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Fear crawls up his throat, choking the words out of him. “You remember that, right?”
Carlos doesn’t look at him. “No, Charles, I’m sorry. I don’t.”
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..
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SEVEN MONTHS AGO
Charles didn’t think he was going to have a panic attack backstage at the O2.
Lewis is nice enough to get him settled in a secluded corner before he calls Andrea to come get him. Pats him on the shoulder and tries to pass reassurances that things will be okay. “What’s wrong?” Andrea asks in a furious, rushed whisper, shaking Lewis’s hand as he leaves. “My God, Charles, what’s gotten into you?”
“Can’t… breathe,” he wheezes out.
No shit, Andrea is probably thinking. He feeds him water in short sips and helps him count to ten and list things that help him feel grounded. All good things, until he brings up the C-word. The one Charles has been diligently avoiding since he hadn’t replied to the texts he’d sent on January 26th. “Was it… did you see Carlos?” he asks tentatively, as if that will make things any better.
Minutes ago, it might have made him burst into a fresh set of tears, but now he just feels a cold sense of irritation. “No,” he sniffles, ruining any sense of firmness he might’ve hoped to have. “Haven’t seen him yet.”
“Well, you’re about to, along with everyone else, so I hope you’re ready, ” he mutters, fixing his collar and ruffling his hair. He checks to make sure the coast is clear before ushering Charles into a bathroom so he can wash off his clammy hands and tear stricken face. “There goes the makeup.”
“Shut up,” Charles replies, dabbing at his under-eyes with a paper towel. “You locked the door?”
“Of course I locked the door,” Andrea snaps, but he knows it’s all in good faith. “When’s the last time you saw him?”
He freezes half way through fixing his hair. He doesn’t want to say New Year’s Eve. He doesn’t want to say he had been there the moment Carlos was no longer a Ferrari driver. He doesn’t want to say how he’d gone to see him, his heart full of hope, and then left with it in pieces. He doesn’t want to say how he’d tried and failed to forget that memory the following week. He doesn’t want to say anything at all. “That event before Christmas,” he lies instead. It’s easier this way.
Andrea doesn’t add to the lecture again, which Charles appreciates. And when he sees Carlos again, it’s fine, because they’re both smiling big and bright and there’s nothing wrong with Carlos being in white and blue and not in red. There’s nothing wrong with it at all, and Charles doesn’t imagine making him bleed so he is again. Even though Carlos hasn’t replied to his texts, there’s nothing wrong. He doesn’t even hold the hug for that long, but Charles can make do.
“You look nice,” he says warmly later. Like everything is sunshine and rainbows and Charles wants to spit in his face. Carlos elbows his side, grinning like they’re best friends. But they’re not because Carlos is always saying this, that they are not truly friends and they can’t be right now except they are not teammates anymore and now they might be. “I saw you playing chess before.”
“Yes,” he says thinly before clearing his throat and reciprocating his smile. “He is so bad, mate, you would not believe it.”
Carlos laughs, and Charles has missed the sound. But he has not forgotten. “I trust you,” he replies, light as a feather, like it’s not weighing down his knees. Without warning, he reaches out and pinches Charles’ jaw and traces the pin of the horse on his blazer, smile twitching when Charles yelps. “I heard a reporter asked to see this.”
He should have one. He should be wearing one. He should have been on stage next to Charles. “Guess I will have to buy one for myself too, no?” he continues as Charles stares at him with what he hopes is a blank expression.
But something’s just not right. “You have so many. You stole mine, ” he’s reminding before he can think twice about it.
Wait.
Wait.
Charles knows he’s not crazy. They’re standing too close for him to miss the flicker of confusion that passes Carlos’ eyes before he smooths it over. “I know, I lost it in the move.” There’s something too careful about it. Charles knows him too well to be making a mistake, but.
He stops short, rolling his eyes to play along while decidedly not thinking about the drunken unanswered text that reads, how can you just leave things like this , tucked away in his back pocket. “Lost your phone, too, maybe,” he bites, and Jesus, there must be something really wrong with him tonight.
Carlos is still smiling, sharp, unguarded. He still gets this part, at least. Slips his phone out of his blazer with one hand while the other makes a home on Charles’ back. It’s shiny, new. A point, then, is what he’s trying to make. “Ran out of Cloud. Why? You have something to say to me?” he jokes, bumping their shoulders together.
Except, it’s not a joke. It’s so far from a joke because Charles does actually have a lot to fucking say, thanks, but all he wants to do right now is grab and shake Carlos by the shoulders, scream at him and demand how he can find letting go so easy. Beg him for whatever routine he followed last year to be able to forget. “Ha,” he laughs, so miserable that even Pierre is starting to stare, which means soon Max will cotton on, and so on.
Carlos doesn’t spare him another thought, clearly, moving on before he can even say goodbye.
It’s so unfair.
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...
FIVE MONTHS AGO
Things get simultaneously better and worse in the months to come. They talk every weekend and it’s so nice and perfect Charles can almost swallow down the lump in his throat and ignore how the colour on Carlos looks so wrong and instead focus on how nice it is to be actually talking.
Sometimes, he’s able to allow himself to feel giddy when Carlos pulls them away to talk one on one in the bus, to preen in his attention when he looks at him and only him. Ollie has joined their herd like a mole, and one day, he makes a joke about how nice it is to have a grid dad and a grid mom.
They have, of course, seen these jokes before, behind the scenes of that social media meme response video they did last year. Some things weren’t able to be shown on camera, but they got a laugh out of the crew and gave them the opportunity to dispel any rumours.
Charles lets himself laugh, nearly double over with the force of it, because it’s nice to enjoy things even if he feels like slicing Carlos’ fingers off for consistently ignoring or rejecting his padel and dinner and even golf invites.
“Remember that fan we met in Milan?” he asks, giggling. “With the crazy hair colours?”
He’s laughing, yes, but Charles is watching, too.
Watching for that.
The fraction of a moment for which Carlos’ face falls into regret and confusion and sad before he reigns his walls back up and flashes his stupidly dashing smile. “She had the–”
He can’t finish. Charles knows this already. “–bracelets, with mom and dad,” he says, his voice dropping. He hopes Ollie doesn’t find this too odd, doesn’t go asking questions. “You took them because you were feeling bad.”
The real test would be to ask him what he had done with them after that. If he had done anything at all. He knows the answer already, the truth, that he had unfortunately thrown them away after Silvia’s voicemail. He also knows the answers he would get if he did ask. I don’t know, or it’s at home, or, his personal favourite, must have lost it when I moved.
Charles smiles, and says nothing. Carlos had moved and unpacked well before that trip to Milan. He looks away when his staring must be burning holes in Carlos’ shoulder, turns and lets him talk to Ollie like he isn’t even there.
He doesn’t cry and scream in his hotel room later that day, well and truly exhausted after another shit race that somehow ended with him getting P3. It’s always nice to walk away from a weekend having been on the podium, but especially this year. He heard Carlos hadn’t even been able to start, problems in the formation lap itself.
He might have cried if it were February. Might have cried if he were at home in sheets he’d picked out himself. Might have cried if someone– someone –were here to see it. He decides he won’t, and that’s that.
His phone pings and it’s a text from Carlos.
Busy on Tuesday mate
Sorry, maybe next time
Charles bites the inside of his cheek, shuts off his phone with shaky fingers and collapses back into the burrow he’s made for himself under the sheets.
His eyes burn. He doesn’t feel like pretending like everything’s okay. He wants to scream.
He cries. Silently. No one ever knows.
It’s Monday tomorrow, after all.
In accordance with the Conformance Act of 1952, every Monday, like clockwork since he turned ten, Charles goes to the nearest Retention Centre. He deposits a memory, like most of the common population. Some of the more historical circuits even have their own special Retention Centre to go. This means it’s not uncommon to see another driver in the lines or as you enter and leave.
In eight years, Charles has never seen Carlos.
He knows it’s partly due to their daily routines. Carlos likes to go bright and early, get it over with so it’s done, while Charles likes to sit with it and mull until noon or even later. But it’s kind of odd to have never seen him. There have been so many debriefs he’s been late to because he was caught up in some line instead of waiting to go after. When he’s pushed, Carlos hadn’t said why, just told Charles it was the way things had always been.
“Good afternoon, sir,” a receptionist greets, smiling politely as Charles slides over his ID. After signing him in she hands him a receipt along with his ID, directing him to the right. “Someone will assist you through the door.”
Charles thanks her and nods, wishing her a good day. In some countries, the process is fully digitised and self serve, but not here. He’s guided over to a seat and assisted with clipping on the Conformance equipment. The assistant gives him a thumbs up and a smile. “Whenever you’re ready, Mr Leclerc.”
He closes his eyes and thinks of the taste of sand in his throat from two years ago, a twisted prank by Arthur when he’d been unsuspecting and asleep. He has, albeit, few memories with both his brothers, but this one is unpleasant and not something he likes to remember. It’s done in a few moments with a zip, and the mech is clipped off. He signs off on the receipt and deposits it in the designated box.
It’s always odd to walk around after forgetting something. The feeling of having something ripped out of you always weighs heavily.
Charles wonders how it would be to forget a whole person.
He supposes Carlos would know.
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...
THREE MONTHS AGO
Charles hasn’t always been claustrophobic.
He isn’t sure if he even is now, or if this is also another Carlos-borne issue. “I’m an adult, I’m an adult, I’m an adult,” Charles is muttering to himself on loop on his way to the movie’s premiere. It’s nice to have been invited, good to be back in New York after all that had happened last time. He can’t say he entirely regrets the makeout session in the balcony during the movie or the sex in his hotel room later that night, but he hopes this time he gets to finish.
Watching the movie, of course. Not. Well.
He tries to avoid him for as long as he can, but it’s a hopeless aim. It isn’t as if he’s ever been good at this, resisting Carlos’ charm. He’s drawn to it like a moth to a flame, except he’s been burned so many times he hardly knows how he’s still flying.
“Looking sharp, mate,” Carlos greets, patting his shoulders and righting his two sizes too big suit, running his fingers down the lapels of his suit. As angry as he wants to be–one look into those eyes, and he loses all his resolve. “This colour suits you, no?”
He nods, not trusting his voice, already internally cursing himself for giggling so loudly at the affectionate action. He’s not touch starved. He doesn’t look at Carlos and crave the glide of his skin on his, not at all. He’s Charles Leclerc, world famous Formula 1 driver for Ferrari, for fuck’s sake. He can handle this. Even if it’s in this goddamn city again. He can. He can.
“What are you thinking in there?” Carlos mimes like he’s going to knock on Charles’ head like a door. “Big, important thoughts. Why do you not share?” He bats his hand away, smiling.
“I don’t have to answer these questions,” he fends off, rolling his eyes fondly. Is Carlos still trying to forget him? Would he be here if he was?
Carlos shrugs. It’s eerie, like he’s seen inside Charles’ head. “Well, I will get it out of you somehow,” he announces, all matter of fact and firm. Like there’s no room for argument or connotations to his words at all. Charles shudders, trying to disguise it as shivering from the cold.
Carlos’ arm goes around him, and he’s smiling so wide Charles almost forgets, same as him.
“How do you think the movie’s going to be?” he asks in a hushed whisper once they’re inside.
Charles tries to not visibly lean back, swallowing harshly. It’s too close, too intimate for such a public space. Not now. Not when he’s not had him for so long. “So many set photos of you, maybe you will be a character,” he teases in a shaky breath.
Carlos gives him a weird look, but guides them to some random seats, grinning. “You too, no? Pretty face and all.” Charles chokes, God. God. “Shh, I think it’s starting.”
But Charles can’t help but wonder.
This year, he still chooses. He still remembers. But half a year remains, and many Mondays are yet to come. What of next year?
Will he be here next year, by Charles’ side?
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...
SIX WEEKS AGO
Charles could count on one hand the number of times Carlos has been the one to reach out this year.
A ridiculous thing to keep count of, maybe. But there’s only so many times he can type out something about padel or movie or lunch or dinner or games or, most pathetically, chess, before he feels so absolutely obsessed that it’s making him embarrassed and miserable.
Perhaps it wouldn’t be, if Carlos ever, ever bothered to return his texts. If he ever showed any sign of wanting to agree, let alone actually meeting him for said plans. He’s always busy or not in the city or too tired or something is going wrong.
Sorry Charles not this week
Charles likes to think he’s very understanding. Surely, one is allowed to be mad when someone they love is doing their level best to forget them while trying to be unsuspecting. And he’s not in the best mood these days with the season going the way it is.
So when Carlos texted him last week asking for a round of padel with “Lando and the others”, his first instinct was to tell him to go to hell and set up a string trap so he trips when he passes Charles’ street on his run. He’d decided not to reply, playing Carlos’ own game against him.
Somehow, he’d made it worse.
Come on, I want to see your famous backhand ;)
It will be fun
Funny how it hadn’t been fun all those times Charles had been asking for months. But the more pressing thing is that Carlos has already seen him play his backhand. They’ve already won a small competition with it. And it seems the only memory he has of it is Pierre mentioning it in the last driver’s parade.
Charles doesn’t say anything to that, either, until the following week at an unreasonably early hour. He knows Carlos likes to rest on the bench out on the street while he waits for his entourage to catch up to him some days. Luckily for his impeccable, Carlos-oriented memory unit, he gets to watch him open and react to his reply, lurking at his window.
Sorry didnt see this
Not in Monaco
His windows are wrapped with a privacy screen. So when Carlos turns to look at his apartment, Charles knows he can’t see him there.
For a moment, though, vicious and crestfallen, he wishes he could.
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...
FIFTEEN HOURS AGO
Three weekends have come and gone, and they have hardly spoken.
So, really, it’s not at all surprising Carlos corners him on the bus. “Hola, mate, it’s been a while, no?”
“What is ‘a while’?” he questions, smiling at the crowd and waving. It’s Monza, after all. He cannot afford to be scrutinised at this track. Next time, maybe in the streets of Baku, he can slit Carlos’ throat and dispose of his body quietly. Here, yes, the tifosi would lie for him, but it seems an awful lot of a hassle for someone who’s trying to rid Charles from his life.
“A month,” he replies instantly, leaning forward on the railing, same as Charles.
Charles inches away from him, as much as he can without being suspicious. “Sounds like a very long time.”
He has no obligation to be kind. He hopes Carlos is staring at him, stunned. “Come on, cabron. What’s wrong?”
He rolls his eyes. “Nothing is wrong, Carlos.” He also rolls the r.
A beat. And then two or three. “Okay, something is definitely up with you, and I do not know what I did–” Charles scoffs. The irony of it all. “–I’m serious, but it’s Monza, you can’t be mad.”
“No?”
“ Yes, Monza. You and Lewis both have to be nice and happy. And you have to give me a tow in qualifying,” he adds like an afterthought.
This, at least, shocks a laugh out of Charles, but it’s cut short when Carlos lays his palm on his shoulder. He stares, affronted, and the hand is removed. “Did I do something?” His tone is surprisingly gentle. “I’m sorry, if I have done anything.”
“You are free after the race?”
Carlos’ eyes widen, but he nods. “Come to my hotel room, we will go out and celebrate,” he says with no further elaboration.
“You are so sure we will have something to celebrate?” he asks, a twinkle returning to his eye as he waves at the crowds.
“Of course. Since apparently I am giving you a tow in qualifying,” Charles says, soaking in the cheering. He doesn’t watch Carlos gasp out a laugh. He doesn’t watch him at all.
He hopes this doesn’t get clipped and circulated on X and TikTok like all of their interactions this year, but it’s a futile hope, he knows. Silvia tells him as much when he returns to the motorhome, pushing him back bodily so he meets her gaze. She must find something in his face that makes her feel pity, because her eyes soften. “Do you know what you are doing,” she asks, gentler than he expects.
“No,” he exhales out, his frame deflating. “But I promise it will not interfere with the weekend. I will not make a scene if Carlos doesn’t.”
“And Carlos won’t,” she murmurs, squeezing his shoulders, same as Carlos in New York. “Figure things out, or stay away from him, Charles. I mean it.”
“I know you mean it,” he mutters. She only looks at him sadly.
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...
FORTY MINUTES AGO
Carlos had asked to meet him here after the club, and now he’s the one who a no show, which makes this situation all together very frustrating. Just as he’s about to send a terse message off, someone runs straight into him, knocking his phone out of his hand and on to the clobberstone below. “Ah, Lewis,” he says in surprise.
Lewis hadn’t joined them in the club. Lewis never joined anyone for anything, really, so it was odd to see him outside somewhere like here. He remembers Nico had been on the comms, today, and Pierre had been trying to spread some gossip about them for months. Could he–? “Sorry, hi Charles, just here about–” He relaxes, spotting something–no, some one, Nico–behind them. “Good to see you, mate,” he says quickly, and Nico waves cautiously before he’s yanked away to a shadowed car.
Charles blinks. Huh. He watches the car drive off. It’s sweet in a way, maybe. Might be nice to vindicate Pierre on a day he managed to score points. Dangerous and migraine inducing, maybe, but still kind. After all, everyone had been theorising for years that the two had lied at Retention Centres just to speed up the process of forgetting. Now, with this kind of evidence? He’d be unleashing a monster. He picks up his phone again, wiping away the water and opening up the text he’d been typing to Carlos.
God in Heaven.
Will be nice if u hurry up, i dont want to wait too long, plz come say what u need to say and then
He was down so bad.
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...
TWO MINUTES AGO
“Aspirin? Seriously?” he demands, irritated beyond hell already. Changing the meet up place twice, just to end up back in Charles’ hotel room.
Carlos moves past him into the balcony, leaning over the railing. “I did not know what excuse you would buy.” The jacket he’s got on makes him look tired and small, but even that’s not enough to throw Charles off what’s been said.
“Well, ‘Lando drank too much’ usually worked, you know,” he huffs. He’s itching to press up against Carlos, steal his body heat. “Even if you used it a hundred times, I would still believe it.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Carlos says.
“Why? You already–already know…”
He says nothing.
Fear crawls up his throat, choking the words out of him. “You remember that, right?”
Carlos doesn’t look at him. “No, Charles, I’m sorry. I don’t.” Charles wishes he would just turn and face him. “Isn’t that what you’ve been wanting me to say? To tell you to your face that every week I turn in a memory of us?”
Now, maybe, it might be his worst nightmare. The look in Carlos’ eyes, normally so light, full of life and mischief, is a dull brown, haunted and regretful. “Then, here. I go to those Centres and all I can think of is you. How nice it would be to just–to not know you.”
Charles doesn’t register the tears before they trickle down his cheek. “Why–?”
“Every week I try to–” He looks insane, right now, nearly shouting to be heard over the onslaught of rain. Befitting weather to get his heartbroken again, maybe. The thought almost makes him laugh. “I try to forget that night you showed up at my house. The worst night of my life, and you were there.”
This does spark out a laugh. “What is–” he coughs, incredulous, “–is so wrong with me, that I was there–”
“–you said you loved me!”
“I–I know?” He hopes his bewiderment carries over in his voice. “What is the problem? I did not ask you to say it back!”
“I did not even want to!” Ah, here it is. The missing puzzle piece. Good, understanding Carlos Sainz had not wanted to hurt poor, dramatic, feeling too fucking much Charles Leclerc.
What he does not know is that his silence hurt worse than his long awaited rejection. Charles will not spare him the time it will take to come to that realisation.
It appears that was not the end of it. “But after you–you left, I had these–had these feelings– ”
He snorts. “You are speaking so highly of your mother, but she did not teach you to have a feeling,” he starts, proud of how steady his voice is.
“Do not talk about my mother,” he snarls.
“Oh, sorry, before you leave you can give me a list of what I am allowed to speak about, and what you are going to forget so I can know when to stop mentioning them,” he snaps. “My God, Carlos, the whole year you have me in this–this stupid mess, and you show up here now acting like a crazy fool. I will be fine without whatever it is you have been forcing yourself to give to me.” He won’t, but, the principle. “I do not need you to hold my hand. I am not a child.”
Carlos has gone mute in both speech and expression halfway through his monologue. He has this woeful look in his eye like that of a dying deer, and Charles has no idea whether he should put him out of his misery or not.
Instead, he gestures to the door, and says, “Go. Leave. I did not force you to come and I will not force you to stay.”
He mentally sighs in relief when Carlos makes for the door, but it seems he celebrated too soon. “Did you–” he stops, shrinking.
“What?” Charles asks, genuinely curious. “Say what you came here to say. Tell me that everything you said on that roof about you never forgetting the little things was a lie, or don’t. Tell me I am the only exception to that or–” he waves in a, you get what I mean, way, “–or don’t, I don’t know. But don’t tell me you will do this again.”
He doesn’t say anything, and he can feel his heart and his hope crumble.
That’s it, maybe. The end of it.
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..
...
ONE WEEK LATER
Of course it wasn’t the end of it.
It’s not like Charles hadn’t tried. Carlos was surprisingly stubborn when he wanted to be, and that’s how they end up in the balcony of a little coffee shop overlooking Monte Carlo. Uneven ground, maybe, but he had promised to talk. It was beneficial for both of them–Carlos got to say his piece and Charles wouldn’t be arrested for manslaughter.
“I can’t forget,” he whispers, so soft Charles thinks he may be imagining it. “In the start it was… easier. I did not see you for a long time. And when I did not see you, I could do it. But then I realised you knew.” He shakes his head, still refusing to meet his eyes. Out of guilt, regret, or defiance, Charles does not know. “After that–it was like a wall built up. Every time I picked something to forget, I couldn’t think of it once I had the mech on me.”
“I started reading up on mental blocks and things like that. And everything I found…well, it told me I couldn’t forget you because I wasn’t ready to forget you.” He swallows, and Charles traces this, the bob of his throat. In a vicious thought, he hopes it hurts. “I thought… maybe that was a sign.”
He pauses, and he takes the cue. “A sign for what? From God?”
It’s rude, maybe. Carlos’ brow furrows. “Not… God. Myself, maybe. That I wouldn’t ever be able to forget you, because I would never actually want that.”
Charles ignores the warm and fuzzy feeling swiveling in his gut at the slight hope. “So? What? What do you want?”
“You.” Carlos leans forward suddenly, eyes earnest and facing forward. He doesn’t reach for Charles, but his hands twitch like he wants to. “I–I want to be honest with you, Charles. I think I loved you too much to remember you but not be able to have you.”
He’s blushing, maybe. It’s ruining his tough guy outlook. “You’ve always had me, you stupid idiot,” he mutters, definitely red. “I told you this. I let you have all of me with a silver spoon.”
Carlos blinks. “…what? A silver spoon?”
Charles’ skin crawls with embarrassment. “Whatever people say! I never wanted to stop having you. Or–being had by you, or whatever. That was–”
“–my choice. I know,” he agrees. “I want to be honest. I can’t go on knowing you’re there but we can’t–we chose not–”
“We, we, we,” he grumbles. “Who is we, you bastard?”
Charles leans forward, grabs Carlos’ face, and kisses him.
“Mmph,” is all the protest he gets.
He hopes Carlos can feel him smiling.
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..
...
EPILOGUE
Charles wakes up to ear piercing wailing.
He groans, rolling over. “Your turn,” he mumbles. He knows Carlos is awake. He’s closer to the door and Ceci’s screaming so hard he’s sure the neighbours have heard her at this point.
“Noooo,” he moans, “it’s always my turn.”
“You tried to forget me,” he reminds, pushing his wandering arm away, giggling against his tickling attempt. Carlos opens one sparkly brown eye. “Goooo,” he whines, shoving his back with his loose knee, the other trapped under Carlos’.
Carlos lets out a yelp of pain, but grumbles out of bed, and a few minutes later, their daughter’s wailing comes to a halt, and all Charles can hear now is sweet murmuring, the sound of his little family.
He smiles up at the ceiling, basking in the joy. What a life he’s made for himself after that whole fiasco. Husband, daughter, two wonderful dogs in the countryside.
The smile holds until something crashes.
Leo starts barking.