Carry on, Wayward Son
https://archiveofourown.org/works/86224121
new fic!! some sebchal whump to accompany exam season cuz thereâs nothing better than projecting your pain on your favourite characters.
(Mind The Tags!!)
~~
At the adult, mature, imposing age of 25, Charles has had the devastating realisation that in life, often, itâs the details that fuck everything up.
Charles was not, however, by any means a details-person. This realization had happened a lot sooner.
Itâs not that he doesnât value them, that would be ridiculous: Charles is a Formula 1 driver, his entire life revolves around details, infinitesimal fractions of a second can make the difference between a pole position, a podium, a win, a championship, or the eternal 2nd place he seems to be stuck in ever since he picked red.Â
Tiny fractions that can also make the difference between life and death, but it seems to him that the distance between the number one and the number two as theyâre sewn onto caps, stitched on the suits, displayed on a podium and painted on the cars is much greater than that between your last breath and eternity. Quantitively, that is.
Qualitatively, he would still argue that the former is worse. At least in death, you overlook something infinite, with no end in sight. He thinks of the summary table he had been forced to copy in school, of the Existence Domain for some of the most common functions. Polynomials were just⌠infinite. They existed no matter the number assigned to the variable. Their existence coincided with the options themselves. The lines overlapped, forever, in any direction. Nothing mattered.
The distance between 1 and 2, however, is not infinite. It is determined, and exact. Itâs like standing at the foot of a mountain, and looking up: it might be far, yes, it might be arduous, too, but there is always a top, always an end.
Logically, this would seem to be the better option, and for anyone other than Charles: there is a possibility, a path, a way, a hope.
But not for him.
It does not matter how close, easy, straightforward and immediate the path to close the distance might be, Charles knows he would only be walking forever, the road narrowing and lengthening at his every step, as he gets closer and closer but never, if he started now and walked until the end of the Universe, would he get there.
In a world of Polynomials, Charlesâ life is an Asymptote. Forever growing closer, but never, in all infinity, reaching its destination. His desires, his dreams and wishes are his limit: walls he can climb higher and higher, getting closer and closer, but which he will never conquer nor surpass.
Which is a pretty depressing prospect. Hence why Charles prefers infinity over infinitesimals.
Around the same age in which Charles had learned he was not detail-oriented, he had also learned he was not maths-oriented, either. Especially with limits. Operating with them could rival cardio-thoracic surgery, he is certain. Maybe if he had learned how to work with limits, his limits specifically, he wouldnât be in this situation now, in the middle of the night, wiping the blood flowing from his lower lip with the musty toilet paper of a kebab place named âAladdinâs dream kebabâ in a bright red, vaguely arabic looking font on the sign on top of the door. Plus a badly photoshopped picture of the ownerâs face on top of the genieâs body, holding a kebab with a big smile on his face. Too big, in fact. Creepy big.
He made a noise of disgust, throwing the bloody paper into the trash, and looked in the mirror again. He sighed, his shoulders hunching under the wrinkled, bloodied and even ripped white shirt that had once been an Armani piece.
His violently purple right eye was completely shut, because the motherfucker was left-handed, apparently, with a tacky fake-silver ring on his pinkie that had torn him open from eyebrow to cheek, nearly as far down as his nostril, because itâs the details that fuck you up.Â
That one had stopped bleeding, at least. The rest, howeverâŚ
The left side of his head was a mess of brown hair sticking to itself, his skull, and up in the air, completely matted with dry blood from smashing against the wall after the first punch that had fucked up his eye. He didnât think he had broken anything there, nor opened. He had tentatively pressed to search for a wound, but it was difficult to tell with his hair completely cemented.
That was when the broken lip had happened. He had barely realised what the fuck had just happened before he was being dragged up by his collar and smashed back down into the wall again, with his back to the bricks this time, another punch immediately flying right on his teeth.Â
Thankfully (or unfortunately, it was a matter of perspective really), this one had been better-aimed, so the ring had barely grazed him. On the downside, the huge, hairy knuckles had hit his lip so hard that heâd torn it open with his own teeth.
Speaking of teeth- on the upside, he still had all of them.
The lip was the one still bleeding.
But it wasnât the only injury yet to quiet down. That second punch had officially knocked out any sense of balance left in his cerebellum, not to mention the whistle in his ears, barely overcome by the sound of the girlâs cries.
He had fallen to the ground, bracing himself on his right elbow, heaving as he tried to suck in some air, drooling and spitting out his own blood on the pavement before he could choke on it.
So then, obviously, the first kick had arrived. Right on his left floating ribs.
He stayed upright on his elbow. Although heâs fairly sure this was around when he had begun sobbing. He didnât know dignity was stored in the lower torso. You win some, you lose some. He hadnât collapsed physically, but the humiliation had definitely hit him harder than the actual kick.
Then the second kick came, in the stomach, and the elbow failed him too, as his right shoulder hit the ground. The third kick was meant to be aimed at the stomach again, but was barely more than a budge as the guy was thrown off balance by the girl clinging to his shoulders, trying to drag him away.Â
The explosion of pain that made his vision go black was indeed not from the kick, nor was it in his stomach. It was a myriad of teeny tiny little stabs in his shoulder that sealed the deal, and that had him waking up an indefinite amount of time later, alone, shivering, still laying on his side, curled against the wall like a roadkill that was moved aside to not disturb the flow of traffic.
He didnât remember getting up, and he didnât remember coming here. He had a few flashes here and there of walking around this odd, deserted town like a zombie in The Last of Us, clutching his ribs and dragging his feet, passing row after row of apartment buildings and closed shops, restaurants, bars, cafes. He hadnât known what time it was, and he still didnât. He still had his phone with him, thank God, and his keys and wallet, too. But he only had one functioning eye, and whenever he tried to look at the time on his screen, the lines morphed into one of those optical illusions he saw on instagram.
That wasnât really a good sign.
His phone, initially, had seemed unharmed, despite the fact it had been in his pocket and he had fallen on it with his entire weight. But he quickly realised that something must have happened to it on some hidden level, as if it had also suffered some sort of internal injuries when, in a stroke of genius (or maybe it was a regular stroke and he had died in that alley, and this was his imagination running at random during his last minutes on this Earth) he had mumbled something to Siri about the time. Several times. And Siri had not answered. Also, his phone wouldnât unlock with his face (understandable), and he still couldnât read anything on his screen, so there was no way he could unlock it with his password.
He does not remember getting into the kebab place, or in the toilets, but he remembers the sign outside, which is a small relief. He can still read words in real life. Maybe heâs not totally concussed.Â
He sighed, letting his forehead rest onto the dirty mirror. His hand subconsciously flew to his right shoulder, checking for the millionth time if there were any glass shards left. It was useless, he knew there was more, but he couldnât reach them, because any movement of his left arm pulled at his left ribs, now hidden away under what was left of his shirt. He had lifted it for just a moment, his hands shaking too much to unbutton it, and had immediately lowered it again.
It was all⌠purple. And red. Half of his torso, nearly from nipple to hip.
He dropped his arm again, squeezing his eyes even further shut.Â
He wanted to cry. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to be picked up and put to bed, he wanted to wake up tomorrow with no bruises and no blood, he wanted to tell Maman about his awful nightmare and hear that it must have been scary, but none of it is real, chÊrie.
But heâs alone, and his lip is steadily dripping blood into the sink, and his shoulder is still full of shards and these toilets smell.
It had been quite a defeat to accept his inability for details.
As a child, he never excelled at maths, because he knew how to solve the problems, he could see the process roll down like a staircase in his head, neatly laid out and ready to be applied. But then he couldnât remember the formulas, he would mix up the numbers, get distracted and sprinkle in a bunch of stupid mistakes.
In writing, he would invent these beautiful, incredible stories with pirates, betrayal, plot twists, fantastical creatures of his own imagination⌠and then he would trip and skip over his words, miss punctuation, mess up the spelling.
It wasnât his fault that he was a practical person. Heâs not the type to get lost in the tiny choices, to stress over the color of the door handles. Heâs a man of action, he only needs the general idea, the big picture, who cares about pressing their nose against the canvas to see the exact strokes.Â
He likes putting data together. That much heâs good at. Collect, organise, combine. There you go, problem-solving at its finest.
To say that rumours ran wild in the paddock was a fact. Data number one. The fact that voices kept spreading about the Ferrari golden boy never once showing up with a girl, a model, an actress, singer- hell, anyone with a pair of boobs and a nice smile for the cameras- was also a fact. Data number two.
At first, he ignored the cold sweat running down his back every time it was brought up, the articles, the gossip pages, the jokes, and he just laughed. They would tease him, ask him if it was true he would paint his car rainbow for the June races, asked him what his boyfriendâs name was, and if he watched Formula 1, if he had a crush on any of them, too.
At first, it was funny (for them. It was funny for them, Charles had never, not once found it funny, it was actually his worst nightmare come to life.) It was funny because it was ridiculous. Him? Gay? Hilarious. Everyone agreed. It was hilarious.
And then the voices had spread. And the rumours had grown. And so it was less amusing, less ridiculous, less unbelievable, because Charles Leclerc had still never publicly been with a woman. Not a girlfriend at the paddock, not a rumour with a model, not a drunken video and a PR disaster.
Nothing.
And so the giggles had turned into looks, and the looks into whispers.
âI canât believe they actually think youâre a faggot.â Pierreâs voice had sounded like he was far away, even though he was simply spread out on the couch in his driver room. A ball kept making its way from his hand to the ceiling and back again. His eyes were very seriously fixed on absolutely nothing.Â
Charles had simply shrugged, his hand nonchalantly finding the spot on his nape, hidden right underneath the high neck of his fireproofs with engineering precision, where the mark left by Sebâs 32 teeth was still engraved in his skin from before qualifying, with Charlesâ face and chest plastered to the cold wet tiles, trying to keep his moans down because every time he opened his mouth he risked being drowned by the shower headâs water pressure.
âItâs business. They sell whatever people buy.â Charles had replied, hearing the words as if coming from someone else.
Pierre had paused, somehow growing even more serious, if possible. It was clear he was putting a lot of effort in trying to find a way to tell people that Charles liked pussy.Â
It obviously wasnât working.
And then Pierre had sat up, letting the ball hit the floor, completely forgotten.
He looked at him with a crazed sort of look in his eyes, the one that comes right before sentences like âLetâs get drunk and steal pumpkins for Halloweenâ or âWhat if I made a website for my own merch but only sold my used boxers? I bet people would buy them.â
This time was no exception.
âYou need proof. You need something to get them off your back, those bastard lychees- no, better, you need someone. Iâll get you the hottest fucking girl on the market, you take her out, you get a quadrillion pictures for the paparazzi, you kiss her in front of the cameras, you bang her in your hotel and youâre done! Theyâre all gonna shut up about you being gay, and my very non-gay best friend gets to fuck a hot chick! This is perfect! Iâm a genius!â
Charles⌠had not had the heart to retort. And the worst part was that Pierre wasnât exactly wrong. Even though he did not know just how true the rumours were, he still wanted to help him get rid of them, and showing up with a girl was a sure way to do that.
There you go, then, the picture is clear: rumour has it that Charles is gay, under absolutely no circumstance could they find out that itâs true, Charles needs to act like a normal 25 years old Formula 1 driver and show up with a hot woman to prove heâs a âreal manâ, like Pierre would say, and Pierre has exactly the right girl.
Data number one and data number two have been collected, combined, and now they have the solution. Problem solved.
Except for data number three, the footnote in the solution that specified that the idea had come from Pierre. Never once had a good idea come from Pierre, Charles should know that.
First detail ignored.
Anyway, they set up the date. The girl Pierre had thought about was apparently a friend of his girlfriend, who, quote unquote âkinda liked the Formula 1 vibeâ. Translated: she wanted to fuck a driver. Even better, she wanted to be photographedwith a driver she was fucking.
Enter Charles.Â
(Quite literally. The girl was a model, if he didnât seal the deal and word got out, there would be truly no doubts left about Charlesâ true passion.)
They had waited until the end of the season to set everything up, Charles had justified it by saying he just âdidnât want to do things halfway, you know busy it gets during race-season, when would i even see herâ, and thank God Pierre had agreed, because yeah of course, that makes sense.
It did. It did make sense, but that wasnât the reason why.Â
The reason was Seb.
The reason was the walk of shame Charles subjected himself to every night of every race weekend, his slippers dragging across moquettes in hotel hallways and up and down elevators, the reason was that moment before he would quietly knock on the door, the other hand stuffed in his pocket to try to hide the was already, embarrassingly, humiliatingly hard.
And then Seb would open the door.
Charles didnât know when it had started.Â
Well, he knew when it had happened the first time, of course, there was not one part of the 2019 Singapore Grand Prix that was easy to forget.
What had happened after Charles had cornered Seb in the toilets, the lights of the club flashing incessantly between blue, purple, blue again, purple again from the open door, Charles feeling his body vibrate with something that had nothing to do with a Formula 1 car, nothing to do with the music pumping through the floor.Â
He didnât remember what he had said, exactly. All he knows is that one moment he was inches away from Sebâs face, his big blue eyes the only thing in his vision, and he was hissing something at him, probably about stolen wins, or something along those lines anyway.
All he knows is that a second later, his head was hitting the wall, hard, as he was all but thrown into one of the bathroom stalls, tripping over the toilet seat, ending up with his back against the corner (metaphorically and physically). And then there was Seb.
For an indefinite amount of time, there was Seb.Â
It was like swimming in a lake of his cologne, laying on a field of his short, spiky stubble, feeling the cold wind of his voice raise goosebumps on his skin, and there was his hands.Â
Everywhere, everywhere, everywhere. He was choking him, he was stroking him, he was fingering him, he was stuffing his fingers in his mouth to hide his moans. And it was still not enough, not enough, he wanted those hands pulling at his ribs, squeezing around his heart and setting a new rhythm to his pleasure, he wanted them to play with the strings of his soul.
In the months, and years that had followed, Charles never had quite managed to understand how it was that this had been the tone set in their escapades. He had been the one to corner Seb, he had been the one that was angry, that was screaming, that was ready for a fight.
And yet when Seb had pushed him into the stall, he had simply⌠opened up. In every way a person can. He simply offered himself up to the winner. And damn him, did Seb look good on a podium, with the flicker of the toilet lights shining on his blond hair, his strong neck, his cold, assessing blue eyes.
What could Charles have done? Not let him?
And then Seb had dragged him out by the collar, and people were staring, and Charles didnât care, and then Seb shoved him in a taxi, and all Charles could remember was his hand on his nape, through the entire ride, and in the elevator and when he opened the door to his room and when he gently pushed him to his knees next to the bed.
He had really warm hands, and what could Charles have done?
But now Seb was retiring, and there would be no more hotel rooms, no more showers, no more knocks at the door of his driver room. There would be no more blond fuzz, no more stubble scratching his cheek as a husky voice in his ear told him how good he was, how perfect, when it all got too much and the tears started spilling and he still, desperately wanted to be good.
And Charles was scared. Charles was scared because he had grown used to this, had learned to time his days, his life, around those moments, had learned to love the invisible rope binding his wrists by which Seb dragged him around.
And now Seb was gone. Winter break would pass, but winter would never end for Charles, because his bed would be forever cold, and his chest would grow frozen, too.
Itâs not like Charles could just go and find someone else. No one could know about hisâŚÂ difference. There was no one he could trust to take care of him like that. He had thought about sex clubs, or male prostitutes, but there was no way that no one would tattle. Gossip like this could feed families. And none of them could compare to Seb, anyway. As depressing as it was, he knew, he could spend his entire life searching, but no one could give him what Seb gave him.
But what else could he do? Get a boyfriend? God, his deviation in bed was already bad enough, but he wasnât gonna go all faggot, that would just be too much. It was one thing to give in to his⌠tendencies at night, with the lights off, never to be spoken about in the light of day. But a relationship? Charles is not like that. He is not like them.
He had convinced himself that maybe, this could be good. Maybe this was what he needed. With Seb gone, maybe his defect would lessen, too. Maybe he wasnât even gay at all, maybe it was just a Seb-thing, just his brain mixing up the adrenaline and competitiveness with his unresolved idol worship, and blurting it out into the anything-soup that is sex.Â
Any emotion could be expressed through sex, Charles had learned at an age somewhere between his limitations in maths and his details-blindness. Sex was like a smoothie. Anything can be turned into a smoothie.
And maybe this date, with a girl, was perfect too. Just what he needed. Seb gone, temptation gone, he could prove to the world and to himself that he could be normal, that he was a real man who could fuck a woman.Â
Yes, yes that was exactly what he needed. He had been sure.
Charles spits another clot of blood into the sink, and thinks that the only resentment he feels towards the guy that reduced him to this, is that if he could go back in time, he would do this himself, beat his past self to a pulp. He had been so stupid.
The girl was very pretty. She was Cuban, as far as he remembered, with brown skin, and brown wavy hair down to her ass, and brown eyes with thick eyelashes, and big lips plumped by a lip gloss, he believed, and a small, long, straight nose. She was also very short. âShe models for like⌠instagram brands, or somethingâ Pierre had told him, showing him her profile, looking at her pictures with that look in his eyes that sometimes men get when they look at women, like he wanted to print the picture on a cake and eat it whole.Â
Charles had never felt that. He had looked at the pictures, trying to look interested, as Pierre paused on a beach one in Miami, with the girl laying on the sand at sunset. with a bikini that barely protected that from a public indecency charge, and Charles had copied one of the noises of appreciation he had learned were custom when looking at a hot woman. Pierre had copied him, and had burst out laughing. âYou owe me, you owe me, look what i found for youâ he had said, eyes shining as they racked over the picture.
He was lucky his girlfriend couldnât hear that.
The girl was hot, there was no doubt, she had a pretty face and a great body with all the right curves. Her name was Amaya. Charles had figured that maybe he was still too used to Seb, that his brain was still too used to connecting sex to a male body, to now just switch at the sight of a pair of boobs in a bikini. Kind of like when you take the same route every day to go to school, so whenever you walk out the door your feet start moving in that direction automatically, even though you wanted to go somewhere else.
It was fine. It would be fine, the season had just ended, and he would have time to detoxify himself from Sebâs dick (and mouth, and hands, and voice and-), and wait until the gaping Seb-shaped hole in his chest would close up a little, and then he would set his head straight, go out for dinner with a sexy model, and fuck her in a hotel room.
That way he could also make peace with the knowledge that his other hole would never get filled again. He was gonna be a real man now, a real champion, and real champions slammed their dicks into women, they didnât get dicks slammed in their ass.Â
Look at Seb, for example, the bane of his existence and the root of his problem: yes, Seb had had sex with Charles, another man, but Seb fucked Charles, he didnât get fucked. There was a difference. Sebâs defect could be overlooked, because yeah ok he slept with a man, but he was still, wellâŚÂ the man.
Maybe that was why Seb was a champion. Maybe that was also why Seb had plummeted in his later years. His performances had dropped right around the time he had started sleeping with Charles. Could that be why? Maybe sleeping with another man took something away from you, like⌠testosterone, or something. Made you less of a man, less of a champion. Some chemistry thing.
Did that mean Charles had been Sebâs first? It only made sense: Seb had been winning until he fucked Charles, so before that, obviously, his masculinity had been intact and that was why he had been able to win four championships. It was Charles that had ruined him.
The thought had filled him with a strange sort of satisfaction. He had ruined him. He had ruined Seb just as much as Seb had ruined him. An eye for an eye. Charles could never fuck women again, Seb would never win a race again. Charles would never be a man, but Seb would never be a champion.
And also, a smaller, shameful, hidden part of him kept repeating in a serpentine, slimy voice âYouâre his first, youâre his first, he belongs to you as much as you belong to him. You have a piece of his soul just as he has a piece of yours.â
He had immediately suffocated that thought, and tried to suffocate the hot wave travelling through his body, too. Who cared if he was Sebâs first? That was over. It was done, it had been a boyish mistake, he was sucked into something he didnât understand. But no more of that now, no more Seb, no more men, no more deviation. He was a man now.
Charles never spoke to Amalya. Neither in text nor on the phone. Pierre had taken care of everything, the date was set at the beginning of January, right after New Yearâs, because apparently Amalya wanted to change her brand from Miami-beach-girl to European-old-money, so she had decided she needed a ski trip (and a photoshoot). Amalya hadnât said any of this, it had been explained to Charles by Pierre, who had been told (in different words, clearly) by his girlfriend, who had seen Amalya the week before.
Anyway, they settled on Switzerland.Â
Charles had tried, he really had, to change the location. Anything else would have worked: Italy, Austria, Germany, even France, but Pierre was adamant.
âNo, no you donât understand, you need to go somewhere you can speak both French and Italian so you can impress her, but France is awful in January, full of tourists. Iâll send you to Switzerland, youâll see, just you, her, and the paparazzi. It will be perfect. Iâll book you the ski-pass for the ski area that overlooks the Lake, youâll see.â
The Lake.
The Lake.
Lake fucking Constance, the one where Sebastian Vettel lived.Â
He wanted to kill Pierre. He really did.
But it was done. It was done, and he didnât have any good reason why this date couldnât happen in Switzerland, next to Sebâs house. It was just a ski resort, who cared if he could look out the window and see Seb feed his chickens, or whatever. He didnât have a good excuse for Pierre, but most importantly, he didnât have a good excuse for himself. If he truly wanted to break free from Seb, if he truly wanted to break free from⌠from these tendencies, he had to be able to be in Sebâs general vicinity without immediately feeling the urge to drop to his knees and beg for dick like a- like a-
So he stayed silent. And he patted Pierre on the back.Â
He could do this. He had to do this. He had to prove it to himself, because Charles was not a faggot. Charles could be a man, a real man, he could be a champion.
The date had gone well, against all odds. Amalya was just as pretty as the pictures, she arrived at the 5-star Restaurant he had booked right on time, wearing a Louis Vuitton full body suit with Prada après-ski boots and a vintage fur. The outfit was kind of tacky, but she looked good, and Charles did the fake-kiss on the cheek thing, because Pierre had told him to be European, American girls like that, and they had eaten their food, started with small talk, got to know each other. Amalya kept looking at him like she wanted to drag him to the bathroom and have her way with him, which brought back a deja-vu that he immediately pushed back into whatever dark side of his conscience it had crawled out of, and closed her lips around her fork after every bite of food while looking up at him through her eye-lashes, and asked him if he knew how to ski, if he could teach her, if he could take her to that beautiful piste they had told her about that overlooked the Lake.
Charles couldnât breathe. Several times, he considered making a run for it, or fake-fainting so they would have to call an ambulance. But he had pushed through, and smiled, and chuckled, and flirted back, while repeating in his mind that he could do this, he could do this, he could be normal, he could be like everyone else.
Then the date ended (which he paid for, of course), and the true nightmare began.
He knew the time had come. Even if Amalya hadnât been looking at him like she was about to get naked right then and there, on the snowy street, he still knew.
This was the part where they went back to the hotel, and had sex. Like a normal man does when he goes out with a sexy woman who clearly wants him to do just that.
His courage faltered. It was freezing cold, and yet he could feel his palms getting sweaty, and waves of terror were washing down his back. He needed to buy some time, he linked arms with her, taking her on a walk to show her the town. Pierre had chosen well, it looked straight out of a postcard, with the medieval German-looking houses covered in white snow.
He kept glancing around, hoping to be subtle, hoping to see a camera, or a phone. Thankfully, some teenagers were standing to the side, hoping to be sneaky as they giggled and recorded Charles Leclerc walking with a girl. He could have cried in relief, it hadnât been all for nothing, the video would be posted, the rumours would stop. He was safe.
But another realization was still settling in his gut.
He couldnât do this. He was growing more and more sure of it with every step they took. He couldnât do it. Maybe they were right, maybe he was a faggot, or maybe Seb had infiltrated his brain like a parasite that couldnât expelled. Maybe he truly was ruined, and there was no going back.Â
As Charles looks into the mirror of the Kebab placeâs toilets, and down into the bloody sink, having given up on stopping the blood flowing from his lower lip, heâs still not sure whether what happened afterwards was by any means preferable to what awaited him in his hotel room, but he canât deny that a part of him is, despite the probably broken ribs, the black eye, the maybe-concussion, the shards of the broken bottle in his shoulder, and his destroyed lips, that is somewhat relieved to have been spared that humiliation. The injuries would heal, but if he had gone up to his hotel room, with mind-blowingly hot Amalya, and hadnât managed to get his dick upâŚ
nothing could have fixed that. Nothing could have been done. The delusion would have shattered, and he would have been naked and alone in front of the truth he had spent years running from.
And there was no coming back from that.
He didnât know how long they had been walking for. Time and Space kept dilating and contracting in his mind, the only proof he had that the world hadnât stopped were the constant waves of terror and nausea travelling through his body. They had reached the end of the small town, no more luxury shops, or restaurants, or hotels. The streets were deserted, they were alone.
Amalya looked up at him, nervously. She must have sensed something was off.Â
âSo⌠where is your hotel again?â
Charles hadnât even had time to reply, before a voice cut them off from a couple doors down.
âHey! What the fuck- who are you motherfucker- who is he- Amalya what the fuck is this-â
Apparently they were not alone. A man had walked out between two houses. Well, stumbled would be a more appropriate term, Charles could smell the alcohol even from a distance, and the guy looked to be barely able to walk on two legs, which made for an impressive sight, given he was at least 20 cm taller than Charles, and probably several stones heavier. He looked like an ogre swaying side to side.
Amalya looked like she had seen a ghost. She had mumbled something, Charles couldnât even remember what, but it had been useless, he was only looking at Charles.
âWhat the fuck you looking at motherfucker, you sleeping with my girlfriend? Is that it, huh?â
Now, if he had had the time, Charles could have explained to him that he was not, by definition, sleeping with his girlfriend, given that 1. this was their first date and 2. Charles was actually right in the middle of a sexuality crisis so not only had he not slept with this guyâs girlfriend, he probably wouldnât be able to ever sleep with her, either.
But alas, the ogre didnât wait for an answer, and the first punch flew.
Now, as Charles gripped the sink for dear life, trying to measure his breaths so as to not hit his ribs and tear apart his left lung, he was sure of one thing: none of this would be happening if he had just been born a woman. If he were a woman, there would be nothing wrong with him, no shame, no guilt in sleeping with Seb and he wouldnât need to set up dates with random women to prove his masculinity to himself and the general public and also-
if he had been born a woman, and had had women friends, neither him or his testosterone-rigged friendsâ brain would be so fucking incapable of looking at details that his best friend would just forget to mention the fact that the woman he was setting him up with was in the middle of an on and off relationship with the asshole millionaire son of the CEO of an oil company, who just happened to be skiing in the same fucking city as them.
This last piece of information, however, would only be given to him at a later time. With heartfelt apologies and a lot of tears from Pierre.
Charles still didnât know what time it was, he still couldnât read any of the numbers on his phone, but all he knew was that he needed to get the fuck out of this toilet already.
With Herculean effort, he let go of the sink, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other and carefully exiting the door without hitting anything, which was easier said than done, given that his vision was beginning to be filled with black dots. Once again, not exactly reassuring.
He walked up to the owner, blinking up at the menu above the counter before focusing on his face. In order to speak, he had to remove the balled-up toilet paper he was still holding against his mouth, and he hoped he wouldnât start drooling blood all over himself again.
âThank youâ he mumbled, digging into his pockets. He pulled out a crumpled 20⏠and left it on the counter, for the trouble. The owner was looking at him in a mix of disgust and worry.
 âAre you ok? You need taxi? Ambulance?â He asked in broken English and with a french accent, too. But maybe that was just the concussion.
Charles simply shook his head. He couldnât go to the hospital, news would spread like wildfire, it would be a PR nightmare, and he had no idea how to explain this, either. What could he say, that he got mugged? In Switzerland? At a ski resort?
His hotel was out of the question, too. With his luck, there would already be fans camped outside waiting for him.
His brain was still wracking itself, trying to push through the fog, when his mouth moved of its own accord.
âHow can i get to⌠to Eschenz? Lake Constance?â
The owner looked at him like he was crazy.
âNot on foot. Not on foot. I call taxi, wait.â
So Charles waited, using a straw to drink the glass of water offered to him by the owner, whose smile was a lot less creepy in real life than on the sign, because his lip was too fucked up to be able to drink from the cup.
He was debating whether it was a good idea to tell the owner about the sign, because he really thought it might scare away some customers, when a black Mercedes pulled up front, gesturing him to come inside. So he simply thanked and left, still holding his face together with the toilet paper.
The taxi driver also made a face as he saw him, but the small grace of having his face beaten to a pulp, is that he was hardly recognisable. One less worry.
They arrived at their destination in silence, with Charles focusing on not falling asleep, because he had heard that it was bad to fall asleep with a possible concussion, and the driver sneaking in a glance every few minutes to make sure he wasnât bleeding on the interior. Charles honestly had no idea how long the ride lasted, and just dropped a âŹ100 bill in his hand as he climbed in. The only time he opened his mouth was right before stepping out, when he mumbled something about the time.
â2:37â the driver had said.
Fuck.
âI cannot continue further, this is a private property.â The guy said finally, stopping the car. They were, essentially, in the middle of nowhere, it was pitch black outside, with pine trees closing in on them from all sides. Also, it had begun to snow.
Charles simply nodded. He had given the owner of the Kebab place Sebâs exact address, so he could call the taxi, which he only knew because Seb had thrown a Goodbye Party when he had left Ferrari and had invited the entire crew of both garages.Â
Charles was sure enough he knew his way from here, it was only a matter of following the rocky path up the hill, but as the taxi drove off, leaving him in the dark, with the snow catching in his hair, and melting into icy water that was starting to drench his shirt, he suddenly couldnât move. He stood as frozen as the snowflakes coming down on his face, staring up at the trail.
What the hell had he done?
He hadnât even⌠he hadnât been thinking, he couldnât use his phone, couldnât call anyone, and his head wasnât working, and he just⌠why the fuck had he given them Sebâs address? He could have done literally anything else, he could have asked the owner to unlock his phone for him, and instructed him to call Pierre, or his brothers, or anyone else, literally anyone else. He could have done anythingelse, other than showing up at Sebâs door like⌠like this. At 3 a.m., no less, when they hadnât even spoken in weeks.
He looked around, feeling like an idiot, as if hoping that the taxi driver would magically reappear. And what would he even tell him? âHi, sorry, I made a mistake. Iâm not gay, i just have a gay virus in my brain that activates whenever I'm in a 100 km radius of the asshole living up there like a heremite.â
But there was no turning back now. He was in the middle of the woods, he was sure he was gonna pass out soon from one of the injuries, unsure which, he still couldnât use his phone, it was the middle of the night, and it was fucking snowing.
Feeling like a prisoner walking to the gallows, he slowly started climbing the trail, feeling his entire body protest with every step, holding his mouth together with one hand, and his ribs in place with the other.
He couldnât believe it. He couldnât believe he was actually doing this.
He could not say how long it took him to get to the front door, but his entire body was frozen, he had reached the point in the process of freezing to death where you even stop shivering. He could not feel his fingers anymore, nor the pain. As much of a blessing as the latter was, he couldnât deny it was starting to scare him.
He reached the entrance.
It was exactly as he remembered it, a cozy porch in Maplewood, with a swing to the left now stripped of any cushions due to the weather, and a table with some chairs to the right. In the middle, an average door with a golden pommel, and a yellow light flickering above it.
He climbed the three wooden stairs, walking until he was right in front of it, feeling the wooden boards creaking with his every step. His right hand, the one that was holding his side, hovered over the doorbell. He dropped his left hand as well, still uselessly holding the balled-up toilet paper. He figured the cold had stopped the bleeding by now.
He paused.
A small, irrational voice in his head told him that he was still in time to turn back around, pretend none of this had ever happened, turn his back to the door and lock Seb in the darkest, furthest drawer of his conscience and never think of him again.
But he couldnât, and he knew. There was nowhere else he could go. There was nothing else he could do. If he stood out here any longer, he would freeze to death, or his injuries would worsen, orâŚ
He was gonna show up at Sebâs door either way, dead or alive.Â
A memory flashed through his mind. Of the secondtime, of when this years-long affair with Seb had truly started. Japan 2019, three weeks after Singapore. The first of dozens of times when Charles had dragged himself to Sebâs door, begging for scraps of love.
For a moment, he tried to imagine Sebâs face when he would open the door. He was gonna have a heart attack, Charles was sure. He wondered if Seb knew that this was no different than the pain Charles always carried to Sebâs door, and it would just be the first time that Seb actually saw it.
He rang the doorbell.
However long it took for Seb to (probably) wake up, try to understand what the fuck was going on, who was the asshole ringing his door at this ungodly hour and why, make his way down the stairs, and finally open the door, was not doing Charlesâ nerves any favours.Â
With every second that passed, he felt more and more stupid. I mean, was this really necessary? He was fine, all he needed was an ice pack, he could have just tried to sneak into his hotel from the back. Or he could have just grabbed a Covid mask and walked with his head down so as to not show his eye too much. He would have ordered some ice to be left at his door, and he would have stayed hidden for a couple days. Maybe he would have called for help, too. It was only right for Pierre to help him, Charles was beginning to blame him entirely for this whole mess.
Although his general sense of awareness was still fucked, hearing included, he could faintly hear the sound of steps coming from inside the house, getting closer. One last rush of panic had him looking around for an escape. Even dying of hypothermia and being dragged into the woods by a bear seemed like a wonderful prospect right at that moment.
However, he didnât have time to dwell further (or put his escape plan in action), because he could already hear the door unlock, the pommel turning. His heart was so far up his throat, he was fairly sure he could chew on it if he tried.
The door swung open.
That was around the moment Charlesâ brain officially abandoned the ship, swimming to safety as the panel control monitors glowed red with the sign ABORT MISSION, ABORT MISSION. Even the siren had started.
Seb was standing there. This, by itself, was not surprising, given this was Sebâs house. Seb was wearing grey sweatpants, a navy T-shirt, and white socks. This was also not surprising, because Seb was German, and as such, enjoyed mimicking his natural habitat (the Antarctic) when it was time to hibernate (get his mandatory 8 hours of sleep), and as a common tradition for his species, he would only shed the white socks during a solemn pagan ritual at the time of his death, with an arduous surgical operation that would separate his feet from the cotton material.
The fact that Seb looked seconds away from undergoing said ritual due to an early departure, however, was less familiar.
For a moment, they just stared. Charles couldnât feel the cold anymore (although that could be attributed to the first symptoms of hypothermia), nor the pain of his injuries (hypothermia once again, most likely). All he could see, all he could feel, was Seb.
He could have cried. From relief or fear, he didnât know.
Seb, on the other hand, was staring at him in⌠terror? He must have looked like a hallucination, Charles realised. A demon taking the form of Sebâs conscience. He was staring at Charles with his mouth parted, several days of stubble coating his face, his blue eyes opened so wide that Charles was scared they might spill out onto the porch.
Finally, Seb spoke.Â
âCharles.â
It definitely wasnât a greeting. It wasnât even a question, it was more of a⌠statement. Like seeing a cow on a road trip. Youâre gonna say âcowâ, of course, but it doesnât mean anything. You see cow, you say cow.
Charles didnât move. He couldnât have opened his mouth if he wanted to. It seemed that the cold had finally reached his tongue, too.
âCharlesâ repeated Seb, looking less dazed now, his face morphing in pure panic.
âCharles- what the fuck-â
Charles still couldnât speak, he simply stared ahead as Seb stepped closer, his eyes racking over him like he still couldnât believe it, his hands hovering over Charlesâ body as if he wasnât sure where he could touch, initiating a series of aborted movements that never quite closed the distance.
Pathetically, Charles thought that Sebâs hands on his body were actually probably the only thing he wanted at that moment. He would have traded the comforting numbness of the cold, he would have gladly felt the pain radiating from every inch of his body all over again, if it meant he could also feel the warmth of Sebâs touch.
Seb lookedâŚÂ terrified was the only way to put it.
Finally, his hands found Charlesâ elbows, barely making contact as he guided Charles inside, closing the door with a kick. He was ushered to the kitchen, where Seb pulled out a chair from underneath the table, which Charles promptly collapsed on, with his head thrown back, eyes closed. He couldnât keep it up anymore. It was as if all his determination had left his limbs as soon as Seb had grabbed him.
He could feel the fight bleed out of his system and pool on the floor around his chair, with every second he spent basking in Sebâs general presence, every atom in his body reacting with the air of the cabin. He was imbedded in the walls, drenching the very furniture. Charlesâ entire body rejoiced, as he lay steaming in a pool of just Seb, Seb, Seb.
He was tired. He wanted to go to sleep. He didnât want to dirty up Sebâs house, though. He was still covered in blood. But Seb was nice, maybe he would let him sleep on the floor. He was gonna ask him. Yes, he was gonna⌠open his mouth⌠and askâŚ
Seb was back. He had found a first aid kit.Â
Suddenly, Charles could feel Sebâs hands cupping his face, and his eyes opened on pure instinct.
Seb was standing in front of him, bent down so his face was level with Charlesâ, his blue eyes were scanning every injury, but they settled on Charlesâ own green irises (or iris, singular, given that his right eye was still swollen shut) as soon as they flickered open once more.
âCharles.â
He sounded very scared.
âCharles, listen to me, what hurts? Does anything hurt, sweetheart? Chest? Legs?â
Charles swallowed, trying to bring some saliva to his dry mouth. Sebâs hands were warm. He could do whatever Seb wanted, as long as Sebâs hands stayed right there.
âRibsâ he whispered, barely. His voice sounded wrecked even to his own ears.âAndâŚâ he tried to grab his right shoulder, but it pulled at his left ribs, so he let his arm go limp once more, squeezing his eyes as he let the pain pass. He dropped his head down to his chest, and Sebâs hands found their way to his hair instead.
âGlassâ he mumbled, as an explanation.
His hands raised of their own volition, clinging onto Sebâs t-shirt. He didnât know why he was acting like this. He had been fine. Until now, he had been fine. He felt like it was all crashing on him at once, like all the injuries were being inflicted once again. That was so unfair, he had been so good, he had wanted Seb to see, he wanted Seb to see how good he was being.
âSebâ Charles whispered, hiding his face in Sebâs stomach. To his horror, he realised the t-shirt was growing damp with his tears.
âMy headâ he mumbled.
