in the spirit of matrimony.
summary — iwaizumi hajime is getting married, and you and your ex, oikawa tooru, must pretend you’re still together to avoid ruining his big day. the charade, however, proves to be a lot more complicated than you thought.
pairing — oikawa tooru x fem!reader
genres — romance, angst; exes to lovers, fake dating!au
word count — 3.0k
warnings — profanity, alcohol consumption
author’s note — please excuse the writing, it is wildly inconsistent, and most of it feels like i wrote through a fever dream 😭 a little bit of info on some terms used: an izakaya is a type of informal japanese bar; oshibori is a wet towel offered at dining places used to clean one’s hands before eating; otoshi is an appetizer offered at izakaya
Oikawa Tooru is currently using the shower in your hotel room, and you are running late for dinner with Iwaizumi Hajime because of this.
You sit on the plush armchair in the corner of the room, picking at the raised swirls and curlicues embroidered on the cushion. You’re supposed to be meeting with Iwaizumi for dinner in fifteen minutes, but Oikawa seems to be taking his own sweet time getting ready. You can’t say you’re surprised.
Irritated? Yes.
When he finally bursts out of the bathroom, looking like a Louis Vuitton model, you simply grab your purse and hotel card, and stride out the door without a second glance. Oikawa Tooru isn’t worth your time or energy—for now.
He catches up with you quickly—volleyball legs, and all that—and you can smell his perfume: Cremo spice and black vanilla. You hate the fact that you remember; you’d rather not, but he hasn’t changed the scent in five years and it’s always the little things that are the hardest to forget. In his black button down shirt and with his hair styled carefully with gel, Oikawa definitely looks attractive. He knows it, too, probably, and it gives you a twisted sort of satisfaction knowing that he can’t go about flirting with every person who catches his eye.
He simply cannot, because as far as Iwaizumi Hajime is concerned, you and Oikawa are still together.
“Don’t forget,” you mutter, just low enough that only he can hear you.
“Yeah, yeah.” He waves his hand dismissively before tucking it back into his pocket. “It’s just Hajime. Don’t worry.”
You bite back a sigh. It would do you no good to appear so visibly vexed—and it would cause Hajime to worry unnecessarily, which does a lot more harm to everyone involved. The only thing you want him to be worried about is wedding preparations and becoming a husband in three days.
Your old friend meets you at the hotel lobby, right before Oikawa furtively slips his hand into yours. Iwaizumi looks tired—his clothes look rumpled and he has dark circles under his eyes—but he still smiles at you and Oikawa in the same way: boyish and crooked. You grin back at him.
“Hey, you two.” Iwaizumi opens his arms and pulls you in for a hug. His stubble brushes against your cheek, and you frown.
“You’re growing a beard?” you ask incredulously, when you pull away.
He chuckles. “I wish. I need to look handsome on the day of the wedding. Akari thinks it makes me look rugged.” He shrugs and adds, “Personally, I can’t tell the difference.”
“How’s Mrs. Iwaizumi doing?” Oikawa cuts in. He smiles at his best friend, a quick flash of his teeth that you haven’t seen in ages. It almost makes you wish he still smiled at you like that. Almost.
“Akari’s great,” Hajime answers, the edges of his smile turning fond. His fiancé is truly the sweetest, and she’s perfect for Iwaizumi in ways no one else ever could be. It’s difficult to doubt their love, and you consider yourself lucky to have witnessed them falling for each other in college. “Really great, actually. She told me to tell you she’s sorry she couldn’t make it today, but she can’t wait to see you both tomorrow.”
Your ex-boyfriend sighs dramatically. “Iwa-chan. The only entertaining person of the evening is missing. Whatever shall I do?”
“I’m sure your girlfriend will provide ample entertainment, Oikawa,” Hajime deadpans.
Your cheeks flood with heat at the implication. You’re the furthest thing from being Oikawa Tooru’s entertainment tonight, and you don’t need to look at him to know he’s laughing internally at the predicament.
“She’s good at entertaining me with other things,” he retorts, waggling his eyebrows in that infuriating way of his. “Not funny enough, unfortunately.”
You bristle. “Uncalled for, Oikawa.”
He turns to you—the first time he’s looked at you properly since you arrived at the hotel in their hometown—and, taking your hand in his, rubs his thumb along the back of your palm. You nearly shiver; Oikawa used to do that all the time when you were still together, and the small gesture now makes a lump form in your throat.
“Just kidding, babe,” he says indulgently. “You know I make up for the lack of humour on your part.”
You have to give it to him. Oikawa Tooru is a magnificent actor.
The way he talks to you, as though both of you hadn’t walked out of the hotel room without saying a word to each other is a feat in itself. He speaks to you as though nothing has changed, as though everything about the way you’re projecting yourselves to your friend is completely natural. You close the hole in your chest where Oikawa used to reside; you will not fall for his little antics—not when he chose to leave you alone.
You roll your eyes, meeting Hajime’s fond—if exasperated—gaze. “Ignore him.”
“I’ve been doing it my entire life,” he responds.
“You are mean and I hate you both,” Oikawa whines. Both of you ignore him.
“Let’s go,” Hajime says. “The izakaya gets really crowded later in the night.”
You wipe your hands on the soft cotton of the oshibori, scanning the menu taped onto the wall. Next to you, Oikawa digs into the otoshi, and in front of you, Hajime sips on his glass of beer.
“Yakisoba noodles sounds good,” you murmur, “don’t you think?”
“I wan’ the chmmkn kraagh,” Oikawa says immediately through a mouthful of potato salad.
Iwaizumi sighs and translates, “He wants the chicken karaage.”
You scowl. You and Oikawa Tooru can never agree about things. You’re both too stubborn and hot-headed to budge from your opinions, and towards the end of your relationship, the number of petty arguments that were a result of your clashing personalities was high. At one point of time, you might have said that it was one of Oikawa’s qualities that you admired.
Right now, it just irks you to no end.
“We can order both,” you suggest. “Don’t talk with food in your mouth.”
Oikawa rolls his eyes. He makes a show of swallowing, exaggerating the bob of his throat, before he turns to you and states, “I want the chicken karaage, and I know Iwa-chan likes it more than yakisoba noodles.”
“Actually,” Hajime says mildly, “I kind of want the sashimi.”
“Let’s just order all three.” You bring your glass of beer to your lips and take a sip.
Iwaizumi looks curiously between you both. You take another sip of your beer, and you come to the realisation that for an outsider—like Hajime—you and Oikawa look absolutely nothing like a couple.
The fault is yours: You didn’t tell Hajime about your break up with Oikawa, and neither did he. Hajime still thinks you’re together. Neither you nor your ex-boyfriend are tactless enough to tell him that you aren’t dating anymore three days before he’s getting married. Iwaizumi is excited, and you aren’t about to dampen his happiness by telling him his two best friends haven’t spoken to each other in months.
That’s how, for the first time in ages, you and Oikawa Tooru decided that you couldn’t ruin Iwaizumi Hajime’s Big Day, and it was also how Operation: Pretend Like You’re Madly In Love So Your Surprisingly Intuitive Best Friend Doesn’t Feel Bad came about.
You set your beer down again, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.
“Can I try some of that?” you ask, nudging Oikawa’s shoulder with yours.
He pauses mid-chew, chopsticks held high in the air. “Sure.”
You nudge his shoulder again, a little bit more forcefully this time. Oikawa glares at you. You narrow your eyes at him, trying to send him some sort of telepathic signal. His eyes widen.
“Here, babe,” he says, plastering a grin on his face. He picks up a chunk of the creamy potato salad that was served as the otoshi and holds it up. He uses his thumb and pointer finger to gently bring your face closer to his chopsticks. You fist your fingers, nails cutting crescents into your palms, and accept the mouthful he holds out to you.
“Good?” Oikawa murmurs, his eyes not leaving your face.
You hum. It is good, rich and tart with a touch of sweetness, but for some reason, you can’t bring yourself to verbalise it. Your gaze flits downwards as you gently pull away from his grasp. Your jaw tingles where he held it.
Iwaizumi grins at you—almost knowingly—when you pick up your beer again. He holds a hand up, calling for the waiter to take your orders.
The alcohol washes down the taste of the food, but your heart is about to leap out of your throat.
It is always alcohol that loosens your tongue, and it’s the same for Oikawa Tooru as well. The beer you had at the izakaya lowers the towering walls between you both somewhat. It’s easier to speak to him, now, and after you switch on the lights in the hotel room and kick off your sandals, you whirl around and face Oikawa.
“What the hell was that?” you seethe, glaring at your ex-boyfriend.
He pauses in the middle of taking off his shoes. “What the hell was what?”
“You almost blew our cover! Didn’t you see the way Hajime looked at us?”
Oikawa cocks his head to the side, and his cluelessness only infuriates you even more.
“God, you haven’t changed one bit!” you rant. Your chest heaves with emotion—you’re not sure what emotion, exactly. Anger? Resentment? Foolish hope? Or perhaps a cocktail of all three that causes you to feel nothing but confusion. “Hajime is getting married in two days, and I know you couldn’t care less, but for his sake, can’t you make this whole—whole act more believable?”
“You— What the fuck is that supposed to mean?!” Oikawa’s eyebrows raise upwards incredulously. “You think I don’t care about Iwaizumi’s wedding? I met him before I even knew you existed.” He scoffs. “Of fucking course I care!”
“Then would it kill you to act like you still love me?” You take a step forward, eyes narrowed and index finger pointing at him. “Is that it? Is it so repulsive to pretend like you still have feelings for me, so that your best friend doesn’t worry about us?”
“That’s not it, and you know it,” Oikawa snarls, a frown marring his features. “We should’ve told him as soon as it happened.”
Hearing him refer to your relationship as it feels like a slap to the face. You falter, cursing yourself inwardly.
Of course he doesn’t care for you now. Why would he, after he decided that long-distance relationships were too much effort? I don’t see us working out in the long run, he’d explained over FaceTime. I’m sorry.
Two days later, you declared yourself officially single. You burrowed yourself in piles of work and forgot to tell Iwaizumi Hajime because talking to Hajime would remind you of Oikawa, and you weren’t ready for that yet. Eventually, you just… didn’t tell him.
That’s why it came as an unwelcome surprise to you when you walked into the hotel lobby and found Oikawa Tooru waiting there, with his arms crossed over his chest and his suitcase by his feet. You’re here, he’d said, and you wanted to punch yourself for the way your heart somersaulted in your chest.
You finally find your voice again. “But we didn’t, so would it kill you to just… not be so fucking obvious?”
Oikawa remains stoic, though you suspect he’s just as agitated as you are. “Yes. I don’t want to do this at all.”
Something in you breaks. How easy it is for Oikawa to break your heart. You’d given him the fragile thing, made of glass, and he had knocked it over like it was a house of cards more than once.
“Fine,” you grit out, bending down and picking up your footwear again. The alcohol buzzing in your head isn’t enough—you need to stop thinking, need to find some way to stop yourself from constantly imagining him. “See if I care.”
You shoulder past him and place your hand on the doorknob.
“Where are you going?”
If you really strained your ears, you could almost hear the imperceptible concern in Oikawa’s voice. You brush it off; he doesn’t have any feelings towards you, as he’s made so amply clear.
“Why do you care?” you retort, before pushing open the door and heading in the direction of the hotel restaurant’s bar.
The room is dark when you open the door.
It’s a little past one in the morning—or so one of the bellhops had said when he kindly escorted you back to your room. Your mind is swirling.
It seems even getting yourself batshit drunk isn’t enough to eradicate all thoughts of Oikawa.
The walls spin. You stumble inside. Your hip bumps against something solid—a table, probably—and you let out a startled yelp.
Oikawa’s voice is like a balm, soothing your feverish forehead, when he says your name.
How are you supposed to get over him? How are you supposed to go back to living alone when you’ve had this taste of what it could be like, regardless of how authentic it is?
The answer is clear as day: You cannot.
A pair of hands guides you by the shoulders to the bed. Oikawa is careful, gentle with his hold on you. You sprawl on the bed sheets, the fabric cool against your cheek. He appears like an outline in the darkness.
“Are you okay?”
“God,” you mumble, screwing your eyes shut. “You can’t keep doing this to me, Oikawa.”
He remains silent for a moment, before he clears his throat and says, “You asked me why I care about where you go.”
You don’t say anything.
“I just do,” he continues, “and I don’t know how to explain it. But I do care.”
His fingers are warm when he caresses your cheek. The last thing you do before succumbing to sleep is murmur his name—a curse, but somehow reverent.
When you wake up the next morning, the sheets next to you are rumpled. There is no sign of Oikawa anywhere in the room, but there is a tall glass of water placed on the bedside table.
Through the pounding of your head, you squint at the note written using the hotel stationery placed beside it.
Drink up. Hajime and Akari are bringing us breakfast.
Breakfast is a lively affair. You’re glad to see Akari again, happy to see the to-be-newlyweds so patently in love with each other.
Oikawa keeps his hand on your thigh, steady and comforting, and offers you golden smiles whenever you catch his eye, and you swallow down the awful lump in your throat.
The day passes by in a blur.
It’s on the day before Iwaizumi’s wedding that Oikawa Tooru kisses you.
Wedding photos are unnecessary, you think. After all, you’re not the one getting married. But Akari had been insistent that you and Oikawa take some pictures together, and you couldn’t refuse her beseeching gaze.
Oikawa, clad in his dapper suit, with his hair styled using copious amounts of hair gel, places his hands on your waist and draws you in. His fingers bunch up the material of your dress. The photographer asks you to place your hands on his chest. His heartbeat is a steady thrum underneath the pads of your fingertips.
“Is this okay?” he whispers, leaning in.
You nod.
His mouth tastes like spearmint and the chocolate muffins he’d shared with you at breakfast.
The afternoon passes by in a daze.
As you walk through the wedding venue, noting all the decorations and the flower arrangements, Oikawa slips his hand into yours.
“You don’t have to,” you say. “No one’s here to see us.”
“I want to,” he replies simply. He is serious now, not his usual boisterous self, the way he is around Hajime and Akari. “It’s a nice place, no?”
You press your lips together. His words are oddly reminiscent of what he said the night you were drunk. Your stomach twists into knots, but if you don’t ask him the one question that has been nagging at you since then, who will do it for you?
“Tooru,” you say.
He stiffens. It’s the first time you’ve used his first name since you broke up with him.
“Why didn’t you tell Hajime we broke up?” you ask.
His shoulders loosen and his mouth twists upwards in a crooked, sad sort of smile.
“Because I love you, and breaking up with you broke me in some way.”
Your voice is quiet when you ask, “Why did you?”
“I didn’t want to be the one holding you back,” he says, just as quietly. “I didn’t want you to be constantly worrying about someone who didn’t even live in the same country as you. You deserve someone who will be there for you. Someone you can come home to after work, and talk about your day, and cook dinner together with. I couldn’t give you that.”
You want to hit him and kiss him at the same time. What a stupid, idiotic fool you’re in love with.
“Silly,” you say. “I only want you.”
The wedding happens on a sunny afternoon, and it is beautiful. Akari is radiant, and Hajime tells her that he’s the luckiest man ever. They are in love, and looking at them doesn’t hurt anymore. Your ex-boyfriend turned current boyfriend presses his shoulder against yours and gives you a small, knowing smile when he catches you almost tearing up. You nudge him back, and his smile grows into a grin that envelops his face in gold.
(“You’re the golden one,” he’ll tell you later, pressing feather-light kisses to your collarbones and cheeks. You’ll say he’s wrong.)
Right before the crowd disperses, Oikawa takes your hand and brings it to his lips. He presses a soft kiss against the knuckle of your ring finger.
Later, he whispers to you that it’s all in the spirit of matrimony.
Oikawa Tooru is using the shower in your bedroom, and he’s running late to catch his flight back to Argentina, and everything is perfect.
author’s note (again): this fic is a birthday gift to my best friend, @hanluex! it's the most last-minute thing ever and i apologise but HAPPY BIRTHDAY LOKI!!!
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hotel room - charles leclerc
pairing: charles leclerc + fem!reader
summary: charles decided to rent a room in a hotel that was not associated with f1 to take girls into without causing any drama, but it turns out that asking for extreme discretion on a cheap hotel is not a great idea.
author's note: this is obviously going to have a part two, i'm not a monster to leave you hanging like this
word count: 5,3k
part two
"hello?" you blurted out after a long minute of awkward silence in your hotel room. two men lay on your bed.
at first, you thought they were employees, but it took you exactly ten seconds to realize they weren't. first, because they stood there, just looking at you; second, because people who work in hotels don't typically carry louis vuitton suitcases.
"we didn't ask for room service." one of them told you. he had water-blue eyes, brown hair, a short beard, and a strong french accent.
"this is my room." you replied shortly. they exchanged puzzled glances while you stood there waiting.
"well, surely you got the number wrong. this one is mine." the other man said, showing you his key. the first man was handsome, but the second was exceptionally good-looking.
his green eyes, perfectly brushed brown hair, and the little facial hair he had fit together with the rest of his features, making him one of the most beautiful man you had ever seen. his accent was just as strong. were french men always this good-looking?
the logo on his red t-shirt, which you recognized all too well due to your tifosi brother's passion, left little doubt that he was likely in melbourne for the race.
"i did not" you insisted, showing him your own key. he furrowed his eyebrows and got up from your bed.
"they probably just gave you the wrong key." he had came closer and you handed him your key for him to see.
"no they didn't, i have this confirmed for the past two weeks. room 81 is mine." you had the right room, but so did he. and the worst part is that you both had your ways to prove it.
he looked back at his friend, and the three of you silently thought about what to do.
"call them, they must have an explanation for all of this." the blue-eyed man suggested. "i told you this wasn't a good idea." he mumbled to his friend, and french-number-two proceeded to follow french-number-one's advice.
they picked up immediately, and the ferrari fan asked someone to come. the silence lingered until a blonde woman, dressed in her work attire, entered the room.
"hello, sir. how can i help you?" she glanced you up and down dismissively. you thought, 'Bitch', but refrained from saying it out loud. you looked at the men to see if they had noticed, and french-number-one apparently had.
"we seem to have a complication here," he began. you moved closer, realizing that you were part of the problem too. "it looks like we both got the same room." he pointed at you.
the woman tilted her head to the side. "that's not possible." she said. a smile planted on her lips.
"well, obviously it is." you retorted, delicately handing her your phone for her to see the reservation. "just have one of us moved, please." you needed rest after a twenty-one-hour flight, and dealing with this was not what you had in mind.
"well, miss, that is not my job, but i'm pretty sure my colleagues can’t help you with that either." you and french-number-two stood silent as she explained that the hotel had run out of rooms due to the race happening in melbourne on sunday.
"what do people find so entertaining about this car thing, after all?" you mused aloud as you sat on the bed.
"oh, i don't know," the blue eyed laughed, while the green eyed looked at you, seemingly offended. you closed your eyes for a couple of seconds, trying to collect your thoughts. "well, can you tell your colleagues who deal with this to sort this out? you're not planning on making them share a room, are you?"
"no, sir. i’m sorry. you two can come with me, and i'll take you to talk to someone," she implored, begging them forgiveness with her eyes, though she never glanced your way.
whether she was desperate to get laid or they were important clients to the hotel, you couldn't help but feel enraged. you resisted the urge to scream, "i'm here too," and instead remained silent as you followed her to a more private area of the hotel.
the woman took you to a room that looked like an office, where a brunette sat behind a desk, wearing a superior expression. same expression that faded as soon as she looked the frenchman’s direction.
the blonde left the three of you alone, and the ferrari fan explained the situation to the woman behind the desk. she instructed you to sit, so she could make a call to figure out what happened. so you did, and in silence you heard her fingers press the numbers she intended.
your mind was elsewhere when the man next to you whispered, "what's your name?" his accent so strong that you were sure english wasn't his first language.
"y/n. what’s yours?" you whispered back.
"charles," he replied, his name matching the idea you had of him.
"now i can finally stop calling you french-number-two in my mind." you remarked. he furrowed his brows, and you cursed him for looking so good like this.
"wait, why is pierre french-number-one?" pierre was also a french name, you realized, amused by your accentology.
"he was the first one to talk, and everything about him just screams french." you explained.
"fair point, but I'm actually not french," Charles confessed. you looked at him with curiosity. “i’m monegasque.”
"that makes sense," you replied with a nod, and couldn't help but notice how well the name suited him.
"i’m sorry, i figured out what happened," the woman interrupted, her tone now more professional. "firstly, I would like to apologize to both of you for all of this mess. miss, you reserved and paid for the room two weeks ago, while..." she gestured toward charles. "you called us later. it turns out the person you spoke to that day is a fan of yours and gave you our best room without checking. we are very, very sorry, for this misfortune and we'll do everything we can to provide you with some comfort."
charles and you exchanged glances. you were curious with what she said about a fan, but you decided not to ask. on the other hand, he was preoccupied with how unprofessional this situation was turning out to be.
"well, 'comfortable' would be if we could have separate rooms," the, now known as monegasque, complained.
"that, i cannot offer, but we can transfer one of you to our affiliate hotel, which is an hour and a half from here and offers excellent service quality." anything that didn’t mess things up like this would be great.
both charles and you shook your heads in unison, declining the offer.
"it's too far from where i have to be." you informed her, hoping that charles had plans close to this hotel she talked about.
"exactly, it's too far for me too." he confirmed, and luck seemed to be as far from you as possible, even when you needed the most.
"i'm very sorry, but it appears you'll have to share the room." the woman concluded.
you took a deep breath and left the room before you could say something offensive. charles followed you.
"we can make this work," he said.
"we better." you replied with a sigh.
"i need some sleep too," you groaned when charles asked you to vacate the room until 2 a.m.
"it's friday! why are you planning on sleeping at 6 p.m. on a friday?"
"because i just endured an incredibly long and exhausting flight. i'm desperate for some rest." you explained as you collapsed onto the bed, struggling to keep your eyes open.
"why don't we let you do that now, and then pierre here can pick you up later so I can have the room for a couple of hours? you can sleep as much as you'd like when you return, i promise." charles suggested, making a last offer.
he had given up hope right after revealing his plans to you, mainly due to the disapproving look you gave him. it's not an everyday thing that you're asked to leave your room just because your unexpected roommate wanted to have a girl over.
"i want fresh sheets when i get back." you demanded as you headed to the bathroom to change into more comfortable sleepwear. the monegasque nearly jumped for joy when you agreed to this insanity.
"thank you, thank you, thank you." he repeated numerous times to express his gratitude. you could still hear his excited exclamations inside the private compartment. suddenly, you remembered that you had no idea where you were going.
"pierre can pick me up to go where, exactly?" you raised your voice so they could hear you clearly.
they remained silent for a moment, and you understood that they hadn't thought this through. after all, this was a bad thing for the both of you.
"i know of a few clubs i can take you to, i guess," pierre yelled back, his uncertainty evident in his tone.
"what do you wear to a club in melbourne?"
"something nice, i don't know, i'm not a woman. just wear whatever you wear to a club." you chuckled to yourself and returned to the bedroom.
"okay," you said, facing them again and ready to get some rest. "now, you two french things, get out. i'm going to catch up on some jet lag."
"i'm not french." charles mumbled as he exited the room, followed closely by pierre.
the actual frenchman retorted, "i don't think she cares at the moment."
with that, you found yourself alone, left only with your exhaustion and the comforting embrace of your bed.
you stirred awake, the relentless pounding in your head a cruel reminder of the little sleep you had. slowly, you opened your eyes, and the now familiar blue gaze of pierre greeted you.
"hey," he began with an apologetic tone, "charles insisted i wake you up. i'm sorry."
sleepily, you tried to check the time, scanning the unfamiliar room for a clock, anything to anchor you to melbourne's time zone.
"it's around ten, i think." pierre informed you once he realized what you were trying to do. he settled on the edge of the bed when you decided to sit up. "you need to go get ready, i'll take you to eat something."
"what are you? my body guard?" you smiled to him, still dizzy. the four hours you slept doing nothing but giving you a headache. "i can get my own food pierre."
he quickly shook his head. "charles would murder me." he confesses, his words leaving you puzzled. your groggy expression must have been quite evident. "i think the remorse is kicking in. he even tried to bribe me to stick by your side."
"how thoughtful of him," irony slips through your smile as you speak. "he does realize i would have preferred if he'd just let me sleep instead?"
"his brain has its limits." he lets out a chuckle and you sight, needing much more of that sleep you just woke up from.
dragging yourself out of bed, you clutched your suitcase and shuffled into the bathroom, determined to transform into a club worthy version of yourself.
with time in short supply, you limited your skincare routine to a quick facial cleanse and your trusty hydrating lotion. makeup took you, surprisingly, just a few minutes; you decided to go for a no-makeup, makeup look. the real problem lay in choosing the right outfit.
in your haste, it seemed you had packed either too much or too little to this club. with your birthday at the door, you had plans to party, socialize, and maybe even get a little wild. yet, the occasion left you stuck between a simple cropped top and jeans or your favorite dress, which felt a bit too extravagant.
of course you had tons of clubbing clothes with you, but you couldn't wear those. you soon enough realized they weren't regular people who worked in offices, and now that you knew charles even had fans it was all a lot more complicated. so where do people, who seem to be famous, take the girl that's stuck sharing a room with their friend?
that's when your white skirt caught your eye. it hugged you figure perfectly as if made specifically for you to use it. a quick search revealed the white, long sleeved top you'd thrown into the bag last minute. together, they formed the ideal clothing for the night ahead.
this may not have been part of your initial plans, but you were determined to make the most of it and fulfill your primary goal for this trip — meeting new people.
you step out of the bathroom, fully prepared to head out to wherever pierre decides to take you. he lounges on the bed, engrossed in his phone until you approach and gently pat his knee.
"get up." you instruct him, and his gaze sweeps up and down your body. it's only then that you take notice of his outfit – light blue jeans paired with a simple white shirt. it's casual yet an excellent choice.
you briefly wonder if you might be overdoing, but the thoughts quickly dissipate. "you certainly know how to dress for a night out in melbourne." he says, referencing your previous conversation.
"i wasted a considerable amount of time picking out these clothes," you admit and motion for him to rise so you can tidy the bed.
in a matter of minutes, your suitcase has been stowed away, and your phone now rests securely in your purse.
"what are you in the mood for dinner?" he inquires as you leave the room behind, ensuring everything is clean and ready for charles' girl later.
"anything," you reply, your hand instinctively moving to your stomach. "literally anything, i'm starving." you add, emphasizing your hunger.
"alright then, we’re going for italian" he decides, and you nod in agreement, already imagining the delectable Italian dishes that await, making your stomach growl even louder.
after returning to the room, well past 3 a.m., you tiptoed in to find charles cocooned in the sheets, presumably asleep. you quietly went to your suitcase, took your pajamas, and moved to the bathroom. after changing, you removed all you makeup, getting your face clean before heading out to bed. you hadn't put on that much, but you didn't like to sleep with it.
with hushed movements, you fetched your charger and silenced your phone, choosing to ignore your friend's texts.
the night had exceeded your expectations. initially hesitant when they suggested going out with pierre, who by then was a complete stranger, you eventually embraced the idea of this little escape.
pierre took you to a charming restaurant that couldn't be more your vibe. the ambiance, delicious food, and nice people made it a really great experience. you mentally thanked whatever god made you go out with this french stranger.
after getting to know each other a bit, you both headed to a club where you met a lot of new people, including some of pierre's friends. you couldn't have been happier about skipping that sleep.
as you slipped under the blankets, a voice startled you, "it's past three."
whispering, you responded to charles, "i thought you were asleep."
"i'm not, but it's past three," he repeated, his voice heavy with sleepiness.
"yeah, i know." you said, already nestled comfortably in bed.
"i told pierre to bring you back at two so you could rest; i've been waiting."
"oh, i met some of his friends and stayed a bit longer." you explained, turning your back to him. "are these sheets fresh?"
he chuckled softly, "yes. which friends did you meet?"
"a lot of people which i can't remember the names now. his girlfriend kika, a goddess. and some guy named lindo, landon, i think that's his name." you replied, still unsure of the pronunciation.
charles laughed at your attempt, "his name is lando. no 'i' or 'n'"
"not too far off," you quipped.
"if you say so..."
"oh, I have a question for you," you turned to face him, even if the room was in absolute darkness and you couldn't see a thing. "what do you guys work with? there were bodyguards and security procedures all night. i couldn't understand a damn thing."
an "oh" lingers in the air for a while. this was a topic the monegasque wanted to avoid as much as possible. he knew that you would figure it out, eventually, he just wanted to stick with "charles, the normal (french) dude" for a little longer.
"we're formula one drivers," he confesses.
you burst into laughter. "i'm serious. i drive for ferrari, and pierre drives for alpine."
"shut up! you know lewis hamilton in person?" you didn't know much about motorsports, but c'mon, everyone knows lewis.
"i do, actually." he's puzzled about why that was your first question.
"i recognized the logo on your shirt earlier. my brother's a fan, but i thought you were here just to watch the race."
"in a way, i am, just from a different perspective," he jokes. "how's your brother going to react when you tell him you're sharing a room with charles leclerc?"
"go back to sleep, charles leclerc." you tease, struggling to pronounce his name correctly.
"don't ever try that again." he laughs, turning his back to you.
"oh shut up." you playfully retorted.
you found yourself leaping onto your bed without bothering to check if charles was already there as night fell. meeting new people was exciting, but reuniting with old friends held a special charm. reconnecting with people ranked in the top three of your favorite things to do, even though it could be quite exhausting.
to be totally fair, you were tired because of the entire week you had just gone through. completing 26 out of 43 items on your bucket list was not easy, but you managed it all within a week and a day.
sharing the room with charles turned out to be much more enjoyable than expected. he was not only a genuinely nice guy but also a source of constant entertainment. when you went to bed, boredom was never an option as charles would introduce you to new games you'd never heard of and make you learn them to play with him.
it was really easy to get along with him, and you understood that as time passed and you were getting closer. sharing a room became something you no longer detested.
suppressing the urge to surrender to sleep, you got up to change and the next moments blurred together. all you could recall was your roommate entering a little while after you.
that’s until, in the middle of the night, your phone erupted with numerous notifications.
“geez, are you famous or something?” charles mumbled, awakened by the noise.
“it’s on your side, please turn it down." you groaned, covering your ears with a pillow. he reached for your phone but accidentally read one of the 47 notifications.
"happy birthday? is it your birthday?" he asked.
you buried your face in the pillow as more notifications poured in. "just turn that down," you demanded. "I love my friends, but this is too much." you knew they were doing it on purpose because of the lack of communication. this was their way of reminding you that you couldn’t be rid of them for so much time.
“it’s your birthday?” he inquired, sitting up.
“yeah, officially 22 now!” you replied, cursing the friends responsible for your rude awakening. exhausted, you had forgotten that your 6-hour nap was meant to be a quick one.
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” charles exclaimed, throwing himself into an enthusiastic yet somewhat ungraceful hug. you laughed and thanked him. "why didn't you mention it earlier?"
“it didn’t come up.” you said, returning the hug.
"and do you have any plans for today?" he asked, returning to his original position.
"not really. i thought i might visit some places here in melbourne," you answered, rubbing your eyes.
"do you want to come watch the race then? consider it my birthday gift. if you'd mentioned it earlier, i would've prepared something better." the driver offered.
"i suppose the tickets must be sold out. have you seen how many people are here these past few days? there are no rooms since last week." you informed him.
"and you think I'd let you watch from the stands? no way. you'll… i mean, you would be in the Ferrari garage." he said with conviction.
"that sounds boring." you complain.
"is that a yes?" he asked, seeing a glimmer of a smile in your eyes. "i'll do my best to win, just for you."
“isn’t that your job?” you teased.
"yes, but doing it for you adds a little extra pressure," he admitted. you nodded in agreement, and he reclined again. "now, go to sleep. tomorrow is your big day."
"big day," you mimicked in a comical male voice, turning on your side. "thank you, charles."
"yeah, no problem." he replied. you couldn’t see him now, but you knew he was wearing a smile, and it made you smile too.
"wake up." you heard, your senses slowly returning. as you opened your eyes, you found kika, pierre's girlfriend, looking down at you.
what is it with people waking you up? it's always someone new.
"hey. it's time to get ready." even though your head was a big question mark, you did as she asked and sat up. she sat right before you.
"did charles sent you?" you inquired.
"no, he just told me you'd be coming to the race and since we've met that other night, i thought i would come to make you some company." she replied with a warm smile. "happy birthday, girl." she opened her arms for you and you embraced her immediately.
"thank you." you murmured into the hug. "do you want to get ready together?" you proposed. "i'm going to need some guidance."
"of course." her smile was the most beautiful one you had ever seen and it made your heart melt. "i'll just have to leave you alone with all the birthday wishes to get something to wear, and i'll be back soon."
"okay, see you in a bit." as she left, the first thing you did was grab your phone and start replying the overwhelming (and exaggerated) number of messages from your friend group. after that, you called your brother, not only because he asked so but also to let him know where you would be spending the day.
when kika returned, you were on the phone with your mother, crying your heart out. she loved you so much, and her words never failed to touch your soul.
"i love you too, mum." you whispered and ended the call. francisca smiled at you from the other side of the room. "come on, let's get ready." you wiped away your tears and got up from the bed.
yesterday, while charles slept peacefully, your mind had traveled through your current wardrobe to find the perfect outfit to wear. you knew it had to be ferrari red, but it also needed to make you feel special because it was your birthday.
in the end, you chose the red dress you had recently purchased. it seemed perfect for the occasion. as you shuffled through your clothes to retrieve it, kika had a chance to admire the piece.
"oh my god, that dress is going to look so good on you." she exclaimed excitedly and you both smiled as you made your way to the bathroom.
kika opted for a white button-up oversized shirt paired with pink pants that you discovered matched the colors of alpine's livery. She looked gorgeous, as always.
as you expected, your dress fell amazingly on you body, and it was incredibly comfortable. it wasn't an overly extravagant party dress, but it was just right for special occasions like your birthday.
"so, tell me what's charles doing here." the brunette asked when you both started getting your faces ready for make-up.
"charles?" she confirmed, and you glanced at your reflection in the mirror, somewhat oblivious to what she was referring to. "what's he doing here?" she repeated the question. "sleeping?" you half-answered, half-asked.
"yeah, of course, but why is he sleeping here." your eyes met hers through the mirror, and you noticed the smile on her lips.
"because it's his hotel room too, i guess."
"pierre told me that, but why is he still sleeping in this room if he has the one ferrari got him? he has one, doesn't he?" she asked.
"i don’t know." the truth was, you hadn't even thought about it. the monegasque had never told you, and you never asked, so you assumed this was indeed his only room.
"okay i’ll try again. what's going on between you two?" she smiled at you, a knowing look in her eyes.
"nothing," you replied as quickly as the question got to you. "seriously, tell me. you can trust me." she persisted, trying to get something out of you.
"i am telling you, kika." you laughed. in her mind, it was obvious that something was going on because there was no way the charles leclerc she knew would trade a king-sized bed in a five-star hotel for a cheap one he'd have to share.
"are you seriously telling me there's nothing going on between you two when he ditched a rich and attractive model for you, is lying to his team to come sleep in this room when he probably has a much better one waiting for him every night, and hasn't been bar-hopping to stay here teaching you how to play chess? Not to mention that he's taking you to a race to meet his team and friends. do you know how many girls he took to watch a race?" the portuguese counted on her fingers dramatically, as if accusing you of a proper crime.
you continued doing your makeup as she spoke, but you didn't miss a single word. in fact, you paid close attention to everything she said, the words penetrating your bones and getting to your brain automatically.
"yes, i am telling you that." you began and she sighed in response. "what do you mean he ditched a hot model for me?" curiosity filled your body when you heard that, you had to ask.
"that first night when we met, i know he was supposed to meet up with her because she was also a friend of mine, but he didn't show up. when i asked pierre about it, the only thing he said was your name." your face displayed confusion as you applied some contour to your cheek. you stoped what you were doing right away.
you were confused, yes. but you were also slightly irritated, because if the driver hadn't gone to meet that model, you could have slept through the night and avoided the exhausting day that followed.
"i assumed you guys had fancied each other, like love at first sight or something." you shook your head to deny it and picked up your pencil to blend the previously applied contour.
"that did not happen." another sigh left her throat and a question lingered in the tip of your tongue, ready to come out as soon as you opened your mouth. you weren't sure if you should ask, but you were certain you wanted an answer. "the thing you said about the number of girls he took to a race. how many?"
her lips immediately curved as if she said 'nothing may have happened, but you are interested', and of course you were.
who wouldn't be? charles was majestic, a genuinely good guy who knows how to treat people right, and he looked like the most adorable person in the world while sleeping. you would be lying if you said you didn't find him attractive, but he appeared too friendly for you to believe that he even considered flirting with you.
"two, and they were his girlfriends at the time." the smile never left her lips, but your mind was far from her grin.
you eventually finished getting ready, and so did she, a few seconds after. you chatted the whole way to the paddock, only stopping to catch your breath. kika apologized to you for pressing you to tell her what she wanted to hear, but you didn't mind; you knew you would do the same if the roles were reversed.
your social anxiety flared up when francisca had to go in a different direction to reach the alpine garage, but it quickly dissipated when your eyes found a familiar face approaching you with a smile.
charles hugged you once he was close enough and whispered a quiet "hey." he was well aware of how risky it was to show affection in public, especially with all the shit press would give him and possibly even give you. let's just say that he didn't really care.
he guided you to the garage, where you met carlos sainz, his teammate, and bumped into lando, whom you had met on your first night in australia.
meeting lando brought back all the thoughts kika had shared earlier, and those thoughts stayed with you.
charles must have mentioned your birthday to his team because every person you passed by wished you a happy day. you graciously smiled and thanked them, walking by his side.
he briefly introduced you to everything you needed to know and hugged you goodbye when he had to go. you snapped a lot of pictures to send to your brother, and when the race started, you paid close attention to every moment.
the headphones made it harder to zone out as you normally would but you appreciated that. being new to this world, you didn't understand a single word you heard, but that didn't stop you from trying.
all you knew was that the team was incredibly pleased with charles and carlos's performance today. It was evident from their tone and the broad smiles on their faces.
the spark in their eyes intensified when charles overtook the last driver, securing his lead in the race. from what someone told you, a first and fourth-place finish was a significant achievement for scuderia ferrari, and you could know it was true by the fans' excitement.
both ferrari drivers managed to maintain their positions, finishing the race with what appeared to be an outstanding result. you weren't entirely sure what you were cheering for, but you were genuinely happy.
you celebrated with the team and watched the podium ceremony from a distance, still uncertain about where you should be and how to act. you applauded the number 16 and engaged in discussions about his performance with people who had a stake in the matter. from what you heard, he was a really good driver.
people all around you started to move to one direction, and you followed them with your gaze to find the one and only race winner already looking at you. he paused to chat and celebrate with his team, before moving up to you.
opening your arms for him, you embraced him, smiling from ear to ear, genuinely happy for his achievement, even if you didn't fully grasp the significance of a win.
"this one was for you. happy birthday." he whispered in your ear while still holding you close. "thank you, frenchie, and congratulations." you laughed into his shoulder. he playfully protested against your nickname for him but couldn't help but laugh too.
you were engrossed in conversation with him when suddenly, pierre and kika arrived with a cake. everyone in the tifosi garage began singing the "happy birthday" song.
your cheeks flushed, matching the color of your dress within seconds, and you covered your smile with your hands. you were genuinely grateful for these people who didn't even know you but were singing and clapping for you.
the cake they brought was adorned with all your favorite flowers, and now you understood charles' early morning question. as if he could read your thoughts, he approached you, smiling, and hugged you sideways while still singing with his weird accent.
pierre had came closer and at the end of the song you were able to blow out the candles. the smiles on their faces enchanted you, how they all seemed genuinely happy for you, even though it was the first time they had set their eyes on you.
they arranged a table in which pierre placed the cake, and someone handed you a knife to cut it. you, of course, offered the first slice to charles, not only because he knew you best but also because of everything he had done for you. all of this exceeded your expectations.
when you had decided to come to australia to spend some time alone, you could never have imagined what awaited you. not only did you meet new people, but you had also made friends, or at least one friend.
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