Let me wash my hands and you go and get your things ready. You’ll come back to the most beautiful fruit.” He grins. You give him a quick nod before making your way to the kitchen door, the steps to the office around the corner.
“If you want a snack or a drink- there’s a coffee machine at the back, just make sure that you press the green button first.”
“I’ve got it.” Charles responds, his hands under the sink, currently being doused in warm water.
“Make sure that you’re using the right knife, hand away from the blade- “
“I guessed that much.”
“-And keep the-“
“Belle. Go and get ready.” The pet-name from so long ago escapes his lips without realising, but the faint tint on your cheeks means that you’ve noticed. Silently, you nod, leaving the kitchen with your bag and dress, your heart thundering like anything as the name rings in your ears.
It opens a metaphorical can of worms for yourself; did Charles still feel some way for him to call you that? It couldn’t have been, surely. It had been too long. You were aware of his string of lovers through the past months, twitter and gossip columns littered with photos of Charles in clubs, girls falling for him at each step he took in those stupidly expensive shoes.
And yet…you thought, brushing your hair into soft curls, opening your makeup compact to see how your appearance was fairing, he had come running the moment you had called. So many outcomes could have happened; ignoring your call, blocking you all together, answering the phone and telling you to delete his number. No. His voice had been soft, promising that he would be there to help you out.
Belle. It wasn’t just a simple nickname. It had come out of an evening of babysitting Penelope whilst Max and Kelly took an evening to themselves. You had sat in the comfort of Charles’ sofa, the child curled up on your lap, eyes transfixed on Beauty and the Beast, playing on the television whilst the driver had started making his favourite girls some dinner. It hadn’t taken long for Penelope to notice that the yellow sundress you had worn was identical to the princess on screen, or at least, in her eyes.
“Charlie!” She had pointed at the screen, before pointing back at you, grinning. “She’s just like Belle!”
“Hmm?” Charles looked up from the cutting board of vegetables, trying somehow to disguise the food from the child. He finally connects the dots, seeing the reference the girl had made. He can’t help the soft smile on his face, seeing his then-girlfriend smooth out the yellow dress. “She is, isn’t she?” He grinned, taking one of the flowers from the bouquet Max had bought for Kelly and then forgotten when dropping off Penelope. “She’s my Belle.”
The nickname had stuck ever since then. His beauty. Every time you wore that dress, he had gone out of his way to present you with roses, a clear reference to the rose from the movie. Even as you had left his apartment on that fateful day, he had murmured the name to you as you’d left, a silent promise to himself that you would always be his belle.
Even today, he had said it. You replayed the moment you’d left the kitchen in your mind, slipping into the dress that you had bought in. You huffed for a moment, trying to zip up the back of the dress, eventually finding an awkward angle, not even wanting to question how you’d get the garment off later.
With a final look in the mirror, you nodded to your reflection, coming out of the office, the sales system and network set up for the day. You’d taken a handful of breakfast menus with you too; two servers and a bartender would be in momentarily, you’d left a message on the group page to inform them you would be running the morning, with a promise of celebration drinks that evening if everything ran smoothly.
As you made your way down the stairs, heels clicking on the ornate flooring which connected each room, you could hear…music? Your questions were answered as you opened the door to the kitchen, eyes widening.
Fruit was cut up, cold cuts had been presented, bread samples ready for the customers, every single piece of preparation on that list you had created was complete. And in the centre of it all, Charles hummed along to the music playing from his phone, carefully slicing up some mixed berries for the smoothie packets. His eyes darted up when hearing the door open, lips parted slightly at seeing you look so…professional. You could leave anybody weak with that smile, the dress.
“Look at you!” He cheers, letting his eyes drink you in. He steps away from the fruit, wiping his hands onto his jogging bottoms, before taking your hand in his. “You’re going to knock them dead.” He presses, lifting your hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles before he can even realise. His eyes suddenly widen upon realisation, but when you don’t step away and instead just smile, he can’t help but calm a little. He never knows what would happen next, because the door to the reception area opens, the two servers and kitchen assistants filing into the restaurant, ready for their day.
Charles drives you home after the cooperate clients have finished, singing nothing but praise and their thanks for a delicious breakfast. The restaurant had closed in order to prepare for their dinner service. The first thing you had done was run into the kitchen, pulling the entire team, Charles included into the tightest hug, thanking them all for the support you had given one another. No bad words could ever be said about you, of course the team wanted to help. They were all adamant in that moment that you and Charles must have been back together, dubbing him the ‘boyfriend of the century.’
Neither of you said nothing, instead just exchanging glances.
The drive home was peaceful, sleep beginning to overtake your body. If it wasn’t for the dress, you would have fallen asleep there and then. Instead, Charles pulls up outside of your home, eyes staring over to you, a silent signal that you had arrived back.
“Would you-“ Your lips are forming the words before you can stop yourself. “Did you want to come up for a drink? As a thank you.” You press. In your heart-of-hearts, you’re not ready to say goodbye to Charles. Not again.
“Yes.” He responds almost too quickly, pulling his car into a parking space, engine shutting off and keys being removed from the vehicle. The driver follows you up the stairs to the comfort of your complex. He had never been to your new apartment. As the heavy door opens, he can feel his breath catch, a lump in his throat upon seeing all the belongings of yours, scattered around your new home.
“So, this is it.” You explain, slipping off the heels by the front door, making a mental note to put them away later. “What kind of drink would you like? Something strong? Warm?” You attempt to wiggle your arms in an unruly matter to remove the garment. Charles sees you struggling, wordlessly taking the zip in his delicate fingers, zipping down the dress as he had done on so many previous nights. Your nod towards him thanks him, stepping into your bedroom to retrieve some comfortable clothing.
“Do you still have that tea?” He asks. “The cinnamon one?” He’d never been able to find it once you had moved out, convinced that it only existed when you were about.
“Cupboard next to the sink!” You shout back, wiggling into some soft joggers, your body instantly relaxing around the cotton. When you step back into the living area, Charles is offering a mug of tea, a warm smile on his face. He’s found the proportion of milk and sugar that goes best for your taste; of course, he remembers that. The same way he remembers what end of the sofa you prefer to sit on, leaving space to nestle in beside one another.
Silent sips are taken, before the mugs are placed down on the coffee table. When Charles arm comes back from resting down the mug, it finds itself behind your body, pulling you ever so closer towards him. When you don’t hesitate, he can feel his hear race. He’s certain it’s exploding when you rest your head on his shoulder, almost as if the previous seven months never happened.
“Why did you come today?” You ask softly, not wanting to break the moment between the two of you. There’s no answer for a moment, Charles shifting slightly so he could catch your eyes in his own. He looks down to where your hands had become subconsciously entwined, seeing the way your fingers wrapped around his.
“Belle, do you really think I feel so little for you, I wouldn’t come to save you?” He murmurs, leaning close enough to rest your foreheads upon one another. Your eyelids feel heavy, closing them and revelling in the touch that you felt, one you’d been craving for so long. A hand runs over your cheek, tilting your head upwards, hot breath dancing across your cheeks.
“It was you. It was always you.” He murmurs, closing the gap between the two of you, his soft lips feeling at home for the first time in so, so long.
That night, you fall asleep in your bed properly for the first time in seven months. A warm body rests beside you, their face pressed into your neck in a silent comfort, hands entwined. Seven months was a long time, after all. There was a lot to make up for.
charles_leclerc:
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charles_leclerc: Celebration swim for the new manager of Monaco Marina. I could not be prouder of you, Belle. Here's to your next victory.
view all comments:
arthur_leclerc: alright Ross and Rachel
f1paddockpercival: THEY'RE BACK OMG OMG OMG ITS HAPPENING
smoothchilisainz: children of divorce our day has ARRIVED
maxverstappen1: Did I miss a chapter mate? Congratulations!
schecoperez: Bringing the family in for lunch soon, we expect nothing but the best from our girl. Vamos!
Tag List: @ishwiya @stillbreathin @like-fire-love-blog @rafaaoli @deviltsunoda
Heads up to all F1 crafters! Crocheters, knitters, people who just love yarn! A UK indie yarn dyer called TrulyHooked has created this AMAZING F1 themed collection. They are up for pre-order until this coming SUNDAY!
on this weeks installment if racing weekend activities, I nearly cried but I made mercades!!
I was updating in real time on a server I'm in and the other f1 nerd that's there was reading my updates and I knew something was up when I was talking about charles being within five seconds of hamilton, but I never expected ferarri to make charles ride out hamilton's penalty just to keep hamilton in second, on charles' home race, even. And then when charles crashed, I cried bc I wasn't expecting *that* to be what my friend meant by the 'other shoe dropping' but alas, I finished the race, startled by the red flag. My cat curled up on my lap nearly as soon at charles crashed, as if sensing that I was in deep dispair, and he stubbornly stayed there for the next half an hour, despite my feet falling asleep.
Barcalona will hopefully be better for everyone who didn't finish (and stay the same for kimi, who remains the leader on the wdc board, a much deserved title, and hadjar, for getting his second ever podium) and I'll be building haas next week (probably-- haas is the last car I have I fear)
also!! I officially have tickets to one of the races this year!! I'm so excited for it and I can't wait to see them all in person!!
Opinion: Singapore GP 2023 was actually the GOAT of this years season
No hate against redbull. actually yes. but did you see the energy fred vasseur and ferrari brought during the anthem? like I am so used to boring af austrian anthems with some random mexican sprinklings but the raucous cheering, the big goofy grins, and fred waltzing around happily meant everything
I was literally there and larry the lizard or lando lizard or whatever you choose to call that thing or even godzilla was hilarious. it was so random and charles just seemed to care about that thing so much
THE CARLANDO MOMENTS ON THE PODIUM like yes carlos hugged charles as a sorry but the way carlando gripped each other meant EVERYTHING to me. that hug was like... five minutes long. And the way they worked together to hold of mercades? perfect. And the way they splashed each other together on the podium? perfection.
The podium itself had so MUCH ENERGY. Lewis joined in albsulutely drenched carlos and had so much fun. like lewis rarely joins in. And fred was actually the life of the party toddling around drenching carlos and lando. AND ZAK FUCKING BROWN gave Carlos a big hug and a big smile and yesyesyesyesyesyeysyesyesyesy just yes. Just happiness and smiles everywhere.
The whole fight, the whole buildup, my eyes never left the screen except to crochet. My mom and my two lil brothers and I just were screaming nonstop for the last two laps and my dad actually popped his head around to see what was going on. My mom screamed the loudest.
The singaporean crowd is just incredible and I'm so proud of my nation for holding such a great race :D
ABOUT ME. she/her, sixteen, portuguese, intj-t, capricorn, in the midst of doing my gcses, mclaren and ferrari girl <3
this is a sfw blog! I will not under any circumstances be writing any 18+ stories. refrain from writing anything that is discriminative as you will be blocked immediately. I will only write things that I feel comfortable writing, so please do not pressure me to write anything outside of guidelines.
im sorry but i cant get over the fact that every single picture of toto and horner together is just charged to the brim simultaneously with sexual tension and meme energy....like i just look at the 2 of them together and i laugh. i think of all the bitchy little fights they’ve had and i laugh. 2 grown men going back and forth like this, i can’t stop eating it up. they are the two forces of the universe which must exist to counter-balance each other. they are the odd couple, they are an old married couple, they are two karens fighting to the death, f1 would be nothing without their drama. you can’t change my mind.
anyways have some pictures which embody the energy im describing:
@ max and lewis, either set them up in a boxing ring or on a date, one or the other
