Mick glances at him. Charles doesn’t look as tired as he did last year, DNF after disappointing race after DNF, biting his mouth in a smile with every interview. He’s P2 in the championship right now, or maybe P3, Mick can’t keep up. George and him keep trading it back and forth, Lewis firmly in P1 for the past two races. Charles, at least, finished in Monaco this year in the points.
“Alright,” Mick says, shrugging. He moves his bag off of the chair beside him when it looks like Charles is going to stay and hover. “But bored I think. Baking a lot. Gardening. He said something about sustainable farming in Mexico last week that I think he’s going to check out.”
“Ah.” Charles folds himself into the seat, graceful in his ungracefulness. There’s a pink mark along the top of his left cheek. Mick wonders if he fell asleep in the drivers briefing again, chin in hand. “That sounds like him.”
The paddock is slowly emptying. It’s getting late. Mick should head soon. He’s not racing tomorrow but he is supposed to casually appear in the Williams garage to say hello to Alex. He’s hoping to leave earlier enough that he can pop in to see Guanyu before his practise session.
He stays where he is.
“Has he.” Charles stops, chewing at the inside of his cheek, mouth pursing. “Has he been talking to Lewis, do you know?”
Jenson was doing post race interviews last week and he made Lewis, grinning and sweating and triumphant, laugh for most of his five minutes. Mick sent it to Sebastian who left it on read.
“No, I don’t know.”
Lewis could very well win this year. He could win his eighth which, Mick would’ve thought, Sebastian would want to be here for, after everything, especially after what happened last time. Charles doesn’t look at him for a long moment before exhaling, fingers rubbing at his mouth.
“But I don’t think he has,” Mick says and when Charles does look at him, his eyes are very brown and very wide and very sad. Like, twenty percent of my problems would be solved if you would keep your eyes closed and never look at me like that, Mick wants to say to him. It’s distracting.
“I should say it to him.”
“Yes.” Charles brightens, smile tucking into his cheeks. Mick despairs over himself. “You should, and then maybe I could? Subtly, of course, but it would be a shame for Sebastian not to be here. No matter what happens. They — there is a lot to lose here.”
He waves a hand, watch flashing, and Mick doesn’t know if he’s talking about Formula One in general or the title or Lewis and Sebastian but he does know that Charles Leclerc has never been subtle a day in his life.
“Right. Sure.” And when Charles smiles at him, teeth bright, eyes wide, Mick is helpless to not smile back.
“Don’t worry, Mick,” Charles says, swaying into Mick’s space, bumping his shoulder against his, and swaying back out. He’s smells of warm air and sweat and expensive cologne. “We won’t be like them. I promise to call you everyday after we retire.” He crosses his chest.
Mick kind of wants to reach out and break those fingers for carefully saying retire instead of not racing. He wants to hold them close and press his mouth along the curve and slope of his knuckles, sucking them into his mouth until they’re all he can taste. He also just wants to hold them between his, memorise their shape, and pretend that he knows how the car feels under them when he sees Charles’s onboard.
“And is that supposed to be an incentive…..?”
Charles laughs, heheing his hyena laugh that Carlos loves to mimic whenever he can, moving into Mick’s space again, warm and solid, hand on Mick’s elbow.
“You couldn’t get rid of me if you tried.”
Mick shakes his head and lets his mouth curl up at the corners, looking up through his lashes like he watched Sebastian do all ROC. “Bet you say that to all the boys.”
Charles coughs, spluttering, cheeks flushing red as his polo, and Mick’s smile widens.
—
“So.” Charles falls into step beside him. He’s wearing black and white checkered pants and a Ferrari branded jacket, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. It’s unzipped at the throat, necklace glinting in the sun. “Have you talked to Seb like we said?”
Mick looks up at the sky. It’s very blue and very clear, yawning wide above him. Roscoe trots ahead of them, cameras following him more than either of them, though a few break of to snap a few pictures of Charles in all his world championship leading glory. Mick is fairly sure he forgot to brush his hair this morning.
“Yes,” Mick says because Charles looks like he’s about to ask the question again. “I have.”
“And?” Charles is half walking sideways to watch Mick’s face. He would’ve nearly bumped into three people already if they hadn’t moved out of the way. He looks ridiculous. Mick wants to pull him at his collar and press his nose under his ear, breathing him in.
Mick shrugs. “He hasn’t talked to Lewis.”
Charles visibly deflates, shoulders slumping, mouth turning down. He perks up again, like a cartoon character and not a real actual living person who drives Mick insane on a daily basis, when Mick continues, “But he says he will.”
“Okay, great!” Charles smiles at him before squinting, dimming a little when Mick doesn’t keep talking. “Is that not great?”
Mick hums, tilting his head from side to side. Roscoe looks back at them before continuing on, content that he is still being diligently followed. “Depends. He says that he will talk to Lewis if he wins this weekend’s race.”
Charles stops short as Mick keeps walking. Esteban spots the two of them as he heads their way, raising a hand in hello, before he sees whatever is on Charles’ face and ducks into the Alpine garage.
Charles jogs to catch up. “That wasn’t very funny.” He is smiling anyway, which, Mick knows, isn’t how to tell if Charles Leclerc is upset or not but he isn’t doing that horrible thing with his eyebrows that makes Mick want to cry when he sees it so Mick thinks it’s probably alright.
“Yeah, it kind of was,” Mick says. “It was Sebastian’s idea, anyway.”
Charles rolls his eyes, waving a hand, watch flashing. “It’s always Sebastian’s idea. He thinks he is very funny, that man.”
“To be fair, he often is.”
Charles grins, easy and casual and all old school Hollywood, hair falling into his eyes, lashes dark. He pushes it away. “That is true.”
They walk in silence for a while, the snap shutter of cameras in the background. Mick watches Roscoe’s little legs eat up the concrete. He wonders if Angie has had her walk yet today.
“What will you do after all of this, do you think?” Charles has that look on his face that he gets sometimes, distant and remote, mouth a sharp line.
“I don’t know.” Mick eyes him warily. If Charles says retire again Mick might have to kill someone just so he doesn’t scream himself hoarse.
“Yes.” There’s a little divot in between Charles’s eyes, perfect and small and devastating. Mick’s thumb could cover it if he reached out and touched it there. “Neither do I.”
This championship race isn’t like last year, easier and harder in very different ways. Easier because Ferrari seems to have more of its shit together, quicker in the pitstops, smarter with the strategy. Harder too because now it’s more on Charles, now, somehow, there is even less room for error when it is all on you. And then of course, he is racing against Lewis which is a whole other thing. Not that George, this year, or even Max, last year, arent difficult opponents but. Still.
“Maybe I will do what Yuki keeps talking about,” Mick says, desperate suddenly for Charles to stop looking like that. For him to go back to smiling. Toto will not be impressed if there’s pictures circling where Mick is talking to Charles who looks like he’s about to cry.
Charles looks at him, eyebrows raised. “Yuki?”
“Yeah.” Mick shoves his hands in his pockets. Roscoe is starting to slow, the heat and the long walk beginning to get to him. Mick will have to head back to the garage soon. “Start a restaurant, you know? Good food. Maybe some love music. Outdoor seating.”
Charles throws back his head when he laughs, neck a long tanned line. A few people stop to stare. Mick tries not to roll his eyes. He doesn’t try to bite back his smile.
“That is not a bad idea, mate.” Charles says, nudging Mick with his elbow. “I would go. Bring Arthur.”
Mick exaggerates a horrified expression to see Charles laugh again. It’s a nice sound.
“What kind of food would you make?” Charles is seems very invested in an idea that Mick is still very unsure about and nearly mostly a joke.
“French. To make my ancestors proud.”
This time when Charles laughs, Mick laughs with him.
