Swerve | 𝑷.𝑮.

Part 12

Italics is French

Francesca awoke the next morning to the feeling of cold water being tipped over her face and the bright sunlight shining into her eyes.

She plastered her eyelids open briefly to see the grinning face of a man who looked very proud of himself in stood in front of her looking as though he too had just woken up before she closed her eyes again and hid her face back into the chest of who she could only guess was Pierre Gasly.

The Frenchman gave a groan, arms lifting from Francesca's body to rub the sleep out of his eyes and shield them from the incoming light.

Charles' laughter echoed throughout the apartment.

"I'm so glad that your proud of yourself, Charles." Pierre mutters.

"Considering that no one else is." Francesca adds with a muffled voice.

They both got another cup of water to the face.

Pierre spluttered and coughed as Charles continued to cackle proudly to himself whilst Francesca gave into her fate. She jumped up and that was when Charles' laughter immediately ceased as he placed down the cups he'd been holding and sprinted away from Francesca, screaming loudly.

Francesca felt for her French friends neighbours.

Although, they were probably used to the chaos by now. And if they weren't, then that's their own fault.

The British woman managed to clasp Charles' shirt and drag him into the bathroom, throwing him into the shower which she then turned on, leaning back against the glass door to hold the Monegasque inside, stuck underneath the water, fully clothed.

"FRAN!" Charles groans.

"THAT'S WHAT YOU GET!" Pierre shouts from the living room. "YOU LITTLE SHIT!"

Finally letting Charles out when he decided to start slamming his bodyweight into the glass door, Francesca sighed as she brushed the wet hair from her face and used the sleeve of Pierre's now soaked hoodie to wipe the water from her skin before she pulled it off and hung it over the back of the chair Charles had slept in to try and dry it out.

Pierre was still laid out on the sofa, phone in hand, not bothering to change out of his wet shirt purely because he couldn't be bothered.

Clothes now soaked more than Pierre and Francesca's were, Charles raided the drawers of his best friend to change into something dry. Grumbling the entire time in French to himself.

"Don't get all moody because you can't take what you give, Charles!" Francesca calls out.

Pierre could only smirk in her direction before Francesca walked towards him and bumped her fist with his when he held it out. She made her way into the kitchen as Charles re-emerged from Pierre's bedroom, shooting her a playful glare which received Francesca's middle finger in return.

Pierre, now bored of sitting in his wet t-shirt and having made his instagram likes for the moment, clambered off of the sofa. Although, he decided to put Charles in a headlock before moving to the bedroom and held the Leclerc man like that for a few seconds before continuing on his way.

Charles fell down into the chair he'd slept in, rubbing the back of his neck from Pierre's grip.

"Coffee?" Francesca questions loudly.

"Please." Charles replied, shooting a look over his shoulder to the smiling woman.

"And me!" Pierre shouts from the bedroom.

"No!" Francesca shouts back.

"No more movie marathons then!"

"Fuck you, you baguette!"