#anyway! pierre is gonna wake up in the middle of the night to charles rubbing off on him til he wakes up. and theyre gonna fuck.

[hourcat]

🎁🎈✨

The Alpine shoot goes later than he’d anticipated.

Which—Pierre knows it’s part of the job, and part of the best job in the world, at that, so there’s no real grounds for complaining. But it’s his birthday. He’d been hoping to ring in 27 in a quieter manner, or at least one that had him home before the sun has set entirely. When he pulls into the parking garage of his apartment complex, it’s pitch black out.

There have been worse birthdays, he figures, fishing for his keys in his pocket. It’s not Red Bull. With a quiet chuckle to himself, he successfully unlocks his front door and slips inside, clicking it shut with a flood of relief at finally, finally being able to call it a night.

Well. He was going to call it a night, anyway, before the backpack tossed haphazardly on his couch catches his eye. It looks familiar.

It’s not his.

A little smile curves up his mouth at the realization. “Charlo,” he calls, voice carrying through his dark apartment. There’s no point of lights, now—he can strip in the dark. It’ll save him a little money on the forthcoming bill, anyway. No one answers his call. “Charles.” The spare key is sitting on the coffee table, which means his best friend must have let himself in, but the lack of response has him confused. Charles is terrible at surprises, but he’s good at committing to the bit when it comes to trying to scare Pierre by jumping out from behind various large household decorative objects. He’s walked by at least three pieces of furniture big enough to hide a Charles behind.

But when he shuffles through his hallway to the bedroom, the reason makes itself apparent. There’s his Charles—asleep, drooling and all, in his bed, tucked under the comforter like it’s his place. Something warm and fond pulses with life in Pierre’s chest.

Yeah, he’s definitely had worse birthdays.

“Charlot,” Pierre murmurs as he crosses his room, kneeing up onto the bed and wiggling his shoes off. At this distance, he finally gets a response—Charles startles awake, eyes wide, face frozen in shock as he looks around. When he locks onto Pierre, though, he settles back into his usual self: sleepy, pleased, fond.

“Joyeux anniversaire, mon amour,” he murmurs, reaching over to cradle Pierre’s face in his hand. He’s warm—he must’ve been asleep here for a while, Pierre figures. “You are so old now.” He wrinkles his nose as he says it, like being cute will excuse him for being an ass.

Like always, it does. “So mean on my special day,” he responds, dramatizing a pout as he rests his own hand on top of Charles’. He gets an eye roll in response. “I come home to you asleep in my bed, Goldilocks. Is this meant to be my gift?” At the words, Charles’ face heats up all at once. It’s so sudden that Pierre thinks, for a second, he’s having a hot flash. The heat on his cheeks is so strong that Pierre can feel it here, not even touching him there. He raises an eyebrow. “Charles.”

Charles withdraws his hand from Pierre’s cheek to smash it back into his own face, hiding behind both hands as he muffles some kind of noise. “Pierre,” he whines, and the sound is both endearing and intriguing. “I did not think you would take so long with Alpine this evening—” he cuts himself off and instead, with a hand he peels from his blush-burned face, reaches to the edge of the comforter and throws it off.

Pierre is…transfixed. There’s a red ribbon, Ferrari print across the back, tied delicately around Charles’ hips, low so that it should cover his cock. Or, it should, anyway—sleep must’ve rustled the job he’d done, because the bow is off center, now, and Pierre has perfect view of his Charles, bare naked and flush with embarrassment. Like he can salvage it, Charles lifts his knees up to try and hide himself.

“This…” Pierre manages, still gathering eyeful after eyeful of Charles before him, “was my gift?” An affirmative whine comes from behind the hand-shield his best friend has put back up over his face. He doesn’t seem to bother to try and fix the ribbon. (Pierre doesn’t want him to.) “Cha, you should have texted me you were coming over.”

“Wanted to surprise you,” comes Charles’ muffled reply. “But your bed is so warm, Pierrot, and I had a long day too, and—” he shakes his head. “S’posed to unwrap your gift.”

Pierre chuckles. “Charles, I am definitely surprised. You succeeded.”

But Charles just whines again, although at least now his hands fall away so Pierre can drink in the embarrassed, blushing expression all over his face. “I wanted it to be a sexy surprise,” he laments, and then flops his arms back onto the bed. “Not like this.”

“I don’t know,” the Frenchman murmurs, “this is pretty sexy.” He slips a hand over Charles’ thigh and tugs at the ribbon, pointedly allowing his fingers to trail against his lover’s now-soft cock. He gets another, meeker noise at the contact. “Mmm, may be the best wrapped gift I have ever gotten.”

“Stop,” Charles grumbles, but there’s a little smile on his face, now. “I thought I did a pretty good job on your present last year.” But he squirms a little more against Pierre’s unmoving hand, another breathy sound slipping from him. “Pear.”

He chuckles. “What,” he says. The hand at Charles’ ribboned crotch hasn’t shifted.

“Wanna sleep,” the Monegasque whispers, although there’s a crack in his voice that leaves the door just open enough to continue forward. They could do this tonight—Pierre could unwrap him like the present he’d meant to be, Charles at his most pliant here in this not-quite-awake state of being, offered up to Pierre the way he does every morning they get to spend together. Mine, Pierre gets to say as he fucks his lover awake, you are mine, like they’re meant to do this forever.

But if Pierre is being honest, he’s more tired than he is horny right now. “Yeah,” he echoes at that same soft volume, finally withdrawing his hand only for Charles to make a little disappointed noise. “I’m old now, remember.”

At that, Charles barks a laugh. “Come on,” he giggles, but scoots over in bed just enough for Pierre to slide in beside him once he’s peeled away his shirt. He’s still in his linen pants, but—they function well enough as sleep pants, anyway. The bed is too warm, and more importantly, Charles is too warm. There’s no resisting this.

“We can make my birthday tomorrow,” he murmurs, pressing a delicate kiss to the apple of Charles’ cheek that’s not smashed into the pillows. “I would like to unwrap my present, after all.”

Charles grumbles goodnaturedly. “Everyone else in the world gets one day of birthday,” he hums, “but Pierre Gasly gets two.”

“I do,” Pierre answers simply.

“How is that fair?”

“Because.” Pierre doesn’t elaborate, just kisses him again, effectively silencing whatever half-awake protest he’d been about to toss. Charles goes with it easily, kisses him sweetly and slowly and sleepily. His day really must have been long. Normally, this is where he ramps things up.

“Mmmm, in the morning then,” Charles murmurs. “First thing, Pierrot.”

“First thing, calamar,” he echoes, voice as serious as it can be for a sleepy whisper conversation after 11pm. “I will not wait a moment.”

Charles shakes his head. Their noses bump clumsily. A laugh, soft and quiet, echoes between them. “Wake me with it,” Charles whispers after a moment, and fuck. Why does he always have to do that. Pierre hisses a low sound, tugs his lover closer under the clumsily-pulled-up sheets.

“There you go again, Cha, being so mean to me on my birthday.” Charles cracks an eye open to look at him, confused. “You say you want me to fuck you awake while we are trying to go to sleep.” He shrugs. “Like I—you—” he huffs. “You are going to be the death of me, Charles Leclerc.”

Pierre gets a pleased little sound in return before Charles speaks once more, voice muffled from how his face is now pressed right into Pierre’s shoulder. “Happy birthday, mon petit. Now go to sleep.”