Chapter Text
The roar of the crowd still rings distantly in his ears hours later. Not even the heavy thrums of bass and the clamour of voices surrounding him can diminish the memory of it, of their cheers. A grand chelem, that’s what Australia has given him. Not even in his wildest dreams could he have ever imagined the weekend unfolding so perfectly. It’s certainly too early to feel confident in his chances of a world championship, but for the first time since being signed to Sauber and becoming a Formula 1 driver, Charles feels some semblance of hope.
It’s the reason why he’s now found himself in this club even if he has to be awake at the slimmest hours of the morning to catch his flight. Although, the high from the grand slam isn’t entirely accountable. The man opposite him, equally drunk and high on a points finish, has some responsibility. Charles has never been able to deny Pierre’s cajoling, not even at his most exhausted or when the SF1000 was dragging him by the hair through the mud. It works again tonight when Charles is supposed to be at some fancy private bar hired out by Ferrari. He’d lasted a solid - maybe respectable, but he's unsure Mattia would say the same - hour before he answered the Frenchman’s phone call and was persuaded (bullied) to leave the stuffy event and join his best friend five minutes down the road at an exclusive club in Melbourne’s CBD.
Truthfully, it was a good decision. In his eyes, celebrating doesn’t include batting his eyelashes at wealthy businessmen with the intention of encouraging them to up their sponsorships. No, celebrating was being pressed against sweaty bodies writhing around to an unidentifiable dance track double fisting two unfathomably strong margaritas and praying that the hangover tomorrow won’t mess him up as much as he’s expecting it to. Plus, both he and Pierre have always considered a celebration without the other at their side as inadequate.
They’re taking a break from the crowds in one of the overpriced VIP booths some wealthy Aussie fan likely invited them to. Pierre is sat close to him, too close according to what he’s seen some people on the internet say before. But the Frenchman - and the French in general, truthfully - has always been easily tactile and Charles has never felt more comfortable than with Pierre’s hand on his shoulder, his bicep, his lower arm. One of those hands is currently resting in the middle of his back in a way that keeps Charles’ body twisted towards him. Their faces are close together - a consequence of the surrounding loudness - and Pierre is shouting into his ear in a way that has warm breath fanning across the side of his head. He’s barely listening to the words. Instead, he’s hyper-focused on the tanned and toned expanses of the older man’s arms. Pierre’s always tanned easier than him and it seems that the winter break jet setting across the world and races in the Middle East and now Australia have favoured his complexion compared to the fair stretches of his own skin. Charles knows he should stop staring, should probably listen to whatever the Frenchman is rattling on about, but his eyes continue to fan over what feels like miles of brown skin and sinewy muscle. Anyway, it can hardly be considered a surprise that he’s finding himself entranced by the other man, especially since Pierre and his trainer had seemingly gone through some hardcore training boot camp over the break. Now, the scrawny boy he’d known as a child is a figure of pure muscle and sleek strength and Charles can’t help but be drawn to it (he ignores the fact that he’d been staring even before all the muscle).
Pierre pulls away the minute he's finished his lengthy monologue, blue eyes wide and expectant and probably expecting some morsel of an answer from Charles but all he can do is stare at him. He imagines he must look a bit silly, mouth gaped and face blank, but hopes the Frenchman connects his lack of response to the long line of cocktails and shots they've been consuming throughout the evening.
"Charles?" Pierre prods, straining his voice to be heard over the heavy bass, "Did you even hear what I said?"
"No," is the truthful reply.
Pierre throws his head back with a laugh, exposing the long line of his throat, somehow equally as tanned as the rest of him. Charles thinks he might like to touch it. He stamps the thought down like all the rest of them, blaming it on the number of empty glasses scattered across the table. Pierre remains seemingly unaware of his inner turmoil, laugh fading into a toothy grin and his gaze returning back to the Monegasque. Charles tries not to fidget noticeably under the intensity of it, "It's too loud in here, non?"
"I like it," he contends, almost petulant.
"Of course you do," there's barely any blue left in Pierre's eyes, all black and sparkling, "Good music and stunning women, I knew you'd love it here."
Charles ignores the unsettled feeling in his stomach, his tongue is heavy and clumsy in his mouth as he contends, "And good company."
Pierre laughs again, "You charmer."
"No but I am glad you took me here," he doesn't know why he's being so earnest. Maybe it's the tequila; it's not usually his drink of choice.
Charles watches as Pierre's fingers reach out to the glass on the table before them, fingers running along the condensation on the edge of the glass and coming away wet and shining, "Yes, well I couldn't leave you at that dreary excuse of a party. That's not how you deserve to be celebrated."
"It isn't?" He's pushing it.
"No, you deserve tequila and bass and models and the company of good friends," Pierre's eyes darken and the edges of his mouth curl up into a smirk, Charles' heart stops, "And maybe a bit of fun at the end of the night."
His mouth is so dry; Pierre is so deeply attractive like this, "You think so?"
"Charlot," Pierre's head falls to the side, eyeing him up, "You know you are handsome. Anyone would be happy- non -ecstatic to go home with you."
Truthfully, Charles doesn't know whether it's the win or the grand chelem or the copious amounts of tequila or the way they're sitting so close or if he just has a sudden incredible lapse in judgement, but any of it could be an explanation for why he finds himself leaning in. He doesn't know what Pierre might be about to say because he cuts the man's words off by pressing his lips into his. It's not a good kiss by any means because Pierre is solid beneath him, hard and unmoving. In fact, he doesn't move a single inch and the realisation has the Monegasque pulling away immediately.
Charles isn't entirely sure what Pierre is thinking but he knows it can't be good by the way that the driver's first reaction is to look out to the crowd before them, anxious to see if anyone is watching. When he turns back, his expression is devastated, "Charlie-" and, oh god this can't be good because he only calls him that when he's letting him down, "Why did you do that?"
The furious heat in his cheeks implies that the younger man is blushing crimson. His tongue is thick and heavy in his mouth as he chokes on an explanation which is as dumb and obtuse as he himself is feeling, "I wanted to?"
Somehow - and Charles will never be able to scrub this image from his mind - Pierre's face falls even further. "Oh Charlie," Charles wants to claw his eyes out and tear his ears off if only to avoid this inevitable rejection, "I'm so sorry, I don't-" Pierre brings a hand to the cross that lingers in the centre of his clavicle, the same hand with the wet fingers, and threads it between his fingers, face chewing up with a clear grimace, "I don't see you that way."
"Oh. Right." Dumb. So dumb.
"I'm not really-" Charles hates how he's still talking, "I'm straight, is all."
"Of course."
What follows is an extensive beat of silence. Sure, the music around continues to blare but for all Charles can absorb, it might as well be completely and utterly silent. He can tell from the corner of his eye that Pierre is looking at him but he can't bear to meet the other man's gaze. Instead, he stares out at the crowd before him and the writhing bodies, all of them completely unaware of the way that the floor has completely collapsed from out under Charles' feet.
But seemingly he can't ignore his best friend forever as his attention is grabbed by the feeling of a hand wrapping around his wrist and he turns to meet the intense - and pained - stare of the other man.
"I really am sorry."
It doesn't help, Charles still feels sick to his stomach.
"This won't affect our friendship, though, okay?"
The unsettled feeling deep within has grown and the younger man considers for a second whether or not he's about to spout the contents of his stomach all over them both. Feeling cold and clammy, he pulls himself from Pierre's grasp, "I think I'm going to head out," he stumbles to his feet, "I'm not feeling so good."
Thankfully, the abruptness of his departure allows him to escape as he dives into the crowd beyond, ignoring the muffled sound of Pierre calling his name. He squeezes through the masses of slick sweat bodies with mad desperation as the unsettled feeling in his stomach begins to crawl its way upwards. It takes him longer than he would've liked to escape the crowd, pulling himself free from wondering hands and attempts at conversation, but even once outside of the building, the fresh air does little to help ease the heat under his skin and the crawling feeling in the back of his throat. Somehow, Charles manages to hail a taxi and gasps out his hotel's address to the disinterested-looking driver. Thankfully, the man makes no effort to communicate with him and soon enough, after shoving wads of cash into the driver's hands, he's made his way into the hotel and up to his floor.
It's a frantic dash to extract his key card from his wallet to shove it into the slot, unlocking the door with a resounding click. Charles immediately makes a beeline for the bathroom and barely flinches as he collapses to the floor, kneecaps slamming into the hard tile below him. Seemingly, he's just in time as the feeling of pure wrongness in his stomach hurtles upwards and he finds himself bent over the toilet bowl, fingers digging into the edges of the seat as he begins to cough up his lungs. Retching and hacking, Charles strains to dislodge whatever has wedged itself deep in his throat. Tears stream from his eyes and he lifts one hand from the toilet seat to claw at his neck, frantic to ease the burning sensation.
He has no idea how much time passes before he finally, with a spluttering choke, dislodges the thing from his throat and into the toilet bowl. For a while after, he remains there, head bent over and spittle running down off his lip and onto his chin. All of a sudden, he feels a wash of emotion crest over him and he sobs quietly, forehead bowing down to rest on the cool porcelain. A long time must pass as he sits there folded over the toilet, shoulders shaking and weeping softly, but Charles is hardly aware of it. An age passes before he finally feels himself calming down and he sits back onto his heels, the ache in his legs and back from hunching over on the ground making itself known. Only then, after wiping the tears and spit from his face with the sleeves of his shirt, does Charles look into the toilet.
In the water, six yellow petals bob silently.
Growing up, Charles had always heard stories of the mythical sickness.
After he manages to flush the toilet and crawl his way out of the bathroom and into the cool sheets of his bed, Charles curls up and stares at the blinding white of his phone screen. He's on Wikipedia, the obvious source of all information, scrawling through pages and pages of information and research. Maladie du Hanahaki stares up at him from the top of the screen in bold letters. Hanahaki Disease. He's never known of anyone around him suffering from the disease before - though that may be because it's often deemed a private affair - but it's not a rare condition.
Eyes flitting over the screen, most of what he already knows is fed back to him. Hanahaki Disease is a sickness of the heart, an ailment which begins with the sufferer coughing up flower petals. Often, those petals indicate the feelings of the victim and- yes -he finds what he's looking for in another tab: the yellow petals are likely from a daffodil, a flower often symbolising unrequited love. Charles almost finds it within him to laugh because, of course, his body would be so obvious. It wasn't like he was already suffering enough. A miserable finger taps its way back to the original tab and he reads further down the page to the treatment section and his eyes fall on one word: semi-curable. His fingers stiffen. There is no simple cure for Hanahaki, it reads, two remedies exist to date: (1) the victim's feelings are returned, or (2) the invasive flowers are surgically removed. Certainly, Charles knows the first option isn't feasible. He already knows Pierre's feelings for him, he'd had them spelt out tremendously clearly only a few hours ago. But the second option the Monegasque can't even bare considering. Everyone knows what the second option involves; to remove the disease is to remove the person's ability to love altogether. Never again would he be able to feel any resemblance of love, not for Pierre - because, yes, being faced with a handful of petals in his toilet is a very sufficient method of confronting him with the fact of his feelings for the man - nor anyone else. He's even heard talk of some people not being able to feel any type of love, neither platonic nor familial. In Charles' mind, that option is unbearable.
The young man's eyes fall further down the page to the section below reading, complications. There isn't much there, only a single sentence: If left untreated, the flowers will continue growing in the sufferer's lungs until they die from asphyxiation. It's plain, simple, no-nonsense. The website doesn't need to provide much more, he gets the picture. After a few months, the invasive flowers will grow and their roots and petals will multiply until they fill the lungs. Following, the sufferer will die a slow and painful death choking on their own blood. Or rather, Charles should add, he will die and slow and painful death. It's a bleak image.
Somehow, body numb, Charles' finger finds its way to the lock button on his phone and the screen turns black, descending the room into darkness. In the pitch black, the driver lies motionless and silent. He pictures all the shows and films he's seen depicting Hanahaki Disease before and tries to remember how long it lasted for all of them. Of course, none of them ever died, but he thinks it was at least six months before it got serious. It's April now and Abu Dhabi won't be until the end of November. Around seven months, he thinks, if his calculations are correct (and he didn't finish school so they might not be). Already, he's ahead in the championship, he knows that, and he thinks that he could possibly win by Suzuka. Six months could be enough; he could win a championship in that time. Then it would all be worth it, he could die - because he'd accepted that now, that he was going to die - but he could also be champion.
Charles doesn't sleep that night, of course. Instead, he stares at the blank walls of his hotel rooms, planning every second of the season out in intricate detail and ignoring the tickling feeling at the back of his throat.
When Charles meets the team in the hotel foyer only a few hours later, he knows he must look a mess. Carlos, his teammate and friend, grins at the sight.
"Ay Cabron," he reaches out to jostle the younger man's shoulder with a big, heavy hand, "Heavy night last night, I see."
It's an effort to force a smile onto his lips, but Charles just hopes it plays into his image as hungover race winner. He likes Carlos, but he has no energy to keep up with the other driver, drained and exhausted from a sleepless night and the unearthing of his terminal illness. Thankfully, despite the Spaniard's jesting, he doesn't tease the Monegasque any further. In fact, Charles thinks he might be a bit more aware than he'd give him credit for because the older man remains at his side for the entire journey to the airport, a quiet and steady presence either tapping away at his phone or staring out the window of the minibus. It's almost protective, in a strange way. All questions aimed at Charles are deflected by his teammate, answering for him with a brilliant smile and somehow remaining subtle, no one noticing the clear way he seems to be distracting everyone from the man beside him.
Carlos continues this production until they're clipped into their seats, paired together at the back of the business class cabin.
"Is everything alright?" he asks when the plane has reached its height. A flush pinkens the driver's cheeks as Charles' eyes meet his own, "I mean, you've been very quiet. And you're really pale," a slanted smile crosses his face, "Paler than usual, at least."
"Just ill," Charles offers as an explanation and thinks maybe a bit of truth will redirect the other man's attention, "I was sick a bit last night."
Carlos' face falls, "Like hangover sick?"
"Maybe," it's a half-assed reply, "I'm not really sure."
Charles supposes the drinking could be considered the reason why he was sick. After all, if he wasn't drinking, he would have never dreamed of kissing Pierre.
Almost like he's been summoned by the Monegasque's thoughts, Charles' breath catches in his throat as a familiar figure rises from a seat at the far end of the cabin. It's Pierre, of course. He knew that he was flying to Milan too and that the pair would be sharing this flight and the layover in Dubai, remembers them smiling over their matching tickets the previous night, so he can't fathom how he forgot this vital piece of information. As if he can hear the Ferrari driver's thoughts, Pierre's head swivels and Charles finds his heart stuttering in his chest as the Frenchman's eyes search the cabin. He's expecting the worst when their gazes finally meet, that Pierre will frown or his face will warp into an expression of disgust, but that doesn't happen. Instead - and, perhaps, more agonisingly - Pierre's face breaks into a smile. He lifts a hand and waves at a dumbfounded Charles almost like there isn't this unbearable tension between the two. But then, Charles thinks, maybe he doesn't remember.
It's a world-shaking realisation and the Monegasque can't quite figure out whether it's an entirely positive one. Sure, it might mean their friendship isn't totally irreparably damaged but it doesn't solve all of his problems.
At the thought of that same problem, the tickle in his throat - which had remained present, if ignorable, for the past few hours - begins to grow in intensity. Reaching a hand up to touch at the skin of his neck, Charles feels his heart skip with panic as the ticklish feeling becomes a steady burn. All too soon, the Monegasque is lurching out of his seat. He's grateful that the seatbelt signs are off as he darts into an unoccupied toilet cubicle. Like the previous night, Charles falls to his knees once more, cringing at the dampness that soaks into his cotton joggers and hunches over the toilet. The coughing begins soon after. Again, he doesn't know how long he spends there, bent over the toilet and hacking his lungs up into the bowl beneath him. With a final burning retch, his airway is cleared of the object blocking it. For an extended moment, Charles remains bent over the bowl before he finally sits back and stares into the water. The daffodils haven't appeared this time and are instead replaced by a trio of tiny purple flowers no bigger than his fingernail. As he stares at the bobbing plants, Charles almost misses the timid noise of a fist knocking against the door. Before he can panic, thinking he's prevented some desperate passengers from using the toilet, a voice calls out.
"Charles, it's me," Carlos, "Can I come in?"
The Monegasque doesn't bother to move in that direction, knowing he hadn't even been able to lock the door in his rush, instead, he reaches forward to flush the toilet and waits for the Spaniard to make a move. Unsurprisingly, the door slides open to reveal the worried face of his teammate haloed by the light of the business class cabin. Carlos looks a little flustered as his eyes fall down to the crumpled shape of Charles' body on the floor. For a moment, the younger man finds himself freezing, waiting expectantly for Carlos' inevitably negative reaction. But surprisingly, the older driver doesn't make a fuss. Instead, he reaches down and helps Charles stand up from the floor, strong hands circling his forearms and bearing the weight of his body as he hauls him up. Even as Carlos guides him the short distance back to their seats, he doesn't speak. He provides a steady base for Charles to balance on, feeling weak from the coughing and the lack of sleep, until he reaches his chair and lowers down into it. Only then, does the Spaniard leave his side.
In his own seat, Charles waits for Carlos to speak, to question him about what he'd undoubtedly heard. But Carlos doesn't. Instead, he silently passes over a bottle of water - one that Charles realises, with a small amount of astonishment, he must have asked for in advance from the air hostesses - and a shiny packet of pills.
"Melatonin," Carlos explains when Charles' questioning gaze finds his own, "It might help you sleep."
The younger driver doesn't linger on the knowledge that Carlos knows he didn't sleep last night. Wordlessly, Charles takes the pills and chugs the entire bottle of water. With great relief, it doesn't take long before he feels the heavy blanket of sleep settle over him and he finds himself drifting off into a deep, dreamless rest.
When they land at Milan airport, Charles immediately googles the flowers. He finds them quickly, purple hyacinth often symbolising regret. Snorting quietly to himself, he finds humour in the irony because isn't that obvious? Of course, he feels regret.
He's so distracted by his phone and the website page transcribing the symbolism of purple hyacinth that he doesn't notice another's presence until a shadow creeps him. Seemingly, the world hasn't reached its limitation on his suffering because Charles looks up to find Pierre standing in front of him. He's a bit rumpled from the almost 24 hours of travel, dark hair flat and messy and shadows sat heavy under his eyes. But he doesn't look heavy with fatigue like Charles feels despite sleeping for most of the journey.
"Hey," it's the first word shared between them since his rejection, "Long journey."
Charles thinks he might have been wrong with his earlier assumption that Pierre has forgotten the events of the previous night because they've never been this awkward in the almost decade that they've known one another, "Yeah, pretty long."
"I assume you're off to Maranello, now?"
Shifting between feet, it's a struggle to mask his discomfort and so doesn't reply verbally, merely nodding his head instead.
"If you're not needed there til late tomorrow you're welcome to stay at mine. It's a bit of a drive."
It's not really so he's not entirely sure why he says it. Sure, often Charles has stayed in Pierre's Milan apartment when he hasn't had the energy to drive down to Maranello immediately after landing but he can't discern why he'd extend the invitation now - not when Pierre clearly remembers the events of the previous night and when they are both feeling, undoubtedly, incredibly awkward about it.
Pierre's cheeks pinken inexplicably "It might also mean we can talk about-," he chews on the inside of his cheek, "- about what happened last night."
A cold fist of panic settles its grip over Charles' body, holding him still. He's not ready to talk to Pierre, not yet. Probably not ever. He can't bare the humiliation but he also knows that he won't be able to keep everything in. Pierre has always been able to read him better than anyone else, he'll know something is wrong and Charles will be powerless to his persuasion. But the notion of telling Pierre, of unloading this terrible burden onto his shoulders and confronting the older man with the fact that his lack of feelings for his best friend will lead to his death? It's not an option. His throat flutters again, clenching at the ticklish feeling that tiptoes its way up his oesophagus.
"We don't need to talk about anything," he attempts a smile but it's probably as lopsided and awry as he himself is feeling, "I was drunk and high on the win, I couldn't think properly. So don't- don't worry about it. It didn't mean anything," he hopes Pierre won't notice that his hands are trembling, "Thanks for the offer, though."
Even though the conversation has clearly ended, for some unfathomable reason, neither men make an effort to move. Pierre's face twists and his eyebrows pull together. Charles waits attentively for the man to say something but in the next blink, Pierre must decide otherwise because his face falls and he offers a timid smile, "Okay, Charles. Whatever you want. I'll see you in Imola, then, yeah?"
Imola; in two weeks' time. Charles can do that, he can sort out his life and get his head screwed on straight in two weeks' time. He makes a list in his head of his objectives for those handfuls of days: (1) plan his championship charge, (2) try to shove his feelings for Pierre down into the furthest corner of his brain. The tickle in his throat flares until he has to cough. It's only a single cough but he still finds himself going pale at the feeling. He forces a smile on his face and hopes it's convincing, "Yeah, Imola. See you then."
They part the same way as the entire conversation had gone, awkward and uneasy. It takes him until the silhouette of Pierre's figure has disappeared to realise not once had the man even touched him. Not even a hand on his shoulder or a short goodbye embrace. The tickle flares to a burn and Charles is coughing once more into his elbow. It doesn't last as long as the first two times, seemingly no flowers intending to make their way out of his lungs. A hand lands on his shoulder in time with the final hacking cough and he comes face to face with Carlos' perturbed frown and anxious brown eyes.
"I will drive, okay?" Carlos suggests, but it's more of a command than anything else.
A heavy weight sits on Charles' shoulders and he sags under the weight of Carlos' lingering hand. He thinks of denying the offer, insisting that he can hire his own car and drive. But he doesn't; exhaustion clouds his judgment and he finds himself nodding instead.
Carlos doesn't follow him into his apartment when they arrive in Maranello. After waking him up from the light slumber he'd drifted into throughout the journey, the older driver helps him with his bags and then leaves him. He doesn't pry and Charles finds himself immensely grateful for it.
The two weeks pass without much drama. The Monegasque attends the compulsory meetings at the factory, discussing potential upgrades and strategies for Imola. Somehow, he manages to maintain some sense of normality which must be relatively successful because Carlos stops sending him concerned glances from across meeting rooms. In the five days staying in Maranello, he only has one coughing fit. It's in response to an Instagram post on Pierre's account, a mirror selfie likely in the middle of a gym session capturing his sweaty features. He's handsome as always even doused in sweat, skin glistening. It's that very realisation that has Charles bent over his toilet once more and googling the meaning of the few pink petals bobbing in the porcelain bowl - ranunculus symbolising attraction.
When he's fulfilled his commitments to Ferrari, he makes the long drive back to Monaco. It's a relief to be back in his home country and in his own apartment. It's not that he dislikes the one in Maranello, it just never feels like home in the same way as his Monaco abode. But despite being back at home, he doesn't spend it how he usually does. He doesn't reach out to any of his friends or any members of his family, constructs excuses whenever he's invited out with them. Instead, he focuses on training for Imola. Head down, Charles trains at the gym every morning and goes for a run every evening; spends hours on the sim, practising the track over and over again until he can actually do it with his eyes closed. He eats just enough to keep himself full, but the right amount to keep his weight down. The only area he slacks in is sleep. Charles struggles to fall sleep, every night spent lying awake plagued by his situation. He tries not to count the days down, but he does. He tries not to google the average life expectancy of a person inflicted with Hanahaki Disease, but he does that too. So by the time Imola rolls around, while he is physically prepared, his brain lags behind the rest of his preparation.
It's likely the reason why fucks up in such a dramatic fashion.
He'd been desperate, that's all. Desperate to catch up to Max who'd been speeding away into the distance. It wasn't even like he needed this win that badly. Sure, Verstappen winning would have bridged the gap between them just that little bit more, but he'd have still been ahead. Third would have been fine, he should have been happy with third. But then he thought about the way he'd spent the better part of the morning bent over the toilet in the Ferrari motorhome, coughing up pink camelia petals after seeing Pierre across the paddock. He'd thought about how this was his last chance to win a championship, that he wouldn't get another go after this, and he'd pushed. But, inevitably, he'd pushed too hard and had gone spinning off the track, falling back to eighth after pitting. Sure, he'd managed to climb his way up a bit after that. But he hadn't made it back to third, giving the podium away to Lando on a silver platter.
Later, in his driver's room, he thinks of screaming and tearing the place apart. He doesn't of course, thinks Ferrari might not be too appreciative if he did, and instead stares blankly at the wall. Charles doesn't know how long he stands there, but the next thing he knows there's a knock on his door and a Ferrari personnel is telling him that they're about to start packing away. It's all the prompting he needs to leave and he doesn't look back.
Miami is better, at least. Max wins again but Charles doesn't bin it in the wall this time so he can count that as a success. Afterwards, he watches on a screen in the garage as Pierre's car careens into the side of the Mclaren and takes them both out. He doesn't seek Pierre out to offer his condolences, knows that even if everything wasn't messed up between them that the Frenchman wouldn't appreciate it anyway, and instead spends the post-race period bent over the toilet and staring at the handful of lotus petals looking up at him.
Spain is even better. There's a point, in the middle of the race, where he thinks he might be losing power. Heart thudding in his chest, he practically screams over the radio at Xaxi, his race engineer, but the issue is sorted before he can truly panic. He wins with an eight-second gap between him and Max just behind and the feeling on the podium is electric.
Monaco follows Spain and it feels a bit like a breaking point. Knowing that his life is now a ticking time bomb and that with each race he comes closer and closer to the end of it all, winning Monaco stands prominent on his bucket list - his dreary things to do before I die list. Winning the championship is there, of course, but Monaco is just under it. There's a lot of PR to be done, as usual, what with it being his home race. He follows along, barely sentient, trusting his own instincts and training to get him through it all. All he can think about is the race and winning. He cycles through the track in his head over and over again, picturing in perfect detail exactly where he'll hit the apex to get the best launch at the exit. On Thursday, he's barely conscious throughout the press conference. Instead, he feels the ghost of buttons under his fingers and pedals under his feet, memorising in precise detail where he'll change gear, hears phantom clicking as he runs through them, memorising exactly how much pressure to ease on the accelerator, feels the hum of the engine under his foot. He gets a few strange looks from the other drivers when they're finished and perhaps he was a bit more obvious than he would've liked, but finds it in himself to not care.
On Friday, he tops every practice session. The car is near perfection under him, like an extension of his own body as it curves and bends to his every whim and desire. But it's not entirely perfect, not yet. Checo remains just behind him in every session, his Red Bull nipping at the heels of Charles' Ferrari. In bed that evening he goes through the track again and again and doesn't sleep for a single second.
He's right to be worried because Sergio beats him in free practice three. It's not how he wants to go into qualifying, blood thrumming with anxiety, but he thinks it might help push him just that little bit further. He's always worked best with a little bit of pressure resting on his shoulders.
Charles was right, the pressure works. He's on pole in Q1; then he's on pole in Q2. When he rolls out of the garage at the beginning of Q3, he's so electrified with adrenaline he doesn't even think about the reasons why he wants this so bad. He just wants it. Charles puts it on pole again in Q3, Sergio shunts it in the wall and qualifying ends before Max can truly contend his time. In the end, Charles doesn't care if the position might have been handed to him and that he didn't really have to fight for it, he's just happy to have it. Assured that the radio isn't on, he screams into his helmet. He's almost there, he can taste the phantom wind of victory as it brushes his lips. This win is his.
It rains on Sunday and the race is delayed. He's antsy in the garage waiting for the start, pacing the length with harried steps and repeating the track in his head over and over again. At one point, they're called out to start but the cars end up rolling back in as the red flags are thrown and the rain continues to pour. Charles' skin crawls with apprehension, feeling needy and eager to finally race. The Monegasque distracts himself with his pacing once more.
When the start is finally called, Charles is itching to get into the car. He savours the feeling of the seat around him, moulded perfectly to fit the curves and flat lines of his body. It's a rolling start so he doesn't feel the same heady rush of adrenaline he usually gets on a grid start, but it's close enough. As he slams his foot into the accelerator, clicking through the gears in a practised motion, the standing water on the track surrounds the car in a fine spray. The car slips beneath him momentarily, wet tires losing traction for a scant second, but he wrangles it back into control. It's erratic and unpredictable driving. A smile grows on his face and, for the first time in weeks, his throat feels clear.
There's almost a small blunder a third of the way into the race when a dry line finally begins to weave its way through the track. He hears the message in his ear, calling him to box, but something in him tells him to hesitate. He knows that Carlos, his teammate, has just been called in to pit and a small burst of anxiety in his chest tells him that the space between them isn't great enough for a double stack.
"Are we sure?" He asks Xavi.
The loud burst of feedback in his ear in reply has him jerking slightly and his hands shift, the car sliding beneath him just as he thinks of manoeuvring to enter the pitlane, "NO! Stay out! Stay out!"
Heart thundering in his chest, Charles' hands wrench the car back into line, the intermediate tyres resisting momentarily before snapping back onto the dry line, passing the entrance to the pitlane.
"Box this lap, Charles," Xavi continues and the Ferrari driver has to squash down the urge to snap at him, frustrated at how close he could've been to losing the lead, "Box, box."
The pitstop is smooth. Not their quickest, but fast enough to get him out and back into the lead. The rest of the race passes without too much drama and Charles spends the majority of it counting down each lap. Every one that passes he holds his breath as he crosses the line. The lap number ticks up and up and he waits for the inevitable bad luck he will be handed. He wonders what it will be this time. The classic engine explosion? Breaks failing? Ferrari deciding he needs to pit for wets even when the sun is beginning to peak through the crowds? But as he crosses the white line and the final lap begins, he finally lets himself hope.
Throughout the race, he's been blocking out the surrounding noise around him, but it's almost impossible now. The crowd roars as he emerges from the tunnel, blinking forcedly as the sun blinds him for an instant. The clamour only increases as he threads his way through the Nouvelle Chicane for the final time, then Tabac and then Piscine. And is exactly that, the final time he'll drive Monaco. He doesn't let himself linger on it. Hands shaking as he twists the steering wheel through the final two corners, the watching fans scream. For a moment, he feels completely separate from his body as he floors it down the final straight, watching in the third person as a driver in a red and white helmet and Enzo's beloved car crosses the line.
"P1!" He hears a voice exclaim from somewhere, "That's P1 Charles, you've won the Monaco Grand Prix."
Charles is sucked back into his body just as he urges the car down the pit lane and into Parc Ferme. He stops right in front of the number 1 sign, nose bumping against it. For a long, drawn-out second the Ferrari driver remains in the car, still seated. His hands are shaking insistently and his breaths are stuttered, the lasting adrenaline making him unsteady. It takes a single, deep breath to give him the strength to pull himself out of the car. The cheers pick up in volume, practically shaking the ground as he clambers onto the halo. He barely wobbles, feeling powered by the roaring crowd, as he stands on top of the number 16 car. Helmet still squeezing against the sides of his face, Charles screams into the padding and his balaclava - it's not like he'll be heard over the hordes of people, anyway. Spreading his arms out wide, he breathes in this feeling. It's been his dream for as long as he can remember to win here in his home country, on the same streets he grew up on and as his countrymen watch him. The feeling is like no other and, for a fleeting moment, he thinks maybe this could be enough. He wants the championship, undoubtedly, but maybe he can die happy with this memory. The thought eases some of the dread that's been sitting heavy on his chest for the past few weeks.
Leaping from the halo, Charles throws himself at his team as they stand beyond a barrier of marshalls. There are hands all over him, on his shoulders and his back and his arms and the sides and top of his helmet. He can barely hear their words, ears ringing, but he can see all of their smiles, teeth white and eyes bright. They all know how much this means to him, how much and how long he has wanted this.
When he pulls away, there are more hands on him. Checo's first, a steady pat on his back and a word of congratulations. Then a pair of arms are folding him into a hug, solid and familiar and he knows that it's Carlos. He latches tight to the older man, pressing his helmet-encased head into the red nomex of his race suit. It lasts just as long as he needs it to, the Spaniard providing a solid foundation to keep him steady. He wonders briefly when Carlos became this person for him. When he became someone Charles could lean against, could trust to keep him balanced.
It's that support which helps him suffer through the next pair of arms that surround his figure. It's Pierre, of course, because whenever has his best friend not been there to celebrate his achievements - whether that be right by his side or just a phone call away. Held tight in the circle of his arms, Charles forgets the tension between them. Forgets that his unrequited feelings for the man pressed against him are slowly draining life from him, killing him with every petal coughed up and every root that wraps itself around his lungs. The only reminder is the return of the irritation at the back of his throat, that he swallows down.
"Congratulations, Calamar," Pierre mutters into the side of his helmet, his own removed by now. Charles feels tears christen the corner of his eyes and his hands respond by digging firmer into Pierre's white race suit, fingers twisting the fabric. "No one deserves this more than you do."
They don't stay there for as long as Charles would like. Soon enough, they have to pull away because a microphone is being thrust in his face. He doesn't know what he says, doesn't even know who he's talking to. Charles mainly follows the motions, lets instinct guide him as he's weighed and then ferried along to an empty room, waiting to be called to the podium. Carlos and Checo are already there, talking quietly amongst themselves, and Charles mostly ignores them. The feeling in his throat is starting to make itself more known and he coughs against it, once and then twice into the corner of his elbow. He ignores the look Carlos shoots him across the room.
By the time they're called to attend the podium ceremony, his throat is burning. He allows himself a last few coughs, bending over with the force of them. Eyes streaming, he waits at the edge of the stage for his name to be announced, watching as the other two drivers are called forward. When the time comes, Charles swallows roughly against the tickle in his throat, willing it to go away, to leave him alone for the next few minutes. There's a moment of blessed relief as he hurries onto the stage, soaking in the roar of the crowd and the thundering applause. It's the loudest thing he's ever heard, louder than the Tifosi when he won at Monza. The feeling is electrifying, this feeling of destiny - knowing that this was fated, that the bad luck has finally come to an end.
He shakes the Prince's hand and then the Princess', both of them beaming at him. The first Monegasque to ever win a Formula 1 Grand Prix and now the first to ever win at Monaco, it's a historical moment for the country. Charles is not usually one to bother about breaking records, but he likes this feeling. Knowing that he's the first, the only. When the trophy is placed in his hands, he thrusts it into the air and, somehow, the cheering increases in volume. He can feel it everywhere, on his skin and his face and under his feet. He thinks maybe he can hear yacht horns blaring in the distance too and knows that that's not usual. It's special for him, the first.
It all quiets as the Monegasque anthem begins to play and Charles feels overcome with emotion. Eyes watering, he thinks - embarrassingly - that he might be about to sob. But then he looks down at the crowd, at one of the figures pressed against the barrier, still in his white and black race suit. Pierre's beaming up at him, blue eyes so bright and smile so wide. It's like he feels this win just as if it was his own. Like he feels Charles' victories as acutely as he does his own, wanted this for Charles just as much as he himself did. Charles thinks he'd let him have it. Thinks he'd give it all up for him, only him. It's a devastating realisation and his throat burns with it. He suffers through it as the anthems end and the bottles of Ferrari Trento come out. He manages to smile, to spray Carlos and his team below in a tide of champagne, soaking them all. He manages to grin at the crowd, to point to the sky, to hold on to this moment for just a second, a minute longer. He knows he's pushing it, can feel the nudge of petals at the lowest part of his throat.
Charles barely makes it back into his driver's room in time, doesn't make it to the toilet. Collapsing to the floor, he coughs and hacks hunched over on the ground. The petals are so close that it doesn't take long to clear them and they spray onto the space between his hands, a flurry of tiny purple flowers - fistfuls of them. Ducking his head to the ground, Charles takes a moment to regather his breath, ignoring the spread of damp petals beneath him. He doesn't realise that he never closed the door.
Only when he's finally managed to catch his breath and is sitting back on his heels does Carlos speak.
"Lavender."
Charles launches into the air, heart thundering and blood running cold, "What?"
The flat look on Carlos' face has him shudder as the older driver gestures to the spread of petals on the floor, "Lavender. They usually mean joy and devotion."
Charles stares back at him, horrified, "How do you know that?"
"My sister suffered from Hanahaki Disease a couple of years ago," his shrug is almost apathetic, "We learnt a lot about flower meanings."
"But your sister is-"
"Alive, sí," a small smile crosses the Spaniard's face, "Happily engaged to the love of her life."
Charles sags knowing that option is not viable for him. He almost considers another world where that could be possible, where Pierre and he could confess their love to one another and this would all go away. He doesn't let himself linger on it for even a second.
"You have to tell him, Charles," the Monegasque doesn't even question how Carlos knows it's even a he, "It'll kill you if you don't."
"There's no point, I already know he doesn't love me back."
"How can you be sure?" The detached look on Carlos' face has been replaced with pleading.
"Because he told me so," Charles thinks there's no point in hiding this anymore, thinks the weight this might remove from his chest - this burden bore solely by him shared with another - is worth the humiliation, "I kissed him and he told me he doesn't feel about me that way, that he's straight."
When Carlos' face falls, the resolution that Charles' life is a ticking time bomb becomes set in stone, "It's not the only option-"
"I won't do it. Never."
They don't speak anymore and, at some point, Carlos finally leaves. Charles remains alone for as long as possible, heavy with the realisation that he'd already made himself but has only now been confirmed by another. This will kill him; he knows that now for certain but at least he won't bare the weight of it alone.
In Baku, Charles' fleeting luck ends in the usual dramatic fashion. The engine fails not even halfway through the race. He slams his gloved hands into the steering wheel as the car slows down in the middle of the track, smoke pluming in a thick trail behind it. It also means he has to take a grid penalty in Canada a week later and he only manages to climb up to fifth after that. The gap he'd so perfectly curated between Max and himself grows slighter and his chest feels tighter with the stress of it all. He knows he can't lose the gap. Not now.
Silverstone is a strong track for Charles and it's one of his favourites. He can't say the same for the country, what with the heavy dark clouds that loom over them for the majority of the weekend, but he's nearly won here once before. He knows he can do it again.
In line with the typical British climate, it rains on Saturday and throughout qualifying. In the wet, the car refuses to bow to him - fighting him at every corner. He doesn't get pole in either Q1 or Q2. For a moment, in Q3, he almost has it but it's snatched away by Max's greedy hands before he can truly relish in the feeling. And then, like a rookie, he spins in the last sector on his last flying lap and it all slips through his fingers. Third. It's not where he wants to be. It's not the encouragement he needs to secure this win. But it'll have to do.
Charles fights with everything in his body to put the car first, argues fervently to get Carlos to let him pass. His body shakes with adrenaline as he holds position and it all feels like fate once more until the double yellow flags are waved and the safety car is announced.
Xavi's voice comes through his ear, "Okay, Charles, we want you to stay out."
"Stay out?" A cold feeling flushes through his body, "Surely we pit for softs? What is Carlos doing?"
"Carlos is pitting but we want you to stay out, to maintain the lead."
It's a stupid idea, he knows it, can feel it to the very depths of his soul. Maybe, in another life, he'd have sat quietly. Maybe, he would've agreed, assured that Ferrari has all the data, that they know what's best. But not in this life, not when his own is ticking away slowly, so little sand left in his hourglass, "No. I want to pit for softs. I'm coming in, double stack us."
Ferrari will be furious. Mattia will be furious. This isn't the way of the Ferrari driver. You don't contradict orders, you don't undermine the higher-ups. Charles doesn't care, they can be angry at him when he's dead.
Silence follows his demand and then, at the very last moment, "Okay, Charles. Box, box."
They put the red tires on him and when the restart happens he pulls away into the distance. He wins the British Grand Prix.
Max wins the sprint in Austria but Charles wins the race. They're obviously not expecting it, expecting Max to secure this win like he has many times before. But Max doesn't win, Charles does. And so it's Charles who stands on the middle step, towering above Max and Lewis below. He likes to think it's metaphorical, really: him, on top of the world. The feeling disapparates hours later after another congratulatory embrace from Pierre and as he stares down at the litter of tiny indigo forget-me-not flowers in the toilet bowl, covering every possible square of water.
There's a knock on his hotel door the Saturday evening before the French Grand Prix. Charles isn't expecting it, hadn't received any messages from anyone about a surprise visit. For a moment, he thinks that it might be Carlos. The Spanish driver has made it his duty to check up on the Monegasque every weekend since Monaco, big brown eyes full of barely-concealed concern. Charles hates his hovering, hates that it makes him feel weaker, smaller than he already does. But, at the same time, it's also nice not to have to be so strong. It's nice to have someone who understands, who hasn't judged him for his decision - at least not yet.
So you can imagine his surprise when he opens the door and Carlos is not standing on the other side. Instead, it's Pierre who stands there. The Frenchman looks small nestled in the shadow of his doorway, hair damp and wrapped in a soft-looking hoodie. Charles remembers that qualifying hadn't gone so well for his friend, that he hadn't made it into Q2 at his home race. His heart tightens at the realisation, fingers itching to reach out and pull the older man into a long embrace. He stamps down on the desire as the back of his throat begins its now-familiar tingle. That will never happen, he tells himself, you're his friend nothing else.
"Can I come in?" Pierre's voice is small too and it tugs roughly on his heartstrings.
Charles responds by opening the door wider, gesturing for the Alpha Tauri driver to enter the room and then closing it behind him. By the time he turns around, Pierre is already perched on the foot of his bed. He follows the other's lead, lowering himself into the remaining space on the mattress.
"It's just so shit," Pierre breaks the silence, "Red Bull's never going to give me a chance, they're never going to put me in that seat again."
Charles aches to reach out to him.
"I thought by now they would have said something, but they haven't. They're just going to leave me in this barely-midfield team until I wither away. Until I make the choice myself to jump ship and let my career crash and burn behind me."
He can't help himself anymore, can't sit back when Pierre looks this devastated. Fingers reaching out timidly, he settles his hand on the soft fabric on Pierre's hoodie, right in the crease of his arm, "You're not going to stay in this team forever, Pierre. You deserve to be in a better car, everyone knows that. It'll all unfold at some point, I promise you."
All of a sudden, Charles thinks of his own seat. At least they'll be one free when he's gone. He doesn't know whether Ferrari would consider hiring Pierre, but he hopes that it might at least shift some things around and maybe another might come free for the Frenchman. He knows, at least, that he'll vouch for the man when the time does come. If Pierre doesn't want his heart, the least Charles can do is give him a chance at his seat.
Pierre breaks through his thoughts, blue eyes wide and watery and so full of hope and something else he can't quite name, "How can you be so sure?"
Squeezing softly through the thick fabric of his hoodie, Charles hopes his smile and words can offer the older man the slightest bit of reassurance - even if it might be a lie, "We've always been together through all of this, against all odds. You're not leaving me anytime soon."
Pierre leaves just in time for Charles to have reached his limit. In a motion which has become far too practised by now, he tears through the hotel room and to the connected ensuite. He's already coughing by the time he reaches the toilet bowl, knees cracking against the hard tile so brutally that he knows they'll bruise. His throat burns with anguish, a wretched tearing feeling wreaking havoc against the expanse of skin. It's wholly unlike the pain he's experienced before. Tears streaming from his eyes, Charles splutters over the porcelain seat, sobbing wretchedly as whatever is in his throat slashes at the insides of his oesophagus.
When it reaches the back of his mouth, the size of it is immense - bigger than anything he's coughed up previously. For a second, he thinks he might choke on it, thick petals blocking his airway. He heaves and gags, throwing his head forward until the thing dislodges and splashes into the water below.
It takes Charles a long time to recover, bent over the toilet, fingers digging into the sides and wheezing brokenly. He doesn't stop coughing even after it's out, throat burning and throbbing as he clears saliva from his mouth and into the water. Sweat beading at his temples and spit sticking to his chin, Charles sits back with a wet snivel, reaching up to wipe the tears and wetness from his face. But as his hands come away, his eyes catch on the colour smeared across the skin, crimson red and stark against the pale expanse. Heart thudding in his chest, the Monegasque drops his hands to the floor and forces a glance into the toilet.
There, in the middle of the bowl, a shrivelled-looking yellow rose sits. It's bigger than any of the petals or flowers he's coughed up before, maybe even half the size of his fist. But, most significantly, his eyes catch on the red tint streaked across some of the petals, dark and distinct against the yellow. It's blood. There are a few more splotches dotted across the still toilet water, likely what he'd spat up earlier. He knows this is a bad sign, knows it means his situation is getting worse and worse.
With fumbling fingers, panicked and shaking, he tugs for the phone in his back pocket and calls the first person he thinks of.
Less than five minutes later, his teammate is crouched down at his side. Charles hasn't even moved since he ended the phone call, staying frozen on the ground. A big, solid hand rests on his shoulder, he leans into the weight and heat of it.
"Your sister?" He asks, voice wretched, "Did she ever-"
Carlos doesn't need him to finish, "No. She confessed before it got this far."
Silence follows, heavy and full of burden.
"Charles I-" the Spaniard's voice breaks off, shaky and broken. Charles feels laden with guilt for dragging his friend into this, "Are you sure?" It's a plead, "Are you so sure he wouldn't-"
"I'm sure," Charles stares forward, the thought of looking at Carlos, at being faced with his distress, is too unbearable. Instead, he reaches out a blood-smeared hand and pushes down on the handle. Together, they watch as the water swirls, tugging all remnants of this moment into the depths below.
Charles crashes the next day, somehow managing to spin the car into a barrier on a track with endless runoff. As the car careens into tecpro, he feels nothing - not a single ounce of fear or trepidation, just pure silence.
And then he screams. It comes from a place far deeper than his desire to win, than his desire to be world champion. Charles doesn't realise the radio is still on. He thinks of nothing as he remains in the seat, breaths haggard and hands trembling. It's the first time he wonders if he can really do this, if he can keep fighting. It's the first time he considers the surgery, wonders if he can live a life without love. He decides he can't. He gets out of the car.