Something is wrong with Ferrari.
Most drivers don’t understand what exactly is wrong with the team, but they feel it all the same.
The way the team seems to drain and warp her drivers. The almost manic reverence the drivers seem to have for the team despite all the inconsistencies, all the car failures, and terrible strategies.
The way each driver who leaves seems a little off, maybe a bit more jaded, and they either disappear entirely from Formula 1 or join a new team with an almost unhinged ferocity.
It’s a curse that seems to taint the oldest Scuderia on the grid.
Michael.
Kimi.
Sebastian.
Charles.
Carlos.
Ollie.
Lewis.
Everyone knows that another driver hired is another driver up for slaughter.
But no one dares utter a word.
Charles has grown up hearing about the mystical nature of Ferrari.
It’s the dream team, the diamond of Formula One.
Any driver worth their salt has dreamed of joining the Prancing Horse, enthralled by her prestige. To bear the Rosso Corsa colors and bring glory to her name.
Charles hopes to be able to bring glory her to one day.
Maranello is beautiful.
The people are kind, the city is warm, and the aura is invigorating.
He rambles excitedly to his family, to his father, and to Jules, about the possibility of joining Ferrari’s Driver Academy; about how recruiters have already started taking notice of him, and how one of them even brought a fitted uniform for him to model.
He’s excited and emotional and he doesn’t realize it then, but something in Jules’ expression darkened.
The Frenchman’s eyes had dimmed ever so slightly as he reached for his phone, and he had barely managed to mask his fear with a smile as Charles turned to ramble to him about seeing the Fernando Alonso and talking with the very nice Ferrari Academy staff.
The mythos surrounding Ferrari twists into something darker, something more ominous, as he crawls up the ranks in tournament after tournament and as he gets closer to joining the Drivers’ Academy.
It’s expected, of course, that there might be unsavory rumors about a team as old as Ferrari with its extensive history in the sport.
Most drivers dismiss the rumors as baseless fairytales, laughing at the thought of a mere racing team having “magical influence” - of being able to shape destinies and bringing tragedy to those who disparage her.
Most of these drivers never make it out of the lower leagues, burned out and discouraged at the lack of success.
Charles is not like these drivers. He makes it into the Academy.
The loyalty and fanaticism are more frenzied and intense, overwhelming and overbearing even. Of course, there are still quite a few skeptics, but it’s hidden much better. Charles is one of them at first, but as he walks by the golden shield a soothing warmth fills his being and he knows that it’s real. There’s no way it can be anything else.
He belongs here.
She wants him here.
He is worthy of wearing the crimson suit that every driver aspires to be adorned in. It’s colored his dreams ever since he was a young child.
It feels like home.
My Boy, she croons. My Predestinato.
He can’t help the tears that overflow as he steps out of the factory.
He’s made it.
He’s finally made it.
She has chosen him as one of her own.
He has sacrificed everything for this.
It’s a bittersweet accomplishment.
His family is joyful and so, so proud of him, but the whole thing leaves a sour taste in his mouth. Jules was supposed to be here. Jules was supposed to be his mentor and cheer him on. Instead, Charles has been left to step into his image and burdened with the legacy bestowed to all Ferrari drivers.
A legacy that can easily break a driver who isn't ready.
Charles will do whatever it takes to make Jules proud, to show everyone that he’s deserving of being at Ferrari. To bring victory to both him and to the team.
Charles will bring Her glory and honor Her until his dying breath. Just like Jules did.
Sebastian is kind.
He's funny and a bit of a smart-ass but he’s a wonderful teammate and an even better mentor-figure. He’s taken Charles under his wing and has shown him the ropes of Ferrari. Always optimistic and comforting, especially when Charles needs someone to soothe the ache of another loss.
Today, though, Charles can see the exhaustion on the older man’s face. This year’s car isn’t living up to the standards that were expected and it’s putting the entire team on edge. He and Sebastian can sense the championship slipping from their fingers if things don’t change soon.
It's not the first meeting they've had over this, and the feeling of dread that settles in his stomach tells him that it won't be the last.
The two remain silent, wanting to avoid getting themselves involved in the discussion between Mattia and the mechanics. They’ve both said their pieces and no one took their concerns seriously.
No use in wasting their breath more than they’ve already done.
The meeting draws to a close a few hours later and Charles feels more defeated than when they first started. All in all, they weren’t able to accomplish anything, the mechanics unable to agree on the best course of action and Mattia losing his temper enough times just to shut down the whole damn meeting.
Sebastian rests his hand on his shoulder, smiling grimly. “What a sh*t show, huh?” Charles scoffs, crossing his arms as he scowls. Sebastian’s smile drops briefly before he wraps his arm around Charles, his PR-perfect smile on display. “Let’s hope the next race goes better, eh?”
He pretends not to hear the wobble in Sebastian’s voice, choosing to say nothing in turn.
There’s nothing left to say.
The bathroom vanity lights are blinding.
His hotel room is eerily silent - even the sound of the AirCon is muted.
Or perhaps it's his rage that is slowly tuning everything out.
It was supposed to be him.
He was supposed to win.
Another disastrous ending to a sh*t show of a race.
Another failed win in Monaco.
‘It is like this’ is what he had told the press; his pearly white media smile on display as he held back tears and resisted the urge to lock himself away in his driver's room. The frustration that coursed through his body was enough to make him tremble, gasping as he tried to catch his breath and prevent his temper from slipping.
Do not cry, my Boy.
Had his work not been enough? What was he missing?
His sim times were the best that the team had seen in years, so that wasn’t the issue.
It had to be his car then. There wasn’t any other explanation. It’s frustrating, knowing that he could’ve done everything right on his part, and in the end, it's his car that betrays him. That it’s Ferrari that’s letting him down.
His hotel room rattles and Charles can feel Her fury.
Patience.
He scoffs. Patience is the last thing someone who races for a living has.
You will earn your victory soon enough.
Exhaling harshly, he straightens himself out. Runs his fingers through his hair. Composes himself.
He is Charles Leclerc.
King of Monza.
Prince of Ferrari.
Her Il Predestinato.
And he will win under Her Rosso Corsa colors, glorious and larger-than-life as was intended - as is his fate.
It’s at Belgium’s Spa-Francorchamps that Charles finally learns the cost of a victory under Ferrari.
It’s been a rough start to a season with inconsistencies, car failures, and terrible team strategies.
But he did it.
He won.
But he has paid for his victory heavily.
Jules is dead.
His father is dead.
Anthoine is dead.
He pushed everything and everyone away, focusing on sims and team strategy meetings, just for one more minute to train, one more chance to hone his skills, for the tiniest sliver of luck that would give way to victory.
And now, he is alone in his victory.
My Predestinato. She whispers, pleased. My precious victor.
Aren’t you happy?
Aren’t you proud?
He’s choking. The pressure in his chest as he dedicated his victory to Anthoine, to Jules, to his Papa, is heavy. Faintly, he wonders if he’s having a heart attack.
The vines he sees so often in his dreams are back and they’re strangling him. He needs to get out of here. He can’t be here. His beloved Tifosi will see the ugly, thorny vines and their bloody, gaping wounds splattering blood everywhere as he’s bathed in champagne.
Sebastian must see the panic on his face as he steps off the podium. The German is at his side immediately, guiding him through the chaos towards his driver’s room. Once they’re inside, Charles falls apart. Sebastian embraces the Monegasque as he sobs, soothing him and gently rubbing his back. They stay like that until his PR agent is knocking at his door, warning him that the post-race interviews are starting soon.
Sebastian hands him a wet wipe to clean his face, and gently ruffles his hair as he steps outside first.
Time to face the media and pretend the whole thing isn’t slowly tearing him apart.
He inhales deeply, holds his breath, and exhales, looking at himself in the small mirror.
Posture straight, pearly white smile, charming disposition.
Go get them, my Prince.
Sebastian is leaving.
The German looked equally weary and relieved when he told Charles.
“I can’t do this anymore Charlie. They're suffocating me. They're killing me. I can’t stay here.”
Charles can’t hear his excuses over the aching of his heart, over the sting of betrayal.
Sebastian is set to be replaced by Carlos Sainz Jr. The Spaniard has a rich family history in motorsports and he has a strong driver profile, having driven for various F1 Scuderia, and having been an Academy driver for Toro Rosso.
Carlos has the skills, the passion, and drive of a Ferrari driver.
Carlos is kind and has a strange sense of humor.
He’s beautiful. Sun-kissed skin glowing under the Maranello sun and soft, keen brown eyes.
He’s perfect.
Charles is smitten from the start.
The Spaniard waves at him as he rushes off to meet with his new team. He desperately wants to follow after him but Sebastian grounds him with a stern look and gestures towards the other mechanics, engineers, and staff members.
Some are glaring and sneering at Carlos’ retreating form, while the rest are silent and frozen, their expressions eerily blank.
His heart sinks.
They don’t see him as one of them.
He invites Carlos out to tour the city after his meeting, offering to show him all the best cafes and hidden spots where they can take breaks from the bustling environment of the factory.
He hopes Maranello will embrace him in kind, just as she embraced him.
Maranello is silent as they walk, her usually bustling streets almost devoid of life for a Monday afternoon.
Charles wants to cry.
If Maranello won’t accept him, then surely Ferrari will, right?
Carlos is her newest driver and one with the potential to bring her a championship. She has to accept him.
She has to.
They pass by the infamous Monumento al Cavallino Rampante and stop briefly so that Carlos can admire the statue and take pictures. Charles can’t help but look fondly at the Spaniard as he takes in the beauty of the flower garden around the statue.
He goes to rest his hand on the Spaniard’s shoulder when he feels his heart rate spike and suddenly Maranello is very, very cold.
It’s cold, he’s shivering and his head is pounding.
He’s NOT one of us. She hisses. He is NOT ours.
Ferrari has given her judgment, and he doesn’t dare disagree.
No one dares defy the Prancing Horse.
They all knew what happened to the last driver that did.
They're reminded of it every time they touch down in Japan.
In Godforsaken Suzuka.
Everyone said it was an accident. A tragedy. One that the FIA handled disastrously.
The small, unmarred yellow shield that shouldn’t have been in the wreckage - had no reason to be - that Charles found half buried into the ground long after the wreckage had been cleared said otherwise.
Ferrari seems to be doing slightly better this year, although not by a large margin. A 1-2 podium at Bahrain had set high expectations, especially after his victories at Saudi Arabia and Australia.
His P1 win in Austria, however, is sullied by his teammate’s car catching on fire.
The Monegasque had been furious as Xavi warned him about the red flag.
It wasn’t fair! He was finally winning and this had to happen?
That was until he drove past his partner’s Ferrari that was fully engulfed in flames.
He hadn’t been able to calm down until he saw Carlos standing in the garage, safe but exhausted and pissed off. Rightfully so.
The footage had been awful to look back on, and Charles had nearly cried at the terror in Carlos’ voice as he struggled to get out of his car as it became fully engulfed in flames.
What the f*ck had the marshals been doing?
Why hadn’t they acted quicker?
Charles had half a mind to go out there and scream at them himself.
But that would be stupid. Irrational.
Because Carlos was safe. Without a car, but safe.
They had looked at the data themselves; a faulty engine pushed far past its limits, igniting into flames.
The engineers and mechanics had said nothing, looking grimly at the data and then at the two drivers before promising to work on both cars and correct the failure so that it wouldn’t happen again.
The whole thing had left Charles unsettled.
Their cars had the same engine, they had both been pushing the car far past its limits, yet his car had been fine. If both engines were faulty, then why had only Carlos’s engine malfunctioned and caught on fire?
It didn’t make sense.
The two had been silent on the drive back to the hotel, with Carlos wishing him a ‘Good Night’ as soon as they got off the elevator. Charles had let him go; the Spaniard had obviously been exhausted from the day’s events.
Walking into his own room, the Monegasque sighed as kicked off his shoes and took off his hoodie, tossing it on the floor. Annoyance coursed through him as he thought back on the race. There had been no reason for the engine to suddenly backfire like that, especially when they had been so close to getting another 1-2 podium for Ferrari.
And She had been awfully quiet during the debrief.
He turned and glared at the small Ferrari flag on his desk that he carried with him.
“What the hell was that?”
Silence.
“We were both doing good! Why would you cause his engine to malfunction?”
Silence again, and then-
For my Champion, for my Victor
“We were on our way to a double podium! We both could’ve won!”
For you. Only you. For your victory. For my Victor.
Charles's blood ran cold before fury overtook him.
“I DON’T WANT A DIRTY WIN!” He was tempted to knock the damn flag off the desk, unable to stand its sight at the revelation. The thought of winning simply through sabotage, even if it wasn’t his fault, left an ugly, dirty feeling within him.
That was not the way of a Ferrari driver.
That was never how Charles wanted to win.
“Don’t you ever pull something like that again! I want to earn my wins!”
She doesn’t respond. She’s silent, and the usual hum of her presence, a light hum resting comfortably in the back of his mind, vanishes.
She must be pissed.
Well too f*cking bad. He is too.
“It better not happen again,” he whispers to an empty room.
The hum of the AirCon is the only response he gets.
Suzuka turns out to be a f*cking sh*t show because of course it does.
It’s raining on Race Day.
It’s raining.
It’s f*cking raining.
There’s a sense of unease among the teams and people refuse to look him in the eyes. Even Max is looking at him with pity and Charles wants to f*cking punch him.
The awful weather combined with everyone’s avoidant gazes and fleeting condolences have put him in a sh*tty mood and the onslaught of reporters isn’t helping. The press are especially rabid during Suzuka - all of them eager to catch an ounce of his grief, of any reaction that might give way to a headline; like his losses are something for them to display to the world. For them to fawn over and lament.
Poor Charles Leclerc. They whisper. How many more people will he have to lose? How tragic it must be to have to race on the same track that took his godfather.
They had no right to mourn him. To make his death into nothing more than a spectacle. They had no right.
Ferrari had no right to mourn him either, lamenting after him and praising him.
Not after what She did to him.
She’s been silent since their argument in Austria, but the small hum of her presence is back. He doesn’t know if he should worried or thankful; the vines today have already shredded much of whatever composure he had left. He doesn’t know if he would be able to handle her commentary without having a breakdown.
Wouldn’t that be a show? He thought bitterly. Losing his mind on this day, of all days. The press would have a field day.
The rain hasn’t stopped pouring since the early hours of the morning and all the drivers were starting to get ansty.
There’s hope, however small, that the FIA will cancel the race. That they’ve learned about what happened last time and won’t make the same mistake. Even Charles, as delusional as he can be - demonstrated by his faith in his team - knows that’s too much to hope for.
In the end, they refuse to delay the start of the race (too much on the line, they had said, as if the spirits haunting this damn track weren’t enough of a reminder), and for a moment, Charles is genuinely going to be sick.
He’s choking, he can’t do this.
This is a terrible idea.
From the ashen and uncomfortable looks of the other drivers, he knows he’s not the only one feeling this way. Checo looks terribly faint and even Daniel can’t keep up the cheery PR facade. Sebastian is scowling, looking ready to rip into whatever FIA official makes the mistake of approaching him. Lewis hasn’t uttered a word to anyone, an ugly grimace on his usually serene face.
He can feel his breathing starting to pick up and Carlos and Pierre are at his side immediately, rubbing his back and lowering him into a chair as he trembles.
Just this race Charles. Then we can go home.
He just has to get through this race.
Just this race.
Just one.
With a reassuring smile and a quick peck on his forehead, Pierre leaves them to go back to his own team, and Carlos helps maneuver him to their garage, their team fussing over them as they prepare to start the race.
As they pull out onto the track, Charles can feel his stomach twist in unease. Even the fans seemed subdued, their usual cheers as they watch the cars go onto the track reduced to quiet murmurs.
There’s an eerie sense of foreboding in the air.
Charles wonders if he imagines the tremble in Crofty’s voice as he utters the words: Lights out and away we go!
It’s a miracle they even manage to take off. The visibility is awful and the cars are skidding all over the track.
They don’t even make it to Lap 2 before the chaos starts.
“Red flag, red flag.”
No.
Please God no.
Not here.
“Xavi! Who is it?”
No response.
“Xavi! Please! Who is it?”
Xavi must hear the panic rising in his voice because he hesitates, seemingly thinking over his words carefully,
“Just pull into the pits, Charlie.”
His heart sinks. Xavi never calls him that.
It’s bad, it must be really bad.
Xavi must realize his mistake because he’s talking to Charles again, soothingly, as if trying to comfort a spooked animal. “No one was hurt, Charles. Everyone’s okay. We’ll tell you in the garage.”
He pulls into the pits and rushes out of his car. He’s immediately pulled into the Ferrari hospitality and handed a blanket and a warm cup of tea. Carlos is there already, and so is Sebastian, surprisingly. He immediately heads towards them before glancing at the replays on the TV on the wall.
And then he sees it.
There’s a tractor.
There’s a tractor on the race track.
There’s a car
An AlphaTauri.
Pierre’s AlphaTauri.
The cup slips from his hand.
He’s screaming, it’s raw and shrill and rings throughout the entire hospitality. He can’t breathe, he can’t breathe-
Pierre, Pierre, Pierre -
Carlos and Sebastian are in front of him. “Charles! You’re okay! He’s okay! Pierre is okay!”
He’s sobbing, crying out for Pierre, his Papa, for Jules, for Sebastian.
Sebastian’s face crumpled as he held his hands in his own, trying to get him to take deep breaths. Carlos was looking sideways, yelling at someone, panic evident on his face.
Their mouths are moving but Charles can’t hear what they’re saying. His vision is blurring and the ringing in his ears is getting louder-
The smell of Pierre’s cologne is achingly familiar as the Frenchman embraces him. Pierre is crying, hugging him so tightly yet so gently as if he was scared that Charles would vanish if he let go of him ever so slightly.
Pierre is here. Pierre is safe.
Sebastian will make everything better.
Charles doesn’t catch much of what happens afterward.
When he comes to hours later, he’s in his hotel room, Carlos curled next to him. The Spaniard smiled softly at him as he passed him a bottle of water,
The man quietly asked him about how he was feeling, and Charles grimaced before quietly asking him about what had happened. Carlos had frowned but proceeded to tell him, recalling the events that had occurred after he had dissociated.
After a few moments in silence, Carlos stood up from the bed, passing him a small box full of snacks, promising to stop by and check on him later. Ferrari was having a very quick debrief which Charles was understandably exempted from and Carlos promised to update him afterwards.
The door closed behind him and Charles was left alone.
He dug into the snack box as he tried to wrap his mind around the events of the day.
According to Carlos, shortly before starting Lap 2, Carlos had aquaplaned into the barriers, the water too much for the tires he was on and his car had been wrecked. The stewards had called for a red flag and all the drivers had been called to return to the pit lane.
But the FIA had f*cked up (Carlos had been furious as he recalled the events, refusing to look him in the eyes) and had sent out a tractor to pick up his Ferrari when there were still cars out on the race track. The visibility had still been terrible and well, it had been a miracle that Pierre had managed to avoid the tractor, even under the slow speed of a double-yellow flag.
Oh God, Pierre -
Pierre had had a near miss with the tractor.
Pierre had almost met the same fate as him .
God.
Charles rested his head in his hands, trying to control the rising panic in his chest.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
My Champion. Pull yourself together.
Because of course a Ferrari had to crash at Suzuka.
Of course it had to lead to a red flag and a tractor on the track-
He’s sobbing, gasping for air and so, so angry.
“How could you! How could you have done this? You could’ve killed Pierre! And Carlos! Both of them!”
Silence.
“Why would you do this? After everything I’ve done for you!”
The room rattles, and he can feel her indignation. Not for the first time, Charles is angry at her. Not just angry, but hurt.
Betrayed.
He’s given up so much for this team and she continues to take, and take, and take.
How much more does he have to give up for her to be satisfied?
She’s unhappy with him. She’s punishing him for his insolence, for the way he talked to her in Austria.
For questioning her, for standing up to her, and trying to defy her. Just like He had done all those years ago.
And his defiance had nearly cost someone’s life.
Today had been close. Too f*cking close.
f*ck.
Whatever Charles had been expecting after the disaster that was Suzuka, it definitely wasn't to see Checo waiting outside his hotel room for him in Austin.
“Can we talk? It’s about Carlos.”
The Monegasque shrugged and unlocked the door, ushering the Mexican man in.
The two aren’t close by any means, but he knows how much the other man means to Carlos. He knew that Checo, Fernando, and Carlos were a tight-knit group, often going out to eat together when the homesickness got too severe and the exhaustion of being made to speak in a language so different from their own took its toll. Not to mention the older drivers’ almost overbearing protectiveness of the younger Spaniard. If Checo had willingly sought him out, then that meant that something was going on with the Spaniard.
The Monegasque moved around the kitchenette, heating up water and grabbing a few granola bars that his trainer had dropped off. From the Mexican’s expression, he could tell that the conversation they were about to have would be a long one.
“Coffee?”
The Mexican smiled, nodding.
Charles passed him a mug, nodding at his quiet ‘Thank You’ and sipped on his own tea before addressing the older man. “So, why are you here?”
It’s rude, he knows it is, but Suzuka had left them all ragged and panicky and Charles still hadn’t fully recovered from the mini emotional breakdown the whole race had caused him. Besides, Checo of all people would understand.
He had been there when-
The Mexican chewed nervously on his lip, looking every bit as uncomfortable as Charles felt.
"You have to get him out of here.” His eyes darted around, fearful that someone might hear him, even though they were alone. “La Escudería lo va a matar."
The Scuderia will kill him.
Oh.
Of course.
For his kind and easy-going demeanor, Sergio was terrifyingly perceptive. He might've never been a Ferrari driver (and God, did the older man dodge a f*cking bullet), but the Mexican had still been part of the Ferrari Drivers Academy, and had even graduated at the top.
Of course, he would know the truth about Her.
The engine fire in Austria could’ve easily been blamed on faulty mechanics, and while anyone would call what happened in Japan a horrifying coincidence, no one other than a Ferrari-trained driver would be smart enough to connect the pieces of two disastrous races as something more sinister, especially at a track as cursed as Suzuka.
And no one would know that better than Checo. Of course the Mexican would’ve easily connected the dots.
He must’ve seen the way the vines were slowly strangling Carlos, Her hands slowly wrapping around his neck.
The way Ferrari was eagerly toeing the line of Carlos’s untimely demise.
Of course he would try to intervene to try and save his best friend’s life.
Something visceral clawed at his chest.
Traitor. She hissed.
You abandoned us for them.
I raised you within my hearth and you left.
Bitterness arose in his chest as he remembered how easily Checo had been able to leave Ferrari, and how unaffected he seemed to be by the vines that plagued the rest of Her drivers. The rational part of him knew, however, that that wasn’t true. That even though the Mexican had managed to escape Her grasp, those same vines haunted him deeply, how even his brief stint at the Academy had taken its toll.
He’d seen the way Max looked at his teammate in silent concern whenever the Red Bull drivers had too close of a call with a Ferrari. Or when he or Carlos once again were pulled from a race due to a car failure or bad team strategy. Even someone as dense as Max knew that there was something much deeper underlining the Mexican’s anxiety surrounding Ferrari than the simple tension of a race against them,
He’s heard Sebastian and Fernando talk about how Checo loses sleep whenever they touch down in Italy and Japan, especially at Monza and Suzuka.
It’s written all over his face. It’s in his eyes. That glint, that f*cking glint - the paranoia that haunts every damn driver that Ferrari has ever claimed as her own.
Because no one ever escaped the Prancing Horse-
Serves you right, serpente.
Charles resists the urge to jeer at the older man. Instead, he sets down his teacup and silently relishes the way the Mexican flinches as he grins.
"I'll see what I can do.”
They’re in Jeddah.
It’s the start of the season and the race is in full swing.
Charles is about to get ready to pit when he hears the horrid, but all-too-familiar sound of screeching tires before the awful. grating sound of metal snapping apart.
“Who was that?”
Silence.
“Xavi, who was that?”
His engineer hesitates, before sighing.
“...Carlos.”
Charles damn near slams on the breaks. No, God, please. Not again.
He’s driving towards the pitlane, trying to slow down as Xavi announces the red flag when he sees it. The smoke billowing over the race track, dark and menacing.
It’s a terrifying sight,
The red flag is out, but Charles ignores it. His team will give him sh*t for this, he knows they will, but he can’t be bothered to care. Carlos is out there.
He stomps on the gas, steering out of the pitlane past the other drivers. His heart sinks as he sees parts of Carlos’s car scattered on the track. He winces as his car shakes as he drives over the broken pieces, too spread out to be able to avoid them.
It speaks volumes to the force of the impact.
It also means that Carlos must be close by.
He sees the wreckage as soon as he turns the curve. He’s sure that the cry that leaves him will be broadcast all over the media.
His Ferrari is on fire.
Carlos’s Ferrari is on fire and he’s nowhere to be seen.
Parking against the curve, the Monegasque scrambles out of his car and runs towards the burning Ferrari.
Where is Carlos? Why isn’t he out yet?
Where are the marshals? Why haven’t they stopped the fire?
There are sparks around the burning car and the smell of gasoline permeates the air. Charles realizes with horror that there is a high possibility of an explosion if the marshals don’t get here in time to put out the fire.
He has to get Carlos out of that car.
He’s close, so so close before his feet catch on the gravel and he goes tumbling to the floor. He goes to get up but freezes as he feels something soft beneath him.
White, crushed petals are strewn across the ground underneath him.
He’s surrounded by flowers.
There are flowers on the race track.
He gently picks one up, wincing as he pricks his finger.
Lilies?
Why are there lilies on the track?
He glances towards Carlos’s car and feels his heart drop as he sees Her.
There, sitting on the Halo of the Ferrari, in all her bloody, ephemeral glory, is the Prancing Horse. She’s cradling Carlos in her arms, his bruised, battered body staining her white dress with blood. She’s smiling as she gazes at him, a sickeningly sweet smile on her face as she rakes her fingers through his bloody hair.
Like a twisted mockery of La Pieta.
Charles drops the flowers as she turns to him.
She’s glaring at him.
She stands up, dropping Carlos in the process, and Charles watches in horror as his teammate’s lifeless body falls to the ground.
He tries to move towards him, but the vines are back, restricting him from moving any closer.
She cradles his face in her hands, Carlos’ blood smearing on his cheeks.
‘My Beautiful Boy’ She croons, digging her nails into his cheeks, ‘Look at what you've done.’
Her eyes are sharp, cold, and empty.
The lilies under Carlos are slowly staining red.
‘Look at what you've done.’
Charles wakes up shaking and gasping for air.
What the f*ck? What the f*ck was that?
The Monegasque glanced down his hands. They’re shaking.
Carlos!
He turns towards the body lying next to him. Carlos is there, sleeping peacefully and dead to the world, the tear tracks from earlier still staining his cheeks.
It had been a difficult week for him, for all of them, really.
A Drivers Association meeting after Suzuka had left them all jumpy and irritated - Pierre’s accident had been too close, too reminiscent of that awful f*cking day. They had all been infuriated that something like that had nearly happened again.
And then Ferrari had thought it would be a good idea to discuss their contract extensions right after and the tense negotiations and re-signings that had followed had left both of them in a sh*tty mood.
Choking back the whimper in his throat, the Monegasque got up and headed to the kitchenette, looking for a glass of water. For all the sh*t he gave Ferrari, the one thing they never failed to deliver on was his hotel rooms. They were always so nice.
Perks of being their Prince, he supposed.
Leaning against the countertop in the kitchenette, the Monegasque shivered as he felt goosebumps rise on his arms. He hadn’t realized his hotel room was that cold. Walking through the expansive living room. Charles searched for a thermostat until a bouquet on the coffee table caught his eye.
Huh, he thought the team had already been done delivering congratulatory gifts-
No.
It couldn’t be.
There’s no f*cking way-
His hands shook as he reached out towards the vase.
Lilies.
There’s f*cking lilies in his hotel room.
The hairs on his arms rose again as the glass slipped from his hand, shattering on the ground.
She’s here.
She’s back.
She’s angry.
She's after him. She's after Carlos.
‘My Beautiful Boy, look at what you've done.’
Checo was right.
She was going to kill him.
Letting him sign that contract extension had been a mistake.
He had to get Carlos out of here.
Las Vegas is the breaking point.
Perhaps it’s the negligence on the FIA’s part, or perhaps the Prancing Horse has finally had enough of Carlos.
Either way, it’s a miracle the storm drain doesn’t seriously hurt him.
His car is damaged, and the worst of his injuries are a temporary loss of feeling in his legs and a pounding headache. The team decides to retire the car and Carlos is DNFed and penalized for the accident.
The race is postponed.
Charles had nearly sobbed as he heard the call for a red flag. It hadn’t helped that Xavi had been hesitant to tell him that it had been Carlos who had been flagged and that he had seen the sparks, his heart sinking as it reminded him of that goddamned nightmare he’d had.
He had jumped out of his car once he had reached the pitlane, desperate to reassure himself that Carlos was okay. The Spaniard had been furious, but Charles had seen the way his eyes had shone with frustrated tears, a build-up of the rough season he’d had so far.
It felt like Austria and Suzuka all over again.
Charles embraced him and nearly cried at the way the Spaniard had melted into his arms, reassuring him. “I’m okay. I promise I’m okay.”
Carlos was okay.
He was alive.
Angry and exhausted, but alive.
He meets with Carlos in his hotel room as soon as they’re done with race debriefs.
Carlos is at his door, hair still wet from his shower, and dressed in a soft sweater and shorts. The Spaniard looked exhausted. Charles ushered him in, resisting the urge to wrap him up in a blanket and hide him from the rest of the world.
Once the two had settled in and food had been brought up to their room, Charles turned towards Carlos, munching on a dumpling as he spoke.
“I was so worried, I thought you had been hurt.”
Carlos recoiled, shrinking in on himself. Charles set aside his chopsticks, looking at his teammate in worry.
The Spaniard sighed, poking at his food. “After I hit the cover, I couldn’t feel my legs.” The man ran his fingers through his hair, a nervous tic that Charles had noticed he’d been doing more and more. “I couldn't move them. I thought I’d been paralyzed.”
Charles inhaled sharply. That could’ve been any of them.
Any one of them could’ve been seriously injured.
Carlos had been lucky to have walked off relatively unscathed.
How could the FIA have been so negligent?
They ate the rest of their food in comfortable silence. Once they were done, the two of them got ready for bed, and Charles set up the TV to watch a few movies in bed before sleeping.
Carlos had knocked out almost immediately during the first movie. Charles must’ve managed to doze off at some point, but for the last hour or so he'd been tossing and turning, worry overtaking him completely.
Ever since Checo had pointed out all the misgivings that Ferrari had caused Carlos, Charles had been growing more and more paranoid, fearful that something terrible was going to happen.
It was clear that Her patience was running out, and it was showing in the way that things seemed to be going wrong for Carlos.
An awful realization hit him: Ferrari really was willing to do anything to get the Spaniard out of the team, even at the cost of his life. Hell, She might’ve even preferred that.
Charles knew how possessive She was of Her drivers, even if She Herself had warped them and tossed them aside without remorse. But he knew how vicious She could be when She had conflict with one of her own.
Because no one ever escaped the Prancing Horse.
The dream he had had after Austin briefly flashed through his mind and he was filled with a rising sense of dread. The horrifying image of Carlos’ broken body out on the race track, bloody and battered in his shiny Rosso Corsa suit.
He glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand that read 1:17 AM and groaned.
Well, it wouldn’t be the stupidest thing he’s done in a fit of panic.
f*ck.
Might as well.
⦿⦿⦿⦿
Charles himself has never been a very religious person, but he knows that churches are meant to provide solace even to nonbelievers.
It’s 2 am, and even glamorous, larger-than-life Las Vegas is silent.
Faintly, he wonders if he’s lost his damn mind.
What if someone recognized him? What if a photographer managed to get a picture of him? What would the media think?
He could already imagine the headlines: ‘Charles Leclerc found wandering the streets of Las Vegas at 2 am’ .
If he were in a better mindset, he would laugh at the irony of it all.
Praying for salvation in the City of Sin.
He manages to find an open church.
It’s a small, pretty little thing, with its architecture done in a Mission Revival style and lush gardens with fairy lights throughout the small courtyard.
He creaks the door open and steps inside, heading towards the front. He kneels in one of the pews and begins to recite the prayers his Mama had taught him all those years ago.
Our Father, Who art in Heaven
Hallowed be Thy Name
Charles holds his hands tightly, his head bowed in respect.
Please, please, please . Protect Carlos. Protect him. Let him survive the rest of his contract .
The church seems to drop in temperature, and Charles can’t help the whimper that escapes him.
Hail Mary,
Full of Grace
The Lord is with thee
Please, he begs, tears slowly streaming down his face. Please protect him. I’ll do anything.
He looks up at the altar, where a beautiful statue of the Virgin Mary resides, surrounded by flowers. The Holy Mother stares back, gaze cold and unforgiving.
The votive candles slowly die out one by one.
Charles stands up, breathing shakily as heads toward the votive candles. He tries to light one, hoping that maybe, just maybe , they might hear his pleas.
The candle fizzles out no matter how hard he tries to keep it alight.
He leaves and does not look back.
It's the last season of Carlos' contract and Charles is terrified.
He'd been on edge the entire end of the 2023 season after Las Vegas, and yet, everything had gone smoothly for them both. Or as smoothly as it could for Ferrari drivers.
It was driving him insane, knowing that at any moment, anything could go wrong.
One more season.
All Carlos had to do is survive one more season.
Then he’d be free.
Jeddah gives him the scare of his life when Carlos falls ill, grasping at his stomach in pain. The relief that washes over Charles when it turns out to be appendicitis nearly brings him to his knees. Charles curses Carlos and his appendix that decided that the perfect time to rupture was right before the second Grand Prix of the season and then fusses over him until he goes into surgery.
So yes, the season was off to a great start. Carlos had had a medical emergency, scared the sh*t out of Charles, and Ferrari had had to substitute in a reserve driver.
Oliver Bearman is just like any other reserve driver: starry-eyed and desperate to prove themselves with the opportunity presented to him.
The boy does incredibly for his first F1 race in a car that’s completely new to him. Charles watches silently from afar as the boy hugs his dad, celebrating his P7 after his debut race. He’s talented, sure, but he still has the naivete and inexperience of a rookie driver, looking around nervously with wide eyes as he takes in the chaos of the paddock.
Il bimbo della rossa
It’s what they’re calling him in Italy; Charles has seen it all over social media. They adore him.
He wonders how pretty their bimbo della rossa would look with a rosso corsa noose wrapped around his neck.
He approaches the Brit, smiling warmly as he introduces himself, as he makes him feel welcome among the chaos that is Ferrari on race day. It was only polite of him to do so. It’s what Sebastian did for him.
He congratulates him on his victory. “You did a wonderful job out there.”
And it’s the truth.
P7 is a fantastic ranking for a debut race. The boy stares at him with star-struck eyes. Charles grins at him.
“Let’s see how long Ferrari keeps you in her grasp, yes?”
He means it well, but from how the color drains from the younger boy’s face, Charles is sure the Brit can see how his teeth seem a bit sharper, the desperation in his eyes and the hysteria plaguing his body language; how the atmosphere of the garage becomes heavier, intoxicating, fervid.
Oliver doesn’t know it yet, but Ferrari has already claimed him as Her own.
He can already see the Prancing Horse’s ghostly hands, delicately resting on his shoulders. He can see the wispy smile, almost mocking with the way it imitates a motherly smile.
My Boy
Il mio bimbo della rossa
There’s no saving Oliver Bearman from Ferrari’s hands; the boy is in too deep already, the rosso corsa vines slowly starting to coil around him.
The ticking of the clock gets louder.
Carlos's time in Ferrari is drawing to a close.
Ferrari has found its newest lamb to slaughter.
He hopes the Brit can’t see the lone tear that drips down his cheek.
Oliver Bearman deserves so much better, and yet the boy knew what he had been getting into.
Just another sacrifice for the Prancing Horse.
It can’t be healthy, the way he continues to break himself over and over for this team.
The way he bleeds and cries and sacrifices everything for Her.
For Her glory, for Her honor, for Her.
It’s a cruel fate, a mockery. Ferrari’s Golden Boy, living the life that others can only dream of, plagued by tragedy after tragedy.
Her Predestinato.
His wins are uplifted by the blood, tears, and failures of his teammates, by his own impatience and blind loyalty.
It’s an obsession - to be drenched in champagne in the rosso corsa suit, holding the trophy to the skies as an offering for more.
Larger than life, divine, and beloved by all.
He would never give it up for the world.
He loves Her, he would die in Her arms, he would stay at Her side, like a chained-up, beaten dog, loyally following his human no matter how much it hurts him.
Stockholm Syndrome, the fans would say, worriedly joking and praying for his mental health.
If only they knew.
His loyalty to Ferrari may be toxic and destructive, but She’s still his. For all the pain and humiliation She has caused him, Charles would never be able to let Her go.
He would never give Her up.
He would give up everything for Her-
No.
There is one thing that he would never give up.
Not for his beloved Tifosi, and certainly not for Her.
He will never give up Carlos for Her. He won’t let Her take Carlos away from him, not like how She’d done to so many others before him.
Carlos was his.
He would do whatever it took to get him away from Her - as if snatching a broken toy from a bratty child throwing a tantrum over a toy they themselves broke.
It’ll make Her incredibly angry, he knows it will. She has never liked those who are insubordinate towards Her.
He doesn’t care.
He’ll lick his wounds and bear Her scorn, Her beatings, and Her judgment if it meant keeping Carlos away, alive and safe from Her grasp. If it meant he could see the Spaniard smile another day.
Even if it meant seeing him under the colors of another.
Charles knows about Ferrari’s refusal to re-sign Carlos long before the Spaniard does.
He acts stunned before the press when the news leaks, claiming that he knew nothing of the sort.
As if he wasn’t the one inconspicuously pushing for his removal.
What he doesn’t expect is for Ferrari to sign f*cking Hamilton of all people.
The grid group chat is chaos after the reveal.
Holy sh*t, did you guys see the article?
I thought Ferrari had just announced that they weren’t changing their driver line-up!
What do you mean Ferrari is signing Hamilton?
Did you know about this Charles?
What about Carlos?
He doesn’t have a seat for 2025!
How is Carlos taking the news?
Has anyone seen Carlos?
No one has seen Carlos since the news leaked.
There’s radio silence from the other Spanish speakers and Lewis.
Charles ignores the group chat. He silences his phone and makes his way to the transport car as soon as the race is over.
He can’t deal with this right now.
On his way back to the hotel, a ‘ping’ breaks through his silenced phone, and Charles looks at the message.
We’re in your hotel room. We need to talk.
Sebastian.
Of course.
Charles sighs, rubbing at his eyes.
This wasn’t how any of this was supposed to go.
⦿⦿⦿⦿
Despite him having a luxury suite, his room feels crowded and suffocating.
Checo looked like he was seconds away from a panic attack, Sebastian was deathly pale, and Fernando was glaring so harshly at the small Ferrari flag on his desk that Charles was surprised the damn thing hadn’t burst into flames.
“No puede ser. ¡No puede ser! ¿Por qué él? ¿Por qué siempre va trás los míos? ¡No puedo perder a otro! ¡No puedo, no puedo, no puedo-!”
“Shut up! Shut the f*ck up! I’m tired of hearing you cry!”
He digs his hands into his eyes.
Silence.
Finally.
He rubs his eyes and looks up at the trio of men in his room.
Checo still has tears spilling down his cheeks and Fernando is gaping at him, both stunned silent. Sebastian is looking at his hands, his eyes are glazed over as he slowly turns toward him.
He breaks the silence first. “Did you know about Lewis?”
“I didn’t know.” He whispers. “I didn’t know.”
Breathe, Charles.
Pull yourself together.
“Can you help him?” It’s Fernando.
It’s a harmless question, but it unleashes such a visceral rage within him that he can’t help but scoff.
“Help him? Help him? First Carlos, and now Lewis? How much more will you ask of me? I saved Carlos and now look at the predicament we’re in!” He’s laughing now, bordering on hysterical. “What more do you want me to do?”
“You were able to get Carlos out, surely you can-”
"I can't save them all!"
It's not fair .
Even as her il Predestinato , his reach can only go so far. If Ferrari wants Lewis, then She’ll stop at nothing to get him, even if it means disposing of another driver until She can have him.
And Charles won’t be able to stop Her.
“It will just happen over and over again! It’s either Lewis or Carlos! I can’t save them both!”
Breathe Charles.
He rests his head in his hands, catching his breath before looking at the men in front of him.
“I had to make a choice.” He whispers.
He’s tired.
So, so tired.
“Lewis is a seven times world champion. He has been on the grid long enough to know that there is something wrong with this damn team. Even if he doesn’t know about what goes on within the Scuderia, he has more than enough experience to handle Ferrari.” Everyone in the room knew that was a lie. No amount of championships or experience would ever prepare anyone to deal with the Prancing Horse. “He made his choice and I’ve made mine.”
He’s sure his expression must darken as he turns directly towards Checo, eyes narrowing in contempt. “Just like how you made yours all those years ago. ”
Checo recoiled at his words, knowing exactly what Charles was referring to. It’s a bitter topic between the two of them and one that Charles doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to let go of, no matter how much he knows that their fates had been sealed the day they had all signed their damn contract.
No matter how much he knew it wasn't the other man's fault.
It still didn’t lessen the hurt.
“Do not do this Charles,” Checo pleaded, eyes welling with tears. “Please don’t do this. You know I tried! You know I never wanted this to happen again! You know I didn’t want to have to choose.”
Charles ignored him.
“You knew that by getting Carlos out you would be offering another driver up for slaughter, and you were more than willing to make that choice! Don't pretend you care about Lewis and want to keep him safe after you left him in Her hands.”
Calm down, Charles.
You need to calm down.
It hurts, it hurts, it hurts-
“You chose to sacrifice someone for Carlos! You’ve always been willing to sacrifice drivers to Her! Just like when you decided to leave the Scuderia!” He’s crying now. He’s laughing and crying and he must look absolutely insane, beating down an already broken man, happily grinning through it all with barely concealed rage. “Just like how you chose to sacrifice Jules when you abandoned him-”
An agonized sob ripped from the smaller man’s throat just as Sebastian’s furious “ Charles!” pierced the room.
The Monegasque froze. He had never seen Sebastian look at him with so much fury before. Fernando looked livid too, standing protectively next to Checo, looking ready to strike Charles at any moment.
Stop.
You need to stop Charles.
“I never abandoned him!” The Mexican cried. “I never wanted to leave him behind!”
Fernando tried to curl his arm around the smaller man, but Checo brushed him off as he looked at Charles.
“I begged him to change his mind! I was on my knees, pleading for him not to sign with this damn team, but he was in too deep by then! He knew what would happen if we both tried to leave the Academy.” Tears fell down the Mexican’s cheeks. “He didn’t care about what happened to him as long as I was out. All he wanted was for me to get out! He made me promise that I would get out and never return!”
The Mexican driver swallowed, inhaling sharply. “But even after I left, I never stopped fighting to get him out of there. I tried so hard to protect him from Her! I promise you that I did! You have to believe me!” He looked at Charles with a haunted, pleading expression. “I never stopped fighting for you, either.”
Charles froze. “What?”
Checo looked at him with a torn expression. “After he signed, we both found out that Ferrari wanted you. We knew that they wanted you on the team to mold you into their perfect little champion, but you know what being Ferrari’s champion entails.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “He never wanted that for you. He made me promise that I would protect you.”
Oh, Jules.
The Mexican’s shoulders sagged. “Even without a promise, I still would’ve done everything I could to protect you.”
A lone tear dripped down Charles’s cheek. “Then why didn’t you get me out? Why did you leave me behind?”
Why did you leave me with Her?
“I never wanted to Charles,” Checo swallowed. “It was a delicate situation. It still is even now.”
Charles scoffed, indignation rising in his chest. “Clearly, seeing as nothing has changed. I’m still her driver and Jules is still dead. Drivers are still falling into Her hands and being used as pawns. Neither of you did enough. You both failed to protect us. Protect me. Your efforts were in vain.”
Checo froze. “What did you say?”
“I said you didn’t do enough!” He shot back, hurt seeping into his voice. “Neither of you did! Clearly I wasn’t worth sacrificing a driver for, seeing as he only signed with Ferrari so you could get out and I’m still trapped with Her!”
Oh, how that hurt. Knowing that he had failed Jules, that he had failed to protect his beloved godson from Her grasp.
And now, Jules was gone, Charles was still trapped under Her claws and Checo was the one left behind to pick up the pieces.
It wasn’t fair.
He was tired of losing everyone he loved to that damn Scuderia. He had tried so hard to be patient and protect them all from Her and now Charles was throwing it all back in his face.
God, it hurt.
He was so, so tired and it hurt so much.
And so, like any hurt, desperate man with nothing left to lose, he lashed out.
“You are nothing more than a stupid child,” Checo said sharply. “Don’t you dare speak of things you know nothing about. You do not know the sacrifices we made just so that She would accept you.”
Charles froze at the other man’s tone. He had never heard the Mexican speak to anyone in such a way. Checo was always so kind, so patient, so calm and collected. Seeing him look at Charles with contempt and speaking to him with vitriol in his voice was unnerving.
Suffocating.
Terrifying.
The Mexican grinned sharply, and Charles could see it.
He knew where he had seen that cruelty and disdain before.
It reminded him so much of Her. Suddenly he could see it, the influence that Ferrari had had on Checo, whose eyes were sharp and cold, fangs laced with poison - a serpent ready to strike at any moment.
He looked every bit of the ruthless, bloodthirsty driver Ferrari desperately desired and crafted with Her own two hands.
My darling Sergio, my traitorous little snake.
How I've missed you.
Checo stepped forward, tilting his head mockingly, and Charles flinched. “Oh? You didn’t know? No one ever told you that you weren’t always her Golden Child? That She despised you more than anything on this planet because of how much he loved you over racing? Over Her?”
No.
She loved him.
She had always loved him.
Checo was lying.
He was a traitorous, filthy liar.
And yet, Charles was frozen to his spot on the ground, stunned by his accusations. He felt trapped under the Mexican’s harsh glare.
He glanced around the room for help.
Fernando looked incredibly uncomfortable, looking at the two drivers wearily, and yet he made no move to step in. He seemed just as stunned as Charles was at the Mexican driver’s sudden change in behavior.
Sebastian was shaking. The man didn’t even look like he was present. His eyes were glassy and unfocused as he glanced down at his hands.
Checo was only a foot away from him now. The fact that Charles had to look down at the man didn’t make him any less intimidating.
“Jules didn’t just sacrifice himself for me, y’know?” He snapped, looking at Charles with barely contained loathing. “He did it for you too! Do you think She would treat you as well as She does now if he hadn’t gotten into that goddamn car in Suzuka?”
Suzuka.
It always came back to that f*cking circuit.
Charles felt himself starting to tremble.
“You wouldn’t even be here if She had had her way! He got into that car so that you wouldn’t suffer the fate She had for you! She wanted you dead Charles! He died so that you wouldn’t have to!”
It hurt, it hurt, it hurt.
It wasn’t true, it wasn’t true, it wasn’t true-
Charles sobbed, hands flying to cover his face as he wailed.
And as if someone had cut his strings, Checo’s entire demeanor crumbled. The man shrunk back as if struck, staring at Charles with a horrified expression.
“Charles- ¡Dios mío! I- I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to-”
“You’re a liar! You’re a f*cking liar! She loves me! I know She does! You know nothing about our relationship!” He yelled, feeling the ugly, gaping wound in his chest slowly start to bleed. “You’re a backstabbing, foul-mouthed liar!”
“He’s not lying Charles.” It was Sebastian, looking at Charles with an unreadable expression. “I was there when,” Sebastian paused, “- when Jules told him everything.”
Charles turned towards him, tears welling in his eyes. “You knew? And you never told me?”
Checo turned to Charles, looking devastated. “He never wanted you to know that Ferrari only saw you as a means to an end at the time, as something She could use to manipulate him. He found out about Her intentions with you after he signed his reserve contract. That day, in Suzuka, he knew that race would be his last.” The Mexican gasped shakily, blinking away tears. “He offered himself in exchange so that you wouldn’t-” Checo choked back a sob.
“You lied to me,” He whispered. His heart constricted painfully. All three of the men in this room had lied to him. “All of you did.”
Even Jules had.
Sebastian looked away, ashamed.
Tears flowed down Checo’s cheeks as he covered his face with his hands. Fernando rested his hand on the Mexican’s shoulder. “Jules never wanted you to know, but realistically, he knew that you would find out at some point, whether by accident or by your own volition. He made us promise that when the time was right, we would tell you, with the hopes that it would convince you to leave.” The Spaniard sighed, rubbing at his face. “With everything that’s been happening with Ferrari, we knew that this would probably be the best chance we would get.”
You can’t take him from me.
He’s mine, mine, mine.
My Predestinato
Sebastian didn’t look at Charles, instead, he fixed his stare on the Ferrari flag on his desk. “None of us had ever anticipated that She would become so fixated on you the way She did,” Sebastian grimaced as he paused. “We never thought that She would grow to love you as Her own.”
And that was what was truly broke Charles.
Ferrari hadn’t loved him. Not at first.
She had only seen him as a tool, as a bargaining chip to keep Checo and Jules in line.
It was only after Checo had left and Jules had died that She had seen him as something worthy of Her time.
Perhaps Her love was truly genuine, an appreciation of his talents and his love for this team. Or maybe Her love for him stemmed from an obsession with a person long gone, as a near identical stand-in for him.
Charles didn’t know anymore.
Charles didn’t know anything anymore.
All he knew was that he was well and truly trapped with Her. He would never be able to escape.
Their decisions had sealed his fate. Their sacrifices had doomed him.
And Charles, bitter at the betrayals of three, no, four men he had trusted, and heartbroken at the revelations they dropped on him, grasping at straws trying to get back some semblance of control - whether that was of the conversation or the Mexican driver that had started it all, he didn’t know - said the only thing he could think of.
“You should’ve died that day. You should’ve died instead of him.” He said, turning towards Checo with an apathetic expression. “You should’ve fought harder. You should’ve taken his place. None of this would’ve happened. I would be free and he would still be here. He would be here with me.”
He was bleeding, the vines slowly tearing him apart. He wanted Checo to hurt just as much as he was. He wanted the vines to rip him apart.
And to his horror, Checo smiled at that. A hysterical, crooked little thing with teeth that were just a bit too sharp.
“I would’ve done anything to take his place,” Checo whispered, something frantic and unsettling gleaming behind his eyes. “I would’ve happily died if it meant you wouldn’t be trapped. I would’ve happily died if it meant that he would still be here with you.”
The Mexican inhaled sharply, trying to control his breathing. “But She never would have let that happen. She would have never let me take either of your places. You know you can’t defy Her once She has Her mind set on something. Regardless of what we would have tried, either one of you would’ve still died or all of us would’ve. Jules never wanted to take that risk.”
Sebastian stepped forward. “Even with his death, and you as Her Predestinato ,” he spat the word out bitterly. “She will never stop hurting others.”
Checo wiped away his tears, straightening himself up. “She hurt Jules. She took him from us. Even after I left, She never let me fully go. My relationship with Her is strained, but She still stays by my side. I thought it was my atonement for everything that had happened." Checo sighed. "I was willing to accept being trapped with Her. I thought it would keep Her satisfied. I did everything I could to appease her, with the hopes that it would stop her rampages." The Mexican curled in on himself, whispering.
“And then she went after Sebastian. I knew then and there that nothing would ever be enough for Her. That She would sacrifice and destroy everyone and everything in Her way. You saw how she treated Sebastian. You saw what happened with Pierre at Suzuka. And you’ve seen how She has treated Carlos. She’s still hurting people, Charles. She’s hurting you.”
She would never hurt me.
No-
She has hurt me, but She loves me.
She’s mine and I’m Hers.
Charles wanted to scream.
The idea of Her hurting not just Carlos, but his other teammates as well, and the people he loved, just for him, just for a victory in a race-
He desperately wanted to deny it all, to defend Her, but he knew that they were telling the truth.
He knew that they weren’t lying.
He knew Her.
He knew Her tendencies, Her temper, Her viciousness and Her hunger for glory.
You know what She’s like. You know he’s right. You know what She’s capable of.
But it hurt to acknowledge it and face it. It was painful and ugly, and it left him feeling so raw and vulnerable that the thought of accepting the truth would just make it so much more real.
It’s a war between two Charles: An anxious, overwhelmed mess who is terrified for his friends, who is tired of losing people, tired of grieving everyone and everything he has lost -
And the other is angry. Angry, bitter and still so, so hungry for success. Still hopeful and so, so loyal to Her even through all the pain she has caused him.
He can’t do this anymore.
He can’t f*cking do this.
Charles Leclerc is nothing if not a conglomeration of contradictions, tragedies, and a terrible, terrible sense of loyalty to a team that will never love him back.
He has to do this before he loses the last remaining vestiges of his sanity, of everything he has ever known. He has to do this before he does something stupid in front of the men who have lied to him, who have betrayed his trust-
“Get out.” He snarls. “Now.”
Checo’s expression becomes unreadable, and yet Charles can sense the frustration and the anguish emanating from the Mexican. Years of agony, grief, and regret finally bubbling over. The anguish of spilling his secrets and vulnerabilities to someone who refuses to acknowledge them, who refuses to accept reality.
“Get out of my sight.” He can’t stand to look at them right now. He’s bleeding, the gaping wound in his chest is peeling and spilling bleeding everywhere. It hurts. “I don’t want your sh*tty explanations or apologies! Get out! Get the f*ck out!”
Checo stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Charles could hear his sobs growing louder and louder. Sebastian followed suit, shaking his head in disappointment, calling after him.
Fernando looked at him, heartbroken and pitying.
The thought of gouging the Spaniard’s eyes out seemed awfully appealing.
Fernando silently left the room as Charles collapsed to his knees, grasping at his chest.
He was alone, breathing raggedly on the floor of his hotel room.
What a horrible way to start the 2024 season.
Checo avoids him.
Sebastian had gone back home, but not before shooting him a scathing glare and a warning not to call him until he decided to get his sh*t together and apologize.
Whatever sympathy Fernando had had for him had clearly vanished. The Spaniard stayed glued to Checo’s side as much as physically possible and wouldn’t stop glaring at him. The tension between the three of them whenever Charles even dared to look at the Red Bull driver was stifling, and people were starting to take notice.
The staff seemed terrified to approach any of them. Most tried to steer clear of the Red Bull, Ferrari, and Aston Martin drivers, only hovering anxiously for a few minutes at most before high-tailing it out of their sights.
Even the other drivers seemed to be avoiding them, obviously feeling the strain between them. Even Max, with all his socially inept glory, seemed hesitant to interact with them at first, clearly torn between comforting his teammate, checking in on his friend, and staying out of whatever the f*ck they had going on.
It’s isolating and it puts Charles into an even worse mood; the guilt of upsetting their coworkers mixing in with the guilt of his last encounter with the Mexican driver.
He knows he's not being fair to Checo.
He knows that the Mexican had tried everything he could to not only save him from the Prancing Horse but to save Jules as well
It’s an ugly, unpleasant reality, and it cuts Charles so deeply that he would rather die than acknowledge it, but it’s the truth, and its one he has to accept. He never wanted to hurt Checo, not when the man had already done so much for him. He didn’t want Checo to resent him after everything Charles had said and done.
He couldn’t bear the thought of Checo hating him.
He couldn’t lose him too.
So he swallowed his pride, ignored Ferrari’s angry mockery, and made a plan to resolve this and apologize.
He had tried to catch Checo with the hopes of being able to talk to him in private, but it seemed that Max had decided to take a page out of Fernando’s book and guard the Mexican from Charles, even though the Monegasque knew that Max didn’t actually know what had happened between them, only that it had upset and taken a toll on the Mexican.
He was sure that if Max actually knew what had made his teammate so upset, then he would’ve beaten the sh*t out of Charles by now. Because as much as he liked to deny it, Max was very fond and ever-so protective of his teammate whom he followed after like a lost puppy.
It made Charles sick with disgust and envy.
He had to settle with only being able to steal glances of the two Red Bull drivers, but of the few glances he did manage to get, Checo looked like he’d been dragged through hell and back.
He was spiraling.Hard.
And Charles knew why.
There’s only one thing that can strike that much fear and paranoia into the Mexican driver.
She’s here and She’s back with a vengeance.
The vines are thick, thorny, and bloody, bloody red.
It’s easy to see them with the way they’re infesting the Red Bull garage, the drivers’ rooms, the halls. The way they’re consuming Checo, the noose slowly tightening around him. From the man’s haunted expression, he knows the Mexican sees them too.
He looks exhausted. Resigned.
Broken.
Checo knew that Lewis was a dead man walking, and Charles knew that it was reminding him of everything that had happened with Jules.
Because Checo loved Lewis, just like he had loved Jules.
Charles had loved Jules too, but Charles had loved him as an older brother, a mentor, and a guardian.
Checo had loved Jules, andeverything he had suffered with him was slowly repeating itself again with Hamilton.
He had once again been forced to sacrifice one to save another.
His heart ached with sympathy as it did with a slight twinge of glee.
Serves you right.
Ferrari had claimed Lewis Hamilton as Her newest sacrifice and there wasn't anything that any of them could do.
Charles held Carlos closely as the Spaniard silently wept, trembling as he curled into the Monegasque.
His Carlos.
His perfect, beautiful, resilient Carlos.
The news about his contract termination had finally hit him, and it had hit him hard.
The Spaniard had practically disappeared after their ceremony after their victory in Australia, and Charles, worried out of his mind, had torn through the paddock trying to find him, only to find out that the man had already left for their hotel after quickly finishing his media duties.
He had found him in his hotel room, curled up in a ball in his room and sobbing. He had flung himself at Charles, desperately holding onto him, begging for him to make things better, to make the pain go away.
Make me forget. Please.
It was the most pathetic thing Charles had ever witnessed.
And yet, the Spaniard had been so pliant, so beautiful beneath him, writhing in pleasure with the most heavenly whimpers, calling out to Charles, crying out his name.
His Carlos.
His, his, his.
Charles held the dazed and weepy Spaniard in his arms, soothingly running his fingers through his hair as he lulled him with soft, comforting whispers.
Ferrari has made a mistake in letting you go.
They will regret their decision.
You deserved that spot more than anyone.
He doesn't mean it in the slightest.
It would devastate him if he knew the truth - if he knew that Charles had slowly pushed the idea of Ferrari letting him go, even more so with Fernando's and Checo’s insistence.
It was selfish.God, he knew it was.
But he would stop at nothing to keep Carlos safe.
Ferrari had already taken so much from him.
Taken, taken, taken.
And for as long as he was under Her control, She would continue to take.
She had made it clear that She would destroy anything that threatened to take Charles away from Her. She had made it clear that She had never accepted the Spaniard. He was nothing more than a distraction in Her eyes. Just like how Jules had been an obstacle in Her way, even though She had loved him more than anything.
And She was more than willing to do anything to get rid of obstacles and distractions, especially if it meant spilling blood.
Especially if it meant that a driver had to die.
Just another sacrifice for the Prancing Horse.
Carlos didn’t deserve that fate.
He didn’t deserve to end up like nothing more than a battered, bloody corpse on a rack track, trapped under wreckage engulfed in flames, betrayed by a team he loved so dearly.
Carlos didn’t deserve to end up like Jules.
Jules hadn’t deserved to end up like that either.
Certainly not for his sake.
He couldn’t lose another person to the Prancing Horse.
His heart wouldn't be able to handle it.
Charles would do whatever it took to protect him from Her obsessive, sad*stic tendencies.
The vines could take him, tear up his body, and feed him to Her over and over and over.
He would let Her break him, over and over again, his blood staining the pavement for the amusem*nt of the Tifosi.
He would endure it all if Carlos would be free.
Free from the pressure, free from the eyes of the Tifosi, free from the scornful glare of the Prancing Horse.
A beautiful martyr in Rosso Corsa.
Oh, what a wonderful fate that would be.
The Spaniard’s breathing shallowed out as he fell into a deep sleep, his rosy cheeks still stained with tears. The Monegasque hummed quietly as he ran his fingers through Carlos’s hair, scratching his head softly as he threaded a lily from their celebratory bouquet into the Spaniard’s hair.
His Carlos, his darling, his love.
He'd be free, he'd be free, he'd be free.
