Formula 1 - Oneshots

Charles Leclerc - A Dream Come True

A Dream Come True

"Close your eyes," Charles said, hiding something behind his back, his smile a little too wide for your liking.

"Why?" you asked, suspicious. Today was your birthday, next weekend the Grand Prix in Monza. So of course, he decided to take a trip to Italy before he was officially summoned by Ferrari.

Standing in the hotel lobby, his scuffed Vans, light-wash jeans, and Ferrari crewneck made him look like just another 23-year-old. To which Charles was very much not.

His only claim to anonymity was a black baseball cap and a pair of sunglasses.

"For me?" His tone was playful, his grin widening as you rolled your eyes before closing them. You heard him step closer before he tied something around your head, blocking out most of the light when you tried to look. One hand settled on your lower back, the other taking yours in his as he led you through the hotel doors, their whoosh open letting you know you stepped outside.

The valet spoke in rapid French, keys jingling as he handed them to Charles. A car door opened, your boyfriend helping you sit down before shutting the door. The door opened and closed again, the engine rumbling as he turned it on. Then you were driving.

You crossed my arms, annoyed. "Are you gonna tell me where we're going? Or do I have to guess?"

Charles merely said, "It's a secret." You could hear the smile in his voice and hated it.

Half an hour later, the car stopped. Charles opened the door, taking your hand and helping you out of the car. He held that hand, giving directions as he took you to wherever his secret was.

"Annnd, stop," he said, letting go of your hand to rest his chin on your left shoulder and wrap his arms around your waist. "You can take it off now."

"Finally," you grumbled, nearly tearing the blindfold off. You stood in the garage at Monza, the bright red racecar just sitting there. "Wait, what's happening?" you asked, turning to face Charles.

He led you to the driver's room, where a crisp set of red coveralls waited on a hanger, a folded fireproof undershirt and helmet sitting on the table. Turning to him, you couldn't figure out what was happening, hoping he would have answers.

"Put in on; I'll be waiting right outside," he told you, gesturing to the suit.

"Charles!" you shouted as he shut the door. By that time, the door was shut and you had no other option than to put it on, seeing as he wouldn't let you out until you had it on. Changing into the long sleeve shirt, you found a pair of spandex underneath. The red suit was surprisingly comfortable, monogrammed with your name in neat cursive. Braiding your hair in the mirror, you didn't recognize yourself.

Why on earth you were putting it on, you had no idea. There was absolutely no way you'd be allowed to drive one of the cars.

Finally, you told him you were dressed. Charles opened the door in his own red suit, helmet in hand. "C'mon," he said, holding out his hand for you to take.

"What are we doing here, Charles?" you asked. "Why did I have to put this on?"

He kept walking, saying ever so casually, "Haven't you figured it out? You're driving one of the cars today."

You stopped dead. "You're kidding."

Charles squeezed your hand, smile soft. "I'm not. I had to jump through so many hoops and agree to pay for any damages you cause with my own money, but you're allowed to drive a Ferrari."