GREENE | CS55

Epilogue

2022 | THE BRITISH GRAND PRIX

Silverware clinked in the dimmed, plum-hazed room around them. Carlos and Lando's chatter faded as the two settled into their seats, returning from a moments reprieve in the men's room. Likely fighting back the urge to make any pointed jokes about the two needing to hold each other's hands, Carlos caught Pierce's cheeky smile. He lowered himself into the seat beside her, moving Pierce's handbag placed upon it to a hook underneath the table, brushing his knuckle against the denim at her knee in the process, semi-intentional. The menus had been taken away, the drinks the three drivers had ordered brought to the table, forming damp circles along the surface of the fine linen.

Charles Leclerc was set to join the three, a post-qualifying ritual the McLaren and Ferrari drivers had formed over the past year and a bit. However, with Carlos' pole position, Charles had a knee bouncing at the thought of all the data he had to revise in an attempt to match his teammates pace. At his own behest, Leclerc opted out of dinner, giving him the evening to stick his nose in the notes compiled by his race engineer.

Pierce raised a toast, wishing their absent friend the best of luck, and for his hard work to pay off. Carlos and Lando agreed, both nodding before they each met Pierce's outstretched glass with each of their own.

"Andddd," Lando rose his brow, pausing in response to Carlos and Pierce lowering their glasses. The two exchanged a glance, Pierce's eyes glowering at her teammate, knowing he was about to start something. The dimple in his chin, a tell he was trying to stifle a laugh. The lift in his moustache, a poor attempt at growing one, Pierce always teased him. The watering of his eyes, beading as they fell as laughter-induced tears, was part of the reason Carlos begged Pierce be gentle with Lando at the start of the 2021 season.

It grew to become a grand component of the friendship between his best friend and his girlfriend, Carlos found. Lando's easy laughter, Pierces natural teasing, which often brought the former to tears, for one reason or another. Many times, the tearful laughter was infectious. Many times, Carlos found the McLaren drivers with their faces stuck in silent glee, the shimmer of tears far from drying on their faces.

Carlos groaned as the bickering threatened to drain him even further. Not tonight. "If just one time we could have a nice, peaceful din—"

"I raise a toast to me beating Pierce in Quali."

There it was. Carlos sagged.

Pierce's eyes widened, "By three tenths of a—"

"Children. Both of you," Carlos spoke to neither of them in particular as he massaged his pointer and thumb across the tight muscles in his brow.

"Second race weekend in a row, by the way!"

"I was sweating to even get to Q3. Seventh place is a miracle, did you happen to peek at the state of my tires post-quali?" Pierce set her drink down, the thick glass thudding hard against the table. Her arms rose to her side, just to shoulder height, more ready than ever to defend herself.

Carlos blew a breath, shooting Pierce a look that screamed I simply cannot. Spare me. Of the two, Pierce was, surprisingly, the more likely to relent. The three of them were in a private enough booth, it wasn't other diners Carlos was worried about disturbing, nor catching the eye of. Pierce held her breath, stilling herself as her eyes danced over Carlos' features. He warmed, hands twitching, wanting for her.

"Another year in a car built for the one and only McLaren golden boy," Pierce huffed in conclusion, a softer voice, despite the lingering snarky tone.

"Cheers to you for trying," Carlos cleared his throat then raised his glass once more, ice clinking against the crystal pattern. A distorted lime bobbed in the fray as Pierce clinked her identical drink to his, mouthing in thanks, her eyes beaming at him with admiration. If he couldn't beat them, he'd have to join them.