Scraps

scraps

{carlos sainz x charles leclerc}

in which memory is a persistent thing. a love story in two halves.

-

Carlos buries his nose in the hood of the cream hoodie that Charles leaves behind, inhaling the scent of laundry soap and something unmistakably Charles.

If he closes his eyes, he can pretend Charles is here instead of thousands of miles away. Instead, the softness he wants to burrow into is hollow - empty - a poor replacement for the man he wants to touch, to taste.

He’s long realised he can’t rid himself of this yearning, and so instead of fighting it, he gives in freely - letting his hands wander over Charles whenever he can, to tease him with words and suggestive looks even when there are cameras around. He doesn’t care if anyone knows - his love demands expression.

He clutches the hoodie and wonders what other little scraps of Charles exists in his apartment, in his heart.

-

On the other side of the world, Charles stares out into the busy street, the spread of data sheets in front of him long forgotten, his coffee turning cold. Instead of the name he’s grown familiar with, one so close to his own, the papers are now scrawled with Lewis’ name, his numbers.

He feels sick.

Carlos isn’t even gone yet, but they’re already packing all memory of him into boxes.

Charles absently reaches for the little crochet toy in his lap - more carrot-shaped than chilli, and strokes a familiar line down the threading - now worn from his repeated, self-soothing movements.

Carlos once told him, teasingly, that he’d forget that toy that he’d handed to him. Like he’d be careless about it - leave it in the car, at the paddock, or in a hotel. They receive hundreds of gifts every race weekend - but this one, this time, is different.

He didn’t think Carlos heard him - but his whole face had grown serious even before he could play it cool for the cameras. “I won’t,” he’d said, almost stubbornly, more to himself than anything.

He won’t forget Carlos - no matter how many times the headlines remind him that it’s his last fucking year, no matter how many jokes Carlos makes or how casually he refers to their impending separation. He won’t forget their podiums and their losses, the taste of champagne that is especially sweet when Carlos sprays it right against his face - the taste of Carlos himself, when they’re alone behind closed doors, and he can finally summon the courage to let his hands and lips linger, possess. He won’t forget the way Carlos looks up at him from between his spread thighs, how his mouth can go from deliciously filthy to whispered tenderness that threatens to fracture him in seconds.

He has never been good with goodbyes. He was nearly inconsolable with Seb.

Now, with Carlos - it’s unthinkable.

His idly stroking finger catches on a loose thread in the crochet, and he swears when he sees the way his strokes have frayed the string, wearing it out with his carelessness. He needs to be more careful - the chili in his lap is already starting to unravel.

“You’re going to forget about it,” Carlos had said. A joke, mere weeks ago. He’ll bet Carlos has forgotten about it already.

Charles still hasn’t.

Won’t.

-

said video that eviscerated me