Chapter 1: Transferring schools always suck
Chapter Text
There is nothing worse than the first day at a new school.
Okay. That’s not true. Maybe root canal. Or sitting through your parents’ friend’s jazz band recital. But this? This definitely has to be up there.
I checked my reflection one last time in the side mirror of the car before walking in.
Shirt: pressed.
Tie: semi-decent, could be tighter, but I like the slightly rebellious angle. Enough to say I’m not a loser , but not enough to get a note home.
Hair: slightly messy, but only in the way that says I woke up like this and somehow it worked . Nobody needs to know it took twenty minutes.
I smooth down the blazer. Navy, with gold trim. Feels a bit too Hogwarts for my taste, but that’s private school for you. I’ve had exactly two weeks to get used to the idea that my new life involves Latin mottos, rowing teams, and posh kids named Benedict who think sarcasm is a whole personality. Wait, that’s me. I might be Benedict.
Still, I look good. Not trying too hard. Clean enough to pass inspection. Chill enough not to look like I ironed my sleeves out of anxiety.
I closed the car door, adjusted my collar, and walked toward what I can only describe as a castle disguised as a school, Drixton Hall. Marble floors, stone archways, even pigeons looked like they got a diploma in pecking arts. Students in the same uniform were filtering through the gates already. I spotted at least three leather briefcases. Someone's wearing a scarf and it's not even cold.
So, yeah. Elite. In bold.
The kind of place where the buildings have names and the names have vowels you don’t pronounce.
But here’s the thing: I’m not exactly new to this high-society world. I’ve been in international academies transferring around Europe (due to my beloved father’s occupation) and enough summer camps in the Alps to know that the trick isn’t fitting in, it’s looking like you already belong there.
Still, walking into a school halfway through the year? Bit of a social landmine, if you asked me. Everyone’s got their squads, their routines, their inside jokes built over shared trauma and bad cafeteria food. Probably not the food, this looks like the cafeteria might be a 5-star hotel.
I found the right classroom after navigating through two marble staircases and a hallway that may or may not have been featured in a period drama. Homeroom 3B. The door was slightly open. I stood outside and waited, contemplating whether I should skip this period altogether. The teacher suddenly looked at me in mid-sentence, followed by twenty boys turning their heads to look at me like I was the new exhibit in a museum for exotic foreign students. Yeah, too late now.
“Ah! You must be Carlos,” the teacher beams. Ms. Doyle, from what I learned from my class schedule. Mid-forties. Wears cardigans and speaks like she just stepped out of National Geographic. I nod and smile. “Hi. Morning.” Yep, keep it pretty simple and cool.
She turns to the class like she’s announcing the royal baby.
“Everyone, this is Carlos Sainz. He’s just transferred from Madrid, so be nice. He plays tennis, Football, and... “ She checks a form, I swear to god. “And Kick boxing?” She looks at me, confused.
Someone in the back makes a noise that’s somewhere between interest and oh, okay, don’t piss him off.
And Yes, Miss, Rich boys can pay for martial arts classes . I just smiled instead.
Thankfully, she smiled back and continued. Don’t ask me how. That smile always works. “Let’s all make him feel welcomed, boys!”
“Hey,” I say again, a little more casually, waving. “Hope I don’t ruin your seating chart.”
There’s a ripple of polite laughter, well, more like scoffs and restricted muffling sounds, which is about as much emotion as anyone shows before 9 a.m.
And I scanned the room, obviously I need to know where I’m walking into — then I caught someone’s eye.
Back row, near the window. This guy.
Brown, messy hair. Collar slightly undone. Tie loose in a way that somehow looks cool, like he just wrapped it around his neck and it fell right into place. He’s just staring. Calm, unreadable, vaguely judging, like he’s trying to figure out whether I’m an interesting specimen or just tall.
“Carlos, you can sit next to Alex,” Doyle said, like I know who an Alex is, pointing halfway down the third row.
I nodded, taking my eyes away from the window seat guy, and made my way through the rows, bag slung over one shoulder. I catch whispers and subtle glances as I pass, the usual new kid interest. I dropped into the only empty chair next to this lanky kid, who I believe is Alex. He offered me a quick grin as I sat. Ok, Alex confirmed.
He’s got kind eyes, dark hair pushed back in a way that suggests casual effort, and this very “best grades in the class but chill about it” energy. One of those guys who’ll lend you a pen, let you copy his notes, and then disappear into a Model UN event.
“Hey, I’m Alex,” he said, offering a fist bump.
“Carlos,” I said, returning it. “Nice to be randomly assigned to your orbit.”
He paused, eyeing my schedule. “First day here’s brutal. Not because the subjects are particularly hard, but you’d probably lose your mind trying to find the actual class in this maze.”
I smirked. “Sounds like a challenge I want to lose. Do I get hazed or do we just slowly break each other’s spirits over time?”
He chuckles. “Bit of both.”
From behind me, I hear a voice. Loud, sarcastic and slightly French.
“Imagine transferring schools mid-year,” someone says. “That’s like walking into Inception halfway through and trying to guess who’s dead.”
The boys around him laughed, relaxed, like they’re used to this. Someone taps a pen against their desk like it’s a drum solo. I didn’t turn around fully, but I glanced over just enough to see him: dark curls, tie loose all the way, teo buttons undone, full smirk, leaning back in his chair like he owns it. The kind of person who tells a joke and then waits for the room to get it. Classic back row sitter energy. Every class needs one of those honestly.
I leaned slightly over my shoulder.
“Tell me about it,” I mutter. “I didn’t even get subtitles.”
A couple of them laugh. The Frenchie included.
Alex leans in and murmurs to the guy behind me, “Okay, chill out, Pierre, the guy just walked in 2 minutes ago”.
So he’s Pierre. Very French indeed.
Pierre raised an eyebrow. There’s a soft, collective chuckle.
“What are you Albono? His mom?” he says rolling his eyes at Alex, then turned to me leaning forward and whispers. “Welcome to the sitcom, mate.”
And just like that — I’m not in , exactly. But I’m not in the loser category either. Which is a good enough start.
And then — I feel it.
Someone’s watching me.
It’s not obvious. No stare, no dramatic glare. But you know that feeling, right? That hair-on-your-neck, someone’s-eyes-are-weighing-you-down thing.
I glance to the left.
And he’s sitting in a halo of sunlight, just casually being the most annoyingly perfect person in the room, back straight, ankle crossed over his knee. He’s not saying anything. He hasn’t spoken once, actually. But he’s watching. Calmly. Not judging exactly, just… Observing?
Now that I have a closer look, his face is all sharp lines and unreadable expression. Collar slightly open. A single pen between his fingers like he’s thinking about writing something… or stabbing someone, hard to tell.
But it’s his eyes that got me.
Green? Can’t tell exactly.
Not your basic leaf green or springtime grass nonsense, no. A bit of both green and blue and also brown, something like an Ocean. Stormy green. The kind of eyes that shift the colors in the light and make people accidentally say things they regret later. What am I even doing now? Writing poems? Get a grip, Carlos.
We locked eyes for a second and a half.
Exactly that long.
Long enough for something to happen — something small and impossible to name.
Then he looked away.
Back out of the window like nothing happened.
And I find myself wondering. Who the hell is this guy?
Chapter 2: Food Chain
Summary:
Carlos gets his first taste at Drixton Hall lunch. New faces, new squads, new friends and a whole lot of interesting personalities that he keeps mental notes on.
Including that one guy, he's dying to know the name of. (But ofc he wouldn't say that to Alex)
Chapter Text
BBRRIIIIIIINNNGGGGGG!!!!
The sound of the school bell rang through the overhead speakers, and without missing a beat, the classroom erupted into chaos. Desks scraped violently against the floor, chairs screeched backwards, and I cringed internally. That sound is right up there with forks on plates and group chats with my extended family. I watched as one kid leapt out of his seat and yelled, “FREEDOM!” like he just got released from prison. Well, I guess in a way it was. Another one launched himself over a desk with one fluid move and disappeared through the front door. It was full anarchy in ties and polished loafers.
I sighed. Of course. An Elite boys’ private school is still a boys’ school. Why did I even bother hoping this place might be different?
Across from me, Alex stood up calmly, as if the mayhem around him was just mild weather. He stretched like he was waking up from a nap instead of watching our peers behave like caffeinated feral cats.
“Lunch,” he explained, as if that answered anything.
“Yeah,” I muttered, standing reluctantly. “Guess everyone doesn’t bring lunch to school anymore.”
He shrugged, already walking toward the door. “Did you bring lunch?”
"Nope," I said while stretching and followed him.
Except, before I could take three steps, I was blocked.
A tall figure stepped neatly into my path. He stood straight, like he'd been trained to do so by a Swiss butler. His uniform was… neat. No other word for it. The tie was perfectly aligned. Blazer ironed. Shoes polished enough to blind someone. He looked like he’d just stepped out of a promotional brochure for an elite academy — probably because he had shot one for Drixton Hall already.
“Hello,” he said, extending a hand. “I’m George.”
He said it like I should already know who George is. Like he’s the final boss of school administration, and this is my introduction cutscene.
Bro. I don’t even know where the cafeteria is.
I shook his hand — firmly, because if there’s one thing I’ve learned in my 17 years of life, it’s that first impression always matters. I gave him the kind of handshake that says No, you can not sell me insurance on a random Tuesday.
“Carlos,” I said. “Nice to meet you, George.”
He nods, satisfied. Not smiling. Just mentally checking off a box labeled Has Basic Social Skills or something.
“And I’m the class president,” Of course he is. He said it with a subtle straightening of his shoulders. “So if you need anything — logistics, academic questions, policy clarification — feel no pressure to ask me.”
I blinked. “Do I look like someone who asks for policy clarification?” Ok I admit, that escaped before I could stop. But whatever.
Behind me, Alex coughed — good cover-up for his laugh.
George remained unbothered. “Not yet. But everyone starts somewhere.”
Before I could invent a reason to escape from this personification of school regulations, Alex cuts in smoothly.
“George,” he says, casual, “you coming to the caf?”
George pauses. Looks at his watch. Like lunch is something you schedule between mergers and quarterly earnings. Maybe he does. Who knows.
“I suppose,” he says. “I brought my own—” (of course he did) “—but I’ll stop by. I wanted to ask Lewis something about his club proposal anyway.”
Alex gives him a nod. “Cool. See you there then. I gotta show the new guy the ropes.”
George walks off in the direction of the lockers, probably to alphabetize his forks or something. I was just glad I escaped that awkwardness.
I turn to Alex. “Okay, now that’s an experience.”
“Haha,” Alex says, like it’s nothing. “That’s just George.”
“Right, yes, thank you. But what is the deal with him?”
Alex chuckles. “Self-proclaimed best student. Captain of the debate team. Runs the theatre society and somehow crashes out during final exams. We’ve been friends since Year 9, I know.”
I blinked. That's quite a lot to process.
We barely reached the front door when a chair spun around in front of me. Like, actual dramatic sitcom energy. Can I just leave the class peacefully without any more interruptions, for God's sake?
Suddenly, a curly-haired guy is sitting in it, looking up with a grin like he just jumped into frame from his own musical number.
“Hi!” he says, loud and unapologetic. “I’m Lando.”
I stared blankly. “Hi…?” Hi?
“You’re Carlos, right? From Spain? Sick. I went to Ibiza once. Got heatstroke in a pool. Still counts though.”
I just continued staring. This is either a planned prank, or I just found the class clown.
“I'm Lando by the way." He says again and gets up and comes closer to my face. Dude... "You look like someone who drives a jet ski. Aggressively,” he adds, like this is a perfectly normal compliment.
Alex gave me a once-over. “He’s not wrong.”
I’m mid-smirk and about to say something mildly rude and sarcastic when movement catches my eye, behind Lando.
The Window seat guy. I should probably need to come up with a better name.
He’s standing now, tousling his hair, his uniform still perfectly undone in a way that says, “yes, I’m perfect, deal with it.” He moves without rushing, like he’s got the day on pause. Walks over to the loud French one — Pierre — who leans back lazily in his seat like he owns the chair and the patent to sitting. Huh? Never imagined them to be friends.
They say something too low for me to hear, but it earns a smirk from both.
Then a third one joins. Small asian guy, who looked like he could murder someone with chopsticks without blinking.
They form this triangle near the back, all unspoken coordination and casual dominance. I didn’t even realize I’ve been staring until—
“Carlos,” Lando says, dragging me back into the room. “What’s your lunch strategy? Are you a ‘murder the queue’ guy or a ‘wait for the pasta to cool down’ type?”
“Huh?”
He raises an eyebrow. “You phased out.”
“Right. No, I’m definitely queue murder. Full gladiator.”
“Respect, bro.”
As I answered, the trio walks past us — Pierre still talking, the window seat guy listening, asian boy trailing behind, clicking away at his phone. They don’t look our way. They just pass by, and disappeared through the door.
Alex’s voice floats back in. “We should move if we want seats not directly under the air vent.”
Lando turns dramatically, waving his arms. “Gentlemen. To the cafeteria. "FO-LO-ME”
I scanned the swarming students in the corridor to see… to see what? Who? OMFG Carlos, you’re not that desperate. It’s still just the first day.
Lando starts explaining the school’s inexplicably aggressive vending machines, and I let myself laugh and get into the conversation.
I gave Lando a look, a proper one now. And asked Alex “Is this… normal?”
Alex answers for him. “No. It’s just Lando.”
Lando’s already leaning over my shoulder like we’ve been best friends since birth. “You should sit with us from now on for lunch. Not like ‘us’ as in cool kids. More like ‘us’ as in we don’t eat glue.”
I snort. “That’s a pretty low bar.”
He grins. “But you don't have any bar at the moment.”
"Fair enough."
And just like that, I’m drafted into whatever unit this is. Definitely not the cool kids. But I can work through that. At least I’m in a squad now.
We trailed into the lunchroom, and it hit me like a wall of noise and adolescent testosterone.
Someone’s doing parkour between tables.
Someone else is eating chips with chopsticks.
Someone’s got three sandwiches and no plate.
I blinked slowly. “Okay. What fresh madness is this? Isn’t this supposed to be ‘Elite’?”
“This,” Alex says, completely ignoring my question, “is the cafeteria.”
We grabbed our trays and started weaving through tables. I did what I always do in new places — scan the terrain. Make mental notes. Rank potential allies and future enemies like I’m planning a hostile takeover. C’mon I need to survive this jungle.
The first table we passed was dead silent. Everybody had their heads down on their phones and tablets.
“That’s Table 1,” Alex says, tilting his chin towards the first table. “That’s scholar crowd. Front row types. Full academic kids who will go to the Ivy League. The ones who actually read the syllabus and study.” He gestures towards a guy in cornrows. “Lewis is the school president, you should know him. Besides him, others are also fine once you get past the vocabulary barrier.”
I clock the table. Neat blazers and ties. A Latin phrase written on someone’s thermos. I swear one of them is drinking sparkling water. Nope. I would be caught dead before sitting at that table for sure.
“Right,” I mutter. “Future politicians and CEOs.”
Alex snorts. “Exactly. We call them The Senate, actually.”
Of course they do.
“George is dead set on getting on that table, following around Lewis and all. But well, he loses it sometimes and ends up with us at the end of the day. He’s not truly the scholar type if you ask me.”
We keep walking. “But don’t forget your homework, he WILL definitely report you to the teacher.”
Ok so Alex does care about that stick figure a lot more than I thought. And I keep a mental note on that. He gestures subtly at the next chaos cluster. Boys are practically hanging off the bench, one standing while eating, like sitting is optional. Someone is yelling about protein, and another is throwing grapes with sniper-level accuracy.
“That’s probably where we're going to sit” Alex says, more like a sigh. I squint and understand why. I came to the conclusion that he and George didn’t really fit anywhere, and somehow Lando came and adopted them to his weird cult squad going on over there. Shit. Just like me. I’m Alex and Alex is me.
“Yeah,” he shrugs. “We’re... an interesting squad. Also, Oscar once accidentally hacked the school Wi-Fi, so no one messes with him. I’d say we’re a bunch of guys who just somehow ended up together. You can’t exactly name us as a stereotype.” Yeah, I totally get it.
Lando runs across, screaming “Oscarrrrrr my maaaan!!” and jumps on behind a guy who’s practically minding his own business, slowly eating one pasta at a time. Poor guy. He smiled at Lando with a face saying here we go again. I feel for the guy, truly.
Moving on.
“That’s Cool and the popular kids' table.” Alex points subtly toward the corner of the cafeteria.
And there he is.
The WSG. Ok, I shortened it. The Window Seat Guy. Get it?
As expected, he’s got his ankle slung over his knee again, lazily twirling a chopstick like he’s conducting an orchestra in his head. Next to him — the dramatic one from earlier, laughing with his whole upper body. Pierre. Across from them, the asian guy was calmly eating soup with terrifying intensity.
“They’re sort of their own thing,” Alex continues. “Charles is the good-looking one with green eyes. He doesn’t talk much unless it’s something clever or vaguely soul-crushing, or you go up to him and initiate talking."
O-okay. Finally, a name.
Alex continues, oblivious to my internal excitement. "Pierre does enough talking for both of them, well, you experienced that already. Yuki… well, he might actually be dangerous, I’m not sure yet.”
I nod slowly. “Dangerous like… stabbing or hacking?”
“Yes. Uh- just don’t piss him off? I don’t want to find out, actually.”
Fair.
“So Pierre and…” I wait a bit to convince that I’m not that interested in knowing that name (which I was dying to know btw) “Charles? They seem close, but they don’t look like they have a lot in common.”
Alex nodds in agreement.
“Yeah I can see why you think that. But, apparently, they’ve known each other since forever,” Alex adds. “Their families know each other, shared vacations, summer schools and trips that kinda thing."
Oh interesting. I definitely made a mental note on that.
We pass another table where a tall guy is practically radiating menace. Blond. Intense. Leaning back like the chair insulted his family. Across from him is a boy with sharp eyebrows and big watch energy — talking way too seriously about some off-campus sports club.
“That’s the Jocks' table. Max and Daniel are in 3A. We don’t talk to them unless we have to. Max is… well, intense. He wins almost everything. Daniel’s pretty chill, and he’s the only one who can handle Max when he’s angry. and boi you do NOT want to make him angry.”
I gave them one last glance. Well, I don't need to worry about them now, since they're in a different class. Not yet.
Alex jerks a thumb toward a smaller table in the back. “Those are our juniors."
I took a look. Yup. They look like the cast of a show called “Prep Academy: Detention Diaries”.
“They’re in Year 11, but they get pulled up for matches and competitions sometimes,” Alex explains. “That kid with curls? Kimi. Got scouted for three sports already. The one in a football jersey? a total jock but is actually chill, he’s Isack. That tall guy is Ollie, he's sweet but will pull pranks. So watch out.”
I looked at Alex, impressed. “You’re terrifyingly good at this introduction thing.”
Alex grins. “Survival I guess.”
I take it all in.
Every laugh. Every seat. The squads.
And realize—
This isn’t a cafeteria.
It’s a social hierarchy.
“Alright,” I mutter, setting my tray down. “Let the games begin.”
Alex claps me on the back. “Welcome to lunch.”
Chapter 3: How bad can a first impression be?
Summary:
I'd rather not - Carlos S.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
World History period. The subject you’d absolutely skip unless legally obligated to sit through.
Now, look, I’m not saying history isn’t important. I get it, wars happen, empires rise and fall, and some guy lost a shoe during the French Revolution; now the rest of us are stuck memorizing the date.
And Mr. Harper, the guy's voice is tuned to an exact frequency that makes me fall asleep. One more paragraph about 18th-century trade routes and I swear I will start rooting for the plague, just to stay awake.
So yeah. I excused myself to go to the washroom. And by that I mean: escape the lecture, recalibrate my will to live, and kill some time before I had to return and pretend to care about some old dude in a white wig.
And Hey! Congratulations to me, I’ve survived the first week at Drixton Hall without any massive screw-ups or tripping over my own feet and embarrassing myself. A win in my book.
Lando and Alex basically adopted me into their weird cult squad, which I’m honestly fine with. It’s loud, but it works for me. I like the vibe.
So far, no disasters. No cafeteria food poisoning. Solid start.
I reached the hallway intersection, the kind that splits dramatically like a movie scene where the main character has to choose between destiny or destruction. To the right, I know the washrooms. The correct choice in this case. So obviously I take the left. The plan is to find a quiet spot, scroll through my disaster of history notes on my phone, and maybe figure out if Napoleon did more than just wear the funny hat.
See? I'm not some irresponsible student who skips classes, alright? I do care about my grades, but I cannot do that if I'm half asleep in class.
I walked until I spotted a stone staircase tucked behind a row of trees, the kind of corner that feels secret, like it's not part of the real school but left behind from an older, more suspicious time.
I quickly glanced around. No teachers. Alright, coast is clear.
I jogged over, followed the stairs to a narrow concrete path that ended in a slightly creepy shed. Probably meant for old furniture, broken desks, and uh- ghosts?
I didn’t go in, because I enjoy not being murdered today. But I sat near the door. Close enough for quiet, far enough in case I need to bolt.
I skim my notes.
Napoleon: short. Hat guy.
Bastille: stormed.
People: angry.
Cake…?
Wow.
Truly, I am the master of short writing. I shut that useless notes page and started googling instead.
And that’s when I hear it.
A sound. Soft. Muffled. Like fabric shifting.
I froze mid-typing.
Okay, ghosts aren’t real. Probably. But if they were? They’d absolutely haunt a shed behind a stone staircase at a rich-kid boarding school. That just makes sense. I shot a quick glance at the wooden door that was ajar. Maybe I should just go?
The sound comes again. And I realized it's coming from above.
I squinted up at the roof. And I almost screamed.
There was... A foot! Dangling from the edge of the rooftop ledge!
What the actual fuck??
I scrambled on the floor trying to get to my feet. I nearly skipped three steps and got away from the shed. Ghosts aren't real ghosts arent real ghostsarentreal
I was keep saying to myself in my head before I realized it's not even noon yet, and what kind of stupid ghost haunts in broad daylight?
So I turned around, a bit slowly and peaked at the rooftop. One socked foot, dangling lazily off the rooftop edge like it’s on holiday. And then a second foot joins it, ankles crossed.
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding because that is clearly our uniform.
And then a head popped up from behind.
Brown hair. Messy from the wind. Definitely not a ghost.
Which, to be honest, now I wish it was . Because It’s him.
Charles Leclerc.
The one guy I’ve actively tried not to make a fool of myself in front of. For some unknown reason. I just... I don't know, ok? I just do. And this is not the time to think about that.
He rises slowly, like someone just told him brunch was ready and he’s considering whether it’s worth leaving bed.
We locked eyes.
Me: still mid-squat, gawking like a fish that just got out of water.
Him: blinking down at me like he’s trying to figure out if I’m real or part of his nap dream.
Then he sits up properly, like it’s only just occurred to him that this is not his bedroom. He scanned the surroundings, kind of like he’s rebooting.
And then he looks back at me and he smirks.
Tiny. Smug. Like we’ve just shared a private joke that I was not invited to.
He taps two fingers to his lips and makes a shhh gesture.
I narrowed my eyes at him. Unbelievable.
Then, without any hesitation whatsoever, he swung himself off the roof like it’s a casual Tuesday stretch.
He puts one hand on the slab for support, smooth pivot, and lightly lands on the ground. Right in front of me.
No stumble. No sound. The bastard even sticks the landing like a gymnast on his final event. Why does this feel so annoying?
I blinked. Still stunned. Still holding my phone like a talisman to shoo away ghosts.
“You’re the new guy, right?” he asks, brushing off his pants like he just didn't land from a rooftop.
And I’m still frozen. Just blinking. Trying to force brain cells into forming words. If I said that I survived without getting myself embarrassed before? scratch that. This is utter humiliation. And to top it off, it had to be this guy...
Then he keeps going, mercifully not waiting for a reply:
“Is it lunchtime now?”
“...Huh?”
That’s what comes out of my mouth. H-U-H .
Ladies and gentlemen, the first words spoken to me by WSG (Window Seat Guy), and my response is… a solid huh .
I mean, to be fair, I did just mistake him for a literal haunting spirit. Doesn’t make it less humiliating.
He tilts his head at me, slightly confused. Probably wondering if I understand English or he should switch to Italian or something.
I manage to cough up something vaguely human. “Uh—no. It’s only eleven.”
He nods. Puts his hands in his pockets. Turns to walk past me like what just happened was completely normal.
I stared at him climbing the stone stairs, halfway through his exit, he paused.
Turned back and looked at me.
I lifted my eyebrows. What now?
“You’re not supposed to skip class,” he says calmly, like he’s the student council president. “You’ll get two penalty points if George catches you.”
Excuse me.
This guy, who was caught napping on a rooftop like a stray cat during class time, is lecturing me on class attendance?
And because I clearly have no self-preservation instincts, I say,
“Oh yeah? Your educational meditation session up on that rooftop probably earned you 2 penalty points as well, then"
I swear I saw the faintest flicker of amusement. A ghost of a smile.
“I said if George catches you.”
And then, with absolutely no warning, he winks.
Winks. And I felt my brain malfunction... again.
Then he turns away and continues to climb the stairs. I swear I hear a light chuckle as he says;
“And I never get caught.”
Then he’s gone.
Just like that.
Back into the shadows of old school buildings.
I stood there for a full ten seconds, processing the fact that I just had my first conversation with the WSG (I need a nickname for him).
Not exactly the first conversation I imagined having with him.
Not that I imagined anything. OK, maybe once... or twice. Moving on.
Honestly, I'm still stuck on the fact that all this happened so coincidentally.
And one thing’s for sure:
Charles is not normal.
And I’m starting to think… I really want to know him better...
Notes:
Carlos navigates his not-so-obvious *interest* on WSG through the days!
Hope you enjoyed. Leave a comment pls! <3
Chapter 4: Twice is a Coincidence
Summary:
I keep running into him. Well, twice is still a coincidence.
Chapter Text
So maybe I’m not imagining it.
Mind you, I’m not a superstitious guy in any way. I don’t believe in all that fate crap, "the universe brings people together," or "everything happens for a reason," nonsense. Please. The universe brings bad weather, global pandemics, and an overwhelming urge to skip morning classes.
But lately?
I’m starting to side-eye the universe a little bit. Just a little.
Because how else do you explain this?
How do you explain the fact that I keep running into the exact same guy I clocked on day one? The guy who rendered me completely speechless (trust me, that never happens) the first time he opened his mouth. And now he keeps reappearing in my life like some glitchy NPC that the simulation decided he got lines all of a sudden. In the most ridiculously coincidental ways.
Take right now, for example.
I’m staring at him. Behind a crate of basketballs. In the gym.
Just… sitting there dozing off. Like a misplaced mannequin.
Okay.
Wait.
Backup.
Let’s rewind for context.
It’s finally P.E. Which means...
Time to shine, babyyyy.
Have I ever mentioned I’m good at sports? No? Well, I am.
I know, shocking, a guy who cares about his grades and isn’t a complete disaster on the court. We do exist.
So we got Basketball today.
I was killing it. Obviously.
Meanwhile, Lando was sprinting around the court, yelling his own homemade cheer chants, which, frankly, were embarrassing for both of us.
Who even says, “Carlos does it again! That’s my MVP!” out loud? With a straight face?
But it’s Lando. You kind of have to let it slide.
He means well, even when he sounds like a walking megaphone with no off switch.
At some point early on, I think I spotted Charles sitting near the bleachers. But then the game picked up speed, and I got distracted trying to carry Pierre’s sorry defense and not get clocked by one of Oscar’s way-off passes.
(It’s impressive, actually, how consistently Oscar manages to throw to no one. A true skill.)
Pierre and I even managed to bond mid-game. Nothing brings two people together like mutually yelling “what was heck was that ?!” at your own teammate who's trying to kill you with a basketball.
By the time class ended, half the group was fake-limping, Coach was shouting about hydration and technique, and I was basking in the glow of a very obvious MVP performance. Even Pierre acknowledged my skill and now we're sports friends, I guess.
So yeah, I was feeling good.
Then Coach calls me over, giving me that approving nod.
“Basketball team tryouts next week,” he says. “You better show up, Sainz.”
Totally expected after my MVP performance.
I played it cool though. Said I’d “think about it,” like I wasn’t already running scenarios in my head. I mean, look, I’ve been weighing my options with extracurricular activities. I don’t want to overcommit. There’s a whole lot of sports at Drixton Hall, and I only have so much time. I’m being strategic. Responsible. Have to balance academics and sports.
Anyway, the others start heading back to the changing rooms, wheezing and sweat-soaked. I, being the solid citizen that I am, offered to gather up the stray basketballs.
Partly because I felt bad about probably rejecting Coach's dream team offer. I'm leaning more toward Football than Basketball.
So I gathered them up, dumped the last few into one of those rolling ball crates, and wheeled it into the gym storeroom. You know the one. That vaguely haunted cave where broken badminton nets and dislocated hockey sticks go to die.
I’m in there, stacking basketballs. Minding my own business. Running a mental list of pros and cons for each sport and how it would help me gain creds for University in the future.
And then…
I hear it.
A sound.
Soft.
A shuffle.
Something — someone — moving behind the crates.
I pause, tilt my head. Definitely not a basketball. Unless they’ve learned how to breathe.
So I crept closer. Peeked slowly over the tallest crate in the far corner.
And there he is.
Charles. Freaking. Leclerc.
Slouched down on the floor like a half-asleep stray cat who’s claimed this territory long ago.
Hoodie pulled down low, covering those messy brown curls. Arms folded. One leg stretched, the other bent. Head tilted forward like he was deep into his mid-morning hibernation cycle.
I don’t even need to see his face to know it’s him.
I know it’s him.
Making me question fate and free will all over again.
I leaned in—accidentally nudged the crate.
It scraped against the floor. Loud enough for him to crack one eye open. He yawned. So casually. Like he just woke up from a spa nap, not gym class.
“Is basketball over?” he mumbles.
So you’re telling me he slept through that absolute masterclass of a game? That he missed my MVP-worthy performance?
Not that I was trying to impress him or anything. Obviously.
But still.
I just stood there, one hand on my hip, the other cradling a basketball like I was holding my own broken dreams.
“You’re skipping class?” I blurt, bitterly. Echoing his line from last week, trying to sound smug but mostly just offended.
He rubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand, still too calm, too unbothered. And then-
Footsteps.
Fast. Heavy. Approaching.
We froze.
Before I can say another word, the door swings open.
Coach.
“Oh, Leclerc! There you are,” Coach says. “Helping Sainz clean up? Good lad. I was wondering where you’d gone.”
I- what.
I blinked. And flashed my eyes to my right and see Charles.
When did this guy move? When did he teleport to the other side of the crate and grab a ball so convincingly? He’s standing there like he’s been actively contributing the whole time.
And Coach had no idea he’s been sleeping this whole time.
Charles flashes him a smile. That lazy, charming, can-get-away-with-murder kind of smile. “Of course, Coach.” This guy...
He even nods once. Like he’s just here doing the Lord’s work and not absolutely conning the education system.
Coach gives an approving grunt, mutters something about “closing up,” and walks out again, clipboard in hand.
And Charles?
He calmly sets the ball down on the crate, glances at me, and says:
“You heard him. Lock up when you leave.”
WHAT
I stood there, mouth slightly open, trying to process what I’d just witnessed.
How is this guy even real? Skipping class like it’s part of the syllabus and getting away with it? No panic. No consequences. I’d bet my GPA no one even knows.
Except me.
And here’s the thing. That charming, well-mannered, vaguely royal Charles Leclerc?
The one Alex described on day one with all the “Cool squad,” “Nice when approached,” “Most popular student” energy?
That’s not the version I keep bumping into.
No.
I keep running into some sort of… glitched version.
Like the curtain slips a little, and this other Charles steps out, half-shadow, all mischief, impossible to pin down.
And the worst part?
I can’t figure him out.
Not yet, anyway.
Chapter 5: Thrice is a Pattern
Summary:
If I keep running into you, I can't help but notice you...
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
If you asked me why I’m holding a garbage bag full of dead leaves at 09:09 in the morning, I’d say it’s because I love nature.
Wrong.
This? This is punishment.
Apparently, being ten minutes late to homeroom means I’m spiritually disconnected from Mother Earth and need to “reconnect with the environment.” Hence: backyard cleaning duty.
Which, for the record, is not some charming gardening experience with sunshine and butterflies.
It’s wet grass. It smells like soggy earth and old gym socks. There’s a rundown wooden garbage shed nearby that looks like it’s haunted by the ghosts of old mops.
What a beautiful, soul-reviving morning. Oooh la la~
I’m dragging my sack of decaying leaves like Santa Claus if Santa hated joy and was allergic to happiness. I’m halfway through debating whether I should fake a back injury and call it a day, when I catch something moving by the corner of my eye.
Something came flying over the school wall.
A backpack?
Yep. A full-on school backpack. Sailing through the air like someone just yeeted it into orbit. It hit the grass with a dull thud. Followed by a blazer. Navy blue, gold Drixton crest flapping in the wind like a medieval banner. I stood there, holding a rake and a sack of dead leaves, wondering if I was hallucinating.
I squinted. Maybe I was hallucinating. I did skip my morning coffee, which already makes me 40% less prepared for nonsense. And this school runs on nonsense. Generational, inherited nonsense..
But then a sound came outside the wall. Soft shuffle. Fabric. Rubber soles scraping concrete. Sounds like someone is doing something they absolutely should not be doing.
Two hands gripped the edge. I tilted my head, squinting. Surely not... him?
I groaned internally. There he was.
Pulling himself up like he’s staging a one-man heist. No equipment. No plan. Just purely rolling on main-character energy and vibes. Brown hair, wavy tousled in the wind and vaguely haloed by the morning sunlight. Sleeves rolled to the elbows. His tie was in his mouth, actually in his mouth, clutching it like a cat catching a fish or something.
Of course.
It’s him again.
Charles Leclerc.
By now, I could recognize him from just the silhouette of his hair, that soft, wavy brown mop practically etched into my subconscious thanks to our increasingly bizarre run-ins.
He’s climbing the wall like this is completely normal behavior . Like he does this every Thursday before first period. Maybe he does?
One leg swings over. He perches, catlike, on top of the concrete slab for a moment. He turns his head around, scanning the perimeter. Casual. Definitely not concerned about getting caught.
Then his ocean eyes land on me.
Me, who's standing there like a background extra in a gardening PSA. Rake in one hand. Bag of dead leaves in the other. Hair is probably doing a thing I didn’t authorize.
For a second, we just... stare.
Me, looking like the scarecrow of mild despair. He, perched on a wall like he’s about to deliver a prophecy.
Sigh. Look, I don’t mind our paths crossing. I really don’t. There’s a certain charm to the whole fate-dumps-him-in-my-line-of-sight situation. But does it always have to happen when I’m holding literal yard waste?
Seriously. Whoever’s up there pulling the strings, God, fate, the bored intern running my simulation, or WHOEVER, I’d like a word. Maybe an aesthetic adjustment. Just once, please? Let me bump into him when I look like a mysterious loner with a tragic backstory. Leaning against an arched window with my ancient novel. Not the unofficial Garbage Boy of Drixton Hall.
His brow twitches. Just barely. Then he lifts a hand…
Shhh.
SHHH??
Really?
Did he just shush me like I’m the one climbing school property like a rogue squirrel?
Before I can even process the audacity, he swings his other leg over the wall and jumps down, grabs his blazer off the ground, and gives it a lazy shake, dusting off a few invisible leaf particles like a man who’s far too used to this routine. He slings the backpack over one shoulder, runs a hand through his hair like he’s prepping for a shampoo commercial, and just to fully commit to the absurdity flashes me a grin.
“Morning,” he says, actually says, like this is all perfectly reasonable. Like he wasn’t just scaling walls in the morning on school grounds
Then because apparently nothing phases him, he pats my shoulder once and strolls past me, slipping through the side entrance of the left wing of the main school building like he just stepped out for a minute to go to the bathroom.
And I am just standing here. Still holding my sad bag of leaf corpses.
I blinked at the wall. Then at the building. Then back at the wall.
Now wait a damn minute.
Why the hell am I getting punished for being late, forced into swamp duty with a rake and a heavy heart, while this guy jumps in over the wall like an urban ninja and just gets away with it?
Not fair. At ALL.
But also… lowkey? Kind of genius now that I think about it.
Still, I wonder. He’s not the guy I pegged him to be on the first day.
Not the straight-A, uniform-perfect, says- merci -instead-of-thanks kind of golden boy that’s soft? He’s something else entirely.
A walking contradiction.
On paper: Perfection, elegant and soft spoken. In practice: Mild menace, chaotic and unpredictable?.
So everyne else sees one version and I’m getting this some private, glitchy version of the Charles Leclerc Experience Package. And the worst part?
I’m actually finding this way, way too interesting.
I rake one last sad pile of leaves into the bag, sighing deeply.
Because I already know what I got myself into:
I’m going to keep noticing him, if I want to or not.
This won’t be the last time I find Charles Leclerc exactly where he shouldn’t be.
And me?
I’m stuck, one question spinning through my brain like a cursed fidget spinner:
What the hell is his deal?
And I keep wanting to find out more...
Notes:
Thanks for reading! Leave a comment on your thoughts!
Chapter 6: Prime View
Chapter Text
“Seating has been shuffled for the semester, boys! Randomized for fairness.”
Ms. Doyle’s voice cut through the room like a whistle, far too chipper for 9:00 a.m. on a Monday. Like, ma’am. Please. The sun barely showed up and you’re already this enthusiastic?
She dropped a stack of books on her desk and taped a laminated seating chart to the whiteboard like it was a proclamation from the queen herself.
“Check the chart and settle into your new seats until I come back.”
Collective groans erupted immediately. Ms. Doyle pretended not to hear them as she swept out of the room like she didn’t just drop a bomb and flee the scene. Yeah and I almost forgot I transferred here not at the end of the first semester. Now, it's gonna be the new one soon.
Seriously?
I sighed internally, because I’m a mature, composed individual who expresses disappointment gracefully . Externally? I stood up with all the energy of a man walking toward his own funeral. After all the effort I put into memorizing the names of the guys around me? Gone. Wasted.
I dragged my feet over to the board, right behind Alex.
I scanned the chart.
Sainz… Sainz… Sainz…
Ah. There I am.
And then my eyes landed on the name to the left of mine.
Oh?
Am I dreaming? I bit the inside of my cheek- which hurt, so, no. I was very much awake. Because seriously… what the actual fuck?
Second-to-last row. Window seat.
Charles Leclerc.
Right next to mine.
“Guess we’re stuck together for the rest of the semester, huh?” Lando piped up behind me, casually chewing gum like it gave him street cred. He thinks it makes him look cooler. Honestly, it makes him look like an alpaca on a vineyard tour, but hey, let him have his illusions.
I blinked, disoriented, then glanced back at the chart. Not that I was distracted imagining completely normal, totally academic scenarios involving the WSG seated beside me. Obviously not.
There it was.
Lando Norris. Right beneath my name.
Huh. How did I miss that?
When I turned back around, Lando was already holding his hand up for a high five, like we just won a sweepstake. I slapped it with a grin. We’d sort of become friends over the last few weeks. And, bonus: I wouldn’t have to suffer Pierre kicking the back of my chair every ten minutes anymore.
And most importantly, I now had the prime Charles-view. A front-row seat to whatever version of Charles Leclerc the universe kept glitching into my life lately.
He had the window seat. Which meant I was to his right, arguably the superior position. I mean, for research purposes. Of course. Nothing else. Someone’s gotta figure out what this guy’s deal is. And clearly, that sacred duty has fallen upon me.
Anywaaaay, while I was in the middle of trying to teach Lando how to do a proper dap, because honestly, his current attempt is a disgrace to the entire population of high school boys, I caught sight of the cool squad strutting into class, casually chatting away.
“What's happening, biches?” Pierre announces, loud and proud, like the room was waiting for him.
He strolls right over between me and Lando and slings an arm around each of us, which catches me off guard since we’ve yet to have a full one-on-one conversation.
Maybe that trauma bonding during P.E. actually did work. Or maybe Pierre just operates on pure spontaneous friendliness. On my book though? we’re not actual friends until we’ve shared at least one life-altering, embarrassing secret. That’s just my rule. (Okay, maybe that’s a bit dramatic. But still.)
“OH NO! Why the hell am I in front of you?”
Pierre screamed right in my ear, and I swear I felt my eardrums doing a drum solo.
I glanced at the chart. Yep. Pierre is directly in front of Charles. Means diagonally in front of me.
Great for observation purposes. I noted.
Charles followed behind, completely unbothered by Pierre’s dramatic mental breakdown. He took one glance at the chart without a word, reached out his hand, grabbed Pierre by the collar, and pulled him away like this was an everyday occurrence.
“C’mon, you’re still next to me,” he said, calm and low, polar opposite of the Frenchman.
They moved like they’d done this routine a thousand times. Effortless. Familiar. The kind of best-friend energy that made me- I don’t know, kind of want to join in? Be part of it? Not that I’d admit that out loud.
Pierre flopped into his seat like a falling tree branch and declared, “Well, this isn’t bad. I can already feel your eye-rolling behind me.”
Lando and I made our way to our new seats as their back-and-forth rolled on.
“I don’t roll my eyes that often,” Charles said, voice flat.
“You literally just did. Like five seconds ago.”
“Preemptively.”
In front of me, Alex dropped into his chair like he’d been sentenced to six months of detention. He glanced left- saw Pierre with his legs up on his desk. Looked right- saw Yuki, aggressively playing Mario Kart. Then sighed like someone losing the will to live.
“Fantastic,” he muttered.
Lando landed in the seat behind me like it was a beanbag. “We’re in formation, boys.”
“Formation for what?” Alex asked warily, he was hastily trying to grab his textbooks from his backpack, in frustration.
“Dominating calculus. Or cheating on today's History pop quiz.”
To my right, Oscar unzipped his bag carefully. He lined up three identical highlighters with such precision they could’ve been part of a museum exhibit. What in the world of OCD?
Up front, George had already begun giving a speech like the school policy handbook materialized itself.
“I believe our new seating assignments foster a healthier learning environment through diverse peer engagement-”
Lando groaned into his desk.
Pierre fake-coughed “nerd” under his breath.
I glance left and spot Charles, elbow propped on the desk, casually twirling a pen like he’s waiting for someone to yell “Cut!” Same windswept hair. Same infuriating ability to make slouching look like it belongs in a magazine spread.
He caught me staring, unfortunately for my research purposes. Raises an eyebrow at a perfect arc.
“What?”
“What?” I echo, way too fast.
Smooth. Real smooth, Carlos. A proud moment for the Sainz family legacy.
I snap my head forward and flip open my notebook like it’s suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. Anything to keep my eyes from drifting left again and humiliating myself further.
Lando leans over my shoulder, gum still in his mouth. “You are suspicious.”
“Of what?” I mutter, flipping to a random page with extra conviction.
He peers closer, squinting. “Why are you reading that upside down?”
I freeze.
Glance down.
...Fuck
I shoot him a glare. He raises his eyebrows, smug like he’s just caught me mid–true crime confession.
Alex, in front of us, doesn’t even turn around. Just lets out the kind of sigh you’d expect from someone who’s been forced to live with toddlers and finance bros at the same time. “Why do I have to sit in the middle of this burmuda triangle?”
“At least you're in the middle,” Lando whispers theatrically. “Strategically better spot not to ge randomely picked to answer questions.”
“Lando, shut up,” Alex groans.
I flick my notebook back around the right way, trying not to die of embarrassment. My eyes flick, totally unintentionally, toward the seat next to mine.
Charles is there. Silent. Elbow on the desk, head slightly tilted as he sketches something in his notebook with that annoying effortless focus. His tie is still loose. Hair a bit messed up. The sunlight through the window hits him at the exact right angle like it glows a halo around him.
Whatever he’s sketching, it’s definitely not notes. From here it looks like… maybe a sword? Or a spoon? Or possibly a sword with a spoon handle. Honestly, with Charles, who knows? Probably some moody medieval scene I’ll never be able to decipher.
I snap my eyes forward, pretending like I haven’t been staring.
A few rows up, Pierre is loudly demanding “emotional hazard pay” for being seated behind George again. George doesn’t even look up. Just tells him, “Bring your own pens this time.”
This is the vibe now: chaotic, mismatched, loud.
And honestly? I kind of like it.
Different. But good.
“Alright, class. I hope everyone’s settled into their new seats,” Ms. Dorsey’s voice cut through the noise, pulling me back to reality. She walked in briskly, balancing another set of books.
“Turn your textbooks to page 119, please.”
And just like that, the semester begins.
Fresh seats. New start.
Let’s see how this one goes.
Chapter Text
“Football tryouts. 22nd July 20xx. Anyone who’s brave enough, come to the east side football grounds at 3PM.”
Who the hell writes a tryout invitation like it’s a random call out for a backyard fight?
I raised an eyebrow as I stared at the poster taped to the notice board outside the main building. The last bell rang a while ago, and I was on my way out of school when I spotted this colourful poster. Yes, it literally looks like a ransom note. The letters were jagged and uneven, like the person who made it either ran out of patience or was trying to summon the ghost of a 90s punk zine. There was even one letter backwards, which I’m ninety percent sure was intentional.
Now, I’m not gonna lie, I have been thinking about joining the football team in the past few days. Just, you know… entertaining the idea with mild interest. Football’s always been one of my favorites. Right after tennis. (Which I’ve already joined. And also, the uniforms are nicer.)
But still, the idea’s been floating in the back of my mind. Drixton Hall’s got a decent football team, as I heard. Could be fun. It could also be an academic death trap, but hey! Life’s a gamble.
Anyway, I haven’t officially written my name down yet .
I'll sleep on it a bit more. I added a mental note to myself and was going to step away;
“Carlos.”
Sheesh. I nearly jumped out of my skin.
I took one glance over my shoulder, and Pierre was there, standing right behind me like I manifested him just by wondering who wrote this kidnapping poster for tryouts... His face was serious. Like he’s about to corner me into giving up my lunch money or something.
“You. Are. Coming,” he says.
Wait, is he really gonna kidnap me? Like for real?
I blinked. And asked slowly. “Okay… to where?”
“Football tryouts, of course,” Pierre says, and slammed his hand on the poster over my shoulder and now we’re in this awkward position where I’m face to face with his grinning face and his hand trapping me against the notice board.. “You play, right? You got the legs.”
I quickly looked down at my legs. Uh, if you watched us from somewhere, this definitely would look suspicious, considering the way we were standing now. “What about legs?”
“Like you stand on business. Firm.”
God... I could literally feel my eyebrows twitching. “…and how is that relevant to football trials again?”
Pierre’s face changed like he thought I asked the dumbest, most obvious question in his whole entire life. “Because football is no bullshit! We stand on business!” He’s still too close to my personal preference. Okay? But can you not scream in my face, please?
I glanced past him, wondering if anyone else was witnessing this full-on declaration of war against my personal space and right to walk away.
That’s when I heard footsteps behind Pierre, approaching. Followed by a voice I knew too well. Calm. Familiar. Way too smooth.
“Ah there you are. I was wondering where you disappeared to while I was packing up.” Yep, Charles. I mean, these two are always glued together.
He appears out of nowhere, strolling into the scene smoothly. Lollipop in his mouth like it’s a goddamn cigar. Loose-hipped walk, hair a bit too perfect, sleeves rolled to the elbows like he’s here to negotiate a mafia ceasefire instead of interrupting Pierre’s weird recruitment tactics.
Then he leaned casually over Pierre’s shoulder and slung an arm around him, pulling him away from my personal space a bit. Phew, thanks I guess? The lollipop clicked once against his teeth before he shifted it and exhaled like he was bored with whatever just folding out here. Can he just stop being cool? like for once?
From the outside, i t probably looked like they’re both cornering me. Me, flat against the noticeboard. Them, right in front. Charles radiating his I’m-the-main-character aura. Pierre still blocking my only exit like a human barricade. Not cool, bro. Not cool at all.
“Now, Charles. This is an important recruitment. Let me work my charm on Sainz,” Pierre said, completely unfazed by the arm across his shoulders or the fact that he was basically committing a war crime against my personal space.
Charm? On me? Please. What charm? I’d rather lick the ransom-poster glue than be “charmed” by a Pierre.
Charles looked between us. “Football?”
Pierre rolled his eyes. “No, debutante ball. Of course, football, idiot.”
Hold up. Did… did Pierre just call Charles an idiot? Out loud? ...Bold move. My eyes flicked to the Monegasque to see if lightning would strike him down. Nope. He just shifted his lollipop to the other side of his mouth and gave me a once-over. Casual. Completely ignoring Pierre. Okayyy checking me out, huh?
I narrowed my eyes. “I was already thinking about it, you know. You don’t need to charm me into it.” Not that he can, anyways.
Charles raised an eyebrow at that, took the lollipop out like he was flicking ash off a cigarette. “Voluntarily?”
What is he, allergic to full sentences? Just one-word interrogation mode? I pulled a face instead of answering. Just because. Not gonna be too easy now.
“Position?” Another one. Jesus.
Ok, maybe I'll just answer. “…Midfield. Sometimes left wing.”
He nodded slowly, gaze still pinned on me. “What else do you play?”
Wait. Wait a second. Are we having a real conversation? Like… me and Charles? Because, newsflash, we don’t do that. We don’t talk. Not like that I mean. It’s always just… groups. Passing support comments. Nothing direct. And yet here we were. I opened my mouth to answer, but got interrupted by this french guy next to him.
Pierre turned to give him a look. “Charles.”
“What?” Charles shrugged, slipping the lollipop back in with a smirk. “I’m the one recruiting here."
Pierre shook his head. “Don’t mind him. He’s just here to be an evil bastard, trying to undermine football because he sucks at it.”
I blinked between them. “You don’t play football?” Honestly, I thought he did. I mean, look at him. Charles looks like someone who should play sports. He doesn’t give off loser-T-energy who completely sucks at sports like Lando or Oscar. He definitely passes the vibe check for athletic.
Pierre snorted. “Charles? Play football? Please.”
Charles sighed, clearly used to this routine. “I don’t bother myself with kicking a ball in the mud.”
Pierre grinned. “Yeah. But you like getting hit in the face with one.”
“It was one time.”
“Twice.”
Charles just shifted his lollipop to the other side of his mouth, dodging accountability. “Besides, I have other commitments. I don’t have time to chase a ball with a bunch of sweaty guys.”
…Okay. Maybe I’ve been overestimating the whole “cool kids” aura, because right now they just sound like a couple of clowns.
Then Charles turned back to me, he's obviously still annoyed with Pierre. “You should reconsider joining too. How about an individual sport like—”
But Pierre cut him off, stepping in like a bouncer. “Whoa, whoa! He’s my find. I’m recruiting. Don’t even think about poaching him for your prestigious sword fighting.”
Prestigious what now? Excuse me? You can’t just drop that and expect me to move on. Charles actually looked annoyed, which made me about ten times more curious.
And because I can't survive with unquenched curiosity, I asked, “What’s prestigious sword fighting?”
Before Charles could answer, Pierre jumped in, smirking. “Sword Art Online-pfft-hahahaha-CHOKE-”
His laugh cut off in a choke as Charles casually tightened the arm still slung around his shoulders, dragging him into a headlock.
“Fencing,” Charles said, in a completely calm voice, while Pierre flailed and wheezed like he was being strangled to death.
And I don’t know why, but I suddenly felt like I’d been given a glimpse of something I wasn’t supposed to see. Not the fencing. Not even the ridiculous lollipop–cigar act Charles had going on. It was the way he stood there with Pierre. The ease. The shorthand in their teasing, like they’d been doing this for years. It was theirs, this whole messy, loud, effortless comfort.
And me? I just started to wonder.
The thing is, that’s the kind of world I’ve always wanted to be part of. The kind of group I always pictured myself in: loud, chaotic, no rules. Where you can lean on each other or choke each other out in the middle of a hallway, and no one questions it. That kind of easy, automatic belonging.
But moving schools so many times. Yeah, that burned a hole in that dream. You lose the years it takes to build that kind of familiarity, that shorthand. By the time I settle in somewhere, it’s already too late. They take time. And time is the one thing I never seem to have enough of. And even at Drixton Hall, I only have 1 and a half years left with all of them...
Still, I couldn’t help thinking… yeah. This? This was the vibe. The squad. The type of friends I’d actually belong with. Not that I’d ever admit it out loud. Because nothing screams “please adopt me” like telling the cool kids you want to be their chaotic third wheel.
I stared at Charles and continued. “Like… white suits and helmets? With the long thin swords?”
“Yep.”
I blink. “Is that a thing here?”
Pierre managed to wheeze out, “Fancy uniforms and loads of French words.” He finally wriggled out of the chokehold, though Charles kept an arm lazily hooked around his neck, like even that was routine. “But perfectly suitable for this petit monsieur whose middle name is Perceval—ahaha!”
And then Pierre bolted. Charles froze, stunned, like the air had short–circuited around him. But then he recalibrated fast. Real fast.
“I told you not to say it in public!” he yelled, taking off after Pierre.
And in the middle of it, right as Pierre darted past the lockers. I swear I saw it. Just the briefest flash of a smile tugging at Charles’s mouth. Not annoyed, not furious. More like… entertained. Like even when Pierre was blowing up his secrets, Charles wasn’t really that mad.
That smile stuck in my head.
I just stood there, back against the notice board, trying to catch my breath and process the absolute whiplash.
Perceval?
His middle name is Perceval?
I felt a smirk tugging at my lips before I could stop it. Lord. Perceval. The possibilities were endless. Nicknames. Mock titles. Now I can finally replace WSG with Lord Pervecal.
Pierre’s laughter echoed as he sprinted toward the back exit, yelling over his shoulder, “Sainz! Come to the tryouts! I’ll buy you your favorite snack for a whole week, I swear!”
Then he vaulted a fence with the grace of an escaped zoo animal, Charles hot on his heels. A distant scream followed. Yeah, I’d put money on Charles catching him.
And me? I was left in the hallway alone, still smirking, still replaying it in my head. I can't wait until the next time Charles walks into class, bow low, and whisper, “At your service, Lord Perceval.” Probably would not do that. We're not that close... yet.
Tempting. Very tempting though.
Notes:
Hope you enjoyed! leave a comment pls XD
Chapter 8: Lando, and...?
Notes:
Read to the end to see the Chapter Epilogue!
Since the story is in Carlos' POV, Epilogues are for those scenes Carlos does not know about. General narration and mostly would surround events with Charles or others.
Chapter Text
Lando starts hanging around me more.
Not in a creepy “I’ll be watching you” kind of way. He’s always been around. Always at lunch breaks, usually a few steps behind Alex with a gaming console in one hand and a half-eaten Kinder Joy in the other. (Yes, in both hands. Don’t ask me how.)
But lately it’s been different. Now he sits next to me at lunch. Steals my fries like it's his own. He's like someone who thinks speaking in a British accent makes everything charming. News flash: it doesn’t.
Now he makes weird offhand comments about life, death, and whether Yuki’s turtles can get jet lag. (That’s how I know Yuki has pet turtles.)
He’s not exactly the type of friend I usually hang out with. Too loud. Too energetic. Too... Lando.
But I don’t mind.
He’s funny in the way other people’s suffering is funny. His notes look like someone sneezed on to paper. He hums like a blender on high speed when concentrating. And one time, I caught him asking Siri, out loud , how to boil an egg. I just sigh and move on.
But he’s got a good heart. I can give him that. If I asked him to wait for me in the middle of a desert, he would. Loyal in a way that makes you want to double-check if you deserve it. Me? Probably not.
Still, without meaning to, I started watching out for him. Making sure he doesn’t walk into traffic or eat something poisonous because it “smelled nice.” Or emotionally get wrecked after watching a bird eat a snail. (Yes. That happened. No, I don’t want to talk about it.)
He’s like the little brother I never had, but would now have to defend in a court of law because he sucks at not running into trouble. I kinda took him under my wing.
We started doing homework together after practices. Swapping playlists on Spotify. Tried teaching him some Spanish like a real man, but failed. I’m not sure if it’s because he’s not a real man or just dumb.
So yeah. I like Lando. He’s like someone who will always be there for me.
Which is honestly a little terrifying. Because now I have to keep him alive.
But still.
Still…
Even in class, when I should be focused on Machiavelli’s twisted little ethics manifesto or whatever philosophical nonsense Mr. Miller is currently mumbling through like an underpaid audiobook narrator, my eyes… wander.
Not far.
Just slightly left. One seat over.
Window seat.
He’s there.
Charles.
Head tilted, pen spinning between his fingers like he’s auditioning for the Fidget Olympics. One ankle crossed over his knee. Scribbling in his notebook, obviously not class notes, definitely not, (but he’ll still probably ace the quiz). Always in his own little bubble.
And I shouldn’t care.
But apparently, my brain didn’t get the memo. That stupid thing just drifts toward him like a moth to a French flame. For God’s sake. I’d love to know why. But nope. No explanation. It just… happens.
And that’s when I started to notice. The little things.
I notice the way he chews the inside of his cheek when he’s thinking too hard. I notice the soft, muttered jokes to Pierre, the ones they try to pretend like they’re in a secret comedy club or something. I notice when he shows up with damp hair, smelling faintly like expensive shampoo and fresh morning.
Worst of all, I notice when he doesn’t show up. And suddenly the whole day feels off. Like school downgraded from “mildly tolerable” to “gray, soulless wasteland.”
So yeah, it bugs me.
Not in a weird “write his name in my diary” way. (Probably. Okay, maybe once. But I ripped the page out immediately and- fine, I may have chewed on it a little. Don’t ask. Moving on.)
It’s more like… if school is some dull black-and-white movie, he’s the one character in color. Just enough to make things less boring.
So now, every time I walk into a room, my eyes do this automatic sweep. Cafeteria, corridor, PE warm-ups, doesn’t matter where. Even when I’m in mid-conversation with Alex or Lando, there’s always that dumb little voice in my head whispering: Where is he? Is he here? Oh, wait, nope. Just some other kid with similar hair. Stand down, everybody. False alarm.
Always looking for him.
And it’s not like this grand, dramatic obsession or anything. It’s just… natural. Like blinking. Or breathing. Or regretting life choices every time I let Lando “help” with homework.
The weirdest part is even when I know for a fact he’s not there, like the day he was out sick- I still catch myself scanning the room. Just in case. Like maybe he’ll magically stroll in late, half-apologetic, like some plot twist nobody saw coming.
Because honestly the whole shenanigans we ran into in the first couple of weeks, the universe screwed with my senses. The guy shows up in the most random, inconvenient corners of this school like it’s a running gag. Turn a corner, boom: Charles. Need to study peacefully at the library corner? Guess who’s already there, leaning like a badly staged magazine ad. Honestly, it’s starting to feel less like a coincidence and more like I’m trapped in a poorly written sitcom.
So yeah. Part of me, stupidly, shamelessly, still believes that sh*t.
Half the time, I don’t even realize I’m doing it until my eyes land on him. And when they do, there’s this flicker. This weird little calm. Like, oh. There he is .
And when he’s not there?
Well. Everything feels just a little duller.
We don’t even talk. Not properly, anyway. Not like an actual conversation with words that actually go both ways. But somehow…I know he knows. Call it instinct. Spanish instinct. (Yeah, that’s a thing now. Trademark pending.) And I’m pretty sure he knows that I know, which means we’re basically living in this bizarre little limbo.
Sometimes I wish the whole thing would just disappear. Like poof. Gone. Congratulations, Carlos, you’re cured. But no. Instead, I’ve got absolutely zero control over it. None. Nada. Zilch. Which is so fun. Love that for me. It’s like being trapped in my own secret soap opera, except instead of dramatic monologues and violins, it’s just me side-eyeing Charles across the cafeteria like an idiot.
So yeah. A little secret game only the two of us seem to know about… except it’s not a game, it’s just me being hopeless, and him probably not even caring.
Lando slams his locker shut beside mine like he’s trying to wake the dead.
“Wanna go to town later?” he says, already wriggling his eyebrows. “I heard there’s a pop-up thing near the bookstore. Free stuff.”
I squint at him. “Is it food?”
“Probably not.”
“Then why are we going?” I mean, a valid question.
He flashes me that overly suspicious grin. “Vibes.”
Yeah. RIght. Like I ever get his ‘vibes’.
So naturally, I roll my eyes. “Fine. Let me survive math class first without flinging myself into a pit.”
We start walking. He launches into one of his signature rambles. Something about a movie he only half-watched, or a guy in our class who maybe definitely dyed his eyebrows green. Possibly both. At the same time.
I’m listening. I swear. Mostly. Like, a solid 62%. Enough to get the gist of it, if asked a question.
“Ah fckkkk I forgot my wallet. Be right back, stay here dude!” Lando bolted back to class before I could react. Well, now I look like some out-of-place donkey, stuck in the middle of the corridor. I ran my hand through my hair. Tsk…
But then- I caught a flicker of movement.
Navy polo shirt. Fencing suit unzipped and dangling around his hips. Duffel bag slung across his body like it’s not sports gear but an accessory straight out of some prep-school catalogue. Charles, hair tousled by the breeze in that obnoxiously cinematic way, was walking in my direction. Someone calls his name- he nods, polite but already three steps ahead, like he’s living on a slightly different timeline than the rest of us.
My eyes track him automatically.
Just for a second. Or two.
And then- he caught my eyes. Dead on.
I froze. One of those weird, hyper-aware moments where time doesn’t actually slow down, but your brain decides to make it feel like it does. Like the universe hits pause just to mess with you. And then just as fast- it’s gone. He looked away and broke into a jog.
“Carlos.”
Lando’s voice snapped me out of whatever I was doing.
I blink. “Huh?”
“Let’s go. I got my wallet.”
Right. Yes. Normal hallway activities. Nothing suspicious was happening there.
“Wait... was that Charles who just jogged past?”
“Yeah, I think so. Why?” I keep my voice casual, my eyes definitely not darting in the direction Charles disappeared. Totally nonchalant. Professional level.
“Oh shoot! I forgot to wish him luck!”
“For what?”
Lando looks at me like I’ve just admitted I don’t know who Beyoncé is. “Dude. Are you living under a rock? It’s match day! Fencing practice match against St. Marriott's!”
He says it like I should instantly know this Very Important Event. Very important note: I don’t care.
Actually, I am now, because apparently, whatever Charles is doing, other people do know. But me on the outside: Non-cha-lant.
“...So I should know that?”
“YESSS.” Lando flings his hands around dramatically.
I steal one last glance down the corridor, but Charles is long gone. Just air where he was.
Lando kept on rambling. “I bet Max wins again. He’s terrifying, dude. Oh, but don’t tell him I said that. He’ll kill me.” He lets out a nervous laugh.
As if I even know this Max dude enough to have that conversation. Please. I haven’t even managed a proper conversation with Charles yet, and he literally sits next to me in class. If I remember correctly, Max is that dirty blonde hair, intense looking guy? Alright, so he also does fencing. Interesting. But I don’t need to care about some rando now.
“Forget about that. So where are we going?”
I just wanted to eject myself from the Charles-shaped chaos cloud in my head.
“Yeah! Let me lead the way, bruuuhh!” Lando beams and slings an arm over my shoulder, half-dragging me along.
And I let him. Because, as I said before, he’s safe.
Epilogue
Charles was running late.
The corridors of Drixton Hall stretched long and regal, their Victorian arches echoing with his hurried steps. His fencing suit hung loose around his hips, the weight of his gear bag bouncing against his shoulder with every stride. He could already feel the tension weighing down on him, a reminder that St. Marriott's Academy; Drixton’s sworn rivals, were waiting.
“Slay ‘em, Leclerc!” a senior called as Charles rushed past. Everybody at Drixton Hall knows whenever there’s a match against St.Marriott's, it’s war. Specifically fencing, as they’re the reigning regional champions. And the current champion is Max. So naturally, even though it’s a practice match, St.Marriott's team is here to beat Max. And Charles? He’s here to beat both.
He managed a quick smile, polite but distracted, before pushing forward. That was when his pace faltered.
Halfway down the corridor, framed by the tall glass windows and their fractured golden light, a familiar figure appeared.
Carlos.
For the briefest second, their eyes locked- those dark brown eyes meeting his in passing, as if the world had slowed just enough to let it happen.
Charles blinked, a question flickering in his chest before he shook it away. Him again?
He picked up speed, forcing himself into a jog, the sound of his sneakers slapping against polished floors. Lately, he couldn’t help but notice it. Carlos, that new transfer student in his class, is showing up in places where he never used to. A glance across the library. A silhouette near the quad. A voice next to his desk. A face in the crowd that he recognizes when he least expected it.
Once, he was just someone in the background, an extra.
Now, too many encounters to ignore.
Charles shook his head, dismissing the thought as he shoved the gym doors open. The air inside was sharp with adrenaline and sweat, the scrape of foils ringing like a starting bell.
He tightened his grip on his bag strap, jaw set. Whatever that moment in the corridor was, it could wait.
Because now...
It was game on.
Chapter 9: Football Practice Match
Chapter Text
It’s football practice match day.
The most-awaited football practice match day. (According to Pierre. And if you’ve ever met Pierre, you’d know that means he’s been talking about it non-stop for the last seventy-two hours like a human airhorn.)
Did I ever mention that Drixton Hall turns into a full-blown rabid hellhole whenever St. Marriott’s is involved? No? Well, it does. I get the whole private-school-vs-Elite-school “battle for bragging rights” thing, but this feels less like a match and more like two medieval kingdoms fighting over who gets to sit on the Iron Throne. Talk about pressure.
Even though the kickoff wasn’t until 4 p.m., the stadium was already half full. Half full. For a “practice” match. Like, calm down, dudes, it’s not the Champions League final.
“THIS IS NOT JUST A PRACTICE! THIS IS WAR!” Pierre screamed, two feet away from my ear. My left eardrum just gave up on life.
I’ve been at Drixton for about a month now, so at least I've memorized most of the team’s names. (Hopefully.) I’ve retied my boots three times already and mentally reviewed our set pieces twice because honestly? I really, really don’t want to be the guy who makes the wrong pass and gets sacrificed to the metaphorical starving lions or whatever dramatic punishment these kids have cooked up for losing to their sworn rivals. I’d like to keep my reputation as “the new guy who hasn’t embarrassed himself yet.”
So yeah, I was ready.
...Until I wasn’t.
Because just before kickoff, someone shouted my name from the bleachers. Loud. Cheerful. Too familiar. Oh no...
And I already know who it is.
I glanced up, expecting Lando (because of course it’s Lando). Sure enough, there he was, bouncing like he’s auditioning for a human pogo stick competition. Beside him is Alex, mid-conversation with someone behind him, and then George appeared like some rare Pokémon.
But guess who my eyes landed on?
Stepping into view behind them is Charles.
…Why is he here?
Oh. Right. He’s here for Pierre. Duh. Of course. For a second there, my brain betrayed me and went, oh wow, he came to watch me. Yeah. Dream on, Carlos.
Meanwhile, Lando is waving his arms so violently, I’m pretty sure even the staff at the McDonald’s across the street now know exactly where he is. I give the smallest wave possible purely so he doesn’t yell again.
Pierre, of course, notices them too. “HEYYYYY!” he bellows, directly into my ear... again, because clearly today my hearing is optional. I wince and scoot away, watching Pierre wave like a game-show contestant desperate for screen time.
But I sneaked a glance at Charles. You ask me why? Because why not?
No school blazer. Shirt sleeves pushed up to elbows. Sunglasses hanging in his shirt pocket. Hands in pockets.
But here’s the thing, he’s not looking at Pierre.
He’s not laughing at whatever stupid joke Lando just made that has Alex and George cracking up.
He’s looking at me.
Direct. Unblinking. Like he’s trying to gauge my reaction.
So, naturally, I do what any completely normal and definitely-not-flustered person would do. I looked away. Fast.
Argh. Smooth, Carlos. Real smooth. Now, why don't you dig a hole and bury yourself while you're at it?
But then, salvation.
The ref blows the whistle, signaling kickoff.
Saved by the whistle. Game on.
I shook out my hands, focused on the ball, and tried to pretend my heart wasn’t still tap-dancing in my chest like it’s auditioning for a Broadway musical.
I pushed all of it out of my head. Or at least, I tried to. Focus. Pass. Move. Talk. We're in sync early, pushing fast, controlling the tempo.
And then I did something I absolutely should not do mid-match.
I glanced up. (I couldn't help it ok? Those eyes sometimes wander. I have no control.)
And there he is. Charles.
Elbow on his knee, chin in hand, sunglasses pushed up into his hair so his eyes are fully visible now and-trained on me.
Why me?
WHY ME?
My foot connects late with the ball, and I send a pass straight into no-man’s land like a total clown.
“¡Hostia puta!” I hissed, immediately sprinting to recover.
Pierre jogged beside me, shooting me a look. “Yo. Focus, dude!”
“Yes. Sorry.” (Also, mind your business, Pierre. I'm going through an internal crisis here.)
I snapped myself back into gear. No more brain errors. We score one. Then two. I’m sharper now, mostly because if I let my mind wander even once, it drifts straight back to the third row like a GPS with only one saved location.
At one point, I got sandwiched between two defenders but somehow flicked the ball through to Pierre, who scored with the most annoying little chip imaginable.
The whole team piles on him, celebrating. I hang back, catching my breath.
And then, because apparently I don’t learn my lesson after one time and need to double-check by doing the exact same thing again. I glance up.
And yeah.
Still there. Lord Perceval.
I hear this voice in my head going, “Congratulations, you played yourself.” Shut up. I know.
But this time, I hold his gaze.
One Mississippi. Two.
Then he looked away. Finally!
YES. VICTORY.
I don’t know of what, exactly, but I won something. Probably. My brain says yes. My chest feels like it just tripped over itself.
I shake it off and jog back to my position.
Because this is fine. Whatever this is, it’s fine. Totally fine.
(Voice in the head: it was not fine.)
But all in all, we won. 3–2.
Solid match.
Coach was pleased, most of the team was already halfway into planning which café we’re raiding for milkshakes, and I’m just trying not to collapse face-first onto the grass and become part of the scenery.
I’m halfway out of my boots when I hear my name being screamed like a war cry.
“CARLOS!”
I look up just in time to get tackled by a hyperactive blur that turns out to be Lando Norris, fully charged on serotonin and bad timing.
He’s grinning like he scored all three goals. “Mate! That pass? The one where you spun and sent it through two guys’ legs? Are you joking? Do you have eyes in your arse?!”
“Get off me,” I laugh, shoving him off before he fuses himself to my sweat-soaked jersey.
“I know, I know you smell like a dead gym towel, but you were on fire!”
“Thanks?” (Compliment? Insult? Both?)
“Seriously, bro. That was—you were—” He throws his arms out like words have failed him completely, then spins to scream at Alex across the pitch. “DID YOU SEE THAT PASS?”
Alex gives a thumbs up without looking up from his phone. George is already walking away like he’s never met either of us in his life. Can’t blame him.
Lando turned back to me, beaming. “See? Legendary.”
I tried to respond. Really, I do. But then;
I glanced up. Totally casual. Totally accidental.
And yep.
He’s there.
Charles.
A few steps behind Lando, talking to Pierre now. Except he’s not really talking. Just standing next to him, nodding occasionally, hand in his pocket. Trying to look focused on whatever Pierrer is rambling about. Looking anywhere but at me.
Except when I looked again-
His gaze flicks over. Like he felt it? woah...
Quick. Just a glance.
And then away and said something to Pierre. Like nothing happened.
But it did.
Because I saw the faint lift of his eyebrow. Just that barely-there tilt that says I know you’re looking.
I go back to pretending Lando’s noise level isn’t causing my ears to implode.
“Honestly,” he’s saying, “you should ditch football and go pro in dramatic entrances. Or superhero landings. Or—what?”
I was not listening.
I sneaked another glance.
Charles was still there, still beside Pierre, but closer now. Shoulder nearly brushing Pierre’s, who’s too busy recounting his goal to notice the way Charles leans slightly, subtly, like he's tuning in to something else.
Like maybe he’s listening for me.
I wipe sweat off the back of my neck and pretend I don’t notice. Tie my laces again, even though they’re already tied. Give my hands something to do so I don’t look back again.
But I do.
Pierre claps him on the shoulder, turns to call out to someone else.
Charles murmurs something back and steps forward — just slightly — like he might actually walk over. And looks at me.
We stare one seconds. two.
But then I hear Coach calling for the team photo and Lando shouting “front row baby!” and I blink and the moment’s broken.
Charles turned. Joins Lando and the rest. I head off with the team.
But I can feel it.
That slow gravitational pull. Whatever this is.
He’s not done. And neither am I.
Epilogue
Charles was curious.
At first, it had been nothing- pure coincidence, a few run-ins he barely registered. The new transfer student hadn’t made much of an impression on him. Odd, sure, transferring in the middle of the year, but hardly the stuff worth a second thought.
And yet, Carlos kept showing up.
In the places Charles thought of as his quiet corners of the school, he didn’t share with anyone, little pockets of space he kept for himself. And there he was. Again and again. At first Charles dismissed it, but eventually the feeling became harder to ignore.
There was something about his presence. Like a quiet pull?. He did not know.
Charles didn’t go looking for him, not really. But when he stepped into a room, Carlos was there.
At the football match, Charles had gone for Pierre, his childhood friend, his reason for cheering from the stands. But somehow, Carlos had slipped into the frame. Into their conversations. Into his line of sight.
He glanced over once-caught Carlos, already watching him.
Direct, aren’t you? Charles thought, a smirk ghosting at the edge of his mouth. It felt like Carlos was challenging him to something invisible, a duel no one else could see.
And strangely, it thrilled him.
Maybe because no one else knew. Because this—whatever this was—felt like something that belonged only to them.
He found himself watching the whole match. Studying the way Carlos moved—sharp, fast, fluid. Athletic, Charles decided. Maybe good at more than just football.
After the final whistle, he went to congratulate Pierre as he always did, but his eyes still strayed. He caught sight of Lando throwing himself at Carlos in a playful tackle, heard their laughter—and felt something sharp and small twist in his chest.
Annoyance. He scooted a bit closer towards Carlos' way, just trying to hear what Lando was so happy about. But then he caught his eyes again. One, two seconds. He holds that gaze. Until the moments broken bby the loud shout by the coach.
It didn’t matter. They hadn’t even had a proper conversation yet.
Still, as he walked off the pitch, a small smile tugged at his lips.
Curiosity, then.
And curiosity was always worth following.
sainrris on Chapter 1 Fri 04 Jul 2025 09:53PM UTC
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