Camren One Shots

What Are We?

The OG Author: ShitFerrariStrategy (DopamineVampyr) on ao3

Summary:

Are we just friends, or do we want something more?

Notes:

• Songfic

• F1

• Pining

• Painfully loosely based on the song Friendly Sex by Caity Baser.

Work Text:

Camila Cabello's apartment has such a nice view, I thought to myself, looking out over the beautiful Monegasque coastline, all the pretentiously expensive yachts and ships. And, of course, Camila Cabello herself is quite a sight to behold...

"You must have a much better view of Monaco from your apartment Lauren," She slides up next to me, leaning a shoulder against the full-length window and smiling out over the horizon.
"Must you always admire it from my window?"

The sun is catching the side of her face, golden rays slipping over her jaw and cheeks and illuminating her pretty brown eyes. My eyes follow her gaze, watching as she follows the cresting waves against the shore.

"I don't get to admire you from my apartment window, usually," My hand slides over the glass, propping my weight against the pane,
"Is that not a sufficient excuse?"

"Of course, I'm such a sight to behold, who wouldn't want to," Camila laughs, her accented lisp obvious in the tiredness of her voice as the sunset rays dance over her. She makes a model pose full of false bravado that draws laughs from the both of us. There are little wrinkles at the corners of her eyes when she laughs, I notice before I realise I'm staring. I hope she didn't see.

In a second she's closer, a gentle hand on my arm and an even gentler look on her face. Her other hand on my cheek feels like the soft warmth of the evening sun, and as our lips meet I feel as content as laying upon the sunset-lit sand...

-----

Watching her sidle into the paddock with a rather handsome guy next to her does something to me. It looks wrong, to see her sharing such warm looks with another. He's smiling up at her, and for a second I wonder if it ignites the same fire in Camila as her fire does to me. She pays me no mind, waltzing right past as if I were a ghost, a figment of her imagination just for when she needs me and never else. It feels parallel to the sting of a lock-up or a hesitation at the wheel, and the way it pulls in my chest makes me sick.

I retreat to my paddock room.

"JAU: She's with another guy again, he's draped over her," My thumbs fly over the screen as I lean against the wall, sighing as I hit send,

"JAU: I don't think she even realised I was there..."

"LEC: I thought that you were not 'official' yet?"

"JAU: No. But it still hurts."

"LEC: Then tell her so. How is she to know if you do not tell her?"

I hate to admit that he's right. I'm called to the grid, so I push the emotions down. All that matters is the race.

Camila won, once again, of course. The Cuban anthem is bored into my memory bittersweet, a sour reminder of being bested yet sweet at it being by the one I cherish so dearly. Looking up at her from my shorter podium stand is an image I wish to never forget, her face flushed with emotion and hair dripping with sweat, champagne and pride.