Chapter Text
Ideally, he had wanted to do this in Monaco.
Had he already had like five chances before Monaco to do this before? Yes. But Charles hadn't seemed to have too many good races and he didn't really want to be a bother on top of that so he'd let it be.
But Charles seemed happy today. He even sprayed him first with the champagne, chasing him with it. That gave Oscar a bit of hope.
He didn't win last week but that hadn't deterred Oscar. He was leading the World Drivers' Championship for fuck’s sake, he can ask out Charles Leclerc if he wants to.
So he did. Invited him to watch the Indy 500 at his place. But Ferrari cockblocked him.
Fucking Ferrari.
So he had a mission for this week. Sure, winning would extend his championship lead, whatever. His main aim was the Winner's Room. He had put this off long enough, he's waited enough, mostly due to his own hesitance but whatever.
So when there was a knock on his driver's room door after the podium, he opened it with a little too much enthusiasm.
“Congratulations on your race win, Mr. Piastri,” Laura, the very nice FIA representative greets him. She's greeted him like four times already this season, and each of the four times she's gotten the same response to her question. Yet, since she is obligated to, she begins with her practiced monologue.
“As the winner of today's Grand Prix, you are being given the access to the winner's room, which you can invite any driver of your choice to. If the driver you choose accepts your offer then their team will be awarded three points. In case the driver of your choice rejects your request then you can request for another driver. Do you have a driver in mind?”
Did he now?
Yes he absolutely did.
“Um, Charles Leclerc?”
It’s the first time this season that, after her Winner’s Room monologue, Laura has gotten a response from Oscar which isn’t a no, thank you. So, her surprise is understandable.
“Oh. You do have an answer this time.”
“Yeah. That a problem?”
“Oh no, not at all. Let me see if I actually brought the Winner’s Room agreement papers this time hold on,” she says as she starts rifling through the folder in her hands.
“You don’t have the papers?”
“Well, you’ve always said no.”
“I haven’t always said no, Laura. I did ask for someone twice last season.”
“It was your own teammate and it was your team getting the points. The whole agreement could’ve been a WhatsApp text. Aha!” she exclaims as she finds the agreements. “I’ll go ask Leclerc and then get back to you. You just need to sign right here.” She hands Oscar a pen and Oscar signs on the dotted line. After she leaves, he goes and waits patiently on the bed in the very suggestively set up hotel suite. There’s a gift basket with flavoured lube and condoms for crying out loud.
The clock ticks by and Oscar waits patiently. Part of him wonders if Charles just rejected him again. But if he had then Laura would’ve been back by now asking for his second choice. So, the fact that Laura isn’t back yet must mean something. He flops onto the bed, getting his phone out. He scrolls through his Twitter timeline, past tweets about his performance today, most of them about Max’s crashout towards the last few laps, and some about him and Charles on the podium.
In fact, there were a lot of tweets about him and Charles from over the weekend. The picture where they look like they’re both judging someone, a screenshot of Oscar laughing at something Charles said during the drivers parade, a clip of them spraying champagne on each other, and some of them exchanging looks in the post-race press conference.
All of them talking about how evident it is that Oscar wants Charles.
Well shit. He’s really not being subtle, is he?
Sometimes he wishes he actually was as emotionless as the media love to make him out to be, but in reality he can’t even mask a stupid crush.
He groans out loud, dragging a hand over his face. He’s had a plan for weeks now but something or the other keeps getting in the way. He’s twenty-four fucking years old for God’s sake, he should be able to ask a man out without issues. But no.
The soft whirring of the mechanical lock of the door pulls Oscar out of his thoughts. He turns his head to watch as Charles walks inside, looking freshly showered. On meeting Oscar’s eyes he gives him a smile and Oscar feels like he’s thirteen and experiencing his first ever crush.
“Congratulations, race winner.”
Maybe Oscar does have a praise kink because that goes straight to his dick. He quickly sits up, shifting his legs so he can maybe preserve some of his dignity by not giving away just how desperate he is immediately.
“Thanks. Congrats on the podium.”
“Thank you, Oscar.”
Okay so maybe the French accent is very attractive, Oscar thinks.
He doesn’t have to invite Charles to take a seat, the other driver just drops onto the bed next to Oscar like he’s always been there. Oscar quietly watches Charles’ profile as the other man looks around the room. The people on the internet really weren’t lying when they were talking about how pretty Charles is.
“They haven’t changed much in this room since last year,” Charles mentions casually. It takes Oscar a while to catch what he just said.
“Wait, last year?”
“Yeah. When Max won,” Charles replies. “They book the same room to be the Winner’s Room every year, so, I’ve been here a few times.”
“Few times?” Oscar asks, failing to maintain a level of nonchalance in his voice.
“Yeah.”
And really, Oscar shouldn’t be surprised. A lot of people would want Charles in their Winner’s Rooms, that’s obvious. A curious part of Oscar does want to know how many times, though.
“What other rooms have you seen?”
Charles leans back on his arms, head tilted just slightly as he seemingly tries to recall the other times. “I think, all of them?”
Oscar blinks. “All?”
“Yeah. 2023 was a particularly busy year.”
Oscar immediately knows what it means and he tries to ignore the ugly pang of jealousy he's suddenly started to feel at the bottom of his stomach. He shouldn’t pry, it really isn’t his place to ask, but he so badly wants to know.
“So, you’ve only shared the Winner’s Room with Max, then?”
Charles looks at him, his expression unreadable, and Oscar fears he might’ve crossed a line. But then, Charles smirks.
“I didn’t take you for the jealous kind, Piastri.”
“Oh, I—I’m not—” Oscar stammers, making Charles laugh.
“Relax. You’re just curious, yes?”
Oscar breathes out. “Yeah.”
“Well, it isn’t just Max.”
That should be answer enough for Oscar, really. But the worm inside his brain desperately wishes for more answers. Charles notices.
“You want to know who else.” It’s not even a question.
“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, though. It’s fine,” Oscar is quick to add.
Charles shakes his head. “It’s okay, I don’t mind.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. To be honest it’s a pretty impressive list.”
That intrigues Oscar. “Who all are on this list?”
The slow build of confidence in Oscar makes Charles smile. “So far it’s been mainly Max, Lewis, and Sebastian.”
Oscar slowly nods, agreeing that it is an impressive list, before realising that it’s only three people with one thing very clearly in common between them.
“Wait, so you’ve only slept with the world champions on the grid?”
Charles grins, then nods.
Well, that puts some pressure on Oscar.
“And what about the times when you have won?”
“Depends on the situation of the team at the time. Sometimes I pick one out of these three—well, until Sebastian was on the grid. Now it's just down to two. Otherwise I would just pick my teammate so the team gets some extra points."
“So, Carlos is also on the list?”
“Yeah. But he’s not that impressive, is he?”
Not that impressive. Oscar doesn’t miss the true meaning behind the statement.
He’s not a World Champion.
Oddly, that’s great motivation for Oscar.
“So you only sleep with World Champions?” Oscar asks, feeling a little brave.
“You could say so,” Charles replies, the cockiness evident in his voice. It's one of the things Oscar admires the most about him, how he's so sure of himself but to the world he still appears like he's modest and humble. It's not like he's tried to hide it, the world just sees him that way.
“What made you accept my invitation then?” Oscar asks then, because he has to know. He has to know whether Charles being here means that he sees him as someone worthy of his time, or if this night is going to be more or less of a performance review, if you will.
If you become World Champion, you can have him, and he probably won't refuse you, his brain supplies. Oscar can't seem to be able to get that fact out of his brain.
Charles raises an eyebrow, still leaning on his arms, “You're not happy with just the fact that I said yes?”
Oscar shakes his head no. Charles gives him an impressed smile. He leans in just a little, not too close. Just enough to breach the borders of Oscar's personal space.
“This is why I like you, you know,” he says, voice low and slow like honey. “You don't just want to win. You also want to know how you did it so that you can keep doing it again and again.”
Oscar feels seen. He roughly swallows as Charles' eyes rake over him, almost like a prey being assessed. “That turns you on?” Oscar asks, feeling bolder all of a sudden. It seems to go over well with Charles.
“Yeah. It does.” Charles leans in a little closer then as Oscar tries to hold on to his cool. Everything in him is screaming to let go. To just listen and follow and let himself be guided, but he has a reputation to maintain. He's a race winner today for God's sake, and he's leading the world championship.
He feels the first brush of Charles' hand over his cheeks and shudders ever so slightly.
Screw his reputation.
“I like my men competent, you know?” Charles whispers, lips ghosting over the shell of Oscar's ear. Oscar's eyes flutter close momentarily before he reminds himself that he must keep them open. If he gets this only one time, he better savour every bit of it the best he can. If he has to jerk off to the memories of this night for the rest of his life then he'd rather make sure he can burn these memories to the back of his mind in 4K UHD.
Charles is suddenly very close, Oscar realises when he fully opens his eyes again. There's a hand resting over his bicep, another slowly moving up his thigh. Oscar's interest in the whole situation is very apparent now so, no chance of playing it cool anymore.
“Eager, aren't you?”
Oscar does not whimper, because he is a grown man. He does not whimper, because he has some shred of dignity still left.
But then Charles' fingers brush right over the crease of his thigh, way too close to his crotch, and a whimper escapes his lips involuntarily. He immediately drops his head in shame.
“Non, mon beau. Let me hear you, come on.”
Fucking French. It'll be the death of Oscar. He can practically picture the engraving on his tombstone: Here lies Oscar Piastri, victim of pretty Monegasques and their accents.
He feels hands trailing up, towards the waistband of his pants, slowly. His eyes close in anticipation, he doesn't dare try to look up. But then the hand on his thighs is gone and he feels it against his jaw instead.
“This won't work if you don't look at me, cheri.”
Okay. Yeah. Well, fuck.
Don't get him wrong, Oscar would love nothing more than to look at Charles with his full permission. It's just that, if he does look at Charles' face for too long, his performance might end up not being all that satisfactory. And he's up against World Champions, he can't have that.
But then Charles tilts his head up and Oscar just goes easily because how could he not.
“Something wrong?”
Charles' face is very close to him now, right in front of his eyes. He can practically count the faint freckles that dot his cheeks, acquired from spending hours in the sun. Oscar imagines it for a second, Charles in the sun. He grew up in Monaco, by the coast. You could tell by looking at him, or maybe it was just Oscar being a little overdramatic. Either way, the beauty shone through like the shine of the setting sun over the ocean. Oscar wonders if he'll ever get to see Charles in that way.
“You're really pretty,” Oscar chokes out with minor difficulty. The difficulty being a momentary lapse in his brain causing him to forget words in his first language. To his credit though, Charles smiles.
“Thank you, mon cher. You are very pretty too.”
“No.”
“No?”
Why did he even say that?
“I meant that, you're pretty. I'm not pretty like you,” Oscar corrects himself. Charles' lips turn into a slight frown at that.
“Don't say that. Of course you're pretty.”
“No, I mean—”
“Do you not want to be called pretty?”
The blush on his cheeks gives him away before he can find a way to lie through it. Charles grins. “That's what I thought.”
One moment Charles is looking into Oscar's eyes with an intensity that could burn a hole through, the next, his thighs are bracketing Oscar's as he hovers just above him. Not touching yet.
“You know what I think?”
Oscar doesn't answer, just stares.
“I think that you just want someone to tell you how pretty you are. Is that right?” Charles' lips ghost right above Oscar's jaw and he feels a light touch, barely there. Oscar nodded truthfully. “Good.”
The first contact of lips on skin had Oscar slightly tilting his head, already wanting more. But Charles' hand kept him in place as he made his way down his throat, slowly pressing kisses, sucking along the skin hard enough to leave light bruises—nothing that couldn't be covered up with some concealer. A part of Oscar's brain wished he would leave more permanent marks.
There's a light scrape of teeth by his collarbone as a hand slides under his shirt, and Oscar's hands fly up to Charles' waist, trying to pull him down onto his lap. Charles immediately pulls away.
“Uh, uh. Hands to yourself, pretty boy. Or I stop completely,” Charles warns.
“No. Please,” Oscar whimpers, his hands going back to where they were. The immediate obedience makes the corners of Charles' lips curl up.
“Good boy,” he whispers right into Oscar's ear. Oscar almost blacks out right then and there. He lets Charles continue with his ministrations, sitting back as he gently nips and kisses Oscar's skin. Their shirts disappear at some point, Oscar can't remember when—not that he's complaining.
Charles’ hands wander lower till he reaches the waistband of Oscar’s pants. He pulls on the drawstring, tapping Oscar’s hips twice so he lifts them up. There is an absence of contact for maybe ten seconds while Charles gets rid of his own jeans, and Oscar makes a mournful noise at that. It is simply ten seconds too long. It makes Charles chuckle.
“I’m right here, cheri.”
“Too far,” Oscar pouts. The sad pout works because then Charles is back in his space, gently pushing him back and onto the bed.
“Is this close enough?” Charles asks with his body practically laying on top of Oscar’s. And Oscar nods so hard that if he hadn’t already been an F1 driver, his neck would be screwed. “You’re so sweet, darling. Are you always this sweet?”
“Yes.”
“Really? Because on track you seem very different.”
“That’s racing,” he says, as if trying to justify his actions.
Charles hums, tracing the side of Oscar’s face with gentle fingers. “That’s one of the things I like most about you, you know?”
“What?”
“That you can fight on track. That you are the same way that you described me as. Aggressive.”
“You like that I’m aggressive?”
“On track, yes. Because here, under me, you are just soft and sweet, aren’t you? You don’t have anything to prove here, no one else to please but me. Isn’t that right?”
Oscar’s throat feels dry though he is practically salivating at the sight in front of him. He weakly croaks out a noise of agreement while a part of his brain tries to understand why exactly did he just fall into Charles’ control the moment he got his hands on him. It’s not like him, he’s never been like this with anyone else. Yet, it doesn’t feel wrong. On the contrary, he feels like he’s right where he belongs, where he’s meant to be.
Maybe this is what will set him apart from all the other World Champions, too arrogant to let Charles truly shine. Oscar can be that for him, he can be the one who will let Charles be the winner in every scenario. And if he needs to win all the rest of the races to make sure of that, then so be it. Lando and McLaren be damned, he was going to win this shit to win Charles.
He feels Charles cupping his dick through his boxers, relishing the noises it gets out of Oscar. Oscar drops his head against the pillows as Charles slowly peels his boxers off, teasing him in the process. Charles’ lips are back on his neck, his jaw, working their way down his chest. That’s when Oscar realises—he still hasn’t kissed Charles.
Yes, he has Charles—a very naked and glowing Charles—on top of him right now, giving him his full attention in a way that’s making Oscar feel like he’s floating, and yet, he hasn’t been kissed. And what a devastating realisation it is.
He thinks about bringing this issue to Charles’ attention, seeing how urgently it needs to be addressed. It may be a little whiny of him but come on, he’s been so good so far. Also, he won today, so he'd argue he does deserve a kiss. But right as he opens his mouth to ask, Charles grinds his ass right over his dick and the words in his throat come out as a groan instead.
“Charles,” he says when he eventually gets his voice back.
“Hm?”
“Can I…um…” Hearing the slight hesitation in his voice, Charles pulls back.
“What is it, baby?” he asks, voice laced with genuine concern. It almost makes Oscar want to cry, and he has no idea where that is coming from.
“You, umm. You haven’t…kissed me yet.”
Charles’ brows scrunch in confusion. “I’ve been kissing you since I got here basically.”
“No, I mean, yes, you have—and I’ve been enjoying it very much—but you haven’t kissed me…properly.”
“Properly?”
Oscar’s face is red as the colour wrapped on Charles’ Ferrari. “On…on my lips.”
Oscar is definitely going to combust if he’s to go by the ways his entire face is heating up. Charles’ face is hanging over him, the light from the ceiling behind him almost making a halo around"d his head. And if Oscar were a little more drunk, he would believe he had died and somehow frauded his way into heaven.
Charles hasn’t said anything yet, and Oscar’s brain runs to conclusions faster than his MCL39. Maybe he messed this up, maybe he should’ve just waited for Charles to get to kissing him, maybe Charles doesn’t do kisses in Winner’s Rooms—it would make sense. Shit, Oscar has definitely fucked this up now. They were having a moment and he just went and broke it because he was feeling needy and now Charles will probably leave and Oscar will have messed up his chance again and—
Charles is smirking. He doesn’t look mad or annoyed or any of those things. He’s smirking.
“Oh, mon beau. Tu es si gentil.”
Oscar understands some of the words—’beautiful’ and ‘sweet’. It makes him blush harder.
“I’ve been doing all this and turns out the only thing you’re aching for is a kiss.”
Well, Oscar wouldn’t say it’s the only thing he’s aching for, but it will be a nice addition. He’s about to convey the same to Charles when he sees him lean in, moving right in the direction of his face.
Finally.
Oscar’s eyes fall shut in anticipation. He’s waiting to feel the press of warm lips against his own in the next couple of seconds. He does feel a warm pair of lips, but they land right at the corner of his mouth, his own lips left cold and untouched.
“Charles,” he whines. And Charles laughs cruelly.
“I’m sorry, darling. You’ll get your kiss, I promise. But on one condition.”
At this point, Oscar would sign his car over to Charles if he asked for it. “What?”
“All you have to do is lie back looking pretty, hands to yourself, while I ride you.” Oscar feels his breath hitch. “Can you do that?”
It is borderline torture to have to keep his hands to himself during all this. He would much rather prefer that he gets to touch Charles. If he’s being honest, he's expected to do a lot more touching tonight than what he’s gotten to do so far, though he’s not entirely displeased with the events of the evening.
He thinks the proposition over in his head, mentally weighing out the pros and cons. Ultimately, the pros of having Charles ride him along with the promise of a kiss at the end severely outweighs the cons of not getting to touch him. Maybe Oscar is a little pathetic, but who cares.
“Yes,” he answers. Simple and short.
“Merci, mon gentil garçon.”
Oscar doesn’t really get any warnings before Charles lowers himself on his dick. Slowly, then all at once.
“Oh, fuck.”
Oscar feels like he’s got his breath knocked out of his lungs. His hands instinctively move to settle on Charles’ hips, but they get pinned in place by Charles’ hand.
“No touching, baby. I thought we agreed.”
“Yes. Sorry. No touching,” Oscar repeats dumbly. Charles gives him a satisfied hum before lifting his hips and slamming back down with equal vigor. The sensation is maddening and Oscar wonders how the hell is Charles even able to take him like this, which reminds him—
“You—I didn’t prep you. Doesn't it hurt?”
“I’m okay, cheri. I prepped already.”
Oscar wonders if he blacked out for a while in the middle or something because he does not remember seeing Charles finger himself.
“But, when?”
“Before I came here,” Charles answers. “Why do you think I took so long?”
Oscar’s brain then conjures up a sinful image of Charles laying on his hotel bed, fingering himself open for Oscar. His imagination luckily gets paired with Charles rolling his hips just right, and a loud moan tears from his throat.
He’s not so sure how long he can go without touching.
“Charles. Charles, can I touch you, please.”
Charles slows his movements down just a little. “I thought you agreed to no touching, sweetheart.”
“Yes, I know but—fuck—I really need to touch you.” Oscar blinks his eyes open, unsure of when he even closed them. The sight that greets him is one out of his wildest wet dreams. He might be over-exaggerating just a bit but he truly feels like he might’ve won the championship already.
He desperately needs to get his hands on Charles, so he tries again. “Please, Charles. I’ve been so good, haven’t I?” He even pouts, makes himself look as sad and pitiful as possible. “Charlie, please.”
Oscar had entered this room with all of his dignity intact, heightened by the recent race win. But as the time has passed, his dignity seems to have diminished exponentially. He’s not even sure if he has any left anymore. But Goddammit, he needs to get his hands on Charles one way or the other.
His sort of puppy eyes seem to work on Charles. With a softer expression than he’s had all night he says, “Okay. If you’re good, I’ll let you touch me. But,” he lifts a finger to make his point clear, “you will not touch me until I say you can. Can you follow that much, mon cher?”
Oscar figures it’s the best deal he’s going to get without pushing his luck too hard. “Yes.”
“Good boy.”
And then Charles really picks up the pace, putting both of his hands on Oscar’s chest to get some leverage. It’s getting really hard for Oscar to keep his hands above his head, especially since Charles is no longer holding them back either. But he promised to be good, so he will be good.
Charles’ rhythm starts to falter just a little as his breathing gets more erratic, moans falling more freely from his mouth. His hair is damp with sweat, the curls bouncing every with every move, and Oscar isn’t sure how much longer he can last.
“Are you close?” he asks. And to his absolute joy, Charles replies,
“Yes,” followed by, “Touch me.”
Oscar’s hands are on Charles before he’s even finished his sentence. He can tell Charles is getting tired, his thighs shaking with the effort. So he digs his fingers into Charles’ hips, selfishly hoping to leave bruises there that will last. He thrusts upwards and Charles lets out a strangled sound, falling forward. Oscar keeps up his movements, punching out a litany of curses and Oscars from Charles’ mouth. It is the best sound Oscar could’ve hoped to hear.
When Charles finally comes, he does so with Oscar’s name in his mouth. Spent from the orgasm, he tries to hold himself up with his arms on either side of Oscar’s head. Oscar slows down his thrusts . He’s still painfully hard but he's rather not hurt Charles with the oversensitivity. He can get off later, not like he's gonna need much help anyway.
He opens his mouth to ask Charles if he wants him to pull out when his hands come up to cup Oscar’s face.
And then he kisses him, long and deep. Oscar moans into his mouth as he comes.
They stay like that, foreheads pressed together, trying to catch their breath, for a while. Oscar doesn’t know how much time has passed. All he knows is that he feels good and safe and happy.
Charles is the first one to pull away, slowly climbing off Oscar’s lap. He carefully slides off the bed, almost stumbling because of how wobbly his legs feel, and makes his way to the basket kept by the bed. He returns to the bed with wet wipes in hand. Oscar smiles on seeing him and tries to get up so he can maybe help, but Charles lies him back down with a gentle shake of his head.
He stays till both him and Oscar have cleaned up and showered—separately, much to Oscar’s chagrin. He makes sure Oscar has had enough water, even making sure that he has the protein bar that was given in the basket. The FIA people really do think of everything.
He stays long enough that Oscar regains most of his senses, which also reminds him of another thing he's meant to ask.
“Charles?”
“Yeah?”
He’s still eating his protein bar. There is a little bit of chocolate smudged around his lips. Oscar isn’t sure if he’s allowed to wipe it away, so he doesn’t.
“I wanted to ask you something.”
“What is it?”
Okay, Oscar. You can do this. He’s agreed to your Winner’s Room request already, this shouldn’t be too hard. “I was wondering if you’d let me take you out to dinner some time?” There. He’s done it. “Somewhere around Monaco when we’re both home.”
The hum of the air conditioner is pretty prominent in the silence. Charles chews on his protein bar, his eyes trained on Oscar’s face. He doesn’t answer right away, but his facial expression doesn’t change either.
Once he’s done chewing his protein bar, he swallows. And then, he smiles. Oscar can see his dimples. He oddly wants to poke them with his fingers.
“Were you so impressed that you’re asking me out on a date?” Charles sounds amused. Shit, does he think Oscar is joking?
“No. It’s not like that,” Oscar clarifies. “I’ve wanted to ask you out long before…before this.” Charles blinks. “I tried last week too but it didn’t really work so I thought,” Oscar exhales, acutely aware of how stupid he’s about to sound, “I thought I’d ask you to the Winner’s Room and then after I’ll ask you out. Properly.”
The hum of the air conditioner is back again. Then,
“So, you do this often with the people you invite to your Winner’s Rooms?”
“What?”
“Ask them out on dates later.”
Oscar's eyes go wide in panic. “No. No—Oh my God, no. I don't always do this—I haven’t even asked for anyone this entire season, I swear, you’re the only one I’ve asked for—I really don’t do this always, Charles. Trust me, I’m—”
The rest of his words get cut off when Charles pulls him in for a kiss. To his credit it is a wonderful way to stop Oscar’s head from spiraling.
“I was just messing with you, relax,” Charles chuckles softly when he pulls away. He lets go of Oscar’s shirt and goes back to fiddling with the wrapper of the protein bar.
Oscar gives it five seconds before he asks, “So?”
“Hm?”
“Will you go out with me?”
Charles looks like he’s thinking it over, which Oscar takes as a good sign.
“How about you win a couple more races?” Charles answers after all of his pondering. “I do have a very impressive list. Wouldn’t want to mess it up, you know?”
Oscar knows he’s teasing. He knows how much these drivers love winning. He knows how much Charles loves winners.
“So, if I win the next couple of races, you'll go out with me?”
There’s a smug grin on Charles’ face. “I think my time is worth more than just a couple of race wins, non?” He leans in, face inches away from Oscar’s. “Try and win the championship. Then maybe I’ll see about that date.”
And with that, Charles gets up, gives him a quick kiss, and leaves. No goodnight, no goodbye.
Charles didn’t go out with anyone less impressive than an F1 World Champion. WIn the championship, he made it clear.
And if a world championship is all that Oscar needed to get Charles, so be it.