Chapter Text
It wasn’t often Charles felt absolutely helpless. Not helpless as in feeling like you’re sinking into a pit of your own miserable choices, but helpless as in empty, devoid of all feelings—numb, to put it simply. His heart ached for someone who clearly didn’t want anything to do with him any more. His world felt bleary and grey, even the music blasting in his ears was almost completely drowned out by the ringing in his head. If that was not the definition of numb, he had no idea what was.
Funny, isn’t it? How one can go from feeling at the top of the world, carefree and exuberant, to crashing and hitting the ground as if slamming into a barrier during the Monaco Grand Prix. He had fallen from grace as quickly as the cars he watched from his window as a kid did – all it took was a second, and the crash caused irreversible damage. That’s exactly how his relationship status felt right now. It wasn’t like Charles hadn’t had to break up with someone before—no, he had been in plenty of relationships before Alessio. But when Alessio had called, which he never did, and asked him to go on a walk that dull Tuesday morning, Charles had known that something awful was going to happen.
Alessio, with his light brown hair, that seemed so silky you would wonder if it was grease or just his natural hair texture. Charles missed running his hands through it while they were half asleep, as Alessio would mumble his incoherent thoughts. Alessio had used to smile at Charles sometimes, and when he did, with his soft honey brown eyes crinkling into soft little slits, soft rosy lips stretching over his off-white teeth. The sort of smile that makes you wonder if you’ve ever actually seen daylight. Or at least, that’s what Charles used to think, back before he had met Alessio in the park.
Alessio had looked at him with disgust as Charles's eyes filled with tears, his heart shattering. Charles wasn’t one for suppressing emotions, but he tried to keep his composure as Alessio spat out words that stabbed at his very being. When he spoke, it felt like knives tracing outlines on his back, with droplets of blood slowly trickling down his spine. He was paralysed, unable to move, think, or speak.
“Non penso che dovremmo continuare oltre. Non sei la persona con cui voglio trascorrere la mia vita, e non sembri considerarmi una priorità, quindi non credo ci sia più nulla in questa relazione. Hai il cuore concentrato sulla musica e non c'è spazio per me. Sei sempre occupato, troppo occupato per soddisfare i miei bisogni. Non sei stato l'uomo che speravo fossi, Charles. Forse dovresti trovare qualcun'altra da ingannare. Spero che tu non abbia mai qualcuno che si prenda cura di te come ho fatto io, e che la tua mente torni sempre a me ogni volta che pensi di dire a qualcun'altra che la ami.”
From all the breakups he went through, this one was the only time he was left completely clueless as to what to do next. With himself, his relationship status, his life. All the previous ones… he knew how to handle arguments and screaming, full of heated words you never wished to leave your mouth and unresolved emotions threatening to come out to the surface. After everything life threw his way, he not only knew how to handle all of it, he simply knew anger. It was as burning as always, cutting through him like the sharpest of knives, but at least it was familiar. He was drowning, sure, but the water in his lungs and pain rooted in his bones felt almost like home, in its own fucked up way. He preferred it much more to whatever all of this was. Because there were no fireworks, no plot twists. The breakup was expected, like an old friend coming to visit again. It didn’t leave him angry, frustrated, like it always did. It's just simple… happened. He watched Alessio, the sheer disgust on his face, as he spat out every regret he had towards Charles, and then left. As if nothing ever happened, as if the life together they so carefully tried to build didn’t just come tumbling down in a blink of an eye, he just walked away. Just like that.
For what felt like hours, Charles stayed exactly in the same place he was left in. On the beach, right by the sea, staring into the vast waters. It was a calm day – only a few ships here and there disturbed the water surface, a soft breeze brushed against his face, after some time causing his skin to itch ever so slightly. He couldn’t get himself to move, as if walking back home would make this situation a bit too real. If he walked away from here, he would have to face the brutal reality. Both him and Alessio poisoned each other too much, they had to eventually get away from each other. That, he understood, he could deal with. He just couldn’t stand the thought of going back to an empty house, of being completely alone, like a wreck of a once stranded ship at the bottom of the ocean. He had no idea how to handle being on his own again. Especially during this time, he had no burning anger to drown in a bottle of whiskey, no anger to direct at his loved ones, slowly drifting every person away from him. To the point where he didn’t even feel like he deserved to call anyone right after a break-up. This time there was only emptiness, numbness. And he had no idea how to cope with those feelings.
He only got back home when it was already dark. His cheeks were wet – maybe it rained, or he just cried and didn't even realise. He felt tired, but not even physically. He felt tired of having to try again. Try to move on, find a new person, dedicate his entire being to them, and then get left alone the second he gets too boring, too hard to care for. Because it always happens. Initially, people were ecstatic about him. He knew who he was – one of the most popular people in the world of music right now, by some treated like the new coming of Jesus Christ himself. He was handsome and charming, he could make people fall for him if he only batted his eyelashes the right way and smiled innocently. But the excitement quickly faded.
Behind closed doors, he was nowhere near this huge personality the media sees him as. He goes quiet for hours, only sitting by his piano, most of the time not even playing it. He needs constant attention, constant reassuring everything's still fine, he is still fine, he is still enough. He closes himself off whenever something goes wrong, bottles all of his feelings, and gets defensive at the sheer implication that he requires help. He wants to be as dainty, soft and lovely as people assume him to be, but somehow all he is are sharp edges ready to turn people away from him if they try to get too close. All he wants is for someone to see all of his flaws, acknowledge them, and still think he is worthy of love without having to change, hide. Is he really asking for so much?
“Maybe I should go to therapy.”
It’s a slow realisation that he might be a little fucked up. Or no, he’s known for ages, the idea of it being something he was at peace with. But it’s not like he has anyone else to talk to, confide in. Charles doesn’t bow well with the idea of needing assistance, perhaps it’s the middle child syndrome he’s carried with him since Arthur was born. The feeling of being overlooked and forgotten to the point that you wonder if it’s even worth asking for help because you know they’ll ignore your needs in favour of helping somebody else instead. And then you begin to internalise the idea that you are a bother, a burden to anyone who you speak to, and suddenly even asking where something is in a grocery store is painful. You begin to believe that if you perhaps did everything to flawless perfection, then you would be worth something. But flawless perfection is not something you would ever be able to achieve. So when something is needed from you, or you are given a task, you procrastinate. You feel like you can’t breathe because you need to get it done, but you can’t because it won’t be good enough. So you begin not to complete the tasks because what point is there in doing them if no one will tell you that you did well.
This is perhaps not the best of mentalities for a musician, someone who has a life so many would be jealous of, but, well, we’re all a little fucked in the head right? So, perhaps, seeing someone who knows how to get rid of that sort of thing would be a good idea. Charles adds it to his list of things on his notepad that lies beside his bed. The bed that hasn’t had its linens changed and washed in weeks. The notepad that has lists that are multiple pages long of things that he should do once he has enough energy to do anything other than order take out and scroll through endless movies on Netflix, sobbing after watching romcoms. He doesn’t believe anyone could ever love him for who he is.
He always imagined being at the top of the world would be different from this. But whenever the lights go down and the cameras turn off, he’s not Charles Leclerc, one of the most outstanding musicians of his time. He’s a poor excuse for a human being, a child that got lost in the woods whilst searching for someone who would love them. It feels pathetic, but for years, each trial of breaking that cycle ended up in another failure. It always came back to his entire life, including the smallest of responsibility, feeling like too much to handle, to take care of. Somewhere in between being miserable, alone and simply ignored, he feels like he has lost all of his best years. Okay, he wasn’t old or anything, but if he had to guess what being burned out would feel like, he would say it’s the empty heart after yet another breakup caused by him being simply not enough. Again. And why even try to change it, or fix it, if it never worked? Maybe all he was meant to be was a shadow in everybody’s lives; a person that is only sometimes needed, yet never wanted.
Why go to therapy, if he doesn’t even have enough willpower to cook a healthy meal for himself, call his mum back, watch his brother’s race? He felt terrible, how dared he to even think of doing something for himself first? It wasn’t in his nature, it shouldn’t have been. All Charles was supposed to do was give himself away to people until there was nothing of him left. He was not supposed to do stuff to make himself feel better. Just the thought of how selfish he could get left his mouth bitter with disgust. As pathetic as always, Leclerc. He thought to himself, dragging a hand across his mouth, sighing quietly. He had to do something to prove he’s not that useless, helpless. Maybe not worthy of love and care, that was a very unachievable goal as of now, but, small beginnings, right? If he could just show his family more support, potentially even somehow apologise to his friends, try to mend bridges between them, then perhaps slowly he could fix himself, his life.
Well, if not, at least his fans would have another depressing album to listen to. Win-win situation, if you ask him.
He pulls his hands through his hair, grimacing at the sheer amount of grease in his hair. Pulling his shirt to his nose, he almost gags at the smell. He closes his laptop and has a look at his room. A mess. Sighing, he pulls off his covers and stands up, stretching and yawning, wanting nothing more than to crawl back into bed. He sets his laptop on his desk, but not before moving the pile of dirty clothes to his laundry room. Drawing the curtains in, and letting in some daylight and fresh air, he should feel better. And maybe he does-albeit marginally, but he still feels absolutely awful.
Shaking his head at how disgusting he’s let his room get, let himself get, he slowly makes his way to the bathroom, washing his face and putting on a headband to keep his grimy hair away from his face. He decides to begin to clean his room. It would be too awful to continue this way, and wallowing was getting boring. He started a new list.
TO DO:
Put away dishes
Throw out the rubbish
Strip bed and replace linens (remember to wash old stuff and not leave it in laundry basket)
Sort dirty clothes and put away clean clothes
Run darks first and then lights
Drink water & eat
Vacuum and mop (at least bedroom)
Shower
His life was a mess but he could clean his room.
Putting the dishes into the dishwasher, he mulls over the consequences of ignoring his mother for one more day. He needed to call and ask when she had time for a haircut, but what would it matter if he called tomorrow? He’d honestly be proud of himself if he managed half of the things on that list. Charles was nothing if not diligent, carefully rinsing his plates and bowls, organising the cutlery into sections in the dishwasher. He lived alone, only bleeding a few sets of each, so it was a job that was over and done with fast enough that he only needed 2 songs and an All Too Well (10 minute version) (Taylor’s Version) (From the Vault). He was able to cross it off his list and move onto the next task. The rubbish. Just the idea of it was overwhelming. He picked up a clear plastic bag for his non recyclables, put it in his room and went back to the kitchen for water and his recycling bins, this was going to be a long one. Putting on his most “Feeling depressed but Imma pull through bc little me would be so upset if they saw me wallowing” coded playlist, hit shuffle, and started sorting through the month and a half's worth of rubbish build up, slowly, but surely he began seeing little areas of the floor through his self-inflicted mess. The take-out boxes that had made his room stink were placed into the plastic recycling bins, the air clearing the smell, like rain after a fire, clearing the smoke.
He was sad to see it go, the melancholy of his sorrows giving comfort to his despair. As he sorted through the piles, taking the rubbish to the rubbish shoot and opening a new bag, he thought about all that was, is and would be. He thought about Arthur, how he crashed and burned but got up again. He thought about his father, telling him to pursue his passion even if it wasn’t racing, introducing him to his management and record labels, starting his career without Charles being able to thank him for it. He thought of his mother, the way she kept going after his father died, kept food on the table, and stayed strong. He could be strong too. He could be strong for his father, for Arthur, for Lorenzo, for his mother, maybe he could even be strong for himself.
He trudged back into his flat after disposing of the last rubbish bags and cringing at the sheer amount of rubbish that had accumulated in his bedroom. That wasn’t even including the sheer state of his fridge… Either way he had cleaned up so much of the mess, his mood was starting to lift. Which was… Good? He couldn’t tell if it was what was supposed to happen. He had refrained from googling anything about it, fearing the chance that someone would hack into his search history and tell the world about what was happening. He had told his manager that he wouldn’t be able to do much the next little while, and he hadn’t minded, but his fans could be downright terrifying.
With the awful task of taking out the many bodies worth of rubbish from his flat out of the way, (good thing he lived in a penthouse, people would think he was a serial killer if they saw the black rubbish bags he was carrying out of his flat.) He could take on the easy task of changing his bedding. He went to his linen closet and pulled out a monochrome rosso corsa set with white sheets, the cleanness of the sheets feeling heavenly and started putting it on his bed. The worst part of it was changing what used to be Alessio’s side of the bed, but from all of Charles’s wallowing his smell had gone away, so there was no point in keeping it there. The satin pillow covers were next, the silky smoothness of it all made Charles want to lay down and sleep, but it was only three, and he had decided he wanted to stay awake until at least eight thirty. (Sue him for being a grandpa, he liked his sleep.)
With the bedsheets changed he heaved what was left of his clean clothing onto the bed, started folding them and put them away neatly while listening to his surprisingly long queue of self-help videos. Screw Alessio and his self-help books, he only ever read them to sound smart.
He worked his way through everything he had, put it away, ran the darks and sank down into his sofa, exhausted. After having rifled through the fridge and found nothing to eat, he ordered his “last” take away meal right to his doorstep, promising himself that he would go to the grocery store the next day. He decided on getting his favourite sushi as a reward for having actually accomplished some of the things on his list. He ordered his regular, nigirizushi, salmon sashimi and a mix of different maki rolls. He ate it slowly but also too quickly to really feel like he had the chance to enjoy it. But there was always the chance to go to the sushi place with Arthur when he got better. When, not if. Charles knew deep in his soul that he needed to get better, like soul-searching, swearing off social media and doing yoga in the mornings, better. Vacuuming and mopping were next, he sped through it while blasting Northern Attitude and singing along as loud as he could.
In the end he was exhausted to the brink of deciding he would sleep on the couch so he could shower tomorrow and not dirty his sheets. But really, he knew that the longer he postponed it, the worse it would get. And he had already let it get worse than should be allowed any longer, and he’d be deemed inhumane. He sighs and opens the linen closet, taking out his favourite towel and walks into his en suite. Charles hates showers. Being an adult for a few years already, it feels silly, and almost embarrassing. But for how simple and effortless showering should be, he felt drained at the sheer thought of the process.
He usually thought it was just the complicated nature of it. Maybe not for everyone, but the entire step by step of taking a shower always felt like a lot of work to him. The amount of small decisions going into each step did not help, and only made him more overwhelmed. When stepping out of a bed is a task, choosing between vanilla or chocolate scented body wash appears unnecessarily scary. And he could probably go about his life believing his hatred for showers lies only within the complexity of it.
The truth, however, was something much more intimate, if he had to find a word to describe it.
For someone who knew loneliness like the back of his hand. For someone who tucked all of his stuffed animals in bed when he was a kid just so they would never have to feel as lonely and overlooked as he felt. Standing alone in a shower was way more intimidating than it should be. Because there was something so undiscovered, almost alien about doing it on his own. The horrific things his anxiety whispered to him were much more clear when the steady flow of water was hitting his body, the floor, the walls. The exhaustion hidden deep between his lungs where his heart should be felt even heavier when his tears mixed with the water dripping from his hair. But even then, he could survive the inevitable mental breakdown that usually came with taking a long awaited shower on his own. What he couldn’t bear was the aftermath. There was something heartbreaking in a way, a task that feels scary before you even begin it, and further mentally drains you as you get through it. It feels so good after all. Physically, of course, but it helps him feel cleaner even mentally. Which is simply another reason for him to hate showering, the excruciatingly long parade of shame that it was for him. If at the end of the day it felt so good, why did the process and preparation have to be like this?
So he got in the shower. Alone. He washed his body with the fancy shower gel he got in a PR box last month, the fresh aroma of lavender and aloe vera burning his nostrils. He let the water splash on his back, the temperature too warm and too cold for his liking. He double shampooed and did a hair mask because if he was here he might as well. He used the specially curated conditioner his makeup team had made him to keep his hair shiny but not greasy. He used the squidge to get the water off the walls in his flat. He fluffed his hair with his towel, put on a brand-new pair of clean socks and his fancy pyjamas, crawled under the covers and passed out, exhausted and overwhelmed by the amount of stuff he had done, but not before he crossed the last thing off of his list.
Why was taking care of himself so energy consuming?
To no one’s surprise, he woke up feeling… better. Only a little, it wasn’t a drastic change, but at this point he would take any amount of improvement. If holding on to hoping that one day, somehow, everything would be simply okay, would be the one thing to keep him going, you best believe he was going to never let go of that hope. He simply wanted to, somewhere it is the future, where Charles wakes up and simply lives through his day, not needing to survive it. He wasn’t stupid, he knew he had a long journey ahead of himself before that would happen. He knew it would be rocky, complicated, and probably impossible to get through alone, but there was no harm in at least trying. His mother, brothers, friends, they would all want him to at least try to get better, right? He had to do it for them. (For dad, for Jules. But he didn’t dare to think about them now.)
Knowing that if he does not think of a reason to get out of bed right now, he would stay there and rot for the rest of the day. He decided that going to do much necessary shopping was a good enough excuse to motivate himself to leave the comfort of his warm duvets. He didn’t want to waste the progress he already did yesterday by giving up on day two. Plus, he was supposed to take care of his own life, and like any responsible adult cook every once in a while, instead of surviving off of shitty take away food. He rose from his bed, shooting one last yearning glance towards it, and headed for his wardrobe. After doing his best to find an outfit that would be a combination of still being at least somewhat representative (he had an image to uphold, thank you very much) and comfortable enough to not make his skin feel like burning, quite satisfied with the result, he got dressed quickly. He gave up on trying to fix the mess that his hair was right now, and left the penthouse, heading towards the nearest store he could.
After only spending fifteen minutes there, Charles decided that no trip to a grocery store should be as mentally draining as whatever the hell this one was. Maybe it was the fact he had already done a lot yesterday, especially considering how tired he was to begin with, or maybe it was because he didn’t even make a shopping list. Charles loved lists. Not having one was driving him insane. He was just walking around the store picking up anything he thought he might need. Nonetheless, standing in the aisle with pasta and rice, Charles was this close to giving up and simply walking back home. It all felt overwhelming, having to make so many choices that would actually have an impact (even if the impact was only on what he would eat for the next couple of days and not anything groundbreaking, it was still an impact). Still, he tried to ignore the way his skin itched for him to just get away from there, and actually make the choice of which brand and type of pasta he wanted to buy.
Having secured a bag of what looked like good quality penne, he was about to head towards self check out – of course, only after getting himself a sweet treat. He deserved a chocolate now. However, the universe seemed to have other plans, as, looking down, he was met with a tiny figure staring up at him. The girl couldn’t be older than two, three at best. She was dressed in little overalls and her hair was put up in two buns. Or well, an attempt of two buns. They were lopsided at best, but still, it looked cute on the child. What was however concerning, was the lack of a parent following the little girl. Charles didn’t want to look like a total creep, trying to lure a stranger’s child to him, but that child was here alone. He had a heart, okay?
“Hello sweetheart,” he crouched down in front of the girl, deciding that going for English was the best choice. Monaco may be a French-speaking country, but with the amount of celebrities of all sorts moving here in the past few years, nowadays, you could never be sure if you could speak your mother tongue in your mother country. Ridiculous, if you ask him, but what is there to do? “Where are your parents, hm?” Only after he asked the little girl about her mysterious parents, did he realise it was a little bit… stupid. Could children at this stage of development even talk? He truly knew nothing about parenting. Why him, out of all people? Why do these things always happen to him?
“Lexie! God, here you are” an unknown to him, a clearly disturbed voice with a thick accent rang through his ears, and quick enough a person to match the sound appeared in front of Charles.
The man wasn't that tall, maybe a few centimetres taller than Charles himself. He had brown hair, or maybe dirty blond, it was hard to tell in the dim light that the store had provided. (he’d love to find out the colour it was in other parts of the day) His outfit wasn’t actually bad, to be honest. It was simple, but well-balanced Maybe Charles didn’t look like much of a fashionista himself right now, especially not enough to be judging other people's outfits. Yet, the combination of a baggy, a bit washed-out jumper, that sadly did nothing for his silhouette, and a pair of darker, straight leg jeans (contrary to the jumper, these were doing everything for the guy’s thighs. if prompted, Charles could write a song entirely about them in that second, and none of the things in the lyrics would be family friendly) looked really nice on him. To tie it all off, the man had the most radiant baby blue eyes he had ever seen. He wasn’t a fan of writing about someone’s eyes in songs (he agreed they were the window to someone’s soul, but already everyone was writing about eyes, it was so overdone, in a way), but the way they glistened deserved entire albums to have dedicated just to them. For a second he wondered if the stranger was actually so out-of-this-world handsome, or if Charles was just lonely and desperate. He didn’t have much time to think about it, as he realised the little girl was now being held by the hot-guy, who seemed to be speaking to him. Oh.
“I’m so sorry, I– god, she’s fast for a two-year-old, you know?” the man laughed quietly, and if Charles was ever so slightly insane about him before he was fully unhinged right now. How could a raspy laugh sound this hot? He really hoped the writer's block that was low-key haunting him would disappear as soon as possible. Because he was a hundred percent sure his fans would eat up a song about a hot guy in a grocery store aisle. Billboard Hot 100, Charles Leclerc is coming for you. “At least she’s taking up after me. Anyway, I’m getting off track. Thank you for– not being creepy, I guess? Oh, and not letting her run further. And I’m sorry if we interrupted you, but this little gremlin just loves trouble.”
“Oh, it’s no problem! I love kids!” Did he know absolutely nothing about kids? For sure. But who cares? “And Lexie didn’t cause any issues, she’s just curious” Charles tried to keep his voice soft and reassuring. He had no idea why he cared for the stranger to think highly of him, but he was not about to unpack his attachment issues, acting up whenever someone just kindly smiled his way.
“Well, I’m glad then, I’m Max by the way” the guy smiled, shifting his kid so she’d be supported on his hip, only held with one hand. Charles felt his soul melt just slightly at the concerned and genuine face of… Max. He hesitated before replying with a quick, “ah yes, well I am Charles. Charles Leclerc.” Max nodded and shook his head,“We won’t bother you any more, thank you once again! Come on Lexie, say bye, hm?” at that, the little kid (Lexie?) waved her tiny hand ever so slightly, mumbling something that sounded like a ‘goodbye’, at least in some way. Charles waved back at the two, and within a moment they were both gone from his sight. Who would’ve thought a trip to a grocery store could be so emotional in a good way?