#Oh and Pierre and Charles both being sick last weekend :)

[miamierre]

prompt bc i can’t get this out of my mind: charles and pierre are married in fact and have been married for a while bc they realized early on theyre in love (ignoring wags or making them beards idk)! the other drivers get sick of their “pining” and start trying to set them up and these two babes are so oblivious they keep talking about their husband normally as though the drivers know! and they’re like oh great ofc i’ll go on a date w my husband, but why are you leaving?? come join us :(

OMG! anon it took a minute for me to properly put this one together but honestly, it was soooo fun and it definitely could've become a whoooole fic if i didn't use some self control w/this. thank you for sending!!! i hope you enjoy my take on your great idea <3

(word count: 3,276) FEATURING: Danny Ric & Carlos!

The ceremony is small.

Eventually, of course, it will be big—they’d both agreed to it, quietly, curled together with the sheets pulled over their heads during the last race weekend of the season. I want to spend my life with you, Pierre had whispered, and Charles had laughed softly and kissed his palm, said I want to spend the rest of my life with you, too, and kissed him for good measure—and that had been it.

So in the dead of night, in a vineyard in Italy, Pierre and Charles quietly exchange rings under the bright light of a full moon and a backdrop of glittery stars. They’re not real engagement rings, of course—they’re still keeping things under wraps from the rest of the world, so they exchange their own thick-band pinky rings instead and promise that, when they can do this the right way, in front of everybody, they’ll be real. (It feels like being kids again, almost—buying matching Ring Pops to prove their loyalty and faithfulness, that they’d always be on each other’s team through it all. Pierre says this, later, in Charles’ bed, and Charles laughs so hard he cries. Then he cries about how long he’s loved Pierre, how long he’s wanted this. Pierre just kisses the tears off his cheeks and echoes his sentiments.)

The only attendees, this time around, are the closest of family. Pierre’s parents are there, of course, as is Charles’ mother; the collection of siblings and cousins and relatives will be invited to the bigger wedding, the one where there’s no worry about being caught in the act anymore. A local priest, fluent only in Italian, marries them with soft-spoken words and a gentle touch. When Charles loops his arms over Pierre’s shoulders and kisses him after hearing “Puoi baciarlo ora, giovanotto,” the world shifts. Changes. Becomes a little bit brighter, now.

Sei mia per sempre.

Nobody on the grid knows, however. They’re not worried about their friends being judgmental or anything—frankly, some days it feels like everybody knows—but since they’re still so young, still so early in their professional careers, they both agreed that the distractions that would come with being public would be too hard to juggle with everything else. It makes bad days feel a little worse, and good days a little bit dimmer, but it’s only on track; they share hotel rooms and live at each other’s apartments full time, perfectly settled in one another’s pocket.

A happy medium—at least until someone retires first.

-

The two things that annoy Daniel most race weekends, bar none, are Lando’s annoying fucking face when he sees Daniel talking with Max, and the absolutely insufferable sight of Pierre Gasly and Charles Leclerc eye-fucking during the Driver’s Parade without the decency to do anything about it.

He’s perfectly fine with telling Lando to fuck off, considering Lando will just flip him the bird anyway, context be damned—but Pierre and Charles? He doesn’t know them quite as well. There’s no good way to say “Hey, you two should fuck and get it over with,” to a couple of guys who are kind of your coworkers, kind of your friends, and kind of your rivals all in one. Hallmark doesn’t make those kinds of cards. And besides, it’s technically none of his business?

Although, it happens every. Goddamn. Parade. So maybe it’s kind of starting to become Daniel’s business after all.

It’s gotten to the point, actually, that he’s started complaining about it at home. “Babe,” Daniel grumbles, folding his arms and dropping his head to the counter. “It feels like—you walk up to them, and it’s like you just interrupted some Disney moment. Like, I can hear the music and I feel like a cunt trying to talk to ‘em.”

Heidi laughs at him, setting her glass of water down in favor of resting her now-cool hand on his shoulder. “Maybe they’re just really good friends, Dan.” Absolutely-fucking-not. He groans, loudly. His girlfriend just laughs again. “Or maybe, since they are clearly inconveniencing your life, you should try and set them up.”

Daniel peeks his head up from the countertop. “Like on a blind date?” Heidi nods. “With each other.”

“If you’re sooooo convinced they’re in love, Danny, then yeah.” She waves her hand casually, gesturing towards the idea she’s trying to force into his head. “And if they’re actually into each other, you can call yourself matchmaker.” She raises an eyebrow. “And you know how you love love.”

Daniel sits up a little more. “I do love love,” he muses. Heidi laughs at him, hooking an arm around his shoulders properly. She drops a kiss to his cheek. He hums affectionately. “You know what, yeah, that’s a great idea, baby. I’ll play matchmaker!”

“Just try to be subtle, though. If you drop in like a brick, they’re gonna run screaming.”

Daniel barks a laugh, swiveling in his seat to pull Heidi into his arms fully. She giggles. “That’s a weird fuckin’ metaphor,” he laughs, and she just rolls her eyes. “But I get your point.”

So Matchmaker it is. Daniel figures he’ll work on Pierre first, considering they’re kind of closer than he is with Charles. It’s hard to gauge, to be honest—Charles is always nice and polite with him, laughs at all his jokes, and Pierre always has his mind in the gutter like Daniel, but are those really foundations of friendship?

He probably shouldn’t be thinking about this right as he’s walking up to Pierre out on the track during walkthroughs, but, oh well.

“Pierrrrrrrrre Gaslyyyyyyy!” He half-shouts, half-laughs. Pierre turns immediately, grinning like a maniac. He reverses on his track walk, the rest of his team content to continue walking even though Pierre’s not with them. Daniel kind of raises an eyebrow at it. Who’s in charge of this team again?

“Daniel,” Pierre exclaims, grabbing his hand in a half-thought-out bro-hug. Daniel follows his lead, claps him firmly on the back once before they release each other. “You ready for this weekend, man?”

Daniel shrugs. “Ready as I’ll ever be,” he responds. The truth, technically—but also, literally, this is not what he’s talking to Pierre for. How do the pros start this? “Uh—hey, are you doing anything later tonight?”

Pierre raises an eyebrow at him. “Are you like this with all of the girls,” he deadpans, then laughs brightly, slapping Daniel on the shoulder. “Wow, Danny Ric, I knew you were in love with me, but I never thought you would say it.”

Daniel rolls his eyes and snorts. “You got me,” he replies flatly. And then: “No, no, I’m serious—I was, uh.” Here we go, just fucking do it, it’s for their own good. “I was talking to Charles, before, and he mentioned—he mentioned this club, um, right down the street from where our hotels are?” Pierre’s eyebrow is still raised. “He said he was thinking about—going.”

“Uh huh.” The Frenchman’s face is unreadable, eyes looking particularly sharp. Daniel really, really, really hopes he didn’t just make whatever is happening between them worse.

“Yeah, and he mentioned—I think he said he was going to, um, invite some of the guys.” Some of the guys? What the fuck, Daniel.

“He did.” God, Daniel wishes he could read minds. Pierre is so impossible to understand—always looks like he’s posturing or some shit. Too pretty for his own good, probably. Jesus, did he really just think that? Daniel just wants to shake the kid and shout CHARLES IS IN LOVE WITH YOU, DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT! and make all of the touchy-feely awkward Driver’s Parades go away.

He can’t, of course—that doesn’t seem very Matchmaker-y of him—but still. A man can dream.

“Yeah,” Daniel confirms his lie. He glances down and sees Pierre absentmindedly fiddling with the ring on his pinky. “And I—you’re a party guy! So. I figured, I mean, if you’re not doing anything, you should—go with him?”

At that, Pierre laughs. “You don’t sound too sure about that, Daniel,” he says, expression still unchanged, god dammit. “Are you coming too?”

“No!” Oh, that came out way too fast. “No, I mean—I, my girlfriend is here so I figure I owe her a nice dinner, so—” he shrugs, shoves his hands in his pockets even though it is about a thousand degrees on the track and Daniel really just wants to get back to the air-conditioned garage. “You should text Charles though!” Okay, okay, almost fucking done and then—“I’m sure he’d like to hear from you.”

For a moment, Pierre’s expression cracks. Daniel gets a glimpse of something real in there—affection? Infatuation? It’s hard to read, and the crack closes up so quick, but Daniel saw it. He saw it. He’s been right this whole fucking time and now Pierre is, ideally, going to take his advice. Text Charles about going to the club. And maybe, maybe, end this god damn will-they-won’t-they thing that’s been happening for years.

“The club down the road from our hotel, you said?” Pierre asks, sounding a little wary. Daniel nods, although he knows almost immediately that he’s overselling. “Hm. Okay. I will remember that.” He slaps Daniel’s shoulder again, firm like he somehow always is, then grins. “I gotta catch up with my team now, but—I will see you around!” He winks at Daniel and then jogs off towards the collection of AlphaTauri people who were, Jesus fucking Christ, just walking aimlessly without him? There has to be some kind of child protective services for drivers stuck in shitty teams.

Maybe he’ll look into that one for himself.

-

Carlos takes one look at his teammate and, immediately, knows exactly what he’s thinking. “Charles,” he says flatly, and Charles blinks up from where he’d been staring off into space.

Or, more accurately, who he’d been staring off into space at. “What?” He looks a little sheepish, which, really just proves that he’d been doing exactly what Carlos thought he was doing. “Sorry, I was—”

“Distracted,” Carlos finishes, raising a knowing brow at him. A little flush of color surfaces on his cheeks. “I can tell, mijo.” He shakes his head a little, snorts out a laugh. “I was going to ask you if Mattia has talked to you about strategy for the next race, yet, but I get the feeling I already know the answer.”

Charles grimaces. “He has not, no. I haven’t seen him all afternoon. Do you think he is avoiding me?”

“Definitely,” Carlos deadpans. Charles laughs loud, returning to his usual self a little more. “What has you so distracted, though?” They’re friends—at least enough that Carlos knows he can probably get Charles to open up if he really needs to get something off his chest. He’s going to offer his teammate the opportunity to say something about whatever the hell is going on with Pierre before he goes right into it.

Charles shrugs. “I was just thinking,” he says, but his face is still a little pink.

“You are a terrible liar, man.” Charles looks at him, confused. “You are not subtle, either.”

“What are you talking about,” his teammate says, but he says the words slowly, like he doesn’t understand Carlos despite the fact that English is just about the only language they can effectively communicate in.

“I know about Pierre.”

That does something. A flash of panic crosses Charles’ face, genuine: Carlos, for a beat, regrets saying something. He’s never really seen Charles in any other state than carefree and relaxed, and this looks very much like the opposite of that. Oops. “You do?” His voice is small, quiet.

We could have done this better, Carlos tells himself. “I know you like him, Charles. It is pretty clear on your face every time I see you guys together.”

The panicked expression fades pretty quickly, to Carlos’ relief. He’s not going to break his teammate right before a very important stretch of races for the team. He could not live with that. Mattia would strangle him, which he’s a little bit convinced he’s going to do anyway.

“Oh,” Charles says, still quiet. Charles watches as he twists the ring on his pinky finger.

Carlos hasn’t ever really done this before, but like—this is his teammate, right? He’s supposed to, on some level, be a wingman. “You shouldn’t worry,” he tries, and then cringes a little at how it sounds coming out of his mouth. “I mean—you’ve known him your whole life, yeah?”

Charles’ face gets visibly soft. The pink in his cheeks has darkened a little. “My whole life, yes,” he repeats back, nodding a little. “Since we were kids, you know.”

Carlos laughs a little, nudges at his friend’s shoulder. “Yes, I do know,” he responds. “Well, if you have known each other that long—it would be easy, to take the next step, I imagine, yes?”

Charles blinks at him. “Next step?”

“You know.” He really doesn’t want to be the one who says you should kiss Pierre and get it over with, considering there are a whole bunch of details that Carlos actually doesn’t know. “You know, like—like talking to him?”

Charles rolls his eyes. “It’s not like we are in high school, Carlos,” he answers, crossing his arms. “I talk to Pierre all the time.”

“Okay, you are clearly not trying to listen to me,” Carlos says. Charles just offers up a poorly formed wink. “I mean—talk to him about how you feel! It is only going to hurt you if you don’t—I don’t know, get it out!” He throws his arms up in the air, frustrated at the fact that Charles isn’t going along with this clearly great advice he is being given for free.

Charles, who is just looking at him with both eyebrows raised. “Since when did you care about my relationships?” It doesn’t come out harsh—nothing ever does, with Charles—just curious, eyes glittering with curiosity.

He is annoyingly sweet. “I—” with a grunt, Carlos runs a hand through his hair, trying to find the words. “I see you look at him all the time, man. All the time. You are always so—” he mimics the expression, doe-eyed and spaced out the way Charles always seems to be whenever Pierre is in the vicinity. “About him. You are very not subtle.”

The color darkens in Charles’ cheeks. “You’re exaggerating,” he says, but the tone of his voice makes Carlos think he knows exactly what’s being said. “I—you don’t need to worry about my relationship with Pierre, Carlos.” He exhales, a soft forceful huff. “Thank you, but—it is fine. We are fine.”

“Clearly you are not,” Carlos insists. “Look at you. He is literally just walking back and forth from his garage not even doing anything and you are here, looking at him like he is—I don’t even know. Lunch?” He cringes as he says it, and Charles yelps a little laugh. “No, I mean, you know.” Does he even know what he’s talking about?

Charles must think the same. His eyebrows are knit together as he looks Carlos in the face. “I do not know,” he says.

Carlos groans. “If you don’t talk to him, I am going to, and I will embarrass you so hard you are going to want to transfer teams.” Is Carlos actually going to talk to Pierre? Absolutely not. He’s not going to insert himself where he shouldn’t, especially when it’s something as personal as this, but—but Charles doesn’t know that.

And maybe, if he thinks Carlos would talk to Pierre about him, it’ll make him actually do something.

“Oh my god,” Charles mutters, covering his face with his hands. “Please—Carlos, I am begging you, do not talk to Pierre.”

“I won’t,” Carlos answers, leaning back against the counter. “If you talk to him instead.”

Charles moans something pitiful behind his hands. “You suck so much,” he grumbles, and Carlos just laughs.

“Take my fucking advice, Charles. Don’t be an idiot.”

Satisfied with his attempts at resolving his teammate’s disaster of a love life, Carlos starts to walk back to his own driver’s room.

“It takes one to know one, you know,” Charles calls to him as he goes, muffled. Carlos doesn’t have to turn around to flip him off properly; he hears his friend laughing the whole way back.

-

“The weirdest thing keeps happening to me,” Charles mumbles, peeling away his sweatpants and climbing into the hotel bed.

From beside him, Pierre hums, glancing up from his phone. “What’s wrong, calamar?” He stretches his arm out and Charles tucks right into his side, sighing as Pierre aimlessly trails his fingers up his arm.

“I—” he makes a face. Pierre looks down a little, presses a half-formed kiss to his forehead. “I think Carlos was trying to give me dating advice.”

Pierre laughs. “You’re seeing someone else behind my back, cher?” he chuckles, and Charles thwacks him in the chest gently, tapping his fingers against his husband’s crucifix.

“Shut up. You’re lucky I’m not.”

Pierre hums softly. “I am.”

“No, but—” he shifts in his position, scoots up a little more so he’s almost eye level with Pierre again. “He was—he thought I had a crush on you.”

Pierre raises an eyebrow. “I mean—you do, don’t you? We are married, after all?”

Charles rolls his eyes. “You’re just being dense on purpose,” he grumbles, but smirks a little at the way Pierre pretends he doesn’t know what he’s doing.

“Maybe,” he purrs, but pulls Charles closer nonetheless. “No, but—that actually happened to me too earlier.” He grimaces. “Daniel said you told him you wanted to go clubbing at some place down the road from our hotel?”

Charles snorts. “I didn’t even talk to him today, and—me? Clubbing?” He feels the rumble of laughter in Pierre’s chest. “Carlos said that I am too obvious in the way that I look at you when we’re doing pre-race stuff.”

Pierre presses a kiss to the side of his head, then tucks a finger under his chin to lift his gaze. “You look at me during pre-race?”

“Shut up,” Charles mutters, unable to swallow down his endeared, only-mildly-irritated smile. “I look at you too much, maybe I should go clubbing.”

Pierre hums, cocks his head to the side a little. “It is right down the street, after all,” he murmurs, ducking closer. “Maybe you can use that advice Carlos gave you, pick up a man.” Charles mewls a little, closing the distance between them—he presses a chaste kiss to Pierre’s bottom lip, scooting closer so he can properly wrap his husband up in a real kiss, one he’s been saving for most of the afternoon.

“Maybe I will,” he mumbles breathily as they part, and Pierre tsks at him, shaking his head.

“Is there anything I can do to make you stay,” he whispers, shifting his attention to the left to begin gnawing at Charles’ jaw. The scrape of his teeth is both gentle and sharp, intoxicating immediately. Charles is glad he and Pierre have this steadfast rule—doing this between practice sessions would be far too dangerous, and he’s never been able to deny Pierre anything when it comes to this.

He sinks his teeth in a little more and Charles moans. “Pierre—”

“Tell me what time you’re leaving,” he whispers, breath hot against Charles’ already-heated skin. “Maybe I will meet you there.”

#piarles #pierrecharles #10 x 16 #fic #prompt #ok fr i was a little worried when i first got this BUT i think i finagled it my way BUT i dont have the confidence to say that for sureeeee #writing in new voices is weird. and hard. and i hope i did danny & carlos justice but im so sorry in advance #ask reply #Anonymous

[ef-1]

Provisional 2022 Calendar: 23 races and MORE triple headers :)

#yeah hello :) happy Saturday im annoyed again :) #i get it as fans most of us want races every weekend but literally everyone says its driving them to exhaustion #daniel- after the triple header i felt on the brink of collapse :D. F1- PERFECT MORE TRIPLE HEADERS #Oh and Pierre and Charles both being sick last weekend :) #f1 #daniel ricciardo #Christian horner #andrew shovlin #andreas seidl

[fionahasopinions]

The Eifel Grand Prix has had many alias’ through the years. The German Grand Prix, which makes sense as the track is in Germany, the European Grand Prix, which makes sense as the track is in Europe and the Luxemburg Grand Prix which makes sense as it… oh wait a second!

All week I have had to remind myself that the track is in Germany and it not a street race in Paris.

The buzz around this weekend has very little to do with the regular race drivers and is instead directed towards the Alfa Romeo garage where Mick Schumacher is due to take part in his first ever Free Practise session.

Unfortunately, the weather had other ideas, as both of Fridays sessions were cancelled because of fog leaving the medical helicopter unable to fly. This was the only decision that race direction could make, but it was bitterly disappointing for those who had come to the circuit to watch the Formula 2 championship leader make his debut in the pinnacle of Grand Prix racing.

Nico Hulkenberg had plans for this weekend, some casual commentating while drinking copious amounts of coffee to keep awake and warm. But with Lance Stroll out sick Hulkenberg finds himself thrown off the highest diving board into the shark tank that is the Formula One qualifying session with not a single lap completed in the morning practise.

There were no expectations on his shoulders for qualifying, and he found himself eliminated in Q1 with the slowest lap time of the twenty drivers.

In other qualifying news, Bottas took pole, from Hamilton and Verstappen. Giovinazzi made it out of Q1 for the first time this season (it is amazing what being threatened with replacement next season does for your speed!).

Hamilton’s start from second on the grid was slightly better than Bottas’ and he lead the field down to turn one before they both ran wide, allowing Bottas to scramble back onto the track in front of his teammate and into the race lead.

The rest of the field follow the Mercedes team example and all run wide, hopefully this is not in the race directors notes as an area where it is not acceptable for drivers to complete “practise turn ones” or they will all get a ten second penalty!

There was minor contact between Albon and Ricciardo, but no damage to either car and both are able to continue.

Grosjean became the victim of Raikkonen’s car spitting gravel as a stray stone flew up and hit him on the finger, which he advises the team that he thinks it could be broken, as he can’t move it. But he continues to battle through the pain. 

The sky is threatening with dark, rain filled clouds directly above the circuit, which usually livens up races nicely, but it has not rained by lap seven as Alex Albon dives into the pits to get rid of his badly flat-spotted tyres.

A combination of a faster car and DRS helps Daniel Ricciardo get past Charles Leclerc down into turn one and he immediately pulls away as the Ferrari falls back into the clutches of McLaren’s Lando Norris and the Racing Point of Sergio Perez.

It is still not raining as Leclerc pits, Lando Norris starts a race long campaign of moaning, and Vettel spins while trying to avoid hitting the back of Giovinazzi.

Bottas locks up, runs wide and loses the lead to his teammate before coming into the pits.

Kimi Raikkonen is now the most experienced driver on the Formula One grid, today being his 323rd race start, but his move on Russell was amateurish and clumsy, and causes the Williams driver to retire with a damaged suspension, which brings out the virtual safety car. Raikkonen was found to be at fault with the crash and was hit with a ten second time penalty.

This allows Hamilton and Verstappen to both pit and remain ahead of Bottas, and even increases the lead to over ten seconds. It is about time pitting under the virtual safety car was banned!

Alex Albon now on fresher tyres breezes past Danil Kvyat, but manages to wipe out his nose out while sweeping back across on to the racing line for the corner.

It is still not raining as the Stewards hit Albon with a five second penalty and Kvyat pits for a new nose.

The infallible Mercedes lets down Valtteri Bottas and he is forced to retire from the race with a power unit issue, his and the teams first retirement of the season. 

Esteban Ocon announces to the team that he has lost everything. His brakes, his gears, his sanity… His retirement, which is blamed on a hydraulic failure is quickly followed by Alex Albon’s who it is later confirmed had an issue with his power unit.

Lando Norris is still complaining about a lack of power and asks his engineer if he should pit to cover the undercut from Perez who has just pitted. Perez however is still right behind him! And he is advised that he needs to keep going.

Perez and Sainz pit and it is still not raining.

Lap forty, and I think I will check the moto 2. Hamilton has such a massive advantage he could pit, check the race on his phone and still get back out in second place.

Norris’ power unit issues are getting worse and worse and eventually cause him to retire, bringing out a full safety car. Unfortunately, it doesn’t bring us any rain.

The safety car stays out until lap 49 while dealing with the pressure from Hamilton and Verstappen complaining that it is going to slowly and that they can’t keep the temperature in their tyres. Unfortunately they sing from this hymn sheet every week, and not one person is buying it anymore! Sure enough a lap of green flag racing and they are both comfortably back out in front.

And it still won’t rain.

The order remains largely unchanged for the remainder of the race, as Hamilton crosses the line for his 91st career win, from Verstappen and Ricciardo. Perez was fourth for racing point, Carlos Sainz fifth for Mclaren, Pierre Gasly sixth for Alfa Tauri, Charles Leclerc seventh for Ferrari, Nico Hulkenberg eighth for Racing Point, Romain Grosjean ninth for Haas and Antonio Giovinazzi taking the final point for Alfa Romeo in tenth.  

Conclusions from the Eifel Grand Prix.

Pitting under the virtual safety car should be outlawed

Nico Hulkenberg and Sergio Perez both deserve full time drives next season

.Valtteri Bottas has all the luck of someone who has spent their life walking under ladders!

Is it possible to install sprinklers at the tracks to liven up these races?

Formula one needs to make serious changes. It is no good claiming that the midfield battles are competitive. No one cares about that; they want challenges and battles for the win and the championship. If the safety car had not been deployed Hamilton would have lapped third place. That is not competitive, it is a procession!

Get well soon Lance Stroll

 Drive of the Day: Fan Vote: Nico Hulkenberg

Drive of the Day: Fiona’s vote: Nico Hulkenberg. Drafted in at the last minute, last in qualifying having missed the mornings practise session, Nico has once again proved that he deserves a spot on the grid next season.

Fiona’s race rating. Is it possible to give a minus number? 2022 and the new regulations cannot come fast enough! Erm I will give it a hard won 0.5 out of 10, and I will see you next time!

#Formula one #race report #please dont judge me #this is my first one for years #eifel grand prix

[miamierre]

care (word count: 1,869)

Charles catches him on the walk back to the parking lot.

Which—really, considering the fact that he’s probably still riding on his pole-position high, paired with the fact that Pierre is exhausted and just wants to crawl into his own bed and sleep the rest of the night, isn’t all that difficult. A Charles with this kind of success still fresh on him has the energy to get to Pierre’s side in a matter of strides.

“Hi,” he grins, bumping shoulders with Pierre. There are still so many people here, so they can’t exactly hold hands, but this is an okay alternative for now. Besides. Pierre’s got sweaty, clammy hands from the fact that he’s still not all healthy, and they’re shoved into his pants pockets. But his best friend’s energy is infectious, contagious, impossible to not pick up even a little. So he turns to look Charles right in the face, squinting a little as the sun and the wattage of his smile combine forces to beam directly into his eyes.

“Hi,” he answers, bumping Charles back. The small laugh and ducked head he gets in return says all he needs to know. “You look like the sun, you know.”

Charles’ face softens more. “Aw, Pierrot—”

“The yellow of your shirt is really blinding.” He lifts a hand to his eyes, mock-blinded, and laughs when Charles’ fond expression falls into the usual eyeroll he gets after making a particularly bitchy comment. “Oh, did you think I meant because you are glowing?”

Charles whacks him in the shoulder. “Shut up,” he answers, and this time it’s Pierre who gets to laugh quietly with his head bowed. Absentmindedly, he fishes for his car keys that have tumbled somewhere deep in his pocket. “I thought you would be happier with me, Pierre, today has been so gooood for the first time in ages—”

“Charles,” Pierre says, stopping in his tracks as he gets a hand on the car keys. “Of course I am happy for you, mon amour.” He glances around quick and then cups the back of Charles’ head, still decked out with the garish highlighter-yellow cap. “You know I am.” He thumbs at his best friend’s hairline, murmuring something soft and shapeless the way he does when they’re nestled together in an ocean of hotel blankets. Charles echoes the sound, shuffling a breath closer. His eyes are so clear under the 16-emblazoned brim that it’s almost hypnotizing. “I just still don’t feel right.” If there’s one person he can admit this to freely, it’s Charles—even if he worries, he also understands the need to compete even being sick. With the hand clutching his keys, Pierre wipes away the sweat that’s been collecting on his brow.

Charles just hums. “I know, Pierrot,” he murmurs, ducking closer so that they’re now firmly shoulder-to-shoulder, no daylight between them. Then, in a smaller voice: “Can I come over?” Pierre, still staring at him, sees the look in his eyes—not desperate, not needing validation or Pierre’s touch or punishment or anything, just…Charles. There’s a little smile playing on his lips, almost shy.

Pierre laughs softly, unlocking his car from where it’s parked a few spaces over. It beeps, distant enough to not be painfully sharp. “Charles, you know I’m sick.”

Charles shrugs. “I know.”

“And we can’t—we do have a race tomorrow, so I can’t treat you how I did last time we were here.” Monza weekends always mean wrestling in Pierre’s luxurious sheets, Charles pinned to the bed and worked so thoroughly he’s sweatier from Pierre than he is from the race. Things had gotten especially torrid last year. (It’s a habit they’ve formed since they’d both stepped into the world of the grid together, really, and one that he’s particularly fond of.) But Pierre knows he won’t be able to do that this weekend, considering he still feels a little too warm to just blame it on the late-summer sun.

Charles just shrugs again, leaning into Pierre a little more. “I know,” he says simply. Like what he’s after is obvious, as if anything Charles Leclerc has ever wanted in his life has been so clear.

Pierre sighs. “What if I get you sick,” he mumbles, the persistence of his best friend’s puppy eyes as effective as ever. “Charles, you are on pole this weekend. If—”

“Pierre,” Charles interrupts. He grabs Pierre’s wrist and tugs it from his pocket, lacing their fingers together. The immediate look on his face looks like a mix of disgust and pity. “Ew. You’ve got sweaty hands, mon petit.”

Pierre snorts. “Sick,” he points out, and Charles just squeezes his hand once before letting it go.

“Don’t care,” Charles mumbles. “Anyway—I will be extra cautious and drink plenty of water, and you have Tylenol in your cabinet, yes?” Pierre huffs. “Yes, I know you do. So—there. Pierrot. Please—let me take care of you.”

That softens the Frenchman up a little more. He takes Charles’ elbow gently and tugs him further through the parking lot. “Okay,” he concedes. “I don’t want you making soup or anything because the last time you almost burned my kitchen down, cheri.”

Charles lifts his hands in innocence. “I would never,” he says. “Once is enough for me.” Pierre snorts. “I will meet you there, then, yes?”

With one last gentle touch of his elbow, Pierre nods. “See you at home, cheri.”

-

Charles beats him there.

Pierre figures that out because the door to his apartment is open, and Charles is the only person he knows who seems to forget to close the door everywhere he goes. “How did you get in so fast,” he laughs, slipping into his own apartment and pointedly shutting the door behind him.

Charles, standing at his counter, laughs into his glass of water. “Did you really forget what kind of car I drive, Pierrot?” He takes a sip and then walks over, wasting no time in looping an arm around Pierre’s waist to pull him close. “As if I was not the fastest man on track today.”

“Okay, now you’re just bragging.”

Charles laughs. “I know,” he says softly, bumping his nose against Pierre’s. “I did bring soup, too, by the way.”

Pierre chuckles, slipping by Charles’ waiting lips to tuck into the crook of his neck, cheek heavy on his shoulder. “How many speeding tickets did you get between Monza and here, Charles.” Charles just presses a kiss to his nose. “Mmm.”

“Not enough to keep me away from you,” he answers softly. “Now, come, Pierrot. Drink some water.” Another gentle kiss-nuzzle. “I looked through your medicine cabinet, and somehow you don’t have Tylenol. I don’t understand.”

“Charles,” Pierre mumbles, leaning more heavily into him. The weight of the day has caught up to him more substantially, now—his limbs feel like cement, and Charles’ arms are so warm and steady around his waist that it feels like they’re already in bed. “Charles, I am tired. I can drink water in bed.”

Charles whines. “But soup.”

“I don’t need soup, cheri. You are enough for me.” He peels away.  “Bed, please.”

Normally, when he says it, Charles practically trips over himself to get there first. Bounces back into the pillows, spreads himself wide so that he’s propped up against the headboard, begs for Pierre to touch him before he’s even made it to the mattress. And when Pierre doesn’t ask nicely, it’s even more obscene.

But today, right now, Charles just nods, quiet, and kisses his cheek sweetly. “Okay, Pierrot,” he murmurs. “I will meet you there. Let me get you your—I don’t know, something from your cabinet that will help.”

He doesn’t have to be told twice. The shuffle to bed isn’t even that long, anyway. “Don’t be long,” he mumbles, and then trods off. The jacket is shed first, not even an attempt to kick it out of the middle of the hallway. When he reaches his mattress and sits down on it, he kicks his shoes off. When he flops back into his sheets, he reaches a hand to the button of his pants and starts to peel them away.

“Wait, wait,” Charles’ voice says, gentle as ever. Pierre glances up; his best friend is standing in the doorway, expression fond, a glass of water in one hand and a small mug in the other. Probably soup. A laugh catches somewhere in his throat. “Let me help you, mon cheri.” He pads across the floor and sets the glass and the mug down on his side table, then turns his attention to Pierre, who’s still got his fingered hooked in the belt loops of his pants.

“You’re so kind,” Pierre deadpans as Charles tugs on the fabric, about as effective as Pierre had been for the two seconds he’d actually tried to do it himself. He gets an eyeroll in return. “Charles, come on, just—”

Charles gets another tug in and the fabric finally gives in, down by his knees in a moment. “There,” he hums, a self-satisfied smirk spreading across his face. “See? Who takes care of you better than me.” Pierre just whines at him. “I’m coming, I’m coming, shush.” He sits down on the mattress as Pierre scoots backwards, now just in his boxers and his half-opened button down. “Here. See?” Charles rolls over to tuck into his side properly.

“Mmmmmm.” Pierre closes his eyes, exhales. He’s exhausted, he’s so tired, he’s ready for bed. It’s barely 6pm and he’s almost entirely knocked out. “Charlito, nobody takes care of me better than you.”

Charles drapes his arm over Pierre loosely and snuggles into his shoulder. “I am the best,” he reaffirms, and Pierre chuckles, turning his head so that he can kiss Charles on the forehead.

“You are the best,” Pierre echoes. The laugh that rumbles through Charles is soft, more a vibration than a noise. “Better than soup.”

His best friend groans. “You should eat something, you know, Pierre.” Another sigh. “And the soup is good, mon amour, you will like it.”

Pierre laughs, nuzzling closer, entirely ignoring the point of what Charles is saying. “Oh, so you tried it? Good, that means it isn’t poisonous.”

He gets an affronted noise in response. “You think I would poison you, Pierre? Please.”

“Hey, I am P5 tomorrow, Charles, I will be right on your ass. You must be very threatened.” He laughs tiredly into Charles’ hair. “You never know.” Charles huffs and tucks closer into his side. The pressure is comforting, warm; there are no blankets but Pierre is plenty warm where he is, secure in the arms of the man he loves. “Mmm, congratulations on pole, sweetheart. You were fantastic.”

Charles makes a soft noise and tightens his hold on Pierre. “So were you,” he mumbles. “Racing at home is my favorite thing in the world. With you.”

Sleep is swallowing Pierre entirely, now. “Mmmm,” he answers, dropping one last kiss to the closest part of Charles he can find. “Mine too, bebe.”

He falls asleep to Charles murmuring nothings in his ear, French and Italian and English all mashed together, a lullaby only for him.

#piarles #pierrecharles #10 x 16 #fic #i wrote sickfic instead of being a normal person today.