Chapter Text
This whole weekend felt like a fever dream. The entire grid seemed to have been reduced to only Lando, Max and Oscar.
And now Charles, trying desperately to overtake Lando in any possible way but failing miserably, because his tractor of a car just wasn’t capable of anything this year. If at any point there had been hope, it was long gone.
Just like the faith in his team. The faith that had been so present last year, with his wins in Monaco and Monza, and the 1-2 in Austin. Carlos’ wins in Australia and Mexico.
Carlos.
His ex-teammate, his friend, the last driver to have won in a goddam Ferrari and had been forced to leave to a midfield team he had turned out to be so much happier in.
Charles still and now Lewis were stuck in the Ferrari spiral that promised to go up but was actually speeding downwards. It almost felt like everyone at Ferrari, except for the drivers themselves, didn’t even want to win anymore and just chill the fuck out on the legacy the team held.
The team he wanted to drive for since he was a little boy, the team he had lied about having a contract with to his dying father, the team he thought he could fulfill Jules’ destiny with.
The team that had almost ultimately failed him, like he now failed in helping Max win his fifth championship. Charles had been the only possibility for Max to not only win the race, but take the championship home with him as well - and he had failed at a job so dumbly simple, and couldn’t do it.
Just couldn’t.
(Can’t this, can’t that. Box Box, retire the car.)
All he wanted now was to park his goddamned car in parc fermé, teleport to his driver room to change, teleport to the airport and fly home to bury himself somewhere in his apartment.
But again, he obviously couldn’t do that. At least not the teleportation-part.
Normally he would’ve congratulated Max and Lando on their wins at some point following exciting parc fermé, but at the last race it was quite impossible if you were not on the podium yourself.
He felt empty doing the first part of his media duties, having to wait in between for some reason making him even more miserable.
All these damn questions repeating and repeating like a timeloop of horror, never giving him a break from feeling like a meaningless pile of dust waiting to be blown away into nothing.
[Why couldn’t you get the pace? Where did you lose the pace? Why Why Why]
[I don’t know. I don’t know. I don't know. I’m sorry.]
I’m so so sorry Max, forgive me, please.
A weight on his shoulder ripped him from his burying thoughts.
He sat in a corner of the media pen, staring holes in his legs folded up before him. He looked up to see Carlos’ blinding white racesuit in front of him. His dark blue fireproofs calmed him a bit more, though not the expression on the Spaniard's face.
“Charles, are you okay mate?”
He spoke in a low voice as to not be heard by the microphones still set up, looking down at him with his brows pulled together, creating a deep line between them.
Charles sighed, thinking of what to say, but finding no words at all. Not just in English, but Italian and even French had left his brain entirely.
Carlos seemed to take that as a motivator to continue being concerned.
“You don't look so good, how much did you drink since the race? Did you eat enough before? You’re pale.”
Christ, couldn‘t everybody just leave him alone? Carlos had known to not question him like this after a bad race, but one year apart had seemed to make him lose all his knowledge of Charles. At least the power to speak had chosen to return to him.
“I don't know, Carlos. Everything feels … how you say… Like, behind a wall. Or under water. My head is empty.”
Carlos brows now wandered up and Charles remembered his question-rant.
“And yes, I ate and drank enough. I think.”
Carlos’ name was called from somewhere in the room and he turned.
“Ok, see you. Don’t die on me or something.”
He walked away. Charles didn't care where or who he spoke to next. He resumed to his old position with his head down and balled up like a frightened hedgehog. Who knew how long he could mope in his misery before also being called again.
It turned out to be not even a minute. His mind shut down completely. At least now the interview was in Italian, so his brain spoke for him and he was… somewhere else. Probably home already, almost five thousand kilometres away.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
He just managed to greet the bouncer as he entered his building. Louis gave him his usual, calm but firm spoken, “Bonsoir, monsieur” and nodded lightly. Charles barely no more as breathed a tired “Bonsoir” in his direction and dragged his bag to the elevator.
The ride up felt like a lifetime. He leaned against one of the mirrored walls and almost fell asleep like that, only the loud (ping) floor sixteen sparing him from standing there like a complete idiot. Luckily the hallway was empty, leaving him undisturbed while he made his way to his door, fumbling with the key way too long. When the door finally did open he nearly fell in along with it, only catching himself on the wardrobe.
The room almost had a summery smell after the sun had beamed through the open windows for the past three weeks. The thick air overstimulated him, making him angry, for no reason at all, but nonetheless.
He flung his bag in a corner and ripped his few windows open, running around his apartment like a menace, ending his fresh air scramble in the bedroom. He let himself fall on the bed, taking deep breaths of the cool breeze. Charles waited a few minutes for his head to clear a bit, then fumbled his clothes off and crawled under his covers.
He woke up shivering like a wet dog, but not from a dream or nightmare – for he hadn't dreamt at all. It was freezing cold around him, the thin blanket he had doing nothing against the temperature.
At first he thought someone had kidnapped him along with his bed, leaving him in an abandoned warehouse or something. Then he remembered Right, the windows, shit and fell sideways out of bed in an attempt to get out as fast as possible. He struggled up, first shutting the windows in his bedroom, then in the living room and kitchen.
By the time he had closed out the perceived blizzard and turned up the heat, he decided to just take a hot shower in order to warm him up faster. And also, it was almost five, so he could as well stay awake and go for a walk or something, whatever.
The hot water felt like a revival, like someone pumped fresh warm blood through his veins after he had been frozen like Capain fucking America. He went through his usual routine and then just stood under the spray for what felt like an eternity (actually it was 12 minutes). His mind swirled around the race, around his failure, the disappointment that seeped through his body constantly. When he felt himself beginning to go down the spiral he so often fell in, he turned off the water and got out.
He needed something to do, something to distract him. First, he walked through Monte Carlo with Leo for two hours, taking all the little pathways and alleys to avoid as many people as possible.
He got coffee and a chocolate pastry at his favourite cafe on his way back, drinking the coffee on his balcony and putting the pastry in the fridge for later.
The peace lasted 15 minutes until he couldn't take sitting around anymore.
Socialising wasn't an option, he wouldn't even consider it for his life. He decided to go to the gym, forgoing calling Andrea, because even having his trainer with him was too much interaction. Packing his things, Leo looked at him like he thought his human had been replaced by someone just looking and smelling like him but nothing more. Like the aliens from M.I.B but better.
He pattered after him to the door, giving him the puppy eyes he hadn't lost growing up.
“It’s ok chéri, Papa has to go distract himself a bit. Watch our Home, will you?”
Leo whined at him, like he wasn’t agreeing with Charles going in his current mood. He just patted him one more time before leaving.
Working out didn’t help to the extent he had hoped. He switched playlists six times, doing his exercises on complete autopilot, and since there was no one with him, his brain shoved the music to the background and produced more excruciating thoughts to the foreground.
*Fool. Thinking it could have gone any different. You’re Il Predestinato. Destined, yes. Destined to never get things right. To never be enough.*
That’s what people told him, that he was the chosen one (Harry Potter who?), but what did it bring him? Certainly no magical powers, but also his long awaited win in the championship. Christ, he hadn’t even won a normal race this year.
He wanted 2024 back, at least, if he couldn't have more than that. He wanted Carlos back. He didn't particularly have anything against Lewis, but with Carlos everything had been better. With him the season would’ve been more bearable, if it even had gone like this with him. Charles couldn't quite say how or why, but Carlos' presence made almost every team perform on their actual maximum potential, not just what they believed their maximum potential was.
Without Carlos, Charles had felt so alone. Even PR he did almost always alone now, Lewis either occupied with other obligations or just refusing to do them. Before he had never understood the other drivers’ apathy for PR stuff, not until he was by himself, all attention on him, having to play a part.
Carlos’ and his friendship had always made it so easy, he never had to pretend he was happy, because in these moments he had been, Carlos distracting him from all the misery surrounding them. Charles would never understand how he did it, he envied him for it even.
At the place where Carlos had been, he had left a hole, like a negative space, which Charles had thought would be filled up equally by his new teammate, but Lewis was like a single drop meant to fill a swimming pool; it had made no difference at all.
Lewis just was so distant, his presence almost always passive. He was a Scuderia Ferrari driver now, but not Charles’ teammate in the sense one would normally think of teammates. Look at every other team; George had become Kimi’s brother in a way, Max was now caring for Isack, Carlos and Alex had become friends quite quickly. What went on between Lando and Oscar he was not entirely sure, but there was something exceeding the friendship of teammates. Even Gabi and Nico got along very well (maybe a little bit too well to not be suspicious) despite their age difference.
And Charles was alone now. Properly alone, he realized. When was the last time he met with or even just known someone outside of Formula 1? His last girlfriend probably, but even that had been ages ago.
He suddenly became aware that he just sat at one of the machines without doing anything at all and decided to go home. Normally he didn't care about other people in the gym, but this was beyond awkward.
In comparison to usual, he fled the gym, grabbing his bag and not even bothering to go change, just out the doors to his car.
When he sat in the driver's seat, he felt emptier than before, which was not good (obviously). What else was he supposed to do? He felt like a damsel in distress, though he wasn't a young woman and didn't need saving or help (except that he did).
Back home he showered, put on comfy clothes, ate lunch – leftovers from before the race – and went out with Leo again after feeding him as well.
When he entered his building once again, he felt like he was in a loop, and he had a feeling it wouldn't end very soon.
The only thing left was, to his dismay, Netflix and Chill. He grabbed some [fav snack] and plopped down on his couch, proceeding to scroll through Netflix in the attempt to find something new that seemed appealing. Leo jumped up too, curling beside his leg.
After fifteen minutes he decided to just rewatch [some series] for probably the fourth time.
While the intro played, he glanced at the clock on the wall.
11:56 am.
No, because how was he supposed to survive when the days seemed to last forever.
He expected his brain to shove the series into the background again and give in to his thoughts, but instead he managed to concentrate on the events playing on screen by speaking along with the characters.
To his surprise, it even calmed him down a bit, lulling him in to focus on the events playing on the massive screen in the brightly lit room. It’s probably not really that, but it feels like he was hypnotised by these oddly creepy magicians, completely forgetting everything else and drifting in and out of weird half-dreams.
He fell asleep – completely asleep – during the second episode.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The next time he awoke it was because of Leo, licking square through his face and wagging his tail like crazy upon realising his human was online in the world again. The blinds had already opened up automatically, flooding the room with blinding light.
How late is it already?
He peeled himself out of bed, following a running and apparently very hungry Leo into the kitchen. The digital light on the oven read 10:27, but he didn’t even care anymore how stupidly much he had slept.
He gave Leo his usual breakfast, because supposedly his life now contained of watching TV, feeding and walking his dog and sleeping.
He stood uselessly in the kitchen for ten five minutes, staring holes into his walls, until Leo whined and then barked at him after not reacting the first time.
“What?” bark “I know, Oh, I know, mon petit lion, dad is in a bad mood.” whine “He’s sad and lonely, you know? No, you don't know, you’re with me, and I wish it were enough. I really do.”
He picked Leo up, petting him thoroughly, Leo licking him in response.
Leo, his little lion.
Oh, oh no.
Why did he make himself think of Max?
You should have helped him, should have been able to help him. But no, you failed him. Just like you failed yourself.
No. Nope. Nu-uh.
He wouldn’t even let his brain proceed with this. He needed something to really get him to not think about anything, actually.
But what?
His gaze wandered around the kitchen and stopped at the sink and stove.
Huh. Cleaning.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
And that’s what he did. He cleaned his whole house until his hands were red from hot water and scrubbing and he actually fell asleep on his bathroom floor.
Before anything else, he vacuumed and mopped all the floors, since it was a basic step and had to be done everywhere, so he could as well do it in one.
The kitchen had been first; every surface, every utensil and piece of cutlery, all the cupboards and the whole fridge.
Then the living room; the seats, the couch and carpet underneath and on the shelves, putting all the contents on the floor to not leave any dust between or under them and putting them back after, changing their arrangement a bit here and there.
His bedroom didn’t contain much apart from the bed and his nightstands, which were regularly cleaned anyway, the big wardrobes and the dresser opposite from them. He decided to completely empty those too, looking for clothes he definitely wouldn’t wear ever again or wrongfully had put in there not clean, sorting the three categories — don’t want anymore, washer and put back in — into laundry baskets. The insides of the wardrobes and dresser were less dusty than he expected, but he went over everything with a very low concentrated, unscented soap water nonetheless. Then he put all the put back in clothes in their designated places and sent the washer basket to the laundry room. The don’t want anymore basket got a place by the front door since he didn’t know what to do with it yet.
Already exhausted, he gathered the rest of the cleaning utensils from the closet to devote himself to the bathroom. He came as far as cleaning the sinks, toilet — which wasn’t that horrible actually — and shower. The previously put-aside products were sorted and put back more organised. Then he decided that the grout between the tiles in the floor had become too dark and began to scrub them with a new toothbrush (he didn’t have old ones) after researching how and more importantly with what to clean it.
Sitting on the warmed floor tho proved to be quite tiring, especially so because it wasn’t a very fast or interesting work. And so, at some point during his progress, he fell asleep in his still of cleaners smelling, brightly illuminated bathroom.
This time, he didn’t wake from light, or Leo, or just nothing like before. This time, the very unpleasant sound of his phone buzzing against the hard tile ripped him from his even more unpleasant sleep on the ground.
“Que se passe?”
He picked it up from where it lay with the screen down beside the shower and turned it around to see who was bothering him.
Incoming call
Carlos S🌶️
Now, what on earth did Carlos want from him in the evening of the Tuesday after the last race? He wasn’t even his teammate anymore, so it definitely wasn’t about a debrief or anything like the last years. Unfortunately, there was only one way to find out.
“Chaaarles, mate. How are you, eh?”, he was greeted.
Why did he care?
“Uh, I don't know. Fine, I guess. Just really tired.” He could hear how glum he sounded; voice rough and weak, far from the cheerful tone he had often used with Carlos.
“Huh.”
Huh what. What kind of response was that?
“You know how bad you are at lying, yes? I can tell pretty well when you do. You never managed to beat me in the bluff games.”
Shit. He didn’t consider that. He was a very bad actor, especially when hiding the change in his voice.
“I- I just don’t want to, uh, burden you with it, you know. I can live this out on my own.”
“No, Charles, don't do that. You don’t burden me with anything. What is going on?”
He couldn‘t just tell him, could he? Carlos didn’t have anything to do with it, it was his misery and his problems to deal with, really. But also he felt like he would combust no later than Friday, if not earlier, if he wouldn’t get some of it out.
“It’s, uhh…“ Now how was he supposed to tell him? That actually was the much bigger issue with it.
“Ah, no, hold on. Let’s not do this over the phone, yes? It feels wrong, and it will be easier for you too, maybe?”
“Charles?”
Oh, right, he should answer him, not just accept his fate and remain silent.
“Tha- that’s probably better, yes. But… how else will we do it?”
“I’ll come to you. You’re home, right? I’m in Monaco anyways, I’ll be there in…let’s say fifteen?”
“Uhh, okay. See you then.” His voice had grown even quieter, he hoped Carlos had even heard him.
“See you, Charles. Don't run away.”
Then the line was silent.
What did I get myself into. Why am I doing this.
With a loud sigh he pushed himself up from the floor. His reflection in the mirror looked horrible; hair tousled, dark rings under his eyes despite the ton of sleep he had gotten, skin pale and flat.
He tried to make himself a bit more representable, but didn’t put much effort in. Carlos probably knew what he had gotten himself into, he supposed.
He flopped onto the couch, startling Leo once again, staring at the ceiling and waiting for his end to come.