Archive of Our Own

There's a framed picture sitting in his mom's living room. It's a bit dusty on top, and Charles cannot remember it ever not being there. It's him as a baby, round and chubby, held closely against his mom's chest but turned towards the camera, arms spread out in the air like he's reaching for something. His mark is visible on the inside of his left wrist - just a shapeless blob of darker skin, completely unidentifiable.

The first real memory that Charles has of his soulmark belongs to his mom as well. He vaguely recalls being outside, at a playground perhaps, even though he doesn't remember exactly where. He must've been what, four, five years old? Young enough for his mark to still be uncovered as his mom cleaned a scratch on his elbow, dabbing water gently on his skin. Her eyes catch on it as she turns his palm. "Oh, look at that! I think your mark is changing color!".

Charles frowns down at it, the pain at his elbow momentarily forgotten. "Hasn't it always been like this?", he asks. It's a muddy hue, an indistinct and unremarkable circular shape.

His mom shakes her head no. "When you were born it was dark brown, like your brothers' and like mine. But yours has gotten lighter, I feel like". She lets go of Charles' arm, scratch now free of dirt, and smiles. "That's really special, you know? I'm sure your soulmate will love you very much".

Charles inspects the mark closer, feeling the skin of it with the tips of his fingers. There are no grooves, no difference in the texture at all. It could just be a big weird mole, for all Charles knows. 

But his mom's words get lodged in his brain, and Charles turns them around in his head from time to time, examining them like a prized possession. He knows his parents are, against all probability, soulmates. In a world filled with billions of people, somehow, they had managed to find each other. 

Their story is a bit of a fairytale, really. Most people never find their soulmate, but still manage to live fulfilling lives with somebody else - anybody can find love, whether it's with their soulmate or not. And yet, as he grows up, Charles gets the sneaky suspicion that the idea of actually finding the matching mark lives in the back of everyone's heads, like an intrusive thought you can't just get rid of, even if some people deny it. 

Or perhaps it's just him, who knows.

It's the concept of stumbling upon the one person on Earth who is, by design, supposed to click with you. To understand you, to see you and love you for it. It's a nice idea. And so Charles keeps his eyes open at school and discreetly searches for a familiar mark. He doesn't find it. 

By the time he starts middle school, it's clear that his mom was right: the skin of his mark has discolored with the passing years, changing slowly and eventually becoming a bright red. He can't help but feel a bit isolated, different , when his brothers' marks stay the same dark brown they were born with, and yet Charles' doesn't. His friends from karting tease him from time to time when the mark peaks out of the sleeve of his racing suit, and joke about him being too flashy both in and out of the racetrack. 

One of them (Charles feels guilty that he can't remember his name now - Leo? Hugo? Something French) is the one that points out that his mark has started taking on a clearer shape. "It's a helmet, right? Look, it's not totally round", he points to Charles' inner wrist, following the contours of the mark, which have become more defined lately. "Here's the visor, see? It's closed". 

Charles looks at it, and realizes Leo/Hugo is right: the mark is slanted, and there's a couple faint lines on it that resemble a visor. "Huh, a red helmet", his friend continues, clapping him on the back. "Guess it's someone from the racing industry. Lucky! You might actually be able to find them".

That happens right around the time that people his age start talking and gossiping about marks and soulmates like it's the only thing in the whole world that matters to them. Charles thought karting kids wouldn't be so into the whispers and the stories, and would instead focus on racing, but it seems like it's an epidemic amongst pre-teens, whether they're drivers or not. 

He hears people talk about his mark here and there, usually behind his back. Some comments are nice, although a bit creepy (once he overhears how some girls have started drawing helmets on their skin, trying to match with him), and others… Not so much. Most of the gossip that falls under the latter category focuses on how weird it is that his mark is bright red and not dark like everybody else's. There have been documented cases of people with brightly colored marks, but they are few and far between. The family doctor reassures him and his parents that there's nothing wrong with it - it's just a bit different, but completely safe.

He asks his mom for a mark cover, once the pressure of it starts making a dent in his teenage self-confidence. "Oh, honey", she says in response. She wears her mark uncovered, Charles knows: she's proud of the way it matches her husband's. The way they found each other. Right at that moment though, Charles' mark doesn't bring him the same kind of joy. She acquiesces with an understanding smile. "Of course, whatever you need". 

She gets him a few elastic covers - they're kind of like bracelets, except these are wider and they stay tight in place over Charles' wrist. It's easier this way: the people who already know about the mark stay quiet when they see it hidden, and the people who don't know better than to ask. 

He wears the covers from that point onwards, even if he still half-thinks about meeting his soulmate some day. If he keeps climbing his way up the racing ladder, he ponders, he might be able to. 

That hope dies along with his father. Charles watches in real time how much losing a husband hurts his mother, but how it is losing her soulmate that breaks her for good. He grieves, and learns how to get up every morning, get in the car and drive like life moved on. She grieves too, but never quite completely recovers: it feels like a part of his mom will always be grieving, yearning for a piece of her that is forever lost. Charles can't imagine the pain she must go through - having that person who understood you better than anyone else, that connection everyone dreams of, severed like that. 

If that's what he must someday go through if he finds his soulmate, Charles thinks, best not to find them at all. 

So his mark stays covered, even when he's at home or in one hotel or another, and he stops tracing the edges of it with hopeful fingers.

—

It starts the weekend he first sits in the Sauber garage, headphones secured over his white and red cap as he watches the cars fly down Monza's straight. He's here as a guest: a promising young F2 driver, well on his way towards winning the championship, and fresh meat for Formula 1 next year. It hasn't been announced yet that he'll be soon entering F1, but Sauber are already showcasing him a little, making sure the cameras see him right next to their mechanics. He stays put, smiles at the press and tries not to let his eyes wander to the Ferrari garage too often.

Charles presses down on the elastic band with his thumb, right over where his mark has been prickling the entire weekend. It comes and goes, but Charles can't find the common denominator behind this itch that he can't scratch no matter how much he rubs at it. The sensation had been quite alarming yesterday as he made his way down the paddock, but thankfully it seems to have quieted down in the garage. 

Anyway, it's a dead giveaway: his soulmate is in Monza, like him. It makes sense, Charles supposes, that given how dedicated he is to driving, his soulmate would be as well. He looks around the garage, but doesn't see anyone that catches his eye, anyone that looks like they might be feeling the same pins and needles on their skin. There's the mechanics over on one side of the garage, huddled together while they closely follow the race on the screens; a few guests like him, standing on the far corner and chatting quietly to each other; a couple cute PR girls who catch him staring and maybe blush a bit. Charles thinks they look nice, but they don't… Make him feel anything, he guesses. 

He's not sure how to tell - who his soulmate might be, whether they're close or not, how to recognize them. It depends on the person: his dad had told him when he was younger that he only knew once he was already dating his mom. He said the moment he realized he was in love with her he'd started feeling a burning sensation on his skin, like someone had branded him with a hot iron. 

Apparently, for Charles, it's an annoying prickling sensation over his mark. He scratches at it under the band, and tries to ignore the feeling as he focuses on the shiny red cars zooming around the track. The color of their livery matches the angry red of Charles' skin. 

—

He'd feared for a moment that the shape and color of his mark would mean that his soulmate would be someone in Ferrari, but nothing in the red garage sparks his mark into life.

Vettel and Raikkonen make quite the pair, he thinks. Vettel's kind and funny in a very German way, and Raikkonen… He's got a sense of humor too, Charles can tell, even if it's a bit harder to coax out, his expression a bit harder to read. But yeah, his wrist stays dead silent in their proximity.

There are more important things to focus on that weekend, however. Finally, after years of trying his hardest and dedicating every ounce of himself to this, Charles makes his debut in Formula 1 with Sauber. He doesn't make it into the points in Australia, but he can't bring himself to care too much. It's just the first of many races to come, he tells himself. 

The itch under his wrist quiets down when he's home or at the Sauber headquarters, but it persists like a constant buzzing throughout every race weekend. He learns to tune it out. It's easier when he's in the car, hyper focused on the road in front of him and the feel of the cockpit flying over it. 

But it doesn't go away.

He asks Pierre during summer break, after he's had a couple of beers to loosen his tongue. The sun is warm and sticky over them, and Charles tips up his face to enjoy the breeze and the relaxing sound of the sea around them. Pierre is sprawled out on one of the deck lounge chairs, sunglasses on and shoulders already a bit pink. Charles hopes the sun doesn't leave the imprint of Pierre's glasses tanned onto his face.

On second thought, that would be pretty funny, actually. 

He's never seen Pierre's mark, but he knows it's somewhere on his right thigh, currently covered by colorful swimming trunks. It's easier to hide than Charles'. 

"Pierre?".

"Mmm?", he replies, not even bothering with words 

"Have you ever… Noticed anything weird with your soulmark?". Pierre turns his head at the question, looking away from his phone and staring through his sunglasses at where Charles is leaning against the railing of the boat. Pierre's friends are somewhere under the deck, but their voices sound tinny and far away. There's no one to listen to their conversation. 

"What do you mean?". 

Charles powers through. He needs another beer. "I mean like, have you ever felt anything on your mark? Like itching or burning or something like that?". 

Pierre's hand rubs the top of his right thigh over his trunks, gently. "No, I haven't, actually. It's never… Done anything, I guess. Why do you ask?".

Charles shrugs, a bit disappointed. "No reason. Just curious". 

"Charles", Pierre is pushing down his glasses now, sitting up and looking straight at Charles. He definitely needs more sunscreen before he burns completely. "Have you felt anything?".

Again, Charles shrugs. He knows he can't lie, not to Pierre. "Sometimes, yeah. On race weekends, around the paddock or the track". 

"What? That's awesome, mate!", he exclaims. "That probably means she's nearby!".

"Yeah". He can see Pierre's expression morph into one of confusion, and Charles cringes a bit at the dryness in his tone.

"Unless… You don't want to find your soulmate?", he ventures. 

Charles sighs, uncomfortable under the scrutiny. "I… I'm not sure, mate. Everyone wants to meet their soulmate, but I think people don't realize how risky it is. You know what happened to my mom after dad died and I…", he trails off. He doesn't need to finish the sentence. Pierre nods like he understands. 

"That's alright, I think. You don't need to get involved with your soulmate if you don't want to". Charles appreciates the support. "I have a friend back home who described it as like, pulses? Like he would get a throbbing feeling in his mark when he was close to his soulmate. The closer he was to her, the harder the pulse. It's different for everyone, I think".

The conversation doesn't really help Charles at all, but he thanks Pierre anyway and tries to put the issue out of his mind. 

Pierre does burn.

—

Just one year after joining F1, Charles packs his bags and moves into the Ferrari garage. The press eats it up: he's still terribly young for the sport. He might not have been as young as Max when he first got an F1 seat, but Charles signs the longest contract ever in Ferrari history, and that means something in the industry. 

The situation stays basically the same as the previous year: his mark remains a dull itch on the inside of his wrist throughout race weekends, but quiets a bit when he's in the garage. 

Seb catches him scratching during the driver's parade in Monaco. He looks at Charles pointedly, but says nothing, and Charles is grateful for his discretion. He applies moisturizer before getting in the car, hoping to relieve some of the damage to his wrist.

He doesn't finish the race, instead getting a DNF in his home track. The pitying sound of his busted tire walks him all the way back to the garage. 

— 

He finishes fourth in the driver's championship, which is pretty fucking good for his second year in the sport. Above Seb as well, something he is secretly very proud of. 

They go out and celebrate of course, and nearly all the drivers and their teams end up at the same venue - it's a nightclub, licensed for serving alcohol to paying foreign customers and reserved to the top F1 crowd. They're all in good spirits: some drink to celebrate the year's results and some drink to forget them, but they all drink anyway. 

Alcohol is flowing liberally through Charles' veins, making the lights a bit fuzzy and the room around him spin gently, when Lando claps him on the shoulder and hooks his chin over it. His own drink sloshes dangerously close to the edge of his glass. 

"There you are, Charles! I was looking for you", he yells over the music. "Music's shit, I'm gonna go ask if they'll let me DJ. Wanna come with?".

"You're not going anywhere", a voice says behind them, and suddenly Carlos is reeling Lando back and dislodging him off Charles. "You're way too drunk to try playing music". 

"Am not". 

"Lando, you wouldn't even be able to see the controls, much less mix songs", he replies, a small smile hanging off his lips. He looks at Charles then. His mark itches. "Sorry about him, mate, I think he's had a bit too much to drink". 

"You haven't had enough!", Lando pouts. 

Carlos gestures towards Lando. "Come on, give me your glass, we'll get you some water from the bar. You'll thank me tomorrow". Lando whines in disagreement but lifts his arm to hand over the glass, and that's exactly when someone bumps him from behind. The drink spills all over Carlos' shirt, soaking the front almost completely and dripping to his pants. 

"Oh, shit, shit, sorry", Lando apologizes immediately, turning around to find the man who'd stumbled on him. "Watch yourself, dude!". 

"Sorry, sorry", the man says. He looks one drink away from blacking out. Charles can't quite make out the logo on his t-shirt in the club lighting - Mercedes, maybe?

"It's okay", Carlos says, holding the soaked fabric away from his stomach. 

"Let's go to the restroom and see if we can dry you out", Charles says, pointing Carlos towards the right direction. "Lando, think you can go get someone from McLaren who can find a spare shirt?". 

"Yeah, yeah, I can", he says. He sways a bit where he's standing, but nods confidently and goes. 

"Are you sure about that?", Carlos asks as they make their way to the toilets. They're bigger and cleaner than he'd expected, a couple people already inside chatting to each other. They leave as Carlos reaches one of the available sinks, door closing noisily and leaving them alone. He can still hear the muffled beat of the music.

"I'll go find him in a minute and make sure he doesn't embarrass himself". 

"Thanks, mate", Carlos says, then makes an aborted move like he's hesitating, but eventually grabs his shirt and begins pulling it over his head. The light of the restroom is fairly dim, but still bright enough to have Charles' heart stop dead in his chest. He feels his limbs go icy numb, stomach plunging, as Carlos takes off his soaked shirt and Charles' eyes zero in on the red mark stamped neatly over his left shoulder blade. He doesn't need to scan it closely to know what it looks like: smooth curved lines following the slope of a standard F1 helmet, visor closed and ready to race. 

He only realizes he's locked in place staring when Carlos asks: "Are you okay?". Charles shakes himself out of it and realizes Carlos is looking at him through the mirror, shirt rolled up in his hands like he'd been straining the liquid out of it. Charles hadn't even heard him do it.

"Yeah, yeah, sorry". Mechanically, he looks around for something to do. He walks over to the paper towel dispenser, which somehow looks out of place in the luxury of Abu Dhabi, and grabs a few towels for Carlos. He hands them over silently under his watchful gaze. Carlos takes them, dabbing them over his wet stomach. Charles' eyes follow the movement of his hands unconsciously.

"I know it's weird". Charles startles, finding Carlos' eyes in the mirror again. 

"What?".

"My mark. I know it's weird. You can look at it if you want". 

Charles doesn't feel like he can, right now. His legs might be shaking a bit, and it's not just due to the alcohol. "Sorry, I didn't mean to stare". 

"It's okay. Usually I keep it hidden, but I didn't think I was gonna go shirtless tonight", he says, a bit of mirth escaping with his words. "I would appreciate it if you didn't go around telling people about it though". 

Alarmed, Charles responds. "God, no, I would never do that". 

Carlos smiles gently, eyeing Charles' own covered wrist. There's a few bracelets and rings adorning his hand as well, but the shape of the cover is unmistakable. "I know. I'm only saying, just in case". 

Charles nods, watches Carlos dispose of the paper towels in silence. His mouth opens without permission. "And it's not weird, you know". 

"What was that?"

"I said, it's not weird. The fact that your mark has a different color", he says, louder this time. Carlos turns around to look at him. "It just means you're special". 

At that, Carlos' face breaks out slowly into a smile. Charles feels like the itch in his wrist will make it all the way through skin and muscle, until it reaches his bones. He watches, amazed, as Carlos reaches behind himself thoughtlessly with his right hand and scratches lightly at his own mark. "Who told you that?".

"My mom".

The smile doesn't drop. "A very wise woman indeed". 

Charles just stares at him for one, two seconds, until Carlos' gaze is too much for him to bear. "I'll go find Lando", he says abruptly, turning around. 

"Great, thanks mate". Charles doesn't look back to see what kind of face Carlos might be making. He pulls on the door handle and flees. 

He can barely hear the club music over the buzzing in his ears. Still, Charles pushes his way past clumps of mechanics and other drivers, gets a few pats in the back and some whooping in return, and eventually manages to find Lando. He's surrounded by what look like McLaren staff, brandishing a new drink in one hand and a branded sweatshirt on the other. 

"Charles!", he pipes up as soon as he sees him coming in his direction. "I got clothes for Carlos!".

Charles debates getting the sweatshirt and taking it himself to where Carlos is probably still in the toilets, naked from the waist up, waiting for someone to go help. The image of his mark is stuck behind Charles' eyelids - he can't go. 

"Go give it to him, Lando. He's waiting". 

"You're not coming?", Lando asks, eyebrows scrunched up. 

"No. Actually, I'm heading back to the hotel". He hadn't planned on it, but he doesn't feel capable of facing Carlos right now, knowing what he knows. "I'm not feeling too good".

"What? No, it's way too early! Come on, I'll buy you a drink". Charles shakes his head, pushing Lando's shoulders gently towards the restrooms. 

"Sorry, mate. I'll see you tomorrow for breakfast, okay? Text me". 

"Okay", he agrees, voice a bit upset. 

"Now go", and finally, Lando does. Charles finds his team and makes his excuses, wanting to be out of the club as soon as possible. 

"Are you alright?", Seb asks as he pats his back affectionately. Damn him and his fatherly perception. 

"I am, yes. Just need some rest", he lies through his teeth. Seb gives him a look, but doesn't press further.

"You sure have earned it. Sleep tight, Charles. I'll see you tomorrow". Charles grabs his coat and gets a taxi to drive him to the hotel Ferrari's booked, plopping down on his bed without ceremony. 

He feels the soft texture of the bed sheets under his hands, breathes in the smell of standard fabric softener.

Alright, he's found his soulmate. What now?

—

The answer is: nothing. He doesn't reach out to Carlos, and doesn't tell anyone about his newfound knowledge, not his mom, not Pierre. No one. Because here's the thing: Charles is already dating Charlotte. And yeah, their relationship is still pretty new, but can he really break up with her just like that? Not knowing if Carlos will reciprocate at all? 

And that's another whole can of worms. Charles had always assumed that his soulmate would be a girl, but… Yeah, clearly it's not. And he doesn't really have a problem with that, it's just that he's never actually thought about it. Soulmates don't necessarily have to be romantic partners, but they usually end up being so. And Charles has never thought about men that way, or so he'd thought. 

And there's the whole added issue of Carlos having a girlfriend as well. So what is Charles supposed to do, really? Knock on McLaren's garage and say "Hey, by the way, I'm your soulmate. Maybe we can both think about leaving our girlfriends and seeing where we can go from there? By the way I'm not even sure I like men, do you?". Yeah, that would be a very normal thing to do.

So instead, he does nothing. He has Charlotte. Charlotte who is beautiful and funny, who supports his racing career, who lets him trace his fingers over the small mark on her hip bone and nods in understanding when Charles refuses to take off his wrist cover. She knows they don't match, but doesn't care about it.

So life moves on. Winter break comes and goes, and the 2020 season starts - well, kinda. The first few races are canceled, obviously, but slowly things go back to normal. Eventually they get to racing again and fans trickle back to the events. 

It's a shit year. Both in general and in Formula 1 as well: his eighth place in the driver's championship tastes stale and bitter on Charles' tongue after last year's results. And Seb… Best not to talk about Seb. 

He's not renewing with Ferrari, and that much is clear early on in the season. There's been tension around the hospitality between him and Binotto for the last few months, and Charles can tell Seb is happy to leave by the time the season comes to an end. Aston Martin will be kinder to him, Charles thinks, even if the car won't be as fast. 

The question of who will replace Seb is quickly answered as well. Red suits Carlos, and the first time Charles sees him get into his shiny new Ferrari he realizes the hunch he'd had a few years ago had actually been correct. His soulmate was actually a Ferrari driver after all. He had just looked for him at the wrong time. 

They get along well, despite the fact that Charles tries to keep him at an arm's length away at all times. Carlos doesn't seem to care one bit: he grabs at Charles, flicks his hair and throws his arm around his shoulders with no regard at all for Charles' sanity. 

They spend time together in and out of the racetrack as well: Carlos invites him to play golf with Lando, they go grab dinner together before races, and they play chess during dull hours at the garage. Each time Carlos asks, Charles says yes. He can't help himself.

It's good. And that's the worst part: how well they work together. Carlos is a good driver and wants nothing more than to win, but he's also kind and collected, playful and simply fun to be around. He listens when Charles complains about the car or about strategy, and keeps him company after races don't go his way. 

Charles' mark tingles almost constantly now. It's a sensation his brain relegates automatically to the background, after years of ignoring it, but he's distantly aware of it all the same. 

It's like this for Charles, but he doesn't know what it must be like for Carlos. Does his mark not itch, or hurt, or something? Doesn't it react when they're together? Oh god, could their link be broken? Like maybe it works on Charles' side, but Carlos isn't feeling anything on his, and that's why he doesn't react when they're pressed together for an interview. Or something. 

Anyhow, it doesn't matter. Charles plays along, but tries to keep his distance when he can. It's hard sometimes, and he catches his eyes drifting to Carlos more than he would like. His smile, his eyes, the way he gestures with his hands when he's explaining something. But Charles is an adult: he can pretend he's got his shit together.

They're right in the middle of the second half of the 2021 season when they post that one interview the PR team had them do asking fan questions to each other. Charles sees it while he's scrolling on his phone, bored and incapable of sleeping thanks to jetlag. The crooked red couch taunts him from the screen. 

He clicks on the video out of apathy and a sick desire to cringe at himself. And cringe he does, especially when Carlos starts talking about listening to jazz, and Charles has to watch his own expression open up in a delighted smile. It's awful. He doesn't know if he is so obvious to everyone, or just to his own growing misery.

It's right around the beginning of the 2022 season that it gets really bad. Charlotte can tell as well - that he's distracted, distant, that he's paying her less and less attention as time goes by. 

It's not her fault. Staying in the moment becomes a bit difficult for Charles, especially after his season gets steadily worse with each new race and the title slips away from his fingers point by point, each one going straight into Max's pocket. Carlos tries to cheer him up after particularly bad races, but he has his own demons as well: adapting to the car has been difficult for him this year, Charles knows, and if it's not that then it's the strategy, or a ill-placed puddle of water, or another car that takes him out of the race. He's just as frustrated as Charles is.

Eventually, Charles' turmoil had to boil over. 

It happens in Abu Dhabi, of course, on the second anniversary of Charles' accidental soulmate discovery. He drinks his own weight in champagne, even if champagne is for winners and he only just about managed to get second place this year. He should be happy - it's the closest he's ever been to winning the championship, and a very good result after the disaster of 2021. And yet, looking at the massive difference in points between him and Max, silver feels almost condescending. 

"Woah there cowboy, slow down", Pierre says, watching as Charles downs another glass. "Take it easy, mate. We're here to have fun, not pass out". 

Charles wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then signals the bartender for another one. "You okay?", Pierre asks. 

"Yep", Charles replies, exaggerating the "p" with an obnoxious pop of his lips. "Just here to party, you know?".

Pierre examines him, looking unconvinced. This late into the now early morning, Charles' blood carries enough alcohol that he doesn't really care anymore. About anything. He touches his mark over the cover, and then realizes it's quiet. Huh. Carlos must've left. 

Pierre catches the movement. "Alright, mate. Where's Charlotte?". 

"She's not here". 

Pierre looks at him in surprise. "She's not?".

"Noup", he replies, again with the annoying pop of the "p". He doesn't want to explain that they'd had another fight after qualifying, and that she'd come to see the race but gone straight back to her own hotel room afterwards. He's a coward like that. The next drink gets placed smoothly on his hand.

But before Charles has had the opportunity to bring it to his lips, Pierre snatches it away. "Hey! What the hell, man". 

"Okay, something's not right with you, and I don't think it's just about the championship", he says, moving the glass out of range. "I want you to have fun, Charles, but you're worrying me right now. Is it about Charlotte?". 

Charles frowns, fighting down the drunken frustration before it morphs into anger. Or something worse, like sadness or self-pity. "I don't wanna talk about it right now, Pierre".

"Okay, then you don't have to talk to me. But you should tell someone about whatever's going on. Before it eats you up". It might be a little too late for that , Charles thinks to himself.

He manages to snatch another drink from George, which he makes sure to down where Pierre can't see him, but the weight of their conversation stays put on his shoulders for the rest of the evening.

He calls it a night when the alcohol stops feeling good and instead begins to make his thoughts race out of control and his stomach cramp uncomfortably, the room spinning around him more than he would like. One of his mechanics calls him a cab (he'll have to thank him the following morning, when he's able to think straight), and eventually he stumbles down the deserted corridor to his hotel room. 

It's there that his drunk to shit brain decides to make a split-second decision, and stops his feet one door too soon. 

He's knocking before he's made a conscious decision to do so. Or stop, which is what he should be doing - going into his room, throwing up, downing a couple glasses of water and getting into bed. Instead, he waits by the wrong door, and knocks again. 

Some part of his brain worries that he's being too loud, that someone will come out of their room and find him, drunk and knocking on his teammate's door at four in the morning, but then the door opens, revealing a disheveled and annoyed Carlos. His expression morphs into one of confusion once he recognizes Charles on the other side. 

"Charles?", he asks, voice rough with sleep. "Is everything alright?".

Charles has no clue what he's doing. He only knows that he wants to crawl out of his skin, that his mark is back to his usual prickling, and that he might have to reconsider that whole 'only being attracted to women' thing. The way Carlos' sweatpants are barely hanging on to his hips is definitely doing something to Charles' insides.

"Can I come in?", he asks, giving in. Carlos seems a bit concerned, but he steps to the side and lets Charles through. 

Charles takes in the room. It's just like his own next door, although tidier. The bedside light is the only source of light, illuminating messy bed sheets. They would probably still feel warm, if Charles were to put his hand to them. 

"Are you okay, Charles?", Carlos asks, coming a bit closer. Charles can't decide if he wants him to stay put or to move nearer, doesn't even know what he's doing here. 

"I'm alright, don't worry", he replies, but the words come out thick around his English. He's slurring a bit. 

Carlos' eyes widen a bit. "Holy shit, you're drunk. Like drunk, drunk". Then Carlos pads into the bathroom. Charles hears the sound of the tap running, and then he comes back with a glass full of water, which he offers to Charles. "Here you go. Drink up". Charles takes the glass, staring at the clear liquid. He doesn't feel thirsty. Or well, maybe he does, but not for this. He puts the glass down on the nearest table while Carlos looks for his shoes.

"Come on, you got the wrong door. Do you have your keycard? I'll walk you", and then he's coming back to Charles, frowning. "Mate, you didn't have any of the water. You're gonna have the worst headache tomorrow if you don't-". But he never gets to finish his sentence. 

Charles grabs his face with both hands and presses their mouths together. It's awkward as hell, really, limbs tense and Charles smelling and tasting like alcohol and bad decisions.

Carlos doesn't fight him off, but he doesn't reciprocate either. He just stands there, body warm but still, as Charles moves his lips over his mouth gently. He feels like his mark is burning through his skin. 

Their lips make a small quiet sound as they break apart, and Charles saves it inside his head for later review. Carlos just stares at him, eyes wide and mouth now slightly open. He still hasn't made a move. His throat is working - Charles can follow his Adam's apple up and down. Charles looks at his bottom lip, which is ridiculously full, and thinks about biting it, right before the feared words come out of Carlos' mouth.

"You should… You should probably leave", is what he says in the end, voice quiet and strained. Charles can see tension in the taut lines of his neck.

He avoids eye contact and nods, careful not to jostle his own head too much, lest he ends up throwing up for real. And without any other words, Charles stumbles towards the door and makes his pitiful exit, closing the hotel door behind him. 

He does throw up after all, leaning over the toilet bowl down on his knees, dizzy and uncomfortable and miserable. He's fucked this up, just like he's fucking his relationship with Charlotte, and at this point he doesn't know if either are salvageable.

He crawls into bed and sleeps fitfully, dreaming of car crashes and first kisses gone wrong.

And Carlos was right. He does have a pounding headache the day after, so Charles uses the excuse to order room service instead of going downstairs to the hotel buffet and facing his team. Like the coward he is.

—

Charlotte asks him to meet once they're both back in Monaco, settling in for the winter break. She wants to talk, to try to sort things out - Charles doesn't know if they can. 

"Will you show me your mark?", she asks, voice tiny. Her tea has gone cold where it sits on the table between them. "Please. I know we don't match and I don't care, I just". It seems to Charles like she's trying to search for something in his eyes, but she's not quite finding it. "I just want to see it. In three years, you've never shown me. Why?". 

And what a good question that is. It's not like Charlotte would recognize his mark - she's never seen Carlos' either, and like most people, probably never will. Is it because his mark is colored? Charlotte wouldn't treat him differently for it, she's a good person. So why, indeed?

What she wants is a sign of trust, a show of vulnerability. Let me see you , she's asking with this request.

Charles takes a deep breath, toys with the edge of the band over his wrist. He sighs. "I can't". 

Charlotte's expression shuts down at that, like blinds being pulled over a window. She nods quietly like she'd expected as much. "Okay, Charles. Okay". 

—

They post about it on Instagram by the end of December, even though they've been over for several weeks now, and then it is official. Three years of a relationship down the drain.

The tabloids eat it up, wondering what the reason behind the breakup is. Did he cheat? Did she finally get tired of chasing him around the world, perpetually sharing his attention with a car? 

Charlotte doesn't give them anything to work with and neither does Charles, so the reasons will remain a mystery forever. There's too many for an easy explanation anyway. 

Charles is too distant, too focused on racing, too frustrated - too in love with someone else.

He doesn't hear from Carlos during the break. Charles sees his Instagram posts when they pop up in his feed, and likes them the way he would've pre-Abu Dhabi 2022, but doesn't comment on any of them. It's fine, he tells himself. He can just pretend he was too drunk and he doesn't remember the kiss, and then they can go back to normal.

Right?

—

Winter testing is awkward.

Isa is there, for starters, which shouldn't be a problem - Charles genuinely likes her. She's nice, and seems a little sad about not having Charlotte around anymore to keep her company in the paddock during race weekends.

It's just that whenever Charles looks at her, he remembers how he waltzed into her boyfriend's hotel room at four in the morning one night and planted a kiss on him. 

Carlos does, predictably, pretend like nothing ever happened. If he's less touchy with Charles, choosing to keep his hands to himself most of the time, then that's okay. Charles understands. 

—

Things change a bit in 2023, although not much. The Mercedes are more competitive this year, and Lewis is back to giving the Red Bulls a run for their money. Max is still terribly fast though: he wins in Bahrain, and then again in Saudi Arabia.

Charles wins Australia. He throws himself completely into driving, focusing harder than he ever has in his career. He's got nothing left to lose now, after all, and everything to win. 

So he puts in extra hours at the sim, cuts down the partying and wakes up extra early to sneak in a few more reps at the gym. It works: he's faster this year, stronger, he loses less time around corners. He could drive any circuit on the calendar with his eyes closed, forwards and backwards.

It works, right until it doesn't. He's at the hotel gym, probably going overboard with the weights (he can't put on too much muscle, but there's something satisfying in lifting that scratches the caveman part of his brain), when he misjudges one of the dumbbells. 

Charles lets it clatter down to the floor with a hiss of pain, drawing the attention of a few other people around. Andrea comes over immediately, asking if Charles is okay. "Let me see", he says as he takes Charles' left hand carefully in his. He prods at it gently, moving and rotating it slowly. Charles lets out a quiet grunt of pain. "Alright, I think you might've sprained your wrist, but it doesn't seem like anything's broken. Let's ice it, and then we'll go check you out in medical". 

After Charles' wrist has been so thoroughly iced that he fears it might turn blue, they take an X-ray of his hand. "Just in case", the doctor says, words bending strangely around his accent. "Please place your forearm here and keep still while we take the image. Oh, and I need you to take everything off that arm: bracelets, rings… Everything". 

Charles begins taking his accessories off, but then hesitates. "Can I keep my cover?", he asks. 

The doctor seems mildly regretful, like he's sorry he has to ask this of him. "I'm sorry, but I would rather you left your wrist bare for the X-ray. While your cover is not metal, it might hinder the reading". At Charles' obvious hesitation, he continues. "Don't worry, it will not take long". 

Charles complies, taking all his accessories off his left hand for the first time in a very long while. The cover goes easy, and Charles is for a brief moment startled by the shape of his own mark. It's been a while since he's last looked at it properly. 

One of the nurses comes to collect the jewelry and cover away, directing Charles on how to best place his arm for the X-ray. Then they leave him alone with the loud whirring noise of the machine.

Once it's done, a different nurse comes in to direct him back to the doctor's office. "We'll have the results in a little while, Mr. Leclerc. We'll call you once we've got the diagnosis confirmed". 

Charles nods and thanks her. "Can I have my things back?", he asks nurse number two. She looks at him a bit weird. 

"Your things, sir?".

"The other nurse took my jewelry before taking the X-ray. My rings and the rest of the stuff I was wearing". 

"Oh, apologies sir. I'm not quite sure who the other nurse was, I'm the only one supposed to be on duty for this consultation room. Please come with me, we'll find your belongings". And they do find them eventually, in a back room of the clinic where the first nurse apologizes profusely for the confusion. Charles slips the cover onto his swollen wrist gratefully. It's a bit too tight and it hurts like this, but the irrational feeling of being naked is finally gone.

It's too late though. 

Charles doesn't remember seeing anyone with their phone out, but someone snaps a picture and posts it on Twitter. Maybe it was one of the clinic's staff, maybe another patient, he doesn't know. What he does know is that the image doesn't have great resolution, but the zoom is enough to grant a fairly clear view of his soulmark, stamped right in the middle of his barren, swollen wrist. 

The shape isn't super clear - you can't tell it's a helmet, only that it's fairly round and definitely red. 

Social media goes crazy with it. Some drivers wear their marks completely out in the open, but Charles has covered it for as long as he's been in Formula 1, so fans have never seen it. They speculate and try to match it to his ex-girlfriends - unsuccessfully, of course. 

There's also the obligatory comments about the weird color of his mark: does Charles dye it for attention? Is it even real, or just a tattoo? 

Charles stays holed up in his hotel room that night. He scans through Twitter and Instagram for the reactions, and even manages to reply to a few texts of people giving him his support, but the pit of anxiety currently lodged in his stomach doesn't budge. 

His worries are proven right when his phone dings with a new text. It's Carlos.

Where are you?

And then, after Charles decides not to open the message:

Charles

We need to talk

Are you in your hotel room??

Twenty minutes later, there's a knock on his door. Charles debates pretending he's asleep or simply somewhere else, but the pounding continues undeterred. 

Carlos' voice can be heard through the door. "Charles, open up! I know you're there, Andrea said you were in". He briefly considers faking his death or something, but he knows Carlos will just keep knocking until either Charles lets him in or someone calls the hotel security. 

Carlos' hair is sticking up in weird angles when he opens the door. He looks wired. "There you are. Why weren't you answering my texts?".

"Sorry, I didn't see them. I was sleeping", Charles lies. He'd previewed the messages in the notification bar but he'd never actually opened them, so even though it's a flimsy lie at best Carlos can't call him out. He stares at Charles like he knows this, but is considering whether to do it anyway. 

"Can I come in?", he asks instead. Charles lets him through, closing the door behind him. He watches as Carlos starts walking around the room, pacing nervously like he's trying to find the words he's looking for. Eventually, he stops dead in his tracks and looks at Charles. The Ferrari polo he's wearing is wrinkled. "Okay, Charles, I'm confused. And I, I- I don't even know what to say". 

Carlos runs a hand through his hair, messing it up even further if that's possible. He looks bewildered. "Then don't say anything. Do you really want to have this conversation?".

"Yes, fuck, of course I do! I mean, what the hell, Charles? I have to find out through Twitter that we have the same mark? Why?". He's raising his voice more than he usually does, even when he gets angry. And Carlos is never quick to anger. "What I can't understand is that I know you knew, because you've seen my mark. Fuck, how long ago was that? Over two years ago! And you didn't say anything ".

"You had a girlfriend, I had a girlfriend", Charles tries to argue. "What was I supposed to do?".

"I don't know Charles: say something! We don't have to start fucking the second we find out!", he replies, incredulous, startling Charles with the jagged way the swearing leaves his mouth. Charles sees him take a breath, chest expanding visibly, before he continues, voice lower, almost… Vulnerable. "I just… Fuck. Can I see it?".

Charles' instinctual reaction is No . No one has been allowed to see his mark for years - his body immediately rebels against the idea. But the cat's out of the bag already, isn't it? What point is there trying to hide this anymore? Charles hesitates.

He finds Carlos' brown eyes and nods, lifting his left arm. He takes the cover off gingerly, careful around the swelling in his wrist, and offers it up to Carlos, who touches it with reverent fingers. "Careful, I have a sprain. I'm supposed to be wearing a cast, actually. One of those removable ones". 

"What happened?", he asks, inspecting his hand. Charles shrugs.

"Went overboard at the gym. Hurt myself". 

"You've been going overboard at everything since winter". Carlos turns his hand carefully, rough fingertips finding the delicate skin of his wrist, right above where the mark sits. He traces the edges of it once, then again, before he speaks. "I'm not used to seeing it, you know? Since mine's on my back I've only ever seen pictures of it". He lifts his head, looking at Charles. "You sure this is not a tattoo?".

Charles can't help it: he snorts."If it was, I wouldn't cover it". 

"Right". Carlos stops moving his fingers over Charles' skin, but he doesn't let go of his hold on his wrist. "Why didn't you tell me, Charles?". 

Charles struggles to put the weird swirl of emotions he's felt for years in regards to his mark into words. "I don't know. I was scared, I guess". Carlos looks at him, encouraging. "I wasn't lying when I said that part of it was you being with Isa and me with Charlotte. I didn't want to create any unnecessary drama", although he'd managed to do exactly just that in the end. 

"Okay. And what about the rest?".

"Shit". Fuck , talking is hard. He swallows around the lump in his throat, trying to get the words out. "I… My parents were soulmates", he explains. "When my dad died, my mom never recovered, you know? Like she always says she's fine, but we all know she's not really fine". He finds Carlos' eyes. "I'm scared of that". 

"Charles. I'm sorry". He feels like they're both going down an emotional rollercoaster: from confusion, to anger, to sadness… What's next?

"Plus I wasn't even sure if I liked you, I guess. I mean, I do like you. But I didn't know if I could like you, you know". What an embarrassment.

Carlos lifts an eyebrow. "Soulmates don't have to be romantic". 

"But they usually are, and you know it". 

Carlos' expression changes, lifting one of his eyebrows - apparently the next emotion is playfulness. "So, what's the verdict?".

"What?".

"Do you like me? Or do you think you could get to like me?", he asks, mischievous smile growing by the second. Charles' eyes drop to his mouth without permission. "Oh, I think that's a yes". 

"Shut up", he says as Carlos laughs. Charles withdraws his wrist, turning around and fetching his cast from the bedside table to put it on, tightening it with his good hand.

Meanwhile, Carlos walks over to the bed and sits down on it, mattress bouncing slightly under his weight. The air in the room has cleared a bit, but Charles can still read the tension in his muscles.

"Does your mark itch? Because mine does all the time", Charles asks, half to fill the silence, half out of an actual desire to know. His own wrist is going crazy at the moment, like it can sense that now Carlos is aware that they're soulmates, and is propelling Charles forward to do something about it. 

Carlos' eyes go wide with realization. " Fuck , it started bothering me when we began the 2018 season, didn't it? That was your rookie year". Charles watches as he runs both his hands down his face, groaning like he's in pain. "How did I not notice?".

Charles snorts. "Mate, we've been teammates for over two years. Did your mark not get worse after you joined Ferrari?". 

"Yeah, it did, but…", he looks at Charles, still standing there with his stupid cast on. "2018 was around the time I started going out with Isa. I thought it was her, that the mark was reacting more because we were getting closer, you know?".

"But surely you knew your mark didn't match hers". Carlos shakes his head, shoulders a bit hunched. 

"I've never seen her mark". Charles tries to keep the surprise out of his features, but probably fails miserably, judging by the grimace on Carlos' features. "Yeah, you can laugh if you want".

"No, no, I would never laugh about that. Actually, I… Never showed Charlotte mine either".

"No?", Carlos' tone is not mocking, only curious.

Charles shakes his head. "No. It's one of the reasons why we broke up". Sensing a break in the conversation, Charles realizes he's tired of standing in the middle of the hotel room like an idiot, so instead he decides to join Carlos on the bed, sitting next to him with a small sigh. They're close enough that he can feel the warmth radiating from Carlos like a human heater. None of them shift away from each other. 

"Do you wanna talk about that?".

"About Charlotte?".

"Yeah. I couldn't help but notice that you guys broke up right after the end of the season", Carlos says, clearly dancing around the elephant in the room. 

"You mean after Abu Dhabi". Charles can feel a self-deprecating smile building over his mouth. "After I tried to kiss you". 

"Well, yes. You tried and you succeeded. But yeah, after that", he says, and Charles could swear that there's a faint blush dusting his cheeks. It's hard to tell with the dim hotel lighting. 

Charles turns the words around in his head, trying to find the right ones. He takes a deep breath, letting the air fill his lungs and then leave them slowly. "It was after Abu Dhabi that it became clear that Charlotte wasn't cutting it for me anymore. And she knew this. Probably had known for a while, actually". The words feel rock solid between them, heavy with implications. 

Charles watches as Carlos processes the meaning behind them. "You left her?".

"Actually, she kind of left me", Charles replies with a sardonic smile. "It wasn't fair to her to keep her tied to me when I couldn't give her what she needed. When she wasn't what I needed, you know". 

Carlos' eyes pin Charles in place, making goosebumps break all over his arms. "And what did you need?".

He shrugs lightly, shoulders almost bumping into Carlos with how close they are sitting. "Someone who understood, I guess".

Carlos nods, staring off into the distance like he's struggling to digest all of the information that's been dumped on him. Charles lets the silence envelop them, and uses the time to try to calm his own racing heart as well. 

Eventually, it's Carlos who breaks the quiet. His voice is pitched low. "I kept thinking about it, you know". Charles has only a second to wonder what 'it' refers to before he's talking again. "You, totally drunk, barging into my room and kissing me. There's this little part of my brain that's been waiting for it to happen again. I would go back to my room early after parties and half-hope you'd turn up. I guess it makes sense now why I kept imagining it". 

Charles can't help the wounded noise that escapes his mouth at the words. He thinks he feels Carlos' arms tense.

"Why? Why were you waiting for it to happen again?". His voice comes out a bit raspy. He feels like he's been strung so tight he might start vibrating any moment now. 

Carlos' eyes are very, very dark when they find Charles'. "I guess I thought about what I might've done differently, with a little bit of a heads-up". 

"And that would be?".

Carlos' eyes drop to Charles' mouth. "Returning the kiss, maybe". 

Charles can't help the way he practically falls into Carlos' mouth, out of balance and off-center and immediately dizzying anyway. He gasps when Carlos reciprocates this time, opening up his mouth and fitting his face against Charles', rough fingers finding Charles' jaw and directing it gently. 

It's soft, and careful, and slow, until Carlos swipes his tongue over Charles' lips and he's struck with the swift half-sick feeling of his stomach plunging low on his belly. Charles doesn't mean to take this any further, he really doesn't, but he can't help the way his hands find purchase on Carlos, holding on for dear life: one on his arm and the other one in his hair, eliciting a ragged grunt that Charles files away in his brain. 

It's good. Shit, he's kissing a man for the first time ever and why is it so good? Carlos' mouth is warm and his day-old stubble rubs against his own, something new and definitely masculine and Charles finds that he doesn't mind it one bit. His hair is soft and thick where Charles runs his hands through it, tugging on it a bit and feeling the rumble on Carlos' chest at the sensation.

They need to stop before it gets out of hand. 

So Charles brings his hands back to his lap and detaches himself from Carlos, watching hazily as Carlos tries to chase his mouth. It makes something dark and hot twist inside him, his pants getting more uncomfortable than they have any right to. But Carlos acquiesces, pulling back eventually. His breathing is coming in fast, chest visibly moving up and down.

Charles wants. Fuck , he wants. He briefly considers sending it all to hell and pushing Carlos back on his bed, laying on top of him and taking whatever he can get from the man. He's sure it would be good too - something in the way Carlos rakes his eyes slowly down Charles' body tells him as much. But instead, he stays put and tries to be reasonable like an adult. A proper one, for once. 

He clears his throat. "Okay, so I guess we can probably assume that physical compatibility won't be a problem", he says, and Carlos starts giggling incredulously at his side. Charles' eyes are glued to the way he runs his tongue over his lips, like he's trying to salvage what little of Charles' taste might be left. 

"Yeah, I think we're good there", he agrees, and the tension in the air this time doesn't feel stifling, but rather exciting. Eventually though, they have to address the question that's hanging heavy over their heads right now, the one that Charles doesn't want to ask. He does anyway.

"So. What now?". 

—

Carlos asks for time. Time to think about it, to process the information, to figure out what he wants, and Charles gives it to him. Again, he's got nothing to lose. He can only aspire to win. 

And win he does. 

Lewis gets Baku, and Max gets Miami. But Charles gets Imola. The battle for first is tight this year, the tightest Charles has ever lived it. The Ferraris aren't quite on par with the Red Bulls or the Mercedes, but they're definitely more reliable than last year. Aston Martin is the surprise of the season, with Alonso actually edging out a couple podiums in an amazing display of willpower and the kind of experience only decades in the sport can bring.

Carlos wins in Monaco. He'd only started from P3, but Charles himself has a terrible start and Max' wheels lock up going into turn five halfway through the race, letting Carlos by in a red fury. 

It's fine, Charles thinks, that if he himself cannot win in Monte Carlo, at least it's his teammate who does. He would've obviously preferred to win, but considering the luck he usually has in Monaco, the champagne Carlos aims at his face tastes sweet from P2. 

It's afterwards that Carlos finds him in his driver's room, still smelling like sweat and champagne. It shouldn't be as appealing as it is. 

Charles knows what the impromptu visit is about as soon as Carlos locks the door behind him with an almost soundless click . Charles finishes changing into his clean Ferrari polo before turning around and acknowledging him. The roar of the crowd is still a distant buzz in his ears.

"I've spoken to Isa", Carlos says, voice grave and at odds with the manic smile he'd been sporting on the podium. 

Charles stands there and looks at him, torn between wanting to be encouraging and being scared of what he might hear coming out of Carlos' mouth next. "Okay", he settles for after a few seconds of hesitation. "What did she say?". 

Carlos makes a face. "She was, understandably, not very happy". Charles nods, watching as Carlos fiddles with the sleeves of his racing suit, still haphazardly tied over his waist. "She asked questions. Like how long I'd known about the marks, if we had slept together. What I wanted to do with the fact that we're soulmates". 

"And what did you tell her?". Charles hates that his voice sounds a bit too tiny for his liking.

Carlos shrugs. "The truth. That I found out at the same time she did through Twitter, and that we'd never slept together". That moment in Charles' hotel room in Baku flashes in Charles' mind, and he remembers how tempted he had been to just push Carlos onto the bed and have his way with him. Carlos' mind must go the same place, because then he adds: "And it is true, we haven't". The 'yet' hangs unspoken between them , making Charles' blood boil with something akin to anticipation.

"Right", Charles adds. "And what about the last question?".

"The last one was the complicated one", he says, walking closer to where Charles is awkwardly standing in front of his closet. There isn't much space in his driver's room: a couple steps is enough to pull Carlos in front of him. He seems a bit nervous: Charles can tell with the way his fingers twitch, how his eyes keep jumping around. 

"I told her I thought that finding my soulmate was an opportunity not many people get, ever , in their lives", he says. "I told her I didn't want to spend the rest of my life wondering what it might've been to have it. Living with that regret, you know". 

Charles' heart is working overtime in his chest. "And?".

"She basically said that she didn't want to share me with anyone else. That she already had to share me with my career". Carlos sounds like the words taste bitter in his mouth. "She told me to think about it, but made it clear that it was either you or her". 

Charles swallows and feels the persistent lump in his throat that showed up as soon as Carlos locked that door. 

"Okay", he replies, tentatively. "You don't have to give me an answer right now, you know. Or her, for that matter. It's not a small decision to make". 

Carlos nods, still very close to Charles. "I know, but thank you for saying that. The thing is, that was actually what made me make up my mind". 

"What?"

"The fact that she wanted me to choose. That she thought she was sharing me with F1, when this is part of who I am", Carlos explains, finding Charles' gaze and holding it. "You understand how important racing is. You know what it is like to race, to compete, how demanding it is. And you understand that it's a part of who we are. That we wouldn't change it for anything in the world. Not even her". 

Charles swallows, watching the way Carlos' eyes seem impossibly darker. "So you're saying I understand, but she doesn't". 

"Yeah. I guess so, yeah". 

"So you're choosing me?". The words have a fragile hopeful tilt at the end of it, like Charles wants confirmation but is a bit scared of it. And he is.

Carlos smiles. "Yeah". 

Charles kisses him until their lips start feeling a bit raw, until the champagne staining Carlos' racesuit dries.

—

Not much changes after that, Charles supposes. They're still a team - still rivals, still friends. The only difference is that now, when Carlos lays a hand on his knee during an interview, Charles can enjoy the warmth radiating through his jeans. Their physical contact is always brief and playful in public. ' The best bromance on the grid now that Maxiel is sinking' , he sees someone call them on Twitter. 

And it's funny, because what the fans don't know is that the friendly touches veer into something definitely inappropriate behind closed doors. 

They take it slow. It's for the best, considering they're both just getting out of long-term relationships and that men are basically unchartered territory for the both of them. But it's not easy when Charles can just drag Carlos to an empty room of the hospitality and kiss him senseless until his lips are red and puffy. When Carlos goes every single time. 

It's not easy now that he can eye the straight lines of Carlos' racesuit and recognize the appeal in them. He daydreams about tracing the contours of his soulmark over Carlos' shoulder blade, and checking every millimeter for tiny imperfections that may set it apart from his own. 

So yeah, it's inevitable when it happens. Max wins in Montreal, but Charles is P2 and Carlos P3, so they're both still a little bit high from a double podium when they go out and celebrate with the team afterwards. 

Carlos clings to Charles the entire night, a hand thrown around his shoulders or casually on his back at all times. It doesn't seem to matter how Carlos is touching Charles as long as he keeps doing so, and it's making his blood run increasingly hot. Charles does a pretty good job of ignoring it at first, but it gets harder and harder as the alcohol starts sinking in his veins. 

"I wanna go outside", Charles says, suddenly enough that a couple of the people they're speaking to give him a look. Charles should remember their names (they're from the PR team, he's pretty sure), but alas, he doesn't. "To get some fresh air". 

"I'll go with you", Carlos says, and he doesn't waste any time before he's gently directing Charles towards the exit. Charles is distantly grateful for the fact that this is a Ferrari-only party, because he's not sure he could handle it if Pierre had seen him fleeing like this.

The night is mild when they make their way outside, the June air chilly enough to warrant considering throwing a jacket on.

Charles doesn't need the jacket. Carlos walks around the building until he takes a turn and finds a deserted alleyway. It's dingy as hell, and he can't even begin to imagine how delighted the press would be if they found them here - he stops caring as soon as Carlos walks him backwards to the brick wall and gets his hands on him. 

Charles giggles drunkenly as Carlos smooths down Charles' t-shirt, feeling over his pecs and his abs with an over-exaggerated lascivious smile. "You couldn't wait to get out of there, huh?", Charles taunts, and then gasps when Carlos' mouth finds his neck. He tilts his head to the side to give him free access, feeling the warm texture of lips sliding against his skin. "You've been clinging to me all night. People will start talking". 

Carlos releases the underside of Charles' jaw, but not before biting him lightly in retaliation. His eyes look almost black in the dim light. "I could literally call you my boyfriend in front of the cameras and fans would think we're just playing it up". 

Charles hums, considering. "Still, you know. Probably best to tone it down in front of people". 

"I don't want to", Carlos replies, and then catches Charles by the mouth. It's hot, both literally and figuratively, and Charles almost lets himself get lost in the push and pull rhythm of their lips and tongues, already familiar even though it hasn't been long since he first tasted it. He runs his own hands up Carlos' chest, wrapping around his neck and bringing them closer together. Charles is a little bit taller, but pressed like this to the wall the difference in height is not noticeable at all.

This time it's him who breaks the kiss to mouth at Carlos' jaw, feeling the growing stubble underneath. He makes his way up to the shell of Carlos' ear, biting it lightly and when he's finally there, he feels himself give into his drunken impulses. "You wanna show everyone I'm yours?", he whispers in his ear, rough and intimate. The response is immediate: Charles can feel the tremor that shakes Carlos' frame at his words. "Ah, I see. So that's why you like touching me in public so much". Charles continues mouthing at his skin, uncaring of the way Carlos' hands have stilled on his hips. He switches sides and repeats the stunt on Carlos' left jaw. "There's an easy way of doing that, you know?". With that, Charles moves one of his hands to Carlos' shoulder blade, feeling the patch underneath his shirt - he'd started wearing it after the incident with Lando's drink, he'd told Charles a couple weeks ago. 

When he pulls away, Carlos is staring at him with an intensity that threatens to make his knees weak. "Neither of us is ready for that yet", he says, voice serious. 

"I know", Charles replies. "But did you like it? When you thought about it. When you first imagined it in your head". Charles did. He does, now, when he pictures both of their marks uncovered for the world to see. To understand who they belong to - each other, that is. 

The idea burns through the misgivings Charles had had for so long, bringing instead a quiet sense of possessiveness that makes his mark burn like hell. Mine , it screams as Charles secures his grip around Carlos' neck more tightly. 

Carlos' own breath seems a bit shaky where it's almost pressed to Charles' own mouth. "Yeah", he says eventually. "I like it". 

"Me too", Charles whispers, and kisses him again. 

It's not like before. It's not playful and it's not sneaky: it's intense, and possessive and dirty and it's not long before Carlos' hips are grinding against his and Charles' breath stutters with a barely restrained moan. He's already painfully hard, his body overheating by the second. 

"Okay, okay", he says, tugging on Carlos' hair and trying to put a few inches between them before they go too far and actually end up getting off in a dark alleyway in Montreal. "We need to call a taxi, and then we need to get to the hotel". Carlos makes a sound of protest somewhere in his chest, whiny enough that Charles actually considers staying - but then disregards it. "Come on, Carlos. We have to go in again and say goodbye". 

"Mate, are you kidding?", Carlos responds, directing a pointed look to where Charles' own jeans are almost obscenely tented. "We can't go in like this".

"Okay, yeah, maybe not", he reluctantly agrees. "Damn it, I left my jacket inside". 

"Text Andrea to get it for you. Actually, just tell him you drank too much and that I'm taking you to the hotel. Problem solved". 

Charles arches an eyebrow. "If I'm so drunk shouldn't you be the one doing the texting?". 

He can physically feel the effort Carlos puts in not to roll his eyes. "Fine, then just tell him I drank too much. It doesn't matter". As Charles pulls his phone out of his pocket and scrolls down to find Andrea's chat, Carlos adds: "I'll order an Uber". 

The Uber takes almost 10 minutes to get there, which usually would drive Charles up the wall. This time though, since he doesn't want to scandalize the hotel staff, he takes the time to try to will his erection down. It's not easy with Carlos being so close and just there and willing , but he's passably decent by the time they climb into the car.

He directs a hard look at Carlos' hand when it creeps dangerously close to the edge of Charles' jeans. Touch me and you'll be sleeping alone , is what he says with his eyes. Judging by the way Carlos keeps to himself the entire ride back, it seems the message was heard loud and clear. 

It gets more difficult to keep him at bay when they take the elevator to their floor: it's late, and there's no one else going up with them. Carlos grabs him by the belt loops, and it should be corny as hell, but he ends up kind of making it work and passing as playful when he does it. "Wait a minute, okay? Almost there", Charles says, gently disentangling himself right before the doors open. "Yours or mine?", he asks. It doesn't really matter: they're usually both booked on the same floor, if not side by side. 

"Yours", Carlos replies, walking close - too close, probably. Thank god the hallway is empty.

Charles finds his lack of hesitation equally thrilling and amusing. "Are you trying to claim my territory?", he asks mockingly as he fishes his keycard out of his wallet. "Possessive much?".

Carlos just stares at him for a couple of seconds, still enough that Charles half-wonders if time has stopped. Carlos has had a few drinks as well, he knows, but not enough for him not to think clearly. Mostly, at least. "Maybe", is the damning word that ends up coming out of his mouth. 

Charles gets the door open and ushers him inside. He can feel his own biceps straining as he pushes Carlos against the door, effectively closing it behind his back. He spares a fleeting thought for the next-door neighbor, whoever that is, before diving in and kissing Carlos. 

It's like they're back at that alleyway, but better: now that they're finally alone for real, Charles' hands can roam free across Carlos' body, slipping underneath his shirt and feeling the warm, solid muscle underneath. It's waxed smooth, and his fingers skate across abs and hard nipples pulling a small gasp out of Carlos. He pulls on the ends of the shirt, sending out a clear message that is received immediately: he steps back and watches as Carlos grabs his own shirt and pulls it over his head, revealing the flat planes of his stomach and his toned arms. "You too", he says, sounding already half out of breath, and then helps Charles pull his t-shirt as well, throwing it carelessly on the floor. 

Then Charles' breath gets caught in his chest when he feels a hand slide down his arm, all the way to his left wrist. "Take this off too?", Carlos asks, voice a bit unsteady but so hopeful. "Please?".

Carlos ignores the bracelets and lightly touches the cover where it stretches over Charles' mark, which is currently on fire. Even after everything, even with a shirtless and wanting soulmate in front of him, years of hiding still pull at Charles, making him hesitate. Carlos must read this on him, because his expression goes just the tiniest bit flat. "It's okay if you don't want to, I just thought-".

"No. No, it's alright", Charles replies. It's now or never. 

So Charles removes not just his cover, but also all the bracelets he's wearing, dropping them to the floor one by one and eventually leaving his wrist completely bare. The red helmet stares at them, and Carlos stares back. 

"Now you?", Charles asks, and Carlos turns around, facing the door. 

Charles can see the cream-colored patch stuck to Carlos' shoulder blade, the sticky kind you have to reapply every day like bandaids. "Take it off for me?", he asks, and Charles does. He tries peeling it slowly but quickly gives up when Carlos tenses and says: "Just rip it off". The patch leaves a red imprint on Carlos' skin, and it makes Charles want to sooth the sting. 

So once the mark is uncovered, Charles runs the pads of his fingers over it. Carlos stays still as he looks for any minute differences between both designs, finding none whatsoever. It's the same design, printed on someone else. "It's burning", Carlos says when Charles has retraced the design a fourth time.

"The mark?".

"Yeah".

"Mine too". He grabs Carlos' shoulder and urges him to turn around, facing him once more. He's right: the mark on his wrist is burning, urging him to - Charles doesn't know exactly what. Just urging him forwards. 

So he takes Carlos' jaw in his hand and kisses him again, deep but not enough , and Carlos must feel the same way because he starts walking Charles to the bed. The back of his knees hits the edge of the mattress eventually, and Charles flops down on his back, admiring the view above him and pushing himself up to the pillows as he watches Carlos take his pants off. It's too fucking hot: the way he undoes his belt first, eyes glued to Charles' half-naked form on the bed, before pulling the zipper down and stepping out of his clothes.

But he does keep his boxers on as he climbs onto the bed, even though they're so tented that they don't leave all that much to the imagination. A last resort for intimacy between them, he supposes - one last barrier to be broken. 

Soon, Carlos is back in Charles' arms, kissing him and helping him out of his jeans as well. When their bodies press together this time, the hard shape of Carlos against him is so much clearer than before that he can't help but grunt at the sensation, hips seeking friction against one another. 

Before he can get lost in it though, Carlos grabs his chin and finds his eyes, stilling their movements much to Charles' displeasure. "What do you want?", he asks, voice ragged and rough, and if Charles could get any more turned on, he would. 

But he's a bit at a loss here. Obviously Charles has had sex before, but only ever with women. And while he does know the principles of gay sex, it's only in murky theory. 

He's only ever done the fucking, basically. Charles imagines himself fucking Carlos: pushing into him the way he would with girls, but impossibly tighter around him. It would be good, he's sure, at least for him. 

And then Carlos mutters in that deep gravelly voice of his: "You want me to fuck you?", and Charles just straight up moans , because if the idea of fucking Carlos sounds good, the image of being fucked by Carlos makes a pool of hot desire bloom low in his belly. 

It's something he's never thought about before, but now that the idea has been presented to him he can almost picture it: Carlos above him, sweaty with effort, driving into him over and over. Himself, half-out of it and writhing in pleasure, like the girls used to when they were under him. And that's the thing, right? Girls always seemed to enjoy it. Talked about big dicks and feeling full and being satisfied .

Charles wants to be satisfied too. 

But not yet. He doesn't quite feel ready to take that step right now - they need to work their way up to that. 

" Yes ", he grits out when he's capable of speech. "I want that, but I don't think I'm ready for it yet". He looks around his room and thinks about his own lack of foresight. "Did you bring any lube?".

Carlos shakes his head no. "No. You got any around here?".

"Uh-uh. I wasn't really planning on this for tonight, to be honest". 

"Me neither, but…", Carlos says, then runs a hand slowly down Charles' chest and all the way to the edge of his underwear. "Okay, so no fucking tonight. What do you want instead?". 

Baby steps , Charles thinks. He thinks of asking Carlos to go down on him - he feels his cock start leaking at the image of his plush lips wrapped around him. But he doesn't: they'll have all the time in the world to work up to stuff together. "Your hand?", he says eventually, embarrassed and sounding tinier than he would like to. 

It's a safe bet. Any guy has jerked off before - it's not so different to jerk off another dude instead of yourself.

Carlos looks like he would say yes to anything Charles requested at this moment. He nods, and then carefully presses his palm against Charles' underwear, feeling the shape of him and pulling a hiss out of Charles. It doesn't take much encouragement before Carlos is pulling his underwear down and wrapping his calloused hand around him for real, spreading precome all over before moving up and down in a practice motion. 

It's good, better than when Charles does it to himself, but he does have one complaint. "Wait, wait", he says as he presses down on Carlos' arm. 

"What's wrong? Am I hurting you?", and Charles has to kiss him because his first reaction, even now, is worrying for Charles.

"You're not. But I also want this", he replies against Carlos' mouth, and then he gets his hand inside his boxers and pulls him out as well. It should be weird, the whole 'touching another guy's dick' thing, but he's so turned on that he doesn't even matter. When he looks at it a bit more closely, it's just another cock: thicker than his own and a bit shorter, but not weird or bad . He thinks about it going inside him and shivers.

So he gets his own hand around Carlos, pumping him slowly like he would himself, and then opens up Carlos' fingers to wrap around the both of them at the same time, and it's better. He can't help himself as he bucks into Carlos' hand, hips fucking into it and against his cock. Carlos has to adjust his grip, but once he gets the angle right it's good . 

Charles wraps his arms around him, brings him closer and kisses him dirty, all tongue and teeth and delicious friction between them. He does all he can think of to try to make it good for Carlos: he buries his hand in Carlos' thick hair, tugging and pulling a groan out of him; manages to cup his balls and fondle them the way he likes to have his own played with; he rubs his nipples with his thumb. All the way, the constant rhythm of Carlos' hand builds a pressure in Charles' belly that seems right about ready to explode.

It seems to work, judging by the stream of nonsense spilling at increasing rates out of Carlos' mouth; "Fuck, Charles, you're so pretty, yeah just like that, shit, I can't wait to fuck you for real, I bet you feel good". 

And that does it. Charles comes all over Carlos' moving fist with a half-choked groan. Carlos keeps going, but follows right after Charles mouths at his neck and sinks his teeth in hard . Charles discovers that he loves watching the way his features strain, only to then relax against Charles' body. 

The mess cooling between them is disgusting, and one of them should probably get up to clean it, but instead Charles wraps his arms tightly around Carlos. Far enough that his wrist can rest over Carlos' left shoulder blade.

After a few moments, he realizes. 

"Oh". Carlos lifts his head from where it's half resting on the pillow, half on Charles' body, finding his gaze. 

"What?".

"My mark", he explains. "It doesn't itch anymore". 

Carlos' eyes widen just a little bit, letting Charles trace his fingers on his back. "Huh. Mine doesn't either". 

"It's been so long since it's been just… Dead, that I didn't even remember how it felt", Charles says, half joking and half amazed. 

"Well, it's done its job. It can rest now", he says around a yawn. 

Charles pats his shoulder lightly. "You go rest as well now". Carlos just hums, eyes already closed. 

"Goodnight, Charles".

"Yeah", he says, sleep pulling at him as well. "Goodnight".