Chapter Text
Carlos closes the door behind him with more force than necessary. The sound cracks through the apartment, sharp and final, and for a second, he just stands there, keys still in his hand, chest tight, jaw locked.
It had started almost casually, masked as kindness.
It would be good for you.
Think of the stability, the image.
A beautiful, traditional wedding.
Plenty of pictures in the media.
The fans would love it.
The sponsors even more.
Perfect.
That word again. Always perfect.
He is a Formula 1 driver, one of just twenty-two in the world, who earned his place here through years of sacrifice and discipline. Everything he has was paid for with time, distance, restraint. With learning, early on, that nothing comes without a cost.
Formula 1 is the pinnacle of motorsport, the most exclusive sport in the world, and perfection is not an ambition. It is the baseline.
Because this is how things are done.
Because this is what is expected.
Because this is the price.
He drops the keys onto the console table and runs a hand through his hair, pacing once, twice, like an animal trapped in a space too small.
“Joder”, he mutters in frustration to the empty room.
He knows how to perform obedience. He has done it all his life. Smile at the right time. Say the right thing. Be grateful. Be professional. Be respectful.
Carlos Sainz Jr. The reliable one. The good son. The good teammate. The good investment.
His body feels too tight for his skin.
He heads straight for the bathroom and turns the shower on before he even undresses, the sound of the water loud and relentless. He strips quickly, angrily, and steps under the spray, tilting his head back as the heat hits his face.
Breathe. Just breathe.
The water beats against his shoulders, his neck, his back, trying to force the tension out of him.
It does not work.
They talk about marriage like it is a contract. A transaction. A box to be ticked. They talk about legacy and family values and long-term appeal, as if his life were a brochure.
No one asks him what he wants.
No one ever asks him who he loves.
His fists clench against the tiles and suddenly he is thinking of green blue eyes, impossibly bright, like sunlight on water. Eyes that always see him, even when he is hiding. A laugh that hits him somewhere behind the ribs, something warm and reckless and alive. A voice that says his name like it belongs to something real, not a brand.
Lando.
The thought lands heavy and tender all at once.
The man who has always looked at him as if to say “If you are in, I am in for you”. And meant it. Ready to fight for his convictions. Ready to fight for himself. So much stronger, braver, better than Carlos has ever been.
He presses his forehead to the cool wall, eyes closed, jaw trembling despite his effort to keep it steady.
Carlos has never said it. Not once. Never allowed the words close enough to his mouth to be dangerous.
You are the centre of my world.
Ridiculous.
Pathetic.
True.
The water runs down his face and he tells himself it is just steam, just heat, just exhaustion. But his chest tightens and something breaks anyway, quiet and humiliating, and the tears he does not admit to crying blur his vision.
He bites the inside of his cheek hard, grounding himself in pain. This is not how men like him fall apart. This is not how champions behave.
But grief does not care about discipline.
His life does not seem to belong to him. Rather, it belongs to the people who planned it, shaped it, financed it, polished it until it shone. It belongs to the idea of him. The safe version. The acceptable one.
What he feels does not fit.
When he finally turns the water off, his skin is flushed and oversensitive, his eyes red. He does not look at himself in the mirror. He wraps a towel around his waist and leaves the bathroom without drying properly, droplets marking his path across the bedroom floor.
He collapses onto the bed face down, arms tucked beneath his chest, breath coming uneven and sharp. The mattress absorbs him, holds him, and for a moment he wishes it could swallow him whole.
Everyone has sacrificed for him.
His family. His team. The people who believed in him when he was just a boy with talent and stubbornness. The sponsors who took risks. The staff who uprooted their lives, followed him across continents.
They did not do all that so he could say no. They did not do all that so he could complicate things.
He knows this. He feels it like a weight on his spine.
Carlos is obedient. Carlos is professional. Carlos understands what is at stake.
He curls his fingers into the sheets, breathing shallow, the earlier fury drained out of him completely now, leaving something worse in its place.
Desperation.
The kind that makes every option feel like a betrayal.
If he says yes, he will survive. He will continue. He will do what he has always done. Endure. Perform. Smile for cameras. Play the role that has been written for him.
And he will keep hurting Lando.
Because Carlos knows he is hurting him. He has known for a long time. He has seen it in the pauses. In the way Lando sometimes pulls back. In the careful distance that was not there before. He has felt it in his own chest every time he chooses silence over truth.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers into the pillow, the words barely audible even to himself.
He does not know who he is apologising to. Lando? Himself? The man he might have been, if fear had not shaped him first?
The room is quiet except for his breathing. Outside, Monaco hums on, indifferent.
Carlos stays where he is, face hidden, heart aching, trapped between the life everyone wants for him and the one he wants but has never dared to claim.
And for the first time that evening, he is not angry anymore.
What remains is fear, and the knowledge of what this is costing him.