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Reading the telemetry it was clean.
The sector times were consistent. The brakes performed at the maximum and there was no understeer or oversteer to be seen. Each lap matched the number. Somewhere behind him he heard an engineer say “Smooth driving today”.
Carlos turned around not to acknowledge the words because they weren’t for him, but to look at Charles. Charles didn’t react to the words he just gave a slight nod of his head. He watched as Charles fingers tapped in an anxious rhythm against the table
Charles' hair was still stuck to his head from when he took off his helmet. He hadn’t showered yet and he hadn’t smiled since lap Thirty-Five. He could hear the reporters outside buzzing about his P5 finish. Ferrari had aimed higher for him and Charles always tried to exceed those expectations.
Carlos leaned back in his chair with his arms folded. He saw how Charles pressed his nails into his palm, once, twice like it was some sought of coping mechanism to keep him grounded.
When the debrief ended, he watched as Charles stood without a word and walked out.
Carlos didn’t have any intention to follow. Not consciously anyway.
His legs propelled him forward through hospitality, the paddock and into the empty dark garage where Charles and his cars still sat.
He didn’t find Charles there but what he did find was a laptop still plugged in. Before him illuminated on the screen was rows of colourful telemetry. He analysed the lines for ages looking at the split sectors and the milliseconds and meters that determined the laps.
There was nothing out of the ordinary. It was clean, perfect but somehow the lines looked hollow like there was no rhythm or aggression just driving. The mystery made him sit down and analyse the lap where the tire strategy shifted. This lap was when Charles' pace started to fade, yet from what Carlos could see it wasn’t from degradation, traffic or weather, the only possibility he could come up with was hesitation.
Corners where Charles knew the apexes like clockwork, were now too safe, too early, too soft. In the data there was something absent and as Carlos closed the laptop the answers went with the black screen that followed.
That night the two of them didn’t talk much.
For Carlos dinner was room service at the hotel located 1 hour from the track. Sometime later Carlos knocked twice on a door before Charles opened it. Before him Charles' hair was damp from a shower and the man was wearing a hoodie at least a size too big for him.
"You didn’t have to bring that," Charles mumbled, glancing at the bag of food Carlos carried.
"I know," Carlos said. "But I figured you didn’t eat."
Charles didn’t deny it. He sat at the table in silence as he watched Carlos unpacked the containers. Pasta, nothing fancy but one of his favourites.
Halfway through the meal, Charles finally said, “They’re going to blame me.”
Carlos didn’t look up. "Who?"
"Everyone. The media. The team. Probably even myself, in about ten minutes."
"They’re not the one in the car, Charles."
Charles pushed the pasta around on his plate. "But the result. That’s all anyone cares about these days”.
"You think I care about P5?" Carlos said to him.
"You should," Charles said softly. "You're my teammate."
Carlos looked at him then, really looked at the shadows under his eyes, the tightness in his jaw. He’d seen drivers break before. But Charles didn’t crack. He was folding in on himself like an imploding star.
"I care more about the guy who hasn’t looked anyone in the eye all week," Carlos said.
Charles froze; his hand stilled on his fork.
Later on, that night after Carlos left, Charles stared at the telemetry on his iPad. He focused on lap 17 trying to desperately see what Carlos saw but he couldn’t.
But for the first time in weeks, he wanted to.
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Suzuka was not an ideal weekend.
Visibility was limited. Strategy calls were a joke. Charles' car had managed to aquaplane on lap 20, he was sent spinning into the wall crashing against it with a thunk.
Yet he didn’t curse or even scream. He just sat there in his car getting soaked from the rain, his cold hands gripping the steering wheel as rain slipped down his visor, a mirror image to the tears he wouldn’t let fall.
By the time the marshals got to him, he was already out of the car, helmet still on.
He walked away like a ghost.
Carlos finished the race in p4. He couldn’t tell you what happened in the last 20 laps. The race passed in a blur as his driving was determined by his instincts. All he could think about was the sound of Charles crashing as he watched from behind as he aquaplaned into the wall.
When he got back to the paddock the media were waiting like they always were. He answered questions calmly. He said Charles had pushed hard. He said the car had been a handful in Sector Two.
He didn’t say: Charles hasn’t looked okay in weeks.
He didn’t say: I’m scared for him.
He didn’t say: I need to find him.
But he did.
The motorhome was mostly deserted as night had settled over the paddock long ago. A few crew members remained packing up the last of the supplies and some engineers remained analysing the data.
Carlos slipped through a back door and paused by Charles’s room.
The door was slightly open. The light was off.
At first, he thought it was empty, then he saw him.
Charles was curled in the corner by the small couch, knees drawn up, fireproofs still clinging to his arms and legs like a second skin. His hands were wrapped around his helmet, as if still trying to shield himself from the memories of today.
He didn’t look up when Carlos stepped in.
Carlos didn’t speak. He sank to the floor across from him, close but not touching.
Carlos listened as Charles' breath stuttered once, then again.
Carlos reached out, slow and sure, and placed a hand on Charles’s knee.
Not to pull him closer. Just to be there.
Then, barely above a whisper, Charles spoke :“I don’t know how to stop disappointing everyone.”
Carlos felt his chest tighten and his heart stutter.
He squeezed gently, thumb brushing over damp fireproofs. His voice was low and steady.
“You didn’t disappoint me, Charles”.
Charles let go of the helmet, placing it by his side.
His hands dropped to his lap, palms up, as if offering up in surrender. Or asking for something he refused to name
.
Carlos got the message, sliding his hands on top. They sat like that in the quiet together as he worked on grounding the man to the feeling of his hands instead of his mind.
Eventually, Carlos leaned forward, forehead resting against Charles’s, both their eyes closed.
Not for a kiss. Just proximity.
“I’m still here,” Carlos murmured.
And that was enough.
Later on, that night the hotel was still, no sounds to be heard. People had already moved on from today's race, but Charles hadn’t.
He stood looking out the window, his hair was still damp from an earlier shower as he admired the world outside, craving for something just as peaceful. He still felt hollow, his self-blame still there but not as overwhelming as before.
Carlos knocked once before entering.
No small talk, no questions. Just a sense of understanding that had settled between them hours ago on the floor of the motorhome.
“I brought tea,” Carlos said, holding out a takeaway cup from the lobby bar.
Charles took it without saying a word. He didn’t drink it right away, he held onto it letting the heat absorb into his hands, his eyes though were fixed somewhere around Carlos’s chest. It was as if his body knew Carlos was safe, even if his mind hadn’t caught up yet.
Carlos sat on the edge of the bed and waited.
Charles finally spoke. “I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”
Carlos didn’t flinch. He didn’t offer solutions, didn’t say any type of reassurances. Instead, he said: “You don’t have to know tonight.”
Charles blinked. Looked at Carlos for the first time. He felt something in his chest crack a little because he crossed the room slowly, his limbs heavy, as he sat the tea down.
Then he sat on the bed beside Carlos.
Close. Not touching.
And after a long moment, he leaned sideways, his head finding Carlos’s shoulder. A sigh left his mouth as he let the weight of himself settle.
Carlos stayed still.
Then his hand found Charles’s. Not interlaced. Just there.
Then slowly Charles turned his palm up, just enough for this time to let Carlos intertwine their fingers together, the warmth slowly bringing his body back to life, the heaviness slowly fading away.
Sometime later Charles turned his head in the dark and asked Carlos a question “Will it always be like this?”
Carlos didn’t know the answer, that was up to Charles to figure out. Instead, he let his fingers brush against Charles' wrist, reassuring him that he was here and that for now everything was okay.
With that Charles slept well for the first time in weeks.
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The shift between them was barely visible to the outside world. There were no declarations or labels, just a new rhythm.
Carlos would enter the hospitality area and leave a protein bar by Charles’s water bottle without comment. During long flight delays, Charles leaned against Carlos’s shoulder like it was second nature. And Carlos let him.
No one asked questions. But they noticed. Because Charles started showing up to meetings on time. Carlos started watching every frame of Charles’s onboard, even when he didn’t have to and because whatever weight Charles had been holding had slowly begun to lift.
The next race at Barcelona was brutal.
Charles finished p10 after a botched strategy call sent him back into the midfield. He was fuming but he didn’t show it, he put on a fake smile and lied through his teeth to the reporters.
But in the hotel room that night, he didn’t speak for twenty minutes straight.
Carlos sat at a small desk in the corner, his laptop was open but forgotten about as his eyes kept flickering towards Charles who was fully clothed laying face down in the bed.
Carlos eventually stood, walked over and knelt beside the bed. He didn’t ask what’s wrong? or are you okay? because he knew the problem already.
Instead, he reached for Charles’s hand and ran his thumb gently across the pulse point of his wrist.
“Still here,” he said quietly.
Charles turned his face toward him, hair rustled, eyes red, but no tears to be seen
“Can I?” he started. Then stopped.
Carlos waited.
Charles sat up slowly, back to the headboard.
“Can I just stay with you tonight?
Carlos nodded. “Of course.”
That night, they lay side by side in the same bed for the first time. There was space between them, but it wasn’t begging to be filled, so when Charles' fingers drifted across the sheets, Carlos met them halfway.
Not a single word was muttered. But both of them knew that this was something.
Not fragile or fleeting.
And for Charles it felt like breathing for the first time after holding it in for far too long.
When they woke up the next morning before heading out to face the world, Carlos handed Charles his telemetry from the race.
It was marked, not with criticisms but with encouragement. Places where he had managed to find pace where no one else had, or places where he had defended beautifully had been underlined and circled. Yet what made his heart spiral was the note Carlos had left him “You were brilliant here, don’t let others tell you otherwise”.
Charles read it twice.
Then folded the paper and slipped it into the inside pocket of his jacket, right over his heart.
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It started happening without them planning for it to. Moments across the season became more charged as their dynamic shifted.
Thursday night in Imola, they sat shoulder to shoulder in the back of the engineering truck, watching race simulations on the screen. The room smelled like burnt coffee and damp fireproofs. Charles leaned forward his hand brushing Carlos’s wrist.
Neither of them moved away.
They watched three laps in silence, still touching.
When Charles finally shifted, Carlos's skin felt cold.
In the garage, Charles started finding his gloves already laid out beside his balaclava. He didn’t ask who was doing it and Carlos never said.
During driver briefings, they no longer sat opposite each other. They sat together.
Close enough for Charles to tap his knee against Carlos’s when Fred made a bad joke.
Close enough for Carlos to reach across and nudge Charles’s hand when no one else was looking.
In the hotel room in Montreal, after a long day of media, Charles was quiet again. The kind of quiet where he let himself be undone, hoodie on, legs curled up.
Carlos said nothing. Just pulled the blanket off the back of the couch and draped it over him.
Charles reached out briefly and caught the edge of Carlos’s wrist as he turned to leave.
“Stay,” was all he said.
Carlos sat beside him. Close enough that their thighs touched.
He could feel the heat of Charles’s skin through the denim.
Still neither of them moved, but the air between them was electric
And when Charles fell asleep against his shoulder an hour later, Carlos didn’t move. Not even to breathe deeper. Like any shift might break the spell.
On the flight to Silverstone, they shared headphones.
Carlos watched the movie.
Charles watched Carlos.
That night, in the hallway between their rooms, Charles hesitated.
He turned, and for the first time, his hand reached for Carlos’s.
Not just to hold.
But to pull.
Carlos let himself be pulled. But only as far as the doorframe, his breath catching at the closeness.
Their foreheads brushed.
But it was more than enough. Not a kiss. Not yet.
But he could feel that it was coming.
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Monza was a mess.
Not because of the result Charles finished on the podium. Carlos held off two McLarens like a man possessed. The strategy worked and the cars came back in one piece.
It was a mess because the mask was starting to crack.
Because Charles smiled through interviews like always, but Carlos could see the edges of something unraveling. The way his fingers fidgeted with his watch strap. The way he kept looking over his shoulder, like he was scared that something was coming.
Because Carlos had seen that look before, in his own reflection when he looked in the mirror during the 2015 season.
And he couldn’t stay quiet this time, not when it was Charles.
It was past midnight when Carlos knocked on Charles’s hotel door. He didn’t expect him to open. But Charles did and stepped aside without a word.
Carlos entered.
When the door shut before him, Charles spoke. “I don’t know how to do this anymore”.
Carlos didn’t have to ask what he was referring to, he already knew.
He crossed the room slowly and when Charles sat on the edge of the bed, Carlos dropped to one knee in front of him on instinct.
“Then don’t do it alone,” he said.
Charles blinked.
“That’s not fair,” he whispered.
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not supposed to be like this. You’re not supposed to care this much. I’m not supposed to let you.”
Carlos’s hands rested lightly on Charles’s knees. Anchoring the both of them
“I do,” he said simply. “I care this much.”
Charles swallowed.
“I thought if I ignored it, it would pass. I thought if I kept quiet long enough, it would fade.”
“And did it?”
Charles shook his head once.
“No.”
Carlos leaned in, forehead against Charles’s, just like that night in Suzuka.
Soft. Intentional.
“I waited,” he said. “I waited until I couldn’t wait anymore.”
And then finally Charles kissed him.
Carlos kissed him back desperately, hands lifting gently to Charles’s jaw, thumbs brushing away the last remnants of restraint.
It wasn’t a perfect kiss. It was real.
And when they broke apart, foreheads still pressed, Charles exhaled.
“I love you,” he said.
It wasn’t a performance. It was the truth that had lived in his chest for longer than he’d acknowledged its existence.
Carlos smiled, “I know,” he whispered. “Me too.”
Their lips reconnected, the kiss deepened rapidly. Their mouths moved together like they'd done this before.
Charles made a sound, low in his throat something between a gasp and a sigh as Carlos pulled him closer by his hips, letting their chests collide. It was soft and the passion was threatening to overwhelm them.
Carlos pulled back just enough to look him in the eye. His voice was barely a breath.
“Are you sure?”
Charles’s answer was immediate. Whispered against Carlos’s lips.
“I’ve never been more sure.”
They didn’t rush.
Carlos peeled Charles’s hoodie off gently, hands gliding over warm skin, Charles trembled at the touch but not from the cold.
Carlos kissed down his throat, pausing at the hollow of his collarbone where his pulse beat fast and loud.
Charles’s fingers gripped the hem of Carlos’s shirt and pushed it up, palms splaying across his ribs like he needed to trace every inch of him
“You’re beautiful,” he whispered, barely audible.
Carlos smiled against his skin. “I’m yours.”
The bed caught them as they sank into it, limbs tangled, mouths chasing each other between moans and sighs.
Carlos took his time.
Mapped every freckle, every scar, every place where Charles gasped and whispered his name like a prayer.
When their hips met, clothed still but desperate, Charles arched into him, panting.
Carlos rolled his hips once, testing and Charles shattered.
“Please,” he whispered. “I can’t, I need, Carlos.”
That sound wrecked Carlos. Want spreading throughout his body.
He slipped his hand between them, palming over Charles through the thin fabric of his briefs, feeling the heat, the pulse, the need.
Charles choked out something in French, broken and raw.
Carlos leaned in close, lips brushing his ear.
“Tell me what you need.”
“You,” Charles gasped. “Just you”.
Clothes fell away in pieces.
Charles kissed him like it was the only way he knew how to speak. Carlos touched him like he was reading a language only he could understand.
When Charles came his hips stuttering, voice breaking against Carlos’s shoulder he whispered Je t’aime like it was the only word in his vocabulary.
Carlos followed moments later, undone by the sound of his name on Charles’s lips.
After, they lay tangled in the sheets, still breathing hard, sweat cooling between them.
Carlos traced idle circles on Charles’s back, his other hand cradling the nape of his neck.
Charles kissed his collarbone. Once. Twice.
Neither spoke.
They didn’t need to.
Everything had already been said.
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The paddock never sleeps as a new headline had emerged by the time Spa came around.
“Leclerc and Sainz: The Relationship Revving Up Behind the Scenes?”
Carlos saw the flashes before the interviews, felt the shift in team meetings when eyes lingered a fraction too long. Charles caught the same heat in the pit lane.
They didn’t say anything.
Not yet.
Because this was new.
Because the line between private and public had blurred into a tightrope they didn’t know how to navigate quite yet.
Before the Hungarian GP, the tension broke.
Carlos was scrolling through social media, as he noticed the sudden surge in speculation.
Charles appeared behind him, hand on his shoulder.
“Seen the news?”
Carlos didn’t answer.
Charles sat beside him, voice low but steady.
“We don’t have to hide.”
Carlos looked up, meeting his gaze.
“Do you want to?”
“I’m tired of pretending.” Charles said easily.
The next day, cameras caught them leaving the paddock Charles’s hand brushing against Carlos’s, fingers entwining for a fleeting moment.
The world exploded. Rumors flew.
Some teammates smiled knowingly. Others looked away.
That evening, alone in their shared hotel suite, the noise outside felt distant and small.
“To us,” Carlos said.
Charles smiled.
“To us,” he echoed.
And for the first time, they spoke not just with glances or touches, but words.
“I don’t know what’s next,” Charles admitted.
“Me neither,” Carlos said.
“But we face it together.”