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Ollie goes to Charles’ flat because it’s the only address in Monaco he remembers. It isn’t until he’s standing in front of the man’s door that he realizes he hadn’t even texted to make sure that Charles was actually home. Ollie’s hand is still raised above the wood, heart beating quickly in his chest. His eyes are still hot – tear tracks drying on his cheeks. He doesn’t want Charles to see him crying, so he’d tried to dry his eyes before getting as far as he did.
He fails in that regard though.
The complex is quiet; it’s midday. He shouldn’t have come. He should have just sucked it up, maybe taken a walk down the roads to calm down. But he hadn’t. Instead, Ollie acted too rashly and showed up in front of someone’s door who didn’t even know he was coming.
The door opens before him. “Ollie? Hey, what’s going on?”
Ollie sucks in a breath. “C-can I come in?” He hates how his voice cracks as he speaks. Any second it feels like he’s about to break down again, that sobs will leap from his throat before he can stop it.
“Yes, yes of course. Come in.” Charles puts a hand on his back, guiding him through the entry way. He gestures for Ollie to sit on a sofa, and he does just that, his legs nearly giving out under him.
Ollie grips his knees, knuckles white. He isn’t going to cry, not now; he’s going to keep it together in front of Charles. It was bad enough that the man already realised that something was wrong, it didn’t need to get worse. He tries to take deeper breaths, tries to keep his composure.
Charles sits on the sofa next to him. He doesn’t ask anything for a good amount of time, just sits there next to Ollie, rubbing his back and telling him that it was going to be okay. The only question he asks is if the boy wants water to which Ollie shakes his head.
He doesn’t want Charles to leave his side. More minutes pass. Ollie’s breathing gets under control with the other’s help, his cheeks dry. “Thank you.” His voice is weak, quiet, childlike to a point that makes his skin crawl.
“You don’t need to thank me, Ollie, not for this.” Charles sounds sure of himself. His touch is grounding, his presence a comfort.
Ollie doesn’t want to ever leave, wants to pretend that the outside world isn’t real. But life doesn’t work that way. He really wishes it was. “I’m sorry for dropping in randomly. I should have asked before.”
Charles shrugs like it isn’t as big of a deal as it was. “It’s alright, really. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”
The question behind it all goes unsaid, but Ollie hears it clear enough. He knows that Charles wants to know, needs to know what happened. It isn’t a normal occurrence for Ollie to randomly appear at someone’s door with tears in his eyes and panic clear across his face. “You can ask,” he says after a moment of silence.
Charles is quiet. “Are you sure?”
Ollie nods, even if he isn’t really sure. Honestly, that was the last thing he is at the moment. “I should probably tell someone.”
“Only if you want to.” Charles isn’t rude with his words, just as charming as ever. Ollie doesn’t understand how the man can be so collected, so perfect. How much PR training did Ferrari put him through? “Is it friends, family?”
“The second.” Thinking about it made his stomach churn and his heart to leap into his throat. Just thinking about what happened makes him terribly sick. So much happened in such a short amount of time. Too much. “There was an argument.” The tears well in his eyes again; Ollie’s voice raises in pitch. God he feels like such a child, like he’s a toddler all over again who didn’t get his way.
The fear is back, heavy in his chest. It weighs him down, ebbs throughout his entire body. It’s the same fear that gripped him the entire way to Charles’ flat. How he made it was a miracle. “They, they um-“ Ollie can’t get the words out. Every time he tries to complete his sentence, every time he starts a new word, his throat closes. It’s awful.
Charles stays with him through it all. He holds Ollie close to his chest and promises that he isn’t going to leave. “Take all the time you need, Bear, I’ll be here.”
It’s exactly what Ollie needs. He’s so tired of putting up a brave face in front of everyone, before his parents, his friends, his team, the media. Breaking apart at the seams is cathartic, especially when he knows that Charles will be there to pick up the pieces and sew them back together.
“They don’t think I can do this.” Ollie says after nearly ten minutes pass.
Charles stiffens, and for a moment Ollie fears that he has truly scared the man off. Charles didn’t ask for this, it shouldn’t have been his mess to deal with. He probably had a million other things to do. More important things.
“They are wrong, mon cœur.” Charles’ tone is reassuring, confident. “You have gotten so far, you have proven yourself time and time again. I know that you can do this.”
That means more than Ollie would ever admit aloud. He’s not naive, he knows that relying on others’ validation is a terrible road to go down — it’s always disappointing in the end. But at the moment it feels great. “Thank you, Charles.”
“I am only telling the truth.”
Ollie swallows down his fear. Many words had been exchanged between himself and his parents. “I don’t know if I can go back.”
Charles sucks in a breath. “Then stay,” he says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, “stay as long as you need.”
They stand from the sofa after another five minutes; Ollie needs to stretch his legs, and Charles keeps hounding him that he needs to drink something. Ollie stands at the kitchen counter, nursing a glass of ice water when the flat door opens.
His first response is to freeze. Charles never said anything about someone else coming to the flat. Ollie grips his glass, hands trembling.
Charles steps out of the kitchen, an easy smile on his face. There’s nothing on the man’s face that gives off an air of unease. He’s perfectly calm.
There are quiet whispers in the hall.
Ollie should leave, even if it means passing the mysterious figure. He already overstayed his welcome, took more than he gave.
Then Max steps into view and Ollie’s anxiety is replaced by confusion.
“Hello, Ollie.” Max is angry, he can tell, but the man is trying desperately to hide it behind a pinched smile.
Ollie sets down his glass. “Hi, I’m sorry for intruding. I didn’t know Charles was having guests.” Of course he is, Ollie’s mind supplies, he’s Charles fucking Leclerc. But Max? That still seems a little out of left field.
Charles steps back into the room and rolls his eyes. “I’d hardly call Max a guest at this point.” He shares a look with said man, and Ollie’s confusion skyrockets.
Right. So those two were friendly.
Max turns to Ollie. “You’re not intruding either, mate.”
“Right.” It still feels like he is, just for an entirely different reason now.
Max’s hand rests on Charles' hip for a little longer than is generally expected from friends. “I can start dinner?”
Charles laughs. “And poison him? Non, mon cher, we’ll order in.”
Oh. That makes more sense then.
Ollie fists his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “Really, I should be going.” He doesn’t know where he’d go. He guesses he could find a hotel, as expensive as those were in Monaco, or perhaps ask around the grid — but he doesn’t exactly want his personal business bleeding into everyone else’s lives.
Max is the first to respond. “Nonsense, it’s just dinner. Besides, it’d be nice to talk to for a change.”
“Hey!” Charles’ eyes are bright when he looks at Max, full of love.
Ollie is only a little jealous.
They all return to the sofa after Ollie realises that Max actually means it, food ordered and on the way. It’s odd, sitting between the two while some old action film plays on the television.
Max doesn’t ask why he’s there, likely Charles already filled him in on that front. That would explain the hushed whispers Ollie heard.
He gets tired while waiting, the emotional rollercoaster from the day zapping his energy from him, and his head lulls to the side. He should be mortified, the way he rests on Max’s shoulder, but he feels anything but. Instead warmth fills his chest, fighting away the cold sadness that had consumed him.
Charles talks through the movie, making his own plot lines out of side characters. Max brushes his hand through Ollie’s hair, bickering back and forth with the other man.
Ollie hasn’t had this in years, not since he was young, very young. Before things got… difficult. It’s perfect in a way he can’t truly describe or understand.
Dinner comes; they eat together. It’s never awkward, not even when there’s a silence that stretches on. Charles and Max ask him questions about the season, about the other rookies, always expertly maneuvering around the topic of Ollie’s parents. He’s thankful, immensely so.
He’s offered a guest room; Ollie tries to decline it at first no matter how much he wants to fall under the covers and breathe in the scent of Charles’ flat — warm vanilla and linen. In the end, the comfort wins out and the pair send him to bed with a promise that they’ll be there in the morning.
And for every day after that.