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The problem was Charles didn’t feel guilty, not even one bit.
He didn’t feel guilty when he took three extra left turns on the way home to extend his drive. He didn’t feel guilty when he sat in the car with a coffee after getting what he needed from the shop instead of rushing home. He also didn’t feel guilty when he whipped Max’s car keys off the hook, driving it full send around the twisting hills watching the petrol drain millilitre by millilitre.
He didn’t feel guilty because the season was about to begin and Max was leaving him holding the baby.
The dull persistent ache in his lower back, the numbness trailing down his right leg reminded Charles every second of the day that he wasn’t a Ferrari driver anymore. When he wasn’t being woken up by the baby, it was the nightmares that had him.
The screeching as his car careered into the barriers, his hands moving faster than he’d ever moved before.
The suddenness of the shunt as his head slammed back, the pain in his leg. It felt like he was being burnt from the inside out. His scrambled thoughts tumbling around his mind, his mother, his brothers, his Max.
And then the darkness.
And that’s when he’d transitioned from Charles Leclerc, F1 driver and future champion to just Charles.
To Charles who liked to play piano,
Charles who was a father and a husband, Charles who mourned the route his life was supposed to take.
He had approximately twenty seconds from his tyres crunching across the gravel of the driveway before the front door would swing open dramatically.
Like clockwork before Charles can even switch off the engine, there he was. His facial expression unreadable, a blessing and curse of years of PR training meant neutrality even when something was wrong. Clara perched against his hip, her ocean eyes matching her daddy’s perfectly.
In Max’s other hand, her little lion teddy, a present from Victoria when she was born that she had become enraptured with, stroking the soft tufts of his mane against her cheek when she needed comfort.
Only twenty minutes before Max would leave, till he’d fly to Baku for the start of the season. Till he’d leave them at home in Monaco.
He was being unnecessarily cruel, when Max returned from Milton Keynes, practically vibrating with excitement, “We might do it again schat, the car looks great” he practically beamed. As Charles sat idly scrolling on Instagram, offering nothing more than the odd hum in acknowledgment before Max stopped talking, his posture rigid next to him.
The thing is Charles did love Max and Clara, he loved being a husband and a father. He was immeasurably grateful for the second chance at life he’d been granted, but on days like today he felt like a knife had been twisted in his chest.
He could see the flickering concern in Max’s eyes, as he made his way towards them. The one place he couldn’t hide his true feelings from Charles. He knew all Max had ever wanted to was help him, but it felt too much.
Max had tenderly broached the subject to him earlier in the week, had told his husband he was worried to leave him on his own. Over a glass of wine, the sea breeze sailing through the patio doors, he wasn’t sure he had it in him to fight.
He just simply assured his husband he was alright, that him and Clara would be okay and that he needed to keep that number one on the front of his car.
He’d be fine, he didn’t have much choice.
The first race had fallen at the worst time. Clara had just gone down for a nap, the silence he would have otherwise relished in leaving him hollow. It had been a very long time since he’d been in Monaco, at home, on a race day.
He didn’t like to think about it, not really. But when he allowed himself to stop for a minute the jealously that surged through his veins was almost toxic. He should be on the grid, his name up in the lights fighting for a championship but his body had failed him. He’d reached his peak and was now out, the fickle world of motorsport.
So instead he did all he could, he’d throw himself into what he did have left. The radio on the kitchen surface had merely been for aesthetic purposes, Max had simply rolled his eyes and kept his mouth closed when he’d ordered it, until now.
Taking his time he carefully messes around with settings until the distinct burble of engine noise echoes around the kitchen. And then as he potters, cleaning up after breakfast, wiping down all the kitchen surfaces. Even taking the time to deep clean the tiled floor, he listens.
Carefully listening to any updates about driver number one, his heart pounding through his chest as the laps begin to whittle down. And as Max takes the checkered flag on the final lap, he can’t help himself. He screams, tears welling in his eyes. He can hear the baby beginning to wake up her nap disturbed by his sheer lack of regard for the sleeping figure upstairs.
His husband had done it. He’d never been so proud of him, even standing barefoot, on the wet kitchen floor the joy is all the same.
It was bizarre, the juxtaposition of the before and the now couldn’t have been any more polarising. The slow soft nature, the overwhelming adoration for their little girl.
The walks in park with his mother, the light slowly igniting behind her eyes again with every day spent with her granddaughter. The lazy mornings they spent cuddled under a blanket watching Bluey, Charles had to admit he probably loved it more than Clara. Watching the tiny girl growing before his very eyes, he knows he’s lucky to be able to give her his undivided attention, to spend everyday with her.
The nightly FaceTimes with Max when he reads Clara her bedtime story, the soft lilt of him speaking Dutch always leaving Charles fighting to stay awake. And then when the baby was fast asleep, Max would without fail ask Charles a million questions about their day, what they got up too, what they had for their dinner. He didn’t mention himself and his arguably more interesting day, he just wanting to hear about their mundane musings. He missed them, he didn’t want to be away from his family.
The first time in seven years, he didn’t have Charles with him on the grid. Selfishly Charles never really stopped to consider how Max would be feeling. That he’d be missing his husband and daughter, in hotel room after hotel room each a carbon copy of the last.
The sharp cry wakes him, he isn’t sure but it must have been the middle of the night. Bleary eyed and disoriented Charles makes his way to Clara, in her cot, eyes wide and cheeks flushed.
Even in the dead of night, he can tell what’s wrong. Little lion had been pushed out of the bars and was now sitting on the carpet, waiting to be reunited with his owner.
As Charles slowly bends down to pick the cuddly toy up, a wave of emotion hits him square in the chest. And before he can catch himself, he gently gives his daughter her little lion and slides down the side of the cot, his pyjama clad body making contact with the carpet. Shaky sobs rattling from his chest.
He misses his little lion. He misses his husband.
He misses being tucked up in bed with his sleeping frame next to him, the gentle rise and fall of his chest lulling Charles to sleep. Max was probably the kindest and most considerate person he’d ever met, always giving Charles the first mug of coffee, the first glass of wine in the evening when they settled onto the sofa. Always being the one to get up to check the front door was locked when they’d both got comfortable in bed. Getting up with Clara in the morning even after he’d got up with her in the night to give Charles a lie in.
He missed his gorgeous, talented, funny husband.
Yes he missed racing, but he missed his husband more. He missed the person he was before the accident, he’d been so wrapped up in his own problems that he’d forgotten about everything else. He was alive, did he not realise how lucky he was for fuck sake. He had everything and more.
The day before Max had left, they’d hosted a family lunch with his mother and brothers and while bustling around making cups of tea he feels a sharp crack to his ribs. It wasn’t the first time his mother had offered him this, usually for a good reason.
Before a sharp whisper “stop sulking Charlie” in French as she departed into the living room leaving him stunned. He was acting like a child who had been told they couldn’t play with one specific toy, when all the best, shining toys were sitting right in front of them.
He wasn’t sure how long he’d spent sitting on his daughters bedroom floor before he made his way back to his own bed, the ache in his chest still close to ripping him in half. Sliding his phone from the bedside table, he pulls up he and Max’s text thread, he can’t help himself before firing off a simple text.
‘I’m always proud of you cherie. I love you’
At four in the morning it was a very odd time to post an Instagram but he couldn’t help himself. Scrolling his camera roll he finds the perfect picture, a selfie of him and Clara. The first and only picture of Charles adorned in a navy blue Redbull t shirt, a number one on his chest. Clara in a matching Redbull onesie, staring into the lens a carbon copy of her daddy. It’s probably a little excessive, but he can’t help but feel the guilt in his bones.
“Always proud of you, your biggest cheerleaders”
Shimmying onto Max’s side of the bed, he presses his face hard into his pillow, the aroma of his shampoo and aftershave offering him comfort.
Maybe he was happy staying right here, waiting for Max to get home. And then one day, Max would come home for good, to Charles with his arms wide open, with enough trophies and successes for the both of them. Maybe another baby or two, a dog. Maybe the simple life was a blessing in disguise, an escape from the dirty air.