Chapter Text
It came in waves, Charles's depression always had. It started at the death of his beloved Jules, fluctuated when Papa died, and had grown since then. But it had always been manageable. Charles knew that he should've been grateful, many people would never get the opportunity to have a life like his. And yet, everyday had begun to feel like he was drifting further and further down a river that he couldn't control. This particular wave had hit him at the beginning of the season. He had a whole new teammate to get used to, an absolute shit car that he had to maintain, and the McLarens suddenly dominating the grid. It was shockingly hard to manage for the Monegasque.
Sure, he stood on the podium a few times. But he hadn't won in forever. He was supposed to the be the prince of Ferrari. And yet, he could barely pull himself to the finish line. Luckily, or unluckily depending on who you asked, Lewis hadn't managed to do much better than him in any of the races.
It wasn't until Kimi got him out in the Zandvoort Grand Prix did Charles truly crack. It wasn't even his fault, but it was a major disappointment nonetheless. He saw what the people said about him online. All the memes and the jokes that were created about Ferrari losing hope. It had begun to drag him into the bottomless pit of envy. It filled him with resentment and jealousy, a feeling he hadn't felt since being in karting. A feeling he could never really escape, no matter how hard he tried, it lingered like a bad taste on his tongue.
Charles laid on his bed, regretting nearly everything about his life. He was alone, as usual. Alex had moved out months ago, it wasn't like their relationship was real anyway. It looked nice on her Instagram and it made him seem slightly more sane. So, they kept it up for the cameras and the fans. Leo was asleep somewhere, probably under his bed. He didn't care to check.
He had a flight soon, Singapore was next. He didn't particularly dislike Singapore, but it wasn't on his top lists of favorites. The disappointment of Monza and Baku still lingered heavily on his mind. But, he couldn't think too much of it, he had something to prove. He had people to please, damn it.
Charles sat up, checking the time. He stood up, glancing around the barren waste that was his apartment. He glanced at his suitcase that laid on the floor, he didn't bother to unpack anymore. He walked over to his dresser, grabbing clothes that he figured would look somewhat suitable together. If anything, he couldn't have anyone out dressing him. Or looking better than him, for that matter. If there was anything that he was obsessed about, it was his looks and winning.
Leo yipped on the floor, probably wanting Charles to play with him or something. He scurried off, his claws making a soft tapping noise as he pranced around. He came back with a beaten up toy rope that some fan had gifted a few months back. He dropped it at Charles's feet. Charles shook his head, ignoring Leo to finish packing. But Leo, as stubborn as his father, continued following along.
"Mon Dieu, laissez-moi tranquille!" My God, leave me alone!
Leo whined and ran off, probably going to hide in the growing pile of dirty clothes on the floor that Charles refused to pick up. Charles couldn't help the way he lashed out, he knew the dog wasn't smart enough to understand. And yet he so desperately wanted Leo to understand, to understand why he needed distance in a time like this. He just needed somebody to understand what he was going through.
The flight was long, Charles always hated flying long distances. Although he wasn't sure if it was because they were long or it was because he was so alone during them. When he finally landed, he threw himself into work. Meetings with Ferrari, photo shoots, PR bullshit, whatever he could do to distract himself from the growing hole in his heart. Free practice wasn't worth much, it never really was. It was boring and it never brought much excitement to his soul. Qualifying was next.
The car rumbled under his grip, but it didn't feel alive. Not like it used to. It didn't breathe with him anymore, didn't react with him, he didn't even need to tame it. For once in it's life, it acted like a machine. A contraption that Charles needed to control. He sped down the track, around the curves and corners. It didn't give him a rush like it was supposed to. Much to Charles's dismay, it felt almost like a chore. He qualified 7th, it definitely wasn't the result he was looking for. But it was the result he deserved. He could barely get the damn thing moving.
Charles stood in the paddock, sipping at his water bottle every few seconds as he watched his mistakes repeat on the TV over and over again. He ignored everything else as he hyper-analyzed every single thing that happened during qualifying, in some futile attempt to learn from his previous mistakes. He was quickly brought back to reality when a warm hand grasped onto his shoulder.
"Charles! Hey man, sorry about qualifying. You'll do better next time."
Max smiled warmly at him. He spoke as if he was sure that Charles would do better sometime in the future, Charles wasn't sure he held the same unwavering confidence that Max did. Charles glanced over Max, he looked the same he usually did. The same atrocious skinny jeans and used Red Bull t-shirt that he wore to nearly every race. If there was one person that Charles never had to worry about out dressing him, it was Max.
"Oh, uh, hey Max. It's okay, I'll do better next time, nice job on P2!"
Charles gave him a quick nod and the interaction was over as soon as it started. That was always how their conversations happened, they had never been the closest of friends. Not like Charles and Carlos, or even Charles and Pierre. Although, in years past, Charles could barely hide the envy he had against Max and his relationship with Daniel. He swore it was just because he wanted to have a friend that he was that close with, but Maman had always given him a weird look. Charles never quite understood why.
Maman always gave him the same look whenever he mentioned Max. Like she knew something that he didn't. Like he was some oblivious idiot that had no clue what he was doing. Charles hated it. He was as smart as everybody else, why did everybody have to act like he was the biggest dipshit known to mankind?
"Charles? Charles!"
Fred walked over, a coffee in hand and his regular scowl on his face. Charles knew they would need to discuss his poor qualifying performance, but he at least wanted it to be a little later. Charles swallowed thickly and fully turned to looked at Fred.
"Yes?"
Charles inhaled sharply, mentally preparing himself for what was to come. Lewis walked by, giving him a knowing look. Lewis had been subject to a lot of meetings about his own performance during his time at Ferrari. He understood as well as anybody else.
"What was that?! I know the car isn't the best this year, but that kind of performance is outrageous!"
Fred talked for what felt like hours, but it had actually only been 25 minutes. Charles stopped listening halfway through, he'd heard it all before. Be better at this, brake more, fight more, fight less, etc. Seriously, couldn't this guy be more creative with his 'constructive' criticism? But Charles couldn't afford to get in any trouble, so he held his tongue. He often had to remind himself that he was lucky to be in such a historic team as was Ferrari and that he needed to be grateful.
The car trembled under his firm grip. He had been having to LiCo for 45 laps by this point, he wasn't sure how much farther he could take the car. It was a miracle he hadn't retired the damn thing already. Bryan kept asking him to go further, to really push it. Charles wasn't even sure if he could get it to the final lap of the rest, let alone push himself into a higher position where he may need to defend himself. He had barely pushed it to 5th. Anything higher would be a miracle from God himself.
When he finally pulled into the parking spot, he could hardly wait to rip off his helmet. 5th place, what a joke. Anyone could do better than that. Charles wasn't ready to be in the meetings and debriefs that Ferrari always forced him to do after a poor race. He just wanted to go home and melt into his bed, never to be seen again. But he knew he couldn't do that.
Charles watched the podium performance from his garage, silently envious of them. He went to the media pen quickly, giving half assed rehearsed speeches about the team and his mistakes during the race. He had said it all before, even the words sounded scripted to him. But he knew what role he played in Ferrari's scheme. He knew he was nothing more than an image to them. A figure that the fans could look up to. A sob story to everybody else.
When Charles finally got to his room that night, he collapsed onto the hotel room bed. It was dim, he hadn't cared to turn any lights on, just the lamp by the front door. It was a nice hotel room, but it was empty. It felt cold even to him. As Charles laid there, he made a decision. If he couldn't win, he'd push himself to the maximum. Try as hard as he physically could. Because, there was no fear in losing anymore. He had already lost so much. How could it get any worse? If he was going to lose, he might as well have fun in the process.
The truth that Charles wouldn't admit was that he didn't think he'd survive past December anyway. He didn't even think past it, why would he? Why would he when he knew that the only thing about him that would survive longer than December would be his obituary?