HIIII how abouttttt chrashley sitting alone somewhere at a nye party and playing social suicide together??? Hope you're having a great day and HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!! ^^
“Y’know…statistically, you kinda have to pick dare eventually.”
A challenge? Had she really heard that correctly? He was going to challenge her in front of—well, wait, okay, they’d sort of picked the basement couch specifically because there weren’t other people around, but the principle stood—everyone? Who did he think he was dealing with?
Finishing what was left of her drink, Ashley snorted then shook her head. “Big talk, bringing statistics into it. Remind me, what was your final grade in that?”
“Unimportant.”
“Uh huh.”
“Entirely beside the point.”
“Sure.”
Clearly seeing he wasn’t about to make any headway, Chris grabbed her phone from the would-be ‘pile’ between them, giving it a playful shake right in her face. “The whole idea of this game is experiencing the horrible, gut-churning threat of me having my way with this beautiful baby.”
She wrinkled her nose, pushing her phone (and consequently, his hand) away. “Okay, ew. I’d super appreciate a little rephrasing.”
“You could dare me to rephrase,” he taunted, raising his eyebrows about as high as they could go. “That’s definitely a thing you could do. Well, i-i-if it was your turn, that is. But since it’s not…”
Much as it pained her to do so, she turned away from him before the puppydog eyes could take effect. “Since it’s not, then, truth.”
Turned out, she didn’t need to be looking at him; his disappointment was audible. Perfectly audible. “For the love—okay, fine. Fine. That’s how you want to do this? Guess I’m gonna have to break out the big guns.”
“Oh no, not the big guns…” she snickered, crossing one leg over the other as she let herself sink that much deeper into the couch cushions. Upstairs, someone cheered as if in response, the noise quickly followed by the muffled thumpthumpthump of footsteps. A part of her was a little hurt that no one had noticed their absence, but if she was being honest, a much, much bigger part of her was relieved.
The couch squeaked as Chris leaned forward, setting his elbows on his knees. He looked down to let his glasses slide to the very end of his nose before he looked up again, the effect hilariously (read: horrendously) reminiscent of a naughty librarian. “What…is…the…steamiest thing you’ve ever written when you should’ve been paying attention to class?”
Her eyes rolled so hard the rest of her head went with them. “Oh my Go—I don’t write ‘steamy,’ Chris.”
“Ohoho! Is that a nonanswer I hear?”
“I don’t!” she insisted, throwing her arms out before folding them tightly over her chest. “That’s…it’s not in my wheelhouse, all right?”
“Still not an answer.”
“There’s no anwer to give, doofus.” Hoping it would serve as punctuation, she stuck her tongue out at him, quickly trying to take her turn (and change the subject). “Point me. Now, truth or—”
“Ah ah ah…” The tsk-tsking wasn’t helping the naughty librarian image. It just wasn’t. Whether he knew that or not, Chris seemed terribly pleased of himself as he brandished her phone again, giving it another jaunty shake. “I have it on good authority that there is some grade-A, choice-cut, priiimo erotica hiding somewhere in here, Ash—”
A bridge too far, that was a bridge too far! She groaned aloud before making a futile swipe for it, Chris of course managing to yank it away right in time. “Literally what are you talking about?! There’s nothing—”
“Sam says—”
“Sam?! Why have you been talking to Sam about—”
“One last chaaance,” he singsonged, doubling in on himself when she began smacking at his arm. “I have ways of making you talk, Mr. Bond. So whaddya think? You gonna give me the hot goss vis-à-vis your lewd lecture hall literature, or am I gonna have to unlock this sweet thang and go looking myself?”
Sitting back with a huff, Ashley gave in. Admitted defeat, as it were. Would she say that much out loud? No! Never! Absolutely not! But in her head, she had to give it to him: Going with dare would’ve been way easier than this.
“If you never say any of those words in that order again,” she sighed, yanking the brim of her beanie down over her eyes, “I will tell you.”
“I don’t think that’s how the game works, but okay, sure. Cross my heart.”
And then the basement was silent. Save for the ambient sounds of the party raging upstairs, there was—
Wait. Wait.
Ashley took a deep breath in, preparing herself for what came next. Slowly, she pushed her beanie back up so she could see, surreptitiously scoping out Chris’s position beside her. “Okay,” she said when the plan gelled in her head, “fine. So. I guess. There was this one time. Where I wrote…”
She froze. Widened her eyes. Lifted her hand the tiniest bit when Chris made a sound.
“Holy cow,” she whispered, then, louder, “oh my gosh, do you hear them? What time is it?! Chris, I think they started the countdown!”
“What?! No way! I could’ve sworn—”
Rookie mistake. Chris tapped his own phone to check the time, giving her the perfect opening to jump up from the couch and snatch hers out of his hand. In a flash, she dropped it down the front of her sweater (time was of the essence, after all), making it disappear a split-second before he realized what had happened.
“Are you kidding me? Party foul! Extreme party foul, Ash, grounds for disqualification! That was…okay, it was a little impressive, I’m not gonna lie, but mostly, mostly, it was sneaky. And uncool. You know, if Josh was here to referee, I’m at least seventy-five percent sure he’d say I was well within my rights to confiscate your phone for the rest of the night.”
“If you want it that bad, come get it,” she snorted. “I dare you.”
Which was, unsurprisingly, the precise moment she remembered it was, in fact, his turn.
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Summary: For more than a decade, Formula 1 has kept them in orbit. Carlos Sainz Jr. is chasing wins, contracts, and the weight of expectation. Elena Vasilakis is building her dream career behind the pit wall, one strategy call at a time. From DAMS to Ferrari, they grow side by side but never in step, always the right people, never the right time. Until...
Disclaimer: MDNI. Betrayl? Anxiety? The concept of cheating?
Author Note: I lied about 20 being the last official Renault Chapter. Oops. This was originally going to just be a text conversation but wow I couldn't not let us see both Elena and Carlos in this moment.
See the masterlist for AOTA here.
ENJOY!! Please comment and like! It makes me all excited for people to enjoy something as much as I do!
Mexico GP, 2018
Mexico always had the best paddock food. Fresh, often cooked right on site of the small patio built behind some of the garages. Fake grass, plastic lawn seating, and umbrellas at every table. It had immediately become Carlos’s hub between interviews, media, and free practices 1&2.
It wasn’t busy, most teams were finishing up debriefs, Renault had finished up ages ago. Keep pushing, perform like you did today for FP3, Quali, and the Race and you will secure our first podium this season. The advice echoed like a request, a silent plea from the team. So he came to the little oasis to think it over without interruption.
Until he caught sight of his favorite interruption. Elena was walking towards him and Carlos could immediately tell something was off. She was walking with stiff shoulders, eyes shifting just about everywhere but where he was, yet still approaching his table.
Elena was never fidgety, she was rarely ever uncertain. She usually moved through the paddock like she belonged there in every sense of the word, even though he knew she felt the pressures too. It was always something he had admired about her, something he tried to replicate. To assume you belong even if it is a new place, earning your spot.
Tonight she was anything but, she continuously turned a small paper cup in her hands.
Carlos leaned back in the plastic chair, stretching his legs out, pretending not to study her as she approached. Watching her stand against the fading sky, he nodded, silently telling her to pull out a seat.
“Not bad for a Friday,” he said, pulling his sunglasses off. “Top three twice. I am basically Vettel now.”
She gave him a look, her natural warmth creeping in for a brief moment, “Do not become unbearable.”
“Too late.”
She smiled, but then, as quick as it had come, it faded away. He noticed it immediately, he always did. When something changed the way she was holding herself, the way her brown eyes went from warm to empty in split seconds, it was hard for him to ignore.
“What?” he asked, softer now, wanting to reach over the table. Wanting to reach over his discarded paper plate of a few bites of enchilada he hadn’t finished, just to take her hand and remind her she could tell him anything.
The sun was dropping behind the horizon and buildings, painting everything gold. The paddock noise had thinned to distant garage echoes and rolling equipment cases.
She traced her thumb along the rim of her paper cup, over the ridges of the sleeve. “There is something I should tell you.”
His stomach tightened, though his expression didn’t change. Head tilting to the side, attempting to combat his nerves with curiosity, wanting to support her.
“That sounds ominous.”
“It is not.” Elena hummed quietly, it felt like a long silence before she finally spit out what she seemingly had been holding onto. “I am seeing someone.”
It didn’t hit all at once. It felt more like the way one would brace for impact while trying to recover a car whose brakes had locked up.
“Oh?” he said, keeping his tone even. “Since when?”
He could see the wall getting closer, his shoulders pulled up to protect his neck and upper back, while he tried to keep his arms loose, prevent from snapping anything.
“September.”
September. Since September they had been together in Singapore. Russia. Suzuka. COTA. Race weekends that Elena had stood beside him. Laughing with him, saying nothing.
Just as the nose of the car hits the barrier he closed his eyes, to not have to face it all. Mentally bracing for whatever impact he could.
He nodded once. “That long.”
“We didn’t know if it would work, so it was easier to keep it quiet,” she said, as if making it work were as easy as breathing.
The crash finally came when the barrier gave in, allowing the car to bury itself inside. The G’s slammed his body against the harness, trying it’s damdest to throw him into the rubber, and out to the wolves. No doubt leaving bruises for the world to see when he got out.
“Easier for you,” he replied quietly.
She winced. He hadn’t meant it to hurt like that, he meant to just to state a fact. He knew that Elena likely found it easier to keep it quiet, because if it didn’t work she could ignore its existence. Like she was currently trying to do with what they had.
“Cami knows,” she added. “And Daniel. And Max.” As if she was trying to twist the knife. Of course they know.
“And I find out in Mexico,” he said, his jaw clenching slightly. It wasn’t an accusation. Somewhere inside him he was trying not to ask why. Why she had kept it.
She didn’t apologize for keeping it from him. He respected that, at least.
“Who is he?”
“Marco Gallo.”
The name clicked, familiar. “…The Coke guy?”
She gave him a subtle nod, before picking at the cup again.
Carlos had seen him around McLaren hospitality. on the Sponsor side. He’d been told that he was a connection to the contract with Coke, to be polite, which Carlos always was, for the most part. He didn’t know much, but Carlos knew the guy was polished with a financial world kind of calm where he could be doing a million things and not be excited or worried externally. He had gathered that Marco was the kind of man who shook hands each was a contract you were signing.
Of course.
“He’s steady,” she said quickly, as if trying to justify herself. “He is not...”
The implication hung between them as she searched for the word she needed. Carlos gave a small exhale through his nose. He knew what she meant. Marco was steady like he wasn’t, he probably had a house, a favorite restaurant, a home office, All things Carlos had… But the difference was, Carlos was never around enough to make them his.
His home and home office were always pristine, un-lived in, like it was in a show room, because he was there for maybe 9 weeks a year, and used the office even less. His favorite restaurant had closed over 10 months ago, and he didn’t even get to go back to have it one last time because he was going to be in South America for the end of the season.
His chest tightened as he tried to come up with something to say, yet his mouth could only find the words, “You deserve steady.”
It didn’t mean that he meant it any less though.
“How serious?” he asked, trying to not ask as if it would give him hope, or drive his next decision.
“I don’t know yet.”
That was honest. He could hear it in her voice, uncertainty.
Silence stretched and he let himself take the moment in, take her in. The same eyes. The same movement in her jaw when she was conflicted, half way between stubborn and worried. The same woman he’d loved since 2014 and never quite touched.
For a moment he considered his options. He could say it. He could tell her she was making a mistake. But, not because Marco was bad, but because Marco wasn’t him.
His heart was pounding now, ridiculous, teenage, and reckless. Just like it pounded against his ribs once on a beach in England, one night before their adult lives began, walking along the water while the sounds of their friends faded in the distance, and all that mattered was that she was holding his hand.
“Elena,” he started.
Her eyes lifted instantly and all resolve he had been storing away dissipated like cotton candy in a rain storm.
He didn’t know what he was about to say. Tell her he loved her? Ask her if she was sure? Ask her if she’d ever even considered him?
But what if she said no? What if she looked at him with sympathy instead of that fire he desired so much?
He could survive heartbreak, he had done that thousands of times. What he could not survive was losing her entirely.
So he swallowed it down into his chest, taking the moment to find words. “If you are happy, Elena” he finished instead, steady, “then that is enough.”
He watched something flicker across her face. Relief, maybe. Or disappointment. The hardest part was, he didn’t know which it was, and he didn’t know which was worse.
“You could have told me,” he added quietly.
“I know.”
He stood up before he could change his mind, gathering the plate and utensils to toss in the can. “Tomorrow,” he said, tone light again, armor sliding back into place like he just had to keep himself together until he got away. “make sure Lewis does not take it personally when I am on pole.”
And then Carlos walked away before he did something stupid. Before he asked her to choose.
▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄
“Elena.”
The way he said her name, low, almost unguarded, borderline desperate even if she didn’t know what he would say. It all made her pulse spike.
For half a second, she thought he was going to say it. Not something casual, or something safe. But something dangerous, something she wasn’t sure if she was afraid to hear, or longed for it.
Her body reacted before her brain did, just a subtle lean forward, breath caught, anticipation coiling low in her chest.
If Carlos asked-
If he said he loved her-
If he reached across that stupid plastic table and kissed her-
She would have let him.
The realization hit like cold water when you fell into a lake. It wasn’t because she loved Marco less, but more because Carlos was… Carlos. He was her fire, her history, her gravity. And gravity always found a way to pull.
Instead he said, If you are happy, Elena… then that is enough.
Relief was the first thing to wash through her. Carlos was happy for her, or at least that is what she decided she would believe. Then a heavier realization hit.
He wasn’t going to fight for her. Of course he wasn’t. He never had, and he had no reason to. She had never given him permission to, always keeping him at arms length, for fear of being burned.
She watched him stand and gather his trash, taking it to the can. Elena hadn’t even heard his last comment, what she heard was his ease and lighthearted tone slip back into place like it had never cracked in the first place.
This is better, she told herself.
Marco is good to you, he is steady, he can be what you need. Marco does not threaten to unravel your entire life with one look, then say what you didn’t think would hurt so bad to hear.
Carlos walking away felt heavier than it should have. Like the entire world had shifted, and it was in a direction she wasn’t sure she was satisfied with.
She stayed seated for another minute, staring at the empty space he’d occupied. A stray grain of rice on the table, a distant bird eyeing up some crumbs, the way the plastic had been worn in by the sun.
Then she reached for her phone. She wanted someone, anyone to talk to, so she didn’t have to think about what had just happened.
Her thumb hovered between two names.
Cami.
Marco.
If she called Cami, she’d have to admit what almost happened, and her best friend would lovingly not let it go until they unpacked it all like a therapy session.
If she called Marco, she could anchor herself. She could hear his voice, hear him say her name, and remind herself why she chose him in the first place.
She pressed Marco.
He answered on the second ring.
“Buongiorno mia coccinella,” he said warmly, sleep still in his voice. The time difference meant Saturday in Italy, his day off. Marco was a man who valued his days off, where no work was done, where the line in the sand existed between work and life. “How was media?”
She let the sound of his steadiness settle her. “It was nothing,” she didn’t have the strength to tell him that media was done yesterday, ”work was busy.”
“You sound tired.”
“Just a long day.”
He launched into something about his gym, how they changed the membership requirements, but somehow that was good, then about how he had gotten the book shelf for his office that he had been on the fence about for a few weeks.
Concrete things. Structured things. Safe things.
As he spoke, her pulse finally slowed. Elena's eyes closed, grounding herself at the small table as the cool of the evening swept through the paddock. This is the right choice, she told herself. Fire burns, until everything becomes ash. Stability builds into a future, an empire.
When she finally hung up, the paddock was nearly empty. She stood, smoothing her Mercedes shirt, forcing her spine straight, almost as if stretching would push all of the aches out of her body.
Tomorrow would be normal, it was going to be just fine. Carlos would be normal. Qualifying would be normal. And that was the entire point. Nothing had changed. She was convinced.
I made a thing. It’s a groggy Chris Hartley in his Batman boxers. Inspired by perhaps my favorite moment (at least so far) from the phenomenal Until Dawn fic, The (Almost)s by queenofbaws. If you like Until Dawn and excellent, heartfelt character studies, absolutely go check it out here.
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perhaps a TAME run of social suicide (near impossible, i know) with an emphasis on joshley?
To say this wasn't going how she'd planned...well, that would've been a gross overstatement; if there was any appeal to Josh's horrible little truth-or-dare game, any appeal at all, it was its unpredictable nature, knowing that, no matter how you imagined the next round unfolding, you were going to be wrong.
Still, Sam hadn't seen this one coming.
"Your first kiss wasn't Chris," she repeated, her eyes growing more and more narrow with each word, "so...who...?"
Ashley pulled in a long breath she let out in an even longer sigh, her eyes going wide as if to balance the scales. "What you need to understand," she began in a slow, cautious timbre, "is that it was Fall Fest, we'd both had three Red Bulls, and, for reasons I only kind of remember, we thought it was really, really important to convince Hannah and Beth we were dating."
"Hannah and B - it was Josh?!" Sam managed to spit out, but she'd barely gotten through Hannah's name before Ashley was throwing her hands in the air, yelling over her, "That's why I was so grossed out when you said you kissed him - he's terrible at it!"
Hi! Can I have some (starve) chrashley angst? :3 hope you're doing well ^^
Someone will come, he thought to himself, feeling it turn - as most of his thoughts did, anymore - into a spiraling, endless mantra, someone will come, someone will come, someone will come for us, someone will come.
Ashley took a breath as though he'd said it aloud, her eyes shut as she lay with her head in his lap, her hands buried in the fabric of her sleeves. "Hannah heard us looking for her," she said, her voice the same terrible monotone it'd been since she'd regained consciousness, "but her leg was broken, and she was cold, and she was dying;" the last word came out as more of a breath than anything else, air in the shape of a word.
Chris didn't want to think about that, so he forced himself not to, instead focusing on brushing Ashley's hair out of her face, clinging to the thought that, once upon a time, he would've given anything - everything - to hold her this close, to touch her like this. "Yeah, well," he said when he found his voice again, ragged and exhausted though it was, "we're not dying, Ash."
"No, we're doing something worse," she agreed, opening her eyes to reveal the cataracts growing there, "so what do you think we'll do if we hear someone come looking?"
