#being half asleep while writing this I forgot Charles and Max communicate in English

[cupidskissx]

you have eight minutes to write something based off of the prompt ‘ nuh-uh-tuh-tuh-eh-luh-ah. Peenut Butta! ’

(1. Welcome back my love, we’ve missed you ❤️🥰

2. How dare you? 8 minutes… I feel personally attacked and distressed. You know it takes me at least 6 months to write anything!)

~300 words (rushed, flawed and unedited)

Being a polyglot is a blessing and a curse, and for Charles it’s mainly a memory game of who can understand his mother tongue and who can’t.

Sometimes Charles can go days without speaking French if he’s in Maranello, days without speaking Italian if he’s home. Sometimes he can go weeks without speaking English and that’s a risky thing to do, because the consequences can be embarrassing at best or damaging at worst.

The first day back in the paddock after Summer Break is a sport of its own, a not-so-finessed display of linguistic gymnastics. If he was awarded points out of 10, today Charles would be on course to score a three, if lucky. He’s already had to ask multiple reporters to repeat themselves and confused words with similar pronunciations. “Eligible and illegible aren’t the same word, Charles,” Mia whispered after an interview with SkySports.

Now he and a group of drivers are waiting for their briefing to commence. Charles doesn’t regret brining up the topic of dessert until Alex turns the question back on him: “So what about you, what did you have as a final summer break treat?”

“Me? I had, er,” oh no, not again, English slips from his grasp, the words that were on the tip of his tongue dissolve like sugar in boiling water. “It was… crêpes, and you know, that spread…” the vagueness doesn’t do him any favours. “Some people put it on toast,” Charles flicks his eyes to Max. He doesn’t look like he’s the least bit interested in helping.

“Jam?” George asks.

“No, not jam.”

“Biscoff?” Valtteri pipes up from further down the row.

“No, the one that’s like peanut butter, but different.”

“Nutella?” Max supplies, raising the pitch of his voice like it’s a question — like he wasn’t the one who slaved over the pan for Charles last night when neither of them could sleep.

“Oui, crêpes with Nutella and bananas and strawberries.”

“Sounds delicious,” Max adds, his smile pulling into a smirk.

“Yes, yes, compliments to the chef,” Charles rolls his eyes and if anyone else notices fondness in his tone they don’t comment.