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Sebastian arrives in Monaco early on Wednesday morning, before most of the spectators and journalists and out-of-town celebrities have had a chance to descend on the principality.
He’s wearing a simple grey t-shirt, jeans, and a cap, a backpack casually slung across one shoulder. He looks every part the anonymous day trip tourist.
Sebastian knows Charles’s address; he has the apartment gate code memorized and takes the elevator up to the correct floor with practised ease and carries a spare set of keys, but still knocks on the door out of courtesy.
It’s the first time they’ve done this on a race weekend.
“Hello,” Charles greets warmly in the doorway.
There’s a softness to him, this early in the day. He’s barefoot, dressed in a hoodie and sweatpants. His hair’s tousled and he looks like he still hasn’t quite blinked the last vestiges of sleep out of his eyes, but he smiles wide enough to make his dimples show.
Sebastian smiles back, tugging the door closed behind him. He opens his arms and Charles goes easily, folding into a one-armed embrace, his hand at the small of Sebastian’s back.
“Morning,” he breathes.
Sebastian’s sitting on the sofa with a book in his hands, watching Charles putter around the apartment. He’s done with his media obligations for the day—more intense this weekend with all the extra attention lavished on him as the home hero—and he’s now in the process of getting ready for the annual Monaco team get-together. They’ve got a six p.m. reservation at a beachside restaurant: Charles’s choice, of course.
It’s a nice tradition, thoughtful and touching on Charles’s part. He’s always trying to make everyone welcome whenever the Monaco weekend rolls around, like a gracious host—like he wants people to understand why he cares so deeply about this impossible place and maybe even for a moment feel a fraction of the same dizzying devotion he feels.
Sebastian’s never managed it. He came close when he won the first time, and closer still, with that Ferrari victory. He’s always revered Monaco for the challenge, as the ultimate test of skill and mettle, the way it wrings every last drop of concentration out of a driver, corner after corner, lap after lap.
But on a more personal level that connection never fully formed. He’s one of the few drivers who chose not to move here for a sunny Mediterranean respite between races. Well, at least not until Charles, the sheer magnetism of him making Sebastian return to a place he’s never pictured himself belonging.
“Say hi to everyone for me,” Sebastian says.
Charles glances at him, fingers deftly doing up the buttons on his crisp light blue shirt. He’s still debating which dinner jacket to wear to complete the debonair look.
“You could come, you know.”
Sebastian sets the book down, just below the curve of his knee.
“It’s a little complicated, isn’t it?”
“It doesn’t have to be.”
Sebastian’s lips press into a line, his expression turning pensive. It’s not that he’s concerned about any lingering resentments—he can confidently say he’s on good terms with all the mechanics and engineers, has spoken to them as recently as Imola. His presence wouldn’t be unwelcome. And yet he knows he’d subconsciously feel like he was intruding on something he shouldn’t be privy to anymore.
“I know, Charles,” he sighs. “But maybe not tonight.”
The corners of Charles’s mouth briefly pull down in barely concealed disappointment before his expression smooths out into something a touch more hopeful. “Okay.”
He holds up two hangers, a ridiculously expensive jacket on each. “Which one, Seb?” he asks, already back to his sunnier disposition.
“You know you’ll look good either way,” Sebastian rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “But try this one.” He points towards a longer, navy piece with loose sleeves.
“Ah. A solid choice, Seb,” Charles laughs lightly, shrugging it on. Sebastian was right—he does look wickedly good.
He steps forward. There’s a rush of something dark and heady—the distinctive leather-and-incense notes of Louis Vuitton’s Ombre Nomade—as Charles leans down to press a kiss against Sebastian’s lips before heading off for an evening of polite conversation with team members and wealthy, influential patrons alike.
Charles starts getting more restless as Friday rolls around. There’s tension in the line of his shoulders, a nervous energy in the bounce of his knee, like his body’s physically bracing itself for the disappointment that came last year, and the year before that, and the year before that.
In front of cameras and microphones he might insist he doesn’t believe in what the internet has ominously dubbed the curse, but Sebastian can tell the past misfortunes are weighing heavy on him.
They eat a light breakfast together before Andrea arrives to accompany Charles on their short bike ride down to the track.
Sebastian watches qualifying moving between the living room—the broadcast on TV is entirely in French, predictably, but he thinks he gets the gist of it—and Charles’s sprawling terracotta-tiled terrace, offering a partial view of the harbour.
Charles secures pole—no ifs or buts about it this time. This isn’t a first, exactly, but everyone who knows anything about racing in Monaco can tell you that it’s at least half of the work done.
“I could win this,” Charles says, quietly, as if expressing the thought aloud might anger the universe and reverse his good fortune.
He’s always been hard on himself, prone to self-deprecating outbursts and quicker to recognize his failings than his achievements, but there’s no hint of doubt in his voice now.
“It is going to be one of the best days of my life,” Charles states, then grimaces, “or one of the worst, with my luck. But I want you here, with me, no matter what happens on Sunday. Good or bad.”
The implication is clear, and it hangs in the air between them. As a world champion, Sebastian has his own personal, permanent pass, allowing him to make paddock appearances at any time and at any circuit. He’s made some use of it already, like in Suzuka or more recently in Imola, flitting from garage to garage, shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries and accepting gifts.
But that’s not what Charles is asking of him right now.
“Are you ready for that?” Sebastian asks, not unkindly.
When they first committed to this, somewhere between Japan last year and the winter break, they’d agreed to keep things under wraps. It wouldn’t be fair, Sebastian thought, for him to be such a public distraction. He might have the luxury of retirement, but Charles is at the peak of his career, with so much left to achieve and experience for himself.
If he ever made appearances in the paddock, they were usually brief, or at least had a purpose beyond visiting Charles, like in Imola. They arrived and departed at separate times, in separate cars, and slept in separate beds that weekend, but still made time for each other when Sebastian stopped by Maranello. They had lunch at Rossella’s, twirling pasta onto their forks with their own faces staring back at them from meticulously dusted picture frames, surrounded by Ferrari memorabilia. Charles’s stomach had lurched, like he was falling through time; they’d dined here in anticipation of a new season, after clocking out of sim work at the factory; they’d raised champagne toasts here in celebration, high on a win; they’d sat right here, at this table, in stubborn, petulant silence, mulling over what what had broken between them in Brazil. Looking back, he couldn’t bring himself to regret any of it.
Sebastian had knocked their knees together under the table, his expression letting Charles know that he’s thinking the same thing.
Charles carefully considers Sebastian’s words, tries to imagine a scenario in which he gets to race and have this, too. The world won’t tilt on its axis; time won’t freeze and oceans won’t dry up and the stars won’t fall out of the sky. Logically, he knows this.
There might be some media frenzy, initially, and he’ll likely be subject to more intensive scrutiny when it comes to his private life, but that’s nothing he hasn’t had to contend with before.
“I am not ashamed that I love you, Seb,” Charles says, slowly, deliberately; with conviction. “I am not ashamed that you make me happy. You are important to me, and I don’t care what anybody has to say about it.”
Sebastian watches the race from Charles’s side of the garage, flanked by Nicolas Todt and Piero Ferrari. Pascale, Arthur and Lorenzo have settled in on the top floor of Ferrari’s hospitality, somewhere above them. There’s a pass around his neck, clearly indicating that he’s here with and for Charles.
A hush falls over the garage as the lights go out. Charles makes a clean getaway, but any rhythm he’s been building up is immediately erased by the red flag, thrown in response to a gnarly Lap 1 three-way crash involving Checo and the two Haas drivers. Further up the field Carlos gets a puncture after making contact with Oscar’s McLaren; Charles leads the procession back to the pitlane.
Sebastian hangs up the headphones as Charles scrambles out of the car. He removes his helmet, placing it in Andrea’s waiting hands; they exchange some words in rapid-fire Italian. Andrea nods and walks off as Charles strides into the garage.
Arms folded against his chest, he stands and watches the replay on the wall-mounted screen. His lips are mashed into a thin line, brows furrowed as he studies the scene. There’s something volatile in the tense lines of his body, stretched like a rubber band in danger of breaking.
Against his better judgement, Sebastian abandons the spectator’s area and moves to stand beside him.
Charles swallows, a muscle shifting in his jaw. “It feels familiar, no?” he says, rueful.
“You’re thinking about it,” Sebastian says, shoulder bumping against Charles’s. “Don’t think about it.”
“Now I have to start all over again.”
“Honestly. You did everything right the first time,” Sebastian says. “Keep your head down and do your own race. It’s still in your hands.”
After a moment, he adds: “And, look—at least you get a free pitstop out of it.”
A smile plays across Charles’s lips. “I guess.”
They share a look before glancing back at the screen. Race Control: Race will resume at 15:44 local time.
Sebastian reaches out, brushing the back of his hand against Charles’s cheek. His eyelids flutter as he exhales, leaning into the touch like a cat. He presses his lips to the hot pulse at Sebastian’s wrist, just briefly, before letting go. Andrea’s already hovering nearby, helmet in hands.
“You can do this,” Sebastian says as a parting gesture. “I know you can. And I think you know you can, too.”
The remainder of the race is relatively uneventful, by Monaco’s standards, at least as far as the frontrunners are concerned. Sebastian was right—with the obligatory pitstop out of the way there’s far less room for strategic gambles.
Oscar trails after Charles and Carlos trails after Oscar, but it doesn’t really feel like Charles is ever under genuine threat, carefully controlling the race from the lead.
The lap counter ticks down: five more laps to go, four more laps to go, three more laps to go. The lively Italian chatter has quieted down; expressive gestures replaced by agitated hand-wringing.
Over the headset, Charles’s tinny voice announces that he intends to bring it home.
The Ferrari garage seems to collectively hold its breath for the entirety of that final lap, right until Charles crosses the finish line.
And that’s when it all erupts.
Charles lets out an uninhibited yell, years of mounting frustration and heartbreak eclipsed by euphoria and relief. He’s near breathless when he speaks, voice trembling and distinctly wet.
The mechanics and engineers leap to their feet, clapping and exclaiming in Italian, some just plainly weeping. Sebastian gets pulled into an embrace by Alessandro, kissed on both cheeks by Fabrizio. Even Silvia—calm, shrewd, no-nonsense Silvia isn’t unaffected, surreptitiously wiping smudged mascara from under her eyes.
The entirety of Monaco seems to scream its approval; the spectators rise to their feet to give the home hero a standing ovation, the sound of it catching between the tightly spaced buildings and reverberating. The yacht horns blare their assent, like some kind of cacophonic guard of honour. It’s a blur of red-white-red-white as far as the eye can see.
Back in Maranello, the bells of San Biagio will ring to announce the news of Charles’s win—a victory powerful enough to move grown men to tears; long-awaited and long-denied and so achingly fated.
Sebastian smiles, a slow sort of bloom across his face. He lets the atmosphere sweep over him, secure in the knowledge that he’s witnessing history.
Charles leaps from the top of his car and runs straight into the open, waiting arms of his mechanics, who grab at every part of race suit and helmet they can reach. He moves along the crowd, taking a moment to embrace a teary-eyed Arthur.
Finally, he seeks out Sebastian, arms reaching for him like a lifeline. There’s an intensity there, burning bright even under the shine of unshed tears.
“How does it feel to be a Monaco Grand Prix winner?”
“Seb,” he gasps, his words muffled by helmet. “I—it’s—everything. I won. I—”
“I know, Charles, I know,” Sebastian laughs, high on his infectious emotion. He’s been there when it’s all gone wrong, has seen Charles at his lowest, split open and so desperate for consolation and companionship, and he’s here now, and he’s staying. “I never doubted.”
Charles pulls off his helmet somewhat clumsily. He wipes his eyes and attempts to regain composure. Then, very deliberately, he surges forward, lips meeting Sebastian’s. The feel of his hot mouth momentarily eclipses everything else, the world falling away as they melt into each other.
“Go,” Sebastian says, steadying Charles with a hand at the small of his back. “They’re waiting for you.”
In a mirrored image of a familiar scene, Charles stands on the top step of the podium, draped in a flag of Monaco like some mythical figure, and Sebastian’s the one tilting his head up, on the receiving end of Charles’s beatific, dimpled smile.